Chapter Twenty-Nine
The days passed as a joy, for once, the first time since the sun shone and the Two Trees were destroyed.
Suddenly the light of the sun and moon did not seem so bad.
Suddenly it seemed to shine.
It symbolised rebirth, renewal. The sun may set but it rose every day. And not even Morgoth dared go near Aren the Maia who guided it. Ithil's glow penetrated darkness and seemed to drive it away.
Estela fell into a simple pattern. Life seemed brighter and more peaceful but although she adapted, it wasn't right to forget everything. She still trained as a warrior, even though she wore gowns more often now and jewels.
Ereinion came more often and their meetings were… well, they were the greatest source of joy in her life, something to look forward to.
But some things did not change.
Estela was walking on the beach one day. It was in the Grey Havens- the port were elves set sail from to Valinor. She didn't once look at the horizon, never once allowed herself to wish to be allowed back, but she did look at the ships.
The ships.
They were lighter, narrower and more graceful than any other race's vessel. Their sails were not lowered but the material still gleamed and shone like moonlight. It didn't need much water to float and was deceptively strong and sturdy in comparison to other vessels. But most arresting of all, was the white swan's head at the prow. The figureheads so agonisingly, heart-wrenchingly familiar.
The figureheads she had carved and set with gemstones in happier, more innocent, untroubled times.
The beaks were still polished gold. Their eyes were jet. Their dainty heads curved into elegant, graceful necks, straight into the prow. To commemorate the swans that pulled the Lindar or Teleri to Valinor after such a long journey, and losing a king.
She remembered the happy days in Alqualondë. How in the beaches, she had spent considerable time, being lifted in the strong arms of one of her cousins or her grandfather from her maternal family, or even her father, to set and seal the stones and gold in. It was happy days, the memory of undisturbed innocence, and sweeter dreams untainted by bitterness and sorrow. She often heard the sound of laughing applause by the watching elves and gazed excitedly at her reflection in the swans' eyes or beak, beaming broadly. In time, she even learned to carve the figureheads as well, and took great pride and joy in her work.
She learned to do that, before she learned how to spin and weave, or even swing a sword. In those days she was just as strongly associated with her mother's people as her father's. Perhaps even more so. She was more comfortable running in the sands, splashing in the waves, gathering sea-shells, feeding birds and building sand-castles and singing, than standing in a forge, letting heat consume her or growing numb and frustrated at the apparent ease yet deceptive difficulty of making statues, and being covered with dust and grime in an enclosed space. As she got slightly older she grew to love the arts and games of the Noldor as much as the Teleri, but the latter's arts and crafts came first.
She felt wetness in her eyes and running down her face, but she didn't pause. Didn't pause in the memories of picnics in the sand, chasing terns and gulls and singing around a campfire after dinner. Didn't pause, but remembered the time she dived and found a pearl deep beneath, and played with the dolphins who kissed her and took her for a ride, while the Maiar of Ulmo smiled nearby.
She remembered comparing sea-shells with one of her cousins, and squealing when they found a lobster. Or mimicking a crab. Or chasing each other with strands of wet sea-weed.
If Eönwë was right, then the Lindar never really did forget or disown her. But Alqualondë was a distant memory, more than an Age. And the last she saw it, it was wreathed with fire and blood.
She refused to think about it. She accepted her fate, even if it meant she would never return, at least she had a new life in Middle-Earth.
"My apologies, my lady for intruding, but it looked like you needed help." She looked up sharply and turned around.
There stood an elf with silver hair and a slightly-creased face. Few elves had lines but although his eyes were bright and fresh, the look they held were wise and ancient.
"Not at all," she said and drew back.
She tried to smile but it was strained.
He bowed his head. "My lady. Are you sure you are alright?"
"I-" she took a deep breath. "I'm fine."
"Then why the tears?"
Estela started. She had forgotten she was crying. Normally she held them all inside, but seeing those ships again…
She laughed. "I didn't know what I was doing."
The elf nodded. "I see," he said an understanding light in his eyes. "You are somewhat like him, you know."
Estela was startled. "Who?"
"You forefather's brother. He too gave his all for his people and his family. But he was strong-minded and firm when dealing with outsiders. Sadly, you are more clearer-minded than that when it comes to such matters. You place their lives in higher value than I ever thought anyone could." The last part was said with such frankness, Estela stared.
