People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 6: Renewal

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Chapter 6: Renewal

 

Soon the colors of fall would blanket the land and the land would begin to ready itself for slumber, but on this summer day, the air was hot and humid, latent with life and fertility. On a gentle slope, under the boughs of a large oak, two bodies lay together, entangled.

 

“Acharedel,” Irissë savored the sounds of the letters come together on her tongue.  She scrunched her nose, whether in displeasure Accarrë could not tell.

 

“Do you not like it?” Accarrë inquired, her eyes studying the beautiful profile beside her.

 

“I do,” Irissë replied, turning to face Accarrë. The breeze picked up to blow a strand of hair across her face which Irissë gently tucked behind Accarrë’s ear. She allowed her finger to trace the elegant length of her lover’s ear.

 

Accarrë shuddered, laughing softly. “Then what is it that causes you to wrinkle your nose just so!” Accarrë pulled Irissë into her lap.  Irissë’s black hair was loosely bound in a knot at her nape. The wild flowers Accarrë had lovingly placed Irissë’s hair were as fresh as when she first plucked them, a token of her faerie magic.  Irissë was the most beautiful creature Accarrë had ever seen and would ever know. Of this Accarrë was certain and it made it so easy to conjure the old green magic that favored such frivolities.

 

Irissë sighed contentedly, secure in the familiar warmth of Accarrë. Looking up at the older elf, Irissë shared, “I understand our peoples’ desires to take on new names but hearing yours… it makes you feel farther away from me.”

 

Accarrë sighed. The slight translation from Quenya to Sindarin was indeed ominous. While her mother name of vengeance was little approved in Aman, it was nevertheless prophetic, but in Sindarin, it was entirely unsettling: a hostile return.

 

Irissë continued, “Are we not colonizers, believing our Return to these lands our destiny? What of the Grey, the Green, those we consider Fae and dark?”

 

Accarrë did not like Irissë’s words. “How can we be colonizers if these are the lands where our ancestors were born? My mother and father are from these lands, following only in your grandfather’s footsteps because of a loyalty to their friend. We are not the ones that look down our noses at those that did not Journey,” Accarrë replied fiercely, her eyes scanning the lake in the distance, not wanting to see the anger in her lover’s face. “I leave those attitudes to the Lords and Ladies of the nobility.” Accarrë exaggerated the phrase knowing she was offending her friend.

 

Irissë sat up. She was about to fall into a well-worn debate between them, but she knew that the words she spoke were meant to distance Accarrë. It tore at her, that fateful night—in what were many of many that she would chronicle—that Turgon spoke to her of his towers by the sea and asked if she would come with him. Irissë had said yes. Of course, she would follow Turgon, not for Turgon but for his daughter, like a daughter to Irissë. This impending departure, though not for many years, nevertheless grew a distance between her and Accarrë. It was foolish really. How could the small distance from Turgon’s city to the camp by the lake and to the place at the mouth of the River Sirion her father had chosen to build a fortress seem like such an immense divide? And yet Irissë, for better or worse, was tied to Turgon’s fate, and Accarrë to Fingon’s. This was a bitter pill for Irissë to swallow for in her search for freedom Irissë was still bound to the will of men. She took in a deep breath and grabbed Accarrë’s hand. She could find no words to speak.

 

Accarrë found one instead: “Íreth,” she whispered using the Sindarin of Irissë’s name. “Do not think I am blind to your emotions, that I know not what thoughts tumble about in here,” Accarrë indicated, placing her hand upon Irissë’s chest. “In the time I have loved you, you have never been completely mine,” Accarrë admitted, the specter of Tyelko emerging from the past shared between them. And now Turgon, but she could not ask Irissë to stay for well Accarrë knew that she went with Turgon not for him but for Itarillë. Accarrë could not take this from Irissë, knowing it helped soften the pain of the loss of Rilmiel.

 

Irissë leaned into the familiar body of Accarrë, wrapping her arms around her lean form. Accarrë whispered as she closed in for a kiss, “Know this my white lady, I will always love you.”

