When it came to the plans and the counsel of the elves, "soon" was a relative term. To the immortal First Born who had been before the sun and moon had ever arisen, who had seen thousands of years come and go, "soon" was even more of a relative term, and by saying to Gil-Galad during that first meeting after Glorfindel and Gloredhel arrived in Forlond that she intended to go east "soon" to take counsel with Celebrimbor and seek out Gwaihir, Gloredhel did not necessarily mean even that month, that season, or even the rest of that year. Yes, there was a shadow on the horizon—no longer nameless, no longer faceless—but the shadow was not so near, not yet, that the greatest of haste was necessary.
From Forlond by the sea to Ost-in-Edhil in the east was a journey of some seven-hundred miles or more across a land that was now totally foreign to Gloredhel, a land no longer totally at peace from the Shadow. Much greater caution would be necessary than would have been necessary even five-hundred years ago before Annatar ever first came to the elves. Gloredhel would not be traveling alone, of that she was absolutely sure, not that she would particularly want to travel alone, anyway. Glorfindel, she thought, would be unlikely to travel with her. She had always been closer to Uncle Feanoro and his sons than her twin had, and there were duties and concerns at court, with the High King, and with Elrond that would probably keep him in the west. Tallagon, at the very least, among their old followers would probably insist on traveling with her.
No matter who traveled with her, there was much to be done to plan a trip that would take her maybe as many as two thousand miles round-trip across fair and strange lands, depending on how much searching it took to find the Great Eagles, and might last months. There were maps to study and routes to decide, companions to find and supplies to gather, and so many other details.
Weather. What is the weather like in Eriador, and in what months is it best to travel? Adverse weather conditions did not affect the First Born, but traveling wet and cold, for example, was still unpleasant. At least, my once-bad foot will no longer leave a trail a blind man could follow on top of the snow, though I hope there will be no snow.
Gloredhel was not particularly fond of snow or of cold. Watching the children in Gondolin play in the drifts and throw snowballs at each other had cheered her. Rog talking about the use of metal or bone to create ice skates so that children or adults could skate on the frozen waters of the Tumladen interested her.
And yet the snow still reminded her of the Helcaraxë.
At least, my bad foot is whole once more.
Sometimes, even in recent years on rare occasions, Gloredhel still unthinkingly fell back into her old way of walking. Even with Curufin's contraption compensating for her three-and-a-half missing toes and badly mangled heel—it was not a prosthetic like Neylo's rarely worn 'hand'—it had still been impossible for her to walk totally normally. Just being able to walk with comparative ease, even with a hitch in her gait, had been a blessing. There would always be one kind thought in her heart for Cousin Curvo because of what he had done for her.
Aside from all the inherent complexities of as well as the planning that went into planning her journey to the east, Gloredhel found that there was much to do in and around Forlond, also, that kept the time passing quickly. Forlond was a large city, different from any Gloredhel had really ever known before because of its port and the ships that seemed to come and go no matter the hour of day or night. Vinyamar, where Turgon had settled his people in Nevrast for some decades after leaving Lake Mithrim, had been on the coast, but it had not been a port. Yes, ships could land on the beaches below, and their crews could climb up the cliff paths to the city.
But that did not make Vinyamar a port.
Forlond was a large city with much to see. Here, Gloredhel was no longer strictly a High Princess of the Noldor, or if she was, it was as empty of a title as Lady of the House of Hammer of Wrath, but the lessons that Gloredhel had learned from her grandfather and from her uncle never left her. A good ruler did not remain in their palace or their tower, never seen, never heard except when the people came to them for judgment and help. Gloredhel spent hours, day after day, week after week, month after month, wandering the streets and docks of Forlond, sometimes with Tallagon or another of their followers, sometimes with her twin, often alone.
Slowly, as the days and weeks and months passed, Gloredhel began to learn the city as well as she had known Gondolin, to know its people and their stories and needs. Wandering the streets also helped Gloredhel quickly become accustomed to this strange dialect of Sindarin now so widely spoken. Even after the people grew accustomed to her and no longer treated her with the deference typically shown to one of Finwe's house, there was always great respect in their looks, their words, their bows of greeting and farewell. Sometimes she wondered what tales of her might have been told, stories that had not made it into the histories of the First Age, the mighty and colorful volumes housed in libraries here and across the sea.
There was much to do at court, as well. Though she had no interest in the position, Gloredhel quickly found herself ensconced as Lady of the Court in some respects by the overworked steward. Since Gil-Galad was unmarried and Artanis was somewhere in the east, there had not been a lady to help manage those particular duties that generally fell either to the king's wife or the senior-most lady of his family or household. It was tedious work, studying budgets and guest-lists for court events and approving shopping lists for the kitchens and being briefed on upkeep work around the palace and doing many other such tasks, work that Gloredhel had not found herself doing in sixteen-hundred-and-eighty years, and much more complicated than she was used to. Helping run the court of the High King of the Noldor was much different and much more involved than managing the household side of the House of the Hammer of Wrath. The forges and all that were Rog's problem … and our steward's. Sitting in council meetings with her twin would more interesting, but there was work to be done that she could do that helped Gil-Galad, work that fell to her as the eldest living woman of the House of Finwe and the eldest living female relative of Gil-Galad, and helping her cousin made the tedium worth-while.
