The Last Heir of Fëanor by Astrance

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1 - The Child of Eregion

Where Eregion falls and one looses all in the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil

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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.