A/N: Okay, ladies and gentlemen, this is it, my first Silmarillion-based fic. Actually, it’s probably more of an Unfinished Tales-based fic, because it carries in it an alternate theory on the history of Galadriel and Celeborn, which can be found in the aforementioned book. In this one, Celeborn is a Telerin prince who Galadriel meets when she goes to live with her mother’s family in Alqualondë for awhile. So it’s not AU per se, because the idea came from Tolkien, but it is a different take on Galadriel and Celeborn’s relationship. They’re younger, it’s Pre-Kinslaying…you get the idea. I have deviated in one place: Celeborn’s origins. In UF, Tolkien had intended for Celeborn to be the grandson of Olwë, but that would make him Galadriel’s first cousin. I’m aware that such a close relationship would likely weird some people out, so I’ve left his background ambiguous for the moment. In all other ways, I’ve tried to stick with the canon.

Oh wait, there’s one more. I know that technically-speaking, I should be calling Celeborn, “Teleporno” since that’s his name in Quenya and Sindarin wasn’t in Aman, but in all honesty…I hate that name. So I hope the purists will forgive me.

(And one more warning for you Silmarillion buffs…I do NOT like Fëanor.)

Many thanks to Jasta Elf for beta-reading!

Trumpet of the Swan

Chapter One: Birth of the Swan

The ship was as grand and fair as any of the towers of Tirion, and twice as alive. Walking upon the gleaming dock to her side, one had to look very closely to see the seams of the white timbers from which she was wrought, and if one beheld the nails that held her planks together, one might think only that her great white body was adorned with white gems, for the nails were topped with the palest of opals and mother-of-pearl. Her smooth flanks were carved in the most delicate likeness of folded wings, and her prow arched as a graceful neck, ending with the fair face of the most lifelike of swans, her eyes of gold and jet, and her beak of sparkling gold. It seemed to the one beholding her that there was not a fairer ship in all of Alqualondë or all the world.

However, the mariners aboard all the other ships thought differently, for each Telerin captain declared vehemently and lovingly that his white swan was the fairest.

The captain of this swan looked down from her white deck to his guest upon the docks who beheld it for the first time. “Well? You have stood there contemplating her long enough. You must tell me how you like her.”

Upon the dock of the Swan Haven, the daughter of Finarfin stood stock-still, gazing in awe and delight at the marvelous vision. At length, a sigh of wistful admiration escaped her. “Words desert me,” she murmured, knowing that the ship’s proud owner could hear. “I have sat in the tutelage of Manwë in the light of the Trees, walked the golden streets of Valmar and the crystal stairs of Tirion, and basked upon the gem-strewn beaches of Eldamar. But never have I seen such life wrought from craft, and I may safely say that this living beauty exceeds all the arts of the Eldar.”

Her praise delighted the Telerin prince, and he sprang down from the ship’s side, taking the lady’s hand. “You are well-pleased with her, then?”

She laughed. “Most well pleased.”

“Then come. I shall introduce you to her.” With the uninhibited eagerness of his people in sharing the beauty of their craft, he led her laughing up the ramp to the swan’s deck. Together upon the white timbers, the Noldor princess and Telerin prince were a sight to behold in themselves. Clothed in a soft gown of white, the lady’s fair skin glowed with the light of the Two Trees, and her hair was lit with gold as though it had caught in a mesh the radiance of Laurelin; thus she lived up to her reputation as the most beautiful of all the house of Finwë, King of the Noldor. The captain of the newborn swan was her kinsman and close friend, Celeborn of Alqualondë. He also was well-suited to his name, for his hair was the palest silver.

“Unfurl my swan’s sails!” he cried to the other mariners happily tending the ship. “Let her greet the Lady Artanis properly!”

Always willing to hear the praise of their kindred for their ships, their pride, the mariners obligingly unfurled the white sails of the fair ship, letting them billow and catch softly in the light sea breeze. When the prince led Artanis to the hinges where the oars sat waiting to be laid, she clapped her hands in delight: the oars were painstakingly carved and painted in the likeness of long feathers. The daughter of Finarfin had no doubt in her mind that when the sails were full and the feather-oars rowed the ship out of the Bay of Eldamar, it would carry the perfect likeness of a swan in flight. Long she had sat in the instruction of Valar and Noldor alike, and she had learnt much in the craft of gleaming weapons and the building of cities and the polishing of gems. Yet she could not fathom the arts that could take plain planks of even the finest wood and even the purest threads to build and weave together such a perfect living thing.

And Artanis, or Nerwen, as her mother called her, was not an elf given to such strong flights of fancy. Yet here she was, swept up in the wonder of the white swan upon whose back she stood, and caring not for the thoughts of any others, she sighed, “Beautiful.”

Her companion would also not be counted among the most fanciful of elves, yet in his pride for the living wonder he had made, joy was patent upon his face. “I shall see her praised above all the crafts of Noldor and Teleri alike.”

Artanis laughed. “I think she must be the love of your life.” He laughed in turn, unmoved by her teasing, and she moved closer to the swan’s head. “Does she have a name?”

“Nay, we do not name our swans.” He ran a hand up the sweeping prow as though caressing the swan’s neck. “There is no need. They are all the same, yet all different, and none who see her in the Bay or upon the sea shall fail to know her as mine.”

“And they shall cry, ‘Look! There passes the swan of Celeborn, the fairest of all sea-birds,’ and Ulmo himself shall weep at the sight of her!” declared Artanis, taking both of his hands.

Celeborn beamed; she had known him in passing since she was a girl, and they had become close acquaintances when she had come from her father’s house in Tirion to dwell with her mother’s kindred in Alqualondë. Yet in all their associations, Artanis could not remember a time when he had appeared quite so joyous.

Then again, what possible reason could he have not to be, she reasoned, standing upon this magnificent work of art that he himself had created. It rather led her to reconsider her own opinion of Celeborn. In the earliest days of their acquaintance, she had found the quiet, reserved kinsman of her grandfather, Olwë, to be rather irritating at times--well, perhaps irritating was not quite the word, more like frustrating. He had qualities admired by many of the Eldar, Noldor and Teleri alike: subtlety, tranquility, and considerable intelligence. As Artanis herself was described by her kin as being “brilliant in mind,” she found Celeborn a pleasant conversationalist, for he knew and understood much about the world, even if he had not spent nearly as many years in the tutelage of the Valar as she had. He was quick to learn.

Her frustration often came from the area in which their personalities most differed, for while Artanis was also described (often disapprovingly) as “swift in action,” Celeborn most certainly was not. Her mother name of “man-maiden” had come just as much from her restless nature as from her strong mind and body, and it rather irked her to see an elf of so many talents putting them to so little use. For all her love of Aman and her people, Nerwen felt increasingly confined there, and ever her heart and mind grew more drawn to the thought of Middle Earth as a place where she might yet build a home, or even perhaps a realm of her own, under her own auspices rather than someone else’s. It was an idea that occupied an increasing number of the Noldor of late.

And it was here that she and Celeborn most strongly disagreed.

Since her coming to Alqualondë, and the growth of their friendship, she had learnt quite well that the design and construction of a ship of his own was Celeborn’s one great ambition. Despite her own mild aggravation over his lack of interest in more, one might say, “significant” matters, she had good-naturedly tolerated his endless poring over drawings and examination of timbers and poles, at last resigning herself to the fact that she would never attract him to the world beyond Alqualondë until his ship was built. While the art of ship-building itself interested her somewhat, she found it less captivating than the crafts of the Noldor, and because of this (also due to the fact that it was impossible to get Celeborn to talk of anything other than the ship while he worked) for the most part she left him to it.

Now, standing upon the pristine white deck beneath the billowing sails, gazing at its living perfection, she felt at last the she could understand. *Our ambitions are not quite so dissimilar as I at first believed,* she mused to herself. *Merely the scale differs. I seek to journey to Middle Earth because that which I would build is too large for Aman. But Celeborn also desires to build; it is only that his dream is a little smaller than mine. Small enough for Alqualondë. Yet now I see that does not make his accomplishment any less.*

As she thought this, he led her below the decks to see the fine cabins, deceptively spacious for so relatively small a vessel. As they went back up to watch the work of the mariners, she found she could offer nothing but praise. Celeborn smiled, “Then whither shall I sail you?”

Raising a playful eyebrow at him, she suggested, “To Middle Earth?”

Accustomed to her teasing (or nagging, depending on who one asked) he shook his head in mock-vexation. “Not that again.”

Feigning innocence, she protested, “What is the point of having so fair and seaworthy a ship if you intend not to sail anywhere?”

He laughed at her, in too pleasant a mood to be irritated. “I shall sail many places. But why should I wish to travel?” he gestured around them at the flock of swans drifting in the Bay of Eldamar, at the gem-studded beaches and white pearl mansions and walls of Alqualondë. “Why should I travel?” he repeated, grinning at her. “I am already here.”

She shook her head and leaned over the side of the ship, where to the west over Túna she could just see the top of Laurelin. It was an old argument in which neither of them had budged from their position in years. Celeborn was perfectly content in Aman. It was true that at the moment she found she could not blame him, but ever her heart stirred for the a freedom that all the beauty and splendor in the world could not give her.

His touch upon her shoulder drew her eyes back to him, and she caught his troubled gaze. “Why do you wish to travel?” he asked her softly.

With a sigh, she smiled to let him know she was not angry, though at times his complacency vexed her to the point of near-fury in their debates. However, today she was not. Perhaps it was her desire not to spoil his proudest moment with a fit of temper. Perhaps it was the beauty of his ship, or the peacefulness of the day. Whatever the reason, she felt an air of almost sadness as she spoke with sincerity. “I have learnt all that I am able from the Valar.”

“And that drives you from these fair lands?” protested Celeborn. “Surely there is always more to learn--”

“--Yea, perhaps the Valar have more to teach,” Artanis answered, feeling the first inklings of frustration marring her pleasant mood (though they were directed more at the Valar than at the elf beside her.) “But I have come to realize that my time as a student is at an end. I would take my life into my own hands, to travel where I will and build what I wish without waiting for a ‘by your leave’ of anyone.”

“Even the Valar? By Eru, Lady, you speak like Fëanor!”

NOW she was irritated at him. “Compare me not to my uncle!” she said tersely. “For we are not alike. Though I may thirst to see things beyond the shores of Aman and live under the dominion of none, I bear no ill will toward the Valar. Rather I am but as a child who would at last come of age and be granted rights to determine my own destiny. You shall not find me among the Fëanorians stirring up unrest and hoarding their gems and their trinkets that none may look upon them who have not Fëanor’s favor. Free he would call himself, but a hypocrite he is, and I will suffer none to place me in the same league as him!”

“Peace, Lady!” cried Celeborn, but he laughed. “As you will, then, I beg your pardon, if only to spare myself a Noldor dagger in my throat!” Seeing her lingering vexation though, he seized her hand and laughter left his face. “Come, bright daughter of Finarfin, resent me not. It was never my aim to offend you so.”

However irksome he could be at times, Artanis found that she could seldom remain angry with him--and that in itself was strange enough given her usually-quick temper. As it was, she met his somewhat pouting gaze and could not help but smile. “Very well, Lord, I forgive you. So long as you forget not that to compare me to the least reputable of all my kindred is insult indeed.”

“I shall not forget!” and then they both laughed.

***

From the windows of the mansions of Olwë, at the same time…

“I see a new swan amongst your flock, Father. Who wrought her?”

“She is the swan of my young kinsman, Celeborn, one of my most ardent students.”

Eärwen, daughter of Olwë and swan-maiden of Alqualondë, looked out upon the Bay of Eldamar at the newest of the ships in the Teleri fleet that gleamed white and brilliant closest to the shore. “I can tell,” she observed, the ship’s beauty bringing a smile unbidden to her lips. “Indeed, she is as fair as the swan you yourself built. She shall grace the seas when at last she sets sail.”

“That I do not doubt,” agreed Olwë. Coming to her side, he remarked, “I am most pleased with Celeborn. He is a good elf, of many talents and strengths, yet also most wise of heart. A very worthy kinsman.”

“And there sits the testament to his worthiness,” Eärwen laughed. She narrowed her eyes against the brilliance of the white ship to see a tall figure clad in silver-grey upon the deck, calling up to one of the mariners upon the mast. “Would that be him there?”

Olwë leaned forward. “Yea, that is Celeborn. Surely you have met him.”

“Of course I have, but not in these recent years. He has grown fair.” Turning to her father, she asked, “You have him in mind to rise among the lords of Alqualondë?”

Olwë nodded. “He is a true Teleri. The craft of ship-building is his joy, yet he is sensible, with taste, judgment, and intelligence. He applied himself well to his studies and learned much from his fathers and from the Valar. He possesses more patience than most elves his age, that much is certain, and still he is well-liked among his people. I should like for him to ascend to leadership among them. Now more than ever, it is important that we keep our people united.”

Eärwen gave a little chuckle, for she knew to what her father was referring. Like Celeborn, the Teleri were content in their Swan Haven with their ships and their crafts, but the unrest of the Noldor had not left them untouched. Whispers oft reached them of the goings-on in Tirion and Taniquetil, and troubled them greatly. But there was naught to be done, other than counsel (and at times plead for) patience from their restless Noldor kindred and pray to the Valar for an end to the mutterings. “We shall find all the unrest we need from the surging seas,” Olwë liked to say. “We need make no more of it upon the shores.”

Speaking of restlessness, Eärwen gave a start and suddenly leaned forward, for among the gray-clad, silver-haired Teleri, she had caught a glint of gold. At her exclamation, Olwë simply smiled. “I had wondered when you would notice.”

Aware that her father had caught her unawares (and enjoyed it) she mock-glared at him, and said in a deliberately flat voice. “I believe that would be my daughter upon the deck of your young protégé’s ship?”

“You believe correctly.”

“And what, pray tell, is she doing there?”

