ERNIL

Chapter 6 ~ Over the Mountains III

“So, tell me, Thranduil,” Celebrían inquired as they walked together through the open corridors of the palace, her arm still curled around his.  “What impression have you of Eregion thus far, and how does it compare to your Eryn Galen?”

“I may truthfully say that it has made quite a favorable impression on me,” Thranduil replied.  “There is much of Menegroth in it, and for that I believe I may credit your father.  As for a comparison to Lasgalen,” he went on, running his fingers over the pointed leaves of a potted plant as they passed, “there is not much of one.  You who were raised in this city of exalted stone would doubtless find our ways rather savage.”

Celebrían arched her brows incredulously.  “I have heard as much about your wood and the ways of your king,” she said, “but you certainly do not look like a rustic.”

“Perhaps not.  Lasgalen remains an enigma to those who have not lived it.  I find it is best to let it speak with its own voice.”

“That is what my brother says of his people in Lórinand,” Celebrían said.  “I have yet to see them, but he has told me so much about them that I believe I understand your meaning.  Will you make a great people of them, building new cities of renown in your wood?”

“What is made for the woodland is best left in it,” Thranduil replied.  “The Galennath have no taste for great cities.  Their concerns are their own.  We shall only refine them, not redirect them, and they will determine what they make of themselves.”

Eventually she turned him aside and led him onto an open lawn far above the rest of the city.  “You need not be long without green things beneath your feet,” she smiled, turning and clapping her hands for a ready servant.  “Two chairs, at once!”

“No need for that,” Thranduil assured her, countermanding her request.  “Do you never sit upon the grass, Celebrían?”  He folded his legs beneath him, just as comfortable there as he would have been in his throne in Oropher’s hall.  “Come.  I believe you will like it.”

She looked at him, bemused for a moment as though it had never occurred to her to do such a thing.  But then she obliged him, pulling aside the train of her gown and seating herself beside him.

“Already I begin to understand what you say of Lasgalen,” she observed wryly.  “Does King Oropher habitually reign from a seat upon the ground?”

Thranduil laughed.  “No, not always,” he said, “but the Galennath would think no less of him if he did.”

A falcon swept past the balcony, only to soar skyward a moment later, probably a common sight in that city of stone.

“Now you tell me, Celebrían,” Thranduil said, beginning an inquiry of his own.  “How has the general consensus of Eregion informed your opinion of me before today?”  His wry grin told her he did not fear the truth.

She returned the expression.  “I trust you may guess what they say without being too far wrong.  But for myself, I reserved my judgment.  My brother has always spoken well of you, so I assumed the Oropherionnath could not be so crass as some would have it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Thranduil smiled, gently falling back to lie in the grass.  “I am sure the same may be said of the opinion of Eregion throughout the Wood.”

He paused a moment, his mind wandering away as he considered this new cousin of his.  Her eyes were a cool gray, bright and clear as she returned his steady gaze.  She was everything he would have expected of a daughter of Galadriel, but he had the satisfaction of seeing that superlative Western beauty remade in the form of her father.  Then he hitched himself up on his elbow.  “What of your father, Celebrían?” he asked earnestly, Oropher’s harsh words returning to him.  “What has he to say?”

Celebrían seemed to appreciate the significance of the question, and her smile faded.  “Father does not speak of it,” she said simply.  “I believe the matter saddens him a great deal.  But I do not think he will regret your coming here,” she added encouragingly.

“Certainly not,” came another voice from behind them.  “And nor will I.”

Celebrían’s smile returned, as bright as before.  “Ah, Lord Gildor!  Thranduil, may I present Lord Gildor Inglorion, one of my mother’s kinsmen.”

Thranduil returned to his feet.  The august Noldorin lord who had joined them on the lawn was an impressive figure, his thick golden hair tied loosely behind his shoulders.

“Good day, my lady,” he greeted Celebrían with an easy smile, closing the distance between them in a few strides.  “And you must be Thranduil,” he said, bowing slightly as a lord ought when greeting a prince.  “I have long wanted to meet you, my lord.”

Thranduil was momentarily at a loss, unable to make any immediate reply.  “You have wanted to meet me?” he asked at last with some measure of disbelief.  He had not thought he or his family would be the object of any great interest to the great lords of the Noldor, especially not after Oropher’s very public rebuff.

