The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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Nargothrond

The riders rebuild a life for themselves in the hidden kingdom of Nargothrond under King Orodreth.  But a man named Turin arrives and then a warning from Ulmo.

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41)  Nargothrond - Year of the Sun 494 Narbeleth (October)

 

Morelen

In Nargothrond, they had rebuilt a life in the years following the disaster of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  The lands of the elven kingdoms in the north continued to shrink but the hidden kingdom continued to grow and expand under King Orodreth.  Five years ago, a man arrived, who took the kingdom by storm.  He was known by many names, but Morelen knew him as Adanedhel, the Man-Elf for he was so like the elves in speech and manner. Adanedhel rose rapidly in the ranks of Nargothrond under Orodreth and the king soon relied upon him for all things military and his black blade, Gurthang, became a symbol of hope for the people of the realm.  It was a long-awaited chance to strike back at the dark enemy that had beaten them down for decades.

After another victory in the field, Orodreth elevated Adanedhel to become the general of all Nargothrond’s forces.  Morelen remembered that day in the main hall of the hidden realm after she and the riders fought alongside Adanedhel in the fields north of their lands.  Sunlight streamed down from polished mirrors in the cavern ceiling, augmented by magical lights.  The walls of the main hall were lined with smooth translucent white marble with colorful mosaics of elven life inlaid into the stone.  The marble slabs were framed with delicately carved birch wood arches, made to appear as if they grew naturally.  Artificial streams, filled with lilies, ran along the walls, interspersed with fountains, sculpted into the shapes of plants and animals, casting a cool mist throughout the area.  Such was the wonder of Nargothrond that was created by Finrod Felagund.

On that day, a few years ago, the people chanted a new name for Adanedhel, the Mormegil, the Black Sword. Morelen’s heart was filled with nearly forgotten pride.  The Free Peoples were resurgent.  She stood with her company and her friend, Finduilas, the King’s daughter, who gazed upon Adanedhel with adoration.  The citizens of Nargothrond pumped their fists, heralding the defeat of yet another orc army.  “Mormegil! Mormegil!  Mormegil!” they chanted, Morelen calling loudest of all.  She could see why Finduilas loved him.  Adanedhel was larger than life, a ball of fire that the Free Peoples needed.  There was even talk about retaking Hithlum and the Falas.  Standing tall, he held his mighty black and gold Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin in the crook of his left arm, his dark hair flowing down around his shoulders over his plate armor that was accented by chainmail at the vulnerable areas. His eyes shone on a chiseled face above high cheekbones and a square jaw.

On that auspicious day, with victory banners lofted high, Notaldo held Morelen’s hand, cheering with her.  Her silver plate armor was barely scuffed from the battle and her blue bow, Luinë, was in a leather sleeve on her back while her sword, Melima, hung in a scabbard at her hip.  Her raven hair streamed down past her neck, still sweaty from the fight. The cool mist from the fountains in the hall brought her some relief from the heat that she felt from the fight.

Captain Tintallo seemed to have returned to his old self, boisterous and outspoken.  His armor glistened silver with polish as he removed his crested helm.  He practically worshipped the ground that Adanedhel walked on for the pride of the elves was being restored.  Only Líreno seemed reserved.  Orodreth, in his kingly robes of state, green and gold, woven like a great tree, joined Adanedhel on the stage, his face beaming with joy.  “We have achieved another great victory, my friends!” the King shouted over the cheering crowd.  “Our great general, Adanedhel, has routed another force from Angband and our lands are safe once more!”

Adanedhel raised his black sword and the people went wild, screaming and shouting, some sobbing in happiness.  The Free People had suffered beyond measure since the Bragollach, losing kingdoms and great lords, their peoples massacred or enslaved.  But this one man had changed everything.  “The victory is not mine alone!” he called, shaking his blade above his head.  “You and your King have made it possible.  I would be nothing without your trust and your friendship!  This is your victory!  This is your freedom!”  Morelen wept openly, tears streaming down her cheeks.  The unnumbered tears of anguish from decades past were nearly forgotten now.

Orodreth clapped, silencing the crowd.  The laurel crown upon his head gave him the look of the lords of the Eldar and, with his blond hair and fair features, he could have easily been mistaken for his great brother, Finrod Felagund.  “We have another announcement,” he called, his voice reverberating in the massive cavern. “It is with great pride that I tell you that our general, Adanedhel, is also Túrin, the son of Húrin, the mighty hero that fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and allowed Turgon’s army to withdraw.  This extraordinary man now leads my armies, and we have gone from strength to strength!” The people went wild again.  Their hero, the son of a great hero, had come to save them.

Túrin sheathed his sword and then swept his hand through the air to quiet the crowd and the cavern became still.  “In light of our string of victories over the forces of the Dark Lord, I have advocated for the building of a bridge across the river.  This will allow for a more rapid deployment of troops to respond to ongoing battles or to field armies for offensive actions.  Our plan to retake the north will be better enabled with this. Our great King Orodreth has already approved, and construction will begin soon.”