The High King's councilors still continued to push the issue of the line of succession in the weeks and months after the return of Gloredhel and Glorfindel to Middle Earth. She heard about the discussions or perhaps arguments from time to time, though they never happened in the council meetings that she was actually able to attend when not dealing with other duties, and saw the fruits of the discussions in the faces and demeanor of her cousin and brother. As long as the succession rules and customs of the Noldor in Exile remained the same, this was not currently her problem. If Glorfindel ever ascended the throne, however—May it never be! For many reasons—it would, considering one of his first actions would be to make her his heir.
He has made that more than clear to me and Gil-Galad.
In all of her time spent in Forlond, one inhabitant of the city that never ever crossed her path, no matter the amount of time Gloredhel spent in or around the libraries, was Pengolodh. Whether that was simply good fortune or good timing on her account or whether someone had told the Loremaster that it would be wise for them to never meet, she did not care. She was just glad not to have to deal with him, not to have to test the control she had over her temper if the two ever met again.
As in any new location, there were always new birds to befriend. Well, not befriend, not really, for they were wild animals even if they were willing to be coaxed down to speak with her because she spoke their tongues, often for the sake of a bribe of fish or seed or other foodstuff depending on the species. There were many types of birds that dwelt along the seacoast or on the coasts of the Gulf of Lhûn or that dwelt in the grasslands or forest or on the mountains. Ravens. Crows. Raptors. Albatrosses. Seagulls. Ducks and geese. Cranes. Gulls. Owls, large and small. Pelicans. Herons. And, of course, within the city there were jewel-birds in the gardens and doves and pigeons on the roof-tops. Sometimes even one of the Ravens of the North came as far south and west as Forlond. They were far larger, far wiser, and much more long lived than regular ravens, and like the Great Eagles, some even could speak the tongues of men and elves.
What news the birds could bring Gloredhel and of how much interest or use that news was varied by species. Sea-birds brought her news of shipping and of fish. So much about the fish! Doves, pigeons, and jewel-birds sometimes had interesting news about comings and goings within Forlond or at the port and about interesting meetings, but sometimes their news was nothing more than what Gloredhel would lump under the broad category of "gossip." More wide-ranging birds like raptors usually had more helpful news of the land and those that roamed it.
For Gloredhel, this endeavor also provided excellent opportunities to return to teaching Aeweneth the bird-tongues as Tyelko had taught her once long, long ago. The varied species with their varied tongues also provided good examples of the difficulty of conversing widely with birds, as opposed to other species. (Tyelko had been able to talk to more animals than just birds, tongues that Gloredhel had never learned from him. I wish I had. It would have proved useful more than once.) Speaking to birds—understanding their languages and answering them back in kind—was not a simple thing.
Save somewhat for the Great Eagles or the Ravens of the North who spoke the tongues of Men and Elves and understood a little more of their terminology and thoughts, birds, whether raptors, garden jewel-birds, or sea herons, they all spoke of the world around them in terms that were predicated on their own understanding of the world around them, not in human terms. One had to learn those nuances to understand what they were saying and had to learn how to phrase your own questions in those terms to truly be able to have a conversation.
The twins' time in Forlond also gave them time to get to know Elrond further. He was an interesting man. Young yet old. Curious and eager, yet world-weary in some respects. Friendly, yet restrained. Slow to open up and trust. A man with hidden depths. It would be interesting to continue to get to know him in the coming months and years and long-years, especially given Glorfindel's moment of Sight that it was Elrond on whom the majority of their focus and protection would need to center.
One interesting event that occurred during the first few months after Gloredhel and Glorfindel arrived in Forlond was Gil-Galad's begetting day. Their cousin apparently preferred not to be feted on the day, to let it pass quietly with only his family and the smallest of festivities. Gloredhel found out about when his begetting day, just over a month ahead of time from Elrond, as it happened, and she knew immediately what she would give Rodnor.
Family, for the House of Finwe, was complicated … for many reasons, which varied by house and by lineage.
Lost parents.
Lost siblings.
Conflicts between parents and children, between siblings, between cousins.
It had been far too common even before Beleriand and the Wars of the Jewels had reduced the House of Finwe, for a time, to two or three living members. Depending on where Maglor is actually alive or not.
Those issues were easy enough to find examples of in her own life. Gloredhel had always been close to her twin—one heart and one fea in two bodies, some have said of us—and had been close from her childhood with Neylo, with Findo, with Tyelko, but her relationship with her parents had been conflicted. (She had been closer in some ways to her Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen). Her relationship with Aredhel, for example, had long been strained before their deaths largely because of Gloredhel's complicated relationship with her mother.
I wonder if we all would have been happier if I had been Fingolfin's daughter and Aredhel's Irime's daughter, for I always have thought that Amil loved Aredhel more than she loved me.
Aredhel always took more after Amil than I did.
