Oak and Willow

"A great force of orcs and werewolves passed into Ossiriand two seven-days ago, and our people are overmatched. For love of Denethor your friend, who died in your service in the Battle of Amon Ereb, the Green-folk beg you will remember us and send aid." The green-elf messenger stood in his rustic clothes amid the wonder of Menegroth's carven halls. His raiment was rude and his weapons very basic, and yet there was great dignity about him, and though he trembled for fear for his people he was not abased.

Thingol looked up, "I know many were injured in the attempt to re-open the road to the Sea. What forces do we have to spare?"

Celeborn, who stood by his elbow, leaned down to reply. "Mablung has returned, lord. He is hale, and many of his warriors with him. We can assemble a company."

A company, Thingol thought, sighing. It already seemed so long since the days when he had last seen peace, and a great regret rose up in him for those times - before the sun, before the great Enemy, Morgoth, came to dwell at Angband, as his neighbour. The promise of Tilion and Arien had been an empty one, and the doubts of Melian had proved wise. "In what time?"

Celeborn spoke with one of his captains. "By the first hour after noon."

Thingol nodded, bestowing a faint, weary smile on the Green-folk messenger. "All those we have to spare will be made ready to accompany you. Refresh yourself and take rest until then. My hope goes with you."

He raised a hand, dismissing this, the last of the petitioners. The emeralds, clasped in the bracelet around his wrist, gave a burst of light under the lamps, and he saw leaves; leaves and moss, and the roots of trees, going down into the bones of the earth. His land, his folk, his to protect with every last breath in him.

"They should remove to Doriath," said Melian, taking his hand in her own more delicate one, "Where I could keep them safe."

"Ah, Lady," Thingol said, raising the linked hands to his lips, "You of all people should know that the Quendi value freedom over safety. I will not ask the Green-kindred to abandon their lands. Not while I have strength to defend them."

"But our strength declines daily," Celeborn broke in. Since the formal audience was over he left his place at the king's left hand to sit on the steps of the dais. "Unless we can somehow learn to breed like orcs, we will soon by overwhelmed by sheer numbers."

"You have a foul mouth, nephew." Grief at the knowledge that the words were true did not prevent Thingol from a bitter smile at the way it had been put, "And clear sight." A weight like that of Thangorodrim seemed to settle on him, and he straightened his back in defiance, struggling to breathe deep. "Indeed, even if the Nandor and the Green-folk withdraw within Doriath, what will that achieve, save to have us all like fish in a net?"

He reached up to take a lock of his wife's raven hair, smoothed it gently between his fingers. "You are mighty, Melian, Queen among Maia, and what peace we have is because of the Girdle of Defence you have wrought about this kingdom. Yet can your will prevail over that of a Valar, though he be fallen? I think not. Did Morgoth have us all in one place, it would but hasten the end."

Gazing into her grey eyes he could forget all of this, return in memory to the glades of Nan Elmoth where they had first met, where they had stood, enraptured, hand in hand while the stars wheeled overhead and the trees grew tall. She smiled at him now, and somehow, though he had not hope, he found the will to endure. "Well, the end will come yet swifter if we give up. I will not despair. Any victory over me will be dearly bought!"

There was a stir by the door, and courtiers drew aside in a flutter of silk as a grey-cloaked scout burst through. He raced into the centre of the floor and flung himself to one knee. "Lord King, I have great news!" His upturned face was stunned with good fortune, and Thingol felt wary interest. Good news would be welcome.

He signalled for the messenger to speak and, glowing with importance, the young elf burst out; "A great host of Eldar has landed on these shores from Aman. They are numerous and glorious - splendid with banners and trumpets, with armour and shield and sword. It's said that they touched ground at the same time that the sun first arose - I can't vouch for that - and have been travelling since. I spoke with some of their servants, and they said their lords were Fingolfin and the sons of Finarfin. They have returned to do battle with Morgoth."

