Part 2

Taur-im-Duinath

The journey south lasted several moon cycles. Celeborn and Galadriel left before the main party to spend a week in Nargothrond where she could introduce her mate to the many friends who had not yet had an opportunity to meet him. In answer to queries about the haste of the binding and the lack of the traditional year of waiting beforehand, she merely laughed and explained that there had been nothing for them to decide or to consider, therefore no need to wait. The joy in her eyes silenced any further questions.

She spent the night before they left with her family. Aegnor and Angrod had waited for her in Nargothrond, and Angrod’s son Orodreth had remained there during the binding. He had just taken a wife himself, a young Sindarin maid from the Falas. Galadriel liked her immediately and wished they could have met sooner. Orodreth and his father had a history of unease, and he had made his home with Finrod, as had another dissatisfied son, Celebrimbor son of Curufin. He had his grandfather’s curiosity and sense for beauty but lacked Fëanor’s ego. He and Galadriel got on well, although Celeborn harboured suspicions towards all who shared the Kinslayer’s blood.

They took their leave at dawn, at that time when the sky was no longer dark nor yet light. They crossed the river at the secret place known only to the inhabitants of Nargothrond and a very few others and, retrieving their waiting horses, set off to begin their married life under foreign trees. Galadriel looked back over her shoulder until the crossing was out of sight. She said nothing to Celeborn, but she knew soul-deep that she would never see her brothers again.

~*~*~*~

They crossed the Andram at the Gap, forded rivers and endured bare, open plains. Even under the current peace no place knew true safety, although their number was such that none of the wandering servants of the Enemy thought to confront them. They met no-one save for bands of wandering Avari who needed little coaxing to share a meal, but who had nothing to tell them of the southlands beyond the fact that there were trees and that where the trees ended the dry-lands began. At one point seabirds, further inland than was their norm, made Celeborn contemplate seeking out Cirdan, but their route kept them inland and he let the impulse pass.

The journey gave them time to get to know one another better. They travelled slowly to allow for the pace of the wagons and those elves with horses chose to walk rather than ride. Although she had a fine horse, Finrod’s parting gift, Galadriel preferred to be amongst the walkers, feeling the earth beneath her feet as she learnt the moods and fancies of Ennor. She had been on the Hither Shore for over three hundred years, but most of them had been spent in Doriath, within the confines of Menegroth. For her this was the beginning of the adventure she had sought when she chose to follow her brothers and uncle rather than turn back with her father on the brink of the Helcaraxë.

The travellers rested in the heat of the day, taking a meal in the late afternoon, and then went on their way beneath the stars, something that still felt more natural to all of Elvenkind. Galadriel gloried in the sun’s warmth and its golden light, but she never quite managed to persuade Celeborn to abandon his love for the night’s softness. Eventually they reached the treeline of a forest that stretched on as far as the eye could see, or at least so said the first scouts. Celeborn, climbing a tree to confirm this for himself, estimated their new home might be larger even than Doriath. Even when approached by Silvan folk with a long love for branch and leaf, the trees were strange and quiet; he wondered if they had ever encountered elves before.

Eight days’ journey into the midst of the forest brought them to a broad clearing beside which bubbled a fierce-flowing spring. There was consultation, discussion, a few brief arguments, and finally they decided that this would be a good place for their first settlement. Edenbar they called it – the New Home. Celeborn sent out armed patrols in all directions to see if any threat could be discovered, and while they waited for word, wood was collected for shelters and a central fire pit dug for cooking. Unless some place vastly more amenable were discovered soon, it was generally held that this would be their home, the heart of the southern haven.

As soon as they were settled a report of their journey with a description of their destination was sent to back Elu Thingol, carried by three of their number who had had second thoughts and whose hearts longed for home and kin. Months later a pair of adventurous young elves arrived back in their stead. They carried the king’s blessing and instructions that Celeborn refrain from overmuch contact with the Dark Elves believed to be living on the western fringes of the great wooded expanse. He expressed no interest in the little village of mortals that had been discovered further east. Galadriel was fascinated by them, but they regarded the elves with such superstitious awe that Celeborn instructed they be left strictly alone unless they were in need of urgent aid.

Galadriel spent days in the woods, watching them while being careful to evade their notice. In those early days she developed a fondness for the race that would never leave her. Ever the dutiful wife however, and understanding how vital it was that the leader’s authority be respected by all, she heeded Celeborn’s instruction and avoided direct contact. Life under the trees in a place not wrapped around by mists suited her well; she was happy, in love, and felt more at peace than at any time in her adult life.

