Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
His sword lies fallen in the sand
of that black sunless ashen land;
his lance was shattered, when it met
armour through which no blade could get.
Weep, all ye stars, in tears of light,
mourn the king, in glory so bright
that none can outshine Gil-Galad
the day he rode to Dagorlad.
- Arwen Imladviel 2004
Part Eight: A Hidden Lamp
'Victory!' The young soldiers shout. But tears are streaming from their eyes.
'We had only just buried Anarion…' Says one of the elves.
Glorfindel, is that him, that limping man whose hair is matted with dried blood all over? It must be him, for Celeborn cut his hair as a sign of his sorrow.
But Celeborn did not shave himself bald, like another, the one who mourns the most. More than Elrond mourns his lord, more than Isildur his father.
Pengil took off every single piece of armour, broke his bow in two, burned his last arrows, wept for hours wailing aloud, tore his hair off in chunks and told one of the mortals to cut off what remained with his shaving knife. Pengil's knees have been bruised by stones, for he has spent the night on the burial mound.
Gil-Galad's grave, and Elendil's too, but Gil-Galad is the one she mourns. Elrond brings food to her now and then, but she refuses even water. Elrond serves her like he used to serve his master, or he would serve if Pengil accepted any service. Isildur often stands near the grave, but he does not kneel, nor weep. Pengil seems to sense his presence and it makes her restless. If anything can make her more restless than she has been since the moment she saw Gil-Galad die.
Later she journeys with the elves to the land of Lothlórien. She wants to die. She truly wants to die. Few of the Maiar have ever wanted to die, but this one, this nameless one - for she answer to none of the names she is addressed with - she wants to cease to exist. Fade away like smoke in the air, lose herself and her memories. Her eternity.
Celeborn leads her on as if she were blind. The nameless Maia, clad in the linen garments she wore under her armour and Elrond's cloak on her shoulders, walks as if possessed by a dream, although sleep escapes her every night. Instead she is haunted by memories worse than nightmares, and guilt.
For to his last battle Ereinion Gil-Galad rode with Elai's name as the battle cry on his lips, sworn to defeat the enemy and thus free his loved one from the bondage of Sauron's curse.
The chain, a fragile-looking cord with a black stone, is still around her neck. She saw Sauron fall, but his spirit lives still, somewhere. Only when Sauron truly dies the binding power of the chain shall disappear.
She wants to die. Nothing binds the dead. But first she must say goodbye to her friend. Galadriel Lauremiriel.
Of course Galadriel will not let her die. She takes care of her friend as if she were a child, and from her lips Tinwen hears a name friendship demands her to accept: El-Carnil. From her hands El-Carnil takes lembas and fresh water. In her blessed realm, named after the realm of dreams beyond the Sea, El-Carnil sleeps.
After five years words return to her mouth.
Galadriel takes her to her mirror.
Tinwen sees herself, and knows herself not. She sees a nameless Maia with short fuzzy hair. Every single hair is silver-grey. There is sorrow and guilt on the face of the woman. The image ripples and changes.
She sees Pengil in the heat of battle. She sees Elai with diamonds in her hair. She sees Maialaurë climbing a tree. She sees El-Carnil running through the storm, across the breaking land. She sees Cal-Urúnya beside Sauron, her hair blazing aflame. She sees Híniel, a red-haired wild child. Then the mirror displays the face of Galadriel, and Tinwen recalls it once was her face as well, that face as well. Seven faces and seven names she sees, and then she cries out in despair.
A strange face, the face of a dark-haired woman looks at her. An elf, or a mortal, but fairer than any other. Fairer than any of Tinwen's shapes. And she wears around her neck a chain of large jewels, and on it shines a star, bright as Eärendil.
No, it is the same light. Tinwen knows the legends. Here is the Silmaril, attached to the Nauglamir, on the neck of Lúthien Tinuviel. Melian's features can be discerned in the lovely, enchanting face of her daughter.
A golden mallorn-leaf floats down and falls on the surface of the mirror, breaking its stillness. Soon the mirror once again reflects only the silver-haired Maia, who has been given back all her names.
'Alatariel! Did you see? Did you see her?'
'I did. Lúthien. It really was her. But I had to turn my face away, for I could not bear her brightness. You are of stronger make.'
'I have faced Morgoth eye to eye. Why should I fear a woman whose heart is pure?'
'She is pure, like metal purified in fire. Only a spirit such as you can touch white-hot gold!'
'Speak not of blazing gold! I cannot help but remember Isildur and that accursed ring!'
'Then let us speak of Lúthien the Fair. Why did you see her? What was she doing?'
'She only looked straight at me. And she smiled. Her beauty I do not envy, but I wish I could someday smile with all my heart.'
'Maybe you will. Maybe this was an omen. Lúthien freed Beren from the chains of Sauron, maybe you too shall one day be freed! And maybe, just like Lúthien, you will marry and have children… when your mourning is over.'
'No. Never. No man shall ever again be put to peril because of me! I shall not take a beautiful shape, I shall not seduce a man, be he elf or mortal. And I shall mourn Gil-Galad for two thousand years!'
'Then mourn, El-Carnil, and sing lamentations! Stay in this land or wander far away, and hold in memory and honour the name you love! Let all Middle-Earth sing with you of his glory.'
