Day 21 - Across So Wide A Sea
Title: Across So Wide A Sea
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: It was not just her older siblings who worried about Buffy's injuries.
Word Count: 1970
Galadriel smiled fondly at her littlest grandchild.
Anariel had arrived in Lothlorien three weeks ago, unannounced and unlooked for, utterly disgusted with her sisters. It transpired that while she was recovering from her injuries, Arwen had finally been successful in one of her many stratagems to make Anariel write to their family on the other side of the Sea.
Anariel was sulking like a young elfling at the notion that the first words of hers their kin would read would be utter nonsense written while she had been drugged to dull the pain of her injuries. Unsuccessful in her attempt to retrieve the offending letters before they had been sent, she had sent two of her own.
One had been intentionally composed - though in Arwen’s indignant telling, which had reached Lorien before her little sister did, it had been every bit as childish as the nonsense pages Anariel was upset about. The other, to Elwing, had been written on the spot, and Galadriel could well imagine the former Queen of the Sindar would have words for her other two granddaughters when they arrived. If nothing else, it was certainly a first for one of her grandchildren to appeal to her in a sibling quarrel.
In truth, Galadriel wasn’t sure who would be better pleased - Elwing, with tangible proof that granddaughters not named Arwen recognized her as family, or Celeborn, who was inordinately proud that Anariel had in fact paid attention to his lessons on the Doriathrin dialect. Unfortunately, it was not a question that could be answered anytime soon.
Anariel, despite feeling that she was quite healed by now, had been so aggravated by both her sisters’ smugness and her older brothers’ overprotectiveness on her return to Imladris that she had spent only one night there before decamping to visit her grandparents.
She had travelled alone on this trip, which had caused her grandparents some nervousness after the fact. Not that alone had been her first choice - her impulse had been to bring her sworn brother and sisters. But Xander had been out with the twins and the Dunedain, Willow and Tara had been visiting the Shire, and Anya had been reluctant to leave at short notice without her husband. So Anariel had satisfied herself with a promise that the others would follow her when the twins returned to escort them before setting out on her own.
No matter how capable a warrior she might be, the memory of those awful days when Anariel and Celebrian had vanished without a trace on the journey between Lorien and Imladris still loomed large in Galadriel’s mind. She had been resisting the urge to baby Anariel ever since she arrived. Thankfully, the girl was at least keeping her reluctant promise to Elrond to rest and take it easy during her sojourn in Lothlorien.
Her granddaughter was curled up on a pile of cushions on the floor of the talan that served Galadriel as an office, content for the time being to read while her grandmother worked through her own tasks. Celeborn had offered up one of the few books that was his- a volume of poetry of Menegroth. The most motion Galadriel had noticed from Anariel for the past several hours was an occasional shift in position or silent mouthing of a phrase that intrigued her.
It was unexpected, therefore, when abruptly she sat straight up, head cocked to one side, looking puzzled.
Anariel? Galadriel asked silently. She had seen such startle reactions from her smallest granddaughter before, but usually she could identify the cause - normally one of her siblings bespeaking her.
But as she touched Anariel’s mind, she realized with a start that it was not any of the peredhil who reached out to her grandchild. It was someone much farther away.
Atto? She exclaimed in shock.
She had not seen her father since the War of Wrath. Though he had promised when he left to try to reach her on his return to Aman, he had not succeeded. The only time she had heard him was on her one visit to Numenor before it vanished beneath the wave. The silence since has been so crushing she could not bring herself to write regularly as Arwen did - it would only rub salt into the wound.
Yet somehow, her father can reach her now - or perhaps it is due to Anariel’s presence. She has often suspected that her sole golden haired grandchild has inherited more than just her hair color from the line of Finarfin.
Little one.
His voice, ever so strong in her head, was the merest whisper. She cannot begin to imagine how much effort it must be costing him to reach across so wide a sea, nor why he would be so determined now.
Anariel… came the whisper.
I am well! I really am!
To her surprise, her granddaughter responded directly, sounding if anything irritated that it needed to be said yet again - or perhaps indignant that it needed to be said at all.
My sisters fight dirty. But my arm is fine. So is my jaw. And I walked all the way here on my own two feet without my leg falling off.
Galadriel chuckled, feeling both amusement and concern mingling in her father’s touch.
If you could but see her, atto, you would not doubt the truth of her words, she said drily. Much of what she has to say at present concerns how terribly vexing it is to be deceived by such an evil creature as an older sister.
Grandmother! Anariel pouted.
I am not the only one concerned, my little one, he replied, more to his daughter than his great-granddaughter. Your aunts are nearly beside themselves with worry.
