A/N: This story is the third in a series and will make more sense if you have, at least, skimmed the two previous stories.
In between cleaning out her old rooms and sorting through all she had left behind, being (re)introduced at Arafinwë's court and to the nobles … and to all the politics, which I would happily avoid if I could, spending dreadfully long hours standing motionless … whilst being pricked like a pincushion. I don't even care that much for what my clothes look like … before the court tailor so new clothes could be made for her, fielding visits from those of the Houses of the Fountain and Golden Flower who had sailed west and were overjoyed to have their lady returned to them—the latter of whom would be very, very grateful if she would take up the lordship of the houses until her twin's return … an idea she was much less enthusiastic about … wait awhile and then perhaps—relearning the streets of Tirion and meeting old faces at familiar shops and new faces as well … to rule well you must know your people and their needs, and just generally becoming accustomed … to not being dead … and to a new body, there were many visits that Gloredhel needed to make to kith and kin, newer and older.
Of what little family Gloredhel had living at present … on this side of the sundering sea … only four members did not dwell in Tirion and were thus not present at Gloredhel and Finrod's unexpected return and at the resulting reunion in the king's house. Grandmother Indis dwelt in Valimar, several days' ride from Tirion. Aunt Findis was … somewhere … in the countryside … in the direction of Valimar, staying well away from the politics at court; Aunt Anairë had returned to her family's new seat also in the countryside, a few hours ride away; and Aunt Nerdanel, after the departure of her husband and all of her seven sons, had returned alone to their great and lonely house that was located half-a-day's ride south of Tirion.
Though Arafinwë had assured his niece that he had sent word of their return to their grandmother and aunts, Gloredhel was intent on going to visit some of them nonetheless. She both wanted to go and felt it was her duty to go.
Perhaps my memories may bring a little comfort.
I can tell my aunt of the High King's tomb, of vengeance for her son … that came at the price of my brother's life. That last part might better be avoided.
I can tell Nerdanel of the good times that came amidst the war and fighting … and Kinslayings. How must Nerdanel have been received among her people as the Mother and Wife of Kinslayers despite having no hand in those events, despite pleading for her children to remain?
Not all that had happened in Beleriand had been bad. There had been good moments, especially at the Feast of Reuniting, brief as they were.
As much as she respected her grandmother's brother, High King Ingwe, there was something about Valimar that Gloredhel disliked, maybe it was its almost etherealness or the way it seemed so steeped in magic as to almost make her eyes water. She might go see her grandmother and Aunt Findis later, as they were both in the same direction, but she could at least go visit her other two aunts now.
Gloredhel tried first to visit Nerdanel but found that she was not interested in visitors … any visitors whatsoever … related or not … after riding out all the way to their house, Feanor's sprawling and once meticulously maintained estate, house and workshops and forges and all. That cost me a whole day … but for a worthy cause. She couldn't imagine how her aunt had suffered. Nerdanel had no control over what her husband had done and what he had led their sons into, but Gloredhel couldn't imagine that she had been looked upon kindly as the wife of Feanor and mother of his seven sons.
Instead of visiting Aunt Anaire next, Gloredhel decided that visiting Galdor, the former Lord of the House of the Tree in Gondolin, might be prudent. There were still many details about the fall of Gondolin, the fate of the survivors, and especially of the fate of Maeglin that Gloredhel had not been able to put together from discussions with her uncle or from what she overheard in her as infrequent as possible visits to court.
After Gondolin, I've had enough of any courts for long-years!
Does the House of the Golden Flower even exist in more than name? Gondolin has perished beneath fire and water. There are so few of us left. What would I even do if I could bring myself to take up the leadership? That was an issue that could be determined … later … much later.
Thus, about a month-and-a-half after her rebirth—time seemed to have less meaning in Valinor and one day bled into the next and one week into the next—Gloredhel left Tirion after breakfast and rode down to the coast, a ride that did not seem so strenuous as it would have earlier but still seemed longer than it would have before her death. From Alqualondë, after buying lunch in one of the marketplaces and going to the palace to greet Finrod—her cousin had left Tirion to visit his grandfather and maternal uncles a couple of days before—and pay her respects to Olwë, the King of the Teleri, Gloredhel bought passage on a ferry across to Tol Eressëa. Though she was hesitant at first to bring her horse across, not knowing how he would handle the water or the ship, he stepped willingly onto the barge to her relief.
