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“This is a story about the first King of Lórien...  

... long before the people of Lindórinand ever knew him, before any grey-elf ever lived in Nan Laur or a single mallorn ever grew in Lórinand.”  

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A blank sun hung above the snowy landscape, filling the hollow of Nenuial with clear liquid light.  Winter had waned and Stirring was blustering to its peak.  The Emyn Uial and it seemed all of Eriador were bathed in an afternoon brilliance that with each day’s return would slowly change from cool silver into warm gold.  As Malgalad stood motionless gazing down upon the lake, his breath clouded white in the cold, crisp air.  It floated around his head like the steamy fumes of a ruminating dragonet, delicately curled by the barest of breezes; until once again the pale vapors vanished, snatched away in another flustered gasp from the hastening season. 

From atop his elevating snowdrift, the young prince watched as the numerous keelboats, white-sailed and grey-hulled lashed into their boxy sledges, left zigzag trails across the glaring surface of the frozen lake.  Like any on shore, he envied those fortunate enough to be out upon the solid water this final day of genuine cold.  There were still four weeks before the loa would turn towards summer.  Nevertheless, tomorrow the gleaming ice would begin to break.

Much lighter and smaller, a multitude of ice-boats swooped around the larger vessels like seagulls during fishing season.  These pen-er craft were no more than a beetle-wing sail raised over a lengthily cross-plank fixed to a long center timber.  There was a board seat for the helmsman with a runner-rudder for basic steering and a fixed runner at each end of the cross-plank.  They were fast and dangerous, made to skim as close to the ice as possible, and a thrill to sail.  By tradition, ice-boats were built new each Fading and later burned for warmth during the year-end festivities.  Rollicking shouts and ringing laughter rose above the incessant scrabble noise that slid across the flat ice and up the slope to Malgalad’s ears.  The high spirits sorely reminded him that ere Echuil someone besides himself would heave his axed boat into the celebratory flames, afterwards to link arms with those gathered and carol its fiery end.  The forlorn haze created by his slow sigh clung to him until the wind sighed too and cleared it away.

In particular among the fleet, he watched his foster-parents.  The Lord and Lady were getting into position to participate with some other solo rigs in a spontaneous challenge against the visitor from Balar.  Dry-docked upon shore, the large net boat was serving as an impromptu reviewing stand, its deck grown crowded with spectators.  The only bright color in the entire merry scene was the scarlet kerchief of the self-appointed starter and a few uncovered heads.  The grey and white of winter cloaks hide all other hues.  So, someone on the fishing boat hoisted a line of lively festival flags simply because the occasion called for it.

When all were set, the race was started to the cheering of the patient crowd.  There was a bit of a scramble before four boats took off far in front of the rest.  No surprise, leading was the Falathrim visitor.  He out sailed everyone despite it being the first time he had ever boated on ice.  Right after the Teler, was Galendos – the local favorite and the challenger – then the Lord and Lady.  Leg for leg, Celeborn closely followed Galadriel windward, biding his time.  Then, something entirely unexpected happened while the leaders were making the distant turn and Celeborn was making his move to advance.  The Lady’s starboard runner struck the Lord’s port runner as if trying to clasp hands. 

Boats often knocked against each other in these races.  However this time, the runners hit at an odd angle and the arms locked together.  Celeborn and Galadriel swung around in a sloppy circle like unschooled dancers.  After scrapping to a slow halt, they could not get free by simply rocking or shifting.  The astounded spectators roared in disbelief at the mishap and immediately began urging the other contestants to catch up.

Hastily throwing off his cloak and hood, Celeborn sprang up from the pilot’s bench to stand upon the narrow hull.  He leapt across to the cross-plank, taking one long stride atop to the end, and sat down on the ice next to the jammed runners.  Bracing with his legs against one spar and pulling away on the other, he awkwardly tried to loose the two craft without breaking the runner joins.  Galadriel leaned far over to point out how he should be doing it.  The crowd started laughing, forgetting to cheer.  Malgalad laughed too.  His Nanath Galadriel knew that, given time, Celeborn could probably coax the runners into letting go.  But rather foolishly, she wanted to place if not win the race.  Ambition always made her impatient.

Suddenly, the unpredictable breeze blew down another heavy gust, caught both unattended sails, nearly unseating Galadriel, and speedily shoved the ice-boats, including Celeborn, aside as if purposely sweeping the course clear of hazards.  With a pleasant wave, the next competitor easily sailed past without concern, broadly grinning and making excellent speed towards the finish.

