Burning Bright: The Road by Keiliss

Prologue

The water rippled about the craft, wavelets lifting against the sides in endless eddies. Soft, white clouds, shading to grey, played chase with the sun across a clean-washed sky. The dolphins that had followed him all day had moved off to play or perhaps to hunt dinner, he had no idea which. There had been no birds since the great sea bird of the morning, of a kind he seemed to recall was named an albatross. He had offered it salted fish, but after circling the boat a while it left unfed.

He had no idea how long it was since he set sail from Tol Eressëa, heading east across the Great Ocean that surrounded the Undying Lands. It was somehow easier to keep track of time’s passing there, where night and day followed one another with almost unnatural precision, in contrast to the long sunsets and pearlescent dawns of the Lands of Exile. Traversing the Ocean had taken him the best part of four days, four long days during which he steeled himself for the mission ahead and dealt as best he could with regret and loss.

They had entered his little house without fanfare. The Herald had always sparked a sense of disquiet within him, but the Maia Olórin spent much of his time amongst the first born and could be relied upon for straight speaking. This he had done, while the Herald sat silent on his chair’s edge, showing a fastidious care for the skirts of his fine-spun robe. Speaking in an even, friendly manner, Olórin explained the mission they were asking him to consider, and as he listened he realised his life was about to take yet another of those dramatic changes that seemed to dog him. Twice he interrupted, asking for clarity in some matter, otherwise he sat quiet, focusing on the words that swallowed up the calm days of his new life and trying to ignore the excitement stirring in his gut.

Elsúrië had not understood, of course, although he had explained it as best he could, repeating as much as he thought the Maiar would find suitable, wanting her to see the mission through his eyes. Instead he saw his failure reflected in the speed with which she passed from curiosity about the exalted visitors to concern and finally to outrage.

“Have you not done enough?” she asked when he had barely finished speaking, her soft voice tight with emotion. “They have no right to ask this of you as well. There are so many others they could send…”

“Others, yes,” he replied, taking her hands captive between his own and holding them until she stilled and looked up at him with tear-bright, frightened eyes. “But not as I am. Not a name known, a death witnessed by hundreds. Not someone whose coming will be taken for a sign of hope.”

“Hope?” She stepped back from him, sea-green eyes wide. Fear made her words unaccustomedly harsh. “What hope is there beyond these lands? What hope do your Noldor kin even deserve? It was their choice to remain. You have done what you said you would, you had recourse for my brother’s death, you followed your cousin and cared for her family after she was lost. No more. Please.” And more softly, “I have only just found you again. My family will never allow us to bind when they hear you are to return to that dreadful place. Please.”

This would be their second parting with the wide sea between them, and her pain had torn his heart. He kept silent about his other, more personal reason for accepting the task, knowing she would never understand. He said nothing, even after her tears dried and she asked him to repeat the Maia’s words, even when she helped him in his careful, meager packing, listening in well-feigned fascination to him speculate upon what he would find across the water. She loved him dearly and was doing her best, well aware their parting might be even longer than the one that had gone before. It was not the time to tell her just how much he had missed life on the Eastern shore.

----

Crossing the transition from Aman, where mists hid the sky and the seas twisted and roiled, had been a time of tumult and sharp jabs of fear. He knew, intellectually, that his vessel was guided and protected, wrapped around with runes of binding and warding, but even so, when he reached a place where the water seemed to drop away roaring beneath him, he curled up on the floor of the craft and closed his eyes. There was no one to see him, no need to act the hero. He was alone in the midst of angry, magic-enhanced nature, and he was quite sensibly afraid for his newly restored life.

The night’s darkness passed slow amid roaring water, but morning found him drifting on calm blue sea under pale sunlight. The sweetly carved vessel had taken no damage. Instead it continued onwards, its swan’s head raised proudly to face the dawn, guided by a current he suspected would have no impact on another, more prosaic craft. There was nothing for it but to wait, something he did well. He let time flow around him while he ate sparingly of his careful rations, watching, smelling, feeling the other world fold back around him, familiar as an old cloak, welcomed with the love due a much-missed friend.

He thought he should have marked the days, but the need was more from curiosity than concern. He was strangely calm about the whole business now, accepting of his fate. The messages he carried to the new king, not so new now of course, were committed to memory, as were his own instructions. He had spoken truth when he assured the Herald he need not fear split loyalties; he had no intention of swearing fealty to yet another of the kings in Exile. No more after Turgon and Fingolfin; it had been enough. To himself though he took a private vow that he would put his own judgment first. The Valar had made their share of mistakes last time; the blame had not rested solely with Fëanor and his sons.

When the birds started to arrive in the afternoon, flocking around his ship in hope of food, he knew land was close. The sun set and night fell, the black velvet sky studded with the Lady’s lanterns. He had seen her once, tall and grave with eyes that saw to the soul, and for the only time in his two lives, awe had sent him to his knees. He lay back and listened to the water, enjoying the soft breeze that should not have been enough to stir more than a bundle of leaves and yet carried the boat effortlessly towards its destination. He ate a little waybread, drank water – nearly the last of his supply – and settled to sleep. Soon now.

He woke to a grey dawn and voices. In the night he had indeed been carried in towards the shore. He was crossing a broad bay, its shores lined with buildings backed by tree-covered hills that led up to rocky crags. To his left lay a substantial city with towers and domes, bright pennants and brilliant flowers, but he was being drawn to where the bay narrowed, across a rippling line that marked where the sea met the river that flowed out from a channel between hills. 

The smaller centre that lay across the bay from the city reminded him a little of Tol Eressëa’s south side, with a similar mix of buildings for residence and for storage. In the harbour, a line of ships rode at anchor within the protective arm of a well-shored breakwater. The voices came from a nearby boat, where oars supplemented the efforts of a grey sail bearing an unfamiliar emblem. He rose so that they could see him, see he was elven as they were, but it was hardly necessary; even with two boat lengths distance between them he could see the awe as they studied the vessel’s lines.

He used an oar to bring the swanship into harbour, taking responsibility for this last stage of his journey. He had been instructed to arrange for it to be towed back out to sea and cut loose once it had served its purpose. His escort berthed and tied up first, throwing him a rope which after a moment’s thought he looped about the wheel. Taking up his solitary bag, he looked one final time around his last link with home, then leapt to the quayside. 

The mariners, all of whom looked young and quite at a loss, stared at him, and he looked back. They were clad in greys and browns, booted and belted in leather. Dark haired, clear eyed. Telerin, his instinct said. Kin to Elsúrië’s people.

“Thank you for your escort,” he said in his careful Sindarin. “He may not recall me as we only met once before, a long time ago, but one of you had best announce me to Lord Círdan. Tell him my name is Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin.”

----

1. The Messenger

Mithlond

The sun had barely passed the horizon, and to Elrond the water looked grey and uninviting. The Mariner’s son lacked his father’s attachment to the sea and was at his happiest inland - right now thoughts of Harad’s desert held an almost romantic appeal. About to board the waiting ferry, he turned at the sound of a familiar voice behind him.

“What, did he send for you too? Did the messenger tell you what it’s about? He was gone before they woke me.”

Tall and broadly built, Lindon’s King strode towards him down the private jetty that served the palace. He wore grey and moss green and had his mane of dark hair tied loosely back from his face. Someone who knew him well might see the robe looked a bit rumpled and the hair had barely been brushed, but Gil-galad always managed to look kingly. His size probably helped.

“All I know is he has something I need to see, words won’t adequately explain. It might have something to do with that,” he went on, pointing as Gil-galad joined him to where, far out in the Bay of Lhûn, a small craft moved steadily towards open sea, her strange lines emphatic against the grey-white dazzle of the dawn sky.

The High King shaded his eyes and frowned. “Not seen anything like that before,” he muttered. Gil-galad had spent most of his growing years on the island of Balar; he knew a good deal more about boats than Elrond did or would ever want to. He rested his hand briefly on Elrond’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go. Won’t learn anything by standing here talking. If it’s about that ship, he’ll tell us. If not, he can explain where it’s going and why. That’s the direct path to the Andún current and the sea road into the West.”

That detail told its own story to Elrond, who continued watching the retreating ship in silence as the ferry carried them across the bay to where the shipyards lay. This side of the strait was home to Círdan’s Telerin, those who had followed him to Balar, survived the War of Wrath and travelled with him down the new-made coastline to find and settle along this beautiful, secure bay. They paid nominal allegiance to the High King of the Noldor in whose land they lived, but their first loyalty was to the Lord of the Falas; the ways on the southern shore of Mithlond were not those of Gil-galad’s court.

The division was underlined when the ferry docked. Workers along the wharf saw them arrive, took note of the royal standard, and got on with the start of the day’s work. If the Shore Lord wanted a formal show of respect for the Noldor king, he would let them know.

Elrond disembarked first as courtesy demanded, to indicate he would be willing to die in the unlikely event of a threat to his king. Maglor had been emphatic about such things; the twins’ house training had been meticulous. Gil-galad delayed a minute, talking with the skipper about the likely return of the rain-bearing south wind, followed by a string of questions concerning the health of the sailor’s wife and new child. Elrond moved a small distance from the ferry and stood watching the alien vessel’s departure; he was used to waiting for his cousin. 

The harbour had been built near the point where the Lhûn flowed seaward through a gap where the Ered Luin was reduced to a series of steep hills before rising aggressively to form the backdrop for northern Mithlond. Círdan’s fiefdom was much smaller than the bustling city they had just left, and less colourful; the opposite shore felt very far away. The light seemed different here, the bay looked cool and misty and the flocking seabirds reminded him of Sirion and his childhood. 

Houses huddled above the harbour, the homes of mariners, ship builders and their families. A road led past the town and up to the guard point that secured this place where the ships that plied the seas to Aman were built and the coastal patrol rode at anchor. Círdan’s Haven was the destination for all who came to answer the summons and take ship home across the ocean, and as such it was heavily protected. His eyes followed the road idly. Up beyond his view the cobblestones changed to simple paving before crossing the hills into the open lands of Eriador as a trail of beaten earth. There it continued far into the south-east to Tharbad and the noisy prosperity and vaunted brilliance of Ost-in-Edhil.

“What’s wrong?”

Gil-galad had come up behind him on silent feet. Despite his size, he moved with the unconscious stealth of a cat; no matter how often it happened, Elrond was always caught by surprise.

“Nothing. Just looking around. It’s like being in another country. One day we’ll come over here and find his personal banner flying in place of the flag of Lindon.”

The King glanced over to where the blue and gold of Lindon drooped on its flagpole outside the harbour’s main office and grinned briefly, though without much humour. “Well, yes he could do that. But he’d know I’d be right over here setting out the tax for grain and milk and sorting out the rental for the land. Not likely to happen, is it?”

Círdan had fostered Gil-galad under the age-old tradition of sending first-born sons to be trained in manners and noble conduct by some great lord. The Telerin was master of the cities along the north-west shore, answerable to no one including his kinsman Elu Thingol, and would have made an unlikely choice to train a prince of the Noldor had the prince’s mother not been Sindarin and born in the Shore Lord’s own household. Sending him to the coast rather than some good, solid Noldor fortress had almost certainly saved Gil-galad’s life, as one after another of those fortresses fell to the Enemy. By the time he came of age, only the elves on Balar and in the crowded settlements around the mouths of Sirion survived. 

He and Círdan shared a taciturn affection punctuated by frequent, quick-burning eruptions. Gil-galad was easygoing and down to earth, he greeted his warriors and all the palace staff by name, but he was a direct descendant of Finwe and conscious of the respect due his bloodline. There had been any number of confrontations on Balar after his unexpected elevation to High King of the Exiles; Elrond could easily see him demanding rent from his foster father.

They followed the cobbled street up to the Academy, where the lore and history of the shore people was treasured and handed down. This was where young mariners came to learn the more technical details of navigation, while astronomers listened to lectures from ancients who had made the study of Varda’s tapestry their life’s work. This also was where Círdan lived, with his long-time companion Maeriel, a Silvan woman he had met back in the days when the coastal cities still stood proud. She was warm and sensible and Gil-galad, who barely remembered his birth mother, adored her. 

Círdan was pacing the entrance hall when they arrived, wearing a blue robe that looked as though it had seen better days and with his star-silver hair unbound. Elrond stared; he had no memory of ever having seen it down before.

“What took you so long?”

Even Gil-galad was a bit taken aback. “We came as soon as we got your message,” he began. And then, attack being the best form of defence, he added, “Damn early in the day, too. I haven’t had breakfast yet. What’s so bloody important?” 

Círdan, who had acknowledged Elrond’s presence with a courteous nod, gestured for them to follow him. “Come. You’ll have to see this for yourself. “

He led them through to his apartment, past the big study with its breathtaking view of harbour and bay to the kitchen where Maeriel was busy at the hearth. She greeted them with a smile that contained just a hint of concern. “Good morning, Gil-galad, Elrond. Have you broken your fast yet? Can I make you some oatmeal?”

Gil-galad gave her a fond look. “Your oatmeal is legendary, Maeriel. I’ll have a bowl, thank you. So will Elrond, he doesn’t eat enough.”

It was an old game between them and Elrond dutifully rolled his eyes in response. “Well, I’ve never polished off a whole chicken all by myself at one sitting, no,” he said pointedly. “Morning, Maeriel. Bread and cheese if it’s not too much trouble? You know I’m not much of a breakfast person.”

Maglor had been a stickler for breakfast, so when he and Elros had been given into their cousin the King’s care, Elrond had taken to skipping the meal purely because he could. The habit had stayed with him... Círdan made an impatient noise and gestured towards the door, and the memory of Maglor pointing insistently at a bowl of oatmeal slipped away as he turned to follow. 

The garden was quite unlike the small formal affair that graced the front of the building. Just beyond the door, herbs and vegetables were planted neatly, with rows of beans, carrots, cabbages and peppers, radishes and onions. A small, flagged path led round the corner to Círdan’s personal retreat, a sheltered corner overgrown with flowering shrubs and climbing roses, their scents mingling pleasantly with mint, thyme and rosemary. Soft grass studded with tiny yellow flowers surrounded a small fishpond, paved around with white stones. 

A wooden bench under an ivy-twined arch faced the pond and looked out over the low fence to the sea, and an elf sat there watching the fish, seemingly lost in thought. He turned when he heard their approach and rose slowly to his feet. Elrond’s first impression was of someone at least as tall as Gil with hair was more brilliantly golden even than Galadriel’s famed locks. His blue-grey eyes passed over them before returning to Círdan expectantly.

Círdan seemed almost to gather himself before he spoke. “Ereinion,” he said in a very even voice, “may I present Glorfindel, former lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin? He arrived this morning - you might have seen his craft out on the bay during your crossing? Lord Glorfindel, this is Ereinion Gil-galad, our King, and this is Elrond, Prince Eärendil’s son.”

Elrond needed a moment to savour the novelty of Círdan calling Gil-galad ‘our’ king before tackling the complexities of coming face to face with a legendary and quite unarguably dead warrior. The lord who had killed a balrog on the Christhorn Pass was a part of his family’s history, his battle with the balrog a tale Elrond had first heard as a small child. He stood unabashedly staring.

“Small white ship, swan’s head? Saw it, yes.” Gil-galad was made of sterner stuff and had dealt with any number of unlikely realities during the Great War. He considered the Vanyar-blond elf with a frown. “I’d ask Círdan if he’s sure, but that introduction didn’t leave much room for doubt.”

Glorfindel’s eyes had gone first to Elrond, a natural response as they were related through Idril. His smile was friendly but tired as he replied. “In your place I would have opted for disbelief, so I can hardly object. It’s my honour to meet Your Majesty, of course.” 

The remembered accents of Quenya imposed upon Sindarin wrapped themselves around Elrond as he listened. The garden started to look flat and unreal, the colours painted on, and Glorfindel’s light-toned voice seemed to come from a distance as vast as the pale sky above their heads. “As to why I am here – I carry messages of warning and encouragement from the Mighty, my lord, but mainly I was sent to offer my aid in whatever way you deem best, and to…”

Warmth flooded Elrond’s gut, his stomach twisted as though he was about to throw up. That was all the warning he ever received before Melian’s gift overtook him. The world fell away and instead of bile, words flooded out, speaking a certainty from somewhere outside of him. His throat hurt, his voice rang hollow in his ears. “Harbinger, forerunner of doom. The final warning before the deluge.” He stood with eyes half-closed, and the breeze that lifted his fine hair sent chills down his back and arms. “Darkness, red-streaked darkness rides from the east on wings of death. The hour is now.”

The ocean and the ever-wheeling gulls returned, and a hand on his shoulder offered the means to ground himself. There were eyes on him, Círdan’s pewter gaze was quiet and thoughtful while Gil looked grimly concerned, whether about him or what he had just said wasn’t clear. The hand belonged to the reborn hero of Gondolin. Family, Elrond thought vaguely. I must be the only person left over here that he has any connection to.

“Come. Sit.” Glorfindel’s tone implied he was used to his instructions being carried out. ‘I’ve not seen the Sight take someone quite like that since Artanis saw blood and fire if I went off with Turgon --- I’ve always wondered how much she saw and how much was just a good guess.” Elrond supposed in a detached kind of way that he had gone white in the face again, as sometimes happened when his Dorian heritage surfaced. This type of casual chatter was a standard approach when dealing with shock. Get the patient to sit or lie down, send for something warm to drink, preferably sweet, and keep talking in a calm, level voice. There was firm pressure on his shoulder, and he went over to the bench and sat obediently.

“If by Artanis you mean my great aunt, then she’d tell you she never guesses things, she knows everything,” Gil-galad said dryly, his familiar, practical voice serving as an anchor. “You all right, Rond? Círdan’s gone to fetch you some water. Just sit there a moment.” He was facing Glorfindel, his expression thoughtful. “Bit dramatic, but fair enough. They’d not send a resurrected hero over here to say hello and wish us luck. These messages – anything urgent, or can we have breakfast first? Give you a chance to explain how you got here and for us to ask questions you’re not allowed to answer. Plate of Maeriel’s oatmeal will do him the world of good, too.”

His hand still on Elrond’s shoulder, Glorfindel smiled and nodded. He had a good smile, Elrond thought distantly. “There are words for your ears alone, but nothing vital, certainly nothing that couldn’t wait. And my answers are more likely to bore than intrigue, I fear.” 

Listening rather than talking, Elrond caught the tiny hint of hesitation in the reply. He filed it away for later consideration when he could view the arrival of this hero from his childhood more prosaically. Right now the official explanation would serve. Gil was right, he needed to eat.

Chapter End Notes

Beta: Red Lasbelin

2. The Councils

Ost-in-Edhil

“…and he has shown an interest both in your health and in Celebrimbor’s city. Normally I would suggest he travel south to visit you, but reports make me reluctant to send the Valar’s messenger on such a potentially dangerous journey. I must therefore request that you visit Mithlond instead. It has been some time since you were last here and you are, as always, greatly missed.

This brings me to another cause for concern, the growing lack of official communication between Eregion and Lindon. Since Aldarion first brought me word of the new aggression in the east and the rise of a mysterious lord, there have been increasing disturbances along the coast and on the fringes of the Misty Mountains. Yet in a time when I sense it is imperative that elven-kind stands together, Ost-in-Edhil grows ever more inward looking…”

Galadriel sat with straight-backed elegance and watched Celebrimbor pace the room with the letter she had thrust at him almost as he walked in the door. He finally came to a halt with his back to the window, still reading aloud from the sheet of expensive paper. He had arrived breathing fire at what he termed the imperious tone of Galadriel’s summons, and his posture and the expression on his face suggested the past few minutes had done nothing to ease his temper.

Pale sunlight slanted in through tall windows, bringing out the red lights in his hair and adding richness to the colours in the reception room. She had chosen the furnishings for the public part of the house carefully in a deliberate attempt to impress their guests. The drapes were gold-flecked scarlet, the paintings on the walls the work of respected artists. The furniture had been crafted to her personal specifications, the carvings intricate, the dark wood polished to a warm glow with scented beeswax. Even the intricately-woven rug on the floor had been brought from the east by a trader passing through on his way to Mithlond. 

She had managed to keep quiet till now, but as he paused to scan ahead, impatience overtook her. “What in Arda do I tell my nephew that won’t make him even more suspicious than he is already? I will not lie for you, Brim, I told you that at the outset.”

“Tell your nephew to give your regards to his guest and that you have no time right now for idle gossip or long, chatty letters. Tell him you’re preparing for a visit to Tharbad, or Lorien or – somewhere equally boring.” 

The cool, slightly haughty drawl sounded so like his father and several of his uncles that she had to grit her teeth to avoid saying as much. Any comparison to his father brought out the worst in her cousin. Frowning she said instead, “My nephew also happens to be High King of our people and your overlord. This was worded politely because I’m his aunt and he’s fond of me, but it still holds a warning. We should have told him when we first suspected who we were dealing with. Left this late, it looks as though…”

A muscle in Celebrimbor’s jaw twitched. “How many times have we gone over this, Galadriel? Endlessly. The threat is to Eregion alone, not Lindon or any of the smaller elven settlements. It remains our problem, and we can deal with it without crying to the High King for help.”

“Deal with it?” Her head jerked up, she had to force herself to stay seated. “Look around you. Where is the army, where are the seasoned warriors for when he sends the might of the east against us? Realism, Cousin, not fantasies. We will deal with this – how?”

She fully expected him to shout, but his voice was calm where hers had been raised, his eyes steady. “We have no army, but we need no army. We will go on with the work and when they reach us, there will be a wall around Eregion, an impenetrable barrier, held in place by the power of the Three and the will of their bearers.” He folded the letter and began tapping it idly against his hand. “No need for your nephew to get involved. In fact, if the reports I hear are even half accurate, nothing short of Lindon’s entire army would be enough, and I very much doubt Ereinion would leave his own borders undefended to aid us.”

Galadriel stared at him, finally realising he meant every word. The size of the force being mustered against them was disquieting news, but she had heard the rest before, more than once, and had put it down to bravado, words spoken  to reassure his inner circle who might otherwise start packing for Lindon, thereby sparking a panic. There was no likelihood of her doing so. Before they grasped the full horror of the rage they had unleashed, she had been persuaded against her better judgement to keep Eregion’s business from Lindon, and she always kept her word. She would not go behind his back to anyone, not even Gil. 

She tried to order her thoughts, to keep this from turning into yet another of their arguments. Celeborn always said she played into Celebrimbor’s hands, that losing control when they disagreed gave him the advantage. “We both know what happened the last time we tried to recreate Melian’s girdle,” she reminded him quietly. “Our efforts bore no resemblance to what I recall from my time in Menegroth, there are too many variables, the skill has been lost. And even caught unawares, he still sensed us, he could still show us his face – his true face.”

The cavern housing Celebrimbor’s workshop and forge, elves in a circle around a star etched in chalk on the floor, the circle lit by braziers placed at intervals, leaving the corners beyond the forge masked in gloom. Standing in the centre with Brim and with Tolfaen, wearing the new rings, Brim’s great work, while those forming the circle bore the earlier rings, the workings that had led up to the creation of the Three. Raising a cone of power from the earth, reaching out beyond the cavern, using the Three to direct the power, trying to weave a circle of mist and light around the city.

He held out an elegant hand, drawing attention to the plain band of gold that encircled the middle finger, and the smile deepened as he gestured and the barrier they had been trying to build shattered and splintered like glass, brittle and cutting as the laughter she heard in her mind, as they all heard in their minds…

She stepped back from the memory, shuddering at the still lingering sense of something oily and overripe brushing against her will. Celebrimbor was watching her. For a moment his grey eyes slid to her mouth, then returned to meet hers. “We weren’t ready,” he said. “This time will be different. We know who – what - we’re facing now, and the rings are stronger, we’ve had time to prepare.”

“Knowing won’t help, not against one of the Maiar, not against Morgoth’s protégée. He’s studied things most right-thinking Maiar barely know exist, and now he has an army of southern men and their necromancers, trained by him in who knows what arts of darkness…” She made no effort to hide either exasperation or unease.

“Mortals,” Celebrimbor said shortly and his lip curled. “I think we can deal with a few mortals with the bare rudiments of the thing they call magic. And an army is all very well, but it would have to find us first and the borders of Eregion will soon be a mass of shadows and whispers, mists that come and go, paths that turn back in on themselves.”

“Oh, you should have told me you’d managed to conjure Melian,” Galadriel retorted, unable resist sarcasm. “Have a care though, she’s fickle as fate and only stays so long as your interests coincide with hers.”

They glared at one another until Celebrimbor broke the impasse with a gusty sigh. “Look, I know you think we’re about to be overrun by evil easterners and die, but I founded this city and while I am lord here we will do it my way. Never forget, Cousin, that while you live here, you answer to me.”

The chair rocked back as she shot to her feet. “Gods, you sound just like your grandfather, and we know where that got him, don’t we? Power drunk doesn’t suit you, Cousin.” She had a momentary thought that it was as well they were almost of a height; looking up would have ruined the effect. 

”You – need to watch your mouth,” he breathed, his hand closing around her upper arm. He shook her, not hard but enough for her almost to lose her footing. “And not a word of any of this to your damn nephew. We will do it my way in my realm, understood?”

“Take your hand off me,” Galadriel snapped, pulling back from him. “There’s no need to act like a barbarian, he’ll hear nothing from me. But the letter has to be answered. Perhaps I could send Celebrían to Lindon with my reply. She can greet Glorfindel for me and she’s too young for them to think she has any useful information.” Her voice softened.“I’d – rather my daughter was well away from here before anything more happens…”

Celebrimbor gave her a final shake before releasing her. “She stays,” he said flatly. “She stays, your husband stays, you stay. All of you. If either of them crosses into Lindon, Ereinion will think the worst, especially if you stay behind. You promised me your silence and I am holding you – and your family – to it.”

Her arm was throbbing but she refused to let him see he had hurt her. They shared a set of unspoken rules, one of which involved showing no weakness. She and Celebrimbor had clashed regularly for years, though it was rare for the confrontation to become physical. Children of the House of Finwë and each other’s equal in pride, they maintained an uneasy balance between exasperation, respect and a tension that whispered of something elemental, untamed. “The stupid part is, you’re playing with all our lives for the sake of your ego and there’s no need, just a simple letter…”

“Did he write to anyone else? I heard nothing from him.”

“Well, I don’t imagine he had much to say to you,” Galadriel pointed out. “Last time you were downright rude to his messenger.”

Celebrimbor laughed shortly. “That extra tax on wheat was an attack on our autonomy. You said so yourself, I just used smaller words. “

They shared a brief look of accord at the memory, then he stepped back from her and went to retrieve his cloak lying over the back of a chair. “We’ll try building the barrier one last time. All right? If it’s necessary after that, we can talk again, but for now we have no need of Lindon, or untimely visits from resurrected heroes.”

There had been a note enclosed for Erestor, but that was not something Celebrimbor needed to know. When her former aide received letters hidden within her own mail from Mithlond, she asked no questions, simply passed them on to him. Sometimes he shared the contents, sometimes not. In turn, he would at times hand her a sealed note with the request that she include it next time she wrote to Gil-galad. 

She might be constrained from personally discussing the degenerating situation in Eregion, but nothing stopped her from facilitating the flow of that information through other means.

----

Taking advantage of the sunshine and lack of wind, Erestor was spending the afternoon outdoors. Galadriel’s garden was designed as a wilderness area, where artfully placed wind chimes of metal and wood mingled with the sounds of birdcall to create what she called a peaceful ambiance. Erestor supposed she knew what she meant. To his mind the birds could be raucous, and the chimes jangled ominously in the wind, especially when you lived in the guest cottage and the hour was late and moonless.

Currently he sat on a bench under a tree whose leaves still clung tenuously to its branches, pretending to read what was proving a cloyingly sycophantic account of King Fingolfin’s reign. Artifice was veering dangerously close to reality; he was at risk of turning into a serious scholar. Elrond would be impressed, assuming Erestor ever got back home to tell him. The Half-elven prince loved ancient lore and history, not surprising as his family featured so prominently in both. 

There was no sound, but a sensation not unlike the pause before a summer storm made his skin prickle and heralded Galadriel’s approach. She came towards him with quick strides, her blue gown with its pretty pattern of silver leaves silently brushing the tops of the grass. Her expression lightened just before she reached him and she smiled up at the big tree behind him. “Still holding onto your summer gown, my friend?” she asked it fondly. “No use fighting the passage of time, the snow will come whether you will it or no.”

Erestor wondered who else’s benefit that was for, his own or hers. Though yes, she talked to trees, he knew that, and to other growing things. A princess of the Noldor to her fingertips, still she could almost pass for a woodelf in at least some of her ways. He wondered if it was her husband’s influence, but thought not. Galadriel was who she was. “I thought I heard Celebrimbor’s voice?” he asked, making space for her on the bench. “It’s not often he manages to come calling without Celeborn also being present.”

Forward, yes, but Erestor had known her since the dark days on Balar and knew how far he could go. She arranged her skirts, rolling her eyes. “Oh yes, he was here. We talked, we disagreed, he left.” She reached over and turned the book in his lap to see the title and gave a small snort of amusement before holding out a folded missive. “Flowers sprung up at his feet, yes. This came. I looked for you earlier but they said you were out riding. If there’s a reply you need to be swift, and I don’t promise the courier won’t be searched. As I said, my cousin and I disagreed. Strongly.”

“I rode up to the dwarf road and back,” he explained, taking the letter and idly turning it over while he watched two birds engage in loud jostling on the rim of the stone bird bath. Arvarad’s occasional notes, tucked in with letters sent to the first lady of the Noldor by her dutiful nephew the High King, were always impersonal and to the point. Time and recent events had left him uncomfortable about asking for news of Gil, he was no longer sure he had a right. “You’ll have had a proper letter – is everything all right at home?”

“He’s all right, Erestor. Everyone we know seems to be getting on with their lives as they should,” she replied absently, watching the avian argument with a small smile. “No, there was an – unusual situation. Ereinion needed to pass on greetings from someone I never thought to hear from again this side of the Sea.”

“Oh?” It dawned on Erestor that for once Galadriel was more interested in the contents of her own letter than in his. 

She nodded. “Apparently the Valar haven’t forgotten about us after all, they just went about their business and left us to get on with things here for the last fifteen hundred years. Now they’ve sent a small token of their concern.”

Erestor waited, fascinated to see the Lady apparently at a loss for words. He had not encountered this before and doubted many others had either.

“You’re familiar with the story of the fall of Gondolin?” she asked unexpectedly. 

Caught off balance, he nodded, puzzled. “Yes of course, aren’t we all? I was a child in Sirion when the survivors arrived, I heard about it first hand I don’t know how many times.”

“Good, well then you’ll remember Glorfindel, won’t you?”

Erestor blinked. “Yes, of course. He held back the Balrog so the refugees using Princess Idril’s secret route out of Gondolin had a chance to escape. Why?”

“They sent him back,” she said succinctly.

Erestor turned the words around, looking for a hidden meaning. Galadriel was fond of riddles, though she was seldom quite this obscure. “Sorry… they what?”

“Not a metaphor, no. They rehoused his fëa and sent him back to warn us trouble was brewing – as if we couldn’t guess - and to lend us what aid he can. What one more warrior could do I have no idea, but then I never pretended to follow the wisdom of the Valar.” Her voice dripped sarcasm and the corner of her mouth twitched briefly. “I get the impression they have no idea what to do about him in Mithlond,” she added with a hint of amusement. “He has that yellow-haired, blue-eyed look the poets make such a fuss about though, so at least he’ll decorate the court prettily while they decide.”

“You knew him, Lady?” Erestor was impressed in spite of himself. The story of the great warrior buying time with his life so that the few hundred survivors of the ruin of Gondolin could escape had always appealed to his imagination and what his sister teased him was his romantic side.

Galadriel nodded, her eyes following a squirrel’s progress up a nearby tree trunk. “We’ll have to start putting out food for them to store for winter,” she remarked. “It’s been left late, Celeborn says these are the last of the warm days now And yes, I knew him quite well. He was kin to Turgon’s wife, Elenwë, so after their marriage he became one of us. I tried to talk him out of following Turgon to his refuge from reality, but he had this – loyalty to him and Idril after Elenwë died. I think he felt he should look after them for her…” 

Her voice trailed off and she watched as two more squirrels came down to investigate the lawn. When she spoke again her tone was brisk. “Well, that’s all long in the past. He came with us, he followed Turgon, he fought in the Tears, he died in the Fall. And now someone has seen fit to send him back here. I suppose I’ll work out why eventually.” She sounded annoyed. 

“A symbol? Could they have meant him as an… omen of some kind?” Erestor suggested. He had been reading about signs and symbols quite recently and it was fresh in his mind. Plus, it made a twisted kind of sense. 

Galadriel quirked an eyebrow at him in a way so like Celeborn that he wondered who had taken the habit from whom in that tight-knit partnership. “What, to tell us we live in dangerous times? We’ve been living in dangerous times since we crossed the Ice, we hardly need an oracle.”

“There were other, greater heroes that day.” Erestor mused. “There were unbelievable stories, like Lord Ecthelion’s, but only a handful saw his death first hand. Whereas all the survivors saw Glorfindel’s final battle, every one of them could and did credit him with their lives.”

“So his name is best known, his story resonates.” She frowned, considering the idea. 

“Best known, yes,” he agreed, shaking black hair back over his shoulder. “But I don’t know that they intended this as a mark of doom... He overcame a Balrog, remember. Perhaps they meant his return as a sign of hope?”

Mithlond

He was given one of the guest suites at the Academy, which everyone pretended was a temporary measure until he found his feet and was ready to cross the strait to his natural destination, the palace. Glorfindel, who liked his rooms and felt at home in the quiet of South Mithlond, was in no hurry to move. He was a bit concerned by hints of tension between Gil-galad and Círdan on the subject until Elrond explained the King had been fostered in the Shore Lord’s household and that they often competed, rather as one saw between fathers and sons.

