For Three Strands of Hair
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Galadriel, Celegorm. By mention, Aredhel, Fingon, Feanor, Finarfin, Angrod, Finrod and Celeborn.
Prompt: 035. Sixth Sense.
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13 for angst
Summary: Feanor asks Galadriel for her hair. She and Celegorm discuss it. It doesn't go all that well.
Author's Notes: Dedicated to minviendha with love, for her birthday! I own nothing.
Celegorm was sitting under a tree, in Valinor. Not under Celeborn or Telperin, but under one of those beautiful Mallorns which were so beloved of Yavanna’s. He was dreaming - daydreaming. In his mind, figures danced, black and blond hair commingled, and desires, untold and unknown, surfaced, mixed between the light-haired girl and the other one with the raven locks.
They both wore white, but it must have been his imagination. Artanis was so young, still, barely a woman, still so very much of a girl, and still going by her Mother-name, Nerwendë, still tomboyish and reckless, and proud. Barely older than her was Ireth, so girlish and feminine, never in anything but her white and silver robes, even in the glory of hunting, even as she took down one of Oromë’s stags with a single, perfectly-aimed blow.
One was easy to talk to, the other was not. One he’d kissed, one he hadn’t. One he’d dreamed of marrying, the other, he wanted to run away with, and be free. He was torn.
Nerwendë was well into her teens, still disobeying her mother and father, climbing trees and running free in Valinor, dreaming of far-away places. She sat atop the tree, hidden in the foliage. She listened. She knew. The older cousin was changing - she felt it. She was changing too. His father had asked her for three strands of her hair, that very morning. She`d refused violently, and ran away.
When Tyelkormo’s eyes were closed, and he was apparently lost in his phantasmagoric delusions, she landed softly from the tree, at his feet. She sat silently, waiting.
Feeling a sudden presence, he opened his eyes with a start. “Eru, Artanis. Don’t you people know to announce yourselves?”
You people. You, of the line of Finarfin. You, women. Whatever that meant.
“What, has Angàrato been doing the same to you?” Her smirk is amused, but also a bit superb. She hates when he calls her Artanis.
“No,” Tyelko replied with a grumpy shrug. “Oh, never mind.”
She snickered to herself, and leaned against him, a little.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist, I guess.” She sighed. “I just wish I didn’t have to hide. Promise you won’t tell anyone you’ve seen me.”
He looked at her, point-blank. “Who are you hiding from?”
She looked at her feet. This was going to be painful.
“Your Ata.”
He paused, let that bit of information register, as he looked at her blankly. “Why are you avoiding my Ata?”
Oh, great, she thought, he’s not aware of this brand new fun stuff. Just great. Oh, Yavanna, why me? She sighed again, and turned to look at him. “He wants my hair.”
Tyelkormo made a confused face. “Your hair?”
“My hair.” And maybe also something else that you want too, she thought, a bit frustratedly. She wasn’t sure if she felt strongly about Turco to want to be mated to him. She liked him very much, though, cared for him. She’d never quite felt that strange little twinge of desire she’d experienced at times looking at Findekano as he sparred, or at Teleporno, when she visited her mother’s kin in Alqualondë.
Tyelkormo looked at Nerwendë with evident confusion. “Why would he want your hair?”
“I don’t know, I mean, it’s odd, isn’t it? But I feel that if I give it to him, ill will come of it,” she replied miserably.
“I understand. How much hair did he want?” Tyelko asked, expecting perhaps that his father was asking for too much, and that this was a female’s caprice.
“Three strands,” she replied absently - she already expected what would happen next.
“Three strands? What ill could come of three strands of your hair, Art- Nerwendë? I mean, Ata’s the best smith in the known world, the pride of the Noldor, so why wouldn’t you grant his wish?”
She fiddled with her hair nervously. “I just know I should not,” she replied seriously, with eyes looking straight at him, wise beyond her years. “I love you so much, and if I give it to him, things will happen, things that will drive us apart, things that will make you miserable, and me too!” There was a piece of despair in the way she spoke that made him still in his lunging argumentation.
“What things?”
“I don’t know, I can’t tell you,” she said miserably. “It’s all mixed up in my head, all confused, but if they happen, it will be terrible, terrible, and” - she paused, looked at him despairingly. “Promise me that you won’t take any oaths, ever. Promise me.”
Because then maybe ... maybe if Celegorm promised, he would not go to Beleriand. Maybe he would not betray Ingoldo, or pursue Lùthien, or be killed by Dior in Doriath. Maybe the dreams would stop. Maybe she would stop hating him secretly for things he hadn’t done yet. Maybe she would stop hating Uncle Feanàro and maybe she would be able to look at her brothers without tearing up. Maybe she would be able to love Findekàno without knowing that he would die.
“Never ever? That’s silly, Artanis.”
He stood, almost angry in the way he looked at her. “You’re implying that oath-taking is the source of all evil. I will not be unmanned by a promise to you. I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, sadly, not even throwing a sharp reply not to call her that.
“Then so be it. I’m sorry, Tyelkormo.”
He stood and left, and so did she. She took two steps, and turned back. She only saw his silhouette, walking in the distance. Her lips parted to call her friend back, but her voice faltered. She continued, deeper into the woods, to hide, until her father would talk some sense into Feanàro. He turned around, to call, and saw her climb up a tree, disappearing into the foliage again. His raised hand fell down, and he sighed, thinking maybe he should have tried to get those three strands of hair for his father.
A moment later, he was regretting the thought and turning back to find her.
She was nowhere to be found.
