Spectres of the Past
You were incredibly fortunate to arrive back in Endataurëo with nearly a full day to spare. Orundómë has outdone himself, carrying you between your meetings with a speed that even an Eagle of Manwë would respect. Frankly you are looking forward to the break, perhaps even reading a book.
Then the sounds of yelling come from the hall outside your office, as well as that of pounding feet. The door slams open, and Solas comes in, frog marching one of the Nandëo… Wait. Is that Shilya?
Immediately behind Solas comes Paloma, who you assume was the officer at the gate. "You can't just barge in here without warning. I'm sorry, sir, he just opened the gates somehow and stormed in here."
"I don't have time to deal with your pretences and pointless grandstanding." Solas all but snarls. "This is important."
"Thank you Paloma, I will handle the matter from here." You dismiss the woman. "I see you have succeeded at retrieving Shilya from the mirror."
The Hahrehn stirs at the sound of your voice, staring at you with unfocussed eyes.
"For a certain value of success." Solas mutters.
Before you can respond, the eyes sharpen and Shilya bows.
"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo [1]." She says.
"Nai calanta calyar cendelëlya [2]." You reflexively reply, then you freeze.
For a single long moment you stare at the Nandëo who just opened with the traditional greeting of the Noldro. Slowly you turn your gaze to Solas who sighs.
"As you can see, she is not exactly herself." He says tiredly. "Sometimes it is better, and she is almost coherent, other times she thinks she is one of us. Most of the time she is like this, a strange incoherent mix of all three."
"I see." You state, frowning in thought. "I take it that you brought her to me as Marethari proved too emotionally volatile to be of assistance?"
"Something like that." He replies. "Also, you are the only one who understands whatever that language is."
"Mana quétarllë? [3]" Shilya asks.
Rather than respond in Quenya, you do so in Thedas' tongue, to gauge what she knows. "We are simply discussing a shared project of ours."
Shilya nods and her eyes unfocus before she can responds. You share a glance with Solas who looks equally confused and annoyed. With no help coming from his end you decide to continue your attempts to understand the situation.
With a cough you bring her attention to yourself once more and ask, "What is your name?"
"Essënya Shilya [4]" She replies dreamily, then her eyes unfocus entirely.
After a few attempts at regaining her attention are responded to with nonsense phrases in a mixture of Quenya, Sindarin, Elvhen and Thedaslta, you turn back to Solas.
"What did she say?" He asks.
"We exchanged greetings, she asked what we were talking about and told me her name was Shilya." You reply tightly. "What has happened to her?"
Solas glares at you for a moment, then relaxes back into his seat with yet another sigh. "I don't know. Nobody knows. Whatever happened to her is so completely unprecedented that not only do I not know what happened, I have been completely unable to find a spirit who knows either."
"Yet, you have brought her into the physical world once more." You observe calmly. "That must have required some understanding of the situation."
Solas rubs his forehead. "Yes, some. Dealing with that hunger within her was not impossible, it is similar to attempting to return a spirit to its true nature from a demon. It is difficult but possible. From there creating something she could move in was a challenge, but again one that has been done before."
"Creating an Elvhen body whole cloth has been done before?" You ask sceptically.
Solas visibly pauses for a moment. "Yes. I found a record in the Fade about an ancient practice used by evil mages to extend their lives. With donations from volunteers it is even possible to use it as a form of artificial conception."
"This practice is how you created her body?" You ask, not quite accusingly but close.
Solas gives you a flat look. "It is different. I could explain it to you, but without offence I doubt you would understand it."
"I will let it go for now." You allow at length. "In favour of asking where we go from here?"
Solas gestures at the woman who is beginning to stir again, muttering to herself in Elvhen. "I was hoping that you would aid with this matter, now that we have left the aspect that you found distasteful."
"Of course." You reply at once. "As I said I am happy to lend my expertise, such as it is."
Solas gives you a sceptical look and says something about speaking less and being of more assistance. You ignore him. While you are willing to accept that he is tired and frustrated, and thus deserves a certain amount of leeway, his attitude is still most rude, and does not deserve acknowledgement.
You dive into your memories in search of something, anything that might help you aid Shilya. You know that the halls welcome banished wraiths and you feel as though surely you have heard a conversation about how it is accomplished somewhere. Was it Namo himself?
