Title: From the Fire (1/?) Author: Fimbrethiel Website: Iavas-e-Guren http://www.hithanaur.net/fimbrethiel/ Email: fimbrethiel@yahoo.com Type: FPS Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel eventually Rating: R Warnings: explicit depictions of homoerotic acts between consenting males, minor angst, slightly AU Disclaimer: Don't own the Elves, they are owned by Tolkien's estate. Master Tolkien, I mean no harm. No profit has been made. Beta: Minuial Nuwing *massive hugs* Feedback: Yes, please! Archive: Of Elves and Men, Melethryn, Glorfindel of Imladris, aff.net, Library of Moria, http://www.livejournal.com/users/fimbrethiel/ Summary: Fire is both the destroyer and the creator. Like the mighty Phoenix who rises from the flame, one Elf finds new meaning in life as he is returned 'From the Fire'. Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to aprilmoon. She requested a Glorfindel/Erestor pairing with a particular theme. April, this probably isn't quite what you had in mind, but I hope you like it anyway, sweetie. *~*~*~*~* Hearts are worn in these dark ages You're not alone in these stories' pages The night has fallen amongst the living and the dying And I'll try to hold it in Yeah I'll try to hold it in (chorus) The world's on fire It's more than I can handle Tap into the water, try and bring my share Try to bring more, more than I can handle Bring it to the table Bring what I am able I watch the heavens but I find no calling Something I can do to change what's coming Stay close to me while the sky is falling Don't wanna be left alone Don't wanna be alone Hearts break hearts mend, love still hurts Visions clash planes crash still there's talk of Saving souls still cold's closing in on us We part the veil of our killer sun Stray from the straight line on this short run The more we take the less we become The fortune of one man means less for some (chorus) The world's on fire It's more than I can handle Tap into the water, try and bring my share Try to bring more, more than I can handle Bring it to the table Bring what I am able World On Fire - Sarah McLachlan *~*~*~*~* Mae govannen, Gentle Reader. Would you like to hear a tale? Of course you would, for who does not love to hear a story? Settle in, Gentle Reader, and get comfortable, and I will begin. Once upon a time… Nay, do not turn away! This is not a faery tale, for all tales begging to be told must begin with such words. This is a love story. It is a story of bravery, and courage, and great love. Of perseverance, and heartbreak, and the power of healing. It is the story of two beings who defied the odds and forged a love greater than the confines of the world. A love that transcended Ages. Continue, you say? Are you certain? Very well. Once upon a time in a land called Middle-earth… *~*~*~*~* Middle-earth, the year 1610 of the Second Age, Lindon He came to consciousness in a small bed, naked and tangled in a blanket, confused and disoriented, unknowing of who and where he was. Alertness gradually set in, and he became conscious that he was on a boat. Waves slapped against the hull, the ship pitched and rolled gently as it cut smoothly though the water. No gradual waking was he granted, for memories crashed down upon him - screams of terror, fire and smoke and death, and the utter despair of one who knows all is lost - and he knew who and what he was. "No!" he screamed, raw, bleeding cries that poured forth from his mouth, full of anguish and so very painful. "I do not want this!" He fell forward again on the bed and wept. He wept for the great and glorious stone city that fell into ruin and darkness. He wept for those he had loved and those he had lost, for those whose friends and lovers had fallen victim to the Dark Lord's horror. Most of all, he wept for himself - for the injustice of being torn from his sanctuary of warmth and serenity, where his failings were forgiven and he had some measure of peace for his heartsick soul. How long he railed and raged he did not know, but when unfathomable pain becomes more than a tortured soul can bear, the body's response will take over. The storm of tears and bottomless, anguished sobs after a time turned to soul-wrenching moans. As the newly-made rhaw gave in to the faer's exhaustion, he fell into a deep, bone-weary sleep there among the soft-spun blankets and smooth, cool sheet, his eyes closed tightly as though by not seeing, the truth could be denied. A soft-spoken voice and a gentle hand on his bare shoulder awakened him just as the morning sun peeked through the porthole and burnished the sky with shimmering pink. The stranger became alert instantly, as one who is long accustomed to coming to arms at a moment's notice. His eyes were wild, though red and swollen, his cheeks tear-streaked. "Stay away!" he cried, scrabbling back across the tiny berth, pressing his back to the wall. The sailor raised his hands in entreaty. "I mean you no harm, my Lord. Please, let me help you." In a motion that was almost too quick for the eye to see, the stricken Elf rolled from the bunk and leapt to his feet. From the corner of his eye he spotted a small kitchen knife lying on the counter of the tiny galley. He lunged for it and whirled around, pinning the silver-haired Elf to the bulkhead with a strong forearm across the throat. With shaking hands, he held the knife to the sailor's temple. