In Time. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

1 of 5.

   Thingol smiled and lifted a hand to take the fallen leaf from the hair of his beloved Melian. It was the fourth time that the leaves had fallen, and even he, who had mourned the empty trees, was coming at last to love even the beauty of their bare branches, seen whole against the sky, glowing in the cool sunlight and sharp black against the stars. But more than that, the rich and changing colours, the red and gold and myriad browns of the countless leaves, fluttering to lie carpeting the ground, or swirling aloft on the breath of Manwë, jewelled the forest as no Elven smith ever could.

   Melian smiled, and for a moment her face altered, there was a strangeness in her eyes that made Thingol draw back somewhat, and see her as she presented herself, the surface of the smooth skin of her fair face, and the keen expression in her eye. He knew how deeply lost he had become in her, it seemed he had not seen her face for time beyond count, but only bathed in the glory of her shining spirit. He blinked, but said naught, for he knew that she would speak.

  "My love, there is somewhat of gravest secrecy that I must share with you. Tell me, what do you know of the thought of the Dwarves?"
   Thingol gazed with wide eyes at the Maia "The Dwarves? Why... Why less than the youngest smith of our own people; I have heard them sing, but they sing rarely and speak less, nor have I ever seen aught that they have written."
   Melian nodded "They are a secretive folk, but then they have faced much hostility. The Enemy covets their lands for the iron, the gold and the gems mined there. But I know a little more than you, for I see their thought, and I know that there are those among them who count the passing of time, by watching the dance of the stars of Varda."

   Thingol gaped, astonished beyond words. Melian smiled fondly "You yourself pay no heed to time, it passes you as the gentle wind caresses your cheek" she put up a finger and ran it softly along the smooth line of his chin. "You know where you are, here on this hillside, but I, Elwë Thingol, I know when we are. Alas that the Music eludes the Elves, for to me it is as present as the air and the earth beneath my feet. Each measure of the melody marks the motion of Eä through the deeps of time. I know to the very moment how long I have dwelt here with you. 
   And so do the Dwarves. Soon, next winter, when the trees are bared once more, a great cycle of time will have passed since the delving of your halls. 
   And at that time you would be wise to invite here the descendants, of the flesh and of the spirit, of those who laboured so mightily for your, for our pleasure, and feast them, and celebrate them, and burden them with gifts."

Galadriel found herself deeply moved by the music of the Dwarves, it seemed to set a restlessness in her spirit greater even than that which had driven her forth from Valinor. She wanted to see mountains, and pass over them with the effortless flight of the eagle, and come to new lands, to unseen forests to climb unknown trees and bite into untasted fruit. To her astonishment she realised that she was tapping her foot, and knew that if she was not careful she would throw aside all her gravitas and caper like a child. But her brother! Her brother was weeping openly, his face, his eyes shining like winter stars, and soon, she knew he would sing with the Dwarves, and perchance be lost to the Elves, for he loved to wander even more than she did, and the song was working its rhythmic enchantment on all those present.
   On the dais, on his beautiful carven chair, even great uncle Elwë was waving his goblet gently to the tune, and behind him Melian stood, with nightingales on each shoulder, and circling quietly above her head. They were wise birds, and when music as beautiful as this was sung, they listened in silence, though even those master singers could never hope to convey the depths of love and longing in this song. 

   The celebrations had been filling the Thousand Caves with laughter and song for days, but none were weary, and on all sides dancers cavorted, jugglers threw and acrobats tumbled until the eye was so bewildered that only laughter, and more wine were possible. Galadriel laughed herself and drank deep of the rich red wine in her goblet, and met the shining eyes of Melian, who nodded slightly, beckoning Galadriel to her side.
   "My Lady Galadriel, may I say that I have watched with awe as you have enjoyed the music without losing the least part of your great composure. Dear Finrod, whom everyone loves, has thrown himself into the song with abandon, lost to the moment and the music, much to the gratification of those of our guests with the wit to perceive it! But you stand aloof, still as a tree, though I feel the dancing of your spirit as a bright flame.
   Come, Galadriel, I would have you for a friend, we may learn much from each other, what do you say?"
   Galadriel swallowed nervously, this Maia might be her great aunt, but after all, she was still, well, a Maia, unknown and unknowable...
   "My Lady... I... I would be honoured to... I am honoured by your notice, and to be thought a friend... I hope I may share what little wisdom I have learned with you, and that I have the wit to learn a little from the great wisdom that you would share with me! But I would have you recall that I am yet young among our people, even Finrod my brother is much older than I..."
   But Melian smiled wisely at Galadriel and turned to where Finrod, stooping awkwardly, was dancing, spinning, arm linked with a Dwarf, whose mug of foaming ale moved wildly with the music and at last splashed its frothing brew all down the front of the robe of Finrod. 

