Nothing Gold Can Stay
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
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Somehow it was Spring again: the third since Gwindor's return to Nargothrond. The old apple tree unfurled its first sticky, yellow leaves over the garden though shrinking lumps of snow still covered the flowerbed. Gwindor had perched himself on a tree stump by the little fountain, watching finches jostle in the water.
A fair-haired, slightly built elf approached on the narrow garden path. He had a clear, gentle face.
"Good morning, Gwindor," said the fair elf.
"And you, Tiromer."
Tiromer smiled and sat on a stone across from Gwindor. He held up a small cup full of steaming brownish liquid.
"The nurses told me you were missing when they tried to give you your medicine earlier. So I thought I'd bring it to you."
"Ah, thank you. And forgive me. I saw that the sun was out, and I wanted to come sit outside for a while. It's been a long time since I've seen it."
"It's no trouble," said Tiromer, "Although if you don't mind, I'd like you to take this dose now. It's fairly expensive, and won't work if drunk more than an hour after its extraction."
Gwindor took the small cup from Tiromer and raised it like a spirit.
"To Spring."
He quickly tipped the contents into his mouth. Grimacing at the bitter taste, he handed the cup back to Tiromer.
"Well done," said Tiromer, laughing, "Actually, I'm very happy to find you here. Do you know it's the first time you've come outside since you've been under my care?"
Gwindor shrugged.
"I had to learn how to walk again first, didn't I? And I did, thanks to you. Look, I made it all the way out to this stump before I got out of breath."
"I'm proud of you, Gwindor," said Tiromer, "It may not seem like it now, but you've come a long way since you first came to me. And you're getting better still."
"Yesterday went poorly," said Tiromer, "I felt no better than I did a year ago. I was livid with myself."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Tiromer, "But it was just that: one poor day. You must learn to accept them. You have many years ahead of you, and there will be more days that go poorly."
Tiromer was right, Gwindor realized, as he looked out reflectively into the trees.
When he had been brought here for Tiromer's expertise more than a year ago, he had been barely alive; thin and wasted like a withered tree. He had been melancholy and silent, thinking himself beyond help. But had choked down the medicines, and performed the prescribed exercises, though he believed them to be futile.
This he had done for Finduilas. They had not spoken since the debacle at Orodreth's dinner party. After that particular night, he doubted he'd be permitted to speak with her again. But he saw her face over and over again in his mind's eye as he lay in bed, alone in Tiromer's little dwelling in the woods; he heard her hysterical pleas from that day: "Stand up, if you still love me! If you're still alive, then live for me!"
It had been weeks before he allowed himself to believe the truth: that the medicine was working; the exercises strengthening him; that under Tiromer's watchful care, the poison of Angband was slowly leaving his mind and body.
Thereafter, he had poured everything he had into getting well: he had obeyed Tiromer's instructions religiously. He had eaten fruit, bread, butter and meat. What he had believed impossible had come to pass, and a remarkable change occurred: every day he felt the world growing brighter around him, not fading away.
He turned back to Tiromer.
"When I first returned from Angband," he said thoughtfully, "I didn't think I'd live to see another spring. But three springs later, I'm still here. It's strange. I'm wondering now what I'll do a year from now- five years from now. I'm thinking about how I should spend the rest of my life. It's an odd feeling, to no longer be dying. I want to ride a horse again. I want to hold a sword. I want to go home. I want to see-"
He stopped abruptly. It was foolish to presume Finduilas would ever want to see him again. Gwindor had made a mental promise long ago not to interfere with matters between her and Túrin, and he intended to keep it. But he longed for her, much more than he cared to admit, and he wished they had not left things the way they had.
If Tiromer could guess what Gwindor was thinking, he did not show it.
"One day at a time," he said sagely. Then, tilting his head and squinting at the barren flower bed, he said, "Now's a good a day as any to plant this year's tulips, don't you think, Gwindor?"
"Yes!" agreed Gwindor, "And isn't now a good a time as any?"
Tiromer beamed at him, and ran off to gather supplies.
Gwindor rose stiffly from the tree stump and began to make his slow way through the garden. A small white moth alighted briefly on the ends of his hair before flying away, and he marveled at the soft wind from tiny wings beating near his face.
He knelt down at the edge of the flower bed, just as Tiromer returned with a wheelbarrow full of manure, a bucket of bulbs, and two spades. The latter items he threw on the ground at Gwindor's feet, and tipped the manure onto the empty patch.
