"My lady," stated Alcarinquë, "you are pining."
They were sitting in a clear room over the river. The late autumn sun slanted its rays through the curtains and cast a silver sheen over Falmaramë and her two ladies. There sat with her Alcarinquë, dark of hair and eye, witty and elegant, and the quiet Insil with her mousy hair, who was as kind as she was an accomplished seamstress. Alcarinquë went on: "Not that I complain of your company, mind you; these last few months, you have quite neglected us, your friends. Many an afternoon I have spent alone here with Insil, she sewing or embroidering, me playing my music, and we wondered when you would come back to us. But now that you are here, you just sit there brooding as one forsaken, and this cannot do at all. Where are your drawing materials? I miss seeing you sketch your future works."
"I am not brooding, or pining, I am thinking," answered tartly Falmaramë.
"In which case I have just the thing for you. Thinking people who are definitely not brooding or pining usually like to listen to music."
At these words, Alcarinquë rose to fetch a small harp that waited on a stand and sat again, carefully arranging her dress in the process so that the sun glazed on the patterns.
"Isn't your usual instrument the flute? Why such a change," asked Falmaramë.
"It is, but how am I to sing and play at the same time otherwise? And I am in the mood for a poem set to music; I have spent the better part of an afternoon on it and am in sore need of advice on the lyrics," was the reply. Alcarinquë's dark eyes shone with an irreverent glint as she struck the first chords of a melody popular in Lindon by the Sea and started to sing in a sharp voice.
Love is a hidden wound that does not show,
A long-lasting affliction we cherish,
And one that does not heal shall we perish:
Only sharing this hurt can end our woe.
O friends, I know some who sneer at passion;
Uncouth and ignorant they are, ever
I pray they meet a yet more cruel jester
And fall to this sweetest fashion.
Love is true that is born in equity
And freedom, and kindness, forever held
In high regards from living souls that swelled
With ardour in a common destiny.
My friends, when a lady finds her true mate,
Well born, of noble heart and a fair mien,
I pray she accepts him and hap'ness glean,
For all to see, and their bliss shan't abate.
Love is a private thing that likes to hide.
Per chance their affections grew from our sight,
And when their union at last comes to light
It shall ever endure and need no guide.
After a few last embellishments, she stilled the strings with both hands and looked boldly at Falmaramë. Insil's eyes rose from her tambour frame, and she stated in her usual quiet tone: "I like it a lot. You are extremely talented." Falmaramë, however, said nothing, until the silence grew heavy with expectative.
"I quite like the melody," she said.
The look of commiseration Alcarinquë gave her had no equal. "You know you can confide in us. I wish you did, for you appear highly miserable now, and this kind of hurt is usually soothed by speaking of the one who caused it."
"What more is there to say? You have summed it all. We are private persons."
"She speaks at last," cried Alcarinquë. "So, tell us, do tell us, will you get betrothed when he comes back from Lórinand? I can't wait to dance to your happiness, and I have a bet going on with Insil."
Flushed, Falmaramë protested. "No, certainly not. We have never spoken of it, and it is much too soon anyway."
"Oh, don't be so reasonable for once! You could ask him, as you are mistress of your own hand. No need to ask leave for intermarriage from the head of your house."
Falmaramë nervously teared at a thread on her dress as she answered. "I am quite happy with the way we have been until now. Now please stop hounding me."
What Alcarinquë would have replied, no one shall ever know, for her sharp banter was cut short by Elenello, the seneschal, who entered the room and announced a messenger from Khazad Dûm. Falmaramë invited him is, and Durin's envoy walked in. He was a Dwarf of middle-age, announced as Hugstar, son of Regin, son of Durin the Elf-friend. His dark beard was braided with gold, and his deep-set eyes shone with wisdom. He was richly clad in furs and jewels, a thick golden chain hanging over his cape, and he bowed low as a greeting. Falmaramë and her ladies rose, and she bade him sit.
"I apologise for intruding thus, lady of Imladris," he said, looking at the homelike setting.
"Nay, I have set a rule that never those who come from Durin shall wait. The road is long enough from the depths of Khazad Dûm, and I will not make it any longer than necessary. Elenello, bring refreshments for our guest, while his quarters are being prepared."
