A/N: More useful information. “Cousin” is used throughout this story even when the relationship is second cousin once removed. And we can safely say that Galadriel and her father, Finarfin, are related to almost everybody here, one side or the other of their branched family tree!

3. Pleasant encounters.

In which Celeborn endures more kingly conversation and the Vanyarin heir wishes he were back home.

“… And I have no other choice left but to agree with my daughter’s desire to remain in Middle-earth...” Finarfin was explaining their conversation to a politely interested Celeborn while Galadriel could not hide her amusement. “A beautiful hideout you have here, Celeborn,” he added in a friendly tone.

Celeborn rolled his eyes mentally. Why everybody feels the need to assume that I am the one doing the hiding, here? he roared inwardly.

“Oh,” he answered with a brightly false smile, “it’s a very popular place, my Lord, no one could ever dream of hiding here!“ At least he was being truthful, he thought.

“Maybe that’s why the trees feel so uneasy...” the king said worriedly. “We felt their mood change many times, didn’t we, Arta…Galad…daughter?” he finally settled for an uncompromising form of address.

“I wasn’t paying attention, Atar,” she lied unabashedly, while she carefully studied her husband’s face, trying to discern the reason behind his obvious efforts to remain composed. “Shall we go back, now?” she added, putting a hand through an arm of each of her companions and urging them down the same path Ereinion had taken short before.

“I told my Atar that you would be pleased to enlighten him about the lands and the peoples, my lord,” Galadriel smiled charmingly at her husband, “he worries that we are facing unknown dangers, and that the Sindar and the Wood elves shall resent my presence…” Her eyes were laughing merrily, and Celeborn’s glare held a promise of sweet retaliation, as he searched for the most uncompromising answer.

“There’s no need for such worries, my lord,” he started, and then stopped abruptly even before Galadriel tugged at his arm.

They had come out of the forest and up the small hill, in time to see the King of the Exiles wielding a branch as a makeshift staff and sparring with an elf armed with a quarterstaff, both surrounded by a cheering crow.

They watched in silence, each furiously searching for something polite to say that would not give away their obvious preferences too clearly, when Círdan arrived and tried to put an end to such unbecoming display.

“Ouch!” the High King of the Noldor winced in sympathy when Oropher hit Ereinion and Celeborn grimaced, cursing the vehement Sinda inwardly. “That wasn’t fair,” Finarfin muttered, almost to himself.

“Look, my love!“ Galadriel chimed in a falsely mellow voice, seeing the dwarf looming over Oropher, “your kinsman seems to have made a new friend!” she laughed out heartily as Celeborn felt an overwhelming urge to gag her and pack her back to Nenuial. Finarfin was serious, his grey eyes focused on him appraisingly.

“Was it common entertainment in Elwë’s court to hit the King while he was unawares, Lord Celeborn?” he asked, his tone deceptively smooth.

Celeborn inhaled deeply, wondering what would escape his lips once he exhaled, but his father-in-law saved them all from learning. “No,” he pressed on, waving his long hand in dismissal, “I guessed it wouldn’t.” And in one fluid movement, Finarfin disentangled himself from his daughter’s arm and started down the hill with long, elegant strides.

Celeborn could have sworn that he had made no noise or signal, but somehow the crowd became aware of his presence and parted silently to let him pass. Elrond was already kneeling beside Ereinion, Celeborn noted with a hint of displeasure, and Finarfin made a sign to his guards, who hurried to pick the unconscious king up and carry him away form the field, Elrond on tow. Then, sparing a moment to glare exquisitely at Oropher, he turned back to the edge of the forest where Celeborn and Galadriel watched the scene.

”I’ll speak now with Lord Celeborn, if he can spare the time,” he addressed his daughter sternly, and, to Celeborn’s utter amazement, she curtsied obediently in front of her father and took her leave from them, squeezing his hand briefly in support and disappearing from sight at a brisk pace towards their own corner of the camp.

***

High Prince Ingil Ingwion was having a bad day.

In fact, he had started having bad days, an unusual occurrence for the prince of the Vanyar, since he had embarked in that thrilling adventure, or so it seemed back then in Valinor.

The noble purpose, the fanfare and the glory of the army of the West, sent by the Valar to free the enslaved elves and lands of Middle Earth from the power of Melko, had lost most of its brilliance when hardly the first half of the passage had been accomplished, and the Teleri and the Noldor began remonstrating with each other about deeds past and lies already forgotten, or so he had thought.

Then, right before arriving, Eonwë had started acting as High Commander of all the Armies, which meant he issued commands and the rest were to follow.

