The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Wedding

The wedding of Tuor and Idril.  We look at some of the Lords of the Houses of Gondolin and how the riders fit into the kingdom now.  

Then a glimpse of the south and how the Court of Ardor is preparing for the Ritual.

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51)  The Wedding – Year of the Sun 502, Yavannië (September)

Morelen

This was to be the event of the century for the Hidden Kingdom.  The entire city had been beautifully decorated with streamers, banners and signs, all honoring the impending wedding of Tuor and Idril Celebrindal.  High King Turgon could not stop gushing about the couple, his pride and joy.  Tuor was truly like a son to him now and Turgon intended to honor him by granting him a house; The House of the Wing to commemorate the sigil of the bird that Ulmo had given him.  Even Morelen, Telerien and Caladiel were asked to be part of the bridal party.  The energy and joy within Gondolin was electrifying.  People danced and sang in the wide and clean avenues and boulevards, heaping praise on the couple.  But there remained one who was displeased.

As Morelen helped string banners along the lamp posts of the Square of the King where the event would be held, she looked down from her ladder to see the High King striding along with the lords of the houses, discussing the ceremony tomorrow.  All were smiling but Maeglin, whose face was stoic, even dour.  He seemed to become more distant and irritable as the wedding approached.  She thought about what Idril told her about him and his infatuation.  She focused her will on him for a moment and he radiated anger…jealousy.

“Morelen?  Hey?”  It was Caladiel.  “Grab this streamer, will you?  Are you alright?  I lost you for a second.”  She tossed a string over from the next lamp post that was attached to the streamer, which Morelen caught and attached to her post.

“Sorry about that.  I was just thinking about something.”  She looked back at the High King’s council, but they were too far away now for her to get any read on anyone.  This did not bode well, but what could Maeglin do?  They were all contained within this city with nowhere to go.  He could pine and pout for Idril, but nothing would come of it.  Still, he was an attractive man, and he should have no issue finding another who was not his first cousin.  Morelen shrugged, turning her mind back to the decorations.  “There, I think that’s it.  This whole section of the square is done.

They both slid down their ladders and picked up the cord and string that they were using to decorate. The two looked up at the lamp posts in the square, satisfied with their work.  Caladiel had really become like a little sister to her.  Other citizens painted, sculpted and placed signs around the square that was so full of life and joy.  A large poster of Idril and Tuor was placed near the great fountain, showing the happy couple.  “I just hope the pigeons don’t make too much of a mess before tomorrow,” Caladiel quipped. “Put up a sculpture or a banner and it’s like a target for them,” she said as they laughed.

It had been seven years since they escaped to Gondolin, and a million things had gone through her mind since then as there was very little contact with the outside world now as the gates were locked.  Eagles would bring rare tidbits and Turgon would scry with the Palantír, gathering often disjointed snippets of the wider world.  They knew that the other refugees had reached the Havens of Sirion safely, a huge relief.  The armies of Morgoth had been devastated in the Battle of Tumhalad, their numbers reduced but the Dark Lord seemed to have no end of troops and horrors.  Three years ago, they learned that Túrin slew Glaurung by ambush, stabbing the dragon in the heart but that both Túrin and his wife, Nienor, took their own lives after when the dragon revealed to her that he was her brother, a final evil act by the monster.

When Turgon told them of this, Morelen snorted in disgust.  “Good.  I feel for Nienor, the one innocent in all of that, but I will celebrate the other’s deaths,” she said in spite.

More recently they learned that Morgoth had released Húrin Thalion, the great hero of the Nirnaeth who sacrificed himself to give Turgon time to retreat, slaying some seventy trolls in the process.  Turgon felt tremendous guilt over this, the man who helped save him and the army of Gondolin was now a ruined soul, old and decrepit.  He found the ruins of Nargothrond and discovered the great jewel of Finrod Felagund, the fabled Nauglamír.  “He went to Doriath,” Turgon told them sadly, “and passed from my sight.” He held his hand up to the sky.  “I do hope that Húrin finds peace.  I wish that it were possible to help him, but we cannot now risk the sanctity of the kingdom.  And of the Nauglamír…I have a strong suspicion that Elu Thingol will mount the Silmaril onto the great jewel.  Its beauty will be unmatched, but I fear that it will awaken something dark that had been dormant for centuries.”