Gildor laughed.  “Yes, Oropherion, I have.  The tale of your family intrigues me, you as an individual not least of all.  Do you intend to stay long with us?”

“I would not wish to overstay my welcome,” Thranduil answered, purposefully vague.  “If the weather holds me, I may perhaps winter here.”

“At least,” Gildor insisted.  “I would have you longer than that, but perhaps your father has need of you?”

Thranduil nodded.  “I expect so.  It was only with his reluctant blessing that I came at all.”

The golden lord seemed to realize the full implications of the statement.  “I thought as much.  But let us not speak of your leaving; you have only just arrived!  And not a day too soon.  I trust Celebrían has informed you of the occasion this evening.”

“Her brother invited me.”

“And you will honor us with your presence, Prince Oropherion?  Oh, you must!” Gildor insisted, detecting a hint of hesitation.  Have no fear of looking out of place; you may borrow whatever you like from me.  I could not abide the thought of so distinguished a guest sitting alone in his room during one of the city’s highest feasts.”

Thranduil could not help but smile.  Gildor’s enthusiasm was irresistible, and in any case he seemed ready to command him to make an appearance and enjoy himself.  “Of course, I will come,” he said.  “How could I refuse?”

An hour later, Thranduil returned to his quarters, new clothes draped over his arm courtesy of Gildor.  A few comfortable hours remained before the festivities officially began.  That was time enough to change and adopt his official persona.

“Gwaelas,” he called, knowing his woodland companion was lurking about somewhere.  He was rewarded by his appearance in the doorway.  That one’s tread, already silent over brush, was imperceptible over stone.  “There you are, my friend.  Come, we have a celebration to attend.”

In no hurry, Thranduil donned Gildor’s ensemble.  It was much finer than anything Lasgalen could currently offer.  Gildor had searched his wardrobe for something suitable in green and brown to gratify Thranduil’s preferences, but they had compromised on a combination of deep green and red.  The robes almost reached the floor, falling in a jaunty cascade from his shoulders, but they did not restrict his movement at all.  They would also have politely concealed the dagger at the back of his belt had he chosen to wear it, but for once he deemed it would be better left behind.

“You do not seem especially eager, Gwaelas,” he observed dryly as the other handed him his silver crown.

“I must confess I am not, my lord.”

Thranduil turned to him, momentarily concerned.  “What troubles you?”

Gwaelas merely shook his head.  “I cannot acclimate myself to cities of stone, my lord.  And the thought of a crowd of enormous Noldorin lords is more than a bit daunting to me.  But I will follow if you command me.”

“You know I would not,” Thranduil assured him.  He truly did not enjoy trying Gwaelas’ endurance beyond reason.  Any of the Galennath would be beyond their element here.  Besides, it had been a long journey over the mountains.  “You may stay here if you wish.  A restful night will do you good.”

“But, my lord—”

“I will hear no more of it,” Thranduil insisted gently.  “To bed with you.”

Gwaelas nodded, obviously relieved despite his objection.  Thranduil turned back to his image in the mirror as his companion slipped away into the shadows, feeling strangely ambivalent towards the whole event.  He neither especially anticipated nor dreaded the occasion, a compromise he suspected to be the result of two strong sentiments in perfect opposition to one another.  He could understand Gwaelas’ reluctance to mingle in a foreign crowd by which he was, at best, mistrusted.  However, Celebrían had already won his heart and Gildor his friendship.  He looked forward to rejoining them as much as he wished to avoid Celebrimbor and the Dwarf-friends.  There was probably no separating one from the other and he might as well make the best of it.

The enormous hall where all the lords gathered was already milling with an impressive gathering when he arrived, mingling and dancing in a swirl of constant motion.  The walls were elaborately festooned with the heraldry of many houses, and the air was full of music.  Thranduil slipped in quietly, drawing no special attention to himself.

Despite the disparity of culture, he was determined to enjoy the evening.  Yet he could not seem to dismiss the slight but persistent discomfort growing deep within him.  He was unable to identify the cause, but it was akin to the instinctive revulsion he suffered in the presence of deliberate kinslayers.  He had not experienced it for many years, and he attributed it now to the general unfamiliarity of the city and its inhabitants.  It would doubtless leave him as he grew more accustomed to the setting.

