9. Night fires.

In which Celeborn uncovers a plot or two, the Peredhil share their love for nature, Galadriel and Celebrimbor hold a serious conversation, a dwarf catches fire and the Lord of Waters pays his respects to Ingil Ingwion.

Midsummer's Eve.

The seabird hovered over the camp, executing daring loops, showing off her glistening feathers and her flying abilities, soaring high and then dipping recklessly down, nose first, until she frightened unsuspecting elves by grazing their heads or even their faces with her down feathers, before regaining height with a powerful flap of her wide wings.

She chose her targets carefully, though. Experience had taught her that silver-feathered elves were usually good-humoured and kind, and would laugh at her antics. Black-feathered ones, though, would either try to turn her into their next meal, or shrill angrily at her.

Golden ones, on the other side… ah! she thought wistfully, gliding elegantly across the summer sky, overseeing the camp in search of another prey. There were golden ones and her Golden One, the one she expected to see every day at sunset, as he lifted his featherless wings and started making those beautiful sounds that had enthralled her since the very first time. He was the reason why she cruised the camp every evening, returning early from sea and even humbling herself to plain pillaging, as a vulgar gull or other lesser people, in order to snatch a present worth of her chosen one.

However, she would never forgo a good chance for baiting a promising victim, and the silver-feathered one half-crouching behind a tent offered a challenging target,, too good to be missed, so she scanned the area carefully and decided to dip in and buzz under his legs in a first–time attempt at what had once almost cost one of her fellow fledglings his life when the elf happened to be standing before a huge stone.

Unfortunately, her elf straightened up and resumed walking before she could coordinate her exercise, and she hardly managed to avoid hitting him –or the ground- with a nervous flap of her wings. She tried to regain her dignity upon a tent pole, shrieking angrily, still shaking and with her feathers in complete state of disarray, while the silver-feathered elf advanced a few paces, only to find shelter again behind another tent.

This behaviour piqued the bird’s curiosity. Was he stalking some dainty she could snatch and offer to her beloved? She observed the elf carefully, studying his apparently aimless movements, following his hopping with short flights from tent pole to tent pole.

They were approaching a part of the camp she did not like, a place where many black-feathered elves lived in smoke-producing, small-sized stone mounds and where forest birds became less than welcoming. There were boundaries not even a daring, wild, young seabird should cross, not when there was a golden love waiting for her voice to answer his patient, daily courting.

An unexpected noise made her turn her head sharply, her amber eyes widening in surprise. The deep song of the wooden quays welcoming the fishing boats was something she did not anticipate hearing at that time of the day. Fishing boats sailed off well before dawn and returned with their fresh loads as the sun climbed the sky; that was how things went.

She hesitated for a moment.

The elf had reached one of those small stone mounds and was now leaning upon it, as if listening.

She made her mind in a split second, crouched slightly and then surged forward and upwards, spreading her mighty wings. In two powerful flaps she reached the stone building.

Her target was almost flat against it and she lost no time, crowning him with a generous dropping before gaining height and flying towards the harbour.

A freshly caught sardine swooped up from the boats recently arrived would be an extraordinary present. Maybe today her Golden One would eventually approach her after their singing.

***

As the conversation ended and the three elves and the dwarf parted ways, the blasted parchment conveniently rolled up and safely tucked under Elrond’s arm, Celeborn was hit by a paralysing doubt; should he follow Elrond and Erestor, and obtain the cursed parchment by force, or rather pursue the dwarf lord and the accursed Noldorin smith and try to find out what they were plotting?

Both activities were wholly unbecoming, so in the end he decided that he would feel less embarrassed standing trial for stalking the enemy than being charged for attacking kin and friends.

He hunted his prey carefully, crouching behind tents as Dwarf-lord and Noldorin smith stopped frequently to discuss a finer point. He followed them into the Fëanorian side of camp without flinching, set on discovering what they were hiding under Celebrimbor’s tightly held cloak and behind their conspiring smiles and suspicious winks.

