Eluchíl by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

Eluchíl.

 

Gildor sipped his wine and stretched out a leisurely arm to trace the graven roof, where a sculpted squirrel watched endlessly over the central cavern, stone paws clutching stone acorn. The caves were so vast and so numerous that few even yet had seen them all, and fewer still knew all the paths. And every surface had been sculpted, by Elf, Dwarf and in recent centuries even Mortals. It would be a devoted art-lover indeed who could scrutinise every piece, in every light, and write a worthy description or criticism. Nevertheless, there were, naturally, hundreds of Elves, Dwarves and, even Men, engaged on that very study, alone, or in groups, arguing among themselves, with passers-by and, oddest of all, with the artists themselves. Gildor laughed aloud at the memory of a debate he had overheard in which the critics tried to persuade an artist that he had carved a particularly fine relief of a stag, despite the artist expressing his certainty that he had never before seen the piece. His laugh caught an echo, and boomed out across the roof of the cavern, Gildor held his wine carefully still and tried to breathe steadily. The cavern threw echoes around the vast spaces; already shouts of laughter, dimmed by distance, were drowning his own involuntary exclamation, and singing from a tavern wavered through the complicated sea of sound.

His headache seemed to grow worse. The healers had despaired of him; his body was hale, his spirit calm, but since he had watched Finrod ride away North with the wild-eyed Beren, his head had felt as though a belt had been strapped across his brow, while relentless hands pulled ever tighter. Finally the healers had told him to leave, to leave them, who had no help to give, or to leave his cares behind and take up a new amusement, such as music, or sculpture. He laughed again, at least he could still laugh. He had passed through the tears, his anger had burned them away. He had passed through melancholy, despair, unbearable fury, tears of rage, tears of acceptance... He was exhausted beyond caring, in the end, and had taken to drifting, in an idle way, in the footsteps of the critics, admiring the many sculptures that even Finrod, who had carved some himself, had never seen. Would never...

Gildor drew in a shuddering breath and gulped down the wine in his goblet. He was refilling it when he caught sight of the messenger, clad in the livery of Turin, stepping lightly along the narrow arch soaring up to the high balcony. 
He gritted his teeth. Turin... He had been so beautiful and so charming, everyone had fallen under his spell, or so it seemed to Gildor. And after the devious cunning of the Fëanorians, the blunt honesty of Turin had been as fresh water after foul. But honesty means little without wisdom, and the intensity of the Mortal had swept aside all doubt and fear in the Elves, who had abandoned caution, lulled by the seeming peace to forget why Ulmo had sent them into these caverns in the beginning. And with Finrod, the only one to have received the message of Ulmo, gone...
"Turin..." thought Gildor "I must get out of here. His brazen folly will destroy us all..."

The messenger bowed and presented a scroll to Gildor. 
"My Lord Gildor, messengers have come from Tol Galen, from the Lady Lúthien herself. The king awaits your presence, he is attending the display in the Lake Cavern."
The messenger looked in satisfaction at the astonishment of Gildor; it was dull work, carrying messages, but he knew the caverns better than most, and got to see some interesting things... But best of all he liked it when the person turned to him with eyes full of questions, as though he knew everything, or could answer their questions. Then he would smile and bow and leave them staring after him, clutching unread messages, as Gildor himself was doing.

Finally, with the messenger gone, Gildor cut the seal and opened the scroll. There were two. The outer was formal, decorated and gilded, the inner scroll much smaller, of thin parchment, a mere letter. He recognized the writing, it was his old friend Helin, tutor to the young Dior. He laid aside the formal scroll and eagerly read the letter; after fifteen years, he could still hear her careful, melodious voice as he read, and see her spare gestures as she described the beauties of Tol Galen, and the fresh cool wind that flowed down from the mountains, crisp with pine and the endless snow. 
She wrote at length of Dior, whom only his mother still called Bubble; grown tall and sinewy, his brown hair leached of colour by sun and water, his pale skin browned by his endless hours and days roaming the foothills. His body had become that of a Mortal, he was adult at twenty, he was of the Quick, and the heart of Lúthien was torn between despair that she had not given birth to an Eldar at all, and joy that her son would not be parted from her in death, nor from his beloved father. But the mind of an Elf lived on in the seemingly Mortal body, and Helin hoped yet that the culture of the Noldor could guide Dior, whether in the end he were Mortal or no. But she could not do this alone. She had advised Lúthien to invite a tutor from the people of Finrod. 
Dior, raised on tales of the beautiful Finrod, who had given up crown and kingdom, life and liberty, for the sake of the love between Beren and Lúthien, hero-worshipped Finrod, and would hang on the word of one who had merely seen him.

