PART THREE: LAIRË
Chapter Thirty: Pantië
She had many names, but the one she was born with was Írimë.
Her father told her he gave her the name because she was the most beautiful baby he'd ever seen, and he knew she would grow only more beautiful as the years passed. He used to joke, when she was young, that she would break the heart of every man she came across. The name meant desire.
She was born in the light of the Trees in Valinor, the Undying Lands. Her father was Finwë, High King of the Noldor. Her mother was Indis – tall, strong, and golden-haired. Írimë adored her mother, but everyone she knew told her she took after Finwë. That was something of which she was secretly proud.
She was a happy child, and even as a baby, she laughed more than she cried. Her name was Írimë, but everyone called her by her mother-name: Lalwendë, the laughing girl.
She was born in the city of Tirion. It was hidden away in a valley in the green Pelóri mountains, and its white streets shone with the dust of diamonds. Lalwendë cared less for its riches than for the places she could hide with her brothers, or the best tower from which she could fly a kite.
Her father was a grave and wise king, but as a man he was fiercely loving and staunchly courageous. More than anything, he loved the things he could call his own; jewels he had wrought with his own hands, pictures he had carved himself, blades he had forged, things of beauty that had come from him. For him, his children counted among those things.
There was nothing more important to Finwë than his family – not his kingdom or his power. When he was still in his youth, he wed a woman called Míriel.
Míriel was rarely spoken of in Lalwendë's house. Her sister told her about Míriel one night when Lalwendë was very little. She was sitting in Findis' lap before the hearth in her room, the tear tracks on her small cheeks drying in the warmth.
She had been running in the streets, as was her wont, but she'd fallen and grazed her knee. She ran back home, her smile for once replaced by tears, and the first person she saw was her eldest brother Fëanor.
Fëanor was tall and handsome like Finwë, his eyes bright and sharp and his hair raven black. But he had little warmth to spare for his younger siblings. When Lalwendë showed him the blood trickling from her knee, her lower lip wobbling, he had simply smiled deprecatingly and walked away.
'Why is he so cruel?' she whispered as her sister Findis bandaged the graze, smoothed her hair and settled her on her knee. 'Is he unhappy?'
'He has little love for us,' Findis said.
'Is that why he does not live with us?'
'Yes.'
'Because we are girls?'
'No, little one, it's not only you and I, but our mother and brothers as well. It is because Fëanor's mother was once our father's wife.'
'But amya is tatanya's wife?'
'Our mother is tatanya's second wife.'
'Where is Fëanor's mother now?'
'She is dead, Lalwen.'
'I don't understand,' little Lalwendë said, shaking her head in confusion. Back then, death was not so common; the departure of Míriel's spirit from her body was something never before seen by the immortals in the Noontide of Valinor.
'She grew weary,' Findis said quietly, taking Lalwendë's small hands in her larger ones. 'All her spirit was taken by the son she bore to our father, so before we were born, she laid down to rest and never rose.'
'What was she like?'
'They say that she was the only Noldo ever to have silver hair,' Findis said. 'She was very beautiful, and her eyes were dark and bright. She had skilled fingers; she was the greatest weaver ever known. Her tapestries were famed across the land, and her skill with the needle was so great that her mother-name was Therindë.'
'Fëanor has skilled fingers too, but not for weaving,' Lalwendë whispered.
'That's right.'
'Is he really our brother, if his mother is not the same as ours?'
'He is our half-brother,' Findis said, 'but the blood of Finwë flows in all our veins, so we owe each other our allegiance.'
'He is very clever,' Lalwendë said, 'but he never laughs as much as I.'
'No one laughs as much as you, melda,' her sister said, and kissed her on the head before sending her off to bed.
As Lalwendë grew older, she quickly came to understand why Míriel was never mentioned. Though he loved her mother well, her father still mourned his first wife. And the love he could not give to Míriel, he gave to Fëanor.