About time! Thingol thought, slow ebbing despair making him feel bitter even towards these potential allies, About time the Departed gave some thought to those of us they abandoned to live in safety in the West. And what will be their price for this sudden aid? But he tried to ease the grimness as far as he could. Whatever change these new Eldar introduced, at least Doriath was no longer in danger of being overrun. "Valar be praised," he said grudgingly, "In the very hour of our need. Do I know these princes?"

"They are spoken of as the sons of Finu." The messenger's smile was broad, and at last Elu Thingol could mirror it. Doubts were swept aside at the name, and a great flame of joy rose in his heart that had been so bowed down only moments before. "Finwë?" he cried, leaping to his feet, "My greatest friend! The brother of my heart! Long we have been apart and yet he has not forgotten me in my need. Has he not come himself?"

"That I do not know, Sire. I lingered only briefly and then hastened away. They drew nigh to the lake of Mithrim as I departed. Beyond that, I know no more than I have told."

"Return to them swiftly then, and let one of the Princes come to me. I will send an escort behind you, so that all will be ready once your message is sped."

"My King," the scout bowed his way out, grinning, and Thingol turned to his great-nephew, the closest male kin he had left in Doriath. Celeborn was watching him with a curl of the lips catlike in its smugness.

"Ai! Now you will claim you knew all along what the rising of the Sun portended. Take your gloating gaze from out my sight...for you are the only one of rank I have to rightly welcome these sons of Finwë, and I would have you do it as a prince. So go, finish those things that need to be done, make yourself stately and stand ready to depart."

"My Lord," Celeborn left promptly, and Melian watched him go with amused eyes.

"Even if you had twenty messengers of equal rank, you would have still sent him," she said, "You do know that?"

"I do," he said, and laughed at her maternal ferocity, "But he need not. He is unruly enough as it is."

Standing, he offered her his arm, and side by side they walked from the throne room into the gardens and radiant caves of many fountains where the folk of Menegroth gathered to converse and dance. News of Finwë's return made him feel like singing in reprieve and joy... and yet. And yet a small corner of his mind whispered still that this was far too good to be true.

You are ever churlish, and ever suspicious, he rebuked himself sternly, Think only that your chosen-brother will soon be with you once more and rejoice. He called for his harp and drowned the small disquiet in song.



Angrod, son of Finarfin approached, in the centre of a group of outriders, all jangling with armour and spangled with jewels. Little flames of many colours went up from the harness of the Noldo Prince, and his breastplate was crusted with crystal which caught the sun's light like a sheet of water. There was a circlet on his head and a sapphire gleamed on his brow. The heavy fall of his corn blond hair was intricately braided and in places pinned with gems. Even from his sword hilt there went up a fountain of radiance from the inlaid stones and precious metals of many hues.

Above Celeborn his honour guard, Calandil, sniggered quietly in the treetops, and there came the muffled sound of Daeron trying not to laugh. Celeborn smoothed down the restrained elegance of his soft grey tunic and wondered if perhaps he should have worn the one with the overdone embroidery. Beside the Noldo's rather barbaric splendour he felt woefully under dressed. But no. It is he who looks like the inside of a magpie's hoard. With a word he urged his horse forward and came out from the shadow of the trees alone.

It was strange to see how Angrod's guards reacted to his presence - they looked around themselves at once, as if expecting the rest of his escort to burst out of the forest beside him. They did not look up, to where Calandil's forces had covered them at bowshot for the last eight hundred yards. In this, as in their clothing, they seemed at once showy and naive.

A guard challenged him, and as he put down his hood he saw a flash of ...something... go through the elf's unnaturally fiery eyes. It looked, he thought, his heart sinking, a lot like guilt. Taking advantage of the other's moment of shock he spurred his horse onwards and so came through the ring of men-at-arms and face to face with Angrod. "I am Celeborn, Prince of Doriath," he said, "And I greet you in the name of King Elu."

Angrod's face was pleasant, open, a little rounded still with youth. His skin glimmered like the moon behind a cloud and his eyes held the same flame as the guard's eyes. They also, briefly, as they swept over the long tail of Celeborn's ice-coloured hair, held the same uncertainty, the same...shame. "You look like a Swan-Lord," he said, nervously.

