Egalmoth
As one, we stand; the grating sound of our chairs against the stone floor breaks the silence of the chamber, echoing off the cavernous ceiling. The noise is jarring; I see Legolas, famed for his eagle-like senses, cringing and reaching up to discretely rub his ears. Before us stand the four missing members of our aristocracy and one glance at their wary faces warns me that whatever news they carry shall not be well received.
An elfling could tell that the four have spilt tears this day, which grieves me more than the appearance of the eagles. Neither the King or Lady, nor Lords Ecthelion and Glorfindel, have cried in recent memory. Lord Turgon, in particular, has always held his emotions in check. I have not seen my Lord shed a tear for hundreds of years, not since his brother, the Lord Argon, died in the Battle of the Lammoth.
Lord Maeglin, presumptuous as ever, walks before the Lords and Lady and sweeps into an elaborate bow. "My Lord Turgon; my Lady Idril; my Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion." He offers his arm to the Lady. She nods once, her fair face grave, and takes his arm. Maeglin guides the Lady to her seat, and the Lords seat themselves. To my extreme amusement, and to Maeglin's fury, Glorfindel chooses the chair Maeglin momentarily vacated. His expression – Valar almighty! He looks as if he is sucking on a lemon!
I stare down at my lap, suppressing the chuckle on my lips into nothing more than a pursed smile as Maeglin takes a seat across from me. I make a point not to look up at him; something tells me this is not the best time for a spontaneous fit of laughter. A throat's clearing suddenly resounds from the chair that once was Maeglin's, and I steel myself to glance up.
Glorfindel has stood- is Maeglin wondering why he needed to take a chair for only a few seconds of sitting?- and now begins to speak.
"My good lords of this fair realm of Gondolin, I come before you today bearing grave tidings. News such as this, alas! has not been heard within our seven gates since the death of Lady Aredhel. You have congregated here assuredly on account of..."
My own style of speech has been accused of unnecessary verbiage, but I am now reminded that I hold nothing over Lord Glorfindel in that respect. At times I cannot help but wonder if all these flourishes are natural, or if he uses them as a mask to cover something else. If he were not so courteous, his style of speaking alone would be enough to drive anyone away, it seems.
I am recalled to my surroundings by a collective gasp. I glance to left and right in hopes of procuring a repetition of whatever Glorfindel's "grave tidings" might have been, but every eye is fixed squarely on the King. A single, "My lord, I am so sorry," is heard, and after that, silence.
What have I missed? Of all the things to block out... The faces of my fellow Lords are almost comical in their frozen expressions of shock, of horror, of despair. Several begin to weep quietly. I mould my expression into a mask of shock; something tells me this is also not a good time to admit to not listening.
The king stands. He does not begin to try to hide his grief. It seeps out of him, infecting the room and us who gather here. I feel fear holding my heart in an icy grip. The king draws in a deep, shaky breath, a motion that scares me more than his expression. Centuries of service have gifted me with the privilege of understanding most emotions that flash below his carefully structured 'king-face', but I have never, never seen a physical reaction.
"My Captains," His eyes lock with each of ours in turn. "It is my greatest, greatest sorrow to confirm Lord Glorfindel's statement. My Father, your High-King, is dead."
My mind goes blank with shock. Dead? Dead? Lord Nolofinwë is dead? But how? Heads turn towards me; I must have spoken aloud.
"The answer to your question, Lord Egalmoth, is a tale that shall be sung of, long after our city walls shall last." Lord Turgon looks grieved, not insulted, so I believe I may assume I only spoke my last question aloud.
The king crosses the room, halting before one of the floor to ceiling windows to gaze at the city spread below his feet. The image he presents is awe inspiring. A tall, strong figure dressed majestically in white, rubies adorning his crown, the white city and great plains spread before his feet. He could be mistaken for a Vala. He turns; the image fractures. He is now nought but a grieving son crumbling under the weight of his responsibility. He takes a steadying breath, and recounts his father's final stand.
