Words like Pearls, Love like Life. by Urloth

The Opened Box.

Heads up, this will be confusing since I haven't finished A Great Friendship in Every Need, which basically explains all the backstory to this.

In short that story ends with the birth of Gildor Inglorion, Finrod's bastard son to a canon character. Gildor is raised primarily by Celegorm till Doriath where he is sent to Galadriel. This is post Gildor becoming an adult and starting his travelling. This is set after the gifting of Numenor to men.

Read The Opened Box.

The correspondence-box was a thing of beauty, as it should have been since it had been made by the master craftsman of the Noldor, Fëanor himself. It had five different segments, each bigger on the inside that they appeared on the outside, and those segments had multiple shelves for further sorting of letters the owner wanted to keep. The rosewood panels gleamed a magnificent red in the light of the sun through the window, while the oak panels were glowing gold.

Serati of power encircled the box at each of its openings; each serat engraved, then enamelled with miniature constellations, into the silver banding. They protected the contents of the box from age, allowing the paper and parchment within to remain supple and strong. They also protected the contents from its environment. No water or pest could trespass into the box, nor could the temperature within fluctuate from the steady, preserving coolness within.

Galadriel wondered what many of her followers would think, knowing she kept a box enchanted by the ‘evil’ Feanor but it was a prized possession.  Her uncle had presented it to Finrod upon reaching two and a half yeni old; half grown and thus old enough to be receiving correspondence that her brother might want to keep.

It had been a unexpectedly generous present and she was not sure to this day why he had given it to Finrod. She suspected that her grandfather had pressured Feanor into presenting something of substance to her father’s firstborn at such an important age. Even if the present had been a reluctant one, it was clearly quality craftsmanship and had been made specifically for her brother instead of being something left lying around. His name was inlaid on the lid and the locking mechanisms had once been unable to turn unless Finrod was in the room with the box, an enchantment she had, had to overcome upon inheriting the correspondence-box.

Over the course of the many years Finrod had indeed, acquired correspondence that he wanted or needed to keep. Upon overriding the lock Galadriel had found three segments packed full beyond what they could really hold and the fourth almost the same. It seemed he’d kept all of his correspondence with his siblings and most of his correspondence with his cousins. Down the very bottom of the box she’d found his letters to Amairë, tied together with a ribbon and sharing space with his regular discourse to Maedhros and a collection of letters that had once belonged to Finwë. She was not sure how he had received these. Finwë’s letters had been given solely to Feanor. The closest she could guess was that one of her cousins had given the letters for Finrod to put in the box for safe-keeping, and then upon their sudden exile, they had been unable to claim them back. She would never know for certain. In the fourth segment she’d discovered all of the letters were either to or from the unnamed lover he’d taken in Nargothrond. She’d kept most of the correspondence where it was.

She only wound up needing to use the top segment which was conveniently empty. Most of her correspondence was not the sort she needed to keep for long and she had a correspondence-box of her own, more crudely made but able to preserve a certain amount of letters. In Finrod’s box therefore, she kept a love letter, her father had written to her mother, in the most secure compartment, which she had received from her mother when Galadriel had come of age. She had also stored her own love letters received from Celeborn and the deed to their house.

She usually left the box alone but this day she searched for a letter and a particular poem beginning it which she thought would perfectly suit the letter she wished to write to Elrond Peredhel.

Celeborn had in the early days of their acquaintance, been quite confused as to her insistence of beginning every letter, no matter the reason, with a poem. It was a Valinoran affection the poems; a hint of what sort of leisurely and indulgent life they had lived in the place where the enemy was a distant enemy.

In the years after their arrival over the Helcarxë, the quality of letters received and sent by her had declined sharply. There was no time to carefully sit down and work out how to imbue every word with symbolism. The poems were really the only part of her original writing style that had survived.

Old letters littered the desk around her, a rainbow of metal imbued, brightly dyed wax seals fluttering where they stood opened.

She had found the poem she was looking for and now sought to place all the letters back in order but she found herself getting distracted. Errant passages would catch her attention and pull her back into the past, sometimes to before Eregion, and sometimes before Doriath and before the Helcarxë.

-

A flower of waves
Blossoms in the distance
And ripples shoreward
As though a breeze
Had quickened.

My dear Artanis

I should perhaps have been more circumspect in my last letter since you saw through my attempts to speak around the topic quite easily.

Yes I have fallen in love.

I would not say though that this is a love like the one I had for my most cherished Amarië. I knew where I stood with Amarië and what lay between us was sweet and pleasant, well suited to our idyllic life in Valinor. The pain that she did not accompany me is still present but in these troubled times I find myself relieved that Amarië held back. I do not think she would have survived here. She is, as you well know, a lady who cherishes quiet moments, peaceful walks and pleasantries. None of which seem to occur with any great frequency at Nargothrond, especially since our cousins arrived.

Ah but I can see your eyebrow beginning to rise, and your foot is tapping a little in amused annoyance at my procrastination.

I cannot tell you much about the woman. She is a most private person and it would be a grave breach of her trust to tell you much more than what I will tell you now. She is counted amongst the host of our cousins. She is tall, in fact she would look you in the eye sister, something I think you might appreciate. She is a warrior and her scars are plentiful. Her mouth is generous and well suited to kissing.

Loving her is like loving Anar I would think. Too close and I get burned. Too far away and I feel suddenly as if I were upon the Helcaraxë. I feel unsettled and unsure of myself around her and the feeling is well returned, thus we circle one another like a pair of wounded wolves, not knowing whether to attack or to become pack.

Don’t laugh at me sister, or if you are frowning at how unhealthy this sounds, do believe that I am well aware of it. This situation between us has lasted for the past two years, starting probably six months after the arrival of our cousins, and neither of us are dead yet so I think we shall be fine.

