Chapter Ten
Strangers in Passing
Her eyes were wide with panic and grief that cried out with a thousand voices, a chorus that had become a thunderous toll in her head as the woman clutched at her sleeve–
"Please," she choked. "Help me save my son – your kin. Please, Ancalimë—"
Saf fisted her hands in her skirts, taking deep breaths to calm herself as the memories threatened to resurface and shutting her eyes against the strained, shrill voice echoing in her ears.
The night was quiet save for the distant roaring of the falls delving into the valley and the chirps of insects around her as she sat in a secluded corner of one of the many gardens of Rivendell. She remembered this place well, for she had come here often during her stay to sort out her thoughts and contemplate her life. Tonight, though, she was doing far too much of that.
She sighed, smoothing out her skirts from where her hands had clenched the silk, breathing in the balmy night air and enjoying the serenity of the elven realm. She had not been as enchanted by the valley as her family had been, preferring the true wild instead, but still; it was a nice change in pace after the exhausting few days she'd had.
Of course, her peace did not last as long as she would have liked. There was a rustle of leaves behind her, and the soft swish of fabric ghosting over the ground heralded the arrival of a past she found clinging to her like thorns.
"I'm quite disappointed to admit that this is the second place I've looked for you in," an amused voice said, and Saf winced, not daring to turn around.
"I checked the library before coming here," Gilraen continued nonchalantly, stepping closer. "I remember how much you loved it in there, surrounded by all those books of the world." She heard the smile in Gilraen's voice. "Though I imagine it was quite tame for you all the same, as you've seen the real thing for yourself."
Saf swallowed, forcing herself to look up and meet the woman's gaze.
"Naneth nîn," she said tightly.
"It's been a long while, my niece," Gilraen said. Her tone was neutral, but Saf felt the undercurrent of accusation rumbling beneath it. "Tell me, how fares my sister's daughter?"
"Honestly?" Saf said. "I'm terrified."
Gilraen let out a little laugh, taking a seat next to Saf on the bench as the younger woman stiffened.
"My dear, you have no need to be frightened of me," Gilraen chided, but the steel in her grey eyes told Saf otherwise. "I merely came to speak with you after all these years apart."
"And that's why I'm afraid," she muttered.
"Do you honestly expect me to be angry with you?"
"Angry? No," Saf said. "But I know you have many questions, and that you know I cannot answer all of them."
"Cannot, or will not?" Gilraen asked, her eyes sharp, probing.
"That you certainly already have an answer to," Saf said wryly, and Gilraen looked back to the finely manicured hedges and glowing flora around them, her expression pinching.
"I don't think you realize the magnitude your departure had, Safavael," she said finally. "Estel was heartbroken. He used to sit for hours by the waterfall you would take him to play in, always telling me that you were going to come back, that you'd pop right out of the falls like you always did, pretending to be a water spirit come to make him the Prince of the Sea."
Saf listened, her heart thumping painfully as Gilraen's lower lip quivered.
"I was so worried about you," she continued quietly. "I-I thought I had failed you, that I had driven you away out of my own selfish need to protect Estel. My sister's daughter, abandoned by the only family that should have been there for her."
She reached out a tentative hand as if to touch Saf's cheek before dropping it, a single tear tracing its way down her pale skin.
Saf swallowed past the hot lump in her throat and forced herself to speak.
"I do not blame you for your choices," she said. "You were only saving your son's life, and I cannot condemn you for that. Estel is the only hope for our people; I wouldn't have wanted to leave you both to fates that were not yours."
"And I am grateful to you for that," Gilraen said, seeming to regain some of her composure as she wiped away the few tears she had let escape. "You were so strong and so brave, and I still think of what would have happened had you not helped us escape."
She shuddered before looking at Saf once more and gracing her with a tight but gentle smile. "You are so like your mother. It still amazes me, even more so now just looking at you. Like petals spawned from the same beautiful rose."
Saf turned away. "My mother was a coward."
"Your mother was courageous," Gilraen said firmly, and Saf let out a bitter laugh.
"If she was so brave, then why did she leave?" she spat. "Why did she take off into the wild with naught a trace, no goodbye save for the bow left at the foot of my bed? Why did she flee like a thief in the night, leaving our people under the guidance of a madman, leaving her only living child at the hands of a father who saw her more a soldier than his own flesh and blood?"
Saf's voice had raised considerably by the end, and she breathed in shallow, ragged breaths, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as everything burst forth like a dam.
"Oh, my dear," Gilraen whispered. She pulled Saf's head into her lap, stroking her hair soothingly as Saf choked on her own tears.
