Chapter Two - Before the Storm
Year 580 of the First Age – The Mound of Ezellohar.
The Mound was black.
It used to be green before, and flowers had grown all around it. The nearby lake used to be a bright, shining blue, and it had been home to many waterfowl. The grove of fruit trees had yielded many a meal to young, adventurous children.
Glorfindel remembered the first time that he had come here. His sister had brought him here for his tenth conception anniversary. He had been so amazed then, and he had tried to touch the fruits of Laurelin.
“No, little brother! Only Arien the Fire-Maiden can touch Laurelin!” But then Ar-Kaliel had lifted him on her shoulders and had allowed him to touch the much cooler Telperion.
“I like Laurelin,” he had insisted. “Laurelin and I are the same color.”
Ar-Kaliel laughed. “But then your skin shall light on fire, and you will melt into a little brother puddle.”
But Glorfindel had melted, although it had not been to the touch of Laurelin.
He had come to Ezellohar again with Turgon and Finrod. The three of them had always been an adventurous trio, adventurous enough to cause stress for their parents. During one particular incident, Turgon had built a boat for them, and they had attempted to ride it on the lake. Unfortunately, Finrod had poked a hole in it, and their boating had actually become swimming.
“Well, I for one think that Yavanna should at least allow benches here.” The melodious voice belonged to Amarië, who currently was sitting at the edge of the Mound.
Glorfindel turned to look at his friend. “Why don’t you ask her?”
She made a face at him. “I did. But she said something about allowing the memories to lay undisturbed.” Apparently Yavanna had forbidden everyone, both Eldar and Valar alike, in disturbing Ezellohar. She wished for it to remain a remembrance of what had occurred. It would not do to make Ezellohar beautiful again, even if it were possible. For now the remains of the Two Trees were ugly and twisted, not at all like what they were before.
“So now your dress will have grass stains on it.” Glorfindel wandered back over to where she was sitting.
Amarië shrugged. “I do not mind.”
“Your white dress,” corrected Glorfindel with a smile. He held out a hand, which she accepted gracefully. Slowly they began to walk toward their horses. “Thank you for coming with me.”
She turned kind eyes upon him. “It is no burden that you asked me to bear, Glorfindel. To be honest, I wanted to come here myself. It has been a long time since I have last visited Ezellohar.”
He clasped her hand. “You came with Finrod the last time, did you not?”
“Aye, I did. It was before…before all that happened.” Amarië turned her eyes away from his, and the unspoken thought hung in the air between them. They walked in silence for a while, but as they drew closer to their horse, she turned back to him again, her eyes considerably brighter. “I want you to know, Glorfindel, that I bear no ill will toward you or Finrod. Both of you did what loyalty asked of you.”
“Loyalty has asked too much, methinks.”
She laughed. “As she always does. But I would have followed Ingwë to the very edges of the world if he had asked me. Such is my loyalty to my king. Can I then blame you for choosing to follow yours?”
Glorfindel examined her more closely. She was very tall, as all Vanyarin women were wont. Her hair was a deep gold, a few shades darker than Finrod’s had been. And her eyes were the same Minil-blue as the rest of her kin. “You have not asked me about Finrod yet.”
She turned those eyes upon him. “And what shall I ask? I know that he has done valorous deeds, and I know that he was a king. And I know that he died for his loyalty to a mortal.”
He searched for bitterness in her voice but found none. As they mounted their horses, he said quietly, “The mortal’s father, Barahir, saved Finrod’s life.”
“And Finrod was honor bound to do what he did. It is no less than what any honorable person would have done.” Sadness veiled her face. “And as you well know, there is no escape from the bonds of honor.”
“Honor. Too much honor leads to things more unpleasant, I think.” He remembered what his sister had told him long ago. There are four codes that must define you. Duty. Loyalty. Faith. Honor. Without them, you are nothing. That lesson had been the core of every Elven child, but it had been the lifeblood of the Vanyar. “As warriors, we think of a glorious death. But there is a problem with dying with honor.”
“You need to die to do it,” finished Amarië quietly.
Glorfindel nodded. “And sometimes I think that as much as an honorable death – that all of us had – was a good thing, a happy and peaceful life would have been better. And if I had to die, I would have like to die in the presence of loved ones.” Not with a balrog, he added silently.
“I think that you would have been happier as a mortal,” she said with a smile. “Now, this conversation is becoming decidedly too morbid. How is your training going?”
