White Water Flowing by StarSpray

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Chapter Four

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Midsummer was soon approaching, and so Celebrían’s plans were put on hold for the moment—or the season. Neither Nerdanel nor her sons would be attending Valmar for the celebrations, which was a disappointment but not a surprise. A few careful questions told Celebrían that they had not even been invited. “You know,” she remarked to Finrod and Nimloth over lunch, “it would stop being awkward very quickly if just a little effort was made.”

Finrod gave her an inscrutable look. “My father did make an effort, when they first returned,” he said. “They declined all invitations.”

“And of course they could not have changed their minds a bit since then,” Celebrían retorted. “They’re quite nice company, you know, when they are able to relax.”

“I do know. I grew up with them, remember, and they dwelt in my city for a time. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t make trouble at your luncheon with Caranthir, did I?”

“You were very well behaved,” Celebrían said in a purposely over-soothing tone, which earned her a flat look. “Except for the looks you kept giving me out of the corner of your eye, like you expected someone to attack you, and I would sit back and allow it.”

“You do seem to be taking their part,” Finrod said, a little dubiously. “And I am learning that one never quite knows what you will do, and it is foolish to expect anything.”

“Well, you can expect that I will not tolerate rudeness or violence at my table,” Celebrían said. “Particularly the latter. Blood is very hard to get out of the carpets.” Nimloth laughed out loud. “But the problem, as far as I can tell, is that everyone is walking around half expecting them to do something violent. It’s not healthy for anyone. Would Námo had released them if there was any real likelihood of them causing trouble?”

“There is a precedent,” Finrod said dryly.

“Well, yes. But I should hope that the Valar are able to learn from their mistakes.”

“One does hope,” said Nimloth. “I would also think that Námo is far more cautious than his brethren when it comes to such things. It was not his decision alone to release Morgoth, was it?”

“Perhaps not,” said Finrod. “All right, Celebrían, I will make more of an effort to be friendly when you inevitably insist upon inviting us all to supper again—for your sake. I dare not imagine what your mother would say.”

“Oh, she would doubtless be furious,” Celebrían said brightly. “And though I do miss her terribly, the one nice thing about there being the wide sea between us is that I don’t have to care a whit what she thinks of anything I do! Indeed, I have long since grown out of all that.” She and Elrond had discussed more than once what they would do should Maglor, somehow, appear on their doorstep—or more likely, find himself dragged into the valley by their sons, or perhaps by Elrond’s uncles, who had already met him once upon the island of Himling—and had agreed that of course he would be as welcome as anyone else in Imladris, no matter what anyone said. Let the other elven lords and ladies look to their own realms, Celebrían had said. Imladris was theirs—as her house in Eressëa was her own, and as soon her hanging valley would be. Already she was looking forward to the day she could say it was theirs, hers and Elrond’s. But that day lay still far in the future.

Elwing arrived to join them that afternoon for the journey to Valmar. The ferry from Eressëa was crowded, but their party was boarded first and placed at the bow of the boat, in the best seats. Celebrían settled herself beside the railing where she could lean out to catch the spray on her face. It was, as always, a quick voyage. Dolphins followed them halfway from the island to the quays of Alqualondë, leaping high out of the water and chirping and chattering at the sailors, who laughed and responded in kind. Conversation among their party skirted around the Fëanorians, now that Elwing had joined them—Celebrían was all for reconciliation among Finwë’s kin, but she wasn’t so tactless as to try to rope Elwing into it—but both Elwing and Nimloth were very keen to know about Celebrían’s plans for her mountain estate.

“I have flown over those mountains many times,” Elwing remarked, “but I do not recall the valley you describe.”

“It’s rather out of the way,” Celebrían said. “I don’t know if you’d fly over it on your way to the Calacirya from your tower. Perhaps I can show it to you after the Midsummer festivities.”

“I would like that,” Elwing said with a smile, and Nimloth and Finrod immediately demanded invitations of their own—and one for Dior as well. It would be a merry traveling party, and Celebrían was sure that it would grow in size before they left Valmar.

