Chapter Twelve

Estela waited until it was night. She didn't want to leave. Didn't want to see war. But she realised a long time ago, that her wants and even her needs mattered far less than others.

It was something she resigned her whole life too.

People saw her as strong- Artanis, or Galadriel as they now called her, Celeborn and their daughter, Elrond, her cousins and followers, even those who had not a single clue who she was. But she was sick of it.

Estela could laugh out loud at the absurdity of Ar-Gimilzôr's desires. He wanted immortality- and the reason he so hated the elves and the Valar, was because he was denied just that. But even though he would die, he was a man and he could choose whatever he desired his destiny would hold. Not her. She was immortal, ageless. She was born when the Trees of Valinor still waxed and waned. She would linger on- and she did- unless she was killed. She was there when Finwë, her forefather was murdered. She remembered when the light of the Two Trees was drained leaving the skies completely black. She remembered Melkor, no Morgoth's presence. She saw Ungoliant. She witnessed her grandfather going mad and for some reason, some nameless, reason, he insisted on bringing her to Middle-Earth, to the land they called Endórë, where orcs ran rampant, and it was a mystery that the Avari even survived, she remembered watching- a night she would never forget as it burned itself deep into her fëa and her mind- as her father, her grandfather and her uncles all swore an oath and raised their swords to the sky. She remembered boarding the ships and seeing for the first time, what many eyes in Aman had never seen and what eyes of a child never should see- destruction and death. She remembered watching the ships burn at Losgar. She remembered the deaths of each of her kin. She remembered when her father was taken and put to torment by Morgoth. She remembered when her mother, who insisted on accompanying her husband and child, despite her mad grandfather's doings, believed that they had somehow died, and faded herself from grief. She remembered what happened to her father, and the only remaining uncle that was now lost, whose fate was unknown.

Not once did she regret the loss of the Silmarils though.

If she had herself acquired those jewels, never would she have kept them. She would have destroyed them, defiled them, and burned them all at once. She cursed the very day those gems were completed. She cursed the day her grandfather began them.

Galadriel did not think that Estela witnessed those memories, and Estela pretended she did not, but she did and the memories came back, all too painful for her. But at least now she knew why her grandfather insisted on bringing her to Middle-Earth. She did not know however, if it made her feel better to be the cause of the disagreements between both grandfathers- the ships and her. That was what Fëanáro wanted and acquired. He believed that she would somehow turn the tides in their favour.

Estela clutched the balustrade of the balcony then went inside.

The son of King Oropher troubled her. She felt that when she spoke she allowed her bitterness and pain to speak through, and if Oropher were as clever as he should be, and of that she was certain, then she knew that he would have his suspicions, and possibly very soon find out her identity.

What then? She would be an outcast, a pariah. As said, elves did not naturally hold to the same prejudices as the race of Men, but could they deny that the blood within her veins is cursed- doomed by Mandos? She could not return to Valinor. She was not sure if the Valar would allow her back and if the elves would consent to having her in their midst- it might be cruel, but after so much death, who could blame them? And even if she could, she was not a mistress of her own fate. She was an elf. That meant that she followed whatever was written for her in Eru's mind, and imprinted upon Varda's stars and embroidered into Vairë's tapestries. She could never choose.

This was the price of immortality- if they were not living in bliss they would feel pain- eternal pain. She could never choose her fate- that was for mankind. She never spoke of her pain to anyone, save Vorondo. Oh, Artanis and Elrond knew about it well enough and so did Celeborn and Celebrían because they were told. But no one else.

And oh yes, any servant of Morgoth that remained would love nothing more than to hunt her down and slaughter her. No, she knew she would enter Mandos' halls sooner or later, she would not, however, go there an outcast, a pariah, no, if she had to die, she would do the right thing, for the right reasons- not for glory, not for treasure, not even for vengeance or for the sake of her own redemption.

She sighed. I no longer fear the Doom of Mandos, she realised. Because whatever it was, it could not be worse than everything she had lived through.


In Lindon...

Gil-Galad glared at his councillors' retreating backs.

They were really beginning to try him.

And not just them- the King's Men- the king himself of that now-forsworn and accursed island, the ones that wanted alliances one minute and then something else completely another.

And most of all, that mysterious reportedly beautiful figure of a maiden who gave aid whenever and wherever she could but refused to even meet them face to face despite what they needed.

Gil-Galad had his strong suspicions on who this shieldmaiden was, but he did not voice them out to anyone. Even more suspicious was that she seemed to know exactly what would bring all the elves of Middle-Earth together- no matter what their differences- always she had managed to find excellent proof of danger- not to mention knowing where to find them- witnesses, survivors and such like- and managed to get them all into the hands of people who could present them to the court. Always had she been able to convince everyone on what needed to be done- without even meeting any of them.

