Narn Gil-galad by Earonn

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Chapter 13: Elwing

 

Curtsy: For both chapters twice as many thankies, hugs and orc-cookies to Nemis for beta-reading. Hopefully they also can lure you into visiting Dortmund. *g*

And thanks to all the people at the LJ. Your comforting words and all the fun we have together are priceless!

Dedicated to Merlin

January 2001 – July 2003

A/N

Jaschenka: it's still unbelievable for me. Thanks for Lúthien and Finduilas, I'm feeling honoured!

Finch: Thingol did just what was expected from him as a rich, powerful and – overprotective – father. This is the 'underdog meets upper class girl'-scenario, after all! Námo will understand... ;)

Nemis, ever so encouraging! And I fear you understand my characters better as I do myself. But: no. I am not more evil than you are. 'More evil than Nemis' would be like 'more pregnant than pregnant' *wide grin*

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XIII Elwing

The elf felt not at ease. Not at all.

He was to face two of the great lords of the Eldar. And how they would react to him having taken leadership of the Doriathrim, he could not guess. But especially the Noldor were told to be haughty and easily offended by what they called arrogance.

“There was no one else to do it," he whispered.

Being a Laiquendi of Ossiriand he had not the slightest right to give the Doriathrim any orders. Nor had he asked for it. He had given commands by sheer necessity in the aftermath of Doriath's ruin, told its people to do what had to be done just in order to save as many as possible. Why they had accepted this and followed him even after the first panic he did not know. They simply had and so he had become responsible for them.

And for the two greatest treasures they carried with them, one of them a slender, orphaned girl.

With sadness in their eyes Círdan and Gil Galad observed the refugees arriving on the frozen paths of Lisgardh, the wet land around the Sirion's estuary. Here the reeds were dense, an ocean of reed mace, during the warm time of year filled with rustling and the voices of frogs and herons. Now, in the midst of winter, it was silent, the tips of the long leaves covered with ice and glimmering in the pale sunlight. To find a way through it, all the more a way a large group could use was no easy task to perform, but the elves living around the estuary led the Doriathrim as they had led others before. Tattered and weary, many of them injured, the elves from the North now lay or stood at the bank of the great River. The last survivors of Doriath.

"Why does it always happen in winter?" Gil Galad murmured to himself. The memory of his own home's ruin and the thought of Menegroth which he had visited several times in his youth darkened the heart of the elvenking and Círdan gave him a worried sidelong glance. His friend had recovered remarkably over the past years, given the heaviness of his loss and the weight of responsibility he had to bear now, not only for his own people but both for whoever wanted to entrust themselves to him and the elves who came hither to search for the High King Turgon's help.

But in a nearly broken heart's measure of time it was not so long ago that the elves of Nargothrond reached this land in a similar condition and it could be of no good if Gil Galad was confronted again with so many homeless people and so much woe.

Their leader was a slender dark-haired elf with a stern face whom none of them had ever seen before. He came to them in an almost self-conscious manner, his head slightly ducked.

Gil Galad made a step forward. Whatever the circumstances, whoever the visitor, Círdan and he performed the duties of hosts and he would never ignore the ancient rules of welcoming which demanded to approach the guest.

Erestor watched the two elves coming and straightened his back. One of them truly ancient, with a silver beard, the other tall and dark.

As they stood directly in front of him, silent and with gravity in their eyes he bowed his head to greet them, and suddenly it came to his mind that he did not know the way of high lords. He cleared his throat.

"Greetings, mylords. I am Erestor of Ossiriand. I have accompanied our king Dior when he went to Doriath to accept his inheritance. An inheritance which has proved itself as a curse," escaped him. (1)

He knew, he felt, the words were wrong; this was not how a leader would greet two others. But how could he possibly know, being of common birth? He swallowed and visibly struggled to keep his composure.

"So be welcome, Erestor of Ossiriand", Círdan answered friendly in order to reassure the nervous elf. "I am Círdan the Shipwright, lord of the Falathrim and this," he gestured towards Gil Galad, "is Artanáro Finellach Gil Galad, the king of Nargothrond."