Shouting an angry invective, Celeborn pounded the heels of both hands once against the locked spars in frustration.  Though not because they refused to become unstuck.  His favorite knitted tunic, which everyone knew his lady wife had made especially for him and he was reluctant even to see stained, was caught and so in dire danger of unraveling.  He ever so carefully tugged at it while an exasperated Galadriel watched, throwing up her hands at his frivolous concern.  The amused on-lookers roared when someone made a bawdy joke by loudly shouting to just do it! in an insinuating tone.  Malgalad involuntarily snickered. 

Galadriel finally doffed her cloak and left her seat, obstinately to aid her husband.  But one step away, she slipped on the glassy surface, sat down hard on her boat’s cross-plank, and bounced off onto the ice; legs splayed and hands holding a bruised bottom.  Her face was an unambiguous expression of pain, superbly eloquent without verbal accompaniment.  Malgalad sucked a breath through clenched teeth and softly said “Ow” for her.  After their sympathetic shock, the spectators were overcome with hilarity, some making shrill bird-calls.  The Lord and Lady glared at each other – then they too broke down into the same uncontrollable laughter that had stolen away coherent speech from their howling audience. 

Without getting up, Galadriel turned round where she sat.  Drawing up her legs, she pushed off with her feet.  Malgalad smiled nostalgically.  Every elfling including himself was started out learning how to negotiate slippery ice by playing this game.  With hands raised over her head, Galadriel scooted across the short gap between them to bump into Celeborn’s hip with her backside.  He threw his arms around her, ‘capturing’ her in the same playful bear-hug he had used ‘catching’ his toddler foster-son.  Although, little Malgalad he had mercilessly tickled besides.  Slapping his hands away, Galadriel helped Celeborn free his tunic without ruining it.  The spectators necessarily had to turn their attention to enthusiastically cheering the two challengers crossing the finish line.  The third and fourth place contestants were close behind them.

With great effort – weakened as they were from laughing so hard – Celeborn and Galadriel managed to pull themselves up onto the still stuck spars, suspending their laughter only to reassure themselves that neither was really injured.  Then once more, they simultaneously burst into rocking laughter.  Yet somehow, there was neither loss of poise nor dignity in their jovial abandon.  Instead of appearing ridiculous, they became glorious.  No wintry mist arose from the heat of their exercise to hang over them during the wind’s lull as it had before.  In its place, a soft luster like that of a waning lamp enveloped each, becoming brighter in combination as they lovingly embraced under the preternatural sky at the shimmering, living center of their realm.  Malgalad could see – indeed he could feel it even at his distance – the joy that flowed outward from these two into all around them.  And their people turned to them and were also joined together by this radiant power as had been the folk of Thingol and Melian in their magnificent hall below the Neldor and before them the eledhwaith of Gilwë and Araldawën in their longhouse beneath the ever-shining stars.

The wavecrest of this shared grace crashed against Malgalad and withdrew, leaving his heart pounding.

How did he ever think to abandon them and leave all this behind?  What other people or land could ever out measure this household and realm?  Here was his family.  Here was his home.  Not in some far land of Lindi legends.  He had thought that he had found the answer to that challenge.  At least until he had tried to convince Fimerilin of the answer and was given an even greater challenge.  His quest would bring good to no one if his heart was forever here, separated from him.

Suddenly, his left foot sank down into the crusty snow.  Put off balance, his arms came up and he had to consciously lighten his body else fall through to the ground.  Embarrassed, he quickly looked around.  Clumsiness was a far cry from suffering a mishap.  It did not appear that anyone had seen him being inept as a Golda.  Other than the couple absorbed with each other standing down-slope from him, there was no one near and the Lord and Lady still held everyone else’s attention.  Twisting around, he effortlessly leapt down onto the flagged path.  He was glad for the nippy air which helped disguise his flushed face.  A full-fledged warrior and he had lost control!  If his hard-driving captain had seen him, he surely would have taken back a feather.  He already considered Malgalad too young and certainly arrogant.  Demotion would be humiliating.  For he had worked very hard to graduate by this winter and make this his last winter at Nenuial.

Maybe this slip did mean that he was not yet ready.  His skills not honed enough for a journey across an arduous wilderness to a place that may not exist.  No, his carelessness would only be an excuse to back out of his commitment.  He realized that the true distraction was not leaving home and not Fimerilin’s anger, but his dreadful reluctance to tell his Naneth Galadriel and Adar Celeborn that he was deserting them for strangers.  After a useless glance towards the now obstructed view of the lake, he resumed his hike to the home he shared, although not for much longer, with them and their extended family.

