Before The Dawn by Grundy

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Chapter 1

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Itarillë’s ladies in waiting were just leaving as Lomion arrived, and she tried not to smirk as she watched him try to navigate his way around and then- when his attempt to avoid them failed- through the brightly colored knot of nissi. More than one of them had been trying to catch the attention of the handsome, talented young prince of Ondolindë for some time. Itarillë had to work not to laugh by the time Lomion was finally able to extricate himself from his admirers, blushing at something Rosalmiel said.

Her cousin could laugh and joke with her easily enough, for she was his best friend and he hers. They were both so delighted with one another – and so happy to have family – that from the moment of their first meeting there was complete ease between them. They might have grown up together, so well did they get on. Time has since filled in many of the blanks a shared childhood would not have left, as they learned each other’s past and likes and dislikes.

But Lomion’s upbringing has left him unprepared when faced with ladies who take a romantic interest in him, and he retreats into his somber clothing and polite, unoffensive quiet as though it were armor. While Itarillë has often told him his insistence on dark hues, usually greens so deep as to be practically black or the very darkest of greys, was not effective camouflage in a city that is all whites and brilliant colors, he had yet to surrender to her prompting.

His preference for dark, subdued colors was partly mourning, she knew. The fate of his parents hung over Lomion like a cloud that refused to lift. But the dark colors was also partly stubbornness, she had come to realize. The more her father molded him into the perfect Noldorin prince, the harder her cousin clung to the few signs that he was not – or at least, not only that. She did not think he did it as a reproof – see, uncle, there is still an untamed Sinda, a son of the moriquendi, here in your city – so much as a refusal to entirely forget his childhood.

That was not so odd in her eyes, for she too treasured those reminders of the time her family had been whole that she still had. At least she had been left one parent. Lomion had lost both in the space of a day, and not even been able to properly mourn the father the rest of the city reviled as a kinslayer.

While Lomion had never contradicted Turukano’s account, Itarillë had been present when he had been told his father had killed his mother. His reaction had been blank incomprehension. ‘Ada would never do such a thing,’ he had said, looking from Irimë, who had broken the news to the pair of them, to Itarillë, as if hoping she might explain it was some odd Noldorin custom to play horrible jokes on newfound relatives.

The dark colors bother Irimë, who has tried quite a few times to get her grandnephew to garb himself in lighter hues. Itarillë’s father has always shrugged and said he saw no harm in Lomion wearing whatever colors he liked best – and once or twice added that he doubted hounding the boy about it would change his mind. He was right, and his aunt should have known it. She was well accustomed to stubbornness, for it ran in the House of Finwë. Itarillë her own share of it - yet another of the many ways they were alike, she and her cousin the Mole.

Itarillë had inherited her mother’s Vanyarin complexion and hair. Her golden hair and blue-grey eyes were a striking contrast to Lomion’s startling Sindarin paleness and eyes nearly as dark as the hair he had from his mother. But in the shape and lines of their faces, their stature, and even the way that they move, they were both clearly grandchildren of Nolofinwë, with such a strong familial resemblance that more than one of her father’s lords has remarked that they almost look brother and sister.

It makes her happy, to have a cousin that might almost be her brother. Not only was it a relief to have one person in the city she can be completely honest with – including her worries and occasional frustrations with her father and her great-aunt, which she cannot confide to Laurefindil the way she can to one of her own generation so much closer to her in age – it was nice to have someone who was not her father or Glorfindel looking out for her.

She has no mind to marry, and always sought to avoid giving rise to any speculation that she might favor any of her father’s subjects. Neri inclined to be overly persistent if it were just her would subside at once if Lomion looked their way. They would not challenge Irissë’s son, who was nearly as tall as his uncle. (And though uninclined to brag as some would have done, Lomion was generally only bested by far older and more experienced neri in the regular competitions between the city’s warriors.) He would notice her discomfort long before her father did, and could deal with it more subtly than if the King had to intervene.

Not that she didn’t also look out for Lomion.

This morning, she could easily read the creases and rumpled clothing that betrayed him – Lomion had cast off his protective apron and gloves to come straight from the forge when he had received her message. She frowned. It was an hour when most in the city would have only just broken their fast, as she and her ladies had.

“Good morning, cousin,” he greeted her, with the half-smile that intrigued so many of the women of Ondolindë and a kiss on her cheek.

“Good morning,” she replied, eying him keenly.

Yes, that hair tie has certainly been in for more than one day, and the midnight blue tunic is the same as the one she’d seen him in at dinner the day before yesterday, which meant he’d not changed since. (Annoyingly, it was also one of his better tunics, not one he should be wearing to work in.)

