Those Who Linger by Finitely Venerated  

Those Who Linger

The Eldar had not known winter, in the idyllic Years of the Trees. Here, within the white halls of Gondolin, wherein Turgon had wrought anew what beauty he remembered of Tirion, he oft desired to feign ignorance of that accursed season. It was a simple matter to shut out the world, to gaze upon golden Glingal and silver Belthil, to hearken back to days of Light and warmth.

That this affected innocence could never hold, always left a bitter taste in his mouth, an acrid bite that seeped from fëa to hröa. Tumladen was not Túna, Glingal and Belthil were not Laurelin and Telperion, and Idril was not Elenwë. To behold what he had was to lament what he could never have again.

Elenwë’s spirit was with him always; Turgon’s encounters with her heralded by a gelid touch, by the sudden crack of shattered glassware, by the play of light beneath the waters of his fountains. He took thought of Ulmo’s warning, of the Doom of the Noldor finding him within hidden sanctuary, and resolved to never again allow his heart to fall without the rest of him.

Sometimes he wondered if he had died that day, as the chill of the Helcaraxë seemed never to have left him. Verily, Turgon thought, winter is the lingering of the dead.