Fair as the First Snowdrop in Spring by StarSpray

Fair as the First Snowdrop in Spring

“…and it was then that Elrond first saw Celebrían, and loved her, though he said nothing of it.” - Unfinished Tales

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The first time Elrond saw Celebrían he forgot how to breathe.

It was springtime, not long after Sauron and his armies had been chased out of Eriador. He had not been there to greet Galadriel and her daughter when they arrived at the valley, for he had been farther up with Erestor and a few others, determining the source and course of the river that flowed down out of the mountains. They had not yet had trouble with flooding, but it had been a concern, and as they made their way back to the house Erestor was already full of ideas for potential protections.

Elrond’s own thoughts were full of songs he might use to call up a flood at need—not inside the valley, of course, but perhaps the Bruinen would be willing to listen to him. It was also fed by snow melt out of the mountains that might be summoned all at once, if he could just find the right words for it. The Enemy had not come close enough for it to be necessary during the war—during this war—but it was only a matter of time before he regrouped.

They came into the garden and parted, Erestor called away by someone, and Elrond left to wander the garden paths at his leisure on his way back to the house. He passed the tree that his uncles seemed to have laid claim to, but they were nowhere to be seen. He paused for a moment underneath its wide branches, laying a hand on the smooth bark of the trunk. It was very happy, that tree; he felt the life thrumming through it, its thoughts slow and peaceful, of rain and soil and fair voices singing in its boughs.

He turned away, and that was when he saw her. She was coming down the path toward him, clad in pale green robes with her silver hair loose, falling about her shoulders and shining like mithril in the sunshine. She was as fair as the first snowdrop in spring, as sunshine on clear water, and her smile was like stars emerging after a passing storm. Until then he had not quite understood how Beren could have been struck dumb by Lúthien’s loveliness, yet now he stood with his mouth agape, unable even to take a breath until she turned away to call to someone coming up the path behind her. She had not yet seen him, so he ducked his head and sucked in a breath, glad that he was alone. When he looked up again he saw Celeborn and Galadriel joining the silver-haired lady, and knew her then to be their daughter Celebrían.

By the time they passed by the tree, Elrond had gathered himself and was able to step out into the sunshine to greet them all with a smile and steady voice. Galadriel was gracious and grave, and Celeborn merry and eager to introduce Elrond to Celebrían. Celebrían was all smiles and kind words and delight in the valley and the gardens and the house. Somehow Elrond found himself agreeing to give her a tour of it all, while Celeborn and Galadriel retreated inside to speak with Ciryatur and Gil-galad.

As they walked over the new-made paths through what Elrond hoped would eventually be lush gardens, filled with benches and nooks and fountains where anyone might sit in comfort, he told Celebrían of his plans for the house, for the library they had just begun to lay the foundation for, and for improvements to the workshops and forges. “It will be no Ost-in-Edhil,” he added. “But those of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who escaped Eregion intend to stay here, and I hope they will want for nothing.”

Celebrían smiled, wistful and a little sad. “There will never be another Ost-in-Edhil,” she said. “Alas for Celebrimbor! But you are making something new and marvelous here. I cannot wait to see your house when it is finished. I do not say in its splendor, for I do not think that is what you intend.”

“No,” agreed Elrond, “splendor is for great cities and palaces—and mountains. The Misty Mountains are splendid towers enough for me!”

“In its comfort, then,” Celebrían said. “It’s—homeliness. Yes, I think it is a homely house that you are building here. There should be more such places in the world.”

Over the course of the evening meal later, Elrond was aware of Gil-galad’s eyes on him, but what the king perceived, he did not choose to share. And the next few weeks were spent in long discussion regarding the future. Sauron yet held his fortresses in Mordor to the south, and there were the rings to consider. Most of the lesser rings were no more, destroyed along with Ost-in-Edhil, and those that survived were too weak to be of much concern—at least in the eyes of Ciryatur and Gil-galad. But the great Rings…the Nine and most of the Seven were in Sauron’s hands. The Dwarves who had already been gifted Rings had been warned, according to Galadriel, and she thought them safe enough from Sauron’s machinations. “But we do not know what he intends to do with the Nine,” she said. “Nor what kind of hold he will have over their wielders. It may be long indeed before we know the full tale of his treachery.”

And as for the Three—they were safe, Nenya in Galadriel’s keeping, and Narya and Vilya in Lindon. Of them little was said, and little would be said—the less the better, they all agreed. A watch would be kept on the borders of Mordor, and they would regroup and regather their own strength. Ciryatur departed with the last of his men, promising that Númenor would answer any future calls for aid.

“And what of your future, Elrond?” Gil-galad asked later, as he and Elrond sat in the Hall of Fire. It was otherwise empty—a good place to sit and think, or to have a private conversation. “Have you thought of marriage?”

Elrond’s thoughts immediately turned to Celebrían, but he shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

“No?” Gil-galad looked at him, one eyebrow arched. The silver ribbons in his braids seemed to glow in the soft light of the low fire. “Not even Lady Celebrían has changed your mind?”

“What has Lady Celebrían to do—”

“Oh come, Elrond. Perhaps she has not noticed, but anyone who knows you has. You are badly smitten. Don’t tell me you do not plan to speak to her.”

“We have only just met,” Elrond said, since denials would get him nowhere. Gil-galad did not roll his eyes, but it seemed a close thing. Elrond tried again—this time feeling himself on firmer ground. “The time is not right.”

“What time could be better?” Gil-galad asked. “You have just established yourself the master of your own realm, we have beaten Sauron back—”

“But he will rise again,” Elrond said. “The lands south and east of the Anduin are dark to me, as are the coming years, like gazing at a horizon hidden by heavy storm clouds. I do not know when the storm will reach us, only that it will. Until it passes, whatever befalls, I will take no wife.”

Gil-galad sighed, all traces of teasing humor gone. “Very well. I will not ask again. But nothing would bring me more pleasure than to stand with you at your wedding, here in Imladris in the spring—whether it is Celebrían or some other deserving lady.”

Elrond smiled. “You will be the first to know of it,” he promised.