Chapter Four - Of Twilight and Shadows
A persistent pounding drew Maeldhuin from his dreams, away from the shadows where he had wandered in a troubled half-sleep, and back into full, if reluctant, wakefulness. The dreamworld dissolved replaced by the shadowy contours of the cavern, and by the memory of the events that had led him to this place.
He wondered how long he had slept. There was little light in the cavern to suggest the passage of the hours. The brazier had burned low and only a dim glow shone in from the top of the passageway to bring a hint of daylight to the subterranean gloom.
The sound that had awakened him continued unbroken and he cast his gaze about the room to find its source. In a candlelit recess in the opposite wall, he spied his benefactress, sitting hunched over a table, grinding seeds in a small stone mortar. So intent on her work was she, that she did not sense him watching her, until, her work nearly done, she shook a strand of hair from her eyes, and happened to cross his watchful gaze.
"Good morrow, stranger," she said in greeting, disguising her moment of surprise. "You slept soundly."
"Aye," he grumbled, rubbing a spot of his chin that seemed unaccountably sore. "I suspect you had a hand in that."
A hand indeed, Gilthaethil mused, or a fist rather, and she stretched the tender muscles of her hand, hoping the shadows would hide the secret gesture from his view. She had no wish to give the surly traveller the satisfaction of being proven right, and so she merely tossed him a pleasant smile and said not a word about it.
"What is the time?"
"Two hours past sunrise."
"So late?" Maeldhuin, alarmed, raised himself on his elbows. "I must be gone." He swept away his covering of furs, blanched, then drew them quickly to his chin. Beneath the furs, he was completely naked. But more troubling than the absence of his clothing was the absence of the pouch and letters he had carried.
"Your garments are drying over a fire outside my door."
Maeldhuin sat up straight, while his eyes darted anxiously about the room. "I had a..."
She smiled. "Your pouch?"
He nodded wordlessly while his heart filled with dread, and shame and failure burned in his cheeks. She had it and all was now lost. Why had his gift of foresight failed him? How had he failed to sense the danger? Falathar's trust in him had been misplaced, and his desperate sacrifice, in vain.
From the moment they had abandoned Duilin's body, Maeldhuin and his master had never once stopped running. Forsaking the path, they had picked their way through gullies, streams, and tangled undergrowth, hoping either to outrun their pursuers, or to outwit them. But the orcs, it seemed, had predicted their every move, had met them at every turn, and the chase drew ever nearer and ever the more desperate.
They stood now, ankle deep in the swirling eddies of a swift mountain stream, listening to the raucous cries in the distance. Now and again, a harsh shout sounded above the din, sending icy chills down Maeldhuin's spine.
The elder herald rested a hand on Maeldhuin's shoulder. "We cannot continue thus," he had said between halting breaths. "Our only hope is to part ways."
Maeldhuin's sombre gaze had grown wide in dismay. "Nay!"
"Listen. They will not track us so easily if we give them two clear paths to follow. Reaching into his tabard, he had then drawn out a small pouch and a sealed packet of oiled leather. "Take them," he had said, pressing them into Maeldhuin's trembling hands, "for you are fleeter of foot than am I. You must value them above your life for they are the safeguards of our people. If your situation becomes dire..."
Maeldhuin had given a grim laugh. "How can it possibly become any worse than it is now?"
"Hush, lad and mark well my words. If you fear you will be taken or killed, and all hope of escape is lost, you must do all you can to keep these tokens out of the Enemy's hands. Hide the pouch that it might never be found: bury it, or cast it into the deep, then burn the letters and scatter the ashes. But only if there is no other hope."
"But where? How?"
"Trust your heart. Do what seems right. If all goes well, I will meet you on the morrow at midday." He pointed to the crest of a nearby hill. "There is a spring atop that hill, and in the shadow of the surrounding trees, a cavern where one may lie unseen. Meet me there, if you can."
"And if you are not there?"
