A Sad Tale's Best for Winter by oshun, Dawn Felagund

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Imladris, Third Age 195

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Imladris, Third Age 170

‘The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.' John Milton, Paradise Lost.

The fir trees that grew along the steep, rocky road leading down into the valley had provided ample greenery to deck the entirety of the Hall of Fire from every lofty arch to frost-covered window. Holly and ivy twined every column. A massive tree, festooned with red ribbons and crowded with an impressive collection of dangling ornaments of glittering silver, gold and crystal, stood in front of the bay windows, almost hiding the view of the snow-covered balcony and the starry sky beyond.

The Yule log blazing in the enormous fireplace warmed the farthest corners of the hall. I heard Elrohir and Celebrían bickering softly behind me and turned.

“Watch how much you drink tonight, young man. Don’t use Erestor as your model, always playing at being cynical and dark. He is not as invulnerable as you might think he is.”

“Erestor’s not dark!” Elrohir laughed the smug laugh of a young man who still knows everything. “And who can begrudge him a little posturing. He is the most attractive man in this hall tonight!”

“More appealing even than Glorfindel?” she asked, amused. Elrohir preferred men. While she accepted that fact with equanimity, her acquiescence did not prevent her from fearing it might bring its own set of problems for him.

“Out on patrol.” Mother and son giggled together at his quick riposte.

“Ah, my darling, you know that I love Erestor like a brother.” Undeterred from her point, my wife picked up her lecture where she had left it, while Elrohir continued to pretend to dismiss it.

“Actually, he covers a world of grief and loss with his sharp tongue and incessant philandering.”

“Like Elladan, I guess?”

“Really?” The timbre of her voice rose, an indication of anxiety. “You think your brother does that? I mean, hides something behind his lack of seriousness?”

“I hadn’t realized it until this second. But, yes, I think perhaps he does. Many things are harder for him than he will admit, Nana.” Elrohir’s voice broke a little on that last remark.

I looked at our laughing elder son across the room, flush-cheeked, cocky, and handsome, tossing back half a tankard of ale like it was water. As though I don’t have enough to worry about already, I thought, filing his brother’s comment away for future rumination.

Then, with no small amount of fanfare, liveried serving men entered the hall to glide amongst the assembled guests with trays of after-dinner sweetmeats. The kitchen had exceeded itself with its flawless collection of preserved berry tarts, vanilla iced pastries, marzipan treats mimicking everything from tiny peaches, pears, and strawberries to all manner of out-of-season fruits.

There were also, of course, the traditional midwinter spice cakes, far more stylishly presented in lacy paper holders than the homely ones that Maedhros had taught me to make so long ago. The familiar lingering fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg brought back bittersweet memories of my childhood.

The first wave of delicacies was followed by servers carrying larger trays of steaming cups of mulled wine. The festive elegance, a once or twice a year exception to the daily comfort of the Hall of Fire, gave nod to some half-remembered or imagined ideal of courtly entertainment in Tirion or Doriath. I wasn’t sure whether I had Celebrían or Erestor to thank for the fanciful display.

A long table at the back of the hall served ale and unenhanced Dorwinion wines for those who preferred simpler refreshment.

Coming up behind me, Erestor slapped me on the shoulder. “You’re unnaturally quiet tonight,” he drawled. Sipping a cup of the fragrant mulled wine, he raised a disapproving eyebrow at me.

“Thank you for putting it so graciously,” I said. “I admit that I deserve worse.”

“All right then. I’ll take that as tacit permission to speak freely,” Erestor said, as though he ever did anything else. “You’ve been skulking around like a whipped dog all week.”

“So says Celebrían, although usually in somewhat gentler terms.”

“Reminiscences of Yuletides past again?”

“Could be.”

“Gil-galad?” Erestor asked. His cheeky effrontery made it easier to push back the black wave of despondency that threatened to engulf me.

