Disclaimer: Tolkien's. Not mine.
Timeframe: T.A. 46
Rating (this chapter): PG.
Chapter VI: Lady of the Lake
Findur was still uncertain why he had not gone to Khazad-dûm. At the present, studying the crafts of the Dwarves sounded like an excellent alternative to being herded through the woods by four angry-looking elves brandishing spears.
He had admittedly embarrassed the said elves, and perhaps deserved such treatment, having spied them out when they were still hiding in the trees, waiting for unsuspecting strangers to come along so that they could jump out and demand the unfortunate person's business. Instead of acting out this scenario, Findur asked what they were doing and assured them that they need not point their bows at him. The archers were not amused. Now, they were taking him to their superior for questioning. This behavior seemed to Findur to be indicative of chronic xenophobia. He feared that, even if he were given permission to pass through the forest, he would not be very welcome.
Where else was he supposed to go? As he had neared Khazad-dûm, a wave of misgiving had fallen over him, as if some darkness slumbered in the mines' shadowy depths, waiting for him. It was inexplicable, but after his experiences of the past months, even the strangest circumstances seemed rational. He decided instead to take the Redhorn Pass over the Misty Mountains, only stopping briefly at a Dwarven outpost north of Khazad-dûm to restock on food and water.
Once he came to the end of the Pass, a choice was laid upon him—where to go from there? He did not wish to dwell among mortals in Gondor, or to live in Belfalas by the Sea, where so many elves longed for Valinor but were not yet willing to bid Middle-earth goodbye. As for Lórinand, that fair realm that his mother had so loved, he did not find himself fit to even approach its borders. That left one land where an elf might be welcome - the realm of Thranduil in Greenwood the Great.
It sounded like a good idea at the time! he thought, giving a rueful sigh. One of the elves threw him an annoyed look.
A few minutes later, they came to a clearing in the wood where a long, low building stood. "Here is our outpost," one of the elves announced. "I will confer with my captain. He will judge whether you may continue on through these woods."
Thus followed a long silence punctuated by soft speech coming from within. Findur's grasp on the Silvan tongue was not so good that he could easily understand their low whispers. Instead, he used the time to study the forest around him. Greenwood was a dense forest, but in winter, all but the evergreens were bare, letting much light stream down to the forest floor. A few birds sang merrily in the trees above, and a sleepy-looking squirrel scurried through the underbrush. Although it was very different from Imladris, Findur felt at home nonetheless.
All this time, the remaining elves eyed him suspiciously. Dark-haired and gray-eyed, they were clad in simple green and brown. Findur decided he could blend in well here, even with his blue eyes and strange accent, provided that the common folk were slightly more accepting than the archers of their defense perimeter.
Presently, the elf came out of the building. "My captain would like to speak with you," he said, and he led Findur inside.
Findur was brought into a long, narrow room. Rows of tables and benches stood on either end of the room, and in the center a fire blazed, the heat of which was a welcome change. By the fire stood a tall elf, presumably the captain. Unlike the others, his hair was golden, but his eyes were keen gray. His expression was considerably more jovial than those of Findur's stern-faced captors.
"You may return to your post, Halach," he told the other elf. Halach bowed slightly and retreated from the room. Then he turned to Findur. "I am Lórimir, prince of Greenwood and captain of the defense of these woods," he said in greeting, using the Sindarin tongue. "State your name and your business in Greenwood."
Findur bowed in acknowledgment. "I am Morfindel, a traveler," he said. (1) "I only ask leave to pass through this land and, if I might, find an isolated spot to call my home, making no trouble for you or your people."
Lórimir frowned. "Traveler though you may be, we elves cannot live on sunlight like trees, nor do we dwell in burrows like foxes. How do you plan to provide for yourself? The King does not welcome beggars."
Findur had given little thought to his future at all, but he answered readily. "I know much of agriculture and hunting," he replied, "and can build a shelter for myself in need. All I ask is I the privilege to live within the borders of this land. The rest, I will do for myself."
Lórimir nodded and seemed satisfied, but the thoughtful glint in his eyes told Findur that he had more on his mind. "Halach, the elf who led you in here, tells me your arrival was quite the distinguished one," he went on. "The guards of Greenwood are known for their secrecy, and yet you perceived them."