"Wait for me, but do not wait overlong. If I am not there by the dawn of the second day, tarry no longer. Make for the Havens and seek for me there. If I have not come, seek Lord Círdan's counsel. He will tell you where to find the King. But keep on your guard, always. The Lord of the Havens is counted among the wisest of our race, and while you may tell him something of our plight, tell the full tale to none save the King. Age-old grudges still fester between Círdan's house and the heirs of Fëanor."
Maeldhuin's heart was heavy with grief and fear. "Master, I beseech you, do not make me do this alone."
"There is no one else, Maeldhuin. This is what you were trained to do. Do not allow your fears to turn you from your duty."
"But why must we part ways?"
"You have ever been quicker than I, and bolder. My long years have made me too cautious. For this task, speed and the recklessness of youth are better suited. I know full well that I cannot hope to deceive the orcs for long, but I may succeed in drawing them off your trail for a short while. Valar willing, by the time they have discovered our ruse, your light feet will have carried you far from these accursed hills."
Maeldhuin's voice had grown plaintive. "You speak of my duty, but what of yours? Celebrimbor has ever placed his trust in you. I am nothing to him."
Falathar's eyes flashed in anger. "Do not presume to teach me my duty! My first duty is to the message, and to the tokens we bear." He sighed wearily, and when he spoke again, his voice could scarce be heard over the rushing waters. "Think you this choice comes easy? I swore an oath, the same which I must now break. Let not my oathbreaking be in vain."
Hot tears had stung Maeldhuin's eyes. But he had clasped the messages and tokens to his breast, and bowed deeply before his master. "I will do my duty, Master. I will neither fail the mission, nor the trust which you have place in me."
A fatherly smile had played on Falathar's stern features. "I know you will not, my lad. Remember; deliver our tokens into the King's hands only. Now, away with you. Be gone!"
Maeldhuin's thoughts returned to the present. He blinked the bitter tears of failure and frustration from his eyes, squared his shoulders, and presented a proud face to his gaoler.
"The object you seek is under your pillow," she smiled, "as is the oilskin packet you wore in the lining of your tabard."
Cautiously, he slipped a hand beneath the pillow. Only when his hands closed around the two familiar shapes did he allow himself a deep breath of relief. He drew the packages out from their hiding place, and minutely examined them for signs of tampering. A single strand of frayed silken thread, a missing sliver of wax would tell if other eyes had beheld his messages. Search as he might, however, he found nothing amiss. The intricate silk knots, the eight-rayed star of Celebrimbor's seal: both were intact! Maeldhuin clutched the precious objects to his breast, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer of thanks. When he opened his eyes again, Gilthaethil had vanished.
She reappeared a moment later, bearing, trenchers, cups, and a large platter heaped high with bread, fruit, nuts, golden butter, heavy cream, and a thick comb of rich amber honey. She set the tray down next to her guest, and ducked out of sight again, returning this time with a stoneware jug, from which she poured a clear beverage. "'Tis past time you broke your long fast," she said.
"Lady..." Maeldhuin began uncomfortably. "I... well, that is..."
Gilthaethil's eyes twinkled with mild amusement as she handed him a wooden trencher. "No words of thanks are necessary. Your gratitude is writ plain all over your face. Now eat!"
Maeldhuin felt the flush return to his face. Dragons take her! He had always prided himself on being master of his emotions, and here, in the space of an hour, she had twice reduced him to a state of blushing stupidity. He threw her a dubious look, then, turning his attention to the breakfast feast laid before him, tore off a heel of bread, and started eating.
Gilthaethil drew a stool to his side, and joined him as he broke his fast. What a creature of contrasts, she chuckled inwardly: chivalrous, proud, fair-spoken one instant, then fearful and wary as a caged animal the next. What strange doings had led him to her doorstep, she wondered.
Maeldhuin shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Gilthaethil's gaze. The way she watched him without saying a word made him unaccountably self‑conscious, and he gave a sharp tug on the fur covers. As he did so, the pouch fell to the cavern floor.
