"For the last time," asked Falmaramë "are we lost?"
"Well, we still know the way out, so we're not completely lost."
They had been walking through the caves for nearly three days now, and were all covered in mud to prove it. Northern Eregion was a land of white limestone hills where water had delved deep below; large caverns hollowed the ground, snaking around in narrow bends cold and wet.
"Now that's a comfort," she answered in a dead-pan voice.
"But we haven't seen a mark for several hours now, so this passage that leads nowhere probably, indeed, leads nowhere and is not merely caved in."
The one speaking was a strong woman named Roinya who had worked in Minas Rhain as a horse trainer and occasional scout. She had also helped map the cave system and was one of the few who still remembered the signs used to mark the underground ways. Her ruddy hair, tied in a braid, was soiled with dirt.
"Let us rest a while before going back and see what we missed," decreed Falmaramë. "The ground can't have shifted that much in, what, two centuries since this path was last walked."
"But water is treacherous. Maybe a mark fell, or has been covered with limestone dripping from high. We had been careful to put them well visible and raise them enough, but one never knows."
They all sat and ate waybread, drinking from their gourds. The blue light from their lamps cast fantastic shadows all around them, great black figures of horn and wing shivering on the edge of eternal night. The motionless air was clammy, with an earthy taste; when they stood too long in one place, they could feel it become heavy with their exhaled breaths. They soon left again, following the light bearers and looking closely at the uneven walls, particularly where fallen rocks lay. The path itself had never been leveled, so there was a lot of scrambling and, at times, some crawling. They used ropes to steady themselves on slippery inclines of rock and it was at the bottom of such a place that they found the missing mark, when the blue lamplight awoke the greenish glow of its crystal, barely a foot over the dark mirror of an underground pool, completely on the other side of the passage. Falmaramë eyed it with caution as another of her comrades, called Tarakil, waded towards it to check the markings. The water was extremely clear and had lain undisturbed for long, so each stroke and ripple crawled slowly to the shore. There they echoed back in dark wavelets crowned with dim blue phosphorescence, each smaller as Tarakil progressed through the drowned room.
"There's another passage that way," he cried. "The path is dry over there, and the mark points straight to it."
"I don't remember water across the way," murmured Roinya. "The land has shifted indeed."
They waded, in turn, towards the passage. The pool was ice cold and cut their breath, and although it never went over their waist Falmaramë felt shaken, for some reason feeling she would slip and fall in this dead, dark, pond. For a time after that, they walked on solid ground, but water became ever more present, falling in drops from the ceiling and even in places running along the walls, only to fall through deep cracks towards unknown depths. The way went steadily downhill; it was expected, as their starting point was much higher than their goal. But Roinya was worried, as well as those who had already traveled that path, for it shouldn't have fallen so steeply. Markers still showed the way, though, so they continued, as a stream now ran beside them, until they came to a stop. The stream had rejoined a river, and that river was now the path. The ceiling progressively lowered over it until it sank below the water, and they couldn't see any further.
"Oh no," said Falmaramë. "Please, no."
"Never mind, my lady," Tarakil reassured her. "Maybe it is just a low point where only the ceiling gave in, and it shouldn't be too long. The water goes through, we just have to follow it and dive. I'll go check if it's feasible."
He tied a rope to his chest together with a lamp and swam heartily in the oily water, until, taking a deep breath, he dived, in all the world like a drowning firefly. When he reached below the rock, the lamplight disappeared, and the whole end of the passage fell to impenetrable darkness. The rope followed, and after a time a ghostly light reappeared while he surfaced again and cried: "It's cold! But there's a way through, it's just this big rock, not too deep, not too long, and there's another marker high on the other side!"
Falmaramë felt as if her feet were glued to the ground, and could only watch as her companions tied another rope to serve as a guide through the siphon before starting to transport their bags, joking about rust and yelling at the cold water. Roinya watched her unease and came to her, asking softly: "What's wrong, my lady? Don't you know how to swim?"
"I did once," she said. "I was even good at it. But the thought to dive in the black water awakens a dark memory in me, and I know not if I can do it."
At these words, she stopped, and her hands were shaking. "Coming here, I thought to be ready for everything," she sadly laughed. "But I wasn't."
With compassion, her companion put her arm around her shoulders and guided her to sit. Falmaramë's breath was now laboured as the gates of her mind opened and released echos of the past.
"Breathe, my lady, breathe slowly," said Roinya. "This is a sickness of the mind you suffer from, and there's no shame in it. Methinks you have bottled something too long and too deep, but it shall pass."
"But can't you see, I can't even get near this water. I, I can't. And you can't go on without me, and Halarova will be alone with only a company to fight so many, and all will be lost, and so many dead, and Imladris will fall, all because I can't find the strength to swim, something even a child could do!"
