Chapter 31: Unhoped For

Year 511 of the Sun, the Mouths of Sirion

As years in the Mouths of Sirion passed, gradually, news of a rumour about her reached Galadriel's ears, a rumour that reminded her of her early days in Doriath and the whispers brought to her through Lady Ernil, for now, once again, Celeborn learned of them through his grandmother. He came to Galadriel with a serious expression and said: "I fear Oropher's mind hasn't survived the shock of his wife's death intact."

"What are you saying? He's devastated, yes, but-"

"He spreads lies about you. My grandmother warned me."

"What kind of lies?"

"Of the foulest kind." He paused. "He blames you for his wife's and mother's death, as well as Nimloth's and...the rest."

So they have found someone new to blame for their suffering, beside Túrin. It was not perhaps surprising that as soon as Oropher was well enough to do such a thing, he offered his own explanation, one that agreed with his personal dislike. "Blames me...how, exactly?" Galadriel asked cautiously. Being blamed for death was not new to her – and she blamed herself first of all, and always would, for some of those who died in the Ice, and for many others as well – but if Celeborn said they were lies… "Surely all know it was the sons of Feanor who killed them? Does he claim that I let them in?"

"No. He claims you could have saved our kin. Also...he's using your ancestry against you, once again," Celeborn added, confirming that he, too, was thinking about the past. "He says that you only ran away with Elwing because you wanted to have the Silmaril. He says you only care for jewels and riches, as do all Noldor. He uses the jewels you brought with you from Nargothrond and then from Doriath as a proof."

There was a long silence. "Does anyone believe him?" Galadriel asked at length.

"From what I know...some do. Not all, but...those who...who are bitter because of their losses in Doriath, and search for someone close at hand to blame. Amdír is chiefest among those." That hurt. For all Galadriel knew they were close and he might be influenced by Oropher, she had not expected this. Celeborn saw the pain in her mind, and added: "He might not believe all of it, but he blames you to a degree, that's certain. And as I said, it isn't that all of the Doriath survivors think this, but it's...it's my own family, my love. You can't imagine how it pains me that you have had nothing but enmity from them from the beginning, while yours has always treated me well. And they call the Noldor proud!"

Galadriel pressed his hands. "I understand your pain, but Oropher and Amdír are only two relations of yours. Doroneth was my friend, if perhaps not an intimate one. So was Nimloth. And even now, I don't think Midhel believes these rumours, and Lady Ernil, if I understand you right, even warned you about it."

"Yes. I think many of the...well, wider family that is left...are embarrassed and feeling sorry for Oropher. Many things are forgiven to the recently widowed."

"Yes, and so I'd forgive them too. Oropher's words can't hurt me, and he's in pain. But there are others I'm worried about. I must speak with Artanáro."

"Of course."

She found her great-nephew on the beach. "I need to talk to you, urgently and privately."

Nodding, he walked with her along the shore. "What is it?" He asked.

"Celeborn told me about certain rumours that have come to his attention."

Hearing the story, Artanáro was horrified. "I will speak with Thranduil, and entreat him to speak with Amroth too, for they are friends. I have no intention of turning them against their fathers, but I do hope I can help to shield their minds against the poison."

Galadriel thanked him and walked back into town in a thoughtful frame of mind.

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Rumours driven by bitterness were not her only source of worry either. Elwing was growing as quickly as Dior had been.

Galadriel had been all but certain that it would be so, of course, after seeing her brothers, but they had still been young enough to have some remaining doubts. Elwing was eight years old now, however, and was big enough and clever enough that there was no denying she would be almost an adult once her age doubled.

Galadriel understood, now, why Beren and Lúthien did not take greater care to educate Dior in matters of wisdom.

With the speed these children were growing, it was almost impossible. There was simply not enough time to teach them anything, not when one was ruling a city at the same time.

Lady Ernil helped as much as she could, but the wounds on her soul made it hard for her to be as active as she used to be, and she had other kin to care for. Elwing became Galadriel's daughter in all but a name, as she had only vague memories of her own parents.

