Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Flame of Gondolin, book 2: Miss Independent (#4453)
Author: Malinwen
Chapters: 16

Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: Every Elda is predestined. Gondolin has fallen. Doriath is no more. A new colony rises in the Sirion delta - but Maedhros has not yet put his Oath to rest. We join Anárië as she strives to build a life for herself after all she held dear was lost, and the Second Age of Middle Earth begins. Book 2 of the series. Alphabetical character list added at the end.
Published: 07 Jan 2013
Updated: 10 Aug 2013
Warnings: kinslaying, angst
Type: Action/adventure
Characters: OFC; Elrond; Gil-galad; Elves of Lindon


Chapter 1 - Prologue

So, by keeping her heart protected, she'd never ever feel rejected …


FLAME OF GONDOLIN
part 2:

MISS INDEPENDENT\r\n\r\n


Author: Malinwen
Type: Action/Adventure
Fandom: Silmarillion – Alternate Universe – Femme Fatale
Pairing: various
Rating: PG-13

Warnings:
The Second Age in Middle Earth, kinslaying, wandering, angst

Disclaimer:
I do not own the Silmarillion or any of the characters of J.R.R.Tolkien, but I do hold credit over Anárië as she is my creation entirely. The story was partly inspired by Kelly Clarkson's hit-single Miss Independent, but is in no way affiliated with it.

This is part two of a six part story, covering a range of years from the end of the colony at Sirion to the forging of the Great Rings.

Feedback: always appreciated!

Elvish: will be translated at the end of each chapter, though I promise no perfection.

Also special thanks to the wonderful Eldalie for her comments and help with polishing this story up!

***

PROLOGUE
Autumn, 532 FA

Anárië placed her feet carefully as she walked over the leafy blanket. The morning was calm, if misty. The wisps rising from the great delta behind her had begun appearing thickly as winter drew near. There was no telling when they would suddenly envelop you and cut you off from all you held dear. Yet she was in no hurry.

That morning, the wind was in the East, and she was on the western bank. This would give her some more time, if only she would not forget to take care of the shifts in the treacherous breeze.

Loathe she had been to leave Elwing, especially this far into her pregnancy, but they needed the meat. The lady of the colony was weakened with her condition, and while she normally avoided anything that ran on four legs, Anárië had persuaded her that a thick rabbit stew would give her some strength back. This was the main reason why she was out so early in the morning, when everyone else was still abed, or waiting for the fishermen to return.

Slowly lowering herself into a crouch, the elleth crumbled some leaves upon her gloved palm, watching as they were carried away, and nodded; this would be a good spot.

Deftly, she set up the trap Galdor had taught her to do, and concealed it, before resuming her course. If she could get something more than just a rabbit, she would be content.

Sniffing the air, something she’d had to learn ever since they’d been forced to abandon their ancient mountain home, she stole among the undergrowth, following a scent she could feel on the breeze. There were deer somewhere in the forest right now. As much as it pained her to, Anárië knew that if she were to kill one and bring it home, Elwing would feel even better.

She saw the herd soon afterwards, and stopped to take the bow from its hold on her back. An arrow was drawn from the quiver and quietly notched. The wind was still in her favour, the animals had not detected her yet. Her shoulders ached from where she had taken the fall yesterday during a mock-duel with Egalmoth, but she clenched her teeth and drew the string back.

For a moment, she felt strong, gentle hands upon her own, and a breath upon her cheek.

"My lady!"

The herd lifted their heads at the sound, and scattered noisily; Anárië cursed and lowered the bow, knowing it was fruitless to shoot after the fleeing animals.

Instead, she turned to see who had interrupted her.

"Lady Anárië!"

Hendor was running towards her, and her heart jumped to her throat. Since Idril had sailed with Tuor, Hendor had taken care of Eärendil's household with some others.

Quickly, she retraced her steps: "Hendor, what happened?"

The Elf was breathing heavily: "'Tis Elwing, m'lady – her pains have started."

Anárië's eyes widened as she resumed her pace, and Hendor turned to go with her.

"When?"

"An hour or so after you left; I came as fast as I could."

She placed a hand upon his shoulder and lengthened her strides.

"And the lord?"

"His ship has not yet been seen; we wished to find you first."

She pursed her lips together and gauged the distance between the settlement and where they were currently.

"Hendor, have you strength left?"

He gave her a look that silenced any doubts she might have harboured.

"Then make haste back to the river – there is a hunting party on the eastern shore. Light the beacon in the tower, and send the signal."

Hendor nodded, "Two long, three short, two long?"

She nodded, and without another word, they both sprang from their walk; the ellon darted away from her towards where the rushing of the river could be heard, and Anárië ran as fast as she was able, back in the direction of the settlement.

Eärendil and she had devised a signal for just this instance, if he were to be at sea when his wife went into labour. The elleth could only hope that his ship was close enough to shore that he would see the beacon through the mist.

Her feet drummed lightly against the ground as she ran, back the way she came, making sure to inhale through her nose. The air was chilly and moist. Hunting would have to wait until later.

Leaves flew from under her boots and she pushed branches aside as she went, jumping over roots and rotting logs, forgetting about the trap she'd set earlier. Elwing needed her. Tuor would never forgive her if she allowed his daughter-in-law to face the pain of first childbirth alone when his son was at sea.

She burst through the foliage and ran into a startled Elf who had just been passing by the more conventional path.

"I'm sorry!" she cried back across her shoulder as she dismantled herself and ran on; Elves were awake and about now, and they gave her startled looks as she breezed by them, making a bee-line towards the largest of the houses.

Outside, she was met by Hendor's young son.

"M'lady! Atar found you."

She needed a moment to catch her breath, and she used it to hand him her bow and arrows.

"Yes; how is she?"

The child turned his head towards the entrance: "In pain."

Anárië ruffled his hair gently and stepped through the door into the bustling house. Immediately, one of the ellith within grabbed her by the arm:

"Thank goodness Hendor found you! Come, the lady asks for you – what happened to your hair?"

Only then did Anárië realise that her mad dash through the trees had probably not ended all that well.

"I ran."

The handmaiden made a snorting sound and quickly plucked leaves out of the golden tresses, and even found a twig in there while they made their way to the master bedroom. Ecthelion's daughter could already hear the mistress of the colony. Her steps became faster again and she slipped through the door just as another handmaiden was exiting.

Elwing was propped high on pillows, her hair a cascading chaos around her; her wild eyes aligned on Anárië.

"Anná! Hendor found you …"

She smiled and quickly took a seat by the raven-haired woman's side, kissing her temple: "He ran fast; I was not far. How is it?"

The young woman grimaced: "Painful. Regularly and fast now. Eärendil -"

"- has been sent for," Anárië cut her off, "I gave orders for the beacon to be lit. He should be here soon."

If he values the skin he wears, she added as an after-thought within her mind, but smiled reassuringly and took Elwing's hand in her own, giving it a squeeze.

Elwing's body shook with the force of her next pain, and Anárië wished she could do more than sit there and encourage her, wiping her face with a damp cloth. The morning drew on, and through the window, she could see the mist had lifted.

Even as she acknowledged that, there was the sound of a horn outside.

Elwing gave a startled cry, but Anárië laughed: "That is uncle Galdor's horn! They have come!"

Galdor had gone with Eärendil and the others upon the fishing excursion, and hearing his horn meant that they had seen the beacon sign, and hastened home.

Sure enough, someone burst through the main door, and moments later, the tall form of the Lord of the Havens framed the doorway to the bedroom. Anárië was struck once more by the likeness he bore to Tuor and Turgon; but his eyes were his mother's. And they were relieved, if slightly frightened.

"Elwing …"

The smile upon the Lady's face lit the room, and Anárië stood to allow Eärendil to sit in her spot, tugging his cloak off as she did so.

"I came as fast as I could, beloved, as soon as we saw that the beacon was lit."

As he spoke, his eyes lifted to where his guardian and mentor stood, their depths filled with thanks. The golden-haired elleth smiled.

"'Tis good to see you know when to make haste, son of Tuor."

He laughed, but Elwing cried out in pain and mirth was cut short. Anárië sent all but one of the other women out and closed the door behind them.

"There my lady, almost time now," said the other elleth and patted Elwing's shoulder gently; the woman didn't seem convinced, and didn't like the cheerfulness of the midwife either.

"You said that when this started!"

Eärendil gave Anárië a startled look; she hid the smile threatening to bloom across her features as the midwife shrugged: "It gets worse before it gets better."

As testimony to that, Elwing suddenly screamed and clawed at her husband's hand. Anárië quickly followed the midwife's instructions, and told Eärendil to be a man and hold his wife while she laboured to deliver their child into the world. He looked about ready to bolt.

They shifted positions so that he was now behind her, holding her against his chest and keeping her as steady as possible; her breathing spiked, the midwife cooed in delight – and all of a sudden, the cry of a baby filled the room.

Anárië had her fingers upon her lips as she watched the miracle before her, the small, wailing bundle in the midwife's hands, the look of exhausted pride on Elwing's face, and the joy and wonder upon Eärendil's.

And then Elwing suddenly tensed, and clutched at her belly again.

"Oh! I think she might have twins," the midwife cried, "were there twins in your family, m'lady?"

Elwing was lost in her pain; it was Eärendil who answered: "She had older brothers, twins. They were killed in the fall of Menegroth."

The elleth nodded, and turned to Anárië, who all of a sudden found herself looking down at the scrunched face of the baby.

"Hold him."

She'd never held a baby before; Eärendil had been crawling when she'd first dared to lift him into her arms. The baby she was currently entrusted with complained loudly for being thrust into the cruel, cold world outside his mother's womb. Upon instinct, Anárië pulled him closer to herself, cradling him gently and trying to keep him warm with her body.

"Shhh, little one," she soothed, and he quieted slightly; she was struck by how beautiful he was. So tiny, so helpless, yet so precious.

It all happened quickly after that – Elwing gave another cry, and then the midwife held the second baby up for her to see.

"Sons, my lady! Two healthy, strong boys."

Elwing slumped back against her husband, and Eärendil craddled her to him, his lips pressed against her temple as tears of joy slipped down his cheeks.

Anárië helped the midwife clean both of the boys, and take the soiled sheets away, and then she was dismissed; Eärendil was towed out just enough so that this could all be achieved without his presence. He was admitted back soon enough, and Anárië gladly placed his firstborn son into his arms. Elwing held the other.

"They are beautiful," she said to her husband, and he smiled in agreement, kissing her gently.

Anárië was just about to make her quiet exit, when all of a sudden two pairs of eyes were upon her, and she froze on the spot.

Elwing looked at her with a plea in her eyes, "Anná – would you …"

She faltered, and fell silent. Eärendil cleared his throat.

"We were wondering if ... you would be inclined to watch over our children."

She frowned: a wet nurse? But Eärendil beat her to the punch: "Like you did with me. It is important – we are not in the safety of Gondolin here. It is important."

And she understood.

"Are you asking an oath of me, son of Tuor?"

His gaze met hers: "I am, if you are willing."

There was a whisper in the room, like a warning; but Anárië was on her knee in front of the bed, in front of her liege-lord and his family, and for a moment, she saw again the small boy she had carried out of the burning mountain kingdom.

She pulled out the knife his father had given her, what seemed like an Age ago. The blade cut through her palm, and it stung; but it was a good pain.

"This I swear, and the Valar are my witness, that I am bound to the House of Eärendil from now until he or one of his own release me, or death take me. My blood is their blood, my life their own. May Mandos find me swiftly should I break my sacred vow."


Atar - Quenya form of 'father, dad'


Chapter 2 - Chapter I

CHAPTER ONE
Winter, 538 FA

In autumn, there were many-coloured leaves everywhere in the dense woods that surrounded the great delta of the river Sirion. If one stood at the farthest point to the West of it, he could but barely see the eastern bank, and the tall tower they had constructed there. To the West were their eyes ever turned – and yet fishermen had better luck to the East. It was for that reason that there was always light atop the eastern tower as autumn drew to a close. The last ships were returning home with their catch for the winter.

Upon the western bank, the colony that had been founded years ago, as the great kingdoms in the heart of Middle Earth fell to the malice of Thangorodrim, was quickly expanding. Survivors fled to the delta from every corner, seeking refuge. Among them were some with alarming news about the Fëanorions; the kinslayers had not yet laid their father's Oath to rest.

This troubled the elders, especially Egalmoth, who had once ridden with Maedhros in Aman. He knew the Oath well, and what it meant to the sons of Fëanor. It was for this reason that he had asked his niece to hasten her swordsmanship. The twins needed a true protector – as did the great jewel hidden and locked among the family heirlooms.

It had been years since the elleth had taken her own Oath to rival that of Fëanor and his sons, and her charges were just growing out of the initial clumsy state of toddlers. They were inquisitive boys, just as their father had been in his youth, and as they grew they reminded Anárië more and more of little Eärendil.

Unfortunately, he was not so little anymore.

Emerald green eyes bore into a pair of blue ones.

"Eärendil, your parents have made their choice. You cannot continue this endless search! You have sons who need their father. Will you abandon them yet again?"

The tall man averted his gaze. He knew well that his old mentor was making a sound point. And yet his mind and his heart were telling him different things.

"Elrond and Elros are old enough to understand," he answered finally.

Anárië threw her hands in the air and walked around the table in the main area of his house, resting her palms against it as she faced him again.

"The twins may understand, but that does not mean they don't miss their father. They are six years old, Eärendil. You cannot ask them to be young adults already."

She wished she could get through to him somehow; all her attempts thus far had been in vain. The elleth tried again: "Tuor and Idril are beyond our reach now, my prince. Do you think I do not grieve them? For all I know they could have perished at sea. That does not mean you will see me sailing across the sea in a ship, searching for them for the rest of my living days! I would not, if I had two young sons as you do."

He could not meet her gaze. Anárië bit her lower lip in silent frustration, wishing he would have been as easily persuaded now as years before in Gondolin.

When Elwing had come to her that morning, saying that her husband was preparing Vingilot for another long journey, she did not know what to think. After his return that spring, she'd thought he had finally given up on his quest, but it did not appear to be so. True, he always sailed with the fishermen because his ship was largest; she did not begrudge him that. What she did not like, however, was how he seemed bent on a course so far away from all he held dear. Anárië wanted to scream her irritation at him. Could he not see that he was needed at home? What madness drove him constantly to sea?

"Eärendil," she said in a calmer voice, waiting until he looked at her before she continued, "When your father left, he made you Lord of the Havens of Sirion. What good does that title do you if you are never here to use it? For all intents and purposes, it is Elwing that leads this colony, not you. She cannot do it alone."

"She has you, does she not?"

The golden-haired elleth felt her eyes narrow against her will, making the man before her blanch lightly. After the Fall of Gondolin, Anárië's patience had grown thin, especially where family matters were concerned.

"I am not her husband."

Eärendil flinched at the unspoken reproach. He knew she was right – he couldn't recall a time while growing up during when she wouldn't have been – but something pulled him to sea again. He could not refuse the call – he wanted to find his parents. And he wanted to let the Valar know of the happenings in Middle Earth.

Morgoth's arm had grown long indeed since the fall of the Elven kingdoms. The kinslayings had helped with that. When Elwing and the remnant of what had once been the people of Doriath had reached the mouth of Sirion to form the colony, they had been a bedraggled lot, with only one valuable item in their midst: Elwing, and the Silmaril her father Dior had worn. The reason for their flight had not been Morgoth and his army but Maedhros, who had led his brothers to fulfil their Oath, thus performing the second of the great Kinslayings. It seemed no one could be trusted anymore.

And Anárië had a bad feeling. Her dreams had become plagued of late, though not with visions she could explain or even name when morning drew her from her bed. It was simply a feeling deep inside her, telling her to be careful.

Something was coming. She could feel it.

"Elwing does not want you to leave again," she said, using her young friend as a last resort, "though she will not say it to your face. I have no such inhibitions as she has – I will tell you frankly, Eärendil, if you leave again I will not give you my blessing."

His eyes met hers again. The gentle elleth Eärendil remembered from his years of early childhood was gone, sharpened against the world's ragged ends. He could still see her, sometimes, when she played with his sons, but whatever was left of the maiden of Gondolin was locked deep within her.

It was only the knowledge that she had lost both father and husband in the same day that stopped him from storming out of their heated debates more often. She was the only remnant of his family left, the last that remained of his old life. Usually, he could not refuse her. This time, however, it was different.

"I must, Anárië. I have no choice. Do not ask me why – I simply must. I will go without your blessing, if that is your decision."

Her heart contracted painfully at those words, and yet she could not bring herself to take her threat back. He was pushing the limits, they both knew it, and neither was willing to back down. Only Glorfindel had been able to rise higher than Anárië in such arguments; Eärendil had not the fallen Lord's strength of will.

The elleth pushed away from the table.

"You are as stubborn as your father was before you – so be it. Do not look for me upon your leave-taking."

Without another word, she swept past him and through the door, leaving him standing alone.

The wind whipped her hair and her dress the moment she was out of shelter. It was another windy, bitter winter this close to the Sea. To someone who had grown up encircled with mountains, it was hardly something to worry about, true, but the waves were high again with the tide coming in, and wild. Anárië's thoughts turned to Elrond and Elros, and she worried for a moment. They could wander on their own at rather inappropriate times, especially when she did not have them in her sight. They truly were scions of their father's line.

Hopefully, they would not also inherit his temper, or if they would, they would also learn how to bow their heads to someone who knew better.

Frustrated, she ran her fingers through her hair and walked away from the house, following the well-worn path that would lead to the cliffs. While the delta was low and flat, the shores that stretched to either side of it where it met the sea were jagged and treacherous.

They were also calming to her at the moment.

Anárië lifted a low-lying branch out of the way and let it fall once she was on the other side, making her way through the small thicket that lay between her and her goal. Her steps quickened the more she thought about Eärendil and their latest argument.

He had no right to leave again! No right to leave his sons, who kept asking when their father would return. No right to leave his wife, who grew gaunter and hollow-eyed whenever his sails disappeared beyond the horizon.

Her anger made her swat a branch away and almost run out of the trees into the open; a gust of wind embraced her. The waves roared against the rocks bellow, their spray rising and dampening her face.

Anárië closed her eyes and let her head fall back a little, embracing the elements of nature. If she strained her ears hard enough, she thought she could hear the sound of Ulmo's horns in the water; more often than not lately, though, she was sure it was Ossë who commanded the treacherous currents around the colony.

Wind whipped her sleeves and hair back as she stood there, and she opened her eyes again to see the grey nothing before her. She wanted to scream – but no scream would come. She had lost the ability to show her deeper emotions to the world the day her life had fallen apart.

And just like that, what little inner peace she had was shattered further, and Anárië whirled around again with a curse, stalking back the way she came.

She did not need the wind to bring back memories of a past she had no need for. Thinking of what could have been would not feed her or clothe her. Her stomach clenched as she fought the raging tide of emotions sweeping through her, and she placed a hand protectively over it, her fingers curling into the fabric there.

She would never have the chance to bear a child.

The thought made her even angrier, and she snapped a branch off as she went, feeling even worse than before. Hendor saw her from afar and waved, but she did not see his greeting. He, however, could very well see the clouds hovering above her.

"She is in a foul mood again," he commented to his son, who followed his father's eyes.

"Lord Eärendil means to sail tomorrow," he supplied, "I think they might have argued."

Hendor sighed; that would quite possibly be the reason for her foul mood, yes. And it would do no good for anyone to cross paths with her for days now.

"Keep to yourself, and do not speak to her unless she speaks to you," he advised the younger Elf, "she does not need more reason to be upset."

"I do not upset her," the boy exclaimed, insulted. Hendor chuckled.

"Intentionally, no. But the last time you and the twins went off on your own …"

He laughed as the tips of his son's ears went pink, and they resumed their work.

True to the boy's words, Eärendil did indeed wish to set sail the next day, but his leave was delayed because his ship could not be prepared on time. The day after, however, all was ready for them to sail upon the evening tide.

Anárië knew this, but she had left the colony soon after the midday meal, with her bow beside her and her father's sword upon her back. It was more for comfort than for practical reasons; she was still not sure enough in herself to properly wield it. But today she felt like she needed reassurance only her father would have been able to give, and the only thing left from him were scrapes – and his sword. She had the rest, along with precious items she had salvaged from Glorfindel, in a trunk in her bedroom. Out of those, she had adapted the habit of wearing his vambraces every day.

Now she was sitting in the thicket of trees upon the cliffs, aimlessly running a cloth up and down the sword's blade. She knew the intricate markings upon it by heart, as well as those upon the hilt and scabbard.

Her head rested back against the trunk of the tree, the wind howling outside her shelter.

"Atar, I do not know what to do."

Her voice was barely above a whisper; she did not wish for anyone to ever know that she spoke like this. They would think she had lost what little sanity she had left. That, and she did not wish to bring further grief to Egalmoth, who was out with every hunting party he could so he did not sit still and remember. Galdor was the same.

"He is leaving again, Atar, and I could not stop him. He's leaving his family behind."

The sword was silent, as were the trees around her. The only sound was the gentle swish as she cleaned the already-clean blade.

Her palm tingled. The scar she'd made with her blood Oath had healed quickly after Elrond and Elros had been born, but it was no less dangerous, and a constant reminder of what she had done, and sworn to do.

Anárië sighed and paused in her movements.

"I wish you were here, Atar. You would know what to say to keep him with his wife and sons."

The wind rustled by her and scattered the leaves that had not yet disappeared; there was a soft keening sound in the air.

"I know – I should have been firmer. I should have ordered him not to go."

But that would never have worked, and well she knew it. Eärendil was not one to be trifled with anymore, not since coming to manhood. Anárië could not control him now.

The wind seemed to agree with her. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend that the breeze upon her cheeks were her father's fingers.

"I miss you, Atar. You should've been here with us. With me."

There was no answer, and she expected none. He was at peace now, hopefully with her mother, and they would have no more reason to be parted. Anárië let the sword rest in her lap as she buried her face in her hands.

A horn was blown.

She didn't move from her position, but she knew it well; the double call of the mighty ship Eärendil sailed with. He was leaving. Her heart felt like it was bleeding anew, for the boy she could sometimes still see in his eyes; the boy who had had to grow up too fast, who had lost too much.

It took her a moment, but then she was on her feet, the sword swiftly pushed back into the scabbard, and Anárië broke free of the trees, rushing onto the cliff.

There, out of the delta and moving swiftly with the tide and the wind, was his ship.

Her feet planted firmly on the ground, she now stood as still as a statue, the wind pushing and pulling her hair forward around her face.

She could see movement on the ship, the sailors running to catch as much of the wind as possible, rushing to meet the demands of their captain. The vessel was too far away for her to call out – and did she even want to? She had told Eärendil not to look for her when he left. That she was not there when he set sail was the clearest sign of her malcontent with his venture.

Even as the ship braved the waves and went further out, she knew the answer to her own question.

Yes, she did. And she wanted to hold him one last time, the boy who had become a man too soon. Her cheeks were stained with tears she did not know had fallen. The mists upon the waters were engulfing the ship. He had not looked back.

And then, just before the vessel was lost, there was suddenly a bright, yellow light upon the largest mast; it blinked. Two long, three short, two long. Then there was no more.

He had seen her.

Anárië felt her heart weep as fresh tears fell; Eärendil had seen her, beyond all hope or thought. He had said his goodbye.

She returned to her spot among the trees to collect the rest of her items when she thought she heard something, like a cry. Her movements stopped. The last thing she needed was to be attacked by a wild beast outside the colony. Nobody would hear her calls for help. But when she listened more, trying to discern any sounds above the howling of the wind, all she could hear was a faint, shrill …

Neigh.

The elleth was off through the trees away from the settlement, hastening to make it before utter darkness fell. She did not need to be stranded out in winter time. The neigh returned, louder this time, and Anárië pushed herself harder.

She came out through some trees into a clearing, but there was nothing to be seen. Her moves were slower now, cautious. If it was one of their own horses, it had probably been spooked by the storm that had been promising to thunder over them for days now. Indeed, even as she stood there, lightning cracked across the darkened sky, though on the mainland, not over water. Eärendil and his crew were safe.

Even as this happened, she suddenly saw the shape of a horse at the far end of the clearing.

Anárië released a breath and moved swiftly closer, lifting a hand to calm the beast when its head rose.

That's when she stopped again.

Only one horse, or one line, in particular, had that distinct head-shape, and the arched neck, which were exposed as light flashed again. But it was impossible.

Was it not?

"Gwaiforn?"

Against all odds, the horse snorted, and moved closer to her, blowing its warm breath upon her as if sniffing her out, and then resting its forehead against her shoulder.

Anárië could not believe it. Her horse! He had survived – in a miracle she could not explain, he had found his way out of the burning waste of the city, through the mountains, and down here.

He was older now though; she could see it. Older, and gaunter. The years had not been kind on him.

"Come, my friend," she murmured gently while rubbing his cheek, "I will take you home."

At this he started and drew away, as if he understood, and backed up. The elleth raised her hands, "Shh, Gwaiforn! 'Tis alright, no one will hurt you – Gwaiforn!"

The stallion turned suddenly and dashed among the branches. Unwilling to let go of such a sign of hope, Anárië gave chase – but she did not have to go far. She stumbled over something in the dark, and bumped into Gwaiforn who stood there, immobilised.

As she straightened again, another lightning crack exposed the sight to her.

There was a mare – but she was dead. Anárië could not see in such short time, but she thought she had seen a wound on her neck. The more important thing, however, was the foal beside her. Gwaiforn's offspring. That was what he had been trying to tell her.

Patting his neck gently, the elleth gathered the small animal into her arms and lifted it carefully; it struggled very little, too exhausted and too young. It's father slowly bent his legs, and lowered himself onto the ground beside his fallen mate. Anárië understood – he had come to find her, the elleth he had been trained to protect, and to give her a last gift.

Despite her broken heart, she left him there.

Halfway back to the settlement, she was met by Hendor and some other Elves who Elwing had sent out to find her, carrying torches. They looked in wonder upon the foal she carried, but she answered no questions. That night, she spent awake and beside the animal, feeding it and keeping it warm. In the coming days, the colt – for it was indeed a colt – grew strong enough to follow her around, like a surrogate mother, to the amusement of the twins. Anárië taught them how to brush him down and how to care for him; and she named him Raumonóna, Storm-born.

He was a sign from her father, from the Halls of Mandos, that not all hope was lost.


Atar - Quenya for 'father'


Chapter 3 - Chapter II

CHAPTER TWO
Winter, 538 FA

"’Tis my turn to feed him!"

"No, it’s mine!"

"Mine!"

"MINE!"

Anárië dropped the brush with which she’d been going over the coat of Elwing’s mare and turned to where her lady’s sons were fighting over who would feed Raumonóna.

"Elrond, Elros!"

The boys stopped immediately, turning wide grey eyes to the elleth, the carrot hanging mid-air between them in their hands.

She walked over to the pair and placed her hands on her hips: "You are frightening the colt. Look." Raumonóna was pressed against the farthest wall of his stall, his legs locked together and head bowed with ears pulled back and flattened against the skull.

Elrond was the first to let go of the carrot: "I’m sorry Anná -"

"- no more ‘I’m sorry’!" she commented dryly, crossing her arms in front of her, "Every day, I hear the same meaningless fidgeting and arguments. I thought we agreed that you would BOTH feed him, if you feel like you can be responsible enough to do so."

She directed her gaze to Elros, who was the more stubborn of the two, and the more headstrong. If there was any trouble involving the twins, you could be certain he was the leader of the venture.

The boy held her eyes for a moment longer, and then dropped his own to the floor.

"Now that we are all on the same level," Anárië resumed, shaking her head and taking the carrot from them, "he cannot eat such a big vegetable yet. You must cut it for him, like this." She proceeded to demonstrate; Raumonóna lifted his ears at the sound and the smell, and carefully edged closer, still fearful of the commotion that had sent him into the corner in the first place.

The elleth finished, and gave half the carrot to Elros, and half to Elrond, then clicked her tongue to beckon the colt closer.