I have probably not painted the most flattering picture of my lover. That is not my intention. She is like a golden pearl. A rare treasure that I gaze upon with wonder that she consents to, in some small ways, belong to me. Of course I will never own her fully. She is her own person and furthermore she is sworn to tumultuous Tyelkormo’s service, whose house as you well know turns out the most independent and fiercest of woman known to Arda.

I am content with what we have. Do not worry for me sister.

Now as to your inquiry about Orodreth

[…]

-

Galadriel had not worried for him. Not when he had asked her not to.

She fingered the yellowed letter with an ache in her heart. Passing her eyes over the familiar script once more, she placed the letter back in the box.

She wished now that she had worried. That she had perhaps counselled him. It might have saved him a broken heart, and perhaps the lack of distraction from a broken heart might have saved her brother in that dark, stinking place where he had died.

She knew she should not torture herself with such thoughts but she could not help it. Her mind was prone to lingering on her brother’s death at the slightest catalyst.

One such catalyst arrived today, with his people swirling around him like he was a rock in the middle of a river of gold and silver, creating a swirling eddy.

Gildor Inglorion…

 Somewhere on the outskirts of Eregion an obliging farmer allowed Gildor’s people to set their tents and travelling wagons up as a small, instant village. Somewhere on the outskirts of Eregion her husband patiently waited for their nephew to settle his people before he joined them for the night.

Galadriel drew in a shaky breath, picked up another letter and folded it unseen. She had turned to letter writing and reading today to distract herself from his impending visit since she had no way to steel herself for his arrival. Simply by being in Gildor’s presence was to stand in the heart of an emotional storm.

Gildor mentioned in his last, sporadic letter that he had news best delivered in person.

Galadriel was dreading it.

-

The once sheltering shade
That kept rough winds away is now
Lifeless and bare,
And my heart, too withered, has no rest.

Artanis Eäwiel

Do not inquire after the child again. How dare you suggest that as his female parent his mother has less of a right to him than you with your relation to his sire. He shall remain with his mother who knows more honour than your brother ever did. She will never pass over her own family for some filthy human.

Turkafinwë Fëanárion.

-

Gildor Inglorion showed up at Galadriel’s door on a cold, wet and thoroughly miserable day, infiltrating Lindon’s borders amongst a caravan of sodden, grieving refugees, of the like that came in greater and greater droves every month. Doriath had recently fallen in the second kinslaying and it was as if the whole of Aman mourned, sky weeping and ground waterlogged.

 Rain had been dripping from the silver seal-skin cloak that the child was wrapped up in, and when he had raised his head, night-blue eyes had glared out at Galadriel from between the dazzling flash that came from the jewellery that adorned him, illuminated by an errant lightning strike.

He had, had the pride of an arrogant little prince from the beginning of the very beginning of their acquaintance.

Knowing she was to die, Gildor’s mother had converted all that she could call wealth, save her armour and horse, into pieces of jewellery that could be easily stored away.  Then she had sent her son to meet his aunt, knowing he would be well provided for no matter what Galadriel’s reaction might be.

Thus he had not come to her a dependant; he was not a pauper who had to throw himself on her generosity. He was wealthy in his own right and had she turned him from her door, the temporary guardians in charge of him would have sold some of the pieces and set him up in comfort.

Nor did he come to her as one might expect a bastard child, born amongst the tents of soldiers.

He had been educated as a prince should be educated. He knew all the arts she recalled her brothers being taught; archery, fine calligraphy, music, hawking and the fine details of poetry. Alongside these noble skills though, was a ‘gift’ for relieving people of the possessions of their pockets, a vocabulary of foul language that could silence a Teleri shipman, and far too keen a knowledge of knives and how to use them. 

It was with some alarm that she learnt that the boy had been raised by dear, newly dead, traitorous Tyelkormo. He had, up until very recently as his guardians told her, thought himself the bastard son of the Fëanárion.

Learning that he was the son of the golden Finrod Felagund had not been welcomed news.

-

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars. 
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.

Findaráto

Your son was born one month ago today, in a small decrepit hut in the middle of nowhere with an aged human midwife, Curufinwë and his wife in attendance.

Of course you might already know this. Or perhaps I am going insane.

There are times where I see your blue eyes in eye-sockets that have only ever held green or grey eyes. I may hear your voice reprimanding me, but from the mouth of a girl who sings soprano.

Since I seem to be the only one who sees these things and hears these things, I am forced to contemplate that I am going mad or that some unrecognised guilt or regret is making itself known to me.

I believe it is your unhoused fëa, haunting me in revenge for what I have done. Haunting me for doing what any sane person would do. You brought your death upon yourself Findaráto, and you left your child fatherless in doing so.

But if perhaps I am going mad then I can be forgiven this waste of paper on a letter that will never even be delivered to that locked correspondence box I left in Nargothrond.

Our child is healthy. He has all ten toes, all ten fingers and a fine voice, loud enough to be heard from one side of the camp to the other.

His name is Liltafinwë, a prince of the house of Finwë which he has been recognised as. The sons of Fëanáro have flocked to his crib to lay their blessings over him. They have ensured that he will want for nothing.

Hunaiwë and Hlusserë have taken to calling him Gildor since they feel he has a kinship to the stars. I, myself, have noticed he has a fascination with stars. His eyes should not be able to see them yet, but when he is upset and will not be settled, taking him outside will silence him and he will stare for a hour at the stars with contentment on his little face.

It seems the house of Finwe is ever marked by stars. The houses descending from Fëanáro are like a doomed constellation and I am destined, like all that follow the star marked banners, to burn up with them when they finally go out in a blaze of glory.

I will ensure our son does not suffer the same.

-

“I don’t think I can do it,” Gildor muttered as he hammered another peg into the firm earth. By his side, Aearael, Teleri-stock with a rather unfortunate propensity to become seasick, raised his head in confusion and looked over at him.

“You’ve set up a tent plenty of times,” the ellon pointed out, bemused by his leader’s proclamation.

“No not the tent you idiot,” Gildor snapped before he could help himself. He pulled a face, “Sorry, just… my aunt.”