Findur silently chided himself for being so discourteous. "I have keen senses," he replied abashedly. "I'm sorry if I have offended anyone."
"No harm was done, except perhaps to Halach's ego," Lórimir said with a laugh. "Only be wary who you intrude on, Morfindel. Strangers are too often unwelcome in Greenwood. Many troubles have befallen us in recent years, and it is easy to blame outsiders." He paused reflectively. "You are of Sindarin heritage, are you not? Your accent is of that people."
Findur felt his heartbeat quicken. "That is a question with a complicated answer," he replied softly. It was not a lie. All of his life, he had considered himself a Sindar, for Celeborn was Sindarin, and his mother's kin were their brethren. Now his genealogy was a blur, just like everything else from his past.
"I will take your word for it," said Lórimir, although he obviously did not know what to make of Findur's reply. "I only asked because I am of Sindarin blood."
Findur looked at Lórimir in surprise. "Your hair," he realized. The golden hair was certainly not inherited from Silvan parents.
Lórimir nodded. "My forefathers came here to escape the troubles in the west of Middle-earth and adopt a simpler way of life. They were welcomed by the Silvan people, for we were of the same people during the Great Journey, and though much has passed since them, we have never forgotten that." Findur was not sure if Lórimir was speaking from a Sindarin or a Silvan point of view. "Now we live in peace."
"I suppose we have something in common," Findur replied. "I too seek peace."
Not only did Lórimir give Findur leave to stay in Greenwood, but he also invited Findur to eat with them that evening and gave him supplies for the days to come. Findur was grateful—not only were the meal and supplies a welcome gesture, but it was good to speak with one of his own people. Some of the lands he had passed through had been populated by humans, others travelled by dwarves, many altogether empty. Loath as he was to admit it, Findur was homesick, and the company of other elves assuaged this somewhat.
But he resolved to leave quickly once he finished dining in the long hall. While Lórimir was friendly and most of the others were pleasant or simply ignored him, two or three were openly hostile, staring at him as he passed. Lórimir rebuked these, but Findur knew that the grudge they held against the Noldor and Sindar was not without cause. He should not stay and aggravate them further. Whither he would go, he knew not.
Four days later, Findur was still walking the old path through Greenwood. He was running on instinct now, giving little thought to either surroundings or destination. He had the foolish idea that, when he found the right place to halt, he would know. It was admittedly not a very good plan, but he could not bring himself to make any definite decisions about his destination.
With a tired sigh, he sat down against a tree beside the path, taking off his pack and placing it beside him on the ground. The sun was beginning to set, and he had not stopped to rest since that morning. This was a good place to halt. There was plenty of wood in the forest for a fire, and the sound of running water came from up ahead, a rarity in this forest. He took his canteen from his pack and went to fill it.
The river that he discovered flowed swiftly across his path, but it was shallow and not very wide: easily fordable, he should think. Nevertheless, someone had gone to the trouble of constructing a bridge over it. The water had a dark hue to it, but Findur tasted a little of it and found it fresh and sweet. He eagerly drank more and began to fill up his water flask.
Suddenly, he heard a rustle in the nearby foliage that sounded suspiciously like footsteps. "Stop!" a clear voice called.
Findur quickly stood, nearly dropping his flask into the river in the process. "Who's there?" he asked, his hand reaching for his sword hilt.
A woman hurried out of the woods just beyond the bridge. She held an empty basket, and at the moment was regarding Findur as if he possessed an extraneous eye.
"I am Liniel." Though her cry had been in the Silvan tongue, she spoke now in Sindarin, her words accented but by no means difficult to understand. "Rather may I ask who you are, stranger, who drinks from that river, and yet remains wakeful?"
Findur looked down in surprise at the river in question. "I'm afraid I don't understand your words. The water seems ordinary to me."
Liniel raised her eyebrows. "You are obviously no ordinary man. Whoever drinks of this water falls into a deep sleep for days, even weeks. When they wake, much of their memory is cloaked in shadow. Never have I heard of one who has escaped the river's enchantment—not until you, that is."
"I do not know what to say," said Findur, quite taken aback. He found himself glancing at the stream repeatedly, as if he expected some product of the dread curse to materialize in the water. "My name is—is Morfindel. I am only a traveler through this land."