He groaned. “Ingwë has not changed! He is as demanding as he ever was.”
She laughed. “As always! There is a reason why he is the best warrior still!” She sent him a curious look. “But you have spent much time with the Maiar, as of late. Particularly with Eonwë.”
His cheeks took on a slightly red hue. “He is excellent at arms.”
She slowed her horse. “Is it true, Glorfindel, that you are now closer to a Maiar? Are you any different?”
“I am stronger,” he admitted. “And my powers of perception have increased.” His eyes grew inward. “The meaning of time has changed for me.” But then his voice grew quiet. “I am greater than what I used to be, but at the same time, I am also diminished.” When Amarië gave him a confused look, he elaborated. “Before, I had the possibilities of choice – to disobey the Valar, to leave Aman, to do wrong. What little part of fate that I could control, I did. But now, I am able to do none of those things. I do not think that I could serve Morgoth even if I tried.” His eyes grew wistful. “Do not misunderstand me, Amarië. I do not wish to do evil – far from it. But what disturbs me is that I cannot make that choice any longer. I am good now, and pure. All that was marred within me is gone.”
Far away on Taniquetil, Eonwë and Ingwë sat in quiet discussion. Manwë’s herald had come seeking advice from the high king, on both matters of war and on Glorfindel. To the Maia, Glorfindel’s forced return to Middle Earth seemed unjust, and he did not hesitate in telling the high king so. “He is happy now, and he seeks to dwell in peace. Why must he go back then, to the place where his body and spirit suffered so much hurt?”
The king looked troubled. “It is no wish of mine that he return to those lands.”
“Was there any need, then, to tell him so early? This decision was forced upon him as soon as he was re-embodied. It could have waited.”
“If we had not told him, then he would have gone into seclusion somewhere, and he would not have learned the arts of war again.” Ingwë looked off into the distance. “Understand this, Herald. I love Glorfindel as a son, and I would rather have him stay by my side, as any son remains with the father. But Glorfindel chose another alliance, and he is still bound by that oath. He may be content here for now, but his heart shall forever look eastward. His unhappiness here will only grow until he begins to resent us.”
Eonwë gave the king a sharp look. “Perhaps you assume to much, High King.” Eonwë was edging dangerous territory, and his words bordered upon the offensive. He was the herald of Manwë, but Ingwë was the High King of the Elves.
Ingwë’s eyes flashed as well, and Eonwë was caught by the anger that lurked within them. “You forget yourself, Herald. The bonds of honor are not easily broken. In time, he will feel its call.” The king’s voice softened slightly. “But yes, perhaps we should have waited a while longer. ‘Tis a heavy burden we have placed upon him.”
“You have interests in Middle Earth as well,” stated Eonwë flatly.
“You imply that I have a personal interest in his return?” The king chuckled. “I will not deny that Glorfindel’s return to Middle Earth is advantageous. My sister-daughter’s descendents are there now, and not a day goes by that I do not think of them.” Ingwë stood gracefully and went to the fire. “And the descendents of Turgon are related to me, however indirectly. But I assure you that when I say his return is advantageous, it is advantageous for all Elves.”
Eonwë nodded thoughtfully. “He will be valuable.”
The king pursed his lips. “Undoubtedly so. He is twice-born, and there are few now that can contend with his will.”
“And if he dies again?”
The king hesitated. “I do not know.” Mandos had not revealed the fate of those who died twice. It was a subject too bizarre and improbable, for once an Elf was re-embodied, they were forbidden to return to Middle Earth. And since there was no death in Valinor, at least since the Kinslaying, it had never occurred anyone to ask Mandos.
“It is easy for you to send him off to death then.”
“Not anymore easier than sending off my own son,” replied the king sharply. “Ingil will also be accompanying you.”
“But he will return! Glorfindel will not. He will be a prisoner there.” Eonwë calmed himself. Ingwë was the last person that he would ever imagine provoking, and yet now he could not seem to help it. “Forgive me, High King. That was not warranted.”
Ingwë also seemed to calm down slightly. “Perhaps it is the impending war that is fraying our sanity,” he said gently. “We should return to our earlier discussion. Who will accompany you?”
The return to military matters filled Eonwë with confidence again. “The high prince, of course. He will be leading the Vanyar – the bulk of the host. He has also agreed to serve as my aide. Finarfin has agreed to send some of his own people to fight on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“That he lead them.”
