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Gilrin had little knowledge of the Fírimar, though she supposed that even her scant knowledge was more than what her husband could boast. Annael had never left the mountains and not once in his life had he ever laid eyes on the Fírimar. Gilrin had traveled about the north of Beleriand when she was younger, and had spent some time in the mixed Edhil-Fírimar communities in Dorthonion. Truth be told, she had never felt entirely at ease among the Fírimar. It was not that she disliked them, but she found the way they aged so badly in so few years to be disconcerting and disheartening. She rarely stayed long in any of their communities.
The air was thick with noxious black smoke as it had been for months now. Even within their caves, the Mithrim had to wear scarves over their mouths and noses to try to keep from breathing in the smoke—Gilrin still found her exposed eyes stinging and raw. This is the consequence of living so close to Angband, so soon after the Enemy has broken the backs of the Noldor and the Edain, she supposed bitterly. The Enemy tries to smoke us out of our homes like wild game.
She suspected, though, that the day would have been a gray one even without the wretched smoke. She'd been hearing thunder claps from the south—likely to be an actual storm, then, rather than some mischief of the Enemy's—for hours now. Accompanying it was a cold, southerly breeze.
Gilrin would rather not have been outside under these circumstances. She had never been a warrior, so it would go ill for her if the Enemy's ilk found her out here, and the smoke wasn't good for anyone, not even an Edhel. But she was running low on several herbs, none of which grew close to the caves.
It's colder than it should be, this time of year, Gilrin fretted, drawing her cloak closer about her as another cold wind cut at her. The frosts may have killed them all off. I hope—
Just then, Gilrin spotted someone stumbling over the hill just below. She frowned, wondering whether she should try to make for the caves before the stranger could see her. But the stranger looked too small to be an orc, and the instincts of a healer overrode any caution Gilrin might have felt. "Hello?" she called out as she approached. Gilrin was acutely aware that she was alone, that she wasn't armed with anything more deadly than a knife, but she pressed forward, pushing nervousness down far enough that she could barely feel it at all.
She must have been quieter than she thought she was, because when by chance Gilrin stepped on a branch, the stranger's head snapped up at the noise.
The stranger was one of the Fírimar, a young woman (or from her size, maybe a child) swathed in a thick brown cloak. Gilrin caught sight of pale gray eyes framed by light brown skin, and a tangled mass o thick, dark hair. The woman stumbled backwards , eyes widening. She fell back against a tree trunk and began wheezing (whether from the smoke or from stress, Gilrin couldn't tell), keeping her rather frantic eyes on Gilrin all the while.
Gilrin pulled her scarf down from her face. She must think I'm one of the Enemy's… Unless she's an Easterling. Might as well try anyways. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you," Gilrin said to her, first in Sindarin and then in the tongue of the Edain she had stayed with in Dorthonion, trying as best she could to sound soothing.
For a long moment, the woman said nothing, and Gilrin began to grow nervous again, struggling not to reach for the hilt of her knife. Then, the woman relaxed, and responded in heavily accented Sindarin. "I… wouldn't mind some help."
-0-0-0-
Her name was Rían. She was an Adaneth from Dor-lómin, though she had been born in Dorthonion. She was the wife of Huor, brother of the Adan Lord of Dor-lómin and, as quickly became clear when Gilrin and Rían reached the Mithrim's caves, heavily pregnant (Annael, ignorant as he was of Fírimar aging, was appalled, thinking her obscenely young to be with child).
"Dor-lómin is overrun with Easterlings," Rían explained, pulling the clean blanket Annael had given her close about her shoulders. Her small face was etched with tiredness and hunger, her eyes shadowed with a hunted expression rooted deep within them. "Many of the men of Hador who did not go to battle were killed by the invaders. I…" She looked away, her jaw clenched. "…I have little reason to believe my child would be spared such a fate."
"I can hardly fault you for fearing for the life of your child," Annael murmured, brow furrowed. "But why on earth would you go over the mountains alone?"
Rían's mouth curled upwards in a wide smile that didn't reach her eyes. Gilrin felt a little sick at the sight of it. "Well, it's hardly the first time I've had to run."
-0-0-0-
There was plenty of room to spare in the caves; most of the community had fled south to Círdan's lands years ago. Rían got a few stares at first, especially considering that it had been several years since a child had last been conceived among the community, but those who stared looked away soon enough and treated her presence as nothing unusual. They got people passing through often enough, though those people were usually Edhil. She was given a pallet someone else had left behind, and took it silently.
"Are you a healer?"
Gilrin jumped a little when Rían's voice sounded behind her. Silence had become normal here; she wasn't used to hearing someone making idle conversation. When she turned around, the young Adaneth was looking at her with that remarkably frank gaze. Rían's eyes were all of her face that Gilrin could actually see; like the Mithrim, she had taken to wearing a scarf over her lower face to block out the smoke. Gilrin nodded cautiously. "Yes, I am. Who told you?"
"No one," Rían replied with a shrug. "You just have so many medicinal herbs hanging up on the wall that I assumed you were a healer."
Gilrin raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You know something about plants, then?"
Rían nodded. By the way her eyes crinkled up, she might have been smiling. "Yes, I do. I've always loved plants, ever since I was a little girl." You speak as though that was so long ago. "I would have liked to learn more about them, but…" She sighed heavily and shrugged. "…Well, there was never enough time for that." Rían looked away, staring at the ground with her fists clenched. "I used to sing, too. But there's no time."
No, there's never enough time for anything, these days. Gilrin considered Rían, frowning slightly. What must she have seen, in Dor-lómin and before then? Even the Mithrim knew the tale of Emeldir the Man-Hearted and the treacherous journey she had led the women and children of Ladros on to safety after the Bragollach. Rían would have made that journey as a small child, even through Spider-infested Nan Dungortheb. Having led a life like that, Gilrin was amazed that Rían had ever managed to cultivate interests so normal as singing or a love of plants.
