Chapter Thirty-Three: Mentië

Lalwendë hurried about her room, trying to think of what she would need. She made up a pack; she threw in a second tunic. Another dagger – and then a third. She didn't know what she'd be facing. A blanket. Some rope. She would find food the next day, before they left.

She found a whetting stone, and a flint and steel she'd used occasionally in the valley. She stared around her room. She didn't know what else to take. Was this the last time she would see her room? The last night she'd be in Tirion?

A knock on her door jolted her from her reverie. She ran to it and opened it to reveal Fingolfin, dressed for travel. When he saw her half-completed packing, his face fell.

'Not you too.'

Her eyes widened as she let him in and closed the door behind him. 'You're going with Fëanor?'

He nodded. 'I came to say goodbye.'

'There is no need. I am going with you.'

'Lalwendë… you should stay. Please stay.'

She sighed. 'I cannot be convinced, Fingolfin. Especially not by someone who will be going as well.'

Fingolfin groaned and collapsed into a chair in front of her roaring fire. She sank into the chair beside his.

'I am only going because Fingon all but begged me to,' he muttered. 'Most of the Noldor are leaving, and most of them want me, not Fëanor, as their king. Fingon didn't want to shoulder that burden.'

'Your son isn't unwise,' she said quietly.

'If my people choose to go, then I am bound to go with them,' Fingolfin said. 'And anyway, Fëanor was right. I promised him I would follow him. So I will. But you, Lalwen – you should stay. Please stay.'

'I cannot be convinced,' she repeated flatly.

'Why?' he pleaded.

'Because they are my people too,' she said firmly. 'You may be their prince, but I am their princess. And – I think Fëanor is right. The Valar let our father die. There is nothing more for me here than there is in Middle-earth.'

'But Fëanor isn't just going to Middle-earth,' Fingolfin said. 'He is hunting Morgoth.'

'Then let us hunt him,' Lalwendë said simply. 'He killed our father.'

Fingolfin sighed heavily. 'Fine,' he said. 'Fine.'

There was another knock on the door, and Finarfin and Findis let themselves in.

'Please tell me you are not considering this,' Findis said, her eyes wide and horrified, her blonde hair shining red in the firelight.

'We are both going,' Fingolfin said flatly, and she covered her face with her hands. Finarfin shook his head.

'I knew you would want to go,' he said, sitting heavily opposite Fingolfin and Lalwendë. Findis sat beside him. 'Lalwen, you know that if our father were alive, he'd tell you to stay?'

'If our father were alive, I would have no reason to go,' she replied. 'But you, are you…'

'I wanted to stay in Tirion,' Finarfin said quietly, sadness lining his face. 'I long to stay in Tirion. But my daughter and sons are going, and I have a duty to our people…'

Lalwendë exchanged a glance with Fingolfin. 'Galadriel and your sons can look after themselves.'

Finarfin shook his head. 'They are a part of me. The most important part, and… I can't leave them, or let them leave me, without my heart breaking. I will go with Fëanor.'

'And you, Findis?' Fingolfin asked. 'Will you stay?'

Findis nodded slowly, staring into the fire. A tear streaked down her cheek. 'I am with child,' she said quietly. Lalwendë's eyes widened, and Finarfin inhaled with surprise. 'And none of you will be here to meet him when he is born.'

Finarfin leaned over and pulled her into a brief hug. For a long while, they sat together in sad silence, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire. Dread sat like a hard rock in Lalwendë's stomach.

'You will be High Queen of the Noldor while we are gone,' Fingolfin said at last, looking at Findis. She sighed.

'There is no while. Once you are gone, you will not come back. I know it.'

'You will do well,' Lalwendë said gently.

'I was not made to be queen,' Findis said. 'I am the second-born. I do not want it.'

'But you must do it,' Finarfin said. 'I'm so sorry, Findis.'

Findis shook her head. 'What must be shall come to be.'

They sat again in silence until the fire had died. Lalwendë felt a little part of her heart break. They embraced and parted, her three siblings going to find their spouses; it was the last time the children of Indis were ever together again.

Her brothers left to get some sleep before the summons to march, and Findis to the King's Chamber. Lalwendë went and knelt beside the fireplace, staring at the glowing red embers. She had no tears left to cry for the moment; she was losing her sister, only days after she'd lost her father.

