Of Life Amongst The Sindar by LadySternchen  

“Fell creatures, you say?”

The King, who had stood with his head bowed and his back turned towards them, looked up, his tone sharp all of a sudden. Ziriz flinched. What had he been thinking of asking his lord to accompany him to Eglador? He had been so curious about the Elves, had wanted to see for himself if they were really as tall as everyone said, if their ears were really pointy and if it was true that they sang and danced day-in, day-out. He had even asked some of the more seasoned travellers to teach him the Elvish tongue, to be prepared.

Only what nobody had told him was how terrifying these creatures were. They were just so… sparkly, awakening a very uncomfortable desire in Ziriz to touch them, to take them with him to their fortress, to take them apart and craft them into something beautiful. That thought, while slightly disturbing, was nothing to be terrified about, of course. But looking at them was terrifying, especially at their eyes. Every time Ziriz chanced a look at one of their faces, he could not shake off the feeling that those ancient eyes could look right into his head, and reveal the hideous thoughts that he had. And the King was worst of all. He was just too bright all over. Not to speak of the Queen. It was said that she was not from this earth, and Ziriz had no doubt whatsoever that these rumours were true.

“Aye, my King” Ziriz’s lord answered “We have heard rumour say that there were attacks east of the mountains, but we did not know if it was the Longbeards’ favour for storytelling, or the truth. We thought, maybe a bear with an extra set of ears had attacked one Dwarf once, and they made it into an army of monsters besieging Khazad-dûm for a fortnight. But alas, I fear it is not so. Creatures have been seen creeping in the shadows near our city, and in the realm of the Firebeards, the great fortress that you name in your tongue Nogrod, a smith was killed by a black arrow. They said it reeked of death and decay.”

The Elvenking did not answer at once, but exchanged a dark look with his Queen that she answered with a sorrowful sigh and a nod. It almost seemed like they were talking, though their mouths were not moving. This was another rather unsettling feature of the Elves.

“I know of these creatures” he said at long last, the faintest trace of pain in his voice “To my great regret.”

“But how?” Ziriz blurted out, immediately regretting his outburst.

But it was too late, both the King’s and his lord’s attention were now turned to him.

“Be quiet unless you are bidden to speak, Goldilocks”

Ziriz scowled. Translated into Elvish, his name sounded ridiculous, which certainly his lord had intended. The King, however, showed no dismay, and nor did the Queen. They both eyed Ziriz with a keen interest, their eyes piercing into his. He could not avert his gaze, could not look away from such dazzling beauty.

“I… I beg your pardon for my impertinence. I merely wondered… we thought we had all the passes into Beleriand watched and defended. But if you know of the creatures, then some must have escaped our notice.”

His expression hardening, the King nodded.

“They find many loopholes no decent being thinks about. But it was indeed not in these lands that I made their ghastly acquaintance. My people call them Orcs. It is said that in the most ancient days of our people, the Dark Lord captured Elves who strayed too far from the shores of Cuiviénen, and tortured and mutilated them until their minds and bodies were broken beyond saving or repair. Thus maimed, the thoughts of these Elves turned black, and became subjects to the Dark Lord’s will. I know not if these tales are true, yet I fear that they might be.”

He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then went on:

“For long Ages, they were not seen nor heard of, and we hoped to be rid of them for good. But alas, it seems it is not so. It is no surprise, of course. My Queen has warned me of Evil stirring once more, and this is merely confirmation that the blissful peace we have lived in has indeed drawn to a close.”

The Queen pressed her husband’s arm consolingly, a gesture so unexpected that it made Ziriz momentarily forget about the Orcs. No Dwarven couple would ever outwardly express affection, least of all if they were lord and lady. Such behaviour was downright scandalous.

Weird Elves.

“And yet it is ill news. Most of my people live and wander freely, without any permanent settlement. They would stand defenceless against the Orcs should they pass into Beleriand, and even our forest has little to set against an attack. We must make for ourselves a stronghold, like Círdan did with Eglarest and Brithombar. I see no other way.”

The last words the King spoke more to his Queen than them, Ziriz noticed, and indeed to him, they made little sense. He had never heard of a Círdan, nor of Eglarest and Brithombar, whatever they were.

