The trails of Nan Elmoth by Chiara Cadrich

The trails of Nan Elmoth

Part 1 –The White Lady of the Noldor

.oOo.

In the first age of the world, in Beleriand ...

The rider encouraged her exhausted horse, as a red sun was sinking behind the lugubrious hills of Nan Dungortheb. Close by, too close, the pack howled a frightning call to kill. The proud palfrey, bloodless, hoisted itself to the top of a hill, for love for its mistress. Hunted and relentlessly harassed from ravines to thickets, they had been fleeing and fighting tooth and nail, decimating the pack of elven-blood thirsty creatures.

By now, her quiver empty and her horse exhausted, the elven rider had reached a high point and dismounted. She was quickly gathering branches to light a fire, when the furtive furs popped up. In a rush, the slender white figure leaned towards her hearth, exhorting the fire to spread its gleams of hope. The next moment, the stout elven maid held a firebrand burning with fury, slashing the flanks of the filthy creatures with her Gondolin blade.

Too late.

Nimroch[1] the valiant had succumbed in protecting Aredhel’s[2] back. All night long, with rage in her heart and tears in her eyes, the mighty princess of the Noldor defended herself, repelling the cruel wolves under the pale moon.

In the early morning, Aredhel succeeded in slaying the pack leader, a small beast with pupils of fire, snarling and fast. Her elven blade flashed as the princess beheaded the monster. Then she raised its remains before throwing them in the middle of the pack, which moved aside, amazed.

Thus Aredhel was able to escape. The pack, after devouring the steed’s corpse, followed the elven woman at a good distance before renouncing to avenge its leader. The White Lady of the Noldor, exhausted but valiant, faithful to her vows, turned eastward in search of the sons of Fëanor, crossing vast expanses of silent forest[3], before reaching a river.[4]

She drank long in the pure wave, savoring the echoes of the power of Ulmo which still irrigated at that time, all the tributaries of powerful Sirion. Taking hope again, the princess followed the river downstream, towards the south, and at length found a ford.

Aredhel rushed into the cold wave. On the eastern bank she set up her camp and dived into a restless sleep.

.oOo.

Her brother, King Turgon, had not been able to keep her in his dependence. His law had been imposed on all his followers - no one could leave the hidden city, under penalty of death. The King, deaf to the calls of his cousins at war with Morgoth, had buried himself in his citadel, and feared treachery. But Aredhel had defied the authority of her brother, pleading the union of the Noldor and denouncing his timid policy. Tired by her admonitions, Turgon had let her go against the promise of keeping Gondolin's site secret. Once at a safe distance from the hidden city, Aredhel had wayled her cumbersome escort, imposed against her will. Born as valorous as the mighty princes of the Noldor, enamored of high deeds and liberty, she wished to join her forever friends, the sons of Fëanor. Formerly in Valinor, she preferred the siblings’ athletic games, to the art competitions practiced in the house of Fingolfin.

And here she was, where her pride had led her: even her page, wounded and terrified, had had to turn back. And her beloved steed had paid with its life, the temerity to leave the hidden city. Now she could only go forward, for the nameless horrors that dwelled in the foothills of Ered Gorgoroth[5]  she had just crossed, would not let her go back.

.oOo.

But the White Lady of the Noldor would not let herself be defeated. She plucked some herbs from the riverside, gleaned autumn berries, and turned her steps towards the deep forest, to the east. A gentle gloom bathed the thickets. Mildew scents fermented under the careful peace of a motionless canopy. Her heart warned her that hostile eyes were watching her - still she had no choice but to pass.

Winter had settled beforehand in these desert lands. The road hesitated between the black trunks, under a canopy of lean branches and pale lichens. The icy breath of Morgoth repressed the vitality in the heart of the trees and bit the living who ventured there. From time to time, a peeled rodent scurried, disturbed by the slender elven princess who tried to follow the strange trail, overgrown with brambles and cluttered with cobwebs.

A deceptive silence oppressed her journey eastward. Every day duller, every evening stiller, every night colder, Aredhel traveled through these desert moors, passing from bushes to bogs without noticing any trace of any road. Some trees, twisted by sickness, wore strange shreds of creeping lianas, waving in the air like ghosts uttering silent warnings. The dried earth now had nothing to give but dry roots and black mushrooms. The stormy skies hid the sun and the stars, but poured no beneficent rain. Sometimes a furtive faint startled the Lady of the Noldor, but the rumor was soon extinguished, and nothing came to shake the athletic elven maid’s stubbornness.

One evening, Aredhel discovered the dried corpse of a deer. All that remained was the skin on the skeleton. The animal seemed to have been abandoned there, as thrown from the trees after being emptied of its substance. The princess walked away and found refuge for the night in the hollow trunk of a dead tree, lying near a large black pine forest.

.oOo.

The gray dawn barely pierced the dark clouds, when Aredhel was awakened by strange scratches. Jingling clicks succeeded hopping chirping, seeming to answer each other in an atrocious and unintelligible language.

With horror, the princess realized that she was a prisoner: a network of intertwined cords blocked the entrance to the trunk. She kicked hard in the lace. But their elasticity resisted her assaults, and the sticky cords now hindered her ankles.

Panic-stricken, Aredhel heard clacking and chirping accelerate, like two sinister laughter guffawing at a victim. Terrified, she grabbed her elven blade and managed to clear her legs. The odious snickers gave way to horrible irritated interjections, and the trunk began to pitch, as if a fierce mass was rocking at the edge.

The Lady of the Noldor caught sight of a hideous pair of claws wriggling in front of the entrance, oozing out a sticky and disgusting drool. Repugnant muggers assailed her, but before the canvas was restored, the princess gave a violent sword-thrust. The gleaming weapon sank into a viscous abdomen which started with pain and retreated quickly, almost tearing the precious blade from Aredhel's hand.

A violent whistle of agony arose, accompanied by ignoble gurgles, whilst Aredhel was clearing out the entrance.

At last the trunk ceased to move. As the plaintive chirping faded away, cautiously, she threw her bundle out of the trunk. Immediately, something enormous leaped from the trunk to throw itself upon the piece of cloth, and reduce it to a lint.

The valiant Lady of the Noldor sprang forth from her refuge.

A gigantic spider, the size of a calf, was spitting the elvish tissue. Apparently the silk of Gondolin was not to the taste of the ugly weaver. The monster turned on its hairy legs and turned to its prey. But, surmounting her terror, the valiant princess appealed to the hatred of the Noldor for the offspring of Ungoliant. An implacable gleam, recalling the flame of the silmarils, burned the Gondolin blade, which fell upon the monster’s eyes clusters.

Shaken by horrible spasms, the spider curled up and rolled inert over the gray leaves. Farther away her sister was dragging her pierced abdomen, leaving behind a trail of greenish gall.

Aredhel shook her torpor and, proudly brandishing the Noldorin steel, quickly finished off the creatures. This is what awaited anything that would stand before her ...

Her head turned, weighed down by the stench of bowels and death. The princess walked away, seeking to reach a height towards the indecisive gleams of the morning sun. The rising star scarcely pierced the dull nocturnal vapors of this cursed place. Aredhel took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure.

But the respite was short. Around the mound, gray hills undulated, bristling with shapeless specters, twisted trees bearing livid canvases. The pale glow of the morning threw menacing shadows beneath the groves, where the swarming armies of Angband[6] seemed to stir. A tenuous rumor rose from the ragged heath, an inquisitive rattling spreading from the north, descending the slopes of Dorthonion.

Understanding her peril, the White Lady of the Noldor, a flickering flame of light in those gloomy forests, swore by the honor of all her people, never to give up, and fled to the south.

.oOo.

On the first day, the valiant princess ran ever through dense valleys and desolate ridges, distancing the rumor of clawed paws on the arid rock, which seemed relegated to the confines of her nightmares.

On the second day, the vigor of the thickets which sheltered some pure pond, revived her declining strength. A malicious murmur pursued her relentlessly, running over the carpet of dead leaves in pursuit of the rapid pulsations of her valorous blood.

On the third day, the hoarse rattling of the hungry mandibles approached. The Lady of the Noldor veiled her escape under some psalmodies of secret, awakening fireflies to blur her tracks and to divert the hunt.

But the pursuit stomped on her white stole, exhausting the vigor of her body. In Aman, Aredhel had competed with the most powerful princes of the Noldor, her cousins, in every body exercises and athletes games. Then she shed her failing hopes under the brass of her determination, and continued to advance.

Henceforth rapid scouts discovered her sometimes. Aredhel struck the assailant before its sisters came by, and fled further south and east. But her vigor and the flash of fury that animated her elven blade slowly bent.

Driven to the bottom of an abrupt ravine, the Lady of the Noldor had to face a strong party of arachnids. Her vivacity and the sharpness of Gondolin made a marvelous last stand, but the blade broke in an enormous swollen chest, the venomous gall of which spread over the monster, burning with a twilight flame.

