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The Last Heir of Fëanor - Part Two

Summary:

This is the second part of the tale of the surviving child of Celebrimbor of Eregion and how she fared through the Ages of the world. From the Fall of Ost-in-Edhil to Imladris and the vastness of Second Age Eriador, the fight against Sauron seems never ending. Plans have been set in motion across the Misty Mountains, but, in Lindon, many tasks await.

Can be read fandom blind.

Warning for slightly adjusted timeline according to the story needs, but not too noticeable as the structure stays intact. Verses from my favourite poems are also liable to get themselves in weird places.

Chapter 1: Across Eriador

Chapter Text

It was early summer when they left Imladris, as great a party to go as Gil-Galad had brought with him years ago. As she had done before, Falmaramë entrusted the care of the valley to Elrond, yet there was emotion in their parting, for she didn’t expect to be back for a long time.

“Now that I leave, I think I shall miss these Mountains,” she said, “as well as you, my friend.”

Embracing her, Elrond answered: “Nonsense, you’ll enjoy yourself so much in Lindon that you’ll forget to write. New Dwarves to befriend, a whole new court to rustle, and new mountains to roam, enough to make you feel right at home. Give my best to the Sea.”

 

Thus they went along the western road, through the rolling hills until the Númelango pass, and then down until the bridge above the roaring waters of the Mitheithel, white and brown with peat. They then followed a shadowy valley until it opened into a clear woodland and, some distance away, the flat summit of the Amon Sûl shimmered through the summer haze. It was the farthest west Falmaramë had ever been, and she wondered at the wideness of the sky where no true Mountain rose to hinder the sight. Now each step felt new; homesickness was forgotten, and she longed to ride forward, alone, and marvel at the world. Whenever they set up camp at night, she would often go explore, and stand shivering under the stars, getting in the smells and sounds of the land. 

They crossed marshes filled with flowers and birdsong, and later passed some farming settlements of Second Born - but these kept to themselves, and none tried to hail the travelers - until the eaves of a great forest rose before them. It was old; older than any of them, older than the passing of the Elves beyond the Sea, and its twisted oaks grinned under their mossy limbs. In the north, it reached to the silver shores of Lake Nenuial, and in the south covered all the long leagues to the Sea, for while the wars that had devastated Eriador had cost much to the Forest indeed, it still stood strong wherever it could. It was said that white harts could sometimes be glimpsed in it, and that it was perilous. Travelers were advised to keep to the road, lest they get lost and encounter the shepherds of the trees. Crossing the Forest was the only way to cross the land, and in some places an understanding had been reached with the trees: that, there, people were allowed to rest. Yet none who carried the axe to a living bough ever came out under the sun again.

 

Two great beeches guarded the road as it entered the forest; their interlacing branches reminded Falmaramë of the door of Khazad Dûm, and when she passed through them she felt watched by eyeless wardens. The road was large, but the traveling party huddled closer, and they rode slowly, their boots touching their neighbour’s. A silent awe fell upon them, the creak of the chariots and the occasional tinkle of a harness being the only sounds that came from their convoy.

At first, it felt cool under the leaves, and the change was welcome, for outside the heat had plagued them for a few days. But it soon became stuffy. Air stagnated, full of green humidity; as they went on and the road curved, going sometimes up, sometimes down, they caught drifts of old smells. The sweet fragrance of rotting leaves chased the spice of ancient wood, and yet sometimes a fresh honey perfumed the air, too. They saw no beasts on that first day, although they heard them, or so they thought, and as they went deeper birdsong became less common. That is, until night - for then, when they stopped, the golden voice of a single blackbird echoed below the leaves, as their fire drew fantastic shapes on the canopy. Branches shuddered without a breath of wind, and dreams that night were filled with strange shapes.

The second day was much like the first. Few sunspots reached the beaten earth of the road, and yet heat became heavy, so much they set up camp early, beside a whispering fountain enclosed in moss. Pale flowers of mauve dotted the ground. Ferns grew high around a small clearing, and as twilight fell the traveling Noldor set to eat and sing. One by one, they fell asleep, who on a friendly shoulder, who on a rolled-up cloak, and forgot about the world.