“With your leave, lord, I would like to offer my help. Our people are unfazed by the Orcs, for our cities are strong, and our tunnels run deep. In such a fortress, you and your people would be safe. We could aid you in building for you such a place. In exchange for payment.”

Ziriz doubted that those singing, dancing creatures would want to live underground, and therefore was very surprised that the King seemed to seriously ponder the idea.

“That is a gracious offer. I do not doubt your accounts, and less even my wife’s foresight, and we would indeed be hard-pressed to defend ourselves otherwise. I also think… there might be a place well suited for such an underground city, I should be eager to hear your opinion on it. But first tell me, what payment do you ask? I deem there is little in my possession that would count as adequate payment for so great a deed. Much of the riches of my kingdom lies in song and wisdom.”

He would make a good Dwarf, that Elvenking. It seemed that he had mastered the art of haggling well. Ziriz glanced at his lord, and saw the longing glinting in his eyes.

“I can think of one thing or another. You wear marvellous pearls, lord. I have long craved those, for our silver- and goldsmiths to work into jewellery. Yet where they come from, my people and I do not go. We Dwarves are wary of the sea.”

And he scolded me for being impertinent, Ziriz thought indignantly, frowning at his lord. Surely asking the Elvenking outright for the ornaments he wore was far more outrageous than blurting out a question? To his surprise, the King showed no sign of anger, rather of astonishment.

“These? You… if the likes of these is what you name as price for helping my people build a stronghold, I shall gladly give them to you. I have seen what outstanding artworks the hands of your people make out of gem and ore, and I can well imagine to what use you would put the pearls that come from the sea.”

Once again, Ziriz glanced at his lord. This had gone much smoother than he would have though. Among Dwarves, haggling seldom took less than a day, more often than not included a fight, and almost always a lot of drinking, ere the parties agreed on something. He could not shake off the suspicion that the Elvenking did not know the full value of these pearls, and thought himself lucky that the Dwarves asked for so little. Fool. These were an invaluable treasure, and Ziriz’s fingers itched with longing to start crafting new fabulous jewellery.

“We have an agreement, then” he heard his lord say, and the Elvenking bowed. 

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Melian knows not who or what she is. She really doesn’t. And every day she spends with her people, she knows it less.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she leans against the mossy boulder, allowing her breathing to slow, until it is in rhythm with the breathing of the forest. In… and out. Tears start running from her eyes. She does not bother with wiping them away. What makes her cry, she does not know, because she is not sad, not really. Just… lost. She is nothing and nobody, and yet needs to be so much.

How long she sits with her tears falling silently, she does not know, before she senses his presence, long before she hears the softest thud of his footfall on the moss, barely audible. He does not ask why she cries, is not scared by her tears. He only sits down beside her, and tenderly encloses her in his arms. His warmth feels so good, so comforting. He pulls her closer, presses his lips to her hair so that she feels his breath on her scalp. The sensation makes her giggle, and she sits up straight and wipes her tears away. Only to her dismay, new tears fall almost at once, and before she knows it, she is weeping once more against her husband’s chest.

“ I feel so lost,” she sobs. “I know not who I am anymore.”

He cradles her in silence for a long moment, then says deliberately:

“Yourself. But you do not know who ‘yourself’ is, do you?”

Tearily, she shakes her head, knowing that he understands. It is something that at times aisles them both, and having a companion in feeling lost makes one… not so lost.

“Someone wise,” he says, gently tilting her chin upwards so that she looks straight at him, “once told me to start at the beginning.”

He smiles at her, but his words only make her even more desperate.

“How… how can I be wise when I feel so lost?”

“Because one can be many things at once. Or so you once told me.”

Melian nods. Whatever happens, she is still a thought of the Almighty. That, perhaps, should be a comfort. Only it is not. She knows she makes herself guilty of vanity, knows that she should be content with that, but she is not. It is not enough.

Breathe in… and out. 

Yavanna’s creations surround her, trees and moss and flowers, deer and squirrels and how many tiny crawlies.

In the thought of the One, she is kin to Vána and Yavanna, and with her new understanding of family, she calls them ‘cousins’. The weight on her shoulders seems a little less. Yes, that she is. And they are around her, ever. The forests of Middle-earth pulsate with Yavanna’s energy, and in the unchanging beauty of the Elves, of her own living body, she feels Vána’s grace. It feels like an embrace, and Melian leans into it gladly.

