| The Lady of Silver Strings | The Maiden of the Fifth Gate |

| Twilight Flower-'pon-the-valley |

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"...And born unto Gondolin's spring, she was; sea-deep eyes welling with grave memory, and long, whispy locks of sweeping rust... With harp in hand, and eyes aglint, they called her Lothuialien, the Twilight Flower upon Amon Gwareth."

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A maven of strings, and bearer of ballads, Lothuialien oft spent her youth under the glittering spray of Gondolin's Fountains, whiling her days away in serene, soothing melodies. Her harp and violin rose in the morn, and sailed through the night in unsundered glee, as they tugged at the smiles of many of her kin about her; least of all, her own, for she truly relished pouring every ounce of her soul unto her music, even when her sole company fluttered and chirped about her.

Though her heart delighted in playing among the various courts, her true love rested with the children, and the gardens in which she taught them many songs, and she was loved by many-a-Gondolindrim. Glassiel, Joy Daughter, the children called her; Soul-Singer, other peers hailed her, and as Calithilien, Moonlight Daughter–she was to mothers and wives known, for she delighted in the simpler ways of life, and strangers pooled by the basins of her fountain to witness her song in day as in night, and share their tales and adventures with her in full. She turned none away; and with a warm, eager gladness would she sit with any and all, and whittle the hours away, immersed in epic, tall tales far and wide, beyond a walled world she never knew... And one she  wished, foolishly so, to witness – come whatever may to speed her way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Born to a masterful weaver mother, and a proud Guard-Captain father, she rarely wanted for much, and aspired for little else save her word-craft and lute-song. She long dwelt in idleness during her studies, in all matters but herb-lore and mend-craft; for her eyes shone bright without reservation wherever arts of healing were concerned, and her chief interest laid with curse-banishments and poison-cures. Her mother, however, would suffer her idleness less, and taught her much in the ways of silk and thread-work, and her father honed her sword arm on quiet, tempered evenings. Evenings that, in the wake of her most heartfelt wish, would not last long...

...And the years were swift to roll on by, and their doom swifter still. Drums; drums in the bellowing deep of the Encircling Mountains, she heard; but never before did she imagine them capable of sounding such raw malice. The vale thundered, and steel clashed; her cherished fountains lit aflame, and her beloved gardens were uprooted and befouled.

Never afore had she witnessed death; withering, too, could be mended and reversed in Gondolin, but now, all this lost life was beyond her ken to save. Her father rode, rode to the last, to the Fifth Gate, the Gate of Silver, her namesake too; to defend his daughter and wife in a mighty host.

A host of proven valour against steel and iron–but not against fire. Not dragon-fire.

Her heart ached to stay; yet her trained sword-arm and mending tunes afforded her no pardon–her own mother condemned her through Idril's Secret Way, and a shard of her soul was left behind the day that Gondolin-white rose with smoke-black hues; leaving a sorrowful void she knows not if she could ever fill... And a stern, vengeful hand against those that took her beloved home from her.
 

Chapter [I]: Ossiriand come – the Land of Music

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"The Mountain-air and valley-grass still remember her song; and her flute breathes upon the whistling breeze, and her voice dances in forests now unseen; her harp rustles the leaves in the trees-asleep, stirs the waters shallow and deep–beyond Lindon-port, unto which Elf-kin seep."

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Though bold their flight from the once-home, she found no love for the Havens of Sirion, and only bitterness poisoned her stomach, twisting knot after knot within; for she now dwelt so close to the place she dreamed of fleeing... And thus, cursed fate's whimsy all the same. From the Havens she turned, journeying beyond reed and fern, until at last her feet could carry her no burdens no longer; and unto a beautiful river-garden she came, and fell into deep slumber among the flowerbeds. 

