Ghost of the White City
Gildor's POV
Memories are the ghosts of real events the humans said.
That was not strictly true. Not for Elven memory.
Memories are shadows of the past.
Neither was that true. They hovered somewhere in between, for those who knew that time passed. Felt that time passed. By now, they all knew, all felt it. Like mist, neither ghosts nor shadows had substance, yet both could be strangling.
The ghost and the darkness, the humans said. Drowning in memories.
Insubstantial phrases all, if one knew their real impact.
I remembered Gondolin well.
In retrospect, there had been no Gondolin without Glorfindel. Looking back, the time in the city was defined only by the time with Glorfindel. Before and after, that were different lives.
Remembering without cynicism was impossible. Unacceptable.
Raven's rule. Never give in, not even to memories.
Wise idea. Especially not to memories.
The moons until that one on the cliff-shelf drew together into a mire of swift days, sometimes. When looking back.
Memories were dangerous business. And not less so, when they acquired a new body and walked back into one's life and were still no longer memories and were become untouchable.
The wolf lived in the now. Raven did, most of the time. Which in itself was a paradox, because he was neither elf nor wolf. But that was not the point.
Memories become regret.
Even for a wolf, who was not wholly a wolf. Memories become regret more than treasures. He was right. And that from a dark elf who generally refused to remember. For just that reason. Everything about Raven was contradictory.
Well, who was not?
This was another life. Somehow.
But Gondolin and Glorfindel, that memory tended to turn from treasure to regret as sure as the sun rose. And all of it was bound up with her. Silmarussё. The time before the City. I could not live without it, nor with it. It did not help, that we had gone through this, in Rivendell. We were reconciled to this. Still, different worlds, unshared memories, paths that no longer crossed.
The wise said that parallel lines would cross in infinity, but Arda was not infinite. Time was not. Unending, maybe, but not infinite. Intolerably long, if I was in a bad mood. If I remembered. And where was the sense to that all?
Long before Gondolin, a land full of new wonders, of endless plains and bright light. Middle-earth. So utterly foreign from what Valinor had been. Full of life. And change.
Change and death become synonymous.
Raven again.
The wolf tended to be pessimistic.
Remember that I was good with a sword. And remember my laughter. Avenge me, and when you think of me, be able to smile. Oh yes. I had fulfilled the first part. The part with an ending. I had taken our revenge, her revenge, for a whole year. On the night of the last snow I had tracked down the last of the large orc company, Fairё had pounded the last fleeing – fleeing! – orc into the frozen ground. Silmarussё was dead. We had avenged her. Now came the hardest part. The one without an ending, the unlimited time. And proved impossible for a long while.
It was hard enough to decide, to add one more pair of feet to the train of fugitives who thought a hidden city, a golden cage, was better than constant war and flight. It was hard to leave the wild elven chieftain who had said "I count you as a friend, city-elf"
Gondolin.
After a year in the wild, a year mostly spent on horseback tracking and killing- no, if I was honest, slaughtering – orcs was not that quickly put into the "done"-file. It was my decision, and most of the time I did not rue it, but it was strange, doing it all alone.
Gondolin was luxury. There was still much to be done when we came there, when the gates were locked and hidden, but on the whole, it was purest luxury. Compared to the wild.
They finally found out who I was, enough had known Silmarussё, too. But everyone was trying to forget something, and things were handled discreetly. Things were not spoken about. There was enough work not to be thinking, not to regret.
Fine.
At first, we only shared taunts. There were a number of elves with fair hair, a number of canaries they teased. House of the Golden Flower, canary cage. The names stuck, canary, peacock, and it was easy to unite a front and find retorts. We shared free evenings, watches and wine-bottles. Military discussions were moved to the taverns when possible, four wings, four Captains and one would-be strategist and scout. The formalities were soon done away with when organization was staged there. The canaries proved a very good team, with a sense for strategy. They accused each other of being brainless peacocks and rock-headed pawn-movers.
