Envious Moon

A/N - This story draws greatly on material in ‘The History of Galadriel and Celeborn’ in Unfinished Tales, however a lot of the material in the different versions is contradictory. For instance, one version states that Galadriel and Celeborn left Ost-in-Edhil for Lórien after a revolt by Celebrimbor, (prompted by Sauron), however the other states that they left the city as it was attacked in the War of the Elves and Sauron. Since my other stories use this later version, I have decided to use the same canon here, and so Galadriel and Celeborn are both still present in Ost-in-Edhil at the time the Rings of Power are forged.



Voices came out of the night, starting as a whisper in the distance, then gaining volume as those speaking came nearer. Celebrimbor ducked behind an ornate pillar and watched from the shadows as the elleth walked past, hands clasped within her white robes, which gleamed in the light of the waxing moon above. She spoke quietly with the ellon beside her, the ellon whose eyes never left her flawless visage and whose hands could barely restrain themselves from touching her. Who could condemn him for that?

Moving stealthily as a fox, Celebrimbor went from pillar to pillar, skirting around the outer wall of his workshop and then to the darkened edges of the great square, at the very heart of Ost-in-Edhil. He endeavoured to keep her within his sights. In all his years, in all his wanderings over Beleriand and now in the reshaped Middle-earth he had never seen an elleth who could rival her. The very word ‘elleth’ seemed too faint and insignificant to classify her. She was more, so much more than a mere elf. She was a Lady. A queen, in his heart at least.

With a sigh gathering force in his lungs, Celebrimbor folded his arms, fists clenched, and let his eyes linger over her as she moved. The dress she wore was gossamer thin and clung to her form, slipping subtly as she walked. The desires of the body seldom plagued one so wilful as Celebrimbor, yet the desires of the fëa were insatiable. He longed for her, not only to feel her limbs intertwined with his, (though he often imagined it), but to look at her and know she was his. If only, he thought, he could look into those eyes and see desire there, and know that it was him she wished. Not some sombre prince of trees who rarely laughed, not even in her company.

He saw them go into the arcade that led away from the square towards their house, and once a suitable amount of time had passed, Celebrimbor followed. He made no sound and padded from one patch of darkness to the next, his eyes, like Celeborn’s, trained upon Galadriel. He waited until they reached the doorway of their house and saw them enter, noting how Galadriel reached out to her husband as they crossed the threshold, her fingers linking with his. A cold shiver trickled along Celebrimbor’s spine and the emptiness hit him with such fervour that he almost retched.

The door closed with a dull thud and the street fell peacefully quiet. The lanes and alleys stretched out like spider legs all around Celebrimbor, all thankfully deserted. After staring at the house for a while, he hurried to the side of the house and followed a tiled path alongside the wall.

As he neared the window, the sound of her voice brushed his ears again and he slumped back against the wall, running his fingers through his hair, listening with his eyes closed.

~*~

“What does it matter?” she said. “All that was lost. If the seas cannot wash away the past, what can?”

“Perhaps I am not so keen to see it washed away,” replied Celeborn, “and perhaps I cannot forget my kin so easily.”

“We have all of us lost brethren and friends. Though some of us look forward rather than back. We have forged a new life…”

“Servants of Dwarves and…”

“How can you say we are servants?” sighed Galadriel. “Whether it be wine or weariness, you do not speak from the heart, however much you believe you are.”

“Perhaps I ought to go. What weight could my words carry in the presence of the wise and glorious Galadriel…”

“Go now, before we say things we shall regret. We have too many things of import to discuss for you to begin this again.”

“I shall.”

Celeborn stormed towards the door, yet did not leave. He stood with his hand on the jamb, his head hanging low. Galadriel remained in her seat beneath the window, watching him in her peripheral vision, her fingers gently tapping the edge of the small table next to her.