Elrond had come over on the ferry almost daily since his arrival, taking it upon himself to bring Glorfindel up to date on the history of Middle-earth since Gondolin’s end. Glorfindel enjoyed the visits, finding in Elrond not only good company, but also a link between past and present. The Half-elf’s level gaze reminded him of Idril, as did something about the way he walked. And he had Tuor’s hands. The rest – the grey eyes and web-fine hair, the quicksilver movements and winsome smile - he assumed came from Elwing, though he soon found that while Elrond was happy to share any amount of general gossip, he preferred not to discuss his own past. 

It was from Círdan that he learned how Fëanor’s sons had swooped on Eärendil’s settlement while he was at sea, causing Elwing to flee, leaving her young sons to their fate. All Aman knew what had become of Thingol’s Silmaril, and it was true Elwing was rumoured to be strange and fey, though he found it hard to believe a mother would leave her children to die. The image of cynical, dark-humoured Maglor raising the twins fascinated Glorfindel, but there was no one to satisfy his curiosity besides Elrond, so he let it be.

Gil-galad had chosen to let it be known the Valar had sent the reborn hero back to Endor to share the benefit of his wisdom and experience; people, he said, always preferred simple explanations to mystery. Glorfindel had his private instructions, of course, but right now they seemed to involve waiting, so if the king wanted to portray him as an advisor, he could hardly do worse than he had in Gondolin. There, his suspicions and concerns had fallen on deaf ears, Turgon being disinclined to heed any voice that ran counter to his will.

He had been in Mithlond a scant ten days, when he was summoned to attend his first meeting of the king’s Council. A rather over-awed young warrior was sent to escort him over to the palace where, still attuned to Gondolin’s formality, he was surprised to find himself directed to an average-sized room with a mundane view of the palace’s central courtyard. An oval table surrounded by simple chairs took up much of the room, with a scribe’s station occupying a corner. A detailed map covered most of one wall above a sideboard holding a bowl of fruit, stacked cups, jugs of water and a wine decanter. It was all very businesslike and bore no resemblance to its counterpart in Gondolin or the ornate King’s Hall in Tirion.

He said as much to Elrond, who grinned. “Gil-galad’s idea of a council chamber. He reckoned these are meant to be working sessions, so he wanted somewhere without distractions. No fancy sea view or anything like that. What was it like in Gondolin?”

They were standing at one of the windows and he was watching a handcart being hauled bumpily along by a leather-clad mortal. A second was pushing from behind, the load balanced precariously between them. There was a good deal of yelling back and forth going on, the whole rather fitting his impressions thus far of Mithlond: brash, loud, utterly alive and somewhat alien to a former citizen of Gondolin, newly arrived from the Undying Lands.

“My father took me to a few meetings in Tirion, but all I remember is King Finwë lecturing his nobles. I suppose he must have asked for advice sometimes.” He doubted it. “Gondolin though. The room was bigger, there were stone benches facing the throne in a half circle and big iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Marble looks impressive but it’s no fun sitting on it for hours - the cushions could have been thicker. We’d speak in turn and then Turgon would decide who had to do what and when.”

“Sounds pretty,” Elrond said dubiously. “Did he listen or…?”

“Agriculture, manufacture, yes. He never pretended to be an expert on those. He was more interested in civil order and the army.”

“Civil order?” Elrond looked puzzled.

“Well, yes. I have no idea what you’d call it. Making sure people conform to the city’s rules, that they do the work expected of them?”

Elrond frowned. “Mainly if you don’t conform here, people talk about you and point at you on the street? And if you do something really heinous, you’re banished to one of the northern settlements. Though I suppose that wasn’t practical for Gondolin.”

Glorfindel preferred not to discuss Gondolin’s approach to crimes, heinous or other. Things had been more open in Vinyamar, but then Turgon and his father had never agreed on anything, including how to run a city. He always suspected at least part of Turgon’s decision to heed Ulmo’s offer of a safe place for his followers was a need to put his theories into practice. Though even Vinyamar had lacked the casual freedom that seemed to permeate Mithlond.

“We were living so close to one another,” he offered by way of explanation. “Most of the land was given over to farming – intensive farming at that – and the city was crowded. Not much space for individuality.”

Elrond’s expression suggested he might not have enjoyed living in his great-grandfather’s kingdom, but people had been drifting into the room while they talked, and Gil-galad had just arrived, his presence heralded by a burst of laughter from the small group walking in with him. He looked less formal than Glorfindel expected of a king about to preside over a sitting of his council, but it fitted the room and everything Elrond had said about his royal cousin. 

Gil-galad hailed him cheerfully. “Well, my lord. I hope you’ve taken advantage of the good weather to look around Mithlond?” He strode over as he spoke and placed a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “My lords? Those of you who have not yet made Lord Glorfindel’s acquaintance might like to stay for a cup of wine after we’ve finished?” To Glorfindel he added quietly, “Give them a chance to stare at you for an hour and get it out their systems. You don’t mind, do you?”

Glorfindel wondered, amused, what would happen if he said yes he did mind, very much indeed, and shook his head. “I look forward to meeting everyone,” he said, raising his voice so it carried. A little charm couldn’t hurt.

There was no immediate calling of the group to order; everyone wandered in, greeted friends, some helped themselves to water, one tall, thin elf decided on wine, but he drank alone. Círdan arrived last with a brief apology all round and a nod of greeting to Glorfindel with whom he had breakfasted earlier. Eventually they were all seated, Glorfindel to Elrond’s left, most with sheaves of paper or documents of some sort before them. Seated on the king’s right, Arvarad, the elf with the wine, rapped briskly on the table.

“Is everyone ready to begin? Good. Your Majesty?” 

Gil-galad was writing on a sheet of paper, using a stick of graphite. Still busy he said, “Let’s get the main one out of the way first. What can you tell us about the state of the grain reserves, Critholhan?”

The words were addressed to a square-faced elf with light hair seated diagonally across from Glorfindel. There was no rising and bowing to the monarch as had been the custom in Gondolin. Instead the councillor shuffled papers and then launched into a monologue about quantities, projected consumption and general winter preparedness. 

When he had finished Arvarad glanced around and said in a bored voice, ”The floor is open.” This led to an immediate flood of questions about vermin control and last year’s flooded roads, the latter subject aimed at someone whose name Glorfindel missed and whose responsibility this apparently was. 

Finally the torrent of words tapered off and Arvarad swept his eyes around the table again. “Any more questions? No?” He looked across at the scribe’s station. “Got all that, you two? Very well. Next we’ll hear from…” He paused, his head inclined to the king, who spoke briefly to him. “… from Lord Súlfalas regarding the state of the roads in general this time, not just the grain route.”

Each councillor made his weekly report and was questioned with a degree of freedom unlike anything Glorfindel had ever seen.. Ereinion Gil-galad mainly stayed out of the question and answer sessions, in fact Glorfindel suspected they sometimes forgot he was there, which might well have been his intention. 

At the end, responding to a nod from the king, Arvarad said, “As to matters in Eregion… Briefly, I’ve sent to Ost-in-Edhil for further news, but it will take another week or two for the messenger to return…”

“What more do we know about the stranger, Annatar?” the member who oversaw the Merchant’s Guild interrupted, to general sounds of assent. 

Arvarad frowned and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled. “So far as we know, Annatar is still absent,” he said, “There was no word as to when he might return and I’m told the city is preparing for possible trouble from roving bands of easterners. As I said, we’ll learn more soon enough.”

“I’ve also written directly to my aunt, though how much she’s at liberty to say is anyone’s guess,” Gil-galad volunteered, putting down his graphite. 

Glorfindel looked at him, startled. “You think she might be in some danger?” he asked. “And the city?” Ost-in-Edhil had featured in Olorin’s briefing.

Gil-galad shook his head. “It would take more than Celebrimbor to threaten my aunt,” he said with certainty, “but I do suspect she defers to him in matters of policy.” 

“If the Lady is constrained, does that leave us solely dependant on your informant in Ost-in-Edhil then, Arvarad?” Critholhan asked sharply. Beside him, Glorfindel heard Elrond sigh and mutter something under his breath and restrained a smile.

Arvarad offered a sour look. “There are scouts out in Eregion and beyond gathering information too, but these things take time...”

“Until we know more, we’ll carry on as usual,” Gil-galad said, his tone decisive. He got to his feet while he was speaking, folding and passing his notes to Arvarad. The subject, and the meeting, were closed.

Looking out at the mountains behind the city with his second cup of wine in hand and the sounds of the reception going on around him, Glorfindel considered the day’s events. He found it interesting, intriguing even, that this less formalised social system and style of kingship did not lead to unending chaos, but instead gave the appearance of working quite well. Sipping his wine, he decided that although he missed Elsúrië with a quiet, persistent ache, this seemed a good place to serve the future of his people. How he would fulfil the purpose he had been charged with was still unclear, but until fate’s next stroke, he was unlikely to be bored.

3. Decisions.

Ost-in-Edhil

The cavern under the House of the Mirdain was silent except for the soft hiss and crackle of the forge and the occasional rustle of cloth. Once more Galadriel stood encircled by elves, but this time they could offer moral support only, nothing more. Previously there had been so many minor rings that she suspected half the population of Ost-in-Edhil had access to one, but they were open windows through which Sauron could watch their actions at will and most had already been destroyed.  Making use of them was out of the question.

Celebrimbor was still dressed for the forge, his hair bound back loosely from his face with gold cords. There were dark lines beneath his eyes and his mouth was grim; he looked and sounded exhausted. “This will be our greatest venture,” he said in a voice barely louder than the sounds from his forge. “Tolfaen, Galadriel and I have spent long hours discovering how best to work with the Three, and we are as prepared as the time has allowed. The threat closes in from both south and east, we can delay no longer.”

He allowed the murmurs of assent to die away before he continued. “Our work today will create a barrier around Eregion similar to the girdle Melian once raised about Doriath. Once completed, any force that comes against us will turn back in disarray, confused by mists and shifting landmarks. In this way we will also protect Lindon lying to our west.” He shot a mocking glance in Galadriel’s direction; this was his answer to her oft-expressed concerns about keeping the truth from Gil-galad. “The barrier will draw its strength from the Three, making it more potent than anything our opponent can muster. He…”

“He has power beyond measure now, increased by the new ring he wears,” Tolfaen interrupted, low-voiced. “We have all experienced it, we have all seen him in our minds, seeking to control our rings and through them, us. His strength is… terrible.”

Celebrimbor made an impatient gesture. “Terrible he may seem, just as some once thought him beautiful and wise, but he is no match for us and our determination.” They all knew he more than anyone had found Aulë’s former associate beautiful and wise, but now was not the time for blame, and Galadriel held her peace. There followed a pause while he let his words sink in, as fond of the dramatic as any of his family, then he touched her arm briefly, whether in reassurance or impatience she was unable to tell. “Begin when you are ready, Cousin,” he said, for they had agreed that although the rings were his creation, she was best qualified for the work and would lead this assault. 

They raised their hands, fingertips touching, and the Three began to shimmer, blue, red, palest yellow, the colours swirling and blending to form a rainbow glow around their wrists. The air began to tingle, tighten. Galadriel felt power stirring the hairs on the back of her neck, shivering her forearms with gooseflesh. The light grew until they could see the map of Eregion picked out on the floor, detailing its mountains, its rivers, every possible breach that would need to be closed, hidden, held. Galadriel looked down at it, into it, and the ring seemed to look with her, reaching out and beyond, its energy twining about her, drawing her into a nexus of unimaginable potency.

Nenya was easier to join with this time, thanks to Celebrimbor’s reluctant agreement to let them practice focusing their innate strength and skill through his cherished prisms of power. For long moments it was like trying to find her seat on a spirited horse, but then she was flying free as a falcon, the chamber dropping away around her, shed like so much cumbersome clothing. A semblance of her ‘self’ clad as though in shimmering purple carried the bright-burning focus of her will, while her physical body remained behind, awaiting her return. 

She looked down on the land from her bird’s eye vantage, seeing it in strange colours: soft blue where the elves lived, gently pulsing orange for the dwarves, the rivers swirling silver-green, the mountains dark and strong. The lines that formed the boundaries of Eregion hung over this view as though etched on the land itself in pulsing silver. Their task was to follow these guidelines and form an impenetrable wall of confusion and mist as Melian had done in Doriath when the world was younger and greener and herself a mere student at the feet of the great enchantress. Galadriel reached out, her will one with the power of Nenya, and together they began the work of raising and building walls of iridescent light, flickering shadow. 

The mountain passes were simple, a matter of closing the road to sight, blending it in with the rock and making a gateway open only to those permitted to pass into Eregion. The river was harder, the water rushed and pushed, straining against the barrier she attempted to erect, and she bent her full will to it, shutting out all else around her. So intent was she upon the task that it was some time before she noticed the change taking place about her. Some sense of wrongness reached her at last and she looked around, to find the landscape that had lain clear before her was now overshadowed as if by heavy cloud. In the east light flickered, and she saw leaping flames with a heart of dull, unhealthy red. As she turned her attention to this new phenomenon, the river barrier shuddered and fell apart in her hands. 

Then the wind rose. At first a stuttering breeze, it grew swift and fierce, keening and buffeting at the lines of power she was trying to hold. The glamour of protection already laid across a pass quivered and began to unravel, strand upon strand unwinding under the onslaught. Mist surrounded her, thick and roiling, blocking the landscape from view.  Somewhere off in the darkness she heard a soul-chilling scream.

She barely had time to turn before tentacles of a dark that was the pure absence of light reached out from the mist and began to slide around her, mithril-strong with the metal’s cold slickness. As she struggled to evade them the screams became feral howls of agony. interspersed with words babbling, pleading for help. 

‘Tolfaen,’ she thought, trying to pinpoint the direction of his voice. Colour tinged the mist, bruise-like shades of sickly yellow, livid mauve, and the tentacles tightened, probed for weakness . She could not move, could not find Tolfaen, knew she had to help herself before she could help him. She released her grip on the barriers she had been raising and instead turned Nenya’s strength on her attacker. Warmth and pale light surrounded her and the tentacles retreated. Fleetingly she considered going ‘back’, but Tolfaen faced danger here, on this plane. Pushing through swirling fog, she headed towards his cries, the ring extending a protective circle around her.

Blue-white light flashed without warning. On and off. And on. Whimpering, she drew back. A harsh buzzing accompanied it, keeping staccato time with the brilliance, each burst like a spike being hammered through her head. Slitting her eyes against the brightness she forced herself to look around. The landscape had changed, it was grey and dry now, littered with shards of volcanic rock. She could just make out a figure lying crumpled in upon itself within a writhing tangle of tentacles. Tolfaen! 

By will alone, Galadriel pushed forward through the light and noise, her head pounding, each breath burning in her lungs. She was wholly present on this plane now and knew that if she failed, her physical body would die. She had almost reached him when she became aware of a presence in the shadows watching her. She gritted her teeth against the soft laughter she sensed rather than heard and ignored it. Reaching Tolfaen, she stretched out her hand and Nenya joined with her brother in attempting to unfurl the undulating darkness from the too-still form.

Movement. Behind her. Too close. Spinning round, she looked up into light and met dark, mocking eyes above a raised hand wearing a plain, gold ring that glowed with menace. Instinctively she raised her own hand to ward him off, and Nenya pulsed, star sheen surrounding her. White light blazed in reply, wiping out all colour and shape, and then she was falling, falling back to the cavern under the guild house with Nenya’s strength wrapped protectively about her, the only thing between herself and death. Even as she fell, she could feel and hear his fury.

She was aware of moving back into her corporeal body and then falling again. She was unconsciousness even before she struck the floor. 

----

She lay on cold stone with her head cradled on someone’s lap, and a voice was talking, the words hurried, hard to follow, possibly directed at someone else, not her. She pulled away and the voice drew closer, calm but firm, tantalizingly familiar.

“No, Tanis. Lie back, lie still. Close your eyes, hush now. Shh.”

The words came from a great distance, muffled by darkness as though through layers of padding. Galadriel, who had started life as Artanis Nerwen, adored lastborn and only daughter of Finarfin, heard without understanding, knowing the voice without having a name for its owner. She tried again to move, struggling away from the darkness, and the voice became insistent.

“Be still, woman. You need rest. Don’t try and get up, there’s nothing more to be done now.”

The rings. Nenya. She reached, felt nothing, panicked. “The rings. Don’t let him take the rings. Hide them away, don’t let him…”

“They’re safe for now,” the voice reassured. She felt a hand brush her forehead, or was it the touch of lips. She couldn’t tell. “He shan’t have them. Hush.”

“Send them away. He’ll come for them, he’s coming…”

Darkness drew in, swallowed her. Time passed. This time she woke in a bed, the mattress firm, the pillows soft. She started awake, tried to sit up, and another hand on her shoulder steadied her.

“I am here, all is well. Whatever happened back there is over. You are all right, Alatáriel…”

Alatáriel. “Celeborn?”

“Shh,” he murmured, and now she could feel the warmth of his body, recognise the concern in his voice. Celeborn, her husband, father of her child, a prince of Doriath… Though Doriath was no more, of course, neither the realm nor the arts of that realm. Angry frustration flooded through her with the return of memory. 

“Melian would have known what to do.”

“Probably. As you said before though, she was fickle and might not have stayed long enough to explain.”

Celebrimbor paced into view, he must have been looking out the window. She had to bite back laughter at the unlikelihood of him being in their bedroom. Then she remembered and amusement left as though it had never been. “Tolfaen?”

He stopped at the end of the bed, leaning forward with his hands resting on the footboard. She knew the answer before he shook his head. “Fell to the ground screaming and struggling. We prevented him from clawing his throat open but we couldn’t wake him. I think his heart stopped from fear.”

“No, not fear. His spirit form was strangled, you just saw the echo.” 

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her face, heedless of it falling in golden waves around her shoulders and breast. Celeborn held a cup out to her and she took it and drank deeply. Warmed wine, flavoured with nutmeg and cinnamon bought from eastern traders whose brothers and fathers were even now marching on them with war. “The rings have to be taken to safety,” she told Celebrimbor in a no-nonsense voice. “He knows and he wants them. He’ll tear Ost-in-Edhil apart to find them.”

He came round to sit on the side of the bed, ignoring Celeborn’s frown. “It might be a little late for that now, Cousin.”

Galadriel shook her head. “Not too late, we still have time. We just need the right messenger to take them west to Ereinion. No, Brim, there’s no point in arguing,” she added before he could get a word out. “He's not just our king, he's the only one left who could hold them secure - we've buried everyone else who might withstand Sauron. Unless you know where your uncle Maglor is? I think he would give even Annatar pause.”

Celebrimbor chuckled darkly. “I’m not sure I’d trust them to my uncle, Tanis. No, if he’s really coming for them, Lindon is where they need to be. But how? Will you take them? I can’t leave the city, I have to see to the defences, prevent panic. I still believe we can hold them off, but only if we stand and fight.”

Celeborn, who had been admirably quiet up till now, said dryly, “Prevent panic? They’ve been leaving for weeks, families, little groups. Don’t you watch the movement on the road west?”

Her cousin shrugged. “I turn a blind eye to families. If I had a child I might be tempted myself.” He avoided her eyes, the memory of her request to send Celebrían to safety lay between them, something best not raised with Celeborn present.

“We need to think of now, not what’s gone before,” she said, her eyes enforcing silence. “The rings need to go west and we need a courier no one will look at twice. And he needs to go now, because when they get close enough the first thing they will do is block the ford at Tharbad.” 

“I can send soldiers…”

“And they will die,” Celeborn countered flatly with the authority of one who had fought this enemy before the sun or moon even rose. Celebrimbor nodded curtly, acknowledging his experience. 

“Lindir.” Galadriel had been giving the appearance of thinking while she sipped her wine. They both turned to stare at her. “The minstrel? Pretty boy, lovely voice, full of attitude. He has family in Lindon somewhere, and what would be more natural at a time like this than for him to take his gifts to another court?”

“You’re out of your mind,” Celebrimbor said disbelievingly. “You’d trust our most potent artefacts to a performer?”

She smiled. “Unlikely, isn’t it? Even your good friend Annatar wouldn’t think of that, would he?”

A corner of Celeborn’s mouth twitched in suppressed mirth and he refused to make eye contact with her. Celebrimbor was unimpressed. “You’re right,” he snapped. “No one would think of it because it’s insane. Have you considered the length of the road from here to Mithlond and what can go wrong? How do you expect that -- child to look after himself, let alone safeguard the rings?”

“You don’t know much about musicians, do you?” she asked over the rim of the cup. “Consider your uncle Maglor again. Very few warriors would have faced him by choice over a drawn sword. No, I think Lindir can look after himself well enough, he’s travelled into mortal lands alone and returned to tell the tale. But perhaps you’re right, perhaps we should send someone with him, someone to stay in the background and watch out for him.”

“How about Erestor?” Celeborn suggested, right on cue. They finished one another’s sentences sometimes, too, their timing impeccable.

She pretended to think about this while Celebrimbor, who had never taken to their house guest, glowered. “That could be a good idea,” she agreed, smiling brightly at Celeborn who returned look for look. She extended the smile to Celebrimbor. “I’ve been half expecting him to tell me he’s leaving – he’s a scholar these days, and he has nothing invested here. And he can give Lindir access to Ereinion, which might prove difficult otherwise. They may have fallen out, but they’ve known one another since Balar.”

Celebrimbor looked dubious. “I suppose the point about royal access is a sound one. The door would still be open to his former … assistant?”

Galadriel suppressed something suspiciously like a giggle. “Yes, Cousin, I’m quite sure he’d see his ex -- assistant. He asks after him regularly, so I assume no hard feelings.”

Among certain circles it was an open secret that Galadriel’s former aide, the exotically attractive scholar with the interesting past, had been somewhat more than an assistant to the High King. There were whispers that his departure from Lindon was linked to rumours of the High King’s impending marriage, a marriage which had not, as it transpired, taken place after all. Erestor had chosen to settle in Eregion while he researched a book on the history of Ost-in-Edhil. His sojourn had been mainly uneventful, with the exception of an unexpected detour to discuss the culture and traditions of the Vanyar with Annatar. 

“He could be a good choice to watch Lindir’s back and keep him on track,” Celeborn remarked, bringing the conversation back before it could enter the realm of gossip. “He’s handy with a knife and his reflexes are good. Used to be anyhow, and you never really lose that.”

Galadriel saw no reason to mention that Erestor practiced daily in the privacy of his room and had not lost the skills built up in the years he had spent travelling with her cousin Gildor. Not only would he keep Lindir as safe as the road allowed, he would also carry a full, unexpurgated report for Ereinion Gil-galad and could be trusted to deliver both it and the musician safely to Mithlond. 

She leaned back against her pillows sipping her wine and felt the warmth spread out and begin to loosen the tension that still knotted her body, legacy of the horror that had gone before. “I’m sure it will be enough,” she said, nodding. “It will have to be. Two elves fleeing home ahead of the storm have the best chance of passing unnoticed from here to Mithlond. Add warriors and fast horses, and you make it plain something important is in progress.”

“When?” Celebrimbor asked. “Not immediately. There are still ways we can use the Three to make the passes less accessible. I saw it earlier, before… Let the weather lift, send them when the thaw begins and the roads have a chance to clear?”

Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged glances and he gave her an infinitesimal nod. “That should be right,” she said. “It gives us time to approach Lindir, and decide how much to tell him, and for Erestor to give out that he plans an eventual return home. He knows too many people, it has to look unhurried, natural. Nothing about their leaving should seem noteworthy.”

The unspoken was accepted by all three with nods. Nothing to draw attention, nothing to let this departure seem in any way different than the many others currently taking place. Nothing to catch the eye of those who even at this late stage might be sending word east to Morgoth’s former lieutenant, the new Enemy.

Mithlond

“All else aside, there’s no time for you to train with our warriors,” the king said. “No time for you to get used to their ways and they to yours.”

Gil-galad sat at ease, legs stretched out before him, his feet resting on a small table he had just hooked closer for that purpose. They were enjoying the mid morning sun in Círdan’s garden while they drank Maeriel’s excellent lemon cordial and watched the seagulls swoop and flock. Glorfindel liked Círdan’s home, it put him in mind of Alqualondé and not just because of the Telerin presence. He had another taste of the cordial and reluctantly nodded. 

“Yes, I understand that. And I know we agreed my position would be advisory. But you have no idea how frustrating it is to watch preparations for war and not have a part in it, not be of use to anyone. This is what I was trained for, it’s something I do well.” The last time had been less than successful, but neither of them was going there.

Gil-galad blew out a gusty breath. “Oh no, I know exactly how you feel. Think I like sitting on my backside watching Elrond get my army battle-ready? He has no command experience, what he knows is what he picked up from watching Maedhros or listening to the rest of us swap war stories. I’m trying not to get in his way or undermine his authority but I’m biting my tongue and gritting my teeth a lot. Trouble is, some of us just can’t take to the field, not unless all else fails. Or so my Council insists.”

He was staring moodily into his glass and the last sentence ended on something rather like a growl. 

“In Your Majesty’s case of course it makes sense that you stay in Mithlond,” Glorfindel said. Well, it didn’t really, he was used to kings who led from the front, but he was starting to understand the scale of Lindon and why the councillors might feel keeping the centre safe was  imperative.  “I never realised you fought in the War of Wrath, Sire? But then, I was told barely enough to expect a High King, a kingdom and that Lord Círdan remained to vouch for my identity.”

Gil-galad glanced at him. “Just Gil-galad in private, or Gil if you like. Don’t know what was in my mother’s mind – ‘starlight’. Ereinion’s more for family, it dates back to when I was growing up on Balar. And no, we didn’t sit shivering in fear on our island, waiting for the Vanyar to rescue us. We harried Morgoth’s forces all along the coast, we followed them inland, we kept it up even when the land was being broken up and the sea came in and flooded Sirion… There were still elves living there. Eönwë apologised, said no one had told him…” 

At the sound of Maeriel’s approach, he broke off to sit up hastily and take his feet off the table. She placed a tray with sandwiches and a slice of apple pie down on it, gave him a deeply suspicious stare, and left them to talk. The king took the tray off the table and rested his feet back on it. “She’d make my life miserable if she caught me,” he admitted with a wry grin. “Have a sandwich. Why isn’t there more pie?”

Glorfindel shook his head and held up a hand.“Not for me, thanks, she knows I won’t eat mid-morning,” Since his rebirth, food seemed to have a lower priority in his life. He ate light meals, sufficient for his needs, enjoyed them, and had no impulse to snack in between. As Gil-galad got started on the pie, Glorfindel returned to the conversation. “Getting an apology was an achievement. Lord Eönwë likes to believe there is nothing he doesn’t know.” In his mind’s eye he saw again the unbending presence in his house, the perfectly ordered robes and disdainful stare.

“Yep, figured. Prig. Some of them got off in boats but there weren’t enough for everyone. There were communities hidden up in the hills, most of them died too. Dwarves and men – I have no idea of the numbers, only what we learned from the stragglers who reached Lindon later. The places you knew were all drowned, well most of them anyhow. There’s a bit of rock sticking up, small island, they say it was part of Himring. That’s about it. Anyhow - fighting. I was already fighting the enemy in my forties. They crowned me when I was about 62, no fuss, went off after a bunch of raiders that same evening.” 

At Glorfindel’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Life was like that then. When we first settled here it felt strange not to be out hunting something.  but there was work to be done. Felt like I’d been fighting all my life, quite welcomed the break. Now ---- now I miss it. I listen to them drill and wish I could go join in. I used to lead the odd patrol while we were cleaning up from the war, but people got a bit upset after I took an arrow.” He grinned like a child recounting a misadventure which he believed had been worth the punishment. 

Glorfindel found he was smiling as well. The more time he spent with Gil-galad, the more he liked this junior royal who had been elevated to high station by circumstances directly related to his own death. “Orc arrows carry poison, Your Majes – Gil. I can see how it might have caused concern. Other than Arta – Galadriel and Elrond, there’s no-one else left from Finwë’s line over here, is there?”

Gil-galad shook his head. “Just them. And she’s a woman with a female child, and he’s Half-elven, the reason Eärendil never extended a claim for kingship himself, nor Idril in his name. Too many conservative voices, too much resistance at the time.”

“All the more reason for you to stay away from the front line of any conflict,” Glorfindel said, nodding. “And I suppose we have to assume conflict is on its way. Besides the fact of me being here, I mean.”

“Applies to you, too, you know,” Gil-galad said after washing down a mouthful of pie with some of the cordial. “Not about to put you in harm’s way either. Valar sent you, and even if there was time for you to get trained and ready to move out with the army. I’d have to say no. Somehow I don’t think they sent you over to get yourself killed again.”

Glorfindel snorted with laughter. “To the point. Yes, that’s true. I also have an idea if fighting needed to be done, I’d know. But still – it rankles.” It did, but his brief did not seem to include joining an army. 

“Yes, that it does.” Gil-galad raised his glass half-mockingly. “So you can sit here in the sun with me like two old mortal warriors and we’ll swap stories and watch the world get ready to tear itself apart again and regret our lost freedom.” He reached for the jug, offering it to Glorfindel before adding more cordial to his own glass. Setting it down, he began examining the sandwiches. “So. Just in case I ever get there, what’s it like in the Halls? Be good to know what to expect. We Noldor kings don’t seem to have a lot of luck – I’ve already kept my crown a fair bit longer than the last few.”

Knowing that, why haven’t you wed, sired an heir? Glorfindel wondered. He kept the question to himself for now, he knew where to go for answers. Círdan was good for matters of conduct and dress, but if he wanted real information he had fast learned to choose another direction. 

----

“Oh, there’ve been several matches that almost led to an exchange of rings – silver at least. But something always happens at the last minute – politics, power struggles, personal taste…”

In the weeks he had spent in her home, Glorfindel had never seen Maeriel idle. Today was no exception, and baking at least kept her in one place long enough for them to talk. He liked her big, comfortable kitchen with its red tile floor and long table. There was even a cat over by the hearth and one on the floor next to his chair, leg thrown back over its shoulder in one of the strange poses the animals adopted while they groomed themselves. Glorfindel had never made close acquaintance with a cat before and he rather liked their grace and unexpected friendliness. They used to be considered ill-omened, but this did not seem the consensus in Mithlond; there were several at the palace, and Elrond seemed particularly fond of them.

He was still expected eventually to cross the bay and go live in the palace complex, a series of buildings in warm gold and rosy pink stone that he could see sprawling along the waterfront almost opposite the harbour, but while his visits there were always pleasant, this quieter, more thoughtful corner of Lindon suited him better at this stage. He just needed to find the words to explain this to Gil-galad without it seeming he preferred the Shore Lord’s hospitality to that of the High King.

“So, it’s not from lack of interest then?” he asked. “I know sometimes we get too involved in our work, take longer than we should to find our soul’s mate and settle down. It just seemed less usual with a king, and I wondered.”

Maeriel looked over at him, her hands busy kneading dough. He suspected her hazel eyes missed very little, and while she talked a lot he noticed she was careful how much information she passed along. “Have you never thought of marriage yourself, my lord?” she asked now, countering his question with another.

For a moment the light seemed to change and he could almost imagine the next footfalls he heard would be Elsúrië’s. He met Maeriel’s inquiry candidly, a smile touching his lips. “Oh yes. We were promised, but then I followed Turgon here for my cousin Elenwë’s sake. When they rehoused me after, we had just enough time to talk about setting a day for our vows, then I was asked to return to aid the king. So – yes, I’ve considered it seriously, twice now. Not single through lack of trying.” He tried to make a joke of it to still the quiet ache that always seemed to accompany thoughts of her. It would ease in time, he remembered that, but never totally fade. “Elsúrië,” he added softly. “Her name’s Elsúrië.”

She reached a flour-streaked hand across the table and touched his arm gently. “She is a very fortunate lady, my lord. She must be so proud of you.”

“In between being cordially fed up with me, you mean?” he asked, and they both laughed.

“Even so,” Maeriel agreed. “It’s a woman’s lot that those we love most are often the ones we wish to shake until their teeth rattle.” She slapped the dough into a new shape, reached for her roller and began flattening it with short, quick strokes. “As you say, some of us are too busy to give thought to love and duty. The years are long, there is no need of haste, not like there is with mortal kind. But – some feel less urge to wed than others, either through interests that are best suited to the single life or because their inclination might not favour a marriage and heirs. Then – it is hard to say what would be the best course in that case.”

Glorfindel nodded slowly. Maeriel was unlikely to gossip about Gil-galad, she was easily as fond of him as he was of her. That meant what she implied was less a secret than something known to some but treated with discretion. He approached the subject obliquely. “Was there ever someone special in his life? Or… he came to the crown very young, perhaps there was no time before and it would have been contentious after?”

“Hmph.” Maeriel put aside the roller and reached for a cutter instead, a circular shape with a zigzag edge and began cutting out rounds. “The last one he seemed serious about is in Eregion, has been for decades now. He was sent to investigate when the Stranger became a cause for concern, then stayed there on the track of larger secrets. The reports come with the Lady’s letters, and that’s all I know. With the trouble that’s coming, he might be on the road already. I hope so in any event. The Lady’s fond of him, she’d not let him fall into danger if she could help it. She looks out for her own, that one.”

It hadn’t taken long to realise that when people here talked about The Lady, they meant not Varda the Lamp Kindler, but Artanis, daughter of Finwe, rebel princess in exile. His mouth twitched, trying to smile, and he stopped it firmly. “Yes she does, she always did,” he agreed smoothly. “And the king’s friend, the one she is so fond of. Can I ask his name?”

