Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: The  supposed competition between Aredhel, Meril and Galadriel is my invention. So is Galadriel’s intention to marry off her daughter to someone else than Elrond.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

21. Ties of Kinship

Celebrían was surprised how easily she found her own rhythm after returning to Meril’s house. At first it felt strange not to be responsible for the smooth running of things in an entire household, but she found the change a welcome one.

Here she was not the lady of the house, burdened with tasks and responsibilities. Here she was merely a guest who contributed to the work that needed to be done voluntarily. Other than that, she was left to her own devices for which she was grateful. She did not feel like making new friends – not yet anyway. Solitude had great appeal to her at the moment.

As for the upcoming arrival of re-housed relatives she had never met before, she tried to forget about them as far as possible. Dealing with them when they actually were there would be soon enough, she found, and Erunyauvë agreed with her.

For the fact that she had supposedly been sent to Meril’s house to further Celebrían’s healing, the Maia did surprisingly little, by the way. True, she often accompanied Celebrían on her walks in the gardens and at work, and she watched over her during the night, taking care of the candles so that they would not burn down the house by accident, but that was basically all. She would just sit there, doing her own embroidery or weaving or whatever household task she happened to pick up on any given day, humming contentedly under her breath and laughing in delight whenever one of Meril’s handmaidens made a jest or told a funny story.

Celebrían would never have expected someone from Lady Nienna’s People to be so… cheerful all the time. On a day when Erunyauvë seemed in a particularly good mood, she even voiced that observation.

“Why should we not?” the Maia asked in surprise. “We are meant to comfort those given into our care; how could we do it if we were drowning in sorrow ourselves?”

“But Lady Nienna…” Celebrían hesitated. “She is the only one of the Powers of whom is said that she wept…”

“That is not strictly true,” replied Erunyauvë. “I happen to know on good authority that even the Elder King wept when the Noldor ignored the warnings of Lord Námo and stubbornly marched to their doom. As for Lady Nienna, her powers manifest themselves in her tears; that is Ilúvatar’s special gift to her, and she uses it for the good of all that live in Eä. That does not mean she would go around bawling like an elfling with a stubbed toe all the time, though.”

The absurd mental image made Celebrían laugh, albeit she was a bit shocked by the Maia’s seemingly disrespectful tone. Erunyauvë laughed with her heartily, glad to have lifted her melancholy, even if for only a moment, and sent a mental apology to her lady – getting a laughter echoing through her very being as an answer.

For now, things were developing as they were meant to do.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few days later, Celebrían had just finished her morning walk in the garden and was now going through her sewing basket to do some embroidery – not out of necessity, just because she wanted to actually do something aside from willing the time away – when there was a knock on the door and Nielthi, one of Meril’s handmaidens, peered in.

“My lady, the visitors from Aman have arrived,” she said, “and one of them asked to see you.”

Celebrían shook her head. “I… I do not wish to see anyone. Not yet.”

“We know,” replied Nielthi apologetically, “but Lady Meril thinks you should make an exception this time.”

Celebrían felt a little annoyed by that insistence, but as she was a guest of the Lady of Tol Eressëa, common courtesy demanded that she did as she was asked. Therefore she rose from her seat with a weary sigh and followed Nielthi to Meril’s solar, where visitors were usually entertained… forgetting to ask, until it was too late, if she should change into something more appropriate.

She was therefore relieved to find Meril in her usual working garb, in the company of a single visitor. Said visitor was a tall, golden-haired Elf, stunningly fair and almost impossibly young-looking and clad in fairly subdued colours for someone clearly important.

His knee-length, royal blue tunic was embroidered with gold on the high collar and along the hem. The sleeves of the tunic were slashed, showing the silver-grey silk shirt he wore beneath it. His leather breeches were dyed grey, too, although a darker grey than his shirt, and they were stuffed into black ankle boots. His cloak, also royal blue, was unadorned, save for some gossamer-fine embroidery in gold thread along the rim, and thrown over one shoulder. He wore no jewellery, just a chain of golden leaves girdling his waist.

His eyes were wide and grey-blue like the stormy Sea; his high cheekbones and sculpted face surprisingly, heart-breakingly familiar. Celebrían gasped in recognition.

“Gildor!” she whispered. “When have you Sailed? Have you foresworn your Oath not to leave Middle-earth until Sauron is defeated?”

The Elf turned around, equally surprised, and now she could se that it was not Gildor, after all. His long, gleaming hair was several shades paler, just this side of silver, save his much darker brows, and in those stormy eyes was a light that Gildor’s eyes lacked: the mirrored radiance of the Two Trees.

