45Epilogue: The Last Page
Glorfindel stands at the prow, his elven-sight cast far eastward toward a wavering star. Moonlight, reflected on the sea, illuminates his expression: guarded, but hopeful excitement.
The young man finishes tying down the sails and ambles over, yawning.
"What do you see, Glorfindel?" He, too, looks eastward, but sees only fog and open water. Yet he senses that something has changed.
Curundil, who was curled up asleep at the base of the mainsail, stirs, stretches, and quietly rises to join the other two mariners. In his turn, he looks to the East. His clear green eyes, like Glorfindel's, possess the sight of the Eldar.
"Ai, Elbereth," he mutters. He, too, sees the small cove, wreathed in jagged rock, dipping in and out of crashing gray waves far away. "This is what you sought, Glorfindel?"
"I think so," replies Glorfindel, "The sight of it awakens something inside me. It is familiar, and yet not. Like an inkling, a flash of a forgotten dream."
"At last!" cries the young man, but Curundil drops his eyes, not daring to hope that behind this mere inkling lies the answer they've looked for. And if Glorfindel is wrong? Where will they go? What will they do?
But Glorfindel strides already toward the rudders, conversing with himself as he consults the bronze compass in his palm. His practiced fingers adjust their course to sail straight into the cove. Curundil has never seen Glorfindel like this: usually his companion, despite the warm smile he reserves for his friends, is distant and pensive. But now a boyish exuberance grips his tall frame. Curundil is reminded of a long-legged hare crouched in the brush, prepared to run. Slowly, he, too, lifts up his heart, and he dares timidly to hope.
The cove nears. The surf turns to roiling froth, and pointed rocks loom on either side. The young man has taken over at the bow, weaving the small ship inland with his wiry arms. At last, the pitching of the craft awakens their last companion, who climbs stiffly onto the deck. As they near the black mouth of rock, even his aged eyes can discern its craggy silhouette.
He shudders with the old fear of the unknown. Yet he will follow the smiling blond elf into the dark of that maw, through the perilous water and the jutting rock. He loves Glorfindel with his tired mortal heart, as they all do. They don't know how not to love him.
They're close enough now for the young man to begin mooring the ship in the shallows. Dark clouds have gathered in front of the moon. The cove yawns ahead, darker and larger than it first seemed. Glorfindel springs up to the rail, preparing to disembark in a single, graceful leap. As his companions move to follow him, he stops them with his pale blue stare.
"This is where I leave you," he says, his tone cheerful as ever, but firm.
"Glorfindel-" begins the young man, but Glorfindel raises his hand.
"Stay," he commands again. "I know you've come with me a long way. And shortly we will journey together again. I go alone into this darkness. But the thought of you, my friends, will be with me as a light."
As he says this, they notice a faint glow at Glorfindel's hip. Mysterious red stones shine from the hilt of a sword that they've never seen him wear. It's unsettling to see their gentle companion so armed. Curundil now catches Glorfindel's eye, and a quick, wordless conversation passes between these two elves.
Then Glorfindel disappears over the side of the ship. They watch him walk into the cove alone, by the light of the strange red stones.
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The sound of crashing waves recedes as Glorfindel wanders farther into the winding cavern. The rock within, sculpted and beaten by the water over ages, hangs from the ceiling like dragon's teeth, juts up from the floor, and even forms columns like melting candles. There are layers of white and brown in the stone, chaotic and lovely like the sea itself.
Quiet now but for the trickling water and the occasional chitter of a bat. But a new sound emerges as Glorfindel plunges deeper into darkness: a low rumble, accompanied by an inexplicable hot and shifting wind.
He can hear the monster breathing.
But if Glorfindel is afraid, it does not show in his easy, confident bearing. It is pitch dark. Yet Glorfindel walks ever forward as though by the light of day. Indeed, the darker it gets, the more apparent it becomes that a faint glow emanates from Glorfindel himself. He is no longer the same Glorfindel who battled the Balrog at the end of Gondolin. He was changed as he passed through the Halls of Waiting- but in just what way, no one can be sure.
The guttural rumble and the heat of the beast's breath surround him. Abruptly, Glorfindel stops. He waits in the dark, with only echoes in the deep to hint at the dimensions of the space in which he now stands.
From the belly of the cave comes a seething whisper: "Who comes?"
