Chapter Text
The beeches surrounding Imladris were already golden when Círdan's company reached the Hidden Valley, and Astor, who had frowned at the scrubby pines and oaks of the Trollshaws, found herself moved by the sudden access of beauty as they descended into the valley. So this was the fabled stronghold of Imladris, the fortress made into a center of learning and gracious hospitality, a last beacon of the light of the Eldar in the wild lands.
And, if her grandfather's will and vision held true, this would be her home.
Astor was silent as they approached the Last Homely House, absorbing everything around her, the elves singing in the trees and the sounds of a small mill-wheel under the crashing of the waters. How light played differently on the waters of Imladris than on the harbors of Duillond. How the birds seemed small and tame compared to the fierce gulls and egrets of the shore.
A servant came and helped Astor dismount, his hand respectful and careful on her waist, and she dipped her head to thank him, handing off her reins. Astor's hand lingered on her mare's neck for just a moment, as though she did not want to be separated from her mount, but then she turned away, following her grandfather to the steps where the Lord of Imladris waited to greet them.
Círdan paused for just a moment before the last approach. “It will be all right, Astorthel.”
She gave him a thin smile and nodded. “Yes, I know.”
Then he and Lord Elrond began exchanging the ritual words of welcome, which were lengthy indeed when two such lords met. Astorthel made a deep courtesy when Círdan presented her, keeping her eyes downcast.
“Welcome, Lady Astorthel. I am sorry my daughter is not in residence to welcome you, but please do not hesitate to ask if anything is lacking in your accommodations or those of your ladies.” Elrond's voice was deep and kind, but Astor couldn't seem to lift her eyes to his face. She had seen him before, at a banquet in Celondim, but she had been a young girl then, and her only vivid memory of that evening was of the sugared fruits that had been served.
“Thank you, Lord Elrond. I am grateful for your hospitality. Truly Imladris is the hidden jewel of which the bards sing.”
It came out incredibly stiff and practiced—which of course it was—and Astor winced internally. She had to say something in praise of his realm, and she had hoped and hoped that she would come up with something better. But no, it was just as bad as she had feared.
But Elrond responded with some easy, meaningless phrase, and she was allowed to fade into the background until it was time for the steward to show her to the guest rooms.
A hot bath was ready, fragrant with mugwort and lavender, and it ought to have been relaxing, but Astor sat bolt upright in the beautiful wood and copper tub, arms crossed nervously across her chest.
“My lady,” Lanneth, her chief attendant, murmured, “you will not even get clean if you sit there all twisted up like that. Shall I put more wood on the fire?”
Astor let out a sharp sigh and forced herself to pick up a sponge. “No, it's not cold, not really.” Not like Duillond in November, when the storms capped the dark seas with white and the northeasterly winds bit to the bone.
After that she cooperated with the business of being groomed and dressed, and she sipped politely at a glass of very good wine that was brought for her. But when a knock came at the door, Astor's heart thundered in her chest, and she rose involuntarily, face going white.
“Your grandfather requests your presence in Lord Elrond's study, my lady. May I escort you?” The messenger was delicately featured and spoke very correctly.
“Thank you,” Astor answered, and she wished he would walk faster. There were seemingly a dozen corridors and stairs between the guest chambers and the study, and Astor thought they would never arrive.
“Is all to your satisfaction, my lady?” He broke the silence.
“Very much so, I am honored by such gracious hospitality.” Astor spoke in a quiet, measured voice, but it was just another formula, another part of the ritual.
But then they finally came to the study, and the messenger announced her and was dismissed. Her grandfather was sitting near the window, looking out, and Astor couldn't help looking at him with worry. He always overtaxed himself...
And Lord Elrond stood by the fireplace, looking a little quizzical. Apparently he had not yet been told what this discussion was about. “Lady Astorthel, I hope you are comfortable in my home.”
Astor opened her mouth, but Círdan spoke. “Not as comfortable as she will be yet, I hope. Never mind all the pleasantries, that is why I asked to speak to you alone. Elrond, I ask that you play host to my granddaughter.”
He looked very confused, the dark-haird Noldor lord. “Yes, I am delighted--”
“For a year and a day, if all goes well,” Círdan interrupted.
Dead silence followed, for now the matter was out in the open. A year and a day, the term of elven courtship. Astor kept her eyes firmly fixed on her hands, not wanting to see Elrond's face as he absorbed this extraordinary request. “I—Lord Círdan, I am greatly honored by this wish, and if the lady likes to stay here, that is well, but I am widowed and seek no-”
“That is exactly your problem,” Círdan said. He was in his impatient mood, as he became sometimes when no one else understood what was so plain to him, with his clear sight. “You had rather fade than accept that you have needs like the rest of us.”
