CHAPTER IX

—Silivros—

He was walking down Mithlond's cobblestoned road when he saw the demonstration from afar. They were clamorous and insistent, louder than Mithlond ought to be; in fact, he had heard it before that, and edged quietly down the road to see what was happening and yet remain inconspicuous. He preferred not to come into the ways of people, as it was evidently much more convenient, given life experience.

It was lead by the wives of those who died. Silivros espied a red-haired elleth in the front of the mob, yelling and shouting stirring words at the other commoners before Gil-galad's door. She looked to be old, at least older than himself—a dozen centuries at least, but was still full of vigor and resilience. He wondered if she remembered the Wars of Beleriand, and was still bitter from them like Híthriel. After all, the entire mob was centered on what she had compiled, what she had begun. It was, of course, for a good cause, and they had succeeded, but not in the greatest way possible; at least two score had lost their lives in the battle upon Hithaeglir.

The battle itself had been horrifying. Silivros had never been in a battle as such himself; he had been young when he was captured shortly before the Bragollach, and had never participated in any such battle. He remembered seeing Híthriel for the first time after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad in Doriath—she had been like one of the living dead. So distant, so cold, so lost.

Are you angry at those who did not fight in the war? he had asked her.

No, Híthriel had told him. Only glad that they are alive, and did not waste their precious lives for nothing. Yet truly inside he knew that she blamed a part of him for it. And for that he did not blame her either.

The mob wanted to cast Híthriel out of the city, he knew. It had been her who started it, and it must be her who pays for it, they said. They were much too bitter after the War of Wrath still, even after seven centuries, and could not bear to forget the histories of their people. The grudges they held were still too great. It was like how the Teleri had refused to fight in Endor for their kin because of what Fëanor had done in Alqualondë all that time ago.

Silivros bowed his head and shuffled past the shouting mob down the alleyway. Even if he were one of those commoners, he didn't think he would have joined in the demonstration, for, truly, the deaths at Hithaeglir were not Híthriel's fault. Be that as it may, it was not in his blood to so lightly accuse people of things, even if he did not know Híthriel. He understood people for why they did what they did, and acknowledged their vices, and yet did not pardon them simply because he understood.

By now he had reached the far, quiet side of the city around the Gulf of Lhûn. Híthriel's place was something like a townhouse, surrounded by neighbours that constantly played music. At the moment someone was playing a suite on a lute of some sort, reminding him of what Híthriel had often told him of Maglor the Harpist and also Kinslayer. Káno, she called him; it was short for Kanafinwë, his ataressë in Quenya. She had taught him a little of Quenya one time, but he had forgotten most of it in Doriath under the rule of King Thingol, who had indeed banned the language of Quenya in Beleriand for inconvenient reasons.

He paused with his hand over Híthriel's door, meaning to knock. He did a quick assessment of what he was going to say then brought forth his courage, knocked, and stood back and waited.

It was a while before there was any sign that she was at home. When he bent forward to knock a second time, there was a crash and a few frantic scuffles from within. Oblivious to it all, the neighbor upstairs continued to play their lute placidly. At first Silivros deemed it ironic, but then when he began to listen, he realized that the piece was something tinted with the unmistakable tinge of melancholy. It was a song of longing, of sorrow, and sounded as if you were looking back upon something and suddenly realizing that you could never be like that again. Silivros knew that feeling; he could still remember the beautiful times in Doriath with his mother and his sister before they had died and he had been taken to labour as a slave in the mines.

When at last Híthriel opened the door, haggard with bloodshot eyes, he forgot what he had initially planned to say.

"Naergon," he said, fumbling for words. "He says. . .thank you for the gift."

It took her a moment to comprehend the words. "I went to Églanim in Harlond for it."

"Did he craft it himself?" Silivros asked.

"So I've been told," she said. "His smithery had improved, I suppose, to forge a metal arm of that quality. It's not bad. Did you help him don it?"

"I did," Silivros told her. "Initially, he tried to do it himself, but that didn't work very well."

"Evidently."

"May I come in?" he said, not all too awkwardly.

"Oh," Híthriel said, surprised, looking behind at the explosion of her quarters. "All right." She limped inside, trying to discreetly hold her side, and collapsed down upon a chair. Silivros took the chair across from her at the table, noticing the scatter of papers all across the table and on the ground. Apparently the notification of his coming had sent them flying all about.

"Sorry about the chaos," she told him, a hand still at her side. With her other she waved it around her quarters flippantly. "There's probably tea over there, if you want it. Sorry I can't—ah—do it for you. I'm a terrible host."

"No, it's perfect," Silivros said cheerfully, perhaps too cheerfully that it may have sounded sarcastic to some. But he really was genuine with the words, yet not in the way that her quarters were perfect, if you know what I mean. "I'll get you some tea, too."

Híthriel looked as if she may have had a differing opinion to that, but said nothing.

"So how have you been?" Silivros said, then immediately wondered why he said the words. He was especially poor at multitasking, for he was indeed making the tea at the same time he was speaking to her. Really, it shouldn't be so hard, yet somehow it was. He had to say the right words, or else she would not know the true depth of his meaning.

"Spectacular," Híthriel said absently. She was staring at a piece of parchment on the ground.