“Lomion, when did you last eat?” she asked suspiciously.

That he had to stop to think on it was its own answer. He may well not have touched anything since dining with her and her father the other night.

 “What day is it?” he asked, as if it has only just occurred to him that he did not know.

“Eärenya,” she replied in mild exasperation. “You haven’t had breakfast yet.”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t realize it was breakfast time,” he told her, adding somewhat defensively, “I had lunch.”

“Really?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “When?”

“A while ago,” he said, sounding uncertain.

“Meaning yesterday,” she frowned. “Sit down. I’ve told you many times that your projects won’t run away if you take time off to eat and sleep! How long have you been in the forge?”

He shrugged as he obeyed, as she gestured for the server who had come in expecting to clear away to bring some of the food left on the sideboard instead. The man smothered a smile, for this was far from the first time he had witnessed such a scene.

Nor was Lomion the only one present who occasionally had to be dragged away from whatever project had his full attention at the moment. He did the same for her, generally at planting, harvest, and in the run-up to major festivals – the times when she throws herself full-tilt into planning and administration matters. It used to be Irimë who would insist on regular meals and naps, but she had quickly discovered that Lomion was far more effective.

Her cousin sheepishly accepted the plate piled high with food that was handed to him. His thanks to Sarderon was more than mere politeness, for the server had made sure to add what was left of several of Lomion’s particular favorites, and to see that he had fresh fruit.

“Thank you, Sarderon,” Itarillë said. “I think that will be all for now.”

The server gave them a polite bow, though he did not depart until he too had seen that Lomion was eating.

For several minutes, there was silence, for Itarillë wanted to be sure conversation would not distract her cousin from his breakfast – once he left her presence, he would likely not bother with food the rest of the day, and possibly not for several days thereafter. Not unless she sent it, along with someone to make sure he actually ate it. She was already considering who she could prevail on for such an errand. Perhaps Rauco…

“What is it this time?” Itarillë asked at last, after Lomion had wolfed down the spinach quiche and demolished most of an apple tartlet.

“I have an idea for a new helmet design,” he told her between bites. “One that would still protect the face and ears yet allow for better peripheral vision than the current type. I think I can make it lighter, as well.”

Her cousin was capable of making jewelry, plate elegant enough for the king’s table, and engravings so precise and detailed that Quendingoldo and his fellow loremasters would have happily had him do nothing else, but his work usually centered on defense of the city and its warriors. Weapons and armor were never far from his thoughts.

Lomion frowned as he turned his attention to the melon slices.

“But you did not call me here to find out why I stayed in the smithy all night.”

“And the night before as well,” Itarillë said wryly.

Lomion looked faintly puzzled, honestly unaware how much time had passed since he had last seen her.

“As you say,” he shrugged. “I had not noticed.”

Itarillë sighed.

She might have to be reminded to take breaks, but she at least looked out the windows of her study or walked about outside when she was absorbed in her work. She did not routinely fail to notice the lightening and dimming of the sky.

“I know, I know,” Lomion sighed, before she could even say it. “I had the windows put in as you wanted. It’s just that they get dirty quickly in the forge.”

“I’ll arrange to have them cleaned more often so you will be able to see the sun and moon passing by,” she told him, picking at a dainty confection of berries and cream, less because she was hungry than because she didn’t want Lomion to feel awkward eating when she was not. (Also because it was tasty, and he won’t tell anyone she was greedy enough to take a second helping.)

“If it makes you happy,” he told her, though his attitude said she’d be fighting a losing battle on that score. “But what is bothering you that you could not wait until dinner?”

She hesitated. This was the real reason she had sent for him, not to be amused at his inability to deal with increasingly shameless flirting or to chide him about not taking better care of himself.

“I had a troubling dream,” she began, and then hesitated, unsure how to make the unsettling impressions and vague foreboding crystallize into words anyone else would understand. “Do you think we are safe here, in our city?”

Lomion looked startled by the question.

“Of course,” he replied. “It is not your Aman, but we are as secure here as anyone can be in Beleriand.”

“You do not think that Elwë’s halls would be safer?” she asked.

He frowned.

“Perhaps,” he mused, considering the matter. “Menegroth is under the protection of Queen Melian. But she is still not equal in power to the Enemy in the North, and even if she were, we can hardly move there.”

That was not entirely true. He could go to Menegroth – he had told her once in passing that his father was kin to Elwë, who would surely take him in if Turukano would release him from Ondolindë. That, however, was not likely to happen. And even if it did, she could not follow, for of all the Noldor only her father’s cousins, the children of her great-uncle Arafinwë, were permitted within Elwë’s borders.

