The Last Heir of Fëanor by Astrance

When Eregion was settled during the Second Age of the world, those Noldor who followed Celebrimbor built the city of Ost-in-Edhil. Bright and tall it stood in the plain beside the Misty Mountains, white walls shining over wetlands where great birds nested. The famed noldorin smiths dwelled there, and there forged things of great beauty and power. The guild of the Gwaith-í-Mirdain led them, and the city, and the first of the Mirdain was Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor.

Strife soon grew within the great halls of Ost-in-Edhil. As others tell, Sauron, who was still fair, disguised himself as Annatar and pretended to be an envoy of the Valar to the elven smiths. So desperate were they for forgiveness for their past sins that they welcomed him and, for a while, listened to him, for he was knowledgeable in many things. The lady Galadriel, who resided in the city, had only distrust for the honey-tongued messenger. She sought power to throw him out, but her own ambition was her downfall. As Galadriel moved to bring the Gwaith against Annatar, she tried to revive old wounds: the banishment of the Noldor, the death and destruction that followed the house of the Star. She argued that Annatar and longing for Aman were against the very ideals of freedom that had brought the Noldor to Middle-Earth, and that he should be banished. For a time, it seemed she might succeed, for she played on the ideals of Fëanor in a land full of his supporters, and the guild was evenly divided, but she let slip that she would lead herself the Noldor of Eregion. Celebrimbor, as well as many others, distrusted so the house of Finarfin, that this was enough to push them to banish Galadriel instead. However, seeds of awareness had been sown in their minds, and soon enough Annatar wasn’t welcomed anymore in the marble halls of Ost-in-Edhil.

It was at that time that Celebrimbor met Ëarfin, who soon became his wife. She was from the Havens, come to Eregion with a trading expedition, and was as short and sunny as he was tall and taciturn. Theirs was a calm and steady love, and in other times would have been quite long and uneventful. After only a short while, Ëarfin bore children - they were born twins, a boy and a girl. She named them sea-names, Falmaros for the boy and Falmaramë for the girl, after great birds who played in the winter storms.

The birth of his children spurred Celebrimbor to complete his work on the Three Rings. He forsake the work of gems and crowns, and instead focused on preserving the beauty of Middle Earth for the times to come. He forged the Rings to protect the land, heal all things, and inspire people to defend all that is good and beautiful; the Three took their strength from hill and moor, forest and sea, and the winds of spring. Perhaps Celebrimbor now felt more acutely the fate of the Eldar, which is to fade and disappear, bound to the circles of the world.

The children of Ëarfin and Celebrimbor soon had the run of Ost-in-Edhil, and were a common sight near the mighty forges along the river, the high walls, and the weirding streets. Very much alike they were, bearing the jet black hair and clear grey eyes of their father’s house. However, they received different educations. Falmaros, the boy, was considered his father’s heir - next in line to head their House - and was soon invited to sit and listen to the meetings of the Gwaith. He disliked it, for he would rather have gone with his sister, who instead went on trips to Khazad Dûm, and learnt to forge with the Mirdain while he was quizzed on the faraway kings of Númenor. But when they met again, she brought him mementos of the Dwarves, and listened raptly to his tales of ambassadors from distant lands.

If she sometimes suffered from not being the focus of attention and education as he was, she never said a thing. Besides, their parents cherished them equally. Seeing her interest and talent in smithwork, her father taught her secrets known of very few, and she relished those times.

Eldar children grow slowly, and Falmaros and Falmaramë were still children when war broke out. Sauron, in the depths of Mordor, had completed the One Ring, and Celebrimbor hid the Three. Soon after, Eregion was invaded as Sauron sought to capture the elven rings. There were no more trips to Khazad Dûm. The high walls were manned at all time, and the Mirdain busied themselves with the forging of blade and armour. Patrols went out, sometimes never to return. As the times grew darker, there was talk of evacuation to the great halls of the neighboring Dwarves of Durin’s folk. Some left, wiser or more afraid, but most stayed, for they loved this city and were loath to part with they work ; soon enough, however, Ost-in-Edhil was under siege. Two great irons gates barred the places where the river passed through the walls, and the stone door was strengthened by many spells and quite a lot of hope. The enemy blocked all the ways in and out, and it appeared that, if the people of Eregion were numerous enough and strong enough to keep Sauron from taking the city, they were too few to chase him away. So they waited for help; but help couldn’t come, for the river valley now belonged to Sauron, cutting Eregion from the help of Lindon in the west. Worst of all, the land between the city and Khazad Dûm was also filled with enemy troops. Of Galadriel no word had come - it was believed the east of the mountains was as badly afflicted as the west. Hopelessness began to set, and a desperate push was decided, after many discussion. Messengers had braved the danger to bring news to and from the mountains, and a decision had been taken. Food was scarce, and victory or death had become the only options.

It was thus decided that on a set day, the Dwarves would attack for forces of Sauron along the road to Ost-in-Edhil, to secure the way east as much as would be possible. Meanwhile, the defenders of the city would break the siege long enough to flee, and take refuge in the lofty halls of Khazad Dûm.

On that fateful day, Ëarfin took her children and hid them in a secret room below some stairs, in a building close to the Gwaith. “We dare not keep you with us, your father and I, for we will be targets” she explained “stay here and be safe, until one of us comes back - or someone else you know. If nobody comes, it will mean that the city is lost. I want you to swear that you will not get out of this room until either someone comes for you, or three days and three nights have passed since the last noise outside.”

“But why can’t we leave with the others” asked Falmaros.

“They will be in the thick of the fight. That is not a place for children; no one could spare a thought to protect you, too busy will they be carving a safe path with their swords. And we dare not send you that close to the Enemy.”

“Why can’t we leave sooner ?” asked Falmaramë. “Three days after the last noise is a long time.”

“If the city falls, they will search it for you, and leave only when they’re satisfied it’s empty.

You have water and food. I wish I could stay with you, but there is work to be done.”

Then they all embraced; pray as they would, the children could get nothing more out of her. At last, Ëarfin tore herself from the twins’ and left, her face a mask of pain and doubt. They should have sent them away sooner, while the roads were still somewhat safe, and now they were stuck. She found Celebrimbor near the door ; at the last minute, courage had failed him, and he had been unable to bear the thought of holding his children for the last time. They kissed for the last time, as he went to head the first sortie, and her to coordinate the evacuation. Each successive group leaving the city would take away some of its protectors.

The long wait then began for the children. They had nothing to read and much to worry about, speaking only sparingly. They heard the horns sounding the first assault, and the low rumor of a distant battle. One wall bore a small window that couldn’t open, and only showed a corner of cobbled street. Sometimes, people would run by. Most of the time, though, nothing happened, and the children sat on a blanket and waited. Too old to be coddled by false hope, too young to fight fate - their wait was a cruel one, for they had seen death on their mother’s face.

After two full days and nights of this, a terrible and deep horn cried and echoed through the emptying city, and the stones trembled. The twins felt the ground shiver, and another sounding of the dark horn seemed to tear through the buildings, loosening something other than mortar. After a silence full of menace, the horn sounded again, and the beautiful and strong stone doors of the city crumbled to dust, in a rumbling fracas that was felt for miles. Eregion had fallen.

The sack of Ost-in-Edhil lasted for another two days. After a while, though, the cries of those captured and killed receded, probably because there wasn’t a Noldo left alive within the city walls. In the dull evening light, the smell of smoke drifted to the twin’s hiding place, but they couldn’t see what was afire. Taunt as bowstrings, they dared not sleep, yet the morning found them dozing in each other’s arms. They were cold.

“D’you think mom and dad are alright ?”

“They have to be.”

But neither of them believed it. They started counting time.

On the afternoon of the second day, Falmaros suddenly rose and said :

“I’m going out. I can’t stand it here.”

“No no no you can’t” protested Falmaramë. “It’s not safe yet.”

“It’s never going to be safe! Can’t you see, everyone’s been killed, this is orc country now! What if they decide to level everything to the ground, we’ll be safe under tons of rock!”

Arguing in whispers, her face taunt with anguish, Falmaramë begged him not to go, catching his hand. “Please, remember, you promised to mom, we swore, remember, you can’t ever break a vow, remember, mom and dad never asked us to promise or swear anything because they were afraid we’d break our word without even meaning to, you can’t do it on purpose, Ros, not now.”

But the boy was stubborn and broken with grief and anguish. He stood tall in the shadow, casting his cloak over his shoulder, and fastening it with trembling hands.

“They’re dead, can’t you see, they must be, or they would have come for us! I can’t stay here when mom and dad are dead!” And he was crying as he hissed through his teeth “You stay here if you want until tomorrow morning but I’ll find ourselves a way out of here and we’ll run away, to Khazad Dûm or Lindon or somewhere. I’m the head of our house now, I’m the one who decides, I’m going and don’t you stop me!”

As he opened the hidden door, Falmaramë tried to grab him, pleaded for him to wait for the dark, but he shoved her aside as she still begged him to not be rash, to please wait just a bit longer, don’t leave her alone. He closed the door on her, and she slowly sank to the ground, hugging her knees, and whispered a half-remembered prayer to the Valar.

Time elapsed. A sunspot on the wall appeared and faded. She was paralyzed with fear. Falmaros didn’t come back. There was a noise in the street, as if something not-so-heavy had fallen. Footsteps. She must have nodded off, for she awoke with a start, and it was dusk again. In a sleepy daze, she remembered a conversation with her father, some time ago, in one of those rare days he set aside for her. They had ridden to the river, to watch the early spring flowers rise from the dark water like golden suns.

“If Falmaros is the heir of our house, what am I? Nothing?” had she asked.

Celebrimbor had looked at her, shocked and worried. “You will never be nothing, my love. You will be powerful in your own right, because you are clever, already talented, and you work hard. And if your brother somehow fails, you will be the anchor that will save us from drifting.”

The rest of the day was a shimmer of light in her memory.

Falmaramë, daughter of the house of Fëanor, rose, and started to gather her things.

Their parents had made them prepare bags for each other, with whatever small mementos they could carry. Falmaros had left his; Falmaramë emptied it into hers, and filled it to the top with the remaining food. Her water bottle she hung to her belt. After some reflexion, she folded the blanket and stuck it on top of the traveling bag. The resulting load was heavy, but she shouldered it with a grim resolve on her young face. The door was easy enough to push.

The street outside was empty, but the girl stayed close to the walls. There was blood on some stones, and the acrid smell of cold fires barely covered the smell of death and decay. Crouching in the shadows, she began her search as the first stars appeared, lost in the grey sky.

She soon found her brother, lying near a well that used to be covered in blossom ; his body was already rigid. An arrow was in his back. With trembling hands, Falmaramë turned her brother on his back to see his face. He didn’t even look surprised. Maybe he hadn’t felt a thing.

Broken, Falmaramë crouched over his body and let out a voiceless cry - some primeval instinct forbade her from shouting her pain. They had been twins, born together, lived together, laughed and fought and reconciled. They had made each other gifts. They had longed for each other when apart, counting the days to their reunion. Teased each other and reconciled too many times to count. As her face distorted with grief, she couldn’t think anymore. She was alone. She clutched her brother’s shoulders, and the world was reduced to this ruined place, where a dried-up well and a dead bough were the only horizon. She couldn’t leave him, she couldn’t bear to part from him. She took the brooch on his cloak - blue enamel with the white star of their house, and green leaves from their mother’s - and fixed it next to hers - it was the same, a twin gift from the Mirdain. She smoothed his hair and crumbled again with silent pain. Time stopped. Worldless sobs wracked her chest. She should have convinced him not to go. Their last conversation shouldn’t have been a row. Maybe if she had gone with him he wouldn’t have died. What would she tell mom and dad. They would be so disappointed in her, how could she bring them these news. How could she go, while her brother laid forever on the cold stone of their lost city?

A sudden noise brought her to high alert, eyes wide in the deepening darkness. Footsteps. She grabbed her bag and scuttled away to the shadows of a broken arch. Silhouettes - three of them. Heavyset, fully armed. Orcs. No, two orcs and someone else in a cape.

They aimed for Falmaros’s body.

“So that’s the one you shot? You didn’t touch anything?” asked the bigger one. He spoke the Common Tongue with a thick accent.

“Yeah, ‘cause the orders said shoot first any leftover elven filth and then look at their clothes and things to search for markings. Found the star brooch , same ‘un they plaster everywhere ‘round here, and went straight looking for you.”

While the smaller one, the one who had shot Falmaros, kept watch, the other two uncovered a lantern and knelt beside the body.

“Could be him. Looks young enough. No brooch, though. Sure you didn’t touch anything, soldier?”

“Orders are orders, boss! Someone else must’ve taken it!”

Falmaramë heard some rustling. They must be searching her brother’s pockets. She felt sick.

“Nothing else. No weapon, no ring, nothing. Shit.”

Then, the third shadow spoke. His voice was soft, his accent had a slight lilt, and the sound of it made Falmaramë’s skin crawl with repulsion.

“Well, we have someone who will be able to identify him. Bring the body back. As for the missing brooch, they were two children. The sister must be hiding somewhere.”

“Why would they have hidden the kids in the city, sir? They knew it was bound to fall.”

“No, quite clever, really. The pursuit is hot after the last group of evacuees, and we may catch them still before they reach their allies in the mountains. Hide the children until everything calms down, and then either retrieve them, or have them flee to a preset safe house… Obviously, they didn’t wait long enough before crawling out.”