She didn't know how long had passed before she heard someone move quietly outside her door. She shifted wearily, prepared to let whoever it was in, but then silence fell. Lalwendë frowned, listening carefully. There was someone out there, she was sure of it. Why weren't they coming in? What were they waiting for?

Five minutes passed before there was finally a knock. She went to open the door, blinking in surprise when she saw it was Glorfindel. He already looked like he regretted knocking.

'Laurë,' she said. 'What are you doing here?'

He hesitated, his eyes intent on her face. The wavering candlelight cast strange shadows on his face that made him seem almost threatening. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

'I wanted to see… how you were,' he said.

'How I was?' she frowned.

'I carried you here unconscious, days ago, and I have not seen you since.'

'Oh,' she said, looking down. 'I… have recovered, as best I can. I just need time, I suppose.'

'Don't expect your grief to disappear,' Glorfindel said quietly. Lalwendë looked up at him. His face was grave, his eyes still fixed on hers. She nodded, and silence fell. For once, it was him who broke it.

'It seems you will be leaving Tirion.'

'I am,' she said, glancing back into the room where her half-packed gear was visible. 'Are you going to attempt to dissuade me?'

'No.'

There was another silence while she stared at him, puzzled. He returned the stare steadily. His gaze was unnerving.

'Are you – returning to Taniquetil?' she asked.

'No,' he said. She frowned.

'You…'

'I am going to travel to Middle-earth as well, yes.'

'Why?'

He quirked an eyebrow, looking down at her. 'Must I have a reason?'

'Leaving means the end of life as we know it. Everyone has a reason.'

Glorfindel glanced away. 'Finwë was my friend.'

'My father had many friends, but only some of them are following Fëanor.'

The muscle in his jaw twitched again. 'Nonetheless. I am going.'

She shook her head. 'You aren't even Noldor. You're Vanyar.'

'You're half Vanyar.'

'You know what I meant.'

He brought his dark blue eyes up to meet hers again. 'I have always had great affinity with the Noldor elves.'

Lalwendë thought of the journey back from the feast, in the blanket darkness of night. She thought of Glorfindel's hand, warm in hers.

'Will you march with us?' she asked quietly. 'With me and my brothers?'

He nodded slowly. 'I'll find you, when the time comes to leave.'

His promise brought her a strange comfort. Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor. Lalwendë stood at the open door another minute, deep in thought, before shutting it and returning to her room.

The hardest farewell was the one with her mother. Indis was alone in the King's Chambers, weeping in the dark, on her knees by the empty fireplace. Lalwendë's face twisted when she saw her.

'Amya…' she whispered, but her mother didn't look up.

'My boys are going,' she sobbed. 'My sons are leaving forever.'

Lalwendë started to cry. 'Me too, amya.'

'No. No.'

'I'm so sorry,' she whispered, dropping to her knees beside her mother. 'I have come to say goodbye.'

'Lalwendë – Írimë – no –'

'Namárië, amya,' Lalwendë said. Her mother lifted her head and wailed.


It was still dark as pitch when the horn sounded, calling the Noldor to assemble. The mustering itself took hours; there were thousands of elves who had decided to follow Fëanor, organised into three hosts.

The first was led by Fëanor and his sons, and was comprised of his most fervent followers, the elves who had followed him to Formenos at the beginning of his exile.

The second host was led by Fingolfin, his sons Fingon and Turgon, and Galadriel and Lalwendë. This group was the largest, made up of those who preferred Fingolfin as their king over Fëanor. Behind them marched the last group, led by Finarfin; they were the ones most reluctant to leave.

They marched northeast to escape the valley, then onward to the coast and towards Alqualondë. Fëanor's plan was to ask the Teleri elves there for their ships so they could sail across to the Hither Shores.

'How long do you think it will take us to march a host of this size to Alqualondë?' Turgon asked. 'And will the Teleri even have enough ships?'

'They will have the ships,' Fingolfin said. 'The question is whether or not they will let us have them.'

'I doubt it,' Galadriel said quietly.

'As for how long the march will take,' Fingon said, 'it is hard to say. There is no way to measure time in this darkness.'

'Fëanor's host is half the size of ours,' Lalwendë said. 'They will move a lot faster.'

'Suffice to say it will be the first part of a long journey,' Fingolfin said. 'And a hard one.'


