Ost-in-Edhil

[Galadriel]

(Moving the rp portion of "The World Was Young" - and deleted my posts from the old one XD Le hannon, Arwen ^^)

tindomion said:

After the destruction of the War of Wrath and the ruin of Beleriand. Galadriel and Celeborn had lead a contingent of the remaining Noldor through Lindon and over the Blue Mountains, into Eriador. They were joined by a number of Sindarin and Sylvan Elves whom were leaderless and for a time settled around Lake Nenuial, until Galadriel desired to press on further eastward.

At last they came to a land rich in metals and fine stone, with an abundance of holly trees, and this they called Eregion. Before them lay the barrier of the Hithaeglin and close at hand, actually beneath those mountains, was the fabled, most ancient mansion of the Dwarves, Hadhodrond, Khazad Dum.

Here the Noldor established their great realm, their capitol was Ost-in-Edhil and east of that was set the house of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain [ People of the Jewel Smiths ] , the greatest guild of craftsmen ever to exist in Middle-earth .
The Elves of Eregion constructed, ( often with the aid of the Noldor who loved to build in stone ) fine stone homes, graceful and secure, and gathered in clusters, among orchards, vineyards and tilled fields, providing agricultural support to the capitol, and all was connected by a network of paved roads.

Ost-in-Edhil itself, was altogether different. Situated just downriver from the confluence of the Sirannon and Glanduin rivers, it was built upon a bluff of granite and looked westward where the Glanduin opened into a long lake, called Estelin [Pool of Rest] and the road from the east sloped upward showing at last the gleam of the marble city and the the copper roofs of the three towers and bronze dome of the Council Hall while to the east the '' prow '' of the city rose four hundred feet.
And to liken the capitol to a mighty ship facing the westward lake, was perhaps a deep insight into the hearts of the Noldor, the east and west ends of the city were higher , like the forecastle and stern of a vast ship , and within three plaza's stood in line, while rising from each were tall, slender belltowers, like masts. All was faced with glittering white marble which caused the city to glow white in the daylight and the setting and rising sun illuminated it a deep amber.
The Noldor were master architects and thus the designs were varied and many, with balconies, cantilevers, and wide spans, with slender, graceful supports leaving space for many windows , and the glassworkers of the city were unequalled, and cast their multipaned windows in marvellous designs and gem- like colors.
Although built as a fortress. it eventually outgrew its original design, whereas in Lindon, although there were many villas and beautiful homes, the High King never , even in times of peace forgot the old wars and his main palace was a vast structure of , slim towers and high . strong walls, and the havens were ringed by defences.

Little news came over the Towers of Mist, but twelve hundred years after the beginning of the Second Age, a traveller arrived, first in Lindon, alone, and without escort, asking to speak with the High King.

He called himself Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, and claimed to be a Maia in the service of Aule, whom the Noldor revered. His appearance was fair and ageless , his voice soft, his manner courteous, as he entered the great Hall where Gil Galad sat. He said he had much to teach the Noldor who still elected to dwell in Middle-earth , implying that he empathised with them and was not altogether in agreement that the Valar chose now to leave them to their own devices , without guidance.

The room was very silent as he spoke; not far from the High King stood Elrond , the Herald, and Tindomion, niether wore armor, but swords were belted at their waists , from a high round window of many-coloured glass, spatters of light fell upon the Maia visitor, staining his face the red of blood.
The High Kings bright eyes faintly narrowed a little, and then he turned to his warriors.
'' Have provisions made and escort the Lord Annatar to our borders, '' he ordered in his clear voice, and took three steps closer to the Maia, standing eye to eye.
'' We have learned, hir nin, that not all the Ainu can be trusted. I am sure that thou dost understand this? '''
For a long moment, nothing stirred, not even breath, and Tinsomion's fingers curled about the hilt of Gurthdur.
'' Istelion, Elrond, be thou the escort for Hir Annatar, ''
'' Aye Aran-nin, '' they responded.

'' I am deeply grieved not to earn thy trust and friendship, High King, '' the voice sounded sorrowful, yet patient. '' Yet this vhoice is thine, thou woulds't profit greatly, but '' he shrugged delicately. '' This is thy land and I will abide by thine edicts. ''

Horses were waiting in the outer ward. Annatar mounting gracefully, his robes very fine, he wore a ring upon one hand, set with a red gem and a circlet held back his long, fair hair.
'' A pity, '' he sighed as he looked back as the towers receded. '' There is much I could do here, ''

He is not so calm as he seems, The thought came to Tindomion as he glanced aside and met a look which returned his with limpid innocence, a kindly wisdom.

'' Son of Makalaure, surely thy hands are capable of works of great skill and beauty? Like thy mighty grand-sires. ''

'' My hands are at the service of my king, hir nin. '' He answered , stonily turning his face ahead, while into his mind came sudden images of beauties beyond imagining, to rival the Silmarili of old. And the Maia chanted , suddenly, softly, as if singing a song to an elfling:

'' Silmaril ye burn so bright
Above the earth, tithin the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could tell where those two lost ones lie? ''

Tindomions eyes blazed, he urged his mount faster, going on ahead, his thoughts chaotic, he did not speak again, until days later, when the High Kings realm came to an end, and the Maia rode off into the east.

'' Who was he? '' He whispered, as he and Elrond watched the figure until he was beyond even their sight, blotted by the oncoming night.

'' I do not know, Istelion, '' The Half Elven said. '' But I felt... a coldness in my heart. ''

'' I also, '' The Noldo said, finally turning back. '' Cold... and red fire. ''

'' Gilinya, '' Tindomion had asked when he returned. '' What dids't thou seen in that one? ''

Gil Galad had looked at his mellon thinking, and then rejecting the words, the briefest glimpse he had seen, and felt, a numbness in his heart. '' Istelion, all I truly know id that I will not hearken to his words, my fea denies him, servant of Aule, or no. '' He laid a hand on the wide shoulder. '' What troubles thee? Elrond said he spoke to thee. ''

'' Hir Elrond heard all he said, Aran-nin, and he ... chanted a rhyme, of the Silmarili, ''

The High King frowned, and his fingers tightened in a comforting grip. '' Think no more of him, Istelion. He headed east , I would wager to Eregion, Galadriel is wise, her ears will not be open to him. ''

And of course, the daughter of Finarfin did not trust Annatar, but others did, eager for the lore of one who served Aule - and chief among them Celebrimbor, of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain....

Indeed, as was after know, Galadriel had, long before her removal to Eregion, percieved that even through Morgoth was cast out into the Void, there was still a motivating power for evil abroad. Her senses told her that it lay not in Eriador , [ it, or they, for at the time it was not known from whom it emanated ] , but further east beyond the Hithaeglir, and perchance even far beyond those.
As for * Annatar * himself, although perhaps the Lady did not know exactly whom he was - for had she done so surely she would have done all in her power to reveal him and have him cast from Eregion - but she certainly treated him with scorn, which he bore with outward courtesy, percieving in her , his greatest foe.
But that lay in the future. When Tindomion first came to Ost-in-Edhil, Annatar had not come to these lands.
The house of Galadriel and Celeborn lay upon the side of the great granite bluff, all the rooms facing westward. It was of brown travertine marble, almost with a wood-grain effect and trimmed with dark cherry. All the houses in the city were likewise gracious, and wide, and used diferent varieties and shades of marble, as well as granite and porphyry with trims and decorative facings of agates and chalcedony, reminding Tindomion of his mothers descriptions of Gondolin.
Without the city he had passed two massive planters in which flourished two giant holly trees, the symbol of Eregion , and beyond these lay an amphitheatre, game-courts and an oval track, for the Noldor here, as well as in Lindon enjoyed testing their physical prowess in competitions .
Over the graceful arch of a stone bridge, Tindomion approached the northern ( and much lower ) section of the city and the North Gate where mail-clad wardens greeted him politely and took his horse, for there were no horses in Ost-in-Edhil itself . A flight of shallow, steadily rising marble stairs brought him at last into the city.

**

[Galadriel]

iolanthe said:

"Tindomion, son of Maglor, crosses the north gate,” Celeborn mused absently, examining the pendant clasped between his fingertips. His expression mingled grudging admiration and disdain, the latter much more pronounced. He could not deny that it was beautiful; a floral pendant, with a smooth base of iron, overlaid with thick, braided mithril over top, deeply interwoven, exquisite craftsmanship - these threads of metal so evenly intertwined. It was not just any metal - mithril from the depths of Khazad-Dum, beaten as copper, polished as glass, light, yet hard, gleaming like silver - but never tarnished, never dimmed. Inlaid within the pendant were finely cut amethyst gems, flawless and deep, violet purple, lined in thin frames of silver - set in the mithril. It was less than the size of a small child’s palm, but the detail was as intricate as the finest lines of a map.

Celeborn dropped his hand, looking to his left where Galadriel stood. She gave a small, half smile, to which her husband replied, “Thou knowst he comes?” The barest inclination of her head indicated so. Despite her misgivings for Feanor, Galadriel knew well that children did not always follow the footsteps of their ancestors - and she, too, was a testament to that. After all, it was she who crossed into Middle Earth, she who turned away from the Valar - her father had turned back.

But Galadriel was pleased with Eregion. She was comfortable, here, though the woods of Lothlorien, beyond the Misty Mountains, she favored most of all. Here, however, amongst the elven smiths, Galadriel spent much time with the dwarves, for she admired their crafts greatly, and she was not the only Noldorin. This day, a pendant had been a gift from one of the Elven smiths and now stood in the hallowed, brown marble foyer of her home - dark cherry trim giving a gentle, warm lull to the early morning.

“It is too dwarfish for my tastes,” the Lord confessed with a scornful air, offering the pendant back to his wife. The contempt rang tangibly from his voice, but Galadriel knew he had been impressed by such a developed style. The elven smiths were always eager to improve their skills, and trade aided a flourishing friendship between the dwarves and Noldorin craftsmen.

"There will come a time, melmenya,” Galadriel murmured insightfully, closing tapered, pale fingers over the pendant, “when thou wilst value the craftsmanship of Aulë's pupils over the sorrowful dispute of Nauglamir."

There was a pause.

“Dispute?” Celeborn’s voice was strange, strained even - after a beat, “Is that what you call it, Alatáriel? A dispute?” The tiniest thread of anger colored his tone, not so much aimed at his wife, as the dismissal of Doriath - it was a wound that had not yet begun to heal.

But Galadriel did not apologize, glancing into her husband’s unsettled grey gaze. “You mistake my tone for flippancy, Telporno,” she corrected patiently, her voice soft, empty of condescension.

Although her voice soothed his indignation, Celeborn was unwilling to surrender so soon, and his eyes darkened, intensely fixed on hers. “Elwë bore no ill intentions towards the Dwarves of Nogrod. Theirs was the task to set the Silmaril - the Silmaril brought to him by Beren! - with the Nauglamir…and…and their ungrateful response? To invade my kinsman’s realm, slay him, and steal it! Their covetous greed,” Celeborn spat, voice drenched in a vast array of emotion, “knows no bounds, Alatáriel! Sayst thou Elwë deserves such a fate?”

“Never.” She pressed her right hand, that which safely held the pendant, against her chest before she continued, very carefully, “Elwë was betrayed.” She admitted this. “But…” Celeborn’s eyes narrowed. “of these many crimes of the Casari Návaroto against Lestanóre - and these crimes were grave indeed, tell me, Telporno, who left Eluréd and Elurín to starve deep within the woods?”