 

“I know,” Irissë whispered, “and I you,” but the unspoken words, but not enough, filled her thoughts. Her Accarrë, like Fingon, fated to love someone who could not be there the way they wanted. Tyelko had not been there for her. Doomed lovers.

 

Accarrë pulled away momentarily from her lover. A feral grin spread on her lovely face. “Not Artanis! She will forge her own fate!”  Irissë mouthed an incredulous “what” but was quickly quieted by her lover. Accarrë closed her mouth over Irissë’s and gently laid her upon the verdant grass. No, it was not enough, but this moment, their present, was enough for her to claim Irissë, to show her how much she loved her. With her free hand she slipped her hand between Irissë’s trousers and her skin, making her way to the path between her legs. Irissë had an easier task, lifting up the skirt that Accarrë was wearing and finding her ready, stroking her between the legs, finding the contours of the buds of the flower that bloomed.

 

Summer would soon give way to fall, and fall to winter, but the lovers’ heat kept the chill of fall at bay. And time passed this way in the camp by the lake.

 

)()()()(

 

A chill had crept into the air and though elves did not chill easy the warmth of a fire was rumbling in the hearth, heating a kettle of water hanging from it. Irissë kept quiet while Accarrë arranged her bow and quiver in the room. Irissë knew the drill: return from patrol and hand over your dirtied and dulled weapons and armor to the smiths and their apprentices; hastily disrobe as you make your way to the showers, gathering the gloves, the leather braces; enter the large stone bath building and unceremoniously discard your items on the floor; peel away leather armor and road worn clothing, dropping it atop your growing pile; and finally slip in to the heated waters and let it work its way to your bones. A fine system had emerged amongst vocations now held in high esteem. The young would gather up the items and distribute them as needed to be; whether to the leatherworkers, the seamstresses, and the washers, the soldier’s gear would be tended, mended, or replaced.

 

Accarrë had just returned from a long scouting trip with Findaráto and Artanis that included a visit with the Fëanorians and a trip to the borders of Doriath to meet with the kin of the Arafinwions. Accarrë’s face did not break out into a smile. The journey was most assuredly a demanding one, not only because of the distances travelled but because of the people involved.  Accarrë felt her lover’s eyes trailing her as she moved through the room. Her room was now connected to a larger stone structure that had been built by the third year of Fingolfin’s hosts time in Middle Earth. A building boon was upon them. The Noldor had perfected their system, from quarry to stone mason, to the building of walls. Earthen homes were erected, some with timber, some with stone floors, but all with an eye that they would not be permanent. To the eyes of men that were recently awoken Fingolfin’s settlement would be a beauty to behold, but for the elves, it was too exposed. Fingolfin’s eyes were set to the East at the mouth of the River Sirion where soon the ground would be set for Fingolfin’s fortress, though that building would not come to be for some time.

 

Turgon, on the other hand, begun building a settlement to the West on the slopes of Mount Taras by the sea. The proposed settlement had attracted a lot of attention and debate within the ranks of the Noldor, laying bare the divisions that still festered. It was bitterest of all between Turgon and Fingolfin, though Fingolfin did his best to quell the resentment he felt for his son for taking Idril and Ireth away from him, but as a father, he also understood his son’s motivations. Fingon, though, felt Turgon was acting selfishly, not considering what was best for all the Noldor, and not just his inner circle. Militarily, it was spreading their forces thin, dividing up the territories to be defended, but it was clear that there were many who would follow Turgon. Fingolfin believed that at least a third of their people would follow Turgon. It was the one of the conversations that were had officially and intimately. For Fingolfin, he saw how it tore his people apart. The Noldor were fractured not only within his host but also from the Fëanorians. They would never defeat Morgoth so broken.

