Letters. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   Letters

   Dior held the sword close to the spinning stone, watching the sparks fly from the edge as he honed the blade, angling it carefully, watching his breathing and concentrating hard on keeping his hand steady. At times he felt as though he himself were being tempered in the smithy, much as the swords the smiths were forging in such great numbers. The news from the North grew darker by the day, Orcs in Brethil, battles by the rivers, and word of a dragon. Not the dragons of old, which could be slain by the mighty, but a monster from the pits of Thangorodrim, from whom the Orcs themselves fled in terror.
   There had been much debate over how to slay the beast, and engineers worked themselves to stupor with designs for great seige-engines to fire bolts of needle-sharp mithril, or great boulders to stun the beast. Deep in his heart, Dior felt the call of the song, the hint of the glory that awaited him when he slew the beast. He knew the tales, the beast could reach the spirit of the Eldar, and sway the mind. But the Mortal spirit, which lived in him, and brought such disdain from so many, would not be so vulnerable. Finally he knew why he had been born, and here was the foe he had awaited, his chance for greatness was come, and he would not fail !
   He had pushed his body relentlessly to find its limits, running, swimming, bearing heavy loads, firing the bow, casting the spear, and, hour after hour, wielding the blade until the last opponent withdrew gasping and limping. He longed to arm himself, to travel North and confront the foe, to see fair Beleriand for himself, to see the cities of the Noldor, and most especially, after all the songs and tales, to see the fabled city of Finrod Felagund, to see Nargothrond.
   Gildor himself had ordered him to rest, had dragged him from the field where the Lindar trained. Lindar who had once scorned even the hearth, now laboured beside him in forge and field, for the Enemy had come forth. The Seige was broken, and the Noldor, their leader dead, sent endless messengers to and fro, hopelessly exchanging elaborate battle strategies, and hunting ever more desperately for the site of Gondolin, and the dwelling place of Turgon, now their king, whom none had seen for centuries.
   Gildor, who had long since ceased addressing him as a child, had expressed his approval of the progress of Dior in effusive terms. Dior smiled at the slightly baffled pride in the face of his tutor and, for the past year or so, his best friend.
   "By the fists of Tulkas, Dior, the mere sight of you will terrify the orcs ! None will dare stand against such a warrior ! " he had paused and smiled, a speculative look in his eye as he measured his fine apprentice. "Indeed, I should very much like to see you take on Glorfindel, the finest warrior I ever saw."
   "When we have slain the beast, we shall find the Hidden City, find lost Gondolin, and I shall challenge Glorfindel ! I feel sure we shall be great friends !"
   Gildor had grinned "I am sure you are right. Glorfindel will admire you very much, as do I, and indeed, I myself long to see his laughing eyes again."

   Dior blushed with pride as he remembered the sincere words of praise uttered by Gildor; to be compared so favourably with Glorfindel, to have Gildor call him fell, and swift, and fearless... The blade skittered off the stone and the Master Smith exclaimed impatiently.
   "Who was that ? Dior ? Really Dior, you have been doing so well, I was telling your father so only yesterday. Why, I had thought of sending..."

   He stopped, white-faced in fear. A scream of horror and terror had sounded in the courtyard, and running feet approached. Dior felt his stomach clench, his heart twisted in shock and pain, his breathing seemed to be beyond him, he felt for a moment as one drowning. The scream was followed by a wail of black desolation, and Dior, half-recognising the voice, sucked in air and darted for the door.

   Helin knelt on the stones of the courtyard, a torn parchment in one hand, her fists clenched before her, her head thrown back, her face distorted into a mask of horror. She screamed again, as people began to arrive in the courtyard, and shouting rose from withing the house. Dior hurried forwards and crouched down by Helin, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned wild eyes upon him and moaned, thrusting the hand with the parchment in it towards him. He took her tightly clenched fist between his hands and carefully began to loosen her forgotten fingers. But she had forgotten him too, her arms flinched away, she cried in desolation, almost a howl, and Dior felt a coldness in him, as time seemed to slow. The horror of seeing calm Helin so distraught, mingled with the pain of being ignored so pointedly by one he had trusted completely for all of his life, seemed to fill the world, and it was only gradually that he understood that he himself did not yet understand the cause of the grief of Helin. Through the rising fear he began to wonder who had perished.
   But running footsteps approached through the crowd, on a wave of cries, screams and wailing. A horrified scout burst through the parting crowd and stumbled into the courtyard. Dior looked at him in rigid fear. There was a moment of silence, the world seemed to have paused in its movement, for a dizzy instant Dior thought of the happy time, only minutes before, and wondered if there were a way he could kill the monster and turn back time, and make this never happen, never have been, never...
   "My lord Dior !" gasped the scout "Nargothrond has fallen ! The dragon... All are lost, Orodreth has perished, the Enemy has taken the West !"