"Hold your hand out, with as flat of a palm as you can, without dropping the food," she said gently, showing both of them and adjusting the way they held their hands, "there, very good. Raumonóna, here. ‘Tis fresh."

The colt’s nostrils flared as he sniffed at the offerings, and then he carefully nibbled some from Elrond, and some from Elros, before retreating again.

"Should he not eat them all?" asked the younger of the two, his eyes large with both wonder and worry as he looked towards the elleth.

Anárië smiled and tapped the bowl beside her, "He will eat them when he feels like it. Place them in there with some oats and leave him be."

While Elrond took the remains of the carrot, Elros ran for the oats. Hastening back with the bag, he carefully tipped it over the bowl. As he was finishing, he asked: "May we take him out later?"

"After you have seen he has eaten and rested for at least an hour after that," she allowed, and smiled at the bright expressions on the boys’ faces. Leaning over them, Anárië quickly kissed the top of their heads, "You shall make fine horsemen yet."

With that praise she left them, having some other chores to do before she’d be able to return to the stables. Eärendil had been gone for a couple of weeks now, and his absence was already noticed, quite strongly.

A call alerted her and she changed course to where she could see Elwing standing in the doorway of the main house. Anárië smiled as she neared her.

"My lady."

The raven-haired of the pair waved her hand: "Please, just Elwing. When we are alone, I feel like I am a hundred years old as you call me that. Are my sons in the stable?"

"Yes, they are with the colt," Anárië acknowledged, "feeding and observing him. I’ve allowed them to take him out after he has eaten, it will do them all good."

Elwing smiled and nodded with obvious satisfaction: "Good. They need the responsibility – and something to keep their mind off their father."

Eärendil was not a preferred topic for either of the two, and so it was quickly dropped.

"I will be out and about all day, I think," Anárië said after a moment, "but I will be close. If you need me, send someone out."

The lady nodded and they parted ways; Anárië was eager to find her own room and the trunk she had there. A shadow of unease had been growing on her mind of late, and she could not explain it.

Her thoughts clouded her vision and so she did not see Galdor until he reached out to touch her shoulder; she flinched and jumped away, startled, before her features softened at the sight.

"Uncle."

"Forgive me, Anárië, I did not wish to frighten you," he apologized, falling in-stride with her, "you seemed so pensive that I did not know how to approach you otherwise."

She wrapped an arm around his gently: "No matter. It has passed. Do you need me for anything?"

Since the beginning of their exile, Galdor had drawn closer to the remaining survivors of the Gondolindrim. Both he and his wife Caleniel were close with Anárië, and she counted them dear to her, like family, and wished she could ease their suffering over all that had happened. But only time would be able to heal their wounds.

He shook his head: "For my part, no, but Egalmoth has been looking for you. He begged me to tell you this if I saw you."

She frowned; after the sack of their city, and the subsequent flight, her uncle through marriage to Lalaith had grown close with his niece, though he was usually more forward with his messages.

"That is odd, he usually comes alone – but I shall go find him now."

She gave her other uncle’s arm a light touch, before detangling herself and going on her way, very much guessing where she would find Egalmoth in the end.

He was waiting for her in her room, and while pleased to see him, Anárië was slightly annoyed by the fact that he had simply let himself in, although she would never hold it against him.

"Sometimes I wonder whether the word ‘privacy’ means anything to you at all," she quipped teasingly, and he rolled his eyes slightly; they were about the same height, since she was taller than the ellith partly in thanks to her father’s genes, partly to her mother’s statuesque figure, something they both knew well.

"I only came to see if you needed my help today with that favour you asked – or have you already forgotten?"

The elleth’s eyes landed on the trunk in front of her bed.

All her valuable possessions were in it, from Glorfindel’s sword to her tattered wedding dress, and now she recalled that she wished to have it removed some place else. Not because she feared someone from the colony would tamper with it, far from it. But the unease that she felt lately needed somehow to be appeased.

"No, I have not forgotten. Thank you for coming."

Egalmoth shrugged his shoulders: "It is a pleasure and honour. Where did you want to move it? My house?"

"If I wanted you to have it, I would have given it to you," she said with a shake of her head, pushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Very well, where then?"

"Take hold and follow me."

They lifted the trunk carefully; it was not that heavy, since the only item that could weigh much was the sword of the Golden Flower. No one paid them any heed as they took it out into the light and followed a path away from the main settlement. When she looked back, Anárië could see the twins leading her colt out on a rope.

He followed her gaze, and nodded his head: "They seem to handle him well enough."

"They will do well," she agreed, and then huffed as the trunk slipped her grasp a little, "but I will not if we do not move faster. There is a path to the bottom of the cliffs – and before you ask, no, you will not slip and fall. There are better ways to dispose of you than such an obvious one, uncle."

Egalmoth pressed his lips together, the only sign that he had used to smile, and followed her lead, careful with how he handled the trunk. He might not understand why she wished to conceal the heavy thing, but he would help her nonetheless. He felt compelled to do so; Ecthelion would never forgive him if he did not watch out for his daughter, as he had sworn soon after her birth because of the family bond. So he toiled with her down the steep, but otherwise easy path; it was cleverly concealed and no one that did not know it existed would know it was there. Not that many would want to use it regardless, there seemed no point.

There was currently a low tide, which enabled them entrance to a system of caves, carved out of living rock by the sea through the years.

They placed the trunk between two shelves, and Anárië relaxed.

"No one shall know it is here except for us."

The raven-haired Elf gave her a look, but stayed silent. It was a few moments before she turned to glance at him again.

"I have a bad feeling, uncle. I do not understand it – but I feel safer with the trunk here now. If anything should happen -"

She lifted a hand when he started to interrupt, "- if anything should happen, come back here and take it. Keep it safe; it has everything of my previous life inside, save for my father’s sword." She kept the presence of Tuor’s knife a secret, even from him, for now. For all Egalmoth knew, she had lost it during their escape.

Finally, he nodded, and then looked down.

"We might want to head back – the tide is coming in," he commented, pointing to the couple of inches of water already gathered at the bottom of the cave.

With a last look back at her past, Anárië followed after him and accepted his hand to climb onto the beginning of the path, since the water was really rising again.

The climb back was slow, but faster than their way down as they were unburdened; they spoke little, each wrapped in his own thoughts. The wind howled over the cliffs, flinging the first waves against the rock.

Anárië shuddered: "Such wailing! I have never heard it before; Ossë is in a fell mood today."

Egalmoth’s head snapped up at that, his body tensing; Anárië knew the signs too well not to recognize them.

"What is it?"

The Elf-lord listened, then cursed and ran the rest of the way up. She followed him fast and firm, and they climbed back to the top of the cliffs.

"’Tis not the wind that wails so!" he called, pointing towards the delta, and the settlement. Adrenaline spiked through her veins as Anárië looked at what he was showing her, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end. Her breath caught.

The colony was burning.

They broke into a run in mutual consent, Egalmoth freeing his sword as they went. Anárië had left the Flame of Gondolin behind in her lodging, so she simply allowed what strength she had to flow through her limbs and propel her forward.

The wails in the wind intensified; they were not the wind. They were the cries of women and children under assault.

Egalmoth fell onto a couple of grappling Elves like a rock, sending them all to the ground but kicking at the attacker, relieving Hendor so he could regain his footing. Swords flashed, but Anárië screamed.

"Uncle!"

Too late! His sword went clean through the abdomen, and only then did he see the chocolate-coloured hair of the Elf, and the light dimming in his dark eyes as he slipped to the ground.

Bile rose in the elleth’s throat as all three of them looked, horror-stricken, at the fallen; she had a hand across her mouth.

Hendor was the first to move: "He carries the emblem of Maedhros."

The name felt like a slap to the face. The eldest son of Fëanor was in the settlement? Anárië’s head lifted.

"The Silmaril!"

Egalmoth cursed and turned to follow the other Elf, who was already sprinting towards the burning buildings. From afar, a horn could be heard blowing, and horses neighed; a group of them was seen riding down the main path, banners flying high.

Anárië ran; she ignored her uncle’s calls behind her as she ducked under a flaming support beam and cut a shortcut to where she knew she would find her weapons. She was separated from the other two Elves in the confusion; her room was already on fire when she entered it, but nonetheless she grabbed the bow and arrows Duilin had made her, and her father’s sword. She would not leave it for the plunder.

She was out just in the nick of time as the roof collapsed, and sparks flew all over; she brushed those that fell upon her away, and hastened to the main building.

"Elwing! Elwing, where are you?" Where the lady was, so would the twins be, she was sure of it. And she would have the Silmaril, something that the Fëanorions craved.

Hot anger surged through her as she passed the bodies of Elves she knew; was it not enough that Melkor was against them? Now the blood Oath the seven sons had sworn for their father lay between them and their kindred.

She flitted through shadows and passed flames, unwilling to engage in the combat raging all around her. She would not sully her hands with the blood of her kin, not if she could help it. Instead, she searched for Elwing.

"Elwing! Elwing! Elrond! Elros!"

No answer. Despair gripped her in its clutches, but she fought it as she avoided contact with one of the offending officers, sprinting in the other direction and losing him among the ragging flames.

That was when she saw her. She was a lone figure in white, fleeing the scene, rushing away.

Towards the cliffs.

Anárië choked back a cry, biting down hard on her knuckles so she would not alert anyone else. It was Elwing’s choice – and she had sworn to protect her sons. They were not with their mother, this much she could see.

Where were they?

She turned and ran back towards the flames, when the shrill neigh of one of the horses brought her to an abrupt stop.

Raumonóna! They had taken the colt out just before she and Egalmoth had gone to hide her chest!

Instantly, she picked her pace again, cutting across a lane and quickly darting out of archers’ sight, barely avoiding a couple of arrows, but none dared pursue her as Hendor had rallied some of the Elves in the settlement to him; among them, she could hear her uncles’ horns, singing clear, high notes above the carnage.

Anárië wept as she ran away, knowing she was betraying them, but also knowing she would commit a betrayal far worse if she allowed the twins to perish. They had been aiming towards the western bank when last she’d looked. She would start there.

The ground was hard and unyielding, but suddenly, she saw the clipped marks of what seemed to be something small, on four legs. And there! Beside it, footprints. They had come this way.

Silence embraced her as she passed under the low-lying branches into the wood, reeking of smoke and ashes, but the settlement was now behind her, and the tracks were easier to read. The ground here was not so flat or hard, but supple, as much as it could be in winter time; Raumonóna had been here.

The elleth continued down this path swiftly now, pushing branches aside and darting through the trees, following what seemed to have been a path once; it stirred something in her memory, but it was not until she heard it that she remembered.

Before they had settled by the very delta of the Sirion, the Exiles of Gondolin had paused by a small waterfall some stone-throws away into the forest. The twins would have known they needed to find water for the colt.

Her steps hastened, and she practically fell out into the clearing, a smile upon her features.

There was no one there.

Anárië felt her heart freeze, and for a moment, panic seized her completely. Had she been wrong? Had she taken a wrong turn? Had the footsteps turned aside?

The breeze that blew brought the scent of burnt wood and flesh; her nose wrinkled, but it also helped clear her thoughts. She had to look further. The ground was wet here, from the presence of the water, and so tracks should be easy enough to find. She bent low to inspect the long grass and what lay beneath it. It did not take her long to find that indeed, both horse and the two boys had been by the waterfall. But no tracks turned back or away from the clearing.

They simply vanished.

Gauging the depth of the water and the waterfall, the elleth wondered. One of her hands was resting in the cool liquid, the one with which she had swatted the sparks away and had been mildly burnt. It was a soothing, calming feeling. The song of Ulmo was strong here.

She started.

Without really thinking, Anárië lowered herself into the water, finding it knee-high, and held both bow and sword in her hands, away from the danger of getting them wet. Then she waded forward. At its peak, the water was no higher than her waist.

An instinct guided her towards the left, and suddenly the booming water was behind her, and she was in a dark, dimly-lit cave by what little light came through the curtain behind her.

She received a neigh in greeting.

"Anná!"

Relieved, almost sobbing with hysteria, the elleth climbed out and tossed the weapons aside as the twins ran to her, falling into her arms. She clung to them, needing to touch their faces, their hair, their hands, inspect to see nothing had befallen them.

"You are unharmed?" she demanded, taking a better look at them, turning them so she could see their faces.

They nodded, but she could see the streaks tears had left behind on their cheeks.

"We – we got lost in the woods, and could not find our way back – and then Raumonóna was thirsty, and wanted water, and he would not let us leave again -"

"- he jumped in and we didn’t want to upset you, so we followed, and we’ve been here ever since -"

Anárië hushed them gently, and rubbed the colt’s muzzle as he came to inspect her. His warm breath calmed her; he had sensed something was amiss, and had not wished to return to the burning and slaying. She rubbed him under his chin.

"Anná?"

She looked to Elros, who was now holding his brother’s hand; his eyes were large. He had finally seen her appearance, the ashes clinging to her hair, the blackness smeared across her face.

"Is – can we go home now?"

It felt like Gondolin all over again – and it hurt. Anárië’s eyes filled with tears as she gathered the twins to her, vowing to herself that she would get them out alive. How or where, she did not know. But she would not allow Maedhros’ blindness to snatch them from her.

"I am sorry, Elros – but we cannot."

His eyes went even rounder: "But nana -"

Her heart broke.

"Your mother – forgive me, ermell, she is gone."


ermell - dear one


Chapter 4 - Chapter III

CHAPTER THREE
Winter, 538 FA

The cave behind the waterfall was quiet, aside from the occasional snort coming from the colt. The twins mourned the loss of their mother, their home, and everything else they knew, in silence. They were each other’s only comfort, aside from their protector, who was sitting on a flat rock just beyond the initial reach of light through the waterfall.

Unlike Elrond and Elros, Anárië was not quick to give into mourning. She had done that easily enough during the Fall, but she had had her father and her husband to fall back upon then, before they were lost to her.

She had no one now to rely on, but two younglings to care for, and thus she could not afford the luxury of giving into emotions like that.

In her thoughts, it was not Ecthelion’s voice she heard this time, but Glorfindel’s.

You cannot remain in this state forever – it would be easier if you allowed yourself to mourn.

It would be easier if she could pretend she was not coming up with these imaginary dialogues to help deal with the constant pain in her life, but such was the way of her world.

It will destroy you – this hatred. You were never meant to hate like this.

But what would HE know? He was not here. He could not see the way she had closed herself off from the world, locked her heart from everyone but the two children now sitting a little further back into the cave. For only a child’s love was pure and could not hurt you, at least until you grew up. And then it was all over, and the cycle began anew.

Was this to be her destiny, then? To guard the children of her friends’ children, or grandchildren, until the end of time, or the end of her days? The call of the Sea, of a home she had never seen nor known other than through stories and sons, was alive, but weak. She could not even dream of going there when the Valar did not allow anyone to return. The Exiles would remain just that – exiles. Even their offspring, who had taken no part in the First Kinslaying, and the Oath, and the endless quest; they were all doomed to living here on these shores.

There was a shuffling sound behind her, and she shifted to accommodate the two little bodies as they pressed into her sides. Her arms went around them, trying to give them some warmth, but she herself was shivering lightly from the excursion through the water. Raumonóna’s pelt could only give them so much comfort as he lay down beside them, to huddle closer and keep them as warm as possible.

"I’m scared, Anná," Elrond whispered into her collarbone as he clambered onto her lap. On the other side, Elros did the same.

She soothed them as best as she could: "Shhh. ‘Twill be alright. No one will harm you while I draw breath, I promise. No one can find us here anyway."

It was true, to an extent; unless someone would have been specifically searching for possible tracks, they were safe. She was relying on the fact that Maedhros had gotten the Silmaril somehow and was now well on his way back to his own abode.

Elros shivered and pressed himself closer: "It is so dark."

"Yes, night is falling, little one," Anárië murmured gently, pressing her lips to the top of his head, and smoothing a hand down Elrond’s cheek, "we will wait a little more, and then we will go."

"Where?"

The question came from both of them, and it was good – for she had no answer.

"Somewhere we can be safe."

But where was that? Doriath had fallen, so had Gondolin, and she did not know of any other Elven-realms close-by. There were rumours of a colony farther down along the coast, of Círdan the Shipwright, as they called him, who led the Elves. But they were just rumours. She could not trust them, for too much was at stake.

The colt behind her snorted, and shook his head, and she applied gentle pressure through her back to calm him.

"He is frightened too," Elros pronounced. Chancing a look back at Raumonóna, Anárië shook her head.

"No – just weary."

They were silent for a while after that as the darkness deepened around them. The sound of rushing water was louder now, in the stillness of the night.

Elrond shivered: "Anná? Will you sing something?"

He was trying to be brave, she realized, even while still clutching to her like she were his lifeline. But she sensed the silent agreement between the brothers. Would it be safe to sing, perhaps very quietly? The waterfall was loud enough to silence any other noise. She had not heard the colt calling to her beyond the fall.

"Very well – but gently. We do not wish to call any attention to ourselves."

One of the twins sniffed, and she shushed him: "Shhh, I promised it will be alright, have I not? Trust me."

She paused, before beginning to murmur only slightly above a whisper, a lullaby Elwing had used to sing over the cradle to her infant sons while Eärendil was out at sea, and Anárië sat by to offer what help and comfort she could.

"My heart is like a river, my heart is like these hills - they never change, I never change, and I never will; You called and I came running, you cried and now I'm here, so hold this faith, accept our faith, these are little fears."

She felt the twins calm down as the familiar melody washed over them, settling like a blanket around the little space they bubbled themselves in right now.

"We have enough to guide us, we have enough to last - we're not alone, we never were, you and I aren't lost. Oh hold me very tightly, hold me fast and strong -"

Her voice suddenly dropped, ending mid-sentence. The twins tensed in her hold.

There were lights on the other side of the water.

Raumonóna was the first on his feet, but Anárië was close second and she grabbed his head to calm and silence him before he could cry out; she could sense the way he was shaking.

"Elrond, Elros," she murmured, only a slight movement to her lips; she drew them further back into the cave.

"Hold the colt, and stay quiet!" she instructed them, quickly fingering for her bow in the darkness.

The lights drew closer, and she thought she could make out voices now, but she was unsure. That was when her fingers touched the string, and she let out a muted curse – somehow, she had gotten it wet. The bow was of no use to her now.

The twins had wide eyes behind her, each standing on one side of the colt. Anárië bit her lip, placing the bow back into its hold beside the quiver. Perhaps, if they remained quiet and still, they would not be noticed.

But the Valar did not answer her prayers; there were more lights on the other side now, and splashes that did not coincide with the fall alerted her that they must have noticed the narrow opening behind the falling water.

She spread her arms out and pushed the children and the frightened horse further back.

"Whatever happens, stay behind me," she said quietly, as voices became very audible, coming further in, "I will protect you."

She had no other choice; it felt like the line upon her palm tingled as she slowly reached for her father’s sword. She prayed she would have enough strength and skill to use it.

The blade made hardly any noise as she drew it forth, but it caught the orange light of torches, and the glitter of water droplets, as if rejoicing in the meeting. The flame that had been marked by water.

An Elf suddenly appeared in the pool behind the waterfall. His first reaction was shock – but he mastered himself quickly.

"My lord!"

As he climbed up onto the rocks, Anárië saw the same device upon his breast as had been upon the one Egalmoth had slain in the settlement earlier that day.

Maedhros.

Her sword was loosely held, but the moment this Elf took a step forward, Anárië lifted it.

He stopped.

"Do not come closer."

He did not hide his surprise to hear her speak to him in the same language he had used to address his lord. But he did as she told him, and advanced no further, even if his eyes travelled behind her to the two children.

There was commotion behind him, and soon enough more Elves joined him; all halted at the sight of the elleth with her longsword, and the ones behind her.

"Make way!"

The commanding voice made the Elves before him part, and Anárië felt her courage falter.

Maedhros commanded the attention of any room he entered, and it was no different in this small cave. His build reminded her of Glorfindel, but she did not allow herself to linger on that similarity. Nothing else was similar; his clothing was different, his hair a deep russet red that seemed to further deepen in the shade, his facial expression hard. The cloak he wore dripped at the bottom, but he covered his right arm with it, which she found odd – there were not many Elves that she knew who favoured the left hand.

He, too, stopped when he saw her. Instead of surprise or shock, however, his face took on a mocking expression.

"And what have we here? I was not told warriors hid in underwater caves – even if they were female."

His cold words were alike to throwing dry wood upon flames – she flared up.

"Hold your tongue on matters you do not understand, son of Fëanor!"

Even in poor light the torches provided, she could see his eyes flash.

"Speaking our tongue will not save you from manners so poorly distributed by the Sindar whelps!"

It was Anárië’s turn to flash him an angry glance, mirroring his step forward with her sword still raised: "I would not be so bold as to speak of poor manners, my lord. Have a care how you treat our distant kin."

This, along with the sword he was eyeing covertly, stopped him.

"The Elves of this colony were Sindar of origin."

His use of the past tense made her heart jump out of fear for those she had left behind – but she could not falter now.

"No. Some of them were. Others were of our people."

Her chin pushed out as she said that, seeing the troubled look cross his features, but she said no more on the matter.

Maedhros eyed her for a moment more.

"Brother."

It was then that she was aware of another figure almost as tall as he, but with a presence less dominant, and therefore able to stand in his brother’s shadow. His hair was a rich, dark brown, almost black when the flickering light of torches left him.

Maedhros did not look away from her: "There seems to be a problem standing in my path."

She bristled at that.

"I am a person, not an object or a concept, and I have a name. You will refer to me as one of your kindred, not one of the things in your tent your bed-warmers leave you!"

His eyes flashed more dangerously now, but he stopped when the other brother placed a hand upon his arm.

"Patience, Russandol. Let us not be hasty."

He had a melodic voice, and she suspected he used it often when trying to calm the more hot-headed brother.

His eyes went from her face to the sword she held.

"Look at her again, brother; if her features do not speak to you, her weapon surely must."

Maedhros seemed even fouler of mood by this: "I did not come here to look at maids playing with swords! The Silmaril eluded us, and here are the blood of Lúthien. I will take them as recompense."

Anárië’s knees trembled, even as the other Elves around the brothers reached for their own weapons; she aimed hers towards the eldest brother, her face furious.

"You will take them over my dead body."

Maglor nudged his brother again: "Look, I tell you. Cast aside your prejudice. She is no Sindar. Do you not recognise Orólos’ blood when you see it?"

That stopped both Maedhros and Anárië; him, because he actually paused to acknowledge his brother’s words, her, because she knew that name.

She had only heard it once or twice, but while her mother had still been alive, it had been spoken. It was the name of her maternal grandfather.

Maedhros looked at her face more closely now, and then his eyes dropped to the sword she held.

"Cealea’s daughter."

Anárië held her breath; behind her, Elrond and Elros were quiet, shrinking against Raumonóna and trying to make themselves as small as possible.

Maglor nodded: "Without a doubt. And the sword – he would not have let it fall into the hands of Bauglir’s minions."

She realised they were now speaking of her father; her eyes flitted to the fountain emblem and back to them, unwilling to give up her stance.

Maedhros seemed pensive now, rather than angry: "You, girl, where is Ecthelion? We did not know he escaped the sack of Gondolin."

Pain flashed across her face, as fresh as it had been the moment Glorfindel had embraced her under the roof of Gar Ainion with her father’s sword clasped in his hand.

"He did not."

The news rippled through the gathered Elves like someone had tossed a rock into the waters.

"It is as I’ve feared," Maglor murmured to his brother, "but some of the Exiles were alive today – the Sindar do not know how to build ships like the ones we saw on sea."

At his words, hope flared within her. Some had escaped! She wished, feverishly, that one or both of her uncles had been among them.

She got the answer to one of her prayers as Maedhros snorted: "’Some’? Egalmoth was with them, brother. Besides Duilin, he is the only one who can loose an arrow like that; my herald was tossed off his horse even though the shaft came from a retreating ship."

Her uncle was alive! For now, at least. The elleth fixed her gaze back to the brothers, who were now gauging her with indifferent expressions on her faces.

Maedhros cursed: "I cannot leave her here! And the twins are coming with me, regardless."

She felt her body slowly tense as she lowered it further, ready to pounce; the boys pressed closer to the colt, sensing the change in atmosphere.

It was Maglor who calmed it all again: "Indeed, but in case you have not noticed, she is showing you the pointy end of her sword. You will not take the boys with force."

Her eyes met Maglor’s for a brief moment before she looked back to his older brother.

Maedhros snarled: "And you have a better idea? Those twins will do until I find the Silmaril!"

"Yes, but they are boys, Russandol; look at them. You’re frightening them simply by speaking loudly."

The twins shrank even more as the eyes of the two brothers fell upon them. Anárië shifted her position to shield them from view. If she were to die today, she would die defending them.

Suddenly, Maedhros chuckled: "Feisty, isn’t she? About as much as Cealea when she was younger, definitely like her father when he was about her age."

There was a collective chuckle, and Anárië felt heat rush up her neck and onto her cheeks, even as the older of the two brothers appraised her. She suddenly felt vulnerable, in a different way. An unpleasant way.

Maedhros released her from his gaze and turned away: "Bring them out. We will take them with us."

He disappeared back into the water after that, taking a couple of Elves with him, but Maglor remained behind.

Her sword was still lifted.

He stepped forward, palms open: "We wish you no harm."

She eyed him: "To me, perhaps. But how do I know you will not hurt the children?"

Their eyes met and held, and she stopped him in place.

His voice was calm and gentle: "You cannot. You can only trust me."

She could not yet step down: "Can I?"

Her heart was hammering inside her chest. Unlike his older brother, Maglor kept his eyes on her face.

"Only you know the answer to that question, Ecthelion’s daughter."

He was speaking the truth; she had to give him that. Anárië weighed her options. In any case, she was not coming out of the cave other than their prisoner, but for the time being, it did not seem they wished them any harm.

And besides – where else would they go?

"If you hurt them," she said quietly, slowly lowering her sword, "I swear, by Manwë, I will kill you."

Maglor nodded: "Fair enough."

She sheathed the sword again, and beckoned; Elrond and Elros slowly peeled away from Raumonóna and clamped onto her hands, watching Maglor with wide eyes.

The elleth looked back at him again: "If you’re going to take us, you take us all – even the colt."

Maglor’s lips quivered, as if he was trying to hide a smile: "I would never dream of leaving him behind."

Whether he was mocking her or not, she had no choice – Anárië led the twins towards the water. One of the other Elves handled Raumonóna; Maglor took Elrond. Anárië kept her eyes fixed upon them all the while, until they were out on the bank of the outside pool again, and Elros huddled to her.

Maedhros had already mounted his horse; it was only then that she noticed the odd way he held his right hand.

"I leave them to you," he told his brother, and without another word, he and his warriors rode off into the trees, leaving Maglor behind with his own small force, and the captives.

Anárië was given a horse, but her hands were bound behind her back. "Under other circumstances, you would have been carried off," her captor told her, "but I trust you not to try and escape." She pursed her lips together and said nothing, anxiously eyeing the two Elves who took the twins before them on their saddles.

"It will be alright," she told them as they looked to her, squirming; they quieted. "I promise."

Satisfied that they were secure, Maglor turned his horse about, and they turned their backs on the wood that stank of fire and blood.


---
The song is © to Rebecca Lavelle for performance, and the authors of McLeod's Daughters; the title is My Heart Is Like A River.
No, Anárië doesn't actually hear Glorfindel inside her head, and no, she isn't insane. Let's just say she's imagining what he COULD have said, had he been alive and with her.


Chapter 5 - Chapter IV

CHAPTER FOUR
Summer, 541 FA

In after years, when someone spoke of captivity, Anárië would never think of Maglor and the time spent at his abode. For captivity was meant to be taken as within an enclosed space, behind four walls, and possibly chained up, barely fed.

At Maglor’s Gap, this was not the case.

They had arrived weary, but well-cared for, to the fortress Maglor had built to secure the only wide passage into the fields of Beleriand, in a system of forts that the Fëanorions had guarded zealously, but was now decaying. Cavalry was still posted in the ravine, archers on the walls, and for all intents and purposes, this was a military base he brought them to.