Maeriel shrugged. “Oh, you could as easily ask Elrond, they’re good friends, or were. Erestor. Black hair, light brown eyes, and an answer for everything. They met on Balar, in my herb garden, didn’t stop arguing for days. I knew where that would lead by sunset, though it took them a deal longer and years of friendship first. Some things just are what they are. King or commoner, we can’t always direct our heart’s liking for others’ convenience.”

4. Many Partings.

Ost-in-Edhil

The long, soft grass was ruffled by a light breeze and the scents of summer filled the air. Galadriel walked through the meadow, her hand trailing the tops of the grasses. She was barefoot, her hair unbound, and she was wearing a loose robe in a shade of pink the like of which she had not worn since childhood. The world was bright, humming with new life. 

What happened next began as a trickle, a tiny dark line crawling over a mountain pass and sliding down towards open land. It was joined by more and more lines until  the trickle became a stream and the stream became a flood, pouring down the mountain, coming up from the coast, reaching Eregion, spreading, blotting out the landscape, overwhelming the clear white light of the city. Only the dwarf realm still shone in the sea of darkness, and as she watched the arch closed in on itself and the mountain door was locked.

Galadriel sat bolt upright in bed in the darkened bedroom. She was wide awake and panting, her heart racing as though she had been running. Beside her Celeborn was already stirring. 

“Something’s wrong?” He turned on his side and squinted at her through long, silver hair. One look was enough. He sat up immediately, a hand on her arm. “You’re shaking. What was it? A dream, or…?”

“They’re coming,” she breathed, barely conscious of his touch. She pressed the heels of her palms hard against her eyes for a moment, trying to blot out the dream images. “Thousands of them, tens of thousands. Eregion will be overrun…”

“It’s all right, Alatariel, we know where they are.” He voice, close to her ear, was calm and matter-of-fact, always a relief when the Sight frightened and disoriented her. Celeborn had been there for visions of her brothers’ deaths, Ereinion’s birth, even the coming of the Lords of the West, and it took a lot to shake him. “Only three days ago our scouts brought back word of their army milling around below Midway Pass, seeking a passage over the mountain that would accommodate their numbers…”

She interrupted him, speaking barely above a whisper. “For show, that’s just for show while they spread out in little groups, evading our watchers, following goat tracks, old, forgotten paths. And more came by sea… even now I sense them sailing down the Gwaithir.” 

She focused on his face, watching his expression change as he took in her words. She had no need for the torches that burned fashionably in the street beyond the house, her eyes were still night-strong, though not as they had once been, back when she crossed the ice under starlight with her long-dead brothers. “Go and warn Celebrimbor while I wake Bri,” she said more decisively, shaking her head to clear it. “And one of us needs to get Erestor up, and send for Lindir, and…” 

“Now?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night, Peaches. Morning is time enough. Come, let’s get back to sleep.”

“Now,” she insisted, impelled by absolute certainty that every hour, every minute counted now. “We have to leave by dawn, we’ll need the rest of the night to prepare. Your force, the men from Doriath you’ll lead off from Ost-in-Edhil? They have to leave at once or it will be too late. They will end up fighting here in the streets and dying…” She could feel it, hear it almost, the clash of arms, rough curses, screams cut short.

She felt Celeborn’s hands firm on her shoulders, the warmth of him close behind her. He knew her too well not to realise that fear drove her urgency. “We’ll take to the hills and try and protect the city from there,” he said, lips almost brushing her ear. “They’re ready to ride at my sign. Two hours is all we need, no more.” 

She nodded and moved to leave the bed, but his grasp tightened and he pulled her back against him. “Not yet. Stay, we need to talk. It might be best if you spoke to Celebrimbor. He and I tend to get distracted by minor issues instead of cutting to the heart of the matter. While you go to him, I’ll rouse Erestor and pack for Celebrían. No need to wake her before time.”

“Wake her anyway,” Galadriel said, resting warm and safe against his chest for a last few minutes. “It may be months before we’re together again. Erestor will see to the rest. Ereinion chose well when he sent him to watch Brim’s yellow-haired pedlar of mysteries. He can fetch Lindir while you contact your men, it will give you more time with your princess before we leave.”

She felt Celeborn kiss the top of her head before resting his cheek against her hair. “She will be safer with you than with me, I know, but – I shall miss you both so much. No matter how great the threat, we never had to separate like this before. It chills my heart.”

She leaned her head back, aimed a kiss for his cheek and found his jaw instead. “Months may pass, but their passage will be like no time at all,” she heard herself promise. “I will worry for you, but – this will pass, Celeborn.”

“You’ve seen this?” he asked quietly, seeking certainty.

“Not exactly, no,” she admitted, moving closer so that she could feel the motion of his breathing against her, something she had loved from their first night together. Often she fell asleep trying to synchronize her breath with his. “My heart knows we will go on together – here, not across the sea. And far more than the Sight, I trust my heart.”

----

They were in Celebrimbor’s study, a place of books and maps, geological samples and the small treasures gathered over a life that had spanned two shores, for he had been very young when he was taken across the sea by his oath-bound father. Curufin’s young wife had stayed with Nerdanel, mourning with her law-mother the loss of a son to a husband’s selfishness. Galadriel remembered her vaguely as a soft young thing, no match for her husband and his brilliant family. There was nothing of her in Celebrimbor, except something about the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw.

Lamplight shone on the goblets of wine he had poured for them, its red almost a match for the rubies that chased one another about the rims. He wore a deep green night-robe, his hair was loose and his feet bare, reminding her curiously of how she had been dressed in her dream. She sipped her drink, tasting richness, feeling the glow spread through her. That they should discuss impending doom over a fine wine struck her as a very Finwëan concept, well suited to an argument that went round in circles. 

“There is no way you can hold Ost-in-Edhil against him, Cousin,” she said for what she thought might be the fourth time. "He lived here, he knows our defences. It needs nothing more than a loyal follower still holding one of his rings to lay bare your every move.”

“Those who followed him know him for who he is now - Sauron, the Great Enemy’s lapdog,” Celebrimbor responded grimly. “No elf in his or her right mind would spy for him. We’ve destroyed the lesser rings as we’ve found them and shored up our defences. His easterlings are still at least two weeks’ march away, the passes are guarded, the land between the river and the mountain is…”

“That’s what you believe but you’re wrong. Brim, please. Just leave. Ride for Lindon. You’ve had your differences but Ereinion has to take you in, you’re family.”

A jaw muscle jerked. “Oh yes, he’d take me in all right. He and the Shipwright could never let pass the chance to tell me how wrong I was about… him. No, Tanis, this is my land and this is where I stay.”

Galadriel wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled, but instead she sighed and said tiredly, “They will come up the river from the sea, they will cross the mountains and their numbers will overwhelm our watchers, The city will stand no chance, none at all.”

“Would you have me run for safety and leave these people to fend for themselves?” he asked her quietly, his eyes on hers. “They or their parents followed my grandfather across the sea, then they followed my father and his brothers --- I would prefer not to leave them in the lurch. Just for a change. My family has an unfortunate record that way. And we’re leagues inland, why would they come by sea? Has Celeborn heard something he chose not to share with me?”

She took another mouthful, swirling the wine in the cup as she said, “If he had new information, he would have told you at once. No, this is what I’ve been trying to explain, I saw this in a dream. A true dream. A vast army on the march, larger than anything Ost-in-Edhil can hope to withstand. The city – I think the city isn’t important to him, except as a matter of casual revenge and a show of power. But you deceived him, or so he sees it. You made the Three, and for that he will want you almost as much as he wants them.”

“And he’ll not have them,” Celebrimbor responded coolly, face impassive. “Is that why you’re here? To fetch the rings?”

“I’m taking my daughter and leaving at daybreak, as are Erestor and Lindir,” she replied. “So yes, I need them now. I need time to conceal them and pack a few things for myself – Celeborn’s seeing to Bri.”

“I’d have thought Celeborn at least would stay and fight. I hardly expected the three of you to run for Mithlond along with Erestor and Lindir. What was it you said about undue attention?”

She hovered on the brink of a lie, but this was her cousin, one of the few of her kin left this side of the sea, and she knew she would not see him alive again, not outside of the Undying Lands. “Celeborn and those who followed him from Doriath plus the fighters who’ve been with us since Lake Nenuial are taking to the hills. They’ll attack and harry the enemy from the rear. He thought he could do more for the city that way than by risking their being trapped inside the walls.” Narrow streets, terrified people, flames leaping from building to building… She blinked hard, shutting out the sounds, the smells.

He sucked in a breath and let it out soundlessly. “So,” he said finally. “You’ve convinced him then. And you? Straight for Mithlond and safety is hardly your style, Cousin. I’d have expected you to fight at his side, or at least sharpen his sword and tell him where to strike next.”

She tried and failed to hide the flash of irritation. “Hardly appropriate with a child of thirty-two summers in tow. Had you allowed me to send her to Lindon when I asked, that would have been the plan.”

He grunted and they sat in silence with their wine, thinking their own thoughts. Finally, with a faint murmur asking her pardon, he got up and left the room. Galadriel sat watching the glowing embers of what remained of the evening’s fire and waited. She had not yet lost her touch, though it gave less satisfaction than she might have expected. He had not asked a second time where she was going. Hopefully he assumed Mithlond and had no more questions. She trusted him, but after sufficiently skilled torture, everyone talked eventually. Sauron’s expertise had been a byword in the previous age, enough to have earned him the epessë Gorthaur, the Cruel One. 

His hair roughly braided now, Celebrimbor came back carrying a small, ornately decorated box. She rose and he hesitated before placing it in her hands. 

“Do they have to be specially wrapped or contained?” she asked. “I need to hide them and what I have in mind won’t allow for much fuss.”

He shook his head. “That box is to honour them, nothing more. Grandfather had his Silmarils, I have these. But they can be carried any way you choose, only don’t try and work with them unless you’re somewhere secure. They were not made for assault and destruction, they were…” He stopped, lips compressed.

Galadriel held the box, aware of his hands still covering hers, and looked into his eyes. “You wanted to make something that would guard and renew, preserve and protect, make beautiful - your answer to your father and to your grandfather. They are your legacy and, my word to you, blood to blood, they will not fall into hands that would misuse them.”

He inclined his head, his eyes on hers. “Blood to blood,” he agreed softly. “You know, I still think we would have made a formidable couple. You are the only person I trust completely. No need to tell me your plans for them, the less I know the better.”

Galadriel felt her eyebrow quirk slightly as the corner of her lip curved. “Two Finwëan in one household? My dear, there would have been blood on the walls within a week. We’ve never agreed on anything.”

“Those would have been the depths, but imagine the heights? We could have conquered the world, Tanis.”

“I think the world has trouble enough,” she said, but she was smiling as she spoke. “It would be Nerdanel and Fëanor all over again. You don’t remember your grandparents together, do you? The pictures used to shake on the walls, it’s said.”

They shared a grin. “You should have thought first before binding with that Sinda,” he said, not for the first time. “Blood understands blood, we would have been one another’s exact fit.”

Galadriel shook her head, still smiling. “I made my choice, Brim, and I’ve never had cause to look back and wonder. Though I tell you this, were we bound, there is no chance I would have let you stay here to face them. We would be running for Mithlond and safety right along with everyone else by now.”

“Do you think it’s safe even there?” he asked. They were close together, their hands still touching. 

“You told me this would stay Eregion’s problem and I doubted you, remember? I can only hope Lindon’s borders are strong enough to withstand them when they come.”

For a moment she had a vision of armed warriors, shouted orders, men and elves standing shoulder to shoulder, and then it was gone. She had no way to place it; it could have been next year, a thousand years’ hence, or even some time back in the First Age. She did what she had taught herself to do when this happened, she let it pass. If the time came when she needed to know more, she would.

Celebrimbor was watching her. “What?” he asked. He was less easy with her Sight than Celeborn, but then he was a craftsman and liked to see how a thing worked, liked to be able to examine it, touch it, turn it around. 

She shook her head. “Perhaps nothing, perhaps something. Not relevant now. Brim, please reconsider. A city is bricks and wood, property, not worth people’s lives. Tell them to leave, let the easterlings have it. We can rebuild.”

“This was the work of our hands, our hearts,” he replied simply. “We built it with pride, we raised children here, made a place for ourselves. This is the last truly Noldor city - you can hardly count Mithlond, it’s a mixture of everyone and anyone who survived the War. How can I tell them to leave, then get on my horse and flee for my life? They put their trust in me and they deserve a better return than that. I still believe we’ll prove a match for the east . Your visions show you the worst that can happen, Tanis. They are not set in stone.”

Unexpectedly he took the box back from her. The tip of his finger touched a little, hidden catch and it opened. The rings lay within, each wrapped individually in blue silk. He ran his fingers over them lingeringly, a final touch, then removed one before snapping the lid shut. Wordless, he handed the box back to her and unwrapped Nenya. Taking her left hand, he placed the ring on her middle finger, the cold slide of metal firm and somehow final. 

“This is yours, it was from the start. I could see it on no other hand, could imagine it melding with no other fëa. I crafted it with you in mind.” He turned her hand, considering the effect, then nodded. “Be careful not to draw on the power or accidentally open any windows for him to peer through. You might want to hang it round your neck rather, just to be safe. Give Ereinion the other two, but keep her with you. If Lindon falls, you will survive, you always do. Wars, land upheavals, kin slayings… you’re amazing. If all else fails, send it to my mother perhaps, or my grandmother. You’ll know what’s best.” 

She stared down at the mithril band, the soft, star-glitter of the stone, cold fire burning bright, then up at Celebrimbor. They looked at one another without words, then she placed the hand that bore the ring palm flat on his chest over his heart. “You are the last of your grandfather’s line save for Maglor, and who knows where he is,” she said softly. “Please – I have no business asking you to do anything for my sake, but… for your grandmother’s sake if for no one else’s. Leave while you still can.”

He shook his head, then bent the fraction necessary between them and his lips found hers. She opened to them and they stood in the lamplight in the quiet room and shared their only kiss, something deep and absolute, a blending of two who perhaps, as Celebrimbor had often said in jest, fate really had intended should be one. 

“Travel safe wherever the road takes you, Tanis.” His voice was rough, close to her ear.’

The words caught in her throat. “You – you remind me of Finrod. More courage than sense. Till we meet again, Cousin...” 

…on the other shore, she finished silently, steeling herself against the tears or undue softness that would embarrass them both. You were too young to have a part in the horror at Alqualondé. They have to let you leave Mandos eventually.

She drew her cloak up over her bright hair, her eyes on his face as though memorizing it. Then she turned and left the room on silent feet, carrying with her the three rings of power that were the final Great Working of the last master craftsman of Fëanor’s line.

----

By the time she got back to the house, Erestor had left to collect Lindir, telling Celeborn he would meet them in the grove close by the city gates. Ost-in-Edhil had originally been conceived as a typically walled and locked Noldor stronghold, but the gates had stood open for centuries and as the city expanded the new walls had served as little more than boundary markers. Recently they had been inspected and strengthened and the gates newly reinforced, manned day and night by wardens, but their job was to question strangers, not to offer hindrance to citizens with interests beyond the city. 

The sky was starting to show signs of dawn, grey light casting long shadows between buildings and under the many trees that were the mark of this elven city. Galadriel rode slowly, looking around at silent streets and houses she would never see again. She was so engrossed that she almost missed seeing Erestor, but Celebrían, who was seated behind her on the horse, touched her arm and pointed, speaking barely above a whisper.

“Over there, Nana. Is that Lindir with Erestor?” Galadriel had assumed Celeborn would have explained things to her in more detail, but probably he had been talking about simpler things, the kind of conversation with which memories are best filled.

“He has family in Mithlond and had been planning a trip home, so they’ll travel together. It’s several weeks’ journey, a long time to spend with only a horse for company.” 

The two elves waiting under the trees made unlikely-looking couriers. Erestor’s hair was drawn back in an exotic array of tight braids and his well-cut travelling clothes were fashionably trimmed in rose. Lindir wore sensible greys and browns, but a double necklace of silver and crystal reached almost to his waist, and dyed strips of leather hung with tiny feathers and beads were twisted through his tawny hair. Their horses carried unexpectedly few possessions, although Lindir had an extra pack which he was still holding and from which protruded the neck of a fiddle. 

With a mental shrug, Galadriel dismounted, held the horse for Celebrían and unfastened one of the bags from the very Noldorin saddle. Discarding social niceties, she immediately got down to basics. "Dressed for town but travelling light, I see? Are you two ready?"

Erestor nodded, the shifting coils of black hair accentuating the movement. “Yes, my Lady. I only brought essentials. No need for party clothes, I can get more in Lindon.”

“Clothes for the road, one good outfit in case we have to impress someone,” Lindir added, unasked. “Plus my instruments and my music. I learned to travel light the hard way when my horse wandered off and I ended up having to carry my pack on my own back.”

While they were still laughing, a horse-drawn cart passed with several people walking alongside it talking quietly. They paid no attention to the group under the trees, but Galadriel’s eyes followed them as they moved on towards the gate. “Early in the day for the road to be this busy,” she murmured. “I’ll wager their destination is the same as yours, too.” 

She removed something from the bag at her feet while she was talking and held it out to Lindir. He reached for it, frowning slightly, and then his face softened and he smiled as he folded back the cloth wrappings, his hands sure but careful. It was a lap harp, beautifully wrought, with delicately coloured engravings along the stem and frame. 

“It was a gift from Maglor a long time ago,” she explained. “Being a musician, I thought perhaps you’d understand why I am so loathe to leave it in the city. When you reach Mithlond, could you see it gets to my nephew, the King? Just - take great care of it on the road, please. It’s old and probably valuable, and its safety is very important to me.”

Lindir was barely listening to her, his fingers gently stroking wood and strings. Musicians were all the same, she thought, which was as well because she had been relying on it. She nodded to herself, satisfied, taking care to ignore Erestor’s curious stare. 

“Ada,” Celebrían broke in, her attention on an indistinct figure on horseback riding towards the gates. At the last moment the horse turned towards the trees and stopped and Celeborn dismounted. He had a quiet word with Celebrían that left her smiling, then came to slip his arm around Galadriel’s waist.

“All set?” he asked. She had been busy in the house when he left, making her final preparations for the journey. They had talked a little but there had been nothing left to arrange. 

“Ready, yes. I have everything. Where are your men?” She looked around as though expecting to see his attack force lined up and ready for her inspection. 

“Most of them are already up in the hills, waiting. The rest will follow in the next few hours, and everyone will be clear of the city before mid morning. You’ve given Erestor the report?”

“Not yet. Can you make sure that pack isn’t too heavy for Bri while I talk to Erestor? She said it was all right, but she thinks the horse will carry it, not her, and I can’t manage much more myself.”  

She removed a flat leather pouch from the bag at her feet and inclined her head, indicating that Erestor should join her in walking slightly apart from the others. Lindir glanced up, but then went back to securing the little harp away with his fiddle. When they reached the shelter of a spreading tree, she handed him the pouch. “I cannot impress on you how sensitive the contents are,” she said softly. “This is a report of everything in the last few years that has any bearing on the current mess. Some of it, most of it, you know, the rest was common knowledge only within Celebrimbor’s inner circle. If you think it might fall into the wrong hands, open it, memorise as much as you can, and then destroy it.”

Erestor took the pouch wryly. “And then ride for my life, yes.” 

“Of course this means I absolutely forbid you to get yourself killed,” she added sternly, making his grave face reach for a smile. “Just get it to him intact. And give him my love, tell him I’ll be safe enough where I’m going.”

Erestor’s brow furrowed. “You’re not coming to Mithlond, Lady?” She was always fascinated by his eyes; long lashed, slightly up-tilted, the clear, pale brown of mountain water. They studied her now, intense.

Galadriel shook her head. “It’s best this way, Ereinion will explain.” She looked for discreet words but there were none, and they were running out of time. “You don’t have to understand this, Erestor, so don’t ask questions, just listen. Whatever it costs, guard that harp with your life – our survival might depend on it. Make sure it is in Ereinion’s hands before he even reads the report. And then… coming dear… and then he’s to take the base apart. There’s a gift secreted away for him. He might want to be careful who knows about it. Tell him Celebrimbor gifted me with the third, and we agreed it’s best they be held apart at this time.”

Her lips brushed his cheek in farewell and then she walked back to the few possessions she was salvaging from her life in Ost-in-Edhil, making ready to say the most difficult goodbye of her life. Erestor was already no longer part of her planning. She knew she could trust him to do as he’d been told to the letter; the rings of air and fire were now out of her hands. 

----

“You’re quite sure about this?” 

The sky was growing lighter and somewhere a bird had begun calling, the precursor to the dawn chorus. Celebrían was talking to Erestor who she had known for most of her life, giving Celeborn and Galadriel a final few minutes alone. 

“There is no other way,” Galadriel answered. “I would far rather go somewhere you could reach easily, like Mithlond, but if Lindon were to fall, what then? As long as one of the rings is still safe, not in his hands, there might still be a chance.”

“You think something might happen to Lindon? You saw this, too?” Celeborn’s tone was casual, but he was watching her face, waiting to hear if this was a guess or something she knew. They could always read one another’s body language; in fact, they did it so well it served as a second language in social situations where open speech might be neither diplomatic nor safe.

She considered. There had been disjointed pictures: fighting, faces, some vast threat to Ereinion, but the armour was wrong, the banners unknown to her. She was almost sure what she had seen would only take place far in the future. For the present, although she was ridden by a sense of deep urgency, she knew little save for images of Elrond riding at the head of an army and inexplicable glimpses of a lush, green valley. There was nothing more. 

“I think Lindon will be threatened,” she said uncertainly, “but I have no idea how it will end. That much I cannot see. I think – I think that Ereinion will live to face a greater peril at a later time. But these are guesses, not anything I know.”

He drew her to him and they stood, heads together, arms around one another. There were no more words, there were no promises, for they had no need of either. “Later, when you’re settled, see if there is any way to send me word. I’ll know if you’re well or if things go badly, but a few lines – if you can find someone to carry a letter to Lindon, it will reach me eventually.”

“I can try,” she said, “but it might not be possible in the beginning. Do something for me?”

“Mm?” He held her closer and she felt his strength, sensed underlying sadness and worry.

“Each night when Eärendil’s light first appears, try and reach me, mind to mind. Times past, it could be done. We’ve been together so long, perhaps we can find the way back to that skill?”

He laughed softly. “Dear heart, if anything were to happen to you, I would know at once. But yes, we can try that. If it does nothing else, it will give us a time each day to be together in our hearts.”

Their foreheads were touching now. She smiled, knowing he would see it in her eyes just as she saw its answer in his. “I like the sound of that, together in our hearts. And Bri can do it as well, share the time with us.”

“She’ll like that.” He paused, then spoke again, his voice as steady as his eyes. “I have no need to ask that you take care of her, I know, but… she is still so very young.”

“With my life,” she replied to the unvoiced question and meant it.

They turned as one to look where Celebrían stood talking with Erestor and, more shyly, with Lindir. She was almost level with Erestor’s shoulder, and while she still had some growth left, she would never have her parents’ height. She was a friendly girl, a little shy but with an open, trusting nature that Galadriel secretly found puzzling. Both she and Celeborn were practical souls whose trust had to be earned. Like Celebrimbor though for different reasons, Bri put her in mind of her brother, Finrod.

She picked up the woven travelling bag and slung it over her shoulder. She had a dagger strapped to the inside of her left boot and carried a second at her waist. Hopefully she would have no need of either. She had considered a sword but they were cumbersome and hard to conceal. “Where are you all meeting up?”

“There’s a trail leading to farmlands branching off just before the crossroads. There are some very thick windbreaks, more than enough trees to shield us from anyone passing on the road. From there we can move into the hills, set up camp and send out scouts. And wait.”

Till they come for Celebrimbor’s city was implied although left unsaid.

She nodded. “I saw that Ereinion will send Elrond with an army. I have no idea what he knows about leading a fighting force or conducting a war, but try and meet up with him as soon as you can, he’ll need guidance. There’ll be generals with him, of course, but…”

“Gil-galad won’t leave Mithlond?” There had been no time to discus this earlier, or perhaps there was but they had found other matters closer to their hearts instead. 

“Oh, he would want to,” she said, surprising herself by being able to laugh about it, “but they won’t let him. He’s not just a good king, he’s the only one they have. I’ve often wondered how things would have been had someone stopped my uncle Fingolfin from his ridiculous gesture against the Enemy – no elf could expect to face one of the Mighty in physical combat and live.”

He manoeuvred a lock of her hair out from where it had caught under the bag’s strap. “Well, you’ve said yourself, when they’re clothed in form similar to our own, they share our frailty. He might have thought it gave him a chance.” It was an old discussion. She knew he remembered Fingolfin’s death. They had been many leagues away from that unequal battle, but she had seen it, watching a scene invisible to everyone around her with wide eyed horror. Her face had been bone white, he told her after.

She gave him a quick smile and shrugged. “I think Morgoth would have played about as fair as his surrogate has with Celebrimbor,” she said. “My uncle was unimaginably brave, but he was a fool. So is Brim. I asked him to go with Erestor to Lindon, but no, he can’t desert his people. I can just hear what Fëanor would say.”

He kissed her cheek and she savoured their fragile closeness. “He does what he has to. He left things too late perhaps this is his way of expunging his guilt? Come, I think she’s ready now.”

“You want a few minutes with her before…?”

He shook his head. “No. We said it all earlier. Just – don’t trust her to anyone else, and remember, she can’t walk as fast as you do.” It was a private joke between the three of them, but although she tried, her smile was a little uneven now the time had come. 

Celeborn gave her his hand to step upon as she mounted and then helped Bri up behind her, taking her pack for the time being. The hood of her cloak fell back to reveal her silver-gilt hair, and Galadriel reached back to pull it firmly up. “Keep it covered,” she reminded her daughter quietly. “We’re both too fair to pass unnoticed without these hoods. The longer it takes for – people – to realise we’re gone, the better.”

5. The Road.

Ost-in-Edhil

Slipping out of Ost-in-Edhil unnoticed proved surprisingly easy. Two heavily laden carts bound for market reached the gates almost simultaneously, leaving barely enough space for horses to pass in single file while the drivers shouted at one another about who had the right of way. They edged past with heads bowed and Celeborn in the lead, hoping that anyone watching on Sauron's behalf would be diverted by the confusion and assume they were yet another group of refugees heading for Lindon. 

They rode in silence, the world slowly coming awake around them, until they reached the place where a red clay road met the Tharbad thoroughfare. Looking incongruously out of place, it ran north, arrow-straight, through the rocky plain beyond Ost-in-Edhil to the great holly hedge that marked the boundary between the lands held by elf and dwarf. Galadriel reined in her horse and turned to look back the way they had come, the others following suit. 

The city was coming awake, early sunlight catching gilded spires and delicate trelliswork, lifting the colours from pre-dawn grey to the vibrant shades so popular in this Noldor enclave. Still in shadow, the sturdy tower above the Guild-house looked almost menacing in comparison to later structures. It belonged to the very earliest settlement, back in the days when this had indeed been a stronghold as the name implied: Fortress of the Elves. The old city walls dated back to the same time. Built to last, they could still be seen in places, incorporated into other buildings as the town expanded. 

The light-sensitive lanterns in the main streets were beginning to dim and would soon fade and vanish until the night came around again. By now the birds would be singing in the parks, where bare branches traced lacy shapes across the sky in contrast to their evergreen counterparts. She knew Celeborn had never loved Ost-in-Edhil, but Celebrían had lived there longer than any other place in her short life and called it home, while Galadriel had loved its energetic, challenging nature. And soon it would be no more. 

Erestor was watching the city, his face inscrutable. She caught his eye and said softly, "Hurry, but take no more chances than you must. And give him all my love when you get there.” 

He raised circled finger and thumb to his brow in salute, nodding. “I thought we could try riding alongside one of the larger groups,” he said, with a glance at Lindir for confirmation. “No one will bother with us, we’ll be safe enough. Enjoy your adventure, Bri,” he added, touching his fingers to his lips and holding them up with a quick, warm smile that drew one in return from Celebrían. Galadriel silently blessed him for trying to lighten the moment. She watched them dip their heads to Celeborn and ride off at a trot, then turned her horse to follow Celeborn along the red-baked dwarf road. 

They travelled in easy silence as they had so many times before, and the city soon lay behind them. The land grew bare and rocky, all save for the bright green strip along the banks of the Sirannon that flowed bright and cheerful under a scattering of trees. Two cairns of heaped stones marked a ford across the river, beyond which lay a well-tended path leading up the mountain that towered above them, still snow-clad almost to its midway point. Celeborn gave her a meaningful look. “The snow’s still heavy.” 

She nodded slowly, frowning, her eyes following the trail. “Yes it is, but the dwarves keep the way clear for us. They also use it at times.” 

He lifted an eyebrow but said nothing more. They rode on, till a turn in the trail brought them to a steeper incline, and there they stopped. Trying to make it sound like the most natural thing in the world, Galadriel said over her shoulder, “All right, Bri, down you get. We walk from here.” 

Celebrían looked around in confusion, eyes wide as she complied. “Walk? But, but where to? There’s nothing here but…” 

“Nothing but us and maybe a few dwarves, yes,” Galadriel agreed briskly. “The road over the mountain is too steep for horses. From here we rely on our own feet, not Gallant’s.” 

Celeborn dismounted and brought Celebrían’s pack, forestalling further questions. He made a few minor adjustments before settling it on her back while she stood very straight, trying to look brave. “You heed your mother, she can be a very knowledgeable woman, or so they tell me,” he said as he worked. “Take care of her when she forgets to eat and wants to keep walking longer than is sensible, and I’ll see you both in a few months.” 

Hearing the soft tone he used only with his daughter, seeing the care in every movement, each touch, Galadriel ached for him. Celebrían was the centre of his heart, holding a place not even open to her. She knew she could hardly have borne to leave them to face danger while she went on alone, and not for the first time she was in awe of his strength. 

She and Celeborn had always found looks more eloquent than words, which meant that instead of declarations of love and concern, they spent the last few minutes dealing with practical matters while their eyes said all that was needed. She asked questions about supplies, weapons stores and the like, while he checked that she had what he deeded the essentials. They brushed against one another as they moved about, storing the closeness and familiar warmth for later memories. There was very little to do and all too soon it was time to move on. 

Neither of them was any good at prolonged goodbyes. When he was ready, he rested a hand on her shoulder and bade her take care, then hugged Celebrían once more and mounted his horse. Galadriel felt his physical absence as though he had already left, even though he would always be part of the fabric of her inner self, a space of light and belonging. 

“Till star rise,” he said, looking down at her. “There is no distance too great for us to truly be apart.” Then he started back along the path, taking the extra horse with him. It was always good for a warrior to have a second mount. 

Galadriel stood watching him leave until she felt Celebrían move closer. She looked down into sad blue eyes, and with what she hoped was a reassuring smile said, “Come on, cheer up. Think of the stories you’ll have to tell your children one day.” 

Celebrían wrinkled her nose and looked unimpressed. “I can tell them my parents put me down in the middle of nowhere and told me to walk?” she suggested. “What’s up there, Nana? Where are we going?” 

Galadriel took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, shifting the weight of the pack she carried. She wondered if she really needed the extra shoes and how long it would take before she left them at the roadside. Warm clothing, that was the important thing. “We’re crossing the mountain to Lórien,” she answered. “You still like snow, don’t you? Might be a bit chilly, but all we have to do is follow the road over the Pass and down the dwarf stair and we’ll be right there.” 

On the Road

The road to Tharbad was busy, and not with the usual merchant traffic. The more fortunate rode or led horses laden with as much of their owners’ worldly goods as they could manage, but many families made do with hand carts for the heavy stuff, carrying the rest on their backs. Erestor saw none of the city’s upper class, most of whom he knew by sight from functions in the Dorians’ house. It was as though the idea of flight had not yet spread upward to Ost-in-Edhil’s elite. 

He and Lindir skirted the town itself, crossing the Gwathlo at the bridge to the south. The water was swollen by winter rains, but not impassable as it would be later when the snows melted in earnest. As they followed slowly behind a family group who were struggling with two carts and a bad tempered horse, Erestor had time to look back. Tharbad’s walls were more businesslike than Ost-in-Edhil’s: the city elders had long experience with pirates coming up river. He had visited there often on Galadriel’s account in the old days of her dealings with the Numenoreans and had good memories of the town. He wondered how long they could withstand Annatar’s army and shivered.

He thought about this and the lack of any sign of Ost-in-Edhil’s nobility while they rode, but said nothing until they stopped for the night. The countryside offered little variation and their campsite was almost identical to the previous night’s and the one before that. The only difference this time was the proximity of a narrow, sluggish stream, which at least gave respite to their meagre supply of drinking water.

They had already settled into a routine of sorts, so while he went about the eternal task of checking the horses’ hooves, Lindir set to building a small fire. He used mainly twigs because the land was open and rocky with low-growing bushes and few trees. The rough ground made for uneven travelling, and a distance that a fit horse would normally cover in three or four days took almost twice as long.  

“No noble blood on the road, have you noticed? Just people like us.”

Lindir looked up from laying the fire, his smile cynical. “Ordinary people don’t have as much to lose,” he pointed out. “No big houses, no jewels or beautiful clothes, no stables of fine horses. Makes it easier to pick up and move on. Most of the well-born are worried about the situation, frightened even, but not ready – yet – to do anything about it.” 

“Not ready to leave their wealth for the easterners and run, you mean?” Erestor said, wiping the probe on a clump of straggly grass. He frowned, looking past Lindir. “There’s something – unelven – about being so wedded to possessions. I left a lot behind that I’d grown fond of, but even if I’d been given a choice, it would hardly seem worth my life to stick around and guard it.” 

