Fields of Ashes

Author: Cristina – [zephyrina@hotmail.com]

Pairing: Celeborn [for once, no pair ;)]

Rate: very low [omygawd… I did it… I actually wrote something that is not NC-17!] but there is angst. A ton of angst at least, for this is a darkfic. And a tiny slash mention too; I could not completely forget myself, after all :D

Summary: Celeborn muses about his relationship with his daughter

Disclaimer: obviously, I am not Tolkien, so I do not own any character – if the silver boy down there was mine, I would tie him to the bed and then do very NC-17 thingies to him rather than just ‘write’ about him, *g* - Anyway… not even the title is mine, but it belongs to the Evereve of “Stormbirds”.
So, I only make claims about the plot…yes, *this* is *mine*.

Archive: just ask, and I will say yes

Feedback: feedbacks=both me & Mr. Muse happy=more writing ;)

Notes: to hubby with much love, as a present for our soon-to-be anniversary and for his infinite patience in dealing with me and all my elven-thingies, to my grandma with a kiss, and to Elve with a hug for her beta-work.
To Celeborn as well, because he has sneaked in my heart little by little in a very subtle way…when I read about him for the very first time, almost a decade ago, I have not guessed that it would have ended this way. Perhaps I should even thank Peter Jackson: he ruined the Silver Tree of Doriath in the worst way, thus making him dearer to my heart.
And to me, obvious; ‘modesty’ has always been my nickname, after all :P
~*~
There. This is the very first time I write something that it is not NC-17. Oh yeah.
And no, I have –not- been in the sun too long…simply, I was in the mood to praise the boy I usually portray in a RPG in a rather un-canon way, and I discovered I am not able to write NC-17 thingies in a solo work [I can slash almost everything and everyone in a veeery explicit way, but not myself, by the Valar!].
Oh well; here is the result, neither gentle not kind, for I am not a sweet woman *g*

~***~

‘Sometimes all our words are inadequate for the burden of our hearts’
Evereve – Fields of Ashes

~*~

‘Carry On when the day is long
Forever Carry On
For as long as we're together
Then forever Carry On’
Manowar – Carry On
~***~


“My Lord…?”

Surprised, I turn, taking my gaze away from the enchanting sight of the Wood – my Wood - set on fire by the dying light of Anor. The leaves of the Mellyrn shimmer like molten gold under its gentle yet firm caress, and the trees look alive, proud and terrible in their beauty…

I always wondered how it can be that the falling of dusk upon Lorien reminds me of an awakening of a deity more than a preparation for the upcoming night… as if only during these moments the heart of the forest is freed of the ties of the day, thus showing itself in all its magnificent, almost painful beauty. Ethereal and deadly real it looks, while gently mocking me: how can I, an Elf made of flesh and bone, immortal as Ea but able to die if fate decides so, claim the title of a Lord over these lands?

It is folly, Lorien seems to say, for no matter how powerful I am, or if the blood of Kings runs in my veins: more than a Lord, I should rather call myself a servant, because it was the Wood that allowed me, a prince of Doriath, to know its nature and its secrets, not the contrary.

Lothlorien of the Blossom is a Goddess, while I am her servant: I have a special connection with her, I and no one else, not even my wife. People have always believed her more powerful than me. She is a princess of the Noldor who has seen the light of the Trees, she is the Ringbearer, she is the Nerwen of her mother, strong of will and body, but I… oh, I…

I am the Lord. The chosen one, and every evening I raise my eyes to my Goddess, praising her within my soul in the language of the Trees, and She blesses me, her child who lives only to serve her. I am able to see the deity I worship with these very eyes… how many others on Middle Earth could say the same?

I smile and I turn again, for I want to finish the ritual; to feel Lorien wrapping my soul within her embrace… I always lack the words to explain such a feeling even to myself…

“My Lord?”

The maiden, who has remained still near the corner at a respectful distance for all the time, is now again trying to make her presence known. I can see that she is a bit nervous, for all the Elves of Caras Galadhon avoid disturbing me at dusk… I did not openly tell anyone of how sacred these moments are, but somehow they have guessed the truth the same.

I sigh, then I force myself to smile, signaling the woman that everything is well. The interruption has indeed bothered me, but I am called the Wise for a reason.

“Milady, what can I do for you?”

The woman – but no, she is little more than a child – returns the smile and bows her head; she is still nervous, though.

“The Lady… she sent me to call for you… they say the time is near”

So soon? I know I am frowning, but I nod nevertheless, “Let us go, then.”


~***~


I hear the cry when I am in the middle of the corridor: it is the cry of a baby, shouting its rage to the world as every newborn does when it is forced to leave the warm body of the mother. And it is the very first time I hear my son’s – or my daughter’s, I have to discover it yet – voice.