“Ah, oh that,” Aearael sighed, “yes, better you then me. I wouldn’t wish the situation you’re about to walk into on anyone but my worst enemies.”

“Maybe I should send word that I am ill,” Gildor mused, tugging on a rope to make sure it was firmly secured before moving onto the next peg.

“Unlikely to work, your aunt would either insist you come into town to see a healer or maybe come out herself with a healer in tow.”

That was true enough and it showed a love despite their differences. Gildor smiled a little despite his nerves.

“Your wives are coming with you are they?” Aearael asked thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow as Gildor shook his head. “I would have thought you would bring them with you, to add credence to what is going to be an extraordinary claim in the eyes of your aunt.”

“I don’t want them around should her reaction be…explosive,” Gildor finished hammering and tugged the next rope. The third peg received a rather brutal beating into the earth. “Should she react, well I’m not expecting favourably, but if she reacts in a manner that suggests she could possibly make peace with the idea, that’s when I’ll introduce her to them and the children.”

“Sounds like a plan, though if I were you, I would turn up with one of the little ones to butter her up to the idea. She’s a mother isn’t she?” Aearael repositioned a pole that looked about to give out under the tension till it was secure again.

“No,” Gildor shook his head, “no she is not.”

“But she raised you?”

“No not really,” Gildor replied distractedly as he spotted one of his daughters trying to creep up on him. He patiently made sure to keep his back to her, grin creeping up on his face as he heard her muffled foot-steps edge closer and closer. “I had just reached my thirty sixth year when I came to her. I had done most of my growing. She did however polish the rough edges, as she saw them to be.”

Memories of spats and explosive arguments tickled at him as he braced himself, hearing his child crouch.

“ATAR!” Long knobbly arms clasped around his shoulders while a warm, small weight landed on his back. Gildor laughed, letting himself fall down whilst making sure he kept his daughter away from the mess of pegs and ropes that would be a tent when finished.

“Oh! Maltarínë you caught me!” He exclaimed as his daughter scrambled onto his chest, posing triumphantly over her prey. His daughter wrinkled her nose, grinning wide from ear to ear. He reached up, running his fingers between the tight, neat rows of hair her mother carefully tended to every morning, ruffling gently as she flopped forwards.

“Ammë says you must go have a bath now because you likely stink. She and Nana have pulled out your good set of clothes and pressed them,” Maltarinë flicked his nose then squirmed when he tickled her feet in retaliation.

“Alright little love, just get off me,” Gildor watched her roll off him and then promptly skip over to launch herself onto Aeareal’s back, sending the man tipping forwards into a muddy patch with a muffled squawk.

If things went well, Maltarinë would finally get a long expressed wish to meet some of her father’s family. If things went badly… well at least he would have kept his daughter’s feelings from being too badly bruised though no one could defend themselves from the stinging ache that rejection caused.

“Little love, where are your sisters?” he asked, brushing his pants and tunic off as well as he could.

“Nana is making them take a nap because they wouldn’t settle last night,” Maltarinë loomed over him where she was now balanced on Aeareal’s shoulders, his hands on her legs to make sure she didn’t go accidentally flipping backwards off her lofty perch.

“Alright. Just checking,” he blew her a kiss since she was out of reach and headed towards where the natural soft slope of a river bank had provided their camp ground with a good bathing spot. He saw that someone had pointedly placed a stool and washing supplies on a flattened out patch of earth. His good clothes were neatly folded on the stool, dark blue against the bright green of the grass all around them.

Get through tonight, he told himself, get through tonight and then plan from there.

He tried not to let his hopeful wishes to see his daughters embrace his aunt and his aunt greet his daughters as family colour the knowledge that he could easily become disowned tonight.

-

They say that wild eagles, flying eastward, 
Here turn back, this very month.... 
Shall my own eastward journey 
Ever be retraced, I wonder? 
...The river is pausing at ebb-tide, 
And the woods are thick with clinging mist -- 
But tomorrow morning, over the ocean, 
Dawn will be white with the plum-trees of home.

Dearest Sister

May the sun shine brightly on you this summer and may your days be filled with peace and song.

As you inquired in your last letter I have indeed been playing host to our occasionally estranged cousins and they have certainly brought excitement to my usually placid halls

[ …]

I find it hard to look Curufinwë in the face, given his resemblance to our uncle. Turkafinwë meanwhile, gives me other problems. I am afraid Orodreth is quite terrified of him. It seems he’s never quite forgotten that incident involving Huan and grandfather’s hunting dogs. I have spent more time these past three months talking to Orodreth than the past five years and it is always about Turkafinwë. Were Orodreth not married I would find this highly questionable.

Our cousins have brought other problems. Once more I have to endure the whispers I thought I had left behind in Valinor. You know the ones I mean. Even amongst my own people there are those who consider the marriage of our grandfather and grandmother a sham and our father, aunts and uncle as illegitimate.

Now I play host to two of the best reminders of this if I had to pick them; Curufinwë who is his father’s mirror and Turkafinwë who is noted for his resemblance to Míriel. I have not heard the word bastard all the years of ruling Nargothrond. Now I hear the word every other day, whispers amongst those who think I am not listening.

[…]

Sometimes they are alien to me. Sometimes it seems as if they are something other than eldar. Frightening, different and passionate with such an intensity that those caught near them feel undoubtedly singed by the flames.

Sometimes, and this brings me shame to have even thought it, I have wondered if they are even our cousins at all. What if Fëanáro was not eldar, at all and they are all strange constructs, maliciously placed by Morgoth, in order to cause destruction that no one can attest to him.

I know this is a delusion but I can’t help it.

They are so strange to me.

[…]

-

Celeborn waited patiently as Gildor checked with a black haired peredhel, marked by her particularly hawkish nose as having parentage in Númenór, that the ‘ablution block’ had been finished. Now that was possibly the politest term Celeborn had ever heard for the privy.