   When the first shock had passed, and Helin was led away by healers, Dior thought of Gildor, out riding with his father. His heart ached with dread at the thought of bearing such news, and he hurried inside to ask the advice of his mother. Despite his horror, and his sympathy for poor Helin, and even his regret for the loss of the chance to see Nargothrond for himself, a part of him was fired with enthusiasm at the thought of the approach of his ordained foe, awaiting the great battle that would finally bring him glory. He thought happily of the face of Nimloth, finally looking at him with admiration, and not just for his beauty or his spirit, but for his valour and his mighty deeds. It was intolerable, he was twenty-five; by his age, his father had slain countless foes and travelled in places that Dior simply could not imagine. He felt like a polished statue gathering dust on this remote little island while great deeds were done by others, claiming all the glory while he laboured in the smithy. He gritted his teeth, it had been more than four years since he had seen Nimloth. She had written him one letter, full of tales of Bregalad, a young Ent she had befriended. There was no hint in the letter of the moment they had shared at East Point, when they had stood so close, when he had held her hand in his, when she had reached out to touch his hair...
   He had memorised the letter, reading and rereading it to find the least sign that she remembered, that she cared at all, until at last his mother had come across him clutching it, staring into the fire. She had taken it from him gently, and read it, and kissed him tenderly on the forehead, then sat in silence beside him, watching the flickering flames. Finally she had spoken.
   "You are unhappy because she says nothing of love ? "
It had been an effort, but finally he had turned to his mother, hurt anew by the smile on her lovely face.
   "I will show her. She will come to love me ! I will earn her heart, as father earned yours !"
She had smiled more than ever, her eyes vanishing into curved lines, her cheeks almost splitting open. He watched sulkily, she would tell him the story again, but it was the last thing he wanted to hear. She put her arm around his shoulder, and to his surprise, said in a conversational tone
   "Do you know how many letters I have had from Nimloth, one of the closest companions of my childhood ? "
Dior looked at her in surprise, she rarely discussed her correspondence, or talked of her life in Doriath, unless the tale involved his father.
   "I do not know mother, I cannot guess."
   "None at all, my dear. None at all. Nimloth is no writer. She sings. She sings with the Onodrim. If she ever thinks of me, she may smile fondly at the memory, but I do not think she would have brought the Onodrim to Tol Galen if you were not here. "
Dior looked at her with round eyes, his mouth slowly fell open. His mother grinned and gently touched the tip of his nose
   "Dear little Bubble, all grown up, and as unsteady on the feet of the heart as a newborn lamb. Of course she loves you. I think that the love between you will prove to be a vital thread in the great tapestry, for to my shame I have not only abandoned the Eldar and the work I would otherwise have accomplished, but even as this Mortal I have become, I have done nothing, hiding away on this island with you and your dear father. But together, you and Nimloth may take up the thread, and complete my part in the Music. For without your love, the Ents would not have heard what I had to say to them; our years draw to an end... My time is short, but you and your wife will bring our peoples together, and bring hope to all. "

   His mother was in the North room, where a fire was lit. She was hunched over it, her long dark hair trailed on the hearthstone. His heart ached anew, he could not bear anything, not the least speck of dirt, to mar the perfection of his mother. In the midst of his grief and horror he hurried forwards to lift her hair from the ash.
   She held her hand, trembling slightly, out towards him, and he took it in his, and led her to the couch. On the table was a sealed parchment, marked for Gildor. Dior spoke urgently to his mother
   "Mother, I must find father and Gildor, and bear the news to him before he return to the shouting and confusion."
   She nodded, then turned slowly to him, her anguished eyes focusing slowly on his. She blinked, and laid her hand gently on his cheek.
   "I have no fear for the future, my dear son. You are wise and good, strong and kind. I know that with Nimloth beside you, our people will be in safe hands. " she sighed deeply, then frowned "I must accompany you. Beren will blame himself. You must offer Gildor what comfort you can."

