The Loneliness of the Fishermouse by Clodia

---

Leaf

---

In 2509 [Third Age] Celebrían wife of Elrond was journeying to Lórien when she was waylaid in the Redhorn Pass, and her escort being scattered by the sudden assault of the Orcs, she was seized and carried off...

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings. 'Appendix A'.

~o~

A bronze beech leaf was caught in an eddy.

It had come over the waterfall in a torrent of winter-melt and now drifted like a coracle between pebble-islands and the mossy bank. A mouse with a paddle might have taken advantage of this vessel floating aimlessly in the sunlit pool. The day was fair and the breeze was sweet; it was a perfect afternoon to lie adrift on a quiet lake with only a dream or two for company.

Would a mouse in a leaf-coracle go fishing for minnows with a twig for a rod and a stolen hair for a line? Did mice even eat fish?

Maybe it was a galleon rather than a coracle, the sort of grand and bloated boat the Dúnedain had once built in Númenor and their more piratical descendants constructed these days down south in Umbar. A crew of earwig-mariners or sailor-ants would be required to man the oar-banks, in that case. Perhaps the ants had long been searching for a way across the river. Their relatives had once gone in search of an idyll across the great watery divide and now they had found a way to cross the pool themselves. Would they find their long-lost relatives awaiting them on the other side?

A dragonfly hummed through his daydreams and landed on the leaf. There went the sailor-ants in their galleon, then. A coracle-bound fishermouse would probably have capsized as well.

"Erestor," said his opponent, quite patiently. "It's your turn."

"Hmm?"

Between them stood a small table netted with red and black playing-pieces. Erestor almost considered concentrating on the game. It was difficult, though, when the green spring was rioting through the gardens of Imladris and the swallows were returning to their nests under the eaves. Maybe when autumn came, he and Melinna should follow the birds south and find out where the swallows of Imladris nested in the winter.

They hadn't gone even as far as Curunír's tower at Isengard for decades. The scent of the south came back to him suddenly: the sand, sun-baked, and the heat rippling off it, a burning world of yellows and browns and brilliant, glinting blues. Swallows sweeping like arrows in silhouette against the sky. Yes, they should go. They had been here too long. As soon as Melinna came back to Imladris, they could leave.

Across the table, Elrond Half-elven sighed.

"If you're going to be like this, we should find Glorfindel and play cards," he remarked. "I might win for once."

"Thank you," Erestor said politely. "I think not."

The dragonfly had abandoned the beech leaf and was flitting through the spray beneath the waterfall. Maybe the leaf-galleon could be drawn by a team of dragonflies in harness. That would certainly bring the sailor-ants more swiftly to their long-lost relatives.

He saw Elrond's expression and moved a piece on the board. "There. Will that do?"

Elrond was intent at once. "Let me think."

"Of course," murmured Erestor and relapsed into whimsical contemplation of the ways in which a crew of sailor-ants might harness dragonflies to their leaf-galleon. Perhaps they could call on the earwig-mariners for assistance. And then there was still the fishermouse...

By the time Elrond slid one of the black pieces over the board, Erestor could see the celebrations that would result when the ant-sailors, the earwig-mariners and the fishermouse in their dragonfly-drawn leaf-galleons all came whirling down from the heavens into the splendid ant-city of the long-lost relatives. He flicked the nearest red counter to a different square. Elrond's reaction was laughably serious. What did he think, that there was some devious manoeuvring going on here?

Apparently so. The ant-city had produced a magnificent feast and the ant-king's daughter was dancing with Lord Earwig the Bold when Elrond sat back in his chair, his smile satisfied. "I know what you're up to," he said. "I know exactly what you're thinking."

The difficulties of dancing with more than two feet. "I doubt it."

"That's just what you want me to think," said Elrond. He selected a black piece and transferred it to a new square with extreme deliberation. "Now what will you do?"

Erestor glanced at the board, shrugged and pushed a piece at random. "That."

A startled look blossomed in Elrond's fair face. He sat forwards, at once intent. The boy could surprise Erestor still. His complete dedication to untangling the cunning strategy behind Erestor's every careless gambit was almost endearing.

What would become of the earwig-mariners, once the sailor-ants had been restored to their long-lost relatives? Would they linger or fly?

Elrond turned a piece thoughtfully in his fingers, tapping it against the board. "I meant to ask," he said and set it down again. His tone was casual, but the upwards flicker of his eyes was sharp. "Is your work going well?"