 

Irissë moved to the hearth to fill a mug with the water from the pot. “Here, drink this,” Irissë offered, placing the mug on a table near the hearth. Accarrë nodded, walking over to the table. Steam rose from the mug, filling her nose with the sweet scent of chamomile. She plopped herself on the chair. She was bone tired. It had been a long trip but more than anything it had been a trip that required a great amount of mental energy.

 

Irissë was waiting for her report, knowing that Accarrë had been obliged to spend part of the trip with Tyelko, exchanging scouting information. Accarrë first relayed to Irissë that upon arriving to the borders of Doriath, she had not been allowed entry, while Findaráto and Artanis had been welcome. The guards cared little for how and where Accarrë would stay but the group had anticipated such a greeting and so Accarrë found hospice with some of the Green elves that lived in the Forest of Brethil.

 

Irissë was incensed by Thingol’s rebuke. “He’s an arrogant ass!” she seethed.

 

“Yes, he is,” Accarrë acknowledged. “I like it not that the Arafinwions are welcome guests of his. Little love does he have for us, if he were to know the full tale-“

 

“It would be a disaster!” Irissë interjected. “More than a disaster, it would have profound implications for us all!”

 

Accarrë rubbed her temples. “But I am the worst for my time spent in that camp,” she admitted.  

 

Irissë moved behind her. “I can only imagine,” she soothed, massaging Accarrë’s shoulders. “Did you gain anything from your time with the Fëanorians?”

 

Accarrë grunted, “My time with Tyelko was the only useful moment I stole away from that shit hole.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Tyelko and I exchanged useful tactical information. We triangulated information on Morgoth’s ilk, and between the two of us gathered enough information to build a useful scouting map to share between our camps.” 

 

“And the others?” Irissë probed.

 

“Pointless,” Accarrë replied. “Makalaurë and Findaráto spent their time arguing about chain of command and Artanis was artfully answering pointed questions and responding to not so veiled threats from Curufinwë and Carnistir.

 

“What of the twins?”

 

“Telvo and Pityo were out scouting for much of the time we were there and when they returned they did not go out of their way to greet us.” Turning to face Irissë, Accarrë divulged, “Something about Maitimo stirs them, something of his death pains them.”

 

Knowing that Accarrë was a keen observer, Irissë pressed her for more information.

 

“There is something they are not telling us about Maitimo,” Accarrë revealed.

 

“But we have it on good authority that he died at the hands of Morgoth like Fëanáro,” Irissë replied.

 

“Those men were not there. They only know what they were told. And trust me when I say, even then, Ondion and his brother were not fully trusted by the Fëanorians. I believe much was kept from them.”

 

“That is very possible,” Irissë considered. After all, Ondion was her sister-cousin’s husband, even though he was a man of Fëanáro.

 

Accarrë turned around to face Irissë. “Say none of this to Finno. I fear it would stir up more than is needed within him.”

 

“I will not,” she vowed, knowing that Fingon least needed to have doubt planted in him over Maitimo’s death. Regardless of Maitimo’s betrayal, their love had been deep and fiery. Where there had been such fire there was sure left to be embers.

 

“Enough of my questions. To the bed!” Irissë commanded, satisfied Accarrë had drank enough of her tea. Accarrë rewarded her with a lopsided grin, too tired to manifest more. Irissë scooped Accarrë up from the chair and carried her to their bed where she plopped her on the mattress. “Sleep,” she ordered, sliding onto the bed next to Accarrë. Accarrë snuggled back into Irissë’s embrace, warm, comforting and familiar. Sleep found her quick.

 

Irissë laid next to her for hours, combing her hands through her hair, and feeling the familiar rise and fall of her breath. ““Acharedel,” Irissë whispered, this time like a prayer.

 

)()()()(

 

The chill of the harvest season was a strange companion. On the one hand it announced the cold that would soon arrive. Fingon sat next to his sister-cousin, Enelyë, the eldest daughter of Lalwen. She had her head on Fingon’s shoulders, her arm looped through his. It had been too long since they had sat this way.