Even after the splendid blessing, his heart was heavy, feeling weighted down by his secret – more than usual, more than ever.  That was why he could not keep weightless, he told himself.  Trudging back from the storehouses had given him too much time to think on what he must do tonight.  If he could have left when he had first made his promise to Meordell, he would not have grown so conflicted about fulfilling it.

From that inspired moment five summers ago when he had pledged to find Denethor’s father clan, his plan was to depart alone, without any announcement.  A train of followers was the last thing he wanted.  If this quest was a foolish mistake, he would be the only one to make it.  None of his cadre or friends should have to ponder over making the drastic break he had willingly chosen.  In a time of war, it was not fair to force them into deciding who to give their loyalty to.  And luring needed warriors away from the host would be just as wrong.  But, Moerdell had insisted that he wait until his graduation.  So, he had delayed telling his foster-parents about his going and anticipation of their just rancor had worn down his courage.  With the imminent departure of the wandering company with whom he would travel to the high mountains, he could delay no longer.  Except that he was not prepared to face their reaction – especially not after facing Fimerilin’s.

“... ‘Merilin melethen... ”  These warm words dissipated into the air even as he uttered them.  His passionate plea had not dissipated his beloved’s anger.  For the first time, he envied his Adar’s power with words.

Mulling over his worries, he veered from his usual route to walk around the outskirts of the numerous lodgings loosely clustered together a short distance away from the house-tree.  Sheltered by a wooded slope from the wind that would have whisked away the homely odors, the welcomed smells of cozy rooms and hot food hazily floated over the shuttered houses and the winter huts of the forest-dwellers.  Then one smell glided past that told him he had truly arrived at high seat of the Lord and Lady of Eriador – the aroma of freshly-baked lembas.  It also meant that one of the ladies had remained behind and he would not be returning to an empty house.  He walked on with eyes closed, drawing in the savory comfort drifting on the air, letting it guide him like a song faintly heard in the dark of night.

The fragrant chorus growing louder as he drew nearer to the house-tree, he suddenly heard an elleth’s voice on the path ahead of him.  Most likely someone coming from helping with the baking.  By going this way, he had thought to not encounter anyone and reluctantly opened his eyes.  At the sight of the very last person he wanted to see walking towards him, with her chatty cousin Indonis along side, he stopped; uneager to meet Fimerilin any sooner than necessary.  After the wretchedness of their last conversation, he had not intended to try to speak with her again until he had gotten some guidance on how to handle her opposition.  He wished very much to flee, but she had seen him too.

Fimerilin was never just his lover.  From the time of their introduction in Menegroth, she was his intended.  Everyone in the family knew this and naturally assumed that their betrothal would be announced at the proper time.  Sadly, this was no longer so.  Unbelievably, she had refused him.

Not refused to wed him precisely, but refused to go with him.  The one person he needed to go with him.  Neither would she agree to join him later.  Why leave, she wanted to know, when the people here were their people?  She would not abandon them merely for adventure and how could he do such a thing?  She would not accept that he would not be coming back.  She doubted his pledge to build a suitable home for her.  She gave no credence to Meordell’s tales of a Nandorin paradise by a great river.  The path he had chosen to pursue would lead to the unremitting hardship and instability that was the Avari existence in the wilderlands.  She argued that if a green-elven land was what he wanted, there was Ossiriand.  And he was a Sindar prince who should want more than simply water and trees.  Well, in that she was right, he did want more.

From their heated argument, he had come to realized how wrong it would be for them to wed if they would never be together again.  Apparently, Love did not overcome all differences and his foster-parents’ success made that a bitter lesson to learn.  Galadriel and Celeborn knew how to compromise; he and Fimerilin did not.  Therefore, they would not be wed unless he could persuade her to come with him for he would not be staying here with her.

As the two ellith approached him, Indonis saw the tension between them.  Though much younger than Fimerilin or Malgalad, as one who thought of herself as a mature and wise maiden, she offered to go on ahead and wait for her cousin to catch up. 

“I can see you two need to talk,” she sagely said.

“Thank you, gwanur,” replied Fimerilin, usually amused by Indonis but not at the moment.  “Please do so, if you do not mind.”