“The same thing we are doing, I daresay. Admiring Celeborn--ahem, his ship, that is.” At his daughter’s expression of growing outrage, Olwë laughed and raised both hands. “Peace, child! Do not tell me you would disapprove! Celeborn is a fine young elf. What cause could your Nerwen have not to like him?”

Turning her head back to the ship, Eärwen watched curiously the pantomime playing out upon the deck. The mariners upon the masts were furling the sails, and Celeborn stood below, pointing upward and directing with one hand resting lightly upon her daughter’s shoulder. Nerwen appeared perfectly at ease with the arrangement, and was following the actions and words of the mariners with a positively radiant smile upon her face (such a smile would probably slay Fëanor himself if she ever bestowed it upon him.)

“How long has she been keeping company with him?”

“Almost since she arrived. It was a matter of chance, really. I must commend you, Eärwen, your daughter is very curious, and she has your fascination with the sea and the ships. During the first few months, she hardly stood still. She wanted to see everything--and then to learn and to try all that she had seen. Celeborn seemed to be the only one who could keep up with her--or perhaps the only one who dared to try!”

Eärwen laughed. “That is Nerwen! And?”

Olwë shrugged, smiling at the two elves on the deck of the ship. “It started as a simple friendship. Celeborn had only recently ended his studies among the shipwrights and was intending to build his ship. She oft came to watch and listen to the work, and at the feasts they would talk.” He grimaced. “I must also commend you on having raised a daughter with a temper to match yours. She can be quite…intense…in an argument.”

Eärwen laughed harder. “I fear it true; none can call her placid. Yet you cannot blame me alone, Father, for Nerwen’s temper far exceeds mine.”

“It is rather interesting; none could spark her ire like Celeborn, yet it seems he was the only one among the young lords for whom she was willing to tolerate disagreements.”

“My daughter does not suffer fools gladly, and indeed she has a temper, but she herself is not a fool either. She will tolerate a disagreement if she thinks it worth her while. Your Celeborn must be very intelligent indeed to hold her interest.”

“He is, though his ambitions lie almost entirely with the sea and with ships, he can speak on many things. In any case, there they are, and most important, when all is said and done, she seems to like him well, and he her. A good match, don’t you think?”

The prospect of Nerwen marrying had, in all truthfulness, not entered Eärwen’s mind much. The same qualities that had given Eärwen’s daughter her name also made it highly unlikely that Nerwen would ever be inclined toward anyone save out of real fondness. Eärwen sighed, aware that she had seen little of her daughter since her coming of age, and almost none since she had gone to live in Alqualondë, or else she would not have missed the formation of this friendship with the Telerin prince. She certainly would not have missed the growth of this attachment that appeared to be growing between them had she been closer to her daughter.

But then again, Nerwen was as her name implied, and Eärwen had learnt long ago that it was easiest to leave the headstrong girl to her own devices. It was not necessarily unwise either, for Nerwen had plenty of intelligence to balance out her strong will and common sense to link the two. Most often her decisions in life were sound, and she had made good use of her adulthood thus far. Eärwen had been pleased by her daughter’s desire to go live among the Teleri (while her husband had been more of the mind that it was the ships and not the Teleri Nerwen was interested in.) All the same, at least she was not exclusively under the influence of Noldor thinking (if it could be claimed Nerwen was under the influence of anyone’s thinking save her own.)

With another sigh, she turned to Olwë and smiled. “I fear when it comes to the prospects of Nerwen’s marriage, Father, what I think of the match matters little. It will be for Nerwen and Nerwen alone to decide whether the thought of marriage suits her.”

Olwë laughed aloud. “You make me almost feel sorry for Celeborn! But I would not say it is entirely Nerwen’s decision. Half of the choice to marry must also be his, after all.”

Gazing out the window again, Eärwen watched her daughter seated upon the deck of the ship, her gown seeming to blend into the white planks as Celeborn climbed up one of the masts to untangle part of the sail. Nerwen could be quite calculating at times, and seldom sat still for any great length of time unless she had some great aim in mind, but upon the back of the swan below, there was an expression in her countenance that Eärwen had never seen before: contentment. Her eyes, quite clear to her mother’s long elven vision, neither schemed nor darted about as they did when she was restless, but simply watched the Telerin mariner at work.

Eärwen smiled to herself. “I think, Father dear, you may find that your Celeborn has less of a choice than he knows.”

***

The next morning…

“This day shall be her maiden voyage.”

“Whither shall you sail her?”

Celeborn glanced surreptitiously at Artanis’s face, expecting to see her preparing to drag him back into that argument over Middle Earth yet again, but saw no devious intentions in her. It was a lesson he had learnt very early in his acquaintance with the daughter of Finarfin: one had to be constantly on the alert, lest one be verbally hauled into a conversation which one had absolutely NO possibility of winning. It was a wonder, really. Before meeting Artanis, the Telerin prince had never imagined that the simple act of talking and listening could be so exhausting. Yet this hot-headed, strong-willed, dauntingly intelligent Noldor princess had proven all too well that it was possible, and particularly when discussion turned to her own restless thoughts, she had a way of wearing him down.

But then again, she could daunt all she wished, but Celeborn had no intention of allowing her temper to quell his own beliefs, or his mention of them. In that, he was different from most of the other elves who spent any length of time in Artanis’s company. Other elves, (particularly young lords) tended to react to her in one of two ways: either constantly yessing her so as to avoid a heated argument despite their own inclinations, or by reducing themselves to bellowing fury when her ideas clashed with theirs and storming off in a rage in the face of her unyielding will.

Celeborn did neither. There was no point in expecting Finarfin’s daughter to change her opinions to conform to his, and he would be the last elf in Aman to change his own mind to suit her. His thoughts were his, and hers were hers, and there was naught either of them could do about it. That said and accepted, he rather enjoyed her fierce nature, and all the vexation and intimidation that often came with it. Celeborn knew himself to be of a quiet temperament, better suited for long explorations of the sea than battles of will and great deeds. He himself was seldom bored, but he knew that a restless maiden might well bore of him. All the same, while he and Artanis had few loves in common, she was never dull.

She was still awaiting his answer, so he replied matter-of-factly, “She shall not go far today. Just a little south and west, along the coast.”

“That shall hardly stretch her wings!” said Artanis, though she did not seem surprised.

“She must first learn to swim before she learns to fly,” Celeborn answered cheerfully, raising a hand to feel the wind. He glanced down at her, standing calmly upon the dock, her face betraying naught but idle curiosity (a definite sign that some intense desire was hidden beneath.) He considered what it was that she might wish, and found himself doubting that it was Middle Earth she thought of this time. Her poise would reveal more restlessness if she did. So that left only…but dare he ask? Dare he hope?

“Will you come?” he asked her before his courage failed.

Artanis blinked, but he caught the little spark of hope and pleasure in her eyes, and his heart skipped. “You would have me on this occasion?”

He laughed, lowered the ramp and extended his hand. “I would have you on any occasion, my dear kinswoman.” She eagerly took his hand and came aboard, then they both realized what they had said, and for the first time in his living memory, Celeborn saw Artanis blush. Turning hastily away, he raised the ramp and signaled to the mariners and rowers, “Cast off!”

Behind him, he heard Artanis’s breath quicken as the sails were unfurled and the silver anchor raised. He led her back to the raised stern of the ship where the tiller was mounted, which he himself took up, and as the rowers struck up a song to the beat of their strokes, all other thoughts left him as his swan took to the sea.

How fair she looked, her feather oars as beating wings while she glided between the other swans toward the mouth of the Bay. It was a fine bright morning, the wind fair, and many of the other mariners were upon the decks of their ships as well. Great cries of delight and welcome arose at the sight of the new swan making her way toward the open sea. Celeborn saw his kinsman and lord, Olwë, wave approvingly at him from the deck of his own ship, and broke his attention only to bow to the King of the Teleri. Over the strident song of the rowers, Celeborn broke into a song of the sea that was also a prayer to Ulmo, Ossë, and Uinen for the blessing of his new vessel.

A sigh from behind him made him remember his passenger as he finished the song, and Celeborn turned to smile sheepishly at Artanis. She smiled back, chuckling at the bliss she saw upon his face. “May she be worthy,” he said.

Artanis laughed. “She must be. Ulmo could find no fault with a swan so fine as yours.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at Alqualondë, its walls and mansions of white gleaming in the light of the trees, and its swans drifting like a contented flock upon the bay. “The seas shall never know their like again.”

*****

Many thanks to everyone who has given me their comments, but especially the Philosopher At Large for her excellent beta points, and to the several reviewers who caught my little foul-up with Arda versus Middle Earth. (Shoot, and I thought I had the geography down!) Still, I appreciate it, and it’s fixed.

Chapter Two: Flight of the Swan

The sea grew stronger as they rowed closer to the end of the Bay’s protective waters, and the swan rose and fell upon the waves, her movements smooth and graceful. To one unused to the motion of the sea, it might have been frightening, but to Celeborn, it was a bliss still purer than to walk the golden streets of Valmar in the light of the Two Trees. The sea carried his swan with gentle but joyous hands, lifting and sweeping her across the waves until her oars seemed never to touch it, but brushed over the foam like the tips of her wings as she flew low over the water.

A sudden cry from behind brought him out of his reverie, though not from the joy, and he turned to see Artanis, her golden hair billowing in the sea wind, pointing excitedly back to Valinor. From among the ships still docked at Alqualondë came a great flight of swans, the same strong-winged birds that had first brought the remaining Teleri to Aman. Out across Eldamar they flew, to pass directly over Celeborn’s ship, their calls a herald of welcome. The mariners on the masts and the deck cried out in answer to them, and Celeborn exchanged a helpless grin of delight with Artanis, each caught up in the rapture of the sea.

He extended a hand to her, bringing her to stand beside him as he guided the tiller, and they laughed in excitement as the waves lifted them along in great swoops until each could well imagine that Celeborn’s white swan was in fact flying over the surface of the sea. This time it was Artanis who began to sing, almost boisterously, and Celeborn joined her, their voices ringing over the ocean’s voice and in time with the chanted song of the rowers. One unexpected wave tossed the ship to the side, making her pitch, and sent Artanis off-balance into Celeborn’s arms. They righted themselves and laughed aloud, elated. Celeborn had sailed many times in strong waters with his kinsmen, but he recalled that it was his kinswoman’s first time upon the broad sea.

“Well?” he cried to her over the ocean’s growing roar as they sailed out of the last protective arms of the Bay of Eldamar. “How do you like it?”

Her cry of inarticulate laughter was answer enough; her Teleri blood ran true. “Sail us far!” she shouted back. “Sail us all the way around Valinor!”

He laughed harder. “That would take a week!”

“I care not!”

Shaking his head at her, he shouted to the oarsmen, “Lay in your oars!” They did so, and the last of the sails were unfurled, now that the ship had been safely maneuvered beyond the Swan Haven. To Artanis he said, “We cannot test her on a long voyage quite so soon, my eager kinswoman, but have patience. There shall be time for many adventures--ai! Hold on!”

She turned to see what he saw and gave a little gasp of half-fear, half-excitement as a great, rolling wave came at them from the side. Celeborn grinned to himself as she grabbed blindly for his arm while he swiftly turned the tiller--she could not know it was naught that he had not handled before. Still, to one who had never seen such a thing before, it looked as if a capsize was only seconds away. He pulled her against him, for she did not yet know how to brace herself properly, and heard her suck in her breath in tension as the swan turned gracefully into the oncoming roll of water. Of course they did not capsize, but the great leap that the swan made over the rolling crest was still enough to make Artanis yelp and the mariners shout in excitement.

Feeling her heart pounding against his breast, he grinned, “And how did you like THAT?” She turned and shot him a look that was rapidly becoming perturbed, and he hastily sought to mollify her. “Forgive me,” he said, though unable to completely stifle his laughs. “I should have warned you.”

“I take it that happens often?” she asked dryly.

“I fear so. But worry not; I have steered ships through far worse seas. If ever there were real danger, I would not laugh.” Despite his attempt to be serious for her sake, he found that the exhilaration of the open seas refused to let him remove the grin from his face. After a moment of glowering at him, Artanis began to smile again as well, and this time he cautioned her when he spotted another breaker coming. “Brace yourself! Be not afraid!”

Though she latched her arms around his waist and went positively stiff with the effort of keeping her balance, this time she had gotten over her initial fright and after a few more, she shouted with the others as the swan sprang over the great wave. “I think I am growing used to it!”

“You have good sea-legs, my lady!”

Pointing to the swan’s golden beak dipping in and out of the foam, Artanis cried, “Is it safe to go forward?”

“Not to one unused to it, Lady. It is much rougher there!”

“Good!” She would have sprung down the deck to the prow at that second had he not seized her arm.

“You cannot go alone. I speak faithfully, Artanis, it is dangerous. Wait.” He called to one of the mariners and had the elf replace him at the tiller. “Steer her well clear of the rocks but do not lose sight of the shore! Keep us close enough to run back in when we are ready!” he ordered. Turning back to Artanis, he said, “Now we can go. I would prefer to wait and teach you to ride the prow in calmer seas, but I fear you would try it anyway.”

Her little grin told him that the remark struck true. Taking her hand, he led her swiftly past the seated rowers holding their oars ready (in case the ship should need to be rowed out of trouble.) They gained the bow, and her startled expression told him that she had noticed how much harder the ship pitched from this end. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”

He knew at once he should not have asked, for her chin went up, her bright eyes flashed, and she nodded stubbornly. “Show me!”

“As you will, Lady. Come,” he brought her up to where the prow arched into the swan’s long neck, and there they leaned into the strong wood. “Keep low. She dives hard today! Do not release me! There would be no saving you should you go overboard.”

Her nod was rather jerky, telling him she was more frightened than she pretended, despite the determined crease of her brow. Still, he knew there was no point in offering her to take her back now; she would ride these waves on the prow or die trying, the stubborn creature! She shot him a clench-jawed grin and said, “Let Ossë fling at us what he may!”