So much had happened at the dawn of this new century.  Again, the world was unrecognizable from what it was only recently.  Morelen sighed at the memories, bringing her attention back to the square.  Caladiel waved to the other riders who were gathering the rubbish from their decorations and placed them in bins for collection.  The weather had just begun to cool again as they pressed into Fall, a gentle breeze blowing leaves about the square as birds chirped overhead.  Morelen inhaled deeply of the clean, fresh air, enjoying the peace and bliss of the upcoming wedding.  But would she ever be free of this gnawing feeling of danger?  It was like a rat chewing through a floorboard, a scratching noise at the back of her mind.  Would she ever feel safe again?

Notaldo, Líreno and Telerien walked up, Líreno tossing them a balled-up piece of decorative paper, which Morelen caught with one hand.  “Oh, it looks like someone is up for Coron Mittarion,” he said with a wink.

Telerien sighed.  “He just wants to see you without your shirt on.”

“Hey, I’ve seen all of these two,” he quipped back.  “It’s not like you get a lot of privacy in the company.”

Notaldo came up and wrapped his arm around Morelen’s waist.  “This looks pretty good, if I do say so myself.  This wedding is going to be fabulous.  I’m so happy for them.”

Ecthelion approached, followed by Egalmoth and Duilin and the riders bowed to the lords.  “No, no,” Ecthelion told them.  “Please rise.  I think you’ve earned the right to be called friends now.  You have more than proven yourselves as warriors of Gondolin and can consider yourselves as Gondolindrim.”

“I daresay that Morelen has challenged my accuracy with her bow,” Egalmoth said.

“And my speed,” Duilin added with a smirk.  “And neither of us can match them on horseback.  I am still devastated that Ecthelion stole them away from us,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles in a mock cry.

Morelen smiled at them and bowed.  “I’m glad to have given you a run for your money.  But I learned as much from you as I was able to teach.  The force here among the houses is formidable and I am proud to be part of it.”

Duilin made an impressed expression with eyes big and lips pursed, gesturing with both hands to her. “So polite and well-spoken too! Not to mention beautiful,” he said and then poked Notaldo in the gut.  “Lucky man!”

Ecthelion gave him a ‘that’s enough’ look.  “Forgive my…associate,” he said kindly.  “He tends to get carried away for how excited he is about the wedding.  Right, Duilin?”

“Oh, of course, of course. It has nothing to do with my boisterous personality.”

Egalmoth snickered. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”  He then peered into Duilin’s ear.  “In my day it was called nothing between the ears.”

Ecthelion laughed, giving a mock look of pain.  “Ow! Oh, that had to sting.”

The others had to laugh too.  The more that they got to know them, the easier it became to feel like this was home again and the more comfortable they were around each other.  She thought back on how Fingon would relax with the riders after training, and the friendship that they had with him and Hurinon, and the rivalry they had with Tintallo.  It was a magical time.  She felt a twinge of pain for a moment, but it passed.  It took some years but the deep, dreadful numbness that infected her after Tumhalad was mostly memory now.  Did time really heal all wounds?  She still had nightmares, but they became less frequent and less intense. It wasn’t that long ago to where Notaldo still held her as she thrashed about and screamed in her sleep.

“We’ll stop bothering you all,” Ecthelion said with a wink.  He was a strong, decisive leader, but full of kindness and compassion for his people.  He reminded Morelen of Fingon but not quite as playful or competitive.  The three leaders walked off to rejoin Turgon, but Ecthelion turned back once more.  “Oh, but we will have a gathering in the house for breakfast tomorrow to celebrate and to prepare for the wedding.  The ladies here are part of the bridal party and must look their best, so the King has tailors for us this evening for fittings.  I’ll see you then,” he said with a wink.

Morelen splayed her hands out happily.  “Oh, more clothes!  We’ll surely be there.”  For years, she slept with her weapons and armor next to the bed, often waking in a cold sweat.  Notaldo even had her sword bound in the scabbard to prevent what Túrin did to Beleg. Only last year did she consent to have them moved to a different room.  It was nice to be able to return to fashion, flowers, dance and decoration, the things that elves truly treasured.

The five wandered around the square, admiring the bright streamers and enjoying the company and the weather and they ran into Maeglin and Salgant, the heads of the Houses of the Mole and Harp. The House of the Mole did not sound very prestigious, but their soldiers were well trained and skilled miners.  Maeglin wore all black with his black hair slicked. His fabulous sword, Anguirel, forged by his father, was sheathed at his side.  Salgant wore a bright red surcoat with the symbol of a golden harp over a silver tunic.  His black hair was also slicked back exactly as Maeglin’s was.  He seemed to be proud of his attire that was far too tight and merely accentuated his obesity.

The riders bowed before the two lords of Gondolin.  Maeglin waited for an uncomfortable amount of time before raising his hand.  “Rise, my friends,” he said in a smarmy voice, overly syrupy.