.oOo.

The Princess took advantage of the disorder in the ranks of her enemies. She fled, climbing the scree to a desolate plateau. A high stone, lifted there like a warning, glistened with unreal reflections, as if the rock had been forged in another world.

In the slope behind her, the mandibles slammed, eager for her flesh, ripe for a blood bath. The monsters climbed the scree. Aredhel, exhausted, leaned against the raised stone. She could not go any further.

A tear of vexation fluttered along her pale cheek as she turned her thoughts to the king, her brother, for the last time. The hour had come, to pay the price of her emancipation - she would now go into the songs, along its very last verses. It was now time to earn the exaltation of the former moments of proud liberty. Repressing a regret, she uttered a silent farewell to her people, brandishing before her, the derisory shard of gray blade, no longer than a dagger.

But when the first spiders reached the top, a muffled hum was heard. The monsters seemed to hesitate, twisting and choking to the edge of the abyss. The erect rock roared with bronzed reflections which seemed to bruise the multiple eyes of the assailants. The arachnids returned, the first attacking the following ones to go back down the scree.

In a few moments the battalion of hunters had turned into a timid and blind herd, decimated by the sharp edges of the ravine. At length calm returned to the plateau - the assailants had turned back, tamed by the mysterious power of the ore of another world.

Aredhel took her breath. But overwhelmed, she sank into a deep sleep at the foot of the megalith.

.oOo.

NOTES

[1] Sindarin; White Horse

[2] In Valinor, she was called Írissë, which gave « Íreth » in sindarin. The name « Aredhel », also sindarin, means « noble elfe ». Ar-Feiniel means « white lady».

[3] Dor Dinen

[4] The river Aros

[5] The Mountains of terror

[6] Angband, Morgoth’s huge fortress in the north of middle-earth.

The trails of Nan Elmoth

Part 2 -  Eöl the dark elf

.oOo.

When Aredhel came to her senses, the light was rapidly declining under an opaque vault of anthracite clouds. From the depths of the dreamless sleep the megalith’s strange emanations had plunged her into, rang a distant call. A sense of urgency overwhelmed her - a shrill voice insisted she should leave these lands. The vacillating consciousness of the princess reared itself to the imperious accents of these injunctions. Yet Aredhel stood up, her head heavy, and approached the gulf.

The spiders were roaming the bottom of the ravine, clashing and attacking one another in their panic or blindness. But some of them lingered at the foot of the scree and seemed to glare at the palpitating reflections of their white prey. At last the Princess listened to the inner voice, and moved away from the megalith.

Aredhel turned south and climbed a ramp, encumbered with blocks of broken slate and invaded by lichens. On the crest, she scratched her ankles on sharp edges which crumbled beneath her feet. The princess now overlooked a deep valley, which seemed to enclose the next ridge, bristled with rocky fangs.

In the center of these concentric arches rose a dark mountain, the surface of which shone with fugitive reflections. An extinct star seemed to have fallen in the midst of this lost forest, freezing in irregular crests, the formidable wave of its fall. A dark block with steep facets, the fallen star culminated like a dungeon, fortified with many tormented crenellations. A lace of thorns and thickets had invaded the dales, barred with jagged edges. Some power seemed to be lurking beneath the mountain, hounding its spells to keep the intruders away from its domain.

The dull and threatening imprecations of the mountain forbade any passage. Hesitating, Aredhel glanced backward to the north. In the last rays of the setting sun, large stones raised at the edge of the plateau, silent and attentive guardians, scrutinized the teeming darkness assailing the plateau. Shivering at the memory of the hairy legs and the rumor of the mandibles, the Lady of the Noldor plunged into the maze of pines and brambles.

.oOo.

A darkness hovered beneath the trees, a damp torpor which enveloped the dale with a protective warmth. The peak of the black pines sharpened on the distant grey clouds. Searching with her two hands for a path between the interlocking branches, Aredhel slowly progressed under the foliage haloed with vapors. The needles carpet stifled the sounds of her feet. She felt her temples beating and her blood flowing in jerky rhythms towards her febrile limbs. A shuddering diffused from wallows, vivacious and restless growth, which shoots pointed to hatch into clematis that clung to the elf's ankles. It seemed to her she had penetrated into a sanctuary, a souvenir of the original forests which reigned in middle-earth before the advent of the lamps.[1]

But this secret asylum mistrusted both the Noldor and the creatures of the Dark Lord. Each step required the full will of the inflexible princess. Aredhel restlessly rejected the mountain’s mute injunctions addressed her. In the ferns, the low branches hindered her march and lacerated her arms, but the elf held the course. Then the ground became very uneven, cluttered with sharp slate plates between the roots. In the course of her painful progression, intoxicating scents of resin and spores rose to her head. Further on, a giant spider corpse, impaled on a high rocky spine, rotted under green mosses. The White Lady of the Noldor had to mobilize all her strength of character against the will which thwarted her efforts, to go forward through this rockery.

Sometimes inquisitive eyes lit among tall ferns. Some serpents slipped towards her, whistling. Deaf crackings and fugitive crumplings shoot from the trees as her slender silhouette ran between their gnarled trunks. She felt the roar of the primal forest rising around her, and struggled against the growing entanglement of roots and branches, when an enormous stretch of dry pine crashed before her.

The imprecations which grew beneath her skull became violent. The princess, powerful among the men of the Noldor, appealed to the regenerating power of her people, to the proud independence of her tribe, and drove from her mind these imperious intrusions. In a last effort, she crossed a ridge of rocks congested with brambles and was able to descend into a clear valley.

.oOo.

Dark rocks paved the ground, gleeming under the stars, that shimmered now as if Varda had just sown them in the firmament. Aredhel followed this path, which gently wound on a pale lawn, at the end of the valley, lined with dark coppices.

The White Lady of the Noldor approached the mountain, which glistened with dull reflections, like a dark power concealed beneath a veil of secrecy. Its great black mass soon dominated the princess who had reached the end of the road, barred by a wall of slate.

Two rows of carved megaliths stood, like spears, on either sides of a large door in the middle of the wall.

The imposing lintel projected a disturbing shadow on the steps. The vast wings sealed the entrance of the mysterious Lord of the Fallen Star. Powerful fittings covered the heavy wooden pieces, assembled with an art unknown to the Noldor. Runes of distrust and secrecy, engraved on the uprights, consecrated the threshold’s inviolability.

Aredhel felt the wrinkled eyes of the iron masks wrought on the locks. She nevertheless approached, defying her premonitions and the mischief hidden behind the high door.

Each forged nail head evoked the memory of the imprudent that fate had brought to this place. Some of them, furious bearded faces, grimaced with dreary threats. Others, languid, slender faces, uttered silent warnings. Still others nailed to the oak, hideous spiders twisting in pain.

By appealing to the artifices of her people, the White Lady of the Noldor kept her mind from those threats, denying the evils that radiated from the gate to drive her away, and slid over the steel of her soul.

.oOo.

The oaken wings opened in utmost silence. Eyes shone, piercing the darkness like those of a predator before the sun and the moon came. The master of the fallen star, rising from his lair, unveiled his hidden power, repressed throughout the centuries of reclusion. Aredhel felt herself searched by an anxious curiosity. A bruised, bitter and inflexible soul probed the edge of her conscience, seeking duplicity or greed.

Finding nothing there but the proud candor of a Noldo virgin, the inquiring look lingered on the features of the fugitive. Desire sprang forward, to face the pride of this fierce beauty.

Remaining hidden beneath the awning of the deep lintel, the silhouette advanced under the light of the stars, setting ablaze the silver hair of a twilight elf.

His face combined the nonchalant grace of the Eldar and the attentive vivacity of the felines. The blaze of dying stars shone in his gray eyes, revealing fiery memories and wilted hopes. The elf's long face, noble and handsome like the first King under the stars before the wound of the world, showed obstinacy and sagacity. But bitterness could be read at the corners of his lips, which betrayed the lassitude of disillusioned centuries and flouted sovereignty.

"Who comes to my door without being announced?"

Aredhel defied the shining eyes - unfolding her silver brow, she faced him. But she could not escape the spell, when the ardent gaze plunged into hers.

The stature of the elf, however modest, revealed an unusual inner strength, forged through reverses and betrayals. Subjugated by the authority of the king in his homestead, the princess felt young again, departed from her years of tears in Middle Earth. The words of power and distrust of the Noldor had dried up on her lips. She replied without hiding anything of herself, not even sketching the beginning of a curtsy.

"I am Ar-Feiniel, daughter of Fingolfin, High-King of the Noldor."