Lalwendë occasionally glanced around her as they walked. Glorfindel had said he would walk with her, but for the countless hours they'd being marching so far, he was nowhere to be seen. Granted, it was impossible to see very far in the darkness of the permanent night that Morgoth had brought, but…

Without really thinking about it, she'd assumed he'd find her. He was reliable, in the little time she'd known him; he'd danced with her at the wedding when she was alone, helped her at the festival when the trees were destroyed and darkness fell. He'd held her hand all the way back to Tirion, though he didn't live there himself.

She shifted her pack on her shoulders. He was taciturn, yes. Shy, mostly silent, and sometimes strangely intimidating, but reliable. Maybe he'd gone back to Taniquetil, to be with his people. Maybe he'd simply stayed in Tirion. She wished he'd told her.

Then again, he didn't owe her anything; there was no reason for him to tell her everything he was doing. But – why had he come to her door before they'd left, then? Why did his eyes never seem to leave her whenever they were together?

She sighed and shifted her pack again. There was something – maybe one of her daggers – sticking into her back.

Galadriel fell into step with her.

'Do you want me to take it?'

'Take what?'

'Your pack. I can carry it for a while, if you are tired.'

Lalwendë snorted. 'You have your own pack to carry, Nerwen.'

'No matter. I could take two easily.'

Lalwendë laughed aloud at that, drawing glances from the elves around her and a knowing eye-roll from Turgon. 'Stop showing off! I'm fine, I'll carry it myself.'

'If you insist,' Galadriel grinned.

'We have a long way to go,' Lalwendë said. 'If I needed someone to carry my pack now, I'd be wiser to turn back.'

Galadriel's grin faded a little. 'I think we're almost at Alqualonde.'

'How can you tell?'

'I recognise the country a little, even in the dark. We're a few miles away, yes… but almost there.'

Lalwendë frowned. 'I've never been to sea before.'

'Nor have I,' said Galadriel. 'But the Teleri do it all the time. We'll be perfectly fine.'

'The Teleri are seasoned mariners,' Lalwendë argued. 'And they don't stray overly far from the haven. We're going… well, we're going where no elf has been since my father led them to Valinor.'

And now my father is dead.

'We'll be fine…' Galadriel started to say again, but she trailed off, staring at the sky. Lalwendë's frown deepened, and she followed Galadriel's gaze. 'Nerwen, what…'

Then she saw it. The black of the sky ahead of them was tinted by a growing glow of ominous orange.

'Something's burning,' she said softly. She leapt into a sprint, running up the line of elves to find Fingolfin. Either Fëanor and the Teleri were burning huge bonfires, or something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Fingolfin was walking fast with his eyes fixed on the sky when she found him. She grabbed his arm, her heart racing in her chest.

'What is it?' she panted. He shook his head grimly.

'I don't know. Not good.'

'We need to move faster,' she said urgently. 'There could be something wrong, Fëanor or someone else might need help.'

'Fingon has already gone on ahead with three hundred men,' Fingolfin said, rubbing his hand over his face. 'We'll be there soon enough, and we'll see what is afoot.'

The orange glow grew stronger the closer they came. It became hotter as well, and the sounds of shouts and screams became audible. Lalwendë felt sick, and Galadriel drew her sword and began twirling it about – warming up.

'Galadriel,' Fingolfin said sharply. 'Put it away.'

She raised an eyebrow at her uncle but obeyed, sheathing the sword and striding onwards. Lalwendë clenched her fists, trying to calm her rising dread.

Finally – finally – Alqualondë came into view. The host fell utterly silent, taking in the scene.

Two ships were burning; that was the flames that cast they light they had seen in the sky. The shouting had come from a battle which appeared to have recently finished. The bay was littered with bodies, both Teleri and Noldor. The smell of blood was thick in the air.

Now they drew their swords, and Fingolfin did the same. Lalwendë shivered as she held her blade in hand for the first time in years.

'Fingon!' Fingolfin bellowed, striding forward. 'Fingon!'

'Here, tatanya!' came Fingon's voice. 'I'm over here!'

Lalwendë and Fingolfin ran to where Fingon was standing with Fëanor and Maglor. Half of Maglor's face was covered in splatters of blood.

'What in the name of the Valar happened?' Fingolfin asked urgently.

'I came upon Fëanor's host,' Fingon said. His voice was shaking. 'They were – under attack from the Teleri.'

'Is that true?' Lalwendë asked, aghast, turning to Fëanor and Maglor. 'The Teleri attacked you?'

Maglor didn't meet her eyes, but Fëanor did. His blue eyes were flinty. 'They would not give us their ships. We had no choice but to take them by force.'