Malgalad kept silent.  He was afraid that he might not be able to speak in a normal voice.  He loved Fimerilin dearly; the possibility of losing her seriously frightened him  Despite her composed appearance, he sensed that she was on the edge of tears and he was selfishly tempted to think that she might be regretting her earlier words.

She did not say anything either while she looked past him to make certain her cousin was out of earshot.  As she watched, he savored her loveliness, so sensually framed by her fur-lined hood.  The daughter of Doriathrim nobility, her grandparents had been original inhabitants of Menegroth and important people.  Fimerilin’s mother had been one of Lúthien’s closest friends and her father was one of Celeborn’s leading captains.  They had returned with the Lord and Lady to Nenuial after Dior’s ascendance to Aran.  Their daughter was learned and literate as well as beautiful, skilled in arts finer then the domestic – an exceptional lady worthy of any prince.  When her luminous eyes returned to his, he was anxious to talk.

“Have you changed your mind,” he gently asked, hoping.

“No,” she uneasily replied.  “Have you?” she asked with the same hope, her words pale wisps escaping from her soft, pink lips.

“No,” he reluctantly admitted.  She looked away from him, upward into the bare trees.  Her mouth pulled into a thin, firm line, stoically keeping her emotions at bay.  Malgalad swayed and drew closer.  Her proud bearing was another of her very admirable attributes.

“Have you told them yet?” she asked, looking at him again with intense scrutiny.  The cooling mist of her words swirled away.

“No... ”  He no longer wished to talk and looked away.  She thought she had found a way to make him stay!  But, how could he fault her for trying?  He was planning to have his way by getting his Adar Celeborn’s counsel.

“You know you must,” she said.  Her cloak stirred in the wind and the hem clung around her ankles revealing her small, booted feet.  Smooth, shapely small feet attached to silky legs that he might never caress again.

“After supper tonight... ”  He shakily nodded in acknowledgement.

“Do it in private,” she strongly advised, her concern for his dignity genuine.  She did not yet know he was leaving without any other companions.

“Of course.”  He unhappily knew what she would say next.

“Would you stay if they asked it of you?”  The slightly acrid tone of her words stung. 

She meant to settle their dispute in her favor even if it cost her some pride.  The price she was willing to pay was in a way flattering.  She would beg the Lord and Lady to hold him here.  But then why not, when he would be generously handed off to her for her husband just as planned before he upset her expectations.  Except he already knew his parents would not command or even ask that he remain if it was not what he truly wanted.  He fought to honestly answer her question and not to take advantage by seeming to concede.  Conceding would greatly please her and he would most assuredly be kissed.

“No,” he finally, firmly replied.  “Because I have promised to go.”

“And what of the promises you have made to me by your actions?” she asked in a steamy whisper.  “Are they not true for never having been spoken?”  She was right after all.  He had been her suitor.  He had courted her and no other, for a long time before she accepted his proposal.  “Does trust and fidelity mean naught to you?”  She had never wavered after putting her hand in his.  Never jealously questioned his friendships or society as he had been wont to do of hers.  She had stood beside him and supported him in his every effort.  And had led him to believe she would follow him anywhere – when she would not.

“Oh?  And what do they mean to you?” he angrily replied, helpless to stop himself.  The worst reasons for her refusal were plain enough and painful to him.  “Naught but rank and wealth!  All you desire is prestige and someone to take care of you – and that would not have been me save I am a prince endowed with an abundance of both!  Go to Arvernien where there is a king in need of a wife or, if you are patient enough to wait for them to grow up, two princes to choose from that will have as much.”

“Stop it!” she hissed.  “We have made these nasty arguments once already!”  Her eyes flooded with an anger that in the next moment was drained away by her exemplary pragmatism.  “And have not proven who loves who more or best.  You will not stay and I will not go.  Where else is there an answer to this dilemma?”

“My parents will not be our arbitrators!” he avowed.  They did not deserve to be put in the middle of this personal clash of wills.  “Would you go with me just because the Lord and Lady asked it of you?”

“No,” she said, absolute in her answer.  Her courage and will thrilled him.  He had always been proud that she was to be his wife, his perfect match.  Then in the next moment, he desperately wished she were weak and afraid, ready to surrender and trust in his love for her.

As before, a miserable silence fell between them.  Bellow blows of frosty breath streamed from them both, but no more accusations.  Her eyes went to her own parents’ house close by and where she had been headed.  He thought about taking up her hand to kiss it in parting instead of forcing polite words.  She could then go her way, perhaps to shed tears as their continued impasse.  After he told his foster-parents, he would humbly seek her out at her home and apologize.  Despite his likely anger, Adar would for sure tell him what to say to persuade her.  It was not yet farewell to love as well as family and home.

