A/N: This story will make more sense if you have read the previous ones in this series. See my profile page for details.
Despite Ulmo having blessed their voyage from Valinor and despite having sailing conditions that would have delighted any Teleri mariner, Gloredhel could only hope that, once they reached the shores of Lindon, she would never again be forced to step foot on another boat until the day she and Glorfindel were returning to Valinor. Assuming we do not take the short route and become the first since Luthien to die twice. I wonder what Lord Mandos would think of that. One stay in his hall was enough for a lifetime, she was certain.
*Such dismal thoughts, my sister.* Her twin's voice rang softly in her mind.
Footsteps sounded nearby, deliberately loud enough to be heard, and a shadow fell across Gloredhel's face in quick succession following those mental words. With an effort, she dragged her eyes open. For just a moment, there were two of Glorfindel standing in front of her, her mind tried to say. After a moment and a few blinks, two resolved into one. A grimace crossed her fair face, and Gloredhel resisted the urge to pinch her eyes shut again. The bright sun, shining in a near cloudless sky, did not help lessen her headache by any means. Beyond the railing—thankfully beyond her eyesight from her seated position on the deck—the ship sailed over a "calm" sea that still somehow seemed to be bumpier than the Vingilótë or any flight on Thorondor's back.
"No boats again until we sail," Gloredhel repeated. "How our cousins can enjoy sailing on these wretched things so much, I do not know."
Sitting on the beach, I enjoyed.
Wading, I enjoyed.
Looking for shells, I enjoyed.
Boats … no! Perhaps the only thing worse than boating was swimming. Flying, she could tolerate somehow, but otherwise Gloredhel wanted her feet on firm ground.
Glorfindel crouched beside his twin and set a hand on her knee. "Headache?" He asked. The sun glinted off his hair, making the gold shine even brighter.
It seemed such a short while ago that the Valar had told them of the rising shadow in Ennor at that strange counsel at the Ring of Doom where Manwe had decreed that the Laureónoni would be sent back to aid in the fight against this Shadow and protect the line of Earendil who would one day play a critical role in its defeat. Finarfin had outfitted his niece and nephew with the fruits of all the skills of the greatest craftsmen still alive and on that side of the sundering sea. Both had new chain-mail and a fresh complement of weapons (daggers, spell-forged swords, and a bow with spell-forged arrows for Gloredhel, fletched with the feathers donated by Thorondor), and full sets of plate armor and chain-mail sat in trunks in the hold below along with a trunk each of clothing and personal belongings. And now they were here … sailing east towards an uncertain but momentous future.
"Yes," Gloredhel replied, resisting the urge to nod. That would only make the throbbing worse and might send her stomach rolling again. "Dizzy, too. Everything seems to be moving."
Sitting out on deck like those sailors said hasn't helped either. Nor has studying the horizon, which isn't supposed to move.
This voyage had done nothing so far to help lessen her distaste for any bodies of water bigger than a shallow lake where she could actually see the bottom. Nearly falling prey to the Helcaraxë had not made Gloredhel fond of water by any stretch of the imagination. That distaste—fear, truly, if she were being honest with herself—had remained with her beyond death. For all the healing to be found in the halls of the dead, some things stuck with you even beyond the grave. For the same reason as Laure always keeps his hair tightly braided now and is careful around fires. Some things were not to be repeated.
Long-fingers touched her head, and Glorfindel closed his eyes in concentration for a moment, and the pounding in her head eased slightly.
"Thank you." Healer heal thyself never worked that well. "How are Asfaloth and Gwaedal taking the journey?" As she had expected, the white stallion who had carried her brother from the halls home had never left, and because of his coat, Glorfindel had christened him Asfaloth, meaning "Sunlit Foam" in Sindarin. Orome had not come for Asfaloth either, so the twins had brought both of their horses along with them. Their speed and bravery would be needed in the years ahead. Not having to train up a new warhorse every decade or so would be an added benefit.
"Well. Nahar's sons are brave," Glorfindel replied, shifting so that he could sit down beside her and press his shoulder against hers. "Círdan's folk who captain this vessel tell me that we shall reach Mithlond this evening. Then you can sleep in a real bed that does not move."
None of these swinging net beds! Ever. Again. Her stomach rolled at the very thought.
