There was noise — what was it? People laughing; the sound of raucous merrymaking fueled by wine. Inside her tent, Falmaramë wished it would go away. She was curled up on their — on her — bed, eyes wide open in the darkness. She thought that she had slept, and that it was evening. She wished she could fall back to a dreamless slumber; for an instant, when she had been roused, she had forgotten that Gil-Galad did not walk under the Sun anymore.
But there was no way around it. Her body reminded her of its needs — she hadn't eaten since the morning of the battle. She wished hunger would carry her away, and slay her swiftly, but her body protested. The wretched thing wanted to live. What an inconvenience.
Slowly, each of her joints aching, Falmaramë got up. Her head spun, but she dragged herself to the coffer that held her clothes. She didn't touch the one beside it — and she flipped the lid open, grabbing the first thing that wasn't made for war. A sharp pain, when she donned the dress of deep red trimmed with black, told her that the wound on her neck was bleeding again below the bandages. Slippers would have to do for her feet. She was in no mood to tie laces.
Why hadn't she braided her hair before lying down? Now her curls were matted again. Some distant, cold, part of her, deadpan whispered "haircare cannot be less important than widowhood." She didn't heed it, and set to painfully untangle what she could, intent on not thinking. By the time she was satisfied, she had weaved her hair into a glossy braid once again. Her face, in the mirror, was hard and unsmiling. She sat there, watching herself, that stranger. Who was that person, who had won a war and lost her love?
To remind herself of who she was, she took her mithril headband, the one that displayed the star of her House in white gems, and put it on. Long years have weathered the metal, giving it that soft shine that only mithril, carefully forged, could have. She was a ruling lady of the Noldor. But it felt incongruous to carry such a treasure over her informal braid, so she undid her hair and reworked it to a more solemn fashion. Suddenly, she rose, and took from the chest a carefully folded surcoat that she put on — a thing of beauty, embroidered with thread of darkish silver-blue. It was a pattern of swirling waves, one that Gil-Galad had admired. She remembered his fingers tracing the gleaming silk. She fastened a jeweled dagger on her golden belt, for she was a smith who took pride in her craft. The slippers, however, stayed on.
In front of the tent, her squire, Sornorë, had fallen asleep. She hesitated before waking them; her hand hovered over their shoulder and a voice, behind her, startled her. Halarova was there, pale with pain. His knee was in a splint. He carried his weight on a crutch.
"You were waiting," said Falmaramë.
Without a word, he waived her to a small table were some cold food had been laid. Two chairs had been prepared, and they sat. Silently, Halarova pushed bread and meat towards his lady, and she ate and drank, because she was ravenous, although it felt absurd. Voices drifted from afar, and Falmaramë listened to them. They were singing songs from the Blessed Realm, and she frowned.
"Do you want me to go silence them?" asked her captain.
"No. Let them celebrate after their own fashion. My grief mustn't take from their joy at victory."
Halarova poured them some wine, and emptied his cup without any toasting. His handsome face was dark with hidden thoughts. When he asked Falmaramë if she had spoken to Elrond, she realised that he was more than half-drunk.
Why not, she thought. The wine was pleasant, and she could do with the flush of drunkenness.
"I haven't," she replied. "Although I should: he is, after all, Nandaro's heir, and the next High King."
"Oh no, by Morgoth's crown, he's not," swore Halarova. "I won't have him."
Falmaramë pursed her lips. "Speak not of him like that. I know you esteem him well enough; what has gotten into you? He is the last of the House of Fingolfin. I hope you haven't listened to Celeborn's idiocy of a taint brought by his mortal ancestry."
"Celeborn takes Galadriel's counsel, and she might have foreseen a few things," stubbornly replied Halarova.
A debate on Elrond's honour would usually have been the last thing Falmaramë wanted, but now she would grasp at anything that might distract her from the aching void in her chest, so she decided to entertain Halarova, although her voice was cutting as a knife.
"Why she would have vouched for him to join us, then?"
"The House of Finarfin is a devious one."
"This I grant you readily enough. But Elrond has been a dear friend to me ever since I was a child, and he was my steward in Imladris. He is more than worthy, and has proven it on many occasions."