Again, the citizens of Nargothrond cheered, waving banners and streamers.  Morelen paused for a moment, remembering something that Notaldo told her in the past.  She leaned over to her husband.  “Would this change the defense of the city?” she asked, genuinely curious.  “I recall you telling me that the river and the small landing of the entrance were its own defense.”

Tintallo overheard her and leaned over with a patronizing smile.  “Things have changed, my dear,” he said as if telling a child something complex.  “Adanedhel has led us from strength to strength.  The balance of power is shifting back to us.  We need to go on the offense.  Morgoth is reeling from our victories.”

It seemed as if the general heard them and he looked over and smiled.  “My friends!  My great riders!” he said as he walked over with the King.  A huge grin spread across his face and he wrapped Tintallo up in a bear hug.  “You! You, my friend, fought like a dragon. The grace in which your riders performed is a thing of legend.  It was no wonder that you were the elite of Fingon’s armies.  I am honored to lead you.”  He then shook the hands of the nearby riders.  When he grasped Morelen’s hand it was like a thunderclap.  She stood there, mouth agape until he turned to the next rider.  His words were nectar.  Perhaps Túrin was a man that they could fight for with pride again.  Túrin wrapped one arm around Tintallo and one around Notaldo. “We could not have won this battle without you,” he said and then turned to Orodreth.  “My King, I propose that we elevate these men for their great deeds. Through the last five battles, the Riders of Nargothrond have harassed and worn down the enemy and then charged to break their ranks.  No finer fighting force do we have in the kingdom.”

The King smiled and reached out his hand to the leaders of the company.  “Tintallo, Notaldo, I name you as lords of Nargothrond.  You may carry my personal sigil,” he told them, presenting them with mithril badges of a harp, flanked by two blazing fires.  The new lords knelt to accept the pins.  “I shall have banners made for the company too.” His eyes softened for a moment, and he gestured for them to rise.  “Though I know how much you loved Fingon so I will allow you to carry his banners as well in memory of such a great king.”

Tintallo and Notaldo leaned forward and kissed Orodreth’s sleeve in a sign of vassalage, showing their loyalty to an elven king.  “We are honored,” Tintallo declared, pride showing on his face once more.

Orodreth turned to the other riders.  “Nandamo, once the herald of High King Fingon, I name you as my herald.  Your voice has carried the glory of our arms across the battlefields.  And you, Líreno and Morelen, I name you as captains of my forces.  My pride in your valor knows no bounds, my friends.”  In turn, each of them kissed his sleeve though Morelen noticed that Líreno’s smile was forced.  What was with him?  This was a joyous occasion.  But she had always known him to be skeptical and cynical, especially since the Nirnaeth.

Morelen was about to ask him what he was feeling, but a young, adolescent girl made her way through the crowd and hugged her and then Líreno.  “Silmani!” Morelen cried out, her face beaming.  “Come, come, join us in the celebration,” she added, lifting the girl onto Líreno’s shoulders.  She squealed with surprise and joy.  Hurinon’s daughter was growing up, loved and cherished by her parents’ friends, who had become an aunt and uncles, raising her as their own.  The young lady was dressed in robes provided by the king, green and gold with flecks of silver woven into the fabric so that it looked like sunlight through a forest.

Orodreth leaned in close to the group, holding his hand close to his mouth.  “I have received secret communications with High King Turgon. He chooses to keep Gondolin hidden for now, but he will support our operations with intelligence and supplies. Círdan and Gil-Galad, Fingon’s son, have established a haven on the Isle of Balar and at the Mouths of the Sirion, for those who fled the Falas.  Turgon has sent messengers to them with the intent to sail west.  He fears that we cannot win this war, let alone survive without the assistance of the Valar.  He tells me that we need their strength.”

Túrin shook his head. “They have given us nothing and we need nothing from them.  Let Turgon send his messengers while we take the fight to the enemy,” he said, making a fist with his gauntlet.

Tintallo nodded.  “I agree.  We have the orcs on the run.  We have turned back every attack that they have made with ease.  The Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin has them trembling in fear.”

King Orodreth grinned. “I have the might of the Noldor and the Edain at my side.  We cannot fail.  It is settled then.  I shall have resources devoted to the construction of the bridge and we shall begin shortly.  Túrin, prepare our armies for further offensive action.  I will keep Turgon informed of our intentions.  We did good, everyone.  Please, enjoy the festivities and rest well in the coming days.  You all have earned it.”  He turned and put his arm around Finduilas and guided her to the table where food had been set out.  Her blonde hair swung around as she gazed back at Túrin.  Morelen knew love when she saw it.

Túrin did not seem to notice but gestured the riders to the banquet.  Tables had been set out, full of food for the victory: fish, fresh fruits and vegetables, roast waterfowl and rows of baked desserts.  The cooks and bakers of Nargothrond had outdone themselves. Morelen inhaled the delectable aromas of the feast and she was starving after such a great victory.  Notaldo took her hand and led her to the food.  She took a plate and began piling on portions of every dish.  The dwarf merchant, Cragstone, and his family were placing mugs of ale onto the tables. There was some gray in his beard now and lines on his face.  Morelen nodded a pleasant greeting to him, but her mouth was full of food, and she couldn’t speak.  The merchant had been a fixture in Nargothrond for almost two centuries.