One morning Celeborn found her turning in a circle, golden hair flying, her head thrown back as she smiled up at the trees and the blue summer sky visible between the leaves.

“What’s this?” he asked, laughing at her infectious joy. “I always said sunlight could be a dangerous thing – does it have such a strong effect?”

She stopped turning to smile at him, her eyes alight with pleasure. “I dreamt of a star,” she said happily. “A candle was lit, something good came into the world. I have no idea what or where, but I can feel another strand waiting to touch my life. I came out to welcome the sun and I suddenly realised how free we are here.” She stepped into his arms smiling, her hands resting palms flat against his chest. “This I promise you,” she declared, determination showing behind the joy. “Never and for no-one will I ever, ever again live in a cave.”

In the north in Nargothrond, Orodreth’s Sindarin wife had just given birth to a son. Looking deep into the babe’s clear blue eyes, intuition spoke to her and, minor royal though he was, the name she gave him was one that would fit a king: Gil-galad, Star of Splendour.

Elu Thingol had also sent word that he wished the settlers to search out a good, fortified hill below which to delve a more secure home. None such existed in the immediate vicinity and Celeborn, wishing to give the little community time to find its feet, had kept this information to himself. Watching Galadriel now, he was certain he had taken the right decision.

~*~*~*~

No-one could say with certainty when things began to go wrong. Small matters to begin with, barely worth note other than as anomalies: there were fewer birds, rabbits, a small but regular part of their diet, became scarce. The ice-cool spring, which had originally flowed fast and clear, slowed to a trickle even though there was more rain than before and the air felt chill and damp. More worrisome, trees that had begun to respond to the elves’ presence withdrew once more into themselves. Many of the settlers became afflicted with a form of melancholy and went about their duties with downcast eyes and slow steps.

“Too alien to Doriath,” was Galadriel’s explanation as she and Celeborn sat one morning watching a scene that had previously been filled with talk and good-natured laughter. Now, water was collected, leaves were swept in something close to silence, and the singing that had been part of their day was stilled. “They miss the security of Menegroth, the sense of the Great Mother’s presence throughout Doriath. Here – they feel alone, I think. You and I are still untried, not centre enough for them.”

He nodded. Although a child of the Guarded Realm himself, he had slowly reached similar conclusions. “What about the birds?” he asked finally. “Every animal we found when first we arrived has either crept away or their numbers have dramatically reduced. And it has been months since our patrols met any of the Avari crossing this place they call the World Wood – and those that did were all travelling south.”

She shook her head sadly. “There is a shadow over all the world,” she told him, resting her hand on his – though whether to give or receive comfort was not clear. “I hear it on the wind, I feel it in the earth. Nature is holding its breath.” More softly she added, “The shadow spreads from the North. I fear for my people.”

~*~*~*~

And then the Secondborn began to die. The patrols reported their meagre crops had begun failing and the water from the small river that passed their village had turned muddy, contaminated by a rock slide further upstream. The old were the first affected, a thing to be expected in any race lacking the life of the Eldar. The next to succumb were the children. Galadriel, who had compromised Celeborn’s instructions to the extent of occasionally playing with the little ones when they ventured into the forest to pick berries, was heart broken. Each little form that was laid to rest in the burial place at the turn of the river tore at her with feelings of guilt and helplessness.

The elves shared what they could of their forest gleanings, leaving gifts at the edge of the village, but there was precious little to share. The burial place grew, several new markers being added each cycle of the moon. Finally the patrolling warriors reported that those few that remained had packed what was still of value to them and vanished into the forest, moving south as had the Avari before them.

One night a dream came to Galadriel, vivid, bright with sound and colour – leaping flames and flowing lava, the unmistakable clash of fighting, elven voices raised in battle anthem, the sky-borne roar as the Dragon passed across her vision. She woke crying and trembling to Celeborn’s insistent shaking, but wakefulness brought no respite; for the next few days she walked with a face upon which horror was deep-etched, watching from afar as the siege of Angband was broken in the cataclysm that would be known down history as the Battle of Sudden Flame.

She felt Aegnor and Angrod die one by one, falling to the swords of the enemy in desperate battle, and her grief as she shared their death throes chilled Celeborn’s blood. He alone would come near her at that time; she appeared bereft of her senses and the elves from Doriath, who admitted to no stake in the great battles being waged far in the north, kept their distance from her. Amongst themselves they said that the Noldor had brought it upon themselves, attempting to pen the unpenable. Far rather be like Elu Thingol; retreat to a safe place and let the darkness go past.