They entered a huge stone workshop near the limit of the forest, and he stealthily approached its back wall, circling it slowly in search of a window or a small opening from which to peer inside. The door opened suddenly, and he flattened himself against the wall.

He almost froze, then, as he heard his wife’s musical voice.

“Never thought I would said that, but this time you’ve been truly kind, Celebrimbor,” she was saying. “I’m proud of you… and very grateful, too,“ she added in a huskier voice that made Celeborn cringe.

“My pleasure, as always, is to please you, my dearest cousin,“ the Fëanorian answered in his rich, suggestive voice, and Celeborn clenched his fists at his insolence.

“And you do it very well, I must say. Not a word about it, though, Cousin,” she said warningly, and throwing her cloak around her slender shoulders, she drifted away at a hurried pace.

Celeborn was still fighting his anger, and the urge to bang his head against the stone, when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder and made him turn.

“Well, well, well,“  the hated voice said amusedly, “look what we’ve got here! We did not expect you, Lord Celeborn! Please do come in and join us in our little project...” he said in a voice that wasn’t entirely menacing but not wholly reassuring.

That iron fist, hardened by ages of hammer wielding, pushed him effortlessly toward the open door.

“You’ll surely want to wash before explaining yourself, though,“ the fëanorian added with his languid scorn and an exquisite scowl, waving his hand as if trying to get rid of some disgusting substance while he pushed Celeborn inside his forge, not too kindly, and bolted the door.

*****

 “That’s all, my lords, thanks again, I believe we’re improving each passing day! Please enjoy and learn as much as you can. I’ve been told that Círdan’s people shall play tonight!” Ingil bowed to the group of warriors that joined him dutifully in their music practice every day at sunset.

“Shouldn’t we do something about prince Olvárin and his people?“

“What do you mean, Lindalewë?” Ingil asked curiously as they carefully gathered and packed their instruments, which were kept aboard instead of inside a hollow oak trunk that stood at the edge of the forest since they had once arrived to find them scattered away. They had missed sunset that day, and one or two hunting horns were still unaccounted for, so now the Vanyarin musicians took that simple-but tiresome- precaution against forest animals with musical tastes.

“Gag them, for instance, before they feel the need to show their kin how music is played! I, for one, would love to learn those fascinating Middle-earth tunes undisturbed by Telerin scholars ruining the innocence and strangeness of the whole piece with their remarks…”

“Mmm, I’ll speak with Olvárin and try to reach an agreement, I believe you’re right…we should let them express themselves without interference…”

“Everything’s ready, Ingil,“ Aldurion, his second in command and best friend stood by his side as the rest of their warriors began descending the hill. “The boats with fresh catches for tonight’s celebrations were mooring as I came up, we can go now and watch them unload the fish…”

As if conjured by Aldurion’s words, or brought along by the grace of Manwë’s winds, a waggling sardine slapped the prince on the face and fell to the ground with a harsh croak. Both friends looked at each other, then at the wobbling sardine and, finally, upwards, where there was nothing to be seen except hurrying clouds.

Ingil shrugged. “We better start going down before they finish wharfing…” he said thoughtfully, shaking his head in disbelief and not noticing the trembling, expectant seabird that shrieked at him perched on top of a nearby rock while they went down to meet the Teleri at their small fishing harbour and watch as they unloaded the catches of the day.

***

Círdan was standing on top of a dune, overseeing the celebrations at the beach by the Telerin harbour. He was just returned from a long walk around the camp right after the bonfires had been kindled, exchanging greetings and stopping by each fire to join in a family gathering, accepting some food or drink and sharing a song or two with his people.

Midyear’s eve festival was a special time for the elves that had once called themselves “Eglan”, -forsaken- a time when they gathered around fires and spent the night by the shores, singing and dancing to honour Ossë and Uinen, enjoying the music of the waves that gave them life, much as they had caused them grief in the years of the bitter parting.

This year, the first they celebrated in that new land after the War, the bonfires spread through the long beach and even inland, as the Wood elves had learnt to appreciate the custom and had quickly joined in the celebrations.