“Oh…” The maiden suddenly looks sorry, and she gives me a worried look. “My Lord, please forgive me… I should have come first searching for you, but they said that there would be nod tod to rush things…”

She stops, gazing at the floor in obvious discomfort while waiting for the scold I am supposed to give her; because it is her fault that I have missed the main event in the life of a married couple.

For a long moment we remain like this, the silence broken only by the cries of the newborn; that cry which announces the world that I am a father now, a cry that should move something within my heart, a cry I should hate, for it shows the distress of my child…

A cry which, I am forced to admit this at least to myself, is rather indifferent to me.

There. I have thought the unthinkable, profaning the most sacred thing in the world with my cynicism, and the wrath of the Valar has not burned my soul to ashes.

Shaking my head, I resume my walk, leaving the girl behind. Probably she thinks that the fire she has seen in my eyes was aimed at her, at her foolishness, but in truth, it has been lit up for me. I am angry, but at myself.

When Galadriel has announced me of her pregnancy, she truly believed to make me happy. A child always blesses the union between a man and a woman. I remember her eyes, how they shone in the darkness when she took my hand and placed it on her belly, allowing me to feel that something – someone – was moving inside her.

I do not have any memories of what I said. The light of her eyes covers everything, but I guess it was something stu whi while I forced my lips to smile. How could I tell her that I never seriously planned to have a child, not with her or with anyone else on Arda? My life was full of the boring duties an Elven Lord has to take care of everyday, and I was happy that way.

Still, she understood the same. She did not tell me anything, of course, but the awareness of my feelings was in her eyes again. Thus, we silently agreed that she would allow me some more time to get used to the idea, both knowing that it was useless ay.
y.

That it is still useless.

But perhaps, as soon as I gather the baby in my arms, the part of me that should feel a wild, pure love for the small being we brought to life would…

I refuse to finish my thought and I finally enter the bedroom. The smell of blood is still in the air, but it does not bother me. Too often has such a smell lingered in the air after a battle, and in some way, a battle has been fought here too: in my house, in my bedchamber.

“My Lord… here you are…” Galadriel’s voice holds no accusations, only a great tiredness. She is as pale as the sheets and within her arms is a bundle of the same candid shade. I slowly approach the bed and sit down at her side.

“How are you feeling, aew nin?” I ask, stroking her hair that, for once, is not perfectly braided and wavy.

She does not answer though, she only smiles and places the bundle in my arms.

I realize that I hold my breath while I carefully unwrap it, revealing the tiny face of my child. The baby is looking at me through my eyes, and the small rune sewed in a corner of the cloth tells me that I now am the father of a little princess. It was a whim of Galadriel’s: if the child was a male, he would have his name beginning with her initial, and the exact contrary for a female.

Celebrían.

I caress her chin with my fingertips, afraid to hurt her, while I feel my wife’s gaze upon me, searching for a sign, for something in my expression that would reassure her.

Slowly, a single tear slides down my cheek, leaving a wet path there before falling down on the rune. The delicate ‘C’, sewn by Galadriel for our daughter during the long hours of afternoon, waiting for a change… waiting for me… I know this. For me to reach her, telling her that all was well. That I was happy for our unborn child, that I also desired an elfling.

I have never – not once! – gone to her.

“Celeborn…”

“I am sorry,” I hear my voice whispering. “I am sorry.”

I give our daughter back to her, then I leave the room in haste. The guard at the door smiles at me when I pass, probably believing that my tears are of joy. He cannot know how wrong he is in his judgment.

I am crying, yes. But it is because even with my child in my arms, my heart has remained cold.


~***~


The knock at the door of my study has been discreet – as always - and the voice of the young guard Galadriel has sent out for me is full of awe when it finally crosses the solid wood.

“My Lord? The Lady says they are in waiting for you to begin…”

“Aye,” I cut him off while I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. “Tell her that I am coming.”

My Galadhrim murmurs something I do not even bother to listen anymore, then there is only the sound of his footsteps. Once more, I am alone. Alone with my thoughts, my inner demons that threat to devour me if I am not careful and turn my back at them.

Demons… and each of them has the sweet, gentle face of my daughter.

Celebrían.

Galadriel named her after me, just another one of her fruitless efforts to gain our child my affection, if not my love. Over the years I have lost count of her attempts. In the beginning such a thing angered me, for it made me feel guilty – more than I already felt, I mean - then, as time went by, my rage slowly turned into amusement.

My poor wife… so wise, so powerful, the wielder of Nenya and the keeper of the Mirror, and she still believes she could change me. As if I have not already tried this, long before her.

I sigh, then I finally get up from my chair: I do not want this – better, I am not the right person to do it – but I once more have to bow my head and submit, for convenience’s sake. Downstairs, they are all patiently waiting for me, the father of the bride, each of them expecting a well-defined reaction from me. My daughter is going to get married today, so in the world’s eyes I should be in tears and full of unkind thoughts for Elrond, who is guilty of taking Celebrían away from the safe nestle that Caras Galadhon has been from the day she was born.

I *should*.

