Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof.  No profit is being made from this work.

 

 

Foreword

 

Welcome.  This story has been an exciting exercise to write, and I am glad that it is finally ready to be shared.  Usually, I think of titles for my stories after I’ve been writing for a little while.  After I know what the story will be about, a nice descriptive phrase comes up for the title.  With this one, I found myself thinking about the phrase “grass widow” first.  Later, I realized that it was the title of a story.  All I had to do was determine what that story was!

 

Here is the result.  I apologize if this comes out with double paragraph spacing.  That’s not something I put in intentionally.  I suspect that it’s the fault of the browser I use, which does not appear to have the site’s full support.  I hope that you enjoy it anyway, and I will meet you at the end.

 

 

1.  A Sovereign Balm

 

 

 

Celebrían had known for many months that this moment was coming.  She had not, however, expected that it would come today. 

 

The day had begun like so many others in the peaceful, quiet garden of Lórien.  Irmo, the Lord of Dreams, and his wife Estë the Gentle had created a sanctuary to soothe and mend the hearts of even the most terribly damaged Elves.  Celebrían feared that she had been one of those.  She had been practically insensate when she had arrived in Aman.  She had vague memories of the bright, silent Maiar who had borne her unresponsive body to this garden and laid her on a soft bed beneath a bower of fragrant cherry trees.  Celebrían did not know how long she had lain there, unresponsive, until one morning, when the sweet scent of the cherry blossoms had tickled her nose and awakened her interest in life.

 

Since that day, Celebrían had lived a life of careful ease under the watchful eyes of Irmo and Estë.  Once the ever-present Maiar had coaxed her from her bed, she had wandered the garden.  At first, she had done nothing more than contemplate the trees and flowers, learning once more to appreciate the bright colors and satiny texture of roses and the cool, hidden shade of an evergreen.  Eventually, she had mustered the courage to seek out other Elves.  She began to converse, and then to take part in the evenings of song and dance in Irmo’s sheltered groves.

 

Eventually, Celebrían’s shattered mind had begun to mend.  She found that she could concentrate on a single task, and so she took up some of the crafts that she had enjoyed in her old life in Imladris.  She remembered that she had especially enjoyed weaving, and Estë had provided a loom for her.  Lately, Celebrían had spent many days in a small, secluded glade, weaving many ells of cloth in brilliant colors and abstract patterns.  She did not yet know what she would do with the cloth she was producing, but she enjoyed the rhythmic motions of the shuttle and the soft feel of the linen thread beneath her hands as she worked.  She began to remember old songs that she had sung to amuse herself, their tunes swaying to the beat of the shuttle’s motion, and she sang as she worked.

 

Her life in Irmo’s realm was idyllic, a soothing routine that offered such peace and security as she had enjoyed as a little girl.  And then, on this most ordinary of mornings, Irmo and Estë had appeared beside her loom to announce that the idyll would come to an end.

 

Estë smiled, and it seemed that warmth radiated from that smile to embrace Celebrían.  “You have improved greatly since your arrival here,” Estë said.  “It cheers my heart to see you smile.”

 

Celebrían blushed, and dipped her head in acknowledgement.  “I am glad to provide my Lady such cheer.”

 

“The change in your spirit is indeed remarkable,” Irmo said.  “When you first arrived into my care, there were some who feared that you would never heal, but remain perpetually a ward of the Lord of Dreams.  You have proved them wrong, and I am glad of that.”

 

“Thank you,” Celebrían said, for lack of any better response.

 

Irmo and Estë exchanged a glance, and a shiver ran down Celebrían’s spine.  She had been – was – a mother, and she remembered exchanging such looks with Elrond just before delivering news that her children would not be pleased to hear.  She arranged her face into what she hoped was a pleasant, brave expression.  “Is anything amiss?” she asked.

 

Estë turned to her and caressed her hair, sending a warm rush of peace through her body.  “No, dear one.  Nothing is amiss.  Attend my Lord Irmo, and he will tell you what you must know.”

 

“You have healed remarkably well, Celebrían,” Irmo said.  “Tell me, how do you feel about leaving my gardens?”

 

Celebrían blinked, stunned into silence for a moment.  “I do not know,” she ventured.  “I must admit that I have not given that matter any thought.”

 

“I believe the time is nearly upon us,” Irmo said.  “I have done what I can for you, and it is time that you experienced the world again.”

 

“Do not think we do not love you, dear one,” Estë added.  “But we know that Eru Iluvátar did not create the Elves to be solitary creatures.  You have need of your own kind.”

 

Celebrían’s mouth twitched into a nervous grimace.  “There are other Elves in this garden.”

 

Irmo nodded.  “There are.  But they are still not yet healed.  You must begin to associate once more with Elves in the bloom of full health and joy.”

 

A tiny part of Celebrían shrank away in mortal terror at that thought.  She was appalled and ashamed at this reaction, but her sojourn in the gardens of a Vala had at least taught her not to deny her feelings, no matter how base they appeared at the time.  “I do not feel that I am ready to leave,” she said, in as reasonable a tone as she could.

 

“No one ever truly feels ready,” Estë replied.  “We can do only so much for the fear in our care.  We cannot assist you with the final part of your healing.  You must make the last leap yourself.”

 

“We have arranged things so as to ensure the possibility that your fëa might be healed,” Irmo said, “as it could not have been in Middle-earth.  However, the harder task is yours.  We have given you the possibility.  It is up to you to make possibility into reality.  You must go forth from this garden and make your own healing, Celebrían.”

 

Celebrían sighed, and swallowed back a sob deep in her throat.  Estë enfolded her in her arms and swayed, rocking Celebrían gently.  “Oh, dear one,” she said.  “I know that this parting grieves you.  Yet you must leave, or you would grow accustomed to this place, and, in the end, you would find yourself unable to set foot outside this garden ever again.  Those who love you would grieve to see that happen.”

 

“It is all right to mourn, Celebrían,” Irmo added.  “Mourn, and let yourself be strengthened by it.”

 

Celebrían clung to Estë and wept, and Estë held her and soothed her as if she were Estë’s own child.  At last, her tears slowed.  Celebrían took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes and face.  She faced the two Valar and squared her thin shoulders.

 

“Where will I go?” she asked.  “And what should I do?  My husband and children are not here with me, nor are my parents and friends.”

 

Irmo’s expression became thoughtful.  “You are Celebrían, daughter of she who was called Artanis and Nerwen, and is now Galadriel.  Did your lady mother ever speak to you of her own parents?”

 

“My mother is the daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen of Alqualondë,” Celebrían said.  “She did not speak of them often.  I think that it pained her to be sundered from them.”

 

“The sundering pains them equally,” Estë said.  “It would cheer them to meet their granddaughter and hear your tales of your life and your mother’s on the far shores.”

 

“Arafinwë sits upon the throne in Tirion as the High King,” Irmo said.  “Go to him, for he would welcome you.”

 

Celebrían remembered the times that Celeborn and Galadriel had traveled to Imladris when the twins and Arwen were small.  Her children had looked dreamily content snuggled in their grandparents’ arms, held by two who would spoil and dote on them and never scold them for tracking mud through the Last Homely House.  Celebrían knew that she was far too old to be dandled on the High King’s knee, but perhaps her grandparents could provide the comfort and security she would miss outside of the garden.  She smiled in anticipation.

 

“I will go to Tirion,” she told the Valar.  “It will be a new experience.  I have never had grandparents before.”

 

Irmo and Estë smiled, and Celebrían could feel their relief, almost as strong as her own.

 

 

 

Two days later, just as the afternoon sun was beginning to cast its shadows over the land, Celebrían rode in a light carriage through the streets of Tirion.  At her feet lay two cloth bags containing all her possessions.  One bag held a few changes of clothes, and the other held the lengths of cloth she had woven in Lórien.  Perhaps she would be able to sell it, if it turned out that there was no place for her at the palace.  Celebrían banished that thought almost as soon as it appeared in her mind and turned her head to admire Tirion.

 

There was indeed much to admire about the place.  To Celebrían, who had been raised in a series of settlements and small villages, and had finally made her home in the rural haven of Imladris, the city seemed to go on forever.  The stone streets teemed with Elves going about their business.  Children played in the streets, merchants haggled with buyers in marketplaces, and sometimes she caught a glimpse into an artisan’s workshop as the carriage passed.  Celebrían giggled as she observed three youths, stripped to the waist, splashing each other in a fountain decorated with leaping dolphins.

 

“That fountain has always attracted children,” the carriage driver said.  “It was built by Fëanáro himself, you know, and he intended it as a solemn gift to his father, High King Finwë, may his rest be peaceful.  But no sooner had Fëanáro made the water run than his son Macalaurë, who was just a little thing at the time, jumped in and started splashing.”

 

“How exactly like a child,” Celebrían said with a smile.  “I hope that he did not receive too terrible a scolding.”

 

“He would have, if Fëanáro had had his way,” the driver answered.  “But King Finwë and Queen Indis were enchanted.  Ever since then, children have played in that fountain, and no one has ever had the heart to chase them away.”

 

“I am glad of that.  These stone streets must be very hot in the summer, and the children of the city should have a place to swim.”

 

The driver nodded his agreement, and they did not speak for a while.  Presently, the streets became wider, and the houses faded away, to be replaced by large trees and green lawns.  Celebrían craned her neck, and could just make out a set of ornate brass gates gleaming at the end of the boulevard.

 

“That is the palace,” the driver said.  “We are nearly at our destination.  Are you expected, or shall I wait by the entrance for a time?”

 

Celebrían sucked in her breath, suddenly shy.  “Perhaps you had better wait,” she said.  “Though I do not think that I will be turned away, I do come unannounced.  It would comfort me not to be alone.”

 

The carriage pulled up at the gates, and the gatekeepers looked at it with interest.  The driver climbed down from his seat and assisted Celebrían out of the carriage.  She raised her chin, smiled, and nodded to the gatekeepers.

 

“I am Celebrían, daughter of Galad – Artanis Nerwen, the daughter of the High King,” she said.  “I beg leave to enter, and request an audience with my grandfather.”

 

The gatekeepers started, but bowed politely.  “Welcome, Lady,” one of them said.  “This is an unexpected surprise.  If you would deign to wait at our guest shelter, you may refresh yourself while we send word of your arrival to the palace.”  He tapped the other gatekeeper on the shoulder, sending him running down the gravel path. 

 

Then, he offered Celebrían his arm and escorted her to a small arbor covered in honeysuckle, just inside the grounds.  The driver followed, bearing Celebrían’s bags.  The gatekeeper gestured for Celebrían to sit on a small bench beneath the arbor and set a goblet of clear, fresh water and a plate with some small biscuits at her side.  Celebrían ate and drank and breathed in the scent of the honeysuckle.  As she had requested, the carriage driver remained, exchanging small pleasantries with the gatekeeper.

 

They heard the sound of footsteps crunching in gravel, and looked up to see the second gatekeeper arriving with a liveried footman and a blond Elf of noble bearing.  Celebrían rose to her feet and dropped a small curtsey before him.  He nodded in acknowledgement.

 

“I am Findarato, the son of the High King,” he said.  “I have been told that. . . “ His voice trailed off as he looked at Celebrían’s face.  His eyes bored into hers as he examined every detail.  His throat worked, though no sound came out, and he seemed to be suddenly on the verge of tears.  “Stars above,” he breathed.

