Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Elenwë’s personal background is my invention. I assumed she had to be someone of some importance to catch Turgon’s eye to begin with.

As for Glorfindel’s story, it has been established in my little corner of the Ardaverse more than a decade ago. According to “Sons of Twilight and Starlight”, he was released from Mandos sometime before the War of Wrath.

The description of the host of Gondolin follows the one in the Book of Lost Tales 2, with slight alterations to fit this story.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

23. The Queen That Never Was

The two newcomers in Erunyauvë’s company reacted with various degrees of surprise to Celebrían’s arrival and to her spontaneous declaration.

“He does?” asked Elenwë, while Aracáno frowned.

“Who is Gil-galad?” he asked the Maia; then he looked at Celebrían in honest confusion. “And who are you, for that matter?”

“Now, dear, we have discussed this already,” said Erunyauvë. “She is Artanis’ daughter, remember? And Gil-galad is your nephew Ereinion.”

Aracáno shook his head. “My nephew’s name is Finbor[1] – a rather silly name, mind you, but for some reason Findecáno insisted to call him that. Merilindë was not happy, but our brother could be rather stubborn once he had made up his mind, and…”

“Your other nephew,” Erunyauvë interrupted the flow of memories before they could have run wild with him. “You had two more nephews, born in Endórë after your death, and one of them used to be the High King of the Noldor-in-exile for an entire Age. I am certain that you were told all about this in Lórien.”

“We were told a lot,” replied Aracáno a little sheepishly, “but it is hard to keep it all straight. We died so early on, and so much happened afterwards…”

Erunyauvë patted his hand encouragingly. “It will all fit together given enough time, never fear. Now, why do the two of you not greet Celebrían properly? And remember, she is not used to speaking Quenya all the time, so see that you go slowly with her.”

Both Aracáno and Elenwë nodded in understanding and gave Celebrían shy looks… like elflings when introduced to previously unknown family. ‘Twas hard to imagine that while they had seen the light of the Two Trees, they were both younger than she was – if one did not count the two Ages that they had spent in Mandos. In matters of life experience, they were barely more than elflings indeed, compared with her, both being late-born children, despite the horrors of the Grinding Ice. Even the pale colours they wore seemed to reflect on their relative youth.

Aracáno was dressed in a plain tunic of soft, light grey wool, embroidered with forest green and dark red on the hem in a serpentine pattern. Its wide sleeves reached only to the elbows, revealing a similarly adorned, darker grey silk shirt beneath. He had breeches of dark grey leather and black ankle boots studded with silver. His glossy black hair was braided with gold filaments, in a pattern that had not been used among the Noldor for Ages. Literally.

The overgown of Elenwë was of samite, in a shade of pale lilac, embroidered with gold thread and white pearls. Its skirt flared at the hem, and its sleeves were slit to the elbow, showing the tight sleeves of the sky blue undertunic, embroidered with small golden flowers. Her girdle, too, was a chain of linked golden flowers, with a small blue sapphire in the centre of each flower.

She was tall, like all full-blooded Vanyar were, and more powerfully built than the slender Sindar and willowy Noldor Celebrían knew from Middle-earth; and her skin had that barely perceivable golden shimmer that Glorfindel and, to a lesser grade, Gildor used to have – another clear sign that she was from the First Clan. She wore her hair unbraided; it flowed down her back like molten gold, bounded only by a thin golden circlet, studded with small sapphires, upon her high brow. Her eyes were wide and a deep azure blue. She was most wondrously fair, even by Elven measures, and carried herself with a natural grace that gave her away as one nobly born and raised accordingly to her birth.

At the moment, however, she looked mostly… young, perhaps even a bit scared. She tried to stay close to Aracáno all the time, giving Arafinwë and Eärwen worried looks as if expecting them to turn against her any moment. Perhaps it was not so surprising – after all, Arafinwë had abandoned the host of the Noldor in the last moment when returning to Aman had still been possible; and after that, all Elenwë could have remembered would be the Grinding Ice.

At least Celebrían, whom she had not known before, did not seem to frighten her.

“Are you really Artanis’ daughter?” she asked hesitantly. “You do not look like her at all.”

