Chapter 26: Unnumbered Tears

Year 467 of the Sun, Narogrotto

Galadriel did not last long in Doriath after Lúthien left.

She had not paid much attention to it at first because of her grief over Lúthien's death, her shock over her return to life and her melancholy over the princess' departure, but after that took place, Galadriel's mind gradually turned to the Silmaril that must have surely been found in the dreadful wolf's body.

She discovered it was now in Singollo's possession. She was astonished to hear he did not give it to Beren and Lúthien to take with them – she knew it had been set as a bride-price, but that had never been meant seriously, and now that Singollo gained at least some wisdom, she would have expected him to give it to them, for they had at least some claim on it.

They took it from the Enemy and paid with their own blood for it, and the oath notwithstanding, she thought even the sons of Fëanáro could be convinced to leave it in their hands till the ends of their now mortal lives.

Singollo, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. Singollo had no claim on it, and if Lúthien and Beren did not want it, then it belonged rightfully to Maitimo. And such a demand was made, too, as soon as Galadriel's cousin learned that the Silmaril dwelt in Doriath now, and was refused with scornful words by Singollo.

It was in that hour that Galadriel knew she could not stay any longer. She had not meant to be in Doriath long when she last left Narogrotto, and she could not continue in the land of a king who did such terrible thing to his own daughter and who stole what was the heritage of her own people, made by her uncle's hands and wit, not when Lúthien, the only one that had made her stay when last she had wanted to leave, was gone already. She would miss Lady Ernil and Doroneth and wished she had more time with them, and she deeply regretted leaving Queen Melian; but she knew the Queen would hardly feel the time of her absence until they meet again on the other shore, however long it was. Time did not mean the same thing for the Maiar, and she could not remain even for her, not even for Celeborn's kin.

She would have stayed for him, had he insisted, but she spoke to him and he agreed to leave with her. "You've lived in my home for hundreds of years," he said, "and you've justly been disappointed in it. It's now time I lived in yours." And they departed the halls of Thousand Caves and returned to Narogrotto to help with its rule once again.

Midhel went with them, missing her son, but to Galadriel's joy, she took Doroneth and Nimloth with her. Doroneth was unwilling to part from her sister so soon, and Nimloth was a quiet but curious girl who longed to see the famous art of Narogrotto. "It was made by dwarves as well, wasn't it?" She asked on the way. "Is it much like Thousand Caves?"

"You'll see," Galadriel replied, not wishing to take away the first glories view of Narogrotto's carved halls by any description. Nimloth was, indeed, quite satisfied, and her mouth was even a little open as she stood in the entry hall, being welcomed by Artaresto.

It was shortly after their arrival that Maitimo's message of a proposed Union arrived. Inspired by Lúthien's success, and driven by the Oath, Galadriel supposed, he suggested a Union of all free peoples of Middle-Earth against the Enemy, a Union with the purpose of attacking Angamando.

Galadriel did not remember ever being so much of two minds about something before.

She did not believe it could end in glory. Yet again, the words of Lord Námo spoken so long ago sounded in her mind like heard afresh: 'To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.' He spoke of the sons of Fëanáro.

And even that aside...had such an idea come three hundred years ago, she would have been overjoyed. A hundred years ago, she would have been vexed that it had not been sooner, but would have, nevertheless, accepted that it might succeed. But now...they had suffered heavy losses in the Battle of the Sudden Flame, and later, in Findekáno's defence of Hithlum. Yes, the Enemy suffered losses too, but his monsters bred more quickly than elves ever could. His numbers would be replenished soon. Theirs would likely never be, not in times of war, not when there were now so many more nissi than neri.

Maitimo proposed to make up that lack of numbers with dwarves and more Second born than have joined them before, and this was where she doubted too. She did not know those houses of Men that swore allegiance to the sons of Fëanáro, and was unsure of their strength. On principle, she did not believe in anyone whose loyalty was to Curufinwë and Turkafinwë.

Which was yet another problem, practical this time. The people of Narogrotto, feeling guilt for their treason of Ingoldo, blamed it on the brothers and hated them bitterly, and many would be unwilling to march to war on their brother's order. Including Narogrotto's king.

Artaresto could be strong-headed when he wanted, but still, perhaps she could persuade him to change his his mind if she and Artanáro were clearly decided - but her great-nephew was troubled by the same doubts she was.