Family had always been one thing Rodnor was especially short on. In the months since arriving in Forlond during many lengthy and wide-ranging discussions over a cup of tea or a glass of wine, the twins had learned much about their cousin. Born in Nargothrond in F.A. 440, he had been sent away for safekeeping to Círdan in 455 after the Dagor Bragollach. Even with elvish memories, his memories of his parents and sister were few. He had never known his grandfather, Angrod, had never even met his grandmother, Eldalótë, of course, since she had remained in Valinor. He had barely known Ingo, had never met his paternal great-grandmother, had only met Arafinwë during the War of Wrath, which isn't exactly the time for family bonding.
Family was a complicated thing for the House of Finwe. Stories of those you never knew or barely knew from family members or devoted followers could not replace actually knowing someone. In Forlond, as autumn had faded into winter, Gloredhel and Glorfindel had spent many an evening in Rodnor's study, and she had made a point, especially, to speak of family and the past Before it all when there was no pressing business to discuss.
Nothing could replace knowing the person yourself, but stories could give one a picture of a person, snippets of what they were like as people. Pictures themselves could also help depict what someone had been like in the past, what someone was like. A picture was worth many words, a wise man had once said, and that was why Gloredhel knew immediately what she would give to Rodnor for his begetting day: pictures of the family he had barely known or never known.
To put faces to the names from our stories.
Like with Erestor and our stories of his father. (Gloredhel likewise had plans for when her nephew's begetting day happened next year.)
The problem was that Gloredhel was an utter perfectionist, especially when it came to her paintings and her sketches. She had brought her boxes of pigments and her cases of brushes and charcoal sticks from Valinor, tucked away in her trunk with personal items, and it had been easy enough to acquire some canvases suitable for paint and charcoal in Forlond. The problem was her perfectionism. She had been blessed with physical sight that was extraordinary even by elvish standards, and that meant that when she was sketching or painting, she noticed every flaw, every wobble of her stroke, every smear of paint where she didn't want it … even when no one else did.
And that troubled her. Annoyed her, mostly.
Flaws could be endured when the sketches were for her workbooks, seen largely if not entirely by her eyes alone, but for a gift? It needed to be perfect or as perfect as Gloredhel could make it, and that took time.
Even with a month's warning of Rodnor's begetting day, Gloredhel found herself coming down to the final hours to finish her gifts. Late the night before his begetting day, she was still sitting at the large table that dominated the sitting room that she and Glorfindel shared. Three large oil lamps and several candles lit her workspace to a workable standard, though sunlight would have made her job easier. In the hearth a fire burned brightly, its hissing and crackling a calming backdrop for her work, and its warmth beat back the chill of the icy winter wind that now and then rattled the window-pains hidden behind tightly drawn curtains.
Before her on the table, a canvas was propped up on a stand. Gloredhel was generally standing up to work, but she had sat back down, pushing her chair back from the table, and was attempting to sketch the detailed contours of a face on a scrap of paper, using a book she had grabbed at random from one of the nearby shelves as a flat surface. Charcoal was a complex medium to work with, easily smudged and not always easily changeable, and it was safer, especially on complicated elements like faces, to work out how she wanted that element to work on scrap paper and then add those details to her works in progress. She had moved her chair back enough from the table in order to not risk bumping it. With so many lamps and candles out for light, Gloredhel did not want to risk upsetting anything and watch her hours of work get covered in lamp oil or go up in flames.
I need to put my paint-oil away. That is especially flammable.
With a sigh of deep frustration, Gloredhel set her charcoal stick back down on a piece of waxed paper and used the edge of her finger to smudge out a line that displeased her. On the piece of scrap paper that she was practicing with had emerged over the preceding hour one of multiple variations of Orodreth's face, or rather half of his face.
It's just not quite right. It's not like I remember.
"Having trouble, sister?" Glorfindel asked, appearing on the threshold of his bedroom. (Their set of rooms had probably been designed with a married couple in mind, and two separate bedrooms flanked the sitting room in the middle, with separate bathrooms for each bedroom. It made a perfect suite for the twins to share.) Warily, he eyed the table, a conflagration waiting to happen if anything went wrong, especially around the spot where she had spilled paint-oil earlier.
Gloredhel scrubbed her hands across her face and pushed a few strands of hair that were falling out of her hair-pins out of her face. "Immense trouble, Laure," she replied, straightening in her chair and giving him a tired half-smile.
Her twin stepped forward and extended his hand to take the partial sketch. Gloredhel passed it across for his perusal. "Ah, Orodreth," he said, recognizing the face immediately even though it was only half completed. "You are on to the last sketch, then?" She had kept to their rooms for most of the day to work, but he had been in and out.
Gloredhel nodded, motioning idly to the canvas sitting on the far end of the table and the canvas that was propped up in another chair next to the table. Unlike the work in front of Gloredhel, both of those other canvases were finished, and both would be widely considered as examples of some of her finest work, though she might have quibbled with that label and pointed out areas where there could have been some improvement with more months to work.