He could not comprehend it when she intentionally crushed this fragile hope.

“Fare you well, my lord.”  Her vaporous voice was flat and defeated; her dammed tears gone.  “An ending is best.”  If there was grief from this choice, she had overcome it.  “You deserve a more loving wife than I can be.  May Elbereth Gilthonial watch over you and may her stars light your way.”  Not one word of love lost or romantic remembrance.  No genteel sentiment.  No tearful regrets.  If she had meant to stanch the terrible wound she had inflicted upon his heart with her refusal, what she had actually done was kill it in too hasty mercy.  “I am truly sorry.”  But, it did not feel to him as if she were.

He could not respond he was so stunned.  It was all he could do not to collapse at her feet.  Studying his face for his response, she suddenly realized the depth of his heartbreak.  With a sharp inhale of guilt, she rushed past him to rejoin Indonis.  Her cousin urgently whispered for her to say what had just happened, rightly afeared that a scandal was brewing.  Fimerilin walked hurriedly on saying nothing.  Uncomforting.  Disregarding.  Leaving a cold, mute end to what had been a vital and growing happiness.  He was incapable of turning to look back at her and unthinkingly walked on; heavy-footed, emotionally dazed.

Without any further encounters along the way, he reached the protected meadow that served as a lawn and expansive entrance to the residence of the rulers of Eriador.  At his approach, the guards curtly nodded their respect.  He automatically returned the salute, striving to keep his misery hidden behind an expressionless mien.  Desperate to be out of their sight, he almost tripped speeding up the suspended, wooden stair that laddered around the gigantic oak.  A short distance up the steps, hidden from view, he paused; his breathing laboring under the strain of his despair.  Befogged, he passed his hand beyond the hithlain cables to lay it upon the rough bark of the ancient tree.  In this bleak hour, he needed to be the oak and not the willow.  He could not bow to this adversity in order to survive it.  If he did, he would be bent unto the ground and unable ever again to stand tall.  The deeply-rooted tree understood as it had many times before.  They were brothers, it told him.  They had already faced worse storms and frightful lightening.  Their hearts were strong.  Malgalad would endure.

Thus encouraged and strengthened, he continued up the ladder until he reached the high turnout where one could look down over the tree-tops to the lake.  Taking a restorative breath of cold clear air, he willfully centered himself.  He was in control and would carry on as he must.  On the lake, the sports went on without him.  Fimerilin had chosen to go on with her life without him.  All life here would go on without him.  He was useful, but not necessary.  He was loved, but not needed.  Though he was dedicated to making a difference in people’s lives, he greatly desired to make a meaningful difference in his own.  Miserably, the cost turned out to be greater than he had ever anticipated.  He never thought he would have to forfeit his wife and their happiness together.  For what?  He did not yet know, but he was only one who could make it worth the price.

As he stared outward beyond the silvered hills, a faint flicker caught his eye.  It was his foster-parents, parked side-by-side in their separated ice-boats flashing a jewel or buckle.  He shaded his eyes with both hands to show he had seen them.  Now that they had got his attention, Celeborn lowered the object and they both waved at him.  Their hoods were pulled back and their hair shone as brightly as their smiles.  He politely waved back without smiling back.  When Celeborn beckoned for him to come join them, he drew his hand across his brow to indicate he was busy – scouting another trail.  He could not help but think if he had gone down to the lake, instead of avoiding them, he would not have met Fimerilin on the path.  Both parents raised a hand in acknowledgement to his reply and then leaned toward each other talking.  Galadriel looked up at him again ere he turned away and he sensed her seeking to know his thoughts.  He kept that door closed and she went from him.  Soon enough, she would not unquestioningly leave off.  He proceeded up the stair, not stopping again until he reached the main landing.

There before him was their house, grander even then what was built in the Hírilorn.  This was the well-appointed home Fimerilin expected to inhabit instead of a rough talan in a far-away forest.  It was to have been theirs to keep on their own when the Lord and Lady marched their host to Elwing’s cause.  What small population left behind was to have been Malgalad and Fimerilin’s to rule until – or if ever – Celeborn and Galadriel returned. 