“No. Although, if I permitted myself to think about him for long . . . ” I allowed myself a self-deprecating chortle. “This year it’s Maedhros.” We both shared a bitter laugh at my expense. “I was thinking of our first Yule in East Beleriand. Remember that tree you cut for us?”

“How could I forget? That was a lumbering bear of a bollocks-freezing, Valar-forsaken winter. And I ripped my palms into ribbons felling and dragging the cursed thing home for you kidlets. It was worth it though. I think you both started to relax with us after that night.”

“Whatever your motives,” I began, earning myself a huff and an offended glance. Erestor was not easy to shock, so I relished the modest pleasure it gave me when I was able to do so. “. . . you were always good to us. All of you were. I just can’t seem to stop thinking of Maedhros tonight. He seemed much better after that celebration. For a long while.”

“I would have presumed you’d be thinking of later years, with that look of hungry yearning.” He gave me lascivious grin.

“No, not actually. That was but puppy love, or hero worship, or adolescent lust, or all of those together.”

Everything I said was total bullshit. I had loved Maedhros with all of my young heart. When I lost him, my grief was terrible, not to mention my anger. I was young and believed he should have wanted to live for me! But I did learn one important thing. While I was not a person who could easily exist without love, loving came easy to me. Not long after Maedhros, I fell in love again and then, losing Gil, finally, one last time. I instinctively glanced about the room seeking to locate Celebrían. Elros used to tell me that I had an open heart--as often as not a criticism or a warning. But, still, I suppose this is what he meant. As far as I know, Elros had loved only once and founded a dynasty upon that love.

“I still don’t regret it. I’ll be the first to admit that I learned a lot from Maedhros.”

Erestor rolled his eyes at me. “Oh, do share! Have you been holding out on me all these years?”

“Don’t be an ass. I didn’t mean that sort of thing. I meant everyone has to endure at least one broken heart. And, some of us, like you and me, survive more than one. At least he was worthy of the pain he caused me. Even at my ripe old age, I am still impressed with myself for having snagged him as my first.” Sparring with Erestor did not dispel, but did take the edge off my gloominess.

“As well you should be.” The muscles of his face then relaxed into a vulnerable sincerity. “I only wish you could have known him before. By the time you met him, he was but a shade of his former self.”

Erestor jerked his head up and frowned in the direction of the musicians. “Buggering Balrogs. Brace yourself. The worst is yet to come. Look at Lindir. Determined to wring a tear out of the most cynical.”

The self-proclaimed chief minstrel of Rivendell had picked up his lute and cradled it to his chest in readiness, cocking his head to one side with a studied look of poignant sadness on his pale, finely-wrought face. Too lofty to call for silence like any common player, he waited until people noticed he was ready to begin, allowing the hall to quiet little by little. Such an actor he was. Maglor had needed no such stagey gestures. His voice had been more than enough. Yet Lindir, even then without having yet reached his peak, far surpassed good; he was outstanding and I was well aware of how lucky I was to have found him.

The song, predictably chosen and traditional, was Maglor’s ball-breaking or heart-wrenching Bleak Midwinter, depending upon whether you asked Erestor or Celebrían.

When he had finished, Elladan led the applause, calling out. “Bravo, Lindir! Did you write that?”

“Oh, how I wish I had!” was Lindir’s uncharacteristically modest response.

“Who did write it then?”

Erestor shot Elladan a pained look. My pouting had clearly worn out his patience, leaving little for others. Not that I had not endured a fair amount of negativity from him over the years. Erestor had a way of getting his heart shattered with tiresome regularity and casting a pall over the entire household for weeks to months as a result.

“That was written by your father’s foster-father Canafinwë Macalaurë Feanárion,” Erestor said. “Maglor to you two poorly-educated boys.”

“Ha!” hooted Elladan, unrepentant. “Should have guessed.”

“Don’t lump me with him. I knew who composed it,” grumbled Elrohir, crossing his arms in front of chest.