The four children of Indis knew their father prized them and loved them dearly. But they also knew that the child he loved the most was Fëanor. And despite his disdain for his half-siblings and his father's second wife, Fëanor loved his father just as deeply.
Fëanor was the greatest of the Eldar that had ever been born into Valinor; his skill with his hands was matched only by his own incredible talent for invention. And while his mood was prone to fluctuate rapidly, his penchant for grand, ideological ideas drew others to him like moths to flame.
Lalwendë always lamented his dislike for her. Many times, knowing full well how little he cared for her, she would run to do as he asked simply because it was him who had asked her. Some days, he would dote on her. Others, he would push her away.
Fëanor's mind was always turning and restless. Some months after he had ignored Lalwendë's scraped knee, he called her to him as she was passing. She ran to him, and he crouched to show her some marks he had made on paper.
'Tell me, little sister,' he said with a grin, 'what do you think of this?'
'It is very pretty,' she told him. 'Like the loops and curves in a snail's trail.'
'But of much more use to us,' Fëanor said, pointing. 'You see this pattern? It signifies a sound, many of which come together to form a word. These marks together on paper say Fëanor is also called Curufinwë. Do you see?'
'What is the use of that?' she asked him, too young to comprehend the significance of what he was showing her. 'You know that Rúmil the Loremaster has already made a way of writing.'
'Mine is better,' Fëanor proclaimed with utter confidence.
He sat on the ground and pulled Lalwendë closer. Then he pulled out a stick and a bottle of ink. He made careful marks on the paper until a new word was written, and then several more.
'Look. See this? It says Lalwendë is also called Írimë.'
She gasped and snatched the paper from the ground. 'This says my name?'
'Twice over. I call it Tengwar.'
Lalwendë laughed in surprised delight. 'Fëanor! It is lovely!'
He grinned and pulled he onto his lap. Lalwendë felt like the happiest girl alive.
'Shall I write something else?' he asked, happy to indulge her while his genius was the subject of her attention.
'Write Finwë,' she ordered, and he did so.
'Something more?'
'Write… my favourite flower!'
'Which is your favourite?'
'The pirindë.'
He wrote the word, pirindë, in his lovely handwriting on the scrap of paper and gave it to Lalwendë as a present to take home. She treasured it, even after she learned to write herself, because signs of affection from her eldest brother were rare.
Despite Fëanor's betrayal of Lalwendë and her kin, she loved him. Privately, she believed he loved her just a little better than he did her mother and siblings, if only for her habit of laughter and her love for him. At the very least, he tolerated her.
While she was still young, her little brother was born. His name was Finarfin, and the hair on his head was wispy and pale gold.
'Isn't he beautiful?' her mother murmured as Lalwendë held him. She was transfixed by her brother's tiny face.
'Yes,' she whispered. 'But he doesn't look like me.'
'He does, melda,' her mother said, smiling widely. 'It is only his hair that is different. When he grows, you will see his face is just like yours.'
Finarfin and Lalwendë became close as they grew up together. But Finarfin was more studious and subdued than she was; while Lalwendë was likely to rush headlong into most things, Finarfin would consider his options and find the clever way around. Findis and Finarfin would spend hours together reading, while Fingolfin and Lalwendë, the foolhardy of Finwë's five children, were sparring or riding.
Fingolfin was Finwë's third child, High Prince of the Noldor, and bitter enemy of Fëanor. The two brothers jealously despised each other, and neither cared who knew. When she was little, Lalwendë would cry when Fingolfin and Fëanor fought. Over the years, she learned to bite her tongue.
She loved Fëanor because he was her blood, and she saw the goodness in him; but she adored Fingolfin because their very souls were alike. He was her best friend in the world, and she was his. While they were still young, they spent most of their time together, and as they grew and took on responsibility, they became each other's confidantes.
When he came of age, Fëanor married a fierce elf named Nerdanel, and the whole of Tirion celebrated their wedding. They had seven sons – not all in temperament like Fëanor, but all fiercely loyal to him.