The first canvas, the one lying on the table, was labeled in Gloredhel's neat handwriting: High King Finwe and his children, Tirion, Y.T. 1400. Drawn in charcoal, the picture depicted the great square that abutted the House of Finwe in Tirion, the same where Feanor and his sons had sworn their fateful oath. Finwe and each of his five children were present, drawn in full court dress, clearly in the midst of some discussion. Despite the inherent formality of the scene, some aspects of the personality of all those present were still clearly depicted, facial expressions and body language sketched out in black. At the very bottom of the canvas, small labels had been added in the smallest Tengwar that Gloredhel could possibly write with a quill and ink.
Glorfindel frowned for a moment as he studied the canvas, and the look quickly began to put a knot in her stomach. Does he not like it? Is it not good enough? Then, after a few seconds, instead of voicing criticism, he said, "I don't remember this. It wasn't often that you got all five of them in the same room, well, the same courtyard together. Aunt Findis rarely left Valimar and braved the family drama at home."
Gloredhel snorted wryly. "You were reading at your desk, and for once, it wasn't actually an all-out argument. Their voices never got loud enough for me to hear."
His brow furrowed, and for a moment her twin stared off into the distance as if trying to recall the memory himself. "Where were you? Were you downstairs or in the courtyard?"
"Goodness no!" Gloredhel exclaimed. "If I had been in the courtyard, they would have seen me and stopped arguing about whatever it was, even Uncle Feanoro. I was upstairs with you, sitting in the window seat, daydreaming and … sketching pictures of Huan, too many pictures of Huan."
Not what I was supposed to be doing, as I recall.
"What were you supposed to be doing? And is it possible to have too many pictures of Huan?" mused Glorfindel.
She choked on a laugh and grinned. "Ah, not that. Probably something for my art-master, but I do not recall without further thought. And … well, not really, but my work was more doodling, I suppose, wasting paper. I had better pictures in my sketchbook in my room."
The angle was obtuse enough from where I was sitting that it was easy to see their faces well.
They would have seen me watching … if they had thought to look up.
It only took a little work to change the perspective from my memory.
The second canvas, the one sitting in the adjoining chair, was by far the most elaborate work of the three. It was labeled Finarfin and his children, Tirion, early Y.T. 1410s. The painting, for it was drawn not in charcoal but in full and elaborate color, depicted the gardens that adjoined the House of Finwe in Tirion in the full bloom of spring. Angrod and Aegnor were scuffling, all in good fun, as clear by their faces. A young Orodreth was attempting to scale an amused Finrod like he would a tree, and Artanis was watching the entire scene with sisterly exasperation, Arafinwë with fond indulgence.
"I remember this evening!" Glorfindel exclaimed. "Fingon was there, too. You two were at the other end of the garden practicing with your bow for quite some time, or you were practicing and he was coaching."
"Mmm-hmm."
"You had been in a … mood all day. You'd been in your workroom painting all day. Didn't even stop for lunch. Did you have breakfast?"
Gloredhel shook her head.
The Noldor gifted with physical crafts could be prone to moments of almost maniac obsession on their craft. Feanoro with his smithing. Maglor with his music. Neylo with his studies, even though that was not a physical craft. Nerdanel with her stone-carving. Rog. Maeglin. Even Gloredhel with her painting. I was not immune.
"Fingon managed to coax you out when I couldn't," her twin noted wryly. "You never told me how he managed."
That drew a laugh from Gloredhel at the memory. Her gaze went distant, and she walked through the money once again in her mind's eye. "I had gotten up from my work-bench to get some more oil to mix my pigments in. I kept that separately, so I didn't risk upsetting the jar all over my hard work. Findo came in while I was up. He said that he had been told—he never said by whom—that I had been working all day without a break. How did he coax me out? Well, he said he'd work with me on my archery if I took a break. His sad-disappointed-worried face is … was also quite effective."
Glorfindel smiled ruefully. "I told him. You weren't listening to me, and I was worried."
"I hope I told you then, but I am sorry about that, gwador nin. You know how I got when I was in one of my moods." At least, I have not had one in many long-years. Her smile was bittersweet at the memory. "I was mad at him for having to stop, but once I was actually out of my workroom and away from my paints, I actually realized I needed a break … and some food. And … I'm glad I didn't miss that." I felt better for the rest.
"It was a good evening," Glorfindel replied, stepping back closer to take a look at her third work of art.
The third canvas, unfinished, was labeled Angrod and Orodreth at the Mereth Aderthad, F.A. 20. The Pools of Ivrin were seen in the background of the picture, along with multiple other unidentified elves. In the foreground, Angrod and Orodreth were walking together, their heads bent towards each other in speech, near the shores of the Pools. However, the face of Orodreth, which Gloredhel had been doing practice sketches of, was not yet drawn in.
"Your work is as masterful as ever, sister. As Maglor had a gift for music, you have a gift with paint and charcoal." (Gloredhel smiled and blushed slightly at her brother's compliment.) "What is the problem? Except for the details of Cousin Orodreth's face on this one, you are finished, and"—here he brandished the paper scrap she had handed over—"this looks fine."
Gloredhel sighed heavily. "His face is not fine, Glorfindel," she replied and rose from her chair. The fire was burning down slightly, more than she would like when she was relying on it both for warmth and some light. It was easy enough to add a log from the stack by the fireplace and stir the fire back up. "I can't get the details just right. I was farther away than you were from the shoreline when I saw them walking together, and my angle was bad. I just can't get his face to look right."
