Once, in a Fair Green Country…
Prologue
Elrond felt her warm breath against his ear and smiled, though he kept his eyes closed and pretended to sleep. Her body pressed against his. She lay on the bed beside him, her hands on his shoulder, every touch sending shivers through him. He felt her brush his hair aside, leaning in closer until her lips touched his cheek and planted a soft kiss there.
With a deep, pleasant sigh, he rolled over, ready to embrace her. Only as he fell onto his back and opened his eyes at last, the illusion faded. Elrond awoke with a start and no longer felt her beside him. Instead, he found a cold, empty room bathed in the pale blue light of a full moon. He sat up, a strange creeping sensation coursing over his skin, a weighty feeling in his heart, and suddenly he noticed all the spaces she once occupied, the wounds as raw as the day she left. Why, when his rational mind had come to terms with his solitude, did his dreams insist on taunting him?
He lay for a while in that silent space, staring at the carvings on the ceiling. They seemed like swirling fabric, gathered in the centre of the room. Or like waves, he thought – those vast grey waters that divided him from Celebrían... It was no use trying to sleep now his mind had turned to her again. So in the end he swept the blankets aside and got out of bed.
Though many of the Imladris elves did not sleep or meditate when the sun set, the house grew quiet at night nonetheless. As Elrond slipped through the shadowy corridors, watching the drapes waft before him all along the passage, like ghosts milling to catch a glimpse of the fabled lord, he could believe that there was no one else in the valley that night. Only the natural sounds broke the stillness; the call of night birds in the woods by the vale wall; the silvery whispers of the Bruinen below; and the tremulous sighs as the wind ruffled through the leaves.
Yet as he came downstairs, with no particular destination in mind, he drifted near to the Hall of Fire and there heard another sound, one that took a moment to identify. At first he wondered if some great dragon had broken the magical defences of his realm and now lay sleeping in the hall. But then as he came to the doorway and looked in to the flame-licked chamber, he saw that it was merely the sound of thirteen dwarves and a Hobbit snoring in unison.
A dry laugh rose within Elrond as he leaned against the doorframe and looked in on the sleeping bundles, all strewn across the floor, some lying where they had fallen with their ale mugs still clutched in their strong hands. So that was why it was quiet, Elrond mused. No doubt, after spending the night revelling with their guests, many of his household were also sleeping it off somewhere. He tried to imagine what Celebrían might have said if she had been there to witness this invasion. Of course, she might have known Dwarves, he reasoned, when she was a child in Ost-in-Edhil.
Folding his arms, he turned away and returned to the darkness of the corridor. Perhaps if he read for a while he would feel better, he decided, and so headed for the library.
He was so used to the emptiness of the house by the time he reached the door that he almost jumped in fright on seeing another person seated by his desk in the candlelight.
Gandalf turned, pipe in hand, as Elrond entered. A large mug sat on the desk beside him, evidence that the wizard had also been part of the revels earlier. That, along with the slightly reddish tinge to his cheeks, thought Elrond. Yet before Elrond could slip away and leave Gandalf to his contemplations, the wizard raised his bushy eyebrows and gestured with his pipe – an ‘almost’ wave. Though he was not entirely in the mood for company, Elrond knew it would appear rude to walk away, so ventured in.
"I trust you do not mind my being here," said Gandalf, keeping his voice slightly hushed, though it was still deep and clear. "Nor my sampling more of your excellent wine cellar?"
Elrond moved nearer and saw that the the desktop was littered with empty bottles. Though he knew elves had greater stamina when it came to alcohol, and that this strange, wise old man had almost equal power to resist its effect, Elrond still marvelled that Gandalf was still awake, let alone upright.
Raising an eyebrow, Elrond drifted around to Gandalf’s side and sat delicately opposite him. "You are welcome to treat this house as your own, for as long as you choose to stay."
"Pipeweed?"
Elrond shook his head. Gandalf shrugged and refilled his pipe from a leather wallet.
"You don’t mind if I…?"
