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Chapter Eighteen – A Lady Disappointed

At the heralding clack of the door handle, friendly banter immediately ceased, and all heads turned with anticipation to the dais entrance.  The cloaking curtains billowed slightly from the intrusion of unmuffled music swirling out of the bubbling rumble of hundreds of voices in gay conversation and as many well-shod feet in lively synchronous step.  Lord Celeborn set down his cup and Laerlínath impulsively drank the few drops left in hers.  She watched the lord cross the room, in what she now assumed must be his usual measured stride, to be readily at hand to receive the Lady.

His unhurried air of confidence heartened Laerlínath, and she endeavored to rally the ragtag remains of her previously routed nerve.  I will not be overwhelmed so easily again!  She must not allow herself to be shocked senseless a second time.  But to be fair, she had not expected to have her worst fear – the awful secret no other, not her husband or even her mother, knew about – hurled at her like a spear.

Aurthôn edged closer to her side.  Guren said his lips and eyes, as he took her hand and discreetly concealed their tight clasp behind her skirt.  Herven she responded, and continued to look at him after his eyes returned to the door.  She prayed that reality would never come to be what had been so mercilessly plunged into her thoughts by Galadriel.  Her beloved turned his eyes back to her, noticing her stare.  She smiled to hide her qualms.  Reassured, he flashed a smile for her and looked away again.  It would be cruel to tell you, melannen.  In order to pursue his career, her poor husband needed to believe she was fine without him around to watch over her – when that was not the truth.

Admittedly, there was another reason she would never willingly confide this secret to another.  It would be humiliating for anyone to know how utterly dependent upon his love she truly was.  A case more pathetic than romantic…  If she ever lost her beloved to death, it would destroy her will to live.  Whether or not she could await his return in Eldamar.  Galadriel had found that out and had used it to devastating effect.  Merely contemplating on her husband dying, just as I am foolishly doing at this very moment, sapped her courage.

Following Aurthôn’s line of sight, she found he was not watching the door but the composed figure of Celeborn.  As she gazed at the Eldar prince, her mounting dread... disappeared.  He will shield us from harm.  This sudden trust puzzled her even as she was thankful for the feeling.  Where in the world did that come from?  To be sure, a good many peculiar ideas had popped into her mind these past few days – such as becoming a lady of influence in this new court.  Had this unbidden faith in a powerful guardian sprung up merely from her embarrassing need to have her husband safe at her side?  Or a need inadvertently left behind by the Lady?  That intuitive leap was more startling than the preceding one.  How could Galadriel, as powerful as she was, fear the loss of anyone or anything?  Nevertheless, Laerlínath found herself gratefully believing she could rely upon the Lord to protect her and her beloved – and keep them both safe from much more than the Lady’s ire.

The curtains hiding the dais door suddenly swept aside, swaying in place from the force of the draw.  The taut draw-cord was held by the same brannon who had earlier urged Lady Mirathel’s return to the great hall.  And it was MIrathel, not Galadriel, who took a deliberate step backward through the doorway; her long skirt swathed around to one side to avoid tripping.

Another stylishly dressed lady was as much as forcing the hiril into this indecorous retreat.  The elleth would not cease her aggressive chattering for even one second, and thereby, permit the Lady’s companion to politely disengage from the one-sided conversation.  So, once she had traversed the threshold, Mirathel rudely spun about-face and pointedly saw to maneuvering her train out of the way of her feet – leaving the other lady stopped at the uncrossable border of the private domain, flabbergasted into a belated silence at the blatant cut.  The grinning brannon added his own small flourish by releasing the draw-cord instead of easing it back.  As the curtains fell down heavily – right in her face – the lady exclaimed her shock at such treatment.  Then once more, the noisy festivities were effectively sealed off behind the closed door.

In all, a very quick scene.  Laerlínath exhaled, only then made aware that she had been holding her breath.  She glanced at Aurthôn, who was watching her, apparently amused by her relief at the new arrival not being Galadriel.  Chagrined, she petulantly tugged her hand out of his.