“I do not think those needs an appropriate subject of discussion,” Elrond began stiffly.
“I do not mean your prick, oh virile Noldor prince,” Círdan said dryly. “I meant the ordinary needs of the heart. But I suppose both may be resolved in the same fashion if the matter goes apace.”
Oh, no, it was worse, he was in one of his vulgar moods, and Astor wished she could hide her face in her hands. What would Elrond think of her for sitting silently through this? And yet what could she say? If she said she did not like to hear about Lord Elrond's virile prick, that would be like denying the marriage bed before they even began the path. She wondered if Elrond was blushing. She could not bear look at him to see.
But Círdan continued calmly. “I have not lost my wit, Elrond. I have seen, and I make this request. I, Círdan Shipwright, whom your father once trusted to carry safely every hope of Middle Earth. I ask that you host my granddaughter, Astorthel, for a year and a day.”
There it was. He might say no still, but...
“Lady Astorthel,” Elrond said, very quietly, “may I speak to you alone?”
She gave two short nods, really more like jerks of her head. Círdan rose, groaning heavily, and said, “I'm going to go lie down in front of the fire like an old dog. You two enjoy yourselves. This is nice. This is a good day.”
He spoke with a sweet, earnest conviction that stifled her urge to yelp a protest at the idea of them “enjoying themselves” together. And Astorthel could not help a fond sigh as her grandfather left the room. “I would beg your pardon,” she said, when the door had closed behind him, “but I suppose you are as used to his ways as we are and know that he does not mean ill.”
“A little less used, I think,” Elrond answered, but there was a hint of humor in his voice. “Lady Astorthel, before we address the matter further, is this your wish?” He sounded incredulous. “You are very young--”
“I have three hundred springs.”
“You are very young,” he repeated, “and my wife passed when you were but a child. I cannot think how an elleth so fair would wish to enter into any kind of arrangement with an old ellon she does not know. Of course you are obedient to your grandfather as your lord, and I will tell him for you, if you will but speak the word. I will tell him I cannot possibly do as he asks.”
Finally, Astorthel lifted her eyes. “You ask if it is my wish. I can only say that...it is not against my wishes. I trust my grandfather.”
How simple she sounded. But she would not feign some girlish passion for him, nor would she pretend to more spirit than she had. Círdan Shipwright was wisest and most reverend, the protector and mainstay of Lindon, the last true lord of the Teleri. He had more foresight than any—even more the lord who now stood before the fireplace frowning at her.
She felt obligated to go on. “He asked me to only try. He said I would not be bound to continue, if we began. He said if we were patient and careful, the winds and water would either draw our boats together or push them apart.”
“That is true, but even if we are quiet about the matter, there is no sense in beginning unless our voyages are in the same direction, so to speak.”
“I do not know my boat's direction. My grandfather would not have asked this of me if I had a heart for someone or something else, I hope.” Astor looked up at him. “I am a musician, and I sing. I trained with the bards of Lothlorien for a century. I do not mean to say I am nothing and have no will. But I suppose we both know precisely who will build our last boats, and to which harbor they must ultimately sail.”
“I suppose we do know that.” Elrond sat down then, in a nearby chair—not too close. Still Astor was keenly aware of his presence, the heavy linens he wore and the faint smell of apothecary herbs that surrounded him.
“My lord, I do not ask you this. If it is not to your liking, I will go away very happy to have seen Imladris. I have heard of it often from the Lady Arwen, when I was in the Golden Wood. She liked to teach me songs from this place...” Her voice grew wistful in nostalgia for that simple, sweet time.
And Elrond's hard, frowning eyes relaxed just a little at those words. “Forgive me my curtness.”
“Grandfather's manners are contagious. Mother says he ruins servants for anyone but himself.”
Elrond smiled wryly. “But I imagine he has their loyalty for life. Lady Astorthel, I believe your company is to stay a fortnight here? Perhaps we may defer any further decisions until the appropriate moment arrives, if that meets with your approval.”
It didn't, not at all. He had only just found out about it, but she had been carrying it around in the pit of her stomach for months, wondering what would happen. How could she enjoy anything with that hanging over her head? But it was sensible, and she could not refuse. “Yes, of course, Lord Elrond. Thank you.”
***
Elrond could not help but doubt, a little, the insistence of Círdan's nap. He was sprawled on a settee in the Hall of Fire with a handkerchief over his face, and he ignored the servant's attempts to rouse him for the banquet. So Astorthel sat on Elrond's right, with Glorfindel on her other side. The twins were away hunting a band of renegade orcs well to the northwest, and they would not be home for some time.