The formal invitation to Tol Galen said nothing of all this, but was so beautiful, and from such legendary people that Gildor knew he would treasure it forever. He did not hesitate, he hurried across the arch, scarcely glancing down at the bright abyss beneath him, and went to ask leave of Orodreth.

 

 

****

 

 

The journey to Tol Galen was so uneventful that Gildor, who had scarcely bothered to leave Nargothrond since Finrod had bade him farewell, began to understand the sense of peace that lulled the unwary of Nargothrond. There were farms, windmills, settled villages; Beleriand was no longer the wild emptiness in which the Sindar had roamed. The busy hands of the Noldor were laying their chains of road and path, and their manacles of hall and barn, across the flesh of the land. There were some lovely Houses, in which echoes of fair Tirion could be seen, but most were square, plain, of solid wooden beams, or roughly-dressed stone, thatched with reed or straw. But still, the land was wide, the settled areas thinly scattered, and his troubled mind found time under the vast open sky to forget his pain and anger, and to drift carelessly into dreams.

 

 

****

 

 

Five leagues West of Tol Galen the escort sent by Lúthien melted from behind trees, a score of them, Lindar all, yet bearing Sindar bows, and light armour. They contrived to retain their cultural distinction with flowers and shells, rather than jewels and beads. It had been explained to Gildor that the value of a flower, or a bright pebble that could be pierced and worn, was as much in the thought of the giver, the quest to find and the effort to create. Whereas Finrod had been given sacks of jewels by his parents, and scarcely glanced at them. 
But one of the Lindar, a dangerous fighter, it seemed from his poise and his movements, stepped forward and lowered the scarf that hid his face. The beauty of the son of Lúthien was opening like a rose, Gildor found himself charmed at once, despite his certainty that he, who had known Finrod, would look on with merely a calm, amused smile. What a fool he had been. This was no pretty young Elf, this was the son of Beren Erchamion, and of Lúthien, whose own mother was a Maia. The escort stood, but to Gildor they had vanished as he carefully scrutinised his apprentice. 
There was no doubt that a full grown adult stood before him, the cool eyes met his with the wit and understanding of an Elf, while the Mortal intensity had Dior moving forwards with a cheerful cry 
"Welcome to Tol Galen ! I am Dior, and you are Gildor Inglorion, and though you will be formally received by my mother and father, I could not wait another instant, and hurried out to meet you. It is my intention to follow you around and when you say 'this reminds me of when Finrod did such and such...' I shall listen carefully, and then you will share your memories and I can keep my promise to my father not to press you on a painful matter. May I ? Do you mind ? Do you miss him very much ?"
Gildor laughed at the rush of eager words, the Man expressed the wish, but the Elf was there in the now shining eyes, as though Dior had finally grasped that Gildor, who perhaps knew Finrod more than all others, was truly there in front of him.
"It will be a pleasure to share my memories, for only a few are painful, but your father is kind to think of me, and I would ask you in turn not to raise the subject while he is there, for all his memories of my dear lord are grim."
Dior nodded, his eyes round in a grave face.
"But now, let us hurry home, my mother is longing to meet you, and asks me to apologise that she did not meet you when you visited Doriath with your lord, long ago."

****

The House, if it could be so described, was the kind of structure that the lords of Tirion would have had built in a garden, for picnic luncheon parties. Finely-carved blocks of marble formed pillars like branching trees, soaring into arches filled with coloured glass and gemstones, and the white marble floor within was carpeted in ever-changing light. 
Fair Lúthien, singing enchantment, drifted, floating, from one patch of light to another. Behind her, lumbering and loud as a bear in the quiet alarm of the forest, Beren, weighted grimly by the years, smiled with the intensity of the doomed, fixing every moment in memory, seeing all with sharp and vivid clarity. 
Gildor had never seen such focus in a Mortal, and few Eldar; there was something of the Maia in the eyes of Beren, and he wondered whether a little of their power had been granted him, or if he had been enriched by their mere presence, as the Eldar had flourished under the Light of the Trees.