"It really does look fine to me," her brother replied, picking up one of her other many practice sketches, lying abandoned on the table, and tilted it so that he could examine it more closely by candle light.
"Very well," Gloredhel almost huffed. "They are only fine. Acceptable, but not good." The only and acceptable were stressed. "If this was for me, for my eyes alone in my sketchbook, it would … suffice with any one of these attempts, but … it is a gift, a gift for Rodnor, of people and places he never saw. It must be as perfect as I can make them."
"Rodnor will be very pleased, I am sure with this as it is. No one expects perfection."
Except me.
"I expect myself to be perfect," Gloredhel almost snapped the words, coated with exasperation mostly at herself. "I'm sorry." She dropped back into her chair. "That was rude. What time is it?" She asked abruptly.
Glorfindel glanced up and across at the hour-glass sitting on the mantelpiece above the hearth. "Two hours until midnight, or thereabouts."
"I have a while then yet. This all needs to be in his study well before dawn," Gloredhel said quietly to herself. Rodnor rose at sometimes unpredictable hours, and even if her brother stayed up long enough to help, it would still take her two trips to carry the canvases, which had to be handled with great care, especially the charcoal ones, to the High King's study. "We have all lost so much in terms of family, Rodnor included. I doubt he ever met Angrod, and he lost his parents and his sisters essentially when he was fifteen. Almost the entire rest of our House, he knows only by stories, if that. I want him to have some picture-memories, not just stories, and of the good times, especially, when there was peace in our family, before Formenos, before Alqualondë, before it all. So much responsibility was placed on Gil-Galad's shoulders when Turgon died, before even perhaps, for Turvo could not exactly be the High King of all the Noldor when we were hidden in the mountains of the north."
Glorfindel smiled sadly, seeing the tears glistening in his sister's eyes. "Let him see a glimpse of the peace we knew once, our house as it was in those days of peace, so that he might know a little of those he has never met."
And the ones he might never meet. Finrod and Angrod had been reborn, but Orodreth had not yet. I don't know his mind. I never met him in the Halls. But Aegnor—oh, Aegnor—Gloredhel had her doubts whether he would be reborn … perhaps not for a very long time, such was his grief and his longing for his lost love. Uncle Feanoro. Haru Finwe. Only Eru knows if we will see them again … before the end of all things, before the world is remade and all is made right.
Gloredhel nodded sharply. "Yes, and that is why it must be perfect."
Her brother squeezed her shoulder gently and then pulled a chair over and sat down beside her, close but not so close as to inhibit her movements as she worked. "One more try, and then I think you will be able to finish."
Glorfindel closed his eyes, and for a few minutes there was silence in the room save for the crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of their breaths. Then a picture-memory of the scene Gloredhel was trying to draw—from her brother's perspective, not hers—filled her mind, spilling across the bond that had linked them for almost four-thousand years. He had been closer to Angrod and Orodreth during the moment that she was trying to capture, and his angle had been better to see their faces.
"Yes," Gloredhel said slowly, her gaze distant and attention focused on the image filling her mind. She smiled. "I think that will work."
Once more, she took up her charcoal stick once more and began to sketch out one final draft of her cousin's face as he had been before the burden of the kingship of Nargothrond had fallen up on. Orodreth had been a changed man by the end, or so Gildor had said. Even with Glorfindel's assistance, it was still some time before Gloredhel finished the details of his face and set her charcoal aside, gazing at a practice sketch with which she was actually pleased.
"Excellent! All I need to do is copy this in, and then I will be finished. Thank you, gwador nín."
"Of course! I am happy to help." Glorfindel rose from his seat and pressed a kiss to her hair. "I think I shall retire to rest a little unless you need more help."
"No, no. Go and rest!" Gloredhel replied, her mind already falling back into that hyper-focused state (short of the almost maniac obsession that had plagued her youth). "I'll finish these and take them to his study, and then I, too, shall rest."
With painstaking precision, she drew in the lines of the face of her fallen cousin into the drawing of him and his father until all was finally completed to her satisfaction. Finally, for the last time on this project, she set aside her charcoal stick and stretched out her aching back. The hour-glass said it was now well past midnight. Before she declared herself done and took her gifts to Rodnor's study, she checked over each of her canvases one last time and especially ensured that the paint on the second one was absolutely dry. It was.
Good. Very good.
It took three trips to carry her canvases across the halls of the palace to the High King's study and to settle them carefully there, where they would not be damaged or smudged before he could rise and see them later that morning. Then, at long last, Gloredhel returned to the suite of rooms she and her brother shared. She carefully returned her drawing utensils, her pigments in their closed containers, and the stoppered bottle of paint-oil to their proper shelf next to her sketchbooks. Then she blew out each of the lamps and the candles, leaving only the light of the fireplace to light her footsteps. Another log set to burn would keep the cold beaten back until dawn, and then at long last she retired to her chambers to rest for what hours were left that night.