Morelen forced a smile to them.  “Greetings, my lords.  I hope you are enjoying the day.”  She still recalled the awkward session where he “accidently” touched her, and Idril’s words about him never left her mind.  She had learned to navigate the politics of Gondolin in the ensuing years, but her best strategy was just to avoid him.  And this was the first time she ever encountered Salgant this close and saw that his face was rather frog-like, puffy with bulging eyes and thick, meaty lips.  He was the complete opposite of Maeglin, a razor in elven form, sharp, edgy and wiry.

“Oh yes, yes,” Maeglin said in poorly concealed sarcasm.  He snorted.  “I fought bravely by the King’s side during the Nirnaeth, and my reward is to be pushed aside.  Well,” he scoffed.  “I hope they will be happy together,” he added, one side of his lip curled up in a sneer.

“That is truly a tragedy, Lord Maeglin,” Salgant announced a little too boldly.  “Truly a tragedy.  I was not even asked to play at the wedding!  Can you imagine that?  Princess Idril wanted that hack, Lirillo and his idiot wife, Nyárië.  Those two…instead of me…me, the best musician in the kingdom.  Hrmph.” His face was beat read and his fists clenched.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Líreno said blandly.  “I can’t imagine why.”

“Indeed,” the harpist said sharply.  “Indeed. Well, yes, I do hope they are happy for the disaster of music that they will get.  And, Lord Maeglin, I have no idea why the Princess chose that…that…man. You are the far better choice, lord,” he said in a fawning voice.

“Thank you, Lord Salgant,” he answered.  “Your words soothe me.”

Morelen watched the exchange, desperately fighting to conceal her horror.  Everything that she had heard about Maeglin from Turgon was glowing; overcoming his terrible father, becoming a master smith, organizing the administration of the realm and his valor during the Nirnaeth.  Turgon adopted him as a reward, gave him a house and even considered making him the heir.  The thought of Maeglin as the High King of the Noldor sent a chill down her spine.

Salgant fixed his eyes on Morelen and Caladiel.  “Oh, and I hear that the both of you are such wonderful musicians, wonderful.  Even in the Hidden Kingdom we have heard of your performances in Nargothrond, may those poor people rest in the peace of Mandos.”

This was an interesting turn of events, and it set them a little at ease.  “Why, thank you, my lord,” the two said in a melodic unison.

He made a big ‘O’ with his mouth.  “Oh my…oh my, your voices are angelic.  Please, please, I beg of you…come to the House of the Harp and play with me.  I have much to teach you to bring your musical talents to perfection.”

Morelen raised an eyebrow and tucked her hair behind her pointed ear.  She looked back and forth between Salgant and Notaldo, unsure of how to respond but got a cautious nod from her husband.  This was still a fine line that they had to tread.  “Ummm, yes.  I…I would be honored, my lord.  I am far more of an archer than I am a bard, so I don’t wish to disappoint you.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he said with an ostentatiously dismissive wave of his hand.  “We will become the best of friends, simply the best. I will see you after the wedding, yes?” he said as more of a statement.  “I will need to soothe my unfairly wounded pride for being snubbed as the officiator and player and you two, my new friends, will help me,” he announced boldly, his eyes glued to the women’s forms.

“Say,” interjected Líreno, “we’re needed back at the House for fitting.  We don’t want to keep Ecthelion and Ëariel waiting.”

Notaldo blinked.  “Right…right, thanks for reminding us.  We should…not be late.  Good day to you, my lords.”

Maeglin gave them a curt head nod as he stared at Morelen.  She could feel his gaze pushing into her mind like Glaurung did, but she broke eye contact and shut him off.  There was just a snippet of a question, “who are you really?” that came from him.

As they walked away, Salgant blew a kiss and performed a flamboyant bow and flourish.  “Goodbye my sweets.  Come by the House of the Harp tomorrow evening.  I will have the hospitality of the Harp ready and waiting.”

Morelen shut her eyes and grimaced as Notaldo tensed.  They would not provoke an incident in their new home.  “It will be fine.  It will be fine,” she whispered and he nodded stiffly.

The fitting was relaxed and set them back at ease, but there were unanswered questions from the recent encounter.  The tailors fussed over the fabric, stitching and patterns as Notaldo received a fitted robe of green and silver, befitting a lesser lord of the realm that bore the images of trees and the sun.  Morelen was fitted with a form-fitting dress of blue and silver that bore the pattern of a spraying fountain.  It certainly accentuated her figure, and it came with an elegant circlet of mithril, crafted like a gossamer web.  It was the creation of Fendomë, the smith who came from Nargothrond and had worked closely with Celebrimbor.  The others were fitted with much of the same and they all looked regal, elven lords of the Elder Days.  Fendomë and Aegnor of Nargothrond now worked closely with the smith, Enerdhil, among the greatest craftsman of the Eldar.