Galadriel, however, remembered them, and as Elwing grew, started to see traces of them in her character as clearly as she saw Irissë's form in her face. Elwing had some of Nimloth's quiet curiosity, but also Dior's moodiness, and the latter was strengthened by the gift – or was it a curse? - of foresight she must have received from her Maian great-grandmother. It was difficult for a child to cope with, these vague glimpses from the future, and it was one of the reasons why Galadriel took it upon herself as a special task to raise the little princess.

She remembered others of the hosts of the beloved she had lost, too. She often though of Melian's wisdom and calming presence, of Lúthien's joy in the world around her, before it was marred by her suffering, of Ñolofinwë's advices and long talks with Findekáno and even arguments with Ingoldo. Most of all, however, she thought of Itarillë, and so she believed at first she was going insane from all the longing when she saw her friend again.

A messenger came, announcing that refugees had been found along the banks of Sirion and were being taken to the city, so she went to the river to welcome them and see where they came from and what news they brought. From the first boat that touched the pier, a tall figure in a grey cloak disembarked and stood there for a moment, looking at her intently, before the put down her hood.

For a beat, Galadriel stood without movement, and incredulous, and then she ran to the figure and embraced her with all the strength of love she had. The figure was Itarillë.

Galadriel had not hoped that she could encounter such joy in Middle-Earth again, not unless the Valar had mercy on them all and rode out against Moricotto. She wept on her dearest friend's shoulder, tears of pure happiness, and all around them watched.

It was a long while before they let go of each other, and Itarillë, extending her hand towards the boat, said: "Allow me to introduce my husband, and my son."

Two more cloaked figures stepped onto the pier. The taller one removed its hood, and Galadriel to her amazement saw that he was Second-born.

She turned her eyes to Itarillë, full of question, and her friend replied: "This is Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador."

Túrin's cousin. Suspicion immediately entered Galadriel's mind, but she felt no darkness in this Man, and so for the sake of Itarillë, she put her prejudice aside as her friend turned to her husband and said with a smile: "And allow me to introduce to you my first cousin once removed, and dearest friend, Princess Artanis Nerwen, wife of Lord Celeborn of Doriath that was and daughter of King Arafinwë,High King of the Noldor beyond the Sea."

Galadriel's eyes welled with tears again at this introduction, these titles that she had not heard for a long time, and she smiled at the memory, for Itarillë mirrored exactly the words by which she had introduced her, those years ago, to Celeborn. It seemed out of place here, in her new, modest home, instead of in the rich private dining room of her own house. "And now, apparently, the ruler of the Mouth of Sirion," Itarillë added.

"Along with Celeborn and Artanáro at least," Galadriel explained, "and I am sure they will be here soon to welcome you too. Although you do not know Artanáro, of course," she added, realizing again how long indeed was the time for which they had not seen each other.

"Artanáro is your son?" Itarillë asked, smiling.

"No. I have no children; Artanáro is my great-nephew, Artaresto's son." She noted Itarillë's surprise that she would be here with that particular relation's child, and sighed again. There was so much Itarillë did not know. "But you do have a son, you said, so let me see him." And she turned to the last figure on the pier.

The boy put down his hood and Galadriel saw that he was very beautiful, and seemed about as old as Elwing. "His name is Eärendil Ardamírë," Itarillë said, and added with a touch of pain in her voice, "he is eight years old."

Exactly like Elwing then. "We have a little princess here who will like to meet him, I believe," Galadriel said with a smile intended for the boy. Her thoughts were darker. It grieved her greatly that Itarillë should know Lúthien's wound too – and perhaps all of them. She feared the answer yet needed to know, but there was time for that. First, she had to make sure of the grief she knew in her heart must be behind their arrival. "Has the Hidden City fallen?"

"Yes," Tuor said, speaking for the first time, in a heavy voice of a slightly accented Quenya. "Ondolindë is no more."

And so the Enemy's final victory is approaching, Galadriel thought. Aloud, she said: "Then welcome here, refugees, and may you feel as welcome as we did when we came from the fall of Doriath, and may at least some of your grief be washed by Ulmo's waters and by the sound of the Sea."