Lalwendë and Fingolfin stared at the three elves, utterly at a loss for words. Fingon turned and vomited on the ground. When he stood again, Fingolfin was staring at him in horror.

'Fingon – my son, you – you killed –'

'This cannot be,' Lalwendë said sharply, her breaths coming quickly. 'Fëanor, you were exiled for drawing a sword. What do you think the Valar will do when they see you have – you have – slain your own kin?'

She was shaking, but she barely noticed. Maglor looked as though he was trying to hold back tears.

'The battle was – brutal,' he said quietly, rubbing at the blood on his face. It only spread it further around. 'Neither side had the upper hand until Fingon arrived to help us. Then it was over quickly.'

'Oh Valar,' Fingon said, and he threw up again, spitting onto the ground.

Fingolfin ran a hand over his face. 'Is… is Olwë here? Is he dead?'

'He is alive,' Fëanor said, pointing over Lalwendë's shoulder towards the water. 'He is under guard, over there.'

Fingolfin and Lalwendë exchanged a glance, then turned together and began walking where Fëanor had directed them.

'This is…' Fingolfin began in a half-whisper.

'A disaster,' Lalwendë finished quietly, panic seeping into her voice. 'We haven't even left Valinor yet, and –'

'We were supposed to find Morgoth and kill him, not slaughter our own people.'

'Do we even need the ships?' Lalwendë asked. 'Couldn't we have walked north?'

'Ships would halve our travel time.' Fingolfin mumbled. 'Oh Valar, what are we going to do?'

'And what can we say to Olwë?' she added. 'What do you say to the king of the people you just murdered?'

Fingolfin didn't answer.

Olwë was sitting between Amrod and Amras, Fëanor's two youngest sons. His silver hair was shining gold in the firelight, and he watched them approach with steely eyes.

'More children of Finwë,' Olwë growled when Fingolfin and Lalwendë stopped before him. 'What more have you come to take from me?'

'I am so sorry,' Lalwendë said in a whisper, and Olwë's lip curled.

'Speak up, girl. The dead cannot hear you.'

'I don't know what to say,' Fingolfin said unsteadily. 'If – if Fëanor had not been at the head of the procession, maybe –'

'But he was,' Olwë snapped, standing up. Amrod and Amras both tensed. 'He was, and now what has been done can never be taken back. You chose him as your leader. Now accept the consequences; our blood is on your hands too.'

'Olwë –' Lalwendë began, but he snorted and sat down again.

'I wish to hear nothing more from you,' he said. 'Whatever ties we shared before through my friendship to your father, or my daughter's marriage to Finarfin, you have now broken. Goodbye.'

Fingolfin took Lalwendë by the arm and led her away, back to Fëanor.

'This will break Finarfin's heart,' she said unsteadily.

'It has broken my heart,' Fingolfin said.

Lalwendë was about to reply, but at that moment, there was a massive clap of thunder, and a terrifying, behemoth figure appeared, standing on the mountain behind them. Every living elf stilled and looked up, holding their breath.

It was Mandos, the Judge; his robes were blacker than the lightless night, and his shadowed face was filled with wrath.

'You have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously, and stained the earth of Aman,' he rumbled. His voice vibrated through Lalwendë's very body. 'And for this, you will pay in blood. Tears unnumbered you shall shed, and Valinor will be shut to you forever; never shall you return to what was once your home.'

Lalwendë felt tears spilling from her eyes as she stared up at Mandos. Fëanor had sealed them into an unthinkable fate, and it was already too late.

'The wrath of the Valar now lies upon the House of Fëanor!' Mandos continued, his voice rolling down like furious thunder. 'The oath you have sworn will be your own doom! Though Eru made you immortal, you and all that follow you will be slain by blade and torment and grief! And little mercy will they find while they endure as spirits in my halls!'

Beside her, Fingon's hands were shaking. Lalwendë reached over and took his arm, ignoring the tears that were now coursing unobstructed down her cheeks.

Still, Mandos was not finished. 'Those that dwell in Middle-earth, not yet taken by death, will grow weary and wane, until they are mere shadows of their former selves. This doom you have taken upon yourselves.'

Then, with a final, ground-shaking roll of thunder, Mandos disappeared. There was silence. Then – pandemonium.

'What can we do?' Lalwendë asked in a panic, turning to Fingolfin. 'Should we – can we go back?'