Not to mention what he had heard about her skill and mastery of tactics and the blade- that was unparalleled. No, he did not think she meant any harm, after going through so much trouble, but he needed to find her and find her fast.

Gil-Galad hated spying, but at times like these, he knew that a few more pieces of information may be the difference between life and death for many.

The High King wore clothes of modest design- no emblem or crest- nothing fine, not what anyone would expect a king to wear.

He wore a disguise while he rode out into the night.

He was no longer the king- not to himself at least. He was an elf on a mission.


Estela could not sleep.

She felt her emotions and memories roiling like boiling waves threatening to rise at the surface.

She finally exhaled. It is alright, Little One, the voice of Artanis whispered in her mind. Let them flow, the pain will be easier than if it is holed down below.

Estela knew better than to go against her advice. So she slept- her waking dream was as vivid as she expected.


She was clutching a doll in her hand bouncing it up and down- she was bored.

The past few days were a tumultuous change for the young elf. Even though Laurelin's light shone bright and warm during the day, she was never allowed out of her parents' sights. Her grandparents insisted on the same.

Everybody talked in hushed voices and whispers. Everyone huddled together in pairs if not packs, as if they were seeking comfort, warmth against some invisible evil. Nobody liked to go out, and windows and doors, she saw with astonishment, were kept tightly shut and locked. It was never like that before. Before there had been laughter, smiles, shouts of greetings, waves, excitement, joy. But no longer. And no matter how much the little elf tried to block all the negative feelings- she still felt them.

Nothing was the same.

No one ever went out at night. Even though Telperion's light glowed silver and brilliant, and the stars illuminated the sky above, no one ever went out during the night.

She had a tighter rein of control upon her- tighter grips by her parents' hands. stricter rules- when it was time for bed, she was going to bed- more boundaries- she couldn't go out too far in their garden, couldn't go past the gate, couldn't leave her parents' sights.

She couldn't wait for it all to go away. And then it would go back to the way it used to be. But she was wrong.

She knew who Melkor was. Her father had told her on the night they said he had been set free. He insisted they all slept in the same bedroom.

Melkor did horrible, evil, awful things- against not only the Valar, but the All-Father as well.

Estela sucked in a breath. No one, no one, ever went against Ilúvatar, the highest, most holy, most powerful and benevolent creator of whom no one would exist without- not even the Ainur.

But Melkor did. Atar had told her, when the Valar heard that the elves were now awake, they invited them to travel from the dangerous Outer Lands, where Melkor lay to go to the safety and bliss of Valinor.

Not all of them had made it.

Some of them could not bear to leave and mistrusted the Valar (Estela sucked in another breath; another blasphemy). Others went on the Great Journey, but never made it- they were either lost, or in many cases- kidnapped by Melkor.

He took them down to his dark fortress. He hurt them, changed them. They were no longer elves when he was done- they were orcs.

Atar told her all about them. She had never been more afraid- now Melkor was free- what if he wanted to hurt and change her into an orc too- and her parents?

She tried to be happy. She sang, she played- she got the twins and her cousins to act in plays and sing silly songs, so that the adults were able to smile, but the smiles never lasted- and laughs never came.

A swirl of memories hazy as they come, danced in front of her eyes. She then saw something else.

Her grandfather was hammering away in his forge- nothing out of the ordinary, for which she was relieved. She strung some beads to make a simple necklace. But the air grew dark and cold, and although they could see Laurelin, she was barely there.

Her grandfather stopped hammering.

The hammer dropped onto the anvil and Fëanáro son of Finwë straightened. He frowned and his noble brow furrowed. He took off his smith's apron and set it on the hook near the forge's entrance and washed his hands. Estela looked up, brow wrinkling and lips pursed in puzzlement. Fëanáro knelt down and gave her a warm smile.

"Have no fear Little One," he said gently. "I think we must have a visitor." He tickled her, while she giggled and picked her up, cuddling her close. He kissed her head. He took her inside the house. Fëanáro opened the door and froze.

Outside the door a tall figure stood smiling. Fëanáro was frozen like ice and he went even whiter.

"Greetings, Fëanáro son of Finwë," the figure bowed. His voice was rich and deep- like golden honey, like gold instruments, washing over her like warm waves in her dreams. Estela felt dizzy.

Fëanáro finally spoke. "What is it that you want?" He reached out with his mind to her. Estela, go quietly upstairs to your room- close the door- do as I say!

