Wanderlust 2/2
Title: Wanderlust (2)
Author: clodia_metelli
Rating: er, K+?
Pairing: Erestor/OFC
Summary/Prompt: A brief history for Erestor, stretching from the ages of the stars to the foundation of Imladris. MEFA 2009 Third Place (Times: First Age and Prior: General).
Note/Warnings: Phrases taken directly from the Silmarillion and otherwise without citation are marked with asterisks, except for standard Silmarillion character epithets such as (for example) 'Melian the Maia' or 'the fairest of all the Children of Ilúvatar'.
Back to Part 1
Wanderlust (2)
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I do not own Middle-earth.
The wounds left by Menegroth’s fall were still bleeding when Idril Celebrindal and Tuor son of Huor led the survivors of Gondolin down from the willows of Nan-tathren to join the lady Elwing’s camp at the mouths of the Sirion. Amid the confusion of meeting and explanations and working out who from the shattered hierarchy took precedence in the camp, Erestor longed for the healing midnight silence of the stars in vain. It distressed him too that Melinna, still adrift in rage and mourning, had not left their tent since their arrival. He drifted through the chaos of the camp while refugees from Gondolin sang songs for those who had died there, for the maidens and the wives, for Ecthelion of the Fountain who had slain Gothmog, the Lord of Balrogs, and for Glorfindel the beloved.
It was said that Glorfindel, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, had been buried under a mound of stone beside the pass of Cirith Thoronath, the Eagles’ Cleft. The stories and those evocative names, half-heard in a moral maze of loss and pain, stirred an old restlessness in Erestor’s heart. He had no real attachment to the settlement at the mouths of the Sirion; his loyalty to Thingol’s great-granddaughter Elwing was slight; and the squabbles and confusion attendant on a life scraped from the ashes of the past in a crowded camp of refugees repelled him. His allegiance, insomuch as he was loyal to anyone other than Melinna, rested with the lost world of Melian and Thingol in Doriath. These petty seeds of a settlement had no real hold on him. He returned to the tent and his unresponsive mate, still shrouded in blankets so that only her glossy dark hair spilled out, and talked to the top of her head about a search for the ruins of Gondolin until that same wanderlust stirred Melinna from her grief.
That journey north was more dangerous than any they had ever before undertaken, in part because both of them were still hurting from the death of all that was beautiful in Doriath. It seemed at that time as though neither of them would really have cared had they fallen to an Orc or some other wicked, vicious creature and on several occasions it was only their good fortune, enduring down through all the long ages, that preserved them. They abandoned the Sirion where it was joined by the River Narog, since neither of them wished to pass through the still smoking ruins in Region and Neldoreth, and when they finally reached the river’s source at Lake Ivrin in the mountains of Ered Wethrin, they went northeast towards the island on which Finrod Felagund, Finarfin’s son, had built the tower of Minas Tirith. There on the island that had once been Tol Sirion the ruins still lay, marking the place where Lúthien’s declaration of power had thrown down the gates and opened the walls and laid bare the pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth,* the citadel of Sauron, Lord of Werewolves. Finrod Felagund’s grave stood green, still inviolate, on the hilltop where Lúthien and Beren had buried the fairest of all the princes of the Elves.
They went from there to a certain place in the Mountains of Shadow where they had long suspected Turgon’s city to lie hidden. “It really is a pity,” said Melinna as they came to the secret door and found it broken open and long abandoned. She was almost herself again by then, having rediscovered her spirits along with her wanderlust, although she was still unable to speak of the Nogrod Naugrim or the sons of Fëanor without cursing. “Did they honestly think they could hide an entire city? I’m surprised it lasted so long.”
Erestor shrugged and peered up into the ravine that the refugees at Sirion had called Orfalch Echor. The gates had been shattered, all seven of them, and the watchtowers lay charred in ruins. “One wonders what good it did,” he observed. “As long as they were hidden, they couldn’t even offer a sanctuary to Morgoth’s enemies. It strikes me as a waste of everyone’s time and effort.”