   Dior felt coldness settle like snow on his heart while they rode, swiftly as the horses could bear, up the hill. The sound of cheerful singing floated down through the trees, and the bright sun had set the birds to enthusiastic chorus. He sighed, his father was in good spirits, the old drinking song sounded jolly in his deep and hearty voice. Gildor himself sounded unusually vigorous, as though some restraint that he kept upon himself in the presence of his pupil was unleashed at the side of the father, though to the ancient Gildor, they were both as mayflies in age.
   Beside him his mother stroked the mane of her horse and whispered a little melody. The horse twitched its ears forwards, then back, stretched forth its great limbs and seemed to fly up the last of the sandy slope, floating effortlessly across the fallen tree, drowned in moss. His own mount leaned forwards, as though asking a question, then startled him with a swift charge. In moments the others were in sight.

   Dior felt his throat close, then realised with a rush of love the wisdom and kindness of his mother. She would break the news to Gildor. He would not have to say the words of pain, she would do all. He pressed his knees together, and the horse slowed its pace, while his mother hurried on, towards the delighted cries of Beren and Gildor.
   Beren reached out and swept her from her horse into his arms, and kissed her passionately. Dior, his heart touched in the midst of his grief, treasured the love between his parents, undimmed by the years, for whom each meeting was a joy.
   But Lúthien gripped the arm of her husband until he lifted his head and looked into her eyes with concern. She spoke softly to him as Dior came alongside the smiling Gildor.
Beren exclaimed in the argot of his childhood, a word he had declined to translate, and slid from his horse, still bearing Lúthien in his arms. He set her gently down then looked solemnly up at Dior, then turned to Gildor. Dior dismounted, as Gildor vaulted lightly down and stood to attention before Beren.
   "What ails you my lord ? " asked Gildor. Dior stepped forwards and stood beside Gildor. His father looked anxious for a moment, then sighed. But Lúthien took the hand of Gildor, and in the ancient Quenya of the childhood of the Eldar, from the starlit timelessness before the Hunter came, she sang softly of the grief that had struck.

   The birds were silent, the air was still. The soft voice of Lúthien ceased. Gildor did not move, and Dior, his hand raised to support or comfort, paused, as they watched the Noldor. The breath had left them all, Dior thought that Gildor would never move again, his own vision was going black, until his father gasped for breath and turned to Lúthien and gripped her in his arms and sobbed in silence, his broad shoulders shaking, as her long pale hands gently stroked his heaving back. She turned his head to one side and Dior heard the breath burst into him in an awful sob. His eyes burned him, and as if finally released, he wept, the grief and horror howled through him like a cold and tainted wind.
   But Gildor was still as stone. Finally Dior, disregarding his own tears, laid a hand on Dior, softly as snow, concerned not to startle.

   At last Gildor had turned to him, a look of frightening calmness on his face.
   "I do not believe it. I can not believe it. It is the lies of the Enemy, he loves to sow fear and doubt, to bring confusion to his enemies. I must return to Nargothrond, I have been too long away. " he turned to Beren, and frowned, then met the eyes of Lúthien, also weeping. "Do not weep, my lady, the Enemy has deceived us all before, even his own brother, Manwë himself. I beg your leave to ride at once to Nargothrond, from where I shall send word to reassure you that I have seen with my own eyes that all is well."
   But Lúthien stared at him in horror and turned to Dior, who felt for the first time in his life that his mother might not be almighty, that she might need him now, in life, and not just at some unimaginable future time, when she and father had left the world altogether. He breathed deeply and squared his shoulders, but the fear slid cold hands around his knees and loosened the sinews of his limbs.
   The memory came to him of Gildor shouting at him on the sandy floor of the practice yard telling him to get up, and to be more careful, explaining that the cost of wielding a long sword was falling over it when it caught the ground. Gildor had threatened to laugh at him the next time.

   Dior looked into the calm eyes of his tutor, but the familiar face had new lines of fear around the eyes, and he understood that beneath the serenity, Gildor was in turmoil.
   He knew.

   Dior put his arm through that of Gildor, as infants do, and led him slowly, silently, down the hill.