The king hissed. “I do not think that is wise. Finarfin has too many personal interests in Middle Earth.” Finarfin’s children had followed Fëanor’s call, and now all his sons were dead. Only Artanis remained alive.
Eonwë shrugged. “He knows his duties, and he is a good warrior. Pacifist he may be, he is certainly good with his knives.”
Ingwë ran a hand through his hair. War making was tiring, after all. “And the Teleri? I take it that they did not respond to my invitation for war very well?”
“No,” said the herald. “According to Olwë, they are still recovering from their wounds. After much pleading, they agreed to lend us their ships, but they will set no foot upon the shores of Middle Earth.”
The king’s eyes grew sad. “I wonder if the Teleri will ever recover.” Then he asked, “Telimekhtar is going, is he not?”
“Tulkas is sending his son off with much fervor,” smiled the Maia. “After all, Tulkas himself is rather hot-blooded, if such a term can be applied to us.” Eonwë leaned forward. “What capacity shall Glorfindel serve, if any at all?”
A hint of humor appeared in the king’s eyes. “I dare say that you would be hard-pressed in keeping him from the battle. However, perhaps he would be better suited as your own herald?”
“I will take care of him,” promised Eonwë.
The king barked out a laugh. “Or perhaps he will take care of you. You will be restricted to a body, my friend.”
The herald waved that comment away. “If Melian can do it, then I am sure I can as well.”
“And in conclusion, I think that it is an excellent location to build a new bridge.” The speaker, a Vanya whose enthusiasm for construction rivaled that of the Noldor, was brimming with excitement.
However, the king listening to him was not. “You plan is an excellent one, Arenar. But do we really need another bridge?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Arenar with the tiniest bit of indignation. “You can’t have too many places to cross a river.” The engineer then launched into a detailed explanation of why having that bridge was such a good idea. Seated in front of him, Ingwë pretended to nod his head, although he was secretly counting all the engraved flowers on Arenar’s robes. In his perusal, the king noticed that Arenar’s tunic did not exactly match his leggings or his robe. He is an engineer, after all. I should be glad he came here dressed! “So yes, that crossing is a necessity,” finished Arenar.
He sighed. “Then you have my blessings.”
“Thank you, High King!” With a jaunty wave, the engineer bounced out of the room.
Ingwë turned to look at his golden-haired aide. “Who is next to torture me, Sidra?”
She smothered a smile. “The next person who seeks an audience with you is Lord Glorfindel.”
Surprise flashed across Ingwë’s face, and then caution. “He isn’t here to speak to me about flower gardens, is he? Because if he is, I will throw him out.”
“He is a Balrog-slayer, my lord.”
“And I am a very tired and bored high king.”
“Yes, my lord.” Sidra rose from her seat. “I will go and summon him inside.”
A few moments later, Sidra appeared again with a golden-haired man at her side. “King Ingwë,” he bowed gracefully, much more gracefully than he had done when he had first been re-embodied. He is much more comfortable with his new body now. Ingwë examined the young lord in front of him. “What do you think, Sidra? I think he looks better when he wears red. Gray does not suit him.”
She frankly appraised the Balrog-slayer. “Yes, gray makes his complexion pale.”
His cheeks reddened as he turned to Ingwë’s aide. “I was pale before?”
She smirked and allowed her eyes to drop teasingly before answering. “From what I have heard.”
“I think lady, that I shall have to show you first-hand that I am not pale…there.”
Pleased that Glorfindel had regained some of his old sense of humor, Ingwë chuckled. “Please do so later, out of my sight.” He embraced Glorfindel. “Let us go on a walk, you and I.” Giving Sidra an apologetic look, the king said, “It is his therapeutic session.” Glorfindel and Sidra exchanged amused looks.
Sidra held up several sheets of paper. “What about the rest of your visitors?”
“Oh, them.” Ingwë absently waved a hand toward the offending sheets of paper. “You can take care of that business.”
Sidra gave the king a horrified look. “I am not the High King.”
Ingwë gently propelled her to his chair. “Strange, I see a High King sitting right here.” Giving her a small bow, he pulled Glorfindel out, leaving his poor aide to the masses.
The two men strolled down the wide hallways of Taniquetil. “That was quite cruel, my lord.”
“She needs to learn all that business anyway.” Ingwë led Glorfindel toward his private garden. “How was your visit to Ezellohar?”