Estela felt the blur of visions and memories again- but it stopped soon enough.


There was an elf- a tall elf, noble and strong, majestic in his bearing. Estela woke up.

She blinked. Without even stopping to think- she might have even realised she was unable to stop herself if she tried- her mind clouded with her dreams, she got up and got dressed. Her hands dreamily fashioned her hair in a pleasing manner.

In a dream-like state the daughter of Maedhros the Tall, by some means other than her own, dreamily walked barefoot outside.

They were all asleep- her cousins, her friends. She listened to their soft breathing; she glided soundlessly through the courtyard, not even blinking- she felt like she was floating, and her feet didn't even feel the hard ground.

She wondered what was going on- but there was no pause for her to take, no time to think. And seemingly asleep the grandchild of Fëanáro glided- or floated- on.

She didn't wear a cloak- and the cold of the air did not bother her- no surprises- she was an elf, more resistant than humans- but she in her mysterious dream-like state found nothing and no one to stop her- as if a spell had placed them under the deepest of sleep.

She left the safety of the fortress- the gates were open and unbarred- they never left the gates opened and unlocked- they were among the most careful and hunted beings in Arda. This should have stopped her- this should have alarmed and roused her to panic...

But it didn't.

Was she floating- if she could look down, she would have realised, curiously, that her feet didn't even touch the ground. What magic was involved she never knew- whose it was, she couldn't answer either, even if she tried.

She was in the woods.

Estela registered in a dream-like trance that the leaves rustled softly and the branches seemed to push her gently along. Perhaps the ents were behind this... but she never knew.

She left the woods. She didn't know how long she travelled or how far, but time seemed to melt in her strange state. This was clearly magic- but she couldn't even bring herself to be panicked by that.

Suddenly her feet touched the ground- soft grass and soil, she realised somewhere in the back of her mind. She glided softly, soundlessly forwards- this time by her own feet.

Several orcs stood hunched over a carcass- of what she didn't know. It could have been a deer, or else one of their fallen comrades. But they were tearing at it greedily and growling deep into the flesh.

Her hand, still dreamlike, rested gently upon her sword hilt. She stepped forwards, moving aside a branch.

The orcs straightened, whipped around and saw her. She was still dreamy, doused with strong magic.

Estela didn't remember drawing her own sword. She could not understand why her movements seemed to be like a dream- she didn't feel the cold rush of air and she used to when she swung her twin blades. She didn't feel the weight of the weapons in her hands. She didn't feel it when the blade sliced through the orcs, like softened butter. She spun and moved like she used to when she was in control of her senses, her movements, her mind and body, but she wasn't in control.

The orcs died. She let the blade drop. Gracefully she stood.

She was being watched.

She turned her head, feeling the ties on her hair loosen themselves. The mane of rich burnished copper, shot with Telerin silver and gold, spilled down, thick, curling and soft. Dreamily she raised her head.

A tall elf with a majestic bearing and an impressive poise stood staring right at her. He was beautiful, with handsomely chiselled features and midnight hair. His eyes were a deep sapphire blue.

Ereinion Gil-Galad stood staring at the maiden whose burnished copper hair cascaded down her back, thick, soft and rich, it seemed to entangle him deep within despite the distance, it was so deep and rich and red.

Her figure was clad simply, with little armour and adornment, but nothing could disguise the svelte gracefulness, and the voluptuous curves that formed her perfectly.

Her face turned towards him. His heart stopped and went in his throat.

It was more radiant than the Two Trees. More beautifully shaped, more delicate than any gem, flower or snowflake- a guise for great strength. Her rosebud lips parted slightly and her large liquid green eyes, deeper than emeralds met his, black lashes framing them.

Ereinion knew he was caught when his heart constricted and started thundering madly. His own weapon dropped.

Estela's eyes held onto his and even when she slowly turned away; him rooted to the spot by something even stronger than the magic that controlled her, he was unable to look away. Ereinion Gil-Galad felt as if something as strong as Angainor had fastened to something deep inside of him attaching it to her.

And when she walked away, he felt it- something irreplaceable, priceless and the essential core of his very being being pulled away with her.

She didn't look back.

And as Estela walked she actually managed to produce a thought of her own: What in Arda just happened?

Yeah, what the hell just happened? What was that magic- whatever it was. And what happened to Gil-Galad?

Notice this might be the last frequent time I ever call the king 'Gil-Galad', soon its just Ereinion, what his friends and family called him with rare moments of someone referring to him as such. And Angainor was the chain that bound Melkor/Morgoth when the Valar captured and imprisoned him.

This might not seem like much, but everything's going to change.