 

Stars reeled above the forest, and night grew old, and all the while they slept. Owls flew past, silent slaughter on their mind, and three small deers came and went. Falmaramë was lost in a strange dream; she was again walking through an unknown land, yet she took no joy in it. Her heart felt heavy. She was untouched by the beauty of strange mountains and forests, as if she was searching for something she had lost and couldn’t ever find. Something, however, distracted her: a feeling in her hair, like a squirrel, maybe, trying to burrow, and little by little she woke up. A blue light, shadowless, was filtering through the trees and spoke of dawn. There was someone above her, a dark silhouette, and that person had their fingers in her hair and was removing a jeweled comb she wore. Startled, drowsy, Falmaramë cried out, and the silhouette jumped a few steps away, tearing away the comb.

It looked like a maiden, clad of some clear fabric; she was looking at her prize with amazement. Her own pale hair cascaded over her shoulders. Massaging her scalp, where her dark locks were becoming undone, Falmaramë asked: “Who are you? That’s mine, why did you do that for?”

The creature stared at her without a word; she clutched the comb closer to her breast and slowly inched away.

“You can’t take things from people while they’re wearing them,” gently continued Falmaramë, struggling to get upright, as Gil-Galad had fallen asleep with his arm around her shoulders. “Please, you can look at it, but I need it back.”

But her move seemed to frighten the mysterious maiden, who suddenly ran away among the trees.

“Oh, to hell with it,” complained Falmaramë. Without another look to her sleeping companions, she ran after her thief, shouting: “Hey, that’s my stuff! Give it back, will you!”

 

At first, the hunt was easy: the tree trunks were not too close, and she could still see the white raiment of her quarry. The maiden was swift, but Falmaramë followed, jumping over fallen branches, sliding along leafy slopes, sprinting along a clearing where the light grew. Her travel clothes seldom got caught in the bramble, for the underwood wasn’t thick, yet after a time trees grew nearer to each other. Bushes obscured the way, blocking the sight. By the time the sun had risen and a chorus of birds had finished to salute a fair morning, Falmaramë had lost, not only the thief, but also her way. She tried tracking her, to no avail; so she tried tracking her own way back. But she had always been a poor huntress - a trail she was sure to have been her own only brought her to a family of boars. That sent her running again in a haphazard direction, until she thought to climb up a tree, where she waited a while for the sow and her striped children to calm down and leave. She carefully sat on the big branch she had chosen as her perch, and only then did she fully realize the severity of her situation.

“You got yourself into this,” she said aloud to herself, “and you’ll get yourself out of it. Keep a cool head and think. Now, I can’t hear any horn or any call or any sign that I’m missed; either I’ve ran too far, or they’re still asleep. There surely was something strange about the night. In any case, I’m on my own - time to remember whatever woodcraft Celebrían tried to teach me.”

Falmaramë was sure she hadn’t crossed the Road in her rush to follow the thief, so the Road must be somewhere north. But north couldn’t be found by the moss on the trees, as moss was everywhere here, so she thought to climb up and seek the sun.

The way up was fairly simple, and extremely disappointing. By the time she reached precariously thin branches high enough to get a view of the sky, the heat had condensed the summer air in a layer of uniform clouds, from which light diffused seemingly in all directions. There was no hint of a breeze, and a menace of storm far away. After waiting a while for a break in the cover, that hung over the many leagues of forest like a lid, Falmaramë tried the way down. It proved challenging, and avoiding a fall required plenty of concentration. There was some jumping, some gliding, quite a bit of cursing and, by the time she reached the ground, Falmaramë was covered in broken twigs and leaves she had teared away. She rubbed her hands on her breeches, trying to feel cheerful instead of despondent, and sat down to rest. The canopy gently murmured over her head; it would have been easy to fall asleep again. She felt faint voices just beyond reach of her perception, voices that spoke in a lull of, perhaps, slow and eternal things.

Thrilled, all thought of sleep gone in a blink, Falmaramë sat up, for she had remembered a lesson of Celebrían’s.