And yet, despite of all this...she could not imagine, if such a battle took place, that they would not take part. It would be equal to what Turukáno and Singollo did – in fact, Singollo had already let them know that he would not send any of his armies, and fortified his borders instead, to keep the Silmaril hidden – and what she despised about them. But if the whole union was in vain, was this a good enough reason to send Narogrotto's people to war, and to death? That not fighting would be cowardly?

Plagued by such doubts, she left Narogrotto in Artanáro's hands and undertook the dangerous journey north, and the unpleasant need to stay in the same house as Curufinwë and Turkafinwë once again, to speak with Maitimo in person.

She had forgotten, however, that her cousin's mind had now been gnawed on by the Oath for long years, and that she had been worried by his lack of wisdom already the last time she spoke to him. "If Narogrotto is too cowardly to march to war," he said in anger after she explained her misgivings and sought reassurance, "then we can do without it. Sons of Fëanáro need to beg for no help. By rights, you should simply follow my orders."

Galadriel turned and left the room without a word, acutely afraid for her cousin now. The madness of pride that had been his father's downfall and that was so evident in some of his brothers seemed to have finally caught up with him, too. Perhaps he felt humiliated by the success of Lúthien's quest; after all, he was the leader of the sons of Fëanáro, and their quest in Middle-Earth was regaining the Silmarils, and yet they had had no success in almost five hundred years, and then a daughter of a Sindarin king simply came and took one.

Yes, Galadriel expected he felt humiliated and the Oath burned all the brighter for it, but while that might make her feel pity for him, it could not ease her worry.

Macalaurë followed her out of the room and stopped her in the corridor. "Forgive my brother," he said, confirming her thoughts, "the present time is difficult for him."

"I might forgive him," she replied, "but my doubts about the union will remain deepened."

Macalaurë could offer no answer to that, for she saw he doubted himself. She would wish to discuss details with Maitimo, but it was clearly impossible, and having to tolerate Turkafinwë's insolent remarks and Curufinwë's hateful words about Midhel in the feast hall in the evening, she swiftly decided to leave again in the morning, and to travel to Hithlum.

Findekáno was resolute in his determination to join Maitimo in his effort. "He is my friend," he said. "I saved him from the Enemy's captivity, I cannot leave him alone in this. Have faith, it will all tun out well."

"Do you believe my fears are baseless, then?

"No," he admitted, "your arguments are sound. Bit it is not an effort doomed to fail, and as such, we have to try, do we not? We have to have hope."

She sighed. "Hope has to based in reason," she said. "You know I have hope that the Lords of the West will deliver us, but about this battle...not being completely certain it will end in disaster is not the same as trusting there is a good chance of success."

He sighed, and gave her a small smile. "You remain stubbornly pessimistic, as ever. In that case...do not decide."

Galadriel frowned. "I am not that much of a coward."

"Not, but you are not the king of Narogrotto either. Your brother denied you the crown, and did you a disservice in it, but it also means you are free of this responsibility that lays upon my shoulders. You truly do not have to decide. You do not need to take upon you all the heavy weight of kingship without reaping any of the benefits. I will say to you what my father once had – they did not choose you as their queen, and so you are not responsible for them."

"But I am. Do you not see? A father does not stop caring for his children because they reject him. If I withheld my counsel and Narogrotto marched to war and was slaughtered, do you not think I would feel guilt? Or if it stayed hidden, and the battle was lost by that slight margin that meant that had we been there, it would have been won?"

"And would not the guilt be so much worse," he returned, "if you knew these things were not a result of you staying silent, but of your direct council?"

"Yes. But that, at least, would not be cowardly. I never shrunk from responsibility, you know that, beloved."

He smirked at her, even though his smirks were always weighted down by grief and worry nowadays. "Indeed you take the other extreme," he said, "you go out of your way to seek responsibility, when you feel you do not have enough!"

That was one of the best descriptions of her that she ever heard.

Returning to Narogrotto, she mused over Findekáno's advice. She knew she could not take it as it was, but it gave her the germ of an idea. She talked with Artanáro at length after her return, and then they sought out Artaresto.

"Your son and I agree," she said, "that we cannot ask the people of Narogrotto to march to war on the order of such that have wronged them greatly, be they Sindar or from the house of Arafinwë. Not when their own city is still safe. The High King does not command it, after all. But we also believe that to refuse to take part at all would mean not honouring our responsibility for the fates of Middle-Earth. So this is our advice, king: tell your people that any one who wishes to go to join the fight is welcome to do so, and can join Findekáno's ranks, but that you will not give that order."

"And will my son lead the charge?" Artaresto asked bitterly.

