Something — a weight — walked across Falmaramë's chest, half-tearing her from sleep. Something fuzzy tickled her cheek; something furry, that proceeded to curl up against her neck, pushing her head away from the pillow. She tried to turn, but her legs were pinned by another weight. She opened her eyes, fighting against lingering dreams.
A tabby cat lay, sprawled over her hips, fast asleep, like an empty fur filled with lead. A cushion of white fluff was beside her head — another cat with eyes of green bronze, who broke in a lazy purr when it appeared Falmaramë was awake.
In all her years, she had never had pets. She had cared for many animals, true: mostly horses and birds, whose life, although lengthened by elven care, remained too brief. She didn't know where these two had come from. When she had gone to bed the night before, her house in the mortal village had been empty.
The white cat yawned and unfurled before crossing again her chest, each paw finding a sensitive spot to apply pressure on. She walked to her tabby friend and licked his ears, waking him up. She wasn't truly white, saw Falmaramë: her tail and ears bore a darker pattern. Both cats stared at her, now. Mustering her strength, she managed to turn on her side, dislodging the creatures. Unfazed, the slug-like tabby coiled himself against her belly. The white one walked back to her face and meowed into her ear. Falmaramë drew the cover over her head. The cat wiggled to join her underneath and turned until Falmaramë's nose was buried in her white hair. The purring got louder.
At her wit's ends, Falmaramë sat up. Both cats then leapt from her bed and ran, paws silent against the stone floor, to the door. They paused then until she followed, and then crossed the main room to the front door, tails proudly up, before sliding through a flap cut in the wooden panel. She had failed to notice it before.
The outside air was fresh; Falmaramë's naked toes curled with cold. The cats rubbed their heads against a jar, over which was a plate full of bread. When she lifted the plate, she saw fresh milk inside the jar, still frothy. The cats meowed like souls enduring the torments of Mordor, winding around her ankles and looking at her with pleading eyes. Their meaning couldn't be clearer.
With a sigh, Falmaramë dove into the kitchen cupboards in search of some sort of shallow bowl that could accommodate both felines. The white cat Falmaramë later called Tinwë for her bright eyes, and for the tabby she chose Anduwá, as he galloped through the house like the west wind. While the cats lapped away to their heart's content, Falmaramë broke her own fast, with that supple bread that had a sharp tang, thinking as to what she would do. Inactivity, here, would approach a reprehensible sloth: she was not alone anymore. But with a whole language to learn, surely, and a new life to discover, she would surely find something to do. First, however, she warmed some water over the fire and washed herself, and combed back her growing hair, that nearly reached her shoulders again. All of her things were neatly arranged in the rooms; while they had seemed so cumbersome that far, now they looked small and few.
Later in the morning, the little girl came to fetch her, with the obvious intent of showing her around. That was a start. Falmaramë didn't flinch when the child took her hand and dragged her along as they walked through the village.
A whole season passed, and then another. Life had the steady rhythm of fields and livestock. A great fair had marked the entry into summer. Little Elrûn grew ravenous, and sometimes went to sleep on Falmaramë's knees when she, more often that not, visited his parents. She learned their names, and they hers, but the girl, Tisha, had trouble pronouncing it, so she became dame Falma for her — and soon, the household. The villagers' language was unlike any she knew, so at first she made slow progress. Little by little, however, she was able to thread words into sentences, for everyday things, and then ideas. The strangeness of it all — that life of near poverty, when she had known aught but abundance throughout her life — was like a dream.
Old Morag was warming her bones by the fireplace. One of the privileges of the age, being seated near the flames wherever she went — it made up for her aching joints in the mornings. Her hearing was sharp as ever, though, she was proud to say, although the young had a habit of mumbling their words that was most aggravating. Lamps had been lit, and glass bottles focused their light on those women who spent the evening knitting or embroidering. It was a night to tell high tales and revel in gossip. Naturally, as had been often the case of late, conversation drifted to the elf. Old Morag had been forced to acknowledge that the cows had not gone dry, and that some of the hands-me-down facts passed from mother to son about the Fair Folk didn't hold up to the habits of that one.
First, there had been a notable lack of mischief around Weyksa. Some had somberly predicted that, on the elf's first morning in the village, at least little Elrûn would have disappeared and been replaced by a changeling of fearful aspect (many had poured salt on their doorsteps to prevent such an eventuality). The newborn his father had proudly paraded around later while the mother took a nap had been no uglier than usual.