The poor girl. She was so quiet, and he could not read her thoughts at all without a more invasive focus than would be proper. Glorfindel, who had not yet been told about Círdan's proposal, tried to draw her out with conversation about her journey from Lindon. But her words were few and halting, and Elrond felt her glancing nervously at him as though he were a dog that might bite.
I, Círdan Shipwright, ask this... Why? Because Elrond was in danger of fading? For some greater purpose? Because she was a likely girl and he a rich widower? He could not suspect Círdan of the last, and yet he ought to have been showing preference for his granddaughter, ought to have been trying to secure her an auspicious match, not handing her off to a bitter old war-lord with a grim warning about Fade.
At least he could treat her pleasantly. This was not her doing, and she was obviously uncomfortable as well. Elrond nodded to the lutist in the gallery who was playing. “Do you know this piece?”
“Yes, I think so. It is a shepherd's tune, in Lindon.” Astorthel blushed slightly. “But very lovely, and of course your musicians are so skilled as to call forth the higher spirit of the melody...”
It was almost funny watching her try and backtrack from what might have been perceived as an insult. “I will not ask a musician of the singing folk to praise our tunes, Lady Astorthel. No more than I would like to show Celebrimbor a bit of jewelry I had made.”
She smiled then. “I think these old melodies have more life to them than many of the compositions we labor long over. This song might have been plucked from the mountainside with a handful of heather.”
“I like that,” Glorfindel put in cheerfully. “Where do they get the drinking songs, from the wine cellar?”
“And hymns snatched down from the stars.” For the first time, Astorthel showed animation, and some color rose into her cheeks.
“And love songs gathered up like fallen flowers from moonlit gardens,” Glorfindel continued.
That made her go silent, and Elrond cleared his throat, seeking to steer away from the difficult matter. “There used to be an old fellow in the woods between Lindon and Bree, long ago. If you spoke with him long enough, everything became a song.”
“Oh, Iarwain Ben-adar.” Astorthel nodded. “I had to seek him out in order to be allowed my apprenticeship. It's a tradition, in Duillond. A bard begins by being asked to bring the Eldest's song. The songs are not any good, though, you know. Not if you listen to them afterwards.”
“No, I suppose not. Perhaps that is it—they are only songs for the moment, just as each breath of air marks its own moment. I remember there was strong magic in them.”
“Well, yes. There's a legend that he taught his songs to Lúthien Tinuviel, and that was why she was able to wield such power.”
Glorfindel responded, and the little hitch was successfully overcome. Elrond studied Astorthel, the way she spoke. She was stiff, but probably graceful enough when she was not sitting with the man her grandfather wanted to pass her off to like a gift of horseflesh. Her dark hair was an extraordinary blend of color that seemed to change with every movement of her head—chestnut and copper with bright threads of old gold. It was unique, almost like a roan mare, delightful in its irregularity.
Well, so she was a pretty child, though in fact her wide mouth was more clever and sensitive than pretty. And in suggesting they defer the decision, he had tacitly consented to at least consider the matter. She could speak intelligently, and she was certainly obedient. But the quiet confidence with which she had said that she trusted her grandfather did not speak of an ignorant or weak-minded impulse to conform.
She was terribly young. But perhaps that would not matter in time. It had not mattered with Celebrían. But Elrond had been younger then, his fires hotter. Surely he would make a hard and uncompromising husband for such a maiden.
Círdan was still pretending to snore in front of the fire when they proceeded into the hall for storytelling and song, and Astorthel rolled her eyes. “I humbly beg your forgiveness. He does this at home whenever talking to us bores him. I would have thought he still had manners enough to behave properly in society, but...”
“Grandfather Círdan has earned the right to lay his head anywhere in Eriador he likes,” Elrond said slyly, “and I suppose age has so enfeebled him that after a strenuous journey on horseback, he is as worn out as a little child. You might consider a palan--” He broke off, coughing, as Círdan abruptly thumped him in the stomach without sitting up.
“A child indeed. Don't test me, little lordling.” And after that, he would not say anymore.
But Astorthel was at least smiling, and Elrond led her to a quiet corner where they were not exactly hidden, but more private. “My lord,” Astorthel said softly, “you are a gracious host, but I am very happy to go and sit with my ladies.”
“Tomorrow,” he replied, “if that is your wish, though tomorrow I hope we may hear your music. Do you play the harp?”
“I play anything with strings,” she answered. “The fiddle first, but there is an instrument the luthiers of Mithlond have been perfecting of late, it is called the lira de braccio, and it gives a fuller range than the fiddle, but still the sweet, speaking tone.”