 

“I have missed you,” Enelyë whispered to her brother-cousin. Fingon turned to look at Enelyë. It had taken him much effort to reach out to her. He hadn’t really spoken with her since he took her son’s arm on the ice due to a terrible accident that resulted in severe frostbite, a condition they had not known could even occur before Helcaraxë. Fingon kissed his sister-cousin on the brow, but he was drunk enough to bump his head into hers, making them both laugh.

 

“Aye, I have missed you,” Enelyë repeated, her face beaming with a happiness that was rare also for her.

 

Fingolfin’s host was celebrating their first true harvest. A large bonfire lit the night. Much wine and ale were being consumed as well as a draught of potent mushrooms that aided the elves in their journeys into the land of fae.

 

Witches night. A thread in a song wailing like a banshee, reminding those willing to listen that witches’ souls were also bound to darker things. The song reached out to the moon, conjuring, teasing with the tip of a finger, come hither. Desire and death consumed the logs, the fire whipped into a frenzy, its finger light tendrils reaching out, clamoring for more, overwhelmed with the need to burn, consume, always on the edge of dying.

 

Feet clamored around the fire, jumping, delighting in the song of the fire, the song of the Laiquendi.

 

Fingon was drunk with the strange green spirits. He never bargained for the feeling in the pit of his stomach: a strange desire devoid of love. This was less than what he had known, but for now it would do. It was awoken in him now, desire. Perhaps he could no longer love, give his heart for he had given it and there was no having that back. He brought the drink to his mouth, took a sip, let his tongue play with the spirit. It burned going down.

 

Accarrë danced around the fire. Fingon smiled, watching how her hips swayed back and forth, the way her hair swung around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her whole body given over to the dance. Enelyë noticed her brother-cousin’s eyes, trailing the woman around the fire. “The fire consumes much more than we can see,” she offered.

 

Fingon turned to look at her. “That it does,” he answered, turning back to watch his witch.

 

Accarrë could feel his eyes on her, burning through her, pulling her closer to him, but she was caught. The fire too demanded of her, desired her body, calling her closer to its heart.

 

Accarrë had fucked Fingon back to some kind of forgiveness, an absolution they revisited on occasion. She smiled. Deep within her she felt her own heat kindled. The blood rushed down and she ached, desired release. With her hand she traced the feeling of desire along the paths of her skin, feeling it electric. She gave herself to the erotic dance, relished in the freedom of the Harvest fire. Her heart was given and she had felt it broken. Irissë would not stay in Nolofinwë’s camp, would not move with them to the new fortress. Instead, Irissë would follow Turgon to his city by the sea.

 

While the Noldor had not abandoned the fertility rites of harvest there were many in the Undying Lands that turned their noses to their old customs, naming them crude. But they were never abandoned, and in Endórë they found their sundered kin wishing to feast their harvests together as their kin had done.

 

After a while of the two cousins sitting in quiet contentment, Fingon rose. “Some advice?” Fingon offered his cousin, his eyebrow raised indicating he would not take a no.

 

Enelyë laughed, feeling light of spirit momentarily, yet also nostalgic for this banter reminded her of better days between her and her beloved Fingon. “Your advice has always been terrible,” she chided. They had been thick as thieves in Tirion, two of a kind, given to their impulses. Fingon grinned impishly, “Get fucked.”

 

“What?” Enelyë responded, half laughing, half offended.

 

Fingon kneeled before his cousin and took her face between his hands. “Look at that husband of yours, he looks lost.”

 

Enelyë looked over at her husband, Ondion, and back at Fingon. “And why should I be the one to offer him a remedy for his thoughts tonight?”

 

“You misunderstand me,” Fingon interrupted, “and you misunderstand him. He misses you.”

 

Enelyë frowned. Of course he did. She had poured herself into the work her mother asked her to do and into the healing of her son, avoiding the work of trying to remake her life with her husband, a follower of Fëanáro who had boarded the ships expecting he would be able to bring his wife along. It had taken quite some time for her to believe that Ondion had not been allowed to disembark from the boat when he found out Fëanáro meant to sail without Fingolfin’s host. He’d not believed they would return, had been proved right and had been among the few from the Fëanorian encampment that left to live with Fingolfin’s host upon their arrival.