Halarova avoided her gaze and poured himself another cup, which he then proceeded to down in silence. How dared he leave the heated dispute he has promised? When he lowered his arm, Falmaramë caught his wrist in her grip, and said: "What is wrong with you? Do you wish to drink yourself to death?"
"My king has fallen," said Halarova. "My friends are slain. And you want to know what is wrong with me? Lady, have you lost your wits?" In the low light given by a distant torch, Halarova's expression was tortured by more than grief, and he added, in a lower voice: "Treason of kin unto kin has been our bane ever since Mandos laid our Doom upon us. Although he shares only half our blood, I say that Elrond has fallen to this, and is unworthy of ruling over us."
"Tell me," ordered Falmaramë, "what you accuse him of, although the word of a drunkard is very little to me." And Halarova recoiled at the poison in her voice, as if a ghost had arisen before him. But no blade did she point at his belly, and he slowly breathed. He shook away her hand before he spoke.
"The One Ring was not destroyed, but claimed by Isildur. Elrond allowed this to come to pass. Círdan, who was there, stricken by Sauron's mace and unable to move, saw it all. Would you doubt the word of one who held Gil-Galad dear as the son he never had?"
"No," protested Falmaramë. "It cannot be."
She had become aware of her beating heart, like a bird struggling to fly from its cage. Her jaw clenched. She rose and paced wildly, each fiber of her being once again tense to breaking point. There must be some mistake — she would never doubt Círdan's faith, and honesty had looked at her behind Halarova's eyes — reason said they must both be mistaken. And yet, some part of her knew the news to be true: she had worn the Ring of Fire, and had felt a lingering malice hidden beyond a wall of shadow. She had seen herself Elrond's unease, and Isildur's own swollen pride, grown despite his pain. Sauron was diminished, but not destroyed. His Ring still endured.
When she next looked at Halarova, there were tears upon his cheeks. She knew of what he had lived before, serving her House during the worst times of the First Age of the world — the kinslayer, fiercely loyal to Curufin, until he turned against his lord because of his crimes and joined Celebrimbor his son. She had been told of the uncertainty of these times, when conflicting values, hidden truths, and past misdeeds made alliances change in the blink of an eye. She had never thought such things would carry that much raw pain. Elrond had lied — either to spare her or to protect Isildur, she knew not, and cared little for now. For she only knew one thing: Gil-Galad had died in vain, and a great rage flooded her.
Falmaramë nearly stumbled in her haste as she turned around and set out to Isildur's tent. The Dúnedain were stationed a bit further out; she crossed the whole noldorin camp, and all fled before the terrifying anger that fired up her eyes. None of the great guards of Gondor and Arnor stopped her, or announced her, until she pushed away the flaps from Isildur's tent, over which the banner that had been his father's hung limp in the chilly night.
Despite the late hour, Isildur was up — more than up, as he appeared to be entertaining guests. But Falmaramë cared not who was there. She walked to him, close enough to kiss or to slay, and caught his arm in the vice of her grasp. Silence, thick as a fog, was around them. Isildur's breath smelled of mead as his eyes widened with surprise.
"What have you done," growled Falmaramë. "Have you heeded none of our warnings? It must be destroyed."
He answered not and tried to wrest free, but she dug her nails into his flesh until he yelled in pain. So he shouted that it was his, paid for with the blood of his kin, and she shoved him to the ground, standing tall and proud with the terrible gaze of the elf-lords of old.
"You shall go back," she said, taking a step towards his curled-up figure. "You shall destroy the Ring, throw it into the fire from whence it came."
Isildur got up with a groan and dusted himself. With wild eyes, he refused, adding: "And what shall you do against it, orphan of a forsaken house, widow without a crown? Your will is naught against the power of the Men of the West."
Sweat beaded upon his brow; Falmaramë could see the dilation of his pupils and hear the quickening of his breath. She tasted the reek of his fear in the air. It stank.
