SERIES: "The Passion of Celeborn" (1/WIP)
FIC: (Part One) "The End of Ennui"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: July 30, 2004
FANDOM:  LOTR
PAIRING: Celeborn / Eomer
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Tolkien, to the respective actors of the Peter Jackson movies, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS: Slash, but nothing graphic in Part One.
SUMMARY: Celeborn visits Minas Tirith.
DEDICATION: To PJ, who convinced us we would love the LOTR movies and love getting involved in the fandom. He was right.
AUTHOR NOTES: The inspiration for this story came from my Mirriam-Webster 365 New Words Calendar. The word for February 25, 2004 was "Ennui," defined as "a feeling of weariness and dissatisfaction; boredom; a feeling of jadedness that can result from living a life of too much ease." This seemed like a good way to describe an elf who had lived in the woods a little too long.

The End of Ennui

He slowly climbed the winding stairs of the citadel tower, taking his time, allowing his mind to wander as his legs carried him ever higher. He wanted to see the view from the highest point in Minas Tirith, gaze upon the Pelennor Fields where one of the great battles in the War of the Ring had taken place, see far across the land to the very borders of Mordor, from which he had secluded himself for so many years. He wanted to see if this view would make him feel anything, anything at all.

He walked through a short corridor and passed a stone arch, and there before him was an opening in the tower through which shone the rust of the late afternoon sun. He stepped forward and gazed out, taking in the wide panorama of Gondor.

The land was vast, so different from the intimate closeness and diffused lighting of his home in the Golden Wood. He found it slightly disturbing to look out at this sight, although not in a way a man would understand. He felt slightly exposed, and it wasn't the first time in the past week he had felt it. Even the journey to Gondor had been a new experience after living so long among the silver pillars of the mallorn trees in Lorien. Ever concealed by the golden canopy of these beautiful trees, rarely did more than a sliver of the sky intrude.

He waited to feel more than this slight discomfort, to feel something of the drama of that great war where men had risen above their own petty fears and weakness to take their place in what would be a new age; he wanted to feel the elation of the victory and the pain of so many lives lost.

He wanted to grieve.

He was Celeborn, one of the last great leaders of the elves. He had lived for so long he found he had forgot what it was like to grieve, even as he had forgot what it meant to rejoice. He had for too long faded into a sense of ennui, so that even the incredible events of the War of the Ring had barely touched him. And now, having come to Minas Tirith to witness the crowning of the new king, he held a sense of expectation -- of hope -- that he might be affected enough by his surroundings to be shaken awake again. And he cared not that being so shaken would expose him first of all to the incredible pain of loss.

Before the war had descended on Gondor, the people of Rohan had put up an impossible defense in a place called Helm's Deep. And when it seemed they would be defeated by Saruman's army, Elrond of Rivendell had called for the elves of Middle Earth to stand up and fight alongside men again, as they had in an earlier age. A force of elves marched to Helm's Deep and fought that long night in the rain; and many of them died there.

And one of those was Haldir.

Haldir had long served as one of the captains defending the lands of Lothlorien surrounding the great city of Caras Galadhon. He was an especially courageous and intelligent elf, attentive to his duty and dedicated to his Lord, Celeborn. This dedication went beyond his willingness to roam the golden woods and guard against predators and enemies. This dedication extended to more intimate tasks. And in the years he had so served, these tasks, which at first had been merely a duty and an honor, came finally to be a great pleasure.

The death of an elf is no small thing, for elves are immortal. Undisturbed, their lives may go on and on without any glimpse of a finish. Even now, at the nadir of their time in Middle Earth when so many were choosing to sail away to the Undying Lands, the elves could elicit awe and sometimes fear from the men who succeeded them. And for an elf to die in defense of men was a momentous event that harkened back to times that for some were memory, but for most were mere legend.

When Celeborn had arrived in Minas Tirith, Elessar had taken him aside and spoken to him of the death of Haldir. Elessar had seen him fall, the victim of two Uruk-Hai who had breached the walls of the ancient stronghold, and by the time he had reached him, Haldir was already gone. While the two conversed in the Elven tongue of Sindarin, Celeborn could sense the pain of the soft-spoken man known to his own kind as Aragorn, the man who would soon be crowned King of the West. Aragorn had been raised with elves and loved the daughter of Elrond, so he knew the significance of Haldir's death, or at least he believed he did.

"He was my companion," Celeborn said in Sindarin.

Elessar bowed his head, making the sign of respect. "I am deeply sorry."