Líreno finally broke the dam of tension that had been building.  “Uhh, so what was that back there?  I’m still stunned,” he said as Telerien nodded.

“I was ready to wipe that leer off of his face,” Notaldo said with a derisive snort.  He then looked at his wife.  “But I held my tongue.  I mean, I can understand Maeglin’s jealousy, but Salgant…he could not take his eyes off of your bodies.”  He sucked air through his teeth and grimaced.

Morelen sighed heavily. “So, what do we do?  Can we avoid them forever?  Maeglin has the ear of the King.  We cannot cross him and where he goes, Salgant follows.  I’ve never seen them apart.  But in some way, I feel sorry for him.  I didn’t think that his look was malicious.  It’s as if he is a lost child, begging for friends and staring at a new…toy.”

Líreno snickered.  “I got the feeling he wants bedroom friends with you two as his toys.  Well, Notaldo, I’m glad he hit on your wife and not mine, or we’d be thrown out of the kingdom already.”

“I can handle myself,” Morelen chided.  “But for the sake of our sanity we need to have a plan.  I honestly think he means no harm and I’m sure it will be fine if we go to the House of the Harp after the wedding.  We can see what he wants and maybe make an actual friend who can help Maeglin through his jealousy,” she said hopefully.

“Always the one to see the good in people,” Notaldo said lightly.  “But you’re right.  We need to be careful.  I reluctantly and cautiously agree with your plan,” he added with a concerned look. “Just be careful.”

When the tailors had put the finishing touches on their clothing, they wandered past Ecthelion who had his arms out as a seamstress was putting pins in his robes.  He looked at them and sighed.  “I am far more comfortable in armor.  This…itches,” he complained as they chuckled at his predicament.

“Do not move,” the woman said sternly.  “You may be the Lord of the House of the Fountain, but I will ensure that you look appropriate before the King and the wedding party.  Stop moving!  I would hate to poke you with a pin.”

They walked towards the stairway up to their rooms and Ecthelion grunted.  “No, don’t you leave me with this demon.  Don’t you leave me.  Come back here!  Please!”

Walking up the stairs, Morelen was practically in tears from laughing so hard and it felt good.  She could barely remember joy since Tumhalad. Every time she pictured the caverns, the docks, the Narog and the conservatory or heard the music in her head she was torn between nostalgia and guilt.  This time, she pushed the guilt from her mind and decided to enjoy the moment, carefree and full of life.  At the door, she pulled Notaldo inside and kissed him.  “I know that I have not been myself since Tumhalad and I am sorry.”

“No apologies.  None of us have been.  What we experienced was a horror beyond words.  While we cannot forget, we can heal…but that will take time.”

She nodded slowly, thinking.  “Time… At one point it seemed as if time was all that we had but I always feel as if time is running out now.”  She turned back to him and smiled, the dark cloud over her vanishing.  “We will get through this.  The Valar will come to our aid,” she said, more as if to convince herself.  She skipped over to the closet, much like a girl and dropped her dress to the floor, bending over to pick it up while wriggling her behind.

Notaldo chuckled and grasped her hips from behind, his touch electrifying.  She grabbed onto a wooden bench tightly, her knuckles white from the pressure as she felt him.  Her skin tingled and she sighed, contented, happy.  Time…time seemed to stand still now.

Tonight, Morelen’s sleep and meditation were peaceful.  She did not toss or cry out.  Maybe it was just that he wore her out.  Maybe it was the peace and healing of Gondolin had finally penetrated her hardened heart.  As the sun rose and light shone through the windows, she lay wrapped over Notaldo, her thigh over his midsection.  She began to move her leg around and he sighed softly and she felt something grow against her skin.  “Looks like you’re waking up,” she cooed and winked at his one open eye.

A couple of hours later he looked out the window.  “Oh…oh, we’re going to be late for breakfast!” he uttered and they sprang out of bed, giggling.  They ran into the washroom and water began to pour down from the ceiling in a tiled enclosure.  Morelen let the water pour down her hair and face, a wonderful feeling, fresh and pure. Notaldo turned her around and pulled her tight, his hands about her waist.

“Oh, no…you’re the one who said we’re going to be late,” she said in mock protest, weakly trying to disengage.

He released her with a grin.  “Well, if you say so,” he said as he started to turn away.

She grunted and pushed him down to sit on the seat beneath the water and climbed on top of him. “I’m blaming you.”