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded, though his voice trembled The sailor replied evenly; his voice held no fear, nor did his clear silver gaze. "We travel East upon the Straight Road." The reborn one shook his head fervently. "I will not go back there… I cannot go East. Turn this boat around and take me to the Undying Lands." "I cannot, my Lord. You were entrusted to my care, and I cannot take you back," the sailor said gently, meeting his captor's blue eyes levelly. "Your destiny lies to the East." "I will not go," he hissed. "I refuse this fate, I reject it utterly. Take me back. Now." "Put the knife down, my Lord. You shed not the blood of your kin in your first life, you will not slay me now." The knife clattered to the deck, and the sailor caught the fraught Elf as he fell, naked and broken, and lowered him gently to the floor. He cradled the golden one in his arms while tears flowed anew. Finally, the tears gave way to hitching breaths. "Why?" the distraught elf whispered, raising his head. Confused blue eyes met the silver gaze of his savior-keeper, asking for understanding, for explanation - begging to be assured that there had been some sort of mistake. "Come, brave one, and I will tell you what I know. There is much I can tell you, but some things are still unknown to me." Gently the sailor led the trembling warrior to the bed and sat down beside him. He drew the blanket up to shield the golden one's modesty and took his hand. "What shall I call you?" the reborn elf asked, subdued now as one who has undergone a great shock and in the aftermath has mastered his emotions. "I am named Túviluion, my Lord." "No longer am I a lord, Túviluion," the golden one said dourly, pulling his hand from the other's soothing grasp. "I ceased to be a lord when I allowed my House and my city to fall. I am Glorfindel." The noble countenance twisted into a grimace of disgust. "Only Glorfindel. Now tell me what you know and how I came to be here." Túviluion nodded respectfully. "Very well," he replied, and turned on the bunk to face his companion before he began. None save Eru Ilúvatar could say the whole tale, but Túlivuion told all he knew. He was of the Teleri, he said, whose people heeded the summons of the Valar to return to the Blessed Realm before the counting of Time. Olwë of Alqualondë was his overlord. Three months past, at Manwë's command, the most high and holy of the Lords of the Eldalië were summoned to the great Halls of Ingwë, High King of the Elves upon the steep slopes of Taniquetil. Up the perilous paths they trekked, Vanya, Noldo, and Teleri alike, to hear news of a most unprecedented happening. A great gift was to be bestowed upon the Forsaken Ones of Middle-earth. Námo, Vala and Lord of the Halls of Waiting, had pronounced the fortune of one of his keeping to be set apart from the rest. Not 'reborn' as was the choice appointed to those faer who were granted release from those great Halls, but *remade*… fashioned of flesh and blood and bone. What magick created this rhaw none would ever know, but the powers of The One were great and mysterious. This being was vital to the fate of Arda; without him, the peoples of the Firstborn would fade into nothing but memory, their architectural wonders of Middle-earth crumbling to mysterious ruins in the wilds for the Aftercomers to marvel at in awed whispers. Túviluion, most trusted within Olwë's service, was dispatched to prepare a small craft. It was to be easily manned by one, sturdy and swift, and made ready to sail when the command of Námo so proclaimed. The ship was rigged and fitted, and supplied with food and clothing for two. He was instructed to wait until the directive from his Lord came to depart the shores of Valinor. And wait he did, until the morning dawned when Olwë took his hand and led him to the wharf. They climbed into the boat and to Túviluion's great surprise, he discovered someone already aboard. In the tiny cabin on a narrow bunk lay a yellow-haired Elf, tall and broad, still and silent as though deeply asleep. His eyes were closed - the only sign he lived at all was a minute rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Olwë bade him depart immediately, so after kissing his family goodbye Túviluion set sail on an easterly course bearing his precious cargo. Due east he sailed for a time, past the Lonely Isle of Tol Eressëa, then he veered northeasterly, skirting the Northern Heights of Númenor, and continued straight on toward the rising of the sun in the east. "But how did I come to be?" Glorfindel interrupted. His hands worked at the sheet wrapped about his waist, bunching it within his fists convulsively. "My Lord Olwë told me that Námo had woven an enchantment about you when he joined your faer to its new form," Túviluion explained to his companion. "The journey from the Blessed Realm would be long, so he created a state in which your body was alive, yet you remained in a deep sleep until we were but a few days from our destination. At the setting of the sun yesterday, you finally woke. My Lord warned me that you would not look kindly upon learning of your predicament." The ancient Teleri broke off there. Hesitant fingers reached out to touch the silvery scar - the souvenir of the Balrog's lash - that curled around the muscled torso, then thought the better of it and drew away. The noble golden head stared impassively forward, the clear blue eyes gone dead and dull. "Why me?" he asked flatly. "The future of Elvenkind in Middle-earth is tied to the fate of one family - the son of the child you saved from the ruin of Gondolin. Námo sent you back to serve his family. You have a destiny to fulfill… though how that will come to pass only Eru knows." Túviluion sighed. "I am sorry, my friend," he said sadly, and then stood. "Come, you must clothe yourself. The whispering of the water tells me we are drawing near land, and you must be ready. The Eagles have relayed news of your