“The Lady asks for your indulgence, my lord and good sir,” Mirathel began to say.  Her eyes remained directed downward as she spoke, still rearranging her skirt ere lifting her gaze up to Celeborn, where he stood directly before her.  She smiled at his peeved expression, playing innocence at being the cause of his displeasure – he had expected his lady wife to come at his not-that-subtle summons, not her lady seneschal.  “She is delayed with the guest of honor and will arrive shortly.”  The Lord appeared to enjoy even less being put off for that particular person’s sake.  Archly hiding her entertainment at helping his mood change from irritated to sour, the hiril made to sashay around him.  “May I offer some food and refreshment until – “  Celeborn stepped sideways, intentionally blocking her path and view into the room.

Abruptly halted, the lady leaned back and looked askance at his discourteous obstruction.  He hesitated, not immediately offering an excuse for his rudeness.  Evidently though, he had nothing she thought worth hearing anyway.  Her head came up, and she brought to bear her well-honed matronly scrutiny.  With a resigned sigh and a surrendering wave of his arm, he swung aside.  After eyeing him for his behavior, Mirathel finally looked at the people across the room – and froze.

She did not pale or gasp.  No movement at all did she make.  Not even the smallest flicker of the eyes.  The vibrant elleth had been changed into a merely life-like figure, a painted sculpture without breath or heartbeat.

The spell lasted for a few moments before her chest filled with a swift rush of air.  A parade of emotions marched over her face as she slowly deflated.  Her hands clenched the skirt of her fine gown until the knuckles turned bone-white.  Sympathetic to the elder lady’s shackling distress, Laerlínath set down her cup, meaning to dash to the hiril’s aid.  But, her husband grabbed her wrist and held her back.

“Mirathel... “ Celeborn softly called.  Concerned, he moved to her side and tried to place an arm about her shoulders.  Whereupon, she jerked away, out of his reach.  Like a bewildered child unable to choose a direction in which to flee, she swayed with awkward indecisiveness; casting her eyes everywhere but to where Hrassa stood.  Celeborn held out an open, steady hand to her.  “I am sorry, Mirathel.  I beg your pardon for not giving you better warning.”  Her wavering ceased as she glared at the extended hand.  Her scornful eyes then rose to his, demanding an answer.

“Mandos?” she whispered.  An eerie chill ran down Laerlínath’s spine, almost causing her to shiver.  Aurthôn lowered his grip on her wrist to reclaim her hand and stared agape at the cogndîr.

“No!” said Celeborn, sending his unheeded hand to his side in an adamant gesture.  “He is not back from the dead!”  He paused and forced his reverberating tone back down to a less intimidating pitch.  “Only the wild.”

“Did you know?!”  Mirathel squared her shoulders in defiant outrage, holding back none of her anger at the possibility she had been purposely deceived.  “Did you know – all this time! – that he was alive?  Does Galadriel know?!”

“No!”  Although acutely resentful of her suspicion, Celeborn held his own temper better than she was holding hers.  “He went without our leave and without notice!”  Lips tautly pressed in a thin line, he drew a disconsolate breath.  “I was as surprised as you.”  Intentionally or not, how hurt he himself was by the trust that had been broken had slipped into his voice – instantly disarming Mirathel’s fury.  Her head and shoulders sagged as her righteous indignation wilted.

“He just... “  She shook her head in disbelief.  “ ...left?!”  A mewling cry barely reached her throat before being stifled, denying a pain that plainly rose from older injuries made worse by new.  She turned away, hiding her face.  In the next moment, she moved away, seeking to escape back into the great hall.  “Please excuse me... ”  Her voice was listless, alarmingly missing its earlier verve.

