Story:Day of Remembering

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Title: Day of Remembering
Rating: General
Characters: Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, Cirdan, others recalled

Note: I was in two minds about posting this, as the theme is one covered in one of my previous stories, but it wrote itself whilst I was thinking of Remembrance Day, and in the end I decided to share it

Day of Remembering

 

The day halfway between midsummer and midwinter, when the leaves were falling and the nights were turning cold, was the day the Elves remembered their dead.

 

It had been a Sindar custom originally, Ereinion had been told, and in that time had been fixed by the courses of the stars, for there had been seasons in the land before the sun first rose. In Valinor there had been no need or thought for such a day.

 

Ereinion found it as hard to picture a land without death as to picture a world before the sun.

 

Cirdan said the words of sorrow and commemoration with grace. But they were not his people, Ereinion thought. He had not been of Nargothrond. Although Cirdan named its fall he could not feel it, not as Ereinion did, or Celebrimbor or those other fugitives who had reached Balar.

 

Finrod had wept openly as he stood before the court of Nargothrond and named the fallen of the Bragollach…

 

Ereinion had been a small child then, but his memory was clear. Finrod had worn his crown, and the Nauglamir about his neck, both of them orc plunder now, no doubt. He had wept unashamedly as he named his fallen brothers, and not seemed a whit less the king for it.

 

Ereinion remembered when his father had stood before the court, and named Finrod on the Day of Remembering. He had worn the crown then, but although tall and handsome he had not looked like a king as Finrod had.

 

Finrod, who had followed a promise to his death, and left his people without his guidance. 

 

Young though he was Ereinion knew his father had bowed beneath the weight of kingship.

 

Orodreth had wept also, on the day the dead of Bragollach were named, and that had shaken Ereinion more, for he had never seen his father in tears before. But Orodreth had wept when the name of his father Angrod had been spoken.

 

Ereinion had little memory of Angrod, or of his mother’s parents, who had fallen in Dorthornion also.

 

He did not think his mother had wept, but could not be sure. Ereinion was still small enough then to be held in her arms, and he could not remember her face that day.

 

Meril had sung the last day he saw her, she had been singing as she bound up her hair for battle. She came of the North Sindar whose women were more likely to ride to war than those of the Noldor, and she had ridden beside her husband in the front line. Meril had been dark-haired and slender, but lithe and quick. Ereinion had seen her practice. He had not been afraid for her, as he watched the arming. He had not been afraid for either of them.

 

Orodreth had laughed, and it had been long since Ereinion had heard laughter from him. Watching them he had known his parents were relieved to be riding to war again at last, relieved by the straightforwardness of it. His father had been a gallant and valiant knight, who had laughed often in the earliest days of Ereinion’s memory. Kingship had made him weary and bleak. But he had held himself proudly the last day he rode out.

 

For his parents at least it must have been swift.

 

Finduilas’s golden head had reached almost to Mother’s shoulder that long ago day… She had seemed almost grown to Ereinion, but had been a few years younger than he was now….

 

Finduilas had been slender like their mother, but fragile as a blown leaf. She had no skill or wish for battle. In her youth she had sung often, but her singing had dwindled after Gwindor was lost, and not blossomed again when he returned.

 

Ereinion had found her with Gwindor before the host rode out, and she had been urging him to stay. This had not surprised her brother, although he admired Gwindor for wishing to ride out when still so badly weakened from his thralldom.

 

“Your pity is no comfort,” Gwindor had been saying. Ereinion had not meant to listen, but had been unsure how to interrupt.

 

“What I feel for you has not changed,” she had said.

 

“But it is no longer enough. I will not stay behind to be the pitiful weakling,” and Ereinion, who had not feared for his parents, had feared in that moment for Gwindor.

 

Finduilas had refused to watch the host ride out. She had gone to her own chamber, telling her brother to leave her alone.

 

The word of her death had reached him from Brethil two days before Cirdan spoke the words of remembrance for the dead of Nargothrond. Orcs had murdered his fair, frail sister out of spite and she had died in pain.

 

Perhaps it was better to have certainty.

 

Edhellos had stood beside her son’s wife, as Finrod spoke the words of mourning for her husband. In Ereinion’s memory she was a grey figure, although her hair had never lost its dark hue.

 

Edhellos, his grandmother, had been the last of his close kindred he had seen. She had shouted to him to go, to Celebrimbor to get him away, she would find Finduilas and get her out.

 

Celebrimbor had told him over and over there would have been nothing he could do, that if he had stayed in Nargothrond he would have died, that it was better to save his life and strength for the future. Still the thought endured, he should have pulled free of Celebrimbor’s restraining grip, should have gone after Edhellos, should have sought for his sister. If he could do no more than die with them he could have done that.

 

No word had come of Edhellos’s fate, but her grandson was sure she had died, whether in Nargothrond or later in the orc murder of their captives.

 

And he was left. Too young to fight, his parents had said, when he begged to ride out with them, not yet full-grown, his time would come. Too young to do any good in Nargothrond, Celebrimbor had said, not in so many words but that had been his meaning. Too young to be any use at all.

 

Cirdan and Celebrimbor had both told him that would change, but Ereinion could not see how. He would grow, but he would remain a dispossessed fugitive, sheltered out of Cirdan’s kindness. And Morgoth’s threat grew ever greater. To Ereinion’s mind there seemed little difference between dying in Nargothrond and dying on Balar. 

 

He wondered if there would be any to speak his name on the Day of Remembering.