He bided his time, knowing his nephew was not purposefully holding him up, by looking around the encampment. It always amazed him to see the variety in the people who followed Gildor, from scarred up Feanorians, still bearing bright tattoos of blazing stars, and disenfranchised sinda to the peredhel that Gildor had a strange habit of collecting.

He noted that amongst some of the younger peredhel he had not seen the last time he had visited Gildor's group, that there was a common theme to their appearances. Golden hair everywhere, blindingly gold, no matter the skin tone or eye colour; just mesmerising gold hair.Clearly some of the Host of Valinor, especially the Vanyar, had, had a good time in amongst the fighting. 

There were some humans amongst the masses as well; one very aged northman who was sitting on a stool entertaining a mass of children with a clearly riveting story, and several woman of indistinct origins.

Then just as he was about to turn back to Gildor, he saw her.

At first he thought it was his eyes deceiving him but he blinked and she was still here.

She was taller than any of the other women here. Not quite as tall as his wife but nearing that height. Her height though was not what one noticed though. Beneath the slightly over cast sun, her skin seemed to swallow in all the light, black as ebony with the warmth inherent in flesh.

Her neck rose long and graceful above strong shoulders, and her profile was as proud as any Noldor. Her hair had been braided… no… he stared closer, twisted  in several rows before coiled at the back of her head in a bun.

Gold glinted at amongst the coils of hair, beads and a long pin securing her bun. There was a thin gold chain around her neck, some sort of pendant catching the light with the blue of sapphires and her wrists gently jingled with large bracelets of ivory and silver. There was, on her right index finger, a plain gold ring.

Amongst all the strangeness it was a point of familiarity, given how humans usually preferred the finger next to their little finger for their wedding rings. It should have calmed him down but at that point she turned and caught his eye.

She smiled at him politely and he realised he was staring. Teeth that should have not stood out, flashed like the glint of a knife, and her eyes were the pale golden brown of a cat. Celeborn felt his face twitch into an answering smile even as his heart rate ratcheted up in response.

So alien.

So different.

Was she even the race of man? Or was she some other race that he had not heard of before?

She seemed so unn-

“Uncle…”

There was an edge to Gildor’s voice that cut like a new razor. Celeborn ripped his eyes away and turned to find night-blue eyes staring at him with unexpected sharpness.

“She will not eat you uncle. You can calm yourself.”

Celebron felt the skin around his face begin to heat up with a blush and he cleared his throat in embarrassment.

“Forgive me … just … just I have never-“

“Seen someone like her? I am not surprised, Nolani is from so far south of the river Harnen that even those of Númenór now living in Harad had never heard of her people.”

Celeborn felt his eyes drawn back to the exot- to Nolani, as Gildor had called her, and saw that she was now talking to another human woman. This one had skin like dark honey and what he could see of her body, swathed in veils of bright green as it was, she was heavily pregnant. Her hands were gesticulating as she talked, gold flashing from her right index finger.

Another married woman with a ring in the place the eldar reserved for such jewellery. Were they perhaps wives of two of the peredhel amongst Gildor’s people? Why were they travelling with this group of immortals instead of settling in their homes? If they were married to peredhel then surely those peredhel had chosen the mortal path?

This woman at least seemed more familiar. Not that he’d seen her type but he had heard some of the news coming back from Númenóran missionaries in Harad who described those of Harad as commonly having such golden skin.

“Uncle,” Gildor sighed again, this time without the sharpness to his voice, “I am ready to go now. Shall we leave?”

Celeborn tried to pretend he hadn’t been staring and Gildor wasn’t indiscreetly trying to order him to keep his eyes in his head, mounting his horse as Gildor mounted his, and leading his nephew away from the little settlement of tents and wagons.

As Gildor lifted the reigns of his horse to pull her up before a bridge, Celeborn saw the glint of gold on his nephews right index finger and promptly felt his tongue dry out and stick to the roof of his mouth.

Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

This was probably the hinted at news from Gildor’s letter that had kept Altáriel up some nights, pacing their room.

Damn Noldor and their dramatics.

There was nothing wrong of informing someone about a marriage through a letter.

Then again Finrod had ridden non-stop all the way to Doriath, just to pitch Celeborn into a fountain after the news of Altáriel’s betrothal had gone out.

On second thoughts his nephew was perfectly validated in wanting to deliver the news in person.

---

Chapter End Notes

Yeah so the poems. Wtf you are probably wondering. Well I see Valinor as being well... idle, think heian japan where the nobility didn't do alot but write poems. I'm sure the elves were alot more active but the more I think about it, the whole isolation and lack of war situation in both begins to influence my headcanon. Much apologies.

As stated before. I'll repost this when beta'd.

-

Poem 1: Abstraction by Lady Ise

Poem 2: Kiritsubo 5 by Lady Murasaki (Tale of Genji)

Original:

The once sheltering shade
That kept rough winds away is now
Lifeless and bare,
And my heart, too withered, has no rest
From fret for the young bush clover.

Poem 3: Here I Love You by Pablo Neruda (second verse)

Poem 4: Incribed on a wall of an inn, north of Dayu mountain by Song Zhiwen

Original: 

They say that wildgeese, flying southward, 
Here turn back, this very month.... 
Shall my own southward journey 
Ever be retraced, I wonder? 
...The river is pausing at ebb-tide, 
And the woods are thick with clinging mist -- 
But tomorrow morning, over the mountain, 
Dawn will be white with the plum-trees of home.

 

The Evening Song.

Read The Evening Song.

 

A butterfly in the garden:
Chased by a child, flying,
Chased and flying again

Sister.

She is pregnant.

No this was not planned. No she is not trying to trap me into marriage.

Listen:

She has never had control over her body in the way that our women usually enjoy. Her ability to control her fecundity was obliterated early in life by poison.

She warned me of this when we began to grow intimate with one another. She gave me the option of forgoing … relations and ending the relationship completely if this was not to my taste.

I cannot go further into detail but needless to say, I am quite sure that I am the first between us to become aware of our future parenthood.

