Flame of Gondolin, novella: A Christmas Carol

Winter, 1 TA
Imladris

Anárië glanced in the direction where, normally, the two cubs would have been housed, but for tonight they were taken off her hands and being babied by someone else; who, she could not say since Glorfindel had failed to share the knowledge with her. It was amusing to see how much she had already gotten used to their presence, if their absence disquieted her this much.

It was to be a night of celebration in Imladris, and Elrond had announced feasting that evening to take place all around the Last Homely House, and indeed she had herself just come in from one such revelry. But her Lord and protégé had also asked for her company at a private dinner, so that was what she had left early to prepare for.

As once before during these interesting and emotionally-expressive twelve days, she had sought Berien’s help, sensing that a certain attire was needed.

Her friend had taken to the task with delight: "No one will be able to take their eyes off you when I’m done, this I promise you."

"All I want is to look good enough to be able to wear the necklace," she’d argued in return, but she had to admit, even to herself, that Berien had surpassed even her wildest imagination with what she’d conjured out of someone who was more warrior than lady, and who had spent the better part of the last hundred or so years in armour.

The material of the dress was soft, pliable, and clung to her in all the appropriate places; she would have complained over it if she would have thought it would work, but that conversation had already come and gone once. Besides, looking into the mirror now, Anárië thought she actually looked AND felt like the woman she could see gazing back out of the mirror at her. Even in Gondolin, when a warrior’s attire had been only a passing dream, she had never felt this at home in any kind of dress.

Or maybe it was just the nerves speaking through her.

She shook her head and turned rapidly away, the light inside the room catching in the soft gold and white of the fabric. Berien had wanted to go dramatic, to enhance her eyes or play on her position with purple again, but Anárië had adamantly refused.

Anyone seeing her from Gondolin would have no trouble discerning just who she was:

the daughter of Ecthelion and Cealea, but the wife of the Lord of the Golden Flower.

The ring on her right hand felt right for the first time, too, and she pondered it for a moment when she caught sight of it while reaching for the necklace of celandines. It had been millennia since Glorfindel had placed it on her finger, yet it, too, she had had to grow into.

Securing the clasp and making certain the central celandine was resting in the right place, Anárië took one last look at herself, then with baited breath left the room.

For the first time since Gondolin, she was wearing soft slippers on her feet instead of her usual boots, and she did not carry her dagger with her. She felt horribly naked and exposed, but straightened her back and shook herself inwardly: no enemy was alive that could take the Hidden Valley without them knowing about it, and Sauron was vanquished.

The bells rang the hour, and startled her from her thoughts; taking a hold of the skirt, she hastened forward, knowing she would probably be the last to arrive.

She knew there would be no serving Elves present tonight, so she opened the doors to the West Wing herself, and caught her breath before she swiftly made her way to the private hall where Elrond usually entertained his guests.

Berien was the first one she ran into, and it seemed that it was good luck.

Her friend’s grey eyes shone warmly: "Valar, you are a vision, Anná; wait until Glorfindel sees you. I might even have to blindfold Lachuí for tonight."

Anárië scoffed: "’Tis not like some miracle has occurred, I am simply wearing a fine dress. Am I very late?"

"No, just in time," her friend replied, "But wait here, I was asked to alert someone of your arrival."

The golden-haired elleth decided not to ask, since she had a good feeling who it might be.

True to her own thoughts, Glorfindel’s familiar step made its presence known.

He paused as he rounded the corner, his breath leaving him in a short gasp; he never noticed Berien withdrawing with a small smile on her lips. His eyes were only for his wife.

Anárië felt like fidgeting under that close scrutiny, but she reminded herself that she had not gone through fire and loss simply to be cowed by one look, even if it was that of her husband. The sapphires of his eyes burned like molten pools as he appraised her, and her chin lifted a fraction in response.

He remembered to step further into the hallway then, and she could see him fully now, his attire revealed in the light of candles; it was her turn to inhale sharply.

The last time she had seen him dressed for the occasion and appropriate to his status had been in Gondolin, for their wedding; it had been a long time indeed since he had had need to stand on ceremony, and even though the gold filigree of his vambraces cast swirling shapes on the surrounding walls, it was a detail that enhanced, and did not take away.

Belatedly, she also realized they matched, the gold and white complimenting each other.

His fingers slipped through hers, and the grasp was secure on both sides.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?"

His voice was only a murmur in the stillness of the corridor, but Anárië heard him. And even though this was supposed to be a rhetorical question, the answer presented itself: "No … no, I don’t think you ever have."

