A Midwinter’s Feast by Lilith

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Tales Told by Firelight

Celebrían is entertained by a number of strange and, sometimes, dark tales.

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Celebrían tried to hurry with her bath.  But her hands were cold and clumsy on the buttons and ties of her clothing, and she struggled to undo laces swollen thick and frozen by the snow.    The bath was more welcome than she had expected, though the water had been a little too hot at first and had made her feet and her hands turn pink. Her mother came to help her.  She made Celebrían scrub her face and her neck and then took the cloth to rub behind Celebrían’s ears.    

 

“I didn't like that they kept you out so long,” she said as she pulled a fresh dress from the chest at the foot of Celebrían’s bed.  “I was worried that it would be too cold and too wet.”

 

“It was cold and wet, but it was so much fun.”

 

“Finish drying off or you’ll still be cold and wet.”

 

“Mama,” Celebrían asked, hurrying to dry herself as quickly as possible. “have they gone?”

 

“No, your cousin said he would wait for you, and so he has.  He needed to warm up and dry a little.” Her mother had found another bath sheet and began to rub Celebrían’s hair with it.  “I think he was as wet as you, perhaps more so.

 

“And Mairen?” asked Celebrían.

 

There was a very brief pause, and then her mother said.  “She waits for you too. I left her sitting in front of the fire, warming her feet and looking very much like a silly girl of about your age.”

 

“What is it about her?” Celebrían asked as her mother took a comb to her hair.  “Why does our cousin like her and you do not?”

 

The comb had become caught in a snarl of hair, and Celebrían winced as her mother dragged the comb through it.  “I do not know.”

 

Hair almost dry and tightly braided and wearing a clean and very warm dress, Celebrían followed her mother down the stairs and into the kitchen.  Most of the apprentices and journeymen of the Mírdain and of the stonemasons’ guild had already left, but her cousin remained along with Mairen and Kemmótar.  They had been joined by Atanvardo, another of the Mírdain’s master smiths. He had known her cousin in Nargothrond. The four of them and her father were seated on short benches around a table.  They had mugs of hot cider in front of them and were eating bowls of stew. A loaf of bread with a golden crust sat on a trencher before them with a crock of butter and another of honey. 

 

The table at which they sat was Celebrían’s favorite and of an unusual design.  It was normally located beneath the window and decorated with the different fruits and vegetables Elanor found at the market.  But it was sometimes used by Celebrían and her parents when they had no guests and when her parents wanted a simple meal without the formality involved in dining in the great room.   It had a rectangular top crafted of warm light brown wood. The three of them easily sat at it with room to spare. But — and this was what Celebrían liked most about it — it might be made larger in order to accommodate more people.  It had two leaves cleverly hidden beneath its top. On occasions, such as these, when there were more than the three of them to seat at the table, these leaves were pulled out to form a table twice the original size. Two pairs of legs, shaped like gates and typically folded against one another in the center, were then pulled out to brace the leaves and to hold the table in place.   Her father sat on the side closest to the stove. Kemmótar and Atanvardo sat to his left while Mairen and her cousin sat directly across from him.    

 

Celebrían’s father saw her first and, smiling, beckoned to her.  She slid onto the bench beside him. Her mother sat down on the bench next to them and across from Kemmótar and Atanvardo.   No sooner had Celebrían taken her seat then Mairen stood and moved to the stove. She whispered to Elanor who handed her two more bowls of stew and pointed at one of the countertops.  Mairen set the bowls before Celebrian and her mother and then retrieved two more mugs of cider. She then walked to the countertop and began looking around it with a small frown on her face.

 

“To the left, mistress,” Elanor said.  “In the green crockery.”

 

“I see it now,” replied Mairen.  “Thank you.”

 

She returned carrying the crock and a short knife.   She set the crock before Celebrían. It contained a dry cheese.

 

“It’s very good sliced very thin and stirred into your stew.   Would you like to try it?” she asked.

 

Celebrían nodded.

 

Mairen lifted the cheese.  She held it over Celebrían’s bowl and cut very thin slices, finer than those Elanor or her father cut.  Mairen’s hand was very sure and she wielded the knife deftly. These slices, parchment thin and translucent, dropped neatly into the bowl.    

 

“Now stir it,” she said.  “Tell me if you’d like more.”

 

The stew was thick and contained large white beans and potatoes and a savory root in it.   The cheese melted into the stew easily. When Celebrían raised it to her mouth and tasted it, she noticed it tasted a little creamy, a little nutty, and salty.    She tilted her head and looked at Mairen.

 

“Oh, no,” said Mairen, laughing, “You don’t like it and I thought you would.”

 

“I do,” Celebrian replied.  “It’s different to what I’ve had and I needed to taste it and to decide.”

 

“An excellent course of action.”

 

“What have you been doing?” Celebrían asked.

 

“How did we entertain ourselves while you were away from us?” Mairen asked.  “It was difficult, but we’ve survived. We’ve been telling stories of Midwinters past and times long gone.  Do you like such stories?”

 

“Very much,” Celebrian said.  

 

“Shall we tell you some before we go?”

 

“Please,” Celebrian replied.  “My parents don’t tell many.”

 

“Yes, we do,” said her mother.  Celebrían noticed the sharp note in her voice.

 

“You tell stories of very long ago when you lived somewhere very different,” Celebrían said.  “You don’t tell stories of here. You don’t tell stories of our world here.”

 

Her mother seemed about to respond, but she looked briefly at Celebrían’s father and remained silent.  Instead, she stood and walked to where Elanor stood at the stove.

 

“Those were difficult times, my love,” said Celebrían’s father.

 

“And, sometimes,” Mairen said, “we do not want to trouble the ones we love with difficult times, particularly when their memory may still cause us pain.  Sometimes we want to tell them stories of happier times. Sometimes we want to tell of those we loved who are no longer here and who they may not meet for many years.  Other times that is too hard.”

 

Her mother remained at the stove and did not answer, but, from the set of her shoulders and the way she held her mouth shut, Celebrían knew she had heard Mairen.

 

“Perhaps,” said Celebrían.

