Narn Gil-galad by Earonn

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Chapter 10: The Long Journey

 

Curtsy: to Nemis for extreme-beta-reading and her expertise regarding Sindarin names. I'm looking forward to the barbecue and to the other party with the two bottles of New Zealand's finest!

To Ayten for the orc-cookie-recipe!

Dedicated? To Jaschenka, who made a wonderful drawing of Gil Galad for me. Also for the invitation to the barbecue. You will have a house full of doggies, a hubby and three cranky fangirls. Enjoy yourself! *packs orc-cookies into bag*

A/N

Finch: At least now we know why he never married. He just wasn't the fatherly type. :)

Thanks a lot!

Jojo: Angrod thanks for being re-integrated in Orodreth's heritage. Finwë complains because 'great-grandfather' makes him so old. *g*

Longshot: I imaged the return of the orcs with their captives to Angband like the fled of the orcs of Isengard with Merry and Pippin. No time for sports. As for Glaurung, you're absolutely right: he deserves to get his belly pricked...

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X The long Journey

Like a huge red-golden glowing ball Anar stood close over the horizon. Its beautiful glimmer lay like water-colour on the snow that had fallen the night before and was reflected by the ice on the Narog. The clouds had withered and between their ash-grey ceiling lonely stars were sparkling amidst the dark spots of night sky.

The air was clear and dry. And icy cold.

For nearly two weeks the survivors of Nargothrond were on their way to the South. They followed the Narog downstream, trusting that the remaining power of Ulmo in the river would lead them from their old home to a new. But their pace was agonisingly slow. Apart from the children, who naturally could not walk as fast as the adults, many of the wounded still had to be carried. And there were no roads along the river, only small paths and deer passes and sometimes flat areas of snow-covered meadows along the bank. They slept during the days and wandered at night to keep in motion during the coldest hours and to avoid attracting the enemy's attention. Only seldom they were able to lit fires, as all wood was wet and smouldered, something to be seen over many Miles. Defence against another attack would be impossible.

Their fears and troubles, however, were without reason. If Morgoth had known how many of Nargothrond's inhabitants had escaped its fall, surely he would have sent his orcs hunting them down long ere they had reached the meeting of Narog and Sirion in the woods of Nan Tathren.

But few of all the orcs who went out for battle against the army and stronghold of Nargothrond returned to Angband. Those who did not perish in the battle of Tumhalad or died during the fight in the dwelling itself mostly were killed by the Haladin in Brethil, when the Edain tried to free the elven captives.

And those who returned only told him of the victory in battle, how they seized Nargothrond and of the death of the elvenking Orodreth. Him Morgoth had ignored already in Valinor since he deemed the son of Angrod weak and unimportant. And Orodreth's Beleriand-born son he even ignored the more, regardless even if he was heir of the High Kingship of the Noldor after his father's death.

The thoughts of Morgoth were aimed at Túrin, the Black Sword of Nargothrond, and most of all at the present High King Turgon, whose whereabouts were still unknown to him and who seemed more dangerous than any group of half-dead elves without a home could ever be.

Gil Galad walked among the other refugees, thankful for the ground beneath his feet being pounded already by those in front of him. The little dozing boy he carried leaned his head against the elvenking's shoulder, rocked and sung to sleep a while before. Another boy walked near to him, wistfully waiting until it was his turn to escape the ever too fast pace of the adults and to warm up against the body of the grown elf.

Long since the king's steps had become slow and spiritless. Yet even after eleven days without proper sleep it was not fatigue alone which had taken his strength, nor the continuous fight against the chill, but mostly grief and despair. There was too much to do, too much to think about, too many sorrows pressed down on him.

Again and again he reminded himself that the elves had survived worse than this. They had crossed the Helcaraxë, a place of greater cold and more cruel surroundings.

But they had been better equipped and led by Fingolfin, one of the greatest of the elven people.

"And I am not like him," he once said to Celebrimbor. "How could I match with what even our uncle only could achieve with great efforts and under heavy losses?"

It was not very sensitive to mention the Helcaraxë in hearing range of Celebrimbor and Gil Galad knew well enough how much his friend was tortured by his guilty conscience about his family's betrayal of the host of Fingolfin. Gil Galad had no excuse for his behaviour but the undeniable need to speak, to utter his thoughts, selfish it might be.

"Do not forget," Celebrimbor answered after a while of painful consideration of past faults, "that our uncle Fingolfin had not been without help. It was your relatives who supported him. He had their aid. And you have ours."

