It was late spring again in Imladris, when roses perfumed the air and honeysuckle first bloomed in the gardens. The sky was a pale blue dome where grew towers of clouds, all soft silver bright, their dark base hidden beneath the horizon. On the peaks, snow began its yearly retreat above slopes that shone greener by the day, while swallows cried down below. Streams, heavy with snow-melt foam, sang through the moss under the trees, and the undergrowth was dotted by golden sun in the cool shade. Beside such a stream, in the gardens above the Last Homely House, laid Falmaramë, and with one hand she lazily caressed Gil-Galad's hair, who was resting his head against her breast. They had spent the morning rejoicing in the swiftness of spring around them, singing together and finding clever rhymes, and now were glad to be idle for a time as the sun reeled around the valley.
Suddenly, he asked: "Are you happy?"
"Of course I am, why would I be otherwise," she answered in a reverie. "As long as you are by my side, I shall be. Are you?"
"I am, too, but I think we could be happier still."
Her fingers paused for a second, and her voice was more focused as she said: "And how do you propose to achieve this? For this once, I am all out of ideas."
Rolling to the side, Gil-Galad propped himself up on one elbow, and she could see his earnest gaze, blue as the sea; and she thought she knew what he was about to say, and hated herself.
"Well, we could get married," he said, and he had that sheepish, hopeful, grin, she loved so much. Light played upon his face, and he squinted because it fell in his eye, but all the while he smiled, and her heart shrank with apprehension.
"Hum," she answered. "I fail to see how this would change anything. We already live as a couple, save we do not actually share living quarters. But that can easily be arranged, and never mind the gossips."
"They would have no ground for critics if we were married, or at least betrothed. Besides, I am not thinking only of Imladris. You say you want to come to Lindon once everything has settled down here; I would walk into the Grey Havens with you by my side, and have you sit by my side, my equal in all, instead of suffering you to keep a step behind."
"Is that all? Because I don't care about any of these things."
Hesitating, he added: "I would also that your voice be heard as the equal of mine. I would put a crown upon your head, so that your wield power as I do, and your wisdom be recognized."
Falmaramë hurriedly sat and said: "No. The crown has passed from my line, to the benefit of all. I do not want to rule. I barely manage my own house without strife. You're a fool if you think the people of Lindon will gladly take a queen from the house of Fëanor."
"Then we shall keep our houses separate; the custom allows for it," and he seemed proud to have brought the conversation where he wanted to. "So, shall we announce it?"
"No," she answered flatly. "I will not marry you. I am happy as we are and do not wish for more. I will be your lover, faithful in all things, but I will not marry you."
The hurt on his face made her bleed and, when he asked why, she answered more kindly. "Elenatta would marry you in a heartbeat. Me - I cannot, my love. I do not want you to swear yourself to me. I cannot put this weight upon you. You know of the doom of Mandos; it may lie on all of us, but it is heaviest on my blood." She caressed his cheek with her fingertips, and said: "How would I bear it when its shadow fell on you and dragged you down. I have lost too much. I cannot lose you too. So what if the price is to walk a step behind when we're in Lindon?"
He retreated, and said: "I fail to see what Mandos has to do with us. I think you give him too much credit. You cannot let this fear run your life."
"Are you being deliberately thick, or am I just noticing now that you are stupid," she snapped. "It is not fear, but fact. My mother died. My brother died. My father died. I barely escaped with my life. I dare you to look me in the eye and tell me the doom of Mandos does not follow my family."
Gil-Galad did look in her grey eyes, clear as a summer night, but in the end averted his gaze, and sighed: "No, I cannot."
"So the matter is settled, then," said Falmaramë.
"No, it's not. You say you don't care about the benefits of marriage; well, I don't care about the risks in tying myself to you. You are not the only one with a say in this."
"I may not be the only one to have a say indeed, but as long as my say is different from yours, it matters very little what yours is."
He quietly laughed, and said: "What do I care for a doom yet to come? Do you see enemies around us now?"
"No, but Sauron yet lives, and his shadow looms over us. When he inevitably attacks, we will have to rise against him, again, and I refuse to put you in anymore danger by foolishly exchanging vows with you. Are we not happy as we are now? Why should we tempt fate?"
Gil-Galad gave her a peck on the lips before answering:
"Beloved, I believe you are mistaken. Fate care very little for formal vows. Didn't you notice, when we first met, that uncanny feeling in the air settling around us? Until that day, I had never understood that verse in the lay of Leithian - "her doom fell upon her." But when I saw you, standing tall and fair among the golden willows, I knew. And every minute I spend with you, every heartbeat and every kiss we share, every dance and every walk, I feel it more, and I know we are tied by more than love. Call it a doom, a shadow or a mesh of fate, but I know it is there. And perhaps indeed there is a dark end to that path, but I care not, because in the meantime, there is you, and I want to be with you always. I walk into this with my eyes open, Falmaramë."
