Narn Gil-galad by Earonn

---

Chapter 11: Balar

 

Curtsy: to Nemis for focussing her inherited 'slightly disarranged mind' on the beta-reading.

A/N

In the beginning I've made some rapid changes of scenes. It's kind of an experiment and I had much fun writing it that way. If you feel like a ping-pong ball while reading – that's just what I had in mind... *evil laughter*

---

 

XI Balar

The Lady Melian strode through the forest of Region, alone. Her heart was heavy and silent tears ran down her white cheeks. A great tragedy was to come, she could sense it. Pain and sorrow awaited the elves of Beleriand. The downfall drew near.

She reached the clearing from where she initially had started. Already the sun was rising in the East above the Ered Lindon, causing the tips of the trees to glow gold. The stars were fading.

Beneath the widespread branches of an old chestnut she quietly kneeled beside the sleeping elf lying there and caressed his silver hair with a feathery touch. He smiled in his slumber but did not stir.

'Elwë, beloved, I wish I could longer ward off the tragedy. I wish I could longer defend the Eglath,' she whispered while lovingly watching his peaceful face. 'For many years we protected them, but soon it will be over. It has begun; the doom of the Noldor will reach its fulfilment. I have sung it myself in the Music before the beginning of the world.'

Elwë Singollo, also called Thingol Greymantle, King of the Sindar of Beleriand, felt nothing else but the loving presence of his spouse in his fëa. Enveloped in love and affinity he slept peaceful and free from cares.

At the same time in Gondolin, far northwest from the woods of Region, a lonely figure stood on a white tower's parapet. Above the near peaks of the Crissaegrim a thunderstorm raged and heavy rain lashed down.

But Idril Celebrindal did not care nor retreat before the rain which had soaked her already. She turned her heated face to the cool drops, welcoming the touch of Ulmo's waters on her skin.

It felt soothing.

Alive.

She had been disturbed in her sleep by a dream. It had chased her out of her chamber, where suddenly she felt like choking, into the rain. Again and again the same dream, for the last nine discomforting nights. Since the eagle brought the news that the host of Nargothrond had been defeated and the realm destroyed. In the following night she had had the dream for the first time.

In this dream she stood on smooth uneven ground. She was aware that it was sand, but she did not see it. She knew herself near the sea, but neither did she see the waves nor did she hear any seagulls or sensed the scent of salt in the air.

She looked around, she was searching for someone, and not until she found him she realised that for whom she had searched was the young Edain Tuor. Though she could not say why he, who had come to Gondolin only a few months before as a messenger of Ulmo, should be so important for her to feel a great loss and anguish without him by her side and such relief at his sight.

He stood some steps away from her, talking to a dark-haired elf she did not know. Hastily she approached them; the elf looked up and as the glance from the dark grey eyes fell on her there was a hint of recollection. Though she was sure never to have seen him before it seems as if she should know this foreign elf. Instantly she felt herself mentally embraced, comforted – why she should need comfort she could not say – and protected.

Every night she dreamed of these two men and every time it left her uneasy and stirred, but the daughter of the High King could not fathom the meaning of this mental picture haunting her.

On the next morning the elves of Nargothrond took up their wandering again, led and encouraged by the Falathrim. Círdan tried to stay near Gil Galad and even though he did not mention it, the younger elf appreciated his presence. The quiet charisma of the ancient Elda was like a pleasant touch and he knew many interesting things to tell about the life near the ocean, the animals and plants, the weather and also the dangers. Things he soon would have to know himself.

Nonetheless Gil Galad kept his reserve. Not that there was any suspicion towards Círdan. Far from it, he felt himself urged to entrust him with his troubles and worries and to ask him for advice. The Lord of the Havens had so much experience in leading and protecting his people, more than he himself could ever hope to gain.

But though Círdan doubtlessly was different from Túrin, let alone Curufin and Celegorm, still Gil Galad remembered all too clearly what it could bring forth if a leader did not make his decisions in absolute independence. He could not put right the faults of the past, but at least he would learn and not repeat them.

