On the fifth of Ethuil (the month of spring),[1] S.A 1601, Gloredhel and her company of elves departed Forlond for the long journey to Ost-in-Edhil in the east. With her rode Tallagon as well as Celegeth, Esgalnor, and Barahon, the latter three now all riding with cloaks that bore the emblem of the House of the Hammer of Wrath. Tucked safely in her pack, which was always close at hand, was a sealed letter from the High King to Celebrimbor. Rodnor was concerned about her reception in Ost-in-Edhil. The elves of Eregion were likely to be much more suspicious now of anyone claiming to be Valar-sent, especially those returning from the dead, after the revelation of Annatar's true identity as Gorthaur, and Celebrimbor had also not seen Gloredhel since the Mereth Aderthad at the Pools of Ivrin in FA 20 … over two-thousand years before.
A letter of re-introduction …
Safe passage …
I'm not sure what to call it precisely.
Confirmation I actually am who I say I am.
From Forlond, the company traveled east along the coast until they reached the shores opposite Mithlond. From there, Cirdan's folk were happy to take them by barge across the river until they reached the far bank. After spending the night at Mithlond and taking counsel with Círdan, the company departed the Grey Havens and passed east through the broken chain of hills that ran east almost perpendicular from the northernmost point of the southern chain of the Blue Mountains. They passed between the hills that would, in an age to come, be known as the Far Downs and the White Downs by the Hobbits, and from there they struck east and a little south across the wilds toward Tharbad, a small town built at a ford along the river Gwathló.[2]
The journey took weeks, and in the beginning, the days dragged on and on despite everything new to discover for Gloredhel personally. Gloredhel and Tallagon were used to traveling together, working together. Celegeth, Barahon, and Esgalnor were used to each other's company, but neither group was particularly used to the other yet, and that made for awkward conversations, stilted silences, too many honorifics in conversations, and chores too frequently getting doubled up when they stopped to camp because they had not yet learned to work as a group of five and not two separate groups of two and three, respectively.
Well, we won't run out of wood overnight, at least.
Nor shall we lack meat.
These difficulties were ironed out as the days and weeks passed, and the miles flew by under the pounding hooves of their horses. The shadow growing in the east did not loom here just yet in Lindon and Minhiriath, and Gloredhel was able to enjoy the passing scenery without worrying about ambushes by orcs or other foul creatures and servants of Melkor or Gorthaur, although they still set a watch at night. There are other things that roam at night to be wary of. This land was wild and free and sparsely inhabited. They could go many days without seeing any other of Illuvater's children, even at a distance, and the sight of the elves stretched far.
Especially mine.
After crossing the ford below Tharbad,[3] the company turned east and followed the bank of the river Glanduin[4] until one day a great city appeared on the horizon. They had come at last to the capital of Eregion, the city of Ost-in-Edhil itself.
Ost-in-Edhil was the chief city and fortress of Eregion, Celebrimbor's realm in the east. Its name meant "Fortress of the Eldar" in Sindarin, and well did its appearance live up to that name.[5] The city was built on a large curve of land on the southern bank of the river Glanduin, where its course suddenly curved north before curving south again on the opposite edge of the city. The river provided easy access to the city from the south along the river Gwathló or from the north along the river Mitheithel. One could also travel east along the river from the Misty Mountains and the Doors of Durin, the main entrance to Khazad-dûm, which Tylpe himself had had a hand in creating.
The city had the beauty of a city built by and home to some of the greatest craftsmen still living among the Noldor in Middle-Earth, but Ost-in-Edhil was still a fortress that at least to Gloredhel's trained eye could be held for quite some time against an opposing force.
As long as you have enough soldiers to man the walls and enough food to provision those troops and anyone else in the city.
With the city built along the river, it should be easy enough, I would think, to build a water tunnel to lead into the city.
The land on the southern bank of the Gwathló was higher than that on the northern bank. The plain formed by the bend in the river, on which the city was built, rose some little ways higher still. A large lower town was surrounded by thick, high walls with tall watchtowers set at regular intervals. On the highest ground within the city was built a citadel with its own thick walls and towering watchtowers. A city built for defense.
How impressive the city looked from an hour's easy ride away!
How much more imposing it would look as the little company drew ever closer.
Celegeth urged her horse gently forward until she came level with Gloredhel. Gwaedal turned his head and gently nuzzled the other horse's neck. "There are a handful of resemblances one can draw to Lord Maedhros' fortress at Himring," she noted softly. "Lord Celebrimbor forswore his family, but he still cannot deny his uncle's knowledge at building a worthy city fit to withstand a siege."
Gloredhel nodded. "I have not seen drawings or plans of my cousin's fortress, but I can well imagine. I also imagine Ost-in-Edhil is comelier to look upon than Himring was."
Maedhros was not one to dwell on aesthetics when building a fortress to hold the east.
Not dying by the sword, the cold, or starvation or any other manner of bodily threats was higher on his priority.
In this age, well previously, there have been opportunities to think of aesthetics, not just defense. At least, Tylpe has done both. With the shadow rising, a stronghold might be of vital need again.
Celegeth snorted slightly, a faint smirk pulling up the corners of her mouth. "Quite, my lady, and the weather here is far more pleasant, as well." There had been a reason Himring had been called "Himring," which translated either to "cool-cold" or "ever-cold" depending on which scholar you asked the etymology of.
It sounds entirely unpleasant. Gloredhel shivered slightly at the mere thought. She lifted one long-fingered hand to shade her eyes from the waning afternoon sun, her other hand idly smoothing down Gwaedal's neck again and again as she gazed toward Ost-in-Edhil.
"Let us continue then," said Gloredhel. "I want to reach the city well before nightfall. We can sleep in real beds tonight." She gave a whistling bird call, imbuing the song with enough Power to make it carry against the slight breeze, and looked left and then right to ensure that Tallagon as well as Barahon and Esgalnor, who were scouting on their flanks, heard the signal to continue. Her four followers rotated who scouted and who rode with her. Whichever role they filled, Barahon and Esgalnor always rode together, since his throat injury made Barahon unable to shout for help or shout a warning.
The two women urged their horses on. Gwaedal knew without any explanation from Gloredhel to modulate his pace so Celegeth's mare, Daeroch, whose name, "Shadow Horse," referred to its coloring, could keep up. The two horses made quite a pair together with the stark contrast of Gwaedal's white coat against Daeroch's black coat.