The twilight elf's eyes glowed with a dark flame, from the burning rancor that was smoldering in his soul.  So his door should open and his spine should bend, as soon as this usurping lineage name is uttered? Such are the ways of the Noldor, arrogant even in the debacle! His savage gaze contrasted with his haughty wearing of head.

- Why should I welcome you? Did not your fellows bring the Black Enemy back into Middle Earth? Is not your people responsible for our marred forests, our stained springs, the tarnished firmament? Nightmares haunt the valley of terror by the Noldor's fault, cursed be their race!

Aredhel, troubled by the acrimony of this dispossessed soul, exclaimed:

- I have rejected the suzerainty of my brother the High King. I cannot, therefore, avail myself of his gratitude to beg for your help, nor can you charge my people with all evils. But the terrors of Morgoth have been pursuing me from Nan Dungortheb. Evil has not changed since the beginning of the world, and it is up to all elves to fight it wherever they find it. Gentle Sire, in the name of the most sacred uses of the elves, I ask for asylum in your home!

The defeat of this princess altered neither her grace nor her courage. In her frank and limpid gaze, the twilight elf read the amazed flame that had inhabited his own heart as he had roamed the hills under the stars before the Black Enemy’s arrival. He appreciated with a fresh eye the slim silhouette, haloed with the courage for revolt. The master of Nan Elmoth saw in her an alterity to be subdued, a revenge to be taken on the Noldor. Yet he felt a strange solicitude in him :

- Without wishing it, you have led the horde of my enemies on my land! Had I known who you were, perhaps I would have denied you entry. But your exploits compel respect and deserve asylum. Yet what help can a Noldo virgin bring, even the most valiant of princesses? You know nothing about these disgusting predators. Your proud bravery would be vain, without the secrets of Nan Elmoth.

The fair face of the elf hardened, as some atrocious memory seemed to pass in his look:

- Their innumerable bands inexorably enclose their enemies. The offspring of Ungoliant seize their prey and sting the victim with paralyzing gall. Soon the limbs and body stiffen in hideous spasms and unspeakable pain. But the old scoundrels do not kill. They envelop you with a warm cocoon of silk, and lay a few eggs in your welcoming entrails. So your throbbing body serves as a nursery and pantry to their cursed offspring!

Feeling sick, Aredhel curled up on herself, subdued by the horror of these revelations. Her pride abdicated to the memory of her desperate flight, her own vanity, and the hours of hopeless struggle against the atrocious arachnid tide.

The lord of the fallen star contemplated for a moment that woman, subject to his good will. Only then did the grace and beauty of the princess reach his heart. His solemn posture of a king granting mercy had hitherto ben spoiled with the ambiguous sensation of the conqueror, to hold in his power a forever adversary. The elf now dominated Aredhel kneeling before him. To possess this princely beauty, touching in her candid pride, surpassed his grudges and his dreams of revenge, and disturbed his tormented soul. A fleeting expression of admiration and pity passing over his face, Eöl gallantly raised the White Lady of the Noldor:

- Be welcome, you who seek refuge and bend to my law! You, who place your life under my protection, receive the blessing of Eöl, first child of the twilight and sovereign of Nan Elmoth!

Aredhel, struck dumb by this arrest as by a spell, accepted the arm of the Lord of the fallen star. Eöl's aura embodied the immaculate glory before the wound of the world.

The door closed on the couple, in the eternal silence of Nan Elmoth.

.oOo.

NOTES

[1] Illuin and Ormal were two gigantic lamps, the Valar hoisted to illuminate Middle-earth, long before the sun and the moon appeared. But Morgoth shattered them, causing a cataclysm.

The trails of Nan Elmoth

Part 3 – The dreams from Gondolin

.oOo.

The lord of Nan Elmoth had sown the vaults of his dark caverns with brilliant gems. His lady, saved from the horrors of haunted woods, remained hidden there, by pledge of honor and love. In order to please her, rich drapes stretched the walls of the apartments buried beneath the mound of the fallen star. High lanterns, bartered with the dwarrow of Ered Luin, threw shimmers along the galleries, and lit the crystals that blossomed under the vaults.

The nuptial bed was crowned with vaporous silks and bathed in a warm subterranean halo. Lying at his side, Aredhel contemplated Eöl's soothed body. The chest of the twilight elf rose and lowered to the serene rhythm of their satiated complicity. The princess cherished these rare instants of abandonment, which revived the memory of a sovereign freedom, as careless as in the first days of the world. The animal magnetism of her lover dozed for now. His inner chimeras seemed to illuminate his beautiful face, were she could read the distress of a betrayed heart and cruel revenge extorted to existence. Mistrust faded then - only subsided traces of the trials he never told.

Aredhel rarely reached the soul of Nan Elmoth's Lord. Unutterable wounds, hidden throughout the centuries in the secret of his rancor, had armed his mind with unreasoned reluctance. The noble decorum Eöl displayed in front of his guests, so rare, dressed his secret designs and dreams with distant courtesy. His lady, captured as much as seduced, had barely touched this mutilated mind, unconscious of his infirmity to share happiness. Aredhel felt chosen, in the fleeting grace of these moments of eternity, to be the one who would once again have this lame soul fly.

Or at least she wanted to. The slowly gained confidence was often lost in the labyrinth of Eöl's shameful pride. With a tender and careful hand, the princess urged Nan Elmoth's master to overcome his hatred. Aredhel obtained more courteous elusions than real rebuffs. Step by step, she rummaged through his silences, uncertain of the treasures buried in the depths of this soul, or of the mysteries hidden in his caves.

For his part, out of pride rather than indifference, Eöl did not question Aredhel. Although he respected the noble soul and valor of his lady, he held the Noldor responsible for the return of Morgoth in Middle-earth. He would never have lowered himself, to show interest in their usurped kingdoms. Thus the location of Gondolin the hidden city, Turgon's supreme secret, was in no danger at all, all the more as the princess would never reveal it. Aredhel was pleased to believe that it was out of courtesy that her lord avoided approaching the subjects which might sully their agreement.

.oOo.

Eöl talked to her about his hunting, told her about the stars of old, and shared the news that his servants the petty-dwarfs held from their cousins in the blue mountains. But the lady languished.

One day, the master of Nan Elmoth went away in great secrecy, and brought back the lost blade of Gondolin. He did not confess what he had had to face in order to seize it, but he locked himself in his forge for several days. He came out exhausted but smiling, for he had unveiled the secrets of the Noldo weapon. Without a word, he bowed respectfully before Aredhel to give her back the sword, forged anew. The princess accepted the gift with a gracious curtsey. The blade, even more formidable than before, would no longer be inflamed by the ardor of its mistress, but assured her, wherever she might be in Middle-earth, the prompt succor of her husband.

Sometimes they rode together under the stars, when the dark power of Morgoth loomed back northward. They happened to draw the sword together, to exterminate some scouts spiders. Nan Elmoth's Lord was waging a ferocious fight against their hordes. The wars against Morgoth, the fluctuating alliances, the elves’ fortunes seemed to matter much less to him than the dignity of his independence. By cross-checking, Aredhel realized that the twilight elf appreciated the Sindar of Doriath, his neighbors to the south-west, hardly more than the Noldor. Only the Nandor of Ossiriand and the dwarves of the Blue Mountains found favor in his eyes.

A blacksmith, Eöl could not long conceal his interest in the minerals that abounded in the basements of his estate. Besides, doubtless he exaggerated the importance, Aredhel thought, for he imagined, in his paranoia, that all his neighbors envied him. When the twilight elf devoted himself to the forge, his dark thoughts came back tapping him. In the depths of his den, he recalled ancient grievances, as the hammer was fierce on the molten metal.

.oOo.

Eöl rarely broke the isolation imposed on his house. In the absence of the master, Aredhel, fretted idle by the galleries, under the suspicious glances of the needy and silent petty-dwarfs he had succored to make his servants. The forges were forbidden to her - in the depths of his mines, Eöl kept his treasures and the unfathomable secrets of his grip over his enemies spiders.

Temptation sometimes knocked at the edge of Aredhel’s soul, cracking the proud firmness of her engagement. Her curious mind sometimes lacked the charms of a brilliant society. Her loneliness was filled with luminous memories, a fugitive ritornello of her former flirts - her walks at Glorfindel's arm on the shorebreaks of Vinyamar, or the dances with powerful Ecthelion at the balls of crystal fountains in Gondolin. The sumptuous festivals shone in her memory. The lays composed with Salgant, Lord of the harp, came to her mind, evoking the sweetness of a kiss at sunset over the valley of Tumladen.

But the return of the twilight elf, haloed by his glorious hunts and arms loaded with gifts, reinforced the spell that kept her in his dependence. And the master of his nights hatched again the fragile flower of her felicity.

.oOo.

