I own nothing.
I.
They came to the Havens of Sirion a band of ragged, starving band of refugees, but she came with her head held high, and there was no one who would have denied Idril Celebrindal her rights. The Gondolindrim already called her 'Queen', their clear-eyed, level-headed lady. What few Noldor lived in the Havens were leaderless refugees, from Nargothrond or Hithlum or Dorthonion, or even from the east where the surviving sons of Fëanor still held sway. They chafed under Sindarin rule. Idril might have preferred a different reason for why they were so willing to accept her as their leader, but this was as good a reason as any.
The Isle of Balar was another matter entirely. For the acceptance of the Noldor there, she would need Galadriel's support.
Anyone who knew Galadriel well knew that she was ambitious, that she was a great leader when given the chance to be one. They knew that she wanted to rule. Idril had not seen Galadriel since she was a growing girl, and she knew that much about her. She was not without charisma, at least the Noldor thought so (The Sindar Idril had spoken with were significantly more ambivalent concerning the lady).
But Galadriel's chance to gain leadership of the Noldor as a whole had long since passed her by. Many of the Noldor resented the fact that she had resided in safety in Doriath until it was ruined, paying no mind to the refugees clamoring at the borders of the forest, only for Thingol to turn them away. Why had she not protested? Why had she not done more to help them? Many of the Noldor muttered that Galadriel had no right to the High Kingship of her people, when she had abandoned those same people long ago. 'More Doriathrin than Noldorin, now.'
(With the discomfort that came with clarity, Idril knew that much of what applied to Galadriel applied also to herself. No one muttered against her. No one said that she was 'more Gondolindrim than Noldorin.' No one said that she had abandoned her people, that she had dwelled in safety in Gondolin while the Noldor outside starved; the fact that there were many Noldor living in Gondolin had probably helped. There was certainly muttering against Turgon to the same effect as there were against Galadriel—How dare he call himself High King; where was he when we were alone and desolate in the wilderness?—but none against Idril. The Noldor seemed to think that Idril, as a properly obedient daughter, could do nothing but obey her daughter, but she still looked upon the refugees who had been living in the Havens since long before and felt guilt. She would have to do more for them than her father had done.)
Galadriel was no fool. She had to see that she would never be Queen, not of all the Noldor. But that didn't mean that she couldn't become a rival, if she so wished. Thus the need for this meeting.
Idril smiled as the small ship came ashore. Galadriel stepped down off of the gangplank, looking as tall and proud and unbowed as she had when Idril had last seen her, over four hundred years ago. "Cousin Artanis," she greeted her.
The older nís's expression was unreadable as she approached, but Idril knew that there were a number of things that Galadriel could not possibly have missed. She couldn't have missed the fact that Idril greeted her in Quenya instead of Sindarin, and pure Quenya at that, not the strange amalgamation of Quenya and Mithrim Sindarin that had proliferated in Gondolin. She could not have missed that Idril had had her meet her outside of the Havens of Sirion (Galadriel had been barred from living within the Havens when the Iathrim first arrived; Idril had been unable to discover why), instead of Idril agreeing to meet with Galadriel on Balar. Galadriel could not have missed the retinue of Noldorin nobles standing behind Idril, survivors from Gondolin and Nargothrond—not large enough to make this meeting humiliating for Galadriel, but large enough that their purpose as witnesses was readily apparent. She could not have missed the diamond-crusted gold coronet on Idril's head.
They stared at one another in silence for what seemed like an eternity (Though it could only have been a moment). Idril stood with her hands held out, palms up and empty, and in spite of herself, she felt thoroughly awkward.
The two nissi both wore plain linen clothes, the best summer garments refugees could afford. They were both thin, the tell of exiles bereft of their home, living poorly compared to what they were used to. But Galadriel still had that remote, distant dignity about her, the pride of a daughter of the House of Finwë. She seemed untouched in her heart by all the tragedies she met with. Idril could not say the same of herself.
But then, Galadriel's lips curled in an expression of wry approval. She rested her hands on top of Idril's much smaller ones, and murmured, "Greetings, my Queen."
Idril beamed.
II.
Balar was harrowing.
There was no other word for it; Balar was truly harrowing. The Havens of Sirion were what was kindly referred to a as a "new city", and what was less kindly and more realistically referred to as a "glorified refugee camp." Its walls were only thirty years old, and yet they began to crumble; Idril had asked about them, and was appalled to discover that, in the builders' haste, only certain sections of the walls had even been built with foundations of any kind. The ground was soft and Sirion didn't possess the resources (or the leisure) to rebuild them.
