Her meeting with Galdor and her discovery of Maeglin's horrific fate and legacy made Gloredhel glad that she had not gone to visit Aunt Anaire first. Her subsequent discussions with her uncle Arafinwë ended up being almost equally as unpleasant as the original discussion with Galdor, though in different ways. Her plan was as far as possible discuss only the matter of Maeglin and his fate and leave the rest of the political mess that was the last half of Gondolin's existence unsaid, but that proved futile extremely quickly. It proved impossible to fully explain the mess surrounding Maeglin without talking about Aredhel's loss and return and the Kinslaying (disguised as an execution) of Eol, and explaining both the latter and the former pulled in the political complexities of Turgon's isolationist policies.

So isolationist that I couldn't tell my only surviving uncle, my own king, of my marriage and we weren't even allowed to send word to Findo of his own father's death! Death and several hundred years of time elapsed since those events did not make them any less galling.

Discussing the morass that was Turgon's political policies in Gondolin made even less sense divorced from the context of his worsening mental state, paranoia and suspicion that were born out of his obsessive drive to keep his people safe, which was itself born out of the loss of Elenwë on the Grinding Ice, a horrific tragedy from which her cousin had never fully recovered. And somehow that topic brought in the political complexities surrounding Gloredhel's own marriage to Rog … a marriage which Turgon had tried to forbid for reasons still unknown to her. Her cousin had never explained himself and had only relented under the dire threats Gloredhel had invented.

My temper would have made some of Tyelko's fits of rage look tame!

I'm not sure which went over worse … my threat to get Thorondor to take word to my uncle of what was really going on in Gondolin … or my declaration that at that moment I would have preferred to be sworn to Maedhros' service than his.

Not my finest hour.

That whole sordid situation had done nothing to help the fracturing relationship between Turgon and his cousins, and that relationship had only fractured further as the years ticked on toward Gondolin's fall.

And finally, my uncle knows the whole mess … as if he didn't have enough reasons to hate being king and having political and family disasters like this dumped in his lap.

What began as an after-dinner discussion stretched on far into the night, and by the time it finished, Arafinwë looked like the weight of the world had suddenly been deposited on his shoulders, and Gloredhel felt little better. The events of those two-hundred odd years were no less troubling and distressing despite the time that had passed.

There was no easy solution for the issues that had been raised, and Arafinwë concluded the meeting that night … it's morning by now … much too early in the morning … I never rose this early even with Rog … by saying he needed time to consider how best to deal with those matters among the Noldor as a whole. He did give Gloredhel leave to speak freely to Anaire when she went to see her, though he did urge circumspection and caution.

Answer what I'm asked, but don't volunteer information?

Gloredhel agreed but parted with her father, promising, "I will hold my tongue for now, but I cannot promise that I will continue to do so if I hear Maeglin's name falsely maligned in my presence."

A month after those events were concluded, Gloredhel sought from Idhrenor the location of Anaire's father's estate outside Tirion and then set out the same day, borrowing a horse from her uncle's well-kept stable. Her aunt's father Hirindo was not a nobleman but rather one of the Lambengolmor, the loremasters of the Noldor. Though he had never achieved such fame as Rumil or Feanor had—my uncle's skill in craft brought him low in the end—he had been well-known and well-respected in the city, able to move freely in any circles he wished. Hirindo's estate, half a morning's leisurely ride west of Tirion, reflected his position. His house was not as large as a nobleman's but not small either, containing rooms within the main house and outbuildings suited to his and his wife's and his children's professions.

All was quiet as Gloredhel rode into the courtyard, and there was no sign of anyone moving about nearby, though there were lights burning inside the house. Someone at least must be home. They are not all out for the day. Yet, at the clop, clop of her stallion's hooves on the cobble-stone, a servant appeared from a side doorway. His eyes went wide seeing her as if visitors to the estate were rare.

"Amatulya,[1] mistress," he greeted Gloredhel respectfully, dashing forward to hold her horse's bridle as she dismounted. Now that he was closer, she realized that he was only a mostly-grown elfing, and the light of the Trees was absent from his eyes. "If you have come to speak with Lambengolmo Hirindo, he departed for Tirion at dawn, and I fear you will have wasted your trip."