Dior awaited them near the quays in Alqualondë, with a large party from Menegroth. They were all to go on horseback—and Celebrían realized with a kind of horrible start that she had not been atop a horse since her last disastrous journey through the Redhorn Pass. In Valinor she had either gone on foot, walking journeys being both enjoyable and very safe, or in a wagon or carriage. It was silly to get so nervous over a horse, though—it wasn’t the horses that had attracted the orcs to her party in the Misty Mountains. Celebrían took a deliberate breath, and found herself able to summon a real smile when Finrod glanced over his shoulder at her.

Then she saw Dior—from the back at first, and then from the side as he turned to greet Nimloth with a kiss, and the sight was like being slapped. Celebrían had not even realized she’d halted until Elwing touched her arm, making her jump. “What is the matter?” Elwing asked. “You look pale.”

“Nothing,” Celebrían said. “It’s just—” Dior had turned fully by then, and she could see his face fully. “He looks like Elrond.” So much like Elrond. She’d had a similar jolt when first meeting Elwing, who at first glance could have been Arwen’s twin—there were differences when one looked closer, of course: Arwen was taller, and Elwing’s figure smaller and more fragile-seeming. But Celebrían had been prepared for that—had expected a great resemblance. She felt rather foolish for being taken so off guard by Dior, but that was overshadowed by a sudden aching longing for her husband. That feeling usually only came to her late at night, when she was alone in a bed too big for one person—at least at those times she could roll over and cry into her pillow.

Celebrían took another deep breath, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. This was to be a pleasant journey, with merriment at the end. She wouldn’t ruin it for everyone by blubbering over something no one could change. “I’m all right,” she said to Elwing, who still looked worried. “It was a surprise, that’s all—and silly of me not to expect it, really.”

Elwing was not convinced, but she was the only one who had seen Celebrían’s distress, so she felt sure that no one else noticed anything amiss. And up close, it was easier to see the soft differences between Dior and Elrond, and that made it easier. They were of a height, but Dior had slightly sharper features, and held himself differently—his bearing was more alike to Gil-galad’s, Celebrían thought. That of a king. He wore no crown for traveling, and his hair was loose, held back out of his face by only a few thin braids gathered together at the back of his head with a clip of jade and gold. He greeted Celebrían warmly, and laughed over their tangle of connections—cousin of his wife and married to his grandson—before it was time for all to mount up and begin the ride to Valmar.

Celebrían’s mare was a sweet-tempered, light-footed grey who was eager to be moving again. Celebrían allowed Dior to help her mount up, just before a call went up from the front of the group, and they moved out. Teleri of Alqualondë called farewells, and many of the travelers burst into bright and merry song as they made their way up to the Calacirya. The sun was bright and warm, and the company made good time; the horses of Valinor did not tire easily, and so they rode through the evening, past Tirion and turning north beneath the stars toward Valmar. The Valacirca burned bright over the mountain peaks.

In Imladris, Celebrían knew, there would be bonfires by the river, and dancing from dawn to dusk and then to dawn again. The music would be elven and mannish and Dwarvish, depending upon the makeup of guests there at the time. And if Mithrandir was there to visit, there would be fireworks. In Valinor the celebrations were similar, but she missed the dwarves and the Dúnedain.

Valmar was a marvel in itself, a city of bells and of strange buildings that the Valar had made. Some Celebrían never wanted to enter, for just looking at them made her dizzy. Others were made all of emerald or ruby, or were earthen shapes grown like trees out of the ground, with twisting stairs and many open windows through which Ainur flitted like birds or butterflies. Most of the elves, thankfully, lived in more sensible houses. When they arrived in midmorning after several days of travel they found the place already bustling and overflowing with elves and Ainur; the air was filled with music, and dancers had to scurry out of the way, laughing, when the horses came prancing through.

“Welcome, welcome!” Celebrían’s cousin Lunamírë swept outside to embrace everyone in turn when at last they came to Ingwë’s great manse. “Celebrían, I am so glad you could come. Do come inside!”

The rest of the day was lost in a whirl of greetings and meetings and introductions. That evening Ingwë held a great feast, with dancing and music afterward, at which nearly everyone in Valinor who bore a royal title seemed to be in attendance. Celebrían found herself seated at the table between her grandmother Ëarwen and her cousin Finduilas. Across the way was Finrod and Turgon; the meal consisted of many dishes that Celebrían had never heard of, let alone tried before. Some were very strange indeed, but most she enjoyed very much. The wine was sweet and light, and loosened everyone’s tongues to laughter and song.

