Author's note: So sorry this took so long! I've gotten quite busy, but also these next two chapters were extraordinarily difficult to write. Hopefully I can pick up my pace again soon.
'And what shall I remember?' said she. 'And when I go, to what halls shall I come? To a darkness in which even the memory of the sharp flame shall be quenched?'"
-J.R.R. & Christopher Tolkien, "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth"
2880 SA, Imladris
The magic of that summer extended long into autumn, sheltering the valley in warmth and comfort. But slowly, inexorably, the nights grew longer and colder, and a wind blew in from the north, fragrant with snow. Aearis slept less and less, for the lengthening shadows danced around her ankles and nipped at the corners of her mind, reminding her none too kindly of the questions that clouded her vision.
Rhossorieth's proposal had taken root in her heart and driven old, untended longings to the forefront of her mind. So many years had she passed in the mist of the Vale of Bruinen, kept complacent and mostly happy by the comfort of modest everyday usefulness. She had revelled in the peace she found in Elrond's gaze, in the friendly heat of the Hall of Fire, the cozy herbal haze of the Healing Halls. Her grasp of medicinal lore had expanded rapidly, recklessly, and now Elrond's patient guidance, his steady oversight, felt more confining than reassuring. Her notebooks swelled with plans for techniques that he would never sanction, and every time a patrol rode out without her, she itched with angry impatience. Every day, her leaping spirit chafed more cruelly under his gentle hand.
When she had been young, small, and frightened, Elrond's kindness and acceptance had inspired such love in her that it had seemed bearable to surrender herself to the service of the valley. And if the summons of the sea had tormented her, it had been a bearable kind of pain, soothed by the song of safety that whispered eternally through Imladris.
But now, when she spoke to Rhossorieth, she felt power in her words. The ground beneath her feet stretched forward and out ahead of her, bidding her run. The crash of waves on distant shores deafened her with its urgent, passionate calls.
And yet, how profoundly she still felt for him, for the tenderness of his soft gray eyes, for the pensive furrow of his fine brow, for the sweet, low music of his voice. The prospect of bidding him goodbye weighed on her, almost heavily enough to sway her to remain. Almost.
On the first day of Fading,* Aearis found Elrond hard at work in his study, painstakingly reviewing plans for the new network of aqueducts with his tongue between his teeth. The familiar expression sent another pang of indecision through her, and she stopped a moment in the doorway to fix the image in her mind.
For a moment, she wondered if she might have chosen to stay if his feelings for her had been different. If he had loved her as a woman rather than a sister. But no, it was not so. If he had loved her more, she would have loved him less. Would have grown restless under the weight of it. Such was the perverse turning of her mind, that only love unfulfilled was worth having.
She cleared her throat softly. Then again, louder, when he remained transfixed by his labors. He looked up and smiled joyfully at the sight of her. Another pang, quieter but more painful than the last.
"My dear, your timing is impeccable!" he cried. "Please, come, take a seat."
"Impeccable?" she repeated, smiling despite herself. "I am gratified to hear it. Glorfindel says quite the opposite." She made to take a seat across his great mahogany desk, but he beckoned her to pull her chair around to sit beside him. Sitting so close to him, she was entranced by the fragrance of sage and athelas that always hung about his dark hair.
Steel yourself, you swooning ninny, she chided her disobedient heart.
Elrond pushed the schematics aside and drew out a fat book bound in soft, brilliantly-dyed viridian leather. It was engraved with a silver crest that set her heart aching with its long-forgotten familiarity: a ship with swelling sails, guided from above by a great sea-bird rising. The crest of the House of Andunie. She leafed through the book with trembling fingers, holding back tears so that they would not smudge the ink.
"I thought it might be wise to formally record all your innovations to the healing practices of my hall," said he, smiling at her speechless wonder. "In a mere seventy years, Aearis, you have pushed forward our methods in ways I never thought possible."
She traced her finger reverently over the perfect lettering, the beautiful illustrations.
"This is written in your own hand," she breathed, unable to lift her eyes from the lovingly crafted pages.
"I considered asking Faeleth to lend her services instead," he said, and she heard the smile in his voice, "for her script is far superior to mine. But she could not make out your shorthand."
"No," she replied absently, her mind still occupied entirely in admiration of the tome, "nor can I, when it comes to that."
She looked up only when she heard Elrond open the drawer and produce another book, almost identical to the first, save that the spine, where the title should have been, remained unmarked. She opened it and stared at the blank pages, heart sinking.
"For the next seventy years," she heard him say. There it was. The conversation that could no longer be postponed. Unwillingly, she raised her eyes to his, and found there some hint of understanding of what was to come.
"Elrond-" she started, but her voice was weak and cracked.
"You do not want to say it, child," he said, clasping her hand in that excruciatingly familiar gesture. "So don't. There is no reason that anything need change."
"Everything has already changed," she sighed. "Can't you see that?"
"Rhossorieth offers you glory and renown," he murmured, but she could hear the edge beneath his voice, "but she will not protect you as I will, Aearis."
"That is precisely why I must go with her," she replied, hardening her heart against his gentle onslaught. "Not for honor, not for fame, but because I cannot bear another moment's protection. Too long have I allowed myself to shelter in the respite of this valley."
"Children need shelter," he insisted. Her pulse picked up suddenly, and she felt bitter words spring to her tongue. She pulled her hand away from his, too forcefully.
"If there were no other inducement to leave," she bit out, barely restraining her rising anger, "that alone would be reason enough. I am a child no longer, but still you see me so." The long-standing injury must have crept into her voice, because he gave her a pained, startled look.
"You have not yet completed your first yen,*" he said, reaching out again for her hand. But she stood quickly and backed away from him. "You have grown so much, Aearis, but why should you not find joy in your youth? Let older heads bear the burdens for a while longer."
"Look at me, Elrond," she pleaded, heart breaking at the fatherly concern in his eyes. "Have you ever really looked at me?"
He gazed at her wordlessly, confused and uncomprehending.
"Well?" She despised the cracking of her voice.
"What do you want me to say?" He was begging her to tell him what words would make her stay. For a moment, she felt frozen in place, the chilly air creeping deep under her skin and cooling the seething resentment that had leapt suddenly into flame.
She waited until she could once again trust her voice.
