Work Text:
Glasses tinkled, voices hummed like a swarm of bees, and in the background the musicians Celebrimbor had hired for the event played unobtrusive airs and generic renderings of popular love songs. The room he referred to as his salon was well lit; there were chandeliers bearing tens of candles and in diagonal corners two Fëanorian lamps gave off soft blue-white light. Galadriel had never liked them, she found the shade depressing.
She sat on the window seat, which in daylight would have given her a lovely view of soft, flower-studded grass, a line of trees and the mountains behind. All this splendour was not wholly lost at night, she noted – he had set little coloured lanterns around the garden, hanging between poles, even though it was cold and inhospitable and only illicit lovers desperate for privacy would have thought to brave it.
Re-crossing her legs, she sipped her drink and wondered how Celeborn was enjoying himself. He had gone over the mountains to Lindórinand to check on the welfare of those survivors of lost Doriath who had finally settled there, though it was described as a visit so as not to offend Malgalad. The woodland king was easily offended by anything that came out of Eregion, even in the form of a kinsman of Elu Thingol. It was all very responsible of Celeborn of course, but it meant she was here alone at this reception.
She could just see Annatar, the guest of honour. He was almost beyond her line of sight but still visible: tall and strongly built, with hair that hung to his waist in a smooth fall of beaten gold. Vanyar gold, like her father’s, like her lost brothers. He had a small crowd gathered respectfully around him, listening to the pearls of wisdom he dropped about life in the Blessed Realm amongst the most blessed of them all, the Vanyar, and about his sincere interest in helping to make their lives here better, almost as good as they might have been over there.
“Why are you skulking over here alone?”
Galadriel almost didn’t bother to look round. Celebrimbor had been more annoying than usual when she arrived and was among the last people she might want to speak to. But she knew him, he would stay there and irritate until he got a reaction. Celeborn was forever telling her not to make it so easy for him. Which was simple enough for him to say.
“Not skulking, Cousin. Just sitting a little aside from all the noise and enjoying my wine. It’s very light. Did you have it watered?”
Celebrimbor made a sound of annoyance in his throat. He was well turned out for the evening, a son of princes indeed in dark brocaded robes, with tasteful touches of gold right down to the ribbons in his hair that put her in mind of Fingon’s harmless little vanity. He gathered the skirts neatly together and sat beside her, the light glinting off a deep blue sapphire ring he always wore – a memento from the father he had broken with, formerly the property of his grandfather.
“I don’t water my wine.” His low voice, with the clipped accents of one raised speaking Quenya, was closer to her ear than she had expected. Her shoulders stiffened but she stopped herself from giving him the satisfaction of edging away. “You must be drinking one of the Lindon varietals at home.”
“My nephew is very generous, yes. Lovely full bodied stock.” She wanted him to go away. More to the point she wanted enough time to pass so that she could go home.
“Watching our guest, I see.” Celebrimbor also had wine, though unlike the delicate gold or blown glass vessels offered to his guests, he drank from the simple silver cup he always used, made in Aman in his boyhood. “I thought this was a good way for him to meet some of the more interesting residents. Not just smiths, though those have his greater interest.”
Galadriel’s eye was drawn back to the visitor from beyond the sea. “What was his story? That he came over during the War of Wrath and has spent the time since wandering our world and learning about its people? Or did I misunderstand?”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Celebrimbor said, leaning back a little so he could stretch out his legs. Clearly he had decided they were to have a conversation after all, whether she liked it or not. “It’s no less than you’d have liked to do yourself – did, in fact. You’ve been all over the place.”
“Not deep into the easternmost lands, but yes, we’ve travelled.” She emphasised the ‘we’; Celebrimbor was fond of leaving Celeborn out of these kinds of discussion. “And how strange that we never heard word of another of our kind also wandering the world.”
“It’s a big world, Cousin,” he said mildly. “No reason you should have. You really must stop resenting him, you know.”
“Resenting him?” Galadriel would have put her glass down hard if there had been a table. Instead she rested it on her knee while she looked from him to the newcomer and back, eyebrows up in outrage.
“Yes. Centre of all that attention you take as your due. Daughter of a king and one of the original rebels - and all that.” He waved his cup for emphasis and then drank deeply.
Galadriel stared at him. “How much have you had to drink? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have always been the most interesting person in Ost-in-Edhil, the one everyone wants to be seen talking to, the one whose name it’s most useful to be able to drop. And suddenly here you are, alone on the window seat while someone else is drawing them in like bees to a flower.”
“More like moths to a flame,” she snapped, and as the words came out of her mouth she saw them painted on air as truth, letters of fire, devouring... For a moment the air pulled tight about her, then eased. She forced the cup to her lips, willing her hand to stay steady. As she drank she saw Annatar had turned and was looking in their direction.
“That is one of the most ridiculous things you’ve said in a while,” she told Celebrimbor, cross because she felt suddenly vulnerable without knowing why, just that there was - something.
“Are you all right?” He dropped the bantering tone and turned towards her. “You’ve gone pale.”
“It’s hot in here with all these people, all these candles. Airless. That’s why I came to sit here,” she lied. It was in fact a cool evening and the draft creeping in round the edges of the window had a wintry bite.
“It was meant as a joke, woman. I’ve never known you to seek attention, you have no need. It comes looking for you unaided.” He placed a hand on her arm and she sat stiff for a moment and then relaxed a little. Brim was Brim: no matter how they might snipe at one another, he was still family. He slid his hand down, linked their fingers, smiled. “Peace, Tanis. But you have to admit, you’re a little reserved about our guest.”