No sooner had she spoken than the swan’s head dipped deeper and harder into the waves, and a great gush of water erupted over the prow. Artanis let out an outraged shriek as she was thoroughly drenched, and Celeborn practically howled with laughter. “And that, my lady, will teach you to never challenge Ossë while at sea!” Spitting out salt water and furiously wiping her eyes, she glared at him for a moment, then took in his own soaked appearance and began to laugh as well. He pointed to the swan’s golden beak, still plunging in and out of the water. “She fishes!”

“Has she caught anything, do you think?”

“Only she and the sea know for certain.” He glanced up at the sky. They were moving further out to sea away from the light of the Trees. “It is time we were turning back.”

“What? Oh, but not yet!” she protested in dismay, and he laughed at her.

“Lady, you are soaked to the skin and already your teeth chatter in the wind, yet you would go further?” She looked positively sulky like a child denied further play, and he laughed harder. “Peace, we still have the journey back, and we shall stand in to one of the lesser bays for awhile before returning home. The journey is not so near its end.”

That brightened her, and she sheepishly rubbed her arms, wet beneath her soaked sleeves, to warm them against the sea wind. Watching the waves, she seemed struck by a sudden thought and turned to him with large eyes. “How do you intend to turn her around?”

“Aha,” he grinned. “You shall enjoy that part, no doubt. Just do not let go of me.” He rose and pulled her to her feet. “I must return to the tiller. Come.”

“Nay,” she protested, “I would stay here for the rest of the ride!”

Artanis would have crouched against the high deck walls and grasped the swan’s neck again all by herself had Celeborn not seized her firmly around the waist and hauled her bodily back down the deck. “I think not, my lady! Turning a ship completely around is a difficult task, and the waves shall be strong against us. I cannot concentrate on it if you are alone on the prow. Forgive me, but you shall have to ride the turn back at the tiller with me.”

Several of the mariners laughed as Artanis struggled against his grip, exclaiming, “How dare you! Get your hands off me!” as he brought her back to the stern. She then refused to touch him even as he pulled the tiller to bring the ship about.

As his swan began to change direction, she started to pitch as the waves struck her broadsides. Water sprayed over the deck and soon Artanis was clinging to the white deck rail with all her might, her face pale. Seeing her nervousness, Celeborn assured her, “Fear not. All is well. Come,” he offered her his hand again.

Still disgruntled at having been manhandled away from the prow (though perhaps now she understood why) Artanis hesitated at first, but as the ship lurched again in its turn, she scrambled to her feet and returned to his side, clutching him for dear life. “H-how rough must the seas be to become dangerous?” she asked in a slightly shaky voice, her heart hammering against his chest.

“It depends upon the mariner,” he replied, but seeing her face and all pretense of bravery dashed from it, he elaborated. “She is well-built, her sailors seasoned, and I have steered smaller vessels in far rougher seas than this. Do not fear. It is disconcerting at first, but one becomes accustomed to it.”

“Then I shall,” she said, in a resolute but higher-pitched voice than usual.

“Hold on.” Celeborn gritted his teeth as he completed the turn. The swan lurched when a larger wave slapped her broadsides, and Artanis wrapped both arms around his ribcage as he steered with both hands. Then they were facing back the way they had come, and the motion calmed. “There. The worst is ended.”

She did not even bother to hide her sigh. He toyed with the idea of offering to take her forward again, then thought better of it--she might fling him overboard. All things considered, she was one of the most courageous elves he had ever sailed with. After her heart had slowed considerably, (he knew this because she had not thought to release her death grip on him) she looked thoughtfully at the waves and asked, “Shall we sail faster when the current is with us?”

“We would if the wind were with us, but it is not.” He waved at the rowers, and they returned to singing and stroking the ship through the water. Their rhythmic voices and movement calmed her still more, and she abruptly detached herself from him and returned to attempting to wring out her soaked clothes while holding onto the rail. “If you like, you may go below and dry yourself,” he suggested.

The idea clearly appealed to her, but she looked uncertain as to whether her legs would hold her weight if she released the railing. Celeborn decided to spare her the awkwardness of lurching down the deck and called one of his mariners to replace him, then took her arm and kept her steady until they were below. He grimaced to himself, for she was shivering with more than cold and wet. “Forgive me, Artanis, I should not have brought you out on rough seas for your first time--”

“Nay!” she exclaimed, her eyes brightening. “I enjoyed it! Truly, I did--most of it,” she admitted, and he smiled. Taking the drying cloth he handed her, she wrung out her hair and clothes, then shook her head and laughed, “How disgraceful that I could not keep my wits on a mere sailing excursion.”

“Disgraceful?” Celeborn laughed aloud. “You have no standard by which to judge, Lady; be assured, you are stronger than most passengers I have carried on their first sea voyage. You are stronger than I was,” he added wryly. At her raised eyebrows, he explained, “The first time I went to sea, I was sick.”

The story had the effect that he had hoped it would: she nearly fell to the floor for laughing. Her mood lightened, she followed him back above decks--still laughing and repeating, “Sick? You were sick?!”

“Some are born with sea-legs, my lady. Others must develop them,” he replied with great dignity. “I was among the latter.” They returned to the prow for the rest of the trip inshore, and Celeborn could safely say he had never in his life heard the daughter of Finarfin laugh so hard.

***

They put in to a small cove just south and west of the Bay of Eldamar and dropped anchor. There under the light of the Trees spilling over the mountains, Artanis, Celeborn, and the mariners left most of their clothing to dry upon the deck and dove into the warmer waters for a swim. Celeborn and the mariners swam in their breeches (either since unlike Artanis, they had a change of clothing aboard or out of some intended deference to her Noldor sensitivities) but Artanis wore only her shift from beneath her dress, and once soaked, it left little to the imagination. Of course, soaked breeches did not leave much more to the imagination.

It was a merry company that paddled around the cove for some time and eventually climbed out of the water, laughing and singing and talking, to fall upon the white sands. When she cast herself down, Artanis found that her body was rather stiff from constantly bracing herself against the waves. As she stretched and arched to loosen the muscles, she allowed her eyes to linger upon Celeborn’s bare, glistening chest as he lay basking upon the beach, his own body perfectly attuned to the wild motions of a ship in rough seas. Then she grinned as he made a face and pulled from beneath his spine an opal the size of an elf’s eye. He lay where he was, turned it this way and that, letting the light capture its colors, then sat up and skipped it across the water many times before it sank to the bottom at last. His eyes at last fell upon Artanis, sitting up on the sand, and wandered over her rather noticeably in her clinging wet shift until he realized what he was doing.

She grinned at him. “I thank you, Lord Celeborn, for allowing me to accompany you on this venture. I never imagined sailing could be quite so…”

“Terrifying?” he offered.

“I would call it invigorating,” she retorted primly and narrowed her eyes at the other mariners, who had begun to laugh. “And I would remind you that I at least managed to keep my stomach.”

The mariners laughed harder, and Celeborn raised his hands. “You have the advantage of me, my Lady Artanis, yet I am glad you enjoyed it.”

“It would be shameful indeed of me not to enjoy the arts of my mother’s people,” she replied, accepting his hand up and walking back to the water to return to the swan.

The trip from the cove back into the Bay felt far too short for Artanis’s taste, and no sooner had they dropped anchor than she was asking when they might do this again. “Soon, I promise you,” laughed Celeborn at her enthusiasm. “I shall inspect her tomorrow to see how she fared on the water, and the day after is a feast day, but within a few days, I shall take you for a longer sail.”

“I shall be glad,” said Artanis as he took her down the ramp. Knowing he would want to stay and oversee the settling of his swan for the night, she took her leave. “Until the feast, kinsman.”

Celeborn bowed, “Until then, my lady.”

He stood at the end of the ramp as she walked back down the docks to the mansions of her grandfather, and she found that it took nearly all of her willpower not to look back, for she could feel his eyes upon her. She was understandably weary when at last she gained Olwë’s house, and bade a tired but cheerful greeting to her mother and grandfather before retiring. No sooner had she closed the door of her chamber than a sense of incredible silence swept over her, along with a strange ache with the knowledge that so pleasant a day had to come to an end.

She cast herself down upon her bed, thinking it should be easy to sleep after all day’s exertions of sailing and swimming, but the silence roared loud in her ears, and she was uneasy. At last, she rose from her bed and threw open the chamber windows, letting in the light from the Two Trees, which was just then ending its mingling stage, and also the sound of the sea drifting in from the Bay of Eldamar. She climbed back into her bed just as Telperion, the silver Tree, began waxing to its full silver light, and at last found that she could sleep with the distant washing of the waves floating through the window.

***

The next day…

Eärwen, daughter of Olwë, knew something was amiss (or at least afoot) the day after her daughter had joined young Celeborn on his swan’s maiden voyage. Nerwen had always been the restless sort, whose willful nature could only be vented either with intense physical activity or vigorous debate. Today, her bearing wore all the marks of a particularly restive mood, but she indulged in neither of her usual solutions. True, she wandered about the mansions and out onto the grounds for awhile, but then she came back inside--odd, because she preferred to be out of doors--only to stand stock-still by the windows overlooking Elendë for some time.

She either knew not or cared not that her mother watched her. Eärwen surreptitiously kept an eye on her daughter’s impatient movements throughout the mansions and noted with great interest that Nerwen always came back to the big window. By the time the day was half-gone--in which Nerwen had spoken to few except irritably and eaten next to nothing--the only daughter of Finarfin had stormed through the mansion (silently) more than a dozen times, irritably brushed off all attempts to engage or distract her, and would cease her brooding paces only to stare fixedly down at the Bay.

After counting the restless girl’s paces for awhile, Eärwen rose from the chair where she had seated herself to watch the action and peered through the window--hoping to see what could hold Nerwen in this thrall. There was no wind at all today, so few of the ships were out sailing, but many of the mariners were taking the opportunity to inspect their beloved swans and make repairs--aha! A silver figure climbing high upon the tallest mast of the newest swan caught Eärwen’s eye, and sure enough, it was Celeborn, hard at work.

*So that is it.* Hearing Nerwen’s impatient steps coming back down the stairs, Eärwen quietly glided back to her chair and returned to her weaving as if she had never moved. But she watched, hiding a smile, as Nerwen paced around the room a few times, picking up a book here, putting it back there, fingering without interest a pearl the size of a goose egg, then finally returned to the window. Now that she knew what she was looking for, Eärwen could tell that Celeborn was still above the ship’s decks in plain view, and sure enough, Nerwen’s movement stopped. Not a muscle twitched on the elven maid’s body as Celeborn worked his way up and down the mast, doing some work with the sails, though Eärwen noticed that her daughter was utterly rigid, with her fists clenched tightly at her side. *Either she has fallen desperately in love, or she is feeling a great urge to beat him about the face,* she thought in amusement. *Of course, knowing my Nerwen, it is entirely possible that both are true.*

In due course the Telerin prince worked his way back down the mast and vanished below the decks of his ship. Immediately, in a swirl of blue skirts, Nerwen was making the rounds again, and Eärwen found herself covering her mouth to keep from bursting into highly unseemly laughter.

***

The following day, a feast day…

Olwë could tell that his granddaughter was out of spirits, though why was anyone’s guess. He knew better than to ask Nerwen what was troubling her, but hoped to himself that the feast might cheer her up. The thought of it certainly did, for she came out into the long tables set out on the soft grassy lawns overlooking the Swan Haven with several of the other maidens, all clad in fine gowns and laughing. Soon the green was alive with music and elves were pouring in to partake of food, drink, song, and laughter.

He caught the opportunity to enquire after Nerwen when she came to greet him as her host. “How do you fare, my dear?” he asked, kissing her on both cheeks.

“I am well, thank you, Grandfather,” she answered merrily.

Indeed, she looked well--positively radiant in her white gown, her golden tresses unbound and swinging in thick waves, and laughter raising a delicate blush to her face. He knew it most likely that whatever had ailed her yesterday was merely one of her passing whims--Manwë knew she had them--but something had troubled him more than usual about Nerwen’s mood. Still, she appeared fine today, so he said, “I hope you shall enjoy yourself! Our kindred from Alqualondë and many of your father’s people have come to the feast!”

“I’m sure I shall,” said Nerwen, smiling from him to one of her brothers who was also coming to greet the King of the Teleri. “If I’ve your--” she broke off, and her face changed very swiftly from an expression of youthful joy to intense dislike. Her voice lowered, equally reflecting her displeasure. “What is HE doing here?”

Turning in alarm, Olwë’s gaze fell upon Fëanor and Finwë, entering along with Nerwen’s father Finarfin, her other uncle Fingolfin, and all of their children. “Whatever do you mean, child? Every elf in Valinor was invited.” Even as he said it, he expected he knew what his granddaughter’s objections were.

“He shall only stir up trouble,” she said in a hissing whisper, her eyes flashing with ire.

Taking her hands, Olwë soothed, “Worry not, Nerwen, your uncle will hold his tongue from his discontent while he is my guest. Your mother’s people are not so easily stirred as--” then he caught himself and smiled. “Go and enjoy yourself.”

Seeing Fëanor coming at Finwë’s side, Nerwen hastened to obey Olwë, and afforded her other grandfather the barest little bow before hurrying away as if to join other friends. Olwë caught the broad grin Fëanor gave at his niece’s departure and felt himself bristling. For all Nerwen’s worries, her mother’s father had by no means been deaf to the malcontent being raised by Fëanor’s talk, and he knew the dangers it roused. He also liked not the growing pride he saw in Finwë’s eldest son, evidenced increasingly in his talk and his manner toward himself and others. Now, that slightly predatory gaze he saw focused upon his granddaughter by this proud, arrogant elf raised Olwë’s hackles still more.

“My dear Olwë! You have a fine assembly here this day!” said Finwë, happily embracing his friend. His wife Indis was with him, but there were few others of the Vanyar at the feast, for they seldom left Tirion even for a short time, though they sent many messages and tokens of good will among the Teleri and welcomed their seafaring kindred’s visits.

