4.  Seas Of Heavenly Rest

 

 

 

Celebrían chose to broach the subject of her impending departure over breakfast the next morning.  Arafinwë maintained the morning meal as a private family time, when everyone could gather and speak freely without the interference luncheon guests or a formal royal dinner.  The servants set out various dishes along a sideboard and withdrew, leaving the royal family alone in the dining room.  It would be the perfect occasion to bring up what was bound to be a sensitive subject. 

 

Finrod and Amarië had arrived early, and were already sipping tea and nibbling on toast and softly scrambled eggs.  Celebrían helped herself to toast, but chose salmon to accompany it, as she did not care to eat eggs at breakfast.  They all rose when Arafinwë and Eärwen entered.  Eärwen kissed Finrod and gave Amarië and Celebrían’s hands a squeeze.  Arafinwë waved at them all to sit down, then went to the sideboard and filled his plate with his usual hearty breakfast.

 

Celebrían waited until everyone had had a chance to begin eating, but she did not wait for the light morning conversation to ensnare her before she could speak.  When she had finished half of her food, she laid her knife and fork on the side of her plate and sat up a little straighter in her chair.  Arafinwë raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.

 

“You look as though you have something of great import to tell us, granddaughter,” he said.

 

“I do.”  Celebrían began to twist her napkin nervously, below the table where no one could see.  She was aware that she had her family’s full attention, and she managed a hesitant smile.

 

 “I have been thinking about my life in Valinor,” she began, surprised at the steadiness of her voice.  “I have been blessed beyond compare to have met you all, and that you have allowed me into your lives so freely, an unexpected relation from over the Sea.  I will never forget the kindness you have shown me . . . “ Her voice trailed off as she noticed the worried expressions on her grandparents’ faces.

 

“You make it sound as if you meant to leave us, darling,” Eärwen said, frowning.

 

Celebrían gulped.  “That is indeed my wish, grandmother.  It is not that I do not love you,” she added quickly, “but something calls to me from beyond Tirion.  I grow restless here.”

 

“You cannot go away so suddenly,” Amarië said.  “We have only just become friends.”

 

“Must this family be sundered once again?” Arafinwë murmured, half to himself.  “I had grown accustomed to seeing young faces around the table again.”  The pain in his voice was so raw that Celebrían had to fight to keep her own tears from spilling.

 

Finrod sighed, and twirled his spoon absently between his fingers.  “If you were to leave the palace,” he said slowly, “where would you go?”

 

Everyone turned and looked at him in surprise.  Finrod blinked and stared back at them.  “It is a reasonable question,” he said.  “Most people – Uncle Fëanáro excepted, of course – have a purpose, or at least a direction, in mind when they go somewhere.  Even if they are going to explore, they generally have an idea of where they wish to begin.  I merely wondered what destination had caught Celebrían’s interest.”

 

“If she speaks about it now, it will only increase her desire to leave us, beloved,” Amarië protested.  Eärwen laid a hand on her arm.

 

“I think her desire has been kindled, no matter what we say,” she said.  “And I must admit, I am curious.  Do you have a destination in mind, Celebrían?”

 

Celebrían pursed her lips and thought for a while.  She had been so consumed with the issue of how to break the news of her wish to depart that she had not considered her ultimate destination.  “I seek a place where I can be alone for a while,” she said.  “Living here has helped me to regain some of my confidence in other people, but now I feel that I must regain my confidence in myself.  I think that I have lost track of who I am, and I must rediscover that.”

 

Finrod nodded thoughtfully.  “You were many things in your old life, daughter, wife, and mother.  Now you are granddaughter, niece, and princess.  Sometimes the transition between roles can be daunting.”

 

“It is more than just daunting.” Celebrían said.  “I knew Celebrían of Lothlórien and Celebrían of Imladris well.  But I do not know Celebrían of Valinor yet.”

 

“But why must you leave us to discover that?” Amarië asked.  “Are we not in Tirion, at the heart of Valinor?  Where would your answer lie, if not here?” 

 

Finrod glanced at his niece, then turned to his wife.  “The answer to that question is more complex than you guess, beloved.  Tirion is a beautiful city, full of all the comforts of life.  But sometimes, those comforts can blind us to the depths of our true natures.  I remember that I followed my uncles to Middle-earth in an effort to discover that for myself.”

 

Amarië’s face crumpled.  “Yes,” she cried, “and you died there!”  She stared accusingly at Celebrían for a moment, then burst into tears and fled the room, the remains of her toast and eggs congealing on her plate.  Eärwen half-turned in her chair and raised her hand, but Arafinwë calmed her with a gentle touch upon her arm.  Finrod sat still and straight in his chair and stared resolutely at his own unfinished breakfast.