The third shadow walked around the place, his boots hitting the cobblestones in a slow pace.

“What shall we do, sir?”

“Tear this city apart, stone from stone, starting with their Guild over there. If she still hides, we will find her hole. And send patrols along all the obvious escape routes — the road to Khazad Dûm, and also down river, if she were to try and rejoin Gil-Galad’s armies in the south. She can’t have gone far.”

Once they were gone, Falmaramë realised she had been holding her breath. She needed to leave, immediately. Blind panic receded as survival took over and her body stopped trembling; while she still felt the frozen pain of grief, it stood down a notch, or rather mingled in a turmoil with the desperate need to flee.

The main roads were closed to her. The river was too deep and swift to swim safely, even without the iron gates barring it. Well, she knew where she would go: to the mountains, to the safety and friendship of the Khazad Dûm Dwarves. She pushed her grief in a small corner of her mind, like a very small and very compressed ball of paper, and forced herself to think. Find a way out the enemy wouldn’t know about. Or care about. Think. She was small enough. In her mind, she went round the city walls, trying to remember anything that might… ah, here it was. They wouldn’t guard that, and it wasn’t too far.

The place was empty; they had taken away her brother’s body. Sprinting from shadow to shadow, she turned her back to the Gwaith buildings and headed east. There would be no moon tonight, but the starlight was clear enough to light her way.

The Gwaith building had been the main official compound in Ost-in-Edhil, where most of public life took place. Council meetings were set there; it was where treasures where held and commercial negotiations with other nations took place. It also held archives and guest quarters, gardens, offices — but no actual smithing took place there. Smiths need hammers, and big hammers need water to function. The forges were set along a reach taken from the Glanduin outside the city, that crossed the outside wall about a mile from the road and went straight to the forges. After lending its strength to the smiths, it then ran underground until it met again the Glanduin. Falmaramë doubted someone not intimately familiar with the town would think about it.

She had to stop twice to avoid patrols during the short journey, but finally found the forges. The doors were wide open — the place had obviously been ransacked. Everything was eerily empty, where before it had always been abuzz with life; even at night, the odds of finding someone working on a challenging piece had been high. Falmaramë crossed several empty buildings, and soon found herself in the backcourt near the walls, where the reach widened in a pool before being redirected to the heavier forges. She had often swam here in summer, and knew she could hold her breath long enough to go under the upstream grate. She had even been punished for it, and that had made Falmaros jealous, because that day he had been sitting with their father meeting envoys from the High King. Her heart sank at the memory: Ostimir the smith had dragged her from the water and brought her, hastily dressed and hair still dripping wet over the marble floors, to her father, who had properly chastised her because of the dangers of drowning. The lord Elrond, just come from Lindon in the west, was sitting there, serene and wise, acting as if the interruption was quite natural. As she bowed down before being dismissed, he had whispered to her ear that there was a small frog in her hood, and she should release it before going back to her room. As she left, she had tried not to cross her brother’s gaze for fear of laughing, because what a scene was it.

Tonight, no flag irises raised their yellow flowers over the water and no frog sang. Falmaramë tiptoed to the wall and, straining her eyes, looked how high the water was. There seemed to be about a yard of space between the bottom of the wall and the water. The darkness, here in the shadow, was near absolute. Shivering, Falmaramë undressed, and bundled all of her things together. Holding the resulting package over her head, she waded and swam until she reached the grid, and fastened the bagage to the grate with her belt, feeling the knots in the dark. She’d have to free it from the other side.

The water was unforgivingly cold, quite unlike what she was used to, and she was already shivering. She took several deep breaths and took a plunge, aiming blindly for the bottom. When she felt soft mud, she tried going against the current, but got disoriented, wandered underwater and went back up, gasping for air. Her wet hair clung to her face like weeds.

Twice more she tried, and failed each time. Finally, she decided to climb down the grate. The steps were high, and the going slow. When she finally felt mud under her feet, her heart was beating hard. She felt for the space between the grate and the bottom of the reach and crawled under it, red flashes crossing her vision. It had seemed wider those years ago. Kicking her heels, Falmaramë rushed to the surface and finally felt air on her face. She spend several minutes catching her breath in the obscurity, as she was now directly underneath the city wall, and for a while just clung to the grate. When she tried to pry her bag, her fingers were numb with cold, but she finally managed to undo the knots and pull the package to her. One hand holding it over her head, she swam clumsily against the current, to the half-moon of light only a few meters ahead. Here, the reach ran as a canal between low stone walls, but stairs lead down to the water, and Falmaramë was soon able to touch ground, her teeth chattering and her hand and feet insensible. She clumsily undid her package; the clothes had gotten a bit wet, but the food inside of the bag was dry. It was mostly travel bread; she hated the stuff. However, after getting dressed, she ate some, discovering herself to be hungry, and drank and filled her gourd again before leaving, her mind in a focused haze.

Travel times between Ost-in-Edhil and Khazad Dûm varied. The main road, large and paved, was well-traveled. A messenger on a swift and strong horse who left the city after sunrise in summer would get to the bottom of the wide stairs leading to the western door of Khazad Dûm before sunset — but few went that fast. Most riders would take two days to cover the distance at a more leisurely pace, and carts, loaded with rich merchandise and fruits from the south, took three days. It was always a busy road, with many places of rest — a road that was now closed to the girl trying to cross Eregion alone. There also was a maze of paths and secondary roads that made this land a pleasure to wander, but Falmaramë knew those only within a few hours’ ride from the city. She decided to follow the walking path up the Glanduin until it met the Sirannon, a swift river loaded with snow-melt that was born high in the mountains over Khazad Dûm. The main road ran further north, on drier terrain, and she hoped no one would think to patrol the winding path that crawled below willows. After that, she hoped to follow the Sirannon to the western door of the dwarven realm.

After only a short while, however, her energy ran out. Her legs trembled; she could barely walk for cold and sheer emotional exhaustion. The night wasn’t halfway gone when she had to stop and find a place to rest. Feeling her way in the darkness over the riverbank, she found a holly bush that seemed thick enough to deter prying eyes, crawled underneath and, wrapping herself tight in her cloak, fell in a dreamless sleep.

The early dawn woke her up, disoriented. It took her a few minutes to remember where she was — why she was there — Falmaros. Silent sobs; the sun was nearly out when she crawled out of the bush and started the long walk east, trying to hide as well as she could.

It was a clear day in early spring, with just a few clouds and no wind, and yet soon she didn’t see it. A bright mist drifted between golden flowering willows and dark holly trees, blind light to the rising sun and grey nothingness to the west. While the kind night had hidden the horrors of the battle, day had no such pity and, even this far out from the main fields, death reigned. Elf and orc lay there together, quite the same to the huge black birds that feasted in the morning light.

At first, Falmaramë tried to look at the faces of the fallen noldor, fearful that she may know them and that they somehow may be still alive. She stopped at the second face cleft by an axe, and pushed on in a daze. The going was very slow, because she tried to keep to the cover of the trees - the way those massacred here obviously had, probably stragglers from the evacuation, caught up by orcs. Their weapons laid there, some broken, but many still intact, for elven steel burned the enemy’s touch and orcs dared not take it. After a while, Falmaramë picked up a dagger. She didn’t know how to use it. She didn’t know if she would dare to use it. But it was lying there, forged in the style of the Eregion Mirdain, and reminded her of home, and it was one of the few things that were free of blood and grime.

As the mist lifted, Falmaramë glimpsed the scale of the battlefield. She soon felt completely numb; walking was soothing, stopping was unnerving, and finding her way through the undergrowth kept her mind from running wild with panic. Sometimes, a clearing would give her a glimpse of the mountains where Barazinbar, the highest peak, shone white with snow in the distance - so far away it never seemed to get any closer. There was no noise save for birdsong, quite incongruous over the aftermath of such a carnage, and none about, giving the impression of crossing through a land of nightmares: a beloved place, now marred with death and destruction, all familiarity hidden behind a terrifying mask.

When she stopped for the evening, the feeling of unreal was stronger than ever. She had heard no pursuit - although it had to be somewhere - and this somehow scared her more than anything. She wondered if the black birds had been spies. She also wondered what they had done with Falmaros, and failed to block memories of the whispered tales of what Sauron did with the bodies. After having her meal, she fell in an uneasy doze, because the weight of the rucksack hurt her back, and her legs cramped. However, she was too taunt to sleep and, after a while, left again. In the dark woods, she left the path, and just followed the noise of the Sirannon to her right. The leafless trees let through barely enough light to walk. She had to wade several creeks and tripped many times over holes hidden by dried-up leaves, but was too afraid to stop again. There was more noise than during the day: owls hooting, small creatures scuttling below the bushes, and sometimes a fox cried out, like someone wounded to death. A visceral horror gripped Falmaramë, and she powered on, half crying, until she found herself in narrow lightless gorges and was forced to stop. Groping around, she scrambled beneath an overhang of rock and waited for the day while the river roared beneath.

After four days of that, Falmaramë was close to exhaustion when she heard the first sign of the enemy. As she had gotten further from both Ost-in-Edhil and the main road, the carnage had lessened; it had now been some time since she had last seen evidence of the fight. However, the road had stopped winding among the low hills and now aimed straight for the Sirannon, and she would soon find it.

She was limping along when she heard the clamor of hooves, people shouting, maybe even a fight. Too tired to think of escape, she just huddled under a bush and pulled her hood over her head. By then, her face was covered in mud and scratches; there were leaves and bracken in her matted hair, and she was quite unrecognizable from the neat and fiery child of Ost-in-Edhil. She waited. She was hungry and tired, and didn’t know how far she still had to go. Breathing slowly, she willed fear away and waited. It was easy: she mostly felt empty now. But when the commotion died down, instead of the harsh language of Mordor, she heard the rumble of the khuzdûl spoken by Dwarves in the fashion of the Mountains. They seemed to be happy to have gotten rid of the last of their enemies.

Falmaramë’s heart leapt with joy. Standing as fast as she could, she called for help in khuzdûl.

There were three Dwarves, in full armor. Their axes were red. Falmaramë tried not to look at those they had slain as she walked to them.

“What… is she one of ours, no, too tall.”

“She’s a noldo, dummy”, said the stoutest, who bore a red beard. “Listen to her voice. Come closer, kid, that we may get a look at you. What’s your name? »

She limped closer and answered : “My friends call me Elenatta. Are you from Khazad Dûm? Is it very far?”

“And where, Elenatta, did you learn our language? We teach it to no one.”

Only then did the girl notice the Dwarves still had their axes drawn, and that above their beards their eyes were not too friendly. Indeed, the people of Durin didn’t teach khuzdûl to outsiders; she had learnt it in Ost-in-Edhil from the archives began by her grandfather in Beleriand, and had practiced a bit during her last visits to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. She bit her tongue. Giving a nickname was fine, but no one outside the house of Fëanor spoke more than a few words of khuzdûl.

“I don’t speak well at all” she continued in quenya. “Please, I got lost in the evacuation. I’m really tired and, and, I just want to find my friends. I’m from Ost-in-Edhil. I was supposed to follow the last convoy but… somehow I got separated from them. »

As she came close to tears, the stoutest Dwarf seemed to relax. “For a minute here I wondered if you might be a trap from the enemy. He’s a master of illusion. Here, have a sit, you look ready to faint. »

They gave her some of their rations to eat, and a strong liquid to drink that made her cough. It appeared that the western door of Khazad Dûm was close enough - only two hours away on foot following the road. She didn’t speak much, and didn’t answer the questions about her parents’ names. Similarly, the Dwarves didn’t tell her their names - but the stoutest one had a pensive look. After only a short rest, he rose and gave the order to march back. “I’m worried” he said “that those we just killed were scouts instead of laggards and that we may encounter more. We should get you to safety as soon as possible. »

On the wide and well-paved road, the going was much easier, and they were able to make good speed. Soon, though, they heard a horse galloping behind them, the ringing of the small bells of his harness announcing a noldo messenger. The big Dwarf cried for him to stop and asked the news.

“No time to chat,” said the messenger. “There’s an army walking towards us, or at least a big battalion. Regroup to the doors of Durin as soon as possible. Wait, is that a child of ours? »

“Yes, and you should take her with you. Say nothing, kid. Her name’s Elenatta. Parents missing. »

The messenger helped her get on the horse, and sat her in front of him. “Hold on tight, we’ll be flying, they’re hot on our asses. It’ll be a close call.”

“But the Dwarves, we can’t leave them!”

“Never mind us, kiddo,” said their leader. “If anyone can survive Sauron it’s us. Now go, just go!”

Falmaramë knew how to ride, but she had never ridden at such a pace before. With one hand she clutched her bag, and with the other held on for dear life on the horse’s black mane. They passed two more groups of fighters — one dwarven, one noldo — and again gave the order to regroup below the Sirannon stairs. They got there sooner than Falmaramë expected, and the messenger told her to dismount. “That’s your stop, I’m going a bit further north. You just have to go up the stairs and along the river, do you know the way? Good. You know how to open the doors?”