“They did come out to play at Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”
“Indeed, and for what? Maedhros lost that war. Once it was over, everyone knew there was an army tucked away in the mountains. Everyone, not just those of us who wondered where Turgon’s people might have gone. After that, Gondolin was lost. Why didn’t they listen to Tuor?”
Melinna turned over a piece of rubble with her foot. “Why didn’t we leave Menegroth when Dior took up that cursed jewel?”
He had no answers for that, remembering his own despair. He said instead, “Gondolin was built and loved and lost, and no one went there or left except the Gondolindrim. No one. Even the Naugrim traffic over the mountains. Even in the dark days, Menegroth was open to anyone as long as Thingol and Melian trusted them. Now Gondolin’s fallen without really harming or helping anyone and only a few refugees at Sirion know what the city was like before it fell. So what was the point of that?”
“Ulmo said so,” said Melinna mockingly, since Turgon of Gondolin had not listened to Tuor, the messenger sent by Ulmo to warn against Gondolin’s doom. “Come on. Let’s go up to the city.”
What remained of Gondolin was still haunted by foul and irksome creatures, although the captains of Angband and their armies were long gone. Melinna and Erestor were obliged to tread warily among the broken fountains and ashy stairways that littered the hill of Amon Gwareth. They recognised some shattered palaces from the descriptions given by the survivors at Sirion; others still had plaques announcing their owners, or tell-tale relics of those who had once lived there. Everywhere, they walked among bones. It would have been impossible to lay to rest the remains of all who had died there and they did not try. They had too many griefs of their own to weep now over those whom they had never met alive.
Some small things only they took from the ruins of Gondolin, since the city had been thoroughly plundered in its devastation by the forces of Morgoth. They departed by way of the secret passage prepared by Idril Celebrindal, Turgon’s far-seeing daughter, and traced the terrible escape through the mountains that had brought the survivors of Gondolin’s fall to the Vale of Sirion. Along the way, they found golden-haired Glorfindel’s tomb, roofed over with green turf on which yellow flowers were beginning to bloom amid the barrenness of stone.*
“Do you think the Balrog’s corpse is still burning down there?” asked Erestor, peering into the abyss. “We might go and look...”
“We might meet some Orcs on the way,” said Melinna dryly. “I think not.”
He sighed. “As always, my love, you’re quite right.”
Down into the Vale of Sirion they came, still following that terrible escape, and skirted round the forests of ruined Doriath on their return to the camp at the mouths of the Sirion. There they found that a flourishing little settlement had sprung up, aided by Círdan’s mariners from the Isle of Balar. It occurred to them then to revisit the Falathrim and find out which of their friends and acquaintances had survived the long years, so they took sail to Balar and made polite obeisance to Círdan the Shipwright and Ereinion Gil-Galad, who had been named High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth after the sack of Gondolin and Turgon’s demise.
In Balar, Melinna and Erestor idled away some decades in reasonable contentment until the Elves of Sirion perished in the third Kinslaying, Maedhros and his brothers having learned that Dior’s daughter Elwing, now married to the son of Idril and Tuor, still possessed the Silmaril. For Dior’s sake, they sailed with Círdan and Gil-Galad to the aid of the Elves of Sirion, but the ships arrived late and Elwing and her sons were gone. Only when the new light Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope, arose in the heavens and was seen to have the shine of a Silmaril, could anyone guess at the fate of Elwing and her husband Eärendil. Meanwhile her sons were in the keeping of Maglor, the minstrel son of Fëanor, and remained there until he met his doom.
