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Idril’s ragged band stumble into Sirion like they are sleepwalking, unable to do anything more than blindly move onwards. They haven’t the energy to be curious about this place at the edge of the sea; she is one of the few who lifts her head to see where they have ended up. It’s a patchwork ghost town, populated by the remnants of a dozen once-mighty kingdoms. Her people fit right in.
She intends to lead them to the town centre, but the place has grown like an untended garden and the streets follow no pattern she can discern. They halt in the first sizable square they come to, where after a few minutes hesitation, a woman approaches her.
“From where do you come?”
“Gondolin,” Idril answers. “We are those who survived the fall.”
The woman nods, doesn’t ask for details; every band of refugees has similar stories, and none of them easy to hear.
“Who rules you here?” Idril asks. Who else is left, is what she really wants to know.
“My people answer to Nimloth, Queen of the Sindar. Others follow their own leaders as they will.”
“I would have an audience with your queen. But first my people need aid – food, medicine, rest.”
“It will be arranged.”
Idril is conducted to the residence of her Sindarin counterpart, an unassuming building with little to signify it is any different from its neighbours. She does note that its position is easily defensible; the unglazed windows all along the street could hold dozens of archers hidden to her as she passes exposed before them.
The interior is sparsely furnished but covered in tapestries, of forest scenes, stone halls and a dancing princess; Doriath as it was. Sirion’s future is uncertain, and the past holds the only stability its people can still believe in.
Idril finds the living relations of the figures adorning the walls, a woman perched on the edge of a desk and a little girl playing on the floor. The woman is on her feet the moment she senses Idril’s presence, and she has knives at her belt.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she says smoothly. “I came in search of the Queen of the Sindar.”
“What do you want from me?” Nimloth says, eyeing her warily. The girl is behind her, staying absolutely still as if she were trying to be invisible.
“Your help,” Idril says.
“You should speak to Gil-galad,” Nimloth says before she can elaborate. “He’s been taking responsibility for all the Noldorin refugees, and your people seem to be more inclined to take orders from one of your own.”
“I do not intend to be taking orders from anybody. I am Idril of Gondolin, and I come to you as an equal.”
“You’re the one next in line for the throne?” Nimloth says. “You were presumed dead. Might want to pay a visit to Balar before they crown Gil-galad.”
“Is it definite, that he is to be king?” Idril asks.
“The ceremony is set for a few weeks away. I don’t know the exact day. There was a fair bit of argument over it, though I’m really not the one who should be filling you in on this.”
And so I’ll dive into a political nightmare blindfolded, Idril thinks. “No, of course not. I simply wanted to meet you, and extend a friendly hand. If you’ll excuse me, it seems I have a crown to claim.”
“Your cousin will help you,” Nimloth says suddenly, when Idril is almost out of the room. “Galadriel. She advocated for you, when the debates were going on. People listen to her.”
“I’ll speak to her then. Thank you.”
Nimloth nods curtly, returns her attention to her daughter. Idril marks her down as a potential ally and quietly sees herself out.
***
A week of fraught meetings and negotiations on Balar, and Idril is grateful to return to Sirion. There are more people here and fewer of them recognise her. She calls on Nimloth, hoping to find her more amenable than the lords she’s been trying to deal with, and finds her engrossed in writing.
“Staying on top of the paperwork?” Idril asks.
“I’m learning Tengwar,” Nimloth says, moving her arm to cover the page. “Thought it might be useful. Why are you here?”
“I was intending to take a walk along the beach, to clear my head. Would you care to join me? I’d like to introduce my son to your daughter.”
“Are there no other children for him to play with?” Nimloth says, suspecting an ulterior motive.
“My husband was mortal,” Idril says. “There are no other children like Eӓrendil, besides your daughter.”
Nimloth nods, accepting this patch of common ground.
The beach is chilly and monochromatic, the sky soft with the promise of rain. Idril resorts to tucking her hair down the back of her dress to keep from blowing in her face, which elicits an almost-smile from Nimloth. Her own hair is safe in its immaculate braids.
“Picked a nice day,” she says drily.
“I don’t care, I haven’t done this in centuries,” Idril replies. “When I was in Nevrast - ”
“You haven’t come from Balar for the beach,” Nimloth says, interrupting. She doesn’t take her eyes from Elwing. Her daughter is studiously observing the contents of the rock pools, Eӓrendil crouched at her side.
“No,” Idril says, mirroring her blunt approach. “I came back because I like it better here. I like the disorder, the variety. It feels less like home. In fact, I’m intending to settle here.”
“You don’t need my approval for that,” Nimloth says.
“I wanted to talk with you about it anyway,” Idril says. “If my presence in Sirion would inconvenience you, or infringe on your authority, I will reconsider.”
“Would you establish your court here?” Nimloth asks. “Or would you keep council in Balar?”
“I’ve already thrown everything askew by my survival,” Idril says. “Better not upset everyone further by forcing them to change their habits.”
“Have you had much opposition? In claiming the queenship, I mean?” Nimloth asks, and Idril is tempted to ask her the same question.
“I have the right,” she says instead. “People may not like it, but they can’t question it. I have more experience than Gil-galad, and I shot down the many baseless arguments his supporters levelled against me.”
“And if you live here, you won’t have to encounter him any more than necessary,” Nimloth says. “Convenient.”
“It will reduce the tension, yes,” Idril admits. “And that applies to us, too. Our people are living side by side, it’s ridiculous to be operating independently.”