The great grey stallion who had reminded her so much of Rochallor and who had borne her from Lorien to Tirion those weeks ago had returned not many days after their return there and thereafter had refused to leave. Since none of Orome's servants had appeared to retrieve the wayward stallion, Gloredhel had simply shrugged and accepted the situation. She had needed a horse anyway. After seeing him running, she had named him Gwaedal, "Wind foot" in Sindarin for his speed, though perhaps it would be better to say that the stallion had consented to be called Gwaedal.
Nahar's sons are as fearless as their father.
If Galdor's house is not near the western shore, I will be glad I brought him with me.
Not knowing where Galdor had taken up residence—her uncle did not know, only being able to tell her that he was on Tol Eressëa and those of her people had not been able to tell her specifically either. They told me no more than my uncle did—Gloredhel had warned her aunt and uncle that she was unlikely to return that evening and had brought a small pack with her, bearing a change of clothes, a cake of lembas, and a skin of water. A long-hunting knife was tucked at the top of the pack.
After all those years fighting the shadow, I feel naked without any weapons at all. Still sometimes, if surprised, her instinct was for her hand to go for a knife at her belt, and Finrod also.
The ferry landed at Tavrobel, a small port town on the north-western coast of the island. Tol Eressëa was quite a large island, at least 75 miles from the furthest points north to south and at least the same distance from the western edge closest to Aman to the port of Avalonnë on the eastern shore. Gloredhel, who was quite unused to boats and thus feeling a little sick even on calm water, was quite glad to debark at the port and get her feet back on dry land. Of Teleri descent, she was most certainly not. Unless she was with Thorondor—bless him!—or on horseback, she quite preferred for her feet to be on solid ground.
I think Gwaedal minded the journey less than I did.
How can I fly with Thorondor without a care and feel ill on calm water?
It made little sense to her.
To begin her search for Galdor—several sailors knew the name of the Lord of Gondolin but did not know where he lived—Gloredhel was advised to make her way just outside of town to the Bridge of Tavrobel, which crossed over the crossings of the two rivers Afros and Gruir. By the bridge stood the House of the Hundred Chimneys, the home of its master Gilfanon. An ancient elf, who had been born in one of the first generations of elves at Cuiviénen, Gilfanon had lived on Tol Eressëa since its anchoring off the coast of Aman long ago. Many came to his legendary home to seek his wisdom or to hear stories of the ancient days. Gilfanon, Gloredhel was advised, knew most everyone on the island, and if he did not know where Galdor lived, which was extremely unlikely, he would certainly know whom she should talk to.
How can a house have a hundred chimneys in truth? That must either be a very strange house or a very sprawling one to have room for a hundred fireplaces.
Gloredhel made her way outside the town and found the ancient elf on top of his … sprawling … house, making repairs to one of the hundred chimneys his house was so famous for. Why does a house need a hundred chimneys here of all places? In Himring, I would understand, but here? Gilfanon was a kindly ner, grey-headed with piercing, keen eyes—he reminds me of Círdan—and gladly gave Gloredhel the information she desired. Galdor, formerly of Gondolin, made his abode near the center of the island in the region of Alalminórë—'The Land of Elms,' of course, he would move there—not far south of the city of Kôrtirion.
It's a good thing I brought Gwaedal with me, or I would be walking all day! Kôrtirion was a little over half-way to the other side of the island. Even by horse the journey would take her hours.
The city of Kôrtirion with its great watch-tower from the top of which one could see afar both west and east was located at the summit of a large hill. That hill was surrounded for several miles by a dense forest of elm trees, under the leaves of which were cool shady 'paths,' or paths by some definition thereof. A Sindar or Nandor might call them paths. To Gloredhel, the whole forest seemed wild and untamed. The shadows were long but contained none of the heaviness or suffocating darkness of some forest depths in Beleriand, like the legends said of Nan Elmoth.