"Your courtesy is great," thanked Hugstar, settling on the cushioned chair. "Winter is a hard season to travel, but where Durin the Silversmith asks I shall go. I was given a letter for you from those who passed through our halls; your friends, and therefore ours. My lord's own spoken message I shall give later, if you will, where no other ears can witness it."
He handed her an envelope sealed with the rising sun emblem. Falmaramë eagerly opened it and recognised Gil-Galad's writing, but it was a dry and factual account, ready to be discussed and pored upon by the council. Hiding her disappointment, she folded it with great care and tucked it away. They talked of minor things until it was announced that Hugstar's rooms were ready, and he took his leave until evening, when they would dine alone, as it was the custom of Durin's folk to speak of serious matters over a laden table.
Diner was held in a room decorated in the dwarvish style, with great tapestries of green, blue and gold geometric patterns, and low sofas filled with cushions. A square table sat near the floor; the golden light that poured from the intricately work of bronze lanterns fell over an abundance of food, kept warm by small braziers. A vase held branches of pine that gave a sweet, clean, smell.
"I had heard you kept the ancient hospitality for your visitors, lady, but to this point I did not expect," said Hugstar, speaking in quenya.
"Please, have a seat," she replied in his native khuzdûl. "We shall not be interrupted, and I am the only one here in Imladris who was taught to speak the words you tell no one. Durin's secrets are safe in this room."
"First, I have another letter for you, from the one you called marlel in your missive to Durin," said Hugstar in the same language, handing her a much thicker envelope. "Never had I heard this name given to a stranger, but who am I to deny your heart its knowledge? At first, I confess I doubted you grasped the full meaning of the word, but now I have met you, I see that I was wrong. You do speak with the pure accent of old. So, as Durin was reminded of the bond you formed with his former self, he extended it to the High King of the Noldor."
Falmaramë took the envelope with a smile that lit her whole face, caressing the seal - imprinted not with the formal mark of the house of Fingolfin, but with the signet of a ring Gil-Galad often wore.
"Be thanked for bringing me this. I know I don't have to ask you not to publicize it, and I know you won't disclose the word marlel to the world," she said, seating herself.
"Ah, so he is not your yeshtar? That is a sad state of affairs. From the looks of him when he entrusted me with this letter, I would have thought the contrary."
"You know of the doom attached to my blood. Some things we have little control over, but whatever power I have over fate I do intend to exercise. Let it be enough that he is my marlel, and let this buy him the favour of Durin."
After looking at the letter again and feeling its weight, she put it away unopened to read later, although she often touched it absent-mindedly in the course of the then poured beer from a stone pitcher in two glasses and raised hers.
"To the King under the Mountain and the friendship between our people."
They both drank and made themselves comfortable; Falmaramë grabbed a handful of roasted almonds and they started to talk, taking the measure of each other. By the time they began eating, they had cautiously exchanged news of Khazad Dûm for intelligence on Númenor - both currencies hard to get, although none learnt anything new. Hugstar highly praised the vegetable stew, perfectly spiced, saying it reminded him of his grandfather's, but still spoke no word of Durin's message. As evening went on, Falmaramë watched him like a cat and went silent, reclining on her side of the sofa.
After a while, Hugstar finally cleared his throat, and said: "I am a messenger of bad news. This we long discussed among ourselves, and we would have kept it secret if not for the new knowledge of a Ring born by a Mortal Man. You must understand that, although we have long known what I am about to tell you, we believed it to be of little to no importance, as the Dark Lord appeared defeated and limited to his own borders away in the south and east. Please bear us no ill will for not bringing it sooner to your knowledge."
"I know the culture of silence in Durin's halls," said Falmaramë. "Worry not of my reaction, for I would rather learn what distresses you later than not at all. I am your ally, not your liege; by friendship my help is yours, but the time of its coming is also yours to set."
"Yet you may have brought us counsel earlier, perhaps. Well, there it is: the Seven rings entrusted to us were not all destroyed as we once believed. Only three of them ever were: Durin's own, and those sent to our kin in the Blue Mountains. The other four are still at large. Their owners only sent back a melted gold alloy of the correct weight, along with a great deal of perjury."