Elladan jumped into the fray again, grinning. “Calling us poorly-educated does not reflect well on you, Erestor. Or Glorfindel. Or even Lindir. Not to mention Atar and Amil.”

I sensed rather than saw Celebrían move closer to me, before the scent of her confirmed her presence. Her preferred winter perfume, spicier and with an undertone of musk, smelled wholly unlike the fresher essences of honeysuckle and meadow grass she liked to wear in the spring and summer. Slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her against me, I whispered into her ear. “Don’t worry about the boys; they’ll be fine.”

“Sadly, Elrond, they are no longer boys. If by ‘fine’ you mean as well as can be expected given the liabilities their parents passed along to them, then I am sure you are right. I’ve always wished them to be entirely whole and happy. But, never mind them. I’m more worried about you tonight.”

I looked down at her to find her smirking up at me. She had mastered Celeborn’s cool expressionless delivery to perfection. “Speak for yourself, my lady. I am very happy with the way I was raised! And my pedigree is outstanding.”

“Unique might be a better word. Assuming you got the best and not worst of all of that cross-breeding.”

Sharp-tongued and perceptive like her mother, Celebrían, however, engaged her world on a far more human and less cerebral level. Solidly grounded, she made people like her and feel at ease with her, although her parents were living legends. I remembered the first time I met those two, ridiculously tall and androgynously beautiful, a perfect set of silver and gold Eldarin princes. Celeborn with his royal Sindarin blood, had been conceived and raised while his people still traveled as nomads under starlight, through forests and over mountains, wending their way toward the sea. Galadriel, calculating and ambitious, learned everything she could from my own great grandmother Melian the Maia, before casting out to seek a realm of her own. Even as a woman and the youngest of the leaders of the Amanyarin exiles, she was counted among the wisest of the Wise.

“I remember when I first met you.” I smiled down at Celebrían. She was also much slighter than her mother. “I thought you would be a precious, spoiled little princess.”

“Hardly,”she teased.

“So I learned. Forced to be the son that Celeborn never had. And Galadriel . . .” I threw up my hands.

“Loves me very much. But her mothering instincts might be described as less than perfect.” I snorted at that. “She never could decide what would be most effective. I don't think she ever figured out whether she preferred bullying or coddling.”

“After I knew her better, I figured you had to be strong to have endured that terrifying creature as a mother.”

“Watch yourself, Elrond.” All this was old ground trod countless times over our years together. “She loves you!”

“That’s a stretch. And she warned you against me.” Old resentments die hard. “Because she always knows best.”

“In that case, I did not need her warning. I thought you were Gil-galad’s pretty boy. Most people did.”

“Well I wasn’t!” This was another old wound. “I was never anybody’s ‘boy.’ Not even yours, sweetheart.”

“Certainly not mine! You ignored me entirely for the first several years you knew me.” I had to laugh. She was completely right about that. An ingenuous young woman, standing in the shadow of Galadriel, did not have much of a chance of gaining my attention, while I was being tupped by Ereinion Gil-galad.

As though she had read my mind, she smacked me on the arm.

“You’re awfully physical tonight, bordering on abusive,” I said.

“Well, you’ve been unbearably annoying all week. You need to straighten yourself out before I lose my temper with you.” Although we stood in a crowded room, she grabbed me by the back of the neck and pulled me into a kiss. That was one of her tricks that almost always worked—kiss away the sharp words before they had a chance to settle.

Calligraphy and illumination by Dawn Felagund

But she had brought up Gil-galad and I never could let that old accusation of inequality within our relationship pass without an answer. “He was my king. I respected and admired him, but alone with one another we were simply ‘Gil’ and ‘Elrond.’” Not entirely true, but close enough. He only treated me as his youthful bed treat, his guilty secret, for the first few weeks. And after losing Maedhros, I desperately needed to feel loved.

“Let’s agree that Galadriel was both right and wrong.” Celebrían called her Galadriel. No Amil or Nana. Who calls their mother by her given name? “She was wrong to think you could never love a woman. She was right to note that your only lovers to that point had been men. And one of them her oldest cousin.”