But he had been kind; he himself had carried both of the twins to a spacious chamber, careful not to wake them. It was only after the first couple of nights that anyone realised the second bed was irrelevant for the time being; Elrond and Elros always curled together on one, holding hands as they slept, possibly to remind themselves of what they still had instead of what they had lost.

Anárië’s legs had felt like lead when she’d finally been given leave to dismount, and even then she would have fallen regardless because of her tied hands; because she had had to wait for Maglor to return, he had been the one to catch her, and lead her to her room, which was to the side of the boys’.

He had cut her bonds there, and while the blood flowed back in her wrists, the golden-haired elleth had looked at her dark-haired captor.

His face had been unreadable: "Rest, my lady. Tomorrow, we will speak."

That had been years ago, and no conversation had come.

For the next morning, Anárië had found a basin of water and a clean dress, but no sign of anyone else. When she had tested the doors to her chamber, they had opened soundlessly, and no guard had been in sight.

There had just been an elleth.

Of course, it was only after she’d tried to escape the first time that she’d realised the elleth was her guard, for she had been unceremoniously dragged back to her room, with more than a few bruises and bumps from the struggle. She had been followed all through the castle, and even outside, but as soon as she’d angled towards the main gate, her excursion had been cut short.

The elleth, Elénna, had spoken no word, but simply left her to return to her post, and Anárië had not tried to escape again. She came to the conclusion that Maglor, while kind, did not trust her, and that she would always be watched.

Her guard was a striking Elf, and she could not hide even if she wanted to. Her hair was copper-coloured, but less deep than the locks Anárië had spied on Maedhros; it was lighter, and longer, though it did not hinder her movements. She was petite, but strong and sinewy. The most disconcerting feature were her eyes – a brilliant shade of amber gold with flecks of grey that turned to a storm whenever she was angry or upset.

Anárië learned that she was Lady Nerdanel’s cousin, and therefore aunt to the Fëanorions, who respected and teased her in equal measure, though none of them dared challenge her enough to force her hand. For despite her size, she was a warrior and, as Ecthelion’s daughter learned later, a trained assassin, who rode far and wide under Maglor’s command to take out Orc chieftains and those of Melkor’s subjects she could find.

She had been known as the Hand of the King during the time the Fëanorions had believed Maedhros lost, and the second eldest assumed the throne in exile, and this title still clung to her, despite the fact that Maedhros had renounced all claims on it, giving the throne to Fingolfin and his royal line.

Anárië also quickly learned that while Elénna would go with her wherever she went, she was otherwise not too hindered at the Gap. She could go wherever she wished within the fortress, and she could, if she so desired, take a horse to ride out, though the other elleth did not leave her side even then. So, in truth, this was not quite captivity, but still captivity enough.

Elrond and Elros were being treated in the same manner, though at first, things did not go as smoothly as Maglor might have wished.

One morning, Anárië had found the twins’ room empty, and they did not answer her calls. Her frantic search was brought to an end by Elénna, whose patience with the other woman had grown thin.

"Calm yourself! They are with the lord."

But that did very little to calm Anárië’s spirits – what if Maglor wished to harm them when she was not there? What would he do to them? How could they have trusted him enough to go with him alone?

Maglor had been in the middle of teaching the twins how to properly light a fire when a golden-haired beast had toppled him over, sending the two children scattering backwards a little.

"I thought you were supposed to guard her!" he had snapped in Elénna’s direction, but the elleth had seemed generally amused – and did not move from her spot where she lounged easily against a tree.

"I am – but this is the first entertainment I’ve been given since coming to the Gap. Humour me."

Maglor had managed to pin Anárië down, but she had also told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever tried separating the twins from her again, she would prevent him from ever having children of his own.

"I do not wish to harm them," his voice had been exasperated, if amused, "what good would that do me, in the end?"

But she was unsatisfied, despite Elrond’s claims that Maglor really wished them no ill, and she demanded that whatever activities the boys would be undergoing, she would be there with them.

In the end, Elénna had solved the problem: "It will not hurt to train her; I will be with her all the time in any case. Unless you wish to give me further amusement as I allow her to attack you every single time you take the boys out for practice."

Maglor had given in; and Anárië soon regretted her own stubbornness, though not because he would drive them all too hard.

It was her past that prevented her from truly enjoying the activities.

For whenever she went to the archery field to work with Maglor there, she remembered the way Glorfindel had helped her, on that day long ago, when he had shown her how to properly aim at her target. Her captor asked no questions at first, but after observing her for a time, the way she drew her arrows back and stood in stance, he could no longer curb his curiosity.

"Who was your teacher, my lady?"

The elleth stopped her motion of notching another arrow; it was a clear, calm day for practice.

"Does it matter?"

Maglor, who was leaning on his own bow lightly, shook his head: "No, not really, I suppose, but I am curious. The way you hold your bow ... it reminds me of someone."

For whatever reason, her heart did a painful lurch inside her chest, though Anárië kept telling herself that he could not know. No one knew. She had spoken about it to none outside her close-knit family, though the wedding ring her husband had given her was yet on her finger.

"I mostly observed my father’s archers," she replied finally, lifting her bow again and carefully pulling the string back, "he did not quite approve of what I wanted, and so I had to be secretive about it. The archers, in turn, learned from lord Duilin and his soldiers at some point, I should think."

She loosed the arrow, and it hit the outside rim of the target. Anárië felt the familiar thrum of irritation run through her.

Maglor chuckled when he saw it, but shook his head without coming closer: "Perhaps you are telling me the truth. But not in full."

A sigh coming from her told him he was right.

"You seem to know I remind you of someone other than lord Duilin then," was all she said on the matter as she went to collect her arrows, "it is your turn to speak."

She did not expect the pain to still be so real, so vivid, as if he had only yesterday fallen from her sight into the chasm within the Encircling mountains as Maglor spoke softly:

"I rode and hunted with Glorfindel for a long time before we left Aman, my lady; I know his technique well. Whether you wish to admit it or not, he helped you with it at least once. The mark of the teacher is hardly ever erased, regardless of personal preferences."

Her back was ramrod straight, and she was silent for a long time.

When she turned, Maglor saw only hard emeralds in place of her eyes.

"Whether he taught me anything or not is irrelevant." Her voice was curiously devoid of any emotion; flat. "He is dead."

She left him there, pondering over what she said, while he watched her climb the stairs into the castle, disappearing through the entrance.

But it had been years since that conversation. Anárië’s archery had not improved to a level where she could definitely count on being able to hit her target at all times, for her patience seemed limited and she did not have enough of it to practice as much as she could, apparently.

Instead, she insisted that Elénna should teach her how to properly wield a sword better.

She had sparred with her uncle Egalmoth at Sirion, but those spats had been infrequent at best, and they had also been very uneven, for the Elf did not wish to harm her during them, at least not intentionally. Also, he believed that she should learn of her own accord, at her own pace, which meant that she was not prepared for when Maglor’s fiery-haired Hand drew out her twin sais and instructed her to defend herself.

Anárië looked at Elénna like she had suddenly lost her mind: "I don’t think I can."

Elénna arched an eyebrow: "You do know how to hold a blade, do you not?"

"I – yes. But I never ... my uncle and I never actually came to any long fights. We sparred from time to time, that is all."

The other elleth snorted, rolling her eyes: "It is true then, that some other male members of our world seem to think the same as those we left behind in the Blessed Realm. That women should only be allowed in healing tents and not on actual battlefields. Some free choice and equality this is for us.

Defend yourself. I wish to see what the famed Egalmoth has taught you."

Anárië would rue the day she first lifted her sword in defence, because Elénna demonstrated, with about two deft slides of her blades, how she would have taken her head off without even becoming winded.

"You must be able to defend yourself if you are to defend the twins," she commanded, returning to her spot, "lift your sword higher. I shall come at you again; slower this time, so you will be able to see."

That helped very little, because what Elénna soon found out was something Egalmoth had also concluded, but never actually mentioned; Anárië did not have the physical strength to be able to wield her father’s sword for any long periods of time. After three strikes, she was drenched with sweat and her hands slipped off the grip more often than not.

This was the main reason why, with Maglor’s agreement, Elénna began a different type of instruction with Anárië, one the boys also became privy to once they grew a little bit more; it was to build their stamina.

Every morning, after the first meal of the day which was shared in the castle’s main hall between every Elf who resided in it, Elénna would take Anárië with her and they would ride into the fields until she could barely sit in the saddle anymore. Then as time progressed slowly, Maglor’s Hand had her charge running alongside the horse for some time, that too until she was about ready to fall onto the ground. And every evening, without question, they would run together.

During these evening runs, Anárië felt the worst, because her body already hurt from previous abuse, and she was nowhere near as refreshed and awake as in the morning hours, which meant that she was always lagging. But Elénna said nothing, and matched her pace to hers as they went. The only times when she wasn’t submitted to that torture was when it rained – but even so she wished she could have run. Instead, she was forced up and down the various sets of stairs inside the castle, and to carrying Elrond or Elros on her back for an hour as she did this.

"You’re faster today Anná," Elros told her one day when they were headed up into the tallest tower to fetch one of the older maps Maglor had stocked there.

Instead of a reply, she simply huffed, sweat trickling down the side of her face while she fought with vertigo, exhaustion, and the fact that her ankle hurt from where she had taken a fall the previous day after miscalculating the distance needed to clear a narrow creek.

"Elrond beat me in making a fire today," continued the boy, almost sullen, but then he brightened, "but I’m faster in brushing my pony, and I do it better."

"You should help each other," she managed, finally reaching the top, and letting out a gust of air from her lungs with a rush, allowing Elros off her back for a moment, "not worry over who was first. Life is not a competition, penneth."

He looked at her with serious grey eyes: "It is more interesting if it is."

Anárië looked at him, startled: "Who told you that?"

Elros shrugged: "Lord Maglor’s brother."

Her breath caught; obviously, there was only one more Fëanorion alive by this point, partly in thanks to the kinslayings they had committed.

He had ridden into the Gap as if he owned it, on a great gray beast of a horse that answered only to him, snarling if anyone got too close; Anárië remembered the tenseness of his shoulders, and the stubborn set of his jaw. Just like in the cave behind the waterfall.

She also remembered that, long ago, while still a girl in her father’s house in Gondolin, when her mother had been alive, she had found old parchments in her father’s study, parchments with portraits drawn upon them, apparently by Ecthelion. He had not wished to speak about the Elves upon them, but Cealea had taken her daughter into her garden, and spoke to her:

"They are the seven sons of Fëanor, my child. The one who first decided he will leave Valinor and come here to seek to reclaim the Silmarils from Melkor. Nerdanel the Wise was his wife, though they were estranged, and she did not follow him here; but she did bear him seven sons. Nelyafinwë, Canafinwë, Turcafinwë, Morifinwë, Curufinwë, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë are their names. They are abroad here, in Middle Earth. Perhaps you shall meet them someday."

Nelyafinwë had graced his brother with a visit then, and while he might have resembled his mother in looks, he was his father in bearing. Anárië would never forget the way his grey eyes had followed all her movements during his stay, and the way his lips seemed to be formed into a perpetual half-smirk.

She knelt before Elros, placing her hands on his shoulders: "Was it Nelyafinwë? Maedhros?"

He frowned at the urgent tone of her voice, and nodded.

Anárië wished she could speak to the first son of Fëanor again; she would have loved nothing more than to snap that arrogant neck.

"Listen to me, child," she said, striving for calmness, and giving Elros a small smile, "lord Maedhros grew up with six brothers. Perhaps they needed to compete against each other to gain their father’s favour; I do not know. But never, never do the same with Elrond, for you are not alike to them. Your father would never have allowed such feelings to grow between you, for they only lead to animosity and anger in the end. Do not listen to anything lord Maedhros tells you, do you understand me?"

Elros nodded, perplexed and slightly frightened, and they went to fetch Maglor’s map so they could descend the stairs again.

That evening, however, she pulled Elénna aside.

"I do not wish to speak ill of your kin," she said softly, and the other elleth eyed her with obvious curiosity, "but some lessons they share with my charges ..."

Before she could finish, Elénna interrupted her: "Do you speak of Nelyafinwë’s last visit?"

Anárië nodded, helpless, anguish written all over her face. The last thing she wanted was to speak badly of Maglor’s brother, but she also did not want him to share any of his knowledge or lessons with Elrond and Elros, unless they were actually pertinent.

Her teacher for the time being sighed: "I knew it would not end well; I told him as much, for I heard what he said to Elros. I take it the boy has spoken to you about it?"

Anárië nodded: "I do not wish them to get the wrong idea. Life is most certainly not a competition, and I want them to love each other!"

"Peace, Anná," Elénna said soothingly, "your boys will never be like mine. Unfortunately, Nelyafinwë’s tongue is too loose for his own good sometimes. I should have shortened it a notch when last he was here; believe me when I tell you that I spoke to him about what he said to the twins. He will not repeat the same mistake twice."

The way she said it made Anárië believe it far more than just with words; Maglor had once explained to the twins that his Hand was the harshest when it came to punishing her own kin.

"I also reminded him of his brother’s mistake," Elénna’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she beckoned for them to join the main group again.

The golden-haired elleth frowned: "What mistake?"

The sadness on Elénna’s face cut her to the bone: "The mistake Turcafinwë’s soldiers made when they left Elwing’s brothers in the woods. Nelyafinwë has never forgotten that."

Too shocked to follow her, Anárië watched as Elénna rejoined Maglor, while her mind tried, in vain, to embrace this horror-tale she had just had explained.

She knew, of course, that the twin brothers of Elwing did not survive the assault on Menegroth, but she had had no idea that something like that was even possible. That one would be so cruel ... they had been but boys. Had they not? Her mind could not place facts together anymore, her thoughts were too jumbled.

She did not wish to speak to anyone that night, and after making sure Elrond and Elros were in their room, she curled into a small ball on her bed and lay there as the night stretched on, thinking about the evil that surrounded her. Was the Oath the Fëanorions swore that cruel, indeed? Was her own Oath any different?

Yes, she thought as the first dawn broke for another summer’s morning, it was. For she had no intention of killing any of her kin, nor in fact, anyone who was not a servant of Morgoth. And she was also not in pursuit of some jewel. Therein lay the difference.

Satisfied, the elleth rose to wash herself and dress for the day, and when Elénna came to find her for their morning ride, she lifted her chin and walked out into the sun’s rays with new determination.


Chapter 6 - Chapter V

CHAPTER FIVE
Spring, 544 FA

Anárië woke to the sound of an insistent bird in front of her window, and pulled the sheets over her head. Her body was still sore from the sparring match with Elénna she had undergone yesterday, with the twins and Maglor as witnesses. The smaller elleth was so fast, it was hardly believable, and yet Anárië was becoming faster too, every day, every time they fought. Elénna’s sais could not hold back all the blows from the Flame of Gondolin, and she was now sporting an equal share of bruises.

But that did not mean that Anárië was ready to rise today. She would have much rather stayed in bed the whole day, but the bird wouldn’t stop singing.

She groaned finally, and kicked the covers off, shivering only slightly as her bare feet touched the cold stones. She skipped quickly onto one of the rugs that Maglor had given her, and swiftly washed her face and arms before dressing for the day.

Once her feet were in boots, she felt much better in walking around, and she went to find the twins. She wasn’t surprised that Elénna was nowhere to be seen; likely, the elleth was in the main hall, waiting for her.

A knock to the twins’ door brought her no response, and she frowned before peeking in; they were not there.

At this point in time, she trusted Maglor enough not to harm them, but she was still irked that nobody had told her any plans the previous day. Her face indicated her displeasure as she finally found the other elleth, as predicted – though Elénna surprised her by sitting cross-legged on the bench and peeling something.

"Someone put their boots on backwards," she commented when Anárië lowered herself opposite her with a glum expression on her face.

"The twins are not in their rooms."

"No," the other elleth agreed, "they woke an hour before dawn and rode out with Maglor. A mountain lion was spotted hunting near-by; they will try and catch it."

A flutter of fear made Anárië’s heart bounce, but Elénna didn’t seem concerned.

"And you did not ride with your lord to protect him?"

There was a snort.

"Maglor does not appreciate being handled as a child; besides, I could not leave you here alone."

Anárië sighed: "You could have woken me and I would have ridden with them."

Elénna lifted her eyes off her work for the first time, and Anárië was shocked to see compassion in the amber depths.

"Some things are not for women to join. You should remember that; it will otherwise be always hard for you as you watch the men ride away."

At this, she bristled on the inside, feeling helpless, like when her father had ridden off with his warriors and left her behind to care for his household and other affairs. She would have faced the same future with Glorfindel, yet circumstances had made her take care of a different house. Still, she had cared for it.

The old line which had long since faded on her palm tingled.

"I will never subject myself to the same treatment as other ellith," she pressed out, her eyes hardening, "I, too, swore an Oath. It does not entitle sitting by the fireplace and peeling – what EXACTLY are you doing anyway?"

Elénna’s lips twitched in humour as she placed the small knife down, and wiped her hands: "I was working through a basket of mushrooms. Being a warrior does not mean I cannot help with the more mundane chores."

Anárië gave her an incredulous look, and the other elleth’s smile turned feral.

"It also does not mean we cannot go after the hunters now that you are awake."

Finally on the same level of understanding, Anárië grinned back and rose from the bench, going to fetch her bow. When she arrived at the stables, Elénna was already seated on her mare, with Raumonóna beside her.

The stallion snorted in greeting, and Anárië rubbed his muzzle with a murmur before pulling herself into the saddle.

"No sword today?"

She looked at Elénna, who never went anywhere without her sais. But the longsword would only hinder her, and so she shook her head,

"No. I do not mean to hunt. With the amount of time we have already lost, the mountain lion should have lost its skin by now."

Elénna grinned, and the two ellith rode out through the gates together, following a path that Anárië trusted would lead them to where Maglor and the twins were hunting.

Sure enough, when they finally came upon the party, they were already too late for any snarls or growls; the mountain lion had been pierced by three arrows at least, and one spear.

Elros was the first to see the newcomers, and he smiled broadly as he ran up to them.

"Anná, you should’ve been here! Elrond managed to spear the beast, but I shot two arrows at it!"

"Verily, you are both natural-born hunters," she praised as she dismounted; to the side, Elénna was hiding a smile of her own. She, too, had grown to love the twins, and between them and Maglor had grown an almost family bond.

Elrond noticed them as well and ran up to them in glee. The two boys were now twelve years old, and already going into a growth spurt; they reminded Anárië strongly of their father, but their eyes and facial features were gentler than Eärendil’s; they came from Elwing’s line, and through her from Lúthien the Fair.

"Anná, Anná, you should have seen this! Maglor let us hunt with him almost on our own!"

The news did not strike the elleth as something to be so cheerful about, and her eyes spoke so when Maglor finally joined them. His chagrined smile told her he understood.

"They were never in harm’s way; I had my best hunters with me."

"And your arrow pierced the heart of the beast," Anárië heard Elénna murmur from the side; indeed, the longest of the arrows sticking from the carcass was Maglor’s. She relaxed.

"You should have woken me earlier."

"My lady, none of us wished to disturb your rest," Maglor apologised, and beckoned to her. She automatically glanced for the twins, but they were already describing the hunt to Elénna, who listened with animation.

Seeing them well-cared for, Anárië relented and stepped with her captor, who had grown to become her friend, in a way, through the gentle manners he sported and his treatment of the two boys she had vowed to protect.

"I am truly sorry if I displeased you," he said as they went to retrieve some arrows that had been shot in vain, "but I did not wish to miss the opportunity."

"I am not angry with you for taking the twins with you, not this time," she told him with a small smile, before it faltered, "but I do not appreciate being excluded. I did not swear to protect the boys by sitting by the fire and waiting for them to return home from wherever they rode off to."

She shook her head, and yanked an arrow from a tree trunk. This time, she had no problems with it, and did not need anyone else to do it for her.

"You are not like any other elleth I know," came the comment from her side. Anárië glanced at Maglor with an arched eyebrow, then turned her head back to where the twins and his Hand were now helping with the mountain lion.

To this, Maglor only laughed: "Elénna! True, you have me there. But I have never viewed her as anything other than family. She just happens to also wield the blade better than any other of my warriors."

They fell silent after that, and collected the rest of the arrows. Anárië sensed Maglor wished to say something, but she did not encourage him, and he remained silent.

The group was just about to return to the fortress when the neigh of an approaching horse was heard.

The Elf that rode with haste through the trees carried the design of one of the brothers, but Anárië could not make out who, for he dismounted swiftly and his moves were a blur.

"My lord!"

Maglor turned and she saw the way his muscles tensed as the man neared; now she could see the device.

It was Maedhros’.

"Lord, a missive from your brother – large battalions of orcs were seen moving down from the mountains."

She felt dread settle over her; once more? Would there be no end to the carnage? They had only been in one spot for a couple of years now, and already it seemed that they would have to run again. Anárië was tired of the constant struggle, but in her heart, she sensed it was only just beginning.

"Elénna, ride with Anárië and the twins," Maglor ordered as he pulled himself into the saddle of his own horse, "make haste to the fort! Do not wait for me."

The red-haired elleth looked like she might have something to say on the matter, but refrained and calmly told Elrond and Elros to mount. Anárië did the same, and they detached from the hunting party first, the hooves of their horses beating swiftly against the ground on their way back.

"Elénna?" Elros asked as they rode, drawing abreast with the elleth, "Will there be war?"

"I do not know, little one," she replied, but her eyes were guarded, "I do not know."

Anárië refrained from commenting since they had just drawn closer to the fortress; the gates were open, the guards waiting for them as they clattered in under the archway.

"Elénna, another scout has been sighted riding by," one of them said, holding the head of her horse as she dismounted, "we fear it means an attack on the Gap."

"Whatever it means, Maglor is on his way," she countered him, and Anárië could see she was unwilling to speak of this before the twins, so the golden-haired elleth quickly took the boys by the shoulders.

"Come; to your room."

They went more or less obediently. Elros was complaining the whole way, but she silenced him: "Hush! This is not the time to display that you are still a child."

"I am old enough!" he argued as they climbed the steps to the sleeping chambers.

"If you have to say it, then that proves you are not," she replied calmly, and opened their door, "inside, and wait here. I suggest you wash the grime and dust of the hunt."

She slammed the door shut on them, and for the first time, she was glad of the guard that suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere, placing himself between the entrance.

Once inside her own room, Anárië realised she was shaking. A slow, but steady tremor was making her whole body move in a way she had not felt it do since the fall of her native city. She could hardly pull her riding gloves off, and she gave up on everything else as she slowly sank to the floor with her back to the bed, her face in her hands.

This could not be happening again.

She had been too young to really understand the fear and the shock when Gondolin fell; she had been more than equal to the task when Maedhros attacked the Havens of Sirion, but she had since come to understand the Fëanorions better. She could also very well understand what was happening now – the sound of footsteps and calls from outside were loud enough for that.

She could not decide what was worse: knowing what was coming or a sudden assault.

"Anárië?"

The gentle touch to her shoulder made her shriek and roll to the side, coming down on all fours like a cat and her body tensed for a strike.

Maglor slowly lifted his hands, palms-out, to steady her.

"I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you."

She relaxed, and drew herself to her previous position.

"I am just tense. This is the third time that something like this is happening to me."

He nodded, taking a seat beside her, but he did not say a word; she looked at him.

"I thought you would not be here so soon. You sounded like you had much to do."

"No, I did not want the twins to overhear me speaking with the messenger," he explained, "I rode soon after you did. It is as Maedhros said – great movement can be seen upon the plains. We have to muster the cavalry and fortify the walls as best as we can."

Anárië was silent as he spoke, her head resting back against the foot of the bed. His voice was soothing, even in times of panic, and it calmed her more than the meaning of his words did.

She felt his hand upon her own, and turned to look at him.

His eyes were sad: "I fear this is but the beginning of a long war, one that Melkor has been brewing within the foundations of Thangorodrim. It will be us or him this time."

Her grip on his fingers tightened.

"Anárië, you know you have become more than simply a captive – to us all," he continued. She would have begged to differ, but he silenced her with a touch: "I do not wish any harm upon you or the boys. They are dearer to me than my own sons might have been; indeed, they are the sons I shall never have."

It took her a moment to find her voice: "They love you equally so; you have taught them what I could not – how to be a warrior and a man in these troubled times."

He squeezed her hand, and remained silent for a while, as outside, his warriors prepared for battle.

"If we had met in Aman," he said finally, "things might have been different."

The weight of the ring Glorfindel had slipped upon her finger the day Gondolin fell felt like lead. Maglor’s eyes were blue, but Glorfindel’s had been bluer still.

"If we had met in Aman, you would never have looked at me twice."

Their eyes met; Anárië smiled sadly, and kissed the hand she held.

Maglor ran his thumb across her knuckles, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against her forehead. The scent of pine, the recent hunt, and calm authority embraced her for a moment.

He left to prepare his warriors for the impending battle. She wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them to her chest, hiding her face from the pain of another heartbreak.


Chapter 7 - Chapter VI

CHAPTER SIX
The War of Wrath (545-583 FA)

The War of Wrath was the last of the great Wars fought in Beleriand.

Anárië did not know this, and neither did anyone at the Gap, or indeed in Middle Earth, but Eärendil had succeeded where others had failed. He had sailed, with his faithful and beloved Elwing by his side, out of the waters of the world and into the West, landing on the shores of Aman. The Silmaril upon his brow lit the way before him.

He gained access to speak in front of the Valar, whom no mortal man had ever seen before, and he had tipped the scale in the favour of the Free Peoples.

The Valar would help.

Manwë, He who would be High King upon Middle Earth when time was right, rose from his seat upon fair Taniquetil, and when he lifted his arms the winds howled from the mountain-top, screeching a message to his brethren, and the Eldar who were left in Valinor.

Varda was tasked with caring for Eärendil’s weariness; she called for her handmaidens. Nessa left her fields and her glades and danced with battle-shinning eyes. Estë placed Elwing to rest.

Oromë called for Nahar, and the great horse, shinning silver under moonlight, came neighing across the plains, sparks flying golden underneath him. Tulkas rose when the summons came, and the carving he’d been working on fell from his hands; Elves who saw him from afar saw only a bounding shape and shadow as he hastened to the Eldest of them all. Aulë placed down his forging tools and lifted his war hammer.

It was time to bring their errant brother home.

But all that was lost to those who lived in Middle Earth. They did not know about the councils that Manwë held with his brothers and sisters, and the remaining Eldar rulers who had not forsaken Valinor after the Destruction of the Trees.

They did not know that Manwë appointed Eönwë leader of the Host that would depart the West, and that the Vanyar and the Noldor all geared up for battle.

The only outward sign that something was happening were the gathering clouds in the West, where the birds of the skies had filed the horizon and were sailing on swift winds to aid their earthly brothers.

However, none of that was a knowledge to any of the Exiles in Middle Earth. They had their own problems to face before they could turn their eyes to the West and look for any help.

Himring, the only fortress successfully able to withstand any greater onslaught, was overflowing with refugees, for after Dagor Bragollach, the Elves had learned not to trust overly much to their castles of old; they were merely humble dwellings now, and when the sight of the orcs moving across the plains was sure, it became obvious they could not withstand them, as they could not in the past.

While measures were taken to abandon their homes, Anárië spent most of her time keeping a tight leash on both Elrond and Elros, who seemed convinced they could be of some help.

"Do not be ridiculous," she snapped at them at one point, "you are not even grown yet, what could you possibly do that other warriors cannot?"

"Our father survived the Sack of Gondolin!" Elros cried, while he and his brother fought with wooden swords, practicing their skills, "We can help here!"

The elleth tried not to feel like he had punched a hole through her defences; whenever anyone mentioned her home city, the pain felt as fresh as it had when the end came.

"Your father survived the Fall as a seven year old boy, and most of the way he was carried by Hendor, his mother, or myself!" she countered them after she managed to find her voice enough not to choke; "There was nothing remotely brave about that. We had no home, no provisions, no security; not even hope. Our only hope were the hidden mountain passes where so many of our scouts had been waylaid and killed in the past."

The boys stopped, panting, and watched her with wide eyes, interest filling them to the brim.