"Well," Gilrin said briskly, "if it wouldn't inconvenience you, I could use an assistant. Everyone else who knows anything about herbs left years ago. I've not always had the easiest time of it."
For a moment, the look in Rían's eyes was one of surprise. Then, she relaxed. "I don't have anything better to do," she replied diffidently. "I have no desire to live on charity."
"Good!" Gilrin tried to ignore that Rían had said last. "You can start by telling me everything you know about medicinal herbs…"
-0-0-0-
Rían proved to be far more comfortable talking about plants than anything else. When the two of them exchanged herb-lore, Rían was talkative enough, sharing the Edain's herb-lore freely. When Gilrin asked her about her husband, she side-stepped the issue with a question about a certain plant or Gilrin's travels—"Why don't you tell me more about Ladros?" Rían would insist, a touch wistfully. "You spent more time there than I did." Any question about Rían's parents was met with a blank smile; the most Gilrin had learned was that they were Belegund and Anneth, and both were long-dead.
The young Adaneth was decidedly cagey on the subject of her family, so Gilrin was more than a little surprised when Rían suddenly spoke of them unprompted.
"Well, the blasted smoke's finally gone," Gilrin was remarking one day as she took inventory of her herbs; Rían, meanwhile, was putting away the linen rags used for compresses, sorting between the clean rags and the dirty. The smoke pouring forth from Angband had finally dissipated some time during the night, to be replaced by a pervasive chill that no fire could banish. The first snow will be coming soon.
Rían shook her head, mouth set in an unhappy line. Her belly had grown enormous, her steps ponderous, and she had noticeable difficulty standing, but she still insisted on taking whatever work came her way. At this rate she'd likely go into labor while washing used bed linens, but Gilrin saw no reason to try to force her into idleness. "It will be back," Rían muttered. "The smoke. The Enemy never gives us respite for long—just long enough so that he can take away the hope respite gave us." She paused for a moment, then grimaced. "I sound like Morwen."
Gilrin looked at her and frowned quizzically. "Morwen?"
"My cousin," Rían explained, with a slight catch in her voice. "We escaped Ladros together when we were young—the man she married was Huor's brother, actually, so we're sisters as well as cousins. She always… Well… She never had much faith in the sun to rise again."
"Were you close?"
"Oh yes, very! Our mothers and her younger sister all died in Nan Dungortheb, and we were always together after that, us and Aunt Beleth!" Rían explained, too-brightly. "I taught her Lalaith how to sing; tried to teach her son as well, but he didn't care for my songs. Do you know she was pregnant, too? I tried to convince her to leave with me, but she wouldn't go. Said she wouldn't be driven from her home a second time, even if they killed her in her bed. Neither would Aerin—Huor's cousin. She's… young, younger than I. Idolized Morwen from the first moment she clapped eyes on her. Aerin was of a similar mind to Morwen."
"It's their right," Gilrin pointed out, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably. "They have a right to stay in their own homes."
"Or be burned in them, if it comes to that." Rían laughed unsteadily. The laughter died off her lips almost as soon as it had started; her eyes grew dull. "They'll suffer," she said, very quietly. "They both will. I never understood how Morwen could talk the way she does, but I do now." Her voice cracked. "I feel as though…"
She never did finish that thought. But the next morning, the first snows came down, and the snow, far from the pristine white of years past, came down a dingy shade of gray. Rían turned her face away from it, and sat in stony silence for the rest of the day.
-0-0-0-
Rían had her child in the cold dark of winter, face gray and so tired that she had not the energy even to scream. Gilrin feared she would die from it, as the women of the Fírimar so often did, but when the child was finally born, his mother still drew breath, and a little color came back into Rían's face when she held him.
"Huor wanted me to name the baby Tuor," she murmured, "so Tuor I shall call him. Long may he live." She leaned down and kissed her son's forehead. The look on Rían's face was a loving one, but she did not smile.
Tuor's entry into the Mithrim community could hardly go unremarked, especially considering that the youngest of the Edhil had passed into adulthood long ago. Not a single person could pass by Gilrin's surgery without wanting to hold the baby and speak with Rían about him; Annael especially was deeply enamored of little Tuor, stepping into the surgery at every opportunity to visit. Gilrin couldn't remember the last time so much chatter could be heard in the caves.
Herself, Gilrin was fond of the baby—Tuor was a child of happy temperament, and seemed to enjoy the attention lavished on him—but she found her attention captured more by Rían than by Tuor. Now that she had had her baby, Rían's listlessness had turned to restlessness. Her pale gaze turned to the cave mouth, staring out one the mountains, the naked trees, the dingy snow. The only thing that could distract Rían from her staring was Tuor, but she always went back to staring before long, and the sight of her gazing into the wilderness filled Gilrin with a deep sense of foreboding.
What will she do when the snows melt? Gilrin fretted.
As it turned out, what Rían did once the snows melted was leave.
"I wish you would change your mind," Gilrin pleaded, her heart sinking even as she spoke.
Rían adjusted her cloak clasp and winced as she stepped out under the blindingly bright gray sky. "I know you do," she said calmly. "But I must know what has become of my husband. I can't live never knowing even that." She turned her back to Gilrin, starting down the narrow, winding path that led away from the caves, but then she turned back, and called out, "You will look after Tuor, won't you? Whatever happens to me, I think… He should live."
"Of course I will! But you will come back, won't you?" Gilrin asked desperately.
Rían only smiled.
Fírimar—'Mortals', a name for Men used among the Elves (singular: Fírima) (Sindarin)
Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)
Edain—Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin)
Adaneth—a woman of the Edain (Sindarin)