Well, it's good I was not in search of a loremaster then.

Gloredhel gave a small grin, "Nay, I came to see Lady Anairë if she is willing to receive a visitor."

The young ner's eyes went wide. Apparently, visitors for Anairë were rarer than visitors to the estate. He turned and called toward the stables and an older elf, who had been born since the Darkening appeared, and came and led Gloredhel's horse away.

I can't imagine never having seen the Trees.

Their beauty was … indescribable.

My paintings could never do them justice whatever paints I mixed.

"The lady does not often have many visitors," the boy, whose name Gloredhel still did not know, noted in a soft voice, "and you must speak to our housekeeper. Come," he turned away toward the house as energetically as his voice had been soft a moment before, "I'll show you."

He led Gloredhel across to the house and inside the great, carved wooden door. The inside of the house was airy and bright but somewhat cluttered, as the space of many loremasters seemed to be, with regular surfaces in the hall and the open rooms nearby commandeered to hold books, papers, and the other diestrus of their craft. A tall ner, with silver hair and dark eyes, exited out of a side passage as the two entered and stopped immediately, eyes wide in surprise, seeing them.

"Lady Anaire has a visitor," her young guide burst out.

"Thank you, young one," the other ner replied, "You may return to your work outside." When her young guide had departed in a flash, he turned to Gloredhel. "Greetings, mistress. My name is Vórimo, the Steward of this house. Lady Anaire does not usually receive visitors, but since you have gone to the trouble to ride out, I will take at least your name up to her if you wish."

I'm not that surprised Aunt Nerdanel didn't want to see me, but if Aunt Anaire does not …

"I am called Gloredhel now," she replied, "though my aunt knew me as Laurëlda long ago."

Vórimo's eyes widened, and subtly he scanned her again. Gloredhel had dressed casually because of the ride, and in an unadorned pair of tunic and trousers and a plain jacket borrowed from those clothes her twin had left behind, she looked little like one of the children of the Noldorin royal house. Her name, however, sparked the remembrance her appearance did not.

I know news has spread of my return considering all the visitors I have been fielding.

But many have been born since we departed. I'm not surprised my face is not well-known.

Dressed down, I look like many a Noldor with Vanyar blood.

My clothes are too plain for me to be a pure-blood Vanyar.

Vórimo bowed. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not recognize you. Of course, I shall take your name up at once, but Lady Anaire still may not wish to see you."

"Do not concern yourself," Gloredhel switched automatically into more formal speech in response to his words, "I have been gone for a long time. Give my greetings to my aunt, but if she wishes no visitors, I will be glad to return at a later date and will hold no ill will.

Vórimo departed upstairs at a hasty but still dignified pace, leaving Gloredhel to wait in the entrance hall, and she used the chance to reexamine the room in which she was in. I have never been here before, as I recall. I've gone visiting with Auntie, but never here. Aside from the organized clutter that seemed to be common to many a loremaster, the entrance hall and nearby rooms bore touches that Gloredhel recognized as her aunt's.

Anairë had been famous or infamous depending on whom you asked for two things: her organizational and managerial skills that would have made many a steward weep with envy and her skill as a weaver, which had done nothing to endear Uncle Feanoro to her or Uncle Ñolofinwë. Anairë, as Gloredhel remembered her, had been a quiet nis, wise and kindly, who spoke softly but whose eyes missed nothing, who had kept her household running without a slip, who had always been a favorite among the children as she gave good hugs.

Coming to her to complain if we were foolish and got hurt as a result did little good. She gave us a hug and then a good scolding.

She never suffered fools gladly. She just wasn't one for a verbal filleting in public … until that last argument with Uncle Ñolofinwë.

She always seemed so calm and imperturbable until the end, but now I can't imagine what she was going through, what she has been going through.

Anairë had lost everything. Her husband and all of her children had forsaken her, and she had remained behind because of her friendship with Aunt Elenwë.

And all shall come to sorrow.