Anárië put down the shirt she’d been mending; while she’d never been much of a seamstress while growing up, she did understand the importance of having whole, clean clothing when you were at war, and she had offered to help Elénna when the other became overwhelmed with tactics and manoeuvres.

"Fighting in a war is not as glorious as stories make it out to be," she said again, "and you are too young, regardless of anything Maglor might tell you. He will agree with me on this; your mother would never have allowed you within a hundred yards of any fighting, though I have no such luxury!"

"But Anná, will YOU not help?" Elrond asked, and the boys came to sit by her feet.

Their grey eyes looked so thoughtful and earnest that she needed to come up with a very good answer to their question. For it was theirs, of course; the questions never came from one alone. They always came in pairs.

"I will, as much as I can – which is what I’m doing now."

She held the shirt up for them to see, and the stitch she was working into the side where the seam had popped.

"There are many ways to help when battle draws near; my mother used to tell me that, before they all moved to Gondolin and the men fought with Turgon under the banners of his father and older brother, the women set up healing tents behind the battle lines. They cooked and cleaned, and sent healing pouches and food out to the men they loved."

Elros wrinkled his nose at that: "But we aren’t women, and I cannot imagine YOU ever cooking something and sending it to the front."

She smiled: "True, I am not very good at that. It is the reason why I am trying my best to work through these stitches right now, and afterwards I shall help Elénna wherever she needs me. And besides, I must look after you two as well."

The boys grinned at that, and Anárië picked her needle again to resume her work.

"Anná?" Elrond’s voice made her look up again.

"Yes?"

He fidgeted: "You never told us ... well, Maglor spoke of the Fall to us, once. You always flinch in pain when we ask, so we thought it best to speak with someone else about it."

Her stomach had tied itself into knots, but she forced a smile upon her face regardless.

"What did he say that bothers you so?"

Elrond rested his cheek on her knee.

"He said something, about ... I did not understand all of it. About a ‘shadow’ and how one of the bravest warriors went to fight it."

Shadow, and flame.

Anárië’s heart constricted painfully, and her smile was sad when she gently ran her fingers through the boy’s hair; Elros was listening just as attentively, his eyes calculating.

"Maglor spoke the truth; we fled from a Balrog."

Saying the word out loud made it seem all the more real, and she shuddered, despite her best efforts to hide it. But the pain and the grief had yet to diminish; only a score of years had passed, and her memories were still fresh.

"And the warrior?"

It was Elros this time; this topic should not have been so hard to discuss, but Anárië felt that it was even harder than to speak about the demons who had sacked through the fair city she’d once called home.

"That, too, Maglor told you well; he knew him, I suppose, from days far-gone in fair Valinor. Glorfindel was his name, and he was Lord of the Golden Flower."

"That was a house in Gondolin, right? Atar told us so."

She nodded at Elros: "Yes, one of the twelve houses in fact, but it was one of the wealthiest, and fairest. Only the King’s house and the house of lord Egalmoth had more riches."

Not that those had helped them much. The wind moved across the plains outside Himring, bringing with it the sad song of what had once been, of fair turrets rising in the morning sun, a lake far afield among fresh green grass, and a secret interlude under the willows.

"Glorfindel seems to have been a fine warrior," Elrond mused out loud, breaking through her thoughts. Anárië realised she had hardly made any new stitch at all, and hastily remedied that.

"He was; Gondolin’s finest. It was said that Lord Rog of the Hammer of Wrath was the strongest, but Glorfindel relied more on skill than sheer strength; that was the only difference between them."

Without knowing it, her voice had dropped, and gentled; there was a small smile on her face as memories ran rampart through her thoughts. The silent strength and authority, yet the gentleness with which he had slid the ring upon her finger.

"Anná?"

She refocused, and looked at Elros.

"Forgive me; I did not mean to allow my mind to wander so," she apologised, setting the needle again, "did you ask something?"

"I did not – but I said you seem to have known Lord Glorfindel well," came the boy’s solemn observation.

It was a sad understatement, and over-valued, because she had honestly not known Glorfindel as well as she might have. There had been so many promises that should have been kept, torn apart by war and immeasurable hatred.

She sighed softly.

"I knew him well enough; better than many in the city, but not as good as my father, or lord Egalmoth. They had ridden and fought with him long before I got to know him."

Elrond lifted his head from where he had been playing with the sleeve of the shirt she had in work.

"Did you love him?"

Was it fair that a child should be so intuitive? She could not blame him, however, because the question could easily have been posed by anyone else who would have taken the time to observe her.

"Yes," Anárië answered finally, pushing away the ghosts of the past for now, "I loved him; and he loved me. We were wed the day that Gondolin fell."

Her hand instinctively dropped the needle as she touched the golden band upon her finger, the ring that carried with it so many memories, false hopes, and lost dreams.

The boys fell silent then, and she picked the needle again to resume working; outside, one of the women who had gone to the well to fetch water for the kitchens, lifted her voice into song:

"Once, as my heart remembers, all the stars were fallen embers. Once, when night seemed forever, I was with you. Once, in the care of morning, in the air was all belonging, once, when that day was dawning - I was with you."

Elrond and Elros took up their play swords again, but Anárië listened to the song, possibly sung by a widow, and closed her eyes to keep the tears from falling. It was as if someone had taken her pain and voiced it.

"How far we are from morning, how far we are, and the stars shining through the darkness, falling in the air … Once, as the night was leaving, into us our dreams were weaving. Once all dreams were worth keeping - I was with you."

"I’ll get you!"

"No you won’t!"

‘Brace the gate, ready your arrows!’

‘Swords! Swords!’

‘Is the city lost?’

"No, Elros, you must lift your sword higher, like this! Like Maglor taught us!"

‘The King gave me command – we follow the Secret Way.’

"Anárië, we need you down in the mess hall."

She opened her eyes with a start, looking at Elénna who was standing in the doorway, watching her curiously.

Outside, the elleth’s voice faded away,

"Once, when our hearts were singing – I was with you ..."

The golden-haired elleth forced herself to focus, and placed the shirt and needle down upon the seat she’d occupied.

"I am coming. Elrond, Elros, stay here, please – do not wander off."

"The guard outside will watch them," Elénna comforted her and nodded in the direction of the Elf outside the door; Anárië gave a weak smile.

"Thank you."

The smaller elleth angled her head to the side a little: "Are you alright?"

No. But she could not say it out loud. It was not real until you said it out loud.

"Of course. Just weary, and wishing this would all be over soon."

Her wish came true; before long, Maedhros was forced to retreat from Himring before the onslaught of the Enemy’s forces, and all who were with him were on the run as well. The days spent in the wilderness were bleak and memory shied away from them in later days.

Elrond and Elros soon realised that the glory everyone sung about was nothing but grime, dirt and hunger on the move, constantly riding through the forests and the plains and the gorges. Anywhere they could go to escape the pursuers, but they never made camp for more than a fortnight; and even then it was usually shorter.

Morgoth had thrown all he had into this final battle, knowing that he would be able to eradicate the scattered and weakened forces of his enemies. The Edain who opposed him were overrun, and they, too, went into hiding. As valiant as the three large Houses were who fought against the oncoming Orcs and other spawn the evil lord sent against them, they did not have the strength to properly oppose him.

And the Eldar?

They were scattered, the banners of the would-be Kings in Exile strewn across the lands like leaves that fall from a tree in autumn. They were a bedraggled lot of hunters and thieves now, only seeking chances for their own survival.

Even if someone had told them of the Host coming to their aid from the West now, they would never have believed him, preferring to silently turn the other cheek, and trudge away into darkness.

Thus it was when the sky broke and rain fell upon the rearguard as Anárië reared her stallion in; Gwaiforn’s offspring snorted and pawned the ground. He had grown in captivity, and she had spent a lot of time training him so that he could be as his father had been before him. Hopefully, she had done a good job.

Steam rose from his flanks as the water pelted them both, but she dared not stop for too long, even to wipe him a little. They had to keep moving.

Up front, she could see the twins between two warriors as they trudged their own horses along the muddy pathway through the forest they had sought shelter in tonight. Little good it would do them in this rain, when they could not start any fires. She wished for something, anything to help them.

It was only after she clicked her tongue to move her horse again that she noticed a silent shadow waiting for her as others passed him by.

She joined Maglor without a word, and he turned his horse so they walked abreast.

"Maedhros is far ahead," he finally said, "and his scouts report the way is clear, for now at least."

She heaved a heavy sigh: "But for how long? We have been riding for days on end now, Maglor; I do not think any of us can take it much longer."

"We must," came the solemn reply, "if we stop, we are lost for sure."

She could not fight with that logic, because she knew he spoke the truth, but it was a bitter one.

They were silent as their horses slowly made their way behind a covered wagon; Anárië’s eyes sought the twins again, and she relaxed a little when she saw them ahead. For the time being, she could not answer any of their questions, and she knew she was being selfish – but she needed the time on her own.

Maglor followed her gaze.

"They are relentless in their quest for knowledge."

Her only answer was a tired smile; the boys grew with each passing day on the road, and they were becoming more and more like their father, but even though they were twins, Anárië could already tell the subtle differences that were sure signs of who was who. Elros seemed to be the physically stronger of the two, while Elrond preferred to use his wits before actually going in for the kill.

They were dearer to her than any other children she might have had of her own right now.

A touch to her shoulder made her look at Maglor again, and he pointed to some low-lying branches that seemed to offer a little shelter; she followed him there and Raumonóna allowed a shudder to run through him as he shook himself. The elleth pushed her hood off and shook her damp hair out.

"This might be the last respite we get before we encounter our foes again," Maglor said softly, watching as she slowly stretched her arms to relieve an ache within them, "we should use it, while we can."

"The only respite I will allow is when we are no longer pursued, and I can sleep through the night without fear of having my throat slit," she replied with a shrug of her shoulders, right after she rolled them and let her head fall back.

Maglor was doing something of the same, and they both watched the seemingly endless column march by in front of them.

"Anárië, it will come to battle," she heard him speak then, "and when it does, it will not be easy. I do not want either you or the twins to be part of it."

She looked at him, trying to read his face or his eyes in the forest dark.

She could not.

Maglor continued: "You were never truly captives; not even when we first brought you to the Gap. And you have shown me that there are other things in this world than meaningless search; other Oaths."

The elleth was silent as he spoke, not knowing precisely what he wished to say.

Finally, he sighed, and his blue eyes were hidden by a veil of sadness.

"We are coming upon a larger stretch of the river we have been following for days now, but one of its smaller sisters runs farther West. I will give you what provisions I can spare. Ride hard, and don’t look back."

The words registered in her mind, but not the meaning; she had been with him for so long that she did not, at first, understand.

"You are letting me go?"

"You, and the boys; I do not wish any harm befalling you during the skirmishes and the upcoming battle. Perhaps, if we meet again, you will look upon me with kinder eyes."

So, as the Host of the West landed upon the shores of Middle Earth, and Eärendil led the birds of the sky against Ancalagon the Black, and the Host of Middle Earth met up with their Western kindred, Anárië and the twins found themselves alone in the wilderness, left by their mentor and protector, who had once been their captor.

But by that point, the whole Beleriand was alive with news of war, and what was happening far up in the North and on the shores, so Anárië knew exactly where they had to go.

Maglor’s rearguard disappeared in the distance when she clicked her tongue, and led the twins further into the wilderness, but towards the West.

They would go to the shore, and hopefully find their new purpose and destination there.


---
The song, Fallen Embers, is property of Enya.


Chapter 8 - Chapter VII

CHAPTER SEVEN
Summer, 32 SA

The War was well and finally over.

The last remnants of the battles that had been fought in the North of Middle Earth were slowly dissolving, and those who would continue to live there could lift their heads anew, and breathe the free air again.

Morgoth, he who was Manwë’s brother before the beginning of Time, had been imprisoned as the First Age came to an end, and his brethren had come to take him where he rightfully belonged. He would be cast out into the Void and Endless Night, never to be seen again until the Final Battle, when he would be utterly defeated, and Manwë would reign supreme.

The Valar finally proved merciful – the Eldar who had fought against Morgoth during all the long years in Exile were granted free passage into the West, never to return to Middle Earth.

Many chose this option.

They were weary of what had come to pass, weary of all the war and the sadness.

Yet many still there were who decided not take the easy road yet. There were still some who believed the lies Melkor had initially spoken of, that the Valar wished only to have them all in one place where they could be governed. Not all thought that was over, and refused the Call, choosing rather to remain here for the time being, perhaps forever. For who knew when the next ship would be able to sail and be granted passage out of the waters of this Earth?

Anárië was also among them, for the sole reason because she had sworn to Eärendil that she would watch over his sons.

Neither Elrond nor Elros would be sailing into the West any time soon.

She was woken by one of the soldiers one day, and by his fair countenance she could see he was a Vanya; his eyes were solemn.

"Come, my lady; you are summoned."

That did not bode well as far as she knew, and so she rose and dressed hastily, yanking a brush through her hair and quickly braiding it while she walked after him, her boots grinding through the dry dirt underneath.

It was only when they were finally close to their destination, a cluster of tents sitting high above the rest, that she realised where he was taking her.

"Eönwë’s abode?" she asked, suddenly fearful.

The Elf beckoned: "Do not be afraid; he has summoned you to speak, not to be judged. To my knowledge, at least."

The elleth worried her bottom lip with her teeth, but followed him further anyway, careful now. Whatever the summons meant, there could be no doubt they were important, for Eönwë had distanced himself from everything that went on in the war camp created after the desolation of most of the North Beleriand. That he would call upon her now could mean no small thing.

Her guide stopped in front of the large tent, and inclined his head: "I go no further; they are waiting for you inside."

Her curiosity spiked – ‘they’? It was worth exploring.

She thanked the warrior and ducked through the tent opening, straightening to her full height; she would not show fear to whoever was inside with the Herald.

Anárië was surprised to see Elrond and Elros standing to the side, but her attention was captured by the others gathered in the tent right now.

There were Maedhros and Maglor, and as the latter caught her gaze, his lips promised a smile that no one else could see; his older brother looked the same as the day he had caught her behind the waterfall, stern, commanding, except that he was also weary.

Behind them, was the Herald.

Anárië could never in later times give justice to descriptions, because Eönwë was not someone you could capture in words. He was young and old, wise and naive, gracious and merciless, all in one. His eyes could see the darkest, deepest secrets in your soul, and yet his heart could judge them without grudging.

When she entered, he lifted a hand, beckoning: "My lady; come."

His voice was a command, and she obeyed; she would have obeyed even unwillingly, but strangely enough she felt perfectly safe and secure. Not even Maedhros could harm her while Eönwë was here.

The Herald gave her a smile, before turning a harsher gaze upon the remaining sons of Fëanor: "I bring yet another witness before you, so you may not afterwards say that we are unjust. But I tell you this, my lords, your rights to the precious jewels were lost when you first raised a hand against your brethren before your march from Aman. And if that were not the case, then your other crimes speak against you."

Maglor lowered his head a little, but Anárië knew him well enough to guess he was not as submissive as he would seem. His brother was the one who was openly rebellious, however.

Maedhros’ eyes blazed: "They are ours by blood right. Our father made them before the Sun and the Moon, and he died in search for them. We will not now put our claim to rest when we are so close to fulfilling his last wish."

The twins looked uncomfortable, and Anárië unconsciously angled herself to stand between them and the wrathful Elf. It seemed to her that Eönwë approved of her move, and was also amused by it.

His amusement with Maedhros, however, was non-existent.

"Nevertheless, there is blood on your hands, son of Fëanor. Denying it will do you no good at all. And it is because of the crimes committed in the past that I now strip you fully of any right you ever held towards the Stones; they shall be taken to Valinor in recompense for all the actions against the Valar and Eldar, and there they will be kept, until further decision is made. Such are my commands, and I will not change them for the whims of a child never fully-grown."

Maedhros grew at that, and the waves of hostility emanating from his form were obvious to all who witnessed the exchange.

"Very well. Maglor, come."

He swept past them, and Anárië noticed that his right hand was missing.

Maglor hesitated for a moment, before he bowed to Eönwë and retreated, though it was obvious he did not fully agree with his brother. His blue eyes rested on the twins, and then finally on Anárië.

It was a silent farewell, and then he, too, retreated from the tent, the flap falling soundlessly behind him. The elleth felt like she had once more lost someone dear to her.

It was then that the Herald relaxed, his shoulders less rigid.

"They are a tiring lot, these children; seven there were yet two only remain, and even so they are bent on destroying themselves."

He turned to the half-open chest that was standing behind him on a table, and Anárië caught her breath; she knew what was in there. She had seen the Silmaril once at Sirion. To see two of them joined together would mean more to her than she could imagine.

And yet this was a temptation she could not succumb to.

For even after that one solitary glance at the mighty Jewel, she had felt the need to see it again, and to possibly possess it. But it did not belong to her and therefore she could not claim the right to say that.

Even as she realised this, Eönwë closed the lid on the chest, and turned to her with a sad smile: "You are younger than Maedhros, yet you are wiser – they are not yours to demand, which you certainly would had you seen them again. To refuse such a thing is the wiser path to take. Ecthelion has taught you well."

Anárië blushed when she realised he had read her thoughts, and she did not dare think that he could read them all right now, for that would mean she had nowhere to hide.

But Eönwë turned then to the twins, and her attention shifted again.

The boys had grown to manhood during their lonely trek to the shores of Middle Earth, and they had also matured greatly on the way. They were so alike to each other that those who did not know them could not tell them apart. Anárië, however, knew exactly which was which.

Right now, the Herald was looking at Elrond.

"They will return," came his soft voice, and she could detect a grave sadness within it, "Maedhros will not put his claim to rest. You should post more guards around the tent and the chest tonight."

Eönwë shook his head: "No. It is not upon me to decide their fate. They must choose their own path. I will do what I was told to do, and nothing more."

Elrond bowed his head, and Anárië looked at him with a frown upon her features.

It did not go unnoticed.

"You wonder, Ecthelion’s daughter?"

She looked at Eönwë and blushed, quickly shaking her head.

But he was smiling: "Such curiosity is easily satisfied; one of your charges has what we call the Gift of Foresight. He can see what will come to pass, but the future is not set in stone. It is shaped by our decisions. The sons of Fëanor have made their choice."

Her throat felt dry as she looked at Elrond, who smiled sadly: "It is both a blessing and a curse, Anná; you will soon understand why."

Her irritation at being left in the dark burst from her before she could stop herself: "Then it would be nice if I were finally told what I am to understand, for right now I understand nothing!"

It was only after the words had left her lips that she realised the impertinence behind them, and drew further back in horror, but Eönwë chuckled.

"You certainly make a fine point, and more eloquently than your father ever could."

The elleth blushed again and lowered her head, feeling chagrined; everyone else knew her father better than her it seemed, and judged her through him.

"But," Eönwë continued, "you are right. ‘Tis time you learned why you have been summoned. It was for more than one purpose.

Perhaps it will comfort you to know that one of your charges is alive and well, and has reached Valinor."

All three of them started at that; the boys were speechless, yet Anárië leaned forward, her green eyes shining with hope unlooked-for: "Eärendil?"

The Herald smiled: "Yes. He has come before us, and it is him you should thank for our intervention here in the North. For without him, you would have surely perished under the claws of Melkor."

Joy such as she had not known for a while now surged through her, and Anárië felt her eyes fill with happy tears, which she refused to let fall, but it was a nice feeling all the same. The two young men seemed at a loss for words, and there was little wonder at that.

Even Eönwë noticed.

"Veriliy, you feel confused right now, for he has not been the best father you could have asked for. But others have taken his place just as well, and be at peace – for he has done nothing that the Valar have not tasked him with."

"Can we see him?" Elros asked.

To this, the Herald shook his head: "It is not his doom to walk upon Middle Earth again. But you may see him every night. Look to the coming of the brightest star that sails the horizon."

Recognition and another surge of joy swept through the elleth: "The Silmaril."

"Yes; his wife survived, for Ulmo has not the heart to take the life of one who he has loved since she was born. She, too, is in Aman now. But the Silmaril has found its native home among the stars."

It was better news they could have hoped for, and yet still bitter-sweet; for Anárië would have given everything to be able to speak to Eärandil one last time.

She realised Eönwë was looking at them and waiting to say more.

He smiled sadly: "That is not the only news I was tasked to give you.

Because of his sacrifice, and all he has accomplished, Eärendil was given the choice whether to be counted among the Firstborn, or among Mortal men. Such a thing has never happened before and probably never will again after you leave my tent."

Anárië held her breath.

"Elwing decided for them; because of her ancestor, she wished them both to belong to the Firstborn, and they will never again be faced with the Gift of the One to Man."

She released it, and held a hand across her heart.

Eönwë looked from her to the twins.

"And so, because your parents are sundered from you, and because of their unique choice, you are here given your own: the same as theirs. Should you choose the Firstborn, you will one day tire of Middle Earth, and sail into the West with your brethren, and any children you have shall either sail with you, or remain upon these shores, mortal. But should you choose the Late-comers, then you will die even if you will be granted the lifespan of many years."

Suddenly, the choice was clear to Anárië, and she felt as if someone had punched her hard in the stomach; no! This could not be happening – she could not lose them! Her Oath!

But before she could speak, Eönwë lifted a hand to stop her.

"It is not for you to decide, young one. This is their Choice. They have been presented with it some days back. Today is the day the decision must be made, for the Host of the West will leave within a fortnight."

Her throat felt dry as she looked from the Herald to the twins, seeing before her eyes the boys she had seen born, and helped raise, and now the men they had become.

Suddenly, she understood Elrond’s earlier words.

Both a blessing, and a curse.

His smile was sad as he saw her realise the inevitable: "Yes; I have seen the outcome, soon after we were first presented with this."

If Eönwë knew of it – for he could see into the minds of any he wished – he did not speak.

Anárië felt her heart was about to break, and she fought a sob that threatened to choke her.

"But – my Oath. I swore to protect you. I cannot do that if you do not choose -"

She cut herself off, feeling strangled, and like someone had cut the air from her. It was not her choice, as Eönwë had warned her previously. The elleth placed both hands across her mouth so she would not say more, shaking with silent sobs.

Elrond turned back to the Herald.

"For my mother, and in memory of Her who chose to be with Beren out of the love she bore him, I choose to remain with the Firstborn that have yet to forsake these shores; for I sense that I will be needed here ere the end, when I may finally look upon the white sails of a ship to carry me home."

One of her hands travelled lower, to her abdomen. Elrond was safe.

But then Elros lifted his head, and she should have known the danger had never been with his older brother.

"For my father, who would have chosen the Secondborn, if he could, I choose to become mortal, and to live out the rest of my days among those who fought against Morgoth Bauglir."

This time, she could not stop the tears. She would gain one, but lose the other.

"Very well," she heard Eönwë say, "you have chosen wisely, and I suspect more good will come of this than evil. Elrond, you and your protector will leave this camp to follow the last King in Exile, the son of Fingon; he will leave to establish his own realm when our armies depart.

Elros, you will be sundered from all you knew and would have known, but you will be granted a lifespan four times that of what it will be when you are dead, and the world has once more fallen into darkness, something that your brother already knows. And when you die, you will not go to the Halls of Mandos, but beyond the Circles of this World, never to be seen again."

Each word was like another slice at her heart.

"You have said your farewells; Elros, for your sacrifice, you shall be appointed King among the Late-comers, and from you shall come a line that will govern the land we will bestow upon you. And when you are long gone, and your memory is but a shadow in the eyes of the Firstborn, one of your line will meet his long-sundered uncle again, and the circle will begin anew.

Go, and may the blessings of the Valar be upon you all."

Anárië felt a strong hand take hold of her arm; she could not see through the tears that fell thickly now. She was escorted out of the tent, and the flap closed behind them. Her feet gave way beneath her as a sob left her throat, but another hand caught her on the other side, and the twins swiftly took her between tents.

She sobbed out loud as she finally threw her arms around Elros, clinging to the man she had known throughout his life, weeping for the future she could not be part of. The faint scar upon her hand, however, was silent.

"Shh," he soothed her, like she had done so many times before, "it is done; do not weep, Anná, for it was not upon us to choose the same. And I will never truly be gone; you know this."

"I have lost too many already," she managed through the sobs she was fighting to control now, and she turned her tear-streaked face so she could look into his grey eyes, "is this my penance for being born to the Exiles?"

To this, none of them had an answer, and she bit her lip to stop herself from screaming in frustration. Elrond placed his hands on her shoulders, kissing her cheek, and they stood in a silent embrace, all three of them, until they heard a trumpet sound from afar.

Elros pulled away: "That is my call – I am being summoned to my people."

Anárië felt like someone was taking Glorfindel from her again: "No, please, don’t -"

But he gave her a sad smile, and slipped out of her grasp, and Elrond’s firm hold prevented her from following after him. She struggled, but could not escape, and eventually slumped against the other of the twins, sobbing quietly.

"It was meant to be," Elrond murmured to her ear quietly, but it was of little comfort.

When he was sure she was calm enough, he let her go, and she stumbled away from him to she knew not where. Eventually, she realised that her feet were carrying her to the cliffs overlooking the bay where the ships were anchored. Such places had been her refuge for a long time. She crumpled down onto one of the rocks and buried her head in her hands, and wept.

"I let you down, Eärendil," she sobbed, "forgive me."

As if suddenly realising she could be overheard, the elleth looked up – and there, on the largest and finest of the ships in the bay, a tall man stood, his brow crowned with a light so bright she could not look at his face.

But she knew him regardless.

Eärendil placed a hand across his heart, and inclined his head, and she thought she could sense a sad smile upon his face. A sense of understanding washed over her, and Anárië sobbed anew, returning the gesture, with a small wave in addition.

His ship was already moving out, making its way back into heavenly waters, but he held his hand out in farewell, and his skin shone in the morning sun.

Thank you, Anná; I will see you tonight.

She closed her eyes as the wind brought his words and wrapped them around her like a cloak. The tears were still falling, but they were not entirely painful anymore.

Vingilot returned to the skies and whenever she later appeared upon the dark seas, Anárië would remember the boy she had seen grow to manhood, and the man she had so loved, and knew he too, was watching down on her from above. And she was calmer, if not entirely content.

Elros and the Edain left with the Teleri and Ulmo for the island they would abide upon from then until the end of Time; she and Elrond stood upon the high cliffs and watched them leave. For a moment, a flash of light as if the Sun caught on something metallic sprang forth, and then it was lost; Elros had lifted his crown in farewell.

And then they left the shore behind as well, for the King Ereinion, or Gil-galad as he was also known to his followers, was to leave for Lindon, a blooming settlement where a lot of the Exiles had made their home. Raumonóna snorted as they were finally on the road again in the long column that would take them to their new destination; Anárië was silent and pensive, until an Elf with the mark of the King rode up to them.

"The King requires your presence."

Elrond nodded, and clicked his tongue; Anárië looked back to where the Sea continued its endless song, where she had said farewell to Eärendil and Elros, and so many others before them, and sighed.

Then she turned and kicked Raumonóna to follow after Elrond, and meet the next goal upon her path.


Chapter 9 - Chapter VIII

CHAPTER EIGHT
Spring, 280 SA

Her limbs felt like lead when she woke, and Anárië groaned, sitting up in bed and resting her face in her hands. Outside, she could see Arien sailing happily, and the calls of construction workers were already loud in the morning stillness.

The city was growing, slowly but surely, with each passing day, and everyone who was within its walls was expected to help; the elleth had spent the majority of the previous couple of days leading horses who drew behind them heavy wagons full of stone and wood. She had seen very little of Elrond during that time, as he was held with other duties.

Today, however, they would be together again, for the High King was riding to the Dwarven establishment of Khazad-dûm.

The great city of the stone-working race had begun its ascent soon after the first Dwarves moved into the region from the Blue Mountains. Their king Durin was famed as wise and just, but also of a quick temper, and Gil-galad was planning on establishing a trade connection and friendly liaison as soon as was physically possible.

Which was why she needed to get herself dressed and out into the open air soon.

Anárië bit her lower lip as her legs complained to her, and told them to be silent. Washing herself quickly, she was dressed and presentable when Elrond came to knock on her door.