“Is this all that remains?” she mused, speaking towards the window and the night. “Is this what we must expect whenever our road becomes arduous? Whatever is happening in this city, we must discover it. We cannot run away to the forests. Once you would have known this. I have seen so many of our kind grow distant as the years progress, yet I said I would never take that road. I said my love would endure when all others failed, for I am Galadriel, and when I give my heart it is with fervour and passion. Was I a fool to think so?”

“If I did not love you,” said Celeborn, “I would have departed long ago for climes that suit me better. I would not have followed you to this place, but would have remained in Lindon, or journeyed on across the mountains with Oropher and Amdir. I would not be here to help you fight your battles…”

“You have made great sacrifices…”

“I want no reward, nor gratitude,” he interrupted. “I come by my own choice. Yet I cannot pretend that I care for that choice. You know where my heart lies, and yet you will not heed me. I have passed the years here with you, as you asked me to. And it was not without deliberation that I asked to move on. I know you are happy amongst your kin, yet do you not long to see trees again? We know that things are changing here.”

Galadriel clasped her hands on her lap, taking a very slow breath. “I know you wish to see the great forests. But will you trust me when I say I cannot move on just yet? Remain with me but a while. Annatar’s motives interest me. I would see what this grand work of Celebrimbor’s will amount to. That is all. And when ‘tis done, we shall move on, I give my word.”

“And how long shall that be?” sighed Celeborn. “Pandering to Celebrimbor and his minions…”

“Your dislike for him colours your judgement, and your loathing for this place clouds your view of the way ahead.”

“If you felt as I do, Artanis, I know you would leave, whether I wished it or not.”

“You are no lap dog, Celeborn. Do not try to lay guilt upon me; paint me some tyrannical mistress dragging you where you do not wish to go. I ask you to stay but a few more years. If you cannot grant me this, for love if naught else, then you are free to go and find your trees. I will follow when I am ready. But I will not be twisted into rash decisions and you cannot hold love to ransom.”

“Then tell me, what have you just done?”

They stared at one another for a long while. Finally Galadriel turned away. “There is no point in discussing this now. Please try to understand.”

“Understand?” muttered Celeborn. “Perhaps I am tired of understanding, and of compromise.”

~*~

Celebrimbor heard a door slam loudly enough to convey Celeborn’s displeasure yet not altogether violently. He let out the sigh that had brooded in his chest for so long and leaned against the wall, looking sideways at the window, where the light spilled out upon the plastered frame. It was no more than a lover’s dispute, he concluded wearily. Simply a release for two people so incurably in love that their emotions would consume them, were they not exorcised in some way.

‘Such a feeling is in my breast,’ mused Celebrimbor dully as he returned, like a scolded dog, to his workshop. ‘Yet it can never be let out. Like a caged monster, forever cowering in the shadows, lest it come out into the sunlight to be mocked and jeered.’

He went inside and closed the doors, plunging the place into cooling darkness. No sliver of moonlight penetrated the doors of mithril and iron. No light shone at all, save the gentle gleam spilling from the next chamber where the forge was located. For a while Celebrimbor stood alone, breathing in the scents of silver and gold, and of the coals on his fires.

“Why do you torture yourself?” he asked aloud, his voice echoing in the lofty chamber. “How many years must you follow her, before you will accept it?”

Finally, with a deep breath, he opened the doors once more to allow in the moonlight, while he searched around for flints to light the lanterns. Then once the room was illuminated, he moved through into the forge, hauling his leather apron from its hook by the door as he strode in. More lanterns were lit, and the place filled with a glow that ought to have been warm and homely, yet to Celebrimbor it merely showed the emptiness of the place.

He grabbed a mould, one of many on the shelves waiting to be prized open, and spilled its treasures onto his workbench. The silver always seemed so pure and unsullied when it was first exposed. The tiny, delicate pieces he brought forth reflected back the lamplight as he set them down on the bench and prepared to fix them together on a chain to form a necklace. One advantage of this obsession was that it motivated him to work and finish these small projects that would otherwise have been ignored.