'I cannot,' Fingon said, stepping away from her and looking ill. 'The blood of the Teleri is on my hands, and on the hands of thousands of us. I have to go on.'

'The oath we swore was not in vain,' Fëanor cried. He sounded grim and determined, but he looked pale in the dimming firelight. 'Let anyone who is afraid turn back. But we are not cowards!'

Maglor, grave-faced, turned and walked away.

'I will go on,' Fingolfin said wearily. 'I have promised allegiance to Fëanor. And nor will I forsake you, Fingon, or those in my host who were a part of the – the kinslaying.'

'Then I am with you too,' Lalwendë said quietly. 'Our whole host will be with you. Whatever lies ahead.'

'So be it,' Fingolfin muttered. He turned to Fëanor. 'What now?'

'To the boats,' Fëanor said.


The Noldor were not skilled sailors like the Teleri. It didn't help, either, that the moment they set sail, a tumultuous storm set in.

Rain pelted down without ceasing, hour after hour, until they turned into days. Dark clouds covered the stars, the only source of light they had. The black sea rose and fell sickeningly. In one week, they lost ten ships and all the elves within them to the ocean.

Lalwendë was standing on the main deck, holding fast to a rope, when Fingolfin found her.

'Lalwen!' he shouted over the whistling wind. 'I have news!'

'Good or bad?' she shouted back. She couldn't see his face in the darkness.

'Both, I suppose,' he yelled. He sounded sad.

'What?'

'Finarfin turned back.'

She let go of the rope, turning to face him fully. 'What?'

'Finarfin went back to Tirion with his host!' Fingolfin shouted. 'He never got on the boats. He heard what Mandos said and turned his host around!'

Lalwendë was silent, stumbling to the side a little as a wave hit the ship. Finarfin was safe, back in Aman, back with their mother and Findis. He'd had no part in the kinslaying; the Valar were sure to forgive him.

But she'd had no chance to say goodbye.

'I am glad,' was all she said to Fingolfin. The ship listed sharply to one side, thunder rumbling ahead, and they both stumbled. Fingolfin grabbed the rope Lalwendë had been holding.

'I think he would –' Fingolfin began, but then there was a shout from the crow's nest.

'WAVE!'

The ship tilted sharply upwards, almost completely sideways. With not enough warning, Lalwendë had nothing to hold and no time to brace herself. She fell sideways, hit the side of the ship hard, and then went overboard.

'LALWEN!' she heard Fingolfin bellow, and then she was underwater.

It was shockingly quiet and shockingly cold. For a moment, Lalwendë was frozen, drifting, unable to move; the cold had made her exhale sharply when she plunged into the water, and now she was already short on air.

She began kicking, swimming towards what she thought was the surface. But she couldn't get there. Everything was so dark – she had no idea which way was up. Her lungs were burning. She was going to drown.

She let herself go limp, and the ocean pulled her arms wide as if in surrender. She was as light as a feather. After another few seconds, she couldn't feel the cold anymore. It was oddly peaceful. She closed her eyes; the next time she opened them, she would see the Halls of Mandos. At least fate had taken her before all the suffering he had foretold…

But something violently crashed into her, wrapped around her, pulled her up –

She gasped a panicked, painful lungful of air. They were being pulled up through the air. They swung, and she smacked hard against something wooden. She was too weak to react, but she heard a grunt.

Then she was being laid on her side, and she was vomiting up water. Someone was pounding her on the back. Her head began to clear. And then –

'Lalwendë?'

She looked up, squinting in the dark. She knew that voice: it was Glorfindel.

'By the Valar,' he breathed, and his hands were on her face, turning it left and right. 'You're alright?'

'You saved me,' she said hoarsely, gasping for air. 'I was – dying.'

'I didn't know it was you,' he said. 'By the Valar, Lalwen…'

She was starting to shiver. She had more questions, but they were floating through her mind and she couldn't grasp onto them. She wanted to sleep. She wanted relief.

'Come on,' Glorfindel said, putting an arm behind her shoulders and lifting her up. 'I'll take you below. You're freezing.'

'You were in the water too,' she said, her whole body trembling with cold.

'I'm fine,' he said. Her neck felt too weak to hold up her head anymore, and she let it drop against Glorfindel's chest. Her eyes drifted shut, and she was lost to the world.


She was lying on the floor, covered in blankets when she awoke. She was in the hold of the ship, and outside, she could hear water slapping against the hull. It sounded like the storm may have finally passed.