The messenger left on his foaming horse without listening to her answer. The wide place below the stairs was filling with people, both Dwarves and Elves, all soldiers going about their business. It was a large square of red stone; one side was occupied by a balcony so that travelers could admire the Sirannon waterfall. Its roar was deafening, and a thin spray rained over the square. During the years of peace, it had been a favorite place to stop and rest before the last stretch of road ; colorful tents used to dot the place, with oats and water for horses and poneys, and seats and beds for their two-legged companions. While the main road wound away, stairs had been cut in the cliff side to get faster to the shallow vale before the western doors of Khazad Dûm, that were called Durin’s Doors by the people of Eregion.

The red place was abuzz with movement. Soldiers of both races were gathering; people raced to and fro, but no one took the girl into account. She thought about finding a commander, because it had been restful to let adults be in charge for the last hours, but she finally decided to go on on her own. The doors weren’t far now, and she’d rather answer questions inside with a chair to sit on and something warm to eat.

Falmaramë briefly closed her eyes before taking the next step. Her legs were shaking. Not far to go now.

By the time she got over the cliff, she was panting hard, while she usually ran up without stopping. After a short rest, she trudged on. The overwhelming summit of Barazinbar rose straight ahead, massive and tall at the junction of the two high ridges that embraced the valley. The afternoon light played games with the clouds while patches of purple and white flowers brightened the brown grass where snow was melting. The sun was warm, but a fresh breeze numbed the exposed skin. High over the large valley, the peaks were still white with winter, but on their slopes ice cracked and sometimes fell. Spring was coming to the Misty Mountains.

There was much less traffic here than below. Some part of Falmaramë’s mind wondered if the regrouping of troops below was the difference between a retreat and a rout, but on the whole her thoughts were frozen. Walking, as always, was soothing, but a new fear had grown deep in her belly. When she got to Khazad Dûm, there would be no more Elenatta, and she would have to tell everything. She foolishly hoped her mother would still be alive. Maybe even her father, although the city had fallen. Maybe they had been able to get out, but couldn’t send anybody back. But their first question would be to ask where her brother was.

By the time she got to the gates, bathed in blue shade, she was crying.

The Doors of Durin were closed, but not hidden, the silver sheen of ithildin bright against the darker stone. She spoke the word and entered.

*

As soon as she passed the gate, Falmaramë was challenged by two guards standing only a few feet away. The sudden warmth nearly made her faint, and they had to repeat themselves before she answered.

Taking a step forward, she removed her cowl and said in quenya : “I am Falmaramë of the House of Fëanor. I have fled Ost-in-Edhil after the fall.”

With a sudden exclamation, one of the guards rushed to her. She was taller by nearly a head, but still felt very small under his scrutiny. They checked that she was unarmed, and led her to a post right behind them. There, they made her sit down, and spoke with some other guards there. Falmaramë didn’t listen; she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The sounds were blurred, and she didn’t care anyway.

Someone - a Dwarf - brought her a cup of warm tea and led her to a cot behind the guard room. He asked again for her name and her house, which she gave again, and she was finally free to lie down under a thick blanket. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Everything hurt.

After a while, though, she heard a familiar voice. No, two of them, talking outside the room with the guards. Not the voices she wanted most to hear, so she didn’t care and tried to go back to sleep. Soon, she heard them walk into the room; someone knelt beside her cot and looked at her.

He saw a grown child, not quite a youth, covered in grime, huddled in a ball and frowning in faked sleep. The only clean places on her oval face where traces of crying, beneath a shock of black hair filled with dried leaves. No tiny frog hid there today.

He didn’t leave, and softly called her name. Reluctantly, Falmaramë opened her eyes and sat up, although the room was spinning. The lord Elrond was also worse from the wear; far from the elegant diplomat she remembered, he was still in armor, dirty with blood and filth. He sat beside her, and she saw the Dwarf Narvi, her parents’ friend, standing behind him. Narvi was nervously plucking his brown beard; his face was distorted with anguish as he rushed to hug her. Wordlessly, she buried her head in his shoulder and held on tight.

They brought her back to Narvi’s apartments, spacious and wide near the main forges. While the streets were busy at all times, today they seemed particularly bustling with activity, but some still stopped on their passage and murmured. When they got inside, Falmaramë began to relax for the first time in days. Everything was the same here: the intricately forged iron lamps with their golden light, the colorful tapestries on the wall with the geometric designs that had always enchanted her, even the smell of something good cooking. Whenever she had traveled to Khazad Dûm, with her parents or on her own, she had always stayed there, with Narvi and his husband Vali.

They sent her to wash while dinner was prepared, and made her eat without asking any questions. Narvi, Vali and Elrond mostly spoke between themselves, of supply lines and forge schedules. The low sofas were as comfortable as ever, and Falmaramë could feel herself getting drowsy. Once the last honey pastry had disappeared, however, Vali excused himself; a heavy silence fell, and Elrond asked her if she felt ready to answer some questions. He too had cleaned up before dinner, and looked much his usual polished self. Falmaramë own countenance was grim.

“No, me first” she countered. “Do you have any news of my parents? Are they alive?”

Elrond sighted and said: “Your father we don’t know. He was taken prisoner during the last stand in Ost-in-Edhil.”

“And my mother?”

Elrond’s face was full of compassion as he answered. “I’m so very sorry, Elenatta, but she died. We were together during the last round of evacuation. I was leading the defenders while she was rounding up people, making sure no one panicked and all followed. An arrow took her. By the time I got to her, she was dead.”

“Where’s her body? Did you already bury her?”

Narvi took Falmaramë’s hand in his, and spoke. “We don’t have her body. She had to be left behind. They were hard pressed, they had to leave all the dead behind and could barely save some of the wounded. It was a miracle so many made it to us. There was nothing anyone could do. »

Falmaramë remembered the carrion crows outside Ost-in-Edhil and suddenly felt very cold again. She stayed silent, her gaze locked to a spot on the closest tapestry, looking without seeing.

“Tell me, where is your brother?”

She drew herself out of her trance of grief to look at Elrond with a steely gaze.

“The heir, that’s all you want to know, right? You want the heir because you think my father’s dead, but you don’t really care, no. You let mom get killed and you left her to the orcs and, and the wolves, and the birds, and I had to go through all of them and I should have kept looking but I couldn’t and I’m not the heir so you don’t care at all do you! Well Falmaros is dead because he was a dummy who couldn’t stay put! There’s no heir now! I told him to stay inside, to do as mom said, but he wouldn’t because oh he always knows best and nevermind he had promised, he’s stupid and, and I found him beside the well, he was cold and stiff with an arrow in his back and, and they took him away and I had to go and leave him and I don’t know what they did to him after that. »

Trembling, she realised she was shouting and crying. She tried to collect herself and drink some tea, but she chocked on the hot liquid. Elrond gingerly put his arm over her shoulders, soothing her.

“I wasn’t asking about the heir. I was asking about the boy who sometimes sulked beside his father, but had the most sunny laugh I ever heard in a child. I’ll miss him too. We’ll all miss him.” After a pause, he added : “Do you wish to tell me how you managed to leave Ost-in-Edhil, how you traveled here? We were nearly ready to give you up as lost too. I did not know where your parents hid you, or we would have gone back for you, this I swear. How did you escape?”

Bit by bit, Falmaramë told her tale. She learnt that the Dwarves she had met on the road had been sent specifically to look for the lost and wounded, and that Sauron’s army was expected during the night beneath the gates if he didn’t slow his course. “But he might delay if he’s looking for some Noldorin girl I know, thinking her still lost in the woods.”

“Why would he still be after me? I wasn’t even born when he was chased out of Eregion. I’m no one to him.”

Elrond smiled. “I think you may be wrong here. You are now the heiress of your House. Don’t let genealogy fool you. There may have been an overabundance of male heirs in your family - and mine - but women do rule. The lady Galadriel did take after Finarfin, after her elder brothers died, and would be High Queen if Gil-Galad died and the house of Fingolfin with him. Besides, Sauron hates your House. For all their faults, those of the house of Fëanor have dealt grievous blows to his master Morgoth during the War of the Jewels, and immediately stood against Sauron once his true nature was revealed. He hates you for who you were born to, and may yet come to fear you for yourself. He has all the reasons in the world to hunt you, and will be enraged that you found your way out of his reach.”

After a few more questions, Falmaramë was finally able to go to bed. It was understood that, in the morning, the King Under the Mountain would grant her an audience. Heiress of the House of Fëanor. Her head reeled as she searched for an uneasy sleep, full of nightmares from the last few days.

She awoke early, before everyone else. She felt calmer, despite a frozen anguish that reached deep within her mind, as if a gaping wound had stopped bleeding for now. However, some thoughts were like a punch to the chest, and she tried to avoid them. Everything felt unreal, just a bit off - not quite what it should be. The familiar setting had no right to look so normal when everything had turned to ash.

Elrond collected her early enough; on their way to Durin, she dared not ask to stop at the forges for a while. Thankfully, the king didn’t receive her in his formal throne room, but in a smaller chamber, made smaller yet by the many books and parchments on the wall. Durin the Elf-friend was then in the last years of his reign; his long beard shone like a silver river, and beneath heavy lids his eyes were lit with wisdom. He wore a crown of mithril and star-like jewels, and spoke in a deep voice. In his hand was a staff of command. Falmaramë bowed low before him and waited to be spoken to. The king bade her to sit; he mercifully didn’t require her to recount her travel, but asked if she felt better. She said yes, because that was clearly the expected answer, and immediately thanked him for his shelter, both for her and the people of Eregion. From the corner of her eye, she saw Elrond give an approving nod. But the meeting wasn’t about social niceties; it appeared Sauron’s army had reached the gate at the small hours of the morning. They couldn’t get through, unless he had the power to tear down the Mountain itself, but a herald had announced Sauron would come before the gate to speak to the King.

“I will not humour him by answering,” said Durin “but listening will certainly be enlightening as to his next move. I propose to sit at a hidden spot with master Elrond and several of our counselors, but I do think you ought to be invited with us. Despite your young age, these matters concern you, and you deserve to know your enemy. However, if your fatigues prevent you from attending, know that none of us will hold it against you, and that you will be given a faithful account.”

Falmaramë wanted nothing more than rest and calm. She wanted to lie down and not move until everything stopped hurting, if it ever did. She longed to forget about the war and grieve in peace for her mother and brother, but she heard herself answer that she would be there.

Less than an hour later, they all stood behind a long slit through the rock some fathoms over the Doors of Durin, where, completely hidden to those outside, they could see and hear everything. Durin himself was accompanied by several Dwarves known for their wisdom. Elrond stood with Celeborn, consort of Galadriel, who barely hid his distaste of Khazad Dûm, and Falmaramë was at his side.

The fair valley below was overrun with Sauron’s army. No more purple snow flowers, trampled without care; the snow itself was tainted with muck, and the melt streams were polluted. A sea of orcs filled the place, singing their victory with raucous rhymes. A black tent had been erected in the middle of the valley, and Sauron’s banners flew before it. At the appointed hour, a dark silhouette came out of it while horns sounded over the army, and orcs parted in front of him as he walked, so that he stood before the Doors of Durin, alone and menacing in a large empty space. Behind him, the morning sun struck too long a shadow.

Silence fell.

Sauron spoke.

His voice was soft and warm, quiet and friendly, yet brimming with hidden menace.

Falmaramë caught her breath. She recognized this voice. Cold fear wrenched her gut.

Sauron spoke.

He spoke of his friendship with the Kingdom Under the Mountain, of the many gifts he had selflessly offered Durin throughout his years in Eregion. He spoke of a shared love of knowledge, a passion for discovery, for natural treasures found nowhere else in Middle Earth. He knew great things could be accomplished with Durin’s Folk, under his amiable guidance, and yearned to find common ground again. This small squabble was nothing, really, and he would overlook this errancy in judgement. Surely they had been seduced by empty promises from the Elves, bright eyes hiding dark hearts. This could be forgiven, as friends do, for who could boast to never have made a mistake? He was more than willing to extend a generous hand to the Dwarves, but they would have to heed his advice better, and not let elvish rabble through their doors. Now, if some had tricked their way inside, would be a good time to throw them out indeed.

Alarmed, Falmaramë looked at Durin. “Do not fret,” grumbled the king. “Had I kept the ring fallen under his dominion, I may have entertained the thought, but this ring is now destroyed. You are safe here, and always will be.”

Outside, the voice became harsher. If the Dwarves wouldn’t be reasonable, they should be reminded that alliance with Sauron’s enemies made them enemies too. It was painful to have to remind them of this, but why scorn friendship when the alternative was all-out war? Would the King Under the Mountain not think of his people? Their losses would be tremendous, and such tragedy was so easy to avoid. Now was the time to be reasonable. Give him the Elves, or suffer the consequences. Had they not seen what he had done to Eregion? Did they wish for the jewel of their city to be laid to waste too? Ost-in-Edhil had been easy to take. Did they really think stone doors were enough to stop him? Would they at last be reasonable, and give what was asked, before it was taken by force?

They knew how well Sauron treated his friends, how richly he rewarded them. Perhaps they needed to see how he treated his enemies too, in order to make their choice easier?

On a sign of his hand, some underlings dragged a silhouette from the tent and hauled him towards the dark lord standing by the door. Falmaramë’s heart leaped, and then skipped a beat.

Half-naked, severely bruised, his hands and feet bloody, bound in heavy chain, Celebrimbor of Eregion was hurled at the feet of Sauron.

Elrond caught the girl’s shoulder and threw her away from the window. “Falmaramë. Go away. Now.”

“No”, she hissed. “He’s my dad.”

