Spin-off from 'Counsels in Rivendell'

[Lalaith]

This is a short, lighthearted tale of Gil-galad, Elrond and Nindorien (an OC from my fanfic 'Counsels in Rivendell')
I hope y'all enjoy it - and feel free to post your opinions!

[Lalaith]

WAITING IN LINDON

Nîndorien sat in comfortable solitude, leaning against the base of a tall silver-barked tree, its branches providing welcome shade from the morning sun. On her lap lay a large book, its open pages displaying closely-packed lines of dense Elvish script. Its contents were temporarily forgotten, however, as Nîndorien idly watched the course of a delicate waterfall, cascading into the large clear pool that lay a few feet from where Nîndorien sat. Small ripples spread slowly across the surface of the pool, glinting in the light of the sun. Nîndorien knew that she would not be disturbed in this peaceful forest glade. Although it was relatively well concealed, the existence of this natural sanctuary was no secret among the Elves of Lindon. It was commonly known, however, that the lady of the High King frequently sought solitude in the quiet forest glade, so she was seldom bothered by others.

Over one month previously, Gil-galad had departed from the palace with a small company of soldiers to investigate reports of a disturbance beyond the northernmost reaches of Ered Luin. Nîndorien was usually restless when her beloved was abroad in the kingdom, but on this occasion she was more nervous than usual. Among the High King’s companions was Elrond Peredhel. This was his first campaign as Gil-galad’s standard-bearer and Nîndorien feared that the young Half-Elf was not prepared for such a task. Only a few months previously, his brother had left Lindon for Númenor and a mortal life. Elrond had been greatly distressed of late, and Nîndorien worried that he was at risk. Thankfully, a messenger had arrived the previous day with reassuring news. The High King’s party would be returning shortly, everyone accounted for. Nîndorien returned her attention to her book, an account of the Noldor in the Blessed Realm, before the destruction of the Trees. She was most often inspired by the tales of the House of Fingolfin, for not only was he the forefather of Gil-galad and Elrond, but he was also the father of Turgon, in whose city of Gondolin she had been born. She passed several hours, deep in concentration, and oblivious to her surroundings as the sun slowly crawled to its highest point.

Suddenly, Nîndorien looked up and a slow smile crossed her face. Her spirit rose within her, for she sensed a familiar warm presence within the boundaries of the forest. She listened carefully, and soon she could discern the sound of two well-known sets of footsteps. She closed her book, laying it carefully on the grass beside her, and stood up. She smoothed the skirts of her gown, removing a few stray blades of grass, barely visible against the deep green fabric. The rustling of branches being pushed aside could be heard, and a mild oath rang in the air.

“Ai! I have spent many uncomfortable nights sleeping beneath the stars, I have travelled dangerous paths and I have faced a vicious Orc horde, escaping injury and what happens? I am pierced by a thorn of one of my own trees in my own forest!”

Nîndorien laughed as Gil-galad emerged from the trees, his injured hand pressed against his mouth. Elrond followed more cautiously, moving the offending branch aside before stepping into the glade.

“And to add insult to injury,” cried Gil-galad, “my own wife laughs at my distress!” His attempts to appear stern failed, for he could not hide the smile that spread across his face. He put his arms around Nîndorien, pulling her close and lifting her off the ground in the process. She flung her arms around him delightedly and he kissed her thoroughly. At last, she pulled back and looked at him closely.

“You may have escaped injury, my king, but your weeks of travel have certainly left their mark!” She stroked his cheek, on which the grime of a fortnight’s journey could be seen.

Gil-galad set her down and surveyed his dusty garments. He wrinkled his nose, evidently drawing the same conclusion. “I fear you are right, my lady,” he said amiably.

Nîndorien turned to Elrond, who still hovered at the edge of the clearing. “Welcome home, my dear one,” she said, walking over to him. They embraced warmly, and she kissed his forehead softly. “How did you fare?” she asked, as she took his arm. The pair walked to the edge of the pool where the High King was endeavouring to remove some of the dirt from his face.

“Rather well, actually,” admitted Elrond, before adding in loud tones, intended for Gil-galad to hear. “But that’s because the ‘vicious’ Orc horde turned out to be a collection of about fifteen disoriented Orcs who could just have easily been dispatched by a couple of Elfings!”

Gil-galad laughed. “You did not say that when you were cornered by two of them at the cliff edge! You would have had quite a nasty tumble if Erestor hadn’t helped you out!”

“I had everything under control!” protested the Half-Elf before breaking into a sly smile. “Which is more than I can say about you, Your Majesty.”

“Whatever can you mean, Peredhel?” asked Gil-galad, looking confused, for he had dispatched most of the Orcs single-handedly with his usual skill.

Elrond continued innocently. “Oh nothing, Your Majesty.”

“Peredhel,” said Gil-galad warningly, while Nîndorien watched the exchange with amusement.

“Why, Your Majesty, I was merely referring the attentions you received from the female inhabitants of Sarn Luin after you so bravely dealt with those ‘vicious’ Orcs!” Elrond said mischievously. Gil-galad shot a panicked look at Nîndorien, who raised her eyebrows, struggling to suppress an amused smile.

“Indeed?” she asked smoothly, “and what attentions were these, mellamin?”

“The Elves of Sarn Luin were just expressing their gratitude to us for ridding them of their problem, my love,” said Gil-galad, shooting a dark look at his standard-bearer. The High King was rapidly revising the wisdom of appointing Elrond to the post, which required absolute loyalty, a trait that had currently deserted the Half-Elf. Elrond suddenly displayed a great deal of interest in Nîndorien’s book, which lay on the grass nearby.

Nîndorien approached her husband slowly. “And just how were the grateful inhabitants of Sarn Luin expressing their thanks, my king?” she asked evenly.

“Now, my lady, my love,” said Gil-galad, “I hope you do not think that I encouraged such attentions! In fact, I spent most of the evening extracting myself from the company of Sarn Luin’s maidens.”

“Not just its maidens, but its married women,” commented Elrond, turning pages idly. “I saw a number of disgruntled husbands looking at the King with ill feelings.”

“Peredhel, I think you have said quite enough,” said Gil-galad, desperately moving backwards.

“No, no, Elrond. Please, keep talking,” said Nîndorien pleasantly as she drew closer to the High King.

“Well, my Lady,” began Elrond before Gil-galad interrupted him.

“Peredhel! Why don’t you return to the palace and ensure that the preparations for this evening’s feast are proceeding smoothly? In fact, consider that a direct order from your High King!”

Elrond stood up and smiled. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bowed and departed from the clearing, chuckling softly. Gil-galad watched his herald leave before turning his attention back to his wife. “My lady,” he pleaded, “do not do anything rash, I entreat you. I swear to you that nothing untoward happened in Sarn Luin, whatever that cursed Half-Elf is implying!”

Nîndorien stopped inches from the High King. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him gently. “I believe you, my king,” she said softly. He sighed with relief, before emitting a most undignified squawk. A loud splash filled the air, and the High King of the Noldor found himself neck-deep in the cold water of the forest pool. He coughed and spluttered. “Ai! Ambushed by a woman!” he growled before swimming towards the edge, where Nîndorien stood laughing uncontrollably. “It is well that your herald did not witness such an ungraceful display, my king!” she said, her side shaking. “It was most unseemly!” Her laughter was cut short as she too shrieked. Gil-galad had grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her into the water. She gasped at the coldness of the water, and attempted to hit her husband in retribution. He merely laughed and firmly held her hands as he kissed her deeply. He murmured, “Indeed, it is well that my herald is not present,” before kissing her again.

[flammable]

Hey Lalaith, I really liked your story ;) nice, very nice :grin:

[Elven Daughter]

how do you do it Lalaith? hehe

[Lalaith]

Thanks flam! Thanks ElvenDaughter!

How do I do it? In truth I haven't a clue - the story just popped into my head and wouldn't leave until I had written it down!!

[Bess the Bard]

Lighthearted but well-crafted. Nicely done!

[Lalaith]

Thanks Bess -as always, I appreciate your comments!

[Lalaith]

I'm afraid that these characters just won't leave me alone - so here is another short tale, involving Gil-galad and Nindorien. Again, it is more light-hearted than 'Counsels', and gives an account of the first meeting of Elrond and Celebrian

[Lalaith]

SNOWFALL IN IMLADRIS

"Ai!" Nîndorien gasped at the icy touch which disturbed her sleep and forced her into consciousness. She sat bolt upright, holding the heavy bedclothes tight around her. She looked accusingly at Gil-galad who sat at the edge of the bed, an amused look on his face.

"Your lips are cold, my king," she said.

"I could say the same about your welcome to me on this winter's morn, my lady," he said. "As much as I would have preferred to let you sleep, for you looked so peaceful, it is high time you rose or you shall miss what few hours of sunlight there are!"

"Very well," she yawned. "Now, turn around so that I may find my gown."

He looked at her with frank astonishment. "But, my lady, we have been married for over one thousand years!"

"And that is no reason to ignore common courtesy," she said in a prim tone of voice, knowing that she would get ready far quicker without his attentions. Sighing, he obeyed and looked out of the window at the carpet of snow that lay around the refuge of Imladris. He was greatly impressed with Elrond's achievements in this place and was eager to see more of the grounds.

"It is well that we arrived before the blizzard worsened last night," he commented, gazing at the heavy snowclouds overhead. He started slightly as her arms stole around his waist and her chin came to rest on his shoulder.

"Indeed, my king," she murmured into his ear. "And remind me: why do we venture out in such cold weather today?"

He laughed. "You know as well as I do! Elrond wishes for us to see the grounds of Imladris, and today may be our last chance before spring. The weather is set to deteriorate further."

"I can understand the necessity of dragging the High King throughout the valley, but why is my presence considered important?" she asked as they walked together to the entrance hall. He looked at her reproachfully.

"I think that your approval is highly valued by the new Lord of Imladris. Of all our people, you have known him longest. He will always look to you for support and praise."

Nîndorien could not argue with that response, and somewhat chastened, stood still while Gil-galad cast her winter cloak over her shoulders. His deft fingers fastened the brooch at her throat and he kissed her briefly before putting on his own blue cloak. They walked out of the front entrance of Imladris, to where Elrond and the Lord Celeborn were waiting.

"I apologise for delaying you, dear one," said Nîndorien to Elrond as she took his arm. She bowed her head to Celeborn. "Good morning, my Lord."

He bowed in greeting and Elrond lead them from the steps of Imladris up the steep path on which they had entered the valley the previous night.

"Why do you insist on us retracing our steps, Peredhel?" grumbled Gil-galad. "We saw all this last night."

"But you arrived in darkness, your Majesty."

"We arrived in a blizzard," muttered the High King, stamping his feet against the cold.

"I wish you to view Imladris as though you were coming into it for the first time," insisted Elrond, before pointing out some site of strategic importance to Celeborn while Nîndorien turned around and looked down at the valley of Imladris.

"It is a beautiful sight, Elrond," she breathed, admiring the scene that lay before them. The buildings of Imladris lay nestled in the hillside, and soft golden light burned in all the windows.

"It is indeed a beautiful sight, my lady," said Gil-galad, putting his arms around her and looking at her face expressively. She laughed. "I meant the valley, my king! It's altogether most welcoming." Gil-galad murmured some placatory agreement but while the attention of the other two Elves was elsewhere, he used the opportunity to pull Nîndorien close and kiss her. She cried out as his ice-cold hand touched her cheek, which quickly reddened as Celeborn and Elrond looked towards her with surprised concern.

"I was saying to the High King that Imladris has a most homely atmosphere," she said smoothly, diverting everyone's attention back to the purpose of their wanderings.

"Come, let us walk down to the forest, "said Elrond, smiling. "The woodland here is rather extensive, surprising when you consider the apparently compact shape of the valley."