“Yes, but you’re sensible, and I don’t get the impression you’re someone who needs possessions to define himself.” The sentence was punctuated by harsh blowing as Lindir tried to encourage tiny flames to spread and grow. 

“I’ve been poor,” Erestor granted. “I’ve been quite comfortable too – well, I’ve lived in very comfortable circumstances. What you have matters less than who you are. And you? None of this seemed to surprise you much.” 

Satisfied with his fire, Lindir sat back on his heels to watch Erestor work. “When I was travelling, collecting songs, meeting people, I got a sense for when it was time to move on, specially when I was in the far south amongst men. When you don’t know the language or the customs well, you need to rely on your instincts. I’ve had the feeling for weeks now that it’s time to visit my family. When Lord Celeborn approached me, it was – like hearing something I already knew. Even without this, I’d have left.” 

As he spoke his eyes strayed to their packs stacked in the shelter of a tumble of rocks. The neck of his oilcloth-wrapped fiddle was plainly visible. 

Erestor finished running his hands over the horse’s legs and gave it a push as he got up. “Go graze, you. If you can find anything without breaking your teeth on rock, that is. We need to ration the trail mix.” He came over to take a look at the fire. “Be nice if we had more to cook than a handful of roots, wouldn’t it? I always heard this place was teeming with game – they must have gone south for the winter.” He followed Lindir’s glance and also considered the packs. “Not a common errand, is it? Haven’t you been tempted to take it out and have a look yet? Try and see what this is all about?” 

Lindir had accepted Celeborn's explanation that they were carrying important information for King Gil-galad with a quizzical look but no questions. Now his eyes met Erestor’s. “The harp, you mean? Not a chance. Whatever’s hidden in there won’t yield easily, and I’m not of a mind to have the High King asking me difficult questions. You know what it is though, don’t you? You have the report, so…” 

Erestor shook his head. “I have no idea. Something that has to be taken out of harm’s way. That’s all I know, and it’s quite enough for me, too.” 

Lindir gave him a crooked smile. “So here we are, crossing – what do they call this place? Eriador, right? - with a mystery gift for a king and we don’t even know how much trouble we’re in if the wrong people catch up with us. You’d think we’d be more curious about what we might end up dead for.” 

“I wasn’t given permission to die,” Erestor said dryly. “She was quite adamant about me surviving to get all this to Gil-galad. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be faced with questions from the Lady moments after I finally leave Mandos.” 

“That’s why there’s two of us. In case one of us does something inconvenient like getting killed.” Lindir held his hand out palm up as he spoke and made a sound of disgust. “It’s starting to rain again. I am getting so damn sick of this weather.” 

Erestor got up, taking their cooking pot to fetch water for the night’s soup – the sparse contents would hardly justify calling it a stew. “How about a song while I get the pot ready?” 

Lindir rolled his eyes. “Not a chance, unless you sing one yourself. It’s wet, cold and miserable and I can’t relax with that harp sitting over there waiting for something to go wrong. Let’s just practice our bad Haradrim while dinner cooks. It’s not a musical kind of day.” 

Erestor laughed mirthlessly. “Welcome to my life.”

Mithlond

Elrond stalked into the kitchen muttering and flung himself into a chair, his cloak billowing about him. Thin stuff, fashionable. He’d have to leave the court clothes behind when he went off with the army Glorfindel thought, quietly amused. The Half-elf liked to dress well. 

“They can’t all have left - where’s Círdan, Maeriel? He knows who sailed and who stayed. Ereinion just says yes, well, most of the Noldor were dead tired, those who weren’t just plain dead, that is, and – sorry Glorfindel,” he added, apparently just realizing he had company at the table. “What I mean is most of the Exiles may have sailed when the ban was lifted, but most isn’t all. And there must be plenty of experienced Sindar warriors… just not keen on captain’s posts. Say ‘Eriador’ and there’s a deadly hush.” 

“Eriador?” The land had changed in what he chose to think of as his absence, which was a more comfortable way of looking at it than the more blunt ‘when he was dead’. Glorfindel mentally called up an image of the current map of Middle-earth and placed Eriador in relation to Lindon. 

“Empty place between here and Eregion.” He had hesitated too long and Elrond had noticed. “It’s a fancy name for the space between the Blue and Misty Mountains. I’ve been to Ost-in-Edhil and it took forever. A few mortal settlements, only one or two big enough to call towns, rock and dry grass as far as the eye can see, leagues of heather and bushes, the occasional tree. And sheep. Everyone talks about sheep for some reason.” 

“That would be because it is a good place for sheep and goats,” Maeriel said equably. She was folding laundry in the corner and had been humming to herself in contentment before Gil-galad’s newly created Herald destroyed the peace of her afternoon. “Open land, clean air, plenty of space to roam. My people always loved the land between the mountains, you know. What remains now is just a portion of great Eriador, penned up between the Red Mountain and the river. Dwarves on the one side, water on the other.” She seemed quietly amused by this. “For what would you be needing Noldor then, young one?” 

Elrond, like Gil-galad, had spent years in Maeriel’s home. Had it been anyone else asking, Glorfindel suspected the Half-elf would have rolled his eyes at this point. “I need captains,” he said instead, his voice suddenly tired. “Battle experienced captains, men who’ll know what to do when I don’t. That means I need older elves, those who came over here to fight the Enemy. So far a couple of Maedhros’ people have stuck their heads up, but that’s about it. I thought Círdan might have some ideas.” 

“It’s a good approach,” Glorfindel told him, and saw Maeriel give a small, satisfied nod. “I don’t mind a commander who isn’t afraid to say he needs help. It’s the ones who think they know it all that made me nervous.” 

“I’ve done some fighting, but I’ve never been in command before.” Elrond started to play with one of the pretty, woven placemats Maeriel made in her spare time. “I know how Maedhros did it, but I’m not sure that’s much use. After the War, we were busy building Lindon up and I was learning to be a healer. Turning orcs out of their dens and hunting down mercenaries never appealed to me much. That was more Ereinion’s thing.” 

“Ah.” Glorfindel turned this over. “It’s - unusual for a healer to go to war, isn’t it? At least it used to be. Assuming there will be a war of some sort.” Intelligence had been minimal, leaving Gil-galad seething with frustration. He had sent out scouts, dispatched couriers to his aunt and Celebrimbor, even taken the somewhat extreme step of sending to ask the Dwarves for news, all to no avail. 

“I’m the heir, so it’s me or Ereinion. And the Council won’t let him cross the mountain unless they know what’s waiting on the other side.” 

Glorfindel noted the irritation without comment. Elrond was not the first to find himself out of his depth due to an accident of birth. “So you’ve been asked to put aside healing to show the flag and carry the honour of the crown?” he asked instead. 

“I’m a healer, Glorfindel. I’ve gone out with patrols, but not as a soldier. Lately I’ve been trying to find new ways of dealing with broken bones and scarring.” Leaning forward, he warmed to his subject. “I’m studying Men as well – so much more goes wrong with them, things that don’t touch us. It’s centuries worth of study just to know the basics. And then there are troubles of the mind, of the soul… Anyway, this appealed to me a lot more than running around with a sword in my hand like a lot of my family did. Now of course, I’ll have to follow in their footsteps.” His mouth twisted in a smile that was less than humourous. “Maybe they’ll make up songs about me, too. Like my father.” 

“It’s not a good thing, glorifying death and pain,” Glorfindel agreed gently. “They sing about Gondolin, too, I think? I know the only book I’ve read so far spoke the biggest amount of nonsense I’ve ever seen, all about heroes. There is nothing heroic about fighting for survival against impossible odds. Heroism implies there was a choice.” 

“Well, I suppose your friend Ecthelion was a hero,” Elrond suggested, leaning back in the chair. “He did a lot of damage before it was over.” 

“Thel was as stubborn as an ox,” Glorfindel chuckled. For him, that explained it all; words could never do Ecthelion justice. He leaned his cheek against his hand and swirled the water he had been about to drink when Elrond arrived. “You know, you could do worse than use whatever you learned from watching Maedhros. For all his faults, he was a good soldier. Unnumbered Tears wasn’t brilliant strategy, but the disaster was more about trusting the wrong people. We spent years dissecting it… we’d lost before we even begun. And perhaps veterans aren’t the best choice for what lies ahead of you either.” 

Elrond raised an eyebrow. “That’s new. I’m not used to hearing Maedhros described as a good solder. You’d not use veterans?” 

Glorfindel shrugged. “He was a fine soldier who made a strategic error in one rather well-known battle. That business with the Oath, the burning of the ships, things that I’ve heard happened here later – they can’t detract from his ability. As for veterans, I think it’s rather like one of His Majesty’s reasons for not letting me go along with you. He rightly pointed out it takes time to learn new ways of doing things.” 

One of the cats idled in through the garden door, gave them a look of pure disdain and leapt up lithely onto the old sack Maeriel kept beside the hearth for them. Glorfindel fell silent as he watched. It was the white cat with the black splotches, the one Maeriel referred to as Her Ladyship. After a moment he continued. “If you go looking for men experienced in the battles of a previous Age, you risk them seeing everything in the light of those battles – just as I might be more inclined to think what I learned in the Tears was immutable. What you need are leaders who know the area, understand the terrain. And they’d have a greater stake if they love the land they’re protecting.” 

“The Sindar walked little enough in the land between the mountains.” Maeriel broke in unexpectedly. “If you look to my people though – they serve the king as trackers and advisors in his army. You could do worse than to ask a few of them for their thoughts on how best to safeguard Eregion.”  

----

The private terrace outside the High King’s rooms offered a magnificent view over the rooftops and across the bay and was Gil-galad’s preferred refuge on those days when the wind wasn’t blowing directly off the sea. It was a very personal space. He had some simple plants in tubs that he looked after himself, a little statue of a boy with a fish he admitted to having found in the market at Forlond, a collection of glass bottles in various colours and a number of other unlikely novelties. 

There was also a ginger cat stretched out in the sun. The idea of felines as house pets was still alien, but this time Glorfindel had ventured over to rub the soft stomach and had been batted at lazily by big paws, thankfully with claws sheathed. This was the closest he had been to a cat thus far and he was fascinated to see the different shades in each individual hair and to find the white fur was somehow softer than the ginger. Light green eyes considered him lazily before closing in boredom as the animal proceeded to ignore him and go back to sleep. 

“You think he’ll cope well enough then?” Glorfindel asked once he was settled with his wine and they had exchanged the usual pleasantries. 

“Elrond?” Gil-galad looked at him quickly. “He’ll be fine. He doesn’t think so, but he and his brother grew up travelling with Maglor. Horses, swords, shields and warriors, natural as breathing. He just doesn’t realise it yet. He will. And if that doesn’t work, there’s good, solid warrior blood in the family as well, albeit mortal.” 

“From what I’ve read, I suspect Lúthien was the brains in that partnership,” Glorfindel said dryly. “But yes, Beren probably had a good sword arm. Even if he hid under the throne while his lady did all the real work.” 

Gil-galad leaned his head back and laughed. “That’s almost sacrilege,” he pointed out. “They’re the Great Romance, beloved of the poets – the Hero and the Sorceress. Completely agree with you though, he was a waste of time. Must have been damn good in bed, can’t think what else she’d have seen in him.” 

They exchanged companionable grins. In Glorfindel’s experience it took time to get to know people, but occasionally he met someone and they hit it off right away; Gil-galad, like Ecthelion, was one of the latter. Beneath a friendly if reserved exterior, Glorfindel possessed an irreverent sense of humour, and in the High King it had met its match. He had few memories of Artaresto, they were from different generations, but he could recall nothing that suggested Gil-galad had his wit from his father. Or from Círdan, for that matter. He wondered if he had spent much time with Artanis in his formative years. 

“What will the army do once they reach Eregion?” he asked now. “Will they head straight to Ost-in-Edhil, or…?” 

“Hah,” Gil-galad said, swallowing a good-sized mouthful of wine. “Oh yes, and I can see Celebrimbor’s face right here in front of me. He’d have a fit. Probably think I’d decided to invade and seize his mithril treaty with the Dwarves. It was bad enough when he was still in Lindon, never quite believed I had any kind of authority over Fëanor’s grandson. That’s what sent him off to Eregion, wanting out from under my banner. They’re very touchy on the subject of their autonomy over there.” 

Glorfindel, who rather hoped he would get a chance to meet Curufinwë’s son and see how he’d turned out, made a non-committal sound. “Well I can see how an army descending on them could be misconstrued,” he admitted. “So where does that leave you?” 

Gil-galad frowned. “No idea. So far no word’s come out of there except for rumours about easterners in motion towards Ost-in-Edhil. The Dwarves seem to have gone to ground – no reply there either. They’re always the first to get their heads down when trouble’s coming. No, Elrond’s orders are to march into Eriador, stop when they reach the Gwathlo and send heralds to invite Celebrimbor over to pool knowledge. Should keep him happy. Sheer numbers should be a deterrent if there really is trouble down there.” 

"Sounds fair enough.” Glorfindel badly wanted to get to Ost-in-Edhil and not just from curiosity and an urge to see Artanis again. In his briefing before he left Tol Eressëa, it had featured as one of the danger points the Weaver had discerned in her tapestries. He decided a little dissembling was worth a try. “Why not let me go out with them? I could give Elrond basic advice on how to handle a command without getting involved in strategic decisions, and I could see at first hand how your warriors deploy. That would be the best way to learn, and Celebrimbor might be curious enough about me not to feel threatened.” 

Gil-galad gave him a cool look, the good-natured blue eyes shrewd for a moment. “Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Instead of idling around here. I wouldn’t get that past my Council on my own behalf, and you won’t get it past me. Can’t say I blame you, but I can’t allow it either. Yes, it makes its own kind of sense, but nothing would be a good enough reason right now to send the Valar’s gift into harm’s way.“ 

“I’d be travelling with an army,” Glorfindel countered. “Easily as safe as being here in the palace.” 

“Only if I know what they’re likely to run into,” Gil-galad replied. “And with just my gut to go by – no. You’re too – exceptional to risk. I have no problem in principle with you visiting Ost-in-Edhil, you’ve already told me how much you’d like to see my aunt, but it’ll have to wait till we see the lie of the land.” 

Glorfindel respected intuition, and rebirth seemed to have honed his own to a knife edge. He felt the air prickle around him. “Your gut’s not happy with what they might find?” 

Gil-galad was direct kin to Findaráto and Artanis, both of whom had been born with the Sight, a gift that manifested in only a handful of the Eldar, setting them apart from those who merely had good instincts. The Sight was something more, a knowing that could skip forward without warning to see what the future carried, much as when Elrond had spoken of impending doom just after his arrival. Amongst Arafinwë’s children this gift had been less random, an altogether more controlled, directed thing. It had not occurred to Glorfindel till now to wonder if some measure of this had passed to his great-grandson. 

The King was looking down into his goblet, dark hair falling forward to hide his face from view. He took so long to reply that Glorfindel thought he might disregard the question. Eventually though he looked up and said quietly, “My gut tells me there’s trouble coming out of the east, my friend, great trouble. It tells me that I would be a fool to let you travel to Eregion now, that it would be best for Elrond to remain here, too. My gut says the wind’s turned. We’re no longer fending off random gusts, the storm is almost on us. My greatest worry is that we left things too late, because my gut tells me we’re almost out of time.”

6. Unlikely Encounters

The Road to Lórien

By mid morning the day’s early promise had faded. The sky was overcast and the cold had begun to bite in earnest. Galadriel glared up at the clouds, defying the threat of rain. They were not equipped to deal with ice on the path. Celebrían had said nothing since realising her mother was in earnest about crossing the Redhorn Pass, but finally she broke her unaccustomed silence.

“People come over here to trade with the men who live beyond elven lands, don’t they? As well as to visit the tree realm? I wonder what it’s like? I’ve never met anyone who’d been to Lórien.” 

She spoke quietly, but even so the words sounded loud in the clear air. As though the mountain was listening, Galadriel thought, before telling herself not to be fanciful. “People come and go over the Pass, though it’s long since I was last in Lórien,” she said, not slowing her pace. 

“You’ve been there before?” Celebrían sounded impressed.

“Yes, it was about – oh, five hundred years ago now. There’s nothing much to see except trees and Silvan elves really. It’s a good, peaceful place to meditate, but not exactly a hub of activity. When I travelled before you were born, Lindon was always more attractive… old friends to visit. Or sometimes I went north to Lake Evendim, to see how the men living along the shore fared.  I liked living there.” 

They reached a series of broad steps cut into the road to soften the incline. The way was narrowing to a path, overgrown in places, the marks of winter neglect everywhere. 

“What are they like? In Lórien, I mean. And why didn’t they put a hand rail here? It would have been so much easier. The pack’s making it hard for me to balance.”

“When we stop I’ll take a look. Perhaps we can move a few things around. The people of Lórien? Quiet people, they like to keep to themselves. Singers. The nights are beautiful, filled with song. They light little lanterns under the trees and sing and talk right through till dawn.”

“So – when do they sleep then?”

Galadriel hoped Bri would outgrow this habit of asking awkward questions, something that amused Celeborn vastly as he said the child had it from her mother. “They sleep when the spirit moves them, when they’re tired, be that day or night, but they’re more night people I suppose than we are – were – in Ost-in-Edhil. Daylight is when the work gets done; night is for enjoyment.”

“Even the children?”

She compressed her lips briefly. “Yes, Bri, even the children. It’s their way, not ours. When I was a child we were expected to go off to bed and leave the night to the adults, which still seems right to me.”

The steps – step, walk several paces, step again – were tackled in silence while Celebrían digested this. “How did you know it was night if the Trees gave light all the time?”

“Yellow light, day, silver light, night.”

“But did you call them day and night, or…?”

“Time of work and time of rest.” She had no idea what they used to call them; it was a very long time ago and other cultures and experiences had overlain the memory, but she had to say something.

“You’re making that up, aren’t you?” Celebrían asked shrewdly. She wasn’t normally this direct, at least not with her mother, but it was just the two of them and would be for some time. She seemed to have taken that knowledge to heart.

“Well, it was something along those lines. There was a division between what we did at which times, just as there is here with the sun and moon to shape our days, though the Trees were more reliable, they never varied. At least not that I recall. The most beautiful time of all was when both lights mingled – that was the best, the time for singing and dancing.”

The drop on the far side of the trail was increasing and the paving had become progressively uneven underfoot. Low, greenish-grey plants and straggling bushes with strange, hard flowers grew alongside the path and down the tumbling slope, clinging to the spaces between the rocks. Galadriel found herself agreeing with Celebrían about the need for a handrail of sorts. They were at the wrong angle to see across to the city so the view was minimal and the air was bitter cold, the snow disturbingly near. 

“I never liked the idea of it being light all the time. Was that why everyone was so upset when the Trees were killed? Because they didn’t understand dark?”

“Celebrían, we weren’t ignorant savages, we knew most of the world lay under dark skies. All we had to do was leave Tirion and travel along the coast, or go to the other side of Tol Eressëa…”

“Well there’s no need to get cross, I was only asking.”

“I’m not cross, I’m just… All right, yes, it was unnatural, but we had nothing to compare it to at the time. Our fathers did, though, or our grandfathers. They lived over here under starlight and hid from monsters until the summons came. It might have been sensible to create the sun and the moon right then and get it over and done with, but…”

“Mother? Over there.”

Although curious and full of questions, Celebrían seldom interrupted her elders without good cause. Galadriel stopped mid-heresy and looked, then resumed walking. “Oh really, Celebrían, you startled me. It would be strange not to see a few dwarves on the mountain.”

“Well, they live under it,” Celebrían said sensibly, “not on it. And he’s not doing anything, Nana. I think he’s watching us.”

The dwarf sat on a flat rock at the side of the path and made no attempt to engage them when they came level with him. Galadriel inclined her head politely as they passed. “Good morrow and good fortune, son of Aulë. May it be well with you and yours, and long life to your king.”

Celebrían picked up her cue and said softly, “Good day and good fortune, Master Dwarf.” It was a fair greeting from a young person to one long in years, although Galadriel wondered if the dwarf could tell an elf’s age on sight. She would be hard pressed to make such a distinction amongst dwarves. 

He nodded to them and placed his hand casually over the centre of his chest, but said no word. They continued along the path, aware of his eyes on their backs until they rounded the next bend. Privacy restored, she and Celebrían exchanged looks. 

“Creepy,” was Celebrían’s verdict, with which her mother could find no argument.

----

They travelled through the day with regular stops to snack on the waybread Galadriel had packed or drink the water they carried. She also had some of the cordial they used to make in Nargothrond that gave the extra strength the body called for at the end of a hard journey, but that was for emergencies. At one of these stops they rearranged Bri’s pack, and Galadriel finally dispensed with the fashions of Eregion or any previous home and bundled her hair up on the back of her head in a loosely fastened heap. At least it was out of the way, she pointed out when Celebrían laughed.

At each stop, the snow grew nearer, the air colder, the path steeper and more treacherous. “How do we manage when we get up there?” Celebrían asked, pointing to where the mountain rose almost sheer against the sky, grey streaked and crowned with white. 

“There are steps cut into the rock at places, almost like ladders, and there’s a rope to hold onto on the steep parts,” Galadriel told her. “We’ll go slowly and stop every time we find a sheltered spot. The main thing is not to think of the destination, just to take each stage as an experience in and of itself.”

Hearing herself she cringed. She sounded just like her grandmother.

Celebrían was sitting close to her, sharing one of the little squares of waybread. The wind had been growing steadily since their last stop and when it gusted strongly she shivered and seemed to draw deeper into her clothes. Galadriel mentally catalogued the contents of both their packs and knelt to go through hers till she came up with a brightly embroidered sleeveless jacket. “Try this on,” she said. “It’s padded, it’ll keep out the worst of the wind. Go on,” she added as Celebrían hesitated, “I won’t need it, I feel the cold less than you.”

Which was true, but she had not been prepared for how quickly the weather worsened after that. Mid-afternoon saw them tackling the ever-increasing incline with heads bowed against the wind and the damp flurries that soon turned to rain. Their packs would keep out the water but it was a bad start to the journey, with worse to come when they reached the snowline. 

For the first time Galadriel wondered if it was possible the dwarves had reneged on their agreement with Brim to keep the pass open in all weather. She also started to watch her daughter carefully. She had maintained to Celeborn that Celebrían was young and strong, the child of two hardy lines, and would have no trouble with the ascent, but she had expected to leave closer to spring, not with winter still sitting heavy on Caradhras’s slopes.

They were taking another break out of the wind when they saw the dwarf again, trudging up the trail behind them. He had sensibly chosen a stick to aid him on the steep parts and was heading towards them with the steady gait that was the signature of his kind. Celebrían looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed. “We’re allowed to cross here, aren’t we, Nana?” she asked in a low voice. “This isn’t their land, is it?”

“Everyone who needs to reach the other side uses the pass,” Galadriel reassured her. “Elves cross here on the road to Lórien as do mortals heading south. Dwarves have no need of it, they can pass under the mountain in the safety of their city.”

They fell silent, Celebrían taking her cue from her mother’s waiting attitude. When he reached them, the dwarf stopped to study them, frowning. Galadriel returned look for look. He had a broad, ginger-brown beard and hair of the same shade with a sprinkling of grey in places. His eyes were the colour of slate, but with little gold speckles in them. They seemed to twinkle, belying his solemn expression.

“Where do you go to, elf woman?” he asked in a gravely voice. “The snow lies thick on the passes still. The way you seek is within your strength but too harsh by far for the young one.”

Celebrían twitched but kept still. In her young life she had met a wide assortment of beings through her parents and had learned to watch and listen. “We leave before the Darkness,” Galadriel replied quietly. “I take word and warning to the King of Lorien-wood. My bones tell me to make haste, there is no time to wait for the thaw.”

He studied her then grunted. “You are kin to the Smith.” It was a statement, not a question and Galadriel nodded agreement. “My father and his grandfather were brothers,” she replied, “both fallen long time past. Celebrimbor brought me here during his work on the doors.”

He nodded as though this were not news to him. “My great-grandsire met you,” he said. “He spoke well of you, said that your tongue knew wisdom.”

“My respects to your great-sire for his courtesy,” she replied politely. She thought dwarves might live a bit less than three centuries, but no one knew for sure and she had no idea if it would be normal for an adult to have great-grandparents still living.

He grunted again and lapsed into silence. Galadriel waited. Celebrían moved restlessly and tried to catch her eye, but when she deliberately looked away took the hint and stilled. Finally the dwarf roused himself from a contemplation of the landscape and cleared his throat. “Time to be going then,” he said. “Come along, ‘tis a treacherous path after nightfall.”

Galadriel reached for Celebrían’s pack and turned her round with a hand on her shoulder. “Put this back on. Where are you taking us, son of the mountain? I thought to walk a little by night and rest in the hollow around the third bend from the first stairs.”

“That mountain is not for young elf maids,” he replied firmly. “This I have already told you. Durin says that your errand is urgent indeed if you climb the Red Pass with your youngling at this time of year. Durin says that for the sake of your kinsman, the doors he inscribed will be opened to you. Come. Tonight you will eat at our hearth and sleep safe out of the wind. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

On the Road

“North-west. If we keep moving north-west we have to hit the river in the end.”

“The ford’s a bit more north. We need to angle over - that way a little…”

“I know where North is, Lindir.”

Erestor and Lindir stood glaring at one another in the scant shelter from the drizzle offered by a pair of giant boulders. A short distance away their mounts waited, determinedly cropping the sparse grass. It had been raining steadily for two days now, and they had kept on regardless except when lashing wind forced them to seek temporary shelter. Somehow in the poor visibility they had lost the faintly discernable trail that traversed Eriador between the Gwathlo and Baranduin fords. 

Lindir was pacing a circle half out and then back into shelter, fingers threaded through damp curls the colour of dark honey, massaging his scalp as though to excise a headache. Turning back to face Erestor, he held up a placating hand. “Right. Let’s think this through logically. We were definitely on the track what, two days back? Before the last stop and this morning’s guesswork, yes?”

Erestor leaned against the rock and let the rain drip down on him. So much for all the talk about Eriador being a delightfully unspoilt and largely uninhabited wilderness. The weather explained all that. “If we go too sharp north, we’ll miss the river altogether. Walk north far enough and all you’ll find is ice.”

“Might run into some ice giants?” Lindir said dryly, his expression eloquent. “No, I don’t believe in them either. Wolves though, yes. So – what do you want to do then?” 

Erestor gave the sky a disgruntled look. “Well, this won’t stop any time soon, so there’s no point in waiting till the weather clears. I think we should just keep west, myself. When we reach the Baranduin we can follow it north till we find the ford. After that there’s even something close to a road in places.”

Lindir nodded. “That sounds like the best idea. Get along now or let the horses rest longer? I’m not happy with Urvaer’s leg, he’s limping ever so slightly.”

“Noticed that, yes. All right, we can give it a while. Pity we can’t make a fire, but we can still…”

Whatever he had been about to say was swallowed up into silence as an elf rounded the side of the boulders and stopped in front of them. He had the alien look of one of the Avari, clad after their fashion in loose fitting trousers and a long tunic, all woven in a soft blend of greens, greys and misty violet and belted at the waist with a swirl of rose cloth. His hair was the colour of old stone, his eyes dark green. He looked from one to the other of them and shook his head. “Sea-elves lost?” he asked without preamble in a sing-song voice. 

They exchanged glances; Lindir looked as shaken as Erestor felt. Catching his breath, he was about to explain they weren’t Telerin, the shore dwellers, but Lindir spoke first, all careful courtesy. “We lost the path to the ford in the rain. Of your kindness, could you guide us? We have nothing to offer in return for your aid, but I could make you a song if that would answer?”

Sharp eyes fastened on him. “Song is good. Make music with the land?”

“With the river water, rather,” Lindir replied, “This is a new land to me, it would be a liberty to sing of it as though I knew its secrets.”

Erestor kept quiet and watched attentively. The answer appeared to satisfy the Avar, who nodded again then waited expectantly. Moving towards the horses, Erestor found his voice again. “We can start now, yes. How did you know we were here? You weren’t following us, were you?” The next thought brought with it a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. How many pairs of eyes might have been tracking us unnoticed through the rain.

“Not follow. Called. Find lost sea-elves.”

Erestor went ice cold. Lindir’s eyes met his thoughtfully across Urvaer’s back, then moved fleetingly to the covered pack that protected the instruments from the weather. “Called by who? Or what?” he said, his voice low.

“Let it go, don’t get into complicated conversations,” Erestor muttered. There was no need for more, his own thoughts were mirrored in Lindir’s blue eyes. “You’ll make a song?” he asked, speaking a little louder, aiming for discreet rather than secretive. “What made you suggest that?”

“They like music.” Lindir matched his tone, two Elves having a private conversation that might easily be overheard by a sharp-eared listener. “I met Avari before when I was travelling, they value songs as we do pearls. Haven’t had their taste corrupted yet.”

Erestor snorted softly. “Yes, I suppose. Though I don’t understand why he thought we were Telerin.”

“Huh? Oh, the ‘sea-elves’ bit, you mean? Noldor, people who came from the sea with the sky lights, and the land hasn’t been quiet since…”

“Maeriel says that rather a lot. She’s Silvan, too.”

“Maeriel? Your lady?” 

Erestor grinned as Lindir tried to hide his confusion. “I’m a realist, it’s not ladies whose names get linked to mine,” he retorted. “No, she’s Lord Círdan’s --- companion might be the right word, they’ve never bound, don’t know why. I’ve known her for a long time, she always says we Noldor would be improved by a touch of civilization.”

“Sounds right.” Lindir turned to the new arrival. “All right, we’re ready now. What may we call you?”

The Avar had been waiting patiently to one side, ignoring the rain which had diminished into a fine mist. “I am Badger in your tongue. Let the bearer walk, do not ask him to carry. He hurts.”

Lindir’s eyes moved from the horse to the stranger. Behind him Erestor offered quietly, “I was about to suggest that. Give him a rest. You’re no great weight, but still, he shouldn’t put extra stress on that leg.”

His face expressionless, Lindir considered for a moment. Then he reached up and removed the pack containing the fiddle and harp, slinging it over his shoulder with a simple, experienced motion. Fastening the carry straps, he nodded briskly. “All right, I’m ready now. Let’s go find the ford.”

Khazad-dum

They spent the afternoon retracing their steps, and Celebrían noted cheerfully that coming down was a lot easier than going up. Once she got the knack of leaning back a little to keep her balance, she proceeded to strike up a conversation with their guide, who gave his name as Thorhof, which he was at haste to explain was merely the one he used amongst outsiders. Content to let someone else deal with her daughter’s seemingly endless curiosity, Galadriel followed behind. 

“Yes, but where do you get your food from? You can’t grow it under the mountain, can you?”

“No child, you are quite right. Grain does not grow without sunlight. We trade for it, offering one of the earth’s gifts for another, metals for grain.”

The questions had been going on for a while and he answered each with a gruff kindness that confirmed all Galadriel had heard of the Hadhodrim’s fondness for children. To her he was polite but firm and she would not have liked to overtax his patience, but Celebrían chattered away freely and was in her turn indulged. 

He led them upstream from the ford to where a series of well-placed stones crossed the Sirannon, after which they returned to the path they had ridden along with Celeborn, who was now long gone up into the hills with his fighters. At the fork they took the other arm this time and followed the red clay road, the sound of the little river that flowed alongside growing ever brighter and stronger.

They reached the holly hedge close to sunset. Beyond it the road narrowed and turned, turned again, leading them towards the sound of leaping waters where the river splashed and danced down a sparkling, rainbow-lit waterfall. The road led between two giant holly trees and stopped before a pair of great doors set within the sheer rock of the mountain, the entrance to Hadhodrond, the underground city of Durin’s folk. 

Late rays of sunshine peeked out from the clouds and glinted off the designs on the doors, making the ithildin shine like captured moonlight. Celebrían had fallen silent after exclaiming at the beauty of the waterfall and now turned wide, wondering eyes to her mother. 

Quietly Galadriel said to their guide, “Dark times indeed. I recall when these gates stood open to the world, back when your great-grandsire hung them and my kinsman made the marks.” 

“We keep to ourselves these days,” he replied glumly. “Less and less do we stray far from the sound of the Sirannon, and the word to open them is now known only to those of us with business in the outer lands.”

She smiled softly and walked forward to trace her fingers over the ornate whorls of the shining tree. Celebrimbor had been so damn proud of that tree. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, making the silvery lines shimmer and multiply. She blinked them back determinedly. No one would see her mourn Brim. That was private, between him and her. 

Stepping back she looked up at the Feanorian Star, crafted in possibly the last place her uncle would ever have thought to find it. She remembered arguing with Brim about whether he would have been pleased or annoyed. She still thought his ego would have relished the idea of the sign of his house holding pride of place upon the entrance to a dwarf realm, although at the time Brim had said he doubted his grandfather knew there was any such thing as a dwarf. Neither of them could be certain; Feanor’s knowledge of the world had been wide-ranging and exceptional and not often shared.

She brought her thoughts back to the present. “Mellon,” she said in a clear, steady voice and the great doors instantly began to move, open and outward. She even managed a smile for Celebrían. “Celebrimbor never could resist sharing what he thought of as his cleverer touches.”

Celebrían hesitated for an instant, glancing back over her shoulder at the fading light of sunset, the beginning of the between time of dusk, then moved closer to her mother. Galadriel tried to recall if they had ever taken her underground anywhere before. No, this would be a new experience. Best be light about it then. 

She waited for Thorhof to cross the threshold ahead of her then took Celebrían’s hand and followed him. As the doors began slowly to swing shut behind them, Celebrían’s hand clenched convulsively around hers. She squeezed back firmly. “Look about you,” she said quietly. “We are beyond fortunate. This is not a sight many Elves can claim to have see - Khazad-dum, the deeps of Durin’s folk.”