Finarfin fell in love with Eärwen, a Teleri elf who was quiet and wise like him. His wedding was planned to be no less grand than Fëanor's, but talk was rife when Fëanor and his family did not attend.
Lalwendë may have been upset, but Fingolfin was furious. He thought Fëanor's failure to come to the wedding was meant as an insult, not only to Finarfin but all the children of Indis. He fumed for days – until he came up with a plan.
It seemed Fëanor had not come because he was busy labouring over some new creation. While Fëanor was in conference with Finwë, Fingolfin and Lalwendë went to Fëanor's workshop.
Guilt clawed at her while they made their way in quietly through the gardens at the back of the house, so that no one would report to Fëanor that they had been visiting. But Fingolfin didn't seem to have any qualms, and she followed him inside.
They stole into the dark forges where Fëanor worked, and discovered what he'd been labouring over for so long: a small crystal, within which seemed to flicker a blue flame. Fingolfin took it and stuffed it in his pocket. It shone through the fabric, so Lalwendë lent him her cloak to hide it better. Then, with their thievery complete, they stole away.
Fëanor's fury was unequalled when he discovered his treasure missing. Even Nerdanel, often the only person he would listen to, failed to calm him down. Fingolfin gave the crystal to Lalwendë for safekeeping.
'Fëanor will suspect me, and perhaps even Finarfin,' he said as he gave it to her. 'But he does not despise you. Keep it hidden. He will think again before he dares disrespect us.'
'He might not have meant disrespect, though.'
'Lalwendë…'
'You know how he gets consumed by his work. He might have just forgotten to come to the wedding.'
Fingolfin took her face in his hands and bent to look her in the eye. 'He deserved this, Lalwen.'
'Did you ask Finarfin what he thought? It was his wedding, after all.'
'Finarfin doesn't need to know about this,' Fingolfin said firmly. 'This is about our honour. It was only justice.'
Lalwendë had a sneaking suspicion that it was more revenge than justice, and if Fingolfin was avoiding Finarfin, it was probably because he knew Finarfin would disapprove. But she loved her brother more than most things in the world, so she did what he bade her do. Fëanor's black mood did not abate, however, and soon, in one way or another, everyone in Tirion began to feel it. After two weeks, Lalwendë considered her duty to Finarfin's honour done, and she took matters into her own hands.
She left her bed as everyone else slept and crept through the streets to Fëanor's house. When she knocked on the door, Nerdanel opened it. Lalwendë liked Nerdanel; she called Lalwendë her sister, although Fëanor himself rarely did so, and everything she said was measured and wise.
When Nerdanel saw Lalwendë's troubled face, she sighed. 'Have you come to undo the wrong that was done to your brother?'
'Our deed was not unprovoked,' Lalwendë said quietly, feeling the need to defend Fingolfin. 'But… I am here to see Fëanor and do what I can.'
Nerdanel clasped her hand and led her into the house. Fëanor was sitting alone in the dark, surrounded by scraps of paper covered in drawings. Lalwendë sat opposite him and lowered her hood. Nerdanel lit a lantern and then left them alone.
'What do you want?' Fëanor growled, after a long moment of silence. His eyes were fixed on the reams of scattered parchment before him.
'To see my brother,' she replied, 'and to give him something.'
His face twitched when she called him brother, but he didn't contradict her, and she took this as a good sign. She reached into her cloak and drew out the folds of cloth that contained the crystal. Fëanor's face lit up, and he grabbed it from her.
'It was Fingolfin who took it, then?' he asked. 'I knew it.'
'Yes,' she said. 'But I was there too. And I don't regret it; you did great dishonour to our family.'
'It was not your grievance,' Fëanor said sharply, his face bathed in blue light as he unwrapped the crystal. 'My father forgave me. That is that.'
'He is my father too. He is our father.'
'He favours me.'
Lalwendë clenched her jaw, willing herself not to argue with him. It was a lost cause. She wondered for the hundredth time why she kept vying for his affection when everything he said seemed designed to hurt her. At her silence, Fëanor looked up.