“It went as well as can be expected. I have many memories from that place.” Here his voice grew uncertain. “But I fear that they are not as clear as before.” They entered the small garden, and distantly Ingwë realized that the garden was the same as it had been long before the Two Trees had been poisoned. Glorfindel sat on a bench made of stone, but Ingwë comfortably sat on the grass. A memory came to him suddenly, of the day when Finwë had first visited him here. Why is it that you Vanyar in your white clothes always sit on the grass, and yet your clothes never get stained? Is that a sign that Ilúvator favors you? How long ago that had been!
He was brought back to the present when Glorfindel cleared his throat. “Ah, your memories.” Ingwë crossed his legs. “You will find that the memories of your past life will dim over time. You will always remember, of course, but they will not be as vibrant as before.” He gave Glorfindel a tender look. “There are some memories of yours that are perhaps best left faded.”
Glorfindel nodded sadly. “I will not be sad to forget the scent of burning flesh. But there are some things I wish I did remember. At the Mound today, I was able to recall old memories, such as my first visit to the Two Trees. Previously, I had always been able to recall the scent of my sister’s hair and the strength in her arms.” His voice grew despondent. “But today I realized that I remembered none of it. And then my memories of my friends – they are almost blurred.”
“You have a new body now, Glorfindel, and so you must make new memories. But your spirit will still retain vestiges of your old ones.”
They sat quietly for a while, and in the privacy of his thoughts, Glorfindel secretly watched the high king. Ingwë was beautiful, and yet there was something more to the most ancient of the ancient Elves, something in his eyes that drew all to him. He was the undisputed king of all the Elves, a fact that not even Fëanor had questioned – and Fëanor had questioned everything. Even in Middle Earth, Glorfindel remembered that the Moriquendi had revered Ingwë. And that was the strange part, for most of the Moriquendi had never met Ingwë. This meant that Ingwë’s reputation still existed from the Awakening, and it must have been quite a reputation for Ingwë to be placed on a pedestal that was almost as high as Varda’s.
What was it about Ingwë, then, that caused people to worship him?
Glorfindel remembered stories his parents would exchange about the journey to Valinor. The firstborn rarely spoke of those days at Cuivienen, and even when they did, it was with hushed whispers and pained looks. The journey to Valinor had been a hard one, and only by sheer will did they arrive. Ingwë had ensured that his entire host had arrived whole, thereby playing homage to their original name, the Minyar.
But he could not bring himself to ask. It was a question that would provide knowledge too expensive. He knew that he could not afford to have Ingwë fall from the pedestal that Glorfindel himself had placed him on. Not all was innocence in the beautiful high king, and in those deep blue depths, there lurked a terrible wisdom, ancient in its power.
Thankfully his musings were interrupted by the high queen. “Ah, there you are, Ingwë.” She glided over to her errant husband. “I came across a very hassled aide of yours.” Humor appeared in her eyes. “Should I call her king now?”
“Well,” began Ingwë uncertainly. “You see, Glorfindel needed me.”
She turned to the Elf in question. “He always does that.”
“Do what?” Indignation colored the king’s voice.
“Seek excuses. Admit it, you did not want to go to court today.”
“I did.”
“You did not. You woke with a decidedly foul temper this morning, and you cursed your throne.”
Glorfindel shook his head in amusement. The king and the queen had to be the silliest creatures in Aman.
Ingwë stood and eyed his wife. “I was in a foul temper because a certain person, who happens to be my wife, is going to Tol Eressëa and leaving her own husband behind.”
They had completely forgot that Glorfindel was also in the garden.
“I am going to visit our granddaughter. Did I stop you from accompanying me?”
“But Arenar is going to build a bridge!”
Her eyes turned curious. “Do we really need another bridge?”
Ingwë shrugged. “That is what Arenar says.” But then a completely different expression crossed the king’s face. “There is a way that my temper can recover.”
“Oh?” Interest colored the queen’s voice.
Glorfindel stood. “If your majesties will excuse me, I must leave.”
They ignored him.
“So I will leave now.” Glorfindel, realizing that his words were falling on deaf ears, shrugged and left behind two enamored Elves.
Some Notes:
- The Mound of Ezellohar was the location of the Two Trees before Ungoliant poisoned them.
- Much of this story revolves around the Book of Lost Tales. Telimektar is the son of Tulkas, and with Ingil son of Ingwë, they chased Morgoth.
- Eonwë = herald of Manwë.
- Moriquendi – the Elves who didn’t go to Valinor when the Valar summoned them.
- I am waiting for the opportunity to do a fic with Ingwë and his wife. The possibilities…
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