Chapter 2 - A Broken Home is an Empty Shell

Tinuial awoke to find the earliest rays of dawn spilling in through her window. Since childhood she had cared little for the full light of the sun, thinking it harsh as a blazing fire, yet the beauty of the sunrise could not be denied. The pale light ascended the milk-grey sky in shoots of silken radiance. A tide of illumination rose to the high heavens, and cast strands of feathery light to the emerging world below. The land was fair, and became more so as the dawn revealed it. From Tinuial's home, which was situated atop a gentle sloping hill, she could discern the grey woods stretching off to the South like a thick carpet clinging to the precipitous earth.

To the North, green hills drifted into the sky like great towers, and the mountains beyond lay hid. The River Narog lay out of sight to the West, and beyond was the fortress of Nargothrond - and the caves of King Felagund, who did not return. Tinuial had been there seldom, though her brother, Thaliondil was an errand-rider and would often bring messages before the King. Much of the time there was little to report, for no danger seemed to touch this fair place, and Tinuial had known only peace since her abiding there. Yet the hearts of the Elves were troubled, and there was darkness and deadly peril in the outside world, if the whispered tales held truth. Tinuial had begun to perceive that someday this mild tranquility would end, and that beauty would fade and die from this land, whether she should live to witness it or no.

Ominous thoughts such as these were far from the mind of Annariel, daughter of Durthol, as she sat beside the busy stream that flowed lithe and bright from the hills. The water glinted, like dripping diamond in the sunlight as it ran its rippling course, and bubbled over the many-coloured stones and pebbles at its bed. The sight brought to Annariel's mind the smoky images drawn by the melodies of minstrels - spidersilk portraits of a world that once was. Distant pictures floated faintly before her eyes: waves pale and clear as the tears of stars, lapping the jewel-dusted shores of Valinor. Annariel smiled softly, and lay upon the grassy bank, her bright hair gleaming yellow against the vivid green. Out of the corner of her eye, she marked the approach of her young sister, Tinuial.

'Where is Thaliondil?' Asked Tinuial abruptly, disturbing the settled peace of the scene.

'I know not,' Annariel replied, in a melodic voice. 'He departed ere the rising of the sun, I believe.'

Tinuial's brow furrowed, as she tried to pinpoint the source of her dull anxiety. Annariel sat up, newly-kindled sunbeams dancing upon her sweet face. She was the very mirror-image of her mother, Tarien, just as Thaliondil was his father's. Her dark blue eyes sparkled as she met her sister's worried gaze.

'Do not frown so!' Annariel exclaimed, 'Your face would be fairer were it brightened by the occasional smile.'

Tinuial raised a sceptical eyebrow, and made no response. She gazed up into the bright heavens. The sun burned pure and sublime as a beacon of enchanted gold, melting the doubtful things of night from memory with its dazzling touch. Yet strangely unable to dispel the faint imprint of darkness from her mind, she turned and searched distractedly for her brother, leaving Annariel staring once more into the clear waters beside her. Sisters they were in heart, though not in blood, and each passing year that flooded the green hills and valleys of Nargothrond seemed only to widen the gap between them.

The abode of Durthol and his kin had become strangely subdued - the dust-fringed halls and corridors had known merrier days. It stood now cold and near-silent, like a wraith-grey memory haunting the crest of the gentle hill. In ancient days, the building had been a gaurd tower, yet it had lain empty for long years, for the creatures of Morgoth never troubled this country in the heart of the great realm. Dour and comfortless the tower had been before the arrival of Tarien the fair, who was a weaver, and would drape radiant tapestries upon the bare walls, that shimmered even in darkness. With her golden beauty and the sound of her voice, the halls became flooded with light and sweet laughter. Since the passing of Tarien, all laughter had seemed stilted to the ears of Durthol, and he had grown cold and grim, ever gnawed by despair and guilt. During his last days in this house there had been endlessly tormented by the memory of his wife, who had been dearer to him than the divine lights of heaven.

Thaliondil threw open the doors of his father's chamber. Durthol was gone. Thick curtains veiled the window, and the room was bathed in grey shadow. Eyeing the chamber coldly, Thaliondil noted that it was much the same as ever, save that his many of father's weapons had been taken. In the chalky half-light, he discerned a small object upon the mantelpiece that caught his eye. Stumbling over to where it stood, he picked the thing up softly and clutched it in his trembling hand. It was the small figure of a running horse, sculpted of sleek black stone. It had belonged to his mother. Filled suddenly with a crushing sense of loss, he cast the thing to the ground, and it was cloven in two as it smote the hard floor. He fell to his knees beside the small broken object, and wept like a child.

Some time had passed, hours maybe, but Thaliondil could not tell. He had long ceased to weep, deciding somehow that tears were a luxury he could not afford. He cursed himself for his weakness - it was not a man's place to cry and wail like a babe in arms or a maiden. He sat now in heavy silence gazing ahead with unseeing eyes.

'Thaliondil!'

Tinuial ran over to her brother and knelt beside him.

'What is wrong? Have you taken hurt?' His face was pale and drawn, and stained with tears. When he did not answer Tinuial sighed and glanced to the floor, where she noticed the broken carving.

'How did this happen?' she whispered softly. Thaliondil turned to her.

'I broke it,' his voice was quiet, and all memory of his wrath had faded.

'How strange that it should be broken in such a way.' She picked up one of the pieces. By some chance, the statue had been cloven through the centre in an almost straight line, and when held to the side, it seemed whole.

'It can be mended.' She added hopefully.

'No, my sister. It cannot.' He sighed. He had no choice but to tell her of all that had befallen. And while he recounted the tale Tinuial sat silent and gazed sadly into her brother's eyes. After a while, Annariel joined them, and she too sat by her brother and listened to his account of what had befallen.

'Would that I had been able to dissude him.' Thaliondil muttered at last.

'You must not blame yourself.' Annariel tried to speak words of comfort, yet her face was grave and sad. 'Nothing would have prevented him, save death.'

'Death is all that he will find.'

'We do not know what may come to pass,' Annariel replied. 'He may yet live! We must have faith in him.'

'You did not see the fell light in his eyes,' Thaliondil replied dismally. 'You did not hear his words.'

'I did not. Yet still I look to his returning.' Annariel rose and left. Tinuial also rose, but she did not depart, and stood looking thoughtfully at her brother, who sat slumped against the harsh grey wall.

'I do not wish to remain here, only to await the return of one who will not come.' Her voice was empty, drained, as though she had reached some stage of stillness beyond sorrow.

'Annariel speaks truly,' Thaliondil said softly. 'Perhaps he will return, and all shall be well again. You must hope.' Yet his face belied his words entirely.

'You speak to me as though you address a child.' She replied a little indignantly.

'You are little more than a child, even by the reckoning of your own people.' He argued sternly.

'My own people!' She cried. 'Then you regard me as a stranger?'

'I did not say that.'

'Yet I am different from you and Annariel. I am mortal, and my years in this world are few. We mortals are weak - lowly when compared to the glory and strength of the Eldar. It has always been a source of great sorrow for me that the Doom of Men should be my fate. Soon enough I must die from this world, leaving behind all my loved ones. I must depart, soon or late.' Thaliondil watched her leave, but did not consider what she might mean.