Dior questioned Gildor eagerly as they dined, while in the trees around the terrace unseen Lindar sang gently, their melodies falling like soft petals. 
Gildor found the boy surprisingly well-read, then thought of the remoteness of Tol Galen, and of poor Helin, who had welcomed him warmly, and then gone at once to the House of a friend on the other side of the island, almost three leagues away from the endless questions of her student. 
"It has been thirteen years, Gildor, I must learn more if I am to teach him more ! If... " She had looked at him anxiously "This Nimloth says he is certainly of the Eldar, and Melian accepts her word. But those of us who saw him grow will always be anxious that the Mortal blood in him might see him suddenly taken from us, without warning. He is wise, he understands this himself. He wishes to live a Mortal life, and who can blame him, since it may be all he is given ?"

But Gildor had neglected to ask who Nimloth was, though the name seemed familiar. He turned to Dior, who was eating heartily, and when he paused to sip his wine, Gildor asked
"Who is Nimloth, that Melian listens to her with such care ? "
Dior shone like a Silmaril for a moment, his smile more dazzling than Lúthien herself, his eyes like stars. He turned towards Gildor and said softly
"She will be my wife."
Gildor blinked in surprise, he had heard nothing even of a romance, much less an engagement. And at only twenty... surely young even for a mortal. 
"Have you spoken to your father of this ?"
Dior drew in his breath, then sagged slightly and picked up his goblet.
"In truth, I have yet to ask the lady Nimloth... I am too young for my proposal to be considered seriously. "

 He turned eager eyes to Gildor "But you can help me ! There must be many songs of love in Quenya that the Sindar of Doriath do not know, I would learn them of you, and if necessary turn them into Sindar, to woo my lady Nimloth, who sings with the Onodrim."
Gildor himself turned eager eyes to Dior "I have only heard their song once, when by the Narog they sang with Finrod, who could do anything with a harp. He played harmonies with their song of greeting. It was so lovely, tears were shining in every eye." He smiled wistfully and looked with the eyes of memory at the bright scene; the sunlight melting the mist, the busy waters of the river like gentle percussion to the melodious Ents and the shining Finrod, stooping over his harp, his fingers busy as the waters they echoed. 
Dior was gazing at him as though he could bring back the day, bring back Finrod...

Gildor gripped his own goblet and drank hastily, to scatter the memory, and the black howl of pain that followed it, with the immovable persistence of a shadow.
"Forgive me, Gildor, I see that my father was as wise as ever, and I as tiresome as ever. I hope you can endure me for long enough to teach me some songs ! Poor Helin, I was a terrible student, always running away with the Lindar, who care nothing for quill and parchment ! But I am learning patience..." He sighed and frowned "It seems I must." But his eyes were serious in the face that tended to smiles.
"Nimloth told me bluntly; Helin had pointed out that I am restless and impatient, that I am temperamentally unsuited to Onodrim studies, and it is true... It was true ! 
But I shall change as I grow older, it is the vigour of the rapid growth of the Mortal in me, I am as restless as the teething infant, but the peaceful nights will come. I will mature, and be at ease in my own skin. 
Any time now, father says. I am almost as large as I shall become, and then I shall be able to settle to serious matters."
Gildor smiled kindly "There are those among the Eldar who struggle to learn patience at any age. Though our friend Helin has been annoyed to find the schoolroom oft deserted, she speaks warmly of your wit and sense. I do not doubt that you will learn patience impatiently, and fulsomeness sharply, and confound the wisdom of Nimloth and the stuffiness of the Onodrim."
Dior narrowed his eyes "Do you mean that ? Or are you just being a good courtier ?"
Gildor, who had met Bëor, centuries ago, and knew Mortals, smiled knowingly
"I am an Elf, Dior Aranel, what do you think I mean ?"

 

****

 

After a year Helin had returned, and looked with astonishment at Dior. Gildor could discern no difference, but Helin took the now towering Dior by the chin and turned his head from one side to the other. Dior was grinning, but Helin raised an eyebrow and his face became serious. 
"Such beauty will break hearts." she said finally "You must take care you do not unwittingly encourage false hope. You must share the burden of your mother, whose looks you have inherited. And your handsome father, come to that. Yes, you are a Man now, how young they ripen ! But I suppose, in such a short life..." she frowned sadly for a moment "And have you been attending the lessons of Gildor Inglorion, as you swore you would ?"
Gildor smiled, recalling his own tutor, who had begun in grudging praise that had turned into admiration and then friendship. But Gildor had not played truant, Gildor had done extra preparation for his lessons, and always read the whole book at once. 
Helin turned to Gildor with a questioning eye.