This time, I listen at rapt attention, absorbing each of my lord's words like the stone floor does the few stray tears escaping my eyes. I never knew the High King, but the tremor in Turgon's voice, seeming at any moment prepared to capsize his mask of composure, is enough to cause my weeping.
From the fey rage that egged Lord Fingolfin to the gates of Angband, to the sounding of his trumpet and challenge to Morgoth, to the Dark Lord's emergence and duel with the king, Turgon weaves a dreadful yarn that should belong only to the realm of phantasma. He minces no words- why should he?- and it is only as he closes that his words take the tone of a eulogy.
"My father is- was the noblest, most valiant son of our house, and his final deed, however rash it was, however deadly it proved, was but mighty evidence of his adamant fëa. He was strong, and whatever may be told, this last act was not one of madness but of honour.
"He attempted- and performed- the boldest attack ever dared by any in Beleriand, and for that, for his courage, for his righteous indignation, and for his life's tale of faithful leadership, he will be forever remembered." My lord inhales sharply and appears to swallow hard ere ending, "Thank you. You are dismissed."
For a few moments silence remains as the king makes toward the seat he rose from, but soon the murmur of conversation swells up, soft in reverence of the king and his fallen sire, yet somewhat frenzied as we rise from the table.
Scanning the crowd, my eyes light on Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow and a dear friend of mine; the grey feathers braided into his hair make him easy to find. Skirting a small cluster of men, I soon reach him.
"This is..." I trail off, for a moment speechless. "...unbelievable. Who could fathom he would be slain in such a way?"
Duilin's answering words are spoken even more quietly than mine. "The worst is that it could have so easily been prevented. He brought it upon himself." I raise my eyebrows; one speaks not ill of any dead, much less the High King. "I speak not treachery but truth; you know this, Egalmoth," he defends.
"True as it may be, it does not bode well to say such of the dead, especially when his son is in the room," I reply, my voice low and eyes on the King. Duilin too glances at our beloved monarch.
"Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere, dear friend," he murmurs. Together we weave our way through the gathered lords. Though we have been given a dismissal, none have yet left the council chamber. The news delivered is too devastating for many to even consider moving. Rog still sits, anguish plastered across his face; Galdor's shoulder's shake in unsuppressed sobs; Legolas gazes at nothing, his lips trembling in silent whispers. It cannot be.
Any conversation is muted; many simply do not speak, but gather around the Lady Idril and the Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion, as the three recount their versions of the terrible tale. Duilin and I pass the Lady, and my heart sinks as she recounts the burial of our beloved High-King.
The passage beyond the doors is almost deserted; the two soldiers guarding the entrance are the only elves in sight. They are both of my House; even if I had not recognised them by name, their vivid uniforms label them as mine. I pause.
"Eiliantirith, greetings." I do not attempt to hide the sorrow in my voice, and I note the effect it has on him. He steels himself, as if preparing for a blow.
"My Lord Egalmoth, my Lord Duilin, how may I be of assistance?"
"Tell me, Eiliantirith, have you or Faencrist" – here I indicate the second guard – "heard any rumour of the subject discussed this eve by my fellow Lords?"
"My Lord I would never eavesdrop!" He sounds scandalised, and a similar expression appears on his fellow's face.
"I meant not to imply such a thing, dear guard! I wish to know the rumours spread by the people: what questions shall Lord Duilin and myself face as we leave this tower?"
Both guards instantly seem shamed at their misspoken outrage. "We apologise, my Lord," spoke Eiliantirith.
"The rumours are both wide-spread and widely interpreted," Faencrist steps forward, a frown upon his face. "Many believe our secret city is no longer secret; others say the northern kingdoms have fallen into shadow; most fear the end has come for our beloved Gonnólen."
This sort of reaction from the populace could only be expected; it seems that this city's residents ever draw conclusions pointing to discovery, our greatest terror. I sigh—but inhale sharply before replying, "Then those rumours' dispelling shall begin with you and me. It seems true that the Dagor Bragollach has caused the ruin of many realms about us, but despite the High King's demise, Hithlum still stands. Ondolindë is in no danger."