Gloredhel pinched her eyes shut, trying to focus on keeping her stomach down, and let her head sink down on her brother's shoulder. "Thank Ulmo!" They had taken ship from Tol Eressëa at the beginning of the new year (1600 of the Second Age) on a ship from Mithlond returning to its home port. Two Maiar in the guise of the Second Born went with them. Their names alone—Morinehtar ("Darkness Slayer") and Rómestámo ("East-Helper")—would have confirmed that a new darkness was rising in the east, even if Manwe himself had said nothing. The two were courteous if addressed but said little and hitherto had kept to themselves.
What exactly they would face in Ennor, neither Glorfindel nor Gloredhel knew for sure.
A shadow was rising, but that could mean many things. (Was it one of Morgoth's servants who had escaped capture after the War of Wrath only to rear his ugly head once more? Or something else?) That they were sent back—two warriors and heroes of the First Age—indicated battle was probably before them. In some ways this felt like coming to Beleriand in the first place … just without the Doom of the Noldor hanging over us. They were equipped with the best Valinor could provide and had the blessing, not just the love of Arafinwë … this time. And when their work was done, the passage home was not barred against them.
No longer was death their only means of returning into the west.
The hours passed with interminable slowness, at least in Gloredhel's mind, as Glorfindel seemed less troubled by the rocking of the boat. Eventually, though, night fell, and the stars twinkled brightly in the carpet of heaven unrolled above them. Soon, the lookout shouted from far above that land was approaching. (Was there any worse task on the boat than lookout, stuck high above on that thin mast?) Or, at least, Gloredhel was pretty sure that was what the lookout had said. Círdan's people were friendly and most welcoming, if somewhat between in awe of and very puzzled by the mysterious passengers that had unexpectedly been assigned to them to ferry to their home. The problem, however, was that their speech was strange. They spoke Sindarin but no dialect that Gloredhel or Glorfindel recognized. The Sindarin once spoken in the north of Beleriand, which was still spoken by those of Gondolin who had been reborn (like the twins) or who had sailed after the War of Wrath (like Galdor and his folk among others), had always been far different than the dialects spoken in Beleriand proper and not fully intelligible with the others either.
Whatever this new dialect was which Círdan's folk spoke was no dialect that either twin had ever heard. It recalled elements of both Falathrin and Doriathrin Sindarin, which Gloredhel remembered hearing snippets of at the Mereth Aderthad over two-thousand years earlier, but was much removed. Gloredhel found it easier to understand the mariners than it was for them to understand her. Mithrimin had contained a unique set of vocabulary of its own that, if dropped into her speech, made the Elves of Lindon simply stare at her, puzzled. Highly differing accents and differing pronunciation of some words just made the job more difficult.
We'll pick up the changes soon enough. It was just frustrating in the meantime.
Círdan speaks Quenya, at least. I'm assuming he wouldn't hold to Thingol's ban … in a new age … almost seventeen-hundred years after his kinsman's death.
Quenya was still spoken at court in Valinor and within their uncle's house, but the twins still tended to speak in Mithrimin to each other, whether silently or not. Old habits remain long.
The land they had known once had changed much in their long absence and not just in geography. (Seeing the changes wrought by the War of Wrath when Thorondor had taken her to meet Earendil was a picture that had stuck fast in her mind.) Gloredhel and Glorfindel had known that the lands they had once known would be greatly changed in many respects, but to encounter such a change as this linguistic barrier even before leaving the confines of the Blessed Land … had been … unexpected … striking.
Finally, the ship reached the confines of the Gulf of Lune. Lindon, at last. To the south were the last remaining sections of Ossiriand still above the waves. To the north (on this side of the Blue Mountains) were lands that had once been part of Thargelion, the lands Caranthir had once ruled. That is a memory best kept to yourself. (Out of sight, far to the north, was all that was left of Himring, Neylo's mighty fortress from which he had held the east.) These lands, both in that life and in this one, were entirely new to Gloredhel and Glorfindel. They had never come this far east before, had never stepped foot beyond the Blue Mountains as they were about to, as Mithlond, Círdan's new capital, was upriver from the broken chain of mountain peaks.
There was a moon that night. Gloredhel, still sitting on deck from which she had barely moved that day, her back against the bulwark on the starboard side of the ship, stared up at the craggy peaks of the Ered Luin as they appeared out of the darkness before them. Her eyes scanned the fastnesses for any sign of winged forms, large or small but especially large, … or just a sign of movement.
"Do the eagles make their eyries here?" asked her twin, appearing silently beside her and taking a seat beside her.