It was a symbolic occupation he had no intention of taking on.  Any of his noble kin would be honored to be given this tour of duty.  Malgalad considered it an empty appointment.  He wanted to do as his foster-parents, his own Elmoi parents, his Eldar and Nandor forebears had done when they were young.  He wanted to reach out and shape a new realm rather than possessively grasp what was handed to him.  If his wish to help people help themselves made him arrogant, so be it.

Entering the porch, which was enclosed during the cold season to serve as a vestibule, he did not call anyone to the front doors.  Whoever would be here instead of gone to the lake would be necessarily occupied with chores.

“Who’s there?!” a voice called out from some nether place.  It sounded like Mirathel, who of course would the one conducting the baking since Galadriel had gone to the lake.

“Malgalad!” he responded.  “I will look after myself!  Thank you!”

Carefully putting up his bow and long-knife in their place with his other weapons, he pulled off his gloves and laid them over his shoulder bag which he hung up on an empty branch of one of the heavy clothes-trees kept by the door.  After removing his hood and cloak and hanging them up along side his other gear, he sat on the creaky bench, which needed to be replaced soon, to pull off his dirty boots.  Adjusting the soft suede, inner boots before swinging his feet over the bench, he stepped into the front hall, careful not to track in any mud.  He paused to check his appearance in the polished-metal mirror just inside the entrance and smoothed down his hair.  He did not look full of despair, he thought, only a little weary.  Successful at least for now in setting aside his broken heart.  He could keep his secrets – at least for now.  Hushed footsteps were coming closer and he turned to see Mirathel crossing the room to greet him.

“Welcome home, maethor-nethin,” she said, taking up his cool hands in her warm ones.  “You are back much earlier than expected.”  His Naneth Galadriel’s companion was Malgalad’s favorite auntie and, in his never-spoken opinion, more motherly then the Lady.  She would have to be after raising several children of her own to adulthood before meeting Galadriel.  She drew down on his hands so he would lean towards her, allowing her to easily kiss his brow.  Straightening up with eyes closed, he blissfully smiled and showily inhaled a deep breath through his nose, conveying an ecstatic enjoyment of the smell of lembas that saturated the air.

“Well met, my lady,” he said when he opened his eyes.  She pinked with modest pleasure at his compliment.  “May I help wrap?”

“Oh no, scamp!  I cannot afford to hire your help when it would cost me as much product as you can eat sitting and carry out tucked into your shirt.”

“Scamp?!  Why rascal – rogue – scoundrel – maybe villain, but scamp?!  Oh, no!  For I am no longer a child!”  He gave her a rakish leer in fun.  “Or have you not noticed?” 

“Fie, ellon!  What would ‘Merilin say?”  She obviously meant to tease him more, but stopped when his face fell.  “What is it, Laurorn?” she asked, troubled for his sake.  He barely stopped himself from telling her everything.  Her maternal affection always disarmed him.

“Nothing,” he claimed, resuming his smile to allay her concern.  “If you need me not, then I will go to my room and rest until supper.”  He hoped she would let him go despite his previous offer to help.

“Yes, do that,” she said, resting her hand upon his arm.  “You have made a very long trip in one short day.  Enjoy the quiet while you can.”  She watched him go.  He could feel her eyes on his back, scrutinizing his mood.  Once he was in the passage to the family quarters and out of her sight, he dropped any pretense of normality.  Going to his room, he angrily shut the door, throwing the latch.

Mindlessly following habit, he pulled off his tunic, washed his face and hands at the basin; thoroughly drying off and carefully arranging the towel back on its rack.  Then he had to pause and take a deep breath, his hands clenching the towel bar.  If Mirathel could shake his determination, what would it feel like facing his Naneth and Adar?  What would it feel like having no one to love him the rest of his life?

Going to his bed, he threw himself down to lie on his stomach and hugged his pillow.  It took a moment, but the tears came and he turned his face into the pillow to muffle his weeping.  For some time, he cried.  Sobs wracked his body, at first redoubling with each wave then gradually easing.  Eventually, he rolled over onto his back to heave a single heavy sigh of relief and listen to his quieting heartbeat.  It seemed beyond reason that he was able to center himself again.  Yet, he took solace in being able to do it.  He felt the tremendous power of his will and knew he could do whatever he must to keep his given word.  And he was not a fool for having given it.  At the edge of his hearing, there were the loud, glad voices of the returning household singing in nonsensical rounds.  The branches of the oak clacked in happy anticipation of their arrival.