"You know me," answers Glorfindel, "Hear my voice, creature, and remember."
The beast hisses.
"I don't know you," it says, "Begone from here, Elf. You don't know what I am."
Glorfindel draws his sword and holds it out in front of him. The scarlet light from the hilt is brighter than ever before. It catches the glint of curved fangs, lidless eyes, and great black feathers before the beast screeches and shrinks away from the color.
"What is it?" demands the beast, "Where did you get it?"
Glorfindel's own light grows brighter still, illuminating the near walls of the cavern. It's smaller than he first imagined.
"You gave it to me," he steadfastly replies, "Long ago. The stones in the hilt glow when kindred is near. And so I know I need not fear you."
The next words of the beast sound almost human.
"It can't be."
"And yet it is."
"Why have you come, Elf?"
Glorfindel steps forward without a trace of fear.
"I've come to take you home."
The beast shrinks from Glorfindel's power, raising great black wings to shield itself.
"No. No! Take away your light. Leave me to my darkness, Elf. Whatever you're looking for- you won't find it here."
Glorfindel takes another step toward the pitiful, cornered creature.
"Come to me," he murmurs, "Trust me. You're not what you are."
"Leave here," it snarls again, baring its teeth, "Go now, or I'll tear you to shreds."
"Come to me. You're one of us."
"I won't go back!" screeches the beast, "There's no place for me in the light. They're going to tear me apart, spit at me and stone me; they'll call me a kinslayer and a coward."
"That they may do," Glorfindel replies, "But you won't be alone. Because I'll walk through the Gates of Mandos at your side, my friend. And those who cast stones must stone me too. It's time. Come with me."
The snarling ceases. Glorfindel can feel the beast hesitating.
"You're lying," it whimpers, "You'll leave me. Like they all did. Like you did before."
"Not this time," says Glorfindel softly, "I've come a long way to find you, friend. I'm not leaving without you. Come to me."
With a final, hissing groan, the beast slouches into the light, and Glorfindel throws his arms around its jaws, and lays his face against its horned black face. The brightness grows around them, hot and blinding white. Sharp teeth shrink away and long claws become fingers; a thousand black feathers fall from skin like an autumn leaves raining down around them.
When the light fades, the beast is gone, and in its place stands a being not so different from Glorfindel himself, shivering and naked in the dark again.
"Well met, Glorfindel," says Maeglin, accepting the blanket Glorfindel offers. Black eyes, as piercing as he remembers, dart from Glorfindel's cropped golden hair, to his coarse raiment, to his browned skin. "You're as beautiful as you always were, friend. Yet you've changed."
"And you're just the same," says Glorfindel. He runs his own eyes over Maeglin's shape. Then his demeanor breaks, and he stutters, "I'm sorry, Maeglin. Sorry for what happened, sorry I left. I promise you-"
"Promise me nothing, Glorfindel of Gondolin," says Maeglin, the familiar dark smile flitting across his features, "You came for me. That's enough."
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The three mariners await as they climb back aboard the ship. Glorfindel steadies Maeglin's every step as he stumbles over the folds of the blanket, unused to elven limbs.
Then the two of them stand side by side on the deck, with the three others arrayed before them. Glorfindel gestures.
"These are my companions: Curundil, Ben and Aron."
Three simultaneous nods of greeting.
"And this, friends," Glorfindel continues, "Is Maeglin, son of Aredhel."
Curundil recoils at the sound of the name.
"Traitor!" he shouts at once, and grips the handle of the dagger at his hip. Maeglin bristles. But Glorfindel steps forward, interposing himself between his two friends.
"What he is shall be decided in the Halls of Mandos," he says firmly, "But he will journey there under our protection. That was our task from the start. I couldn't tell you until now."
Curundil glares at Maeglin for a moment longer. Then he scowls and storms sternward to reset their course, putting as much distance between himself and Maeglin as possible. Downcast and silent, Maeglin follows Glorfindel down into the cabin to borrow clothes. The two mortal men, left alone, exchange uncertain glances.
"Who is that Elf?" whispers Aron, for this is the young man's name.
Ben, the old man, shrugs and shakes his head like a draft horse with an itchy ear.
"I don't know. And I don't believe I want to. A word of advice, Aron: don't delve too deeply into the affairs of the Elves, lest you learn what you never wished to know. Every story they can tell you will surely break your heart."
