Flame of Gondolin, book 2: Miss Independent

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.