"You’re awake," he said with an almost child-like enthusiasm which she hadn’t heard him use since their arrival in Lindon, almost two hundred years ago. She smiled.

"Yes, in a fashion. It took some buckets of cold water, but I am awake now."

The ellon laughed, and reached over to take her hand; he was taller than she was now by some inches, but she still did not need to turn her head up to look at him. Her lineage helped her there.

"I am glad, for the King means to ride as soon as all of our party is assembled, which will apparently be within a quarter of an hour – you have everything?"

Anárië took hold of the belt upon which her father’s sword was buckled, and nodded: "Now I do."

He smiled wider and they left her rooms together, following the many steep stairs down to the main level of the palace and the inner courtyard, where the horses would be waiting for them.

Among others who would ride in this delegation that king Durin had invited to his realm were the commander of Gil-galad’s forces with a group of soldiers for protection, some other nobles she did not yet know, and their spouses.

Anárië made it a point to avoid the commander at all costs, especially once she had her horse; she kept the stallion between herself and the other Elf at all times. Elrond seemed mildly amused by it all.

"I simply do not wish to argue with him today," she grumbled out in response at his silent question about it. It was true, since they did not see eye to eye, especially recently. The elleth thought the commander a bully and an arrogant fool, while she knew he thought her to be a pretender who was hiding behind a sword of noble lineage. She did not wish to argue again over the fact that, being Ecthelion’s sole heir, she would have received the Flame of Gondolin regardless whether the city had fallen or not.

Gil-galad appeared at the top of the stairs with some other Elves, though the ones that drew Anárië’s eyes were two of the ladies that would accompany them; they were both tall and statuesque, though one more so than the other. Their features were similar, and so she deduced that they were sisters. Their hair was dark, but while that of the taller seemed entirely black, the smaller of the pair sported some sort of highlights that made it look as if light caught upon her tresses.

She looked to Elrond for explanation.

"They are the ladies Berien and Wilvarin," he explained in a quiet murmur, barely moving his lips, "their father had been a herald in lord Fingon’s army, and he had been passed down from the lord Fingolfin."

The King came to them then, and they could not continue their discussion, so they bowed in silence.

"A fair morning for riding," said Ereinion, and he and Elrond exchanged a smile, before the High King turned to Anárië: "My lady, I hope you shall not mind the company I brought for you – lady Berien, this is lady Anárië. You might find some interesting topics to share, since I do believe you had kin in Gondolin, where she hails from."

It was no secret that Anárië was an exile of the fair city, so she did not deny it now either, but she did see the eyes of the two ellith spark with sudden interest. Berien had light grey irises, while Wilvarin, the smaller one, had blue ones.

"It will be an honour and a pleasure to answer any questions the ladies might have, Your Majesty," she replied with an inclination of her head, and exchanged a small smile with the other two. Wilvarin shied away a little, but Berien returned the gesture with a wide smile of her own as she was helped into the saddle. Anárië pulled herself up as well, and looked to Elrond, who had already mounted and was holding the King’s horse steady. He nodded, and she turned away to keep her focus on the two ellith.

Their conversation was mostly small talk and general questions until they were far afield from Lindon and making steady progress in the direction of the Misty Mountains which loomed ahead of them in the far distance. That was when Berien first spoke of more than weather and life at court:

"You are close to lord Elrond?"

Anárië turned her head sharply, before telling herself to relax; Berien had not just thrown an axe at her charge, she was simply curious.

So she nodded: "I have been since the day of his birth; I knew his father from a very young age, in Gondolin. I swore to protect him and his brother."

Wilvarin’s eyes showed she wished to ask something, but instead her older sister took charge again: "Brother? It is true, then, what they say about him? That he is Peredhel?"

Half-Elven. Yes, it was as accurate term as any, she thought, though she would have wished that it were not applied so generously.

"Yes; his brother, Elros, chose to become mortal, and travelled to rule the Edain upon the island they were awarded after the War of Wrath. If I know him correctly, he would have turned it all upside down by now, and acquired as many beautiful women to him as possible."

The younger sister’s eyes widened in shock, but Berien threw her head back and laughed, immediately picking up on the joke in Anárië’s words.

"That sounds about right from what we’ve heard, yes."

She smiled brightly, and Anárië smiled back. A prickly feeling to her neck made her turn around, and she just caught sight of the commander’s horse swiftly mingling with the other soldiers, which brought a frown to her features.

"Do not mind him," came Berien’s soft voice, and Anárië looked back at her. She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug: "He is jealous that I can speak and laugh so freely with you, when I so wish to throttle him each time we are together."

Anárië felt her brows rise in understanding, but she did not delve into the subject further, since she gathered that Berien did not wish to speak of it yet.

"The King said you had kin in Gondolin?" she asked instead, carefully picking the path for her horse down a steeper slope they were crossing.

Both the sisters nodded: "A cousin, on our mother’s side. Duilin. I remember him but vaguely, I was only a child when we saw him last, before he rode away with Turgon, and Wilvarin has never met him at all."

She paused in her explanation at the sight of the smile that lit Anárië’s face.

"I take it you knew him well?"

"He was a frequent visitor in my father’s house," Anárië nodded, "his wife and my mother were close friends. I have a bow and a set of arrows of his making, for he was Gondolin’s greatest scout, and his house was devoted to that cause. Lady Tinnuwen – his wife – was stern and as hard as steel, but that, I think, is something to be expected of the sister to the master smith of our city."

Berien’s eyes shone as she leaned forward on her horse: "Are you speaking of lord Rog? You knew him?"

"He tossed me in the air quite frequently when I was a child, and made fun of everyone he could, whenever he could," Anárië confessed sheepishly, "but he was generous and kind, and my father loved him dearly."

More than dearly; Ecthelion and Rog had been close friends, but emotions closed around her and she fell silent. Berien understood, and did not press her with questions. They resumed their conversation after a few quiet moments, with Anárië asking about their relation to the Gondolin lord, and their father’s position in Fingon’s army.

She soon learned that their father had perished during the War of Wrath, like so many others then, and that the sisters had spent quite some time with lord Círdan in Mithlond, where they had first met Gil-galad, and decided to travel with him when he went to establish his own kingdom. Berien would have actually gone with the ships that had sailed to the aid of Sirion, for she was a good archer, if not for Wilvarin. She could not leave her sister unprotected.

"Also, I have just remembered," she said suddenly, on the second day of their journey after they had talked more about Gondolin, and all the people there, "I have something of yours, my lady; it was granted to me by a friend before he left with Círdan."

Anárië arched an eyebrow in confusion: "Oh? And please, call me Anárië, or Anná. The title makes me feel uncomfortable."

Berien smiled: "Only if you do the same for us, then. But yes; I have in my possession a locked chest, plain and wooden, but quite heavy when one tries to move it."

Anárië’s breath caught.

"Egalmoth!"

It was Wilvarin that replied this time: "Yes; lord Egalmoth spent a lot of time with us when we were in Mithlond, after he was rescued from the Havens of Sirion. He returned there some time afterwards and brought the chest with him, but would not part with it until it was made clear that Círdan would have need of him. Because we were going with the High King, and he knew of his connection to Elrond, he hoped we would be able to find you."

Anárië felt like soaring – her possessions! She had completely forgotten about them at first, but as soon as they were more comfortably settled, and she had time to think, she wished she could return and seek out the cavern where the chest had been hidden. She had not thought that her uncle would have taken her this seriously, but she was grateful to him nonetheless.

"And he is with Círdan, you say?" she asked after a moment. Berien nodded, and her heart exulted in the feelings coursing through her. So more than a few had survived! They were simply strewn about.

She told this to Elrond when they stopped for the night again, and he looked as happy as she felt.

"This might mean that there are more," he mused out loud as they brushed the horses down, "which is more than we could have hoped for."

"I know," she agreed. She remembered Maedhros’ words about Egalmoth shooting his bannerman from a retreating ship, and wondered whether her other uncle was with Círdan as well. What had become of Galdor? She needed answers to these questions, but she did not think she would get them soon.

Their journey proved uneventful as they finally drew near to the mountains, and they were met with a group of Dwarven outriders, sitting on stocky ponies with thick fur.

"Well met!" called one of them as they halted their horses, and he kicked his pony closer; his beard was russet in colour, though he seemed to be very young underneath it. His blue eyes twinkled with some hidden mischief.

"I am Dwain, cousin to the King; he has asked me to bid you welcome to his kingdom, and take you to him."

"Hail," greeted Gil-galad, and dismounted to accommodate the Dwarf and show him such gestures were not beneath him. Anárië sensed the approval coming from the other Dwarves behind Dwain.

"Our journey has been long, but not tiresome; I hope you have not been made to wait for us out here."

Dwain’s eyes twinkled even more: "Not at all, Elven-king. We have outposts on this side of the Mountains. But come! King Durin bade me make all haste once you arrived. We have already sent a raven back with news."

They took to their mounts again, and Gil-galad rode side by side with Dwain for the remaining journey, which took them four more hours. Finally, they came to the end of a road they had followed throughout Hollin. It was guarded by Dwarven sentries on either side of a mighty gate that stood open.

"You will have to leave your horses on the upper level here, I fear," Dwain said as he lowered himself to the ground, "they cannot pass over the steps in Khazad-dûm."

The Elves did as they were asked, and took what they had brought with them. Dwain bowed low before the ladies of the group, as if noticing them for the first time.

"Forgive discourtesy! Had we known there would be such fair folk riding to our gates, we would have prepared a welcome feast for our weary guests up here. Alas! We must pass some levels down before you may rest now."

The men seemed amused by this, but the women were pleased with such talk, and assured Dwain that there was nothing remotely wrong about some more walking.

And walk they did, for the Dwarves had not been idle since their arrival; the caverns and halls that opened before them were one more wondrous than the other, and they all looked around them in awe.

Dwain proudly explained different procedures and stones and miracles that had happened in various places as he led them ever onwards, to the light of torches upon the walls, and soon enough crystals that seemed to shine from within.

"It is a secret," he laughed when Elrond asked about them, "a secret you will perhaps learn if the King grants you the honour. For now, be content that your way is lit; when we first came, our only light came from the fire we made with our own hands."

Anárië looked around herself in open wonder; the pillars that rose high above her head where she could not see the roof were carved in the likeness of trees; the floor under their feet was polished and gleamed whenever light touched it; on the upper levels, there was still light through windows that had been cut into the rock to the outside world. Once they passed below, however, those disappeared, but it was no less light.

Temperature rose as they descended, and Anárië stepped faster to meet with Dwain’s pace so she could ask him about it.

The Dwarf smiled: "It is the fires of our forges, which never stop; that, and also the flames for the feast prepared for your arrival."

She was both stunned and touched that the race which they knew so little about would go through so much trouble for them.

"Have you met many of us before?" she asked him after a moment of silence.

He shook his head: "Only stragglers, but our King wishes to remedy that. We are a race of rock and stone, not of farming. We must trade to survive. It is why Durin has agreed to this meeting to begin with."

She smiled: "Your king is very wise."

Dwain smiled back, and it was now his turn to ask a question: "You do not seem like those that we have met before, however; your hair is lighter, and your speech slightly different."

Glorfindel had once told her that she spoke with a slight Vanya accent, possibly acquired through Cealea’s teaching, since her father had been fully Vanya. That this would still be noticeable was almost a miracle.

"My mother and her line are not of the same kindred as the High King Gil-galad," she explained, "I have been told that I look much like her, but act as my father, who was Noldo."

Dwain nodded at that: "That explains it, then. My cousin will be pleased to know many different members of your kindreds."

It was only later that she made the connection with Durin; at the time, she simply felt like she had just gained a friend.

They stopped before what seemed like a wide platform with three walls, and the Elves eyed it with curiosity and slight unease, but Dwain was quite unfazed. He stepped onto it, and beckoned to them: "This will be faster than stairs."

Once they were all gathered beside him, he pulled the front shut with what looked like a net, but seemed to be of some metal or other; then the whole platform suddenly shifted, and moved, lowering them.

Dwain laughed at the Elves’ expressions: "Worry not, it is perfectly safe; we have been using them at our home under the Blue Mountains, and they are no different here!"

That relaxed the group a little, and Berien exchanged a look with Anárië that spoke of amusement, before turning back to placate her sister. Anárië felt like they had dropped forever before the platform finally stopped, and Dwain pulled the gate open. They were welcomed by warm air, the scent of food, and the sight of a vast, lit hall full of Dwarves.

"Welcome, to the Dwarven kingdom of Khazad-dûm!" Dwain told them, and bowed again.

Gil-galad took the lead, as another Dwarf stepped up to meet them, and led them over to where King Durin sat at the head of a long and well-laden table. He was obviously older than Dwain, but he too had deep-set blue eyes, and a twinkle within them as he stood to greet his guests. Dwain swiftly arranged that they were all seated, Gil-galad and his inner court at the King’s table, and the rest at the many side ones that had been set up. Then the feasting began.

Anárië would never forget the feasts of the Dwarves, the roaring fires upon which they turned the food that was to be set upon the tables, the great barrels of drink they just kept on pouring and consuming, the boisterous laughter that echoed off walls and came back multiplied by ten. Above all else, she would never forget the sound of her own laugh, as Dwain amused them all with numerous stories of himself and the King from their early days. She had not laughed so much in what seemed like an Age.

Dwain remained their guide and companion for the duration of their stay with Durin; Gil-galad and the Dwarven King walked side by side and talked, while the Elves mingled with the Dwarves and learned what they could of a race so foreign to them.

Anárië and Dwain became fast friends during that time, and Elrond was very much amused at how the Dwarf seemed to endlessly wish to get his mentor drunk on the beer his race brewed itself, not that she ever gave him the pleasure. More often than not, it was Dwain who had to be carried away, snoring in drunken stupor, but that never stopped him from coming back the next evening.

The time to part came almost too soon for most Elves, but Gil-galad needed to return to Lindon; he promised that the road to his city would always be open to the Dwarves.

Dwain led them back to the upper levels and the outside world again, and before they left, he pressed a small parcel into Anárië’s hand. His parting was a wink in her direction, and a bow to them all once they were seated on their horses, and then they were off. She only opened the gift when they stopped for the night, carefully unwrapping whatever was inside the rough leather.

It seemed to be a large pendant, made of a metal she could not name; upon it was set a fountain embracing a long, elegant sword. Where the hilt touched the blade, there was the tiniest crystal, just like the ones that lit the way in the Dwarven halls. With it came a slender, strong chain, of apparently the same metal as the pendant.

Anárië felt her throat constrict when she traced the familiar pattern of the fountain’s spray, and her eyes filled with tears even as she smiled. In just a few short days, Dwain had deduced just how much she missed her father, her home, her former life, and he had given her a memento of it.

She carefully shifted her hair and secured the necklace, settling the mithril pendant – for it was mithril, the coveted metal of the Dwarves – against her skin.

She never took it off again.


Chapter 10 - Chapter IX

CHAPTER NINE
Autumn, 600 SA

The lid of the large chest slid back as she looked into it, and reached in with a small sigh. Her fingers gently touched the material of a greyish dress, a dress that was slowly becoming even more tattered than it had originally been. It was Time that was eating at it now. There were some items of jewellery as well, but her fingers next reached for an ornate, light-coloured scabbard, and the heavy sword within it.

She was careful as she fingered it, touching the markings upon the leather and running her fingers over them again and again.

These, just as the ones on her own sword, she knew well.

Anárië brought Glorfindel’s sword out of its hold slowly, being careful not to bring any harm to either sheath or blade, and laid it upon her bed, kneeling beside it. It was time to clean and sharpen it again.

She did not know why she did this; with the Flame of Gondolin, that could be understood, for she was its bearer now. But Glorfindel’s sword had always been too long and too heavy for her to wield, and so it was simply a dead weight. But she could not find it in herself to give it away, or perhaps have it melted to be re-forged.

Instead, she took the cloth she always used with it, and began the peaceful ritual of cleaning the already-shining blade.

Outside her window, Arien was just beginning to set sail, and the city was slowly waking from its slumber.

Lindon, which had begun as a simple, small settlement of the Exiles that had remained behind with Gil Galad after the War of Wrath was over, had spread out during the years that followed as more and more Elves came to join them. There were many who had not participated in the battles but came out of hiding when it was known that there was a King again upon the throne, and that he was just.

She would never forget her first view of the city, as small as it had been then. Now that she did not have to participate in building it anymore, she could remember.

Elrond and she had ridden long with the company of Gil-galad, most of the time up front with the King himself; for Eönwë had spoken of Elrond’s gift to him, and it was enough to spark an interest. Also, he was the grandson of Turgon, who had been Fingon’s brother, and that made him kin to the King.

Anárië was there because of her role as protector and mentor, and although she felt sometimes like she did not belong, she sensed that Elrond needed her, now more than ever, for he, too, was unsure of himself, and for the first time sundered from his twin brother, who had always been the outspoken and braver of the pair.

They had finally ridden up a small hill when Gil-galad had called a halt, just below the top, and turned his horse back.

"I want you to remember this," he told those in his guard, and Anárië would never forget how he looked in the morning sun: tall, handsome, his hair shinning almost auburn with the light upon it, and his blue eyes excited; "For this will be our home, and I want you to love it as much as I do."

Then he had led the way up, and she recalled how Arien had sailed higher in that moment, and its light had touched the foundation of what would at some point be a wall.

And beyond that had stood the beginning of the city.

At the time, there had not been much of it, true, but the elleth could still remember the wonder at how light bounced off the white walls, and a tower that rose above all the rest. It had been built not far from the sea, and so gulls soared around it, singing their endless song. The ravine around it had been green and lush and open, perfect for growing crops and for seeing anyone coming at them from afar. The river that flowed through it and down towards the Sea sang a merry tune.

This was to be their new home.

"My lords, my lady," Gil Galad’s voice echoed in her thoughts, "welcome to Lindon."

Since then, the wall had grown until it encased the whole city, and that itself had spread with the new number of Elves coming in. It had grown in size and the whiteness of its houses shone from afar.

The one which shone the most was the King’s palace, which he had built in reminiscence of Tirion upon a slight rise of land, with many turrets and levels. It was big enough to hold not only his household, but also the barracks, and some other families he was close to.

Elrond had been given a set of rooms within it, and naturally, so had Anárië. It was uncommon, even for the Eldar, to have female protectors, even if there were some in Ereinion’s army, but not on high positions and certainly not as protectors of the King’s nephew – for, technically, that was what Elrond was.

The elleth had sensed a mixture of feelings as soon as the King had made it known that she would be staying with them as well, coming especially from the ranks of soldiers he had spoken to.

In Gondolin, her father and most of the other men she had known had been sort of amused with her wish to become a warrior instead of a healer or simply lady of the house; in the settlement beside Sirion, such scruples were cast aside out of the sheer need for protection, and everyone who could wield a sword or work with a bow was welcome.

Here, in Lindon, there was no need to play pretend; Ereinion had a growing army of able soldiers, the best of which he had enlisted in his personal guard.

Her place suddenly became unstable.

If Elénna had been with her, Anárië was sure she would have silenced any murmurs and unsatisfactory glances as soon as they’d come, but she had lost contact with the elleth after parting with Maglor, and had not found her in the war-camp after the battles for the North. She had simply disappeared into thin air.

It was probably for the best; the time had finally come to set her own worth and make sure no one would ever doubt her again. If only her father could see her now.

Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Anárië turned her head a little: "Enter."

Elrond slipped through the crack, and sighed once it was closed behind him again, running a hand through his hair.

He was so alike to Eärendil that it almost hurt, and yet, as if a trick upon the eyes after he had declared himself to be Firstborn, the features of his mother Elwing, and through her of his foremother Lúthien, became ever more prominent upon his face. Anárië wondered whether the same sort of change would be upon Elros as well, except perhaps in the sense that he would carry more of their father in him.

She smiled at her charge and looked back to what she was doing: "Long day?"

"You have no idea."

Her smile remained in place as he walked further into the room and lowered himself into a chair, stretching his long legs out. Anárië knew that Ereinion wanted Elrond close-by to teach him all he knew about running the kingdom and governing the people, for the King went unwed, and for the time being Elrond was the heir apparent.

She also knew that, right now, there was a delegation of Dwarves out of the mines of Khazad-dûm in the city, and that Ereinion was treating with them.

"How go negotiations?" she asked in an innocent voice, not taking her eyes off the blade she was still cleaning.

Elrond’s groan from the side was enough.

"Do not ask; I am convinced this is my worst personal plague. There is no single reason why the Dwarven King should not be content with what we’ve offered him thus far, and yet still he hesitates."

From personal experience, having travelled with Elrond and Ereinion to the great Dwarven realm that was growing under the mountains, Anárië thought she knew how difficult it would be to negotiate with such a race. They were rock-dwellers, with little love for growing things on their own, and yet they were needed to the King, at least until he could have his own miners. But for that, they needed to be taught by the masters, and only the Dwarves could do that.

Elrond continued his rant – he was an Elf of little words among others, but when he was alone with the elleth, she could hardly stop him: "Ereinion is convinced this is the right path to take, but I am uncertain. How can it be right when we are haggling like merchants?"

Anárië smiled and stood, straightening her back and listening to the small popping noises it made. Her legs welcomed the respite as well.

"I cannot say, Elrond, but the truth is that we need them, for we cannot learn some of what they know without dealing with them. And truly, they are not so bad a lot. At most, they simply wish fair trade."

He ‘hmphed’, but made no other sound, instead kicking his shoes off from his feet and letting them drop where they were, leaning his head back.

The elleth went by him with an amused expression, and lightly brushed her fingers across his forehead: "Courage, penneth. You are not the one dealing with the majority of negotiations, the King is, and I am convinced he does not whine half as much as you do."

Elrond cracked one eye open and glared at her before she retreated to clean the cloth.

"Besides, their time in Lindon is almost at an end; they will be leaving soon."

"Not too soon," he countered, before standing and following after her, watching how she poured water over the cloth and worked her fingers into it to free it of any dust and grime.

His expression softened: "Why do you keep doing this? Would it not be easier if you gave the sword to someone else?" He always worried about her, worried about how she clung to the past, when there was no future there.

She paused for only a moment before resuming her work; it was not so painful anymore, but it was still not something she liked talking about.

"If I do, I have nothing more of him left; nothing substantial, at least."

"You have your wedding ring," Elrond pointed out, "and the cloak of celandines, and his vambraces. Which, I notice, you are not wearing anymore."

Anárië sighed, and rinsed the cloth off, before placing it before the window to dry in the sunlight.

"They do not look kindly upon those here as they did in your home; I’d rather not ruffle any feathers."

To this, he arched an eyebrow: "This from someone who has known nothing but flight and fight ever since her city fell? Anná, none of the soldiers in this city match you in determination; you could easily surpass them in skill if you wished."

She walked by him: "Perhaps, but that does not mean they would wish it. It is not the same as it was at Sirion, Elrond; here, women are expected to wait upon men, even though there are some who fight for the King. But I do not wish to be one of them; they will never rise in rank, and they will never really see the battlefield, should it come to it. I can protect you much better from within the actual palace than the barracks." Her words were similar to Elénna’s from long ago.

Her charge sighed, and shook his head: "Perhaps that is so, but I would feel much better if I could see you wear them again. They bring me comfort, and something familiar in this place."

She knew he was playing a mind-trick upon her, for she could never really deny him anything. Elrond was trying to make a point, and he was doing it the only way he knew how – in guilt-tripping her to do as he wished.

So a few days later, she was dressed in leggings and a long tunic slit at the sides, belted – and Glorfindel’s vambraces were on her arms, the intricate golden inlay sending jumping light whenever the sun rays touched it.

Elrond smiled when she opened the door and joined him: "This look suits you."

She gave a nervous laugh: "It also makes me feel vastly out of place! If I suddenly disappear into a hole, do not look for me, I beg you."

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing his lips to her cheek as they made their way down the hall. Elrond was free until the midday meal, and they had decided to walk down to the marketplace together.

The streets were crowded, and the marketplace was already packed when they got there, but it was thriving with life, and both she and Elrond enjoyed the sight. He pointed out one of the stalls where children were able to find wooden toys, and she chuckled when she saw a puppet on strings bouncing up and down in the wind.

Her only warning that something was amiss was a tingling sensation up the back of her neck.

"Only warriors wear vambraces."

Both she and Elrond turned on the spot, the purple upon his attire flashing in the Sun as he did so, a visible sign of his connection to the King.

The Elf before them, however, was wearing deep blue with golden, the colours of the barracks. It did not help that he also happened to be wearing an eight-rayed star upon the broach of his cloak.

Anárië and Lachuí did not get along. He was the commanding officer in Ereinion’s forces she so avoided, and he did not take lightly to the idea that women wished to fight. He did acknowledge that they were equal to men, but in his opinion that did not mean that they should expose themselves to danger. The fact that Anárië protected Elrond was not lost on him.

The King’s nephew narrowed his eyes: "Commander, I did not know it was forbidden to wear vambraces in memory of a fallen comrade. If you will excuse us -"

He had his arm between the other Elf and Anárië, no longer amused with this ongoing silent feud, but the elleth was sick and tired of Lachuí and his jibes. She pushed against Elrond.

"No, penneth, it is alright; let him speak. It is a free land, after all."

Lachuí’s hazel eyes betrayed none of the emotions he felt. The only outward sign of his current disposition was a slight smirk upon his lips.

Anárië stepped forward and stood directly in front of the commander; because she was taller than the majority of ellith, she stood of almost the same height as the other Elf. Her emerald green eyes were hard.

"I do not know if you have not noticed, but I am Elrond’s mentor and protector, and have been ever since the day he was born. I cannot protect him by wearing a skirt."

Lachuí did not move: "You cannot protect him simply by wearing vambraces either. To do it, you would have to join me in the barracks."

One other thing she despised about him was his arrogance and belief that she had no idea which end of the sword to stick into his gut.

Some other Elves had stopped to witness the exchange. Elrond stood to the side worriedly, half-prepared to jump between them. Anárië was grateful to him, but this was her own fight.

"You are a conceited fool, and more arrogant than you know!" she snapped in Lachuí’s direction, making him frown; "Do you think that I survived this long simply by singing and dancing?"

She could sense that her temper was very close to snapping, but she did not care; her hands flew out, and she caught the commander by surprise when she pushed him backwards.

"You are a self-centred bastard, Lachuí; leave me be."

He smoothed down the front of his tunic: "Impressive, if ineffective."

She snorted; Elrond was shaking his head to the side, in the circle that had formed around them. Lachuí suddenly unpinned the brooch that held his cloak, and handed the item of clothing to the other Elf who was with him. Vaguely, Anárië wondered whether this meant that she was in big trouble, but she was too annoyed to care right now. There was not enough Vanya blood within her to calm her now.

So, instead of backing down, she stood opposite him with her hands placed on her hips.

Lachuí unbuckled the sword he always carried with him, and stood now weaponless before her. He made a mocking ‘come here’ gesture with one hand: "Come then; show me how good of a protector you are."

Elrond caught her by the arm: "Anná, ‘tis not worth it – let us leave."

She shook him off: "No, it is very much worth it. Stay out this."

Lachuí smirked more when she stepped up, lifting her arms as she did so.

"Come then, Commander; your words precede you. Let us see if you mean them."

It was his turn to roll his eyes, right before he lashed out; the move was meant to disorient and hopefully push his opponent back. But the only thing he achieved was that Anárië went straight at him, pushing his arm aside and jumping to the left.

They circled one another, and he noticed how her knees bent, and her body waited for the next spring; assessing, Lachuí had to admit that he had not expected even this much of a fight from her.

He went in again, and this time got a hit to her shoulder, but as much as it had to hurt her, she stayed silent and suddenly bent out of the way, kicking out with her leg. He was hard-pressed to jump over it, and she used the momentum to explode into his chest, slamming her shoulder into it and sending him backwards.

He stumbled, and she regained her footing, staying where she was. The crowd around them had grown now, and he could see that many actually seemed impressed. So was he, but he was not about to show it.

The elleth stayed in her spot, waiting for him, her expression unreadable.