"I would be honoured to do so, father," Artanáro replied.

"But I would much rather you did not. I will agree to the cunning plan you and my aunt have devised, on one condition: that you will stay here by my side. Nerwen can do what she wants, as she always does."

"Father..." Artanáro hesitated. "You yourself will not go. If I stay behind as well, hardly anyone from our city will decide to fight. They will lack a leader."

"Make up your mind. I can forbid the people of Narogrotto to march just as well, it is all the same to me."

And so Artanáro, with a heavy heart, agreed.

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When the time for battle finally came, Gwindor was the only one of the city's lords who decided to uphold the honour of his people. He took as many volunteers with him as would go. Most, however, stayed.

Narogrotto had been divided ever since Ingoldo's death, and it showed. There were some, Gwindor among them, who now saw Galadriel as the true successor of Ingoldo, some who remembered the time she wore the dwarven necklace and the message her brother had meant to convey with it. Many of them were the Noldor who still remembered Aman and the journey across the Ice, remembered her in the North. Tyelperinquar was loyal to her, too, and that meant those who remained in the kingdom of Curufinwë's and Turkafinwë's people were inclined to follow her lead. Then there were others, like Gildor, who wished to follow the king that Ingoldo himself had named, but seeing his weakness and Artanáro's strength, turned their trust to the son instead. And some, of course – perhaps half of the kingdom, perhaps more, Guilin among them – clung to their loyalty to Artaresto, trying to trace the face of their old king in his nephew's not dissimilar features. They saw that Artanáro still deferred to his father, and that stopped them from abandoning the king. These were the ones who disliked Galadriel the most. She often made Artaresto's faults obvious with her sharp words in the council, and they despised her for tearing down the dream they wished to dream.

So now, when it was clear that Artaresto did not wish for his people to go and Artanáro would stay behind, and when the king had allowed his people to only join Findekáno's forces, thus making those originally of Fëanáro's host unwilling to go, and when not even Galadriel could offer an entirely ringing endorsement...only Gwindor went, and with him a thousand or so warriors, mostly those loyal to Galadriel or to him, personally, through long service.

Findoiolosse was grieved by this. The day they were to depart, she knelt on the ground before him in the entry hall. "Do not go, my love, do not go," she begged. "I cannot lose you as well, you cannot do it to me."

"I am a warrior," he replied, though it was in a soft voice, "and this is my duty."

"It is not! My father did not give this command!"

"My duty is not determined solely by your father," he said even more softly.

"By whom, then? My great-aunt, who would have us all march to our death at the accursed kinslayer's orders?"

"Findoiolosse," he said sharply.

"Answer me!"

"By my conscience," he said simply, and that was that.

It tore at Galadriel to watch this. They should have been married by now, she knew, and the wedding had been postponed because of the battle. It was one of those many couples where Eru lit his flame in two of very different characters, for all they had grief in common, and Gwindor could be stayed no more than Findoiolosse's mother could have been.

Artaresto stood on the steps leading to the hall next to Galadriel, watching the scene, and the Nolde knew it pained him that his own daughter should come to know the same pain he had, and that he now regretted agreeing to allow anyone who wished to join the fight. He did not, however, take back his word. He had to take solace in knowing that he at least managed to stay firm in his insistence that his son did not go, and that the son choose not to disobey him.

But Galadriel went. Not to take part in battle, but to stay in her house and prepare to receive the wounded, to help in any way she could without breaking her promise to Findekáno.

She liked travelling alongside Gwindor. He was always interesting company, but now he wished to alleviate his guilt for leaving Findoiolosse by talking of her, at least, and so he filled the days of their journey with his memories. Galadriel listened and found, in the stories, aspects of her great-niece that she had never known, happy and cheerful and strong. It made her all the more glad for this marriage that was to take place. Gwindor seemed to truly bring out the best in Findoiolosse.

She was happy to be in her house in Hithlum once again, too, and looking at the hosts of the Noldor prepared in Hitlum, her heart uplifted and she felt hope. And yet...she knew too well that the Enemy had more soldiers hidden in his fortress, so her unease did not completely leave her as she prepared everything that would be needed to treat the injured.

