White Water Flowing by StarSpray

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Chapter One

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Here grass is still growing,
And leaves are yet swinging,
The white water flowing,
And elves are yet singing
Come! Tra-la-la-lally!
Come back to the valley!
- The Hobbit

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When Celebrían had first come to Valinor, she had been ushered off of Eressëa and to the Gardens of Lórien with a haste that she had noticed even then was practiced and smooth—she was not the first to come in urgent need of healing and care. Then she had not left Lórien for a very long time. She did not know how long, for she hadn’t bothered to count the years, or even really notice their passing.

But now she was well enough to have left Lórien, and to find herself at loose ends. Before she had been taken by the orcs she had been mistress of Imladris, and it was strange to be now a guest wherever she went. Not that Celebrían was in any danger of feeling unwelcome—indeed, her various relations seemed to enjoy squabbling over which of them had the honor of bringing her into their household—and for some time she was very happy to have no worries about household squabbles or meal schedules, or whether the roof had sprung a leak. And she was happy to travel between her family’s homes, seeing Valmar and Tirion, and Alqualondë, and Tol Eressëa. She even sailed up the coast to dwell for a time with Elwing in her tower.

“Isn’t it lonely?” Celebrían asked. They sat together in the garden, Elwing’s tree-like tower at their backs and the sea laid out before them, sun-spangled and very blue beneath the summer sky. Elwing’s garden was filled with flowers, every inhale a new blend of scents as the winds shifted around them.

“Sometimes,” Elwing said. She was curled up in her seat, clad in grey that afternoon, with no adornments except a few silver rings on her fingers. “But when I want company I usually just fly off to find it—in Alqualondë, or in Menegroth.” Celebrían had yet to visit Menegroth, where Dior and Nimloth reigned. Elwing had been queen there in name until Dior’s return, but Celebrían had the impression that Elwing had delegated much of her queenly duties in favor of—well, of doing whatever she liked. “So when I am here, I don’t mind the solitude. And I am never in want of news, thanks to the birds.”

The solitude was all well and good for a time, but Celebrían had never lived in isolation. She returned to Alqualondë, and stayed in Tirion, and spent even more time in Avallónë, where Finrod Felagund dwelt among the exiles. It was not an unpleasant life, but she soon felt a restlessness, a dissatisfaction that she could not quite identify.

“Perhaps it is homesickness,” Finrod said, when she confided in him. “You must find a new place here to call your home—though I know it isn’t that easy.”

“No,” Celebrían said. Particularly when the home of her heart lay with Elrond, and there was no telling when he would come to her. Too much depended upon him still in Middle-earth. But maybe she could build a house of her own, where she was mistress again. She said, so, and Finrod brightened immediately, making her laugh. If she had wished it, he would have designed a house for her and probably built half of it with his own hands. But already Celebrían thought that a house—there in Avallónë, near enough to run down to the harbor—was only the start. It wasn’t only Elrond that she missed—she missed the Misty Mountains, and the valley of Imladris itself, with its woods and its streams and the orchards she had first planted while Elrond was away at war. It was far more than only a house—it was the Last Homely House east of the Sea. And as far as Celebrían could tell, there was no house of its kind in Valinor at all.

When she said this aloud, sometime after Finrod had dragged out his drafting papers and started talking of consultation with Turgon, or perhaps Lady Anairë, Finrod chuckled. “I would hope that all of our houses are homely,” he said.

“They are all comfortable and welcoming,” said Celebrían, “but perhaps there is no suitable word for what Imladris was—what it is.”

“Perhaps,” Finrod said, “there is no need for such a place here. There is darkness and danger still in Middle-earth, as there is not here.” Between them hung the knowledge of the shape of that darkness and danger. Finrod had faced it once, head-on.

Celebrían did not answer. That wasn’t fully it, either. Imladris was a bright spot in a darkening world, a place of refuge and safety, but it was also something else. A place of welcome, no matter who you were, a place of acceptance. There were many, Celebrían knew, who dwelt in Valinor feeling out of place. Noldor who had been born in Middle-earth and who had never known Tirion or perhaps even any of the great cities of Beleriand. Sindar or Woodelves who did not feel at home in Dior’s realm or in Alqualondë. There was Eressëa, but not everyone wished to dwell upon an island.

It was a thought for later. First, Celebrían wanted a house of her own, there in Avallónë. Once that was built and she was used again to being her own mistress, she would turn her thoughts, perhaps, toward the foothills of the Pelóri.