"Stars shine upon you Helin, it is a joy to see a civilised face among these backwoods people. I am doing my best, but, really..." Gildor spoke in a mock serious voice, beside him Dior punched him on the arm "I mean, I mean, it has been a joy to find such an eager, hardworking student, whose progress has astonished me, and delighted his family !" 
They laughed, and Helin shook her head, but laughed with them, then frowned as though thinking.
"Dior ! I have a message for you, from Nimloth. The Onodrim are having a ceremony of some type, in which they walk down the banks of Adurant to Tol Galen, around the isle and back up the other bank to Lanthir Lammath. They will set forth in a few days. You are invited to join them at the East Point."
Dior looked at Gildor with dazzling eyes, then turned to Helin "Will she be there ?"
But he had not confided in Helin, it was not something he felt suitable for the schoolroom, and wherever Helin was, was the schoolroom...
"I am sure that your mother would be most welcome."
But Dior had merely nodded gratefully, and led Helin to his parents. Gildor followed thoughtfully, longing to know what Nimloth herself, kin to Celeborn, and to Elu Thingol, thought of this strange lovely creature, half Eldar, half Edain, and marbled all through with the immeasurable spirit of his Maia grandmother.

 

 

****

 

 

He was awakened by laughter in the courtyard, Dior and his father, out in the stillness before dawn. Gildor yawned and slipped on his robe, then stepped out onto the terrace. The sun had turned the high clouds pink and gold, their grey softening to whiteness. A peacock, disturbed by the noise, fluffed his tail-feathers in irritation, then swept away, uttering a disdainful cry. The cry echoed round the empty courtyard, and Beren snorted with laughter, causing Dior to laugh aloud, and almost drop the sack he bore. 
"What in the void are you two up to ?" asked Gildor sleepily. Beren assumed a more serious expression, but Dior laughed, amused by the sight of the formal Gildor with his neat hair in disarray. But he too ceased in his laughter and held open the sack with a pleased smile "Mushrooms ! The first of the season ! There is an abundance after the heavy rains this summer, indeed the forest flourishes ! Can you not smell it in the air ?"
Gildor nodded slowly, smiling himself; it had been a year of plenty. Helin, when he had remarked on it, had whispered that she wondered if Lúthien had some power to enrich the very soil, or to soften the air, bringing vigour to all that lived or grew on Tol Galen. Her final efforts to pour her strength into the last growth of her son had shed her radiance on all the life of the green isle, and here was her husband with their son, harvesting choice delicacies from the land, laughing together for the joy of living. 
But Dior looked curiously at him
"Do not forget that the Onodrim are less than a day away, the scouts expect them by late afternoon, and you have promised that we shall attend their celebration."
Gildor blinked "Ah, yes, I have not forgotten, and I wish you joy of the morning."
Dior stood up straight and said "Joy of the morning to you also, Gildor." Then he sagged and looked pleadingly up at Gildor "Sorry Gildor, I try so hard, but my manners are so..."
Beren cleared his throat and took the sack from his son.
"The fault is mine, Gildor. My own manners are coarse, and in my perhaps excessive love for his mother I have neglected his education. He has run wild with the Lindar, and who can blame him, stuck on this remote island while the world is aflame. I hope that you can endure him a while longer, and polish his rough edges. His heart is good, though his manners are shocking in the heir of Elu Thingol."

There was a stunned silence. Dior froze, Gildor stared at Beren, who had gone pale and gaped in horror at his son. Finally Beren moved, and sighed "It was a secret. We were going to tell you tonight, at the celebration. Of course you are his heir, who else could be ? But I am sorry to have blurted it out in this way, especially since I have robbed your mother of the delight in seeing you hear the tidings."
But Dior had recovered swiftly "Father, do not tell her you have spoken, let her bring me the news herself, and I shall be as surprised as I am now. Truly. For why does my grandfather need to state this ? Is there ill news in the North ? " he paused and snorted "I should say, is there yet more ill news..."
Father and son looked thoughtfully into each others eyes. Gildor caught the sight of motion from the corner of his eye and looked across the courtyard to the rooms of Beren and Lúthien, where a shadow moved behind a long white curtain. He wondered for a moment, then thought of Lúthien and knew that she had heard all that had passed, but would not forgive him for telling her family that she had heard them. He smiled at the thought of the three of them, acting their parts to create a scene of joyful surprise, and shook his head, to find Dior looking anxiously at him.
"Gildor ! Do you think it amusing ? Do you think my grandfather foolish ? Or I ?"