She takes the herbs described by an midwife who tends to the women of the Men who live within Nargothrond, and they seemed to work for that they made her nauseous. Now they have failed and there resides within her body an impossibility.

A son Nerwen, my son has been conceived and resides inside his unknowing mother.

I have never contemplated Fatherhood since I left Valinor. It seemed to me that I left all my chances of being a parent behind with Amairë and in my dreams I am haunted by images of the ruins of Nargothrond. I would dismiss such dreams save for the propensity to precognition in this family of ours and without a doubt my kingdom will not be an immortal one; thus I have never thought about procuring an heir.

Now what shall I do? She will never accept marriage and she will either be so terrified of having a child that she will either go immediately to the midwife for a discrete remedy, or she shall possessively hide the child, sure that I will steal him from her.

[…]

No matter the course my son’s life takes, I am sure he will be a good man.

[…]

-

Gildor felt his stomach knotting up as he got closer and closer to his aunt’s house, his eyes darting towards Celeborn who he knew had noticed the golden ring on his finger. He clenched his hand and forced himself not to wheel his horse around and go racing back to the safety of the large wagon and side tent he shared with his growing family.

Would Maltarínë start up her crusade again to crop her hair short with Abia backing her up, and would Folani finally give in? Would he arrive home to a little girl with a head of short, tight gold curls when he got back?

Would the twins get to sleep alright without him to tell them their usual story? Would Ilwelírë have nightmares? Would Almenárë throw a tantrum?

Would the girls behave for Folani and Hunia while he was away?

Of course. His wives were fully capable of running their usual bedtime activities tonight. In fact he often felt superfluous and only of real use when the girls wanted a story out of him. Surely he was only panicking himself now?

But what about Hunia? She was due any week now, the due date up in the air since they had discovered that she carried twins.

It was one of the reasons he had hastened to come back to Eregion. The births of his daughters had been frightening enough out amongst the humans who often didn’t even clean their hands between clearing out a stable and delivering a baby; that and his wives’ mortality which terrified him into nightmares. Mortals did not have expendable life to hand over and giving birth was just as risky to a mortal woman as it was an immortal.

There would be no reunion on the shores of Valinor when his wives eventually died, and they would not be offered the opportunity to return to their children and spouse that Míriel Serindë was so infamously supposed to have turned down.

Would he arrive home to discover he was a father again? Or that birthing twins had been too much for petite, fragile seeming Hunia? Or that he had to bury his children without knowing them?

Both?

His hands fretted on his reigns till his horse made an irritated noise and bounced him in the saddle in retaliation.

Deep breaths he reminded himself and forced himself to follow his own advice.

His mother had not raised him to be a coward; rather she had taken a face-on approach to life and expected her son to emulate her. 

Gildor had, but with less suicidal invasions of Sindar kingdoms and more tact. He couldn’t remember her talking about having to make trips you didn’t want t- no wait he could.

“It does not matter how shit terrified you are on the trip there,” he recalled his mother telling a messenger who had to make the increasingly risky trip from Himlad to Dor-Lómin.

“Just imagine punching that bastard who tried to seduce your wife when you get there, that should get you through.”

Ammë, he told her ghostly voice, I cannot punch my own aunt; not when she does not even know I’m married. Then he snorted in laughter, the sound bordering on hysterical, at the ridiculous turn his thoughts were taking. Anything was better than panicking he supposed.

“What are you thinking over there? With that big, stupid grin on your face,” Celeborn called out, angling his horse over closer so they rode side by side.

“Just my mother, Uncle, just my mother; she left me with a lot of advice that is impossible to apply to the real world,” the weather was that lovely crisp clean type that came right after a season of heavy rain.

 Gildor enjoyed the freshness of the air after months of travelling in the caravan or riding his horse through the aforementioned rain.

“Too idealistic?” Celeborn asked so casually it instantly put Gildor in guard. He never spoke about his mother to his aunt and uncle, and for good, well supported reasons that he also couldn’t tell them about.

Damned if he did tell them, damned if he did not. It was a highly irritating position to be in.

“Too violent,” Gildor corrected then hurried to move the topic away with an inquiry about the rumours that Celeborn and Galadriel might be leaving Eregion.

His uncle was happy to fill him in on the possible plans to go north. As he kept an ear out for any key words that might alarm him, Gildor reflected on his correction.

Could his mother’s often salty, gore filled advice be blamed given the environment in which Gildor had been raised and she had been living with for centuries?

When his mother had spoken of Valinor it had been with a half doubtful tone to her voice; eyebrows furrowed as if she could not quite believe her own memory that such a bland and peaceful place had existed. The years of war had worn away at her ability to remember peace as a thing you took for granted and didn’t plan for the inevitable end of. It had not been just her either.

He had seen it in everyone, himself included; the constant anticipation that fighting could break out; that Morogth’s next great move could happen at any moment.

So aye, his mother’s advice had been often couched, or layered in amongst violent or inappropriate anecdotes, and who could blame her?

Gildor felt something unfurl in his heart like a fern frond, with each little leaf a shard of grief and pain.

It was now centuries after their separation and the wound of his mother’s death was as deep and as raw as it had ever been.

It lay there, festering and bleeding next to the other heart wound he’d carried since birth; the strange emptiness in his mind that had made him cry in frustration as a toddler as he couldn’t express the wrongness of the void where his father’s mental touch should have been.

The race of Men didn’t know how lucky they were with their quiet closed minds.

And furthermore his mind and heart did seek to wound him. He dreamt often of her weak or wounded, unable to come to him or see him. He heard her calling out for him weakly in his dreams, sobbing into a pillow, her body reduced to a withered shell.

Beside him Celeborn was now talking animatedly about some of the Silvans they’d made contact with in the north, and Gildor sank into the noise of his uncle’s talking, allowing it to usher him away from his mourning thoughts.

His mother would have liked his wives, he realised suddenly.