The four Elves made their way down the icy path, and Nîndorien started when a bird flew up suddenly in front of them. She slipped and grabbed Gil-galad's arm, which she had been holding loosely up to that point. He glanced at her and commented, "for one whose surefootedness had been compared to that of Nessa herself, that was rather ungraceful, my lady!" He struggled to conceal a smile. She glowered at him.

"Be wary, my king, for this is a slippery path, where even the High King may come to grief."

"I do hope that you are not threatening me, my lady?"

She smiled at him innocently. "I would be much too frightened of the High King's wrath for the merest thought of revenge to cross my mind."

"Perhaps it was a mistake for you to accompany us this morning, for you have the unnerving habit of distracting my attentions from the more pressing issues of the day," he teased.

"Unnerving habit, you say? Then I shall remain silent!"

"Hmmm, I may find that even more unsettling, my lady; for who knows what evil schemes are forming behind that fair face!"

"Make of it what you will, my king, but let us hasten! I do not wish for Elrond's impatience to be directed at me! He is already looking at you with a rather familiar expression of exasperation!"

Gil-galad smiled cheerily at the Half-Elf, who stood waiting at the bottom of the path, with a shadow of a scowl on his face. He wore the long-suffering look of a teacher dealing with an unruly pupil, rather than displaying the respectful awe usually engendered by the High King among his subjects. Gil-galad appeared unperturbed by the unspoken threat of regicide that hung in the air, and soon walked unconcernedly at Celeborn's side, while Nîndorien took Elrond's arm once more. She listened intently to his descriptions of the valley as he had found it, fleeing from Sauron's forces after the destruction of Eregion.

"You have done marvellous things here, dear one," she said. "I can see it becoming a most welcoming refuge. I may even remove here myself, if I ever weary of Lindon!" Gil-galad glanced back at her, in mock surprise, while she continued, "which may come about sooner rather than later!"

Elrond smiled, before saying gravely, "you will always be welcome here, Nîndorien."

They walked for a while among the bare trees which stood in wintry mourning, black branches touched with frost. Soon, they came to a stone bridge which spanned a small nameless stream. Nîndorien gazed down at the surface of the stream, looking at each ripple and eddy, frozen in time and shrouded with snow. It gleamed silver in places, where the sun had softened its snowy covering and, if she strained her ears, she could hear the faint sound of trickling water. Winter had failed to utterly halt the timeless progress of this little stream from mountain peak to the swift running waters of the Bruinen. She pondered over a suitable name for the stream; Astaldo, perhaps; The Valiant. She wondered what name Elrond had in mind for it, but she did not wish to interrupt the Elf-lords who were talking gravely about the valley's defences. Gil-galad was firing questions at his herald concerning entry points, visibility and weaknesses and Elrond answered every question with surety. Nîndorien saw Gil-galad's eyes shine with pride at the accomplishments of the Half-Elf.

"I tell you, Ereinion: No creature could enter this vale without my knowledge!" cried Elrond, as he swept his arm in an all-encompassing manner. He reeled off all the possible entrances, and named each guard he had personally positioned in strategic lookout points. Nîndorien listened with interest for a while, before her attention was drawn towards Celeborn. The tall, silver-haired Elf-lord had grown very still, his head cocked to one side as though he were listening to a silent voice. His eyes lit up and he peered into the distance, smiling. He sidled over to where Nîndorien stood with Gil-galad, and quietly muttered to them, "I think that the cold weather has addled the Half-Elf's mind and clouded his judgment." He nodded towards the path they had taken down into the valley earlier on. Elrond continued speaking, oblivious to the shift in his listeners' attention. Nîndorien looked towards the path, and stifled a gasp. Two Elf-ladies on horseback were making their way carefully and deliberately along the path. She could not understand how Elrond was failing to notice their arrival, for they were both clad in cloaks of such dazzling whiteness, that the snow around them seemed grey and unclean. Both were unhooded, and their hair shone out in the dull light of the day. As they drew closer, Nîndorien recognised the golden-haired Lady to be Galadriel, wife of Celeborn and kinswoman of Gil-galad. She did not know the other Lady, whose hair shone silver, like winter sun reflected on an icy surface, almost blinding in its brilliance. Glancing at Celeborn, however, she immediately made the connection; this was none other than his daughter, Celebrían, She looked down at the frozen stream again, a new idea occurring to her. Nen Celebrían. She smiled and resolved to speak to Elrond on the matter.

[Lalaith]

Gil-galad, Celeborn and Nîndorien made their way out into the open to greet the travellers. Elrond followed them, having come to the realisation that his words were falling on uninterested ears. Nîndorien watched the joyful reunion between Celeborn and his wife and daughter with delight. Gil-galad stepped forward to help the Lady Celebrían from her horse, but before he left Nîndorien's side he nodded in the direction of the Lord of Imladris. She choked back the urge to laugh, for Elrond was looking at Celebrían with an unmistakable expression on his face. It was the kind of stunned awe that usually only appeared on his face while listening to a particularly beautiful piece of music. In fact, his expression only just surpassed the look on Celeborn's face when he noticed where the Half-Elf's attention lay.

"Greetings Lady Galadriel, Lady Celebrían" began Gil-galad as he lifted Celebrían from her horse. As if out of nowhere, stable hands appeared to lead the Ladies' horses away. Gil-galad continued," As the Lord of Imladris appears to have been temporarily struck dumb, I shall take it upon myself to welcome you to Imladris."

Celebrían looked at Elrond with amused surprise before turning to Gil-galad enquiringly. Gil-galad laughed, "Do not worry about my young cousin, fair lady. I believe he is simply in shock that his unassailable defences have been breached. Alas, your arrival may prove to be his undoing, for he has spent the last half an hour emphasising to us the impregnability of this fortress of Imladris "

This last comment almost proved Nîndorien's undoing, and she suppress her laughter when Gil-galad reached out his hand to her. She gracefully moved to his side as he introduced her. "Lady Celebrían, allow me to present my wife, the Lady Nîndorien."

"And the source of my own undoing." Gil-galad's voice sounded clearly in Nîndorien;s head as she moved to take Celebrían's arm to bring her into the warmth of the buildings of Imladris. She looked up at the beloved face of her husband and smiled warmly at him. She could not resist chuckling at the sight of the High King gently pushing Elrond in the direction of the house, while she politely enquired about Celebrían's journey as they passed indoors, out of the cold.

[Bess the Bard]

You really give Elrond and Gilgalad three dimensional characters. I love it! I look forward to reading about Elrond's and Celebrian's romance. They had such a tragic end, I'd like to know more about their happy beginning. I hope you continue this one.

[Lalaith]

That is actually a good idea Bess...
I wasn't going to continue it but now that you've planted the idea..hmmm...
Watch this space!

[Lalaith]

Just to say that the story of Elrond's first meeting with Celebrian is complete and i will be posting it tomorrow (hopefully!)

[Bess the Bard]

Great, Lalaith! I look forward to reading it. You have such a rich imagination, anything is possible!

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

Aha! You continued....thanks so very much!

[Lalaith]

Well, here we go folks! Hope you like it!
And thanks for the idea Bess!!

It is a direct continuation from the previous piece Snowfall in Imladris

***


Elrond walked through the corridors of Imladris, musing on the festivities planned for the coming evening. He had decided that a feast was a fitting way to welcome the Lady Galadriel and her fair daughter to Imladris. Having ensured the preparations were running smoothly, he proceeded to his chambers. A formal tunic had been laid out on the bed, and humming softly, his thoughts turned to producing a precise description of Celebrían’s rare beauty. Shaking his head at the memory of his idiocy when he first saw her, he pulled on the deep green tunic and inwardly chastised himself for his foolish silence. He resolved to make up for that inauspicious introduction during the meal. It would not do for the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn to think ill of him.

Still humming, he left his room and set off for the Feast Hall. As he began to descend the main staircase, a voice from behind him caused him to jump forward and lose his balance in a rather ungainly fashion.

“Are you humming, Peredhel?”

Had Elrond not been frantically attempting to regain his balance, the High King would have been on the receiving end of a particularly venomous glare. He grabbed hold of the blessedly secure banister and hauled himself into an upright position. Gil-galad watched in amusement, making no effort whatsoever to aid his herald.

“Yes, Ereinion, I was humming,” Elrond replied, with as much dignity as he could muster, given his ungraceful pose. “Is it forbidden to hum when one is happy? Perhaps I did not receive the royal edict concerning the restrictions pertaining to the art of humming!” He scowled at the High King, who laughed at his cousin’s discomfiture.

“Nay, Peredhel, it is not forbidden but I should sincerely like to know what event has triggered such an outpouring of melodious joy! It cannot be the weather, for it is indisputably foul. Perhaps it is the pleasure of being lord in one’s own house, or perhaps,” here Gil-galad paused slightly, savouring the moment as he fiddled with the hem of the blue sleeve of his dress tunic, “it is the happiness elicited by the sight of a fair young maiden.”

Elrond coloured slightly but was fortunately rescued from the further embarrassment of having to respond. A guard approached deferentially and asked to speak with him concerning some matter of security. Laughing, Gil-galad departed. “You are lucky, Lord Elrond! But I shall uncover the truth of the matter. Now, excuse me, for I must go to escort my wife to the feast.”

“Well, don’t be late, your Majesty!” was the only comeback Elrond could think of and he turned to speak with the guard. Despite having emerged from the confrontation with the last word, the victory felt hollow, for he had no doubt that Gil-galad would be true to his word and never pass by an opportunity to bring up the subject of the silver-haired Elf-maiden.




***


Nîndorien gasped as the handmaiden pulled rather too sharply on a braid.

“I am sorry, my Lady!” cried the young Elf-maiden with fear in her voice.

“Nay, it matters not. It is the High King who should apologise, entering unannounced as he did,” said Nîndorien reassuringly from her seat in front of the mirror. The Elf-maiden looked positively scandalised at the thought of laying any blame at the feet of the High King. Nîndorien caught Gil-galad’s eye in the mirror, and raised her eyebrows.

“I should indeed apologise,” he said smoothly, understanding the command in his wife’s expression. “Pray, tell me what your name is.” he said to the handmaiden kindly.

“Luinil, your Majesty” she replied, unable to refrain from trembling in the presence of the imposing figure of Ereinion Gil-galad, arrayed in formal tunic and with an ornate dress sword girt by his side.

“Luinil,” he repeated. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You are an Elf of Eregion, are you not?”

“Ye-yes, your Majesty,” she stuttered. “My family fled to Imladris following the attack on our lands.”

Nîndorien could see that the young Elf was rather fraught by the strains of conversing with the High King. “Luinil, I think my hair is quite ready for the feast. You may depart if you wish.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” said Luinil and, casting a last terrified look at Gil-galad, she fled the room. He watched her departure with amusement

“Rather nervous, wasn’t she?”

“Well, my king, you can appear rather… intimidating when you wish to,” said Nîndorien.

He sighed. “This formal dress rather gives the impression of sternness and solemnity, does it not?” He tugged at the collar of his blue tunic, on the breast of which was emblazoned his royal crest; a multitude of silver stars.

“I think it may have been the sword that frightened her, my king,” laughed Nîndorien. “You seem to forget the effect you can have on other Elves. I doubt that poor Luinil would have been more nervous had you walked in here in full battledress and brandishing Aiglos!”

“I do believe I would be more comfortable in my mail. Curse that Peredhel for insisting on formal dress for tonight’s feast!”

“It is only courteous. After all, we do honour the arrival of the Lady Galadriel and her daughter into our midst.”

“True, my lady.” Gil-galad stood behind Nîndorien and surveyed the image in front of him. She wore a silver gown that shimmered in the candlelight. He smiled, before affecting an air of pompous sincerity “You look beautiful this evening.”

“I am most flattered, my king. Perhaps in another one and a half thousand years, you will have learned how to compliment your wife without that tone of surprise in your voice!” teased Nîndorien.