“But it was not Doriath you wanted to speak of,” he continued, looking expectantly at her. “Will you tell me about this dream?”

She sighed.

“It is difficult to relate. Usually I recall my time in Irmo’s domain with clarity, but it is not so this time. I only know that the sky all around us grew dark and threatening, as though an immense storm were gathering and must strike us soon. And I thought something ominous approached, coming over the mountains. I knew not what, only that it would be the ruin of all we have built.”

Lomion was still for a moment, considering. Though he knew that foresight and warning dreams were not uncommon among their people, he had little experience of it himself.

“It might be a sign,” he said thoughtfully. “But it might just as easily be an uneasy dream, the worries of your waking hours following you into sleep. We know well enough that it grows ever more dangerous outside the Hidden Valley.”

Indeed, the news from the outside world has turned ever grimmer. The eagles do not come often, but they do bring news. The last eagle that came bore not only news of the disastrous Bragollach, but the broken and unrecognizable body of their grandfather.

Itarillë had not been able to connect what had appeared at first sight to be a mass of meat and bone ground together with dirt to the grandfather she loved. Her father had been stunned beyond words, mute in his grief. Irimë had been hysterical, unwilling to believe the burden the eagle bore, which barely  looked like it had once been an elf, could be her older brother. Laurefindil had put aside his own grief to try to calm his mother.

It was Lomion who solemnly bore away what was left of Nolofinwë and set about preparing the corpse for burial, washing and shrouding the grandfather he had never known in life. He had refused to let Itarillë see until he was done, insisting that it would not help her. When she asked him later how he could do it, he had shrugged and replied that it was more fitting that a dead elf be tended by kin, and it was easier for him to do than it would have been for any of them.

It had occurred to her for the first time then to wonder who had buried Lomion’s father. Someone must have, surely. They wouldn’t have just left the body at the base of the Caragdur.

“Did Uncle not say he was promised a warning, a sign that appear to him when the time came that his hidden realm was no longer safe?” Lomion continued. “No sign has come, has it? So Ondolindë is still secure.”

“Perhaps the dream foretells that the sign is soon to come,” she said doubtfully. “Or perhaps it did come and we missed it.”

She did not remember anymore what had been approaching in her dream, but she had feared for the city, in an awful, gut-wrenching way that spoke of death and destruction.

“Your father trusts deeply in Ulmo,” Lomion said reassuringly. “I have never seen a Vala, but I have met Queen Melian. If she had promised me a sign, I would be given a sign and I would know it when it came. There would be no doubt. As Ulmo is more powerful still, we could not miss a sign sent by him. Had Uncle received his sign, we would know of it. You and I would be far too busy preparing to move the people to safety to sit around fretting.”

Her cousin’s certainty was bracing. Itarillë herself had only vague memories of seeing any of the Valar as a young child, and the clearest of those was of the Judge handing down the Doom of the Noldor.  Her mother had clutched her tight and tried to cover her ears, but she had heard all the same.

She may tease Lomion about being her little cousin – a jest that had been laughable enough the day they first met, for he had already been as tall as she, and not yet at his full height. But despite his fewer years, she knew he spoke from experience. Melian was no hazy memory or tale told to him by others, for he had been born in Menegroth and even after his parents’ return to Nan Elmoth, had visited it throughout his childhood and early youth.

She nodded.

“I am sure you are right,” she said, trying to take heart from his calm logic.

“You do not sound sure,” he said with a smile. “Come, let’s go riding through the valley. You will see for yourself that it is a bright, sunny day, with no storm clouds threatening, and feel better for the fresh air and the breeze.”

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work…” she replied guiltily, though she really did want to do as he suggested. A few hours of his company would do her good.

Lomion laughed.

“The helmets aren’t going anywhere,” he told her. “Nor do I believe them needed so urgently that I have no time for a ride and perhaps a picnic.”

She grinned.

Lomion was sweetening the pot, for though she loved picnics, he usually found planning them a bother – or perhaps not so much a bother as time he could use for other, more enjoyable things. It probably didn’t help that whenever the Lords of Gondolin went on outings, Lomion as the youngest invariably ended up with the task of seeing to the provisions. (No matter what he did, Salgant always complained about something being left behind. Itarillë was running out of sweet, polite ways to divert his complaints and about ready to tell the Lord of the Harp that since he’s forever finding fault, perhaps he should take a turn at organizing the eats. If Lomion won’t say it, she will.)

“Very well,” she agreed. “But since you’ve so generously offered a picnic, I’ll arrange for the food.”

At his pleased grin, she wondered if she hadn’t just been maneuvered into doing exactly as he’d hoped. It didn’t matter, though. She had his company for the day, and that suited her just fine.