When it came time for dancing, Celebrían found she knew only one in maybe five of the dances, and she had had too much wine to properly learn the rest. But that was all right—she preferred to sit and watch the whirl of robes and skirts around the room like so many butterflies. After a time, her great-grandmother Indis came to sit by her. Celebrían had only met her once before, not long after she had first emerged from Lórien, still adrift and lonely and a little at a loss of what to do with herself. “You are not dancing?” Indis said as she seated herself. She had been on the dance floor since the start, swinging between various grandchildren for partners.

“I don’t know the steps yet,” said Celebrían. “I’m sure I’ll learn soon—and I don’t mind watching in the meantime.” She offered a smile. “Please don’t be worried about me.”

“It is a little hard not to,” Indis admitted. “But you seem much brighter than when we last met. I am glad that Finrod has not been exaggerating in his letters.” Celebrían laughed. She’d long suspected herself to be the subject of a great deal of the family gossip that filled the letters that flew to and from Eressëa on a near-daily basis, and said so. Indis smiled but didn’t join the laughter. “I wouldn’t call it gossip,” she said. “We have all been worried. You were not as long in Lórien as we expected.”

“Was I not? It felt as though I was there for a very long time. But I did have the advantage of Elrond’s care, before I sailed. He wasn’t enough in the end, but he is the greatest healer remaining in Middle-earth.” She felt herself faltering a little with how desperately she missed him. But she firmed her smile and accepted another glass of wine from a passing footman.

If Indis noticed her moment of distress, she was kind enough not to mention it. “Well, we feared that you had left Estë’s care before it was time—perhaps displaying the stubborn streak that runs in Finwë’s line. I am glad to see that we were mistaken.”

“Celebrían, there you are!” Lunamírë appeared. “Why are you not dancing? Come, the next one is easy—I’ll teach you the steps!” She did not wait for an answer before pulling Celebrían to her feet and out onto the dance floor, where she was passed from cousin to cousin in a dizzying whirl—and she did not manage to learn the proper steps of the dance at all.

Holidays and festivals in Valinor, Celebrían had learned very early, were never restricted to a single day. Midsummer celebrations lasted a week at least, and would have gone on longer except then they could not really be called midsummer , instead of just summer . It was a quick series of parties and dances and musical performances, and games—races and wrestling and mock-fighting out on the hills outside the city. Indis was convinced to take part in the races, and she won every single one. Celebrían knew a few eyes were on her as well, for her mother had once shown off her prowess in these games, but she had not inherited the competitive spirit of Finwë’s line, and was more than happy to sit and watch from the sidelines. Privately, though, she felt Elladan and Elrohir would emerge triumphant from many of the competitions. It was a wistful thought, and not one with a full hope of ever coming to pass. One or both of her sons might choose the path of Men.

Dior found her in thought; he had been judging the archery contest, and was flushed from sunshine and merriment. “Does something trouble you?” he asked, sitting beside her in the grass and wildflowers.

Celebrían blinked herself back to the present place and time. “Only thinking of my sons,” she said. “Elrohir would love the archery contests.” The challenges had been increasing in both difficulty and absurdity as the afternoon went on. Dior smiled, but she thought that he could guess, at least in part, where her thoughts had been leading. Not wishing to dwell upon that, she said, “Your own sons would like them too—they would on the sidelines and laugh at everyone, before Elurín or Eluréd got up and did something even more ridiculous.”

“Did you know them well, my sons?” Dior asked. “I’ve had a very hard time learning anything of them—it was months before someone realized that I did not even know they had survived the sacking of Doriath. I was sure that they had gone on—through Mandos and beyond, I mean.”

“Oh yes,” Celebrían said. “I met them soon after the founding of Imladris. They won’t let anyone write down their tale of survival—I think they’re afraid that if it is officially known, someone will come make them wear a crown and be responsible.” Dior laughed at that, which was much better than the wistful look he’d worn before.