"And a weary one, I can see," Liniel said with an amused expression, eyeing his worn cloak and perspiring forehead. "My house is just past this bend." She motioned to the road ahead of them. "I was on my way to gather some winter herbs, but it is a task that can wait. Perhaps a warm meal would be welcome after your travelling."
Findur shook his head. "Your offer is kind," he said, "but thank you, I must be going." Indeed, he would not mind eating something substantial in the company of Lady Liniel, but stopping would mean one more day until he reached... wherever it was that he was going.
"Please," Liniel pressed. "I would be honored by hosting such noble company, as you have obviously demonstrated yourself to be. The road will be there tomorrow." Her gray eyes sparkled, and Findur found himself captivated by them.
"It would be a pleasant change," he admitted. "Thank you for your kindness. One moment, and I'll fetch my pack."
"I am glad," Liniel replied, and smiled.
Liniel's house was small but welcoming, a cottage nested among so many trees that it was difficult to judge where the house ended and the forest began. Nearby, a branch of the river flowed noisily into a blue-gray mere, bordered by the winter-wrought remnants of flowers and shrubs, a garden of sorts that stretched on behind the cottage.
"It's modest, I know," Liniel said as she led him to the house, "but it is sufficient for my own needs. It is a shame that you cannot see it in springtime. The woods are beautiful then."
"It is lovely even now," Findur assured. He was smiling and he was not sure why. Indeed, a wave of contentment had washed over him upon coming to the house, a welcome sentiment after so many months of uncertainty and despair. He could not name the source of this sudden cheer; it was something fundamental, rooted in the very essence of the place.
"Liniel—that is 'Lady of the Mere'," he noted. "Were you named after this place?"
Liniel's mouth twisted into a peculiar frown. "No," she said softly, "I was named after another mere. But that was long ago." She quickened her pace and had come to the door before Findur could make any reply.
The inside of Liniel's house was much more ornate than the exterior. All the furnishings were expertly crafted, all polished woods and richly colored fabric. There was a lit fireplace in nearly every room, and with the scent of burning wood mingled an unseen perfume, a fragrance like summer roses. Bottles of colored glass containing mysterious liquids sat upon windowsills, and the walls were hung with paintings, illustrated in a strange style and depicting the characters and events of a history that Findur did not know. Only one was familiar, seemingly incongruent with the rest: a landscape of Alqualondë after the First Kinslaying, blood and jewels mingling on the white sands, ships in flame on the opposite shore.
He nearly laughed aloud when he looked into the mirror that hung over the washing basin. His face was smeared with sweat and grime, and his clothing stained and frayed. No wonder Liniel had commented on his weariness; he certainly looked the part of a travel-worn wanderer. He washed his face and hands, but only so much could be done with soap and water. If only Celebrían could see me now, he thought. The well-groomed youth of Imladris and the face that he saw now in the mirror seemed like two different people. It was more than dirt on a face—the eyes that glared back in the mirror were tired, even apathetic. It was the look of a man who had deemed the world to be a cold, wretched place. The look of a man.
Dinner was indescribable after so many months of traveling food. Occasionally, he had managed to procure a warm meal, like his dinner with Lórimir and his people, but none of them had been like this, a simple home-cooked affair.
"Don't thank me!" Liniel said when Findur complimented the food. "It's Arandulë who does all of the cooking. I don't think I could manage without her." Findur recalled the flitter of dark hair and soft eyes that had brought in their food. He had been barely conscious of her presence. "She's very quiet," he commented.
Liniel nodded, a sad, wistful gleam in her eyes. "She tends to be on the quieter side. She was still young when she lost her parents in the war, and I'm not sure that she's ever quite recovered from the grief. We have been friends since she was a child, and I thought it best that she come do some housework for me rather than be alone. She lives in the nearby village, of course. It wouldn't do her any good to be isolated here."
Findur tried to word his next question as politely as he could. "And yet you, my lady, are isolated here?"
"That is another matter," Liniel replied brusquely, and looked away. Findur tried to busy himself during the awkward silence that followed by pushing the remainder of his vegetables in circles about his plate. Finally, Liniel broke the silence. "I am not very popular with people here, he might say," she said matter-of-factly.
