A Memory in Hand by Himring

Chapter 1

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. That is, it would have been perfectly possible to promenade sedately along the corridors of Nargothrond, admiring her uncle’s carving along the walls and pillars. You could go quite a distance, that way; in fact, if you were feeling really restless, apparently you could have gone on a long trek into the heart of the hill, until all decoration and amenities ceased, and you could explore caves and fissures untouched by the hand of elf or dwarf. Probably Finduilas would do that, one day. It sounded quite interesting, in its way, and possibly even useful.

But that was not what Finduilas would consider a walk. A walk was to saunter down from the castle gates down to the bridge, stopping to lean on the parapet and gaze into the depths of the fast-flowing waters of the river Sirion, then continue to the other side and either turn to the right on the bank or straight on, a short way into the hills…

Well, she had had no opportunity to take a walk like that for quite some time even before Tol Sirion fell, and it was fairly clear she never would again. But the narrow path through the rocks along the river gorge of the Narog would have done, instead, or one of the faint tracks made by wandering goats and discreet hunters across the Talath Dirnen. But neither of those was an option today.

‘The weather is really horrible outside, today, anyway,’ her father had said. It was only by that she had known he felt the same way as she did. One did not complain about such things, of course. For one thing, that would have been really rude to their hosts.

Not that Uncle Finrod would have been pleased to learn that they still considered themselves guests here!

‘Consider this your home, please, my dear,’ he had said to her. ‘It is yours because it is mine, as much as I can make it so.’

That was all very well, but it did not give you a licence to complain because you would have liked to go out and get all wet and dirty in the wind and the rain and you couldn’t, because it was not safe. Not with everything else that was going on, everything else that had happened…

Finduilas blinked as she unexpectedly saw her uncle coming towards her and hurriedly tried to correct her expression, just in case she had allowed herself to slip and look in any way sulky or discontent. She was fairly sure her uncle was meant to be somewhere else right now, on important business. In fact, if she put her mind to it, she would remember what it was, but just now she was distracted.

‘Finduilas, my dear,’ said Finrod. ‘I have a gift for you.’

Finduilas was astonished—not because Finrod was not generous. Her uncle had already heaped gifts on her. She was dressed in his gifts from head to toe. Not that she hadn’t needed his gifts, for she had arrived with little more than she stood in. But what more could there be to give, still!

‘I think,’ said Finrod gently, ‘that you have been sometimes very homesick and trying to be adult and brave and not to show it.’

Finduilas could feel herself looking guilty.

‘You have done really well,’ said Finrod reassuringly. ‘But you are still young. And it is hard to have to be brave all the time and perhaps not entirely good for you…’

His eyes were sad—they were all of them sad now so much of the time—but also very kind.

Finduilas finally put out her hand and Finrod put the gift in it. She had been concentrating so much on his face that she had guessed little of what he held, but it was not large. It was quite heavy in her hand and round and smooth—a small glass ball.

‘Have a look,’ urged Finrod.

Finduilas brought it up to her face.

It was home—Tol Sirion—the island in the river, the castle rising above it, the arch of the bridge, the view of the valley opening out in the background, all very small and very clear. To Finduilas, gazing raptly, it seemed that she could hear faintly the sound of rushing water, the wind in the pines on the slopes, a snatch of song blown across from the castle walls.

Home in a glass ball, whole and safe from what Sauron had done to it and was still doing to it. She looked up at her uncle again. She knew, of course, but it was easy to forget, between times, that it was he who had built Tol Sirion, the first place he had built in Middle-earth, even though he had moved on quite soon to Nargothrond, agreed by everyone to be a greater work by far. But all the details were so accurate, so right—maybe he had made the glass ball, in spare moments between all his much more important business, because he needed to, himself, and only then decided that she was the one who ought to have it.

‘Thank you very much, Uncle,’ she said, holding the ball tightly.

That night she cried herself to sleep, curled up around it.

Tomorrow she would go and explore the caves.