 

Celebrían gave him a shaky smile, trying to appear calm, though her heart was pounding so fast that she was sure he must be able to hear it.  “I am Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel,” she said.  “If I am not mistaken, are you. . . Finrod?  My uncle?”

 

“Finrod,” he murmured.  “I have not heard that name in so long.  Finrod Felagund, Lord of Caves.  Yes, I am Finrod.  And I suppose that I am your uncle, if you are indeed Galadriel’s daughter.  How could you not be her daughter?  You have her eyes, her chin. . . even her dimples.  You look like my sister, and you do not.”  Finrod took Celebrían’s hands and squeezed them, laughing a little with the shock.

 

The carriage driver cleared his throat delicately.  “I do not wish to interrupt your reunion,” he said, “but have I leave to depart?  Will my Lady be welcome here?”

 

Finrod started.  “Yes.  Yes, she will.  Thank you for waiting with her.”  He let go of Celebrían’s hands and reached into his belt pouch, producing a few coins.  These he dropped into the driver’s hands.  “That is for your pains.  Do you require anything else?”

 

“No, my Lord.  Thank you.”  The driver nodded and left.  Finrod turned to the others.

 

“You may return to your posts,” he told the gatekeepers.  “You have done well.  Linwë?”

 

The footman bowed.  “My Lord?”

 

“Please bring my niece’s baggage.  We must go directly to the palace.  The King and Queen will be overjoyed.”  With that, Finrod offered Celebrían his arm, and they set out along the gravel pathway.

 

 

 

When they arrived at the palace, Finrod sent Linwë ahead to advise the King and Queen of their arrival.  He led Celebrían to a courtyard near the throne room to await their summons.  Though the courtyard held many beds of sweet flowers and fruit trees, Celebrían was immediately drawn to a stand of bushes covered in small, nubbly orange fruits.

 

“What are these?” she asked.  “They smell intriguing.  Sweet, and yet sharp.  I do not think I have ever seen their like.”

 

Finrod laughed.  “Those are kumquats,” he said.  “My grandfather, High King Finwë, planted kumquat bushes in that spot when he first built the palace, long before the rising of the Sun and the Moon.  My father and my uncles loved the fruits, and Grandfather would always make sure to bring at least a small basket whenever he came to visit us.” 

 

His expression turned inward for a moment, as if he were remembering something bittersweet.  “I think that my father maintains this stand of bushes for constancy,” he added. “Even in the peace of Aman, there is change, but there will always be kumquat bushes in this courtyard.”

 

“I understand,” Celebrían murmured.  She thought of Elrond, faithfully keeping the seasonal rituals of Imladris, nourishing his sense of permanence with each repetition.  Then she imagined the disruption of those rituals that her absence must have wrought, and a lump swelled painfully in her throat.  She turned her face away from Finrod and carefully did not think about Elrond.

 

But Finrod was perceptive, and he had seen something in her eyes as her thoughts had changed.  “You are thinking of someone you love, are you not?” he asked gently.  “Your husband, perhaps?”

 

Celebrían nodded.

 

“I could see your love for him shining in your eyes when we first met,” Finrod said.  “I would like to hear about him one day, if you are willing to speak.  He must be an extraordinary man, to be worthy of my sister’s daughter.”

 

Celebrían giggled.  “Yes,” she said.  “He is that, and more.  I will tell you of him, uncle, but not now.”

 

“Later,” Finrod agreed.

 

Linwë returned, and decorously cleared his throat to announce his present.  “My Lord Findarato, my Lady Celebrían,” he said.  “High King Arafinwë and Queen Eärwen desire your presence in the reception hall.”

 

Finrod and Celebrían exchanged a glance.  Finrod rose and offered his arm.  “Come,” he said.  “I will escort you.”

 

Celebrían gratefully took her uncle’s arm.  She willed herself not to shake, but Finrod perceived her nervousness anyway.  He laughed a little, and patted her hand.  “You have nothing to fear,” he told her.  “My lord father and my lady mother are kind, compassionate people.  They await no foreign embassy, but their own granddaughter.  And they are likely just as nervous as you at the prospect.”

 

Celebrían straightened her spine and lifted her chin.  She took a deep breath, and nodded to Finrod.  “You are correct.  I am ready.”

 

With that, they walked together into the main body of the palace.

 

 

 

Celebrían’s first impression of the reception hall was its immense size.  Ornate carpets and tapestries dazzled the eye, and cleverly placed mirrors and prisms scattered and magnified the light from the tall windows.  Somehow, in the middle of this dazzling splendor, Celebrían located the two carven chairs on a low dais at the far end of the room.

 

The two who waited there were as fair as children who have known only love and kindness, yet they were also crowned with the wisdom and dignity of their years.  Arafinwë was proud and straight, and his shining golden hair flowed down his back, but there was a softness to his jaw that spoke of mercy and reflection.  Eärwen had bound her silver hair with cords, but a few tendrils hung free to curl about her face.  Her eyes, as gray as the sea, twinkled with a secret mischief that even her years as Queen could not dampen.  Now that she saw them, Celebrían could appreciate how their qualities had combined in the person of their formidable daughter.  Almost before she had time to think, she dropped a graceful curtsey before them.

 

“My Lord,” she murmured.  “My Lady.”

 

Eärwen rose to her feet and hurried to Celebrían’s side.  Taking Celebrían’s face in her hands, she raised her from the curtsey.  “Do not bow before me, granddaughter,” she said.  “Look into my eyes, so that I may see your face.”

 

Celebrían looked at Eärwen, too overcome to speak.  Eärwen’s eyes filled with tears, and her lips curled into a blissful smile as she traced Celebrían’s features with her gentle fingers.  “I see Artanis in you,” she said.  “My daughter’s daughter has come to us at last.”  She turned and beckoned Arafinwë.  “Come, my love, and see your kinswoman.”

 

Arafinwë stumbled towards them as if in a daze. “There is much of Artanis in you,” he said, “yet I see also the mark of your sire, the Prince of Doriath.  I did not dare to dream that I would see a child of that marriage, especially not one so beautiful.”  He opened his arms and embraced Eärwen and Celebrían together, sighing contentedly.  After a moment, he drew Finrod into the embrace.

 

“My wife,” he murmured.  “My son.  My granddaughter.  My family begins to return to me.”

 

Celebrían’s knees wobbled a little, but safe in the arms of her kin, she did not mind.  She remembered the day that Arwen had taken her first steps, the look of excitement and apprehension on her little face as she had let go of the wall and moved forward under her own power.  She had waddled perhaps ten steps to reach Celebrían’s outstretched arms, and had then toppled into her mother’s embrace with a look of relief and achievement.  Celebrían suspected that the look on her own face now was not much different.  She had dared to leave the safety of Lórien and throw herself upon the mercy of kin she had never met.  Now it seemed that her efforts had been rewarded.  She had lost her husband and children, but she had gained an uncle and two loving grandparents.  It was not much, but it was a start.

2.  Where Ceaseless Ages Roll

 

 

 

After the King and Queen’s display of joy in the reception hall, there was no question about Celebrían’s immediate future.  She was put to bed in a sumptuous guest chamber, and liveried servants brought her breakfast on a tray.  In the morning court session, Arafinwë made it clear that she was to reside in the palace in Tirion as a full royal princess.  Celebrían was relieved that she had a place to stay and a family who accepted her into their lives, but she did have some reservations.

 

“What am I to do?” she asked Eärwen, after they had left Arafinwë to deal with petitions not pertaining to family matters.  “I have never been a royal princess before.  I do not even know what my duties might be, much less how I am to fulfill them.”

 

Eärwen smiled, and placed her arm around Celebrían’s shoulders.  “The first thing you will do,” she said, “is to come with me and select a suite of rooms.  The suite must be decorated to your taste, and then we must do something about your clothes.  Why, you have little more than what you stand up in now.”

 

“Decorating and clothes,” Celebrían laughed.  “I believe that I can do that.  And then, what comes after I am settled?”

 

Eärwen’s expression grew serious.  “Then you will rest.  Take at least a month of leisure.  There is no need to rush to find a role or a task for you.  We have all the time in the world.” 

 

Eärwen moved to face Celebrían, and grasped her shoulders firmly.  “Do not think that life in the Blessed Realm has left me unobservant,” she said.  “You did not come to these shores entirely of your own will.  Whatever event compelled you to leave your husband behind cannot have been easy or pleasant.  The echoes of it remain behind your eyes.  Your primary duty, for the moment, is to heal from your losses.”

 

Celebrían sighed.  “Irmo himself sent me to Tirion.  Did he not believe that I was already healed?”

 

“It is not that simple.”  Eärwen took Celebrían’s arm.  “Come to my drawing room and take tea with me, and we will discuss this matter further.”

 

 

 

Eärwen’s drawing room was small and spare compared to the dazzling splendor of the reception hall.  Its walls were a pale blue, and thin white curtains draped the windows, muting the strong morning sunlight.  Two couches of dove-grey linen flanked a low table of dark wood covered with lace.  At Eärwen’s invitation, Celebrían sat on one of the couches.  Eärwen took a tray with a delicate porcelain tea service on it from a cupboard and set it on the table, then hung a kettle on a hook over the small hearth.

 

“It is rarely cold enough here to require a proper fire,” Eärwen explained.  “But I do love to have tea in this room, and one does not wish to be constantly calling for servants to fetch hot water.  So this little hearth serves my purposes admirably.”

 

As they waited for the water to boil, Celebrían and Eärwen exchanged light conversation, primarily discussing their taste in design and decoration.  The reception hall, Celebrían was relieved to learn, was a holdover from Finwë’s time, but both Arafinwë and Eärwen preferred lighter, simpler elements for their private quarters.  After a time, the kettle whistled, and Eärwen excused herself to tend to the tea.  After she had filled both of their cups and invited Celebrían to help herself from a tin of small iced biscuits, Eärwen sat down on the couch opposite Celebrían.  She pursed her lips, as if considering how best to begin their real discussion.

 

“The Valar are wise,” she said at last.  “They stood by the side of Eru Iluvátar when the world was first created, and they know its ways more intimately than even we of the Firstborn can ever hope to do.  Part of their wisdom is that they understand the limits of their power.”

 

“It is hard to imagine that they have such limits,” Celebrían said.  “They are more powerful than anything I have ever seen.”

 

“That is likely true.  And yet, there are things even the Valar cannot do.  They could not compel Fëanáro to grant them the Silmarils, after all.”  Eärwen took a sip of her tea and looked at Celebrían significantly, as if she expected Celebrían to draw an obvious conclusion from this statement.

 

“They have not the power to compel obedience?” Celebrían hazarded a guess.

 

“That is partially true, and it is part of what I am trying to tell you.”  Eärwen set her cup down.  “I suppose I should speak plainly, though it is difficult when one attempts to speak of such mysteries as the Valar.  They are wise, and they have power over the physical forms of the world, but they do not have the power to command the heart or the mind.  They can only teach, suggest, or request action.  They cannot compel it.”

 

Celebrían frowned.  “Are you saying that Irmo could not heal me, after all?”

 

“Not entirely.  Irmo provides a place of perfect peace and calm, an environment where a shattered fëa can take shelter while it begins to heal.  Irmo can aid and guide that healing.  But he cannot complete it.  To be truly whole again, to be able to live in the company of others, that requires an act of will on the part of the healing fëa that Irmo cannot command.  You are healed enough to leave Irmo’s protection, my dear, but you must take the last steps toward wholeness on your own.”