She slumbered long, as sorrow took her into deep reverie; and when she last stirred, she knew it to be owed to a melody–and a wandering Wood-Elf chanced across her, and with her shared the name of Ossiriand, and the ways to the Elf-ports of Lindon, and the many marvels that enchanted the soul there. She learned of the river Gelion, and Duilwen, where she had laid in rest, and her feet knew strength refreshed once more. They bore her long across forest, hill and mountain, ford and bank, until she finally made herself known to the Elves of Lindon, with whom she shared much in ways of song-lore and Elder tales; and in turn, they fashioned her new instruments, and bore her rainments of silver weave so that in the night, she could gleam like a star by the river Lhune, where she now oft took to playing. Dúlinneth, Nightingale, they called her due to this, as playing to the Stars and their mirage upon the Lhune gave her succor where none other comfort would.

It is here that, at last, she learned of Middle-Earth; and the many Free Peoples that roam it, besides. Of their plight, many songs were woven to her, but not by her; no, to live up to such a feat, she would require a first-hand account. It was then, too, that she had chanced upon a chilling revelation–the kin of He-who-defiled-Gondolin and sundered Beleriand, his erstwhile protege now cast his own shadow over the suffering lands.

They never received outer aid in their hour of need.
No wings of Valar sped to their salvation.
Kin-hosts never reached them.

Now she saw it, and knew; the price of isolation was folly, and a price Gondolin paid all too dearly, until its last.

Though they were left fending on their own, she would ensure the Free People of Middle-Earth would not suffer under fate's heel in selfsame fashion. They would not stand in the darkest hour of the night alone–such were the tales of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, after all.

Her long, flowing robes of white she had little need of in the days to come–an armour they fashioned for her, of sterling and steel; burning coldly with starlight and moon-sheen through the cold night; and a new name they cloaked her in all the same–long forgotten, yet still echoing among the sunken ruins of Gondolin city; Lothuialien Annúngilien; for she was of both the West and her hair burned with sunlit hue, and many deemed her a child of the very stars she so fervently sang to.

Now, her music may have dimmed in joy, but it carries a strife heretofore unforeseen for those that seek to impart the selfsame harm she had previously borne witness to... And unto Middle-Earth she comes to bear counsel at the very least, and dwell no longer in idleness and safety of towers and walls and fountains; not until she aids the peoples of Middle-Earth in laying low the kin of he who took all from her.

...and that is nothing to say of the score she means to settle with Morgoth's protege.
 

Chapter [II]: Awakening to Middle-Earth - The Witch of Emyn Uial

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"It all began upon one side of the Lhune–with a white ship, and its white sails, under lamp-lit havens, where no wind wailed. Her landing made thus, on able feet, upon the masters of Celondim she prevailed–to grant her leave to aid and learn of the Elves that for the Uttermost West sailed."

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The night of her arrival may've been calm–but her tarrying among the Havens was aught but. Doing away with the placated, timid girl once dwelling within her drowsy soul, she fiercely dedicated herself to mastering her mother's craft, to honour her memory–yet fate would have her hand grow deft in another trade by pure happenstance; glass-making. It is said that few glasswork outmatched hers in the land; her mirrors were enchanted, not unlike water, and her cups neither broke, nor shattered; and just like their maker, they gleamed with a silver-like sheen, and the Moonlight gave them grave, unfathomable beauty when cast against them–thus, to the people of Celoindim, she became Heledhiel, Glass-daughter, as only the Lhune could rival the reflective arts she fashioned.

Yet, it was not what she sailed out for.

Having learned diligently of the departing Elves, she bade her masters and tutors a fond farewell, as new doubts could not keep her feet locked to one place for overlong. 

Doubts concerning the Fading of the Elves, and the Age of Men.

Thus, unwilling to accept the failing of her kin in Middle-Earth, and the dominion of a race that yet earned no laurels of worth, she embarked on a journey to gauge their mettle–and determine the worth of Man.

This, inevitably, sped her to Lake Nenuial–in whose woods she long bade her time, and fashioned her demesne; her interest in the Evendim-lake soon was shadowed by the peculiar Men of Dunedain roots; Rangers, they styled themselves, and though she made herself not known to them, they knew of her. Many folk-tales were woven of her minstral song in the woods, and even more earned her the calling of Ithriel, the Witch of Emyn Uial, due to legends of her luring innocent men within, and turning their souls into fresh, purified air for the mountains to breathe in, or for disturbing the waters upon the shore, that even the lightest of men could surprisingly drown in the smallest of shallows.