But Balar was worse. Balar was a city of tents with only a few stone structures; Idril was struck with a horrid stench as her ship docked, a stench she recognized as that of latrine trenches. She remembered the smell from the camps in Mithrim during the early years of the Noldor's Exile; she felt as though she was a small child once again. There was also the matter of the wounded.
Idril was truly thankful that she had not arrived at the coast just after the Nirnaeth. From what Círdan told her, the numbers of wounded residing on Balar in those days was massive; the whole isle was covered with a pall of misery. These days, those who numbered the wounded here were those refugees recently arrived from the north, the east, and yes, Gondolin. Idril visited the houses in which they were being healed, cared for, or simply allowed to die in greater comfort than they would have found outside.
"It reminds me of Mithrim," Tuor muttered in her ear, looking with sympathy on those unlucky enough to be housed in these dark, low-roofed buildings. The houses of the wounded were among the few stone structures on Balar, but no one envied those who lived there, Eldar or Edain.
"You too?" Idril murmured, watching as a child sat down at her mother's beside and gave the nís her noontime ration.
Tuor actually smiled, albeit grimly and briefly. "In the Grey-Elves' camp, we would occasionally find Noldor who had escaped the purge in Hithlum; they were rarely in good shape. Mother—" and by this Idril knew he meant Gilrin, not Rían "—was a healer, and she would have me help her as much as I could. I didn't learn very much, but it left me with long-lasting memories."
Beside him, Egalmoth looked more than a little green. He fixed his gaze on Idril and bowed briefly. "I… Your Highness…"
"You're excused, Egalmoth."
He nodded gratefully and left. Idril grimaced. She had forgotten that Egalmoth, for all that he was a seasoned warrior, was very easily and deeply affected by others' suffering. She herself had learned to change what she could and stomach what she could not, but not everyone was the same.
Tuor left not long after Egalmoth, saying that the two of them would go ahead and look for Círdan—Idril had come to Balar to speak with him. That left Idril alone with Galadriel, who looked at the injured with such a determinedly impassive face that Idril winced. She wondered how many times Galadriel had been in these houses.
"I don't know what to do to help them," Idril admitted, flinching as someone in the back corner, cloaked by shadows, wailed. "For their injuries, I mean."
As High Queen, there were any number of things Idril could do for the Noldor. Even without the great wealth that her father, uncle and grandfather had possessed, Idril could arrange things to help them. She could forge alliances, could cooperate with the local Sindar to improve the lives of the Noldor; it helped that Círdan, at least, held no hostility in his heart towards the Gondolindrim, and that many of the Gondolindrim were Sindar or had Sindarin blood.
But here, there were people in suffering, and Idril could do nothing to help. Idril did not know how to heal. As of the Fall of Gondolin, she had taken far more lives than she had saved. It was like watching Elenwë sink, like listening to Aredhel as she struggled even to breathe, like pleading with Turgon to come away with them, and watching as the tower in which he stood collapsed.
Galadriel put a hand on her shoulder. "Then follow me, and I will show you what I can."
III.
Idril was amazed, sometimes, that of all of the members of the Doriathrin royal family that could have survived Doriath's fall, it was little Elwing. Not Dior, the king, nor Nimloth, the queen, nor even the little princes, but Elwing. A tiny girl, frail and nearly silent, was now the High Queen of the Sindar. Certainly, Oropher in Sirion and Celeborn on Balar divided the authority of the position between them for as long as Elwing was a child, but she still bore the weight of it on her shoulders. It seemed cruel, honestly.
Idril was amazed also by how little resistance there was when she began to draw closer to Elwing, and Elwing to her. Many of the Iathrim in the Havens of Sirion were suspicious of the Noldor, even of the Gondolindrim who had played no part in Doriath's fall. She would have thought that more of Elwing's people would have had objections to the idea of her forming any kind of closeness to the Noldorin Queen. However, those who were able to bear witness barely noticed when Idril began seeking out the company of the little Sindarin sovereign.
And finally, it amazed Idril how many different ways those around her had for treating Elwing.