To make matters worse, as soon as they had set foot upon the shores of Middle Earth, he had started fighting those awful creatures the likes of which he had never dared to dream of.

Only to discover that they were part of a host of the Edain, their allies, poorly fed, poorly dressed, poorly armed, but ready to fight.

Fortunately, none had been killed, for the Vanyarin host, in their eagerness, had disembarked without their weapons, and so the injuries inflicted to the edain had been incapacitating but not deathly.

After a short -but effective- briefing, they had been ready to plunge into action with a clearer picture in mind of what the enemy looked like -something Ingil privately thought that would have been better done while aboard, if only to save him from the endless discussions between Finarfin and Olvárin, Olwë’s son, and from the embarrassment of attacking their allies upon arriving- only to find that there were miles without end to walk before engaging Morgoth’s host, because nobody had thought of carrying horses on board.

Thankfully, the exiles had horses, descended from those brought there by Fëanáro himself, and he was relieved to see that at least part of his troops would be ready for mounted combat. But that fortunate circumstance, too, had been turned into bitter argument, once he had the tactless idea of praising Fëanáro for his foresight aloud.

Ingil shook his head with regret while he picked his way carefully along the path that led to the less crowded area of the encampment, to fulfil a promise he had foolishly made short before. In those long months in Middle-earth, he thought, he had learnt many things, improbable, as such occurrence had seemed back home.

But life moved so fast here that one had to be always alert, or run the risk of missing something important, or saying something unbecoming.

Death had been one of those things.

When he had first heard of “the gift of men”, he had hardly understood what it meant. After another embarrassing comment, he had alternatively wondered and raged that they could even joke about that, that they would accept death with such apparent easiness, that they would be ready to offer their short, mortal lives with such humble courage while he was overwhelmed by grief every time he thought of the sixty-seven Vanyarin warriors that had been sent to Mandos' care in that war.

Middle-earth was so disconcerting, he thought as he reached his destination, a wide tent that stood apart from the rest of the camp, upon a small hill, surrounded by trees and enjoying a good view of the harbour and the makeshift shipyards, where the edain busied to build up a fleet that would carry them west to only the Valar knew where. The guards, clad in green and armed with lethal long bows, bowed to him with respect and something akin to awe, the same look he had seen directed towards Eonwë’s army.

“I’m so glad that we finally got to meet this side of the dividing waters, cousin Ingil!”(1) a familiar voice brought him out of his musings, and he smiled at the golden lady that bowed to him with an expectant grin upon her fair face.

“My dear cousin Artanis…” he returned the bow and then, breaking with protocol, he lifted her by her waist and whirled her around, as he had done a life ago in Valinor, when she was but just the youngest of his Noldor relatives, “or should I say Galadriel? I really like your new name, it just…fits you so well!”

“I’m glad you like it” she said, still laughing like the young maiden she had once been, ”I have just seen my Atar choking to avoid saying it...”

“Oh,” he laughed. “But I would be the same, were you my only daughter and were I to discover that you had married a foreigner as soon as I couldn’t see you…I can understand your Atar pretty well, my dear Galadriel!” His silvery voice made her epéssë sound even more precious, she thought with undisguised pleasure.

“Did you marry, Ingil? Are you a father?” considering his words, her curiosity was piqued, now, so the Vanyarin heir proffered his arm. “Come walk with me, cousin, and I’ll tell you everything!”

***

 “We’ve been told that there are wide lands to the East, and great forests, this and the other side of the Misty Mountains, beyond the legendary city of the Dwarves and also to the North…”

Celeborn and Finarfin were sitting on tree logs in a quiet corner of the Valinorean elves’ camp. One of the king’s aides had brought them goblets of wine and had been sent to bring a message to Ereinion. Finarfin listened to him intently, with his piercing grey eyes fixed on Celeborn, and made no questions, but seemed to miss little.

“We know, too, that there are many colonies of elves who forsook the great March down to the south, beyond the Hithaeglir,” Celeborn continued. He was used to that. Elu, too, used to stare at him while he reported, and his mind, he knew, was bound to be somewhere else, stepping from Celeborn’s words unto unchartered territories. He supposed it was the same with the King of the Noldor. “They seldom travel west, but some have been known to do so, years ago, in search of their lost kin. Some are now dwelling with us in Nenuial, and would be willing to return east.“

Finarfin sighed and extended his long legs. “And you, Lord Celeborn? What would you be willing to do?” he asked kindly, although the intent look in his bright eyes told Celeborn that this was not a simple question.