Elu squeezes her a little.

“Being part of a family helps. I know.”

There is no need for her to explain anything to him, she knows he has followed her trail of thought.

“But it is not only Yavanna’s creation that surrounds you— it is of your own making, too.”

Melian looks up at Elu, and marvels. He is right. She knows not which parts, knows not what came into being through her voice, but she knows that something did, and that is comforting. And she knows her theme, the domain that was given to her, a power so beautiful and terrible that it well matches those of the Valar. Yet it was given to her, a Maia, not one of the Valar, the power that affected even the mightiest. And it has come into being through her song.

When she later sang, carefree and untroubled, at the mingling of the light, even the bells of Valmar were silent.

And a singer, she is still.

When she sings, her people harken. She can sing trees into bloom and grass into sprouting. Her song ensures that her people can live a life void of hardships, it heals wounds and ailments and when someone is weary, Melian can ease them to sleep.

That she has learned, in the gardens of Lórien, that were once her home. She has been not only a servant there, but an eager pupil to her lady Estë and lord Irmo, who had taught her willingly the secrets of restful sleep. It is into his care that she recommends those whom she sings to sleep. Estë, on the other hand, has taught her the art of healing, and indeed a healer she is now. And with every day, she refines her skill.

So maybe apprentice she is still?

“Our people would surely be very surprised to hear you think that of yourself, even though I agree with you. But they see you as the one who teaches them everything, from the weaving of fine tapestries— see, that you are, too. A truly marvellous weaver. Anyway, you taught our people everything, from the waving of fine tapestries to the baking of lembas, and all the lore and wisdom of the Powers of Arda. You taught them about the song and the kindness of the Valar…”

“That you did, too.” Melian interjects, squirming slightly at being praised so.

“I told them of the kindness of the Valar, love. But you did more. It was you who taught them about their very being. You were not half-blinded by awe when you first saw them, you know them since before they even could be seen. That you are too— a priestess to your people. And above all, their beloved Queen.”

A priestess. That word makes her squirm, too, though she knows it to be accurate. She will bless Tarn Aeluin later this very day, following the pleas of their people. She is the one who leads them in their praise of Varda, and who reassures them that not every storm, not every flood, is a punishment from Ulmo or Manwë. Ai, will they ever understand that the Valar do not punish?

Her thoughts wander, the crushing sadness slowly subsiding. One of her nightingales lands on a branch close to her, a fat spider clutched in its beak. Behind it, its children, puffed up and complaining loudly, make a rather wobbly landing on the same branch, waiting to be fed. Melian smiles. They are almost grown, but will sooner yell at their parents than try to catch a fly themselves.

That she is, too. A mother. And sometimes, Lúthien reminds her of those little birds. She, too, is a grown woman, but will still keep Melian company when she sits by her loom, and tell her of her day, like she did when she was a little girl. Warmth spreads through Melian. She should never have been a mother, strictly speaking. She should never have experienced that, and yet she is deeply thankful that she has.

Of course, clouded though the scenery of the Music is where it touches upon those Melian loves most, she still has sight enough to know that Lúthien’s existence has not only been born of her rebellion, but of the will of the Father. Her Lúthien has to be.

But Melian is also a wife. And this, more than anything else, feels like being herself. She has done her deed, so to say, with bearing Lúthien. But that has changed nothing about her love and affection for Elu. Had they not succeeded, had Melian proven unable to conceive, she would still love him just as deeply now. Almost all other things they named to help her feel who she is are defined by others. But this, her marriage, is her own choice. Her little rebellion. She belongs with Elu, regardless of them being entirely different beings. They belong together, in whatever shape or form they might appear.

Once more, Elu tightens his hold on her, and it needs only one look at him for her to know just how moved he is by her thoughts and sentiments.

“Has any of this answered your question, then?” Elu asks in a low voice and a tone that tells her clearly that he knows she has not.

Melian sighs. Maybe it really is less the question of who she is, but what she is.

The damp from the forest floor has begun to seep through her dress, making her backside uncomfortably cold.