By the time Fingolfin made his final journey, spurred on by rage and desperation, the worst of her anguish had abated. She walked with her father’s brother in spirit as he sought the Enemy in his own land, faced him, fought and died. She sat through it all with her back resting straight against a tree trunk, tears streaming down her face. Celeborn knelt beside her holding her hand, but she looked past and through him as she watched the passing of her king.

After the Dagor Bragollach, the shadow on the forest seemed deeper. Slowly at first, then in increasing numbers, the settlers from Doriath began to speak of home. Celeborn insisted they first send word to Elu Thingol to discover his will in this matter, but privately Galadriel, whose eyes no longer had the clear unshaded depths of former times, said to him, “They have lived most of their lives under Melian’s protection, within the fences of Doriath. This place was always alien to them, frighteningly open. So much has happened, my love. Perhaps it is time to think about turning for home.”

They were sitting near the sullen spring, the forest around them almost silent save for the occasional bird call. So few birds now. Celeborn took a lock of her hair and let it slide across his fingers gently. After her mourning, he was careful of her as though with someone who had suffered physical wounds. “I have lived my life in Doriath, my heart, and this place gave me joy. Why would I be the only one?”

She shook her head. “You were prepared to look at it as a new place, a new way to live. I think they really wanted a second Doriath – as your king did too.”

He noted her use of the term ‘your king’. Previously her loyalty had wavered between her people and her kindred by marriage, but no longer.

“Perhaps he did,” Celeborn said on a sigh. He had never told anyone about the order to dig caves. He wondered how much difference it would have made had he complied and sent the patrols out in search of fortifiable hills rather than potential allies. No matter now, the time for that was past. “We will give it five more years,” he told her finally, the figure coming unbidden as a comfortable space. “Then we will decide. All of us.”

~*~*~*~

Despite the evidence of his eyes, Celeborn stuck stubbornly to the deadline he had set. Long before the five years were up he was sending foraging parties far afield in search of food and to bring back water to supplement the meagre trickle from the spring. The trees drooped, dull, insensate, the forest became a dark, cheerless place even in full daylight. They spent the final weeks slowly dismantling the shelters and rolling up the woven screens lovingly ornamented in the days when the forest had been a new friend. Galadriel wordlessly kept one such screen. Made by her own hand, she who disliked weaving, it depicted a group of mortal children playing in a forest glade.

The waiting time had passed quietly for her. When a messenger from Doriath finally arrived to see if they still lived, he brought a letter from Finrod Felagund to his sister, which the Noldo had begged be delivered when chance allowed. She had no need to break the seal to know all the news that touched her personally, but she opened it and read, sharing with her mate and anyone else who had an interest the full story of Morgoth’s assault and the efforts of the Noldor in the face of disaster. Fingon was now High King, a prospect that made her twitch an eyebrow, though even to Celeborn she made no mention of her foreboding at so much authority in the hands of one too easily swayed by grim, eternally driven Maedhros.

She wrote back in turn, painting a picture of exaggerated optimism regarding both the settlement and her life. “No need to worry him,” she told Celeborn when she admitted to her small deception – there were no secrets between them. “He has enough to worry about, why add to his concerns?”

When the appointed day arrived they left at first light, dousing the coals in the fire pit for the first time since their arrival. There was no thought of travelling by moonlight this time; even in broad daylight the forest made them uneasy. Following his scouts’ advice, Celeborn led them north and west. They walked, rested, walked further, the belongings they had salvaged packed upon the horses’ willing backs. When the trees finally began to thin, decisions had to be taken. They camped on a hill from where they could see the land that lay under the authority of Cirdan, Lord of the Falas falling away to the sea. Before them the Sirion wound its turbulent way, offering no crossing place this close to the estuary.

There was a divide amongst the former colonists; those wanting to take the straight route home through the Gap of Andram to Doriath and those who wished to find a way across the Sirion and then tarry along the coast, perhaps travelling as far as the great Telerin city of Eglarest. The predominant view was presented by Arasdínen, whose scouting party had set the route they had followed through the forest.

“If we move away from the river as we continue north, we will traverse the Gap and reach Doriath’s borders with ease,” he said. “Reaching the coast, however, depends upon finding a way across the Sirion. It might be an interesting excursion,” he conceded, looking around at the assembled faces, “But it might well add a year to our journey. And when we finally turned for home, we would have to pass through territory – not our own.”