He did not flinch visibly, but the pain speared his gaze as lighting splices thunderclouds. Both had been grieved to hear such news; after Luthien’s passing, the Sons of Feanor once more sought to fulfill their oath. “Turcafinwë, Curufinwë, Morifinwë…” Galadriel continued, despite the brief shake of Celeborn’s head, indicating he did not wish to recall it, “…fell by whose hand? And who, by consequence, should be cast the blame for the slaying of Dior, heir of Elwë, and Lady Nimloth?"

"Alatáriel, please."

“The dwarves?” Galadriel pressed gently, her whisper nearly inaudible. Hers was not a desire to cause strife to her husband, for she too mourned the second Kinslaying - as much as the first. “The dwarves did not bring the ruin of Doriath, muinenya. Thou knowst who is responsible.” Silence.

Galadriel brushed the back of her left hand against his face, her expression softening as her fingers traced the noble line of his jaw, set in grief at her words, "I ask only that thee cast not the blame of Elwë's death solely on dwarf-kin. It is that..." The Lady paused; she could scarcely speak the words, and did so in an uncharacteristically sharp tone, "accursed oath of Fëanáro." It never should have been spoken...for naught but destruction had been wrought from those words.

“Ná, my lady…” Celeborn confessed wearily, after another long silence. “But the Silmaril…it was not Elwë who began this feud.” Despite his woe, Celeborn’s words were strong, firm.

“No,” Galadriel agreed, “Elwë was not to blame, and he was much wronged. All of Doriath - much wronged by that invasion. But he was as taken by the beauty of the Silmaril as the dwarves, as Fëanáro and his sons, as anyone who might lay eyes upon the jewels.” The Lady mourned the loss of Doriath, and she remembered the horror of such an attack. She also remembered Thingol’s obsession - and oh, his avarice was grand upon first glimpsing such a jewel. It was doomed from the onset of Beren’s quest, no matter the outcome.

Galadriel smoothed those same wandering fingertips along Celeborn's high collar, ornate embroidery traced of leaves and vine. Her thoughts grew heavy with concern, and she did not look at him as the words escaped, in little more than a sigh, "Such...darkness."

Her voice was alien enough in its sorrow that Celeborn knew she no longer referred to Feanor, though she had confided in him her fears of her uncle. This darkness, however...Galadriel's gaze discreetly - even unconsciously - flickered towards the east. Somewhere, past Hithaeglin, evil stirred. She felt it was her responsibility, her burden, to stop this entity - hence their move from the Nenuial Lake towards the east. Galadriel missed the coast dreadfully, but her concern for this phantom foe vastly outweighed her yearning for the Sea.

"Thou canst yet sense from whence it spreads?" he asked gently, and she knew precisely of what he spoke.

"Would that I could," Galadriel regretfully conceded, clasping her hands together over the smooth, mithril laced pendant. She sought Celeborn's eyes, frustration lacing her words, "The disquiet is a heavier burden on my heart than the knowledge itself would be. With each lingering day, it grows stronger, bolder..." She shook her head slightly, "...but I am blind to its figure. I see...only shadow..." she trailed off, distant voice diminishing in the wake of her troubled thoughts.

Even her gaze was faraway, azure blue cast somewhere past Celeborn, past the marble walls, past the borders of Eregion. What she saw, not even he could say for certain. She was blessed with sight, but it came with a burden. He touched his wife’s shoulders, and the weight of his hands seemed to draw Galadriel back to the present. She gave a vague smile which did not touch her eyes.

“The shadow will reveal itself…” she said quietly, before her husband could assure of the same, “but I fear...such a revelation…may come too late."

[Galadriel]

tindomion said:

The Elves referred to a '' year '' as Coranar or Loa, the meaning literally being '' sun-round ''. It had been over four hundred of these since the first ships of the Numenoreans had returned to Middle-earth across the Great Sea.
They landed in Lindon, and Tindomion had seen them, their mighty vessels, the tall men, dark of hair and dark or grey of eye, said to resemble the Noldor more than any other of the kindred of Men. And they greeted Gil Galad with clear and courteous voices and a friendship was forged which was to endure until the blood and death of the Last Alliance.

The Numenoreans would become, over the centuries, the greatest civilizisation of Men the Arda was ever to see, for they not only grew in wealth and knowledge, but were also visited by Elves of Tol Eressea, the Lonely isle in the Bay of Eldamar , for Numenor lay at midpoint between the Blessed Realm ( which still lay then, within the Circles of the World ) and the Hither Shores.
And thus did the people of Numenor, whose first King was Elros, brother of Elrond, also grow in wisdom, taught many things by the Elves, who gifted them with birds which sang and plants and flowers which flourished only West of the Sea, and the greatest gift which was given was called Nimloth, the White Tree.
This was itself a seedling from the White Tree of Eressea, Celeborn, and which was descended from Galathilion, which stood in the courts of Tirion on Tuna, and which had been made by Yavanna herself .
Planted in the King's Court in Armenelos, Nimloths blossoms would open at sunset and perfume the air of the city with its fragrance.
The Numenoreans also became friends of Gil Galad in Lindon, and he in turn sent messengers, such as Tindomion, to Ost-in-Edhil, at whiles, to tell Galadriel of what passed in Lindon, or in Numenor.

A thousand turnings of the Sun. And now, far in the East in a volcanic , mountain - walled land, perfect for his purposes, Morgoths Lieutenant began his construction - Maia of Aule indeed - of a place which would become a name of hatred and dread among all the sentient races of Middle-earth - Barad Dur.

Gil Galad had also been troubled in reverie, by a shadow far away, but Lindon was green and fair and tranquil and the leagues of Eriador untroubled, and Eregion thriving, and so he sent, privily, by one of his trusted warriors, not by letter, but by word , his doubts, to Galadriel.

Tindomion was also to come here, at whiles, to see Celebrimbor. Theirs was never to be a close friendship, perhaps it never had the chance to be, but Tindomion did learn smithcraft from the son of Curufin, although his greatest gifts were for music and warfare.

Galadriel he knew only by brief glimpses and by repute. In the Kinslaying at Alqualonde, she had taken no part, nor had she spoken any Oath, but the tall, beautiful and proud daughter of Finarfin also desired to see the wide lands of Middle-earth, and did not turn back with her father.
From Melian the Maia, in Doriath, she had learned much of Middle-earth, and was accounted the wisest and fairest of the Eldar on the Hither Shores, her eyes still holding the Light of the Two Trees, long ago destroyed by Morgoth and Ungoliant.

At that time, Tindomion did not know of Feanors desire for her, but that she deplored the Oath and the Kinslayings and the grief they had wrought, was well known. Tindomion was of that fell blood, but all his life he would attempt to prove that he was not Feanaro, and not his own atar, Maglor . Only in battle would that fire be unleashed, and allowed to burn unconstrained.

He passed marble villas, and gardens, along roads kerbed and paved with marble, until the reached the foot of the steps which lead to the gracious dwelling of Galadriel and Celeborn. He did not imagine he would be welcomed by either, for the noble Teleri must surely still curse the memory of the Sons of Feanor and the sack of Doriath but he had his duties to his King, which he would discharge.

A warder greeted him, and led him to an ante chamber, wide and beautifully furnished, in the uncluttered and elegant manner of the Elves, his fingers traced over the brooch which bore the emblem of the House of Feanor, overlaid with a harp - Maglors insignia, before, with a faint shrug, he unpinned it, and handed the cloak to a servant who brought wine and fruit., and courteously, a bowl and were of water to lave his hands and face.
He opened the triple braids of his hair, combed the great mane of it, which fell to mid-thigh and was neatly trimmed there, and then rebraided it quickly, smoothing down the cobalt-blue of his velvet tunic, to appear neat for this meeting with the Lady - and possibly the Lord - of Ost-in-Edhil.

[Galadriel]

iolanthe said:

"What hast thou said to our uncle?"

The voice, faint with amusement, was that of Aegnor, elder brother of Galadriel, youngest son of Finarfin and lord of the Noldor. Better known, at least at present, as Aikanáro - for he much preferred this to his father-name, Ambarato. Fëanáro had been incensed, and the name on his lips was Artanis. Aikanáro sought his sister in the Great Square, glimpsing her as she sat before the shadow of the white tree Galathilion. She was often by herself, so it was hardly uncharacteristic, but he sensed something amiss this time.

Galadriel did not respond to his question. Her long, radiant tresses had been dragged over one shoulder, and she was meticulously braiding her hair, pale elven fingers working the strands with rhythmic surety. At her brother's words, however, her hands did falter, for a moment. She drew her legs to her chest, gown dragging against the ground inaudibly.

Aegnor was hardly discouraged; the blond Noldor lord strode towards his sister, and when she did not look up at him, he kneeled beside her, tilting his head to peer past the curtain of golden hair.

"Tell me, sister, or I shall vex thee the rest of the evening. Thou mayst even coax me to sing..." he teased. It was a long-standing yarn between the siblings that Aegnor's voice could shatter a diamond with its terrible key - when, actually, his voice was quite lovely. Regardless of its truth, the mention did receive the intended effect. Galadriel smiled, briefly, and looked up.

It was impossible to hide, now, that she had been crying. Blue eyes rimmed with tears, and the lines glistening on her cheeks from those that had already fallen. Aegnor hissed in surprise and distress, grasping his sister’s hands. He pulled them away from her hair, which, he realized, she was using as a distraction.

“Nerwen…what is it? What sayeth Fëanáro to thee? He rages he is humiliated, but I know not the particulars.”

Galadriel’s eyes flashed heatedly - in anger, not sorrow. “Humiliated, is he?” she retorted, snatching her hands from her brother’s grasp. She narrowed her gaze on nothing in particular, though now - the braid only half finished, she began pulling it apart, untangling the strands once more.

“Nerwen…?” Confusion, worry, laced her brother’s tone.

Galadriel shook her head once, tossing thick waves of her hair over her shoulder. “He requested a strand of my hair. That is all that occurred! If he is disgraced, it is no fault of mine!” she cried indignantly, pushing herself to her feet abruptly. Galadriel turned away from the White Tree, but Aegnor grasped her shoulders before she could storm off. The barest of squeezes indicated he would let this be. Stubbornly, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and refused to turn around.

“Why dost he request this? A strand of hair?"

It was a strange request, to be sure. Galadriel shrugged sharply, tossing her head haughtily in glaring up at the star speckled sky. “How should I know his intent? He said it was…it was for a jewel.” She pivoted towards her brother, uncertainty marring her features, “He said he wished to make use of it in a jewel.” Galadriel’s voice faltered over jewel, and grief softened her voice, straining it as if she had been screaming for hours on end. As easily as she was provoked to self-righteous exasperation, she now seemed fragile enough to shatter. Aegnor could not understand how such a request could provoke…such a reaction. His brow knitted in troubled incomprehension.

“Thou hast refused the request?”

“Yes!" Galadriel's voice heightened once more, strengthened with anger, "I would not give him a strand of my hair for all the jewels in Valinor! I told him so myself!"

Ah. If she responded in such a manner, it was no longer a mystery why Feanor took such offense. It surprised Aegnor, for his sister - though proud - was not one to stir troubles. In truth, it was Aegnor who was known for his temper; he well embodied his mother name, for Aikanáro meant sharp flame. Galadriel was not so quick-tempered; there must have been an underlying reason for her extreme distaste. Although, like his siblings, he had no love for Feanor - his uncle's relationship with Fingolfin and his own beloved father was strained at best - Galadriel's infuriation went beyond this. It was odd to see his sister in such a state. Granted, the entire affair did not quite settle, for why would Feanor have any inclination to request something of the children of Finarfin? Particularly such a minute request as a strand of hair from Finarfin's only daughter?

In his contemplations, Aegnor vaguely realized that Galadriel's blue eyes were fixed on him, and her expression was resigned - as if she had read his misgivings.

