Part Two
He had been drowning for a long time, suspended beneath the waves of the bay for so
long that he held little memory of anything else. There was only the blue-green-gray blur
that distorted his vision, and the taste of salt, permeating him to the core. He had no
concept of time, of waking or sleeping. He was a dead thing, driftwood... and yet he lived.
He had become as he was when hope had been lost. At first he had fought against the
water, conquered it, rode it like a swan. He sailed through it, cut it as easily as a blade
might. He fought to regain the shore, but before he reached it, hope passed. A voice inside
his head whispered that he was a fool, that he had made the wrong choice in casting
himself into the sea, and swimming for shore.
Yes, hope had been lost, and he sank like a stone. His hair had billowed about him like a
golden cloud, moving around him in wet tentacles, as if it were eager to embrace this
doom. He saw his own hand as if it belonged to a stranger, opening and closing, clutching
at nothing. There was nothing to save him. He had not wanted to be saved. All he wanted
was lost, and so he lost himself.
Still, he had not died. Now, as he began to come back into a more solid form of
awareness, as thought, which had been suspended as his body had been suspended beneath
the sea, returned to him, he wondered at this. Why had he survived, if it could be called
that? Why had he suffered a living death, trapped beneath the water, for so long? He had
given up, had seeked no more to live, and yet he had not been freed from his fleshly
concerns.
There was a reason for it, he knew. His purpose now must be to seek that reason and
fulfill its demands. Only then would he truly be allowed death. Barely living once more, he
still craved it. Let him be received into the Halls of Mandos, the waiting-place, to seek
news of-- of what? He knew not. Whatever it was he had thrown himself into the sea for,
it had eluded him, and death was all that was left to him.
He was glad enough to give up his tomb beneath the waves. He had not the strength to
open his eyes yet, but he knew someone had pulled him out of the water, and that
whoever had done so was a friend. This unknown friend had breathed air back into his
lungs. He was breathing again now, and this took much of his energy. Still, there was
pleasure in it. The very act of drawing air into his lungs was sweet, almost as if it were
forbidden. The force of life grew stronger and stronger within.
Glad to be alive, yet longing for death. What a paradox, he mused.
He wished to open his eyes and look upon his savior. The low murmur of a voice had
teased his ears when he had first been born out of the sea, but he had not been ready to
understand what was being said. It had been so long since he had heard any sound at all.
The silence had surprised him. The violent waves had always rushed and murmured before
-- before he became their prisoner.
Or maybe he had simply been unconscious. There had been no thought. Even now, his
mind was sluggish, as if it wished to stay in the comforting coma of the bay. Occasionally
he thought he might have succumbed to this, for surely time had passed since he had been
dragged out of his grave, but he could not measure it. For him now, there was only the
pleasure of breathing, and waiting for strength to return.
Next came sensation. He was aware that he lay upon a soft surface. There were gentle
touches to his person -- a hand on his forehead, or his arm, or his cheek. A blanket was
drawn over him. He felt soft hair falling over his face as someone leaned over him. He
could smell the fragrant greenery of forest. It was familiar and haunting, and some part of
him imagined that he has home -- but he knew not where home was.
Eventually came the definition of sound. The voices that addressed him and each other
became more than hums of vibration. He could understand them, could follow their
conversation at last.
“How fares our guest, Lady Galadriel?” asked a voice of low timbre, a male speaker.
Galadriel! Did he not know that name? It was so familiar, so distantly familiar, like an itch
he could not reach.
“You will be able to meet him soon, I think, Orophin,” came the reply. The voice of this
Galadriel was soothing, but it pulsed like a star. She was an elf of great power, whoever
she might be. She was healing him, he thought, little by little. It was by her will that he
was returning to life. “How greatly you desire this. Surely he will be flattered by how
attentive you have become.”
She spoke plainly, but she was chiding the male elf, or perhaps warning him. He wondered
if this Orophin had pulled him out of the sea. Another voice came, similar to that of
Orophin, but more eager.
“Orophin speaks of nothing lately but this mysterious stranger. You would think it was
this elf who pulled my brother from the sea rather than the opposite!”
“Hold your tongue, Rúmil,” Orophin hissed, but from the Lady Galadriel came laughter,
and the sound was of clear silver bells. Her laughter reminded him of something, of
another maiden’s laughter, but that was a pale echo of a past that came not to mind, not
now. “Lady, do you know...who he is?”
“Again you ask, and still he tells me not,” Galadriel replied sadly. Of course he told her
not! He could barely think, never mind speak yet. He was... he was... well. His own name
did not come.