She stood close to him, fists clenched, brow furrowed, ready to fight. Elrond looked at her with all the pity in the world, and said : “He will kill him. You don’t have to look. He wouldn’t want you to. »

“I know. But I have to. He’s my dad.”

At that moment, Celeborn spoke for the first time, with the slight nasal accent of the Sindar beyond the Mountains. “Do you want me to drag her away?”

The girl held her breath. He was bigger, stronger, and wore a silver armor. Eyes full of despair, she looked at Elrond and mouthed near silently : “Please. Don’t.” Durin and his Dwarves watched silently, giving her no help.

“Don’t,” cut Elrond. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

They went back to the window, Elrond holding her close before him. Falmaramë was trembling uncontrollably, but her gaze was steady, although tears soon blurred her vision. When her father started to scream, Elrond dug his fingers through her shoulder, and she screamed in echo.

Later, Celebrimbor’s broken body was put on a pole and used as a standard by Sauron’s retreating troops. Only then did the small group leave, as evening lengthened its shadow over the valley and a red sun set over the land. Deep in the stone city of Khazad Dûm, a lament arose.

Under the willow tree a soldier lies

While in its green branches a raven waits

And the morning wind whispers through the skies

Black bird, says he, don’t rush for I live yet

Fly off to my beloved and as a prize

Bring her this golden ring lest she forgets

Tell her tonight another I’ll marry

Older than spring, terrible as the dawn

A great impatient force that won’t tarry

A black arrow made this uneven match

With the green earth as my single witness

Tell her tonight I have to go

Under the willow tree a soldier lies

Below the green branches a raven eats

The western wind softly mourns through the skies

Noldorin song

Khazad Dûm mourned. It was now clear no other survivors would come from the Eregion waste, and the western doors were hidden shut. Many of Durin’s Folk and all Elves had lost a loved one; now that the battle was over, a heavy calm fell over the Kingdom Under the Mountain. The forge fires turned to ashes and the never-ending song of hammers went silent in the great halls.

On the morrow following Celebrimbor’s death, Elrond once again brought Falmaramë to a council, this time held in a chamber deep within the heart of the mountain. Its walls were richly decorated with mining and forging tools, lighted in a clever way that created fantastic shadows on the stone behind. In the middle of the room stood a long wooden table, polished by time, with assorted chairs carved in the geometric style favoured by the Dwarves. On the high end, however, was a golden throne. There sat Durin, with Narvi at his right hand, and they were the only Dwarves present. A place was set for Falmaramë at Durin’s left; beside her sat Elrond, and then Celeborn of the silver hair. On the rest of the table sat seven smiths: all that were left of the Council of the Gwaith í Mirdain, that had ruled Eregion under Celebrimbor’s authority.

“The purpose of this meeting” announced Durin “is to answer the question of the lady Falmaramë of Eregion’s guardianship until such day as she comes of age. All those present have an interest in her future, or can bear witness to the late lord Celebrimbor and lady Eärfin’s wishes in that matter. Master Elrond, will you please stand?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Elrond with a short bow. “As we prepared to break the siege of Ost-in-Edhil, I spoke at length with both of them of their children’s fate, should they perish. Unfortunately the twins, although obviously old enough to have an opinion on the subject, were not consulted on this by their parents, who wished to hide the very real risks from them. Can you confirm this, lady Falmaramë?”

“I do. We… we knew the war was going on badly, but that was all. We, Falmaros and I, thought we would all stay together until the end. We thought we would all share the same fate.”

“Now, it was quite unknown which of us were going to survive, if any at all,” explained Elrond, now pacing the room. “So, several plans were made but, to make a long story short, here is what was agreed if Khazad Dûm still stood, and I was alive. As steward of the High King in the east, your custody should fall to me, so that you could benefit a courtly education in all areas useful to a future leader. I also have a very personal debt to your family: your uncle raised my brother and me, after our parents left us as orphaned, and I would very gladly return the favor. However, had I died, Narvi and Vali, the longtime friends of your family, would have taken care of you.”

Hearing this, Celeborn scoffed and said : “Come on, they can’t have expected her to get a proper education away from her people. We would have taken her to Lórinand. Amdír would have agreed.”

“I’m afraid I disagree with you on this. Amdír wouldn’t have taken gladly to having the leaders of two different noldorin houses in his wood - houses that famously never got along. Galadriel he accepted for your sake, but I fear he would have drawn the line at the House of Fëanor. Besides, Celebrimbor was adamant that his children should be kept away from Galadriel.” With a wain smile, Elrond added : “Old grudges die hard.”

“Please, go on, master Elrond,” asked the king.

“As you know, the evacuation didn’t go exactly as planned. We hoped to get enough leeway from Sauron’s armies to be able to flee directly somewhere else, anywhere. Well, we were able to reach Khazad Dûm, at great cost to our allies, and Eregion is wholly under Sauron’s control. I still have a war to wage, and certainly can’t bring you along, Falmaramë. Therefore, I propose that you should stay with Narvi, if you agree.”

“That’s ridiculous” protested Celeborn.

“And what would you have me do? We can’t send her to Lindon, unless you want her to cross a wide territory we absolutely do not control, and where pillaging and worse are still going on as we speak. I will not go against her parent’s wishes and send her to your lady wife. Here in Khazad Dûm she will receive all the care, education, and love needed. Besides, how long before you are of age, Falmaramë? Five short years?”

“Four.”

“How time flies. Tell me, Celeborn, do you really wish to go against the last wish of Eärfin and Celebrimbor, to have me break my word to them, for only four years ?”

Celeborn scoffed again and didn’t answer. Before anyone else spoke, Falmaramë said : “I would really appreciate staying with Narvi.”

The Dwarf smiled at her, and answered : “And I would find it a great honor to be your guardian. But there is the matter of your education to settle. As much as I wish, alone, I won’t be able to teach you much besides metal and stonework.”

“Which is where,” added Elrond “the survivors of the Gwaith come into play.”

The seven smiths looked curiously at each other.

“Now, as you know, it is the High King’s wish that the Gwaith be disbanded. This is a settled matter. Blinded by your lust for knowledge and your thirst of redemption, you, and all of you, led us to the mess we have here today. Celebrimbor, alone, would have been swayed by the King’s advice, but you had to push against his wisdom. The Gwaith will be no more. For as long as Durin gives us his hospitality, we will abide by his laws and trust his justice. Without need for your governance, you will be stripped of all power. However, I am the King’s herald here, and I say that your very last act will be to teach the lady Falmaramë our laws and customs so that, on the day she comes of age, she is able to lead those who fled Eregion.”

“But she’s too young!” cried the one called Ostimir.

Elrond circled the table and bent to the smith’s ear. His words, low and crisp, reached everyone.

“I know you have seen Aman and the light of Two Trees. I know the contempt you hold for those born in Middle Earth. I know you tried to ally with Galadriel to prevent Gil-Galad from being crowned. I know that, to you and your ilk, Gil-Galad, Falmaramë, or me, look like children that should be kept very far away from any kind of power. I also know that I don’t care. When your own bloody mistakes brought Sauron’s wrath upon you, it was the pup Gil-Galad who sent his army, and this army saved your life last week. Yes, I know how you call him - he knows too, I made sure of it. As you were thankful for the pup’s army, you will be thankful for your new lady.” Rising, he added : “This goes for all of you, masters and mistresses. I will come back as often as possible to check on her. If I have any inkling that you are not doing your very best to teach her, I swear I will break you. »

Nothing broke the silence that followed as Elrond calmly went back to his seat. Durin cleared his throat, and the sound startled the smiths of the Gwaith.

“Never was such friendship seen between people as between Eregion and the Kingdom Under the Mountain,” said the king “and never shall it be seen again. Of the three great houses of the Noldor, the house of Fëanor is the eldest. Although they forsook the crown, that has passed to the house of Fingolfin, they shall forever have a role to play here in Middle Earth. I dearly loved Celebrimbor; I will therefore take the lady Falmaramë as my apprentice, and teach her statecraft. She will receive the same education as my sons did in these matters. Many things go beyond our differences in custom, and before I die I hope to renew the friendship between our people for the coming generations. As you will find care in Narvi’s home and knowledge with the Gwaith, I hope you will find a bit of wisdom with me. »

Murmurs went round the table. Elrond raised an eyebrow and shot a warning glance at Celeborn, who had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Frozen and mute, Falmaramë felt her mind reel. After a moment, she rose from her seat and bowed to Durin in the dwarven fashion, and thanked him in near-perfect khuzdûl. She then turned to Narvi and thanked him in the same way. Only then did she turn to the smiths and, with a simple nod, told them she looked forward to learn from them. She felt light-headed when she looked again at Elrond; words at last failed her, and she could only take his hand and press it.

In the afternoon, Celeborn rode away with a small force that was to map the enemy’s defenses near the Mountain. Falmaramë had accompanied Elrond to see them off; she now clung to him and Narvi as if she was drowning. “Why did you invite him earlier?” she asked. “He did nothing but be rude.”

“I wanted things to be clear. Word of your father’s death will soon reach Galadriel - I dispatched the messenger myself yesterday evening, and Celeborn sent another one before leaving. She will certainly try to get your custody. I want her to hear from her own beloved husband that it will not happen.”

After a slight hesitation, Falmaramë spoke again. “I know this will look stupid, but, could you please explain me why my parents were so set against her? I was never told.”

“Ah, that’s a long story,” sighted Elrond. “Let’s have a walk while I tell it. We’ll have to go back to the ancient days in Valinor.”

They slowly strolled along the colourful streets of Khazad Dûm while Elrond told of the strife between Fëanor and his younger half-brothers Fingolfin and Finarfin. Then came Fëanor’s last rebellion, leading to the First Kinslaying in Alqualondë. Elrond told of Fëanor’s departure in the ship of the slain, while Finarfin’s kin travelled the long and perilous way through the northern ice to rejoin Middle Earth.

“Once Galadriel and her brothers got to Middle Earth, you can imagine they were not in the best disposition towards Fëanor - but he was now dead, and his sons were more concerned with their war than with building realms. At first, the children of Finarfin were welcomed by Thingol and Melian who ruled together in Doriath, and Galadriel stayed there for quite a while. Her brothers made themselves powerful in war; she met Celeborn, and led a peaceful life with him, hiding the precise circumstances of the flight of the Noldor from the people of Doriath.”

“But her brothers all died.”

“That they did, and it awoke something in her. When she became the only one left alive, and their kingdoms all fell, she remembered that she had wanted power once, too.”

They had reached a promenade above one of the main arteries of the city and stopped for a while, watching the mix of Dwarves and Elves below. Rays of sunlight coming from windows higher up woke the golden stone; somewhere, a fountain was singing.

“The High King, by any right, should have been Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, but Maedhros renounced the crown in favor of Fingon, the eldest son of Fingolfin, who had saved his life. So, Fingon ruled - but when he died, his own son Gil-Galad was much too young to reign - he was then much younger than you. Instead of setting up a regency, his uncle Turgon claimed the crown for himself and sent the child to be raised in his mother’s family.”

Falmaramë frowned. “That’s unfair.”

“That’s true. But many thought only one who had known Valinor and the light of the Trees was worthy of the crown. When Turgon died, that reasoning would have put his cousin Galadriel as next on the list. By then, however, Gil-Galad had come of age and felt, shall we say, unhappy about things, and we had an interesting quarrel of succession. He was the only remaining candidate from the house of Fingolfin. Galadriel was the only one from the house of Finarfin. Maedhros was loosing himself in his war and normally wouldn’t have cared, but he disliked Galadriel and weighted in favor of Gil-Galad. Galadriel had no land and no army to back her claim while Gil-Galad had his mother’s kin. That was the end of it.”

Birds, come from the outside, landed on the pavement and pecked at some invisible crumbs. The pair began walking again as Elrond told how the Valar, in the War of Wrath, defeated Morgoth, and how in doing so ravaged the land. He explained how Gil-Galad had settled in what remained of Lindon, now become the shore of the Great Sea and how, as a gesture of good faith, had given land to Galadriel to rule in the north, beside the lake Nenuial. The last sons of Fëanor died. Meanwhile, Celebrimbor and his smiths were looking for a place to settle, and founded Eregion, close to the like-minded folk of Durin.

“Eregion acted as a beacon for many,” explained Elrond. “It promised to be richer than any of our kingdoms had ever been; while it was landlocked, commerce downriver to the coastal settlements of Men was easy. And, of course, the alliance with the Dwarves was plentiful. The people of Nenuial came, and for a while the two houses cohabited. Your father governed with the Guild, where he was the first among equals, and Galadriel ruled her own people. Little by little, however, those she had brought from the north rejoined the smiths, so her power greatly eroded. And then, Annatar came.”

Leaving, they passed under a wide arch and left the sunny promenade, going down elegant stairs to rejoin the avenue below.

“Galadriel disliked him from the first. Later, Gil-Galad advised against him, too. But Annatar was charming and generous, and promised the Valar’s forgiveness. After committing three Kinslayings, your people were desperate, and your father didn’t fight the Gwaith when they proposed to issue him a formal invitation to stay.”

The pavement here was made of stones of many colours, arranged in geometrical patterns. They passed several shops and offices, and started going up again.

