It was a fair morning, when early spring flowers and thrives, when the sun shines a bright blinding light — when drizzle passes and leaves in a flurry of rain without ever darkening the sky, when birds sing and the air carries a promise of life.
It was a sad morning, where grief, that had been dulled by the need to do things, was now reborn, sharper than ever. It was the day where Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor — Ereinion, to his mother who had sailed to the West bowed with the knowledge of his fate — Nandaro, the harper, to those he loved — would be laid to rest. Even now, his body, covered to the neck by a white shroud, lay under the apple trees of Osgiliath. His face was peaceful; his closed eyes, that once were the colour of the Sea, were hollowed. His hands, under the white linen, had been joined, and his wounds were hidden.
A thousand blossoms drew moving shadows in the freshness of the breeze. No one spoke; the Noldor did not believe in lengthy celebrations to bury the dead, and despised the formal ceremonials beloved by the Dúnedain. Here were only those dear to the dead, or who knew him, and wished to say goodbye. There was none of the pump that, close by, surrounded the funeral of Elendil. There would be no line of mourners, no women beating their breast and tearing at their hair — no heaps of gold to accompany him to a tomb of stone, and no public displays. Death, to the Noldor, was a private affair. A simple grave had been dug into the earth, and nothing but memory would mark the place — for all things change, and where once there was death there must also be life, later.
But those by the grave were waiting. Elrond fidgeted, ready to go back to their lodgings in search of her, Elenatta, who was missing. Under the lady Galadriel's scrutiny, though, he steadied himself. Apple blossoms gave out petals, sometimes, and daffodils tilted their golden heads, still heavy with dew.
At last, however, Falmaramë, ruling lady of the House of Fëanor — Elenatta, whom Gil-Galad had married against reason, against hope — appeared. Her face was set in marble, and she walked with the rigid grace of one obnubilated by the task at hand. And all murmured as they saw her, for her hair she had cut short — clumsily, on her own, so that it was uneven and a mess. Alcarinquë, her lady-in-waiting, her friend, walked by her side, ravaged with distress; she hurried to Elrond, and whispered that she had been unable to stop her.
In her hands, Falmaramë carried a tress of her hair. It had been heavy, and the braid was therefore glossy and dark, intertwined with what flowers she had found: jonquils, and that yellow sunburst called talaloben. Her tearless eyes looked at those assembled there; she would have smiled, but she scowled. She walked to Gil-Galad's body — for the last time. She would have wept, but she had no tears anymore, so she knelt by his side, and she looked at his face, for the last time. The air felt strange against her ears, against her neck, not used to being naked. She looked at him and she despaired, coldly, in a lonely fashion, very mundane and very raw. So she lifted the shroud, and laid the tress of her hair upon his breast. Then, she saw the wedding ring on his finger, and those who looked feared she might crumble, so heavy was the remembrance — of that day she had given him that ring of silver and gold, of that day of happiness, already marred by threats. But she showed no emotion, instead choosing to remove the ring, that she slid on her thumb, as it was too large for her.
"This I will keep for you, beloved," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "until we meet again."
Fresh dew was piercing the cloth of her garments, underneath her knees that grew cold and stiff against the ground. Petals, white and pale rose, had fallen upon Gil-Galad's face, had fallen upon her own cropped hair, and it took all of her courage to lift up the shroud once again. The wind, cold, rose, relentless. Falmaramë looked at the sun, and its light was so bright that is was black. The wind blew and dazzled them all. Someone cried out.
"Farewell, o King," they cried, a great pain in their voice.
Falmaramë rose to her feet, for it had to be done. She took a step back; Elrond gripped her hand so hard that it hurt. The great blue of the sky shone harshly. It was blinding.
Some, who had been waiting, stepped forward. They lowered Gil-Galad's shrouded body into the grave. When the first of the dirt fell upon his covered shape, Elrond feared that Falmaramë would break. But she stood still, and observed, as if it were another lying there, as if she were another. It couldn't be, and yet it was. These strange days, spent in a limbo of mourning, were at a close — who was to say what would come after? Why would anything need to come after — could a life be spent so numb that pain never hurt until it had faded? And if fade it never did, such detachment as she felt couldn't be evil, surely. Falmaramë thought of those warriors who had lost a limb. They made do. She wasn't sure that she wanted to make do.
Falmaramë looked around her. Faces marked by mourning, all of them; but how many would still hurt in a year, or in ten? How many would carry that pain till the end of the world? How many would know, with certainty, that they were sundered from one they loved so dearly that life was empty without them? For never before, and never after, would Falmaramë love again in that fashion — or be loved, that much she knew — unless she were to sail into the unknown West, into the despised West, and Nandaro was released from the grasp of death.