I’ll think about that once you’re all packed in your ships and well on your way back home, he thought grimly, regretting that was not a suitable answer. He sighed in deeply. “There’s a lot to do,” he said instead, “there are pressing needs now, for those who remain…”

“So you’re remaining, too.”

“Yes, my lord, I understand that your daughter already informed you…”

“She told me that she intended to remain in Middle-earth. I wanted to know if that, too, is your wish.”

Something in Finarfin’s voice made Celeborn consider his next step carefully. He was not questioning him out of kindness or just polite interest in his feelings. There was something else deep there, but for the life of him, he could not even fathom what it could be.

“I think so, my lord.”

“You think so?” there was a hint of amusement in the king’s words, almost incredulity, but it disappeared as fast as it had showed. “Where do you intend to settle down?”

“I…we… we’ve been…living in Nenuial…” Celeborn felt a bit unsettled by this questioning. They had not yet discussed that, not in terms of where are we going to live for the rest of our lives? It wasn’t thus, between them, not since the fall of Doriath and the almost unspoken agreement that great things were on the move. They knew that they were needed here now, but that did not mean they would remain forever.

“Will you claim lordship over those elves, perhaps?”

“Those elves, as you call them, bow to no lordship that I could claim, my lord,” he answered a bit stiffly. “We have been welcome among them, and we have been helping them.”

“I see. Shall I take it that you’ll pledge your faith to Ereinion and stay here, then?“

“We haven’t discussed that, yet,” he said, more stiffly than before, if that was possible. Finarfin had reached his point, he suddenly knew, and he didn’t like it at all.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and seemed to extend to their surroundings, for suddenly Celeborn was aware that not a voice, not a leave rustling in the wind, not a bird chirping Arien goodnight could be heard. Only the endless roll of Belegaer served now as a monotonous backdrop for an unnerving conversation.

“Have you ever considered sailing West, Celeborn?”

Finarfin was changing tactics, Celeborn observed warily. Or rather was circling around a different target, he thought, for his attitude had not changed. He was kind but firm, polite and yet demanding, in that soft manner of his he was beginning to be familiar with. It reminded him of Melian, and the way she would force him to turn his soul inside out and find the truths that he did not even know he was hiding there. Only honesty served then, and sometimes the queen had learnt a bit or two about herself when she least expected.

“No, my lord. What would be there for me that cannot be found here?”

Finarfin remained impassive at this bold statement. He must have guessed I would say something like that, Celeborn thought.

“I’m told that there are great and unexplored forests in Eressëa. I haven’t visited the isle myself, but my father-in-law knows it thoroughly, and always speaks with great delight about the forests of Tavrobel. You could claim a lordship there, Celeborn, as Olwë’s kinsman (2). Besides, I’m told that your queen resides now in the gardens of Lórien. I suppose she would be glad to have you near…” Finarfin finally suggested in his low, soft voice. “And your wife would be close to her parents and her relatives after such long suffering… and she would enjoy the respect and consideration that she deserves…”

Celeborn felt it was time to feel insulted, and he stood up with slow, deliberate movements, towering above the king.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” he growled, and then, “My lord?”

Finarfin shrugged, apparently not impressed by his scowl. “I’m trying to decide what is best for my daughter. I want to know where she will dwell, and what safety and comfort she’ll enjoy, and you cannot offer me a satisfactory answer to that, so yes, you could say that I’m trying to bribe the two of you into safety,” he admitted unabashedly, but in his characteristically even tone.

Celeborn crossed his arms upon his chest and glared in his most menacing manner. He was enraged at that elf, as he was at all his race, actually, for their air of superiority, their faith in their own knowledge and the calm and easiness with which they seemed to order life around them, or rather expect that life would order itself to accommodate even the lesser of their whims.

“So, you consider that I’m unfit to take care of your daughter,” he said, anger plain in his, until now controlled, voice.

Finarfin leaned forth, resting his forearms upon his thighs and toying with the empty goblet in his long, pale hands, not meeting Celeborn’s eyes. They stayed in silence again for a moment, and then the king spoke.

“These lands have already cost me four sons, Lord Celeborn,” he said softly, “so do not dare blame me for trying everything within my reach to protect my only daughter… and bring her back home to her mother,” he said in a hoarse whisper, raising his gaze to meet Celeborn’s with eyes that suddenly reminded him of Elu’s when he finally understood that he had lost Lúthien, not to Mandos’ Halls but beyond. It was a look of unbearable, hopeless grief, and all of Celeborn’s anger dissolved in front of that pained countenance, as memories of the four lively, kind and noble elves danced before his eyes. He sighed deeply, knowing that love hurt deeper than any sword, and crouched beside the king.

