Clink. Clink. Clink.
It was her companion everlasting – dust-breathing beams of moonlight, tracing after skilled, soft fingers. Her skin pink-pale, cherishing yet another creation; an oval mirror, set akin to a glimmering gem to bloom in silver-forged tulips wreathing around it. The crowning touch daunted her ever so – though simple to skilled hands, the silver-engravings laid heavy on her spirit, time and time again.
“May heart find hearth, and may heart find home...”
Effortlessly, her enchanting quill glided across the silver-frame; and in her voice, a tremble lurked as she rehearsed the words, echoing as a blessing – or perhaps, a plea.
Yet in the moonlit solace of her workshop, a wind uncaringly stirred – its breeze breathed upon her gentle glass, appraising her work delightfully; it wreathed and whirled around a lonesome, discarded harp, leaned against a pillar none too near, nor too far; ever within arm’s reach, yet ne’er reached for. Stringless, it nearly forgot the sound of music and rhyme, until the breeze cast off the shelf of dust from it, and its frame breathed with the faintest tune for but a moment – only to grow still, as the wind took abandon.
„…for ever, and ever-on, I am to wander, homeless and alone?“ A voice un-announced parried, and her eyes hurried to one of her many mirrors – espying a man clad in a tunic dark-green, respectful, yet uneasy in his posture.
Still, he bowed, and canted his head low, in respect unuttered. Knowing, green eyes beheld her, even as her orange locks billowed in the breeze, flurrying past her ruddy-fair cheeks. Through the mirror, their eyes met once more, and she spoke tersely, the wells of her pupils clouded by murk of fatigue and restlessness both.
„Well met, Lothuialdir, and be welcomed to Celondim-haven, where the Lune guides all things Eldar unto the uttermost end.“ She courtly replied, bereft of her penchant for cordiality, and her tone was half-cold.
„It seems your travels were rich with new knowledge of verses for you! What news of Greenwood the Great, and all lands East of here?“
The male Wood-Elf stepped with a light, unheard approach, though not towards her; but around her workshop, he paced, ere his eyes cast their keen interest across the verdant glen beneath them, and the shimmering water-glass of the Lune that flowed past the sheer hill, upon which the gazebo laid.
„A Star shines upon our meeting, Lothuialien – and it shines warmly, for you mustn’t forget that not every Eldar takes to the Straight Road! Alas, you forget, as you forget many things – save for water, and the song it once-echoed.“ He joyfully decreed, though his words bore down upon her heart not unlike a boulder sinking beneath the waves.
„No richer have I become, I fear, for those are the verses you hid from glance and ear, but not from touch. The unseen engravings upon your harp may still be felt, and their curse weighs heavy upon the wood. Greenwood is joined in this fate, alas – for now Mirkwood many call it, for the Shadow that stirs within it.“
At this, her glance cast low, and she joined his in their admiration of the Lune. It dazzled under the moonlight, calm and steady; never riled, nor too loud. The trickle was sweet, unassuming, bearing no ill tidings… Yet for her, it was all but so, and in the glint of the male’s eyes, it was deeply known.
She hid it, and did so well, but her glass-work always betrayed her. Due to its likeness with the river, and as all water around her did, it echoed the very song she once strung at the feet of Gondolin’s fountains. The water remembered it, and as it echoed then, so too did it echo in the Third Age; and her mirrors echoed with it, quietly eroding her heart with what once-was, and will never be anew. Her only keepsake was what she left-with thereafter – sorrow, anguish and regret at a wonderful life lived, and a wonderful life lost.
She had no need to regard the neglected harp. She saw no need to regard it. Yet this, he perceived clearly, and approached it, choosing to abandon the artistry of her mirrors as he knelt by it, and left her unattended.
„I share the gift of my House with the Free Peoples.“ She began tactfully, though a weight lingered in her throat.
„The weight of that verse rests only on my lips, and wanes upon my spirit only. Mirkwood, as now you deem it, still shares its fate with all of those that dwell within it, and thus must be mended. My burden weighs only upon me, and thus needs no righting.“
His fingers cautiously leaned to touch the harp’s bow, sweeping along it with great fondness. It wasn’t until they hooked inwards, that they felt it; well-hidden, faintest to the touch, but the words still lingered upon the wood indeed. Frustration clouded his brown brows, and his joy broke, as grief took its place slowly, but firmly.