“Nay, daughter,” he said with a gentle smile; his voice was deep and mellow, very different from the often harsh tone of Gildor Inglorion, and his Sindarin, though passable, had a rather exotic accent. “I fear I am not the old friend you clearly hoped to see… although you are not so far from the truth as you might be.”

“Who are you then?” asked Celebrían, confused. “Are you my Uncle Finrod, released from Mandos after all? You do look like my mother… well, a little.”

“I should hope so, though I am not Findaráto, either, as he is still waiting for his release in Mandos,” said the Elf, his eyes darkening with sorrow. “I am Arafinwë, whom you might have heard mentioned as Finarfin. I am your anatar.”

“Also known as the King of the Noldor, at least those in Aman,” added Meril with a faint smile, “although we Tol Eressëans do not make much of such titles.”

“Or else you would be wearing a crown, too,” returned the Noldóran with good humour.

Meril waved off his comment. “My years of wearing a crown were short, full of pain and are long gone now,” she said.

“Really?” Arafinwë arched a royal eyebrow. “That is not what Fionwë told me before I would leave to pick up our re-housed kin from Lórien.”

“That is Maiar for you,” answered Meril with a shrug. “Sometimes they talk too much; often about things that are not their concern.”

“I have come to believe that they consider our affairs very much their concern,” replied Arafinwë mildly. “But that is neither here nor there right now. I have come to meet my granddaughter, first and foremost.”

He gave Celebrían a long, searching look but made no attempts to hug her, for which she was grateful. Grandsire or not, she doubted that she could have endured that.

“You do not look like Artanis at all,” he stated. If he was disappointed by that, he did not show it. “Clearly, you come after your father – both in your features and in your colouring.”

“You know my father?” asked Celebrían in surprise.

Arafinwë nodded. “I met him once, right after the War of Wrath; him and his uncle Oropher. Most impressive ellyn, both of them. I was sorrowed to hear that Oropher perished in the Last Alliance.”

“He was not the only one,” said Meril, her eyes dark with old pain.

“Of course,” Arafinwë briefly bowed to her in apology. “Do forgive me, Merilindë; I was lost in memories.”

Meril accepted his apology in a truly queenly manner.

“We all had our losses,” she said; “you perhaps more so than the rest of us. I shall look after my new charges now, so that Eärwen can meet her granddaughter, too. She has been amazingly patient already.”

She smiled and left to switch places with the Noldotári, who had clearly been providing company for the re-housed family members. That gave Celebrían a moment to collect herself, for which she sorely felt the need. As friendly and easy-going as her grandsire appeared, she thought to have to steel herself ere facing his Queen, a Princess of her own right. As Galadriel had proudly pointed out many times, theirs was a family of royal blood on both sides.

To Celebrían’s eternal relief, however, the lady who soon thereafter entered Meril’s solar had nothing in common with her own imperious mother. She was a little ashamed for feeling such relief, but it could not be helped.

Eärwen of Alqualondë was tall, like all members of her family; in fact not an inch shorter than her King, with deep sea-blue eyes and silver hair that she wore in an intricately plaited braid that was coiled upon her head like a diadem of pure mithril adorned with pearls and covered with a simple gilded net. She wore plain travelling clothes in sea-green and silver grey: a sideless surcoat over a split skirt and an under gown with collected sleeves, designed to make riding easy and comfortable. Her clothes were embroidered with silver thread and sewn with white pearls, depicting swans with crossed necks along the hem and the sleeves.

But the greatest contrast to the Lady of the Galadhrim was in her manners; while perhaps even more beautiful than her only daughter, Eärwen’s face was full of gentleness and loving attention – something Celebrían had often received from her father but rarely from her mother. Unlike when in her mother’s company, Eärwen’s presence did not make her feel inadequate. The tight coil in her stomach began to loosen itself, and she risked a tremulous smile.

Eärwen smiled back at her gently, extending her hands but not quite touching her, not without her consent, allowing her to decide how much she could bear at the moment. Celebrían hesitated for a heartbeat or two… then she went into her granddam’s arms, stiffening at first in panic, then relaxing into that feather-light embrace, and silent tears began running down her face.

Eärwen said nothing, just held her gently, barely touching, and hummed a wordless tune that she had once used to calm down her children whenever they had been scared or upset, and Arafinwë waited with the patience of a four times over father for his wife’s love to work its miracle. Finally, when Celebrían’s tears rand dry, Eärwen held her by the shoulders and looked at her searchingly, just as her husband had done a little earlier.

Then she let go and smiled at Arafinwë. “You are right, love; she does not have much of Nerwendë in her. She must look like her father, then.”

