Title & Chapter Number: Circles and Rings: Part 1, 1/?
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I couldn't even begin to claim ownership of any of the wonders of Middle Earth. I've borrowed them for some personal edification, and to get to know a few of the inhabitants better, but they aren't mine. No copyright infringement is intended. All content and original characters are the intellectual copyright of the author.
2nd Disclaimer: I don't speak elven; I wish I did. Therefore I claim no accuracy of the words and phrases I've used. What I've used, I pieced together using Dragon Flame, which can be found HERE.
Also, much of my understanding of things Elvish and Middle Earthen have come from many hours perusing The Encyclopedia of Arda
Warnings: None
Betas: Gypsy
Cast: Gil-galad/OFC
Timeline: Takes place before the Last Alliance and makes no reference to any events Tolkien wrote of.
Spoilers: Nope
Summary: Every course of action, every path chosen, affects the course of history, and, sometimes, changes otherwise unchangeable events.
Notes: My apologies for any errors; I'd be happy to work on rectifying them (within the framework of the story) if anyone can point such errors out to me!
Special Thanks to: Char for her beta help and all of the elven research she did and passed my way, not to mention the plot bunnies she kept throwing in my path. Also to Gypsy for her beta help, as well as a jolly good game of Grope-the-Elves.
He barely noticed the crisp autumn carpet that spread beneath his seasoned leather boots, or the skeletal arms of branches empty of their foliage that clawed the sky above him. His feet passed soundlessly, treading a now familiar path, making their way without conscious will on his part. He noticed very little, in fact, which would have bode ill should anyone have been pursuing him. In this place, in the pre-dawn gray, there was very little that would wish to harm him, thus he knew he was safe enough. Safe enough, that was, except from the voracity of his own thoughts, thoughts too focused upon what he was doing, and why, and whether he had completely lost his sanity to be coming here, alone.
'Behold. Everything that will change everything.'
So the Seer had said after the day he had discovered the tiny elfling girl alone in the thickness of the forest.
Not so far from where he now passed in fact, he mused, turning his head in the direction he had been that day. Wooden fingers snagged a long strand of dark hair; he reached up and brushed it away casually, almost as though he had not noticed the temporary inconvenience.
It had been a cold day, that one, not so unlike this day except for the company of others off on a glorious feast hunt, celebrating the marriage of.he paused in thought, bemused to be unable to remember that detail. It obviously hadn't been of great importance to him. Or perhaps the slippage of time merely made it less so now.
Momentarily, he was tempted to go to that spot, to touch the earth that, to him, now seemed a place of hallowed beauty and promise. Was it still there, untouched by time as his recollections of it were, or had time stolen that as well, claiming what had been a small thicket and making it once more part of the tangled overgrowth of forest vines?
Though many times he had thought to go back, to see that place for himself once more, he never had. Doing so would have brought up the possibility of other things that he had made conscious effort to avoid.
'Past and present, what is and what will be, failure and success. What is taken in mercy will be received in blood, until the circle is complete. The ancient shall pass into fiery rebirth, kin not blood, drawing from the ring of ashes a history that will dawn and love again.'
The second claim of the Seer had made little sense to him when she'd made it some sixty years ago. It made no more sense to him now, though he'd had all of those decades to ponder it. But coming as it had, on the heels of a visit here, a visit that had awakened in him such passions as he had never dared dream of, he had only been able to presume that it was a warning.
Stay away. Do not do as you feel compelled, or disaster will befall you.
There had been reasons enough to stay away before. War and the duties of kingship had been adequate excuses for all too infrequent visits. And he had convinced himself that the lavish gifts left, or sent, were enough to make up for his absence. Nothing was ever said to the contrary, giving him no real cause for the guilt that dogged him. But it was there, and he knew he should have come more than he had. Yet even with the ever-present retainers that had accompanied him, the temptation had always been there, been nearly overwhelming.
.until he had stopped coming altogether.
He scowled as he pushed through brown, low hanging vines, trying to dig the memories from where he'd buried them. How long had it been? Twenty years? Thirty? Maybe longer. He had sent no more gifts. Nothing.
Was it any wonder he had not heard of the old one's death until many months after the fact?
He should have been told. No matter what he had done, or hadn't done, he felt that he deserved that much from her.
Perhaps he wasn't wanted here. Maybe he shouldn't have come. Maybe he would regret this decision more than he regretted anything else in his life.