 

Celebrían’s heart sank at the thought of enduring more of the exhausting and sometimes painful work she had done in Lórien, confronting and integrating memories of fear, torture, and illness.  “How am I to do that?  What are the last steps?”

 

Eärwen sighed.  “Your first task is to discover that for yourself.”

 

Celebrían straightened her spine and tried to look brave.  The effect was ruined when the first tears began to roll down her cheeks.  She turned her face aside and wiped at them with her hands, but they only flowed faster.  Eärwen set her teacup down and moved to sit beside Celebrían on her couch.  She took Celebrían into her arms and held her granddaughter’s head against her shoulder.  Celebrían finally surrendered and began to weep in earnest.  Eärwen held her close and stroked her hair.

 

“Yes, cry your tears, child,” she murmured.  “Weep as much as you must.  All your tears must be shed sooner or later, and a grandmother’s shoulder is as good a place as any to shed them.”

 

After a while, Celebrían stopped weeping, but Eärwen did not release her from the embrace.  They sat together on the couch for several minutes in silence, looking at the cooling tea.  Finally, Celebrían sat up and dried her face with the handkerchief that Eärwen handed to her.

 

“Do you feel better now?” Eärwen asked.

 

Celebrían managed a watery smile.  “A little, thank you.”

 

“Good.  I think this will hardly be the only time.  Whenever you need to cry, come to your grandmother.  And now, let us do something amusing.  We will go look at rooms for you.  Do you prefer morning or afternoon sun?”

 

“Morning.”  Celebrían rose and helped Eärwen clear away the tea things.  She did feel lighter inside.  Perhaps this was the first step, simply existing in the world in the company of other Elves.

 

 

 

Celebrían and Eärwen selected a suite of rooms in the family wing of the palace that faced south.  From the great storage chambers, they chose furniture that was simple, but elegantly designed, with graceful curves and rounded edges.  Celebrían opened the bag of cloth that she had woven in Lórien and decided that she could make curtains for the windows.  Eärwen exclaimed over the fabric and offered to summon a carpenter who could build Celebrían a loom so that she could continue her work in the palace.

 

“Your sitting room has that little alcove,” she said.  “It is just the right size for a weaving room, and we can drape a curtain across the entry to hide it if you are receiving guests.”

 

Celebrían went into the sitting room and inspected the alcove’s entry.  “I may have something large enough in my bag already,” she said.  She knelt down and began to rummage through the lengths of fabric. 

 

There was a knock on the door, and Celebrían turned around to see it swing open.  A small, slender lady entered, shaking her bright golden hair out of her eyes.  She carried a large laundry basket full of bed linens, which she plopped on the sitting room’s couch with a little “Oof!”  She caught sight of Celebrían and smiled, causing her blue eyes to twinkle merrily.

 

“Why, you must be Lady Celebrían!” she exclaimed.  “Findaráto told me all about your arrival.  He was so excited, it was almost as if his begetting day had come.”  She took Celebrían’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks.

 

Celebrían blinked with surprise, but could not help smiling back, since the lady’s cheer was contagious.  “I am pleased that my arrival makes him so happy,” she said.  “But I fear that you have the advantage over me.”

 

“Well, we cannot have that, can we?” the lady replied.  “I am Amarië of the Vanyar, betrothed to Findaráto for – goodness, how long has it been?” she asked Eärwen.

 

“Your first betrothal or your second?” Eärwen teased.  Celebrían looked from one to the other, unsure whether she should join in what was obviously a family joke.  Fortunately, Amarië took pity on her.

 

“I was betrothed to Findaráto before he set off to follow Fëanáro,” she explained.  “I awaited his return, but he did not come back in that lifetime.  Still, I had no wish to marry another, so I waited here at Tirion with the King and Queen.”  She smiled at Eärwen.  “They have truly become a second mother and father to me.”

 

Eärwen went to the basket of linens and began to sort them.  “Celebrían, these are to be yours.  Shall we choose a set and make up the bed while we chat?”

 

Celebrían looked at the piles of bed linens, and selected a set embroidered with small pink roses about the hems.  Eärwen took the linens into the bedchamber.  She stuffed pillows into cases while Celebrían and Amarië tucked the sheets around the bed.

 

“You have been betrothed to Finrod twice?” Celebrían asked Amarië.  “Tell me how that happened.”

 

“Finrod?”  Amarië considered the name.  “Yes, that was what he was called in Ennor.  I suppose that is how you must think of him.  I know he likes the name, but I cannot think of him as anything other than Findaráto.  But you wanted to know about our betrothal.  He was re-embodied several centuries ago, and Irmo sent him here – much as he must have sent you, I suppose.”

 

“I will never forget that day,” Eärwen said, sinking down in an armchair and clutching a pillow to herself.  “To see one’s firstborn child returning from the dead . . . that moment will stay in my heart forever.”

 

“He was not the same Findaráto I had seen marching off with the hosts of Fëanáro,” Amarië said.  “His life in Ennor and his time in the Halls of Waiting had . . . changed him.  It took many years before he agreed to resume our betrothal.  Because it had been so long, I wished to repeat the ceremony, just so that I could be sure that it was really true, that my beloved had actually returned to me.”

 

Celebrían fussed with the quilts to hide her dismay over the report that Finrod had taken so long to recover.  But, she reasoned, he had returned from death, as she had not.  Perhaps she would not need nearly so long before she felt like herself again.  “When will you be married?” she asked Amarië.

 

Amarië and Eärwen looked at each other.  “Findaráto has had so many good days recently,” Eärwen said.  “We should discuss the matter.  Perhaps the end of the summer would be a good time.”

 

“The end of the summer?”  Amarië looked startled.  “I think Findaráto might agree to that.  But do you think that we can possibly be ready so soon?  I have neither wedding gown nor canopy.”

 

“I can help you there,” Celebrían offered.  “My grandmother tells me that a carpenter from Tirion will arrive shortly to build a loom so that I might resume my weaving.  If you would like, I will weave your wedding canopy.”

 

Amarië’s eyes sparkled.  “Would you do that?”

 

“Of course.”  Celebrían’s voice was a little stronger, now that she had a specific task ahead of her.  “You will be marrying my mother’s brother, after all, so you will be my aunt.  It would be my honor to weave a wedding canopy for my aunt.”

 

Amarië stared at Celebrían for a moment, then burst out in peals of delighted laughter.  “You are right!” she cried.  “I had not thought of it before.  My niece.  Oh, I will like that.  I had hoped we would be friends, but now we will be related, too!”

 

She threw her arms around Celebrían, and Celebrían returned the embrace.  All of a sudden, her prospects in Aman seemed much brighter.  She had family, and now she had a friend, as well.

 

 

 

Amarië formally requested the wedding date when the royal family gathered for dinner that evening.  Startled, Finrod laid down his knife and fork and stared at his betrothed for a long moment, before a wide grin split his face.  “That is a wonderful idea,” he said.  “We have been betrothed so long that I had become accustomed to that fact, and I had almost forgotten to think about the marriage itself.”

 

Amarië blushed.  “I had almost forgotten as well.”

 

“It is a good thing that I have come to remind you,” Celebrían teased gently.

 

Finrod rose from his chair and moved around the table to kiss Amarië thoroughly before responding to that remark.  “Had I had any doubts that you were indeed my sister’s daughter, you have now laid them to rest, for you have certainly inherited her sharp tongue.”  Everyone at the table laughed, and Celebrían laughed as loudly as any of them.

 

Arafinwë signaled a servant to bring more wine to the table.  When it arrived, he eased the cork from the bottle with a loud pop that made Celebrían jump.  The wine sparkled and foamed in the glasses when he poured it.  Celebrían exclaimed over it with delight, for she had never seen any drink that danced so merrily before.  After everyone had been served, Arafinwë rose and lifted his glass.

 

“This is a joyous occasion indeed,” he said.  “Last night, I welcomed my lovely granddaughter into my family.  Tonight, because of her intervention, I have occasion to welcome Amarië, my daughter-to-be.  This is truly an occasion of joy and rebirth for the House of Finwë.  Findaráto, Amarië, I wish you all the joys of marriage, the love, companionship and the support that only a spouse can provide.  May your marriage endure in bliss forever.”

 

He drank deeply, and the others followed suit.  The wine tickled Celebrían’s nose as she drank, and she giggled.  Eärwen leaned over and touched her arm.

 

“Allow me to be your grandmother and warn you not to drink too much of that,” she said.  “It is clear that you did not have sparkling wine during your life in Ennor, so you do not know how quickly it will go to your head.”

 

“If that is true, then one sip has already addled me,” Celebrían replied.  “For I feel as if I could fly.  I feel that I have a family once again, and I need no sparkling wine to make me giddy with the joy of that.”

 

Eärwen could not deny the truth of that.  Finrod raised his glass to drink a health to his bride-to-be, and the family rejoiced and made merry late into the night.

 

 

 

In the morning, Amarië sat down with Celebrían to begin designing the wedding canopy and Amarië’s wedding gown.  Amarië asked Celebrían endless questions about her own wedding and about the intricacies of married life.  Celebrían teased her about having to acquire such information from her niece, and Amarië laughed at the idea.

 

Celebrían found that she enjoyed spending time with Amarië.  Amarië’s twinkling eyes and ready laugh reminded her of Glorfindel, save that Celebrían could detect no shadow lurking behind Amarië’s eyes.  Hers was a laugh with most of its innocence still intact, and Celebrían relished that quality in her friend.  Few of the people she had known in Middle-earth maintained such innocence into adulthood. 

 

One of Celebrían’s few clear memories of the year following her capture and torment in the Redhorn Pass was of watching the light fade from her children’s eyes.  She had mourned at the new sorrow growing in Arwen, and she had turned away in fear at what she had seen growing within the twins.  Celebrían wished that there were some way for her to send a message home to tell her family that she had not intended to hurt them by deserting them, but that was impossible.  She would simply have to live with that on her conscience.

 

In the meantime, she would do what she could to ensure that Amarië experienced all the joys of marriage as Celebrían remembered them, beginning with a lovely wedding canopy woven of gossamer-weight thread and embroidered with little flowers and vines.  There was nothing Celebrían could do about the state of her own marriage, so she might as well begin by helping her friend make a good start of hers.

 

 

 

Finrod and Amarië finally settled on the last day of summer to hold their wedding.  It was close enough to seem real, but not so close that a lovely ceremony could not be arranged.  The palace at Tirion became a bustle of activity.  Finrod’s bachelor apartment was rearranged and redecorated to make it suitable for a married couple.  Arafinwë and Eärwen spent hours planning a great feast such as was proper when the King’s firstborn son took a bride.  Amarië sent word of her imminent marriage to her parents, and asked them to come to Tirion as soon as they could to help her prepare.  In the meantime, she took Celebrían into her confidence, and the two ladies worked together for hours at a time making Amarië’s canopy and gown.

 

Arafinwë sent private invitations by messenger to those few members of the royal family who still dwelt in the Blessed Realm.  Anairë, who was a dear friend of Eärwen, immediately sent the bridal couple a silver table service and a promise that she would attend the wedding.  Ingwë, King of the Vanyar, sent a new carriage, with a team of matched bay horses.  Even Nerdanel, who did not emerge often from her solitary home deep in the woods, sent a graceful little sculpture in bronze and a message that she would attend Finrod and Amarië’s wedding.

