#imlach

[anira-naeg]

[melestasflight]

... then Findekáno released his friend from his chains and saved him

tagged by @grey-gazania and @last-capy-hupping to share a snippet from my fics.

Here, Aredhel is in Estolad and tells the tale of Maedhros' rescue to the children of the House of Marach. Part of To Find a Home in the Twilight

It is easiest with the children, because children are children, be they of the Noldor, the Sindar, or the Edain. She is amused by how they follow her around everywhere. The littlest ones slap their hands over their giggling mouths as Aredhel moves her ears on purpose. The older ones are fascinated by her skill with weapons, especially Marach’s young sons, Malach and Imlach, who spend afternoons on end watching Aredhel carve wooden arrows for her bow.

But the bravest among them is a girl who is often in their company. There’s something about her observant eyes and neatly braided golden tresses that summons Idril’s image as a child, so when the girl comes to join them, Aredhel wastes no time in pursuing this friendship.

‘My name is Írissë,’ she puts her hand on her heart.

‘I know. Everyone talks about you,’ the girl responds in flawless Sindarin, taking her seat between Aredhel and Marach’s boys. ‘I am Zimrahin. Mama says that if I want to become a Wise-woman, I should learn the stories of the Elves. Will you tell me a story?’

Zimrahin has no qualms about being forward about what she wants. She resembles Idril in this also.

‘It would be my honor, my lady Zimrahin. What kind of story would please you on this fine day?’

Three voices at once answer Aredhel’s question.

‘A story about friends,’ says Zimrahin.

‘An adventure!’ says Malach.

‘A scary story,’ jumps in little Imlach with twinkling eyes.

With the criteria established, Aredhel does not have to think long. She chooses everyone’s favorite.

‘This tale is very famous among the Elves,’ she begins, ‘and rightfully so, because it is a tale about the bravest Prince in Beleriand.’ The answering smiles confirm it is the right choice, and Aredhel continues. ‘Long ago, before the Sun and Moon rose in the sky, there lived a Prince across the Great Sea whose name is Findekáno.’

‘Before the Sun and the Moon? That is a long time ago!’ Zimrahin exclaims. ‘How old is Findekáno?’

‘This winter, he shall turn two thousand six hundred and sixteen years old.’ Aredhel purposefully stretches out the numbers, waiting for six little eyes to widen in astonishment. She is not disappointed. ‘But, if you were to meet him, he would look no older to you than your fathers. Anyway, Findekáno had a best friend, Maitimo, and they were rarely apart in their youth, traveling and studying together every moment they could. There was great love between them.’

Aredhel lowers her voice for this next part, ‘But one day, a very powerful Dark Lord got jealous of the friendship among the Elves and decided to ruin their joy.’

‘It must be Morgoth, the Great Enemy,’ says Malach, unperturbed. The Edain, it seems, do not spare their children from the woes of their people.

‘Yes, it was Morgoth before anyone knew him for who he was. He spread many lies, causing strife among Findekáno and Maitimo’s families. But ever more intent on evil, he also stole the Light of the World and took it to his dark fortress in Angband.’

Seeing how her audience does not blink in anticipation, Aredhel carries on, deciding what parts should be skipped in a story for children. ‘Maitimo was brave and decided to cross the Great Sea and take back the Light of the World, but Morgoth captured him and took him to his fortress also.’

‘Did he die?’ Little Imlach squeaks and Aredhel does her best to ignore the shiver that runs down her spine.

‘No, he was very strong, and when Findekáno discovered that his friend had been captured, he decided to go and rescue him. He left in the middle of the night, alone, with very few things, and went to Morgoth’s fortress.’

‘Did he carry a weapon?’ Asks Imlach again.

‘He most certainly did. A very fine bow of yew.’

‘Was he not scared?’

‘Imlach, if you do not stop asking questions, we will never hear the end,’ his older brother gently reprimands him.

‘He was scared,’ Aredhel answers the question anyway, ‘but he knew he must save his friend and reunite their people. Now, the Moon and the Sun had risen up in the sky, and all of Morgoth’s creatures were scared of the light. Findekáno used this to hide and climb high on Thangorodrim, but try as he might, he could not find Maitimo. Then, in defiance of the Orcs, he took his harp and sang a song that his grandmother had taught him in Valinor.’

‘Why did he have a harp with him on the Dark Mountain?’ Comes from Imlach again.

‘Imlach!’ Both Malach and Zimrahin exclaim at once, shushing the little boy so he does not interrupt the story yet again, for which Aredhel is grateful because she herself still fails to understand why Fingon had decided to take a harp of all things.

