The Last Heir of Fëanor by Astrance

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3 - Of Dragons and Men

Where some throw caution to the wind, with dissimilar results.

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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.”