Eärendil was delighted to have a playmate his own age, and Idril was delighted to see that Elwing had warmed up to her son, in her own way. Sometimes, she would look out of a window in what the residents of Sirion called the "palace", look out onto the street below and see the two of them playing there, under Erestor or Nellas or Thranduil's supervision. Sometimes, she would look outside and see Voronwë trying his hardest to carry the two of them on his shoulders at the same time. If the window was open, she could hear Eärendil giggling and pleading with his "uncle" to carry them just a little further. Elwing frankly looked a little nervous at being so high up off of the ground, but Voronwë kept a steady arm around the girl, and there was no danger of either Elwing or Eärendil falling off.
Idril was continuing to make trips back and forth between Balar, and nowadays, though she would have wished it otherwise, she was taking Eärendil with her. The isle was in better shape than it was, now that the influx of refugees had lessened a bit (Idril had also sent some of the surviving Gondolindrim healers to the island), but it was by no means a safe place, or a happy one. Eärendil had already been subjected to the sort of early unhappiness that Idril knew all too well; she had no desire to subject him to any more. But he was her son, and she was the last mother who could be seen to be sheltering her child from life's unpleasantness. It was of some surprise to Idril when she was approached by one of the Sindarin lords, asking that Elwing and her escort be ferried over to the island as well. Idril wondered whether this was Lady Duileth or her husband Oropher's idea; it certainly wasn't Elwing's.
Galadriel seemed not to know what to do with the child; she held herself remote from Elwing, and sometimes, Idril would catch her looking at the girl's black curls with an air of sadness about her.
Eärendil had taken to Círdan like a fish to water, and the feeling seemed to be mutual, but the things Círdan considered useful to teach small children were a bit too rough for frail children such as Elwing. Galdor, whom Idril had left on Balar as representative of the Gondolindrim there, was much the same. The only difference was that Círdan noticed when Elwing was tiring out, while Galdor did not.
Celeborn could not be trusted to be alone with Elwing. If left to his own devices, he would do his best to spoil her shamelessly. From what Idril understood, Nimloth had been Celeborn's niece, so as with Duileth and her son, he was Elwing's kin. "The House of Elmo does not abandon their own," Duileth always said fiercely. Celeborn seemed the same. Galadriel would also mutter that she shuddered to think of what her husband would be like if they ever had a daughter, making Idril laugh.
Nellas would sit with Elwing, teaching her about plants and edible roots and tubers she could find in forests, if ever she needed to. Idril wasn't sure how much of these lessons Elwing remembered later. Thranduil sometimes popped up behind the two, and he and Nellas would sit together drinking out of a single flask, long after Elwing was gone.
Tuor called the girl 'little Star-queen.' Idril would have laughed at such casual blasphemy out of his lips, but always stopped short to see the way Elwing's solemn little face lit up when he called her that. Her husband treated Elwing exactly the same as he would have had she been his own daughter.
And sometimes, sometimes Elwing would come up and lean against Idril's side. Saying nothing, she would lean into the older nís, shutting her eyes as thin lines appeared on her forehead. Idril would stroke her hair gently, and she wouldn't try to ask what had the girl needing such comfort. She felt as though she already knew.
IV.
Eärendil was ten when Idril noticed his passion for sailing. Círdan had mentioned it to her during one of her visits to Balar, but she did not notice until nearly a year and a half after he made the comment.
"Mother, look!" he called gleefully from the shallows, rowing the coracle he had woven out of reeds. Eärendil waved at her, his blue eyes gleaming like stars under the light of Vása. Elwing sat in the coracle behind him, cheeks pink, seeming to be caught between elation and terror at every tremor of the craft.
Idril waved back. "Yes, sweetheart, I see it! It's very good."
"Compliment me," Voronwë muttered in her ear. "I helped him make it."
Without looking, Idril waved her hand backwards and slapped him on the chest. "Oh, hush," she said with a laugh, which took whatever sting there could have been in her reproof out of the words (And the slap). "Do you want him to hear you? Let him have his fun."
"I mean no offense, Lady Idril," he responded with a laugh of his own.
They watched the children as Eärendil paddled in the water and Elwing did her best not to fall out of the back. As she watched them, Idril felt her smile falter.
Círdan and Voronwë were already giving Eärendil sailing lessons. Though Idril found it amusing that their first lesson had been, quite simply, Don't fall over the side of the boat, her amusement gave way easily to darker thoughts.