Then the hosts of the Valar came out of the West and broke Morgoth’s power utterly. Of this Erestor and Melinna knew little until the Herald of Manwë summoned the Elves of Beleriand to depart from Middle-earth. This summons brought their doom to Maedhros and Maglor, whose oaths would not permit them to abandon the two remaining Silmarils seized from Morgoth, and it brought some distress to Melinna and Erestor, who found themselves torn between sailing to fabled Aman or remaining in Middle-earth where anything seemed possible in the wake of Morgoth’s fall. Eventually, learning the names of those who were to remain behind and having been assured, too, that the way across the sea would remain clear of the shadow-mazes formerly set there by the Valar, they chose to linger in this remade land. It would still be possible, one day, to make that final journey into the West; but no one had ever returned from the West who had once sailed that way.
In the years that followed, Erestor and Melinna returned to their old wandering ways, lacking only and longing for lost Doriath. They spent a time in the new land raised up from the sea for Men: Andor, the Land of the Gift, where Elros the son of Eärendil ruled the Edain for four hundred years and ten. Presently they returned to desolate Beleriand, which had been very greatly changed in the Great Battle when Morgoth’s fortifications had fallen, and found that the north had been lost to the sea and Sirion was no more. At the same time, the mountains of their birth had been broken and a new country arisen in Ossiriand in the east, called Lindon. Here ruled Gil-galad and here with him was the brother of Elros, Master Elrond Half-elven, who had chosen an immortal over a mortal life. They did not linger long in Lindon, but passed over Ered Luin to investigate the new cities then arising in the inner lands. Ost-in-Edhil was beginning to flower in Eregion, the Land of the Holly, and the Noldor of that city were trafficking with the Naugrim of Khazad-dûm, known to the Elves as Hadhodrond.
They remained in Eriador until Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, became powerful there; at which point, learning of the mistrust of Gil-Galad the High King and Elrond Half-elven for that gentleman, it seemed prudent to remove themselves from the region. Both Melinna and Erestor had lived long enough to mistrust sweet words and sweeter faces, and they were wise enough to recognise the wisdom of Gil-Galad. In due course, war followed, from which they absented themselves. Having lived through the long years of Morgoth’s domination, they felt, perhaps wrongly, that Annatar-Sauron’s petty evils were no business of theirs. Eregion was devastated and Ost-in-Edhil was sacked and the Naugrim of Hadhodrond had closed their doors and all of this was very sad, but in terms of loss no tragedy could ever compare with the fall of Doriath. They wandered in Lindon until it came to their ears that a stronghold was being prepared by Elrond Half-elven, somewhere in the Misty Mountains. This sounded interesting enough to merit a visit, so off they went.
Imladris, which Men were to call Rivendell, was then no more than half-built. There were patrols; they eluded these without trouble, largely from habit, and drifted curiously into the valley through which the Bruinen flowed. There were the beginnings of walls and of terraces for gardens, and all through the valley was a confusion of workers and tents and refugees, apparently, from devastated Eregion. It all seemed thoroughly chaotic. They settled in the shadows of a vast old oak and watched with interest as the walls of what appeared intended to become a rather grand hall arose from the ground before their eyes.
“They’re not very organised,” remarked Melinna as they observed the future inhabitants of Imladris at work. “Why don’t they move all the tents somewhere out of the way?”
“Maybe it’s easier not to,” Erestor suggested, taking note of one dark-haired Elf who appeared to be supervising the building of the new hall. Judging from the way that other Elves were constantly approaching him with apparently urgent messages or inquiries, this Elf must be an important person. He seemed very young to be in charge of the building of Imladris; but then, almost everybody seemed young to Erestor these days, now that so many Elves had sailed into the West. “Or safer.”
Melinna disregarded this. “That child should not be playing down there,” she observed with a disapproving tsk. “She’ll only fall in.”
“Do you think?”
“Certainly,” said Melinna, rather coldly. “Do you know what the trouble is?”
“I can guess what you’re going to say it is,” said Erestor, yawning as he lounged back against the oak’s broad trunk. He thought the Elf in charge of the work must have overheard their conversation, since a swift, annoyed glance had come their way, and this amused him. “Look over there. Does he remind you of Elros?”
She ignored this as well. “Too many men. If there were more women here, they’d be much more organised.”