"I will be leaving with Lady Rhossorieth's party in the spring. You will have my report and recommendations concerning Therioril's progress and future training by week's end."
She turned and strode to the door silently, but his next words stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Gimlith is dying." In the thick, tenuous silence of the room, Elrond's grave voice cracked the air like a clap of thunder. Slowly, her fingers slipped from the door handle and she turned to face him again. He was standing now, but the weight of the world seemed balanced upon his slumping shoulders. He flinched back at her expression, for she made no effort to conceal her fury.
"What did you say?" The words hissed out between her teeth.
"She has not told you, for she feared that you would lose yourself in caring for her. But now you must know. Gimlith has been sick for many, many years."
Aearis actually found herself laughing at the absurdity of the statement. Her mother? Die? One might as well tell a stone to float.
"Dying. And I suppose that I, a healer, living with her day and night, simply missed the minor detail of a fatal ailment, did I?"
Elrond stared at her, eyes brimming with compassion and sadness. She felt her certainty quaver under his earnest gaze and looked away quickly before the doubt could take hold.
"Where do you think you got your powers of concealment if not from your mother, Aearis? You saw what you wanted to see, and she let you. Her sickness comes in waves-sometimes she is as hale as ever she was, even for years at a time. But it always returns eventually. When she is too ill to conceal it, she leaves your home on the pretext of solitary scouting missions. And now the interlude between the waves grows shorter each time, and I fear that the end is nigh."
She could not listen to this. His voice was strong and clear, and she heard the ring of truth in it.
So she ran.
She found her mother in the stables, vigorously brushing Angrebathor's fine coat and singing gently to soothe the animal. Daeroch's trysts with the lovely Imladris mares had produced several fine foals, each wilder and prouder than the last. The infusion of Numenorean stock into the herd of elegant elvish horses had produced an excellent breed, with the elegance and longevity of the Imladris line, the power and energy of the Mannish steeds, and the pride of both combined. Even among the Silvan elves, few possessed the iron will to bend the hybrid foals to their will. Last of Daeroch's children was a colt so profoundly black that light seemed to fall into him, and he was declared the finest horse ever born in the valley, for he was swift and clever, and so strong that the winter wolves that often antagonized the herd fled before the wrath of his trampling hooves. But so strong and intransigent was he that even Elrond's beastmaster threw up his arms in despair. Angrebathor, he was named, and he grew up wild, thundering through the vale as he pleased.
It was only after steady Daeroch's eyes closed for the last time that his prodigal son reappeared in the village, now full-grown, twenty hands high, and magnificent. He had approached Gimlith one day as she perused the latest weaponry at the blacksmith's stalls. Lady and steed had regarded each other silently, and though he dwarfed her small frame, he bowed his marvelous head to her. The elves present in the square for that meeting spoke often of it, for the Lady Gimlith had laid her small, delicate hand upon the steed's elegant brow, and from that day forward Angrebathor served her will with unflagging devotion. He would not suffer himself to be stabled with the other mounts, but he appeared there frequently to graciously accept grooming and feed from the terrified attendants, who muttered amongst themselves that he had the eyes of a dragon.
Aearis paused with several paces separating her from the pair of them, watching Gimlith's work with new scrutiny. Gimlith's motions were assured, decisive as ever, and her eyes glittered with the same unremitting energy as they always had. But, with eyes newly unveiled, Aearis saw what she had not been willing to see before. Beneath the nut-brown kiss of the sun on her mother's fine skin, a bloodless pallor had taken hold, leaving her lips and cheeks colorless where once they had bloomed like poppies. The mild exertion had brought sweat to her brow, and a subtle tremor to her once-steady hands. In anyone else, these signs might simply have been natural exhaustion. But Gimlith, who blazed with vitality and purpose, was flagging. She had the air of one holding her composure at great cost, a tension that lingered in the pitch of her narrow shoulders, the crease between her brows, the corners of her mouth.
So, it was true. Aearis sniffed the air, and for the first time she found herself face to face with the knowledge that she had so assiduously avoided. How long had the scent of death hung unmarked around her mother? How long had her willful ignorance permitted the illness to march forward unopposed? Had she really grown so selfish that she had-however unconsciously-treasured her own peace of mind over her mother's life?
Gimlith looked up from her work to meet her gaze, and Aearis saw understanding dawn in those dark eyes, closely followed by anger.
"Who told you?" Gimlith's throaty voice was gentle, but there was an edge in it.
"It does not matter," Aearis replied, keeping her voice steady only with extreme difficulty. "Except that it should have been you."
Between them, Angrebathor nickered reprovingly, casting his strange, intelligent stare at Aearis with a note of warning. Absently, Gimlith patted his muscled neck in a gesture of dismissal, and the great beast departed reluctantly, vanishing among the forest shadows as one of their own.
Once they were alone, Gimlith sighed deeply and slumped down upon a bench, passing a shaking hand over her eyes. Aearis moved forward instinctively to kneel beside her mother, clasping her always-cold hands. She felt the scar on Gimlith's palm where she had sliced it while cutting fruit.
Fool. What kind of healer misses such obvious hints?
"Why did you not tell me?" she asked, more gently now. "You know I can handle it. I handled it last time, and I am far better suited to the task now than I was then."
Gimlith's grip tightened enough to be slightly painful, but Aearis took comfort in the strength of those freezing hands.
"Azruari," she sighed, leaning forward to rest her forehead against her daughter's. "It is my greatest regret that your childhood was spent under the burden of my health. I should never have allowed you to waste your youth fighting my illness."
Aearis could not help but scoff at that.
"Allowed it? We remember things quite differently." Gimlith shook her head, and Aearis felt her brow furrow.
"I could have stopped you," she insisted, "if my will had been stronger."
Aearis's derisive snort would have scandalized the finer ladies of Imladris, but it made her mother smile despite herself.
"Weakness of will, mother, has never been a deficit of yours. Bloody-mindedness, on the other hand…"
"An inherited trait, to be sure."
They lapsed into silence, comforted by the slight foray into jest. But the air was fraught with unspoken grief. Finally, when Aearis thought she could bear it no longer, Gimlith spoke again.
"It is not the same this time, my darling. My time is coming to a close, and in truth I would not have it otherwise. I am loved by a man who is kinder than summer. My daughters are grown, strong and beloved. My world is larger and more beautiful than it has ever been. What better exit could I desire?"
