ERNIL

Chapter 7 ~ Over the Mountains IV

The chill of winter swept down abruptly from the mountains that year, dusting all Eregion with snow only a few weeks after Thranduil had arrived.  Celeborn’s household did not seem to object to his presence, and the mountain passes would soon be closed, so he resolved to stay the winter.  At present, he was taking the opportunity to enjoy a leisurely walk through the elaborate maze of gardens behind the palace, dormant now but for the evergreens.  In some ways it reminded him of their old home in Lindon.

Winter was by no means his favorite season, but the cold did not trouble him beneath his heavy cloak.  Gwaelas had come with him, mostly for his own comfort.  Thranduil could not help but be concerned about him of late, for he seemed to be pining for his woodland home.  The more he stayed outside the better.  The open air would do him good.

Besides that, Thranduil had worries enough of his own.  Over the past month he had observed the extent of the cult of Annatar.  The Noldorin jewelsmiths had nothing but praise for him, bordering on reverence.  It was not for nothing that he was named lord of gifts.  The secrets of their craft were strictly guarded and any attempt to pry them out was strongly resented.  Thranduil had no right idea what they were creating, but somehow it made him uncomfortable.  He felt no less than Gwaelas the need to escape the crowd for a time, to mull over his misgivings in silence.  He must justify them to himself before he could even begin to consider acting upon them.  Gwaelas needed only his company, and that he freely offered, but he did not burden his silvan friend with the darker suspicions dominating his mind.

“Good morning, Thranduil,” Celebrían greeted him, meeting them around a bend in the frosted landscape.   “I thought I would find you here.”

“I am often predictable that way,” Thranduil smiled.  “Will you join us?”

“There is nothing I would enjoy more,” she said, “but my father has asked me to fetch you.  You are summoned by Lord Annatar.”

“What does Annatar want of me?” Thranduil asked as they walked briskly through the corridors, his inquiry almost a surly demand.  He pulled off his winter cloak and gave it to Gwaelas.

“What does any lord first want of you?” Celebrían asked rhetorically.  “First, he will become acquainted with you, and he will decide what he wants afterward.  Few dare to oppose him in anything.”

“Why?” Thranduil demanded.  “How did he come to command such influence?”  He felt a private dread growing, as though he were being brought down into the lair of the spider who had already woven his web over the whole city.  Beside him Gwaelas seemed to share the sentiment, his eyes flitting nervously from the lady to his lord.

“He is almost an authority unto himself,” Celebrían answered, the hem of her gown rippling like quicksilver over the stone floors.  “Lords choose of their own will to follow him.  Yet I see you have already developed a hearty dislike for him.”

“The sight of him upsets my stomach,” Thranduil complained, quite truthfully.  “And I have already gathered he has an equal dislike of me.”

The hall rang for a moment with Celebrían’s musical laughter.  “Come now, Thranduil,” she chided, “in this city that should be no novelty to you.  It is true that Annatar certainly does not yet respect you, but I seriously doubt he means you harm.  You need fear no ceremonial backstabbing.”

Her tone was flippant, yet her words sent a bitter chill along Thranduil’s spine.  Her youth betrayed her.

“We are not going directly to the forges, are we?”

“But, of course,” she said.  “Annatar rarely receives anyone elsewhere of his own accord.”

The forges of Ost-in-Edhil were as Elvish as anything else in that city, yet they were also host to the thickest traffic in Dwarves.  The presence of the Naugrim did nothing to lighten Thranduil’s spirit as Celebrían led them ever deeper.  The architecture rapidly lost any resemblance to Menegroth, imagined or otherwise.  It became utterly foreign, the lair of the last of Fëanor’s house.  The light assumed a fiery glow, glinting off the walls magnificently tiled in great curling images of flame.  Gwaelas followed ever closer, until he was almost clutching at Thranduil’s mantle lest he be lost in that great and imposing edifice.

The passing Noldor afforded them only so much notice and deference as their combined rank demanded, and even then Thranduil was sure it was more for Celebrían’s sake than his own.  He felt the corridors to be confining amid all the coming and going although the grand ceilings were well overhead.  At last, they passed through a huge doorway framed by enormous pillars of red marble.  Beyond it lay the more intimate work spaces and antechambers, almost alternate living quarters for the noble craftsmen.  Buried in the heart of these was their destination.

Celebrían informed an attendant of their arrival.  They were admitted inside, and the heavily emblazoned door shut behind them.

“Greetings, Prince Thranduil Oropherion of Eryn Galen,” Annatar purred, standing to receive them in his splendid quarters.  “I thank you, Lady Celebrían, for bringing him to me.”