"Aikanáro, I do not trust him," she said softly, after a long silence. Aegnor opened his mouth - but Galadriel held up a hand, indicating she needed to finish. "He stares at me, and I can feel his eyes on me. He strives to catch me unawares and -alone-, I am sure of it! This is not the first time he has requested such a gift...he will not take no for an answer!" As Galadriel spoke, Aegnor's eyes grew steadily darker, and she nearly shivered, though she felt no cold.

"I hate him!" she whispered heatedly, balling her hands into fists at her sides. She glared at her brother's chest, unable to meet his eyes. "He frightens me, Aikanáro. I hate to be alone with him! There is a darkness in him, hannonya, such lust - of the spirit, and of the flesh."

The tears spilled, unbidden, from her eyes, trailing one after another down alabaster cheeks. She despised Feanor. He scared her so, for his power and for his enamoration. She never, NEVER, wished to know his specific thoughts towards her. She would just as well be ignorant, and rarely sought to read him. Galadriel had no desire to know the depths of his "affection" for her.

For a long, long moment there was silence.

Then, as if eased out of a vision, Aegnor's arms enveloped his sister, who, despite her height, seemed suddenly so fragile. He pressed a chaste kiss against her hair, and she clutched to him as if he was the last weight to keep her from sliding out to sea.

"Muinë nésa," he whispered affectionately, though anger strained his tone. "If he asks it of thee again, tell me. So long as I am able, I will not let him alone with thee." Galadriel did not answer, but she nodded, slightly, accepting his offer. Aegnor was fiercely protective of his sister - and regardless of Feanor's intent, he had made her uncomfortable. -More- than uncomfortable, and Aegnor was determined that this. would. cease.

-----------------------------------------------------

"Dost thou still wish to greet our guest?" Celeborn murmured, insightfully taking his wife's silence for what it was.

Galadriel, stirred from her memories, turned her head towards him. His face, smooth, grave, and unreadable, gave no inclination of his feelings. But his eyes were soft and true. If it was her will, Celeborn would send the son of Maglor away. It would be a grave insult, but in his mind - it was her right to refuse. Galadriel rewarded the concern with a smile, rippling silver laced hair decorated by the slender, delicate crown of the same shade.

"I have no quarrel with Gil Galad or the son of Maglor," she replied gently, offering her hand to her husband. The thick, embroidered sleeve of her white cloak brushed her wrists, and Celeborn delicately placed his hand beneath hers - the two stood together, a single, gracious movement. The Lord wore a dark gray colored robe, with vine-like detail around the shoulders and down the front. Lighter silver gave depth, with petal fashioned sleeves that revealed the pale interior. Neither wore much jewelry, nor was it required to designate them as Lord and Lady.

The room itself was large, carved of marble and rich wood, its focal point the twin thrones which faced the doors. An unspoken signal from Celeborn, and these doors were opened by a pair of warders, one of whom stepped forward into the gap of the ornate doorway and declared quietly,

"The Lord and Lady will see you now."

An incline of his head, and the elf moved aside. Galadriel, for her troubles with the house of Feanor, could not help but peer - almost eagerly - into the antechamber. She wished very much to meet Tindomion, and to judge for herself how well he stood against the reputation of his house.

[Galadriel]

tindomion said:

Tindomion inclined his head and bowed, holdng the bow, right hand on left breast, for the time required to pronounce his respect, and the King he represented, before straightening.

'' Le suilannon, hiril nin, hir nin, Im Tindomion Maglorion . I bring word from hir nin Gil Galad. ''

Here was one who had seen Laurelin and Telperion , dwelt in the noontide of the Bliss of Aman, and the white city of Tirion, seen the Valar in all their glory. And both had dwelt in Doriath, in Menegroth, the Thousand Caves, witnessed Melians divine beauty and the unmatched splendor of Luthien.
In the visions that had began to come to him, long ago, when he was told of his heritage, he had seen glimpses of such places, Aman, jewel-scattered beaches... but usually the images were wound of sorrow, and battle, feelings of rage, and grief.
Had the Lady known his atar, he wondered, but not asking, he was no longer an impulsive elfling.
'' Aran vuin nin [ my beloved King ] sends thee his greetings and well wishes. ''

He paused, then out of politenes, and also to observe them, with curiosity and awe, for so much had both seen, tall and regal in bearing, the Lady no less than the Lord, and in her eyes the afterglow of the hallowed light of Aman, eyes deep and wise and radiant., her hair likened to the gold of Laurelin . His bard's heart felt it keenly, seeking, as always to form words and music around beauty ; A scintillant glissade of spun gold catching the blue-white of the Silmarils fire... But if he had known Feanors desire for Galadriel he might have flinched in mortification of his thoughts, a paean of praise though they were.

**

'' What ails atar? '' the voice came to him from some far and distant shore, and he strained with all his might to hear it, for the voice was already, in the past thousand years as familiar to him as his own, melodic, music, before it became so sorrowful, so fey, grief and sorrow like a stone in the bottom of a cup...
I know not, '' Another voice, still kin, one he often assoctiated with Makalaure's, with glimpses of hair like fresh-scoured copper, not his atar's raven black; Maitimo. I think... he was speaking with Herinya Nerwen, '' **
Then the voices vanished into the aether, and into Tindomions mind, leaving only the sound of water running somewhere, music, and the song of birds, and an ache like hunger and pain clenched under his breastbone. He gave his head an infistessimal shake, as if to clear these thoughts and alien emotions

'' I would thank thee , also for receiving me. '' he ended, knowing this was a courtesy that might not have been granted. Men might carry hatreds, and fueds, from generation to generation, but the Elves, who lived so long, and who never forgot, were even more capable of grudges, for their memories were always fresh. And , from things said to him, or about him, he knew that few people deemed it something good: That both he and Celebrimbor bore Feanaro's blood; indeed most thought he should never have been born. He is wild, he has that fell fire within him

'' Ware thine anger, Istelion, '' Gil Galad had said long ago, when he had watched Tindomion training, seen how his rising tide of fury could bring out savagery , even in sport. '' Save it for the enemy, mellonamin, ''

Tall he stood, with the unconscious, graceful imperiousness of his sires blood, which was utterly fundemental to him, unforced yet could also repel without his realising, or attract when allied with his rare, warm and charming smile. Feanaro had not been a lodestone to so many only because of his fierceness and gift for words, but some fires burn so hot and white that they destroy.
Tindomion rarely attracted friends, warming to very few, permitting his own inner fires to touch but a handful in thousands of years , but when he did, his whole manner changed, making him magnetic, loyal, gracious, charismatic, some-one to trust implicitly and to love. But here he was uncertain of his reception, for many reasons, and so enacted the courtier, with chivalry and proper deference to these two patrician Elves. .

[Galadriel]

iolanthe said:

Galadriel maintained her countenance, but the single indication of her surprise was the curl of her fingers around Celeborn's hand. Tindomion Maglorion was his father’s son. Had Galadriel not known better, she could have sworn a living portrait of Maglor bowed in greeting. Thick, glorious dark hair found itself tinged in red and framed a face whose features echoed those of her uncle, and even more directly those of the second son of Feanor. He had been a great poet and bard - the greatest of all the Noldor, and Galadriel had half a mind to inquire as to whether or not Tindomion himself had inherited such a gentle, beautiful gift…but thought better of it, for the darkness of his father’s repute might have given him a distaste for such talents. His frame, broad shouldered, reminiscent of his father, and his stance ringing, albeit unconsciously of Feanorean elegance…and arrogance.

Celeborn accepted the courteous greetings with a slight nod, stepping down from the raised platform of the thrones, Galadriel with him, though she was silent - her gaze unquestionably centered on the Feanorean before her. Pausing a proper distance, Celeborn smoothly responded,

“The company of the High King is always appreciated, and we return to thee, and to thy aran yuin, our salutations and deepest blessings for good health and happiness.”

While he spoke, Galadriel only vaguely gave her assent. Tindomion’s eyes were a luminous grey, and from what the Lady had glimpsed, carried…were there words for what she sensed? Here stood the descendant of the High King Fëanor, whose name was nigh recalled as the greatest of the Eldar in arts and lore. His name was never whispered in reverence for his unrivaled skills of craft and gem. If ever the name of Curufinwë passed the lips of an elf…it was a curse. A curse, for Fëanor had wrought such a slaughter upon his kin as had never before been witnessed in the history of the Firstborn! Nay, who would not be ashamed to offer homage to such wickedness?

Seven sons. Seven sons claimed parentage from this house, and seven sons were doomed to death, censure, and madness for such an Oath as Fëanor demanded. They swore an oath, invoking Everlasting Dark should any of them break it - against any, regardless of race, great or small, good or evil, who dared to withhold a Silmaril from their grasp. Was not it intended kindly? Aye…and Galadriel was inclined to believe that as those words in unison bound their fëar to the fate of the jewels, the sons of Fëanor knew not what they had done. Spoken against Morgoth Bauglir, they could not have anticipated what destruction these words would beget…not against him, but against their own kin.

The sons of Fëanor led ceaseless campaigns against the wretched Ainu, brave warriors and heroic leaders, all of them. Foes of the Great Enemy himself, of whom Elves might once have glorified in song for their courageous, unyielding spirits. But that great Oath, reawakened by Beren’s quest, shadowed the brothers with the same darkness Galadriel had perceived in Fëanor. An all-encompassing darkness which could only consume them - and turn their once noble intentions to unspeakable evil. They, too, were destined to be remembered not as mighty princes of the Noldor, but as ruined and monstrous figures responsible for the slayings of unnamed innocents. Savage, avaricious hunters who drove their followers into disgrace and their house into eternal disrepute.

Against all of this Tindomion Maglorion stood. But he was unbound by the Oath, freed ostensibly from his father’s influence, and Galadriel found herself relieved from the overwhelming dread she had amassed in preparation for the arrival of Maglor’s son. She had always been blessed with insight into the souls of others, and there were a many conflicting nuances to this Feanorean. In Tindomion rested the pride, rage, and fire of his bloodline - it was a fury that would plague him always. He would never completely overcome it.

But could Galadriel presume so far as to declare him doomed, as his forefathers? There was a will within him, strong as mithril, which assuaged the ferocity of his father’s blood. There was a deep, sorrowful deliberation in his thoughts, and Galadriel knew he was not ignorant of the curse of his line. It was this humility and this burden - acknowledgment of the crimes of his ancestors, and a determination to establish himself apart from the dreaded memory of Fëanor…which gave her hope.

The unearthly stillness that seemed, at times, to touch her when she was deep in thought crumbled. Galadriel smiled - and though reserved, the gesture was genuine - and finally spoke,

“Le govannen hí na 'lass [you are welcome here], Tindomion Maglorion,” the Lady murmured, “The journey, I trust, was not too arduous? We-” Her gaze momentarily touched her husband’s, “-hope that it is thy intent to rest, a few days at least, here? Dost Lindon send urgent tidings?”

[Galadriel]

tindomion said:

Tindomion had , he admitted, not expected such calm courtesy, not that he had judged that they would be impolite, although he would not have blamed them for it
He would have been mortified, flared with anger, but internally, for on such a journey, as emissary for his King, he was also bound by a certain unspoken diplomatic code. But a coolness, coldness, would not have been surprising, both of them , most especially the Lady, had seen far too much.

What she might tell me! But would she even wish to speak of such memories? And what .. wrongness did I feel? More wrongness? Tangled and twisted like the roots of a tree, which reaches so far back into the past...yet is still alive now..