Breathe in…

The forest air streams through her airways, filling her lungs. She holds her breath, and after a little while starts to feel dizzy, and is overcome by the urge to breathe out, and then draw new air into her body. She feels her heart pumping faster, almost indignantly, due to the unnecessary stress she has put on it just now. When she closes her eyes, she cannot see the physical world around her. She needs her body.

And she wants to need her body. Lovingly, she thinks back again to the miracle of Lúthien’s conception and birth. Her body worked like an Elvish body would, her womb allowing Elu’s seed to take root there, and giving Lúthien a place to grow safely. It birthed Lúthien. Admittedly, thinking back to the actual birth still makes Melian’s heart race and her throat become dry. She was in so much pain back then, a pain Elves do not experience. Not like this. But still she has survived the ordeal, and more, her body once again worked as it should, nourishing her baby until Lúthien was old enough to take solids. It is still marvellous to Melian.

But then, if she wants and needs a body, is she truly still a Maia? Despair creeps back up her throat.

“You can be both, meleth. Like you can be servant and Queen, teacher and disciple. A Maia you will always be, you are not bound by the existence of Arda. You are, and you will be even after all this is gone. But you are an Elf by choice, also. You have your place among us Firstborn. You are so many wonderful things. Do not torment yourself so. You are you. You are eternally loved. And all that you touch, be it in body or spirit, are blessed with your grace and your light, just like Aeluin with its clear waters that will not be defiled now even by shadows.”

Melian again looks up into her husband’s light grey eyes that are like stars made into flesh, shining with the light of Laurelin and Telperion like her own, but also with his overflowing love for her. She wonders, as she has done countless times before, if he has truly been touched by Varda in a way no other Elf is. Varda’s parting words ring in her ears again, her advice to always keep to the stars should Melian ever get lost in the vast wilderness of Middle-earth. Of course, it may only have been that— advice, a blessing, a phrase of parting. Only Varda said it with a very knowing grin on her face that Melian could not interpret then.

There is no way of knowing, of course, but Melian likes the idea of a beam of Varda’s light touching that little baby boy within his mother’s womb, marking him as Melian’s husband. She hides these thoughts from Elu, though. Something tells her that he would find the idea humiliating rather than sweet, and apart from that, this image belongs to her alone. Her own little treasure. 

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If her mother could see her now, Galadriel thought, sitting by a loom and weaving like a respectable lady, while talking to a respectable lady, she would either be very proud, or very indignant. Knowing Eärwen, Galadriel suspected the latter. Imagining her mother’s face drew a half-amused, half-sorrowful sigh from her, a sigh that attracted Melian’s attention. The Queen tilted her head slightly, surveying Galadriel through her bright eyes with a curious expression on her face.

“I was just thinking about my mother,” Galadriel explained, “Or rather, of what she would say could she see me now. I, ah, was not particularly fond of weaving, or indeed any sort of crafting, when growing up. It cost her all her non-existent patience.”

“Really?” Melian exclaimed in mock surprise “I could never have guessed.”

Glaring at the Queen in an equally mock-offended way, Galadriel straightened her robes very deliberately.

“Yes. It so happens that both my cousin and I took greater pleasure in…”

“Brawling with the boys?” Melian offered, before Galadriel could think of a more dignified way to express the same fact.

Galadriel huffed, though neither she nor Melian could hold back their laughter now. It felt wonderful. Melian had become a true friend.

“My mother is not even truly fond of handicrafts herself. But weaving was something that was very precious to my grandmother, and so my mother deemed it important, too.”

Fabrics gleaming like the sea, with shells and pearls woven into them. Galadriel missed her grandparents almost as much as her parents, only thinking of them -both her maternal and paternal grandparents- was even more painful than thinking of her parents. And moreover, she would not elaborate about anything even remotely touching upon Alqualondë in front of Melian.

Perhaps sensing her inner turmoil, Melian steered the conversation back into calmer waters.

“You know, now that I come to think of it- maybe that is why people send their children to their aunts and uncles to receive their education. Because practically anyone is better suited to teach a child than their own parents.”

Humming in assent, Galadriel could nonetheless not pass over how strange it was to think of Melian as her mother’s aunt. Lúthien she regarded as her cousin and the King very much as her uncle, but Melian? No, Melian was not a motherly figure to her at all.

“It is weird thinking of you as Mother’s aunt, somehow.”

“Not as weird as it feels to say it.” Melian muttered, a grin still on her face.

