As the sun finally rose over the hills, where silver dew had fallen thick as recent rain, fresh air felt like a strong wine to Falmaramë's head. The night had been quiet, the only disturbances coming from a pair of warring foxes while great owls swooped silently under the stars. She always felt good in this part of the country, on the edge of the Mountains, standing on top on one of the last summits before the wide plains of Eriador rolled for hundreds of leagues west until Lindon and the Sea. Besides, she was alone, truly alone, far from the buzz of Imladris where everything was being prepared for the coming visitors.
Since the scene caused by Ostimir, things had settled down. There had been no more scandal; some purposely avoided her, but no open sign of rebellion had marred the strained peace. A few weeks later, a courier from Lindon had announced the coming of the King in the spring; his party was to leave Lindon when the weather became clement enough. They should be here any day now, and Falmaramë didn't feel patient enough to wait in Imladris.
From her vantage point, she could see the turning road as it came into the valley and ran along a lake before losing itself again in the woods to climb to the higher lands. A light mist hid it in places, so that she nearly missed the fast moving speck of a lone rider, their horse running a fast trot; they were lost in the blue morning shade and, even straining her eyes, the watcher could make out no house sigil. As they disappeared below the trees, she walked the short way to the road, where she sat and waited. Probably just another traveler coming home in time for the festivities.
She waited a long time, however, and the morning was ending before she heard at last a slow and uneven sound of hooves, together with a fair voice speaking words of encouragement, saying the pass wasn't far now and that the going would be easier then. There was something to that voice; an accent, low and soft in the fashion of the west, but also a tone that captured Falmaramë's ear. She thought of staying hidden and let the rider pass without hindrance, but a sudden desire compelled her to stand in the middle of the road and challenge him, asking his name and business in this land, and as she did so she felt unusually foolish.
Now she saw him too, walking beside a grey mare gone lame; he was tall and fair of hair, clothed in sturdy travel wear. Before he responded, he looked at her and she saw his blue eyes widen with surprise. For a heartbeat, time seem to stop, and then he answered.
"My friends call me Nandaro. I am going to Imladris; is it still far? My poor horse is limping."
Somehow, Falmaramë found herself smiling as she introduced herself. "And my friends call me Elenatta. Well met, Nandaro; but you are still a fair way from Imladris if you're walking, although riding at speed would get you there before the night. What happened?"
"I'm not sure. Niquessë started to hobble soon after the climb began; we stopped for a while, but she doesn't seem to get better."
The mare ambled closer to Falmaramë, who caressed her velvety nose and duly admired the white spot on her forehead from which she took her name. She exchanged a few common courtesies with her rider, but found it unusually hard to focus on anything else than his smile.
Her mouth was dry as she continued to talk, feeling rash and overly bold. "You know, you won't get to Imladris tonight. Maybe you could stay here and, wait for Niquessë to get better? I can't lend you my own horse; he doesn't allow strangers to ride him."
It was uncanny, really: Nandaro was showing the silliest smile now, and hers only widened as he answered. "That's, yes, an excellent idea. Thank you for inviting me. It's a beautiful day."
"Come this way, then, there's a cabin nearby, where you can put your things. Oh, is it your first time here?"
"Yes, actually, why?"
"You have to see the view from the field, it's so beautiful right now, it's my favourite" she babbled on, and took his wrist to lead him. As they walked through the high grass, she felt an inevitability around her, as if some pieces yet hidden fell into place, and as if everything was at its most natural while the world began to spin.
"Look."
The sun was high now, in a dazzling sky of the palest blue, and a thin layer of haze still lingered halfway up the hills. Southward, whence the road came, the lake was set between high and flat hills that floated like blue shadows over the veil of mist; a hidden breeze awoke rippling sparks on the water, where they trailed like fire. Far in the blinding distance of the open valley, the highest peaks of the Mountains sketched their ghostly outlines, as clouds taking the shape of half-remembered summits. Turning west, the hills rolled down like waves until they got lost in a deep vapour while, to the north, the sky was a rich blue over the jagged white peaks of the Imladris vale. While down in the valley trees already bore green leaves and bright blossoms, here, on the Númelango pass, their boughs were still bare, save for some early mountain willows, brilliant with pale gold. But, as Nandaro turned east again, he only saw the tall Elenatta, dark hair flowing in the rising wind, an uncertain smile upon her face, and he was at a loss for words so he laughed with happiness.
They sat down before the cabin and chatted the morning away. He came indeed from Lindon, and had ridden with the King's party until three days before. "But the going was so slow, since we were nearly there I figured I could just leave them behind and press on by myself."