The Noldóran laughed quietly. “Actually, now that I see the two of you together, I find that she looks a lot like you, my dear. Which is, in my perhaps slightly biased opinion, the best thing that could happen to any granddaughter of mine.”

They exchanged warm smiles, and Celebrían was touched by the deep, unabashed love between them and how freely they showed it for everyone to see. There was nothing from Galadriel’s aloof distance in public that always saddened her, even though she knew how much her parents loved each other. This was more like how Elrond and herself had always behaved before… well, before. She hoped that one day, once she had healed and Elrond had finished his labours in Middle-earth, they would find back to that uncomplicated closeness.

“Well, then,” said Arafinwë briskly, “now that we have brought the awkwardness of the first meeting behind us, do you, ladies, think that we could simply sit down and discuss family matters?”

Eärwen rolled her eyes. “What is it with ellyn and their constant need to do something… or discuss something?” she asked in mild exasperation.

Her voice was a shade or two higher and merrier than Galadriel’s, and her Sindarin as exotically accented as her husband's. They exchanged looks of feminine understanding.

“It must be a male thing,” Celebrían agreed. “Elrond always found it hard to let go of the things occupying his mind as well,” her smile faded. She was missing him so much. Even though their separation had been her own decision and made out of love to him, sometimes she wondered how she would be able to go on without him.

“Oh, young Elrond!” exclaimed Arafinwë brightly. “Do tell me about him! He was barely more than an elfling when I last saw him, serving as a healer in Macalaurë’s host. Hard to believe that he has grown bold enough to face our daughter and ask for your hand. He seemed quite shy to me.”

“That was two whole Ages ago, Daeradar,” Celebrían reminded him. “Though it is true that he waited a yén or two between falling in love with me and actually asking my parents,” she added truthfully, and her parents laughed.

“It could not have been easy for him,” said Eärwen then. “Even in Alqualondë, some of our people looked at Eärendil and Elwing with unease because of their heritage, and I imagine it must have been even more complicated in Endórë.”

Celebrían shook her head. “Not truly; for Ada, he was kin, the grandson of his cousin Nimloth. And the elders say he is the spitting image of Dior Eluchíl, which warmed many hearts towards him, for Lúthien’s sake.”

“Then he must be very beautiful,” said Eärwen with a knowing smile. “I never met Lúthien, of course, but I saw Melyanna shortly after her return, still wearing her fana; if her descendants are anything like her, they must be a marvel. And yet I cannot help but assume that Nerwendë was anything but happy about you marrying someone with mortal blood in his veins. She was always so proud of her heritage, on both sides… I would have expected her to want you marry Ereinion.”

“Oh, she did,” replied Celebrían dryly, “and was very disappointed when both Gil-galad and I declared that we were not interested in each other.”

“Strange,” commented Arafinwë. “We never heard of Ereinion having bound himself to anyone. I wonder why.”

“That I cannot tell,” answered Celebrían truthfully; the solitary life led by their King and the possible reasons for it had been the subject of much guesswork among the Elves of Lindon and the Havens. “But he knew I never wanted to live at the court; and as he was a good friend, I suppose he wanted to discourage Nana for my sake.”

Arafinwë snorted and exchanged amused looks with his Queen.

“As if something like that would have ever stopped our Artanis!” he said. “I cannot say I blame her in this particular matter, though. Nothing against Elrond, but you and Ereinion… it would have been a good match.”

“Nay, it would not,” returned Celebrían forcefully. “I would have been miserable at court: like a fish out of water, and would have made the lives of everyone else miserable. I was never meant to become a Queen; I do not have the makings of it.”

“Besides,” added Eärwen, giving her husband a wicked grin, “could you imagine Nerwendë and Merilindë as in-laws? Aman itself would not survive that!”

Arafinwë grinned back at her, much to Celebrían’s surprise.

“Do they truly hate each other so much?” she asked.

“’Tis not as much a matter of hatred as one of competition,” explained Eärwen. “They had pitted themselves against each other in every matter since their childhood. With Aredhel as the third one in their private little struggle, having them at the same time in the same place was always a disaster waiting to happen.”

“’Til Merilindë married Findecáno, that is,” Arafinwë added. “After that, she was too busy with her own family problems.”

“Like fighting Maitimo’s influence over her husband,” supplied Eärwen.

Celebrían furrowed her brow in confusion. “Why would she do that?”

She had heard about the close friendship between Fingon and Maedhros, of course – how could she have not? It was the subject of lays and legends in Middle-earth, after all. She could not understand why Meril would have a problem with that, though.

Eärwen, however, smiled in understanding. “’Tis not easy for a young wife to compete with an old friend of her husband,” she said. “A childhood friend always has the unfair advantage of knowing your husband better and longer than you ever would. And those two were closer than brothers.”