He had been married for years yet only now the thought came to him. His aunt may not approve but his mother would have told him she’d seen stranger relationships (and she likely had) and accepted his wives with open arms. He felt his heart lighten.

In the hedgerows a nightingale began to serenade the approaching twilight and the tempo of their horses hooves changed as they moved from wide cart-stoned roads to intricate brickwork streets.

-

High in the faint moonlight, wildgeese are soaring. 
Orc chieftains are fleeing through the dark -- 
And we chase them, with horses lightly burdened 
And a burden of snow on our bows and our swords.

Cousin Findaráto

No words can express my relief when I received your missive. I had prepared myself to once more mourn brothers I could not even hold the last rites for. The aftermath of what is now known as Dagor Bragollach has resulted in wide-scale destruction of the regions that all of my brothers maintained. To know Tyel and Curu are survived brings such relief [ink rendered illegible by water damage]

[…]

Please take care of them. You have already given so much in housing them when your own people must be pressed for resources but there are times when they need watching. Or perhaps that is the older brother in me talking; to us who look after our brothers, they never seem to quite grow up and the memory of childhood lingers, with all their vulnerabilities exaggerated.

[…]

There is nothing more precious than family.

My condolences again for your brothers, much love and my eternal thanks

Matimo Fëanárion

-

“Aunt,” Gildor embraced her and Galadriel stepped into the hold, wrapping her arms tightly around a trim waist that seemed a little trimmer than the last time she had held him. Healthy though and apparently uninjured. Thank goodness.

“Darling boy,” she reached up and cupped his face, smiling to match his smile.

How he resembled his father now; tempered by some unknown blood to produce a prouder profile, and a striking wildness. But certainly this was her darling brother’s face.

Her heart ached but this time it was a good ache, for her brother might be dead but his glorious smile lived on in Gildor.

‘I have missed you aunt, I hope you have stayed well,” Gildor’s red lips brushed against her cheek gently before he pulled away, stamping out of his boots and letting a servant give him a pair of house shoes.

“Always,” Galadriel reassured him, looping an arm with his and glancing back at Celeborn who smiled at her and mouthed ‘all was fine.’

Her shoulders relaxed and she lead the way into the parlour where a fire roaring in the hearth chased away the evening’s growing chill and a pitcher of heated wine was there to banish any cold that lingered.

“I regret that I could not arrive two weeks earlier than this,” Gildor confessed as he took a seat before his aunt and uncle, nodded as Celeborn held up a goblet in query and offer.

His fingers had become quite cold on the ride in and he wouldn’t mind the heat of the wine through the cup to draw warmth back into the stiffened digits.

“Oh you mean our anniversary?” Galadriel shared a fond look with Celeborn who grinned at her without any hesitation, his love for her like a lantern behind his eyes, illuminating the threads of blue within the dark turquoise of his iris.

“Aye,” Gildor nodded. “I brought a present for you both however it’s not exactly something that I could bring in a saddle-bag for tonight. I will send it tomorrow; it is merely some saplings of trees I have seen in my travels that I thought you would appreciate.”

“Well you did not have to but thank you Gildor,” His aunt leaned forwards and pressed a kiss on his cheek while Celeborn looked suitably intrigued.

“We did not have a very big celebration in any case; you did not miss out on days of revelry. We had a small meal with some of our friends and acquaintances,” Celeborn drank his cup clean and poured himself a new measure.

“We did receive some lovely presents though,” Galadriel continued and pointed to a curious device that sat ticking gently on the mantel piece. “Annatar… do you know of Annatar Gildor?”

Gildor had stiffened in alarm but he nodded.

“Annatar gave us a key-wound clock like those common in Valinor, which I thought was rather nice. My mother had one. A wedding gift. I had not realised I had missed the noise until it began to tick.”

Gildor rose and obligingly wandered over to inspect the device. It was certainly lovely: its dark, varnished wood holding a warm lustre. The face of the clock had a little window that currently showed a twilight scene similar to what he might see if he looked outside the window. The hands and numerals were jet against the ivory faceplate, their style one of simple grace.

“He is truly the giver of gifts that he calls himself,” Gildor commented lightly, unable to fight a thrill of unease.

“Does it bother you Gildor?” Celeborn frowned over at the stiff, straight back of his nephew. Gildor’s shoulders were fairly trembling with tension and his nephew glanced up at them for a moment and the look in his eyes reminded her of a rabbit caught in a snare, staring up at the hunter who has caught it.

Gildor then turned suddenly away from the clock, retaking his seat and picking up his wine goblet.

In the light of the fire a plethora of rings glowed on his fingers; most prominent was one magnificent contrivance of individual triangular shards of sapphires; blue, yellow and golden, garnets, and diamonds that came together to form the heraldic device of Finwë Ñoldóran.

It had been Celegorm’s. When Galadriel had first seen it she had screamed. Then she had tried to get Gildor to hand it over to be put away for safety (and to be never seen again.)

Gildor had refused. Their argument over the ring had been wild, long and his aunt had not won. Celegorm’s ring remained where it had been, on a chain around Gildor’s neck whilst his fingers were too small, then migrating fingers to find one that fit.

It was this ring, set next to his plain gold wedding band, which Gildor began to twist, around and around his finger, in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture as he stared into his cup for a moment.

“He approached me,” Gildor confessed, his heart beat loud in his ears, “the last time I dwelt in Eregion.

 Galadriel stiffened immediately, eyes narrowing.

“You say that in a manner that does not suggest that the meeting was at all a good one,” Celeborn leaned forward, concerned.

“It was not,” Gildor took a fortifying mouthful of the wine, chills running up his back just from the memories.

“It was the most unsettling and uncanny meeting of my life. I was walking down the street to return to your house after visiting the markets and there he was, lingering near a public garden. He greeted me as my mother’s son, and then he told me he had a gift for me. Music that only I could sing which he claimed could bring the dead back to life.”

And it had been so tempting, oh so highly tempting.