"I knew him," the elf moved forwards. He was clearly one of the oldest ones. Was he one of the Unbegotten- the ones who woke in the light of the stars in Cuiviénen? Surely not, there were none of those left in Middle-Earth!
"Did you?" Estela found herself both staring and asking. She tried not to stare- it was rude.
"Yes. I knew them both, Olwë and Elwë, or later as he was known, Elu Thingol. The two brothers. One of which was your forefather."
She smiled sadly. "Don't I know it."
"I suppose then, the memories must be painful. These boats can mean anything. But I noticed you never glanced at the horizon. Only the figurehead."
Estela was silent for a while. She turned back to the figureheads.
"I used to play," she said. "On the shores of the Haven of the Swans. Where the diamond dust shimmered and the pools and tides lowered to reveal gems. My kin would lift me, high in the air, to seal the stones. Black jet for eyes, gold for beaks. And in time, they taught me how to shape the curving heads and graceful necks of the birds that pulled the Lindar to Valinor and to play and sing the songs of the sea and sky. Where the dolphins leapt and the sea-gulls crowed and the swans stretched their white wings and extended their long necks, between the stars and the sea."
There was a very short silence. "Happy days gone by, but not symbolic of lost hope."
"Maybe," she looked away.
"Where are my manners?" The elf mused. "I am Círdan, Lord of the Falathrim. Kin to your forefather Olwë and Elu Thingol." He chuckled at her astounded face. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady."
She stared. "I thought there were none of my kin left on Middle-Earth save for Galadriel, Celebrían and Elrond."
Círdan chuckled again. "You've been looking on the wrong side of the family, my dear."
"Not so," she retorted. "Artanis Nerwen or Galadriel is my mother's kin."
Círdan boomed with jolly laughter.
"True, true," he chuckled. "I mostly live in the Havens of Elglarest and Brithombar but I often come here."
"More people coming or leaving?" Estela asked skeptically. "Arriving," Círdan replied.
"At least it's their choice," Estela muttered, her hand reaching up to touch the swan's head again.
"You never made that choice, did you?" Círdan asked. "But if you had the choice, like your mother to either stay in the bliss of the Light of the Valar, or spend what could be the last moments on Middle-Earth with your father, which would you choose."
She looked down. "My father," she said, feeling like a child who'd given an answer that left them trapped.
"So," Círdan sighed. "You have nothing to hate yourself for.'
"I don't hate myself," she said quietly. "Not any more. In fact, I'm learning to forgive even myself, because I don't want to be bitter. But…" She trailed off.
"I wish," she said slowly. "That they hadn't died. I wished… I could have done something. And I wish… I wish my forefather Olwë and Arcalimar my grandfather did not come to an argument with my paternal grandfather over, not only the ships, which was what had been written, but me."
Círdan watched her silently.
"There was nothing you could have done." He said. "You were a child. Children may be intelligent and talented, but even then…" He smiled sadly in sympathy.
She smiled. "I know." But her shoulders slumped. Even though her mind was clear of any brooding thought and she felt more at peace, sorrow lingered.
She was used to it.
But she now had someone to look for.
However the beating of hooves sounded, and a horse and its rider galloped into view. Estela frowned and approached.
"My lady," The rider gasped. She recognized him. This was one of her elves- Alarcon. His eyes were wide. "Some of the Greenwood are in flames and under attack. In the wooded valleys of the River Anduin- orcs have attacked them- in huge numbers!"
Her mind jumped. Orcs! After so much peace since Ar-Gimilzôr had died and his invasion called off, one could hardly expect, of all things to happen, even cowardly orcs who started to attack smaller settlements, or lone dwellings of men. Dwarves could also be taken, they mostly lived in heavily-fortified places underground, although the orcs want the territory for themselves. No one managed to attack an elven settlement outright.
Until now.
Without even stopping to think further, she ran to her horse and jumped on it.
"Have the others been alerted?" She demanded. "Yes, my lady."
"Then we ride. They meet us three miles south of the Anduin." "Yes, my lady." They rode off.
Estela's eyes were wide, and her armour was hidden beneath her clothing.
Her clothes were mostly greens and browns but with a hooded cloak that his an assortment of weapons.
True enough, the forest was blazing. She could hear screams of elves from within.
The Sacking of Doriath came to the forefront of her mind, but this time, it was not elves attacking but rescuing elves. The differences were not lost on her. But orcs knew no reason.
Woodland warriors so far from the capital of Amon Lanc were few, and those that were fighting were very hard-pressed.