“No, you must stay.”  Celeborn reached as she passed him and took hold of her elbow.  His voice droned with same disappointed dullness.  “Elrovail is capable of handling proceedings long enough so my lady may come and greet our guest.”  Mirathel did not try to pull away, but would not look at him either, keeping her back turned.  He turned to face in the same direction as she, and again lightly encircled her shoulders with his arm.  She did not acknowledge his touch, remaining stock-still.  Taking her unresisting hand in his, he brought his lips closer to her ear.  “Please forgive me, melleth-nin,” he said with heartfelt contrition.  “I did not mean for you to find out this way.  I thought we would get it all sorted out beforehand, and then tell you with more consideration.  I apologize for my clumsiness –”

“May I retire to the alcove?” she abruptly asked.  He took a deep breath and freed her, his arms falling useless to his sides.  She straightened up and smoothed her appearance before turning around.

Her face was composed, showing no sign of tears or malice, seemingly unaffected by what had just transpired.  She went into the alcove at a dignified pace, without the slightest glance in Hrassa’s direction.  The congdîr’s breath hitched, and he started forward.  But, Celebrimbor held him back by throwing an arm across his chest.  Wearing a stern frown, Celeborn gave his bowman a sharp jerk of his head, also telling him to make no attempt to speak to the hiril.  Then, the Lord turned a supplicating expression onto the wordless clerk and his wife.

“Laerlínath?” he entreated, and Aurthôn released her hand.  She moved swiftly, glad to be called upon.  Quickly pouring a cup of mead, she carried it to the small chamber.  Behind her, she heard the master-smith quietly, but firmly, advising Hrassa.

“Give her some time!” stressed the master-smith.  “She will speak to you eventually!  Just let her disappointment settle a bit.  Your coming back like this is not an easy thing to accept.”

It was easy enough for you, my lord.  Laerlínath glanced back at them as she went through the gauze curtains at the entrance.  The cogndîr seemed quite upset about the poor lady’s refusal to acknowledge his presence.  But, do you even now feel guilty for going off as you did?  Inside the alcove, Laerlínath found the unhappy matron, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, staring down at Hrassa’s gear where it was laid out on the upholstered bench.  His few possessions had been repacked and his cloak neatly folded.  Laerlínath was sure that the cup-bearer had also searched for anything suspicious when he did that chore, and it occurred to her that it might comfort Mirathel to know.

“Someone named Golfod sorted through it earlier,” she softly told her.  The lady’s eyebrows lifted in silent query.  “He said nothing to Lord Celeborn about there being anything odd when he went out.”  The hiril’s face fell, disappointed again, as if she would have liked there to be an ensorcelled object holding evil sway over the bowman.  Obviously, she wanted to hear a reason a dear friend had departed without a single word, other than he had no affection for the people he was leaving behind.  “Will you not sit, my lady?”  Mirathel slowly took a seat on the divan, where Laerlínath sat down beside her.  When offered the mead, she shook her head.  “Shall I fetch you some water then?”

“No, no, do not bother... “ the hiril sighed.  “Will you please cease your fussing, brennil-nethin,” were her next annoyed words.  “I am not going to faint.”  Laerlínath was relieved to hear some normality return to her voice.  The lady elder heaved deep sigh and raised her chin.  Her hands she drew together and rested upturned, fingers half-curled, in her lap.  “I never have before, and I do not intend to now.”  Her swelling tears then spilled over, becoming streaming rivulets down her cheeks and falling from her proud jaw to pool in her open palms.  “Really, ‘tis not as if I have never before been confronted with someone suddenly come back to life.”

Laerlínath barely suppressed her renewed shiver at that very thought of such a thing happening, and was glad she was not living in the age before, when supernatural events of that sort would occur.  That wrathful Valar and potent Maiar no longer frequented Ennor was quite alright with her, and she much preferred that things stayed that way.

“How could he have done anything like this?!”  The hiril tugged an unfashionable generous handkerchief from out her sleeve to soak up her tears.  “But then, we all make a few bad mistakes in our lifetimes, do we not?”  She dabbed at her face and her reddening nose.  “Especially when it concerns matters too important to make any mistakes at all.”  Her tears eased, but very little.

Mirathel’s attempt to talk herself into forgiveness squeezed Laerlínath’s heart.  From all she had seen, Hrassa had been greatly loved by this family.  Despite hurt feelings, they wanted him back.  However, it was no insignificant thing that someone they had likely memorialized as a hero had apparently abandoned his duty.  Worse, he did not think that he need ask forgiveness for the deed, when they clearly felt he did.