"And they let you?" laughed Falmaramë. "I would have thought this to be a most formal affair, everyone walking at their appointed place with much propriety."
"It is! That's why I couldn't stand it! Anyway, how did you happen to be here? Are you a scout or a ranger of sorts?"
"No, I'm not. But sometimes, when the mood in Imladris gets too heavy, I volunteer for a tour of the outposts. This is our farthest one; it's not always manned, except in times of menace, or when we're waiting for special guests."
"What's happening in Imladris? I heard rumours."
"Nothing that hasn't been brewing for a long time." Rising, Falmaramë put a stop to the conversation, saying she was hungry. "I've got dried meat and fruits, do you want some?"
While they were eating, their horses came closer; Falmaramë's black breathed in her ear until she relented and gave him an apple, which she cut into pieces with her small folding knife.
"There, be happy now" she said, feeding him the last piece. "You're growing old, my poor Morivëa. Would you believe he used to be able to carry me at full speed all the way to Khazad Dûm, as his sire before?"
"Can you give me an apple for Niquessë? She's getting jealous."
She handed Nandaro a fruit and their fingers brushed. The clear sunlight awoke colours fresh and marvelous around them as they spoke and a light was in Nandaro's eyes as he listened to her tales of the great mountain valleys, of waterfalls brighter than snow and cold as frost even in deep summer; tales of losing oneself in a misty forest and finding the way back by the glimpse of a peak, of hidden caves to shelter in a storm, and how in winter it was good to walk under the stars while the world below was lost in a fog. He then told her of the sea, and in thought they sailed together along the Lindon coast, where soft mountains met the waves that glistened silver under the sky, until a break showed a glimpse of the shady depths. And he recounted the tang of salt in the wind and the forever changing shades, moonlight dancing over the surf, and the rattle of pebbles on the shore under the receding wave. But here the air was getting warm and drowsy and, for a while, they sat silent side by side on the grass among the short elanor, the first spring flower to open its golden petals. When the falling sun lengthened their shadows, they stood in its brilliant haze to walk along unknown paths and marveled at the day. Under a maze of thin branches, naked save for buds that promised green shelter, they held hands and laughed without reason, finding unusual wisdom in the other's words.
When twilight came, they lit no fire and sat together for warmth. They spoke of their worlds, of the beauty of things crafted and of melodies pulled from the heart, of the infinite freedom of sailing and the challenge of high hills. Then they sang songs of old below the stars; Nandaro had a wondrous voice, and soon Falmaramë just listened to him, looking at him with new eyes as he told fragments of the Lay of Leithian and figures of love and courage danced in their minds. The waves of moonlight ebbed and flowed as they recited their favourite parts again and argued wether the original sindarin was truly superior to the quenya adaptation, but the dawn that followed found them silent again, listening to birdsong and wondering privately why the other's presence at their side felt at the same time so right and so familiar.
They dozed the morning away in a bracken glade and were tending to the horses when Niquessë neighed to the sound of galloping hooves on the road. Although her foot still hurt, the mare trotted happily towards the newcomer, who dismounted as soon as he recognized her and looked around. The stranger was clad in mail and a hauberk hid his face; his sword was in its sheath, but his hand hovered over the pommel. Falmaramë began to ask who this was, but Nandaro was already hailing him, and all of a sudden command was in his voice.
"Forven! What are you doing here? Why didn't you stay with the others?"
"There you are, lord! I despaired to find you. There's been an attack."
It turned out that, two nights after Nandaro's departure, the royal party had encountered a group of orcs. The enemy had been routed and, while nobody died, there was enough wounded to slow the convoy. Falmaramë looked at them silently, at Forven's demeanour and how Nandaro carried himself, and a sudden understanding hit her.
"What is a random attack, or were they looking for someone specific? Did you really rout them, or did they retreat on their own?" she asked.
"I'm sorry, lady" apologized Forven "but I don't know you and this is not something to discuss with strangers."
Shocked, Falmaramë remembered in time that she had hidden her name so far, and closed her mouth before a sharp remark left it. Nandaro shot an enquiring look at her irritated face and, while he didn't pursue the subject, said: "Lend me your horse, Forven, mine's lame and I need to go back."
"Don't" cut Falmaramë. "You'd better hurry on to Imladris and send help on the way. There's an outpost on the road, with four rangers. You can send two of them back to your people with supplies, and later more reinforcements when you reach the valley. It's closer anyway."
"I have to agree with her, my lord. It'd be safer, too."