It was not long before Celeborn and Galadriel made their formal entry with Amroth and Celebrían, but the festivities were not delayed long for the purpose.  Other great lords were arriving every few moments.  Thranduil still did not proclaim himself, but he saw Celeborn’s eyes deliberately seeking him out.  A nod was all they exchanged for the moment.  The time to speak would come later.

Thranduil preferred that time to be not long delayed.  There were a great many things he wanted to discuss with Celeborn while he remained in Eregion, but he must first establish the terms of his visit.  As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he negotiated his way through the crowd and approached him over a table laden with beautifully garnished morsels of food.

“Good evening, cousin,” he began in a low but pleasant voice to be heard over the timbre of the entertainment.

Celeborn, in his gray and blue, did not appear to have been changed at all by the centuries that had passed since last they had met.  He hardly looked up, continuing to fill his plate with fruit.  “Good evening, Thranduil,” he said at last.  No smile touched his lips, but a subtle gleam in his eye betrayed his kindred affection.  “I trust Eregion has received you well.”

“Quite,” Thranduil answered.  For a moment they just looked at one another.  Doriath would never be completely banished between them.  Even now there was a twinge of vivid memory as their eyes met beneath the crowns of two very different realms, the foundation of the kindred friendship which was frayed to a single unbreakable thread.

“Good,” Celeborn replied in blunt approval, breaking the spell and turning back to his food.  “That is more than I can say for the guests I sent to your father.”

Thranduil grimaced, recognizing the sharp irony in the elder lord’s tone.  “For that I truly have no excuse,” he said.  “But I cannot adequately apologize, for I had little part in that affair.”

“The most generous one of them admitted that you might not have shared your father’s decided position,” Celeborn informed him with a shade of a smile, “but since you said nothing to that effect in their presence, none of the others were inclined to share his opinion.  I am surprised that you were brazen enough to follow them after that incident, and indeed that Oropher would allow it.”

“I did not want you to surmise that we had all disowned you,” Thranduil said dryly, filling a plate of his own.  “Father gave me leave to go, but only because I demanded it.”

Celeborn seemed to understand the guarded emphasis of the first statement, and he stopped a moment, his expression distant and rather pained.  But only for a moment.  “I shall not lie to you, Thranduil,” he said, “if I say that I am often driven to imagine how Eryn Galen would fare better beneath your hand.  Oropher can be rather wanton in the exercise of his own power.”

Thranduil said nothing for a time, but could not help smiling to himself as he considered how calmly Celeborn made his crushing statement.  That he even admitted such unbecoming thoughts said much about his own frustration.  Ironically, the similarities shared by the two cousins were still evident; Thranduil had known Celeborn himself to be quick to judge, slow to be reconciled.  Neither one had ever ceased to criticize his own faults in the other.  Celeborn, however, seemed to have his own failings well in hand.  The exercise of sovereignty had made Celeborn cautious, as Thranduil feared it had made his father capricious.  After so many years of almost absolute rule, Oropher was admittedly a bit drunk on it.  Perhaps the difference between them lay in the particular setting.  Oropher was unchallenged in his position, the woodland Elves rather in awe of him.  What did Celeborn face in Ost-in-Edhil?

“Do not live hoping to see me rule,” Thranduil advised, good-humoredly.  “Father seems quite content where he is, and though he tries me at times, I am not driven to leave him.”

“Amroth has decided at last to leave us for the trees.”

“So he told me.”  Thranduil frowned a bit.  “I wonder that I had not heard of his work on our side of the mountains before this.  I had not thought our realm was so introverted as that.”

“Let it remain so, if you wish to live a quiet life,” Celeborn advised wryly.  “The less Oropher knows of his neighbors, the more content he will be.”  He paused for a long moment, looking at Thranduil distantly, even wistfully, but his thoughts remained his own.  “A pity,” he said at last, shaking his head.  But then he returned his attention to his food.

Thranduil could not decide whether Celeborn meant Oropher’s isolation, the fact that his more amiable cousin would never be king in Greenwood, or both.  He did not ask.  Indeed, Celebrían took his arm before could.