'And besides – what sense would be in getting close to him?' he thought frequently as if to convince himself. 'There is scarcely less danger here in the South of Beleriand than in the North. Why again take the risk of losing someone dear to me?'

But as he cast a sidelong glance to his companion who presently told about the silence over the waters, about the endless space and freedom on the ocean while his eyes were set on a vague distance, Gil Galad guessed that this would be a difficult task.

"Should it be your wish, we can send messengers to Doriath and Gondolin after our arrival on Balar," Círdan said some time later when they had left behind the trees of Nan Tathren and were travelling through open land.

Gil Galad pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and cast a disapproving glance towards the sky, where thick clouds announced more snow to fall.

"No, thank you. It is too dangerous. Whom should I let take such a risk? Doriath is far away and if my father knew how to deliver messages to the High King Turgon, he did not tell me about it."

"It is possible. And I do know how. But even of the leaders of our people only few know it and I won't talk about it now. The more secret it remains the better for all," Círdan gravely answered.

"And there are other ways to Doriath than over Talath Dirnen."

"Nonetheless we are far too few. I won't deprive my folk of only one."

Now the elder elf smiled. "I will send one of my messengers. They know about the paths one must take to avoid the orcs." He gently patted the king's shoulder. "Do not give up hope. Many of those who could escape may still hide in the woods. They will soon learn about the whereabouts of their people. And some even may have reached Doriath."

Gil Galad did not answer, but the grateful smile he gave his companion, as small as it was, already contained some hidden, half suppressed affection.

In this very moment in the Guarded Realm of Doriath King Thingol listened to the story of two exhausted, injured and badly dismayed elves, who had been found at the borders a few days before. They told him about the battle of Tumhalad which they miraculously escaped alive, about the orcs who came from the South so suddenly and of the appearance of Glaurung the Dragon.

The Lady Melian frowned, her eyes gone dark with worry. "This is indeed bad news and we can only hope that nothing worse will arise from it." She hesitated and seemed to listen to a tune only she could hear. "You told us of your king Orodreth. What about his son Gil Galad?"

"He wasn't with the king, when the orcs broke through our ranks. And the battle first lessened near the river Ginglith where he was fighting. I do not know for sure, but it is possible that he could have escaped."

Melian nodded silently and Thingol distinctly felt her relief. He wondered if this concern arose from kinship alone.

After a small pause the Lord of the Havens spoke again. "What about Maedhros? He should be informed, too."

"I suppose he has a right to hear that the succession of Turgon has changed," Gil Galad said, making a face. "But for me alone he could remain separated in Thargelion forever. My father decided that there should be no friendship between the House of Finarfin and the House of Fëanor any more. And even if it had been otherwise – Maedhros did not even bother to inform Celebrimbor if he still considers him a member of their House. His relatives don't seem a matter of great interest to him." Annoyed the king threw a dark strain out of his face. "But he is a king of the Noldor and Lord of a House and so has a right to hear about it."

Therefore many weeks later Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor and Lord of his House, received a message from Balar. The messenger arrived at the Fëanorian fortress deep in the night and apart from Maedhros himself there were only three other men present to learn about the news: his brothers Maglor, Curufin and Celegorm.

In Doriath Mablung of the Heavy Hand asked his king for permission to leave for Nargothrond and seek for news.

Thingol, however, denied him this wish.

"We already lost Beleg Cúthalion. The folk of the Eglath cannot afford another lost like this."

He cast a glance at Melian, who answered the unspoken question with a mute nod. Then he turned to the warrior before him.

"We will hear soon enough what happened to the stronghold. If they survive they will send messengers and if not...even you, my friend, cannot fight a dragon."

Maedhros read the letter in deep concentration and with an anxious face.

"It's about Nargothrond," he eventually said.

Celegorm frowned. "And why do they send their messages via Balar? What does the bookworm have to announce, he wants to tell the Teleri first?"

Since his expulsion from Nargothrond neither Celegorm nor Curufin had spoken the name of Orodreth aloud. Nor that of Celebrimbor.