Then Astorthel fell silent, her gaze dropping to her hands. Elrond watched her, willing himself to lay aside the surprise and anger and dismay to see the elleth herself. “I was first taught the harp by Maglor,” he said, almost surprised at himself for offering the detail.
She looked up, and her big hazel eyes brightened with eager interest. “Did he teach you songs?”
Elrond nodded. “I will remember the songs of Maglor when all others have left me,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh, I wish...” But Astorthel trailed off shyly.
“What do you wish?” But he knew, already.
“I wish I could hear them,” she admitted. “His own songs. Just think, all the songs we have about the great ones who could sing magic. But we do not know the songs that they themselves sang. Just think if we could hear the song of your great foremother, Lúthien.”
“He would not have classed himself in such company,” Elrond said automatically. And he hesitated—but he had asked her wish, when he knew it would be this. He had already agreed, in a sense. “But I will share Maglor's music with you, Lady Astorthel. If only to make good your visit, which I think is not pleasant so far.” The last was rather stiff and correct, an effort to compensate for the intimacy.
And she felt the change in tone and drew herself up straighter. “Thank you, my lord, you are most gracious. But I have no complaint to make, to you or anyone else. Do forgive me, but I ought to get Grandfather to bed.” Astorthel rose, not meeting his eyes.
“I will do it. It will not be the first time.” And Elrond stood too. “I have wearied you too long with talk, and you have journeyed far today. I will make sure Lindir attends to any requests you may have.”
There was a rather strained look on Astorthel's face then, but she nodded and curtsied to him, then left the room, gathering up her ladies behind her. He had not made a success of that, then. Frowning, Elrond sent Lindir for a bottle of Old Dorwinion, and when it arrived, he waved the bottle under Círdan's nose. “Come on, you old fraud. We will have a nightcap.”
The tall, bearded lord was on his feet in a twinkling, and he laughed at Elrond's frown. “What, did you want to hear about harbor traffic all evening, Elrond? I gave you much more pleasant company.”
Elrond shook his head slightly and led the most reverend elf on Middle Earth to his study, where he poured him a generous glass of wine. “Why are you doing this?”
Círdan sniffed the vintage, but did not drink immediately. “A vessel that sails true will have balance, rhythm. You have been listing for some time, my friend.”
Elrond was also going to need a generous glass of wine for this conversation. “And is the girl some replacement sail for my vessel?” he snapped.
“If you like to be crass,” Círdan replied, offended, and Elrond remembered that for Círdan, talk of shipbuilding was holy.
“I spoke poorly. But why would you sacrifice this child of your line to my lack, even if I accept that there is one?”
“It is no wonder you have not found another wife if that is how you present the matter. Do you mean to ill-treat her?”
“I—I do not mean to ill-treat anyone, but that is not the point!” Elrond found himself foundering against the old Shipwright's great certainty.
“I did not choose Astorthel at random, Elrond. You might remember that I have scores of marriageable great-nieces and great-granddaughters too. I would have thought that judgment would be enough to recommend her. As for her age, none of my descendants wed before they have three centuries. She is old enough to choose.”
“And is this her choice? She said it is not against her wishes, and of course she wishes to obey you. But she did not say that she wishes to be wedded.”
“Oh, you have to look out for the ones who wish to be wedded,” Círdan said, frowning wisely. “They must usually be allowed to make themselves miserable at least once before they settle down. But this will be Astorthel's choice in the end, and yours. I am not some tyrannic relic of the elder days, forcing all the maidens of my house into marriage. I have asked her the same thing I ask you—that she stay here, and that the two of you let things proceed naturally.”
Then he took a drink and added, “Not too naturally. The last month of courtship is often given to bedplay, that is well known, but it is not auspicious to consummate the union before the full rites have been observed. And then you will enjoy it all the more.”
Hearing the ancient and lofty Círdan say “bedplay” was a horrible moment in Elrond's life. His head was spinning, and he hadn't drunk enough to blame the wine. Perhaps he ought to drink more to keep up with Círdan's absurd and yet somehow irrefutable discourse. Elrond drained his glass and poured another for both of them.
“As I have informed the lady, I will consider it for the next fortnight. You have forced my hand in this matter, and I do not appreciate that.”
Círdan laughed. “And if your hand were not forced, you would continue to wither away on your own, making the last outpost of the Noldor princes into some sort of monastery for old soldiers. You would have refused without meeting her, if I had written.”
That was certainly true, and so Elrond did not reply. But he did think, rather gently, of the maiden in the guest chambers, and he resolved to make the next fortnight pleasant for her.