Within the hour, the company of five has set out for the horizon, bound for the Halls of Waiting.
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In the morning, Idril Celebrindal took the last few steps up to a rocky ledge overlooking the mountain's edge. Pristine forest stretched on for a mile, and past it, the sparkling bay. You could see a few simple rooftops by the water. This was where they had taken refuge: the exiles of Gondolin and Doriath, the two last great strongholds of the elves.
She was alone. Her mantle was of fur and leather now, and she went barefoot no longer but wore soft deerskin boots. Her face, which had once shone with indomitable joy, even after her mother's passing, remained beautiful with a muted quality. Her heart was tired; she had seen more than she ever wanted of Arda. With her she carried her old rabbit-bound journal.
She had discovered this in her pocket a few days after the Fall of Gondolin. Marveling, she had rifled through the pages, filled with her drawings of exquisite flowers and birds, as unfamiliar to her now as the glyphs in some ancient relic: a sad record of rich, teeming gardens, long gone, that she had once loved so much.
There was a single blank page left at the end, and Idril flipped open to its clean white face. She sat upon the dirt ground, crossed her legs, and sat deep in thought looking out over the forest. Then she began to write.
She wrote for an hour or more, serenaded by the whistle of wind through the treetops. The occasional seabird glided overhead, calling. At times she wiped her face free of tears with her shoulder, but a few salty drops still fell onto the page, obscuring the elven-script she made in her delicate hand.
When she reached the end, Idril tore the last page out of her book and held it out to the northerly wind as though in offering. When she opened her fingers, the wind snatched it up and bore it, fluttering, into the sky. She stood still and watched it fly away, curling and twisting like a swallow against the sun. Then she turned and walked back down the mountain.
If some traveller had chanced upon the page- caught on a stone, perhaps, or dancing along the beach- and had he been able to read Idril's impeccable Quenya, this is what it said:
Dear Papa,
It has been years since Gondolin fell. I remember like it was yesterday: the fire, the terror, the blood. Of those of us in the city when the Orcs came, fewer than a thousand escaped alive. We spent that night in the mountains, and in the morning surveyed all that was lost.
We lamented for brave Ecthelion, who for love slayed the monster that bested two mighty elven-kings before him. For smiling Glorfindel, whose goodness shone most brightly in the darkest times. Thorondor the Eagle, his friend, bore his body back up to us from the crevasse, but afterward took to the skies again without a word.
And for you, beloved father: my King, my kindred, my closest friend. I had never known a time without you. Suddenly I was left alone.
You held my small hand and told me stories in the meadows of Aman. You hid your tears to comfort me when we lost Mama to the ice. You scolded me when I was bad and you were right every time. And High King though you were, you never grew prideful or mean. I'm proud of how much of me is made of you, Papa. No one ever warned me about the profound emptiness of a world without the man who put you in it. Another ten ages could pass, but I would never be ready for you to leave my side.
But ready or not, the Gondolindrim turned to me to lead them in exile, and so I did. We followed the rivers southward, and braved a terrible hungry winter. There in the snow, we joined with those fleeing Doriath, which was ruined the same year. We journeyed on, and did not stop until the Mouth of the Sirion, far enough from Morgoth's gaze to rest, for a time.
It was a hard journey. The children grew thin. I wished more than ever for your wise guidance, but found only what remained of it in my own heart. In the end, it was enough. We have a few little homes and shops here in the Bay of Balar. We live as a pond where once lay a mighty ocean. But we live on.
Eärendil is nearly grown. He is almost as tall as you were, and his beauty surpasses any I have ever seen- it's not just a mother's doting, I'm sure of it. As I predicted from the day I birthed him, he loves the open ocean and spends his days on the water with Voronwë whenever he can. He swears one day he will sail to Aman and implore the Valar to vanquish Morgoth- the task that Voronwë himself set out to do all those years ago. I fear for him, even as I believe with all my heart that he may truly save us all.
Tuor has aged, more slowly than most among the Edain, but the passing years have marked his face. He loves me even more now than he did. When we sail to the Gray Havens, Papa, I will take him with me. Perhaps the Valar will allow him to live forever as one of the Eldar, because of the great deeds he has done for us.
