Canon
compliant AU. Zeal Arc. Celebrían takes her first real step into the
alien realm of adulthood and disillusionment.
All Sindarin names. Much longer
than I had expected. This is related to “Stop
Time” and “Fade Away” as well as “Zeal”, but, to be honest, I’ve not actually
written much of this pairing at all. So,
a first meeting story for all of you!
Takes place in Lothlórien early in the Third Age.
Disclaimer:
I don’t own the Silmarillion or the Lord of the Rings
Pairings:
pre-Elrond x Celebrían
Characters:
Celebrían, Elrond, Celeborn, Galadriel, other random elves (mentions Thranduil)
Warning:
canon-compliant, possibly crush-like infatuation, supposed love at first sight,
sheltered childhood, mentions of war and death
Song: Levi's Theme (basically piano version of Reluctant Heroes
Words:
2,179
awareness
(noun): watchful, wary; having or showing realization, perception or
knowledge
For most
of her life, Celebrían was oblivious to the world of men.
Celebrían
had never bothered to take great notice of men before. They flitted here and there through her life,
both before and after coming to the haven of Lothlórien, mere ghosts in the
background of more important matters and more important people. The world she frequented was one of women and
beauty and simplicity, not of war and death and the power struggles of male
pride.
Days were
spent embroidering or chatting with her lady’s maids in the quiet shade of the
mallyrn. Hours were spent seated at her
mother’s side in quiet companionship amongst the womenfolk as they sat down by
the river, uncaring of the grass staining their white skirts. Baths would follow and were conducted with
much giggling and gentle splashing in the softly caressing currents upon naked
white skin. There was always a soothing
pair of hands to wash her back in the shallows and brush her damp hair each
evening before it was braided into an elegant tail for bed.
Dresses. Dancing.
Music. All flowers and scents and
softness. It was a world separated from
the outside. A strange sort of
obliviousness, she thought of it as, for she knew that beyond their borders much had been happening in the wide
open world. War had ended and the
rebuilding of the world had begun.
But here,
within these borders, she was detached from that chaos and dirt and horror,
somewhere so safe and evergreen, so without a trouble in the world, that the
hardships and realities of the lands beyond her home rarely even crossed her
mind.
Men
simply fell into this category of realities of which she had no understanding,
for they were strange and distant figures in her mind. They might as well have lived only in distant
Gondor or Ered Luin for all that she thought of or cared about their everyday
comings and goings.
There
was, of course, her father. Celeborn
would kiss her upon the cheek and smile at her crookedly each morning they
broke their fast together. Her uncle
Orodreth was also a permanent fixture, but the mild-mannered healer was far
from what Celebrían would have considered to be the ideal and stereotypical
male specimen. Really, it was just her
and her mother and endless days of blissful ignorance.
Until
they had a visitor.
It was
exciting—novel—at first thought. They
did not get visitors here, for they
were a private people. The elves of the
Woodland Realm did not like to stray so far south—indeed, their king was not
overly fond of the Lady of Lothlórien no matter that he had once been friends
with its Lord, her husband—and the scattered people of Eregion and Lindon were
by no means cast aside but neither were they overtly welcome.
A newcomer
was different and refreshing. Celebrían
well remembered gathering herself and her lady’s in waiting, clutching at the
lace and softness of her dress as she swept across the grassy clearings with
bare feet and climbed into a tree to get her first look at the stranger astride
his dark horse draped in equally dark robes.
“My Lady,”
one of her girls called softly, “My Lady, please, you should not be this far
out of the city without an escort.”
“Hush,”
she called back, straining for a better vantage point. “He is nearly around the
corner!”
“My Lady…”
They were
nervous, and Celebrían understood that to some extent, but who would hurt her
within the borders of their fair realm, the mallyrn and the songbirds? And, anyway, her curiosity so often got the
better of her “proper” upbringing and graceful, womanly manners that they out to
have been used to her antics by now. She
did not want to wait until dinner to see
this interesting anomaly in her life of sheltered comfort.