„Lothuialien Annungilien, of house Bar-en-Ithil-Aelin, fountain-daughter! Despite ever looking to the past only, you forget yourself deeper than ever!“ His voice rose like a sudden storm, and his frame stood firm as he stood straight, turning to her, though she spared him the same courtesy.
„The beauty you shape looks ever back, and the world turns to change! The Shadow waxes, while you sit here, dooming yourself to diminish and wane! Redemption and reprieve are not yours to mete out – speak not to me of Mirkwood’s salvation and your doom, whilst you sit here, unattending to either!“
She fell quiet, yet her eyes, wide and awe-struck, spoke of a myriad of stifled screams. Elves never spoke of matters this directly, but she knew Lothuialdir, and knew his temper – milling about matters vexed him greatly, and each of his words could strike with the likeness of a javelin, and in that moment, she felt the truth of that sentiment with each raw wound sliced open.
A long pause ensued, as her eyes closed, and the silver-quill in her hand dropped, clattering to the stony floor in a cacophony of brittle clangs.
Finally, she deigned to stand – firm and straight, poised with grace, yet restless with ire. Her voice was heavy, wreathed in bottled wrath, and the gentle seeping of the river was drawn out, as was the wind’s combing upon the grass and its rustle of the leaves.
An uneasy dread began to gather around her, wearing the face of darkness; and it poured both in and out of each mirror-face surrounding her. Facets of a story began to come alight; each facet elaborated on Gondolin’s fall, and each provided unique angles of the iteration. Burning walls, toppling fountains, dragon-flame and orcish blades…
„What would you stir me to remember in its stead, Lothuialdir!? The cracking of Balrog-whips, the poisoning of riverbeds, the wail of Elven-maids as their sons and husbands rally against certain doom!?“ Though her chin was anchored lower, her piercing gaze lingered exclusively upon him, as behind her, the mirrors raged with wildfire. Her voice, once fair and blessed with a rhythmic lilt, now seemed terrible and poisoned with scorn, deep and suffocating.
„Nay, I choose the beauty of the past, for if I wished to revisit its hurts and muck, I only need look to the present and future! Is that not so, and speak true – is that not so with these Men and Shadow that you speak of!? Wherein lies the difference between them, and the assailants of Gondolin proper?“ She challenged him directly, unbroken in her gaze upon his.
It took heart, he thought, but heart enough would not avail him here. Keenly, he felt the dread about him, clawing at his own spirit, and though her voice once brought immense solace to Elven-kin, he felt its dooming pull on him, yet he would weather it, for a time unflinching. It was some manner of enchantment, he pondered, and somehow, he felt the Balrog-heat emit from the mirrors as if they were portals proper. Just so, the tension in the air became palpable, and he could sense that the enchantment was growing strained and brittle.
His palm pressed against the pocket of his tunic, and a sense of calm warmed his skin, and a chill soothed his mind, as he addressed her directly.
„Lothuialien, I–“
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Ere he made his interjection, the trembling glass about her began to echo her voice, from a myriad directions – each facet an independent source.
„I saw the final glance my father gave me as he rode out – as the gate he took an oath to protect gave out, and collapsed upon him! I saw as my mother rushed to his side, and in their loss, I find no salvation! Naught shall restore the warmth of their love, neither wisdom nor any triumph! Leave with your hope, and give it to the hopeful, for I am without, and will remain without!“ She began to decree, nearly forming an oath of Eldar make, or a prophecy proper.
The glass about her began to stain under the duress of her terrible voice. Cracks, ridges and creases began to creep into the mirros, with some openly beginning to shatter. Balrogs and orcs began to advance from the other side of the mirror, as if they beheld the Elven pair through them, and the grip of doom felt real, and near besides. It didn’t take long, ere the first few broke, and a flurry of diamond dust glinted against the moonlight, raining about like silvery powder.