Maedhros looked up to his brother's face.

"It would be appropriate, I think, to offer Orodreth some more respect – as our cousin, Lord of the House of Finarfin and King of the realm of Nargothrond."

"A realm of which he cast out your brothers, as you seem to forget."

"I do not forget it," Fëanor's eldest son answered and gravely continued "By the way, you should be grateful for it. Nargothrond does not exist anymore."

Celegorm could not stifle a surprised gasp and made a step back.

"What do you mean – Nargothrond does not exist anymore?"

Maedhros looked around ere he answered. Celegorm with shock-wide eyes. Maglor pensive and unreadable. Curufin turned pale.

"Morgoth sent an army of orcs and to make sure his victory, he added Glaurung the Dragon. They defeated Nargothrond's host and afterwards captured the stronghold."

Curufin swallowed hard. 'Celebrimbor! O my dear boy. Gracious Valar, please not...'

"And what about...our relatives?" he asked aloud in a hoarse voice.

Maedhros smiled sadly. Since long he supposed that Curufin regretted having refused his son so harshly and their cruel separation. He only wished his younger brother would find the courage to go to Celebrimbor and ask his forgiveness.

"Orodreth and Helegethir are dead. Gil Galad has survived – and also my nephew Celebrimbor. Now they live together with the Falmari on Balar with the remnants of the people of Nargothrond who could escape the orcs."(1)

Curufin did not speak. He felt tears of relief well up in his eyes and he knew he would not be able to suppress them. Abruptly he turned and left the room.

Frowning Celegorm cast a blank look after him. Why care for this ungrateful brat Celebrimbor? He was as unworthy of any consideration as this faithless hound Huan who had left him after so many years...he broke off the thought, he did not like to admit to himself the pain it caused. Then another thought came into his mind and he smiled wickedly.

"Hah, how may it feel for the half Sinda for a change to be the outcast himself?"

Maglor gave him a disgusted glance and their eldest brother folded the message slowly and carefully. Without looking at Celegorm he said, and his voice was cold and sharp, "It's in moments like this when I wish the 'half Sinda' would be my brother!"

'Another cousin of mine fallen to death. O Orodreth, you should have remained with Finarfin. Never should you have come with us. It was simply not your place.'

Turgon, Lord of Gondolin, High King of the Noldor of Middle Earth, sat at his desk and thoughtlessly leafed through a book. The author's practised handwriting on the delicate sheets was fluent and easily legible, the thoughts clearly stated. Many years ago Orodreth had written this work about the philosophy of the free will. It had been a gift for Turgon, with whom the son of Angrod had led many discussions about this topic back in Valinor.

'These had been days of happiness, dear cousin. Who would have foreseen such a disaster?'

The High King closed the book, but his fingers still ran over the embossed cover.

'And what have you left? Whom? Your son is my heir now. And with all my heart I wish it would be different. What has your Gil Galad learned about leading our people, about the duties of a High King? If only Aredhel had been a man, Maeglin is doubtlessly more suitable for taking this heritage.'

Turgon laid the book on the polished wood of the table and abandoned himself to the grief over his cousin's death.

About two weeks after the arrival of the Nargothrondian soldiers a group of elves who survived the downfall of the stronghold itself reached Doriath. They were in a likewise miserable and weak condition, shocked by the loss of their home and their beloved.

"We lived outside the city and cultivated the farmland," a haggard woman explained to the king and the queen of the realm. "When we were summoned to enter the caves we decided to secure the crop first. But the orcs came sooner than expected and we had to flee. First we went southwards; we hoped to reach Nargothrond in time to seek for safety there. But when we arrived, nobody was there – at least nobody alive." The elf shivered and swallowed to suppress the nausea she felt at the memory of the sight. "Except for the dragon, of course."

The elves were put up in Doriath and found a new home in the Guarded Realm. And therefore it soon became known that Mormegil, the Black Sword of Nargothrond was indeed no one else but Túrin son of Húrin of Dor-Lómin and foster son of king Thingol.