All of Gloredhel's troubles and long hours of painstaking labor were more than recompensed when Rodnor met them for breakfast on one of the palace's enclosed balconies that faced the morning winter sun. After exchanging the typical morning pleasantries, her cousin approached her and greeted her with an atypical tight hug. In a voice, tight and husky with deep emotion, he said so that only she could hear, "Thank you, Gloredhel. Your gift means more to me than you could ever know."
When winter had ended and stirring began,[1] Gloredhel doubled-down on her preparations for traveling east to Ost-in-Edhil. Her exact route was still one issue left to be finalized, but one main thing that would affect much else in her preparation was the number of her companions. There was safety in numbers, but there was also safety in speed, though Gwaedal will have to slow for any of them, no matter the number. How many people traveled with her apart from Tallagon would determine the number of supplies that must be gathered and would influence the length of the journey. The way that events happened, the last of her company found her one afternoon midway through Echuir.
The damage her feet had taken during the crossing of the Helcaraxë influenced all aspects of Gloredhel's life throughout the First Age. After arriving in Beleriand but before Findo had rescued Neylo from Thangorodrim in F.A. 5, Gloredhel had limped heavily around on good days with the aid of a thick tree branch one of her cousins had carved into a cane. The problem was that forcing herself to walk around with a mangled left foot had actually caused more harm than good. Her missing toes and the missing chunk of her heel had so forced her to adjust her stride and the way she balanced her weight on that foot that her artificial stride had caused further damage to her left foot and even to her ankle. The damage had progressed enough that, by F.A. 5, Gloredhel was forced to use crutches … on the days she was able to walk at all … and required someone to carry her for longer distances.
The work that Curufin had done for her—whether on his own initiative or at Neylo or Tyelko's request, she had never known for sure—had given Gloredhel back the ability to walk (after the requisite time to allow her body's ability to heal to fix the damage she had done to herself) first with a cane and then under her own power. Over years and decades, her limp had slowly faded until she could walk, when not overly tired, with only a small limp or hitch in her stride. Her struggles over those years had taught Gloredhel much of patience and endurance, and for Curvo's gift, she would always be grateful.
For the elves coming from the bliss and once-safety of Valinor, Beleriand had been a dangerous land with many more perils than just orcs and the other foul ilk of Melkor. The Helcaraxë had taught the folk of Fingolfin and Finarfin much of how to survive in the bitterest of cold when the ice could shift underneath you at any moment, depositing you into an icy grave without any warning or crushing you against its own bulk; when blizzards could whip up so quickly, depriving you of sight and making hopelessly lost any who strayed from the column; when the cold was so bitter that the injured or weak could go to sleep and never wake again. The Helcaraxë had taught the elves much, but there was much they were still not prepared to face in Beleriand, so much they had to learn, especially as to adapting to the effect the rising of the sun and moon had on every aspect of life.
Especially planting.
Beleriand had been a dangerous land, and those who had not had some martial skill in Valinor either for hunting or as a hold-over from the Great March had had to quickly learn. The Battle of the Lammoth, which happened as the host of the elves left the Helcaraxë and traveled deeper into Beleriand, only confirmed that. Before the Darkening, Gloredhel had already been a skilled archer. Fingon said I was his best and favorite student. His sister never liked the bow much. She preferred a spear for much game. (And it was for her skill with a bow that Gloredhel would later become renown.) Both of the twins had had some experience with swords by the time of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, but Gloredhel especially would not have called herself proficient or even skilled by any means.
Competent. I could defend myself at need if not hard-pressed.
Lamed by ice-burns during the crossing, Gloredhel had fought primarily only with her bow at the Lammoth, and her injury had had a great effect on her ability to fight with a sword, even after Curufin had made his thing … it was almost like a prosthetic foot of sorts … for her. A lame foot and a limp of varying degrees meant that, for Gloredhel, the usual grace and agility of an elf was greatly lessened. With decades and long-years to practice, her technical skill with a blade had become great, but it was always her foot-work that had been problematic. On level ground and facing a limited number of opponents, Gloredhel could advance or retreat relatively well—straight forward or back was easiest—and hold her own, at the very least, until help arrived. When hard pressed or on difficult ground, there was an ever-present risk of her stumbling or having her weakened foot give way beneath her.
Depending on your opponent, the first mistake you make can very well be your last.
The only reason that Gloredhel had even fought as she had at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad was because everything had gone so terribly wrong. And my horse was killed. Until that point, she had fought with her bow until she had run out of arrows and then she had resorted to her shorter cavalry sword that she carried along with her regular sword that allowed her to fight from horseback.
Ironically, her last and most desperate stand at Gondolin had catered to her strengths the most. Fighting with my back to a wall. No retreat necessarily. Just had to make sure my leg held.
Defense by necessity had always been Gloredhel's strength.
All that had changed now since Gloredhel had been reborn those long-years ago. Now her foot—her feet, for her right foot had been damaged, too, though not anywhere near as severely—was whole, the grace and agility of her youth returned, and that, bolstered by long-years of experience and training in Valinor, had had a great effect on her skill with a blade.
And all that was displayed one afternoon midway through Echuir. There was a square portico surrounded by a covered colonnade that adjoined the far-side of the palace. It had other uses, but one of its most frequent uses was as a training ground for the palace guard and others. There, the twins had joined the palace guard and their nephew Erestor that afternoon.