 

Celebrían glanced at her own plate and realized that she, too, had lost her appetite.  “I apologize,” she said softly.  “I did not intend to cause such a commotion.”

 

“I will speak to Amarië,” Finrod said.  “She meant no insult, but her upset over the prospect of losing a friend made her speak rashly.  She does care for you.”

 

“As do we all,” Arafinwë said.  “I have heard your wish, Celebrían, and I will consider it.  However, perhaps it would be best to discuss it further at a later time.  Come to my study this evening.  We will take tea together and talk about what might be done in the future.”

 

Celebrían blinked.  “Yes, grandfather.”

 

Arafinwë smiled.  “You seem surprised.”

 

“I did not expect ‘a later time’ to be so soon.”

 

“Oh.  Well.”  Arafinwë shrugged.  “If I were to postpone the discussion, it would not grow any easier.  Your mind appears to be well made up, and you are not the daughter of Artanis for nothing.  But we will discuss this later today.”  Arafinwë turned back to his breakfast, the only member of the family who had any appetite left.

 

“Thank you.”  Celebrían began to gather her dishes together.  “By your leave?”

 

“Hm?  Oh, yes.  If you are no longer hungry, you may be excused.”

 

Celebrían deposited her dishes into a basin by the door and left the breakfast room.

 

 

 

Amarië did not summon Celebrían to attend her that day, and Celebrían was not surprised at this.  She took the opportunity to wander among the gardens, considering where she might want to go and what she would do when she got there.  She sat down by one of her favorite flowerbeds, and soon found herself idly pulling at weeds and deadheading some of the plants.  It would be lovely to have a garden of her own again, she thought.  She would have flowers, of course, but she also enjoyed the self-sufficiency of tending a vegetable patch.

 

Imladris, in addition to being a fortified, hidden refuge, was also a working farm.  Elrond had been especially proud of that, noting that his House was perfectly capable of supplying all of its own wants and was therefore not dependent on trade with the outside world.  Celebrían had come to share that pride as well, and had enjoyed seeing the children grow up strong and beautiful, eating the produce of the valley’s fields and orchards, clad in the fine clothing that Celebrían had made for them out of cloth she had woven herself. 

 

She had missed that feeling of pride in her work recently.  Life was easier for a princess in Tirion than for the Lady of Imladris.  Food was delivered from farmers who lived on the outskirts of the city.  Tailors made clothing, and artisans could be hired easily to perform what craftwork needed to be done.  Celebrían still occupied her days weaving, but there was no especial need for the cloth she made.  Perhaps what she wanted, what she needed to feel truly herself again, was to live in a place where she could work, as she had been accustomed to do, and where her work would have real value.

 

Celebrían pulled a withered daylily blossom and sat down on a bench.  She turned the flower over in her hands, watching as a bead of juice leaked out, staining one of her fingers purple.  She heard footsteps behind her and looked up to see Finrod.  She smiled at him and moved to one end of the bench to make room for him.  Finrod took the hint and sat down beside her.

 

“Amarië will forgive you,” he said.  “Not today, perhaps, but before the sun sets tomorrow, you will once again be her bosom friend.”

 

Celebrían laughed a little.  “I guessed as much,” she said.  “Or, rather, I hoped.  Amarië does not strike me as the sort of person to hold a grudge.”

 

“She is not,” Finrod said.  “But there are depths to her that few of us notice, I think.  She has had her own trials to bear in life.”

 

Celebrían nodded.  “She lost her beloved.  I think I can appreciate how she must have felt.”

 

“Twice.  She lost me twice.  When I –“  Finrod closed his eyes and turned away.  A fine tremor ran through his body.  After a moment, he looked up again.  “But the first time . . . that was when I told her that I intended to follow Fëanor.”  He laced his fingers together, leaned forward, and propped his chin upon them.  Celebrían reached out and laid a gentle hand on Finrod’s shoulder. 

 

“Amarië elected to remain here,” he said.  “She feared the wild lands of Middle-earth, and was afraid to travel to that wilderness.  Our last conversation . . . she tried to persuade me to stay behind, with her.  She was convinced that something horrible would happen to me.”

 

“And she turned out to be right,” Celebrían murmured.

 

Finrod pursed his lips and nodded.  Celebrían could feel him trembling beneath her hand.  Neither of them spoke for a while.  At last, Finrod took a deep breath.