"Now, you are being unreasonable. Halarova won't begin the assault until and unless he gets our signal. It's not too bad if we can't do it; he'll just go back to Imladris, and we will find another way."
Falmaramë sat with her back to the wet stone, her hands empty over her raised knees, and threw back her head to the cold wall with a sigh. For the Eldar's memory is like a clear mirror they look through - but this time it only brought back despair and crippling grief. In the dim light, she recalled her flight from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil as a child, and her voice was fraught with tension as she told Roinya. By now, others had noticed their lady's state. Some wondered, but those who recognised the signs explained in a low voice.
"You never told anyone, did you?" kindly asked Roinya. "That you are now afraid of water?"
The answer came after a long time. "No. Who would have me as a leader if they knew of this fear in me. I am so afraid, I am terrified of so many things, for those I love, and water too, yeah. I'd be a laughing stock; I remember how some mocked Celeborn for not being able to cross under the mountain."
"But the lord Celeborn is a twat, and you are not," protested Roinya with heat. "Deriding him that way may not have been in the better taste, but no one would go after you like this. Not all wounds are physical, and no one would fault you for finding it hard to walk on a broken leg."
"Not until it would prevent me to fulfill a duty, that is."
She rose and walked to the water edge, asking the others to continue their work. After a while, she sat near the blue lamp and started rebraiding her hair, so that it wouldn't come into her face, and in the hope her fingers would stop trembling in the familiar task. Alone, she watched her companions take turns to dive under the rock to carry the packs, but now they were silent and sometimes looked worriedly at her. She went back to Roinya and Tarakil, and asked: "If I was to go last, would you both swim with me?"
In the end, they swam to the rock, Tarakil carrying the light. Falmaramë grabbed the rope and collected herself. She was shivering from the cold of another water, as well as an ancient fear her body recalled. She wished herself to be calm and her mind to be still, and took several deep, slow, breaths. Wild fright receded - not wholly gone, but frozen for a time, and keeping it in check took, it felt, all her energy. With a nod, Tarakil dove, and Roinya pushed her below.
A slight current guided her to the moving light; indeed the passage was not too deep, and her heart leapt when she realised she was already halfway through. She was lagging, though, as her clothes weighted her down, and a in pang of panic she felt like drowning, but someone grabbed her shoulder to hoist her upwards and she kicked hard until cold air brushed her face. Panting, she could only fix the darkness as she floated and the cold water warmed against her body. When she swam to the shore, icy currents froze her, and she swam forward until her hands felt harsh stones, and she staggered upright. Tarakil and Roinya were waiting for her, as the others; without a word, she took their hands and squeezed them until it hurt, standing with her eyes closed. "Let's go," she said finally. "Or we shall be late." None commented on her shaking hands as she heaved her bag to her shoulder, nor on the tremor to her chin. She grabbed the nearest lamp and walked with a determined look along the path, caring not about her dripping clothes.
The rest of the way was uneventful. There were no more missing markers, and a few hours later they saw the reflection of daylight ahead. A thin cleft through the rock, hidden behind prickly holly bushes, showed them they were standing amongst fallen rocks. A stone's throw below stood some half ruined buildings - former stables - and a tower rose close at hand. They stood inside the fort walls, where the cellars of Minas Rhain had been; where a tunnel through the rock had by chance stumbled on the caves, that had then been prepared as an escape route. They were looking west, high over the valley, and the dying sun splashed the cliff face with red. Over it hung a thin crescent of a moon that told the day. They were on time: right now, Halarova should be setting up a hidden camp in the woods upriver, on an outcrop of rock that was barely visible from here. But the fort below was crawling with Second Born, armed to the teeth, and they glimpsed, below the walls, the ever moving hustle of an Orc camp at dusk.
Going a few feet back in the tunnel, they ate and drank, but also cleaned themselves and changed from their muddy, wet, clothes to what they had brought along all these underground leagues: shining mail, round shields, and sharp swords.
Twilight fell on the fort. Little by little, the court emptied. A bell rang, probably for supper, and after a while there were no more lights to be seen except in the guarding posts. In the dim night, they watched and listened for the guards on the perimeter and silently crossed the court. Of old, the captain's quarters had been in the tower, and they gambled this hadn't changed: for the chamber there was comfortable and sunny, and the sleeping quarters below stood half ruined. On the first floor, a locked door gave way with a touch, and behind lay a man asleep with a slight snore.
In the deep obscurity of the room, barely relieved by starlight creeping through the open window, Falmaramë sat at the head of the bed and watched for a while, quietly matching the sleeper's breath. Then she started humming a slow tune, old as the hills, and in it was the broken rhythm of a dream, several strands of disjointed logic and a queer beauty underneath that finally meshed into a rhyme. From the old language of the Noldor finally an injunction to wakefulness was born, and the man opened his eyes.