Gloredhel shrugged, promptly winced at the gesture. (Her headache was better but not gone. At least the sea seems calmer here. The sooner we reached Mithlond, the better.) "I don't know. Thorondor does not know where his people make their abodes now." The King of the Eagles had been gravely wounded during the fight against Ancalagon in 587 of the First Age and returned west before the end of the War of Wrath. Gwaihir was lord now in his place.
"Who is Lord of the Eagles now?"
"Gwaihir, Thorondor's oldest living son," Gloredhel replied.
"Will he aid you … as his father did?"
That Gloredhel had to consider for a moment. "There are no oaths sworn between Gwaihir and I, but he was there when Thorondor bore my body away, so I am told." I wish I could have seen it in the Halls. "For his father's sake, he might aid me if asked, but I would be slower to ask him than I would have his father and would not ask as much."
*Fair enough.* Sometimes the two slipped between thought and speech without realizing.
To the confusion of those around us.
Though they spoke the tongues of the elves as well as the elves themselves, the Great Eagles were not like the children of Eru. Their ways were different. Their thinking was different. Friendly, they could be, but they were not tame, a far cry from the hawks that Gloredhel had occasionally tamed and used to carry messages in the past.
"I will need to find out where their eyries are quickly, though," Gloredhel continued after a minute. "I studied the maps in uncle's study for quite some time. There are several other mountain ranges: the Ered Luin,[1]"—here she made a vague gesture in the direction of the passing crags—"the Hithaeglir,[2] much farther east, and the Ered Mithrin[3] in the north. The eagles could feasibly have made their nests upon any of them or, depending on their numbers, multiple."
It was sometime further before the ship passed between the Ered Luin and sometime further still before they reached Mithlond itself. The havens in appearance seemed to be a mixture of old and new, familiar and not, from what Gloredhel could see as the ship eased towards its dock. (The morning sun would reveal more.) The moonlight reflected off of gleaming towers of white stone on the hilltops, and there were other collections of buildings of varying sizes with open courtyards in-between. The docks were vast, and many ships, undeniably elvish, were docked, bobbing gently now and then. (Gloredhel cringed at the sight and looked away.)
"I'll see to our trunks and the horses," Glorfindel said as tow lines were thrown over a few minutes later and the ship began to be secured to the dock. "Get your feet on solid ground and speak to the dockmaster. It's too late in the day to have word sent to the High King, if he is even in Lindon currently, but it would be good to at least send word to Círdan that we have come. And then we'll need to find lodging for the night."
And once we present ourselves at court and get that dealt with, we can see about finding Erestor and Faeleth. Finally, they would get to meet their nephew for the first time. And give them the letters Ecthelion sent. He had pressed a packet of letters into Gloredhel's hands after giving her one last hug upon the docks of Avalonnë. "Give them my love," those had been his final words to her before they parted.
Gloredhel rose slowly and made a low noise of assent. Her brother disappeared below deck, and she checked the ties of her cloak, made with great skill and much love by her aunt, and then felt down the length of her long braid to check its integrity. My cloak and the low light will hide any wrinkles. It will do until morning. Her cloak fell down her back in heavy folds of red-orange cloth edged in black, and when she moved the device of a stricken anvil could be seen. Her twin's cloak likewise bore a rayed sun upon a dark green background.
Both had chosen deliberately to keep their old heraldry from Gondolin and not to return to the great golden sun upon a gray background, which they had once worn, symbolizing their status in Finwe's house. Gil-Galad had come to the throne as a child, which added political complexities and pressures to his reign, and neither knew what the situation was at his court or how he ran his court. A question for Círdan perhaps. It was better not to highlight their closer blood-relationship to Finwe, though through the female-line. We'll have to decide what titles we use, given our uncle's change to the succession laws … which apply only to Valinor … but still.
A few dock-workers helped set in place the ramp that led down to the dock, and as they worked, Gloredhel saw a solitary figure coming down the dock towards the ship. The figure had silver hair that shone in the moonlight and was dressed in weathered garments. His face was in shadow, but as he approached, he opened the lamp that he held in one hand, and in its yellow light, Gloredhel saw a beard. It was Círdan.
Unless there is suddenly some other elf besides Círdan and Mahtan with beards! Excellent. This will save the trouble of sending word to him.
"You are later returning than expected, Gaerion," the shipwright called to the captain of their ship. "Was your voyage troubled?" Círdan's accent differed from what she remembered, but his Sindarin was still more intelligible than that of his sailors'.