 

“Don’t let Fëanáro continue to be a wedge between you. He did not abandon you,” Fingon urged, more gently.

 

Enelyë sighed. “It’s not so easy, you know.”

 

Fingon nodded. Enelyë was as proud as him, and she was as bold as him. Fingon narrowed his eyes, a mischievous look returning to his eye.

 

“And just what are you scheming Findekáno,” Enelyë asked, knowing Fingon too well.

 

“Here,” Fingon offered, raising his cup to her lips. “This will help.”

 

Enelyë raised her eyebrows, knowing the concoction that was held in the cup being offered. “Take it,” Fingon urged.

 

Enelyë broke out in laughter, gathering Fingon up into a hug. “I thought I’d never have this part of you back,” she spoke, her voice giving way to emotion.

 

Fingon leaned into her embrace. “Here I am and here this is,” he urged. “It has a way of helping you find your way to the here and now.”

 

“Well there’s nothing for it,” Enelyë replied, taking the cup and gulping down the rich drink. “Oh that’s interesting,” she offered, finishing her drink.

 

Fingon pulled Enelyë up to her feet, “Now go,” he ordered,  pushing her in the direction of her husband. Turning to look at Fingon, she winked, knowing what Fingon was after that night.

 

)()()(

 

Fingon grabbed Accarrë pulling her close to him. Accarrë laughed, falling into his embrace. She was dizzy with spirit. “Faerie,” Fingon whispered into her ear from behind. With one hand he held her tight to him and with his other, he combed some of her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He allowed his fingers to trace the tips of her fingers eliciting a hum of appreciation from Accarrë.

 

“You bewitch me,” he whispered. Indeed, she did, conjured their connection. They were to be tied forever more, not in romantic love, but in fealty and the kinship of warriors, and unknown to them, something more, something tender.

 

Accarrë pressed back against Fingon, finding his erection. She ground against him catching his penis between her buttocks. Fingon growled wanting to be inside her, unhindered by the clothing between them, but she teased him, rubbing up and down against the length of his shaft. Fingon too teased, bringing his fingers against her crotch, finding her clit through her dress, pressing in, rubbing.

 

Accarrë laughed, pulling away from him. She turned to look at Fingon, loved how she could arouse him, his blue eyes dark from arousal, his full lips filled with blood. Batting his needy hands away she loosened the ties of her dress, letting it fall over her breasts and then hips, and finally letting it pool on the floor. Fingon hummed in approval his mouth parted, his breathing shallow. How he desired her. Accarrë stepped up to him not allowing him to touch her. Instead she pulled the tunic over his shoulders and undid the belt that held up his loose trousers. Soon Fingon too was disrobed. She pressed her mouth against his and kissed him hard, aggressively. Fingon spun her around and pressed her against the tree. The rough bark caught her hardened nipples, eliciting a pleasurable gasp. Fingon picked her up from behind and sheathed himself in her. It was not gentle. Nothing between them was. This wasn’t about love, but about need. It was the way these friends found to express some kind of bond beyond the broken hearts they both carefully had put aside. Accarrë steadied herself, arms on the tree, pushing herself back onto him. Fingon thrust hard and quick, and was met by Accarrë’s own need, demanding he take her into the center of that fire.