“But still, you know,” Rúmil said fervently.
“I suspect,” she corrected him gravely. “But I shall keep my suspicions close to my heart
until they can be confirmed, my bold elf.”
He wished she would tell him, he thought with some irritation, but the pique was not with
her. It was with himself. He hated being so helpless. He despised it! He tried to force his
eyes open and could not.
“My lady, sit you still with this visitor?” Another male voice, this tinged with jealousy.
How many of them surrounded him?
“Lord Celeborn,” she acknowledged him formally. This name, too, seemed familiar but
again the details were still lost to his mind. How frustrating. “You know I will not leave
his side until he can see, and can speak.”
“I thought simply you might rest--”
“I need no rest,” her tone was gentle, but she would brook no argument. “This you
know.” So she, too, saw Celeborn’s jealousy.
“Orophin, Rúmil, leave us.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Rúmil. “Oro. Orophin.”
“Hm?”
“Come on!”
There was no sound of departing footsteps, but he could feel the absence of the two
younger elves. Somehow it pained him. Come back, he wanted to say. The presence of
this Orophin soothed him in ways that even the powerful Lady Galadriel did not. How
desperately he wanted to open his eyes and see the face that belonged to that gentle heart.
“Soon,” Galadriel whispered to him, as if she could hear his thoughts. Maybe she could.
“Why do you send them away, Celeborn?”
“That we may speak in private, of course.”
“Have you truly something to say which cannot be spoken in front of Orophin and Rúmil?
I thought you trusted them beyond measure, as I do.”
“Of course I do, but they are young and foolish--”
“Hardly foolish.”
“They have not learned dignity, nor respect, nor the pride of an elf as well as would suit
them,” Celeborn replied stiffly. “I wonder often if they are ready for the positions to which
you have assigned them. It is a great deal of responsibility.”
“They need that responsibility to achieve those high goals you set for them,” Galadriel
replied lightly. “You see how well Haldir turned out.”
“Did he?”
“Do you question my judgment, Celeborn? This fills me with sorrow.”
“I am the only one who has ever dared question you at all,” Celeborn said with pride. “Is
this not why I am your lord?”
“Perhaps. Yet still I find it difficult. You must trust in me to know. My knowledge is what
guides our people.”
She was queen here, wherever they were, he thought. So Celeborn must be king of this
realm. Already he did not like him. Could he not sense the great power of Galadriel that
was apparent even to a fallen being such as himself? Why did he question her, when surely
he knew that she had sight beyond all others?
“Yes,” he agreed after a moment, and he did not say more.
“You have come to speak to me about our visitor,” she said finally. He felt her hand on his
brow, then in his hair, and eagerly he strained his ears to listen.
“Yes,” he said again.
“And yet you will speak to me not in front of Orophin and Rúmil, but in front of him.”
“He is without consciousness.”
“Are you certain, my lord? He is close to wakening, and may hear all you say,” she
cautioned Celeborn.
“Let him, then. You know who this is, Galadriel.”
“As I told Orophin, I merely suspect.”
“You are seldom wrong.”
“I am glad you finally will admit to this.”
“He is a threat, Galadriel.”
“A threat?” she sounded amused. “An elf without consciousness, as you say, is a threat?
How so?”
“You know well what I mean. What if he chooses to take power here when he awakens?
Will you give it to him?”
“Should I not?”
“No!”
Take power? What could this Celeborn mean? What sort of power could he possibly have,
an elf who was not even fully alive? And why would he wish to take anything from those
who had saved him from the sea? He owed them thanks and gratitude for their hospitality.
Had he been some sort of warlord before, who vanquished his own kind? He could not
believe this... yet nor could he remember.
“Celeborn, your fears are groundless. You have my heart. You will, always.”
Celeborn did not reply. So this was not a question of power, after all. Celeborn feared that
Galadriel would turn to another? Himself? No, that was not possible, for he loved
another... another lady... and it was for her that he had cast himself into the sea. Yes, that
was what had happened! He had been swimming back to find his lady. His head ached
with the discovery. He was not even sure if it was true. He knew only that the jealousy of
Celeborn was unfounded. He could not think beyond that, not now.
Galadriel spoke again. “You will see.”
“He would have had you, once,” Celeborn whispered. “And now he has returned.”
“Do not dwell in the past -- learn from it.”
“Forgive me,” Celeborn said, and then he was gone.
He felt the lips of Galadriel pressing against his brow, and he sensed that she wished to say
more, but something held her back. It was too much to process right now. A black void
opened up beneath him and he let himself be swallowed by it.