'' Le hannon o guren. '' [ I thank you from my heart. ] The Lady's smile was like a light, suddenly in the room, and he said, less stiffly: '' Thou art gracious, both. Nay, the journey was quiet, and Lindon is peaceful, Hiril nin, Hir nin, and I do not bring missives directly from the High King, but rather something which is insubstantial, but which troubles his mind, and which he would have me speak of to thee, having entrusted me with his forebodings . '' He inclined his head to them. '' Thou art both known for thy wisdom, and thee, hiril nin, for thy prescience . ''

He paused for a moment, gathering their eyes to his, thinking back over his lords first misgivings, which, Gil Galad said, was like a touch, a shadow on his shoulder, behind him, making the sun seem dark and chill .

'' For a thousand years of the Sun, we have had peace, since the War of Wrath, '' he continued. '' We are allies with the Men of Numenor, and here in Eregion, thy fair city thrives, and thou art in .. friendship, '' he hesitated on the word, for he was not ignorant, and he knew of the slaying of King Elu Thingol in Menegroth , although from what he had heard, the dwarven clan of Hadhodhrond was not of the kin who had slain the great Teleri , father of Luthien. '' .... with the Naugrim of Khazad Dum, to the enrichment of all. ''
For only here in all Middle-earth, was found Mithril, or True-silver, which was beyond price. Tindomion himself owned nothing made of that metal although he had seen it and marvelled at its beauty.
'' And there are Elven realms even beyond the Towers of Mist, - and of the far lands eastward, we hear nothing and know less . '' His winging black brows drew together for a moment. '' And yet still Ar Vuin nin is troubled. Although Morgoth the Accursed is cast into the Void, his minions and spawn were legion, and not all were yrchs, ''
He knew this from his amma, who had seen the Fall of Gondolin, and Glorfindel's duel with the Balrog, - and there had been other things there, serpents like plated bronze, and things of dread, mis-shapen wolves - all in Morgoths service.

'' And so my King would ask thee, has aught disturbed thy reverie, or thy waking hours, a shadow, or a feeling, however intransigent? Or if thou wishest anything thou sayest to be between thyselves and Ar nin, alone, then you may entrust me with written messages to him, ''

He bowed again in the silence that followed. Gil Galad had said that of all the Eldar in Middle Earth, Galadriel had the greatest gifts of presentiment, for she had surely seen Melkor in Aman, when he was released from his first long captivity, and was permitted to go abroad among the Eldar. Fair seeming then, and humbled, and dripping subtle poison into the too-open ears of the Noldor. It was a discomforting thought that of all the evils the Lady had endured , the crossing of the Helcaraxe after Feanors abandoment of his kin in Araman, the deaths of her beloved brothers, all of them , in one way or another, had proceeded from Feanors Oath, and the actions of his sons, not directly from Morgoths evil . Even Finrod, fairest of the princes of the Eldar of old, had died by aiding Beren Erchamion in his quest to recover a Silmaril. Indeed all her four brothers had died in the First Age.
The Lady would sense any shadow of the old darkness, I believe, Gil Galad had said. those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm see deep and far, and beyond that of others , we that did not see the Light of the Trees, nor learned from the Valar, ''

'' Gilinya, would the Lady know aught of my sire? Tindomion had asked, and felt the sympathy in the Kings bright eyes.
'' Istelion, the House of Finarfin took no Oath, and yet they too suffered grievously from thy Grandsires Oath, the name of Feanaro and his sons, '' Gil Galad had paused. '' will ever be cursed, mellonamin. ''
Tindomion had flinched, as if stung by a wasp, before his face had glazed with stillness, remoteness and he had bowed.
'' Goheno nin, Aran Nin, I was precipitate, and foolish. I would not be so crass as to deliberately cause pain to the Lady, ''
'' I know thou dost have griefs of thine own, Istelion, but have hope.

And so, whatever thoughts passed behind the luminous, silver-grey eyes, Tindomion did not vocalize them, speaking only the words he had been bidden to, by his lord.

[Galadriel]

iolanthe said:

Celeborn was displeased, though it was nearly imperceptible. No lines creased his ageless face, nor did a scowl mar his mouth. But a tension strummed through him, a tightening of his jaw, the smooth neutrality in his grey eyes hardening. In that shared glance, Galadriel had revealed her thoughts, and he, his. To say Celeborn echoed his Lady’s sentiments would have been…exaggeration. He had received Tindomion Maglorion with civility because the elf was a messenger of the High King of the exiled Noldor, and Gil Galad was both wise and praiseworthy. Celeborn did not doubt that the King trusted one such as Tindomion implicitly; such a voyage would not have been undertaken lightly, and the king’s consult of the Lord and Lady of Eregion demanded proper courtesy.

But to extend an invitation of hospitality to a Feanorean? That had been her question, and she had marked his reluctance. One of the accursed line already resided within their realm: Celebrimbor the smith, son of Curafin, whom Celeborn did not particularly favor. Galadriel maintained that Telperinquar had not followed his father at the expulsion from Nargothrond, denouncing the sins of his house. But his desire to rival Fëanor’s craftsmanship and his friendship with the dwarves…provoked Celeborn’s mistrust of the elf. His bloodline was weak with recklessness, and in years to come, this mistrust would be well founded. Led astray by Annatar, Celebrimbor would become one of the leaders of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain revolt, driving both the Lord and Lady from Eregion.

Celeborn never forgave this treachery, remaining cold and distant towards the Feanorean, not even when Celebrimbor sought to make amends – giving Galadriel the Ring of Water in realization of Annatar’s true nature. It was not until tidings reached the Lord and Lady of the elf smith’s death – his body mounted on a pole, paraded by Sauron’s army, that Celeborn grudgingly confessed his grief. Both he and Galadriel honored Celebrimbor’s sacrifice, for he had not, even under torture, revealed the location of the Three Rings. Such a fate, remarked the Lord soberly, was "shameful and unfit, even for a son of Fëanor."

But at present, Celeborn struggled to understand Galadriel’s reasons for such delicate leniency. For Celebrimbor had long-since proven himself as a talented and diplomatic craftsman, but the Lord and Lady knew much less of the younger cousin, Tindomion, and there was the matter of his birth…aye, it seemed an ill omen indeed – and he would ask it of her, once the messenger had taken his leave. Why? Why had she chosen to speak of such fears to the Feanorean? Would not it have been better to share these thoughts with the High King alone?

“Là polityë nyarë taulë," she replied, " 'À luhta nai rómen', ai cenas i cálë hoi númen”. (You cannot tell a proud tree, “Bow towards the east”, if it [only] sees light from the west.) Meaning, to her, that no one could demand Tindomion overcome the taint of his house, if no one was willing to give him the opportunity. Galadriel sought to emulate Gil Galad's wisdom in acknowledgement that trust was important - for why should the son of Maglor not be discouraged if all his efforts towards reconciliation were rebuffed by those who could not forget and would not forgive?

"In a time of peace, this is grave news to be had," Celeborn mused finally, as silence overtook the chamber. His words seemed swallowed up by their heaviness. It was no coincidence his Lady had spoken of the shadow, or that an uneasy restlessness affected Eregion; even those who possessed little foresight could sense something...and he himself felt the darkness, a heavy shadow that siphoned warmth away, dimmed light, and summoned an onslaught of foreboding.

"We know of the darkness of which the High King speaks," Galadriel said quietly, still and statuesque. Her gaze drifted towards the cool, marble flooring in silent contemplation. "Though it troubles me to find it has grown so succinct." As to be sensed by others; it could only mean the shadow grew stronger - and yet they knew nothing of it! Or, nearly nothing...

She looked at Tindomion, expression clouded by thoughts - or memories, perhaps. "Morgoth, thou sayst," she considered, slowly, "Before this day, I had not yet spoken the name." But its syllables echoed in her thoughts. In a stroke of folly, Galadriel had wished - rather than believed - that if she did not acknowledge it, it would not be so tangible. But although she could not give this shadow a face, nor a lucid intent, the Lady could give it a source. It reeked of Morgoth.

"The king knowst we brought our people to Eregion from Lake Nenuial," Galadriel continued, and though she stood before Tindomion, she was not speaking to him. Her voice grew low and thoughtful as she meditated on what she had sensed, "Following the War, we stayed - for a time - in Lindon. From there, the Blue Mountains into Eriador. I sensed it...there...not yet a shape, but a will of sinister intent. And I did not expect, not then, it could be Morgoth, for he was captured in Angband. His legs severed at the ankle, bound with Aule's seven-metalled Angainor..."

She trailed off, clasping her hands together as she stepped aside, restlessly. Galadriel moved away from Tindomion and Celeborn, if only a few steps. She studied the eastern wall of the chamber, as if by staring at it long enough she could discover what dread lingered so consciously.

"It cannot be him, we know this. Eärendil guards the doors until Dagor Dagorath. And yet...east of Hithaeglin, though I am not certain where, it bides its time. I had thought in moving to the Mountains I could better grasp what it is...but the spirit is heavy and vague upon my thoughts, like blackened fog. I can only assume that it shares its master's will - and was not destroyed."

She turned around then, and sought Tindomion's eyes, "The High King senses as we do, though it grieves me I cannot give more comforting tidings. I know not what it is, or when it will move - though I would advise he be wary. I do not believe this will diminish; it can only grow stronger...and when it does..." Another troubled pause. "We must not be caught unawares."

Though she felt an implacable fear that it would be the case. Galadriel fell silent, lips closed as the messenger's distraction weighed on her thoughts. His eyes, she discerned silently, bespoke of an anxiety which had little to do with Morgoth or the shadow in the east. The Lady gave a brief, sad smile, and stepped out of line from her husband, that she be closer to Tindomion. She said nothing; for a long moment she only observed him.

Then, as if continuing a conversation that had taken place in some distant time, she spoke.

"Because of our fathers'...differences, my muindyr (brothers) and I were not close to our half-cousins," Galadriel informed him gently, lingering on muindyr for a single grief-stricken moment. It was not new pain, but it ached. However, when she brought her gaze to Tindomion's, her eyes were not grey with memory. In fact, the blue was sharpened keenly as she contemplated her next words.

"Thou knowst of thine atar, yes? Though thou hast not laid eyes on him directly." It was not a question. Perhaps his mother? Aye, Fanari would tell her son, if it was his to desire to know. But such knowledge did not seem to ease the Feanorean's heart. "He is in thy thoughts always, is he not?"

[Galadriel]

tindomion said:

So, Gilinya is not alone in his fears, tenous though they may be Tindomion mused as he listened to the Lady's words, unspeaking . Quick as a cat, and also, always prone to see mistrust, or dislike, even if none were intended, he had seen the displeasure in Celeborns eyes. Surely , he had himself said, Elrond would have been a more welcome emissary to Ost-in-Edhil.

'' Thou dost take too much of thy bloodlines shame upon thyself , Istelion, Gil Galad had said, sternly, but not ungently. '' Since the War of Wrath ended I have known thee, and never seen thee commit an ignoble act, I call thee friend, and gwador . Surely Elrond Earendilion would be welcome, but I will not have it said I am ashamed of my love for the son of Makalaure, nor will I cushion thy life. In Ost-in-Edhil you will see two noble Elves who both suffered from the Oath of Curufinwe. This must be faced, Istelion, it is thy Legacy, and thou must learn to bear it with grace and with understanding , all thy days .

So, that was why Galadriel had left Nenuial, he pondered, because even then she sensed something further in the East - before Gil Galad was troubled by dark thoughts, Galadriel had felt them already and, in a way , sought for the source , by turning her steps in that direction.

'' Aran nin does honour me with his confidences, hiril nin, hir nin, '' he said, soberly, not knowing, but perhaps sensing the question of why would the High King open his heart to Tindomion and send him across Eriador.
'' But, because his feelings are that alone, apprehensions, and little more, he firstly sent me thither, lest it be nothing, save dark broodings. But now that thou hast spoken, he will know it more than pensiveness. More than an old shadow out of the past....''