“I get that a lot,” replied Celebrían dryly; her entire youth had been overshadowed by being the fairly average daughter of an exceedingly beautiful, imperious mother. “But I am her daughter nonetheless.”

“More importantly, she is married to your great-grandson,” added Erunyauvë brightly. “So, you see, she is family.”

Elenwë’s eyes widened in surprise. “I have a great-grandson?”

“Actually, you had two,” replied the Maia nonchalantly. “However, the other one chose to be counted among mortal Men and became the forefather of a long line of Kings. But that is another story, for another time.”

“How could he become mortal?” asked Elenwë in confusion. “He was an Elf, was he not?”

“He was both,” answered Celebrían quietly. “All his kind had mortal blood, to some extent, including my husband and my children. Have they not told you about Idril marrying a mortal, back in the First Age?”

“They have,” confessed Elenwë, “but I find it hard to catch up with all the changes. When we left Valinor, the Second-born were but a rumour, whispered about by Melkor into the ears of such Noldor as would listen to him. And now you are telling me that all my descendants have mortal blood in their veins?”

Celebrían nodded. “Eärendil, the son of Idril was the first of the Peredhil, the Half-elven; and he and his wife were the first ones to make the Choice. They both chose to be counted among the Firstborn, and so did my Elrond, their son. His twin, Elros, chose the other way.”

“So they are sundered ‘til the end of Arda… or beyond,” said Elenwë sadly, “and one of them I shall never meet,” she looked at the Maia accusingly. “That is a cruel Choice to lay upon anyone, for no matter what they choose, they will lose an entire life that could be but would never be. As if not knowing the fate of my only daughter were not painful enough.”

“The fates of Itarildë and Tuor are veiled, even from our eyes,” replied Erunyauvë. “Regardless what you Children may believe, we are not all-knowing. Not even our masters, the Valar, know everything.”

“True,” said Elenwë, and there was a hard glint in her blue eyes. “They do not understand evil, not even if it rises in their own rows; or else they would not have let Melkor lose on Arda again. And they shall never experience death, as their forms are but raiment, not part of them as our hröar are part of us. Death is a path of knowledge they can never follow, and it will always make those of us who experienced it more knowledgeable in that one area than they could ever hope to become.”

For a fleeting moment, despite the lack of any actual resemblance, Celebrían was strongly reminded of Glorfindel. She said so, and Elenwë gave her a blank look.

“Who is Glorfindel?” she asked.

“The only reborn Elf I have met before coming here,” explained Celebrían. “Actually, he is the only Vanya I have met before. He liked to repeat that death is a powerful experience; and listening to you, I am coming to realize how right he was.”

“He is your Uncle Laurë,” Erunyauvë told Elenwë; then, for Celebrían’s sake, she added as an afterthought. “Glorfindel’s actual name is Laurefindil.”

“Was,” corrected Arafinwë. “He never used it after being re-housed. He said the name belonged to his first life and insisted on going by Glorfindel in the future.”

“You knew Uncle Laurë?” asked Elenwë in surprise. “How that? He never lived at the Ingaran’s court.”

“True, but we fought together in the War of Wrath,” answered the Noldóran. “Apparently, he had been re-housed and enhanced for the very purpose of becoming the aide and the standard bearer of Eönwë, who led the Host of Valinor.”

Celebrían, though, was still shocked by a different bit of the news.

“Glorfindel is your uncle?” she asked Elenwë in disbelief. “He never mentioned having left any kin behind.”

“He did not; we are not related by blood,” explained Elenwë. “He was a close friend of my grandparents. They both perished during the Great Journey, and Uncle Laurë brought my mother to Valinor, to be raised at the Ingaran’s court. Nonetheless, he was like family to us, and we all loved him very much.”

“I see,” Celebrían was having a moment of revelation. “I always wondered why would a Vanya – and one as ancient, powerful and well-respected as he was – join the rebellion of the Noldor. Now I am beginning to understand.”

Elenwë nodded. “He came for my sake. He swore my grandparents that he would protect their descendants by any means necessary; and as I would not be parted from Turucáno, he saw it as his sacred duty to join us.”

“Why Glorfindel?” asked Celebrían. “Why not your own father? You were their only child, were you not?”