Gilraen's touch was like a blessing and a curse at the same time, comforting and tender, but Saf was viciously reminded once more of the mother who had abandoned her – what would her life have been, if Nadagréil was the one in Gilraen's place instead?
"Why did she leave me?" Saf whispered, and she cringed at how small her voice was, how sad and mewling she must seem at that moment, but Gilraen only continued to smooth her hair.
"She did what she thought best," she said. "After what your father did to your half-brother…"
"That's still not good enough," Saf said, her fists clenching. "She could have taken me with her, she could have stayed and stood up to my father. She didn't have to run away. She didn't have to leave me behind."
"There are many things she could have done differently," Gilraen agreed. "But she made her choice in life, just as you have made yours. Do not forget that she loved you, Safavael. She loved you deeply. But you were young, barely out of adolescence – you hadn't even made your first weapon yet! She did not want to risk losing you in the wild, to bear the agony of a grieving mother who had failed to protect her child from the world and all the dangers it possessed. She made her choice out of love and necessity, not from a lack of compassion or cowardice."
Saf could not find the words to say to this, and so allowed her tears to keep flowing in their place.
They stayed in silence for a long time until her tears receded and the ones that had escaped her eyes had dried, leaving her face sticky. Gilraen had begun to hum a small tune in the meantime, one that Saf recognized as a Númenórean lullaby, and after a few moments, she spoke again.
"I am sorry for not staying with you and Estel," she said. Her voice came out hoarse, and she had to swallow a few times to relieve her throat of its itch. "I did not think my presence would be so dearly missed."
"You had your reasons," Gilraen said simply. "I have always known that, yet still, I had liked to imagine myself with answers to those reasons one day. But I will not pry. Your life is yours, and you can choose to live it any way you want, Valar be willing."
Saf nodded into her lap before sniffing hard and sitting up, her head swimming from the blood and thoughts rushing to her brain.
"However, I am curious about how you came to be in Rivendell once more," she said, and Saf's shoulders slumped; when it came to her aunt, one question was always a façade for a dozen more. "You come bursting in with Lord Elrond's cavalry, all mangled and soaked with blood, and then shortly after come trotting this troupe of dwarves, led by a king-in-exile and trailed by a halfling and a wizard." She turned and raised a wondering brow at Saf. "Care to elaborate?"
"They were passing through the village I had taken residence in," Saf began grudgingly. "Before they could leave, we were attacked by bandits, and I helped them escape the town."
She avoided mentioning her involvement with Gandalf and the debt she owed him, but her aunt was still staring at her questioningly, so she continued.
"I led them through the wild, keeping away from the Great East Road, and just when I was about to take my leave, the blundering oafs had to be taken captive by trolls and almost eaten before we narrowly managed to escape with a little help thanks to my own ingenuity. Then wargs and orcs gave chase, and then…here we are."
She shrugged half-heartedly as the older woman stared at her as if she had some bizarre growth on her face.
"Quite a tale," she said finally. "Though I sense a lot of holes in the plot."
She looked at Saf shrewdly, and the younger woman shrugged again. Gilraen sighed.
"Very well; keep your tales," she said. "Though I must say, you snagging a king is very enthralling, indeed."
She looked at Saf with a wicked glint in her eye as she stared back, confused. Then Saf flashed back to dinner earlier, when she had fled the pavilion with her tail between her legs, not daring to show her face yet, and Thorin Oakenshield had confronted her in the hallway...
So much for being discreet, then.
Her teeth clenched at the reminder of Thorin, but she downright scowled when she saw the grin her aunt was giving her, irked that she would even suggest such a thing.
"I did not snag Thorin Oakenshield," she snapped. "In fact, I think he is much more a pesky insect than a king, and he holds me much in the same contempt."
Gilraen shrugged, still looking skeptical, which only served to irritate her further.
"Whatever you say, my dear," she said airily. "Though never in my lifetime have I seen a man jump out of his seat so quickly at the sight of a woman."
"Then you must be younger than you appear," Saf said drily, and Gilraen smacked her on the arm playfully, making Saf grin.
"You cheeky devil," her aunt said. "You should know that I barely look a day over eighty as it is."
They both chuckled at this before Gilraen pulled her into a one-armed hug, and Saf rested her head atop her aunt's black curls, so like her own, and her mother's. Gilraen gave a deep sigh, speaking into Saf's shoulder.
"Estel should be asleep by now," she mused. "I have yet to tell him that you have returned, but no doubt he will find out soon enough."
"I will make a point of it to see him tomorrow," she said. "I look forward to seeing him again; he's grown up so much since last I saw him."