Breakfast was well underway, the sound of conversation, laughter and silverware filling the dining hall of the House of the Fountain.  The table was arrayed with the finest porcelain dining ware of the house, plates, dishes and serving bowls painted with images of silver fountains.  Ecthelion dined with his wife, Ëariel, along with the rest of the house.  He looked up with a smirk.  “Oh, there you are.  It’s about time.  Did you have fun?  It sounded like it.”

Morelen covered her mouth as her eyes shot open and she blushed furiously.  In Nargothrond, the walls were stone and soundproof and she was rather vocal.  The group laughed joyously.  “It’s fine,” Ecthelion said with a wink.  “This is a wonderful occasion, and joy should be the order of the day.  Do not mind my jest.  Please, join us.”

Ëariel pulled out two seats and began heaping food onto their plates, a healthy portion of eggs, waffles and fresh fruit.  “Come, come, eat up or the food will get cold.”  She was an elegant woman who cared for the members of the house like her own children.  Her dark brown hair was pulled back and woven with flowers and strands of mithril that held a brilliant sapphire in a mount on her forehead.  They sat and dove into breakfast, having worked up an appetite.

Ecthelion leaned over. “That’s what you get for leaving me to that demon of a seamstress yesterday,” he said and then gestured to Líreno, Telerien and Caladiel.  “And you three are next.”  Far more than being under Túrin and almost like being under Fingon, this felt like a family.  The House of the Fountain was their home.

Fendomë stood and came around the table.  “How does the circlet fit?” he asked Morelen.  The master smith was a man of average height with hair so black it had a bluish tint that accentuated his blue-gray eyes.  “I wish Celebrimbor were here to do the finishing touches.  That’s his specialty.”

Aegnor, the other smith from Nargothrond, waved his hand dismissively.  “Nonsense.  You do fine on your own.  We’ve already done excellent work for the kingdom.”  He was a tall, broad-shouldered man known for his strength and prowess at the forge.  His face was framed by curly, dark brown hair and his eyes were piercing violet.

It was good to see other people from Nargothrond becoming one with the Gondolindrim.  “The fit is perfect,” Morelen said, adjusting it on her forehead.

Fendomë came over and put his expert eye on it, examining every point of contact to ensure that it didn’t chafe or squeeze.  He nodded with one eye narrowed.  “Yes, yes, it looks good.  Not too tight?” he asked fussily.

“No, no, it’s really perfect.  Your craftsmanship is superb.  I hear that you created the pieces for the bride,” she inquired.

The smith’s face lit up. “Yes, yes.  It will be the defining bridal piece for the ages.  I am very proud of it.  It will captivate the kingdom.”

Excitement ran through the room.  The wedding would define the future of Gondolin…even the future of the free peoples. Their children would bring Men and Elves together in the first known union of those peoples.  There was hope in this event that gave hope for everyone resisting the domination of the Dark Lord.  Ecthelion stood and raised a glass.  “To Tuor and Idril, may they live long, happy and prosperous lives and may their children fulfill the hopes and dreams of our people!”

It was soon time for the wedding party to gather, and the ladies made their way to the palace, dressed in their finery.  Most of the houses trained every day and the House of the Fountain led the way along with the House of the Golden Flower.  It felt good to put away the armor and weapons and be part of a festivity of light.  The ladies fussed and primped, checking each other to ensure that their gowns and accessories were perfect as their trains dragged up the marble steps.

A herald announced them and led them to the bridal suite where they joined a dozen other elven maidens from the various houses, all nobles in the realm.  Idril came to them and held their hands.  “Thank you for coming.  I am so nervous,” she said kindly, her face showing clear stress.  “Please, come in and be comfortable.  I have refreshments for you.”  She gestured to platters of fruit and vegetables with bowls of thick, creamy dips of all flavors.

Morelen tapped her stomach. “Thank you, Princess.  We just had breakfast, but we will take something to drink.”

Idril chuckled a bit awkwardly and took a sip of wine.  “You read my mind.”  She then let out a frustrated grunt.  “Why can’t I calm down?” she asked and began pacing.  She was still dressed in her chemise undergarments.

Telerien touched her arm. “I was the same way for my wedding,” she told Idril.  “This is completely normal.  I’m sure that Tuor feels the same way.”

That seemed to relax her and she smiled.  “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

One of the maidens, Liltarë, passed them glasses of wine.  She was Ecthelion’s daughter, a well-known and accomplished dancer, a kind and gentle young woman.  “My father speaks glowingly of you, and we are proud to have you in the House and our party here,” she said.  Liltarë was already dressed in her gown of silver and sky blue, her hair styled in an elegant waterfall braid, woven with flowers and mithril strands.  The ladies knew her in passing but she spent most of her time attending to Idril.

