Chapter 19 - "May Eru Forgive..."

Elmarië gazed sadly out of her misted window. The weather had become cold and dull, with an icy wind sweeping the pallid sky. Five days it had been since she had returned home, and ever more greatly did she rue it. Her kin were - allegedly - glad to see her safe, and yet most of them held her to blame for causing them so much grief and public shame, and they bombarded her with an endless tirade of questions concerning her departure from Doriath. For fear of telling them falsehood, she resolved to tell them nothing at all, and whenever she was asked, ever more angrily, of her wanderings she immediately fell silent. This did nothing to improve the tempers of those who were furious with her, yet she endured their wrath, for the anger of her kin was not a matter foremost in her mind. Other sorrows there were, which cut far deeper into her broken heart. The announcement had once again been made that she would wed Lord Culdir. This was a devastating blow indeed to Elmarië. She might have predicted that her father's first move, upon her return, would probably be to arrange another marriage for her. Yet she had hoped the match might this time be more suitable. She had never seriously entertained the notion that Culdir would wish to make her his wife after she had so exquisitely spurned and humiliated him. Even now, it seemed to her that there was no sense in his decision to marry her.

Her father showed no remorse for his treatment of her; indeed he did not acknowledge it at all. Yet this was no particular surprise to Elmarië, for it had become swiftly evident that none knew of the events which took place on the night of her departure, save Imcair her brother (who was away upon an errand, as he generally was when his presence would have been useful). Elmarië missed him terribly, and she dwelt in aching loneliness.

She drew herself shakily to her feet. The house of her father was a grand place indeed. It was built of grey stone, and set upon a clearing amid the trees, not far from Menegroth. In this land the trees grew exceedingly tall, and Elmarië's chamber, which was upon the very highest storey of the great house, was amid the treetops. Though the forest did not seem so fair in Winter, and the grey, twisted branches of the trees reminded her of a writhing serpant, poised to spring. Elmarië shivered as she turned and swept from her chamber. She lithely descended the many flights of wide stone stairs, her blue mantle rippling about her like sunlit water, mirroring the gleam of her azure eyes. On her way, she passed her mother, who slowly climbed the cold steps with her head bowed.

'Good morning, mother,' Elmarië called softly. Amarwen looked up at her daughter, her blue eyes wide with shock, as though she had been disturbed from a deep dream. Amarwen smiled weakly, yet said nothing, and hurriedly began once more to climb, passing her daughter as she went. She was a fair lady, tall and slender, whose pale skin shimmered softly like starlit mist. Her sleek golden hair was pulled back from her face, and fell in glistening curls down her back. Elmarië turned and watched as Amarwen ascended the stairs with unwonted swiftness. It was as though she could not bear to be close to her daughter. Tears stung Elmarië's eyes. Ever since she could remember, her mother had been a subdued, melancholy sort of woman, easily startled and unusually sensitive; but the recent years had not been kind to her. She seemed almost to be wasting away; disintegrating into thin air by the day. She had always been a distant kind of presence in her children's lives - never cruel or unkind, but always remote; always elsewhere, somehow. Elmarië had, since childhood, received the vague impression that her mother didn't like her very much, such was Amarwen's cold and aloof manner towards her. These past days she had been almost completely ignored. And while common sense urged that her mother was merely punishing her for the grief and disgrace she had caused her kin, she could detect no hint of malice or ire in Amarwen's detatchment. It was almost as though her mother did not acknowledge her because she was essentially unaware of her; as though some vital part of her soul had fled. Amarwen, after all, paid no particular attention to any of her children; she wandered the halls of their house almost unseeing, and barely noticed a word spoken to her. However, a subtle shadow of unquiet had often crept into Amarwen's eyes, when she looked upon Elmarië. It was as though the very sight her eldest daughter unsettled her; though it was not immediately clear why this should be.