She groaned; her throat felt rough and raw. Someone hurried over and knelt beside her, helping her raise her head and hold a waterskin to her salt-crusted lips. She drank clumsily, then fell back.

'Where are we?' she asked hoarsely.

'In the hold of Turgon's ship,' the elf said, bringing a candle closer. She was a golden-haired Vanya with kind eyes. Lalwendë recognised her, but couldn't remember her name.

'The storm has stopped?'

'It has,' the elf said. 'It has been a day of smooth sailing since you came abord. You were lucky to survive.'

'Glorfindel saved me,' she whispered. 'Did I dream that?'

'You didn't,' the elf said, smiling gently. 'He tied a rope around his waist and dove in to get you. You were the seventh elf he pulled from the sea. And the first that was still alive.'

'Valar,' Lalwendë breathed, the horror of the statement making her shiver. 'Why would he do that?'

'He is strong,' the elf said, 'and he is selfless. He said he couldn't stand by and watch his kin drown, and no one on this ship is quite silly enough to tell Glorfindel of Taniquetil not to do something he wants to do.'

It was too much to contemplate for her tired mind. Lalwendë reached up and rubbed dried salt from her eyes. 'Do I know you?'

The elf smiled again. 'You do. I am Elenwë, Turgon's wife. We have met before, but not for long.'

'I'm sorry,' Lalwendë said, returning the smile.

'Don't apologise!' Elenwë said. 'You are tired. You are allowed to forget the name of your nephew's wife.'

'You have a daughter, yes?' Lalwendë asked.

'I do. Her name is Idril, and she is still young. She came with us on the ship.'

Lalwendë pushed herself into a half-seated position with an effort. 'You brought your child?'

Elenwë shrugged. 'She came by herself. Turgon can be… hot headed, and he set his heart on following Fëanor. I had my heart set on following Turgon, and Idril did not wish to be left behind.'

'That sounds like our family,' Lalwendë said, laughing ruefully. 'Sometimes I think we would be better off if we weren't so afraid of going back on our words.'

'It will be our downfall,' Elenwë agreed. Both women stilled as the sound of footsteps approached. Glorfindel came into view, and Elenwë stood and bowed her head.

'Glorfindel,' she said. Glorfindel nodded at her, then turned his gaze to Lalwendë. Elenwë cleared her throat awkwardly. 'I will let you two be,' she said, and she walked away. Lalwendë fought back a smile. It was nice to know that others were as nonplussed by Glorfindel as she was.

'Hello Laurë,' she said, pushing herself further upright and wincing. Glorfindel's hands twitched towards her, but otherwise he stayed as still as if he were made of stone. 'I hear you've made a habit of going fishing.'

The corner of his mouth turned upwards, then quickly settled back in place. 'Are you alright?'

'I am,' she said. 'I might have a cracked rib from our crash into the ship, but apart from that… I'm alive.'

Glorfindel winced. 'I'm sorry.'

She shook her head vehemently. 'You shouldn't be sorry,' she said. 'But nor should you be jumping overboard during storms.'

He cocked an eyebrow. 'You'd be dead if I hadn't.'

'But it's dangerous! I'd rather only I were dead than both of us.'

'What does is matter to you if I die?' Glorfindel asked. She stared at him.

'Because –'

Because soon I'll need two hands to count the number of times you've saved me. Because you knew my father, and now he is dead. Because you look at me like no one else does. None of these were things she particularly wanted to say aloud to Glorfindel.

'Would you sit down?' she said instead. 'My neck is tiring of looking up at you.'

Without a word, he sat down beside her, cross-legged. She saw he had his sword and two daggers in his belt.

'I thought you had stayed in Tirion,' she said. 'When I didn't see you during our march.'

'I was with Finarfin's company,' he said. 'I thought you might be with him, but I suppose you were with Fingolfin instead.'

So he had been looking for her, Lalwendë thought with a flash of triumph. 'But Finarfin went back after the – the kinslaying.'

Something twitched in Glorfindel's jaw, and he looked down. 'I went on.'

'I'm glad you're here,' she said quickly, before she could think better of it. He blinked. 'And – thank you, for saving my life.'

Glorfindel met her eyes and nodded. Then, almost hesitantly, he spoke. 'When you're on deck again – you should be more careful.'

She frowned. 'I didn't fall on purpose. I wasn't being careless.'

'But you still fell,' he said. 'You should – just – be holding onto something. All the time.'