Still, Isildur raved on — about the good he might do with such a thing, about fate that had sent it to him to repair the evils committed by Sauron, and his words were but empty chatter to Falmaramë's ears. For now she, too, thought, of the power of the One Ring. Isildur slain, Arnor and Gondor would have to bow before the ancient might of the Elves: his young son would easily be molded into an affable king, happy to serve worthier goals. The Second Born would thrive under the wise rule of the Noldor. An Age of peace and plenty would come; out of Imladris, a new Eregion would rise — Ost-in-Edhil reborn, the three races at last united. High Queen she would be, the House of Fëanor restored to its rightful place and, despite her grief (or perhaps thanks to it), she would bring forth great beauty into the world. She saw herself crowned with living gold and gems of undying light. She saw unrest in the followers of the House of Finarfin, their alliance with the Sylvan kingdoms — the crumbling of her friendship with Durin after she used his Dwarves as pawns to hold the Mountain ways closed to her enemies. And she saw the blood of kin spilled by kin, red against the fair stones of Imladris, and pink in the surf of the Lindon shores, until the Ring on her finger slipped away, grown weary of her weakness, to find its old master again. For always thus ended Sauron's works: fair promises turned to poison and nothingness.
"It must be destroyed," repeated Falmaramë, oblivious to Isildur's speech.
"So does Elrond say without tiring; he is your pet indeed," spat Isildur. "The Ring is mine. It is precious to me; you cannot take it from me."
In a smooth movement, Falmaramë unsheathed the dagger at her side and held its blade against his neck, forcing his head back to avoid the sharp edge. Tall as he was, he stumbled back, but she caught his hair and locked him at her mercy. She felt strangely detached. Her hand was steady. She saw, in her mind, the single motion needed to slit life away from him; she guessed how warm his blood would be, and how sticky it would become when it cooled on her naked hands. How heavy would his crumbling body be! She would have to release her grip upon his hair. The white of his eyes would roll out in a way that would be comic, if not for the tragedy of such a death.
Suddenly, a voice at her side tore her from her trance. "I beg of you, Elenatta," said the voice, low and sad, "do not make yourself a murderer for him."
Falmaramë turned her head and looked at Elrond — gentle Elrond, the healer, her friend, who looked at her with worry and concern. A shadow was lifted from her. The red veil that had fallen upon her dissolved from her eyes, so that she looked in horror at her hands, that still held Isildur against her blade. She threw the dagger to the ground as if it had burned her, and only then she saw that several of his men had drawn swords. Isildur fell back to them as soon as he was free. Her own voice was strange to her when she asked Elrond to come, and nearly ran away.
They walked for a while, silent as shadows. In the night of Mordor, no moon shone to light their path; their eyes guided them through the gloom that pooled between torches until they reached, at last, some open place beyond the Alliance encampment.
"Let us sit for a time," proposed Elrond.
With a sigh, Falmaramë fell to rest against a nearby stone. Elrond joined her gingerly. His features were hard to make out in the dark.
"Can you forgive me for not telling you," he asked. "I should have. Right away. But I couldn't. Twice have I been weak in this matter: first in allowing Isildur to keep the cursed thing, and then in hiding it from you."
"Círdan could have told me, too," replied Falmaramë. "I learned it from Halarova, who somehow got first the confidence from him."
No response came from her friend. The sound of revelry, drifting along the air, became louder. Someone played the flute; people laughed. People lived.
"Tell me what happened when Sauron fell."
In the time it took for Elrond to collect himself and craft his answer, Falmaramë closed her hands into fists. They were clammy, and she crossed her arms in an attempt to warm herself. Had she really been that close to murder?
"Sauron fought us like… I have never seen anything like it. He conjured illusions to distract our blows; his raw power there was unfathomable. Maeron and Vilyond fell as they broke his shield, but he surrounded us with shadow and flame. Here, where he was most powerful, I swear I saw what Morgoth once was. None of us seemed able to wound him: he was too swift and strong. At last, however, Círdan was able to hold back his arm that swung this great mace of his — not long, but long enough for Elendil to slip inside his guard. Alas! Elendil, too, fell, his sword broken under him, for even the work of Telchar couldn't pierce Sauron's armour of black steel, and the blade shattered, leaving him defenseless."
Distress then closed on Elrond's voice; each of his words was filled with pain.