Gil-galad laughed as he gently touched one of the flowers Luinil had so carefully woven around Nîndorien’s brow like a crown. “If I am surprised, my lady, it is because I did not think you could grow any more beautiful.”

“A most impressive recovery, my king! With such honeyed words, I can hardly believe that you disagree so frequently with your counsellors.”

“What do you think of the Lady Celebrían?” asked Gil-galad, rapidly changing the subject, for he was known to be rather confrontational in the council room as Nîndorien delighted in reminding him.

“She seems kind and friendly, if a little shy. While I was showing her to her chambers, she hardly spoke above a whisper the whole time.”

Gil-galad threw his hands in the air, in an exaggerated gesture of exasperation. “And thanks to Peredhel’s spectacular lack of welcome this afternoon, together with his newly-acquired technique of conversing only in monosyllables, I daresay that it will take many centuries before they manage to greet each other without awkwardness.”

“Do you imply, my king, that the Lord of Imladris admires the Lady Celebrían?”

“Any fool with eyes in his head can see it! Did you not mark his complete loss of speech when he first laid eyes on her?”

“Ay, I did, as did the Lord Celeborn. He did not quite display your enthusiasm at Elrond’s reaction.” Nîndorien turned around in her seat to look directly at Gil-galad who looked amused at the thought of Celeborn’s disapproval.

“Quite. Still, I cannot see why Elrond does not speak. I have never known him to be struck dumb before. If he admires the lady, why does he not speak?”

“He can hardly be expected to speak within the first five minutes of laying eyes on Celebrían! I doubt that he is fully aware of his own feelings, much less those of the lady! Might I remind you, my king, that a full fortnight passed after my first sight of you, before you spoke of your feelings?” Nîndorien stood up and took her husband’s arm. “Come, it is high time we made our way to the Feast Hall. They will all be waiting for us.”

“My lady, you do not take me seriously! That was an entirely different situation,” said Gil-galad airily before grinning. “Besides, I spoke to you often of my true feelings in the first fortnight of our acquaintance. It was just unfortunate that you were unconscious at the time!”

The two Elves laughed merrily together, and both came simultaneously to the happy realisation that not even the passage of years had diminished their joy in one another’s company. Before either knew what was happening, they had begun to kiss each other with all the passion of their youth, and Gil-galad started to run his fingers through Nîndorien’s hair, whispering in her ear. “Ah, mellamin, must we attend the feast? I would far rather remain here. We would not be missed.”

Wishing that his words were true, Nîndorien nevertheless stepped back out of her husband’s reach, carefully disentangling his fingers from her hair with a practised ease. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and smoothed down her black tresses, relieved to observe that Luinil’s painstaking handiwork was still relatively intact. “I’m afraid, dear king, that you at least would be missed.”

He watched her rearrange her hair and said, with the merest hint of playful petulance in his voice. “I expect you are right, my love.”

Nîndorien sighed slightly. “Luinil did a fine job with my hair, but I know that it will seem quite mundane in comparison with Celebrían’s. I have never seen such a colour! It is as though the very light of Ithil has been woven into each strand.”

Gil-galad smiled at her and said. “What beauty would the moon have, if it were not for the glorious shades of night? Come, my lady, we should not delay any longer. Peredhel will have my head if I am late!” And with one last lingering kiss, they made their way to the great Feast Hall of Imladris.

[Lalaith]

Elrond stood impatiently at the door of the Hall. The Elves of Imladris and their guests were seated inside, all awaiting the arrival of the High King and his wife. The seated Elves were happily talking amongst themselves, speculating on the significance of the seating arrangement at the high table and eager for a glimpse of the lady of the High King, who had never before visited Eriador. At last, Gil-galad and Nîndorien appeared at the top of the staircase at the far end of the corridor, laughing quietly together. To Elrond’s chagrin, they made no discernible effort to speed up when they saw him waiting at the door. When they reached him, he stepped forward to embrace Nîndorien. He noted to himself that the Elves of Imladris would not be disappointed with her appearance, for she carried herself not as a grave and distant queen, but as a tranquil and gentle Elf-lady, whose smile alone betrayed her inner joy.

“My lady, you look truly radiant this evening. I begin to think that the name Gil-galad was bestowed upon the wrong Elf!”

“Perhaps you should focus your attempts of flattery on someone who is not my wife!” joked Gil-galad. “I may have someone in mind…”

“Gil-galad,” said Nîndorien reprovingly, for she perceived Elrond’s embarrassment. Much to the Half-Elf’s surprise, the High King desisted, duly chastened by his wife’s tone.

“Well, Peredhel, perhaps we had better enter the Feast Hall,” he said. He kissed his wife’s hand before placing it on his arm. He looked into her eyes. Am I forgiven? he seemed to ask. She smiled in reply and drew closer to his side.

“Very well, Ereinion, I will inform the heralds,” said Elrond casually, oblivious to the wordless exchange.

“Heralds?” asked Gil-galad in shock before asking suspiciously, “what do you mean, heralds? Peredhel?”

“The heralds who will announce your arrival, of course,” said Elrond, pleased to see a slightly uncomfortable look cross the High King’s face. Gil-galad was not fond of ceremonial events, as the Half-Elf well knew, although he always seemed to carry them off with the required flamboyance.

“Very well, Peredhel,” growled the High King. He gave the collar of his tunic a final tug and the doors swung open. The three Elves entered the Hall to a fanfare of Elven trumpets. Nîndorien appeared utterly composed and barely batted an eyelid. She could feel Gil-galad jump slightly and heard him mutter quietly under his breath, “Damned silly ceremony.” He glanced at her, and she squeezed his arm in support. Elrond walked unconcernedly ahead of them, delighting in the atmosphere of the first feast in Imladris. Only Nîndorien and Elrond, and possibly Galadriel, could sense the High King’s discomfort. To the Elves of Imladris, he was the very image of a noble and unassailable king, perfectly at ease with this display of pageantry.

When they approached the high table, Gil-galad pulled out Nîndorien’s chair for her with an attentiveness that impressed many. He took his seat at the head of the table, with Nîndorien to his right and the Lady Galadriel to his left. Elrond sat beside Nîndorien and the Lord Celeborn sat between his wife and daughter. Many other Elves of noble birth, and a number of the High King’s counsellors were also seated at the high table, and when Gil-galad had spoken a blessing over the meal, the feast began.

At first there was little by the way of speech, for the quality and quantity of the food occupied most of the Elves to the exclusion of conversation. Elrond ate little, preferring to observe the proceedings. His gaze frequently flickered to Celebrían who sat almost directly opposite him. She ate daintily, speaking with her father and occasionally with Erestor who was on her left hand side. Elrond repeatedly found himself admiring her hair, which was unbraided and flowed like a river of mithril to her waist. The dress she wore was dark in colour and he noted that it enhanced the colour of her eyes, which were an ever-shifting green, like the leaves of a tree. Occasionally, Lord Celeborn caught his eye and Elrond hastily looked elsewhere.

“You hardly touch your food, dear one,” said Nîndorien softly beside him.

“I – I am not particularly hungry, my lady,” he said lamely.

She smiled at him. “It is a wonderful feast and a wonderful home. As Lord of Imladris, you should be proud of your achievements in this place. Indeed, only one thing is missing.”

He glanced at Nîndorien, and understood her meaning from the expression in her eyes. A Lady of Imladris. He could not help but return her smile, for her method of gentle suggestion was far more subtle than Gil-galad’s less than tactful approach. He picked at his food and found his attention drawn to Gil-galad and Nîndorien. They spoke only a little to each other, but whenever Nîndorien’s goblet required refilling, Gil-galad would see to it without being asked. He unobtrusively attended his wife’s needs and from time to time, they would exchange a smile before returning to their own conversations. Elrond was suddenly aware of a twinge of envy at their obvious mutual affection and tenderness. He did not grudge them their happiness; far from it, but he began to experience a longing for a similar bond. Again, he looked upon Celebrían and his heart jumped when her eyes unexpectedly met his. Neither averted their gaze and, after a couple of heart-stopping minutes filled with a timorous hope, Elrond opened his mouth to speak. At that exact moment, he was cruelly interrupted by a servant who quietly informed him that the Hall of Fire had been prepared to receive guests. Elrond glanced back at Celebrían and was unsurprised to see her conversing with her father.

Sighing, Elrond nodded to Gil-galad, who had gleefully noticed the silent contact between the Half-Elf and the Elf-maiden. The High King understood the signal and arose. Instantly, the hall fell silent. Gil-galad reached out his hand for Nîndorien and she took his arm, and those who had been seated at the high table led the procession to the Hall of Fire. To Elrond’s initial surprise, Celebrían took his arm but the Lord of Imladris reproached himself for failing to recall that it was customary for the lord of the household to escort an unattached female guest of honour.

“I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Imladris,” Elrond began quietly. He blushed as he continued. “I apologise for my earlier rudeness. I – I can’t imagine what came over me.”

“There is no need to apologise, my Lord,” said Celebrían softly as she smiled at him. He paused briefly in his stride, entranced by her soft low voice and her beautiful smile which seemed to be infectious, for he felt his own mouth broadening into a heartfelt smile in return.

“Thank you, my Lady but it was improper of me not to welcome you to my home personally. However, I am sure that the High King adequately filled that role.” Elrond privately thought that Gil-galad had made rather more of his unfortunate speechlessness than was strictly necessary.

“Indeed. He is most gracious.”

“Certainly; he is the best of kings,” agreed Elrond before fervently hoping that Gil-galad was not within earshot. He could not deny the truth of his own words but he did not wish for them to reach the ears of the High King. Gil-galad was compassionate, magnanimous and noble, but he also frequently infuriated his Half-Elven herald, despite his good nature, with his unwavering stubbornness and his confrontational tendencies in the council room. Elrond quickly added, “But please do not tell him I said that or I shall never hear the end of it.” He was delighted to hear the enchanting sound of Celebrían’s clear laughter in response to his last comment.

“Your secret is safe with me, Lord Elrond,” she said as they entered the Hall of Fire to the sound of harp music. They moved to the top of the Hall, and Elrond showed her to her seat, basking in a warm glow that had come into existence at the precise moment she had said his name for the first time. She was looking around the Hall with pleasure, for it was beautifully decorated and filled with light and laughter. Elrond stood beside her chair, following the line of her gaze

“I hope that Imladris meets with your approval, my Lady.” Elrond spoke softly, unaware that he cherished any such hope until the words left his mouth.

[Lalaith]

She looked up at him and that same captivating smile crept across her face. “Indeed it does, my Lord. It was delightful to be met with such an attractive sight after our long journey.” She spoke so demurely that Elrond almost missed any possible hidden meaning in her words but before he could pursue the point, he was distracted by a sudden burst of laughter. He and Celebrían looked curiously towards the source of the merriment. Erestor and Gil-galad were laughing heartily and Elrond was filled with unease. He had no doubt that he was the cause of their hilarity, judging by the amused looks he appeared to be receiving, but he was baffled as to the specificities of the matter. He glanced down at Celebrían who raised her eyebrows inquisitively. Sighing, he spoke.

“If I know the High King and Lord Erestor, it is probably wiser not to enquire too deeply about the source of their amusement. I fear that they have observed our interest, but we may yet avoid their closer attentions if we appear to engross ourselves in conversation.”

Celebrían laughed again. “I shall follow your lead, my Lord.” She briefly laid her hand on his arm and he felt as if a bolt of lightning had passed through his body.

“Let us just hope, my Lady, that it is not too late. I have escaped more awkward situations, considerably more life-threatening, but the High King can be a tricky foe.”

“You know him well, do you not?”

“I do.” Elrond grew more serious. “He has supported and counselled me through the darkest hours of my life. He and the Lady Nîndorien have been my sole family these last thousand years. Since the departure of my parents, and the passing of my brother, I have come to depend on them greatly. The High King’s sense of humour, however…” Here Elrond stopped short, for he had seen Celebrían’s eyes widen suddenly. With a sinking feeling, he braced himself for the inevitable.