Gloredhel enjoyed sparring with Glorfindel, even if it was basically an exercise in futility. Those watching tended to enjoy their matches just as much largely, if not entirely, because it was such an exercise in futility. The two knew each other intimately, and his skill at offense and greater strength was matched by her greater agility and better defense so that most of their matches ended in draws. Crowds somehow seemed to enjoy watching the twins fight to a standstill.
The match ended, as usual, with no clear winner between the two. Since they were fighting with non-blunted swords, both wore chain-mail hauberks with gambesons underneath for added protection. When the last blows were stayed, Gloredhel's Echeleb was just lightly touching her brother's neck, but her high strike had left her midsection open, and Glorfindel's sword, Amathan, was poised as if to impale her if he were to carry the blow through.
*Is it really a draw if we're both dead?* Gloredhel wondered, her thought winging from mind to mind in an instant as both lowered their swords.
*Hmmm. One wonders,* her brother responded.
Raucous cheering and clapping erupted from those watching. Erestor, standing by the water stand getting a drink and resting for a moment, was watching wide-eyed, even though he had seen the two spar before.
*An excellent match as always.*
Gloredhel sheathed her sword and crossed the courtyard to her nephew's side to get a drink of water of her own. "Your turn, nephew," she declared with a grin. "I've tried to tire him out for you."
Erestor had no little skill with a blade of his own, though there had been few actual battles for him to put the skill into practice in, since he had been too young to fight during the War of Wrath, but still he replied flatly, "I'm going to die." (It was clear from his tone that he didn't mean it literally.)
"Well," Gloredhel answered, "Better now than for real on a battlefield. I cannot say that the Halls of Mandos were particularly … riveting." That comment drew a few looks. Death was not final for the elves as it was for the Second Born, whose fea were not bound to the circles of the world, but the Halls of Mandos were not spoken of so openly or casually in typical conversations.
Erestor grabbed his sword and scabbard, which had been leaning up against a nearby pillar, and drew his blade, handing the scabbard off to Ithiel to hold. In practice, a scabbard banging against your legs was a real impediment. One had to learn how to adapt to that impediment since, on the battlefield, with real fighting for life and limb, one rarely had time to stow one's scabbard out of the way.
"Lady Gloredhel, may we speak?" a voice from behind Gloredhel suddenly said.
Gloredhel's eyes and attention had been on her brother and nephew preparing to spar, and she had not heard whomever the voice belonged to approach. She turned now toward the voice, her hand momentarily spasming around her scabbard, Echeleb grasped in her right hand. There were three people waiting within the covered colonnade. Closest to her was a nis, whose dark hair and build spoke of Noldorin blood but whose pale eyes, filled with tree light, hinted at not just Noldorin blood. It was she who had spoken, and then a few more paces back with two ner, waiting quietly and almost anxiously.
"Privately, if we may," the woman continued. Only then did Gloredhel see that her clean but worn cloak was bound at her throat with a pin that bore the eight-pointed star of Feanor.
Interesting. Fëanorians. I wonder what they want with me. There were no visible cues of which of her cousins they might have served in the past. No other visible emblems.
Showing no sign of her internal surprise, Gloredhel inclined her head slightly. "Of course." She turned for a moment, her eyes sweeping the courtyard until they found Tallagon standing on the other side, speaking to one of the palace guards. He must have just come from the archery field (or had been planning to go there), for his quiver was hanging across his back, and his unstrung long-bow was in his right hand. *Tallagon.* She sent the thought winging across the courtyard.
Her faithful friend and loyal guard turned immediately at the call, his eyes sweeping across the courtyard until he found her standing in the shadow of the colonnade. *My lady?*
*Three Fëanorians wish to speak with me in private. I need someone to make sure we are not disturbed. Stay close enough to be a witness if you can without being discovered. I trust your discretion.*
*Of course, my lady.*
Gloredhel turned back to the waiting Fëanorians, who had once followed her uncle or one of her cousins or some combination of them both. "Come," was all she said.
Gloredhel led the way down the colonnade and away from the practice grounds. She had come to know the citadel and the palace quite well in the preceding months, including one small courtyard garden that was infrequently visited, seemingly, except by the servants who tended it, and was a little distance from the more frequently traversed paths. It was there that she led them. Some of the flowers and shrubs and trees were beginning to bloom with color, and on a bench beneath the shade of one budding tree, Gloredhel took her seat. "You bear the emblem of the House of Feanor. Tell me, why have you sought me out?"
The two ner were hovering near the edge of the garden, while the woman advanced a few paces closer to Gloredhel and then bowed and knelt before her. "I am Celegeth of the House of Celegorm, and my companions are Esgalnor and Barahon, also of the House of Celegorm, brothers both."
*I am here, my lady, and within ear-shot.* Tallagon's voice slipped through her mind like a swift breeze.