Characters: Galadriel, Celegorm. By mention, Aredhel, Fingon, Feanor, Finarfin, Angrod, Finrod and Celeborn.
Prompt: 035. Sixth Sense.
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13 for angst
Summary: Feanor asks Galadriel for her hair. She and Celegorm discuss it. It doesn't go all that well.
Author's Notes: Dedicated to minviendha with love, for her birthday! I own nothing.
Celegorm was sitting under a tree, in Valinor. Not under Celeborn or Telperin, but under one of those beautiful Mallorns which were so beloved of Yavanna’s. He was dreaming - daydreaming. In his mind, figures danced, black and blond hair commingled, and desires, untold and unknown, surfaced, mixed between the light-haired girl and the other one with the raven locks.
They both wore white, but it must have been his imagination. Artanis was so young, still, barely a woman, still so very much of a girl, and still going by her Mother-name, Nerwendë, still tomboyish and reckless, and proud. Barely older than her was Ireth, so girlish and feminine, never in anything but her white and silver robes, even in the glory of hunting, even as she took down one of Oromë’s stags with a single, perfectly-aimed blow.
One was easy to talk to, the other was not. One he’d kissed, one he hadn’t. One he’d dreamed of marrying, the other, he wanted to run away with, and be free. He was torn.
Nerwendë was well into her teens, still disobeying her mother and father, climbing trees and running free in Valinor, dreaming of far-away places. She sat atop the tree, hidden in the foliage. She listened. She knew. The older cousin was changing - she felt it. She was changing too. His father had asked her for three strands of her hair, that very morning. She`d refused violently, and ran away.
When Tyelkormo’s eyes were closed, and he was apparently lost in his phantasmagoric delusions, she landed softly from the tree, at his feet. She sat silently, waiting.
Feeling a sudden presence, he opened his eyes with a start. “Eru, Artanis. Don’t you people know to announce yourselves?”
You people. You, of the line of Finarfin. You, women. Whatever that meant.
“What, has Angàrato been doing the same to you?” Her smirk is amused, but also a bit superb. She hates when he calls her Artanis.
“No,” Tyelko replied with a grumpy shrug. “Oh, never mind.”
She snickered to herself, and leaned against him, a little.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist, I guess.” She sighed. “I just wish I didn’t have to hide. Promise you won’t tell anyone you’ve seen me.”
He looked at her, point-blank. “Who are you hiding from?”
She looked at her feet. This was going to be painful.
“Your Ata.”
He paused, let that bit of information register, as he looked at her blankly. “Why are you avoiding my Ata?”
Oh, great, she thought, he’s not aware of this brand new fun stuff. Just great. Oh, Yavanna, why me? She sighed again, and turned to look at him. “He wants my hair.”
Tyelkormo made a confused face. “Your hair?”
“My hair.” And maybe also something else that you want too, she thought, a bit frustratedly. She wasn’t sure if she felt strongly about Turco to want to be mated to him. She liked him very much, though, cared for him. She’d never quite felt that strange little twinge of desire she’d experienced at times looking at Findekano as he sparred, or at Teleporno, when she visited her mother’s kin in Alqualondë.
Tyelkormo looked at Nerwendë with evident confusion. “Why would he want your hair?”
“I don’t know, I mean, it’s odd, isn’t it? But I feel that if I give it to him, ill will come of it,” she replied miserably.
“I understand. How much hair did he want?” Tyelko asked, expecting perhaps that his father was asking for too much, and that this was a female’s caprice.
“Three strands,” she replied absently - she already expected what would happen next.
“Three strands? What ill could come of three strands of your hair, Art- Nerwendë? I mean, Ata’s the best smith in the known world, the pride of the Noldor, so why wouldn’t you grant his wish?”
She fiddled with her hair nervously. “I just know I should not,” she replied seriously, with eyes looking straight at him, wise beyond her years. “I love you so much, and if I give it to him, things will happen, things that will drive us apart, things that will make you miserable, and me too!” There was a piece of despair in the way she spoke that made him still in his lunging argumentation.
“What things?”
“I don’t know, I can’t tell you,” she said miserably. “It’s all mixed up in my head, all confused, but if they happen, it will be terrible, terrible, and” - she paused, looked at him despairingly. “Promise me that you won’t take any oaths, ever. Promise me.”
Because then maybe ... maybe if Celegorm promised, he would not go to Beleriand. Maybe he would not betray Ingoldo, or pursue Lùthien, or be killed by Dior in Doriath. Maybe the dreams would stop. Maybe she would stop hating him secretly for things he hadn’t done yet. Maybe she would stop hating Uncle Feanàro and maybe she would be able to look at her brothers without tearing up. Maybe she would be able to love Findekàno without knowing that he would die.
“Never ever? That’s silly, Artanis.”
He stood, almost angry in the way he looked at her. “You’re implying that oath-taking is the source of all evil. I will not be unmanned by a promise to you. I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, sadly, not even throwing a sharp reply not to call her that.
“Then so be it. I’m sorry, Tyelkormo.”
He stood and left, and so did she. She took two steps, and turned back. She only saw his silhouette, walking in the distance. Her lips parted to call her friend back, but her voice faltered. She continued, deeper into the woods, to hide, until her father would talk some sense into Feanàro. He turned around, to call, and saw her climb up a tree, disappearing into the foliage again. His raised hand fell down, and he sighed, thinking maybe he should have tried to get those three strands of hair for his father.
A moment later, he was regretting the thought and turning back to find her.
She was nowhere to be found.