Galadriel was not sure which aunts he meant - Anairë certainly, for Anariel was her descendant as well, albeit the one she was least likely to understand. She suspected Irimë, if she lived again, had seen enough of rambunctious youngsters - and peredhil - to not worry unduly. Findis? Nerdanel, perhaps, who might feel she too had an interest in her sons’ foster grandchild?
I wrote! Anariel protested indignantly, far less concerned by who was worrying than that they worried at all. I said I was fine! And I am, see?
Galadriel herself nearly recoiled from the sheer strength of the vivid impressions - the osanwë equivalent of shouting - that Anariel radiated of herself travelling through the mountains, with all her limbs working normally, as well as a rather less comprehensible collection of moments from her past few weeks in Lothlorien that were probably not so meaningful to Arafinwë, who would recognize little aside from Galadriel in them.
I do see. Though it was not so strong, Galadriel had the warm impression of a hug and a fond fatherly ruffling of her hair as well as her granddaughter’s. Thank you, child, for that reassurance. I am afraid grandfathers are apt to worry more rather than less as the years pass.
Arwen shouldn’t have made you worry in the first place, Anariel said disapprovingly.
Galadriel did her best to convey to her father the frown that went with the words - one which would have done Thingol proud.
She was worried herself, Arafinwë chided reprovingly.
You are curious about something else besides my health and lack of current injuries, Anariel said shrewdly.
The question dropped into their consciousness without words - Galadriel could feel that holding this connection across so profound a distance was taxing her father’s strength.
Fortunately, Anariel, having done nothing more strenuous than go up and down to various telain for the past week, was more than equal to keeping her end of the conversation.
The images of what ‘surfing’ looked like and how it was done normally, how she had learned it - intercut with a few fascinating glimpses of California - as well as how she remembered the rockslide were more than strong enough to bridge the rapidly widening gulf, as Arafinwë struggled to keep the bond between them from dissolving.
That will do for now, child. We look forward to your coming - though let it be by ship, please.
Of course, was Anariel’s blithely confident reply.
The warm tide of love and pride that suffused them both would have to serve as a farewell, for Galadriel knew her father would be able to manage nothing more. She grasped that feeling, hugging it to her fëa, holding it as long as she could, as though it were a tangible thing.
When she focused once more on her physical surroundings, she found Anariel’s expression a fascinating blend of awe, pride, and wistfulness.
“Do not rub it in to your sisters too much, pitya,” she advised.
So far as she knew, Anariel was the only one to ever hear any of her amanyar kin.
Anariel shook her head.
“I won’t. I may not tell them at all,” she said thoughtfully.
Words were so inadequate after osanwë. Galadriel touched her mind lightly.
Her resentment at her sisters had vanished, to be replaced by surprise, and a bit of grudging gratitude, for without them, she knew her great-grandfather would not have made such a heroic effort to reach the Hither Shores. And she did not wish her sisters to envy this experience that they have never had, and may never have.
Maybe, if I practice, we may be able to do that again? But from our end, so that your father will not be so drained? I do not think it would be too difficult.
Galadriel smiled sadly.
“You may practice, pitya, but whether it will work, I do not know.”
---
On the other side of the sea, Arafinwë gratefully accepted the fortified wine Anairë handed him, as his brother passed another cup to their mother.
The effort to reach across the boundaries between the mortal lands and the Blessed Realm was too great for him to succeed alone, or even with his sisters, but with Indis’ help, they had managed it - just barely. He was exhausted, more than a little nauseous, and could feel the beginnings of a dreadful headache coming on.
Yet it was all worth it to know his little granddaughter was well and happy. And now he knew - as if he had experienced it himself! - what surfing was.
His siblings looked anxiously at him as Eärwen helped him ease himself up into a sitting position.
“I do not think it is something we will repeat often,” he said quietly, “but it did work.”
“The child has recovered?” Anairë asked, clasping her hands firmly together before Nolo took them reassuringly in his. It was an old trick of hers he recognized as the defensive maneuver it was - folded hands would not shake as easily, allowing her to look calmer and more composed.
“Quite well,” Indis said with a smile, though the question had not been intended for her. “Such a shame she was born on the Hither Shores, where there are none to train her properly.”
“Artanis is there, Mother,” Arafinwë pointed out.
“Artanis is woefully out of practice,” Indis replied, her voice matter of fact. “She speaks only to her daughter and grandchildren, who are rarely so far that she needs to stretch to reach them.”
“The little one does not seem to need much training,” Findis remarked thoughtfully, having followed the conversation, and lent her strength to her younger brother at need.
“The raw power of her!” Irimë agreed. “I would not have expected it in one who has never seen the light of the Trees.”
“She is doubly descended from Mother,” Arafinwë pointed out. “And Itarillë is rather gifted as well.”
Indis herself smiled, but said nothing. Out loud, at least.
There was more than just the power of the Elves there, my son. I rather think the blood of Luthien - and Melian - runs true in that one.