'You aren't laughing like you always used to do, Lalwendë.'
'If you had taken the time to notice, you would have seen that I have grown, and find fewer things to laugh at in the world,' she said stiffly.
'Hm,' Fëanor said, suppressing a smile. Then, leaning forward, he handed the crystal back to her. 'Tell me what you think of it.'
'I have already examined it,' she confessed reluctantly. 'I have never seen its like.'
'It is a lantern,' he said. 'A blue flame, trapped inside the stone. No wind or water will extinguish it, and it will not fade on its own.'
Lalwendë stared at it, entranced. Fëanor's skill as a gem-smith was unsurpassed, and the lantern she held in her hands was beautiful. She couldn't help but smile, and when he saw it, Fëanor did too.
'Soon every one of the Noldor will have one,' he said softly. She shook her head.
'Perhaps I am young, but even I can see your ambition is folly.'
Fëanor studied her for a moment. 'Does Fingolfin know you have come?'
She shook her head again, and he leaned forward and took her hand in his without warning. 'You alone of the children of Indis know what these things mean to me,' he said, gesturing toward the lantern. 'Thank you, Lalwendë. Little sister.'
She handed the lantern back to him. 'If you would only show your love for us, you might see how we love you in return, brother,' she said warmly. But Fëanor's face turned stony, and he withdrew his hand from hers.
'Go now, before they all wake,' he said.
But when she returned, Fingolfin was already awake and waiting for her in her room.
'What?' she said warily when she saw him. He gazed at her for a moment; he seemed frustrated, but not surprised.
'You took it back,' he said. There was no point in lying; she nodded, and he sighed. 'Did you not understand why we took the crystal in the first place?'
'I understand well enough,' she said, taking off her cloak. 'But Fëanor will never see reason if he doesn't choose to see it. He didn't see what we did as retribution, but simply as an act of scorn against him.'
Fingolfin patted the bed beside him, and she went and sat. 'I spoke to Finarfin. That's what he said too.'
'Well. He's the wise one.'
'You are not much older than him.'
'Then perhaps I am wise in my youth too.'
He put his arms around her. 'Perhaps you did right,' he said quietly. 'You have a good heart, Lalwen. And you are courageous. You'll make a good wife someday.'
'Except there is no one I know in Aman that I would like to wed,' she said. 'So perhaps I will make a great warrior instead.'
'Well, you certainly won't make a good healer.'
'How cruel you are!' she said in mock-horror, and Fingolfin laughed.
'There are many Elves you do not know,' he said. 'You might take a liking to one of them, one day.'
'Why don't you wed?'
'I am going to,' he said. She pulled away from him, shocked.
'Who?'
'Anairë.'
'Oh! I thought you were only friends.'
'We are friends. But I love her more than I ought to love any ordinary friend, and I wish never to leave her.'
Lalwendë smiled widely. 'Well, Anairë is my friend too, and she shall make an even better sister. And I will be happy to have my last brother wed. It will keep you out of trouble,' she said, kissing his cheek.
'And I will find you someone for your own wedding before long,' Fingolfin promised, getting up and going to the door. 'Someone who can manage your unruly ways and your incessant smiling.'
One week later, a package was delivered to Lalwendë with her name written on it in Tengwar letters. When she unwrapped it, she saw it was a tiny lantern crystal identical to the one she had returned to Fëanor, attached to the end of a fine silver chain. There was a note, too:
To my sister, I give the second of these lanterns ever made. May she remember me and my foolish ambition (her words) whenever it lights her way.
There was something else nestled in the folds of cloth. She took it out gently: it was a golden locket, circular and engraved with a winged sun, the standard of Finwë and his house. It was attached to a long golden chain, and when she hung it around her neck, the locket rested in the middle of her sternum. There was another note attached to it, and she read it eagerly.