Celebrían returned the pleasantry, but Thranduil hardly heard her.  He had eyes only for Annatar, watching his every move.  At such proximity, he felt overwhelmed by a feeling of . . . something.  Was it apprehension?  Perhaps, but more.  It was not quite a sense of danger, but rather a constant sense of tension.  Annatar seemed suave enough yet the tension remained, invisible, like a weight suspended on a rope or the acrid tingle before a strike of lightning.  Thranduil himself was tense but he was unwilling to attribute the entire experience to his own uneasiness.

“I am told you came here against the will of your father,” Annatar smiled.  “Is that so, my lord?”

Thranduil did not appreciate his manner even from the beginning.  “I requested my father’s leave, and he did not oppose me,” he returned, rather tersely.

“You would not have allowed him had he tried,” Annatar insisted, seeming mildly amused by the whole affair as he poured himself a slender glass of wine.

Thranduil did not know what to say, and so was silent.  Celebrían, too, seemed nonplussed, but she did not presume to interrupt.  Gwaelas was making a conscious effort to will himself invisible as his kind were wont to do in the forest, intimidated by the looming tension he could also feel, but there was nowhere to hide.

“A divided house is bereft of half its strength, Thranduil,” Annatar lectured on, almost inconsequentially, almost as though he was pleased by it.  Was he gloating?  “I have already made myself familiar with many great houses of Middle-earth and the lords that rule them.  Now I would know more about yours.” 

His eyes seemed dead by their chill, yet they were gleaming with an incredible power that would not be hidden.  Their gaze was hard to endure for long.  His hair was plaited and accented with silver ornaments that Thranduil suspected to be mithril, remembering Annatar’s rumored preference for that most precious of metals.  He was taller than Thranduil, and the beauty of the West was in his face.  But what was he?  Was he simply an especially gifted Noldo of Fëanor’s like, or was he more?  The strange aura of Annatar’s presence was almost a perfect inversion of his memory of Doriath’s Maia queen.  That alone was enough to incite his suspicions.

“How long has your father reigned in Eryn Galen?” Annatar asked casually, stalking around him in a slow circle.

“Four hundred and ninety-six years,” Thranduil answered flatly.

“And the people of the wood accept his rule without rebellion?”

“They do.”

“And how far does the influence of Oropher extend?”

“Far enough,” Thranduil quipped, tiring of being made to answer such obvious questions, yet feeling they would soon probe deeper if he did not stem them there.

“Far enough for what, Thranduil?” Annatar persisted, a cold insinuation in his voice.  “To ensure his dominion?  To secure his borders?  To wage his wars?”

Thranduil merely set his jaw and did not answer, somehow transfixed by that gaze.  Despite the incessant questioning, he could not help feeling that Annatar attended the conversation with only half a mind, that his purpose was to take the measure not only of Lasgalen but of Thranduil himself as one might a potential foe.   How many others had endured the same inquisition?  Did Annatar’s allegiance truly lie with any of them?  Thranduil closed his mind against it as best he could, yet felt himself uncomfortably transparent before a superior light.

“This, I presume, is one of your silvan subjects,” Annatar went on, turning his dread attentions upon Gwaelas.  He seemed intensely interested, taking Gwaelas’ chin in his hand that he might look him in the eye.  Gwaelas was petrified, and Thranduil had to suppress his initial instinct to cuff the foreign hand away from his friend.  “A domestic and pliable race, I see.  Subtle rather than courageous.  This one has been trained well enough.”

Thranduil grew more resentful with every word that fell from Annatar’s mouth.  There was a silent but obvious mockery about his entire presence that could scarcely be borne.  He especially did not appreciate the intensity with which he regarded Gwaelas, as though peering into the very depths of his soul.

“Are they all like this one?” Annatar asked at last, eyes narrowed.  “Are your subjects all of the same race?”

Thranduil snapped his fingers sharply, giving Gwaelas excuse to pull away from Annatar’s grasp and retreat to his lord’s side, badly shaken.  “And why should the racial constitution of our people be of interest to you, lord of the Mírdain?” he demanded.  “It is of no concern.”

“Oh, it is of great concern, my young prince.  You know as well as I that peace will never endure in Middle-earth.  When war comes to your gates, how will you defend yourself with shrinking soldiers such as these?  Will Oropher humble himself enough to call upon Eregion in his need?”

The mockery was only thinly veiled in the guise of concern. 

“We have no need of Eregion’s forces,” Thranduil stated bitterly.  “We know how to defend our own.”