Accusing the Lord of the House as a brainless peacock.
Wonderful.
Still, we continued to share evenings, watches and wine-bottles, rides and hunts.
The city was hidden, safe – but not safe enough that Turgon would completely forget about defence. Watches, guards, soldiers, scouts, military matters were well organized. Among those who knew what they were doing now, not among those who were noble. Old traditions did not necessarily save lives. A few mutterings, a few dissentions, some enraged nobles, then matters were settled. Military leaders were a motley group of all former professions and all former ranks now, but they knew their jobs.
A number of discussions, rearrangements of the guards, the scouts, the permanent lookouts, organization of training and exercise, and someone told me the Captain wished to see me. - I want you to take the second wing. Celebdur gives up his office. I want the scouts in second wing, too.
I was used to fighting on foot, fighting on horseback, assessing and passing on orders. I was scout-captain. That was enough. No need to command a whole force.
So I thought.
And the Captain the Second Wing had his schedule full, by his own scheming, but Guard and Scouts always provided work, even if there were but eventless patrols to be done.
- You can inherit Lord of the House, but you have to earn captain.
- I did not earn anything.
- So you keep saying.
Inevitably, talk became more private. There were plenty of unwedded in the city, plenty of chances for flirting. All the more so for ones in the Guard. There was peace, as far as that went. I kept out of the flirting, trying to be inconspicuous. And inevitably as well, the question what about you? Isn't she the right one?
But that coming from Glorfindel, I could turn the tables right here. What about you? Enough maidens after you.
What about you?
The question turned up again one night, autumn festival. A pause in the dancing, going out for a sniff of air and a look across the city. A frown at the other's persistence this night. So what now
- She did not leave Valinor with me
That was the first bit of information.
- And do you intend to stay alone. – Another frown. Conventions.
- No, I do not. What about you? Same question once more.
- No idea
Time passed. Little happened in the town, the plain, the mountains. Not much forest. Be careful what you hunt, when, and where. Moreover, be careful how far you go. The mountains are being watched.
I could not say how long we had actually been friends. I couldn't say when or why the decision had been made. If indeed there had been a decision at all.
Things happened, and went their way.
Fate goes ever as fate must. A mortal's saying. I knew that only later, when Tuor came.
Fate.
As long as I live my fate is my own.
The wolf cared little. Fate or not, things went as they did.
Raven cared more. While I live, Mandos has no hold on me.
I decide.
And yet things sweep you with them, and you just drift.
So the question remained unanswered, who had decided what and when – if at all. It matters not.
It had been still summer, that I remember.
Late summer, leaves turning already, the air in the plain hot and quiet and balmy. The air brooding over the white walls, shimmering. In the distance, the green-rusty coloured trees marching up the mountains' sides. Nothing at all happened. Or could be made to happen.
We went for a ride, just the two of us. No one else wanted to ride across the sweltering plain. Towards the mountains, where there was always wind, and shadow. A strange day. It was too hot for joking even. We rode in silence, bareback, no weapons strapped to the horses.
There was a cliff, not very high, but high enough to look out over the trees below and across the plain.
A steep cliff.
Glorfindel had been here before, knew the handholds.
I did not, took a different route up, and the last part was smooth rock only.
Wonderful, climb down and start once more. And that in this damn heat.
My companion laughed and reached down a hand before I had to descend again, pulled me up.
- You trust too many people too much.
Just the phrase. We unpacked a huge lunch. What absurd things one remembered -
You do not speak the names of the dead. That was the convention.
The dead live as long as someone remembers their names. Ashi'kha tradition.
Neither mattered then and there.
Out of the sweltering heat, talk was easier.
Yet the phrase hung in the air. Too much said, or too much heard. Still, clothing impudent questions in polite phrases. The city was confinement, especially in summer, and confines bred idleness.
Glorfindel had suitors enough.