"But you are happy, mother. Why should that need to end?"
"End, my love? Who spoke of endings? Is that really what you believe of the fate of Men?"
Aearis hesitated, drawing away a few inches to study Gimlith's face again. Her expression was so peaceful, so at odds with her usual glinting ferocity.
"Those of the line of Elros are not meant to grow infirm," she whispered. "If you are ill, mother, it is due to an ailment of the fëa, not the hröa. Let me mend it. Let me make things as they ought to be."
To her surprise, Gimlith threw her head back and laughed. Laughed hard, though there was a sob in it.
"Bloody-mindedness indeed, to strive against the fact of mortality itself," she said. "There is no cure for what ails my spirit, Azruari. You must know this. The break happened long ago and by my own choice, and I always knew that someday I would succumb to it, as surely as an arrow to the heart."
"I healed you." Aearis could not keep herself from insisting, for desperation rose in her throat like bile. "After fa-" she caught herself, "The Singer-left, I found the cure in the songs of the sea. I sailed out westwards and begged the Valar to guide me, and they gave me the wisdom to repair what he broke."
"My dear, beloved little rogue," sighed Gimlith, and her voice was the sigh of trees, "surely you now understand why I was returned to you all those years ago. Glirron and I bonded for life, my darling, just much as any elven union, and our parting could only mean the end of mine. But you were not ready then. You called me back with the full force of your need, and I answered. For, more than anything, I am your mother, and I am bound to you until you can face the world alone."
"But Cestedir-"
"Cestedir has known me to my core since the first moment he laid eyes on me. He knew that I was dying before I knew it myself, and he chose to walk with me into my evening. If he can forgive my mortality, then I am confident that you can too."
Aearis was silent as she searched for her next argument, but she found nothing in her mother's beautiful, aging face to fight against. So she sat back on her heels and buried her face in her mother's lap, where her tears could fall without witness.
And so the year of that sweetest summer faded into a bitter winter, and the day of the Lindon detachment's departure grew nearer. Aearis remembered little of that winter, save the time she passed in the company of her small makeshift family. Bereneth had borne the news with unsurprising grace. But Aearis saw how the fading of the only mother the orphan had ever found was compounded with the death of Runhilde to drive Bereneth deep into silent despair. There was a silent tearing behind those beautiful gray eyes, lonely and inexpressibly painful.
Indeed, among the four of them, only Cestedir seemed unchanged. The only alteration in him came from Aearis's own perception. Previously, she had liked him for his open, unpretending manner, his blunt wit, and, most importantly, his perfect and inexhaustible devotion to Gimlith. Now she fancied that she could see closer to the heart of him. His plain exterior seemed stripped away, leaving a being that glittered with ancient kindness and emanated rays of warm, soothing light. She basked in his goodness, for it had the power to drive the chill temporarily from her bones and bring a fleeting peace to the tumult of grief and rage and fear that churned at the core of her.
This was what a father should be. Gentle and steady when no one else could be, a guiding light where darkness threatened to overwhelm. She turned towards him, dearest and most humble of all elves, and he spoke to her in the same voice that he always had. But now she heard the music behind the hoarse sound, and the wisdom in the jest.
On the darkest day of that winter, a day when she found herself so totally unmade by her grief that she could scarcely lift her eyes from the ground, he gave her a book, small, slim, and bound in worn brown leather. It bore neither title nor author, but in her hands it seemed to sing with its own whispering voice. The pages were so old that Aearis feared that they would crumble to dust under her fingers, but they withstood as she leafed through it, struggling with the old dialect which mixed Quenya and Sindarin with infuriating indiscretion.
"I thought you might like to translate it," said Cestedir with a crooked smile. "Practice your dead languages a bit." She had raised a brow at him, unsure of why he thought it necessary to assign her new studies. But she trusted him, perhaps more now than any other being on the earth. He simply shrugged, and, by way of explanation, said: "It is the work of an old friend of mine, reckoned rather wise for a Noldo. I haven't the talent for words to transcribe it into Sindarin myself."
It was good enough for her. Between shifts in the healing halls and reluctant appearances in the Halls of Fire, she set to her painstaking work, equipped with a large stack of Quenya tomes and an incomplete dictionary. The little book chronicled a conversation between a mortal woman and an elven philosopher king.* She found her hand trembling as she wrote, for the wise-woman in the book seemed to speak all the thoughts that embittered Aearis's own heart. The wrongness, the injustice of death, the intolerable uncertainty of the doom of Men.
But the task, which busied her mind and her hands, also served to lighten some of the weight that pressed down on her with crushing force. And even as the winter lifted slowly to grudgingly permit the first stirrings of spring, so too did Gimlith's old energy seem to return in response to Aearis's dedicated ministrations. So hope bloomed again, and Aearis chose not to check the swelling of it in her heart.
So, she had been right after all. Death did not come naturally to one such as Gimlith of Andunie. It was all very simple, if one knew what one was doing.
Spring dawned pale and cold upon the valley, but the songbirds had returned and the brambles bloomed energetically at the first tender touch of sunlight. And so, since the ground was hard and the air was clear, and a warm wind blew in from the south, it was decided that Lady Rhossorieth and her party would ride out immediately. Of the elves who had come with the Lindon party, Erestor of Mithlond alone was to remain behind, for his involvement in the construction of the aqueducts had expanded to a complete overhaul of the agricultural infrastructure of the valley. Noenor was to be dispatched to Lindon in his stead, for Cirdan relied heavily on Erestor's counsel, and a trade seemed both fair and conducive to more frequent contact between Lindon and Imladris. Faeleth had made no secret of her displeasure at her husband's departure, but Erestor assured her that his work would be soon completed and the exchange quickly reversed.
For her part, Aearis found herself much occupied with preparations for their departure. Therioril, her young apprentice, had begged her tearfully to remain at teach her, so earnestly that Aearis found her will wavering for a moment. But once the girl was comfortably situated with Halloth as her new teacher, the weeping was considerably reduced, and Aearis set to work untangling herself from Imladris. Reports were to be written, farewell fetes attended, and Lindir comforted.