Great lamps burned in a massively vaulted hallway. The polished floor retained just enough roughness underfoot to prevent someone in haste from sliding. From what they could see the walls were bare, but they had no need of adornment. A great staircase stretched upward to a level beyond their sight, lit at intervals by tiny lanterns set in intricately wrought iron brackets. 

“Welcome to the Halls of the Dwarves,” Thorhof said formally. “Just a short climb now, youngling, and you will be amongst my kindred. When we reach my dwelling, you can rest.”

“So many steps,” breathed Celebrían, enthralled, any fear of being enclosed clearly forgotten. 

“Two hundred stairs in all there are,” their host informed them. “Count them as you climb, it makes the task lighter and will take your mind from the weight of your journey. The road to the other side of the mountain is straight now and smooth.“

Galadriel nodded but passed no comment. One thing at a time. First, Khazad-dum.

7. Prelude

Mithlond

“I’ll send Echvellas with reinforcements when they’re ready. He can’t fight since he lost the leg, but he can still get them from here to Eregion and keep discipline while he’s doing it.”

“Military discipline’s a very new concept to most of them.” Elrond’s tone was dry. “You don’t shake off centuries of freedom overnight. The standing army are fine, they’ve seen it all before, but – well, you know the number of veterans in relation to new recruits as well as I do. Better.”

Glorfindel reached for another parchment and let the words wash over him. Elrond’s newly appointed captains had just left after attending their final briefing, and he and Gil-galad had taken their wine over to the window that overlooked the sunset garden while Glorfindel remained at the table, moving maps around as he tried to see the lines as actual land mass, rivers, mountains. The new coastline still made him a little queasy, cutting off as it did most of the land he had previously known, and he kept his attention away from it, concentrating on what lay further inland.

His primary objective had been to reach Ost-in-Edhil as soon as was decently possible after his arrival, but no one over the sea had foreseen the restrictions with which impending war might hedge him around. His carefully casual requests to accompany Elrond had each received the same firm demurral from Gil-galad, and while he understood the reluctance to place him in harm’s way, it was becoming increasingly clear his business lay across the mountains in Eregion, not here in Mithlond.

Chin on hand, he considered distances and potential cover, wondering if he could somehow shadow the army until they were too far out from Mithlond for Elrond to send him back. It meant directly disobeying the king, but with no authority to disclose the true nature of his mission, there seemed no other option. He had to reach Ost-in-Edhil in time.

A glance showed him Gil-galad and Elrond still on either side of the window, Gil-galad leaning against the sill, the low sunlight finding red tones in his hair, while Elrond stood with arms folded, frowning. The half-elf had been steeped in military preparations for weeks now and seemed almost resigned to his lot, though if pressed it was clear he still resented his temporary change in vocation.

“They’ll get the idea after a few days on the road,” Gil-galad was saying. “It always seems like an outing to begin with, but a few hundred leagues puts things into perspective.”

“There’s something to be said for keeping the entire population under arms,” Elrond said a touch grimly. “It’d be a normal part of life and…”

“… and you’d have squealed like a stuck pig at the suggestion back before this,” Gil-galad returned equably. “Never saw anyone raised in an armed camp less eager to heft a sword.”

Glorfindel smiled and returned to the map. It was probably as Elrond had said previously: rock and long grass as far as the eye could see. The open landscape defeated his needs. There would be little cover for a horse and rider, and if Elrond were to see him too quickly he would be politely and regretfully escorted straight back home. Of course, he could always try and pass unseen in the general mass of the infantry he thought, leaning back in his chair and absently twisting a blond braid round his fingers. Glancing at it he rolled his eyes ruefully – not much chance of anonymity there. Over by the window, the discussion had turned to equipment and Glorfindel began to pay attention, the spark of an idea forming. Perhaps a helmet…

“Maglor’s men only had leather armour towards the end, too,” Elrond was insisting. “There was no time to work metal. At least we now have those round caps with the copper band at the edge to protect the temples and the back of the neck.” When Gil-galad made a discontented sound he added, “They’ll make a good show tomorrow morning anyhow, all those pennants and helmets in the rising sun.”

There was no way to tell if Elrond was laughing. Gil-galad, who was on record as being less than enthusiastic about leather armour, most certainly was not. “I’ll get the court painter out there to make a few sketches. Could use a good piece for the main entrance, just before the stairs.”

Something else occurred to Glorfindel: no one ever really looked at the healers… “How many healers will you be taking along? Besides yourself, I mean. We went off to support Fingon with only two between nearly six thousand warriors. With hindsight, we were overconfident.” Plain bloody stupid, he had said at the time, but his words had fallen on deaf ears.

Gil-galad turned back from the window. “Got that wrong too, did they? The brave ten thousand is how they’re described in all the songs and written accounts of Unnumbered Tears. Huge force, came just in time to allow some kind of an orderly retreat. You had the rearguard, didn’t you?”

“I had the rear, yes,” Glorfindel said, temporarily distracted. “Shared that with Ecthelion. And there were definitely only about six thousand of us, including support services. Ten thousand fighting men – I could wish. Gondolin just wasn’t that big.” He pulled a sheet of scrap paper towards him and a stick of graphite and began making a rough list. “I think I can still remember how many for each house, I certainly know my own…” How many had ridden out, how few had returned…

“Never know what you can believe.” Gil-galad sounded put out. “And the people who were there don’t put themselves out to get the record straight either. Like that business about your mother turning into a bird, Elrond.”

Elrond made a dismissive sound, Glorfindel looked at him properly for the first time, noting the blue lines under his eyes, the tight set of his shoulders. “You need a good night’s rest before you leave,” he told him, putting down the pencil. “It’ll be a long day in the saddle otherwise.”

“He’s right there,” Gil-galad agreed. ”Anything left undone by the second watch, leave it and just get up a bit earlier. I did most of my organizing before dawn in the old days. Seemed to work best for me.”

“Fingolfin was like that,” Glorfindel recalled, getting to his feet. “Good luck and safe journey, Elrond. I’ll be watching from the terrace, there’ll be a good view up there.” The terrace would be crowded, it would be simplicity itself to slip away and post himself somewhere along the road, waiting for a chance to unobtrusively attach himself as the new healer from the northern territories.

“No need for that,” Gil-galad said lazily. He had a languid way of stretching that put Glorfindel in mind of a cat, though not of the domesticated variety. “Clean forgot to mention you’ll be keeping me company during the march past. Didn’t think to ask, I figured a lord of Gondolin would understand the need for the odd morale booster. Give them a look at a legend, give me someone to talk to. Inspections seem to go on forever.”

Glorfindel spared the western horizon a jaundiced glance. Plotting an unsanctioned visit to Eregion had been an interesting exercise, but doomed for failure, as he had suspected from the start. The king was watching him, pale blue eyes giving nothing away. He missed little, which like his easy charm was probably in the blood. Glorfindel, a courtier for much of his life, smiled at him. “…Yours to command, Sire. Though I have no idea how a hero dresses. What would you suggest?”

“Blue and gold, with half armour. You’ll find it all in your rooms waiting. Had a bad feeling you’d need armour as soon as I met you, so I had Círdan get your measurements from the tailor. Should all fit like a second skin.”

---

They stood side by side on a temporary dais set up outside the central barracks, a compound within sight of the palace, situated above a small pebble beach. The sky was overcast so there was none of the promised sunlight glinting on helmets, but the horses had bright plumes, the banners cracked and fluttered in the early morning breeze, and at first glance the hastily gathered army made a brave showing.

An experienced eye might be inclined to linger on the abundance of ill-fitting leather armour and inadequate shields, note that there were too few archers, not enough cavalry…

“Is it me or are most of them really young?” Glorfindel asked under cover of the sound of marching feet and trumpet music.

“Got what you’d expect from a rushed recruitment drive,” Gil-galad spoke without taking his eyes from the passing parade. He was dressed in purple, with a pearl and opal-studded crown of twisted mithril strands on his dark hair and looked unquestionably royal. By contrast, Glorfindel had been fitted out with gold-plated half armour, a blue tunic emblazoned with his house crest and a scarlet cloak which he thought overstated matters but which Gil-galad assured him would go down well. “Section commanders wear red. Makes them easy to spot,” he had explained cheerfully.

“You don’t really expect fighting, do you? And it’s interesting – you said there was no time for me to train in the new ways, but I’d have been ahead of these boys. At least I know which end of a sword goes where.”

“I lied, yes.”

“Kings do that.” Glorfindel agreed dryly.

Gil-galad’s lips twitched but he kept a straight face. “That we do, when it’s necessary. And it was necessary. I’m not letting you over the mountain and into an ambush or some kind of natural disaster or… to be dragged by a horse stung to madness by a swarm of hornets…”

“Has that ever actually happened?” Glorfindel asked in spite of himself.

Gil-galad’s voice carried laughter. “No idea, but they went to the trouble of releasing you from Mandos, then rehoused your soul and sent you back over the sea. I’m thinking I should take very good care of you in case some day I have to answer for the state you’re returned in.”

“And if this really is as bad as the silence from Eregion  suggests? What then?” Glorfindel persisted, refusing to let Gil-galad distract him with humour.

The king was quiet for a while, watching the ranks march past to the main gate and the first stage of the road out of Mithlond. Finally he shrugged. “When we reach the point where my Council can’t find a good reason to keep me at home and my common sense tells me you’re needed in the field, then we can talk. Till then you’ll stay here and we’ll share the frustration. Now try and look like the mighty Balrog Slayer. Give them something to live up to if they ever have to use those brand new swords.”

Khazad-dum

“It feels so strange, knowing there’s a whole mountain above us. There’s enough air for everyone, isn’t there? Are you sure it won’t come crashing down on top of us and…”

Galadriel kept impatience firmly in check. “There’s no need to be fanciful, Bri. Look around you, this city has stood even longer than Ost-in-Edhil. They would never have stayed had there been any danger. No one knows rock like the dwarves they can sense faults unseen by the naked eye. We are as safe here as anyone can be anywhere right now.”

They found the first hint of what lay ahead at the top of the stairs; a fountain that leapt and bubbled within a broad basin of white stone, the water spurting from the mouth of a fat, silver fish. A paved path circled the pool before branching into three on the far side. They took the right fork which led up at a mild incline, passing what might have been storage rooms before it turned a corner and they found the city of the dwarves spread out before them.

There were banks of apartments rising five levels by Galadriel’s count, reached by balconied walkways with elaborately carved arches. They stretched off into the distance, curving along the wall of an immense cavern lit by a myriad lights that ranged from tiny lanterns in doorways to great lamps that lit the way as clear as though they walked by daylight.  A jumble of sound reached out and surrounded them, the hum of a city going about its day.

Stone, metal and wood, an entire world like and yet unlike life beyond the mountain. White pebbles defined the edge of a stream that snaked silently level with the ground, spanned in the distance by a narrow bridge carved from red stone and embellished with silver. Paths and walls were inlaid with bright mosaics, little grottos that seemed the underground equivalent to parks were decorated with precious gems.

Everywhere they looked they saw realistically carved and painted statues of animals and birds, fantastical beings, and dwarves going about their business.  Of flesh and blood dwarves there were any number. Everyone who passed them made a point of greeting Thorhof and shot curious glances their way. There were occasional questions, but his answers were too softly spoken for them to follow.

Thorhof led them down the broad road, then along another, smaller way and over a little stream that bubbled and rushed around its stepping stoned crossing much as it might have above the ground. Celebrían paused half way, her head tilted to the side, listening. “It sounds happy,” she decided, “not afraid of the dark at all.”

“He is a good friend to our city,” Thorhof told them. “Even in the driest summer, he never fails us. We have not far to go. Your day has been long with much walking, so tonight you will rest in my home. Tomorrow we can make an early start. By then word will have been passed that you have permission to be here. There will be less staring.”

Galadriel thought that might matter to him considerably more than it did to either her or Celebrían.

---

Thorhof’s home was on the third level. Once long ago, Galadriel had lived for a time in Menegroth, but still the view from the balcony was like nothing she had ever seen before. She walked slowly, taking it in. Celebrían kept well away from the edge, she said the lights calling in the dark made her stomach uneasy. Galadriel thought this was mainly due to tiredness, nerves and lack of a filling meal since yesterday; elves were seldom bothered by heights.

A concentration of little golden lights beyond the river caught her eye and she touched Thorhof s arm briefly. “What is that? Over there in the distance? And – is it my imagination or is it growing darker?” She suddenly recalled her agreement with Celeborn to think of one another at dusk and wondered how she would know the hour in this place? Celeborn might have to pass their first star-rise apart alone.

“Did you imagine we lived in eternal day here under the mountain? The light dims as evening draws in, much as happens in the world beyond, and later still it will be as though you walk under moonlight. As for the lights over there, that is a popular eatery down by the lake, they are making ready for the evening meal.”

“Like – like a tavern?” asked Celebrían, craning her neck to look while being careful to keep away from the edge.

“And what would you know about taverns, young one?” he said, amused. “But yes, it is as I have heard taverns in mortal lands to be. They might well have learned the idea from one of my brothers.”

Galadriel smiled inwardly and kept her silence, instead resting her hand on Celebrían’s shoulder. “You can come closer, the railing seems strong. Just hold onto it if you feel strange. Take a look, it’s quite beautiful.”

She saw Thorhof s expression brighten at her praise of his city before he turned away quickly, rubbing his beard. After Celebrían had looked her fill and asked the requisite questions, they walked a little further and finally stopped outside a door identical to all the others. “My wife will have food for you and a place to sleep, but our ways are not yours, so I hope it will fit the more delicate needs of elves.”

The door opened into a well-lit room with doors leading off on both sides. Large cushions and a couple of sturdy wooden chairs were ranged round a low table with a mosaic surface. A spray of artificial berries made from little garnets strung on wires livened up a corner, woodcuts and tapestries brightened the walls. A smaller, more slender dwarf with a wispy-soft beard came hurrying in as the door closed. Thorhof stepped forward to her side and said formally, “This is my wife, Gez. Welcome to our home.”

So the rumours that Aulë’s daughters looked uncommonly like his sons were true. “My greetings, Gez,” Galadriel said gravely, hand to heart. “My name is Galadriel, and this is my daughter Celebrían. Thank you for offering us your hospitality.”

Gez bowed her head quickly, more like a bob, and Galadriel promised herself she would disown Celebrían if she so much as looked too hard at the beard. A sound made her glance round, instantly alert in this strange, otherly place, but Celebrían was already smiling at the two little heads peering round one of the doors at the visitors. “How pretty your children are,” Galadriel added to their hostess, trusting Thorhof to translate. “We are doubly honoured to be welcomed into a family home.”

Dinner was waiting and the meal saw them all seated on wooden stools around a plain stone table. The food was simple fare, a vegetable stew and crusty, flat bread still warm from the oven. There were no cooking smells in the apartment and curious, Galadriel said as much. Gez had neither Sindarin nor the common tongue used by men so she addressed her question through Thorhof.

It told her something about the relationship between husband and wife that he first translated Galadriel’s words and then waited for Gez to respond instead of simply answering himself. “Ah, you cannot have every household cooking of an evening. Imagine the smoke. Instead there is a kitchen for every ten households and we all contribute food. The women take turns in cooking and cleaning up and the meals are shared out equally. Tonight there were two extra bowls because we had guests, another night someone else will have family from one of the other levels. In the end no one is out of pocket.”

“That’s so clever,” Celebrían said admiringly, following the explanation with bright interest. “So everyone works together and no one goes without? This must be such a nice place to live.”

Thorhof and Gez exchanged glances as he translated and both looked fondly at Celebrian while Galadriel struggled to keep a straight face. Bri had clearly overheard far too much about the competitiveness and politicking that were - had been - a standard feature of life in Ost-in-Edhil.

The children sat close together and ate in silence, their eyes darting regularly to the two elves. Gez communicated basic questions about more bread and water through hand gestures and smiles. It was a quiet meal but companionable. Galadriel felt the tension in her back and shoulders ease a little. They were alone in an alien culture, but for now she was sure they were safe.

After dinner Thorhof sought out one of the low chairs, lit a long stemmed pipe and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. Gez came hurrying with a mug of what smelt like beer for him and he accepted it with a grunt of thanks. He sat thus, drinking and smoking for a good while, during which time Gez took the dinner dishes down to the kitchen after first showing Galadriel and Celebrían the room with its two small beds where they were to sleep.

In a flurry of gestures and miming Galadriel expressed concern for the children being turned out of their room, and Gez reassured her that there was more than enough space for them to pass the night with their parents. While this maternal exchange was taking place, Bri busied herself settling dolls into a friendly huddle at the foot of one bed, clearly enjoying herself. Galadriel felt a pang of guilt; when Bri had been of an age to play with such toys, they had been on the road. Her true childhood had been brief.

There was water for washing, cool and clear with the smell of deep wells about it, and after cleaning off the dust of the road, she and Celebrían stripped down to their underclothes and settled in the beds. There was an oil lamp on the table between them, and they agreed to let it burn with the wick turned down low, allowing just enough light to hold back the dark. Galadriel knew that Bri would be unable to sleep in total blackness. Hopefully their hosts wouldn’t mind.

Sleep surprised Galadriel by coming almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. She had no idea how long she spent in the dreamless rest that comes after long hours of exercise, nor what woke her. Her fingers were already curled around the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her pillow when her sight cleared enough for her to see the hand on her shoulder belonged to Thorhof.

Galadriel blinked once, again, and sat up slowly. He stepped back immediately. A glance showed her Celebrían sound asleep, curled on her side with her hand under her cheek. Satisfied, she looked up at Thorhof, sleep a distant memory. “What’s wrong?” she asked just above a whisper. “It’s not morning yet, surely?”

“No, ‘tis night’s midpoint,” he replied, his voice equally low. “Word was sent. You must dress, elf-woman. Just you, not the youngling. She can pass the night here without fear. But you are summoned, you must go now.”

“Summoned?”

Thorhof nodded gravely. “Aye indeed. Word came from the high places. Our elders keep the hours that seem fit and well to them and you are not the first to be sent for after midnight. Come now. We do not ask the lords of Khazad-dun to wait upon our leisure.”

8. At the Ford

On the Road

They had strayed far from the faint track that led across Eriador. Badger was adamant there was nowhere to cross the river this far south, and although the new route drew them away from the mountains, he led them due north for a full day before turning north-west with a sharpness that suggested a marker unnoticed by his companions. 

Erestor had learned that too overt curiosity had its own set of risks and liked to keep quiet and watch what people did, but Lindir had no such qualms and hailed their guide who had taken to walking two horse-lengths ahead of them. “I should learn the signs of the land for my return. How did you know to turn there? Which landmarks do you watch for?”

Badger kept silent until Lindir drew level with him. “Sea elf must learn to watch the mountain,” he explained. “Heron’s head, beak points to the sea. We follow her, listen for the river’s voice.”

The two Noldor stared at the looming line of the Ered Luin and exchanged glances. Lindir shook his head very slightly, Erestor shrugged. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected Badger snickered. They went on in silence and after a time could hear the distant rushing sound that heralded the Baranduin. The horses perked up perceptibly; despite the rain, running water had been scarce. 

The river was spanned by a sturdy wooden bridge. Erestor at least had expected to find refugees making their way across and into the comparative safety of land held by the High King, but as chance would have it there was no one in sight on either bank. They looked for a place to made camp for the evening, agreeing without words that the next leg of the journey was best begun at dawn. Badger had been confused the first time they stopped at sundown until he understood the horses needed to rest after dark. He now sought out a flat rock from which to watch the sun setting, a ritual he took seriously; he would likely ignore them till starshine.

“Your turn to see to the fire,” Lindir told Erestor as they set about unburdening the horses. “And your luck should be better than mine was last night, it doesn’t seem to have rained here today. There might even be dry wood.”

Erestor, who preferred to see to the horses, gave a grunt of acknowledgement and looked around. “Put everything under that bush beside the rocks there?” he suggested. “If the rain finds us, there’ll be some shelter at least.”

“Anything that can’t take a little water is already ruined,” Lindir said with a grin. “But yes all right, over there. And while you look for wood, I need to think on Badger’s guide price. We’re at the bridge, he’ll be expecting his song soon.”

The land was greener now, Erestor noted as he went off through the long grass in search of twigs and windfall, and to the north it looked lush and inviting. That was where men had their villages, he remembered, in the fertile land before the trees were overtaken by the endless snows. Bushes and trees already boasted new green shoots, and after a glance to make sure Badger wasn’t standing directly behind him as had happened once before, he broke off a couple of bare branches. He was always careful to first speak soft words, telling any spirit inhabiting the greenness that his need was only for a little of its bounty, but even so the Avar had been shocked. 

The river sounds made him feel quite cheerful, as did the nesting calls of water birds and the presence of the green and brown ducks he recognised as kin to those in Mithlond. He looked up past the bright orange of the setting sun, and in the deep blue beyond could already discern the first star. The sky shaded down from that rich blue to pink and purple before meeting the line of red cloud near the horizon. The air was cool and fresh, smelling new-washed now the rain had passed for a time. 

Could almost believe this was spring, he thought, not the final throes of winter. Despite the rain they had been fortunate with the weather, because although the mountains were still heavy with snow, they had seen very little, just patches in the hollows beside the track.

He had no idea when Lindir begun singing. As much part of nature as birdsong, the soft voice wound itself under his skin and into his bones until, without thought, he knew it for what it was. The words were indistinct, left off in many places to allow for a simple cascade of sound instead. He had said he would sing the river, Erestor recalled, but this song conveyed not just the white rush of water passing through the crossing point, but took in the new greenness, the crisp air and clear sky, the setting of the sun and the promise of starlight.  He stopped to listen, entranced.

Belatedly aware he had enough wood for a fire, he started back to the camp site, still wrapped in the music’s spell. Moving quietly, he put the wood down and set to work. It took a few more moments before he realised that Lindir, sitting cross legged a short distance away, was playing – not his fiddle but the harp. 

Erestor opened his mouth to say something, remembered himself and was still. Galadriel had offered no warning against handling the instrument, but common sense insisted there was more to the harp than they understood. Lindir was playing it with a deep certainty in every touch to the strings, and his voice wove around their magic with a life of its own. Erestor had heard him sing and play before, though granted not on the harp, and a tiny frisson of unease ran down his spine. He was a fine musician, but nowhere near this good. This was a mastery worthy of a Maglor or at the very least a Daeron.

Badger hadn’t moved from his rock, but his stance had altered. Where before he had seemed relaxed and at peace in the red-gold light, now he sat straighter, eyes closed, breathing in the music as though each note fed something within him. For some reason Erestor had thought he would watch the sky and the slowly emerging stars, but perhaps this song was best savoured without distractions.

When the last notes faded into the air, the fire was already a small, merrily burning brightness in the gloom. The horses kept close to it, as insecure in strange surroundings as anything that went on two legs. Badger remained on his rock, eyes still closed, and Lindir was holding the harp in his lap, a dazed expression on his face. It was chance that had Erestor looking in the right direction at the exact moment Badger opened his green eyes. They fastened on Lindir with a flare of palpable malice, lost when he looked down. 

Erestor left the fire and strolled across, dropping to one knee in front of the singer. His pose might seem casual but his weight was distributed in such a way that he could rise and turn instantly, and the hilt of the dagger strapped within his boot was a finger’s length away. “That was magnificent,” he said, resting an easy hand on Lindir’s thigh. More softly he added, “Are you all right? I think you got a little lost inside there.”

Lindir raised his head slowly and gave Erestor a confused look. “I… Lost, yes, maybe. It wasn’t meant to be so…” His voice trailed off. 

Badger had risen now, uncoiling like a feral cat, and was making a business of stretching. Keeping his hand on Lindir, hoping the physical contact would help ground him, Erestor turned and favoured the Avar with a smile. “I hope that was to your taste, my friend, and that the payment fitted the task of guiding us?”

“Can cross the water, show the road to the long slopes down to the bright place, Prince’s home?” Badger started towards them, but seemed to think better of it. 

“I can find the way from here,” Erestor told him. “It’s north for half a day and then west over the watch hills and down to the sea. We’ll be fine now, we just needed to find the bridge, which you’ve kindly helped us with.”

He kept talking, giving Lindir time to get a grip on himself. Finally the musician turned the harp so he could cradle it in the way of players after a song, holding it secure against him. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, ran his fingers through his eternally unruly hair and gave a tired sigh. “The song was of the water and a little of the things growing here, of the going down of the sun and the first star’s greeting,” he said, his voice still hazy with the music. “I trust this thanks was adequate for your time and trouble, Old One?”

Badger made a sound in his throat. “The gift was good. I will return to my tribe and share the sense of it with them. Pictures of power grew in the air, it was a great telling. There is a strength in the music-maker.”

Lindir shuddered. Concerned and trying to hide it, Erestor got to his feet and extended a hand to him. “Come on, you need to warm up by the fire. I’ll brew some tea, shall I? And maybe after you’ve eaten you can give us something cheerful on the fiddle.” In other words, there should be no more experiments with the harp. 

Lindir acknowledged the heavy hint with a straight look as he accepted the proffered hand and rose. His movements were usually quick and sure, but now he was like a sleeper newly woken. Erestor put his arm about Lindir’s shoulders and walked him to the fire, getting him seated with his back against a rock. He glanced around the clearing as he did so, sizing up secure points, places from which to protect their backs, possessions, horses. The song was over but something lingered on the air, a buzz of power, a tension similar to that before a storm.

He doubted he would have much sleep that night.

----

A quarter moon gave the land eerie shadows and contours where daylight would swear it lay flat. They had eaten a little from what remained of their meagre store and spent less time than usual beside the fire before seeking their rest. The horses huddled close together under one of the trees as though for comfort, and Erestor and Lindir lay in a wrap of cloaks and blankets, their packs stored against the rocks behind them. Normally they slept apart, but this night was not as other nights. The air in the clearing still thrummed faintly in the aftermath of Lindir’s song, and with night’s fall unease had grown for Erestor, not lessened.

“Where’s Badger?” Lindir whispered, his voice close to Erestor’s ear.

“No idea. He went up the hill a ways. I thought it was to watch for the moon again like he did last night. You all right?” Erestor had tried to avoid making an issue of things, but the mere fact that Lindir had wordlessly agreed to their shared sleeping place spoke for itself.

Lindir made a small, amused sound at the question. “Sleep might help if I could get to sleep. Still feel – not quite connected. Looking at the world through a rainbow veil.”

“What happened there? You were in another world and – don’t take this the wrong way, you’re a good musician but I’ve never heard you play quite like that. You’d have given Maglor a run for it.”

“At least Maglor would be relying on his own Valar-blessed gifts, nothing more.”

“Ah.”

Lindir stayed quiet as though listening to something, and after a few breaths Erestor heard it too. “Badger,” he hazarded. “Getting ready for the night.” Badger always found heath or rushes or something of the kind and tramped it down much as an animal would before settling. These were his noises. They had heather for their bedding too, laid under one of the cloaks, but not flattened in the thorough way of the Avari.

“Right, well at least we know where he is now.” 

“We’ll be alone tomorrow, it’ll be all right.” Lindir seemed to be trying to reassure both of them, not just Erestor. “You’re sure you know the way from here?”

“North and then west. And we’ll feel and hear the sea long before we reach it. Once we’re in sight of that forest along the Emyn Beraid, I know my way. We don’t need a guide.”

“Good.”

The night settled around them with all the little sounds normal to it, of leaf and grass, of hunting and hiding. The air grew colder and Lindir wriggled deeper into the improvised bedding. Erestor stayed where he was, a rolled up tunic under his head. The last thing he wanted was warmth lulling him to sleep. 

Lindir turned abruptly and propped himself up on an elbow, blue eyes grey and urgent in the pale moonlight. “The music was like a living thing that picked me up and held me within it and showed me where to find the right notes,” he whispered, his lips almost brushing Erestor’s ear. “I could hear singing but it hardly seemed to be me. Something else made that song, Erestor. What in the name of the Void are we carrying?”

Erestor found the musician’s shoulder, pressed gently, and Lindir shuffled closer to him. “We are carrying something an Aman-born princess royal of the Noldor saw fit to send to her nephew the king with all speed and secrecy,” he whispered back. “They made – things, Lindir. I only know little bits, snatches I gleaned, rumours. Things that – someone asked me about a few times. I can take a guess, but it’s not really important that we know, just that we both understand this is …”

“…way beyond our strength and training, yes I know that. I know that better than you do. It played me, remember. And I can still feel it. It’s – it’s awake.”

“That’s partly in your head,” Erestor told him firmly, ignoring the strangeness on the air. “You need to sleep it off, like too much wine. Come here, get warm.” He reached for Lindir, and after a momentary hesitation the musician moved into the circle of his arm, his tawny head finding the hollow of Erestor’s shoulder. Placing a chaste hand on Erestor’s waist he exhaled gustily and lay still. Silent minutes passed and slowly his body began to relax. “Sleep and I’ll watch for us,” Erestor murmured. “Everything including the harp is safe against the rocks. Sleep. You’ll feel better in daylight.”

Lindir’s eyes glinted in the faint light. “It will never leave me, you know… remembering how it felt. It’s how I imagine being touched by one of the Mighty must feel. Kind of – breathless and shivery and frightening. Like standing at a great height and not sure you won’t fall, feeling the ground call to you…”

Erestor drew him closer, and his mouth seemed to find Lindir’s of its own accord. Lindir made a low sound in his throat and his lips parted. As the kiss deepened they explored one another with quiet intent, hands in hair, under clothing, caressing and exploring bare skin. Erestor’s fingers tightened in soft, wild hair as Lindir’s tongue danced across his palate and along the inside of his lower lip, sending little bursts of fire through him that made his skin prickle.  Heat flaring in his loins, he rolled the musician onto his back, his hips finding a faster, more urgent rhythm, matching Lindir’s own. A hand still wound in tawny curls, he was reaching down between them to unfasten more clothing, release achingly hard flesh, when he saw a flash of something from the corner of his eye. 

He moved from almost blind lust to action in a heartbeat. Drawing his dagger, he pushed Lindir down hard and flung himself up to meet Badger as he lunged forward, metal glinting in the moonlight from the dirk in his hand. Later Erestor was sure the burning sexual urgency in his belly aided him, propelling him forward with a speed and determination that would have been lacking had he been lying half asleep when the attack came. As it was, he wrestled Badger back to an unintelligible flood of hissing, spitting words The Avar’s face was twisted in rage, his eyes shone green in the dark like a cat. 

He was strong, with muscles like corded steel, but Erestor had been trained to fight and win. They smashed into each other, over-balanced, and struck the ground rolling. Erestor managed to grasp the wrist of Badger’s knife hand, keeping it at arm’s length just long enough to find his feet and spring back. “Why?” he demanded harshly, holding his own blade out level between them in warning. “What were you trying to do? I never heard it said before that your people were treacherous.” Mine, yes.

“Song-maker not for you. All, sea-elves took all! Song maker – ours.” On the last word he shot forward, his blade aiming for Erestor’s throat. Erestor feinted and ducked under the blade, raised his own as though about to strike, and brought his knee up between his opponent’s legs. Killing another elf wasn’t just counter-intuitive; it was an ingrained horror since the events at Alqualondé, present even in those not born until long after the Noldor settled in Endor. Badger made a whooping sound that came from deep in his chest and doubled over, coughing. Erestor grabbed his arm, intending to try and restrain him long enough to tie him up, but Badger whipped free and came at him, eyes murderous, teeth bared. 

Icily calm now, training took over and Erestor let him come. He was aware of the night around him almost as though he had stepped out of his skin and had leisure to look around, take it all in. The air was cold, the ground an uneven patchwork of light and shadow, the trees stood tall against the sky, the grass sank in on itself beneath his feet. Badger was all hoarse breathing and motion, motion that took him straight in and onto the waiting point of the dagger Erestor held in exactly the right place at exactly the right angle to slide between Badger’s ribs and find his heart, forced in by the impetus of his own forward rush.

He checked Badger’s throat for a pulse, although he barely needed to do so; he knew the Avar was dead. When he needed to kill someone, he made no mistakes, though granted the victims had not previously been elven. Once he had made sure, he looked around for Lindir. The musician stood motionless near their bedding, sword in hand. A glance told Erestor their packs were directly behind him. Their eyes met. Lindir lowered the sword with a nod down at Badger. “He’s dead?”

“I tried not to, but he gave me no choice. I wanted to tie him up, leave him food and water, but…” 

“I saw him go for you that last time.” Lindir was startlingly calm. “I don’t think there was much else you could do. Did he say… he was talking but I couldn’t follow it properly, did he explain why? From his side of it, I mean. I know why.” 

“We took what was theirs, I suppose – the land, their peace. The starlight. And this would have been a payment, the… song-maker. Not another treasure for the Noldor invaders.”

Lindir nodded, looked around to make sure they were alone, and came over to him. He closed his long, musician’s fingers loosely around the hand still holding the dagger. “You had no choice, you did what you had to,” he said evenly. “Put it down now, all right? Are you hurt at all? He was strong.”

“I’m all right.” He probably wasn’t, because he had started to shake a little, the reality of what had just happened coming up behind him and touching his neck with icy breath... ‘I killed an elf.’ “I’ll – I’m all right. We have to bury him.” 

“You’ll sit down for a few minutes first,” Lindir told him. “I’ll build up the fire, you’ll drink some tea. Then we’ll work out how to dig a grave without a spade. For now --- he can have my cloak, at least. Come and sit, I’ll see to the rest.”

----

Lindir brewed tea then went to scratch through his pack. Finally he came up with a metal cup, a pretty thing with stones around the rim that caught and threw back the moonlight. “I’m fond of this,” he admitted wryly, “but it’s all we have that’s strong enough for the work. You finish your tea, I’ll make a start. We can take turns,” he added, seeing Erestor about to protest.