The small leaves were a beautiful shade of rich green that Gloredhel knew she could never emulate however long she spent searching for the right pigments or mixing paints. Here and there a shaft of fading sunlight found an opening in the branches above and streaked down, its light reflecting off the dust in the air, almost making the air dance. The sweet song of birds resounded, too, above the noise of Gloredhel's passing and the crackle of leaves or the crunch of branches under Gwaedal's great hooves.
Despite having gotten new directions in the city, Gloredhel stumbled upon Galdor's new home more by chance than by any sense of direction, for she was not a wood elf and not used to navigating in heavy trees, and with little sunlight visible through the trees—and that is fading as evening beckons—it was hard to keep her direction fixed. I could manage better if I could see the stars! The elm trees had thinned out into a small open glade, and in that glad Galdor had built his home, though it stretched into the tree line in certain locations, and living trees seemed to be built into the very structure of the house.
Gloredhel, who was less used to the living architecture of the Sindar than the great stone edifices of the Noldor, found the whole picture somewhat strange but interesting for a change at the same time. She found it fitting, though, and Galdor's new house reminded her of the main dwelling of the House of the Tree in Gondolin.
He always had opinions about Noldorin architecture.
He had opinions on everything for that matter. The remembrance made her smile now, though Galdor had sometimes frustrated her beyond belief in Gondolin. Death had put many things in perspective.
"Well met, Lady Gloredhel," a voice spoke out of nowhere, and Gloredhel startled violently. A shorter ner with dark skin and dark hair, neatly and economically braided, and twinkling eyes had appeared out of nowhere, stepping out of the tree-line a stone's throw away and was now approaching her with noiseless steps … even with the leaves and sticks that dotted the grass. The corners of his lips were twisted in a small grin. "My lord Galdor had wondered when you would find your way here."
There is a reason Legolas was one of Galdor's best scouts, but I wish he would STOP doing that.
Stars above … you almost frightened me back to Mandos' Halls a second time!
Gloredhel pressed a hand over her pounding heart. "And what would your Lord Galdor think if you gave me such a fright to send me back to the Halls a second time!? And not being dead, especially when you are a member of the royal house, is especially time-consuming, or I would have come before."
"Well," Legolas had the grace to look slightly sheepish, "all of us left of the House of the Tree rejoiced to hear that you had finally been reborn, my lady, and it is good to have you here." He inclined his head in a graceful bow. "You have been greatly missed, and Lord Galdor will be greatly pleased to see you."
Gloredhel had never been close to Galdor. Among the other lords, to whom she was not related, Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow and an archer surpassing Gloredhel in skill, had been the one with whom she was the friendliest. Despite that, she would be glad to see Galdor again.
Hopefully he has the news that I seek.
"Thank you," Gloredhel replied. "It does me good to see you alive and well." She paused, her brow furrowing. "You have a brother, if my memory does not fail me? Did he survive?"
Legolas shook his head, a look of sadness sweeping across his features for a moment. "I do, my lady, but he fell during the escape. I shall see him again one day, as you shall your brothers, and until then I must be patient." He extended one hand toward Gwaedal. "Go on up to the house. I'll care for your horse."
With a parting word of thanks, the two elves parted, and Gloredhel strode across the lawn toward the house. She had to circle it part way around until she found where the main entrance, the great doors of which were carved like great trees with flowering branches, stood propped open.
Galdor, former Lord of the House of the Tree and now lord of a motley patch of forest in the Land of Elms, was a tall Sinda with hair that was somewhere between the color of burnished copper and the color of leaves in the fall. Among those Noldor, rabidly anti-Feanorian, his hair had brought more than a few comparisons to Maedhros, even though the two were extremely unlike each other in everything except hair color and, as far as Gloredhel knew, the two had never even met!
As Gloredhel stepped inside through the doorway, passing under the shadow of the eves … since, of course, there are branches carved above the doorway, too … Galdor himself came out of a side-room, head down. From the scroll in his off-hand he seemed to have been intent on his own business and had not heard Gloredhel's arrival—what was one more set of footsteps among those she could hear elsewhere in the house—or been summoned by a mental call by Legolas. Seeing her, he stopped dead in his tracks, shock clear in his face, and then he smiled.