He did not have to welcome the family, but they would have done it for him.  So, he rose and bathed his face, applying a cool wash cloth against his swollen eyes and nose.  He changed his shirt, donned a clean tunic, and combed out his hair.  For a moment, he stood practicing a convincing smile in the framed looking-glass hung above the washstand.  The pretty object had been his mother’s, the only thing other than his eyes that he had from her.  Of either parent he had no memories; all he knew of them was what he had been told.  But, those stories along with his mother’s mirror and his father’s flute would go with him when he went; to whatever fate awaited him.  Indulging in a last settling breath, he left for the front hall, shoulders back and head held high.

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“Cliff, they’re coming back!” exclaimed Celebrian.  She stood up to stand on the simple bench where Hrassa and she had been sitting together waiting for the Lord and Lady with their entourage to return from the feast held in their honor by Aran Durin.  Gay voices wound through the forest of soaring stone pillars as the elven guests approached their large encampment within the vast vaulted halls of Khazad-dûm.

Glamien mopped her teary eyes with the edge of her apron and pouted.  Amdir’s coming to Lindórinand was a story told around every home fire, a favorite of her childhood.  However, few ever asked, and she had never heard until now, just how Malgalad had come to them or how bittersweet his choice.  She very much wanted to hear how he had told his foster-parents of his decision to find Denweg’s folk.  Did he go back to Fimerilin and again try to convince her?  It did not matter that she knew the happy end of the story.  But within a day, their party would be out of the dwarven kingdom and hurrying on to Amdir’s coronation beside the Celebrant.  There would be little opportunity for Hrassa to soon take up the tale again.  Perhaps Mirathel would tell if she were asked in the right way.

Those seated among the bevy of waiting servants rose to their feet at the arrival of the lords and ladies who were singing quite a merry tune.  They were progressively dancing in a set of synchronized steps for a short distance then would swing through a few figures in place before going forward once again.  Most appeared a bit fuddled from drinking too many toasts or perhaps, considering who was their host, too deeply of them.  The beaming Lord and Lady were at the head of the procession.  Celeborn danced with light, springy steps in a close circle around the sauntering Galadriel, gracefully sweeping his arms around her or keeping them otherwise elegantly poised.  Seeing him thus, no one would ever suspect he detested being in the dwarves’ realm.  Fighting her impatience, Celebrian began to bounce on her feet, causing the bench to squeak in rhythm with the singers until her mother got past her father’s orbit and took up her little hands in her great ones.

“So, sell-nin?” Galadriel asked with a pleasantly unfocused smile.

“Oh, Naneth!  I did not cling or whine or cry at all!” Celebrian replied with the elation of having attained a difficult goal.

Glamien could not keep from proudly smiling.  The poor lass had struggled with her fear these past few days and, with her father’s help, had won.  He had understood where her mother had not that it was the place itself and not the strange beards or enclosing caverns that upset the forest-born efling so much.  On her first time through Khazad-dûm, Celebrian had panicked and felt safe only with her naneth.  Confounding Galadriel and Glamien, for the little princess had never been a fretful child.  Sometimes, even a little too unconcerned about her surroundings.  Despite her great insight, the Lady had not found the true source of her daughter’s dread in order to alleviate it.  This was Celebrian’s first return trip and they had worried she would not overcome her dread.

“I knew you would do well, lisillë,” praised her mother and embraced her.

“Naneth,” she said, pulling back and lightly hanging on Galadriel’s arms, “Hrassa has been telling a story about Lord Amdir and how he too was very afraid of being alone and could not keep from crying but still stayed brave.  Only he has not finished the tale and I want to know the end.  Please, may I stay up and... eeeee!” 

She squealed when her father spun like a top away from those with whom he had been dancing and swept her up to twirl around a few times.  Holding her out at arm’s-length like a doll with her legs dangling, he moved his feet in place while tilting her from side to side with her gaily dancing on the air and loudly singing along with him.  He swung her high up in the air before standing her back upon the bench.

“See, it’s not so difficult to be brave, is it?” he teased, grabbing her long, single braid and dusting the tip of her nose with the feathery end.  Giggling, Celebrian quickly snatched it away from him and hid it behind her back using both hands.  He seized the opportunity she presented to tickle her belly and delight in her laughter.

“Now, go with Nîni,” he said, lifting her up on one arm and taking her hand to kiss it.  “Tomorrow, we will sleep under stars instead of stone!”

“And not have to come through again until spring!” she insisted.