"A what?" It was hard to follow Angrod's rather strange accent, he wondered if he had heard right.

"You look like one of the Teleri from Alqualondë," Angrod spoke louder, as if he better hoped to be understood that way, but his face had clouded. His gaze fell to Celeborn's belt and fixed there as if he was trying to essay the value of the silver, or, more likely, as if he no longer dared look him in the eye.

"I am a Teler." Celeborn shrugged and turned his horse to lead the Noldor into the trees, "So there is little surprise in this." But he wondered all the same, feeling the discomfort around him, not just of Angrod, but of all his companions. Discomfort and anger, and guilt. What have the Teleri done to them, or they to the Teleri that they cannot look on me with ease?

"But in truth you're not." Angrod kept pace with him, and the young face was lit with an academic curiosity that seemed more a part of him than his jewels, "'Teleri' only refers to those of your people who came to Aman...just the Calaquendi. You are Moriquendi, so you cannot be Teleri."

It took him a moment to translate the Quenya, 'Calaquendi' would be...Celbin. So Moriquendi is... and then he reined in, stopping in shock and insult. "What did you call me?" An urge came over him to take hold of the little prince by the over-elaborate braids and shake some respect into him. It was not helped by Calandil choosing this moment to lead his guards out of the trees. Calandil's face was grim, and Daeron, who stood beside him, was wide eyed with hurt.

"Dark elf," said Angrod, as if it should be obvious, "You have not seen the light of the Two Trees, so you are all dark elves." He looked at the scowling faces of Celeborn's guards without comprehension, "It is not meant as an insult. It is simply a description."

"I think perhaps," Celeborn made an effort not to move his hand to his axe, though he was suddenly aware of its sheathed head beneath his elbow, "I think you should remember that in Doriath we use those terms differently. A Dark Elf is an elf who has - whether for spite or for fear - taken service with Morgoth. A Light Elf is any who have openly declared themselves against him. We are Light Elves in Doriath. As are our Nandor kin, and the Green Folk, and even those of the Avari who are our allies. We are all Celbin."

"Oh, the Laiquendi!" Angrod laughed uncomfortably and attempted a change of subject, "They are quite savage aren't they? With their arrowheads of stone and their garments of leafs. Do you know, we thought all the mori... all the Lingerers would be like them. We were very surprised to find the Doriathrim have a culture almost as advanced as our own."

"Indeed," said Celeborn, his temper getting the better of him, "The Doriathrim have almost managed to scrape together a civilization. How sad that the rest of us have been too busy fighting for our lives to learn the finer points of etiquette!"

"You are over touchy," Angrod drew himself up in affront, "Again, I meant no insult. I do not compare you with the rude and unsubtle folk we have so far met. It is well known that your Queen is a Maia, and your King and ours were like brothers together."

He is a guest, Celeborn reminded himself, And a valuable ally. He had noticed that the prince's retinue seemed all the more haughty after this exchange of words, and - ridiculous though it was - he felt an almost physical threat from them. And a foreigner who doesn't know our ways. I have probably insulted him just as vilely, in some way I know nothing about. He sighed.

"I thank you," he said, "That you think the folk of Thingol worthy of your regard." It would have been politic to finish there, but the smooth words of politics had always eluded him. He did not regret that they did so now. "But you do ill to call the Green Folk savage. Three yeni I was with them in my youth - their lore is deep and their woodcraft unsurpassed. In truth we do not consider them a separate people from ourselves. We are one people - the Avari of the Third Clan, the Nandor, the Green Folk, the Silvan, the Sindar and the Teleri - we are all Lindar, the Singers. We are kin."

Again that sudden guardedness, that flinch at the word 'kin', and Angrod's fire-filled gaze fell to study the mane of his horse. There was a mystery here that had the taste of shadow in it. Proud though the Noldor were, they had not escaped the marring of Morgoth. But it was not wise to press him about this, Celeborn thought, Melian will see it in him. Whatever it is. And he should be given the chance to speak of it himself.