"You are a heartless little witch," he sniffed tearfully on the eve of her departure, hugging her far too tightly for breathing. "Who will be my duet partner now? And how am I to face the gossip alone? You know everyone shall think you jilted me."
"I will tell anyone who asks," she replied archly, "that it was you who jilted me, for writing songs in a horrid meter."
Lindir laughed and hiccuped simultaneously, shaking them both where they stood.
"I will miss you, little one," he sighed, his wondrous voice even more beautiful for the sadness in it.
"What a pretty liar you are!" she exclaimed, attempting to force the conversation back to levity. "You shall miss my songs, perhaps. And my willingness to give you all the best harmonies." But he merely unleashed another of his deep, shuddering, soulful sighs and shook his head where it rested upon hers. The knowledge of his pure, disinterested affection warmed her, and she squeezed him tightly in return. "I will miss you too, dear friend. But look for my letters, for I shall send you all the music I find on my way, wherever I am going."
"Promises, promises," scoffed the minstrel, finally releasing her to wipe the tears from his wide, long-lashed brown eyes. Then he picked up his lute and went on his way with a poetically melancholy droop to his shoulders, plucking out a sweet, sad tune that Aearis would remember for the rest of her days.
In the end, there were few other goodbyes for Aearis to say. Bereneth, in the performance of her duties as Rhossorieth's personal escort and guard within Imladris, had left so strong an impression upon the noble lady that she had been invited to accompany the party back to Lindon for a season in court. The request was made in such a way that no refusal was possible, and indeed came as welcome permission for Bereneth to follow Aearis and leave behind the phantoms that haunted her in Imladris. Cestedir and Gimlith had assented to join them for a brief trip, for Gimlith longed for the sea and Cestedir was not one to refuse her anything. So, with some amusement, Rhossorieth welcomed the whole family to join her party, seemingly pleased by the acquisition.
On the morning of their departure, Rhossorieth's traveling companions assembled outside the northern wall of Imladris, awaiting their final member, for Glorfindel had not yet joined them. Gimlith, huddled and shivering in the chilly spring morning, muttered Adunaic profanities under her breath.
"Really, mother," chided Aearis, "you must learn some patience. You know how long it takes him to comb all that hair."
She was spared her mother's sharp retort, for Elrond walked out to bid them farewell. Relations had been strained and awkward since that day in his study, but Aearis could not help looking upon him with gratitude and affection. He had cared for her mother for many long years while she herself remained carefree, and had broken his policy of total confidentiality to alert her of her mother's illness. After all, if he had not flouted this most sacred of rules of his house, she might not have discovered the truth in time to save her mother.
Elrond's farewells were handsome and generous, recognizing each of the party and thanking them for their individual contributions. Aearis saw the backs of the Lindon guards straighten with pride, their glinting eyes soften at the graciousness of their host. Gifts of miruvoir and pretty trinkets were exchanged. But for Aearis and Bereneth, he had brought even better.
"To you, Bereneth Amathiel, shieldmaiden, I present Cuvalthorn," he said, ushering forward Feldir, the sheepish, kind-faced youth who still blushed so prettily at even a glance from Aearis. The strapping young guard carried a mighty, unstrung bow carved with the twisting vines of Imladris. It was crafted from bright silver wood, thick and powerful, nearly as long as Aearis was tall. "Few now can wield it, but yours is a strong arm and a stronger heart, and if any will shall bend it, let it be yours."
Bereneth dismounted Alassir and took the bow from Feldir. She examined the weapon carefully, running her long, beautiful fingers along its curves with the gentle passion of a lover. With words of quiet, fervent thanks, she kissed Elrond's hand and bowed before him, deeply affected. He smiled and kissed her fair brow.
"String it when your need is great," said he, "and it shall answer your call." Next he turned to Aearis, who found herself once again breathless and speechless before him. "And for Aearis Gwingien, what gift can express my feelings? As wise as she is reckless, as clever as she is foolish, as kind as she is stubborn, as loving as she is restless. I thought long and hard, dear friend, of what I could yet offer you, and it came to me. Always, I have treasured your hands, for they bring life, and succor, and music. So here," he said, and she received the small bundle from him in perplexity. "May your hands remain ever soft and kind."
Aearis opened the carefully folded cloth to find a pair of black gloves. They seemed to be crafted of fine, soft leather, but when she pulled them on they were perfectly pliable, conforming to the motions of her hands as seamlessly as her own skin. And yet, they were strong as light armor bracers, and she could feel Elrond's particular kind of subtle, protective magic flowing through them.
She bowed low to him, lingering there to conceal the misting of her eyes.
"In all things, I shall strive to bring honor to you, dearest teacher," she promised. And she meant it.
He clasped her gloved hands and bid her rise, and his gaze was a warm, starry twilight. Then he drew her away from Rhossorieth's party, drawing curious looks from the traveling companions as they retreated out of earshot.
"I have no doubt that you will always be a source of great pride for me, Aearis," he replied. Though he smiled, his voice was profoundly sad. "But still I wish that I could protect you for a few seasons more. Yet you are grown, and now you must defend what is yours." A shadow fell over his face, and he shivered. "I see that soon you will find yourself more alone than you have ever been. Accept kindness where you can find it, Aearis, for even you cannot brave the world alone."
The faint resonance in his voice chilled her, and she sought for the source of his sudden preoccupation.
"Tell me what worries you, Elrond," she prompted gently, knowing that to pry to aggressively would drive away the new glimmer of honesty between them. He searched her face-for what, she did not know. Then, to her utter confusion and delight, he drew her into an embrace unlike any he had ever bestowed upon her before. It was not the touch of an older brother or an affectionate mentor. This was the way a man held a woman-tender and uncertain, all beating hearts and breathless expectation.
"Perhaps neither of us can claim impeccable timing," he murmured in her ear. "But if you must go, go with with knowledge that I have seen you, properly. Is it too late to tell you how beautiful you are?"
She pulled away slowly, willing herself to smile through the sharp bite of the cold air that rushed in between them. Then, as though from miles away, she heard the twinkling song of seven silver bells, like stars bursting out over a dark sky. The world was filled with soft light as she raised her eyes to see Glorfindel on his proud white stallion. The harmony of Runhilde's bells was like sunlight on frostbitten fingers, and Aearis breathed a little as the glowing golden warrior rode up the road to join the travelers.
