CHAPTER XXIV

Doriath, 472

I came to Doriath late in the Year of Lamentation, and there I found that the Havens of Falas, where the remnants of the survivors of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had gone, had been sacked by Morgoth's forces. Near the place I had lived when I was little, it was the village my mother had gone to for supplies, and I myself had gone there a few times. I wasn't sure what to feel about it—in fact I felt hardly anything at all.

In Menegroth I wrote music and danced to earn a living; I did not like for people to know that I had once trained to be a soldier of Hithlum. Both Beleg and Mablung had survived the Nirnaeth, thus on occasion I would speak with them, but most of my time was spent alone or with Artanis, as Melyanna had grown distant after Lúthien became a mortal and left Doriath with Beren.

Nonetheless, in the year after I came, Túrin, the only son of Morwen and Húrin, arrived in Doriath. I remembered Húrin from the Nirnaeth; his words still echoed in my head and brought a certain emptiness and sorrow to my heart: aurë entuluva. . .day will come again. . .but I did not know he had a child. Húrin had been captured in that battle, and was the last standing as the rest of us had crumbled to ash and wilted in the gathering smoke.

The beautiful country of Hithlum had faded to grey after the Nirnaeth, as it was now occupied by the Easterlings that had plundered and ravaged the land, and pushed on to Mithrim and Dor-lómin. Their arms were scattered, and their league broken; and they took to a wild and woodland life beneath the feet of Ered Lindon, mingling with the Green-elves of Ossiriand, bereft of their power and glory of old. In Brethil some few of the Haladin yet dwelt in the protection of their woods, and Handir son of Haldir was their lord; but to Hithlum came back never one of the western host, nor any of the Men of Hador's house, nor any tidings of the battle and the fate of their lords.

But Morgoth sent thither the Easterlings that had served him, denying them the rich lands of Beleriand which they coveted; and he shut them in Hithlum and forbade them to leave it. Such was the reward he gave them for their treachery to Maedhros: to plunder and harass the old and the women and the children of Hador's people. The remnant of the Eldar of Hithlum were taken to the mines of the north and laboured there as thralls, save some that eluded him and escaped into the wilds and the mountains.*

I knew he was talking about everything but what happened last year, and, ironically, it was known as the Year of Lamentation.

I wasn't sure if I liked it or not, but I appreciated it enough. This morning I had joined Beleg on guard duty as he patrolled the borders of the Girdle and the woods of Doriath. It was calming, I supposed, to be in Doriath, for it was protected by the Girdle, yet I always kept my guard up for peril; it had become a relentless habit by now. In truth I was barely listening to what Beleg was saying, as I found it difficult to concentrate on things like this in these days.

I halted suddenly, for I felt a presence about, and Beleg glanced at me concernedly. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"There are three travelling slowly towards Doriath, one a boy and the two other aged men," I told him, my eyes staring into naught and feeling the bonds of energy flowing all around.

"How far?"

"About a league." I felt their energy again, cautiously. They seemed to be people with no evil intent, and no disguises either, so they could be no spies. I walked towards the threads of energy, though keeping myself hidden, as I always did, and Beleg trailed behind me, none too cautiously.

They came into the Girdle unhindered, and when Beleg saw them, he hissed, "They look half-dead."

"Don't humans always look like that," I muttered.

Beleg had already gone out to them, greeting them, offering food, and being nice unlike me. I stayed lingering in the shadows and looking upon them.

"I am Beleg Cúthalion, Chief of the Marchwardens of Doriath," he told them. "This is Lady Híthriel. Who may you be?" I noticed that he only added the 'lady' to make my name seem longer compared to his title. He might have said 'of Hithlum' or 'of Himring' if they had not just been destroyed.

The younger man, though not much younger than the other, spoke. "My name is Gethron and this is Grithnir, and we were servants of the House of Hador. This here," he said, gesturing to the boy, "is Túrin son of Húrin, of the House of Hador."

At this I stepped forward, astonished, and the two men drew back, finding me frightening probably because of the jagged scar upon my face. Túrin, however, stood his ground, and gazed up at me in defiance. "You are Húrin's son?"