“Finwë, Fëanor, I am so pleased you were able to come, and your sons. Welcome!” Olwë embraced each of them in turn, bidding them partake of refreshment, song, and dance, but caught the way Fëanor’s eyes were still following Nerwen. “Pray, Fëanor, tell me the news of Tirion, for I have not been to Túna of late. How fares the city of the Eldar?”

With an overly heavy sigh, Fëanor turned his face to Olwë’s. “Our city is fair as ever, and our people as contented.”

Feigning puzzlement, Olwë remarked, “And you find this cause for unhappiness, that our people should be content?”

With a shake of his head, Fëanor said, “Contentment in itself may be fine, but at what cost, Lord of the Swans? Our people are as children, sitting at the feet of the Valar when long we should have come away to our own rulership. We are as slaves adoring the masters.”

Olwë forced a laugh, for it was the only response he could think of when Fëanor began such talk. He would not have raised the subject at all were it not for Nerwen’s sake, for he strongly disliked Fëanor’s attentions to her. “As you will, son of Finwë,” he gestured around him, grinning falsely. “And such foulness they inflict upon us! Such chains!”

“My lord--”

“Peace, Fëanor, we come to eat and dance, not to wax discontent. Go, dear boy, and feed yourself. You shall find a better mood on a full belly and a glass of wine.” Olwë turned from him to greet more of his guests, and so Fëanor was forced to depart. *Nerwen is quite right about him, but what am I to do? To exclude him from our gatherings would only invite more ill will.*

***

Artanis managed to find a seat at one of the long tables with chairs already occupied on every side, thus preventing Fëanor from engaging her in any lengthy conversation. *If he attempts to touch my hair again, I shall strike him, so help me!*

Even her father, who was troubled by his eldest brother’s pride and unrest, was appalled by the sheer intensity of his daughter’s dislike of Fëanor. The very sight of the elf made her stomach turn, for self-absorption and arrogance seemed to reek from him like a foul odor of soured wine. She had remarked on this once, only to have Finarfin tell her she was imagining things and not to speak so ill of her uncle, so she never mentioned her revulsion aloud again.

But she would not go near him, or even speak to him, if such activity could at all be avoided.

As it was, he was far too close for her comfort, sitting at the opposite side of the table only three seats down, and looking at her with that smug smile bordering on a leer. She focused upon her food and upon her tablemates, talking far more than she normally did about any subject she could think of that Fëanor would not join in.

“So think you that Halaroquen will marry Luinolossë?” asked Andama, one of the younger girls from Alqualondë.

“I have not seen her with him,” answered Artanis, trying to think how a flighty female with naught but marriages, gowns, and feasts on her mind would behave. If only she could make Fëanor stop watching her! “Has she--has she said whether she likes him well?”

“Well…she has not said…” drawled Wilwarin, one of the other girls, and Artanis attempted to giggle along with them. Fëanor’s smile simply grew wider. *Curse him!*

“What of Nyelle and Nandaro?” asked Ezellorn, the boy on her other side. “I know they are betrothed, but they have not yet named the day they will wed.”

Artanis opened her mouth to remark, then sensed someone else watching her from the other direction. Celeborn was seated next to Maglor, one of Fëanor’s sons, and both were listening to the conversation with an expression of combined amusement and confusion. She fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. She had hoped to lead Fëanor to cease leering at her by engaging in one of the most insipid conversations known to elvendom, and now she had naught to show for it except that those with whom she usually talked thought her mad. Would this meal never end?

She nearly laughed with relief when Olwë spoke to the company in general and forced the younger elves to cease their chatter. “My lords and ladies! It seems a request has been made of our young men!” A giggle rippled from the younger girls as Olwë gestured to one of the Telerin elves. “Our Halatir, son of Aldahall of the Teleri, and Angrod, son of Finarfin of the Noldor, have challenged each other to a boat race!” A great cry of excitement went up from the assembled elves, and the two challengers grinned at each other. “Furthermore, they invite any other sporting sailor to join them in a great rally around Elendë!”

Shrieks of delight came from the girls as shouts of challenge issued at once from many of the mariners. All thought of food and drink was forgotten in a great stampede of young elven challengers from the Noldor and Teleri alike to enter themselves in the rally. Over Olwë’s laughing shouts of “Fear not, fear not, we have more than enough small boats!” a crowd of glory-seeking elves charged down toward the waterfront.

Through the happy chaos, Artanis suddenly spied Fëanor moving in her direction, and so with an overloud shout of delight, she seized Celeborn’s arm as he passed. “Are you going down?”

“I am!” he shouted back over the ruckus. “Come!” Taking her hand, they ran down to the docks. Once safely in the Swan Haven, alive with the excitement over the impending race, all thought of Fëanor was forgotten. “Lord Olwë has bidden the mariners move the swans to make way for the race course.” Taking up the line securing his swan to the dock, Celeborn gave it an odd tug that caused the ship’s ramp to fall, and Artanis caught it.

Already many of the outermost swans were sailing out to form a great ring around the natural curve of the Bay. There was a fair, strong wind capable of pushing a small boat very fast--a fact that had undoubtedly brought the thought of racing to Halatir and Angrod’s minds in the first place. Artanis looked around. “Where are the rest of your mariners to row?”

“Most of them have gone to join the race already, but it is no matter. I can sail her well enough myself. Do you wish to try?” he offered, grinning at her. At her eager nod, he pointed. “Take the tiller.” She sprang up to the place as he loosed the sails and sheeted them home. “Take us starboard--a little more. There!”

Artanis felt a thrill of excitement as the swan answered her steering. The white sails swelled with the wind, and they glided gently along the docks. She concentrated on following Celeborn’s directions from the mast until they pulled up alongside another great swan, each facing the shore. “Are they not to sail down the bay’s center?”

“Nay, Lord Olwë wished to keep it in the shallows lest some of our more exuberant souls drown themselves.” Celeborn checked the anchor, then shouted to one of the small boats zipping amid the swans, waving the sailor to them.

“Where are you going?” asked Artanis in disappointment.

“To find my boat!” Celeborn replied, laughing as if it were obvious. “You cannot expect me to merely stand upon the shore and watch when the glory of the Teleri is called into contest.” As the boat pulled up beside them, he handed her down and jumped in himself. “I suppose you shall be supporting your brother.”

“Of course,” she said, turning up her nose at him.

The elf sailing the boat, Nandeloss, laughed at them. “It is hopeless, Celeborn, you shall never pry this Noldor lady’s affections from her father’s people.”

“Perhaps not, but I shall pry from her a concession that no Noldor can outsail one of the sea elves!”

“We shall see, kinsman, we shall see,” retorted Artanis. “Angrod has been visiting my mother’s kindred and learning to sail your boats far longer than I. The student may yet outstrip the master!”

“Ha!” was Nandeloss’s only comment on the subject. “We are here.”

“I hope Olwë has not given my boat to another contestant,” muttered Celeborn as he disembarked.

“Your boat?”

“Of course, Lady. Surely you do not think one can start with building swans. Ah, good, there she is,” he pointed, and Artanis beheld a little sailboat that was unmistakably Celeborn’s craftsmanship, for it was as fair as his great swan, bearing the same graceful neck with jet eyes and a jet beak. “My cygnet.” He paused upon the dock and turned to her, mirth in his eyes. “If you cannot bring yourself to support my bid, oh proud Lady of the Noldor, at least wish me well.”

She laughed at him. “Aye, I wish you well, valiant son of the Teleri, but may the best mariner win!”

“He shall!” added Nandeloss, running past her to find his own boat. “Let us be off, Celeborn, we have a race to win! For the glory of Ossë!” Flinging his arms out dramatically, the other Teleri cried, “And if I do not return, tell my mother that I loved her!” Carrying on thus, away went Celeborn and Nandeloss down the docks to the racing boats.

Finrod, Artanis’s eldest brother, was on the edge of the docks watching the preparations and spotted his sister with Celeborn and Nandeloss. “For shame, Nerwen, consorting with the enemy!”

Artanis laughed harder, then was seized by several of her cousins, Aredhel, Idril, and Piolissë. “Artanis, come! We shall follow the racers around the course from the shores.” Allowing herself to be led eagerly away, she stole one glance back at the mariners in time to see Celeborn flinging off his formal robes and jumping into his little boat, shouting merrily to the other contestants.

They were joined by a great horde of elven women, the sisters, daughters, and wives of the mariners about to test their prowess against Ossë and each other. The maidens ran, laughing, shouting, and singing, up a grassy hill that was cut off into a rocky bluff by the waves and stood watching as the boats spread out and anchored in a great line between the shore and the barrier created by the swan ships. Three more boats sailed out, each bearing an elf with a white flag. The elf in the center boat was Olwë. He raised his flag; the watching elves fell silent. Over the whistle of the wind, they heard him invoking the good will of Ossë, for indeed, such a race was a celebration of him. Then Artanis and the others leaned forward in excitement, as the flags rose high--then fell.

*****

Original Characters:
Piolissë: A Teleri cousin on Artanis’s mother’s side
Halatir: Piolissë’s betrothed
Nandeloss: A Teleri mariner, first mate on Celeborn’s ship
Veomacil: a Noldor elf

PLEASE review! That muse needs a serious transfusion of inspiration! I need energy! Must have it!

Chapter Three: The Cygnet

No sooner had the signal flags fallen than over two dozen elven mariners leapt to raise their anchors. Artanis could see her brother Angrod, hauling the heavy white rope hand over hand with great speed in his sleek boat, and the little swan-boat of Celeborn, where the silver-clad Teleri was cranking his anchor up. On the other side of Celeborn in a grey boat was Maglor, son of Fëanor. Artanis was startled to see him, though she supposed she should not be. It was unlikely that her cousins would pass up the opportunity to enter a contest, and Maglor of all of them had spent a little time in Alqualondë among the Teleri. To her surprised admiration, he drew up his anchor almost at the same moment as Angrod and Celeborn, and, greeted by a mighty shout of the spectators, the elves seized the sheets of their sails and tillers, and set their boats off at great speed over the waves.

“The water is rough today!” shouted Piolissë over the cheering.

“Of course!” cried Aredhel, waving vigorously at Maglor. “Far be it from Ossë to give them an easy time!”

Indeed, it seemed that the racers did have the blessing of Ossë, for though the Bay was rippled with white-tipped waves, and the wind was high, the boats skirted lightly over them at great speed, to the delight of all who watched. “Who is that elf next to Angrod?” asked Idril, pointing to another of the swan boats.

“That is Nandeloss, a cousin of Celeborn’s,” said Artanis.

“His boat is very fast!” said Aredhel admiringly. “Who shall win, do you think?”

“There are thirty of them, and the race is barely begun,” laughed Piolissë. “Look! There is Halatir coming up alongside Maglor!”

Halatir was Piolissë’s betrothed. Shading her eyes, Artanis nodded approvingly. “Maglor shall be hard-pressed to keep up with him.”

“Now at least some begin to pull ahead,” shouted Andama, one of the younger Telerin girls.

“But not all Teleri!” observed Idril with a sly smile, earning exclamations of challenge and encouragement from Teleri and Noldor alike.

“She is right,” agreed Artanis, pointing at the boats now ahead of the others. “I see three--no, five--of the swan boats, two white boats, and one grey boat.”

“But one of the white boats is sailed by a half-Teleri,” replied Andama. “I see only two full Noldor among the leaders.”

“Here they come!” shouted Wilwarin as the first of the boats began to sail past the low bluff where the maidens stood. Even the most reserved of them fell to the excitement of the race in total abandonment.

“Come on, Maglor!” shrieked Aredhel.

“Make haste, Angrod!” Artanis cried. “Do not lose them!”

Her brother’s gray eyes were narrowed with concentration as he kept one hand upon the tiller and the other holding the sheet of the sail. Indeed, he looked as well upon the sea as any of their full-blooded Teleri kin, and his white boat was at the very front of the fleet amidst a flock of small swan boats. On the other side of him, she could see Celeborn, expertly steering his cygnet over the waves. Sibling pride required her to cheer for her brother, but she had to admit that the sight of the Telerin prince made her breath catch. For he seemed the favorite of Ossë himself in his bare feet, grey breeches, and sleeveless silver tunic upon the bow of his boat, his silver hair streaming behind him in the wind, the spray of mist and foam glistening upon his bare arms and face.

“Artanis! Artanis! They are passing us! Let us catch up!” Piolissë shouted, tugging at her arm, and the daughter of Finarfin ran to join the other maidens dashing down onto the next beach.

She lost one sandal in the sand, the other beneath a piece of driftwood, but she cared not as she ran among the other maidens, all waving their arms and crying encouragement and praise to their favorites. Artanis, Idril, and Aredhel shouted at each other as often as at the racers, in a playful rivalry between the houses of their fathers--or uncles, in Idril and Aredhel’s case. Artanis kept pace with Aredhel easily, for though she did not hunt as often as her active cousin, run she could and run she did. The race continued around the great curve of the Bay of Eldamar, with the boats pulling ahead of the watchers when the wind filled their sails, but slowing enough for the maidens to catch up when they were forced to tack.

As they were drawing nigh onto the mouth of the Bay, the water was growing very rough. “Ai, that shall be a rough crossing,” exclaimed Aredhel, as the maidens came to a stop upon the last bluff, with the Bay on their left and the sea on their right.

Six boats had pulled far ahead of the others. Three were cygnets, sailed by Nandeloss, Halatir, and Celeborn of the Teleri. Two more were white, sailed by Angrod, Artanis’s brother, and Veomacil, another Noldor elf. The sixth was grey, sailed by Maglor, son of Fëanor.

“It seems the Teleri still have the advantage,” crowed Piolissë as the boats began making the turn.

“Be not so sure, there are three and three!” retorted Aredhel.