“Good evening Lady Celebrían.” Gil-galad bowed his head and kissed the lady’s hand before turning to Elrond. “Peredhel, why do you look so horrified? The Lord Erestor and I were simply speaking of your unbreachable defences here in Imladris. Weren’t we, my Lord?”

“Indeed, your Majesty. Unassailable, I should say,” smirked Erestor.

“Quite a remarkable achievement…”

“To be under siege for more than three years…”

“Successfully shutting out the forces of darkness…”

“Only to be invaded…”

“In the midst of boasting about the security of the valley, I might add…”

“Well observed, your Majesty…”

“Not by a marauding Orc horde…”

“Well, they wouldn’t be intelligent enough…”

“Good point, Erestor…”

“Or by a great host of well-trained soldiers…”

“Indeed not; there were only two…”

Throughout the exchange, Elrond stood with his fists clenched. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that this was some sort of revenge for inflicting heralds on the High King earlier. He desperately tried to think of some way of putting a stop to their jesting but at that moment, all of his ideas involved administering a blunt object to the back of Gil-galad’s head. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the lure of immediate satisfaction that such a solution would certainly bring about. Suddenly, he was aware of Celebrían’s eyes on his face. She had been listening to the light-hearted banter with rather more amusement than Elrond thought it deserved but now she seemed to be communicating something to him with her eyes. A slow smile crept across his face as he understood her meaning, and he nodded his head slightly in agreement. While Gil-galad and Erestor were still absorbed in their foolish jest, Celebrían rose silently from her seat. She began to make her way down through the hall, gracefully weaving between groups of talking and singing Elves. Elrond discreetly followed her, amazed that their departure had not been observed by the High King. As he reached the door, he heard a loud guffaw of laughter. He glanced back briefly, and saw Gil-galad and Erestor doubled up, laughing uncontrollably. Wiping a tear from his eye, Gil-galad happened to glance in Elrond’s direction and smiled even more broadly. Elrond smiled back in return before passing through the door. He was almost convinced that he had received a small nod of approval from the High King. In any case, Gil-galad did not seem too upset at the half-Elf’s abrupt departure, especially because his own beloved had moved to his side and the High King was utterly entranced.

As he stood outside the Hall, Elrond looked around for Celebrían. A flash of silver disappeared around a distant corner and once more, he set off in pursuit. He did not stop to wonder how she knew the twists and turns of Imladris so well, concentrating instead on keeping her in view. At last, their wild chase ended in the entrance hall, and Celebrían stood at the main doors. Elrond paused in the shadows and simply looked at her with admiration. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the exertion of running along the passageways and, even from a distance, he could see that her eyes sparkled with joy. He stopped breathing when those eyes lighted upon him and she spoke.

“Do you mean to watch me from the shadows all evening, Lord Elrond, or will you accompany me for a turn around the grounds?”

Elrond almost spluttered when he heard her suggestion. “My Lady, it is freezing outside!” Nevertheless, he found himself stepping out into the light and as soon as she looked him in the eyes, he knew that he was powerless to resist. He bowed. “But if it is your desire…”

“It is,” she said firmly. He obtained a couple of cloaks from a nearby anteroom. “I think that this is the Lady Nîndorien’s. She is slightly taller than you but it will keep you warm nonetheless.” He carefully threw the cloak over her shoulders and fumbled slightly with the brooch, distracted slightly by the sensation of her warm breath on his fingers. Having put on his own cloak, he opened the door and they stepped out into the cold clear night.

“The clouds have passed,” he murmured, looking up into the sky. His heart leapt when he saw Eärendil glimmering in the West. Starting slightly, he glanced down at his hand and was pleasantly surprised to find that Celebrían had laid her small cold hand within his. Automatically, he raised her hand to his lips before leading her towards the small stone bridge from which he had first laid eyes on her. The world around them seemed to fade away, and it was as though they alone existed beneath the stars of Elbereth.


***

The festivities drew to a close a few hours later. Elrond and Celebrían’s absence was only marked by a few Elves, Gil-galad, Celeborn and their wives among them. Gil-galad and Nîndorien walked slowly along the corridors towards their chambers, blissfully oblivious to the crowds of Elves who swarmed past, bound for their beds. As they began to ascend the main staircase in the deserted entrance hall, both High King and his wife heard the sound of the main doors being opened with care. They stopped and looked back curiously, and smiled when they realised who it was. It was obvious that their presence passed unnoticed.

“Isn’t that your cloak, my lady?” whispered Gil-galad. Nîndorien nodded as she watched the two Elves, one black-haired, one crowned with silver, standing close to one another, breathless with exhilaration. They both trembled; perhaps with the cold, perhaps with the sheer power of their new unknown emotions. Suddenly, a familiar voice was heard from a distant corridor and Elrond and Celebrían separated quickly. Elrond positively fled from the entrance hall with a look of fear on his face, much to Gil-galad’s amusement. The High King’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as Celeborn appeared in the entrance hall, evidently seeking his daughter. Nîndorien was most impressed with the Elf-maiden’s calm demeanour and when the two silver-haired Elves had departed, Gil-galad and Nîndorien continued up the staircase, holding each other closer than before. She laid her head against his shoulder as they walked through their private quarters, thinking about young love, first love and eternal love.

[Elbereth]

Beautiful, just beautiful

[Bess the Bard]

Would you believe that I missed it here and saw it first over at the other site?
:blush:

I put my rave review over there. But this is delightful. You've shown a time when some of my favorite characters had hope and a life to look forward to. It's wonderful to have this snapshot of their happiness.

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

So you are the bessthebard of TORC, I was wondering!

I'm the dawnnamira of TORC, member of Hama-rama! (I love typing that!) :p :p

[Bess the Bard]

Yes, I'm a member of TORC, too. I thought I'd seen you over there. :grin:

Hama lovers unite!!

(We now return you to Lalaith's wonderful story....)

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

Originally posted by Bess the Bard
We now return you to Lalaith's wonderful story....)

Indeed! lol roflmao :p ;) :grin: :cool: :) :) :cool: :grin: ;) :p roflmao lol

(Let's see what this looks like)

Edit: lol It worked!

[Lalaith]

:blush: Aw..you guys! thanks for that comment at TORC, Bess! Wow! :blush:

Will be posting the full story of Gil-galad meeting Nindorien tomorrow... i just couldn't resist writing it!!

[Lalaith]

Healing on Balar - Nindorien's meeting with Gil-galad


The distant sound of fearful cries carried over the water. Gil-galad froze for a moment, peering east across the bay. Seeing a single plume of thick black smoke rising from the region of Sirion, he turned on his heel and sprinted along the cliff path towards the harbour of Balar. His first thought was that the haven was being attacked by an Orc horde, which led to the fear that Morgoth had decided to utterly rid Middle Earth of all Elfkind. For years, the Black Foe had given no sign that he was even aware of the last remaining Elvish footholds on the western coast of Middle Earth. Perhaps it had been a pretence; an attempt to lull the Eldar into a sense of false security. Mind racing, Gil-galad gripped his spear tightly as he ran, grim determination evident on his face. He was willing to die in the attempt to save his people. If the First Age was to see the destruction of the Eldar, he would ensure that their end came at a high price to the Enemy.

“Sound the alarm! All men to the ships!” His voice rang out, clear and strong, as he entered the small harbour town. Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he spied Círdan standing by the docks. When the Shipwright saw his fosterson’s face and heard the bells ringing out throughout the town, he stepped forward.

“What has happened, Ereinion?”

“Sirion is under attack!” Gil-galad’s tones were urgent, but not panicked. The young High King had learned at an early age was expected of him and he showed no reluctance or fear, simply resignation that the hour of his doom might be upon him.

“Orcs?” Círdan asked, his brow furrowed as he thought of the implications which had already screamed through Gil-galad’s mind.

“I don’t know, but I heard the cries, Círdan… Ai, they tore at my heart. We must hasten!”

Quickly and efficiently, the warriors of Balar boarded Círdan’s swift ships and they were under way less than half an hour after Gil-galad had spied the first plume of smoke. When they rounded the headland that bounded the harbour, gasps rose up from those on the boats. Sirion lay miles ahead of them but now black smoke billowed from all of its buildings. There was a great disturbance by the waterside, and screams of anger could be heard. The sea rose up in a frenzy, the wrath of both Ulmo and Ossë seemed to be contained within each towering wave. Gil-galad stood in the prow of his boat, which was ever the foremost. The designs of Ossë came to naught, for the boat of the High King was driven on by a wrath that could not be opposed. Gil-galad’s helmet and armour shone out and his eyes glinted with cold fury. None could look upon his face without fear.

Suddenly, a great rage-filled roar rose up from the High King, freezing the blood of all who heard it.

“Elves! This is the work of Elves!” He clenched his fists. The kinslayers. Their unbreakable Oath. Disgust ran through him; his own kin murdering innocents. Worst of all was the knowledge that the blood of kinslayers ran in his own veins; he was not ignorant of the crimes his father and grandfather in Alqualondë. He addressed his soldiers in a loud voice that carried to all of the ships. “The sons of Fëanor are not to be slain! Drive them off! Do not harm them! It is not our place to dispense justice. We must do what we can to aid the people of Sirion but there will be no more bloodshed!”

The journey seemed to take an age, and the screams were becoming less frequent and weaker. As soon as the waters were shallow enough, Gil-galad leapt out and waded to the shoreline. His heart sank when he saw bodies lying amidst the ruins of Sirion. Too late, he thought bitterly. He laughed mirthlessly as the kinslayers fled before him, driven away by his wrath and their own guilt. The bodies of Amrod and Amras, twin sons of Fëanor lay on the ground. Looking at their flat lifeless eyes, as identical in death as they had been in life, he felt pity for them but his rage was by no mean quelled. He automatically reached out to close their eyes, before straightening up and returning to the fray. His soldiers were seeing off the attackers, using harsh words and accusations rather than the sharp steel of their swords, which they brandished nonetheless. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a cruel-faced Elf clutching an Elf-maiden by the wrist. Her body was limp; she looked lifeless. Gil-galad watched in horror as her attacker’s fingers cut into her skin and he began to drag her along the ground. The High King immediately started towards aggressor and victim, and physically pulled the Elf away. Gil-galad knew that his fury radiated out through his eyes because the Elf scrambled away, looking back fearfully. Turning his attention back to the Elf-maiden to ascertain whether she yet lived, Gil-galad cried out with pain. A sword had been brought down across his shoulder, cutting the unprotected skin at the base of his neck, between mail shirt and helmet. The intent had evidently been decapitation and Gil-galad turned swiftly, coming face to face with his assailant. Fighting off the agony that threatened to deprive him of his senses, he pulled out a dagger from a sheath at his side. He held it to the Elf’s throat and whispered in deadly tones. “Be gone, vile kinslayer and be thankful that thy king is more merciful than thou.” He roughly pushed the Elf away as his men arrived to ensure the hasty departure of the Fëanorian servant.

Gil-galad reached back to touch his shoulder; when his hand came away it was wet with blood. He winced but struggled against the dizzying waves of pain that swept over him. Bending down and gasping for air, he focussed on the prone Elf maiden. Amidst the agony, his heart sang out, for she was still breathing, albeit weakly. At least he had prevented some of the day’s evil, though he was weighed down with guilt and the gnawing feeling that he should have done more. He reached out a bloodstained hand, and pushed her hair back from her face which was pale and troubled. Ignoring his shoulder’s protests, he lifted her up carefully. He staggered slightly as he rose but brushed off his men’s attempts to relieve him of his burden. The group of soldiers made their way down to the shore where bedraggled survivors were congregating. Gil-galad sighed heavily when he saw how few remained. Círdan was directing survivors onto the ships and also assigned a group of his men to remain in Sirion and bury the dead. A distraught Elf-lady approached Gil-galad. Her face was stained with grime and tears. “The Peredhil, where are the Peredhil?” she kept asking.