With the pounding of their horses' hooves beneath them and the whistling of the wind in their ears, they spoke no words between them as they rode but passed the time in silence, comfortable silence now, not the somewhat awkward silences like in Forlond when the three once-followers of Celegorm had bound themselves to her service and that of the House of the Hammer of Wrath or even early after their departure from the capital to come east. If there was a need for communication, Gloredhel could resort to a touch of ósanwë, or they both could resort to the hand-signals used by hunters and scouts in the wild with a handful of additions from the hand-language that Barahon and Esgalnor and Celegeth used to talk privately among themselves.
Gloredhel's admiration for the construction of Ost-in-Edhil grew as the riders drew ever closer to the city. Farther out from the city, as one approached east along the river, there was no road, and one simply crossed the country on foot or by horseback along any path that one chose. Closer to the city, as the land rose toward the city walls, the ground grew more uneven and rockier, and a specific road appeared, large enough for three riders to comfortably ride abreast.
I would lay odds on the fact that not all those rocks were originally there.
Sometimes the road dipped to curve around one side of a higher outcropping of rocks or wove around a steep curve, all prime places where an ambush could be set for those approaching the city. The lines of approach to the city had clearly been thought through carefully.
Even closer to Ost-in-Edhil, the road followed the curve of the wall toward the main gate at a distance any competent archer could shoot. It would be easy for those on the walls to easily shoot in defense of or to attack those on the road, but it would be harder to return fire at the much steeper angle necessary to hit those firing from the walls.
"It is quite well done," mused Gloredhel, her eyes flicking from place to place. She kept her head and neck mostly still. The weight of watching eyes raised the hairs upon the back of her neck, and she did not want to look as if she were eying their defenses, even though she was. There was a non-trivial presence of troops and archers upon the walls. With the revelation of Annatar's true identity as Gorthaur, curse him, she was not surprised. The caution was wise.
Celegeth nodded silent agreement. From what she had said before on the journey east, she and her companions had come east to Ost-in-Edhil once or twice, though they had chosen not to settle there under Celebrimbor's rule.
Nor was Gloredhel surprised to find, not many minutes later, the main gates of the city shut tight against them, against any newcomers, with armored guards with great bows that could easily punch an arrow through the light, traveling armor they were all wearing standing on the parapet overlooking the gate.
Tallagon, riding on her left hand now that the company had reformed together, took a deep breath and resettled himself upon his stallion's back, forcing his posture into one approximating relaxation. He deliberately placed both his hands upon his saddle horn, though his grip was so tight his knuckles were white. The archers were obviously the source of his discomfiture.
*Relax,* Gloredhel chided gently. *They are right to be wary of newcomers and to identify them before they are allowed to roam the city.* And if she could see how uptight he was, more likely with the potential threat against her than himself, those watching from the walls could, too.
*Twitchy looking bowmen with strung bows make me uneasy.*
Tallagon gave her an exasperated side-eye.
Gloredhel glanced again at the wall, cataloging the specific archers with strung bows and their positions. *None of them are Sindar, Nandor, or Avari. I could Sing the arrows from our path before they could even loose them from the string.* It was not a boast born of overconfidence. She had done similar feats before.
The guards seemed to be waiting for her to speak first, so Gloredhel called out, "Mae govannen. Êl síla erin lû e-govaded 'wîn."[6] Her grasp on this modern dialect of Sindarin had grown enough over the past months that she doubted the guards would have trouble understanding her. At least, one ellon had Tree-light in his eyes and bore the eight-pointed-star at his throat, and if Gloredhel wanted to make a point, she could switch into Quenya, Fëanorian-lisp and all, but she resisted the urge for the moment.
Safer to do it here than at the capital. It was not a tactic she would probably have ever considered at the capital unless she was genuinely furious. Sometimes her temper urged her toward paths that were very satisfying in the moment but not particularly useful long-term.
"Our Lord Celebrimbor had ordered that none may enter Ost-in-Edhil unidentified," said the ellon who had seen the Trees in all their glory once, long ago, "so who are you, my lady? Why are your companions? And under whose banner do you ride?" The guards would have seen the emblems on their cloaks on the ride up to the city, but the House of the Hammer of Wrath had died out over eleven long-years ago. There was no greeting, no "Well met!" in return, not until they knew for sure who had come.
"I am a messenger of High King Gil-Galad, and I bring a letter of introduction to Lord Celebrimbor," Gloredhel replied simply. She drew a sealed scroll from its padded pouch in her saddlebag and held it up so the unbroken seal, the red wax stamped unmistakably with the motif[7] of 12 stars, 4 large and 8 small, that was the emblem of the current High King of the Noldor. "Is this not enough?" Her back was straight, her head erect, her manner almost queenly, her face and eyes lit with wisdom and age.
It looks better upon a banner in silver on blue than it does in wax upon a letter.
"Forgive me, my lady, but no," the guard replied. "A fair face can hide a dark soul." Gorthaur had reminded the elves of that. "Even an unbroken seal can be forged."
Gloredhel inclined her head, acknowledging his words. She had hoped to avoid making a scene of her identity at the great gate of the city, but needs must. "We are of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, the last of a once great house in Gondolin of yester-year. My companions are Tallagon, Celegeth, Barahon, and Esgalnor." Here she motioned to each in turn. "And I am Gloredhel, daughter of Finwe's house. Your lord, my cousin, should remember my face."
The ellon's eyes grew wide and then a little suspicious. "It was said that you died when Gondolin fell, you and your brother both." A statement, not a question.
Gloredhel smiled gently. "I did perish there. Glorfindel and I both did, as the histories tell, but Lord Mandos does not hold our fea forever. We were sent back to these lands last year, and that is one reason that I have come to speak with your lord. Please have word sent to him. He should recognize me."
"'Should' recognize you?" hissed Esgalnor behind them. "When was the last time you actually met Lord Celebrimbor?"
"Year 20 of the First Age," Tallagon answered for her.
There was a strange, muffled noise from Barahon, which Gloredhel had learned to recognize as his laugh. "We weren't even born then!" Esgalnor added, possibly speaking for his brother.
And I had already seen about 1700 years … converting measurements to Years of the Sun.
Some of the guards were speaking back and forth with each other, their eyes sometimes flicking down towards Gloredhel and her companions. Then the ellon, who seemed to be the one in charge of the shift, disappeared from the walkway, hopefully to go fetch Celebrimbor.
We can wait.
