Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeline: T.A. 252
Rating (this chapter): PG
Chapter XII: Laurelindórinan
"And Findur found us?" Liniel finished softly, swirling her soup with her spoon but never quite finding the motivation to eat. Curuan did not respond, and she did not look up to find an answer in his expression. Finally, she pushed the bowl away and stood up, walking to the opposite end of the shabby little room. Still weak, she grasped the bedpost for support. She was acting foolishly, she knew, but for once in her life, she could not be any other way. She felt a tightness in her stomach, as if something were about to snap.
She heard the screech of Curuan's seat behind her. She turned and saw him standing, one white bony hand clutching the chair. "Sit down," he said. "Eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"Of course you're hungry. You haven't eaten for days." He stepped forward and gently took her by the wrist. Liniel pushed him away and, with an air of resignation, returned to her seat at the table. She hated it when Curuan made physical contact with her. Not because of his appearance: she would never hold such a thing against him. It was his spiritual degradation that pained her, the pride and the callousness that had festered within even as his body decayed.
Curuan, sitting down again, pushed her soup towards her. "Eat."
Liniel frowned and picked up her spoon, first taking tentative sips and then swallowing more rapidly. The soup was thin but good. She turned her head towards the window as she ate, observing the midday traffic that passed below in the narrow road. While she had not yet left this room, the sight of the miserable crowded back street was all she needed to see of Osgiliath for her opinion of the city to sharply decline. But she was procrastinating. "What happened next?" she asked curtly.
Curuan shrugged. "You stared at each other. Findur turned, murmured a few dramatic lines, and left. You and I can both imagine what happened next, when you followed him. At any rate, your house was in complete disorder. Emptied drawers, broken bottles..."
"And I?" Liniel interrupted sharply.
Curuan smiled. "You were carefully laid out on the bed, unharmed—and unconscious. So you think it was the phial? How wonderfully ironic."
"I don't understand it," said Liniel. "I wouldn't have been angry. Why would he use the water on me?" She saw Curuan smirk, and for a moment, she wondered if he found her assertions naïve, but she was not going to waste time arguing over such a thing. "You are certain that he left."
Curuan nodded. "That sword he never uses is gone. As is his traveling bag and, I suspect, some clothing and food. I don't know how much waybread you are accustomed to keeping in the house, but there was very little in the pantry. Also..." Curuan hesitated, then continued. "Your older sketchbooks were on the sitting room floor. You really were a fool to keep them, Liniel. Your ring was there as well. That was hardly a necessary keepsake. I thought you hated me, when I left."
"I hated you as a lovesick child hates her soldier for dying." There, let him brood on that for a while. Liniel was still digesting the contents of his message. The horror of it. If Findur was angry with her for hiding her knowledge of her identity, she could only imagine what conclusions he would draw from learning of her previous betrothal. She could just see the argument now: Findur, after tearing apart the house with unrelenting fury, would proceed to verbally tear apart her. He would leap headlong into it, making outrageous assumptions, refusing to listen to the calm, soothing voice of reason before him. Not that she wouldn't be angry, not that she wouldn't just love to rip apart every single one of his ill fit accusations and turn them around on him, but under such circumstances, she would remain calm, gently reasoning with him, while Findur blustered about the room in his senseless rage... wouldn't she?...
"Liniel!"
Liniel looked up, realizing that Curuan had called her name at least twice. "I'm sorry," she said. "What is it?"
"If you are certain that it was the river water—"
"I am. Unless Findur has suddenly acquired the talent of triggering more than a week of unconsciousness and three weeks of memory loss in one go—"
"But have you had the visions?"
Liniel fell silent, staring down at the rough wooden table. Images flooded her mind—golden leaves and a child's face, a silver circlet against dark hair, the scent of burning parchment.
"Yes," she answered softly.
Curuan waited for a few moments, evidently expecting a detailed report. "Well?" he finally asked.
"It's my future," Liniel replied, continuing to eat her soup.
Curuan gave her an annoyed look. "If you've seen anything important, it's vital that I know it."