The boats were staggered in the passage along the mouth of the bay, with Celeborn, Halatir, and Maglor just in front, Angrod less than half a boat-length behind, followed by Nandeloss and Veomacil. All the boats began to tack inward toward the Bay as the wind changed, but suddenly-- “Ai! Look out!” Artanis cried.

A great, rolling wave came surging in from the ocean, growing smaller in breadth but gaining height as it passed between the encircling arms of rock and entered the Bay, bearing down upon the little boats. The leading boats were still tacking in the wrong direction, and seeing their peril, the mariners scrambled to angle their little crafts to ride it safely. Celeborn and Maglor managed to turn in time, but then a collective shriek of excitement and terror went up from the watchers as the crest of the wave struck Angrod’s white boat broadsides before he could complete his turn, flipping it clean over. “Angrod!” Artanis shouted.

The other boats managed to avoid being capsized, but Nandeloss and Veomacil were thrown off-course by the wave’s momentum and collided with Angrod’s still upside-down boat, pitching Nandeloss overboard and knocking Veomacil’s on its side. Several Teleri mariners watching from the decks of their ships made ready to leap into the water after the three elves, but to a collective cry of relief, Angrod suddenly appeared behind his boat and climbed on top, laughing helplessly. He pulled an also-laughing Nandeloss up with him, and Veomacil was also safely attached to the side of his boat. The three elves remained where they were, shouting encouragement at the other boats that continued to sail by, and waved at the maidens on the shore.

“So much for the House of Finarfin!” laughed Aredhel. “Shall we go back and greet them as they finish?”

“Aye! Come on! Halatir is still in the race!” shouted Piolissë as they raced back in the other direction.

“And I shall just have to cheer for Celeborn, then!” retorted Artanis.

The wind was against the boats for most of the turn back, so the spectators were able to reach the hill overlooking the finish in plenty of time. “Ai, I have not run so much in a very long time,” panted Piolissë, clinging to Artanis as she caught her breath.

Artanis laughed, for neither had she, but she felt exhilarated rather than exhausted. She had loved physical activity as a girl, and now she recalled why; the blood sang through her body as her heart pumped hard in her chest, and her lungs felt full and strong. As she ran along the beaches and over the bluffs, shouting to the racers, she felt that she was a sail, filled and lifted by the sea wind over the waves. *I shall ask Celeborn to teach me to sail a small boat,* she decided as they gained the final bluff above the finish. *Then I shall sail a boat in the next race!* She grinned to herself imagining her father’s reaction to such activity, but the thought of herself upon one of those speeding little craft, leaping over the waves and flying fast in the wind, was very pleasing indeed.

“There they come!” shouted Idril as the first boats came into view around the curve of the swan ships.

Two boats remained in the far lead: one swan and one grey. The wind had changed again and filled their sails, and as they negotiated the final bend, the two elves leaned far over with their grips tight upon tiller and sheet, their balance precarious at such speed upon the waves. “Ai!” cried one of the maids behind Artanis. “One of the Noldor challenges the Teleri!”

It was indeed Maglor and Celeborn, their boats directly side-by-side as they skipped over the waves. “Come on, Celeborn!” shrieked Piolissë.

“Come on, Maglor!” cried Aredhel and Idril.

“Faster, Celeborn!” Artanis shouted, running with the others parallel to the boats.

Both elves stole glances at their supporters on the shore, and Celeborn, his hair like a silver banner in the wind, his strong legs bracing against the deck of his boat, grinned openly at Artanis, completely at home in the high wind and rough surf. The boats were sailing very fast now, and of the maidens, only Artanis and Aredhel were able to keep up in the final surge to the finish. The three boats remained there; Artanis could see Olwë in one, cheering unashamedly for Celeborn, and Fëanor and Finwë in another, shouting to Maglor. The cheers were reaching a fever pitch as the two boats, still completely abreast, came closer and closer to the end.

“Fly, Celeborn!” Artanis screamed over Idril and Aredhel’s shrieks to Maglor. Whether he heard her or not, she could not be sure, but at that moment, the Telerin prince pulled his sheet in very hard, tightening the sail to be pushed harder by the wind, and several of the Teleri exclaimed aloud. Artanis had learnt much of sailing from them and knew that while taking the sail in so would speed the boat, it also raised the risk of tearing the sail or tipping the craft, which would lose the race for sure. “Ai!”

But the sail did not tear, the cygnet did not tip, and Celeborn’s little swan flew ahead, to the elated screams of the Teleri. Celeborn shifted his weight, and the prow came further out of the water, pulling first half a length, then a full length ahead of Maglor. Shouting with delight, she stopped where she was parallel to the finish boats and cheered lustily as Celeborn’s cygnet boat flashed past Olwë’s boat, winning the victory for the Teleri.

Celeborn brought his cygnet gracefully to the beach and disembarked, to be greeted and swamped by a shrieking crowd of overjoyed Teleri. “And thus the kindred of my mother show you their worth, cousins!” Artanis crowed to Idril and Aredhel as they ran with the others to celebrate the returning mariners.

They found they could not begin to force their way through the crowd of elves to the mariners, so the maidens stood back and watched. “The Telerin Celeborn is very fair,” sighed Idril.

Aredhel laughed. “He is too old for you, niece.”

“Perhaps not! I am nearly of age!”

Artanis, on the pretext of rediscovering her shoes, went away from them.

***

It was long before Celeborn could free himself from his many admirers (including the King of the Teleri), but at last he escaped and went to the near beach where the minstrels had gathered, lanterns hung, and many of the Eldar were dancing upon the sand. The wine was flowing in abundance, and all the company was very merry, and so Celeborn hastened to join them, though his eyes searched the crowd. He had more than enough ladies offering their companionship after his display during the race, but he found himself uninterested in most of them. It was Celeborn’s nature to prefer familiar sights, faces, and pursuits to continuously trying new things, and it was this that he sought amid the celebrations.

At length, he did spy a familiar face amid the crowd of Teleri and Noldor, and it struck him with such a rush of relief that he wondered if he had not been searching for her alone all along. Artanis was wandering back down from one of the hills into the ground, holding one of her sandals in her hand with a puzzled look upon her face. Celeborn shook of several young lady admirers and went to her. “Have you lost something, kinswoman?”

“I fear I have,” she mused, shaking her head.

He seized the sandal and tossed it aside. “Then you shall have to be as one of the Teleri tonight, and dance upon the beach without shoes. Come!”

His exuberance must have startled her, for in truth he was far lighter of heart than usual. Still, the elation of the day’s victorious race, the light of the silver lanterns and the Trees, and wine and company ruled his heart, and he would not be dissuaded, but led Artanis into a mass of dancers. She acquiesced at last, and soon they wove in and out of the whirling couples, spinning and laughing and singing with the music. They kicked up the white sand in their bare feet, often sending pearls and other gems tossing into the air, and their silver and white and grey raiments gleamed in the light.

The dancers on the beach thought little of time, and nor did Celeborn, until Maglor came running up to him, laughing and shouting, “Very well, very well, Teleri swan master, you have proven your skill as a mariner, but let not a lady of the Noldor be kept from her father’s kin forever! Come, Artanis, let me have a turn!”

So Celeborn yielded his partner and watched Artanis dance away with Maglor. For a moment he was silent, listening to her laughter over Maglor’s fair voice singing, as the son of Fëanor swept his cousin along. Then at length he spotted Idril, Turgon’s young daughter, standing alone and watching him, so he went to her and invited her to dance.

Neither he nor most of the other elves dancing in the sand paid much heed to the elven lords who stood to the side talking, until the sound of slightly raised and ever-forceful voices reached their ears. Idril, returned to Celeborn after having a dance with Halatir, glanced over at the group of their arguing kindred. “What troubles them?”

“I know not,” he said dismissively. “Pay it no mind. When Noldor and Teleri come together, there are always arguments.” He led her away, and they carried on without interest in the debate, though he was not surprised when he looked past his partner and saw Artanis drop out of the dance to go closer.

The music and dancing carried on away from the talkers until an angry cry of, “You forget yourself!” brought music, laughter, and song to an abrupt halt.

Idril gasped, and Celeborn turned around. Fëanor, his bright eyes flashing hotly, was standing in a most confrontational position, glaring at Finarfin, whose body looked less readied for a physical confrontation but not at all compliant.

“I forget nothing.” Finarfin’s voice was low and hard, but in the new silence upon the beach, it carried easily. “Your younger brother I am, but your chattel I am not, and you who speak so vehemently against thraldom cannot tell me that I may not venture an opinion differing from yours.”

Rage flashed in Fëanor’s eyes, “Yea, little brother, I would not stop your opinions, had you any, AND if I thought them truly yours and not the poison fed you by Fingolfin!”

“How dare you?!” Finarfin stood silent under the words, but Finrod might well have attacked his uncle had his father not thrust out an arm to forestall him. “You would better declare on what grounds you make such an accusation, Uncle, or else withdraw it!” All four of Finarfin’s sons were now standing directly behind him, their eyes betraying far more inclination to make the argument physical than Finarfin himself.

“Be silent,” Finarfin commanded his sons with a flick of his hand. He looked back at Fëanor. “But I shall not be, and neither in the face of your wrath, nor your slanders, shall I fail to speak my mind: you are wrong.”

“Indeed?” said Fëanor mockingly. “Very well, Finarfin, in that small hope that perhaps your mind is indeed your own,” and his tone grew distinctly dubious, “then I shall brand you not a puppet, but a fool.” With a shout of anger, Finrod again surged forward, but Finarfin once again bade him stay, and stood still in the gale of his eldest brother’s words. “If content you are, in fact, here in this pretty cage the Valar have made, then you are but hopelessly blinded by the sweet words fed by them and their pets whose daughter you married--”

“Fëanor, son of Finwë!” rumbled an enraged voice, and Olwë strode through the crowd of elves to the arguing brothers. Finarfin swiftly stepped back, motioning his sons away. “What say you concerning my daughter?”

There was a long silence, in which naught could break the eye-locked stance of the Telerin King and the heir to the throne of the Noldor. At long last, Fëanor smiled and bowed with a humble graciousness that rang false to all. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Olwë. I spoke in haste, and meant no slight to your most honorable daughter. I pray you will forgive me.”

Olwë’s eyes were dark and stormy as the sea, but at length, he nodded. “I forgive your remark, but bid you watch your tongue in the future. Well?” he turned to the elves, though his tone still conveyed his displeasure. “Return to your dances; this is a festive occasion.”

“I shall endeavor to end this mood I have so unfortunately bestowed upon all,” added Fëanor. “Oh my niece! Nerwen!” A startled silence fell again, and Celeborn saw Artanis’s eyes darken in turn as she met her uncle’s eyes. “Will you dance?”

There followed what seemed like an even longer silence, but at length, Artanis gave an unsmiling nod. Olwë spoke to the minstrels, who began playing again, and Artanis and Fëanor took their places among the dancers. Celeborn found that Idril had gone to her father’s side during the confrontation, and that he stood alone near the dancers with his fists tightly clenched. It helped not that he could clearly hear every word that passed between them.

“I do apologize, dear niece, if I offended you,” said Fëanor, his tone light.

Not looking at him, but concentrating upon her movements in the dance, Artanis replied, “I shall accept your apology, Uncle, when you have made one to my father.”

“So you too think my words slanderous?”

“That was my impression.”

They wove among the dancers in silence for several moments, then Fëanor laughed. “Thus my impression is that you think your father’s ideas to be his own?”

For once her eyes met his, and they flashed angrily. “My father may be less hot of head than you or Fingolfin, Uncle, but he is wise, and his children will suffer none to deny the sincerity of his words!”

“Sincerity, nay, child--”

“--I am no child, Curufinwë, and if you would treat me as such, we need not be dancing.”

“My apologies.” Celeborn felt his fists ball again involuntarily at the mocking tone. None should be permitted to belittle Artanis that way. “As I was saying, I doubt not that his words are sincere, but from whom did he learn them?”

“Of what do you speak?” her voice was growing harsh enough to make Celeborn and all others near Artanis wince.

“I speak merely of the dangers of accepting every sweet word given him by the Valar and by the servants of Valar without thought or question--”

With a sharp jerk, Artanis wrenched her hands from Fëanor’s and pulled sharply out of the dance formation. “My father is far wiser than you, however you would try to paint him a fool. You, son of Finwë, are the fool. I hear your own sweet words, but see your connivances. Your every move rings false, and I will have none of it. We shall dance no more, and speak no more!”

“Artanis!” Finarfin strode toward her, his eyes narrowed even as she trembled with rage. “Lord Olwë made it clear that there shall be no more unpleasantness tonight. You will behave yourself as becomes a lady and finish the dance with your uncle.”

That might well have been the end of it for any other elven maid, thought Celeborn, but not Artanis. She brought the festivities to a halt yet again with her curt reply of, “I will not.”

Finarfin might be of milder temperament than his elder brothers, but he did not suffer his children to defy him. Pointedly ignoring Fëanor, who stood still in the halted dance formation with an expression of innocence, the youngest son of Finwë strode up to Artanis and took her arm sharply. “You will. Or you will leave this place at once.”

With a slight yank, she removed her arm from his hand and gave a perfunctory bow to the other elves. “Then, my lords and ladies, I bid you farewell!” Lifting her chin at Finarfin and not so much as turning her face in Fëanor’s direction, she spun around and marched off the beach.

Celeborn found it rather difficult to stomach the sound of Finarfin making the obligatory apologies to Fëanor, Olwë--and just about everyone--for his daughter’s rudeness. *The only rudeness about tonight was Fëanor’s, and yours for not striking him for his impertinence in forcing Artanis to dance with him.* The thought slipped out before he could check it, and he smiled and shook his head. Few things could rouse Celeborn’s passions, and even fewer could raise his ire. Much of his passion he saved for the sea and his swans, but his ire…well, Artanis had a way of arousing it. But now it was on her behalf that he silently fumed.