Annatar laughed softly to himself, but the sound carried a hauntingly malicious edge which cut to the heart.  “Oh, of course.  Perhaps on the next occasion your people take arms, Thranduil Thalion, you will not allow yourselves to be ingloriously slaughtered as you have thrice before.  Your people excel not in saving lives, but in lamenting them.”

Outraged, Thranduil would have forgotten himself had not Gwaelas caught hold of his wrist.  The callous truth silenced him, but it angered him beyond words.  Annatar continued to stare placidly down his perfect nose at him, dark brows arched, despising the petty threat that rose and fell before him, daring any of them to contest his words.

“Look at me and tell me, Prince of Lasgalen,” he said at last, a smile of prideful triumph suggesting itself on his pale face, “that all of your Galennath would not be utterly routed if a hostile army presented itself this very day.”

“Even if we are, it will be no concern of yours,” Thranduil bit out.

“Many things are my concern, not least of all the balance of power among the present dominions of Middle-earth,” Annatar said, his voice deep and ageless.  “I have witnessed the rise and fall of many realms, little prince, the comings and goings of one king and then another as each comes to inevitable ruin.  The weak perish and the strong linger, but all is overturned in time.  When you fall, I shall know it.”

Thranduil was hardly able to speak now.  His blood was up and he no longer cared who or what Annatar may be, but knew only that he hated him.  He met those cold and cruel eyes unflinchingly, though he felt maddeningly powerless against him.  “I shall never give you the satisfaction,” he growled, half mad with rage.

Annatar arched one brow, intrigued but disdainful.  “So you say, Oropherion.  I shall not forget it.”

It was a tense and silent walk back to Thranduil’s guest quarters.  He was so furious he could have spit, but somehow he managed to contain himself in the corridor.  Celebrían followed resolutely, determined to let him spend his anger harmlessly upon her if he was to spend it upon anyone.  He allowed her inside when at last they reached his room, slamming the door behind them.

“Curse him!” he roared at last, and slammed his fist against the unyielding hardwood.         

“Thranduil!” Celebrían protested.  “You will hurt yourself!”

“I will hurt myself,” he repeated derisively.  “What is that to me now?”  He threw his head against the door as well, though with only half the force as before.  He had endured over a dozen insults in that brief encounter, and each one carried a barb he could not be rid of.  He turned then and saw Gwaelas lean shudderingly against a table.  “Look!  Look what he has done to him!”

Thranduil went to take a firm hold of his companion’s trembling shoulders.  “How did he hurt you?” he demanded.  “I know that he did.”

For a moment Gwaelas could not answer.  “He . . . he saw me,” he said at last, his voice as unsteady as his posture.

“How deeply?”

Gwaelas closed his eyes tightly against the memory and looked away.  “Do not ask me.”

Thranduil sighed resignedly and left the matter alone.  Had he suspected Gwaelas would be so violated, he would not have taken him along.

“Even I am surprised at him,” Celebrían said.  “I have never seen such brazen discourtesy at an introduction, even from him.”

“He knows he has nothing to fear from me,” Thranduil observed bitterly.  “No one here values my good opinion.”

As his anger lost its fire, growing cold and deliberate, he was at last capable of rational thought.  He would be thinking long and hard about what had just transpired.  What it meant he did not yet know, save that it did not bode well for anyone.  There was too much he still did not know.

“Celebrían,” he said at last.  “What are the Mírdain creating?  What has Annatar taught them?”

She seemed a bit taken aback by the question.  “I . . . I do not know,” she said at last.  “They do not speak of it save among themselves.”

“Please, Celebrían,” he insisted, seeing more behind her eyes than she would say.

“I know nothing of the masterworks of the Mírdain,” she said again, more forcefully.  “I have only this, given to me by Lord Celebrimbor some years ago.”  She lay in his hand a slender ring of silver from her finger, set with a single green stone.  “Its power is bound within it,” she explained, “and can be made to govern green and flowering things.”

Thranduil scrutinized the trinket, but he could see nothing remarkable about it save the slight but distinct power elicited at his touch.  He could feel it against his hand, lending the ring itself a greater weight than would be expected of its size.  Its influence was meager, but he was sure the concept was of far greater consequence.

“Are they making greater ones?” he asked, returning it to her.

“I have not heard,” Celebrían said, closing her fingers around it.  “But even if they were, what ill could come of them?”

It was true that the power in question was pure enough, and well-intentioned.  Logically, the greater power would therefore bring about the greater good.  But while Annatar dominated the forges of Eregion, Thranduil was not inclined to trust anything they produced.

“I do not know,” he said at last.  “But I have much to consider.”