Gloredhel, who had had protocol and social hierarchies drummed into since her childhood, gave a shallow bow. Galdor was still the Lord of the House of the Tree, at least in name, though his house and holdings were much reduced. With her husband and all their house in Mandos' care and having put off her former followers from the Golden Flower, she was lady of nothing. What her exact status was within the royal house was, now that Arafinwë was king, she did not know, though that would need to be clarified sooner rather than later. "It has been many years since last we met, Lord Galdor. I'm glad to see you hale and whole."
The answering reply came with rolled eyes, "Oh, stuff the titles, or I shall call you 'princess' until you do. With those who survived the Falls and the addition of two wives and three children since we sailed, there are fifteen of us, including me. That's not enough for me to call myself a lord of anything, not even of this nice patch of forest."
Ah, you haven't changed at all, Galdor.
While a friendly soul at heart, the Sindar lord had been known for being bluntly straightforward to the point of rudeness with a dislike of courtly airs, the overuse of titles and honorifics "in every other sentence," and what he called the "pompous speech where we all dance around each other for too many minutes and avoid actually saying anything profitable or actually getting to the point that we should have gotten to a long time ago" that was all common to Noldorin courts and nobles. Or so he said, at least.
Galdor said what he meant and meant what he said and just came out and said what needed to be said with no dancing around the topic involved. (Gloredhel had sometimes liked that about him.) His straightforward nature had made him popular with some but not always so well-liked at Turgon's court. Especially in the later years when Turgon needed us to call him on his foolish decisions, not dance around problems or tell him what a wonderful job of kinging he was doing.
(Gloredhel tended to be overly blunt herself and, if roused to great frustration or anger, often just said what she thought, even if those words were unwise, one of Tyelko's lesser qualities that had rubbed off on her, but even she understood that sometimes coming out and just saying things, even if they desperately needed to be said, did not always accomplished what she desired. Sometimes it does the opposite. Sometimes battles had to be picked, and words chosen very carefully.)
Gloredhel laughed. "'Princess,' you do remember that I'm descended through the female line?" Unlike … about every other tribe of the Quendi … succession among the Noldor was never passed to women and only continued through the male line. Though she had no interest in ruling anything larger than a noble house alongside her brothers or husband, and not even that at the moment, those potentially problematic succession rules mean my brother is excluded … and also exclude the possibility of any of our children or of Artanis' or … Maeglin, though he was named a prince of Gondolin … from every coming to the throne. The House of Finwe over the court of the First Age was fast running out of heirs through the male line.
Those words prompted another eyeroll. "Yes, yes, I know, you Noldor and your ridiculous rules," Galdor scoffed.
Valar forbid us from ever finding out.
And stars above, I never want to be High Queen!
"You Noldor?!" Gloredhel exclaimed for the sake of the 'argument.' "Have you looked at me? I have more Vanyar blood than Noldor!"
"A distinction without a difference," Galdor countered. "You have always counted yourself among the Noldor, and considering you're probably the spare currently to Finrod as heir, your uncle might change those rules anyway."
I wonder what Tirion would think of that.
"Considering Finrod has already died before me once," Gloredhel replied, her voice going serious, "I'd rather not find out."
That sobered the conversation, and Galdor smiled grimly. "It is good to see you again, Gloredhel. You look … much better … than the last time I saw you."
Considering I was half-dead on my feet last time you saw me, yes, I'm quite sure I look better.
That would not take much, though.
It had been, of course, in Gondolin that their paths had crossed last. The two had been among those fleeing through Idril's secret passage toward some semblance of safety. (Anywhere might be deemed safer even by the smallest of degrees than their once-fair city full of orcs, dragons, balrogs, and other foul creatures from the depths of Morgoth's strongholds.) Egalmoth had been somewhere toward the head of the column, but Galdor and the twins had been at the rear. Gloredhel, bleeding from several clumsily and hastily bandaged wounds, had been leaning heavily on her brother's shoulder as the three had stopped on a long street that gave them a view of one of only two approaches toward the entrance to the passage. The other streets were blocked with debris, bodies or fallen masonry. It … might slow down any orcs.