 

*

 

It had been a sunny day of late summer. Celebrían and Falmaramë had left the great house of Imladris at dawn. Instead of riding, the silver lady of the woods had insisted on walking in order to better get the feeling of the things that grew in the valley, and midday had found them more than halfway up the crest closest to the house. They had broken their fast in a clearing filled with knee-high flowers, purple and white in the high grass gone brown with summer, and then Celebrían had wandered aimlessly through the trees. She hummed a slow tune, full of wonder and and disjointed notes, and looked around, sometimes touching a trunk or caressing some low bushes. Even Falmaramë could see the trees around them were aware of Celebrían’s presence; loose intentions surrounded them, and an unseen breeze played in her hair of pale gold.

At last, she had stopped below the branches of a great oak. His roots twisted over the ground, that was brown and soft from leaves shed over many centuries, and his low trunk soon parted in many strong branches that spread out high under the sky. Celebrían had then put her hand on the oak’s bark; it was carved with deep furrows. Lichen and moss grew on it in places, and small spiders and many insects called it home - these smallest of beings thrived thanks to the tree, that was unfathomably huge and old compared to them. With a smile, Celebrían said: “Greet the father of the forest. He was already tall when Elrond first came here; he remembers the building of Imladris, and he has grown strong since the day you stepped in the valley carrying your banners.”

Feeling at the same time awed and quite foolish, Falmaramë had put her hand, brown with sun, along Celebrían’s pale one, and said: “I salute you, father.”

“It is easier to wake a tree that old,” explained Celebrían, “for during their long life they have already felt many things that, little by little, rouse their innate curiosity. They are aware of the weather and the soil; they know when a creature tears a leaf from them, or breaks a bough. They feel the other trees and plants around their roots, where they often have friends and enemies. You already know the songs of power that rule over mind and spirit; this is little different.”

“But I do not know their language,” said Falmaramë.

“They only have the one we give them; with the words we lend them, they make new ideas. Remember to catch his attention first; you must stand out from all the walking things he has seen. To him, there is no difference between a deer and one of us.”

Falmaramë’s song, tentative and light, brought out no change, yet she had modeled it upon one she had heard her friend use. Disappointed, she stopped, saying: “This is useless. Your mother was right, I have no knack for this.”

“Nonsense,” tutted Celebrían. “Try again, only don’t parrot me. And listen to the tree, properly listen this time. Pay him the same kind of attention I’ve seen you give to your work in the forge, where you can feel the strength that runs through a blade merely by caressing it.”

With a sigh, Falmaramë had touched the bark with only her fingertips, trying to sense the life of the tree below. Her song was now slower, deeper, and, with a jolt, she had felt the sap run with enthusiasm, and a curiosity awaken at her touch.

 

*

 

Remembering that day, Falmaramë now went in search of the biggest tree she could find. Not being able to guide herself with a singing call as Celebrían had done, though, she merely wandered around for a while until she found a satisfying subject. An ash tree it was, tall and straight, whose grey, smooth, trunk, rose like a huge pillar to the hidden sky. It certainly felt old; its leaves, shaped like spearheads, hung limply in the heat.

Well, she had already done it once before, hadn’t she? So Falmaramë carefully put her fingertips on the bark and let her mind wander while she began to craft her song. A groaning wind had risen like a wave; leaves shuddered, branches croaked and swung. As her voice rose, clear, searching, she perceived the fleeting of birds and the running of squirrels; her tone became stronger, and she sang of roots going deep, of the vibrations of the earth. Something stirred within the tree. Elated, she sang of being lost, of finding one’s way, of the mercy of helping and of the plight of moving creatures unmoored upon the earth. She sang until she felt a cold attention; then she leaned into it, and discovered a pit of darkness bottomless and cruel. For things that moved had wounded the ash tree; they had slain his family and burned them, their embers crying out in the wind. They had cut his young branches to make clubs and spears during the long war, and let his sap pour like blood from his wounds. And so the ash tree woke and called, his dark bidding rousing those around him. Falmaramë’s fingers jolted from his touch, and she ran again as wind howled and trees shook. She ran against a mesh of hateful purpose, and only now realised it had been at work ever since she had left the road. But this too-late understanding did very little to help her as she cursed her foolishness. Rain soon fell in large drops that sounded like hail upon the canopy; as thunder rumbled, she found shelter under an overhang of rock. Good, sturdy stone, left behind by whatever age-long process had crafted the land in the numberless years before the awakening of the elves, and she relished its cool touch. Stone was her friend. Stone had built the fair cities of the Noldor. Stone didn’t hold grudges. With a whimper, Falmaramë slid to the ground and sat, wet and miserable, as the storm hurled buckets of rain in a deepening gloom.