Erestor's gaze fiercely rose towards the younger of the two and instinctively his eyes flashed with more than just a hint of hostility. He should have known, though the elf in front of him with his simple garment had nothing of a king.

"We have no dealings with the family of the kinslayers," he nearly hissed.

"Just as little as I do," Gil Galad answered peacefully and not at all offended. "The House of Finarfin has broken all bonds of friendship with the House of Fëanor, and if I had had the opportunity, I would have supported you, not them."

Erestor faintly blushed. "My apologies. It is just…too many have died in their attack."

"Yet you have brought many to us."

Fearing an accusation for his unjustified leadership, he hastily answered "None of the nobles of Doriath were present to lead the people to the coast."

Gil Galad frowned.

"And what about the lord Oropher? The lady Nimloth and her children? And the lord Laerion, my grandsire?"

The latter would not have any right to command, but at least Gil Galad expected him to take care of an otherwise leaderless folk. If he did not, his grandson had to come to the one conclusion he preferred not to consider.

Círdan felt what it demanded from Gil Galad to ask this question. The disadvantage of being connected with one of the noble families - there was no elf realm in Beleriand where the son of Orodreth had no relatives to worry about.

Erestor looked down and fingered nervously at the hem of his plain cloak of dark green.

"The lord Laerion also died in the defence of Doriath, at least this is what I have been told, I did not see him during the fight."

'No! Not again…!'

'O Valar, please give him strength! Why another one…he would have deserved a little luck, only this one time, to have at least one of his family survive….'

Was it appropriate for a king to cry in face of a stranger? It did not matter. His grandfather, whom he had seen too seldom already, who had written him letters from Doriath, long letters to cope with the loneliness, for both his wife and his second child had perished in the course of the Dagor Bragollach. His last connection to his Sindarin ancestors. And more than that - the one who had told him stories of the northern Sindar and taught him so much about birds. Grandfather had loved birds, too, and he knew…had known…all of them and everything about their habits.

He swallowed and wiped the tears off his face. Later there would be time to mourn. More important things were at hand.

Erestor had politely waited until the king regained his composure before he went on.

"Oropher has left us, he has gone to the East with as many of the people as were willing to follow him and accept him as their lord. They wanted to cross the Ered Lindon and find a new home beyond the mountains, where they hope to be safe from Morgoth's threats…and from those of the Noldor." He looked at Gil Galad. "These were his words, not mine."

"I understand."

And our queen Nimloth…"

He clenched his hands furiously and took a deep breath to suppress the urge to fight and harm and kill, to take revenge, no matter on whom.

"They have killed her, slaughtered her like an animal, because she did not tell them where they would find the Silmaril," he said in a hoarse voice full of a dark passion. "Her sons Elúred and Elúrin they have taken with them and our only hope is that they will use them as hostages. But I have seen these cursed elves, I have seen their eyes and I do not believe the boys are still alive. We could only rescue Elwing, the daughter of our king."

Over the last words his voice had grown soft again - by will or emotion - and he nodded towards an elf standing a few steps behind him. She opened her cloak hesitantly, almost unwillingly and beneath it a small girl appeared, shyly peeking at the elves of Balar. She came to Erestor and grasped his invitingly outstretched hand. Crouching to be of same eye-level with her he pointed at the elvenking and the shipwright.

"Look, Elwing, these are your relatives whom I have promised to show you. Your distant uncle Círdan and your also distant cousin Gil Galad."

This prompted the young girl to look past his shoulders at the two foreign elves. She had heard their names before, her mother and her father had often mentioned them. This old elf was one of the Falathrim who lived by the ocean, the giant lake, and the other had lost his family not long ago. Her mother had told her of him, and of his sister who was dead and far away across the sea. She did not like the story; it had made her father sad and her mother cry. But surely he would understand how much she missed Elúred and Elúrin.

As Gil Galad saw the young girl his heart was enlightened and some of the pain withered. In spite of the grief in her eyes he could sense Elwing's normally cheerful, blithe nature. She reminded him much of Finduilas at that age and without becoming aware of it he treated her alike.