The evenings were for music and dancing. Celebrían attended a performance of Elemmírë of the Vanyar for the first time—her voice was breathtakingly lovely as she sang a paean to the stars and to Varda Elentári. The Valar were there, too, though Celebrían only saw them at a distance. Estë was the only Vala she had spoken to, and she was content to keep it that way, at least for the moment. Let kings and princes greater than she converse with Manwë. She was more than content to chat with her grandparents and laugh with her cousins over the sweet wine that flowed like water all throughout the celebrations.

At last, the parties ended, and those who had flocked to Valmar began to leave for home, trickling away as they had flooded in. Celebrían remained in Ingwë’s house with Dior and Nimloth and Finarfin and Ëassalmë, and a few other relations. Olwë and his wife had not come—but that was not unusual. Alqualondë had its own traditions.

On a rainy morning as they sat by the wide windows of Lunamírë’s favorite parlor, sipping tea, Finarfin said, “What is this we heard of your plans to found a realm of your own in the mountains, Celebrían?”

“Who is calling it a realm?” Celebrían asked, amused. “I don’t want to rule anything. I am going to build a house—a large house, to be sure, with all the attending gardens and outbuildings and so forth. I know everyone must be waiting for me to start showing the same sort of ambition as my mother, but I can assure you I have none.”

“My apologies,” Finarfin said, as Finrod chuckled. “A house, then—somewhere in the mountains, far away from everyone and everything?”

“Not that far away,” said Celebrían. “It took us several days to reach it from Alqualondë, but that was on foot without a proper path, and with a bit of meandering before we found the right stream to follow. Honestly, it’s much easier to reach than Imladris has ever been.”

“Except for the sheer cliff face you mentioned,” Nimloth said.

Celebrían waved a hand. “A small hurdle! Once we devise a path up it, it will be easy.”

“Who is we?” Ëarwen asked.

“At the moment, Idril and Curufin and Caranthir,” said Celebrían, and managed not to laugh when poor Turgon choked on his tea. “But I intend to consult with former Gwaith-i-Mírdain, particularly those who worked with dwarves, or were present at the founding of Imladris. The house itself I intend to model very closely on the one in Imladris.”

“And you’ve enlisted the sons of Fëanáro?” Ingwë asked. If he disapproved, it showed neither in his voice nor on his face.

“Yes,” Celebrían said cheerfully.

“Oh, stop acting so shocked,” Finrod said, as Elenwë handed Turgon a napkin. “You know she’s trying to get a rise out of everyone.”

“I am not,” Celebrían protested, imitating some of her mother’s sternness. “If people want to be shocked at the company I choose to keep, that’s their affair.”

“So it is,” Lunamírë agreed, picking up the teapot to pour Turgon another cup. “I’m glad someone is drawing them out. I have tried, but I was never very close to Fëanáro’s family, unfortunately. Nerdanel will come if I invite her, but she always comes with excuses from her sons.”

Celebrían sipped her tea and listened as the conversation wandered around those not present, and her Noldorin cousins wrestled with their feelings on the matter of the Fëanorians. She had not intended to cause anyone any upset, but she thought this was probably good for them, regardless. They had all been friends once—and of course Celegorm and Curufin and Caranthir, and their brothers, had done terrible things that should not be forgotten. But there was forgetting, and there was putting the past where it belonged—it was a thing to be learned from and not repeated, but not a thing to be constantly dwelled upon.

That was the greatest flaw of the Elves, Elrond had once remarked with a deep sigh: the inability to let go of the past. Celebrían had teased him at the time, since he bore Vilya, and used it, and its purpose had been to preserve things unchanging. “Oh, but I don’t,” Elrond said. “Rivendell is no Lórien.” And she’d had to admit he was right. Her mother’s realm was a beautiful place, but also one where time seemed to pass slowly, if at all. It was often difficult to tell how long she had been there, when she visited. But Rivendell was too open and too often filled with mortal visitors to hold to that. Change was slower, there, but it did happen. Nothing was forgotten in Rivendell, either—there were shelves upon shelves of recorded tales and songs and letters—but Elrond was always thinking of the future.

Valinor was more like Lothlórien than it was like Rivendell. Celebrían could do nothing about that, except to go on as she had been. At least her house in the mountains would be something new. She sipped her tea again, wishing she could talk to Elrond about it. Then she put those thoughts aside, as Finrod called on her to describe again the route through the mountains from Alqualondë to her hanging valley.