Flame of Gondolin, book 2: Miss Independent

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.