No, it could not be, he was not one prone to walking among the Eldar, and if he was present somewhere, Manwë usually was too. Of the two Valar the latter was always the one you would rather speak to, given his role more closely aligned with what you wished to do with your life.
Deeper and deeper you fall into memory, searching every time you have dealt with or spoken about wraiths. The last days of the First Age are of no use, as they were thrown back or sent to Mandos. The early days of the Years of the Trees are equally worthless, for why would any elda in Aman speak of death in those days?
If there was a chance that it would be discussed it would be in the days when the trees darkened. Then were the hearts of your people heavy and thoughts of death and danger were close to the surface,
Alas! You were not at the great gathering of the Noldor, you were near Formenos with your brothers. It was you seven who found your grandfather's broken body and as such you heard nothing of the discussions in those latter days until you joined with your father and he roused the Noldor.
You despair of finding any memory.
Then, just when you are about to stop, a glimmer of memory catches your attention. You had met Mandos, once, and only briefly. It stands out chiefly for how bizarre the memory is.
"Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol." The grim voice filled the glade you were in like an oppressive silence. "I have something for you."
You had scrambled out of the tree you had been lying in. You bowed sloppily, half hiding the book you were reading behind your back.
"My lord Namo." You managed to say steadily. "I had not expected you, what have I done to deserve this honour?"
"It is no honour." The Judge said weightily, looking down at you. "I come with a gift."
A sleeved arm extended, no hand in sight. You swallowed nervously and reached out for the book proffered to you. On Souls and Identity it was called, a heavy black tome with iron fittings.
"You will need it." Mandos pronounced heavily.
"I thank you my lord, but if it is not too pertinent a question, might I ask as to the reason I might need such a tome?" You had asked.
"No." The Judge spoke. "If I were to advise you on matters yet to come, I would caution against the swearing of reckless oaths."
You had not managed to assemble much of a reply before there was flicker in your vision, and the Vala was gone.
You read the book quickly, it was written in a heavy bold hand, all in block letters akin to something you might make for a child. The information within was dense and made your head ache to understand, still you read it, trusting the warning of Mandos.
Then someone had emerged from the halls, and had immediately begun to argue over whether or not he technically owned the clothes he had woven himself [5]. The book had hastened your decisions on the matter greatly. You sent the book back to Mandos with a note of thanks and some fruit.
You received no reply.
Now as you stared at Shilya, you wondered once more how much Namo knew of events to come, and if that gift had been weightier than you realised.
"This will sound very strange indeed." You state slowly. "But I know what we need to do."
"Is this… Safe?" Solas asks, looking over the various items you have gathered.
"Of course it is." You state dismissively. "Of course, if one were to not follow the instructions the consequences would be dire, but I have no intention of deviating from them."
"It is not your intentions I am questioning." Solas remarks dryly.
"My memory lacks the bizarre failings of human recollections." You remind him. "Have I not displayed appropriate caution? I removed myself from this situation because I was unsure I could help, I would not return to it if I was not certain that had changed."
Solas is silent for a long moment, then he sighs.
"Tell me what exactly will this accomplish?" He asks heavily.
"It should, if it works, return Shilya to an understanding of herself." You explain, somewhat needlessly."
"I know that!" Solas pulls himself up short, and takes a deep calming breath. "What I meant to ask is, how will this, ritual, achieve that?"
"That is a deceptively complicated question to answer." You reply carefully. "First, this is not a ritual, nor is it a spell at all."
"Then what is it?" Solas hisses.
"A moment, I must walk you through the chain of logic that leads to the solution." You state soothingly. "Wraiths are souls that have clung to the world too long and have had much of their 'selves' shaved away. This is what leads to their hunger. Now, we do not have the time, nor do I have the knowledge or skill, for the decades to centuries of healing that would normally address this."
Solas is giving you a cautionary look, but he lets you continue.
"However, unlike most wraiths Shilya has not spent many many years exposing her soul to the wind of Mandos and all the hardships of the houseless." You explain. "In fact, her problem is actually different, she has lost herself in a sea of memory, in this we have our advantage."
You gesture to the assembled items before you. "Here we have a blindfold to shut out the external stimuli, most pertinently ourselves, to slow the rush of memory. Then the Diphylleia, to promote self knowledge. Then the instrument, traditional to the Dalish, on which you shall play a song from her youth."
"And while I am doing that you will be?" Solas asks.