She shifted in the blankets again, ignoring the pain in her torso. 'Laurë, the storm has passed. It's not going to happen again.'

He just stared at her, the candle throwing shadows into his dark eyes. She pursed her lips.

'Elenwë told me you pulled six bodies from the water before me,' she said quietly. He nodded jerkily.

'And two more afterwards.'

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'If we had stayed in Tirion, no elf but Finwë would be dead now,' he said.

'It's too late now to be thinking of what-ifs,' Lalwendë said, shaking her head.

'I thought – when I pulled you from the water, I thought you were dead too,' Glorfindel said. 'You were cold and limp and unresponsive. Then you started vomiting water, and I realised it was you, and I just…' he was staring down at his hands. 'I couldn't have forgiven myself if it was you, and you had been dead.'

'Forgive yourself?' she repeated. 'Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?'

'Fine,' he retorted. 'It wouldn't be my fault, but I'd – I'd be – upset.'

'Upset,' she repeated drily. He stared at her, his jaw set, and she sighed, relenting. 'I'll be more careful on deck.'

His eyes stayed fixed on hers for a beat before he nodded. 'We will be docked in a few hours anyway.'

She blinked. 'Docked?'

'We're almost as far north as we can go. We'll go ashore at Araman.'

Lalwendë shivered. She'd heard of Araman; it was a frozen wasteland, cold and empty, at the northmost point of Aman. Word had it that Morgoth had dwelt for a while there while he was escaping the Valar.

'Will we use the ships to sail across to Middle-earth?' she asked.

'Probably,' Glorfindel said. 'There is no other way except to cross Helcaraxë, and that is impassable. But we don't have enough ships to go altogether.'

'How is that possible?'

'There is ice floating in these waters. It has damaged many of the ships, and they are limping to harbour. We have no tools with which to repair them.'

Lalwendë reached up to rub at her eyes again, and she began to laugh humourlessly. Glorfindel stared at her, looking vaguely concerned. She sniffed.

'It all went wrong very quickly, didn't it?' she said. 'Did you hear what Mandos said after the kinslaying?'

'We all heard it,' Glorfindel said quietly.

'We're going to die. All of us, of grief or torment or violence. And if we don't die, we'll simply wither until we're shells of ourselves.'

'Don't think about it.'

'Why not?' she said miserably. 'Soon we will all live it.'

'Middle-earth is – beautiful,' Glorfindel said suddenly. 'I told you once, I didn't want to leave it while I was there.'

Lalwendë stared at him, loath to interrupt. He went on, his eyes fixed on his intertwined fingers.

'There was no light there but starlight, but it felt different to how it feels in Valinor. The stars in Middle-earth, they feel brighter. Clearer, wilder. And the air there, it makes you feel alive. There are towering mountains, hidden valleys, waterways that don't just flow, they – they roar.'

He glanced up at her, meeting her intent gaze. 'Everything on the Hither Shores is like everything in Aman, but a little less perfect and a little more dangerous. I think you'll like it.'

'Really?' she asked quietly. He nodded.

'The Valar might have put a doom on our heads, but there is still our life to live and beauty to see in the meantime.'

Despite herself, she smiled. 'You know, you aren't as frightening as you pretend to be,' she said. Glorfindel's face softened fractionally.

'And you don't smile as much as you used to,' he said.

She looked down, hoping the dim candlelight wouldn't reveal her blush. 'Can you blame me?'

He shrugged and got to his feet, his emotionless mask sliding back into place. 'I'm going to go back up, but we'll be there soon. I'll send someone to find you when we arrive. Get some rest.'

He didn't wait for a reply, but turned and made his way back to the deck. Lalwendë eased herself back into the pile of blankets and closed her eyes, but she couldn't sleep.


Note on canon: Glorfindel is a Vanyar elf in this story, since he is blonde and one of the elves who awakened at Cuiviénen. However, in The Silmarillion, the only Vanya who made the journey (kinda) to Middle-earth was Elenwë, Turgon's wife. Idk, at this point the Silmarillion is more like a vague suggestion and I am doing whatever the heck I want.

In other news, I've decided that Beginning of Days is going to be my last story. I'm trying to get the rest of it published on this site before things go properly crazy in my life, so the good news is you'll be getting heaps of chapters all the time! Thanks to everyone for your awesome comments and PMs, they make me so, so happy.

Join me next chapter, in which everything is cold and depressing and Fëanor continues to do dumb shit for no reason. S