"This much I knew or could guess," Faencrist answers, "but, alas! Not all I have met this day seem as clearheaded on the matter as those of us here." He indicates the citadel behind him with a distinct nod.
I smile wryly and mimic his gesture. With a "thank-you" to both soldiers, I am off down the avenue at whose end Turgon's abode rests, Duilin at my side. In the periwinkle twilight of what is now dusk, the white structures blend together on either side of us. I study the sky; already the first stars begin to prick its darkening face. Turning my gaze to the mountain now crowned with a fresh crypt, I cannot help but be sobered anew.
Duilin and I walk in silence for several minutes, soft-shod feet making little sound on the marble pavement. I pick out the cracks in it, one, two, three…
"From your men's words, we have our work cut out for us when it comes to the people." Duilin startles my mind out of the street.
"Yes, yes," I say, gaining my bearings before continuing, "But I suppose that is what we always do: run interference between the King and his citizens, keep our people and Lord alike at peace."
"Which," Duilin responds, "is a very busy job."
Indeed, Duilin's words are proven true at that very moment, as we round a corner. A large group of citizens are gathered around a street lantern. In dark times we Eldar have always gathered to the light. The light of one of Fëanor's more practical inventions illuminates the pale faces below. Their worry contrasts dramatically to their embroidered tunics and silk dresses.
"My Lords!" The cry is given by a blacksmith whom I know by sight – all know all in our secluded society; everyone is linked to everyone else somehow. His sister owns a linen store only a few minutes from the King's square and her son is courting the eldest daughter of one of my captains. The blacksmith's name comes to me after a moment; he is Mirdan, one of Rog's people.
The crowd flock to us like moths to light. They are a mix; men and women, adults and elflings, lords and ladies, maids and manservants. We are surrounded by them both physically and vocally; their physical forms and their words circle around us.
"My Lords, what news?"
"Are the rumours true, Lords?"
"Are our greatest fears realised? Has our beloved city been located by the Dark Lord?"
Duilin holds up his hands in a peace gesture. "Calm, calm, dear citizens. Worry not; we have not been discovered, nor have the Northern Lands fallen to shadow." The people visibly relax; smiles are shared, elflings are hugged, men clap hands in relief.
"But then, my Lords, what would warrant the visit of the Eagles? They only contact us in the direst of situations!" Mirdan's question brings back the fear so recently banished. I share a glance with Duilin, a motion that does not go unnoticed.
"So there is something," an elleth challenges.
"Aye, lady, there is something, and this something is serious. There will be an announcement made by the King when Arien reaches her peak in the heavens. Until then, my dear citizens, I must ask that you dispel the negative rumours circling our beloved city. We face no more danger than we face daily."
~oOo~
Idril
For the second time in the past two days, I find myself standing on the ivory balcony behind my father, overlooking a throng of our beloved people. The differences, however, between yesterday's crowd and today's, are vast beyond measure.
Where at this hour yesterday the people spoke, laughed, sang, shouted for joy, they are now gravely silent; where they danced, they now bow their heads and stand frozen in place; where they rejoiced, they now bitterly mourn.
My father's momentous words still echo off of the city's thick walls and close buildings, leave the people hushed and myself in quiet tears. Maeglin, standing beside me silent and emotionless as any stone, places a massaging hand of comfort on my shoulder; for once, I do not throw it off.
A thought suddenly flits across my consciousness, a thought that I take hold of, latching onto it as I regain my composure and brush my tears away: For whom do the people mourn? Certainly, many of them knew Atarinyo; knew of his stalwart heart, his ready compliments, but did they feel close to him? He is- was, after all, their king, and none of us have even laid eyes on him in centuries.
My father, though, my father is different. Rather than the great High King, over a massive people, admirable but impersonal, Atar is one whom they truly know—and one whom they truly love. To see him weep, mourn, grieve, sobers them just as much as the news of Atarinyo. The sea of bowed heads, wracked by the current of a few trembling shoulders, mourns for its Lord's anguish as much as for its fallen King.