Frowning, Falmaramë leaned forward and rested one elbow on her knee as she reached for her glass. "These would be the rings sent to the north to Gundubanad and the Ered Mithrin. How did you learn they still endured?"
"Chance, mostly. The lords of the North still commerced with us as usual, and reported no ill news since the end of the great war in Eriador. We respected their privacy, as they did ours. One day, however, one of our envoys thought to investigate behind closed doors, and found correspondence that bore Sauron's mark. Only his quick wits saved him - and a fortuitous fire. In the following years, we watched them closely; there is indeed trade along the Anduin vale between them and the Black Land. Two of their rings were seen. It is highly probably the four are intact."
As he finished this tale, Hugstar nervously tugged on his beard. "This happened in the first years of the fourth Durin's reign. As long as they gave no sign of actively fighting for the Enemy, we thought it best to say nothing, for fear that they learned their secret was known. But now that you brought us the news of one of the Nine in Eregion, with news of the Dark Lord acting up again, the time for secrecy is over. There might be another enemy in the north."
A wick flickered in one of the lanterns during the silence that followed, projecting an unsteady light through the room. At last, Falmaramë spoke, carefully choosing her words in the rhythmic dwarven speech. "We always knew the north was perilous. I never opened Imladris to the lords of the North, as they had stayed strangely neutral during the war, particularly considering they had wargs and orcs on their doorstep. Dwarves seem little affected by the rings - gold fever, yes, greed, too, and perhaps also decisions influenced by Sauron, although this could also stem from common behaviour between allies. At the time, I don't think I would have advised to do anything else than wait and watch. But now that Sauron is getting restless…"
She absent-mindedly grabbed a pastry for herself and offered another to Hugstar, who took it with relish.
"Did you inform Gil-Galad of this, too?"
The Dwarf smiled. "No, lady. He may be your marlel, and indeed Durin was much more forthcoming with him than he would have been otherwise, but it is you who are our ally, not him. We told him to beware of the lords of the North, but not why. Besides, we do not care for this information to reach your sylvan kin, and it easier to hide what one ignores. They trade with us, reluctantly, but still despise us. Those who give gold without friendship are not people we esteem." He took a bite of cake before finishing. "This is the only thing I shall ask of you, that you keep it as much as possible from Amdír. Oh, and your advice on the matter, of course."
"My advice will not come fast, I'm afraid. I need to think about it. Right now, my heart tells me that there is no immediate threat to us from the north. I am more worried about them being used as an advanced stronghold for Mordor, as a place of scheming and support. Besides, what news Gil-Galad brings back from Lórinand will have to be taken into account."
"May I ask what he is doing there? You seem to imply change is to be expected on that front."
A grin opened on Falmaramë's face as she answered. "He is looking for allies east of the Mountains, and is mending ties with the house of Finarfin."
"The house of… oh. I see." Hugstar laughed a curt laugh and caressed his beard. "Forgive me, lady, but this, this is going to be good."
With a chuckle, Falmaramë still warned him: "Do not get your hopes too high, master. Amdír is well loved by his people and has a son, and we do not want to antagonize the Sylvan kingdoms: we are looking for allies, not new enemies. Even if all goes right, this shall be only a beginning. Seeds are literally being sown."
They then spoke of lighter matters, and Falmaramë invited Hugstar to stay until further news came from beyond the Mountains. To this he readily agreed, and proposed to send back one of his companions to inform his king. "He shall gladly carry whatever mail you see fit to entrust to him, too. Caras Galadhon is not far from our eastern door and, although there is little love lost between us and the Sylvan people, our couriers are still welcome there." added Hugstar.
"This is an extremely courteous offer," she replied. "One I shall probably take."
With these words, she excused herself and they parted amicably for the night. As she held the thick envelope, her feet carried her lightly to her rooms, and she felt like dancing. By the creamy light of her lamp, she read and re-read Gil-Galad's letter with delight as the night outside grew old, and the sky was whitened by dawn when she finally took pen and paper.