"Círdan was lying onto the ground. A dark spell, I think, had been cast upon him, so that he writhed in pain. Forven's leg was bleeding and twisted from a savage blow that had left him near unconscious; I'm not sure if he will ever walk on two feet again. Everything happened so fast. I saw Isildur rush towards Sauron, who was himself intent on slaying the son after the father and, before, the brother. Fixated upon that thought, Sauron failed to see that Ereinion lunged; the blade of Aeglos slid beneath a plate upon his breast and into his flesh." He marked a pause, and added: "Can you hear what comes after?"
"I must."
"Sauron's drive was broken, like a bull stricken by an arrow to the heart. But still he stood, so Ereinion — ah, Gil-Galad, you shone like a star indeed as you threw your weight against the dark shape of your foe! And the spear that you, Falmaramë, had wrought for him so long ago, dug deeper into Sauron's core, as no other steel could have done. But Ereinion was too close: Sauron closed his fist around his neck, burning him as he strangled him. Still, in his dying breath, Ereinion gave a last shove. He must have found some vital spot, for Sauron crumbled even as his own life withered away. But our enemy was not undone, for his Ring still was on his finger. Isildur, who was closest, grabbed the hilt of the broken Narsil — I, too, would have feared that a lesser sword might fail to rend a Maia's flesh. And indeed it cut easily: Sauron's great form seemed to dissolve in the surrounding gloom. I waited for Isildur to throw the Ring into the fire."
Some pebble with a pointy side was digging into Falmaramë's back, who shifted to an easier spot. This place hated her, hated them, hated the free living; too much malice had been poured into this earth, so that it sought to hurt any and all beings. Yet, Elrond did not seem to notice the discomfort of their chosen seat — unless he welcomed the pain, as she had earlier.
"I pleaded," he said. "I begged for him to throw it away. He didn't even refuse; he stood there, transfixed, looking upon the Ring that burned his hand, as if it was both a treasure and a bane. His face was close; a grim resolve had set upon his mind. I asked again; like he did with you, he then all but defied me to take it from him."
"But you didn't," said Falmaramë, and there was no judgement in her voice.
"I was tempted. I knew I could bring him down. Still, I begged him to destroy the Ring and save his life — and he took this as a threat, pointing his sword at me. You have seen the Chambers of Fire; they were then even more befouled by the last of Sauron's artifices. I was surrounded by the dead and wounded. I was stronger than he; less strained by the fight, too. I thought about slaying him. Who could blame me for defending myself? I could still save the day. I could achieve what Ereinion had given his life for — what Elendil, Maeron and Vilyond, and so many others too, had sacrificed themselves for. And I would be a hero, the kind of hero it is an honour to see your daughter chose, the kind of hero that would make anyone proud to call husband, the kind that no one would reproach their ancestry to. And I was still holding my sword. I could answer Isildur's challenge."
Some lost ray of light, very dim, made Elrond's eyes appear to be very wide. It was silly, as silly as it was tragic; no one should have to retell such a fight against themselves while the homely smell of campfires drifted by. And yet, thought Falmaramë, wasn't this, ultimately, what heroic deeds were worth doing for? Everyday life, rejoicing at peace, a drink and a feast…
"But I didn't face him. I sheathed my blade and lowered my shield. I couldn't fight him; I couldn't bring death to him. For some reason, from ages past and generations gone, I saw my brother in his face. He does not even remotely resemble him, from whom the lives of the Kings of Númenor have flowed. Do not ask me how, but this I swear is true: a fleeting memory of my brother was reflected in his countenance — despite his pride, despite his grief, despite his greed, despite everything, there was a twinkle of Elros in him, and for that I could not slay him. I allowed Isildur to take the Ring."
Falmaramë said nothing, allowing silence to fall between them. The cold of emptiness was stronger than ever. Why did any of this matter? It had all been for nothing. Her anger at Isildur had subsided, replaced by more contempt she thought she could feel. At last, words came back to her.
"You tried," she said. "You did your best. The fact that it wasn't enough is no slight on your character. Besides, mercy can never be at fault. Who knows what dark path you would have made us all tread, had you wrestled the Ring from Isildur? Were you still trying to convince him when I came by?"
"I was, yes. But you are too forgiving. Many will fault me for it, this much I know."
"Let them bring their grievances to me." Falmaramë rose, and held out her hand to Elrond, who grasped it, after a time. "I am tired; let us get some rest."