Notaldo winked at her. “Worked up an appetite, huh?”

She had already put a turkey leg in her mouth and was chewing loudly.  “Mmmhmm.”

“Save some of that for later.”

Her eyes grew big, and she nodded.  “Mmmhmmm!” Her appetites were always big. Notaldo took his plate and headed over to the table reserved for the riders.  Other tables sat the infantry, the archers and other arms of the service. The grand hall could seat nearly everyone.

Líreno bumped into her as she swallowed the turkey, nearly causing her to choke.  “Líreno!” she scolded after she swallowed.

His expression was not one of joy, his eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed.  He set Silmani down from his shoulders.  “I know this is a time for celebration, but I see a darkness that clouds Túrin.  He is a great leader, but we should be careful.  Do not take everything that he says at face value.”

She looked at him sideways. “But Líreno, he has never steered us wrong.  We have won every battle under him.”

“I know he came to Nargothrond with Gwindor.  Remember him?” he asked and Morelen nodded.  “He lost a hand escaping from Angband.  He is a shadow of his former self.  I think I need to speak to him.  He knows something more about what is going on.”

She touched him on the chest.  “What is it? What do you think it is?”

He sighed and shook his head.  “I…I don’t know.  It’s just a feeling.  And remember what your husband said about the landing.  Now, a bridge across the river?”  He blew out a long sigh and shook his head.  “Excuse me.  I didn’t mean to upset your evening,” he said as he walked away, looking for Gwindor.

Morelen watched him go. Líreno always had good intuition, but he was darker, more cynical since the Nirnaeth.  She took Silmani’s hand and led her to the table.  “Come, I have plenty of food for the both of us.”  The young lady grinned.  She must be as hungry as her aunt Morelen.  They sat and Silmani tore into the food, slicing off pieces of turkey and chicken and dipping them into a cranberry sauce, specially prepared for the feast.  Morelen stood behind her and braided her brown hair into an intricate pattern. “There.  Perfect for the occasion,” she said, nodding to herself. This was shaping up to a perfect day.

Morelen finished a slightly sweet, slightly tart raspberry dessert that was filled with a creamy custard, savoring every bite.  She held the tart out to let Notaldo and then Silmani take a bite and then popped the final piece into her mouth, licking her lips.  Silmani had become a daughter to the entire company, who raised and cared for her, teaching her to ride and shoot a bow.  Morelen had taken a particular interest in this, being the only female in the company.  It gave her great joy to see life, growth and peace.  It would be all too easy to forget the horrors of decades past.

She sat back and rubbed her belly over her armor.  It wasn’t quite as satisfying with her armor on, and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable wearing her metal skin.  She groaned. “I need to get out of this.  I’m going to head back to the room,” she said. She stretched as she stood, working out a kink in her neck.  “I’ll see you tomorrow for training,” she told Silmani and picked up her helmet from the table.  Elven armor was light and well fitted, but she had been wearing it for the most part of four days.  She took a sniff of her underarm.  “Ugh.” She briefly remembered previous battles and campaigns that had gone on for weeks.  This quick victory was a blessing.  She leaned over and kissed Silmani on the forehead and touched Notaldo on the arm.  She crossed the bridge over the stream that wound around the great hall, looking down at the green and yellow lilies that floated in the slowly moving water.

The halls of Nargothrond were another wonder.  Smooth, silver pearl granite walls lined the hallways, lit by magical lanterns.  Intricately woven tapestries hung from the ceiling, depicting elven life in such realistic terms that one had to look closely to see that it was craftsmanship.  Her leather boots echoed on the limestone tiled floor as she walked back to their room. She opened their door to the sound of the fountains in their suite.  They were no longer guests but permanent residents, part of the defense of the realm. She felt proud of her husband’s service and advancement.  That meant that they would also get upgraded quarters.  There was something in her that craved power, and she couldn’t quite explain it.  She kept it suppressed, knowing in her mind that it was foolish, but the seed was sprouting.  She shook her head vigorously, her black hair whipping about her face.  “No, stop it.  You’re being stupid.”  She would not give in to such desires.  She was a High Elf, supposedly above such base things.  If only that were true.

Morelen set her helm on its stand.  A squire would clean it later, such was her increased status.  One by one, she undid the straps holding her armor in place and she placed each piece on the stand with a sense of practiced precision.  Under her armor she wore leggings and a quilted gambeson with chainmail links over vulnerable areas to cushion any blow.  She pulled off leather boots and gloves and then shed the rest.  She dipped her hands into one of the bowls of water at the fountains and splashed it on her face.  She looked up into a mirror near the bowl and saw that she was happy again.  The Noldor were gathering strength and a man named Túrin had come to save them.

She stepped into the next room, and a fountain began to spray water into a booth that was tiled in greens and blues to look like the sea.  The influence of Ulmo, who had revealed the location of Nargothrond to Finrod, could be seen in so much of the art and décor of the kingdom.  As she walked into the booth, the hot water cascaded down her body and she inhaled the steam.  Her skin felt alive again and she leaned against the tile, closing her eyes as she raised her face into the stream of water.  She heard the door open, and she looked to see Notaldo walking in. She lowered her face with a grin and extended her hand, beckoning to him with her fingers.  He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, letting the water flow down around them as she buried her head into the crook of his neck. She could feel his skin on hers and she moaned softly.  She could stay like this forever.