Lachuí stopped fumbling and went into a full frontal attack, forcing her into a defensive state, chasing her around the make-shift ring, but she was quick, and oh so sure on her feet, dancing just out of his grasp so he couldn’t pin her. He was landing blows on her, but she did not back away, and gave as good as she got; he could feel a bruise forming along his jaw where she’d clipped him, among others. Maglor and Elénna had taught her enough in that aspect.

He finally managed to get a better hold of her, dragging her back against him.

"Stop!" he snapped, but Anárië was having none of it; she suddenly snarled and stomped on his foot, simultaneously ramming her elbow into his abdomen and slipping from him again. But he was fast, regardless of what she did, and he caught her by the same elbow; she turned and her foot caught his, sending them both to the ground. A shout went up into the air, because he was heavier and stronger than her in this position simply from physical advantage.

They stopped rolling with him on top, and he brought his arm down; Anárië crossed her vambraces before her, and he slammed his fist upon them. This made him yelp in frustration since his hands were unprotected, and she used this to bring her legs up from underneath him to push him away, sending him rolling into the dirt.

They sprang apart and would have gone after each other like snarling dogs again.

"Enough!"

The voice caused them both to still their movements, and they turned to its source: beside Elrond was a dusty-white mare, and the King upon it. His face was unreadable.

"Commander, I do not ask my warriors to create riots upon the marketplace."

Lachuí had the good sense to straighten and bow his head, chagrined, even as his friend handed him back his cloak.

Anárië was breathing heavily, and she hurt all over, but she pushed her chin up and met Gil-galad’s eyes fearlessly, if not entirely without worry.

The King angled his head, and looked at Elrond: "You have a temperamental protector, nephew."

She still did not lower her eyes or her head; it was not in her to bow low. Her lineage was as noble as his, if not royal. In her mind’s eye, all she’d done was protect her honour.

Gil-galad clicked his tongue at his horse: "Commander, see to it that she reports to the barracks tomorrow morning; I believe you could benefit from her presence there. If nothing else, she will curb your temper. But she will not serve with the others."

She met Lachuí’s eyes, but he inclined his head in silent agreement; the King slowly rode away through the dispersing crowd, and the commander looked back at her.

"At dawn, report to me."

He turned on his heel and pushed through the Elves on his side, while Elrond came and gently took hold of her arm again.

"Come, it is over, and you need a bath."

She was still breathless when she nodded, and allowed him to lead her away. It was only after they had left the marketplace behind that she saw he was smiling.

"I’m glad I can amuse you," she snapped, her aches getting the better of her.

Instead of irritating him, she made him laugh: "Far from it! I feel privileged to have you with me. You should have seen the fight from my eyes, Anná – no one has been able to surprise Lachuí like you just did since the Wars of Beleriand. You have earned some of his respect, if nothing else."

Finally, it dawned on her what she had achieved, and she had to grin widely with him.

When Fëanor’s grandson Celebrimor crossed the mountains and founded his colony in Eregion, Anárië was actively training along with the King’s army, and she and Lachuí had sorted out their differences. Mostly.


elleth - female Elf
penneth - young one


Chapter 11 - Chapter X

CHAPTER TEN
Winter, 1000 SA

"Lift your sword higher – you will never block anything if you keep dragging it along like that!"

Tired, caked with dirt and dust, Anárië lifted her head from her position on the ground, where Lachuí had forced her to, and her eyes spoke murder. But she never complained or said anything during these sessions, so this one was no different, and she used her sword to help lift herself onto her feet again.

Lachuí had taken it upon himself to make her a proper warrior, or that was what he kept saying, at least. Since his almost humiliation at the marketplace, he had been working with the elleth every sunrise and sundown, making sure that she almost regretted her stubbornness and decision to join the warriors in the barracks.

Almost.

Her trainings with Maglor had been infrequent and short; Lachuí’s beatings were daily, longer, and harder. But she was spared total humiliation of defeat every time she managed to wipe the smirk off the ellon’s face, which was becoming more and more frequent now. It had perhaps taken her longer than it should have, but she had needed to push her body to its limits and accustom it to the daily beatings before she’d been able to actually learn something and make it her own.

So now she spat to the side and lifted her sword again, when at the beginning she would have simply stayed on the ground and let the Commander walk all over her to get his satisfaction.

Lachuí nodded; his appearance was not as pristine as it had been at the start either. She had gotten some hits in.

"Good; again. This time, you come at me."

The elleth was conscious of the crowd that had gathered; at the end of the day, those who were not tasked with the weapons came to see how these sparring matches would go. Most simply came to be amused, though she had found that the ellith, at least, seemed to come to see Lachuí thrown onto the ground.

Anárië did not wish to spoil their sport.

So she attacked, and he blocked her, but they were both weary at this point, and she sensed it would be their last duel of the day. He went into a wide arc which she jumped aside from, too weary to properly block him. But that did not stop her from going in for her own attack again, sending him quickly backwards if he wanted to retain his head. Their swords clashed and smacked against each other as they twisted and turned, trying to get the best of each other.

Her arms felt like lead when, finally, Lachuí lifted a hand and they both stood still, leaning heavily on their swords, and panted.

The crowd let out some hoots and cheers and jibes, and then began to disperse when the commander waved an arm to dismiss them. Then his weight went more heavily against his sword.

Anárië had her forehead against the back of her hands, the sword the only thing keeping her upright, and she peeked at the other Elf, exhausted beyond belief.

"You are almost ready," he finally said, his words breezy and halting as he fought to breathe.

She straightened with a groan: "Ready for what? The only thing I feel ready for is a bath and a bed, and you’ll never allow me to see the inside of a battlefield regardless of what you might say."

He did not answer her, but he did grin.

"Patience is a virtue."

The elleth groaned again, running a hand across her face and turning away: "You are intolerable, in case no one has ever told you this before.

No, wait, I take it back – Berien did, the last time you were in the same room together."

She heard a snort from behind, and knew she had hit a mark – Anárië had realised that Lachuí loved Berien, but whether the elleth in question returned his affection was still uncertain. It honestly could not be good when all they did was snarl at each other every time they were tossed together at one formal function or the other.

"Try not to believe everything she says – you seem to be coping well enough."

He had caught up with her, and they walked back to the main building of the barracks together. Anárië looked at him with a shake of her head,

"Would it be so difficult to simply tell her you care? She might look upon you differently then. Right now, you are simply the arrogant commander who likes tormenting a lot of her friends."

He did not answer with words, just gave her a look, and she relented, knowing she could do no more today.

"Tomorrow, you should come before dawn," she heard him say just as she was about to leave him, "the King is riding out with a hunting party. You are coming with us."

Anárië looked at Lachuí like he had grown a second head for a moment; yes, she had known about the hunt, but she had never actually thought they would take her along. The commander had chosen only a handful of his best warriors to ride with the King thus far.

He gave her a haughty look: "If we pause in your training for only a day, your muscles will go back to sleep. We cannot afford that."

But she saw, just for a moment, a small sparkle in his eyes the likes of which she’d never seen before, and she gave him a bright smile of thank you before turning and hastening away.

The feelings going through her were more than just joyful, they were ecstatic, because this was the first time that Lachuí had acknowledged her other than when he sent her to the ground and pushed her into the dirt. She would have skipped along if her tired muscles would allow that. So instead, she went slowly, and sighed in content when she finally reached her rooms.

Inside, she found a hot bath already waiting for her, and Berien sitting in a chair by the fireplace.

"To what do I owe this honour?" she asked, amused, closing the door behind her.

The other elleth smiled: "I thought you might need something like this – there is lavender and chamomile oil in the water, to help with sore muscles. You should get in while it is still hot."

Anárië smiled more, and did as she was told. Once she was soaking in the tub, she turned her head back to her friend: "Is everything alright, or do you need help with something?" She had grown close to both Berien and Wilvarin since their trip to the Dwarven kingdom, and loved them dearly.

The older of the sisters unfolded her willowy frame from the chair and came to help wash the golden hair that looked like something might have died in it among all the dirt.

"I hear you will accompany us tomorrow."

Anárië sighed: "This city spreads news faster than they are formed."

Berien tugged at her hair playfully: "No – Lachuí spoke of his intention a couple of days back, actually. He is very impressed with your progress and believes you will benefit from the experience."

Did she dare ask just how her noble friend and the Commander managed to speak together for long enough so that came up?

Berien seemed to read her mind, and shook her head: "My cousin is a commanding officer, remember? Lachuí spoke to him."

This placated her enough so that she relaxed further and allowed the oils to work their magic through her sore muscles. She and Berien spoke of unimportant things for a while as she bathed, and finally dressed, curling on the bed while her friend sat back in the chair. When Elrond came to see whether his mentor was still alive, he found the noblewoman gently pulling the covers over Anárië’s sleeping form.

"Lachuí drives her too hard," he commented softly, lightly touching her forehead and smoothing a frown she wore in her sleep, "I wish he would not be so on her."

"It is the only way she will learn," came the whispered reply of the elleth, "and she is stronger than you give her credit for. Come; we all need our rest before tomorrow."

They left the rooms as quietly as they had entered them, leaving Anárië to her rest and seeking their own. An hour before dawn she woke with a start, pulling Tuor’s knife from under the pillow and sitting up in bed.

Lachuí lifted his hands and stopped mid-stride.

"When I said you should always be ready to defend yourself, I did NOT mean that you should stab me!"

"You would deserve it sometimes!" she snapped, relaxing and placing the knife back, running a hand across her face, "What in the name of Varda are you doing in here?"

"I had a hunch you would not wake up in time if I did not come for you personally," he explained, crossing his arms over his chest, and she noticed the clothes he was wearing were less ornamental than normal when he was in the palace, but practical.

And then she remembered the hunt when she saw a pile of the same at the foot of her bed.

Lachuí chuckled when she jumped from under the covers hastily: "Gently! We are not riding until Arien sails, but horses need saddling. Be quick about dressing."

She was, as soon as he left the room; she braided her hair quickly and joined him in the hallway when she was done. He moved without a word and led the way down to the stables, where they went in search of their horses. After Raumonóna, Anárië had had many others, all from the same, unbroken line that had come from Gwainar, and from him from over the sea. Her current mare was a spitting image of her forefather, slightly stockier, but swift and steady.

The others who would be riding as an escort today began to arrive, and muted conversation took place through the stables as they worked. The elleth rubbed her mare’s muzzle as the horse snorted and nuzzled against her cheek, happy to see her and to be heading out.

They were all in the courtyard with the horses waiting for the King and his entourage when Gil-galad appeared. With him were Berien, and some other ladies of the palace, with some of his friends and advisors. Elrond was to be in charge of the city while they were gone, and while Anárië was worried about him, she could not ignore a direct command.

The King patted his stallion and pulled himself into the saddle, and his escort did the same. When the first rays of the day touched Lindon’s white walls, they rode out onto the plains.

Anárië and Lachuí rode on the same side, and he explained how this would take place, to her and all the others who were there for protection:

"We are not here to hunt, so if it is a wild animal, leave it be unless it goes for the King. We are here to ensure that none of the stray vermin from the North come across our path. There have been strange sightings in the land again."

They spread out among the party after that, trying to cover as much ground as possible and protect all of the participants. Anárië rode with Berien and one other elleth, but she spoke little as her attention did not go further than their surroundings.

Some hours after sunrise, one of the outriders rode hastily back and reported solitary wolves in the vicinity; the game was set, and they moved.

Anárië manoeuvred her mare closer to Lachuí again.

"Is it normal for wolves to be this far away from the mountains?" she asked him over the sound of hooves.

He looked at her with a worried expression, which told her all she needed to know, and she fell back at a sign from him to help him cover the flank he was guarding. Ereinion urged the company on, his spear now in his hands, and the hatred he held for wolves plain on his face.

The creatures sprang from the undergrowth when the horses drew near, and fled from the onslaught, but the hunters gave chase, and rode in pursuit. The horses almost snarled as they smelled the fear of the prey, for they had been bred to carry their masters anywhere and to anything if need be. They did not shy away from challenges.

It was only after the ground suddenly dropped and then levelled out that Lachuí’s call sent a chill down Anárië’s spine: "My lord! Not the gorge, steady your horse!"

But the King had almost speared a wolf by this point, and did not hear. Anárië kicked her horse to go faster, bumping Berien aside as she did so and managing to throw her horse out of its hunt-crazed ride.

They were headed for a narrow crack in the rocks now, and she could see what the commander was afraid of – if they got caught in there, anyone could take them from above. Even kill them.

Lachuí was trying to reach the King to stop him, but even as he did so the ellith who were with them suddenly gave a shout, and Berien’s voice rose high:

"Lachuí!"

Anárië pulled her horse back at the cry, cruelly commanding her as the commander turned back, the animal slamming into the goblins that had slid down the slope behind them, and pulled her sword out, snarling at the creatures.

Up ahead, one of the wolves suddenly turned and went straight at Gil Galad. One of Lachuí’s soldiers bumped the King’s horse away despite the spear in his hands; he was too precious to lose in a skirmish like this. Lachuí had to choose: his heart or his King.

Anárië pushed Berien’s horse backwards as she kicked her mare ahead of it to block her from the goblins, her sword slashing down across the face of one as she did so.

"Berien, back, turn back! Ride as fast as you can!" she called across her shoulder. Her friend was no swordswoman, but she was also no coward; she would lead the others out of this if need be.

But suddenly they were surrounded, and Anárië cursed in frustration as the pesky maggots in front tried taking hold of her mare’s head; the horse suddenly had enough and bolted through them with a neigh, stomping and bucking as she did so, forcing her rider to hold on for dear life. In doing so, however, they had left Berien open for attack.

The goblins seized their chance and went for her, but a roan charger suddenly dropped among them, sowing death wherever he turned.

"Berien, ride back and do not stop until you reach the city!" Lachuí ordered over the commotion. The battle tide had turned the forces around, sending him straight towards the women. Whatever happened to Ereinion, the skirmish itself had forced the Commander to obey his heart.

A warrior cut a path through to them: "Commander, I will ride with them – you are needed here!"

"The King!" Anárië suddenly screeched and Lachuí turned his head to see Gil-galad pulled out of the saddle.

He was too slow.

A fury with golden hair and upon a horse half-crazed with pain from a slash wound across her side threw herself across and into the fray, landing beside Ereinion and shielding him so he could regain his footing. Anárië forgot about everything and everyone else except the ellon who was almost underneath her horse, and the Flame of Gondolin shone in the light of the sun as she unleashed its wrath upon the creatures that once again dared stand in its path. He was not her charge, but he was Elrond’s family. That was enough.

Ereinion managed to catch his breath and his hold when the elleth turned and offered her hand: "Quickly!"

He took it, and she helped him mount behind her, and her horse went through the goblins standing in its path, her master’s sword cutting down those that opposed her. They were not numerous, but they kept on coming it seemed, and she could not see anyone of the guard near her.

"Hold on," she instructed the King, still dazed from the fall, as she guided her horse as swiftly as she could or dared.

Suddenly a path was cut to her, and Lachuí and another of his men flanked her.

"Ride!"

She did. She had never ridden like that before in her life, but she did now, and they managed to pull out of the gorge and gain more speed across the grass under the trees, leaving the goblins behind.

Halfway back they were met by a platoon of soldiers; Berien had been smart enough to immediately send one of the party galloping swiftly back to the city to send aid.

"Commander!"

They encircled the retreating group, and Lachuí quickly gave out orders, sending half of his force back to clear out the goblins they could find, and the rest remained with them.

Anárië breathed heavily and halted her mare as this went on, rubbing the horse’s sweaty neck as she did so and checking her wound, which was not deep, before turning to look at Ereinion who was still lightly holding on to her with one arm.

"Are you alright, Your Majesty?"

His blue-grey eyes met hers, and after a moment, he nodded.

"Yes, thanks to you."

She shook her head to clear her tired vision, her muscles aching from the shock and the adrenaline: "Lachuí’s quick notice saved us, Majesty. I simply got lucky."

"In the right place at the right time," the Commander’s voice reached them as he guided his horse in close; the force he had sent out against the goblins was seen riding away, "Are you hurt, Your Highness?"

"Just winded, I believe," came the answer; Anárië steadied her horse as she side-stepped slightly.

Lachuí nodded: "We will get you to the healers soon. There are no spare horses, so I will have to ask you to ride with Anná to the city."

The use of her informal nickname made her lift her head and look at him in wonder, but his expression was unreadable, and she simply nodded, clicking her tongue to get her horse moving, and they rode back towards Lindon in greater haste than they had left it that morning.

News had spread like wildfire, and they were all out to see whether the King was unharmed, and Lachuí had to send riders ahead to push a passage through to the palace. Elrond was anxiously waiting for them there, with the rest of the hunting party that had managed to escape during the first flight. Berien and Lachuí looked at each other, and both relaxed, but did not close the distance between them.

Anárië waited for the King to dismount before she did so herself, and Elrond looked frightfully relieved when he saw them.

"When we heard the news I feared the worst," he confessed, embracing Ereinion and then the elleth, holding on to her for a moment longer than necessary.

She patted his side: "We were lucky, but do not get too close – I stink of goblins and sweat."

To this, Ereinion laughed and clasped her shoulder: "Better that than your own blood! Your mentor has grown to be a fine warrior, Elrond – Lachuí was right in training her as hard as he did. I will have no qualms having her beside me."

Anárië looked at the King with a frown, and then to Elrond to see whether he knew something that she did not; he was as much at a loss as she was, however, and lifted his shoulders to prove it.

Ereinion smiled: "Lachuí has pointed out an interesting and useful piece of information – if I am to be protected at all times, it would be prudent to have a female do this, since she could stand in as a companion and partner whenever she was needed. Out of the ellith in the barracks, the commander has personally recommended you."

She turned to look at Lachuí who had just joined them, and he inclined his head: "I told you that patience was a virtue – and now you are ready. If you accept, you will guard the King, for you can be closer than any of us without arousing suspicion. This way you will also always be close to the son of Eärendil."

She could hardly believe it! After all the times she had had to practically eat dirt and suffer through endless humiliations from the commanding Elf, he was now positioning her higher than himself! Her incredulity seemed to show on her face, for Lachuí laughed:

"Yes, you will answer only to the King now, which will make us almost even – but at the end of the day, you obey my commands. That has not changed."

Elrond nudged her discreetly, helping her to nod, too stunned to speak, and Ereinion patted her shoulder again as they moved into the palace and out of the way.

"Good; you will report to Lachuí tomorrow morning and he will tell you all you need to know. Then, you shall join me."

Beside her, Elrond was practically bursting with joy on her account, but she was more or less still in shock – until she saw a roll of parchment in her charge’s hand, forgotten in the moment.

"Elrond, what is that?"

He looked down, and suddenly remembered: "Oh! My King – forgive me, I was to give this to you upon your return."

Ereinion frowned and took the roll; Elrond continued: "It was sent here just after you left this morning, by falcon." His voice had dropped, and his eyes were serious now. Anárië had a bad feeling about this.

The King read through the script, and frowned more: "The lands east of the White Mountains have been settled."

This drew a collective frown from them all – it was Lachuí who spoke: "Across Anduin? The desert begins there, as far as our scouts report, those who have ridden that far."

Elrond and Anárië looked at each other, then back at the King, who was not happy about this news: "Elrond?"

All eyes now turned to him, and he shook his head: "I understand very little, but everything inside me screams against welcoming this news; something is happening that we do not yet understand."

This did not bode well; Anárië had learned to trust Elrond’s instincts more than her own because of his Gift. She met his gaze again, and he shook his head.

The King ran a hand through his hair: "Commander, be on the look-out; for now, that is all we can do. Perhaps tomorrow will bring another counsel."

He left them at that; Lachuí went with him, but Anárië touched Elrond’s arm.

"I see darkness, Anná," he whispered at that, "a terrible darkness. Something is prowling closer, like a wolf on the hunt. I do not trust this void in my sight, like someone knows how to play with it. Something is about to begin that none of us can control.

Whatever happens, stay close to the King."


Chapter 12 - Chapter XI

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Summer, 1150 SA

Berien smacked a fidgeting Anárië lightly on her side: "Hold still! I am this close to actually putting a needle in you!"

"Are you almost finished? I can’t stand it much longer," came the complaint, as the elleth held away her hair so her friend could apply the necessary measurements to the dress they were altering.

Because of Anárië’s new position as the King’s bodyguard and apparent partner, she needed to apply generous changes to her wardrobe, which was not exactly something she exulted in. Even in Gondolin, when she had had every right to wear the richest fabrics, she had always opted for the simpler forms.

Here, it all seemed like a giant fraud.

"I will not be unless you stand still and be silent," came the reply of her friend, who flipped her hair back from her face and resumed her work, trying to pull the skirt closer together since the elleth was taller and slimmer than most, including herself; "I never thought I’d have to alter a dress as much as I am now, but you defy all my expectations – how you even manage to find appropriate clothing for yourself is beyond me! Were all ellith in Gondolin like this?"

By this point, Anárië’s emotions about Gondolin were numb, or more or less so, which meant that she could reply to questions like these without much pain. She shrugged.

"Not that I know, but my mother was like this, I was told; both she and my father were among the taller kind."

"And apparently an under-fed one as well." Berien quipped as she finally placed the last needle in, straightening to inspect her handiwork, "I am by no means wide across the abdomen, but you simply disappear, or if you don’t, I have to work with muscle, which is even worse."

Her friend laughed lightly and turned to look at the back of the dress in the mirror, "Do you think this will be alright for tonight?"

Berien scoffed: "My seamstress made it personally for me when I wore it to the binding ceremony of a friend; it is beyond alright, I assure you."

Anárië opened her mouth to speak again, but Berien placed gentle fingers there and stopped her: "Do not even think about it. I have already told you that the colour suits you better than it ever did me. It is my pleasure to help you with this – but to be perfectly honest with you, I will enjoy it most when I may drag you to my seamstress."

This elicited another wave of laughter and a lot of eye-rolling, before Anárië was able to slip out of the dress and allow Berien to take it in for her, since they had no time to call a proper seamstress. The banquet tonight would be in honour of the delegations that were currently in Lindon, a Dwarven one to renew trading agreements since a new King had been crowned, and one from across the Sea, which both she and Elrond were anxious about. The King had only said that it was someone close to the Mortal King, and whoever it was that sailed from fair Númenor, they wished to speak with him for news of Elros.

For this, however, Anárië needed something else if she wished to appear on the King’s hand that night, and so Berien had taken it upon herself to find something suitable. In the end, she had given up on any products the local seamstresses could provide, and simply dived into her own wardrobe, producing a complicated-looking gown that was long enough to never expose that the shoes its wearer would have would be boots – Anárië needed somewhere to hide her knife, a custom she had not given up since fleeing Gondolin.

So, after who knew how many years, she once again allowed handmaidens to wash her and brush her hair to shine, just like she had at home, though back then she had been so young, innocent. There was nothing remotely innocent about the boots they brought back, polished to a gleam and her knife hidden within them.

They helped her into the dress and laced it up; it was a little tight across the chest all of a sudden, but Anárië suspected that was Berien’s doing, not a mistake. The elleth in question sailed into the room moments afterwards to check on her and help with her hair, looking absolutely splendid in a deep burgundy dress that complimented her skin tone.

"If I pass out tonight from lack of air, I shall hold you personally responsible," the protector told her friend as their eyes met in the mirror, and Berien simply smiled innocently.

"You can hardly blame me for what you’ve been given, Anná."

"I can, since I know the original altering did not include pushing my chest up to my chin."

Berien giggled, and played with strands of golden hair to see how she would style it, looking like the cat that got to the cream first,

"Oh stop it, ‘tis not so bad! And you look ravishing, might I add. A fitting partner for the King tonight."

Anárië groaned and refused to say anything more, allowing the other elleth to brush her hair from her face and pull it back, creating an artful knot at the base of her skull but allowing the majority of it to fall freely. After a few more tugs, she was satisfied, and not a moment too soon; a knock came to the door and Elrond peeked around it.

"Are we almost done? The King is asking for you, Anná."

"I am ready," she replied and stood, smoothing a hand down the front of her skirt, pausing when she met Elrond’s eyes; "Is something wrong?"

The ellon blinked and shook his head a couple of times before finding his voice: "Uh no, no! It is simply ... I am ... unused, to seeing you like this, that’s all."

She looked down at the green dress with purplish highlights and worried her bottom lip, feeling incredibly vulnerable and entirely out of place: "Do you think it is too much?"

"No! No, absolutely not," Elrond assured her, stepping into the room and allowing Berien to exit as he took hold of his old mentor’s hand and placed a kiss to it, "You look beautiful, Anná; I always knew you were, but seeing you tonight – it is nice to be right sometimes."

She felt that she was about to blush, and so rolled her eyes instead, pulling her hand from his and smacking his shoulder, before they left her rooms together to join the King.

Ereinion was speaking to an Elf with long raven hair and a tall frame when they found him; Elrond inclined his head as Anárië bent her knees, before her hand was passed to the King’s, whose eyes looked decidedly amused.

"My astonishing partner for the night – lady Berien did a fine job."

He kissed her hand as she dropped her eyes, and then her attention was given to the newcomer she had never seen before.

Ereinion introduced him: "This is Erestor, he travelled here with the last group of Elves that came to Lindon; his father used to serve mine in the war camps. Erestor, this is lord Elrond, my nephew, and his mentor, lady Anárië of Gondolin."

The newcomer’s eyes lingered on her, and the elleth suspected it was not because of her attire; her green orbs met his calmly, and she noticed that his were actually not black, as first impression suggested, but an interesting shade of deep grey which looked purple in certain light.

Ereinion stopped any further exchange from happening there: "But we are almost too late – come! Tonight is about feasting."

He led Anárië forward and down a flight of steps, while the others arranged themselves behind them.

His voice was low when he spoke: "What do you think of him?"

She knew he was asking her about Erestor. Her reply was thoughtful: "His eyes are a colour not usual for the Noldor, so I suspect there is more there than meets the eye; but other than that, I sense a keen and creative mind, with intelligence. He would serve you well, especially if his father served yours already."

The King nodded, but said no more for the time being as the heralds in front announced their arrival to the banquet hall, and they stepped into the light to be greeted by the court and delegations. Anárië sensed how Ereinion’s fingers tightened on her own, and she applied gentle pressure to give a reassuring squeeze. Even a king could be nervous sometimes.

They descended into the hall, and he steered her in the direction of the Dwarves first. There was a small company of them, approximately fifteen if her eyes were not mistaken, but it was not until she found herself face to face with the group that she realised she knew at least one.

"Thain!"

He was of Durin’s line, of Dwain’s, and Anárië was glad to see a familiar face from the mines. His russet-coloured beard was streaked through with silver, but his blue eyes sparkled as if he knew some jest no one else did, like his forefather’s had.

"My lady, a star shines upon the hour of our meeting."

Ereinion released her hand with amusement as the tall elleth bent to hug her old friend, who she had not seen in a long time.

"I did not know you would accompany this delegation," she chided as she straightened again and he kissed her fingers, "else I would have ridden out to meet you before-hand."

"A guest un-looked for is oft the most welcome," Thain replied with a wink, before turning to the King, "and I see that you have taken good care of her, Your Majesty; the highlights are an artful way to hide her new position from those who do not understand your court."

Ereinion bowed: "An unfortunate, but necessary means, my friend. How I wish I did not have to resort to such, but alas! It is not for me to choose otherwise."

It was Thain’s turn to bow, and Anárië promised to return soon as the King then turned away to greet the delegation from the Isle. Her content practically hummed through her skin at the meeting, and the evening was already looking fair.

The Men of Númenor were tall and grey-eyed, but Anárië’s stomach twisted in disappointment even as her eyes searched through faces greedily; none of them even remotely resembled Elros.

She inclined her head in greeting as Ereinion spoke to them, but did not say anything herself, simply observed, something which did not go unnoticed by the King as they were done and could turn away.

"What do you think of them?"

Her shoulders rose slightly: "They are honourable enough, and mean well; if they can man the coastline with their forts, you should give them leave, I suppose. Do not allow them closer to Lindon, however; we do not need such close proximity."