“She didn’t know about that.”

“Of course, she did, Elrond. You’re such an innocent.”

I could feel myself blushing. I was right to feel wary around my mother-in-law. An unmistakable opening chord interrupted my floundering for a response. “Not again!” I groaned under my breath. “Bleak midwinter, my rosy red arse. I’m for bed. Are you coming with me?”

“We can’t leave now. Lindir will never forgive us. It’s one of his signature pieces. He waits all year to sing it.”

“Not his, actually.” I made a face at her withering glance. “So sorry, darling. It is the second time tonight. I really cannot handle it again. I don’t see why I should have to. Impervious little twit should know by now that it bothers me.” That made her laugh.

“His point is—the intent of the song is—to evoke a longing sadness, to pull at one’s the heartstrings, to honor our losses, remember past defeats, and instill a desire to move forward.”

“Pfft! Perhaps you’re right. Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”

She knuckled me with a surprising amount of force on the upper arm. “Pull yourself together, Elrond! People love it. And he performs it flawlessly. He’s not singling you out for persecution.”

I felt my mouth forming a petulant grimace, which I recognized as soon as I did it, thinking, ‘So that is where Elrohir gets that one.’ My second son had polished the same expression into a precise representation of unfairly put-upon disgruntlement.

“Sorry!” I said ungraciously. Even Elrohir could not have reproduced my sigh of long-suffering resignation.

”Fine, then.” She raised her chin, eyes snapping, and reined in the beginning of an indulgent smile. “Wait here, you pitiful creature. I’ll handle it.”

Celebrían made her way among the benches and chairs of Lindir’s rapt audience, her slender figure and remarkable silver hair enhanced by her simple pale blue gown bound under her small high breasts by a silver girdle studded with moonstones. I thought with admiration how her seemingly delicate beauty hid a steel backbone. A smile here, a soft squeeze on someone’s shoulder there, her movement in the direction of the musicians caught Lindir’s eye. He guessed what was coming and did not like it one little bit, but he soldiered on, the consummate professional.

She leaned forward from behind Lindir, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek. His shoulders straightened. He glanced up at her, but did not miss a beat. “Thank you,” she mouthed to him, with one last intimate smoothing of his white-blond mane. She had a way of knowing how to make a person feel cherished and appreciated.

“Snow upon snow.
Snow upon snow. . . “

Mollified, Lindir trilled, sure and confident, on the final ‘snow’ of the initial phrase, and then released his voice to soar on the second one. His rendition was nearly worthy of Maglor, although, in all honesty, I must say, with a shade less richness and color.

Celebrían, having reached me again, took my hand, leading me to the door. “It’s fine. We can leave now,” she whispered.

As soon as we were safely in the hallway and out of earshot of the gathering, she said, “He knows his audience. Who was it that said, ‘A sad tale’s best for winter?’” She grasped my upper arm, pulling it between her breasts and allowing herself to lean on me as we walked.

“I couldn’t manage without you. You are too good for me,” I said, reaching up to squeeze her hand.

“Don’t be silly. We’re co-conspirators in this struggle. We’ll never give up without a good fight. I’ve got your back and trust that you have mine.”

“Seriously, you always give me more than I expect and better than I deserve. I thought you were going to tell me, like Erestor always does, ‘Heal thyself, physician.’”

She bristled at that and then laughed, soft fingers tightening on my hand. “Erestor! That rascal. As though he had the authority to say such a thing to you.” Her voice warmed with affection for our dearest friend. “Galadriel always tells me that we will never find complete healing on this side of the sea. But I have always believed in the value of the struggle here, now.” She grabbed my chin in her small hand. Celebrían had quite a grip. “Look at me, Elrond. I’m proud of you. More than I think you know. I want to fight the long defeat with you, with courage. Chin up solider! Our valor lies in never giving up, not whether we win or lose.”