Liniel knew he was being reasonable, but in reality, she wasn't sure what to tell him. Smiling wryly, she recalled what her mother had once said of the river water: "It is an enchantment that depends in part on the one who sees. You yearn for much, Liniel, and so much will be given to you. But what you see may not be precisely what you expected." Well, true to form, Liniel's dreams had been complex to the point of incomprehensibility. Oh, her mind was full of images and sentiments, but there was no common thread, no sense of order or cohesion. She had a feeling that if she thought on them, she might sort them out... but she dared not upset her present emotional stability with such reflection. Weak, she knew.
"Do you in fact remember anything?" Curuan demanded.
Liniel thought for a moment and remembered the dark-haired girl amongst the golden leaves. "I think I saw my daughter."
Curuan made a frustrated noise and got up from the table. Liniel stood accordingly, placing her hands on her hips. "What? It's not as if you've been particularly informative today. I've been awake for more than an hour and you still have not explained why you took me to Gondor. I hope you gave Thranduil a reason for our absence."
Curuan shrugged. "I made the attempt. I took the liberty of writing a letter to him in your name. After all, he's not acquainted with your hand, and I do believe I did a rather nice job on your diction..."
Liniel sighed with impatience.
"But I digress." Curuan gave her a wry, indulging smile. "The letter explained that, during his stay at Khazad-dûm, Morfindel had received word that his brother—"
"His brother?"
"—is going over Sea. Of course, upon returning home, you and he decided it best to spend some time with him before he finally departs—"
"That is clumsy. What if neither of us returns? And you, Curuan, how have you accounted for your own absence?"
"I'm taking this time to visit my own relatives in Gondor. True, it is ridiculous. But if none of us returns, as is likely, you and your husband will decide to remain in Mithlond, sending your most profound apologies to the king for having left him short a blacksmith, and, of course, informing him that I, in my old age, have regrettably passed away—"
"You're not serious."
"Have a better idea?"
Liniel frowned. "No." She walked to the window, pushing the shutters further open. A draft of warm afternoon air passed through the small, dusty room. "This is a horrible city. I don't know why anyone would build it. I understand that we couldn't have remained in Greenwood, with Findur gone and I unconscious, but why Osgiliath? You may blend in well enough, but an elf is a rare sight in Gondor."
"A mortal is a rarer sight among elves. I know people here, or used to. Many of my old contacts are dead, but their children know of me. There are nicer sections than this. But don't tell me it is the city that troubles you."
He was right, as usual. Still, she did not reply. Instead, she asked the first rational, pertinent question that came to mind. "Did he recover the Elessar?"
"I haven't the slightest inkling. You're avoiding my questions."
Liniel sighed, leaning back against the wall and stretching her arms. Her long sleep had left her stiff beyond description. "We have to find him."
"And if he won't have you?"
Liniel saw a strange earnestness in Curuan's expression. "You don't know that," she said, a touch of anger rising in her voice. "You don't know any more of our argument than I do."
Curuan laughed, his thin gray locks falling back to reveal his shrunken, wrinkled head in full detail. "Stubborn to the last."
"Simply because he was angry then—"
"Angry? Such a commonplace word hardly does the matter justice! Or is assault a customary practice when it comes to your domestic struggles?"
Well, Curuan was finding this all very amusing. Not for long. She turned away and observed in a cool, even voice, "You're jealous."
Her words produced the response that she had expected. Curuan's laughter ended sharply. "I'm nothing of the sort," he replied, the indignation plain in his voice.
"Why, yes you are. Look at you! You're gloating because the woman that you left is finally suffering as you have suffered. Finally alone like you have been alone, trapped in your decrepit shell. After all, you wouldn't have me, so why should I have anyone else?"
Curuan did not respond. She turned and saw his face stiff and emotionless, his pale eyes staring at nothing.
Liniel stared, realizing what she had said. "I—" There was a catch in her voice. She tried again. "Forgive me. I did not mean—"
"Do not tell me what you did or did not mean."
She lowered her eyes. She had not meant to hurt him. Why did she always do this, causing chaos when everything was finally under control? She had not thought. Stupid. She stepped forward, brushing her fingers against Curuan's pale, wrinkled cheek. The skin was cool and uncomfortably moist. "I would have had you if you had let me," she said, her voice low and smooth.
Curuan did not look up at her. "You actually still believe that?"
"You left. I would have married you. You left me. You were always so prideful."