“Elenwë’s father was a respected member of the Ingaran’s court,” explained Arafinwë. “He, too, lost both his parents during the Great Journey and was raised by Ingwë himself. As he was older than Ingwë’s own sons, he was needed in Vanyamar. Even if he wanted to return to Endórë, which he did not, Ingwë would never allow it; and he would never rebel against his uncle.”

“His uncle?” repeated Celebrían in surprise. “Elrond never mentioned being related to the High King of the Elves in Aman.”

“He may not have known,” replied Arafinwë with a shrug. “Prince Óswinë[2] was the son of Ingwë’s only sister; few ever remembered the Ingaran having had a sister in the first place.”

“Atto was against me following Turucáno,” added Elenwë with a rueful smile, “but I was young, foolish and very much in love.”

“We all were,” commented Meril softly. “And our husbands, adventurous ellyn as they were, promised us that we would become Queens of our own realms.”

“And you both liked the idea,” said Eärwen with a tolerant smile.

Elenwë nodded. “Of course! In Aman, we were the sons of this and the daughters of that, and had no hope of become anything else. We all wanted more. We wanted to carve out a life for ourselves; a life that would be our own, not something ready-made for us by our parents – or by the Powers themselves – with not choice to shape it after our personal fashion.”

“So you wanted to become a Queen, did you not?” Arafinwë’s eyes glittered in amusement.

Elenwë laughed, no longer seeming shy, not the slightest. “Of course I wanted; I might have been married and a mother, but I was still very young, and which little girl has never dreamed of becoming a Queen?”

“I have not,” said Celebrían truthfully. “I never wanted to rule anything else than my own household. Even if it only contained the immediate family.”

Arafinwë gave her an amused look. “Are you certain that you are truly Artanis’ daughter? She certainly wanted to have a kingdom of her own to rule.”

Celebrían shrugged. “To her disappointment, I never shared her lofty ambitions.”

“Well, I did,” admitted Elenwë, “and so did Merilindë and Írissë. But of the three of us, only Merilindë got to rule on her own.”

Meril actually snorted at that. “Oh, please! Hithlum was not even a proper realm; and after Atar Nolofinwë’s tragic death, Findecáno sent me with Ereinion to Círdan. I was his regent on Balar, and then the Dowager Queen, ‘til our son grew strong enough to bear the burden of kingship, nothing more.”

“So you were a Queen without a realm,” concluded Aracáno. Meril nodded. “Well, that is still a lot more than either Elenwë or I have achieved.”

“Not entirely,” corrected Meril. “Turucáno did build the kingdom he had promised his wife; and Gondolin was the last realm of the Exiles to fall.”

“I just did not live long enough to see it,” added Elenwë bitterly.

“Be grateful,” said Meril dryly. “At least you did not have to watch it being destroyed by dragons, Balrogs and all kinds of foul monsters.”

“Have you ever got to see Gondolin?” asked Elenwë.

Meril shook her head. “Nay, Turucáno never told any of us where it was hidden, not even Atar Nolofinwë; and his people, who built it, were sworn to secrecy.”

“And after it was finished?”

“After that, he closed the gates behind himself and neither he nor his people ever left again,” Meril gave her sister-in-law a grim smile. “No-one has even heard of them again until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

Elenwë frowned. “Until the what?”

“The Battle of Unnumbered Tears,” Erunyauvë translated for her. “It was the last, most disastrous battle in the Wars of Beleriand; and the only one the people of Gondolin fought in – and they fought well. Your husband led ten thousand warriors into that battle… it was, if naught else, a glorious sight.”

Elenwë gave her a doubtful look. “What would you know about it? I thought the Powers did not intervene – not until it was too late for us all.”

“Nay,” replied the Maia, pretending that she did not heard the accusation. “However we did observe, unclad and unseen. I was not there myself, as battles and war are not my concern, but I did watch the gathering of Elven hosts through the eyes of my warrior brethren of Lord Tulkas’ people. And I say you; the battalions of Gondolin were the most impressive of all. For they were numerous and marched in a well-ordered manner, advancing from the Pass of Sirion.”