Falmaramë had no idea of the time and thought twilight was nigh but, after a while, thunder ceased and the rain dwindled. It fell to a drizzle, light as a mist, that reached even under the rocks. A pungent scent of mushrooms arose from the ground, whose thirst had been quenched, and light grew slowly again, going from a grey obscurity to a luminous haze. Perhaps thanks to the boulders, the tree cover was thinner here, and drops of golden sun soon illuminated the dripping moss and leaves. The forest, so foreboding an hour before, was now sparkling with jewels, and the air smelled of rainbows.

“The sun!” Falmaramë cried out. It had to be late afternoon; she sprang up and faced the light that fell playful between leaves of green fire. She could only be looking west; north, and the road, stood at her right hand.

Before she could get started, however, she heard a deep singing voice, rhythmic and strong; wary of what the forest hid, she marked the way north and concealed herself behind the stones. The voice grew closer, and she heard nonsensical words making nonsensical rhymes.

 

Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a doll dillo!

Ring a dong! Hop along! Fal lal the shadow!

 

Falmaramë heard the newcomer stop; his presence felt imposing and curious, but she stayed put. That is, until he called, saying: “Why do you hide, little elf-lady, who awoke the Old Angry Ash? Where be you a-going to, lost in the woods? I know you’re here. What a racket you made today! Won’t you want your comb back?”

Strangely enough, the voice didn’t appear threatening, although the man spoke with authority; forcing her reluctance away, Falmaramë left her hiding place. The man - it appeared to be a man - was short and round; his blue eyes sparkled with a hidden mirth, and his cloth was a debauchery of colours. Yellow boots, blue coat, and the longest peacock feather upon his hat: he was bright as a spring sunrise. She couldn’t place him, though; his beard and wrinkles claimed he wasn’t an Elf, he was too tall for a Dwarf, and too short for a Second Born. Besides, his gaze was thoughtful with many years, too many for a mortal, and he stood sturdy with his feet planted upon the moss.

“There you are,” he said. “The sow complained about you. Her children were chuffed, though, and found coursing you mighty fun. You’ll be the tale of them until winter comes. And of course, Old Angry Ash! What did you think of, waking him up like that? That old fool was a-minding his own business, being angry at the heat, and there you come asking for directions, of all things. What took you to sing to him? You’re no wood elf to master this craft.”

With an embarrassed laugh, Falmaramë explained: “I was lost, and quite desperate. But I’ve found the north now, and I’ll head back to the road. Have you heard anything of my companions? You seem to know much of what befalls here.”

“They’re a-sleeping still. Strange dreams keep them busy. You chased away the spell-maker, and she left without lifting it. Safe they are, as she’s kind, but forgetful.”

“Who is she? And who are you?”

“I am, and that is all. As for her - the River-woman has many daughters, all mischievous. I am more acquainted with the eldest. She pulled my hanging hair, and in I went a-wallowing under the water lilies, bubbling and a-swallowing. But we are friends now. Come, and I shall introduce you to her little sister.”

There was no discussing it; Falmaramë felt unable to refuse, and soon found herself running after this strange man, who progressed in leaps and bounds, speaking and singing all the while. Sometimes he would make sense, yet even if, most of the time, he didn’t, he never stopped babbling and evoked strange visions of the forest. As drops fell from the drying leaves they went, deeper and deeper into the woods until the golden sun was but a memory, and a blue gloom hung below the canopy. Or, perhaps, it was evening, finally come - in any case, they went on.