“This is when Galadriel made her biggest mistake. Instead of attacking directly Annatar and expose him for the enemy he was, she only sought to undermine his power over the Gwaith. She was the landless ruler of a major House; she had tasted full power in the north, and thought she could do better than your father. Well, to her defense, she probably would have. And so it was only a matter of time before she thought to combine these two goals: chase Annatar from Eregion, and rule again. Your father didn’t take it well. It was now Galadriel’s second bid for a power that wasn’t hers, and she lost more bitterly than the first time. She was banished from Eregion. Gil-Galad then remembered her previous attempt and kindly asked her not to come back to Lindon.”

“So she went to Lórinand?”

“It is where Celeborn hails from, although he hasn’t set foot there for ages. As you know, he still elected to stay behind.”

“Why?”

“Well, in order to get to Lórinand from Eregion, you have to either go other the Caradhras pass, or under the mountain through Khazad Dûm. However, many cold winters followed by cool summers have closed the pass.”

“But why didn’t he go through Khazad Dûm? Didn’t Durin allow him through together with Galadriel?”

“Oh, Durin did allow him to cross. Galadriel and her daughter got through all right.” A conspirator glint shone in Elrond’s eye. “You may have noticed the lord Celeborn was somewhat tense, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have,” answered Falmaramë. “But with everything that happened, well, everyone is, and he’s always been a bit strained.”

“That’s true. However, he has another problem, more ancient. He hates closed spaces and considers unnatural to live underground. He is a man of the wide forest, used to the open air. When he lived in Doriath, he never set foot in Menegroth if he could avoid it. When he suddenly had to cross Khazad Dûm and spend two days and nights deep below the highest mountain in the land, he was quite unable to do so. Galadriel had to go alone, and meet alone his kin.” Elrond’s lips twitched. “I only met them once, and I can only imagine how they greeted her. These sylvan people, they can be prickly.”

“But now he managed to do it?”

“I think Sauron’s pursuit proved an excellent incentive to get inside. Couple this with his ancient contempt for the Dwarves, and you get his present fey mood. Really, it was a charity to send him back against Sauron.”

An inspiration struck Falmaramë. “So that’s why the meeting was held so deep below the usual levels?”

“Not my idea, but yes. Durin wanted to make him feel as unwelcome as possible, to deter any ideas he might have had about your guardianship.”

“The might of Durin’s Folk is the might of the Mountain,” quoted the girl. “I see. But I thought my father had mended things with Galadriel when the war broke out.”

“On a political level yes, he did. On a personal level, he and your mother still distrusted her thirst of power, and were loath to entrust their children’s education to her. They didn’t want to see any of you two turned against your own people.”

They strolled silently for a while; the crowd was getting thinner.

“How are you dealing with all that, Elenatta? Did you manage to get any sleep last night?”

“What answer are you expecting? Of course I didn’t sleep, or if I did I thought I was awake and relived everything again and again. I haven’t cried for the last two hours, though, and it has to be some kind of record. I wish I could go to the forge and hammer down something.”

“And that’s the longest answer you’ve given me for a while. Now, if you will excuse me, someone is following us,” stated Elrond as he stopped and turned around. “Who are you?”

An elven woman with mousy hair stopped where she was and curtsied. She wore tattered clothes and had the harried look of all those who had survived the fall of Eregion.

“I apologize, my lord, I didn’t dare to interrupt you. My name is Insil. I was a seamstress in Ost-in-Edhil. I saw you and my lady walking, and I would have liked to speak with her. Is it alright?”

With a gesture of his hand, Elrond deferred the answer to Falmaramë, who responded with embarrassment. “Please, Insil, rise. Of course you can talk to me.”

The woman rose and thanked her. “I’m sorry to bother you, my lady, and I really wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. It’s just that some of us, well, we spoke with our friends here. Durin’s Folk, they’re short-lived, and they know how to mourn for the dead, while we, we don’t really. I had never lost anyone before, because I never was in any of the cities that fell in Beleriand, and now my sister and my son are dead. The Dwarves, they usually don’t talk about it with outsiders, but they have this custom where all those who knew the deceased gather for a night to say nice things about them. And there’s some of us who feel we should do it, but for everyone who’s gone to Mandos and not just our own kin. So tonight they lent us a hall and we’ll meet there. And I saw you on the promenade, and I know you lost your family too, so maybe you would like to come?”

Something very hard was suddenly lodged in the girl’s throat, and her eyes filled with tears before she found her voice again. “I would like it very much, thank you.”

“It won’t be a grand affair like you must be used to though,” hurried the seamstress. “Our friends offered to give us something to eat, but that’s all.”

“No, it’s all right. Thank you. What are the time and the place?”

As they left, Elrond remarked in a dead-pan voice : “Looks like your two-hour stretch is over.” This made the sniffing girl choke back a laugh. “I think I may like to come, too.”

They went back to Narvi’s, who was waiting for them, and they sat on the low sofas drinking warm tea with honey. Falmaramë guessed her two guardians probably ought to busy themselves somewhere else, but she was glad for the company. When Narvi heard of the wake, he shook his head. “This is a good idea this Insil’s friends had. I should have proposed it to you.”

“But what is it really?”

“In your language, it would be called nenyare. It’s a time to honor the departed’s memory and say goodbye, but also to find support in your community, to feel that despite your loss you are not alone. One may tell stories about the departed’s life, sing songs, or drink in their name. Usually, the nenyare is followed by seven days of deep mourning, for the close kin. When you sit in mourning, you don’t work, and you stay home to take care of your grief. You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. People may still come to see you, though, to bring you food and be there to help you in any way.”

“This sounds really good,” said Falmaramë. A whole week to find her balance, before her schooling began. She, who was set to live as long as the world, never thought she’d be that grateful for a single week.

“I could stay the week,” volunteered Elrond. “Celeborn won’t be back for a few days anyway, and we’ll need time to study his reports and Durin’s maps before making a decision.”

“What will be the next step then?” asked back Falmaramë.

“I’m not sure yet. First thing to do is remove what remains of our host from Khazad Dûm, which is quite overcrowded, and bring them to a safe place somewhere. It will have to be in the Misty Mountains: the west is closed for now, and the east is already fully settled by the Sylvan elves, and some tribes of Men. After that, build something, anything, and bring people there. Durin’s hospitality is great, but we shouldn’t abuse it.”

The nenyare was held in a small hall high up in the city. By the time Falmaramë and Elrond got there, it was getting dark, and the brightest stars were already shining through wide windows looking west. The hall was dimly lit by lamps set upon square pillars; shadows danced over the maze patterns on the painted walls. People were mostly assembled in small groups; some were drinking, while others sat down alone in grief. There was a murmur through the crowd when the pair was recognized, and some came to salute them. Someone tried to sing a slow lament, but their fair voice broke, and Falmaramë then realised she hadn’t asked the most important question of all.

“How many died?”

“Too many. We lost nearly a third of the population. Maybe more. The wounded haven’t finished dying.”

A new horror spread across the girl’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had your own grief to face. You still have.”

She looked around, uncertain, and after a moment articulated her thought. “But I’m their lady, or I’m to be fairly soon. There must be something I should do. Can do.”

Her guardian didn’t answer, so she left his side and sat gingerly on the ground beside the closest mourner, a woman with red hair. After a short silence, she greeted her, and the girl asked who she had lost. Soon, she found herself in a circle of people who came to talk. Each told a story about those they had lost; some couldn’t stop talking, while others chocked on their words and said nothing. They cried. They hugged. Falmaramë heard how her mother had thrice made the run through the evacuation corridor. Many said that, if it hadn’t been for her cool head, they would have been lost through the smoke and the mayhem. Others, who had fought the orcs foot-to-foot, remembered how their comrades had fallen beside them, and wondered why themselves were still alive. They spoke of Celebrimbor drawing the enemy to him, in order to distract him enough to allow the last convoy to escape. She heard how a man had been separated from his child, without being able to go back. There were tales of wounded left behind with only a knife to defend themselves, or to take their own lives with, tales of great heroics and small cowardice, tales of peaceful people thrown in an abyss of violence. She listened to them all, and also shared her story, with some pain. By that time, more people had come; she heard how they had been harassed through the woods, unable to stop, having to run madly for their lives, only to see their slower spouse and friends be taken. All shared their story through the night, in the musical language of the Noldor that is like a song woven through the world.

Falmaramë spent the seven following days as a recluse in Narvi and Vali’s apartments. She slept a lot, waking often in cold sweat from disturbing dreams, and ate what was served without tasting it. The only visits she accepted were from Elrond, who by now was practically living there, and slowly her balance returned. It was still precarious but, when she came out of deep mourning, she felt ready to begin her work.

Soon a routine set in: mornings with the Gwaith, afternoons following Durin, and as much time as possible with Narvi and Vali, who spoilt her to the best of their abilities. The elven smiths, wether from their own hearts or as an effect of Elrond’s threats, pushed her like they had never done. While in Ost-in-Edhil they used to tutor her with the unexacting care of those with more pressing matters to attend, they were now relentless. She learnt gemcraft and metalwork, how to balance a blade and cast a ring, how to cut a stone and choose an alloy. She used to think she was a decent smith, and now, as she was taught deep spells to protect her craft, she measured how vast her ignorance was. While she hammered, melted and sharpened, she was also quizzed on noldorin lore and law, as well as the history and customs of other kingdoms. Fortunately, she was a quick study, with nimble hands and an alert mind, but more often than not her shoulders ached and her eyes stung from the heat.

Durin’s teaching was more placid. A stool was set up for her beside his throne in the Chamber of Records, so that she could listen to him dispense justice and settle quarrels. In between, he would question her, and her answers would lead to more probing of her logic, to hone her mind and reasoning. He often presented her with moral dilemmas, which they would discuss back and forth, and rejoiced in word-play. Falmaramë soon deeply loved the elderly king, after being intimidated by him for many years.

When she returned to her guardians at night, they would chat away the evening; on the rare off days, they would all make the crossing to the eastern vale where the mirror of Kheled Zâram lay, and enjoy the sun near the great lake. At first, despite their best care, she seldom laughed, and her countenance was stern. But as time passed, she began to smile again and then, for an instant, there was an echo of her former self, as a merry fire lit her eyes, however briefly.

The western roads were still closed, crawling with enemies. Elrond had finally left through the eastern door; Celeborn had grudgingly followed. Following old maps, they had found a way through the Mountains, up north, and settled in a hidden valley. Faithful to his word, Elrond came back as often as he could, each time remarking how Falmaramë had grown. Indeed, she became nearly as tall as him, fit and strong from her hours in the forge. She listened intently to his reports of the works in the newfound refuge, which was called Imladris. It was a natural stronghold, set in a deep valley where a swift river ran. In the east was a large circus of stone - a high crest of peaks and glaciers that progressively lowered in a winding valley until, after several miles, narrow gorges became the only way in and out. After that, the river curved through lower hills, until it reached the low lands of Eriador where marshes marked the beginning of Sauron’s dominion. All traffic was made through the Mountain pass and along the eastern way: while Elrond’s host harassed Sauron’s troops in the lowlands, stone workers and architects rejoined Imladris. “This will never be a proper city like Ost-in-Edhil was,” explained Elrond. “There isn’t enough room, to begin with, so we’re building several smaller settlements along the river. But the valley is lovely, sunny and full of flowers in summer; a good place to rest and live.”

This was on Elrond’s third visit. They were sitting outside, on a flat stone on the edge the of lake, enjoying the autumn light. The mountain slopes around them were a fiery hue, awaiting the first snow, but they still reflected like pale flames in the dark water.

“I can’t wait to see it. Khazad Dûm may be my home now, but sometimes I miss being outside. Not for an afternoon or a day one has to plan for in advance, but just being able to get out and walk in the fresh air whenever I fancy.”

“You will absolutely love it there. And there’s so much building left to do once we can properly focus on it; we absolutely need this to give hope to your people, and the war should soon come to an end. After much going to and fro, Númenor will help us. While they join forces with Gil-Galad and attack from the west and the north, we will cut Sauron’s retreat in the east and push him back through Calenardhon in the south. This will be our best opportunity since the fall of Eregion. His forces are spread too thin.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know if we can absolutely defeat him, but we can at least hope to chase him from Eriador. There’s the slight problem of the rings of power.”

Falmaramë closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun before answering, and Elrond noticed how like her father she was becoming. Beside waves of raven black hair was an oval face with a round forehead and high arched brows; her grey eyes could have been his. She didn’t have his high cheekbones, however, and Elrond wondered who in her ancestors had first sported this thin and determined jaw.

“The Three we know of. Most of the Seven have been destroyed, Durin saw to it. It wasn’t easy to convince some of the other houses, but he did it. I saw the remnants of each ring; well, the slag, really. What can the Nine do? Men are said to be weak. We haven’t seen proof of their use yet.”

“You forget the One.”

“The One is linked to him. Sauron is the One, and the One is Sauron. Destroy the One, the other will follow. Or the other way round, it should be the same. And if after killing him the One is still intact, just chuck it in a fire to be sure.”

“So we only have to get to the most powerful being in Middle Earth - the most protected one too - and either kill him or snatch the ring on his finger and melt it,” ironized Elrond. “Easy as stealing cake from an infant. Will you bring your pet dragon to provide the fire?”

Falmaramë had a curt laugh. “Well, if you say it like that. But anyway. I hope you can at least kick him back into Mordor so we can all move to Imladris when I’m of age. Next year.”

“Do you feel ready?”

“I don’t think I will ever be,” she said, sobering up. “I don’t think anyone ever is. But I’ll do my best. It will be hard not to rely on Durin’s advice.”