"Nay," Gaerion replied, and with the ease of apparent long practice, he planted one hand upon the gunwale and leapt over the bulwark to land as lightly as a cat upon the dock below. His voice faded to a low murmur, but something about "passengers" was still intelligible.
Gloredhel stepped back to give the two Maiar room to go down the ramp ahead of her, bidding them a safe journey and good fortune. If he was surprised by the new arrivals, Círdan did not show it and spoke a few words to the two wizards dressed in blue, who were then shown away. Only then did Gloredhel descend the ramp and finally after too long plant her feet on solid ground.
Círdan studied her for a moment with eyes as keen as stars. "Lady Gloredhel," he inclined his head in a polite bow and then addressed her in perfect Quenya, "your coming is not at all expected but very welcome nonetheless. I was much grieved to hear of the deaths of you and your brothers at Gondolin. The king, your cousin was, as well, though he knew you not."
Well, that bodes well, at least.
Better to start off on a good footing with this High King.
"We had not expected to return," Gloredhel replied in the same tongue. "And yet duty constrained us, and we were sent back."
The Shipwright's eyes sharpened with interest at those final words, but he did not ask "by whom" on the public dock. "You two must stay with me tonight, and in the morning, I will have word sent to Forlond and the High King of your arrival." Forlond was another port city nearer the Gulf of the Lhun. The ship carrying the twins to Mithlond would have passed south of it. We may speak more in private was implied in Círdan's words.
If we had known, we could have sailed straight there, perhaps, but it will be good to have Círdan's council.
The Shipwright's house was set upon a rise that overlooked the main harbor of Mithlond, and it was to there that Círdan led the twins after their belongings and horses were given over to the care of several workers, the trunks to be taken up the hill and the horses to be found a place in the stables for the night. It was late, but Gloredhel especially had eaten little on the voyage, and they happily accepted the simple fare Círdan offered.
"Why have you returned?" Círdan asked once they had eaten. "Surely you both deserved your rest." If we had both just been reborn, I would have agreed with you.
"This is Arda Marred," Glorfindel said, somewhat grimly. "There is work to be done before that day comes and we all may find rest. Near the end of last year, Eonwe summoned my sister and I to appear at the Ring of Doom … an experience that was almost as terrifying as dying. A shadow is almost upon us. We were sent back to provide aid against whatever is to come and to protect those of Earendil's line."
Círdan's face went grave, and there was a grim light to match in his fathomless eyes. "The shadow is already upon us."
Gloredhel cut a glance at her brother, and he met her eyes with answering incomprehension. Something had happened since that counsel at the Ring of Doom, apparently. Little news came to the Blessed Realm, save for that borne by those sailing West, and like the dead, their news could be incomplete.
"Tell us?" She asked.
As the hours of the night passed, Círdan told the twins of the coming of Annatar to Lindon in 1200 and how Gil-Galad, whom the Shipwright referred to as Ereinion, had turned him away, rejecting his offered help, but how Celebrimbor and his people in Eregion in the east had welcomed him among them. In the intervening years, Annatar had taught the Gwaith-i-Mírdain much until, it was said, their skills surpassed any of the Noldor save for Feanor himself. Within the last one-hundred years, the smiths had forged nineteen great rings of power, some of which Annatar had aided in the creation of. In 1500, Annatar had then departed Eregion for lands unknown. And then, just this year, in the time preceding the twins return, Annatar had forged himself a Master Ring and in the doing revealed himself not as any servant of the Valar, but as Sauron himself, the greatest of Morgoth's servants during the First Age.
"Gorthaur," Gloredhel spat the name like the foulest of curses once Círdan had finished speaking. "Too well are his deeds known to me. His only 'gifts' are cruelty, torment, and a bitter end."
Tylepe must be cursing himself for being deceived so by one who brought his uncle to so much torment.
(Having that horrible conversation with Ingo about his Song duel with Gorthaur and what had gone wrong—in more details than the lays provided—might prove itself devastatingly useful after all and more than just cautiousness.)
As if he could tell the thought behind her words—Círdan was farseeing, though much less blatant about it than Artanis had always been—the Shipwright replied, "It would not be wise to speak of such things here. Feanor and his sons are not remembered with any fondness."
*One wonders how Celebrimbor is viewed then.* Gloredhel mused half to herself, half to her twin.