Gray eyes met hers, and a familiar sardonic smile. "Like this. You would have married me like this, knowing the skeleton I'd become."
"Yes."
"You're lying. You would have left me. It was inevitable, you know. It was much simpler for me to leave right away. To go to Gondor."
Liniel looked around her, at the rough furniture and the narrow, crowded street below. "Well, here we are," she said.
"Yes," said Curuan. "Here we are."
"I have it. You're from Eregion."
Findur looked up from the poorly bound parchment manuscript that lay on his desk. He was annoyed that his reading had been interrupted, but in truth, he had only been staring blankly at the words before him. "Eregion?" He laughed weakly. "How is that even possible?"
Catlike, Amroth left the doorway and bounded across the room, perching himself on the arm of a chair beside Findur's desk. "Simple." He began to explain his theory with elaborate hand motions. "Eregion was destroyed, what, two thousand years ago? A little less?"
"You're the king. You're supposed to know things like that."
"Ah, well, mathematics was never my strong point."
"Two thousand, then. Go on."
"Well, two thousand years ago, you had the good fortune of escaping its destruction and have been wandering aimlessly about Middle-earth ever since, calling no place your home."
Findur sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Interesting theory. Except that I'm not from Eregion."
"Oh." Amroth looked disappointed. Considering that Findur had denied every single location that Amroth had yet suggested as his place of origin, Imladris and Greenwood included, Findur could only imagine his confusion.
There was a few moments' silence before Amroth spoke again. For the first time that day, his words assumed a serious tone. "I don't mean to upset you with these questions. I'm only being foolish. For you worry me, Gwathion."
Findur's head jerked up. "Why is that?" he asked slowly.
"Oh, do not mistake me. I trust you. I told you I would give you leave to stay here in Lórinand, and I do not intend to retract that promise." The young king smiled in gentle reflection. "When you were first brought here, it was all I could do to convince you that you must stay until you recovered. You were the most difficult patient, struggling and insisting that you could not be in Lórinand... that you must leave."
Amroth's words cut Findur sharply, but he managed to answer in a cool, logical voice. "I was weak," he said. "I wasn't thinking clearly."
"Yes. You were weak." The humor faded from the king's face. "Why?"
"You know why. I ran out of food." Findur turned back to his reading, trying to interest himself in a detailed analysis of transformations in Silvan speech patterns during the Second Age. "Did you come here to share your latest theory or to interrogate me?"
"Hush, you're not on trial. But it's a perfectly legitimate question. Gwathion, you have a sword, and it's summertime. If you were so desperate for food, might you not have had more than your share of venison?"
Findur did not reply.
"I tell you, I don't mean to accuse you of anything," Amroth continued. "But a man who willingly starves himself to the point of death—and thus you were when my people found you—why, I can hardly comprehend such a man. You tried to kill yourself, but your soul defies this attempt, clinging to the body nonetheless!"
Findur stared down at the manuscript, seeing nothing. Amroth spoke so truly, and yet the man saw nothing, understood nothing. He could never glimpse the full breadth of the truth. "What is it that you want me to tell you?" he asked.
Amroth laughed suddenly. Findur raised his head to see the king's face bright, a soft smile on his face once again. "I told you, this isn't an inquiry, friend. Your only crime is towards yourself. Wherever you're from, it's clear that you've seen sorrow. But you can have a new beginning here!" Spontaneously, the elf leapt up and threw open the curtains on the window above the desk. A wide beam of yellow light streamed into the bedchamber, bestowing a golden hue upon the dark wood of the furniture and expelling shadows from corners and crevices. Outside, the mallorn trees were a flurry of green and gold, their branches swaying slowly in the breeze. This deed performed, Amroth took a scrutinizing look at the old manuscript that Findur was reading. "What is that, anyway? Surely you didn't find it here?"
"It's a history of the elvish settlement of Rhovanion," replied Findur a little sheepishly. "I found it in the library."
"Well, it sounds frightfully dull. The library, is that the extent of your movements in the past days? Why, you haven't left the house once. I could show you the rest of the city."
The cheering effect of Amroth's high spirits was too much for even Findur to deflect. "Don't you have work to do?" he asked, his voice on the edge of laughter. "Decrees to... decree, or something?"