While the forest burned Estela instructed one half to engage the orcs and come to the aid of the fighters, and the others to sneak quietly in and get the survivors to safety. She would help distracting them.
But the fires burned higher- the workings of some clumsy or vicious orc, no doubt.
Estela unsheathed her blades and started slicing through them like water. They screeched and howled, clumsily stumbling backwards when they saw the shieldmaiden they so feared and heard, her hair shining even brighter than the flames they had started.
She cut them down with knives and shot long-distanced ones with bow and arrow. When she drew her twin blades they screamed and tried to get as fast away as they could.
But it was too late for most of them. They started to draw back. Estela pursued. "Get the survivors!" She screamed.
She'd been doing this for so long now.
Several were paralysed and screaming. She grabbed three at once and pulled them away just as a massive oak fell. She shoved them (no time for gentleness) into the waiting arms of one of her comrades and ran back for more.
She shot down an orc about to kill. This elf was a young one, barely out of childhood. She pulled him away.
More elves came to her when she beckoned, starting to gain in hope. She kept running back and directing the ones who could go.
The flames roared and the orcs vainly snarled and shot arrows in vain. In all honesty, fighting in a place that was burning or somehow in the process of being destroyed is not at all easy. Trying to avoid arrows and enemies, even those mostly in retreat, and burning branches falling from trees, as well as the trees themselves, wreathed in flame and toppling down and burning patches on the earth is always going to be a struggle. Even though elves could breathe more easily and are quicker and stronger than humans. But add to that was trying to rescue others.
Estela lost track of the time. She forgot the number of people she pulled or directed to safety. Numbers didn't matter if it was all. She saw the flames rising higher and knew they had little time, even as Alarcon called out to her they had to leave. But Estela heard cries.
Shock never even fully took root before she ran towards the direction of the sound. She jumped over a fallen tree. She ducked under branches and ended up in the front of a small house surrounded with flame. One heavy tree had fallen on top and crashed in, yet she could hear the cries of at least two children inside.
She didn't hesitate. Upon coming closer. She held her breath. The house's windows and door were opened- perhaps the owners were making their way out to safety when the tree came crashing down. But the open windows revealed dense smoke inside. A good thing elf-eyes were very strong as well as sharp.
Inside she glimpsed the figures of not two, but three small children. They stood coughing and crying and beside them the body of a fallen elleth. One glimpse was enough to tell her that she was dead.
Estela ran forwards, grabbed the children, swinging one on her back and making sure the child held on tight, and the other two under one arm. Amazing, but she did it.
She rotated the child on her back to her front and clung to the three of them when she started running.
She heard Alarcon calling her name. She kept running just before a tree fell in front of them, running until she glimpsed Alarcon and Maltariel who managed to join them, preparing to catch the children. "Hold on!" She screamed throwing first one then the other. The child on her front whimpered and wept as she prepared to toss.
But something creaked and rumbled above. She didn't bother to look to determine what it was. The distance was too far, and strong and fast as she was, she would not be able to make it to safety with a child.
She did what she prepared to do, a long time ago. She threw the child and seconds later the tree crashed and everything went black.
Darkness came. It was not a pleasant darkness.
She saw flames which swiftly vanished, but not before she caught the gold flash of a falling ring.
She saw a figure covered in iron armour, holding his fist up as lava splashed and rose around him, gold on his gauntleted finger before the darkness came again.
She saw the same iron-clad fist holding its hand out, with black, viscous blood, thinner than normal blood, dripping down into a clear bottle, turning its insides black and watching it swirl forbodingly.
She heard whispers and saw a baby. But it could not have been outside of a womb, this was a foetus. All curled up, knees against its little body stirring ever so gently. But it faded to an outline of red light and black darkness and she heard its cries. It was crying, crying… why and what for she did not know.
But it was worse than death.
She saw her cousin hammering in his forge, each blow ringing and catching the light and making it flash.
She saw sixteen rings in a circle their gems glittering with a secret power as they floated in the darkness.
She saw her cousin hammering away and she knew he was making them.
She heard Galadriel's voice. "We have been deceived.
"The Darkness grows."
She saw seas of orcs attacking tall, bright elves in armour.
She heard a desolate, heart-shattering scream. "No!"
She saw Ereinion standing tall and proud, Aeglos in hand ready to stand and fight.
She saw numerous armies, and alliances being forged by good and evil.