 

They stopped suddenly by the side of a shallow basin. There, by the light of a golden lamp, shone and rippled a bubbling spring that ran away in a small creek. The water was crystal clear, and reflected light away in a hundred stars that echoed on the still damp moss. By the side of the spring, a pale shape sat among low reeds - a girl with shining hair of the palest gold, clad in shimmering white, and she was watching, enraptured, a flower upon her lap. All around, trees rose like pillars in a hall, tall and grey, and everything above had gone the deepest blue.

“There she is,” said the man. “She crowns herself with buttercups and forget-me-nots, always a-singing to the birds. Magpie-like, she loves shining things. What will you do now, little elf-lady, last of her line? Will you go a-swearing and fight for your comb? This is not a Silmaril stolen by a mighty enemy, only a trinket taken by one who knows no harm.”

Filled with amazement, Falmaramë said: “You know who I am. How come? This is my first time in this land.”

“The shadow that follows you, I saw seven, let me count, seven and eight, nine times before. There’s no mistaking it. Birds and beasts bring me news of who walk along the road.”

“Who are you? What is your name?”

The man laughed, his wrinkles deepening in the corners of his eyes. “I am the oldest. I walked this land before the Powers of the world ruined it with their spite and their wars. I am fatherless, and motherless. I merely am. I go a-walking and exploring. I saw the world change and the elves awake and leave. I tarried for a little while in little isles that lonely lay, and found there naught but blowing grass. I saw them who stayed become frightful and mistrustful and scared in the dark, and those who left later come back. Darkness and stars ran around in a jig when I saw the burning ships and the bloody defeats. Otters and badgers and critters watched me sail up the river like a whisper on the water. I danced over the hills and romanced a daffodil. Later, I plucked the stork’s bill. This is my land, where I’m now living. An island it is, although you can’t see it, unbound to laws and propriety. I am the master here. I laugh at the Man in the Moon in his seas of blue, for mine are the living hues of forest green and fen. What will you do, stranger traveling?”

They watched as, very carefully, the fountain-girl laid the flower on the dark water. She looked it as it turn around, and nudged it to the middle of the current, that took it downstream in the clear summer night.

“Silmaril or trinket,” said Falmaramë, “she stole. Had she asked, I may have given it to her - or another I own, and that is less dear to me.”

With a groan, the man sat down in the shadow, his legs spread before him, and retorted: “She knows not what stealing is. She’s a child at heart, and one who never knew the laws of the elves. She cannot conceive that someone would not share what they have. Why would you not share the beauty of these shining jewels with her? What makes it yours, anyway?”

Falmaramë stood still. She took her time before answering.

“I made it, with my own hands. I dreamed the design, cast the mold, poured the molten gold and polished it; I cut the stones and set them in a fashion I have devised and no other knows how to do. My work is what makes it mine.”

“Don’t the gold and the gems come from the ground? Doesn’t the world belong equally to all? They were merely loaned to you.”

“I’m telling you - had she asked, I would have found a way to please her, especially if she is as innocent as you say. But she took without my consent. That is always wrong.”

“All this talk is nice and fair,” said the strange man with the feathered hat. “But, in the end, what will you do?”

 

The night was quiet. If there were any beasts around, they were unseen and unheard. The spring sang in a silver voice, and the girl sang too, without words, for her own delight. She hummed along the water, trying to match either tone or rhythm. Lying on her belly, propping herself on her forearms, she cried with joy when she found a harmony that particularly pleased her and repeated it, again and again. Then she fell silent and brushed with her hand the spiky golden flower of a reed, enthralled by its delicate movement.

“Hi,” said Falmaramë, stepping into the light. The girl looked up to her with liquid eyes; she didn’t run, but curled in a ball, her arms around her knees, defensively. Falmaramë sat beside her, legs crossed, and asked: “Is this your place? It is very beautiful. Please, can I drink some of this water? I am very thirsty.”

The girl nodded, peering at her behind a curtain of hair. Falmaramë knelt by the side of the pond and filled her cupped hands with water. It tasted woody, earthy; it was cool, without being cold, and Falmaramë drank with relish. When she was done, she sat again under the wary gaze of the girl.

“What’s your name? Mine’s Elenatta.”