 

“Sometimes even the happiest times are difficult to remember when those you loved are no longer with you,” said her cousin.  “But you’re so young and you’ve known only peace. You wouldn’t know that. I hope you never do.”

 

“It is still good to remember those we loved and miss,” said Kemmótar, “particularly at times such as these, times when the days and the seasons change.”

 

“And there are good stories, despite the darkness of those days,” said Atanvardo. “I dare say we may find one you enjoy.”

 

“Shall we have a contest?  And see which one she prefers?” asked Mairen.

 

“Yes, please,” answered Celebrían.  Mairen and her cousin smiled at her excitement while Kemmótar and Atanvardo laughed.

 

“Very well.  But we must ask permission of the Lady of the City first,” said Mairen and she turned to Celebrían’s mother, sketching an elaborate salute from her seat.   “May we have a contest of stories, my lady? With your daughter as the judge?”   

 

“Why not?” Celebrían’s mother answered, but Celebrían knew she did not like the idea.

 

“If everyone has finished, let us retire to the library,” her father said.  “It is a place better suited for the telling of tales.”

 

They carried their bowls and mugs to the counter.   Mairen laughed and said they should wash them before they left, but Elanor brushed her away.   “Go on, mistress,” she said, “the little one would like a tale and the dishes will keep for a little while.”  

 

The library was one of Celebrían’s favorite rooms.   It was not the largest room in the house, but it was also far from the smallest.   The ceilings were high and the walls lined with shelves for books and for scrolls.   Both her father and her mother had a table at which they sat and where they might work.  Her mother’s was currently littered with ledgers containing the business of Ost-in-Edhil along with a set of scrolls detailing the healing properties different plants.   Celebrían also noticed another thin book, bound in red with gold lettering, with the title “Of the Enemy and his Servants.” It seemed a strange book to read with the Enemy defeated and his servants dead or scattered.    In contrast to her mother’s workspace, her father’s was very neat and tidy. Two books regarding the trees and native plants of Eastern Beleriand sat upon his desk along with a scroll seeming to show plans for what appeared to be a very tall and long bridge.   Celebrían wondered if it had been built and, if so, where. Another book, entitled Notable Gardens of Gondolin: Creativity in Confined Spaces by someone named Glorfindel, rested under it.

 

A hearth in which a fire had already been laid was located at the far side of the room.  Over it was a fine mantel, fashioned of marble and shaped as if it were two holly trees, one upon each side, with branches that met and twined in the middle over the hearth.  It had been her cousin’s design but had been crafted by Kemmótar. Surrounding this hearth were several very comfortable chairs and one longer and graceful couch with a tall curved back and rounded arms.  A table sat before on the couch. Two bottles of wine and a tall slim pitcher filled with what smelled like cider had been placed upon the table with mugs and glasses arranged before it. Kemmótar and Atanvardo settled in the two chairs to the right of the fire.  Celebrían’s mother sat in the chair farthest to the left. Her father chose the one nearest the couch. Celebrían’s cousin stood near the tables and watched Mairen as she walked slowly around the room looking at the shelves.   

 

“It’s a most impressive collection,” she said, smiling.   “So many dating from the First Age. How were you able to salvage them?”

 

“Not easily,” replied Celebrían’s mother.

 

“I should think not,” Mairen answered as she pulled one from the shelf and opened it.  “This is a room in which to be happily lost.”

 

“Mairen, my friend,” Celebrimbor said,  “try not to lose yourself before the stories begin.  Celebrían might be disappointed as would you if you lost the chance to complete because you were distracted by a book on dangerous plants.”

 

“That is true,” she answered, smiling.  “I would hate to miss the opportunity to complete or to entertain our young friend.  But this is, truly, a wonderful place.” She looked at the scene before the fire and walked to the table at which Celebrían’s mother worked.  She lifted one and then another of the books resting on it and smiled very slightly. Then, moving gracefully, she moved her way to the couch by the fire and settled at the end nearer Celebrían’s father.    Celebrimbor sat at the other end, close to Celebrían’s mother, and motioned for Celebrían to come and sit next to him.

 

“Who should begin?” Mairen asked.  “We might draw lots or Celebrían might choose.”

 

“Or someone might offer?” said Atanvardo.   

 

“That is also true and would work as well,” Mairen replied.

 

“Then I shall begin,” said Kemmótar, “assuming there are no objections.   It is a dark tale in places, though the beginning and the end are happy ones.  But I think that the long night of bleak Midwinter are a fine time for tales touched by a little darkness.”

 

He began to tell a tale of the earliest days before the sun and the moon when the only light in the world outside Valinor came from the stars.  The elves had but awakened and lived at Cuiviénen on the shores of the Sea of Helcar. At Cuiviénen, the first three elves and their wives sought for and found others of their kind, all of whom were beginning slowly to wake from their long sleep.   Together they lived, drinking deeply of the water of awakening. They learned to communicate through speech and through song. They began to grow their own food, planting grain and beans and searching for greens and fruits in the forests. They hunted the birds and deer within the forest and gave thanks to their maker for the gifts that allowed them to survive. They developed customs through which they might live peaceably.  But one day, jealous, perhaps, of the contentment in which the elves lived, shadows began to appear within the forests surrounding Cuiviénen. The shadows had no faces that the elves could see, but they had sweet voices. The shadows began to call the elves into the forest, telling them of many strange and wonderful things they might find. Most of the elves would not follow the shadows and remained safe by the water. But some few listened and followed them.  They did not return. Though others looked for them, they were not be found, and the elves grew frightened. They would no longer go into the forest alone, but only in groups of three or four to ward the shadows away.