coming to the Lords of the eastern lands. They await your arrival." *~*~*~*~* A small gray ship, its sails billowing in the mild breeze as they were slowly furled, glided lazily into the harbor of Forlond. The day was temperate and sunny, and the mild breeze carried the briny tang of sea salt through the streets, perfumed with the heady scent of beach roses, warm grass, and traces of ripe fish. Ellith and ellyn alike gathered in the harbor when the ship was spotted on the horizon. As the vessel sailed through the narrow Gulf of Lhûn and drew near the harbor, the quiet, curious murmurings began. "Who approaches from the sea?" they whispered to one another. "Have the Valar seen fit to come here among us in Middle-earth and deliver us from the evil that encroaches upon our lands?" "Men of the West," a few nodded shrewdly. "That ship hails from the isle of Kings, far beyond the western shore. 'Tis a messenger they have sent us from afar, offering aid." "Nay," still others scoffed. "We are forsaken by the Lords of the West and the great ones across the sea. They will send none to succor us in our days of need." Others spoke of reports leaked from the palace by those whose daily duties carried them inside the king's great Halls. Hushed conversations between the wisest among them were overheard by sisters, fathers, spouses - the servants, cooks, tailors, scribes whose unobtrusive competence kept the palace running with well-oiled efficiency. These murmurs told of an ancient hero of Ages past, newly released from the Halls of Waiting, who was come to Middle-earth for a task unknown. Noiselessly the ship glided dockside, and a silver-haired Elf efficiently made her fast. He stood back and stood in somber silence to allow his passenger to disembark. The sailor dipped his head respectfully, and the traveler nodded curtly in his direction. Tall and strongly built the newcomer was, long of limb and trim of hip. A wide chest and muscular arms spoke of great power to wield the deadly sword that hung at his belt. Many braids adorned his gleaming yellow hair, and his eyes were a piercing, winter-sky blue. Easily he vaulted the gunwale and dropped down to the wharf. He stood for a moment while legs attuned to the pitch and roll of the sea again adjusted to standing on solid ground and gazed impassively about him. Not a glimmer of expression was witnessed crossing his handsome face. Who could help but be awed by the beauty of the waterfront of Forlond, with its sea-weathered gray buildings, the crystalline waves lapping gently at the dock, sea birds wheeling and calling overhead, the Ered Luin rising majestically on the horizon? This stranger - this traveler - noted none of these attractions. He stood in stony silence and gazed dispassionately at the throng gathered in welcome. Studiously he ignored the appraising and inquisitive looks. He waited. A young Elf wearing the livery of the High King's court pushed through the crowd and approached the stranger. The youngling bowed and said formally, "King Gil-galad awaits you at the palace, my Lord. A horse and carriage stands ready to take you to him. Please, follow me." To be continued… --- Title: From the Fire (2/?) *~*~*~*~* Welcome back, Gentle Reader. Are you enjoying the tale so far? Thus far in our journey we have met Glorfindel, a tormented soul who was thrust into circumstances neither of his making nor of his choosing. We shall leave him for a time, so that he may become accustomed to being once again embodied upon Arda while we take a step back in time and meet some other characters in this story. Fear not, Gentle Reader, we shall see him again soon. Please be patient, for we have much to see and much to learn. Some of what I will tell you now will not be new, but listen carefully, for it is important. It is necessary for you to understand the ways of those Ages past, and to understand the factors that shaped another who is as significant to this tale as our Glorfindel. Times were bleak indeed in the First Age. After beginning of the Counting of Time and before the creation of the Sun and the Moon, evil things were bred in the dark pits and hidden places of the world. Melkor's malice spread throughout all of Creation, from the White Shores west of Aman, across the Great Sea, and unto Middle-earth. Mightiest of the Ainur, Melkor was driven by pride and jealousy, desiring to bring into being creations of his own making. This ominous malice tainted all that was pure of the Valar's creation; nothing was free of the stain of Melkor's evil. But the full account of the woes that befell Middle-earth is told elsewhere, and is a story for another day. Fëanor cursed Melkor and named him Morgoth - The Black Enemy - and swore a dreadful oath. He and his seven sons vowed to hunt the evil one to the ends of the world, in pursuit of Fëanor's precious Jewels and in retribution for the slaying of his father. Morgoth fled to his ancient fortification of Angband and rebuilt it, deep in the bowels of the earth. The eyes of Noldor were upon him, though he slept not, and in those cavernous depths he continued to breed hatred and malice. The mighty chieftains of the Noldor established strongholds about the northern mountains of Beleriand, from the western ranges of Ered Lómin across the plains of Ard-galen and to the summit of Himring in the east. For many years they watched the forbidding peaks of Thangorodrim, and some grew complacent, overestimating their strength and the strength of their allies - Men. 