“The what?” asked Gil-galad with confusion. His wound was beginning to hamper his ability to think clearly, and he felt a warm stream of blood run down his back beneath his mail shirt.

“The Peredhil! The sons of Elwing!”

Gil-galad gasped and Círdan, hearing the Elf-lady’s words, immediately turned to address a group of soldiers. “You must search this town carefully. Leave no building unchecked. Search the woods and the caves. We will not allow the sons of Elwing to suffer the same fate as their uncles!” The Shipwright moved towards the High King. “We will find them. They need our protection for their father is at sea and I am told that their mother cast herself into the bay. May the grace of Ulmo protect her.”

Gil-galad stumbled again and Círdan made to take the unconscious Elf-maiden from his arms. “Come, Ereinion, let me help you. You are injured; you must share your burden.”

“No,” replied Gil-galad in a whisper. Círdan looked into his eyes and understood the reason for the young king’s defiance. In his arms, he held one of the few who had been saved; one of the few he had been able to help. They made their way to one of the boats, and Gil-galad laid the Elf-maiden down on some blankets on the deck. He sank down alongside her, clumsily removing his helmet before wincing and clutching his shoulder. One of his men approached with bandages and water and attempted to tend to the High King’s wound but Gil-galad dismissed him and gingerly began to dress the shoulder himself. It was an awkward process but it occupied him, keeping his mind off his failings and shortcomings. They came at last to Balar and the ships docked safely. As Gil-galad stepped off the boat, carrying the Elf-maiden again, he ordered that tents and pavilions be erected for the people of Sirion on the hill behind the town. He slowly began to make his way in that direction, calling for healers to accompany him. His men aided many of the other wounded survivors, some of whom could walk, some of whom had to be carried. While waiting for the pavilion to be raised, he placed the maiden gently on the soft grass, and covered her with his cloak, which was bloodstained but would protect against the cold sea breeze that blew in over the Isle of Balar. From this clearing, the smoking ruins of Sirion could not be seen. Only the trees and the clear blue sky were visible and birdsong filled the air, driving evil memories away.

[Lalaith]

When all was ready, Gil-galad carried his charge into the finest pavilion and laid her on the makeshift bed. He and his chief healer examined her carefully, but could find no trace of serious physical damage, save for bruises on her wrist and a small scratch on her lip. The gravest injury seemed to be a shallow cut across her abdomen, presumably the result of a knife stroke. They bathed the wounds and dressed them with soft bandages. A number of female Elves came to the pavilion entrance; her handmaidens, it seemed. He asked them to wash her and he would return to speak with them when he had tended the other injured Elves. The High King and his healers spent a number of hours among the wounded survivors, treating ailments from minor scrapes to deep wounds and severe burns. At length, he returned to the pavilion, where the Elf-maiden still lay senseless. Her handmaidens stood around the bed in worried vigil. Gil-galad cleared his throat slightly to alert them to his presence.

“Might I ask what the Lady’s name is?” he asked.

“She is the Lady Nîndorien, sire,” replied one of the maidens, unable to conceal the anxiety in her voice. “She is one of the survivors of Gondolin, where she was born with the name Muinalot.”

“Did you see what befell her?”

“She was attacked by one of Maglor’s servants. We had all been running towards the woods, but she slipped, blinded by tears. She… she had just witnessed the death of her mother and the loss of the Lady Elwing. Can you help her, sire?” The handmaiden blurted out, before carefully smoothing back Nîndorien’s hair. “Her hands and face are so cold!”

Gil-galad smiled grimly. “I will do what I can. Please leave me while I tend to her. You will find food and drink in the furthest tent, beside the stream. I am sure you are all in need of sustenance. Please, do not worry; I am sure that she will heal.” He hoped he sounded suitably confident.

Inwardly he was pessimistic; it seemed that the Lady Nîndorien had suffered a deadly hurt to her very spirit. He hoped desperately that she had not tired of the strains of living. She could not be much above fifty; too young to surrender to despair. He stood at her bedside as the other maidens filed out of the pavilion.

“Muinalot,” he whispered. “Nîndorien, do not give up, not yet.” He placed his hand on her forehead and the coldness of her skin alarmed him. He called out to one of his attendants who waited outside to fetch a bowl of steaming water. When it was brought in, he sprinkled some herbs into it and a pleasant scent rose up, filling the pavilion. He rubbed her cold hands between his own and looked at her face intently. It seemed that some of the troubles on her face were smoothed away as the scent floated by. He whispered to her constantly, words of healing, words of encouragement. Darkness began to fall and a servant came in to light some candles but Gil-galad was oblivious to his presence. At last, Nîndorien’s breathing became slightly stronger and the High King allowed himself a brief moment of elation before he returned to his murmurings.

He spent the whole night at her bedside. By the time morning’s first light appeared, he had memorised every feature of her face and every contour on her hands. He even began to speculate what colour her eyes were. Despair and hope filled his thoughts in equal measure. His heart leapt when he wondered how it would feel to have her look upon him, before plummeting down when he realised that she was no closer to regaining consciousness. Her features were less troubled, admittedly, but her spirit seemed distant. He jumped slightly when Círdan appeared at his shoulder.

“Come, my son, you need some rest.” This time, he would brook no opposition. “I will watch over her, at least for a couple of hours, while you break your fast and get some sleep.” He gently raised Gil-galad to his feet, noticing that the High King swayed slightly, still maintaining that his place was by the injured maiden’s bedside. “No, my son. What use is a healer or king who cannot keep his eyes open? You seem to have forgotten your own injury; it weakens you. Go, I will remain. You are bathing her brow with this fusion of herbs, are you not?”

Gil-galad nodded and hesitated. He spoke quietly. “Her name is Nîndorien. I have been talking to her in the hope that she might hear my voice.” He wavered for a moment before turning and reluctantly leaving the pavilion. Círdan sighed with relief when the High King departed before looking at the patient, attempting to understand Gil-galad’s unwillingness to leave her side. He smiled slightly as he studied her face. She was beautiful, undeniably, but among Elves, beauty was a standard characteristic. As Círdan gently bathed her brow, he wondered what enthralled the High King so, for it was obvious that Gil-galad was smitten. It did not surprise him when the High King returned only two hours after leaving.

“Thank you, Círdan. I have spoken with her handmaidens; they wish to wait on her. I will remain for a while, and then leave her to their care. There is much to see to today.” Gil-galad had washed and changed, and his eyes had regained some of their focus. He was still weary, but many things had come to his attention in the past couple of hours. Although he was loath to leave the maiden’s bedside, he knew that he was required elsewhere. When Círdan left, Gil-galad sat with Nîndorien and watched her closely, searching for any signs of improvement. The morning sun cast a warm light on her face putting colour in her cheeks, much to Gil-galad’s satisfaction. He clasped one of her hands and spoke softly, urging her spirit to return from the dark places. After an hour or so had passed, the lad’s handmaidens returned and the High King took his leave, having given precise instructions that he was to be summoned if there was any deterioration in her condition. His spirits were marginally higher and he was able to give his undivided attention to his royal tasks for the day. He flexed his wounded shoulder experimentally as he left the pavilion and winced. The initial agony had given way to a constant throbbing pain and he felt a sticky warmth trickle down his back. The wound had not even begun to heal.

Many days passed with no change in Nîndorien’s condition. A routine had been established. Gil-galad waited up with her all night, bathing her wounds and changing her dressings. When those physical scars healed, he still remained and spoke softly to her, hoping that some of his words might draw her back from the brink. Every morning, Círdan would relieve him for a couple of hours, during which the King would rest and receive reports from his counsellors. He then returned to the pavilion for an hour, before Nîndorien’s handmaidens arrived. No others knew what words he spoke to the lady and only Círdan believed in the existence of any deeper motive to his actions. One morning about ten days after the attack on Sirion, the Shipwright walked in and caught the end of Gil-galad’s whispered words, weighed down with anguished desperation. “…listen to my voice: you must prevail over the blackness, Nîndorien. Listen to my spirit’s call, draw from its strength. You cannot leave me before we even meet, mellamin.” Embarrassed, Círdan retreated and re-entered the pavilion making rather more noise than customary for a light-footed Elf.

“How fares the lovely maiden of the Lothlim?” he asked. Gil-galad turned to face him, a smile on his face for the first time in days.

“She stirred during the night, Círdan, and she seemed to smile in her slumbers. I think she is recovering.” Gil-galad rose and yielded his bedside seat to the Shipwright. The High King still looked pale from his exertions and Círdan suspected that he had not been tending his own wound properly but he had to admit that his fosterson looked more cheerful. Círdan was still troubled by the disappearance of the sons of Elwing, however, and considered advising the High King to send messengers to Hithlum if the last scouts returned to Balar with no tidings.

[Lalaith]

A full fortnight passed after the attack on Sirion. Nîndorien seemed greatly improved and Gil-galad sensed that she would arise soon. Having spent his customary hour with her, he proceeded the royal dwelling to speak with his counsellors. A full inspection of Sirion and its surrounding lands had been completed, and although a few lost survivors had been found, there had been no sign of the young Peredhil. Gil-galad frowned and before Círdan voiced his suggestion, the High King ordered that emissaries be sent to Hithlum.

“The seizing of the sons of Elwing is a grievous misdeed. Perhaps the sons of Fëanor mean to use the innocents as a bargaining tool.” He shook his head in disgust. “It seems they pride the Silmarils above the welfare of two children. Erestor, take five of the best soldiers and make all haste to Hithlum. Do not expect a welcome from the Maedhros and Maglor; they have grown bitter and weary indeed.”

Having dealt with various other important issues concerning the refugees from Sirion and rumours of roving Orcs in Beleriand, the High King dismissed the council and sat in silence for a few minutes while the room emptied around him. Shaking himself slightly, he arose and began to make his way back towards the clearing which contained the pavilions and tents of the people of Sirion. Instead of entering the clearing, he took a small path that led away from both clearing and town. It passed through a thicket of trees before opening up onto the cliff tops. This was his favourite haunt and he followed the line of the cliffs to the easternmost point of the island. He peered out over Beleriand, his heart sick with grief at its marring. Smoke still rose from Sirion for his men had lit fires to purge the ground of the blood of Elves. All of the slain were buried, even the kinslayers. Gil-galad had decreed that their bodies were not to be despoiled; they were to receive decent burials, and cairns were to be raised over their remains. Their graves were far removed from those of their innocent victims.

The day was windy, and his black hair whipped about. He held his cloak tight around him and his thoughts wandered across the sea, blown about in the wind. Suddenly, he felt a strange warmth within him. Amidst the bellowing of the wind and the roaring of the sea, he heard a soft footstep. He turned instantly and could scarcely refrain from crying out with surprised joy. The Lady Nîndorien stood on the cliff path. Her white gown and black hair streamed behind her and she placed a hand on her head to prevent the wayward movement of her hair. Gil-galad’s heart leapt within him and for an instant he wondered if he saw a phantom rather than a real Elf-maiden before him. He smiled, unable to hide his delight, when her dark eyes lit upon him; they were even more captivating than he had imagined in the long shadowy nights by her bedside and the light in their depths drove away any thoughts of ghosts. She paused for a moment, as if stunned, before carefully making her way towards him. Her voice was strong when she spoke, and her cheeks were rosy, presumably the result of the fierce sea breeze. He noted that she wore no cloak.

“Greetings, Ereinion Gil-galad. It seems that I, Nîndorien of Sirion, owe you a debt twice over.”

This beginning surprised him; he wondered what she could mean. Surely he had failed her and her people. Sirion had burned. Its people had died.

She proceeded to thank him for saving her from her attacker and for healing her in both body and soul.

“Do not think me ignorant of the care you have given my, my king,” she said in her lyrical voice. “My handmaidens have assured me that you are the one responsible for my recovery.”