*Celebrimbor repudiated his father's deeds, it is said.*
*But not his lineage, if what is told is correct. An important distinction that some may not take kindly to.*
"What about Elrond then?" Gloredhel asked. "He was raised by my cousins after the sack of Sirion, it is said."
Círdan raised an eyebrow. "You are well-informed for having been long among the dead. Well-enough. He is one of Ereinion's Loremasters and is high in the king's favor, which helps lessen open … commentary. His choice of hairstyle and attire does not help to lessen any associations. You Noldor are a stubborn lot." From the tone of his voice, it wasn't clear whether that was supposed to be a condemnation or a joke.
What is he using Feanorion war braids and wearing the Feanorion star?
"The tapestries in the Halls have entirely too many details," Gloredhel replied with a grimace and a shudder, wrapping her hands tighter around her mug of tea, "if you actually find those that depict the events you wish to see. I, for one, haven't been dead in … over thirteen-hundred years. Enough of your boats have come west for some news to reach us. I think I shall enjoy meeting … this new cousin of ours."
There is no denying the evil that our cousins did, but I would be glad for someone to remember Neylo and Kano for good, not just for ill.
I wonder if Tylepe knows anything of Maglor's fate.
*Make sure no one is at risk of overhearing you if you ever have a chance to ask him that,* Glorfindel noted silently. Her stray thought had leaked.
*Sorry.* Gloredhel replied, flicking her eyes toward him for a moment. They kept their bond quite open between them but usually attempted to keep stray thoughts to themselves.
"You will learn more at court and from Ereinion himself, I am sure, of these things, but some things must be spoken of very carefully." Círdan then circled back to the earlier discussion. "In better news, your nephew is also at court."
Glorfindel's head snapped up from where he had been darkly considering the wood grain in the table. "Erestor?"
The Shipwright nodded. "Good. You know something of him then. Yes, he is also a Loremaster and one of great renown. Looks much like his father, I assume." (Faeleth was of the Sindar and silver-haired). "Quite skilled with a blade. Sometimes has to be bodily retrieved from the library to eat and sleep." Those last words had mingled fondness and exasperation of someone who had raised children before.
What is it about the children in our family? Our family in general for that matter?
Rog.
Maeglin.
Now Erestor.
Uncle Feanoro sometimes.
Stars!
"His mother? Is she at court?" Gloredhel asked at that point.
"Yes. Royal seamstress. She had no wish for any exalted position as a noblewoman and the widow of the Balrog Slayer." Sounds like her. "I wouldn't be surprised if that boy talks his way into leading whatever escort Ereinion sends for you tomorrow," Círdan continued. He shook his head fondly. "He's counted as Lord of the Fountain, and the remnant of your houses will probably find a way to join him."
Lord of the Fountain in Ennor and Lord of the Fountain in Valinor … this is turning into a variation on the multiplicity of High Kings! Right now, the only living High King in Valinor was Arafinwë. Once more of Finwe's house was reborn, things were going to get complicated. Who will be king? And with so many kings, to whom do you even bow?
That boy … Erestor is more than sixteen-hundred years old by now. They'd missed his entire life. He had not even been born when the twins died. Well, I suppose we are all young to Círdan. He was probably the eldest of the First Born still living. No one living knew for certain how old he was, whether he might even be one of those who had awakened, not one of the first generations born at Cuiviénen.
"How many of the Fountain and Golden Flower remain? Do you know?" Glorfindel asked.
Círdan paused, thought for a moment. "Maybe about twenty in Forlond itself. A handful more in outlying cities."
The twins spoke with Círdan long into the night, into the early hours of the morning, really. This was one of the extremely convenient times that, as First Born, they could survive and function well on very little sleep, though forgoing sleep on a regular basis will have problems for us, as well, just not quite so quickly. (Sleeplessness could cause great ills for the Second Born so quickly!) The Shipwright was a wise councilor, and they were glad to get recent news and his opinions on current events as much as possible.
The Shipwright sent word to the High King's court at dawn the morning after their arrival, but it was some two hundred miles from Mithlond to Forlond. Whether that was by ship, by land, or as the crow flew, Gloredhel did not know. It would take time for word to reach the capital, and for instructions or messengers to return.