He carefully avoided looking in Galadriel’s direction when he made this veiled reference to the Noldor lands that stretched between the coast and their final destination.

Elfaron, who had more of a pioneering spirit, said easily, “We have been gone over a hundred and forty sun years, Arasdínen. What difference will a few more make? I vote we follow the Lady to the shore. Like her, I have a yen to see sunlight glittering upon the sea.”

They always called her the Lady. No-one was quite sure where it had begun, but she never insisted on the rank that was hers by birth and marriage. The Lady suited her far more, and she took it for her own.

Voices were raised, ideas exchanged, and Celeborn grew concerned as the debate became heated. In truth, the decision to go in search of Cirdan’s cities had been a matter between himself and Galadriel. The adventure would buy them time, preferable to following the straight route home which would see her turn left for Nargothrond rather than pass Doriath’s borders. She loved Finrod dearly, and pausing to greet him would be unremarkable – but Celeborn strongly suspected that, once within Nargothrond’s halls, she might refuse to leave.

“What of a compromise?”

Mîrant was the voice of calm in many a dispute, and Celeborn had learned to value her common sense. Everyone had assumed he would be a leader of unchallengeable authority, for such were the ways of Doriath, but it went against his personal preference for discussion and consensus. Galadriel had said more than once that the king made Feanor look open and reasonable and Celeborn had privately agreed with her. Debate, loud and occasionally acrimonious, had become the modus vivendi in Edenbar.

Now he looked to Mîrant. “Share your thoughts with us, wise one.”

Through all this Galadriel sat silent beside him. Normally her voice was raised as part of any discussion, because she had opinions about almost everything, but in this matter, knowing her choice biased, she had held her peace. Now she nodded encouragement. She was fond of Mîrant who had spent long hours helping her to become more proficient in homely crafts like weaving and sewing.

Mîrant smoothed down her robe and smiled around. “There are some here who wish to see their home and their loved ones, and for whom the waiting grows long… but there are others with a desire to see new lands, meet new faces. Their wishes are of equal value.” The murmur of agreement that had greeted her first words fell away to silence. “What I am suggesting is that we form two groups. One would follow the straight road home, while Prince Celeborn would lead the other in search of a way across the river.”

“Surely it is the Prince’s duty to lead us home? Let those who wish for adventure choose another to lead them.” The speaker had no love for the prince’s Noldor mate. Mîrant, anticipating, shook her head as argument resumed.

“It would be strange,” she said, raising her voice to be heard clearly, “If the party that presented itself to Lord Cirdan were headed by anyone less than our King’s kinsman. It is a matter of respect. By the will of the Shining Ones, all that those who travel home will require of a leader is that he knows what to do about orcs or other undesirables.”

No-one, not even the most partisan elf in favour of an immediate and speedy return home, could fault the logic of her suggestions. Celeborn called a vote as had become his way, and there was no dissent. The elves formed two groups, the larger of which would travel direct to Doriath. Mîrant and Elfaron were part of the far smaller party that would seek out the Lord of the Falas. After, they all sat talking through the night, their last time together as a single, united community.

When dawn broke they divided horses and possessions, took in some cases emotional leave one of the other, and set out. They walked together for the first half day, then slowly diverged, the one group turning true north, the other angling west. For a time there was much calling back and forth – laughter, well wishes, last minute messages to be carried home. Finally the distance became too great, and with final waves each party turned to face their destination and moved on alone.

~*~*~*~

“No, no, its fangs, NO!”

They had followed the Sirion for days, drawing ever closer to the ocean. Celeborn was worried. There was no crossing point, certainly no ford. The scouts he sent out reported that the land split broadly, allowing the mighty river to empty into the ocean. Galadriel had no suggestions to offer, which made him realise just how much he had come to rely on her cool logic. She walked in silence, her eyes inward-looking, and when he asked what ailed she made no answer beyond a small, tired smile and a shake of the head. Sometimes whispers of other times and places reached her, and he had learned to let her be until they passed. Now, alone, he mulled over their options with concern. The most likely choice was to turn east, hoping to find a place the river could be breached, but that might take them too far inland to make the search for Eglarest practical.

Sounds of an approaching horse heralded the return of the final scout, Elfaron. The elf slid lightly from his mount’s back and made his way over to Celeborn. The line of walkers paused, waited.

“Nothing,” he told Celeborn, shaking his head to the hopeful faces. “But there is a village down by the shore. I could see smoke and I think there are boats drawn up from the water. We could approach them?”