"Elves! Bloody elves! It wasn't a dream!" cried he.
"As I was just saying, call for help and you die," said Falmaramë in the Common Speech, and her dagger was on his heart. "Do you understand? I only want to talk to you, Mahtar, but you must not call."
He hurriedly rose in his bed, propping himself against the dirty wall as his hairy chest rose and fell in fear. He was a square man with greying hair and a stubble; sweat glistened on his face.
"I hear you all right. How did you get here? Where are my men? Did you slay them?"
"Your men are alive and unharmed, either sleeping or standing guard, perhaps even playing cards. I got here because such was my wish."
The man rubbed his face and clenched his eyelids. "How did you get into my dreams?"
"There are lullabies to sleep, songs to wake, and melodies in between. But I need you awake now, as dream-talk is difficult to remember. You may light the candle now if you wish, as your eyes are less keen than mine."
Yellow light flickered as the candle came to life under a shower of sparks from the tinder box, and the mercenary captain was finally able to fully see Falmaramë. She was clad for war, silver mail on her breast, but her helm rested on the night table so that he could see her grave face. Two others stood by the door behind her, and their swords were drawn. To the man, they were alien and beautiful, and terrible, as he had only ever beheld Eldar in the heat of battle, and quite seldom. After an instant, Falmaramë pulled her dagger back into its sheath.
"Who are you, elvish lady?"
"One whose death would bring you a fair reward."
The man grunted and steadied himself upright before answering. "We both know you'd slay me before I grabbed the blade I have under the bed, so cut the chase."
She told him, and he whistled through his teeth. "Indeed, I could probably retire with that price. So why risk your fair head by coming here, lady of Imladris?"
"Well, I am looking to employ some mercenaries, and have heard excellent accounts of your company," said Falmaramë.
"No can do. I already have work. But that was a nice try."
She smiled, and her smile had a subtle edge that made the man shiver. "Come to the window with me," she said, "and tell me what you see."
His naked feet did little sound on the floor as he rose, no more than her thin leather boots. The dark air felt cool on the skin; the crescent moon had long set, and it took some time to the eyes to accustom to starlight. Cold and grey it fell upon the hills, where trees and shrubs stood as wells of darkness and the white limestone seemed to float over the gloom. A few red fires burned near the fort.
"Nothing. Night. Stars. The Orcs below the walls."
"Ah," she said. "The Orcs. They run under a black ship, while you kept your own sigil. They attack mostly at night, and I surmise you were hired to fight during the day, as the sun is their enemy. But they mistrust you, and you and your men remain cooped up here with little occasion to fight and loot."
"They have men with them too," volunteered the mercenary. "But not enough."
"Tonight, the scouts they sent north will not come back, so tomorrow you will be asked to search for what killed them. And, when you find it, you too shan't return. Because that's what they're using you for: easily disposable bodies, to fill the gaps and avoid sacrificing the black ship troops."
"So there's a host upriver then. Hum. Was bound to happen sooner or later."
"They don't have to pay the dead," continued Falmaramë as if he hadn't spoken. "And so you will be sent forward again and again whenever they need to smoke us out. And your men will die, because you are an easy target to us. Your bodies are frail and your steel is weak."
"I have heard of men inflicting grievous defeats to the Eldar."
"Oh yes, during the War of the Jewels, at a time your forefathers' forefathers weren't even born, although this was but a short while to us. But they had dragons and Balrogs with them and the full might of our greatest Enemy, of whom Sauron was but a thrall. Ever since? You haven't had such good success. Fight tomorrow against us, and you shall die."
The man spat something caught in his teeth before answering. "Nah. If you were so sure of victory, you wouldn't even be here. You smell desperate, lady."
"Are you so happy to serve them that you would rather gamble your life away?"
"I don't serve them. I fight beside them, for a price," he answered, and his pride was stung.
"This is not how it looks from the outside. Have you been paid recently? Your horses are thin, and your weapons are old."
The man didn't answer, so she went on. "I said I was offering you a contract. Elven steel to arm and shield yourself, and land to rest your wandering feet."
"What land?"
"This one. Eregion is where I was born and the place my heart shall forever mourn. It is empty now, and has been for many years, but the soil is rich and in peace the roads are thick with commerce. Fight with me tomorrow, and you shall have the Bruinen valley from here to the Greyflood."
"How much in tribute each year?"
"None. But you shall hold the river against our enemies."
"So you would be paid in blood."
"Isn't this, ultimately, always the price?"
He turned to the lighted room and paced, his brown weather-beaten face lost in thought. The Elves waited, and then he started to speak.