Some amongst his apprentices and brethren liked to vent their frustrations on the anvil, pounding glowing steel until their rage was spent, but Celebrimbor could only calm himself when his fingers and mind collaborated on something intricate. As he cleaned the edges of the necklace pieces and hunted out the best jewels to set into it, he felt his heart beat slower and his thoughts clear.

His senses pricked. For a moment he froze, frowning at his work, and then he turned around.

The sound came again from the other room, little shuffles and tiny metallic clinks. Someone was in there, poking at his work. With another deep sigh, Celebrimbor wiped his hands on his apron and moved soundlessly to the door.

He was about to challenge the intruder in his customary, most intimidating manner, when he stopped and stared, his mouth slightly open.

“Artanis…” he whispered, before he could check himself.

Galadriel glanced up, unperturbed to see him, and set down the half-made bracelet she had picked up to examine. She looked directly at Celebrimbor but said nothing, a distant, almost doleful look in her eyes. Even in the dull grey light from the lamps, thought Celebrimbor, she looked radiant.

“It is late, My Lady,” he said at last. “Is something wrong?”

“Your light shone across the square,” she replied. “I wondered who would be working at this hour in this darkness.”

“I work perpetually in darkness, My Lady,” muttered Celebrimbor. “Or did you hope that I would be meeting with my brethren, and that you might snatch a glimpse of our work?” Part of him wished to turn away and return to his bench, to show her that she meant nothing to him. Yet he remained rooted to that spot by the door.

“I meant my words literally,” Galadriel retorted, throwing him a reproachful look as she drifted across the room to inspect other objects at random. “What goes on in your secret forge beneath this one is of less intrigue to me than you would care to believe.”

“Do you require something?”

“I only came to soothe my thoughts,” she said. “To watch the creation of something new, and thus divert my mind from other cares.”

Celebrimbor glanced at the floor. “I know we are not friends, Artanis, not in the usual sense. Yet I feel I have known you now for many years, and did I not stand by you in Lindon when we first arrived on these re-made shores? If something troubles you, I would like to think you could confide in me.”

“You wish me to open my heart to you?” she asked, stepping towards him.

“You mock me,” he sneered, sensing the slight smile on her lips. Finally he wrenched himself from the threshold and returned to the forge.

“Mock you?” Galadriel followed after him and stood by the door as he went to his workbench. “Why should I desire to mock you?”

“You know.”

“You have not the cunning of your father. Instead it is the pride of your grandsire that burns within you. Oft when I look upon you, I am reminded of Fëanor. He too saw enemies in every shadow, and mockery in the laughter of friends.”

Celebrimbor sighed and picked up his half-finished necklace once again, squeezing a sapphire into its setting. “I am forever a shadow of Fëanor. When will there be light on Celebrimbor alone? When shall his name be spoken without comparison to those who went before?”

“To think of surpassing Fëanor…” laughed Galadriel. “Ambitious indeed.”

“Again you mock me.”

“Perhaps this time I do.”

Celebrimbor glanced over his shoulder, catching a sparkle in her eye as she wandered away from him again. He watched her for a moment as she went over to the forge itself and stared into the fire.

“What do you want, Artanis?”

“I have not worked with metal or stones for so long,” she sighed, coming to his side. Before Celebrimbor could protest, she reached past him and too up the last piece of the necklace still waiting for its jewel. “It seems so long since I felt the heat of Aulë’s forge against my face and held something in my hands that was my own creation.”

“It was long ago,” Celebrimbor told her. “I asked what it is you want of me?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Merely words that are not said in anger.”

“Lord Celeborn dislikes this city,” said Celebrimbor, concentrating on his work, trying hard to ignore the scent of her. She was so close, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “Yet he remains out of love for you. If he raises his voice it is because he adores you.”

“I know this. Yet I grow tired of it all the same. I do not plan to quit this city just yet, and is it not as right for me to be with the Noldor who are my kin as it is for him to mingle with the Sindar?”

“It is not for me to comment on.”

“Of course, and I ought not to burden you with my troubles. I simply saw a light, and fancied I might lose myself in work for a while. I wondered if my hands had forgotten their old ways.”