The sun was getting lower in the sky, moving towards sunset. Gloredhel tipped her head back slightly, enjoying the feel of the warmth of the sun across her skin. The sun glinted off her hair, accentuating the deep gold color. Her eyes scanned the nearly cloudless sky, searching the blue expanse for any passing birds. Sometimes the wind carried the hint of waterbirds' cries up from the direction of the river, cries too muddled and soft to determine actual speech. Gloredhel was more interested anyway in raptors. After a few minutes, she spied one further up the river and so high in the sky that it was impossible for her to tell if it were a hawk or an eagle.
Too far away to call. Sooner or later, she would need to find one willing to carry messages to her brother and maybe the High King, as well, in Forlond. But it need not be today. Unless she needed another proof of her identity. Tylpe would remember … should remember … that Tyelko taught me the bird-tongues.
There was a stir then on the battlements, and Gloredhel drew her attention back from the flights of birds and the warmth of the fading afternoon sun. It had been over two-thousand years, a lifetime, since she had last met Celebrimbor, but she recognized her cousin immediately all the same. With the guards now stood a tall elf in fine robes (from what of his neck and shoulders were visible) with a simple circlet bound around his brow. He was not dragged from the forges to identify me, then. His hair was silver, nearly the same shade that his great-grandmother Miriel bore in those few remaining pictures of her Gloredhel ever remembered seeing in Valinor. His face—the light-colored eyes, the long nose, the sharp gaze—everything was a mixture of his father and mother's features.
"Hello, cousin," called Gloredhel, slipping deliberately back into Quenya, lisp and all. "It has been many years since last we met. I bear a letter of … re-introduction from the High King that says I actually am Gloredhel. I come in peace and good-will," despite our family history by the end, "and would take counsel with you, if you are willing. It has been a very long ride from Forlond, and we would be glad to sleep in real beds and not out under the stars tonight. By your leave, of course."
For a moment, Celebrimbor just studied her, and she met his eyes steadily, though she kept her thoughts tightly veiled. The last of Feanor's house (unless Maglor actually still lived) bore the dignity and weight of his line: the dignity before the madness came, the weight of the ancient and terrible legacy of his house, of his name as a son of Curufin and the grandson of Feanor, of his skill as a craftsman of such great renown in the likeness of his father and grandfather before him.
A gift and a curse both.
The desire for knowledge and skill had helped lead him, helped lead his people astray when Annatar came with honeyed words.
"Your face is not one I had ever expected to see again on this side of the Sundering Sea, but you are welcome here nonetheless," Celebrimbor finally replied. He turned and spoke a word to one of the guards.
With a deep, groaning creak, the great gates of the Ost-in-Edhil slowly began to open. As another security measure, they only opened wide enough for the elves to enter single-file, one behind the other, with Gloredhel at the head of the column and Esgalnor bringing up the rear. There were short walls perpendicular to either side of the gate, too, perfect for helping to guard a breached gate. Celebrimbor emerged from a hidden staircase within one of those walls. He eyed Barahon, Esgalnor, and Celegeth for a brief moment and then went to collect his horse, a beautiful gray stallion, from a young ellon standing nearby and holding the reins.
Tyelko and Curufin guarded the pass at Aglon together for many years.
Tyelpe could easily have met them there.
From there, Gloredhel was led away by Celebrimbor himself to his house, while her companions, her followers, were taken to separate lodgings. His was a fine house, exquisitely and finely built. It was small though, with no forge facilities in sight, so apparently his home, his smithy, and the rooms where he exercised his duties as Lord of Eregion were in separate buildings. Small by Noldorin standards. There are still one, two, three floors, and many rooms. There are advantages and disadvantages to having everything in the same area like our enclaves in Gondolin, by which she meant the literal buildings where the Houses of the Golden Flower and of the Hammer of Wrath had lived and worked.
Liveried servants—not an emblem I recognize, not the Star of Feanor—led Gwaedal and Celebrimbor's horses away after the two had dismounted in the courtyard that abutted his house. Manor? Perhaps it is the emblem of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.
"Someone will show you to a guest chamber," said Celebrimbor. "Once you have refreshed yourself, cousin, come to my study. We can eat the evening meal together and speak of the past. Tomorrow will be soon enough for darker topics." And here a deep shadow passed across his face.
Gloredhel inclined her head. "Of course, and my thanks for your hospitality for myself and my followers. I know our coming was unlooked for."
The rooms that Gloredhel was led to was no less fine than the chambers that she and her twin shared in the palace of Gil-Galad at Forlond. There was a sitting room with a beautiful fireplace, bookcases, desk, comfortable chairs around a table, and even a couch by the fireplace, long enough that even she could stretch out upon it; a bedroom with a large bed, wardrobe, and dressing table; and a private bathing chamber that was somewhat more elaborate than she expected.
Some things are fine to be practical. Not everything has to be fancy.
Her riding garments, dusty and stained from the road, were carefully deposited in a neat stack in a basket in her bathing chamber so that they could be taken out and washed. Gloredhel changed into one of the spare sets of clothing that had traveled rolled in her pack since Forlond. The trousers were in a soft gray cloth and the tunic in a deep shade of blue that she loved, edged with a little silver embroidery around the collar, cuffs, and hem. Simple, but nicer than my riding clothes. Her boots were also dusty and dirty, and Gloredhel cleaned those off as best she could with a rag from her pack and a little water so that she could cease tracking the dirt around with her with every step she took.
(Not irritating the servants by making a mess everywhere she walked was good life-advice.)
After unbraiding, combing out, and rebraiding her hair as quickly as possible, Gloredhel stepped back out into her bedroom. Her open pack lay upon the bed, its contents spilling out from where it had fallen over. Her quiver was propped up against the bed, and her sheathed sword and unstrung bow lay on the bed next to her pack.
Gloredhel tucked her sword, quiver, and bow away in the wardrobe out of sight but left her long dagger hanging from her belt with two smaller knives hidden in each boot. She then knocked any loose dirt and grime off of her leather jerkin, which she wore both as a little added protection and because it served as another layer for warmth on cool nights, and put that back on and bound her belt with its hanging sheath back around her waist.
Returning to the bathing room, Gloredhel quickly examined herself in the mirror and then left her chambers. A servant passed her in the hallway two turns away from her room and was happy to show her to Celebrimbor's study at her request. After taking two more turns, going down one flight of stairs, and then navigating another hallway and one final corner, the young girl stopped at one particular doorway, not any more or less elaborate than the others that led off the hall, and knocked. There was an answering summons, so she opened the door, waved Gloredhel to enter, and then closed the door behind her once Gloredhel had entered.