“It is not me whom you must convince, my lord,” he said softly. “She has already made her decision. I can only promise that I shall guard her with my life…”

Finarfin smiled sadly at him. “See that you do, young one “ he tried to joke. “You’re her husband, after all...”

Celeborn nodded at that, and risked offering an unwanted piece of advice. “Tell her, my lord. Tell her that you worry. That won’t make her change her mind... but… it may help her understand you better.”

Finarfin looked at him, and Celeborn shuddered again, pierced by those ancient, wise eyes that held the same raw pain any of his own people would feel at the loss of their beloved. We all grieve, he thought, Sindar and Noldor alike, we grieve for the marring of Arda, deep in our very faer, and suddenly that knowledge became admission, and the dams of pride and diffidence were overflowed by understanding and compassion, the gift of the wise.

“What am I going to tell her mother?” Finarfin whispered, almost to himself. “Five children we saw depart, and none shall return to us…” There was such despair in the fair voice that Celeborn was moved beyond tears, picturing for the first time the tragedy of those who had remained.

“She’ll be back. I promise, my lord. Tell her mother that one day she’ll be back,” he whispered hoarsely, with a sympathy he had never expected to feel.

“And you, Lord Celeborn?” Finarfin asked him softly, tilting his head slightly to look at him. “Will you be ready to depart when her time comes?”

Celeborn narrowed his eyes at the question, as a vision of a white ship and a sharp sense of loss speared him through, leaving him breathless. He sat back upon his heels, holding the king’s knowing gaze, unable to speak.

And then his compassion was returned to him, in the form of a kind hand that supported him through his vision, and a sad voice that caressed his newly open wound with a firm promise. ”You, too, will know the pain of parting, and will rejoice in the reunion,” the king whispered in a voice full of sorrow and pity., “For reunion there shall be, Celeborn, as one day, you too shall find your way into the West.”

And thus the gap was abridged and the wound began to heal, as the two elves sat there, in the quiet sunset, sharing a grief that was older than the sun and that would last longer than any of them had ever expected.

***

 “…But, fortunately, Lord Oromë stormed in and caught them in the midst of it all, and they were so frightened that they willingly remained within your aunt Findis’ (3) garden walls for the next turns of the moon,” Ingil smiled, putting an end to another tale of elflings’ misdeeds in Valinor. Galadriel had laughed out heartily at it, and seemed thrilled to hear that her aunt had finally married and had been blessed with three adventurous little maidens.

“Grandmother Indis must be so pleased with these new additions to the family,” she whispered, remembering the tall, blond and kind lady, with her gentle blue eyes and her winsome smile, the same Finrod had inherited and made use of with his proverbial generosity.

“She is,” Ingil conceded carefully, guiding his cousin to a fallen trunk in the midst of the path and sitting by her side. “Although I bet she would be greatly pleased to see you back, too,” he added softly, risking a cautious look at his temperamental cousin.

“And your children, Ingil, are they so adventurous? I can swear I never heard a tale of you as a mischievous elfling,” she added, pretending a lightness that was deserting her only too clearly.

“Galadriel…”

“What do you want from me?” she snapped, turning to face him, her eyes alight with a fire that was still sung of in Valmar.

“I just wished that you would consider returning with us,” he said simply.

“My Atar asked you to try to convince me,” she growled in accusation.

“Well, yes, he did, we’re cousins, and I too would love to have you back home, Artanis, is that so wrong?” he demanded, his tone sterner at the look of distaste that was plainly written upon her fair face. “Your ammë will be distraught that none of her children are returning,” he whispered softly, “and there’s nothing here for you, Galadriel…”

She shook her head in disbelief, and turned her glance towards the sea, a bitter smile dancing upon her lips.

“Why do you think that we came here in the first place, Ingil?” she asked abruptly after a long silence.

He was wise enough not to offer an answer.

“We had dreams, of lands that we could explore and order, of new things that we could see and learn...” she continued in a wistful tone. “You don’t know what the lands may hold, what wonders, what races, how many of our forgotten kin still dwell in the forests to the east… where your father once awoke under the stars…”

“Do you want a kingdom, then?” he dared in his soft, calming voice.

“Would it be so unbecoming?” She pierced him with her bright eyes, a mocking smile upon her face. “Am I not the granddaughter of Finwë?” She waited for a moment, and he held her gaze without flinching, a deed few could boast.