 

Finally, when all of the family had indicated whether or not they would attend, Arafinwë made the public announcement.  At high noon, the royal family dressed in their finest and filed out onto a balcony overlooking a large public plaza.  Royal criers had gone through Tirion that morning, advising people that the King would be speaking.  As a result, the plaza was filled with Elves, Vanyar and Noldor alike, all gazing up at the balcony with expectant looks on their faces.  Arafinwë took Finrod and Amarië by the hands and tugged them forward on the balcony.  There was a last-minute flurry, and then a hush fell over the crowd.  Arafinwë looked out at the assembled people and smiled broadly.

 

“People of Tirion, of Valinor,” he said.  “It is with the deepest joy in my heart that I announce to you the imminent joining of two Houses into a new House, the perpetuation of Eru Iluvátar’s great plan for us, his Firstborn.  On the last day of summer, my son Findaráto Ingoldo, firstborn High Prince of the Noldor, will take as his bride the woman he has loved since his childhood.  I present to you my son’s bride, the woman soon to become the newest daughter of the House of Finwë, Amarië of the Vanyar!”

 

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the crowd below let out a wild cheer.  Amarië blushed bright pink, and Finrod kissed her, which drew even louder cries from the crowd.  Arafinwë and Eärwen beamed, and Celebrían found herself cheering and applauding as loudly as anyone in the plaza.  The noise did not die down, and eventually Arafinwë declared the rest of the day to be a holiday.  The crowd roared its approval, and several street musicians began to play.  People began to dance to the music, and Arafinwë laughed.  Then Eärwen took him by the hands and began to dance with him right there on the balcony.  Celebrían hiked her skirts above her knees and began to jig, the first time she had danced in over a year.

 

So the people of Tirion celebrated the culmination of a love that had endured since before the Sun rose in the sky, and a betrothal that had lasted three Ages of the world.  In the middle of it all, Finrod and Amarië kissed and kissed, oblivious to the revels that surrounded them.

3.  A Heart For Any Fate

 

 

 

The marriage of Finrod and Amarië was clearly an event such as Tirion saw only once in a hundred years.  Celebrían had thought that her own wedding had been a whirlwind of activity and a showpiece for the ages.  But now she realized the limits that the resources of Imladris had placed on Galadriel’s imagination.  Arafinwë and Eärwen, with all the wealth of Tirion behind them, planned a ceremony to dazzle the senses and entertain a city.

 

Ingwë and a contingent of the Vanyar arrived in Tirion a week before the wedding.  Amarië’s parents were among them, as were a number of her childhood friends.  They were thrilled to meet Celebrían, whom Amarië honored as the one who had provided the energy needed to move beyond the comfortable stasis of perpetual betrothal.  Amarië’s friends rapidly accepted Celebrían as one of them, and several agreed to remain in Tirion after the wedding as Amarië’s ladies-in-waiting.

 

“You,” Amarië told Celebrían, “would be first among my ladies, of course, should you wish it.  Or perhaps you desire a retinue of your own?”

 

“Oh, no,” Celebrían laughed.  “I have no desire for such responsibility, or such visibility.  I would be more than content to attend you, aunt.”

 

“She is not yet your aunt,” Amarië’s mother said.  “She is not married yet, and there are many ceremonies and events that we must go through before that.  And the first of those is the ball tonight in honor of King Ingwë.  So, let us waste no more time!  Let us prepare, so that we may attend the ball, and move forward towards the wedding!”

 

 

 

The ball was indeed an affair to remember.  Celebrían went clothed in silk and velvet, with jewels sparkling in her hair and at her throat.  Arafinwë and Eärwen opened the dancing, performing a stately measure that segued into a more intricate and lively sequence of steps.  Arafinwë finished by lifting Eärwen high in the air and twirling her around.  She laughed out loud, and the orchestra struck up another lively tune.

 

Elves flooded out onto the dance floor, choosing partners and forming sets for the first dance.  Celebrían was pleasantly surprised when Finrod took her firmly in hand.  “My Lord,” she murmured.  “I had thought you would seize the opportunity to dance with your betrothed.”

 

Finrod laughed.  “My betrothed is well known here, and likely has a dozen admirers all hoping to dance with her once more this evening.  But you are my niece, and you are no less precious to me.  You should not have to spend the ball lingering at the sidelines.”

 

Celebrían had no time to reply to that.  The musicians played an opening chord, and then they were off, weaving through the figures of the dance.  When it was over, she was flushed and excited, her blood humming at being able to dance once more.  Finrod escorted her off the dance floor, bowed, and then went in search of Amarië.

 

Celebrían did not have to stand alone for long.  Some of the young men she had seen casting admiring glances in her direction approached her to ask for the next dance.  Soon, she found herself having to schedule her partners to ensure that she was able to dance with everyone who asked.  During an interval in the dancing, Celebrían took a large glass of punch and sat down by Eärwen to catch her breath.

 

“I have not enjoyed myself so much in many years,” she said.  “My feet are nearly numb from dancing, yet I want nothing more than to continue.”

 

“That is good,” Eärwen laughed.  “Perhaps you did not notice it, but your public appearance at the betrothal announcement caused something of a stir in Tirion.  Everyone knows Amarië, but you are a novelty, and they are curious about you.”

 

“It is a pity for them that I am claimed already.”

 

Eärwen nodded, her eyes twinkling.  “Perhaps.  But as long as they understand that, and you are enjoying yourself, I see no reason for you not to dance.  I do not think your husband would mind.”

 

“No.”  Celebrían allowed herself to feel a little glow of warmth at the mention of Elrond.  “He would want me to be happy and dance.  It is part of why he sent me here in the first place.”

 

“Then go and dance, child, and be happy.”  Eärwen kissed Celebrían on the forehead and gave her hands an understanding little squeeze before shooing her back out onto the dance floor with the latest besotted gentleman of Tirion.

 

 

 

After the dazzling whirl of parties that preceded the wedding, Celebrían was relieved to find that the ceremony itself was to be a quiet, private affair, limited to the members of both families.  Even King Ingwë himself would have to find other entertainment for that evening.  She understood that the week of festivities had been intended more for the people than for Finrod and Amarië, and she appreciated Arafinwë’s tact in arranging his son’s wedding.  After the people had thoroughly exhausted themselves in celebration, Finrod and Amarië could enjoy the intimacy of a private wedding for family only.

 

Much as Celebrían loved both Finrod and Amarië, and as happy as she was that they had finally decided to marry after so long, she found the marriage ceremony itself nearly unbearable.  She could feel the love radiating between the bride and groom, and could not help but think back to her own wedding day, and the way Elrond had glowed when he looked at her.  Inevitably, she recalled the shattered, abandoned expression on his face when he had made his last farewell to her and turned to leave the ship that had taken her away.  She had been too weak even to reply to him.

 

Finrod and Amarië kissed under the canopy, the families cheered, and Celebrían’s eyes blurred with tears.  Quickly, she fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief.  A gentle hand on hers stilled their frantic motion, and then another handkerchief was presented to her.  “Thank you,” she murmured, as she dried her eyes.  “The wedding . . . it was so beautiful, I have become overwhelmed . . . “

 

“I do not believe that for an instant.”

 

Startled, Celebrían looked at the woman who had given her the handkerchief.  She was very tall, her upswept dark hair emphasizing her strong jaw.  But her eyes twinkled with compassion and understanding, more than Celebrían had seen in anyone since she had arrived.  After a moment, she recognized the woman.

 

“My Lady Anairë,” she said, with a courteous nod.

 

Anairë’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, and she waved her hand dismissively.  “Such formality from my grand-niece.  This is hardly the time for titles.  Come.”  She took Celebrían’s arm.  “Let us greet the happy couple and then take a little walk out on the balcony.  I suspect that we could both use the fresh air.”

 

They quickly made their way through the crowd that had gathered around the wedding canopy.  Anairë embraced her nephew and her new niece, and Celebrían murmured congratulations.  Finrod and Amarië nodded vaguely in acknowledgement, too dazed to do much more.  Anairë smiled as she steered Celebrían towards an empty balcony.

 

“I suppose that both of us had that same smile on our faces on our wedding days,” she remarked. 

 

Celebrían nodded.  “I remember that Elrond did.  I suppose that I must have, too.”  The memory of Elrond threatened to overwhelm her once again, and she turned away from Anairë to sit down on a small stone bench.  Anairë seemed to understand that Celebrían did not want anyone close to her at the moment, and kept her distance, gazing out over the balcony at the lights of Tirion twinkling below.  Celebrían took several deep breaths, and pressed her fingers over her eyes.  Gradually, the urge to weep receded, and she was able to turn and look at Anairë.

 

Anairë regarded her for a long moment in silence.  “It is no shame to mourn your husband,” she said, “especially at a wedding.  Eru knows I mourn Nolofinwë.  I try to attend as few weddings as possible, but this one . . . “  She laughed a little.  “My nephew has waited thousands of years for this day.  How could I not attend?”

 

Celebrían gulped.  “It was brave of you to attend.  I suppose I should take your courage as an example.  I am fortunate.  My husband is alive and well, though an ocean separates us now.  Yours is dead, but you continue to live.”  She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, preparing to return to the party.

 

Anairë quickly sat down beside her and took her hands.  “You do not understand,” she said.  “Perhaps it is my fault.  I do not spend much time in the company of others these days, and I have lost some of my skill at expressing what I wish to say.”

 

Celebrían opened her mouth, thinking to protest, or to ask what Anairë meant, but she found that she had nothing to say, so she waited quietly.  Anairë pursed her lips for a moment, as if weighing her words with great care.

 

“Understand,” she said at last, “that I do not mean to be cruel when I tell you this.  It is true that Nolofinwë is dead, while Elrond still lives.  But truly, there is no practical difference.  Elrond is across the sea.  You cannot go to him, and he is not yet able to come to you.  He might as well be dead.  I do not say this to hurt you, rather to tell you that it is all right to mourn him.  Your body knows that, even if your heart resists.”

 

Celebrían could not speak.  She twisted Anairë’s handkerchief in her hands, and her shoulders shook as tears began to roll down her face.  Anairë said nothing, but put an arm around Celebrían’s shoulders.  Celebrían buried her face in Anairë’s shoulder and wept silently, her body shuddering and jerking.  Finally, she was still.  She looked down at her hands and gave a rueful smile.

 

“I have shredded your lovely handkerchief,” she said.  “I apologize.”

 

Anairë smiled back.  “It is not important.  I have others.  How do you feel?”

 

“I do not know.  Better, I suppose.  I think that I can rejoin the party now.”

 

“Then let us do so.”  The two ladies rose, and Anairë helped Celebrían straighten her gown and pat her hair back into place.

 

“This will not be the end of it, I guess?” Celebrían asked.

 

“Hardly.”

 

Celebrían sighed.  “Oh, well.  I suppose this is what Irmo meant when he said I would have to find my own healing.  It looks to be far more difficult than I expected.”

 

“It will be,” Anairë admitted.  “But you could not be in a better place to heal.  I have known Eärwen since before either of us was married, and she has a heart as large as all Valinor.  She will not hesitate to see you through this.  And she has some experience, as well.  She nursed Findaráto through his healing, and see what has come of that.”

