Of Faelivrin and Gwindor

She felt her hands fall down on her sides when she saw for the first time in many years Gwindor, whom she loved in long summers and wept for in countless nights. 14 years before, the council of Nargothrond had given him up for lost when tidings came of his capture by the host of Morgoth. And she remembered how she cried herself to sleep then, even as when Gwindor bid her goodbye and unclasped his hands from hers to stalk off to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. He never looked back. And that was what she last saw of Gwindor, who was young and beautiful both in body and mind.

Now he returned unbidden. He stood at the feet of the King’s throne and his eyes begged recognition. They did not know him. This kingdom which he served since the Noldor’s rebellion against the Valar, it did not welcome him. He had been wooed from care, that was all they saw, emaciated to the last capacity that even his mind seemed to have wasted away in the Orcs’ the dungeons of Angband. That might be the case for he muttered words that seemed but remote to the Elven Tongue. They looked at him; and the light of the Eldar that formerly frolicked on the surface of his eyes seemed quenched. He seemed strangely more of the Second Born, an aged one, than of the First. Memories of this elf who used to play with Orodreth’s daughter in the clear glen, refused to be conjured, even in imagination, and he was close to weeping. His hewn garments fluttered as he curtsied lower to Orodreth the King, who in turn offered merely a frown to show his wonder.

‘Are there no wise eyes among you, my people? This is Gwindor who left for the Nirnaeth 14 years before. Gwindor for whom our women wept, I not the least, and with whom great honor the men of Finrod held.’

Then Gwindor looked up. The voice was as clear as water falling on rocks, yet cold and melancholy as one that waited too long. It was Finduilas daughter of Orodreth. So long he had dreamed of that voice in the dark chambers of Morgoth, dreamed that it would wake him up and bear him far beyond Middle Earth where too much blood was let loose and too many fruitless wars raged. Enough of that, for here was Finduilas whom he loved and she knew him. It mattered not if others did not.

Then the King rose from his throne and drew close to Gwindor. He knew him then. He was his captain, the son of Prince Guilin his friend. The King raised his hand as Elven music invaded the air. The Noldor in Nargothrond wept in happiness that day and for the first time in many years, Gwindor and Finduilas’s hands were joined once again.

With Gwindor came a man named Mormegil the Black Sword. Word had it that he was rescued by Gwindor upon the latter’s escape from the horde of Melkor. Mormegil’s eyes were as grey as the starlit heavens and his hair darker than the night; but his face was fairer than any other Mortal Man in the Elder Days. He had an elegant bearing and his speech, be it in Elven Tongue or the Edain, was admirable and eloquent that he seemed not less than a Prince of the House of Fingolfin the Valiant. He was fierce in Battle and his courage had won him great renown in the wars Nargothrond had to face later.

Time passed and Lord Gwindor healed and regained the strength and the youth of his body. Though that may be, he did not forget his labors in the caves of Morgoth the Craven, in which his Elven craft alone saved him from ruthless murder, and he sank in dark silence often. Yet, there came Princess Finduilas whose wondrous beauty Gwindor had so loved dearly. She had the golden hair of the Vanyar after the manner of the house of Finarfin, and the light of her face which resembled Laurelin did much to lift the clouds that tightened around Gwindor’s heart. He delighted in the sight of her, as was before; it was he who named her Faelivrin, which is the light of the Sun on the surface of the pools of the River Ivrin. But it was not until later when he noticed that Finduilas had grown wan and silent. TBC