Gildor widened his eyes for a moment, then smiled "Be at peace, Dior Eluchíl, and take care what you read into the faces of others. I cannot explain what amused me, but I take the actions of Elu Thingol with great seriousness, and I know, who have seen both Finrod and Orodreth take the seat of power, that you will be a fine leader, and perhaps even, in time, be counted among the wise. It will be my honour to drink to your good fortune at the celebration tonight. But now, as the birds announce the dawn, I shall return to my rest, for I have seen you Mortals celebrate before, and I urge you both to rest yourselves, for the Onodrim draw near."

 

****

 

Gildor had seen Ents before, but to see so many at once was far more intimidating. He could sense the power within them, the great strength not only of sinew but of spirit, flowing through the unseen meshes of thread-like roots that carpeted the underside of the earth in which they walked, and carried their song and thought across the vastness of the forests. 
Around him the others waited in stillness, Lúthien clung to the arm of Beren, who looked tired beyond measure to the eyes of an Elf, though he had assured the anxious Gildor that it was merely one of the many minor ailments that troubled Mortals from time to time. Dior stood between Helin and himself, dressed in a robe of sombre finery, though the more that Gildor saw of Dior, and the more he saw of the reactions of people to the might and beauty of the son of Lúthien, the less he thought that anyone would even notice what Dior was wearing.

As the deep notes and weighty tread of the Onodrim approached, ripples began to form in the small pools among the tumbled rocks, and birds rose singing into the sky over the river. Dior turned his shining eyes to Gildor "She will come ! It has been almost two years, I have been tormented in my longing to see her again, to have her smile at me once more." His blush looked painfully warm, Gildor frowned for a moment, then smiled at his most diligent student.
"Be at ease Dior, you have studied hard, your discipline and application are a credit to all, and you are not the excitable youth who grinned at Nimloth in the forest of Doriath. But since you have spoken to me of your sense of harmony of spirit in the presence of the lady herself, I urge you to merely be at peace with yourself, and she will have no cause to judge you harshly. As for your beauty, I doubt any could resist your charm, should you wish to win their heart, and that being so, I advise that you smile at the lady, and let her speak, while you attend closely to her words."

Dior turned swiftly away and Gildor looked curiously at him
"Tell me, do you never seek to meet Mortals ?" 
But Dior turned a pale, horrified face upon him
"Do you think I am not haunted by the thought of them ? This..." he looked down at himself in disgust "This lumbering body, I feel like a monster ! My friends are this tall !" he held his hand before his broad chest "Their voices are high, and they know nothing, nothing of... of the life of an adult..." Dior sighed "I may be dead before they are adult. I cannot bear my own flesh, at times, and seeing other Mortals, seeing them aged, sickly, scarred... My own father... Oh Eru ! It is intolerable ! "
Gildor could offer no words of comfort. He laid his hand gently on the arm of Dior, who sighed again, then straightened his back and gritted his teeth. Gildor smiled to himself, but Dior gazed across the river to where the treetops were beginning to tremble.

There were six Ents, they strode, chest-deep, through the powerful waters of Adurant, while Nimloth and several Lindar crossed by rope. Gildor had forgotten the enthralling eyes of the Onodrim, living pools in the forest, grey and golden, green and brown, flickering with every shift in the light. The Ents shook the water from themselves, and stood in a curve on the green turf of the low clifftop, facing Lúthien. In the middle, an older Ent, whom Gildor took to be Fladrif, made a gesture of a bow, and began to sing. 
The words were long and strange to Elven ears, but the melody awoke the wit of the hearer to an understanding of the dangers of the world to those rooted in place. The constant threat of fire and storm, the attrition of the small creatures and the axes of the large, the needs of the Eldar and the destructive malice of the Enemy. Their fear was plain, and when the chorus joined in, the voices of the members of the birch family wove together a haunting, heartbreaking song which fired a grim wrath even in the quiet heart of Gildor Inglorion.