Celebrimbor's study was organized chaos.
Or rather, I would say it's chaos, and he would probably retort there is an organization scheme … somehow … somewhat … at some point in history.
The massive room was almost completely lined with bookcases, except on the back wall where two large floor-to-ceiling windows let in the last light of the setting sun. A sizable desk was set close to the windows, and closer to the door were two large tables with several chairs set around each. A small portion of one table had been cleared, probably in preparation for the evening meal, which the two cousins would shortly take together. There were books, scrolls, half-finished molds and sculptures, plans for buildings and jewels and swords and circlets and bridges and towers and chain mail covering almost every available surface. Unless Celebrimbor had attained more masteries than both his father and grandfather, combined, definitely combined, many of these plans were probably of other masters within the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, not just of Tylpe himself.
Celebrimbor looked up from his work and rose from his desk as Gloredhel entered. "Welcome, cousin. How did you find your rooms?" He murmured a word of thanks and accepted the proffered letter of introduction from the king that she extended.
"Very large and very comfortable. My thanks," she replied. More than I really need while traveling.
"Of course, of course." His attention was mostly on the scroll in his hands. He scanned it briefly and then tossed it carelessly on his desk where it settled to rest among the other papers and books, narrowly missing knocking over an uncapped ink-well. (Gloredhel cringed at the near-miss. That would have been a disaster.) "I would have recognized you without this, you know, believed it was really you."
Gloredhel shrugged. "It has been many long-years since we last met, so the High King thought it wisest and kindest to send the letter if not for you to show to any … uneasy guardsmen. Our dead returning to these lands is a strange thing, unlooked for, unheard of."
Celebrimbor made a slight face and nodded. "True enough." His bearing and manner of speaking were slowly relaxing, so that Gloredhel started to feel that she was actually speaking to her cousin and not the Lord of Eregion. "But sit! Sit!" He waved her to a chair. "You've had a long journey here. Amil would be horrified by my manners, keeping you standing at attention. Please sit!"
"Thank you."
"Would you like some wine while we wait for supper?"
"Please."
Celebrimbor poured them both glasses of a deep-red wine from a carafe that he unearthed from one of his bookcases and brought the two glasses over. He took a seat across from her and sipped at his drink for a moment before asking, "Your brother did not ride with you? As I recall, parting you both was always about as easy as parting my … the Ambarussa from each other."
You forswore your father, but I think you just almost said, "my uncles."
"That is very true." Gloredhel grinned. "But our new duties kept Glorfindel back at court, or he would have. I can explain more tomorrow when we speak of … other topics."
Leave the darker discussions NOT for when the sun is fading.
A brisk knock at the door prevented a reply. Two ellon entered at Celebrimbor's beckoning call, bearing their supper trays. The smell was delightful, especially as Gloredhel was quite hungry. For something not lembas, dried fruit, dried meat, or anything we can forage or hunt upon the road.
"Tell me of our kin in the west," requested Celebrimbor once they had begun to eat. "Did you see them in the halls?" His voice waved for a split second, and it was clear of whom he spoke.
Gloredhel shook her head. "I only saw Tyelko in the Halls and that only briefly. Fay, he was, in his rage and cruel words. He knew me not, I think. Huan, however, was there, our dear traveling companion and friend." That news drew a small smile. "He kept me company, guided me when I grew lost, and let me bawl into his fur more than once."
He has been the keeper of many secrets and the recipient of more tears than many a handkerchief.
"Have any returned from the Halls save you both?"
"Finrod and I returned first. Then Glorfindel and our brother Ecthelion some centuries later. Did you meet him or see him at the Mereth Aderthad? He was the one who saved my life upon the Helcaraxë." (Her cousin flinched but nodded.) "His son Erestor is a Loremaster at court now. Angrod and Arakáno also have returned, separately and much later than when the four of us returned. In the Halls, I saw Aegnor, too—I don't expect him to return anytime soon—and our uncle and Findo and … who else? Many of our followers, but no one else in our family. The place is like a maze. Oh, Rochallor is there, too, so Arakáno told me, though I never saw him personally. Others might have returned since we left Valinor."
Celebrimbor's eyes were wide at that news. "Huan and Rochallor in the Halls! Now that I would not have ever guessed or dreamed of, though I am very glad for Huan especially. We all loved him dearly." Yes, we did. He paused and took a few more bites of food—steak and potato and colorful vegetables, not all of which Gloredhel recognized. The same was on her plate. "Did your husband survive? I assume he is or was one of the Gondolindrim, for you were not married at the Mereth, as I recall."
Gloredhel shook her head, a sad, nostalgic smile curling up the corners of her mouth. "No, he died during the Fall of Gondolin like I did and my brothers and many others. He had not returned by the time Glorfindel and I sailed to Mithlond. And no, I was not married then. Not until many years later. My husband was Rog, Lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath. It is the symbol of our house that is on our cloaks, all but Tallagon's, that is, who is of the Golden Flower still."
"The stricken anvil?"
"Yes. He was a great craftsman and smith of much renown, the greatest in Gondolin, one of the greatest of all the Noldor, I would say. He could make anything from swords imbued with great power that glowed with inner fire when the enemy approached—Ecthelion and Turgon bore such—to boxes to hold my paints and hair beads, too."
"I grieve for your loss, then, cousin," replied Celebrimbor, "as I did for you and Glorfindel when news reached us of your passing." He raised his glass. "A toast to Rog, the honored dead, and all our lost kin."
To the son-of-my-heart!
Their glasses clicked, and both took a long sip.
Gloredhel stabbed a piece of steak with her fork and ate it, chewing slowly to appreciate the flavor. This is excellent. "I tried to visit Aunt Nerdanel on multiple occasions after I was reborn, but she did not wish to see me."
"I'm not surprised." Her cousin's face went dark, and his eyes shadowed with the weight of pain and memory and years. "The wife and mother of Kinslayers. I imagine there are few she wishes to see these years. We did not realize the full impact of the consequences our actions would have for those we left behind."
Your mother stayed behind, too.
"Sadly true. It is rare that our own wrong choices only have consequences for us alone."
"I'm sure you received the warmest of welcomes in Tirion when you returned, though." There was a thread of bitterness in Celebrimbor's voice. "You and Finrod both, heroes of the First Age." Such a welcome as he assumed they received was not something that he or his father or his uncles would be expected to receive as the sons and descendants of Feanor.
If we had actually let word be sent of our arrival, perhaps.