 

After a time, perhaps less than a year, the shadows disappeared, and the elves slowly began to think themselves safe.  They began to wander in the forest again, though only in groups and never alone. But then one such group hunting in the forest caught sight of a beautiful white doe in the forest.   In their pursuit of her, they walked much farther into the woods than they had before and became lost. They looked to the stars for guidance but the stars were not to be seen above the thick canopy of forest leaves.   They tried to retrace their steps but were not able to find them. Though they saw no shadows, their old fears began to rise again, and they heard the sound of laughter, wild and fierce, in the dark. It was followed by the keening call of an animal on the hunt and the sound of feet running fast in the stillness of the forest.  As they stood still, unsure of what approached and very afraid, they heard the sound of approaching hooves, hooves that belonged to a beast far larger than the doe they had hunted in the forest. With the sound of the hooves falling, the wild laughter had returned. It grew nearer, and they began running. But they knew that they were pursued and so it happened that they found themselves in a clearing in the forest.  As they stood there in the open space, a tall Rider, clad in black and mounted on a tall black horse, entered the glade from the opposite side. They shrank back towards the tall trees, but, even as they thought they might turn and run, a second Rider emerged emerged. This one was clad in white and seated upon a pale horse. Where the Black Rider had been alone, the White Rider was surrounding by a pack of wolves which arrayed itself around the Rider and leapt around the horse in anticipation.  The amber eyes of the wolves glinted in the light and their noses scented the air while their tongues lolled from their mouths as if they tasted the elves’ fear. The eyes of the White Rider were amber too. They glinted yellow and fierce in the night, and the elves shrank back and were very afraid. The White Rider saw this and laughed, and the sound was high and clear and cruel.   

 

The elves knew not how they might defend themselves against such Riders, and so they turned and fled.  Fast they ran through the forest, not knowing whether they ran towards or away from their home. They stumbled, fell and grew weary but they dared not stop for they still heard the fall of hooves, the sound of laughter  and the call of the wolves on the hunt. They were very near to despair when they caught sight of the white deer and followed her as she seemed to move away from the sounds of the hunt. The deer ran fleet through the forest, leaping over rocks and fallen branches, and she turned sharply and began moving towards an area were the trees seemed to be thinner and the path more clear.    Then she began to slow and then to stop. The elves looked at her, but she began to back away from them into the woods. Then they looked in the direction of the path on which they had traveled. They saw trees they knew and heard the sound of familiar voices in the distance, and they knew they were almost safe and almost home. But, as they began to walk towards those voices, they realized that one of their number was gone.  

 

The elves were very afraid of the Riders and their wolves and dreaded the possibility that they might encounter them again in the forest.   Sometimes, when they entered the forest, they heard wild laughter on the wind and the rush of falling hooves in the distance. Other times the yip and cry of the wild wolves sounded in the darkness surrounding the shore, and, from time to time, a party of elves would travel into the forest and find that one of their number failed to return, though no one saw how they were taken.    In such fear did they live that the elves refused to travel alone and dared not journey far from the shore. But they still must hunt and eat, so, one day, around the turning of seasons, their leaders led a party into the forest. As before, one hunter saw a white deer, thought it was no doe but a stag with a crown of antlers very tall and wide. Some grew frightened for they remembered the Riders and their wolves.   They grew still more frightened when they heard the high yip of a hound and the rush of falling hooves. But they dared not run. From a distance, they heard a pack of hounds approach, but, when the hounds grew close, the elves saw that these were no wolves. Before them were hunting hounds with coats that were all white and with strange silver eyes. They yipped and chattered, bowed and leapt among each other, and they were followed by another Rider.  This Rider was tall and his head was crowned with the antlers of a mighty stag. He was seated upon a fine horse, neither black or white, but silver in the starlight, and he wore very little, only leggings made of a very soft and supple hide and light boots that laced. When he saw that they were afraid, he called his hounds to heel and dismounted from his horse. Then he came near and spoke with them. They told him of the shadows and of the Black Rider and of the White, and he told them of his own homeland in which there was light, brighter and finer than the stars, and where there was peace. It was far to the West, but he asked them if they would not come.  They would be safe there and happy and bathed in light. They need not fear on their journey for he and his wild hunt would travel them. The hunt would pursue any Riders who came from the Dark and chase them to the very ends of the earth.

 

“The ends of the earth are very far,” said Mairen softly, “and the wild hunt fierce pursuers.  I would not have wanted to be one of the Riders out of the Dark.”

 

“True,” said Atanvardo.   

 

“What happened to the elves that went missing?” Celebrían asked.

 

“They were taken by the shadows,” said Kemmótar, “and brought to the Great Enemy.”

 

“He coveted their beauty and the light he perceived within them,” Mairen said.  “He wished to take it from them, and, when he failed, as he must for light within may not be truly stolen, he decided to alter them and to make them in his own broken image.”

 

“Light may be stolen,” said Celebrimbor, “for he stole the Silmarils.”

 

“Stole them, but did he ever possess them truly?  Was he able to touch them without being burnt? Was he able to enjoy their light or did they not dim once placed in his crown? I was told that when the Thangorodrim was broken and Melkor captured, that the Valar looked upon the Silmarils.  They saw that the jewels appeared dim and would not shine until they were removed from his crown. Then they blazed with light for having been freed,” Mairen answered. “It may only be a story, but I think your grandfather would not have wanted his creations blazing in Angband for Melkor’s pleasure.”

 

Her cousin laughed, and that made Celebrían smile.  He saw and pulled her close against him, and then said to Mairen.  “I am not sure he would be able to contrive such a thing. The stones were filled with light itself and would have shone even in the dark.  But, perhaps, their brilliance was greater once removed from the iron crown for the joy of being in the light again. Still he would have been glad to know that the jewels failed to give Morgoth the pleasure he sought.”  

 

“I know it is Midwinter, but think we venture too close to that darkness,” said Celebrían’s mother.  “Perhaps the next tale might have more of the light in it.”

 

“Perhaps you would care to tell it?” Mairen inquired.

 

“Not this night.”

 

“A pity,” said Mairen.  “If the Lady is unwilling, then who shall be next?”

 

“I shall,” said Atanvardo, “though — and my apologies to my lady —this tale may not be as dark but it is not without its strangeness.”