As the women and children and injured fighters had streamed past them towards the way of escape, the three generals had held a final, hurried conference. Morgoth, it seemed, had almost emptied Angband in his attempt to crush Gondolin, and the sound of approaching orcs was growing louder by the second. Knowing that a final stand was needed to guard the rear and give the survivors time to escape, Gloredhel had pushed away from her brother's side, forcing her legs to hold her up, and volunteered to stay behind and lead. Nine other elves from the Houses of the Swallow, Tree, Fountain, and Golden Flower had volunteered to stay with her.
I am still not sure how I found the strength for that last stand.
The mercy of the Valar more than anything, I would think.
"You, as well, all that blood did nothing good for the color of your hair."
(Like Gloredhel and Glorfindel both, Galdor had lost his helmet during the long hours of fighting, and he had hit his head or been hit by a weapon hilt or flying debris or something. Blood had been running into his face and down his face, staining his skin a sickly red and giving his already red-hair an unnatural sheen.)
Galdor snorted. "True, and even less good for yours."
Yes, red on golden hair … she shuddered at the memory of the ache, the sting, the sticky feeling.
"Did Dringor make it out?" Gloredhel asked curiously. The House of the Tree had been down for wielding slings … with as deadly accuracy as the rest of us with bows … and massive clubs. Dringor—named, aptly, "Beater"—had been Galdor's great iron-studded club that he had used to great effect during the fall … considering how much gore was on it when we parted.
"It did," Galdor nodded. "It's in my study upstairs, though I have been quite thankful not to have a need for it in many a year." He then called for a servant to take Gloredhel's bag. "Can you stay for dinner?"
"If you don't mind," she replied, passing her bag off to the servant with a word of thanks. "I left Tirion right after breakfast, but I wasn't expecting it to be this hard to actually find you. This forest is … confusing."
Galdor laughed and laughed some more at her description. "You think we'd make it easy on you and get a great stone house in the middle of the city? No, not at all. Once was enough. It's late. We'll have a room prepared for you. You wouldn't want to return to Tirion tonight … unless you're expected…"
"Nay, I told them that it might be a day or two before I returned, and a room would be appreciated. I had hoped to ask you some questions …" Gloredhel let her voice trail off at the end, but it was clear from her tone what those questions would be about.
Much I learned in the Halls, but many questions I have left.
"Dinner first, and then depressing talk … once we've had some wine."
And you, my lord Galdor, will know more than most, I think and I hope.
Especially in regards to Maeglin's fate, I pray. Gloredhel had been more than a little surprised to hear no word of Maeglin so far, even word of his death. Had he fallen in Gondolin? Had he been captured? Valar forbid! Was he living … somewhere? What had happened? And why has my uncle spoken of most, if not all of our near kin, but not his brother's only grandson? Gloredhel desperately wanted to know the answer to Maeglin's fate but was starting to fear that she might not like the answer.
Dinner among Galdor and his people was a pleasant affair, if somewhat boisterous once the wine started flowing, not that family dinners in Tirion could not get … loud and energetic, but that was a little different. Tales were told. Occasionally, several people broke into song, and plans for the coming days were raised, and upcoming events in Kôrtirion were mentioned.
There was a conspicuous absence, however, of any songs or lays about the Fall of Gondolin, of which there were apparently many, some more famous and more commonly sung than others. Gloredhel had strenuously avoided having to listen to any of them, even leaving the room abruptly once when one such was announced at the palace. Arafinwë had stopped any such songs from then on. She had a feeling that absence here was deliberate. Let it never be said that Galdor does not know how to be considerate and courteous.
For all she knew, though, he disliked listening to those songs as much as she did. Gondolin did not hold bad memories for her alone.