Nandaro snorted. "I don't care about safety."
"No, but you care about those who were with you" pointed Falmaramë "The quickest way to send them aid is for you to go forward."
"Come on, my lord, let's go" implored Forven, clearly relieved by this unexpected support.
After a slight hesitation, Nandaro relented; the guard took him beside him on his horse.
"I would ride with you, but someone ought to stay here and keep watch until more help comes from Imladris. When you get there, ask Elrond to send watchers in my stead so I can come back."
"You are quite sure of yourself, lady, to make such demands from your lord" said Forven.
"He is not my lord and I take my own counsel in these matters. Now go."
Nandaro's lips parted in surprise as he suddenly grasped who she was, and the pair locked eyes in recognition. He briefly held Falmaramë's hand before they parted, sure to find each other again in Imladris. She watched as he rode away, dark golden hair shining through the trees, and turned back to stand watch.
Later in the afternoon, two rangers from the outpost rode by, carrying bandages and medicine. Restless, she sent them away; it wasn't until the next morning that a small company, heavily armed, arrived from Imladris. It was headed by her friend and captain Halarova, whom she greeted with joy and tasked with canvassing the road to look for the orcs after helping the travelers. She also entrusted him with the care of the grey mare. Before she finally left on her own great black horse, she murmured a request for speed in his ear - one she hadn't made in a long time - and he ran like the wind over hill and dell.
When she got to the stables of Imladris, she threw the reins to a waiting hand and ran to her apartments, where her first maid Insil was waiting. "My lady, master Elrond bids you to a meeting as soon as you are able to attend. The King has arrived whilst you were gone."
"I know. Tell Elrond I'll meet them half an hour from now. I need to bathe first, though, and a change of clothes."
The meeting was held in the usual council room; before she pushed the sculpted oak panels of the door, Falmaramë took a deep breath and tried to quiet her mind.
She walked in.
She had changed from her weather-stained clothes into a dress in the colours of her house, with a formal neckline going up to the nape of her neck. Sleeves slit to the elbows showed her forearms, tanned with travel, and her hair was gathered up in a bun. Her only jewel was the silver headband with the eight-pointed star.
It was a wide circular room, centered by a table that could accommodate as many as needed. Light fell in thin shafts from high and narrow windows of blurred glass and danced over colourful paintings on the stone walls, that depicted the history of the Noldor in Middle-Earth in red, blue and gold. But Falmaramë didn't notice any of this, because Nandaro was there, deep in conversation with Elrond. A gold circlet was on his brow, that bore the rising sun of the house of Fingolfin. Several others stood in the room, too, but she didn't heed them as Elrond came to welcome her, and lead her to Nandaro. She felt dizzy, as if walking on thin ice that would collapse any moment now.
"Lord," announced Elrond, "may I present you Falmaramë Telpënar, lady of the Noldor, head of the house of Fëanor?"
She bowed deep, fearing her legs would give way, and Gil-Galad Ereinion, High King of the Noldor, took her hand and bade her to rise. His fingers felt cool against hers, and she let her hand linger in his. "Well met, my lady" he said. "A star shines upon the hour of our meeting." And as he smiled to her, the ground became solid again.
Without surprise, the council brought no new intelligence - they would have to wait for the return of Halarova's company for that. Forven, who it appeared was one of Gil-Galad's four personal guards, was heard again and confirmed Falmaramë's hunch: the attackers had ran away once they had realised the king was not with the traveling party. Forven's square face didn't betray any sign of surprise or recognition at seeing her there, seated at the right of his lord; she silently thanked him for that. Then followed an overview of the recent history of orc attacks along the road; as it was a short list, that started endless speculation around the table. The party had traveled openly; had it been an attack of opportunity, or had it been planned when the trip had become known? One fear, though, they all agreed upon: that the attackers might have come from the south, and that the south meant Mordor. In any case, it was decided to keep the valley closed until further notice; the council was adjourned soon after with an agreement to meet again as soon as Halarova was back. When they all rose to leave, Gil-Galad turned to Falmaramë and asked for a few minutes of her time.
Once they were alone, they both spoke hurriedly at the same time, them stopped. On a sign from Falmaramë, he went first, slightly red in the face.
"Please, forgive me for deceiving you. It never was my intention. You were the first person I met since leaving the traveling party and, I'm not sure, but for once I wanted to be merely myself. And then it was too late to explain."
"Don't apologize, I beg you," did she answer. "I did exactly the same thing. By the way, Elenatta really is my nickname. "
"And so is Nandaro. I really am a harpist."
"You shall have to play for me, then."