-

While winter daylight shortens in the elemental scale 
And snow and frost whiten the cold-circling night, 
Stark sounds the fifth-watch with a challenge of drum and bugle. 

Hush for a moment, O tumult of the world.

The mountain-light suddenly fails in the west, 
In the east from the lake the slow moon rises. 
I loosen my hair to enjoy the evening coolness 
And open my window and lie down in peace. 

Yes! He has been rescued! Matimo has once more returned to us.

Oh and greetings dear cousin!

I will send you a longer letter with the entirety of the rescue but the message bird to Doriath will leave in just twenty minutes and that is not enough time to tell you it all. Let the poem that flowed from my pen like the words were already waiting there within the quill nib, stand in for the words I cannot afford to give you now.

In short, though rescued Matimo is not well. He has lost his right hand and he has suffered terribly in the seven years he was kept at Thangorodrim. It will be a long time before he is the cousin we once knew, if at all. After seven years of torture, there are parts of Matimo that have been irreconcilably changed or destroyed, that much is clear already.

Still I will be here for him. We shall all be here for him, my healers are constantly beset with our cousins who have not left his side, taking shifts, two on, two off whilst two more command the entirety of their men.

Two sets of hands on uncountable leashes; how terrifying.

We cannot rest though. The enemy is undoubtedly enraged and will find a way to retaliate for having such a prize stolen from their hold.

What we experienced in Valinor, it is but a drop in the bucket of the trickery, the cunning and the brutality that He casually mets out. The when, not if, of his retaliation has us all sleeping with one eye open.

When it comes it will surely be creati-

Oh here is the man who looks after the bird.

I hope this letter finds you and Nerwen well.

Love Findekáno.

-

“Thou hast inherited every measure of thy father’s voice and then some more from thine mother,” Annatar’s Quenya was archaically beautiful, the sort that Gildor had only ever seen written, never heard, on the most formal of documents.

At the same time it was hard to listen to, and wrap his mind around, causing a headache to slowly begin building in Gildor’s temples.

“Thou wert named Liltafinwë for thy grace even as a child, but surely thou shouldst have been called Lindofinwë for a voice that surpassed all others of your line,” the heavy, unsubtle flattery could have gone straight to his head but Gildor’s heart was still in his mouth from hearing the name of his mother fall from those foreign lips that should not have known such a detail.

The only possible explanation that Gildor could think of was that Annatar had some way to see into his mind and that made him a threat, one that Gildor wished to escape for he knew he was no match for the maia.

“Is this going anywhere?” he asked with as much faux-boredom as he could.

“This humble one has a gift if thou wouldst accept it,” Annatar’s eyes were the strange bruised colour of pulped, unsalvageable flesh, and in the flickering light of the lamps that lined Eregion’s streets they seemed to blaze from within unnaturally.

“This humble one has music for a song of power in our possession, one that could open the doors of night though only by the smallest of measures; not enough to allow the Dark One through but just enough to allow the fëa of those imprisoned there for failure to uphold their vows to fly free.”

‘Evil will seek the smallest entrance, for no one expects the foe to come out from a mouse’s bolt-hole,’ his mother’s voice whispered in his head even as he wavered, thinking of her trapped within the void where Morgoth lay.

What else would be able to creep out of this tiny crack Annatar proposed he make?

“No,” he whispered unsurely.

“No?” Annatar asked him, amused. “Thou dost not wish to free thine mother from such unjust imprisonment?”

“If you are so determined to see such an injustice undone, why do you not sing the doors open yourself?” Gildor demanded, sweat breaking out all over his body, “you sang once in the creation didn’t you? Go sing again.”

“Oh but this requires a special voice,” Annatar replied and there was something to his words that spoke of more than a voice being needed to sate the lock that held the mighty doors closed.

Slit throats and malachite alters came to mind, bathed red in fire and blood. Gildor’s stomach lurched in repulsion as the phantom smell of carrion assaulted his nose.

“You speak treason against your own masters,” he mumbled, beginning to back away.

How desperately he wanted to see that music; to see if there was any chance of freeing her.

“This humble one serves Aulë,” Annatar reminded him, pinched lipped as he saw Gildor’s attempted retreat, stilling the eldar’s movements with a single hand gesture.

“The doomsman of the Valar sees all and when he lays a doom, it is to be adhered to,” Gildor choked out the words, feeling them coat his tongue with filth. How many times had he heard those words wielded against him to try and draw blood from the part of him that continued to fiercely love the Fëanorions that had raised him?

“How pious of thee,” Annatar mocked, his smile widening as if he heard every single, self-loathing thought. “Well if the salvation of thine own mother is not enough of a gift, shall I also offer thee the crown of the Noldor? Thou art its rightful heir when all is said and done.”

“I am a bastard,” his legs freed himself then.

Yes he was a bastard, freed from all the constraints that poor, legitimate Erenion had to suffer through. Who was this maia to come interfere with their politics?

Annatar was no kingmaker! Such arrogance and cheek to presume he could affect the throne! And when Erenion had asked him to leave Lindon’s capital!

“I am a bastard and I have no claim at all for the throne,” he repeated, “please take your gifts elsewhere. I have all I need in life and require no more.”

“This humble one understands,” the look on Annatar’s face belied his statement, “and this humble one hopes they have not caused thee offence Liltafinwë. If thou dost not desire the music then perhaps thou would accept this gift of a ring…”

It was silver and looked to be set with an opal. It was a trinket-like thing and Gildor would not usually have hesitated in picking it up and trying it on for he did so have a love of rings.

Tonight however his nerves were in tatters from this meeting, causing his senses to become hyper-alert. The light of the lamps caught the stone at an inopportune minute, revealing an oily sheen that no opal should have.

‘The smallest way in is the least expected,’ his mother’s memory repeated. The ring seemed to gather a weight in the air before him. Such an innocent looking thing; He might as well try it on. It wouldn’t do to insult the maia. Ah but opals did not shine like that, nor should silver seem spark at a touch.