Lindon's army had never been permitted to sink into lethargy, they drilled, trained, consantly, even through the long years when nothing had seemed to stir, and harvests were rich and the sun gleamed on the white towers and the Laiquendi sang in the forests which skirted the Ered Luin . Angband was destroyed in the fall of Ancalagon, the great wined black drake, the lands changed, Sirion no more, so much lost under the seas streams, which yet could not wash away Elven memory.
Years of growth, yet of tranquility in Lindon and Eriador, yet they remembered, - the Elves remembered and their swords were sharp and their eyes and ears alert and their armor flashed under the skies, of dark winter, or high summer as the Age rolled on.

Tindomion was on the point of saying this to the Lady, that the High King was ever in a state of preparedness when the Lady's words froze them in his throat. He felt a flush sweep up over the white skin, which sun and wind never touched, and then it ebbed , leaving his pallor hard as a glaze laid over a statue, and as immobile - only his eyes ... seethed as if explosions from the mind behind them burned them into molten, fierce silver.
The dreams.... the dreams,... aye, I know my sire, I know what he did, I know his life - I dream him.... so close, I feel I could wake from reverie and reach out and touch him , expect my eyes to focuss and see him, standing beside me. And I would take my sword and drive it into him to the hilt...
It was as if the Lady had taken all his own doubts and darkness , which he contrived to hide and wrenched them out, holding them before him like a cloak woven of flame, and shame and loathing, ... and a yearning which he denied even in his deepest heart.
His modelled mouth parted a little as he drew a breath and his voice was stripped of melody, cast of anguish and hate - he heard it and strove to control it , the anger which burned too redly, and too readily within his fea .

'' I know Makalauare, hiril nin. I know of his acts. '' Each word clipped, bitten off. Then, softer now, with the tempering of emotions, held back with iron control: '' My amma only saw him twice. All she knew of him was from those who had known him in Tirion, her own atar, the Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion, Hiril Aredhel. '' And from the time all Turgons people removed to Gondolin, only the news Thorondor and his noble kin brought to the Hidden City - until its fall, when the refugees fled down Sirion to the sea.
The first time at Mereth Aderthad, when , kindly, Fanari said, gently as her own atar, Maglor had given her the brooch-pin he now wore, because she had wept at the poignant , enchanting beauty of his harping and his voice, a presentiment of the greater Doom which was to touch them all .... the second in the slaughter and blood of the Third Kinslaying... where she should have died.
She should have died He could not understand why she had not, only that she said she understood, and shared one moment of utter compassion and empathy wherein she understood what drove him to such evil. And yet... still, he could not understand why she had lived, to bear him, though he loved her and honoured her, she was in many ways a mystery to him.
She might have smiled , sadly, had she heard him, for she knew that it was that Doom which had shaped her and touched her, not for evil , but twisted away her young roots into contortions which should never have grown there, which should have sprung upward , clean and straight, to the new light of Anar.

'' But yes, hiril nin, I know him - I dream of him. '' Gil Galad knew, Elrond, and his amma, but no others, until now. They knew of those visions which tormented him, not each night, sometimes not for years, but coming like the slamming open of a door into vivid images, some of beauties . wonders which had never existed on Middle-earth, and some of war and flame and blood and death which racked him with the same emotions which had seared Makalaure, madness, grief, rage.....
'' Elrond has told me a little of him, from when he and Maitimo took he and his gwanunig as hostages, .... he said he was .... kindly... but he was very young. I have never spoken with any-one else who might have known him, hiril nin, '' There was no plea in voice, only perhaps a question in his eyes. He did not look at Celeborn, to whom the very mention of the Sons of Feanor must bring bitter pain, his attention was fixed, unwinking, intent , on Galadriel.

[Galadriel]

iolanthe said:

"Control yourself, Feanorean!" hissed Celeborn, and he stepped forward, a glimpse of those eyes hastening concern for his wife - who stood directly before the wrath. How could Gil Galad have trusted such a tempestuous elf?! Madness! The change had been immediate, the flush washing over his features...then stone...then rage touched those eyes and boiled the silver until it scalded her mind. But Galadriel raised one hand, giving her husband pause as she met and held Tindomion's seething gaze, her own eyes widening in comprehension.

It was the same fire - she remembered! that had afflicted Feanor as he stood at the Square and cried out to the Noldor for vengeance against Morgoth. The Valar had abandoned them! They must follow him to Middle-Earth, fight the Enemy - for Finwe, for the Silmarils - they must escape from the gilded cage the Valar had carved for them in Tirion. Even Galadriel, who feared and despised Feanor, was taken by his passion. Freedom, he offered. And power. He promised them a realm devoid of Morgoth's wickedness! A realm of their own!

The air rushed from her in a pitying exhalation, and the Lady's own eyes nearly gleamed with tears. Such rage, son of Maglor. Galadriel said nothing for Tindomion's words, though she recalled, yes, that Maglor and Maitimo had taken Elrond and his brother Elros. It was mercy - one of the few instances, amidst the fury, amidst the slaughter. Galadriel sighed.

"I, too, have dreams, Tindomion," she agreed, meeting his eyes evenly. There was such a burning intensity, it seared her very thoughts, and summoned visions of days long past. The Two Trees, or Tirion. Sometimes, ice shrouded her mind, at others, her first glimpse of Doriath. She dreamed of her brothers, of Celeborn, of the Sea, of her father. Sometimes of light, but of late...only shadow. And what shadows had plagued the son of Maglor? What memories?

"I remember thine atar," Galadriel said, her musical intonation dimmed with memories she had not spoken of. Not aloud. "Of all of Feanor's children, he was the gentlest." She paused, knowing well the implication. He despised his father so, and who would have believed such a thing? "Think not cynically of such a temperament. Before thy amma, before the curse...for the Oath changed many things." It was most tragic, most cruel then, that the most tender of Feanor's line should be destined to commit such a...violation.

"Makalaurë reminded me of his amma, Nerdanel. Thy tresses come from her line." Galadriel referred to the gloriously red tint of his dark hair. "Nerdanel was patient, peaceful - she was most wise, the only one who could...for a time, temper her husband's fury." Galadriel had never spoken to Fëanor's wife of her fears, for she respected Nerdanel far too much to cause her grief. Though perhaps she had always known. The Lady could not have guessed.

"She sculpted...statues..." Galadriel touched her lips briefly in thought. "So natural, so full of her vitality...one could mistake them for true figures. From her, I think, Makalaurë received his gifts." She smiled sadly. "Ai, I wish, Tindomion Maglorion, that thou hadst seen him before...before his mind was haunted by those words spoken in haste. Before the Silmarils." She closed her eyes, briefly, as if such thoughts were a distant dream. Perhaps they were, she confessed, touching the silver eyes once more, of a time that could never be recovered. Too much had been lost, too many damaged.

"I am sure that thou knowst of his reputation : that he possessed a voice and musical gift unequalled of all the Noldor. His hands..." Galadriel's voice grew softer still, and the Lady nodded towards his own gracious harpists' hands, "...these hands thou sharest...created the most beautiful sounds in all of Valinor. He did not merely play, but his fingers brought life to any instrument he touched. Makalaurë crafted such music as to make even the most stringent of hearts weep...so pure, beautiful, it spoke to the fëa of every elf. There was no shadow in his voice." Not then. But the Oath...

"Makalaurë did great evil, Tindomion." she said, more sharply than her voice prior, "I do not excuse the crimes that he and his brothers committed..." She paused, and the harsher edge of her voice faded, "...however, I do wish for thee to know that when the words were spoken - compelled by Feanor's anguish...as were we all, in our Exile - they believed. Thine atar believed that such an oath, such an undertaking, would bring honor. He believed it would bring justice, not...destruction."

Galadriel's eyes nearly shone with the memory, and the Lady's breath caught in her throat. Once, twice...before she could speak. "When thine atar moved east with his brothers," she explained, "after the Exile, he guarded the widest break in Beleriand's mountain defenses. This...lowland, thou knowst, is named for him - it was the most vulnerable position, and for over four hundred years he staved off Morgoth. And although he was overcome, and although he was betrayed at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad...Tindomion, thine atar was very brave!" Galadriel insisted in a soft, strenuos whisper.

He had been brave. His heart had not been cruel, and he had fought valiently against the Great Enemy. Before. Before Beren and Luthien, the Second Kinslaying, the Third...Galadriel shook her head briefly, against such painful thoughts. Her voice strengthened, and grew firm in its resolution as she looked at him, demanding his gaze,

"No matter what is said of thee, Tindomion, thy amma was not destined to fade. Thou art not a curse, but her son, and solace." She smiled faintly. "Thou art who Makalaurë could have been, were it not for the Oath. Who he wished he could have been, as surely as the Silmaril seared his palms. Thou hast, in thee, what was good in him, and in thy amma."

[Galadriel]

tindomion said:

Tindomion, quivered , the string of a harp played by the winds in some lost and lonely place, hearing Celeborns anger .... but it was not directed at the Lady, he wanted to say, before he realized she knew that. For a moment, it seemed, she was not seeing him at all, but others, who turned to gaze at her out of a remote past.

Of all of Feanor's children, he was the gentlest...
Ai, what a cruel irony, he thought in bitterness, the same hostility that always tainted his thoughts of his sire. He might have thought, when his amma spoke of Makalure's tenderness towards a very young ellyth , that she sought to soothe Tindomions festering hatred. That, in effect, she either lied, or enlarged a nugget of truth. She had after all, mislead him by omission , in the matter of his birth and parentage. But Elrond he trusted completely.
Did he find the thought of a '' gentle '' Maglor scornful? Nay, although few saw it, he too could be so, with the young, or those less strong, he did not see it as a weakness, he simply found that he could not connect such kindness with the acts he had partaken in and perpetrated.

I wish, Tindomion Maglorion, that thou hadst seen him before...before his mind was haunted by those words spoken in haste. Before the Silmarils...

He had seen him, he thought, or at least, had imagined visions of his atar, of Feanaro himself, of his kin, Makalaure's brothers , in other times. Whether they were true, or simply a fabrication of an impassioned mind, he knew not. . There was no way he could truly know, save that the emotions he experienced felt so painfully vivid. Indeed... there was physical pain, he closed his right hand as a ghostly fire scorched through it, as when, ever and anon he * saw * Maglor holding the Silmaril, his hand running scarlet with hot blood, as the Holy Jewel rejected him ...
They reject us. We are lost. We are damned
The words echoed in his mind, not his own, but ones heard through gulfs of time and vision....

As the Lady looked at his own hands, he felt , for an instant, a guilt, as if , in his love for music, somehow he sought to emulate his atar; as if she saw his dreams, saw that his palm stung like fire, and , deliberatley, he unfolded his fingers.
Always he had been drawn to music , even very young, before ever he knew whom had engendered him. First he had played for his amma, a Laiqiendi his teacher, until he surpassed him - or so the Elf had smilingly said: '' There is naught further I can teach thee. '' Had been his words. And Tindomion had heard Makalaure's voice in dream, and even sounding, like a thread, through his mind as he set new tunes to his own harp. But he had only ever heard the music woven with grief and irredeemable sorrow.