Indeed, Celebrimbor did much to lighten the weight the young king had to carry. Sometimes Gil Galad had the impression that in a certain way his cousin was downright relieved to now endure the same hardships the elves under Fingolfins leadership after the treachery of Fëanor had had to face. As if he tried to atone for what he considered himself to also bear the blame for.

But more than the strain of leading one thousand elves through the wintry wilderness it drew on him to look into the pleading eyes of crying children who wanted their parents, their friends or just their favourite toys.

Though even worse were those children who did not cry or ask any more. Who silently and apathetically suffered everything. Who lay down in the morning on the more or less dry ground without complaint and instantly slept.

Some of them did not wake up again.

Gil Galad shifted the little boy in his arms and held him a little closer, thankful for the life he sensed in the small body.

Fifty-two they had lost. Fifty-two of his people whom despite all his efforts he had not been able to help, towards whom he had not fulfilled his obligation as their king.

Two fell victim to the wolves, who always followed them. They did not dare to attack the elves openly, but they waited. For the slow or the careless who departed too far from the main group. Two times they had waited successfully. One child was drowned when it went out too far on the Narog's ice and this crushed beneath its weight. Three of the wounded succumbed to their injuries. And since there were no wet nurses among them, they lost the five smallest babies. The little children were too young to be fed with anything but milk, not even with a porridge made of Lembas. Mercifully they died of cold instead of starving in full view of the helpless adults.

And the rest were those children who could not stand the winter, the strain or just the shock of losing their families and their home.

He had counted them and he knew them by name. Each one he had buried himself, fifty-two graves to prove his failure.

He had loosened the frozen soil with his sword, since they had no other tools for this kind of work. Only in the beginning it seemed to be a desecration of the weapon his father had given him long ago on Tol Sirion. Now he was proud of the notches and scratches on the once flawless metal. This sword served his people as it should. Who cared how?

Somebody far ahead gave a loud cry and instinctively Gil Galad stiffened, put down the child and laid a hand on the handle of his weapon.

Just as he went through the crowd of elves looking at him with frightened eyes, the person gave a second cry, but this time gladness and relief were distinct in it.

"Sirion! Look, we have reached the Sirion!"

The sight of the great river Sirion gave the elves new strength. The greater part of the journey lay behind. For a while their steps were lighter and hope lit their faces. A few even tried to sing.

Though he felt like anything but singing Gil Galad's mind was also enlightened. He knew this part of Beleriand well enough to estimate that they would only need about a week to reach the Mouth of Sirion.

'Six days', he thought, 'if they only survive for six more days. The Falathrim at the estuary will help us. Círdan likely has already received our message.'

He had sent four half-grown elves to Balar as soon as the rest of them departed from the caves, though due to Noldorin pride and worry for their safety it had been a difficult decision for him. He did not doubt that the lord of the Havens would support them in their need. The bonds of mutual help and friendship between the Falas and Nargothrond were older than he himself and all over Beleriand Círdan had a reputation for being open and friendly to elves of all kind and even also towards Men and Dwarves. Many refugees of the different battles had found a new home among the Falathrim.

Suddenly he noticed the young warrior who had informed him of his mother's death walking some steps ahead. At the moment he stretched his neck like all others to catch a glimpse of the Great River. A good opportunity.

Gil Galad increased his pace until he was close behind the other elf.

"You're avoiding me."

The young man winced when he heard his king's voice behind him. He looked over his shoulder, blushed and made an indefinable sound.

"And quite successfully", Gil Galad went on, serious but not unkind. "Since the beginning of our journey you and I hardly exchanged one single word. My life could depend on you; still I know nothing about you. What's your name, for example?"

If possible, the elf even blushed deeper. "Argon," he eventually whispered.

"So you are named after an honourable man. I don't see any reason to be ashamed of that?" (1)

"It doesn't suit me. The lord Arakáno – he was a brave man, he faced up to the enemies. I fled from the orcs while she stayed."

After long days and nights of thinking about it the thought of his mother's death did not hurt less, but had grown into a familiar pain, no longer sharp and sudden as in the beginning. Manageable.

He laid a hand on Argon's shoulder.

"My mother always knew what she did. If she chose to stay though it seemed senseless she had her reasons. These, however, do not necessarily apply to you."

