(05-01-02: Ack! Fixed a half-edited verb
tense error.) Author's Notes: This story includes slash and adult situations -
please use your brain and read something else if such things offend you.
The timeline of the flight from Gondolin may seem odd, but it is faithful to The
Silmarillion. I did forget to advance the year from 1035 (Winter) to 1036
(Spring) in the last chapter, which I have fixed. More Morgoth's Ring elf
trivia - elves celebrated their conception day, which occurred about a year
before their day of birth.
There is another version of Tuor and Voronwë's journey to Gondolin in The
Book of Lost Tales ('The Fall of Gondolin'). This is a very old genesis of
the story that was incorporated into The Silmarillion and 'Of Tuor and
His Coming to Gondolin' in Unfinished Tales. It was heavily revised over
the years, but it is the most complete story and contains some elements lost in
later versions as well as a longer account of the fall of Gondolin and the
flight of the refugees. I've relied on the UT version where there are
contradictions, but have pulled some details from the older version. One example
is Voronwë's trade; in LT, he states that he is used to working with
metal and wood, which fit in rather nicely with the Eregion part of this story.
I also used LT as inspiration for the 'pet name' given to Nimestil;
'Little Heart' is the narrator of the tales in LT and is Voronwë's son
(Voronwë is 'Bronweg' through most of LT).
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of Sîriesten
and Nimestil. Uilohad is my own creation. Translations of Elvish words are found
at the end of the chapter.
Tears Unnumbered
by Erunyauve
'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against
you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass
over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from
the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be
laid also.' - The Silmarillion, p 95 (Ballantine/Del Rey)
Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1037 (Spring)
In his bedchamber, Nimestil pulled the clasp from his hair and paused before
placing it on the dressing table. One of his dearest possessions, the delicate
design resembled a cascade of stars; its craftsmanship and the mithril of which
it was made rendered it a valuable piece in its own right. Yet to Nimestil it
was much more, a gift of his twentieth year and representative of the hands that
had lovingly worked it. Like the mithril that never tarnished, the memory of his
father remained unaltered by the years.
Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age 1695
The tiny elf-child grasped his mother's hand tightly as they walked through the
forge. "You must not wander, Nimestil, for there are many dangers
here."
Nimestil nodded, looking about with wide eyes. It was his mereth edonnad,
and this was what he had wanted most of all, to see the House of the Mírdain.
It was surprisingly cool in the stone building; dwarven ingenuity had diverted a
mountain stream so that it ran through pipes in the walls; together with
louvered openings in the roof to allow heat and moisture to escape, the
arrangement worked well in the dry air at the foot of the mountains. The little
one, of course, cared nothing for this and would not have complained if the heat
had been searing. He watched the blacksmiths forge horseshoes and other heavy
pieces in great fires, and saw white elven steel fashioned into daggers and
spear points.
They came upon a large group, many visitors like themselves, others obviously
metalworkers who had dropped their work to watch. The attraction was soon
discovered. Apprentices gathered in hushed silence while an elf with fiery eyes
and a mantle of authority worked. "That is Celebrimbor," Sîriesten
whispered. "He is the greatest of all smiths."
Nimestil, to his disappointment, could only catch a glimpse now and then when
the crowd parted for a moment, until gentle arms lifted him up. "Ada!"
he cried, as his father settled him on his shoulders.
"Ai, indegen, you cover my eyes," Voronwë laughed. They
watched for a few more minutes until the lesson was over, then passed through
several rooms to the one in which Voronwë worked.
His father set the elf-child on his feet. "Ada, na mereth edonnad nîn!"
Nimestil announced.
"So it is. I think I may have something for you." His father rummaged
among some items on a table and selected one. "Turn around."
The little elf stood quietly while his father fastened something in his hair.
His hands reached to touch the gift, but naturally, he had to remove it to see
it. Nimestil gasped with delight at the pretty mithril stars that twinkled as he
turned the clasp in the light. He allowed his father to refasten it in his hair,
pleased with the gift, though he was too young to appreciate the many hours of
labor invested in its fashioning.
The trade Voronwë had learned in Gondolin from an Exile, who had in turn been
taught by the Vala, Aulë. It was not his first love - that was the harp - but
metalworking was his father's trade and it had thus been chosen for him. As
such, he was a well-trained craftsman, but did not share the passion of his
father and other smiths who had formed the Gwaith-i-Mírdain under the
tutelage of the mysterious Maia, Annatar. This tutor was long departed from
Eregion, and nearly one hundred years of uncertainty had passed since his true
identity had become known.
Indeed, Fate now moved to bring its final reckoning upon the line of Fëanor.
