Gone by grey_gazania

Gone

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Ianneth was in her chambers in Mithlond, sitting on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands and trying not to let the gaping, aching hollow in her heart overwhelm her. She had always known, every time her daughter had gone to war, that Gil-galad might not come back. But acknowledging that possibility was nothing like knowing for certain that her daughter was really gone, lost to shadow and fire just like Fingon, her father. The pain was unbearable, overwhelming, like a great wave had crashed down on Ianneth and knocked her off her feet.

 

The grief had been hard enough to live with in Imladris, when Elrond and Círdan had returned from Mordor bearing the news of Sauron’s defeat and Gil-galad’s death. But here in Mithlond it was amplified tenfold, because everywhere Ianneth looked, some part of her still half-expected to see her daughter, turning a corner in the corridors or knocking on Ianneth’s door, carrying their usual evening tea.

 

That thought was interrupted by the sound of someone actually knocking at her door, and Ianneth’s heart leapt for a moment and, just as quickly, sank again.

 

“Lady Ianneth? May I come in?”

 

She crossed the room and opened the door to find Erestor standing there, carrying a tray that held a bowl of chowder, some bread, and a jug of mulled cider.

 

“You haven’t been eating much lately,” he said by way of explanation. “I’ve been worried about you. We’re all a little worried about you. So I thought I’d bring you dinner and keep you company.” His voice was gentle as he added, “It’s not good to spend so much time alone with your grief.”

 

Something in Ianneth’s chest eased at his words, like a knot that, while still tied, had been granted a little slack. She should have known Erestor would come. He had been one of Gil-galad’s closest friends and most trusted advisors, and Ianneth had known him since he was a small child in Eglarest, before Beleriand was destroyed in the War of Wrath.

 

She stood aside, allowing him to enter, and closed the door behind him. Carefully, he set the tray down on one end of the parlor table and then took the opposite seat.

 

In truth, Ianneth wasn’t all that hungry. There was an empty space inside her, but it wasn’t the kind that food could fill. Still, Erestor had taken the time to bring her a meal, and courtesy alone would have dictated that she at least try to eat it, for gratitude’s sake if nothing else.

 

So she took a spoonful, and then another, noticing that the broth was creamy and the clams were tender. She had to admit that clams and shellfish were one thing she had missed during her time in Imladris. After so many years of dwelling by the sea, living inland had been an adjustment. There were clams in the Bruinen, yes, but freshwater clams were nigh inedible.

 

“Thank you,” she said softly, now dipping a piece of bread in the soup. “It’s been hard.” Then, abruptly, she buried her face in her hands once more, tears stinging at her eyes.

 

“I know,” Erestor said. “It’s been hard for me, too. But she was your daughter. Of course your grief would be strongest.” He rummaged in his pocket and produced a clean handkerchief, which he passed across the table.

 

Using it to wipe her streaming eyes, Ianneth said, “I keep expecting to see her. This entire city feels wrong without her here. It was hard in Imladris, because the grief was fresh, but at least there I didn’t have this constant, subconscious expectation of her presence.”

 

 “I know what you mean,” Erestor said, pouring a glass of cider and pressing it into Ianneth’s hands. “That’s part of why I’ve decided to leave, if I’m honest. Glorfindel is coming with me. I wanted to ask if you wished to accompany us.”

 

At that, Ianneth’s heart sank once more. She supposed she should have expected this; Henthael had already told her that he planned to sail West at the first opportunity, saying that with his king dead, he had no reason left to stay. But she hadn’t thought Erestor would go. He still had family on these shores. But perhaps his kin planned to sail as well.

 

“I appreciate the offer, but there’s nothing for me in Valinor,” she said, shaking her head.

 

“Oh, no,” Erestor interjected quickly. “Not Valinor. We’re going to Imladris to dwell with Elrond. He said any of us were welcome at any time, and I thought I'd invite you along. It might be good for you to spend some time away from Mithlond.” His eyes were sad as he said, “There won’t be so many echos there. There won’t be so many ghosts.”

 

Imladris. That was a far more appealing idea than Valinor. And Ianneth had always been fond of Elrond, who had adopted her as a second mother when they lived on Balar. She still wasn’t certain how she felt about him turning down the title of High King – after all, it had always been tacitly understood that he was Gil-galad’s heir – but perhaps he felt that the elves of Lindon no longer needed a king, and that Círdan was ruler enough for them. Besides, while Elrond was a skilled leader, his heart had always truly lain in scholarship and the healing arts.

 

She took a sip of her cider and another mouthful of chowder, more for something to do with her hands than out of genuine hunger. “It’s a tempting idea,” she admitted. “When do you leave?”

 

“In a few weeks,” Erestor said. “Once we’ve put everything in order here. I can’t speak for Glorfindel, but I for one am planning to stay in Imladris for good, until it’s time for us to depart from these shores altogether. And I'm sure Elrond would be pleased to see you regardless of whether you stay for a season or stay for good. He cares deeply for you, you know.” Erestor fell silent for a moment, and then, softly, added, “You're not alone, my lady. I hope you know that.”

 

At that, tears welled up in Ianneth’s eyes once more, and she took refuge in the borrowed handkerchief. Erestor was right. She wasn’t alone. There were people who cared for her, people who shared her grief – Círdan, Elrond, Erestor himself. But her daughter was still gone.

 

“She doesn’t even have a grave,” Ianneth whispered, her voice quavering. Just like her father, she nearly added, but even in her grief, she knew that that wasn’t a fair comparison. Fingon’s body had been defiled, beaten into the dust by Morgoth’s orcs until there was nothing left of him to bury. Gil-galad’s body had been burned by her friends, with respect and proper prayers.

 

“I’m sorry,” Erestor said, reaching out and gently taking one of her hands in his own. He squeezed her fingers and said, “Come to Imladris with us.”

 

“Yes,” Ianneth agreed, returning the gesture. “Some time in Imladris would be good for me. For both of us.” The dark grief knotted up inside her chest had eased somewhat, now that a decision had been made, and she released Erestor’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, “for looking out for me.”

 

Erestor smiled – a small smile, but a genuine one, the first Ianneth had seen on his face since they’d returned to Mithlond – and said, “You’re my best friend’s mother. I’ve known you practically my entire life. I would never leave you to struggle through this alone. Now, eat up, please, my lady? For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

 

That coaxed something close to a smile out of Ianneth, and she nodded, picked up her spoon, and returned to her meal.

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Chapter End Notes

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