He made a cautious step towards her and lowered himself on his knees. Then he touched her shoulders and when she accepted this without fear he embraced her in a comforting, protecting manner.

"Welcome, little Elwing", he spoke with a low voice into her tousled hair.

And Elwing took this willingly; in her young mind she understood that here was someone to care for her, to protect her. So she pressed herself into this tall foreign elf and cried a little and from this moment she saw in him a big brother.

Erestor looked at the two and nothing of the faint jealousy he felt was visible on his face. It had taken days until Elwing had trusted him enough to let herself be touched. He chided himself mentally. 'He is kin to her, family, and nothing else matters for her now.'

After a while Círdan came to them and caressed the girl's dark hair.

"Be welcome then, Elwing, daughter of Dior, Lady of the Doriathrim."

With her huge grey eyes, still wet and reddened but also a little curious, she looked up to him.

"You are old," she finally stated resolutely. "Elves get beards only when they are very, very old. There was one like you in Ossiriand." (2)

In spite of her bold words she retreated into the embrace of her cousin who was warm and protecting and chuckled a little.

"Yes, Elwing, I am old. So old that it will take long until you can understand how old I truly am," Círdan answered.

"May I touch it?"

"Of course you may."

She made a step from Gil Galad to Círdan, gently stroke the silvery strands and then, as cautious, the old elf's head.

"It feels exactly the same." she said with astonishment.

"Oh, that it is, girl, that it-"

The lord of the Havens stopped as they heard voices from afar which soon turned into a loud argument. Somebody cried angry words in the old Sindarin dialect of Doriath, so fast and sharp that even Gil Galad had difficulties to understand, though he had learned it in his youth. For he loved the language of Doriath, rich of beautiful words and more pleasant to hear than the common Sindarin.

"It is about Celebrimbor," Círdan said gravely and rose.

Elwing instantly fled back to Gil Galad, who patted her shoulders comfortingly.

"Nothing will happen to you, little one," he absently whispered without looking at her. "Not here and not now. Never again…"

Slowly they walked to where the noise arose.

"Why did you come, son of a kinslayer, just to mock those your father has hurt so much? Leave us, and follow your cursed sire to the Halls of Mandos!" a deep male voice said.

For a heartbeat there was silence, a stunned silence.

"Do you mean that my father is dead?" Celebrimbor's voice, Gil Galad noticed. Frightened and slightly angry.

"Yes," the other answered with great satisfaction. "Slain by our lord Dior he was, and never will return in body if there is any grace and fair judgement in the circles of Arda!" (3)

A slap was to be heard and the distinct sounds of fighting. But as soon as the struggle had started, and before the three leaders could reach the place, it was over again and shortly after Gildor came to them, a little dishevelled and apparently just out of a strong fray.

"One of the Doriathrim has attacked Celebrimbor," he said with a strained expression on his handsome face. "He has injured him with a knife, but not seriously. His words, however, were much more painful."

"We have heard them," Gil Galad answered. "Curufin is dead. How does he take it?" he added in a low voice.

"As to be expected: no good at all. You know how he still felt for his father, and to lose him now, without having spoken with him and moreover in such a way, under such circumstances... I will bring him back to Balar. He is of no use for us here, and he needs a friend."

"I would accompany you...but..."

"Shht, Finellach. I know. And he knows, too. Just have a look at him after your return."

Gil Galad and Círdan exchanged meaningful glances while Gildor returned to Celebrimbor.

"And these are the moderate ones," Gil Galad said with a frown. "Try to imagine what would have happened with the other ones. I admit, I always felt Oropher's attitude towards the Noldor unjustified, but he has shown wisdom in the decision to take those most hostile of them with him. Though," he pushed a handful of dark hair behind his shoulder, "I do not deem it wise to leave Beleriand. We know nearly nothing about the lands east of the Ered Luin. Who will help them? The Nandor? The Avari? That is by no means certain."

"It was their decision," Erestor firmly said. "And many of them are from the Nandor themselves and remember the places of their birth."

Gil Galad looked at him. "You can report later on what exactly has happened, just tell me now: what about the other sons of Fëanor?"