The forces of Sauron fell upon Eregion only months after Nimestil's memory
recorded that idyllic moment in his twentieth year; the elf-child watched in
confusion and hurt as his father grew ever more distant and withdrawn. For two
years the elves held Ost-in-Edhil against the invading armies, but too late did
Elrond arrive as emissary from Gil-galad. At last all was lost - Celebrimbor was
tortured, killed and, as a final indignity, his body paraded as a banner before
Sauron's army.
To Sîriesten fell the task of managing her young son and nearly insensible
husband in their flight. Aranwë and many of the surviving elven defenders
joined the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, distracting the enemy from pursuit of Tuor's
grandson and the refugees who fled north. Voronwë's anxiety was almost tangible
in the air - at times he seemed to believe he was in another time and place; at
others he was present, yet not, and saw things she could not see but nonetheless
knew were real.
To add to her troubles, his terror began to afflict their son, as the elf-child
measured the extent of his peril by the reactions of the adults around him. Sîriesten
was grateful when Elrond, in spite of his considerable responsibilities, brought
the little one to walk beside him for a spell. Her son was calmed by the
attention, and she wondered that the elf-lord had taken no wife and fathered no
children of his own, for he seemed to take pleasure in the innocence of the
young ones.
Nimestil tried hard to be brave, but he was only a child, and there was so much
he did not understand. He did not know why his home had been taken away, or why
they marched so fast every day that his little legs could hardly keep up. He did
not know why his mother was so tired and short-tempered. His father did not seem
to recognize him, and that distressed him most of all. The little elf felt very
lost and alone.
The vegetation grew more lush and the terrain began to undulate; where Caradhras
fell sharply to the dry plateau of Eregion, the mountains here were cut with
many streams and rivers and descended gradually through foothills and valleys.
The scouts returned one day with reports of a steep valley ahead, and the party
turned its course in that direction. Elrond soon saw that it would be an easy
place to defend; the scouts had led them along a good path, but the steep
surrounding hills would be hard even for the mountain-bred orcs to descend.
Imladris was not then a haven; servants of Sauron soon besieged the elves. Aided
by Númenor, Gil-galad forced the Dark Lord to flee to Mordor in 1700, yet it
was an uneasy peace that was made, for it was certain the enemy would rise
again. Determined to put many leagues between her family and the menace in the
east, Sîriesten brought them to Lindon, that margin of modern Arda that
survived the drowning of Beleriand. Ossiriand, it had been called in the Elder
Days, when it had been her home. There they were troubled by neither hostile Númenórean
nor orc, and the lady saw her husband's senses return, though the added layer of
scars upon his mind left him distant and apathetic. For Nimestil, the crucial
time had passed; he had grown to his age of majority while his father still
struggled to master the demons of his memories.
Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1037 (Summer)
"Forgive my intrusion, my lady, but might you spare an old wanderer a drink
of water and a brief rest in the shade?"
Had Sîriesten been a mortal woman, she would have likely been taken aback by
the appearance of this humble man at her gate. As an elf, however, she perceived
that his appearance was merely a guise and his visit no random chance. "It
is well, Niphlien. Let him enter, and bring us a pitcher of water, please."
The servant withdrew from the gate, and Sîriesten led the tall stranger to a
bench under the trees.
"Well, randir, what brings you to our little village?"
"Our paths do not always take us where we expect to go," he answered.
Sîriesten accepted the water from Niphlien and dismissed her. The visitor
accepted a glass of water gratefully.
"Confound this endless summer!" he exclaimed. "This heat is most
vexing. Yet it is quite cool here in your garden." Having drained his water
in a few gulps, the elderly gentleman came to the purpose of his visit. "I
believe we share a common acquaintance, a friend of the Elder Days to your
husband?"
Sîriesten nodded.
"I am concerned for both of them."
"As I am," Sîriesten said, looking closely at the gentleman. She
stood suddenly and turned to face him, distress written in her features. "I
have thought much on this love that has transcended even death," the elf
continued. The fingers of her left hand traced the two bands of silver and gold
that symbolized her marriage. "They were betrothed, once. It was never
dissolved. Voronwë and I were bound, but not in love, and in truth it was not
his will to marry, but his father's wish that he could not resist. Surely the
Valar may see that this circumstance is not usual!"
The wanderer sighed. "Your son is dear to you, as he is to your husband,
and in your love for him, you are wholly bound to one another, regardless of
circumstance. Still, I daresay the exception of which you speak would not be
turned away by some with the power to grant it.
"Your plea would not, in the end, succeed. Glorfindel was sent to Arda for
purposes as yet unknown, but my heart tells me Voronwë is not part of his
destiny, at least not at present. Who can say what may pass when his task is
completed? But now this passion distracts him, and it corrupts both of
them."