Amroth nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Oh, yes, I've become quite good at the law-making and the politics of the job. But I've spent the past two weeks making rulings on property disputes. I can tell you, there are very few things more tedious than listening to property disputes. After that, I certainly wouldn't mind some leisure time. Really, you must come out. Everyone's talking about the strange hermit who doesn't speak. I could take you to see the stables, or the gardens—"
"Gardens?" Findur found himself saying.
Amroth nodded. "I'm wholly convinced that they're the finest in Middle-earth. Very fair and well-tended, but very natural looking. I might put in a good word about the maidens who tend it while I'm at it. The best are right by the south corner of the house. The Lady of the Noldor, Lady Galadriel, spent much time here before the War. Those were her gardens."
Findur felt himself freeze. "I would like very much to see them," he said softly. He paused for a moment, then asked a question that he knew he ought not to. "I... have heard much about the Lady Galadriel. Did you know her?"
"Why, yes." Amroth looked bemused.
"What... what was she like?"
Amroth thought for a moment. "She was beautiful," he said finally. "With every step, there was an aura of confidence, of grace. She would look at you and her eyes would shine with such strength; it was rather frightening. But there was a gentleness to her as well, a warmth. Like a—a mother, really. I never knew my own, you know. When she first came to Lórinand, after the revolt—" But here he stopped short. "What's the matter, Gwathion? You look very solemn."
"I was just thinking of my own mother," said Findur. "But go on." He looked up hopefully. "Tell me what happened then."
Liniel had seen many grand and stately buildings since her arrival in Osgiliath, but none had so impressed and disturbed her as profoundly as the residence of Dolgubêl, captain of the northern guard of Gondor.
"Are all the treacherous scoundrels of Gondor so finely housed?" she wondered aloud as she examined the intricate marble carvings that arched above the main entryway. This, and the high vaulted ceilings—and the black marble floors—and the white marble walls—and the gold fillet detail work that graced every surface imaginable—it was enough to make a person dizzy. Of course, the work was not half as fine as comparable items of elven make. Liniel couldn't help but smirk as she observed the irregularity of the golden candelabras that were mounted to the walls. How mortified Findur would be if he produced such poor work! Then again, the object of this decor was grandeur, not beauty, and with its grand halls and glaring gold, an air was produced of just that.
"Silence," Curuan commanded in stern reply to her question. "As if we weren't in peril enough already, an elf and a well-known but little-trusted relic like myself. Dolgubêl knows me from letters and hearsay. Why should he trust me? Try for a little inconspicuousness, as difficult as that may be for you."
Liniel ignored his self-defeating rant, straining her head up to observe a three tiered, full color mural on the ceiling. "I don't think that there were this many flourishes in the Dome of Stars."
"Still convinced that this is an ugly city?" Out of the corner of her eye, Liniel saw the familiar sarcastic smile.
"It has its redeeming points—" She broke off. The click of heels against marble tile was slowly approaching. She exchanged glances with Curuan, then smoothed back her hair, which she had let down for the occasion, and did her best to look stern.
Several moments later, a tall figure appeared at the end of the corridor. He strode quickly towards them, dark hair streaming behind him. By his bearing and his elegant costume, Liniel took him to be Dolgubêl, the master of the household himself. Swiftly, she assessed him. A man of noble features—high brow, full lips, firm jaw. A carefully trimmed beard, but a face so lineless that he might otherwise pass for one of the Eldar. He was finely clothed in red silk and darkest leather, his tunic fastened with a belt that would have looked more natural with a sword strapped to it. In short, she thought him rather handsome, although she did not like his eyes. The vivid green irises radiated a cold, calculating light, as if he were taking in the sights around him and trying to judge how he could best manipulate them to his favor.
Yet I do the same, thought Liniel.
Dolgubêl raised his hand in greeting. "Hail, Curuan," he cried, coming to a halt before them. His voice was of a fine quality, low but melodic. "I have looked forward to this meeting since you last contacted me." He turned to Liniel, grasping her hand with a smile. "But I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, my lady. I am Dolgubêl, son of Aglagân." Adûnaic names, she observed.
She paused a moment before replying. She would prefer to give an Adûnaic name herself, but Curuan had insisted that she be truthful. "I am Liniel, daughter of Celahir," she said. "I am pleased to meet you, sir."