The edain, too, had welcomed the idea and were enthusiastically taking part – and being routinely trounced- in every contest, be it of archery, spear-throwing, wrestling, singing, drinking or playing music, as games and competitions were another important part of the celebration, Círdan reminded himself, watching in amusement as Olvárin and Elros raced along the topmasts of two ships, cheerfully encouraged by their respective crews. It seemed that the boisterous eldest son of Eärendil had managed to charm the hot-tempered prince of the Telerin, even after that tasteless joke, and now they seemed to be forming a fast friendship.

Ingil could be seen by another bonfire, playing drums with the rapture and abandon of a true Wood elf, while some of his warriors had joined the musicians by the shores and were gilding the enthralling melodies of the Teleri with their charming voices.

It took these Vanyarin people some time to grasp the concepts, Círdan reflected, but after careful observation and deep meditation, they just gracefully excelled in whatever activity or art their kin from this side of the Belegaer practiced with an easiness that only proved, in the ancient Shipwright’s eyes, that all Quendi were equally deeply atuned to Arda, be it this or the other side of the dividing waters,  and had been brought to life by the same voice that had sung the kelvar and olvar into being in the Time before time.

“An extraordinary celebration, Lord Shipwright,” a soft voice complimented him.

Círdan had let him approach without moving. Not that the other hadn’t been careful, but the wristbands and anklebands provided by the survivors of Brithombar made the usually soft-footed elves a strangely noisy people for one night. Not even the secretive Wood elves or the ever-composed Celeborn of Doriath had refused to indulge them in their deeply felt tradition.

It had all begun in Balar, when some survivors complained that they missed the familiar murmur of the waves when Ossë’s fingers strummed the stony beaches of Brithombar. A resourceful elf had crafted then those bands, threading smooth, sea-rounded stones loosely in a leather string that was fastened to the wrist or ankle. The pebbles would rustle at the slightest movement and the resulting soughing tune resembled the soft murmur of the tireless waves singing in the windless beaches of lost Brithombar.(1)

“I’m glad that you decided to grace it with your presence, Lord Celeborn,“ Círdan nodded with exaggerate courtesy, “humble and lacklustre as the decorations may seem to one used to the splendours of a brighter court... “ He smiled at Celeborn’s quizzical look. “Why aren’t you down there, my friend, enjoying the fires and the songs?” the shipwright added with genuine curiosity.

“I’m not in the mood.” Celeborn’s sullenness was plain and Círdan sighed inwardly, wondering what perturbed the Sindarin lord’s usually even temper.

“He seems to be enjoying as if he were one of them…” Celeborn grunted a moment after, nodding towards the closest bonfire, watching as Ereinion joined a bunch of happy Teleri in their merry dances and took turns at jumping over the flames.(2)

It had not been so in the first years, Círdan sighed, remembering his and Erestor’s puzzlement as the usually dutiful an obedient child had stubbornly refused to come close to the bonfires, and how long it had taken them to find out that the young Noldo loathed the fires because they reminded him of the Bragollach, the battle of the sudden flame that had ended the siege in fire and utter destruction. (3)

“Much as your wife, don’t you agree?” he grinned evilly, watching Galadriel and her father joining in the jolly company. Finarfin had said that Olwë’s people celebrated similar festivals at Alqualondë, and judging by the easiness and enthusiasm with which they had joined in the merrymaking, it was clear he had not exaggerated.

When Ereinion took his wife’s hand and led her into what Celeborn considered an improperly carefree dance, he could not hold back a groan.

“By your leave,” he snapped, turning his back on the Shipwright and heading for the beckoning trees at the same moment in which Oropher, after having routed all his opponents in the archery contest with maddening ease, was obediently following his beautiful wife to the same bonfire to join in the revelry.

Celeborn was far from enjoying the festival and, despite what had transpired after his less than friendly encounter with Celebrimbor and the Dwarf-lord, he still harboured a lingering resentment towards his wife and her hidden games.

Finding out that Finarfin had been playing along, too, had not helped make him feel better. In fact, it had served to sharpen his feeling of estrangement.