Mid-afternoon of their third full day in Mithlond found Gloredhel sitting cross-legged on the stonewall that enclosed the small garden and portico next to Círdan's home. She had spent much of the morning watching the comings and goings of the many varieties of birds in and around the harbor and city. It had been long since she had heard much of the speech of sea-birds, and it took a little time for their tongue to again become familiar to her. Not that what they have to say is of much interest. Well, it depends on the type. There had been many more birds of prey to talk with in the mountains along with crows and ravens. The song-birds in the gardens or ladies' parlors were … much less interesting, even than sea-birds.
After lunch Gloredhel had convinced a passing hawk to come down and speak with her with the help of a fresh fish from Círdan's cook as a bribe. The hawk was young and not widely traveled, but he had some interesting news nonetheless, first and foremost that the Great Eagles did not have their eyries in the Blue Mountains, at least nowhere nearby on either side of the gap.
(The Gap. That word made her think of Maglor's Gap, which had been east of Himring, far east of Gondolin. She forced her mind away.)
"You're just like my mother described," a male voice said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts suddenly.
The hawk gave a piercing cry of alarm and, with several quick flaps of his wings, disappeared into the sky. (His fish bribe had already been devoured.) Gloredhel startled violently and nearly fell off the stone-wall. By the stars! Her hand went instinctively to Echeleb, her sword which lay in its sheath on the wall beside her. "What?" She exclaimed … still in the hawk-tongue. Her head snapped around. The man (by gender, not race) to whom that voice belonged was standing at the edge of the portico as if he had just come up the hill from the city proper.
In the next instance, two things about him sunk home to Gloredhel.
First … the language he had spoken was not Quenya, not this strange new dialect of Sindarin that had evolved into being in the last seventeen-hundred some years, but almost perfect Mithrimin. The accent was just slightly off, but it was still almost perfect. He had learned from someone who had actually spoken the tongue long ago.
Second … Gloredhel blinked hastily … the figure almost looked like Ecthelion. Then she blinked again, and her mind cataloged the differences. He was too slender, and his face was a little more angular, and he had his mother's skin-tone. No doubt, though, this was Ecthelion's son. He was dressed in a strange mixture of Loremaster's robes (blue … his father would approve) and riding clothes, and there was a sword at his side … not Orcrist, though, which was lost somewhere beneath the sea sadly. (He moved as if he knew how to use his blade. Círdan had said he was a skilled swordsman.)
This was her nephew, at last.
*Laure, where are you?*
Gloredhel's answering smile was blinding. She was proud that she did not immediately begin weeping for joy. "Since you were not even born when … I cannot say something similar," she replied in Mithrimin. "You do look like your father, though."
*At the docks with Círdan. Why?*
*Our escort has arrived, and our nephew.*
"Círdan's message has caused quite a stir at court," Erestor noted, starting forward slowly now. There was just the slightest hint of a smirk that curled up one corner of his mouth and put a mischievous glint into his eyes. "Some might have finally picked their jaws up off the council-room floor by now. The High King was quite shocked, as well. At least, you both are actually Valar-sent."
Gloredhel rose from her seat on the stone wall. "Beware of Maia bearing gifts." She noted dryly. Somewhat ironic considering whom we sailed with, but the help they will offer is far different from what Círdan implied Gorthaur was offering.
Erestor gave a wry snort and stepped into her proffered embrace. "It's good to finally meet you … Aunt?" There was a questioning tone in his voice on the final word as if he wanted to confirm that the appellation was agreeable to her.
Gloredhel was amused to find that she was half-a-head taller than her nephew, though she and Ecthelion had always seen eye-to-eye, literally. "Of course," she replied and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I was overjoyed to hear that you and your mother survived the Sack. Your father was, as well."
Her nephew's face spasmed at those words as he stepped back. (What must it have been like growing up with a legend for a father? With stories of him from his mother, presumably, but also any surviving followers of the Fountain and the Golden Flower, with tales of his prowess in battle and that final duel, of his skill in music and his 'concerts' for the children? What must it have been like to hear those stories but have no memory of the man himself? Did he know the man, not just the fallen, beloved hero?) "Will you tell me about him when there's time?" He asked, a note of something, almost uncertainty, in his voice. "You knew him longer than Naneth."
As much as you want to know.
As much as you want to know.
"Of course, I will," Gloredhel replied fondly. "I do have letters for you and your mother both from him, as well." (Her nephew's eyes went wide.) "Ecthelion was reborn the same year as your uncle in 749. He pressed a packet of letters for you both into my hands before my brother and I boarded the ship to come east."