Maglors Gap. Aye he knew of that; how his sire had guarded that pass, where no hills warded off assault from Angband, and how eventually, he was overcome, as they all were.... the disaster and anguish of the Dagor Nirnaeth, treachery, betrayal and flight, the death of Fingon at the hands of Gothmog.....the scattering and slaughter of the Noldor, the Edain their allies. Shut behind their pathless hills, yet even the people of Gondolin had gone to that War, and hardly returned, due to the valor of the men of Dor Lomion who allowed them to escape back to their hidden city.
His mothers words of waiting for the army to return and the grief and horror when they did, bearing tales of so much death , remained ever powerful in his mind.
Maglor - warrior, bard, harpist, singer.... murderer... violator
Again, the rage bloomed in his eyes, but the Lady would know that it was not for her, she saw too deep into him for that.
Thou hast, in thee, what was good in him, ... Something, too bitter for even anger or grief wedged in his heart then.
Ah, Lady, but cans't thou know how much I fear I could be like him? How I mark every move I make, almost every thought I have, how I ever must control them? I know I burn , rail against my inheritance, soaked in blood and Doom, I know I desire vengeance against him - and that would only put in motion again a curse so old that it makes the wind seem young - for what would I be but another kinslayer, and one who would essay to kill his own begetter ?

The air felt thin, as he breathed it, as a singer he knew how to relax the taut muscles of his throat and strove to unlock them, for a moment to speak.

'' Hiril nin, thou art too... gracious. Thy muindyr , whom thou dids't speak of... all of them were slain , in one way or another , because of that forever cursed Oath. '' A silence fell, he had not said it to hurt her, but there were too many memories in those cerulean eyes , the Lady surely never forgot. No Elf did.

''...I do wish for thee to know that when the words were spoken - compelled by Feanor's anguish...as were we all, in our Exile - they believed. Thine atar believed that such an oath, such an undertaking, would bring honor. He believed it would bring justice, not...destruction."

And there was the very root of it, what he felt within himself, which had always been there, and an acknowledgement of his bloodline... for he would also have taken that Oath. He had never even had to ponder on that, he knew himself too well. Even knowing the outcome, he would have raised his sword and sworn it. Did the Lady know? Probably, yet she still reached out to him, to give him something , words of his sire which were not all blood drenched, not all shameful .

'' Hiril nin. I too made an Oath... at the beginning of this Age. That I would find him, though measureless years might dim Middle-earth... '' And what then? Kill him as he longed too, and feared to? Yet the vow, impelled by a fierce and youthful fury, was nevertheless unbreakable, and would define his whole life.

[Galadriel]

Tindomion had seen more than Galadriel considered - at least, in more meticulous images, for there was a recollection in his eyes, a phantom pain, mingled with faces and voices and…memories. Had he too felt the sting of the Silmaril’s denunciation as it blistered the palm of his sire? They reject us. We are lost. We are damned.

She glimpsed the slow unfolding of tapered fingers, destined as much to wield a weapon as pluck a string. It was not until Tindomion’s rage surged forth - a stubborn tide clinging to the moon’s sway much against its will - that Galadriel touched the open hand. Hers was a phantom touch, light, and meant to be unthreatening. She rested her fingers on top of his skin, the back of his hand, and the base of her palm barely touched the Feanorean’s knuckles.

“No scorch marks mar this flesh,” she reminded him, moving her hand away, but not without the slightest of upturn gestures, encouraging the Feanorean to bare his palm - there was naught to be ashamed of in that. “Thou hast a strength, wisdom - thine atar never possessed.” Not until it was, perhaps, too late for him, Galadriel silently amended to herself. “I believe, Tindomion, such an oath - terrible as it was - its legacy is not stronger than thee.” Much as he might struggle, much as the infamous Feanorean rage might seethe, she recognized his control - and it was more tightly woven than the best of nets. His love for his amma, his king, and duty - would outweigh, she hoped, the savage vengeance burning in his chest.

…and when Tindomion mentioned her muindyr, Galadriel recalled the taste of it - bittersweet, like copper, hints of vengeance. She was familiar with this poison, for it had afflicted her as well. That forever cursed Oath...

Her fingers traced the smooth arc of the hart’s antler as it stood, proud and stoic, amidst the beech trees. The deer was not the only beast: birds, foxes, rabbits, raccoons, squirrels, cats all scattered throughout the halls of Menegroth, details carved into the caverns so vivaciously, it was as if one stepped into Time. A moment captured, in all its humming liveliness, within the forest. These decorations adorned the entire underground - as the city gates themselves were engraved into the rock alongside the Esgalduin. Dwarves had been responsible for these mosaics, and it was comforting - one nearly forgot that one was underground, surrounded by such beauty. Against the flickering firelight, the images seemed to dance, the trees to sway, and only the overpowering scent of earth forbade the fantasy from taking root. It did not prevent Galadriel from marveling at the city of Elwë Singollo.

“Alatáriel, didst thou not receive my message?”

Though whether she marveled now - or hid herself away, was not so certain. Galadriel bowed her head, flattening the fingers of one hand against the wood, until the hart’s antler and the surrounding forest pressed against her palm. She closed her eyes against the lingering light, and Celeborn’s voice.

“I did.” It had come to her, from another elf who glimpsed her during her Region wanderings. Celeborn possessed news. News of Dagor Bragollach. Rather than seek her husband, the daughter of Finarfin took her leave silently, in effect eluding such words in taking to the tunnels. It had only delayed him, but those precious seconds meant a dozen lifetimes to Galadriel.

“And yet thou art here?” The question in his melodic voice wished to know, was she angry with him? Had some strife afflicted her in her loneliness here?

“I do not seek to part from thee…” she argued, resigned in her syllables. Galadriel turned towards the wall, face close enough for her lips to brush the wood - if she moved an inch more. Gleaming, golden hair had been bound down her back in a braid, and it was a part of this braid Celeborn touched, as he placed one of his hands gently on the small of her back, the other covering his lady’s hand - and antler both. He tilted his head, and it seemed almost reluctant when Galadriel raised her eyes to his. Her hand turned over, knuckles brushing the wood. Fingers touching Celeborn’s. It simply took one glance, a single look into his smooth, beautiful face - a single glance into grey eyes, bearing much grief. She could hear it in his voice, the barest quiver of an undertone - but his gaze. He could not mask his thoughts there.

“…but from the tidings thou bringest,” she finished gently, averting her attentions to his chest, the line of his shoulders and throat - she could not stand to look at him. A hand touched her chin, inviting - but not forcing - Galadriel to raise her blue eyes, which crashed into his like stormy waves to a clouded sky. She trembled, as if a leaf does at windy insistence, a tremor invisible unless it was felt.

Concern scoured Celeborn’s features, expression softening - for her and her alone. A ghost of a smile, bitter. “Morgoth broke the Siege, Alatáriel. His rivers of fire torched Ard-galen, and his army…the dragon led orcs, balrogs, demons into Dorthonion.” He hesitated, but in that silence she knew. She had known, but now…

“My brothers are dead.” Dead, passed from her lips, the end of the word bitten off. “And my uncle will follow them.” Celeborn stiffened, for Galadriel’s words were distant and cool. There was no doubt, only sadness shadowing her voice, the minor scaled lament of a harp.

“How dost…”

She stepped away from him, as if like water slipping between his fingers. Galadriel moved away from the wall, backing towards the middle of the cavernous hallway. She believed she could withstand it - so long as he did not touch her. For if she was given comfort, Galadriel knew she would crumble; it was precarious, to stare at him with nearly alien eyes, the sorrow shattering her serene demeanor.

“Within my fea, it is as though eight candles burn inside, for those whom I love best.” She took a steadying breath, ivory hands balled into fists at her sides, “My atar and amma remain in Valinor - and theirs are a steady comfort to me, ever lit. Thy candle burns, all the more brightly for thou art here with me. But of my four brothers, and my uncle…” She swallowed what gasp may have desired to escape, and continued, nearly hoarsely, “Angaráto and Aicanáro are dark to me. Their lights vanished from my sight, strangled into submission by foul winds . And my uncle’s, the High King’s, though valiant in its wavering defiance, flickers. It, too, shall disappear, giving ground to the darkness."

As her voice grew softer with each word dragged from her thoughts, Celeborn mistook her meekness for guilt. She could not back away; it was as if her feet had rooted themselves into the earth, and she, a sapling, swayed helplessly, overcome by grief. It was Celeborn's hands, however, on her shoulders, which brought life back into her limbs, heart, and face, and his whispered,

"It was no fault of thine..."

"I know this." Galadriel said harshly - even then, it was as if reeds were whimpering aside a pond. "Dost thou not think I know this?! What could I have done? It would have been too late to speak of flickering fires and suspicions...perhaps...perhaps I might have warned them - if they were not exiled from this place! If it was not for Elu Thingol's prejudice - I told thee! And I told him! I told him none of my line participated in Feanor's heinous crime! If my brothers had been here, in Doriath, they would not have been there, alone! We could have stood together, as we did at Aqualonde!"

Celeborn withstood her wrathful tongue - for it was only a response of grief; nonetheless, he narrowed his eyes, for he loved his wife, but he also loved his kin. "Thou didst not tell him the full truths when he allowed thee here, Alatáriel. Silent as the dawn, thou wast, of the Kinslaying-"

"It was not his concern! It was no one's concern but ours. No one's...shame, but ours."

"That is not true, muinë vessë. For now that Morgoth rages, it is thy concern, and mine, and that of all free peoples who have laid eyes upon the Silmarils. Wouldst thou leave us in ignorance of that terrible Oath?"

Galadriel said nothing. Of course, this was not the case - she would not wish ignorance upon anyone, for Feanor's sins should be known. Those who died at his hands should be remembered. And although she was silent, her anger abated, and Galadriel no longer moved from Celeborn's embrace, but allowed his comfort to ease the tears freely running down her face…

***

“Iquista, hánonya, áva auta!” [Please, my brother, do not go!]

Galadriel stood before her eldest brother, Finrod Felegund. Having heard of Beren’s request of him, she had come to bid him stay - for her dreams of late had been terrifying. She knew, within her heart, what the outcome would be, but traitorous hope stayed her tranquility. At present, her fingers clasped together, she pleaded with him - to little avail. His golden hair, loosely parted down the middle, spilled to his shoulders, eyes deep, tragic, and gray. Sculpted features, carved so seriously, from his cheekbones to his nose, to his mouth, currently boasting a small hint of upturned lips - an almost smile, though not mocking.

“Nerwen, I must repay my debt,” he spoke quietly, and patiently, “I gave my solemn oath to aid all descendents of Balahir - for were it not for him, I too would have been slain at Dagor Bragollach. Thou wouldst have had three dead brothers, instead of two.”

“If thou goest on this quest, háno, I will," she reminded him, "Allow me to speak with Elu Thingol - better yet, have Celeborn, for they are kin! Surely Celeborn can convince him of his folly - this is a damnable quest, brought on by his pride! Please, Finrod: think of what awaits thee; nothing good can come of a Silmaril's quest!" The desperation which tinged Galadriel’s voice contrasted to the deep, tranquil words of her eldest brother.

“Dost thou not recall what I have told thee?” he asked finally, once she had finished. He was, as ever, unmoved, a knowing sorrow in his eyes which Galadriel herself had begun to show. But this day, hers was a face of despair. For one could not stand against Fate, try as they might - and she tried. His question was met with silence, but that did not necessarily mean she could not remember. In fact, it was quite the contrary...when she asked why he would not take a wife - for there were many who professed a great admiration for him. What had Finrod said to her? An oath I too shall swear and must be free to fulfill it and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of all my realm endure that a son should inherit. He had come, many years hence, to terms with his fate - but it did not mean his sister would accept it so readily.

"I do not wish to lose thee," she said.

"It is meant to be. Thou art my sister, I will not leave thy memory. I will not leave thee." It was no large comfort, but it was the best Galadriel knew she could expect - and so she accepted the kiss to her forehead without protest. It was her brother's choice; he knew well his fate, and she could not force him to give up an oath. She closed her eyes, for if she did not see him - she would not be so loathe to see him part towards certain ruin.

She thought she would be left for silence. But she was not.

“Lady Galadriel?”

She did not even open her eyes.