Some weeks passed ; nights grew shorter still, and the peaks over Imladris were shrouded in mist. Cold rain turned into sleet, and sleet into snow, so that one day the valley awoke under a thick blanket of silent white. People gathered inside and huddled under thick wool and furs, drinking warm tea as they waited for more clement weather.
In the evening, a messenger came from an outpost on the road to the High Pass; his cape was covered in ice that melted in the heat of the Last Homely House. He went progressively up the chain of command until at last Halarova brought him before Falmaramë, who received him in a small room with a big fireplace. As dying embers gave the last of their warmth, she chased sleep away and listened to his tale.
It was simple enough: a woman, Second Born, had been found unconscious by a patrol below the High Pass, having probably come over it despite the weather. They had brought her to shelter, where she had remained unconscious for a whole day; they had treated her frostbite and fed her when she at last awoke. She carried an elven sword with her, told news of a dragon come back from the north, and asked for Halarova by name. The guard had brought the blade with him.
"It is indeed my own, that I gave to that woman on the way back from Khazad Dûm years ago," said Halarova. "I want to hear her tale, but I thought you might want to listen to it, too. I feel there is something dark at work to push her over the High Pass in deep winter, ill-equipped enough to risk her life."
On the morrow, the guard left; he was back on the following day with the woman. She was short and stocky; her braids were a dirty blonde, and she watched around with defiance. There was no comfortable dinner waiting for her, or an intimate room with friends, for she was brought to the formal audience room. The slender columns shone like silver in the gloom of the day; Falmaramë waited on her dais, clad in rich winter clothes, and the star of her mithril circlet gleamed on her brow. Below her great chair sat Halarova, his dark hair pulled back, and he held a scabbard on his knees. Others of the household had assembled in a semi circle, many holding cups of mulled wine, as from the warm embers of a brazier drifted the fragrance of spring to come. The woman looked around, taking in her surroundings and not understanding, perhaps, the meaning of the delicate carvings of the Two Trees on the wall, but she stood undaunted amongst the riches of Imladris and proudly held the clear gaze of its lady. Aldith she named herself, and came from Ham beyond the Mountains.
"What do you come in search of, here in Imladris, where your kind is seldom seen?" asked Falmaramë.
"I am searching for one called Halarova, for I heard the elves are deathless, and he helped us long ago," answered Aldith, and she spoke the Common Speech with a rough and cadenced accent. "In my foremother's time he came with two companions and entrusted her with his sword. He chased the dragon away, it is sung, and left for a hidden land beyond the highest mountain pass."
"This is not exactly what I recall happened," commented Falmaramë with a thin smile. "But it is of no matter; we know how easy it is to misremember events for the Second Born. Anyway, you are in luck, for Halarova is here, and he is my valued captain."
The woman turned to look as Halarova as he stood to salute her, and wonder was on her face as he gave her back the sword. She took the scabbard and examined it, scarcely believing it was the same one she knew, and then looked back to him and fell to her knee.
"Hear my plea, o lord," she said, clasping her fist to her breast. "As you helped us in the days of Rothaid, help us now, for the dragon is back and has enslaved us."
Embarrassed, Halarova bade her rise; with a gesture of the hand, Falmaramë directed her to a low seat and asked her to tell her full story.
Long ago, after the three Noldor had left, the people of Ham gathered riches from the dragon's hoard and spent them, and Aldith's foremother Rothaid held unto Halarova's sword for safekeeping. Ham prospered once again, trading with other settlements of Second Born near the Anduin. Several generations passed, and the sword was always handed to the eldest child, who took it as a duty to keep watch. Ever Rothaid's heirs warned against going north, for that was where the dragon had left, and strange tales of violence sometimes came from beyond the Dwarven realms. This changed, however, in the time of Aldith's grandmother, as they began to trade with the faraway lords of the North in Gundubanad. For in that time the dragon's gold was all but spent, and greed drove the people of Ham to seek other sources of riches and expand themselves. Aldith's grandmother protested, but remained unheard and scorned, being taken for a raving old woman who had lost her grip on reality. The little girl listened to her, however, and her heart warmed at the ancient tales of the dragon's terror and the unexpected help of Halarova, the elf with the handsome face. When the old woman died, her son buried the sword with her to rid himself of the reminder of unwelcome warnings.