As broken earth fell upon Gil-Galad's shroud, something unbearable awoke in her. Why would she carry on? What was good in her world had ended, by the fault of the Doom that followed her, of that she was sure. What use was it to be powerful? What use was it to be obeyed, what use was it to be respected and followed, if it all ended in death? Tears unnumbered ye shall shed, spelled her Doom, that was the Doom of all Noldor — and her rebellion was to not weep, but to look at her grief with eyes gone dry. For it had also been promised to the Noldor that their spirits would sit, houseless, in the halls of Mandos, for many long years; until they would heal of their pride and of their wrath, some said; until the world was undone, others thought. Never had Gil-Galad been proud, and even in war he had kept an even temper, and yet of the Noldor he had been the High King. What mercy could there be for him, where mercy had proven to be inscrutable and work in covert ways? Such favour as had brought Glorfindel back had never been granted to any of the descendants of Finwë — from what was known and believed — even to the more innocent ones. The decrees of the Valar were unbending.
Falmaramë shivered. She was cold. The wind seemed to find every weakness in her, so that it could pierce her, so she tightened her cloak, and an unwelcome warmth surrounded her. Better, after all, that she be laid bare by the world and, once the grave was filled, she spoke. She might have sang, had her throat not been strangled — so, she spoke instead.
"I am now bereft of you. You were the sun of my life; how shall I go through the night now that you are gone? You were the sun of my life, and I shall remember you with every dawn. A kinder and better soul there never was; a braver and nobler king we never had. May your memory be eternal, worthy of blessedness and everlasting."
Falmaramë closed her eyes and swayed upon her feet, but she collected herself, and recited in a low voice, sharp with repressed grief:
Gil-Galad was an Elven king
Of him the harpers sadly sing
The one 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
These was no other sound than the breeze. Even the chorus of birds had stopped in the solemnity of that instant. One by one, the attendants slowly walked away. Some walked by the grave, to lay down a flower there; others left silently, overcome by grief. Falmaramë was the last one to depart — when there was at last nothing to keep her there — when she knew that morning would live in her memory until she herself was slain or faded away, worn out by age. Elrond and Alcarinquë were waiting for her by the slender arch that marked the way into the grove, over a low wooden gate; they left together, as the midday light fell harsh upon the world.
Later that day, a messenger came to Falmaramë's rooms, where she sat staring into the void while others packed what Gil-Galad and she had kept there during these years of siege. Isildur needed not fear for her to overstay her welcome: she might have already been gone, had she not been held up. But one last matter needed settling before the mighty amongst the Noldor were allowed to go their separate ways.
The lady Galadriel, it turned out, wanted to hold a council. Falmaramë rolled her eyes, but she followed the messenger readily enough. She believed that she knew what it was about, and she was in the mood for a fight. Elrond had already been summoned, told the messenger — so Falmaramë sent for Halarova, too. He may disapprove, lately, of Elrond, but his kinslayer's loyalty would be needed.
Seats had been prepared in the room where they had held so many war councils; in the absence of the Dúnedain, it was emptier than usual and voices echoed more. Windows opened to a courtyard filled with columns and statues of grey stone. Their vaults, round and low, were crowned by figures of kings and lords, long dead, but still famous in Númenor's history.
Falmaramë went to her accustomed seat at the round table. The lady Galadriel and the lord Celeborn were already there; under her crown of golden hair, the last of the House of Finarfin had narrowed her eyes in a calculating look. Glorfindel sat at the place that had been at Gil-Galad's right — the place reserved to the first steward of the House of Fingolfin.
Soon, Elrond joined them. He made for Falmaramë's right, as that seat had been his for many long years now — but she raised her hand and stopped him. Halarova, out of breath, instead slid himself there before Elrond could move.
"I release thee," said Falmaramë, "from any and all oaths sworn to me. Take thy rightful place, Elrond Peredhel, ruling lord of the House of Fingolfin."
There was some wild anxiety on Elrond's face as he turned and, after a slight hesitation, walked to his assigned seat. His chair, when he pulled it back, scraped against the tiled floor. He sat, carefully arranging his robes to give himself a countenance. The three great Houses of the Noldor were assembled; Galadriel spoke.
"It is time for us, although we are bereaved, to chose for ourselves who shall inherit the High King's office, so that further strife does not divide us."
"I see no cause for strife," said Elrond. "I propose that the lady Falmaramë, long accustomed to being Ereinion's consort, and who has proven her own worth against the Enemy time and time again, receives the crown."