He pulled his fingers back where they had come to rest on the ring, held there in Annatar’s hand. The skin of Annatar’s thumb lightly brushed Gildor’s wrist, and Gildor found the touch to be one of warm, normal skin; silky and sensual.

Seductive.

It was such an innocent and accidental gesture. Gildor pulled away as if burned, unsure of how he had migrated six whole steps to stand so close to the stranger.

Unusual heat flickered through Gildor. He was not adverse to the practices between men. But he usually kept himself to certain lovers. He was not one for experiencing sudden surges of lust.

“I am afraid that I need no more rings Annatar but I thank you very much for your offer.”

Swallowing back bile he fled before the other could reply further.

Though he had intended to stay another season on Eregion, he took his people back on the road not long after the meeting, convinced every time he walked the streets that bruise coloured eyes were watching him.

-

The sand below the border-mountain lies like snow, 
And the moon like frost beyond the city-wall, 
And someone somewhere, playing a flute, 
Has made the soldiers homesick all night long.

Dear Cousin

I thank you for your letter though I remain at a loss as how I am to react to your methods in sending it. The goshawk that our cousin so happily leant you to make the journey to Gondolin attempted to make a nest in my nephew’s hair, chased my daughter’s cat up a pillar, and appears to be trying to court Rog, and that was simply on the first day of her arrival.

In spite of this nuisance, it has brought a welcome reprieve from the grief we have all suffered so suddenly.

We buried my father with full honours.

The city of Gondolin mourns as all must now mourn. I see my father’s grave every day from my window and my heart breaks all the more.

How does one mourn one who should not be mourned? My father should be alive.

I lay the blame of his death solely at Fëanáro’s door, which makes my father’s death all the worse for Fëanáro is beyond the reach of those who would hold him accountable for all that his stubborn vanity has wrought.

I hold Fëanáro to be the greatest example of how the song of Eru was marred for surely Eru would not have allowed such a creature as that which we once called uncle to be born in a perfect world.

We Eldar are not meant to mourn I think, and in our bodies that are meant to be deathless, the effects of death have twice the impact. I am bruised internally, and when I lie down to rest and when I rise, thoughts of my father haunt me through previously lively hallways that now hang with mourning banners.

I thank you for your kind words. They were a much needed balm and brought some much required serenity to the chaos surrounding the bringing of my father’s body to Gondolin.

I regret I must send this goshawk back to you with my return message. For a creature raised by a Fëanárion she is certainly friendly, something out of character for her entire species in fact. I have enjoyed several afternoons with her sitting on edge of my chair and talking to me, as much as I can guess from her whistling and cooing.

Much love and may your shield never break, your sword never waver, and your kingdom remain sacrosanct.

Turukáno Ñolofinwion.

-

Gildor retold the meeting with Annatar as quickly as he could, eyes fixed upon the ring he kept twisting fiercely about his finger. Finally he looked up, finding the faces of his relatives were concerned. Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged glances.

“Your account shares a striking similarity with several that we have heard lately,” Celeborn said contemplatively, his eyebrows furrowed. Murmurs had been stirring against Annatar lately. Gildor’s story was just one of a handful now surfacing as those who had encountered the maia either came forwards to the joint rulers of Eregion with their accounts or had passed them through others out of some undisclosed-fear.

The giver of gifts had come to Eregion after being asked to leave Lindon’s capital and had quickly ingratiated himself with Celebrimbor though the other two rulers of Eregion had remained distanced and indifferent.

Many years had passed since then, children had been born and grown full measure, and though life went on peacefully there was the slightest of pauses when one talked of Anntar. If life in Eregion was like a stream then Annatar was alike to an eel hiding amongst the rocks, the surface rushing past undisturbed.

“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” This had happened before Annatar had laid down such firm roots in Eregion. His blatant words of treason could have been used to oust him here as well. No one wanted the King of the Noldor to think their town or city fostered someone with sentiments of throne overthrowing.

“I was afraid,” Gildor admitted, “I had nightmares frequently for nights afterwards and I felt that if I told someone then something horrible would occur.”

Others had told the couple the same thing; of how their reverie had been disrupted by sometimes violent and terrifying images that they could not quite remember the contents of, leaving only a dread of telling anybody of their meetings with Annatar.

Galadriel cursed internally. Perhaps they could still try and make an effort; she didn’t want Erenion to think he should make a trip of Eregion, his army in tow.

There was a quiet knock on the door and it opened to reveal the house’s doe eyed housekeeper, her auburn hair pinned up behind her head.

“Hlusserë,” Gildor breathed in delight and was over by the door in a heartbeat, picking the woman up off the ground with his hug, quite eager to be out of the uncomfortable mood that had descended upon the parlour.

Not how he wanted the night to begin, in fact the very last way he wanted the night to begin when he had not even told his aunt about his marriages yet.

Galadriel eyed the embrace with a touch of amusement as her housekeeper squeaked and kicked her feet as she was swung up off the ground by the hug.

“Put me down! …. Thank you!” Hlusserë brushed off her clothing and bobbed a formal curtsy with only a slight glower at Gildor. Her ire at Gildor would be easily spent though.

She had been his caretaker in childhood, who had guarded him all the way to Galadriel’s door, and she doted upon her former charge.

“I came to inform you that dinner is now served,” the housekeeper not so subtlety eyed Gildor’s ribs and seemed to decide that what she saw was not commendable.

---

Chapter End Notes

Poem 1: Kobayashi Issa

Poem 2: Border Songs III by Lu Lun

Original:

High in the faint moonlight, wildgeese are soaring. 
Tartar chieftains are fleeing through the dark -- 
And we chase them, with horses lightly burdened 
And a burden of snow on our bows and our swords.

Poem 3: is take from two different poems

Part one: Night on the watchtower by Du Fu

Part two: In the Summer at the South Pavillion thinking of Xing by Meng Haoran

Poem 4: On hearing a flute at night from the wall of Shouxiang by Li Yi