The answer came in a mumble: “Winter-rose.”

“That’s a very pretty name. I’m glad to meet you, Winter-rose.”

“Why did you run after me?”

“Because I was angry,” answered truthfully Falmaramë. “You had taken my comb without asking, and I think you made me sleep in order to do so.”

Winter-rose shuffled; the lamp cast a golden glow on her nervous face. She hesitated before saying: “The elves, they don’t like when I go to watch their things, so I make them sleep. I just want to look, they’re so strange and they carry so much stuff around. I don’t know what they can do with it.”

“Usually, they’re things we bring along when we travel from one place to another. I’m going in a place near the Sea and I’ll stay there a while, so I brought what I use often and what I like. This comb is one of my favourite to hold my hair. Would you like me to show you how to use it?”

The girl’s eyes lit up and she said: “Yes please, I tried but it wouldn’t hold my hair like it did yours.”

She plunged her arm deep in the water, nearly to her shoulder, and seemed to rummage before retrieving Falmaramë’s comb. She held it to her and watched with the utmost interest when Falmaramë took it and undid her own hair. When she brushed it loosely with her fingers, it fell around her shoulders like a veil of night, and her movements projected dark shadows on the trees around them.

“This one goes to the side, see? First you comb your hair back with it - there’s a way to hold it, it has to be the curved side in front. Then, you hold your hair back with one hand, the way you want it, and push the comb forward into the hair with your other hand. When I travel and when I work, I use this big pin to hold the rest of my hair up, like this. And there we are.”

Winter-rose had gotten closer during the demonstration. Her deft fingers felt the way everything held together, and she sat back, her lips parted in admiration.

Falmaramë looked at her. The girl’s eyes held many years, with a hundred thousand memories of spring and snow, and as much summers filled with heat and rain, and yet talking to her was indeed like talking to a child. With a sigh, Falmaramë removed the comb and the pin from her head and gave them to Winter-rose, shaking her dark curls loose.

“Here,” she said. “Try it yourself. Take the pin, too; it’s made to match the comb. You might as well keep it too.”

It took a few attempts for Winter-rose to master the technique. Her smooth hair still escaped in a cloud of loose threads, but it mostly held, and the jewels shone like dew drops on her head. She admired herself in the mirror of the pond and clapped her hands with delight.

“Thank you,” she laughed. “It’s so pretty!”

“It suits you,” commented Falmaramë with a smile.

Without warning, Winter-rose plunged again her arm into the pond. When she removed it, she held a stone that she laid in Falmaramë’s palm. It was a clear grey crystal about the size of a nut, polished into a cabochon; in its smokey shade, rays of gold caught the light - rutilated quartz.

“For you,” she said. “I like it a lot.”

For some reason, a lump of emotion got stuck in Falmaramë’s throat.

 

By the time dawn came, Winter-rose had led Falmaramë back to her starting point. Everyone still slept, but she murmured something and all started to stir. When Falmaramë turned around to hail a dazzled Gil-Galad, her new friend glided away without a noise; by the time she thought to look again, there was no trace of the fountain-girl.

“I had the strangest dreams, and I feel I’ve slept far too long,” said Gil-Galad. “What happened? You look quite unnerved.”

 

*

 

Days later, the road slowly went up again, and they left the wide and shallow valley of the Baranduin, filled with Forest, for round rolling hills where trees grew more seldom. Riding through this land, they at last came to a higher ridge. The wind, there, was strong, and deer grazed the slopes to a naked moor. On the highest hill over the pass, in later years, would the White Towers be built - but they stood empty for now. By the pass itself, however, a single white stone had been raised, and told travelers they were now in Lindon, fair and green by the Sea. There, looking west, they saw the rising heights of the Blue Mountains, and the curved silver ribbon of the great river Lhûn. On that day, a thin mist blocked the view, and the river estuary where the Grey Havens - called Mithlond there - stood was invisible.