Elrond smiled and gestured him to ‘go ahead’, then let his gaze fall to the stone flagged floor. He sighed deeply and reached over to the desk, lifting the only bottle that still contained some wine. He looked around for a glass then popped out the stopper and poured a hearty measure.
"We did not disturb you?" Gandalf asked, studying Elrond with a pensive gleam in his eyes. "I understood, of course, that you wished to meditate and perhaps to sleep, but the more ale that was consumed, the less able we were to judge how loud we might be singing. If we roused you, then I must apologise."
"I did not hear you," said Elrond. He lied a little, since he had been aware of the sounds of merriment just before sleep had overtaken him, yet the sound had made him smile rather than be irritated. It reminded him of the early days, when they had celebrated victory over Sauron in those halls, and had looked forward to long days of peace. Days that might soon be at an end. It reminded him also of the great shouts and joyous songs that resounded around the valley when the hosts gathered to see Galadriel’s daughter wed the Lord of Imladris.
"There is a shadow upon you," Gandalf remarked. For the first time Elrond heard the slight slur in the wizard’s speech.
"It is a foolish matter," Elrond told him, and drained the last of his wine. He considered the bottle for a moment before pouring himself another glass.
"I cannot imagine the Lord of Imladris would lose sleep over a ‘foolish matter’."
"It is foolish because it is not something that should disturb me, yet it does."
Gandalf watched him intently and drew hard on his pipe. Without saying a word he prompted Elrond to continue.
"And it is foolish because I know that I will see her again, and that this separation is not eternal," he admitted quietly, speaking more to himself than any other.
"Ah," said Gandalf. "Still, those memories often resurface when they are least expected. Often all it takes is a sound that mimics her laughter or a scent like hers upon the wind, and all at once you realise with a cold and utter certainty that she is not there, when all you desire is to hold her."
Elrond stared at him. Gandalf meanwhile studied the smoke curling from his pipe and seemed, for the briefest of instants, to be elsewhere in spirit. But then he shook his head and straightened, reaching over for the bottle.
"But what would an old man know of such things?" he muttered, and offered to fill Elrond’s glass, adding a low voice, "what indeed…"
~*~
I
A single coal burned within its brazier, casting the dimmest of glows upon her face as she watched it burn. Swathed in black cloth, dark as the shadows that surrounded her, she sat upon a throne of ebony and watched that individual light gleam. The wide hall seethed in silence around her, while unseen servants, as intangible as the smoke from the feeble brazier, went stealthily about their business behind the basalt columns that supported the leathery ceiling.
Into this cavern came Olórin, taking physical form only as he crossed the threshold into this, the largest chamber. His feet set down on the smooth black floor and he approached the throne with cautious steps. The air around him was slightly damp, as if a rainstorm raged outside, though he knew, having arrived at the entrance to these deep-delved halls only moments before, that the skies were clear, if grey, over this part of Valinor. He was used to the coldness of this place. He had come into the gloom before and had learned to see beyond its forlorn atmosphere. So many secrets lay within.
He stepped nearer to the figure and she looked up, a sable wimple upon her head, framing a pale but noble face. Of course, like Olórin’s handsome, marble-skinned features and long silver hair, her body and appearance were nothing more than an adopted raiment, a symbol of the power and the spirit embodied there.
The Vala Nienna drew in a breath that was deep and laden with sorrow before she addressed him in a voice crackled with the strain of a million tears.
"I know why you have come."
"I find it difficult to comprehend," said Olórin thoughtfully. "Long though I have watched them and sought to find some meaning beneath it all."
"Of course you do not fully know that meaning," replied the Vala. "You have not known hardship. Wise though you may be – perhaps wisest of all your rank – you cannot fully understand that which you have not endured. We must remain as onlookers, and be objective in our observations."
She regarded him with a glimmer of pity in her unfathomable eyes. Olórin stood before her, waiting for an answer that would end the tumult of thoughts and doubts within him, like a child waiting for his wise and benevolent parent to explain the horrors of the world in soft, unthreatening terms. There was a clear, ageless intelligence in the Maia’s eyes, yet he stared back at her with innocence and naivety despite his long years.