Elmarië remained upon the stairs for a time, as though frozen by her mother's wintry presence. Surely Amarwen would forgive her daughter, if she knew of what had befallen? The desire to betray her father's secret had never been so strong. It would be just to reveal the truth, she thought, and Imcair, when he returned, would surely verify her words. Yet would such a discovery not grieve her mother even further? Elmarie knew in her heart that it would. And supposing her father denied his misdeeds? Her testimony would undoubtedly be given less credence than his; as would Imcair's. Elmarië's elder brother was generally disapproved of by the folk of Doriath. His disdain for the social customs of the land, and his passion for wandering the wilds of Middle-Earth, had earned him the reputation of a young wastrel.

Tears welled up in Elmarië's tempestuous eyes. She had not wept since returning home, and yet a single unexpected tear found its way suddenly from her eye, and spilled upon her cheek. The emotions Elmarië had tried so furiously to bury, and had kept frozen within herself, were beginning to melt and pour forth as desolate tears. With an affort that shook her to her very core, she forced herself to descend the stairs once more, though this time at a slow, funereal pace, for her legs seemed stiff and reluctant to move. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she made her way swiftly through the echoing hall, her footfalls tapping frantically upon the hard ground as she broke suddenly into a run, such was her desperation to be gone. Passages and halls passed by like clouds of dour, muted grey; every wall was bare and unadorned. No carvings, tapestries or anything else which her father deemed frivolous were to disturb the sleeping, unbroken mass of grey. Elmarië sped like a flash of blue lightning past Nevalda, her young sister, and a number of astonished servants, pushing one or two aside in her haste.

'There is to be no running in the hallway, mistress Elmarië!' Cried the housekeeper indignantly. 'Your father would not be pleased to learn of this!'

Elmarië paid no heed, as she tore down the stairs which led to the front entrance, her hair streaming behind her like a smear of dark disarray. She paused only to haul open the large stone door, which she slammed heavily behind her. Much to her satisfaction, she heard the crash echo and resound throughout the silent halls of her house. No doubt, all would be displeased with her when she at last returned, yet she gave no thought to such things, and rushed swiftly into the grey forest. Not until she was far from home did she halt, by which time she was breathless and weary. She sat slumped upon the ground beside the banks of the Esgalduin, gazing sadly into the shimmering water, and listening to its gentle, poignant song. She longed to depart from this land, as swiftly as did the foaming water, yet she had attempted to walk that path once before, and it had simply increased her difficulties.

Only now did Elmarië realise how greatly she had miscalculated her own resolve that night, many weeks ago, when she had fled into the forest in order to escape her fate. She had been so fearless that night; so secure in her belief that she was running headlong towards her salvation. And yet here she was, as desperate and forlorn as ever. She knew now that she had not the courage or fortitude to face the wilds alone - nothing could have prepared her for the loneliness, the fear that had burned in her heart, when she had thought herself lost and helpless in the wilderness.

She could not leave again, and must tread the path which had been set before her feet. That path held nothing but misery, stretching on forever even unto the ending of the world. Her bitter tears fell softly into the river, her anguish at one with that of the grey, rolling water. Her grief was as fathomless as the river itself, of which her own tears were now a part.

The pale morning drew on, and Elmarië became cold and silent, gazing into the clear water as it mirrored the overcast depths of the frozen sky, whilst her sparkling tears made their melancholic way to the pathless sea.

'Lady Elmarië!' Came a sudden voice from behind her. She turned sharply, fearing lest she had been followed by a confounded servant. She opened her mouth ready to make a dismissive remark to whomsoever stood there, but was shocked for a moment into silence. Before her stood Nurram.

'Are you well, Lady?' He asked gently, and knelt beside her. She scoffed bitterly, and made no effort to conceal her tears.

'In truth, I am not. Things are indeed more ill then ever I deemed possible!'

'I hear that you are to wed Lord Culdir in but three days.' He said quietly, avoiding her gaze.

'How did you know know of that?' She asked abruptly, anger surging darkly beneath her voice.

'Well, it is -' he replied brokenly. 'It is now common knowledge, that you shall wed him.'