“Better he had died!”  The suddenly revealed depth of Mirathel’s bitterness rendered Laerlínath aghast.  But, the hiril merely shook her head and scoffed, “Either drink that yourself or set it down, child, before you spill it over your dress.”  Laerlínath carefully set the cup on the side table, using the tiny interlude to think.

Only to be surprised by the extent of her own bitterness at Hrassa’s conduct, although his offense towards her personally was tiny in comparison.  But, he did apologize when I allowed it.  Mirathel’s embittered principles had driven her to condemn her friend outright, thus depriving him of any chance to make proper amends to her.  Oh, I cannot believe I am going to defend that Laiquende!  But, Laerlínath knew it would be a goodly deed on her part to dispel the matron’s baseless fear that Hrassa did not care in the least about those who cared so much about him.

“My lady, ‘twas not his intention to return.  I sure of it.  He never meant to hurt anyone in this way – certainly not you.”  She laid a supportive hand upon Mirathel’s forearm.  “He came into the city – which one must say was indeed foolish of him – and the patrol arrested him.  Lord Celeborn only incidentally found out and brought him here, directly out of prison.”  She dipped her head and looked directly into Mirathel’s eyes.  “I gather that the Lord never released Hrassa from duty, yet he made the cogndîr his guest.  Not only because of their old friendship, I think, but so that he may – as you also desire – discover the truth behind his bowman’s seeming lapse of loyalty.”  Mirathel blinked at her, and Laerlínath warily awaited a verbal reprimand for her uninvited personable speech.

“I was so upset I could not think on Lord Celeborn’s actions,” Mirathel candidly admitted.  “But then, whoever can truly fathom his designs,” she claimed, excusing herself as far as he was concerned.  Her tears eased away, eventually to evaporate; her brow furrowed in thought.  “Elrovail said absolutely nothing.  No hint at all as to what was going on.”

“Lady Elrovail is fixed upon surprising the Lady Galadriel.  She left it to Lord Celeborn to be of adequate support for you.  And, do not think she has escaped unscathed!  For all her jocular greetings when she came into the parlor expecting to see him, she could not welcome the cogndîr whole-heartedly either, naming him a deserter to his face.”

“And what did he say to that?” Mirathel asked, keen for the answer.

“He said he had not run away, but wandered off.”

“Wandered off?!”  The hiril’s earlier anger flared.  “How dare he use that excuse!  He is no simple wood-elf!  He was born in Nos Elmo!”  She clamped her damp handkerchief over her mouth, prohibiting a longer tirade from pouring forth.  After calming down, she let the covering hand fall onto her lap.  “Granted, not raised there.”

“Then, I am confused, my lady.  Since he is Laiquendi, why do you all make what he has done to be so unacceptable?  Do that folk not go off into the forest on a whim?”  Indeed, it had been nagging at Laerlínath.  “My adar expected there would always be a few of our green-elf tenants nowhere to be found.  He said they would come back when they felt their spirits refreshed, and they always did.  We certainly never took it personally.”

Mirathel almost rolled her eyes.  Laerlínath did not exactly want a lecture, but she figured that talking out other things might bring resolution for Mirathel.  In addition, she might learn something informative from a genuine insider.  So, she indicated interest in an explanation, and the hiril obliged.

“Would you say the Sindar of Forlindon are completely alike to the Sindar of Harlindon?”

“No, my lady.  The Sindar in Forlindon tend to be from the north and the Noldor kingdoms of Beleriand.  Whereas, the Sindar in Harlindon came from Doriath or are Nandor.  There are as many differences as similarities between them.”

“In like, the Nandor that made up Denethor’s House and host were of a different sort then those that populated the Taur-im-Duinath and hinterlands of Ossiriand.”

“Different how?”  She found herself curious as to where Hrassa fit into this setting.  “Was it the presence of those who eschewed the killing of beast or bird?”  Ascetic wood-elves were known to have resided in Tol Galen.  However, that place made her think of Beren and Lúthien, causing her to again chill at the thought of the dead rejoining the living.