Two more years went by and the great bridge over the River Narog was completed.  Sorties against the forces of Morgoth were increased, and the enemy was pushed back to the borders of Nevrast.  With any luck, Nevrast would fall back into friendly hands, followed by Hithlum.  Perhaps the splendor of Fingolfin’s realm could be restored.  Life in the hidden realm could not have been more perfect. Victory after victory, led by Túrin, powered the people of Nargothrond and morale soared.  There was talk that the Mormegil was invincible and the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin was worth ten thousand spears on the field.  King Orodreth was frequently besides Túrin, fighting and motivating the troops.  Once again, on that day, they routed another of Morgoth’s armies, the riders breaking the line of orcs, trolls and Easterlings and then destroying the fleeing enemy.

Notaldo drew his bow and aimed it into the mass of orcs and trolls.  “Volley fire!” he called to the company as he veered his horse right to create the perfect firing angle for the riders.  Morelen leaned out of her saddle, bowstring pulled to her ear with a thumb ring.  She and Lindarion had become a fused fighting force after centuries of battle together, and the horse shifted her gait to give her rider the best firing platform. Morelen released her thumb grip and the arrow leapt from the string, fletchings gripping the air, spinning the shaft for stability, right into the eye of a massive troll.  The beast lurched backwards, croaking out loud and then fell onto a group of orcs, crushing them and throwing up dust into the air.  A volley from the Telepta Company followed and orcs fell, gripping at shafts protruding from their throats and chests. Enemy troops were throwing down weapons and fleeing in panic now.  It brought a warm feeling to Morelen’s heart as Lindarion ran over an Easterling, crushing him beneath her hooves.  Tintallo’s lancers then plowed into the flank of the devolving horde, spears driving through bodies.

“No mercy!” Tintallo shouted.  “Drive them back to the void!”

Túrin and Orodreth crashed into the enemy from the rear and the horde was now surrounded on three sides, elven infantry at the front.  The brisk fight was becoming a massacre.  Tintallo’s face was gleeful as he drew his sword and began hacking at orcs around his mount.  Morelen could just make out the sword, Gurthang, black and shrouded by a pale fire, lopping heads and limbs off of orcs and Easterlings.  Nothing could withstand the Mormegil.  Notaldo sheathed his bow and drew his curved blade. “Swords!” he called, and hundreds of blades were drawn as one, the sound sending shivers down Morelen’s spine.  He pointed his blade at the open flank of the enemy.  “Close the gap!  Cut them off! No one escapes!”  The Telepta drove into the panicked mass, closing off any retreat.  Lindarion smashed into an orc, flinging it into its fellows as her rider lopped the head off of another in a clean stroke.

“No mercy!” she could hear Túrin shouting.  He was cutting a great swath through the enemy, leaving a trail of mutilated bodies and a trail of blood in his wake.

Morelen leaned back over her saddle and drove the tip of Melima into the face of an Easterling lord. He screamed, bringing his hands up around the curved sword and then crumpled straight down.  She was enjoying this.  A spear tip glanced off of the pauldron protecting her shoulder and she winced from the blow, more out of surprise than any injury.  Her armor was the result of the superb craftsmanship of the armorers of Hithlum.  She righted herself in the saddle and pushed her knee into Lindarion, getting the horse to spin and kick.  Hooves smashed into an Easterling’s face, crushing his skull and throwing him back. She then sliced the arm off of another man who was raising an axe at her.

The field was now mostly hacked corpses of the enemy as riders of the Misë Company rode down the few who managed to flee.  This field would become the Haudh-en-Ndengin, the Hill of the Slain, this time for Morgoth’s minions.  Morelen thought of the fell mound of elven and Edain dead on the Anfauglith that followed the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  They would be avenged.  The sound of fighting died away, replaced by moans of agony and weeping.  Good.  She dismounted and walked towards a wounded Easterling who threw down his scimitar as she approached.  His red armor was rent and torn from the fighting and blood flowed down his face from a cut on his forehead.  He fell to his knees and put his hands together, babbling something in his language. She raised her visor and looked down at him.  He searched her face for any sign of mercy and then he raised an open hand to her. “Please…please elf maid. Please.  I have family.  Do not kill,” he pleaded in broken Sindarin, tears mixing with blood on his face.

Morelen was about to raise her sword, but she paused.  Her heart was full of fury, but the sight of this broken man stopped her weapon.  “I…,” she started and then grunted in frustration. She wanted nothing more than to kill this enemy of her people, a man who wished for the destruction of her race and civilization.  She bit her lower lip and then lowered her sword.  “I will grant you mercy.  But you are to leave this land and fight no-”

She couldn’t finish before Túrin drove Gurthang through the man’s back.  He looked at her sternly.  “No mercy, Morelen.  No mercy for the enemy.”  His eyes bore into her through the metal mask of his Dragon Helm, and it seemed as if Gurthang drank the blood of the dead man.