"That grey mare she rides, though," said a seamstress, brandishing her needle with acumen, "that one's a bitch. Frightfully clever, pretty could she could speak if she saw a use for it."
Old Morag chuckled in agreement. "Funny that she's such a big thing, too. You'd think the elves rode slim beasts like pale malnourished deer, but that one could haul a plough better than a pair of oxen."
Then, there was the fact that the elf — dame Falma — was less of a lounging around whispy creature and more of a let's get to work, shall we, person. Her eyes were uncanny, true, shining like a cat's in twilight, and something was so slightly eery in her beautiful face, but the sweat on her brow when she had tilled the garden around her house had been quite normal. She had then taken the counsel of the farmers, with a liberal use of hand gestures, a broken grammar, and not a little frustration on each sides, and had sown whatever seedlings they could spare. The beans had grown exceptionally well, yes, but they had not reached to the sky, much to the chagrin of some of the local boys. Flowers had done very well too, particularly taking into account that none had been sowed.
All in all, the village of Weyksa was getting used to having an elf in permanent residence. Burggraf Ilya was even trying to get credit for it because, as word spread, the market attracted more outside visitors driven by curiosity to get a glimpse of the stranger. These, however, were more than often disappointed: dame Falma, when she wasn't babysitting little Elrûn or working around her house, was quite the homebody. Some days, she left alone, to walk or to ride in the woods, and those who crossed her path were stricken by the quiet sadness that followed her. They bowed, and she saluted them in return, but she never spoke a word to them. Solitude clung to her like dead leaves on a winter coat.
During a lull in conversation, the door opened; a gust of wind flickered around the candles. One of the seamstresses cursed, for she had pricked herself. Old Morag shushed her. The elf was standing by the door, her eyes very wide in the gloom, and Old Morag thought she saw an ancient queen who had, somehow, stepped away from a tale of love and woe. The vision didn't last: Coira walked behind the elf and fussed around her, taking her cloak and ushering her inside. This wasn't the first time Coira had come to such a gathering since she had given birth, but she had never brought the elf before.
"May I join you?" asked the elf, carefully pronouncing the words, trying to smother her accent.
There was a murmur of assent, but none dared to openly invite her to sit. Old Morag felt a surge of indignation; misgivings were fine and dandy, but rudeness was quite another thing. It wasn't her house, but she was the oldest there, and therefore in charge (or so she expected), so she spoke, urging the visitors forward with a quick sign of the hand.
"Come, dame Falma," she called. "Sit by my side on the bench, will you?"
The elf crossed the room, self-conscious about the gazes fixed on her; talking didn't resume before she had sat, tucking her dress in a fashion that could have been at home in a dreamland court.
"Thank you," said the elf in a low voice.
Old Morag had never seen her that close. For some reason, she felt young again as she watched this black hair untouched by frost, and these clear eyes free of wrinkles, and a vertigo shook her. Not one to admit she was thrown off, however, she started speaking to dame Falma's ear.
"At night, see, we find ourselves together. Now, the men of Weyksa aren't the worst by far, but not many come by, except the young ones because sometimes there's dancing and they'd do anything to get in the girls' favour. Tonight's quiet. We may get some singing later on. Do you know any song? Or a tale you'd like to tell?"
Dame Falma's brow was knitted with attention as she listened, although Morag tried to enunciate clearly.
"Song? Maybe. Not in this language."
"Ah, it's better when we understand, as it might spook some people. Not everyone's convinced yet you won't eat us all."
With great deliberation, the elf repeated, puzzled: "Eat?"
"Never mind," waved away Morag. "Tonight you listen. You'll learn plenty words."
Listen indeed the elf did. She watched each speaker with a piercing scrutiny, sometimes mouthing a turn of phrase or a word below her breath. Morag was reminded of a wolf pup. Years ago, Mishe's uncle had brought back a sickly, scrawny, thing, from the forest. It must have been the runt of the litter, left to die by his own mother — it had hardly been bigger than a cat, and his ribs showed under his fur. The man had nursed him, insistent that he would be like a dog later, and indeed the wolf had grown tame. But he had also been bigger than any dog in the village, and once tore the hand from a peddler who had been rude to his master. There had always been a feral light in his eyes, all had said, and Mishe's uncle had to take him back to the wilderness. Morag hoped the elf would break more easily than the wolf to the village's customs.
