The Fifth Age
By Glorfindel's Girl
Chapter 11: Sidhé
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns these two. No matter how much I'd like to have them for my own personal play toys. Still no money in sight.
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A Small Village in Northern Ireland
"Isaiah, I'm gettin' married!" a young woman cried as the tall golden-haired man entered the pub. He broke into a smile as the woman – practically just a girl – ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He embraced her and twirled her around once.
"Aye, lass, so I heard! I'm so happy for you!" he replied, setting her back on her feet. The woman blushed slightly, pushing her ruddy curls back out of her face.
"Will ye dance with me?" she asked, taking his hand. Isaiah cast a short look at Judah, who was standing behind him, and then back at the girl.
"Well, I suppose one couldn't hurt…"
The girl laughed, then pulled him gently onto the dance floor, just as the fiddler began the next reel. Judah smiled as he watched his old friend fall into the movements of the dance. The golden-haired one stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb amongst the sea of flame haired people. And yet, he was an integral part of the landscape.
Judah shook his head in slight amazement as he sat down at a scrubbed wooden table, half obscured in shadow. Such a joyous, free people, he thought. It was little wonder that Isaiah had chosen to cling to his beloved Celts. The reel finished, and Isaiah, laughing, pulled away from his young dance partner. He wove his way though the crowd, toward Judah's table. His progress was hindered every few steps, however, by someone stepping in front of him to speak. He was known by everyone in this small village. From the oldest grandmother to the youngest child. Isaiah the ageless one. The Sidhé.
Isaiah sat down in the chair opposite Judah, propping his elbows up on the table. Judah's expression remained grim and contemplative.
"How has it come to this, Glorfindel?" Judah asked softly, his eyes fixed on some distant point. Isaiah sighed softly at the use of his rightful name.
"I do not know," Glorfindel replied truthfully. Judah frowned as he twisted the ring he wore on his left hand. It was a pretty thing, a brilliant sapphire mounted in molten swirls of gold. He looked up at his old friend with a dark expression.
"I want no part of this," Judah said suddenly, "I will not do this. What must be will be." Glorfindel sighed heavily as he reached into his coat pocket.
"Lauren told me that is what you would say," he replied, pulling a sealed envelope out of his pocket. He slid it across the table.
"I would like to know just exactly who made Lauren ruler over all," Judah muttered as he tore open the envelope. His eyes betrayed his puzzlement as he pulled out a small stack of photographs. He thumbed through them once. His expression turned from curiosity to confusion to shock and recognition to pure anger. "Oh, may Eru condemn her to the Eternal Void!" he spat, throwing the pictures on the table. He looked up at Glorfindel, anger still burning in his stormy eyes.
"You lied to me," he said in a deathly whisper. "You, Atar, Erestor, Galadriel, Celeborn…you all lied. You lied to us all. You told us that she sailed to the West. But she did not."
Glorfindel's expression remained patient and gentle. "Your mother never even made it to the Havens, Elladan," he replied softly, not shrinking from the younger one's gaze. "You and your brother did not know the half of what she suffered at the hands of her captors. Her very fëa had been violated, and not even your father's skilled hands could heal that. Even when he had healed her body, she was still dying, wasting away, longing for release from life. We were but a week's journey from the havens, when your mother laid down to rest one evening, and did not arise again."
Elladan fingered one of the photographs thoughtfully. "Why did you not tell us the truth? Why such effort to keep us from knowing? For even the books of lore have it written that she departed over the sea."
"History is what those who write of it have made it to be. Do you know how many full lies and half-truths were written as though true, simply to please those who wrote them? Or how many more were written as such to protect others from harm? We all saw your desire for vengeance against your mother's tormentors! If you had known the truth…known the extent of what had been done to her…you would have pursued them to your deaths! And when would you have stopped? When you had called the everlasting darkness upon you, should you not pursue every evil being to the ends of the earth? Nay, Elladan, I at least had seen what such passions could cause. None of us had any desire to inflict that upon your souls."
The younger one's gaze faltered for a split second before he lowered his eyes to the table. "You are right," he replied softly. "But I still feel that you wronged us by not telling us the truth. We could not even grieve our own mother's passing." He stared at the photograph clutched in his hand. "But why this?" he asked. "What does this mean?"
Elladan set the picture down, then carefully looked through the stack again. He paused on the third picture. "This girl here," he said, tapping the picture with his finger. "She is one of Lúthien's. She has to be."
Glorfindel nodded. "Yes. One of the truest descendants remaining. Through both sides of her family."
"Elbereth Gilthoniel," Elladan murmured, "I swear that I can see my sister in her."
"Aye, she is a striking throwback."
Elladan stared at the photograph, though his eyes were fixed upon some other distant point, visible only to him. "If history is what those who write it make it to be, I wonder what they shall make of this?" he murmured.
He looked up at Glorfindel, and the two regarded each other for a long moment. Finally, Elladan broke the silence. "Where do I need to go?"