After the Nirnaeth, her father had become obsessed with the idea of sending mariners to Aman to seek the aid of the Valar. Even knowing about the Ban, Turgon had the ships that Círdan built for him staffed with mariners of Noldorin blood. He was so desperate to call upon the Valar for aid that he would even subject his mariners to the treacherous journey of finding the Straight Road—in retrospect, Idril knew that she should have taken that desperation as a sign of things to come. She was not her aunt, who could keep Turgon grounded even through his darkest times, and she could not remember what her mother may or may not have done to soothe her father's worries. Besides, Turgon so rarely showed that side of himself to his daughter. She could only watch, and make plans of her own.
Voronwë was one of the mariners Turgon had sent forth. Indeed, he was the only one who ever returned, and this could not even be attested to his skill, as he often recounted of his rescue by the Vala Ulmo from certain death. The others had all vanished; the most anyone ever found of them was suspiciously familiar driftwood.
As Eärendil grew, would he join those mariners in a fruitless search for Aman? Would he sail west, searching for the Straight Road, never to return? Would the driftwood left of his ship be all Idril had of him?
She prayed that he would not do this. The Valar would not help them. Even Ulmo, who claimed to love the Noldor still, had not actually done anything of substance in helping them. It seemed plain to Idril that the Valar had abandoned the Noldor long ago. They should not count on them to save them.
The Eldar spoke of sea-longing. More specifically, the Noldor who dwelled on the coast spoke of sea-longing. There were some who, upon coming to live beside the sea, could not bear to part from it. When they went inland, they dreamt of crashing waves and the cries of gulls; they knew no contentment until they returned to the seaside. These Noldor would find themselves trapped staring west. There were whispers that this was a curse set down by Mandos, dooming them to ever long for what they could not have, dooming them to long for Aman even though they had fled it over five hundred years ago. From what Idril knew of the Doomsman, she wouldn't have put it past him.*
Idril felt no sea-longing herself. She had no desire in her heart for the sea, nor for Aman; she simply happened to live on the coast. She had been born in Aman, had her half-formed memories of that place, but she did not understand the others when they said that Aman was so much better than Endóre. Perhaps when they all clung to the edge of Beleriand and feared ruin every day of their lives, Idril could understand it, but even at the height of Gondolin's glory, her people spoke of Endóre as a blighted place. In her memories, Aman was no better. In her memories, Aman was full of strife. Was Endóre really so much worse?
A few years later, a ship would come to dock in Sirion. Tuor came to her laughing and told her to go down to the docks. When Idril set foot on the quays, she saw a ship fresh from Balar, and there was Eärendil standing before the helm, waving at her. Just as she had done when he sailed reed coracles in the shallows, Idril waved back. She wondered if there would come the day when he would sail away, and she would not see him again.
V.
Penlodh and Teithril had both lost their lives when Gondolin was sacked; Idril had even borne witness to the latter's death. At times, however, though she had lost Penlodh's determination and Teithril's fierce inquisitiveness, she felt as though she had not lost either of them at all. Today was such a time, when their son sat across from her, scribbling furiously on parchment while the two Sindarin historians who had accompanied him watched on in amusement.
At least Idril was not the only one Pengolodh had called to meet with him today. Besides the Sindarin historians (Aduial and Himben by name), there was Egalmoth, Erestor, Melglir of the Mithrim and Duilin's daughters, Raumolírë and Curulírë, both of whom had survived the fall of Gondolin, even if their father had not. Idril wondered briefly why Pengolodh had not called for Tuor as he often did, but shelved the question, supposing that no doubt her husband was happy to be spared. Each one of them seemed more than a little impatient to be somewhere else, especially Erestor, who was fidgeting in his seat and giving Pengolodh an exasperated look. Idril got the impression that Erestor had some lore-related business of his own that he had been looking to attend to today.
Truth be told, Idril rarely had the sort of time that Pengolodh seemed to consider appropriate for his interviews. She rarely understood why he was so intent on gathering the information that he was. To be fair, she understood why he was attempting to preserve the Cirth writing system—even in Doriath, the Fëanorian Tengwar had quickly become the preferred alphabet once it was introduced, and Eldar who commonly wrote in Cirth were becoming scarce indeed. If Cirth was not preserved, it would only be a matter of time before no one was still alive to remember it. But as for the rest…
Well, perhaps it would be best to ask him directly.
"Pengolodh?" Though she was fairly certain that she was already sitting up straight, Idril straightened in her chair as she looked at the younger nér. "May I ask you a question?"
