If you're not familiar with the stories in the Silmarillion, some aspects of this chapter will mean very little to you. Don't worry. All you need to know is that Lómwing=very good swordswoman and much more than her daughter previously thought. The rest of it is just my chance to let Rivers put down some roots into the earliest Ages of Arda and draw in references to yet more well-known characters.
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Tondfael began. He told her many stories; too many to be told here and now; and to every one Mithmír listened silently, entranced by the fantastic tales of her own mother. She could not help but wonder why Lómwing hadn't told her of these adventures, of her accomplishments, and been as proud of them as she should have been. She asked Tondfael the same, as he paused between one tale and the next.
'Lómwing always maintained that she left behind her life as an Aratirith when she passed on her sword, and she needed to tell no one of it afterwards for it was no longer a part of her,' he said with a shrug. 'It was not true, and we her kin did not agree with her choice, but it was hers to make.'
'She kept her bow, however,' pointed out Mithmír.
'Right,' said Tondfael with a slow smile. 'Even Lómwing wouldn't give up Cúarien, a bow made on the land of the Blessed Shores, until she absolutely had to. And don't try to say you're unworthy of her gift – you are highly deserving of the esteemed bow.'
Mithmír blushed furiously. 'Please go on,' she said politely.
Of all the many tales she stayed up well into the night listening to, with only the stars and moon as her fellow audience, three in particular caught her attention – two for pride, and one for sadness, and the message it portrayed of the true meaning of "my life for yours". The first was the story of how Lómwing gained the name "Fell-handed", deluforgam in the Sindarin tongue. It ran neatly into her other favourite tale, of how her mother was given Cristeiliant. Both are recorded here.
Lómwing came with Galadriel from Valinor, and crossed with her the Grinding Ice, and braved many dangers to keep her Lady safe. After many years of wandering aimlessly and living in the wild – where Lómwing's arrows and daggers first tasted orc-flesh, and her soul learnt the joy of killing evil – they came to the land of Doriath, and there Galadriel entered into the Kingdom of Thingol and Melian. By then Lómwing had no love left for Fëanor and his sons, especially after the burning of the ships at Losgar, and she was perfectly happy when Galadriel chose to live within the Girdle of Melian, for none of that trouble-bringing elf's kin could enter as long as Melian remained.
Galadriel then needed little protection; and she began to desire time completely alone: mostly with the elf Celeborn, whom she had fallen in love with, and whom returned her affections whole-heartedly. Lómwing, then, went to the borders of Doriath and there fought many battles against the evil things of Sauron with the Grey Elves around her. It was in this way that her hunger for battle, the desire for the adrenaline rush of balancing her life on the tip of a sword, was assuaged. She met those like-minded to her; and one of her great companions, for a time, was Beren, who later became husband of Lúthien.
She sometimes wandered further away, fighting beside the Elven Lords (and their Aratirith) in the Battles of Beleriand. She was one of Fingon's fabled archers who stood against the greatest fire-drake of Morgoth, Glaurung the Terrible, when all others ran in terror; and with their skillful elven arrows her and her company made him flee back to Angband. She fought, in her time, beside Finrod Felagund, Orodreth and Fingolfin. But always she returned to Galadriel, who rested with her new-found Grey-elf love in the blessed, protected realm of the Maia, Melian.
She was already being called deluforgam [fell-handed] by then, but a final act of bravery secured her title: she saved the life of Lúthien when she was riding beyond the Girdle of Melian. The fairest of maidens had gone out alone, despite all orders not to, desiring time to think apart from her family and friends – and, unusually, Beren. She was out for merely two hours, and was nearly back within the boundary of her mother's control when a band of orcs and goblins ambushed her, cutting off the way. Lómwing had been pursuing the same band for many hours, and caught up with them soon after, hearing a maiden's cries for help. She killed the fourteen orcs and three goblins with only her daggers and wearing no armor, as she had supposed to only need to use her bow and never engage in close combat when she dressed that day. She could not shoot from afar, however, for fear of hitting Lúthien, who was on all sides besieged, and loosing the fight despite her valiant defense with her slim sword. And so Lómwing attacked. The final orc nearly killed her, hitting her unprotected shoulder with a club: the blow was so hard her collarbone broke instantly and in many places. The blow itself had been meant for the fallen Lúthien, but Lómwing had stood before her to take the damage herself. The Light of the Trees was still clear in the Aratirith's soul, luckily, and the High Elves were still at that time almost on the level of skill that the Maiar boast: therefore she did not swoon from the pain of the wound, but continued, in great pain, to fight, risking her own life many times, until the final orc was felled. She then accompanied Lúthien back to her family, and only collapsed, seemingly lifeless, bleeding from many wounds, when she finally stood outside the Hall of the Maia; having successfully escorted her charge home.