After some years Tinwen took the road once again. And the shape she wore was that of a mortal woman, bent by the weight of years and grey in her hair. In this shape she came to the court of Osgiliath, and she was employed as a nanny for the royal family. The small children called her Wen-Wen, and she served three kings, astonishing the court with her longevity. Many suspected that the noble blood of Numenor was stronger in her than in the common people in general. Long after she was gone the nannies and nursemaids in Gondorian noble families were called Wen-Wen.
She was gone, for she had the thought to learn more of Aul's people, the dwarves. Those days Durin the Sixth was lord of Khazad-Dûm. Tinwen arrived at the western gate in the shape of a dwarf-woman, carrying only a basket of wild berries. The gate was open and the guardsmen assumed she had gone out before the change of guard and was now returning home, although they did not know her. She wandered in the corridors until she came to the heart of the realm. There she sat on a bench under a lantern and offered berries to all children that went past her, but spoke not a word. When she was still there late in the night, a friendly family offered her a place to stay. Later they learned that nobody knew the grey-haired mute woman. Slowly she learned the dwarven tongue, but spoke little and revealed nothing of her past. People assumed she had lost her memory, but out of politeness nobody asked her direct questions.
Her public name was Dari. She had skilled hands and was given the honour to be a servant in the royal kitchens. One day the king himself, a widower and of high age, asked whether Dari was married. The woman replied:
'I am not, milord, but I have given an oath not to marry any man but he who breaks this chain that binds my neck.' She showed him the black stone on a thin golden chord. The king was already smitten by Dari, and tried to break the chain with his hands right away. Later he tried with all possible tools, but failed. So did the many smiths who tried. Finally Dari asked to be taught smithcraft herself. The king allowed this, but the chain endured Dari's attempts as well.
Years went by, and the Balrog woke and killed the king. The warriors retreated and saw Dari standing alone, defending Durin's corpse. She took the king's axe and struck the monster. Its flames seemed not to burn her, but neither was it much harmed by her blows. The Balrog threw her against a wall, but she stood up and attacked once more.
'It is not too late, my brother, to return to the path of true light!'
Dari raised her left hand and behold! On her finger shone a golden star. Suddenly she seemed to glow, her hair was like white fire, her clothes like thin clouds through which the sun is shining. Only a black shadow on her neck was untouched by the brilliance. The dwarves knew the star on her finger: it was Glorharn, the goldstone, mightiest of the Seven Rings. Durin had had it, and Dari had not touched his dead body, so the king must have handed it to her while he still lived - probably to keep it safe.
The Balrog attacked her and the dwarves ran away. Only one, Náin son of Durin, remained near. When the sounds of battle ceased he went to look. It seemed the Balrog had slain Dari and stolen Durin's corpse. Náin lifted up Dari's body and carried her to where their people was hiding secret and safe.
Dari, however, woke from her deathlike sleep, when Náin was taking the ring from her finger. The woman simply said:
'Keep it. I am sorry.' And she walked away limping and was not seen again, but the dwarves still remember a woman called Dari. Bearer of Glorharn. Bride of Durin.
From fallen Moria Tinwen returned to Lothlórien. She looked into Galadriel's mirror and saw herself, eight name this time, and the mortal Wen-Wen whose name means "woman-woman". And another mortal she saw, Lúthien, the beautiful Nightingale with the Silmaril on her neck. In this image she carried a child in her womb, Dior who was to became Thingol's heir, Eärwen's father, her who flew with the wings of an albatross to Eärendil.
This Tinwen understood, her own fate she did not see, but Galadriel told her:
'Your two thousand years are almost over, and the time will come when I may see a child in your arms and embrace it.'
'Something I did learn in the halls of the dwarves: there are more than one ways to make a chain, and even more ways to break it. I have sworn that I shall not send anyone to face Sauron, but maybe a craftsman may be found with power in his hands mightier than that of the dark lord. Maybe someone will come and set me free.'
'Maybe. Will you have him?'
'If he will have me. For this I did swear to Durin king: no other shall I have as my husband but the one who breaks my chain. My oath I shall keep, for the last morning of his life he put in my hand his most precious treasure.'
'What do you mean?'v
'The star of water on your finger, Lauremiriel! The stone of gold on my finger, for a moment only, a moment I will never forget.'
Galadriel looked at her very closely.
'Keep the secret. And beware! Only three are bright, that Sauron has not touched. The Seven, the Nine, and the One are unclean.'
'I will remember. I think it is time for me to travel to Imladris. How is Elrond?'
'He married my daughter, and they have two sons and a daughter, Arwen Undomiel. And when Arwen looks into my mirror, only a tiny ripple of the water is needed to make her face the face of Lúthien.'
'I can well believe that, for in her there is the blood of the Nightingale and the light of Lórien. I will take you greeting to Celebrian and her family.'
Tinwen spent a long time in Rivendell. There were some who knew her, such as Elrond, Celebrian, and Glorfindel. They called her Elai, but others knew her only by nicknames such as Elf-friend and Silverhead, that is, Celebdil. She spent her days reading and copying old texts. If she was asked to sing, she sang the only song she had ever composed, the Lament of Gil-Galad. Those days the song was well known.
Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir, found a new name for her when they saw her braiding feathers to decorate her long grey hair. Hawkfeather. And when she heard that name she smiled, not as fair as Lúthien, but with all her heart, this old woman wearing a loose robe and playing with her hair like a child.
Two thousand years had passed since the death of Gil-Galad. The mourning was over.