"Oh, you wouldn't believe it." She could sense the older woman rolling her eyes dramatically. "He thinks he's invincible now just because they've deemed him old enough to start handling a proper blade."
Saf grinned, remembering when she was a child and she had watched her older half-brother, Iorhael, begin his first swordplay lessons, and how much he had liked to lord over her the fact that he was training to fight and she wasn't. He had never found out that she would steal his sword every night after he went to bed so she could practice by herself.
Her heart twinged painfully when she recalled Iorhael, so instead, she focused on the night around her, listening to the wind in the leaves and watching the moonlight ripple and sway at her feet as if inviting her to join the dance of the stars. And for a short time, she allowed herself to feel as if she belonged in this embrace once more.
"I don't see why we all have to go with you for the sake of reading a map," Kíli said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes after Thorin had unceremoniously prodded him awake from his place by the fire set up in the dwarves' camp. "I mean, surely Balin and Dwalin would be enough support seeing as they are your closest advisers—"
"Yes, and you are my heirs," Thorin reminded his youngest nephew, sighing out his nose as Fíli rolled his eyes from beside him. "Which means you are to follow my example when it comes to important matters, and not complain while doing so."
He gave Kíli a pointed look at this, and the dark-haired dwarf had the audacity to give his uncle his signature cheeky grin, which only served to make Thorin shake his head in exasperation. He knew Kíli meant well despite his immaturity at times, but Thorin thought with a pang how he wished his nephew would be more discerning with those times.
"Where in blazes is this place?" Balin said as the group continued to wander aimlessly around the halls of the Last Homely House, struggling to remember the directions Gandalf had given them to get to the library, though it was proved nearly impossible as they passed by a tapestry of an elf hunting a doe, one Thorin was sure he had seen three times now.
"I think he may have said something about turning right at the fork in the third house, not left," Fíli said, though he sounded uncertain as they came to the very same fork.
"No, it was definitely left," Dwalin said assertively, scratching his bushy beard, though Thorin could tell he was as hopelessly lost as the rest of them.
"Perhaps we should try asking for help?" Balin suggested, fixing them with a stern eye as they all looked at him incredulously. "We're never going to get to the meeting on time if we keep wandering around like a lot of stray dogs," he chided, and Thorin frowned, knowing he was right, yet the thought of asking any elves for help made his stomach knot angrily.
"Are you in need of assistance?" a high, melodious voice chimed in, and the dwarves turned to see a very tall, very slender elf with golden hair standing behind them, gazing at them with bright eyes that held a trace of amusement. His face was clean-shaven and fair, and Thorin instantly disliked it.
"Yes, if you wouldn't mind—" Balin began at the same time Thorin said, "No."
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before the elf finally shrugged, looking wholly unconcerned.
"So be it," he said and began to drift off. Balin shot Thorin a look, and he scowled, shaking his head until Balin eyed him shrewdly, like a dwarfling being caught doing something he shouldn't have, and Thorin grunted, flapping a hand impatiently.
"Wait!" Balin called, and the elf halted, turning gracefully to face them and raising a slender brow. "You wouldn't happen to know how to reach the library by chance, would you?"
The elf studied them for a moment, raking them over with eyes so blue they appeared clear, before sweeping in front of them and beckoning to them with a long-fingered hand.
"Come," the elf said, and after exchanging glances, the dwarves grudgingly followed, walking fast to keep up with the elf's longer stride.
They traveled in silence, through long and hushed hallways and over narrow bridges above gentler waterfalls and pools. The House of Elrond was quiet, but figures on distant bridges and verandas still moved like living shadows, hinting that the elven inhabitants were still there, still watching. It was a disconcerting feeling; Ered Luin echoed with sound at all hours, and it was eerie to Thorin how a place teeming with life could be so muted.
As if reading his thoughts, the elf guiding them spoke over his shoulder.
"You are the dwarves who traveled with Lady Tinnuhiril, are you not?" he asked, and the dwarves looked at each other in confusion.
"You mean Saf?" Fíli said.
"If that is what you call her, then yes, I mean Saf," the elf said, bemused, and Thorin wondered if the elf could feel the heat of his stare upon his back yet.
"Why do you call her Tinnuhiril?" Kíli asked.
"When she lived here for a time, it was natural to see her only wandering around nightfall," he replied. "Thus, we gave her the name 'lady of twilight,' which is Tinnuhiril in our tongue."
The dwarves looked at each other with shock and some varying degrees of bewilderment, and whatever suspicion Thorin held against the woman, it increased tenfold at the elf's words.
Before they could berate the elf with questions, he came to a stop outside of an exquisite ivory and beechwood structure, open to the night sky and allowing moonlight to stream into it like strands of pearls.