“There are not so many of that philosophy as some people like to fancy.  And very few have ever lived amongst hunting folk, even in Tol Galen.  In Ossiriand, they mostly kept to their own ranges on the slopes of the Ered Luin.  I beg your pardon, Ered Lindon.”  Mirathel looked at her with a skeptical eye.  “I suspect you were taught that the Laiquendi had no King after Denethor.”  Laerlínath nodded yes.  “Well in truth, the Laegrim never really had a King to begin with.  Denethor was their leader and hereditary chieftain.  On occasion, called ‘aran’ by his followers, but his title was Târ.  ‘Aran’ had by practice become the title of Elu Thingol.  So, some chroniclers took ‘Aran’ to literally mean ‘King’ – when it does not.  Closer to ‘liege lord’ or ‘a king’.  If that makes any sense to you.”

“Yes,” she nodded, “I know of this historical difference.  But understandably, in this day and age, it usually means King.”

“Well then, I will assume you also know that the Nandor are those who remained by the Anduin during the Great Journey and much later came to Beleriand.  When reunited with the Sindar, old bonds were renewed.  Denethor and his folk adopted many of the practices of Thingol’s royal court.  But, most Nandor lived exactly as they always had.”

One of these Nandor traditions, Laerlínath had been schooled, was what had led to the King of the Green-elves and all his near kin being slain at Amon Ereb – including the ellith of his House.  As a nomadic people, the Laiquendi moved en masse – family, stock, and goods together – across the landscape.  Denethor’s entire host, not just the warriors, had been overrun and nearly all slaughtered.  The ruling bloodline was thus ended.  For, unlike the Noldor, the Sindar gave as much countenance to daughters as to sons.  Nonethelesss, no latter descendant of Denethor by son or daughter ever came forward to assume his authority.  Although astonishingly, one would eventually return to Lórinand to take his great-great-grandfather’s place.

Instead, it was the descendant of Denethor’s next sibling who became the new leader of the Laegrim – Nimloth, the only child of Galathil Galadhonion.  Denethor’s younger sister, Oioloth, was Prince Elmo’s wife and both had sailed.  Galathil was the by-then deceased eldest son of Galadhon, Elmo and Oioloth’s eldest son, who had also departed to Eldamar.  A mere lass became the heir of two great princes, and was literally made Rîn by her uncle, Celeborn, in whose care she had been placed by her parents before their fatal voyage and shipwreck.  Ironically, Nimloth left Menegroth, where the survivors of Denethor’s host had come for refuge, to live in Ossiriand and rule people that had hardly acknowledged her predecessor.

“And so, Denethor was succeeded by Nimloth,” prompted Laerlínath.

“Yes, of whom those same chroniclers say little save she was Dior Eluchíl’s wife.  When, it was she who welcomed her gwathel and her husband to reside in Tol Galen and made them the Laegrim’s guardians when she left with her husband and children.  Those events did not happen of their own accord.”

“And,” Laerlínath continued, purposely steering away from talking about the residents of Dor Firn-i-Guinar.  “Lord Celeborn was her steward and councilor until she was of a mind to rule on her own.  Not until then, did the Lord and Lady wed and cross the mountains into Eriador.  With Thingol’s death, her eldest son became heir to Doriath, and her younger son was promised to be returned to the Laiquendi when he was grown.”  Laerlínath knew this because, when she was herself a lass, her father would tell her stories about the Eldar princesses to inspire her.  She had asked to hear more about Nimloth than any other, because the Rîn was her only model for pretending to be a child queen rather than just another little princess.

“Ah but,” said Mirathel, ruefully shaking her head, “in the end, the people as well as the land were changed by the War.  Sadly, the Laegrim did not want Nimloth’s younger grandson as their prince.”

“Is that why the cognîr calls Lord Celeborn Caun-anim ?” Laerlínath ventured to ask.  “Because the folk of Harlindon preferred Elmo’s next grandson to his three-times great-grandson, even though Elrond is also Thingol’s great-grandson?”