"But life is a gift," said Olórin. "To create a new life…surely this is the greatest power any being may possess? How can such a wonderful thing bring sorrow? How can it cause hardship? It can only be some sliver of poison left hidden by the Corrupter."
He paced for a while around the hall. Often he came to that place, which most other Maia shunned, saying it was a dark and mournful dwelling. Yet Olórin had always found comfort there. Through her understanding silence and simple, concise answers, Nienna always helped him to unravel his thoughts. And unlike many of the Valar, including those whom Olórin served more closely and knew with greater intimacy, Nienna would sit for long whiles, listening to his strained attempts to understand the new life forming all around them, without impatience or annoyance.
"I remember the beginning of days," Olórin went on, "when we looked upon all that The One had caused to be. I remember when I came with the Host of Manwë and first beheld the continent of Valinor. Such glory there was in creation, and though we helped fashion our halls and cities, we Maiar only rearranged that which He and our Masters had wrought. I remember thinking, what joy could there be if I could fashion something of my own, yet I knew that I could not. Then when the Quendi came from the Hither Shores, and I saw that they had children, young creatures so alike themselves and so alive…I had never thought that sorrow could come from it."
"All life requires sacrifice," replied Nienna. "All creation requires some measure of hardship. For one song to be heard, others must fall silent, lest there be discord. Every craftsman must, in some small way, be diminished as he fashions his creations. So it is with life. To bring new life into the world draws a little strength from the creature who bears that new being. At times, so it seems, the degree of strength required may vary. With some it may hardly be noticeable, with others…well you have seen what happens with others. Do you understand it now?"
"Yet they grieve. The arrival of a new being has brought sadness, though the creature itself bears no blame."
"Oft it happens that a being can bring sorrow through no fault of its own. Every action has consequences, Olórin. You know this. Every note played in the music of the world affects the others, producing harmony or discord. Every being has a choice and a destiny, and with that choice there comes the risk of sorrow. Even in the blessed lands around us there is grief. For not even Valinor escaped the corruption of The Lost One. When the Quendi beget children or take partners or form allegiances, they must risk sorrow. Things are not well in Arda, nor are they wholly perfect here in Valinor. Death still comes. The Children shall weep."
"What will become of the child?" mused Olórin. "Born of such unfortunate circumstance?"
"That is not for me to speculate upon," replied the Vala. "Let him cry to me if he desires it. Here there shall always be an ear to the pitiful."
"But you know something of the future?"
"No more than you do, Servitor of Manwë."
Olórin left the hall with none of the doubt quashed. Even after his physical form dissipated, he continued to frown in spirit as he travelled back across the continent of Valinor towards his usual dwelling place. He remained intangible as he came into the labyrinthine gardens of Lórien and chose a random spot amongst the tall cedars and aromatic pine. Far off, the light of Telperion glittered like a distant beacon, mottled by the leaves within the gardens as they stretched off towards the Two Trees, and so a strange mix of silver gleam and pewter shadows filled the green spaces around Olórin.
He could feel the anxiety around him, shimmering like the mists from the great seas. So much concern and sorrow filled the air that even the fireflies dancing by the sulking pools amongst the roots of the trees seemed to whirl more slowly, their tiny hearts also heavy. With phantom-like silence, Olórin made his way through the shadowy places to a willow-ringed glade where he had come so often in this hidden form to watch the Elven couple and to eavesdrop upon the Maidens of Estë. The Maidens, however, were not present that day as he slipped up to the glade.
Only the two elves were there, one lain upon the sweet grass and flowers while the other knelt by her side, his hands cupped around hers. He spoke in quiet, unhurried whispers, regal and proper as though he was before his court at Tirion and not alone in this subtle, peaceful place. Yet through his gentle pleadings, Olórin sensed an undertone of bitter hurt, and felt that, if that Elven king were not so highly trained in maintaining his decorum, Finwë would have wailed in grief.