It was as awakening from a dream, when silence fell. All around them, as far as Elven ear could perceive, the birds were silent. Only the waters of Adurant sang the voiceless melody of time passing.
Lúthien, soft as the feather of the dove, began to sing of her love, of the different kinds of love, her love for her mother, her father, Beren, Dior, each different, but all love. She sang of her love for Doriath, and for Tol Galen, and for adventure. She sang of her love for her kin, Galadriel and Celeborn, for Oropher and his son Thranduil, passed over the Ered Luin into the unknown East, to find wide lands untroubled by the Shadow. She sang of hope, into the remote future, Eldar, Edain and Onodrim, singing in harmony, across all the lands of Middle-earth, and she sang of her love for all that lived, the gift of her mother, and her sadness that her choice would take her from all the life of Arda and into the unknown. But her courage shone through, her voice did not falter as she sang of the casting aside of regret in the certainty and depth of her love. 
As she sang, Gildor forgot all else, and became filled with a restless longing to venture into the unknown, to follow the expeditions from Doriath, to retrace the journey of Ingwë back into the East, to find Cuiviénen...
When at last she was quiet, there was a moment of silence, then the birds rose from bush and tree and flew, circling above in a great flock of mingled flocks, and began to sing with a burst of rapture that brought tears to many eyes. The Eldar, as one, sang the Song Of The Joy of Yavanna, and the Onodrim, each at their own pitch, began to hum.

After the singing, Gildor found his breathing disturbed. A Lindar with magpie feathers in her hair carried an earthen jug to them, and an aide appeared with a tray of goblets. The drink was clear, fresh water, but the enchantment almost glowed from it, and Gildor, already thirsting, emptied his cup with delight. There was silence as they drank. The glow began as the warmth of miruvor, but spread slowly, seeping into every fibre and filament of his spirit, bringing a gleam to the vast clouds of stars and lighting the blackness of the abyss. As his spirit began to lift, he saw Dior beside him, his eyes shining, a rapt expression on his beautiful face.
A tall Sindar approached them, with smooth hair of a gold as pale as silver, her gown shimmering in shades of green and golden-brown, blending with the deep eyes of the Ents. 
Gildor knew at once that Nimloth had come. Dior was still as stone, but in the air between him and Nimloth, a warmth was almost visble. She stepped forwards with a serene smile.
"Dior Aranel, more deservedly named each passing year. I hear that a new name has been given to you, and that you are now Dior Eluchíl, prince of Doriath. "
Dior laid his hand upon his heart and bowed formally, stepping a little closer to Nimloth, a little closer than politeness. But Nimloth did not withdraw. Her eyes looked up the little way to the shining eyes of Dior, and Gildor, merely watching, did not see how anyone could escape drowning in such eyes, in such beauty. There was a silence between them as they gazed at each other, and Dior, with another slight bow, spoke in a low voice, still gazing into the eyes of Nimloth.
"My lady Nimloth, my love for you is the most certain thing in the world. I shall not change, I shall love you until the world ends. I offer you my devotion, my service, and my hand in marriage, if you will have me."

Gildor gasped, but Nimloth, after a faintly startled look, merely smiled.
"Ah, beautiful Dior, how can any refuse you anything ? You must ask me again in fifty years, dear boy, and I shall promise to listen to your plea with an open heart."
But Dior took her hand in both of his "I may be dead in fifty years, my lady. Even if I am among the Eldar. There may not be fifty years left for us." 
Nimloth stood very still, Gildor felt the cold shadow creep across his heart. He was too astonished at the sudden proposal to consider the utter sincerity with which it had been made, and how seriously Nimloth was now considering it. He could see how well they looked together, he could feel the warmth, the harmony between them. He was not surprised to see the fingers of Nimloth tighten as she gripped the hand of Dior.
"I cannot, you are so young... Five years, then. In five years I shall be honoured to hear your proposal. But do not fix your purpose, you are far too young, you are of the Eldar, you must explore the world, within and without, or how will you know what you truly wish ?"
"This is all I wish for." Dior said, so softly that Gildor strained to hear. Then Dior lifted the hand of Nimloth and pressed his lips to her fingers. She reached out slowly, almost absent-mindedly, and lifted a lock of his hair, which she stroked gently, running the mingled strands of fair and gold, honey and brown, between her long pale fingers. They looked silently at each other, and Gildor knew that he was witnessing their engagement, and that these two would stay together until the end, having found their love where they least expected.