'There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon; and the wide plain of Ard-galen stretched dim beneath the cold stars, from the hill-forts of the Noldor to the feet of Thangorodrim. The watch-fires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps of the horsemen of Hithlum. Then suddenly Morgoth sent forth great rivers of flame that ran down swifter than Balrogs from Thangorodrim, and poured over all the plains…In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons, in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the Orcs in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined.' And there, Gentle Reader, is where our story resumes. Are you ready? Then let us continue... *~*~*~*~* Middle-earth, the year 455 of the First Age, Dorthonion Fire and flame, and the terrible screams of the dying… Morgoth's hideous creatures chased them into the woods, cold blades gleaming evilly in the moonlight. Harsh voices mocked them, calling to them, taunting, "Come with us, lovely ones. Master likes his baubles; pretty playthings you will make for him." He knew what would happen should they be caught. So they ran, leaving their father bleeding and dying on the ground. There was nothing to be done but flee. Their only thought was to escape the blades that slashed and whistled through the air. Silently they ran, fleet-footed as deer, hands firmly over their mouths to muffle their breathing though chests burned from lack of breath. She stumbled and fell; barely pausing, he scooped her up, ignoring the stitch in his side, and kept running. On and on they ran in blind panic, deeper and deeper into the forest of Dorthonion, until the screams and the crashing through the brush behind them finally faded, leaving the only harsh wheezing of their breath. Chests burning with cold and lack of breath finally forced them to stop and they collapsed, panting, on top of each other in a windbreak formed by a dense row of pine trees. The siblings lay trembling, curled together to keep warm, each nerve strung tight as a bow, ears sharp for further sign of their pursuers. For a long while they lay motionless until their breathing slowed, listening for sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing save the rustling of leaves and the mournful howling of wolves far up in the mountains. "Come," Erestor urged, pulling his sister to her feet. "There is no more time to rest. We must warn Mother!" He set off again swiftly, and Faelwen soon fell into stride beside him. Together they navigated through the dense pine forest to the only home they had ever known. A while later they approached the cottage that had been their home for over fifty years. "You gather supplies, I will care for Mother," Erestor said, opening the door. Faelwen nodded and immediately began emptying cupboards and piling food on the scarred kitchen table. "Mother, Morgoth's forces have invaded the mountains," Erestor said, falling to his knees in front of the frail Human rocking before the fire. Cradling one gnarled hand in his, he said quietly, "The peace has ended, now we must flee while there is still time, ere our home is overrun." The old woman closed rheumy eyes for long moments, so long that Erestor wondered if his mother had even heard his pronouncement. Faelwen came to them and dropped down beside her brother, giving him a puzzled look. She took her mother's other hand and echoed, "Mother? We must leave this place. Orcs and Balrogs have come. They are burning and destroying everything in their path. Already Ard-galen is overrun." At last Saelind opened her eyes from her silent introspection. "Your father is dead." It was not a question, but a statement of fact. "Yes," Erestor said evenly, though tears welled in his eyes and he blinked them away. There was no time for grief; first they must get to safety. Stooped shoulders bowed heavily under the weight of her sorrow. "The light of the flame has been quenched," she whispered to herself. It was true - the emptiness in her soul confirmed it. Aegnor was dead. 'It is a cruel end,' she thought. His prophecy had come to pass, and he was gone from this world. "Mother, quickly… we must go," Faelwen pleaded. "They are coming!" For a long while she sat still and silent, and it seemed to her children that she had drawn deep into herself, a happening that occurred with more frequency of late. Then the wizened face looked up, and there was resolution written in her dark gaze. She looked long into the ebony eyes of her children, so like her in face with the jet hair and smoky eyes of her youth long ago, yet Elven in bearing, carrying the tall and slender frame of their sire. The cold chill of foreboding crawled over Erestor. Realization came slowly, with a horrible prickle, like the clinging feet of a poisonous insect creeping upon the skin. "You do not mean to come with us," he whispered. As the meaning of Erestor's words became clear, Faelwen stared aghast at her mother. "Nay, we will not leave you!" Faelwen cried. "You cannot stay here, they will kill you!" Her mind was made up, and oddly, she felt free of the burden of age, as though a great weight had been lifted from her heart. Slowly Saelind shook her head. "Nay, I will not come with you." Raising a feeble hand to stop the outraged and distraught protests that spilled from her offspring's lips, she continued, her reedy voice stronger than it had been in years. "I am old, my children, and in my last days. You are young and full of life… I will only slow you down. You must leave me behind." Erestor knelt at his mother's feet, his head bowed in silent sorrow. She sighed and cupped their cheeks with hands twisted and knotted with years and toil. "My children, my mind is set. If I go with you, Morgoth's creatures will catch us and kill us all. You, my beloved children, have a