As Falmaramë heard these words, blood completely drained from her face, and a dismal dread took her. "No," she stammered. "No, no, no, that is impossible, I thought I was the only one who felt it, I thought you had been spared. I thought that as long as you didn't take any oath you'd be safe. Oh, how blind I was, of course it would affect the two of us. Why didn't you say so earlier, when you were less dear to me?"
She got up and paced wildly on the grass, not watching where she went, and the fresh smell of wood garlic rose as she trampled a bed of white starry flowers. Gil-Galad stood up and stilled her, taking both her hands in his.
"The occasion didn't arise. Anyway, now you see your refusal has no object. Nothing worse can happen, can it?"
Her eyes were very wide, and full of terror; she didn't understand how he could be so calm.
"But how can I live knowing you may die by my fault, because of your attachment to me? I have no right to bring this to you, it is wrong, I would slay myself rather than hurt you so. You must not suffer so because of me." Tearing her hands from his warm grasp, she noticed she was trembling, and she felt extremely detached, looking upon her body's distress as one severed from it. But her lips still obeyed, and she said haltingly: "Then you must go. You must leave. Maybe we can change fate. Go back to Lindon and forget me. Let it be as if we had never met, let the shadow of my fate lift from yours."
"I am telling you that I don't care!" He had almost shouted and, by the new tension in his shoulders, she saw he was beginning to understand. So she yelled:
"I don't want you to die! Go away! Leave me! Forget me! Find another to love, and live long by their side! Go back to Lindon at once!"
The horrified understanding that slowly spread over his face tore her apart, and he slowly asked, in a hollow voice: "Are you, are we, are you parting from me?"
"I am if that's what it takes to save your stubborn ass!"
Her throat was raw; something was strangling her. Unable to bear the look on Gil-Galad's face, she ran away. Hot tears blurred her vision as she forwent the paths and ran downhill straight through the bushes, tearing her dress. And she ran through the stone terrace to the first door that opened inside, and she ran along the corridors, and she ran up a flight of stairs to the door of her apartments. She slammed the door behind her and blindly turned the key, and crumbled on the floor against the wood panel, sobbing. Instants later, there was wild knocking and she heard Gil-Galad call her name, say that he was sorry, and beg her to open.
"Go away," she wailed. "Go away, Nandaro, go away."
She bit her lips hard, wishing herself silent as sobs wracked her chest, and tasted blood. After several minutes, she heard a sigh through the door, followed by slow footfall as he walked away. It took her even longer to notice her ladies Insil and Alcarinquë, sitting in the great day room as ones turned to stone. They were aghast; Insil's embroidery skeins had fallen in a tangled heap on the ground. Barely collecting herself, Falmaramë scrambled to get up and walked to the door that lead to her private chambers. Before going through the door, she said, without turning: "No visitors."
Her bedroom was sunny and cool. She closed the curtains, crumbled on the bed, curling into a ball, and stared into nothingness. After a while, she grabbed the second pillow - the one he slept upon - to bury her face into, and screamed.
Meanwhile, Alcarinquë marched in great strides down the corridor that led to Gil-Galad's rooms, her skirts swishing in a flurry of anger. About halfway through, though, she met Maeron, one of the guards, who was walking in her direction. Without missing a step, she put her hand on his chest and shoved him into the wall, hissing:
"What did he tell her, what did he do to her, I'll kill him for it."
Outraged, Maeron pushed her away, spitting: "He? He did nothing. She's the one who broke up with him and I want to bloody know why!"
"You are demented, she would never do that, he must have done something. She's holed up in her room sobbing her life away. Wait, what did he tell you?"
They stared at each other, beginning to be more puzzled than furious.
"Only this, and then he grabbed a bottle of liquor, which he is now drinking alone without telling anything to anyone. He looks like a man who's seen death."
"All right," said Alcarinquë. "We need someone to go drink with him and get him to talk. Where's the lord Elrond when you need him?"
By the time they found Elrond, who had been working in the northern library, explained the situation, and brought him back to Gil-Galad, however, the High King of the Noldor was already black out drunk in his bed. When Elrond tried to rouse him, he only mumbled that he was an idiot, before drifting again to oblivion. So, they laid him on his side and left.
"Let's wait for a day or two," judged Elrond. "He'll be out until tomorrow and will then have to nurse the mother of all hangovers. If I know her, she'll probably be done sulking by the time he's able to hold a conversation again. Their first quarrel was bound to happen sometime; how bad can it be anyway?"