But he had to go back. Now, more than ever. He had to say goodbye.
And he had to see her one last time before he said it.
He knew he was nearing his destination when the fragrance of an aromatic fire filled his nostrils. It was a faint scent, one that he knew most humans would not have detected, as it wasn't fueled by simple logs and peat. There were other ingredients to this smoke. Thyme, aspen, and.he sniffed the air again just to be certain.yes, the familiar hint of peppermint.
Her smells.
He shivered a little, though not at all cold, and pushed aside the branches of mulberry that were the final sentry to his destination.
The sight of the small structure gave him breathless pause. Not a woodland cabin, as Men were want to built, nor the low hovels of the tiny folk, but a graceful, almost elegant, small home, nestled amongst the trees as if it had grown up here from the very ground upon which it stood. Gleaming white in the early morning sunlight, with its window frames shadowed in pale green, and delicate golden and moonlight petals etched in place in every nook and corner, the glow of lights always lit within, beckoning the weary and the needy.just as he recalled from his boyhood when he had first been brought here by his father. He closed his eyes, remembering those times fondly.
Tawen had been ancient even then, older than his father, a wise and skillful healer of both body and spirit. She had known the ways of magic and earth, of spells and herbs and time that could give the ailing back their vitality. She cared for any who came to her, regardless of race or creed, and just how his father had known her was a mystery always unspoken. Perhaps the previous High Kings had always known of her, just as the current one did, a secret passed down from one to another until its origins were lost.
Now, even she was lost, no secret to pass on.
Not that he had any sons or daughters to pass it to.
Movement refocused his attention once more, as the door opened. He held his breath so that she might not hear him.
She stepped into the early dawn light, pausing to stretch and take in the morning's scents. Her hair, the color of a new fawn caught beneath golden sunlight, was loose about her face and shoulders, not straight as so many of her elven kin, but wavy, vibrant, almost a living thing itself in the slight breeze. Fortunately, the breeze blew towards him, keeping his presence hidden, while also carrying her scent to him. Wild herbs and smoke, and always the touch of the peppermint she drank in her cordials and tea.
She wore the same pale cream gown that she wore in all of his memories of her. Surely she must have other garments, but he could not remember them. Always in his memories, in his dreams, it was the same color, accenting the fairness of skin a shade darker than many elf-kind, her hair darker than golden but far from jet, belying whatever human ancestry she bore.
Eventually she left the stoop and walked softly on bare feet to the pile of split lumber against the southwest corner of her home. She bent down to gently caress some small furry creature that disappeared beneath the woodpile before he could identify it. She stayed there, her head and shoulders drooped as though weighted by great sadness.
His hands trembled, the tremors snaking their way up his arms and into his very soul before he quashed them and straightened. The sight of her heartache was too much for him; he emerged from the forest's cover as she stood up and reached for a piece of wood.
"Please, let me aid you."
Hearing the voice as she heard the movement, she spun, knowing who had come even before she saw his face. She dropped the piece of wood she held; it missed her bare feet, but she doubted she would have noticed even if it had hit her toes. Of the extensive array of emotions that surged within her breast, it was the outrage that dominated.
"Why are you here?" she spat, not even bothering with the formality of the title that befit his personage.
"I." Though a quiet man by nature, he was not normally at a loss for words. Somehow, though, before the blast of her anger, he did not know what to say. All of the reasons he had given himself for coming here withered away beneath the flame in her eyes.
Sensing that he was not going to answer her, she stepped back a single step and retrieved the fallen wood. Once she was no longer looking at him, his voice found itself once more. "I came because of Tawen."
"She has been gone nearly six months."
"I only just learned."
Now she looked at him again from her crouched position, her icy eyes pricking him as daggers against his skin. "You would have known if you had come more."
He thought he detected a break in her voice, a small sound akin to a sob, but she cut her tirade short and looked away from him quickly. He had reached her now, standing close enough that her feminine scent washed powerfully over him.
And he knew. Perhaps neither she nor Tawen had ever said a word about his too infrequent visits.but they had felt it. At least this delicate creature had, the one he had nearly considered a daughter once.but no more.
And he understood his own guilt at last, as it flooded him once again. He felt the guilt because some small part of him knew she had been hurt by his refusal to come here.