She lowered her head, feeling shame.  “I’m sorry, my Lord Mormegil.  It was a moment of weakness.”  He was right. Why did she hesitate?

His expression softened and then a smile spread across his lips.  He touched her gently on the pauldron over her shoulder.  “All is forgiven, captain.  I saw you with your bow and sword.  You and the Telepta fought well.  You closed the gap, preventing any from escaping.  Notaldo is to be commended for his quick thinking.” He shook her in a collegial way. “Another feast is due tonight. Come, let us clean up and gather our wounded and bury our honored dead.  We will toast another victory!”

She glowed under his praise, and a broad smile filled her face.  “Thank you, my Lord Mormegil.  Your words mean the world to me.  I would follow you anywhere, my lord.”

His face beamed and he nodded.  “I am proud to lead you, and I may hold you to that.”  He turned to walk back to the King.  “Come!  A great feast awaits us.  Let us pile the bodies of the slain enemy for all the world to see!”

After looting and stacking the dead enemy, they rode away from the great mound, heads held high, another victory for the Free Peoples.  Morelen took a silver circlet from the brow of the Easterling lord that she slew and then swung into her saddle.  The Misë Company led the way, their lances skyward, horses trotting proudly. Telepta followed, their riders chatting happily, recounting their exploits.  Even Líreno seemed to be in a joyful mood for a change.  Morelen raised her visor and then reached out and tapped him on the pauldron.  “Lord Mormegil led us to another great victory, and we fought well again today. Your arrows were on target, and we didn’t lose a single rider.”

He chuckled and gave her a half smile.  “Yes, yes, it went very well today.  We will see about tomorrow.”

She looked down her nose at him with a sly look, one eye narrowed.  “Hmmm, perhaps you were…wrong about your worry?”

He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps.  But never let your guard down.”

“Do I ever?”

Líreno snorted but gave her a grin.  “All the time.”

“Hah,” she retorted and then looked ahead.  Notaldo was signaling that they were approaching the great bridge.  She tapped her heels to Lindarion’s flanks, and her mount picked up to a canter to catch up to their leader.  As she pulled alongside, she gave him a huge smile, practically ear to ear.  She held up the silver circlet.  “I took this from an Easterling lord,” she said.  “I’ll clean it up and give it to Silmani.  I think she would appreciate it.”

“I know she would,” he answered, raising his visor.  “She is taking after you.  She is already an excellent rider and archer.”

Her heart swelled with pride.  “Oh, I know. I find great joy in teaching her and she learns so fast.  I know that we’ve talked about this, but maybe the time is right for one of our own.”

He nodded.  “I think you’re right.  Come, we are at the bridge.  Let us enter the realm with honor.”  It was then that they noticed King Orodreth and Túrin catching up to them on horseback. Notaldo and Morelen bowed at the waist. “My King…Lord Mormegil, we are proud to serve.”

Orodreth handed his helm to one of his bodyguards.  “Another great day on the field, my riders.”

Túrin nodded.  “They are the elite of our forces, fast and fierce. Their leaders are quick and read the battle like no others.  We are fortunate to have them.”

They bowed again. “You do us great honor my King…my lord,” they said in unison.

The herald, Celumener, and a delegation of officials in their fine robes of state, awaited the army at the head of the bridge across the River Narog.  Citizens of the realm also lined the bridge, waving flags and streamers.  Celumener blew his horn, which shook the trees that lined the span.  He and the officials bowed low.  “We herald the return of Nargothrond’s brave forces. Welcome home, my King and Lord Mormegil. A feast is being prepared to celebrate your triumph!”

Orodreth raised his hand and the people fell silent.  “The triumph is for all of the people of the kingdom!”  People cheered as the army crossed the great bridge back into the caverns. The procession and the banquet was everything that they expected and was becoming almost a regular thing.  Cragstone had become a regular fixture at such events, ensuring that everyone had enough to drink and his wealth and hospitality became known throughout the kingdom and in far off dwarven lands.

As people feasted and bards sung, Morelen cleaned the circlet and modified it to fit Silmani, holding it over a flame to soften the metal.  She found that she had a talent for craftsmanship too and was learning from the jewel smiths and swordsmiths of the kingdom, one of them being the great Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor.  Notaldo always marveled at how many things she was able to learn and just how quickly. “You master so many things, it’s almost as if you have Vala blood in you,” he joked.

She mused for a moment. That would be interesting.  Think of all of the wonderful things that she could do with that power.  She was already physically stronger than her husband, something she found delight in. She looked back at the circlet, perfectly formed for the young lady’s head.  “Silmani, I have something for you,” she said, and the girl looked over from across the table.  Silmani’s eyes brightened, and she held her hands over her chest.  Morelen walked around the table and placed it on her brow, a simple silver strand with an intricate geometric shape at the center of her forehead.  Silmani looked radiant and Morelen brushed out her long brown hair over the circlet. “There…oh, by the Valar, you look beautiful!”  She was the image of her late mother, Aistallë.