"Your thoughts are in perfect agreement to mine," he murmured as they mingled with the nobles of his court; soon enough, Anárië found herself close to Thain again, and her pleasure was palpable.

"It is perhaps wrong to be so happy to see you," she explained laughingly as her friend teased her about it, "but I cannot help it – it has been too long since last I beheld the wonders of Khazad-dûm."

Thain chuckled, and bowed, "I will not say ‘hasten back’, for only an Elf knows when they will return. But know that you will always be welcome in our halls; my family would be honoured to have you."

She smiled and bent her knees: "Perhaps you shall have the pleasure soon, but I go wherever the King goes, so I cannot say."

The Dwarf’s eyes sparkled more: "Then I shall entice him to visit us, and bring you with him."

The elleth laughed at that, and she enjoyed some more moments with her Dwarven friend, before she noticed Ereinion moving further away, and so excused herself. She mingled with the gathered and greeted some of them, but one of her eyes was always on the King.

A light touch to her arm made her turn and look straight at Erestor, who smiled apologetically: "Forgive me for this intrusion, but I could not help notice you lacked your partner."

Anárië dismissed his apology with a smile, and turned her head to look after the King, who was standing some Elves to the left from her: "Only for the moment, I assure you; I fear the musicians shall not be happy with my opening dance, for my graceful days are long since gone."

"Not in the daughter of Ecthelion!" he laughed, and she turned her head to look at him curiously; his mention of her father sparked her interest.

Erector smiled: "Yes, I knew your father, or I knew of him; my father was distant kin to Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, though he did not follow Turgon to Nevrast when coming to these lands."

Her heart skipped a couple of beats at that: "You knew my uncle?"

His expression turned apologetic: "I only met him once, and even then briefly; I suspect I did not know him as well as I could. I was hoping to see him here in Lindon when I arrived, but that does not seem to be the case."

Her lips felt dry, and she shook her head: "No, he – I do not know exactly where he is, for he escaped by ship from the Havens of Sirion, and he was with Círdan the Shipwright for a time, but since then he has concealed himself well from common knowledge."

Erestor nodded, solemn: "I did hear rumours of that, though I confess I believed he would draw closer to the King; perhaps he will surface again soon."

Anárië’s smile was sad: "Hopefully."

They exchanged a look, but then she heard the King calling for her, and she gave an apology before slipping away and joining her liege-lord. It was time for the opening dance. She went through the motions without really noticing them, and when Ereinion applauded the musicians, she woke as if from a dream, and joined him.

"Are you alright?" he asked her quietly as the dancing continued without them, and she nodded,

"Just some memories, Your Majesty. Nothing more."

How could she explain that the last time she’d danced had been with the Elf who would become her husband? He did not entirely believe her excuse, but she was spared further questioning when Lachuí suddenly appeared in the crowd, making his way towards them.

"My lord, forgive me – but there is something you need to see."

Ereinion frowned at that, and beckoned to Elrond; Anárië quietly slipped away with them. After the banquet hall, the hallways seemed almost chilly, despite the summer evening.

"There seems to be a delegation outside the city walls," the Commander explained as their steps echoed against the floor tiles, "but their banners are unknown to me and so I did not know what to do before I consulted you. There are horses waiting for us in the inner courtyard."

The King looked confused, but when Anárië looked at Elrond, her charge looked troubled. A tingle went down her spine, and she took hold of her skirt to walk faster. As Lachuí said, there were horses waiting for them, and they rode quickly out from the courtyard and down the main road towards the outer wall.

They left the animals below and the elleth lifted her skirt to quickly climb the stairs onto the ramparts after the King; Gil-galad frowned as he looked into the distance. There seemed to be tents there, but the colour of the banners was unknown.

"Have they made any contact?" he asked, looking at Lachuí; the commander shook his head:

"No, not until now – look!"

A group of riders had detached itself, and was trotting across the grass towards the city.

Elrond looked at the King, whose facial expression became stern: "Come, let us see what it is they want."

They descended back to the horses, and Lachuí quickly ordered a small group of warriors to ride with them as the gates were thrown open and their horses picked up their pace.

Anárië and Elrond rode to either side of the King, with Lachuí completing the first line. The group of riders from the other camp was waiting for them now, and the elleth finally noticed that their banners were black, but she could not make out the device.

Gil-galad brought his horse to a halt a leap from the others, and his company fanned out behind him.

"Greetings," he spoke, a hand across his heart, "your faces are unknown to me, but I trust we can remedy that."

"That is my hope as well," the leader of the other company replied in a gentle voice, and Anárië shivered, though she did not quite understand why; Lachuí glanced at her, and replaced the reins in his hands calmly.

The Elf who seemed to lead the newcomers was fair to look upon; very fair, with long silken hair and a countenance that seemed to be chiselled and carved. His eyes were grey and, while they seemed warm at first, on better glance the warmth did not carry further than the surface.

Elrond shifted on his horse uncomfortably; Anárië could sense his unease, and the feeling seemed to spread from him to her, and then on to Lachuí and the soldiers.

"You come upon us at an interesting time," the King resumed, not insensitive about the sentiments behind him, "with the Summer Solstice close at hand and our city in celebration. We had no word that we would be receiving another delegation tonight."

He was friendly, but not entirely open; too much had happened to the Elves to openly receive unknown visitors anymore.

The other bowed his head: "For that, I apologise; it was a momentary decision on my part. I am Annatar. I come from the lands across the river Anduin, as you undoubtedly already know. I seek an alliance with the High King of the Noldor."

The horses shifted underneath their riders, the only outward sign that something was amiss. Anárië glanced at Elrond, who had his hands calmly resting on the saddle before him, but his right thumb kept moving; it was a sure sign of his agitation.

The King seemed to sense more than see that: "I bid you welcome, lord Annatar; I am Gil-galad, and these are my companions. Lindon is our home, but I believe you already know that."

The other inclined his head in welcome, but Anárië disliked him more with each passing moment, not that she understood why.

Some more pleasantries were exchanged, but all of them sensed the atmosphere was tense for some reason they could not explain.

Annatar finally broke the cordialities: "So, son of Fingon, what will it be? Will you escort me into your city tonight or shall we wait?"

At this Elrond shifted and came back to attention; Lachuí’s shoulders tensed and his warriors freed one hand. Anárië glanced sideways to the King, who seemed to be considering it. She thought she could hear Elrond’s silent screams of denial, but her young charge knew how to control himself too well at this point.

Finally, Gil-galad shook his head: "Much as I might want to, I will have to say no; you seem comfortably encamped here and my city is full."

He had understood the silent messages passing from behind him; Elrond relaxed slightly.

Annatar inclined his head, his horse snorting underneath him, "As you wish, Fingonion; perhaps you shall change your mind later."

Anárië highly doubted this would be the case, and Gil-galad did not answer that. The two parties went separate ways, and the Elven horses were happy to pass back into the safety of the city and its walls.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Elrond commented as they rode up to the palace again, "especially of the leader. ‘Annatar’. Gift-giver. What gifts did he bring us? I saw only shadows under his words."

"It is done now," the King replied, dismounting, "and you are right, Elrond – I sensed your warning and the shadows as well. Let us hope we do not have to deal with them again."

Anárië did not seem so sure about it, especially after seeing Elrond’s uncertainty, but Ereinion held his hand out to her again, and they returned to the banquet hall for the rest of the evening, though none of the party seemed comfortable anymore.

Some days later, scouts reported that Celebrimor had admitted Annatar into Eregion, and Ost-en-Edhil.


Fingonion - son of Fingon


Chapter 13 - Chapter XII

CHAPTER TWELVE
Spring, 1590 SA

The days seemed to be growing dark again, though there was no outward reason for it. Unlike with Morgoth and his fortress in Thangorodrim, the signs here spoke of a different kind of problem, one that neither Elrond nor the King understood.

The Peredhel – for his lineage and bloodline – had grown closer to his surrogate uncle in council and in heart, and the two seemed inseparable. The things which they discussed concerned all of Lindon and sometimes, even Círdan rode out of his haven settlement to join them.

And wherever the high-born pair went, so, mostly, did Anárië as well, as the King’s and Elrond’s protector, bound to one by order, and to the other by Oath.

Lately, the topic of discussion seemed always to be Annatar, and the situation in Eregion.

"I am more than simply worried about this," Gil-galad commented one afternoon as they walked along a line of quickly-growing trees in the gardens he was having planted at the back of the palace, "there is more to Annatar than meets the eye, and I don’t even need Elrond to tell me this."

To this, his nephew shrugged his shoulders where he was walking to the side, and Anárië ran a hand through her hair:

"But what of Celebrimor and the work he seems to be doing? By all accounts, the smiths have advanced further than they would have on their own, thanks to this Annatar; reports coming from lord Celeborn are that he has taught them much."

"But at what cost?" the High King asked, pausing to inspect one of the lily-patches beside the path for a moment, before he turned back to his companions with a grave expression, "Celeborn is stranded in a sea of enemies. Not one Elf in Ost-en-Edhil trusts anyone anymore, and Galadriel has had to flee in the dead of night, like the worst kind of fugitive. If Annatar claims to be such a friend to the Noldor, how come he exiles the one truly powerful of our race?"

By this point, Galadriel was a constant topic and name in these conversations, and she no longer seemed such a stranger to Anárië, though she had yet to meet the lady in person. For now, she was still a being almost out of a fable, if powerful enough to always be kept in mind.

"To this, no one has an answer, at least not an easy one," Elrond commented with a small shrug of his shoulders, his arms crossed over his chest, "but whatever else, we know he cannot be our friend this way. The Lady Galadriel would have been first to welcome him if such were the case, yet she has openly spoken against him. Things are going completely amiss in Eregion, and we are powerless."

The High King stood silent while he contemplated this, and Anárië noticed, not for the first time, how worn and tired he seemed. This new worry had been eating at him for hundreds of years now, depriving him of proper sleep. Ever since Annatar had been denied entrance to Lindon, courteously at first and then when he tried two more times ever with more force, Gil-galad had known little of peaceful sleep. The barracks had never been busier, and Anárië herself had never felt so exhausted. The King’s worries had somehow become her own during the course of her position.

Finally, Gil-galad stirred from his reverie: "We cannot do much about this right now; Elrond, find Erestor and try to deduce the defence of Lindon should we need it. You are in charge of the walls."

Elrond bowed, and lifted a brow at Anárië, who was about to speak when the other ellon beat her to it: "I would ask for your company a little longer, my lady; then you may join your young charge."

She inclined her head and nodded in the younger Elf’s direction, before returning her attention to the King while Elrond walked away.

Gil-galad walked slowly and silently for a while, and she simply followed at a respectful distance, before he beckoned to her: "You do not need to stand on any ceremony; I did not ask for you to have you stand behind me."

The elleth hastened her steps and fell in-stride with the King, to his side, smiling apologetically and keeping silent while she waited to hear what he had to say.

He walked a few paces more before finally speaking again: "Things bode ill for us all, I fear; I thought we had seen the end of it all when Morgoth was put in chains and returned over the Sea, but it does not seem to be so."

To this, she had no answer, and still remained silent.

Gil-galad lifted his eyes to the sky above them: "Alas, that these evil days should be mine. I had hoped to live in peace with my neighbours, but this does not seem to be the case. I cannot simply overlook what is happening in Eregion."

Finally, Anárië spoke: "Can you not order Celebrimor to evict Annatar? You are High King."

"I am, but I do not claim to rule supreme if I can help it; Eregion is Celebrimor’s domain, as Lórien is Amroth’s. I have promised that the overall reign and decision will be mine, but within each of the realms, the region lords will have their say. I cannot go against Celebrimor without inviting strife; his heart was open to influence even as Annatar first arrived before my gates."

The elleth allowed a low oath to pass her lips: "We should have disposed of him when we had the chance."

"To what end?" Ereinion asked, and they paused under a high wall curtained with ivy, "We would have assaulted and destroyed who seemed to be a peaceful ambassador. That would open us for attack and placed strain on our already-strained ties with Khazad-dûm and Númenor. No, we could not have done any differently than we have, except invite him within our walls."

Thankfully, that had not happened, and Anárië relaxed a little. She watched the King as he inspected the greenery against the wall, his fingers gentle in touching the leaves.

After another moment, she spoke again: "What, then, shall we do, sire? Annatar’s hold on Eregion is too strong to diminish, and we will not give him entrance to Lindon, no more than Círdan will admit him to Mithlond. Lady Galadriel has fled back to Lórien with what family she could, and lord Celeborn remains in Ost-en-Edhil. What is our next step?"

His fingers drummed against the wall as he thought, the silence stretching between them after her question. Anárië shifted, and lowered herself onto the grass at his feet, lightly wrapping her arms around her knees as she waited.

Finally, Gil-galad too seemed defeated, and he sat as well: "I do not know. My heart is silent and troubled, and my mind speaks nothing. I will have to wait for another message from Celeborn."

"If you are so troubled," Anárië said gently, shrugging "perhaps you should seek other counsel.

Elrond has seen nothing recently, his mind is simply clouded with shadow. Lord Círdan takes his own counsel by the Sea. Eregion is closed to us. Mayhap you should speak to the Lady Galadriel, and see what she thinks. She is, after all, your kin."

If her knowledge of the Eldar family trees did not mislead her, Galadriel could be called Ereinion’s aunt in a way, for she was his father’s cousin.

The King looked at her pensively for a moment.

"There is wisdom in your words, though I fear the roads will be perilous once more, for we shall have to take a long turn around Ost-en-Edhil, instead of simply riding through it as we would have normally done. But ride we shall. Speak to Lachuí tonight and tell him to prepare an entourage to travel tomorrow after the evening meal. We ride light and hard, and as fast as we can. I am expecting a new messenger by morning; if he does not come, we ride regardless."

She inclined her head: "Who besides you should be included, Majesty?"

"No one, besides you and me. I would ride only with you if I dared, but somehow I do not believe the commander would ever forgive me for that. It will not be a pleasant visit, and so Elrond and the rest of the court must remain here."

Anárië nodded, though her heart felt heavy at the thought of leaving Elrond for so long unprotected: "As you command, Majesty. We ride tomorrow night."

He nodded, and relaxed slightly; Anárië waited for the dismissal from his company as he eased his body against the grass, looking up into the sky. Her fingers moved through the grass as she plucked at it aimlessly, plaiting the strands together in silence.

Suddenly, Ereinion spoke again: "Do you know why I am planting these gardens?"

The question caught her off-guard, and she frowned: "No, my lord. But I suspect every palace like yours has equally magnificent gardens."

He laughed, turning his head to look at her, shielding his eyes from the sun that fell against them.

"Yes, I suppose that could also be a reason, but no, the answer is not correct. Guess again."

She arched an eyebrow, and looked around herself for a moment, listening to the birds singing in the young trees and the falling water from near-by. She remembered a similar conversation she had had with Glorfindel, what seemed like ages ago, when he had asked after her favourite flower and tree; and she remembered how tenderly her father nurtured the garden her mother had planted.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, returning her eyes to the form of the King, "you do this for someone else. A special someone, maybe."

Elrond had confided in her that everyone feared for the continuance of the royal line while Gil-galad went unwed, despite it being now a time of peace. This was a wild guess on her part, but it was better than no guess.

The smile that crossed Ereinion’s features told her she was correct in her assumptions, and she returned the gesture.

His eyes turned back to the sky: "A special someone; yes, that is a very good way of putting it. For she is special to me; when we return from Lothlórien, I shall show her these gardens."

Anárië smiled, smoothing her hands against her long tunic: "And I am sure she will love them, Your Majesty."

The King scoffed at something, and rolled onto his side: "I honestly wish you would call me by name when we are not surrounded by the court. This business with titles is more bothersome than anything else."

She chuckled and stood, brushing grass off herself: "Very well, Ereinion, if that is your wish – may I go and search for Elrond now?"

"You may," he responded seriously, though the twinkle in his eyes told her he was jesting with her. Anárië gave him a parting smile and went away with long strides to go and speak to Elrond about this recent development, and arrange everything with Lachuí.

As predicted, the Peredhel was less than pleased, but Lachuí surprised her by simply shrugging, and turning to do as she had told him to. She had expected more complaints from the commander, but it seemed as though his fight had gone out of him.

"Is anything amiss?" she asked cautiously as they walked in the direction of the stables to see whether all of the horses they wanted to take would be ready tomorrow.

He shrugged again, but did not answer, and somehow, she had a feeling this had to do with Berien, and so she did not press the matter. He would tell her when and if he was ever ready to speak about it, or perhaps her friend would explain this current situation to her.

The next evening thus found them ready and waiting for the King to come and ride with them; he came with Elrond, giving him last-minute instructions before taking his horse from Anárië and pulling himself into the saddle.

"And remember, Elrond – the city stays closed, no matter what," were his last words before he touched his mare’s flanks and she sprang from the courtyard. Anárië lifted a hand in farewell before she, too, turned her horse and cantered after the King. Lachuí also went with them, and a handful of soldiers he had hand-picked for the King’s protection.

Their journey proved uneventful, if longer than it could have been because of the turn they had had to make to avoid most of Eregion, and ride on its very borders, and even then swiftly and with great caution. Neither Lachuí nor Anárië trusted this sudden silence, as if all the birds and beasts of the land were waiting for something. On the way, they met with a messenger out of Ost-en-Edhil, but Gil-galad did not stop, and insisted they ride even faster once he read the message. Anárië dared not ask what news Celeborn had sent to his liege-lord.

Finally, weary of the road and covered in dirt, the small group of Elves saw the golden shimmer in the near distance, and breathed a collective sigh of relief. Their horses strained their muscles for one last bound, and carried their riders under the eaves of the wood. The rider in front unfurled the blue banner sprayed with stars, and none hindered their passage. The boughs shifted in the wind that blew and Anárië felt like they were being watched; her first visit to this beautiful place was being hasty and very much under threat of something far more dangerous than she could imagine.

Lachuí saw the way she looked up into the branches, and lightly touched her side to gain her attention.

"The Wardens," he explained, and covertly pointed up, "they watch our passage, but our banner gives us liberty they do not normally accord to strangers. That we have arrived unlooked for tells them there is danger abroad."

Her heart clenched, but she nodded and returned her eyes to the path ahead of them, where the standard bearer rode before Gil-galad. They saw no one until they suddenly reached what seemed to be a living hedge surrounding a steep hill, and a great gate that held it closed to them.

"Hail," greeted a grey-clad Elf that seemed to know all about their coming, stepping out to meet them, "the Lady expects you. King Amroth has ridden out to the Northern borders, but he shall return tonight to speak with you."

Gil-galad inclined his head, and the group passed under the archway where Anárië was surprised to find a large field, where many other Elves stood.

"Lachuí, make sure the horses are rested and fed, and find Oromis, if you can," the King instructed as he dismounted, and gave the reins to a waiting Elf, "Anárië, with me."

She met Lachuí’s gaze briefly, before quickly dismounting and following after the High King. His strides were confident and swift as he followed a stone pathway through the trees. To Anárië, the very air among them seemed alive, thrumming with a certain beat; if she looked up she could not see the tops of the trees that surrounded them. There seemed to be lights hanging mid-air all around them, but she could not make out their source. And despite hearing soft footfalls and the rustle of clothing and leaves, she saw no one.

Noticing that she had fallen behind, the elleth caught up with the King and kept his quick pace afterwards as they climbed up sets of grey stairs for what seemed like eternity. She was winded when they finally reached what seemed to be a wooden platform high above the ground; Anárië looked at it with distrust, but Gil-galad stepped on without stopping, and so she followed as well, albeit less surely.

Two sentries greeted them at another entrance, and the High King spoke for the first time since beginning their climb: "Your Lady is expecting us."

The two Elves stepped aside, and Gil-galad passed through, with Anárië quick on his heels. The platform they entered now seemed to be smaller than some of the rest she’d seen on the way up, but there was a table with some chairs there, and on one side it seemed to open to a view of the land bellow.

That was where Galadriel stood.

Ecthelion had spoken of ‘Artanis’ to his daughter in Gondolin, explaining something about what she looked like and what gave her authority over the Elves she encountered, and who flocked to her like moths to a flame. Gil-galad had spoken of ‘Galadriel’ and what she had done for the regions on his side of the Misty Mountains thus far.

But none had really done her justice.

She was taller than any elleth Anárië had ever encountered, taller even than herself by at least an inch, and slender as a willow-tree, but with a certain hidden strength that spoke of woe to those who wished to contradict her. Despite being clad in simple white, she seemed to shine with an inner light of her own, and her face was fair to look upon. Indeed, when one saw it, it was as if they saw, for the first time, the Light of the Two Trees. Her hair, while golden, had not Anárië’s rich colour, but instead a deeper, more hidden meaning and lustre she could not place.

And her sapphire blue eyes were like depths of eternal knowledge.

Anárië held the gaze for a moment longer before lowering her own eyes, feeling inadequately prepared and unworthy of this meeting.

If she saw this, Galadriel said nothing, but turned to Ereinion, who stepped further into the room and took a seat.

"I bring grave tidings from Eregion, and my own doubts from Lindon which originally sent me on this impromptu journey," he spoke into the silence of the room,

"We met a messenger from your husband while on the road; he sends word that the Smiths have forged nineteen rings, but he does not believe them to be mere trinkets, much to our misfortune."

Anárië started at that, frowning, and lifted her head to see what she could make out of the King’s expression, but she could read very little.

Galadriel shifted, and spoke, with a voice lower than Anárië would have anticipated it: "Rings of Power?"

"They may be called so, yes," Gil-galad replied, "it seems they possess certain ... virtues, that have not been foreseen. No doubt, however, you have seen some of this. Elrond has been speaking of a shadow over his mind for long now."

"Much I have seen," came the answer, "yet well you know, Ereinion Gil-galad, that some things which we see may never come to pass. Some have already happened, like this work. It is not upon us to decide which of them will take place, but what to do with those that do."

Gil-galad snorted: "I have little concern for things that may or may not come to pass. I am presently more worried about things that have already done so, like this current situation. Celebrimor has accepted the help of Annatar on this, and you know this means ill for us all."

There was a silence, and Anárië sensed that this was an allusion to the flight that Galadriel staged to save herself and what of her family she could from Ost-en-Edhil, or face Annatar’s swords.

The Lady turned away, and the other elleth slipped closer to the King at that, standing by his side.

"Annatar has ever been wise," came suddenly the grave words, and Anárië exchanged a confused glance with Gil-galad.

"And that should placate me?" he asked, irritated at this point, "What exactly do you mean?"

Galadriel stood looking out of the opening among the branches again, and her eyes were unfocused:

"Flames now erupt from the chasms of the East; and the south of Mirkwood falls under darkness. Annatar is none other than a servant of Melkor Bauglir. I see it now."

Anárië’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the otherwise silent council chamber. Ereinion was still.

The Lady recovered, and turned back to them, her eyes sad: "Middle Earth is not yet rid of the darkness that had begun when Bauglir first came with the Silmarils. The circle begins anew, but to what purpose, I can hardly say. It is too soon yet."

Ereinion drummed his fingers against the table, and Anárië waited.

Finally, he cursed and stood: "That bloody fool! He should have listened to the advice I sent him with the purple star, and this would never have happened!"

"You can only make your own decisions," Anárië murmured softly, "Celebrimor’s are his own."

"Yes, and a lot of good that does us now," growled the High King, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Galadriel remained silent during this exchange.

"I will stay in your realm for a while," he finally said, looking at her, "I cannot risk another journey back over the south of Eregion right now. As soon as we know more, I will return. For the time being, I shall send word to Elrond."

Anárië tensed briefly, not liking this new development one bit. She had already left Elrond alone for longer than she was used to, and she could not help but worry.

Galadriel spoke: "As your protector has already spoken, Ereinion, your decisions are your own; you are welcome here, as you know, for as long as you need to stay."

Gil-galad nodded and stood, aiming for the exit when he noticed that his customary shadow had not moved. Turning, he saw that Galadriel was looking at Anárië, but her gazes had never really stopped him.

"Anná?"

"I have need of this lady for a while," Galadriel answered instead, "she will join you shortly."

"Please do return her to me," the High King quipped in a sarcastic voice, "good protection seems hard to come by these days."

Anárië started at that, but saw a shadow of a smile on the Lady’s lips, and upon a nod from the High King, they were then left alone.

The silence stretched, and she felt like she could not hold the Lady’s gaze for much longer. She did not have to; Galadriel was the one who broke it this time.

"You have much of your mother in you, child, but your father’s blood runs stronger, and hotter. You may look Vanya, but you are Noldo."

Remembering that this elleth had been the one to intercede on her parents’ behalf, Anárië felt humbled, and bowed her head. A gentle touch under her chin made her look up again; Galadriel had moved closer.

"Do not fear for Elrond; he is out of harm’s way while the High King lives. Your place is here."

Anárië frowned, opening her mouth to speak, not understanding how Galadriel could have known of her hidden fear, when not even Gil-galad seemed to notice it.

But she was again cut off.

"The one thing we can always be certain of, is that there will be a darkness to fight. Your war began the day your past burned behind you; the way before you burns as well, but I also see joy unlooked-for. Your coming here now is but the first stone in an avalanche that may sweep us all away, if we are not careful."

Their eyes met and held again, and Anárië felt her trembling subside, and her chin lifted higher; she could see Galadriel smile in approval.

"You are your parents’ daughter; they would be proud."

So Anárië met her who her father had so respected; and as the days grew dark in the outside world, in Lothlórien they waited, and held their breath.

And when another decade passed, they exhaled in a rush.


Chapter 14 - Chapter XIII

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Autumn, 1600 SA

The exhale consisted of the sighting of a group of riders entering Lothlórien from the same direction that Gil-galad had used a decade or so ago.

Anárië and Lachuí were walking across the green grass at the foot of the mallorn trees when they noticed how the Elves of the Wood suddenly started, as if someone had tossed a rock into the river and watched the ripples spread. The Commander stopped and turned to see what the commotion was all about.

"Do you think it is a missive from Lindon?" the elleth asked in a low voice. Since their initial spats, they had become good friends through sheer need and a joint cause.

Their eyes met, and then Lachuí shook his head: "I do not think so; a missive would have been faster if sent by bird. This is something else."

What ‘something else’ meant in his vocabulary, Anárië could not say, and so she bit her bottom lip and waited. Sure enough, tidings came in the form of Galadriel’s handmaiden, who could suddenly be seen hastening towards them.

"My lord, my lady," she gasped once she was close, "the High King requires your presence immediately!"

Lachuí frowned: "The presence of both of us?"

The elleth nodded, and he exchanged another look with Anárië before they both moved in union, picking their pace as they crossed the lawn and aimed for the nearest stairs that would take them higher up among the telain.

"What do you think happened?" she asked as they took two stairs at a time, sometimes three, passing confused Elves who let them by simply out of confusion at their speed.

Lachuí grit his teeth together: "I do not know, but that that King has called me as well as you means he has need of great protection; it cannot be good. Make haste!"

And so they did, quickly climbing up the steps and rushing along a bridge that connected two tree-tops together at this height, finally bounding down onto the main mallorn, where they seemed to have been anticipated, for a sentry was already waiting for them.

"Hail! Lady Anárië is summoned before the High King and the Lady Galadriel; lord Lachuí, king Amroth requires your presence immediately."

This confused them.

"We were told the High King needs us both," Anárië contradicted, her eyes hard.

The sentry lifted his hands: "I know my orders; you are to go to the council chamber, and lord Lachuí must follow me."

She would have said more, but Lachuí placed a hand to her shoulder, and shook his head: "I will meet you again soon; now go to the King!"

She nodded, briefly touching his arm, before hastening in the opposite direction, retracing her steps from the first day of their coming here. Since then, she had grown accustomed to the trees and the life among them, but she did not sleep well so far above the ground. The eerie singing also kept her awake long into the night.

The two sentries that guarded the council chamber had been made aware of her coming, and they did not hinder her passage; one of them simply made a quick motion with his head, and she swore she could see a faint smile on his lips, but they were so immobile that it was hard to say.

The tall elleth stepped down onto the talan, and four Elves turned to her, out of which two were unfamiliar, or so she initially thought.