"No," cried at the same time Falmaramë and Galadriel. They looked at each other in surprise at such agreement, before Falmaramë spoke.
"The House of Fëanor has long forsworn our birthright to rule. To this day, I stand by Maedhros's decision. Wisdom guided him in that matter, for the ill luck that pursues us ought not be inflicted to all. I therefore propose the lord Elrond as High King: he is honorable and kind, upright and brave, and thinks of others before himself. These qualities have long shone in Fingolfin's line, of which he is the last, and from which have always come our kings."
But by Falmaramë's side Halarova chafed, and said: "Yet he failed when strength was most needed. Many will not have him."
"Indeed," gravely said Celeborn. "The accounts of what has taken place atop mount Doom all agree on that."
Flushed, Elrond looked at Falmaramë for support, but she had an absent look and reacted not. So he protested on his own, that he had done what he felt would yield the lesser evil — perhaps he had been foolish, but he knew that when no good choice was at hand one ought to follow one's heart. Halarova didn't mellow, nor did Celeborn, but Galadriel looked at him with pity in her gaze. Her voice had its customary deep undertones when she spoke:
"Better a fool than a murderer — but both are unfit to bear a crown."
In the ensuing silence, Falmaramë coolly asked who, then, Galadriel proposed for the office. The lady didn't answer, but Celeborn did.
"Herself," he replied. "You said it yourself: it is time to change our ways from those of Valinor. It is time for the crown to pass to the younger offshoot of Finwë's kin."
All looked at Galadriel, collected and serene as always. Falmaramë felt something rise in her; a deep-seated fear, be it a foreboding or prejudice, she could not say. But, as she looked on Galadriel's countenance, she was reminded of the way she had always ingratiated herself with the mighty so that they were willing to share their wisdom and power. In her own dealings with the golden lady, Falmaramë had always felt her mind to be a deceiving pool of clarity where strong currents, hidden deep, might carry away the unwary. Certainly, she was clever enough to hold such an office.
"I will myself start another kinslaying if you attempt to do so," stated calmly Falmaramë. "The light of Valinor may shine upon your face, aye, but those born in the Blessed Realm may err as much as any. I trust you not with power, for you have much thirst for it."
Galadriel sneered, and those who watched felt the glamour that surrounded her iron will.
"Surely you jest," she said. "Of the three of us, one has refused and the other is unfit. So what if I am willing? Kingship needs not be a chore. What would violence accomplish?"
"It would accomplish enough."
Some stately music drifted from the outside: Gondor was not done burying its own king. With a raised eyebrow, Falmaramë got up, slowly, and unsheathed a dagger hidden beneath her robes. The blade was of black steel engraved with a silvery eight-pointed star; the wooden hilt was of an ancient design, gone dark with age. Falmaramë planted it brutally in the table before her. Celeborn protested hotly.
"Who brings weapons to the Council of the Houses?"
"I do. This belonged to Maedhros. You know what he used it for. I nearly slew Isildur with its sister — and this I assure you: my hand will not waver again, should I hold it to another throat. Do you still claim the crown, Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin?"
All in the room had gone deathly pale. Glorfindel tried to reason Falmaramë; his words resounded empty under the round arches of stone. He called upon the memory of Gil-Galad, saying that grief could make on go astray, that harsh words could be forgiven, but some actions, that could not be repaired, should not be threatened.
"You are not the one I spoke to, Captain of Gondolin that sunk under flame and wave."
Still Galadriel sat silent, thinking, weighing, planning. Sunlight, from the arched windows, didn't quite reach her yet, but its reflected glow surrounded her with warmth, despite its pale hue.
"Your answer, lady. My patience grows thin."
At last, Galadriel lifted her eyes and arose. Her resolve was clear. Her shoulders had gotten straighter; she held herself as one come from a line of kings, and who would join them in their destiny. She opened her lips but, before they could shape a word, Elrond spoke. Hurriedly, urgently, he said: "Our customs indeed do not need to copy those of Valinor anymore. We are long past that. No one can take Gil-Galad's place, who was the only one capable of binding us all together. So let us decide this: that the Noldor shall have no more High King, and instead that each of us shall lead their own as they see fit, provided it harms not our people as a whole."
After a time, Falmaramë removed the dagger from the wood — it took some force — and sat down. Her steely eyes were devoid of emotion, as well as anger.
"I agree," she said.
Galadriel turned to Elrond. Her cool gaze drifted over him, seeing something beyond his fair face, and she said: "You are wise, Peredhel."
"I was well schooled," he replied in a low voice.
With a hum, Galadriel called to Celeborn her husband. They both left without another word. Gil-Galad's crown, of gold studded with gems both white and blue, sat untouched in a corner of the room.
