Suffering

Suffering

Chapter Nine, Part One

A/N: This is part one of a two-part chapter entitled Fornost Erain for obvious reasons. Part two should be up some time in the next week as long as my muse co-operates.

A/N2: In 1409 T.A., the Witch-king of Angmar invaded Arnor, destroying Amon Sûl, and beseiging Fornost and Tyrn Gorthad. The king of Arthedain, Arvaleg I, was killed, and his son, Araphor took the throne. Although 'he was not yet fully grown', he drove the forces of Angmar back from Fornost and the North Downs


Thanks to Isis for betaing this.

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Araphor of Arnor paced nervously, his hands clasped tightly before him. The city which lay at his back still bore the scars of the siege that the Witch-king of Angmar had laid against it, smears of soot staining the once-pristine walls, tumbled blocks lying at their feet. For a moment, the wind which ruffled his dark hair shifted, and he thought he could detect the stench of Carn Dûm amid the tangled scents of spring. His father was not two years dead, the great watch-tower of Amon Sûl still a stinking ruin, its palantír sitting oddly in its new place in the sprawling palace complex of Fornost Erain.

And yet, for all that desolation, this day was to be a happy one, a great festival for all the North-kingdom. Brightly hued pennants fluttered from the scaffolding, and people milled and jostled in the main square of the city, crowding round the roasting pits and the broached kegs of ale and wine. The wind swerved again, and blew from the West, smelling of the clean, green fields of Eriador, beneath the bright sun of spring.

Turning to the East, the young king could see a stately procession winding its way through the broad, temperate valley, colours flapping cheerily in the wind, shield and spear-tip glinting in the sunlight as the riders followed the hidden line of the Andrath, through which the Greenway which ran on its way to Osgiliath in the South. But these visitors came not from the South-kingdom; they had followed the East-West Road past the ruins of Amon Sûl, reeking yet of the lamented dead. They had been unmolested, he could see, even from this distance, for proud was the set of their heads, and firm and joyous their tread, and Araphor smiled with a tinge of bitterness to see the fruits of the hard-won peace. But the souring of his mood could not last, as the banner carried by the foremost rider caught his eye, the silken fabric cracking in the wind, and flaming out as a curl of silver and blue: the colours of the Lord of Imladris.

Araphor tapped his fingers restlessly on the hilt of his sword, scuffing at the dust with one booted foot, and twitched uncomfortably in his festive finery. So few years it seemed since he had arrived in the valley of the Last Homely House west of the mountains and east of the Sea, a child tired and afraid, streaked with dirt and rain from the journey, and overfull with fanciful tales of the horrors of the Elves. Warm, strong hands had lifted him from his damp pony, and enveloped him in a blanket as soft as those of home. He had looked up into eyes almost the shade of grey he shared with his father, and he had forgotten his fear.

He had been even more relieved to learn that Elves neither slept on bare rock, nor ate raw flesh to break their fast in the mornings, and, little by little, the haven had become a home, and his venerable patron a friend and mentor. He shook his head, smiling slightly, and wondered if anywhere would ever be so much a home as Rivendell had been for all those years. They grey-green scent of the spring rains, and the soft flames flaring in the great fireplace of the Hall of Fire. The delicate spires and arches which concealed the defensive strength…

His sight turned outwards once more, to the present rather than the past, and to the low hills of Arnor. Bright laughter rang out, mingled with the music of silver trumpets, at once almost unbearably familiar, and wonderfully strange. How odd it seemed to hear that sound, those notes rising to the heavens, and at once to smell the brick dust and scorched wood of the city, and the roiling odour of massed humanity.

He straightened his back, clenching his jaw against the fluttering beat of nervousness. The guards sprang to attention, young boys and old men, and the grey-faced spectres who might once have been warriors in their prime, before the might of Carn Dûm had fallen upon them like the hammer-stroke of doom. Too many they had seen laid to their long rest in barrows beneath the green grass, their bones hoarded up with their jewels, their souls sped on their way beyond the circles of Arda. Even this brief peace had exacted a harsh toll, and there were few enough men of an age to fight, and a spirit to win left in the North-kingdom, between the mountains and the sea.

But horses’ hooves rang on the cobbled roadway that lay before cie city gate, and the murmuring of the crowd swelled into a low roar of approval, necks craning to catch a glimpse of such splendid visitors. A fine sight they were ind eve even to one who had lived among them for the years of his childhood. The fickle sunlight seemed to fall upon them with glad grace than upon the watching multitude, gilding their silks, and sparking in their hair and terrible, wonderful eyes.

At the head of the column rode one who was indefinably younger than the others, although no such distinction was marked in the eternal countenances. He held the standard of his fathers lightly in one hand, his head inclined to hear the comment of his companion, so alike in face and body that none could tell them apart. Their identical faces broke into broad grins at the sight of the young king, and he could not help but grin back, remembering all the days he had scurried along at their ankles, and later walked in stride with them.