"On her deathbed, she entrusted the blade to me," recalled Aldith. "But I was too young, unable to wield it, and I was lulled to trust by my father. He took it for safekeeping, and he hid it in his mother's grave, saying it was a thing of ill omen better forgotten. I cried and I screamed, but he wouldn't change his mind. I cursed and I spat, but he carried on, and my grandmother was buried in a barrow beside old Rothaid and our kin away in the hills. I pleaded and I swore, but the sword joined her under the green mound, and the stone door was shut, to be left undisturbed until the next of us dies. For one may not enter a barrow save to carry another to rest, and thus my inheritance was lost."
Then Aldith's gaze lost itself in the distance, and her voice was muted as she recalled how her father still escorted travelers north. They were welcomed in halls of stones to marvel at Dwarven skill, and coming back they brought riches. The prices they paid were somewhat unclear; some men hired themselves to escort parties through the Ered Mithrin, as others dealt fabric and cloth from Ham - their best, if only, work. Somehow, the people of Ham always got the better end of the deal, and they scorned the northern Dwarves for being poor bargainers, and thought themselves clever to exploit them.
On a fateful day, two men came to Ham; they were clothed in black, and spoke sweet words of their great and mighty lord, away in the east, far down the Anduin vale. Their master, they said, was looking to overtake the lords of the North, and believed people as wise and cunning as the people of Ham would prove to be good friends. For he searched for support along the great river; Elves were tricky and deceitful, Dwarves were thick and stubborn, so who better partners than the people of Ham?
Soon afterwards, many left to go north, bloated with self-importance, and thought to challenge the Dwarves at their own door. But they found a dragon waiting for them long before the northern hills; he was green, and gold traced his wings, and although he was much grown he was otherwise unchanged. His right forepaw still bore a ring of blackened scales. He was Culutir Larëa, and with a single glance he enchanted those before him. They went back to Ham and grabbed their friends and family, hale adults, children and sick elderly, to drive them along the road for many miles. And there, in the shadow of the wild foothills of the Misty Mountains, the dragon put them to work in silver mines to rebuild his stolen hoard.
Tears of rage and pain swelled in Aldith's eyes as she said that not all who kept the slaves at work were under the dragon's spell, and that many truly enjoyed their position as gaolers and turnkeys. Between gritted teeth, she described beatings and worse, and Falmaramë's heart burned with anger as she wondered privately how the Second Born could muster such cruelty against their own. She had heard the memories of noldorin kinslayers, half-whispered and recalled with shame, and they all spoke of a fever born in battle that brewed blood-rage. None ever had that feeling of cold calculation and personal gain - save perhaps the stories surrounding Ëol, the Dark Elf, and his son Maeglin, whose memory was reviled.
Aldith's tale still went on. She recounted how she had fled under the cover of night, through a little-watched gully filled with bramble, and had run to the hills. There she subsisted for a while, until she found her strength again, and in the waning of the year she went in search of her grandmother's tomb.
It was morning when Aldith broke the door seal, but inside reigned an eternal darkness the rising sun failed to disperse. Once her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, however, she noticed a greenish, dismal, glow that had no source and cast no shade - barely enough to see the sharp outline of her grandmother's body, and the cold gleam of the blade upon her dried breast. She reached out to it but, before she could touch the pommel, a thin voice snaked inside her mind and turned her bones to cold water. Who was she, demanded the voice, who dared enter this mound alive? Who was she, who dared disturb the dead? As she turned her head, looking for the source of the voice, she saw many decayed bodies lying along the wall, placed on slabs of stone, and all light went out. Darkness pressed against her like a wet cloth. Still, through some trick of the mind, she thought she could see her own hand grasping forward in the dark, and she took a step, then another. Yet the voice left her no peace; she felt too warm and alive in this terrible place dedicated to the dead. But she was standing among her ancestors, and her temper grew until she cried out, her own voice harsh in the echoing tomb.
"Who are you yourself to threaten me? Has death turned you witless? I have kin-right here. In the hour of my need, I come for the sword bestowed by the elf. I claim my inheritance today! May your skulls rot below the hill, may your ribs writhe with many worms, unless you grant me this blade. What use have you for it, while I need it to free people from thralldom? Let my living hand hold it, instead of your crumbling fists!"