“Hardly.  That name is a whole other and older story.”  The lady tilted her head, pursing her lips.  “The fact is, a great many preferred Lord Oropher.  Else, so large a host would not have gone east with him, now would they?”  She gave Laerlínath an indulgent expression, as if saying a young Noldo could never be expected to really understand Sindar history or their way of thinking.  “But, Oropher could not garner the support of the northern Sindar as could Celeborn and Galadriel.”  Mirathel looked sidelong at her.  “Which was a strange turn of fortune in itself.”

“How so, my lady?”  The hiril obviously wanted to tell her.

“Well, to put it simply for you, it was from Elmo that sprang the princes of Doriath and noblest lords of Beleriand.  And by that, I mean not only among the Umanyar lords of Beleriand – the Sindar, Nandor, and Teleri – but the children of his offspring that wed Noldor nobility.  Elmo’s Children called themselves the Elmoi, a name you might never have heard before.  Lord Celeborn was made chieftain of their nothrim by his grandfather ere the Prince departed, and though the highest prince of Doriath, he never took Elmo’s title for he believed that belonged to his brother.  To this day, Sindarin nobility acknowledge a closer tie to Celeborn than they have ever had or will ever feel towards Elrond.”  She spoke with suppressed pride.  “The Elmoi have disbursed and faded, but my lord and lady’s House maintains its prominence.”  That Mirathel would say such a thing while living in a realm that owed its fealty to Lindon’s King felt like a bit of an affront to Laerlínath.

“My husband considers the Galadhrim to be grey-elves, not just led by them,” she commented.  “Are they that different from those in Lindon?”  The hiril needed reminding that the Lord and Lady still had a suzerain who lorded over them.  Amdir now instead of Gil-galad, but their installment in Ost-in-Edhil was no different than when they were in Harlond.

“Oh yes,” was Mirathel’s perk response, not seeming to take the hint.  “Though, many of us consider ourselves formerly of Eriador, not Beleriand or Lindon.  We were a quite diverse folk there by our lovely lake, and we happily shared our differences.  In my opinion, a people all our own.  We did not inhabit stone cities or caverns.  We had better use for the caves scattered throughout our hills.”  A twinkle came to her now dry eyes.  “In fact, some took to dwelling year-round far above the ground.  The Lord and Lady’s lodgings and seat were high in a tree.  Like in the Hirilorn.  You have heard of that dwelling, have you not?”

“They lived in a tree?” Laerlínath almost exclaimed.  She thought the hiril might be mocking her by touting such a ridiculous idea.  She could not imagine anything more unaccommodating than a flet, or even a deer blind, when it snowed.  “Surely, no sensible forest-dweller forsakes a cozy hut in wintertime.”

“We build homes, Laerlínath, not shelters.  In Lothloríen, we Galadhrim live almost exclusively in the trees.  Hence, the name?”  She smiled.  “Harlindon was a well enough land to dwell in, but coming to Lórinand – where the Silvan better understood our predilections – was a welcome transition.”  Mirathel pressed a light touch on Laerlínath’s shoulder.  “Do not worry yourself about it.  ‘Tis very unlikely you shall ever be required to reside in a tree-house.”

“Even so... “  Then, she too smiled, realizing Mirathel was playing with her Noldorin notions – she had been all along.  “But, tell me then please, if the southern Sindar were not inclined to Elrond, how is that Gil-galad became their King?”

“Good question,” nodded the hiril in approval.  “For the answer involves circumstances rather than blood, since both are princes born of kings and heroes.  Gil-galad was raised in a Sindar household and Elrond in a Noldor.  They were returned to their birth-folk having been ingrained with their foster-folk’s attitudes.  Favorable for Gil-galad, not so for Elrond.  When the last council of the allied lords of Beleriand sought to name a king for Lindon, Ereinion had been their war-leader for sometime already.  All but the Fëanoreans had essentially accepted his leadership.  And, there was no possibility of the Kinslayers who chose to remain in Ennor of following any but a Noldor prince.  Gil-galad would keep a peaceful balance between everyone.  Besides Elrond being even younger, he was seen as Noldorin by most Sindar but Sindarin by most Noldor.  His own fault, if you ask me.  Elros had steered a wiser course – for all of being as young – and exploited his encompassing heritage.  He might have become King of the Elves, had he not chosen to be King of the Edain.”