"There is nothing I would like more," he said with an earnest look in his sea-blue eyes.
Again, there was this strange awareness around them, that none of them had met before and few indeed ever encounter; she took his hand and pressed it silently with a smile.
"Now, could you please tell me the details of your troubles with the Mirdain? Elrond did explain some more, but I would like your analysis."
She sighted. "It's a long tale. We'll have to go back to before Imladris was build, when we still lived in Khazad Dûm."
"Please, humor me," and he added: "I don't mind."
As she told the whole story, her heart was beating unusually fast.
It took the better part of two days for the rest of the traveling party to get to Imladris, and Halarova only got there the morning after. He brought disquieting news; his scouts had found few traces of the attackers, but a fragment of shield bore the sign of a black ship - a new enigma that the council, now composed of both houses, failed to solve.
Despite the uncertainty, now that all were present, it was decided to hold a formal party.
Long tables were raised in the great hall of Imladris; wreaths of black ivy and white spring flowers ran along them, and bright lamps were set on the stone pillars. Behind the high table, Gil-Galad's banners were raised, both the rising sun of Fingolfin and his own arms, that were a device of many stars over a field of blue, while Falmaramë's faced them at the far end of the hall: the radiant star of her house, as well as her silver seabird on black. As evening fell, chairs began to fill with Imladris' high company and distinguished inhabitants - but it wasn't before the last rays of the sun had left the mountain peaks and torches were lit that the high table received its guests. Rumour died as heralds announced them and all rose in salute.
First walked Gil-Galad, resplendent in a slender embroidered coat dark as twilight, over which the crescent of his crown shone white in the lamplight. Behind him was Falmaramë, who wore her customary deep reds; as she took her place to his right, she adjusted a sheer mantle where some golden gems had been set and glinted as the morning sun. Then came Elrond Half-elven, herald to the king, who placed himself on his left, clothed in glistening grey; the rest of the table filled with equal numbers of members from both houses. Once all had taken their place, Gil-Galad spoke, of friendship renewed between houses, of the beauty of Imladris, of times of hope. His fair voice echoed between the stone walls, carrying more than words; it bore a will of unity and peace, and soon Falmaramë lost all track of what was being said, entranced by his steady muted accent, so different from the Eregion speech. For the house of Fingolfin had forsaken the use of quenya in everyday life, reserving it to formal occasions, and their speech was thus influenced by the telerin spoken in Lindon, while the house of Fëanor had kept the daily use of the sonorous old language. When it was her time to speak, Falmaramë's voice carried her singing accent under the stone arches as she gave thanks and renewed wishes of welcome, before lifting her cup to drink to her guests. Gil-Galad then drank to his host; once everyone's cups were down, he sat so that the others may follow suit, and dinner was served.
Despite his usual reserve, Gil-Galad could be a brilliant conversationalist if so he wished; that night, he outdid himself, and as Falmaramë emulated him they were soon jousting in three languages, eyes shining, completely oblivious to the world. She never even noticed who sat to her right; as for Elrond, he was fortunately quite happy with his left-hand neighbour, who had many interesting tales to tell, for he barely got two words out of his king and friend throughout the night.
After dinner, the great doors were opened, and all went through to carry on the festivities in the Hall of Fire, for many estranged friend and kin had found themselves again with Gil-Galad's coming. Indeed, it was the first time in the long years since the war had ended that so many had traveled together through Eriador, and the low arched room echoed with laughter and greetings. Forgotten then were the differences that had lead many to leave fair Lindon for the riches of Eregion, in a time where near all had believed the doom of the Noldor to have lifted with the fall of Morgoth. In the low light dispensed by the fireplace and the braziers lit against the springtime chill, Falmaramë soon found herself alone as her guest was drawn away from her, mouthing an excuse. However, she discovered that she wasn't to be left unattended as many took advantage of the informal evening to introduce themselves. Although she was courteous to all, she grew tired of it, and her mind started to wander until at last she rose and, pretending the heat, stepped outside where none followed.
The moon had set. The dark shape of clouds lazily obscured part of the night sky. Falmaramë slowly crossed the terrace that overlooked gardens whence rose a fragrance of fresh leaves and dewy earth, a welcome change from the warm smell of fire. Where the sky was clear, it held that uncanny grey colour only seen in the deepest night, when stars burn like silent silver flames and, gazing at them, Falmaramë's sense of vertigo deepened. She steadied herself against the stone guarding as music flowed through the open doors and there was a sound of steps behind her; without turning, she recognized Gil-Galad, who leaned on the cool stone beside her.