"Forgive my lateness," he called, and his voice was like the first kiss of summer. Elrond's words fled from her mind like a half-remembered dream. Through her relief, Aearis noted that Glorfindel's full, generous lips were rather swollen, his hair charmingly mussed. It was with no small effort that she stamped down several unflattering thoughts about Counsellor Ruineth. What right had she to resent his trysts?
Still, it was with a distinctly bittersweet twisting of the heart that Aearis left the vale, the exhilaration mingling strangely with sorrow for what was, and could never be again.
The party moved slowly, for Rhossorieth's guards were vigilant and ever insistent on scouting each stretch of road before they set forth each morning. But Aearis's heart swelled at the sight of the path that stretched endlessly out before her, and often she galloped out ahead, with Bereneth and Dinalagos hot on her heels.
The nights were merry and bright with music, and Aearis discovered to her delight that Noenor's singing voice was unexpectedly lovely. Of course, he could not match Bereneth or Glorfindel as a duet partner, but Bereneth rarely sang anymore, and Glorfindel carefully absented himself whenever the music began. So, Aearis amused herself as best she could, and let the giddy excitement of the road distract her from the tightly-strung anxiety that constricted her breath in quiet moments.
On the fifth day out of Imladris, the day that they expected to arrive at the borders of Lindon, a dense fog settled over the traveling party, quickly followed by a chilly, penetrating rain. Cestedir rode out at dawn leading three other soldiers to scout the road ahead, leaving the rest to shelter in a small clearing near the river Lhun, where the branches of great willows provided partial shelter.
Lady Rhossorieth requested-so graciously that Aearis almost forgot that it was really a command-a traveling song to lift their spirits. Noenor joined her in a rousing, slightly raunchy sailor's song, soon followed by Gimlith and a few of the less inhibited of the Lindon guards.
The morning passed easily as they awaited the return of the scouting party, and only too late did they begin to worry.
Glorfindel was the first to express concern. He had nodded along with a pleasant smile at the morning's lighthearted festivities, but as morning grew old, his eyes began to wander restlessly westwards, and he paced along the river bank. Gimlith and Rhossorieth joined him presently, and the three began conversing in urgent whispers. The mist pressed inwards upon them, blocking their sight beyond ten paces.
Aearis dropped out of the song as Bereneth left the fire side to join them, her ears clearly pricked to listen.
"I hear little," Bereneth was saying quietly. "Less than I should. Something is amiss."
Her pulse thundering in her ears, Aearis addressed a gentle entreaty to the piercing rain, to bring her news of the lands around. The answering murmur of the water filled her ears, telling her of the politics of the oaks, the territorial disputes of rabbits, the latest trickery of a particularly industrious fox. Of trampled flowers and scarred trees, blood-soaked grass and-
She gasped and her right hand flew to Echiar.
"What do you hear, child?" Rhossorieth's voice was clear and perfectly calm, but her eyes were piercing enough to break through to Aearis as she stood in the thrall of the rain.
"Goblins, ripping and rending. Wargs, hunting all that walks. And someone else. He whispers, and his voice is poison."
The lady's bright eyes narrowed. Instantly, she was transformed from a fine and tranquil noblewoman to a hard, shrewd commander. She directed her men with silent gestures and flicks of her fingers, and they jerked into action like puppets, creating a protective formation around the rest of the party.
"Cestedir is still out there with your men," hissed Gimlith, her knuckles white as she gripped her sword. "I will not cower behind closed ranks while my husband claims all the death and glory for himself."
"What do you propose?" Rhossorieth replied in kind, eyes flashing brighter than the sapphire at her brow. "To charge out into the mist alone would be suicide. You are here under my protection, Lady Gimlith, and I would be remiss if I allowed you to die so stupidly."
Aearis could not help interjecting her opinion, galled by her mother's utter carelessness. Cured she may be, but to ride into battle in her weakened state? It was downright inconsiderate.
"You have no business charging for either death or glory at present, mother. Indeed, as your physician, I forbid it."
Gimlith threw her an incredulous look.
"I am as hale as ever I was, thanks to you," she replied, though her tone did not match the gratitude of the words. "What use is my health if I am not permitted to be useful?"
"If a physician cannot convince you, then let the word of your daughter stay your hand. Do not leave me in such misery by riding into danger."
"Rest assured, Aearis," said Glorfindel, joining the conversation unexpectedly. He had spoken so little on the journey so far that Aearis had become quite unaccustomed to his voice. It was even lovelier than she remembered. "At the very least, she will not ride alone." He turned to bow deeply to Gimlith, his hand resting upon his sword. "Permit me to ride with you, my lady, for Cestedir is dear to me as well."
"But you must stay and protect the civilians," Gimlith protested. "Someone must lead the guards if danger strikes."
"Bereneth can lead the men as adeptly as I myself could. And indeed I doubt that any combat shall be necessary, for Aearis is more than capable of concealing our party from goblins and wargs."
Despite the dire circumstances, Aearis glowed with pride at Glorfindel's confidence in her.
"He speaks truly, Lady Rhossorieth," she volunteered, meeting the appraising blue stare with as much confidence as she could convince herself to feel. "In the mist and rain, I can easily shield us from Man or beast."
Rhossorieth turned to glance at Bereneth, who nodded in response to her unspoken question.
And, just like that, it was decided. Rhossorieth retained the nine guards, and Gimlith and Glorfindel prepared to ride out after the scouting party. Aearis's heart leapt into her throat at the sight of her mother, dark and glorious on her great mount, bound for glory. She did not look small, or fragile, or tired then, and hope sprung in Aearis's breast. But still she could not restrain herself from catching her mother's hand and pressing a kiss to it.
"Come back soon," she choked out, gazing into those flashing, glittering eyes, memorizing every line and lash. "Come back safe." Gimlith smiled, and she was young, and strong, and fearless.
"Take care of your sister."
Then they vanished into the pressing mist.
