Legendarium [ Tolkien One-Shots ]

Falling Silver

Lórien felt strange to her. The land she’d loved in the beginning now treated with outsiders, with elves of dark countenance and men of strange languages. Even the trees began to speak in the foreign tongue. She disapproved.

As she stood in the flet she called home, in a mallorn tree high beside the Falls she loved, the soft wind blew her long golden hair across her face. She closed her eyes, listening intently to the voices around her. The trees sang softly, the ones nearest her speaking her own tongue. The water echoed their distinct tunes as the current gurgled over stones and pebbles. Nimrodel allowed her smile to grow.

She opened her eyes all at once, grabbing onto a rope and jumping down from her tree home. With grace she landed on her bare feet, white and gold dress settling down as she stood upon the grass. She pulled back her hair, tying it off with a bow, and knelt beside the stream at the base of the Falls.

With a contented sigh, Nimrodel placed her palm into the flowing water and parted the current. Despite the evils of this age, despite the Noldor and their destruction of lands, despite the Sindar and their arrival… the world was right. The trees still sang, the water still flowed, and the stars still shined. And yet her own little rebellion would continue. She would not live with her people in their cities within the forest, she would not speak the new tongue. She would do her part to ensure the world remained as it was.

“You still amaze me,” came a soft voice behind her in the trees.

Nimrodel his a small smile before turning to look at the newcomer. She stood and faced him. “Amroth.”

The king laughed and shook his head, causing golden strands to fall across his face. He walked forward. “At least I can count on you not addressing me by my title.”

“The great King of the Silvan folk grows tired of his title?” She teased, meeting him in the grassy clearing. “Come now, Amroth. Surely a Sinda never grows tired of that.”

“You wound me!” He chuckled and grabbed at his heart. “I am near death from that.” As he saw a smile grace Nimrodel’s face, he laughed again and shook his head. “In all seriousness, my lady, you know I prefer the use of my name from you.”

“Yes indeed you do.” Nimrodel grabbed his hand and together they sat on the spring green grass. She felt the ground and felt goodness. All was right. “Tell me, Amroth, what brings you here today?”

“You of course,” he joked. “I come to ask for your hand, again.

She rolled her eyes. “You know the answer. I do not wish to be a queen, stuck inside that city of talans forever.”

Amroth frowned. He looked down at the ground. “I know.”

She smiled and took his hand with her right. “Someday perhaps-”

Both frowned instantly. A great rumbling came from the earth, a groaning from the rocks themselves. A splitting of good stone, a terror of flames, the rocks cried out.

“What is this?” Nimrodel whispered quietly, a hush coming over them as they stood up.

The trees quailed, the grass wept. Nimrodel and Amroth looked around, the elven king drawing his sword. They hurried through the forest to the edge. After a half hour, they reached the Silverlode. By now, a dozen forest guards had joined them. All had felt the wrongness in the earth.

Nimrodel stood beside Amroth. All looked up at the great mountain beneath which the dwarven city of Hadhodrond lay. She felt tears in her eyes as the wave of wrongness grew, as the trees quaked in their roots and the grasses wailed. Suddenly a company of dwarves approached. Amroth stepped forward, Nimrodel beside him.

“What has happened?” Amroth demanded immediately. “What did you do?”

“A monster of Shadow and Flame!” gasped the one, attempting to regain his breath. “A creature of darkness!”

Nimrodel’s face contorted in terror. She understood now the frightened voices of the trees. “It is a balrog,” she gasped. “Amroth, they have awoken a balrog!”

Amroth’s expression echoed his beloved’s. He turned to his men and ordered them send word to the city. Images of darkness and death and fire flashed before his eyes. He remembered the days when the balrogs roamed, bringing death and destruction upon all. Those Maiar of Morgoth had killed many great elves of the First Age.

“You have done a great evil today,” Nimrodel told the dwarves, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Much ruin will come of this.”

She turned and ran back to the forest of her people. Through the Mallorn she ran, past the Silverlode and across her favorite stream. Right back to her Falls did she go, crying beneath the waning sun. Foreboding filled her heart.

Hours later, Amroth approached her again. He took her in his arms and they embraced. She had known the outsiders would cause trouble. But this was worse than anything she had imagined.

“I will marry you Amroth, when we can find a place of peace and happiness,” she whispered in his ear after several minutes, her wet cheek pressed against his own. “But there are none now that remain.”

Amroth held her tight. “Perhaps we could go over the sea, and there in the light of Valinor be married.” He broke the embrace and dried her cheeks. “I wish to see Valinor. Do you?”

“Now that a balrog of the early days has returned, I may very well indeed.” Nimrodel frowned again. “But you must go back to the city. Bring them news, be a king.”

He grabbed her hands. “I wish to stay here with you.”

“You cannot. Go, Amroth.”

And so he nodded. With a last embrace, he sped off towards the city of the Galadhrim. Nimrodel remained where she stood, singing a soft song of lamentation for the dark days she knew would come.