“History is indeed ironic.  But, what was this other twist of fate you started to explain before we went astray?”

“Oh yes, the northern Sindar of Beleriand,” recalled the hiril, a thoughtful mien coming over her face.  “... my birth-folk.  If Morgoth had returned to Ennor only a little later than when he did, Oropher might have been the prince of Mithrim, and with Cirdan would have perhaps been successful in defending the north lands.  Or he might have been installed in Nagothrond instead of Finrod.”  She looked at Laerlínath, watching for the effect of her next words.  “He would be my lord – and Thranduil would likely be your King instead of Erienion.”  Laerlínath’s second incredulous reaction in as many minutes received only a raised eyebrow from Mirathel.  With a feminine wave of her hand, the hiril dismissed any further pursuit of the subject.  “However, such speculation has little to do with our immediate dilemma.  Which is this: Hrassa’s duty does not end whenever he wishes it to end, despite any custom of wandering off.”  She turned unyielding.  “He must abide by the rules of his House.  Back then and now, that means giving service without being called upon and not trying to escape it – on a whim!”  Mirathel’s pronouncement would beard no objection, so there was nothing for Laerlínath to say.  They fell into a silent pause.

And as they were now quiet, the low voices of the ellyn could be heard from the other room.  Their low rumbling rose slightly in volume, only to be quickly pulled down into unintelligible murmurs.  Laerlínath could not discern her husband’s voice in the jumble.  She looked at Mirathel, who appeared forlorn over the inconclusiveness of their own discourse, for she still had no excuse or cause explaining Hrassa’s inconsiderate actions.

“My lady, perhaps if you were to simply ask him, he would give a clear explanation,” Laerlínath suggested.  “It would be no weakness on your part to deign to speak to him for that reason.”

“That concession appears not to have gotten an explanation for anyone else.”

“Lord Celeborn and Lord Celebrimbor will not press for they wish to keep his friendship.  Lady Elrovail too has found it more to her purpose not to shun him.  Mostly, I think, because she has set others to do that task for her.  And, the Lord has made it abundantly clear that his bowman is only a guest and no longer one of his trusted minions.”

“Well, of course.  He would have to.  My lord might shelter him and my lady might agree, but they would not dare to take him into Nos Galadhad.  Why, half our household – at the very least – would seek to resign.”  She looked down at her hands, which had twisted her handkerchief into knots.  “Hrassa has done wrong by all of us, not just himself.”

“Then, I have done wrong too,” said Laerlínath.  She had earlier become nervous about showing hospitality to the cogndîr and hoped now for some sage advice.  “For I have opened my home to him.”

“Were you aware of his... being absence without leave?”

“No, not specifically.  Lord Celeborn and Aurthôn pushed me to give him our hospitality.  But, I have no more of an honest excuse then he, for he did warn us he was out of favor.”

“You are generous person, Laerlínath.”  Mirathel patted her hand.  “It reflects well upon you that you have not retracted your kindness.  I have grave doubts that Hrassa will be able to stay here under any conditions and am glad that he has someplace to go, out of harm’s way, while in the city.”

“Your friendship is a dear one for you to feel that way.  When did you first meet?” she impulsively asked.

“When I traveled with the Lady Galadriel and Lord Finrod on their first sojourn into Doriath.  Hrassa was posing as a messenger for the Rîn.”  The hiril’s nostalgic smile encouraged Laerlínath to think that she might get over her anger by recalling their shared past.  “In actuality, he was sent to spy.”  Only to worry she was dredging up greater trouble.  “And to that end, he decided to cultivate me for information.  He still does not know that I knew what he was about then.”  The hiril pondered what she had just said.  “At least, from when last we spoke, I do not think so.”