*She is right about Fëanor. In every way right. His words are sweet but false, even as he condemns the Valar--it is as she said; he is indeed a hypocrite. Such arrogance knows no equal in all Aman,* he thought, listening to Fëanor graciously accepting Finarfin’s apologies.

“Do not be uneasy, brother mine, for I admire your Artanis--though you will forgive me if I think her better suited by her mother-name. Nerwen. Aye, that suits her. As hot of spirit and swift of action as any of our sons, yet her beauty knows no rival.”

Celeborn doubted that any of the others were deceived by Fëanor’s deft handling of the conversation, but apparently all were eager for a safe subject of discussion, and so elven beauty was seized upon. “If nowhere else, I agree with Fëanor here,” laughed Fingolfin. “Though I would say that if a rival might be found for Artanis, it would be Aredhel or Idril.”

“Mistake me not, the maidens of your house are fair,” conceded Fëanor. “But Nerwen…nay, I can find few objects in Aman, living or otherwise, that hold me in awe as her hair.”

“In that you are most right,” agreed Finarfin, as the others laughed somewhat forcibly. “I accuse none of shallow flattery when they saw she has caught the radiance of Laurelin herself.”

“Indeed, she is a maiden crowned in radiance,” declared Olwë, slapping Finarfin on the back. “It is no wonder that she has a will to match her fairness; she would be less beautiful if she did not.”

As more praise was piled on, Celeborn found himself growing quite irritable. *And they spoke earlier of shallow flattery and sweet words.* The mood of the feast had declined steadily since Fëanor had opened his mouth, and now with Artanis stormed out and everyone trying so desperately to be merry, Celeborn no longer cared to remain. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he slipped out of the light of the lanterns into the soft, dimmer light of Telperion, to spend some time alone.

He at first tried to convince himself that he was wandering aimlessly, but soon was forced to admit that he was following the marks of light but angry feet in the sand. *She is troubled. I should make certain that she is well,* he thought, and set about tracking Artanis’s path more deliberately.

The tracks led him over two hills to a beach far enough from the celebrating elves to be shielded from the sound of music and laughter. Upon a white dune, Celeborn stopped and gazed down at the slender figure in the soft light, running with her skirt held up along the very edges of the waves, her hair like a stream of gold behind her. *Maiden crowned in radiance…perhaps Olwë’s words were true, despite the fact that his thoughts dwelt less upon praising a fair lady and more upon appeasing everyone.*

For she was radiant, more so to him than ever, though a day did not pass when he did not catch himself staring like a boy at her beauty. As it was, he would likely have stared all night, had she not seen him. At once she stopped where she was, the foam of the waves washing over her feet unnoticed, and she stood still looking at him. Discovered and disarmed, he came down the dunes to her side. Long she stared at him, her eyes brilliant and burning with that peculiar combination of intelligence and restlessness--and perhaps even a bit of wisdom. In a way, they were not unlike Fëanor’s eyes…*And have a care never to mention that comparison aloud, Celeborn, or you may find yourself missing an ear!*

Yet it was true, her eyes were easily as intense as Curufinwë’s, but the self-absorbed arrogance was not there. A restless temper and impatience for the shortcomings of others, yes, but nothing so repellant as Fëanor. Indeed…for all her vexing qualities…there would never be anything repellant about Artanis. Quite the opposite.

At length, she folded her arms irritably and asked, “Did my mother send you to seek me?”

“Nay, my lady--” he hastily cleared his throat, for his voice had sounded very strange even to him. Forcing himself to speak casually amid the sudden pounding of his heart, he assured her, “Nay, I am here at no one’s bidding. I came only to see how you fare.”

Her lips quirked, and she gave a humorless little laugh. “I shall fare better when my father’s eldest brother is back stewing in his stone caves, with his vaults and forges where he belongs, ever drooling over his beloved Silmarils.”

“I have never seen them,” said Celeborn.

She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Of course not. One must grovel at his feet first to be permitted a viewing of his magnificent work--or have something he wants.” She scowled furiously, turning to stare out over the waters of the Swan Haven, then she suddenly turned back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think the next time he begins a conversation garnering praise for himself as the finest of elven craftsman, I shall point out that too few have been permitted to see his work for themselves. After all, for one with so much pride in his accomplishment, my kinsman shares them with precious few. And yet,” she gestured behind her, “there stand far greater and fairer crafts than those three rocks he so prizes.”

“Why, kinswoman, you do speak harshly tonight. I have heard his Silmarils possess the light of Telperion and Laurelin!” Celeborn said mildly.

“Aye, they possess the light--or rather they enable him to possess it!” she cried. “And beautiful they are to behold, I deny it not. But what are they? Rocks! Pretty, hallowed rocks, but rocks all the same.” Her scowl burned so fierce that he would have liked to ward it off with his hands. But her next words stunned him. “They are naught compared to your swan.”

“What?” a very strange feeling swept through Celeborn, starting somewhere in the pit of his stomach and spreading outward. “What mean you by that? You think truly…”

When she turned back to face him, from where she had been looking at the ships, her eyes had softened. “Yea, O mariner, I think truly the craft of your swans surpasses even that of the Silmarils. Their light is bright and pure and good, and they are hallowed by Varda and lovely to behold, and yet…your people have taken timbers, nails, ropes, and cloth, and breathed life into them. And your swans bear you upon their backs as they fish in the sea and beat their wings within the Bay of Eldamar. Light captured from the Trees is most fair, O son of the Teleri, but I find myself preferring the life that you have given to your ships.” She smiled wryly. “And you hoard them not.”

Breaking out of his initial astonishment at the fairest praise he had ever received from anyone, Celeborn laughed weakly. “Be not so certain, my lady. I would be ill-pleased indeed to let any other handle my swan but I.”

“I speak of hoarding, not of ownership and mastery, Celeborn. I think you would not begrudge any admirer a chance to ride upon your swan, and certainly not to view her.”

He smiled, “I suppose I would not. Unless said admirer was Fëanor, that is.”

She blinked at him, then they both began to laugh. “Ai, by Ilúvatar’s rule, I am far too philosophical this eve.”

“Shall we go to her and take her for a sail?” offered Celeborn. “The wind is still fair.”

“Nay, my father would see me and call me back. I wish not to deal with him or his censure.” She sighed and closed her eyes, idly running her toes through the wet sand. “Besides, I am well pleased with this beach.”

“I cannot recall having ever seen you stand still this long,” he could not resist saying.

Artanis opened her eyes and gazed at him for a moment, then was evidently in too tranquil a mood to be offended. “I would have thought you would be relieved not to be ever chasing me. Surely my restiveness must grow dull after a time.”

“Be assured, my lady, naught about you is dull.”

She glanced at him, startled by the vehemence in his voice. “I am glad to hear it.” She walked to the dry sand and sat down, her eyes upon the waves.

He had caught an odd catch in her voice, and observed, “I take it there are those who would disagree with me?”

“My father says my contentiousness is dull. He would have me ‘think more and speak less,’ as he puts it, but I wonder what is the point of thinking if I am not permitted to make known my thoughts.” Her eyes flickered with discomfort.

“I would hear any thought of yours,” he said softly, coming to sit beside her.

“Then out of our Noldor kin, our Teleri kin, the Vanyar, AND the Valar, you are alone,” she said bitterly. “All would have me be silent, whether I am content or no.”

“There are certain merits to silence, Lady. One hears best in that state, and it is said that one can only truly listen when one is silent,” offered Celeborn.

Her eyes flashed brighter. “To be sure, you are right, but what happens when one has listened enough and is ready to speak? Is one’s youth and one’s sex so inherent a barrier as to make any words one might say of lesser worth?”

“I said not so, and in truth I think none have said so,” said Celeborn, putting a hand upon her shoulder. “None can deny the strength of your mind.”

“If they do not deny it, then why should they find it so unbecoming?” she demanded, but suddenly shook her head. “Never mind it. I trouble you with my self-pity. It matters not.” Before he could speak, she looked at him and smiled, her eyes having softened again. “But you are very kind to listen to my carping.”

“It requires no kindness, Artanis. I enjoy talking with you,” Celeborn replied, even as his heart began to hammer within his chest again. He had suddenly become painfully aware of their proximity, of the soft light of Telperion’s waning blossoms upon her face and golden hair, of every catch and fall of her white gown and the smoothness of her skin--

Artanis suddenly jumped up, the rare stillness gone from her, and her usual restlessness returned. She cleared her throat delicately and said, “Well, I think now we have both tarried here long enough. I should return and retire before my father has the chance to lie in wait for me. Until later, my friend.”

Startled, he responded automatically in kind, and she darted back up the sand dunes onto the grass, running toward Lord Olwë’s pearl mansions with her gown fluttering about her like some white bird taking flight. He did not know how long he stood there upon the beach alone after she had gone.

***

In the house of Lord Olwë, shortly after…

She should have known her father would have anticipated her. For all their differences, Finarfin knew Artanis irritatingly well. He had returned early from the feast and emerged from a shadowy corner of the unlit room before Artanis when she entered. “Good evening, Daughter.”

Artanis resisted the urge to heave a loud sigh and said, “Good evening, Father.”

“Where you have you been these past hours?”

“Taking the air,” she answered shortly. She was not in the mood for a quarrel.

However, despite the vexation of having been in close proximity to Fëanor for the better part of a day (and despite having been repeatedly belittled by him) Finarfin evidently did not have a row on his mind either. He walked to the large window looking down upon Alqualondë and gestured to a low bluff far out along the Bay. “That is where I met your mother.”

*Curse him! Why does he have to be this way?!* Her irritation both grew and diminished even as she went to his side to peer at the place. “It seems an unlikely spot for a chance meeting.”

“I was on the shore. She was sailing, standing on the prow of her father’s swan and beheld me watching her.”

Artanis felt her lips curve into a smile in spite of herself. “And then what happened? Did you leap dramatically into the sea, swim to her side and proclaim your undying love?”

A soft chuckle answered her. “Nay, but I stood upon the bluff for the rest of the day until she came at last to meet me.”

This time Artanis did sigh. “And how long did it take you to ask for her hand?”

“A few weeks.”

“And Olwë gave his consent after so short a courtship?”

“He did. He was most pleased by the bond of his daughter to the House of Finwë.”

*Here it comes.* Nonetheless, Finarfin’s gentle words had accomplished their intended purpose, cooling her temper to where she found herself unable to bristle at him. Feeling suddenly tired, she said, “I do not want to be nice to Fëanor.”

He looked sharply at her, and she raised her chin, expecting a scolding lecture. Instead, a smile broke across his countenance, and he laughed aloud. “As it happens, Daughter, neither do I, but we cannot always have what we want--or avoid that which we do not want.”

Artanis folded her arms petulantly. “Perhaps not always, but I fail to see why I must constantly make up to Fëanor. Why must I pretend to like him? He knows I do not.”

“Aye, he along with all of elvendom,” said her father dryly. “But that is beside the point. He is your uncle, heir to the kingship of the Noldor, and it reflects ill upon you brothers and I when you are so insolent to him.”

“Yet it matters not to you how he behaves toward me?” cried Artanis in frustration. “His words, his looks, they are almost…” she shook her head, searching in vain for a word that did not exist.

Finarfin’s voice grew softer. “Nay, child, I have not missed it. And truly I tell you that had I only your comfort to consider, I should hasten you away whenever he approached, and bid him keep well distant from you lest he be the first elf to die by the hand of another.” She laughed wryly, and he went on, “But we have not that good fortune.”

“And what is this so-pressing consideration, that I am forced to stomach his false flattery and his hands every reaching for my hair?” she asked bitterly.

Finarfin narrowed his eyes. “The unity of our people.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Artanis looked away; she had not realized how hard she had tried to forget all this since coming to Alqualondë. Finarfin put his hand on her shoulder. “Daughter. With every passing day, the whisperings of discontent grow louder. Soon some shall began to speak openly of rebellion. How then do you imagine the Valar will respond?”

“You speak too generally, Father,” she protested. “Yea, there are whisperings; I am well aware of that. But would you call the desire to sail to Middle Earth and live in freedom rebellion? For by that standard you would brand me a rebel.”

“Artanis--”

“The Valar shall not answer a mere desire with punitive force, nor even restriction, more likely. If any ask openly to depart, I do not think they shall be denied.”

“Have you asked Manwë for leave?” asked her father in an odd voice.

She met his eyes steadily. “I have made my desire known to him, but I have not asked for immediate permission, for I need it not. Not yet.”

“You choose to linger despite this…desire?”

Artanis sighed. “I know you think me an impulsive child, Father, but I am not. And leaving…I know not how, but I am not ready. I shall ask Manwë’s leave when the time is right. I know only that the time has not yet come. Something…there remains something for me here, though I am unsure of exactly what it is. I shall go when my heart is ready.”

Finarfin was silent for some time, and she knew her choice grieved him. At last, he said, “Whatever my dislike of your going at all, I am glad you at least seek the good will of the Valar. But I fear not all of our people shall be sensible in that action, if leaving Aman can be called sensible at all.”

Ignoring the veiled jibe, she answered, “Many of our kindred are quick to bold words and pride, when spoken in whispers amongst themselves and like minds. But when at last they find themselves facing the Valar, their words may lose some of their challenge.”

“But the pride of some may be swelled to the point where none can quell it save Ilúvatar himself,” countered her father.

“You mean Fëanor,” she said, pleased with herself for resisting the urge to snort.

“And because he has by far the loudest voice of us all, many will follow him. You know well he has a way of…diminishing…those who would speak against him.” This time she did snort. He looked hard at her, but not without understanding. “Not do you see why I do not wish you to make public your quarrels with your uncle?”

“I am not afraid of him,” she said with a scowl.

Finarfin smiled wryly, “I am well aware of that, child. You have feared nothing since you were born. But many others do fear him, and to quarrel publicly with Fëanor will only lead to alienating you from those who respect him.” He narrowed his eyes as she muttered something uncomplimentary about anyone who would respect Fëanor. “Your mind and your ideals shall matter little if few among our kindred hearken to you.” Seeing her bitter face, he smiled. “I know it unpleasant, but for the good of us all, you would do better to keep abreast of him than to shun him openly.”