"Liniel," Dolgubêl repeated, enunciating the Sindarin syllables. "You must be of high blood." (1) The smile abruptly left Dolgubêl's face. He reached out and pushed back her hair to reveal her carefully concealed ears. "And I see that you have the features to match."
Liniel silently cursed Curuan as she hastened to explain. "I did not deceive you out of ill will. But I knew that you have no great love of elves—"
"That is an understatement." Dolgubêl spun to face Curuan, his face the portrait of indignation. "How dare you bring this albai into my house?" (2)
"Don't be a fool," said Curuan flatly. "She is Avari, as trustworthy as I am."
Dolgubêl raised an eyebrow. "It pains me to ask this question—but how trustworthy is that? You forget that I know almost nothing of you, Curuan, save half-forgotten tales passed down by my father and your own correspondence."
Liniel saw a rigidity come over Curuan's features. "The only sign of my loyalty that you need is etched into my face," he said softly.
Unexpectedly, Dolgubêl nodded. "My words were rash," he admitted with a sudden, strained smile. Curuan had warned her that some of his "sources", hungry for an explanation for his physical disfigurement, had taken to believing that the curse was no punishment, but some way of forcibly ensuring Curuan's loyalty. Still, it astonished her that an intelligent man like Dolgubêl would believe such an ill-wrought lie. That his desire to discover in Curuan a fellow supporter of Sauron so distorted his judgment.
"Think nothing of it," Curuan replied smugly.
"And yet..." Dolgubêl stared at her, deliberating. "Have you then no sympathy for the elven kingdoms of Eriador and Rhovanion?"
"Have sympathy for that pack of kinslayers, usurpers of thrones and robbers of my people's land?" cried Liniel. "Death would be sweeter!"
"Will you witness to this?"
Liniel hesitated so briefly that Dolgubêl did not notice her delay. "I am a servant of Sauron, Lord of Mordor," she said in the coarse words of the Black Speech. "And whether he returns or no, I remain loyal." A pause. "I believe that he will return."
At this, Dolgubêl bowed his head, though his eyes never left her face. "Then you are welcome in my household." He continued to stare at her in such a way that she wondered if this performance was not unlike hers, a concession made in order to gain information.
"I thank you, sir," she said.
Straightening up, Dolgubêl shook his head. "Ah, it is nothing. I must apologize for myself. It is so difficult to trust others nowadays." He threw them a winning smile. "Follow me. We can sit down and continue this dialogue in comfort."
"Then things go badly with you?" asked Curuan with his customary bluntness as they walked down the broad, gaudily decorated passageway.
"I would not say that. I receive word from my friends in the South often. Through them, the greatness of Númenor lives on, untainted by these golug-lovers. (3) But they are becoming too much like the men that they rule, mere savages. And then there are a few dignified men like myself left in Osgiliath... but we are a dying faction. Loyalty goes as deep as a man's purse here, and many who are in the pay of the King forget their other allegiances. And then there is that rabble in Minas Ithil, who have much speech with the men of Rhûn, but they are half-Easterling themselves and are not to be trusted to any high degree." Dolgubêl stopped then and led them into a small but ornate chamber dominated by a heavily ornamented table and wide, gloomy tapestries. "Sit down if you like," he urged as he walked to a side table where a bottle of wine and three goblets waited. "You must forgive me for the manner of service, but I thought we would prefer privacy. Wine, anyone?"
"No, thank you," said Liniel, but Curuan accepted a glass, neatly downing half of it in one gulp.
Dolgubêl poured himself some wine and took a seat at the head of the table. "Now, business. I am assuming it was a matter of some import that led the elusive Curuan to my door."
"Not really," said Curuan. "But we happened to be nearby, and we thought you might possess the information we seek. You see, we are searching for someone. An elf, dark-haired and broad of shoulder, traveling alone. Do you know anything?"
Dolgubêl scowled. "What would I know of an elf?"
"Judging by your opinion of them," Liniel interjected sharply, "you would know much. As captain of the northern guard, you must hear of any strangers who pass within Gondor's borders and know a great deal about strange movements beyond. You have contacts scattered throughout Gondor, Harad, Rhûn, and Rhovanion. If one of your associates came across a lone elf traveling, would you not hear of it?"