“Do not waste thy breath, Beren, son of Barahir,” Galadriel replied, her voice as brittle as the thinnest sheen of ice - and nearly as cold. It was no fault of Beren’s, nay, his was an impossible quest! But she could not look upon the man who would be the cause of her brother’s death. “Offer me no false hopes, for they give me no pleasure.” He was silent, and Galadriel sensed him stiffly incline his head in deference to her. She turned her face aside, that he might not see her expression - she feared it may give her away.

“Be on thy way, whilst there is still daylight to be had.”

“Lady-”

“She is right, Beren. Come,” Finrod adeptly intervened, before Galadriel uttered words she might soon regret. She perceived her brother might be looking at her, but she did not wish to meet his gaze. Instead, the youngest of Finarfin’s children turned away, on her heel, and said nothing until she heard the sounds of retreating footsteps on the earth.

Galadriel pursed her lips, indignation weak with defeat. Staring out into the trees, but not seeing, she whispered, numbly, "I shall never see my brother again..."

Sauron imprisoned the company, and sent a werewolf to devour them unless they told of identities and quests. Finrod died protecting Beren - he shattered his chains and killed the wolf with his hands, though not without mortal consequences. Orodreth, news came not ten years passed, was slain at the Battle of Tumhalad - lost against the forces of Glaurung, as Angrod and Aegnor were before. The day she received this news, Galadriel did not mourn - not outwardly, for she was weary of tears and memories and death. She looked upon the future with a sad, doubtful light, and whispered, “It is over then. All of my kin are slain, and I am the last. My muindyr, my brothers…are dead. They are all dead. I am all that remains in Middle Earth, and still the shadow devours us. Will I, too, be destined for death? On the last ship to Valinor, who will tell my mother and my father…when none of their children return? Will any of us exiles ever return to tell the tale?" Dark days, even for she who knew the Light. She, who believed and possessed a blessed gift…could not, in her grief, foresee any relief. And now?

“My brothers chose their fates, Tindomion.”

She did not speak for a long moment, and even at present, she hesitated, only as two glistening tears mirrored each other, gliding down alabaster features. Her voice, ever steady, matched not the tumult in her eyes - wretched memories which could not stay buried, “I can no more blame my bereavement on the Oath than an owl can complain to the clouds for the storm which has uprooted its tree.”

Galadriel’s expression did not grow as troubled as she felt at Tindomion’s confession. Surely his amma knew, and would have attempted to stay such a decision. Oaths were not to be taken lightly - and for one such as a descendant of Feanor, twould have been better if he never swore one. Never. But it was not the statement of an oath which worried her so much as its content. That bothered her more than anything else said.

“Thou canst slay thy father, Tindomion,” Galadriel said, voice hard as the marble on which she stood. “He has committed many crimes, but there is no punishment greater that could be inflicted by thee, or myself, or any of the number of elves he has wronged…no punishment greater than that which he suffers at present.” Rejected by the Silmarils, shunned by his kin, having lost his father and brothers all - Maglor had nothing now, nothing but his guilt and regret. Those were potent emotions. But Galadriel feared Tindomion would not see it as such - or worse, he might have had intentions towards reconciliation…but the very sight of his father could trigger that infamous rage. Driving him to…

“Thy amma has forgiven him, Tindomion. When he is known to thee, when thou hast the opportunity to speak with him…” She lowered her voice, “Áso apsenë! [Forgive him!] If thou canst find it in thyself to forgive him…all is lost. Thou art not bound to thy father’s fate, not yet, but to slay one’s own sire…it is unspeakable. To share a glance with the face of thine atar…to see him…canst thou give me thy reassurance? That such a face will not drive thee to draw thy blade?" She stared at him, "What dost thou think will come of such a meeting?"

[Galadriel]

Blood. Galadriel could see it in his eyes, splashes of scarlet, thick as strings of rubies for what had been shed. Heavy enough to bend stalks of grass obediently, some portions of earth trampled, blades crooked and laden in crimson. The dead silenced the trees and creatures of wood, many whose spirits had fled at the evil slithering through Doriath. Its venom scoured the land, invading each crevice, of stone and heart alike, leaving naught but the scent in its wake, heavy in the air: bittersweet, liquid copper, assaulted the nose and throat, smearing the senses in the taste of massacre. No songs of grief, no funeral rites, no gentle farewell. Doriath was abandoned, a bloodstained necropolis where a great city once stood…

“Every choice we make, Tindomion, frames our fate,” Galadriel mused, her words measured as she sought to seek him past his grief, “We all must stand before a number of paths. Each of these paths represents our fate, and it is our choices which give us direction. We - your atar, my muindyr, all of us - chose to part from Valinor, and my muindyr chose their alliances, chose to fight, and for this their paths ended with gûr. “

And Maglor, along with the other sons of Feanor, had marked his path with an oath. Even then, choices were made. To spare the twins, sons of Eärendil, to seek Elured and Elurin - although unsuccessful in such a venture. Even damned, Maglor chose paths of lesser evil, not to redeem himself, but simply because these were the right choices to make. Even burdened by such guilt, grief, he knew. Some haunting echo of the noble prince he had once been remained, forgotten but not forever lost.

"I am damned then, whether I find him or no."

“Nay,” the Lady disagreed, quiet but firm, “thou art not damned.” She smiled sadly. “It is possible, as all things are, that thou couldst follow thine atar, if it was thy chosen path. But such a fate is not thy sole destiny. No opinion, nor admission of thy father’s blood within thee will make thee thine atar. Thou art Tindomion Maglorion, not Makalaurë. Thine will is thy own, and no amount of dreams, however potent, can force thy hand.” Was Tindomion strong enough to withstand the urges of a Feanorean oath? No one could be certain, but Galadriel believed that heneeded to believe in such a hope. It was unwise to condemn oneself so readily, for she had faith in his fortitude. But if he did not...?

Galadriel was troubled, for she perceived in Tindomion that these dreams were not mere memories, but compelling - and, at times, pungent in their strength. She was wise enough to recognize coincidence did not come into play, that this…these dreams…were something more than the imprints of stories told. And Tindomion’s sorrow touched her own, though his was one of intangible self-condemnation. Hers, regret. He had placed himself among the sons of Feanor before that befouled oath. And had meditated upon those words which brought such destruction. He saw himself as one, as one who would speak the oath - driven by passion, and pride, but not wickedness. Not yet.

She turned her gaze to the gleam of marble flooring, to her left, expectant of her husband’s response. Celeborn, out of deference to his wife had remained silent, and stoic. Although he shared no such depth of sympathy for the Feanorean, he would not undermine her, and he, too, felt the tide of nostalgia coax his thoughts to simpler, but painful, times. Celeborn recalled Eluchil, and Nimloth, daughter of Galathil. And he remembered the anguish which, like a blade of fire, cleaved his resolve in two…at the news of their deaths. The loss of the twins, and fair Elwing. For it was not known then that Elwing had escaped, and the twins themselves...had they ever been found? Abandoned - simple children!

”What madness is this, Alatáriel?”

His voice shivered with unrestrained grief, and Celeborn, who had been shaking his head, turning, his eyes traveling over earth and stone but not seeing. It was as if the flick of sight could somehow settle his angst. His breaths released in a rush, words, rage, sorrow trapped, unrenowned. Sculpted lips thinned with pain, the unearthly glow of his alabaster flesh hollowed by the effect of such news. His wife stood before him, a silent comfort - she possessed the insight, when it was best to speak, and when her presence was enough. The latter, this evening - for words enough could not express…

She touched his hands, the brush of spun embroidery sliding across his fingers like water, from the sleeves of her gown. His fists had been compulsively flexing and balling, as if grasping for sands. Her fingertips deftly drew his own palms together, smoothing the tension from his joints, fingers, her flesh cool, as water would be to a parched desert man. That simple touch, her comfort - Thingol’s kin gave a deep, shuddering breath, knees weakening slowly, agonizingly so. As if drifting into darkness…but he was not alone. As Celeborn sank to the ground, Galadriel did the same. He nearly formed the words - beckoning she not, for her gleaming, white costume would be dirtied by her kneeling…but a glimpse into her face dismissed such infantile, insulting concern.

Galadriel’s blue eyes shaded by pain, dimming the glimmer with an expression worse than sympathy - empathy. It was not merely that she grieved for her husband‘s loss; it was, in the shadow of her gaze, that she remembered. The loss of kin so close, the ground-quavering shock of kin slaying, the incomprehension and guilt. The vulnerability - it was most striking. Helplessness.

“Was it their countenance?” He looked to her then, silver hair sweeping his shoulders as he shook his head. “Their faces? Voices? Reminiscent of their fathers in figure, of their mothers - in their grief? Is that…is that enough to warrant…to incite…this…I do not know from where it breeds…for what rage is this, for what cause…that the death of a child, a mother, the innocent…that massacre, and blood, cannot quench it. Only the swift strike of a blade…”

He trailed off, words impatiently jumbling together, jagged with pause. He could not speak, for he could not understand such fury. He looked to his wife for her foresight, but Galadriel could give no such assurances. Celeborn gleaned it from her expression and, as he turned his face away, he heard her voice, soft and sorrowful, I do not know.

Celeborn sighed inwardly, but he met Tindomion’s glance with composure. “This is a grief we share, Tindomion Maglorian, and in times such as these, it is good to remember the past, that we might honor those who are gone, and take wisdom from what they have left to us.” That we might not repeat their mistakes. It was particularly poignant for Tindomion, as he could not afford to repeat the mistakes of his predecessors, or else bring destruction upon all elven kind. Galadriel agreed, but she could not simply bid the Feanorean well, not yet, for there were words spoken, even in musing, which bothered her. The Lady raised her gaze to that of Maglor’s son.

"Dost thou truly believe it is thine atar's intent to torment thee?" Galadriel inquired finally. “If such visions are the will of thine atar, if indeed, he can control such thoughts…dost thou think he would strive to cause…more pain in thee?” She did not believe this. Maglor was alive, yes, though whether one could view his existence as living was debatable. Could father and son have such a strong connection? Perhaps. If so, she doubted it was out of malice that Maglor sought to share his memories. Perhaps he asked for forgiveness? Or understanding? Not even she could tell for certain.

[Galadriel]

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed, and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains…

Galadriel could not claim surprise, though she masked what she did feel - that was, something akin to relief, but not quite, for such an emotion was inappropriate in light of what was said. Tindomion spoke evenly, words not so tainted by his sorrow, and that which he had suffered in his father’s absence. None had seen Makalaurë since the War, and though Galadriel knew of the Silmaril’s rejection…she had seen neither brother, and the last news she had received of Tindomion’s father spoke of wandering shores and heartbreaking song - lamentations that could drive even the most stoic of creatures to its knees in melancholy. Tindomion’s supposition was as logical as any she could think of, and if any could sense Maglor best, it would be his only son. Perhaps Tindomion’s rebellion against his father’s accursed temperament clouded a connection which otherwise might be stronger…but none could be certain. To see beyond the veil of time and mists, to seek those who have been lost, was never an art of precision, or predictability.

“I believe thy words are sound. It is…unlikely…” Galadriel agreed slowly, reluctant to commit herself to uncertainty, “that thine atar knows of thee.” As Tindomion’s anger, at times, seemed to captivate him, so Maglor’s madness served as a similar barrier - dividing the two with more than mere landscapes. “If Makalaurë was of sensible mind, enough to comprehend his son’s existence, he would seek thee…” she trailed off with surety, though she turned her gaze towards Celeborn, not quite touching that of her husband’s as she murmured, almost to herself, “I cannot imagine his guilt and his regret would allow him to do otherwise.”