"I hope I am not intruding."
"No, not at all; you're most welcome."
So deep was the shadow that she couldn't make out his expression.
"It is quite crowded inside."
"Indeed."
They stayed quiet for a while; a sudden gust of wind awoke a deep whisper in the trees, loud as the sea, that died soon after, and in the ensuing silence a shiver rode down Falmaramë's back. Starlight began to move against the clouds.
"Do you dance?" she asked. "Listen, they have begun playing a set."
"It would be my pleasure," he answered with a bow.
The first figure of the set was all slow gliding and turning figures, getting close to one's partner without touching them in a display of elegance and precision. Movement, as usual, brought clarity to Falmaramë's mind as she spun around, and she nearly felt her usual steady self - but then came the second figure, and she took Gil-Galad's hand, and was again quite hopeless. A light breeze played in her hair as she followed the steps to the music, marveling at that new awareness to his body: his shoulder, arm and hand under hers - a step and a turn - his chest against her back, and his breath on her cheek as he, in turn, stepped away. She had danced this set many times, but had never noticed how close it brought the partners, how his hand felt on her waist, and quite out of time she stopped, her hand again on his shoulder, out of breath. The freshening wind - it had to be it - made her shiver again; as he pulled her closer, an unexpected break in the clouds lit his face, and she saw there a yearning that mirrored hers.
Aeons passed, or maybe minutes. The night grew old, by just a few heartbeats, unless a whole age of the world passed as they stood there, entranced in one another, not daring to move for fear of breaking the spell. But some rowdy guests drunkenly walked from the garden steps, and they both stepped back. Shadow had fallen again; the music inside had stopped and started again.
"You know, I think, I am tired," finally said Falmaramë in a strangled voice. "I really am no good at parties. I should go."
"When…"
"Tomorrow. Morning. Earlier I invited you to my workshop. The offer still stands. Midmorning."
With that she left, going round the house rather than through the lighted room, first walking and then running, until she disappeared in the night. Someone came to speak to Gil-Galad; he sent them away with an unusual impatience and soon went to bed, too.
The following morning was particularly quiet as most of Imladris slept away the night's merrymaking. In the small workshop beside the river, however, Falmaramë waited after tidying up a fair bit; now, no hazardous materials were lying around waiting to be either picked up or stumbled upon, depending on the familiarity with the place of those wandering about. She wanted many things, but her favourite hammer falling on Nandaro's foot wasn't one of them, so the tools were now either lined against the wall or hung from their racks, while the study room had been cleared of most of its clutter and actually resembled a place where one might sit, think and draw. She was straightening the last of the books when a knock resounded on the door and, sure enough, there was Nandaro, an elongated package under his arm. She gave him a tour, rejoicing in the informality of it, and was proud to show him sketches and jewels. He asked few, but relevant, questions, and she soon found herself explaining the difference between oil and water in tempering steel.
"But let's see what you brought me to mend," she finally said.
"Here, look," he said, freeing a sword and a spear from the cloth. "My usual weapons, for your expertise."
Falmaramë took the spear first and propped it against her raised knee to look better at the point, as her fingers ran along the edge. After a while, she put it down and said: "You're right, I can do better. In the meantime, this one needs to be honed, although I won't be able to completely remove the worse of the snags. The steel would be left too brittle. This may be the first time I've seen a spear so worn down; you definitely need better smiths in Lindon," and she had a mischievous smile. "Now, let's see the sword."
As he gave her the hilt and light hit the blade, her eyes started to sparkle and she seized the steel in both hands, bringing it closer to the window before swinging it slowly around, feeling its weight and balance. She inspected the metal closely, testing its strength with a small tool.
"That one you didn't buy. It has to be a gift."
"How do you know?"
"The hilt is new, and a tad too heavy. But the blade is from Gondolin, probably among the finest ever wrought in that city. It might even be from Roka himself; although Maeglin was most renowned, he never gave such pliability to his blades. Mind if I look for a maker's mark?"
With a waiver of the hand, Nandaro gave her permission, and regretted it at once as she enthusiastically grabbed pincers and a hammer to dismantle the hilt. To his great surprise, however, it came apart without harm and, once pommel and grip were removed, a few gentle blows were enough to dislodge the cross-guard. As the blade now lay naked, a mark could be seen where the cross-guard had hidden it: a hammer striking an anvil in a shower of sparks.
"And that," announced proudly Falmaramë "is the Stricken Anvil. You may own the last surviving blade made by Roka before the Fall. The people of Gondolin were obsessed with secrecy and never signed their works, except for those they considered their masterpieces. You could probably fell a Balrog with such a blade."