 

“Amarië fears travel,” he said.  “She knows what became of me, and my brothers, and my cousins, and she blames our journey for it.  Celebrían, you and I are the only traces of our family ever to come back from Middle-earth.  I think you do not know just how much joy your presence brings to our family.  Amarië does not wish to lose you.”

 

“I understand her feelings,” Celebrían said.  “I do not wish to give up her companionship.  But neither do I want to lose my self, and I fear that is what will happen if I remain here.”

 

“I know.”  Finrod smiled at her.  “You have the same light in your eyes that your mother had when she contemplated leaving Aman for Middle-earth.  You are both as restless and powerful as the ocean, and neither of you will be denied.  I wish you good fortune on your journey, and peace at its ending.”

 

With that, Finrod gave Celebrían a quick embrace, and left the garden.

 

 

 

Arafinwë summoned Celebrían to his study in the early evening.  When she arrived, he was sitting at his desk, just clearing away the last vestiges of the day’s correspondence.  Celebrían stood before him, her hands clasped neatly behind her back, as if she were once again very small and repeating lessons.  “I will always appreciate the love and welcome you have given me, grandfather,” she said.  “Had I been something other than what I am, I would never have desired to leave your halls.  But the life you offer me – the role of a princess, of a child – it is not a life that is appropriate for me.  I was a wife and mother, the Lady of a noble House.  I can no longer return to the life of a maiden princess.”

 

Arafinwë nodded thoughtfully at her.  “I understand your reasoning,” he said slowly.  “Eärwen and I have only ever meant to ensure happiness and peace of mind for our family.  If leaving us will bring you that peace, then far be it from me to forbid it.”

 

It was only when the wave of relief washed over her that Celebrían realized how tense her anticipation had made her.  “Thank you,” she said, with a warmth in her voice that echoed the warmth in her heart.

 

“Have you given any thought to your potential destination?” Arafinwë asked.  “I could send letters of introduction along with you, to ensure that you would be well received.”

 

Celebrían smiled and shook her head.  “I will need no letters of introduction, though I thank you for the thought.  As strange as it may sound, I feel the call of the sea.”  Arafinwë raised an eyebrow at that, so she elaborated.  “I had never heard the call of the waves before.  I was content in Imladris, until the assault that set my body and my fëa against each other.  By the time I actually made my journey, I was not in any position to appreciate the beauty of the scenery.  But now that I am healed, I find that the sea longing has risen in me at last.”

 

Arafinwë wrinkled his brow as he considered her words.  “I would not recommend traveling to Alqualondë, my dear.  The town never recovered from the Kinslaying.  The buildings stand in ruin, and nothing lives there save the wind and the gulls.”

 

“I do not intend to go to Alqualondë.  I intend to travel along the coast until I find a place on the shore that speaks to me.  There, I will settle down, and drink my fill of the salt air, and comfort myself with memories of my husband and children until the day that they take ship to join me.”

 

“Ah.  I see.”  Arafinwë stared off into the middle distance for a while.  “That sounds . . . tempting, to say the least.  Go, then, and find your place on the coast.  But perhaps you might spare a little time to visit us every now and then.”  He looked so forlorn that Celebrían had to walk around the desk to embrace him.

 

“I will visit, grandfather,” she said.  “Every now and then.”

 

 

 

Now, Celebrían was glad that she had saved the money she had made selling her cloth in the market.  She sent her page out nearly every day to buy blankets, traveling clothes, a stout staff, all the things she would need on her long trek.  Eärwen packed bags full of dried fruit and meat, and commanded the cooks to bake trays of waybread.  Finrod showed her maps of Valinor and pointed out the roads that ran up and down the coast, most of which had fallen into disrepair since the great exile had depopulated many of the small seaside towns.

 

The night before Celebrían was to set out on her journey, she was in her bedchamber, rolling blankets into a tight bundle.  Just as she tied off the last knot, someone knocked at her door.

 

“Come in,” she called.

 

The door opened, and Celebrían turned around to see Amarië standing in the doorway, a bundle in her arms and a sheepish expression on her face.  Amarië stood where she was for a moment, then straightened her spine and marched into the bedchamber.

 

“I must apologize,” she said.  “I have treated you poorly these last few days.  I should have been at your side, helping you to act upon your choice.  But I was selfish and could not think of anything save my own impending loss.”

 

Celebrían immediately reached out and embraced her friend.  “Oh, Amarië,” she said.  “Think nothing of it.  I was grieved not to have your company in these last days, but I understand why you would feel as you do.  My sons behaved thus in the last days before I departed from Imladris.  I am only grateful that I am aware enough to bid you a proper farewell, as I could not do with them.”