With distinct unease Argon shifted the little girl on his arms from left to right and caressed her soft hair. Fortunately both children slept and did not notice anything of the conversation.

"However you may think about it, Argon," Gil Galad went forth, "you cannot change it anymore. And I have seen no one here, who does not feel in the same way. Every one of us believes to have done too little. Myself included.

"But it is not yet over. You still have people to whom you owe your obligation. So if you think you have to atone for something, do it for them."

With this he nodded towards the children they carried.

Círdan the Shipwright stood at the shore of the Belegaer and pensively looked to the choppy sea. The sharp, icy-cold wind bit in his skin and tugged on his silver hair.

But the Lord of the Havens felt neither bites nor tugging. His eyes were set to the distance, the West, where so many of his people lived, friends and relatives and also she – should she have survived the massacre of Alqualondë.

The awareness of being left behind, never to see the light of the Two Trees, was painful and lingered still. Nonetheless he never had regretted his decision to stay behind on behalf of the search for Elwë Singollo, and never would do so. With Thingol being a close friend since the days of the Great Journey Círdan knew that if he had left, whatever peace and joy Valinor could have held ready for him would have been be tainted by the guilt of having forsaken him.

But until today he could not watch the waves and look to the West without feeling a powerful longing for the Undying Lands. One day, so he was foretold by the Valar, he would be allowed to step on those coasts. But when? He already waited for so long…

Sighing he turned from the strand and went up to the settlements of the Falathrim, which they had built above the bay and the natural harbour that shielded their boats against Ossë's fury.

Halfway there an elven woman joined him. As she reached the elder elf she turned her face towards the cold wintry wind. She was heated by the work the Shipwright had called her from. The fresh air felt pleasant on her skin.

"I have heard what happened," she said. "Nargothrond destroyed, its army defeated. And Glaurung the dragon has appeared again. The news spread soon after the messengers arrived."

Círdan scornfully snorted.

"Messengers! You should have seen them, Síliel! Four youngsters, not nearly grown. Chosen because they are swift and arduous and since there is no adult elf of the folk of Nargothrond anymore who could have withstood this strain!"

The woman held her eyes closed while she walked on, letting herself be led by the other elf's presence beside her.

"And surely they were deeply awed to stand before the famous Lord of the Falathrim…"

There was an affectionate mocking in her voice.

Said lord of the Falathrim smiled, but it was a cheerless smile. Yes, the children had been awed. They had stood before him awkward and self-conscious and brought the message of the new Lord of Nargothrond hawing and hesitantly. A message that was nothing else but an urgent and desperate plea for help and support. And when they had recited what their people needed – of course they had to memorise it, there was nothing the refugees could write on – it was like a poem, a sad song, told to each other again and again on their way to Balar in order not to forget a single item.

He sighed again. And yet it was not much they had asked for. Apparently far too few had managed to escape their home's destruction.

Opening her eyes Síliel watched the sand and the shells beneath her feet.

"I will send them whatever provisions I have. If the number I was told is correct, we have more than enough – provided that we will have no dire need ourselves," she mentioned as if in answer to her lord's musings. "Though we have problems to get enough wet nurses. Few of the nursing mothers are willing to bring their children within reach of the dangers of the mainland."

Círdan, who had reached Balar mere twenty years ago, a refugee himself when Morgoth's army had overrun the Falas, and who had received help from Nargothrond more than once, was only too willing to help its people. But he also could understand his own folk.

He thought back to Orodreth, so helpful with the rebuilding of Eglarest and Brithombar. From there his thoughts wandered to Helegethir, how she had looked at the prince of the Noldor, on that day of their farewell from the Falathrim. He sighed wistfully.

The woman gave him a scrutinising look and recognized his pain. Her hand gently stroked across his upper arm.

"At least some of them have made it."

"Yes. Yes, you are right, we should be thankful for what is left not complain of what is lost. After all, some good news the children brought: Orodreth's son has survived, Gil Galad. He leads the people here. But Helegethir is dead and it is said that Finduilas is captured by the orcs, together with most of the other inhabitants."

A cold shiver ran over his body as he recalled what was likely in store for them in Morgoth's dominion.

"Do you know him?" Síliel asked and stroked some wind-entangled strands of hair from her face.

"No, I have never met him or heard more of him besides what Orodreth told in his letters. And how much of that was just fatherly pride I cannot tell, although he was never inclined to exaggerations. But I can imagine how it must feel for the boy to take responsibility for his people under such circumstances. He is not old enough for such a task, not at all. Yet he must be strong, regardless of his own fear, uncertainty and grief – and should he manage to bring them to Balar alive, it would be an admirable achievement."