She heard the coos of a different baby, and saw another unborn child, soon obscured by the figure of a being. Whose hair was blacker than midnight, yet shone with light infinitely brighter than she imagined, with eyes like violet stars. Her delicate finger was held out and blood the colour of liquid gold, glittering as if true gold flakes and adamants were within, dripping down into a vial.
She heard the baby's coos once more as she held the vial of gold in her hands.
She saw an elf with fair hair, marching away, a huge harp slung across his back, the coos echoing from within.
She saw a shieldmaiden, and a princess.
She saw Ereinion.
Estela had yet to return to the world of reality as Celeborn watched over her, he felt a stirring of concern.
Gil-Galad was at the tent, kneeling beside her, his hand grasping hers, his face a mask of anguish. The High King was dishevelled, some hairs escaping in little strands from the rest, his face smeared in soot and ash in places, still wearing armour and travel-wear.
Galadriel's eyes were closed, but she passed a hand over the motionless Estela. Elrond felt her pulse.
"Darkness grows," Galadriel murmured. "If this was a mere injury all would have been healed. Her fëa… is disturbed."
Ereinion's eyes shot up, and his face was white despite the soot.
"Something is not right," Elrond agreed quietly. "Nothing appears to be out of order with her hröa, it is merely her fëa."
"Merely?!" Ereinion half-shouted but somehow half-choked.
"Merely? How do you fix a problem with a fëa?!"
"Rest," Galadriel murmured. "And peace." She bent down and kissed her goddaughter's head.
Estela did not even stir or sense anything.
Ereinion would not be dissuaded from his anguish. "The last time someone tried rest to fix a broken fëa, that person departed for the Halls of Mandos and never returned!"
Obviously everyone knew who he was talking about. Her foremother. Something burned clutched tightly in his other hand, and his eyes blazed with agony, anguish, panic and more.
Celeborn stood. "My king," he said softly. "Take a rest. You shall do yourself and Estela no good if you continue like this."
Ereinion opened his mouth, certain he was about to start a shouting fit with the silver-haired Lord, but Círdan touched his shoulder and pulled him away. Gazing back, with half-longing, half-grief, he knew Celeborn was right, he wasn't helping anybody, but it did not ease the pain and fear inside of him.
Once again he had never felt so helpless.
"Who did started the blaze?" Oropher snarled.
"It was the orcs, sire." One guard panted. "The survivors claim-" Oropher looked murderous.
"In all my years- and I have lived for a very long time- I have never never heard of the orcs planning such a thing. They attacked dwarvish and human settlements, yes, often set them ablaze. But to dare take our own people and plan such a destruction, on such a large scale…" Oropher shook his head. "Orcs are cowards. And fools. They will never take us full on. Yet we sent troops to secure the borders. But few of the survivors recalled ever seeing any. What happened?" He demanded. "What happened to them?"
A soldier shook his head. "We do not know my king. All we know is that they set forth, as you ordered, yet few arrived, and those are dead, slain in combat with the orcs."
Oropher turned to his son Thranduil. "What does this mean?"
"This was deliberate," Thranduil said voicing what his father was so desperate not to hear. "Someone planned this. Someone more than orcs. Who or why, I cannot say."
Oropher shook his head. A soldier, one of Gil-Galad's he recognized, came riding into view.
"What news of the lady shieldmaiden?" Oropher asked.
"She is still in the realm of the living," the soldier replied. "But she lies in a fragile state, her fëa is disturbed."
Oropher chose not to enquire further. He only prayed that she would live.
"Damn them," he cursed. "Whoever planned this, damn them."
Annatar stood silently at the edge of the encampment. His gaze was watchful and wary. Galadriel, taking a break with Elrond looking over Estela and the others who were wounded, but she saw him and watched in silence.
For one moment she saw his eyes, glow, orange-gold, like flames, and his pupils turn as black as the void. She paused.
Annatar's gaze turned towards the healing tent where Estela lay.
Galadriel watched his every move.
And yet she felt it would not be enough.
That wasn't even the worst bit. Once the survivors were all patched up and streaming into Amon Lanc, the king of the Greenwood turned his attentions to hunting down whoever was responsible.
If only he knew.
"Is it time?" Varda asked.
"Aye, it is time," murmured Vairë, weaver of Fate and wife of Námo.
"Soon fate will take its course. And whatever comes next must be borne. The wonderfully good and the suffering caused by evil. Estela will play her part. But she is not the only one. There will be others to continue the plan."