"You didn't see her when she barged in," contested Alcarinquë. "This is not a just spat. And that's the thing. They never quarrel, they talk things out."
As Elrond predicted, Gil-Galad woke up some time in the following morning. Maeron brought him some broth, which he drank without a word, and he sat on the windowsill in his room, staring at the mountains, far up the valley. He didn't see the endless chase of clouds and sun, nor heed the roses that grew to the diamonded pane or, in the evening, heard the rain that blurred with tears the wannish day.
After another night had gone by, he took to his desk and started writing a letter. But words were hard to find, and he often crossed them out, or seemingly lost his focus on the page for minutes at a time. He refused visits all day; twilight was already falling when he finally sent Maeron to deliver his message.
In the dayroom, Alcarinquë and Insil stood watch; Falmaramë still hadn't left her room nor made a sound. They had lighted candles, and the remains of a cold meal stood on a console.
"That's it, I'm going in," decreed Alcarinquë. "She has to eat sometime anyway."
They arranged a tray with some food and the letter and, after knocking, Alcarinquë crossed the small antechamber that led to Falmaramë's bedroom. There, she was lying in the dark, still wearing her torn dress, and barely moved when she heard her friend.
Alcarinquë lit a tall candle; the bright flame gave a golden light as she sat on the bed and moved matted hair from Falmaramë's pale neck and face, very gently asking:
"How are you feeling, my lady?"
She sighed, rubbing her eyes, and said: "I do not feel anything anymore."
"Your hair is all tangled, you should have braided it before lying down. How about I brush it for you while you eat? There is cold pie and fruits. There, get seated while I get your comb."
By the time Alcarinquë had found comb and brush and sat again on the bed, Falmaramë was upright and held the envelope in her hands, turning it slowly. The corners felt very sharp, and the wax from the seal was very smooth; she fancied it was still warm. But her thoughts were sluggish, and she asked: "When did this arrive?"
"Only moments ago. Maeron brought it."
Falmaramë opened the envelope but, at the sight of the familiar writing, her sight blurred again with tears. She let them roll on her cheeks and folded the letter so that the ink wouldn't stain. Behind her, Alcarinquë began combing her hair, tugging slightly at the knots, and it felt good that her scalp ached. After a while, though, it stopped hurting as the comb ran freely through her dark locks, and then there was the even pull of the brush, soothing in its rhythm.
She read the letter. There was no reproach, but each word pierced her like a knife for inflicting this to the man she loved. Again he pleaded for them to have a future; but she couldn't, wouldn't, change her answer.
Alcarinquë was now braiding her hair, her cool fingers deftly working through the shining strands. When she was done, she hugged Falmaramë and kissed her temple.
"There," she said. "You're all set. Why don't you put on your nightgown while I lay out another dress for tomorrow?"
While Falmaramë changed, she chose a dark blue dress with white trimmings and readied it on a chair. "Will there be an answer," she then asked. "Maeron said he would wait, just in case."
"No," replied Falmaramë. "The one he wishes to hear, I cannot give him, and I will not wound him again with a refusal."
After a slight hesitation, Alcarinquë said: "Do you wish to speak of what happened?"
"No, I cannot, not yet. Please leave me now, Alcarinquë. I wish to be alone. Thank you for your kindness."
When Alcarinquë got back to the dayroom, she shook her head in despair.
"Her fire has gone from her," she said. "She won't explain, and she just stands there, so terribly sad and downcast. She's not even angry, she's just hurting more than I've seen anyone hurt."
On the following morning, Elrond forced his way to Gil-Galad, who was again brooding on the windowsill, and sat on the couch with a book.
"I won't leave until you've spoken to me, you know," he said. "And I'm ready to wait for as long as necessary."
Gil-Galad scoffed: "You can't do a thing about it anyway. Why don't you go bother Elenatta instead?"
"Because she seems to have taken a vow of silence, and it's alway been easier to ferret information out of you anyway. So sulk all you want, I know that in the end you'll tell me why she dumped you."
"You mean you don't know," asked an incredulous Gil-Galad.
"No. We are all in the dark. I won't even mention the rumour mill, which is running absolutely wild up and down the valley, but we who are close to both of you - her ladies, your guards, me - none of us have a clue and we are going mad."
"I thought she would have told you," Gil-Galad said.
"Come on, Ereinion, you know her better than that," snapped his friend. "She shuts down whenever she's upset, and right now she has clammed up like the most stubborn shell in the Great Sea."
There was a short wait, during which a bird outside trilled with an ill-fitting enthusiasm, and Gil-Galad rubbed his face. At last, he said: "I proposed to her."
The silence that followed was filled with Elrond's incredulity. He stared at Gil-Galad, and finally managed to say: "Is that all?"