"I maintain that you are desperate to make such an offer. But it is more than we were promised, much more, and we haven't seen a golden coin yet. Any would consider that contract voided in truth, and I would have taken my men back south long ago if it wasn't for that Númenorean who lead us there. There's something not right with him; he scares me in a way nobody ever did. But if we must fight tomorrow and I can choose my opponent, I would rather fight against him than you. No tribute, eh. And we can levy tolls on the roads as long as we maintain peace on them."
Falmaramë laughed. "Many Dwarves usually go through this place, so don't be too greedy, because they drive a hard bargain. How do your people usually seal a contract?"
"We shake hands," he said, offering his large palm to hers. "Now, let's wake up my lieutenants and tell them there's been a change of plans."
Soon after, they were all sitting in a hall: Mahtar and his four lieutenants, Falmaramë and her six companions. Torches sent dancing shadows along the uneven stonewalls. The Second Born were all men, heavyset and marked by years running the land. They wore rough mail and thick leather, worn out but well cared for, and stared at the Eldar with curiosity.
"Well, friends," started Mahtar "I heard your complaints about the whole business here, and fate has delivered us a way out. We shall fight along those we should have been paid to destroy, and if the spoils will be long to grow, they shall be plentiful."
His first lieutenant grumbled: "Don't you fear the Númenorean anymore? It would take more than seven Elves to make me feel safe from him."
"There's more of them where they came from," said Mahtar. "If we're lucky, we may kill him yet and rid the world of his somber menace. Even if he lives after tomorrow, I doubt he will spare a thought for us, as I do intend to send him running back south to this dark master he speaks of."
"What scares you so about him?" Falmaramë asked.
"As I said before, there is a strange power about him. They say some Númenoreans deal in the evil arts, and this I do believe, for he sometimes plain vanishes. He has a hold on the mind of his troops, wether men or orcs, that drives them to fury. But it doesn't seem to work on ourselves; I guess because we haven't been near him long enough. Already some of the younger of our company seem close to falling under his spell, but nothing a good kick to the shins doesn't heal. A free company we are, and no Númenorean sorcerer will change that."
"He vanishes, you say. I have never heard of such a thing in a Second Born. You are too substantial to walk the shadow realm."
"Don't ask me how he does it, lady," said another man. "But we have all seen him, there one moment, gone the next. And we have all felt the fear around him. He commands to this emotion; when we fought other men for passage in Calenardhon, I saw them throw down their weapons and cower crying, although a moment before they were bold as they come. And it may have been an evil deed, but so we slayed them, defenseless as they were, for a fear was upon us too: that he would creep unseen behind us and slip a blade between our shoulders."
There was silence as the Elves pondered this answer, and Falmaramë's face was tense as she asked: "Have you ever seen a ring about him? It would probably be a wide gold band set with a single stone of colour."
"Funny you should say so, for yes, I noticed one when he last called me," said Mahtar. "It caught my eye."
One of his lieutenant chuckled and asked if he was a Dwarf to be so aware of treasures and jewels.
"You can mock me," answered his captain "but there was a gleam to that red stone, its colour so deep it might have born the night in its heart. Anyone would have noticed, and it hung from his waist on a chain."
"And it called to you," said Falmaramë. "You felt it perhaps even before you saw it: a temptation of servitude in exchange for more power you could ever want, power to rule and subdue, power to break minds and live forever."
Mahtar's brown complexion paled as he spoke: "How do you know such a thing? Is it not enough to enter my dreams, do you also break unbidden into memories? But if so, then you also know I shall never bend my knee to anyone, be they dark lord, Númenorean sorcerer, or elf-queen. A free man was I born, and a free man I shall die."
"I know because I was taught the lore of these rings, and I know how they were corrupted from things of beauty to these machines of doom. I do not possess the power to read hearts. But now you have opened yours to me, this I shall say: never have I been more glad to encounter stubbornness."
A little after daybreak, they lifted a plain red banner over the tower and, some time later, a horn sounded far below. Halarova was there.
"I would feel dirty attacking them in their backs," said Mahtar "if these hadn't shown us time and time again they have no honour in a fight."
Riders poured in the valley in a thunder of hooves, heading straight for the Orcs' camp, overflowing their defenses. The watchers on the wall soon gave their signal and, when the enemy camp was most in disarray from the unexpected attack, the fort doors were thrown open. Falmaramë and her companions stood on foot by the first line, but two of them, Roinya and another, were mounted on horses lended by the mercenaries, and were to gallop to Halarova to warn him about the ring. When the doors opened, Roinya lowered her head and asked Falmaramë: "Which banner do we run to?"
"What do you mean, which banner," she said. "There should be only one."
"No, lady, look."
Falmaramë hoisted herself on the stirrup to get a better view, and indeed, she saw that another banner flew high in the morning light beside her own: the starry device of Gil-Galad.
"Oh!" She cried. "I never thought he would come! Go to him, go straight to him!"
Jumping lightly from her perch, she drew her fiery sword and signaled to her four remaining companions; following the flow of mercenaries, they all ran forward.