The way was now easier. The road was paved, and they made good speed going down again. A messenger ran forward to announce them; on the last day of their trip, they slept in a house of stone for the first time since their departure. When morning came, they discarded their travel gear for courtly clothes and rode gaily to the city. That last stretch of road snaked lazily through the bright lowlands that led to the estuary, and Falmaramë looked with elation at the white seabirds that sometimes flew over the many willows. 

Soon, they saw the walls of Mithlond; a great crowd had amassed before them. A welcome breeze refreshed Falmaramë’s brow, where her mithril band shone, and Gil-Galad brought his horse closer to hers. Side by side, they went through the gates, adorned with flowers, and she looked at him with pride as people cheered on their passage. The crown she had made for him shone brightly on his golden head, and he was regal indeed, riding tall and proud, waving gleefully to those he had left so long ago. But he leaned on his stirrups, and, with an impish smile, said to her ear: “They’re cheering for you, too. Wave and smile, beloved, wave and smile.”

Startled, Falmaramë heeled her horse and saluted the crowd. She was rewarded by a flower thrown to her from afar; the noise was beginning to turn her head, and she rode in a daze through the wide avenues of the greatest noldorin city in Middle Earth. Houses of many colours, vines growing around their windows, bordered the streets, and Falmaramë caught glimpses of smaller streets, twisting and shadowy - an invitation to wander. They went over a long arched bridge that straddled the Lhûn; she could barely get a glimpse of the estuary, where huge ships were moored. Gil-Galad’s banners had been raised all along the bridge, and a lazy wind made them flap. On the other side, the Blue Mountains shadowed a part of the city filled with slender white towers; the loftiest of these rose from the palace. There, a wide place led into a great court paved with round pebbles, where the crowd was less numerous, and more quiet. Up a flight of white stairs, before the elegant columns of the main building, Eriel, Gil-Galad’s mother, stood; Círdan the Shipwright was at her right. The White Queen of Hitlum, today, was clad in blue and grey, and held a baton of command. She looked less animated than when Falmaramë has last seen her in Imladris, but still smiled kindly to her.

Círdan was stouter than most, his shoulders broadened by physical work; quite unusually, a short beard shaded his jaw. When she met his gaze, Falmaramë shuddered, for his deep grey eyes were heavy with memory, and reminded her of a dark pool covered with fallen leaves.

They alighted; as grooms took their horses away, they walked to the bottom of the steps, and the short ceremony began.

Gil-Galad proclaimed, in quenya: “I am back from my voyage in the East, where a new alliance with Durin’s Folk has been made and the ways over the Mountains secured from our enemy. What new in the Grey Havens?”

“Envoys and visitors from Númenor. Else, very little,” answered his mother in the same language. “We are at peace. It is good to see you home, my son.”

Gil-Galad took the baton from her and they embraced; this acted as a signal, and the traveling party disbanded amongst the friends come to greet them. The court echoed with the sounds of the sindarin dialect most spoken in Lindon, the soft falathrin that rolled upon the tongue like surf on the shore.

 

Later, once she had been introduced to too many people to count, Falmaramë followed Gil-Galad into the rooms that had been prepared for them. She could have cried with relief for the newfound silence, and went straight to the balcony. Down below, a tapestry of streets - less populous, it seemed, on this side of the river - led to the shining estuary, where water caught the fire of the downing sun along a thousand ripples. On each side, the Blue Mountains, true to their name, slowly widened in a valley that led to the Sea, hidden still leagues away. The havens of Mithlond were built at the farthest point the tide reached inland, and the gulf of Lhûn, as the estuary was sometimes called, was always calm as a lake.

As she regained her placidity, Falmaramë felt Gil-Galad embrace her from behind. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his hands on her waist; she relished his familiar smell and turned her head to him. He looked different than he had in Imladris; she knew he had missed sailing, but only now did she realize how much he had longed for Lindon as a whole.

There would be so many things to do. Set up a new workshop, learn the skills of the peaceful jewelers of the seashores, go see the salty waves and walk barefoot on the sand… But also wait for their plans in the East to bear fruit, forge an alliance with the dwarven communes of the Blue Mountains, and try to unite the unreliable and jealous Númenor to their cause. She kissed him on the nose.

“I’m glad to be here.”

“Welcome home,” said Gil-Galad.