Night, once again, had come. A chill had settled over Osgiliath; mist already pushed its tendrils from the river banks, and it shone white under the Moon. He was near his first quarter, so that his light made the sky an even grey — still dark enough that the setting Helluin could shine bright and blue over the walls, but yet clear enough to light the courtyard where a lone shape was busy harnessing a horse. It belonged to a woman, covered in a hooded cloak. She moved quietly, and efficiently.
There was a noise from the shadows; the slow shuffle of feet, and the woman froze until she heard Elrond's voice greeting her.
"You startled me," she said.
"For that, I apologise. Do you need any help?"
"No, thank you. I am nearly done."
Yet he helped her heave a large bag beside the saddle, and he groaned. "What did you put in there, Elenatta? Your whole forge?"
She laughed, but answered not. Instead, she hugged him. She closed her eyes in his bonebreaking embrace, and left his arms with a sigh. Elrond, pointing to his own hair, commented that it was strange, seeing her like that. A warning in her voice, Falmaramë replied that it would grow back. But her friend knew her well, and thought he could carry on.
"You're not traveling back with us, are you?"
"No," she said. "I am not. Not right away, at least, and probably not soon, if I ever do. Thank you for coming here. I wanted to say goodbye to you, but I feared meeting someone who would entreat me to stay."
Falmaramë tied a small coffer on top of the saddle as Elrond asked if this meant that she could be persuaded to change her plans.
"No," she repeated. "It would merely make their execution more troublesome."
For a few instants, she worked alone and silent: there was no lighter matter they could discuss instead, and use to pretend life could go on. The horse, a sturdy grey mare with a dark mane, breathed out a small fog and shook her head. Her hoof, large enough to cover a few cobblestones, made a noise as she restlessly shook her front leg.
"There, there," said Falmaramë, soothing her. "We're nearly done. I am sure you've carried heavier burdens over the plain of Gorgoroth, when you hauled the carts of the wounded back to camp."
"What's her name?"
"I don't know. I may have taken her without leave from the stable master. But I'm not worried: I feel that she will tell me soon enough, once we have walked a few leagues together."
Elrond flattered the mare's flanks, and Falmaramë smiled in the clear night. She intended to lead her, instead of riding, she explained — and a war horse wouldn't have done. The nameless mare, however, appeared to be calm and strong; all in all, quite ready to walk along new paths that were free of blood. Elrond agreed. He asked where she planned to go.
"It will appear foolish to you," replied Falmaramë. "You must remember that green place of fancy, of which Nandaro and I often spoke of late? Calderiand, he had named it, and in daydreams and song we travelled to its forests and lakes, when there was peace again in Middle Earth."
"I remember, yes. This wouldn't happen in Calderiand, would he say when he was met either with discomfort or surly people."
Despite himself, Elrond had echoed Gil-Galad's soft western accent in that phrase, and both he and Falmaramë were silently hit by pain. She turned her head, looking up so that her tears wouldn't flow, and her eyes shone bright under the sky. A few heartbeats, later, she had composed herself and faced Elrond again.
"Well, I intend to try and find something like our peaceful Calderiand. We had planned to do this together. There is no peace in Middle Earth, merely a respite, and I am alone, but in this time I hope I may find a place to rest awhile."
The air had an edge to it; perhaps in the morning there would be frost in hidden corners of the city. Surprisingly, there wasn't much noise.
"It is not foolish," said Elrond, but he said nothing more.
Remembering something — something important — Falmaramë searched under her cape and handed a roll of parchment sealed with her mark.
"Here. A wedding gift, for you."
"You must be mistaken, Elenatta; I am not even betrothed."
She snorted.
"Please. You have a lady love to openly court; she is waiting in Imladris. You have proven yourself in the manor of the elven warriors of old. Surely, it is enough for you to dare declare your flame to the world."
Elrond sighed, as a sad longing closed upon his face. "You heard Galadriel: I am a fool, and it is little better than a murderer."
"Who are you courting? Celebrían or her mother? For Celebrían, I can assure you, will have the fool that you are."
Elrond's hand hovered over the parchment. At last, he took it, and asked what it was.
"Imladris," replied Falmaramë.
"I cannot accept."
"In truth, it was always more yours than mine. You discovered the valley; you first settled it when I was but a child, and you often held it for me when I was in Lindon. So humour me, and be its lord. But mind this: Imladris needs a lady."
"It shall have one — if she agrees to it."