Findur looked up at Liniel in surprise. "Why not?" He could not imagine how anyone could dislike this clever, kind woman.
Again, Liniel looked away, folding and unfolding her hands nervously. She finally settled on gripping the edges of her plate with her fingertips. "Forgive me for my reluctance," she said. "It is not a tale that I would tell willingly, and yet..." She lifted her head to meet Findur's gaze. "And yet I must. "
"You don't have to—" Findur began, but Liniel interrupted him.
"You don't understand," she said. "I do." Findur stared. "What on earth is it?"
Liniel sighed. "I first came here," she began, "with my mother when the Orc raids began, at the beginning of the war. Our old home was on the edge of the woods; it was too open to attack. My father was not with us; he was fighting under King Oropher.
"It was, of course, not long before news came back of the devastation in the East. It was worst for the Silvan people: only a third of us returned from the fighting in the end. My mother feared for my father's survival. She was desperate for news of him, and of the war's end. The few messengers who returned to us could not report individual casualties, only numbers and battles. Always were we waiting.
"And so my mother devised a working of enchantment: a draft of foreknowledge. Clumsy at best, perhaps, and only a great deal of water could hold it. Yet she succeeded: the river you drank from was thus enchanted.
"But soon enough neighboring people learned of all this. They did not know us, and did not understand. They were afraid, and said that such knowledge was dangerous, and too often deceiving. They were too weak to undo the enchantment, and so they cursed the river, and now it can not be drunken from safely."
"I'm not sure I entirely blame them," said Findur. "If it were used unwisely—"
"But now it's even more dangerous than it was in the beginning!" Liniel exclaimed. "Undrinkable and enchanted! Now they distrust me, for my mother taught me much of her art. So I came to live here, beside the river itself, after the war." She frowned. "And now I see that they were right, at least in part. Somehow, the curse did not hold upon you. Perhaps it is fading, but I doubt it... Who knows how the water will affect you."
Findur tried to quell any anxiety that he felt. "I've never had a prophetic vision before," he said. "It might be interesting."
Liniel did not laugh. "Thank you for understanding," she said softly.
The rest of dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and although Liniel spoke with a confident tone, her eyes shining brightly, something about her seemed soft, almost vulnerable. Only much later did Findur understand why this was—that night, Liniel had revealed to him her inmost self, and this was a rare occurrence indeed.
When they finished eating, Liniel left, saying that she had business to attend to, and that she would be back shortly. Findur briefly wondered who the self-proclaimed hermit could possibly be going to see, but he did not dwell on it. After all, it was none of his business.
In the kitchen, he could hear Arandulë cleaning, and it occurred to him that he might assist her, to show his gratitude for the meal. However, as soon as he thought of it, there were footsteps and the clatter of the door. She had finished and was going home
The room that Liniel had left him in was small and warm; a lively fire blazed in the grate. Unfortunately, it did not hold much in the way of entertainment. A bookcase overflowing with bound volumes stood in one corner, but Findur had never been a very enthusiastic reader, unwilling to spend his free time reading dry treatises full of archaic knowledge and histories of days long past.
Eventually, having nothing else to do, he pulled the parchment letter out of his pocket. It had become a compulsion of his to read his mother's letter frequently, and arguably a form of self-punishment as well. Something told him that, if he reread it enough times, he would find answers to all of the questions that were gnawing at him: how the letter might have come to be in his room, how his mother could possibly have loved him, in spite of all that she had suffered. Such generosity was not, he was sure, a quality that he had inherited.
Some minutes passed, and Liniel returned. "Hello," she greeted amiably as she walked into the room. "What are you reading?"
"Nothing," Findur said as he hurriedly refolded the letter and put it into his pocket. He recognized the ridiculousness of the answer and amended, "Well, just a letter."
"Oh." Liniel sat in the chair next to him. "From anyone important?"
"Not really," he replied in a surprisingly even voice. How easy it was to tell these untruths, to pretend that her question did not rend his heart. After all, his entire life had been a lie. Why should he stop now?
Liniel and Findur spoke together for many hours that night. Findur made a conscious effort to avoid any talk of himself or his past, changing the subject whenever it approached those delicate subjects. Liniel apparently recognized this, and their conversation veered towards more universal topics, Liniel doing most of the talking. Findur was content to listen to her melodious voice, the air around him warmed by the blazing fire. It seemed an eternity since he had been this comfortable.
