Seven: The Tale of Ten Shadows
It was three days after the the Company had left Rivendell. Night had fallen like a black curtain over the land, strewn with stars and woven with the rustlings and croakings of unseen creatures. The company had made camp in a forest clearing. It was a campsite of the Rangers, and there was wood there, old and very dry, in a simple shelter. Niphredil told her young companions they could use the wood tonight, but they would have to gather more to replace it the following day. Mircal nodded sagely:
"Indeed, that is the way of the Rangers. My father would approve."
Niphredil grinned. "Who do you think taught me?"
But the youngsters didn't answer – Neldohír was concentrating on the voices of the trees, telling them no fresh limb would be chopped for firewood; Mircal thought Nipredil meant Aragorn; Elena and Gilliam were sure she was talking about her own father, Frodo Baggins; Gala believed this to have been a rhetorical question requiring no answer.
Finally Narannon Firegate broke the silence:
"Who taught you, Green Wizard?" He asked.
"My mother. Tinwen Híniel Cal-Urúnya Maialaurë El-Carnil Elai Pengil Dari Hawkfeather Baggins." Niphredil spoke the long litany of names like a blessing, and that was precisely what they were.
"Who was this lady of many names?" Narannon asked, and Niphredil realized that she hadn't told him of her parentage yet.
"Forgive me. I shall tell you of my mother, Narannon Firegate, if you kindly tend the fire while Elena cooks our supper." She suggested.
Narannon began tending the fire as requested, and Niphredil noticed he had a natural talent for it. Perhaps it was not entirely by chance that he was named 'Firegate'?
"My mother," Niphredil began, her voice taking on the cadences of a practiced storyteller, "was an Ainu. Not a Vala, of course – not one of the Mighty Ones. Do you know who Arien is?" She asked Narannon. Elena's lips trembled with the answer, but the Hobbit girl knew that it was Narannon who must speak it.
"Yes. I did live a long time in Starlight Village, and the Gondorians have a lot of stories about the Goddess of their City, Arien of Minas Anor. Sergen told me the stories when we drank my home-brew – he was glad of an audience that hadn't heard them a thousand times already." The Peradan told her.
Niphredil frowned. "I would not call Arien a Goddess. Even the Valar are not Gods and Goddesses. They are Demigods. Eru Ilúvatar is the Only God." She paused, looked into the fire, and found her thread of narrative again in its sparks.
"Anyways, you know the tale of Arien and Tilion then, I'm sure, of the Sun and the Moon." She did not wait for affirmation. "Arien had many sisters and brothers – spirits of fire. My father writes:
'Among the Maiar are counted Arien and her sisters. They came to Eä like a rain of flames from the heavens, for they are spirits of fire. They became servants to Vána the Ever-Young. They walked with her, sang with her, all but one, the least of them all. She was Tinwen, 'spark-maiden'. She had little power and even less craft, save the art of games and tricks. She had the habit of hiding from her sisters and then surprising them by pretending to attack them in a weird shape. If she was sent on an errand she might dally on the way, wandering off to inspect a cave or build a dam, if such activity interested her at the moment. Often she was away for a long time, on pointless journeys of her own. At other times the Mighty had no peace from her impossible questions asked on awkward moments.' Niphredil cited Frodo's narrative from memory. Then she continued in her own words:
"Thus was my mother, when the world began. Look at the fire, my friends. Look at the sparks, how they dance. The sparks seldom make a sound – and neither is my mother a mighty singer in the Ainurin Choir. But she sang her part, a line there, a word here, and shaped the sparks that dance in all the fires, in all of Eä. And she wore names like others wear clothing, accepting them as gifts, and changing into a new one when the old one no longer fit, or became torn and dirty, or was stolen from her." Niphredil looked at the fire, but her audience looked at its reflection in her eyes. Surely she hadn't had eyes of liquid gold a moment ago? That was how she looked, and her shadow seemed to take shape, and stood tall behind her, a darkness of the air, a shadow not cast on any surface, but like a ghost made of night. And suddenly their attention was focused on the shadow, as Niphredil spoke on:
"Híniel means Child-Minded, and that is the name Eönwë Herald of Manwë gave my mother." Niphredil's shadow took on color, and became a Hobbit-sized shape with a mess of fiery orange hair, blue shining eyes like sparks from metal, and simple clothes such as a human child would wear. The shadow threw a somersault. Niphredil didn't move.
"But at the same moment another Maia also named my mother. And that one was Turon, Servant of Aulë, the one who later became Gorthaur the Cruel, or as you call him, Sauron. The name he gave her was Cal-Urúnya – or so it is written in my father's chronicles. The Maiar, at that time, spoke a language that few mortals know, and my mother always tells her story in Noldorin Quenyan." Niphredil spoke on, and her shadow burst to flame, yet did not seem to be consumed by the golden radiance. The flame-creature danced, seductively, blowing kisses at some unseen or imagined watcher.