 

As Celebrían leaned against her cousin, Atanvardo began to tell a very different story.  This story was the tale of an elf warrior, one of the Avari who’d not come to the Blessed Realms with the others.   When the others left, he had feared another assault by the Riders from the Dark and so he had decided not to remain at Cuiviénen.  Instead, he sought a safer home for his people, one the Riders and their shadows would not know. He traveled west with his people and searched wide and far.  Finally, near to the mountains now called the Blue, he found a place to stay. It was a valley nestled into the foothills, near to a river, and located within the shelter of the mountains.  He saw that the land was fertile and noticed an abundance of game to hunt and fish to catch. He hoped that the place, being far from where they had been, might provide some sanctuary from the Riders.  But he worried. He spent many hours and many days contemplating how he might ensure the safety of his people. One day as he was walking in the valley and considering this very problem, he encountered a very beautiful lady.  She was seated by a spring he had not yet noticed and dipped her hand into the water. She saw that he was troubled and asked him what it was that caused him grief. For reasons he did not fully understand but perhaps because she was very beautiful and because he was already very near to falling in love her her, he told her.  She listened, and she smiled a very secret smile. Then she told him that he should return the next day because she would have an answer for him. He did. The lady was there, waiting for him and smiling the same secret smile. She told him that to make his people safe he must gather several thousand stones, all of a certain size, and made of the strong white rock found near the mountains.   He must not return, she continued, until this was complete. Once it was, he should come and she would tell him what he must do next.

 

The task was long and slow and very difficult.  It required the help of all of his people. They worked as many hours as they dared, into the night and early in the morning and still it was more than a year before it was done.   At that time, he returned to the spring and, once again, he found her there. She sat, running her fingers through the water and smiling the same smile, and she asked him what he would give to make his people safe.   

 

“Anything,” he replied.

 

“Anything?” she queried.  “Anything at all?”

 

“Anything.”

 

She smiled that secretive smile a little longer and watched him closely.  Then she stood and, walking over to him, kissed him once and lightly on his mouth.    “If you will marry me, I shall keep your people safe from harm.”

 

The warrior was surprised at his good fortune.  He thought the lady very beautiful and he was already mostly in love with her, and he thought of many things more difficult than marrying a woman so fair and so wise.

 

“Yes,” he answered.

 

“There is one condition,” she said.  “You must hear it first.”

 

“What is it?” the warrior asked.

 

“I will marry you.  I will love you for I already do.  I will protect you and your people, and I will bear you children unlike any others in this world.  All I ask in return is that you do not follow me when I come to this spring to bathe.”

 

It seemed such a small request, and he granted it easily with little thought about it.

 

She took his hand and they walked together to the place where his people waited.   In the sight of all, they pledged themselves to one another and spoke their wedding vows.  There was much celebration among his people who danced and sang and rejoiced into the night.    The warrior and his lady had their own private celebrations to make the marriage true. So it was that both the warrior and people slept a very long while.  How long it was difficult to say with no sun and no moon to mark the passage of the hours and days. But when they awoke, they were very surprised to discover that they now lived in a very fine place.  Walls, seemingly built of the same white stone, had grown around them, a city too, and a fine and strong building, one we would call a castle, sat at its center.   

 

The warrior was greatly surprised, but his wife said only that this would keep his people safe and any Rider at bay.   

 

For many years, they lived together in that castle behind the safe walls and strong gates, and no shadow or Rider disturbed their happiness.   But every so often the lady would leave her husband, her castle and her city to walk down the path to the spring where she had once been found.   The warrior wondered why she choose that place to bathe, and he had made fine tub of a very beautiful stone and fine bath mats and sheets. But those were never used.   He continued to wonder, and the questions he had grew until he was no longer able to ignore them. And so one day he followed her to the spring. He moved as quickly and quietly as he dared, and he was not sure what he would see.  He had feared he might find her with another. He had wondered whether she met someone in secret there, but he saw no such thing. Instead, he saw his wife, beautiful as she had always been, slipping the clothes from her body and stepping into the cool and deep water.  He watched her bathe and then splash and play, and then he noticed that she no longer had the long and lovely legs he had known. Instead, they had shifted, changed and been transformed into the large and powerful coils of a serpent’s tail. It shimmered in the starlight, glinting green and gold and blue, its scales reflecting the pale and delicate light of the stars.   Strange he thought it was and magical, and he thought too how very happy she seemed to be at play. Even as he thought this, the splashing ceased and the play and her eyes became fixed upon the place where he hid. He remained still and made no sound, and, eventually, she looked away. He turned then and moving quietly left the spring and returned to the castle. She did not come back, not in a little or in a very long while.   She left no word, and he knew not where to find her. He began to search for her. He wandered to the spring, but she was not there. He went through the forest but she was no place he could find. Eventually, he left the castle and the town and his people, and he searched far and wide. Finally, in another wood, in another land, by another spring, he saw her, sitting and running her fingers through the water.  

 

“I have missed you,” he said.

 

“I know,” she replied.

 

“Will you not return home?”

 

“I have no home, not where you are.  I asked one thing and one thing only of you, but that you were not able to give.  Your people will remain safe and your town too, but I shall not return with you.”

 

Celebrían thought this a very strange and very sad story, and she asked what had happened to the man.

 

“He wandered,” Atanvardo said, “and wanders still for I know.  He did not return, knowing she would not.”

 

“Was she evil?”

 

“Why would you think that?” Celebrían’s father asked.

 

“Wasn’t she a monster?”

 

“How so?” Mairen queried.  “What did she do that was monstrous?”

 

“She had a tail.”

 

“Indeed, a pretty one too,  but was anyone hurt by it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did she not do good things?” Mairen continued.

 

“She kept the man and his people safe.”

 

“And are those not good?   Do you not think it is our intentions and our choices that define whether we are good or not and not something arbitrary such as red hair or a tail?”

 

“She wasn’t evil, love,” said her father.  “Can you not guess what she was?”

 

“I don’t ...” began Celebrían, but she stopped and she thought.  As she sat and as she thought, she saw Mairen’s eyes upon her. She noticed how her eyes glittered green and gold in the firelight and was reminded of the glint of starlight upon the scales.   Then she realized and said, “She was a Fay, Papa. The woman was a Fay.”