Olórin drifted around the edge of the glade, unnoticed. To Finwë he would seem nothing more than a breeze amongst the willows. But Olórin regarded everything, not only observing each flicker of emotion passing over the king’s face, but listening to the hidden song within his heart, trying to fathom what could twist a soul into such torment. Olórin listened as the king called to his dead love, imploring her to return, and the words cut deep into the Maia’s unseen form. For years Olórin had watched the Eldar come to the gardens or live in their fine city upon the hill and he had marvelled at them. For centuries, the Ainur had existed, yet rarely did they see great changes in their lives. Olórin could not remember ever seeing a ‘child’ before the Eldar came. Perhaps he had, aeons ago before the world was made, but he could not recall it.
Secretly he had watched them and had taken some vicarious pleasure from seeing their lives progress. He followed their stories, keeping track of families and young ones as they grew, until he felt some kinship with them. Though they never saw him and rarely sensed that he was there. He often toyed with the idea of taking on their form and borrowing their shape for a while, to see what it would be like to live as one of them, yet he had not yet dared to try this.
Never had he seen one of the Children as sorely grieved as Finwë now appeared. Olórin wished that he could offer some comfort, yet he did not know what he should do. He knew all the ins and outs of the world and observed small details that most others overlooked, yet he stood there impotent, unable to imagine how words could soothe that hurt.
Three maidens entered the glade and came to Finwë’s side, ready to tend the body of his dead spouse as she lay. Finwë rose, composing himself impeccably, and stepped back to let them work. Olórin took this as a sign that he should go. It irked him that, with all his wisdom, he still could not comprehend this. He would need to settle this and find an answer if he was to take joy the world again.
So he headed from the glade, fleet as a morning breeze, and travelled on the air to Tirion. He knew the pathways of the city by heart, and often wandered the meandering streets or climbed the crystal stair and watched the goings on of Finwë’s halls, but never showed himself to the Eldar who lived there. Though he longed to speak with them one day, to ask them everything about their life – what it was like, for example, to eat and drink, or to feel the cold and warmth, or to be hurt – he had not yet found the right moment to reveal himself. For the time being, Olórin wished to gather knowledge about these wondrous creatures and observed them as they observed the plants and the birds of Manwë in the sky.
That day he passed unseen through the corridors and chambers within Finwë’s grand palace, watching the shadows pass over the faces he saw. This grief – not only did it bring a rending hurt to Finwë’s heart, but, Olórin realised, it cast its net far wider and touched the souls of all who cared for the king, all whose lives he touched. Olórin loved to watch the birth of elven children, startling and bloody though that was, but he had never seen such anguish before. He wanted to help them, his beloved creatures. He wanted to tend their wounds and heal them, and see them carefree as they once were. Yet he did not know how to mend a wound that was of the fëa rather than the hroa.
He came into the heart of the palace, to those rooms that only the king and his close kin would enter. There, in a small chamber, painted white and bathed in light that streamed through a high arched window, sat a crib, where a dark-haired elleth tended to the king’s child.
Such a delicate thing, thought Olórin as he came to the side of the cot and looked down upon the sleeping child, with its snatch of russet-brown hair and miniature limbs. A tiny, fragile being that was so utterly helpless and alone, yet this creature had drained the life from its mother and had brought this aura of sadness upon Tirion. This creature, through no design of its own, had brought the first wave of bitterness to the Eldar in Valinor.
The child squirmed, opening his mouth as if gulping for air then, screwing his eyes tightly shut, he let out a long and piercing wail. The young elleth moved in, blank-faced, and picked him up. She held him and rocked him gently, though there was no real love in her expression. Her movements came instead from dull routine and service. Olórin did not know her name but imagined she was one of the many maidens tending the young prince. All elves seemed youthful and lithe to Olórin, even those whose wisdom shone through their eyes, yet this elleth looked no more than a child herself. He resolved to find out who she was, as he enjoyed knowing the names of the elves he saw.
As he watched the little ritual she performed to calm the baby, Olórin heard the gentle click as the two white doors at the far end of the room swung open and two more elven women strode across the white marble floor.