Before Galadriel could say anything more, one of the guards that stood before the door entered, bowing before Melian.

“The Lady Thônwen to see you, my Queen.”

Melian was up from her chair so quickly that she sent the loom weights clanking.

“Thônwen? She has returned? Ai, finally!”

Galadriel rose, too, to greet the newcomer. She had heard of her, but never met her, though she might well call her ‘aunt’ as well, seeing that she was Elmo’s wife. And, Galadriel realised with a rush of nerves, Celeborn’s grandmother. What was she to say to her? Her courtship with Celeborn was still so very new and fresh.

The woman that entered the room, bestowing a quick bow upon Melian for courtesy before throwing her arms around her, was nothing like Galadriel had imagined her. Knowing Celeborn and Galathil and of course Elmo and Elu, it had never dawned on Galadriel that Thônwen would look so utterly different. She was much shorter than Galadriel, shorter than most Elves, and was clad in hunter’s garments, a greenish-brown tunic, and leg-wraps. Golden ribbons were woven into her ebony hair, and her muscles spoke of a powerful archer. Lean and lithe as she was, she must be a fearsome hunter.

When Melian and Thônwen broke apart, the Queen turned beaming to Galadriel.

“Galadriel, this is Thônwen, head of the hunters and healers, my sister-in-law and dearest friend. Thônwen, this is Galadriel. She came over the sea with her brothers and cousins, and is the daughter of Eärwen, who is your niece.”

Melian waited a moment for Thônwen to work out what she had just said, then laughed as Thônwen’s eyes grew wide.

“You are Olwë’s granddaughter?” she asked, surprise and wonder on her face. “How is he? We were so… so saddened when we had to part from him, though we made the choice gladly enough. And we wondered all the time how he fared, how kingship suited him.”

Silently thanking the Valar for that last question, Galadriel hasted to answer. If she did it cleverly, she might well be able to stay clear of Alqualondë. She had to stay clear of Alqualondë. And preferably also of the question as to why they had come back to Middle-earth.

“Oh, kingship agrees very well with him,” she answered with a loving smile, longing once again tearing at her heart, “He is most beloved by his people, and works tirelessly for their well-being. His crown is of pearls, as are his halls, and wherever you go in his house, you hear the rushing of the sea.”

“One cannot deny the three of them are brothers, seemingly. The sea for Olwë, the wind that plays within Menegroth for Elu.” Thônwen chuckled “It is the woods’ music for Elmo. That is why he refuses to live in the caves normally. And I cannot say I object. But tell me of his family.”

Galadriel sincerely hoped that her emotions did not show on her face when thinking about her uncles. Drowned, burned and butchered, and Elulindo, the crown-prince, bleeding out on the piers, crying for his parents and siblings.

“My grandparents are doing well,” she said, and at least when talking of their physical well-being, this was no lie “My mother is their second child. The other four are boys.”

Were boys. Or they still are, but bodiless in Mandos’ vast halls.

“My father was a great friend of them in their youth, and when they were old enough, he married my mother. And had my brothers and me.”

Whether Melian sensed that Galadriel was eager to steer the conversation away from their kin or whether it was by mere accident, she did not know, but Melian chose that moment to say, with a little smile that could not be interpreted as apologetic even with the best of intents:

“Galadriel is also courting Celeborn, Thônwen.”

Galadriel shot her the dirtiest look one could possibly shoot a queen, to which Melian giggled even more.

“Really? Ai, this is wonderful.”

“Maybe Galadriel would be so kind and fetch him and the others? I am sure they will be very happy to know of your return.”

Galadriel obliged, leaving the two friends to chat amongst themselves. Only now, all they she had learned during that conversation truly started to sink in, now that the threat of the terror that was Alqualondë being revealed had passed. So this was Thônwen. That she had been on a long hunting-trip, Galadriel had known, but not that she was the head of the hunters. She had expected that to be a man, if she was honest. Apart from her cousin Írissë, she had hardly known women who truly enjoyed hunting. She would kill an animal to feed herself, surely, but never enjoy it. And that a hunter would also be a healer was completely unheard of amongst her own people. It seemed that she had much to learn still about the customs of her future husband’s (had she really just called Celeborn that?)  people, especially if she planned on staying in Doriath. 

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