“I can see what you’re trying to do, and I respect it,” Nimloth says, closing the distance she’d been pointedly maintaining between them. “But you can’t waltz in and expect us to go along with everything you say. There is a very good reason why I am Queen of the Sindar and not of Sirion, why we hold our own councils – the interests of my people do not always align with yours.”
It’s the longest speech Idril has heard from her, and in the moments of silence between them as both refuse to look away, she becomes very aware of the piercing cries of the gulls swarming just offshore.
“I apologise for being too forward,” Idril says, picking her words carefully. “Discord between our peoples is the last thing I want, and if you believe separate leadership is the best way to stay in harmony, I won’t press the issue. But from my brief experience on Balar, it’s clear the current system is not working, and I don’t want to enact reform without consulting you.”
“You truly care what I think, don’t you?” Nimloth says.
“Of course,” Idril says. “It’s my responsibility to consult other opinions and do what is best for all. And – forgive me if this is too bold - our situations are not unalike.”
“The widows of war, raising our children in a world that has no future? We’re everywhere nowadays.”
“Not all of us have people to rule,” Idril says.
“No,” Nimloth agrees. “And not all of us have the luxury to befriend those we may have to oppose on matters of governance. Politics and friendship are tricky to balance, and only one of them is strictly necessary.”
“I understand,” Idril says. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
Nimloth shrugs. “You listen. It makes you easier to deal with than the rest of your people.”
(Idril thinks to herself, I can work with that.)
***
Idril hijacks Gil-galad’s coronation date, and barely has time to breathe in the few weeks leading up to the ceremony. She requests an audience with Nimloth upon several occasions, receiving her as she would any other significant personage. There’s a formality to their meetings, an inevitable side-effect of Nimloth’s firm insistence on boundaries. Not only that; Idril conducts herself differently now she’s firmly established her position, although she is not aware of it. She’s claimed the biggest house in Sirion, lofty ceilings and spacious white rooms, but it feels small to her.
They discuss the coronation, how to tactfully include the Sindar in an event designed to unite the disparate factions of Noldor.
“Conventionally, the ceremony is conducted completely in Quenya,” Idril says. “I will modify it, but there are some sections that will remain fully unintelligible to your people, and,” she pauses deliberately, “to some of mine.”
It’s a dig at Thingol, his intolerant policy towards her mother tongue, underhanded but effective. There are some concessions she will not make, even for the sake of diplomacy, and Nimloth can’t object without seeming disrespectful. If it were anyone else, that wouldn’t stop her, but she assumes Idril has to put up with enough of that from her own lords.
“Fine, but I want to know what it means,” she says.
To Idril’s relief, Nimloth is the first to bring up the other thorny issue: the silmaril.
“Your people don’t have any sort of history with it, do they?” she asks. “Not like the kinslayers, I mean. It’s important to us, but if it will cause offence…”
It’s a tricky question, and Idril is distracted. A few strands of silver hair have escaped Nimloth’s braids to brush the soft curve of her cheekbone; in this chamber full of light, it makes her look almost gentle.
“The silmaril is past and future in one, heritage and hope and new beginnings - isn’t that what this is about?”
Idril nods, refocuses. “It will be a strong gesture. There is no reason you shouldn’t wear it.” She smiles. “Just as long as you don’t outshine me.”
“It belongs to Elwing,” Nimloth says. “She shall wear it, not I.”
The silmaril is a useful substitution for all the finery lost in the fall of greater realms; Idril wants the coronation to be a glittering affair, but it’s plain compared to her wedding, and even the largest of Balar’s halls feels inadequate. She abbreviates the formalities to match, allows more time for the celebration, hoping the haze of wine will compensate.
She has spoken to all the necessary dignitaries without neglecting anyone likely to stir up a fuss about it later, and weaves through the knots of people lining the room, heading for the outskirts where she might snatch the space to breathe. She encounters Nimloth helping herself to a bowl of berries; she has accumulated a whole handful, as if she intends to store them away like a squirrel.
“I’m impressed you’ve managed to last this long,” Nimloth says.
“I could say the same for you,” Idril says. “A full day and night of Noldor being ostentatiously Noldor and - ”
“ – I have yet to run away?” Nimloth finishes, still addressing the table. “I’ve endured longer parties.”
“There’s no need to stay if you don’t want to,” Idril says, offering her an out she wishes she could take herself. “You’ve been here long enough to satisfy the requirements of diplomacy.”
“There was a bet we made once, Dior and I; who could last the longest through some tedious assembly without finding an excuse to leave. He forgot to account for the years I’ve spent doing border patrols.” She turns to face Idril head on, as if issuing a challenge. “I know what they say about me, the lords you’ve been with all evening.”
And you want to prove them wrong, Idril thinks. Outlast their doubts, even if you have to do it through gritted teeth.
She doesn’t correct Nimloth’s assumption; in truth, they don’t talk about her, and that’s the problem. It’s as if she doesn’t exist, a placeholder until Elwing comes of age. Idril wants to tell her that she doesn’t agree, but that would answer a question Nimloth hasn’t asked. Instead she says, “They have been keeping me from the dancing. Would you care to join me?”
“People might think we’re friendly,” Nimloth says.
“It would irritate my councillors,” Idril replies.
(Nimloth tells herself she answers merely from their shared spite and not the way Idril is subconsciously biting her lip, looking at her like she’s enjoying the danger of unpredictability.)
“Mine too,” she says, and takes her hand.