Her eyes plunged into a crystal of limpid rock, Aredhel seemed to wander through the meandering evocations of Elvish dreams. Often she thought she would meet her brother Turgon, imagined they would turn their vows towards each other, thanks to the art of the Noldor, and share their thoughts beyond the leagues of wild lands. For the moment, Aredhel was comforting the King of Gondolin, who was lost in the contemplation of a crystalline statue. The melancholic beauty of the alabaster curves, recalled the warmth of Elenwe his wife, but also the tragic fate of this queen, engulfed in the ice of Helcar when the Noldor had returned in Middle-earth. Tailed by this cruel absence, Turgon had hardened his law, and changed his benevolence into an anxious authority, that his daughter Idril bore with grace, but that his sister Aredhel had refused.

Eöl entered the closet where Aredhel dreamed so often.

- "A King should not govern alone", murmured the Princess to her brother, as to herself.

- "To whom do you speak, my lady?" Eöl asked

Taken from the dream, Aredhel perceived a point of jealousy in this falsely detached tone. She knew better than anyone else the solitude of the twilight elf; So she almost did not lie, smiling tenderly:

- "To you, My lord."

- "Do you ambition to govern Nan Elmoth by my side?"

The haughty face had closed again, lost in doubt. Would he receive this interest as intolerable interference, or as a mark of allegiance to his cause? Aredhel became grave:

-"Would you consent, My lord? Is there in your home a task that calls for the care of your lady, or in your forests, a mission that requires the skill or sagacity of a woman?

Uncomfortable, Eöl hesitated, torn between his sickly mistrust, his posture as a petty-king jealous of his prerogatives, and a gratitude to the Noldo Princess, which he could not explain himself. He clumsily took Aredhel's hand:

- Your presence alleviates my heart... My domain is yours...

His countenance reassured, he added:

- "There is indeed an eminent role vested in you."

.oOo.

Sitting on the soft pelisse of some ferocious beast, a little boy was enthroned in the midst of his army of toys. The automatons rattled and tinkled, some gesticulated or brandished their little axes in large reels. Their broad goat-hair beards betrayed the origin of the small mechanics - the mines of Nogrod in the blue mountains.

But the dwarven toys flapped in vain. The child opened wide eyes, which seemed to drink the slightest detail of the pastel scenes painted by Aredhel.

- "And here is Idril Celebrindal, the beloved daughter of the king. When she dances on the lawns of Tumladen[1], her rapid footsteps draw silver arabesques that delight the whole valley."

Indeed, a young woman with jet hair seemed to skip in a stream, projecting graceful sparkling droplets around her. The little boy breathed a sigh of admiration at the unreal beauty of the young girl - the High-Elvish[2] had the power to give shape and breath to her mother’s memories.

- Look, she dances with Penlod, the Lord of the House of the Tower of Snow. Did you see how tall he is, and how he’s looking at her with shining eyes?

The young girl was laughing out loud, as Penlod, a giant full of vigor, struggled to catch her.

- "When I grow up, I'll marry her!"

- "Idril is your cousin, I doubt the king would allow you to marry her."

The boy shook his dark hair, sketching a grimace that faded for a moment the childish grace of his adorable face.

- "Then I'll be the king, like my daddy! And Penlod, I'll beat him in the race and everything!

Aredhel recognized the imperious desire to subdue the universe, inherited from his father Eöl. She changed the subject - the shining companies of armored elves unfolded their banners. A battalion of swordsmen, dressed in red, advanced with a rhythmic step, carrying a golden shawl adorned with a scarlet heart.

- "Here are the proudest of all, who succeeded in recovering the remains of our High King Fingolfin from the trolls - curse on these evil creatures!

The little elf shuddered and curled up in his mother's arms. The battalion gave place to a company of archers, adorned with white and blue swallow feathers, who kneeled before a grave personage seated on a throne.

- "And who is he?"

- "Here is King Turgon, my brother!"

The dark hair of the elf was girded with a wreath of gold, with mother-of-pearl wings, which recalled his allegiance to the Oceans Lord. At his side hung the sword Glamdring, the prophecy of which predicted very long feats[3]. The light of the stars sparkled in his gray silver eyes. His forehead reflected the sagacity of his thought, but a shade of bitterness at the corners of his lips betrayed the pain of his widowhood.

- "Will you take me to Gondolin, Mama?"

Aredhel tenderly caressed her son's hair, sighing:

- "It would be necessary for your father to agree meeting my family. You know we cannot leave the safety of the caves."

- "When I grow up, I'll protect you, mamma!"

- You certainly will, my sweet boy! But for the moment you remain my little Lomion![4]

.oOo.

Later the Lord of Nan Elmoth, leaving the pungent heat of his forge, joined his lady and his son for dinner. The atmosphere, often heavy when the master returned from the depths, proved more solemn than usual:

- "You certainly do remember, Madam, that the use of the Noldor's language is proscribed on my lands?"

Aredhel shuddered. She only spoke to her son in Quenya when they were alone. It was unpleasant for her to imagine that no secret could escape her husband... She looked at Eöl defiantly, without answering. But the elf continued:

- "I am grateful to you for employing in public the sweet talk of my people. I can certainly admit your affection makes you give a name to our child, in the language of your fathers. But you would have granted me great honor and pleasure, shaping it in my own language. For my part, I will choose the name he will bear as my heir, when I know all his qualities. Because soon will come the time for him, to follow his father for his education..."

- I agreed to submit to your laws by becoming your wife. But just as you have welcomed me, as I am, must you not accept the fruit of our union bears a share of Noldo's inheritance?

A grin of irritation, quickly repressed, passed over the handsome face of the master.

- It's not just about recognizing your aspirations through our child. What consideration could you keep for himself or for me if the will of the king and father were not honored? Do the Noldor princes allow strangers to flout their laws on their own lands?

Aredhel restrained a movement of bitterness. The stranger she now felt must admit the unbearable truth of the argument. Her whole being shouted to revolt, but she chose, by a last habit of respect for her husband, to plead moderation:

- "But he's only six years old! Can we not raise our son in the tradition of both our families?"

- "In order to please you, my lady, I agree to defer the initiation of this son you gave me. But know that here, like in the kingdoms of the exiles Noldor, the will of the king is the force of law. If your husband grants Quenya out of love for you, the King cannot yield as to the education of his heir."

Thus the Elf of the night had granted nothing except a vague gratitude. Relegated as much as raised to the rank of mother at the birth of Lomion, Aredhel had slowly despaired of touching the heart of her husband. Now she was afraid of being forced to give up her son.

.oOo.

NOTES

[1]The valley where the town of Gondolin is built, surrounded by impassable mountains.

[2] Quenya, the tongue of the Noldor

[3]This prophecy did not guarantee a long life to the king. However, the sword Glamdring took part in many exploits, long after the disappearance of Turgon. It was that very sword Gandalf found among the Treasure of the Trolls, in the adventure that nearly cost Bilbo's life!

[4] Child of Twilight.

The trails of Nan Elmoth

Part 4 - The foretold folly chronicle

.oOo.

A glow from beyond the world was smoldering in the hearth. His face stretched with incarnate, the Twilight Elf darted a sharp look on his white hot blade.

The sword, a thousand times beaten and soaked in the the master blacksmith’s secret elixir, threw sparks under his hammer blows. The elf was working the overheated alloy with a quick pace.

Eöl struck the metal and instilled his thought, blow after blow, into the refined material.

He struck, assailing the metal with his will’s insistent force.

He struck again, purifying the sharp thread into a graceful line.

Eöl struck still, insinuating an arabesque at the heart of the cutting edge.

Eöl struck the blade to the rhythm of his pulse.

He struck again and again, with the regularity of faith. He established a subtle balance between hardness and suppleness in the heart of matter.

He abolished time in the tinkling of his blows on the alloy.

He was striking forever and for eternity.

He rang endlessly the monotonous melody of the hammer on the anvil, deafening himself and reaching the ether of incandescent purities.

Plunged to the roots of his art, Eöl confused in a single dream of creation, the thousands of furnaces and the thousands of soaks, which succeeded each other like innumerable days.

The Twilight Elf slowly ascended the time of the living, seeking the creative spark of his youth in the labyrinth of his memories.

.oOo.

At the blessed time of the stars, Eöl had risen on the shores of the Lake of Awakening. Curious and passionate, he had traveled through summits and valleys, discovering the germs of plants still asleep in the soil, and the gems hatched in the rock. Moved by the desire to deepen the reason for all things, he was one of the few, capable of revealing the secrets of the earth. Very early he had turned his understanding towards matter and its mysteries. He had ventured on the Cuiviënen's waves and had probed its abyss. Persevering and diligent, he acquired a close intimacy with the earth, and was soon able to extract from raw clay and impure oxides, objects of delicate forms and iridescent reflections.