   Galadriel put a hand over her eyes and shook her head, but Finrod was laughing, dripping wet, while everyone, it seemed, rushed up with cloths to wipe him dry. But Finrod put a hand on the shoulder of his dancing partner and said "You have ruined my robe, you must give me yours and then we can carry on dancing. I know you wear many layers, but this one is all I have at hand."
   In the relative silence his voice carried even to where Galadriel stood, trying not to wish the ground would swallow her up. But Thingol was laughing, the Dwarves were laughing, everyone was laughing, and Melian turned to her with a smile "I have never seen such charm. Perchance Irmo... But Irmo himself denies charm, saying that we all bring our charms with us to the dreamland, and he merely shows the way. Whereas your brother has true charm, within himself, spilling his love for Arda and for all that lives onto all he meets."
   Galadriel nodded silently. Even as Melian had been speaking thus, the dancing Dwarf, still blushing from his clumsiness, had taken off one of his coats, a sleeveless garment of rich green, and Finrod had cast aside his own soaked robe and stood bare chested in his breeches and donned the coat of the Dwarf.

 There was a silence then, as all admired the lovely Elf, for the coat reached only to his waist, yet fitted as a tailored piece across his fine shoulders, and suited him like a well chosen gem. Suddenly there was a great cheer from the Dwarves, who lifted Finrod onto their broad shoulders and carried him round the chamber until the cheer became another song, a song of triumph and delight, until at last they paused before the seat of Thingol and set Finrod laughing on his feet once more. Finrod put one hand on his heart and the other on the shoulder of the Dwarf whose waistcoat he wore, and bowed to Thingol, who stood, and put out a hand to feel the cloth. Melian laughed, and even Galadriel felt able to smile, but Thingol turned and beckoned to them 
   "My dears! Come, see this fine cloth! Look, the threads are woven in different shades and colours, like light upon the living waters of Esgalduin! Why, Finrod is quite wruxled!"
   The Dwarves frowned, for though they had learned the tongue of the Elves, even now, after so long, some words escaped them. The one whose waistcoat it was, a sculptor named Frélin, took a deep breath and frowned up at Thingol. 
   "What is 'wruxled' Sire?"
   Thingol laughed "Wruxled... It means adorned, as the forest is adorned by Yavanna in the spring, it means turned to green, as Finrod here has been."
   Frélin looked at Finrod who laughed and winked at the Dwarf, and Frëlin laughed himself until his long red beard waggled like a hounds tail. But Finrod stooped once more, took the arm of Frélin and danced away, and the music was about them, and Thingol sat, and gestured to Melian, and a chair was set for Galadriel beside the Maia, and the merriment whirled about them.

   After a time Melian turned once more to Galadriel "I think that tomorrow all of Menegroth will be wruxled..."
   Galadriel shook her head, but with a smile "They do imitate him so."
   "It is good that the fine should be imitated, for it is certain that the foul are also copied."
   Galadriel nodded "It... Finrod does not mind, he moves ever on, mostly to music, from dance to song to heartbreaking melody... spreading music can only be good."
   "And spreading charm?"
   "Yes, that too, his charm itself is a matter of song." She smiled, but Melian looked thoughtful "My Lady, what troubles you?"
   "The charmed... Do they not feel, once charmed, that they now have a friend in Finrod? Do they not turn to him, bringing all their troubles?"
   Galadriel sat back in her chair, seeing Finrod anew, not as one surrounded by laughter, but as a fountain from which all his 'friends' would drink their fill, a fountain of merely Elven spirit, that would in time fade.
   "No!" She cried, but her cry was lost in the roar of celebration, and only Melian the Maia heard and understood. 
   "My dear Galadriel! Finrod cannot be other than he is! You would not hoard him away! And remember, as others drink of his charm, even so does he drink delight of theirs, and laughter and song resonate through us and enrich our spirits, and fulfil the Music. 
   But be wary, my friend, and if you find the words, and the mood, do you speak to Finrod of these matters. For he is such that once he has made a friend, he will feel he must do whatsoever he can for that friend, for his charm comes from the spirit, not the surface of a smile on the lying face of the Enemy. 
   And true charm comes at a cost. I hope that Finrod may find his spirit strong enough to bear that cost."