She was healed in great honour by the attendants of Melian and Thingol until she reached full health. She was then named an honorary inhabitant of Doriath, free to come and go there as she would, not only with her Aratirith mistress. This was a great honour indeed, for the borders of Doriath were kept closely guarded; but then the gratitude of Lúthien's parents for their daughter's saving was boundless. Lómwing would accept no gift; but one Melian insisted upon blessing her with. Melian told Lómwing that she had ordered a wondrous sword to be forged for her – but it was only to be actually made when the strongest forges of all were finished: the forges of Eregion, which were as yet only hope in the minds of Elves and vague plans on paper. Melian said that she had told the smith who would make the sword – who that smith was, Lómwing never found out – what inscriptions to engrave upon the blade; and these words, she promised Lómwing, would make Cristeiliant one of the most magical weapons ever created on Middle Earth.
Lómwing thanked the Maia, but did not wholly believe her promise – not trusting the Maia's sights of the future. But in later days, long after Thingol had died, and Melian had departed Middle Earth, leaving her people unprotected for the first time in many years, a messenger came to Galadriel and Celeborn; who were now happily wed, with a girl-child, and ruled over the Golden Wood with wisdom and compassion. This messenger passed a sheathed sword to the Lady Galadriel, and said,
'This sword is for she who saved the life of Lúthien; and it is sent by she who made a promise many years ago in the Guarded Kingdom. It has finally been forged now the terms of the promise have been reached.' And then the strange elf left as suddenly as he had come, and none could trace him. Galadriel gave the sword to Lómwing, knowing whom the words had spoken of; and Lómwing praised the name of Melian ever after for the gift; bearing the weapon for all her time serving Galadriel with bravery and courage.
'She wielded it far better than I,' said Tondfael with reverence. 'She truly let the sword live up to its name, and forge the rainbows by splitting the sky.'
'You saw her fight?' Asked Mithmír reverently. She sat beside Tondfael, both leaning against the cold stone wall, still out in the courtyard though night had fallen many hours ago. His arm was around her shoulder, draped firmly but loosely with all the elegance of his kind, and in the pale light the Elf beside her looked ancient indeed – though to any mortal Men watching, both would have appeared as old and wise as the other.
'When I was young. But I shall never forget it.'
The final story had nothing to do with Lómwing; but Tondfael finished on it. 'It is another lesson,' he said sadly. 'A lesson on the sacrifice of the Aratirith; so you do not think all of our calling have the same wonderful life as your skilful mother, Lómwing the Fell-handed. I should be leading you astray if I left you to think that as an Aratirith your life should automatically be as blessed as your mother's.'
My life is blessed enough, thought Mithmír, before settling down to listen. Tondfael's voice was grave now, never joyous or proud, and his eyes glinted as if he nearly wept.
'It is a very short story, but that does not make it sweet. Maybe it's shortness shall make you think on it all the more…' he turned clouded eyes to her. 'I shall try to tell it as simply as I can.
'My brother, Hebmîl, became Aratirith to Galadriel and Celeborn's daughter, Celebrían, when he was relatively young. They grew up together; nigh on as brother and sister; for he was barely a decade older than her. Though he was younger than me, he became an Aratirith before I did. He was faithful to Celebrían all his life; and in his devotion to her never looked at another woman in love or otherwise. He had no family, no sons or daughters in his beautiful likeness.' Mithmír felt a great foreboding settle in her stomach. She could guess what would happen, for Celebrían's fate was well-known to her. 'He looked after her children, Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen like an uncle, teaching them many things in the art of fighting. He was with her, of course, when she was traveling with her entourage to visit her parents in Lothlorien.' He paused for a second. 'When they were ambushed by the orcs, they were hideously outnumbered. He was the last elf but her to remain alive, with many orcs still attacking. He never wavered, Mithmír. He never paused to consider if he was too young to die; or if he had lived his life to the full yet. He knew he had. He never paused to question his beliefs; but acted on them there and then. He was a true Aratirith. It took three arrows and many sword-cuts to make him fall, Mithmír. And he fought to protect his Lady all that time, while his precious, young, elven blood was falling to the earth…' Tears now tracked their silent way down the elf's ivory cheek unabashed. 'He fearlessly protected his hiril [lady] for as long as it took, until her sons came to her aid and saved her. He kept the breath in his lungs until he saw her safe, and only then did he give up the futile, painful struggle and allow his spirit to depart in high honour to the Halls of Mandos.
'His body was taken by Elladan and Elrohir with their mother back to Rivendell. I saw him when he lay in state there. The wounds all over his young body rendered him so different from the Hebmîl I knew and loved… But on his face, on his face, Mithmír, there was a smile. He was at peace. He had fulfilled his purpose, and died for his beliefs and his Lady.'
He got up, leaving her sitting down, and met his dark eyes with her in a look so intense she could not break the contact. 'Even if you do not swear to sacrifice Legolas' life for Aragorn, Mithmír, you may still have to give your own – one way or another, in body or in soul. Before you make those vows, think on the tale of Celebrían and Hebmîl for a while. Could you do that, Mithmír? Could you die for him as my brother did for his Lady? Could you live and perish in such honour as he? Do you really have the stuff of an Aratirith in you, that you may face death with courage and bravery, and that you may fight on through fear and tears though your heart is breaking?'
And then he walked away silently, leaving her alone in the silent, cold courtyard with the impassive stars staring down on her.
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