Indeed,
the wait was worth the trouble of snagging her dress thrice on the way up and
scraping her palms on rough wood at the crook of two massive limbs. Poised in place, high over the head of the
stranger, she caught her first glimpse of his face.
His
beautiful face.
Powerful
features, slightly rugged, older than any elf’s face she had ever seen but by
no means wrinkled or repulsive. There
was a firm furrow in the brow and a sternly downturned mouth, but they did
nothing to decrease the unique glimmer of dark gray eyes or the graceful tilt
of the head. Regal, like a prince, and
straight upright, like a warrior. It was
a posture she had seen in her father before, but…
But this
man was nothing like her father. Tall,
broader in the shoulders, stronger and sharper in the features. And with dark, dark hair. The moonless
night shade that allowed the stars of his eyes to be seen in all their
magnificence.
The
princess, for the first time, felt a blush form upon her cheeks at the sight of
a member of the opposite gender. And he
had not even realized how she spied upon him from the boughs overhead.
“My Lady!”
The hiss was urgent. “Please, my Lady, we need to prepare you for evening
meal. You have twigs in your hair…
Please come down…”
Twigs and
leaves in her hair, scratches and a few splinters in her palms, tears at the
seams of her dress… What a hooligan—what a child—she would have looked had he
seen her in that moment! Suddenly more
embarrassed than she could ever recall—for she had never felt embarrassed about
any sort of unkempt appearance before—Celebrían vaulted down from her position
upon the young mallorn, hoping that she had not been spotted by those
extraordinarily incisive, clever eyes.
Suddenly,
the idea of bathing and grooming before dinner had its merits.
Her
glanced down at her dirty hands, which normally she would not even have
bothered to wash before eating. And she
imagined what he might say if he noticed their stains.
Bathing definitely had its merits.
---
The
princess was spotless when she made
her appearance at the table for dinner.
Her
parents already awaited her arrival, sitting in their usual places with her
father at the head of the conservatively short private table, her mother poised
upon his right side like a white-hot flame.
But, where usually she would be seated to his left, another person—a dashing
and dark-haired person whose mere presence had her heart skipping a frantic
rhythm in her chest—was already seated and amiably talking to the Lord of
Lothlórien.
It was
when her footsteps echoed upon the wooden floor that her father took note of
her presence and smiled broadly. “Ah, Celebrían, iell-nín,” he breathed,
beckoning with a hand for her to draw near. “Come and meet our esteemed guest.”
Oh Valar… Up close he is even more handsome…
Dreamily
did she take note of every line and angle of his features. The hair that had been modestly braided back
earlier was now loose, elegant and complex knots tied into the hair framing his
pale face and accenting even more his stunning eyes. He looked less like a warrior now, and more
like a prince or a dignitary with his ramrod straight spine and his perfectly folded
hands. But, more importantly, those eyes
were upon her as she came forth,
fixed and inquisitive.
Awareness
stung her skin, prickling like needles and biting like a chilly wind.
Her dress
was flattering, the neckline just a hair lower than normally would she wear so
that the top of her bosom and the swanlike arch of her throat were plainly
visible when her hair swayed just so and parted in tantalizing silver
waves. Vaguely did the thought cross her
mind that she hoped he appreciated the pearls inlaid upon her necklace that
dipped down into the valley between her breasts in provocative silvered lines
of pale skin. As gracefully as she could
manage—And why, oh why could she not pull
of seamless and effortless harmony of movement like her mother?—she approached
the table (upon the left side) and stood before the newcomer’s chair,
desperately clenching her hands together to hold at bay the fidgeting.
He was
looking at her. He was looking at her!
“Greetings,”
she murmured, wishing her cheeks had not darkened to damask when her voice
wavered precariously. Covering the slip
with a faint dipping curtsey and a bowed head (anything to keep from looking
directly into those eyes), she introduced herself. “I am Celebrían, daughter of
Celeborn. May the stars shine upon our
meeting.”