Morning rose sluggish. A cold wind belied the sun of yesterday, that was now hid by low rolling clouds. Things were mostly quiet: some revelers from the night before still snore away their celebration, while healers were arranging for those wounded who could withstand the trip to start for Osgiliath. Battles may be swiftly fought, but the destruction they leave takes time to clear.
Falmaramë, as she walked, once again near believed she was in a dream — that she would wake up any moment now, and find that this last battle was yet unbegun, that Gil-Galad was alive, that somehow things could go differently. But the tent where he lay, still as a statue, was real enough; the faint smell of death wasn't a figment of her imagination; the exhausted respect in those who guarded the fallen kings was unfeigned. She wasn't the only one there, though: the same old man sat by Elendil's side, and now she saw he wasn't that old, only marked by grief.
Falmaramë had brought Gil-Galad's harp to display by his head, so that the tarnished Aeglos at his feet was not the only token of his life: things of war she had taken in aversion. She stood silent, contemplating him, still strangely detached, when Celeborn was announced.
The Sylvan lord had suffered a slash to his fair face; it would soon heal fully, leaving no mark, but for now reminded Falmaramë that she had failed to enquire about the fate of the other captains of the Alliance.
"He was a great king, and a better man still," bluntly said Celeborn. "My heart goes out to you."
"Thank you for these words, lord."
A heavy stillness hung in the air as Falmaramë enquired how the Sindar had fared in the battle.
"Better than I had hoped for. The young kings are brave, and good leaders."
Celeborn advanced towards Gil-Galad. As he knelt, Falmaramë realised how little, really, she knew of him beyond the ever cool face. When he rose, he spoke in Quenya, the language of the Noldor, once forbidden by the laws of his own people.
"It is a shame," said Celeborn, "that all those of his line should die in vain, while the Dark Lord each have defied endures. Never of my own counsel shall I ever ally again with the mortal Second Born. The Sindar will leave tomorrow for Osgiliath; the young kings have taken my counsel in this. There, we shall gather what remains of ours and seek the refuge of forest and tree. I would advise you to do the same, if I may. Go, and shake the dust off your feet, so that nothing of that failed Alliance may follow you home."
Celeborn made to leave, but had to wait: people were entering the tent. The sound of Adûnaic filled the space, and the Elves retreated, pushed away by the newcomers. The tall shape of Isildur was surrounded by some of his retinue, that fell silent when they saw who was there.
Falmaramë wished herself elsewhere — but she had one thing to say to Isildur yet. His expression was cold and distrustful, and she couldn't fault him for it.
"King of Gondor, I have one last boon to ask of you ere our ways part forever." Her voice rasped against her throat. "I would lay Ereinion Gil-Galad to rest in a grove I know in Ithilien. Imladris and Lindon are too far away."
One of the Dúnedain scoffed, and said: "Cannot he lay here with the thousands of our hosts who fell? Surely, there is honour in having one's grave on such a victorious battlefield. The rest of your kind seem quite happy with it for their brethren."
Isildur's gaze bored holes into Falmaramë's soul. She would beg if she had to — beg the one she would have gladly slain and now despised — and he knew it. Leaving Gil-Galad's body in Mordor would be unbearable to her. Yet, before Isildur replied, the old squire who stood vigil for Elendil said quietly that kings aught not be treated like commoners. If Elendil was to rest at last in Osgiliath, he added, why wouldn't the elven king have the same honour?
Under the man's tranquil scrutiny, Isildur shuffled his feet, quite like a young boy chided by his father. The same man that had spoken before said: "Look, old Othar has thoughts about matters of state!" But his laugh soon died when his lord raised his hand.
"Speak not ill of my father's squire, whom he loved, unless thy wish is to feel the bite of a whip upon thy back."
Surprised, the man took a step back and bowed in obedience. Isildur, reluctant, looked at Falmaramë, and asked if a burial in Osgiliath, on the Isle of Kings, would be acceptable to her.