A new invention. This trinket opens only when the password is spoken into it; my sister and I know that it is the name of the flower that opens in the light of Laurelin and closes in the light of Telperion. I made this for her in the hope that she will find it worthy of a smile.
'Pirindë,' Lalwendë whispered into the locket, and sure enough, it opened. Inside, it was hollow and deceptively spacious. She got up and found the strip of paper which Fëanor had written on for her when she was younger. She rolled it up and shut it inside the locket, along with the lantern crystal. They were the first of many treasures she kept in there.
She knew why she kept trying to make Fëanor love her. Even though his cruelty could cut to the bone, his strange ways of apologising were so heartfelt and kind that she couldn't help but forgive him.
It was often that the waning light of Laurelin would find Fingolfin and Lalwendë sparring with swords and shields, their weapons of choice, or galloping wildly through the valley of Calacirya.
Fingolfin would leave her notes, written with Fëanor's Tengwar, and slide them under her door. Mostly they were jokes – Findis says you have a crooked nose, or Mother just told me that you were adopted, or You are to be married of to Rúmil the Loremaster next week. Find a dress.
But on the eve of Fingolfin's marriage day, Lalwendë found another note under her door.
Dearest, darling Lalwen,
Only a few hours remain before you are no longer the foremost woman in my life. Though I am not famous for my outpourings of emotion, I judge now is a better time than most for one: onórë, I love you more sincerely than I can say in writing. My dearest wish is that whatever may befall us, we may remain by each other's sides; humour me, therefore, and sit at my left hand tomorrow at the wedding.
I shall rely, as I have always done, on your steadfast presence and ready smile.
Your handsome, charming brother,
Fingolfin
Lalwendë did not smile as she read this note; tears streamed down her cheeks, and she felt as though her childhood was slipping through her fingers. While Fingolfin's wedding was a grand and joyous affair, his marriage meant Lalwendë was left to her own devices and was more often without her companion.
She stood to one side with Finarfin at the wedding, watching the dancing after the ceremony was done.
'He is lost to us forever, I suppose,' she said, half joking and half in earnest. Finarfin frowned at her.
'Don't be foolish, Lalwendë,' he said. 'He is only married.'
'I'm foolhardy, never foolish,' she shot back at him. He rolled his eyes at her, and they stood together for a moment until he caught sight of his wife Eärwen and went to dance. She was left alone.
She stood for a while, watching the dancers with an absent-minded smile. Fëanor had come to this wedding, apparently learning his lesson from last time; his wife and sons were there too. Lalwendë watched as Maedhros and Maglor, his two eldest, bent double, laughing raucously at something she couldn't hear. Her smile widened.
Her father was talking to Anairë, the bride, and Fingolfin was discussing something animatedly with an elf that Lalwendë didn't know. She frowned. He was tall and golden-haired, and her eyes were the darkest blue she had ever seen. She couldn't remember seeing him in Tirion before.
Fingolfin was speaking with a smile on his face, but the dark-eyed elf was frowning as he listened. His arms were folded, and he stood almost unnaturally still. She watched him curiously across the hall, but after a moment, he seemed to sense her gaze.
He glanced up, and his eyes met hers as she stared at him. She blinked and ignored the urge to look away. Instead, she smiled. He didn't return it; he simply stared at her, until Fingolfin noticed and turned to see what the elf was looking at. He saw Lalwendë, and his smile widened. He beckoned her over.
Lalwendë looked beautiful, she thought, as she made her way over; she was wearing blue and white, and her long, curly hair was hanging loose and glossy down her back. It was rare that she dressed up so much. But as the stranger had been staring at her, she'd almost wished she was wearing her riding tunic.
'Lalwen!' Fingolfin said as she came to a stop before them. 'I couldn't stand to see you alone over there.'
Lalwendë glanced at the stranger before turning back to her brother. He was still watching her. 'You are too kind,' she said drily.
'This is my younger sister, Lalwendë,' Fingolfin said, turning to the unsmiling elf. 'Lalwen, this is an old friend of our father's, Laurefindelë. He usually lives near Taniquetil, with his people, but he has come for the wedding.'