Conversation, however, had become strained. From afar, Coira's smile had become fixed. No one dared to leave.
With a slight hesitation, Falmaramë brought a wide ribbon, needle and thread from a pocket of her dress. She rose, and went to a woman's side — she had ruddy cheeks and frizzy hair.
"Excuse me," said Falmaramë, sitting on the ground by her chair, holding up her work. "Are you Polina? Coira said…" But grammar eluded her, and she frowned. "You are best seamstress. Can you show me what I did wrong. Please."
The woman seemed ready to refuse, but she still took a closer look, narrowing her eyes as she pored over the work. "Your thread's too tight," she judged after a while. "See how it pulls on the fabric? These ribbons are fragile. It can't be fixed. You need to start again."
It was a traditional pattern of Weyksa, that Coira had shown her. Falmaramë had never tried her hand at embroidery before; another new thing that brought her a little bit further from her old life.
Polina, who took pride in her craft, had taken a brand new ribbon from her stash and already launched into an off the cuff lesson. Slowly, normalcy returned to the gathering. When Falmaramë next looked up, she saw the old crone watching her intently, and she smiled at her.
Seasons turned into years. Old Morag was laid to rest in a cemetery by a field of golden oats. Little Elrûn grew to a boisterous boy, while his sister Tisha was already a tall, gangly, youth with an eye for horses. Tisha hardly left Falmaramë's side (that is, when she wasn't riding or busy in the fields); she said she wanted to be a healer like her, at which Falmaramë always scoffed, before telling her to go to the midwife for that.
"I know next to nothing," insisted Falmaramë.
"But last year you fixed Tommy's limp!"
Falmaramë rolled her eyes. "He's old," she said. "He limped because he was in pain. Willow bark did the work instead of me. It won't last forever."
"But you're a wisewoman!"
"No. I'm knowledgeable, on some things. Healing is not one of them. I just read the books left in my house."
Tisha pouted, until inspiration struck her. "But you taught me to read," she exclaimed. "Can I read these too?"
"If you want to. It won't replace practice."
"Then teach me what you're good at! All this time, and you've never told me what that was! It's bad manners to keep secrets from your friends!"
"No," flatly replied Falmaramë.
Tisha's round face turned from her. The girl was plain, but she was clever, and determined. Falmaramë wished she would find herself another calling than shadowing her. She was good at war, and at forging tools of war: when Sauron fell, it had been long since she had wrought anything for the sheer pleasure of it. She doubted she would be ever good at anything else. The long war had taken more than Gil-Galad away from her.
Besides, she couldn't send the girl to Elrond as a pupil. Imladris was too far, and she had no claim on it anymore, save from what old friendship would allow. There were Houses of Healing in Gondor, but Falmaramë would have swallowed an iron nail before sending Tisha there, where Isildur must still rule. If the girl didn't want to apprentice with the midwife, it was her choice.
"I'm sorry, Tisha," said Falmaramë in a softer voice. "I know very few things that can be useful to you. Why are you so fixed on becoming a healer?"
The girl hesitated. A lie was nearly born upon her lips, but she swallowed her shame and said:
"Remember last year when a horse kicked Mairet and broke her shoulder? You could see her collarbone through the blood, all pointy."
"Yes, I remember."
"It was gross, I mean, and she was whimpering like a dog that's been kicked. But I wasn't grossed out. Not too much. It was interesting." After a while, she added in a very low voice: "I liked it."
Falmaramë said nothing. She had sat by the window, so that light fell on the girl's face. In front of the silence, Tisha continued.
"I didn't like that she had been kicked, mind you, or that she was in pain. I liked when you set her shoulder straight and then she was better. You couldn't see the bone anymore, and her shoulder was still messed up but better. And then she had trouble breathing, and you put a big needle in her chest and she was better right away. I liked it. It was… effective."
Tinwë, the white cat, jumped on the windowsill. She sat, her tail carefully arranged around her paws; there was judgement in her eyes of green bronze.
"Then why won't you apprentice with Zina? Midwifery is a part of surgery, and surgery seems to be what you like."
"I don't know. I… it creeps me out. I don't know why."