In the end, Lady Anairë was summoned to Eressëa, and Celebrían found herself grateful for it, as Anairë was far less prone to getting carried away than Finrod, and did not try to talk Celebrían into more ostentation than was strictly necessary. “She wants comfort, not splendor,” she said to Finrod, smacking him lightly upside the head with a rolled up paper. “If you want yet another twelve-foot fountain, go find room in your own courtyard!”

The result of Anairë’s designs and the labor of far more Elves than was strictly necessary (all of the craftsmen of Eressëa were eager to put their skills at anyone’s disposal, it seemed) was a house far too large for Celebrían alone, a comfortable combination of open and cozy, located just a handful of steps from the water, and within easy walking distance of the main harbor of Avallónë. Finrod’s house was nearby, as well as the home of Idril and Tuor. When Celebrían at last walked into the finished house, she was startled to see how closely many of the furnishings resembled those of Imladris. Indeed, her bedroom was nearly identical to the one she had shared with Elrond, down to the mallorn leaves and niphredil flowers carved into the headboard.

The carver was easily found—Elvir, who had dwelt with his sister in Imladris and who had still lived there when Celebrían had set sail. “When did you come to Eressëa?” she asked him.

“Some ten years ago,” he said. “Elenel and Taurendis have spoken of coming West for many years, and finally decided to do it—and I had little reason to stay or to go, besides my sister, and so here I am. I am very glad to see you well again, my lady,” he added. “And very glad I won the chance to make some of your furnishings. For the bed, it nearly came to blows before someone told the woodworker from Tirion that I made your bed at home in Imladris.”

“Well, I am glad it did not come to that,” said Celebrían, “and that you were the one to make it.”

Elenel and Taurendis were content with their small cottage near the center of Eressëa, but as Celebrían established herself as her own mistress in Avallónë, Elvir returned to her service. In fact nearly all who entered her small household had once lived in Imladris—and there were many more who would have liked to, had there been room or use for them in the house by the water.

It put Celebrían in mind again of building a new Imladris, somewhere in Aman. But she set those thoughts aside. Having just finished one building, she did not need to launch immediately into another. There was no hurry.

And for a long while she was content. Her home in Avallónë was her own, her refuge, and when she wished for other company she had only to take the ferry to the mainland, or to send invitations to her many and varied relations.

It was on one such visit to Tirion, to stay a while with her grandparents, that Celebrían was at last introduced to Lady Nerdanel. She did not come often into Tirion anymore, but on that occasion she had come to deliver a commission, and to visit her sisters-in-law.

“I have not seen much of your artwork,” Celebrían said apologetically, when they were left to make small talk together at one of Lady Anairë’s afternoon gatherings, “but what I have seen I have thought very beautiful.”

Nerdanel smiled at her. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you have a craft?”

“No, not particularly. Nothing I’m as passionate about as any of the Noldorin craftsfolk I have met. My daughter does spinning and needlework.” There had been talk of her learning to weave as well, though that had been just before Celebrían’s last, ill-fated journey to Lórien; after that Celebrían knew very little of the goings on around her, and Arwen had not mentioned it in any of her letters.

“My son, Carnistir, weaves,” said Nerdanel. “It is something he has taken up since his return.” She looked at Celebrían with some wariness as she said this, but when Celebrían did not recoil at the mention of one of her sons, she relaxed. “But he has more passion for living things, these days. My poor garden was sorely neglected before he came back, and now it thrives as it never did before.”

“Do your sons ever come to Tirion, or to Tol Eressëa?” Celebrían asked.

“Very rarely,” said Nerdanel. “Celegorm roams about more than his brothers, as he always did. Somehow, it seems, he and your kinsman Dior Eluchíl have befriended one another. As we speak, in fact, they are hunting in the forests of Oromë together.”

“I have not yet met Dior,” said Celebrían. He seldom came to Tirion or Eressëa, and she had not yet traveled south of the Calacirya. She had, however, met her cousin Nimloth—that had been a merry meeting on Tol Eressëa, for Nimloth dearly loved to laugh and sing.

“He is quiet,” Nerdanel said, “but not somber. I must supposed that he has the look of his mother, though Carnistir tells me that there is much of the Edain in him also.”

Their talk wound away from relations, to art and gossip, and whether Celebrían might like to commission a sculpture of some kind from Nerdanel. To that end, they agreed that Nerdanel would come to Tol Eressëa for a visit. “And—if they would like to come, your sons would be welcome also,” Celebrían said. She had hesitated over the invitation, half-afraid it would be taken the wrong way. But the habit of hospitality extended to everyone, no matter who they were, was too deeply ingrained. And anyway, she was curious to meet them, these three sons of Fëanor that had come back from Mandos. Elrond, she knew, still cared very deeply for Maglor, and before they had married he had gone away every once and a while to look for him, following rumors on the wind. He would not have hesitated at all to invite them.