The elf bowed to her. 'It is an honour, Princess.'
'Laurefindelë is a beautiful name,' Lalwendë said.
'Laurë for his golden heart, word has it,' Fingolfin said with a smile, and the elf's cheeks reddened faintly.
'That's not true. Everyone calls me Glorfindel.'
'Ignore my brother,' Lalwendë said, laughing. 'I am glad to meet you, in any case. Welcome to Tirion!'
'Laurë was just saying how much he likes to dance,' Fingolfin said, grinning.
Glorfindel frowned. 'Was I?'
'And I know for a fact that you, Lalwendë, love to dance,' Fingolfin went on. 'And I'll wager you weren't standing over there alone by choice.'
Lalwendë's blush was much more noticeable than the stranger's had been. 'Firstly, I was only standing there alone because Finarfin couldn't seem to stomach my conversation. Secondly, if Glorfindel doesn't wish to dance, then he is under no obligation to do so.' She looked up at the blonde elf and smiled. 'You aren't being rude, I promise.'
'Nonsense,' Fingolfin said. 'When two dancers are each missing a partner, the law of the world says they ought to dance with each other.'
Glorfindel swallowed, looking reluctant, but he offered his hand to Lalwendë. She winced and took it.
'What about you?' she called over her shoulder to Fingolfin as she was led to where the dancers were.
'I'm busy being married!' he said back, grinning widely. Lalwendë rolled her eyes at him.
The hall had been made breathtakingly beautiful for Fingolfin's wedding; it was softly lit by lanterns of silver and gold, and draped with sweet-smelling garlands. There was plenty of food, and music and dancing. It was perfect.
But Lalwendë was nervous as she turned to face Glorfindel. He was tall, and his dark blue eyes were piercing. She curtseyed before he reached for her, resting one hand on her waist and taking her hand with the other.
The music began, and they started to dance in silence. Glorfindel moved with utter grace, so much so that Lalwendë felt almost bumbling beside him. She felt a strange urge to laugh.
'I'm sorry he made us dance,' she said suddenly, unable to stand the silence any longer.
'Don't be,' Glorfindel replied. He didn't seem annoyed or angry, but nor was he particularly happy to be there; it was strangely difficult to read him.
'Do you… not like to dance?'
'Not very much. No.'
'Well, you're very good at it,' she said, and tried not to cringe at her own words. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Had that been the beginning of a smile?
'You are kind, Princess,' he said as they spun around each other. She smiled.
'Call me Lalwendë. Or Lalwen, if we are to be friends. We don't often stand on ceremony here in Tirion.'
'Lalwen, then,' he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the music. Lalwendë's smiled widened. They danced another verse in silence. Lalwendë liked dancing with someone as good as Glorfindel; it felt natural, the way they moved around each other, almost instinctive. She wondered if he would think it strange if she asked him if he wanted to duel.
'Are you a friend of my brother's?' she asked after a while, breaking the silence between them again.
'Of Fingolfin?' he said. 'I suppose I am, yes.' She blinked at his strange answer, and he went on. 'I am an old friend of Finwë, your father. I came with him from Middle-earth.'
Lalwendë nearly missed a step. Her father had been born under starlight in the Hither Lands. Then he had been led to Valinor, the Undying Lands, by the Valar. The elves who came from Middle-earth were the oldest and often the wisest; they had seen things Lalwendë could only dream of. Glorfindel was one of them.
'Did you have parents, family there? Or…'
'I was woken,' he said, answering her unasked question. 'I have no family by blood.'
The very first elves had not been born, but woken by Illuvatar, the All-Father. Lalwendë's eyes widened slightly, but she remained casual.
'What did you think of Middle-earth?' she asked.
'Have you not asked your father?' Glorfindel replied. She shrugged, spinning quickly in a circle. His hands ghosted across her back.
'He doesn't often talk about Middle-earth.'