"Aye."
"That's ridiculous," said Elrond. "I could understand her saying no - hell, I'm your friend and I would definitely refuse you - but a break up seems a bit, shall I say, overboard? Did she give any reason?"
Resting his head against the wall, Gil-Galad opened his hands wide, and explained: "She said she didn't want to bring the doom of Mandos upon me if we exchanged vows, and I may have said I believed it didn't matter since I felt it was already on me, ever since the day we met."
Elrond remained silent, closing his eyes and slowly breathing through his nose. He had become very pale, and his jaws clenched. After a minute, Gil-Galad asked if he was all right.
"I am angry, Ereinion," he answered. "I am more angry than I have been in many years. I had forgotten I could be that angry. Have you tried to reason her?"
"I wrote her a letter, yes," said Gil-Galad. "Alcarinquë told Maeron she read it, but wouldn't answer."
"And nothing more? Have you tried, I don't know, groveling? Crying under her window? Or even knock again upon her door? Was really a single letter the best you could do to try and save the love of your life from the biggest mistake she could ever make? What kind of an idiot are you?"
"The single kind, it would appear," answered Gil-Galad with a scathing voice. "Lay all your sarcasm on me, and you have plenty to spare, but there is one thing I will not do, and that is in any way coerce or bully her into a relationship she doesn't want, whatever her reasons might be."
With an exasperated sigh, Elrond got up and cried: "But it's not you I'm angry at, you idiot, you noble idiot who would let her go, it's her! Oh, I will skin her alive. It's Maedhros all over again."
"What, Maedhros? What has he got to do with this? The man's been dead for years."
Elrond took a few paces around the room and, after a thought, sat opposite Gil-Galad on the windowsill. They overlooked the northern gardens and the steep gorge where the river ran amongst blue shadows; everything outside was mirth and life, while inside the room a new gloom fell. A green bough in full bloom rapped on the window pane, swayed by a gentle breeze, but all Elrond saw were its thorns. After a while, he felt calm enough to speak.
"What I am about to tell you, my brother and I told no one. You know how Maedhros and his brother Maglor took us in after the massacre of the Havens of Sirion. You know how our father had already left Middle-Earth, hopelessly searching for a passage to Valinor; how our mother threw herself into the Sea, the Silmaril on her breast, to avoid it falling into the hands of the sons of Fëanor - I have strong opinions about both these decisions, but it's beside today's point. We were left alone, toddlers barely out of diapers, and Maedhros and Maglor all but adopted us, the blood of our kin still fresh upon their blades. I suppose they felt guilty about the whole thing; and anyway we didn't have any close family left to raise us. For all their faults, they treated us as their sons and gave us the best care in the world. Our real parents couldn't have been kinder to us. Maglor, the best musician in the world, used to sing us to sleep, conjuring dreams of wild forests and fluffy bunnies for us to play with. Maedhros, poor one-handed Maedhros, told us stories of courage and mercy, and taught us our letters. It was he who taught me to value diplomacy above open war."
Overwhelmed by memory, Elrond closed again his eyes and tried to gather himself. When he continued, however, his voice was strangled.
"On the very day we came of age, Maedhros kicked us from the only home we could remember. We had a party, I remember, a small but merry one, and afterwards he ordered us to leave, never to come back. He gave us horses and weapons - the best, of course, coming from his own dead brother's forge - and told us to go. He was crying, and Maglor too, and Elros and I wept - it was a very wet moment. Then I first learnt of the doom of Mandos; then Maedhros, out of love, chased us away from its shadow. And this is how we two washed up on your doorstep, you the young king, barely older than us, who tried to appear not too out of his depth while Beleriand literary crawled with angry Valar."
Gil-Galad watched him silently, giving him time; after a while, he said:
"I had always felt you weren't the two hotheads with a thirst for glory you pretended to be at first; although you fought valiantly as my heralds."
"It broke my brother," continued Elrond, as if his friend had not spoken. "If not for Maedhros, I don't think he would have chosen the be counted among the Second Born and go to Númenor, and die of old age. This doom of Mandos, it is the only thing that really scares the house of Fëanor, and in turn they scare away those they love in order to protect them. Heroic, selfless, overproud blockheads."
Biting his nail, he spat: "How dare they take our choices from us. Oh, I will skin her alive."
Gil-Galad bent forward and took Elrond's hands into his own; his friend leaned into his embrace and they held on tightly for a while. When they parted, Gil-Galad dried Elrond's cheeks as he asked: "Please, Ereinion, tell me you will try harder to change her mind."