"It matters not. I have heard nothing." The pleasant gentility left his voice. He turned to Curuan. "You waste my time. Greatly were you revered by my fathers, and for what?"
Curuan's reply was to slowly, deliberately finish his wine. He set the glass down on the table with a clink. "What is it that you desire to know?" he asked in a sedate voice.
"Tell me of the heir!" Dolgubêl hissed. Then he glanced suspiciously at Liniel, a cold glare coming into his eyes. His next words were unintelligible, and it took Liniel a few moments to identify them as Adûnaic. To her dismay, Curuan replied in the same tongue. For several minutes, they continued on in this fashion. It was all she could do to remain silent, staring at the red tapestries that covered the walls and imagining the pleasure she would find in standing and screaming, "You fool! What do you hope to hide from me? I know more of the heir than you will ever know!"
Nevertheless, she held her tongue, and it was not until Dolgubêl had cordially escorted them down the fine corridors and out to the street that she exclaimed, "What were you talking about all that time?"
"Nothing of importance," Curuan assured her as they began their walk down the broad street, where rows of tall pillared mansions shone in the late summer sun. In the distance, she saw an arched bridge sweep up and over the dark, rushing waters of the Anduin.
"Dolgubêl," Curuan went on, "for all of his pomp and conceit, is woefully uneducated. He has no idea that the heir is an elf. Expects him to establish an everlasting kingdom for his human followers—a second Númenor. And so Findur may... if he could ever convince the Easterlings to stop fighting one another and foolish men like Dolgubêl to put away their misconceptions."
Liniel smiled as she listened to Curuan go on about her husband's hypothetical political victories. She had seen indications of these things in her dreams, but only the most circuitous images, and the thought of her rash, impulsive Findur ruling empires seemed incredible.
It was so easy to forget that they were supposed to hate each other.
"Why, if Dolgubêl actually saw the Dark Lord," Curuan finished, "I think he'd run in fear."
Liniel gave Curuan a surprised look. "And I suppose you wouldn't. I think you're allowing this role to go to your head."
"Not at all," Curuan replied, but she thought she saw his smile droop a little.
"I didn't mean to upset you," she offered.
"You never do."
His tone was flat, his gaze never shifting. Yet a little spark of light seemed to glint in her direction, and she thought she sensed the slightest tremble of his gaunt, wrinkled hand, drawing near and then back again. The briefest intimations of desire, gone as soon as they had appeared. Liniel looked up at the figure beside her and tried to discern the lineless face and sharp gray eyes of the man she had once loved. "Oh, Curuan," she sighed, and when he turned his head in reply, she spoke not a word, but smiled and gently rested her hand upon his, all the time thinking of another man, another time, another world.
Amroth stood in the center of Findur's chamber, dark locks neatly arranged, high cheekbones giving his face a handsome dignity, mouth twisted into a horrified grimace. "But you have to go!" he exclaimed, his sleeves flapping as he gesticulated. "Everything depends on it!"
Findur sighed, sitting farther back in the chair beside the window. "I just don't think it's a good idea."
Amroth's grimace grew more horrible, his eyes wide with desperation. Findur had to commiserate with him—he should have warned Amroth of his apprehension ahead of time, not five minutes after they were supposed to leave to meet Alfirin and Mithrellas. "I'm sorry," he continued. "It's only that—"
"But you can't abandon me!" Amroth was clearly not listening to Findur's words. "I tell you, I am in love with this girl! We're destined to be together!"
"Then you don't need me to be there," Findur murmured pointedly. He had only been in Lórinand for a week and a half, and it was already clear to him that Amroth fell in love just about every Tuesday. Only a few days ago, he had been raving about some other maiden. This week, it was Alfirin, a gardener who, if you took Amroth's word as fact, was the loveliest woman to walk Middle-earth, save Lúthien herself (and, in Amroth's eyes, this last part was debatable).
"I do need you," Amroth insisted. "If I'm with her alone, it will become overtly romantic, awkward, a disaster waiting to happen. But if the four of us meet, it's only dinner." Seeing Findur's unconvinced stare, he sighed and sat down beside him. "I'm not doing this only for myself," he confided. "No matter what I try, you keep cutting yourself off from me, from everyone. I'm trying to help." He rested a hand on Findur's shoulder and leaned forward with wide, earnest, pleading eyes. "Please?"