Introvert and solitary, Eöl could scrutinize the souls of his fellow elves, with the same penetrating mind he applied to the observation of everything. When emissaries came to praise Melkor’s glory, he had detected duplicity and envy, mingled with fear. Strong and independent, he had shut himself from the promises of the powers, rejecting any deception, and seeking truth by himself. He was one of the first to venture far away, facing the dangers of the earth.

Eöl particularly liked mountains, where rock was exposed, revealing its nuances. He lingered long on the summits, enthroned in peace under the sparkling stars. For time passed slowly in this age of the world, yet rhythmed neither by the flowering of Valinor’s twin trees, nor by the celestial journey of their last offsprings.

As he contemplated the firmament, his piercing eye gazed at a thin incandescent trail. The Elves, occupied in endless palaver about Melkor’s insinuations, paid no attention to it. He was the only one who followed the sign, guided by his ardent faith, for miles and leagues.

At the summit of the Blue Mountains, he saw a glimmer on the horizon: a star in agony had crumbled into a dark valley, overwhelming and inflaming the surroundings. He reached the megalith while the fire was quieting.

Eöl explored the broken rock around the fallen star. He discovered wonders unheard-of - crystals, blocks of ores melted on the impact, unknown luminescent rocks... He knew he had found the abode of the centuries and proclaimed his sovereignty.

He settled in his mineral kingdom, in the midst of gems and star dust. The formidable explosion had torn and cracked the ground, opening unstable galleries. By dint of his tenacious will, the elf twilight cleared the rubble, consolidated the galleries, cleared the rooms and fortified the entrance. Under the megalith, he built a forge and a crucible. A light black stone burned in his hearth, with a slow and powerful combustion, but without any flame.

At this time, Eöl met the dwarves, while saving some of them from the mandibles of terrible arachnids. And friendship was born between the lord of Nan Elmoth and this burrowing people, whose tribes founded mines and kingdoms in the Blue Mountains. They exchanged riches and forging secrets, which further tightened their bonds.

Nan Elmoth's rooms were decorated with rich draperies and enlivened with light, its cellar was filled with vast reserves, and the dwarves offered Eöl a door for his underground kingdom - one of those enchanted doors that only their master would command.

The ores of the fallen star revealed him their secrets and the blacksmith bent them to his will. A new alloy was born in his hands, germ of the stars sown by the ardor of his tormented mind. Thus two formidable twin swords consecrated the genius of the elven blacksmith. These masterpieces, Anglachel and Anguirel, black and lively blades, became deadly to the creatures of Morgoth in the hands of the twilight elf.

At that time, many evil things were brewing from the north, where Morgoth had built his lair. Monsters more repugnant than orcs roamed on the land under the stars. Nan Elmoth had become a haven, feared by the Dark Lord's minions, who were nonetheless attracted by the secrets and treasures of the fallen star.

But as their attacks redoubled, and the kingdom of Nan Elmoth seemed lost, the Valar unfurled their banners and assailed Utumno. Soon Morgoth’s fortress of was cast down, and the black enemy of the world crushed under Tulkas’ boot[1].

Eöl, alone among the children of Illuvatar, took part in the glory of this victory and an emissary of the Valar presented himself at his door.

The twilight elf received him with courtesy, marveling at the visitor's enlighted gaze. Eöl expected to be offered again, to join the Valar’s abode, like he had already been proposed. He was preparing to refuse, on account of his attachment to the works of his hands, and the possibilities still harbored by the fallen star.

To his surprise, there was no question of Valinor. The emissary offered nothing like thanks - on the contrary, he asked for help! In the end, it was all too clear: the wealth of Nan Elmoth was indeed what the Valar were interested in. Eöl conceived a deep bitterness, for in order to maintain his independence, he had to grant a pledge.

The twilight Elf, vowing not to be fooled by any power, had to agree to build a gigantic chain, which was to hinder Morgoth. Thus Eöl put the greater part of his art in the forge of Angainor, the chains of the Valar. But the precious alloy he had invented was sullied, misled into a common ransom. His resentment spurred his gestures, but this exploit cost him dear, since he drew the best part of his creative energy.

.oOo.

The lord of Nan Elmoth resumed his grievances, trying to forge from time to time, and watched jealously on his treasures. He waged a merciless war against the spiders, that had escaped the ruin of Utumno, and now haunted the valley of terror.

Thus he met his destiny, as he was returning from an expedition against his enemies, to the foothills of Ered Dorthonion.

As he drew near the heart of his kingdom, he perceived a form, a vague silhouette squatting in the shadow of the fallen star. A slender creature watched without fear the austere beauty of Eöl’s estate. The elf approached, his swords ready to give death.

When the form turned to stare at him, Eöl remained petrified. The silhouette of soft shade seemed to him a scarcely sketched outline, a quick-silver child escaped from the limbo, with divine grace but still ungainly movements. From the face, he remembered only his eyes, immense in their grave candor, and yet sparkling with tender curiosity. The forgotten egg of a goddess seemed to have hatched by chance in wild lands, caressed by a ray of star. This late rejection of creation enveloped the elf with an interrogative glance. She seemed to reproduce all his gestures with a knowing glance, and imbibed with delight all the nuances caught in the elf’s mimicry.

The face with undecided features seemed to be refining at every moment, its countenance like enriched by the hesitations exchanged with Eöl. The elf and creature faced each other for a few moments, charmed by the fragile grace of their encounter. Eöl did not know who scrutinized him with such deep attention and immanent seduction. But now he was sure - a powerful spirit, virgin of any dealing with the elves, with feminine graces, animated this elusive body. He stretched out his hand towards the Maia, and immediately a shadow of distrust tarnished her glance, and the form shrank rapidly, as supple as a cloud in the wind.

Eöl hailed the frightened figure: "Dero Bain Bessaïnë![2]"

An anxious benevolence pierced in the elf's voice, in spite of his fierce tone. The form stopped and turned, a young woman for now, staring Eöl with a formidable intensity. Her pupils were ardent with a new fire, as a spark flames the wick of a lamp. Did her soul foresee a raison d'être? The elf's interest seemed to give substance to the young Maia’s instinct throughout the elven speech. Tense as a bow, but staring with a curious look, she greedily waited for other words.

.oOo.

Somehow panting, Eöl sat down cross-legged on a stone bench and gestured his companion at his side. His throat a little tied by a strange disturbance, the elf looked into her imploring pupils. He read a long solitude under darkness. He recognized the wounds and distrust inflicted by the dark enemy. He experienced the powerful instinct of self-preservation and the need for fulfillment of the creature quivering before him. He guessed the hope within, notwithstanding the trials of oblivion. The half-open lips of the Maia stirred gently, a moving hesitation between the promise of a kiss and the mime of language.

Then Eöl shared his words. He opened the marvelous book of Elven speech and allowed the emotions that fluttered in him, to fly away at random. For her, he set out phrases of peace. He stirred a shape for the quivering wind in the branches of the larch. He pronounced glorious professions of faith. He celebrated the beauty of the stars. He whispered the happiness of sharing intimacy with a friendly soul. He issued royal sentences for her. He caressed sensations to evoke feelings. He told her simple words, wonder and surprise, hunger and pleasure. He invoked the power of the verb on the named things.

The young Maia listened with amazement. As freed from a yoke, she eagerly appropriated the power of language. Seduced by the music of words, she was impregnated with the meaning thanks to the images born from Eöl’s words. Matrix for the spirit of each elf, their language inherited the genius of the whole Elven people. And the creature drank every spoken fragrance with delight.

Eöl spoke at length under the stars. The Maia sometimes answered him, her sweet face bathed in tears, with jubilant interjections that delighted him. At last he invited her to remain with him. She embodied now a young elf, alert and impatient to learn. After a brief glance towards the hills, she followed the Twilight Elf.

.oOo.

The Maia, stretched out on the moss, let her gaze wander from one constellation to the other, the delightful names of which she murmured with delight. Since her encounter with the elf, she felt in her flesh, with renewed acuteness, the sensation of the world and the impulse of creation. The learned sounds, the words exchanged, had revealed the extent of her own knowledge, increasing her hold on Arda. No more precious gift had ever been granted her. Yet at the corner of her heart lingered an unfinished darkness, a last secret to be found in herself. Attentive to the emotions of the companion lying beside her, she felt in her, the elf's heartbeats.

He felt the caress of her gaze tenderly interrogating him. The master of words turned to her. He had never contemplated pupils as serenely eager to embrace the universe. The power of which he now felt the yoke, knew how to dispense with words. He slipped into the limpid waters of her knowing and grateful gaze.

A sweet flame of desire was erecting, warming her hip. She imprisoned this throbbing heart with teasing tenderness. Eöl's bewitching lips ventured through the mounds and hills of her alabaster body, roaming along her tender nacreous folds, with exasperating slowness. The Maia twisted the lianas of her arms and legs around the explorer, appropriating every delicate gesture.