Time seemed to freeze at her words but, after several heartbeats, she felt darkness recede. Something had given way, and sunlight now creeped inside, revealing nothing worse that cobwebs over old bones. Aldith grabbed the sword and ran outside, throwing herself on the dewy grass where she laid until her breath evened. After a while, she closed the stone door again and left for the High Pass, in blind search of a place barely remembered from her grandmother's tales.
A deep silence followed Aldith's tale. Falmaramë cast a thoughtful gaze on her, and said:
"What boon would you ask of me? For help can take many shapes."
"The one I asked for earlier. I travelled here in hope that Halarova would come back with me, and that together we might slay the dragon and perform deeds worthy of song," replied Aldith.
As people below murmured, Falmaramë motioned Halarova to come closer, and said to his ear:
"The decision lies with you. In truth, I should be the one to go, as the whole dragon thing was my idea at the time, but I cannot leave Imladris with both Elrond and Gil-Galad gone. She asks for you; but even for you this is a dangerous quest, and I am loath to lay this charge on you. Choose freely, and I shall support you either way."
"I have to go," he said, a concerned look on his face. "It is only a matter of time before this creature remembers who tricked him and comes in search of us. Besides, I chose to leave my old sword behind. Although I knew not it would come to this, I do carry a responsibility to these people. You know as well as I do the strange ways of fate."
Straightening up, Falmaramë spoke in a clear voice: "So be it. Halarova shall travel with you over the High Pass and lend his arm to your quest. It is not, however, our fight, and if so he judges he may leave at any time without loss of honour." Her lips barely twitching, she added: "For one should beware of fanciful pursuits."
A few days later, when the weather cleared and the Mountains shone bright with snow, Aldith and Halarova left. They were fully equipped for a winter crossing of the High Pass, and had the beginning of a plan - the fact that Falmaramë actually liked it somehow worried Halarova.
Not too long after, as the longer days began to warm, Gil-Galad's party came back from the south. Falmaramë waited for them in the great court, where snow still laid thick after the last fall of the year; the sun lit a thousand stars upon it. Her winter cape was red as a robin's throat, and a light danced in her grey eyes as she watched the cavalcade fill the square. Smiling, she hurried to Gil-Galad's mare and held up her hand to help him alight. He took it, but stayed on the saddle, and said in his steady western accent:
"What new in Imladris, my lady?"
"Quite a lot, surprisingly," she said, as his thumb caressed the side of her hand, and his presence once again moved her to the core.
Holding her hand, he jumped to the ground, his brown coattails flying. Loosening her grip, she caressed his palm with her fingertips; and she heard his sharp intake of breath, and smiled at it. She had to step away to greet Elrond, who walked in great strides towards her. They hugged briefly, and he said, clasping her shoulder: "Oh, how I wish you had come with us. Ereinion was insufferable from the beginning to the end, first from sullenness and then from haste to be back. Even his guards, poor things, were sick of him, although they did their best to hide it. Isn't it right, Maeron?"
"Don't listen to him, my lady," answered the guard. "He is just jealous he didn't get to have all these chats with my lord whenever my lord wanted to speak of, ah, what he left behind here in Imladris, usually at two in the morning."
With a clear laugh, she turned to Gil-Galad and said: "You really should take better care of my counsellor. Now he is all grumpy again."
He was searching for something inside his saddle-bag and didn't answer right away. When he turned again towards her, he was holding a wand of holly, perfectly straight, thick with glistening dark leaves and bright scarlet bays.
"I hope this shall make up for it," he apologised. "We crossed Eregion along the old road, and I thought you might like this. I cut it from one of our campsites as twilight grew grey over the Mountains."
She carefully took the branch; as she admired it, an expression of nostalgia washed over her face. When she looked up, however, she was only calm joy.
"Thank you for this reminder of my old home. But in truth home is where those you love dwell, I see that now."