Then he and Gwindor each picked up a spade, and they began the business of mixing the soil. Tiromer whistled, working with a happy energy, while Gwindor panted with the exertion of simply pushing the spade into the ground.
"This is harder than I remember," he groused, as Tiromer began to dig a neat row of holes for the bulbs on the far end of the flower bed.
"Keep at it," said Tiromer gaily, "You're making excellent progress."
"I only wish I could make it faster."
"Less talk, more work. That's all planting a garden is. Just work."
Gwindor could not help but roll his eyes.
"You're not really talking about gardening, are you?"
"No!" said Tiromer, his eyes twinkling, "Well surmised. I'm talking about you, of course. Getting well, like planting tulips, is just work. Not as glamorous as the work of orc-hunting, or Silmaril-seeking, or dragon-slaying, but work just the same."
In spite of himself, Gwindor grinned. He gathered an armful of bulbs and placed one in the first hole Tiromer had dug.
"Any more wisdom for me this morning, Tiromer? Or did you spend it all thinking up that gardening speech?"
He looked around quickly, half-expecting Tiromer to throw a pebble at his head. But instead, Tiromer straightened up, cocked his head thoughtfully, and said, "'You cannot step twice into the same river.'"
Gwindor nodded, familiar with the old adage.
"'For all things change, and nothing remains still.' Finduilas told me that once. She was full of her mother's old Sindarin sayings."
His heart twinged again at the thought of Finduilas. He really did miss her terribly. But she was a regret now, and nothing more could be. The river flowed unceasingly onward, and never backward, as cruel as that was.
"You still love her," Tiromer said baldly as he bent down to sweep the soil over a planted bulb.
"I do," said Gwindor. It was a relief to say it aloud: "I love her, and always will."
"Then go to her, after you leave here. She loves you also."
Gwindor shook her head.
"You don't know of what you speak."
"I do," said Tiromer, locking Gwindor's eyes with his green ones. "I know."
Gwindor was suddenly irritated. He stood up, cradling a few bulbs in his elbow.
"I would rather you kept your own counsel on this matter, Tiromer. I like you, but Orodreth's paying you to repair my body, not my past. Though I can't imagine why; I thought the man hated me."
Tiromer squinted at him with an odd look on his face. There was a long pause. The fair elf selected his next words with care.
"Orodreth isn't paying me," he said measuredly.
Gwindor frowned.
"What do you mean, Orodreth isn't paying you?"
"The king isn't the one who paid for your treatment."
"Then who-"
"It was Finduilas. And she did so against her father's will. As a favor to her I agreed to cover your expenses while you dwelt here, but she came up with the rest herself."
"But-"
Gwindor's eyes widened.
"But that must have cost a fortune! Where did she get that money, if not from her father?"
They were interrupted that moment by a nurse, who had come tiptoeing along the garden path. She beckoned to Tiromer, who dusted the soil from his hands and walked over to her. The nurse whispered something urgently into Tiromer's ear, looking conspicuously over at where Gwindor still stood on the patch of soil. Tiromer's expression grew pensive.
He turned back toward Gwindor.
"I suggest you ask Finduilas that question yourself," he said, "It seems that she's here."
At once, Gwindor flung the bulbs to the ground, turned on his heel and walked back toward the house. His excitement fortified each step with a new, urgent strength. Question after question flooded his head as he threw open the back door, even as his heart pounded furiously in his chest at the thought of seeing her face after all this time.
There she was, sitting with her hands folded in the drawing room, patiently awaiting his arrival.
"How did you do it?" he demanded at once, "What did you do?"
Finduilas tilted her head, smiling.
"Good morning, Gwindor. You look well."
"Answer me, Finduilas. What did your father make you do for the money? I know it wasn't him, Fae; I know it was you."
But Finduilas tossed her hair and rose from her seat. She went over and gently caressed his cheek, ran her thumb over the scar on the corner of his mouth.
"The last time I saw your face, I had just thrown a glass of wine into it," she marveled, "Has it really been so long? It's good to see you."
"Fae-"
"My father didn't make me do anything. I did it myself."
She looked him in the eye as she continued: "I sold Malorant."
"You what?"