"I did not know them by face. But I heard that Celegorm was killed by our lord Dior, too, and the one called Caranthir."

"Do you think Maedhros will take revenge for his brothers?" Círdan asked with concern.

"I cannot say for sure. He always seemed to care deeply for them." Gil Galad turned to Erestor again. "And the Silmaril?"

The elf seemed as if he would prefer not to answer at all. "I do not know", he said, but the lie was all too clear.

"You try to tell me that over all those weeks you wandered from Doriath to the Bay of Balar you did not ask if anyone knew about the greatest jewel in Arda?" Gil Galad asked softly.

Erestor visibly winced, not able to trust the two other elves - one of them from the family of the kinslayers himself, regardless of his kind words - but on the other side also not able to lie in front of two lords of the Eldar.

Before he could answer Círdan laid a hand on Gil Galad's arm. "Do not ask for things they don't want to tell."

"But we have to ask, don't you see that? If the Silmaril is here, the sons of Fëanor will be here, too. And soon."

Círdan shook his head. "At the moment Maedhros and his brethren cannot even know where the survivors of Doriath are to be found. And I am sure he won't attack Balar."

Gil Galad did not answer, but in his heart he was anything but convinced that his distant uncle would abandon the Silmaril only because of the threat the small troops of Balar could mean to him.

It was silent in the great hall of Maedhros' fortress. Silent because three of the lords who usually laughed, talked and sang were not there anymore. The heavy silence of grief.

Maglor and his elder brother sat in front of the fire. None of them spoke and none of the other elves dared to talk louder than in a whisper or to disturb their lords.

'I failed you, brothers,' Maedhros thought with bitter guilt. 'I failed you as I failed the trust of our father.  After all those years we have not regained only one of the Silmarils. Not even killingelves was enough to let us have at least one look upon the jewels.

'Celegorm, ever so passionate. Not always had you been so hard and hostile towards others. It was your way to shut yourself off from the cruel deeds we were forced to commit. I remember your brother's marriages, how happy you were each time, how many sweet and teasing songs you sang. (4)

'You have always been so very fond of hounds. The day Oromë gave you Huan was one of the happiest in your life. You were kind, dear brother, even at the end, in a certain way. And now no one will remember that. For all others except us you will remain infamous for being a wild, cruel, ambitious person. Even our mother will hear it from the returnees from the Halls. How painful will it be for her to hear such tales about us. O mother, how much I wished I could spare you this!

'And Curufin, only interested in your works. When Celebrimbor was born, we teased you that he was just another piece of your craftsmanship, though this time not made by your hands, and you blushed so deeply! Why did you not go to him as long as there was time for reconciliation? If the Valar's judge is just you will never leave the Halls of Waiting and never look into his face again. Or into the one of your wife. She loved you, loved you so much, in spite of her decision to stay behind. Maybe she knew what was to become of you and did not want to see it. Did not want to see your bitter tears after you and father burned the ships at Losgar. (5)

'Caranthir, dark, wonderful Caranthir. Always so quick to anger and brusque. You were like the peaks of the mountains you loved to have near you. Haughty, yes. Nonetheless you were wise enough to make peace with the Naugrim and you acknowledged the pride and the courage of the people of Haleth. You always honoured courage, in every respect. And I know about your greatest wish – you have always longed for own children. You spoiled Celebrimbor to no end when he was young only because you had no son or daughter to treat thus.'

Such thought Maedhros, eldest of the sons of Fëanor, and his eyes were filled with tears.

'A song. There should be a song about them, about the cruel, unjust fight they fought, a bane for their own race - and yet proud and strong and willing to accept their fate.'

Maglor did not see the flames before his eyes. He only saw the faces of his dead brothers, heard their laughter, their voices, the sound of their steps. And beyond these memories his mind was filled with pieces of music, a great song which was not yet to be composed. (6)

He reached out to touch his brother's hand and their fingers entwined. So many they had lost, their mother, their father, all their brothers except for the youngest.

'Maybe we should abandon the Oath and give ourselves to the Everlasting Darkness instead of causing more pain among our people.'