Celebrimbor studied her a moment more, then reached over and took her wrist, twisting her hand so he could inspect her palm. “You have the hands of a pampered princess, not a smith. Your skin would blister were you to stand near the coals, let alone work there.”

“Is that so?”

She swept past him then before he could react, he felt her hands against his back, untying the cords of his apron. After she hauled it over his head, she then put it on herself and pushed up her sleeves, heading to the rack of virgin steel beside the bellows. She put on gloves and set the steel into the fire, while Celebrimbor watched bemusedly.

“You will injure yourself,” he called over, as she drew out the gleaming metal and set it on the anvil. Folding his arms, Celebrimbor leaned against the bench and tried to look as casual as he could manage, while his eyes revelled in the sight of her. He licked his lips as he saw her muscles flex and relax beneath her dress. She beat the steel, gritting her teeth with every blow, the firelight reddening her features. Finally Celebrimbor crossed to her and stood behind her, setting a hand upon her hip and reaching down to take her wrist again and guide her hand.

“Skilled you may have been,” he whispered into her ear, “yet long years have past since you last laboured, Artanis.”

Her body pressed against his, more so as she straightened from the anvil at last, and as she turned to face him, frowning in mock insult, he found that once again he could not move. Galadriel though made no attempt to draw away.

“Now it is you who mock me, Curufinion.”

He did not hold her, yet she did not move away from him. Celebrimbor considered every angle of her face, every hint of an expression, as he trying to fathom her. This was some trick, he thought, yet he could see no deceit.

“I only fear that you will ruin my work,” he replied finally, and took the hammer from her hand. Setting the tool down on the anvil, he gave her a narrow-eyed glower and folded his arms. “Perhaps you should try something less challenging. You can polish those swords if you desire.”

“Perhaps I should test the sharpness of the blades,” she retorted. “Would that be a suitable punishment for insolence?”

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow and spread out his arms. “My lady is free to take my life whenever she desires! There are some wooden ones in the corner – ones made to practice our designs – you ought to be able to wield one of those with little effort.”

Chuckling mirthlessly to himself, he turned his back on her, tidying away the items she had disturbed. Then the hiss of steel against its sheath made him spin round, in time to find Galadriel before him, sword drawn with the blade towards his throat.

“A little effort,” she breathed, “yet I believe my arm is strong enough.”

Her eyes glittered. Celebrimbor pursed his lips. She would know what he was thinking. She would see his desire written on his face and feel it burning within him. Why then was she still there? He stepped forward and grabbed her arm, twisting it until the sword was at her side. Again their bodies touched, though this time he felt her make a token struggle against him.

“What do you want?” he asked again.

She let the sword clatter to the floor and set her hands delicately against his cheeks, drawing his face towards hers.

“To be desired,” she whispered, then pressed her lips against his. Shocked at first, Celebrimbor froze, his body rigid, then finally he parted his lips and let her in her tongue. She grabbed a fistful of his dark hair and clutched it so tightly he felt the roots sting.

After a moment, he pushed her away, though it took some effort. “No. I have no feud with Celeborn, though I have no liking for him either. I have no desire to steal his wife, even if I thought it were possible.”

Galadriel lowered her head, though she still clung to him, her hands on his broad shoulders.

She nodded yet remained firmly beside him, making no effort to pull away or leave. With a deep sigh she turned to look at him once more, holding his gaze for a long while. As an instinct, he put his arms around her waist and hugged her close, while she buried her face in his shoulder.

“You must go,” Celebrimbor said again, running his hand over her hair, afraid to let his fingers stray too close or he would take handfuls of it, revelling in the cool, silken feel. He had longed for this moment for so many years. To have her so close, and yet unreachable, made his stomach churn and his pulse pound in his ears.

Her hands slid from his shoulder to his back and ran over the solid muscles there. It was too slow and deliberate to be a gesture of simple friendship. The scent of her filled the air around him and he fought once more against the urge to take her. His rough hands brushed her hair and felt the supple curves of her body beneath her dress. In his mind, he saw himself take handfuls of that delicate fabric and tear it with all his strength. He felt the urge to do so in his muscles and it took all of his resolve to prevent his body from obeying those desires.