“You can choose counselors. Indeed, it is the recommended course of action.”

“Now you are the one to pretend something’s hard is easy.” She counted on her fingers. “Beware of courtesans, for they will humour you instead of stopping you when it is necessary. Beware of stuck-ups - Durin calls them something else - for they will push you to violence when leniency is necessary. Beware of cowards, for they will push you to leniency when you should be inflexible. Beware of braggarts, for they will lie and give biased judgments. Beware of the taciturn, for they will fear to speak aloud what may be crucial. Oh, this list sounds better in khuzdûl, now it’s all clumsy and doesn’t rhyme anymore. Anyway, with this, I will be lucky to find enough for a picnic, let alone a council.”

“You are hard. Many wise and honest people will follow you.”

“I’m sure they exist. The problem is how to find them. I can’t yet bring myself to trust any who sat on the Guild, although I do think highly of them, if you get my meaning?”

The freshening wind brought them back inside. As they passed the gate, Falmaramë grabbed Elrond’s arm. “Before you go, you have to come with me to the forge so that I can show you what I’m working on. Will you believe this is the first time none of the Gwaith have any really bad critics to make?”

It was a silver headband, thin and soft as a ribbon in the hand, but a perfect mirror of solid metal when worn. The front was set with several white stones in the shape of the eight-pointed star of Fëanor; above it stood a small cabochon of polished black stone. Two others flanked the star. Elrond didn’t have to ask who they stood for.

It is told elsewhere how, during the following winter, the alliance of Elves and Men drove Sauron from Eriador. Cut from his supplies, harassed relentlessly from three sides, he had no choice but flee to Mordor. His host was disbanded into smaller bands that hid or surrendered, and for a while there was peace.

In the early summer, some days before the shortest night, Falmaramë came of age. Claiming the birthname her father had given her, Telpënar, she received the oaths of the survivors of Eregion. Later on that day, she stood before Durin and gifted him her first complete great work: a crown of blackened mithril that was a wide band engraved with the silhouettes of the Mountains, Barazimbar being central. Over them, she had inlaid white gems following the patterns of constellations over Khazad Dûm, and seven bigger stones were set above. The crown was incredibly light; over the dark metal, the gems shone like white fire. It remained forever in the house of Durin, and was afterwards called the Summer Night.

“This I give in thanks for the protection you gave my people in the time of our greatest need. No treasure can ever repay what the People of Durin did for us. You shed your own blood and gave your own lives to save us, and then accepted us as your own kin in your city and your homes. May your beards grow forever long! Long may Khazad Dûm last. In your hour of need, call, and the house of Fëanor shall come to your help.”

As she bowed low, Durin rose from his throne and took both her hands in his. Golden light poured from the high windows of the great hall and danced between the many pillars, settling over the small silhouette of the King in his silver cape and crown before his tall pupil, who was clad in robes of deep red trimmed with black. “This final lesson I shall give you, lady Falmaramë of the House of Fëanor. I know you beware of your own heart, which can make you overly severe, so this I now say: stay true to yourself. When in doubt, look for wisdom, but also look at your own soul. Do not try to mimic your father, or anyone from your lineage, for you would fail. Be yourself, as your spirit is brave and kind, and you shall prevail.”

Forgetting formalities, Falmaramë knelt, and they embraced before the many onlookers of their two people. When they separated, she felt wordless, so Durin spoke again.

“Go now, child of my friends. Life awaits you.”

As Falmaramë left Durin’s great hall, she was followed by her teachers of the Gwaith that was no more, and all noldorin onlookers. They descended east to the Dimrill Gate, where they rejoined the throng of elves ready to leave Khazad Dûm, and left to rejoin the wide world. Many where caught between hope and tears, for they left dear friends behind. There waited Narvi and Vali; they were to accompany their former charge to the last of the Dwarves’ territory before saying goodbye. Her banners were raised for the first time: a single silver star over a deep blue field, and the long column of exiles soon took to the road towards their new refuge. They left behind the dark mirror of Kheled Zarâm and descended the narrow eastern valley full of brooks and birdsong. With so many people, the going was slow, and night fell as they reached the bottom of the valley and set camp in the wide woods.

“Lórinand is close by,” remarked Narvi. “Where are you set to meet Amdír and the lady Galadriel?”

“A bit further north along the road. We should get there by tomorrow evening.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I beware of them.” And indeed Falmaramë’s brow was furrowed. “But I have to meet them, if only to reassure Amdír that I don’t intend to vie for influence other Lórinand and the Greenwood.”

Narvi pressed her arm. In the firelight, his brown eyes shone with care over his thick beard. “You could have avoided that if you had left by the western gate. The way would have been shorter, too, and it is quite safe now.”

“No. I need to meet them, sooner or later.” After a slight hesitation, she added : “And I do not want to set foot ever again in that vale. It still echoes with my father’s cries.”

Silence fell for a while, and Vali spoke. He was usually a Dwarf of few words, and chose them carefully. “When fate delivered you to our door over four years ago, I am not proud to say I doubted you. I thought your spirit had been broken beyond healing. We do not have children, and I confess I selfishly thought we would get to keep you forever, as your wounds prevented you to take your place among the mighty of this world. I was wrong. While I grieve tonight for these fancies, I am proud of who you have become. Your father’s cries may still ring in your ears - they will for long years to come - but you have learnt to live with your burden. I saw you change from a scared child to a resolute young lady. This pain will always be with you, be part of you, but it didn’t devour you. Your world is now turned upside down again, and I pray to Aulë you find happiness in Imladris, or wherever life leads you.”

Leaning forward, they clasped hands. Falmaramë’s eyes were brimming with tears.

On the morrow, they parted ways. The road to Imladris was uneventful; the meeting with the King of the Wood went well, although Galadriel gave a strange look to Falmaramë when she first saw her. The column of exiled slowly stretched through the mountain foothills; below the Mountain Pass, they met with Elrond and a small group of his counselors, who lead them along the rest of the way.

The hidden valley of Imladris was even fairer that Falmaramë had thought; her heart leaped at the sight of the swift river running white through mossy wood and clear meadow. The summer heat hadn’t yet melted the snow-capped peaks in the distance, and the lower ridges were covered in waist-high grass and flowers of all hues over which swallows cried.

“Welcome home,” said Elrond.

Do not wake the sleeping dragon.

Khazad Dûm saying

Years passed. In the hidden valley of Imladris, the Noldor built fair houses overseeing the river, with scented gardens of lilies and wild roses. Elrond had asked and received permission to stay in the east, as the High King’s envoy to the new lady, and they both dwelt in the main settlement down the valley. It was there, that would later be called the Last Homely House, that one day a messenger arrived from Khazad Dûm, covered with dust from the road, to bring the news of Durin’s death.

Falmaramë was sitting, as was her custom, in a room with a balcony overlooking the river, and where a fresh breeze lifted the long veils over the open windows while the rain outside softly fell. Distressed by the news, she got up and paced. “He must have already been laid to rest, but I would like to travel to his tomb. Durin was a great king, and was nothing but kind to me.”

“Lady,” said the messenger “You are more than welcome to travel back with me. Indeed, Durin had asked that you be invited when his successor was crowned.”

“Then we leave tomorrow morning; unless you wish to rest here a while, and I go alone. I still know the way to Khazad Dûm.”

The messenger bowed. “My masters would reproach me, were I to let you without an escort.”

They rode away the next day by the eastern road, the small company of Elves on high horses and the Dwarf on a good pony. It is said that Falmaramë sat long in silence beside Durin’s stone coffin, where she laid a wreath of flowers that didn’t wither and ever after kept a sweet smell. She saw his successor, the fourth Durin, be chosen and crowned, congratulated him and gave him great gifts, but her heart was sad: her former guardians, Narvi and Vali, had grown old, and she cursed herself for not coming back sooner. They shook their grey beards at this, protesting they were still in their prime and she needn’t worry yet, but she bled with uncertainty as she left. 

With her rode Halarova, tall and dark, his face often smiling, and Alcarinquë, clever and inquisitive, her eyes thoughtful; those two who had still many ties to Khazad Dûm. They were in haste, for the weather was foul and cold, and they pushed their horses until, one day, they met with a herd of people who blocked the road. Some were sitting, while others limped about a horseless cart filled with badly-tied luggage. There was something unusual to their demeanor; tall as Elves they may be, but they looked at the same time extremely young and, for some, unusually old.

“These are Second Born,” said Alcarinquë, steadying her horse.

Falmaramë eyed them with curiosity. “What are they doing here? There is no recorded settlement of theirs close by, although it’s true our archives can be shoddy in these parts.”

The riders’ arrival had sown chaos among the group. Shouting in an unknown language, some grabbed swords and ran forward, standing their ground a few feet before the others. Children started to cry and the unarmed majority huddled close while their defenders repeated their challenge. Something there was something terribly familiar to the three riders, who looked at each other before dismounting. Those people were fleeing from death.

Falmaramë handed her horse to one of her companions and moved back her hood to show her face. “We are friends,” she said in the Common Speech. “We are Elves. Who are you?”

She was only met with puzzled looks. As she walked towards the Men, holding her hands in the air so she didn’t touch the sword at her side, they stiffened and kept their own weapons pointed to her. “Oh, for crying out loud,” she said, and removed her sword belt so that it fell to the ground. “There. I’m unarmed. I’m a friend. Mellon, meldë, fedhin, serme,friend.”

The Second Born spoke within themselves, using several time a word that sounded like fedhin, but deformed and changed. 

“I swear, these people must invent a whole new language every century or so,” commented Halarova. “Or at least it is what it feels like.”

“Hold your tongue” ordered Falmaramë. “They’re answering.”

After much effort from both sides, some drawing on the ground, and the help of a woman who knew a bit of Common Speech, the refugees were able to tell their story. They had indeed had a village not far from here, called Ham, that had once been prosperous - until it fell under the attention of a dragon several decades ago. After much destruction, a young farmer had bested the worm and captured him, stealing part of his hoard in the process and afterwards keeping him in chains in the village. Hearing this, the three Elves winced, for dragons are notoriously resentful when publicly humiliated. But the tale wasn’t finished: from hero, the farmer became kinglet; twelve were tasked with keeping the dragon prisoner and feeding him. After some decades, in his old age, the farmer-king gave the worm back his freedom, and the dragon left, unable to fly and barely capable to walk, with a promise not to seek revenge against his old captor. When the farmer died a few years later, however, the dragon came back with a vengeance, which surprised everyone, except the Elves listening to the account. Everything was burnt down; the survivors barely escaped with their lives and then gathered some provisions and carts from a nearby encampment before deciding to head south and seek more clement weather.

“Don’t go south,” advised Falmaramë. “There’s people there who don’t care for the Second Born. Go east and find your lost kin in the low hills before the woods.”

She had many questions, that the Second Born answered best as they could. The dragon’s name was Culutir Larëa, they were sure of it, although they pronounced it badly. His den was somewhere in the mountains. Not too far, they thought; they didn’t know exactly where. As far as they knew, the worm was still in their ruined village, probably sleeping away the several people he had devoured.

All this left Falmaramë quite pensive, until she said: “We should take care of this dragon for them.”

“You can’t be serious, my lady,” answered Alcarinquë. “They deserve their fate, nay, they repeatedly asked for it. This is no business of ours. Besides, we are certainly not equipped to go dragon hunting right now.”

“Think, Alcarinquë, you are usually brighter than that. Following the road, we are still several days away from Imladris, because we need to find the Mountain Pass up north and then head south again. But if this worm’s den is up the mountain, not far from here, he must be actually quite close to our home. He can fly in a straight line while we have to wind about. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy a dragon in my backyard.”

At that, her companions blanched.

“I think we were extremely lucky that he was wounded and, from the look of it, unable to take to the air until recently. We are even more lucky that he chose to exact his revenge first, before checking his former dominion for new tenants. We must act, and we must act now; if we go back home first, eight or ten days at least for the round trip, he may move before us.”

“But what can we do? These people can’t help us.”

“I may have an idea, but I need to think about it first. Go tend to the wounded. In the meantime, I’ll enquire some more.”

After a while, Falmaramë rejoined her companions, an unusual glint in her eye. “They told me how to find their village. Put on your finery from Durin’s coronation, leave your weapons here, and follow me.”

“No blades?” protested Halarova.

“These wouldn’t pierce a dragon’s hide anyway, and I need us to look entirely peaceful. Come, I’ll explain on the way.”

Soon after, the grey winter countryside witnessed the strangest party to cross it. Falmaramë led on her great black horse, dressed in dark robes embroidered with gold and gems; she wore a diamond necklace, and a matching circlet was on her brow. On her wrist she carried a heavy mithril bangle bracelet, large and set with rubies, and while it was far too big for her arm it never slid away. Beside her, her two companions looked nearly as resplendent, or would have if their sullen mines had matched her look of equanimity.

They soon got to the charred ruins of Ham. The smoke and the ash still in the air made them cough; while the wooden houses must have been entirely different from the stone halls of Ost-in-Edhil, the three travelers still felt their hearts sink with recognition. “You’re right, my lady,” finally said Alcarinquë. “We have to help them.”

“Why, thank you, Alcarinquë,” said Falmaramë, getting lightly off her horse and leading him by the bridle. “From now on we’ll lead the horses, never mind the mud; I don’t want them to be spooked and run away.”