chance to go on. You must go, together - now - and leave me behind." "Mother, please…" Faelwen whimpered, tugging Saelind by the hand. "You cannot mean that - come, we must away!" "Faelwen!" she said kindly. "You must take the horses and go. Please, daughter, do not let your father's death be in vain. Make him proud. Make *me* proud. You know in your heart this is the only way. I do not fear death. There is nothing left in this world that can frighten me any longer." It was futile to argue. Her argument was sound, but the wisdom of her words did not lessen the pain. They lay their heads on her knees and wept, while she stroked their hair and remembered them as babes suckling at her breast. Finally, they could stall no longer, for the howls of the Wolves of Morgoth echoed faintly from the far reaches of the wood. Reluctantly they rose and began hastily tossing clothing and foodstuffs into packs - hard bread and cheeses, dried fruits, all in a jumble with woolen cloaks and thick socks. Rope, knives, and wineskins joined the pile. When everything that could easily be carried was stowed away, the Half-elven bent and kissed the wrinkled cheeks one final time. "We will make you proud, Mother," Erestor said gravely. Overcome, all his sister could do was cling to her mother's frail shoulders. "I love you, my children," Saelind said. "Aegnor's flame burns brightly within you. Do not allow that spark to die." Their last glimpse of their mother was of an ancient, shriveled woman sitting proud and straight in her chair, waiting to spit in the eye of death. *~*~*~*~* They traveled as quickly as they dared through the treacherous, winding paths far to the east in the range of Ered Gorgoroth, heading in a southeasterly direction on the old road toward Estolad. The trail was nigh overgrown and near impossible to follow. They stopped only long enough to water and feed their mounts, then pressed on. At the end of a week of grueling travel, the siblings finally descended the steep mountain path into the forest below. Exhaustion forced a halt, so they formed a crude shelter against the base of a tree - nothing more than winter-dead leaves and bracken from the forest floor, but enough to shield them from the biting winter wind. Brother and sister slept in each other's arms, huddled close for warmth with their mounts tethered nearby, waiting for daylight and a chance to move on. Rumbling bellies woke them in a morning that dawned cold and gray. Far off in the north, clouds roiled sickly, dark and pregnant with snow and smoke. Cold, hungry, and heartsick, they finally gave in to grief, and they clung to each other and cried for all they had lost. But even in the midst of grief, the doughty spirit of their father flared, and with new resolve tears were dried and hard decisions made. Erestor and Faelwen took counsel together, huddled under their meager shelter with the horses stamping impatiently. Now the time for choice was upon them, but in which direction should they seek sanctuary? Turning back northward was folly. No longer could the north be called hearth and home; it was destroyed, overrun with Orcs and flames. There was nothing for them there, nor to the Southeast where lay Nan Elmoth and Estolad, the land of their mother's people. A scattered few lived there now - none but renegades and outlaws. To the northeast were more mountains. The Sons of Fëanor held outposts in the crags and peaks of Himring, but to head back into the mountains would be akin to suicide. Morgoth's legions would have overrun Maedhros' fortress and were probably pouring through Maglor's Gap by the thousands. Far westward were more mountains - the circular, sharp peaks of the Echoriath, passable to neither Man nor Elf. If by chance they managed to traverse the Encircling Mountains, there was Tol Sirion only a few leagues further to the west. But finding safe haven in the island fortress held by Orodreth their cousin was dubious at best - it was likely that the vale would be overrun as well. They must flee south, then, deeper into Beleriand, away from the death and destruction of Morgoth. The forest of Doriath, realm of King Elu Thingol and Queen Melian, was the most likely place to seek refuge. There was no certainty that either would be allowed to pass the Girdle of Melian, for Thingol had no love for the Noldor. Winter was hard upon the land, and to travel further - to the sea - was nigh impossible without a full store of provisions. Yet all was not lost, for Galadriel, the sister of their father had dwelt for a time in the forest realm as a guest of King Thingol, having some kinship with the Sinda king, and forged a deep friendship with his queen, Melian of the Maiar. With hearts as dark and heavy as the sky overhead, the siblings fashioned a meager meal from the rations stored in their packs and washed it down with small sips of wine from the skins. Not only strength of mind but also strength of the body was required for the coming days and the harrowing journey to come. More terrifying even than the Ered Gorgoroth was the valley of Nan Dungortheb, where the shadows of terror lay deep. Their trail took them only through the far eastern border of that land of darkness and not into the heart of evil, but even that was too close. *~*~*~*~* And so, Gentle Reader, you are wondering what became of these two heartsick and lonely souls. Did they survive, you ask, and learn to deal with the grief of their parents' deaths? Aye, Erestor and Faelwen survived, and prospered. Wearying days, frigid nights enough to freeze the marrow of one's bones, hunger, and sorrow so affecting it was near paralyzing. Eventually Erestor and Faelwen came