And,
gallantly, he stood beside her as she straightened, towered over her, every
line of his body screaming of courtly perfection and a soldier’s straight
posture. Even when he bowed, he seemed
to fill up all her vision, effortlessly capturing her attention when his lips
air-kissed her knuckles. “I am Elrond of Rivendell,” he replied—and his voice was so smooth, so lovely in
its faintly exotic lilt, in its stoic firmness tempered with just the slightest
hint of warmth and kindles—as he rose back to his full height. “The stars
do, indeed, shine upon our meeting. How
could they not shine upon one so radiant?”
The
damask turned to blush. Celebrían wished
she had a fan.
“Sit,”
Elrond requested, pulling out the chair at his side for her and waiting for her
to delicately place herself upon its cushion before sliding it inward. “I was
just discussing how lovely your home is.
I have never seen a place so beautifully preserved and timeless. So peaceful.”
Peaceful. Celebrían thought it rather boring, not
peaceful or tranquil or even terribly beautiful. It was simply as she always recalled,
effortlessly wondrous. But to this man,
whose irises were darkened with sorrow and whose eyes were cornered by the
faintest of crow’s feet, this place must seem like paradise.
A warrior, her mind
provided faintly. He has seen the battlefield.
Scarcely
could she imagine what that must be like.
Tales in old history texts always made out everything to be so
chivalrous, so amazing and full of bravery and great feats of power. This man, however—for all his powerful stance
and impressive posture—did not seen like those heroes in the old tales.
“Is
Rivendell not peaceful, my Lord?” she asked.
Perhaps
she had said something wrong, for his mouth tightened faintly. “Orcs still roam
free upon the plains and in the forests.
Our valley is protected somewhat, but one can never be too careful so
close to Hithaeglir.”
It was
mildly chastising, like talking to a child.
The blush deepened to humiliating red as she thought about how she must
sound. Of course nowhere in Eriador or
Rhovanion was peaceful! War had just
ended, and this man had been in the thick of its torturous grasp!
Foolishness
and ignorance had never seemed so menacing before. All eyes were upon her, eagerly awaiting a
response from her slightly parted, stunned lips. And Celebrían did not know what to say.
What should I say?
What should I do?
Luckily,
her mother drew Elrond back into conversation with frightening ease, saving her
the embarrassment of spouting out some equally naïve comment and pressing
insult upon injury. But the damage was
already done; she could see in his eyes the sudden dismissal. He ignored her.
She had
never been so aware of her own faults either.
Her own failings.
He
thought her a child.
And she,
of course, was hopelessly enamored.
Shamelessly
did she gaze upon that profile in the twilight gleam of the forest—the straight
nose and the full lips and the long eyelashes—with searching, wistful eyes.
He was
perfect. Perfect.
And she
had never been more drawn to a man in her life.
It was
then that she knew—as she looked into her mother’s pale eyes filled with faint
disapproval and glanced at her father’s half-hidden frown of consternation—that
she wanted to marry this man. This
perfect, handsome, sweet, kind-hearted man.
Not only marry him, but understand
him. He had effortlessly piqued her
fancy and her curiosity and her pride.
Effortlessly
captured her in his web and left her skin and her mind and her heart crawling
with sparkling heat and a lust to prove her worth in dismissive eyes.
Like her
mother before her, Celebrían of Lothlórien knew exactly what she desired.
And nothing—not her parents or her upbringing or even her future husband—would
stand in the way of her desires.
Such was
the blood of the daughter of Galadriel.
Such was the blood of Ñoldorin fury tempered with Vanyarin charm and
Sindarin wildness.
Elrond
had captivated her senses. And she did
not think she could escape even had she wished.
But she
knew that she wished not to be free.
Only to sink deeper into his wisdom.
Only to gain the fascination of his senses.
Only to
earn the regard of his heart.
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