Papa, do you remember Gilwen? My spirit would not have survived if if not for her. We thought she was lost, at first, but Mothwing bore her up over the mountain's edge after dawn. In the years that followed, she walked ever by my side, speaking reassurance and counsel. I would have fallen a thousand times without her. Some nights we lay crying together, but even more importantly, she made me laugh, even in the direst of times.
She and Tiromer tended to wounds and cared for the few who fell sick, and both are dearly beloved by us all. She delivered the few babies born here in the Bay thus far. Many of her apprentices are masters now, of midwifery and healing alike, and she teaches them still with care and patience. Of course, she wedded Tiromer after our first year here, and the two of them fill one another with joy that grows by the day. They expect their first child in the summer.
There is one thing that Gilwen tries to hide even from me: to the end, Gilwen loved Maeglin, the betrayer of Gondolin, with whom she came to the city. She will never reveal it, after what's happened, but in my heart there is nothing to forgive of her. In a way, I loved him too.
I have pondered forgiving him, partly for Gilwen's sake, and to release the last of the hatred and darkness in my own heart. After all, it was Morgoth, and not Maeglin, who sacked the city; and in the end, Maeglin deceived Morgoth to save many. He may not have meant to harm Eärendil that day- I later found the Elessar hung around his neck by a mithril chain. A small gesture in the grand scheme of things, but it makes me hate him less. Tuor, though, can never forgive, and swears Maeglin was wicked through and through.
For a long time after I learned of Maeglin's love for me, I feared and despised my cousin; yet as the years went on, that oddity became almost routine. I am sure if he could choose, he would not feel for me as he did. I despised him again after Gondolin fell. But I am tired now, and want to despise no longer. As you used to say to me: "Á Avatyara! Forgive! We live until the end of all things. We all shall fail, and do wicked things to one another." It is Manwë in his hallowed Halls who must judge him in the end, after all. And as I think of all that's happened, perhaps I need forgiveness of my own.
With each passing day without you, the ways of the world grow thornier and more unfathomable. Papa, when I close my eyes I try to listen for the answers you would give to these questions, for they elude me. I wonder where you are, and if you are with Mama. I wonder if you would be proud of me. I close my eyes and I dream of the day when we are all finally together in Valinor: You and I, and Tuor, and Eärendil and Mama. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I find hope, for I know the day will come. Gilwen, Glorfindel and Ecthelion will be there too, and all those we lost in Gondolin. There will be no more crying, no more blood, no more fighting or hunger. And someday, if Maeglin, too, makes it to that shore, then I may welcome him.
Until then, I miss you with every part of me, with everything I have.
Melinyë, I love you, Papa. I love you to the end of all things. Love is all that any of us have left, and so we continue to love, love fearlessly despite the pain, despite everything.
Your Idril.
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Maeglin spent many nights with Glorfindel and his mariners aboard the small ship as they made the long journey to the Halls of Waiting. Often, Maeglin and Glorfindel stood together looking over the prow, and talked for a long time with each other, their heads bent close together so none but they could hear what words were exchanged. And Curundil's heart was torn.
They faced rough seas and a few times were waylaid- but all of that is a tale for another time. In the morning, the great granite columns of the Halls of Mandos appear through the mist. A thousand gray steps ascend to the square doorway in the clouds. As their ship draws closer they see elves upon these steps, elves clad in the clothes they died in, walking silently forward as though entranced. None of them seem to see or hear the others.
They disembark. Glorfindel takes Maeglin's hand and holds it tightly. The mariners stay behind while the two of them approach the thousand steps, and begin their ascent.
At first, the elves on the steps do not look at them as they pass. But soon they feel hostile eyes snatching glances at them. Faces turn, and the wind carries their whispers:
"...Treachery…"
"...Betrayal…"
"...Kinslayer…"
"...Craven…"
Glorfindel leans to Maeglin and whispers his own words into his ear: "Don't listen, Maeglin. Don't worry about the others. None of that matters. Keep your eyes on me."
Maeglin frowns, wondering where he has heard these words before. He heeds Glorfindel and keeps his gaze steadfastly on the shape of his companion, even as the whispers become mutterings, then cries of outright hatred like embers bursting into flame.
"Traitor! Murderer!"
"Son of Eöl, evil as your father before you!"
"Servant of Morgoth, evil as your master above you!"