"My work –? oh, that..."

They would fly. No doubt about it: the earwig-mariners would fly. And Lord Earwig the Bold would carry off the ant-king's daughter to some far-flung place where her father's wrath could never reach them. They might even live happily ever after.

The thought made him smile. Melinna would laugh. What would the offspring of an ant and an earwig look like?

Elrond was examining his fingernails with studious indifference. "I know Lindir's eager to see it finished. He will keep on telling me so. He seems to think I could persuade you to finish more swiftly."

"I can imagine he might think that, yes."

"You were a little cruel, I think." His head was still bent, but he was regarding Erestor steadily now, clear-eyed beneath dark lashes. He had his family's beauty: the clean edge of his profile was straight from Dior, and Lúthien before him. That very familiarity was familiar, but sometimes even now the resemblance caught Erestor off guard and brought it all flooding back, those vivid, terrible days when everything was dangerous and everything mattered. Everything had seemed so important then. "He does admire you so. It was... not kind."

Ah, so this was a reprimand. Erestor yawned.

"I won't finish any faster for that child begging to know my opinion on the third stanza of the second-to-last song Daeron ever wrote," he pointed out. "He seems to think I need company even when I'm not alone."

"Lindir is no more a child than I am," said Elrond, rather coldly. "Despite your great antiquity, Erestor, those of us who were born between Tilion's first voyage and the War of Wrath are quite mature these days. He seeks your company and your work in the service of his grand lay, as you well know –"

"More fool him, then. Melinna's the expert."

"That may be so, but unless I'm much mistaken, Melinna has not been preparing a commentary on Daeron's last songs for as long as I can recall. So perhaps you might be kinder to Lindir while you reside at Imladris?"

"Perhaps I might." There was the dragonfly again, a streak of lurid blue skimming across the water. Erestor was momentarily distracted. "Dior could have made that speech, you know."

The exasperated noise Elrond made was very familiar. "Did you pay my grandfather Dior any more attention than you do me?"

"Oh, a little. Times were different then."

Under an arch of overhanging grass-stems floated the bronze beech leaf. Maybe it was a coracle after all. Past went the fishermouse, dreaming of earwig-mariners and sailor-ants, half-asleep and drifting in the afternoon sun.

How long would it take to finish the commentary? He could have it done by the autumn. Yes. Done by the time the swallows flew their nests. Although there was a very pleasant lake up in Emyn Uial beside ruined Annúminas...

"Your turn," said Elrond, unamused. "What's it to be?"

Throughout the gardens of Imladris, numerous peaceful hideaways and waterfalls were tucked away behind walls or in the shadows of overhanging ledges. This particular one was set deep in the hidden valley, far beyond the bridge without a parapet and safely below the white halls of the house itself. Above rose the mountains, cloud-capped and monstrous, and the waters of the Bruinen spilled noisily down a sheer rock face. The waterfall washed away almost all other sounds and only Elrond Half-elven, of all the valley's inhabitants, seemed aware that this corner of the garden existed. So the brassbound chest beneath the ferns where the game resided grew mossy when Erestor and Melinna were absent from Imladris; and so too the displacement of Elrond's displeasure by surprise as footsteps became audible above the rush of water.

A moment later, a shadow served as an Elf-lord's herald, stalking up the primrose path. Erestor yawned again. "Does it matter? Let Glorfindel decide."

He had spoken lightly and laughed at the look Elrond gave him, although he could see that whatever news Glorfindel brought was not good. A touch of Aman's light was normal for Glorfindel of Gondolin, who was never shy to remind people about his birth in that Day before days in the Blessed Realm, but he rarely shone so brightly that his shadow was cast by his armour alone. Nor did Glorfindel (or anyone else) often go armed in Imladris. The peaceful afternoon must have come to an abrupt end, which was a pity. It was always amusing to watch Elrond Half-elven taking unserious matters very seriously indeed.

"Elrond," Glorfindel said, and did not look at Erestor at all. "Messengers have arrived from your sons. You need to come at once."

Now that was a bad sign.