"No," he whispered. "I will respect it. Part of me knows she is right, part of me knows I may die, and the whole of me longs for her smile, and to wake at her side every day. I cannot put her through this anguish, this fearful expectancy that would grip her with every passing moment, although I care very little for the price I would pay for that. Let her be reassured and live her days in peace, although I shall mourn our love with every dawn. It seems to be the only gift I can give her anymore. I will leave for Lindon tomorrow morning."
Exasperation washed over Elrond's face; he threw his hands in the air and left with a savage remark, slamming the door as he went.
Falmaramë was dozing, numbing the pain and culpability away in a half-waking dream, when a commotion resounded outside, immediately followed by the sound of her bedroom door being kicked open. Elrond barged in, followed by a screaming Alcarinquë, and tore the curtains open, letting the morning sun in.
"Time to get up, you sulking ass," he snarled as he opened the window wide. A sudden gust of wind went through the room, blowing over papers that Falmaramë had kept on the bed beside her.
"His letters," she yelled, jumping from under the covers to gather the scattered leaves.
"Excellent, your ladyship is visible," he said, throwing her the dress that laid on the chair. "Get dressed. You have work to do."
Bewildered, breathing in fresh air for the first time in days, catching the dress by reflex while still holding the loose leaves as best she could, Falmaramë only managed a feeble: "What?"
"You have a letter to write. Sit at your dressing table, grab a pen, and write. Dear Nandaro," Elrond started.
"What?" yelped she.
"I am sorry I was so stupid, I apologise for the hurt I caused you, and if you will still have me I would very much like to marry you. Love, Elenatta, or whatever closing formula pleases your fancy."
"What in the name of the Valar do you think you are doing, Elrond," did she finally manage to say, gritting her teeth.
They wordlessly glared at each other, until Falmaramë dismissed Alcarinquë, safely tucked away Gil-Galad's letters in a drawer, and got behind a painted screen to change. She somehow felt a shouting row shouldn't be held in a nightgown.
Minutes later, still tugging at the lacing on the side of the blue dress, she sat at her table and undid her braids. Furiously brushing her hair, she looked at Elrond in the mirror and said: "You better have a good excuse to force your way in like that."
"I have the best one," he answered genially. "I want to help you not ruin your life, as well as the one of my oldest friend."
"Did he tell you why I broke things off?"
"Your rant about the doom of Mandos? Yes, he did. As we speak, he is packing his things and plans to leave tomorrow morning."
"Good," said Falmaramë, as she stuck a golden comb through her hair to hold it over her ear, and then another one, scratching her scalp.
"No, this is not good!" Elrond cried. "This is everything but good! He will be miserable in the Grey Havens while you are miserable in Imladris, and I will be miserable watching either of you be miserable. You will all drown in your own tears before Sauron even gets a chance to fight you, and right now I am rooting for him!"
"You don't have to stick around if you don't like it," retorted Falmaramë.
"But why, why do you impose this on yourself? You love him! Why care about the doom of Mandos? It lies on all the Noldor!"
She finished styling her hair in sharp moves and turned around to face Elrond:
"Do you know what irks me most about this doom? The fact that everyone and their cousin whines about it, but no one ever tries to go round it, or even fight it. Woe is ours, they cry, woe is ours, and never would they even think about sacrificing anything to change it. Wait a few centuries, and everyone around them is dead and none appear the wiser as to how it happened."
Elrond snarled. "There's been plenty of sacrifice through the First Age."
"The only one I can think of who even succeeded was Maedhros," she retorted. "Giving up the crown to Fingolfin and his heirs wasn't just a stroke of political genius, but it probably lightened the weight of the doom on the other houses. Methinks grand-uncle was unto something, to surrender what was had been given to him."
"Don't bring Maedhros into this," he growled. "This is wholly beside the point, which is: why would you think forsaking Gil-Galad is a good idea? Don't you think your parents thought about it before you, and didn't they chose to be married?"
A wild light danced in Falmaramë's gaze, and she warned: "Don't bring my parents into this. You saw yourself what end was theirs. Or are you projecting your own parental abandonment issues here?"
"Ëarfin would be choking right now if she saw your behaviour," insisted Elrond.
"Why, yes, you are projecting," she said. "Abandoned by your father, abandoned by your mother, both foster fathers choosing to die by their own hand, do you wish me to continue or will you shut up?"
She stood, and they faced each other like wrestlers, slowly circling the room.
"How dare you take Ereinion's choice from him," said Elrond.
"Choice?" spat Falmaramë. "You speak of choice, you who will not marry because you refuse to have children, because you don't want them to face the choice you made, the choice your brother, who also abandoned you, made? You don't care about choice, you don't care about Gil-Galad, you only care about your abandonment issues!"
"Issues? Why don't we talk about your own issues instead then? You're afraid all the time. Do you think I can't see it? Fear drives you always; you may hide it behind a reckless facade, but it is fear that leads your life!"