"Noldor. The Helcaraxë is still in their blood." She hesitated. "Will you recognise him as your lord?"

For a moment he was silent. "I don't know," he eventually answered in a low voice.

The woman turned her glance away. "He is too young.”

"Not to forget a Noldo?"

Círdan was a leader who saw deep into the soul of his people. He knew how many of the Falathrim still had reservations towards the Noldor and were unwilling to associate with the returnees from Valinor, even with those who had not participated in the fight of Alqualondë. With the downfall of Finrod's realm they would also consider every alliance with it as gone.

"You should know me better than to believe that could be my reason," she answered.

"And yet you did not accompany our kin when she followed her love to Nevrast, though you have always been close to her."

"Perhaps because I preferred to stay near the sea – and near to my beloved kinsman?" She gave him a roguish glance.

The elder elf quietly laughed. "Do not try to flatter me! I am well aware that it has more to do with one of my most skilled fishermen."

He took her hand and they went on. But the thought of those who were soon to arrive still caused unease in the Shipwright's mind. He absently checked the growing of some grasses they had planted on a dune in order to steady it.

He was distantly related to the House of Finarfin which ruled Nargothrond. After king Thingol had granted the eldest son of Finarfin the caves at the Narog, which led to the establishment of the largest elven realm in the middle of Beleriand, Círdan had practically become vassal of Finrod Felagund.

'But Finrod never acted like a lord towards us,' he thought. 'He sent us help to rebuild Eglarest and Brithombar – oh, wonderful cities that you have been! – his own nephew, but he never demanded anything. Ever he treated me with respect as an elder relative. And Orodreth behaved in the same way. Truly better it would have been for the Noldor if Finarfin and not Fëanor had been Finwë's eldest son!'

But now everyone of the ruling family of Nargothrond he had known was dead and he saw himself obliged to someone who in the eyes of the Eldar was counted young. Someone whom he did not know at all and who besides that was the heir of Turgon, the heir of the High Kingship of the exiled Noldor in Middle Earth.

"I don't know," he said again, thus uttering his thoughts. "Whatever we may think about him, he is Finrod's rightful heir. Moreover one of our own relatives, if distant, and mostly Sinda by blood, even though I cannot say if this will have any effect at all.

"But now it is of the utmost importance to gain unity between the elven realms. That's the only chance to protect at least a part of our people against Morgoth. If only he were not so young…but we will see. I want to see him myself before I make my decision."

As soon as they reached the settlement he gave order to bring everything onto the ships they were asked for and what the refugees might need beyond. He intended to set sail with the next flood. The elves of Nargothrond did not need only food and warm clothes. They needed the mental support the awareness of someone's help would give.

Due to the favourable winds they soon reached the shore. In the settlements along the Bay of Balar lived Falathrim who produced what could not brought forth on the island itself. They dived for pearls used for jewellery and trade, raised cattle for milk and wool and even cultivated some plantings. Balar was a huge island, and Círdan insisted that it should be independent from the mainland, in case the orcs should ever reach the Mouth of Sirion. Therefore only the absolutely necessary things were produced on the island. And cream was not among them.

The mainland-elves had not been idle after they ferried the young elves to their lord's home. Many carriages were assembled on a flat field covered with snow near the river, of which some were already loaded with food and sheets and dry wood. Usually ships could sail upstream the mighty Sirion even in deepest winter, but in this fell year the river was frozen far down and only navigable in its estuary.

When their lord arrived the elves reloaded the stocks as quick as possible from ship to carriage and just a few hours later they started. Círdan even managed to persuade another three women to accompany them as wet-nurses. And while he watched his people work, well-organised and filled with readiness to help towards even these foreign elves, his heart literally ached with pride and love.

Three days the Falathrim travelled upstream before they reached the trek of the elves of Nargothrond. These were in a just pitiable state, haggard and weary, nearly all of them children, filled with grief and stricken by fear, the warriors injured. All had not had enough sleep or food and they looked miserable even regarding the long journey down the two rivers.

Stunned Círdan walked among them. Children came to him, shivering, meagre, with weary faces and dry eyes which already had cried all tears. They cuddled up against him, asking for warmth, for comfort, and it broke his heart to see them in such a poor condition. How painful it must be for Orodreth's son to see them such, see them despair, see them freeze, yet unable to help? The Shipwright was anxious to meet his young relative who had been forced to take his father's duties so suddenly and under such terrible circumstances.