Almost angrily, I toss my hair backwards, uncaring of the elegant braids that keep it in place while I wonder what is wrong with me. This question has accompanied me for a great part of my life, burning my heart, my soul to ashes every time my daughter looked at me with open expectation in her eyes, like she always did when she was but a child; and I did not know what she meant with those looks.

Other fathers who had children of the same age back then - I know this - always had an excuse to pick them up and throw them in the air, happy to hear their merry laughter of delight when, just for brief second, they believed to be able to fly like the great eagles.
Other fathers craved the time they would spend with their children.

I did not.

Other children did not have to ask their fathers for a goodnight kiss, for a tale, for a cup of hot milk and a hug after a nightmare.

Celebrían had to.

I close my eyes when I reach the door, pushing memories away. This is not the right time to search for answers, for an explanation of my indifference towards my only daughter.

Indifference, yes. I have never ever raised a hand towards her, I have scolded her only when I had been forced to, I have always provided her with the best Arda had to offer, I have protected her with my life when we had been attacked that time, but I have lacked – and I still lack, may the Valar forgive me – in the only thing that really matters.

I have *not* loved her.


~***~


So, this is my punishment.

This is what fate had in store for me from the very beginning on, from the very first time I learned that my daughter was growing inside Galadriel and I refused to rejoice at the thought. Anyone else would; I did not.

So Manwë Súlimo, or perhaps Ilúvatar himself, decided to punish me in the cruelest way: allowing my heart to remain indifferent once more, while Celebrían’s Fëa is slowly fading like snow under the sunlight.

It might seem a contradiction that I am suffering for someone I have never really cared for, yet it is so. My doom, and something I can not forgive myself. Not today, not tomorrow, perhaps never.

The reason for my inner torment is almost foolish in its simplicity. I am no Elf with a hard heart. Deep feelings are not unknown to me, for I love my people and my realm with a desperate intensity; I bear great affection for my wife and my grandchildren… I am even fond of each of the Galadhrim I take into my bed when I feel the need to leave my status and my marriage behind for a while… and still, I cannot force my heart to feel something for my daughter, no matter how hard I try and how much it pains me.

I close my eyes, concentrating only on the small hand I hold between mine: it is as fragile as I remember it, for Celebrían has taken much after Galadriel. The only things she inherited from me are the eyes and the colour of her hair. Gently, I caress the back of her hand with my thumb. I am unable to comfort her, but at least I want her to know that is is not alone. No one should be, after having endured what she had to.

I know what they have done to her. I spoke with Elrond when they arrived the other night, the only one who has seen the real extent of her injuries, and he told me everything. We both agreed that Galadriel should not hear the truth from us: this time, she has not consulted the mirror, afraid of what could appear on the silvery surface of the water, so she does not know for sure what happened. She has guessed it, of course , but between guessing and knowing there is a bridge I would not want her to cross.

I did, but I have my indifference to shield me. My lack of feelings, even now, facing the horror.
I feel as if I am near a precipice: I look downwards, knowing that I should be scared to fall, but I am not, for I will never fall, no matter what.

“Ada?”

“Yes, child?” I answer in the gentle tone I always take up when I speak with her. “You should not be awake… you should rest and regain your strenght”

“Ada…”

Her eyes slide close and she turns her head to the window, away from me. “It cannot be undone,” she whispers then while her hand begins to tremble. “Memories are plaguing me, whether I am awake or not. The wounds of my body will heal, but what about my soul? Who could mend it?”

I want to answer, I really want to. Instead, I wordlessly stare at her, for I know Celebrían has spoken the truth. A faint pain begins to pulse within my chest, yet it is too mild for a father who is going to lose his only daughter; too mild, and for this I curse myself. It is the same kind of feeling I have when I see a bird with a broken wing or a small animal caught in a trap.

Indifference. I am burying my daughter with it.

I shake my head while the pain grows; tears are already pricking in the corners of my eyes. If all this is hard for me, how must it be for Galadriel?

“Do not weep, father, I beg of you.”

There is a faint smile on Celebrían’s lips now, almost tender and it is so out of place now… Elbereth, why? What is the meaning of all this? If this is a punishment meant for me, I should be the one who suffers, not her.

But I have learned at my expenses that fate is cruel most of the times, and unfair.

“I do not,” I try to joke, but her voice cuts me off.

“And for this I am glad, father. I know you are strong. I have always admired you for this, for you have a good heart and you hide it when time is due. You have always been the one I looked up to when I was a child, the one I could cling to during the storm.”

My daughter keeps on smiling while my heart is breaking into tiny pieces.

“You will not break. Never. You will help nana to go on when I am gone, for your strength is what she needs now.”

At first, I thought to know what was the worst punishment the Valar could bestow me.

How wrong I have been.

The worst, the unnamed horror is this: to discover in the very end that you have always been loved by the only one you have not been able to love in return.


~*~

End.

Aew nin: my bird