"Here is the library," he announced, gesturing to the open doorway before them. "And this is where I shall take my leave. Enjoy your stay in Imladris, my friends."
Before anyone could give so much as thanks, the elf had already whisked away, his flaxen hair flowing softly before he was gone.
Exchanging looks once more, Thorin led the way into the library, greeted by the sight of bookshelves stacked to the ceiling, filled with tomes both large and small, and the scent of ink and paper.
He heard the murmur of voices off to his left and turned to see Lord Elrond and Gandalf conversing quietly, both looking like specters in the wash of the moon, and, oddly, Bilbo Baggins. The hobbit stood awkwardly off to the side, looking comically out of place, but Thorin ignored the burglar's presence as he approached.
"Ah, Thorin!" Gandalf said. "At last, we can get down to it. Did you bring the map as I instructed?"
"Yes," Thorin said stiffly, glaring at the Elven-lord, though his words were directed at the wizard. "Though I fail to grasp how our business is any concern of elves."
Lord Elrond's unfathomable expression remained unchanged, though Gandalf audibly sighed.
"We have already been through this, Thorin Oakenshield," he said irritably. "Lord Elrond is one of the few in Middle-earth who has the skill to read that map. Show it to him!"
"This map is the legacy of my people," Thorin growled. "It is mine to protect, as are its secrets – I will not let the hands of an elf sully it."
"I will never understand the outrageous stubbornness of dwarves," Gandalf said, shaking his head in frustration. "Your pride will be your downfall, Thorin Oakenshield."
Thorin stared hard at the wizard, the echoes of voices drifting through his head: "Pride and greed was all your grandfather had, and look where it got him. We have nothing now because of him!"
The memories of exile following Smaug's attack made Thorin wince, the accusing tones and pointing fingers coming back to haunt him, and before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he had extracted the map from his breast pocket and passed it to Lord Elrond despite the protests of the dwarves behind him.
"Thorin—" Dwalin growled, but he held up a hand to silence the burly dwarf as the elf studied the map intently, shifting it this way and that as his slanted brows creased.
Finally, he uttered two words: "Cirth ithil."
"Ah," Gandalf said, his face lighting up. "Moon runes. An easy thing to miss."
Lord Elrond nodded slowly, his dark eyes finding Thorin's own.
"This map depicts the Lonely Mountain," he said. "What is your interest in Erebor?"
Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but Thorin beat him to it, holding the elf's eyes levelly.
"Erebor is my birthright, and this map belonged to my father," he said. "It is my duty to know what secrets it holds, and to treasure it as the ancient artifact it is."
Lord Elrond raised his brows, saying nothing. Gandalf caught Thorin's eye and gave him the faintest trace of a wink.
"Moon runes can only be read by the light of the moon of the same shape and season as the day they were written," Lord Elrond said finally, and Thorin's stomach dropped as the rest of the dwarves shifted anxiously.
"Can you still read them?" Gandalf asked.
Lord Elrond looked to the moon, then down at the map, before finally waving a hand. "Come."
The procession filed out of the library and trailed after the Elven-lord, his golden robes billowing behind him as he strode to a partially hidden staircase nestled into the cliff behind the library and began to ascend.
The stairs wound up the cliff face, twisting behind waterfalls and making the stone slick beneath their feet, the spray dampening their hair and clothes as they kept climbing, though Thorin found the sensation quite pleasant despite his companions' curses and complaints.
Finally, they reached the top of the staircase, where it opened out to a niche cut into the side of the cliff, offering an astounding view of the valley below as Lord Elrond made his way to a pedestal set in the center of the niche, made of a white sort of stone that turned opaque in the moonlight.
"It seems that you were meant to come to Rivendell on this night, Thorin Oakenshield," the elf said as Thorin stepped closer to the pedestal. "This map was written by the light of a midsummer crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago, and as fate would have it, the same moon shines upon us tonight."
Lord Elrond unfolded the map and placed it atop the pedestal, and it was like the paper seemed to absorb the moonlight reflecting off of the stone. Thin scratches of silvery light appeared on the map below the drawing of the mountain, and Thorin's breath caught.
Balin, who had come to stand beside Thorin, stared at the map intently, beginning to read the runes in a breathless voice: "Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole."
"They're instructions," Kíli said excitedly, looking around at all those assembled with a large grin. "They're telling us what to do, how to get into the mountain!"
Fíli frowned. "They're not only instructions but a riddle, as well."
"I-I don't mean to intrude," Bilbo said, speaking up for the first time as he stood next to Gandalf. "But what is this…'Durin's Day?'"