They buried Badger under a low-growing cluster of bushes, where the disturbance would be least obvious. Erestor wanted to put rocks over the grave to dissuade foraging animals but Lindir shook his head. “We need to make this look like a camping site that was tidied up before we left, nothing more. You know stones will speak too loudly to his people when they finally come looking for him,”

Erestor knew, but was having trouble getting the world to stop whirling long enough to let him think. “You believe they’ll come looking for him and then follow us?” All his training and experience seemed to have deserted him. He was badly shaken and the litany his mind kept repeating - ‘you killed one of your own’ – made it hard to concentrate.

Lindir frowned. “Not at once. They mainly go their own way, I doubt they’d be concerned enough to search for him yet. I don’t know if they could follow him – they move like mist and leave little trace – but we need to be sure there’s nothing here to suggest he was with us when we stopped.”

“How did you learn to be so calm? You act as though this is an everyday part of your life,” Erestor asked, scanning the ground for anything they might have overlooked. “Not that I’m complaining - my mind seems to have stopped working, so it’s as well you can take charge, just… I hardly expected it.”

“I hardly expected anything about tonight,” Lindir pointed out with a quick, warm glance, “but I was worried about him, certainly didn’t trust him. Even before the song, he’d been throwing strange looks at our packs. He said at the start something had called him, and I was afraid he’d get curious enough to try and find out what it was. After the song --- even with you awake beside me, I’d have had trouble sleeping. Music is like pearls to them, remember I told you? He knew the song was only part mine. Anyhow – wasn’t as surprised as I might have been, and I learned early that it’s when you let yourself panic that things go wrong.”

“You can’t think fast enough, yes,” Erestor agreed. “But it’s one thing to know that, another to put it into practice. Left to myself, this might have ended up a right mess. They can train you to do almost anything, but not to shed kin blood. That’s – a thing of its own.”

Lindir seemed about to speak, but in the end he just squeezed Erestor’s arm and stayed quiet. 

----

They took turns sleeping after that, with no attempt to return to the heated encounter previous to Badger’s attack. Erestor felt tired inside and Lindir, who had an empathy for mood, took his own turn to watch and then stayed up for the dark hours before dawn as well instead of waking him. Erestor roused around sunrise to find himself alone with the cloaks wrapped firmly about him. Sitting up he was amazed to discover that at some point in the night, snow had fallen.

Lindir was nearby, forcing life into the fire, and grinned at him. “Snow, can you believe it? After yesterday when I thought spring was stalking us?”

Erestor looked around, shaking his head. “Where did this come from? I know it was cold when I finally slept but hardly enough for this.” He got up as he spoke and shook the top cloak out. It was dusted lightly with white. “Why didn’t you wake me to watch?”

“You were tired and I used the time to think. I’d have woken you to move under shelter but it was a short fall so I thought you’d be all right. It’s not really wet. Come, I’ve got tea brewing and we still have oatmeal, I think. Warm us up for the day’s travel.”

“Snow’s good,” Erestor remarked, heading over to the horses. “Covers tracks. There’ll be no way to tell where we might have parted company.” 

They ate quietly, not uncomfortable but getting used to the new balance between them, and then tidied up and loaded the horses again. They were careful to leave nothing behind and to put the fire out properly as was normal for elves on the road, but this time they were more thorough, double and triple checking for signs that three people had stopped to pass the hours of darkness while only two had left. They burnt part of Badger’s bracken bedding, scattered the rest widely, and made certain there was no sign anywhere of blood.

They were almost ready to leave when they heard the sounds of carts, horses and elven voices talking with no regard for any lurking danger. Lindir touched Erestor’s arm. “More refugees?”

Erestor took his hand and held it a moment, the first chance for anything personal since he had woken. “Sounds like a good number. I think we can stop travelling alone for a while?”

“Two more running for Lindon and safety, nothing more,” Lindir agreed, lacing their fingers together. “And glad of company on the road. I might even offer them a song or two come sundown.” He moved closer as he spoke so they were standing almost toe to toe, and Erestor started extricating grass and small twigs from his tumble of hair. They shared a smile but neither was quite ready to kiss again without the chance first to talk. There would be time for that later.

“Fiddle, not harp. You’re not touching that thing again, once was enough.” 

Lindir looked at him seriously. “Erestor, you have no idea how it felt. I’m not tempted to try again, not even if it promised me the Noldolantë with a skill exceeding Maglor’s. It was like holding fire in the palm of my hand… Whatever this is, it’s for people like the Lady to tame it, not me. I know my limits. Fiddle it is, all the way home.”

----

The group was larger than either of them had expected or dared hope, four families whose horse-drawn carts carried as much as they could salvage from Ost-in-Edhil. Only two of the party were mounted; a woman mid-term with child and a man who they later learned was the only one previously to have travelled to Mithlond. He rode ahead at regular intervals to make certain their map was accurate and the trail true. Children rode in or ran alongside the carts, and the whole scene was one of barely contained chaos.

They welcomed Erestor and Lindir without question and cheered visibly when they discovered Lindir’s profession. Erestor said he was just a friend who knew the way and who had felt it was time to go home and see his family and friends. Everyone nodded sagely at this, no one said a word about the real reasons for leaving Ost-in-Edhil.

The snow kept up a light presence for two days, which gave Erestor and Lindir an excuse to share bedding, making jokes about being undersupplied with blankets which was in fact the truth; both had assumed a faster and somewhat warmer journey.

On the fourth day they made camp early to give the horses a good, long rest, and Erestor found himself at a loose end. Asking around produced sufficient flour to make bread and shameless begging gained him a jar of beer and an earthen pot. He got down to work in front of an audience of children and those adults with time to spare, first co-opting Lindir to dig a hole to use as an oven. This the musician did with wry good humour and nothing to suggest recent bad memories connected to digging.

After the dough had risen, Erestor lined the hole with hot coals from the fire, placed the bread in its pot on top of them and was heaping more coals over it when they heard the first sounds of something approaching, a faint shaking of the ground coming from the west.

“What is that? Can you hear it?” Lindir asked, coming to crouch frowning beside the improvised oven. 

Erestor didn’t look up. “Movement, horses and many, many feet. We’ll see them soon. No need to hide, they can only be from Lindon.”

Lindir thought, then nodded. “That’s true. Right, do we put sand over this or leave it open?”

“Sand, yes. Do it carefully.” Straightening up, Erestor pushed hair back from his face. ”That’s either our army or the mortals have mobilized, and I doubt they could raise these numbers.”

The bread was almost ready by the time the army came into view, a surging mass of elves, perhaps two thirds of them marching, the rest on horseback. Banners and pennants fluttered at intervals, and at the head of the column a small group rode carrying the flag of Lindon, the High King’s banner and the colours of…

“…Elrond Eärendilion,” Erestor murmured. Unobtrusively he unclipped his long, black hair and let it fall forward and shade his face. There was nothing he could tell Elrond that could be of use to him, not if Gil already knew enough to send out an army, and it was important not to draw attention to himself and Lindir.

Sensing him move, Lindir looked away from the might of Lindon. “Something’s wrong?”

“Hush, nothing. Just – people who might recognise me, and that would lead to questions here.”

The musician looked around quickly. Everyone was on their feet, watching as the army passed close enough to make out individual faces and read the displayed house colours. 

“He would know you?” Lindir asked just above a whisper. “Eärendil’s
son, I mean.”

Erestor nodded. “Yes, he would know me. So would a few others if there’re veterans in that crowd. I was on Balar with the king back in the old days. It was a small world, we all knew one another.” It was as much of the past as he felt ready to share.

“Questions would be bad,” Lindir agreed, moving in front of Erestor in a way that was perfectly natural but would block a casual glance. “Just two ordinary elves heading home before trouble comes, a singer and a scholar who can bake bread along the road. That’s us, nothing more.”

9. Things hidden

Khazad-dum

The street lamps had dimmed to a silvery glow, giving the city an eerie, deserted appearance. Thorhof led Galadriel back across the bridge, then through winding streets and up flights of steep, narrow stairs. It was late and they passed no one on the way, though once or twice she heard footsteps. Her sense of direction was sound, but she knew she would need more than memory to find her way back to Celebrían unaided. 

They came out on the edge of a square flanked by solid, columned buildings, where they were met by another dwarf, this one richly dressed in a brocaded coat and whose belt and boots gleamed with golden buckles. “I will await you here and guide you back on your return,” Thorhof told her in what she assumed was meant to be a reassuring voice, indicating a bench set before an oval pond. Galadriel gave him a long stare with all the quiet danger of her bloodline behind it, a wordless reminder that her only child was in his family’s care, Then, because there was no other option, she nodded and set off across the square, following the new dwarf. 

There were more stairs that led up to a hallway where the silence was so deep it seemed somehow alive. Crystal lamps hung in pairs, their shaded tones of amber and purple and clear green creating a pale, pearlescent light. The walls were of polished stone, red veins gleaming deep within the black, and the floor was inlaid with a geometric pattern in maroon and gold. A dwarf dressed identically to her guide stood at the end of the hall beside a wooden door studded with gleaming metal. 

As she approached, he knocked softly and leaned his head against the wood, listening for a response. After no more than a few heartbeats, he opened the door and waved her through. As she crossed the threshold, the heavy door swung closed behind her with a quiet thud. Galadriel had left fear behind a long time ago on the ice between Aman and Endor, but still she took a steadying breath as she stopped and looked around.

The walls were of the same stone as the hallway but were hung with tapestries and drapes, and a great carpet, richly patterned, covered almost the entire floor. She recognised the gem-deep purples, reds and blues of Khandian work and estimated its worth to be a small fortune. There were embroidered floor cushions, tasselled and fringed, low tables laden with trinkets and ornaments, many of them gold, some set with precious stones. Bowls held careless piles of jewels, nuts and candies. Small lamps lit the scene through frosted shades, and an iron brazier glowed with coals and emitted a woody, musky fragrance that she recognised as a type of incense, tantalizingly familiar. 

A dwarf woman sat near the brazier, sunk deep in a wooden chair such as Galadriel had seen in Thorhof’s home, one of a pair. She was dressed in red velvet and gold brocade, much like those watching outside, but an incongruous woollen scarf added a teal blue accent, and she wore house shoes, not boots. She sat with her hands folded across her belly, rings adorning every finger, some plain, some set with jewels, one with a runic seal. Her hair was thick and curly, once brown, now almost entirely grey as was her softly curling beard. Without rising, she studied Galadriel from eyes deep as well-water, obsidian dark.

“There is more flesh on your bones than when last we met, elf woman with a man’s heart.” The voice was whispery and light-pitched, but the tone was firm, with a hint of humour. “City living has made you soft perhaps? But no, softness does not attempt the Dimrill Stair.”

Galadriel considered the dwarf woman carefully. “You have the advantage,” she said finally, “because if we have met before, I do not recall. Not here in Eregion, surely?”

The laugh was like leaves rustling in the dusk. “Ah, no. Not here. A long while ago, it was. A very long while ago. You were with your mother-son, hair as golden as your own, always curious, wanting to know more. The only one more curious was the Firedrake’s boy, the one who traded good cloth for metals.”

Finrod. And – Caranthir? She had another, closer look, this time using the senses that knew and recognised what the conscious mind was too busy, too practical, to heed. The eyes. She had seen those eyes before, heard the words run together this same way. Trusting instinct above common sense, she bowed deeply. 

“I find you well, Son of Aulë?” she asked, her memory conjuring a dwarf almost as broad as he was tall, with garnet-brown hair and beard, flashing eyes, an axe at his belt and – yes, rings on every finger, that hadn’t changed. She had gone with Finrod on one of those aimless, undirected wanderings that had so worried Celeborn, through misty valleys and along animal trails on the fringes of mountains. They had been in a broad valley where a river fed into a deep lake when they met the dwarf lord, Aulë’s firstborn. Finrod had planned it, she was almost sure afterwards. He liked to show off a little, as brothers will. Even more, he liked to share things with her.

Sharing was something he had done till the bitter end. Although hundreds of leagues distant, she had heard his last song, seen the werewolf’s burning eyes, felt its fangs rip into his flesh, been there in spirit as the life bled from him. She had stayed steady and strong till the last, lending him what she could of her strength, pouring out power across the distance to add to his own. She had knelt in the dust, clawed hands drawing on the earth’s energy, making no sound until the fangs closed on his throat and she knew he was lost. Only then had she broken her silence and started screaming.

Durin was watching her, curious. “Your… brother, that is the word? He no longer walks this land? Did he drown when the sea came up, elf woman? Dwarves died then as well as elves. Those in the west do not always have a mind for the little ones who have no part in great events.”

“He died,” she said shortly, before realizing more was needed than this bald statement. And Finrod wasn’t dead really, he would leave Mandos in Námo’s good time, he had been blameless in the bloodletting at Alqualondé save for trying to shield their mother’s people. She cleared her throat, cursing herself for untimely sentiment. “A werewolf took him,” she explained. “He was trying to protect someone and fell in his stead.” Curse Beren and his obsession for that little witch. “And Caranthir died fighting shortly before the land broke and the sea came in.” No need to go into the details of that bit of insanity.

“The cycle turns, they come, they leave,” the whispery voice said. “He had courtesy, your brother. He listened well.” 

“They were hunting the Great Enemy when they broke the land and the sea covered it,” Galadriel said, returning to the remark about the War of Wrath. “They meant none of us harm, but capturing him was more important to them. Priorities. All rulers must make harsh choices at times.”

Durin made an eloquently non-committal sound and indicated the other chair. “You may sit, man-woman. I recall you said you had studied with the AllFather. This was why I told the child to fetch you, lest you lose your footing in the snow on the stair. Your kind are hardy, snow alone would not kill you, but I do not know the strength of your young.”

“Man-woman was my mother’s name for me,” Galadriel said, sitting carefully in the chair, her back straight, her knees together. “Nerwen – it means woman who is like a man. A good enough guess. She knew I would be tall, and with all those brothers I could hardly not learn boys’ ways. That was what led me to Lord Aulë – I wanted to understand the processes my uncle and cousins studied. He was most generous of his time.”

“You do not have the hands of a smith.” 

Galadriel laughed, her voice sounding even lower than usual against the dwarf’s. “I learned how things worked, I learned what you put with what and why, I learned how you shape and craft from smelted metal, I heard earth secrets. But no, I am not a smith. I had not the skill to measure myself against the many great ones in my family, like Celebrimbor of Eregion.”

“The one who crafted the doors, yes. He understood metal.” She reached for a handful of dried chips and sprinkled them over the coals in the brazier. The scent of spices mingled with the incense, and it was like being in an exotic marketplace such as Galadriel had visited when she and Celeborn had adventured south before they had Bri. “What do you here, man-woman, you and your young one? Why do you seek the way across the great peak while winter still rules in his high places?”

Galadriel considered her words. “Dark things move,” she said finally. “An army approaches Ost-in-Edhil and my instincts tell me it will fall to them. I was taking my daughter over the mountain to Lorien, the elf realm that lies amongst the trees beyond the Dimrill Dale.”

Ageless, ancient eyes watched her. “Aye, we know the tree-land. They keep to themselves and have their ways, as we do ours. Stone and wood do not mix well.”

“As my lord Durin says,” Galadriel replied. “Or is it my lady? What courtesy pleases the king of these halls?”

The laugh came again, just short of eerie. It had a scratchy timbre that put her on edge. “Durin is who Durin is. Many bodies I have worn, mostly male but also female. It is not the outer shape that matters, man-maiden, it is what lies within. You of all people should know this, you with the mind and will of a man in a body that has born a child.”

Galadriel bowed her head, accepting the hint of censure. “So you are what you have always been, Durin the Undying, Lord of Khazad-dun.” She used the dwarves’ own name for their halls, correctly pronounced, not Hadhodrond as the elves called it, and garnered an approving gleam from those fathomless eyes. 

“What do these dark things you speak of seek in the land beyond the holly hedge?” 

The question and the watching look almost took her unawares and for a moment she was silent, her mind busy, her eyes on Durin’s hands. Jewel-studded gold and silver, delicately chased mithril and steel, the rings glinted and gleamed in the soft light, almost obscuring the plain gold band that graced the middle finger of the king’s right hand. 

There had been seven gold rings, great in power for making and seeking, one for each of the dwarf lords, and all save this one still remained with Brim. Knowing Annatar had been party to the forging of those rings, her fingers and her mind closed protectively around the diamond-set mithril band she wore – just in case. “There was a ring for each of the dwarf lords,” she said calmly. “And any number of lesser rings. They will come for those and for the other treasures in the House of the Mirdain, And there is bad blood now between my cousin Celebrimbor and their master who was once his houseguest. Revenge will have its part in what follows.” 

Revenge for waiting till Annatar was absent before making the Three, the final, ultimate power of the elves sitting just beyond his grasp. Galadriel suspected that the Three or something like them had been Sauron’s goal all along when he offered to share his skill with Eregion’s smiths. Well, now he knew the likely outcome of trying to manipulate one of Fëanor’s own.

Durin was frowning. “It is a great wrong, to turn on one whose bread you have eaten,” she murmured. “This Master of dark forces, what can you tell me of him? He is the tall one with the pale hair, yes? He came to our gate, asked to speak with me. We turned him away; he had a smell of wrongness, like tainted water.”

She might have distracted Durin from the real attraction Ost-in-Edhil held for Sauron, but she should be careful not to take that for granted. “He was the - Captain of the one we called the Great Enemy, he who they came out of the West to subdue. He could have sought pardon but hid when they said he must return with them for judgment. They thought he was of no great concern in his lord’s absence and left him be. When the stranger came to Ost-in-Edhil, he walked in different guise to that which we had known. He fooled us all for a time – all except my nephew the king of Lindon. Gil-galad turned him back at the border, much the same as you did.” 

She said the last with a small smile. She was very proud of Ereinion’s foresight in this, far sounder than Brim’s. Not that she could wholly blame Brim. She had felt huge unease in Annatar’s presence without being certain why, but not to the extent that she thought something should be done. Not at first.

“The elf king over the mountain has a name for dealing honestly with dwarves and with mortal men too,” Durin told her. “Many now in my halls came here from the Blue Mountains and speak his name fairly. He will bring his army to fight the dark ones?”

Galadriel allowed her uncertainty to show. “I think – when he gets word of exactly how serious the situation is he will send fighters. Celebrimbor is not just his liege man, they are blood kindred. And he may not know I managed to leave in time either. He will have no choice.”

“When the day comes it will be time enough to decide a course,” Durin said, the words coming slowly as though much thought was going on beneath them. “For now – the great doors will remain closed, even to those not of our house who have the word. We must first watch what passes, and then we shall see.”

“You have something here that he would like to gather into his hand,” Galadriel warned. “He knows the number of the dwarf rings and he will easily guess who holds the one unaccounted for. He will come looking for it, Deathless One, Durin of the Seven Stars.”

The dark eyes looked at her unblinking, and something old and alien in their depths laughed at her. “He can come, man-maiden. He can come. And he will leave empty handed. Of stone did the dwarves have their beginnings, deep in the mountains’ hearts. You can push against them as hard as you wish, you might as well ask mighty Baranzinbar to step out of your way or the Gate-stream to flow uphill. He can come.”

On the Road – crossing the Emyn Beraid

Erestor and Lindir parted from their travelling companions shortly before they reached the Emyn Beraid, leaving the main party to head north to the crossing over the Lhûn while they took the shorter route to the East Haven, Círdan’s holding. Erestor spoke casually of stopping to greet some old family friends, which gained him a few curious looks as he was clearly not Telerin. 

There were patches of snow on the ground and the grass was slippery underfoot. They walked the horses, taking a roundabout route between hills or moving crosswise around and down slopes, following an invisible trail that existed in no place save Erestor’s memory. The land felt different and the air had changed, a witness to the sea’s closeness.

Near midday they saw their first seagull. Lindir tilted his head back to watch its path, shielding his eyes against the weak sun that was trying to peer between white-trimmed storm clouds. “Either he’s a long way from home or we’re closer than I thought. I’ve never come down this way before. When I’ve visited my family, I’ve always crossed the City Bridge and gone straight down to Forlond.”

Erestor looked at him quizzically. “I somehow assumed you were from Mithlond. I’m sorry, I never thought to ask.  I like Forlond, haven’t been there in a very long time now though. This way might even work out quicker for you, or would if you were going straight home.”

Lindir nodded. “I have an errand to the king first, yes. How I manage that will depend on you. You have family this side? I’ve only been on the south shore once or twice. It’s very different, more as I imagine old times and places would have been.”

“In a lot of ways, it is. He’s kept it like Balar, and Balar was always firstly a Telerin stronghold. Most of those now living south of the strait followed him from the coastal cities to Balar and then here. It’s – quieter, more serious than the other side. Feels less like a city. I live,” he corrected himself smoothly, “lived on the north bank, but I spent some time here too.”

They negotiated the downward slope in silence save for an occasional word of encouragement to the horses, and they were on the flat before Lindir tried again. “Family and background are the first things people normally share, but I’ve respected your privacy so in our case they’re more like the last. All I have are rumours. I think this might be the time to tell me if someone got exiled for horse theft or something.”

A quick flash of white teeth accompanied the attempt at humour and Erestor chuckled in response. “Not quite, though nothing would really surprise me. No, my father died fighting, as did so many others, and my mother sailed when the ban was lifted. I have a sister living just outside of Mithlond with her husband - they grow fruit for market. You have a brother, yes?”

“Yes. He and my father are carpenters. My mother’s a weaver.”

“No musicians in the family then?”

Lindir half smiled, but his blue eyes were serious. “Not a one, no idea where I come from. Nor does anyone else. My father wasn’t happy with my choice, but music is my passion. It proved easier to follow it in a place where he wasn’t.”

“Seen that before, when a son chooses a path far from his father’s. He’ll be proud of how well you’ve done, surely? And you’ll get to tell him you’ve played for the king now, too. Can’t hurt.”

“I get to give the king a very strange harp and receive royal thanks,” Lindir said dryly. “Rather a stretch from there to actually playing.”

“Oh, Gil will ask to hear you,” Erestor said with absolute conviction, "though perhaps not on the Lady’s harp. Especially once I tell him how brilliant you are. He was in the habit of taking my word on such things, so I can’t imagine he’d let you go without measuring you against your reputation.”

The silence stretched longer this time. “I thought the stories about you having a – personal connection to the king were just that, stories. Was I wrong?”

Erestor flashed Lindir a look from the side of his eye and rode on without answering. They had grown closer on this last stage of the road. Shared bedding meant kisses and touching, though nothing beyond that because of the lack of privacy, but more importantly, it had built a connection not wholly dependant on words. There was an ease in the musician’s company that overcame Erestor’s long-time habit of general friendliness while keeping his thoughts and heart to himself, and he was surprised to find he really wanted to explain. Finally he shrugged.

“We met on Balar, moved in and out of one another’s lives after for a while. That was how I met Elrond, where I know Lord Círdan from. The Lady, too, she took an interest in my family and I followed her for years after the War – from Evendim, back to Mithlond, then down near Tharbad.... When she moved to Ost-in-Edhil, I went back to Lindon and worked as a royal aide. Later His Majesty – Gil - was worried about Annatar and sent me east to see what I could learn. He thought I’d blend in – a warrior turned scholar, paying a visit to a former patron after falling out of favour for having too blunt a tongue and inconveniently good looks.”

“Annatar’s been gone a while now,” Lindir observed, his tone neutral. 

Erestor kept his eyes on the horizon. “Yes, he has. I stayed mainly because there were still - things to learn.”

“Spying?”

Erestor’s lip twitched. “Spying is a very ugly word, Songbird.”

“Lindon’s my home,” Lindir reminded him seriously. "I came here from Sirion when I was too small to remember any other. If you were spying for my king, I’m all right with it. Though Noldor spying on Noldor…”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Erestor reminded him. “And they were doing strange things there, Lindir, the harp’s proof. The Lady and Celebrimbor are close in their way, but she knew why I’d been sent and helped where she could. She had an – agreement with him about not sharing Eregion’s secrets with Lindon, but that never stopped her from having incautious conversations with me or allowing me to send letters to Mithlond in with her own mail. Royalty aren’t quite like the rest of us, I’ve noticed.”

“There’s a song in this. One of those huge, old sagas…” Lindir sang a few heavily dramatic notes, grinning.

“Idiot.” Erestor couldn’t help laughing. “Of course, there might be a few songs later about the defence of Eregion. You could try your luck there for your saga, though I’m not sure how well defended those walls will be in the end. The city had the feel of a place about to empty out when we left.”

“Like swallows getting ready to fly south, yes. You said you stayed ‘mainly’ because there were still things to learn?” Lindir prodded. 

Erestor sighed. “You don’t give up and you don’t forget, do you? I’m starting to learn that about you.”

“I notice things, store them away,” Lindir agreed. “Sometimes there’s a song in the most ordinary moment, it just needs to stay somewhere in my mind and grow at its own speed, find its own rhythm. Mainly?”

“I made a mistake,” Erestor said tiredly. “I needed to get close to Annatar, I thought I was subtle enough to worm secrets out of him. And… I lost my way for a while. Not long, but – a while. I - probably told him things I shouldn’t have.“ 

He bit the inside of his cheek, wondered if he should stop, and realised it had gone far enough that a few more sentences could hardly make it worse. Lindir had seen him take the life of an elf, so let him judge as he wished, let him judge as any right-thinking elf would. 

“I did things… I don’t think I could ever talk about them. I – betrayed trust, Gil trusted me. Nothing promised, but – we’re friends, he trusted me. Saying, oh, I didn’t realise who he was, is no defence. I knew something was deadly wrong there, but to begin with it was like juggling fire. He made me feel - clever, irresistible. And then he drew me into his web and I knew I was trapped, I knew he was in control but I was still fascinated, I had no will to pull free.” 

They had slowed to a halt and were sitting their horses in the middle of a grassy slope leading up a broad, flat-topped hill. There were traces of snow, but the ground was mainly wet and sludgy. Erestor felt as grey as the clouds gathering above them and couldn’t force himself to meet Lindir’s eyes. Lindir gave him an inscrutable look and scratched idly at his earlobe. He had his wild hair tied back that morning, but it was already coming loose from its tetherings and formed a halo of curls around his face. He managed to look both young and incredibly knowing at the same time. 

“But you did,” he said flatly, a statement, not a question. “I heard rumours that you’d been keeping company with him – musicians hear everything, in case you didn’t know - and then suddenly he was spending all his time with that little blonde boy whose father is such a good jewel cutter. If you’d done anything really wrong, I doubt you’d have gone on living in the Lady’s house either. She must have asked at least a few questions.”

“It got too intense, even for me. I left before I drowned.” He had missed Gil then, not as his casual, good-natured lover but as his friend, someone to go to for advice, someone strong and practical who would help him get things into perspective. Looking back though, he wondered if he would really have sought advice. For a time most people had seemed tame and ordinary next to Annatar’s dark, erotic allure. “And as for the Lady - she’s Galadriel. She doesn’t look at things the way most people do. Nothing seems to shock her.”

Galadriel had listened to the very edited version he had felt able to share with her, offered him the security of a room in the main house to make an end of the soft rapping on his window at night, and suggested he stay out of the social stream till Annatar’s interest had settled elsewhere. It meant he had been able to sleep again, instead of lying awake listening for footsteps he never heard and the scratching on the shutter that never quite sounded as though made by a normal hand. 

Their horses had formed a friendship of sorts so they were able to stay close together, their knees almost touching. Lindir reached over to catch Erestor’s wrist and tug, startling him out of his memories and forcing him to look up. “That’s a good way to see the world, you should take lessons,” he said evenly. “Look, it happened. You made a horrible error in judgement, but you weren’t the only one – I saw plenty, heard more, and even caught his eye on me once or twice, though perhaps I wasn’t important enough.”

Erestor tried to pull free, but Lindir tightened his grip and kept talking. “You – you have high connections, and you’re intelligent and beautiful and very appealing. He had more than one reason to go after you, while you needed information, which made it so much simpler for him. You can’t judge yourself like this. It’s over, you walked away. No harm done.” 

Erestor sat straight and stiff, his face unreadable. “I slept with him. I kept sleeping with him. Though the Mighty know, there was precious little sleep involved. And after, I felt as though I would never wash my skin clean. I learned things - about people, about desire. About myself…”

Lindir resisted the urge to shake him, impossible anyway on horseback. He spoke urgently, pushing the words home. “All right, you learned about yourself. We all have a dark side, Erestor. You confronted yours and had to decide whether you wanted to cultivate it further or not. You chose not. Knowledge gives you freedom, love. Let it go.”

“I played mind games and got bedded by Morgoth’s former bedmate.” Erestor looked away, and his voice was fine-edged with disgust. “I rutted with Sauron. How can I let that go? And he left his mark on me, just as he said he would. Look what happened to Badger. I killed an elf, Lindir. What does that make me?”

Surprisingly, Lindir raised Erestor’s hand and touched his lips to it. “That’s nonsense. It was self defence, and more than self defence. You were charged with the harp’s safety and you were fighting for it as well as both our lives. That has nothing to do with dark magic or corrupted Maiar. And Morgoth’s bedmate or not, who he is doesn’t make it better or worse. More terrifying to look back on, maybe. Just tell the king you were out of your depth with him ,and that you had no real choice with Badger. I always heard he was a fair man, he’ll understand. I know in his place I would.” 

Erestor looked at him with eyes that were light and empty. “No one must ever know, Lindir. About Badger. Gil-galad is high king of the Noldor, but he’s also lord to everyone who falls under Lindon’s hand. He can’t know I did this, he’d never accept it.”

“Erestor, you did nothing wrong…”

“The term we use for someone who kills another elf is Kinslayer,” Erestor reminded him tonelessly. “And the penalty is exile. No one. Promise me.”

“I’m not letting it eat away at you…”

“Promise me!”

Lindir’s horse decided to try a little independence and made for a clump of long grass. He spoke more sharply to it than was his habit then fixed troubled blue eyes on Erestor. “All, right, I promise. I’ll say nothing. But you will talk to me if it keeps bothering you. I’ll have your word on that in return.”

Erestor glared at him then nodded. “That’s fair. Thank you. There’s just too much going on right now to have to deal with this as well.”

Returning to something that had bothered him earlier, Lindir kept his tone light as he asked, “Annatar. What did you tell him that has you so upset? You didn’t give away anything – sensitive - like Lord Círdan’s taste in underwear, did you?”

Erestor found he was almost smiling in spite of himself. “Not quite, but there were personal things that should never have left my lips. Nothing affecting our security though, anything I knew would have been long out of date by the time I told him. He was more interested in how people’s minds work, what they desire, what they fear…”

“And you are so upset with yourself for telling him things like that?” Lindir’s voice was gentle. “I think you’ve lost proportion here, Erestor. Gossip can do any amount of personal damage, but it won’t bring down Lindon’s defences or betray the Fleet, or… hand over the keys to the treasury. Uncomfortable yes, but the King has more to worry about than Annatar learning about an occasional indiscretion. Did you leave him or did he leave you, by the way? Annatar, I mean.”

“I left him. He was angry, didn’t want to let go. I – pleased him, I suppose.”

Lindir’s eyes travelled over him as though assessing what Sauron might have found so satisfying. He nodded to himself. “You left him. He ensnared you, you realised it was unhealthy, and you left. He wasn’t ready to discard you, and I’d guess that means whatever he might have wanted from you, he didn’t get. It’s over, love. Time to move on.”

He apparently meant this literally, because he clucked softly to his horse and it started walking again. Erestor followed automatically, words circling and colliding in his head. Lindir had not been there, he had no idea what had been said, how much might have been given away. He had no idea quite how well Erestor knew Gil, knew them all. Looking back, Erestor couldn’t recall exact details --- a little harmless gossip, that was all it had seemed, something to make him appear more interesting, entertaining. Till later. Till he understood who he had been gossiping with in the afterglow of sensations the like of which he had never dreamed existed.

Annatar had opened him up to possibilities he had never before dreamed of, left him feeling unclean, subtly changed, transformed into someone willing even to kill another elf. It was too easy to blame Annatar though, when any darkness the Maia had awoken within him was really born of his own weakness. He was about to say as much, but there was nothing to be solved in talking about it. Badger was dead. The responsibility for that lay firmly at his own door. 

They finished the small distance to the top of the hill. Below was a proper road, narrow but well-made, leading down amongst the rocks. Far below and off in the distance, the Gulf of Lune lay grey-blue under the winter sky, stretching out to meet the sea. The wind was coming from their backs, which was why they hadn’t heard the ocean’s voice before. 

Erestor looked from the view to Lindir and nodded his head. “Time to go home,” he agreed. “You’re right, it’s over. With any luck, what’s in the harp will cause so much excitement I won’t need to say a word.”

Chapter End Notes

Durin the Deathless was probably born before the elves left Cuiveinen and is said to have lived until near the end of the First Age. The dwarves believed he returned to them several times in later Ages, reincarnated each time as the current lord of Khazad-dum. Durin lll, who ruled there during the War in Eregion, was said to have been one such incarnation. 

Durin’s current incarnation is the result of Nikkiling’s awesome, out of the box thinking. Thank you!
Baranzinbar: dwarf name for Caradhras

10. In the King's Hand

Mithlond

They passed through three checkpoints rather than the single one Erestor recalled and reached the South Haven late in the afternoon. Once there, he took the time-honoured route to finding Círdan; he went in search of Maeriel. They found her in her garden, explaining gravely to a small invasion of snails that no, they could not stay amongst her cabbages. 

“And why not, when it’s the best stocked vegetable garden in Mithlond?” Erestor asked, fetching a tired smile as she turned at the sound of their footsteps.