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: It was not just her older siblings who worried about Buffy's injuries.
Word Count: 1970
Galadriel smiled fondly at her littlest grandchild.
Anariel had arrived in Lothlorien three weeks ago, unannounced and unlooked for, utterly disgusted with her sisters. It transpired that while she was recovering from her injuries, Arwen had finally been successful in one of her many stratagems to make Anariel write to their family on the other side of the Sea.
Anariel was sulking like a young elfling at the notion that the first words of hers their kin would read would be utter nonsense written while she had been drugged to dull the pain of her injuries. Unsuccessful in her attempt to retrieve the offending letters before they had been sent, she had sent two of her own.
One had been intentionally composed - though in Arwen’s indignant telling, which had reached Lorien before her little sister did, it had been every bit as childish as the nonsense pages Anariel was upset about. The other, to Elwing, had been written on the spot, and Galadriel could well imagine the former Queen of the Sindar would have words for her other two granddaughters when they arrived. If nothing else, it was certainly a first for one of her grandchildren to appeal to her in a sibling quarrel.
In truth, Galadriel wasn’t sure who would be better pleased - Elwing, with tangible proof that granddaughters not named Arwen recognized her as family, or Celeborn, who was inordinately proud that Anariel had in fact paid attention to his lessons on the Doriathrin dialect. Unfortunately, it was not a question that could be answered anytime soon.
Anariel, despite feeling that she was quite healed by now, had been so aggravated by both her sisters’ smugness and her older brothers’ overprotectiveness on her return to Imladris that she had spent only one night there before decamping to visit her grandparents.
She had travelled alone on this trip, which had caused her grandparents some nervousness after the fact. Not that alone had been her first choice - her impulse had been to bring her sworn brother and sisters. But Xander had been out with the twins and the Dunedain, Willow and Tara had been visiting the Shire, and Anya had been reluctant to leave at short notice without her husband. So Anariel had satisfied herself with a promise that the others would follow her when the twins returned to escort them before setting out on her own.
No matter how capable a warrior she might be, the memory of those awful days when Anariel and Celebrian had vanished without a trace on the journey between Lorien and Imladris still loomed large in Galadriel’s mind. She had been resisting the urge to baby Anariel ever since she arrived. Thankfully, the girl was at least keeping her reluctant promise to Elrond to rest and take it easy during her sojourn in Lothlorien.
Her granddaughter was curled up on a pile of cushions on the floor of the talan that served Galadriel as an office, content for the time being to read while her grandmother worked through her own tasks. Celeborn had offered up one of the few books that was his- a volume of poetry of Menegroth. The most motion Galadriel had noticed from Anariel for the past several hours was an occasional shift in position or silent mouthing of a phrase that intrigued her.
It was unexpected, therefore, when abruptly she sat straight up, head cocked to one side, looking puzzled.
Anariel? Galadriel asked silently. She had seen such startle reactions from her smallest granddaughter before, but usually she could identify the cause - normally one of her siblings bespeaking her.
But as she touched Anariel’s mind, she realized with a start that it was not any of the peredhil who reached out to her grandchild. It was someone much farther away.
Atto? She exclaimed in shock.
She had not seen her father since the War of Wrath. Though he had promised when he left to try to reach her on his return to Aman, he had not succeeded. The only time she had heard him was on her one visit to Numenor before it vanished beneath the wave. The silence since has been so crushing she could not bring herself to write regularly as Arwen did - it would only rub salt into the wound.
Yet somehow, her father can reach her now - or perhaps it is due to Anariel’s presence. She has often suspected that her sole golden haired grandchild has inherited more than just her hair color from the line of Finarfin.
Little one.
His voice, ever so strong in her head, was the merest whisper. She cannot begin to imagine how much effort it must be costing him to reach across so wide a sea, nor why he would be so determined now.
Anariel… came the whisper.
I am well! I really am!
To her surprise, her granddaughter responded directly, sounding if anything irritated that it needed to be said yet again - or perhaps indignant that it needed to be said at all.
My sisters fight dirty. But my arm is fine. So is my jaw. And I walked all the way here on my own two feet without my leg falling off.
Galadriel chuckled, feeling both amusement and concern mingling in her father’s touch.
If you could but see her, atto, you would not doubt the truth of her words, she said drily. Much of what she has to say at present concerns how terribly vexing it is to be deceived by such an evil creature as an older sister.
Grandmother! Anariel pouted.
I am not the only one concerned, my little one, he replied, more to his daughter than his great-granddaughter. Your aunts are nearly beside themselves with worry.
Galadriel was not sure which aunts he meant - Anairë certainly, for Anariel was her descendant as well, albeit the one she was least likely to understand. She suspected Irimë, if she lived again, had seen enough of rambunctious youngsters - and peredhil - to not worry unduly. Findis? Nerdanel, perhaps, who might feel she too had an interest in her sons’ foster grandchild?