The dragon was easy to find. He laid, curled up like a cat, on what had been the market place, and over whatever treasure he had been able to find in the ruins. It is said that the vision of a dragon sleeping on his pile of gold is one of awe and terror, but this one was really a bit sad, for his pile barely stuck out from under his belly. The dragon himself, however, was still dragon enough to inspire a fearsome respect; while rather small for his kind, he was nevertheless over ten yards long, with a pointy tail curled around thin and scaly paws. His bright green wings adorned with golden patterns were now folded on his back and, for now, his head rested beside his front legs, with a dented suit of armor for a pillow. He was snoring lightly when the small group stopped at a respectful distance.

“O, Culutir Larëa, great Culutir Larëa, please awake!” called Falmaramë.

Stirring, the dragon slowly opened his great golden eyes, slitted like a snake’s; Falmaramë immediately avoided his gaze, focusing instead on his nostrils. The beast gave a great and lazy yawn, and his jaws were amazing. When at last he spoke, his low voice rumbled the earth.

“Well, well, well, I must be dreaming still, for I believe three elves are standing before me, clad as princes. What tasty morsels these will be.”

Falmaramë curtsied as low as her robes would allow, spreading them to show the rich fabric, while her companions knelt on one knee, looking only to the ground.

“O, fearsome and noble Culutir Larëa,” purred Falmaramë “look! We come unarmed to pay our respects to you, who are said to be the new most terrible scourge of these lands.”

“And who would you be, elf woman? What house do you serve?”

“O, most terrible dragon, I am but a a simple smith cast from Eregion, a sea-bird torn from her home by cruel winds. I have no kin and answer to none. I was taught by the best but am part of no guild.”

At these words, the worm rose, and slowly walked around the group, thinking aloud while his tail slashed in a lazy way. “Eregion? That means the house of Fëanor. Last I heard of them, they were in trouble. How do you answer to none? Don’t you serve Celebrimbor?”

“Alas, amazing and wonderful Culutir Larëa, Celebrimbor died when Eregion fell, and his Guild has disbanded. We of Eregion have long been homeless, relying on the kindness of strangers for food and cover. Only now do we think of rebuilding, O great one, and we are looking for new ways of life.”

“But what is your name!” the green dragon growled, for in a true name is power.

“I am the one who survived. I am the charge of the dwarves, the student of the lost, the friend of the bereaved. I am the twin star, the winter bird and the silver flame. But above and beyond, I am my own.”

“Humpf. And what brings you here with these two?”

“News travel fast. We heard your story - this daunting tale of your past generosity and present terror - and humbly propose to serve you. As I said, we are trying to change our ways.”

With a slow, menacing, snarl, the dragon brought his head close to Falmaramë and said: “Pray tell, what kind of story did you hear?”

“We heard that, many years ago, a farmer from these parts defied you, and lost, and that in a fit of unprecedented generosity you spared his life. Not only that, but you made him your servant, and made this place your usual abode, bringing him counsel for many years while twelve likely lads served you. But, after his death, his people refused to give back the treasures earned thanks to you, and you took swift and terrible action against them.”

“True, true,” agreed the dragon. “They took my treasure, well, part of it, and now I have it back. My, erm, agreement was only ever to Giles, after all. And how do you propose to serve me, elf woman, a simple smith from Eregion?”

“I don’t know,” answered Falmaramë, spreading her hands. “First, we could help you bring back these riches to your cave. Then, you tell us. We can forge new treasures for you, if you would give us the means. With your strength and power at our backs, nothing would be impossible. If you will heed my advice, I can promise you will see faraway lands, new people, and new opportunities you have no idea of.”

The dragon paced for a bit, thinking; after all, these were only unarmed elves, what danger could there be? Now, he was a young dragon who had only heard tales of his forefathers’ battles against the Noldor and, while he would have been wary of knights with swords and lances, those in front of him didn’t look exactly menacing. Besides, his hoard really needed to be filled up, and these fools seemed to enjoy riding through the mud in princely clothes, so who knew what riches they hid in their bags? Hearing his story retold in such a flattering way pleased him, too, for it was way better to be thought the wise liege of a powerful man than a farmer’s prisoner. Although benevolence was more of an insult to a dragon, it was a step up from having been a prisoner tied up for sixty-odd years like a chicken ready to cook. But still, he had heard of the Noldor’s cunning, and some assurance was needed.

“Look me in the eye, sea-bird torn from her home, and swear it.”

Falmaramë rose - she was beginning to cramp - and looked the dragon straight in his great eye. His presence suddenly felt like a cold hand on her throat; it took all of her strength to resist his spell.

“I swear to you, o Culutir Larëa the abominable, that I will serve you until such time as you see fit to free me. With me by your side, I swear you will encounter treasures of a power you are not even guessing, and that your future will change in unforeseeable ways. This I swear on my birth name.”

They gathered most of the village loot on their horses and followed the dragon along a small road. They were indeed headed straight towards and up the Mountains. When night fell, they stopped beside the path, and neither party fully slept that night, so mistrustful they were of each other.

The morning was as clear as the day before had been wet. A slight frost had touched the grass, hardening the mud and, despite some curling tendrils of mist below, the Elves were able to spot in the distance the familiar shape of a peak that stood over Imladris. They exchanged silent looks and soon got ready to depart.

They got to the dragon’s lair in the early afternoon. After unloading the horses, however, they declined to get inside. “What, am I not your liege?” cried the worm. “Do you doubt me?”

“Not so,” answered shrewdly Falmaramë. “I fear the sight of your many treasures would drive my comrades unsteady. Better not to expose ourselves to gold-lust; the Dwarves are not the only one susceptible to it, and my people has been known to grow mad over treasures.”

“And better not get trapped,” muttered Halarova. His friend Alcarinquë stepped on his toes to remind him to be quiet.

“Now, most dreadful Culutir Larëa, how can I best serve you?”

The dragon gave a low growl. “I want to test your skill. I’ll bring out a portable forge that found its way to me - quite a useless thing for someone without thumbs, but I’ve always liked its shape.”

Indeed, the forge was of excellent make - dwarven, although not from Khazad Dûm, as it bore the mark of the Ered Mithrin. The Elves cut some dead wood from a nearby grove, which turned to coal after being exposed to a flameless breath from Culutir Larëa, and were soon able to get the embers glowing. It would be wrong to say Falmaramë wasn’t thrilled to work with dragon-embers; they were rumored to have special properties, but it was a difficult theory to test, for obvious reasons. She had changed from her finery to more reasonable attire, but still kept the big silver bracelet, and feigned not to notice the curious gaze of the dragon as he remarked it. With the forge came tools and a small jewelry bench, all sturdy and well taken care of, despite traces of use. They must have been someone’s travel favourite, many years before. The hammer and tongues sat comfortably in Falmaramë’s hand as she waited for the dragon’s orders, and her companions stood ready to action the bellows.

First, she mended a belt, broken at the buckle, an easy task. Then there was an armour of metal plates interlaced in an unusual design, as ancient as it was heavy. When she was finished, she commented that it ought to be lacquered next, to avoid corrosion. Lastly, she was asked to mend a fine necklace set with green stones, some of which were loose, and with many missing links through the chain. By the time she was done, two days had passed, and night had fallen again; the only source of light were the embers that cast a reddish hue on the Elves, lighting strange reflections in their eyes. Culutir Larëa’s shadow was immense on the mountain wall.

“You did not lie,” did he say. “You are a smith of some skill.”

“That was nothing. Ask me to melt a blade from Gondolin, and change it into a living flame that will bite into its enemies. Give me mithril and steel, and you will have chainmail to protect your belly, so light you won’t feel its weight while flying.” And, as an afterthought, she added: “Give me time, and I will make you a Ring of Power.”

The dragon slid closer to Falmaramë and hissed. She was kneeling beside the forge, soot on her hands and brow, a serene look on her face.

“Now you are lying,” uttered Culutir Larëa. “Only the Dark Lord gives these away.”

“No. He taught us much in Eregion, and we remember. He only ever did the One. All the others we made ourselves, and those he stole from us.”

“That’s impossible. And even if it were true, are not all Rings under his dominion?”

“They are. But would you not rather be his trusted captain, instead of crawling here in some hole in the ground? Would you not rather be the equal of Ancalagon the Black, or of Glaurung of cursed memory?”

Tempted, the dragon shivered and inched closer still. The slight tremor made the light dance over his half-open green-and-gold wings. He argued still, trying to hide the sudden hunger in his eyes.

“Why not make a ring for yourself, then? Why did you come and seek me?”

“Can I fly? Can I rain fire on my enemies, or swat them like insects? Nay. But you can. If I were to forge a ring for myself, I would soon be overpowered by those who have forbidden this knowledge and then be banished, or worse, before completing my task. Working here with you would be safe; you would protect me while I toiled to our mutual benefit. As for the ring, I dread to think of its power when worn by a dragon such as yourself. It would be a work of art, of terrifying and deadly art.”

“But can you really do it? It would take more than skill, it would take power such as few possess.”

“Look at this,” answered Falmaramë, showing her wrist. “This is a training piece I made when I was a child. Quite simple, really - I mostly wanted a bracelet that never fell from my arm, but I added a few, ahem, hidden features.”

The jewel shone red in the embers light; it was of a polished mithril alloy engraved with many runes. In the half shadow, the red stones seemed to burn with a dark fire; as he gazed upon them, the dragon felt an aura of menace. Now, if he hadn’t been so taken with the idea of becoming a scourge whose destructive tendencies would long be remembered into song, he might have noticed that menace was indeed aimed at him, but he was too far gone.

“Would you like to try it on? I think it would fit quite snuggly on your forepaw.”

Pushing a concealed button, Falmaramë opened the bracelet, that now looked like two crescents moons joined at the tip. She held it to the dragon’s inspection and, after his muttered agreement, shut it closed on his forepaw at the wrist.

The dragon howled in pain, his roar echoing to the ends of the valley, and fell to the ground. Falmaramë had gotten up and held his paw to the ground under her foot as he withered. His big tail slashed aimlessly; when he tried to spit fire, he found that he didn’t have the strength.

“What is this thing, elf woman? What have you done to me!”

“Release me from my oath first.”

“No,” halted Culutir Larëa. “You swore, may your doom find you.”

“Release me or I leave it on. Even if you were to gnaw your paw away, the pain would still be there, as long as you live, for the bracelet will never slip away from you - unless I open it.”

The dragon suffered several minutes of agony before relenting. “You, who never told me your name, I release you from your oath to me, and I do not curse you anew although you have earned it. Now, will you remove this thing from me?”

“One other condition. You will leave these parts forever. Fly north and never turn back.”

“Yes, yes, anything! I swear on my true name!”

At this, Falmaramë bent and activated the bracelet mechanism, which opened. The scales below had turned black. She picked up the jewel and clasped it back to her own wrist.

The dragon crawled away; his force was quite spent, and he closed his eyes while his enemy spoke again in a clear voice.

“I lay this doom upon you: for as long as you shall stay in the north, where the snow hangs low in summer and the long nights are lit with sky-fire, you shall prosper. There are many abandoned riches in these forgotten lands and they will provide you with a bigger hoard than you ever had here, treasures of gold and amber the likes of which you have never seen. However, should you ever come south again, you shall meet your fate, by the hand of one who isn’t born yet.”

Without a word, Culutir Larëa got up and opened his wings with great effort before flying away.

Sighing, Falmaramë lied down on the cold earth and rubbed her hands on her face. “I’m exhausted. We should just sleep here tonight.”

“It’s not safe here in the open, though,” said Halarova.

“Oh he’s gone for good, don’t worry. He was a coward and a fool, eaten by his desire for vengeance and glory. I wouldn’t have stood a chance against a more calculating one, damn was I foolish. If you ever hear me speak of tricking a dragon again, please stop me.”

“What would you have done if he had refused to try the bracelet on?”

“I don’t know. Played for time, surely, waited for him to fall asleep and sneak upon him, perhaps.”

There was hesitation in Halarova’s voice when he asked his next question. “Do you really know how to forge Rings of Power?”

Falmaramë turned her head and looked at him. “Why do you want to know?”

Her companion turned red and didn’t answer, so she continued to speak. “It wouldn’t be a solution, you know. Those we still hold to can’t be used openly, because Sauron might seize them and use them against us. Any new one would suffer the same fate. But to answer your question, yes, I was taught ring lore, although I don’t intend to ever use it. I don’t yet possess the power to make a Great Ring, although a lesser one I might. But these things are too dangerous. I will never forge one.”

Alcarinquë, who had left to explore the cave, then came back, carrying a few things. “There’s too much inside to properly search it, but I found these trinkets on top that are Eregion-made. Lots of Dwarven production too, as can be expected on the old road to the Ered Mithrin. What shall we do with the rest?”

“Leave everything for the Second Born, if they want to use it to rebuild, or barter their way wherever. What did you find?”

There was a shining sword with a cold sheen on the blade, a few necklaces set with colorful gems, and a cup. “There seems to be much more” explained Alcarinquë, “but a lot of it was crushed under the dragon’s weight. I’ll never understand these creatures, who amass such treasures of workmanship only to treat them so poorly.”

“Well, the village people will have to bargain for them by weight. It can’t be helped.” commented Falmaramë while examining the sword. “Look, Halarova, isn’t this your mark below the hilt?”