Findur sighed. "You say it's only dinner. But it's not. While you may be interested in Alfirin, I don't feel that way about Mithrellas. I'll be leading her into something that I can't—won't continue."
Amroth laughed at this. "Gwathion, you have the most inept understanding of women. What do you think Mithrellas will prefer: a pleasant dinner that leads to nothing, or being abandoned at the last moment?"
He had a point. At any rate, the reasonable thing to do would be to tell Amroth the truth—that he was married and that, while his marriage was about as viable as a block of wood, he didn't feel like following in the footsteps of Amroth's illustrious parents anytime soon. But he said nothing. After all, it was just dinner. "I'll go," he conceded. "But don't expect me to be charming... or even particularly pleasant."
Amroth did not seem to hear his last words. "Splendid!" he cried, springing up and running to the door. "Come, let's hurry! If we make haste, we won't be late!" He did not seem to notice the lukewarm expression on Findur's face and the plodding manner in which he followed Amroth out to the corridor.
"It's a beautiful night," Mithrellas remarked blandly as they walked through the gardens after their dinner. Amroth and Alfirin had fallen behind, too preoccupied with their meaningless whispers and giggles to walk at a reasonable pace. Now he and the girl were alone.
A beautiful night, she had said. What kind of comment was that? Findur, who had not been in this kind of situation for centuries (after all, with Liniel, it had never been small talk), had no idea what to say. It was actually a bit cold and damp, and there was no moon. Of course, the stars were out—but they were partly veiled by clouds, nothing exceptional. Yet they were there.
"Yes," he replied. "The stars are beautiful. Like jewels." That was good; it was inconsequential, but there was an aura of thoughtfulness to it.
Mithrellas glanced up at the sky. "Why, you're right. That's very poetic." She smiled at him coyly, and Findur felt the knot in his stomach tighten. All night, he had been trying to disregard the fact that they were technically here as a couple, but Mithrellas was not catching on. Even though it had been he, under Amroth's pleading, who had first asked her to dinner, Mithrellas's behavior would lead one to believe just the opposite.
As they walked, Mithrellas, a gardener herself, pointed out some of the more spectacular flowers and gave a short description of their cultivation. "That's a bed of niphredil," she said, pointing to a thick expanse of tall, slender white blossoms. "It grows wild in many places, but we like to cultivate it wherever we can, for it blooms in winter."
Findur nodded, trying to look interested.
"And here, on the right, these are my favorite of the roses." Findur followed her finger and saw several interwoven rosebushes. "Most of them are in seed by now, but these are later blooms. Aren't they lovely? Lately, Alfirin and the others have been experimenting with new varieties, but I like the simple ones best. See, they only have one row of petals. Tell me, what's your favorite flower?"
"I'm not sure that I have one."
"Oh, but you do! You just don't know it!" Mithrellas stared pensively at him for a few moments. "I think you're an iris person."
Findur laughed. "Am I!"
"Oh, yes! You're tall and dark and quite and noble... but there's something inside of you, something that burns like fire." Mithrellas faded off, her bright eyes replaced by a curious gaze. "I want to show you something," she said. She grasped his hand, then let go, her gaze deepening. "Your skin—"
"It's always been so," Findur put in with a shrug. "It's nothing."
"Oh." Mithrellas smiled disconcertingly. "Well, come on then." She grasped his hand again and led him deeper into the gardens.
When they stopped, it was in a very still, silent place. Findur could scarcely hear even the noises coming from other parts of the gardens; the present silence was too immense. Even his own breathing was a faint, muted sound. He knew this place, knew the quality of this silence. When had he been here before? Day, not night. Perhaps with Amroth; yes, he had seen all of the gardens with Amroth...
And then he realized.
"Isn't it lovely?" Mithrellas cried. Indeed, roses and violets and long draping lilacs adorned the beds of his mother's garden, and beside them, low beds of elanor and a tall, proud magnolia whose white blossoms now formed a crumbling brown blanket over the ground. Near the magnolia, at the bottom of a slope where much water would run, a bed of irises blushed deepest violet. But in the silence, the vast and impenetrable silence, Findur felt as if they were not there at all, neither the irises nor the roses nor Mithrellas's willowy frame. It was if he were in a void.