The flower of her smile curled into a voluptuous conch. The universe had found its axis. The dome of stars began to pitch slowly, inhabited by the elf’s dark silhouette. Bowed to the coping of her eyes, he was looking there at the turmoil of her soul.

Eöl undulated in the ultimate depths of his wife, blending in the same dream of creation, the syncopated song of her flesh, the furnace of his desire and the thousands of stars, for ever till the end of time.

The Maia had seized the substance of the world with her bare arms. She rode her new sensations with an unremitting ardor. At last her graceful fingers clenched into the burning spine of her companion, in a long sigh of deliverance.

Back from limbo, cheek to cheek, they listened to the storm dissolving in them. Shrouded in a fragile feeling of immutability, they contemplated the firmament that watched over their bed.

.oOo.

The Maia had almost finished assuming her carnal condition - anchored in this world, she had now taken on Arda. The fallen star became the epicenter of her blooming. Wherever she looked, her beauty flourished. The works of her hands ennobled the underground halls, and adorned the neighborhood with majesty. She spread around her still inner strength. She took no part in the struggle against the minions of Morgoth. Yet she pushed back the frontiers of Nan Elmoth, where flew salubrious and protective vapors, that every evil creature feared.

The Maia grew in grace with renewed satiety, for some time - many years to the reckoning of men who were to come. Yet her blessed fullness remained tainted with a hint of doubt, like an incomplete souvenir.

.oOo.

At that time some elves had come to Beleriand. It was heard the Teleri, along with their princes Olwe and Elwe, had at length followed the emissaries of the Valar westwards. Scattered groups traveled through the vast forests of Neldoreth, Region, or Arthorian, and were sometimes lost. Some tribes hesitated, exploring these lands where the fury of Morgoth and the vengeance of the Valar had passed. They discovered many wonders, but some ventured into Dor Dinen or into the sad valley of Dungortheb, for their misfortune.

Thus some elves in distress presented themselves before Eöl, attracted by the peaceful aura of his wife. Their group had been attacked by spiders across the Esgalduin River. Their prince, captured, was therefore promised an atrocious death, devoured by the offspring hatched in his own entrails.

The master of Nan Elmoth, granted aid to the refugees like a great lord. He was in a good position to assess the risks of an assault against the mountains of terror, and refused to help the victims even when the elves prostrated themselves before him. His wife had to join in their prayers, for him to induce him to go the whole hog.

Then Eöl stood up and armed the refugees. His Lady clothed him with darkness. He put on his galvorn helmet, just as he draped his soul with his devotion to her. The fighters left with the blessing of the Maia.

Nothing is known for sure about this battle. The spiders fell by hundreds under their furious blows, but few elves escaped the sharp mandibles of the queen of Dungortheb. The survivors returned, disheveled and haggard, carrying on a bulwark their prince, the only survivor, puffed up with the seed of the ignoble creatures. Horrified, Eöl had forsaken the spider guard with his two marvelous blades, and then victoriously brought back the squad, supported only by the thought of his Lady. But he had left a part of his faith in life on the battlefield.

.oOo.

The wounded elf was admitted into the guard of the Maia. She displayed all her art to help him, struggling at length against the horrible infestation.

The evil gained, seeming to devour the entrails of the victim, and to obliterate any light in his soul. In the course of care and setbacks, the patient, whose mind was wandering in the grip of fever, would pronounce a few words. The music of Sindarin delighted the Maia, and restored to her the confidence she lacked. Despite the patient's cries of terror, some of his words suggested a world of hope, a noble and optimistic vision pegged to the heart.

Eöl was rarely admitted to the bedside of his host, and he could not convince his lady to take some rest.

The patient's condition finally stabilized. But for a long time, the Maia relentlessly kept on watching for a life-saving breath or a luminous word from her protégé.

At last the convalescent regained consciousness. When he looked at his hostess, he thought he was now in Valinor.

- Yavanna! He exclaimed, thinking he recognized the guardian of what lives in the earth.

The beauty of the Maia bent over him, called this blessed name in him.

Spechless, she contemplated the elf who seemed to speak like an oracle. A shudder ran through her spine, as the syllables made their way through her memory. Yavanna had been a close name... Full memory came back to her. Before the origin, she had been Yavanna's sister. [3]

Her mind illuminated in a flash, she answered with a trembling smile:

- My name is Melian.

She shed a tear that slowly rolled down her cheek, before it reached the edge of her chin. The elf picked it up in a tender gesture of appeasement and smiled at Melian:

- They call me Elwë.

A halo of happiness seemed to shine in the dark cavern, uniting forever the two survivors.

.oOo.

Eöl hammered the metal for ever and till the end of time.

Thus treason had sullied each of his generosities.

Melian had fled, subdued by the luminous candor of Elwë. The couple had found asylum in the thousand caverns of Menegroth, and founded a kingdom, where many Sindar had joined them. Melian had raised an invisible and enchanted barrier encircling their domain. The girdle of Melian prevented anyone from entering Doriath without being invited. The unwanted travelers were lost inexorably in the enchanted meanders of the woods, never to find their way.

Eöl forged his blade with the mechanical perseverance of a dwarven automaton.

Eöl struck the metal in vain, without finding any spirit or faith.

His betrayed efforts had robbed him of his strength. He had been stolen.

Later still, when Doriath had expanded as the Sindar strengthened, Elwe had demanded that Nan Elmoth be subjected to him. Melian had intervened so that her old love would be spared.

Elwe, now known as Thingol, had demanded a ransom. Once again, Eöl had to swallow his pride. Cursing forever the famous blade, he had conceded Anglachel to the impudent wren. [4]

He had been deceived again and again. Never again would he be deceived.

The grievances danced before Eöl, who hypnotized himself by his never-ending forge.

Yet at times, Aredhel's grave face recalled Eöl from his awakened dream.

The blacksmith abandoned his hammer. A sensation of regained honor, of an almost possible happiness, touched him for a moment. His lady deserved better than a bitter husband, obliterated by the constantly reforged litany of his recriminations...

But could he trust her completely?

.oOo.

NOTES

[1] Vala of weapons, strength and war.

[2]Wait for me, lovely stranger!

[3]Servant of Vana and Estë, Melian had long lived in Lorien’s land and tended Irmo’s orchards. Then she had gone to Middle-Earth, where, traumatized by the two lamps’ fall and assailed by Morgoth, she had wandered in the night, overwhelmed by terror and walled in her amnesia.

[4] Anglachel long slept in Thingol’s armory. It cast misfortune on those who brandished it. Much later, it fell to Tùrin, also cursed. But that is quite another story.

The trails of Nan Elmoth

Part 5 - A last journey

.oOo.

At the sign of the Drunken Goose, the conversations are going well...

The legacy of Uncle Nestegg is disputed by the bunch of his grand-nephews. The problem is the place is unknown, where the grumpy old man has supposedly buried his so-called treasure! Ravinyard, the small estate where the nutty uncle spent most of his time in the end, is regularly plowed from top to bottom by a nephew or another. Wherever the old foolish joker is, Uncle Nestegg must be laughing, to see all these idler nephews of him, trifling all day long!

Mother Mugwort has found and cared for beautiful pipeweed plants in her glen of Rivulet. But the kids of Father Shepstaff have eaten them out! Mother Mugwort claims one of the kids for a stew, as compensation, but old Shepstaff and his goat do not agree.

The great hall of the inn echoes with many usual tattle tales. Yet a flavor of expectation is  hanging around. It seems to the regulars that a small part of their existence has somehow been suspended last night.

A strange visitor has stirred up trouble. Cowherds and cultivators await the arrival of his slim silhouette. His lai of Ar-Feiniel, the lady of Gondolin, relates the disillusioned passion. A radiant princess, but no solar hero. Great deeds, but an embittered and disturbing prince. They will not bother the storyteller - an immortal elf, that's for sure; Who else would chant the misguidance of pride?

But the ending is due to them, however cruel it may be.

.oOo.

Beleriand, First Age…

During each first spring moon, the Lord of the Naugrim of Nogrod gave a sumptuous feast. Eöl, the Master of Nan Elmoth, was a guest of honor because their bonds of friendship had developed over the years. A road leading west from the Blue Mountains now passed through Eöl’s realm. His lands, defended against Ungoliant’s offspring or any other assailant, proved safer for the travelers than the forests of Dimbar to the north, where dwelt some temperamental Noldor. The Twilight Elf went to Nogrod, like every year, to negotiate the bridge-crossing tolls for goods through Nan Elmoth, and to attend the festivities.

As usual, he ruminated dark thoughts, for the disputes with Maeglin had become frequent. Eöl had associated his son more closely with his works and had revealed to him some of his secrets. He taught Maeglin smithing, mine-craft, or the lore about his mysterious poisons and elixirs which he distilled in the catacombs of the fallen star. But the young elf aspired to know his maternal family, and dreamed about the wonderful Noldorin cities.