 

Celebrían smiled.  “Yes.  A wedding, which we must attend, before Grandmother comes looking for us.”

 

Anairë laughed, and escorted her back into the light and noise of the party.

 

 

 

Finrod and Amarië appeared at luncheon the next day, to a general chorus of suggestive teasing.  Both of them turned bright pink, but endured the jests with good grace.  After the family had eaten, Amarië took Celebrían and Anairë into a small alcove for a private moment.

 

“I wish to thank you both for attending our wedding,” she said.  “It was only after Findaráto and I had joined our fëar in marriage that I began to realize the true depth of that bond.  In truth, I do not think I have discovered its extent, but I have experienced enough to have an idea of what you have lost.  It cannot have been easy for you to be there, but it meant much to me that you were.”

 

Celebrían reached out and embraced her friend.  “Oh, Amarië, it was your wedding!  How could I not have attended?  Your beauty and your joy were more than enough to make up for my own sorrow.”

 

Anairë tilted her head, and her eyes glittered.  “Silly girl,” she said.  “Listen to your niece’s wisdom.  We love you and Findaráto both, and we wished to witness your time of joy.  That is what family does, and you are a part of this family now.”

 

“All the same,” Amarië replied, “you bore your hardships gracefully, and I appreciate that.”

 

 

 

Anairë left after a few days, along with the remaining throng of guests.  Amarië’s mother bade farewell to her daughter with mingled tears and laughter, which Amarië returned.  Then the royal family was finally alone in the palace for the first time in half a month.

 

Celebrían spent the next few months in peaceful relative obscurity as the chief of Amarië’s ladies-in-waiting.  As she was the only one among Amarië’s retinue who had been married, she was the one in whom Amarië confided most often about the changes in her life.  They discussed the peculiar habits of husbands and how to decide when to have children.  Amarië longed for a child to hold in her arms, but Finrod was still not certain.

 

“Give him time,” Celebrían told Amarië.  “Your marriage was a step along the road to wholeness, not wholeness itself.  After Finrod has had a chance to become accustomed to being your husband, he will begin to think about children.”

 

“You make it sound so reassuring,” Amarië sighed.  “I suppose that was how it was for you and Elrond?”

 

Celebrían nodded.  “It was.  And we had three beautiful children, in the end.”  Three children that she had abandoned, just as she had abandoned her beloved, trusting husband.  Celebrían bowed her head over her embroidery and did not say any more.

 

 

 

Celebrían made good use of the loom that Eärwen had obtained for her.  She taught several of Amarië’s other ladies-in-waiting to weave, and spent many hours weaving alone, simply for the pleasure of feeling the rhythm of the shuttle.  Of course, something had to be done with the bolts of cloth she produced.  Some of them she turned into clothing for herself and her new friends and family.  The rest she decided to sell in the marketplace.

 

Arafinwë did not forbid her from selling her cloth, but did express some concern over sending his granddaughter, who was already something of a sensation in Tirion for her beauty and her reclusive nature, into the marketplace alone and unguarded.  Celebrían listened to his reservations, and conceded that she, too, was nervous about going out into such a large, crowded public space.  She engaged one of the young pages to take the cloth to market for her, promising him a share of the profits.

 

The cloth sold briskly.  Celebrían suspected that the demand was as much for the identity of the weaver as for the quality of the cloth itself, but she did not mind.  After she had paid the page’s commission and set aside enough money to purchase more skeins of silk and linen thread and some interesting dyes she had wanted to test, she found that there was still a decent sum left over.  Celebrían considered what to do with these earnings, but could think of nothing.  Arafinwë and Eärwen were horrified at the thought of their granddaughter paying for her room and board.  Celebrían had plenty of clothes, and with her weaving and the time she spent with Amarië and the other ladies, she had neither the need nor the desire to go into Tirion and spend money on entertainment.  She stored her money in a box under her bed.  It would keep until she had need of it.

 

In the meantime, she enjoyed the peaceful environment that Eärwen had created at the palace.  There were relatively few official functions at which she had to appear, and at those she was able to hang back and allow the King and Queen and their son to take precedence.  She had presided over enough functions as the Lady of Imladris that she could make herself entirely presentable as a Princess of Tirion when the occasion demanded it, but she was never able to accustom herself to the expanded public eye of the city.

 

One thing that brought her great solace was the correspondence she maintained with Anairë.  Celebrían appreciated Anairë’s insights into the inner workings of the palace society and advice on dealing with the various courtiers who would make demands on her time.  In return, Celebrían sent Anairë the latest news and gossip that she heard.  Anairë also seemed grateful to be able to pour out her thoughts and feelings about Fingolfin and her lost children to another woman who could understand and empathize with her loss.

 

 

 

After a year living as a princess in Tirion, Celebrían began to come to certain conclusions, not just about her life, but about her family as well.  Finrod told her many stories of his childhood in a manor not far from the palace, playing with his brothers and sister and his many rambunctious cousins.  Anairë and Amarië told her the history of Arafinwë’s reign over the remnant of the Noldor.  They described his first tentative speeches to the depleted populace, his transformation into the shrewd war leader who had commanded an army in the War of Wrath, and finally, the full blossoming of his wisdom and compassion, and his radiant joy at the re-embodiment of his firstborn son.

 

Celebrían could see that joy still shining in the eyes of both Arafinwë and Eärwen whenever they looked at Finrod, even many years after he had been returned to them.  She wrote about it to Anairë.

 

My dear Anairë,

 

I hope that this letter finds you well.  As always, I am grateful for your correspondence and your advice.  It has proved most helpful, as I am learning to see the people around me with new eyes.  As a child, I had heard many tales from my mother of the bliss of Valinor, and I suppose that I expected to find that bliss when I left the garden of Lórien.

 

Instead, I see in my grandmother and grandfather two people who do not live in eternal bliss, but bear their burdens with strength and grace far beyond what I could ever imagine.  I grieve for Elrond, and my children, and my parents, but I know that they are still alive in Middle-earth, and I will see them again someday.  How much more have Arafinwë and Eärwen lost!  My grandfather has seen the death of his father.  His two older brothers, his niece and nephews, most of his own children, all fled to Middle-earth and died there.  That he and my grandmother still manage to wake up each morning, let alone smile and rule with insight and understanding is nothing short of astonishing.

 

And yet, for all their fortitude, I begin to see how their losses have worn them down.  It is most evident when they spend time with my uncle, the only one of their children to return to them.  Whenever they look upon Finrod, they glow with the joy of it.  One does not notice the fine care-lines upon their faces until the lines vanish in my uncle’s presence.  I believe that their only wish in life is to see the rest of their children returned.  I love them dearly, and I do not doubt their deep love for me.  However, they will never feel that their family is complete until they see their own children.  Though I am a welcome presence in their lives, I am not my mother, and none of us would ever wish me to take her place.

 

I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I must leave Tirion.  My love for my aunt and uncle, and for my grandparents, is as strong as ever.  Their love and acceptance has done much toward making me whole again, and I will be forever grateful to them.  But I have never been happy living a life of idleness under the watchful eyes of the people of Tirion.  I feel that there is something else that I must find before I will truly be at peace.  I do not think that I will remain in Tirion much longer.  If I depart before you have occasion to come to the city, know that I love you, and that I will always treasure the time I spent in your company.  I may return, when I have found what I seek.

 

Until then, I remain,

 

Your loving great-niece,

Celebrían

 

She sealed the letter and gave her page a small sack of coins to deliver it to Anairë.  Then she took a deep breath and began to consider how best to tell Arafinwë and Eärwen that it was time for her to depart from the peaceful haven they had given her.

4.  Seas Of Heavenly Rest

 

 

 

Celebrían chose to broach the subject of her impending departure over breakfast the next morning.  Arafinwë maintained the morning meal as a private family time, when everyone could gather and speak freely without the interference luncheon guests or a formal royal dinner.  The servants set out various dishes along a sideboard and withdrew, leaving the royal family alone in the dining room.  It would be the perfect occasion to bring up what was bound to be a sensitive subject. 

 

Finrod and Amarië had arrived early, and were already sipping tea and nibbling on toast and softly scrambled eggs.  Celebrían helped herself to toast, but chose salmon to accompany it, as she did not care to eat eggs at breakfast.  They all rose when Arafinwë and Eärwen entered.  Eärwen kissed Finrod and gave Amarië and Celebrían’s hands a squeeze.  Arafinwë waved at them all to sit down, then went to the sideboard and filled his plate with his usual hearty breakfast.

 

Celebrían waited until everyone had had a chance to begin eating, but she did not wait for the light morning conversation to ensnare her before she could speak.  When she had finished half of her food, she laid her knife and fork on the side of her plate and sat up a little straighter in her chair.  Arafinwë raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.

 

“You look as though you have something of great import to tell us, granddaughter,” he said.

 

“I do.”  Celebrían began to twist her napkin nervously, below the table where no one could see.  She was aware that she had her family’s full attention, and she managed a hesitant smile.

 

 “I have been thinking about my life in Valinor,” she began, surprised at the steadiness of her voice.  “I have been blessed beyond compare to have met you all, and that you have allowed me into your lives so freely, an unexpected relation from over the Sea.  I will never forget the kindness you have shown me . . . “ Her voice trailed off as she noticed the worried expressions on her grandparents’ faces.

 

“You make it sound as if you meant to leave us, darling,” Eärwen said, frowning.

 

Celebrían gulped.  “That is indeed my wish, grandmother.  It is not that I do not love you,” she added quickly, “but something calls to me from beyond Tirion.  I grow restless here.”

 

“You cannot go away so suddenly,” Amarië said.  “We have only just become friends.”

 

“Must this family be sundered once again?” Arafinwë murmured, half to himself.  “I had grown accustomed to seeing young faces around the table again.”  The pain in his voice was so raw that Celebrían had to fight to keep her own tears from spilling.

 

Finrod sighed, and twirled his spoon absently between his fingers.  “If you were to leave the palace,” he said slowly, “where would you go?”

 

Everyone turned and looked at him in surprise.  Finrod blinked and stared back at them.  “It is a reasonable question,” he said.  “Most people – Uncle Fëanáro excepted, of course – have a purpose, or at least a direction, in mind when they go somewhere.  Even if they are going to explore, they generally have an idea of where they wish to begin.  I merely wondered what destination had caught Celebrían’s interest.”

 

“If she speaks about it now, it will only increase her desire to leave us, beloved,” Amarië protested.  Eärwen laid a hand on her arm.

 

“I think her desire has been kindled, no matter what we say,” she said.  “And I must admit, I am curious.  Do you have a destination in mind, Celebrían?”

 

Celebrían pursed her lips and thought for a while.  She had been so consumed with the issue of how to break the news of her wish to depart that she had not considered her ultimate destination.  “I seek a place where I can be alone for a while,” she said.  “Living here has helped me to regain some of my confidence in other people, but now I feel that I must regain my confidence in myself.  I think that I have lost track of who I am, and I must rediscover that.”

 

Finrod nodded thoughtfully.  “You were many things in your old life, daughter, wife, and mother.  Now you are granddaughter, niece, and princess.  Sometimes the transition between roles can be daunting.”

 

“It is more than just daunting.” Celebrían said.  “I knew Celebrían of Lothlórien and Celebrían of Imladris well.  But I do not know Celebrían of Valinor yet.”

