In the flickering light of a single candle, Tuilérie admires an old map of Eregion. It was old, yet the artwork was without a doubt well-preserved. With her finger she traced the old roads, following them to near and far off places where she had once traveled.
Tuilérie had prior to her leaving for Lindon, being part of the escort of hir Fëamiril and hiril Gilinnen, by chance come to visit hir Laurenaro and hiril Hotirme. She had passed by their house and had been invited. The couple was known to her, she had often seen them in the Hall, and had spoken with them briefly at those occasions.
The evening had been spent in merriment, and telling of stories of old. Hir Tolmen had shown up, she knew him not that well, save that she had seen in in the Hall from time to time. He was somewhat quiet and kept a little to himself, not someone who invited you easy conversation. Yet, the couple seemed to know him well, and they had greeted him cordially.
There were many books and maps in the house, and Tuilérie had come to stop in front of one, an older one, and seemed to loose herself in older memories for a moment. It was a map of Eregion of old. She remember she had told them that she had spent her youth there, and grown up in Ost-in-Edhil, and talk turned to memories of Eregion. Tuilérie noticing the many books kept in their private library, asked whether they had any poems or poetry in their keep from that city. When she grew up, poetry had always been a major part of the life there. ‘City of Poets’… yes, if not for the Jeweller’s Guild, and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Ost-in-Edhil would have been know for its poets. Hir Laurenaro, had suddenly gone off in search, but had returned empty-handed, promising her that he would do a more thorough search later. Tuilérie soon thought nothing more of it, and enjoyed the lighthearted conversation throughout the evening.
---
One morning a small package had been delivered to Tuilerie. A package from hiril Hotirme. It was a scroll wrapped in golden silk, with a soft sky-colored ribbon carefully tied around it.
Upon opening it, Tuilérie had drawn forth a map, a map of Eregion, worn out with time and yet still remaining a masterpiece as it was in the days when the lands of its origins were young. Its patterns were drawn in copper ink, with the domes of Ost-in-Edhil glittering like gold, and the flourishing waters of Sirannon shining stunning blue. Upon closer inspection it became obvious that the path of the river was covered with sapphire dust, making the waters appear almost moving as they danced in the light. Its woods were miniature malachites, resting on the spots where the tops of the trees are supposed to be, while the map's very edges were coated in bronze.*
The date and the name of the elf who created it were ineligible, yet it had endured through all the hardships. There was a short note attached to the scroll:
"Dear Tuilerie,
It happened to escape my mind during your visit, but once you departed I had to look through the oldest of our maps as I remembered about the beautiful work of art I once happened to acquire. To my greatest joy it was still in place, resting from the hardships it had to endure and slumbering in its untouched beauty.
The map came into my possession long ago, while Eregion was still flourishing and its future appeared as bright as the light of the rising sun. Within its lines lies the hope of the people who built it, putting their inspiration and their greatest skills into its designs. It seems to me that now it finally found its rightful owner. I hope it delights your sight and your youthful spirit.
Hotirme."*
The map was a masterpiece of old, and Tuilerie was struck speechless when she unfolded it.
Now the map hang in her small house, carefully set in a frame she had meticulously crafted herself.
---
In the flickering light of the candle, with the light dancing over the map, the details seemed to come to life, and Tuilérie was immediately overcome with sadness. Memories of Gladron, whom, if not for the devastation wrecked by the invading armies of the dark one, would have been hers. Gladron, whom she had know through so many years, and who had always followed her, or she followed him. Gladron, whom she had lost in the tumult that ensued after the invasion. They had been far to the south when it had happened, and dark dreams had called them back, only to find ashes and small groups of her kindred fleeing. They had split then, promising to meet again at an old cairn just south of Nîn-in-Eílph along the eastern river-bank of Gwathló. They would leave messages if they missed each other. Gladron had hurried to help the refugees, and she had hurried hurried north to Ost-in-Edhil.
Burning houses and ashes, dead bodies, severely mutilated, greeted her as she with all her stealth made her way through the chaos that once had been her city. She had made it to her home, finding the door smashed in and furniture turned over, yet no trace of her parents.
She had made it to the house of the Jeweler's Guild, and there on the steps to the main gate, she found her father, face down.
She felt nothing seeing him. She had all her life been a disappointment to him for not following in his footstep, and disapproving of her choices in life. There had been little love between them, and now seeing his mutilated body on the steps, all she could do, face expressionless, was to turn around and walk away. But were, was her mother?
It didn't take her long, the expert tracker she had became, to pick up the trails of heavily armed troops going north. Tuilérie had stopped to study the tracks, and frowned. These were not the tracks of the enemy, but the tracks of armed kindred, and with them softer tracks of people clearly not armed.