She glanced to Tindomion, fair brow no longer indicative of disquiet. The Silmarils were lost; there would be nothing left for Maglor to bind him to the curse, and he would most certainly seek his child - though Galadriel doubted he would…could expect forgiveness for what he had done. Closure, perhaps. That no breath of Maglor reached her did not necessarily eliminate the fact of his presence, but simply offered her little more than assumptions - and she would not impose those upon Tindomion, not after he had taken an oath, and not to mislead him.

“I think thou art exact - Makalaurë would not wish these visions upon any, especially not his son. They are not the infliction of thine atar’s wrath, but the most potent of his broken thoughts, such things as he reflects upon. He has nothing else…but these memories.” Not to say she pitied a son of Fëanor, but her tone did soften. He was lost, and that was pitiable in any state. Such loneliness. No will, no family - that he knew of, at least. And if he knew of Tindomion’s amma, of Fanari, could he even bring himself to face her? Galadriel knew not what news of Tindomion’s existence, and that of his mother’s, would do to Maglor. Though with a cold consideration - dimmer than the harsh note of Tindomion’s words, but icy none the same - she believed any suffering, any grief, was well deserved and not strong enough for his crimes.

“If I knew of thy father,” she continued gently, “I would tell thee. But I have not the answers to these dreams, and for that I am sorry.” She had once thought that she would never aid kin of Fëanor with any sort of oath - knowing well the destruction of the first. But for Tindomion, and for the confrontation that his father needed, the Lady found herself discouraged by the fogged ambiguity. Her Sight could not seek that clearly, at least at present, for although Galadriel was fair talented, Nenya and her Mirror greatly enhanced such gifts. As well as age, and these tools she did not possess.

"You renounce your friendship,” Fëanor accused bitterly, “even in the hour of our need. Yet you were glad indeed to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, fainthearted loiterers, and wellnigh emptyhanded. In huts on the beaches would you be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carved out your haven and toiled upon your walls.”

Galadriel flinched inwardly, for the wrath cut like hot iron through Fëanor’s words. She flushed hotly at the insults lingering - a bitter aftertaste for she who was both Teleri and Noldor. She followed her uncle now, and he had come to take the harbor ships - for they would aid quickly in the journey to Middle-Earth. There were those who lingered near at the exchange, though most of Fëanor’s host had not yet been assembled. Galadriel, wishing to greet her grandfather, was one of these, and, to bury her discomfort she turned her face towards the salted sea air, peering over her shoulder as a peculiar catch of wind caressed her expression, lingering against her lashes and mouth. Her glittering hair seemed to catch the white peaks of water with winking waves, and Galadriel raised her fingers of one white hand, reaching out towards the vast expanse of Ulmo’s realm. The heavy rock of Alqualonde beneath her feet did not quiver, and yet she swayed, slender fingertips covering, at a distance, the waters.

“We renounce no friendship,” was the well measured reply. No rising to the scornful bait of charitable beginnings, “But it may be the art of a friend to rebuke a friend's folly..." her grandfather had murmured, voice cool and mild as the waves lapping against the ships’ smooth underbellies - such a sharp contrast to Fëanor ’s fiery demands. Olwe spoke of white timber carved by their hands, each plank of wood, and sails woven by daughters and wives - with tenderness and care, these ships, these pearl white ships drawn by the grace of swans were as prized to the Teleri as the Silmarils to Fëanor. And they would not, would not go against the laws of the Valar, would not surrender these ships…no matter who harkened back to times of friendship and favors.

The ships rocked gently in the harbor, casting their ornate designs into the starlight - they seemed more silver than white, and as Galadriel's gaze followed the slope of a ship to the moonlit waters below, she saw it. A flash of flesh, glowing white alabaster - pale elven skin. She gasped, recoiling instantaneously, her hand going to her forehead as she stared, determined to catch another glimpse. There! Gray and silver, mingling wet fabric with the waves, and a face upturned, lips agape and mouth brimming with saltwater.

He was drowning! Galadriel, panicked, glanced in either direction, eyes flashing in stunned terror as she noticed not one among them - Noldor or Teleri - noticed their kin in the water! She ran for the stony dock, springing from the steps as her cloak swung around her lithe frame like a bird's feathers. Glowing lamps gave arcs of light to the shadows of staircases, and as Galadriel darted down to the ground, she cried out to those nearest,

"The water! Why does no one aide me?! Look to the water!" Gesturing sharply, only to be met with indifferent glances as the elven corpse smacked into the side of one of the ships nearest the port edge. Galadriel stumbled to a stop, sweeping up a fistful of her garments in order to crouch. Her knees touched cold stone, as did the ends of her silver-gold tresses. She had unbound them upon the glittering sight of pearl and gem studded Alqualonde, but now as she leaned o'er the edge of the stone, strands of her hair slipping with her - she wished she had chosen a more practical style.

Galadriel strained to see his chest - did it move? Did he breathe still? He bobbed as a cork does in a well, nostrils bloodied and eyes filmy grey - another knock into the side of the boat and the body shouldered the wood, shifting just enough for her to see his stomach, and, by grace of the unclouded moon, the blood. A sword wound had run him through, so sharply it was almost impossible to see where the blade had pierced his clothing. Were it not for the blood which splotched his things, his armor, and purpled the water around him...she might never have...

She shrieked as another body bobbed to the surface, between herself and the first. This one bore two long, slender arrows - and she recognized his array as that of the Noldor. Suddenly, bodies floated from unseen depths, some with arrows, others with blade wounds - women, men, dead and bloody, so thick was it that the scarlet swirled with the blue - the moonlight even seemed to blush, painting the waters red, staining the ships' sides a faded pink as wave upon wave grew thick with the smell and sight of blood. Galadriel could do no more but stare as the bodies piled atop one another so thick she could scarcely see the water as it waded between the floating bodies of her kin. All her kin. Dead.

The air was thick with carnage, raw flesh and waste, rippling with purpled stomach fluids and limbs torn loose, their sockets gleaming from watery tides - just as quickly, the vision faded, leaving a gasping, distraught Galadriel as pale as the moon and smothered in a sheen of sweat. There were no bodies in the harbor - it was an illusion, nothing more. And still she clutched at her breast and fought the urge to cry out, the retort lodged in her throat - her tongue grew dumb, and she found herself unable to speak. Even to move, so overpowering was the lingering scent, the sight...

Feanor brushed past her, retreating to the dark - and Galadriel stood stock-still, her knees locked and features frozen in blind horror. Slowly, as ice gives way to spring warmth, her spine relaxed, heart-beat retreated from her head where he had pounded incessantly, lungs no longer crushed, and lips closed. She twisted abruptly and caught sight of the Noldor who had gathered - in their desperation inching now towards Teleri ships, encouraged by their leader. Galadriel moved for certain this time and, once out of distance from her grandfather's hearing, she stepped before her uncle's foot moved forward, holding her hands in a cease gesture.

His dark hair swept his shoulders, framing a most exquisite face, its features carved in beauty - and in beauty’s rage, eyes blazing as his spine arched, chin turned upwards, barely avoiding the collision with his niece. One hand curled into a fist, if only momentarily, but in her eyes clearly sang a shrill and foul terror, the sort of fear which would not simply perish. It was fear which gave her resolve enough to stand in front of him, particularly now as desire and fear for and of the Silmarils’ fate fed his madness.

“Thou mustn’t stand against Olwe,” Galadriel insisted, with a silent reference to those Noldor moving on the Teleri ships. Her eyes gleamed earnestly as she stared at him, “I beg of thee, do not move forward. I sense great evil will come of this…we cannot…” She raised her voice as the cries of objecting Teleri rang throughout the air, “We cannot take these ships. We must find another way.”

Fëanor met her eyes then, and his expression was not a kind one. He did not even seem to comprehend the words she spoke, or the irrational motivation for such words. If he had, he might have been more predisposed to hear her plea. But as it were…

"Hecal, Alatariel," he said quietly, though in his eyes burned a fervor threatening to spill over. He started to step forward again, expecting her to concede and move aside. But Galadriel was adamant.

“Nuhtal, Fëanáro! They will listen to thee!" she cried, and her palms collided with his shoulders as she sought to still his movements. Even that touch caused the fair beauty to flinch - and Fëanor’s lips to twist mockingly. He could not deny it gave him great pleasure to see the proud daughter of Fingolfin - oh, hadn’t she thought she was great! In her refusal of him…and now, now? - plead before him, for mercy…if anyone had posed the question sooner, he would have said such an act would never have occurred. However, Feanor was in no mood to relish such a victory. There were greater treasures at stake…

“Yes, they will listen to me.” He said the words in an agonizing drawl, as if to give each word its weight, as if to emphasize the power he wielded. And he did…Galadriel could see his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword, and her eyes widened in revulsion and dismay. “If thou wilt not bear a blade, do not interfere, Alatariel.”

“You cannot be serious!” she spat, her temper flaring.

“Hecal.”

"No! Thou canst stop them-stop this!"

"I said to step aside!" he roared in a sudden lash of fury all his own. The Noldor prince raised his hand suddenly, as if to strike her - but a distant call must have distracted him, for Fëanor checked his blow not an inch from her face and instead moved to touch her cheek - but Galadriel stepped out of range. It was instinctive, and her eyes burned with anger, but it was the distance needed, and he shoved past her, called by his people as well as his Silmarils…

“Nay, thou dost not pry,” Galadriel said after a pregnant pause. She had not expected his question, and her surprise could be measured in the time it took for her to answer. Tindomion was not the first to query such a thought, and her answer never seemed to be satisfactory…perhaps because Galadriel did not know herself, not completely, why she had chosen the path that she had, knowing Feanor’s acts, having been present - knowing the grace of the Valar.

…and those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.

Galadriel had thought back upon these words many, many times since she had looked to the north at the dark figure shadowed by cliffs, those booming words thundering over the wash of waves from high above the shore. At least the voice overcame, if just for a moment, the clang and cries of the dying and dead. It had been Namo, Lord of Mandos - or so many had said, and she was inclined to believe it, as she was inclined to recall the dread that had settled inside of her like a cold, hard stone as the first word was spoken. The vow was not hollow, whosoever spoke it, for griefs in Middle-Earth there were, from the Kinslaying, the losses upon the Grinding Ice onward: the Battle of Sudden Flame, the quest of Beren, the Battle of Tumhalad, the Sack of Doriath and the Second Kinslaying…summed in which she had lost all her kin. At least those who had crossed with her…

Would not it have been worth it to avoid such sorrows? If she had turned back, could she have convinced her brothers as well? Perhaps.

“But I did not turn back,” Galadriel replied, again speaking more to herself than anyone. She crossed her arms, though not defensively as much as comforting - herself. The Lady looked upon Tindomion and, with certain honesty, she nodded,

“I did not commit a crime, I agree with thee...” And yet… “The night upon the rocks of Alqualonde, a sentence was passed upon us all, and I believed - as I do still - that my actions warranted not such a harsh punishment. As such, I thought - as the War came to a close - I had done nothing which required a pardon.” She hesitated, for it was difficult to explain. She had been one of the few Noldor who had not accepted the grace of the Valar, and Gil Galad had been another…it had never been something she had fully enunciated - for those who were there understood without words.

“I have only ever wanted to have a realm of my own,” Galadriel confessed, and she smiled - though tremulous - at the words. “For all its sorrows, Middle-Earth offers me that freedom, that dream. I may fade, as have those before me, but it will be without regret. I fear, had I accepted the Valar’s proposal…I would resent them even now.” From keeping her from her most precious of dreams. She would never fully have been able to embrace Valinor, had she retreated without having fulfilled those wishes which had first set her out upon her journey.

“In retrospect," she mused, "I did not wish my suffering, and the suffering of those who left with me, to seem in vain.” No matter what arrogance might have tainted her decision, Galadriel could not say, even now, that she regretted what she had done.