Silivros spilled the water all over his hand, flushing with embarrassment, but Híthriel seemed not to notice. He sighed; he hadn't even heated the water yet and he was already dropping things, and decided to give himself some time to think with the occupation of preparing the tea. Híthriel seemed immersed in her own thoughts, anyhow, and not quite in the mood to converse.

The lute music was still playing, its tones lilting like a dance yet doleful. Silivros listened to it quietly for a moment, then suddenly Híthriel's ears seemed to twitch and her lips moved.

"Valar damn it. Make it stop."

Silivros was bemused. "They have the right to play if they feel."

"I don't care. Make it stop." Her words trailed off to a string of muttered Quenya, likely curse words. She covered her ears and crushed her eyes shut. "Make it stop."

"Híthriel," he said, trying to distract her. "Tell me about Hithlum again. Tell me about the Mountains of Mithrim, and how they would glow violet at evendim."

"Hithlum's gone now. I don't want to talk about it."

"But—well—" Silivros fumbled for something to say. Something about Taeloth? But she had died upon the assault at Hithaeglir. Saerin? No, Saerin was dead now too. Naergon—was there anything he could say? Ereinion Gil-galad—?

"Gil-galad said—" he began.

"Silivros, I know there's a mob outside right now. I'm extremely glad that they don't know where I live, because I likely would be dead by now. Thank you for coming. I greatly appreciate it."

He was taken aback. "How do you know of it? Haven't you been here all day?"

"I can feel it in the energies," Híthriel told him, closing her eyes and curling her fingers into fists. "I can feel their pain, their anger, their hatred—all of it."

The water had finished boiling by now and Silivros added the tea leaves to the kettle then brought it over to the table. He brushed a few papers to the side then set the kettle down, waiting for it to steep.

"I've been thinking," Silivros began. "I thought we should take a trip to Greenwood."

Now it was Híthriel's turn to be taken aback. "Greenwood," she muttered, nodding subtly. "I see."

Suddenly Silivros felt self-conscious of his words. "What do you think of it?"

"Just," she said, lost in her own thoughts. "Righteous."

"A newly established realm," Silivros said, to fill up the silence. "Lord Oropher established the place in 750, only two years back."

"Yes, Talethien," Híthriel murmured. "He did, didn't he?"

—Híthriel—

"You're leaving again," said Artanáro, or rather, Gil-galad; I still called him by his Quenya ataressë in my head. Gil-galad seemed much too formal a name for me—he was the star of radiance for his people, but to me he was merely Findekáno's child. High flame, his father had named him. Still I wondered what he had meant to express with the name. He was sitting with his hands folded before me in a highly abandoned tavern of some sort; it was fairly early in the morning and few had yet awoken.

"I am," I told him, "but for good. And this time I think it will be long ere I return."

"Hithaeglir was long enough," he said. "How long will this one be?"

"Longer," I only said.

Gil-galad dipped his head formally. "Nírë tulë i lumessë autielyo."

At that I smiled a little. "Findekáno used to always tell me that, when I was little. He liked to tell me that I was a princess of old."

"Someday you should tell me more of my father. I never knew him very much, and what I recall is little." His eyes wandered a little to a statue outside in the gardens.

"Someday," I echoed.

"Someday," Gil-galad repeated.

No one was there to witness our departure, nor hear of it. Silivros and I left Mithlond in the wee hours of the morning, and had told of it to no one but Gil-galad. It would be a long journey to Greenwood, said to be a little east of Hithaeglir; neither of us had yet been there since its establishment in 750.

Silivros and I spoke little for the most of the journey out of Mithlond and Eriador. I rode a grey mare that reminded me of Hiswasúrë, the horse I had had in Himring when Maedhros had Kemenélë. I remembered the time when we were leaving the city for Dorthonion, and we had waited for Saerin, Morwë, and Tindómë to mount their steeds. The morning had been peaceful, and quiet, the usual elements of Himring's misty climate. But Tindómë had fallen into darkness, and Morwë also. I had killed the latter myself in the Third Kinslaying upon Sirion.

What is his name? I had asked of his horse.

I call him Kemenélë, Maedhros told me.

The celestial earth, I translated. A beautiful name.

And yours?

She is Hiswasúrë, I said.

Then he had strolled over to Hiswasúrë and patted her neck. Grey wind, he murmured.

There had been a brief moment of silence as Kemenélë's tail flicked while the breeze swept across his mane.

I was not sure that you would come, he had said at last.

I don't know why I remember that moment so vividly. It was an ordinarily beautiful grey morning in the city, and we had been leaving for Dorthonion. There seem to be moments in my memory straying into my mind all the time now; they come unforeseen and unlooked-for and seemingly random. I don't know what to think of it.

Finno's kind face swam into my mind as I remembered the short dialogue with Gil-galad earlier. Cerulean eyes—why did I always remember people's eyes? Nírë tulë i lumessë autielyo, he had said to me.

A tear comes in the hour of your leaving.

And ever thereon.

Eldarin References:

Elleth. (S) Female Elda, plural ellith.

Nírë tulë i lumessë autielyo. (Q) A tear comes in the hour of your leaving.