Glorfindel could feel a growing smile on his face: "I have been remiss, then; Lady of the Fountain and the Flower, you are beautiful. And if any of our old friends and kin could see us now, they would never believe the sight."

This time, the blush was evident on her cheeks, a dusking colour that crept into her otherwise pale skin; Glorfindel’s thumb caressed the skin of her hand, still smiling.

"A little colour was all you needed; but come. They’re waiting for us."

He turned and let go of her hand, only to offer it in the traditional manner reminiscent of the High Court, a gesture she had been instructed and taught to expect, but outside the court of Ereinion Gil-galad, no one seemed to remember the old ways anymore.

It was the proper way a husband might escort his wife into the presence of royalty.

Anárië was almost painfully aware of the sudden hush that fell among the small number of gathered when she and Glorfindel entered the hall; but, as before, taking a step back or lowering her head was not in her nature, and she simply lifted her head in casual acceptance of the fact.

It was the first time the couple had entered any kind of function as husband and wife, and Elrond, especially, took note of it.

"Well, this is a sight I’ll not soon forget," he said, stepping forward and extending his arms to embrace his protector, whispering in her ear, "You’re beautiful, Anná."

She fought a blush this time around and quickly turned to greet the others who were here: Lachuí and Berien, both content, both smiling broadly; Erestor, looking like the cat who got the proverbial cream; Celebrían and Rímallen, smiling gently, amused.

Glorfindel touched her arm as Rímallen took hold of a tray which had been prepared before, bearing cups for them all; Anárië turned to look at him.

"The final present," he murmured gently, "Twelve companions, for the last, twelfth day."

She blinked, frowning, as she glanced around at the gathered, making a quick head-count.

Excluding herself, she could only count seven, no matter how hard she tried.

Letting her puzzle over this for a moment or two, her husband gently placed his hands on her waist and turned her to the other side of the hall, where she had previously noticed most of the candles were placed.

It was not only candles, she noted then: there were pictures.

Portraits.

There was the sweet-faced Wilvarin, Berien’s sister whom they had lost during one of the first wolf-raids on Lindon; Anárion of the house of Elendil, brave and unharmed; Gomil, the cousin of Durin Longbeard, a twinkle in his eye; Uindor with his quick wit and rakish smile; and the centre-piece was the most magnificent of all, a portrait of Ereinion Gil-galad in the days of his splendour, replesent in the livery of a High King, but with the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile which she remembered, and knew well.

All those dear to them who had passed away, the losses they could not count spreading out behind them, but these at the forefront of their mind, ever and always.

Now she could see the number twelve, and understand tonight’s private gathering.

The cups now passed around, Elrond lifted his: "To those who have come before us, and are even now, so we hope and believe, watching this very moment. We hope that they have found peace, and happiness."

They murmured assent, and drank from the cups.

The gathering became less solemn afterwards, as the food was passed around and talk turned away from the deep shadows of their loss, even though those in the portraits remained ever with them; but it seemed to Anárië that everyone in the room could now speak of them with greater ease, and less pain showing in their eyes.

"You have outdone yourself," she told Glorfindel as he brought her a fresh cup of wine after dinner, "I would have never thought to make the number twelve the way you have. It was ingenious."

He smiled touching the rim of his cup to hers, and they drank in silence.

Erestor’s voice suddenly rose above the general hum of conversation: "Are we all just going to stand here, or will there be dancing, as my lord has promised?"

Anárië caught the look in Glorfindel’s eyes, and both of them turned to their friend in almost-horror.

Elrond laughed: "As my impatient friend here has pointed out, we will, in fact, be dancing. And I have it on good authority that we may see something out of the old courts tonight, as well."

Celebrían, beaming, crossed the room towards where Anárië and Glorfindel stood: "I’ve never seen the traditional steps to the ‘Winds of Manwë’, but Elrond tells me you know them. Won’t you show us?"

"Please," her sister added her voice, but Anárië was preoccupied with the way the princess had omitted Elrond’s title – something which she had never done before.

"Won’t you, Anná?" Lachuí spoke suddenly, and she blinked.

He smiled a rueful smile: "I’ve never seen it done the traditional way either; Ereinion danced it seldom, and when he did it was a shortened version."

She looked at Glorfindel, wordlessly, and he seemed just as much at a loss as she was.

Erestor decided for them as he propelled them to the middle of the hall to a make-shift dance floor; there would be musicians playing soon, and they had only moments to spare.