Elrond's sons had been gone for three weeks. They had gone with their mother to captain her escort on the road to Lórien. The party should have reached the mountain pass by now, even at a pace set by Celebrían and her ladies. Such slow and crowded journeys suited neither Erestor nor Melinna; nonetheless, she had gone. She thought the women of Doriath had once known a way to restore colour to fading tapestries and the Lady Galadriel might still know what that was. Erestor had remained at Imladris with his unending commentary, which was approaching an end at last, and had regretted it almost at once. After five years of idleness and whimsy in the Misty Mountains, he could heard the world calling him on every spring breeze.

Elrond had arisen and stood very straight, his fingertips resting on the gameboard and his gaze fixed on Glorfindel. The set of his mouth and the way he held his head – slightly tilted, chin high, so that the sun caught the light in his starlit eyes – raised Dior Eluchíl's ghost again, in all his pride and beauty. That moment was suddenly so clear for Erestor, Dior standing Silmaril-bright beneath Menegroth's gilded boughs, giving audience to the messengers of the sons of Fëanor, that the bitterness and dread of the time came back vividly as well, along with their despair at the end of all that was beloved in Beleriand.

The voice of Dior's grandson was perfectly, unnaturally steady. "What news?"

"There are Orcs in the mountains above Moria."

Very bad. Erestor was on his feet. "Glorfindel –"

"Continue!" said Elrond Half-elven, more like Dior Eluchíl than ever.

Glorfindel bent his head. His eyes were cold.

"Five days ago," he said, "they were waylaid in the pass beneath Caradhras. Celebrían's escort was scattered. Some were killed. Celebrían and two of her ladies were taken by Orcs. Your sons are searching the mountains. They must have found them by now, but they ask for men and healers –"

"Give the orders. Who was captured? Who was slain?"

That had been Erestor's question. But Melinna would never be caught by Orcs in the mountains above Moria. The thought was absurd. The world was too peaceful. They had come safely through far more dangerous times. She had only gone to ask Galadriel how to recolour a tapestry.

"Roswen and Thindaew were taken. Others are wounded. Eledhîn and Calduin came ahead with the news and – with the dead."

"Who is dead?" said Erestor sharply, hearing Glorfindel stumble.

"Nimaelin. Moralda. Alvellë. Carandol. Adaegas. And..."

"And?"

Strangely, he heard nothing, although he saw Glorfindel's lips move. The rush of the waterfall washed it away. In Glorfindel's hand was a jagged wreck of wood.

He had carved that. She lost them and Erestor carved them. Out on the road, by firelight or beneath the stars. The whorl was broken and stained with mud or blood, or both, which was likely, since it seemed to have been trampled into hard ground. He had carved nightingales around the rim. He had heated his blade and etched a line from the Lay of Leithian into the underside in Daeron's runes, as he always did. He had seen it last hooked under the girdle at her waist.

Red wool still clung to it, matted and tangled. She had been pleased with the colour. It was hard to get a true, living red.

Sound came back slowly. "I'm sorry," Glorfindel was saying. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to be the one..."

It was warm in his hands. He turned it over slowly. Yes, he had carved this.

Someone grasped his elbow. He looked up automatically. He felt stunned, as though hit over the head. "We'll kill them," said Glorfindel in a swift, fierce undertone that shook with rare rage. He had not been like this since first coming to Imladris. "Every last one. My word on it. I'll kill the beast who killed her and bring you his head!"

The fires in his eyes had blackened the stones of Gondolin. "Hush," said Elrond distantly. He was staring into the tumbling froth of the waterfall. "Sit him down. Glorfindel. The families, have they been told?"

Glorfindel's fingers slackened on Erestor's arm. "Yes. They're being told now."

"Where are – the dead?"

"The Hall of Fire."

Elrond nodded. "You've given the orders," he said, which was not a question. "You've already told – I need to go. I need – they need me. She needs me." He turned blindly, knocking the table and spilling red and black counters into the grass. "Have the horses saddled. No, you've done that. I know you have." His gaze brushed Erestor like a nightingale's feather. "Will you come?" he asked. "You know those mountains. Another sword –"

Dior had said that to him once, on Tol Galen. Beren had already turned away. The Queen's message had been delivered; the news from the east was explained. It was too late for Doriath. There was a war to plan.

Yes, Melinna had said. We will come.

And he was there again: standing with her amid the willows, the world falling around them. Bad enough that the King was dead, his blood on the treasury floor and the treasure lost. That the Queen had taken back her Girdle and gone. Everything was changing. Everything was ending. The Dwarves were coming over the mountains and Doriath lay unguarded, unwarned. And they had led their forefathers there, Erestor and Melinna, long ago, in that endless starry twilight before Night was distinct from Day. First of the Elves, they had met the Dwarves in Ered Luin, close by where they had been born.