Galadriel drew back out of his embrace, though she still held him, and she looked for a while into his eyes, a strange, thoughtful expression gracing her features. Celebrimbor endured her gaze for a moment only before he averted his eyes, unable to bear the intensity of her look, as that small sliver of light, the ghost of the Great Trees, radiated from her face. She touched his face, a gentle, lover’s caress that sent another wave of shivers down his spine. She knew what he was thinking, he mused. She knew what he wanted. She did not need to feel the hardness now pressing against her hips to know that he desired her. She would feel it in his mind. Was she aroused by that?

She kissed him again before he could protest or question her. His heart almost broke to feel that soft touch against his lips. All he had wanted…

“It has been so long,” she whispered as she moved back. “That passion I once felt in Celeborn’s mind quickly faded into something more enduring. Such is the way with our unions. Yet sometimes, in the dark, when the night is still and empty, I would give anything I have to feel that fire once again. To know that our love will continue on eternally is a comfort, but it is the steady hearth fire against a burning hall.”

“A steady hearth fire does not cause as much destruction,” sighed Celebrimbor.

“And burns not as brightly or as hot.”

She reached around to her back and untied the apron strings, before peeling off the leather and tossing it aside.

“You and your fellows have grown adept at secrecy,” she breathed.

“Artanis…”

She clutched the collar of his shirt and pulled him into a deep kiss. As he tasted her wine-sweetened breath again, Celebrimbor let his hands explore her body, his fingers almost afraid to touch her, his mind unwilling to believe this could be anything other than a dream. So long had he imagined what it would be like to caress her, to lose himself within her. As he remembered those secret, sinful thoughts his hands became less reverent, fondling her breasts with rough, eager movements. All the while he delved his tongue into her mouth, barely pausing to breathe before beginning the next assault. Years of furtive longing now spilled out and he reached down to grab the skirts of her dress, hauling the fabric up to her waist.

Cupping his hands around her buttocks, he held her even tighter, feeling his excitement growing as their hips pressed together. He grinned and leaned down to nibble her neck, trailing his lips over the tender flesh from chin to shoulder. One hand deftly pulled the white ribbon lacing up the bodice of her dress and then his hand slipped beneath the fabric, grasping and kneading her breast until he felt the nipple harden beneath his callused palm. She gasped into his ear and he savoured the sound of it.

He fumbled for a moment to lift his tunic and untie his trousers, then manoeuvred her around until her back was against the cragged stone wall. She groaned a little as she thudded against the stone and closed her eyes, but her hands still moved incessantly across his back, scratching him through the fabric of his tunic. He let out a long sigh, laughter rippling through it. Years of unfulfilled dreams, and now suddenly she was in his arms, pinned and controlled. Fearful he might end this before he had a chance to realise those fantasies, he hurriedly pushed the gathered skirts aside and let her wrap her legs around him, settling into a comfortable position from which to enter her.

For a while he remained inside her, revelling in the strange sensation of being enveloped within her warmth, then desire took hold again and he withdrew. He started his thrusts, first with a steady rhythm, his head back and his eyes closed, then as he rejoiced in his good fortune, he moved faster and more fervently, driving into her as deep as he possibly could.

He kissed her neck again, listening to her cries, which stuck in her throat. She gripped his hair and whimpered, stirring him on even more. The tightness and throbbing in his loins grew unbearable as he drew nearer and nearer his climax, though he wished the sensation would last forever. She was his, even for that brief moment. He had Galadriel within his grasp, within his power.

As the final spasm took him and his seed discharged into her, he savoured that fleeting moment. He breathed out the last tensions from his body and held her tight, not wanting to withdraw until the last moment. He found himself clinging to her, unable coax any movement from his arms or legs.