"Are you calling me a coward? You can't shame me, Elrond, I have already torn my heart from my chest and I have nothing left to feel," and her voice was low and full of passion.
"Not a coward, no," he growled. "But a fool, a thrice-damned fool, egoist and conceited, who wallows in her own suffering!"
"Get out," she shouted, and it was the signal they were both waiting for, letting go of all their pent-up frustration at the top of their lungs. He called her an over-proud moron; she called him an attention-starved know-it-all and a pitiful cynic. He dragged Celebrimbor's death through the discussion, to which she snorted that it was better to die at Sauron's hand than suffer Elrond's logic. At least her own parents had chosen their children rather than their treasure, she said, and elected to fight for Middle-Earth rather than flee from it. They fought dirty, lashing out using their long friendship to find the fault in the other's armour, and it felt good to at last have an outlet to their pain, old and new.
When they were spent, they fell to a dark silence full of shame, and Elrond walked away, slamming again the doors on his way.
He wasn't gone far in the corridor, however, when someone grabbed him by the arm. His rage flamed again, and fell as he recognised Alcarinquë, who was a ball of focused indignation under sleek dark hair.
"Are you happy with yourself," she asked. "Did you have a nice row with my lady?"
"An amazing one, yes. I suppose you heard it all; her voice tends to carry."
"So does yours," retorted the slender lady. "Was that your way to try and convince her? Since when has antagonizing her brought any result?"
As Elrond groaned and rolled his eyes, the thought that he had in all probability single-handedly destroyed his friendship with Falmaramë hit him, and he cursed himself.
"Never, I suppose. I shouldn't have let myself get carried away."
"Thankfully," said Alcarinquë, "now that you got the root of the problem out in the open, I was able to think of something. Manwë knows I had enough time for that while you two were going at each other's throat. Her mind is set, and there is no changing it as things are. But she's clever - given new information, or a new perspective, she might reconsider. This is what we need to get her, a second opinion she won't expect."
When Elrond heard what she had in mind, he took her by the hand and swirled her around in a dance before kissing her squarely on the cheek.
"Alcarinquë, pearl of the ladies of Imladris! You're absolutely right. The hours you spent having tea with them have not been idle. Go to Ereinion and bully him into giving her another chance before he leaves, while I carry out the mission you've given me."
They parted ways; Elrond ran and climbed a flight of stairs two steps at a time before knocking on the door of the Númenorean delegation.
The afternoon sun was beginning to creep into Falmaramë's study, where she had decided to retreat under the guise of working, when Alcarinquë knocked at the door and announced the lady Sorontis, ambassadress of Númenor. She was a woman of undetermined age, to the Noldor's eyes, who walked gracefully in flowing robes of multiple layers of a sheer black material that always showed a lot of her perfect skin, and that she adorned with long golden chains and heavy bracelets. Her hair, of a coppery hue, fell to her shoulders in heavy locks and framed a heart-shaped face full of innocent cunning. After being invited to, she sat on the sofa in a flutter of silk, and spoke.
"My dear, dear, lady Falmaramë," said the ambassadress, "I have just learnt what happened, and want to give you all my support in these trying times."
"Thank you, madam; I would never have thought that, of all the gossips of Imladris, you would be the first to shadow my doorstep," was the less than amenable answer. But it takes more than a knowledge of languages and patience to be an ambassador; the ability to ignore disparaging comments and keep the conversation to one's point are also required skills, and Sorontis was excellent at her job. So she continued, her warm voice carrying reproach and friendship.
"You wound me, lady Falmaramë, by calling me a gossip. I really thought to console you; after all, I was married twice. I understand that the Noldor seldom break things off with their mates; I thought to share my experience, being as I am probably the only one in your entourage in the position to give such advice."
Falmaramë stopped to think, and considered the offer. Reluctantly, she conceded the Second Born had a point.
"Of course I do," said the ambassadress. "By the age of eighteen, every girl in Númenor has a practical grasp of our traditions surrounding these circumstances, becoming a master of them when she reaches twenty-five; and I am twice that age."
"Oh, and what, pray tell, are these traditions?"
"Food, to begin with. If I may?"
Clasping her hands, Sorontis called; someone of her retinue brought a large tray laden with - yes - ice cream, fresh strawberries, whipped cream, and golden wine. Falmaramë felt her stomach growl. Strawberry ice cream. Sorontis gave her a large helping, topping it with a generous serving of cream, before filling her own bowl.
"Now, it is customary to kick off one's shoes, make oneself comfortable, and disparage the absent party. What you tell me, I shall keep a secret to my grave."
With a small laugh, Falmaramë said she didn't feel sure about what she should disclose.