"I sold Malorant. He still has a few years left of his prime, Gwindor, and his sire-price alone worth his weight in gold. It wasn't hard to find a buyer. In fact, there was something of a bidding war. It's said there isn't another horse in Beleriand like him, even belonging to the horse-lords that bred him."
"Fae, you shouldn't have," said Gwindor angrily, "You loved that horse. You said yourself that you wouldn't sell him for all the gold in the kingdom."
"And I wouldn't!" laughed Finduilas, "What use had I for gold back then? Yes, I was sad to part with Malorant, because he was a dear friend. But he understood that it was for your sake, and his new master will treat him well. The price he fetched will pay Tiromer to care for you for as long as it takes to get you well again, and all the medicines you need, with some extra left over for a few years of a modest pension- more than enough for you to live off of while you find your bearings. You're getting better, Gwindor. That's all that matters."
"I can't accept this," said Gwindor, sweeping his fingers through his hair, "I can't accept your charity. I won't."
He began to pace up and down the drawing room.
"Charity?" scoffed Finduilas, "It's me, Gwindor. It's us. We help each other! 'In sickness and in health,' remember?"
Gwindor stopped pacing and glared at her. How dared she? How could she flaunt before him the vows they would never take? How could she imagine it would assuage the shame of her making a beggar out of him?
"Fae, listen to me-"
"No," said Finduilas impatiently, "You listen to me. It's already done; I couldn't go back if I tried. Was I supposed to watch you starve to death like a dog? You once dove into the rapids to save Malorant because you knew I loved him. You would do the same for me and more. So for once, swallow that pride of yours, Gwindor, son of Guilin, and let me take care of you. You're not alone; not while I'm still here."
She took his hands as he stood there, spluttering. His expression vacillated between his fury, and his gratitude, for what she had done.
Finally, he said in wavering words laden with love: "I don't have any idea what to say to you, Fae, but I very badly want to kiss you right now."
He looked earnestly into her face, scouring it for her answer with his crystal-blue eyes. But Finduilas's face fell, and Gwindor's heart with it. She reached up and cradled his head in her hands, and touched her forehead to his.
"What's the matter?" asked Gwindor, but it was clear from the heartbreak in his voice that he already knew the answer. His breath hung heavy with longing on her eyelashes; his lips trembled with the effort it took to resist simply putting them over hers.
"Túrin and I are seeing one another, Gwindor. We may be betrothed soon. My father's already given his blessing."
Gwindor closed his fingers gently around her hands again, savoring their warmth. The river flowed ever onward, after all. He wondered whether she still felt it at all: the old embers, the gentle ache between them?
"Túrin." He repeated the name, weighing it in resignation. His greatest friend was also the thief of all he held dear. "Well, if it can't be me, then I'm glad it's him. He's the only man in the world who comes close to deserving you, and I'm afraid I may hate him for it. I don't want to. I wish you both all the happiness in the world."
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," said Finduilas, her voice breaking, "I'm sorry I didn't come to see you before now. I just thought, well, maybe it would be better for you. I thought it was what you wanted."
"So did I," said Gwindor, "And yet seeing you today brought be more joy than I've had, in longer than I can remember."
"Me too. Do you know something? Víressë told me as I set out to see you that she hadn't seen me so happy in twenty years. Twenty years. Can you believe that? Well, Gwindor, I have Tiromer's permission for your time this afternoon. What shall we do together? Walk in the forest? Or have lunch? I brought some lembas and wine, and some fruit as well-"
But a sudden overwhelming exhaustion overtook Gwindor then, and Finduilas's bright blue eyes filled with concern when she saw it on his face. Her voice faltered, and she said: "Or, perhaps another day would be best, then?"
"Yes," said Gwindor, "Perhaps. I'm sorry, Fae. That all sounded very lovely."
Finduilas shook her golden head earnestly.
"Not at all," she said, "It's important you have your rest. Take care, Gwindor! I'll call again very soon."
She brushed his cheek with her lips before leaving. Gwindor watched her go, lamenting every step she took away from him. He didn't look around as he heard Tiromer come in.
"You heard the whole thing, I take it?" he said dully.
"I'm afraid so," Tiromer gently answered. He came and stood by Gwindor's side. Together they watched Finduilas's shape shrink into the distance along the forest path.
Then Gwindor buried his face in Tiromer's chest and cried.
Oh dear. Happy ending? Sad ending? I haven't decided; it's a tough choice... ;) Thanks again for reading!