There was a distinctly startled look in his brown eyes. Whether it was from being spoken to instead of first speaking, or that his Queen would actually ask permission to question him, Idril didn't know. "Yes, your Highness," he stammered, and Idril marveled at how much Pengolodh looked like a different person when his confident assurance left him. "Of course."
"Why do you consider it so important to record history the way you do? Do the memories of our people not suffice?"
Pengolodh looked momentarily affronted, and beside her Idril heard Egalmoth snort at the look on the historian's face, saw out of the corner of her eye as Erestor smirked slightly (If without malice). But after that moment passed, Pengolodh seemed to overcome whatever offense he might have taken at Idril's question. It would not do to lose his temper with the High Queen of the Noldor, after all.
"The memories of the Eldar, Calaquendi and Moriquendi—" Aduial frowned at him when the word 'Moriquendi' passed Pengolodh's lips "—alike are not perfect, your Highness." His confidence had returned; in fact, he sounded very much like a schoolmaster giving a lesson to his students. "We do forget things, and what we remember we do not always remember with clarity. And if everyone who experienced the splendor of Gondolin departs from these shores, who will there be to remember it? Passing on stories whose details can change shape at any time is not enough; it must be set in stone."
Idril raised an eyebrow. "And you do not fear that your words might be biased?"
Pengolodh's answer was immediate, and frankly rather damning. "Not at all."
This drew some snorts and titters from his audience (though Idril did not indulge in such a display), and Pengolodh's face grew very red as a result. Idril had read some of Pengolodh's drafts, and knew that he had a tendency to lionize some, while treating others with far less kindness than they deserved. And goodness knows he had also the tendency to cast Gondolin as though it was a city whose bliss was on par with Valmar, something that Idril knew very well was not true. However, Idril looked at the sheepish smile now stealing over the historian's face, and was reassured by the fact that he at least seemed to be aware of his biases.
Pengolodh cleared his throat and straightened his papers before going on. "What I mean, your Highness, is this. Our memories are not perfect, and there may come a time when for the past, there is no one left to remember. So I ask our people to tell me their tales, their memories. I listen to their stories, and record them." His dark eyes shined as he went on, "I can not think of any story that I do not enjoy hearing. It is of utmost importance to listen to what they have to say."
Though Idril doubted he ever intended it like that, she found Pengolodh's words to be excellent advice for herself as a ruler.
"I wish you would just listen to me!"
"I am listening to you, Irissë," Turgon retorted, if in significantly gentler tones than what his sister used.
She shook her head sharply, furious color starting to rise in her cheeks. "No, you're not. You hear what I say, but your heart is never open. You hear what I say but you don't listen, Turukáno. If you did, we wouldn't still be having this conversation!"
"I could say the same of you, Sister; when was the last time—" His voice trailed off, as he noticed Idril standing at the end of the hallway for the first time.
Idril didn't know what had given her away. Her father and her aunt had seemed to believe themselves alone in the hallway while they argued, but suddenly they both spotted her, and whatever words they had died on their lips. Idril knew how hard they tried not to argue in front of her, even though she was a grown nís and there was theoretically no harm in it. Even so, the echoes of their words reverberated in her ears long after they had both fallen silent.
So Idril Celebrindal began to ask, to question, to listen, all things she had thought she was doing before, but realized that she really hadn't at all. If someone on Balar, Noldo or Sinda or otherwise, had an accent she couldn't place, she would ask them where they were from. She asked them what their home had been like, why they were here now. The story of why they were here was mostly the same—their homeland had fallen to Morgoth's advance, they could no longer live at home in safety—but there was always something a little different. They would share some feature that was unique to them—a memory of sunlight reflecting on pots and pans, the sound of water babbling in a creak, the whisper of wind through the branches of a tree that only whispered in that exact way for that exact tree. And now it was all gone.
It wasn't all doom and gloom and grief, of course, the things she learned. Idril learned the names of everyone who worked in the palace, for both the Noldorin court and the Sindarin one, from the highest of lords to the kitchen servants, and after much labor committed them to memory. She learned recipes and songs, and where both had come from. She learned styles of poetry that she had never known existed before, and she heard more childhood stories told by fond parents and giggling siblings than she could even remember. When she heard these stories, she would carry them back to Eärendil and Elwing, hoping that they would know something of peace and safety, even if it only came down to them in stories.