“Then thousand warriors?” Aracáno echoed, clearly impressed. “Turucáno must have built a very strong realm indeed, if he could march to war with so many and still having left some at home to protect his city.”

“All eleven Houses were represented, and Turucáno himself led the army to relieve his brother, who had already been surrounded by Orcs,” said Erunyauvë. “The House of the Mole pressed forth at once, led by Maeglin, the Prince of Gondolin; sable was their harness, and they wore no emblem at all, but their round steel caps were covered with mole-skin, and they fought with heavy, two-headed battle axes that would make any Dwarf blanch with envy. The ruddy glow of the Sun shone upon their grim faces and gleamed about the polished surfaces of their armour like a living flame; and terrible they were in their wrath and determination to execute their vengeance upon the monsters of Morgoth.”

“Maeglin fought in the Nirnaeth?” this was new even for Arafinwë, it seemed. “No-one has ever spoken to us about that!”

“Nonetheless, he did, and magnificently so,” answered the Maia. “Remember, he was not a traitor from the beginning. At first, he was given great respect at Turucáno’s court for his knowledge in smithcraft and for his bravery; and for several yéni, he was also considered the haryon of the King. Until Idril would marry Tuor and Eärendil would be born. However, at the time of the Nirnaeth Tuor was not even born yet; thus Maeglin had no reason to be jealous of his position.”

Arafinwë nodded. “I understand. Now, you were saying that the other Houses also sent many warriors into that battle…”

“Indeed, and the People of the Swallow and the Heavenly Arch were the most numerous of them,” replied the Maia. “And as they were the best archers, they did much to break the lines of the Orcs surrounding Findecáno’s army.”

“The People of the Swallow were mostly Sindar from Nevrast, or so I heard from the elders of the Galadhrim,” said Celebrían. “A simple folk that wore white or dark blue or black as it was their wont from old; and an arrowhead adorned their shields and a fan of feathers they wore upon their helms. Their lord, Duilin, was said to be the fastest and most sure-footed of all; and the best bowman among them, seconded only by Beleg Cúthalion himself, who always hit his target.”

“True,” said Erunyauvë. “They of the Heavenly Arch, though, being a wealthy folk, were arrayed in a glory of colours, and their armour was set with jewels that flamed blindingly in the light of the Sun. Their shields were sky-blue, and the boss of every shield was a jewel built of seven different gems in all colours of the rainbow; and an opal of great size was set in their helms.”

Celebrían laughed. “Glorfindel liked to say that they apparently wanted to blind the enemy with their cavalcade of colours before they would slay them with their arrows.”

“There is that,” admitted Erunyauvë with a grin. “They were quite the peacocks, even the simplest warriors among them. And Egalmoth, their lord, had a magnificent blue mantle, upon which the stars were embroidered in crystal – and his sword was bent like a scimitar and its hilt encrusted in jewels.”

“Must have been uncomfortable to fight with,” the ever-practical Aracáno commented.

“Which is probably why he trusted his bow more,” answered the Maia with a grin. “At least he made it out of Gondolin during its Fall.”

“Only to be slain at the Havens of Sirion by the sons of Fëanor,” returned Meril.

“Well, yes, that is a different story for a different time,” said Erunyauvë. “In any case, he was not the only Lord of Gondolin who liked to dress up for battle. Why, Glorfindel himself bore a mantle so richly embroidered in threads of gold that it was diapered with celandine as a field in spring; and his armour was also damascened with gold. In fact, all his people bore a rayed sun in gold upon their shields.”

“The Valar be thank his fashion sense seem to have improved a fair bit due to his death,” said Celebrían dryly. “At least none of us had gone blind by the sight of his armour so far.”

Elenwë snickered at that. “Uncle Laurë did like his gold… lots of it. No wonder, though, seeing as he had been named after it. But was his friend Helcarë not in the battle? I find that hard to believe.”

“Helcar… who?” Celebrían shot the Maia a helpless look getting thoroughly confused by all those names, old and new, that said her night to nothing.

However, it was Arafinwë who answered her.

“Ecthelion of the Fountain,” he explained. “The greatest captain of Gondolin ever. It does make sense that he was left behind, though. With both the King and his haryon marching to battle, a strong and reliable warlord was needed to keep the city itself safe.”