Dior's bright glance had travelled between them, thoughtfully. Lady, he had said, and bent his head to her, we shall be glad of you.

He had no words. It was ending. The world was ending. Everything they had known.

The ruined spindle slipped from his fingers. He said, "She's in the Hall of Fire?"

His voice was rough. "Yes," said Glorfindel, "but –"

Too slow. Glorfindel might have reached out. His fingertips brushed Erestor's tunic: that, or the breeze. The spray from the waterfall was wet on Erestor's face. "Wait," said Glorfindel behind him, "don't –"

The wind was rising. It hummed in Erestor's ears. He started to run.

He felt shock buzzing in the air as he came to the house. He set foot on the eastern porch and saw a woman standing there in tears: he did not pause to see her face. The door stood open. Beyond were two men, already armed and armoured. "Get back," he said, when they moved to stop him. If any words were spoken, he did not hear them. They moved aside.

Glorfindel caught up with him on the threshold of the Hall of Fire. The fire within was burning, but there was no other light at all. Among the carven pillars, shadows stood in small groups or stooped over uncertain shapes on the ground. There was sobbing. Erestor hesitated between the doors, looking into the gloom, and felt Glorfindel's hand alight on his shoulder.

"Don't," he said, a touch breathless. He had been running in armour and Erestor was faster at the best of times. "Not now. Don't do it."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I didn't have time – look, trust me. Just trust me. Don't look."

"Damn you!" said Erestor and broke free.

He was three steps into the fiery dark before Glorfindel caught him again. Dark cloth shrouded them: their lightless faces lay pallid and cushioned only where the shrouds had been drawn back by grieving hands. He looked around and saw only cloth in black folds and the silken spill of unfamiliar hair.

"Don't," said Glorfindel close behind, while Erestor stood there, bewildered and utterly furious and bleeding. He put an arm round Erestor's shoulders, tightly, so that the edges of his armour dug into Erestor's back. He smelled of metal, which was very much like the smell of old blood. Both belonged to older days; to breathe either here was jarring. We shall be glad of you. The ford running red and gold as the sun went down. Menegroth's stone trees and Dior Eluchíl falling beneath them. Melinna beside him: killing together, running together, someone else's blood drying on her face. There had been other moments. Those burned brightest.

"Come away," said Glorfindel's voice in his ear. "It won't help. Not now. Come with me."

He went.

He went in a daze, his head full of blood and unforgotten bitterness. He could not have said where he was putting his feet. "Will you sit here?" he heard Glorfindel say and found himself in Glorfindel's rooms, being edged into a chair still half in the path of the afternoon sun. Nightingales preened on the cushions. He looked at them until Glorfindel turned the cushions away.

"Sit down," he said, and pushed Erestor back into the chair. "Stay there."

Sunlight caught in the yellow petals of the flowers on the table and glimmered in the golden liquid Glorfindel poured into a faceted crystal glass. It was an odd sight. He stood on the carpet with the tapestried towers white behind him, a bottle in his hand and his gloves tucked under one armoured arm. His helm shone on his bright head and his eyes were very blue.

"Drink," he said, and thrust the glass into Erestor's grasp. "If you don't want mortal drink when you're falling apart, you shouldn't have introduced me to it in the first place."

It was brandy. It burned all the way down.

Glorfindel was looking at him steadily. "More?"

This time, when Glorfindel returned the glass, he lowered himself awkwardly to balance on an embroidered footstool at Erestor's feet. His gloves he set down on the carpet. "Drink it," he said, looking up with the sun on his helm and his face alight with inner brightness. "Listen. I can't say anything. There isn't anything that will make it better. And I can't stay. Don't do anything – just don't do – anything. Don't try to see her. Not until I come back. Not if you love me, Erestor. Not if you love any of us."

Erestor closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "So bad?"

It came out more roughly than he meant. He felt Glorfindel's hand on his knee. "Yes," said Glorfindel, and took a breath. "The spindle. They knew her from that. Some other things too. They'll be returned to you. Don't go down there. Wait for me. We'll see her together. Not now. I'll send someone up to you. I can't stay."