There was a silence that lasted long enough to make Lalwendë think that Glorfindel had forgotten her question, but then he spoke.
'It was very beautiful. I almost decided to stay there.'
The song came to a close, and the second it did, Glorfindel released her hands and stepped away. Lalwendë bit her lip, almost feeling cast away. She shook her head at the foolish thought and drew in a breath.
'Would you – would you like to dance another song?' she asked quickly. Glorfindel hesitated.
'Perhaps… we could sit and listen to the music instead?' he offered. She smiled and nodded, pushing her embarrassment down, and he turned to lead her to a chair. They sat side by side as Maglor, who had one of the best voices in Aman, began to sing. She glanced up at Glorfindel, and found him watching her. He looked away, but she thought she saw the corner of his mouth turn up again.
The marriages of her brothers meant Lalwendë found herself with a surplus of time. She worked on her swordplay and riding, as often alone as not. She wove tapestries with Findis and her mother, and she worked in the forges with her father whenever he could spare the time.
Those years were good. Lalwendë had no way of knowing that it was a time of calm before the storm, but she was happy nonetheless. Her brothers both had children, and her family grew; Lalwendë doted on them while they were small, and counted them as friends when they grew.
She especially loved Fingon, Fingolfin's eldest boy, for he was a beautiful child who grew into a beautiful man, and was kind to everyone he met. He and Maedhros, Fëanor's eldest son, became inseparable despite the unbridgeable rift between their fathers.
Finarfin's children were tall and golden-haired like him and his mother. His youngest was a girl whose hair was a breathtaking mixture of the starlight-silver colour of her Teleri mother Eärwen's hair, and the deep golden of Finarfin's. It was agreed that her hair had somehow captured the light of the Two Trees. Most people called her Galadriel, but Lalwendë called her by her mother-name, Nerwen.
Galadriel and Lalwendë became great friends. They would ride together, and spar like Lalwendë used to do with Fingolfin. Galadriel was brave, proud and independent, but she was also had wisdom that prevailed, to her father's relief, more often as she grew older. She had a great skill for understanding people, reading between their words to see what was really in their hearts.
They were sparring with swords one day, in the light of Laurelin. Each of them had disarmed the other, so they wrestled until Lalwendë flipped Galadriel onto her back – a rare occurrence, considering her superior strength.
'Aha!' Lalwendë cried, using all her weight to push Galadriel down. 'Victory tastes sweet!'
'Savour it while you can,' Galadriel said breathlessly, 'because it's the last time you'll get it!'
Lalwendë nearly collapsed with laughter, and Galadriel pushed her off, laughing too. They collected their swords from where they'd fallen, and wiped the dust from their faces.
They were about to go again when Fëanor came upon them. They turned to face him, exchanging a glance.
'Galadriel,' he said by way of greeting. He merely nodded at Lalwendë, who bore the slight with pursed lips.
'Fëanor,' Galadriel said coolly. 'What is it you want?'
'Must I want something to come to you?' he asked, arching an eyebrow, but there was cunning in his eyes, and Lalwendë knew that Galadriel was right to be suspicious.
'You have never come to me otherwise,' Galadriel said, folding her arms. Fëanor, not easily cowed, paced over to the ring where we had been sparring.
'Would you lend me your sword, Lalwen?' he asked suddenly. 'Perhaps Nerwen and I could try our hands at swordplay.'
'No,' Lalwendë said flatly. 'We have no patience for your wiles today, brother. Say your piece and be forthright.'
Fëanor glared at her, and Lalwendë ignored the sudden twist it caused in her belly.
'The courtesy of my own family becomes less and less,' he said.
'It is a surprising day when you acknowledge me as your family,' she shot back hotly.
Fëanor's eyes dropped to the locket that hung around her neck – the one he had given her – but he didn't reply, instead turning back to Galadriel. He stepped closer to her.
'I will not beg, but I will ask that you remember we are both descended from Finwë, and that you be generous towards your father's brother,' he said. 'Gift me with a single hair from your head.'