Falmaramë gently petted the cat behind her ears. She was thinking. The cat purred like a spinning wheel.
"What do you remember of the night your brother was born?"
"Not much. I remember I was scared."
Was Imladris really too far? Falmaramë smiled, and changed conversation. She would need to have a chat with Tisha's mother. Only fools fail to change their minds.
One year later — enough time for Tisha's parents to grow comfortable with the thought — Falmaramë once again took to the road. She did so with reluctance, as she had grown comfortable in the Weyksa, and she entrusted care of the cats (now old but, thanks to her care, still healthy as could be, to the wonder of all) to young Elrûn. He pouted when his sister left; jealousy was strong, and sorrow too, for he loved her dear.
Once they had left the village, Falmaramë on her tall grey mare and Tisha on a brown colt, they only spoke in quenya, of which the girl had been taught the rudiments. Falmaramë's patience surprised herself as she bore through her charge's uneven grammar and approximations.
Later, when they had left the roads that led to Weyksa, and crossed the wilderness, Falmaramë's heart strangely hurt. They rode due north, through land that none of them had ever tread, for Falmaramë wished to avoid the ruins of the gardens of the Entwives. Far away in the East lay the Sean of Rhûn and its pirates; they saw none of them, until they reached the lazy Celduin, that great river of Rhovanion. Less swift than the mighty Anduin, it watered rolling plains and clear forests of silver beeches in many a wide coil. Stillwater lakes marked places where the river course had changed throughout the years; the two travelers often camped by these, if they could, and Tisha hunted waterfowl with her bow.
It was at such a campsite, on a clear evening where a half-moon promised to shine, that they encountered raiders from Rhûn or, rather, that raiders came upon them. Tisha was building a fire when, suddenly, Falmaramë caught her wrist and murmured her to stop making any noise: her keen hearing had caught drifting voices, callous and rough. They laid low under the cover of willow trees, where shadows were thick and even their mounts invisible; several scores of men passed by them, looking for a place to their fancy, and settling a few furlongs away.
Falmaramë kept her grip on the girl's arm: she felt her tremble, be it with excitation or fear. Such pirates were known in Weyksa, although none had reached it yet. They sowed destruction, rape and fire, in the places unlucky enough to arouse their greed.
"Can we hide until morning?" asked Tisha.
"Perhaps. But then, treacherous daylight would throw us into their waiting arms."
"Can we fight them off?"
"Don't be silly. You and I would be slain — if we were lucky. No, we need to put them behind us tonight, and be clever enough that their patrols do not follow us. Can you ride for some hours yet?"
There was a short silence before Tisha replied that she would try.
"Good," said Falmaramë. "Were I alone, I would be able to pass by them without their noticing, but your foot isn't that light, and your shadow will stand out against the moonlit sky. Wait for me for a while, and take some rest if you can. I have an idea, and will soon be back for you."
Swift as a wraith, Falmaramë walked into the night to a spot she had noticed close by, where spring was in full bloom. When she came back, her arms were laden with irises and water lilies that gleamed a ghostly grey. If Tisha had slept, she showed it not, and wondered in her improving quenya:
"I want not to criticise you, goodmother, but is this the time to gather flowers?"
With a tut, Falmaramë gave her a single stem of irises, where several perfect blossoms had opened. "Have you not listened enough to old wive's tales, Tisha? You will pull you cowl over your face, so they cannot see you are of mortal blood, and ride before me, holding this aloft. It shall be light enough for your horse to find his step. I will follow behind you, my handmaiden, tall and crowned with spring as I once was in my youth. If these men fail to run from the ride of the Fair Folk, they're made of sterner stuff than most."
"What if they know it's just a tale?"
A breeze awoke a ripple through the leaves. Falmaramë was already busy making a wreath, and her nimble fingers didn't stop when she said: "The King of Gondor once trembled before my eyes. Trust me, Tisha."
And Tisha was amazed, as this was the first time Falmaramë had showed her a glimpse of her former life, and it left her with too many questions to ask.
It wasn't too long before they were ready to go. Moonlight of silver blue pooled around their step; no living creature was heard, save for their horses' hooves, and the air was fresh with forgotten rain. Falmaramë had loosened her hair. Ashen irises crowned her, and water lilies she carried in her arms; they had opened wide, despite the night.
