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It is only for a few years, and Caranthir is careful. When he rides to Brethil he takes one of the smaller Sindar horses and trades his family’s colors for something more nondescript. He packs his gifts for Haleth and her people in unassuming saddlebags and wears the deepest hood possible to cover his face and hair and ears. He never visits for festivals, or for feasts. He slips into the settlement at night and spends his time as inconspicuously as possible: at first, drunk on loving Haleth; later, warm in her witty company; in the end, holding her as she fades. Those rationed touches and conversations are everything to him: their bond burns, and after she dies, it aches.
Celeborn is the only one who knows.
He catches Caranthir riding home, after one of his early visits. He is outside the borders of Doriath, certainly, but close enough to be a source of wonder and concern. Fëanorian intrusions into Thingol’s territory have largely ceased, but this single, purposeful horseman surely bodes no good. Celeborn is alone, but he is secure in his own strength. This son of Fëanor is not enough, on his own, to cause him harm.
When he is challenged, Caranthir’s eyes go wide and wild and frightened. Caught off his guard, his mind is vulnerable, and Celeborn sifts it easily, lifting images of the fierce-eyed woman, the small village, the tender moments in the fire’s light like leaves to be turned and examined and appraised for risk. He is amused, and somewhat surprised. Dour Caranthir’s reputation precedes him, and he is the last Fëanorian that Celeborn would have suspected of such an ill-advised attachment.
Against his better judgment, he also feels some kinship with this startled, stammering cousin of his. Celeborn’s pursuit of Finarfin’s daughter is frowned upon in the inner circles of Doriath’s court. She is wild, and willful, and her involvement in the disaster at Alqualondë remains unclear. Such an entanglement, it is felt, is unsuitable for a cousin of the King. Celeborn knows his own mind, and he has no intention of being dissuaded from his courtship, but it will be slow, and careful, and long. It irks him, but they have all the time in the world.
Caranthir does not.
Celeborn is not often given to impulsive decisions; he is generally calm and methodical and restrained. But there is something in Caranthir’s eyes, and in the whirlwind of his anxious mind, that touches him deeply. Whatever foolishness – and it is foolishness – this awkward middle child of a troublesome family has gotten into, it has changed him. His heart is unbalanced, and he is teetering on the edge of despair.
Celeborn allows Caranthir to pass. They meet again, occasionally, on his trips to and from the Haladin settlement, sometimes sharing a meal in the forest, or exchanging news of the broader world over a bottle of Caranthir’s excellent wine. It is not quite a friendship, but it is a tie of some kind. As the years pass, they ease into comfort with one another, and when Haleth dies, it is in Celeborn’s arms that Caranthir weeps. Only once, but bitterly, furiously, drowning in grief. That is the last of their meetings, and like the others, it remains a secret. Celeborn tells no one, and Caranthir takes his silence to the grave.
When the evil news comes from Doriath, Celeborn bites down on his rage. He savors the demise of Celegorm and Curufin, who have overreached and bullied and bludgeoned their last. A shiver of foresight sparks in his throat, and he knows that Maedhros and Maglor and the twins will meet their own dark ends, and soon. The House of Fëanor has truly fallen, and he cannot find it in himself to pity them.
But for Caranthir -- his lonely kinsman, his almost friend -- for Caranthir, Celeborn grieves.