They hurl words first, and then stones. The companions walk on through the unrelenting hailstorm, struck from every side.
A heavy, jagged piece of granite flies out of nowhere and strikes Glorfindel's face. When he looks up, his cheek bears a red cut.
Glorfindel stops and looks for the one who cast the stone. When the elves see Glorfindel hurt, expressions of doubt replace the vindictive shouting.
"That's Glorfindel of Gondolin; I know him!"
"Why protect him, Glorfindel? Why walk at his side?"
"Maeglin, the coward, allows Glorfindel to suffer the blows meant for him…"
The crowd surrounding them now is too thick to pass through. Glorfindel's arm is around Maeglin's shoulder. They look up into a sea of shadowy faces, grimacing in hatred: men and women and even children, some in rags and some in finery. The gates at the top of the steps disappear behind the infinitude of their silhouettes. There is nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide.
Then a fresh scream of hatred takes them all by surprise.
"Answer for my children, traitor!"
Even the clamoring of the crowd dies down before the viciousness of this new voice.
The speaker is a woman, haggard-faced from weeping. She pushes her way out of the crowd and stands directly before Maeglin and seizes a choking grip on the front of his shirt.
"My Ani and Arien. They burned, you traitorous scum, burned alive in the sack as my eldest dragged me from their cries. Where are they now? Tell me, traitor, where?"
With every word of her pitiable demand, her thin fingers wrench at his collar. Maeglin is silent and pale, unable to turn his eyes from her wasted face. He does not flinch as she raises her palm to strike him; he shuts his eyes and accepts the stinging blow across his cheek.
Its sound rings across the now silent steps. The woman sobs and shudders, and raises her stinging hand to hit him again. Again, he makes no attempt to stop her. An angry red wheal in the shape of her hand darkens on Maeglin's cheek even as she strikes him a third time, and a fourth. She hits him again and again until her strength is gone; yet weakly, weeping, she raises her hand once more.
Finally Glorfindel says quietly: "That's enough."
He lowers her arm with his own.
"Forgive me, but it won't bring them back, Lady. Your children are safe on the shores of Aman. I saw them as I passed through. They are well, and will await you when you leave these Halls. Maeglin will answer for your children, and for all the others he has harmed. It is for judgment before Mandos I now bring him, and his judgment will be fair and just."
The woman's sobs die down; her vengeful snarl fades away. At Glorfindel's words, she seems to forget about Maeglin.
"They're safe, you say, Lord Glorfindel? My girls are alive and well in Aman?"
Glorfindel crosses his hands over his heart and bows.
The woman gives a small, resigned nod. She retreats. The crowd silently parts and disperses at the close of this curious scene, allowing Maeglin and Glorfindel to pass.
Glorfindel takes Maeglin's arm, and they resume the climb. No more stones are cast. No more curses or accusations dog their steps. The elves around them pay them no more mind except for a pondering glance or two; they resume their own journeys toward judgment.
The stone hall at the top of the hill grows ever larger as they approach. Unfamiliar, inhuman faces are carved into the edge of the cornice: deep stone eyes look down from over the towering columns at every guilty soul to climb up onto the threshold. Maeglin shrinks before them, shivering. Their unforgiving stares are fitting ornamentation for the Halls of judgment.
A powerful, echoing voice emanates from the mist and shadow.
"Well met, Glorfindel."
A tall and stark figure appears before them, dressed in dark gray. This is no elf. With alarm, Maeglin recognizes him as a Maia: a mighty being; a servant of the Valar. And this very one must be none other than-
"Lord Eönwë, herald of Manwë," Glorfindel greets him in kind. The two exchange smiles like old friends.
Eönwë turns his face toward Maeglin. It is a stern face, like one of the sculptures in the cornice; the eyes glitter with otherworldly might as they stare into Maeglin's eyes as though reading secret words written therein.
"Maeglin of Nan Elmoth. Once called Lómion. Son of Eöl and Aredhel. Orphaned by Turgon and tormented by Morgoth; righteous warrior of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, treacherous bringer of the Fall of Gondolin. But for you, the innocents would have died. Contrarily, but for you, they would never have been in danger."
Maeglin bows low before the Maia.
It is odd to hear the lay of his whole sad, contradictory life in so few sentences. Is that really all that happened; all that there is to know of Maeglin of Nan Elmoth? And if not, what is missing from the story? What lies in the spaces between those paltry few words?