 

“Yes,” her father said, “and she loved an elf, and he loved her.  But he did not understand her and so she left.”

 

“He did not trust her,” Mairen said.  “He did not trust that she had made a request for a good reason, and so he betrayed her trust.”

 

“He was curious,” said Celebrimbor.  “Can you blame him?”

 

“No,” Mairen replied.  “But should he have acted upon it?  She had trusted him.”

 

“Did she?” he answered.  “She did not tell him or allow him to explain.  Perhaps he should not have looked but did the years they had spent together not matter to her?”  

 

“Did those years not matter to him?  He did not need to do the single thing she had asked him not to do.  If he had a question, he might simply have asked.”

 

“Perhaps they were simply too different in the end?” Atanvardo said.  “Perhaps their natures were too different?”

 

“In what way?” asked Kemmótar.  “It seems to me that their marriage failed due to their inability to trust one another rather than any difference in who or what they were.  She did not trust him with who she was. He did not trust her to allow her to have her secrets.”

 

“How is a Fay different to an elf or a Man?”  asked Celebrian.

 

“Besides the tail?” Celebrimbor asked lightly.

 

“They have different and powerful abilities,” said Celebrían’s mother, “and they do not die.”

 

“But elves have magic and we do not die,” Celebrian replied.  “So how is it not the same?”

 

It is similar, but not the same,” her father said.  “The Fay are different to us.”

 

“How?” asked Celebrían.   

 

Neither her mother nor her father answered.  Both appeared to be considering how to answer the question.  But, before either one did, Mairen spoke.

 

“The Fay are similar to you in many ways and different to you in others.   As your mother said, the Fay are more powerful than the elves and have abilities the elves do not.  Shifting their shape, as the Fay in Atanvardo’s story does, is one such ability.”

 

“How do they do that?”

 

“It is part of their nature.   Think of it in this way, you — Celebrían — are made of body and spirit.  Am I not right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Your spirit is born into a body and your body is very strong since it — and you — may live a very long time.  Now, let’s take your cousin for an example. He is quite a bit older than you are, isn’t he?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He is an adult, clearly.  Has he grown older during the time you’ve known him?

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does he appear so?  Does he look any older to you?”

 

“No.”

 

“And he will not in a yeni or in two.  Perhaps in twenty we might see a change.  Perhaps not. Have you known him to be sick?”

 

“No.”

 

“He may, sometimes, not feel well, but he is unlikely to die of an illness as a man is.   However, it is possible that he may become injured and that, if the injury is too severe, his body may no longer able to house his spirit.   It is also possible that his spirit may no longer wish to remain in his body should he suffer a very great grief. What would happen in either of those cases?

 

“His fëa would go to Námo and wait in his halls?”

 

“Why?”

 

“To be re-embodied.”

 

“When?”

 

“How did I become the example?” Celebrimbor asked.

 

“You were useful.  Why else?” replied Mairen.  “When would he be re-embodied?”

 

“When Námo decides it’s time.”

 

“When Námo decides that you have reflected sufficiently upon your life and have repented sufficiently and healed adequately from any spiritual injuries you may have sustained.”

 

“Spiritual injuries?” Celebrían asked.

 

“Grief.  Loss. Trauma.”  Mairen continued briskly.  “May you choose to be re-embodied when you want, if that is not Námo’s wish?”

 

“No.”

 

“Can you create a body without his aid?”

 

“No.”

 

“There are the differences,” said Mairen.  “The Fay are not born into a body as you are.  They are primarily beings of spirit and may exist in the living world without a form whereas you may not.  But, while the Fay do not require a body, they often find it useful to create one.”

 

“Why?” Celebrían wondered.

 

“If a Fay had no body, they might find it difficult to live in the physical world and among the Children of Eru.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“If I were a Fay and had no form,” Mairen explained.  “I would not be able to sit with you where you might see me.  If I tried to speak with you, I might frighten you. But, with a form, I may talk with you and laugh with you.  I might be able to eat with you. I might even be able to dance with you and to hug you.”

 

“And the Fay would want that?”

 

“Yes,” said Mairen, “the Fay care for and are concerned with the Children of Eru and they wish to walk among them and be near them.”

 

“So they make a hröa?”

 

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

 

“And it can be anything?”

 

“Not quite.   It can be fantastic as was the form taken by the Fay in Atanvardo’s story, but it seldom is since such a form might frighten the Children.   You would not like it if I appeared with a tail.”

 

“But you aren’t a Fay.”

 

Mairen smiled her secret smile.  “Still there are limitations to the types of forms a Fay might take.”

 

“Like?”

 

“They are limited by their own natures.  Were I a Fay, I would not be able to appear like your father or your cousin or these two good masters here.  The forms I might take, whether it happened to be one of the Children or of an animal, would be female and not male.   I might also be limited in other respects as well. I might prefer to take the form of a cat than of a deer or of a rabbit because a cat’s nature is closer to mine than a rabbit’s is.  Granted, in this case, I could take the form of a rabbit, as long as it were female, but it wouldn’t be my first choice. Does that make sense?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“There are a few other limitations.  If a Fay has spent too much of her power, she might find it difficult to create a new form.”

 

“How does that happen?”  Celebrían’s mother asked.

 

“Did Melyanna not tell you?” Mairen asked before continuing, “If your cousin works too hard at the forge, whether physically or mentally, he eventually becomes tired and must rest his body and, probably, his spirit too.   If he becomes injured, then he requires time and rest to heal. If the injury is too great, then his body may perish and his spirit passes to Námo until such time as the Doomsman decides he may be re-embodies, yes?”

 

“Yes,” said Celebrian.

 

“Fays may also spend too much of themselves.  If they have worked too powerful a magic, they grow weak and tired.   They require time and rest to recover. If they have sunk too much of their power into their magic, then they may not be able to recover fully and may remain weaker than they were before.    If a Fay grows very weak and the body he has made for himself is destroyed, he may not be able to create a new one for a very long time.  Perhaps he might not be able to re-create one at all and will exist only as thought and feeling, scarce able to be felt or understood by those around him. That, I suppose, is a closest a Fay may come to death.  That would seem very like unto death to me.”