Eventually he asked a woman who sat with an expressionless face on a tree's stump, wrapped with two children into a thick sheet and drinking slowly the hot spiced wine some of the elves of the Falas handed out to everyone.

"Excuse me; I'm looking for your king."

She looked up to him, weary as all others. Without a second thought he put out his hand and caressed her cheek.

"It will get better, I promise. We cannot give you back what you have lost, but at least you will have a new home."

She did not answer, nor smiled, but he could sense the change in her bearing. A shimmer of hope rekindled in her eyes. Then she nodded to the right.

"He is somewhere over there."

Círdan followed the gesture. Soon after he found the king, in this crowd of Noldor and Sindar he was distinct, golden-haired and as similar to his great-uncle Finrod as if he was his son and not Orodreth's.

He stood together with one of the dark-haired Sindar, enraptured in their conversation and Círdan heard them talking about the little children. He stepped towards the two elves and nodded.

"Greetings, my king."

Orodreth's son blushed and sighed.

"Seventeen," his companion said dryly

Confused Círdan looked from one to the other.

"You are the seventeenth this happened today," the Sinda explained. There was a slight twitch around the corner of his mouth and then he turned to Círdan, suddenly straight and self-confident, despite his all too apparent weariness.

"I am Artanáro Finellach Gil Galad of the House of Finarfin. Greetings to you, Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Havens." He bowed his head like to an equal.

For a short moment the old elf couldn't do anything but stare at this dark, unobtrusive elf, so very unlike the rest of his family. There was nothing of Finrod's radiance in him, nothing of Aegnor's fiery spirit or Angrod's imperative bearing.

Then he realised what the other just had said.

"Not longer Lord of the Havens," he said. "Brithombar and Eglarest are destroyed. There are no Havens anymore to be lord of."

"And yet you greeted me as a king, though there is neither a realm nor," Gil Galad cast a short glance over his shoulder, "a folk of Nargothrond anymore, whose king I could be."

His voice was calm, and the Shipwright understood that with these words he might have abdicated his rank but not the responsibility for his people. This was the heir of the High Kingship...

Suddenly he had a feeling as if holding something incredible precious in his hands and the old mariner knew he felt a foreboding of what was to come. For this elf he had to take care of, had to protect him, for the sake of their people. And because he liked him at first sight.

"There you are mistaken," he answered. "No one can tell how many are necessary to create a folk. As long as one of them lives, you are his king."

Gil Galad smiled a weak half smile.

"It may be as you say. Then, as king of Nargothrond, I owe you thanks for your swift help. Especially for the nurses. Maybe we won't lose any more of the children."

More?

"How many…?" Círdan did not dare to ask the question in full.

The young king inhaled deeply as if to answer, but then he failed, shook his head and remained silent. He could not. It was too painful to speak of it.

"Fifty-two, altogether," Gildor murmured with a sympathetic look towards his friend. Why force him to utter this horrible number?

And then something happened which seemed odd to the lord of the Falathrim, but was a painfully familiar sight for the elves of Nargothrond: Gil Galad inhaled deeply, straightened himself with a sharp movement – and the grief was forcefully buried somewhere deep in his fëa.

Even without knowing the younger man well, Círdan could see that this was not healthy, could not be the correct way to deal with the hurt.

Gesturing towards his friend Gil Galad explained, "This is Gildor Inglorion, someone who deserves his epessë remarkable well."

Círdan waited for more, but when nothing came he greeted Gildor friendly. He knew what this silence meant.

'No House to which the boy avows to. So he most likely descends from Noldor who fought at Alqualondë and then broke with Fëanor and their own misdeeds.'

He had met many elves from such families, who had left their Houses and with them their wrongdoings or those of their forefathers behind.

"You have suffered and achieved a lot," he said carefully. "You should take some rest…"

"No!" the sharp answer came at once. Then Gil Galad relaxed. "First I want to have them safe. A few days more or less won't make any difference now."

In this moment Círdan felt more than just pity for his young kinsman. An intense feeling of protectiveness overwhelmed him, maybe even a hint of fatherly care, and without really thinking about it he took the king's arm and pulled him a few steps aside.