“Turucáno was nothing if not cautious,” said Aracáno in agreement.

“I remember Lord Helcarë from my Atar’s court,” continued Arafinwë thoughtfully. “How tall and proud he was, clad in silver and white always, with a single diamond embedded in a mithril circlet upon his brow. He played the flute most wondrously, and he was one of the few who insisted upon carrying a sword all the time, even in the safety of Aman. He must have been most displeased about being left behind.”

“So he was,” Erunyauvë agreed, “but many of his people were allowed to march with the host, led by Aranwë, his lieutenant. They went into battle to the music of flutes; and the swords they wielded were very long, bright and pale. They were followed by the host of the Harp, and this was a battalion of brave warriors, with tassels of silver and gold adorning their clothes, and upon their sable shields shone a harp of silver. Only Salgant, their lord, bore one of gold, but he chose to stay behind in the safety of the Hidden City.”

“Old Salgant was always something of a craven,” commented Aracáno mercilessly.

The Maia gave him a disapproving look. “He was old, child, one of the oldest in the entire host; old, and one who carried the pain of many losses. He had lost his wife during the Great Journey and never learned what happened to her. He returned to Endórë in the hope to find her again; and when his hope failed him, it broke him. He may not have the best reputation among the warriors, and probably rightly so; but he was not a bad person.”

“He was very good with elflings, for that he had no children of his own,” Arafinwë added with a nostalgic smile. “He always told us quaint tales when we were little, and played drolleries with us at times; we had much laughter of him, whenever he visited us in Tirion. Atar rolled his eyes at Salgant’s antics, but we children loved him dearly.”

“And so did our children, too,” reminded him Eärwen. “He was the one who started teaching Findaráto how to play the harp. I wonder why he followed Turucáno to Gondolin, instead of going to Nargothrond with our son. He was always closer to our branch of the family.”

“Perhaps he did not want to live in caves, like a Dwarf,” said Aracáno. “He preferred being comfortable, if memory serves me well. I wonder what has become of him in the end.”

“Believe me: you do not want to know,” said Erunyauvë grimly; then she deftly steered the conversation back to the original topic. “In any case, he remained in Gondolin, entrusting the leading of his people to his lieutenant. The other captains all went to war with their King: Penlod the Tall, who marshalled two Houses at once: the People of the Pillar and those of the Tower of Snow; Galdor, with the People of the Tree, and Rog of the Hammer of Wrath – the ones with the greatest, most inconsolable hatred for the Evil One and his servants.”

“Why?” asked Elenwë, fascinated by the description of all those people who would have become her subjects, had she survived the Grinding Ice.

“Many of them had been recruited from those Noldor who had been captured in the first battles and forced to toil in the iron mines of Melkor,” explained the Maia. “They were some of the best smiths and craftsmen among the Exiles, and after they had found the strength to escape slavery, they banded together in the House of the Hammer of Wrath. They fought with maces, formed like hammers, and their shields were heavy, for their arms were very strong. Their lord, Rog, albeit misshapen and scarred due to the torture he had suffered in the hands of the Balrogs, was said to have possessed the greatest strength of all the Noldor in exile.”

And thus she went on, continuing to describe the other Houses of Gondolin in great detail, and the Elves listened to her as if spellbound. Elenwë before all seemed to be most impressed. Her pale face gained some colour in her excitement, and her azure eyes were ablaze with blue fire, hearing about the greatness of the realm the Queen of which she had been supposed to become. Her earlier shyness was completely gone by now; she sat there, ramrod-straight on the earthen seat as if it were a throne, her golden tresses fluttering in the light breeze like the streamers upon the spears of royal knights, riding into battle. There could be no doubt that she would have been a worthy Queen of the most wondrous of all Elven realms of Beleriand.

Meril, too, seemed excited, though also anguished at the same time. For, with the exception of Elenwë and Aracáno, they were all familiar with the outcome of the Nirnaeth: that the proud march of the host of Gondolin had been in vain; that the Noldor had been betrayed and their power broken forever; that, despite the aid of his brother, Fingon had been slain, and with him his entire army, save a handful of survivors.