 

Amarië smiled, even as her eyes filled with tears.  “You are far too kind,” she said.  “Know that, no matter how long you are gone, you will retain your place as the first among my ladies.  I will welcome you with open arms whenever you choose to return.”

 

She extracted herself from Celebrían’s embrace, and offered her the bundle she carried.  Celebrían unrolled it and found herself holding a light gray cloak, similar to the ones that her mother had made long ago in Lothlórien.

 

“I made it for your journey,” Amarië said.  “Try it on, so that I can see if it is the correct length.”

 

Celebrían pulled the cloak around her shoulders and fastened it with a brooch in the shape of a gull.  Amarië eyed her critically, then nodded.  “It fits well.”

 

“Thank you,” Celebrían said.  “This cloak will not only shelter my body, it will shelter my heart.  It reminds me of things that my mother used to make.”

 

Amarië laughed.  “I know.  Your mother and I were friends, before Fëanáro’s madness came between us.  We designed these cloaks together.  I am glad to hear that she has kept up the craft.”

 

Celebrían went to stand before the mirror.  The gray cloak was warm and soft, with an elegant drape that lent an air of mystery and remove to the wearer.  She twirled, and was pleased to see how the cloak rippled through the air before wrapping itself close about her body.  “I shall be a most elegant traveler in this,” she said.  “Wherever I go, I will retain your friendship about me.”

 

Amarië turned Celebrían around for one last embrace.  “May it serve as a tie to bring you back to us when you have found your peace.”

 

 

 

Celebrían set out in the gray twilight before dawn.  She wore sturdy new boots and traveling clothes, and had wrapped Amarië’s cloak closely about her body.  Her blankets and traveling supplies were packed on the back of a mule that Finrod had brought from the stables as a last-minute parting gift.  After some consideration, she had decided to travel north, for she desired a certain amount of isolation, and Arafinwë told her that relatively few Elves lived in the northern regions of Valinor.

 

By the time the sun had fully burned away the morning mist, Celebrían had left Tirion behind, and was walking along a road that was slowly returning to grass and wild flowers.  She did not ride the mule, for she felt that the beast had enough of a burden without her weight, and walking allowed her a better look at the countryside around her. 

 

This part of Valinor was feral, sparsely wooded, with wide meadows and the occasional hint of a settlement abandoned before the Sun had been made.  It resembled the countryside between Imladris and the Bree-land, but it was clearly much older.  Looking at it now, Celebrían felt as if the lands she had known in Middle-earth were but copies of the lands west of the Sea. 

 

No, she decided after a while, not copies.  Newer versions might be a better term.  Middle-earth had its own people and history, its own joys and sorrows.  They should not be forgotten, or dismissed, simply because the Valar did not walk there.  Elrond’s constant defense of Imladris against the forces that would destroy it was no less valiant because Manwë and Varda did not aid him personally in the task.

 

Celebrían occupied herself for many miles with these thoughts.  Eventually, she realized that the sun was beginning to set.  Darkness fell quickly in the north regions, and she would have to find a place to camp for the night.  She glanced around at the dimming landscape around her.  The woods had faded away, and she stood in the middle of a sea of long, coarse grass, punctuated by the occasional thorny bush.  A breeze caused the grass to ripple, and carried a sharp, salty scent.

 

Celebtían breathed it in deeply and laughed out loud.  She had wandered out onto a small cape, and had almost reached the shore.  The salt air shot through her tired mind and jolted her awake.  She nudged the mule to an easy trot, and ran alongside it almost down to the sandy edge of the beach.  The high, wailing cries of seagulls floated on the breeze, and Celebrían looked around for the source of the sound.

 

She saw a large flock of the birds wheeling overhead, flying in the general direction of a small, rocky point.  There was a large stone tower on the point.  It was clad in white limestone, and the top was ringed with windows.  Celebrían stared at it for a moment in surprised.  As far as anyone in Tirion had told her, no one lived on this cape.  Perhaps the tower was simply an abandoned relic of the days before the Exile.

 

In any event, it offered the possibility of shelter for the night.  Celebrían led the mule along the beach to the base of the tower.  A few rose bushes stood sentinel at the door, which was in surprisingly good repair, the hinges clean and free of rust.  It seemed that someone lived near enough to maintain the tower on a regular basis.  Celebrían raised her hand and knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  She knocked again, and then tried the latch.

 

The door was not locked, and it swung open easily, the silence of the hinges testifying to recent oiling.  By the last light of day, Celebrían could see a little sliver of an entrance hallway.  She tethered the mule to a rock, and dug in the pack for her lantern and tinderbox.  She lit the lantern, then held it before her as she ventured into the gloom of the entrance hall.