Gilthaethil stooped to retrieve it, but as soon as she closed her fingers about it, Maeldhuin seized her wrist. "My apologies," she said, and uncurled her fingers.
"Leave it! It is not yours!" he hissed as he snatched the prize away.
But neither, she guessed, was it his. A score of questions raced through her mind. Whatever treasure the traveller carried, she doubted not that heavy grief and great sorrow were bound withal. She perceived that shadows dwelt about the stranger's heart, too deep for her simple care to dispel. She could however prevent them from disturbing the quietude of her refuge and resolved to set him on his way the moment he were fit to travel again.
The silence grew, interrupted only by the sounds of eating. Gilthaethil, accustomed as she was to her own company, did not seem to mind, but the courier found the stillness increasingly oppressive. Finally he could bear it no longer, and had to speak.
"You never did say why you took my clothes," he muttered. "Only my foot was injured." Traces of suspicion lingered in his gaze, lending an air of petulance to his fair and solemn features.
Gilthaethil set aside her trencher and smiled. "I have no windows in this cavern. You were rather, ehm… pungent. I realized I had but two choices: either to wash you and your clothes, or to let the fearsome stench drive me from the comfort of my home."
Maeldhuin was indignant! "Nay! Surely, I did not stink!"
"Aye, you did. You fairly reeked of fear and death, two odours I cannot abide, and will not tolerate while I am guardian here." Maeldhuin, rendered speechless, could not fail to note the grim undertone in her speech. He realized his surge of anger had been misplaced, for certainly the smell of fear had been heavy upon him.
He finished his meal, keeping his thoughts to himself. He was licking the last of the honey off his fingers when he noticed that the pain in his foot had almost completely disappeared. "My ankle?" he asked.
"Not broken," Gilthaethil answered through a last mouthful of bread. "Badly sprained, though. It will be tender for a few days. I have splinted and bound it to help it heal faster."
"You have my thanks again. As soon as my clothes are dry, I will take my leave and trouble you no more."
"Leave?" she choked. "How do you intend to travel? You cannot walk, and have no horse. You must rest, and let your injury heal before continuing on your way."
"I would, if my time were my own, but I am in great haste, and can afford no further delay."
"Whatever your errand, it will have to wait. You are in no fit state to travel."
"I do not expect one such as yourself to understand. Suffice it to say that I am on a mission of the utmost urgency. I must reach the King without delay."
"The King?" she snorted, "I daresay even His Majesty will have to do without the pleasure of your company for a day or two longer. You must rest and heal." She dismissed any further protests, and proceeded to examine his ankle with strong, deft hands. Pleased with her findings, she disappeared up the tunnel, returning seconds later with his clothing. "I must leave you for a while. I too have an urgent errand. You have food and drink to last you the day. You are welcome to aught else you may require. Do as you will while I am away, but do not stray from the safety of the cave."
Maeldhuin's face froze. "Am I your prisoner, then? Do you think you can hold me captive in the hope of ransoming me?
Gilthaethil started to chuckle, and, though she tried to control it, the sound of her laughter soon filled the cavern. "Prisoner? You are my guest, and my patient. I would hold you here in the hope of keeping you alive! You are free to stay, or to go, as you will. But lest you choose ill in your haste to leave, mind that these woods are swarming with all manner of beasts. Injured as you are, I doubt not you will be an easy prey for some hungry creature." She could not help but notice the wariness in the stranger's eyes. "Set your fears aside for a brief time. This cave is well concealed." Then, before she changed her mind, she spun away, and sped up the tunnel. "Look for me ere nightfall," she called from the doorstep, and vanished.
"Wait," Maeldhuin cried into the silence. But his hostess had disappeared, and his only reply was the echo of his own frustration.
* * *
It was later than she expected when Gilthaethil returned. The sun had just dipped below the crest of the western hills, and the sentinel trees cast long shadows over the floor of the glade
"You're late. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever return."