"I never knew," wondered Turgon's nephew. "It was indeed a gift from my uncle when I was a youth. I got the pommel and the grip changed later to better fit my hand, but I don't think they took the whole hilt apart."
As she started working to reassemble the sword, he asked: "So, can you forge me a better one?"
She waited a bit before giving her answer. "It will be a challenge. The spear is easy, the old one's just a knife on a stick, despite its flashy inlay. But the sword… how can you beat perfection? I could fit a better hilt on it and restore its proper balance. I don't know if I can forge a better blade."
"Will you try?" prayed again Nandaro.
"Better I might not be able to do. More suited to you, perhaps - and I do love challenges. Therefore try I will, because you ask."
They then started to look over blade patterns and hilt shapes as Falmaramë quizzed him on his stand; she took the measure of his fighting hand, and he left with a promise to come back in a few days to chose between several designs. They both had behaved in the most proper and formal way throughout the encounter - to their unknowingly shared chagrin.
During the following weeks, disquieting reports came from the watchers outside. Enemies walked openly across Eregion and the first leagues of Eriador under the banner of the black ship, stopping west at the outskirts of the Great Forest. Falmaramë completed the spear; the shaft was of pale hornbeam and dark oak brought together in a pattern of leaves mingling against the sky, and would never break. But the point was where she brought all of her art, for it shone like a winter star and light danced in a cold fire along the edge. The clear steel was polished as true-silver, sharper than broken glass, and was later said to be able to cut the western wind itself. Golden runes of power were inscribed on it, so that the very sight of the spear would awaken hope and courage in the darkest battle. Looking at the blade brought memories of outlines seen in water and ice; its perfect symmetry was uncanny in simplicity. Forever after it became Gil-Galad's chief weapon, and he called it Aeglos, which means snowthorn, as its shape recalled that of the tall flower that bloomed first where snow had long lain. But deadlier than the frail plant it was, for the wounds it inflicted never healed, and no foe could stand against it.
When it was time to start working on the sword, however, tidings grew darker, and Falmaramë nearly stopped her task, pondering maps and reports with the council instead. Still, in her spare time she was usually found in her workshop, heating and polishing with a deep frown - until Gil-Galad brought his harp and played for her as she laboured, and her face relaxed with a smile. His music flowed in the small house, golden notes hanging between the white walls as memories in the making, and after a while she usually put away her tools to sit beside him. They would then sing together, delighting in the other's wit and art, forgetting their worries for a while as they conjured images of green places under blossom and bough. From these days Falmaramë would forever draw when singing enchantments to her work, lighting the times of loss and mourning with the brightness of former gaiety.
When summer began to turn into autumn, Halarova brought back news that an old fort upon the river Bruinen was now occupied by enemies fighting under the black ship banner. Minas Rhain it had been called of old when it rose fair and strong on the steep slopes over the river. Before Eregion fell, it had been the northermost defense outpost along the border and later had been greatly ruined by Sauron. Now, its doors rebuilt, a new garrison of Second Born mercenaries inside, and a throng of Orcs camping before it, Minas Rhain was potent menace that divided the council of Imladris. Some argued that the valley's safety laid in its secrecy, to what others answered that it wasn't ever comparable to the Ring of Melian of old and wouldn't hold to the Enemy's sorcery. Elrond recalled how only a seemingly perpetual fight had kept Imladris safe before Sauron's defeat, in the years of its building, and for a long time now many of the old host had left to return to their own land. A frontal assault would result in bloodshed without any guaranty of victory; some proposed to call for reinforcements in faraway Lindon, while others pointed out the dangers of delay. Then, we should ask for the help of the Dwarves as of old, they said. Are we that weak, answered others, that we cannot fight our own battles? Nay, let's arm ourselves and answer the threat directly, whatever the cost.
"There must be another solution than senseless slaughter," argued Falmaramë. "If we have no choice but to fight concerning the Orcs, what do we know of these Second Born?"
"What would you try? Diplomacy?" did Erestor scorn. He belonged to the house of Fingolfin, whom he had served in the wars against Morgoth. "As if this has ever been successful against our Enemies' pawns."
Halarova then told all his spies had brought back. The Second Born had their own red wolf banner, and the Númenorean delegation had volunteered that it belonged to a company of mercenaries from the southern coast - another sign of Mordor's involvement. Their current captain was unknown.
"If only we had enough fighters to take them all between anvil and hammer," said Elrond.
"We know better the lay of the land," countered Falmaramë. "There has to be a way."