As she spoke, Findur's attention gradually drifted to the fire. The flickering orange flames grew and shrunk from moment to moment, as if a living, breathing organism. Gradually, Liniel's voice faded, and the room around him fell away, so that his vision was dominated by the roaring fire, and all he could hear was the popping and hissing of burning wood.
Then two brilliant eyes, burning with a fire of their own, ardent and holy and terrible. Liniel's eyes, a Vala's eyes, his mother's eyes.
"You shall be great, Findur." The voice was ancient and commanding, and it seemed to emanate from all directions. "Your hands will shape mountains, or destroy them. This is your destiny. Do not be afraid to embrace that which is rightfully yours.
Then the fire returned, but it was not in the fireplace this time. Instead, he saw a valley wreathed in flames. Imladris was burning.
Mixed with his horror was an inexplicable curiosity; he was drawn to the fire. It possessed a strange beauty, like the tongues of flame in the forge. One was an agent of destruction, the other a tool of creation, but there was an essential similarity. There was still the fire.
But with that thought, a cold shadow passed over his heart—not the shadow of night, for the night could be good, nor a shadow of might, for such strength could be a vehicle for noble deeds. No, this was shadow at its purest, unlight, masking all things in its oppressive darkness. Deeds were twisted, words went crooked. It entered his bones, and brought the flame with it, so that the fire consumed him, and he was the fire.
He found himself weeping. The tears were cool and salty and wet in a way that seemed foreign. They dripped off his face and fell down to the valley below, extinguishing the inferno. Soon there was only ash.
Moments passed. A quiet melody began to rise up from the ashes, slowly but steadily increasing in volume and fullness. It was a music like Findur had never heard before, sweet like singing but rich like a stringed instrument, the strains of a melody so ancient that few upon the earth had ever heard it, the original Great Music. But the ashes were still there, coating the barren valley like a smooth gray blanket. So would it remain for a long time
"Do not believe it!" Another voice—Liniel's voice. It was full and confident, like a blessing. "The shadow is gone. Your fate is your own. Do not be afraid of these ignorant lies." Liniel embraced him and kissed his mouth. "My love." Her eyes were like smoky jewels.
You will build a fortress among the ruins. A store against the decay of our people.
You are not your father's son. Fear not.
For we are fading. I am dying. Only you, Morfindel
Morfindel
Morfindel
"Morfindel!"
And once again, Findur was sitting in a chair by the fireplace.
Liniel was kneeling beside him, watching him anxiously. "How are you feeling?"
Findur blinked, trying to reorient himself to his surroundings. "Confused," he told her for lack of a better adjective. "What happened?"
"You fell into a kind of trance for a some minutes. I do apologize. I—"
"It wasn't your fault. I'm fine. Just disoriented." The vision of Imladris burning returned to his mind. "Is everything that I've seen going to take place?"
"All that you have seen holds a certain truth, but none of it is inevitable," Liniel replied. "Nor is everything to be taken literally." She gave him a sudden, inquisitive glance. "It is said that the complexity of such visions depends in part on the beholder himself—his curiosity, his willingness to see. You might keep that in mind. But just a moment." Liniel stood up and exited the room, leaving Findur alone with his thoughts.
It was a relief to know that Imladris was not doomed to burst into flames, seemingly at his own hand—but the possibility was there, and that was enough to trouble him. That part of the vision, he was sure, had been literal. He could still see the trees aflame, Elrond's house crumbling in smoke.
He was not certain what to make of Liniel's kiss.
Liniel returned with a steaming cup filled with a dark liquid. "Drink this." As she handed the cup to Findur, their hands touched briefly. Liniel's eyes grew suddenly wide. "Morfindel," she said, "your skin... is it always so warm?"
"Yes, yes, don't worry, since I was a child," Findur replied hurriedly. He tried not to think about the origin of the blood that ran through his veins, marking him thus.
"All right," Liniel replied, making no attempt to hide her perplexity. "It's an unusual trait... but I can see that you don't want to speak of it." She sat beside him and motioned to the cup that Findur was cradling in his hands. "You're not thirsty?"
Findur eyed the mysterious brew suspiciously.