- Why not trade flowers with her?
- What about it?
- You don't want to answer.
- Don't you see, or do you not want to?
- You speak in riddles.
- Then guess.
- My assumptions don't count. Give me facts. – A frown.
- What do you assume?
- Does it matter? – One of his typical smirks.
- A hell of a lot if you ask me. A pause. His oh-damn-it-look.
- A hell of a lot if I'd rather trade flowers with you.
Thin ice. And still, impudent questions lead to impudent answers, all of them in polite phrases.
It was out. And somehow, somewhere, I had wondered. No, it had not been a lie. I had made assumptions. Correct ones.
- Who knows? – A raised eyebrow.
- Ecthelion does. A pause.
- And you, now.
Had we made a decision?
Things go ever as things must.
I had certainly tried to reason it out for myself.
Then decided, oh-damn-it.
Another gift.
And you do not throw gifts away.
Not such, not ever.
Conventions or no.
It had become a favourite saying by now, that the lily of the plain would sometimes sprout weird flowers.
Just how weird, did they know, I wondered.
It matters not.
No. What mattered were the two of us. Then and there.
– We're both in the same boat.
Funny image, in a city of stone, ringed by masses of stone.
In the court, an image of two trees, silver and gold. Neither of us was comfortable with it. Too much to remember. To regret. We looked at the frogs in the bright, clear water. Laughed, when Ecthelion grimaced. Frogs in the courtly fountain.
Everything in the world is a circle, the Ashi'kha said. Stars, moon and sun were round. Drops of water formed globes. Seasons turned round and round. Time is a circle - what comes around goes around. And the other way round?
Just nobody could prove that.
We did not trade flowers that day.
What was handy was a feather, lying on the green grass of the mountain meadow. Black and shining, shimmering in many colours as the sun touched it. A raven's or a crow's.
The bird of death, of the battlefield, carrion eater and dark omen.
Convention once more.
Scavenger, taking from life what he could get, full of mischief and the lust for life. The bird of this world, the living one. The one who dreamed the world.
Ashi'kha tradition.
Things are a circle.
When I came north and met the dark elf, I asked for the name.
Raven.
And there was a black feather once more, braided into the dark shaggy strands.
A black wolf, shaking convention out of tilt even more, a curious cross of elven, mortal and beast mentality.
And out of the past, Gondolin once more just as well, a white ghost of stone, full of memories and regret, fire from the mountains, and then shadow.
Sometimes the divine order of Ashi'kha circular universe seemed just a vicious circle.
Mistakes, wrong turns, loss that could have been prevented or at least shared.
Sometimes.
When looking back.
Like shadows and ghosts, memories flowed into each other. Writhed around each other.
Elf, beast and a perception of time that was like a mortal's, the wolf provided an anchor.
- Then do not look back. When you hunt, look before you, never back.
Life is a hunt. If you want to live, you have to hunt. Take each day as it comes, because it will come anyway.
When he was afraid, Raven was more honest.
His own share of memories, affecting even the wolf.
Memories become regret.
- Say what you really think
Almost a whisper. – Memories can kill you.
-Do you say so, or the wolf?
- There is no difference.
- You hide behind the wolf. An accusation.
No smirk, but a shrug. A fact.
- It matters not.
Wolf convention.
If there was such a thing.
Chapter Notes:
The ghost and the darkness – clichéd film, but still great.
The phrase "drowning in memories" is from The Liveship Traders Trilogy by Robin Hobb.
The military organisation of Gondolin here is absolutely my layman invention, assumption, or desecration, whatever. According to Star Trek, I hope I remember rightly, the order of rank is Admiral – Captain – Commander. I assume Lord of the House is inherited, though I don't know if it automatically goes with military leadership (which it seems to do in the Lost Tales).
Canaries: for lack of a better word carrying enough teasing and insult at the same time. As there are no Canary Isles known in Middle Earth, forgive the transgression.