"Well," said Elrond, "I shall now leave you two to whatever stroll you will probably want to take through the gardens and go have a bath. Warm. In a house made of stone, where the only wood comes from beams long dead and dried. I don't want to see a tree ever again. Please cut off my hand if I ever look like I might plant one. Maedhros only had one hand, and did he fool around trees? Never, because the man was wise, despite his murderous tendencies. We ought to meet some time in the afternoon, just the three of us, not the whole council, because you have to hear how badly it went in Lórinand, Falmaramë. Let's get together at five in my apartments, shall we? I really don't know who I dislike more, my horse or the lady Galadriel. Oh no, wait, it's neither of them, it's Celeborn."
As he left, Falmaramë looked to Gil-Galad and asked: "What's the matter with him? He's always been snarky, but that much is unusual."
"I'm not sure; he's been like this ever since we left Caras Galadhon," he replied. "Lórinand was taxing, but not the resounding failure he makes it be."
Holding out his arm, he added: "Shall we take that stroll?"
The gardens were empty. Snow lay thick in places where the wind had pushed it, and it still covered the paths even in the most trodden places. As the slanted sun cast a maze of blue shadows on dazzling white, the air had that crisp quality that only comes with late winter snowfalls. Falmaramë rejoiced at the look of wonder on Gil-Galad's face as he saw how frozen drops that hung on the naked boughs broke the light in many stars.
"You have ridden through snow-laden country for a week, and never noticed?" she teased him.
"We were in a hurry and only stopped at night," he answered, and their breaths condensed in a brilliant mist as they talked.
They walked for a while, and then sat in silence on a stone bench concealed below a bank where hazel trees grew. There they listened to the hidden song of ice melting below the snow, the twitter of birds looking for lost seeds, and the murmur of the breeze. Suddenly, however, voices got closer; two men, walking on a path above them on the low ridge, who stopped to take in the view.
"So the king is back," said one.
"It looks like it. Gone are our hopes that he would leave straight to Lindon."
Down below, Falmaramë put a finger over her lips and, moving close to Gil-Galad's ear, murmured: "That's Ostimir from the Guild."
"Well, I suppose they never were realistic," pursued Ostimir. "The pup has found himself a bitch in Imladris, and nothing short of a bucket of water will separate them."
Shocked out of breath, Falmaramë clasped Gil-Galad's arms. His face had become grey, his jaw clenched, and he brought her closer, whispering: "Don't say a thing. There's no witnesses, it'd be their word against ours."
"Maybe she will leave with him for Lindon, freeing the way for us," said his companion. "Elrond alone would be no match. By the time they got news of his demise, it would be too late."
"I wouldn't count on it," said Ostimir. "They might come back with the full might of a Lindon host. No, we need to completely ruin her support, so that when she leaves it is in shame, never to return. The line of Fëanor has repeatedly failed us, yet most still want it in charge - the fools."
With the sound of ice crunching under their feet, they left, still talking. Falmaramë was taunt as a bow; she clutched the holly branch so tight that the spines drew blood.
Later, in Elrond's day room, she finally stopped pacing long enough to sit down and pour herself a cup of tea. The afternoon sun lit a warm glow in the quiet room, although, through the windows, the valley was already half lost in shadow.
"You might have to change your device," suggested Elrond. "From sea-bird to she-dog. I would suggest a hunting breed, so they can see you bear no muzzle."
"Never mind a muzzle, I should go pee on his carpet," she retorted. Gil-Galad nearly choked on his drink. "Anyway. We can't do anything unless he repeats this hilarious quip in public - it is catchy, I'll grant him that. Why don't you tell me about your trip beyond the Mountains, that I may find other sources of irritation?"
"It wasn't that bad," interjected Gil-Galad, still trying to refrain a cough. "In Khazad Dûm, Durin was terrifyingly friendly. I don't know what you put in that letter of yours, but it certainly was effective. I am on good terms with the communes under the Blue Mountains in the west, yet they keep their distance with me. Khazad Dûm was something else entirely. But I think you already know most of what transpired there, be it from my letter or Durin's messenger."
"I do, and I know more yet, but this is a discussion we should hold another time. How was Lórinand?"