The sound of footsteps approaching quickly preempted any further discussion, though the look on Erestor's face at the mention of actual letters from his living father would provide Gloredhel with happy memories for many years. Glorfindel appeared around the corner of the house from the path that led up from the harbor a few moments later. He was not running but was not exactly walking either.
*I think the entire remnant of our houses that could be gathered on short notice came with him,* her brother said. He sounded somewhere between amused and profoundly touched.
*I'm guessing from the lack of noise they didn't see you?* Gloredhel asked.
There was only a vague affirmative from her twin as he greeted Erestor. Their nephew seemed slightly awestruck when meeting Glorfindel. (At least from what those who had sailed to Valinor had said, her twin's duel with the Balrog had been elevated to the status of legendary more so than Ecthelion's final conflict with Gothmog himself had, which Gloredhel found more than a little offensive. He was called the Lord of the Balrogs. Ecthelion, however, had become a war-cry among the Eldar. He never was sure what to think of that when I told him.)
With Glorfindel, their nephew was, for now, a little more formal for some reason. "I am glad to finally meet you. The High King has sent us to escort you both to Lindon."
"Us being …?" Glorfindel asked.
"Us being every surviving member of the Fountain and the Golden Flower still in the capital," Erestor replied with a slight smirk. "They wouldn't have been able to see you, though you could them, from that path you came up." Have you spent a lot of time in Mithlond then to now these little paths so well? There was so much about their nephew that the twins did not know, so terribly much, but there was time. "They would have had my hide if I had ridden out without them." His tone went brisk. "We will send any belongings with you in the boat which brought us here, and anything you did not bring can, I am sure, be procured in Forlond. How quickly can you leave? The High King is anxious to meet with you."
"Within the hour, I should think," Gloredhel replied, glancing at her brother for confirmation. He gave a small nod. "Our trunks are in the house. We just need to get our horses and bid farewell to Círdan. We have six trunks in total."
Erestor's eyes went wide. "Six!?" He exclaimed. It wasn't clear whether it was a question or a statement.
"The High King our uncle outfitted us with everything we might need, made with all the skills of the Noldor who still dwell in the blessed realm. Four of the six have our weapons and armor. The other two are clothing and other belongings."
Erestor nodded. His brow furrowed for a moment. "There will be plenty of room. Lord Círdan will have his people ferry us to the north shore to save us the time of riding upriver to find a ford, and then we will ride back to Forlond." One barge to the far shore, I can tolerate. This time. "I thought you would prefer to ride and see the lay of the land. We are not in such haste that we need to all take ship to the capital."
"How long is the ride? Círdan said it was some two-hundred miles to Forlond?" Glorfindel asked. "It was not clear if that was by ship, over-land, or as the crow flies."
"About three days ride. Easy riding," Erestor replied. "You do not need your armor, but I would bring your swords." Even with a new shadow rising, how the world had changed since Beleriand in all its glory and horrors for traveling armed to not be the norm. How times had changed, though that time might yet soon return. "And your bow, Aunt, in case we want to hunt for our supper."
The three parted for the moment. Erestor returned to the front of the house to join his riders, while one of Círdan's servants went along with him to guide the escort in taking the twin's baggage down to the waiting ship. They had already removed their swords from their weapons' trunks, and Gloredhel automatically had removed her quiver, as well. Her bow had been too long to fit in a trunk, obviously, and been carried separately, wrapped protectively in oil skin. Those weapons lay waiting with their cloaks in their bedchambers to be retrieved at the end along with their traveling packs which they had assembled while waiting for news from the High King.
Then Gloredhel and Glorfindel went back down to the docks and bade a fond farewell to the Shipwright and went to find their horses. Gwaedal and Rochallor had been well-cared for in their absence and occupied two large stalls in the stables nearest the docks. Their coats had been brushed until they gleamed, and their hooves shone. Gwaedal knickered loudly as Gloredhel unfastened his stall door and promptly butted his very large head into her chest and then nuzzled at her sleeves and pockets as if searching for treats. Asfaloth seemed to be greeting her brother just as enthusiastically, given Glorfindel's fond complaints about his hair not being hay.
Gloredhel leaned her head against Gwaedal's head, resting her forehead against his soft coat, so close that she almost went cross-eyed trying to keep him in focus. For a few moments, she just breathed and forced back the rush of anxious nerves at the thought of meeting the High King. Gil-Galad. They knew him only by name. Orodreth had been comparatively young at the time the Noldor rebelled, and when Turgon had quickly packed his followers off to Nevrast once they were in Beleriand, the twins had never known Angrod's son well. His wife, his children, they had never known at all.