They carved themselves a way to the Númenorean's tent through the chaos, slaying all those that came to stop them. It was empty, and a quick search found no sign of a ring of any kind. So they left and rejoined the fight; under the rising sun, the Orcs were no match for their foes, and the men who stood with them, feeling defeat and death, started to run. In the beginning rout, neither Halarova's company nor the mercenaries gave any mercy.
At that time, the Númenorean captain appeared; tall and covered in a dark cowl, he stood motionless among his fleeing troops. Through a break in the crowd, Falmaramë saw him bring his pale hand to a ring hanging from a chain, and he put in on his finger, and vanished from the sight of mortal men. But the Elves still saw him, rising as a shadowy figure shrouded in tendrils of night; they saw him lift his arms and call to another power, and the tide of the battle turned. Those who were fleeing turned back, swords and axes raised, and fell on their enemies. All were strengthened and seemingly scorned their own survival. The wounded and disarmed picked up anything they could to rejoin the fight. The most striking effect, however, was on the attackers, wether Second Born or Noldor, as many shook their heads, unsettled, and some even tried to run before being overtaken by their pursuers. As the Númenorean opened his mouth and a fell scream resounded, only Mahtar and a few of his men were still able to stand among the mercenaries. Even among the Elves, many dropped their swords; horses ran from this new terror, trampling all. While a new fear gnawed at her belly, Falmaramë shook her companions, shouting at them to rise and fight, calling them to the sun. By the time she had brought them back, they were hard-pressed and soon had to fight for their lives. "Yield, yield, you idiot, yield!" she cried to a sorely wounded man who still pressed her, but he didn't seem to hear her anymore than he felt his bleeding belly, and she knocked him down, loath to slay him. But the next one she had to, and the one yet after that. And all the time she had to rouse her companions while trying to reach the Númenorean. She never got to him, however: so hard pressed was she that defense was her only course of action and, when she next looked, he was walking away from the battle field, still shrouded in the ring's power. Only when he was long gone did the blood-lust recede in his army, and the few survivors fled before the Elves.
At long last, silence fell, and those still standing were able to lower their shields. Noon was long passed, and afternoon was waxing. Halarova had rejoined Falmaramë; she congratulated and praised him before searching for Gil-Galad's banner, that now flew on the other side of the battle field. She removed her helm to wipe the sweat from her face, leaving a trail of grime on her brow, and started to walk towards him. He had seen her, too, and made a bee-line to her after dismounting, his fair face hardened with weariness. They embraced clumsily, as he still held Aeglos, and she gripped his forearms with a smile as his guards, surprised at his sudden change of course, ran after him.
"Had a nice trip underground? Not too windy?" asked Gil-Galad with a grin, expecting an answer in jest. But her heart was still shaken, and she couldn't bring herself to respond in kind. She let out a sigh.
"I've been to a dark place, Nandaro, that brought me back to times of great pain. And I'm ashamed. I'll tell you all about it - but some other time. Right now, I am too tired, and there is too much death and destruction around us. And all of it is of my own making. Last night, when I learnt what we were really up against, I was so afraid; although I could see the only way out was forward, I was so terribly afraid. We were wrong about the Nine. Never did I think for an instant they could have such a clutch on minds, nor channel such power."
The look of concern on his face brought her comfort, perhaps even more than his reply.
"Well, you did save Imladris today, and you bought victory for a cheaper price than others, including me, would have. That is no small feat. Waiting to let them bring the fight to us would have been a deadly mistake. You say you were afraid, but I say you were valiant."
She felt close to tears and slipped her arm around his waist. "Please, walk with me for a while. I need to clear my head."
In turn, he held her close, and they slowly walked to the edge of the battlefield. When they reached the trees, Gil-Galad's four guards went silently around them at some distance.
"I didn't think you would come, even if you cared enough to put poor Halarova to the question," said Falmaramë.
"How could I not? I have traveled here in the East to bring you support in any way I could, before I even knew you; this alone should be an answer. But you must know that even if I was just Nandoro I would have followed you here."
At these last words, her trouble grew and her voice, as she answered, was full of dismay.
"Please, do not speak of follow. These words ring ill in our history, and besides you are my liege. I am not only Elenatta, and can never fully be her; as much as I can wish for the contrary, she can never be more than a fancy I tell myself. There is a doom attached to those who follow me."
"Yet many do," said Gil-Galad.