Glorfindel looked across to his wife: "I suppose it is useless to try and resist now?"

"You are a trifle late," she commented, smiling nervously.

Her husband returned the gesture, reassuring: "I’ve never failed you before, have I?"

No; not in this dance he hadn’t. But Anárië couldn’t explain to him, in these brief moments, just what she was nervous about.

Glorfindel executed a bow: "May I have the honour, my lady?"

Anárië remembered the proper response just in time, sinking into a curtsy: "The honour is mine, my lord."

Those same words echoed through her thoughts, words she had spoken long ago, during this very same dance, with the same person, under entirely different circumstances. The music flowed through the hall, the gentle swirl of a flute, and her feet left the spot she felt rooted to, her body finding the harmony she’d always had with Glorfindel, even at the very beginning.

The dance was intricate in its simplicity, movements of the hands just as important as the way your partner led you; and when Glorfindel turned her under his hand, Anárië wasn’t in the hall in Imladris anymore.

Their hands a breath apart, they slowly circled one another in her father’s house, surrounded by friends and family, under the warm gaze of Turgon, their King.

Anárië’s heart thudded as Glorfindel turned her one last time, and she was glad of the hold of his hand as she sank into a curtsy again; she didn’t think her legs would have held her otherwise.

The applause of her gathered friends sounded from far-off, a great distance, and looking up into Glorfindel’s eyes, she saw her expression mirrored back: a look of mingled pain and deep longing.

She didn’t know how she managed to right herself into a standing position again, had no idea what she said in response to some questions.

All she knew was that, as soon as Berien turned away to speak to Rímallen, she was free: "Excuse me."

She fled the hall, half-blind, stumbling into the corridor and not really knowing where she was headed. She stopped only when her palms landed against something firm, possibly one of the carved statues in the hallway, pressing her cheek against the cool stone.

She wasn’t aware of the tears running down her face until gentle hands pried her away from her current anchor, and turned her around.

Anárië closed her eyes and dug her fingers deep into the folds of Glorfindel’s tunic, inhaling deeply and allowing his scent to envelop her entirely, focusing on his presence instead of the memories of loss which seemed close to overwhelming her then and there.

"I know," he whispered, and she heard the emotion in his voice, "I know."

And he did; whether it was because of some destiny they did not themselves understand, and he could feel her turmoil and share it, or whether it was simply that their shared memories were equally painful to them both, he understood.

"I don’t think I can go back there," she mumbled, hidden against him.

Glorfindel pressed his lips to the top of her head: "I can’t either."

Anárië lifted her head at this admission; he had never admitted to any weakness of his own before. He had always been a rock for her to lean on, never faltering.

The knowledge that there was something he couldn’t endure only endeared him more to her.

Taking her hand, he kissed it, letting his lips rest there longer than was necessary, but she appreciated the gesture, and allowed him to lead her away.

"I should have excused us from the dance," he said finally, in their rooms, "I’m sorry. I wasn’t prepared for what happened."

"I wasn’t either," she admitted with a weary sigh, reaching with her hand and rubbing her temple, "But it is as it is. We can do nothing about it now."

She felt him step up behind her more than heard; his arms were welcome as they wrapped around her middle, and his chin came to her shoulder with a soft sigh.

Anárië stayed like this for a moment, before she gently detached herself: "I have something for you."

Glorfindel arched an eyebrow quizzically as she knelt in front of the dressing table and opened one of the drawers there. She presented him with a plain black box, fitting neatly onto his palm.

Inside, he found a pair of spurs.

"They were my father’s." Her voice was quiet. "I found them in my chest, when Berien returned it to me from Mithlond. I think … I think uncle Egalmoth somehow put them in, saved them, although I don’t understand how."

Glorfindel watched the light play over the intricate metal-work, feeling Ecthelion’s presence for the first time in years.

Gently, he drew her to him: "It is the best gift you could have given me, Anárië. Thank you."

She tipped her head slightly, her green eyes soft and impossibly deep, an effect that usually happened after she’d been crying. His lips touched hers of their own accord, but she didn’t pull back, instead responding in a way he would have never even hoped for anytime before.

Anárië tucked her face under his chin, melding to his frame as he held her, and listened to the steady beat of his heart under her hand.

Outside the warmth they created for themselves, the snow continued to fall.

***

Note: the titles for each part came from Away in a Manger from the late 19th century, to the most popular music variations by William J. Kirkpatrick, James R. Murray and Jonathan E. Spilman.

Happy holidays!