Gilthaethil started, and spun around to find Maeldhuin sitting immobile at the foot of a tree, his injured foot resting on a moss‑covered stone.
Gilthaethil did not enjoy surprises. She placed the kestrel on its perch, and, hoping to conceal her discomfiture, turned her attention to the spring instead. She splashed cold water onto her neck and face, until she had once again mastered her emotions. Only then, after wiping away the traces of the day's toil on the cuff of her sleeve, did she deign to address her surly guest. "I did not mean to worry you. My errand took me farther afield than I had foreseen." She unclasped a cup from her belt, and dipped it into the water, spilled a few drops on the mossy ground, and swallowed the rest.
She filled the cup again and held out her hand. Maeldhuin paused a moment, eyeing the cup's strange carvings with suspicion, then shrugging, he took it and drank. "Thank-you," he said, and handed the cup back to its owner. As she took it, Gilthaethil noted the slight tremor in his hands, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes.
"You should be resting," she said. "Are you in much pain?"
Maeldhuin forced a smile onto his lips, but his features held not a trace of mirth. "There is no pain, Lady. I am quite well."
"Your eyes give the lie to your tongue," she said, but pressed him no further. She let herself sink to the mossy ground on the opposite side of the tree, and watched the western sky above the hills pass from day to dusk to dark.
After a long weary day, with only his fears for company, Maeldhuin felt soothed by Gilthaethil's tranquil presence. He wished she might lend him some of her serenity, that it may still the roiling doubt that troubled his mind. He ran his hands over the mossy floor, picking through wind fallen bits of branches and scattered wood, until he found a twisted branch to distract him. He turned it over in his hands this way and that, examined it closely and, judging the wood sound, he drew out his knife, and began paring away thin layers.
He tried to focus his thoughts on revealing the shape hidden inside, but his heart was not in his work. As he had done all day since he had first hobbled out of the cave, Maeldhuin raised his eyes to the eastern horizon, to the fingers of deep shadow that seemed to claw their way westward, to darken the twilight sky, and blot out the first stars of evening. He measured their length against the distant hills, and shuddered. Surely the shadow could not have reached so far so soon. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel," he whispered beneath his breath.
Gilthaethil twisted around. "You spoke?"
"Nay, `twas nothing." And with an effort of will, turned his eyes, if not thoughts, back to the shape emerging beneath his knife. It was still too soon to tell what it might be, so he let the wood guide his blade while his mind lingered on darker thoughts. Please the Valar; his master may have eluded the Orcs. But, if Falathar had fallen, if he were taken, the success of the mission, and the fate of his people, would rest solely upon him. And the weight of it, he feared, would prove too great for him to bear.
He swallowed hard to ease the tightness in his throat. How he yearned to shed his burden! He raised his head from his work, and was surprised to find Gilthaethil sitting before him.
With a nod, she indicated the shape he gripped tightly in his hand. "'Tis a cheery little bauble you have crafted there, my friend."
In shock and disgust, he beheld the shape he had crafted. In his palm lay the roughly fashioned shape of a gnarled hand, with twisted claws at the end of misshapen, knotted fingers. As if he held a burning ember, he hurled the repulsive object deep into the darkness beneath the trees, and buried his face in his hands.
Gilthaethil reached for his shoulder. "What is it, Duilin? Why will you not free yourself of the troubles that haunt you?"
The courier shied away from her touch. "Who... what are you? Why do you call me by that name?"
She smiled, and reached a fingertip to the medallion at his throat. "Your name is engraved on your pendant."
Maeldhuin turned his head, hiding his face as he closed his fingers tightly about the medallion. Gilthaethil did not understand. "What is wrong? Have I said aught amiss?"
"Duilin was my kinsman. He... he is dead... slain by Orcs three days ago, and lies unburied, somewhere in these accursed hills!" He brushed away the tears with a sharp gesture. "... I took this pendant as a token of remembrance. That is all."