And behind them…

A king he seemed; one of the Eldar born before the breaking of the world, the son of the brightest star in the firmament. Mantled in silver and blue, a circlet at his brow, and a sword at his hip, rode Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris, his keen eyes bright with starlight, his long, graceful hands resting lightly on the curve of his mount’s neck.

“Mae govannen.” Araphor stepped forward. “Welcome to Fornost Erain.”

“Mae govannen.” The elf-lord dropped lightly from the horse’s back, his feet making scarcely a sound against the stone. “I thank you for your hospitality, taur-o-edain.”

Araphor smiled with relief that he had not seen fit to use the epesse with which the twins had gifted him: aran dithen . The troubles of Arnor were burden enough without that becoming common knowledge. Catching Elrond’s gaze, he saw the echo of that thought in those grey eyes, amusement chasing away for a moment the shadow which always veiled their depths.

“It is the least Arnor can offer for the aid which has been given so freely.” He looked past the elf-lord, and stiffened. Mounted on a dappled palfrey, not more than five paces from where he stood, was one whom he had never thought to see; whom he had hated since he had ever heard her name.

The Lady Celebrían.

The king felt the heat of swift anger flush his face, driving high colour into his pale cheeks.

He could never forgive what had had done, could never forgive the shadow he saw in his mentor’s eyes.

The soft sound of small, shod feet on a stone floor, the flags cool through the silken fabric of his slippers. He shivered: the first gale of autumn was howling beyond the heavy shutters, gusting leaves into drifts against the great, barred gates. There would be no comings and goings this night, with the wind blowing harsh and cruel from the North-east, across the high peaks. Not since the messenger had staggered into the courtyard, shivering and soaked to the skin, his horse wheezing like old bellows beside him. A Nandor Elf, from Lórien, bearing messages from afar, the thews and sinews of the Watchful Peace in tightly rolled parchment, beneath heavy waxen seals.

The child scuffing from room to room, the heir to the lands of Arthedain, knew naught of this. He was unaccustomed to the harsh winds which howled down the high passes from the Hithaeglir, whispering at the windows like a hundred malevolent voices. He hunched his shoulders beneath his trailing robe, and glanced nervously at the shutters. Even Fornost could not boast such tempests as this, and he only shivered more to think of the coldness in the elf-lord’s eyes at the sight of the messenger, a brittle fire which the child had never seen there before.

He slunk into an alcove, drawing his knees up to his chest, his mouth drooping. The Last Homely House suddeseemseemed very cold, its light dim, and he wished for Fornost, and for Annúminas, and the deep, cold waters of Lake Evendim. To be home with his own father, instead of amidst these fey strangers who could change in an instant from kind to cold.

He scowled across the corridor at the embrasure in the thick, outer wall, and clutched at the rather bedraggled cuffs of his robe. Shivering, he drifted into an uneasy doze, lulled by the velvet cushions which sheltered him.

“Elladan?” The familiar voice roused Araphor from his drowsy stupor. “Is there a message from Naneth?”

It was only with an immense effort of will that Araphor kept himself from jumping like a frightened roe deer. He had not even thought of the twins and the Lady Arwen as having a mother, much less of the Lord Elrond having a wife.

“Yes.” The elder twin moved quietly forward, and Araphor could hear the swish of his robes against the flagstones. His voice, when he spoke again, was very grave and deep, tinged with melancholy. “She sends word of Lórien. The summer was passing fine, and daernaneth and daeradar are in good spirits. She bids us come, when our duty to Father permits, and enjoy the light of spring upon the mallorn leaves. Here.” Through slitted eyelids, Araphor could see the tall Elf holding out a tightly folded sheaf of parchment to his twin.

Elrohir took it almost gingerly, but made no move to unfurl it. “And?”

“And?ladaladan’s brow crinkled with apparent puzzlement.

“Do not think to play the fool with me, gwanur-nín,” Elrohir snapped, his usual good humour deserting him. “When will Naneth return?”

Even half-asleep, the Edain child could see the pinched look around both sets of identical grey eyes, hear the strain in their voices.

“She does not speak of returning,” Elladan said quietly, his head bowed. “Or rather…” He paused, his jaw clenched. “She tell us that she has no thought to returning within the next yén. Read it for yourself, if you wish to see, but do not force me to speak more on it.”

Elrohir shook the parchment out with shaking hands, and perused it. At last, with a sigh, he dropped his hands to his side. “I am sorry, Elladan. I had hoped…”

“Do you not think that I had hopes that she would return? And how many nights since she left has Arwen wept?”

“It is as if the valley were bereft.” Elrohir propped himself upright against one wall. “Even in Adar’s eyes, when she leaves…”

“…The light goes out, although, Elbereth knows, there is little enough light there when she is here,” Elladan finished.

“I think they scorched my ears with their imprecations, ere she left from Lothlorien.”

“Aye, and there is little enough love between them to soothe their wounds. ‘Tis a strange thing indeed, for a match among the Firstborn to be so cold.”