Nerdanel looked startled by it. “Thank you!” she said. “I will certainly tell them. I think perhaps Tyelkormo, at least, will come.”

They parted, then, called away by different parties. Celebrían was already looking forward to Nerdanel’s visit to Eressëa. Several of her relations remarked upon her long conversation with Nerdanel at the party, but she only smiled and talked of her hopes of commissioning some artwork. She did not tell anyone, not even Finrod, of her invitation to Nerdanel’s sons. She recalled the tales of Nargothrond, and as Finrod had never spoken of his cousins to her, she could not be certain where they stood with one another. Though if any of them did accompany Nerdanel, Celebrían supposed she would find out very quickly.

Neither Celegorm nor Curufin accompanied Nerdanel to Tol Eressëa, in the end, but Caranthir did. He was dark-haired and tall, with soil beneath his fingers and sharp, dark eyes. He wore very plain clothes, for one of the Noldor, and no ornaments, not even a single ring or armband. But in spite of his austere appearance, he was polite and gracious. Celebrían did notice that he regarded her with frank curiosity, which she ignored. They had arrived in time to freshen up for supper, which was to be served on the veranda that overlooked the garden and Eldamar beyond.

Over the meal—light fare, of fish and a clear and refreshing soup that was the current rage in Alqualondë, followed by fruit and sweet wine—Celebrían asked the usual polite questions of a hostess, including how Nerdanel’s other sons fared. “They are well,” Nerdanel said lightly.

“Though they do not dare set foot on Eressëa,” Caranthir added, looking at Celebrían as though he wished to judge her reaction to his words. “For fear of our cousin.”

“Carnistir,” Nerdanel murmured.

“It’s all right,” Celebrían said. “It will take a great deal more than that to offend me; I know the tale. In any case, I love my uncle dearly, but I do not care about his opinions of my house guests. I shall invite whoever I wish, whenever I wish, and he will just have to stay away if he doesn’t like it.”

Nerdanel laughed, a sudden and bright sound. “Spoken just like your mother!” she said.

“Artanis would not approve, either,” Caranthir said. Celebrían was certain that Nerdanel kicked his ankle under the table.

“She prefers Galadriel, these days,” Celebrían said, smiling sweetly at him, “and she has far bigger things to worry about than who sits at my dinner table across the Mountains and the Sea.” And with that she firmly changed the subject to something less fraught, asking Nerdanel about her current work, and soon entering into a lively conversation about the building of her house, and the styles of art and decoration that she favored. This of course brought up Rivendell, and Celebrían discovered that both Caranthir and Nerdanel were very curious about it, and its people.

After dinner, Caranthir wandered off into the garden while Nerdanel and Celebrían got down to business, soon settling on a stone sculpture of—nothing in particular, Celebrían thought, desiring to leave it entirely to Nerdanel. Something strange and eye-catching, as all her abstract works were. “But something small, perhaps to place on a stand by the fireplace,” said Celebrían as they entered the largest parlor. “Though what I would really like is a Hall of Fire, to be lined with tapestries and with other artworks set where the firelight will have the greatest effect…but there is little call for such a room on Eressëa.”

“You could have made your home elsewhere,” Nerdanel said.

“I was still rather newly released from Lórien when I built this house,” said Celebrían. “And I suppose I still am—it is strange sometimes to try to measure time here! But I wanted a house close to the harbor.”

“Do you expect your kin to join you soon?” Nerdanel asked.

“No, not soon. But when they do come, I wish to be ready.”

There was no hurry, either for the visit or for the artwork. Nerdanel had brought her sketching supplies, and Caranthir—in spite of his words to Celebrían that first evening—proved that he did not care what the people of Avallónë thought either, and spent his mornings wandering about the city. Celebrían often went out with him, though their paths soon diverged. She was not used to having trouble engaging with people, but Caranthir seemed a solitary sort of person.

One morning, as she emerged from her favorite bakery with a basket full of pastries, she encountered Finrod—and with him Fingon, golden ribbons shining in his braids. “Why, it is my favorite niece!” Finrod exclaimed. “Good morning, Celebrían.”

“Good morning, Uncle,” Celebrían said, smiling. “And good morning, Fingon.” She had heard from several folk how intimidating it was to encounter great kings of the Noldor wandering the streets of Tol Eressëa, but she had not found any of them to be particularly frightening—Fingolfin might have been the exception, but he did not often come to Avallónë.

“Did you know that Caranthir is on the island?” Finrod asked as they strolled down the street. “I wonder what brings him to Eressëa.”