So Túrin's mother Morwen and his sister Nienor heard about him and left Doriath to find their son and brother and unknowingly did theirs for the fulfilment of the curse over the House of Húrin.

Celegorm only seldom cared for his elder brother's reproaches, so he simply shrugged and laid a hand on his chin, pensively tipping with his forefinger against his lips. "And what about the succession?"

"Is there any problem? Gil Galad is king of Nargothrond now – if such a title is to be inherited at all."

"I'm speaking of the High Kingship."

Now Maedhros turned with a sharp movement towards his brother, his eyes flaring.

"Do not dare only to think such! The heritage of the High Kingship is likewise moved to Gil Galad. Should Gondolin fall he will become the next High King of the Noldor of Middle Earth!"

"So if Turgon dies my cousin Gil Galad shall follow him as a High King."

Maeglin son of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel and Eöl the Dark Elf, nephew of Turgon, leader of the House of the Mole and a prince of the Noldor murmured these words while working on a metal plate which soon would be an ornamental fitting for a wooden gate.

"What madness! He knows nothing about the tasks and duties of a High King, Turgon had to admit that himself!"

The afternoon before the High King had held a council. They had debated if the claim Orodreth's son doubtlessly had on the succession of the High Kingship could be evaded somehow. Of course it could not and all of them knew it. Nonetheless they had talked about possibilities and chances, though many of them, of this he was sure, would rather see the House of Finarfin be in power instead of him.

And Idril and Tuor strictly resisted even the thought of changing anything. Lately they seemed to be of one mind in many matters...

Anger was in Maeglin's heart, anger at this unknown cousin who should inherit what rightfully should be his and anger at what he read in Idril's eyes whenever she looked at the son of Huor, this ordinary Edain.

But outwardly nothing of this furious anger was to be seen, neither in Maeglin's handsome face nor in his regular movements.

Círdan did not miss the uneasiness in the voice of his young relative.

"Do you believe Maedhros would appeal against your claim?"

Gil Galad thought about it and then shook his head.

"No, not Maedhros. He is the only one of this...of the House of Fëanor I do not think capable of doing so. And the others would never defy him."

"What worries you then?"

"What do you imagine?" Gil Galad asked with an ironical smile. "I worry that the succession of the High Kingship could ever be of importance again! There is nothing but to wish that Turgon will survive." He looked down to the cold white ground. "After all, he is able to protect his people," he added in a low voice.

Círdan reacted without any thought and laid his arm around the shoulders of the younger elf. And he was filled with a completely unreasonable gladness when this movement was answered with only a short tension before Gil Galad accepted the consoling touch.

Soon the elves from the different cities and tribes became friends. Too well they could understand each other's pain. The children cared less of all about those things, they enjoyed the consoling and the play with the foreign elves.

But as it often happens, there was one exception.

Most of the Teleri had forgiven the Noldor as a folk the kinslaying of Alqualondë, sometimes even those who had taken part in it. Celebrimbor, however, son of Curufin and member of just the same family which had brought death and grief upon them and their relatives, they could and did not want to pardon. Thence they excluded him from their community, ignored him completely or even treated him openly hostile.

It was no surprise, neither for him nor for anyone else, but nonetheless it hurt the mastersmith. He felt torn between the urge to be close to Gildor and Gil Galad who still behaved towards him as friends, and his fear to complicate the relationship between his people and their hosts by being too close to his king.

Three days later they arrived at the Mouth of Sirion. For a long time Círdan had mused how he could ease Gil Galad's sorrow and maybe even enlighten his mood. On this last day, when they already could sense the smell of salt in the air and hear the cries of the seagulls, he invited the king to ride with him. He led him aside from the river and rode across the land. Círdan knew this country and he set great hope on what he had to show.

About noon they arrived at the dunes which rose between inland and sea. There they left their horses behind and the Shipwright led the other elf up the sandy hills. Never before had Gil Galad seen the ocean. He did not know how to picture this endless surface of water which had been described to him.