Her face lit up. “Erestor! And as full of nonsense as ever you were,” she exclaimed as she came to hug him, clearly delighted to see him home. Greeting concluded, she stood back to look him over before favouring Lindir with an enquiring eye. 

“I do not believe I have met your friend?”

Lindir had the kind of long-limbed, casual sexuality that roused the curiosity of both genders, and Erestor suspected not even Maeriel was immune. He hid a smile. “Lindir has a gift for Gil from the Lady. He’s a musician, a very good one. We met in Ost-in-Edhil.”

Maeriel studied Lindir as he bowed to her then nodded. “Well, I’m glad you had company on the road. Will you be staying here or across the bay? No one is using your old room and there is ample space for Lindir. Musicians are always welcome guests.”

Erestor considered the options, his brain moving at speed. Unlikely though it seemed, if he stayed at the palace he had a far better chance of avoiding Gil till he’d found his balance again. Círdan’s home lacked regal formality, meals were taken in the kitchen, guests shared the small garden, and the chance of Gil wandering over for a meal and staying to ask difficult questions was high… “I think I’ll start off over there, Maeriel,” he said, trying not to notice as her face fell a little. She liked a full house as she’d had on Balar. “I have reports to make, people to look up. When I’m ready for a rest I’ll come back here, if that’s all right?”

“The room will be there when you need it,” she assured him. “You’ll have a chance to get to know our new guest too then. I think he might like some company at the breakfast table now that Elrond has gone off to Eregion… ah, but you’d not know about that, would you?”

“We saw the army and I noted his banner, but there was no chance to speak to him,” Erestor told her, which was the literal truth, though had he been determined to speak to Elrond Eärendilion, he most certainly could have. “Would your guest be Glorfindel of Gondolin? The Lady had a letter from Gil just before I left, and she told me he was reborn and had been sent across the sea to us.”

“You were all the way over in Eregion and I still cannot surprise you,” Maeriel grumbled. “He always did know everything before anyone else,” she added to Lindir. “I never knew how he did this, he is the least likely to gossip of anyone I know. Good listener, my lord says. You’ll be crossing the bay with him then will you, Lindir? I had hoped I would be making dinner for a fuller table tonight. Your family’s on the other shore?”

“My family are in Forlond, my lady,” Lindir said, answering Maeriel with all the deference due to nobility despite her plain dress and lack of title, thereby giving Erestor time to get his face under control. Gossip was a touchy subject for him. “I have something to deliver to the king, after which I suppose I need to go home and let them see I’m still alive. I’m not the best correspondent in the world.”

“Musicians,” Maeriel said with a smiling shake of her head. “All the same. My brother was as bad. Well, I hope Erestor will bring you to visit next time you find yourself in Mithlond. May your errand go well. There’s a meeting in progress right now,” she added to Erestor. “If you tell them down at the ferry station that you have business with the Council rather than just Ereinion, they’ll send you straight across. Not that I’m advocating dishonesty, mind, but the next boat leaves with the tide, and that would be after star rise.”

----

The sun came out for a time and the water was calm. They made the crossing almost in silence, Lindir holding the bag containing the harp on his lap, his eyes on the approaching cityscape. On the road, Erestor had resisted the temptation to open Galadriel’s pouch. It was still where he had placed it during their first rest stop, sewn into the lining of the jerkin he had worn every day for the entire journey. He promised himself that his first act once he had given his report would be to burn the thing: he never wanted to wear it again.

The palace looked more or less as it had when he left, which for some reason surprised him. He felt as though he had been away for half a lifetime, not a mere century. There were new paintings on walls, furniture had been changed or moved, but the floor tiles were the same, as were the vaulted ceilings with their intricate moulding at centre and along the edges. He only took one false turn in search of Arvarad’s offices, and still had no difficulty in terrorising a page into calling him out of a full-blown Council meeting.

Radiating irritation, Arvarad came back in the page’s wake and stopped dead to stare. “Manwë’s orc!” he exclaimed. “What cat dragged you in?”

“Missed you too. You haven’t changed a bit – more’s the pity,” Erestor said with a grin. They clasped forearms and exchanged further insults before Erestor grew serious. “We need to see him privately, how long will the meeting run?”

“Could be another hour, perhaps a bit less,” Arvarad said with a shrug, trying not to stare at Lindir. “I could hurry things along. What’s this about – news out of Eregion? He’s been worried.”

“News, something the Lady wanted him to have --- something very sensitive. He might want to be careful who he invites along.”

“Círdan’s here. And Lord Glorfindel. And Callonui...” Callonui was Lindon’s senior general, Erestor was half surprised he had not gone with Elrond.

“Círdan, you - Callonui, yes. What’s the Reborn like?”

There was a pause as Arvarad considered. “Different? Quiet, thinks before he speaks. They get along well. He’s living over the bay.”

“Maeriel mentioned, yes. All right, Gil will make his own choices. Just tell him he’ll be sharing his aunt’s secrets with whoever he brings. This isn’t a tale for after dinner entertainment, it needs discretion.”

“And…?” A cool glance flicked to Lindir then back to Erestor. 

“He’s with me,” Erestor explained briefly. “He’s – part of the message.”

Arvarad rolled his eyes. “She gets more complicated as the years pass. All right, well you’d best not wait here. Come on, let’s find somewhere out of sight till he can get away. I’ll fetch you when it’s time.”

----

“You’re important, aren’t you?”

Erestor contrived to look puzzled. “Me? No, I just know people who are very important. There’s a big difference. And if you know how things work, you can get almost anything done.”

“Like getting a ride across the strait an hour before the next ferry’s due to run, yes.”

Erestor shrugged. “Exactly. It’s nothing to do with who I am, it’s who might later overhear me mention they weren’t very helpful down on the dock.”

They were in a little antechamber, neatly laid out with comfortable chairs, a vase of flowers on a low table, even a good rug on the floor. It had no discernable personality and looked like a waiting area for people perhaps not accustomed to waiting long, if at all. Erestor had never seen it before, but Arvarad had thought it sensibly out of the way. 

Lindir pulled a face. “You’re doing the talking later, right?” He had a performer’s self-confidence, but kings and reborn heroes lay outside of his experience.

“Since when were you worried about speaking for yourself?” Erestor felt tired and knew it was starting to show. Something to do with this being the end of his mission, he supposed, with having to start joining reality to memory. And Gil. Eventually he would have to deal with Gil. 

Before Lindir could answer, Arvarad came hurrying in amidst a swirl of brown robes. “Right, he’s ready now. This way, he’s in that robing alcove off the throne room.”

“Well, that’s private enough,” Erestor agreed. Getting to his feet, he rested a hand on Lindir’s arm and said quietly, “And you’ll have no trouble talking for yourself. It’s Gil, he’s the easiest person in the world to talk to when he sets his mind to listening.”

They followed Arvarad on a roundabout route that brought them out into a large, echoing room with tapestry-hung walls and an immense chandelier, glittering with crystal. High-arched windows ran the length of the wall opposite the throne, a blue-cushioned construction of ebony wood inlaid with gold and mithril. Neither Arvarad nor Erestor paid much attention, though Lindir shot a few glances around, trying to memorize the room as they hurried through, their footsteps ringing on the highly polished floor. 

Heavy drapes cloaked the wall behind the throne, serving the dual purpose of creating a deep blue backdrop while at the same time concealing a small door. Arvarad headed straight for it with them on his heels and rapped sharply before opening it. He entered first, but Erestor paused and rested his fingers on Lindir’s arm again. He gave the musician a quick, searching look and said low, “There was no dark elf, remember.”

“What dark elf?” Lindir asked blandly.

“Precisely. No idea,” Erestor agreed with a tiny smile that tried but did not entirely manage to hide a sudden rush of nerves.

The robing room was so small it would seem crowded even when empty. All available space was taken up with presses for the royal vestments, a shoe stand, a chest for accessories, a table with one chair. A shelf held empty stands used to display crowns and circlets, currently residing in the treasury where they belonged. The only window was a narrow strip up near the ceiling, and lamps had been lit, giving sufficient light to read by.

Callonui sat on the chest, deep in conversation with Círdan, while Gil-galad perched on the corner of the table, casually dressed but wearing the mithril circlet he preferred for regular business like Council meetings. He was talking quietly to a tall, broad-shouldered elf with bright hair that gleamed in the lamplight. Laurefindilë - golden-haired, Erestor thought randomly, recalling a book he had once read on the twelve Great Houses of Gondolin.

Gil-galad rose at once and came towards them. “Best close the door and hope we don’t all suffocate. What possessed you to pick this place?” he said to Arvarad. Without waiting for an answer he took Erestor’s hands and looked down at him, his smile welcoming. “Well met, Erestor. It’s been far too long.” Their eyes held for a long moment, and Erestor was reminded once again of how piercing that pale blue gaze could seem. He was relieved when Gil released his hands with a brief squeeze and turned to Lindir. “And this is…?”

“This is Lindir, Sire, a renowned musician from Ost-in-Edhil. He has family in Forlond,” Erestor said formally, finding his court manners still reasonably intact after his sojourn from home

The ‘renowned musician’ slanted an eyebrow at him, but Lindir’s social skills were nothing if not well-honed. He bowed to his king and went straight to business, as he had heard was Gil-galad’s preference. Drawing the lap harp from the bag, he held it out carefully. “Your Majesty, the Lady commended me to you and asked me to place this in your hands.”

It was the first time he had handled it since he played Badger’s guide price, and Erestor could see his hands were uneasy on it even now. Out the corner of his eye he noticed something else; the tall, grey-eyed elf who he assumed was Glorfindel of Gondolin had drawn a sharp breath and was watching the harp intently as though attempting to read secrets in the decorative carvings. They had spent weeks with it, but that look made him wonder if whatever power resided within spoke with a louder voice than he and Lindir could hear.

Lindir had to nudge him to get his attention back to Gil-galad, which would have been funny under other circumstances. “We were told to give you the harp first,” Erestor said hastily, “and that there’s – something hidden in the base. But you might get more sense from it after reading the report. She said everything you need to know is here...”

He unfastened the padded jerkin worn over his shirt while he spoke, tugging stitching loose from the lining to extract a flat pouch. This he passed to Gil-galad. “I can answer some questions, probably not all. Things will already have changed in Eregion, but I can tell you that the Lady and her family left at the same time we did, and that people had been moving west for weeks. And she sends you her love.”

Gil-galad opened the pouch one handed, the other held the harp casually against his side. He tipped the contents onto the table, picked up the report and began to read, his eyes skimming over the words.

“We have noticed the influx, yes,” Círdan commented dryly to fill the pause. “No one seems to have any explanation beyond rumours of approaching armies and a strong urge to get back home here where it’s safe. Not very useful. You’re well, Erestor? Not a good time of year for travelling.”

Erestor shrugged. “The Lady picked the time, not I. She said a dream spoke to her. She instructed us to return here, then she, Celebrían and Celeborn went their own way.” He thought they had been heading for the pass over Caradhras, but kept that to himself. If Gil asked it would be time enough to speculate on the Exile’s destination.

Gil-galad was reading slowly now, glancing up occasionally as Erestor remembered he did when he wanted to assimilate something. When he finished his voice was taut with barely contained anger. “What in the Pit possessed them not to tell me any of this before? Couldn’t they see that this was no casual villain they were dealing with.”

“I think it was about autonomy and Celebrimbor’s belief he could contain the threat,” Erestor said into the startled silence. “Almost till the end he thought Annatar only menaced Eregion.” The name came naturally to him, easier to use it than to admit the real one and be faced with the full horror of his memories. 

Gil-galad nodded curtly, his eyes now on the harp. “And this?”

Erestor glanced around the room: Cirdan, Arvarad, who he and Gil had known since Balar, and Callonui, whose loyalty was beyond question. And Glorfindel. “She said to have a care who you shared this with, that all our lives may depend on that discretion.”

“Yes, yes, there’s no one in this room I don’t know or trust. I suppose you can speak for your friend here?”

Erestor surprised himself by wanting to fly to Lindir’s defence as though he had been slighted. “He understands about whatever the harp carries better than I do, Sire. It’s been with him night and day, he even played it once. The Lady chose him for a reason, I think.”

“Hmph.” Gil-galad turned the harp around and scrutinized the base carefully, feeling along it with curious fingers. There was a sense of power shifting and moving in the room, of something that had slumbered now stirring, taking note of where it found itself. The air seemed to shiver. Looking around Erestor could see it was affecting them all similarly, all except Lindir. Too well acquainted with whatever the harp concealed, he had stepped back a few paces. Glorfindel, reborn legend, stood outwardly relaxed but with a waiting air. He was making Erestor just a touch nervous.

“There’s no mechanism, Sire,” Lindir ventured quietly from close behind him. “I would have found it. Very little on a harp remains untouched, what with testing the tuning and then movement while it’s being played. The Lady said this was a gift from Maglor himself, so I would hesitate to harm it, but in these old harps the pieces slot together perfectly, no need for pins and glue, and time all but binds the wood and metal together. Unless you turn it just so, I think you might need to break it.”

Gil-galad had begun looking for some kind of leverage when Glorfindel stepped forward. “May I?” he asked quietly. Erestor had to fight to keep from objecting, but Gil-galad seemed to find nothing untoward in the request. He passed the harp over and Glorfindel studied it carefully, all the while running his hands over it. 

“I used to play,” he said thoughtfully. “Once when I was a boy I broke the practice harp my tutor kept for my brother and I. He was furious. I think – here…“ A twist of the wrist, a slide of muscle under skin, muscle that had been the match of a Balrog, and the base hung loose at one side. “I never forgot that, nor that part of the base is always hollow – it aids the sound.” 

He placed it on the table and stepped back. Frowning, Gil-galad shook the harp gently and something wrapped in paper fell out, bouncing onto the table. Erestor found he was holding his breath and made himself relax. Gil-galad picked up the tiny parcel carefully, his expression impossible to read, then moved so that his body shielded whatever it was from view as he unwrapped it. There was not a sound in the room when he turned back, staring down at his cupped palm before opening it to show them what he held. 

Sapphire and ruby gleamed in the lamplight, clasped in rings of silver and gold. They shimmered with an inner fire, the air around them seeming almost to dance and pulse. It took Erestor more than one attempt to find his voice. “She said to tell you that Celebrimbor gifted her with the third, and that it’s as well they be held apart at this time. And that it should be safe where she’s going. I had no idea what she meant…”

“She mentioned three, yes.” Gil-galad’s attention was back on the rings, which he held as though their weight was somehow greater than their size indicated. 

“So she’s taken one for herself?” Glorfindel murmured. It was impossible to tell if his voice held approval or opprobrium.

Gil-galad shrugged very slightly. ”Finwe’s granddaughter. Had she been born a boy, you would have been discussing this with her now instead of me.”

“What are these?” Círdan asked, more interested in facts than a discussion on the incomprehensible Noldor practice of allowing only male heirs to wear the crown.

“Galadriel says they experimented with rings of power under Annatar’s tutelage. He claimed to have studied with Aulë himself and she could not fault him in this,” Gil-galad explained, setting out the facts as Círdan had taught him when he was still very young. “Then, working alone, Celebrimbor made three rings whose power is beyond anything ever created by an elven smith this side of the Sea. Of all the rings, they alone never knew Annatar’s touch.” 

He moved them, watching them catch fire from the light, then went on, his voice soft, almost questioning. “She says there is another ring, forged by Annatar, something of indescribable power. The One, she calls it. Through it he seeks the Three and with them his power would be so immense no one could withstand him… possibly not even the Valar themselves. Annatar is no renegade Vanyar as we’d suspected, she says. He was once called Sauron and served as Morgoth’s first lieutenant. And he is very angry.”

“What have we sent Elrond into?” Círdan asked, low-voiced. “An under-strength army, no solid intelligence...”

“Where did Galadriel go?” Glorfindel directed his question at Erestor. Their eyes met, held until Erestor shrugged and looked away. Legend, yes. His lord to answer to? No. His expression must have been eloquent because Glorfindel made a mollifying gesture. “I’m sorry, concern for her makes me blunt. Did she say why she thought it best not to bring the third ring here as well?”

“In case Lindon is overrun,” Gil-galad answered for him sombrely. “We can’t know if that was foresight or just plain common sense, and we can’t afford to take chances. Callonui, I want the watch trebled at every crossing point along our borders. From here on, we must regard Lindon as being in a state of war. See to it now. Your dinner can wait.”

----

Extra watchers were deployed to the border crossings, and an urgent appeal produced a modest increase to the ranks of the army. The numbers were less than Gil-galad wanted although more than Círdan, at least, had expected. As for the Shore Lord himself, he spent long hours with his mariners, overseeing the strict coastal patrol which had been put in operation the day of the Rings’ arrival. 

Glorfindel had no more to do than before, but it troubled him less now he understood why he had needed to remain in Mithlond. Every waking moment he could feel the presence of the rings that rested in the High King’s care, feel the quiet, coiling power that was the essence of Arda’s energy, waiting to be directed, mastered. He wondered what the one Galadriel held was like. These two spoke of fire and air, and knowing his kind the third would resonate to the element of water. He thought that would suit her. Water was deep, powerful, unstoppable, like the sea that ruled all those who dwelt beside or sailed upon it.

Círdan had been a mighty lord in his time and from the start Glorfindel had thought there was more than a little guile mixed in with practicalities when he chose the south side of the bay for his own. Anyone making a hurried return to Mithlond from the lands east or south of Lindon would find the route to his holding swifter and simpler than travelling down to the river crossing that served the city. This meant most of the more interesting or urgent news reached his ears first. And so it was when the couriers sent to Celebrimbor returned.

A string of racing horses and their own fear had lent them a speed previously unknown on the route between Ost-in-Edhil and Mithlond. They arrived before first light, when the dawn star ruled the sky, coming down from the Emyn Beraid through Círdan’s holding at a speed incautious for both horse and rider. The sound of their arrival woke Glorfindel, always a light sleeper and more so since his rebirth, and the early hour lent strength to his sense of impending disaster. 

On impulse he rose, dressed swiftly in a loose robe belted casually at his hips, and hurried downstairs alert for lights or the sound of movement. Maeriel’s voice, soft in the early hush before the birds woke, halted him as he was about to step outside. “My lord has taken them across the water himself.” She always called Círdan that, never by name. Glorfindel wondered abstractedly what she called him in the privacy of their rooms. “Eregion lies under attack, the city of Ost-in-Edhil has been taken. They have no word of Elrond, nor of the army.” 

She was standing in shadow, her thigh-length hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was calm and grave. “I have seen a city burn,” she said. “It is truly a terrible, terrible thing. But then, so have you. You would know this. They say Celebrimbor was taken, though how they know I cannot say, nor whether he is dead or alive.”

Glorfindel felt the world adjusting to the strange, awful shape of the future. “I need to hear what else they have to say,” he told her, purpose making his words clipped and definite.

She shook her head. “There will not be another ferry until morning light. Best join me in the kitchen for tea. It’s as good a way as any to wait for news.”

----

Chance brought Glorfindel to the palace sooner than he had hoped. Círdan came back to retrieve the notes and drawings still stored in one of the couriers’ packs and he had simply followed the Shipwright back to the ferry, talking casually as though it was the most natural thing in the world. By the time Círdan started wondering why he was still there, they were half way across the strait and it was too late. 

Glorfindel liked to believe guile did not come naturally to him, but he had learned a lot from watching Maeglin. He was starting to wonder if this might be one of the reasons he was chosen for this mission; Lord Námo knew hearts, the suggestion may have come from him.

“They’ll keep him alive and force him to say where the Three are,” Arvarad declared matter-of-factly. “After that they’ll kill him, of course.”

“They won’t get a word out of him.” Gil-galad stated. “Too bloody minded.” It was more than an hour since the messengers had been taken across to the palace and the king woken to hear them personally, and he was still rumpled from sleep, his hair unbound, a motley selection of clothing thrown on in haste.

“Any man will talk in time,” Círdan said quietly. “Some can withstand more pain than others, but each of us has his breaking point.”

“Not Celebrimbor.” Erestor’s tone was as flat as Gil-galad’s. “He would chew his arm off before he gave up the pride of his craft.” 

Erestor had his black hair tied severely back from his face, accentuating his cheekbones and those heavy lidded eyes. He had also been woken before dawn, apparently in his own bed if his reference to a short cut through the kitchens was anything to go by. This told Glorfindel that whatever the state of Erestor’s friendship with Gil-galad before he left for Eregion, it had not been resumed on his return. Yet. 

Arvarad, his eyes on Erestor, pursed his lips and nodded. Glorfindel had been wording his question with care and offered it now. “What of Galadriel? Do we have any idea if he knew enough to say where she was headed?”

“He’s Fëanor’s grandson,” Gil-galad replied. “He’d protect the work of his hands beyond common sense, as Erestor said, and he would never betray my aunt. Never. She’ll be safe enough. Sauron might guess the rings were sent here, but he has no reason to suspect they were divided. And for torture to be any use, you need to ask the right questions.”

Erestor gave him a startled look, but Glorfindel nodded, less surprised. In his experience, kings were supposed to know about such things.

11. Edge of Tomorrow.

Eregion

The bridge at Tharbad was held against them, forcing Elrond to lead his army across some of the wilder parts of Eriador. They were guided by one of the Silvan trackers whose family had lived in the land since before the sun, or so he claimed. Whatever the truth of that, he brought them to a ford that crossed the Gwathlo well away from habitation, shielded from casual sight by the rocky hills on the far side. The water, though shallow, was turbulent, and it took time to struggle across with horses, carts, and all the paraphernalia of an army on the move.

Turning south once they had regrouped, Elrond sent out scouts to check the lie of the land while they moved cautiously towards Ost-in-Edhil. Terrified refugees searching for a crossing not held against them all told the same nightmare tale of a mighty army out of the east, bulwarked by strange, fell creatures, that had fallen upon Ost-in-Edhil in the hour before dawn and rampaged through the streets sacking and killing, firing buildings, raping, and casually torturing. The Noldor had fought back of course, it was what they did, but they had been overwhelmed by sheer numbers and slowly, street by street, the city had fallen. 

No one could tell Elrond what had become of Celebrimbor, save that he had been taken on the steps of the House of the Mírdan in a vain attempt to defend the doors and was most likely already dead. No one knew anything about Erestor either, but he had travelled with Gildor and possessed solid survival instincts, so Elrond decided to believe this was good news. He was embarrassed to make a fuss about one person in the face of so much unfolding horror and after a few careful enquiries he held his tongue. The most chilling reports came from those who had fled Ost-in-Edhil at the last possible moment. As well as fire and looting, they spoke of a phalanx of heavily-armed warriors approaching the city with wolves for outriders and a great banner of scarlet and black being carried before. The conclusion from each frightened informant was the same: Annatar had returned.

The scouts never came back, although Berior’s head was returned to them, fired into the front line by slingshot when Annatar’s outriders hailed them with his challenge. There was very little time to be shocked or even to send for the warrior’s son and offer a few words of sympathy – Elrond was sure Ereinion would have done that – because climbing the next ridge was all it took to find the enemy. 

Annatar or his generals had picked the ground well. The land spread out within a crescent of hills with a small, forested area behind, which would serve to protect supply lines. According to those refugees who had chosen to join them and fight, the mass of men spread out in battle formation below was no more than a portion of the invading army. Many banners were missing, they said, including the Deceiver’s own. 

They were expected, there would be no chance to retreat and come at things from a better angle. After a brief conference, Elrond agreed with his captains that at least there was some advantage to be had in the impetus of a downhill attack. Keeping their deployments simple , he wasted little time on preliminaries. Setting the archers to let loose a volley of covering fire, he ordered a three pronged attack and sent them down the hill, hoping almost reckless speed would gain them some kind of an advantage over the chillingly efficient-looking enemy.

The battle was little short of a rout. The enemy force was made up of experienced fighters directed by someone who knew what he was doing. Elrond, in the rare moments when he had time to stop and think, wondered who the mysterious commander was. Not Annatar, whose scarlet and black banner was absent from the field, but someone whose colours were green and gold and who did not take part in the fighting but remained stationed on a nearby hill under his flag. He was communicating to his men through a system of coloured flags; Elrond filed the concept away to explore later.

In the end it was Caedion, one of the Sindarin veterans, who fought his way to Elrond’s side and shouted at him to call for the retreat while they still could. Elrond froze, sword arm extended. He had been in a tight, small world that excluded everything but the young warriors who formed his bodyguard and the easterners who met the business end of his sword while he fought his way towards that hill with the green banner. His arm was aching, and the sun had moved a distance along the sky. For a while he had gone against his training and lost track of everything except his goal, and in that time the battle had been lost.

He looked around, taking in their reduced numbers, the bodies, the screams of the wounded. “Have them sound the retreat,” he said briefly to his standard bearer Angion, Caedion’s son, who had his father’s steady good sense and clear blue gaze. “Tûriel, fetch the horses. Let’s get out of here.”

----

They retreated, kept moving after sunset and travelled on under starlight. For a while after dark they heard the distinctive calling of orcs one to another not far behind, but Annatar’s general let them go, perhaps preferring to confine his battles to daylight hours. Shortly after sunrise they found a wooded area with a small stream for clean water and an outcrop of rock to protect their back. The temporary camp was neither homely nor comfortable, but it was sheltered and there were good vantage points that would provide ample warning should anyone approach. The healers’ tents were organised up against the rocks, with a well guarded exit into the trees should anything go amiss. There were far too many wounded to evacuate should the worst happen, so all Elrond could do was hope no one came looking for them.

Behave as you wish to be perceived, Maedhros had been wont to say, usually earning him a sardonic snort from Maglor. With this in mind Elrond had found a flat rock with a good view of the camp, thrown his very expensive fur-lined cloak over it and ordered his standard planted firmly behind it, creating a makeshift command station. Looking around from this vantage point, the overriding colour pervading the camp was grey: the land, the leather armour almost everyone wore, even the sky now the sun was setting. Elrond was one of the few to sit alone, the men had gathered in groups to talk while they ate, repaired armour, sharpened swords, bolstering each other’s courage. 

While the camp was being set up, he had called for a head count from his captains, and after visiting the wounded – Maglor always did that before anything – he had studied the lists and tried to merge or create new cohorts, reassigning men in an effort to close the gaping holes in what had been a carefully structured whole. These new groups were now getting to know one another over dinner. He had allowed a few fires at the suggestion of his small band of veterans, because the companies patrolling the perimeter were certain they were alone in that corner of Eriador – or Eregion, he was not wholly sure which this was – and the burial party, who had been sent back to gather their dead and burn them rather than allow the bodies to be defiled, had reported no sight of Annatar’s army.

He retained less than half the warriors who had marched past Gil-galad and Glorfindel the day they left Mithlond, an event that somehow felt further away now than memories of his years in Maglor’s household. The lessons of a childhood spent moving from fort to stronghold in pursuit of Morgoth’s forces had more to contribute here than the hasty preparation back in Lindon. He found he still remembered things like deploying sentries in threes, digging the privy downstream, not eating a morsel more than your men and making sure they saw it. 

*There’s nothing moving anywhere in half a league,” Caedion interrupted his thoughts, waiting for his nod before sitting down next to him. “Haven’t heard back from Navinai yet though.”

“That’s good at least. We can let them keep their fires a while longer. Firelight always gives courage. I remember…”

What he remembered was lost as a young warrior – most of them were too young, he thought – came up and stood a respectful distance from his rock. “My lord? Riders approaching, sir. Elves. They think it might be Prince Celeborn.”

Elrond pushed himself to his feet. “Welcome him, tell him where I am,” he said. Looking around at groups of tired warriors, many squatting on the ground and ready to sleep where they were, he called, “Anyone seen Celair? Ask him if there’s more soup. It seems we have company.”

Celeborn when he arrived looked exhausted but energized at the same time if that were possible. He stopped once or twice to exchange a few words on his way to Elrond, clasping his arm in brisk greeting when he reached him. “I heard you took them on outside Tharbad? How many did you lose? We’d have come along to help, but we got word too late.”

Celair came up with a bowl of soup which he handed to Celeborn. Elrond nodded his thanks. “We had no idea what we were walking into. I lost over half my men…”

Celeborn’s face was expressionless as he tasted the soup, a concoction of no particular flavour, its best feature being that it was warm. He looked around the clearing at the remains of Lindon’s army, the extensive shelters erected for the wounded, then muttered an eloquent curse and went to sit on Elrond’s rock. After a moment, Elrond followed him. “It happens,” the prince of the former realm of Doriath said eventually. “Not that it will make you feel any better, not for numbers like those, but – you lose men in war. You never get used to it but the surprise grows less, if that helps.”

Celeborn had fought in Beleriand under the stars, Elrond knew, back when the world was a younger though no less violent place. He was no stranger to war. “I’ll make no excuses, we were ill-prepared for what we found. We weren’t even sent out here to fight, just to act as a deterrent.”

“It’s that damn fool Celebrimbor’s fault,” Celeborn said grimly, his face tight with contained anger. “Galadriel told him any number of times to tell Ereinion what he knew and get help, but he swore it was Eregion’s business, not Lindon’s. By the time she got through to him, it was too late. Erestor made good time to Mithlond with her report then?”

Elrond wavered between relief at the suggestion Erestor was safe and utter confusion. “Erestor? What has he to do with…? He’s all right? I was worried.”

“Ah. Then you’re here due to Ereinion’s good sense and whatever intelligence reached him. You’d have been better prepared had Galadriel’s message reached Lindon before you left. She sent Erestor and Lindir with a full accounting. I had doubts about the musician, but she was quite definite. She said he’d be good for Erestor, whatever that means. I’m not in the habit of trying to interpret my wife when she’s being inscrutable.”

Something shivered Elrond’s skin as he listened, a confusion of music and light that was meaningless under present circumstances. He pushed it back firmly; this was no time for one of those glimpses into an unintelligible future. Celeborn’s fighters were moving in, several greeting old acquaintances, spreading out and finding places, and he concentrated on them till the echoes in his head faded. Packs were being raided, pots put back over coals, while the newcomers passed around wineskins. Celeborn smiled. “I allow them one or two cups a night, no more,” he told Elrond who was watching this with a raised eyebrow. “No one overdoes it, when it runs out we’ll be dry and they know it.”

“You brought supplies from the city then?” Elrond was aware Celeborn had taken to the hills to harry Sauron’s forces with a carefully picked fighting force, mainly survivors of Doriath willing to follow their prince wherever he led, but he was surprised at their number. They all had the look of professionals doing a job they knew well, in stark contrast to the formal army which was made up largely of new recruits and peacetime warriors.

“Brought some, raided where we could. Not much chance now and not much left of the city either. They’re dug in at the Tower, or were when last we heard, tearing the place and Celebrimbor apart.”

Elrond stirred. “He’s alive? We should…”

“We should nothing,” Celeborn said firmly and sipped the soup. “Not bad – your cook’s done this before. We can do nothing. Sauron himself is in the city, probably questioning him personally and overseeing the search. He has an iron ring of fighters around the walls and they’ll stay there and fight and die while he’s still inside, because they are far more afraid of him than of either of us. They’ve started searching the rest of the city now, too. I suppose they didn’t find what they were looking for first try.” 

His voice was dry, and the implication made Elrond frown. The words behind the words raised yet another echo of – something he should know. Someone brought him a bowl and a torn off hunk of bread which he broke into pieces and left to soak in the warm broth. He had eaten earlier, but it was basic courtesy to break bread with a guest. “Onion, tomato and a handful of mushrooms,” he said, indicating the bowl, “and a hint of rabbit. Enough to share. We don’t eat well, but we’re not short of food. What are they looking for?”

Celeborn squinted at him then returned to his soup. “Nothing I’ll talk about here. Nothing you need to hear right this minute either. If Erestor’s reached Mithlond, Ereinion will know all he needs to by now.”

Elrond opened his mouth and closed it again, knowing better than to insist. He would find out in time. For the present there was something reassuring about having Celeborn and his people there. If the enemy ventured a night attack, they would be sorely surprised. Celeborn himself sat eating, seemingly untouched by circumstance. He had his hair in a braid with a jaunty little flower tucked above one ear, the tunic over his leather armour looked stained and a bit worn even in that dim light, but his face was calm and untroubled.

“Galadriel,” Elrond asked at last. “She’s not with you. She went with Erestor then?” 

“Still waters run deep,” Celeborn said cryptically, fishing a chunk of bread out of his bowl and eating it. “No, she went her own way for her own reasons. Haven’t heard from her and don’t expect to for a while. But she has our daughter with her so I know she’s all right. She’d rip the throat out of anything or anyone threatening Bri.” He spotted someone near the fire with a wineskin and raised his voice. “Hey, Thórion? Over here. Two cups.” 

He waited till the wine had been brought and till they were alone again before he continued quietly, his eyes on the fire. “It’s a part of being bound. I know she’s alive, I can sense her, I can even tell when she’s waking and when she sleeps.” Which was less time than he liked. “But how she is? I have no idea. That’s for another time, for when she knows she’s safe. Till then, I just have to trust in her Finwëan bloody-mindedness. She’ll be all right. She always is.”

Khazad-dûm

Galadriel woke to the sound of laughter and young voices. She lay listening while the world came back into focus, before sitting up and pushing her hair back over her shoulders. Celebrían was on the other bed with Thorhof’s children and the three were playing some kind of a naming game. The flood of words and laughter stopped so abruptly when they realised she was awake that Galadriel regretted not pretending sleep a while longer. Bri had been enjoying herself, and learning a few words in the dwarf tongue might stand her in good stead later in life.

“Morning, Nana. Where were you last night?” Celebrían asked, pausing in the act of brushing one child’s hair. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“I’m sorry, were you worried?” There was a cup of water beside the bed and she drank it thirstily after a first, cautious sniff.