Lothuialdir covered his eyes with an arm, and the gravity of her words and visions both had him nearly succumb to the dread evoked from her heart. Luck had it, however, that his fingers could still pull at a small chain from his pocket with just enough urgency.
„Your voice may be grave, but your mistaking is graver! You are not without the light you cherish in the present, the very same you look to in the past!“ He cried out, his hand raising a chain, embellished with a radiant gem at its end.
It was cut with the subtleties of a lotus-motif, its radiance a facet of all colours, not just pale; and it glowed warmly in the presence of such dread, diminishing the Balrog-heat in favour of hope’s warmth. It was set in a bed of silver, nearly mithril-like in gleam, and its light subtly began to blur out the memories of each mirror, halting the great fractures.
She choked for air momentarily, yet needed not flinch or close her eyes in the presence of such light, for it hurt neither him nor her, and it hummed with a healing boon.
„That… That’s the–“ She began mouthing the name, tears welling within her eyes; yet his hand would interject as it rose up, quieting her.
In a brief moment, she soaked in its light, and he began, stern of voice, and strong of volume.
„You know its name, this is well! Some things you have not yet forgotten, it seems! Though Beleriand may be consigned to the Ages afore, some parts of it still dwell in ours! Yes, the very present and future you forsook, have not forsaken you, my Lady!“ He shouted with a burst of sheer determination, as he advanced towards her.
„Behold, the pendant of your House, and herald of your parents’ adoration and pride! Alas! You know it better than I, is that not so? And in one more matter do you hold mastery over me, and you name it indolence – for you saw the Hidden City’s fall, and your mind struggles to discern the difference between then, and now!“
His tense hold over the pendant eased, and he lowered it from high-on, to letting it dwell between them, as he looked out once more, allowing the dark, choking fog about them to lift, reminding him that the world still persisted past all the dread and sorrow.
Finally, he turned back to her, and with ease on his brow, and a gentle, comforting smile on his lips, he took both of her trembling, tear-dewy palms into his, and gingerly placed the keepsake back with its rightful owner. The warmth that permeated through her ghastly-cold fingers turned them rosey anew, and her wild tresses shook no longer, as she collapsed to the floor, and he knelt beside her. Tears of joy and a grief shed overran the freckles of her cheeks, as a heart without hope felt it for but the first time in ages.
„The difference, you ask? There is none.“ He began staunchly, as he squeezed her palms.
„And in this lies our greatest hope, for the Enemy is the same as back then, or perhaps lessened in spirit and strength. Yet in this Age we are faced with the gift of choice anew – will we avenge Gondolin, or shall we doom Middle-Earth anew?“ He smiled warmly, and cupped her cheek, even as she struggled for words and drank every one of his with a mute zeal.
„You may make a difference now, Lady Lothuialien – for only through action may those of Gondolin, and those that come after, redeem its indolence. But dwell not overlong, as an Age may pass a High Elf by in their deliberations, accustomed to the flow of time as you are!“ Unable to resist courting a chortle, he shook his head, and closed her hands around the pendant, allowing her time to breathe.
He bowed his head, and finally made to stand, offering her a fond smile, ere he turned to depart.
Left on her lonesome in the warm mountain-air, her mind whirled and raced about, with fonder, frozen memories beginning to wax from their slumber under the pendant’s soothing light. She could scarcely believe that a fragment of the love she sought had made it to Middle-Earth, and her heart began to thaw – and a smile returned to her, a true one, not of her usual, cordial sort that embellished her lips only upon their surface.
She rehearsed his words, and sat there, her eyes flowing freely with tears, a lone High Elf in a sea of shimmering smithereens. Again and again would grief and joy take her, until the shards began to nearly melt away, as if their enchantment was undone and their duty released.
Finally, another gust of familiar wind bore warmth from the West, and it cherished her face especially, as if comforting her out of her crying spell. She rose her head to meet it from where it blew, and in so doing, through tear-pooled eyes, she beheld the lonesome harp, plucked of string and song.
It was then that a soft smile graced her lips anew, and she willed herself upwards – and for the first time, with a sure step, and clenched hands, she began her journey towards reconciliation – with herself, her past… And her beloved harp, through a sea of melting glass.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