 

“That is strange,” Celebrían said. 

 

“Is it?” answered Mairen.   “I have heard tell of at least one elf whose spirit was too weakened for her to be willing to take form again.  But I think there are probably others, perhaps even many in the darker days; Námo cannot force a fëa to be rehoused unwillingly.  But, even if that be strange, there are other ways in which the Fay are not unlike you. The Fay are not immune to pain or to sorrow.  They feel hurt as the Children of Eru do, and they know sorrow. They may taste of love and of hate. They may be moved by anger and by joy.”

 

“Oh, and so the Fay in Atanvardo’s story might have loved the elf and been sad to leave him.  And Melyanna ...” Celebrían began.

 

“Loved Thingol and loved their daughter, yes,” Mairen answered.  

 

“And when Lúthien died?”

 

“She grieved for her as your mother would grieve for you or you might grieve for a daughter had either of you been in her place,” Mairen paused and looked at the fire for a moment before she continued.  “Indeed, she had much cause for grief for her husband, Thingol, perished even before Beren and Lúthien passed beyond the circles of this world. It is said among the Fay that, as her love for Elu Thingol had been very great, so too was her grief.”

 

“What happened to her after he died?”

 

Mairen paused and seemed about to answer, but it was Celebrían’s cousin who replied, “It is said that she returned to Valinor upon her husband’s death and waits for him there. Waits for him to return from Námo’s Halls.”

 

“But she did not die,” Mairen continued, “not even as an elf might, for she could not, even if she might have wished it.   Sometimes, I think that might be the price the Fay pay. They endure even when they would not wish to endure. But that is enough of such dark thoughts, even near Midwinter.  There should yet be more stories to hear.”

 

Celebrimbor bent down and  whispered in Celebrían’s ear, “Is it my turn?”

 

“Yes,” said Celebrían.   

 

Her cousin began to tell another story.   This one, he said, he had learned only recently from the dwarves and was the tale of a dwarf.  This dwarf did not live under the mountains or in the hills. Instead, he lived in a palace hidden behind a waterfall.    As many dwarfs were, he was a maker of things. He was a smith, a very skilled one able to use magic. He could change his shape and take the form of a beautiful golden fish.   He had also made a magic ring. This ring had the ability to grant its possessor great wealth and the dwarf had used it to acquire very great treasure. The dwarf tried to keep his treasure secret and hid it in seven locked vaults deep within his palace.  He also tried tried to keep his ring a secret. But, slowly, word of this marvelous treasure spread, and the dwarf grew very worried that someone might steal it. 

 

One day, he saw a stranger, someone he had never seen before, near the water.  Afraid that this person sought his home and his gold, the dwarf decided that he would transform into a fish, as he could, and watch to see what he might discover.  But the form he had fashioned for himself, being gold, glittered in the water, and the stranger saw him. He decided that he must have this beautiful fish because he was certain that magic was somehow  involved. He pretended to have lost something on the ground and looked here and there for it, all the while noticing that the fish followed him and swam very close to the bank. The stranger leaned beyond the bank and over the water, as if to see if he’d dropped something there.  When fish swam close to see what it was he did, the stranger reached out quickly and caught him.   

 

The dwarf, once caught, revealed himself.  He asked the stranger to free him but the stranger refused.  The dwarf then offered the stranger treasure in return for him freedom, and the stranger agreed.  The dwarf told the stranger where he might find a vault filled with treasure and how he might open it.  But the stranger said that it was not a fair price for the life of a magical dwarf-fish, and he asked if the dwarf did not have more.  The dwarf showed the stranger the second vault, but the stranger made the same answer. Then the dwarf showed him the third and, yet again, received the same answer.  This continued until all seven vaults were revealed and yet the stranger was not satisfied.   

 

“Have you not,” the stranger asked, “any more treasure to give?”

 

“I do not,’ said the dwarf.

 

“Not even,” asked the stranger, “a simple golden ring?”

 

The dwarf sighed, and he said that he did.  He was loathe to give it to the stranger for it was a treasure as valuable as any that might be found in any or all of the seven vaults together.  He asked the stranger if he would not allow the dwarf to the keep this ring for it was only a trifle that he fancied. But the stranger refused, saying that if it were but a trifle the dwarf would let it go.  So it was that the dwarf must allow him the ring as well. But he was very angry for the loss of his treasure and of his ring, and he had yet one final trick he would play. When the stranger released him and the dwarf took his true form and when the treasure and the ring had changed hands, the dwarf cursed both ring and treasure and swore to the stranger that neither he nor anyone who came into possession of it would know happiness and peace.   

 

“Did that happen?” Celebrían asked.

 

“It was how the tale was told,” her cousin replied, “but how much truth there was in it I do not know.”

 

“A magical fish,” Celebrían said.

 

“A magic ring,” answered her mother, laughing for the first time.  “How odd. One that did what?”

 

“Granted its owner wealth and with it, power, I assume,” said Mairen.

 

“That sounds as if it would be tempting to many,” said Kemmótar.

 

“There has to be a catch,” said Celebrían’s father.

 

“I think any gift that provided its owner with wealth, power and whatever they desired would have to have a catch,” said Atanvardo.

 

“True,” Mairen replied.  “A very big one. One that might catch more than a pretty golden fish.”

 

Celebrían giggled.

 

“But ... hear me out ... what if the ring provided what one needed rather than what one merely wanted?” Mairen asked.

 

“Sounds better than the first,” Atanvardo said, “but how would one determine that, assuming such craft were even possible?”   

 

“True,” Mairen replied.  “Ah, well. Am I next?”