She brought them over to help prepare Idril’s gown, a magnificent dress of silver with deep and sky-blue accents, woven with silver thread and gems to appear as a galaxy of stars. Set to the side was the pin of her station, a mithril brooch shaped into the silver tree of Valinor, Telperion. They unfolded the gown and smoothed out the creases carefully and lovingly.

“Princess?” Liltarë asked. “Are you ready?”

Idril paced again and then nodded.  “We’ve practiced the routine a thousand times and I’m still not sure that I’ll get it right,” she said of the musical performance that was scheduled for the wedding. They were to sing, Glorious in the Twilight for the audience as a thank you to the people.

“It will be fine,” Telerien said calmly.  “It was perfect at the final rehearsal.”  Líreno’s wife was a calm soul with a deep motherly instinct.  She and Ëariel had become best of friends with such a similar attitude towards life.

Idril sniffed and teared up.  “Yes, of course.  Thank you, my friends.  You are all my rock.”

Morelen remembered her wedding.  While it was a romantic affair, it was not the grand ceremony that was to take place. It was certainly a soldiers’ wedding, drawn swords and a boisterous reception.

They dressed the Princess to perfection, every hair, every pleat, every pin in place.  Morelen found this to be much like donning armor and she enjoyed the meticulousness.  Idril was simply radiant, like the blazing sun, her face glowing with anticipation. Lastly, they put on her characteristic silver shoes, partly why she was given the name of Celebrindal.  The ladies were proud of their work, nodding in satisfaction.

“I wish…I wish that my mother were here to see this,” Idril said in a bittersweet voice.  “She was…was lost in the Grinding Ice, you know, and father could only save one of us.”  She gulped hard, fighting to remain composed.

“She is with us in spirit. I know this,” Telerien said in reassurance.  “My daughter, Idhrendiel, is in the south, safe, but I have not seen nor spoken to her in over seven years.  But she knows that I am with her.  And I know that she is with me.”

“Your words give me comfort.  I can see why Ëariel speaks so highly of you.  Come, shall we?” she said, giving her awkward smile.  There was an inner strength behind that smile and nervousness, and it was easy to see that she inherited her father’s mind and her mother’s grace. The bridal maids lined up in two rows behind her as she led them to the palace promenade where guests lined the way to the square, all dressed in their finery.  Idril took a deep breath, flaring her nostrils for a moment before letting out a stellar smile and giving a gentle wave of her hand.  They then slow stepped along the blue and silver carpet as elven girls tossed flower petals in front of their path.

The audience began to vocalize as they approached the steps down to the square.  It sounded as if the cosmos had come down to Gondolin as the people swayed to the sound.  Turgon and Maeglin met them at the steps and escorted them down, dressed in royal finery, Turgon wearing his golden crown helm that was studded with bright rubies, one giant one on his brow.  The High King’s eyes were misty and his face red as they walked down together.  There were a couple of times that he tried to speak but he just patted his chest.  Maeglin smiled too, but Morelen could see that his eyes were blank.

A gazebo was set up in the square where Tuor waited with his groomsmen, soldiers and friends whom he had trained with for years now.  He was still a young man when the people of Nargothrond came to Gondolin, but he had grown into the fullness of manhood, tall, proud and strong.  None of the arrogance of Túrin was in him, only the profound wisdom of Turgon who considered him a son.  He wore green and golden elven robes that were accentuated with Adan accents in the cut and stitching.  His dark hair was combed and slicked back under a mithril circlet that was crafted to hold silver stars with a single blue sapphire on his forehead.  He pursed his lips together, holding his emotions in as they bridal party approached.

Turgon stood in the gazebo and addressed the crowd.  “Friends! I am proud and honored that you have joined us this day in our hidden kingdom.  I could not be…,” he began before choking up and patted his chest. “I could not be happier.  And to see my daughter, and the man that I have come to regard as a son, filled with joy is my life’s reward.  Now, without further ado, Idril and her ladies have a performance that I know you will enjoy!” he announced in a voice that filled the entire square.  He clapped his hands and stepped aside as Idril and her bridesmaids glided in front of the gazebo.  Lirillo and Nyárië began to play a harp and flute.

Morelen and the others began vocalizing, blending in harmony as Idril unleashed her silver voice, powerful, proud and loving.

Glorious is the twilight,

I come like a swift wind,

Love across all lands,

Their voices rose, spreading out like the rays of the rising sun, growing in strength.