"I'll get started, then," said Sorontis. "My second husband, now, he was an ass. Would you believe he got into his head that I should do as he said, as if I was his maid? Well, I took the matter to the king - I am his kin, if only by marriage - and never was a divorce pronounced more quickly. What a good riddance that was!"
Falmaramë, who was stuffing herself with ice cream, made sympathetic noises, until Sorontis asked if Gil-Galad had ever attempted the same thing.
"Oh no, by the Valar, no," she said, stunned at the thought. "He never would."
"Lucky you, that he doesn't have that trait. When I wouldn't obey my second husband, he would belittle and insult me - quite snidely too, so I never was sure wether to be angry or not. Perpetually keeping me on the fence, in a sense."
A frown formed on Falmaramë's face, and she brandished her spoon to Sorontis, saying it was a shame and she hoped the man had been properly punished for it. For a while, they imagined proper retributions against the many very real faults of the man, who also happened to be a mouth-breather, and after a while Falmaramë removed her shoes and curled up on her armchair. Speaking lightly, Sorontis then asked:
"Now, tell me what failings of Gil-Galad's made you break up with him?"
"None, I swear, he's the best. He's forever thoughtful and kind. Such a great musician, too, and he was born under a gracious star."
Pouring some wine, Sorontis insisted. "His faults, lady! No man is perfect, there has to be something you won't regret about him."
Embarrassed, Falmaramë said: "Well, he tends to overthink things. Not in a bad way, mind you. And, oh yes, he won't help me improve my telerin accent because he says the way I speak it is s… is cute. And he complains about his hair, saying it dries out, which is why he carries it shorter than most, but will not try out the balm I use."
For an instant, the diplomat fully took over lady Sorontis and she inquired: "Do you think he would like hair products from our mariners? This is not the first time I've heard such a complaint from sailing men. The salt, I understand, can work some lasting damage."
"Good luck to get him to sample them," retorted Falmaramë, and the two women sniggered in camaraderie. Silence fell, until she asked: "But what about your first husband? We have abundantly dissected your second and last, yet you spoke no word of him."
Sorontis swirled the wine in her glass, her eyes lost in the distance; her emotion was genuine when she simply said: "He died."
"I am so sorry," regretted Falmaramë.
"Do not apologize; you are not the wave that drowned him, nor the ship that failed him."
"Was he very young? Oh, I am sorry, perhaps you don't want to speak of him. Let's talk about something else, if you wish."
"It is quite all right," assured Sorontis. "I like to keep his memory alive; as long as people remember him, he shan't be fully gone."
Through the open window filtered the chirrup of birds and, in the afternoon heat, the faint screech of insects lost in the leaves. When Sorontis spoke again, her voice was veiled, and she recalled the years of her youth, her first love, their betrothal by the Sea. She recalled how they soon married, his laughter and joy, and her pride in being a mariner's wife, and how he would bring her sailing until they thought they guessed the shapes of the mountains of Valinor through the clouds, and then turned back, a thrill on their spines. He was eager to prove himself to her, and pestered captains to join them; he wanted to bring her pearls and elven silk from the shores of Lindon and be deemed worthy of her family, for he was common-born. Too soon he left with a great ship to Middle-Earth, barely two years into their marriage, and he was proud to be chosen to be a seaman, mind the sails and fight the winds. But he never came back, and the ship never reached the Grey Havens; lost will all hands in a storm, not a plank floating back to the shores where waited Sorontis. Long days passed as she watched and hoped the silver waves would bring him back, and at night she dreamed of a white sail flying to her; that he would step out on the stone quay and kiss her. And sometimes she would reproach herself, wake up in a sweat after a dream where she begged him not to go, and cry. Other nights, she would fancy she had stopped his ship from sailing, and they still walked together on the shore, the surf dancing around their feet, and dawn found her alone again, curled in a ball beneath her sheets, her heart torn by this too real seeming dream.
"It took me a long time," she said, "to understand that one cannot protect people from the world; that their fates are not in our hands. Some say a higher power presides over our destinies, rendering struggle useless; this I refuse to believe, as Eru made us free creatures. The world is a hazardous place, full of danger and beauty, where evil things can happen for no reason, and through no one's fault. People cannot be kept in a cage, safe from harm maybe, yet distraught; they need to follow they hearts and fly free, unconstrained, to where they most want to be."
Falmaramë put her cup back on the table, careful not to make a noise; the last of the ice cream in it had melted. Purposefully avoiding Sorontis' gaze, she asked: "Do you ever regret marrying him? Perhaps, perhaps he wouldn't have boarded this specific ship, and perhaps he would have lived."