"It's only tea," Liniel said with a laugh. "I find that it helps me to relax."
"All right," said Findur, and took a long sip of it. It had a pleasant, slightly spicy flavor. "Thank you," he said. "It's very good." Impulsively, he looked up at Liniel, studying her features. She had a long, elegant figure and a graceful poise, back straight and head held high. In some people, such noble features would convey distance, but Liniel had a strange intimacy about her, in the way her dark hair fell about her shoulders, in her red lips curved in a playful smile, and most of all in her sparkling, intent gray eyes. He stared until she gave him a questioning look in return. "What is it?" she asked with a laugh like silver bells.
He stifled a sudden urge to tell her that she was beautiful, and instead threw out another question that had been present in his thoughts. "What became of your parents?" Stupid thing to say, he realized. Spoken aloud, the words took on an unforeseen rudeness. "You don't have to answer," he added hurriedly. "It's none of my business."
"No, no, that's fine," Liniel replied. "I can offer no real answer, though. No definite news came of my father, even at the war's end. My mother left to search for him. I have not seen either of them since. I assume them to be dead."
Findur did not know what to say. After a moment's silence, Liniel stood up abruptly, murmured something about putting the kettle away, and left the room.
"You won't go today, will you?" Liniel asked the next morning as Findur readied to leave. She had appeared suddenly in the hallway where he stood, about to sling his pack over his shoulder.
Findur looked at her in surprise. "Well, yes, I was planning to. Why?"
"After all that you've been through..." Liniel gave him a solemn, wide-eyed look, but her eyes were twinkling, and her mouth was curling up at the corners. "Honestly," she said, her voice infused with a deliberate intentness, "you should rest. I do not know what you saw in your vision, but you seem to be troubled by it. You did not eat very much at breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry," Findur countered, but he knew that her words were true. In the hours since the vision, his thoughts had been constantly plagued with the images of fire, the burning eyes, and the voices that tore at his resolve and his spirit. "I will stay," he acquiesced, "if you insist. Yet you have already done so much for me..."
"You will stay," said Liniel, and watched as he set his pack on the ground.
Liniel was a wonderful storyteller, her voice eloquent and clear, her words chosen carefully. That night, she told Findur story after story, and he in turn related a few. One that he remembered for a long time after was the tale of the Two Kings, a Silvan history he had never heard before.
"Long ago," she began, "there was an elven prince named Delmeth. When Delmeth was of age, his father arranged for him to be wed to a maiden of that land, Emelien. Emelien was beautiful, with dark hair and bright eyes, and she had a kind heart towards all. But she did not wish to marry Delmeth, who loved politics and statutes, while Emelien wanted nothing more than to dance and sing among the trees.
"Yet they were married in spite of this?" Findur asked.
"Yes," Liniel confirmed. "They were married. It was a troubled time, and the future seemed dark. Delmeth feared for his kingdom's survival, and Emelien for the security of her future. Both put aside their reservations, and learned to care for the other. Yet there would always be a distance between them, a silence.
Thus Emelien came to live in the royal mansions. Here her life lacked joy, and her hours were spent tediously. She became despondent, away from loved ones and the wilderness that she loved. She remedied the problem by traveling often, and rarely was seen by her husband's side.
"There was a man of that house called Malgalad. (2) Malgalad was a gentle-hearted man and a courageous one, a powerful warrior. He was a Sinda from Beleriand, and like Emelien, he had dwelt for many years in the deep forest and loved life among the trees more than the comforts of the royal household. The two came to know each other well, sharing their memories of their lives before they had come to the palace. Malgalad saw Emelien's unhappiness, and he spoke to Delmeth of it, being a friend of the prince. But Delmeth would not heed his friend's words, for he was too proud to admit that his marriage to Emelien had been an error, and he did not wish to anger his father.
"The friendship of Malgalad and Emelien continued and deepened, and soon Emelien loved Malgalad, and he her. And in that dark hour, she renounced her marriage to Delmeth and took Malgalad into her arms."
"But she was married!" cried Findur. "Only mortals would be so unfaithful, to take the vows of marriage that lightly. My people—"
"Your people?" Liniel gave him a questioning look, and Findur fell silent. He had made a point of concealing his identity from Liniel, and she was well aware of his silence on the matter. "You may not know this tale," Liniel continued, "but surely you have heard of Finwë, High King of the Noldor, who took two wives?"