He realizes: love, of course. He loved his mother, and she loved him, and she died. That began it all. He loved Idril, and that was all the rest. And how would things have changed if Glorfindel had not loved him? If Gilwen had not?
Yes; this is who he was. This is who they all were. Happy or sad, short or long, every story ever told is a story about love.
"Indeed. It is I, Lord Eönwë. I am Maeglin, and no one else."
Eönwë nods once in satisfaction at this answer.
"Very well; and so you are. Rise, then, Son of Twilight. My master, Lord Manwë, awaits."
The Maia turns. His dark gray robes billow behind him.
"It is good to see you again, Glorfindel, and I thank you for bringing him. Come, Maeglin. Follow me."
Eönwë starts back toward the tall, shadowy doorway.
"Wait!"
Both Maeglin and Eönwë turn sharply at the sound of this clear, earnest cry, ringing out brightly through the fog.
"Yes, Glorfindel?" Eönwë kindly replies.
Glorfindel's blue eyes shine up at him, suddenly wet with tears. For the first time since stepping off of the small ship, his dignified, almost distant composure has left him.
"What-" He swallows, searching for words. "What's going to happen to him, Lord Eönwë? How will Maeglin be judged? I'm sorry; I must know. Will he be hurt? Will he be pardoned? Will I ever see him again? Tell me, herald of Manwë, if you can- please!"
To Maeglin's surprise, a forlorn smile softens the edges of Eönwë's hard mouth.
"I don't know, Glorfindel," he answers simply, "I wish I had the answers. I've led every Child of Ilúvatar through these gates. Every single one. And I remember them all: the woman who in wartime murdered and robbed her neighbor to steal food for her starving child. The detestable philanderer and wife-beater who saved dozens from his burning village at great risk to his own life. Truthfully, I do not know how Lord Manwë passes judgment. Yet I'm glad it's Manwë's task, and not my own, for I would not understand how to begin. The only promise I can make you is the same you made to the woman you met on the steps below: the judgment, whatever it may be, will be fair, and will be just."
Glorfindel opens his mouth fearfully to say something to Maeglin, but closes it again, unwilling to speak before stern Eönwë, and all those watching.
"Say what you must, Glorfindel," the Maia gently prompts him.
And softly, but unfalteringly, Glorfindel obeys him: "Maeglin, I love you. Whatever happens, wherever you go, and for however long, I love you."
He holds out his arms, and Maeglin comes into them. He, too, cries freely now, without a care for who might see.
"And I love you, Glorfindel of Gondolin," he replies without a trace of hesitation, "I wish more than anything I'd listened to you; I wish I had never left. I'm sorry, friend. If only I could do it all again- if only I could be captured by Morgoth once more; just so this time, I might do the right thing before it's too late."
And it seemed an echo arose at the Gate of Mandos at Maeglin's words, the plea of every being to walk through them: If only!
Just as he did so many years before at the foot of their waterfall, Glorfindel cradles Maeglin in his arms, waiting for the tirade to cease, stopping the tracks of his tears with his lips.
"I'm sorry, too," he says, "I wish I could return to the day you were taken and save you. I wish more than anything that things were different. If it's worth anything, I forgive you."
Maeglin wipes his face resolutely and steps back. With difficulty, the two friends part- their arms seem unwilling to let each other go.
Eönwe patiently waits up ahead as Maeglin finds his parting words to his dearest friend, the last words he will say to one of his own kind for a long time.
"Farewell for now, my dear Glorfindel. You will do great things for our world that I wish I could see. Remember me, if you will, if it doesn't bring you too much pain. If I never come back, tell my mother I love her. And Gilly, too, if you see her again. Farewell!"
Glorfindel can't bring himself to say the word back, but raises his hand in a gesture of parting. Maeglin turns and follows the herald of Manwë into the looming doorway. His shoulders are square, and his jaw is set. He is somehow comforted to know there exists a power beyond himself: one that he trusts to do right by the world, and by the ones he loves.
Glorfindel watches Maeglin walk into the Halls of Mandos to face his final judgment.
Hello again everyone! I figured I had sat on this for long enough. Here you go, the *real* ending I had promised. Thank you for reading. Look out for my next story, The River, which is set in Nargothrond, soon to come! Happy trails!