May the stars shine bright,

And the world be noble,

A song in the clear night,

Idril gives you her joy and delight,

The audience stood, mesmerized as the ladies danced in slow, ethereal rhythm, arms flowing to the song and music.  Idril stood out, radiant as a star, gliding before Tuor, love in her eyes, gazing at the man who would be the future of her people, the union of the Children of Illuvatar. As the song ended, the maids bowed and knelt down around them as Idril linked arms with Tuor.  There was a stunned silence for a moment before thunderous applause.  Banners and streamers waved and children danced.

Turgon moved between them and they held hands, facing each other.  “Magnificent!  Simply magnificent!” he announced as he produced a white silken cord.  “Now, in the long tradition of our people from our time in Valinor I bind you together as husband and wife,” he said, wrapping their hands in the cord.  He stepped back and bowed as the couple came forward, raising their arms to the sky.

“We give thanks to the One, Eru Illuvatar,” they said together.  “The One from who all things are possible and from whom our world exists. We thank the mighty Valar in their wisdom and strength, may they ever be the guardians of our people.  We praise the Valar and especially benevolent Ulmo, for whom we thank for this verdant and prosperous land.  May they all bless this union, our people and our kingdom!”

Another round of applause shook the square, but no one noticed Maeglin, stone faced, fists clenched, face red.

Turgon held his hands up and clapped and children in the audience rushed the stage, cheering and holding out bouquets of flowers to the ladies and the couple.  Girls squealed and boys chanted their approval.  Two girls gave Morelen a bouquet and hugged her and she realized how much she missed Silmani and Idhrendiel who would almost be young adults now.  She put one hand over her mouth and one over her heart she was so touched.  Telerien exchanged understanding glances with her. The young ladies left holes in their hearts.  If only there were some way to let them know that they were alive and well.  Morelen looked back at Maeglin, a ripple of tension running along his jaw as he glared at Tuor and she caught his thoughts for a second, ‘it should have been me.  It should be me!’

His face turned to her and she looked away, embarrassed.  Where did she get this ability?  Was it even some power or was she just imagining it?  She shook her head to refocus.  The crowd chanted in praise for some time more, joyous faces in the crowd.  Turgon then led the wedding party back to the palace for the reception that would include feasting, music and dance.  It was wonderful to see Tuor and Idril so happy and at the center of attention of the kingdom.  Morelen never had aspirations of leadership or being in the spotlight.  Her father always taught her about service before self and the good of her people.  She was right where she needed to be.

The lords of the houses reveled with the wedding party, toasting the High King, the bride and the groom as bards and minstrels sang and played in the background.  Lirillo and Nyárië were sublime in their music.  The riders went and sat at their own table, cheering and drinking, discussing days gone by and the glory of lost kingdoms.

As the festivities wound down, the bride and groom made their exit, escorted by the King. Morelen sat back, content, her stomach full and her head a little dizzy with wine.  She lay her head on Notaldo’s shoulder and felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Salgant.  She blinked for a moment before remembering their conversation with him earlier.

“Are you ready to visit my home?” he asked, almost childlike in his awkwardness.  “Remember, you promised.”

Ardana

The Astrologer had been diligently preparing for the Ritual, fussing about every aspect of the ceremony. She agonized over the signs and portents, scrying the stars daily for any information about the exact date of the great eclipse.  Morthrog, the grand seer of the Dark Lord, had been of little help, giving vague timelines and even vaguer directions for the Ritual.  The last conversation with the Dark Lord was of little comfort and her confidence in support from Angband had been slipping.  And that conversation was decades ago.

Dressed in her star robe for grand functions, she held her Ardan card that would allow her to speak directly to Morgoth, tapping it on her desk as she began to pace again.  Why was she so nervous?  For centuries prior to their departure from Valinor, he was her mentor, her guiding light…her…she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the intimate parts of their relationship.  Rumor had it that he had changed dramatically since they last spoke before to the Dagor Bragollach.

She sat back into her plush throne on the top floor of the Citadel of Ardor, biting her lower lip. Moran brought her a glass of fruit juice, a mixture of cranberries and apples that she loved.  The tartness suited her.

Fëatur, Rilia, Gorthaur and Castolder, Lords of the Four Suits of Ardor, were gathered in their Ardan Council seats, along with Morthaur and Valmorgȗl with Morfuin, the Lord Demon, standing guard at the lift that connected the floors of the keep.  Valmorgȗl, the Magician, sauntered up to Ardana and stroked her ebony hair that had begun to show a strand of gray.  “My lady, you must reach out to the Dark Lord,” he said in a soft, gentle voice as he glanced at Morthaur and winked.  “He is expecting to speak to you.”  Morthaur curled his lip up and looked away.