This claim was not new. Over the course of the centuries, Melinna had developed a Theory to the effect that the Noldor population of Arda was shockingly unbalanced, with perhaps twice as many male Noldor as there were women. Such an imbalance naturally caused excessive belligerence among the frustrated male population, resulting in anything from mere quarrels to outright wars and Kinslayings. Melinna liked to illustrate this imbalance by listing the descendants of Finwë, who had produced three sons and no daughters, thirteen grandsons and two granddaughters, three great-grandsons and three great-granddaughters, three great-great-grandsons and one great-great-granddaughter, and two great-great-great-grandsons and no great-great-great-granddaughters. Generally Melinna stopped with the Half-elven twins, since a list of Elros’s descendants would have gone on for far longer than her point required. At any rate, the house of Finwë therefore included twenty-three males and six females, discounting marital relationships, which Melinna thought made her point nicely. It was purely anecdotal evidence; she was obliged to admit this every time Erestor pointed it out; but the numbers were on her side. So was the fact that no matter how many males died in the most catastrophic of wars, there never seemed to be any shortage of men in comparison to the numbers of women requiring husbands. One day (she said) she was going to sit down with as complete a history of Arda as she could find and produce some tables that would prove her Theory beyond any argument. She also had what she called a Theory as to why Idril Celebrindal, the sole child of King Turgon in a city awash with eligible bachelors, had remained unmarried until the arrival in Gondolin of a Man of all people, but Erestor preferred to consider this one sheer (and possibly slanderous) speculation. Some of the frescoes in the ruins of private houses in Gondolin had been rather interesting, to say the least.
He caught another irritated look coming their way from the Elf who looked very much like Elros Half-elven. No doubt the gentleman was wondering why they were not at work.
“I thought you’d say that,” he remarked to Melinna, and was amused again to see the dark-haired supervisor twitch. “Dangerous times, you know. Maybe more women will come here once the place has been built.”
“Maybe the place would be built faster if there were more women,” retorted his wife with a flick of her glossy hair. “Really! did you see that boy? He just relieved himself into the river!”
That proved too much for the Elf in charge. Even as Melinna was still speaking, he abandoned the building work and turned sharply towards them, cutting directly across to where they lounged under the spreading oak. His face, which would one day be ageless, seemed still young to them and he looked distinctly displeased. The resemblance to Elros Half-elven was more obvious that ever.
“Excuse me,” he said sharply, staring down at them with the starlit evening eyes of his mother’s grandmother Lúthien. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“No,” said Melinna, looking critically up at him. “We only just arrived.”
“Would you like some?”
“Not really. You’re right, Erestor. He does look like King Elros. Didn’t we meet him once in Lindon?”
“Probably. I can’t remember everyone we meet.”
“Well, I know you don’t!”
“Excuse me!” said Elrond Half-elven with even more sharpness. “Who are you?”
“Visitors,” said Erestor and almost got up to be polite. It seemed too much effort. He twitched a foot thoughtfully and added, “No one in particular. We heard you were building a stronghold, Master Elrond, and thought we might drop by just to see what was happening. It looks very promising.”
“If disorganised,” added Melinna, not quite under her breath.
“Oh really,” said Master Elrond, pouncing on that remark at once in clear displeasure. “And who are you, lady, to criticise my organisation?”
“No one in particular, Master Elrond,” said Erestor again, before Melinna could say anything even more provocative. “Please forgive our impertinence. I’m Erestor and my wife’s name is Melinna.”
“And you feel you could organise Imladris better than me, Lady Melinna?”
Melinna’s reply came flatly, too fast for Erestor to stop her. “Yes. I do.”
“Really!” snapped Master Elrond, obviously irked. “Then you may try! Do come and tell me what you’d do differently!”