“Elves?”

“That I cannot say, my Lord.”

Celeborn was about to ask more – he never remembered what – when Galadriel’s scream split the air as she fell to the ground, her body writhing. He raced to her side, pushing elves out of his way, ignoring startled exclamations, and tried to take her into his arms, but she twisted free with a strength belied by her slender build. All he could do was attempt to keep her from hurting herself as she struggled, fighting against an unseen enemy. Her words were unintelligible, her eyes wide, staring, fixed on an invisible menace. Mîrant was a faint voice in the background as she organised the rest of the party, telling them to find shelter from the wind and open the afternoon’s ration early. She came and knelt beside him.

“My lord, what does she see? It is – some kind of fit?”

He shook his head grimly. Galadriel was frantic, her nails digging into dirt, her head tossing back and forth, her hair dragging through the sand. “This is like the other times, but worse. I have no idea what she sees, how to help her…”

“She will harm herself.” Concerned, Mîrant tried to hold onto a flailing arm. Galadriel tore free, then followed through with a blow that landed Mîrant on her back. Celeborn grabbed hold of his wife and shook her, worry sinking into fear. The nights during the war when her fea had witnessed her brothers’ deaths had left him terrified that one day something would happen and she might not be able to come back. This – this was far worse than then. Crying out hoarsely, she twisted and struggled in his grasp, her face sweat-streaked, her lips drawn back in a snarl. Almost breaking loose, she lunged for his throat and on instinct he drew back his hand and slapped her, a blow so harsh it stung his palm.

For a moment there was total silence broken only by the call of seabirds, then Galadriel blinked and stared at him, finally seeing him. Celeborn paused, then carefully put his arms around her. As her head slowly began to droop, he drew her close.

Far in the north on the island once known as Tol Sirion, Finrod Felagund lost his unequal battle against the werewolf, his golden light slipping into the place of darkness beyond which lay Lord Námo’s halls. Of all the bright-haired children of Finarfin and Eärwen, only their daughter remained.

“Findaráto?” she breathed, the voice that had screamed and raged now little more than a whisper. ” Findaráto.” Then she subsided against Celeborn and the tears began.

~*~*~*~

He carried her, and they followed the plume of smoke. The shore dwellers, busy smoking fish for the lean months, came out to watch their approach, amazed. They turned out to be fishers from the village on the other side of the estuary, elves owing allegiance to Cirdan. No, they told Elfaron, they knew of no way across the river, no shelter other than their own rough housing; shallow caves set in the cliffside. They sent covert glances to the silver-haired lord, very like their own in appearance, who stood grim-faced, the golden-haired female held almost possessively in his arms. She was tall for one of her gender, taller than any of their own mates, but he held her as though she were feather-light.

Finally, after close questions as to their identity and destination, the leader had a suggestion. After a glance at the lord from Doriath, he decided rather to address it to Elfaron. “We have nothing here for you, no more than shelter from the wind for the night,” he explained carefully, trying to match speech so that there would be no misunderstandings. “Our village you can see over there across the water…” He pointed. “We have food enough for ourselves, little to share, no space for so many guests. But…” He took Elfaron’s arm, turned him to face the sea. “We could take you out to the Island. It will mean several trips, but it can be done.”

The landmass loomed against the sky, blue-green and distant. “An hour, no more,” he expanded, seeing the uncertain glance Elfaron sent to his companions. “Lord Cirdan has warriors garrisoned there to protect this part of the coast. The Strangers have people there too; they build ships.” He indicated the golden haired one as he spoke. She would be one of them. What she did in this company was not for him to ask. Normally her kind travelled in armed groups on tall horses and kept to themselves.

“She needs shelter, somewhere warm and safe,” Mîrant said to Elfaron in an undertone. She looked out towards the island, then across at Celeborn. He seemed to have heard nothing of the conversation, but stood staring straight ahead, heedless of the wind blowing his hair. “I think we should accept the offer, Elfaron. Either that or at least try the village for overnight.”

“The island,” Celeborn said, the first time he had spoken since he had lifted Galadriel into his arms and begun walking towards the sea. “That would be Balar – holy land, a portion of Tol Eressëa itself they say. The island will be a good place to rest.”

~*~*~*~

Balar

The island had been the right choice. Once the warriors who met them at the quayside had heard their story and noted Celeborn’s faint resemblance to Cirdan, including the tell-tale silver hair of the Sindarin royal house, they were given food and shelter and bombarded with questions. Galadriel was put to bed in the main room of the commander’s house, gladly vacated for such an unlikely guest. True, there were Noldor on the island, on the western end, but none of them had the famed golden hair denoting Vanya descent.