 

“But why must you leave us to discover that?” Amarië asked.  “Are we not in Tirion, at the heart of Valinor?  Where would your answer lie, if not here?” 

 

Finrod glanced at his niece, then turned to his wife.  “The answer to that question is more complex than you guess, beloved.  Tirion is a beautiful city, full of all the comforts of life.  But sometimes, those comforts can blind us to the depths of our true natures.  I remember that I followed my uncles to Middle-earth in an effort to discover that for myself.”

 

Amarië’s face crumpled.  “Yes,” she cried, “and you died there!”  She stared accusingly at Celebrían for a moment, then burst into tears and fled the room, the remains of her toast and eggs congealing on her plate.  Eärwen half-turned in her chair and raised her hand, but Arafinwë calmed her with a gentle touch upon her arm.  Finrod sat still and straight in his chair and stared resolutely at his own unfinished breakfast.

 

Celebrían glanced at her own plate and realized that she, too, had lost her appetite.  “I apologize,” she said softly.  “I did not intend to cause such a commotion.”

 

“I will speak to Amarië,” Finrod said.  “She meant no insult, but her upset over the prospect of losing a friend made her speak rashly.  She does care for you.”

 

“As do we all,” Arafinwë said.  “I have heard your wish, Celebrían, and I will consider it.  However, perhaps it would be best to discuss it further at a later time.  Come to my study this evening.  We will take tea together and talk about what might be done in the future.”

 

Celebrían blinked.  “Yes, grandfather.”

 

Arafinwë smiled.  “You seem surprised.”

 

“I did not expect ‘a later time’ to be so soon.”

 

“Oh.  Well.”  Arafinwë shrugged.  “If I were to postpone the discussion, it would not grow any easier.  Your mind appears to be well made up, and you are not the daughter of Artanis for nothing.  But we will discuss this later today.”  Arafinwë turned back to his breakfast, the only member of the family who had any appetite left.

 

“Thank you.”  Celebrían began to gather her dishes together.  “By your leave?”

 

“Hm?  Oh, yes.  If you are no longer hungry, you may be excused.”

 

Celebrían deposited her dishes into a basin by the door and left the breakfast room.

 

 

 

Amarië did not summon Celebrían to attend her that day, and Celebrían was not surprised at this.  She took the opportunity to wander among the gardens, considering where she might want to go and what she would do when she got there.  She sat down by one of her favorite flowerbeds, and soon found herself idly pulling at weeds and deadheading some of the plants.  It would be lovely to have a garden of her own again, she thought.  She would have flowers, of course, but she also enjoyed the self-sufficiency of tending a vegetable patch.

 

Imladris, in addition to being a fortified, hidden refuge, was also a working farm.  Elrond had been especially proud of that, noting that his House was perfectly capable of supplying all of its own wants and was therefore not dependent on trade with the outside world.  Celebrían had come to share that pride as well, and had enjoyed seeing the children grow up strong and beautiful, eating the produce of the valley’s fields and orchards, clad in the fine clothing that Celebrían had made for them out of cloth she had woven herself. 

 

She had missed that feeling of pride in her work recently.  Life was easier for a princess in Tirion than for the Lady of Imladris.  Food was delivered from farmers who lived on the outskirts of the city.  Tailors made clothing, and artisans could be hired easily to perform what craftwork needed to be done.  Celebrían still occupied her days weaving, but there was no especial need for the cloth she made.  Perhaps what she wanted, what she needed to feel truly herself again, was to live in a place where she could work, as she had been accustomed to do, and where her work would have real value.

 

Celebrían pulled a withered daylily blossom and sat down on a bench.  She turned the flower over in her hands, watching as a bead of juice leaked out, staining one of her fingers purple.  She heard footsteps behind her and looked up to see Finrod.  She smiled at him and moved to one end of the bench to make room for him.  Finrod took the hint and sat down beside her.

 

“Amarië will forgive you,” he said.  “Not today, perhaps, but before the sun sets tomorrow, you will once again be her bosom friend.”

 

Celebrían laughed a little.  “I guessed as much,” she said.  “Or, rather, I hoped.  Amarië does not strike me as the sort of person to hold a grudge.”

 

“She is not,” Finrod said.  “But there are depths to her that few of us notice, I think.  She has had her own trials to bear in life.”

 

Celebrían nodded.  “She lost her beloved.  I think I can appreciate how she must have felt.”

 

“Twice.  She lost me twice.  When I –“  Finrod closed his eyes and turned away.  A fine tremor ran through his body.  After a moment, he looked up again.  “But the first time . . . that was when I told her that I intended to follow Fëanor.”  He laced his fingers together, leaned forward, and propped his chin upon them.  Celebrían reached out and laid a gentle hand on Finrod’s shoulder. 

 

“Amarië elected to remain here,” he said.  “She feared the wild lands of Middle-earth, and was afraid to travel to that wilderness.  Our last conversation . . . she tried to persuade me to stay behind, with her.  She was convinced that something horrible would happen to me.”

 

“And she turned out to be right,” Celebrían murmured.

 

Finrod pursed his lips and nodded.  Celebrían could feel him trembling beneath her hand.  Neither of them spoke for a while.  At last, Finrod took a deep breath.

 

“Amarië fears travel,” he said.  “She knows what became of me, and my brothers, and my cousins, and she blames our journey for it.  Celebrían, you and I are the only traces of our family ever to come back from Middle-earth.  I think you do not know just how much joy your presence brings to our family.  Amarië does not wish to lose you.”

 

“I understand her feelings,” Celebrían said.  “I do not wish to give up her companionship.  But neither do I want to lose my self, and I fear that is what will happen if I remain here.”

 

“I know.”  Finrod smiled at her.  “You have the same light in your eyes that your mother had when she contemplated leaving Aman for Middle-earth.  You are both as restless and powerful as the ocean, and neither of you will be denied.  I wish you good fortune on your journey, and peace at its ending.”

 

With that, Finrod gave Celebrían a quick embrace, and left the garden.

 

 

 

Arafinwë summoned Celebrían to his study in the early evening.  When she arrived, he was sitting at his desk, just clearing away the last vestiges of the day’s correspondence.  Celebrían stood before him, her hands clasped neatly behind her back, as if she were once again very small and repeating lessons.  “I will always appreciate the love and welcome you have given me, grandfather,” she said.  “Had I been something other than what I am, I would never have desired to leave your halls.  But the life you offer me – the role of a princess, of a child – it is not a life that is appropriate for me.  I was a wife and mother, the Lady of a noble House.  I can no longer return to the life of a maiden princess.”

 

Arafinwë nodded thoughtfully at her.  “I understand your reasoning,” he said slowly.  “Eärwen and I have only ever meant to ensure happiness and peace of mind for our family.  If leaving us will bring you that peace, then far be it from me to forbid it.”

 

It was only when the wave of relief washed over her that Celebrían realized how tense her anticipation had made her.  “Thank you,” she said, with a warmth in her voice that echoed the warmth in her heart.

 

“Have you given any thought to your potential destination?” Arafinwë asked.  “I could send letters of introduction along with you, to ensure that you would be well received.”

 

Celebrían smiled and shook her head.  “I will need no letters of introduction, though I thank you for the thought.  As strange as it may sound, I feel the call of the sea.”  Arafinwë raised an eyebrow at that, so she elaborated.  “I had never heard the call of the waves before.  I was content in Imladris, until the assault that set my body and my fëa against each other.  By the time I actually made my journey, I was not in any position to appreciate the beauty of the scenery.  But now that I am healed, I find that the sea longing has risen in me at last.”

 

Arafinwë wrinkled his brow as he considered her words.  “I would not recommend traveling to Alqualondë, my dear.  The town never recovered from the Kinslaying.  The buildings stand in ruin, and nothing lives there save the wind and the gulls.”

 

“I do not intend to go to Alqualondë.  I intend to travel along the coast until I find a place on the shore that speaks to me.  There, I will settle down, and drink my fill of the salt air, and comfort myself with memories of my husband and children until the day that they take ship to join me.”

 

“Ah.  I see.”  Arafinwë stared off into the middle distance for a while.  “That sounds . . . tempting, to say the least.  Go, then, and find your place on the coast.  But perhaps you might spare a little time to visit us every now and then.”  He looked so forlorn that Celebrían had to walk around the desk to embrace him.

 

“I will visit, grandfather,” she said.  “Every now and then.”

 

 

 

Now, Celebrían was glad that she had saved the money she had made selling her cloth in the market.  She sent her page out nearly every day to buy blankets, traveling clothes, a stout staff, all the things she would need on her long trek.  Eärwen packed bags full of dried fruit and meat, and commanded the cooks to bake trays of waybread.  Finrod showed her maps of Valinor and pointed out the roads that ran up and down the coast, most of which had fallen into disrepair since the great exile had depopulated many of the small seaside towns.

 

The night before Celebrían was to set out on her journey, she was in her bedchamber, rolling blankets into a tight bundle.  Just as she tied off the last knot, someone knocked at her door.

 

“Come in,” she called.

 

The door opened, and Celebrían turned around to see Amarië standing in the doorway, a bundle in her arms and a sheepish expression on her face.  Amarië stood where she was for a moment, then straightened her spine and marched into the bedchamber.

 

“I must apologize,” she said.  “I have treated you poorly these last few days.  I should have been at your side, helping you to act upon your choice.  But I was selfish and could not think of anything save my own impending loss.”

 

Celebrían immediately reached out and embraced her friend.  “Oh, Amarië,” she said.  “Think nothing of it.  I was grieved not to have your company in these last days, but I understand why you would feel as you do.  My sons behaved thus in the last days before I departed from Imladris.  I am only grateful that I am aware enough to bid you a proper farewell, as I could not do with them.”

 

Amarië smiled, even as her eyes filled with tears.  “You are far too kind,” she said.  “Know that, no matter how long you are gone, you will retain your place as the first among my ladies.  I will welcome you with open arms whenever you choose to return.”

 

She extracted herself from Celebrían’s embrace, and offered her the bundle she carried.  Celebrían unrolled it and found herself holding a light gray cloak, similar to the ones that her mother had made long ago in Lothlórien.

 

“I made it for your journey,” Amarië said.  “Try it on, so that I can see if it is the correct length.”

 

Celebrían pulled the cloak around her shoulders and fastened it with a brooch in the shape of a gull.  Amarië eyed her critically, then nodded.  “It fits well.”

 

“Thank you,” Celebrían said.  “This cloak will not only shelter my body, it will shelter my heart.  It reminds me of things that my mother used to make.”

 

Amarië laughed.  “I know.  Your mother and I were friends, before Fëanáro’s madness came between us.  We designed these cloaks together.  I am glad to hear that she has kept up the craft.”

 

Celebrían went to stand before the mirror.  The gray cloak was warm and soft, with an elegant drape that lent an air of mystery and remove to the wearer.  She twirled, and was pleased to see how the cloak rippled through the air before wrapping itself close about her body.  “I shall be a most elegant traveler in this,” she said.  “Wherever I go, I will retain your friendship about me.”

 

Amarië turned Celebrían around for one last embrace.  “May it serve as a tie to bring you back to us when you have found your peace.”