Artanis looked at his placid, honest face for several moments. At length, she shook her heart and remarked drolly, “It must be terribly dreary to always be right.”

He did not laugh, simply smiled and kissed her brow. “I must retire now. I return to Tirion with Laurelin’s first light.”

“Farewell, Father.”

*****

Author’s Note:  Ye Gods, I cannot believe I kept you poor readers waiting over a year for an update.  My deepest, most heartfelt apologies.  This story has taught me the bitter lesson of not starting to post a story before it’s finished, because writer’s block delays aren’t fair to my readers.  I do hope some of you will continue reading and reviewing in spite of the unforgivable length of time you’ve had to wait.  (Though in my defense, this was one of the hardest chapters I’ve ever done—it’s my first love scene of sorts.)

Additional Note:  I had promised this story on March 20^th, and here it is, but please be advised:  it is un-betaed.  My beta reader ran into some Real Life difficulties, and rather than pester her over this or keep you waiting any longer, I decided to go ahead and post.  At least I’m pretty sure my basic writing mechanics are okay, and if you’ve got suggestions for improvement, I’d certainly be glad to hear them.  Once my beta is able to finish fine-toothing this baby, I’ll replace this chapter with the edited version.  I also appear to have gotten my momentum back in this tale, so I hope the delay won’t be quite so long this time.  However, I can’t promise no delays at all, as most of you know, law school keeps me very busy.

Chapter Four:  Swan on the Rocks

     Celeborn spent the first part of the day inspecting his ship (a chore which, like most of the captains, he did far more often than necessary.)  Indeed, there were a fair number of mariners in the Swan Haven this morn, either making inspections and repairs or sailing abroad on Elendë. 

     It was a pleasant, peaceful activity:  checking the wear upon her timbers, ropes, and sails, swimming along her sides to see below the waterline, scrubbing away any accumulations of salt or grime that might mar her white body.  It was most relaxing.

     He had climbed far up the prow to remove some seaweed from her beak when a familiar voice said, “Good morrow, kinsman.”

     He nearly fell into the water.  Steadying himself, Celeborn looked down to the visitor watching him from the docks, wearing the sailing raiment of Telerin maids.  “Good day, Artanis.  Were you seeking me?”

      “I was, and now I have found you.  Will you be long at your work?” she asked, running casual eyes over him and the laboring mariners.

      “Nay!” he exclaimed.  His throat had gone annoyingly dry.  “Nay, I am nearly done, if you wish to speak to me.”

      “I do,” her eyes sparkled with mischief.  “If you can manage to pry yourself from the embrace of your lady love.”

     Celeborn laughed, caressed his swan’s head one last time, then slid neatly down the smooth white neck (without acquiring so much as a splinter, he observed proudly.)  “Shall we take you beyond the Bay again?” he asked, noting her garment.

     Artanis gazed thoughtfully at his swan, then said, “As it happens, my lord, I thought to beg a favor of you.  I wish to learn to sail.”

      “A swan ship?  By yourself?”  Celeborn grimaced.  “That shall take years—”

     She shook her head.  “Nay, I did not mean the ships.”  Her face faintly sheepish, she nodded toward the fleet of cygnets that were moored closer to the shore. 

     It took every fragment of his self-control not to grin like a fool.  “Ah.  That I can teach you in less time.”  He turned to Nandeloss, his first mate.  “Check her for barnacles once more, and make certain she is not bumping against the dock.  Then tell the crew they may go.”

      “Fair winds, my lord.  My lady,” said Nandeloss with a playful little bow as they walked back down the dock.

     Celeborn was surprised at Artanis’s patience with his lessons.  He had heard many say she was a clever student in all she chose to put her hand to but had never had occasion to see her in this light himself.  He had been bracing himself for her usual restlessness, but he was determined that no amount of prodding lead him to hurry the lessons, for sailing was not to be taught haphazardly.  Yet she did surprise him, for she absorbed every word he spoke, every action he showed, without so much as a hint of discontent at the pace. 

     He showed her the way to wind the line that held the boat to its moorings and where to stow it.  He demonstrated the way to set up the sail on the small mast and how to collapse it again.  He taught her the knots that fastened the lines, and Artanis willingly practiced each one.  She was quite impressed with the little crank he had devised for the anchor rope and wound it up and down several times.  He had a similar one on his swan ship that would enable even the weakest elf to hoist anchor single-handed.   Artanis was seldom moved to awe, and it did make him feel just the slightest bit smug to see her show of respect for his mastery of the mariner’s craft.

     At last, when the flowering of golden Laurelin was at its brightest, they set sail.  Celeborn took the tiller while they maneuvered past the swan ships and around the docks, letting Artanis take the main sheet.  It was relatively simple; Artanis had seen enough of sailing to at least be familiar with the handling of small boats.  So he smiled to her back as she sat holding the sheet, sensing from the set of her shoulders that she was eager to take control.

     Then his mariner’s instincts were pricked, and he said to her, “Keep your focus on that sheet, kinswoman.  You cannot merely hold it; you must judge the wind’s speed and its direction to sail properly.  And when you sail alone you shall have to concentrate upon steering at the same time.”

     At least she heeded him; she straightened and began watching the wind filling the sail more closely.  Celeborn nodded approvingly as he steered the cygnet in wide circles around the Bay, letting Artanis adjust the sail to the changes in the wind.  Sailing a boat alone required one’s eyes on the water and the waves; one had to rely upon feeling to control the sail.

     As they passed the rocky arms at the mouth of Eldamar, Artanis turned a longing gaze toward the surging open seas.  “Shall we not sail beyond the Bay?”

     Her plaintive tone forced him to stifle a laugh.  Telerin blood ran true in her; that much was certain.  “Not while you are under instruction.  You must first become accustomed to the handling of a small boat by yourself, judging the wind and the waves until it becomes second nature.  Then we shall go about teaching you to dare rough waters.”  Her lower lip came out in the faintest little pout, and this time he did laugh.  “Patience, my restless Noldor maid, patience!  There shall be plenty of time.  Come, you may take the tiller now, and I shall take the sheet.  Let us see how you handle her.”

     As it was, the waves and wind within the Bay were high enough to keep them occupied.  Artanis was well-enough pleased with being allowed to steer to take her mind off the disappointment of being denied the adventure of open waters.  They circled around the deepest waters of the Bay, and he even permitted her to dare the roughest waves in the place directly between the circling arms of the Swan Haven.  So with that she was content, and they laughed and shouted with excitement often. 

     A gleam of white close by caught Celeborn’s attention as they tacked inshore again, and he spotted one of the swan ships making its way toward the open seas.  He knew it and waved merrily to the mariners aboard.  It was the ship of his cousin Halatir (who had completed his swan only a year before), and the other elf stood upon the prow of his swan with his betrothed, Piolissë, at his side.  Seeing the cygnet and its passengers, they needed no great thought to discern that lessons were afoot, and they shouted and waved playfully at Celeborn and Artanis, adding a few choice taunts to their yells.

     Artanis laughed and cried teasing insults right back, and brought the cygnet quickly about to race Halatir’s swan toward the end of the Bay.  Celeborn was in favor of the little venture, until his mariner’s instincts were roused again by a familiar taste in the wind.  “A storm comes.”

     Her entire body straightening more in glee than alarm, Artanis looked about, seeing only scattered clouds.  “How can you tell?”

      “Do you smell the wind?  Taste it.  And look well,” he pointed far in the distance.  Sure enough, there were lower, roiling crowds nearly on the horizon.

      “But that must be leagues upon leagues away from here!” she protested.

      “Feel the wind,” he said again.  Her bright eyes narrowed in doubt, and Celeborn told her firmly, “You must learn to feel everything upon the seas, Lady, or in the end they shall betray you.  You must sense the wind’s direction, and its speed, the current and patterns of the waves.  Can you not feel the storm’s approach?”

     Artanis checked the tiller for a moment, then looked to the East and closed her eyes.  He knew she could feel the coldness on the wind issuing from the dark clouds in the distance, and sense that the strongest of the breezes would push the storm close to Eldamar swiftly.  Her eyes opened, betraying understanding at last, and he nodded.  Seldom did storms strike the seas surrounding Valinor, and even more rarely did they come ashore.  But they could still stir up treacherous winds and high seas in the Bay, and Celeborn liked not the thought of facing dangerous currents in a cygnet boat with a novice sailor who also happened to be a Noldor princess.

     Alas for the adventurous streak of said Noldor princess.  “Even if it were to enter the Bay, it cannot arrive that swiftly,” Artanis said.  “So we need not return just yet!”

      “But the seas shall grow rougher,” said Celeborn.  “We should be standing into the Haven so we can get her safely lashed down in case the storm comes ashore.  You know they sometimes do.”  Lightening his tone, he added, “It would not be well to be caught out with a novice at the helm.”

     It was the wrong point to make.  Artanis bristled, and though he hurriedly attempted to think of something mollifying to say, she turned the tiller and sent the cygnet toward the mouth of the Bay.  “Its approach cannot be so swift that we have not the time to sail to the mouth once more.” 

     Her tone told Celeborn arguing would be futile.  He pulled in the sheet and gritted his teeth, hoping the wind would speed their journey and see them to safety in plenty of time.  He relished not the thought of facing a gale with Artanis in a cygnet.  A storm on the Bay would be difficult enough alone. 

     Indeed, as he had feared, it did not take long for the wind to rise, and the smell of cold rain became strong on the air.  In the distance, a growing shadow darkened the stars beyond the light of Laurelin, a shadow that grew ominously larger and closer, brightened now and then by flashes of lightning.  Celeborn glanced anxiously back at Artanis and saw, at last, a measure of apprehension in her eyes as they riveted upon the approaching storm.  “Perhaps we had best turn back now,” he said, making his voice as unchallenging as possible.

     To his intense relief, she nodded, her nervous gaze still fixed upon the flickering storm clouds (undoubtedly marveling at how quickly they had arrived.)  She gave the tiller a pull to bring the cygnet about.  But as the little boat began to turn, they were slapped smartly aside by the waves, which had grown ever larger as the storm near.  Artanis yelped and jerked them back, and Celeborn muttered an oath.  “Let me,” he said, tersely moving to take her place by the tiller while still holding the sheet.  He attempted to turn the boat once more, only to be forced back by yet another large wave.

     At that moment, the swan ship of Halatir and Piolissë flew past them, her sails unfurled and oar wings beating furiously as Celeborn’s friend wisely made for shore.  On the deck, he caught a fleeting glance of Piolissë and Halatir at the helm, gaping at him with expressions that clearly read, What are they doing?!  He swore cursed himself; he never should have allowed himself to be moved by Artanis’s whims.  Not in this.  He was mariner enough to know better than to allow the moods of an unqualified novice to govern him on his own craft. 

     For her part, Artanis seemed to have apprehended that it was her nagging that had put them in this predicament, and she had resigned meekly to the prow, glancing nervously back at him.  But Celeborn had no time to concern himself with her feelings at the moment, not if he wished to save them and his craft.  Narrowing his eyes through the misty haze that heralded the coming of the storm, he watched the waves, waiting for the right moment to turn the boat and make for home.

     At long last, there came a break in the waves as the wind changed.  “Brace yourself!  We must turn fast,” he shouted to her over the noise of rising wind and water.  Biting her lip, she seized the cygnet’s neck with both arms.  Celeborn gritted his teeth and turned the tiller hard, bringing the boat into a sharp swerve.  Water splashed over the sides, drenching them both , but the little swan stayed afloat.  Despite his concentration, he noticed that Artanis had her eyes squeezed shut with her face pressed against her arm as she clung to the tilting boat.  After another harrowing moment, they were again facing Alqualondë. 

      “There,” he said, sighing wearily.  “We shall make for port now.” 

     Raising her face again, Artanis took her bearings and then looked contritely at him.  “I am sorry,” she said in such a dejected voice that Celeborn almost smiled.

     Almost.  At the moment, he would do better to make certain she did not forget this near-disaster.  “Now you see the dangers of challenging Ossë, daughter of Finarfin.  He likes it not when mariners fail to hearken to his warnings.  The seas are not to be taken lightly, whether you are near or far from shore.”  She nodded shakily, and he managed somehow to keep his face stern.  “Be ready.  It shall be a hard ride inshore.”

     Indeed it was, even harder than he had feared.  The approaching storm was clearly intending to make a rare landfall, and Celeborn found himself faced with the grueling task of outrunning it in a woefully inadequate boat.  Very soon, a hard gust of cold wind and an even harder blast of icy rain slammed into the cygnet and its passengers, forcing Celeborn to squint hard just to see the swan haven clearly.  His passenger’s breath was coming in panicky gasps as they were battered by larger and larger waves, and great rolling waves of thunder tumbled over them amid dazzling bursts of lightning.  The light of Laurelin had been cut off by the clouds.

     Celeborn’s stomach became tight in knots as the haze and rain cut off all sight of Alqualondë and the safety of its docks.  Artanis looked back at him in naked fear as he cursed and turned the tiller, aiming for the nearest beach.  The only goal now was to get them ashore, even if it meant grounding his cygnet.  He took the sheet in his hand that held the tiller (a tricky task even in normal seas) and held out his free hand to Artanis, “Be ready.  We may be forced to abandon her.”

     She gulped and took his hand, calling over the wind’s howl, “Can I not aid you?”

     Grimacing, he weighed the choice of using both hands on the boat against keeping her close, and carefully handed her the sheet.  “Do not pull it in too tight.  The wind will tear it.  Fear not; you can do it,” he said in a gentler voice.  With a jerky nod, she lifted her chin and resolutely focused all her attention on keeping the wind in the sail to propel the cygnet.  All the same, despite this late show of courage, the grip of her other hand in his was so tight that her nails bit into his skin.