Sîriesten returned to her seat. "What then, can I do? It is not my will
that Voronwë be made unhappy in our union, yet I fear more that his divided
loyalty will be his final undoing. He has suffered a great deal, and none have I
known to be so entirely without malice."
"It is Glorfindel, I think, who must see his way through this. He holds
more than your husband's affection hostage; what belongs to Voronwë must be
restored," the visitor mused.
"I am afraid I fail to understand your riddle," Sîriesten said.
"Understanding will come shortly, I think," the visitor announced,
standing. "And now I must take my leave, for I have many leagues and many
doings before me."
Sîriesten remained in the garden long after the wanderer took his leave. Since
Voronwë's ancient lover had returned from the grave, the quiet life they had
made in Harlindon had been ruptured. If not jealous, she resented Glorfindel's
intrusion. And though her words were brave, the loss of her husband's
companionship would be difficult to bear. Yet feelings she had refused to
acknowledge to herself surfaced without permission. She, who had never wished to
marry, to serve a husband, had instead been burdened with the care of an elf who
at times had been wholly unable to care for himself. Even in better times, she
had never been able to depend on him as an equal; it had been her lot to be
strong through crises within and without their household. Guilt stirred within
her heart; she had bound herself with her mind intact and knew then that her
betrothed did not do likewise. She had surely been complicit in all that her
marriage had brought upon her, and upon her husband and his lover.
Harlond, Third Age 1037 (Winter)
An eternally youthful face leers in a death mask. Kneeling to close the
sightless eyes, blood falls in splotches like rain upon the dead elf - blood
from his own hands. He looks up to see Ecthelion, pale as a wraith, save the
gory evidence flowing from his sword. Stricken, Ecthelion speaks: "What
have we done?"
In the pitch of the new moon night, several heaving breaths were required before
Glorfindel reoriented himself to his surroundings. Many millennia had passed
since he last suffered this dream, and he did not welcome its return. Enough
time he had spent in the House of Mandos contemplating this very sin; on enough
occasions had he discussed the Kinslaying with Olórin. It had been a terrible,
horrifying mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. From mistakes, one must profit in
lessons learned, and the events at Alqualondë had taught him restraint and
prudence.
Beside him, the dark-haired elf still slept, his presence as damning as the red
hands of his dream. Quietly, to avoid disturbing the other, he disentangled
himself from the linens and went forth into the clear, cold night. Guilt
returned this dream to him, he knew. 'Oh Valar, you have been over-generous in
your measurement of this elf,' he thought. His heart betrayed the trust placed
in him. His choices lay before him, all equally impossible. No path could he
follow that would not bring further pain to Voronwë. To break a sacred law of
the Eldar, to disregard a bond that held even in death…unthinkable, yet they
had done just that. And to turn away - what he should do, must do, for
his lover's sake as much as his own - the mere notion he could not endure.
"A Elbereth, law 'erin i gaun!"
Vale of Sirion, First Age 511
Voronwë felt as though something had shattered within him, something vital that
defined his very being. The others seemed distant, illusory, as though they
lived in a dream world he could not quite access. Wraiths moved through the
world he now inhabited. He was quite unaware that he was screaming; he saw hands
try to soothe him, but felt them not; voices spoke to him as though from a great
distance. Someone forced him to drink and the liquid burned his mouth, choked
him, and a smothering blackness soon followed.
From time to time he became dimly aware of himself and of disembodied voices
around him. "This cannot continue," a voice cried. "He is cold;
he sleeps like in death. It is not the potion. My heart tells me that something
has gone wrong." He heard no more as the scalding draught took his senses
into darkness once more.
Aranwë intended no malice toward his son, Idril knew; he could not stand to see
the horror in his son's eyes when he awoke. Thus, a powerful sleeping potion he
employed to delay the moment when Voronwë might know what had been done to him.
His father had been too late, and she wondered if it would have been kinder to
let her friend follow his heart rather than live in this waking nightmare. Days
passed in this way, as the survivors descended from the Echoriath and wound
their way southwest to the Sirion. At last, Idril appealed to Aranwë as the
daughter of his dead King; the potion forced sleep, but not the healing sleep of
elven dreamscape.
The air was fragrant with late summer berries and fruits when his mind
resurfaced. Voronwë struggled to throw off the black shroud that enveloped him
like a wet blanket, hardly hearing the man who spoke to him insistently. In the
mist about him crawled creatures of death, and tendrils of cold reached to his
very core. Someone wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and at last the voice
penetrated the thick curtain around his mind. "Come, my friend, you must
take some food." The mist fell away with its wraiths, and he blinked in the
sunshine.
Tuor regarded the frightened and confused elf with concern. Even in the heat of
the Urui sun, Voronwë shivered with cold. In vain, he tried to persuade
him to eat; at last, he had some water and slept uneasily.
"He is no better?" Idril asked quietly.