Without asking, without any fanfare, he took the wood from her arms, making certain not to touch her. He thought she might protest his actions but she said nothing as she turned away from him and started back towards the door. He did not move, only watched her, the gentleness of the movement beneath the folds of her gown, the way her hair brushed her back and shoulders. She looked back at him with an indefinable expression and said, "Do not tell me you have come to stand there holding firewood, Te'Valishar. Either put it down or bring it indoors."
She went within then, leaving the door open for him. Having her out of his line of sight spurred him into motion. He grabbed up several more logs and followed her.but stopped just inside the door as he was bombarded by intimate nostalgia.
The room was mostly as he remembered it. White walls adorned with floral tapestries and sprigs of foliage, both fresh and dried. A table stood near the hearth; upon it, and hanging from the mantle, was a varied scatter of drying herbs and earthenware pots. Decorative metal wall sconces nesting candles of green and white and yellow surrounded the room, giving off the familiar welcoming glow. Strange that, at this moment, that glow felt more chilled than ever before. A kettle bubbled over the fire, adding the aroma of brewing tea to the already fragrant atmosphere. Against the far wall, between the doors that led into the two back rooms, a simple cot nestled, its coverings askew as though someone had slept there not long before. There were beds in the back rooms, one of which he knew to be hers, and he knew from past experience that each room had a fire ring of its own, so surely she had not been sleeping here in the common room.
Was there someone else here? Had there been someone else here? Where were they now? Who had it been? A patient, or.he cut the thought short and gritted his teeth. He sensed no other presence, but that did not mean there wasn't one. With a sudden burst of jealous agitation, but still hoping to sound polite, he muttered, "Where would you like this?"
His attempt at politeness failed. He saw that in her expression when she looked up at him from her bed-making efforts. If possible, her glare had grown even colder than it had been when she had first seen him.
"You know where it goes. Put it there and be gone with you. You invited yourself into my home."
"Tawen's home," he snapped, dropping the wood near the hearth and stooping down to stack it upon what little remained of the previous pile.
Bed-making forgotten, she spun and faced him, her hardness now turning into full-blown rage. "My home, adar," she cried, stressing the first word and spitting out the last. "Tawen is gone. She was all I had; this is all I have. You." She pointed her finger at him. "You brought me here. You made this my life. You gave me no other, no choices. You made me what I am! Do not dare to think you can come back here after forty seven years and take everything I know away from me!"
He visibly flinched and blinked. He truly hadn't expected any of this from her. In the past, when he had come, she rarely spoke to him at all beyond greetings and farewells. Always she had seemed to him some gentle and meek flower, timid like the fawn of her hair color. It had never dawned on him that beneath that silence she might well hide sharpened claws.
"Forty seven." he murmured. Was that how long it had been? That he could not remember, and that it had been much longer than he had thought, gnawed at his gut. He sought something in her face that would contradict it, hoping that it had been anger giving birth to that number. All he saw was honest, raw, anger and.something else.
Pain.
The part of him that had warned him to stay away now came pushing to the fore, wanting to hold her, comfort her, try to take away all of the heartache he had caused. But he couldn't. Particularly now that she stomped away from him, the soles of her feet sounding heavy upon the wood flooring.
"Just go," she said softly, her voice now defeated and low. "You came out of respect for Tawen, to bid her farewell and to see that I am.well. Tawen would be pleased you came. Her resting place is out back. You cannot miss it; I have marked it as she deserved. As for me.you can see that I manage sufficiently on my own. I have no need of you, or your gifts, any longer, Te'Valishar. "
"Why the formality?" he asked, more than a little perplexed by the swiftness of her mood swings. "I have no wish to take."
She had reached the door to the back bedroom; she paused but did not look back at him. "You are not my father, though you have oft put on airs to that affect. Other than the King to whom I owe allegiance, and the one who saved me from the ravages of starvation or wild animals." He heard her breath catch before she said anything more. It seemed that she was having a difficult time with whatever she was to say. "Other than those things.you are nothing to me. What would you have me call you, if not king?"
He did not try to hide the small gasp that escaped his lips as her words stung him. It took great effort to reply, "You could call me by name. You could call me Gil-galad."
"No."
The reply would have been too faint for the ears of Men, said as it was as she disappeared into the other room. He heard it, however, and if he had thought her previous words stung, he had no words to describe the knife-twisting sensation in his soul now.
The loud splashing of water in a porcelain washbasin told him she was not returning to this room any time soon and she had already made it clear that she did not want him here. He should simply pay his respects to Tawen as he had planned, forget any of the less appropriate thoughts his heart had entertained, and be gone. His retainers and advisors would be worried and angry, as he had left them with no word of his destination and gone alone. He should do what he had come for and return to Mithlond without further delay. He went out of the house silently, wishing for words he could say in parting.