“Me,” Celebrían said, earning herself two very surprised glances. “Well, I invited Nerdanel, and it would have been very rude not to extend the invitation to her sons.”

“Are Celegorm and Curufin wandering about Avallónë, too?” Fingon asked.

“No, they were unable to come,” said Celebrían. “Perhaps next time. Nerdanel is going to make a sculpture for me. Oh look, here is Caranthir now!” She waved to him, and the streets were not so crowded that he could pretend he hadn’t seen. In any case, he crossed over to them, exchanging slightly stilted greetings with his cousins. Everyone liked to say that the crimes of the First Age were forgiven and set behind them, but of course that was easier said than done. Celebrían had already decided that the best way to handle the tension was to pretend it did not exist. She had smiled and charmed her way through plenty of awkward gatherings that way, and in several cases had ended long-standing feuds, and stopped one or two others before they could really begin.

So, naturally, she invited Fingon and Finrod to lunch with them. Caranthir turned an interesting shade of red, and the other cousins exchanged a startled glance, but Celebrían knew very well that none of her relations liked to say no to her. It came of being the youngest and of having been so badly hurt and so long in healing. She kept up a running, cheerful chatter as they walked back to her house, mostly about the weather and the pastries she’d bought, and also some harmless family gossip—a cat had adopted Tuor, who rather unfortunately dissolved into sneezes and sniffles whenever he was near cats, and Idril thus far was too busy laughing at him to be of much help.

At her house they found Nerdanel in the front garden, engrossed in a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. She straightened as they approached, eyes going wide for a moment, but both Fingon and Finrod greeted her with much more warmth than they had greeted her son. Celebrían slipped her arm through Caranthir’s to keep him from escaping, and led the way inside.

Overall, it was a pleasant afternoon, if a little stilted on a few sides. Finrod and Fingon made their escape as soon as was politely possible, and Caranthir vanished behind the roses in the garden. Nerdanel looked at Celebrían as they sat together by the wide window in the parlor, sipping tea. “Do you think to effect a family reconciliation by brute force?” she asked, sounding curious.

“Heavens, no,” Celebrían said. “If I were going to use brute force I would have found a way to lock them all in a small room together until they worked it all out. It worked quite well when my boys were small.”

“I imagine their quarrels were not quite so…” Nerdanel paused, and then just gestured, not quite having the words to describe what the quarrels among Finwë’s grandchildren were.

“No,” Celebrían agreed, “and they’ve always hated to be at odds with one another anyway—twins, you know. I would come back in an hour to find them hiding in a fortress of blankets and pillows—or gone entirely, having climbed out of the window to go pick apples. But the problem here is not that they are quarreling, exactly. It’s old quarrels never properly reconciled.”

“My sons went to everyone they wronged, the autumn after Curufinwë returned,” Nerdanel said. “There aren’t really any words in any elvish tongue for the apologies they needed to make, but they did try.”

“I did not mean to suggest that they didn’t,” Celebrían said. “Only that the sort of reconciliation that would, say, bring cousins back together as friends—that takes rather more time and conversation than a single apology on one side, and forgiveness on the other—and willingness to put in the effort. And I suspect there are apologies owed on all sides.”

Nerdanel was back to looking amused. “And you are going to facilitate this reconciliation?” she said. “I would not have expected it of Artanis’ daughter.”

“Well, it’s evidently not going to happen on its own.”

Caranthir left Eressëa the next morning, saying a polite but rather hasty goodbye to Celebrían. Clearly, he was afraid of being dragged into more family meals—and he was right about it, since Celebrían had been seriously considering an invitation to supper for Idril and Tuor next. Nerdanel stayed on for some time, finalizing her plans for her small sculpture before departing—a much friendlier parting than her son’s. Celebrían liked Nerdanel quite a lot, and she was rather fond of Caranthir, too. They had had several long discussions of his realm in Thargelion, and Elrond’s of Imladris. They were not quite the same, but Caranthir had lived by the waters of Lake Helevorn, in the shadow of the mountains. He spoke with fondness and not a little poorly-concealed longing. He had also, much to Celebrían’s interest, told her much about the process of scouting the lands and deciding where to build his settlement.

As the weeks and months passed, Celebrían’s thoughts kept turning to the mountains. It was the Sea that dominated Elven songs and stories, but her love was for snow melt streams and quiet pools beneath towering firs and oaks and beeches. Between those thoughts and a package of letters from Imladris, Celebrían found herself feeling both homesick and restless.

So she packed a bag, bid her household tell anyone who came to visit that she’d gone wandering, and took the first ferry of the morning off of Eressëa, her gaze on the looming Pelóri ahead.