They rode, along the only path, until the red echoes of fire danced before them and watchers stopped them. Then they stood motionless, wordless, and looked not at the men who surrounded them.
They were questioned, in a tongue not unlike the one of Weyksa. Tisha's colt stepped away when a man tried to take his bridle from the girl's immobile hand. When another lifted his lantern to Falmaramë's face, and the golden light chased away the moon's pallor from her skin, she turned her grey eyes to him and said: "Bar not the way of the Eldar."
If he was scared, he hid it well. A coarse jab came to his lips — to die under Falmaramë's unflinching gaze as she spoke.
I see a lily on thy brow;
It shall whither within the hour.
I see a shadow on thy soul;
Beware it takes a bloody toll.
There was a murmur amongst the men, and Falmaramë repeated: "Bar not the way of the Eldar."
One of their leaders then arrived, and enquired as to what all that fuss was about.
"Looks like we got ourselves some of the Fair Folk," prudently said the man who held the lantern, in a tone more guarded than before.
"Let them pass!" cried another from behind.
But his chieftain scoffed, asking him if he was scared of the babayka too, and advising him to run back home. If he expected laughter from the rest of his men, he was disappointed. They shuffled uncomfortably and pointed at the riders, still as stone. He got closer.
He was a big man, made bigger by his furs, perhaps in the last of his prime, although his age was hard to guess. A scar marred his face, burnt red by many suns. His beard, kept short, hid not a cruel mouth. He tried to grab Falmaramë's cape; the soft fabric fled like water from his hands, revealing that underneath the dark cloth, she wore a garment of white. She opened her arms; the flowers she carried fell, revealing a naked dagger of steel in her hand — and a lily hit the lantern bearer on the forehead. The man flinched and scrambled back, taking his light away. Tall on her mare under the stars, Falmaramë stared at the chieftain.
I see pale kings, and princes too;
They walk haggard in deathly dew.
I see two paths open and close;
Beware they lead to deep shadows.
With these words, she pointed her blade towards the chieftain. The elven steel came alive with a glint of starlight. The point wavered not as Falmaramë said: "Thrice now I advise, bar not the way of the Eldar."
Men started to run, stumbling in the dark. At last, even the chieftain took a step back. This was all Falmaramë needed; she nudged her horse to a quiet walk. The colt followed suit, and the riders quietly ambled away. Once they were far enough, they broke into a fast gallop, and stopped only dawn whitened the East and their mounts were foaming at the mouth.
Following the Celduin, they left, after a time, the cheerful plains of Rhovanion. In the distance, the land rose once again. The river now, at times, ran in gorges deep; great rocks often broke its flow in a roar of white water. The heights of Greenwood the Great came closer each day until, on an overcast afternoon, the travelers reached the Eastern Gate of the Forest Road.
The woods were impenetrable; before the tall beeches arose, further on, deep thickets of blackthorn and whitethorn — interwoven in a tapestry of greens — forbade any entry save through the Gate. That Gate itself was of living trees, whose grey trunks rose like pillars under the sky. Honeysuckle grew on them and, while its flowers smelled sweet, its berries were poison. Tisha's spirits, that had grown quite high after the fright of their encounter with the raiders, were suddenly doused. Falmaramë saw with satisfaction her expression sober up as, for some things, a little fear is the path to wisdom.
"Those who dwell in these parts," she said, "are not of my people. Their customs are strange to me, and we claim no kinship to them. Their sires travelled not over the Sea and learned not of the lore that was hidden there, but it would be a mistake to call them uncouth. Elves they are, same as I, and we of the Noldor are diminished, whilst they have grown. They have little love for mortals."
"Are they the ones who steal children, then?"
"No. But you still should be careful. This road was made for trade, as most are; it is therefore safe to you. The enchantments that protect it, however, are powerful against those who stray. It might not be in my power to rescue you from them. So keep to the path, always."
Perhaps Tisha caught a fleeting impression from Falmaramë as she spoke, because she then asked if her goodmother was afraid.
"I dislike deep forests," she explained. "I was never at ease when I had to travel between Lindon — that's on the edge of the Sea — and the Mountains. Strange creatures live there, more queer than hunters clothed in green. I love houses of stone, valleys where wilderness thrives under the sun, and the open cliffs of Lindon, not these enclosed mazes of whispering woods. The singing harp is dearer to me in those places than in copses where music is buried under a thousand leaves."