He walked under the sheltering canopy and sat upon a fallen trunk. He felt torn between two worlds, neither of which fully accepted him, were it because of his marriage or because of his own blood. It wasn’t an unknown feeling, after all.

He cursed silently his ability to see –and understand- the many sides of a same issue. “You’re uncommonly unprejudiced for a sheltered elf, Lord Celeborn.” Finrod’s baiting words came to his mind. “And you’re uncommonly unprejudiced for a self-absorbed Noldo, Lord Finrod,” he had answered sternly, but with a mischievous glint upon his face. “Such a rarity,” his wise and cheerful friend had conceded, “I suppose we can be friends, then…”

He sat there, concentrating in his breathing, banishing all thought, all feeling of alienation, all resentment, and letting the forest heartbeat take charge of his own pulse, feeling his consciousness fly away with the night breeze and melt into it, allowing all worries to dissolve in the contemplation of that moment of peace.

He had almost come to terms with the knowledge that he could no more despise the Noldor as a race, as Oropher seemed to pretend,  than he could betray his own people, when a merry voice brought him out of his meditation abruptly.

“Come, brother! This is a nice place to commune with nature!”

Celeborn was pleased to recognize the voices of the Peredhil entering the nearest clearing. The fact that Elwing’s children would leave a crowded party to find refuge among the trees filled him with satisfaction and tenderness towards that distant kin he had been reluctant to wholly embrace as such.

He had got up and was readying to come out of his sheltered refuge to share the forest’s blessing with them when an unmistakable noise made it clear that the Peredhil’s urgency to commune with nature was not born out of their Sindarin descent, but rather due to the effects of too much wine consumption.

Celeborn stood there, listening to two slightly drunk peredhil exchanging lewd remarks in their tipsy voices as they relieved themselves and feeling absurdly irritated by their childish behaviour, when the distinct sound of pebbles betrayed the presence of another elf in that small glade.

“Lord Celeborn... “ The soft voice of the young king of the exiles reached him before he turned to meet him.

“You, too, trying to commune with nature?” Celeborn snapped, still angered at his own foolishness.

“What do you…” Ereinion seemed honestly baffled.

Celeborn waved his hand in exasperation. “Will you shut up?” he whispered brusquely, “I’m trying to overhear a conversation!”

“...And he beat me four times in a row, no matter how fast I tried to climb the mast, that Olvárin has mastered the thing...” Elros was saying.

“You seem to have become good friends, despite your witless trick...”

“Well, you know me, who can resist my charms?” Elros boasted, and then both elves heard the sound of a smack and choked laughter.

“Anyway,” the eldest of Elwing’s sons was saying, “he still believes Ereinion ordered it, and I just gave up trying to dissuade him...”

“Well done!” Elrond giggled, “You can use it to extort Ereinion,” he added brightly, and Celeborn cast a smug smile towards the baffled king, who had sat beside him and was listening with a faintly amused smile upon his face.

“That was a good idea, Elrond! You’re the scheming one! What I’m going to do without you?”

A heavy silence followed, as if both Peredhil had been sobered up by the apparently light comment.

“Why…why did you choose...as... as you did?” Elros voice sounded painfully young and uncertain all of a sudden.

“Why did you?” Elrond snapped. “I would have never thought of leaving you behind…”

“You mean that I’m abandoning you? It is you who insists on remaining here, where nobody cares for us, and everybody makes us feel as outcasts and traitors! At least I won’t be subject to an eternity of grudges. Look at them, Elrond! They’re still remonstrating each other for what happened five hundred years ago! I want to move on, for there is nothing to tie me here, and I thought that you felt the same!” Now Elros sounded perfectly sober and a bit angered.

“And what would be left for me, then? “ Elros answered softly after a long pause. “There’s only one kingdom of men…”

“What have you got here? What shall you become? Esquire of a king nobody acknowledges?” was the brutal answer.

Celeborn smiled amusedly and risked a glance toward his companion. Ereinion had not changed his expression, and was listening intently, apparently unaffected by Elros bluntness.

“At least he cares for us, Elros...”