 

“Consume me,” she demanded of Fingon, willing him to kindle the fire, to bring their bodies into the heat of creation. They fucked hard, fucked without the consideration of love between them. Fingon could never love another and Accarrë would always love Irissë, but at least they had each other to lose themselves in, and absolve themselves of their sins in each other. Fingon called her witch, but he too was Faerie, allowed Endórë to consume him with its being. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, felt as his moans took shape deep within his chest and were released. She loved to make him moan this way, she loved to hear him beg and cry out so utterly lost in wanton desire. She pushed back harder against him, taking him in deeper, deeper, harder, loved the way it felt for her skin to make contact with his. So alive, in the moment, bodies given to a different type of ceremony. It was a way of warriors to find the desperate edge of living so close to being dead and dying. Accarrë cried out for him and he for her. “Fuck me,” she demanded. “Do not come,” she hissed knowing he was too close to his edge but she was not so she bore down on him and he responded bringing her up against that tree.  She held onto it crying out desperately with the desire that claimed her.

 

“Fingon,” she gritted out, pushing back against him and he against her. He was coming she could feel him, hear him as he cried out, moaned her name, their own personal prayers. She was so close, so close, she closed her eyes feeling the tree, its bark, its life within and in her mind,  she saw the river of hues of green and brightness of the trees life, into the depths of earth, and she was carried into the essence of the tree. Her desire road the currents of Endórë, of Ea. Upon her head a crown of flowers bloomed and Fingon pushed into her one more time until the river of energy washed up through her, into him, and beyond so that together they witnessed the elemental glory of the Eldar of old, born by the shore of Cuivienen.  Her voice soared and they sang together a strange elven song conjured by desire and the flowers bloomed and the petals fell from the flowers, melting into their skin.

 

They were faerie manifest.

 

“Acharedel,” Fingon managed to whisper, using the Sindarized form of the name Accarrë had adopted. Accarrë fell back into Fingon who managed to catch her. Gently he brought her into his lap, circling his arms around her. They leaned into one another.

 

“You fuck me so good,” she murmured contently.

 

Fingon laughed softly, catching his breath. “There is no other way to fuck you. You’d have my head if I did otherwise.” Unspoken was her heartbreak, but not unnoticed. Fingon held her tighter, breathing her in. The tale of Irissë and Accarrë was coming to an end. It broke his heart for Fingon knew the love that Accarrë had for Irissë and Irissë for Accarrë, but Irissë needed to leave for a time and Accarrë would not leave Fingon’s side. They had quarreled about it, but Accarrë’s own words convinced Fingon that whatever bond tied her to him was not to be trifled with. There were bonds beyond those of lovers. Whatever bond Fingon and Accarrë had, it was that of warriors whose lives were tied together. They had no idea then, that Harvest evening how much so.

 

A voice from behind them startled them, someone clearing their throat. Fingon looked up and saw a maiden, daughter of one of his father’s lords.

 

“Líssien,” Fingon spoke, annoyed by the interruption. At least she had the manners to turn her face discreetly away from them.

 

“My lord,” your father requests your presence.

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow. “And he ordered you to fetch me?” he asked, knowing his father had an idea of where he was and that he would surely not send this lass looking for him.

 

“Yes, the young maiden hesitated. “Well, he asked for you, and I,” her cheeks were now rosy with embarrassment.

 

“You volunteered to fetch our lord,” Accarrë interrupted, amused by the clearly besotted young maiden.

 

“I had no idea,” she stuttered. And yet she did not move to leave.

 

Fingon’s ire grew. Instead he rose to his feet and brought Accarrë up with him, propping her up next to him which elicited giggles of pleasure from his friend. They were both naked as the day they were born and likewise unashamed.

 

“Fetch me my tunic,” Fingon directed the maiden. He might as well put her to use if she refused to leave.

 

Fingon gave Accarrë her dress and then slipped on his trousers.

 

Her head looking down towards her feet, Líssien handed Fingon his top. “My lord, I promised your father I would retrieve you.”

 

“Indeed you did,” Fingon shared, amused by the young woman’s clumsy effort. She was but a young thing, come of age on the ice. This made Fingon pause. The young woman did not deserve his scorn. She too should desire, should want to find her heart’s love.

 

Accarrë watched as Fingon’s eyes softened with compassion. Her captain was a good leader. She knew Fingon would have words to exchange with the young women. “Thank you,” Accarrë leaned over to Fingon, placing her hand on his heart.