‘In any case, Findekáno sang and suddenly, above him, someone answered his song. It was Maitimo, who was chained to the mountain by Morgoth. But Findekáno still couldn’t find a way to his friend, and he was very sad, so he prayed to the Vala Manwë, who is most merciful. Manwë sent Thorondor, the King of Eagles, the mightiest of all birds that have ever been.’

‘Thorondor allowed Findekáno to climb on his back and brought him up to Maitimo. Then Findekáno released his friend from his chains and saved him. Once returned, they renewed their friendship and they are now great Lords among the Elves: Fingon, Prince of Hithlum, and Maedhros, Lord of Himring. They fought Morgoth together and locked him in his fortress so that he can never leave again!’

As the story ends, many voices cry out in excitement unanimously, and Aredhel finally notices that many have gathered to hear the tale, young and old.

‘One day, I will go and fight the Morgoth with Prince Fingon,’ Malach says with determination.

‘And when I grow up, I will go and join Lord Maedhros,’ Imlach rises and swings the wooden toy sword he always carries with him.

Marach comes then to gather his young warriors and winks at Aredhel playfully. ‘But to do that, my sons, you must first sleep and grow tall and strong.’

‘What of you, Zimrahin?’ Aredhel asks the girl as they remain by themselves. ‘Would you like to see the kingdoms of the Elves?’

Zimrahin chews her lower lip as she thinks. ‘I like being home and listening to stories,’ she says at last, simply.

Someone calls Zimrahin’s name, and the girl places a wet kiss on Aredhel’s cheek before she scurries away.

I like being home. Aredhel sits with the thought for a long while, even as the people around her scatter and the village falls dark and quiet. She thinks of her brothers, her friends, and all the places she has called home.

For the first time since leaving Gondolin, Aredhel begins craving a home.

A home of her own.

[arofili]

three houses of the edain ❂ house of hador ❂ headcanon disclaimer

          Imlach was the younger son of Marach, and remained in Estolad with his father even when his brother Malach departed with much of their people to seek out a home further in the west. Imlach was deeply devoted to his family and was hurt by Malach’s abandonment, and though he was careful never to speak an ill word against his brother, his son Amlach clearly saw his pain and drew his own conclusions as to its cause.           The wife of Imlach was Amar, a hunter who took firm command of the remaining People of Marach when their aging leader began to decline. For this Imlach was grateful, for he had never been inclined to leadership and preferred to devote himself to caring for his father.           Amlach, however, was eager to influence the minds of his people. He blamed the enchantments of the elves for stealing away his uncle Malach, and this resentment made it easy for him to connect with Bereg of the House of Bëor, who believed the same had happened to his grandfather Balan. Together, Amlach and Bereg began to organize an unrest among the Men of Beleriand, especially those in Estolad, stirring them up against their overlords. They claimed that their journey westward had been in vain, for the Light of the Gods was beyond an impassable sea, and danger was yet all about them.           When the time came for the greatest meeting of Men to decide whether they should stay or go, Amlach went out hunting in the woods with his mother in preparation for a great feast. Yet soon he and Amar were separated, and the woods seemed to become dark and unfriendly, and his way was utterly lost though he had known these trees all his life. Amid the gloom there was a soft voice and a light, which Amlach followed eagerly, believing it was his mother: but soon he saw that it was but a figment, a wisp and a voice, and in frustration he cast aside his bow and wept.           Come morning’s light, the wood seemed to have returned to its usual state, and cautiously Amlach made his way out to the open air. There he met his mother with confusion, for Amar claimed he had been with her all night, and had spoken at the feast with great fervor and passion. Indeed, his fell words had laid a shadow of fear upon the assembled Men, who now were eager to go: but Amlach had not been there, and saw now that the Elf-friends were correct, and the Dark King in the north feared and hated the Men of the West.           Amlach denounced the words of the thing that had taken his shape, and he and many others were deeply troubled by this treachery. Yet not all minds could be swayed, and Bereg persisted, taking a thousand men of his House back over the Blue Mountains, and after them went some of Marach’s people. Amlach, however, repented of his malcontent and swore he would avenge himself against the Enemy, saying: “I have now a quarrel of my own with this Master of Lies, which will last to my life’s end.”           Thus Amlach departed Estolad for the North, entering into the service of the elf-lord Maedhros of Himring, and fought under his command until he perished in battle against the vampires of Gorthaur, an honorable warrior to the last. But in Estolad the remnant of the people of Marach dwindled, some turning west to join their kin in the shadow of Ered Wethrin and the rest disappearing back over the mountains and out of the tales of the Elder Days.