Days passed and Galadriel’s mind healed, although she never lost the memory of fangs sinking into her brother’s flesh. For her, neither Beren nor his quest could ever be worth the cost. Cirdan, notified of their presence, sent word that Elu Thingol’s nephew and his people were welcome to remain on Balar for as long as they wished, and offered the use of his own small house for the prince and his lady. Galadriel turned wide, pleading eyes to Celeborn, one of the few times since they had met that she ever asked anything of him, and he nodded, no words being necessary. He knew she could not yet pass the trail that led to Nargothrond, that the road north was currently more than her heart could bear.

The Noldor shipbuilders, Turgon’s people, came to pay their respects to Finarfin’s daughter, offering her their hospitality, but she thanked them and chose to remain in Círdan’s small but comfortable house. Many of their followers chose to take ship back to the mainland and adventure along the shore, still with a mind to see Eglarest. Celeborn and Galadriel remained on Balar with perhaps ten others, including Elfaron and Mîrant who stood close to binding. He had found welcome amongst the warriors manning this final watch station along the coast and she took delight in the island, studying its plants and herbs. She had developed a close attachment to Galadriel; if the Lady chose to remain, she told her prospective mate, so would she.

Now, on a night in the four hundred and seventy-second year after the return of the Noldor to Endor, Celeborn of Doriath and Galadriel, once known as Artanis of Tirion, stood together staring across the sea at land etched dark against the night sky. It was Celeborn who first saw what they seemed to have been waiting for, and he moved his head forward to rest his chin on her shoulder. “Over there to the left,” he said. “Lights. Torches, I think.”

She looked where he pointed and they watched a wavering line of tiny lights appear along the shore, twinkling distantly like wind-tossed stars. “Walkers, not riders,” she commented. “Too slow. But so many…”

“Too many,” he agreed grimly. “Something terrible has happened.”

Galadriel moved very slightly. “Again.”

They waited through the night as though keeping vigil over the flickering snake of light. When Celeborn finally went to make tea, he found Mîrant in the kitchen ahead of him. Slowly, first the garrison, then the household, then the rest of the residents of the small harbour town roused and came out of their homes to watch the approach of dread; the sheer number of torches spoke for themselves.

The sky was light when the first boats set sail from the village. By this time Galadriel had given instructions for food to be prepared and for those with healing skills to make ready to cross the water. On Celeborn’s instructions the island’s boats were not launched and the warriors waited on full alert until they knew who and what they had to deal with. The identity of the first person to disembark on the quayside told its own story. Tall, broad shouldered, his silver hair fastened back in a single, practical braid, his clothes soot-blackened, torn, and stained with what could only be blood, Cirdan of the Falas greeted his Dorian kinsman with a tired nod. His pale blue eyes assessed the reception with something like relief: the warriors drawn up in good order, food in baskets, a small group of elves, mainly female, with the tools of the healer’s trade.

“Eglarest?” Celeborn asked briefly.

“And Brithombar.” Círdan’s voice was rough with weariness. “We were overrun, there was no way to withstand them. The Noldor act with scant unity now that Turgon holds the high kingship. The Dark One’s armies swept through their lands unhindered.”

His eyes moved to Galadriel standing tight-lipped near Celeborn, noting her lack of surprise at his words. While he was speaking a child had disembarked and stood looking around curiously. Clear blue eyes dominated a tired, dirt-streaked face, dark hair curled carelessly loose about small shoulders. He was very young, not much above twenty. As he drew level with Círdan, the lord glanced down, then back at Finarfin’s daughter.

“Your nephew Orodreth sent him to me for fostering. He sensed the Falas would be safer than Nargothrond. Instinct seems to have failed your line here.” With a hand to the boy’s back he urged him forward. “Greet your aunt, Rodnor Gil-galad.”

Out of all the pain and darkness that had overtaken their line, something yet remained. A smile kindled in Galadriel’s eyes and twitched the corner of her mouth. “I know you, El-tithen,” she said softly. “I sensed your birth. Welcome home.”

~*~*~*~*~

Finis

~*~*~*~*~

Daurnana = Great Mother
Edenbar = New Home
Mîrant = precious gift
Elfaron = star hunter
Arasdínen = silent deer
El-tithen = little star

Beta: Ilye_Elf