“Your guest,” she retorted. “Not mine. Given the choice I’d have turned him away as my nephew did when he came sniffing around Lindon’s borders.”
“Well, that’s just like Ereinion isn’t it? Let Elwing’s son fill his head with nonsense...”
“Ereinion has the good sense to trust his advisors and Elrond is imminently practical,” she said coolly. “If he had doubts – and that is the word that was used in the letter warning you – then I for one would take them seriously, even if I had none of my own.”
“Which you do, of course.”
“Which I do,” she agreed.
Celebrimbor sighed. “Artanis, you haven’t exchanged more than two words with the man since his arrival. All you base this on is a vague letter from Lindon and an instinctive dislike.”
“My instincts are famous,” she reminded him.
He snorted. “You’ve started believing your own legend. Cousin, your instincts are good, I’ll grant you that, or you’d not be alive. But I think you’ve let fancy become fact here.”
He rose as he spoke and held a hand out to her. She looked from it to him questioningly. “Come, let’s lay this to rest,” he said firmly. “You’re letting your imaginings and Elrond’s baseless suspicions rule you.”
She got slowly to her feet and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as was polite. They crossed the room slowly, Celebrimbor stopping to talk to several guests. She made small talk as well, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed that he seemed to be presenting them almost as a couple. It was enough that she was already the de facto Lady of Ost-in-Edhil.
When they reached the little circle around Annatar, Celebrimbor breached it like a ship cutting through water, smiling. “I trust the evening has been to your taste, Annatar,” he said, reaching him and holding out his free hand. Annatar clasped it, smiling in return. The smile touched his eyes, she noticed, but in a surface way, not as something coming from within but like a mask being set in place.
“Most enjoyable.” He had a deep rich voice, like struck bronze or dwarf brandy. People remarked on it. She wondered if he sang. “And it is an even greater pleasure to see Lady Galadriel here this evening. That is the title you prefer, I believe? Not Princess? I had hoped we might find a chance to talk – our earlier meeting was too brief.”
He turned the full weight of his attention on her, shutting out the rest of the room. The smile spread, for all the world genuine if you just looked with your eyes. Galadriel never just looked with her eyes. She smiled back. “Lady is quite sufficient, thank you. Neither my husband nor I cling to royal titles, though to some people he will always be the Prince.”
“How very sensible and forward looking,” he said, taking her hand and raising it lightly to his cheek, all polite formality. And for a moment the air went tight again, very tight, and something feather light brushed the defences of her mind. She kept inwardly still, closing herself off, then reached out and tried in turn to read Annatar – and found nothing. Not the sense of someone shutting her out, which was to be expected from anyone sufficiently gifted to try and read her. Rather, there was nothingness, as though she had tried to reach out to a chair or a book.
Dull heat surged through her, carrying a wave of nausea. Firmly she pushed it down and disengaged her hand, stepping closer to Brim. His familiar nearness grounded her. Another Finwëan, blood kin; they might disagree but would always stand together against outsiders. And she had never before met anyone who seemed more ‘outside’. She took a deep breath, making sure it did not show. “We thought it was,” she said, responding to the last thing he had said although it felt like an age ago. “Doriath is no more and my father is a long way away.” A gentle but not totally subtle reminder of who exactly her father was.
“Of course,” he said pleasantly, though his eyes, sunlit green, were watching her intently. “Just a great lady, making her home in this magnificent city in the shadow of the mountains. I look forward to meeting your husband, the prince who no longer sees a need for his title. I hear he has an interest in old lore. We should have much in common.”
Galadriel sincerely doubted it. She smiled and nodded, and the conversation flowed along.
She had no chance to speak to Celebrimbor alone until it was time for her to leave. The newcomer had already left, trailed by most of his adoring followers. She was near the end of the rush of people collecting boots and cloaks and her cousin stepped aside from the goodbyes to come and help her on with her cloak and fasten it carefully at her shoulder. She let him, moving out of the way of other departing guests, giving them a moment of privacy.
“And now?” he asked. “No more fanciful dislikes, I hope, now that you two have had a chance to get acquainted.”
Galadriel looked at him, deadly serious. “Yes, we got acquainted. And no, no fanciful dislikes.”
Celebrimbor’s hand lingered on her shoulder. He leaned in closer. “What then?” he asked.
She drew a breath. Most of what she sensed, knew, had no basis beyond the truth of her gut and would be hard to describe. It would have to wait till Celeborn got back. He could always interpret the realities under her words. But there was one thing she could – had to – say. “I cannot tell you who to allow into this city and who to turn away. We’ve already been over that. But I will tell you this...”
“You don’t leave it alone, do you?” he snapped and stepped back from her, finally out of patience. “I’m not an idiot, woman.”
“You are often an idiot, Brim. As I’ve had to tell you before.” The wry smile faded and she reached out a hand, laid it flat on his chest. The action was so unusual between them that it made him stop dead. “Listen. I am Noldor by upbringing and from my father and grandfather, but from my grandmother I am Vanyar. And I will tell you this, Cousin. I have no idea who or what your guest is, but here is a truth: he is no more Vanyar than your dwarf friend Navri.”
He opened his mouth – to mock, to argue – then closed it again and stared at her. “Tanis, you need to go home. You’re clearly tired.”
Galadriel offered him a small smile and prepared to give up, at least for now. “Yes, I probably am. And you can go off to bed and pretend I never said it. But one day, Brim, you’ll remember tonight. And I’m afraid you might wish you’d listened.”