“Once he stumbled upon us on his way... I know that Maedhros revered his father, but I don’t believe he’s even half the elf Fingon was…had he been, he would have searched for us and rescued us…we weren’t chained to a mountain, after all…” Elros voice was now hardly a whisper.

Celeborn’s smug smile was dampened by the slightest twitch in the impassive face of the king.

“Anyway, he trusts us, and he truly cares for all the people in camp. Would you rather see me following those haughty Sindarin lords who should be bowing before us and instead shun us and look at us with plain scorn?”

“I would know that you are happy, my brother, whatever it is that you do,“ was Elros pained answer, “for you have been the only thing that always stayed true in my life, and now I feel that I have failed you… tell me Elrond, what would you be? I can force Lord Celeborn to bow before you and call you king, or make Oropher wrought you a crown in Celebrimbor’s forge if that’s what you desire, I swear I will, my brother!”

Elrond’s laughter, if somewhat bitter, rang in the clearing. “My dashing, brave and selfless brother. Never doubt that I love you and that I will always remember you, and never think that you have betrayed me. That’s all I want...” he added hoarsely, his voice catching in his throat.

The rustling of fabric as both Peredhil embraced filled the night, and Celeborn nursed his bruised ego while Ereinion sat there, unmoving, a pensive look upon his stern face.

“Now, brother, tell me,” Elros insisted, his voice still shaking. “What is it that you would like?”

“I don’t care for kingdoms or ruling...I’m not fit for that,” Elrond answered in his soft voice. “I…at times I just wished I could ride east and get lost… I would look for Maglor,“ he added hoarsely, “and maybe I would settle down among those elves who forsook the March, and forget who I am and whence I came, and marry a beautiful elleth and form a family that would not be swept away by time or chance...” he added with a soft sigh.

“You can do that. You can convince Ereinion to send you East with the Dwarf... You have almost convinced Oropher that you’ve been chosen, haven’t you?” Elros let escape a loud laughter and Elrond joined in a bit reluctantly at first.

“We’re driving him mad,“ Elrond acknowledged with undisguised mirth. “He believes that Ereinion is plotting with the dwarf and that I have secret maps of elven settlements,“ Celeborn tensed at this. “He’s been gathering people and trying to lull them into departing with him, not that he’s succeeding, anyway, for none is willing to depart to a place nobody knows about, and Oropher is going crazy about those parchments Erestor and I are carrying around!”

The two wretches were rolling in laughter and Ereinion cast a questioning glance to a shocked Celeborn.

“I’m glad that Erestor is helping you with this,” Elros laughed. “Oropher deserves that, and much more, if only to repay him for how he treats us… he should be bowing to us, as Elu’s heirs…I can convince Ereinion to send you East, if you want me to… and you would be rid of all of them in one stroke!” Elros sounded particularly pleased by his own cunning.

“I don’t know, brother, there’s much to do here… I feel comfortable working with Erestor, and Ereinion is as much an outcast as I am, or almost, “ he added thoughtfully, “I believe we could get to understand each other...”

“You are right in that. He is not the worst choice,” Elros conceded with a chuckle. “I only wished we could throw that stiff-necked Celeborn into the joke. I’m dying to see him cut to size…”

“Let’s return to the beach, Elros, maybe we can come up with something funny after some more wine…”

“Such talent for scheming...”

The loud voices of the Peredhil were undistinguishable when both elves decided to stand up, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Let me take care of what we have learned here, Lord Celeborn,“ Ereinion sighed in a serious voice. “I beg of you…”

“I think…” Celeborn begun, when a dark, large shape came to stand before them with a soft thump and Celeborn could hardly distinguish the face of Galadhond, the elusive Wood-elf who had reassured Oropher that same day in the house of words. ”He must have been overhearing, too,“ he thought with some amusement, “surely above them...”

“Good evening, Master Galadhond,” Ereinion was bowing courteously, apparently unperturbed by the sudden appearance.

“I’d like to have a word or two with you, Lord Ereinion,“ the Wood-elf said calmly. “Lord Celeborn might want to return to his wife,“ he added in his deep, commanding voice.