She stopped and stared at him. "Have you seen them? Do you know who they are? Kinslayers, mostly, full of grief and pain, filled with a guilt that cannot be allayed. After the fall of Eregion, near all those who could swear themselves back either to you or Galadriel did; when we left Khazad Dûm, I was surprised at how many asked Amdír for leave to stay in his wood. Noldor, living in trees! We who always have cherished fair cities of stone! He didn't accept them, though, so they left with me and now dwell in Imladris. But my lot is those who rode with the sons of Fëanor, and their loves and families; or those like myself, born to a fate we didn't chose. The millstones of Mandos grind slowly, to children's children, and to those who are born after them. We all know it. We all feel it. They have no choice but to follow me, as I have no choice but to lead them. But please, speak not that word for yourself, for I am afraid of its meaning."
He took both her hands in his, opened his lips to say something and thought better of it. After a while, though, he said: "I do not want mere peace between the houses. I want unity, I want friendship, and this is hard work. It means forgiveness for those who attacked Doriath and the Havens of Sirion and, yes, it means helping them without question when their enemy rises. I do not follow; rather, I stand beside you."
Falmaramë did not answer, and they walked in silence below the trees, tall beeches rising high. Their grey shafts soared among great white rocks covered in moss and leaves from years past, turned from bright copper to fallow dun. The canopy still held that deep green shade that foretells autumn, as its fullness comes from the gold hidden inside. Wandering aimlessly, the couple reached a clearing where a dark pool mirrored the sky. There they stooped to wash their hands and faces; when they rose again, they wordlessly held unto each other. The four guards looked away, keeping watch from afar. It wasn't until twilight fell that they headed back, feeling their way through the darkened wood where tall hemlocks shone as ghosts in the night.
Later that night, Gil-Galad's guards sat before his tent. Two of them were eating their meal; the other two quietly stood watch. The first of them was Forven. He was small for his people, and he had served Fingon before, having indeed stood beside him on the terrible day of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. When Gothmog, prince of the Balrogs, had slain the king, Forven had fallen too, and thought his hour come. But the fiery monster had turned back, caring not for mere soldiers; as he left in search of nobler prey, Forven had scrambled away. He found some of his brethren and sisters in arms, and they somehow trudged their way back home through many dangers. There waited Fingon's wife, and her son was a babe in arms. By then, Turgon hadn't yet announced his claim to the crown, so Forven swore his service to his king's only child. As years passed, he taught him spear and sword, while others charged themselves with his formal education.
In this, he was later helped by one Calmarquen, who had left Círdan the Shipwright's service in favour of the pale widow of Fingon, who now sought to build her strength and challenge Turgon. His hair was grey and his hand was strong; when Gondolin fell and Turgon in turn was slain, it was Calmarquen that Gil-Galad sent to Galadriel to bear his claim. What she saw in his heart, she never told.
During the war of the Wrath, as the Valar ruined Beleriand to save Middle-Earth, they were joined by Maeron. Born with the likeness of a woman, Maeron chose to dress and carry himself as a man, feeling better suited to this life. In those days, it was very little wonder, as the spirit was always superior to the flesh and in all things its master. By his valour, Maeron had saved a small company Gil-Galad led, and had thus become the first guard the young king had chosen for himself. His laugh was loud and he was fond of teasing his lord.
At last, they had been joined by Vilyond, a Noldor of Eregion who had done great things under Elrond during the war against Sauron. Amidst the bleak despair of the time, Vilyond had met his love in the army from the west; once peace was won, the pair was loath to be sundered. Elrond would have recommended him to Falmaramë's service, but he couldn't deny such a request from such a man, and Sornorë left Imladris with enough glowing praise that Gil-Galad could do nothing but offer to take him in his service.
"That was a good turn Halarova did to us, Vilyond, to tell you about him trying to give us the slip yet another time," said Forven. "I swear, one of these days he'll give me a heart attack and I'll just drop dead just as the Second Born sometimes do."
"I knew him well enough in Ost-in-Edhil," explained his friend. "Still, I was surprised that he came to find me. The cat's out of the bag, he said, and Falmaramë will have my head if anything happens to Gil-Galad, so please make bloody sure he's safe and sound, because I bet he hasn't told you he intends to leave."
"Let's all have a drink to Halarova," gloomily said Maeron, raising his gourd. "To a man who recognises the pain of his fellow suffering underlings. He's getting worse lately, isn't he?"
"Of course he is," answered Forven. "First on the road, although that was to be expected and we should have gone immediately after him. Then dismissing us all the time in Imladris - which should be safe enough, I grant you, only we never know wether they won't go for a ride outside the valley to see some waterfall or whatever, and the stable hands somehow always warn us too late."
"They calmed down, still, when the skirmishes began," said Calmarquen, speaking for the first time. "And they never rode far, always back a few hours later."
"You do have a soft spot for her," teased Maeron. "Anyway, I don't understand how she doesn't have guards of her own. It's surprising for one of her station."
"Her father didn't have any either," volunteered Vilyond. "He never wanted anything more than a simple life, without all the fuss he inherited once all of the sons of Fëanor were dead. She may put on an excellent show of power in Imladris, but deep down I feel she's much the 're a queer bunch, the Fëanorians, always have been."
