'shadows of regret' by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

'shadows of regret'

 

 

Dior knew the casket at once, it had belonged to his grandmother, a gift from the wood-elves, carved from lebethron, with gems like stars set in the black wood. Melian had given it to her daughter when Lúthien had wed Beren, and Dior smiled as he opened the familiar casket, that had ornamented his mother's table all his life. A gift for Nimloth, perhaps, though years had passed since they had wed...

   The shock of the great blast of Light which seemed to pass through him with the force of an avalanche, with a bone-shuddering roar, was greater far than the shock of understanding which followed behind it, with the ineffectual voice of the echo. 

 

   Dior looked as closely as he could at the Silmaril, but his eyes seemed to burn and he flinched away, the pain of the Light as intense as the pain of the grief, and slowly his tears fell as he whimpered softly "Mother..."

  The dizzying pain was outside of his experience, outside of his knowledge, it was as though the Mortal part of him had perished with his Mother and Father, or was perishing here, in his own chamber, before the overwhelming intensity of the Light. It seemed not to spring to the heights as the light of lantern or torch, but to well forth from the casket as a spring of water in his trembling hands. He watched the Light fill the chamber, spilling forth over the sills of the windows, spreading out across Menegroth, outshining the sun. His body shook, he shivered with cold, and burned in the heat of the Light, faint and sick. 

 

   But the Light was bathing him, soothing him, easing the trembling of his limbs and slowing the pounding of his heart. He was the child of Lúthien, his grandmother was Melian, of the Maia. The Mortal in him, the vigour which had driven his swift growth, could not withstand the desire of his Elven spirit to reach out his hand to the Light. The battle, if battle it was, raged within him, though he felt only pain, as the Light burned away the last of the Mortal ties that bound him to the kindred of his Father. 

 

    And after a time of wordless, almost mindless suffering, Dior felt the pain begin to ease. He breathed deeply, and looked with newly opened eyes at the great jewel, fashioned in another world, it seemed, by the skill and matchless craft of Fëanor. It was a thing of awe and beauty had it been only a gem. But to see the precious jewel filled with the Light, the Light of the Two Trees, it stopped the heart of Dior anew. He attended to his breathing and then with hands held steady, he lifted the Nauglamir from the casket and held it up to see it fully.

 

 It was the same glittering carcanet; his grandfather had worn it on high feast days, and the splendour of Elu Thingol had formed the very image of the solemn majesty of Manwë for the young Dior. 

  His mother, his beautiful mother, sparkling as the myriad gems of the Nauglamir, filling all of Ossiriand with the Light of the Silmaril at her throat, had seemed to go beyond mere beauty, to become a creature of starlight, and the moon on the snow. 

   But there had been no pain before. He could not discern the truth, he could not fathom whether the pain were merely grief at the passing of his mother, and his dear father, or the curse laid on the jewel, by the Dwarves, or the older curse of the House of Fëanor, or whether indeed it was the final withering of the Mortal within him. A shadow of fear moved swiftly across his mind, as the shadow of a cloud beneath the bright sun, that this coveted gem brought to him only death.

 But the jewel was in his hands...

 

 Dior raised the Nauglamir over his head and settled it on his neck, lifting aside his long, fine hair. It seemed to weigh nothing, the enchantment of the Light, perhaps, from Valinor, unmarred by the foul hands of the Enemy and forever beyond the reach of even his covetous grasp. But Dior, hollowed out by shock and doubt, rose unsteadily to his feet as though a great weight had been laid upon him. His pride made him breathe deeply and straighten his shoulders, but his heart pounded in his chest, and turned at once to she who knew him best, his own beloved Nimloth. 

 

 

 

 Nimloth stooped over the sleeping Elwing, marvelling at the exquisite perfection of the tiny fingers, each nail a miniature of her own, gripping tightly at the soft green blanket by the tiny throat. Nimloth recalled the words of the seer of the tribe of The Heron, that Elwing would travel far, far beyond imagination. Nimloth pondered often the haunting words, wondering if some Mortal would come and win the heart of Elwing, and her little daughter take the journey of Lúthien. But it did not seem that this was beyond imagination. Dior yet dreamed of voyaging into the South; Nimloth could understand the restless, fretful Elwing wishing to escape the deep caverns, as she herself had sought to do among the trees of the Onodrim. 