What was Gil-Galad like? As a person? As a king? As a leader? As a relative?
*Anything will be better than Turvo by the end,* Glorfindel noted dryly from the next stall down. *Círdan seems fond of him, which speaks well of his character.*
"Fair enough," Gloredhel said aloud. "I just do not look forward to finding my way around yet another court."
"We'll do it together, sister, as always. Together."
Nahar's sons were not as inhumanly intelligent as Huan was … had been, but they understood the Elvish tongue, so it was simple enough to give them instructions to take themselves up the hill without their riders. Gloredhel and Glorfindel threaded their way back through the docks and the many elves repairing ships, mending nets, carrying this and that hither and thither, and climbed back up the cliff path that led to Círdan's garden. The murmur of voices and the stamp of hooves was clearly audible on the breeze, now that Gloredhel knew to listen for it. Her sword Echeleb lay on her bed in its silver sheath, her cloak with its dark folds of black and red cloth and Cúthon, waiting to be strung, lay beside it. Her quiver rested on the floor, leaning against the bed.
With strong, experienced hands, Gloredhel strung her bow. She picked up her cloak next and studied the stricken anvil on its fold with a bittersweet smile at the memories that the emblem stirred in her breast. I miss you, my love. Her cloak was familiar, but binding it about her shoulders and not fastening it with the pin Rog had had made for her—an eagle in flight—seemed strange. Echeleb went about her waist, and after grabbing her pack, she was ready. She turned and examined herself in the small looking glass above the dressing table. For a moment only the Lady of the House of the Hammer of Wrath stared back at her, stern and fair, but then she smiled, and Gloredhel stared back.
She had collected so many names, so many titles since her birth. Laurëlda, she had been born. Gloredhel, she had become. Thorondil, her husband had named her. Gelieth, his house had called her. First, a Lady of the House of Finwe. Then Lady of the House of the Golden Flower since her twin had never felt the call to marry. Then Lady of the House of the Hammer of Wrath. Then High Princess of the Noldor. Who was she supposed to be here and now … in a strange land that had changed so much … with a new king she had never known … with people who had once been so close and dear to her? The survivors here, they would have changed. Time has changed us all. Lady of the House of the Hammer of Wrath was an empty title, with her the only living member of that once great and mighty house. Who am I? I wonder sometimes.
The duties for which the Powers had sent back Gloredhel and Glorfindel were clear: withstand the shadow and protect Earendil's line. But how that would be accomplished, what life they would build here, what their roles would be at court, all those questions were yet to be determined.
One step at a time.
"Ready?" Her brother's voice sounded from the doorway behind her.
Gloredhel turned, and for a moment her mind flew back a lifetime to Gondolin. The two were, in their choice of dress and cloaks and adornment, trying to emphasize their connection to Gondolin, not their ranks in the House of Finwe and closer blood ties thereto than the reigning king. Seeing her twin in the doorway, for a moment she could imagine she was back there, back before everything had gone wrong, before Aredhel had died, before Turgon had so deeply lost himself in his grief, before Maeglin had been captured. Glorfindel's golden hair was pulled back from his face in tight warrior's braids, but he was dressed in simple riding clothes with a long-sleeve tunic of a tannish-yellow and an over-jacket of green, picked with golden flowers. His dark-green cloak was embroidered with celandines by their aunt and looked so much like the one he had worn in Gondolin.
She gave a bittersweet smile, studying her brother and his garb. "All you're missing is the children to bring you flowers for your braid."
Glorfindel laughed. "And we should find some Uilos for yours, sister dear." Uilos were small white flowers, known by many other names, which had grown in the Tumladen and around the Gate of Silver in the Orfalch Echor. Rog had often brought back sprigs of them when he and his smiths went to inspect the gates now and then. Ecthelion, on the Fountain's turns to guard it, had often done the same, enjoying the smile that the flowers had always brought to her face.
"Perhaps."
Her brother frowned slightly. "Are you alright?"
She nodded. "My thoughts grew dark for a moment. Our instructions are simple, but there is so much we have yet to determine."
He stepped forward into her room and placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. "One step at a time. For now, we must greet our people and then pay our respects to the High King."
One step at a time.
[1] The Blue Mountains.
[2] The Misty Mountains.
[3] The Grey Mountains.