"If we were to go through Khazad Dûm, we could try and attack them from the south where they can't expect us."
"But we do not know of their forces downriver, and this would put us at too much risk."
Voices rose and fell in argument as advisors from both houses quarreled. Gil-Galad watched, taking all into account and saying nothing. Those who wished to wait for reinforcement were gaining traction, and Falmaramë slammed the table in anger to bring silence. "We cannot afford to wait so many months as they gather strength and we do nothing! This is how Eregion fell; once the rivers were taken we were cut from all support. I will not let Imladris suffer the same fate because in your pride you refuse to consider bringing an unfair fight to them."
"What would you propose, lady," asked Gil-Galad.
"The Second Born mercenaries are their weak point. They put them in the fort itself, as reserve or guardians, but seldom use them, which points to mistrust. The Orcs under the Black ship have been doing most of the heavy fighting, without the Red wolf mercenaries, who seem to be called only to do dirty work or get killed. We must find a way to either turn the mercenaries allegiance or at least be sure of their neutrality, and we must do it now."
"And what hare-brained scheme will you hatch for that," asked Erestor, sneering. "Our forces should not be risked on the whim of a spawn of Fëanor. Recklessness runs in your family, and we have seen the results time and again."
"Quiet," cut Gil-Galad.
Falmaramë raised both her hands in peace. "You will not be convinced. I yield in the name of courtesy for today, but know that the matter is not settled." While her words were civil, a fey look had fallen upon her face and remained there as the council was adjourned. She left in a hurry, grabbing Halarova by the arm and dragging him to her quarters where they long remained closeted in discussion.
"That went well," commented Elrond genuinely later. "You may want to ask Erestor for a formal apology, though. Letting your counselors freely insult Falmaramë might temper her affections for you."
Embarrassed, Gil-Galad said: "I know not what you mean."
"Oh, please, Ereinion. I know you both, and I have never seen you so talkative, nor her so quiet," said Elrond. "And you spend enough time together that councils are mostly both of you kindly informing the rest of us of what you previously discussed. Although I surmise you do have other conversation topics than orcs and spears - at least I hope so."
Gil-Galad mumbled something about normal, cordial, house relations, and fell silent when Elrond asked why he never did the same with Galadriel.
"Anyway, what do you think of it all? The military situation, I mean," specified Gil-Galad.
"She's right. The more we wait, the worse it will be, and these mercenaries do seem to be the weakest point in the enemy's forces. How to do it, I know not yet. But she is proud and has a tendency to fight fire with fire, so brace yourself for another hare-brained scheme indeed."
"Shouldn't we, maybe, stop her?"
"Only if you find a better idea to propose to her; otherwise it is quite useless, as she won't be swayed once her mind is set and has found the risks acceptable. What Erestor calls recklessness, I call creativity, and it does run in her family. You should trust her judgement."
"She is terrifying," avowed Gil-Galad. "I have never met her equal. Her mind is like a flame, swift and bright, and she is as strong as she is kind. And she is fairer than Lúthien to me, nay, more beautiful than Elbereth herself. I would sometimes wish for her to be less unpredictable, but then she wouldn't be herself anymore, and no man has a right to ask for that."
"Now you understand why I asked to stay with her. I swear, some days I think half of Imladris is just waiting for her next fancy, while the other half finds the delay too short a respite. But most love her, for she is fiercely loyal and extremely kind. This is the most fun I've had in years."
Quite incredulous, Gil-Galad managed to say that he had a different definition of fun indeed.
"You'll get used to it," concluded Elrond.
The next few days bustled with unusual activity. Gil-Galad arranged for Erestor to apologize on the very morrow; in front of both his lord and Falmaramë, he bowed low and asked forgiveness for his rash words. This she granted him readily enough, but was absent-minded, and again soon left to closet herself in her apartments. When Gil-Galad tried to visit later, he only met Alcarinquë, slender and sly as ever, who in turn bowed and explained that her lady suffered from a headache that prevented her from having any visitors. As Gil-Galad pointed that he had seen Halarova and several others get in, Alcarinquë profusely apologized that these were her own personal guests. He asked if she only took her friends from the old captains of Ost-in-Edhil; with an angelic smile, she answered that one was not responsible for the way friendships went, and closed the door to his face. Later, he met the slim lady again; she was having tea with the Númenorean ambassadress, and gave him such a look that he excused himself and left. She never was threatening, but her earnest congeniality was too much to bear.