One held a chest, and he reminded her of lord Rog, with his broad shoulders and strong arms, but otherwise he could have been just another Elf. The other, who was seated, had a regal air about him, but his gray eyes were sad; a scar ran across his left cheek.

There was something in the set of his chin that made Anárië think she had seen him somewhere, but she did not have time for idle thoughts.

"Anná, they found you," Gil-galad spoke, relief obvious in his voice, and she stirred again, walking to his side.

"The Lady’s handmaiden came for us," she explained in a low voice, turning her green eyes back to the two Elves she did not know. The one with the scar was watching her with open interest, especially her eyes.

Anárië turned away to look at Galadriel; as she did, she noticed a slender chain around the Lady’s neck, with a pendant crafted in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings upon it, holding a large emerald stone. This instinctively made her reach for the mithril pendant Dwain had made her.

The Lady spoke: "Anárië goes with the High King wherever his road takes him; his councils are her own. Anárië, these are Nolondir and the lord Celebrimor of Eregion, son of Curufin the Crafty."

Her head sprang back to the one who had apparently admitted doom upon his own lands, but not because of that; Curufin had been Maglor’s brother. There were traces of that noble lineage in his countenance.

"Nevertheless," said he in a strained voice, "I would not wish to speak of this before her. She is an outsider."

"Much less than you would think," Galadriel intercepted before Gil-galad could, "her father was Ecthelion of Gondolin, who rode and hunted with your father before they crossed the seas into this realm. Her charge was Eärendil of the Heavens, who now lights the way for us, and she lived for a time with your uncle Maglor."

Anárië looked at Galadriel with an unreadable expression, and could make nothing out from the Lady’s, but that she had somehow read her mind, for she had not spoken to the High King about so much of her personal history. Even he looked stunned.

Celebrimor watched her with new interest now: "It is a pity we have never met before then, my lady, for we would have had much to speak about – but now is not the time."

"Annatar has shown his true colours," Ereinion murmured to her so that only she could hear, and the hairs on her hands stood on end, "Celebrimor is hard-pressed now. Remember the trinkets we spoke of when we first came here?"

Imperceptible to anyone but him, she inclined her head, keeping her eyes on Celebrimor, who took up the conversation again where it had been interrupted by her arrival:

"Nineteen were the rings which I forged with my smiths," he explained in a weary voice, "out of those, Annatar himself was involved in the making of sixteen. Even as we began work on the first Rings, we all knew this was different from anything else we had made.

These Rings possess various powers, my friends. Some are more powerful than the others. Some help you gather gold to yourself, others grant you immortal life."

The elleth felt a sense of dread settling over her; was it not enough to learn from the mistake of Fëanor and the Silmarils? Was his grandson making a similar mistake?

"What of the three you have not mentioned?" asked Gil-galad after a moment of silence.

Celeborn turned to Nolondir, the Elf with the plain wooden chest. He placed it onto the table and unlocked the first set of locks which held the contents within. The second set was unlocked by Celebrimor, while the third once more by Nolondir.

"You have taken great precaution with this chest," observed the King, while Anárië wished she could be anywhere else but this talan right now. She had had quite enough experience with objects beyond her power and reach.

Celebrimor’s expression was grim when he replied: "The burden it carries is far too precious to fall into the wrong hands." He carefully undid the locks and pushed the lid back, then turned the chest so its items were displayed.

Inside, gently laid against soft velvet, were what seemed to be three crystal housings. And within each of those lay a beautifully-crafted Ring.

There was no breeze upon the air, but Anárië could have sworn that something stirred around them, and she looked away.

"These Rings I have made with my own hands, and with Nolondir's help," said Celebrimor softly, his finger gently touching the wooden outlay, "they have gone untouched by Annatar's vile hands, and I shall not allow him to have possession over them."

"But – how could he?" asked Gil-galad, "How can he if you should hide the Rings, or destroy them in the fires they were created with?"

Celebrimor’s tired eyes turned to Galadriel, and Anárië felt a tingle run down her spine, the sure sign that something was about to go horribly wrong.

The Lady of the Wood was silent, and then she suddenly took a sharp breath, her eyes widening. They all tensed.

"Yes," came the weary, defeated voice of the Lord of Eregion, "Annatar has made one other Ring, on his own, and in the flames of the East. He has claimed dominion over those that are lesser in strength, which means all, for he has poured much of himself into this one small thing. It was but yestereve that we heard a fell voice in the air, ringing as clearly as your silver bells do here in Lothlórien;

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them."

A shadow flew across the talan as he said this, and the Elves jumped and shuddered; Anárië gripped the back of Ereinion’s chair for support.

"The Rings are under the command of the one Annatar has made for himself," observed Galadriel into the silence that had fallen between them, "even the three he has had no part in making. You have been betrayed."

Celebrimor nodded, and bowed his head: "Yes; but there might still be some hope." His dark grey eyes suddenly came aflame: "These three are the most powerful of all the nineteen, and pure, devoid of all malice. Perhaps that shall sway the tide in our favour.

But I fear to keep them on my person; Annatar has already demanded I give him all nineteen rings. As long as I am able, I shall refuse him. But these, he shall not get, not unless all the strength of the Eldar should perish, and the world be covered in darkness. Thus I come before the High King, and the wisest of all Elves who have seen the Light, with the request that they take them, and keep them safe."

Silence fell upon the council chamber. Anárië felt as though they were being handed a bridle, and they were voluntarily placing it upon themselves, to be led and governed with its aid. Her chest rose and fell with more force than she would have initially thought, and her eyes did not go to the two foreign Elves. Instead, they focused on the High King.

Gil-galad was silent, looking to the chest, and finally to Galadriel. The Lady did not speak for a long time.

"Only one shall I keep in Lórien," she finally replied softly, "for I fear it is too dangerous for me to keep more. The others should be scattered around Middle Earth."

Anárië wanted to scream in frustration, but she balled her hands into fists, and kept a firm, silent hold on herself, as she looked back to the King.

He seemed to contemplate for a long time, with his head bowed, before suddenly lifting it: "I shall take the other two and keep them safe in Lindon." It felt like a blow to her stomach. Protecting the King was one thing – protecting the King who had on his person two of the items that Annatar sought so desperately? It was folly.

Celebrimor, however, inclined his head, and took out the middle of the three crystals. Anárië was too captivated to look away; he opened it with another key, and the ring within it glimmered into the world. It was made as a delicate brand of white, with a sparkling white diamond captured in the image of a petal.

"This is Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, named for the diamond," said he, and presented it to Galadriel, "when I made it, I had the element of water in mind. It shall help you preserve the beauty and immortality of Lothlórien, or at least so I hope."

The Ring was held out; the Lady was still for a moment before she finally took it, and the key that locked the crystal housing. Slowly, her fingers danced across Nenya. A soft humming could be heard, or perhaps it was all in their imagination. Anárië watched as Galadriel slipped the White Ring onto her finger, and immediately, to her eyes, she seemed as if befallen with a great burden.

Celebrimor then turned to Gil-galad and gave to him both of the other two Rings. Anárië leaned ever so slightly away, as if they were a plague she dared not touch.

"This is Vilya, the Ring of Air, and most powerful of all Three," the Master-Smith said, as the High King opened one of the crystals and took the golden brand set with a sapphire stone.

"I strongly advise against you wielding both that and the other Ring. Although your strength is great, two Rings shall wear you more than one," came the caution, and Anárië swallowed thickly, watching her charge as he inspected the Ring.

His eyes met Celebrimor’s, and he nodded: "Worry not, my friend; I shall keep Vilya for a time, before handing it over to another, as well as the third Ring."

The third crystal, which flickered like a flame whenever it caught the shaft of sunlight coming through the opening in the branches, was carefully stored away.

"That is Narya, the Ring of Fire," explained Celebrimor as he closed the wooden chest, "it shall give courage to the one who bears it, and set the flame of bravery into the hearts of those around him as well."

Anárië wanted to contradict him immediately; she felt no courage with the accursed Ring close to her, only dread and devastation.

The grandson of Fëanor returned the chest to Nolondir: "Bear all these rings with caution, and care! And above all, do not allow Annatar to take them. For within these Rings is preserved the power to maintain the Elven-lands. But I fear you are now also connected with Annatar on a level neither of us wants. It is something I cannot help with anymore."

"The doors to our minds are closed," said the High King firmly, as he placed Vilya upon his finger, "and the Rings are kept safe. But you must now return to Ost-en-Edhil, lest Annatar realises, too soon, what has transpired here."

The elleth who was his protector eyed the Ring upon his finger with ill-hidden contempt, and her eyes glanced over to where Galadriel had allowed the sleeve of her robe to cover her right hand now. The number and elements had not gone unnoticed to her – had not Eönwë said that the three Silmarils had been of Air, Water, and Fire?

Celebrimor and Nolondir both bowed, and left the council chamber; they would leave Lothlórien the same day, and hopefully return to their home unnoticed.

The three Elves that remained behind relaxed slightly, though Anárië felt as if someone had harnessed her into a plough and sent her to work the fields.

"Dark days lie ahead of us," said Gil-galad finally, to break the silence. He sat down upon the chair Celebrimor had previously occupied, and place the hand with Vilya upon the table.

Galadriel raised a hand to her brow: "Darker than we know; it is crucial now that strong alliances are formed among the Eldar. I have high hopes that the bonds between Mirkwood and Lórien are already laid." She lowered herself into the other chair.

"One must also be made with Lindon," added Gil-galad as an after-thought, and the Lady nodded. Somehow, Anárië was afraid of what those words might mean.

"Anná," the High King said suddenly, and woke her from her.

"Your Majesty."

"Find Lachuí and tell him we shall be going home soon; it is too dangerous for us to stay here any longer."

She inclined her head, and hastened out of the chamber, feeling relieved that she was finally dismissed. The sentry called something after her, but she did not hear him as she descended the flight of steps down to the lower level.

She could not believe it. She. Could. Not. It was all happening all over again. It was madness, it was – she did not know how to name it. She felt as though she was low on breath and could not inhale properly; stopping on a bridge, Anárië took hold of the rail and leaned heavily against it, focusing simply on breathing.

This could not be happening again.

Closing her eyes, her mind replayed the meeting which had just taken place, and she had to tell herself that it was indeed happening one more time. One threat had been removed, another was rising.

Her hands formed fists, her knuckles whitening, and she took another deep breath.

Lachuí. She needed to find Lachuí.

Regaining some of her composure with that thought, Anárië hastened forward and down again, not really knowing where to search for the commander.

In the end, she did not have to look long. They ran into each other around a corner as she tried going further down, and he was coming up. She would have fallen if his reflexes were not faster, and he caught her.

"Anná! Thank the Valar, I found you!"

She opened her mouth to speak, then frowned: "What?"

"I’ve been looking for you since one of the sentries told me that the two foreign Elves left the council talan."

Her thoughts were in shambles, and she had a hard time following what he was saying.

"Stop, stop Lachuí! Why are you looking for me? I was supposed to find you, by order of the King."

This did in fact stop him, and it was his turn to frown.

"What? Why?"

"We leave Lórien soon," she answered, and then briefly explained the situation, giving enough information so that the commander would understand the urgency, but saying nothing about the Rings.

When she was done, he nodded: "Very well, but we would have had to ride home regardless."

"What?"

"I was called to king Amroth, remember?" he replied, and turned them both so they were descending the stairs together now, "There has been a letter from Lindon this morning."

Anárië sent a small prayer to the Heavens.

"Elrond?"

Lachuí nodded again: "Yes. But nothing good, I fear. Wolves have entered the woods once more, of a bigger kind than we are used to."

The prayer intensified in her mind as her fingers dug into the ellon’s arm: "And?"

He stopped and looked at her. Her heart stuttered.

"They attacked one of the groups returning from the fields."

The news fell upon her like the strike of a hammer, and she swayed, clutching at Lachuí, who helped steady her.

"Wounded?"

"A few," he confirmed, still holding her, "Berien was the one who delivered the news; she was with them."

Anárië’s breath left her in a ‘whush’, her eyes seeking Lachuí’s for any sign. He was composed enough. It was the sole reason why she dared pose her next question.

"Casualties?"

His lips formed a thin line for a moment: "The majority."

Bile rose in her throat as images flashed across her mind, but she shook her head forcibly, her hands holding painfully to the other Elf as she took sharp breaths to steady herself.

"Anyone we know?"

The commander’s eyes turned suddenly cautious, and she knew the next blow would be harder. Anárië pushed her chin up: "Lachuí."

She heard the dryness of his throat when he spoke: "The lady Wilvarin was among them. Berien’s younger sister."

It was bad – very bad. But she did not understand the caution.

"There is something you are not telling me."

Lachuí swallowed thickly: "She carried a token from the King."

Anárië’s mind went blank. She scrambled to think again: "Token?"

The commander nodded, his voice hoarse: "A silver ring."

The world spun; her conversation with Ereinion about the gardens slammed into her with the force of a charging stallion.

"Anná?"

"I think I am going to be ill."

Lachuí dragged her to the side, and pressed her head between her knees. Anárië breathed in and out slowly on his command, his hand running soothing patterns across her back.

Finally, she was able to lift her head again, and the ringing in her ears died out.

"The news will kill him."

"I know," he agreed, and they both stood. The elleth smoothed her hair out of her face.

"Was there anything else in the missive?"

Lachuí nodded: "Yes; Círdan sent a group out of Mithlond. Lord Elrond writes of ‘visitors’, but I could not make out who or what he meant. From his words, I take it they are unlike anyone we have ever encountered before."

She needed things like these to keep her mind off the horrible fact that Gil-galad’s betrothed had been torn apart.

"How many?"

"I do not know, the Shipwright did not say. The Lord expects more news soon."

It was too much information to sort in such little time; Anárië shook her head again to be rid of the dark spots dancing in front of her eyes.

"Ready the horses, Lachuí; we ride tonight."

He eyed her carefully: "What will you do?"

Anárië closed her eyes, taking deep, even breaths; slowly, she felt her back straighten and her shoulders fall square, and she could lift her chin again.

"I will speak to the High King."


Chapter 15 - Epilogue

EPILOGUE
Winter, 1600 SA

The air was cold. So cold, in fact, that she could not remember the last time it had been this way at all.

Anárië exhaled slowly, and watched as her breath misted in front of her face. As an Elf, she did not feel the cold as acutely as she had seen Dwarves do, or even the Edain from the Island, yet still she felt a slight discomfort.

Today would be long.

She turned when she heard footsteps, her eyes aligning on Lachuí, who was carefully securing his vambraces as he came down the steps.

"We are almost ready to begin," he said in a low voice, looking up. She nodded, glancing around the empty balcony one last time, before following him under an archway towards the low hum of voices.

"How is the King?"

The Commander’s lips formed a thin line, the only outward sign that he was inwardly less than happy with the question. Less, even, than unhappy. Anárië had learned to read him like an open book through the many times he had pushed her down into the ground.

"He is holding up. But I fear he will never be the same."

He did not have to tell her that; in her mind, Gil-galad appeared as on the day when they had received the missive from Lindon with the list of casualties: the colour drained from his face, the lifeless arms, and most of all the endless pain within the blue depths of his eyes.

She knew that look well; she had seen it on most faces after the retreat from Gondolin.

And yet still it woke her up at night, the image of her King so desolate after the loss of his beloved none had even really known about until that moment. Upon their return to Lindon, Anárië had been quick in her greeting to Elrond, before slipping aside to find Berien. Her friend and companion had looked as though she had not slept since the attack had occurred, and Anárië had held her as she wept through that night.

The King had visited her the next day, no sooner. His strength of will was only so great.

She shook her head, focusing on her steps against the marble floor, and Lachuí’s presence beside her.

"No one is ever the same after such an event," she murmured in reply, although the Commander had not asked it of her. Still, he nodded, then glanced over, and for a moment she saw unexpected vulnerability upon his usually stern features.

Unexpected, but not inexplicable.

With a gentle smile, Anárië brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips: "I will walk beside the King. Be with Berien. She needs you now, more than ever."

There was a flash of gratitude, no more than that, but it was enough, and when he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, Anárië returned the gesture with another smile, before it faded from her lips.

They had entered the main courtyard.

Even though Arien sailed across the sky as was her vont, she found no display of colour among the gathered Elves today. All were clad in sombre black, and for this occasion, Lachuí had commissioned a dark uniform for the King’s protector, close in design to those that the royal guard and he himself wore for such ceremonies, but less cumbersome and more feminine. At any other time, she would have had a comment about that particular feature, but it would be ill-fitting right now. Especially now.

Elrond met her gaze from where he had his arms crossed over his chest, and she parted from Lachuí to go to her charge. The ink of his hair flowed smoothly and seamlessly into his raiment, leaving only his face bare, for he wore gloves.

She pressed a light kiss to his cheek, and he took her hand.

"It is all prepared," he murmured, lifting his head and allowing his grey eyes to pass over the gathered, and assess them all. Anárië followed with her own, taking note of all the little details.

"And the flowers? Have the women managed to find any?"

Elrond ghosted a smile: "We were lucky."

She relaxed, and then they all turned in union as Gil-galad appeared at the entrance to the main castle, slowly walking down the steps.

His arrival marked the beginning of the solemn ceremony, and both Anárië and Elrond moved towards their sovereign. As she moved into her spot, the elleth gave Berien an encouraging nod in passing; whether it worked or not, she could not say.

A single trumpet sounded, keening a long, mournful note, and the gates were thrown open, revealing the paved street that would lead them to the gate. It was lined with Elves who had come to pay homage to the victims of the assault.

The banner of the King was raised, and the Elf carrying it stepped forth; behind him, the horses pulling the caskets snorted as they, too, were coaxed into movement, and their hooves clattered against the stones under them.

And behind the last casket began the solemn procession with the High King of the Elves left in Middle Earth at its head.

Elrond and Anárië followed, Elrond a step behind, Anárië two, and the rest lined up after them. But Gil-galad walked alone, and those who knew the measure of his pain knew that his solitude would now last until Wilvarin could be reborn in Valinor, and they could be reunited. The process did not happen from one day to the other, so the prospect of them becoming one before this struggle was over were almost none.

Slowly they walked, keeping to the pace that the Elf in front had set with the banner, and the Sun shone down on the gleaming harnesses and spear-points of the guards that accompanied them, and the crown that the King wore.

Somehow, Anárië would probably never be able to guess how, the women that lined the streets had found more flowers than anyone had expected; they were thrown gently onto the road before the procession, so that the dead would have their path mapped out with the tenderness that they had lacked in life.

A lone voice rose into song, and one by one the gathered Elves joined in:

"Fanuilos heryn aglar;
Rîn athar annún-aearath,
Calad ammen i reniar
Mi ‘aladhremmin ennorath!

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
I chîn a thûl lin míriel
Fanuilos le linnathon
Ne ndor haer thar i aearon."

Most in the funeral procession followed suit; Anárië could distinctly make out Berien’s voice among the rest, even if it was so emotional that it was barely recognizable as hers. Yet the King remained silent, and neither she nor Elrond sang.

"A elin na gaim eglerib
Ned în ben-anor trerennin
Si silivrin ne pherth ‘waewib
Cenim lyth thílyn thuiennin.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
Men echenim sí derthiel
Ne chaered hen nu ‘aladhath
Ngilith or annún-aearath ..."

The procession had crossed the outer wall of the city then, and the song faded into the silence of the crisp winter day as the Elves leading the horses turned to the caskets.

One by one, the dead in their eternal slumber were lowered into the previously-prepared spot, then withdrew. The mourners were next.

Anárië stood beside the King and watched as mothers and fathers wept for their children, brothers for sisters, sisters for brothers, children for their parents. The keening sound of their cries rose in the bitter wind and carried out towards the river, following its path towards the Sea. Something cold touched her face, and she lifted a hand to sweep aside the snowflakes that the wind had cast across the mourning party as it blew. The long braid of her hair felt heavier, and she knew it would be wet by the time she returned to the palace. Absently, the same hand reached for the necklace Dwain had crafted for her so many years ago, her fingers tracing the familiar shape of the sword in the fountain.

How many times had she witnessed a similar event since the destruction of her homeland? How many times had her heart felt pierced with grief? She could not say; in any event, it seemed to be too many times to count. Her heart was becoming numb.

Her eyes followed Berien as she moved to stand over her sister’s grave; the sister she had sworn to protect, to love, and to see safely wed. Anárië was happy to see Lachuí was with her; his arm around the mourning lady, offering his strength and support when she turned from the grave to weep against his shoulder, and they held on to each other through their sorrow.

When they moved away, Gil-galad suddenly stirred, and Anárië’s attention shifted as she followed, allowing slight distance between them to give him space, and yet still being there all the same. She could see Vilya upon his right hand, and knew this was far from over, but for the moment, he was simply an Elf mourning the loss of his betrothed. No more a king than anyone else outside the city walls today.

Elrond stood by his surrogate uncle and placed a hand on his shoulder, murmuring something she could not hear, before stepping away and turning to wait closer to the gate so that the heart-broken might have some privacy.

She watched as Gil-galad fingered a single winter rose for what seemed like a long time before she moved to his side.

"Did you know she hated winter?" he asked, not even looking at who had joined him.

Anárië looked at the fresh grave: "No. I did not know her that well."

The King sighed, and allowed the rose to drop from his hands; it gave no sound as it landed against the fresh, if barren soil.

"And now she had to be buried in winter time. How she would have loathed the thought."

To this, she had nothing to say; instead, she placed a hand against his upper arm, and stood beside him in silence. She was the sole witness to the tears that slipped silently down his cheeks, the only one he would have ever allowed to see such weakness besides perhaps Elrond. It was both an honour, and a curse.

Anárië rubbed the King’s arm soothingly as he mourned, staying with him until he had no more tears to shed, and the mask that was his face settled back into place.

"Come, Ereinion," she said gently then, lightly turning him away from the grave and guiding him back towards the gate, "it is time to go. You have visitors to speak with."

She did not smile as she said this, for it was not joyful news, and she knew the High King wished for nothing but solitude at this moment, yet it could not be helped. The visitors from Círdan the Shipwright had finally arrived, and Gil-galad needed to put aside his personal life until dusk.

Unexpectedly, a hand was placed against hers on his arm, and she looked into the face of her King, who gave it a squeeze.

"Thank you, Anná. I will never forget."

She did not know what to say, so chose silence, and arm in arm, they walked over to Elrond who held their horses by the reins. The ride back to the castle was a lot faster than the funeral walk before, and they were en route to the council chamber even as Lachuí seemed to exit it in search of the King.

"Your Majesty, we have brought refreshment for your guests, and they wait for you now, as you have requested," he said as he fell in line with the rest of them.

"Thank you, Lachuí."

They entered the room, and it was there that Anárië glimpsed the first flash of true colour of the day, for the robes of the two strangers were of a strange blue hue; granted it showed signs of wear and elements, but it was still blue. Both of them looked old, like old men from Númenor, yet there was a sense of gracefulness and hidden strength in the way they rose from their seats, as if the robes contained some form of power none could detect.

"Forgive the wait," Gil-galad said in ways of greeting, "but there was a matter of importance that needed settling."

"You need not apologise to us, son of Fingon," one of the men spoke, his voice a pleasant baritone, yet with a timber Anárië could not quite place, "we understand the ill luck that has befallen your people. Our sincere condolences."

The High King inclined his head, and then indicated for them to be seated; Anárië moved to stand behind him and Elrond, next to Lachuí.

"My name is Alatar, and this is Pallando," said the one who had spoken before, at a silent gesture from the King, "we have been sent here by the Ainur."

At this, there was a stirring among the gathered in the council chamber; Anárië exchanged a look with Lachuí. The Valar had decided this?

"For what purpose?" the King asked, obviously both curious and worried. Anárië shared the worry. Whoever these two were, if the Valar had sent them, it could only mean one thing: inevitable war.

"Our task is ours alone," came the reply, "and unfortunately it does not include aiding you, however much we might wish it."

Anárië frowned; what?

"I understand that the Valar may not believe I am in need of aid," the High King replied calmly, "considering I do not see the need myself, but you are guests in my kingdom. I would like to know some of your purpose, and the design which sent you here, so that we may be better prepared if any others follow."

There was an unspoken question there; Alatar and Pallando exchanged glances.

"Very well, son of Fingon, your word is iron in these lands they say," Pallando answered this time, "we can reveal there will be more who will follow after us. In fact, we left our third companion with your Shipwright for the time being. He had some ... unfinished business there. For our part, we will travel further as soon as we gather some strength, for we are bound East."

This made Gil-galad sit back, and Lachuí looked at Anárië again.

East. The lands east were sparsely populated ... except east of Anduin.

Annatar.

"I will not hinder you," the King finally said, "for I understand a lot more now. East ... take care when you set foot there. My messengers report there are evil things abroad."

Alatar smiled, and even though his gaze did not falter from Gil-galad’s face, everyone in the room somehow knew he had taken note of Vilya, and understood.

"Thank you for the warning, son of Fingon; we do not expect much trouble until the time is right."

He met Anárië’s eyes for a moment, then looked away, and the elleth suppressed a shiver. Her attention went to the King, who suddenly beckoned with his hand.

"Anná, Lachuí, have rooms prepared for our guests, and prepare two horses for their journey."

As there were other guards posted within the room, the Commander nodded, and the pair took their leave.

"’Until the time is right’," he spat as soon as they were out of hearing distance, "what in the name of Varda does he mean by that?"

"He means there will be another war," the elleth commented quietly, and looked at her companion, "and if the Valar have really sent help, then it also means it will be long and difficult."

She had learned a lot since the Fall of Gondolin; their steps echoed through the long corridors.

Lachuí allowed himself a heavy sigh: "When has a war ever been easy for us?"

It was meant to be a joke, but as he met Anárië’s eyes again, he could see it did not have the desired effect. She did not smile as they parted ways to fulfil the King’s orders.

War was at hand.


Chapter 16 - Cast of Characters

FLAME OF GONDOLIN

ALPHABETICAL LIST OF CHARACTERS, P2

Alatar, one of the Blue Wizards
Amras, sixth son of Fëanor, twin to Amrod; Telufinwë was his father-name
Amrod, seventh son of Fëanor, twin to Amras; Pityafinwë was his father-name
Anárië, Elros and Elrond's chief protector, Glorfindel's wife, Ecthelion's daughter
Annatar, later called Sauron, Morgoth's vassal and later Lord of the Rings
Artanis, later called Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin
Berien, Noldo noblewoman, Lachuí's love interest
Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor; Morifinwë was his father-name
Cealea, Noldo/Vanya noblewoman, Ecthelion's wife, died on Tumladen
Celeborn, Galadriel's husband, prince of Doriath
Celebrimor, Lord of Eregion, grandson of Fëanor
Celegorm, third son of Fëanor; Turcafinwë was his father-name
Círdan, lord of Mithlond, also called the Shipwright
Curufin, fifth son of Fëanor, father of Celebrimor; Curufinwë was his father-name
Dwain, Dwarf, cousin to King Durin of Khazad-dûm
Egalmoth, Lord of the Heavenly Arch in exile
Elénna, cousin to Nerdanel, aunt of the Fëanorions, the Hand of Maglor
Elrond, son of Eärendil, last King in Exile (did not claim the title)
Elros, son of Eärendil, first King of Númenor
Elwing, daughter of Dior, wife of Eärendil
Eönwë, herald of the Valar, Chief of the Maiar
Erestor, Gil-galad's council member, distantly related to Egalmoth
Galdor, Noldo nobleman, Lord of the Tree in exile
Gil-galad, also known as Ereinion, son of Fingon and the last King in Exile
Lachuí, commander of Gil Galad's army
Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, King in Exile; Nelyafinwë was his father-name
Maglor, second son of Fëanor, King in Exile; Kanafinwë was his father-name
Nólondir, Celebrimor's right hand
Orólos, Cealea’s father, remained in Valinor
Pallando, one of te Blue Wizards
Raumonóna, Gwaiforn's foal
Thain, Dwarf, Dwain's descendant, relative of the Dwarf-King
Wilvarin, Berien's younger sister, slain by wolves outside of Lindon
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