 

Celebrían had been looking forward to her tale and had wondered whether it would be one of Middle Earth or of the distant East.   But the story she told was one that she said she had heard in the West a very long time ago. In her low, rich voice, pitched soft before fire, she told the story of a very wise and very clever king who had built a city from land he had rescued from the sea.  The city he built was very fair and prospered, but there were those who envied it and, because they coveted its beauty and wealth, called it unnatural and said no such city ought to have been raised from the waves and that it should surely perish some day. There may have been something of truth to this for the city was, in fact, in danger of being reclaimed by the sea and had to be protected with the most skilled craft.  Each day the sea rose around the city and waves would have swallowed it had the king not raised a fine and high wall surrounding the city to keep the water out. The wall had a single gate, only opened at the lowest tide, to permit entry into and exit from the city. The gate might be opened with a single key and that key remained in the possession of the king. While the key was safe and the gate and thus the wall, the city was safe as well.  

 

One day, the king, who had no children of his own, found a child swaddled in fine linens and set before the doors of his palace.  The king had a kind heart. He wished to see the child safe from harm, so he brought her into the palace and raised her as his own.   She grew to be a pretty child and then a lovely woman. She was clever and good. She was much admired and very precious to the king. He wanted to keep her safe from harm and so he did not allow her to venture from the city and to see the world beyond its walls.   She loved him and she was grateful to him for sheltering her, and so she honored his wish. However, she was young and the world outside called to her in a voice that grew sweeter with each passing year. But still she stayed and, most of the time, all seemed well.

 

One day, a man came to the city.   He had been known to the king in his youth and had been well loved by him.   But he had disappeared many years before, and no one knew where he had been and what he had done.  Some whispered that the man had become a great sorcerer. Others said that he had become an enemy to the city and that he sought its fall.   The king believed neither of those stories for he loved his friend and was happy for his return. He listened to the stories of his friend’s travels.  He smiled as his friend told him of the many wondrous things he had seen. He grew interested when his friend spoke of other realms and other kings. He laughed when his friend sang songs from these other places and told stories from those lands.   He was content. He was, perhaps, too content because he did not notice how his foster daughter listened to these tales and he did not see how her eyes shone bright with interest and her face grew flushed with excitement. He did not hear when his friend bade her stay late to hear more stories.  He did not know how much she wished to leave the walled city and see these new lands places. He did not hear his friend flatter her and promise to take her with him when he journeyed next. He did not know that his friend had asked her to meet him very soon in the dark of the night by the light of the moon at the city gates.  He did not hear him when he asked his daughter how to open the gate and where he might find the key. He did not know that she, silly and foolish girl that she was, told him.

 

The next night the man told more fantastic stories and sang wonderful and sweet songs.  He wove a spell with his voice that caused the household to sleep very heavy that night.   The king stumbled to his bed, and his daughter to hers. But their dreams were uneasy. The king dreamt of water, of rivers and streams, of rain and lightning and of the rushing sea.  His daughter dreamt of water too. But she dreamt that she lay in a drowned city surrounded by fish with eels winding around her legs and crabs scuttling at her feet.  

 

The king woke in the dead of night to the sound of alarm bells ringing and the noise of water rushing into the city.  He knew the wall had been breached but he did not know how or why. He woke his daughter and pulled her from her room.  He looked for his friend but he could not find him. He worried and waited and searched until they could no longer, Then they ran, splashing through the waves until they found a boat, strongly built and fair, with a prow carved in the shape of a horse.  They boarded it and sailed into the streets, taking as many onboard as they dared. They saw the fishermen and sailors of the city manning their vessels and rescuing others from the water. They watched as still more crafted vessels from the mundane objects of their household, lashing doors, tubs and barrels together.  They also watched as others stood still and frightened and they knew they were no longer able to help.   

 

The boat continued to sail through the streets towards the city wall.  There, with great effort, for they had to fight against the rush of water inside, they forced their way out.  As they passed the wall and into the open sea, the king turned back to look at his city and swore he would find the person who allowed this to be and throw them into the sea.   As he swore this, he heard a laugh he knew and he saw his friend sitting high upon the wall with the key to the city gate held in his hand. Then he looked at his daughter and saw her pale face, and he knew how his friend had come by the key.   He did not come closer to her because he loved her and he would not do her harm. But he was very angry that she had betrayed his trust and, in so doing, had harmed many. He watched as she turned and walked to the edge of the boat. He watched as she sat down upon it.  He began to walk towards her as she lifted one leg and then another over the side. But he was too late, and she slipped over the side and fell into the sea. He ordered the boat turned around. It was. But they did not see her and, though they looked, they could not find her.    

 

The king and those that remained on the boat came to a safe harbor.  In time, they rebuilt something of their lives. Each year, the king would set sail for the city that had been his and that now lay beneath the waves and sometimes he would come near enough to see it.  He would look below the water at the strong houses and the tall towers, the market place and the palace in which he had once lived. He would see them surrounded as they had been before by the strong wall except that the gate remained open and fish swam gently out and in through it.  Once he thought he saw the shape of woman swimming underwater. Her dress was tattered and her skin was so pale as to be translucent, but she was still recognizable to him as the one he had once known and loved as a daughter. She flitted between buildings and among the fish, hand touching one, foot brushed by another.  He called to her, but, below water, she could not hear him and swam away.  

 

“And she lived under the sea?  Shouldn’t she have drowned?” Celebrían asked.  

 

“She should have,” said Mairen, “but it is a wonder tale and the normal rules of life do not apply in wonder tales.  She lived beneath the sea, swimming in the city she had once known and waiting to know she was forgiven for the sin of having wanted more than she had been given and having placed trust where she should not.”

 

“Does the city remain below the city?”

 

“So it is said, until the world changes and is remade.”

 

“Who was the man?”

 

“A Deceiver.  A Trickster. One who rejoiced in destruction.   Of which there are many in wonder tales and some even in this world.”

 

“I feel sorry for her,” Celebrían said.

 

“Do you?” Mairen replied.  “So do I for she was a silly, dreaming girl and she found herself in a place far darker than she had imagined.  But, in fairness for she is but one and there were many others in the city, perhaps we should spend our sorrow on those hurt by her foolishness.”

 

At that, Celebrían’s father smiled and said  that while he knew it to be his turn, he would have to concede and ask his daughter to choose her favorite tale from the ones she had heard.  The night was passing very quickly, he said, and there would be much to do before tomorrow.   

 

“Shall we hear one from you another time?” Mairen asked.