Hours seemed to pass, but they might only have been minutes or seconds. Aearis's voice rose in song, strengthened by Rhossorieth's and Noenor's. The great lady's voice was deep and cool, but it thrummed with quiet power that seemed to shake the earth itself. Noenor's was sweet and soft, and it fortified her heart against the creeping fear that brushed its fingers lightly over the nape of her neck. With a quiet song of concealment, she wove a fortress of rain and mist, where any orc who thought to enter would find itself turned around, confused, drawn in some other direction. She set her voice echoing through the air like a capricious breeze, distracting and soothing. To her left, Dinalagos sat at attention, hackles raised. She tangled one hand in his patchy fur, and his warm solidity steadied her. Bereneth stood to her right, stock-still, eyes closed, her slender hunting bow held loosely in her right hand, Aearis's fingers clasped in her left.
And so, they waited, and Aearis became aware of the snarling, mutilated sounds of hideous creatures straying along the boundary of her circle of protection. A few of the braver, cleverer creatures struggled harder against the whispering defenses, and she repelled them, patiently leading them into confusion and fear. Their anger mounted, and she felt it as they turned upon each other, and her taunts stoked the conflicts into flame. The rain sang to her of their blood spilling on the ground, their heads rolling under the feet of their brethren. Finally, even Bereneth could hear no more of the foul creatures.
Yet their champions had not returned, and a knot twisted Aearis's stomach as they waited. But she sang on, for what else could she do?
Struggling as she was to conquer her own terror, it took her some time to notice the new voice that joined in her song, sowing discordant notes. It had woven its way into the harmony, slithering around the corners of her mind, until suddenly she felt her fëa crack. The elements rebelled against her gentle guidance, searing pain behind her eyes blinded her, and the circle of safety shattered around them. For a moment, the elves remained frozen in place, incapacitated by the agony of the splintering song.
They watched, horrorstruck, as the billowing mist seemed to darken and twist into a ghostly figure woven of shadow, riding towards them upon a brutal black steed. Behind it followed a shrieking, chittering horde of malformed creatures: hungry-eyed goblins with long, cruel blades and quivers of tar-black arrows, demonic wolves with scarred muzzles and curled lips, great scuttling spiders that dripped venom from their long fangs.
Then, a familiar song brought Aearis back to her senses. The whistle of an elven arrow, true and tuneful. Then another, and another, as Bereneth nocked and released her arrows with unerring precision. Goblins shrieked and fell, wargs toppled to the ground with arrows embedded deep between their yellow eyes. But the Shadow brushed aside Bereneth's arrows as though they were made of paper, and its advance did not falter.
"Aearis, no matter what happens now, you must stay with Lady Rhossorieth." Bereneth's voice was so clear and commanding that Aearis could scarcely recognize it.
"What are you going to do?" she hissed, desperately worried that her friend was planning something extraordinarily brave and stupid. Bereneth spared her a smile before spurring Alassir forward with a cry. The remaining soldiers followed her with cries of their own, and the small company of luminous figures charged into the roiling mass of deformed limbs and ghoulish faces.
Aearis tried to raise her voice in a song of protection, but to her horror she found her fea locked and strangled by the Shadow's vicious song. But the sight of Bereneth, bright and fearless against the advancing darkness, sent an electric jolt straight through Aearis's heart.
Take care of your sister.
And, though her voice still failed her, she drew from the pocket of her traveling cloak the little silver flute.
A song of silver rang out through the clearing, and Aearis felt rather than saw the swelling of Bereneth's fea. Rhossorieth's bow twanged rhythmically behind her, and each silvery arrow found its place in the throat of another goblin. Against all the odds, that small elvish company held the line, driving back the hideous attackers. And Bereneth herself engaged the Shadow, and it faltered before her. Its hissing, venomous song stopped, and Aearis felt the iron heel grinding down upon her fëa relent.
The slender shieldmaiden raised her sword, and the Shadow brought up its own fell, twisted saber to meet it. And Aearis threw her voice into the horde and stirred them into frothing madness and confusion, and the weakest-willed of them crumpled to the ground in paralyzed terror.
But Bereneth was surrounded in a sea of brutal enemies, and they hewed Alassir beneath her. She leapt free, raising her sword just in time to parry yet another crushing blow of the Shadow's blade, and the faithful Imladris steel buckled and broke. But still she fought, dodging between the fell creature's blows with perfect precision.
But they were many and she was one, and the Shadow pressed its advantage. Aearis drew Aegros and Echiar from her belt and made to charge towards her beleaguered friend, with little room for any thought of duty or strategy. But just as she leapt onto Alphear's back, the Shadow froze as a new sound reached them-the galloping of great hooves. The horde parted in chaos before the trampling horse and his rider, whose Numenorean blade swept through them in bright arcs. Angrebathor reared with a resounding battle scream, and upon his back Gimlith glittered in the gray light, cutting her way through the goblins until she reached the Shadow.
Their swords met with a crack like thunder, and, fighting his way through the roiling mass of bodies, Cestedir came into view with two other soldiers, looking much the worse for wear. They drove the creatures back, leaving Bereneth shaking, but alive, with her broken weapons clutched in her hand.
But more came, swarming from the swamps to the north, a dark pestilence that soiled and consumed all it touched.
Gimlith turned her head and fixed Aearis with a steady dark stare.
"Aearis," she called, and her voice rang out over the distance between them with perfect clarity. "Take the others and run." Aearis hesitated, bound in place by the flagging strength in her mother's hoarse voice. "Run."
The command in Gimlith's voice snapped through Aearis's resistance instantly, as it always did. With a heavy weight on her heart, she abandoned her song.
"We must retreat, my lady," she called to Rhossorieth through the din of the battle. "We will make for the crossing and beg the river's protection."
Lady Rhossorieth fixed her with a flashing stare for a moment, then nodded gravely. She gestured to the rest of the Lindon counsellors, and they rode for the river with Aearis, Dinalagos, and Noenor at the rear.
As they retreated, Aearis heard, clearly through the din, the song of seven silver bells. She turned back. As though the clouds had parted to reveal the sun, a shining figure charged through the dark forces with sword drawn and voice raised in a rending battle cry. He wore no helmet, and his lustrous golden mane fell loose around his shoulders like yellow flames. His teeth were bared, his bright eyes glowed with pure predatory ferocity. With each perfect motion, he brought death raining down on the foul horde-he was unfaltering, magnificent, merciless. A bone-deep shudder ran through her body at the sight of him. It thrilled and terrified her in equal measure to see her sweet, gentle champion so transformed.