"It's the start of the dwarves' new year," Balin supplied. "It happens when the last sun of autumn and the first moon of winter appear in the sky together."
"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Bilbo said uncertainly, after catching the troubled look Thorin and Balin exchanged.
Thorin shook his head. "This is ill news," he said. "Summer is passing, and Durin's Day will be upon us sooner than we think."
"We still have time," Balin said optimistically, but Thorin was already itching with impatience – if they wanted to enter the mountain, they needed to leave now.
"Time for what?" Bilbo asked, completely lost, but Balin waved a hand at him.
"To find the entrance," he replied. "We have to be standing at exactly the right spot, at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened."
"So this is your purpose?" Lord Elrond said, his voice sharp. "You seek to enter the mountain?"
"What of it?" Dwalin growled, eyeing the Elven-lord fiercely as he looked around at them all, his expression grim.
"There are some who would not deem it wise," he said, the grave finality of his tone silencing the barbed retort that had shot to Thorin's lips.
Lord Elrond shared a significant look with Gandalf before the Elven-lord turned and whisked back to the stairs, the wizard following with some resign. After giving the dwarves an uncertain look, Bilbo scampered after them, leaving the five dwarves alone atop the cliff.
"Uncle, we can make it," Fíli said as soon as the others were out of earshot. "We have the strength, and we have the means. We can do this."
Thorin breathed in deeply, his stomach knotted, before he looked back to his companions, seeing his own determination and willingness reflected back to him in all of their gazes.
"I know we can," he said. "And we will leave as soon as we restock our supplies and rest up. Which means that all of us deserve a good night's rest."
They all nodded in agreement, and as one, they made their way back down the stairs, coming upon the House of Elrond once more and starting the arduous trek back to the camp they shared with the others, the houses more empty and eerie than they had been before.
They had only been walking for about five minutes before they came across a secluded garden, though they all stopped when they heard voices coming out of the foliage, one of them strangely familiar and drawing nearer.
First, Lady Gilraen emerged from the garden path, closely followed by the barmaid, Saf, before they stopped in front of the garden's entrance, speaking in low voices before the older woman hugged Saf to her. The barmaid returned the gesture awkwardly before Lady Gilraen left, leaving Saf standing alone in front of the garden.
"What's our barmaid doing with that strange woman?" Kíli asked, and Thorin's jaw clenched when he heard his nephew refer to her as "our barmaid."
"Whatever it is, I am sure it does not concern you," Thorin said. "All of you, retire for the night. I will see you back at camp."
His tone left no room for arguments, and after a tense moment of silence, the four other dwarves shuffled off, leaving Thorin alone with the woman, who had obviously heard him and had turned to face him.
Thorin was vaguely surprised to see her red-rimmed eyes, and distantly wondered if she had been crying, but all of his thoughts were burned out by the suspicion clouding his head as he stepped closer to her, resisting the urge to start shouting as she faced him down, unmoving.
"I hope you enjoyed your evening with your friend, Lady Tinnuhiril," he said casually, and he got some satisfaction out of seeing the surprised look on her face before it was concealed.
"Who told you that?" she asked, and Thorin shrugged.
"It does not matter anymore," he said. "Because now I know for a fact that you are a liar, just as I have pinned from the start."
"An astute observation, coming from you," she retorted, but Thorin only smiled sardonically.
"My only question now is, who are you?" he said, stepping closer as she watched him warily. "A thief? A spy? A murderer? What secrets are you trying to run from, barmaid?"
"My life is no longer your concern, dwarf," she hissed. "The way I see it, we were only ever strangers passing in the night, and good riddance when I look back and see that your shadow is long gone."
"Tell me who you are," Thorin insisted, and they were now standing so close they were nearly nose-to-nose.
She grinned in his face, her eyes bloodshot and angry as she whispered, "Never."
Thorin blinked, and she stepped away from him, seeming to melt away into the shadows until only her voice remained, lingering on the night air before it, too, was swallowed into the black.
"Good luck on your quest, Thorin Oakenshield," she said. "Valar know you'll need it."
Cookies and kudos to those of you who correctly guessed that Gilraen was Saf's aunt!
Bonus points if anyone can guess who Mr. Elf was ;)
It really does amuse me to write Saf and Thorin's dynamic. Neither is willing to give any ground, and it's a challenge to write people who are clearly so alike in their convictions that the similarity is precisely what creates a wall between them. The only question now is which one of them will be the first to concede and throw the stone that will cast down that wall?
We aren't quite finished with Rivendell yet, and there are a few more pieces of her past that Saf must face, so I hope you'll stick around!
Thank you for your reviews and thoughts! Until next time!