 

Fingon pressed his hand over hers, looking into Accarrë, sharing with her that she was not alone. Should not allow herself to care for her broken heart alone. Accarrë smiled. Fingon brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “Witch” he whispered. Accarrë laughed and spun around to face Líssien, offering a quick curtsy and skipping off. Fingon watched her go, but he could also see that the young maiden followed every word shared between them closely.

 

“Líssien,” Fingon spoke, more gently than he first addressed her.

 

“Your father awaits,” Líssien repeated, keeping her eyes trained on the ground.

 

Fingon sighed, gently raising Líssien’s face up to face him. “Do not set your heart on me,” he gently chastised her.

 

Líssien looked up into the blue of Fingon’s eyes. He was transformed. More beautiful than she remembered him before the Ice. The healing had come to them quicker and he was haler, whole, his figure filled out. Stronger than before. “But do we not deserve to remake ourselves?” she questioned boldly.

 

Fingon dropped his hand. “You deserve it Líssien, but I cannot, do not have a heart to give.”

 

Líssien pressed her lips together, not wanting to speak too impolitely. “Or do you mean it has been given over to that…”

 

“Careful now,” Fingon interrupted, warning the young woman, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I do not have to answer to you, or to anyone for that matter, when it comes to what company I choose to keep.”

 

Líssien had the wherewithal to look contrite. But she was young and still impetuous. “Say I have a chance!” she pleaded.

 

Fingon stepped away from the young woman who moved to be closer to him. “Does it not matter what you just witnessed? Would you want a man who you saw with another?” Fingon opted for a different tactic.

 

“Things are different in times of exile and darkness,” Líssien repeated the now mantra that guided Nolofinwë’s people.

 

“They are,” Fingon sighed. “I do not want to hurt you Líssien, so please hear me. I have no heart to give. Look to find love in another. You will not find it in me.”

 

Líssien looked up at Fingon who towered over her slight frame. “Not many have hearts to give and yet we are expected to find matches, to have children, and make life anew. How? I do not know how my lord?

 

Fingon hesitated, his hand dropping back to his side. In this moment there were no words he could offer the young woman that would suffice. In truth she was right, and her question was not one he could answer. Instead, Fingon sighed and pointed in the direction of the festivities. “Go back,” he ordered. He did not feel guilty for the harsh way he spoke to her. He was used to it, had given himself over to the military life. He did not wait for her reply and instead turned away from her and walked towards the darkness of the trees.

 

Líssien did not follow. Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not let them fall. Fingon had not noticed that it was she who collected his gear and clothes when he returned from his many scouting trips, from battles; that is was she who laundered the battle worn clothes, mended them, and made them ready for him. It was she who took his leather braces to the leatherworkers for repair. It was she that vocationed with the leathersmiths and tooled the incantations of protection onto his leather armor.

 

In her later years she would fondly remember her childish infatuation with Fingon and even share in laughter with her lord over her antics. She never married a Noldor, finding a partner in a Sindarin elf and having children of her own. In her later years, in the service of Gil-Galad, she would confess that she only came to know of love as an Exile, never the love that grew in the Blessed Lands, and for this reason she was heartened to know that her first love had been Fingon. Fingon the Valiant. She would be one of the ones who did not die. And upon her return to Tirion she made sure to tell the lesser known tales of Fingon, of Fingolfin, of Gil-Galad, and to her family, she would tell them of her life and finally know of love in peace.

 

The Doom of the Noldor was thus twice fold for the lady folk for their fates were tied to the Houses of their fathers, their brothers, their husbands., or their sons. Few would emerge to forge their own path, at least in the histories written. In these Galadriel’s name would emerge and she would be counted amongst the Greats. But it was not with the Greats that the day to day, year to year, age to age, world of the Noldor was built. It was between those pages, in the spaces of intimacy, the unspoken work, the mending of clothes, of a scraped knee, that the will of the Noldor was mightiest and enduring.