“Certainly,” said Melinna and rose at once, which seemed to disconcert the son of Elwing and Eärendil. She wore male clothing, as she usually did when they were travelling, and in addition to a bow and a quiver of arrows on her back, she carried her dwarf-made sword and two long knives visible at her side. Erestor, watching resignedly, happened to know that his mate carried three more knives that were not visible, also of dwarven make. In short, she looked very much unlike any Elf-maid or lady with whom Master Elrond might previously have been acquainted. It was usually the case that Men or Dwarves assumed she was male, which could be convenient, and it was not uncommon for Elves to assume the same thing until she opened her mouth.
So indecorous. So their mothers would have said, all those long ages ago.
He could see Master Elrond reassessing her there and then. Elrond’s tone was markedly more cautious already. “Did you say I’d met you before in Lindon? I think I’d remember you.”
“Only once or twice, I think. Very briefly.” She gave him another critical look. “We knew your brother better. That was in Andor - we stayed awhile some years back. You both look very much like your grandfather Dior.”
“You knew my grandfather?”
“We saw him die.”
She said it bluntly, almost without bitterness. Erestor sighed.
“Melinna, my love,” he said gently, rearranging his long legs in the grass, “if you stop to list every member of Master Elrond’s family we’ve ever met, we’ll be here a while! Weren’t you going to prove to us that women are better at organisation than men?”
“Surely,” said Melinna at once and gave Master Elrond a challenging look. “If the invitation holds.”
Master Elrond blinked those clear grey eyes that made Erestor think of nightingales. “Of course. I could hardly withdraw it now.”
They walked away, Melinna already describing the way she would have settled all the tents in one place and safely away from the building site, just as the lord Celeborn and his lady Galadriel had done when the refugees from Menegroth had camped among the mouths of the Sirion. Erestor shook his head and settled back into the green shadows under the oak’s broad branches. Someone was humming the Lay of Leithian somewhere close by, which made him smile. He closed his eyes and let the sounds of work and the river wash past him, losing himself in dreamy reverie. Here was a project for Melinna, clearly: the organisation of Elrond Half-elven’s leafy halls in unbuilt Imladris. Perhaps they would remain in the Misty Mountains for a little longer than they had expected.
“Wake up,” said his wife’s voice above him. “I’ve got a job for you.”
He yawned. “What?”
“Someone needs to show Master Elrond’s men how to keep watch properly. I’m busy here, so it’ll have to be you.”
“Melinna,” he said mildly. “I didn’t claim to be a better organiser than Master Elrond. Why do I have to -”
“Master Elrond is quite upset that no one noticed our arrival. He’d take it as a kindness if you’d oblige.”
Erestor heard the firmness of her voice and sighed again.
“Oh very well,” he said, resigned, and opened his eyes. Melinna stood there smiling at him, twisting her fingers through her glossy dark hair, obviously enjoying herself immensely. He noticed that people were taking down their tents all around the valley and that young Master Elrond stood a little way off beside the abandoned walls of his half-built hall, looking vaguely bemused. “I suppose I’m to talk to some unhappy captain about this?”
“Several. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Well, if I must. I suppose we might as well have a proper look round the Misty Mountains while we’re here.”
“I thought it might keep you occupied,” said Melinna briskly. “Up you get!”
The captains of Master Elrond’s guard were not happy at all to have some stranger first slip through their patrols and then lecture them on how to keep a proper watch in their mountains. Erestor spoke as gently to them as he could, although their youth and inexperience seemed painfully obvious. It was difficult, too, to express in words the instinctive understanding of how to walk unseen that he and Melinna had gleaned from thousands of years of travelling through dangerous lands. The captains were sceptical and resentful and in some cases frankly hostile to what he had to say. In the end, he was obliged to issue a challenge: they could order their patrols as they wished for a week and he would spend that time exploring the Misty Mountains nearby. If they could tell him where he had been when he returned, he would concede that his unseen arrival in the valley with Melinna had been a mere fluke of good luck and that they had no need of his instructions.
“Do take care,” said Melinna a little absently, informed of this. “You know you always get into trouble when I’m not there to keep an eye on you.”