 

 

 

Celebrían set out in the gray twilight before dawn.  She wore sturdy new boots and traveling clothes, and had wrapped Amarië’s cloak closely about her body.  Her blankets and traveling supplies were packed on the back of a mule that Finrod had brought from the stables as a last-minute parting gift.  After some consideration, she had decided to travel north, for she desired a certain amount of isolation, and Arafinwë told her that relatively few Elves lived in the northern regions of Valinor.

 

By the time the sun had fully burned away the morning mist, Celebrían had left Tirion behind, and was walking along a road that was slowly returning to grass and wild flowers.  She did not ride the mule, for she felt that the beast had enough of a burden without her weight, and walking allowed her a better look at the countryside around her. 

 

This part of Valinor was feral, sparsely wooded, with wide meadows and the occasional hint of a settlement abandoned before the Sun had been made.  It resembled the countryside between Imladris and the Bree-land, but it was clearly much older.  Looking at it now, Celebrían felt as if the lands she had known in Middle-earth were but copies of the lands west of the Sea. 

 

No, she decided after a while, not copies.  Newer versions might be a better term.  Middle-earth had its own people and history, its own joys and sorrows.  They should not be forgotten, or dismissed, simply because the Valar did not walk there.  Elrond’s constant defense of Imladris against the forces that would destroy it was no less valiant because Manwë and Varda did not aid him personally in the task.

 

Celebrían occupied herself for many miles with these thoughts.  Eventually, she realized that the sun was beginning to set.  Darkness fell quickly in the north regions, and she would have to find a place to camp for the night.  She glanced around at the dimming landscape around her.  The woods had faded away, and she stood in the middle of a sea of long, coarse grass, punctuated by the occasional thorny bush.  A breeze caused the grass to ripple, and carried a sharp, salty scent.

 

Celebtían breathed it in deeply and laughed out loud.  She had wandered out onto a small cape, and had almost reached the shore.  The salt air shot through her tired mind and jolted her awake.  She nudged the mule to an easy trot, and ran alongside it almost down to the sandy edge of the beach.  The high, wailing cries of seagulls floated on the breeze, and Celebrían looked around for the source of the sound.

 

She saw a large flock of the birds wheeling overhead, flying in the general direction of a small, rocky point.  There was a large stone tower on the point.  It was clad in white limestone, and the top was ringed with windows.  Celebrían stared at it for a moment in surprised.  As far as anyone in Tirion had told her, no one lived on this cape.  Perhaps the tower was simply an abandoned relic of the days before the Exile.

 

In any event, it offered the possibility of shelter for the night.  Celebrían led the mule along the beach to the base of the tower.  A few rose bushes stood sentinel at the door, which was in surprisingly good repair, the hinges clean and free of rust.  It seemed that someone lived near enough to maintain the tower on a regular basis.  Celebrían raised her hand and knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  She knocked again, and then tried the latch.

 

The door was not locked, and it swung open easily, the silence of the hinges testifying to recent oiling.  By the last light of day, Celebrían could see a little sliver of an entrance hallway.  She tethered the mule to a rock, and dug in the pack for her lantern and tinderbox.  She lit the lantern, then held it before her as she ventured into the gloom of the entrance hall.

5.  What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted?

 

 

 

By the dim light of her lantern, Celebrían could see the vague shapes of furniture.  Benches and small tables, carefully draped, lined the entrance hall.  A thin layer of dust clung to the draperies, though not nearly as much as Celebrían would have expected in a tower uninhabited for centuries.  Clearly, someone knew of the existence of the tower, and came regularly to keep the door in good repair and battle the dust in the entrance hall.  Perhaps the tower was meant as a haven for travelers, though Celebrían could not imagine that it saw many visitors.  And she had seen no sign that a caretaker lived nearby.

 

Cautiously, she shone the lantern around the entrance hall until she located a stairwell.  Like everything else, it was covered with a fine layer of undisturbed dust.  No footprints could be seen upon it.  If anyone did dwell upstairs, they had not heard Celebrían’s knock, and had not come down to investigate.  There was nothing for it.  She would have to go up.  She took a deep breath, gathered her cloak about her, and began to climb the stairs.

 

The first flight led her to a large, open kitchen.  Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters, and barrels of flour, salt, and onions stood against a far wall.  The large worktable in the center of the room was spotless, and the hearth had been swept.  A ceramic cistern held water, which proved, upon inspection, to be fresh and clean.  Celebrían scooped up a handful to drink, and considered the implication of this kitchen.  It was a working kitchen that had been used recently, and would likely be used again in the near future.  Celebrían wondered if the occupant might be resting further up in the tower.  After a little searching, she found the next stairwell and climbed up another flight.

 

The next room was nearly empty of furniture.  A simple rope bed with a straw tick mattress stood in one corner, neatly made with a clean, faded quilt.  Next to it was a washstand.  At the foot of the bed was a sturdy wooden trunk.  When Celebrían opened it, she found clothing, simple dresses and veils.  They had been well cared for, but something about them seemed odd. 

 

Celebrían held one of the dresses up for closer inspection.  She had not seen a style quite like it during her entire stay in Valinor.  It reminded her of something she had once seen in her old life in Middle-earth, but she knew that she had never worn anything like this, neither in Lothlórien nor in Imladris.  None of Arwen’s dresses had such a high waistline, or the little puffs that this dress bore at the shoulders.  Celebrían allowed her thoughts to stray back to her daughter, and decided that, as strangely cut as this dress was, it would have looked lovely on Arwen.  The pale pink would complement her dark hair and set off the roses in her cheeks.  The neckline was cut slightly low for Celebrían’s taste, but the gauze veil that went with the dress would . . .

 

Suddenly, Celebrían realized what was so strange about the dress.  She had never seen any Elven woman wearing a veil, but once, when she was a small child, she had had a box of her mother’s old clothes.  She had loved to dress up in the clothes and pretend that she was a great lady from an ancient tale.  There had been a veil in the bottom of that box.  She had asked her mother to help her put it on properly one day.  After Galadriel had arranged the veil correctly around Celebrían’s head, she had called Celeborn in to see the result.  Both of Celebrían’s parents had laughed delightedly, and Celeborn had told her that she looked “delightfully quaint.”  She had had to ask what “quaint” meant.  Galadriel had explained that it meant charmingly old-fashioned, and Celeborn had added that veils had been fashionable for a while among the women of the Sindar in Doriath and Sirion at the end of the First Age, long ago.

 

Whoever lived in this tower – and Celebrían was convinced that someone did, in fact, live there – was a person who had lived in Middle-earth, but who had clearly not been there for thousands of years.  She had been a high-born, fashionable lady, who still dressed in the styles of her youth.  This suggested to Celebrían that the lady did not have much contact with people.  That was only reasonable, given the isolation of the tower.  Carefully, Celebrían folded the dress and veil, and replaced them in the trunk.  There was another stairwell on the far side of the bedchamber, and she climbed it, wondering if she would meet the tower’s mysterious occupant at the top.

 

This stairwell led her to the top floor of the tower.  This one was a sitting room, as sparsely furnished as the bedchamber.  Windows ringed the room.  A set of shelves held a few dusty books and scrolls, and an armchair sat nearby, next to a small table with an oil lamp.  On the other side of the sitting room, near an open window, was a small, armless rocking chair.  A plain linen robe was draped over the back.  Celebrían wandered over to the shelves to inspect the books.  They were primarily old romances.  The saga of Beren and Lúthien, tales that bore strange names that Celebrían thought must have come from the varied tribes of Men, even a volume concerning Elwë and Melian.

 

As she contemplated the books, something began to bang against the windows.  Startled, Celebrían whirled around to see a flock of gulls crowding around the tower.  Afraid that one of them would blunder in the open window and become trapped inside the tower, Celebrían rushed across the room, intending to close the window.  Before she could do so, however, a single gull flew in past her head.  It circled the high, vaulted ceiling of the tower, and then descended gracefully. 

 

As it approached the rocking chair, its form began to blur and shift.  Its wings extended and became arms, the fanned tail disappeared, and long, graceful legs unfolded from beneath its body.  Before Celebrían could quite recover from the shock, a naked Elf-woman stood before her.  The woman tilted her head in a sharp, bird-like movement and stared at Celebrían for a moment.  Then she blinked, shook out her long, dark hair, reached for the robe draped over the rocking chair, and wrapped it around her body.

 

“This is a surprise,” she said.  There was no anger in her voice, only puzzlement and curiosity.  Nonetheless, Celebrían’s cheeks grew warm.

 

“I apologize,” she said, dropping a graceful curtsey.  “I did not intend to invade your home.  I have been traveling, and the door was open downstairs.  At first, I did not know if anyone lived here.”

 

“Sometimes,” the woman said dryly, “I wonder if I do.”

 

Celebrían had just begun to accept that she had in fact seen a bird fly into the tower and transform into a woman.  Now that the shock was fading, she remembered that someone had told her about a woman who changed into a bird, long ago.  Elrond had told her the story, after they had courted long enough that he felt that he could trust her with some of his secrets.

 

“Elwing!” Celebrían cried.  The woman looked up, startled.

 

“Yes,” she said.  “That is my name.  Forgive me . . . have we met before?”

 

“No.  No, we have not met.  But yours is a name of legend.  Songs are still sung about the wife of Eärendil, who flew to meet him in the body of a sea bird, bearing the Silmaril.”

 

Elwing smiled at that.  “Yes, I did that.  It seems so incredible now, that people should make songs about that flight.  I hardly knew what I was doing – I had not even expected to survive the fall from the window.”  She sat heavily on the rocking chair and began to rock back and forth, remembering the day that the sons of Fëanor had attacked Sirion.

 

“One of them had pursued me – I do not even remember which one it was any more – and we were fighting desperately in the sewing chamber.  I was so terrified that I could not think clearly.  I wanted to keep the boys safe, and I knew that it was the Silmaril that the sons of Fëanor wanted, not me.  I suppose that I meant to throw it out of the window, but I could not let it go . . . I fell, and then, just before I hit the rocks, I was flying.  By the time I caught up with Eärendil’s ship, I was so exhausted that I did not know what to think, to feel.  All I wanted was to sleep. To think that songs are sung about that . . . “

 

“I used to hear them when I was a little girl,” Celebrían said, sinking to sit on her heels at Elwing’s feet.  “My friends used to sigh at the romance of it, at the image of you flying across the ocean to your husband.”  She laughed a little.  “I confess, I did not find the story especially romantic.”

 

“It was not.  It was merely a series of desperate choices.  There was nothing romantic about it, nor does the tale have a happy ending.”  Elwing sighed, and her eyes glittered.  “I have not seen my boys again since, though I have occasionally had news of them.  They faced the same choice that their father and I did, and Elros . . . Elros, my son, is dead because of it.  And Elrond . . .“  She choked, and fell silent.  After a while, she looked up and focused on Celebrían’s face.

 

“I am sorry,” she said.  “I do not know why I am telling you all of this, when I do not even know your name.  It must be dreadfully dull for you to sit and listen to tales of such an old grief.”

 

Celebrían reached out and took Elwing’s small, cold hand.  “Elrond lives,” she murmured.  “He grew up, and married, and has three lovely children of his own.  They live in a peaceful valley, hidden away from the evil things of the world.”

 

Elwing’s breath caught in her throat.  Her eyes shone, and began to grow liquid.  “I want to believe you,” she said.  “You sound so certain.”