“You owe me no debt, my lady,” he said. “But I should hate my efforts to come to nought because you have ventured out on this windy day without a cloak.” She now stood mere inches in front of him, and without thinking, he threw his own cloak around her to shield them both against the wind. He winced at the movement for his shoulder still troubled him.

“My king! You are injured!” cried Nîndorien. Gil-galad attempted to make light of his wound.

“A mere scratch,” he replied, in what he hoped was a gallant tone of voice. He held her closely in an effort to display his well-being but she was not to be swayed. She did not oppose this display of intimacy but it was clear that she was sceptical as to the severity of his injury.

“Was it not on my account that you received this ‘scratch’, my king?” she pressed. Her eyes searched his face and he could not conceal the truth. He reluctantly affirmed the fact before admitting that he had suffered none to touch it.

“I deemed that there were more important issues requiring my attention,” he said, smiling down at her. She could not help but smile back before speaking reproachfully. “I would not have the king’s incapacity blamed upon the efforts he spent on one who has little claim on his time.”

Gil-galad looked at her with a strange expression on his face but he did not speak, content to watch her lips moving as she gently entreated him to allow her tend his wound. “After all, my king, you have healed me. Might I not be given the chance to repay you in kind?”

Again, he feebly protested that she owed him no repayment but he could not resist her persuasive tones and they eventually began to make their way back to the pavilion, still wrapped in his cloak. This made for rather slow progress along the cliff path, but neither wished to hurry, savouring the closeness and warmth as the blustery air propelled them along the trail. Nîndorien laughed aloud when a lock of the King’s hair tickled her cheek and the sound filled him with happiness. He looked fondly upon her face which still betrayed signs of weariness but, in that moment, he truly believed that he had never beheld a more beautiful sight. They did not notice the expressions on the faces of the other Elves in the clearing as they made their way to the pavilion. Smiles of understanding followed them through the clearing; the king’s motives had become apparent to all. Gil-galad and Nîndorien stood for a moment just inside the entrance way, simply looking at each other before the lady pulled away and moved towards table by the bed. She picked up a number of herbs, bandages and a bowl of water.

[Lalaith]

“You will have to remove your mail shirt, my king, for I cannot treat the wound otherwise.”

Gil-galad complied, feeling slightly self conscious although he could not imagine why. He lay face down on the bed as she instructed and when she began to unbind the wound he gasped sharply. She bathed his shoulder gently and he tried to focus on the warmth and tenderness of her fingers rather than the stabbing pain that shot through his body. He could not help grimacing as she began to pack the wound with healing herbs and his fingers dug into the pillow.

“It is oft said, my king, that healers make unwilling patients,” came her voice, quite close to his ear. Her thick black tresses hung down, mingling with his hair, as she bent over the wound. He tried to respond manfully and, through gritted teeth, he said truthfully that he had never known a healer with so gentle a touch. A companionable silence fell between them and when she had finished applying a liniment to the wound, she carefully bound it. He sat up gingerly as she busied herself with tidying away unused herbs and bandages. She turned to face him and when their eyes met, a colour rose in her face. From his seat at the edge of the bed, Gil-galad could see that her hands were trembling and his heart rose with hope when he perceived the cause of her agitation. He reached out and enfolded her hands within his own, seeking to lessen their tremors. He was strangely hesitant to speak directly.

“I hope you are not still troubled by what befell you in Sirion, my lady?” he asked softly. His body froze for an instant when her dark eyes looked directly into his and he rather suspected that his own cheeks had coloured somewhat.

“No, my king,” she answered, never moving her eyes away from his. “Although the memory is evil, I believe I may have found my heart’s peace.”

H smiled sadly at that, the images of the ruins of Sirion and his own failure tumbling through his mind. He drew her closer. “I cannot promise you and your people peace but I swear that you, Nîndorien of Sirion, will always have my protection if you so wish for it.”

At these words, the lady’s eyes became radiant. The space that had been between them disappeared as she allowed herself to be pulled even closer. They remained silent for a moment, foreheads touching, eyes reflecting their love. Slowly, he raised his hand and touched her cheek. All the words he had spoken during the dark hours when he had feared that she was beyond help began to flow from his mouth. Where before his words had been desperate pleas, now he spoke heartfelt oaths and unequivocal statements of feeling. He felt that he would burst with happiness when she responded to his words with her own gentle promises. Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted her face up to his. His heart beat furiously and his shoulder sang out with pain when he placed his hands on her back and kissed her. She pressed closer and he strengthened his hold on her, in defiant response to the ache in his shoulder. The anxiety and hope of the past fortnight melted away into pure passion and desire. He pulled back for a brief moment and murmured. “You are mine, mellamin, and I am yours.” Her eyes met his and she made her own addition, her tones quiet and resolute. “For all the ages of the world.” He smiled and kissed her again.

Círdan stood at the entrance of the pavilion, astonished at the sight that lay before him. He had been seeking the High King and had been told by a cheerful young Elf that he was waiting on the Lady Nîndorien. That in itself was not surprising, for Gil-galad often spent his free time at her bedside, but Círdan had not been prepared for the sight that met his eyes. He sighed crossly before retreating and noisily re-entering the pavilion. He struggled to conceal his mirth as the two lovers sprang apart with guilty expressions on their faces. The two young Elves were still holding hands and seemed utterly unaware of the fact. Círdan raised his eyebrows questioningly and unable to resist making some sort of comment, he said smoothly, “I do hope I am not interrupting the healing process?”

Gil-galad glanced down and saw that Nîndorien’s hand was clasped within his own. His eyes passed up to her face and she smiled at him, making no effort to sever the contact between them. The High King looked at the Shipwright rather bashfully. “I think that the Lady’s healing is complete.”

“I am glad to hear it, Ereinion,” said the Shipwright in amused tones before becoming more serious. “I’m afraid that I must beg for some of your time for I have received strange tidings from the sea. It seems that there is still hope for the Eldar.”

Gil-galad stood up and relinquished his hold on Nîndorien, secure in the knowledge that her heart was in his keeping. “Very well, Círdan. Summon my counsellors and we will hear your tidings.” While the Shipwright departed, fully understanding the reason for his dismissal, Gil-galad turned back to Nîndorien and kissed her gently before addressing her in his soft yet authoritative tones. “I must ask, my Lady, that you rest for a while; I am sure that you are weary. It has been an eventful day.”

“But most rewarding, my king,” she said as her eyes sparkled. He bent down and kissed her again before turning to leave. He reached the pavilion opening before he stopped and turned around. In three long strides, he crossed the floor and stood in front of her again, his expression clearly demanding another kiss. She laughed and duly obliged, before patting his arm. “Go, my king. I shall be waiting for you.”

And so, enraptured by love and love’s sweet face, Gil-galad proceeded to his council room. There, he learned that a voyage had begun on which hinged the hope of Elves and Men. His burdens considerably lighter, he walked slowly up to the clearing, glowing with devotion and hope.


Months later, Gil-galad and Nîndorien walked along the cliff tops, beneath the night sky and a new star rose in the West.


Gil Estel.

[Bess the Bard]

I haven't had time to read all of this yet, but I'm greatly impressed so far. I'm re-reading the Sil right now so you are helping to bring an exciting episode to life for me. You have an excellent grasp on the personalities, issues and culture of the First Age. I'll leave more comments later when I can finish it.

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

An excellent addition!

[Lalaith]

Glad ya liked it! I just couldn't resist writing it!

Also - on TORC, someone has requested that I write more about the Glorfindel - Nindorien relationship... I have a couple of ideas - should I give it a go?

[Bess the Bard]

Go for it!! Glorfindel is one of my favorites. Just remember that Nindorien is Gilgalad's gal. Or are you going to go completely AU from your own storyline? Writer's perogative, but in my heart Nindorien and Gilgalad belong together.

Write it and I will come. :grin:

[Lalaith]

Don't worry Bess - Nindorien is always going to be Gil-galad's gal!!
Aaah - poor Glorfindel! I feel a tale of unrequited love coming on!! mecry
Have no idea when I'll find the time to write it but I will give it a go!

[Elbereth]

Please write it, unrequited love fine by me though I do like happy endings!
Please?

[Lalaith]

Don't worry! I will write it - just need some time to get the ideas straight in my head... Glorfindel is such a great character that I'm determined to do him justice!!

Watch this space....

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

I'm watching, I'm watching!

[Lalaith]

As promised!

But first, a brief explanation: This is set in Valinor, long after ‘Counsels in Rivendell’. Glorfindel has passed into the West and now dwells in the House of Gil-galad. This is told from his POV and represents his side of a conversation. I do not mention the name of the person to whom he is speaking, but I have dropped extremely heavy hints! I refer to events in ‘Counsels’ from time to time, so some knowledge of that story would probably help. I wrote this as because I was requested to, but it also ties in with my planned sequel (if it ever materialises!) Some inspiration came from one of William Shakespeare’s sonnets. I have reproduced it at the end of the story.

It is a bit of a departure from my usual style...

Be warned – this is a tale of unrequited love! Do not expect a happy ending…

[Lalaith]

Part 1: Shadow and Flame

What can I know about love? You do well to ask, little one. I may be a strong and valiant warrior-lord, but even I have been pierced by the love’s bittersweet dart. It has brought me to my knees and so nearly defeated me.

Yes, I know love but it does not know me. I have lived long in the shadows cast by its fire.

Shadow and flame. It seems that my heart is ever doomed to be consumed by fire.

Ah, I can hear your unasked questions, little one. They are written clearly on your face. Your expressions are like your father’s; easy to read. You wish to know why I have not spoken of this before.

Ones heart is fragile, ones pride even more so.

I have not spoken because I swore I never would. But I know your pain, little one, so for your sake I will tell you what I know of love. I did not ask for it; it found me. I resisted for years; it nearly broke me.

Never surrender your heart to one who cannot keep it.

Do not yearn for a heart that has been bestowed unto another.

Make yourself comfortable, little one, and I will tell you everything, how it began and how it will never end.

I arrived in Rivendell in darkness, my hood covering my face. Two stern guards escorted me down the steep valley path; their confusion was evident but they were too well-trained to ask questions. I had asked to be brought before the Lord of the House. By demanding such an audience before being compelled, I made it clear that I was a visitor of importance. Wordlessly, my companions brought me into the entrance hall of Rivendell. I looked around casually, seemingly intrigued by my surroundings. While my eyes rested on ornate carvings and delicate architectural details, my ears absorbed hurried snatches of whispered conversation from the shadowy corners. Apparently my arrival had created something of a stir among the Elves of Rivendell. It seemed that it was still too soon after the Last Alliance for a lone traveller to be greeted without suspicion. The whispers became louder and more frenetic. At last, I could no longer feign ignorance; they were blatantly discussing me.

“Can the Lord Elrond not receive me?” I enquired. A hush fell in the entrance hall. Evidently, amidst all their frantic exchanges, they had forgotten that I stood mere feet away. Finally, a voice spoke out. The accent was strange to me; but then many years had passed since I had last conversed with an Elf of Middle Earth.

“He is occupied at present, tending the Lady Nîndorien.”

“Is she the Lady of the House?” I asked. Another brief pause followed.

“No, she is a friend of Lord Elrond and greatly esteemed among the Elves of this household. He labours long at her bedside.”

“Take me to him.” My tone was peremptory, giving the impression that I was used to giving orders. This was true, I reminded myself. Although millennia had passed, I had been a captain of Elves, a leader in life and in death. I could not prevent an unpleasant tingle running down my spine before wrenching my thoughts back to my immediate task To my satisfaction, an Elf stepped forward to lead me to the Houses of Healing, although not until a few more sharp words had been exchanged.