"I thank you, lord, for such an offer," she replied, although a flowering grove would be more akin to the Noldorin customs than a grand tomb of marble. But then she remembered the gardens filled with apple trees, that even now were in blossom — the peaceful cloisters where they had walked together, as the river nearby quietly flowed — the birds that nestled against carved garlands of stone, and the many flowers that brought colour there throughout the year. She remembered the willow trees that drew slender shadows in summer, and that place where harpers, at night, would gather and sing. And before she knew it she had agreed to Isildur's proposal.
"So be it, then. The Noldor shall be given enough soil to bury their king where they see fit in the realm of Gondor — in the gardens of Osgiliath or wherever they see fit."
Without a word, Falmaramë inclined her head in thanks and took her leave. She heard, behind her, Celeborn say his farewell in his own fashion.
"Your father lies here unavenged," he said. "As does your brother in Osgiliath, as do the woodland kings on the plain of Dagorlad, as does the one you gave leave to remove from this dismal place. Live as well as you can with that knowledge."
The rest of the day, Falmaramë spent in a daze, busying herself with the task of arranging for the Noldor to leave. She was, after all, the ruling lady of her House — and many of the House of Fingolfin appeared to gladly take orders from her. In her shrewdness, though, she suspected they would have followed anyone able to pull them out of Mordor as soon as possible. She didn't care.
Of Elrond she saw very little, as he had the charge of the many wounded. Healers were perhaps the most busy of all the host, now. Ere the day was done, another company of the sick and hurt had left — with a greater force than before to escort them.
Night, surprisingly soon, came, with a drizzle that wasn't sweet as the spring rain it should have been. It was time for her, too, to pack, for she would leave in the morrow; her things were soon gathered, and she stifled her distraught mind as she went through what had been Gil-Galad's. She felt as one holding her breath.
When she was done, however, she sat down and buried her face into her hands. Raindrops sang a soothing rhythm against the tent. Would this emptiness inside her ever end? She was unable to cry. She was cold, and so wrapped herself in a cape — it had been Gil-Galad's, and she was suddenly afraid to mar the cloth in some way. So she carefully folded it again, and put it away with too steady hands.
As Falmaramë moved some things in a trunk to make room for the garment, she found again the purse where she kept some of the things most precious to her. In a fist of nostalgia, she opened it and emptied the content on her bed. A clear grey crystal, round as a river stone; a dried hawthorn blossom, carefully stored in a small silver box; a nugget of forge slag; two matching brooches of enamel with an eight-pointed star; a few trinkets. Narya, the Ring of Fire she had kept so far on a chain around her neck. She knew not whether it was dear to her or if she abhorred it.
She took the brooches and examined them closely. They were twins, and yet had a few differences to the trained eye. One, notably, was much less worn out than the other — it had been her brother's. She remembered how she had taken it from the boy's body, so long ago, when she was a child pursued by Sauron. Had it hurt that much, at the time? She remembered these days as a nightmare of fear and loneliness. Perhaps terror had dampened her grief. Or perhaps the pain was different each time.
Suddenly, an idea struck her. She put away her brother's brooch and fastened the purse again, but she kept the one that had been her own and that she had carried every day in her years in Khazad Dûm.
"Sornorë," she called, "are you here?"
Her squire soon arrived. Their demeanour was one of calm sadness as they asked what they could do for her.
"In the camp of the men of Gondor and Arnor, there is a man called Othar who used to be the squire of Elendil. Today, as he stood vigil to the king he loved, he has done me a great service. Would you find him, and give him this from me?"
When the squire was gone, Falmaramë laid herself down. She would ride in the morning. She needed to rest — yet sleep eluded her. The bed was empty and cold. She remembered how she had cried when she had thought to chase Gil-Galad away, so long ago, so that he wouldn't walk under the shadow of the Doom of Mandos. He had chosen to stay, and a great bitterness rose like bile against her teeth. He had been a fool — had it been worth it? She would have given her happiness for his life. Were these golden years, so many and yet so few, worth the fate he had suffered?
She turned on her side. The rain had abated; this deep into the night, very few sounds disturbed the calm. It had been his choice, but the thought brought her little solace. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine his hand against her cheek, his lips against her own, and his breath against her skin as she fell asleep against his chest, like so many nights had been, and like no night would ever be again. And she cried, and as she wept a drowsiness covered her in its unfeeling arms, until she was lost to the world and walked the empty ways of nightmares peopled by ghosts.