Silmani framed her face with her hands and smiled.  “Thank you. You’ve been so good to me.”  She looked away for a moment and the smile faded. She put her finger to her lips as if thinking deeply.  “Do you think that you could tell me about my parents some time?”

It was like an icy dagger pierced Morelen’s heart.  Though the pain of their passing was fading, the memory was still very fresh: Hurinon engulfed by lave and Aistallë with her throat slit by her own hand.  She pursed her lips and then nodded.  “Of course, dear.  I will never be able to replace them, but I will do my best for you.”

The smile returned to the young lady.  “Thank you. I will see you tomorrow at riding and archery practice,” Silmani said just as Túrin and the king approached.  The women bowed their heads.

Túrin extended his hand. “Morelen, I hear tell from your company that you are an amazing singer and dancer as well.  I would expect nothing less, having seen you fight in the saddle.  We would be honored by a performance to celebrate the victory.”

Orodreth nodded and gestured to a stage in the center of the great hall.  It didn’t seem to be something that she could refuse, but she enjoyed the arts.  She grasped Silmani’s hand.  “Come, let us show the citizens of Nargothrond our love and appreciation,” she said, and they walked to the stage.  Stewards met her at the stage to take cumbersome parts of her armor. Still, she glistened, lights reflecting off of her silver plates and the stars on her breastplate glittered.  Silmani pushed the skirts of her golden gown back and the two curtseyed to the audience and the crowd grew quiet.  The two had practiced this very dance in the training yards and they made eye contact, knowing just what to do.

“We bring you The Caladhrim Maeth, the Song of the Warrior’s Light,” she called out, letting the amazing acoustics of the hall carry her alto voice.  She drew an arm back as if she were pulling a bow and Silmani knelt under her, doing the same.

“Araniel galad mîr,

Dû naur a thûl,

Echuir balan gîl,

Lû thaur a gûr,” they sang of the strength of the elven people and their allies.  Together, their voices were angelic, filling the hall with the lilting sounds of elven warriors.  Silmani’s soprano voice complemented Morelen’s alto.  It was as if a power grew within Morelen’s throat, the might of the Quendi, but this was something more.  It was an untapped reservoir of energy.  For a moment, she envisioned the music of the Ainur, eons ago, formless spirits singing the world into existence.  Energy flowed from her mouth, something she had never felt before.  It was as if the song were alive.  Images of elven warriors coalesced in the air as the audience gasped, necks craning upwards.  Morelen and Silmani danced around each other, arms and legs swinging in coordinated movements as if they were firing arrows and cutting with swords. Scenes played out in the air with orcs falling and elves triumphant.  The two ladies then went to their knees and bowed their heads, falling silent.  The hall was still for several moments before erupting into applause.  Notaldo was the first to stand and cheer as those around him joined.

Morelen reached out and took Silmani’s hand, nodding with pride.  “Magnificent, my girl.  Magnificent.”

A tear flowed down Silmani’s cheek as the King and Túrin came up to them.  Orodreth extended his hands to them.  “That was the Music of the Ainur brought to life.  The images that your voices created.  It felt as if we were there…not since Daeron or Maglor or my brother…,” he said, his mouth open.  “How did you…?  It took them centuries of practice.”

She truly did not know where that power came from.  “My King…I don’t know.   I really don’t.  My father is an illusionist and my mother is a healer.  I learned singing and dancing from Lysa, a friend in the south.  She and Aelrie have that power.  I never knew that I had this.”  The King lifted them up onto their feet and raised their arms to more cheers.

Túrin held up his dragon helm.  “This is the strength of the kingdom!  Not only in arms, but in art!  Give your praise to these two!”

Orodreth summoned Tintallo, Notaldo and Líreno up.  “Your wife has many talents,” he told Notaldo.  “I am glad that she is on our side,” he said with a hint of mirth.  “I am naming you two as part of my war council. I wish for your advice in planning campaigns under our Lord Mormegil.”  The two men knelt and bowed their heads.  Tintallo was beaming with pride.  “And you, Líreno, I name a lord of Nargothrond and Morelen, a lady.  You will continue to lead your riders, but I have bigger plans for you.”  He reached down and tousled Silmani’s hair.  “And you, young lady.  The performance was sublime.  I will be expecting much more from you in the future.”  She knelt, her cheeks blushing bright red.  He waved his hand.  “The great bridge has proven to be a stroke of wisdom.  Nevrast will be ours once again and Hithlum thereafter.”

 

Silmani held onto Morelen’s hand tightly, unused to such attention.  Morelen felt pride surge in her.  Silmani was growing up to be a wonderful and mature elf.  It was odd to think that a human would be a full adult by this time but elves matured much more slowly.  Perhaps that was why elves were predicted to be fewer in number some day. Morelen would believe it when she saw it, but humans did seem to reproduce much faster, almost like orcs. Elven pregnancies were also uncommon, and elven women had an unusual ability to prevent pregnancies that they didn’t want.  She licked her lips, thinking on these issues.  As the King and Lord Mormegil returned to their table where Finduilas sat, Silmani stood, still blushing.  She gave Morelen a warm smile and then skipped off back to her room, her hair swirling behind her.

