Words like Pearls, Love like Life. by Urloth

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The Evening Song.

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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