They had come to the great gates of Menegroth, and it was evening. The rush and lilt of Esgalduin filled the twilight with the scent of water. Greeting the dusk, a nightingale trilled. Moved by homecoming and music Daeron replied, in a voice that wove the mists and stars and silver stream into glory. His song seemed a new creation; solid as a gem, awe-filled, holy, beautiful and bright. Yet it vanished before it could be grasped, leaving only the bliss of memory.

The Noldor reined their horses in and looked at the minstrel, with their mouths open and their eerie eyes wide. Calandil came to take Celeborn's bridle and say, mind to mind, And for all their 'culture' they have nothing like him, even in Valinor.

Hush, Celeborn thought, but he smiled.

"So," he said, and took Angrod by the elbow to guide him across the narrow bridge and into the first entrance hall, "You spoke of Finu..."

A look of incomprehension. He unpicked the linguistic changes in his head, "Sorry... Finwë. Has he returned with you? My Lord is very eager to see him again."

Angrod balked at the stair down into the earth and Celeborn could feel the thrill of fear run through the muscles beneath his fingertips. Afraid of the dark? he thought, wonderingly, and then in astonished understanding Calben...elves of the light... He has not grown used to dwelling in darkness. It was both amusing and vaguely annoying, bringing to mind the millenia in which the elves of Doriath had dwelt, neglected and forgotton by the Valar, in perpetual night.

"No," Angrod said, his tones thin with grief, "Finwë is dead. Slain by Morgoth before the Enemy fled to Middle Earth. It is largely for revenge that we return." He raised his head to look Celeborn in the face. The flame in his eyes was yellow and white, mingled, and his voice lowered, as though he spoke news so terrible it had to be whispered. "The Enemy threw down the Two Trees and defiled Aman with darkness. Only their remnants now ride the sky; flower of the silver tree, fruit of the gold. The sun and the moon...the only things the Valar could salvage."

"I see," Celeborn said and brushed a hand through his hair, needing the comfort. So I was wrong. Even the sun and moon were not meant for us - we profit from them as an afterthought. And the Noldor's return is not to aid their friends, long abandoned, but only to avenge a wrong done to them. It never grew easier to learn that the Valar did not care about the elves of Middle Earth at all. Especially not when, this time, he had built so much hope on the sign. As for the loss of the Two Trees, it meant little to him, beyond a passing whimsy that he would now never see his namesake. Quite why Angrod seemed to think he would care about this was a mystery.

"You have my condolences," he said, heavily, "My lord will grieve indeed."

"Yet you do not seem shocked," Angrod looked at him with puzzled innocence, "Or even greatly surprised."

"Should I be?" Celeborn looked down at the earnest face and felt suddenly very old, though in truth there was likely little difference in age between them. "My own grandfather, Elmo - brother of Elu - and my mother and my unborn sister were killed by the servants of Morgoth. It is a daily refrain in Middle Earth. Something you will grow used to, with time."

"I do not wish to grow used to it!"

Sheltered little princeling. "Then go back to the waiting arms of the Valar," Celeborn said bitterly, "Loss is the price of life in Ennor. If you wished to be protected from it you should not have left Aman."

Angrod's reaction was instructive - the lash of pride that opened his mouth and the ...something... that closed it again with the retort unmade. He looked as Mordir had looked in court; captured in guilt, afraid to admit it but afraid to lie. "We took an oath not to return until Morgoth is defeated," he said with sullen politeness, "So do not taunt us with the desire."

Not wholly a lie, Celeborn thought, his long experience of judgement making the reading almost instinctive, but certainly not the whole truth. He sighed again and told himself that the Noldor were like the Sun - one could not give them back - so whatever terror it was they were hiding, the Sindar would have to learn to live with it. There would be time to learn what it was later, without being so inhospitable as to subject a guest to cross examination the moment he had passed through the door.

"Forgive me," he said, "Everything about you is strange to me. And I'm sure I give offence at every step. Doubtless we will all grow more easy together when we know each other more." He motioned for Calandil to escort the Prince's guards to the barracks, and smiled, rather half-heartedly. "Let me take you to your rooms. For, if you have come all the way from Valinor to here, it must have been a hard journey indeed."