Then her eyes strayed back to the two dark figures that clashed in the midst of the battle. They fought on in a perfect stalemate, matching each other blow for vicious blow. But the Shadow's energy never seemed to diminish, and Aearis could see even from the silhouette of her mother's form that she could not fight forever.
And even as she watched, Gimlith's strength failed her, just for a moment. Her sword arm buckled, and the Shadow's blade came crashing down upon her shoulder, crumpling her armor. The sword nearly fell from her hand and she slumped forward in pain, but she fought on.
"Aearis," Noenor urged, but his voice seemed tinny and irrelevant, "Aearis, we must go. Who will protect Counsellor Rhossorieth? Aearis!"
She shook herself, willing her eyes away from the carnage. Glorfindel was there. He would protect her.
So, she wheeled around to follow Noenor into the mist. But even as she turned her gaze to him, his body jerked convulsively and his hand flew to his chest, where a gnarled black arrow had sprouted suddenly. One of the creatures had seen them retreating, and it had its bow trained upon them.
Without thought or reason, Aearis pulled Noenor onto Alphear, just as another arrow pierced his horse's eye. They rode frantically for the river, where Rhossorieth and the others had just crossed to the other side. But, like a chill in the air, she felt it behind her. A poisonous warping of the world, that sang a song of terror and despair. The Shadow's song crept down her throat like a frigid hand, sinking its claws deep into the core of her. Feet from the river, she wheeled around, and there it was. Black and empty as a hole in the fabric of Arda-a yawning, hungry gash.
Alphear was a faithful horse, but he had a skittish temper and a sensitive disposition. He screamed as the poison song reached him, throwing off his riders and hurling himself into the river in a fit of madness. Sprawled upon the riverbank, Aearis heard his final cries as her beloved steed was dashed to pieces upon the rocks. Her body ached and her head was splitting, no air seemed to reach her lungs. Then, through the fog that filled her tortured mind, she felt hot air upon her face and an insistent force pushing beneath her her back and lifting her.
"Hush, Dinalagos. I'm tired," she muttered, raising a heavy hand to bat at the dog's invasive snout. But his pushing became more insistent, and suddenly Aearis could hear the song of the river again. The Lhun sang a different song than the boisterous, cheerful Bruinen. Lhun was ardent, impetuous, and a little cruel. It spoiled for a fight, cried out for adventure, longed for the sea. Its ringing voice raced through her blood like a fever, and she found her hands leaping to her blades even as she rose to her feet. The long daggers sang in her hands, thirsting for blood, and she sang with them, for her voice returned with a rush of energy. The river rose to meet her voice, sweeping away the small bridge that Rhossorieth and the others had crossed.
"No escape for you now, little bastard," said the poison voice, a resonant hissing sound that sent a shudder through Aearis's spine. It was not an ugly voice, precisely. But it was horribly persuasive, overpowering, and it filled her mind with dreadful, confusing images.
"No escape for either of us," she replied. The sound the Shadow emitted tore the air with its jagged cruelty. It was laughing.
"Such charming hubris. A daughter of Numenor indeed, though your blood be tainted by mingling with the Others."
Despite herself, Aearis found her curiosity inconveniently piqued. Could this shadowy being be a Man?
"Who are you?" she asked before she could stop herself. Her eyes were drawn irresistibly into the billowing abyss beneath the Shadow's black hood. It seemed infinitely deep, undeniably fascinating.
The strange, rending laughter rang out again.
"A name for a name, half-elf. Tell me who you are, and perhaps I shall oblige you in turn."
Even under the mesmeric sway of the Shadow, Aearis knew immediately that to give this being her name would be a worse than fatal mistake. Distantly, she recalled the deep, rich voice counseling her: "Tell your true name to no one, save those you trust entirely. For there is great power in a name, and you never know who may call out to you."
And even the memory of that voice seemed to strengthen her, for the Shadow's power shrank back from her, releasing its insidious grasp on her fëa. And as it retreated she felt herself spurred to action. In an instant she had leapt upon the back of unshakeable Dinalagos, who stood beside her with his hackles raised and his lip curled back. As soon as she sat astride him, the great hound leapt forward and swiped with his great paws at the tall, twisted black steed that bore the Shadow. The horse reared and trampled at Dinalagos, evading the dog's great, crushing jaws. They circled each other, striking and retreating.
The Shadow's reach, with its longer arm and great sword, greatly outmatched Aearis's, but its mount was growing panicky, and the slashing of her daggers and the snapping of her hound's teeth were driving it further and further towards terrified madness. She had no doubt that the Shadow's blade would pierce her before long, but with any luck the delay at least would allow Rhossorieth to reach the outposts of Lindon and call for aid for the rest of the soldiers still fighting in the clearing. Her family, at least, could be saved if help came in time. So she fought desperately, eluding the blows of the dark sword so narrowly that she could feel the freezing cold of the blade on her skin.
She knew not for how long they stayed in their macabre dance of death delayed, but, as her luck began to wane, she heard a cry from the direction of the trees. Blazing, blinding, he burst out of the mist upon his white steed. Behind him sat Bereneth, and she leapt from the horse's back with Cuvalthorn, the Man-sized silver bow, steady in her hand. Aearis's heart leapt as, with a single, mighty motion, Bereneth strung the great bow.
Aearis heard it sing out its bloodthirsty joy that finally, after so many years, it had once again found a master worth serving. Bereneth's arrows whistled past her; one glanced off the Shadow's shoulder, another knocked the sword from its hand, and the third pierced the chest of the fell steed that bore it. The dark rider shrieked in fury and pain as Dinalagos surged forward to sink his teeth into the horse's throat and the creature crumpled to the ground. Then the Shadow had regained its feet, and it was tall and menacing and its sword remained unbroken. But Glorfindel reached them as it aimed a great blow at Dinalagos, and the Shadow melted back from him with a wail. Back it fled, into the forests behind them, shrinking from the shining warrior like a nightmare at the touch of daylight.
Aearis wheeled around, scanning the forests for the next onslaught, but none came. Bereneth approached, her face streaked with dark blood, her armor scratched and sullied, but with eyes blazing with the heat of battle.
"Peace, Aearis," she murmured, stretching out a hand to help Aearis side of Dinalagos. "The day is won, though at great cost."