upon the bend of the River Aros to the northeast of the forest of Neldoreth. The enchantment spun about the mystical wood at the border of Doriath whispered to its mistress of their intent, and the pair was allowed to pass the Girdle. Guardians led them after a time to the hidden caves of Menegroth - to the home of Thingol and Melian. Though Galadriel had since departed, the King and Queen knew of her young Half-elven kin in the north, and knowing of their plight, gave them shelter through the cold winter. The wise and caring counsel of Melian was a solace to their weary souls, and as time passed the young ones were healed of their hurts. When the frosts of winter had thawed and the first buds of spring appeared on the trees, it was time for them to move on. Spring was the season for renewal, for growth, for new beginnings. It was time for Erestor and Faelwen to put the hurts of the past behind them and fashion new lives for themselves. On a balmy day, with the fragrant breeze stirring the air, the siblings begged leave from their generous hosts and set off to the southwest, toward the Falas and the sea. Toward the future. To be continued… *~*~*~*~* NOTES: Passage quoted from The Silmarillion, 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand' Saelind - 'Wise-heart' - was the Elvish name given to Andreth, wise woman and daughter of the House of Bëor. According to canon, Aegnor son of Finarfin was unmarried, but loved Andreth and she him. He refused to marry her because he foresaw he would be short-lived, and indeed died in the Dagor Bragollach some years later. Their children are 'undocumented'. ('Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth', Morgoth's Ring) Faelwen = fair-minded one --- Title: From the Fire (3/?) *~*~*~*~* Suilad, Gentle Reader. You have come back for more, I see. We have come this far together, and we have further still to go before our story is done. Are you comfortable? Good. Listen well, for here begins the true heart of our tale. When we last met, Erestor and his sister had taken their leave of the wooded realm of Doriath in the heart of Beleriand and set out for the southwest. The young Peredhil siblings had gradually recovered from the anguish of the Dagor Bragollach and the deaths of their parents and were anxious to begin the next stage of their lives. The heartache would always be there, but no longer was the grief all-consuming. Erestor and Faelwen would go on, for their parents' sakes. From Menegroth they followed the River Esgalduin as it flowed west and joined the great Sirion, then struck a course along the river until they came to the Fens of Sirion. Almost due west they traveled, and at long last they arrived in the Havens on the coast. It was told that Círdan, Telerin Lord of old, had established settlements in the Falas on the southwest coast of Middle-earth. The seaside Havens of Eglarest and Brithombar had been built, each brick and stone laid in place by Sindar and Noldor working alongside the other, through the alliance between the Lord of the Falas and his friend of old, Finrod Felagund. The cities were primarily home to Sindar of Telerin descent, but a few Noldor whose spirits had been called by the sea chose to remain living among them rather than return to the rocks and trees of their mountain home. This varied existence was alluring for the two Half-elven - children of Adan and Edhel, uncertain where they fit into society. The cove and harbor of Eglarest was appealing to Erestor and Faelwen. Having lived their entire lives amongst branch and stone, the fresh sea breezes and the cawing of gulls were a welcome change. There was hope in the air, carried on the wind. *~*~*~*~* Middle-earth, the years 456-474 of the First Age, Havens of the Falas Círdan, kindly Elf-lord, welcomed the siblings and took them under his protection. His wards were ensconced in a small, two-bedroom cottage near the harbor with breathtaking views of the water. Erestor was appointed to the position of assistant record-keeper in the Lord's employ, cataloguing supplies and munitions. Faelwen had inherited her mother's talent for cooking, so she was conscripted as a baker in Círdan's kitchens. They worked hard and saved their wages in hopes that someday they would be able to repay their benefactor for his generosity. Círdan waved away their offer and said simply that it was his pleasure. And in fact, it was. Fostering the two young Half-elves was no hardship at all. They were a joy to behold as they continued to mature from the hesitant young adults of their first days into confident, productive citizens of a bustling community. They soon made the acquaintance of many young Elves of Eglarest who were drawn to them initially because of their exotic, raven-haired beauty, but soon became enamored of the siblings' straightforward demeanor and compassion. Both were well spoken, intelligent, witty, and sociable, but did not speak frequently of themselves and their past. They were an intriguing juxtaposition of warmth and mystique - a combination that was undeniably appealing. An innate and expected part of the maturation of a young adult is the awakening of the body. Many ellyn sought the favors of Faelwen, for not only was she a comely maid, but she was genteel and wise. Invitations for picnic lunches on the shore, late night strolls along the pier, and afternoon rides into the meres were offered repeatedly, but only occasionally accepted. Her reticence made her suitors that much more the determined to seek her esteem. Frequently the tiny cottage she shared with her brother was abloom with bouquets and floral sprays presented from admirers determined to