Gloredhel choked on a mouthful of wine. She coughed and coughed to clear the droplets from her throat and windpipe until her eyes grew blurry with tears. Her nose stung and tickled where her coughing fit had sent wine up her nose. Celebrimbor was looking at her with a mixture of frank concern and sheer puzzlement.
I think that is his "Have you lost your mind?" face.
"Arto, a hero, yes. Me?" Gloredhel gave a harsh laugh. "Many of the histories forget I even exist. I've seen one extended genealogy of the House of Finwe that does not even have me."
Celebrimbor sniffed somewhat pompously, an affected look that strongly reminded Gloredhel of his father. "Foolishness. That does not change reality. I have read some of those histories … a waste of the parchment they are written upon. I have heard stories first-hand from your followers when I still dwelt in the west before Beleriand was lost, before I founded Ost-in-Edhil. Your death was greatly grieved."
I wonder what your opinion of Pengolodh's works is.
She snorted, both at his words and her own idle thought. "But as to the welcome we received, Arto and I, we both refused to have word sent to Tirion after we were reborn and recovering in Lorien. After existing only as a fea for long-years, actually having a body again is … unpleasant at first. Very unpleasant. We shed no blood of our kin, but we rebelled against the Valar just the same. There is healing for the dead in Mandos' Halls, but that does not guarantee a welcome from the living. You might not believe me, but we returned to Tirion in secret. Arafinwë did not even know we had returned until we were escorted into his study."
Celebrimbor stared at her with wide eyes. "I am not sure I would believe it if I heard it from anyone other than you. I assume you actually were welcomed?"
"Yes. We remembered our partings with grief and feared a blow that would never fall. Once he got over his shock, he gave us bear-hugs, and we were home."
Uncle gives good hugs.
That drew a smile that was both fond and sad. For all his faults, Curufin had loved his son, deeply and dearly, though he had not always been good at showing that love.
"How do you like Forlond?" Celebrimbor asked, changing the topic abruptly.
Gloredhel blinked. Forlond? "Uh, well enough. It is very … different from what I'm used to. The High King is much different than Turvo was as king. There are many birds to talk with, as it is on the shore. We've finally gotten a grasp on this pesky dialect of Sindarin, too. It is a far cry from Mithrimin."
"That it is." Her cousin smirked slightly.
"It is interesting to live in a port city, too. That is new for me … for both of us. Nevrast does not count as a port … in my opinion. There is always something new to see. Ships. Seabirds. Cargo. Travelers."
"You were one of his best students," Celebrimbor noted. Again, he did not refer to his uncle by name. "I wish sometimes I had taken the chance to learn. Speaking the bird-tongue would be a useful skill to have, especially these days."
Scouts. They can see more and travel further in the far-reaches of the sky than we can, day by day.
And they can bring me the most interesting gossip, too. A lot of it was rubbish, but sometimes they brought very helpful tidbits.
"I would offer to teach you," Gloredhel replied, "but the bird-tongue … tongues really, since the speeches of jewel-birds and raptors and seabirds and ravens and such are similar in some ways and different in many others, they are not quickly or easily learned. It takes much time and practice, and my time here must be brief. I need to go north for a time before I return to Forlond, and I am expected back by winter. If I am late, I expect my brother or Gildor to come searching for me."
Celebrimbor's brow furrowed. "Gildor?"
"Arto's adopted son. He dwells in Forlond in the High King's palace like we do."
"Oh, yes, I think I've met him. What draws you north, and how far? Or is that another topic better left for daylight?"
Gloredhel shook her head. "Hopefully not that far north for the sake of not lengthening my journey any farther than necessary. I seek the eyries of the Great Eagles of Manwe. The folk of Thorondor guarded Gondolin and brought us news for many years. Thorondor dwells in Valinor now, and his son Gwaihir rules their people here."
That drew a look that was both surprised and puzzled. "And I think the explanation for why exactly you seek their eyries will probably involve topics better left for the 'morrow, so I shall ask you no more of that." Both had finished eating by that point, and Celebrimbor rose long enough to stir up the fire until it was blazing brightly, adding a cheery warmth, not just light, to the room. He filled their wineglasses and then retook his seat. He visibly seemed to search for another topic of discussion. So many awkward bits of history for us to dance around or darker topics to leave for daylight. "Your brother is well?"
"Yes. Well, he was when I left him, and though the distance between us is great, I have not felt anything that would indicate the contrary."
And we are actually capable of functioning apart from each other despite what some people think.
Another glimmer of sadness passed through her cousin's eyes. "They could do that, too." Celebrimbor took a sip of wine. "How did you come to gain a few of Celegorm's followers in your train?" He added abruptly.
"They asked," replied Gloredhel simply. "They approached me in Forlond and asked to swear themselves to my service in memory of the friendship I once shared with their lord. All of the folk of the Hammer of Wrath perished in Gondolin"—to the last man, woman, and child—"and the folk of Golden Flower who still live are my brother's people first, as dear as they hold me," except Tallagon. If he does not ask to switch houses soon, I shall be surprised. "Celegeth, Esgalnor, and Barahon all swore to me that they had no hand in the death of the little princes. Knowing that, I was willing to accept them. I would not exclude them simply on the presumption of them being Kinslayers."
For Findo was one, too.
And some things are for the Valar to judge, not me, not even me as one of their emissaries and servants.
When Celebrimbor said nothing, Gloredhel added, "I have warned them of the consequences of their actions now that they are my followers. They will be on their best behavior, I am sure, but I will defend them as much as I would Tallagon or any of the Hammer of Wrath who fell at Gondolin."
The Lord of Eregion nodded. "There will be no trouble on my account." His face twisted. "We are no strangers to Kinslayers and Fëanorians here." His gaze flicked from Gloredhel's face to the hourglass on the mantelpiece. "The hour is growing later, and I'm sure you are tired, cousin, after your long journey. We can speak more on the 'morrow. I have some business to attend to in the morning, but unless your news cannot keep for those few hours, we can speak more after the midday meal."
"It can keep," Gloredhel replied. "I know our coming was unexpected, and you are Lord of Eregion and chief of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. There is much to draw your attention." She rose from her chair and bowed slightly. "My thanks for your hospitality, cousin, and the conversation. Good night."
"Good night."