Celeborn's wife, the Lady Galadriel, had given Aragorn the name Elessar. Both Celeborn and Galadriel had sheltered the members of the Fellowship for a time in Lorien as they traveled on their impossible journey to destroy the One Ring. Now, months later, with Sauron and the ring both destroyed, Galadriel was prepared to leave Middle Earth forever.

Celeborn was not.

The reddish tint of the sky was darkening, and a vast shadow was creeping across the plain. Soon it would be night and then the sky would brighten again with twinkling celestial bodies not often glimpsed from his flet in Lorien. He wanted to stand and watch from this spot as day became night; it would be interesting to witness the shifting of light, although it might take several hours. If there was anything he personified as one of the oldest living things in Middle Earth, it was patience.

If he could stand here for long enough, he might be able to force himself to feel something more stirring than a kind of mild melancholy over the death of Haldir and the impending departure of Galadriel. Had he not loved them both? Did he not love them still?

He imagined the hand of Haldir on his face, a face buried in the silken veil of Haldir's hair. He remembered long days and nights of shared intimacy during which he had sometimes been delivered from the grip of his numbing indifference, if only for an instant.

He thought of the caresses of his lovely wife and of her courage and wisdom. And he thought of her devotion to the Fellowship and her obsession with seeing them succeed, something he had not actively shared. What this strange collection of men, hobbits, a dwarf and an elf had accomplished was in the end, nothing short of miraculous. But it did not fill him with awe.

There was nothing in any of this to awaken his spirit.

He had to shield his eyes slightly as the sun reached a point where it was slipping behind the mountains. "Excuse me," said a voice behind him. He turned and tried to focus, but even his strong elven eyesight was temporarily blinded by the fierce sunset.

He heard an intake of breath, and the face and form of a young man began to take focus. "Excuse me, sir," said the man, "but I've never seen anything so beautiful."

"The sunset from here is intense," he said.

"I didn't mean the sunset . . . I meant you."

"Me?"

Celeborn's eyebrows raised as he took in the man standing behind him. He was not quite as tall as Celeborn himself, but well built and impressive looking. His light hair was as long as an elf's, but it hung in tousled waves around his strong shoulders, and his close-trimmed beard, darker than his hair, gave distinction to his fine features. Even through that beard Celeborn could make out a sensual mouth, with supple lips covering good, strong teeth. The eyes that reflected back the gold of the setting sun were an intense hazel, and they were shaded by fine, dark brows. This was a handsome man.

Celeborn's nostril's quivered. The man smelled of horse.

"I meant no offense," the man said.

"Offense?" Was he referring to the horsy scent?

"I see you are an elf, and I've had little contact with elves. But I've never seen one with such an elegant face and lustrous hair. I forget myself -- I should go," the man said, starting to turn away.

"No," Celeborn commanded. "I want you to stay."

The man hesitated, his brow furrowing. He was clearly someone used to giving orders, not taking them. Undoubtedly he was one of the warriors who had helped to defeat Sauron.

"I am Lord Celeborn of Lorien," Celeborn announced gravely.

"I am Eomer, son of Eomund, and heir to Theoden."

This, then, was the new King of Rohan.

Something inside Celeborn stirred, something he had not felt in many years.

He was suddenly reminded of the passion of the people known as man, of their capacity for emotion and their tenacity of spirit. Men both loved and hated fiercely, and they coupled with as much violence as they made war. Celeborn had always had a fascination for men, and he had occasionally taken one to his bed, always a deeply satisfying experience, despite being somewhat disquieting.

Now as he faced the young King, Celeborn felt his ennui dissipate with the waning sunlight. He wanted this man, this seemingly unwashed horse-lord, commander of the fearless Riders of Rohan. He wanted to touch his sun-burnished skin and run his fingers through the thick, tangled hair. He wanted to press against the full lips and taste the flavor of a man once again.

He wished the man could read his thoughts, so he wouldn't have to try to give voice to his desires.

And then young Eomer reached out to him and clamped strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him forward. Celeborn made a sound of protest just as the dark beard rubbed his cheek and Eomer's groping mouth managed to find his lips.

Evidently no words were necessary.

"Forgive me, Lord," said the young king, gasping for ragged breaths. "But I have never been so moved by anyone."

"You are forgiven," Celeborn answered. "Now you may accompany me to my chamber."

Celeborn, now oblivious to the approaching dusk, was far less aware of the journey down the winding staircase than he had been of the climb up. The young king gripped one of Celeborn's hands in his own and nearly dragged him along.

Celeborn's awakened senses could only anticipate the passion awaiting him.

The End, Part One