“I fear Merilindë was not always wise in her attitude towards Maitimo,” Arafinwë nodded in agreement.

“’Tis hard to be wise when you feel slighted,” commented Eärwen dryly. “I always considered myself fortunate for not having to compete for your attentions with any old friend of yours.”

“That you never had,” the Noldóran smiled. “In any case, after Merilindë got married, Artanis saw herself as the winner in their competition.”

“But she did win in the end, did she not?” asked Celebrían softly. “Aredhel is dead, and so are her husband and her only son. Meril has lost everything and everyone dear to her heart and lives in exile, even though it is a voluntary one in these days. Nana, though, still has got Ada and their own realm, no matter how small and rustic it may seem.”

“And she still has you,” Eärwen reminded her gently.

Celebrían shrugged. “I doubt that that would mean much to her. I was never the warrior princess she wanted me to be – or the Queen she wanted me to become. I was an embarrassment, coming too much after my father and his people for her taste.”

“She loves your father, though,” Arafinwë pointed out. “She always did. So she could not have such dismay towards his people and their customs.”

“He loves him despite what he is: a mere Sindarin chieftain, a dark Elf who never saw the Light of the Trees,” replied Celebrían matter-of-factly. She had long ago ceased feeling bitter over such things. “She never wanted a daughter who would prefer their ways, though. She wanted someone who was strong-willed, ambitious and competitive, like she is.”

“And what did you want?” asked Eärwen softly.

Celebrían sighed. “I just wanted a family… a home. And the first time Elrond spoke of his feelings to me, I knew I had found what I needed… whom I needed. And so did he. We were meant for each other; that we indeed found one another was the best thing that could ever have happened to either of us… until all was destroyed.”

She swallowed and turned away, trying to will back her tears… with moderate success. Her grandparents waited patiently for her to collect herself, offering comfort by their presence alone; feeling – and rightly so – that she could not bear more at the moment. Not yet.

“We shall not ask what was done to you,” Eärwen finally said, “although we both hope hat one day you will be healed enough to speak about it and put it in place as part of the past. But we want you to know that you will always have a home with us. You have family, both in Tirion and in Alqualondë, and we would be glad to have you with us.”

Celebrían shook his head. “I never liked courtly life, Daernana, or I would have married Gil-galad indeed. And I could not bear people gawking at me and whispering behind my back, knowing what happened to me – or believing that they know.”

“That is understandable, though living with your family would not necessarily mean living at the court, either mine or Olwë’s,” said Arafinwë. “But I believe, too, that you would do better in Merilindë’s care for the time being. Take your time. Whenever you feel strong enough to come to us, if not for more than for a visit, you will be most welcome.”

“And in the meantime you will have the chance to befriend such family as you will have around you,” Eärwen added. “Lord Irmo seems to believe that the three of you will benefit from each other’s presence; and Erunyauvë will remain here to watch over your healing.”

“I do not need any minders,” answered Celebrían a little crossly. “We did well enough in Middle-earth, without the constant interference of the Powers. I shall not be treated like some errant elfling!”

Her grandparents exchanged looks of stunned disbelief at this outburst, which stood to such opposite to her earlier meek behaviour – then started laughing as one.

“And this when I was just about to give up the hope of finding anything of our daughter in you!” exclaimed Arafinwë, with tears of mirth in his eyes.

“Apparently, the stubborn streak of the Finwëans survives countless generations, no matter how much their blood mingles with that of more… moderate families,” agreed Eärwen with twinkling eyes. Then she gave Celebrían a quick hug. “Come with us now, dear. We want to introduce you to the family that has been returned to us. They will be, after all, your charges, too, for the near future.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Celebrían reluctantly agreed – she felt a little overwhelmed with new people thrown at her at every turn of the way, but she could not truly refuse, could she? Thus they went out of the house through the back door and entered the orchard with its fragrant, beautiful fruit-trees. Following the path, they came to the flat, grass-covered hillock, where the ancient apple-tree of enormous girth stood.

There, where the soil had been piled around the bole of the tree, so that it would form a broad seat, offering resting place for several people at once, they found Erunyauvë. She was sitting under the tree, the contains of her sewing basket spread all over her skirts, in the company of two Elves.

One of them was a golden-haired elleth, clearly a Vanya, pale and beautiful and clearly a little frightened. The other one was a young, dark-haired and grey-eyed ellon who reminded Celebrían of someone she had not seen for an entire Age and had no hope to see again any time soon.

“Gil-galad!” she whispered I awe. “He looks just like Gil-galad!”

~TBC~