"He has not yet fully woken from the potion, it is a strong draught,"
Tuor said, avoiding her question. He sighed deeply. Would that they could halt
for a few days and perhaps give his friend a chance to regain his senses. But
they could not; already they had twice skirmished with orcs in their journey
since the ambush at Cirith Thoronath. Turgon had entrusted his people to him; he
had entrusted his daughter and grandson to his heart and to his guidance. In
this charge he could not fail.
Over difficult terrain and ever aware of the threat of attack, the party
continued, following the Sirion south. Now winter pressed upon them, and Tuor
feared more for the gaunt elf who walked beside them, unreachable and silent. He
feared for all of them, for they were poorly equipped for the cold, and there
was a limit even to the endurance of elves, the more so as they were hungry,
frightened and tired. Their march, he thought, might last into spring. He dearly
missed Voronwë's assistance, for he alone had once passed this way, with the
ill-fated party lost at sea.
Penninor found the weary refugees in a safe haven, protected by Ulmo and
Yavanna from Morgoth's servants. There, at last, they could grieve their losses
and heal their wounds. Idril shed long-held tears of loss for her father, and
thanked the Valar for their protection over her son, nearly lost to Maeglin's
mad jealousy and hate. That tree, she thought with a shudder, would bear no more
bitter fruit.
Tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, Idril banished this dark memory
and looked toward the stream where Tuor and Eärendil floated a toy boat of
reeds. How that child loved the water! Both father and son would be soaked,
Idril thought ruefully. She smiled to see her son's untroubled face, marveling
at the resilience of children.
The scent of the air and the rustling sounds in the breeze were tantalizing and
somehow familiar. Voronwë's mind reeled with confusion, but at last attached
itself to the place - Nan-tathren, the vale of willows. Perhaps he never left
this enchanted place; perhaps he had lain in a deep sleep, and dark memories
surfacing were naught but a nightmare.
Eagerly his mind seized upon this idea. He looked about him in wonder at the
place that had stolen his heart. The journey hither truly seemed a mere illusion
- he recalled being led at times, and coaxed to eat. More dead than alive,
willing his spirit to complete what it had started, but somehow he had lost his
way since they had left Cirith Thoronath. He closed his eyes tightly, he could
not think of that, he would not think of that. He looked about the
magical vale. This was where it had all begun... . The shadowy regions of his
mind beckoned; it was tempting to find solace in what had been rather than what
was. Clarity brought turmoil, uncertainty and pain. Delusion offered a soothing
cocoon, but returned to the wraiths he found both tempting and terrifying.
Tuor, though knee-deep in the water with his son, kept a watchful eye on the
elf, afraid he would wander and be lost. But his friend remained still, and he
was reminded of the dazed elf he had met by the Sea. This was a good place, a
healing place; it was a place of which Voronwë had often spoken wistfully in
Gondolin. Indeed, they rested long here, for many had need of healing.
Perhaps by the grace of Ulmo, or perhaps by the enchantments in the vale, the
shattered elf did find some peace here, and his friends and his father were
gratified to see something of the elf they had known returned to them. The
shadows yet lingered in his mind; many centuries and a child born of hope would
come before painful memories no longer spawned flight into the refuge of those
shadows.
Harlond, Third Age 1037 (Winter)
In the east, a pale rim of light promised the imminent ascent of Anor. He
saw now what must be done; he saw now what bound them irrevocably together. His
eyes fixed on the horizon, he stood motionless before the window as the door
creaked open behind him and light footsteps crossed the room. "This must
end."
Tears stung the corners of Glorfindel's eyes, threatening to spill, threatening
every ounce of resolve he had mustered. It was bitterly cold in the room, the
fire having died hours ago. "Come to bed, it is cold," he urged, his
voice thick.
The silhouette at the window did not stir. "I am not troubled," Voronwë
replied, a note of surprise in his voice. It had passed between them; the elf
felt it like an ember in his heart, warming his body like the rays of Anor
in summer. He turned to look at Glorfindel. 'He does not know; he does not
understand,' he thought. His heart ached, but with pity, not longing.
- * randir
- wanderer
- * mereth edonnad
- conception day (Literally: mereth,
feast or festival and edonnad, begetting - Tolkien does not seem to
have given us a word for this)
- * Ada
- Daddy
- * Ada, na mereth edonnad nîn!
- Daddy, it is my conception day!
- * Gwaith-i-Mírdain
- 'People of the Jewel-smiths'; the
order of smiths of Eregion taught by Sauron
- * indegen
- my little heart (see Author's Notes)
- * A Elbereth, law 'erin i gaun!
- Oh Elbereth, I have not the courage!
- * Urui
- August
- * Penninor
- New Year's Eve (approximately the
beginning of April)
- * Anor
- sun