"Míriel was dead when Finwë and Indis were married,"
"Whatever dead means in Aman," said Liniel. "Míriel had to agree to stay in Mandos as long as Finwë lived. Certainly Finwë was less faithful than Emelien, who gave her heart to only one man, Malgalad. But let me continue.
"Emelien could hardly conceal her infidelity to Delmeth—her crime was written in her face. He was, of course, aghast, that both his wife and friend could so betray him. Even more outraged was Delmeth's father. There was no punishment for Emelien, for even a Silvan king—" and here she gave Findur a meaningful look, "held marriage as a precious, unbreakable thing; he would not destroy what remained of his son's marriage by separating the two. But he condemned Malgalad as a traitor and exiled him. Emelien was devastated. In the months that followed, she became quiet and withdrawn, as if ill.
"That same year, there was a battle with the orcs that still remained in the Misty Mountains. Many warriors were killed, but Delmeth and his father were captured and tortured, their way of exacting revenge for earlier battles and ridiculing the land. The survivors feared to attempt a rescue with their small numbers, but when Malgalad heard the news, he went to rescue them himself, for he held no grudge against either and did not wish to see them die. The king was killed before he arrived, but Delmeth was rescued, rescued by the man who, for a time, had been his greatest enemy.
"However, their return was sorrowful. They learned that Emelien had conceived a child in the days prior to Malgalad's exile, and that in the time Delmeth had been gone, she had borne a son, the son of Malgalad. Soon after, she had passed away, too weary and conflicted to live on. Both Delmeth and Malgalad mourned, Delmeth blaming himself for Emelien's death. He welcomed Malgalad back into the land and renounced the conflict between them. After that, a strong friendship was renewed between the two; they became inseparable, forever contrite for the pain they had caused each other, and yet each forever willing to forgive. Later, when Delmeth fell defending the land, it was not some distant cousin or ambitious advisor who inherited the throne, but his beloved friend.
"It was in this way that Amdír Malgalad became king of Lórinand, and his son Amroth after him."
"Amdír!" Findur exclaimed, looking at Liniel incredulously. "But... Amdír was an honorable man!"
"He was," Liniel said with a nod and a smile, and she would say no more of the subject.
Liniel managed to detain him morning after morning, until he had been there nearly a fortnight. She was, after all, a difficult person with which to argue, especially as Findur had no great desire to leave. Those were wonderful days. Liniel and he took many walks together by the gray mere or in the woods. Sometimes they visited the neighboring village, whose people, despite their ambivalence toward Liniel and her strange guest, were respectful and occasionally quite welcoming.
Best of all were the nights spent talking with Liniel and listening to her countless tales. He told a few in return, most of them better known than Liniel's Silvan stories. One that she especially liked was a rendition of the tale of Beren and Lúthien, augmented with extra elements that his mother had related to him, having been an observer of much of the story as it was unfolding. He greatly expanded Finrod Felagund's heroic death, feeling a certain pride in the exploits of his illustrious uncle, an elf who had died to save a mortal's life. That was no small sacrifice.
Thirteen days passed swiftly. The fourteenth morning dawned, chill but brilliant. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating Liniel's face and hair as they ate breakfast together. He could not help but think how lovely she looked then, lit up as if she were Arien herself, bathed in in the radiance of the last fruit of Laurelin.
After they finished eating, Liniel walked to the window that looked out to the garden, placing one small hand against the glass. Though her face still shone, her dark hair seemed a stark contrast to her pale skin, as if she were one of the drooping bushes in the garden, dark, leafless branches coated with a silvery frost. Findur got up and stood beside her. He watched her as she stood motionless, watching the sleeping garden, enthralled by some hidden quality that Findur could not imagine. He remembered what she had said about the garden in spring, and wondered if she now recalled its vernal beauty, when the broken shrubs were green-leafed and the mere alive with living creatures, a cool breeze passing over its waters. It was a shame that he would never be able to see it.
"I must go today," he told her in a quiet, almost hesitant voice. Yet he meant it. He had remained here long enough. Now it was time to move on, to figure out what to do with himself for the rest of his days.