"I wish I could be like you and all that mattered to me would be green grass and wind and running with the herd."

Amras stood beside his stallion and combed the long mane. The animal felt his master's sad mood; ever and anon he turned his head to rub his nostrils at Amras' shoulder. The elflord did not smile, it would be long until he could do that again, but nonetheless he was grateful for the sign of friendship.

Friendship?

"You stupid, beloved one, I do not deserve your friendship. I have done horrible things, been a wolf among sheep. And I was punished; I paid with the loss of nearly all my brothers."

He patted the horse's back.

"Maybe that's why we love you. You always stay faithful to us, even to those who are unworthy of it." He buried his face into the warm shoulder. "I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to kill, to destroy, to be condemned. If only I could stop it and be free of this horrible Oath which has been only a curse for me and others."

But Amras knew this was an idle wish.

There was dissension among the Doriathrim whether to accept Gil Galad's and Círdan's invitation to live on Balar. It would have guaranteed them protection but also meant to accept the elflord's leadership, at least until Elwing had grown adult.

In the end they decided to keep themselves apart. Too much tension was between many of them and the Noldor who lived on Balar. Celebrimbor was only the most outstanding but by no means the only example for this tension.

It meant a difficult situation for Erestor who was still considered their leader by the people of Doriath, though the relatively young elf never had wanted such a thing. They might know well enough that he was not bound to the leading House of Doriath in any way except by oath and loyalty, but he had led them through the wilderness, he had told them what to do, had always given good advice - and he was one of them.

To his own surprise, since never before he had meddled in the affairs of politics, he proved himself a capable steward and a talented mediator during the following months.

Only a group of about thirty Sindar followed the invitation at once, but these were of the tribe of Laerion. They had considered Thingol as their king and also had accepted Dior. But now they took Gil Galad as grandson of their leader as their lord.

Círdan tried to convince the newly arrived at least to send the children and injured to Balar until proper houses were built. The winter was cold, even if not as it has been in the year of Nargothrond's fall.

They agreed to give the hurt elves into the care of Balar's healers, but would not separate themselves from their offspring, not even for a short while.

After their return to the island Gil Galad left the needs of accommodation to Silíel who literally blossomed at the prospect of so many guests and searched for Celebrimbor.

He found the mastersmith together with Gildor Inglorion in his forge, ever his favourite hideaway since he knew him. But Curufin's son did not notice the fire and the works he loved so much. He sat on a low stool; bend forward, his face buried on his forearms resting upon his knees, sobbing helplessly.

Gildor sat beside him, one hand on Celebrimbor's right shoulder, gently caressing the tight muscles.

"Celebrimbor? " Gil Galad asked in a soft voice while he kneeled beside him and stroked his friend's hair.

The sobbing stopped for a moment.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming."

"I know what you feel, Celebrimbor."

The mastersmith looked up, eyes red and swollen.

"No," he answered, "no, you do not. Orodreth was a kind man, he never did harm anyone intentionally. You have every reason to love him." He buried his face on his arms again and his voice was muffled. "While I…"

"You also can love your father," Gil Galad said, "for no other reason than because Curufin was just that - your father."

"But I could not respect him! And he did not love me, or else he would not have left me or had sent me a message from Thargelion during the past years."

"You know how stubborn he could be," Gildor softly mentioned from the other side, "and not less than you, my friend. Nonetheless he loved you. That was evident for everyone who saw his behaviour while you both lived in Nargothrond."

"I wished I could have spoken with him. Only one more time before he…our last conversation was a fierce argument the evening before he left Nargothrond and now…now I will never see him again, not even should I die and leave the Halls afterwards. With two kinslayings he will never be released again!"

"You cannot tell that for sure." Gil Galad laid his arm around the trembling shoulder, close beneath Gildor's. "He can learn and understand. There might be a second chance for him."

Gildor gave his king and friend a doubtful glance and wordlessly shook his head.

"That you do not even believe yourself," came the muffled answer from the smith.

Gil Galad sighed. "No, not really. But what I believe does not matter. None of us knows the Music of the Ainur."