With great care, Elrond put the parchment away inside his doublet. When he next looked at Falmaramë, he assured her that she would always have her home in the hidden valley of Imladris. In a turn that was uncommon for her, she didn't reply, and instead said that she had entrusted the Ring of Fire to Círdan for safekeeping.
"He will not use it," remarked Elrond.
"I know. But I never wanted it; I fear it, and I now despise all that the Great Rings represent. Better that it remains untouched than wielded with clumsy intent. Be careful, I beg you, with Vilya. The Shadow isn't gone, and Vilya was always the most powerful of the Three."
Elrond didn't object — Falmaramë knew, as he did, that Vilya was truly untainted, and that it could hardly be used to sway hearts and minds, for evil or for good, the way Narya could.
"You're bitter, Falmaramë."
"I have seen all that we built — all our alliances, carefully crafted, all of our plans — turn to dust in the blink of an eye. That Sauron may still have bested us, despite all, I would have understood. But this… that Isildur failed, that Isildur fell — not even treason, for that would require a goal, but mere greediness, selfishness, the petty failings of a man entrusted with more than he could bear. I am bitter, yes, and I shall remain so for a long time."
The mare's tail lazily flickered against her flanks, chasing the flies of boredom; but she was a patient beast who endured the two-legged's discussion. However, her movement reminded Falmaramë that she wasn't done yet, and she walked back to the stables to retrieve her falconer's glove. Her hawk was waiting, sleeping upon a nearby post. Gyre's spotted feathers shone like a ghost, changing and uncertain. Falmaramë awoke her gently with a caress under the beak; the drowsy bird climbed upon her hand, and moved very little when she was tied to the pommel of the mare's saddle.
"Are you all set?" asked Elrond. "You can still choose to stay."
"Yes, and no. I need to be alone. I am alone, and I need to be even more profoundly so ere I am fit to come back to the living. That cup must be drunk; harsh as its taste may be, it is the only remedy I see now. Were I to stay, I would make everything worse. You have seen it for yourself."
He chuckled, and took her hand into his own.
"There are other ways, you know, to negotiate than to threaten murder."
She laughed in response — of that joyless sound that Elrond had come to fear — and once again pulled him into her embrace. "I know. But I have forgotten how; the crafty lady who once bested a dragon is gone for now. Perhaps she will be back some day, wiser and less of a hot-head, yet for now she is gone, and I know not where."
Their embrace was a hard one, strong and difficult to break. When it did, Falmaramë was smiling, and a shadow of her young self passed across her face: the one who had stayed kind despite her pain.
"If you ever need to search for me, search in the East," she said. "May the years be kind to you, my friend. May your seasons be fruitful, and love blossom in your house."
"May the wind be always at your back, and may the sun be warm upon your face," he answered, following the ancient farewell. "Elenatta, namárië! Eleni sílar antalyanna!"
"May the stars shine upon your face, too," echoed Falmaramë, taking her mare's bridle into her hand. "Farewell. Á lelya séressë!"
Each step Falmaramë took to leave the courtyard carried the same measure of relief and guilt. Freedom had never felt so sour. What a ruling lady of the Noldor she was indeed, who fled into the night, forsaking those who had pledged their loyalty to her! Of this, there would be no coming back — and yet, she hoped those closest to her would understand.
The clip-clop of the mare's hooves suddenly sounded less bright: they were outside. The road, over the bridge, was a river of stone, ready to carry the unwary away. Its cobblestones were smooth under Falmaramë's walking boots. The truth, however, was that she was done caring what others thought of her. Let them judge; let them gossip and protest. She wouldn't be there to hear it.
The East was dark; the Mountains of Shadow were barely seen.
"Come on," she urged her mare. "I want to be deep in Ithilien by daybreak."
The mare breathed out and quickened her pace to match Falmaramë's strides. Do as you wish, she seemed to think. We'll slow down soon enough.
Once outside Osgiliath — the guards at the door only saw an Elf, and knew her not — Falmaramë faded into the night. Her step was light; she was a shadow walking amongst shadows. Fate would carry her, she trusted. A small voice inside her head whispered that it would be to a bitter end. She silenced it as one might snuff a candle: hopelessness is only hurtful to those who still have a measure of hope, and of that, her supplies were empty.
Under the stars that reeled as sparks unable to light up the Void, Falmaramë walked along hidden ways, through thicket and under tree. She knew not who she was anymore. In the dark woods of Ithilien she hid her path, so that no one may find her. Something was biting her deep in the belly; a need to walk, an urgency to go, a revulsion at the thought of standing still. And she pushed on as the moon set and waves of obscurity covered the world. Desolation reigned; the Enemy's malice wasn't ended, and Falmaramë lost herself into the wild. The Third Age of the world had begun.