[arofili]

three houses of the edain ❂ house of hador ❂ headcanon disclaimer

          Marach was the leader of the third and largest group of Men to cross the Blue Mountains into Beleriand. Though originally his people led the way, they were so numerous that they needed to move slowly to keep together, and thus were passed by the peoples of Balan and Halthor. Indeed, Marach’s people had begun their journey long before the other Houses of Men, and it was in part their march that inspired the others to turn westward. Several generations passed between the start of their journey and its conclusion, enough that the original purpose of their travel had been lost, though not their resolve to continue.           The leadership of this people at first belonged to the man Legen and his ancestors, but when Legen was killed in a hunting accident before they ascended the mountains, his partner stepped forth to fill his role, for their sons were far too young to inherit the position. This was Marach, and though at first some were uncertain of his capability to lead while also caring for sons only five and two years of age, Marach soon proved himself to be firm, wise, and worthy of their loyalty.           Though the Green-elves of Ossiriand had turned away the other Men who entered their lands on the far side of Ered Luin, they were intimidated by the tall, warlike people of Marach and dared not confront them. Yet despite the loveliness of the forest, Marach did not wish to tarry long in Ossiriand, for he had heard that the people of Balan, kin to his own folk and speakers of the same tongue, had found a green and fertile land further down the Dwarf Road. He led his people to reunite with their distant kin in the land of Estolad and settled to the southeast of the lands of Baran, son of Balan, who now led his father’s folk.           After some years, many of Marach’s people desired to journey further west, but Marach was content in Estolad and would not lead them hither. Instead his elder son, Malach Aradan who had served the Elvenking of Hithlum in his youth, took a majority of their people to the southern slopes of Ered Wethrin. Marach remained in Estolad until his death, his younger son Imlach at his side

[crocordile]

heirs of the house of Marach, Imlach and Malach Aradan

[suspected-spinozist]

Marach and his sons, the Green-Elves /do/ decide to start killing them

His second son is shaking. Imlach's wounds are light, but he has had no time to staunch a jagged cut across his brow, and half his face is caked with blood. It reminds Marach, absurdly, of a painted festival dancer. Against it, he eyes are white and wild, and when he speaks, his voice is breathless, quavering. 

"It was dark, they attacked us from the trees - they had arrows, father, with heads made of some metal, harder than bronze, and darker, and we could not see their archers among the leaves and - I am sorry - we panicked, we all did, and they picked us off as we sought cover in the woods, father, I am so sorry." 

Marach catches him as he falls, and holds him. He can feel the hollow, wrenching sobs deep in his own chest. "Where are the survivors?" 

"Malach ... when last I saw him, he - he had gathered a great party about him, in the large clearing where the river curves. Where they can at least see their attackers. If there are any others, I ...I -"

"You could not have saved them." He lifts his Imlach's head, and looks into his eyes, until his breathing slows. "We had no warning of the attack, no knowledge of these lands, nowhere safe to hide. Imlach, look at me. There is nothing more you could have done." 

Imlach shakes his head. "Where will we go now?" 

"We will take shelter in Gabilgathol, as long as they will have us, and then - " He forces the next words from his throat. "Back into the east." 

[suspected-spinozist]

Happy (very belated) birthday, Jess (houseofhaleth) ! You asked for something with Azaghâl, and I promise she does show up. I headcanon Azaghâl as a title, rather than a name, and due to the time the fic is set, she wouldn't be using it yet. She's the dwarf called Alviss. 

They made camp in the cool, blue shadow of the mountains, so near that Marach now had to strain his neck to see the sunrise line the ridge in gold. He could already hear the beginnings of motion from the loose circle of tents. A cold wind carried away the smoke from last night’s fires.

“You have them, Malach?”

His youngest son checked the contents of his pack for the hundredth time since they had arisen a few hours before. “Yes, father.”

“Go on, then. I don’t know where they expect to meet us, and I’d rather have the light when it happens.”

The path up the slope was made for smaller and steadier travelers, and the three men were forced to walk single file. Imlach misstepped and the ledge beneath his feet crumbled, tumbling down the mountain side. They continued carefully after that, hand over hand. By the time the sun was directly above them, their palms were bleeding. The trees were thinner here, providing less shade, but an outcropping of granite made a natural shelf that could easily accommodate their small party.

“Halt. We’ll rest here.”

“Do you think it will be much farther?” Imlach settled back against a stunted larch tree and turned to look down at the slope behind them. “I can’t make out the camp.”

Malach pointedly maneuvered around him and set his pack down, with uncharacteristic gentleness, on the moss. “That’s because it’s behind that ridge. We’ve barely been walking half the day!”

“And how would you know? We could be lost. Maybe we’ll have to wander for weeks. Maybe we’ll never find them.”

“Maybe you’ll stop moaning, for once.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that. I – augh!” A branch had snapped, sending Imlach sprawling. He stared at the cloudless sky with a resigned expression. “I have moaned across three rivers, two mountain ranges, and half a continent. And you really expect me to stop, now that we’re almost there? Admit it. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself, if you didn’t have something to gripe about.”