 

Celebrían rose to her knees.  “I am certain.  Look into my eyes, Lady Elwing, and see the truth of what I tell you.  I am Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.  I am the wife of your son Elrond, and the mother of his children.”

 

Elwing stared at Celebrían for a long moment.  Then the tears that had pooled in her eyes began to roll down her cheeks.  Without a word, she pulled Celebrían into her arms, embracing her as if she had found a floating piece of wood to save her from drowning.  She held Celebrían close to her for a long time, rocking back and forth.  At last, she broke the embrace, and held Celebrían at arm’s length so that she could look her in the eye.

 

“Thank you,” she said.  “That is the first news I have had of Elrond in more than an Age of the world.  But, tell me, what are you doing here?  Is Elrond with you?  And my grandchildren?”

 

Celebrían’s mouth worked, but she could not make any words come out.  Elwing saw her distress, and shook her head.  “No.  You are here alone.  You are exhausted, and there is grief in your eyes.  We will discuss things thoroughly in the morning.  I will put together a little supper for us, and you will share my bed tonight.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Then let us be about our evening business.”  Elwing smiled, ran her hand gently over Celebrían’s hair, and rose from the rocking chair.  She moved toward the stairs, and then paused.  “Wait,” she said.  “Before we go, there is something I would like you to see.  I have not shown it to anyone else.”

 

She went to the bookshelf and took down a particular leather volume.  When she opened it, Celebrían saw that it was not a book, but a cleverly designed box in which one could keep treasures.  Elwing carefully extracted a sheet of parchment and placed it in Celebrían’s hands.  “I drew this shortly after I made my choice,” she said.  “I think I knew, even then, that I would not see my children again, and I made this so that I would not forget them.”

 

On the parchment was a charcoal drawing of two twin boys, just beginning to emerge from babyhood.  Wisps of black hair curled over their foreheads and about their ears.  Their eyes sparkled, and both little mouths were wide open with laughter.  One twin glanced off to the side of the page, as if something unseen had caught his interest.  The other stared straight ahead, and his bright eyes bored into Celebrían’s heart.  Though he was identical to his brother, Celebrían knew him instantly.  “That is Elrond,” she said softly.  “That is my husband.”

Elwing nodded, satisfied, as if Celebrían had just passed an unspoken test.  A moment later, she took the parchment from Celebrían’s hand and placed it back in the box just in time to rescue it from the tears that fell from Celebrían’s eyes.  “We will speak more of this later,” she promised.  She put an arm around Celebrían's waist and guided her to the stairs. 

 

 

 

So it was that Celebrían came to dwell in the tower of Elwing, by the sea.  At first, the two women shared the space quietly, doing such tasks as needed doing.  Celebrían took the mule out on day trips to cut wood from the small, scrubby stands of trees that grew several leagues inland.  She built herself a small, sturdy bed frame, lacing it tightly with rope that Elwing gave her.  Elwing sewed a tick for the bed and showed Celebrían how to stuff it with dried sea grasses.  She pulled a quilt from the bottom of her clothes chest and spread it over the bed

 

After that, their days fell into a comfortable pattern.  Elwing would rise early and leave just before dawn.  Celebrían got her own breakfast in the kitchen, and then did any necessary housework.  This did not take long, and then she was free to spend the day as she pleased.  She learned to love riding the mule up and down the beach, splashing through the cold surf.  Often, she would pack a picnic lunch and stay out all day, exploring the wild, lonely country around the cape.  There was a vegetable patch hidden in the grass a short walk away from the tower, and Celebrían expanded it so that it would continue to provide enough food now that two people lived there.

 

In the evenings, she lit the lamps in the high sitting room, draped Elwing’s robe across the rocking chair, and opened the window.  Shortly before sunset, Celebrían would hear the wailing of the gulls, and then the beating of their wings as the flock swarmed around the tower.  The gull that was Elwing would fly into the room and transform into a woman, a feat that never ceased to fascinate Celebrían.  They spent their evenings peaceably together.  Elwing wove, or sewed, while Celebrían read to her from one of her volumes of old romances.  Every few days, Elwing would go into the kitchen, mix bread dough, and set it to rise just before they went to bed.  She baked it the next day in the darkness before dawn, and there would be fresh bread waiting when Celebrían woke up.

 

They passed several months together in this peaceful existence.  Autumn passed into winter, and Celebrían was surprised at the chill winds that blew in off the ocean.  “The area around Tirion is so temperate, I had forgotten that winter could bite,” she said ruefully.

 

Elwing laughed.  “We are farther north here,” she explained.  “The ruins of Alqualondë are north of us, but no Elves live there any more.  That was the farthest north that our people ever settled.”

 

“Then I am just as glad that we are here.”  Celebrían wrapped herself in a shawl and sat down in the armchair.  Elwing leaned back in the rocking chair and gazed out the window at the moon and the stars.  A silence settled over the sitting room.  Celebrían took advantage of the rare opportunity to study the mother of her husband.

 

Elrond had inherited his mother’s straight, noble bearing, her thick, glossy dark hair, and her delicate jawline.  Celebrían decided that his eyes must have come from his father.  Where Elrond’s eyes were almost as deeply set and shadowed as those of Men, Elwing’s were large and close to the surface of her face, giving her a classically open, Sindar beauty.  She resembled her son, and she did not. 

 

The result of this meditation was predictable, but Celebrían was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not realize she was weeping until Elwing rose and came to her side, offering a handkerchief.  Celebrían accepted it gratefully, but it was some time before she could bring her tears under control.  Elwing perched on the arm of the chair and held Celebrían, rocking her slowly until she was calm enough to speak.

 

“I should not have done it,” Celebrían moaned.  “I remember the look on his face so well.  He was beyond grief.  I swore that I would never be among those who betrayed him, but now I am beyond his reach.  I – I do not know how he can live with the pain I have caused him.”

 

“I understand,” Elwing murmured, and Celebrían knew that she spoke the plain truth.  “I had but an instant to decide what to do.  I am sure that my fall kept them safe, but there was no time to explain it to them.  I had to abandon them and trust that it was the right thing to do.”

 

“He made the decision with me,” Celebrían said.  “We agreed that it was for the best.  I could no longer function, even on my good days, and he had reached the limit of his ability to heal me.  I had to go away.  But there is no returning from this place.”

 

Elwing nodded.  “It is the price we pay for obtaining that which we desire.  You wished to be healed.  I wished to be reunited with Eärendil and have the Silmaril as far away from my children as possible.  And our wishes were granted.”

 

“I am healed, in body and in fëa,” Celebrían admitted.

 

“And the Silmaril is far away, and my children survived.  And I do see my husband at certain times, when I take the form of a gull and fly to meet him on Vingilot.  He cannot leave that ship, you know.  I am not permitted to sail with him, but I may visit him during the daylight hours, if I wish.”

 

The conversation had steadied Celebrían’s nerves somewhat.  She dabbed at her eyes and nose with the handkerchief, and twisted it in her hands.  “Our wishes have been granted, but we have lost our homes, our husbands, our children.  What do we have left?”

 

Elwing gave a rather watery smile and rested her cheek on Celebrían’s head.  “We have each other.  I had thought that I was content to live alone here in this tower, but against all the odds, you appeared, the wife of my son, the mother of my grandchildren.” A little shiver ran through her body.  “I must confess that it has been a joy to have you here, the daughter I always wished for.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Elwing ran her hand over Celebrían’s hair one last time, then stood up.  “Let us think no more about our sorrows tonight,” she said.  “We will go to bed, and then tomorrow, we will go down to the shore, and you will tell me all the news of my living son.  I suspect you are as eager to talk about him as I am to hear about him.”

 

Celebrían laughed, and nodded.  “But what of Eärendil?  You fly to see him every day.”

 

“He will survive without me for a day, child.  The One knows he did not spend much time with me after our marriage.  He was not even there on the day that the twins were born, though he returned home shortly afterward.  He will not miss me tomorrow, I think.”

 

“If you are sure, then.”

 

Elwing nodded, and the two women went down the stairs to the bedchamber to veil their sorrows with sleep.

 

 

 

The next day was the first day that Celebrían spent walking along the beach with Elwing and speaking with her about love and loss, but it was certainly not the last.  Elwing had been more eager for company than she had realized, and the two women now spent many of their days together.  Celebrían told Elwing all that she knew of Elrond’s history, from his childhood with Maglor up until the moment he had bidden her farewell at the Grey Havens.  In return, Elwing told Celebrían about the golden days she had spent in the keep at Sirion with Círdan and her infant twins.

 

“When they were born,” she said, as they walked along the beach just before dawn one day, “I was terrified that I would not be able to tell them apart.  But they turned out to be two little individuals, from the moment of their birth.  Even Círdan sometimes called them by the wrong names, but I never did.”

 

“I had the same fears about my twins,” Celebrían confessed.  “But even when one of them snuck up behind me and put his hands over my eyes, I knew which one it was.”

 

She stopped and gazed out over the shimmering grey expanse of ocean, so wide that she could not begin to see the other shore.  “I hope that the twins and Arwen will be well,” she murmured.  “In a way, this was harder for them than if I had died.  I cannot be with them any longer, but they cannot mourn me properly, for I am not dead.”

 

Elwing nodded.  “As you cannot mourn Elrond properly, and I cannot mourn Eärendil.  It is a strange fate that we share, daughter of my heart.  We live, yet we are dead to those who loved us across the sea.  We are both wedded, yet I can only go to my husband with great difficulty, and you cannot go at all.  We cannot be wives and mothers, and we cannot return to our old places as daughters.  There are many days when I cursed the Valar for putting me in such a position, neither one thing nor the other.”

 

Celebrían did not answer immediately.  Instead, she turned her face to the horizon.  The Sun was just beginning to rise over the sea, turning it into a field of glittering gems whose brilliance seemed as though it could outshine even a Silmaril.  As the Sun rose, the burden on Celebrían’s heart seemed to lift.  She turned to Elwing with a beautiful smile, the light of the dawn shining in her eyes.

 

“We are not wives, mothers, or daughters, here,” she said.  “We are nothing but ourselves.  Think of it, Elwing.  We stand here on this shore, and we are free.  It is up to us to determine who we want to be.  That is an opportunity not given to many.  We should treasure it, for as long as it lasts.”

 

Elwing blinked, thoughtfully, and then an answering smile spread over her face.  “I had not thought about it in that way.  But I like your idea.  It is certainly better than spending all of my days cursing the Valar.”

 

“Then let us be ourselves.”  Celebrían laughed out loud, seized Elwing by both hands, and whirled her around on the sand.  “Who do you want to be, Lady Elwing?”

 

Elwing spun around one more time, her hair streaming out behind her.  “I do not know,” she said, “but one thing is certain.  I wish to be your friend.”

 

“Good.  And I will be yours.”

 

Giggling like two maidens at play, Elwing and Celebrían joined hands and raced through the surf, splashing and rejoicing in the light of the new day.

 

 

 

END

 

 

 

Afterword

 

 

Many thanks to those who have read and enjoyed this story.  I enjoyed the opportunity to take a glimpse at familiar characters in a time and setting that is less than familiar for them.  It is fun to see how life goes on and how people can grow and change when faced with peace and the opportunity to rest.  I also enjoyed being able to write a story from a woman’s perspective, featuring several other female characters.  Most of these women are just names in Tolkien’s text, and I found it an enjoyable challenge to bring them to life as real people.  I hope that you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I will see you again later.