I wrote! Anariel protested indignantly, far less concerned by who was worrying than that they worried at all. I said I was fine! And I am, see?
Galadriel herself nearly recoiled from the sheer strength of the vivid impressions - the osanwë equivalent of shouting - that Anariel radiated of herself travelling through the mountains, with all her limbs working normally, as well as a rather less comprehensible collection of moments from her past few weeks in Lothlorien that were probably not so meaningful to Arafinwë, who would recognize little aside from Galadriel in them.
I do see. Though it was not so strong, Galadriel had the warm impression of a hug and a fond fatherly ruffling of her hair as well as her granddaughter’s. Thank you, child, for that reassurance. I am afraid grandfathers are apt to worry more rather than less as the years pass.
Arwen shouldn’t have made you worry in the first place, Anariel said disapprovingly.
Galadriel did her best to convey to her father the frown that went with the words - one which would have done Thingol proud.
She was worried herself, Arafinwë chided reprovingly.
You are curious about something else besides my health and lack of current injuries, Anariel said shrewdly.
The question dropped into their consciousness without words - Galadriel could feel that holding this connection across so profound a distance was taxing her father’s strength.
Fortunately, Anariel, having done nothing more strenuous than go up and down to various telain for the past week, was more than equal to keeping her end of the conversation.
The images of what ‘surfing’ looked like and how it was done normally, how she had learned it - intercut with a few fascinating glimpses of California - as well as how she remembered the rockslide were more than strong enough to bridge the rapidly widening gulf, as Arafinwë struggled to keep the bond between them from dissolving.
That will do for now, child. We look forward to your coming - though let it be by ship, please.
Of course, was Anariel’s blithely confident reply.
The warm tide of love and pride that suffused them both would have to serve as a farewell, for Galadriel knew her father would be able to manage nothing more. She grasped that feeling, hugging it to her fëa, holding it as long as she could, as though it were a tangible thing.
When she focused once more on her physical surroundings, she found Anariel’s expression a fascinating blend of awe, pride, and wistfulness.
“Do not rub it in to your sisters too much, pitya,” she advised.
So far as she knew, Anariel was the only one to ever hear any of her amanyar kin.
Anariel shook her head.
“I won’t. I may not tell them at all,” she said thoughtfully.
Words were so inadequate after osanwë. Galadriel touched her mind lightly.
Her resentment at her sisters had vanished, to be replaced by surprise, and a bit of grudging gratitude, for without them, she knew her great-grandfather would not have made such a heroic effort to reach the Hither Shores. And she did not wish her sisters to envy this experience that they have never had, and may never have.
Maybe, if I practice, we may be able to do that again? But from our end, so that your father will not be so drained? I do not think it would be too difficult.
Galadriel smiled sadly.
“You may practice, pitya, but whether it will work, I do not know.”
---
On the other side of the sea, Arafinwë gratefully accepted the fortified wine Anairë handed him, as his brother passed another cup to their mother.
The effort to reach across the boundaries between the mortal lands and the Blessed Realm was too great for him to succeed alone, or even with his sisters, but with Indis’ help, they had managed it - just barely. He was exhausted, more than a little nauseous, and could feel the beginnings of a dreadful headache coming on.
Yet it was all worth it to know his little granddaughter was well and happy. And now he knew - as if he had experienced it himself! - what surfing was.
His siblings looked anxiously at him as Eärwen helped him ease himself up into a sitting position.
“I do not think it is something we will repeat often,” he said quietly, “but it did work.”
“The child has recovered?” Anairë asked, clasping her hands firmly together before Nolo took them reassuringly in his. It was an old trick of hers he recognized as the defensive maneuver it was - folded hands would not shake as easily, allowing her to look calmer and more composed.
“Quite well,” Indis said with a smile, though the question had not been intended for her. “Such a shame she was born on the Hither Shores, where there are none to train her properly.”
“Artanis is there, Mother,” Arafinwë pointed out.
“Artanis is woefully out of practice,” Indis replied, her voice matter of fact. “She speaks only to her daughter and grandchildren, who are rarely so far that she needs to stretch to reach them.”
“The little one does not seem to need much training,” Findis remarked thoughtfully, having followed the conversation, and lent her strength to her younger brother at need.
“The raw power of her!” Irimë agreed. “I would not have expected it in one who has never seen the light of the Trees.”
“She is doubly descended from Mother,” Arafinwë pointed out. “And Itarillë is rather gifted as well.”
Indis herself smiled, but said nothing. Out loud, at least.
There was more than just the power of the Elves there, my son. I rather think the blood of Luthien - and Melian - runs true in that one.