“Was that visit when Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn met, too?”  Laerlínath meant to distract, but she also had not anticipated getting the hiril talking about decidedly personal events.  Now, she wondered what helpful things she might hear about Galadriel’s past.

The older people around her had always avoided discussing any particulars of the Lord and Lady’s courtship and marriage, keeping to criticism of their politics.  She had always felt an unspoken disapproval concerning their engagement – although nothing like the scandals concerning the Lady’s cousin, Idril Celebrindal’s aunt.  That tale had been fully disclosed to her as a moral lesson when she had come of age.  Thereafter, she found it to be a regular source of sordid entertainment among adults – but never Celeborn and Galadriel‘s history.

“Oh my, child, the Lord and Lady did not meet in Doriath!”  Mirathel grinned at her puzzled expression.  “Rather, they collided and were welded together by the sheer force of the impact.”  Laerlínath blushed.  In her parents’ society, a courtship was never allowed to exercise the passion implied by this colorful testimonial.  Mirathel laughed; a sweet, heartbreaking sound that echoed with yearning for a long-lost place and time.  “Poor Lady Laerlínath, am I too indelicate for you?”

“A little, I admit...”  She bit back an eager smile, feeling both titillated and bashful.  She wanted to hear more of what two respectable high-elves might have done to have such an outrageous description of their conduct bestowed upon them.

But, the sounds of the celebration in great hall suddenly intruded into the parlor once more.

“We will talk again,” predicted Mirathel, rising from the divan.  Laerlínath also rose and walked one step behind her elder to the entrance of the alcove.  “Say nothing in his defense, young lady.  I certainly will not, and you would be wise to follow my example.”  She straightened her appearance, and Laerlínath followed suit.

At a nod from the hiril, Laerlínath stepped forward and lifted aside the sheer curtain for Mirathel to pass through first.  The younger elleth decided that she would indeed follow the matron’s advice.  For if anyone could get the truth out of Hrassa, that would be the Lady Galadriel.  No sense in getting in her way.

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

“Nonethelesss, no latter descendant of Denethor by son or daughter ever came forward to assume his authority.  Although astonishingly, one would eventually return to Lórinand to take his great-great-grandfather’s place.” - Tolkien indicates that Amdir (Malgalad) is a Sindar prince from Beleriand.  I have him as a descendent of Elmo and of Denethor by his eldest son.  He leaves Nenuiel to find Lorinand before the Third Kinslaying.

Personally, I see the Silvan of the Golden Wood as being more Nandorin than the Silvan of the Greenwood, although both groups were influenced by the Avari that drifted into the territory over time.  The Galadrim themselves are settled people and not nomadic.  I think it was from this area (Lorien and Amon Lanc, which is but a small portion of the original Lindorinand) that Denethor left his father’s permanent encampment and embarked on his western migration traveling through the Gap of Rohan – because they did not ever care to cross the high mountains.

There is hardly anything written about Nimloth in Ossiriand or what she did there other than be wife to Dior and bear their children.  Way back at the beginning of this story, I gave her a big role to play much earlier in her life than when she becomes the queen of Doriath.

The “War” referred to here is the War of Wrath.  The War of the Elves and Sauron is almost a millennium away.

Oioloth – is an OC wife for Elmo

Târ/Rîn – a title for the lord/lady chieftain of the Laegrim

cogndîr – bowman Nandorin

ellon/elleth – elf male/female

gwador/gwathel – brother/sister who is not a sibling

brannon/brennil – nobleman/noblewoman

brennil-nethin – young lady

guren – my heart

melannen – beloved

herven/herves – husband/wife

melleth-nin – my friend - the feminine form of mellon  Not to be confused with ‘meleth’ (love), but I see melleth-nin more like saying “dear lady” to a woman than just “my friend” or “my dear lady”

Dor Firn-i-Guinar – Land of the Dead that Live – Tol Galen, the Green Isle, situated in the Adurant River in Ossiriand, which was downstream from Lanthir Lamath, the waterfall that inspired Elwing’s name.