They reached the peak of the dune and Círdan turned back to watch the effect the sight of the Belegaer might have on Gil Galad.

The son of Orodreth stopped surprised and watched with astonishment what presented itself to him.

The restless sea, driven inlands by a gusty wind, lay beneath a pale winter sky. Gulls glided close over the waves and far-off over the water he could hear their cries, tearing at a part of his fëa he never previously had felt, nor even aware to possess. Nothing but water, grey, restless water, up to the horizon where it only slightly contrasted against the clouds. Never before he had experienced such vastness, such infinity, nor had he been able to imagine it.

The greatest wonder, however, was the sound. The waves breaking on the gravel- and seashell-covered strand rushed with a quiet melody, lapped and gurgled, an endless song which soothed his heart, regardless of all his worries. He wished he could listen to the sea forever.

Círdan watched with a silent smile the astonishment and longing on the face of the younger elf, and with great contentment he noticed the effect the sight of the sea had on him.

His eyes directed on the bright foam crests on the waves, Gil Galad went down to the surf. He wanted to feel this water, wanted to touch it, be near it and feel its movements. Captured by sound, scent and sight of the moving waves he slowly walked across the sand until he reached the water line. There he lowered himself and almost hesitatingly put a hand into the cold sea. It did not feel different from fresh water, but the constant movement in it was like the breathing of a huge animal.

He looked up to the horizon. Far in the West, behind this ocean, lay the Undying Lands, Aman, lay the Halls of Mandos, where now the fëa of his parents and of all the friends he had lost were dwelling – maybe even the fëa of Finduilas. The thought that these waters might touch their coast as well as his held its own sort of comfort.

It took long time ere he rose again. Wind and constant immobility had chilled him to the bone, but he felt some of the old strength returning. While going to Círdan who stood some way up the strand, looking distinctly pleased, he listened enraptured to the light crunch of the shells beneath his steps, light as children's voices against the dark, adult rumble of the waves.

"It is very calming," he said and Círdan nodded.

They were heartily welcomed by the elves of the settlements along the Bay of Balar and instantly the ships were prepared for the crossing. Everyone was eager to reach their destination, to return to their homes and the luxury of warmth, safety and dry surroundings.

Círdan stood on the strand and searchingly looked around. There were some things he wanted to discuss with Gil Galad before they set sail.

He found the king eventually, standing somewhat aside the others amidst a group of about twenty grown elves. The Shipwright noticed it were those who suffered most from the loss of their homes and their families, those with the most grievous faces. Each of them emitted pain and hurt like heat was emitted by a fire.

"I understand your feelings," he heard Gil Galad's deep voice. "Mine are scarcely different. But we need you. The children need you. The Falmari will care for them as lovingly as for their own children, but they cannot replace the comfort of familiar faces."

The king took the hands of the woman standing right in front of him.

"Please. I do not ask you to stay forever. Only for a few decades until they are old enough."

"Which comfort can we possibly give them, when in our hearts there is nothing left but grief?" the elf answered. "Gladly I would give them all my love, all what I once felt for my own child who now cannot receive it anymore. But I don't have anything to give, my king."

She stopped. "However, if you command us to stay, we will obey," she eventually added with a trembling voice

Gil Galad sighed. "You should know me better. Of course I won't do anything like that. It can be only your decision alone and I don't even want to urge you to do this. All I ask of you is to consider the children's situation and that it would be only a delay, not abandonment."

He let her hands go and bowed to them. They answered the gesture and all spread out to take up their duties again.

When they assembled to take leave for Balar a few hours later, Círdan noticed that only a few of these elves still were among them.

How it began Círdan never could tell. But without any word or agreement about it he displayed towards Gil Galad the attitude of a mentor or advisor, sometimes even of a father. He guided the young king through the first weeks in which he had to establish a new community for his people, gave him some good advice and sometimes, seldom, the younger elf even accepted a little comfort from the Shipwright. With the foresight he once was given Círdan realized that Gil Galad, lord over a nearly wiped out people, who bore the blood of all three Houses of Kings of the Eldar, should become determinative for the fate of the Elves of Middle Earth. But he also saw the great sorrow which awaited his kinsman, and his heart was filled with admiration and pity likewise.