Some of those were still living in Imladris, having transferred their allegiances to Elrond, the last of Fingolfin’s House still alive in Middle-earth. Therefore Celebrían probably knew more about the Nirnaeth than all others present, save the Maia, of course.

And for that very reason, she felt that she could not listen to the tale of that terrible battle one more time. She had heard of it, in all its gory details, more often than she would like, when Glorfindel and the other survivors compared memories – for the historians of Elrond’s library, to write as faithful a chronicle as possible, or just for themselves, to remember past times and a glory that would never be again for the Elves of Middle-earth.

It was a glory that she, personally, did not miss. And after what had happened to her not so long ago, tales about murderous Orcs and other foul monsters slaughtering Elves were the last thing she wanted to hear.

Eärwen, being of a less martial disposition herself, seemed to feel her granddaughter’s discomfort – and to understand it. She rose gracefully and extended her hand to Celebrían.

“Come with me, daughter; let those interested in battle-tales talk about death and destruction as much as they want. You and I shall have a walk in the garden, and you can tell me all about Círdan and his people and the life of the Grey Havens. For I am desirous to learn more about the fate of my closest kin in Endórë; as, unlike my husband, I never had the chance to meet any of them.”

“That is a most sensible idea,” said Erunyauvë. “If Meril agrees, we can all meet for the midday meal again, before the two of you would leave for the mainland.”

Celebrían, though glad for the chance to escape the war tales, gave her granddam a saddened look.

“Do you truly have to leave so soon, Daernana? You have just arrived!”

“True; but we already have been away from Tirion for weeks,” replied Eärwen. “We spent some time in Lórien, getting to know these young ones again and helping them to re-gain their memories of Aman as it once was and telling them about the changes that have happened during their… erm… absence. The journey across the Bay was also longer than usual, as we had to avoid Alqualondë, not wanting to stir up memories ere they would be strong enough to face them. So yea, ‘tis time for us to return home.”

“But surely you have left someone to keep things running for you,” said Meril with a frown.

Eärwen nodded. “We did; and Amarië and Ingalaurë are more than capable of acting as co-regents when they have to. But after a while the people of Tirion tend to get restless if their King and Queen are not present among them. It must be a deep-rooted fear from the time when nine-tenth of their people up and left for Endórë, I deem. So we are trying not to upset them unnecessarily. Even after three whole Ages, there is still much healing to be done.”

“The burdens of kingship,” added her husband with an earnest face and an exaggerated sigh, but his eyes were twinkling. “Of course, you could come with us, dear, at least as far as Tavrobel. You can always stay in the House of the Hundred Chimneys; Lord Ailios would be glad to have you visiting. And a visit to the Tower of Tavrobel might be interesting for someone married to a lore-master. I am told it is the most inspiring place on Tol Eressëa, with all the Wise living and working there.”

“Is that the reason why you never visited it?” asked Meril shrewdly.

“Nonsense,” said Arafinwë, who, in fact, was more interested in wisdom and lore than all his siblings, with the exception of Fëanor himself. “I simply never had the time. This royal business can be demanding, as you well know, and ‘tis easier to summon the Wise to the court than to visit them. But Celebrían can learn much about the past there; most of all about life and history of Tol Eressëa, as she seems to intend taking up residence here… at least temporarily.”

Celebrían felt a little overwhelmed by the suggestion. She had just found her place in Meril’s house and did not truly want to leave just yet, not even for the short trip to Tavrobel and back. On the other hand, she did want to spend more time in her grandparents’ company, moreover in Eärwen’s, to whom she had felt drawn from the moment they had met. Also, she understood that Elenwë and Aracáno might need the Maia’s help more than she did right now – so perhaps a short journey would not be so bad, after all.

“I… I must think about it,” she said uncertainly.

Meril nodded. “Of course; it is your decision. I shall give you a proper escort, should you choose to go, worry not. I need to send word to Legolas and the others who survived the Fall of Gondolin anyway. They would want to know that their Queen has been returned to them. After all, they will be her responsibility, until Turucáno is released.”

Hearing that, Celebrían could well understand the sudden panic in Elenwë’s eyes.

~TBC~