He gave Celebrimbor's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "And even if not - he will never doubt your love, my friend, no matter what happened between you in the end."

"Maybe you're right, but it's...it is... oh Finellach, I want him back! I want my Ada back!"

It was the cry of every lost child. (7)

There was no answer to this outburst. Gildor had spoken the same way and Gil Galad, too, and many of the other elves on Balar. There was nothing to do but embracing the crying elf until he calmed down.

It took the whole rainy night until that finally came to happen.

"Doriath, too? But that is impossible!"

On a broad flat pavement outside the city the High King Turgon stood in front of Thorondor, the Lord of Manwë's Eagles, staring at the huge bird in shock.

"Doriath cannot be attacked! The Girdle of Queen Melian protects the realm against any foe!"

"The Lady Melian has left the Hither Lands," the eagle said. "She lost her love and so returned to the Undying Lands whence she came, long ago before the sundering of the Eldar, as is her right being one of the Ainur."

Thorondor did not use real speech to tell the High King this. Instead Turgon heard his words inside his head, a smooth, baritone voice, which seemed unfitting to a giant bird of prey.

And what are you? the son of Fingolfin thought. ‚Are you an Ainur as well, a lesser spirit who entered this world? Or a creature of Arda, mighty, yet bound into the circles of this world?'

After his return he sat together with Idril alone, always the first one he asked for advice.

"At least it shows that the decision not to leave Gondolin was right," he eventually said. "I have had doubts since the day when Tuor arrived in our city with the message from Ulmo. But now...if even the power of Melian cannot protect the elves, there is no hope for our people outside the Hidden Valley."

He took his daughter's hands. "Your counsel as well as that of your husband has always been wise, Celebrindal. But in this case, I think, it was me and your cousin Maeglin who have been right."

She had looked on their folded hands, now her gaze turned up to her father's sorrowful eyes.

"He is missing."

"Maeglin?"

"Yes. One of his House brought the news while you were outside. He went mining two weeks ago and planned to be back the day before yesterday."

"Probably he just has found a new mine," Turgon answered reassuringly. "It would not be the first time he forgets the world around him. You know how persistent your cousin can be."

"Yes father, I know," Idril said in a neutral tone.

'Better than I really wanted.'

At the beginning relationships between the Doriathrim – who refused to let themselves be called otherwise - and the other elves were rather difficult. The first village the survivors built westwards from the Mouth of Sirion in the fair land of Arvernien. But in spite of the efforts of Erestor, Círdan and Gil Galad they did not accept any help from the 'kinslayers' as they called all Noldor, though they knew well enough that this was not true and that to renounce the help of the best craftsmen of the Eldar would be a disadvantage. Only because they knew that Gil Galad was kin to Thingol himself and because many of them had seen him at his occasional visits in Doriath they treated him with a small amount of politeness.

Two months later, at the beginning of spring, a heavy storm raged over the Bay of Balar, unfamiliarly strong even to the Falathrim. It caused much damage on the islands and the shore, but most of all in the new settlement in Arvernien which at that time still consisted just of makeshift houses, not stable enough to withstand the strong winds. Two elves died and after the tempest lessened there was almost nothing left of the first home the folk of Arvernien had known after Doriath's destruction.

In this situation Erestor made a decision against the will of his people and accepted the help Gil Galad and Círdan offered. Thus a second town was built, this time with the help of the elves from Balar who found great delight in building houses, streets and fountains, not to forget the great hall of Elwing. Though at that time the daughter of Dior did not live there, instead having found a temporarily home on Balar.

For Erestor gave her into the care of Círdan and Gil Galad. He knew not only how much she could learn from both but also recognised the deep affectionate feelings between his young lady and her elder cousin – whom she never called other than her brother. This meant another point of distress between the survivors of Doriath and the elves of Balar. The former feared the daughter of their king might be influenced by the foreign elves.