Erestor grinned. “As far as I know, there’s nothing unusually dangerous round here,” he pointed out. “I’ll leave any interesting caves or villages until you can join me, will that suit you?”
“Oh, surely!” laughed his wife. “I’ll see you in a week.”
A week later, Erestor drifted back into Imladris to find the reins of authority settled rather firmly in his wife’s control. Master Elrond seemed content to get on with the building work and leave the daily running of the camp to Melinna, who seemed equally content in what was for her an unusually domestic role. The captains of Elrond’s guard had received precisely two firm sightings and one possible sighting of Erestor during the course of the week and were rather chastened, not least because young Master Elrond had delivered some sharp rebukes during Erestor’s absence. Erestor was startled to find himself vested with ultimate authority for the safety of Imladris, very much against his own protests.
“It’s not forever,” said Melinna, when he complained to her. “By the time all the building’s done, they’ll probably be able to manage without you.”
“Good!” said Erestor. “I hope it’s done soon!”
The halls of Imladris were declared complete on a breezy day in the early autumn. Master Elrond took possession of his new stronghold with his customary composure and not a little glee, and at once began to allot rooms to his followers with Melinna’s able assistance. Erestor discovered that they had been installed in one of the largest and airiest suites, not far off from Master Elrond’s own apartment, and went rather crossly to advise the Lord of Imladris that they had no intention of remaining in Imladris forever.
“Of course not,” said Master Elrond, smiling with Lúthien Tinúviel’s silver-grey eyes. He had inherited much of Dior’s beauty, this last immortal grandchild of Thingol and Melian, and some of the light of his father Eärendil as well. “Melinna told me so herself. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have suitable rooms to return to while you’re here. I hope you’ll always feel at home in Imladris.”
Just as you did in Menegroth. The words were implied, not spoken; Elrond Half-elven was far too wise for that. Erestor frowned and went away, remembering the court of Melian and Elu Thingol.
Imladris was not Menegroth and never could be. Still, in this new small world with its new small evils, Elrond’s halls in the Misty Mountains might well prove to be a suitable refuge in times of trouble. Very well: he would not argue against their accommodation there. Perhaps they would come to be grateful of a welcome in Imladris.
“Besides,” said Melinna sweetly, “we weren’t about to leave already, were we? We’ve only been here a couple of years! We stayed longer with Elros in Andor.”
“So we did.”
“Don’t sound so grim. Listen. Do you remember Queen Melian’s ladies wanted to teach me to spin?”
“I remember,” Erestor said dryly. “They didn’t have much success.”
“No. Well. Do you remember the tapestries they wove in Menegroth in the days before - well, before?”
“I remember,” he said again. “What of them?”
“I thought -” she said and frowned a little. “The walls are bare, Erestor. These halls are so raw and new. They need tapestries for colour and to keep out the cold when winter comes. I asked Master Elrond to send to Lindon for dyed fleeces. The women are going to spin the wool and weave tapestries with it to cover the walls. I thought I might try to learn to weave.”
Erestor stared at her in complete surprise.
“This is most unlike you,” he observed at last. “Will it take long?”
“I don’t know,” said Melinna with characteristic candour. “I doubt I’ll be very good at it. Still, I’d like to try. There was one hanging - I remember - with nightingales and the gardens of Lórien...”
An image sprang up at once in Erestor’s mind, his memory spiced and sharpened by loss. It had been small, as the tapestries of Melian and her ladies went, and it had not been the most elaborate or the most colourful or the most remarkable or the tapestry that ordinary guests would have remembered, but it had been very beautiful nonetheless. Melian the Maia had woven it with her own white hands and hung it in the room where they had stayed during their visits to the Thousand Caves of Menegroth. No doubt it had perished in the second sack of Doriath.
“It’ll take you a hundred years and more to weave well enough to recreate that,” he prophesied. “If anyone even could.”
She smiled at him. “I think we can spare a hundred years or so to try.”
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