   The twins slept peacefully; Eluréd on his back, the blanket pushed down over his little round stomach, his toy rabbit forgotten at his side, but Elurín was curled up tightly, as a furled leaf of bracken, his own toy fawn held close under his chin, with little of him showing but the soft waves of fine ashen hair. She smiled as she straightened, sighing contentedly. They were beginning to settle into their new home, taking the great contrast to the green tranquility of Tol Galen in their stride, their little, valiant stride... 

    For herself, it was a homecoming, and Dior had spent many happy times as a child in Menegroth, at the House of his mighty grandparents. But the boys ran shrieking gleefully down the long echoing halls, and Elwing, even Elwing, was at last sleeping peacefully. 

 

 

 

 Nimloth felt the Light approach, before the door had opened. The Light poured in with the force of the avalanche. Elwing stirred and whimpered, and Nimloth darted to the door with a grimace and hurried to shut it behind her. When she turned, Dior was there, wearing the Nauglamir.

 

 Nimloth fell back against the door, her knees failing her, her heart seemed to have ceased its endless toil and paused to contemplate the astonishing vision of Dior, as altered as the butterfly, shining like the Silmaril, his eyes wide with unanswerable questions. Nimloth, gazing with the eyes of love, was almost blinded, but the wisdom of her heart saw his fear and doubt, and her own fear was forgotten, her heart took up its task and the life returned to her shaken limbs. She smiled at her husband and held out her arms to him.

 

 

 

Nimloth awoke with a start, but held herself still. The jewel rested on her chest, Dior bore it yet, and slept still, curled around her, breathing slowly, calm as a resting cat. His peace reassured her, their limbs were tangled, melted into one.

  She stroked his smooth arm as she looked thoughtfully at the bright gem for which so much blood had been spilled. The waves of the Light flowed over her like the edge of the storm, bearing a scream through the air before them, each wave echoing the scream, but behind it the Light like the balm of rain, and the fresh sweetness of clean air. It seemed more vigorously alive than either of them, not so much an echo of lost Valinor as a living presence, as a window into another time, through which flowed the unimaginable. She could feel it pulsing, like the heartbeat of a lover, or a child, pressed close against her. But where she would offer comfort or joy, there was the unrelenting torrent of energy, the endless avalanche of Light, scouring her spirit, storming through her and silencing her own small scream. 

  She held her hand before her eyes but the Light burned through, not in heat but in elemental power, and the very bones of her hand became visible to her. She looked at them in wonder, for she had seen the jewel before, when Thingol had borne it in majesty, and Lúthien in beauty. 

   But she had never before held it, or touched it. With a pang of guilt for even thinking the name of the reviled murderer, she wished for a moment that Fëanor lived, that he could be asked to reveal what he had discovered of the power of the gem. Thingol had not spoken of it to her, she wondered if any yet remained in Menegroth to whom Elwë had confided, and resolved to find them. 

  Beside her Dior stirred, and she softly murmured reassurance, and heard him sigh and sleep again. She smiled, her vigorous Mortal lover had changed beyond recognition, the spring cloak of the flower was shed, and the bright bloom unfolded in the Light, as his Elven spirit at last joined with her in true harmony. 

 

 Nimloth frowned and wondered whether the alteration was a power bestowed by the jewel, as the sight of her own bones had been, which would vanish with the jewel into the casket. The light of understanding began to fill her mind; those such as Fëanor, who hungered for power, would crave the stone with blinding passion, unwilling or unable to contemplate the effect of their words or deeds on others, seeing all others, even those they loved, as tools or obstacles to the devouring thirst inside. 

 

   The Silmaril squatted on her chest, alive, yet not living, or living, yet not alive. It seemed to her almost malevolent, in its unstoppable force, yet it was merely a gem, innocent of all purpose or intent, filled with the Light of the Trees. The Trees... Nimloth thought of the painting in the High Hall, of the Two Trees inlaid with gold and mithril, the painting set facing the sun, which Finrod himself had admired for its brightness. Nimloth almost laughed aloud, that had not been brightness, this heavy jewel, which weighed as naught, yet sat on her chest like a spear through her heart; this was brightness. The words of the Doom of the Noldor, known to all in Beleriand and beyond, haunted her thoughts.