And influenced she became, though never in a bad way - this at least was her own opinion ever after. Gil Galad taught her Quenya and the Tengwar, the signs which likewise had been forbidden in Doriath for they were made by Fëanor himself based on the sarati, the letters Rúmil of Tirion developed. But unlike the language of Valinor Thingol had banned their use only within his realm, and over the centuries they had spread out wide all over Beleriand.

Elwing also learned much about the history of her Calaquendi-relatives of Valinor and of the wisdom the Noldor had obtained in the Blessed Realm.

And she became very close to Gil Galad and loved him like she had loved her brothers - perhaps the more just because she had lost Elùred and Elúrin.

On occasion of a visit Círdan made in the new town he overheard a discussion between several elves who complained about Elwing's education on the island. He realized at once that it was not by chance that this conversation was led in his presence and approached them.

"And in which way could the king of Nargothrond possibly 'spoil' Elwing?" the ancient mariner asked, using their words. "He teaches her the language of her relatives-"

"The language of the kinslayers!" one of the elves heatedly interrupted ere he remembered whom he was talking to. "I beg your pardon, mylord," he said blushing.

Círdan disregarded the comment. "It is a language she will have to know as leader of your community. Even our king Thingol learned it, although he forbid its use and never spoke it openly. But go, if you must!" he added in a cold voice. "Go to her and tell her that the man she likes so much is someone she has to hate for no other reason than the deeds of his relatives."

"And if I do?" the elf defiantly asked.

"Then you will hurt her and you will pay for that. You may doubt Gil Galad's affection for his cousin, but I do not. He won't let anyone harm her."

He made a step forward and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "In a few years she will be mature enough to lead you. Due to her mortal ancestors Elwing grows fast, she has not much time to learn. And he can teach her what she needs. Give her this opportunity."

At the same time on Balar Elwing shyly opened a wooden door and peered inside.

"Finellach?"

The king sat at his desk reading a letter. He did not look up, but a smile enlightened his face.

"Come, little one."

She approached him and patiently waited until he finished his reading. Then she showed him the sheets of paper she had brought with her.

"I have done all lessons you gave me."

He caressed her hair and took a short glance on the paper.

"My, you are fast. And your writing has much improved. Indeed, it looks beautiful. Any difficulties?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Some."

"Tell me about it." He stood up, took the sheets in one hand and with the other led Elwing to a nearby bench so they could sit side by side. This bench was placed near the fire – for spring had just begun and it was still bitterly cold after sunset – and she leaned against him, watching the flames, not willing to talk about her lessons now.

"Couldn't you tell me a story – please?"

He smiled. It was no surprise for him that the young girl wasn't much interested in this particular subject. It was something she had to learn for the good of her people, but which was definitely not fitting for a child's mind.

'She grows too fast', he thought as he often did. 'It's her human descent and it steals so much of her youth from her.' Indeed, with her nearly seven years she looked and behaved like an elvenchild between fifteen and twenty.

He laid his right arm around Elwing to press her against his body. "And what kind of story would you like to hear?"

She raised her head to meet his gaze. "Something about you when you were young."

"If that is your wish, little sister..." He fetched two wrinkled apples of last autumn's harvest from a nearby plate and gave her one of them. The taste of the fruit brought him back to his childhood on Tol Sirion, the orchards of the island filled with smell of apples, the roaring of the river and in the middle of this a dark, slender elf-boy...

The swordmaster stepped back and lowered his training weapon.

"That was better, Argon," he said with appreciation. "You still use too much force, but that will change once the movements become natural to you."

Argon, panting, covered in sweat, his long black hair put back in one single tail, rubbed his arm where two days ago he had painfully paid for a moment of distraction and yesterday likewise painfully had been shown that the new parry still was not perfect.

"Thank you. I will try to improve it."

The elder elf was a Sinda who once had lived in Hithlum until the disaster of the Nirnaed Arnoediad. He had retreated and finally escaped together with Círdan s troops. Actually he had intended to return home to his family once it was possible again, but Hithlum had fallen and most likely none of those dear to him was still alive. At least none had arrived on Balar. They would await him on the other side of the sea.

Now he was swordmaster and taught the most talented warriors, elves as well as Men, his art. His most motivated pupils were the elves from Nargothrond who formed the guard of the king, and of those Argon was the most passionate and determined.