"Yes," he told me. "I am Túrin Húrin's son of the House of Hador." It seemed he said it once again to make sure it was true, to make sure he remembered who he was.

Beleg brought them to Menegroth, where Thingol decided to adopt Túrin as a son, for he knew Húrin before, yet I suspected it was because he felt bad about how he treated the last human that came to Doriath. For nine years he dwelt in Thingol's halls, and during that time his grief grew less; for messengers went at times to Hithlum, and returning they brought better tidings of Morwen and Niënor. Grithnir died however that year, for he became sick while a guest in Menegroth, and never saw his northern homeland again. It was actually Gethron who stood before Thingol in the halls of Menegroth and asked that Túrin be fostered by the King.

Sometimes I would still train on my own, hidden in the vast woods of Doriath; I had not completely forsaken the past yet much of it was lost in the ashes of the Haudh-en-Ndengin. I practiced monotonously the forms I had been taught over the years, barely thinking of what I was doing. A little after an hour I stopped, and strapping my blade to my back I wandered.

On the other side of the brush there came the sound of Beleg's voice, and even as I looked, I saw him instructing Túrin on holding a bow correctly. The sight reminded me of Findekáno training me when I was little and something shifted a little in my mind. I gritted my teeth.

"Nope, you're not doing it right. Listen to Beleg," I barked at Túrin, slinking out of the brush. "Solid stance. Grip that valardamned bow right. Your fingers are wrong. And your elbow. Rotate that correctly, for Varda's sake."

Beleg looked at me. "Hello, Híthriel."

"Don't distract the child," I said. "The way he looks like now, he's going to shoot your face instead of the target."

Túrin glared at me. "Show me how."

"I just told you," I said, striding over. "Have you not listened to what I have just said?"

"My stance looks fine," Túrin complained.

"Feet shoulder width apart. That doesn't look shoulder width to me."

He fixed his stance uncertainly.

"Really? You don't look like you're evenly distributing your weight."

Beleg put a hand on Túrin's shoulder. "That's because you're being intimidating, Hith."

"Whelp. Sorry."

Beleg came in front of Túrin and strode towards me, speaking hastily in Quenya.

"What the actual—when did you learn Quenya?" I was perplexed.

"I only know a few words," he said, "and I'm only saying this because you're being mean to Túrin. He's only nine."

"Nine? He looks twenty-five!"

"Atani age differently, Híthriel."

"No!" I shouted at Túrin, who had begun to notch his arrow again. "Release the arrow, don't push it weirdly like that."

"I was going to do that!" he yelled back and let the arrow fly.

It hit the target, at least.

"Not bad," I said.

Menegroth, 477

"You've invited me over for a reason, Artanis. You always have one. Tell me in sooth, or I may be less fond of some things."

She didn't hesitate. "Híthriel, you're not all right."

"Am I supposed to be?" I said too quietly.

"It would be nice if you were all right. Splendid, actually."

"Mm."

"I know Findekáno—"

"Don't say his name."

"Hith—"

"Don't say his name."

I was being exactly like how Maedhros was acting. This was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.

"It's been five years, Híthriel."

"I know. Stop intruding in my business."

She sighed. "I'm sorry. But I think—"

"You think talking about it is going to make it any better? This isn't so simple, Artanis. I don't know if you ever knew how I feel right now, but you're clearly not showing it. Why is it so hard for you to just understand? Of course I want to live again. Of course I want to get over this shit and be like how it was before. But how is that supposed to be possible? Just how? I lost everything. Everyone. This isn't going to take a few years to be normal. I know it will never be the same again. You know those times when you're little and you go somewhere with your parents and you ask when you will be able to go home? There is no home. Every place that I have ever called home has been destroyed. Gone. I will never return home.

"I know you don't understand. You've been in Menegroth all this time. In Menegroth, with your belovèd husband. You're lucky he's still alive and sound. And not dead and gone. Do you know what aid Doriath sent us in the war? Two people. Two people that came against the Great King Thingol's will. I thought I was actually getting somewhere with my life for once and this just completely stopped it. Stopped it." I snapped my fingers and the crisp sound seemed to echo off the walls. "Death stops all."

Artanis said nothing.

*Chapter XX, "Of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad," The Quenta Silmarillion.