Running north, following the trail, she soon had caught up with the armed force, part of the company Lord Elrond had brought with him from Lindon, sent by High king Gil-Galad in a desperate attempt to stem the invading forces. Little they could do, but to escort refugees to the vale of Imladris. Tuilérie had joined them, and there among the refugees she had found her mother.
Only when the Númenórean forces coming to the rescue had managed to route the enemies troops, could she return to the meeting place, which Gladron and she had agreed upon. But it was too late, she came too late, and the meeting place was empty. She stayed for several weeks waiting, searching for signs, but nothing. Finally she left a message of love to him, pointing him north.
With heavy heart she had slowly, almost dragging her feet, returned to Imladris. Her mother never recovered, despite careful ministrations by the healers and her daughter. And one day she had walked out in to a small sunlit glade in the Vale, and had lied down, letting her fëa leave her body.
---
Tuilérie breathes slowly, straightens, and opens her eyes and looks up at the map again. Much was lost. The dream of a future, a family never to be, and … Tuilére looks down at Nolandur who rests at her feet. Poor Nolandur, she thinks to herself. Faithful, loyal Nolandur. He was the 256th of his line, always a close companion to her. The first had been found among the ruins in Ost-in-Edhil. As she had turned away form the father’s dead body, she had spotted a small pup, howling despairingly near, what looked like it’s mother's corpse. Something had gripped her heart then, and she had rushed to take pity on the poor pup, lifting it up, caressing it lovingly while it weakly whined and licked her face. The pup had come with her, and she had named it Nolandur, wise servant, the first of his line. And she had cared for him ever since, and he for her.
---
Her gaze wonders from Nolandur to the table nearby, on which the candle stand rests, and there next to it lies a small scroll, which she had read many times by now. One day, shortly after the visit to the couple, Tuilérie had found a scroll, a parchment of old make, in her mailbox, rolled up in a leather case polished and with some silver embellishes upon it. A letter had accompanied the scroll, and it was signed Hir Laurenaro.
"Dear Tuilerie, I did not have time to give this to you when you stopped by our house, so I am sending this scroll now. I do not know if you happened to read through the book I gave you yet, but if you have then you might have seen that one of the poems int here is mine. It was collected by the Noldor who asked for poems published about Eregion, but be put into one comprehensive tome.
This is the original draft I wrote it upon, in Vanyarin, as--if you will forgive some pride upon my part--all poetry sounds better in it. But below it is also its translation into Sindarin. I hope you will find enjoyment in the humble verses I penned of one of the most beautiful cities of Middle-Earth."*
The Scroll read as follows:
"I.
Fair stones high above
Shining meadow-bright untouched
Jewels gleaming there
Walls embroidered with their care
Tapestries woven of earth.
II.
In their shade I stand,
Stricken and in unchained awe
My eyes delighted
By the blessing of colors
Sunlit gems have rained on me.
III.
Flowers I have seen
In their glory under light.
But these flowers bloom
Ever so eternally,
Petals caught in the stones above.
IV.
Past their beauty now,
The gates soaring to the sky
As if upon wings
Lifted to heaven's domain
By the King who commands it.
V.
The gate's shadow passed,
And marble streets laid and smooth
Might craftsmens' work
The art of the Noldor seen
In this crown by Sirannon.
VI.
Gardens abundant
Of Yavann's gifts growing
Yet also of Aule's
Statues and stones and jewels
Living and unliving dance.
VII.
Radiant sunlight,
You cover this grand city
In a shining veil.
Glory unspoiled, proud white
Upon skilled hands and many dreams.
Eternal more may they be."*
She had cried reading the poem. This was the poetry of old that had been so natural to her city. Every time she she read it, she could see the splendor of that city in her mind. A splendor only memories now could hold.
---
As the candle light slowly dies down, allowing the shadows to grow larger, Tuilérie slumps down on the floor next to Nolandur. Tears streams slowly down her cheek, tears for a life lost, a love lost, and a family never to be. She lies down, curling up close to her hound, and falls a sleep sobbing silently. In her arms she caresses a small toy, the same toy she had found hidden in a small jewel-bedecked box in the garden wall of her old home in Forlindon, where she was born. She had found it when she had had a day off to visit Mithlond during her latest stay in Lindon, and had not intended for it to be taken with her. She had put it back, but while waiting for a small coastal-vessel to come and pick up her to continue to the main harbor, she had suddenly turned around and run back to retrieve it. This was the toy she would have given her own child… if she ever would have had any... Nolandur, wise from years in her service, puts a soft pawn over her shoulder in comfort, and quietly keeps vigil throughout the night.
*Poem, letters, and descriptions of map and casing for scroll are original work of Hotirme and Laurenaro