After the long and hostile winter there followed a cool, wet spring and when the newcomers had begun to build their own homes, the elves on Balar found back to some peace and slowly the mourning songs were replaced by those of work.

At this time men and women of all free people of Middle Earth were living on Balar. Edain who had fled from the North, Elves from Hithlum, survivors of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the Dagor Bragollach, who had managed to escape together with Círdan's warriors. They lived in small isolate groups, but nevertheless regarding themselves as one people with the Shipwright as their lord.

The Elves of Nargothrond, however, continued to live near the harbour, since they did not want to be separated from their king, who had decided to stay near Círdan. They considered themselves still as different from the others, thus it came that two communities of elves lived on Balar which, however, could not be outwardly distinguished.

"Why do you act like this? Why do you refuse to join the Falathrim but instead pretend as if we still could be an independent folk? We cannot and I would not mind if you decide to follow Círdan."

Gil Galad murmured these words to himself while watching the busy life in the settlement beneath him.

He sat on a high cliff above the small city, where a good view over town, harbour and sea was possible. Late, very late the heritage of his Teleri ancestors made itself felt and he developed the same yearning for the sea as his great-uncle Finrod Felagund had received from his mother Eärwen. Its nearness soothed him like a familiar presence, though only seldom he dared to entrust himself to the waves. Like his ancestors he bore the blood and the doom of the Noldor and felt unsafe in Ossë's realm.

"They do it out of faith. Out of affection. And because they believe in their king," a melodious voice said from behind.

Gil Galad did not turn.

"Greetings, Lord Círdan. But you should not sneak towards me like this, lest they don't have a king any more to believe in. I nearly fell from the cliff."

The Shipwright settled himself beside the other elf. "I seriously doubt that you did not know of my approach already." He leaned back and propped himself on his hands. "The weather will soon change. I smell it in the wind. And look at the clouds over there, near the horizon. We will have strong squalls, but no storm."

"Again the teacher?" Gil Galad asked, casting an amused look at the Shipwright. Círdan was a pleasant companion, wise and humorous, a strong leader of his people, even something like a...friend? No. Not if he himself could prevent it. But a prudent man. And just this the elder elf only seldom seemed be able to forget. "If it won't become a real tempest, all the better. The storms here at the sea are different from what we are used to. They are…frightening to say the least," he continued and Círdan chuckled at the thought of the reactions the elves from the inland had displayed on occasion of the first proper storm of spring.

The son of Orodreth looked again to the waves and the gulls gliding above. Their cries only strengthened the longing for the sea, but it was a pleasant longing. The song of the sea reminded him of the roaring of the Sirion, to which he had listened on Tol Sirion so often. When he had had a family...

'Do not think about it. It's of no use. Mother and Father are dead and most likely Finduilas is also gone. Think of your people, your duty!'

But it was so hard to forget!

"If only all this never had happened...," he whispered.

Círdan nodded, also observing the birds on the water. "I had the same wish after Brithombar and Eglarest had fallen. Both times. I had to witness my folk die and I lost good friends. And until today I wish the cities would have survived. They were beautiful. You should have seen them; your father had a great talent in these things." Tears ran over his face unwanted. "For so many years they had been our home. So believe me, I do know what you and your people feel."

He swallowed. And then he suddenly felt a short, gentle touch on his hand.

Gil Galad withdrew, wrapped his arms around his knees and folded his hands. "Sometimes I dream I see Nargothrond burn, though all was over already when we arrived."

Recovered from the surprise Círdan nodded. "I know, young one, I know. I had similar dreams."

He pretended not to notice the wry sidelong look he received for this address. But Gil Galad said nothing, just observed the sea again.