Now that they were out of the shadowed colonnade, Gloredhel was able to study Esgalnor and Barahon more closely. Their eyes were what she would have expected out of a Noldor, but their more slender builds and silver hair indicated to her that they were probably of Sindar descent, as well. Unlike with Celegeth, there was no tree light in their eyes. I wish she had said which one was which. One of them had a jagged scar across his throat that was not quite hidden by the folds of his cloak-hood pooled around his neck. How is he not dead?! It had been a blade that had nearly been his end, not an arrow, but still Gloredhel felt a flash of remembered pain, remembered the feel of blood spilling from her throat and across her armor. So much blood.
Gloredhel's voice grew cool. "I loved my cousin, but well do I know the deeds of the House of Celegorm. I ask again. Why have you sought me out?"
Celegeth flinched just slightly. "If you speak of the deaths of the little princes of Doriath at the Second Kinslaying, for which we have rightly gained for ourselves infamy, none of the three of us had any hand in that deed. I swear it."
"And I, too, swear it," the ner not with the scarred neck added. "I am Esgalnor, and I speak for both myself and my brother." The blade must have damaged his vocal cords. Even elven healing and elven healers cannot heal every wound, especially not in Beleriand.
Gloredhel relaxed. They speak truly. She knew when she was being lied to. "Very well."
"As to why we have come," Celegeth continued, "if you would allow, we would swear ourselves to your service."
You would do what?
That was not what Gloredhel would ever have conceived of them saying. "Why?" She asked in frank incredulity. "Lord Celebrimbor rules in Ost-in-Edhil in the east. If you wish for a new leader, why not go to him, an actual descendent of Feanor? I will soon journey to Ost-in-Edhil myself, and you would be welcome to travel with me to join yourselves to my cousin's service."
"We are hunters and fighters, not craftsmen and smiths, and Forlond is nearer where our home once was." Nearer, not particularly near. Celegorm's territory was on the opposite sides of Neylo's land. "And he spoke of you sometimes, my lady, Lord Celegorm, that is. Lord Celebrimbor has his people to look after him, and even Lord Elrond, others of us who were with them,"—Maglor and Neylo, I assume?—"to the end, but …" Celegeth's voice trailed off.
"My house, the House of Hammer of Wrath, is gone, save for me," Gloredhel finished for her.
For now, I am the last.
"Such was the Doom that all those we loved best have been lost to us," the other woman whispered. There was something terribly personal about her tone.
Too true.
"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well."
Spouse. Parent. Child. Cousin. Friend. We have all lost someone, I think.
Gloredhel let the silence linger for a moment as she thought of how to reply. "You truly wish to bind yourself to my service, to join the House of the Hammer of Wrath?" Three nods. "And for no other reason than your lord's fondness for me?"
Maybe I am being too suspicious, but …
Celegeth's face twisted slightly. "Largely, yes, though … with the reveal of Annatar for what he truly is, now is not the best time to be a Fëanorian. Your name would provide protection." The two brothers nodded, agreeing with their chosen spokeswoman.
Oh, for pity's sake!
Judge individuals by their own merits and for their own sends, not the mistakes of their leaders!
"If you bind yourself to my service, every word you speak, every action that you take, especially regarding the House of Feanor, will reflect on me," Gloredhel emphasized. "There is much that my brother and I were sent back to these lands to do. I will protect my people, but I do not have the time for trouble caused if those who look with disfavor on surviving Fëanorians speak or act foolishly and you react rashly."
"We understand," Celegeth replied, Esgalnor echoing her words a moment later.
"Then very well," Gloredhel replied simply. "I will gladly accept you into my house. You will be held to a high standard," she warned, "but no higher than I hold myself."
Celegeth bowed her head, her hands clasped in front of her as if holding a sword driven point first into the dirt. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gloredhel of the House of Finwe, … leader of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me. So says Celegeth, once of the House of Celegorm."[2]
Esgalnor and Barahon came forward and knelt, and Esgalnor spoke for them both, "Here do we swear fealty and service to Gloredhel of the House of Finwe, leader of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me. So say Esgalnor and Barahon, once of the House of Celegorm."
"And this do I hear, Gloredhel of the House of Finwe, Lady of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance."
And with those, the House of the Hammer of Wrath was reborn.
When her followers had slipped away some minutes later, Tallagon emerged from the shadows and took a seat next to her on the bench. "Are you sure that was wise, my lady … politically?"
Gloredhel sighed and then shrugged. "At a point, I don't care. As once followers of Celegorm, any hand they might have in the deaths of the princes of Doriath will be foremost on people's minds, and all three looked me in the eye and swore they had no part in that travesty. Are they Kinslayers? Probably, but so was High King Fingon, he who was 'of all the children of Finwe justly most renowned.'"[3]
Tallagon half-laughed, half-choked. "Well, there is that."
"I should at least warn the High King in case some of his fussy councilors find out inopportunely and make an issue of it."
[1] Tolkien Gateway. The Reckoning of Rivendell.
[2] As any Tolkien fan will probably notice, this paragraph and the next are borrowed with slight adaptations to deal with the different context and time-period from Pippin's oath before Denethor (and his response) in ROTK.
[3] Quote from the "Quenta Silmarillion" in The Lost Road and Other Writings. Slightly adjusted for the syntax of Gloredhel's statement.