The thought hit him suddenly with an icy cold blast. Celeborn could have this whenever he wanted. And Celeborn would know that the woman he held afterwards loved him deeply. Celebrimbor, on the other hand, felt Galadriel slip out of his embrace and move away, tidying herself and fixing her hair back into place. Triumph faded, making way for the deepest sense of emptiness Celebrimbor had ever endured.

For a long moment he stared after her, then finally he remembered to rearrange his own clothing, which he did with a slow, doleful air.

“You will go now?” he asked. Galadriel paused, her back towards him, and wrapped her arms around herself.

“What else?”

“You will not even stay awhile and share some wine? Make some pretence that this was not the sordid thing it was?”

“What would be the point. We are both aware of what this was. Why deny it? You have what you wanted.”

“You know nothing, Artanis.”

“This cannot be. You know this.”

“What can I do?” Celebrimbor thought aloud, running his fingers through his hair. “What will it take to draw you from him?”

“You cannot.”

“What can I give that would be enough? What can I say? What secrets can I offer? There must be something worth the prize, something you desire, Artanis.” He breathed for a moment, eyes wild. “You wish to know what it is we do when the city is dark and our brethren meet? You wish to know what it is we strive to create? What Annatar taught us? The skills to bind power into small things; to create mere trinkets that can confer upon the wearer the strength to rule an army or a kingdom! The Rings we fashion can mean peace for all Middle-earth, uniting the people of Arda! I can make you part of that, Artanis. Though I know you show no love for Annatar, I can share this with you!”

When she said nothing and stared back at him without the slightest hint of emotion, Celebrimbor turned away, folding his arms, and fought the urge to cry out. He had found exactly what he wanted and at the same time, it had been snatched away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, unable to watch as she left the forge. A moment after she stepped out of the room, he heard the outer doors clang shut, a desperate air of finality echoing in the sound.


~*~

Celeborn lifted his wine glass and stared thoughtfully into the liquid, the remnants of his dispute with Galadriel still burning faintly in his eyes. He drew in a deep breath and glanced once again at the window. Dawn was seeping onto the horizon outside. He glanced at the door but saw only shadows in the corridor beyond.

“At this point,” he said, breaking the uneasy silence that had fallen over the room, “we cannot be certain of anything. All we have are rumours, whispers, half-heard conversations. Someone saw a glimmer of gold, or glanced Celebrimbor through the window one day. We have nothing solid. Nothing that is proof enough to let us act.”

In the chair opposite, his companion, Lindir, perched his chin on his fist and gazed at the fireplace. “Even if we did have some evidence that this ‘Annatar’ means ill…even if you and the Lady are right, and he is whom you suspect, what can we do?”

“Turn him out as Gil-galad and Elrond did,” said Celeborn, glancing towards the door once again. His ears pricked, straining to catch any sound from the front of the house and the street outside, though only the nightingales disturbed the peace.

“That may not be so easy. And if you are wrong…”

“We shall know soon,” Celeborn interrupted. “If I am wrong then I am wrong, and naught shall come of it.”

Lindir shuffled in his chair and frowned. “It is what will come if you are right that troubles me,” he sighed. “If the Gwaith-i-Mirdain should side with Annatar and hold true to him, we shall be outnumbered. Even those not among Celebrimbor’s closest followers are loyal to him.”

Celeborn shifted slightly and looked to the window. Daylight now pushed the night sky to the level of Ost-in-Edhil’s rooftops.

“Whatever the truth may be,” Celeborn sighed, “I despise this place. I must leave soon. I cannot endure it much longer.”

“My lord?” asked Lindir. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Celeborn began, then cut short as he heard the gentle click as the outer door opened and closed. He straightened and stared at the doorway until at last Galadriel appeared.

Lindir and Celeborn regarded her for a prolonged moment and she gazed back at them, her expression deeply pensive, a steely glint in her blue eyes. Celeborn rose and clasped his hands, awaiting her pronouncement, though he did not want to hear it.

She looked from one ellon to the other, her eyes finally resting on Celeborn, then in the calmest of tones she said, “It is as we suspected.”