Celeborn arrived, and joined in their welcome and began arranging everything about places for them to stay. Sending him a grateful look, she took Itarillë by the arm and said: "Come with me. He will take care of everything, and I much desire to speak with you."

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"They are all dead, Nerwen."

It was later, they were seated in Galadriel's rooms, and Itarillë was telling her of the fall of Ondolindë. She had sang it in a song, first, a long lay Galadriel could sense she had composed on their long way south, when they rested under the open skies, afraid the Enemy would find them and attack at any moment. That pressing fear was as much part of that story as the longing and grief. But now the song was over, and Itarillë was speaking in plain words.

"My father and Laurefindil and Ehtelion and...everyone. All of them. The city was destroyed."

"How did the enemy find you?"

Itarillë hesitated. "I was not sure if I should include this in the Lay...Do you know what happened to my aunt?"

"I know – or believe – that she married Eol the Dark Elf and had a son, but later she ran from him and he pursued her and killed her. I do not know how or why this marriage came about, and it has been puzzling me for a long time."

Itarillë sighed. "You are mostly correct in your belief. Eol tried to kill his son, in truth, but Irissë jumped in the way of his spear."

Galadriel was horrified. In spite of all the cruelty Curufinwë had displayed towards Midhel, she knew he would have never tried to hurt his son, not intentionally. And she had thought there could be no one more fell...

Itarillë continued: "As for the origins of her marriage, she died much too soon for us to truly know, but we believe it was brought on by the spells of Eol."

Galadriel looked at her incredulously. "Some dark elf managed to overpower with his spells the daughter of Ñolofinwë? Forgive me, but I have trouble believing that. You know we were never friends, but if your aunt was not something, she was not weak, or pliable."

Itarillë sighed. "I have often wondered about that," she admitted. "I think she was curious, and so opened herself to him. You know how she was – she would never turn back when she sensed danger."

That was true enough, and Galadriel nodded to Itarillë to continue.

"She ran away from Eol only when her son, Lómion, asked her for it. They came to Ondolindë, but Eol followed them and was brought in – and oh, how bitterly that was regretted later. Father gave him a choice between staying and dying, since he did not allow those who knew the way into Ondolindë to leave again...and he said he chose death, and for his son, too. You know the rest." She closed her eyes. "I think my father never before or after regretted so bitterly that we closed ourselves off from anyone. The spear was poisoned, but none of our healers were good enough to recognize it. If we could have but consulted with you, it is likely that my aunt would have been alive now. As it was, she died and Eol was thrown down from the city walls." She exhaled. "I have never been so sorry for not being a better student of yours, either."

Galadriel shook her head. "Healing was never your passion, forcing yourself into it would have done you no good."

"Yes, but then, it had not been your passion either, had it?"

"Not quite, but I have always wanted to rule my own realm and take care of the people there. I was able to see healing as an extension of that, the same as learning military strategy and basics of economy. That gave me the will to learn. I know you have never desired that."

"Hardly something to boast of, having no desire to care for my people as the king's daughter."

Galadriel pressed her hand. "Do not do this to yourself, beloved. Rather, continue. You still have not told me how the Enemy found you."

"It was Lómion. He...I was suspicious of him from the start. He said he loved me, but I believe it was the same dark thing that his father had felt for his mother. He hated Tuor after he came, and desired me. He was caught by the Enemy when he broke the law and crossed our borders, and told him how to get to Ondolindë." She paused. "He tried to keep us, me and Ardamírë, when we were running. Tuor killed him."

Galadriel embraced her for a moment. "How did the secret way out of the city came to be, the one you mentioned in the Lay?" She asked then.

Itarillë sighed. "Soon after Lómion came, I had people construct it. I have foresight too, though not as strong as you, and I knew that with him, danger had arrived."

Galadriel smiled. "Do you see? You did extremely well," she said. "All that were saved were saved thanks to you."