She who judges – Ithriel.

Where others branded her responsible for their misfortunes, others chose reverence–tributes of food and grain and flowers were brought to her shores, and she availed herself little of them. Her purpose hadn't be one of worship–but to observe and deem Men worthy of inheriting the age, or not. During her stay, she learned all the more about the flora and herb-lore of the region, while attentively keeping her eyes and ears fixated on the city of Annuminas, and the Rangers of Tinnudir first and foremost.

It wasn't until two brave souls dared moor upon her shore, with motives of their own; unrest was spreading across the region, incurred by her mysterious presence. Some meant to take up arms against her, while others intended to do the same against her offenders. It was on behalf of this cause that two strangers intruded her domain, and ere she could expell them, the taller one engaged in rhetoric of wit boldly with the minstrel.

For hours, they whiled away debating, until he caught her in a trap; for she hinted at her heritage, and he knew her ideals to be, unmistakably so, of Gondolin make–isolationism, indolence and abstinence from interventionism. Facing the bitter truth of his words, she attested to his argument of her hipocrisy laid bare, and knew him to be no Man, but Elf–and an audience she granted them both, allowing the Man to speak on behalf of his Ranger-kin.

Her ears pledged themselves to his peoples' plights, and of many ordeals did she learn–of Annuminas, Fornost and Esteldin, and it gave her pause; the music she had enchanted the forest with stilled, and she gave herself unto much thought. At last, she declared her power, and in a small, glassy vial, she captured the water of her enchanted basin, and unto the Ranger bestowed it thus; for within it was a blessing from her petty House. The panacea, after a mere few drops were diluted in water, could return life to the near-lifeless; those aged prematurely, or weary of spirit, or drained by Angmar's offenses. Warmth would return to the cold, joy to the joyless, and dread would tarry in their hearts no longer. Such was her gift, as her mind turned to the ruination wrought at Fornost.

She knew full well that there was not much of it.

She wished to again observe, yet not without impact this time; no longer courted by the idleness her mother oft scolded her for. So, she observed indeed. By all accounts, he could have taken the whole stock of the vial for his own use, unto the end of his days; to prolong his vitality, and grant himself ease-of-ill... But he did not. Though she kept his Elf-friend and thus, his counsel from him to ensure fairness, he did no wrong. In the stead of her suspicions, he distributed the elixir among his kin upon Tinnudir, and bolstered their spirits in kind. Thus finished, she summoned him to her shores again, having learned much of his peoples–and unto him gave a promise of a small pouch of a single seed, and a few drops of enchanted waters in a vial.

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"Once you have travelled far and wide, and become surer of your cause–I shall give unto you a gift of my House; a seed for the trampled soil of Fornost Erain. From it, a splendid tree shall flourish, and its roots hold the ruins apiece with their might, until you and your kin return to reclaim it. To fail, is to surrender the tree and fortress and my trust to Angmar's hatchets and axes; only through victory may you now prove your cause to me just! So fly, fly now to the aid of your Stewards and Kings, and return worthy or naught at all!"

- Lothuialien's proclamation

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With a final bow, they departed from her side, allowing She Who Judges, the Wood-Witch of Emyn Uial, to likewise fade from the wilds of Evendim. They knew well, when their errant errand came to a close, they would find her with ease, for she dwelt in every Sun-down and Star-light; where brook babbled and forests hushed, combed by a long, spring-gust.

What of her became, scarce few could tell from that day... Yet her own, azure hues beheld a marred beauty in the far east, as they cast a long, wistful look towards the foot of the Misty Mountains, towards the ruins of Hollin, of Eregion–a wistfulness that soon, in her eyes, rekindled and was reforged into spurring determination.

For that day, she had shed the last of her Gondolin-indolence.