Notaldo tugged on the metal vambrace over her forearm.  He gave her that sly, sideways look that she loved.  It was time that they made their exit.  They rushed away from the banquet like two adolescents, escaping their parents for the first time.  Charging through the door, he began pulling the straps on her armor loose and tossing the pieces onto the carpet.  Her gambeson and padding came off next and she knelt down in front of him, gazing up with her eyes, clothed only in a smile.  Notaldo groaned and shuddered.  They moved to the booth to wash as she tugged his armor away.  Warm water cascaded down their bodies as she washed him gently with soap that smelled of Aloe.  When they were clean, he lifted her up and carried her to the bed, water dripping down her hair and body.  She laughed. “Notaldo, the bed will get all wet!”

“It’s what I’m counting on,” he replied softly into her ear.

As she felt his skin atop of her, she tilted her head back and gasped.  They would have their own child, and they would be a real family. Her father, Fëatur would be proud. One day, they would all be together, even her mother Yavëkamba.  It would be the eternal happiness that they all deserved.  She rested in his arms, her hair still wet, drops of water on her skin. She twirled her finger around his dark, wavy hair, just listening to his breathing. 

A knock on the door got their attention and Morelen leapt up, wrapping herself with a towel.  She cracked the door to see Celumener, and she narrowed her eyes, questioning.  “The King is requesting your presence, both of you.  We have received visitors, and it seems to be urgent.  We will be in the King’s Council Chambers.”  He saw the towel and her wet hair and looked down before bowing and walking away.

She glanced back and Notaldo was already dressing, brushing his hair quickly.  “Let’s get moving.  This sounds important,” he said as he ripped the towel off of Morelen. She moved in front of him and straightened the collar of his formal robes, blue and silver in the colors of Fingon’s House.  The fabric was of supreme quality, woven of the finest silk in the kingdom.  He pointed at her bare body with a smirk.  “Are you going to go like that?”

She snorted a chuckle as he tossed her formal robes.  “We elves are not ashamed of our bodies,” she said, lifting her nose up in mock conceit as she donned her attire.  Like her husband’s robes, hers were of the highest quality of silk, blue and silver, but more form fitting with long, billowy sleeves.  It was as if the blue fields of her robes were filled with starlight. She quickly brushed her damp hair out, letting her tresses fall over her shoulders.  She then placed a silver circlet on her brow, one with an emerald centered on her forehead.

They walked quickly to the council chambers, negotiating the tunnels and stairs with experience, knowing exactly where to go.  The halls would be a confusing mess for anyone not familiar with them.  A crowd was growing at the entrance to the great doors that were made of a volcanic glass called Laen, that was harder than steel if forged properly in cold conditions.  Much of their weapons and armor were created this way in the cold forges beneath the main halls of the kingdom.  She had worked briefly with the Noldor smith named Celebrimbor, who had perfected the craft.  Rumor had it that he was second only to his grandfather, Fëanor, in skill and that he parted ways with his father, Curufin, after those Sons of Fëanor attempted to usurp power in Nargothrond.  Morelen and the riders lived in Hithlum at the time and only heard about the chaos through friends and messengers.  Still, Celebrimbor was someone they could respect for his convictions and his skill.

The gathered officials and leaders of the realm filed into the council chambers, voices murmuring, some curious, some fearful.  What could possibly be going on that such a meeting would be called this late?  The chambers were arranged like an auditorium, a semicircle with seating around a central dais where the King and his close councilors sat.  They walked by Gwindor, the crippled elf who had escaped from Angband and led the reckless charge that began the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  He was gaunt and still pale from his captivity.  Morelen bore a grudge because his actions ruined Fingon’s carefully laid plan, but her compassion for his misery overrode that. Being a captive in Angband was unimaginable.  She nodded to him with a faint smile.  He returned the gesture, but there was nothing behind his expression.  It was as if he had already died.

Up on the dais with the King and Lord Mormegil were two elves dressed in traveling clothes, rough cotton in muted colors.  King Orodreth stood before his throne, a tall, golden seat with crimson upholstery. He was dressed in his kingly robes of green and gold, having changed out of his armor from the battle.  Túrin was dressed in the robes of the head of the army, maroon and black, with intricate floral designs woven into the fabric with slashed sleeves showing the green and gold of Finrod’s House.

Celumener blew his horn, silencing the room and putting all eyes on him.  “We welcome Gelmir and Arminas, late of Angrod’s people and kin to King Orodreth.  They have come from the Havens of Sirion on orders from Círdan the Shipwright, bearing messages for the people of Nargothrond,” he called out in his stentorian voice, loud and clear.  The two elves bowed low before the King and Lord Mormegil and everyone in the audience knelt.

Orodreth lifted his arms. “Please be seated, people,” he said, gesturing to the audience and everyone found a chair.  People shifted uncomfortably, trying to anticipate the message.  “Gelmir, Arminas, what brings you to our fair kingdom at this hour that is so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow?”  The King seemed impatient, annoyed at the sudden visit that required a council meeting. Túrin seemed most impatient of all, brows furrowed and lips pursed.  His eyes were not even on the visitors.  Morelen made eye contact with Líreno, questioning.  What was going on here?