set her regard for them above the others, but she steadfastly refused to give her heart away. In confidence she told her brother that she simply *knew* that she had not yet met her life's mate, and that she would know him when the time came. Erestor's attentions, on the other hand, were pursued equally by ellith and ellyn alike. It was neither remarkable nor forbidden for two ellyn to seek the companionship of one another. It was the duality of Elven nature to be attracted to those of either sex, and like-gender affairs were not discouraged as they were in the world of Men. While his sister found only the male form to be appealing, Erestor was drawn to both - the slender, soft curves of an elleth, as well as the more angular, lean strength of a fellow male. He was selective in whom he bestowed his favors upon, but did seek out the pleasures of the flesh - male and female equally - more frequently that his sister. In spite of - or perhaps because of - the unrest that beset Middle-earth in those days, Erestor and Faelwen found the dependability of their daily routine comforting. Each morning the pair would sit in their tiny kitchen, sipping tea and eating Faelwen's fresh-baked pastries before heading off to their respective duties. Every evening they would meet again at the dinner hour to prepare a light supper and exchange news about their days. Theirs was a good, though simple, life. They were content, for the most part, though there were times when the loneliness and grief born of their parents' cruel end would return. Erestor quickly gained the attention of his colleagues due to his quick mind and nimble fingers. It was not long before his natural abilities were made apparent, and after a private conference between the chief archivist and the Lord of the Falas, Erestor took his place as a junior member of Círdan's advisory council. Faelwen enjoyed her job in the kitchens, and became acclaimed for her mouth-watering breads and sweets. One sultry sunny morning after they had resided within the high walls of Eglarest for a few years, a knock sounded on the door. Faelwen rose to answer it and looked upon their visitors in surprise. Círdan stood in the doorway, along with a dark-haired Elven boy who looked vaguely familiar. Faelwen welcomed the ancient Elf warmly, though curious why Círdan would come to the cottage. He had shown her and Erestor nothing but warmth and bountiful generosity since their arrival, but this visit represented his first to their home. Any meetings that were required were typically conducted in his spacious abode overlooking the harbor on the other side of the city. She opened the door wide and admitted the Elf-lord and his companion. "Welcome, my Lord," she said graciously. "We were breaking our fast before beginning the day. Would you care for some tea?" Círdan bent to kiss her cheek and nodded a greeting to Erestor, but politely refused the offer of refreshment. Erestor led the way to a comfortable sitting room and motioned for the unexpected guests to take a seat. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Lord Círdan?" he asked, looking curiously at the dark-haired child sitting beside the Elf-lord. The lad was tall and gangling, with the absurdly large hands and feet characteristic of late adolescence. Dark locks were cropped to shoulder-length in the manner of Elven youth before earning the braids signifying a warrior's status. His eyes seemed too large for his pale face, and were of a startlingly bright blue. The youngling sat straight and tall in his chair, and his fair face was open and direct, lending an impression of maturity to his mien that belied his tender years. The child, they learned, was their kin, the offspring of their cousin Orodreth, and had been sent to the Falas and into Círdan's safekeeping. Ereinion - known as Gil-galad - was alone and frightened. The Elf-lord thought that by introducing him to his older cousins, he would feel more comfortable in being uprooted from his home. The siblings were moved Gil-galad's plight. It was only natural that a swift and enduring friendship was formed between Círdan's fosterling and his elder cousins. Well they knew the sorrow of losing family and home, what it was to know fear and uncertainty about the future, and they resolved to do what they could to ease his heartache. Círdan provided shelter and bore the responsibility for his clothing, weaponry, education, and sustenance, and Gil-galad came to look upon the Elf-lord much as a father. But it was the company of his kinfolk that the boy most frequently sought. When his studies allowed, Gil-galad was found more often than not tucked into a comfortable chair in the small cottage on the water, reciting poetry with Faelwen or discussing the tragic history of Middle-earth with Erestor. It was in his cousins' home that he felt most at ease, and there grew a great love among the three friends. As Gil-galad matured, the awkwardness of youth blossomed into great beauty. The lanky frame broadened at the shoulders and he grew into those oversized hands and feet, and became a strapping young ellon. Quickness of wit was honed from years of playful and sometimes heated debate with Erestor, and from Faelwen he learned modesty and to curb an occasionally sharp tongue. Wherever he went, many an admiring glance followed. *~*~*~*~* For a time, within the city the folk of the Falas kept the western coast of Middle-earth secure. Outside the high walls of stone, Morgoth was not idle. The Firstborn were vigilant in their fight against the encroaching darkness, but it was a never-ending battle to keep the evil at bay. Across Beleriand the dark lord sent his