But it still struck her how much had been lost. Idril had never thought very much about everything she had lost. There were always more important things to do than mope; she didn't have time to wallow in grief. Her losses formed an abyss at her feet, but she had no intention of jumping. All the same, she saw even more what Pengolodh meant about the value of recording history that could so easily be lost.
Just before her wedding, a jewel-smith in Gondolin named Enerdhil had given her a brooch with a clear green stone in it that he called the Elessar. When one looked through the stone, they saw the aged, the wearied, the marred as young and whole again. Enerdhil, still in mourning for a child five hundred years dead, told her that he had originally made it for himself, but had decided to give it to Idril instead.
Idril had never used it the way the smith had said she could. She had never given it to anyone else to use it in that fashion either, even if they had come to Sirion or Balar having lost everything they cared about. Idril knew the dangers of lingering in the past. She used the Elessar as a cloak clasp; she knew its value well enough not to simply put it away and forget it. Still…
"Enerdhil."
The smith looked up when Idril came to stand in the doorway of his home, blocking the light of the setting sun behind her. He gathered up his cane before standing and bowing (shallowly and awkwardly, and Idril forgave it for she knew that if he bowed any more deeply he was running the risk of falling over); Enerdhil had walked with a limp ever since being wounded at the Battle of the Lammoth, she knew that. He looked tired, but he often looked tired. "Lady Idril," he said quietly to her. "What brings you to my home?"
"I was wondering," she murmured, "why you made the Elessar."
His face creased in pain, and Idril held up a hand. "I know of your grief, Enerdhil. I know that you wished to remember. But I doubt that this jewel—" she rested her hand across the Elessar "—for all of its power, has the ability to conjure images of the dead. So why did you craft it? Why did you pour such power into it?"
Enerdhil frowned in contemplation, sitting back down in his chair. He rubbed at his forehead, keeping his other hand clasped firmly on the handle of his cane. Finally, he looked at her, and asked, "When I made it, I had hoped that it would do just what you had suggested. I had hoped that it would allow me to remember, without the veil of time over my eyes. In my place, would you have done differently?"
She had no words with which to answer him.
VI.
It was not always the easiest thing to bear, the idea that she was working to rehabilitate the position she now inhabited. It was even harder for Idril to parse the idea that she had to work to rehabilitate the position on account of the way her father had behaved when he was High King. Turgon had kept the gates of Gondolin shut to all but a very few, even as High King of the Noldor, and after the Bragollach, after the Nirnaeth, after the fall of Hithlum, Dorthonion, Himlad, Himring, Thargelion, and all of the other Noldorin realms, he had not opened his gates to his people. Even in the face of so much suffering, Gondolin remained shut up and unknown. Idril sometimes sensed resentment in the voices of those who spoke of Gondolin, but had never seen its splendor. She did not have to wonder if she was imagining the resentment in their voices as they spoke of her father.
She knew that if Turgon had ever laid eyes on the refugees, he would never have been able to turn his back on them. Idril knew her father. He could harden his heart under dire circumstances as most could, but only to a point. In the face of such suffering, being forced to look upon it with his own eyes, he would not have been able to turn them away.
Unfortunately, it had never come to that, and Turgon had been a good king to Gondolin, but a poor ruler to the Noldor at large. Though that had never been his intention (there were days when Idril honestly wondered if her father would have been happier, had he never been called on to rule), he had wronged the Noldor. Listening to the woes of the Noldor, offering redress when she could and sympathy when she could not, this was what Idril did to rectify that wrong. She hoped that the day would come when her people could see Turgon the way she did, and for now, she addressed the wrongs that had been done to them.
Sometimes, avenues were opened up that she would have preferred not to walk down.
There was a grizzled old soldier, a Noldo named Bainor with dark skin and a scarred, shaven head, who had but one eye. He lived in a tiny house near the palace; Idril saw him practically every time she ventured outside. Though she knew that there was a limit to what she could politely ask of others, eventually Idril's curiosity overcame her, and one day, she sat down beside him on his stoop and asked him how he had lost his right eye.
Bainor, as she discovered, had been a captain under both her grandfather and her uncle. He had fought in the Dagor Bragollach and was one of the few of Fingon's company to escape the destruction of the Nirnaeth. "That was where I lost my eye, your Highness. I was struck by an Orc while defending the King; he ordered that I be taken away from the battlefield, to safety." Grief stole over his face. "I lost far more than an eye that terrible day."