As was her habit, Gloredhel tended to rise at dawn, but today she woke a little before that hour. The sky was starting to grow light above the mountains, painted in an array of colors that she could never fully capture in all their glory with paint and brush. Around her, the house was largely quiet but slowly starting to stir. She made her bed and then changed into her day-clothes, shivering slightly in the morning chill. (Her tolerance for 'cold' had only gotten mildly better since she was reborn, and what she considered a morning chill would probably not actually be cold for most others.) Not expecting to spend that much time in her room that morning, she was hesitant to light the fire yet. The chill was a great motivator, and she completed her morning toilet in short order, washing her face, cleaning her teeth, and neatly but simply braiding back her hair. Echeleb, her sword, she bound about her waist as her plan was to explore the city, and then Gloredhel went in search of breakfast.
Finding the kitchens was quite easy. There were few in a great house who rose earlier than the cooks, and at dawn, all it took was for Gloredhel to follow her nose. The kitchen was large and probably supplied more than just Celebrimbor's house. Already it was bustling and almost stiflingly warm with the burning fires. She was kindly welcomed there, and Gloredhel probably would have found herself with quite the elaborate breakfast if she had given them half a chance, but with a little negotiating, she convinced them to make her a sandwich with the remains of yesterday's bread and whatever meat was in the cold-boxes. This, in only a few minutes, was pressed into her hands, wrapped in a clean napkin to keep the grease off her fingers and clothes, and another larger cloth-bundle, weighty with whatever was inside it, was pressed into her other hand. Gloredhel smiled and laughed and thanked them sincerely.
Wandering the city while eating her sandwich (for part of the time) proved an interesting and informative way to pass the first part of the morning. Tallagon found her as she was washing down her breakfast with a dipperful of water from a well that she passed on the street.
"Good morning, lady," he said as a greeting, falling into step beside her. "The others are still asleep, and I grew bored waiting for them to wake."
Gloredhel smiled. "Well, I'm always glad for your company, old friend. Did you sleep well?"
"Well enough," Tallagon replied with a slight shrug, "for a strange bed in a strange house with unfamiliar noises. You?"
She nodded. "Well enough. Have you eaten?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted to come find you first."
"Here then." Gloredhel passed across the extra bundle the cooks had given her. The sandwich had been quite large, and she was not hungry for more. "My cousin's cooks were quite generous. You can have whatever this is. Hopefully, it is to your taste."
Not that I recall you being particularly picky.
"Thank you." Tallagon took the bundle, and the two stopped at an empty table outside a bakery to make it easy for him to unwrap the bundle. Inside were three boiled eggs, a small wedge of cheese, the end of a loaf of bread, and two apples. He ate the eggs and bread as they walked the streets of the market district of Ost-in-Edhil, leaving the cheese and one apple tucked away in the bundle, which he tucked away in a pocket of his jerkin. The other apple he sliced with a small knife he pulled from his sleeve and began to eat it, slice by slice, handing over two slices to Gloredhel to nibble on.
After perusing the shops that sold most everything imaginable—fresh crusty bread; weapons of all varieties; flowers and herbs; cloth and dyes; wine; jewelry; books, scrolls, and fresh parchment—eventually, the two elves found their way to the training grounds of the city-guard. The angle of the sun made Gloredhel guess that it was probably mid-morning by now, though any more precise time estimate would have required an hourglass, a water-clock, or a sun-dial. The training grounds consisted of a large open field of sorts within the walls of the lower town. It was divided roughly in half into two sections, a range for training with bows with targets at multiple distances and an area for dueling with sword or spear or other close-range weapons, which was divided into several sections so multiple pairs could spar simultaneously.
Around 15 ellon and elleth were there, training, some with the bow, some with the sword. Some bore the Tree-light in their eyes; others did not. Some were Noldor, others Sindar or Silvan, with two that Gloredhel thought were probably Avari from their style of clothing and braids. Of those who bore obvious emblems on their cloaks or elsewhere, a handful bore livery that she did not recognize. Most of the rest either wore the Star of Feanor generally or the livery of one of his sons more specifically. Among them she saw several faces she recognized from Tyelko's train as well as one of Curufin's assistant-smiths, who had been involved somehow in the process of making her foot. The audible conversations were full of friendly teasing about and detailed critiques of the ongoing matches.
Tallagon and Gloredhel sat down on a conveniently located rock to watch the sparring.
"How was your meeting with your cousin last night?" He asked softly.
Gloredhel kept her eyes on the pair whose spar was drawing the most attention as she answered, "Fine. We spoke of family mostly. Some topics are better left for the light of day." The woman fighting with dual short swords seemed familiar—something about the long rope of blue-black hair that fell half-way down her back—but her back was currently to Gloredhel, concealing her face.
"True. Are you going to meet with him again today?"
"Yes, after the midday meal. He had some duties to attend to this morning, and what we need to discuss is not so urgent that a few hours will make any difference."
Tallagon made a vague noise of assent. He gestured to the pair who had drawn Gloredhel's attention. "They're good."
"Mmm-hmmm. I know the woman, I think, but I'm not sure why."
The sparring match the two were watching ended abruptly with the one woman fighting with a hand-and-a-half sword flat on her back on the dusty field with the other woman's knee on her chest and with one of the two short swords held to her throat, ready to slit her throat if this had been a real fight. She pulled back, sheathing her swords, and extended a hand to help the other woman off the ground, patting her shoulder and murmuring something in her ear once she was back on her feet.
Then the dual-wielder turned, and Gloredhel saw her face and instantly realized why she had seemed familiar. Tríwath had been one of Celegorm's oldest friends and hunting companions in Valinor, the daughter of one of Feanor's smiths, a friend who had fallen beside him during that assault on Angband during which Feanor had died. She had become one of Tyelko's chiefest lieutenants in the First Age and probably one of his most, if not the most, level-headed, among them. Like had a way of drawing like, and more than a few of her cousin's followers had shared his hasty temperament, his periodic act-now-think-and-regret-later philosophy of life, a way of thinking that had probably not helped at all in Doriath where Celegorm had died whereafter his followers looked for revenge and promptly turned their anger and rage on helpless children.
(The thought still made her angry.) Those poor things.
Of Tyelko's followers, Tríwath was one of the last Gloredhel would have ever expected to see again, to meet here.
As often as she was his shadow, I would have thought she would have died at Doriath beside him.
Had Tríwath been at Doriath at all? I cannot see her having let the murder of the princes happen under her watch.
For a moment, surprise swept across Tríwath's face and through her glittering gray eyes—maybe the news of Gloredhel's arrival in the city had not spread or maybe she was just surprised to see her here at the training grounds at that moment—but then she flowed into a warrior's salute, a salute that the others of her house instantly copied. "My lady," she called out, her voice easily carrying across the training grounds, "would you care for a spar?"