“Come, Thranduil,” she smiled.  “You must not allow Father to monopolize you while you are with us.  There will be other occasions for gloomy talk.  Tonight you must both forget such things and enjoy life.”

Now a genuine smile did illuminate Celeborn’s grave features.  “Life always feels so much lighter on the young,” he said.  “Let her rejuvenate you, Thranduil.  You are not quite so far gone as I.”

And without further debate Celebrían claimed him as her own for the duration of the evening.

She said it would be insufferable of him to pass the night without dancing at least once with her.  Almost an hour later she was still in his arms, though the time passed without notice.  The group dances had broken up into individual couples once more, an arrangement which facilitated easier conversation.  So far as Thranduil could determine, Celebrían seemed quite taken with him, but in a healthy way.  He was very pleased with her himself, his good opinion strengthened by every moment spent in her presence.  As with Amroth before her, he was determined to make the most of his rare opportunity to meet with the younger members of his generation. 

“I must say, I am pleasantly surprised by you, Thranduil,” she said at last.  “So honest and so sincere.  A more selfless lord I have seldom met, who doubtless has no interest in the courtly frivolities which abound here.”

“Oh, do not mistake me, Celebrían,” he smiled, mildly amused.  “I am dreadfully selfish and I take pleasure in many frivolous things.  Doubtless, when you truly know me you will not like me so well.”

“Oh, doubtless,” she agreed, all in good humor.  For a moment she lay her jeweled head against his shoulder, perfectly content.  Well-accustomed to playing the part of the elder brother, Thranduil did not mind in the least.  He looked up to see Amroth beaming at them from the crowd.  He smiled back, grateful that at least the three of them could get along peaceably together.  Despite their almost blissful existence in Eryn Galen, he could not help feeling alienated from some fundamental part of himself while they remained sundered from the nearest living branch of their old house.

The softer music ceased, drowned in a new dramatic fanfare announcing the late arrival of some other noteworthy name of the city.  Thranduil gave Celebrían his arm and led her from the floor, taking little notice.  Everyone else seemed to at least look up to observe this new entry, many celebrating it enthusiastically.  Such lofty sentiments, however, were not unanimous among those gathered in the hall.  Celeborn had stiffened where he stood, his face like a frozen winter morning.  Thranduil looked for himself, critically appraising the mysterious figure and his entourage.

“Who is he?” he asked Celebrían, keeping his voice low.

“That is Annatar,” Gildor answered for her, standing behind them, “one it would be well worth your time to meet.  He has honed the skills of the Mírdain here as no others east of the sea.”

“I should have expected he came bearing gifts, considering his epithet,” Thranduil observed, instinctively suspicious.  “Is that his true name?”

“If he has another, he has reserved it to himself,” Gildor answered, “as is best.”

Thranduil was not satisfied with that cryptic statement, but he silenced his questions for the moment to form his own first impressions.  This Annatar was an incredibly handsome lord, pale and fair and to all appearances Noldorin, meeting the favored Mírdain with gracious smiles as he moved catlike through the crowd.  The festivities resumed all around them, save for those caught within the captivating aura of Annatar’s presence.

Thranduil watched with a keen interest but also with great reservation.  But he froze when that piercing gaze fell upon him.  The uncomfortable twinge in the pit of his stomach flared ten-fold beneath the steady regard of those fathomless eyes, distant though they were.  The encounter lasted for only a single drawn moment, but with it came the distinct impression that Annatar already knew him for who he was and had deliberately taken his measure.

“He is gracious enough when it pleases him, but in truth he has an insufferable pride,” Celebrían was saying, rather indiscreetly.  

“My lady,” Gildor reprimanded her sternly.

“It is no secret to anyone,” she stubbornly insisted.  “You would not believe the contempt in which he holds your royal person, Thranduil, nor his disdain for your silvan realm.  Those who do not deal in jewelcraft are of no use to him.”

“Every lord holds his own prejudice,” Gildor reminded her, which was certainly true enough.  “But justice demands that one judge not by hearsay.  Many duties press him, Thranduil, yet I am sure you will make his acquaintance in good time.”

“I, too, my lord,” Thranduil concurred, yet not so robustly.  His attention was still drawn elsewhere.  That there would be another meeting he was certain, but he knew not whether to anticipate or to dread it.