Celebrían shook her head firmly. “Oh no, I wasn’t afraid. All our things were here, so I knew it was all right. It just seemed very late. I thought you had gone to the bathroom but then I couldn’t remember where that was… I tried to stay awake, but I was too tired.”

“That’s all right,” Galadriel said, getting out from under the covers and swinging her legs off the bed, feet on the cool floor. “I was asked to go and greet our host, the lord of Khazad-dum. Royalty is like that sometimes, keeping hours others find strange. You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you? I’m starving.”

----

Breakfast was oatmeal, rough but tasty, and a cup of light ale. She was in two minds about allowing Bri to drink it, but as it had been poured for the two young dwarves as well, it would have been rude to object. After, Thorhof suggested she get their packs together so that an early start could be made. They took their leave of Gez, and Celebrían surprised and pleased everyone by giving two warm scarves to the children as parting gifts, one her own and the other liberated from her mother’s pack without prior agreement. Looking away, Galadriel’s lips twitched approvingly. She was a firm believer in doing what was necessary with minimum fuss, although there was no need for Bri to think her belongings were fair game.

They followed winding streets, finally coming out onto a main thoroughfare that Galadriel suspected was the same one they had travelled down from the West Gate. In answer to her question, Thorhof said merely that yes, it was The Way and traversed Khazad-dum, stretching from one gate clear through to the other. They passed more dwarves than they had seen the previous day, and this time, as Thorhof had predicted, there was less curiosity, and more brief nods of greeting were  directed towards them as well as their guide.

Thorhof stopped at what Galadriel thought was close to midday, entering a little grotto beside one of the rivers, Tables and chairs were set up under a lacy trellis strung with tiny, sparkling lanterns, and diners were already busy with food. Celebrían was thrilled with it, even though it proved not to be the eatery whose lights they had seen the previous night. The meal was plain but tasty: bread, cheeses, thick stew heavy with the scent of turnip, carrot and herbs. “They need ducks,” she said a little wistfully, gesturing towards the swift-flowing water. “Then it would be just like the park down the road from home.”

Galadriel nodded and made much of finishing a mouthful of roll and cheese and taking another spoonful of stew. She wondered if their house still stood, if the staff had taken her quiet advice to put as much distance between themselves and Ost-in-Edhil as they could once she and Celeborn left, where Brim was, if he still lived, if she would know if... Thorhof looked up at her from under heavy brows, understanding clear in his eyes, then turned to distract Bri. “You will see ducks aplenty when you leave, young one. They roost along the water year round and we are forbidden to trap them; they had their home beside the lake before ever dwarves dwelt under Baranzinbar.”

----

They stopped late in the afternoon, by which time the tiers of apartments, the bejewelled grottos, the colourful squares, the little paths running off the main road had lost their charm and blurred into a tiresome sameness, and Celebrian was growing irritable with the endless walking and with having to leap to the side of the road at the first sound of an approaching cart drawn at speed by tiny, shaggy ponies. She had tried to pat one they saw waiting at the side of the road outside what appeared to be a shop, but it snapped at her and Thorhof warned her off. It seemed the dwarves’ mine ponies were not the good-hearted beasts known beyond Khazad-dum.

Thorof had arranged for them to pass the night in his brother’s house, a small, two floored apartment in one of a cluster of buildings facing onto a brightly lit square where one of the city’s many fountains bubbled and splashed. Years later the sound of a fountain always put Galadriel in mind of the great underground city of the dwarves. A group of children stopped in the midst of a complex game to watch them pass with eyes wide; they would never have seen an elf before. Celebrían, being Celebrían, waved. Her experiences thus far seemed to have increased her confidence and Galadriel was more surprised to realise it had been lacking than she was by its growth.

Thorhof’s brother Hohreb spoke the common tongue fairly well. His wife on the other hand was shyer than Gez and escaped their company as soon as she had been introduced. A room had been made ready for them, which Thorhof explained belonged to his nephew who had recently married and moved into a home of his own. Thorhof was to sleep downstairs on cushions. He seemed quite cheerful at the prospect.

Hohreb turned out to be well travelled and had a great interest in what was moving in the world beyond his home. Over a cup of light ale he extended an invitation for her to visit the gemsmith’s workshop where he was employed, which she accepted before he had a chance to change his mind, leaving Celebrían with firm instructions to stay in the apartment and bother no one except Thorhof. Thorhof himself was busy with another pipe and mug of beer and nodded cheerily when she told him she would not be long. 

The workshop was only a few streets away, and Hohreb showed her around with eager pride. They went through a series of interconnected spaces where dwarves sat at long tables cutting and polishing stones and stopped a while in a room carved into the rock, where a tiny forge burned in the corner and a goldsmith busied himself with intricate settings. She received a great deal of suspicious looks, but work continued and she was even invited  by an old dwarf, introduced to her as Kog, to sit quiet and watch, fascinated, as he etched images upon a dark green opal, tiny scratches transforming a grey streak into a seagull, lifting a gold spray into a tiny, glowing sun. 

When at last they returned to Hohreb’s home, it was to find Celebrían outside with the children, playing a game that involved tossing a stone into squares drawn on the ground and hopping from one to the other. Galadriel was about to call her in, but the sight of her active and laughing, her hair flying as she took her turn, kept her silent. “I will fetch her when it is time to eat,” Hohreb told her quietly. He was also watching Celebrían thoughtfully. “She is still very young, yes? Young things see differences less than we who are grown. They have not yet learned to judge the present with the eyes of the past.”

----

The next day’s journey took them into older parts of Khazad-dum, moving ever uphill, not steeply but following a distinct incline. The cavern narrowed until finally there was room for only a single row of tall buildings set into the walls on either side of the road. Worn stonework and subdued decorations formed a contrast to the main part of the city, as did the quiet demeanour of the dwarves they passed and the lack of local traffic.

This section ended in three broad steps leading up to an open archway with flaming torches on either side. Passing through took them into a vast hall down the centre of which marched a double row of pillars carved into the likeness of trees, their branches reaching up into the dimness of the ceiling to join and twine. Gold, silver and jewelled inlays glinted and danced in the soft light and the walls faded off into shadow on either side, while the lanterns hanging from the branched ceiling hinted at subtle patterns and variations in the floor of highly polished grey rock.

There were fewer dwarves in this place where footfalls struck echoes from floor and walls and even Celebrían’s endless stream of questions, many of which had started being framed as ‘How do you say…?’ were stilled. The hall, referred to by Thorhof as the Second Hall, stretched on ahead and they walked until finally brought to a halt where the floor stopped abruptly, falling away into darkness. Carefully placed lanterns lit either side of a great chasm, otherwise walls and ceiling were swallowed up in gloom.

There was a guard station manned by incurious dwarves who had clearly been told to expect them and paid them little heed. “Across the bridge and up the steps and we shall be in the First Hall, almost at the East Gate,” Thorhof said, gesturing casually. “Not far now.”

Ignoring the guards, Celebrían was staring at the bridge over the abyss, her entire body radiating horror. She looked up at her mother and the light was not too dim to show how pale she had turned. “No!” she said flatly. “I can’t.”

Galadriel decided that now was not the time to placate but for firmness. She kept her voice quiet and level. “Celebrían, it is a strong, solid bridge, no more than fifty feet long. There is no need for a rail, it is more than wide enough. All you have to do is look straight ahead and walk fast. Your father could do it in his sleep. Don’t you dare embarrass me, we have an audience.”

Celebrían’s lower lip trembled a little. Galadriel gave her a steady glare. “I will go first and you will follow, Thorhof will come along behind you. I’ll set a nice, even pace, and you will keep your eyes fixed on the back of my head. Understood?”

Celebrían continued staring at her.

“And don’t you dare cry. Elves do not cry in public. Nor are they scared of heights. In fact, we Noldor are not afraid of anything. Never forget that.”

She strongly suspected Bri hated her, but then she had hated her own parents singly and together on any number of occasions and they had all survived it. Without further discussion she walked to the foot of the bridge then paused a moment to look around. The cavern was of red stone, as was the bridge, a slender, arching stretch of rock, not quite wide enough for two to walk abreast but still comfortably broad. It had been evened out underfoot and strengthened in places with patches of mortar. Above and below, empty air drifted, and a light breeze from nowhere ruffled her hair and dress. When she glanced down the drop seemed bottomless, and the lantern light on either side filled the space with an eerie, reddish glow. Not looking back, she stepped out over nothingness and started walking.

The cavern was eerily quiet, even her footsteps were soundless, swallowed up by the vast distances around her. She walked with her shoulders down and her back very straight, and it was only when she was half way across that she remembered she hadn’t made sure Celebrían’s pack was as well-balanced as her own. She gritted her teeth; there was nothing she could do about her lapse now. Not for the first time she wondered if she had been cut out for motherhood. She loved her daughter fiercely, but the little details always seemed to pass her by. Celeborn was far better with that sort of thing.

The far side drew nearer and she could see that beyond the steps the light changed, hinting at the possibility of sunlight. They had been in Khazad-dum only two nights, but already it felt a long time since she had walked under sun or rain. She forced herself not to hurry at the end, then she was off the bridge and approaching the steps. Not wanting to distract Bri, she waited till she reached them and only then did she turn.

Instead of Celebrían, Thorhof was behind her. For a moment her heart stopped, but then she saw her daughter close behind the dwarf. As they stepped off the bridge almost as one, she realised he was carrying Bri’s pack and that she had a hand on his shoulder for support. He turned, offered her a hand, and they stood together while he returned the pack to her, taking care with the straps. He gave Galadriel an expressionless stare that told her exactly what he thought of her maternal skills then gave the girl a gentle push. “And so we are on the ground again,” he said to her. “No time at all, just as I told you.”

“Next time you’ll be more at home in high places,” Galadriel said neutrally. “You see, nothing to it once you’ve done it.”

Celebrían looked at her and nodded, her eyes saying as clear as words that there would be no next time if she had anything to do with it.

They passed through the vast doorway at the top of the steps, turned a corner, and walked into daylight. She recalled the shock from her days in Menegroth, when eyes grown accustomed to artificial light were once more exposed to sunshine. There were shafts open to the sky set up into the rock at the sides of the passage and from the strength and angle of the light that flooded down, she assumed it was mid-afternoon. Up ahead, the sounds of voices and activity grew louder with each step.

The passageway opened into another great cavern, slightly larger and far busier than the one Thorhof had called the Second Hall. Shops and storage rooms were crowded together along both sides of the hall, broken by alleyways that led off out of sight, Long windows set high at the far end lit the activity within. The main focus was the large, open market; there were barrows and stands piled high with fruit, vegetables and grain, and Galadriel saw a long table given over solely to cheeses of all shapes and sizes. Looking around with a delighted smile, her experience of the bridge now behind her, Celebrían touched her mother’s arm almost shyly and pointed out basins and tubs where cut flowers were being sold in bunches. 

“This is where we trade life’s necessities,” Thorhof explained. “Storekeepers from the different districts come here once a week or whenever seems necessary to purchase their stock. Things have changed though, always the doors stood open during the hours of daylight. Now I see they are closed and the guard increased.”

The doors – huge, hung from immense doorposts – were indeed closed, and a party of battle-armed dwarves stood watch. Durin had wasted no time in seeing to Khazad-dum’s defences.

Thorhof took his leave of them at the doors, but not before digging in his pocket and coming up with two small items, one wrapped in pale green cloth, the other not. The green cloth disclosed the opal Galadriel had admired, the sea bird and the sunburst, set simply now in gold and hanging from a golden chain. “Kog thought the stone spoke your name,” he explained, handing it to her. “And I was told to say Durin offers it as a gift, in memory of an old friendship and a bright haired elf lord.”

Celebrían’s gift was simpler, a silver ring set with an amethyst, tumbled smooth but unpolished. She recognised it at once. “That was my stone from when we played the jumping game last night,” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling.

“Even so,” Thorhof said. “They asked my brother to set it for you, as a reminder of the friends you made here under the mountain. Think of them when you wear it, they will not forget you.”

He stepped back to speak to the guards at the door before bowing his head deeply, first to Galadriel and then with a smile to Celebrían. Galadriel took a final look around the great hall with its vendors, its barrows, its laden tables, with dwarves going about their day and pretending to pay no heed to the two strangers. It was a place unlike any she had seen before and despite his dislike for Aulë’s children, she knew Celeborn would be sorry to have missed sharing this adventure with her. Then the great doors opened on a whisper of sound and the fresh, cold air of winter’s end greeted them. 

She took Celebrían’s arm, drawing her attention away from the market scene, and led her out onto the top of yet another flight of stairs. The doors closed behind them with a rush of air and an almost soundless thud, abruptly cutting off the sounds of the First Hall and leaving them alone on the mountainside, looking out over the Dimrill Dale as it dreamed in the weak afternoon sunshine.

----

They stood on the top step with the wind tugging fitfully at their hair and clothing, the land dropping away below them. The steps ended at a brick pathway that led down to and alongside an oval lake surrounded by a grass sward of purest green. There was not another living soul in sight. “I’m - sorry I was rough with you about crossing the bridge,” Galadriel said carefully when the silence between them began to stretch too long. “For me, it’s easier to be brave if I’m not allowed to act scared. I was – not as kind as I might have been, but there was no other way for us to leave.”

Celebrían’s face twitched slightly but she nodded anyhow. “Yes, Nana. It’s all right. Thorhof told me to hold onto him and not look down and it was fine.”

There was no answer to that. Silence returned. “That is where we would have climbed down had we crossed the mountain,” Galadriel finally said, pointing north to where a river brightened the shadows as it leapt down the side of the mountain in a series of waterfalls, the air misty and shimmering with their spray. 

Celebrían looked at it open mouthed. “Down there…?” She turned wide eyes on her mother and Galadriel couldn’t help smiling at the horror. “There are steps cut into the mountainside. Some places are like a ladder, in others they are deep and awkward but yes, we would have come down there beside the river. Very carefully, very slowly.”

Celebrían raised an eyebrow in a startlingly adult manner and gave the waterfall a final dark stare before turning away with a small shudder to study the lake instead. “The water – it looks as though someone filled it with ink, it’s such a dark blue.”

“Nen Cenedril is not like any other lake,” Galadriel replied. “While we walk I’ll tell you the story of how Durin, the first Durin, looked into the water and saw the crown of seven stars above his head. There’s even a stone to mark the very place they say he stood.”

Celebrían nodded noncommittally, still taking in the view. The valley was already half in shadow, clouds streamed across the sky and the chill wind bit sharply. The lake lay still and strangely untroubled, the Mirrormere’s startlingly dark blue giving the entire valley an unnatural, almost surreal appearance. The brick path circled the lake, passing mounds planted with trees, fir and birch, to a final abrupt ending at the south end of the dale. 

“It’s like a park, a big park,” she said with a tentative smile. They were both speaking quietly, careful of the glen’s stillness. There were birds, but they too were subdued, and the Dimrill’s leap down the mountain was far enough away to somewhat mute the water’s rush. “There are even statues. Why…?”

“I’ve never asked, child,’ Galadriel admitted. “To honour dwarves of an earlier time perhaps. We can have a look as we pass through, see if we can guess.”

“How far do we have to walk?” There was no confidence or trust in her young voice.

Galadriel shrugged. “A day perhaps? Though we’ll need to rest overnight, it’s not wise to attempt a new trail in the dark.”

Celebrían tried to hide her relief. “That’s not too bad. And they gave us food before we left, enough for several days. Will we stay here by the lake tonight, or…?”

Galadriel shook her head. “No, not here. This is the place of the dwarves, we have no business lingering. We’ll go on beyond the park. I recall a sheltered place where the rivers meet, we can stop there. That should be --- around there, in that huddle of trees, see? And then it will be just a short walk tomorrow. That’s our destination over there, that forest beyond the dale. Those spring green trees mark Amdir’s land of Lórien. This time tomorrow we’ll be there, and tomorrow night we’ll sleep safe within its borders.”

Chapter End Notes

Nen Cenedril - Sidarin name for the Mirrormere, translates loosely Lake Looking-glass.

Baranzinbar - dwarf name for Caradhras

12. Perchance to Dream

North Mithlond

The dream had whispered to him before, but only in brief flashes, distorted and twisted by unlikely additions that had no basis in the reality he spent his waking hours trying to evade. This time was different, not a dream but rather a relived memory that wrapped itself around him, insidious as smoke, while he slept. He was back in that windowless room in Ost-in-Edhil, with the iron brazier burning in its corner, candles grouped to lift shadows in some places, deepen them in others, illuminating the scene with softly flickering lines of light. 

The bed was a sumptuous expanse of velvet throws, luxurious furs, high piled pillows. There was a canopy of red velvet draped with silk and fringed in black and gold, a theme repeated in the tapestry that covered the walls, featuring a surrealistic landscape picked out in these same colours. The headboard of polished ebony was crafted in a broad lattice pattern, with two knobbed posts set an arm's length apart near the centre. From those posts hung shimmering black ropes, curled snakelike around themselves.

As was sometimes the way of dreams, he first saw the scene from above, saw himself lying on his back, black hair spread across scarlet pillows, sweat faintly filming his forehead, his eyes half closed, lips parted. He could see Annatar kneeling beside him, hands travelling knowingly over his body, leaving his skin glistening with oil in their wake. Almonds mingled with the scent from the brazier, a musky bitter-sweetness of spices and desert heat. Where the oil settled, his skin prickled hotly. 

Fingers grazed his nipples, hands glided from waist to hip bones to the insides of his thighs, then grasped, parting his legs with sudden violence. As he swooped down into his dream body, his eyes flew open, looking into light, dazzled. Annatar’s voice crooned low and soft, “Hush, be still. This is what you want, your secret need. Think of nothing, just know my will.”

There was the sound of something clinking, then Annatar’s hand held glittering light before him, a delicate silver chain studded with diamonds. “This is your gem, diamonds for that black hair, that pale, easily marked skin. Diamonds to hold you, bind you till the time comes.” Hand on his sex, oil-slick fingers sliding down silkily then grasping him. His stomach lurched, but still he was harder than ever in his life, his heat a contrast to the caress of cold gems and metal. Annatar spoke, his voice soft and certain. “I will loosen this binding when you have earned your release. Your seed will not be spilt casually this night, only at my will.” 

The diamond-studded chain looped around his penis again, taking the sac behind into its embrace, then was pulled tight, tighter still, till he cried out and made to push Annatar’s hand away. The slap to his thigh was somehow transmuted into a jolt of lust. His sex jerked in response and the restraint answered with dull refusal. He could hear himself panting.

Annatar lounged beside him, cat-green eyes on his face, golden hair a shimmering cloak reaching smooth and straight to his elbows, his skin pale amber in the candlelight. His smile was slow and sensual; it was Erestor’s entire existence. “Up now. On your knees, facing the headboard. Do it!” His voice rose sharp, and the command fell into the room’s silence to be swallowed by the hissing of candle flame. Lightheaded, Erestor knelt, his mind empty. His body was tingling, his sex strained and heavy, the band tight at its base. The end of the chain brushed the inside of his thigh and fear and desire twisted his loins. 

Motion behind him, startlingly fast, then Annatar’s hands lifting his hair aside and forward, the air cool against his exposed back. Before he had time to think, his hand was gripped firmly, guided to one of the posts. The wood was smooth and somehow warm, he was barely aware of the cord sliding around his wrist, drawing tight.

“Other hand.” The words caressed his ear, then Annatar’s mouth found the nape of his neck with a nip of teeth that shot fire through him. There was no thought, he held out his free hand to be restrained. 

Annatar moved away, reaching for a tasselled cord draped near the end of the headboard. With a soft, metallic sound the tapestry on the wall alongside the bed seemed to ripple then drew back, revealing a silver mirror that extended up into the shadows beyond the light. Erestor stared at himself: wide, dark eyes, oiled skin shimmering in the light, hint of diamond-wreathed prick. Breath hitched in his throat. Annatar’s hands slid forward over his shoulders, fingers teasing achingly hard nipples before sliding down ribs, loins, to his thighs. 

He parted Erestor’s legs further with a roughness that had him gasping and writhing. A tug at the chain warned him to silence, no need for more than a look from those feral green eyes. Kneeling up, Annatar reached for the warmed oil he had used before and began stroking it over his penis, smiling at himself in the mirror. Watching him swell and lengthen, Erestor felt twisting, heated fear rise in his belly, felt his entrance clench reflexively. Time slipped and hitched, then Annatar was leaning over his shoulder, holding a goblet to his lips. “Drink, it’ll help.”

He swallowed deep, feeling the wine burning down, if wine it was. Strange, exciting accents were hidden within this grape, tastes like nettle and wild apricots and pepper chased each other. The cup was unfamiliar, not like those they had been drinking from before Annatar led him into this room, kissing and laughing. There was no laughter now. Not here.

“I need to fetch something. Watch yourself while you wait. See how beautiful you are, a creature of dark desires, naked for my pleasure. Watch and learn your truth.” He ran a casual hand down Erestor’s flank, then his weight left the bed and he moved out of sight. 

Erestor did as bidden; he studied himself. The face looking back from the mirror was like no one he had seen before, but yet he knew him, this denizen of a scented, shadowy world. He shivered. 

Time passed, a world of time, and then Annatar returned, all gold and emerald and honeyed skin, holding a candle in an obsidian holder, the flame leaping high. Warm breath gusted against Erestor’s back, the candle was close but held aside. His head whirled. Somewhere in the heat and darkness he felt blunt pressure and a hand spreading him.  He forced his eyes open and the mirror showed him Annatar watching as his sword prepared to breach its chosen sheath. He looked up, his eyes meeting Erestor’s in the mirror, holding them till he drowned in leaf green. Then he was filled in one violent stroke, crying out his pain, grasping the wood convulsively.

Annatar stilled. “Fire is the greatest of the elements, Sinquë. It is the formative power in the centre of the world, the creator of those jewels you now wear so alluringly, the gold of the cup... Fire is creation and lust and dissolution. You are about to learn its weight.”

The whispering voice sounded like Annatar and yet – other. His lips were parted and he was staring at the smooth line of Erestor’s back. When the candle moved, Erestor watched, mesmerized, half ready for the sting of hot wax. He was not prepared for the line of fire that leapt from candle to flesh, igniting a wavy spiral from the base of his spine to between his shoulder blades. As the fire leapt, Annatar thrust into him. Erestor screamed and fire-shot darkness rose up and swallowed him.

When he opened his eyes the fire was gone and a terrified glance showed that his skin was unmarred. He was in the same position, leaning forward with Annatar kneeling behind and buried deep within him, candle held high, face expressionless. There was dampness on Erestor’s thigh – he realised confusedly that he had wet himself but was beyond embarrassment. 

“Fire,” Annatar continued distantly, as though there had been no pause. “Taking you, consuming you, carrying you to a place no one else will ever show you, giving you satisfaction as no other could. Will you taste the kiss of fire again, Sinquë?” His pupils had contracted eerily, his eyes were almost black with barely a hint of green. His tongue extended, touched his lips. “Yes?” he asked softly, his face alight with – desire? Anticipation?

Erestor had no will, only Annatar’s. “Yes,” he whispered.

The hand dipped, flame hissed, and a line of white-hot agony flicked across his back like a whip. Dimly he was aware of it curling around his hips and blending with the thrusting heat within, turning the world into a white place of unbelievable need. This time he did not pass out, this time he kept his eyes on the mirror while he bucked back against Annatar and felt the brush of crisp hair against his buttocks as fire struck within to match the fire without. A line of red sparks flickered on his back, then died, leaving no mark in their wake. He felt dizzy, sick with lust. Someone was panting like a dog; he realised belatedly it was him. 

He must surely have spoken aloud, for Annatar answered him. “A dog yes. My bitch in heat. You are exactly as I imagined you would be.” 

The fire came again, dancing flame tracing patterns on his back, the pain beyond anything he had ever known, pain too great for the mind to accept, pain that was ecstasy beyond bearing. Annatar took him hard, shoving him forward with the strength of his thrusts. Not missing a stroke, he reached an arm around Erestor and pulled him almost upright, his back against Annatar’s chest. The line of fire writhed between them and was gone, as though sealing them together. 

Erestor moved with him, his lungs crying for air, his body screaming for something he had no words for but which drew closer with every breath. Annatar’s hand brushed his crotch, diamonds sliding loose to liberate harsh, throbbing heat. Briefly he could focus again; the mirror showed two strangers kneeling upright, one black haired, sweating, face contorted, sex and nipples darkly engorged, the other golden haired, eyes black with lust. 

Annatar raised the candle and wax slid down Erestor’s chest to his nipple, hunger in its wake. A second line hovered, then fell lower, and was the only touch his over-heated sex needed as Annatar gave one final thrust, rising up on his knees. As Erestor’s release finally came, semen mingling hissingly with hot wax, the face in the mirror changed. His face alive with triumph, Annatar’s eyes blazed black with golden lights, and his hair took on a red tinge, fading in and out of gold, almost like a page turning, then turning back. He spoke seven words only, no more, but his voice took on a strange, lilting echo. “Sealed in fire, Sinquë. Made you mine!”

----

Erestor woke sitting up in bed, the sheet at his waist wet and slimed with semen, its warmth fading even as he became aware of it. His sex still throbbed with the aftermath of erection and release. For a moment he stayed like that, shivering and swallowing down nausea while his mind raced, seeking clues as to where he was, why he was there. Then he remembered and sank forward, resting his head and arms on his drawn up knees and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

As his breathing slowed he straightened and looked around, trying to find balance in familiar surroundings, but the room had been his home for too short a time, there was nothing of him in the white walls, the summer-blue drapes at the windows. The sheer normalcy tried to close protectively around him, but it felt bare and distant after the shadows and light, the smoke from the brazier, the deep stillness like being drowned in a lake. 

He got up, crossed to the little alcove off his bedroom and began splashing water from the washbowl over his face. Dropping the tunic he had slept in to the floor, he took a cloth and started to clean himself. He almost expected to see scarring from the fire, even though he knew that was impossible. There had been no marks. All in the mind, he had told himself afterwards, an illusion sown by a mind more potent than he understood. 

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and froze. His hair was a tangled mass and a trick of the light left his face almost dead white. Dark, frightened eyes looked back at him, recalling the images in the mirror that night and the nights that had followed, of green eyes turned to black, of hair that held a sheen of red as though kissed by blood. He had spent a century masquerading as a scholar, he had read the old texts, noted the references to someone described as having black eyes and rose gold hair. Looking back, it was impossible to believe that on some level he hadn’t known Annatar’s true name. 

He reached the pot just in time to throw up in it and not on the floor, then knelt heaving until his stomach was empty and even the bile seemed to have run dry. Sitting back on the floor, using its coldness to keep him grounded, he breathed for a time, his mind deliberately empty. Then he rose, finished washing, rinsed his mouth and went to strip the bed. The thing Lindir had not understood was that knowing oneself was all well and good, but the knowledge once acquired could never be unlearned. 

He and Gil had been close, more than close, they had found each other in sunlight and good-humoured tenderness. He knew he could never taint the memory by going back, not with Annatar’s stain on his being, with Sauron’s mocking smile before his eyes, with the memory of diamonds and fire. What had he said? Mine. And in a way that had little to do with possession, perhaps he really was.

As he got back into his roughly made bed, he found himself wishing with every fibre of his being that Lindir was there. What he needed more than anything was a friend, someone non-judgemental and relatively shock-proof. But Lindir was in Forlond. Organising the pillows, Erestor curled on his side facing the window and waited for morning instead.

South Mithlond

Glorfindel had left the bedroom window open and the drapes drawn back so the room was cool and fresh with air off the sea, restful with the sounds of the water. He lay on his back, sound asleep, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely on his stomach. He had drifted off listening to the sounds of the ocean, which usually put him to sleep faster than any bedtime glass of wine. It had been a long, busy day for a change, with meetings and then a ride up into the hills before coming back home from the other shore. After dinner he had spent time talking with Círdan on the veranda overlooking the sea, and his body had been pleasantly tired when he finally made it to bed.

The dream seemed to creep up on him as sometimes happens. He was walking along the cliff path that started from the harbour and followed the sea until the way became too rocky and steep. It was night, with stars brighter than he had seen since the first moonrise, and the world was still except for the sea crashing against the rocks. A line of light, pale like phosphorous, outlined the path ahead of him, leading him along twists and turns that he faintly recalled from daylight exploration. 

When he reached the point where he had thought the way became impassable, the light remained, guiding him to a track that reached down almost to the water and took him around the obstacle of the great outcrop at trail’s end. On the other side there was no path, but the green-blue light shimmered softly, leading him on. The land on his left rose up into the night, and he knew he moved in the shadow of the cliff. He wondered when the tide would come in and if he would be safe, but in the dream there was no fear, just curiosity.

He had no idea how long he walked, but finally the light guided him to a passage between high rocks and down to a tiny cove with a minute strip of stony beach. Close to the shore, bobbing gently on the tide, was the swan ship that had carried him to Endor, bathed in silver light although he could see no moon. He crossed the pebbled shore and stepped into the water, meaning to fetch the boat up, beach it, but the water roiled angrily around his ankles and he stepped back hurriedly. 

A shadow fell over him and he turned to look up and up at an impossibly tall being with a smiling, benign face and pale, curly hair that shone in the starlight. Bright eyes fastened upon him, eyes that should have been cheerful and warm to match the unwavering smile, but were instead empty and cold. “The sea will guard her,” a voice whispered around him, a voice that sounded like many twining about one another, a chorus blending into one. “You may see her but not touch her, your place is here until you acquire what you were sent to seek out. Then only will the Lord of Waters allow you to approach her. Then you will bring Them to us, as you were tasked.”

Even in his dream, he had questions, disputes. “Lord, They belong to my cousin and to the High King of the lands in exile. To take Them would be theft…”

The blow was casually brutal and left him gasping on his knees on the pebbled strand. The night shifted and faded about him, the sound of the sea filling his ears. The last thing he saw was Lórien looking down at him with expressionless eyes, the benign smile still curving his face, filling his cheeks. “You will do as you are bidden; this matter is beyond your discretion. The rings are too powerful to remain in rebel hands. Find Them and carry Them across the sea, out of the range of the Deceiver’s hand. The Exiles are too weak to hold Them, and in his hands – all will be lost.”

----

When morning came, Glorfindel woke with the dream still troublingly clear in his mind, its colours stark and uncompromising. He left his bed and went to look out the window, naked save for a pair of cotton pants that reached only to his knees, his fair hair working loose from the previous night’s braid. The day was clear and bright, daybreak arriving earlier than it had when first he arrived. Already sunlight danced on water that was a rippling stretch of green deepening into turquoise. 

The corner of the harbour he could see already looked busy. He leaned on the windowsill and drew in deep breaths of good sea air, listening to faint shouts that rose from below to meet the call of the gulls above. He had started feeling at home in this room, in this city, far faster than he had imagined would be possible. It complicated matters.

After breakfast he said that he thought a walk would suit him and excused himself. Mariel and Círdan were deep in a discussion about chickens, of all things, and paid him little heed.

The coast path was as he recalled it, not only from his earlier wanderings but also from the dream. He followed it, keeping an even, comfortable pace, taking time to appreciate the view and the coastal plants that filled the air with strange, enticing scents. The route down onto the rocks was clearly etched in his mind. He made his way around the rise of the cliff and walked in its shelter with foam spraying him from small waves breaking on the rocks, until finally he recognised the shape and placement of the almost hidden passage to the cove.

The swan ship was there. Right up until he came out onto the beach in the shadow of the cliff he had been telling himself the ship had been symbolic, not real, but it bobbed as it had in his dream just beyond the shore. He saw at a glance why he would be unable to walk straight out to it; the beach fell sharply away at the waterline and the pebbles were wet, suggesting they had been underwater at high tide. To reach it he would need to swim.

It was the same boat he had travelled on, he was sure. He recalled the small rent in the sail, and the colours were right in all their subtle shades. The beach was eerily quiet, the air felt as though it was waiting for something to move it. Almost he expected the Vala to be standing behind him, but knew that was not how Lórien worked; he appeared in dreams, that was where his voice spoke clearest, his place of power. 

Glorfindel crossed his arms over his chest and stood staring at the boat, then looked around the beach carefully. There were no signs that anyone else had ever set foot there, though he doubted that was possible, there had been Telerin on this shore for a very long time. He wondered if there was some kind of – deterrent – to anyone else approaching, a way of guarding the secret of the boat’s presence, rather as Melian’s Girdle had barred outsiders from Doriath. Whether this was so or not, it felt uncomfortable and wrong and he had to force himself to leave the beach at a casual pace rather than turning and bolting back up to the cliff path.

While he was walking back the sea started coming in again, waves lapping at his ankles. He gave it a cool look and kept going, gritting his teeth against the strong sense of eyes on his back. There was no need to feel intimidated, he told himself grimly. They needed him, therefore nothing untoward was likely to happen to him. Not yet.

When he reached a more solid reality, Glorfindel strolled down the quay, found a coil of rope, and sat on it, watching a cargo ship from further south being unloaded. He let the smells and sounds of the harbour and the warmth of the sun sink into him. A cat wandered over, sat down in the sun near him and began cleaning itself, and a smile tugged at his lips. Then his eyes turned to the city across the strait, towers and domes gleaming bright in the morning sunlight. He could almost make out the royal standard flying from the central tower of the palace. 

He opened himself to the sun, to the rope beneath him, to the lapping of water and the strength of the gulls’ wings.  After a while, tendrils of energy reached out and touched him gently. He was not aware of the rings all the time, but when he searched for them, he could always find them - or they him, he was never quite sure which. The power of Arda swirled around him, visible to the eyes of the spirit as shimmering coils of pearlescent light, then drifted away again, touching sea and land before fading back into rest wherever Gil was keeping them. 

Time was running out. For all of them. If he wanted to retain any control over the course of events, what he needed was a plan.

End of Book One.