Oh, why not?
Gloredhel rose to her feet with a cat-like grace. "I think I shall be found a better opponent than when last we met, now that I have two feet of flesh and not one foot, half a contraption of Lord Curufin, as skilled as he was." That had been back in Hithlum a handful of times after Turgon had dragged all his people away south to Nevrast. "Bare steel?" She asked once she had stepped within the stones that marked the sparing court.
Your blades do not look like sparing blades, nor are they of wood.
"Will the orcs do otherwise?" was Tríwath's reply.
It's not like my brothers and I sparred with dulled or wooden blades.
"Very well. To first disabling blow IF carried through?"
Tríwath nodded agreement.
Gloredhel drew Echeleb from its sheath and slid into a defensive stance in one smooth move. Just because she had some grasp of Tríwath's fighting style a lifetime ago in Beleriand did not mean that knowledge would help her here and now. Gloredhel's own fighting style had greatly changed now that she had two feet of flesh again, and she was just as happy to let her opponent make the first move and give herself a chance to take the other woman's measure.
Tríwath, however, seemed to have a similar plan in mind, and the two women circled each other for nearly half a minute without exchanging a single blow. Her dual swords gave her two weapons for attack to Gloredhel's one, but Echeleb as a hand-and-a-half sword was longer than the dual swords, which looked more like cavalry swords suited for fighting from horseback. The two were watching each other keenly, looking for any openings in their guards, watching for any shifts of weight that would precipitate an attack.
Where do their eyes go?
Moving like lightning, Tríwath attacked first and concentrated her first several blows toward Gloredhel's left side. It had been Gloredhel's left foot that had been mangled during the First Age, leaving her left side an obvious, glaring weakness. And if Gloredhel had not spent the last approximately fourteen-hundred years practicing with the sword with her brothers, with Finrod, Angrod, Galdor, and any of their old companions from Gondolin who were willing to face her on the practice field, her left side probably would still have been a major weakness from sheer muscle memory and instinct that had her over-compensating for her injured foot and habitually wanting to protect that side.
Not anymore.
Now, Gloredhel dodged the strike from one sword and deflected the other with Echeleb—the force of the clashing swords vibrating up her arms—putting just enough extra power into the block to force Tríwath back a step and give herself a brief moment of breathing room. Tríwath continued on the offensive with a flurry of blows that drove Gloredhel back, step after step.
Okay. She's good.
Better than I remembered.
(Tallagon was still at the rock where they had been sitting earlier. He was standing now, however, and his right hand had fallen to the hilt of his sword. Having anyone but Glorfindel, Erestor, Gildor, the High King, or one of their fellow companions from the House of the Golden Flower or the House of the Fountain coming at Gloredhel with bare steel seemed to be making him quite nervous.)
Do NOT do anything precipitous.
I know what I'm doing.
Gloredhel ducked under the next blow and promptly blocked the one after … but only barely in time. Tríwath had poured a lot of power into that, and Gloredhel felt the jolt race all the way up her arm into her shoulders. Again, she leapt backwards … with slightly more desperation now … to give herself enough breathing space to change tactics. The defensive skill that had kept her alive in Beleriand with a crippled foot was not going to work in this particular fight. Offense was her only chance … apart from sheer dumb luck or an untimely mistake on Tríwath's part.
There were two advantages that Gloredhel had. Echeleb gave her a longer reach for one, and two, she was 6 inches taller. Otherwise, the two women seemed fairly reasonably matched in terms of speed, strength, and agility … under these conditions, at least.
Gloredhel could not outright Sing while dueling with swords as she could while fighting with her bow on foot or horseback. She had not the breath or the focus to do simultaneously. Song would tip the scales heavily in her direction. While Gloredhel was not reluctant to use anything to her advantage in the midst of fighting orcs or trolls or wargs or any other dark creature Melkor or Gorthaur was throwing at them, in a friendly duel for practice, that's cheating. Even a less powered version—humming, not outright Singing—would still give her an unfair advantage.
Her pride was not so fragile that losing a practice duel would make her lose any sleep from embarrassment. If she won, however, she was going to win fairly.
The Fëanorians, it seemed clear, had not let their skills degrade despite the long-years of peace that were now ending.
The advantage switched back and forth between Gloredhel and Tríwath for several minutes, with Gloredhel sometimes on offense and then on desperate defense and then on offense, capitalizing on any bobble, any hesitation, any iota of a mistake the other woman made.
Finally, after some minutes, Tríwath's guard on her right side began to falter. Gloredhel saw it immediately and, already on the offense, began to press the advantage for all she was worth, pouring through blow after blow, focusing them toward Tríwath's right side, hoping to batter through or slip through her guard.
Watch her left-hand.
Don't lose focus.
She can kill you with it as easily as with the right.
What counted as a disabling blow if carried through could be a much lower standard here, now that Gloredhel thought about it, since neither were wearing any protection heavier than boiled leather.
One particularly strong blow from Echeleb battered one sword from Tríwath's grasp, and now Gloredhel knew the victory was hers unless she was stupid. A hand-and-a-half sword gave her the advantage over Tríwath's now single cavalry blade, and she's tiring. That was painfully obvious. Celebrimbor's once lieutenant had now fought at least two strenuous practice duels in a row, while Gloredhel had simply been walking around the market district for half the morning.
Tríwath knew that she would lose. That was clear from her face, but still she fought on doggedly until a blocked high-attack left her abdomen open.
The battle ended with Gloredhel's sharply pulled strike inches away from gutting her like a fish.
Gloredhel stepped back and gave a warrior's salute before sheathing Echeleb. "Well done. Very well done. You have fought at least twice now this morning, and you still nearly had me multiple times."
"Thank you, lady," Tríwath replied, returning the salute.
Both women retreated first to the well for a drink of water, leaving that arena clear for another pair to use. Then, once the sand-like dryness of her tongue and throat from her heaving breaths had eased, Gloredhel returned to Tallagon's side. He looked somewhat more relaxed now and had returned to his seat on the sun-warmed rock, his hands resting in his lap.
"You make me nervous when you do that." He grumbled.
Gloredhel gave a half-apologetic smile and bumped his shoulder gently with her arm as she sat down. "Sorry. I knew her back in the First Age. She was one of Tyelko's lieutenants."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Tallagon shot her an incredulous look. Some of Celegorm's lieutenants were rather … infamous and not just because of the Second Kinslaying.