Gelmir began, “My King Orodreth, we come bearing urgent tidings from Círdan.”

The King nodded.  “I am listening.  Pray, continue.”

Arminas turned to the chamber.  “Círdan was given a warning from the Vala, Ulmo,” he said to gasps in the room.  “We were dispatched to bring this warning to the peoples of both Gondolin and Nargothrond.  Lord Ulmo bids the peoples of these kingdoms to beware as the forces of Morgoth are growing, not diminishing.”

Gelmir gestured towards the grand entrance to Nargothrond.  “We spoke with Gondolindrim who reside in the Havens to find the city, but we were unsuccessful and abandoned our search.  We turned south and came here with the message that Lord Ulmo bids King Orodreth to cast down the great bridge and seal the doors.  Remaining hidden is now your greatest strength and hope for survival.”

Túrin snorted darkly and the King watched him fidget.  Orodreth stood.  “We appreciate your journey and Círdan’s message…but what proof do we have of Lord Ulmo’s words?”

Arminas seemed incredulous. “My King?  We bear the message of Ulmo through Círdan.  It is as Lord Ulmo gave his message to Kings Finrod and Turgon to found the kingdoms.”

Túrin stood sharply. “But were you there?  Were you there when Ulmo delivered it?”

“No.  No, my lord,” Gelmir answered.  “But Círdan has assured us that it is authentic.”

Túrin looked out upon the council.  “I know that Círdan means well.  I cannot dispute that, but do not the Valar speak in riddles many times?  How are we to know the meaning of the message unless we hear it directly from the Shipwright…or even from Lord Ulmo himself? Why did Ulmo not bring the message here…to the King himself if he wanted to protect the realm?”  The man was picking up steam, his voice powerful, his charisma undeniable.  Morelen nodded at his words.  “You cannot dispute the success that we have had here in the last few years.  We have routed army after army after army.  We are undefeated upon the field during this time.”

“But, my Lord Mormegil,” Arminas started, “When we first landed at the Firth of Drengist, we encountered Lord Tuor, who was searching for the Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor into Dor-Lómin,” he said.  This got Túrin’s attention, and his eyes focused on the speakers.  “He had hoped to pass into Gondolin, but the gate has been long abandoned and does not lead to Gondolin.”

“What happened to my cousin?” Túrin asked, now interested.  

“We provided Tuor with lanterns,” Gelmir said, “and bade him travel south to the Havens where many Gondolindrim dwelt.  Perhaps they could give him better guidance.  We searched Dor-Lómin for the hidden kingdom but decided to come here strait away after little success.  This is where I wish you all to listen closely…  On our way south, we scouted the dark island of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”

King Orodreth shifted at the mention of the island that he once ruled as Tol Sirion, conquered by Sauron after the Dagor Bragollach.  It had become a hold for Morgoth’s beasts, like werewolves and vampires.  It was where Morelen’s friend, Sercë, vanished. Orodreth nodded for them to continue.

Arminas gestured to the councilors.  “What we saw there, gave us pause.  Morgoth is building an army of such size that it cannot be described.  Thousands upon thousands of orcs, trolls, werewolves and other monsters of the Dark Lord’s creation.  We wish you to heed our words and the warning of Lord Ulmo.  Please, we have traveled far to bring you this message to save your fair kingdom.”

Orodreth lowered his head in thought but Túrin pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.  “While I thank you for news of my cousin, I will say that we are mighty as well,” Lord Mormegil declared loudly.  “We created this bridge as a means to bring the war to the enemy.  We will not be so easily frightened.”  He turned to Orodreth.  “My King, we have carried this war against the Dark Lord, almost alone, and we have gone from strength to strength.  It is the blood of Nargothrond that keeps Beleriand safe.  You, in the Havens, sleep well at night because of our armies…our peoples,” he concluded, eliciting cheers from the council, Morelen among them. “We will not cast down our bridge, nor hide behind our doors on the possible, mystical word of a Vala who has not been heard from nor seen in centuries.  What we have here is real.  Real power. Real weapons.”

Gelmir and Arminas lowered their heads, clearly defeated.  Orodreth stepped towards them.  “This is our answer, good kinsmen.  I bid you stay and refresh yourselves and then to please carry a message to Círdan to thank him for the trouble.”  He raised his arms to the council.  “Are there any in dissent?”  Not a word was spoken, but Morelen saw the look on Líreno’s face and knew what he was thinking.

Celumener blew his horn. “The matter is decided.  The King and the Lord Mormegil have spoken.”

The council stood and the murmurs immediately began again.  Líreno bit his lower lip, eyes focused.  As Notaldo and Tintallo went forward to meet with the King and Lord Mormegil, Morelen grasped Líreno’s arms.  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said cautiously.

He exhaled deeply. “I have a backup plan.  We must find Gondolin.  You have to trust me.”

Morelen closed her eyes and sighed.  “I was afraid that you were going to say that.”

---

Chapter End Notes

This covers the events leading up to the Battle of Tumhalad.  I want to show how the riders are trying to live a normal life again.  More on Morelen's character arc.  I also want to show the dynamics of the relationship between Orodreth and Turin.