"Well spoken, indeed. But do you really think that would be of any help for your people? We are refugees ourselves, we know what to do. It is not necessary for you to take care for everything by yourself. You will need all your strength for other things."

If Gil Galad noticed the sudden intimate address he did not react to it.

"And what should I do in your opinion? Sit down and muse about what the orcs…what they are doing to my sister at this very moment?"

The elder elf frowned and the realisation shot through his heart with a sharp pain.

'He just tries to distract himself from his sorrows. O Elbereth, what has been demanded from him? How long has he been living that way?'

"You should try to find some rest nonetheless," he said aloud. "We have to wait for news and they won't arrive an hour earlier only because you deny yourself any sleep. Many of your people are in the same situation. Go to them. Share your comfort. That's all you have."

Deliberately he spoke more harshly than he felt. Actually he felt inclined to take this young elf with the so painfully injured fëa into his arms to give him some comfort himself. But the Noldor had their own pride and he could not measure how the king of Nargothrond would take such behaviour from a virtual stranger, even if an elder relative.

He looked into Gil Galad's grey eyes.

"Go to them. The children need you," he urged again.

Finally the younger elf sighed deeply and indeed turned towards some children, who instantly ran to him. Círdan watched how he pressed them against his body, caressed their hair, whispered to them and dried their tears with great patience.

'And who will dry his?' he unhappily asked himself.

Although the sunset was near Círdan proposed not to wander further this night. The woods around were free from orcs, he knew, and the elves of the Falas brought enough dry wood and warm clothes to withstand the cold. They could walk on the next day, their pace would faster anyway with the children and injured on the carriages.

Therefore the elves of Nargothrond experienced the pleasure of warm sheets and enough food for the first time in many days. Though the food was a new experience for some of them. The Falathrim had brought whatever was easy to transport, but the elves from the inland did not know fumed saltwater fish nor marinated mussels or seaweed.

Círdan observed Gil Galad taking one of the little children from the wet-nurses of the Falathrim and setting her down into his lap with practised movements.

"What's her name?" he asked just to begin a conversation.

The elvenking slowly raised his head, still with grief and sorrow within his dark eyes, but also a hint of peace.

"We don't know. We don't know what her real name is, how old she is or who her parents were. We do not even know if she is from Nargothrond or one of the dwellings around. She lost her whole family, her whole ancestry, not her parents alone. We call her Ergaladh. There are some other children like her, Eriell, Ereirion, Ermerilin…they all got names to remind us that we are just their foster-family."(2)

Until deep in the night they sat together and talked. Círdan asked Gil Galad many things, let him speak of happier times as well as of the fall of his home. He hoped that if the younger elf uttered what pained him he could cope with the pain more easily. But he was not sure if his strategy was successful.

And after some time he just let himself be enraptured by the sight of his relative. He listened to his deep, warm voice and his fluently, expressive body language in which the Shipwright found Helegethir's influence. The speech melody and speech rhythm were unfamiliar to him, but pleasant. He wished he could sit longer and just watch and listen.

When they lay down to sleep eventually, the elder elf mused on his feelings and surprisingly found a strong affection to Orodreth's son.

'Gil Galad they have called you,' he thought. 'Well, I will make the star shine again, whatever it takes.'

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Chapter End Notes

 

(1) In 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' (HoME XII 'The Peoples of Middle Earth') in the part 'The Names of Finwë's descendants' it is reported about Arakáno, a son of Fingolfin:

"Arakáno was the tallest of the brothers and the most impetuous, but his name was never changed to Sindarin form, for he perished in the first battle of Fingolfin's host with the Orks, the Battle of the Lammoth (but the Sindarin form Argon was often later given as a name by Ñoldor and Sindar in memory of his valour)."

Though the 'canon-ness' of Arakáno as a member of Finwë's family may be uncertain at best, I like this son of Fingolfin (as likewise Fingolfin's sister Lalwen whom we will later come to know) and wished to work him into the story.

(2) Name translations:

Síliel: means (I hope so) 'the lustrous'

Ergaladh: lonely tree

Eriell: lonely maiden

Ereirion: lonely flower

Ermerilin: lonely nightingale

2nd AN:

My Sindarin is even more 'creative' than my English, but I know that the prefix 'er-' actually means 'alone' instead of 'lonely'. I used it nonetheless as the elves were said to adapt names for the sake of aesthetics (yes Nemis, I took this expression from your note *g* Thanks again!).

Any comments, help or instruction are welcome, of course.