"Once the Quendi came to Aman, my mother made friends with a maiden called Alatáriel, who is now remembered as Galadriel. To amuse her and cause mischief, Tinwen took on the shape and semblance of Alatáriel, perfect in every detail. Many of the Quendi thought them twins. Already at that age, Galadriel was very wise, and Tinwen learned much from her about the lands in the East and the short history of the Eldar." The shadow was now an elf-maiden, golden-haired and gray-eyed, so beautiful that Mircal turned his face away in despair, while Gilliam's jaw dropped open and the hand holding a piece of fried rabbit fell to his lap, forgotten. Narannon looked closely at the shadow-maiden, trying to memorize every detail – these were the features of the legendary Galadriel, whom the Men of Rohan called a witch. And Neldohír's face was lit with a smile – he noted with satisfaction that those who had compared his mother to young Galadriel had indeed been right: beautiful golden-haired elf-maidens both, with eyes full of the Sea... and yet Galadriel was fairer, as befit one of the High Elves.
Suddenly Neldohír's smile faded. "Someone is coming from the direction of Rivendell, Niphredil. The trees whisper of a shadow passing under them. It is a mortal man – or a woman, for the trees make no difference by gender." He told her gravely.
Niphredil looked up, and saw truth in Neldohír's eyes. "The trees are wise, we do well to heed their warning. Mircal – you've heard this story already, go to stand over there under the shadow of that large tree, and keep watch. Take your sword!" Niphredil instructed, and Mircal departed. The elf-woman made of shadows and light followed him with her eyes. Narannon tended the fire, and Elena served soup to her companions, setting a bowl close to the fire so it would stay warm for Mircal.
"You others, keep your senses alert, also. I will continue my story, to lure watchers into thinking we do not know we are not alone here." She looked at the fire again. "Galadriel and Tinwen gifted each other with new names – my mother became El-Carnil, after the red star Carnil, and her friend earned the nickname of Lauremiriel – a name composed of gold, stars and jewels." The elf-shaped shadow was still watching Mircal.
"My mother was captured by Sauron, and released by Eönwë – but the Lord of all Heralds could not break the enchanted chain Sauron had locked around Tinwen's neck. No one in all of Beleriand could break it – for it had been foretold that the chain would only be broken when Sauron's existence ended for ever." The shadow, grew dark again, a shadow in truth, and its shape was white-haired, bent as if with age, and hideous to behold. The eyes were in deep pits and spoke of suffering. Then white light began to grow from the shadow's hands, and it became a beautiful maiden again – but now the hair was black as night and the eyes dark also, with a red glint.
"My mother was rejuvenated when she touched two of the Silmarils, but the chain remained, and it bound her soul to Sauron, making her one of his creatures against her will. She went to the wilderness, found her way to the Fangorn of old, and earned a new name from the Ents – she became Maialaurë." The shadow's hair was brown as bark now, and dull and shineless like lichen. Its eyes were the green of summer leaves, and its skin was darkly tanned. Neldohír looked at the shadow, and his own dark face grew pale. Tinwen had been no Ent-wife, but this shape of hers was the closest he had ever seen to one. And to the half-Ent's eyes, this shape was the most beautiful one of all.
"From Fangorn, Tinwen was called away by the hunting horns of Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor. She became a lady of his court, and he called her Elai." The shape of the shadow flickered, much to Neldohír's dissappointment, and became the dark-haired woman again, but now the eyes were deep midnight blue. Elena breathed a sigh in admiration – the shadow in the form of Lady Elai was wearing the most wonderful purple gown she had ever seen.
"Gil-Galad was determined to break the enchantment, and that was one of the many reasons why he formed the Army of the Last Alliance, and waged war against Sauron. My mother would not be parted from him, and so she..."
But at this point, Niphredil was interrupted by Narannon. "I smell a Gondorian near here. Watching us. A female, judging by the amount of perfume." He told her.
Niphredil frowned. "I haven't sensed anyone approaching. Have you, Neldohír?" She asked.
Neldohír blushed. "I was so captivated by your story that I forgot to listen to the trees. She is standing eight feet South from Mircal, and she carries no weapon, as far as the trees can tell."
Niphredil walked to the spot Neldohír had indicated. There stood indeed a hidden watcher, a tall human wearing a cloak such as the Lórien cloaks that Gilliam, Mircal, Gala and Neldohír had inherited. But this cloak was darker in color, and its brooch was not a mallorn-leaf, it was the heraldic device of Gil-Galad – stars on a square blue field.
Niphredil saw her, because she hadn't covered her whole body with the magic cloak. Under the cloak she wore a simple peasant dress in pale blue, which showed up well in the darkness. She had expensive-looking boots and a large backbag, and she leaned on a heavy oaken staff. Her head was covered by the hood of the cloak.
"Greetings, wanderer. You are welcome to share the warmth of our fire, the meal of our evening, the sleep of the night and the ending of my story with us, should you wish so. I am Niphredil the Green – how shall I address you?"
The woman took down the hood, revealing beautiful features, pale skin, deep blue eyes, pointed ears, and curly brown hair. "Call me Lamia. I am grateful for your hospitality, and I accept your offer."
Niphredil nodded, and walked over to Mircal, to tell him the stranger had arrived.