So Eöl planned to bring sumptuous gifts to his Lady and son. In the chimeras of his unreasoning, did he imagine he would retain the affection of his loved ones, only by renewing the magnificence of his large, yet dark and almost empty halls? He challenged the splendors of his Noldor rivals, usurpers of their kingdoms, but he could not tarnish their attraction in his son’s heart.

.oOo.

The Lady pushed her horse up to the crest of Mirebel. The valley of the Celon River stretched out before her, resplendent with tender greens and enamelled with a thousand colored smiles under the spring sun. On the southern bank stood the gigantic harsh pines of Nan Elmoth, beneath the foliage of which only the light of the stars penetrated.

Lomion watched his mother - Aredhel inspired the fragrances of renewal in full lungs, looking nostalgically to the northern lands. The young elf pushed his stallion to the side of his mother's mare:

- "What are these lands, Mother?"

- "In the distance lies the country of Himlad, where my cousins, Celegorm and Curufin, reign.

- Father claims they are assassins of his people[1]...

A shadow of bitterness passed through Aredhel's clear glance, but she did not answer.

- To the west of Himlad, beyond the river Aros, the north wind sweeps the gloomy moors of Dor Dinen[2].

Aredhel's gaze was lost further west. Lomion knew that there was, beyond the ford of Esgalduin, a valley feared by all the elves, Nan Dungortheb. Yet Aredhel's eyes went astray, fogged with melancholy.

Lomion guessed the desire to see her family and Gondolin’s wonders had awakened in her heart again. From that moment he knew where the hidden city probably stood - beyond Dungortheb. For he possessed a mind as penetrating as his sight, both inherited from his father, together with the name of Maeglin which meant "piercing glance."

- "O My Lady!" Why linger, prisoners of these undergrowth? What can we hope for from these dark silent forests? Apart from the secrets of their cursed catacombs, my father has little to teach me and does not trust me.

Aredhel's mind seemed to come back from a distant dream. She stared at her son with amazement and answered with regret:

- "It would be unbecoming to falsify our Lord, who entrusted us with the care of his domain in his absence."

But Lomion felt her mother's reproach was directed to herself.

They long stood side by side in the saddle, facing the temptation of free sunny spaces. They were about to turn back, when Lomion's sharp eyes noticed a fine volute of smoke rising above the trees a few leagues to the north.

Mother and son stroke like lightning on the back of a spiders horde that was harassing the camp of an elven squad. The infallible eye of Lomion did wonders. He mowed the vile beasts with implacable determination. The woods echoed with the rallying cry of the Noldor, while their swords exterminated the offsprings of Ungoliant. Lomion felt his heart leap in his chest to the sound of the war horns of his mother's people.

.oOo.

Aredhel, her heart swollen with pride, admired her son wielding Eöl's weapons with grace and strength.

Once the monsters were exterminated, the fighters regrouped and rescued the wounded. Thanks to the Lady of Nan Elmoth and her page, they were few. Already the guards of Curufin advanced with a smile.

Aredhel wondered how to tell the Twilight Elf about this scuffle - was he going to take this fortuitous encounter as an opportunity to get along with his neighbors? The Lady of the Noldor wiped her sword, which Eöl had formerly piously forged anew.

A moment alone with her thought about her harsh husband, she knew that he was indeed alerted. Her blade, once unsheathed, warned him of the danger she incurred. An oppressive silence had struck the surrounding woods; Aredhel felt the palpable attention of the tall black pines, awaken from their diurnal somnolence.

Disconcerted by the forest’s austere reticence, she thought she heard an order of return, huddled from under the dark coppices.

- "I am your wife and not your servant, she mumbled firmly for herself. I go where my pleasure and necessity take me!"

.oOo.

When Curufin’s guards recognized her, they were amazed and greeted her with respect. The Noldor had thought her dead for years, lost in the labyrinths of Dungortheb. In their despair, High-King Fingon and his brother Turgon had dispatched patrols around the girdle of Melian, in vain. Eöl had never spread the news of their union.

The elves added with reserve that their reception would have been colder, if the master of Nan Elmoth had accompanied them.

That is how Aredhel decided to defy her husband’s orders. Had he not kept their union secret, like a shameful misalliance? Her son had to meet his other family.

She took leave of the squad and guided her son by the ford of Aros, along Doriath’s border. He took pleasure in the eminent role of a protective knight, and it is said he did not desert.

Curufin, warned by his men, had rushed southwards to converse with his cousin. But when he reached the confines of his domain, he could only intercept Eöl, who had ventured into Himlad.

-"What errand have you, Black Elf, in my land? An urgent matter, perhaps, that keeps one so sun-shy abroad by day?"

In the face of danger, the Twilight Elf retained his anger. He tried to hide the fact he had been sidetracked, and pretended he wanted to join his visiting wife. But Curufin, an elf lord of a bullying temper, despised Eöl. He could not help but hurt him, and in so doing, revealed to him the trail of the fugitives:

- "Do not flaunt the title of your wife before me. For those who steal the daughters of the Noldor to wed them without dowry nor consent, gain no kinship. I gave you leave to go. Take it and be gone. According to the laws of the Eldar, I may not slay you at this time. And this counsel I add: return now to your dwellings in the darkness of Nan Elmoth, and do not cross the Arosiach[3], for my heart warns me that if you pursue those who love you no more, never will you return thither."

Eöl rode away, his heart enraged. He dressed himself in a sumptuous dwarven coat, smithed with hidden features, he had brought from Nogrod, for his son. Light as a fabric and yet resistant, it had been forged in the metal he had invented, galvorn.

Armed in war, he pursued the fugitives, persuaded they were going to Gondolin. Tapped by the anguish of someone who fears treason without being able to admit it, he galloped like the wind.

.oOo.

Aredhel and Lomion, whether the spring days of Beleriand were kind to them, or whether they were protected by the influence of Melian, the kingdom of whom they passed along, reached the ford of Brithiach without hindrance. Then they abandoned their horses and slipped into the upper hidden valley. The slender young elf, dressed in the gray outfit that concealed him so well under the foliage of Nan Elmoth, held by her hand his mother, a tall lady with a white mantle slamming in the cool breeze blowing from the Sirion valley.

They struggled climbing along a gorge, a long defile that seemed like the dried-up bed of an ancient river. Aredhel's eyes shone with confined tears, when they presented themselves before a powerful arch, resting on either side on pillars carved in the rock. An imposing portal of intertwined bars, wonderfully worked and studded with iron, forbade passage. They had reached the first gate of Gondolin.

Elemmakil, captain of the Gate of Wood, advanced to greet them. He had recognized Ar-Feiniel for the lightness of her stride, long before the fugitives had reached the door.

Half a league further, the second door barred the Orfalch Echor with a large wall, the masons had erected in the manner of a single solid block, flanked by strong stone turrets. Gray-clad guards opened the way for them, and the block swung on invisible hinges.

Thus succeeded the six gates which guarded the defile, torn like a great ax blow hewn by a god across the mountain, its steep sides rising to vertiginous heights. Lomion, subjugated, admired the art of the Noldor and the power of their arms. And he was astonished at the pink rising to his mother's cheeks when powerful captains, such as Ecthelion and Glorfindel, bowed before her queenly port, with a dreamy smile on their lips, and escorted them to the next door. For many of these valiant elves had, in their youth, hoped and courted the white Lady of the Noldor.

At last the light became more intense, and the vegetation denser as the walls lowered on either cliffs. Aredhel seized her son's hand when he discovered the Hidden Valley. A great plain stretched out at their feet, a gentle hilly meadow above which flew great eagles. Set in a circle of high mountains, brightly colored orchards shone between the dark masses of forests that grew on the slopes. Silvery cascades criss-crossed the plain like a cultivated checkerboards, strewn with basins in which the sun shone. In the center stood a large rocky hill, which had been an island. Now, powerfully fortified and magnificently built, there stood Gondolin, that rivaled with glory and beauty with Tirion itself in the Undying Lands.

The King's Tower darted proud and white among the fountains, where the sovereign himself had built Glingal and Belthil, gold and silver trees in memory of Valinor's two wonders. Lomion was dazzled by the power and splendor of this kingdom, which surpassed his mother’s tales. He silently watched sculptures and constructions. He admired the harmonious domestication of water and plants. He lingered at the passage of each singer, opening his delighted soul to the epic or joyful melodies of the Noldor. Lomion had a vision of what might have been the glory of Nan Elmoth under the leadership of Eöl, populated by numerous Sindar, challenging their Noldor neighbors with ingenuity and splendor in deeds of hand and spirit.