'That I had guessed!' She snapped, her eyes gleaming perilously. 'And yet only this morn did I learn of it! It is to take place in three days, you say? Naught of that was I told! Ill news indeed travels upon swift wings! Or is it merely that all the world knew of my wedding ere I did?'

'I...I know not Lady!' Stammered Nurram, his fair blue eyes gleaming fitfully. 'Forgive me if I have displeased you!'

'You are not to blame.' Elmarië uttered sadly, realising that she was venting her anger on quite the wrong person. 'It is all my father's doing.'

'Is there aught you would have me do?' He asked, smiling kindly. A ghost of a smile touched even the face of Elmarie as she looked upon Nurram.

'Take me away from this place!' She laughed sadly, and though she spoke in jest, her eyes were plaintive.

'Once before, you have fled this realm,' he argued. 'And to what avail? In any case, your kin would not forgive you a second time.' His eyes were hidden for a second, as a golden curl of his hair fell across his face, disturbed by a gust of ragged wind.

'You do not understand,' she cried mournfully. 'I have been a fool and I know it! Yet I swear upon my very soul that if I were to leave Doriath a second time, I should never return all my life long! I know not what I hoped for. The prospect of returning home seemed so much more palatable when I lay alone in the wilds, friendless and lost. In any case, I had scarcely anticipated that Lord Culdir would have had any desire to wed me still. I hoped perhaps that my kin would be joyous at my return, not merely enraged, and more damning of me than ever. Selfish, they called me, and thoughtless. Yet they know me not at all! I have commited crimes, Nurram, and I know it well - in sooth I have done little else! Yet none of my deeds were thoughtless, without remorse. And who are my kin to judge me? It seems almost that they care not. They claim that I am foolish, and do not know what is best for me. It is true, perhaps, that all my choices have run ill of late. I believe it is because I truly do not know what I desire. All I am certain of is that I do not wish to live forever as a slave, caged between walls of stone. I shall try to abide by the wishes of my kin, and yet I know that I cannot! Without freedom to do as I will, my heart yeans only for death, and I long even now to cast myself into the fury of the river.'

'Do you ask for my aid, Lady?' Nurram questioned softly. Elmarië turned to him, and saw an odd gleam of conflict within his eyes, which she had never discerned in him before. It made her uneasy. Yet the word aid resounded within her mind, and it seemed suddenly that Nurram was her only hope.

'I would gladly recieve your aid, if it would save me from this plight!' She said hurriedly, her lip trembling.

'Then I shall help you to escape,' He said. 'Yet I know that you cannot survive alone in the wilds, therefore I too shall depart. I can guard you, if you wish. We could settle somewhere, far from here.' Anguish seemed to burn like a cold flame within his eyes.

'I cannot tell you how grateful I am!' She exclaimed, and embraced him tightly, almost weeping with relief. He ran his fingers through her soft black hair, and closed his eyes. When she drew away and beheld his troubled expression, Elmarie was quite startled.

'What is the matter?' She asked with concern.

'It is nothing.' He replied simply, though his voice belied him.

'Do you not wish to leave Doriath?' She asked quickly, bowing her head a little. 'Have you any kin here?'

'I was orphaned as an infant, Lady. Indeed I have no one, nothing to keep me here,' he said, looking up at the sky. 'And I wish only to be with you.' Elmarie gazed upon him, and her face was grave, yet she said nothing of the shadow which crossed her heart at these words.

'I must go,' he said, hauling himself suddenly to his feet. 'For there are preperations to be made. Once again, Lady, you must needs depart upon the very Eve of your marriage, for I can be ready no sooner.'

'Very well, so long as we are long gone by morning.'

'So we shall be,' he murmured. 'Until that night, meet me here each day at noon, and I shall share with you my plans. Farewell.' He turned, and was gone within seconds.

As he strode away from Elmarie, leaving her beside the surging water, Nurram could not control the tears of pain and remorse which poured from his eyes. He passed into the sombre shadows of the trees, all his tortured thoughts merging together into one stricken sentence, which soon became a familiar refrain echoing throughout his soul.

'May Eru forgive me, for what I have done.'