Vórimo returned within only a few minutes. "Lady Anairë will be very glad to see you, my lady. Please, follow me."

Aunt Anaire's work room was a large, spacious room with high windows that let in the bright sun. A huge loom took up most of the space on one of the short walls. There was a huge table with cloth and patterns on it, and shelves were filled with other supplies for sowing and weaving. Aunt Anaire herself was sitting in her seat in front of her loom as Gloredhel arrived, but turned immediately at the sound of a door, a delighted smile sweeping across her face.

"Oh, my dear, dear child," Anaire swept across the room in a swirl of her skirts, which she had probably made herself … because she could, not because she had to as the wife of Fingolfin, "It is so good to have you home."

Anaire was a small woman, unusually short for one of the Noldor, and was about a height with Eärwen and much shorter than her own husband, so Gloredhel was the one who had to lean slightly over to hug her aunt. Anaire's hair was closer to brown than black, and though she was not the most beautiful elf-lady who had ever been born, but her kindness and good spirit that lit up her eyes and filled her smile with joy made her seem all the more beautiful than any whose physical beauty was the inverse of their goodness of spirit or character.

"It's good to be home, Auntie," Gloredhel said quietly, blinking back tears suddenly, "I've missed you all so much."

So very much.

Every single year.

The two hugged for a long time, soft, calloused hands sweeping across Gloredhel's hair in slow, soothing strokes, but eventually Anaire pulled away. "Here, here," she swept away and plucked a sowing box off one of the only other chairs in the room, a thickly padded, comfy thing, pleasant for sitting in for hours while working, "Sit, dear, or would you rather go to my sitting room?"

"Whichever you prefer, Auntie, is fine. I have always enjoyed watching you work."

Something about watching the shuttle go back and forth with the thread, it's always been very soothing, almost hypnotic.

"Well," Anaire replied, "I've almost finished this section, and we can talk while I finish, and then we can go to my sitting room."

Gloredhel readily agreed and took the proffered seat, and Anaire returned to work, with a click, click and a swish, swish as her quick fingers and nimble hands passed the shuttle back and forth, back and forth, back and forth through the half-woven cloth.

I'm not exactly sure what she's making. It's less colorful than much of her work.

"… my brother probably told you," Anaire was saying, her words finally penetrating and making Gloredhel focus again, "I thought about coming to see you before, but I thought you and Findaráto would need some time to adjust before you got flooded with more visitors."

Sooo many visitors.

Gloredhel laughed, "Between those I knew in Beleriand and who have returned west and those Uncle has wanted to introduce us to and those I knew here long ago, Arto and I have had too many visitors, so I've been glad to slip away to start making some visits of my own. The long quiet rides have been quite pleasant."

"I imagine so. Am I the first?"

Among my family visits?

Or visits generally?

"No, I tried to go see Aunt Nerdanel two-and-a-half-months ago, but she does not wish to receive visitors, not even family, though I sent my name up. I cannot blame her after all that has happened. I wish to Tol Eressëa last month to see an old companion from Gondolin."

The two talked of light topics as Anaire finished up in her workroom, but once she had finished and put her things away for the time being and the two had gone down the hall to Anaire's sitting room where a servant had brought the two women up tea, Anaire's face went graver, and Gloredhel knew the time for tougher conversations had come.

That was why I came. To tell her what I could, bring any comfort I could.

And if I have to discuss Turgon or Maeglin, I'm glad I went to Galdor first … and have spoken to Atar.

Stars above, there's no end of drama in this family!

And madness!

I wish to bring her any comfort I can, but I fear what news I bring might make her griefs worse.

It had been terrible watching the Doom progress over five-hundred years, watching it overtake cousin after cousin, kinsman and kinsman, friend after friend, seeing betrayal and death and being powerless to stop their Doom, only watching and living on …

While all others died.

Until the Doom caught us in Gondolin.

And then our end came.

As horrible as it had been for Gloredhel watching the consequences of the Doom, she could only imagine that had been worse for Anaire who had heard the Doom, who knew what end her husband and children were destined for but had remained in Valinor because of her friendship with Eärwen.