"Aye, you could have struck me down with a feather when I realised she was that lass he met on the hill," said Forven, drinking. "They do make an excellent pair in that regard. Two young idiots who enjoy nothing more than riding away in the blue without warning."
Vilyond shrugged and sighed as he spoke: "If they stopped trying to impress one another, maybe we'd be able to catch a break. I can't wait for them to get past the flirting stage unto whatever is waiting for them beyond."
The other three laughed softly. "So you can't wait to have to watch over her too? Because that's where we're headed, mark my words. We'll get ourselves a High Queen before long. There's a fate over them, I can feel it in my bones," said Forven. "Now, who takes the first shift?"
Later, Calmarquen and Vilyond silently sat below the reeling stars, lulled by the soft hum of quiet conversation coming from the tent behind. It stopped after a while, and all was silent throughout the camp until a sudden gust of wind snapped at the badly fastened tent flap.
"I'll get it," grumbled Calmarquen, rising.
As he secured the canvas, he gave a glimpse inside. They had fallen asleep huddled against each other, still in the crumpled clothes they had worn under their armour. Perhaps feeling the night breeze, Falmaramë stirred, and grasped Gil-Galad's hand in her sleep. Whatever powers were at work, Calmarquen hoped they would be kind to those two.
On the morrow, the camp woke up early. As the morning mist rose into low clouds that made the day dull and grey, there was much work to do, beginning by burying the dead. As was the custom, they made two cairns separating the First and Second Born from the Orcs, the former being smaller than the latter; despite the Númenorean's ring, the victory remained clear in the end. No news of him had been found, and the small parties sent to track him had returned empty-handed.
Some time in the morning, the captains convened. Mahtar, the mercenary, stood bold as brass among the Noldor as they all agreed over maps to the territory to be entrusted to his care. He refused to come to Imladris to collect the promised steel.
"For I have heard of men pulled into elven-land for a night, only to find a year or more has elapsed," he said. "I trust you well enough to send what you promised, lady, but no more."
Smiling, Falmaramë answered him: "We do know how to keep the time, Mahtar, and would remind you to leave. Only those guests who wish it tarry in our lands."
"Let's just say I beware of myself, then," he said, his weathered face unmovable as ever.
They left some time in the afternoon, now able to openly follow the old road by the Bruinen. Riders were dispatched to announce their return; they expected a few days of travel, being slowed by the care of the wounded. Gil-Galad, Halarova and Falmaramë rode together with a small vanguard. The weather was agreeable : despite the clouds, the air was warm under the trees and, when they crossed into more open ground, there was no breeze to chill the day. They rode in silence, deep in thought; after a while, Falmaramë said: "Please, Halarova, tell us what ails you. You look as if you had tasted spoiled milk."
"It's the ring," he said. "It does not make any sense. Why would he wait for so long before using it? Had he called upon its power in the first moments of the battle, we wouldn't have stood a chance."
"Ah," said Falmaramë. "But I don't think he was looking for victory. His force was way too small for that. This actually bothered me for a while, but it makes sense now that we know the Dark Lord is behind this. They were too numerous to feed and care for in the long run, as they had no supply lines this far north of the gap of Calenardhon. They were just enough to be a real threat, but he would have needed a proper host to hope to keep Imladris in the long run, even if he had taken it now."
Gil-Galad then spoke. "The most probable reason is that he was testing our strength. He needed to see us fight to accurately gauge us, and judge how much the ring affected us. We had no choice but to take his bait, and we did swallow it whole."
"We can expect a few months' respite," added Falmaramë, "as the way back to Mordor is long; perhaps even a year or more. But Eriador is now threatened again. I think he learnt his lesson last time and won't try for open war yet - but nine rings sowing unrest and clashes all over the place could, would, drain our resources."
"Fortunately, we'll be better prepared. What we need to do is find allies, here, and beyond the Mountains. I do have some ideas about it," said Gil-Galad, spurring his horse forward.
"I can't wait to see what the council will think of them," said Falmaramë. "To think they say I'm the rash one."
Halarova shook his head in apprehension and let them ride alone for a while.
When they got to Imladris, Falmaramë rode first in the great paved court before the Last Homely House and alighted before Elrond and many others warned of their return. As Gil-Galad arrived behind her, he slipped into her ear: "Please do not gloat. I do like Erestor."
"Me, gloat? Never," she answered with a wide smile.
After unhitching her scabbard from her waist, she gave it to a waiting hand and turned to Elrond. She now stood tall and proud in the rapidly filling courtyard that echoed with the clopping sound of hooves, and spoke loud to be heard by all.
"I am back from the march of Eregion, where our enemy is defeated and we have gained a new ally. What new in Imladris?"