"You taught me well," Itarillë replied, smiling sadly in return. "But we still would not have survived if it had not been for Laurefindil. He was a steady pillar of support to me during my years in Ondolindë, and we often remembered you together. Except for you, I could never ask for a better friend. He swore he would protect me and my family, and he did. That part is not in the Lay yet, but he defended us when we were leaving with the refugees. A balrog attacked us, and he fought him, and they both died. Then we would have been slain by the orcs that followed the fiery monster, but the King of Eagles and his subjects rescued us this time."

"The eagles..." Galadriel's mind wandered to those sweet days in Hithlum, in the beginning. "They have always been loyal to the house of Ñolofinwë, have they not?"

"Yes, for we love them dearly. Do you know that the King brought grandfather's body to us, from Angamando? We owe him so much. I said I would miss him when we were leaving, and he promised he would come to see me, even here in the south and far from the mountains. So perhaps I can introduce you."

Galadriel smiled. She never had the easy friendship with eagles that many of those most beloved by her did, but perhaps that would change now. So many things have changed… "And Tuor?" She asked. "How did you meet, when I was not allowed into Ondolindë for the whole of its existence? How come he could enter?"

"He brought us a warning directly from Lord Ulmo, to leave our city. A warning my father chose to ignore."

"So there were two such fools..."

Itarillë looked at her, confused. "We were given the warning, too," Galadriel explained. "Túrin, your husband's cousin, made sure we did not heed it. I see we were not the only ones."

"But what was a Man doing in Doriath, and having so much influence?"

"Not Doriath, Narogrotto. It is a long story, one I will tell later. Though Doriath had had a warning too, and paid no mind to it either. But I would not have expected Turukáno of all people to be foolish in this way."

"His years in Ondolindë changed my father. He grew more arrogant."

Galadriel thought of Singollo again. The parallels were really striking, even though she had not known Singollo before he ruled Doriath. She had heard some things from Lord Ciryatan and her grandfather-in-law, and it seemed that the two kings had had so very much in common.

It was clear that this change she had watched in her father pained Itarillë. It was hard knowing that his downfall had been almost entirely his fault, Galadriel understood.

"Anyway," Itarillë continued, wishing to turn her mind from that painful subject, "Tuor came, and I grew to love him soon enough. My father loved him too, so he did not object."

"In this, then, you were blessed. Has the story of Lúthien reached you?"

"Yes. We have heard it, and my father talked to me about it when I told him of my love for Tuor. 'You need not fear,' he had said, 'that I would ever do to you what Elwë did to his daughter. I do not understand how any parent can.'"

And just like that, Galadriel was ashamed of herself once more, for comparing her cousin to Singollo. They had some traits in common, yes, but there was a world of difference between them. "In this your story is very different from Lúthien's," she agreed, and steeled herself for the next question. "But what of your fate? Will you choose to follow Tuor into death, like she had with Beren?"

"I have not been presented with that choice," Itarillë replied. "But if I had, I would have rejected it. I love Tuor dearly, but I love you as well, and my father, and Uncle Findekáno and grandfather and my mother and the friends I left in Aman...I know they long to see me again. No, I hope to sail West one day...with Tuor."

At Galadriel's surprised look, she elaborated. "My Sight tells me that I will sail, though I do not know when, and that I will go with him; and he feels the pull of the sea. Lord Ulmo spoke to him in person, so surely it is not that much to hope that he might be accepted in Aman?"

"His would be a special grace indeed," Galadriel said, in wonder, "but I trust Lord Ulmo, and I trust your Sight."

"You are one of the few who do, then," Itarillë muttered.

"Oh, beloved. We all know this pain. You have to meet Elwing – she is only a little girl and is plagued by visions already. I have been doing my best to help her, but I will be happy to have another who knows what it is like. And your son, too, could be the perfect companion for her." They would age at the same speed.

Itarillë laughed. "I will be happy to meet her, but I do not even know who she is! You have to tell me your story now."

And so Galadriel did. Itarillë listened and pressed her hands and embraced her many times, and when Galadriel finished, gave a deep sigh. "I am so sorry," she said. "I at least have been mostly content in Ondolindë for all these years."