Liniel looked up. She looked at him through slits of eyes, a million questions seeming to flicker through her pupils. "I thought maybe..." she began, but she turned away and back towards the window, an unmoving statue once more. It worried him to see her so silent, so submissive. "What is it?" he asked.
She took a deep breath, and looked at him with a suddenly earnest expression. "I am lonely, Morfindel. I have been lonely for a long time." She took Findur's warm, tanned hand between her small, cool white palms. "I thought... thought that you might stay." Her eyes flickered uneasily between Findur and the garden.
The meaning of her words were clear to Findur, and he was not sure what to say. I want to stay, he realized. I could spend eternity with this woman. But surely he did not have the right to even consider it.
"I am sorry... but I must go," he told her. "You know I cannot say much of myself. Only know this—that every day that I stay, you may be in danger." He shook his head. How could he have been so selfish, such a fool? "I should not have come at all."
Liniel gave him a strange look, her face suddenly blanched. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"I can't—I must go. Thank you for everything." He hurried out of the room, trying to push down the lump that had formed in his throat. The agony of leaving, always leaving.
There was a cruel silence as stood by the door, putting on his cloak and heaving his bag over his shoulder. He wanted to wait for her so that they might properly say goodbye, but she had not moved from the window, and he could not bring himself to go back to the room. What would he say to her? How could he justify his actions without telling her who he was? It would be easier to simply depart.
Just as he was opening the door, Liniel rushed into the room. She said nothing, only walked up to him and kissed him lightly. A tremble ran through his body, and he knew that he could not refuse. For now Liniel was smiling at him, and her eyes, her eyes were like gray jewels...
"I'm not afraid," she told him. "Please, stay—if you will have me."
"Then—you love me?"
Liniel hesitated. "Ah, Morfindel," she said with a shaky laugh. "You have uncovered my weakness. Confident to the point of arrogance I may be in all else... but this is a different matter. But yes. I love you." She laughed again. "You must think me an idiot, confessing all this after having known you for so short a time."
"No, no," Findur interjected. "I—I understand. I feel the same way." He embraced her, closed his eyes. "I don't deserve you. I can't begin to deserve you."
"Don't be stupid," said Liniel.
And it was that very day that Findur and Liniel were wed. No ceremony was necessary, save for an exchange of blessings, nor could one easily be arranged, without family to witness it. While such a marriage was not common in times of peace, its significance would not be diminished.
And yet Findur felt a sudden sorrow as, clasping Liniel's hands in his, he pronounced the name of Ilúvatar, calling upon him to consecrate the marriage. Though I be the son of your enemy, he added silently, bless our new life together. For Liniel's sake, if not for my own.
Soon, the people of the nearby village heard of Liniel's marriage, and they spoke unfavorably of the arrangement, to have married a wanderer and stranger so soon, and without the least announcement. So Arandulë related with flushed face. But Liniel told Findur to pay no heed. "The talk will not go on forever," she assured him. "The people of Greenwood do not gossip indiscriminately." Soon, the talk did indeed come to an end, and Findur became accustomed to his life with Liniel. They dwelled in love, their life by the mere serene and unchanging.
That spring, at Liniel's urging, Findur built a forge by the river in the spring. Smiths were rare in the forest of Greenwood, and therefore Findur was well-received, a local substitute to the cost and trouble of trading with outsiders for such goods. As his expertise grew, so did his fame, until he was renowned throughout the Wood for his skill.
And so Findur and Liniel lived together in peace, for a very long time.
1. Morfindel - a clever rewording of Findur's name: "dark tress" rather than "dark hair" (although the name can also be rendered "dark skilled one".)
2. Malgalad - in one of Tolkien's outdated writings, this is the name of the king of Lórien before Amroth. So I thought it was a reasonable alias for Amdír.
General Notes
Arandulë - this name was my silly attempt to make up a Silvan language name. I thought at the time that Silvan might retain more Quenyan characteristics than Sindarin. Why I thought this, I am not entirely sure. Why Arandulë has a Silvan name when most of my other Silvan characters have Sindarin names, I am even less sure. Something to do with her family's geographic origins and social status, perhaps. A quote from Tolkien concerning the name Eöl, which has no etymological meaning, is somewhat reassuring: "It isn't really absolutely necessary that names should be significant." ;)