Then Mithrellas caught his hand, caught it tightly. He let out the breath he had been holding and clutched at the solid reassurance of reality, allowing himself to be led to a low bench hidden away behind some juniper bushes.
"Gwathion?" Mithrellas said softly.
"Yes?"
"It is a beautiful night." Mithrellas slid closer to him on the bench, so that their arms pressed tightly together, but Findur was too tired and listless to care. They were still holding hands, and he did not let go. If he did, he would lose his sole proof that this was not some confusing dream.
"Gwathion?"
"Yes?" When she did not answer, Findur turned his head towards hers, only to find that she was facing him, her eyes smiling and inches away from his own. She leaned forward and very gently, very sweetly kissed him. It was but a moment, but as she began to break away, he lifted his hand to her neck and pulled her closer towards him, beckoning, inviting. He had a vague feeling that he was not doing this for the right reasons, that somewhere there were a pair of gray eyes and a sharp tongue that would curse him if they knew, but it was not enough. He encircled Mithrellas in his arms. He pulled her more tightly against him. Yes, this was real, flesh against flesh; this was his anchor. His fingers slipped down from neck to shoulders, grasping the cool, firm skin, pushing back the coarse cloth that impeded him.
Abruptly, sharp nails dug into his arms as Mithrellas tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Stunned, he let go of her. Staring at him with eyes wide with disbelief, she pulled her dress back up over her bare shoulder. The cadence of her heavy, uneven breathing filled his ears.
"You're married," she said.
He wanted to deny it. How could she know for sure? And so she wouldn't know, wouldn't know whether he was lying or not. It's not true, he would say. It's not.
But the amazed look on his face gave his heart away. "How could I not know?" she said, answering his silent question. "How could I not see it in your eyes, in the way you held me? How I didn't see it before... I don't know. I don't know." (4)
Findur bowed his head and closed his eyes—to gather his thoughts, to escape, to hold back tears that would not come regardless? "I'm sorry that I came tonight," he managed. "I never intended... you have to believe me, I never intended..."
"I believe you," came Mithrellas's voice softly. "But I have to go now, Gwathion. And I won't see you again."
He felt her cool hand brush softly against his cheek. A moment later, she was gone. Her footsteps continued for a long time afterward. Only when they had faded did he open his eyes and raise his head. The silent garden stretched out like an endless wasteland. None of this was his, the irises, the elanor, the tall white ever-fading magnolia. This was not his home.
Findur stood, and for the first time, he fully recalled the events that had brought him to Lórinand. The sharp dizzy pain in his body had been nothing compared to the horror of waking to gentle smiles on elven faces. "How fortunate you are, stranger," they had said. "If we had not chanced to stumble upon you... It is seldom that our hunting parties venture so far north." How easier it would have been to die, simply and cleanly. In death, the memory of Liniel's eyes and the golden blossoms of his mother's Laurelindórinan would have never touched him. (5)
Fortunate? Perhaps. He did not want death, not really. And was not the fair prison of the Valley of Singing Gold more congenial than the cold halls of Mandos? Both were dark, meaningless, empty at the core. Perhaps he would remain in Lórinand, just a little while longer. Not forever. These things never lasted forever. He would read books and see all of the flower gardens that Amroth could show him. Just a while longer.
With an easy grace, Findur left the garden.
1. high blood - it seems probable that a person of pure Númenorean blood would be more likely to have a Sindarin name than your average Gondorian.
2. albai - Black Speech for "elf". Although Dolgubêl fancies himself cultured, he has no problem with using Orcish words for people who he deems deserve it.
3. golug - another word from the Black Speech, meaning "Noldor".
4. "Guile or trickery in this matter was scarcely possible - for the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another whether they be wed or unwed." Morgoth's Ring
5. Laurelindórinan - one of the names that Galadriel gave to Lórien. It means "Valley of Singing Gold" and makes an oblique reference to Laurelin, one of the Two Trees of Valinor. Although this name would never become widespread in this universe, it is not impossible that Galadriel devised it in the Second Age and shared it with Findur when speaking of that land.