Galadriel smiled sadly. "I have been content for a long while as well – a century and half at least. The tragedies came only after that, Ohtarwen's death and Irissë's...but even then...I believe the truly darker times came only when your grandfather started to insist on an attack on Agamando. Dark premonitions weighted on me...and then, of course, they started to come true."

Itarillë closed her eyes and nodded. "It had been so painful," she said, "simply sitting there and doing nothing, even though we knew our kin was dying around us. That was why I convinced Father to let our armies march into the last battle – I could not go through that again." She smiled self-deprecatingly. "Not that it did much good."

"That was hardly your fault," Galadriel pointed out, silently adding it was mine. "And Findekáno at least met his brother once more before the end. I truly believe he was grateful for that."

"Did you...could you feel him, when he died? I was cut away from everything in the city."

"Yes." She sighed sadly in memory. "He told me to stay alive...and so I did, though sometimes I feel like it was too much to ask."

Itarillë embraced her again, and Galadriel said: "It is better now. I have you." For now, she added silently.

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Directly after her talk with Itarillë, Galadriel went to see Artanáro. "You are the High King now," she said without preamble.

"I should not be," he replied, looking out of the window of the so-called palace – the house had only three floors, and only a few rooms in each. It was much smaller than her house in Hithlum had been. "The title should go to Princess Itarillë, or to her son at least."

"It should," Galadriel agreed. "But it does not. You do not intend to reject it, do you?"

He hesitated. "No," he said at length. "Though it seems foolish to call myself the High King when all I can rule over is this little bit of land."

She smiled bitterly. "And the sons of Fëanáro, too," she added. "Do not forget them."

"If there ever was time that they were all ruled by something but their Oath, it is gone now," he replied. "But still...you always told me, ever since I was little, that if I stayed my course I would be a good ruler. I suppose I feel the need to try."

"You already have tried, in Tol Sirion and later in Narogrotto, and you were good at governance, given the limited powers you had. And there is no need to pretend humbleness in front of me, beloved. You know I know you too well for that. I was drawn to you, even when you were a child, because I felt a kindred spirit in you. You want to be king."

"Yes," he admitted, "but so do you, for all the good it has ever done to you. I might want it, but it does not make me not see all those who have better right to it, like Princess Itarillë or young Prince Eärendil or you."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, Itarillë has no desire to rule and Eärendil is eight."

"And you?"

She smiled, a little sadly, a little bitterly. "I am used to disappointments."

He thought for another moment. "Itarillë has no desire to rule?" He asked. "I have been considering making her the Lady of the Mouths of Sirion, at least. I know it is not much of a title, but it is the only one I can give – a strange thought, that, that I can grant titles – and it seems fair to me to give her something at least, if I am robbing her of the kingship."

Galadriel considered this. "It is a good plan," she said then. "If she does not wish to, she really will not need to do anything – you can take care of it all, and yet it gives her a title to pass to her son. Yes, I approve."

"I hope you do not feel...slighted, that I did not offer it to you. I have very little to give, as you know. There is the position of my chief councillor, but I am not sure if I would not give offence by it, given our situation..."

She smiled at him. "No," she said. "I think I would like being your chief councillor, if you can accept that I will not always show the proper respect to my king."

Finally, he turned to her. "Please," he said, and he sounded a little desperate. "Do not act differently towards me than you had before. From anyone else, I can take it, but not from you."

Her smile brightened. "Well, you are in luck," she said. "I never was in much of a habit of giving respect to the High Kings." She paused for a moment, as she went in her mind through all of those she had know. "Well, that is not entirely true, I suppose. Ingwë, High King of the Eldar, never got anything but respect from me. But I had little of it for Finwë or Singollo, grandfather Olwë seemed too weak to me then, and Ñolofinwë and Findekáno were both too close friends of mine. So your chances are good."

He took her hands. "Being a close friend of yours," he said, "will always be more valuable to me than any kingship."

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"Aunt Galadriel," Elwing asked her one day, about a year after Itarillë's arrival to the Mouths of Sirion, which were now renamed New Havens by her, "why does Uncle Oropher always leave the room when you come in?"