"In here," said the first, who walked a little ahead of her companion and bore herself with more confidence. Olórin knew her as Fereniel, a handmaiden once to the queen. Perhaps she was also grieving then, Olórin thought, although he could not imagine tears spilling onto those cold, hard cheeks, as implacable as the marble of Manwë’s hall. Yet in her heart he knew she felt the loss as deeply as the rest of them. Deeper perhaps, as that grief had no outlet. How intriguing to see the wealth of emotions within those fragile beings! For creatures who lived only in the physical form, bound to the fate of the world, they were so fascinatingly complex.
"Raimarië," snapped Fereniel, addressing the elleth who held the child. "Give him here."
Without a word of argument, the elleth surrendered the child. Olórin drifted back a little to observe the scene fully. Fereniel interested him greatly and he watched her pat the child on his back, whispering into his tapered ear. She had two children of her own. Olórin had seen them born and had watched them grow. Fereniel knew the ways of children, though even she treated the baby with distance and respect. Without a mother, would that child know nothing but coldness? To be treated as a chore; not to be loved, but to be attended to when the need arose? Olórin frowned, though none saw it.
"You may leave us," Fereniel said sharply. The elleth, Raimarië, curtseyed and left. Still she did not speak, but Olórin knew her name at least. Fereniel meanwhile turned and faced the other elleth, who had accompanied her into the nursery.
"Here, see how he takes to you," she went on, and handed over the child. "He has been known to be rather particular about his maids. Usually one can tell within minutes. Yes, he seems to like you well enough, Irimien."
"Yes," sighed the elleth, Irimien. "He does."
She smiled; a radiant, genuine expression. Olórin moved silently around the room so he could see her clearly. Though she looked very much like any other elleth, with pale skin and the earth-brown hair that was common to the Noldorin elves, something about her attitude drew his attention more fixedly than the others did. Perhaps it was that, for the first time, he saw some hint of affection in her eyes as she cradled a babe that was not her own. Olórin was pleased, at any rate, to see this woman brought into the company of attendants. He resolved to remember her name.
Though he still did not understand why all this had to be so, why the boy should be raised by strangers, never knowing his true mother, Olórin felt more settled than he had done of late. He sank back and lingered in a corner of the room, thinking he might watch them tend to the child for a while longer, before he would head off to find one of his own kind, one who might know more of this.
Irimien, still beaming happily, held the child for a moment longer and then returned him to his cot.
"You will remain here until someone comes to relieve you," said Fereniel. "And remember, this is no ordinary child you watch over. That is the Prince Fëantáro." She gave the child one last glance, but as Fereniel cast her eyes down, Olórin spotted the sparkle of a tear at the corner of her eye. "The king’s only child," she muttered, before moving off at last.
The sound of the door closing resonated around the lofty chamber for a long while after Fereniel had gone. Olórin drifted back and forth across the room for a moment, brooding on the prospect of following Fereniel or remaining there with the child a while longer, when another sound captured his attention with the sharpness of a skilled hunter’s spear.
The young elleth spoke to the child in soft whispers, her voice like a brisk breeze through the stillness of the room. Olórin went to her side and stood invisibly by, watching as the child stirred again. Fëanor did not cry, however, and Irimien leaned over into the crib, letting the young prince grip her finger with his minute hands.
"You are not alone," she whispered. "We are all here at your command, little master."
She laughed as she spoke, a sound that was to Olórin like a droplet of dew from Telperion falling into a silvery pool. Odd, he thought, how she was like most other elves in her appearance, and was no more beautiful than Fereniel or any of the others he had seen, yet she was infinitely more appealing. Kindness, like the light of the Eldar, shone in her eyes and as she turned away from the crib at last, that light flashed towards the spot where Olórin stood hiding.
Her gaze seemed to linger on that spot, long enough to make Olórin suspect she could sense another being in the room. She paused and seemed to listen, but she did not look alarmed or irritated by her unseen watcher. Instead she continued to smile.
She took a step towards the space he occupied.
In an uncharacteristic flurry, Olórin fled the room, though he did not know why he had done so.