     The wind blew some of the mist aside long enough for him to see a wide sandy beach before them.  They had not much longer to face this fearful beast of Ulmo.  Celeborn’s heart was at last beginning to slow at the sight of their sanctuary when he felt the waters move beneath them, and turned his face to behold a monstrous wave bearing straight down on his cygnet to strike them broadsides.  “Artanis!” he snatched her up against his chest, causing her to drop the sheet in surprise.   The freed sail spun flapped loose, and the boat turned even more so that even the most ignorant sailor would see that a capsize was imminent.   “Hold on!  We must jump!”

     She saw the swell and screamed.  Celeborn held her against him and leapt overboard, abandoning his cygnet to her death. 

     The monster struck them just as they struck the seas, ripping Artanis from his grasp and plunging them both under the water.   Celeborn was sucked deep down by the fierce current and had to claw water for several heart-pounding moments before he broke the surface, gasping and sputtering.  “Artanis?  Artanis!  Artanis!!”

      “Celeborn!” he heard her breathy shriek and tore through the water, at last finding her struggling in terror against the current. 

     He seized her hand again, and she cried for help, losing battle with the waves and her own terror.  He pinned her against him with one arm, keeping her head well above water, and began to swim with the other.  “Do not panic!” he roared at her. 

     After a moment, she realized she was not sinking and caught herself, coughing and panting.  “Can you swim in this?” he asked urgently.  He could keep her above water for the moment, but whether he could pull her all the way to shore was less certain.

     Gasping, she replied, “Yes.”

     He let her go and kept an eye on her as she began to tread water more surely.  Getting his bearings in the pounding waves, he saw the elusive beach several ship lengths away.  Somehow fortune had pushed them on the current closer to shore.  “Come!  Stay close to me!”

     He guided her ahead of him and they began the hard journey through blinding rain, shrieking wind, and pounding waves to shore.  The thunder beat mercilessly at their ears and lightning dazzled their eyes, making it more difficult than ever to see their objective.  The breakers covered their heads many times, and often they were forced to stop and cling to each other until they had caught their breath.  Often the current changed, pulling and pushing them in every direction saved the one they most wished to go.  Celeborn fought the savage water until his arms throbbed and his legs felt leaden.  To his relief, Artanis kept pace with him, though she was undoubtedly tiring as well.

     After what seemed an eternity of being buffeted and blinded, his legs at last grated against sand, and he surged forward, seizing Artanis by the arm.  He nearly fell when his weight came fully upon his legs again, but somehow they both managed to keep their feet long enough to stagger ashore, exhausted and shaken.  They found no place where the beach could be exited without scaling the small cliffs--a task that would be difficult even for the rested in good weather.  Instead, fortune favored them with a place where the cliff reached out to shelter the sand a bit from the rain, and there they fell, spent and aching.

     Trembling with weariness, Celeborn drew Artanis back against the cliff wall as far out of the storm as he could, and they both gazed back at the surging waters.  The cygnet was gone. 

     A little sound brought his eyes to his companion, and his initial surge of anger at the waste was softened by her obviously-failing effort not to weep.  He brushed idly at a long strand of seaweed caught on her shoulder, and she broke, burying her face in her hands.  Celeborn gently pulled her against him and let her vent her guilt and fear.  “I am sorry, I am sorry,” she whispered through her tears.

      “Hush,” Celeborn said.  “We both made ill decisions.  It was my charge to keep the boat under control.  But we escaped the sea with our lives.”  Artanis sighed, shivering with cold and weariness.  “Think no more of it.  I shall build another cygnet.”

     It was doubtful that anyone from Alqualondë would be abroad searching for them while the storm still raged; few elves would dare such conditions to search for comrades who could be anywhere on the entire Bay.  With that thought, Celeborn cast himself upon the sand, still holding Artanis to his chest, and let weariness claim him.  Artanis succumbed even faster, and he noticed with amazement that exhaustion had drawn her eyes closed.  It was amazing indeed that she had done as well as she had.  Most novice mariners would have stood very little chance of escaping the sea’s clutches in such conditions.  Artanis was a formidable opponent even to Ossë.  The thought drew a smile to Celeborn’s lips, and he gave in to his own weariness then, too tired even to notice that his own eyes had closed.

***

     The familiar sounds of rolling waves slowly brought Artanis back from the darkest, heaviest sleep she had ever experienced.  Waking after such a deep slumber was a slow process indeed, and it was the tired rumbles of thunder from the finally-waning storm that brought her fully to consciousness.  At first she was disoriented, finding herself lying upon a bed of sand, under some kind of shelter, yet still soaking wet, with her head upon…someone’s chest.  Celeborn?  Where were they?  Why was he also drenched, and asleep with his eyes closed?  What had--then she remembered.  Her sudden tension roused the Teleri, and he blinked up at her.  “Artanis?”  She blinked back at him, at a loss for words, and he slowly sat up, grimacing and causing her to realize that she was also painfully stiff and sore.

     Celeborn glanced around for a moment, then stared at the beach.  Artanis followed the gaze and stifled a moan:  the broken remains of Celeborn’s lovely little cygnet boat had been dashed to pieces on the rocks and cast ashore on their beach like so much driftwood.  Remembering her own ill-advised desire to dare Ossë’s fury, Artanis cringed with shame and guilt.  Her foolishness had destroyed the boat and nearly cost them both their lives. 

     Her mother’s kinsman saw her grief and put a hand upon her shoulder.  “I bade you think no more of it.  I shall build her anew, and it is well that we reached safety.  Such things happen.”

      “Even when they need not happen?” she muttered.

     He laughed softly and pulled her closer.  “The storm is nearly spent, and soon our kindred shall begin searching for us.”  He smiled dryly at the cliff that encircled the beach so thoroughly.  “Under normal circumstances, we might go to meet them, but I fear it is unlikely either of us shall be fit to climb that wall without the aid of a rope.”  Rubbing her own aching arms and legs, she had to agree.  Then he frowned, seeing the bruises that marred her fair skin, and she noticed similar marks upon him.

     By the Valar, we did escape with barely our lives!  she thought in amazement, and a little shudder ran through her again. 

     Celeborn sighed and brushed irritably at the sand that clung to his wet skin and clothing.  He attempted to rise and brush himself off, only to find his legs in no state to support his weight, and he collapsed at once back to the sand.  Artanis yelped in surprise as he scattered sand over her again, and tried to rise herself, getting similar results.  Staring at each other bemusedly, they both had to laugh.  “I wonder if we shall even manage to reach the wall,” she remarked with a hysterical giggle.

     Shaking his head, Celeborn took her hands and they attempted to rise together, and this time succeeded in taking a few shaky steps across the sand.  Then Celeborn staggered, Artanis wavered, and both lost the strength of their legs at the same moment.  “Oof!” she gasped as he landed on top of her.  “Aaii!  You are crushing me!  Be off!”

      “Peace, kinswoman, I am in no better state than you!” grunted Celeborn, attempting to disentangle himself.

     It was too much for Artanis, and her giggles grew louder.  Celeborn stared at her when she ceased squirming beneath him and began to laugh in earnest, then he slowly grinned and joined her.  For several moments they simply laughed, at each other, at themselves, at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.  Then by the dint of much grunting and squirming, Celeborn managed to roll off her, landing at her side in the sand.  Raising his head, he found them nose to nose, their clothes awry, and his laughter abruptly stopped.

     Artanis had no time to notice, for her laughter was stopped only when his lips came down upon her mouth with no small amount of force.  She gasped in surprise and sat up, but he rose with her and suddenly his hands had seized her shoulders, pulling her sharply toward him.  His kisses were salty from having been nearly drowned in seawater, but to her surprise, it was not unpleasant.  Heat suddenly spread through her body like a swift fire, and almost without conscious thought, her hands rose to grasp his shoulders in return and she began returning his kisses with as much zeal as he had bestowed them.

     How like the sea he was, for Artanis could not resist him as his arms came to fully encircle her, pulling her tight against his chest as his lips devoured hers faster and harder with each gasping breath.  Not a word was spoken, but both were aware of their hearts pounding wildly within their breasts.  And Artanis, who had never willingly surrendered herself to anyone in word or action, released control utterly to him.  She slung her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his drying hair, moving her lips to his ear as his mouth came down to explore her neck.  She thought nothing of it as his body came more fully to cover hers, their sodden garments providing little barrier between them, as he pressed her back down into the sand.

     That sand was irritating, but Artanis could not help her body’s reaction to Celeborn.  Never had such feelings been excited within her before, and it was as if some instinct had taken over now that she had not known to exist yesterday.  Her legs rose up against his, relishing the feel of it whenever their bare skin made contact, and she sighed in utter ecstasy as his lips moved down toward the neckline of her dress.  She in turn found her arms running the length of his back, grasping him in places she never would have dreamed of, as her own kisses fell upon his head through his silver hair.

     How warm they had suddenly become, despite their drenched clothes and the cold wind.  She relished the weight of his strong, lean body upon hers, and moaned aloud as his hand reached past the twisted skirt of her dress to caress her thigh. 

     His face rose suddenly to lock eyes with her, and she stared at him, stunned by the intensity of her own emotions, and by his gaze.  There was a passion in his eyes she had never seen, almost bordering upon desperation as he raised a trembling hand to her face.  “I love you,” he whispered, clutching at her.  “I have always loved you.  Do not deny me, I beg you!”

     Sanity came crashing back like a bucket of water colder than the storm-tossed sea.  She shivered and shrank back.  “Celeborn—”

      “Why do you recoil?” he asked, seeming almost to plead with her.  “Do you think I would harm you?”

      “Nay, but—”

      “Beloved, can you not see my intentions?  I speak plainly:  I would make you my bride,” said Celeborn fiercely, gripping her arm.  “I have long known that I would have none other than you.” 

     Her mouth was hanging open.  What was he—what did he—she squirmed out from underneath him, shivering as the sudden loss of his warmth brought gooseflesh to bare skin.  She did not exactly know why his words had ended her pleasure so swiftly.  Scooting away from him in the sand, she stared at the water.   Celeborn was still watching her, dismayed at her sudden coolness.  “Artanis, how can my wish have offended you?  Do you think me so unworthy of your hand?”

     She could not speak for several moments.  When thought of objectively, no, Celeborn could not be considered beneath her in any way.  He speaks of having me…as though I am already his.  She liked Celeborn, plainly…more than that, even.  But something in his words had raised her hackles as swiftly as if it were Feanor standing before her.  Before she knew what she was doing, she had scrambled to her feet and was stumbling toward the end of the beach.

      “Artanis!  Wait!”  His hand seized her arm, swinging her around.  “Please, forgive me—”

      “Kinsman, I beg you, speak no more of this!” she cried, pulling away.  “I cannot—you must not!”

      “What?” Celeborn’s confusion was giving way to hurt and anger.  “I did not importune you, why do you act offended?”

      “I am not, I—I—” she wished he would stop stepping toward her.  His proximity made it hard to think.  Could he not see that as much as she loved Alqualondë, she would not be able to remain here forever?  Had he failed to hear all that she had told him of her dreams, her hopes, of escaping Valinor?  If she were to bind herself to Celeborn, either he would have to come to Middle Earth with her, or she would have to remain in Valinor forever…or they would be separated for…Manwë only knew how long.  Nay, she could not stay in Valinor.  She knew this.  Although he appeared to have forgotten it, she had not been deaf to his confidences.  His heart was in Alqualondë, not Middle Earth.  She could never in good conscience force him from here with anything less but his heartfelt acquiescence.  And of leaving behind the one to whom she had pledged her heart…no.  That she could never do.  Could he not see?  Could he not understand?  Nay, he merely stared at her stupidly while she struggled to get her thoughts in order.  “I am not Teleri,” she finally blurted.

     It came out all wrong, and his expression told her it was definitely taken wrong.  “You do think me unworthy.”

      “Celeborn, no, I—”

      “You have your eye on some other prize, perhaps?” he asked coldly.

      “Stop it!” she cried, dashing the back of her hand across her face.  “You mistake my meaning.”  She swallowed, a little frightened by the steely glint in his gray eyes.  She had never seen such a look in the gentle Teleri’s gaze before.  “I do not intend to stay here forever.  I must go back to Valmar, and in time, I will go to Middle Earth.  I know your thoughts on that subject, kinsman, how could I ask you to go with me?”

     Celeborn looked as though she had insulted him.  “You truly mean to rebel?”

      “Nay, not rebel!”

      “What do you call defying the will of the Valar?  Will you count yourself as somehow righteous, allying yourself with Fëanor and his ilk?”

     The angry words struck her like blows, and she felt naught but rage.  How dare he compare her to Fëanor?  She intended to seek the Valar’s permission, but of course Celeborn clearly cared not for that.  She no longer wanted to argue with him.  Turning on her heel, she stalked toward the edge of the low, sandstone cliff, and attempted thrice to scale it before giving up and sitting at its base.  He did not come to her aid.  Artanis sat with her back to him so he could not see her furious tears, until at last the calls of the elves sent searching for them reached her. 

     She and Celeborn, keeping careful distance from each other, shouted back, and soon Lord Olwë’s searchers lowered ropes to lift them to the top.  As soon as she reached the others, Artanis lingered only long enough to embrace her alarmed mother and brother, Angrod, then rushed frantically all the way back to the dwelling of Olwë. 

     When asked by his kindred what had befallen them, Celeborn said only that the cygnet had gone down in the squall and they had swum to shore, then went himself back quietly to his own house.  When Nandeloss remarked the next day that the daughter of Finarfin had departed but a few hours later to rejoin her kinsmen in Valmar, Celeborn said only, “I wish them well of her.  And may she find greater pleasures in Fëanor’s gems than the feeble boats of the Teleri.”

To Be Continued…

Next time:  Siiigh, somehow I just didn’t see it as being easy for our Nerwen to fall in love.  But there’s trouble stirring in Tirion too, as King Finwë has called his councilors together to deal with a dispute between Fëanor and Fingolfin…and we all know how that turns out!

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