Long years spent in Elu’s court had taught Celeborn to recognize power, no matter how deeply veiled it was, so he swallowed his pride and bowed silently, taking the path towards the beach.

*****

 “After so many years in Elu’s court, one would expect that she would have picked up some manners,” Finarfin complained as he watched his daughter and her half-cousin play a dangerous and wholly unbecoming game that had been favoured by all of Finwë’s grandchildren. A frazzled Celeborn fought the urge to inform his father-in-law that she had been that wild after many years in her grandfather’s court, but he chose not to answer and watched instead.

Finarfin, Erestor and himself were standing a bit apart from their bonfire. Celebrimbor had recently joined in with some torches and had apparently challenged his cousin. Right now, they were juggling around several torches between the two of them, exchanging them in sharp, sure movements and tossing them around with an easiness born out of practice.

It always stung Celeborn to be reminded of how many of his wife’s memories he didn’t share. The cheering crowd caught his attention and he came back from his musings to see his wife tossing around three torches while at the same time conversing with her cousin and bowing gracefully to the onlookers.

“Pity we cannot hear their conversation…” Erestor observed dryly. The look Finarfin gave him expressed exactly what Celeborn was thinking. “You surely don’t want to hear that conversation, judging by her body language.”

***

“You know perfectly well that I do not desire the kingship,” Galadriel was furious with her cousin for suggesting to Ereinion that she might be after the crown, something she had surmised after hearing her father's account of his conversation with the young king after the eventful council.

“I would make sure that you’d obtain it, my dear cousin, if it were your heart’s desire... I was only trying to show you how much I care...” Celebrimbor returned two blazing torches with a gentle flicker of his wrist

“And taking the opportunity to harass Ereinion...”

A torch brushed his long hair. She was clearly enraged.

“That was close, cousin,” he smiled. “He deserved it anyway...”

“He’s our rightful king...”

“Yes, your father already informed me… mind your temper!” he shouted in warning, as she threw him a torch in a twisted position and he burnt his finger while catching it.

“You’re losing your touch, Cousin, but then, I always beat your father at this...” she smiled tauntingly.

No matter how in love Celebrimbor claimed to be, his Fëanorian pride always answered to the right provocation.

“That’s not how I recall it,“ he returned the favour with a lopsided grin, sending a torch almost out of her reach. As she strained to catch it, she almost lost two more. “Well done," Celebrimbor said approvingly, "you never fail to amaze me, Artanis...”

“Galadriel.”

“Whatever. I would bow before you night after night for years uncounted…”

“You’ll bow to him.”

“Right after you, dearest cousin… and after your exquisite husband, of course… the day I see him bow to a Noldorin king, I shall forgive him for having married you!” Celebrimbor winked gleefully and then he had to duck to avoid a torch viciously aimed at his fair face.

An outraged cry from behind him told him that the torch had found another target, and he turned to see a wall of bodies between him and their victim, when another torch he was supposed to be catching by now landed right before his feet.

“Watch out, you fool!” Galadriel was by his side, breathing raggedly, “what happened?” she added, trying to find a way among the many helping hands hovering above a cursing, flaming and fuming protuberance upon the ground.

“A dwarf’s on fire,“ a flushed elf turned to inform them with undisguised mirth, and she could not hold back an amused chuckle at the dismayed look upon Celebrimbor’s face as he tried to make a way towards the hurting dwarf, only to discover that it was lord Gundaghâl himself who had caught fire to his precious beard.

***

“And that’s why we forbade them to play that game...” Finarfin was saying calmly, watching the scene from their vantage point.

“Not that you succeeded in any way, apparently,“ Erestor pointed out innocently, and Celeborn chuckled despite himself at Finarfin’s incensed look. Honest as Finrod had been, though, the king had to concede the point.

“You have raised a fine king, master Erestor, one that honours his line as much as his upbringing,” a deep voice said behind them. The three turned around to discover the mysterious wood elf, and Erestor bowed deeply before him, much to Celeborn’s utter amazement.

“I’m honoured that you think so, Master Galadhond,“ he said respectfully.