“No,” she continued, “I do not care for a kingdom. A king is tied to his people, his land and his duty. My claim is wider. I want to travel far and see the lands, and help preserve what may be preserved of the beauty of the days past, and strengthen the peoples that evil shall not again grow among us, and see Middle-earth become a place of beauty as Eru intended for it to be, before the time of the firstborn comes to an end.”

“That’s a worthy endeavour, Galadriel,” he acknowledged seriously, “even if self-appointed…”

“And yet, you want me to bow my head and pretend there’s everything waiting for me in that island?” she replied, trying to keep scorn and anger from her voice.

“Forgive me for intruding, cousin,” a deep, rich voice chimed in, as a tall, raven haired elf came out of the woods, clad in black, his eyes bright with the light of those who have seen the Trees. A brief look at Galadriel’s tense demeanour and tight lips was enough for Ingil to recognize the only fëanorian in camp. “I could not help overhearing your conversation,“ he offered with a provoking smile, “while I was busy there,” he added, pointing towards the forest.

“You may, or may not remember my half-cousin Curufinwë’s son, Ingil,” Galadriel said tersely. “He needs no other introduction, I deem.”

“We met in the battlefield, yes,” Ingil answered cautiously. “Well met again, Lord Celebrimbor,” he added, bowing to the newcomer, who stood tall and proud and defiant. The Noldo nodded briefly in his general direction, eyes locked with his half-cousin’s.

Ingil sighed inwardly, bracing for what promised to be yet another family row.

“So, I understand that you are not to return to the Blessed Realm”, Celebrimbor said, his tone surprisingly soft.

“I won’t submit to an eternity of pinning in a lonely island, whose native land was Aman the blessed,” she proclaimed, making Ingil flinch at the proud tone of her words. “I, unlike you, Celebrimbor Curufinwion, made no wrong that I should ask the pardon of the Valar and endure their punishment.” (4)

A small smile played upon the smith’s thin lips. “As you say, my wise cousin, my reasons are different, yet I approve and rejoice of your choice, which is mine, too. Maybe now we’ll be free to pursue our deepest aims…” he said in his pleasant voice.

“Well, yes, at least you’ve been freed from your main target”, she spat venomously, and Ingil readied to intervene, seeing how Celebrimbor recoiled from the blow, wincing as if she had physically hit him.

“Eressëa is such a beautiful place,“ Ingil chimed in, trying to ease the tension, “I think it would be wise if both of you would reconsider…”

“No!”

“Never!”

Both cousins turned their angry glares against him and Ingil shrugged, raising his hands with his palms up. “I see,“ he managed, and suddenly a deep longing for his calm, ordered and peaceful home almost overwhelmed him. What am I doing here? he wondered, “I will not insist,” he added aloud. “It’s getting late, Galadriel, and your Atar expects us for dinner at Arien’s setting,” he said, proffering his arm.

“Go ahead,” she said to his utter amazement. “I want to have a word with Celebrimbor.” And taking the fëanorian’s arm, she turned her back on Ingil and started walking toward the forest.

Enough! That’s the end of it! That serves you well, Ingil, you fool, why did you accept to convince her on the first place? You know she’s as stubborn as Olwë, these Finwions are all mad, they’ve always been, and your father warned you against them! The disconcerted prince made his way back to Finarfin’s camp with long, angered strides, berating himself soundly for what had just happened. But tomorrow I’ll urge Arafinwë and we’ll depart with the first tide, or as soon as I manage to get my people on board. Olvárin is chafing and won’t pose any problem, and Arafinwë may remain with his stubborn daughter and her obdurate cousins if he likes, but for the Lady’s sake, I’ll depart soon or I’ll be driven insane, too… Not even the prospect of a tasty dinner could improve his darkened mood, least of all the cheerful voice that welcomed him into his cousin’s camp.

“Greetings, Ingil, do not tell me that you managed to lose my daughter!”

Ingil closed his eyes and prayed to Manwë that an eagle picked him up and flew him back to Valmar all of a sudden. It had worked for Findekáno, they said.

TBC

Notes:

(1) Indis, (Finwë’s second wife) was a close relative of Ingwë’s, the King of the Vanyar (his sister, in some writings) so Finarfin and his children were, too, related to Ingil.

(2) The Silm says that Celeborn was Thingol’s (Elwë’s) kinsman. So, he had to be Olwë’s too.

(3) Findis was Finwë and Indis’ first child, eldest sister of Finarfin, and aunt of Galadriel.

(4) This paragraph is loosely quoted from U.T., The History of Celeborn and Galadriel)