Gloredhel knew many of Galdor's people by sight, though the names of most of them escaped her after all this time. Most of the elves spoke Mithrimin, the dialect of Sindarin spoken in Mithrim and the mountains of north, and with the design of the house which was probably also deliberately similar to the Great House of the Tree in Gondolin, for a few hours Gloredhel felt like she was almost back … there … again … just for a while.
When dinner was over, Gloredhel and Galdor took their wine glasses and went upstairs to his study and settled in two great stuffed chairs before the fireplace. There was a springtime chill in the night air, and Galdor stoked the fire before he too settled into his seat.
"How are you?" he finally asked, once the two had both studied the flickering flames, the only illumination in the room, for some time. The sun had long since set, and the trees were too thick to let through much starlight or moonlight.
How am I?
Sometimes I'm not sure myself.
After a few moments of thought, Gloredhel gave a helpless shrug, swirling what remained of her second glass of wine around in her goblet and staring down at the ruby red—blood red—liquid. "It would depend on when you ask me."
She had good days and bad days. There were days where the shadows of Beleriand seemed far but other days where the dreams and memories of those days of Gondolin tormented her sleep and she wished to not even crawl out of bed. There were days where she had felt like she never left and other days where every loud noise made her flinch and wish for the weight of a knife on her belt. There were days where even the faint chill of the wind made her remember the Ice.
There was an answering snort from the chair across from her. "I know how that is." Galdor's voice, despite the wine, was quiet and solemn, and he seemed more with it than she would have expected from someone on, at least, his fourth cup.
Having to survive the aftermath of the Fall must have been worse.
Dying was, in some ways, easier. The end might be hard, but then it was over. Living and not just existing after losing everything—family, city, people—that was much, much harder.
"Death was simpler in a way, and being back at my uncle's court … is complicated after … everything with Turgon, as much as I missed my kin. Some days are normal, almost. Some days are hard. Some days I miss …" Gloredhel's voice trailed off, and she stopped to take another sip of wine, her unfocused gaze steady on the flickering orange flames in the fireplace. "Sometimes I feel like I am healing, and then something reminds me, and I miss what was, my husband, my brother, so much that it hurts like an open wound. I hear movement, and I somehow think it is one of them, though I know they still rest in Mandos' Halls. Some mornings, I wake and expect to see Rog. Sometimes I go to my study, and I expect to see Glorfindel sprawled in a chair waiting for me. My dreams torment me."
Not being dead is just as great an adjustment as being dead, I think.
"Tormenting you?" Galdor frowned. Considering the power of the Dark Lord in Beleriand, her word choice was prone to misunderstandings.
I miss Huan. It was a random thought, but true nonetheless.
"Not like that," Gloredhel hastened to clarify. "Tormenting in the best and worst possible ways. Yes, I dream of the Fall, of fire and blood and screams fit to make your bones melt with the agony and fear, memories I wish I could forget, but I dream of the good times, the good memories from which I also wish I could never wake."
The Lord of the House of the Tree nodded, a depth of understanding in his eyes that could only come from personal suffering. "My wife did not survive. Neither did my sons," he said simply. "Sometimes I still think I hear their voices."
Stars above!
"I'm sorry," Gloredhel whispered, her gaze flitting up to focus on his face for a moment. "I didn't know."
Galdor shook his head. "I didn't expect you to. You have been gone a long time, and you perished before the end."
"There were so many wounded," Gloredhel murmured, her eyes distant. She could still see every moment in her mind, hear every word of that last counsel in her ears, feel the press of her brother's farewell kiss on her forehead, remember her own terror when she and her companions were alone watching their death approach. "The orcs were getting closer and closer. Every second lead we could give you counted."
Sometimes the crystal-clear memory of the Firstborn was a curse, not a blessing. Sometimes being one of the Secondborn, having memories that could fade, traumas that could be blunted by time … that would be a blessing.
"I meant no condemnation. You and those who stood with you did a brave deed, worthy of all honor and great renown. I would have gladly stood with you, died with you, but there was need of warriors in too many places."
"How many made it out?" Gloredhel whispered.
She wasn't sure she was ready to hear the answer.
But I have to know.
A dark shadow passed across Galdor's face. "How many made it through the tunnel, or how many made it to safety by the end of our journey … later?"