You knew only death would return your husband and children to you.

You felt when they perished but couldn't not even be there for them at the end.

Gloredhel at least she had been able to be with (some of) her kin at the end.

I'm not sure which is worse!

Anaire had been told much but mostly by word-of-mouth, and she knew almost nothing of Pengolodh's still-in-progress history of the first age … to Gloredhel's relief. So, she told her aunt all she could of an age's worth of history in a long afternoon's time, omitting where possible some horrifying details that did not need to see the light of day ever again. The hours passed as Gloredhel spoke until her voice was hoarse, almost dying in her throat, as she told …

Of the terrible cold of the Grinding Ice, a cold far worse than any of the Firstborn had ever seen even when exploring to the farthest reaches of Valinor, a cold that was bone chilling that it made your indrawn breaths stab like knives in your lungs, a cold so terribly cold that fingers and toes froze and left ice-burns behind, a cold so cold that the young or the injured sometimes went to sleep at night and never woke again, a cold so cold that it felt like you would never ever be warm again.

Of the hidden dangers of the Grinding Ice, a terrible place that was well-named, for those icy plains could change without warning, upending flat shelfs and dumping unwitting travelers into the icy waters below or opening crevices that would slam closed again without warning, crushing anyone inside. It had been the latter that would have killed Gloredhel without Ecthelion's intervention and the former that had killed Elenwë and almost left Idril crippled from broken bones and ice-burns, that would have killed Turgon without Findo's lunge and frantic hold to keep his younger brother from diving back into the freezing water to reach Elenwë's already still, blue corpse.

Of the terrible beauty of the Grinding Ice and the multitude of stars that shone down so clear, reflecting off the ice, now that the Trees had perished, and of the multi-colored lights that danced in the heavens, stirring the hearts of the weary.

Of that first terrible battle so soon after reaching Beleriand and of Arakáno's valiant but rash heroics that had helped win the day for Fingolfin's forces … but at the cost of his own life. That had been only one of the first griefs her uncle had been forced to bear on those far-shores: having his young son die in his arms.

Of the meeting with Feanor's sons and the news of Amrod's death at Losgar and Feanor's further spiral into despair and madness, of Feanor's mighty deeds and unusual … passing at Lammoch, and of the capture and torture of Maedhros.

Of Findo's terrifying disappearance and heart-stopping absence, rescuing Maedhros from the mountain peak and of their return with Thorondor. Even barely going into detail about Maedhros' injuries almost made Gloredhel's stomach rebel … a thousand years later.

Of those first hard years trying to establish a new settlement in Beleriand, of famine and cold and hardship, of despair but triumph in the end.

Of the growing madness and cruelty of Feanor's sons paired with just enough of their old personalities to mingle their falls with heartbreaking tragedy … unlike what one would see if they read Pengolodh's account.

To paint them as total villains would not do them justice.

It was the damnable Oath, their damnable pride, that damnable Doom, and their undying loyalty to Uncle Feanoro and that damnable oath over those Jewels that led them to ruin.

Of Turgon's insurmountable grief for his wife, a wound unlanced that festered in his heart until it took his drive to keep his people safe and turned it into isolationism and paranoia and suspicion and a creeping madness that helped drive Aredhel from Gondolin (a journey that caused many ills but one without which Maeglin would never have been born), that drove Turgon apart from Gloredhel and her twin and turned the most leveled-headed and political minded and canniest of Fingolfin's children into a … Kinslayer.

Whatever the real story is of Aredhel's fate … what happened with Eol in that meeting … his death ... that was orc-work.

Of Rog and Gloredhel's marriage to him with all the political problems surrounding that … I wish I knew why Turgon was opposed to it so vehemently, of Maeglin … and those final years, of the Fall.

Both women were in tears by the end. With the memory of the Firstborn, recounting those stories, drawing those memories back to the surface was almost as bad as reliving them for Gloredhel. Anaire, as grieved as she was, seemed relieved, also, to finally know the full truth of what had happened to her family.

And hopefully one day these things can be made right.

[1] Quenya. "Welcome." Lit. "Blessed Arrival."