 

Her father nodded, “It would be my pleasure.  Celebrían, have you a favorite?”

 

“I cannot say for they were all interesting.”

 

“And dark,” her mother finished.

 

“But we are near the darkest night of the year,” said Mairen.  “The perfect time for strange and dark tales told by firelight.”

 

Celebrían’s mother did not smile in response, and so Mairen laughed, saying, “Your point is well taken.  I shall strive to tell a merrier tale should I be asked to do this again.”

 

“I would like that,” said Celebrían for she knew her mother would not.

 

The two men and then Celebrían’s cousin and Mairen stood and began to move in the direction of the door.   Mairen hurried towards the kitchen in order to reclaim her cloak and Celebrimbor’s while the other two men thanked Celebrían and her parents, wished them a good night and then departed.  Celebrían’s cousin continued to speak with her parents while he waited for his friend. As Mairen returned, her steps sounding quick and neat through the hallways, Celebrían remembered.  

 

“Cousin,” she said, “I need to ask you something.”

 

“Of course,” he answered.

 

“One of the lamps is broken, and I …”

 

“Wanted to know if I may fix it?  May I see it?”

 

“It’s there,” she said, pointing to the great room.  “I’ll show you.”

 

They walked into the great room, and she showed them where the lamp was on the sideboard.   Celebrimbor carefully removed the covering and began to examine the lamp. The light coming from it was strange, Celebrían thought.  “Rather than being a single beam, it was split into several different ones.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“A lamp.”

 

“Quite a small one.  Your work.” she said in a tone that indicated she knew it was and was both surprised and impressed.  “What happened?”

 

“The crystal of the casing has cracked,” her cousin said.

 

“Is it stable inside?”

 

“It appears to be.”

 

“Then it may be repaired?” This time, Celebrían thought, she was asking.

 

“I think so.”

 

“May we try?”  

 

“Yes,  that is what Celebrían wanted.”

 

“Then it shall be done,” she said, walking closely and looking over his shoulder.  “It’s almost a pity, though. The diffraction — what happens when light is bent around something, Celebrían — is quite lovely.”

 

“And yet someone is likely to be cut,” said Galadriel.  “I’d prefer not to chance it, despite the beauty you’ve observed.”

 

“Of course,” said Mairen.  

 

“Is there something I might carry it in,” her cousin asked.  Celebrían went to the kitchen and found a small basket in which he might place it.  He said he would try to have it fixed by tomorrow, but wasn’t sure if he’d have time.  She smiled and thanked him.  

 

He set the basket upon the sideboard, took his cloak and then slipped it upon his shoulders.  He moved to assist Mairen but she already had hers on and was smiling brightly at him. He shook his head and lifted the basket.  

 

“Do you want me to carry it?” she asked.

 

“No need,” he replied.

 

He kissed Celebrían good night and her mother and then smiled at her father.   Mairen brushed the top of Celebrían’s head lightly and thanked her parents for including her this evening.  They both nodded and her father smiled in response. Celebrían watched as they left, moving quickly in the cold and the dark.  She noticed that their heads were close to one another and that they were already speaking animatedly about something.

 

She looked at her parents.   Her father hugged her while her mother bent and kissed her, saying simply, “Bed.”   Celebrían made a face but began to ascend the stairs to her room. She carefully removed her dress and, remaining in her underdress, slipped under the bedcovers. 

“Are you any more or less sure of her?” Celebrían heard her mother ask her father as they ascended the stairs later that evening.

 

“No, love,” he answered, “I am neither more nor less sure of her than I was before.  I am troubled, but I was before. Now am I also troubled for her. There is a sadness to her I had not seen before.”

 

“I did not see it.”

 

“You did not want to look,” he answered, “and I do not blame you.  It is already complicated.”

 

“I agree.”

 

“Are you troubled?”

 

“Yes,” Galadriel answered.  “I do not think she and I would or will be friends in this world.  I do not see how that would be.”

 

“Not as things are with your cousin, no,” her father replied.

 

“I do not see what he has to do with it.”

 

“Do you not?” he replied. “I cannot imagine that she and I would be friends in truth either, but I, for one, wish very heartily that she were all she appeared to be.  I would be glad if she were.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Watching her this evening,I see a great deal of brightness in her and much to admire.  I think she has the potential to be the blessing she claims to be. If so, we would benefit and she would as well.  If she is what you fear, we stand to lose a great deal and some will be very hurt. So too, though she might not realize it, would she.”

---

Chapter End Notes

There are many debts owed and things borrowed in this chapter.   I think the tradition of stories told in the depths of winter is one shared by many peoples and customs, but I come from a storytelling family in which strange and dark tales were always told in the dead of winter, and so the tales told to Celebrían fall in that tradition.   These were borrowed from many sources because this tale is very much a love letter to the stories I have loved before.  Kemmótar’s story of the the awakening of the elves is, of course, based upon the tale in the legendarium, but it also borrows liberally from Welsh legend.  Oromë appears in the guise of Arawn of Annwn with his pack of hounds having perhaps borrowed horns from Cernunnos. If I can manage it and some point I’ll work the famed pigs of Annwn  into one of these stories.   Arawn faces no tricksters in the form of Gwydion but rather in the crafty riders of the Dark.    In that, he might take a little of the guise of Herne the Hunter and the Wild Hunt from the Dark is Rising sequence where he hunts the Dark.  The Black and the White Riders (and apologies to Mithrandir but this White Rider is no good.) in this story recall those from Susan Cooper’s books in which the dark bases much of its seductive power upon its ability to play to extremes.  If one would like to read the White Rider as representing the power of a too-rigid ideology, by all means; if the laughter heard recalls that of Blodwen Rowlands, that would also be fine for her voice too was low and honey-sweet and appealed even to an Old One.   Atanvardo tells the tale of the fairy Melusine, builder of castles, wife to a knight with trust issues, and mother to a child called Horrible (who didn't make this tale, alas), and Celebrimbor talks of Andvari and the infamous ring of Norse legend.   Mairen recalls one version of the lost city of Ys whose sorceress-princess Dahut falls into tempation.