Her companion took the hilt and, delighted, said: “Oh indeed. Fancy finding you here, my pretty friend. Now you could pierce a dragon’s hide, unlike your lesser sibling I left with those Second Born.”

“Do you remember who you made it for?”

“Unfortunately, no, and they must have suffered an untimely fate for their weapon to end up here. But I know I made it some time before the war.” After a puzzled look from his lady, he added: “I had one of these periods, oh you know them, when you stubbornly try the same thing over and over again. I was convinced for a while that leaf-shaped blades were the best thing ever, but it didn’t last. I think I’ll keep that one, though, since it found its way back to me.”

When morning came, they went back down the valley and found the waiting refugees. The news of the dragon’s departure were greeted with appropriate rejoicing, and the people immediately set to return to their destroyed land. The Elves told them how to find the treasure in the dragon’s lair, and got their weapons back - except for Halarova, who gave his old sword to the lass who had guarded it. “It’s prettier than deadly, but against normal foes it shall serve you well. Don’t try it on a dragon, though,” did he explain. The small troop then left, refusing to stay for an impromptu party, and found their way back to Imladris without further impediment.

*

During the following decades, Falmaramë travelled more often to Khazad Dûm; every few autumns, she went to the new year festivities and stayed some weeks. Little by little, Vali and Narvi grew older, until one day another messenger came, bearing news of illness, and she left, leaving Elrond in charge, as she intended to stay with her old guardians until need passed. She thus took care of them until they both died a few weeks apart, first Narvi of a wasting disease, and then Vali, of a broken heart. 

“Cry not for what is lost,” said he. “Be happy instead that we met, and rejoice for what that was.”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Falmaramë, drying her cheeks. “But you’re leaving for a place where I can’t follow. Mandos does not allow his guests to visit other halls.”

“Who knows what he has in store for us. When the world ends, and we Aulë’s children are called to rebuild it, I wouldn’t be surprised to find you and your kin there.” Vali smiled. “Didn’t your ancestor create these amazing jewels capable to heal the world, and now lost to the sky, sea, and earth? We might yet meet again, foster daughter of mine.”

Voiceless, Falmaramë could only hug him tight; he passed away the next day without having spoken again. As was the dwarven custom when mourning parents, Falmaramë rented her clothes over her heart and, for the third time now, sat in silence for seven days. Visitors brought her little comfort; while she accepted them for her guardians’ sake, she realised she barely knew them anymore. Those she had known as children when she lived in Khazad Dûm had now adult children of their own, and their lives were alien to her; despite the longevity of Durin’s Folk, she keenly felt the swiftness of mortal generations. When her mourning period was over, she left in haste, knowing in her heart that until oaths on either sides were called again, she would never come back to Khazad Dûm, deep and mighty below the mountain.

A few days after her return to Imladris, some former members of the Gwaith requested a formal audience with Falmaramë. Surprised and wary, she granted it, and received them in one of the wide rooms with windows looking to the mountains. Slender pillars of white stone supported a vaulted ceiling painted blue with golden stars; at the far end of the room a dais was raised under a carving of the Two Trees of Valinor. Between the Trees shone the eight-pointed star, and below the star sat Falmaramë on a high wooden chair, her silver star band on her brow, over robes the deep red of cooling embers. As such audiences were public, many onlookers were present, but they were more numerous than usual, and that made her circumspect. Even before she left, there had been unrest in some circles, and Elrond’s reports had done little to still her fears.

Stepping forward, Elenello the seneschal announced the lords Ostimir, Ahtion, and Aldamir. The crowd parted to let them pass; they stopped in the empty space below the dais with a deep bow. As was customary, Falmaramë asked them to state their grievance.

“My lady, we wish to be released from our oaths to you.”

A murmur of shock went through the crowd. Unmoved, Falmaramë settled more comfortably in her chair, and asked why.

“We feel the house of Fëanor is no longer the best one for us.”

“Ah, this is a problem, for allegiances are not ruled by mere convenience. However, maybe I have failed in my duties to you, and you might therefore be relieved on that account? Let’s review them, shall we.”

The three smiths looked sideways at each other. This wasn’t the answer they had expected.

“Do I give you shelter? I seem to recall that all of you live in one of the newer places upriver, close to the waterfalls. Are the walls shaky? Do the roofs leak? I remember going over the plans with the architects and not noticing anything awry. Or maybe your apartments are too small?”

Embarrassed, the one called Ahtion said: “No, my lady, there is nothing wrong with our homes.”

“Good. What can it be, then? Perhaps you are not fed to your satisfaction. It is true we grow few crops here; however, I have set up a treaty with Second Born farmers in Eriador to make up the difference. Did they not send enough grain? If they didn’t hold up their word, I will personally deal with them.”

This time, Aldamir was the one to answer. “No, there is no famine here, my lady.”

“Then I wonder why you ask to be released from your oaths, because I see no other motive. You are definitely clothed - and quite richly, too. The valley is well guarded and no foe threatens us because of a negligence of mine. I, or my deputy, stand here each month to dispense justice to the wronged and uphold our ancient laws.”

After a pause, she went on, calculating grey eyes set on the three standing men. “Anyway, what would you do if you were released from your oaths? What other House would you join? Oh, maybe that’s it, maybe you are marrying away.”

“We would not join another great House, but rather live freely,” said Ahtion.

“How very brave of you,” praised his lady. “Considering you would have to leave Imladris without guarantee of shelter elsewhere. Middle Earth is a dangerous place, and I have always admired those who tried to live on their own. Orcs, beasts, hunger… so many enemies at large.”

“Excuse me, my lady,” interrupted Ahtion. “Why couldn’t we stay?”

“Well, you know the custom - that you helped teach me if I may point out. A ruling lord or lady is under no obligation to shelter those who don’t belong either to her own house or an allied one. This means that only those who hail from the three great Houses have their place here.” Leaning forward, she added: “And since you appear to have had enough of me, I wouldn’t insult your feelings by offering you any kind of help. It would also be my pleasure to inform Gil-Galad of your decision, as well as the lady Galadriel. Although, being herself the guest of Amdír of Lórinand, she would hardly be in a position to help you anyway.”

Emboldened, Ostimir said: “We actually do not think this custom applies to our case.”

“Oh? Do tell me your reasons, then,” answered Falmaramë.

Boldly, Ostimir stepped forward and said: “This custom is only relevant when the head of House is competent, which I say you are not, for you neglect your duties. Not only did you leave on a whim but, while you were gone, you left no proper substitute.”

He should have noticed the way she pensively rested a cheek on her finger, and the way her breath slowed. He didn’t, but some in the assistance did, and shuffled a bit to the back of the room. When she spoke, the silence was absolute. Her voice was amiable as ever, but there was a slight edge to it.

“It is true I have been absent these last few months - less than a year. I pity you if you think assistance to the sick and care to the cherished to be mere whims. What would my leadership be worth if I neglected more ancient and sacred bonds? Who would I be, if I repaid generosity by selfishness, or love by abandon? Then I would indeed be unworthy to be your lady, unworthy of my name and heritage. If you cannot conceive this, then indeed our values differ. Beside, didn’t I leave the lord Elrond to be my steward in my absence? You were hardly abandoned.”

“That’s it, my lady,” hurried Ostimir. “Elrond Half-elven is a poor choice of substitute.”

“And why would that be? Answer swiftly, for you are testing my patience.”

“To begin with, he isn’t, well he is, only half-elven. How can one of mixed race be left in charge of the eldest house of the Noldor? He isn’t even really an Eldar, he’s a mongrel.”

Throughout the years, the three smiths had seen Falmaramë in many moods. She had an excellent grip on her emotions albeit, to those who knew her well, she was easy enough to read. They had thus seen her elated, happy and sad; worried, thoughtful or curious. However, as they now looked at her, it suddenly dawned upon them that they had never seen her angry.

“Go on,” she said, through clenched teeth.

Turning pale, Ostimir looked at the other two for help, and found none. So, he continued.

“Besides, he hails from the house of Fingolfin. It isn’t wise to mix the great Houses, how are we to know he is of good faith?”

“Now it is you who are of bad faith,” enunciated his lady. “You can’t claim at the same time that he is no Eldar and that he is cousin to the King. You make no sense. You speak from a grudge.”

She rose suddenly and descended from her dais to get closer to the smiths, who recoiled in front of a flaming rage she wasn’t even trying to conceal.

“The lord Elrond gave me his word, and I know him for a competent administrator. How dare you slight him, who is of the blood of Lúthien? Who was himself raised by my father’s uncles? How dare you defy my choice? Perhaps you would have preferred I had appointed you. Well, you’re out of luck, you of the Gwaith-í-Mirdain: I don’t want anyone to invite a pupil of Morgoth in my halls while I’m gone.”

Rumour rose and fell like a gust of wind in the assistance as Ostimir answered, sweating.

“Elenatta, that’s…”

“Shut up. You may not call me by my nickname. You shall call me lady Falmaramë; or lady Telpënar if you feel formal. So, tell me, why do you think I am unfit to rule over you? Is it really because of the lord Elrond being my steward?”

“I…”

“Or is it because you mourn the power you lost when the Gwaith was disbanded? Because you would like to rule, yourself, in my stead?”

Ahtion and Aldamir looked at each other in a panic and knelt without a word as Falmaramë continued, her burning gaze set on Ostimir’s face. Treason was the highest offense, punishable by complete banishment from any and all noldorin and allied lands - no shelter, even temporary, no help, nothing.

“Power is strange. Too little of it, as you once tasted, leaves you desperate for more. But look at me. I asked for nothing, yet received everything. Kneel, Ostimir, and renew your oath to me, because I think you may have forgotten a few words of it.”

Ostimir looked around and only then noticed his kneeling companions; Aldamir pulled him down by his robes, and he fell reluctantly to his knee before they all repeated their oaths. Once it was done, they were dismissed and Falmaramë withdrew, sending at once for Elrond.

He found her in her rooms, a bottle of strong wine and two cups set in front of her.

“This is worse than we thought,” she stated. “Although the other four haven’t followed Ostimir and his pets, which issomething, I suppose. Here, have a drink. I do need one after that scene.”

She recounted what had happened, and sighed, resting her back on her chair.

“Well,” said Elrond “thank you for defending me. It would have been easier to sacrifice me and give them a bone to gnaw by sending me back to Lindon.”

“Are you serious? You’re an elder brother to me. I’m not sending you away to appease some fools.”

“Fools who very nearly attempted to overthrow you today. No one would fault you if you were to banish them.”

“Not yet,” answered Falmaramë, emptying her cup. “Ostimir and his wide mouth have too many followers that would either go with him or stay and sow more dissent. I’m not ready to loose that many to the wilderness. But I have no clue on how to change their minds.”

“Today’s display of authority might help. Publicly renewing their oaths was a good idea.”

“Display of authority,” grimly laughed his friend. “That was a public humiliation, and one they won’t forget. Well, Ahtion and Aldamir will probably lay low, but Ostimir… if looks could kill, right now I would be drinking with Mandos instead of you. If Mandos drinks, which I agree is doubtful.”

Giving a swirl to the wine in his cup, Elrond stated flatly: “You could write to Gil-Galad for help. All of those who are not Ostimir have a least some degree of respect for him.”

“And what would he do? Say ‘hey, please be kind to your poor lady’? They would see this as a weakness. It would make everything worse.”

“Oh please,” scoffed Elrond. “He’s more subtle than that. He is a man of few words, but they usually hit right. He’s also long overdue for a visit to Imladris, and his public support would do a lot. There’s nothing wrong to admit we’re at the end of our wits and need an outsider to calm this particular nest of vipers.”

They drank in silence while Falmaramë thought about it. When she spoke again, however, it was on another subject altogether, one that made her frown.

“You know, dragging them down like that… it was easy. Too easy. And it shouldn’t have felt that good.”

“Really?”

Without answering, she removed her headband and looked at the star, caressing it with absent fingers, until she was able to articulate her thought. “There were some nasty people in my family. I wonder if this is how Curufin felt when he overthrew Finrod. This… joy at crushing someone, at seeing them squirm and kneel. And he was said to be the one most like Fëanor himself.”

“And you’re his granddaughter, who shares his looks.”

Nodding, Falmaramë rested her elbows on the table, still holding the jewel. “Sometimes, I wonder if my father didn’t set up the guild to avoid just that. Give them enough power to offset any rash tendencies he might have had. If you are only a lone voice among twelve, even if you have the final say, it’s harder to abuse your authority.”

Elrond leaned and took the headband from her, studying it closely. “Not all the sons of Fëanor were usurpers and would-be rapists. Maedhros and Maglor were decent persons.”

“And what does it say of a family when its two best members are so wracked by guilt over their crimes that they commit suicide?”

“Nothing,” said Elrond, showing her the jewel. “Because they’re not your family. These three small black stones, now, that’s who they are. Your father was a good man who always tried his best. Your mother was the kindest and most thoughtful person I ever knew. Your brother, well, he could be a brat sometimes, but who wasn’t at his age? I certainly was worse. And Narvi and Vali, who could sing enough their praise? All of them, they’re all the family one can dream of. And none of them drew blood during any of the Kinslayings. Do not worry. You’re not Curufin. So, please, don’t let yourself get walked over just to prove it.”

With a sight, Falmaramë put her hand on Elrond’s and pressed it. “I won’t. You’re right, as often: I’ll write to Gil-Galad in the morning. We need somebody new to diffuse the tension.”