Galadriel heaved a deep sigh. She had hoped Elwing would not notice, but it had been a vain hope. And she did want the girl to be strong and wise… "Your uncle doesn't like me," she replied.

"But why doesn't he like you? I like you! You're my favourite person...maybe after Mîr, because Mîr is great."

Galadriel smiled in spite of herself. "Thank you, and I'm sure Mîr n'Ardhon would be very grateful too. But opinions on such things can differ."

Elwing frowned. "That's still no reason to walk off like that, is it? I mean, I don't like Laerwen either, and I don't walk away every time I see her. I'm sure you'd scold me and tell me I was being rude."

"And you're perfectly right. Why don't you like Laerwen?"

"Because she always wants to stay with Mîr and never leaves us alone." Galadriel smiled again, at that. Laerwen – or more properly Lírewen, but Elwing was slow to learn Quenya and did not like using it, in spite of it being her best friend's native tongue - was one of Itarillë's handmaidens, the one tasked with keeping watch on the young prince at all times. "But you haven't really answered my question. Why does he leave the room?"

"Your uncle is in pain. His wife and mother died when we were escaping from Doriath."

Elwing looked sad for a moment, but then she said: "But both of my parents died, and my brothers, too. And you'd still scold me. It's no excuse, is it? And I still don't know why he doesn't like you either. I told you why I don't like Laerwen, so tell me why my uncle doesn't like you."

Galadriel sighed. But Elwing was almost ten, and by human count, that was not so very little any more. "Your uncle thinks," she said heavily, "that I only saved you from Doriath because I wanted to have the Silmaril."

Elwing looked shocked. "But...but that's a terrible thing to say! And it's stupid, too, because you just keep it locked in a chest and only let me look at it when I beg a lot. Why would you want it so much and then keep it locked in a chest?"

"As I've said, beloved, your uncle's in pain. Don't blame him for this."

"But what if someone believes him?" Elwing seemed truly worried.

"Calm down. Most don't."

"Still, I'd very much like to convince everyone it's a lie." She frowned. "Can I go now? I want to speak with Mîr."

Galadriel let her, feeling there was some plot in the air.

She had been right, too. Elwing came back a day later, begging to be able to wear the Silmaril publicly. Galadriel was very much against the idea, but she did not want the girl herself starting to believe that her great-aunt wanted the jewel for herself, and so she assented, against her better judgement.

The dwarven necklace with the Silmaril on her throat, Elwing ran out of the house to the main square. Ardamírë was waiting for her, whispering something in her ear, and when Galadriel stepped out after her, Elwing suddenly called: "People of New Havens!"

Everyone present on the square turned, and they stared, transfixed, at the beauty that stood before them. All the attention clearly made Elwing a little nervous, and she needed some more support from Ardamírë before she could say: "I want you to see that I can wear the Silmaril freely, and that Lady Galadriel doesn't keep it from me." Ardamírë whispered some more, and Elwing vigorously nodded and said: "Also, I want you to know that she has my complete trust, and as a sign of that..." She paused, and Ardamírë stepped to her and took the dwarven necklace off. Elwing took it and finished: "...I want her to wear it!" And she approached the astonished Galadriel and stood on her toes to reach her neck and put the necklace on.

And all of New Havens gazed in wonder.

Galadriel herself was dazed for a while, but she regained her senses soon enough, and said: "Thank you, my princess, for such trust, but I can't fully accept the gift. Allow me to share it with you until such time as you reach adulthood and can rule your people in your own right."

Elwing beamed at her, apparently content with such solution, and Galadriel, who found herself unable to refuse outright, mentally shrugged. She was apparently entwined in the Silmaril's fate already anyway, so what difference did it make?

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AN: Eärendil Ardamírë is Eärendil's full name, and Mîr n'Ardhon is the Sindarin translation of his mother-name.

King of Eagles is Thorondor, of course.

And I fully admit that one of the main reasons I wrote this last scene was to have Galadriel wear the Nauglamír with the Silmaril, at least for a while. She might be resistant to that temptation, but I am not.