His armour clinked melodiously as he got up. "I think you will not be riding out today," he added, very nearly gently. "But I must. Celebrían and her ladies may still be saved."

He set the bottle down on the footstool and went out.

The afternoon was leaking away. There was grey in the corners now, although sunlight still lingered in the bubbles of the glass panes. The moon was up already: a sliver high in the blue sky. Erestor stared at the ceiling and waited for the room to fill up with dark. Before the west was even bloody, though, the door opened and Elrond's daughter came inside. Her hair was wild and her eyes starlit: with the shadows swimming round him, he thought her Lúthien returned and almost cried out. She came to him swiftly. With her arms round his neck and her head on his shoulder, he knew she was not.

"Glorfindel sent me," she told him, not very clearly, because she was clinging very tightly to him. "I want to go with them. I could help. I know what to do. I'm a better healer than any of them, than my brothers. He won't let me. He said if I want to help – Erestor, she can't be – I'm sorry, not Melinna – but what about my mother? Erestor, she's my mother! I should go!"

She was crying. After a long moment, Erestor put his arms round her in turn. He said nothing. He did not trust himself to. Presently, she drew away, rubbing her face determinedly. "It isn't right," she said. "I should go. She needs me."

He had never seen Lúthien tear-streaked. She looked at him through wet lashes. "Won't you go?" she said. "You rode with Glorfindel against Angmar. I know you fought in the Last Alliance. You and Melinna."

After a while, when Erestor did not reply, she took his hand. "Come on," she said. "This isn't your room. You shouldn't stay here."

She led him to his own chambers, where the light was paling. It was still bright enough for the nightingales on the cushions to glow and the loom to cast long shadows up the tapestry fading against the wall. Melian the Maia Queen smiled faintly from the woods of Lórien. His notes were spread out over the green leather of the desk. The silver wings and strings of the nightingale harp shone like wet ink on the page. Arwen shone too: her eyes and her white hands, moving restlessly among the shadows. "I'm going to talk to Glorfindel again," she said. "I will. You stay here."

The door closed hard behind her. Erestor stared blankly at it. After a while, he sat down. The harp was before him. It was placed between the loom and the desk, which stood solidly under the window at the end of the long room. Out of habit, unthinking, Erestor plucked a string and was jarred by the loudness of the note that rang out. It seemed to come from nowhere.

The room was so still. Erestor stared at the loom through the shining bars of the harp's strings. Her work was there, half woven: she was making him a new tunic. Maybe you'll finish it for me, she had said, before I get back.

He rested his chin on the harp and closed his eyes.

The basket by the loom held a rainbow of threads. She would sit in her nest of nightingale cushions and sift out the shades to use next: blues from azure to indigo, perhaps, or a matched bundle to make cloth of one colour for everyday use. When she wove tapestries, she drew out the pattern in advance. There was a box somewhere full of sketches. She had woven cover after cushion cover in preparation for the Queen's winged court. Some of the birds were very oddly proportioned: she had been only learning then.

She had taken to making their clothes when she had taken up weaving. So many hours he had watched her, bemused and entranced. The spinning spindle was hypnotic, once she could work it without snapping the thread, and so was the shuttle flying across the loom. Why do you bother? he would ask her. There were plenty of weavers in Imladris. She had wanted to weave a tapestry. Why bother with plain cloth?

Well, someone must, she would say. Cloth doesn't weave itself, you know.

Once, they had worn skins and leather. Sometimes they still did. All their travelling gear was in a battered old chest in their bedchamber. She had taken her cloak and her leather-covered mail shirt to ride to Lórien and left all else but a knife behind.

Melinna, he would ask, when Daeron composed the Tide's song in 'Of Wind and Water', what was he thinking?

Stop scribbling that nonsense, she would reply. You tease Lindir too much as it is. Come and play for me. What? Whatever you want. As long as it doesn't involve tra-la-la-lally!

He would laugh at her, silently, and lay down his pen. Now would I?

... would I...

A discordant jangle and a sudden pain opened his eyes again. The long chamber was empty. He had snapped half the harp strings and his hand was marked by red weals.

He looked at it blankly. The light was grey now and the chamber had darkened. After a moment, he crooked his fingers and plucked out each of the remaining strings, deliberately, one at a time. He was still sitting there in the dusk with the stringless harp when Arwen came back, dry-eyed, and told him that Glorfindel and her father had gone.