A few days later Gil Galad came to Celebrimbor's forge. As cool he was treated by the Teleri the son of Curufin still was held in high esteem among the smiths. Through him many inventions of the Noldor and especially of the skilled House of Fëanor passed to the Falathrim and this was just as little forgotten as Alqualondë.

The king of Nargothrond unsheathed his sword and laid it on the anvil between them.

"You know what happened to it. Can you reforge this sword?"

Celebrimbor first looked at his cousin, then at the weapon in front of him. He thought about the reason behind its state. And then he shook his head.

"No, Finellach. I will forge you a new sword, but this leave as it is. As a memory and sign for what the elves of Nargothrond had to endure – and what their king has done for them."

The warriors who had been sent to rescue the captured elves returned to Balar half a year later. Sad were their faces as they bore bad news for their people and especially for Gil Galad. They told him about Finduilas' cruel death and brought him the orc-spear which had killed his sister.

Gil Galad said nothing, just stared at the wood and metal which had crushed his last hope.

Simultaneously Celebrimbor and Gildor stepped forward and gently touched their friend in mute comfort.

"She will be fine," Gildor said then in a low voice. "She will return to Aman and find peace in Mandos. And in time she will be granted a new life by the Valar and become happy in the Undying Lands."

Gil Galad slowly nodded towards Gildor. "Yes, you're right." But apparently he barely had heard the other's words.

'Dead,' he thought, 'I knew it. I knew I would never see your lovely face again or hear the music of your laughter. My little leaf, so light and fragile. Why weren't you allowed to become happy here, in the lands of our birth?'

Another thought struck him and he turned pale of shock.

'"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains." The doom of the Noldor! By the Grace of Eru Ilúvatar, I will never see you again! And I can't even follow you and our parents into the Halls of Waiting, not out of my own will...oh 'Las, dear 'Las, this punishment is too cruel for me to bear it...'(2)

And at this one single moment in his life, Gil Galad cursed the Valar.

The next day he asked Círdan to see for his people for a while and retreated alone to the woods of Taur im Duinath, the large forest westwards of Balar and south of Sirion's estuary.

There he walked alone under the trees and he sang songs of mourning and parting for his beloved younger sister. He remembered all the times they had shared, her childhood and how he had cared for her in the beginning. He thought how the child had turned before his eyes into the beautiful young lady which in the end found her love. And who ever had been a source of happiness and delight for him, even in the darkest of times.

Since this time he smiled less and mostly was serious and silent. And only seldom he raised his rich voice for a song again.

Here in the loneliness of the woods he changed. He barely noticed it himself, but a new feeling arose in his heart: hate. A cold, deep, fierce hate, only the stronger as he know all too well that he never would get a chance to let his feelings go. Hate for the orcs who did this to him, for Morgoth who was responsible for the downfall of all what had been dear to him.

It was not the first time he felt hate, but this time it was different. This hate was based deeper, rooted in the passion of his Noldorin nature. He could not know yet, but this hate should become his constant companion for thousands of years and strongly affect his life.

In these days of grief and hate he vowed vengeance to the orcs, to let them pay in the same way they had killed his sister. After his return he asked Celebrimbor to put the blade of the orc-spear on a new shaft of black ashwood, as high as a tall man. Into the shaft the mastersmith inlayed Finduilas' name in delicate curved runes of silver. It was a sheer relief for Celebrimbor to forge this weapon, the last service he could bestow on his dear cousin Finduilas, and all his knowledge and affectionate feelings for her flew into his work.

Since then Gil Galad fought almost only with this spear, as a memory of his lost sister. And the elves said, his hate for the orcs burned so hot that the point of the blade glowed in a white fire when it was raised against Morgoth's servants. Therefore they called the spear 'Aeglos', 'Snowpoint'. And this was the only weapon of the enemy ever carried by elvish hands.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

(1) Falmari: a name for the Teleri, mostly used by the Noldor. It means 'Wave-Folk'

(2) It's said or at least indicated in Tolkien's work that those who died willingly, not out of grief or because they sacrificed their lives (like Glorfindel did), would not be allowed to return bodily from the Halls of Waiting.