The buildings of Rivendell sprawled over a large area; clearly additions and extensions had been made over the years. I was lead along countless passages and climbed many staircases before we arrived at a remote wing of the house. My companion seemed to know the very room in which the lady was kept but when we reached a solid-looking oaken door, inlaid with engravings of leaves and flowers, he hesitated. I waited for a moment and was on the verge of speaking when the door was opened slightly. My companion motioned for me to remain in the corridor and he stepped inside. The soft murmur of voices carried through the door. Through the narrow opening, I saw a bed on which lay a black-haired Elf-lady. Her eyes were open, yet oddly unfocussed. My breath caught in my throat as faint memories scratched at the surface of my mind. Those eyes… like her mother’s… like her uncle’s. Ai, her uncle, my trusted comrade and dear friend; I could see his face so clearly, laughing, smiling… and dying. “Muinalot,” I murmured. The image of a small child appeared before my eyes; a pretty little Elfling, giggling and reaching out towards me with her plump arms.

Suddenly the door swung open, and the Lord of Rivendell himself stood before me, his expression one of suspicious surprise.

“What name did you just utter?” he demanded. I could scarcely refrain from stepping backwards. It seemed that all the ghosts of my past were appearing before me. A shadow of Eärendil stood in the doorway; the Blessed Mariner, another I had held in my arms before he decided, at the age of six, that he was too old for such attentions. Ai, I could hear his sweet voice asking that I fashion him a whistle that he might play music for his mother. I must have become pale and my senses threatened to utterly desert me, for hands reached out and drew me into the room. I was shepherded towards the fireplace. The Lord of the House moved his hand in front of my eyes and he seemed satisfied when I followed the movement with my eyes.

“Forgive my bluntness, sir, but I must request that you remove your hood and state your name. It is obvious that you know the Lady Nîndorien, yet you are a stranger to me.”

“I quite understand.” I lowered my hood and revealed my golden hair. I marvelled at the surprise on the face of the Elves in the room. Perhaps blonde-haired Elves were not common in these parts. Indeed, the Elves of Middle Earth I had met on my journey had been either silver-haired Teleri or the black-haired descendents of the Exiles. “My name is Glorfindel, Captain of the House of the Golden Flower.”

My words were met with a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. I reached into the folds of my cloak and produced two letters. “Perhaps these will prove my claim, Lord Elrond.” The Half-Elf reached for the letters and glanced at the seals on both. Círdan’s crest was familiar to him but his eyes widened when he saw the emblem of Finarfin, High King of the Noldor in Valinor.

“But you…” He stopped, embarrassed, unsure of how to continue.

“Died?” I finished for him. I tried to raise a smile, but unwelcome memories of bright flames and burning flesh raced through my brain. My smile faltered at the recollection and Elrond politely averted his gaze, turning his attention instead to the perusal of the letters. After a few deep breaths to reconfirm my existence, I began to relax and successfully pushed away the searing visions as I had been taught.

The lady on the bed stirred slightly and a handmaiden stepped forward with a goblet of some healing potion. While Elrond was puzzling over the meaning of my arrival, I looked as the sick Elf managed to swallow some of the potion. At length, Elrond seemed satisfied as to my identity and he turned to me with a speculative look; a look I later came to recognise as the precursor to intensive interrogation. Ah, many times have I seen that expression on his face when questioning certain young Elflings about some act of mischief. From personal experience, I know that one cannot long hold out against the determination of the Lord of Rivendell. His voice was kind, but his questions relentless.

“Why have you come to Rivendell?”

“To seek you out.” I could see that this response surprised him, so I explained. “You are the last remaining descendent of Turgon, my liege-lord. To you alone on Middle Earth can my allegiance be given.”

“What of Círdan?”

“The Shipwright neither demands nor expects my loyalty. He was my guide and told me where I might find you.”

“Why have you been sent?”

“I do not think I have been sent.” Again, my honest reply threw him slightly. “I believe that I was called hither.”

“By whom?” His eyebrows knitted together; another of his expressions I have come to recognise with the passage of years. He did not understand and he hated not understanding; he still hates it.

“I do not know. Perhaps I have been summoned by Middle Earth herself.”

“Humph. Her voice must be loud if it can carry across the Sundering Sea.”

“It carries even into the Halls of Mandos.” It is true. All those who have lived and died in Middle Earth can hear her call, mourning the Immortals who anointed her ground with their lifeblood; the Immortals who are not born to fade but have been cruelly slain. As Nienna’s tears wash clean our hurts, so Middle Earth’s cries remind us of every stinging cut we have suffered for the sake of our pride. I shook my head. “In any case, I have not been sent by the Valar; I have been permitted to return but I foresee that messengers will follow my path, even across the sea.”

Elrond’s eyes were wide. “Glorfindel the Beloved of Gondolin. Songs have been sung about you and your great deeds.”

I shrugged, although not out of modesty. Gondolin’s fall had been grievous indeed; it was only right that it was remembered in song. The Half-Elf spoke in a whisper. “I remember the Lady Nîndorien singing the song to me in the haven of Sirion. She said that her mother used to sing it to her.”

[Lalaith]

Her mother. The beautiful Olorwen. Dream-maiden.

I breathed in slowly as I remembered her. The light of her eyes lifted the spirits of all around her. The love between her and the Lord Elemmakil was great, and the daughter born of that love lay gravely ill in the very room in which I found myself. Something was out of joint so I decided that it was my turn to ask questions.

“How did the Lady Muinalot, or rather, Nîndorien, come to be at Rivendell?”

“She has dwelled here since the day the great host of the Last Alliance marched into the east. This valley was known as Imladris then, a refuge and a haven.”

“By all accounts, it still serves as a refuge for the weary,” I commented. “Tell me, what ails the Lady that she lies so unmoving? She does not appear to be injured in body.”

Elrond smiled sadly. “She is injured in spirit; her star has fallen into darkness.”

I spoke crisply, “Pray, do not speak so cryptically. She yearns for something. What is it? Or who?”

“Her beloved, our High King; he fell in the Last Alliance.” The Half-Elf’s anguish was apparent and now it was my turn to look confused. My knowledge of love has widened somewhat since then and I have come to learn something of its relentless timeless power.

“But that was nigh on sixty years ago! Surely she has not lain like this since then!”

“No, indeed not. It is approaching the anniversary of his fall. For many years, she showed no ill-effects at this time of year except for a slight tendency to withdraw into herself. It seems that she suffers profoundly again; it is almost as though she has suffered the loss anew.” Elrond distractedly ran his hand through his black hair. “She has lain like this for a month now. Occasionally she can be roused, and she eats and speaks a little.”

I moved towards the bed, struck again by the likeness between the Lady Nîndorien and her mother. “Muinalot,” I called softly. To my lasting wonder, she blinked slightly and some light returned to her eyes. The Lord Elrond gasped and moved to the other side of the bed, and gently took hold of her hand.

“Call her name again,” he urged.

I did as he requested, and the lady stirred again. I could see confusion on her face but I was greatly encouraged to see that her eyes fixed upon me, not through me as before. Her forehead creased slightly, and her eyes seemed to glow with vague recognition. With great determination, she spoke; carefully and slowly.

“You came. I pleaded for the return of another but you came.” There was no reprobation or disappointment in her voice, though at that moment I doubted that she fully understood who I was. She closed her eyes for a time and re-opened them with effort. Was she surprised to find that I still stood before her? I never found out. Weakly she reached for my hand. “Lord Protector of the Gondolindrim. The Beloved has returned.” She turned her head to face Elrond and smiled for the first time. She removed her hand from his gentle grasp and trembling, she touched his cheek. “Do not weep, dear one. I shall not leave you.” He smiled through his tears and I moved away slowly as they embraced one another. If truth be told, I felt rather awkward but both Elrond and Nîndorien have repeatedly told me since then that it was I who brought her back. I cannot accept the praise for reviving Gondolin’s hidden flower, I simply maintain that my arrival fortuitously coincided with her recovery. A coincidence; nothing more.

It was later that night, as I lay in the chambers that would be my own for the duration of my residence in Rivendell, when I thought over her words.

You came. I pleaded for the return of another but you came.

I can freely admit that I wondered for a while whether I heard her voice carry across the sea. It matters not; I did not return for one person. I returned for the sake of many.

As I stared at the shadowy vaulted ceiling, her face appeared before me.

Ever since then, I have not slept easily. She haunts my dreams, you see.

Ever since then, I have preferred to walk alone in dreams of my own making.

Dreams of shadow and flame.

[Lalaith]

Part 2: Desire and Release

You cannot sleep, little one?

No, neither can I.

Does it hurt being near her again?

Yes and no. I speak to you as one Elf to another, with all our contradictions and ambiguities. I am not well-versed in the language of love, whatever you may think. It hurts being near her but being apart from her is a greater agony. She cares so deeply for my welfare. I think it would destroy her to know what I have felt. She guessed, of course. She stumbled over my heart on one snowy day in Rivendell. I was careless; I did not conceal the fire I felt when I was near her. She knew that I loved her but not even she could perceive the depth of my feelings.

We stood looking out over the grounds of Rivendell. We observed your return, little one. When we greeted you in the entrance hall, you did not sense my turmoil. Ai, I was more upset at having exposed her to hurt than I was about my own welfare. I spent a few days apart from her, only speaking to her if we passed in the passageways. I know she felt pain at the distance between us. I certainly felt it to the core.

It is strange, sitting here in the house of one I should resent yet I cannot dislike him. He is worthy of her, more worthy than I. I think I learned that on the night we heard of the downfall of Sauron.

I was asked to play in the Hall of Fire. Don’t look so surprised, little one. Do not think that you and your brother are the only ones who can persuade me to pick up a harp. Well, I played a tune such as I have never played before. Every emotion I felt poured from the strings of the harp. Sorrow, despair, longing and victory; all flowed from my heart. It was strange, every Elf in the room was uplifted by that song, for it ended on a note of pure joy, pure release. Every Elf, that is, except one. Nîndorien fled from the hall. Once I had extricated myself from the Elves who clustered around me, I went after her.

I found her on a large balcony. She sat on a stone seat, sobbing. The sound tore at my heart. At that moment, I longed to hold her in my arms, to comfort her and to placate my own traitorous heart. It took every ounce of strength I possessed not to gather her to me and kiss her. The last time I required such strength… well, little one, it cost me my life.

We spoke a little. She accused me of betraying her confidence for my song had reflected her life. I told her that the song had come from my own heart, weak and weary though it was. Her song was not complete; that is why she suffered so. She had not yet reached the final notes of triumph.

“You miss him, don’t you?” I asked. My heart rose up within me, damning me for being such a fool. She nodded and apologised. Her heart was sick with weariness, for she had given so much of herself to our beloved Undómiel, yet her heart’s desire remained unfulfilled. I told her she had to pass West. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but my pain eased a little when I told her that I would remain in Middle Earth for a time. She looked at me with sorrow, she didn’t want to lose me, she said.

Of course she would never lose me. She is the keeper of my heart. I cannot survive indefinitely without her. She does not know it and I would not burden her with the knowledge that she gives me hope and life.

I took her in my arms then, not as the lover I longed to be, but as a comforter. I soothed her as though she were an Elfling again. She drifted into an uneasy sleep and I sang to her a lullaby of Gondolin. I do not know what dreams troubled her but I feared that she might slip again into despair. I held her close to my heart, in the hope that she might hear its beat and remain. When the lullaby was over, I carried her to her bed. The corridors of Rivendell were strangely deserted. We passed no one. I laid her down on the bed and covered her with a blanket. Still she dreamed and her forehead was creased with anguish. Before I realised what I was doing, I bent over and kissed her, softly.

Did I bring her back? I cannot say. I doubt she had travelled far into the darkness but as I watched, she smiled in her sleep.

Once the night had passed, I felt a sense of release. Perhaps I had shared some of my burden with her, perhaps some of her burden had passed to me; I do not know. She tried in vain to persuade me to travel into the west with the rest of the household whenever the time came, but I refused. I do not think I would have been strong enough to witness her reunion with her heart’s keeper.