Ardana knew what he wanted but now was not the time.  She sighed and then patted the armrest of her throne to have Moran sit by her.  She needed him close.  As the stress and fear within her grew about the Ritual, she needed him more and more and kept him on a tight leash.  It was something he detested but her needs were more important. Valmorgȗl stood behind her, arms crossed, her self-appointed guardian to the disgust of Morthaur.  She held up the large card and focused her energy into it, feeling the shalk material grow cold to the touch.  Her hand shook as a form coalesced on the face of the card.  She expected to see the angelic face that she had known in Valinor, but this face was ashen, gaunt, sinister with a wicked scar that ran from his chin to his forehead from Thorondor’s claws after the death of Fingolfin.  She gasped. She knew that he was not the being that she adored but continued to hope that he would return.  But this visage before her was terrifying.

“M…m…my Lord Morgoth. Y…you wished to speak to the Council?”

He grunted, his breath steaming like that of a dragon.  “Yes, my Astrologer.  I have some information for you,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained, not the silver voice of eons past.  “But first, you need to give me an update on your progress to include bringing the south into our great realm.”

“Of…of course, great King of the World.  Your will is supreme,” she said, beginning to doubt the words coming from her mouth.  “We are actively hunting for the location of Chrys Menelrana’s forces so that we may destroy them.  If we eliminate him, the rest will scatter as Lyaan cannot fill that role adequately nor can the Enclave.”  She left out how the location of Ty-Ar-Rana continued to elude them as effective as the glyphs and wards of The Three were.

Morgoth pursed his lips. “Continue to do so.  And send progress more often,” he said sternly and she could feel the pull of his power and personality, his very will penetrating her. “Do not make me wait.  Remember, my power is supreme.  I am the chosen one.  I am the great power of Middle Earth.  None challenge me!  I destroyed Nargothrond and that stain on my realm, Gondolin, is next.  I have thousands of their precious people in thrall, many of whom give me hints as to its location.  In my wisdom, I have released many to be my spies in their lands. Others mine and forge my weapons of war. Others, I will warp into new monsters and use to breed the next generation of my armies.  We will conquer all of this new land for our beautiful kingdom, the likes of which has never been seen.  All will bow down and worship me or burn,” he finished, holding up a clenched fist as his eyes glowed red.

“Yes, my lord.  We bow to your will, oh great one,” she answered but really wanted to know what information he had for her.  “Ummm, great king…you had something for us?”

“Yes, yes,” he said dismissively, waving his hand about.  He stood and limped over to his Master Seer, Morthrog.  Ardana knew that he had been gravely injured in the duel against Fingolfin, but to see him limp like an invalid was daunting.  This was not the all-powerful angel that she knew and loved.  “The great eclipse will occur between the Year of the Sun, Five Sixty and Five Eighty. The signs and portents are there now.” Then, he smashed his fist into his open palm.  “If only…if only that…that Arien had submitted to me!  How dare she refuse me!  Me!  Who does she think she is?  I had her in my grasp, did you know?  I had her and was about to take her for my pleasure when she scorched me.  Now I will make her pay, do you hear?  She will pay for defying me and you will be my tool of revenge,” he uttered, seething, enunciating every word.

Ardana nodded silently, imagining him trying to ravish Arien like he did to her, his cold hands seizing her body.  Then, her body erupting into flame so fierce that Morgoth fled in agony.  She wasn’t sure whether to feel jealousy or relief for Arien.  There was a grudging respect for the Maia of the Sun.

Morgoth waved his arms about.  “She would have been the most powerful of my fire spirits, warped and demonic, fearsome to behold.  Even Gothmog would not be able to stand against her.  She would have the land and the enemy to scorch, and she would serve me daily.  I would have given her everything!  Everything! When you bring her down, she will submit to me and grovel at my feet, begging me to use her.”

“And one more thing,” he continued.  “When this is done, you will return to Angband and be with me once more, serving your king with all of your heart, mind…and body,” he finished and his image faded.

Ardana shuddered as a wave of nausea washed over her.  She had promised herself that she would never return to Angband.  It would be almost as horrid as being a thrall in the breeding pits. She stood and gestured to Valmorgȗl to close the Council Chambers.  His hand brushed along the small of her back and she didn’t mind.  She took Moran’s hand to walk to the lift.  “I’m never going back to Angband.  I’ll die first,” she said as she squeezed his hand tightly, a tremor rippling up her body.  If there were only some way not to sacrifice her beloved son.  If only her daughter had lived.

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company - Black