"Nothing, lady. All is good now that you are back, and with our liege, too, how nice," said Elrond with a slight bow. Eyes twinkling, he smiled as Gil-Galad clasped his hand in greeting.
Elrond stopped smiling, however, when they held a council on the morrow and told of the ring on the battlefield. Several questions arose about the identity of the Númenorean captain, and wether it was known to the island king that some of his subjects were in contact, indeed in servitude, of Sauron. A new distrust shrouded the Númenorean delegation, and it was resolved to discreetly investigate them. But most of the day was spent pondering on how to avoid another war in Eriador. Maps were gazed upon, and alliances assessed as a truth appeared: Gil-Galad's influence stopped at the Mountains, hadn't been sufficient before, and wouldn't be enough now either unless some things greatly changed. There was much bickering; hands were raised and eyes were rolled, but in the end a course was agreed upon.
Some delay was needed, however, as preparations began. Autumn was setting and, on a dreary dawn where clouds hung low, Falmaramë, clothed for travel, called to Gil-Galad.
"I have promised to show you the best of the mountains. Today is the perfect day. Well, tomorrow shall be, but we have a long ride ahead," she said.
Intrigued, he followed her to the court where their horses waited. They left towards the upper valley, galloping past the waterfalls and the white water. In the late morning, they passed the last dwellings, but the road still went up, although it now more resembled a path. They stopped for lunch beside a stream that fell with a song over a small ridge, and kissed in the dull, shadowless light. When they left, trees became scarce; the tall beeches and oaks had given way to silver birches, their leaves a dun colour in the mist. They crossed small fir tree groves, where mushroom smells and the perfume of cold resin drifted low, and a thin drizzle fell from the sky - or perhaps it was a thickening of the cloud itself, as great grey veils now hid everything. Some time during the afternoon, they came to a wooden cabin; its ghostly outline rose near the gentle slope of a meadow, where tall grasses were now brittle and dry. It was called the Winter Lodge, explained Falmaramë, and marked the highest easily accessible place in snow-time. They opened the shutters, built a fire in the hearth and laid by its light, oblivious to the outside world, lost in a cocoon of their own warmth as an early autumn night fell outside.
They had a late start in the morning. Leaving the horses, they went on through paths snaking steadily upwards, among low bushes touched with red. Fog rolled around them in heavy waves, blindingly bright towards the sun, but they walked towards a dull grey that hid everything. Droplets settled on their lashes. Falmaramë never lost the way, however, and led Gil-Galad forever on, past a rumbling brook, and over a scree slope. At last, they reached a stone ledge that was as a giant's step; as they climbed it, a sudden breeze seemed to tear up the mist and a bleached light started to dance around them. Reaching out to Gil-Galad, Falmaramë helped him go over the last ledge, and suddenly they were standing in full sunlight, bright and warm. Close below, great tendrils of fog reached up, only to be shredded by the wind. The peaks that enclosed the valley rose like islands in a sea of dazzling feathery white, and they shone gold and red under the great sky. This high, the world was silent, save for the roaring wind and the pair's jagged breath. An eagle flew high above.
Kneeling among the low bushes, Falmaramë gathered a handful of dark berries and held them to Gil-Galad. "Blueberries," she said, and they tasted the dull, sweet, flavour.
A bit further on, they sat on the yellow grass, beside a clear pond with green-tinted depths. The highest peaks towered over them, pillars of black stone where the snows of past winters still lingered in places. Clear and crisp, the air spoke of the waning of the year.
"I'll miss you while you're gone," said Falmaramë.
"I wish you could come with me," he answered wistfully. "If only as far as Khazad Dûm."
"With the letter I penned to recommend you to Durin, they'll be honour-bound to listen to you, so you mustn't worry. I would afterwards be most unwelcome in Amdír's wood. I met him once." And, mimicking the nasal accent of the Sindar beyond the Mountains, she quoted: "My people cannot be held responsible for the house of Fëanor's failures in Eregion. We wanted no part in your war and wish not for your friendship. I shall not be your accomplice in whatever future you build; let this be the Noldor's fate."
Hugging her, Gil-Galad asked: "And you answered politely."
"And I answered politely. They still trade with us. But for all the excellent reasons in the world, I shall still sulk about your leaving."
She snuggled against him, in awe to be able to do that, and closed her eyes. Gil-Galad kissed her hair.
"Elrond will be an extremely poor travel companion compared to you."
"But he'll have a field day in Lórinand working behind the scenes, and being your kin he is better suited to it than me. And I need to deal with the Númenoreans here; they know him too well, and we want them unsettled."
He replied with a sigh. "I know. It's just that I'll miss you too."
They sat long in the autumn sun as it revolved through the sky. Shadows changed, but the sea of clouds below remained the same, and the low bushes around them were bright as copper when they left in the afternoon light towards the setting sun.