"Remember not to overstrain yourself," he said. "You cannot force your body and mind to learn faster than is their natural ability."

Argon narrowed his eyes, a look of defiance on his face still marred with a scar he had received in the last battle.

"I have to learn fast, master of swords. I nearly failed my king the last time. It must not happen again."

"You have reacted and fought remarkably well in a difficult situation. You cannot win every fight, Argon."

"I don't mind getting hurt," his hand came up to faintly touch the scar, "as long as it happens for the good of our king. But I did not help him that day." He sheathed his sword. "I will not fail a second time."

He bowed and left, leaving the swordmaster filled with a mixture of pity for his pupil's despair and pride on the strong will of the young elf.

Argon did what he often did in his spare time: he went to a small hidden glade and there he practised until exhaustion forced him to stop.

And when he returned from there, panting and tired, he allowed himself to look into a nearby garden, where sometimes a young woman sat reading, danced or simply lay on the grass and listened to the birds or the sound of the sea. A woman with the silvery hair of the Teleri, slender like reed and beautiful beyond all measures.

He did not even know her name.

In this way Elwing and her people started a new life at the coast of Arvernien, near the Sirion's delta. And in their keeping they held the Nauglamír, in which embedded was the Silmaril of Beren and Lúthien. This became known among all the people living around the Bay and the isles of Balar. But like a wordless agreement no one ever spoke of the jewel. Only the other heirlooms of Doriath were mentioned - Thingol's sword Aranruth which had afterwards been Dior's, the ring of Barahir and the bow of Bregor, which Beren had sent to Dior together with the Nauglamír when he felt his near death.

Elwing returned to Arvernien nearly one year after the town was rebuilt. And afterwards every now and then she visited Círdan and Gil Galad on Balar to stay for a couple of weeks. Likewise the king of Nargothrond came to her, lived in her hall and spent nearly all the time in her and Erestor's company.

While in the beginning the Doriathrim of Arvernien kept aloof from the people living around the bay, just like the inhabitants of Nargothrond had done, soon they abandoned this behaviour and even became tolerant of the Noldor. And also the bond between the House of Elwë and the House of Finarfin grew stronger with every passing season. But against the hopes of Círdan, who deeply wished Gil Galad would find the counterpart of his fëa, the son of Orodreth never felt more than brotherly affection for Elwing and never considered to bind with her later. Nonetheless her presence made him smile as he hadn't since his arrival on Balar, free and careless and truly happy, and likewise she blossomed under his protection and care.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

(1) Erestor: Tolkien said nearly nothing about him. And although he was Elrond's chief counsellor, he played no big part in the Council of the One Ring. I hope my explanation why he was to become so important for Elrond will be acceptable.

(2) other bearded elves: Tolkien told nothing about other elves wearing beards, but Círdan most likely was not among the elves who awoke at Cuiviénen (he was said to have a brother and to be kin to Elwë, moreover we hear nothing about a spouse which he must have had if he was of the First Ones – okay, all in all no proof but strong indications), so there may have been elves of equal or even higher age.

(3) Curufin's death: as far as I know only Celegorm was slain by Dior himself, but I think it's likely that the Doriathrim see their dead lord as kind of a hero. Or this one just confused the brothers.

(4) Fëanor's married sons: three of the sons of Fëanor are said to have wives: Maglor, Caranthir and Curufin.

(5) In HoME XII (The Peoples of Middle Earth) in the chapter 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' is told how Fëanor roused Curufin and a few trustworthy followers in the night after the arrival at Losgar to burn the ships. Only at the next morning he found one of his sons – Amrod, the younger of the twins who were called Ambarussa – missing. He had slept on the ship his father had destroyed first.

(6) The song not yet composed: of course I'm speaking of the Noldolantë, which Maglor will complete only after the Sack of Sirion.

(7) Ada: except in names I try not to use Sindarin. But in this situation I wanted to emphasise Celebrimbor's backslide into childlike emotions.

2nd AN:

Finally Finellach has found some happiness in his life. It took long enough!