underlings, burning and pillaging as they went. The world without was ever changing. The fairest cities ever built to the east of Valinor were ravaged and reduced to crumbling ruins at his hand, be it directly or no. So fell the deep and secret places of Nargothrond, and the great white spires of the hidden city of Gondolin. Fair Doriath and the hidden caves of Menegroth were laid to waste at the hands of the Sons of Fëanor, driven in their madness and bound, paradoxically, by their vow to thwart the dark lord and their desire to regain the Silmarils. The Havens of the Falas became a refuge for many as they sought to escape the destruction of their own lands. Círdan was ever heedful of the need to keep his realm safe, but at last his foes proved too strong and the day came when vigilance was not enough. Orcs came riding on great shaggy beasts and bearing fire, and tore down the walls with mysterious blasting devices. The walled cities were destroyed, brick and stone, and many a worthy Elf who should have endured to the ending of the world were delivered into Námo's care. Círdan had long foreseen that his defenses would ultimately fall, and has made many ships ready in expectation of this day. As the gray seaside buildings and wharves were set aflame, he gathered those who had not been enslaved or slain and sailed away south to the Isle of Balar. With him went Erestor and Faelwen, and young Gil-galad, and there across the Bay of Balar he made great shipyards in the Havens of Sirion. *~*~*~*~* What say you, Gentle Reader? "What about Glorfindel? Have you forgotten about the Golden One?" Your eagerness is endearing, my friends, and I thank you for indulging my small digression. The answer is quite to the contrary. Despite what it seems, the account of Glorfindel is the very core of my tale. We shall return to the story of our brave golden warrior very shortly, but please bear with me for just a bit longer. We will see our Glorfindel again soon, this I promise. The final years of the First Age marked the passing of some of the mightiest of the Eldar to ever walk the soil of Middle-earth. Cunning Beren and his love Lúthien, Orodreth, golden Finrod, and many others met their end in those precarious days. The account of the fall of the Hidden City of Gondolin is a tragic one, though the full peril that beset that great kingdom is not told of here. And there on the rocky path of the Cirith Thoronath, Glorfindel lost his battle with the Balrog. "But we already know of valiant Glorfindel's passing!" I hear you proclaim. "It is his rebirth we wish to learn of, not his death!" To that I say patience, my anxious ones. All stories worth hearing are worth waiting for, and I hope this tale will live up to your expectations. But I beg your indulgence for one more moment. With the death of Turgon, the High Kingship was passed down to Gil-galad, last survivor of the House of Finwë not of Fëanor's line. The crown was a weighty burden for the young High King, so to ease his transition from simple - though royal - warrior into mightiest ruler of the Noldor in Middle-earth, Gil-galad requested that Círdan appoint his trusted kinsman Erestor as his advisor. Círdan willingly granted this boon, for he was often called away to lend aid to the defense of Middle-earth and was relieved that his young charge would have sound guidance in his absence. In the Havens of Sirion across the Bay of Balar, to Eärendil the Mariner and his bride Elwing were born twin sons. In later days one became a King of Men, while the other grew to be a celebrated leader among Elves. The first-born was named Elros; the second was Elrond. The deeds of Elrond Half-elven throughout the Ages, renowned though they were, play only a small part in this tale. Whether his fate was simply a matter of chance or designed by the Ainur's music in the Creation of Eä none save The One knows. But his birth was the catalyst for other events, not in the least that of bringing our two lovers together. The sons of Fëanor sacked the Havens of Sirion, taking Elrond and his brother captive, and Eärendil in great need sailed West in his ship Vingilot seeking aid from the Valar. A great host was sent from Valinor to succor the Elves of Middle-earth, and they marched to Angband and destroyed it. Morgoth was overcome and taken captive, and held as a prisoner in the Timeless Void, never to escape. 'Yet the lies that Melkor, the mighty and accursed, Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest days.' The sons of Fëanor were no more, driven to ruin by their fateful vow, and the Silmarils were lost. So immeasurable was the wreckage of the Great Battle that the earth shook, and the seas flowed in and sundered the lands of Beleriand from the rest of Middle-earth. And so ended the First Age. On the tide of the flood, Círdan sailed east and settled in the lands west of the Blue Mountains. With him went Gil-galad the High King, and his kinfolk, Erestor and Faelwen. And here, Gentle Reader, we must end, for a time. The telling of tales is tiring work and I grow weary. But will you return again another day to hear more? Your patience will be rewarded. You will return? Good; I look forward to it. Until then… good night. To be continued… *~*~*~*~* NOTES: Passage quoted from The Silmarillion, 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil' There appear to be multiple accounts of how and when Gil-galad arrived in the Havens of the Falas. Some sources indicate he was sent directly to the Havens from Dorthonion after the Dagor Bragollach; others imply that he may have lived for a time in Nargothrond with Orodreth and his sister Finduilas. Who knows for certain? ;)