“Not until spring, sell-nin!” he replied, obviously celebrating the same thought.  Again, he swiftly spun around eliciting another happy squeal before passing her to her nanny.  As he gently stoked her cheek, she calmed down from her excited state.  “We will both come tuck you in for being so good,” he promised before he took away his hand.

Celebrian leaned her head against Glamien’s shoulder and yawned as they left for the miniature pavilion erected just for the little princess. 

Hrassa insolently crossed his arms and addressed his prince.

“Just look at you,” said the grinning green-elf.  “See, it’s not so difficult to be in a good mood, is it?” he said, mimicking Celeborn’s voice and phrasing.  “I take it the mead was a success?”

Galadriel lightly slapped the smirking cogndír’s shoulder.

“Off, disrespectful hound,” she jokingly reprimanded.  “You know better than to jump up when we come in the door.”  Celeborn laughed and answered his bowman.

“More that Durin is finally seeing things my way than that he appreciates our gift to him.  We may see a West Gate yet,” he boasted.  “And that is worth a toast or two!” 

Galadriel shook her head, inebriously amused with her less-than-sober husband, her humor bubbling over in a uncharacteristic maidenly giggle.

“No more toasts!” she ordered with jolly authority.  “Bath and then bed for you, my lord.”

“As you please, my lady!” he replied, taking her into his arms and swaying her into some simple dance steps.  “But, I have obliged us to bless our child before we share any bliss of our own.”  He smoothly twirled her under one arm then the other and pulled her back into a close embrace.

“Did I say anything about joining you in your bed?” she asked with mocking scorn, their noses a hair’s-breath apart.  He tilted his head so he could easily steal a kiss – if he dared to.

“No, I assumed you meant me to join you in yours,” he replied with a sly grin.  “Otherwise, why bathe me?”  He turned out of their embrace to elegantly support her right hand in his, encircle her waist with his left arm, and lead her off in a swift promenade towards their own tents.

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

Amdir Him – Steadfast Hope

Malgalad – Most accept this as another, but discarded, name for Amdir, the first King of Lorien and Amroth’s father.  The name means ‘gold tree’ ie Mallorn. (In this case, ‘galad’ is the older spelling of ‘galadh’).  With this ‘tree’ name, he fits right in as a kinsman of Celeborn, Nimloth, Galathil, and Galadhon.  And Oropher too.  Like Erienion who was fostered by Cirdan in relative safety by the sea, I have Malgalad fostered by Celeborn and Galadriel in relative safety across the mountains at Nenuial.

According to Unfinished Tales, Oropher and Amdir were Sindarin princes from the First Age.  As such, both could have Elmo as a forefather and be kin to Celeborn.  I place them among the grandchildren of the younger brothers and sisters of Galadhon, eldest son of Elmo and father of Galathil and Celeborn.

Laurorn – Golden Tree - an epessë given by Celeborn as sort of a second father-name 

Denweg – The Nandorin name of Lenwë

Elmoi – a name for the clan founded by Elmo, the younger brother of Elu Thingol and who was Celeborn’s grandfather

Gilwë and Araldawën are OC parents for Elwë, Olwë, and Elmo from another fanfic: Daeredair.

Hrassa and Glamien and Mirathel are OCs from another fanfic: Celebrian, Sell i Nos Galadhad.  Hrassa is telling this tale some time after his arrival in Ost-in-Edhil.  Neither Oropher nor Amdir has as yet become the officially crowned King of his realm.  The West Gate of Moria has not been built yet.

Neldor/Hírilorn – the great beech with three trunks whose roots were the roof of the grand hall in Menegroth and was renamed after a tree-house was built high in its branches to imprison Luthien and keep her from following Beren on his quest for a Silmaril

eledhwaith – star-folk who along with the tawarwaith (forest-folk) and nenwaith (lake-folk) generally make up the Lindar kindred

‘Merilin melethen – “Nightingale, my love”

Golda – Noldo Nandorin

Echuil – Spring

pen-er – one-person

cogndír – bowman Nandorin

adar – father

naneth – mother

ellith – female elves (plural of elleth)

talan – a tree-deck or flet

loa – a solar year

maethor-nethin – young warrior

sell-nin – my daughter

lisillë / lisullë – sweetie diminutive of sweet, fem./masc. Quenya - Galadriel’s endearment for her daughter

nîni - nanny a Sindarin form of nyéne ‘she-goat’ in Quenya  (the English word ‘nanny’ was derived from ‘nanny goat’)