Aearis registered little of Bereneth's words, but she allowed the taller girl to pull her into a tight, rib-crushing embrace. She stood docile for a time, but something of what Bereneth was murmuring reminded her…
Noenor.
She broke loose and made for the riverbank, where a single figure in muddy robes that might once have been the deep, rich violet of an Imladris counselor, lay face down in the reeds. When she flipped the body over, the face was strange. Blank. Empty.
Its long, sharp nose she thought she recognized, and the blue of its dull eyes seemed strangely familiar. But this cold, stiff thing was not anything she knew or understood. It was not her friend, her favorite librarian, the father of the child she had delivered. It was simply Dead.
Beside her, Bereneth sighed deeply and stroked her hair, as though in an attempt to offer comfort. Comfort for what, she could not think. Bereneth hoisted the dead thing onto Dinalagos's back and they walked together back to the battleground.
Her eyes swept over the field of carnage, hardly able to make sense of the tangled mass of hewed limbs and twisted bodies. Finally her eyes alighted on a figure she recognized. Cestedir, kneeling in the middle of the field. Was he badly injured? Absently, Aearis noticed that Bereneth had wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.
Again she struggled free from her friend's grip and ran to Cestedir, skipping over the dead with such detachment that she might have surprised herself, had she been capable of surprise in that moment.
Because Cestedir was not injured, at least not seriously. Yet, he was on his knees, cradling a small figure to his chest. Something dark and silken spilled over his arms, glittering with small silver pinpricks. She stared at the thing in his arms. Watched curiously as he covered it with kisses. It was a small thing, and fragile. Its eyes were wide open and dull, dark and vacant. A deep, gaping hole yawned in its chest and the red blood that blossomed from the wound had already begun to darken.
She stood before the rough-hewn captain, watching him clutch at the dead thing, bathe it with tears, shudder with silent sobs.
Distantly, she noted that someone had taken her hand. But she neither turned nor spoke. The world was perfectly soundless. It was smaller, too, and empty, save for her and the dead thing.
She lingered there, in the hollow black world, attentively watching the dead thing. It neither moved nor spoke. An impressive commitment to its part, thought Aearis.
But something was niggling at her, tugging her away from her peaceful void. It was hot and salty, and its piteous cries cut through her precious silence.
"I am sorry," she told the dead thing as courteously as possible. "But I have the strangest feeling that I am forgetting something."
She turned and stared through the darkness for the source of those quiet, peace-shattering cries. Bereneth was crumpled on her knees beside her, face cradled in her hands, rocking back and forth.
Take care of your sister, the dead thing reminded her, gently.
"But I'm not finished talking to you yet," she replied, though it seemed unsporting to disagree with a corpse.
The dead thing just stared.
With a deep, resigned sigh, Aearis knelt beside Bereneth and wrapped her fingers firmly around her wrists. Slowly, the girl lowered her hands, letting them sit limp upon her knees, and raised her gray eyes. Aearis reeled at the devastating force of feeling in that overflowing gaze, flinched away from the sorrow and horror that spilled over her like warm blood. It repelled and fascinated her, confusing and incomprehensible.
"I am so sorry, my darling," gasped Bereneth in a strange, trembling voice. "If I had been quicker-if I had killed that-it should have been me, not-" She was babbling, nonsensical, pleading for absolution for something Aearis could not understand, refused to understand. So she drew Bereneth close, pressing her against her chest and willing the hopeless sobs that racked her body to stop. She stroked the soft auburn hair mechanically, pressed her cold lips against the white skin.
And the next several hours passed in the same numb haze. Glorfindel returned with news that Rhossorieth and the other counselors had reached Mithlond safely. He gave his report in a calm, authoritative voice, but his eyes remained fixed on Aearis as he spoke, and she found herself irritated and provoked by the boundless sadness with which he gazed at her.
Everyone seemed so terribly concerned about the dead things, though Aearis could not think why. They did not seem to be hurting anyone. So instead she turned her attention to dressing the wounds of the rest of the soldiers. One had taken a deep slash to his stomach, and she set to work on him first. Her hands worked of their own accord, but she found to her mild displeasure that the usual songs of healing died in her throat. Not a single note could she summon to her lips-her fëa had fallen silent.
Then, behind her, a voice swelled deep and powerful, ringing through her with blazing, unbearable heat. The bright golden spirit stretched out to entwine hers. And in it she felt compassion and love, and fuck it hurt.
But the soldier was healing, reviving, light returning to his lovely eyes. So she let her hands work as the Other burned through her, waking her slumbering fëa with his intolerably bright light. When she had finished treating the last wound, a deep gash in Dinalagos's shoulder, she turned around to face the blinding golden spirit. If he had been terrible in battle, somehow he seemed even more so in mercy. He was looking at her with unbearably kind eyes. Sympathizing with sorrow that she absolutely would not feel.
But she could not break the hold of his gaze, and to her horror she felt tears beginning behind her eyes.
Absolutely bloody not.
A warm, velvety touch at the crook of her neck allowed her to turn away from that mesmerizing stare, and she looked up to find a shadowy black steed at her shoulder. Angrebathor's fathomless, liquid eyes fixed upon hers.
The uppity bastard of a horse had never allowed her to stand so close before. He only tolerated her mo-
Aearis backed away from him, but he followed.
"Please go," she pleaded as he advanced. "You don't belong to me. I'm not ready."
He stopped several paces from her, considering her carefully. He whinnied softly and bowed his marvelous head. Trembling, she closed the distance and, with shaking hands, cut away the saddle that sat empty upon his back. Then he turned, and vanished into the mist like a dream.
That was the breaking of the dam. As Angrebathor, riderless, melted away into the fading twilight, the truth of the situation breached the glassy surface of her dead calm. And she shattered.
Author's note:
*Fading: The elven season when fall fades into winter
*yen: An elven unit of time comprising 144 lunar years. For the purposes of this story, I'm setting the elven age of majority (physical maturity) at 100 lunar years, with a full yen counting as a sort of unofficial rite of passage.
*The conversation I'm referring to is "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth," a dialogue between King Finrod and a mortal wisewoman, Andreth. It's a sort of Socratic dialogue on the topic of mortality that I highly recommend. It was published in Morgoth's Ring, but it's also easy to find online.