"Terrible," said Elrond, who had put his feet up the table. "While Gil-Galad wooed Amdír for his friendship, I set myself to probe Galadriel's feelings towards our projects for her on the southern coast. All of my words about rebuilding the house of Finarfin fell to a deaf ear, though; it appears she cares very little for my mortal ancestry and therefore my opinion. I barely met her in Lindon before she left; now I know she purposely avoided me. So I tried to rekindle memories with Celeborn instead, but that was a resounding failure as he never forgave me for dragging him through Khazad Dûm. I swear, the only sensible mind in their household belongs to their daughter, and how such a pair could produce such an accomplished and amiable woman is beyond my ken."
Surprised, Falmaramë sent a puzzled look to Gil-Galad, who by now had fully regained his composure and just shrugged, so she asked: "I forgot what she is called, but is that praise on your lips, Elrond?"
"Her name is Celebrían," said Elrond. "Why shouldn't I praise the only person in Lórinand who does not drown in prejudice? She may be no stateswoman, but she is clever, witty and kind. Anyway, after her parents called me first an anomaly of a half-mortal and then a jerk, I tried to help with the Amdír situation. That one called me a Noldo, which is a slur in his mouth, so that all the parts of my ancestry were equally insulted in the span of a few weeks."
"Amdír, I am sorry to say, was his usual unfriendly self with me too," regretted Gil-Galad. "I did explain you and I were willing to overlook for good the fact that he had all but abandoned Eregion during the war, and I was met with scorn. He took my warnings about the Dark Lord with contempt - although he did promise to broach the subject to his brother in the Greenwood. He feels that, since Sauron didn't bother him last time he should be all right the next, completely disregarding the fact that he owes his peace to Galadriel's might."
He sighted before adding: "In the end, I didn't give him the seeds of the mallorn trees. He is a lost cause, and they would have been wasted on him. I gave them to Galadriel instead; she may be prejudiced against Elrond and wary of my forgiveness, but she took them with gratitude. After all, long ago in Valinor she walked under these same golden boughs during her youth. They never grew when I planted them in Lindon; perhaps she will have a better chance. Who knows, maybe some day the green beeches of Lórinand will be replaced by tall mellyrn and, among a people who so value trees, this may give her the edge she needs? For now she merely buys her stay with her protection, and remains the foreign wife of a cousin of Amdír's. She has every right to resent me for having forbidden her to come back to Lindon after she was driven from Eregion by your father. I hope she can see past it to our common need, however it may hurt her pride."
They soon took their leave from Elrond; evening was drawing close, and already the moon like a white rose shone in the pale west. They slowly walked to Falmaramë's rooms, where they sat side by side, and they at last spoke of the most important things: the stirring emotions of the wide land below the peaks, the wonder of the woods, and hidden beyond all the longing of their hearts. Soon, she lay her legs across his lap and rested her dark head upon his shoulder, and he held her close by the waist. And she marveled as he told of his trip and she saw a beloved land through his eyes. She then sang to him the ancient songs that grew among these sights, and went silent again as he told of Lórinand, where she had never been; how the tree-dwellings of the Galadhrim felt like ships on a strange mooring, and of their strange silent ways. And their breaths mingled as he brought his hand to the back of her head, threading her locks through his fingers, and they now whispered. His neck felt warm under her hand.
After a while, they stopped talking, not for a lack of subject, but for want of words to express themselves. It is said that delight and love birthed the first words ever spoken by the Eldar, and perhaps they would have needed this language lost in time to truly share their thoughts. Yet, as the night unfurled before them, their souls met and touched, and they gladdened in this twin comprehension: that they loved, and were loved. But, in this deepest joy, anguish quickened Falmaramë's pulse as she was suddenly afraid again that they would be sundered, and that fate, running its course without haste, would at last catch up with them. In her mind suddenly rang the words of the doom Mandos laid upon her race.
Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. And though Eru appointed you not to die in Ëa, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos.
So it happened that her greatest happiness was marred with dread, and Gil-Galad felt her unease.
"What's wrong, beloved," he softly asked, and she was equally filled with love and fear of the future as she caressed his cheek.
As she had so often done before, she pushed her anxiety in a small corner of her mind, as a heavy load tucked away in a small box; breathing in, she smiled and lied, as she kissed him:
"Nothing of importance."