After a few painful minutes of silence, my father dismisses the crowd—but they linger on, making no move to return to their homes as their Lord turns his black-robed back upon them and beckons myself, Maeglin, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion to follow him back inside the palace beneath the ornate arch hewn from white stone.
I swiftly duck out from under Maeglin's hand, following my father into the dim corridors of the citadel. This begins our city's second darkest epoch. So similar to the first, yet so different! The months and years after the sudden arrival and death of my poor aunt, the Lady Aredhel, were much the same as the months and years after Atarinyo's passing.
At first, it is as like a giant muffler envelopes the city; words, sentences, understanding tries and fails to fight their way through the air that seems as thick as wool. Silence carpets the great hallways of my father's palace. Laughter is rare and unnatural; shrilly pitched, it is hushed instantly. Children no longer dance in the streets. Music loses all tone. In this stage, this first step in the staircase of grief, time seems to run unevenly. In some moments, minutes feel like hours, and yet in others I stare out my window and only the setting sun alerts me to the fact I have lost an entire day, staring at the mountainside.
It takes only the smallest of actions to lift the muffler that surrounds us, to let the pain in. It is unbearable in the early days; trapped in a world where every object brings forth a memory; where my father tries to hold himself together for the sake of the city but cannot hide his red-rimmed eyes; where at every opportunity guilt assails me. Could I have done anything to prevent this? Could I have made the moments we shared any better for him? Was this in any conceivable way my fault? In the black of the night, when I am plagued with nightmares and dark thoughts, the answer to all these questions is a definitive 'yes'. I should have been there: for council, for support, to talk him out of what impetuous decision took him to the gates of Angband. If only I had not been trapped inside these walls, if only I could leave, if only...
In the end, it is Father who breaks out from the seemingly endless cycle of pain and guilt. His pain turns to anger, his guilt to fury. Day after day I find him in the training yards, hacking at the practice dummies with blind fury. He is in state of mind enough for him to not challenge any soldier of the city; in his rage, he would cause serious damage to anyone who stood before him. I cannot bring myself to blame Father for his actions for I understand them; nay, I empathise with him. I too feel the fury burning inside me; I too wish I could take up arms and challenge the Black Lord who dared oppose Atarinyo. But I cannot. If I were to take up arms, to embrace the Finwion fire that blazes inside me, I would never find peace. I would become like my Aunt Aredhel, a hawk in a cage. However beautiful that cage might be, I would fight it, I would break free, and it would ruin me. To survive, I must stay diminished. I must remain as Idril.
Father's black fury lasts for weeks. We tiptoe around the city, too frightened to draw the attention of the towering black cloud among us. The guards wince as their armour clinks. The tension in the air is tangible; it seems as if the city itself holds its breath as it waits for Father's mood to change again. As one, we wait.
Father's next emotional change is just as violent, as sudden, as his previous, though made even more alarming by its effects upon him. The anger, the rage, the sheer presence... the three simply vanish. He becomes a shell of the man he was before. Alone he sits, for hours upon hours. He does not reject his role as king: all his duties are fulfilled; he stands in the presence chamber each day and passes judgement; every report is completed; and yet... He is gone to us. Empty eyes, toneless voice, emotionless delivery of speech to both the citizens and myself. I fear for him; for any chance we have of a recovery. What would rouse him from this depression?
The answer came to me as the problem did, two long years ago. The breaking dawn found me alone upon my balcony, pondering my tea. Today, as I had done every day for the past two years, I would go to my father; offer my aid; my council; my support. My gaze wondered from the cup to the sky, enjoying the kisses of the sun and the light wind. A year and a half ago, I would have fled the balcony, wrapped in grief. I would have argued with the part of me that wished to see the sun: Atarinyo would never greet the rising sun, so what right did I have to do so? Now, however, I could look without grief. Was I healing?
My musings were cut short as I focused on two forms, appearing on the horizon. Impossible, not again, surely? For before me, their backs to the sun, were two creatures I would recognise within an instant, in spite of the many leagues between us.
Two eagles soared towards the city, and, if my eyes were not mistaken, they bore riders.