"One of his most sensible ones!" Gloredhel shot back. "She wouldn't hurt me." Intentionally. Sparing like that did always leave room for accidental injuries.
"You just did your best to batter each other into the ground," huffed Tallagon. "Excuse me if I'm not reassured."
How is this different than my sparring in Forlond?
Gloredhel posed that question, and Tallagon shot her a look back that asked, Are you stupid? "Your brother and Lord Erestor would as soon maim themselves as hurt you. I differentiate between sparring and … that."
"Very well." She conceded the point. "I shall endeavor to be more cautious in the future and at least put on some armor first."
Gloredhel and Tallagon spent another hour or so watching the city-guards train, but late morning, the two parted, Tallagon to find their companions and check on them and then to wander the city some more, Gloredhel to return to her cousin's house to clean up after her exertions sparing before her meeting with Celebrimbor after the mid-day meal.
After spending an hour eating lunch in the kitchens and listening to a lot of intriguing gossip about her cousin, Ost-in-Edhil, and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Gloredhel was summoned to Celebrimbor's study by a passing servant. He had obviously just finished eating after coming in from the smithies, for there was an empty tray at his elbow that had not yet been cleared. Freshly washed silver hair was slicked back from his forehead and still drying. There was a faint scent of soap in the air but underneath that a much stronger whiff of all the mingled smells of metal and wood and charcoal and such that were ubiquitous to any Noldor forge across Middle Earth. It was such a familiar smell that it brought tears to Gloredhel's eyes for a moment before she could blink them away as she remembered Rog or Maeglin coming in from the forges in such a state.
Oh, how she missed them both.
"Good afternoon, cousin," Gloredhel greeted, giving a shallow nod as a respectful salute.
"Hello, Gloredhel." Celebrimbor glanced up distractedly at her for a moment. He waved one hand vaguely in the direction of the seats at the table at which they had eaten dinner last night. "Have a seat. Give me just a minute and then I'll be done with these notes."
It was more like five minutes or maybe closer to ten before Celebrimbor was actually done, not that Gloredhel was bothered by the delay. Finally, Celebrimbor put away his quill and ink and rose from his desk and came to stand across from Gloredhel, leaning his forearms on the back of his chair.
"Is this a wine-conversation or a tea-conversation?" he asked.
Uh … both?
"Tea now and wine after," suggested Gloredhel.
Celebrimbor made a face and then left the room to fetch a tea tray. He returned carrying it within ten minutes and settled it between them on the table. The tea smelled rich and fragrant, and the tray was elaborately set. There was a small bowl with sugar, a small pitcher of milk, a plate with slices of lemon, and another bowl with honey, all sitting around the steaming kettle and the cups. The two doctored their tea to their liking and then settled back in their chairs.
"I can presume why, given recent events, you have sought me out here in the east," Celebrimbor began, his face twisting with a hint of deeply buried shame. "But after our discussions yesterday, you were also going to explain why you two were not left to your well-deserved peace, quiet, and rest in Valinor and were sent back here, and what exactly has you seeking out the eyries of the Great Eagles."
"All those topics are intertwined in their answers," replied Gloredhel. "Two years ago, now, my twin and I were summoned by the Valar to the Ring of Doom. We were told of a coming Shadow that threatened our people and our kin here in Middle Earth, and we were sent back to provide aid against that Shadow and to protect those of Earendil's line—Elrond primarily and directly—and to do both of those tasks by word and not just by strength of arms. Only when we reached Mithlond and took counsel with Círdan did we learn that that Shadow was now revealed to be … Gorthaur himself."
"All I can say …" Celebrimbor shook his head, his eyes fixed on the low-burning fire, "is that my intentions … the intentions of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were good, but that is no excuse. In our pride and arrogance, we hoped to find once more the joys we left behind in the West so long ago and hold back the decay and loss that are part and parcel of these lands. The High King rejected him. The High King warned us, and yet we thought we knew better."
Pride goeth before a fall.
"Knowledge puffeth up, and pride goeth before a fall, as our wise ones say," Gloredhel noted. "It is a failing of us—of the Noldor—as a people, and Gorthaur has always been a deceiver. I will speak no word of censure against you or your people. Nothing I could say would be worse than the self-recrimination I see on your face." The time she spent in the Halls of Mandos was not anywhere near long enough to negate the twelve-hundred-year age-gap between them, which left her still the elder of the two and gave her more of a position to level criticism.
Not that the age-gap between Turvo and us ever stopped us from telling him when he was being an idiot.
"And the eagles? I know they brought news to you in Gondolin."
Gloredhel nodded. "There was an oath of friendship between Thorondor, who ruled the eagles until he departed into the west after the War of Wrath, and me. It was by his actions that Glorfindel and I received proper burials after Gondolin fell."
Celebrimbor's eyes went wide. "I know your brother was buried. Yellow flowers grew on his cairn until Beleriand was lost beneath the waves, or so the tales tell. But they never said that you were buried also, though I am very glad to hear it." He paused. "I'm sure they would have been, too."
Neylo? Perhaps. I would like to think so.
A sad smile quirked up Gloredhel's mouth. "I was buried by Thorondor some days after the battle, not by the Gondolindrim, which is why the histories speak of it not."
"Ah."
"His son Gwaihir now rules the Great Eagles, and I am seeking out his eyries. I want to see what aid he might provide me, if any, in memory of his father's love for and friendship with me."
Celebrimbor nodded. "I know the Great Eagles have their eyries within the Hithaeglir, but where the Lord of the Eagles' eyrie is, I cannot say with any specificity."
"My thanks anyway. I just need to get close enough to any of them that my Song will reach them, and they should, I would think, pass the word to Gwaihir. Their memories are long." Gloredhel paused and took a sip of tea. It tasted as excellently as it smelled. "As to other topics, I said that I would speak no word of censure, and I will not, but there are other issues that we must speak of: the consequences of welcoming Annatar into Ost-in-Edhil for you, for your people, for your city."
"Yes, we must. 'To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well,' said the Doom, and oh, how I see that clearly now." Those who had not accepted the mercy of the Valar and returned west after the War of Wrath were still under the Doom. Celebrimbor, at least, did not have the weight of the Oath like Maglor did, if he still lived.
[1] Tolkien Gateway: Reckoning of Rivendell.
[2] Tolkien Gateway.
[3] Tolkien Gateway.
[4] Tolkien Gateway.
[5] Inspiration: see links on A03.
[6] Sindarin. "Well met. A star shines on the hour of our meeting."
[7] Tolkien Gateway.