They were led before the King, who gave them a magnificent reception, delighted as he was to see his sister again, and discovering his nephew. Turgon had a feast served and his harpists came. He heard Aredhel’s story, moved by her renewed enthusiasm for the marvels of Gondolin. They sat under the protective branches of the gold and silver trees, in the luminous chirping of the waterfalls, and perfumed clouds of petals. Lomion remained silent, struck by the rejoiced joy of his mother, and stunned by the splendours of the valley. The power and genius of this people seemed to have no limit. The king, who was watching him, was able to read the struggle inside him. The young heir’s pride suffered from the admiration that awoke in spite of himself. What would result, jealousy or adoption?

.oOo.

Dark and terrible, leaning on the trail like a hound launched for the cure, Eöl pursued his wife and son. The sword of Aredhel, the masterpiece he had reforged with his blood to charm and protect her from the dangers of the world, called him and guided his instinct as a hunter. Flying on the wings of rancor, riding beneath the moon like a fiery ghost, he reached the Brithiac at the moment when Aredhel was entering the bed of the dried-up river, a lively white figure in the midst of the gray rocky scree.

Concealing his steed, the Twilight Elf hastened in pursuit of the fugitives, like a serpent cautiously but swiftly crawling between the rocks.

He rarely lost sight of his wife and son, despite the turnings of the dried-up riverbed. He slipped like a shadow behind them, yet unable to catch them. Having reached the end of the rocky defile, Eöl hesitated, restrained by some premonition. At last he penetrated into the thick shadow between the steep cliffs. Never had any darkness inspired him with so gloomy a presentiment.

There he was taken by the never-failing watch - several arrows gushed out, unable to pierce his armor. But strong elves assailed him from all sides. Despite his resistance, he had to give way under the number. When he saw the power of the Wooden Gate and the splendor of his opponents’ weapons, Eöl held his wrath. He looked up at them and demanded his due. Elemmakil, astonished at the stranger’s allegations, nevertheless perceived the restrained fury and the duplicity of his prisoner.

.oOo.

The king never tired observing his nephew’s reserved admiration. Lomion weighed in his heart, the harsh virtue of Eöl, and the grave magnificence of Turgon. Unfortunately, there was little love in this equivocal balance. Aredhel, meanwhile, spoke of what had happened to her during her long disappearance. The King also guessed that his sister, out of respect for her son's feelings, concealed from Turgon, many things he ought to know.

Idril Celebrindal joined her father on the terrace of the fountains. When she appeared on the threshold of the marble palace, she moved with such a grace, that her silhouette seemed to float on a silver stream. She bore the golden hair of her Vanyar ancestors, that Lomion had never contemplated. Surrounded by white petals hung in the harps’ melody, the princess ran to Aredhel with a crystalline laugh, and hugged her. Then she turned to Lomion with astonishment, and the brightness of the girl's eyes fell upon him. A radiant triumph of hope over darkness, the King's daughter seemed to conceal within her a fragment of heavenly light. Idril welcomed her cousin with a tender grace. But her smile faded, when she perceived the deep emotion of Lomion, a prey to doubt.

Then a messenger came from the gates before the king to give him an account of strange news. Aredhel blanched and stood up:

- "It is certainly Eöl, my husband and father of my child! By what prodigy of tenacity has he succeeded in following us? I felt guilty of having abandoned him without explanation. Now the fear of his wrath tarnishes my joy of breathing at last under the sun of Gondolin!"

Turgon answered with wise and reassuring words. The mirage of a cloudless happiness floated in Aredhel’s soul for a moment, but Eöl's pride and rancor against the Noldor came back to her mind. Sensing the worst, she nevertheless pleaded for him:

- "Do no harm him and bring him before the King's justice, if my brother allows it!"

The guards brought Eöl, his neck stiff. With a look he embraced the scene with a grin of hatred. Aredhel stood before Turgon, who sat on his mithril throne encrusted with pearls. Maeglin, a little way back, already had a foot on the platform and glanced furtively toward a girl who stood straight and modest behind the high seat. Pale and trembling, Aredhel was unable to meet her husband and explain her decision to him. She read in Eöl's posture and looks, both his astonishment at the Noldor deeds, and his tenfold hatred.

The spouses looked at each other for a moment. If Aredhel had perceived a prayer, perhaps she would have taken a step towards her husband. But Eöl's glance only bore reproaches and imprecations. When Aredhel turned her face away in disgust, the Twilight Elf walled up against the universe.

Then the king rose:

-"Welcome, kinsman, for so I hold you. Here you shall dwell at your pleasure, save only that you must abide here and depart not from my kingdom, for it is my law that none who finds a way hither shall depart."

With contempt Eöl looked at Turgon advancing towards him to welcome him. The Twilight Elf deliberately ignored the outstretched hand:

- "I acknowledge not your law. The Noldor have no right to usurp kingdoms in the lands of the Teleri,where your criminal pride has brought affliction. I have come to claim what is mine. My wife can stay in this gilded cage, where she will sicken as she did before. But not Maeglin! My son will not be taken from me! Come to join your father, Maeglin, son of Eöl, I command you! Leave the house of thine enemies, the slayers of thy people, or be accursed.” He said with an imperious gesture.

But his son made no reply, and regarded him with horror. Maeglin glanced at Idril, who poured tears of compassion for him. Then, in deep silence, Lomion bowed before Turgon as before his sovereign.

Dumb with indignation, Eöl foresaw Maeglin reigning over mingled Noldor and Sindar, a bastard prince of a doomed people, complicit in elf-slaying by elves.

But Turgon had sat back on his throne. He seized the scepter of the law and spoke in a stern tone:

- "With you, Dark Elf, I shall not argue. Your sunless forests are defended only by the swords of the Noldor, without whom you would labour, chained in the pits of Angband! Here I am the King, whether you like it or not, my doom is law! You have only one choice: to abide here, or to die here, and so is for your son!"

Then Eöl caught Turgon's gaze and challenged him without weakening. He remained for a long time without a word or a gesture, mad with rancor. The harps and fountains had fallen silent.

Aredhel shook her torpor and took a few steps towards her husband with a regal grace. But Eöl shivered in disgust at seeing her approach. His son's allegiance to his enemy was the last treachery, that had destroyed his mind.

Suddenly, swift as a serpent, he seized a javelin he held hid under his cloak, and cast it at Maeglin, crying:

-"I choose death for both of us!"

But Aredhel sprang before the dart, and it smote her in the shoulder.

Glorfindel overcame Eöl and set him away in bonds, while others took care of Aredhel.

.oOo.

It was decided that the criminal should be brought the next day before the King's justice. Aredhel and Idril implored mercy for him before Turgon, who hesitated.

But in the night, Aredhel caught fevers, although the injury had seemed light. The wound was cleaned again, but soon the Lady of the Noldor was the prey of frightful spasms. She passed by daylight, a green foam on her lips, and her face twisted with pain. For the point of the javelin was poisoned by the evil spells Eöl had brewed with spiders venom, and no one had realized it until it was too late.

Thus Eöl found no mercy when he was led before Turgon. He was dragged to the ramparts of Gondolin, to be thrown into a black chasm.

Mute of horror, Maeglin contemplated his hobbled father. With his gaze on fire, Eöl finally called out:

- So you forsake your father and his kin, ill-gotten son! Then here shall you fail of all your hopes!

And it is written that Maeglin, despite the affection of the King and the compassion of Idril, knew no respite. For he had succumbed to the charm of his cousin, and desired her without hope. The Eldar did not marry so close to one another, and all the more so because Idril had this passion in horror. He went for many great undertakings, but no satisfaction nor power could ease his grief.

As the years passed and Maeglin looked at Idril, waited for Idril, wanted Idril, love in his heart turned into darkness. In Gondolin germinated an accursed seed, which would bring it to an end.

But this is another story…

.oOo.

At the sign of the Drunken Goose…

The regulars look at each other, their mug on their lips. They should have known it... Curses from the old days rarely end well... Yet usually, there is still a ray of hope, after the misfortunes, in the end. But the enigmatic smile of the storyteller reassures them: that may be for next time!

With an off-putting gesture, but with a roguish look, old Shepstaff wipes the froth on his lips with a reverse of his sleeve:

- Mother Mugwort and her stooge the gardener, don’t you think they would be kind of cousins?

But Rhast, the gravedigger, replies:

- And you, you wouldn’t be a close cousin of your gossip the goat?

And the conversations resume their routine at the Drunken Goose...

.oOo.

NOTES

[0] - This passage is recorded in the Silmarillion, chapter 16, Maeglin. Several quotations are extracted from it and marked in italic.

[1] In order to go to Middle-earth and recover the silmarils, the Noldor assaulted the Teleri to appropriate their boats. This is the first elven slaughter by elves, punished by the curse of Mandos. A sort of original fault of the Noldor, from which result all their sorrows in Middle-earth, told in Tolkien’s Silmarillion.

[2] Literally, in Sindarin, the silent country.

[3] The ford of river Aros.