Celeborn was not with her, but his and Lady Ernil's influence at the court of Doriath brought them two helpers, each with a small group of their followers and friends: Beleg and Mablung came to join the battle. Findekáno honoured them as much as he was able, and when he was not, Galadriel hosted them in her house, thankful for this unexpected blessing, small though it might seem. Mablung, she found, was kin to Midhel's mother, so she was happy she could tell him as much about the Sinda's time in Narogrotto as she could remember, and that lately, they were happy memories. Beleg was always there during these talks as well, listening aptly and never leaving his friend's side, and Galadriel wondered at their closeness. She had scarcely seen such unwillingness to be away from each other even with married couples. But perhaps they were simply enjoying this opportunity to be together, when duty often separated them in Doriath? She knew neither well enough to tell.

"You and Beleg are very close, aren't you?" She asked Mablung one day when Beleg was gone to settle some matter with the group that came with him.

To her astonishment, Mablung looked away and, if she was not mistaken, even blushed a little. "Yes, my lady," he muttered.

She frowned. Were they a couple, about to be married? She had always assumed there were no Select couples among the Sindar, for she had never heard of any or seen to any. Besides, surely they knew each other long enough to be wed a hundred times over? But whatever it was, Mablung had clearly no desire to talk about it, and she did not know him well enough to pry, and so she sighed, wondering, and turned the conversation back to Midhel.

The next day, the morning of battle finally came, and the trumpets of the Noldor were sounded, and their banners were raised, and then a cry came from the south, and it was not a cry of fear, but a cry of joy and wonder. And Nerwen sought the minds of those who thus called, and saw through Findekáno's eyes the host of Turukáno, and felt the king's joy as he called: "The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!"

But even in that hour of happiness a dark foreboding came upon Galadriel, thought she did not know of what precisely, and so she did not join in the cries of the many around her that resonated through the valleys: "The night is passing!"

The plan for the battle stated they were not to attack before Maitimo did, and so the long wait for him started. Galadriel could feel the impatience of many almost like a physical force, and used all of her powers of mind to fight it and calm the soldiers to prevent a hasty attack.

But she was not all-powerful, and when Gelmir was brought forward by the Enemy's forces and killed before Gwindor's eyes, she could not control the commander's madness. She felt his grief and anger like a physical force that tore through the ranks of the Enemy, and seeing his attack through Findekáno's eyes, all her visions suddenly resolved themselves, and she stared into the distance in horror as her eyes swelled with tears.

"My lady?" Brannor, standing by her side, asked. "What is it?"

She turned her unseeing eyes to him and whispered: "Run." Then she raised her voice and cried: "Run! For the realm of Hithlum will fall soon, and if you stay here, you will all be slaughtered."

Some did not believe her; but those who knew her long knew also the truthfulness of her visions, and fear appeared in their faces. "And you, my lady?" Brannor asked.

Galadriel thought her heart would splinter into pieces then, for she thought of Findekáno and did not want to abandon him for anything. And yet she remembered, still, the promise she gave him such a long time ago, and so, hardly seeing through the tears that clouded her eyes, she nevertheless extended her mind to call for her horse and went to the passage that led south through the mountains. Looking over the terraces of her house and the green hills behind them for one last time, she mounted her horse, opened the passage, and left forever.

Findekáno, she knew, felt her mind, and she could sense his protests. No, he seemed to say, you have to have hope, you have to have faith, like me, the plan was not followed but we can still win, we are strong, look, my brother came with a strong army, I tell you, we can win, we are pushing through and will be at Angamando's door soon enough, do not give up! But Galadriel knew what truthful, certain visions felt like, and she could not give Findekáno any hope back.

She could not close her mind to his either, however, and as she and those who chose to follow her proceeded through the passage, she watched the battle with his eyes. She saw the triumphant progress of the elven army and the hope it brought. She was not the only one, and some of those who had left Hithlum with her were beginning to mutter that she had led them wrong, that the battle would be won. She did not say anything to them. She did not have the strength. They were long out of the passage through the mountains, and were passing the forest of Brethil on their way to Narogrotto, when she felt the tide turn and saw the Enemy's host burst forward against the Noldor, and them falling back. All throught that night, they watched the desperate fight of her kin even as she travelled south. In the morning, she could feel a new hope in Findekáno, and saw Turukáno's host approaching. Is this a special form of torture, she asked, not knowing whom. Why must they be given hope again and again, only to be disappointed every time, and every time more bitterly than the last?

They were only a few days' journey from Narogrotto when she saw the strength of the Enemy reach Findekáno, and still she did not turn away, feeling the horror Findekáno saw, the death and tragedy all around him as his forces began to crumble, and the field of fire when the lord of balrogs got to him. She saw him fight, strong and unyielding, and yet by her visions knew he would not prevail.