That clarification put a chill through her heart.
Valar have mercy!
If the difference is great enough for him to ask …
"The latter," Gloredhel's voice was choked, and the flicking flames, the only light in the room, shed an eerie glow upon the proceedings.
"About 300."
300.
300.
300.
300.
300 out of a population of perhaps 25,000 or more had made it to safety.
Only about one-percent of Gondolin's people had survived that horrendous day.
One-percent.
One-percent.
300 people.
The news hit Gloredhel like a fist to the gut.
"We should have listened to Tuor," she whispered, "If only we had listened to Tuor in the beginning."
"Some argued against it," Galdor's voice was bitter. It had been Salgant, the Lord of the House of the Harp who had proved himself craven, and Maeglin who had been the main two arguing against heeding the Lord of the Waters' warning, who had argued for staying in Gondolin and defending the city.
I never really understood why Maeglin argued thus, but I never had the time to think on it at length.
"Our pride was our doom. Turgon and, yes, some others thought the city would never fall. Doriath fell. Nargothrond fell. Minas Tirith fell. How would Gondolin be any different?" Her voice was caustic at the beginning but broke by the end. "Did any of the other lords survive?"
I never knew for sure from what I learned in the Halls.
Galdor drained his glass and set it down with a thump on the side table between their chairs. "Salgant's fate is unknown. We presume him dead, though we never saw him fall. I hope, for his sake, that he perished. Maeglin died also. Egalmoth survived, but he died when your cousins sacked Sirion in 538."
So, it is as I feared then.
He was so young.
"We cannot help who we are born kin of," Gloredhel chided half-heartedly and then drained her glass in one swallow, shaking her head when Galdor offered more. I have had enough to drink for one night. Any more and I will get maudlin. "That cursed Oath twisted them beyond measure. I wish you could have known them before …"
They were so different then.
There was a long and heavy silence for several minutes before Galdor said quietly, "Faeleth survived, at least, and her boy, also."
That would ease Ecthelion's heart to know.
Then Galdor's final words sunk into Gloredhel's heart, and her head snapped up, eyes widening with joy and hope.
Boy?!
She had a son!?
"Thank Manwe and Varda! Has she sailed?" If I've been here and she's been here all these weeks and I haven't known … Gloredhel was going to be furious.
Galdor shook his head. "Not that I know of. After the Fall, she and the babe, whom she named Erestor, went to Balar. She said she had some kin surviving among the Shipwright's Folk there. After the War of Wrath, I think she ended up at the High King's court, and at that point, I sailed."
"This is the best news I could have heard today," Gloredhel's voice went weak with complete and utter relief. "I think it was one of my brother's chief torments in the Halls that he knew not their fate. Trying to find the news that you do want in those tapestries …"
"They were well and well-cared for when I parted from them," Galdor added.
Good.
That is very good.
All was silent for many minutes, and then Gloredhel asked a final question in a low voice, "You said that Maeglin fell. I had heard no word of his fate 'till now, and I had assumed as much. But tell me, do you know how he fell?"
I hope it was quick.
Uneasy surprise flashed across Galdor's face, but that was quickly squelched. He shook his head. "I know, but it is a long tale and sorrowful, and one better left until the light of day. Let us talk of other topics until we are weary, and tomorrow I promise I will tell you all I know."
Gloredhel felt her heart grow cold at those words, and her hope died. Her companion's words promised a dark tale, but she nodded, forcing away her thoughts from her young cousin with a concerted effort. The two elves forced their discussion away from Gondolin at that point, though the shadow of Maeglin's fate and the tale yet to be told still hung over them, for neither had the heart or the stomach to keep on discussing death and destruction, dead kin and loss. They talked of the War of Wrath for a brief time and of the great battles therein, of the coming of the Host from the West and Gil-Galad's reign as king, of those of their houses who remained across the sundering sea, and of hope and plans for the future.
It's hard to imagine a life without war.
Even after Turgon shut us in and sealed our doom … the shadow still loomed over us.
But perhaps …
Perhaps now we may have peace.