For the first time since he had stumbled into her glade, he saw Gilthaethil's composure falter. "I am sorry. I... I did not know..."
"How could you?"
"Who are you, then?"
He sat up straight, and raised his head proudly. "I am called Maeldhuin. I am a herald in the service of Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion, far to the east of these hills," he said, forcing a smile upon his lips. But his voice shook as he continued. "Do not trouble yourself for my sake, I pray you. My mind has ever been prey to my fancies. They are wont, at times, to overrule my reason."
"'Tis no trouble, Maeldhuin of Eregion. I tend this well as and all who seek aid and comfort here. 'Tis my sacred duty to help you."
"You are a priestess, then?"
"Nay," she smiled. "Nothing so grand. But I have some skill as a healer, enough to care for the injured beasts that are sent this way."
"Sent?"
"Aye, as you were. You could have injured yourself anywhere in these hills, but fate led you here, where a healer waited nearby."
Maeldhuin paused to consider her words. When again he spoke, his voice had lost its edge. "Tell me, Lady, does your art let you heal wounds of the spirit? Have you a salve that will dissolve fears? A draught to drive shadows from the mind?"
Tears gathered in the corners of Gilthaethil's eyes. "I have borne my share of troubles. I know something of grief and fear. I would help you bear the sorrows that weigh so heavily upon you. If they be but foolish fancies, they will vanish in the light of day."
"And if they be real?"
"Then the burden will be lighter with two to shoulder the weight."
Her voice faded away, and a tranquil silence fell over the glade that he could not bring himself to break. For a long time, Maeldhuin stared at his hands. His voice, when finally he spoke, could scarce be heard above the whisper of the evening wind. "You have guessed something of my flight, Lady, but not reasons for it, nor of the storm that unfurled at our backs as my companions and I fled our City."
The grief-laden words spilled out, and Gilthaethil listened without interrupting. Maeldhuin spoke of all that had befallen him, keeping only the purpose of his mission secret. He spoke of the shadow that cast his home into darkness, of the summons from their lord, and of the desperate race west. Of his cousin's loss and his parting from Falathar, he could speak only briefly before the pain of his losses constricted his throat. As his tale drew to a close, his thoughts returned to the storm they had ridden.
"The ground shook the very roots of the mountains, and the wind howled with the voice of every fell beast in creation. When it seemed the Foe could inflict no further cruelty upon our broken city, fires rained down from above, bolts of blood‑red lightning tore across the skies, leaving smouldering ruin wherever they struck. I could but watch helplessly from several leagues away. And as I watched, it seemed to me I could hear the anguished cries of my people carried on the eastern wind.
"Falathar dismissed my fears, as did Duilin, but for all their brave talk, I know that they too heard the cries. I cannot shake this growing dread that my city has been destroyed, and that all that I have ever known and loved has perished in the wreck."
"But now," Gilthaethil asked, "where is Falathar?"
"I know not. I fear some evil has befallen him. We were to meet here yesterday at midday. I waited nearby, but he never came. Then the Orcs caught my scent, and, well, you know the rest."
"They followed you here."
"Truly, I am sorry. I swear it was not my intent to lead them here."
Gilthaethil dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. "You claim to have some measure of foresight. Know you aught to warrant your fears?"
"I am certain of nothing, Lady, save the urgency of our plight."
She pondered his words a moment and then rose to her feet. "In a day or two, when your ankle is stronger, I will lead you to the King."
The herald started. "Nay, I cannot delay, I must leave at dawn."
"Very well then, we shall leave on the morrow."
"You do not understand... I travel alone."
"You are not fit to travel alone. Besides, I know the secrets of these hills, and can lead you by ways known only to myself."
Maeldhuin said nothing. While he felt no evil in her, still, he knew nothing of her identity, her people, or her allegiance. How could he trust her? He had read of strange beings, spirits of air and earth and water, who, with the help of their familiars, ensnared unwary travellers, and lured them to their dooms. Might she be one such creature? Ruefully, he considered how easily she had captured and held him. And yet...