Varda closed her bright eyes while others looked troubled.
"And what of the non-inheritors of that house?" Vána asked.
"They have a vastly-important role to play. But the inheritors, including she have no less an important one." Nienna replied.
The Valië watched in silence at the crystal pool watered by Nienna's tears and Varda's wells.
Estela lay there, her spirit hovering between the light and the dark.
Galadriel sought out Celeborn and Elrond.
"Whoever was behind the attack, I believe that Annatar played a part, and has yet to for the sake of evil."
"What do you mean?" Celeborn asked sharply.
"He has been benevolent," Galadriel replied. "But no gift comes without a price. Not in Middle-Earth."
They absorbed her words in silence.
Estela lay in a twilight realm.
Suddenly she was there again.
Ereinion's face flashed before her eyes, his eyes, his smile…
But then she was running through the meadow near Tirion. The New Year's Festival was about to begin.
She ran shrieking and giggling with glee as Maltariel and Itarillë tore behind her. She always ran faster than them.
They dodged tables laden with food and elves in fancy dress, where they came across several Maiar.
"I'm warning you, Mairon," One of them spoke. "Let them be as they are today. No one has betrayed our trust. No one has committed murder or theft or violence in any form. There is no need for all but to relax on this glorious occasion."
The one named Mairon shook his head and growled. He was a tall figure, with long, silky, black hair and a slim, elegant, chiselled face. He glowered menacingly.
But Estela gazed at him and could have sworn his eyes turned orange-gold, as if there were flames inside of them, and his pupils black as pitch, narrowing to slits.
Mairon.
Annatar's face flooded in her mind. His hair was gleaming bright and fair, his skin whiter, but something remained the same- the shape of the face, the features.
The eyes.
They were no elf-eyes. No human eyes either.
Mairon.
Estela's eyes finally fluttered open. But she was weak. Her dreams were chaotic, confusing, but the same.
These were no mere dreams.
She could not sit up. For some reason she felt so weak.
How could she be such a fool, she thought, as to reveal her innermost thoughts to Annatar?
She had no doubt this was the Maia named Mairon. But why he was here in Middle-Earth she did not know. There was something about him that seemed not to be as pure or honest and true as the other Maiar she had met and seen in Valinor.
Why was he here? Surely the Valar could not have sent him? Unless…
Five slaves, the old lady said.
She got out of bed only to find in startled shock, that Ereinion knelt by the foot of her bed, his eyes glazed over. He in a waking dream, no doubt.
"Ereinion," she gently touched his shoulder. Her voice shook as she tried to wake him. "Ereinion?" Startled, he leapt out of sleep and his eyes flashed onto hers. He sat there, breathing heavily.
"Estela," he breathed.
The two of them kissed, rather passionately and Ereinion held her close, afraid to let go.
"Don't ever do that to me again," he whispered. She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder.
"I love you," he whispered.
"And I love you," she responded. She closed her eyes tightly, not wanting ever to leave this warm and happy embrace. Here she felt happy and safe, merely because he was close by.
"I was afraid you'd never wake," his voice was muffled by her hair.
"I kept seeing you," she whispered. "In my dreams. I could not help it."
"So did I." he reluctantly pulled back. "Estela," he choked. "Don't go. Don't ever leave me. I don't want… I can't bear…."
"Ereinion," she whispered.
"Stay with me," he whispered to her. "Don't ever leave me. Marry me."
She drew back, her eyes massive, her mouth open in shock. What was he saying?
Of all the things she had ever expected to hear from him, or anyone, it was not that.
But something inside her had changed. Even though there was the threat of the darkness that loomed, and the problem of Mairon/Annatar to be solved, Estela could not help but feel that to reject him, was to commit the gravest regretful mistake she had ever made in her life- something which not only struck her with fear to the core, but threatened to shatter her heart.
So many centuries she'd lived. Yet it appeared, that the few meaningful, happy days, were never enough. Were tainted with something. Were cut short, or ended with regret and haunting grief.
Even a minute was him was undeniably precious. Priceless, even.
She knew her answer. And come what may, she would never regret this one.
"Yes, Ereinion, I will."
Here, I hope you're happy! Wanted this all along didn't you? Haha! I know Celebrimbor is not mentioned as having a wife or children in the books, but in the Shadow of Mordor, well... I find it too compelling to leave out, and I'm trying to settle everything the best I can.