She could already glimpse the gate of Narogrotto in the distance when she saw Findekáno fall. His last thought towards her was: "Get to safety, beloved, and remember your word."

She felt like half of her own soul had been ripped out, and she would have fallen off her horse if the animal had not slowed down in that moment, sensing her distress. In spite of everything, in spite of Ñolofinwë and Ingoldo and her other brothers, she had never known such pain before, and what joy remained to her seemed to be gone in that moment that the third High King of the Noldor fell.

Three great kings, each more beloved by her than the one before, and all slain by the Enemy, Findekáno even without the satisfaction of inflicting a wound on Moricotto himself, being destroyed by his balrogs instead. Her heart bled and her mind screamed in agony.

Her voice shook badly as she told her horse: "Go as fast as you can towards Narogrotto, if you can go in such a way that I will not fall; for I cannot direct you now."

The horse heard her and ran, and she lay on its back with her hands around its neck, tears streaming over its mane, her mind lost in grief over her closest friend and companion, the one who had always been there for her, always, ever since that celebration in Finwë's palace in Tirion when she had been barely five Valian years of age and rose to his defence against Turkafinwë's teasing. It seemed several lifetimes ago, and the girl there seemed to be someone different, a stranger, but from that day on, he had always been there, unflinchingly loyal, and the best friend she could ever wish for, and now he was gone, gone, gone, and she might not see him again for thousands of years, she might not see him again until the end of the world...the thought was impossible, insupportable, unbearable, and she cried and cried.

She could not think about anything until they arrived to Narogrotto, but once she and the refugees that went with her reached the safety of the secret halls, she composed herself enough to face Artanáro, who ran to receive her. "I felt your anguish," he said, "but I could not decipher its cause. What happened?"

"The High King is dead. Hihlum has fallen, and the Enemy is victorious."

Without a single word, Artanáro embraced her, and they wept together.

"Gwindor, too, probably," she remembered after a time. "He was among the first to charge, and...you will have to tell your sister."

Artanáro shook his head. "She knows already. He is not dead, he is captured. We fear Guilin might be fading, and Findoiolosse...my father is with her. She blames me, I fear, and you as well."

That was not very surprising, given that Galadriel blamed herself too.

Only later, in her chambers as Celeborn held her, she gave herself leave to put into words the source of that guilt, and of grief, also, beyond that of Findekáno's passing and Gwindor's capture.

She now understood the true dreadfulness of the doom of the Noldor.

Had Turukáno come out of his Hidden City for Battle of Sudden Flame, they would have won and her brothers would not have been dead. Had Narogrotto joined the battle in full force now, they would have won, too. All of them united, the Noldor would have defeated the Enemy, and so their doom made sure that they never were.

And her own fate seemed to her to be, in this, the bitterest of all, perhaps aside from Maitimo, whose idea had led to so much sorrow. For the path she had chosen, in her indecisiveness, proved to be the worst of all. Had she advised Narogrotto to march to war, the battle would have been won. Had she advised Artaresto to order all of his people to stay inside, Gwindor would not have perished with all his soldiers, and the battle might have been won too, for he would not have started the attack prematurely. Her particular decision led to the most pain that could come from this to the Noldor.

She knew it was the result of the doom that lay upon them all, but it did not diminish the burden of guilt. In anguish, she cried this question to the West: "Why? Why am I being punished so for the mistakes of Fëanáro? I who had no part in them, why should I be visited by such suffering?"

But no answer came, and she felt lost even in Celeborn's arms, lost now without all of those who had been with her through her blessed childhood and young years. There was only Maitimo left, slowly being driven mad by his Oath – and oh, his pain in having contributed to Findekáno's death must be so terrible, when he owed this friend his life – and...Itarillë. The name blazed through her mind like the last beacon of hope, and she cast away her pride and fell to her knees and prayed as she had not prayed since the day Findekáno went to rescue Maitimo to Angamando. "Lords of the West," she said, "if there was ever any good in my actions or intentions, if I ever helped anyone or saved but one life, if I have but the smallest right to ask for something for myself, I beg you for this: do not let Itarillë die. The death of Findekáno was like half of my soul was taken away, but hers would have been a wound deeper than anything imaginable, and if there is one thing I may ask you for, it is her life I want. I do not need to see her again on this shore, but do not let death take her. I entreat you, Lords of the West, and I beg you, the greatest of all, Eru Illúvatar, Immeasurable, have mercy on me and grant me this one wish, if I should never have the right to ask anything of you ever again."

And the stars in the night sky shone brighter.