“I do not gripe.” “Alright, you suffer with quiet dignity. Think I care?”

“You seem to have devoted some thought to the matter.” Marach, who had been scanning the trail for signs of movement, did not turn towards them. “And there is no cause for worry. This is their mountain. They will find us.”

It was cooler when they set out again. The trees and the air grew thin. The sky was stained with purple at its edges, when they came upon a tall, smooth marker, carved with strange runes. Imlach collapsed against it, sighing loudly. “It’s too late. They’ll never come. We’ll probably freeze to death up here.”

Malach slapped him. “The Dwarves in the east do not measure time by the rising of the sun. Why should these? We must be prepared to speak to them, no matter the hour.”

Marach had already started to gather wood for a fire, when three figures emerged from behind the stone. All three carried axes, but they were only lightly armored – guards, most likely, but not expecting an attack. He gestured to his sons for silence and turned, slowly, to face them.

The dwarves began to whisper among themselves. Their language, Marach thought, was not dissimilar to that which he had heard spoken by the merchants of Khazad-dûm. One wore an elaborate helmet cast in the shape of a winged lizard. A gout of flame issued from the creature’s throat. It reminded him of his mother’s stories, a home in the far east, now ashes. The other two seemed angry, by their tone, and by the violence of their gestures towards his party. The continued until the helmed dwarf, by all appearances the leader, gave them some signal with her hands, and they disappeared back into the tunnel. She removed her helmet, and addressed Marach, with some difficulty, in his own tongue. “What business brings you here?”

His next words had been carefully memorized. “I am Marach, and I lead a great number of my people out of the east. These are my sons, Malach and Imlach. We seek passage over – or through – these mountains. We have traded frequently, in the past, with your kin in Khazad-dûm, who vouch for our intent.”

He could see Malach rummaging in his bag for the clay tablets. “Here.” He proffered them, cautiously, towards the helmeted dwarf, who examined them with interest.

It was a long time before she spoke. “You are not lying, at least.”

He gestured to his worn cloak, the conspicuously empty sheath at his belt. “Does it look as if I could afford the risk?”

The dwarf raised a substantial eyebrow. “You do not look as if you could afford much of anything, at the moment.” Her tone softened. “Come with me. Your sons stay.”

She leads him, alone, through an opening in the rock. The passage remained narrow - at one point, he was forced to his hands and knees – for about two hundred paces, and then abruptly widened. The scale of the hall beyond pushes, painfully, at the edges of his mind. Six or seven families could pitch their tents within it, and still have room for all their livestock, and more besides. The ceiling is carved with runes in complex patterns, and the stylized images of stars and birds. Soft, white light glances off outcroppings of milky crystal. His guard was waiting for him, near the entrance to another tunnel.

“And you are called -?”

“Alviss, to you.” The dwarf paused to take an oil lamp from the wall of the corridor. The substance burned clear and bright, with no smoke, and carried an unfamiliar scent. She held it above her head, and it took a moment to realize she was offering it to him. “The halls are not lit past this point. I have met very few who are – how shall I say – like you, but I think it is some difficulty to see in the dark.”

The lamp was perfectly round, with no handle. The stone felt warm against his palm. “It is – I should say, we do. Thank you for your kindness.” The stone beneath his feet is smooth and polished. He starts and almost stumbles when he sees that it is also covered in patterns. They walk in silence, save for their own footsteps and the steady, distant drip of water. “What did you mean, like me? I did not think that any other men had passed this way.”

“I mean that they were tall. Hairless. Not quite so tall or so hairless as the Nimîr – no, don’t ask me about the Nimîr, if you have your way you’ll meet them soon enough – and anyway, I met them in the east.” They pass a grotto, lined in different types of moss. He could almost hear the smile in her voice. “When I made my pilgrimage to Durin’s tomb, and sacred Kheled-zâram. They were not so tall as you are, either. Herders, mostly. I learned a little of their language.”

“And why would you do that? I meant no insult, only – we are not a numerous people, or wealthy, or learned.”

“But you are brave, to come such a long way.” Marach noticed that the path is slanting downwards. “I am taking you to see our King, who I hope will help you. They can. They should.”

“I will take no offense should they refuse. Your halls are deep and safe. There is no need to place yourselves in danger for our sake.”

Alviss did laugh, at that. “There are many here who would agree with you. They’re wrong. And they would have us fight alone, trapped beneath the earth, when the time comes.” She reached for the lamp. “That’s not allowed in the council chamber.” She pinches the wick. Marach blinks, and his eyes water in the dark.

[hommedeseptiles]

Brewer's Briefcase

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