She didn't look at Sorontis, yet she heard her sigh, sad and soft. It was a while before the ambassadress answered, and her tone was roughened by newly remembered grief.
"This question has haunted me for many years. Maybe. Maybe not. But this I know: for all the pain, for all the tears and anguish, loving him was worth it. I would relive it all for a year, for a day or an hour with him, gladly. Brief as it was and hard at the end, I would still chose to love him, and give even more for that. Yeah, were I granted the choice, and with full knowledge of things to come, I would chose him again, I would chose us again. Our lives are brief and full of hurt but, even if I had an Eldar's existence to fill with mourning, I would chose to be with him again. For there shines a light in the dark, and a flame to warm the world, nowhere else to be found; the wind may quench it only to leave us bereaved, but the world is richer because it once existed."
Long Falmaramë was lost in thought, and only sparsely spoke; as Sorontis took her leave, Alcarinquë came in, bearing a letter. Once she was alone, she opened it. It was quite short. I shall leave in the morning, wrote Gil-Galad, as you so wish. But should you change your mind, or want to say goodbye, I will wait for you in the garden beside the forge, from dusk until dawn. I love you, always.
Stricken, she sat at her desk, staring at the letter without seeing it, searing the shapes of the words in her memory. Her mind was reeling, and she got up and paced. As the sun left the room, she sank again on the couch, her face buried into her hands, and there long remained as darkness grew. The blue night came in; great constellations were blooming in the sky, and still she didn't move from the dim room, anguish and doubt tearing at her.
Suddenly, she rose and, feeling her way through the unlit apartments, left, down the empty stairs and silent corridors, her footsteps barely making a sound. The brightness of the night outside surprised her; once she had left the black shadow of the house, she found herself bathed in clear moonlight. The air felt warm on her skin, as it only feels when the day has been hot for the first time of the year, when the earth gives back its heat, and still smells of green things and hidden roses. White stars shone over the land, in all the world like dewdrops catching a singing light.
She saw him before he saw her, aimlessly wandering through the small garden, and was overwhelmed with pity and remorse. She called his name and he stopped, in the shadow of tall bushes; she walked to him and took his right hand, then his left. His fingers were cold as they grasped hers. His eyes seemed very large on his pale face.
"I am so sorry," she said softly, so close to him that their breaths mingled. "I am so sorry for the hurt I caused you."
He didn't move, like one scared to frighten away a bird that came to him in a flutter of wings, yet she felt him exhale, and he answered.
"And I am sorry to not have seen the depth of this wound in you."
They found each other's lips, timidly, clumsily, and soon parted.
"Is this goodbye?" he asked, and the pain in his voice was more than she could bear.
"No," she said, "no, no, not if you will still have me after what I've done to you. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I will marry you, if you would still wish for it. But please, do not go back to Lindon. For in a month, in a year, how would I suffer such a distance to sunder me from you? That the day is born, and that the day be gone, and that I never see you again, and that all days go by, that I cannot see you ever?"
"We don't have to get married if you'd rather not," he hurriedly said. "We can go on as before."
"No, I want it. If darkness is waiting for us at the end of the road, I want to have lived before, and I'll grasp with both hands what is freely offered."
She cupped his cheek in her hand; it was damp, so she cast her arms around him, digging her fingers into his shoulders, and his embrace was strong and tight in return. In that moment, their fate was sealed, and the threads of doom that had nearly been severed stood powerful as ever. Had he gone back to Lindon, her refusal to ask for his help against Sauron would have prevented the formation of the Last Alliance, and she would have died alone in the depths of Barad Dûr, fighting to the last against this vile power. Darkness unopposed, then, would have slowly taken over Middle Earth, leaving no choice to the Eldar than be slain in a hopeless war or flee beyond the Sea - and not all the ships carrying the Noldor would have been allowed to cross to the Undying Lands.
As it was, they were now stood giggling and whirling, in a daze that was oblivious to the world. All at once, Falmaramë said: "Let's get married tonight. Just the two of us. Skip the betrothal, the full year of waiting, the ceremonies…"
"… The bawdy songs, the coarse jokes, and the thousand formalities, oh yes, you're absolutely right. Let's do that," enthusiastically agreed Gil-Galad. "My lady mother will tear me limb from limb, though."
"Oh, then maybe we should wait."
"Absolutely not. You have never heard her scheme this thing, ever since I came of age. If you want to survive the ordeal, better avoid it altogether. With a bit of luck we'll have one formal feast here, one in Lindon, and we'll be done."
So they exchanged their vows, swearing by their true names in a solemn half-whisper, and spoke the name of Ilúvatar to create the indissoluble bond that would join them. A warm breeze danced around them, rustling the leaves as they embraced, and the stars of Varda shone upon them.