They spoke more, after that. At first, Idril asked Bainor about his family—a cousin who lived on Balar, a sister who had perished in the Nirnaeth (And Idril learned never to ask him about the Nirnaeth again, for the crushing grief that piled on his shoulders whenever he remembered the battle that had unmade his life). Then, she asked him to talk about Fingolfin, and Fingon.
She barely knew either of them. Turgon had moved away from Hithlum when Idril was still a little girl, and after that, she had few opportunities to interact either with her grandfather or her uncle. They were her kin, her close kin, but when she heard tell of the Kings of the Noldor, they did not feel like kin. They felt like legends given flesh. They were not Eldar. They were not her grandfather and her uncle. They were the distant High Kings of the Noldor, her predecessors, the ones whose reputations she struggled to live up to rather than live down.
Bainor filled in gaps in her knowledge. He described the timbre of Fingon's laugh when he rode a horse and an argument he once overheard between Fingolfin and Lalwen relating to who would take some noble's newborn child on their first riding lesson, when the day came. (Idril had never imagined her grandfather and her elusive great-aunt doing something so mundane as arguing.) He told her of how Fingolfin looked when he was bent over his desk reading reports, how Fingon stared restively towards the east, as though waiting for a rider to come.
"You are like them, and yet not. I can not say how, exactly, your Highness. I can only say that your kinship to them shines through clearly, and yet you are very different from them."
Then, he asked the question.
"Your Highness, the tales of Gondolin's fall all speak of a secret passage below the city that you ordered built. The tales say also that without this passage, none would have escaped the city alive. I suppose it is a blessing that you knew to have this tunnel built, but how? The Gondolindrim all say that there was no warning before the city came under attack. How did you know to have this tunnel built, months in advance?"
"Intuition," was all Idril could say. She abruptly bid him good day, and left.
How could she have told Bainor the truth? How could she have told him that she had feared the second shadow that haunted her steps? How could she say that she feared him when he had power in Gondolin, and feared him even now when he was dead and powerless to harm her?
Idril did not think of Maeglin very often. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she tried not to think of him. With Maeglin's death Idril had escaped any danger he posed her, but she felt as though thinking of him would conjure up his shade, and he would be free to haunt her yet again. She remembered the poison of his words and felt as though if she thought of him, his very memory would poison her mind.
Would remembering Maeglin poison her recollections of Aredhel? Idril did not wish for that. She knew that the mother and the son were two different people, alike in some ways, but so different in others. Idril feared that, if she dwelled on her cousin for long enough, she would start remembering coldness in her aunt where it had never existed. People had already begun to connect Aredhel to Maeglin in more ways than was fair to her.
Would remembering Maeglin poison her recollections of her father? Idril did not wish for that, either. She knew that there were plenty who, if they ever learned of the position she had been in, would look askance at Turgon and wonder how he could have remained blind to what was happening in front of him. To that, all Idril could say was that Maeglin hadn't been that obvious, and why should Turgon have been looking for malice in his nephew?
Idril pushed those thoughts out of her mind, as she ever did.
Later, she was looking over reports of missing grain allotments and fighting down a headache when Tuor entered the room Idril had claimed as her "study." Idril looked up and smiled when she saw him; the sight of Tuor would always be more welcome than reports suggesting theft. "How did the meeting with Haldar go?" she asked. A small band of Edain had recently made their way to Sirion; Tuor had been planning to meet with Haldar, their leader.
Tuor stared blankly at her. "That was today?" he asked, bewildered.
"Yes, Tuor, it was." Idril frowned at him. "This… it isn't the first time you've forgotten."
He shook his head, face coloring in embarrassment. "I know." He started to head out of the room. "I'm sorry, Idril; I've got to go find Haldar."
Idril stared at the shut door after he left. Tuor didn't usually forget things like that.
* Idril belongs to a number of Noldor who are not impressed with the Valar at all, and considering what she went through (especially with my head canon that she was a little girl when Mandos pronounced Doom on her along with everyone else of her people), can you really blame her?
Artanis—Galadriel
Irissë—Aredhel
Turukáno—Turgon
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)
Vása—the Exilic name for the Sun, signifying 'The Consumer' (Quenya)
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Nér—man (plural: neri)
Calaquendi—'Elves of light'; the Elves of Aman, especially those who dwelled there in the days of the Trees (singular: Calaquendë) (Quenya)
Moriquendi—'Elves of darkness'; the Elves of Middle-Earth, those who never saw the light of the Two Trees (singular: Moriquendë) (Quenya)