“I only wished you had put the same interest in one who has the blood of our kin in his veins,” the tall Wood elf added softly, and Celeborn had the pleasure to see the unflappable Nandorin counsellor losing his footing for once.

“I…I…” Erestor stumbled upon words, clearly mortified, but the wood elf lifted a forbidding hand.

“I understand that the task is different,” he added in a lower voice, “but I would have expected that a child of Elu wouldn’t indulge in such activities against his own kin, and encouraged by one who knew and respected his sire…”

“I’m…most ashamed…”

“It is not your fault alone, master Erestor,” the elf said kindly. “But we’ve already lost one, and I wouldn’t see the other completely lost to his people…”

“As you command, Hîrdawar,” Erestor answered humbly and Celeborn felt his jaw fall.

“Hîrdawar?” he repeated aloud, incredulity plain upon his voice. It could not be possible, that the mythical “Lord of the forest”, the elusive, legendary figure to whose authority all the scattered, unruly and elusive wood elves bowed in unchallenged obedience and respect was living among them in that camp!

“I am told that you –and your lady wife- have been of the greatest help to our people in Nenuial, Lord Celeborn, and I’m deeply grateful to you for that.“ The Wood elf turned to him with an amused look upon his deep eyes. Celeborn could only nod his assent, too stunned to find words, and deeply enthralled by the power in that voice, one of the first that had been heard in Middle earth when the firstborns awoke in Cuiviénen under the stars.

“I believe that you’ll be more useful here from now on, though,“ he kept on softly, in a kind way, as if explaining a difficult task to a small child, “and maybe some other can assume your chores there…” he added, nodding gracefully to Finarfin and walking away.

 *****

“Elros, Elrond, walk with me.” Ereinion’s stern, firm voice snapped over the heads of those sitting by Círdan’s fire. Celeborn looked up and tried to spy the expression in the young king’s face as the two Peredhil tiredly stood up and trailed behind him.

The beach was strangely calm in that quiet hour before daybreak. It actually looked as a battlefield, Celeborn thought, watching the fuming bonfires and the heaps of bodies cuddling up against the soft breeze or simply resting after a long night of revelry. The reddish glimmer of dawn added a bloodied tinge to the eerie quiet of the morning, and even the waves seemed to be holding their breath in that stillness that precedes the changing of tide.

Celeborn looked around and had to smile at the tired but happy looks upon the faces of the strange company assembled around Círdan’s bonfire.

Olvárin was stretched comfortably, humming contentedly and completely unawares that he was sharing the fire with Celebrimbor, who sat across him and was busy studying his dagger while the dwarf-lord snored peacefully by his side, his magnificent beard reduced in some places to charred patches of curling hair. Galadriel rested in her Adar’s embrace, their golden heads bent together in hushed conversation, although, from time to time, a peal of laughter would escape any of them. Círdan was distractedly carving a piece of wood, sitting beside Oropher and his wife, who were exchanging tender glances and furtive caresses, and Erestor was poking at the dying fire with a pensive look upon his face.

He might as well worry, Celeborn thought grimly, still fighting the urge to tell Oropher about the Nandorin counsellor’s more than unbecoming conspiracy.

“My lords and ladies…” a gleeful voice brought them all from contemplation and they looked up to see Ereinion’s wide smile as he wielded a wooden dipper, the two Peredhil standing right behind him with puzzled looks upon their tired faces.

“The youngest members of the Telerin families are traditionally charged with offering the “morning quaff” to their guests in Midyear’s dawn,” Ereinion kept on cheerfully, “and I’m only too glad that this year I have finally been granted some help with this most cumbersome task,” he added with a mischievous wink, taking a wooden bowl from a pile Elros held and filling it with a tasty broth from the huge cauldron Elrond was carrying.

“Who’ll be first?” he asked, failing to conceal his amusement as he watched Oropher squirm and try to become invisible.

“My lady,” the king bowed courteously to Oropher’s wife and Celeborn had to smile seeing Oropher fighting to keep his composure as she smiled at the Noldo and accepted the bowl and spoon. “Be at ease, Lord Oropher,“ Ereinion added conversationally, “we keep the poisoned broth in separate bowls...” he joked, offering him his fill with a mischievous smile and arousing a raucous laughter from the rest of the company, while the three youngsters completed their task with good spirits and a quick hand.