Galadriel studied him calmly. She was so tall that he had to look up slightly to meet her gaze.
'No,' she said.
'You could not value them as highly as I,' he argued, stepping forwards again, 'and you have thousands. Give me but one –'
'I have said no,' Galadriel said, authority creeping into her voice. 'Do not ask again!'
Fëanor's expression could have frozen water. He turned on his heel without another word and stalked away. Lalwendë exhaled slowly and turned to face Galadriel.
'Your feud continues,' she said drily.
'He is arrogant,' Galadriel said darkly. 'I know that I am prideful, but he…' she shook her head. 'Ambition and arrogance are dangerous in a person with as much skill as Fëanor.'
Lalwendë sighed. 'And all for a hair from your head.'
'That is the third time he has asked me.'
'What could he want them for?'
'I doubt even the Valar could say.'
'Well, there is not a more beautiful head in all of Aman,' she said with a smile. Galadriel turned to her, a mischievous glint in her clear blue eyes.
'Would you like a hair from me?'
Lalwendë laughed at her, but Galadriel swiftly unwound her braid from her head and plucked out a single hair. She held it out to Lalwendë.
'Nerwen… if Fëanor heard…'
'You are not like him,' she said. 'Your mind is clear-sighted, and the boldness of your heart made gentle by wisdom. By my count, that makes you worthier than him. Take it, Lalwendë. A token of our friendship.'
Lalwendë kissed her cheek and took the hair from her, taking the locket from around her neck.
'Pirindë,' she whispered into it, and it opened. She coiled the hair and tucked it inside, along with the scrap of paper and the crystal lantern.
'Shall I have one in return?' Galadriel asked.
'Well, it isn't as beautiful as yours,' Lalwendë said, unwinding her own braid from where it was tightly coiled on her head. 'But you shall have it if you want it.'
'I shall set it in a ring.'
'If that is what your strange heart desires, it shall be so.'
She gave her a strand of her hair, and they laughed again and forgot the shadow of Fëanor's demands, at least for the time being.
But Fëanor could not forget. The light of the Two Trees was his new obsession, and when he could not have it captured in a strand of Galadriel's hair, he managed to capture it another way. Fëanor, in his brilliance and arrogance, forged his greatest invention and greatest mistake: the silmarils.
By unparalleled skill, he had managed to trap the light of the Two Trees into three gemstones, each about a third of an inch in diameter and each perfectly round. They were beautiful, and all who laid eyes upon them were enamoured, Lalwendë included – but Fëanor was obsessed.
He grew fiercely jealous with greed, and even his wife Nerdanel could no longer speak reason to him. He pushed her away, and they became estranged. Fëanor alternated between displaying the gems for all to see, or hiding them away, sometimes even from his own sons. He loved those jewels and he loved his own genius; soon, he forgot that he had only captured the beauty of the Trees, not created it himself.
He trusted no one but himself, and it was this distrust that Melkor, the disgraced Vala, preyed upon. It was this distrust, and those three accursed gems, that tore Lalwendë's life apart. Wars were waged for them. People were killed, and gave their lives for them. The silmarils caused countless tears to be spilled, rivers of blood to flow, hearts to break. They created immeasurable pain.
It would have been better, all told, if the silmarils had never seen the light of day.
Welcome to Part Three! I was so stoked at all your comments, and I'm hoping you'll like where we go next! Here are a few things I want to let you know:
1. This story is not canon-perfect; some events might be slightly out of order, or seem like they take place over a few days rather than a few years.
2. Glorfindel's parentage is never revealed in the Silmarillion/elsewhere, but our best guess is that he belonged to the House of Finarfin (or at least Finwë). In this story, this is not the case; instead, he is one of the first elves who awoke at Cuiviénen. I did this because a) I'm not a massive incest fan, and b) I was too lazy to make him a family. Poor Glorfy.
3. Thank you for reading, you absolute legend.
4. Long live Rúmil the Loremaster.
Lots of love, S