He observed her as she busied herself about the glade, gathering wood, and building a fire for the evening meal. At first he had thought her to be one of his own race, though certainly of lesser lineage than his, but now as he studied her more closely, he began to doubt she was even an Elf. True she was fair, and tall, and slender, as were all the race of the First Born, but, in truth, she seemed more akin to the wild deer of the forest, than to any of the Eldar. Her hair was neither the gold nor sable usually seen among his kind, but of a deep russet that blazed even in the pale starlight, and escaped in fiery tendrils from the thick braid she wore down her back. Nor were her eyes the usual starlit grey, but dark as forest pools, and certainly as treacherous.
Watching her toss a handful of roots into a small cauldron, Maeldhuin considered her raiment, for it too was most unusual. She wore a rough rust‑coloured tunic belted over layered skirts of the same earthen tones, travel‑worn boots, and over her shoulders, a knitted cowl that had been thrown back. A wide belt held at her waist a variety of pouches, tools, and the strange cup he had drunk from only moments before. A shiver travelled down his spine. Had she...? Nay, he was still alive, unharmed, and had yet all his wits about him.
She had offered to take him to the King, and at first he had thought she was mocking him. Now, after consideration, he deemed her offer sincere, albeit naive. He did not doubt that she may have some renown in these parts, but it was preposterous to think that it would prove sufficient to gain her admission to the King's presence.
Gilthaethil left fire pit and the meal that bubbled invitingly in the pot. She strode over to the perch allowing the kestrel to leap onto her outstretched arm, and strode over to Maeldhuin's side. She waited a moment before speaking, smiling inwardly as doubts and questions flickered across the messenger's face. "You need not fear me, Maeldhuin, I do not serve the Darkness."
Maeldhuin felt the heat rush to his cheeks. "I would know, lady, if my every thought is written so plainly on my face?"
"The King knows me well enough," she continued wryly, ignoring his question. " I think he will condescend to grant us an audience this one time, even to such a wilding as myself."
Maeldhuin stared open-mouthed, his eyes darting from the oddly carved cup at her belt, to the bird on her wrist, to the iron cauldron across the glade, before resting in her deep compelling gaze. "A sorceress you are! You must be. How else are all my thoughts laid bare to you?"
She laughed, and her features softened. In spite of his deep misgivings, Maeldhuin felt himself relax, and he wondered how deeply under her spell he had fallen. Her dark eyes twinkled, and he thought he saw the stars reflected there. "I cannot read minds," she said, "but behaviour is easily deciphered. You are no different than any other living creature. You are curious, yet fearful. You wish to trust me because I eased your pain, yet, dare not because I am not of your kind."
"In your eyes, then, I am no better than some lowly beast?" And to his astonishment, he began to laugh. He felt the fears fall away from him. He doubted not that he were under some kind of enchantment, but knew that he was powerless to resist.
Gilthaethil's her features danced with mirth. "No better than any other wild creature, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt, and presume you are no worse either." She extended her hand, and helped Maeldhuin to his feet.
As he struggled for balance, a sudden troubling thought, chased the smile from his lips. "What of the Orcs that pursued me here?"
"They have followed your trail down into the southern plains."
Confusion creased the messenger's brow. "But you are mistaken, Lady. My journey led me ever westward. Here. I never went south."
Gilthaethil grinned. "I know that, but if the Orcs should choose to believe otherwise, who am I to correct them?"
"You are full of surprises, Lady. Again I find myself in your debt."
"It is settled then. We leave on the morrow."
There was little to be gained in arguing. Maeldhuin squared his shoulders, pulled the shreds of his dignity about him, and bowed as low as he dared to, short of risking another humiliating tumble into the pool. "I shall consider myself honoured to travel in your company, Lady."
* * *
To be continued