Despite Falmaramë's warnings — or perhaps thanks to them — the forest crossing was uneventful. Once, Tisha awoke from her sleep to the sound of fair elven voices, and she thought that she saw her goodmother in discussion with a king crowned with leaves, who was surrounded by many clad in brown and green. But when morning came, there was no trace of any foot on the surrounding moss, and Falmaramë denied any nightly meetings. Without proof, Tisha admitted to herself that it must have been a dream, and a dream it still felt when, at last, they left the great trees behind. Under them then rolled the Anduin; even this far north, its flow was great, and Tisha was dumbstruck at its width when they crossed the shallows of the Old Ford. Then, up the rising slopes of the valley — not far from the place where Halarova, of old, had failed to vanquish the dragon Culutir Larëa, the road took them closer to the Misty Mountains. Summer heat had come; in the too-bright haze, the harsh light made it hard to see the distant peaks.
The closer they got to Imladris, and the more silent Falmaramë became. Some days, she barely uttered a word; at night, she rolled herself under her covers until dawn crept from the lowlands of the East. When Tisha tried to wheedle anything out of her — what Imladris was like, what kind of people lived there, how they dressed and what they ate — Falmaramë either gave curt, uninformative, answers, or none at all.
Soon, their way took them deep into valleys where torrents roared and light was often blue with lingering shadows; they appeared to have left the main road and tread by difficult paths where no one was to be met. Still, the more they rode West, and the more Tisha felt a something to the land. Mountains always have that feel, and those were the first real mountains the girl had ever seen: a tinge of the unreal, an awe that stems from the sheer scale of their summits — but these, had Tisha known, were not the only things at play. For the Misty Mountains had long been inhabited both by Dwarves and Elves, and there the history of Middle Earth was remembered in the very bones of the earth, undisturbed by the cataclysms of the Elder Days. Far away south, the stones of Eregion lamented the loss of the Noldor, and here they remembered the many people who had crossed into friendlier lands. The land listened and watched, and Falmaramë's return wasn't unmarked.
On an afternoon where heavy clouds rolled against the sky, and thunder threatened, the travelers came across a high pass that seemed to divide the mountains. Falmaramë rushed them down, and they spent the night in a cave as rain pattered outside. On the following day, they once again took off the road and followed paths carved by animals under the pines. No eagle would have spotted them from afar, and they made good speed, thanks to their mounts' sure footing.
Some time later — Tisha had lost the count of days, so dazzled she was by the Mountains — came a morning when Falmaramë, instead of mounting her waiting horse, called the girl by her side.
"I will not go further with you," she said. "We are close to Imladris — follow that stream, and it shall lead you to the river Bruinen. Go upstream then, until you reach a ford where a white road goes North and East. There, unless thing are much changed, you shall be challenged by the wardens of Imladris."
"But I can't go there without you," cried the girl. "I'll be lost in a crowd of Elves! And what if the wardens take me prisoner?"
Falmaramë nearly smiled through the heavy sadness that drew her face taut. She opened her closed hand, and on her palm lay a brooch of enamel blue, green and white, where an eight-pointed star shone.
"Take this, and show it to the first person you meet. I have had this since I was a child, in years now lost to grief; they will know it comes from me, and allow you to walk unharmed. Ask for the lord Elrond. Elrond, remember that name. He will be your tutor in the healing arts, if it pleases him."
"And if not?"
"He is not the only master of his craft in Imladris."
Tisha was uncertain, still, and tried to plead. But Falmaramë shook her head, repeating that she couldn't bear to dwell in the great house by the river once again.
"I'll want that brooch back," she finally said. "Seven years from now, you are to leave Imladris behind, and head East over the Mountain Pass. Alone. I will meet you somewhere along the way." As an afterthought, she added: "I hope that you will not think less of me then, for you are bound to learn many things that I never told you. I hope you will understand, then, why I cannot come."
Her throat closed with emotion, and Falmaramë could speak no more. However, she had no need too: Tisha had rushed to her in a last bone-breaking embrace. She shushed her before sending the girl on her way. Once the colt's happy trot had faded in the distance, Falmaramë once again mounted her grey mare, and she left, tearing the roots of her heart away from the place where she had been most happy once.