“You shared our fire and you became a part of our family”, Círdan pronounced fondly once Ereinion poured a bowl for himself and bowed slightly to him. “May you never lack fire in your hearths and in your hearts from this day on...” the shipwright added, ending the heartfelt blessing his people offered to those who shared their fire on Midyear’s eve.

Celeborn could tell that the Peredhil were moved by that display, and he mentally bowed to Ereinion for that simple, but effective way of showing the grieving half-elves that they did belong.

He was savouring the strong, hearty broth made out of last evening’s catches when a soft melody caught his ear. It was as if a silvery rain was falling in a windless morning and its pearly drops were endlessly rolling through a canopy of evergreen leaves. They all stood up, enthralled by those otherworldly voices that conjured visions of almost forgotten happiness in the minds of those listening.

Ingil and his people were standing by the sea, greeting the sun as they used to every morning upon the white towers of Valmar, singing to the fëa of every elf standing on that forgotten shore and joining their voices with the heartbeat of Arda in promise of a day when every thing would finally be as it had been appointed when the world was young.

Celeborn could not tell how much time they had stood there, as the magic of the song slowly dissolved in Arien’s golden mists, when he first heard it.

It was like a distant rolling, the sound of a mighty tempest and the cries of unfamiliar seabirds, and as it approached and grew, it sang with the voices of unknown winds and foamy waves, and rustling reeds and stony cliffs, in a powerful roar that made them all hold their breath.

And then, out of that otherworldly din, a powerful note, deep, piercing, unforgettable and undeniable, speared through the fëar of those standing upon the white sands, filling them with yearning and hope, with longing and strength, and with an almost overwhelming sense of peace.

“Lord Ulmo himself,” Celeborn heard Olvárin whisper, wonder plain in his voice, as an impressive, tall, white wave rose before Ingil and stood there, unmoving. The Vanyarin prince bowed deeply with his right hand to his heart and Arien finally touched the summer sky.

*****

 “A most impressive display,“ Ereinion groaned to nobody in particular, pouring himself another cupful of broth. “But it ruined the end of the celebration.”

A sense of awe had overwhelmed the camp, and Ereinion was sure that he could knock on the wall of silence that surrounded the beach since the sound of Ulmo’s horns had died away.

Around him everybody had gathered in small groups or had simply disappeared, and he felt suddenly alone and bereft, the echo of that powerful music still nagging at his fëa. He cast wild glances around, only to discover that Círdan was by the shore with Ingil, who had a seabird perched upon his golden head, and Olvárin; Erestor was nowhere in sight.

“If that’s how Valinor sounds,“ he thought wearily, putting aside the empty bowl and folding up his cloak into a makeshift pillow, “I’m sure that tomorrow we’ll have crowds lining up to find passage to Eressëa,” he sighed, fighting his disappointment. He could not blame those departing, but, deep in his heart, he could not discard the feeling that their departure meant that they did not trust him.

“I must remember to tell Finarfin that…” He never managed to end his thought, though, for as soon as he laid his head upon his cloak, Estë the Gentle spread her mantle over the worried king and led him along the path of untroubled dreams.

TBC

Notes:

(1) The idea for the wristbands comes from the name of the city, as Brith means pebbles, gravel. I guessed that it must have meant a distinct sound of the waves upon those stony beaches and could not resist.

(2) The idea of mixing bonfires, sea-people and a kind of solstice celebration is not mine. In fact it is very common among sea cultures around the world, and particularly in the Northwestern corner of Europe where Tolkien set his mythology.

(3) The Dagor Bragollach, or battle of the sudden flame, actually ended the siege, as Glaurung issued forth from Angband on a winter night and put Ard Galen to fire. It is said that the fiercest warriors from Dorthonion perished then. I guessed the fires would have been clearly visible from Barad Eithel and that would have made an impression upon a truly young Ereinion.