After dinner that night, Thranduil sought out Celeborn.  Annatar had also enjoyed a seat at the highest table, wearing his charming façade once again, and his presence had been nigh intolerable.  Thranduil was haunted by the echo of his snide laughter.  Now at last the ordeal was ended and he was conscious of many burning questions on his mind as he hastily donned again his green cloak and cap.

“Celeborn!” he called, bounding down the white stairs of the rear entrance into the snow-covered gardens, his breath frosting mightily on the frozen air.  The gray light was steadily fading, yet he was confident of finding him.  Nothing seemed to move, yet a silent twinge in his thought beckoned him.

He strode purposefully through the garden paths in the growing darkness, silent over the crisp snow, past many dormant hedges and cold, white-capped statues.  The gardens themselves were all but deserted at that hour and in that time of year.

At last, he came upon a wall partitioning the higher gardens from the lower.  Atop its moonlit battlements stood Celeborn, gazing away to the mountains in the east, weighed by many cares of his own.  Seeing him there, the gleam of his hair in stark contrast to his dark raiment, Thranduil was strikingly reminded of the melancholy aspect of Elu Thingol.  His own father seemed too often to personify the rash and choleric nature of the old king, the opposite side of the coin.

Celeborn was aware of his presence, and glanced back to acknowledge it.  A nod of his head summoned Thranduil to join him on the wall.  It took only a moment to find the stairs.

“You wished to speak to me?” Celeborn prompted when the other had joined him at his vantage point, his steady eyes never leaving the eastern frontier.

“I do, if you will permit me.”

Now he did turn to look his cousin profoundly in the eye.  “Come now,” he said, “when have you ever needed permission to speak to me?  I expected you to voice your concerns at some point during your stay.  Say on.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil said, discreetly lowering his voice.  “That Annatar is a menace; how do you tolerate him?”

Celeborn sighed, visible in the night chill.  “I have little choice,” he admitted, putting a brave face on an unpleasant reality.  “Already the city is nigh out of my hands.  Despite the pomp and ceremony, the factions that have formed within these walls are impossible to rule.  The Mírdain effectively hold the scepter now, and Annatar holds the hearts of the Mírdain.”

“But how can they abide him?” Thranduil demanded, hushed but vehement.  “How does anyone in this city abide him?”

“Yours and mine are the eyes of another race,” Celeborn reminded him.  “Celebrimbor’s people see no less than we, yet the light in which they see it remains quite different.  The ways of the Noldor already repel you, Thranduil, so it is little wonder that Annatar did not captivate your mind.  Your loyalties are unconfused, your interests undivided, and thus you have quickly surmised what others will not.  Annatar himself is not one to be trifled with, and it is for Celebrimbor to remove himself from his influence when the time comes.  I believe he still has strength enough to do so, but he must will it of his own accord.”

There truly seemed little chance of that, yet perhaps it was the single hope to which Celeborn was able to cling.

“But what of Annatar himself?” Thranduil asked at last, his words falling softly lest they break the snow-muffled stillness.  “What is he?  Whence did he come?”

Celeborn would not look at him, and for a moment left the grim question unanswered.  An unnatural apprehension descended upon the entire landscape as though it, too, dreaded to hear.

“You already know or suspect as much as I,” Celeborn said at last.  “Do not press me to speculate further.”

Thranduil said nothing in answer, feeling the winter chill settle around his heart.  Perhaps he had hoped for a harmless and convincing explanation.  Perhaps he had wanted some reason to doubt his own conviction.  But instead, it seemed his worst fears were rapidly being confirmed.

“How long has he been here?” he asked.

“Too long,” Celeborn hissed with a rueful curl of his lip.  “He is firmly entrenched now.”

 “And what of Galadriel?  Is she, too, blind to what passes among her kin?”

“Galadriel opposes the presence of Annatar in this city as strongly as do you, Thranduil,” Celeborn said, rather sharply.  “Yet Celebrimbor and his following will have him stay, and their influence is not lightly cast aside.  He has taught them much, yet I would say it has been too much and too quickly.  For the sake of their craft, they will not be parted from him.”

For the sake of their craft.  And what was that?  Thranduil still had no satisfactory explanation of the nature of their crowning masterpieces, so jealously guarded.  There was little enough he would be able to learn on his own, yet something was afoot and he was determined he would not return home empty-handed.

“Thranduil,” Celeborn said at last, planting a hand on his shoulder with the strength of a vice, as though he had heard or guessed his thoughts.  “I cannot forbid you, but guard yourself if you mean to walk in Annatar’s shadow.  This quarry may well prove darker than you dare to imagine.”