There were none.
As she had claimed, the burial spot of Lady Tawen was difficult to miss, built as it was of stone bricks, interwoven with flowering vines, and crowned with a small fire bowl, whose flame flickered weak but steady in the morning breeze. He wondered where she had gotten the hewn stone, or the ever-burning oil, but mostly he marveled at the loving care with which she had erected and maintained this little monument. It was testimony to her devotion and loyalty, and it hurt him deeply that he had never been able to draw such affection from her for himself.
He touched the stone reverently. Not marble, but something else polished to smooth brilliance. He wondered briefly if it was truly power he felt pulsing through the rock or if the sensation was in his imagination. He did not know. Tawen had been powerful in many ways, and had bestowed much, if not all, of that power upon her foundling apprentice.so it could well be the Old One's influence in this place. But the woman he had left in the house had power in her own right, and maybe what he felt here was something of her.
The only part of her he would ever feel again, except for the regrets.
"I am sorry," he whispered, passing his hand over the bowl so that the flame licked at his hand. He felt the heat but there was no pain. The only pain he felt was within him.
He was not even certain for whom his words were meant.
The front door opened and closed. He decided it was best to be gone from here before she saw him again. He had never meant to hurt her. He did not want to hurt her now. As quickly as he could, without actually running, which would have seemed too cowardly to him, he returned to the thickness of the forest, circling the house until he once more stood where he had earlier that morning. He looked back at the structure. There was no sign of her. She had either gone around to the back or had never come outside.
He winced internally, swallowing back the bitter taste in the rear of his throat. "Farewell. A'maelamin," he whispered.
He retraced the path that had brought him here, traveling now in the direction of Mithlond, yet feeling strongly that, rather than going home, he was leaving home behind him. Chastising himself for what seemed a dim-witted sentiment, he straightened his shoulders, drew his face into a neutral mask, and adjusted his footsteps into long, purposeful strides.
Then he stopped. He turned his head once more towards the rising sun. Why not? He would never again come here, never knowingly walk the path of this bit of history again, so there seemed no harm in going back just once, back to the place where this particular pain had been birthed.
Straying from his course, he pushed further east, through the copse of aspen and pine, his royal azure cloak snagging and tearing more than once upon the low branches of the underbrush as the foliage grew thicker. He moved quickly, sure of his step, pausing every few moments to look about him for what he sought, feeling a small bit of desperation that he might somehow miss it and thus spend the remainder of his life searching for something he could never get back.
Something he had never had in the first place.
Then the sense of it came upon him and he stopped all movement. He turned slowly back towards the southwest and crouched down, gently pushing away the empty branches and dead vines until he saw what lay behind them. How he knew this was the place did not matter. He felt it in his very core, particularly when he put his palm upon the damp, leafy covering. The jolt he felt, real or imagined, was powerful enough to draw a strangled sound from his throat.
With strain born of deep emotion, his palm curled, his strong fingers digging into the moist earth, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. There was no one here to see him and it was something he knew he must do, else this ghost would never be excised from his heart.
He gave into the regret and grief.
She stopped when he did, watching him kneel upon the ground, clear the foliage away, and place his hand upon the ground as though it were a holy thing. When his head fell forward and his shoulders sagged, she held her breath, waiting for what he would do next. That he was weeping did not escape her notice; he clawed at the ground with that hand as though to grasp something intangible and it occurred to her that perhaps, if she broke cover, went to him, she could somehow help him capture whatever it was he sought. It was what she did, after all. Help the helpless. Heal the ailing. Give hope to the forlorn. Give life back to the lifeless, when she could.
But she did not move. She did nothing but watch his broad shoulders tremble for many minutes. When he finally stood up, she again held her breath, not wanting him to be aware of her presence. He stayed there silently, and then adjusted his cloak and, with what seemed to her eyes to be great effort, began walking south once more.
She waited. When she felt certain he was not coming back, she pushed toward the revered spot and touched it herself, closing her eyes as he had done.
Receiving the answer she had sought, she returned home, only once looking back over her shoulder in the direction he had gone, her eyes full of a longing she hadn't dared let him see.
"no mae, nin hir."
Even with him now gone forever from her life, she could not bring herself to speak his name.
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