They moved away then, but Araphor did not forget, as the years lengthened, and still the Lady Celebrían kept to her word and did not return to Imladris. That his mentor, to whom he felt such devotion, could be trapped in loveless marriage to such a harpy, a harridan…

Araphor cursed silently, wishing for Mirwen’s patient practicality to temper his festering wrath. But she was currently surrounded by a horde of maidservants, plucking and primping, and lacinr inr into some suitable confection.

His heart caught in his throat. So very soon now.

His eyes hardened again, as Elrond turned solicitously to the silver-haired elf-maiden. With a wintry smile, she placed her hand upon his arm and dismounted, turning away from him with almost unseemly haste.

“My lord king.” She curtseyed serenely, her skirts pooling about her.

“My lady.” He took her hand with as much grace as he could muster. “Arnor welcomes you. We had not thought to see you by your husband’s side.” He met her gaze, his own challenging, and was surprised to see such sharp pain there that he almost flinched away.

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Celebrían clenched her hands tightly in her skirts to prevent them from trembling from her husband’s touch. Even now, after so many long and bitter years, he had the power to undo all her balance with a single glance, a single movement of one elegant hand. Even watching him now, his head bowed to catch some comment from the young King of Arnor, his formal robes flowing around him, his hair bright in the sunlight, was more than she could bear. She could still feel the strength of his arm beneath her fingertips, see the look of gentle inquiry in his eyes at her sudden pallor. She had not been able to meet that look for long without risking her composure.

‘Twould have been easier to remain in the Golden Wood, for her long absence had left her pitifully aware of the depths of her ne It It had been a relief indeed to leave, to see the roofs of the Last Homely House fade into the rising mists, to ride out across the high moors, through the rust and dull purple of bracken and gorse, to think only on Lórien before her. To escape from the constant agony of his indifference. The sun seemed warmer in Lorien, even in winter, when the snow lay thick on the ground, and she breathed more freely amongst the mellyrn. But he still haunted her dreams and her thoughts, and it became harder to bear the miles between them, harder not to hear his voice, and glimpse his face from the corner of her eye at the high table, to watch him tune his harp beside a blazing fire. It swelled within her, a constant, gnawing pain until she could deny it no longer, could live in peace no longer. As so many times before, with weary heart and leaden feet, she had left the shelter of Lóthlórien and made her weary way across the ridged dragon-back of the Misty Mountains, as the last snows melted from the slopes.

But Rivendell was not as she had expected to find it, and even Arwen had greeted her with little more than a distracted smile before she swept away. It had taken Celebrían the better part of a day to trap Erestor for long enough for him to explain the chaos which had overtaken the quiet haven: not five days hence, the Lord of Imladris would ride forth to Arnor, to witness the wedding of its king.

It was too late then to change her mind, too late to wish herself standing upon Cerin Amroth looking out towards the onrush of the Anduin glittering scarlet and gold in the evening light. If she went, it would be torment; if she stayed, she could not but humiliate him in the eyes of his people.

Her fair skin flushed to remember it, for it seemed to her that she could do little more to humiliate him than she already had. Not a score of years at a time since her youngest child had come of age had she spent in the valley. She would not now affirm that slight her heart and pride demanded by remaining while he left. So she had ridden out with him, behind the banners of Imladris, across the Bruinen and the Mitheithel and through the wide lands of the North of Middle-earth, the Lady of Imladris beside her lord: a charade, but one fair indeed to look upon.

Celebrían smiled wryly, lifting her face to the brisk wind. Her heart felt tight within her chest from his proximity, her head light with the spicy scent of his dark hair. They had shared a tent when such a thing was necessary, each huddled as far from each other as possible. She had seen the dark flare of disgust in his eyes as his hand accidentally brushed her hair as they dressed in the chill grey light of the morn, the sharp, angular movements of contempt as he pulled away. If time had done nothing to dull the keen edge of her bitter love, it had done less to temper his indifference.

Nor had she failed to catch the fierce glimmer of protective hatred in the eyes of the slender Adan who wore the regalia of the Kings of Arnor with such pride. She squared her shoulders against the force of his wrath, although she could not blame him. How could she, when she felt something so akin to it herself?

She placed one hand on the Elessar fastened at her throat, feeling the green stone warm beneath her fingers, balming the agony within her.

They stood at the door of the great hall of Fornost Erain, and Araphor stepped forward, his head held high. The sceptre of Annuminas was in his hand, and the Ring of Barahir, the two serpents entwined, upon his finger. Most noble he looked, a scion of the line of the Kings of Men.

He turned, and grinned nervously at the elf-lord who had fostered him, and was little more than a boy again, his grey eyes wide with fear and wonder.

“Go well.” nd snd smiled, taking Celebrían's hand formally in his. “Your wife awaits you.”

And may your marriage be more blessed than mine. But no word of it passed his lips.


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TBC.

Taur-o-edain: King of Men.

Aran dithen: Little king.

gwanur-nín: My brother.


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