Finally, Gil-Galad managed to meet alone with Falmaramë some days later, in her workshop - only because he had seen a light shine inside in the evening. She wasn't working on his sword, that laid as if forgotten in a corner, and was instead rummaging through cupboards. There was no harp-playing, nor tender banter, and while she was indeed glad to see him she remained extremely elusive.
"Your lady Alcarinquë told me you were sick, is that true? How can I help?"
"I am afraid I shan't be able to attend tomorrow's council. I feel I am coming down with something," and the word she used could mean either coming down with illness, or hatching a plan.
After a pause, Gil-Galad said: "Shall I wish you luck, then?"
"Please do," she answered, and she embraced him, briefly closing her eyes as she breathed in his scent. His shoulder felt strong under her hand; she could have stayed like this forever. As she withdrew, he pushed back a curl of black hair that fell on her face and, hesitantly, kissed her lips for the first time.
"I hope you get better soon," he murmured.
Without answering, she kissed him again, and for a little while time stopped. Silence was around them as fate tightened its mesh, but they cared not, for there was happiness to be found on the other's lips and warm comfort in their embrace. She buried her fingers in his golden hair and lost herself to the moment, gazing upon him with wonder and delight.
The council, on the following morning, was a swift enough affair. When Falmaramë's absence was known, Erestor couldn't help but comment that she probably was more vexed than ill, without knowing how much this was true. In an unexpected change of will, there was now little opposition to waiting from Falmaramë's counselors, and all agreed to wait for the time being.
"In the meantime," asked Halarova, "I would like to lead a company outside, to reconnoitre."
"A whole company," said Gil-Galad. "To reconnoitre. In a land we have mapped to the tree."
"Yes, lord," answered the captain, with a steadfast gaze.
When the council ended, Halarova thought to break away without hassle, until someone grabbed his elbow. Turning, he saw Gil-Galad, who spoke to him in a low voice. "Walk with me, Halarova. I've played along your charade and given in to your request. So now, tell me. Where has she gone?"
Swallowing with some difficulty as he was dragged through the stone corridors,
the tall captain began to answer. The death-grip on his arm didn't relent, though, as he told the full plan and watched Gil-Galad's expression falter.
"As you can see, timing will be all, lord, as we won't be able to wait in position for much longer than a night" he explained "so I need to leave by tomorrow morning at the latest."
"You will. But I'm coming with you," answered Gil-Galad, ashen-faced. "Where does she get these ideas from? Why didn't she tell me?"
"I can't speak for all of my lady's mind, but this I know. If she was defeated, she didn't want the weight of failure to rest on you too. Her house is already despised by many of yours, so she said some more didn't matter. When I go, I shall only take with me some who are personally sworn to her, and none will accuse her of using your power and resources in a reckless endeavour."
Seeing the king pause to think, Halarova added: "If you ride with us, there is one thing you should know. Most of us have fought beside the sons of Fëanor. I myself was in Alqualondë and Doriath - not that I'm proud of it. You may not want to associate yourself with this. I don't think my lady would like it."
Gil-Galad shot him a hard look, and his voice was cold as steel when he answered. "You do not quite understand. I would ride with Celegorm and Caranthir themselves to help her, wether she likes it or not. You're a kinslayer; well, so is at least half of Imladris. I am the High King, liege of all Noldor in Middle-Earth and, by the Valar, I won't spurn your valour, whatever your past crimes. She trusts you, therefore I do, and this is all that should matter to you."
Taken aback, Halarova bent his head in shame and left to oversee the preparations.
At the same time, Falmaramë was riding to the south; she had seven companions with her, all veterans of Eregion who had, at one time or another, been posted to the fort of Minas Rhain. They had left the hidden valley before dawn and didn't expect to reach their destination before the following dusk, at best. Indeed, although they pushed their horses until foam glistened on their coats, giving them barely enough rest during the night, they found their goal just before sunset on the next day. It was down a narrow dell, a secluded hollow of white stone covered in a close thicket of holly and boxwood. The dense undergrowth hid most while they silently prepared their gear. As the last red streaks faded in the sky, darkness grew fast until Falmaramë brought out two lanterns of the ancient Beleriand design that required neither tinder nor wick.
"So you found them," said one of her companions. "I never thought I would behold that blue light again."
In the cold gleam of the fireless lamps, they quietly unloaded the horses, working fast, and shouldered heavy bags over their sturdy clothes. All had wounded ropes around their waists and some had spares over their shoulders. They also had short pickaxes in the dwarven fashion. Once they were ready, the one who would stay behind gathered the horses and set up camp as the others, one by one, slipped in a hole in the ground.