Ay, even as she became whole I would have shattered. I needed to draw my strength from my beloved Middle Earth. Woe that we lived to see it fading, you and I.

Where were we? Ah yes, we travelled together to Gondor.

I see that expression, little one. I am aware that she disowned me and the Lord Erestor after Lothlórien to seek merrier travelling companions. Yes, I know we brought it on ourselves by turning the conversation to politics. I do wish you would learn to smile with a little less self-satisfaction, little one. It cannot be held against me that the Lady Nîndorien sought more light-hearted cloth-headed companions. I learned early on that no one can usurp your position in the lady’s affections and I rather suspect that her husband will soon learn the same!

I think the greatest pain was reserved for the nights we spent at Edoras. We spoke with the white lady of the Rohirrim on the evening before our departure. The Lady Nîndorien and I engaged in a rather frivolous conversation and Lady Éowyn misunderstood our level of intimacy. Neither Nîndorien nor I were willing to correct her. Ah, she clasped my hand and her touch was like flame. I could only respond with a sad smile. Once again, my emotions were less well-concealed than I would have liked but in that moment I could hide nothing from her. I walked her to her accommodation and she apologised again.

Ai! That hurt me. Not her apology, but rather that I had made her feel it was necessary. Because of a need to comfort me, she had apologised for love.

Let that be a lesson to you, little one! Never apologise for the direction your heart takes. Love cannot be forced but when it is granted, it is irrevocable, for better, for worse. Now that I have seen her with her beloved, I would not wish to change it. Some things are meant to be, I am certain.

How can I be so sure? Listen to me: suppose I had not fallen? Suppose by some miracle, I had escaped the fall of Gondolin? I would have witnessed her growing up, changing from Elfling to Elf-maiden to the beautiful lady you know now. What would I have been to her? An uncle perhaps, like the Lord Ecthelion. Or even like a father. I believe that I was always meant to love her yet she was always meant to fall in love with another.

That night in Edoras, my mind was filled with conflicting emotions that conspired to tear me apart. I walked under the stars for the whole night and by the time the sun rose I had bullied my thoughts into order. Oh, I was trained well after my rebirth to quell unwelcome emotions from my first life. I simply adapted the technique to encompass feelings from my second life. We rode to Gondor and I focused on the steady beat of Asfaloth’s hooves.

Our entry into Minas Tirith stung me back into reality. Do you remember, little one? Those days spent in the City of Men were joyous, the pinnacle of joy coming when Nîndorien and I sang together. Do not try to claim the credit, little one! You may have pushed us, but the song was ours; our moment of tranquillity and unity. Ah, the sound of her voice made me forget my woes. It is somewhat paradoxical is it not, that she made me forget her own existence? I was content at that moment, content to live from breath to breath, from heartbeat to heartbeat. Even the unnerving emptiness between heartbeats did not distress me. When we finished, our eyes met and I knew. I yielded then. No, do not misunderstand me. I did not yield to my feelings but I gave up the faithless hope I had unwisely cherished.

I still love her as though her lifeblood was mine. She still gives me hope, not that I might find release from this tortuous love, but rather that I might draw strength from it. We are in the Blessed Realm, after all, where even a love that is to be forever denied is holy.

These are my last words to you, little one: treasure love above all things. If you know your love to be returned, act upon it. If you know it to be genuine, seize it with both hands.

Do not grieve for me. My spirit is strong; it burns with a white light. The slain who live again know the cost of life; we will not hurl it aside.

Do not follow my path, for it is lonely and it is dark.

My desire drives me on and gives me strength.

[Lalaith]

And the inspiration...

~Sonnet no. 116~
William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never write, nor no man ever loved.



-I know that he didn't have immortal Elves in mind when he wrote it, but it seemed apt nonetheless!

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

He's gotta be talking to either Elladan or Elrohir.

[Lalaith]

Just to break the news... there will be no more stories from me for about 6-8weeks - have some fairly crucial exams, fast approsching, but when they are out of the way, I will proceed with Bliss in Valinor. And Evil of the Fourth Age (the end of which is written...just need to fill in the gaps!)

i'll still come online periodically to keep up with everyone else's stories, but I really won't be able to write anything myself!
Oh - and Glorfie was talking to Elrohir in the previous piece (good call, Dawn)!

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

Thank you...I knew it was one of the twins.

[Bess the Bard]

Lalaith,

Again, I am tardy in my reading and reviewing of this wonderful piece. I loved it and, ok I'll admit it! You moved me to tears. Unrequited love, truly bittersweet. Not melodramatic or sappy. Just the right tone. You write Elvish characters with a masterful touch I frankly haven't quite seen in any other fanfic.

I look forward to more from you but I understand about Real Life. I'll still be here, waiting. *Sniff*

:grin:

TTFN.

[Lalaith]

Wow, Bess - I am truly overwhelmed by your comments both here and on TORC! :blush: And to think I started out just writing these for myself!

With this story, I don't think I knew how deep Glorfindel's feelings went until I starting writing it. My opinion of the character is that he is strong enough to carry the burden of unrequited love and perceptive enough to understand its implications but he is still deeply hurt by it, almost to the point of destruction. The very fact that he feels so deeply yet still made himself speak of it to Elrohir should give some indication of Elrohir's plight in the sequel. And I am evil enough to leave y'all hanging there! :wicked:

As I said, I will drop in here from time to time to monitor the progress of other people's stories - Gilrond's Children and Merry's Mission are at the top of that list, by the way!!

You have not heard the last from me!;)

[Aragorn's Latest Lay]

I cannot believe it has taken so long for me to read this Lalaith.

It's superb, absolutely blew me away. I was only disappointed on reading it to discover that you will not be doing any real writing for another six to eight weeks! Is this true?

I look forward to reading more of your work. Please don't wait 8 weeks!

A.L.L.

[Lalaith]

Thank you so much A.L.L!! So glad you liked it - and I'm afraid it's true - I really can't write anymore till my exams are over! I do have the sequel plotted out though, so, as soon as exams are out of the way, I will press on!
(Just to really torture everyone, I have the first chapter of the sequel written... but you're gonna have to wait.... :grin: )
If you wanna read any other stuff - I have three other story threads here - there's a Legolas fanfic (I think everyone is contractually obliged to write at least one), 'Counsels in Rivendell' (that's the one I like most - but hope to better it in the sequel!) and 'Evil of the Fourth Age' (also unfinished, I'm afraid, and far less philosophical than 'Counsels' !)

[Lalaith]

Just to keep people happy, here is a short fairytale I will be using in the sequel to Counsels - the prologue of which is in the new fanfic section.

This is just a simple fairytale - I think of it as an Elvish bedtime story - it is very derivative of Tolkien, and maybe some of you will pick up on the references to my own characters... who knows? :huh:

~*~*~*~

In a far distant land, there lived a king in a beautiful palace by the sea. His kingdom was fair and free, though it was often troubled by darkness. Nevertheless, his palace was always filled with light and song, and dreams of hope. One starlit evening, after all the merrymaking had drawn to a close, the king walked through the shadowy passageways of his palace. He paused by a window to look down upon a small walled garden, in the centre of which grew a tall tree. The sound of singing reached the king’s ears and even as he looked, the figure of a pretty black-haired maiden appeared from the shadows cast by the tree. She danced and sang beneath the stars and the king was captivated. He did not recognise the maiden, which surprised him, for he thought he knew all of his subjects. Fearing that he might miss the opportunity to speak with her, he quickly ran down the stairs and out into the garden.

His heart sank when he realised that the sound of singing had stopped, and all was silent save for the distant crashing of waves. Sorrowfully, he approached the tree and was amazed to find not a maiden, but a small bright flower growing between the tree roots. He could not understand how so beautiful a flower could grow in the shade of a tree so mighty. Surely the tree roots would suffocate it and the widespread branches would block the sunlight. Shaking his head, he walked back into the palace, wondering as to the whereabouts of the maiden.

The following day, he asked his counsellors and advisors, his courtiers and subjects, if any knew the fair maiden whom he had seen dancing in the starlight. None knew of her and this grieved the king greatly. That night, he walked again through his palace and again he heard the sound of a soft melody drifting in from the garden. He looked out of the window and he saw the maiden again. His spirit sang out as he saw her dancing and laughing and full of joy. He caught a brief glimpse of her dark eyes reflecting the light of the stars and again, he made his way down through the palace to the garden.

Once again, he was disappointed for, when he reached the garden, it was empty again. He walked up to the tree and looked upon the small flower again. Sighing, he circled the tree before throwing himself upon the ground and staring up at the stars.

“Where are you, o star maiden?” he wondered aloud. “Would that you danced for me, even as you dance for the stars of heaven.” He closed his eyes, and listened to the sound of the sea murmuring mournfully in the darkness of night. Twice, he thought that he heard a soft step nearby but when his eyes flew open, he was alone. He lay there till morning came and the bright light of the sun banished the soft starlight into memory alone. Stretching as he stood up, his attention was drawn by the flower which stood under the tree. Its colourful petals had folded inward as if it were hiding its face from the garish sunlight. “I do not blame you for concealing your bright face, hidden flower,” murmured the king. “Like you, I long for starlight when perchance I may look upon a rare beauty and hear a spellbinding song not meant for mine eyes or ears.”

That night, the king stood by the window looking down at the garden and sure enough, the sound of a clear sweet voice reached his ears and out from the shadows of the tree stepped the maiden. He watched with sorrow and joy, for he delighted in seeing such beauty but mourned that she danced not for him. As he stood there, he thought deeply as to how he might achieve such a thing until, at last, he contrived a plan. He put forward all the magics known to him, and wove an enchantment so powerful that the waves of the sea paused in their movements and the wind seemed to hold its breath. The king wrought for himself a new appearance; one of a star of blinding radiance in the centre of the night sky.

And so, as his light shone down upon the maiden, she laughed for joy and held her arms towards this new star and sang a tune of entrancing beauty. Thus they remained for the duration of the night, until the sun began to rise and the king returned to his normal form and the maiden hid her face from view.

For many months, king and maiden passed their nights in this way. He would shine upon her, giving her light and love, and she would sing to him from sunset to sunrise. During the daytime, the king’s subjects commented on the air of peace and contentment that hung about him and all spoke of how his face seemed to glow with a magnificent radiance.

The days began to grow shorter as winter approached, and the nights grew long. The king was joyful for this meant that he could spend longer in the bliss of the maiden’s singing and dancing. One day, however, he walked in the garden and a few flakes of snow began to fall from the sky, increasing in number until the air was thick with whiteness. He ran to the tree and his heart almost stopped. The flower was nowhere in sight. With great care, the king cleared away the snow from the tree base, before sinking onto his knees and weeping. Before him, the little flower had withered and lay broken on the ground beneath the weight of the snow. Wiping his tears away, the king remained kneeling beneath the tree until the snow all but buried him. He looked like a white statue in a colourless world. The light left his face and he closed his eyes. He remained there until night began to fall softly.

The king was oblivious to all around him until he heard a soft sound in front of him. He opened his eyes, and great was his surprise when he saw the maiden standing before him. The withered flower was nowhere to be seen. She laughed quietly and held out her hand towards him. He was filled with an unsurpassed joy for she did not fear him nor did she try to hide. As he looked into her eyes, he saw that she loved him, not as a star but for what he was, a proud and noble king, with all his faults and failings.

The very next day the king and the maiden were married, and the whole kingdom celebrated the king’s happiness. From then on, the maiden danced for the king alone and they could oft be found walking beneath the stars, singing together of love and peace.

[Lalaith]

On the off-chance that people are still checking this thread out, here is a link for another angsty piece! Enjoy (or not)!

WAKING
http://www.warofthering.net/storyline1.8/story.php?no=31

[Dawnnamira Nerwen]

I'm still here! :p

Am going to the story now...