"Mine is the most important and riskiest task." You state. "It shall be my role to coax her emotions to stillness, to cease the rushing of her thoughts and cause her to reflect, and to find herself."
Solas is giving you a searching look, and you shrug in response. "It is used as part of rehabilitation, when a wraith grows too agitated, primarily to calm them and help them recentre themselves."
Solas looks over the muttering Nandëo. "Are you certain this will work?"
"I cannot be certain, but we have taken all possible steps to ensure it will." You state firmly.
Solas takes several deep breaths. "I have never played this instrument before."
"The quality of the playing should not matter, and the pattern is simple." You reassure him. "Follow the movements I showed you and take your time. It is more important that the right notes are played in sequence than that the tempo is correct."
Slowly, the elf reaches out and begins to play.
"Shilya, listen to me." You begin.
The tone is wrong, you know it the moment you speak. Too much time around humans, children and horses. It is condescending to someone who would consider themselves old as Shilya must.
You pause, take a deep breath, drawing on a well of patience honed over years and start again.
"Shilya, please, take a moment." You start anew. "Focus on the sound of my voice."
From the outside nothing seems to change at first, but her face does relax. Then she stops muttering to herself and you believe she is focused on what you are saying.
Then you begin to follow the instructions. Speaking softly, injecting as much magnetism in your voice as you can without stepping too obviously into command.
'Keep her focus, guide her thoughts.' You remind yourself.
"I need you to focus on a memory." You instruct her. "A time when you were happy."
This is the most difficult part. It is supposed to ground the wraith, help them remember what it means to be an elf and not a howling spirit of rage and pain. You are hoping it will help her realise that she is neither you nor Solas.
"Do you have the memory?" You ask.
A blindfolded head nods.
"What is happening?" You prompt.
"I'm riding with my brothers, we're racing Írissë. " Shilya says.
"Can you do me a favour, Shilya." You stress her name slightly. "Place one hand on your chest."
She does so, and immediately frowns.
One advantage you have here, and the one you plan on leveraging, is that neither you nor Solas are female.
"Do you have the memory?" You ask again. "Do not move your hand."
She nods again.
"Do you feel the way you do now?" You ask, not quite sure how to delicately ask if she has swollen mammary glands in her memory.
She shakes her head.
"Find a memory. One where you feel the way you do now. Do not rush. Take your time." You instruct gently.
Several times you have her repeat the test until at last she says she feels the way she is now. It is a memory of her wedding.
"Describe the wedding to me, Shilya." You ask soothingly. "Who is there?"
Slowly she describes the people. The groom, Marethari, those who are now Hahren, but were not in those days. So too does she mention others you have not met. A mother, a father, siblings, Hahren now passed.
That this is her first memory proves fortuitous in building the connections out further, as neither you nor Solas are wed. Further, the variety of people allow for stronger connections to be forged. It still takes hours, painstakingly walking through her memories, connecting them one to another.
Solas too deserves credit. His playing strengthens as he goes and he never once slackens, even as the hours pass.
Finally, Shilya removes the blindfold and looks at the two of you.
"I… I'm awake?" She asks shakily. "I, I feel as though I have had a terrible nightmare. It felt so real… and so sad."
"How much of it do you remember?" Solas asks, a little too quickly, but you understand his concern.
"Some of it? Most of it?" She says slowly. "I don't know, it's all so confused."
"You have suffered terribly." You say apologetically, helping her up. "You need rest. But before that, please allow me to tender my humblest apologies. If not for me you would never have suffered so."
Shilya does not respond and you do not make her. She looks as though she is on the verge of falling asleep, and you were not lying when you said she needed rest. Solas takes her back to the clan.
You feel content, glad that this particular error has now been corrected. If only they were all so easy.
Buying and Selling
"Something's up today." Delora's first customer says.
"Yeah, the barrels in my wagon. That you need to move." The elf replies pointedly.
"I'm telling you, something funky's going on with that new trade guild thing." The customer continues obliviously.
"Their owner is some kind of weird super elf from the Fade, who is also a creepy stalker." Delora says seriously. "Funky is the kindest thing you could say about it."
"I heard he didn't show up to a meeting last week, and ever since then he's been avoiding his responsibilities." The customer whispers.
"Like how you're avoiding moving these barrels?" Delora asks, unimpressed.
"Something is rotten in the state of Ferelden." The man says, staring at the horizon.
"So, like, you've already paid, I can just take these barrels elsewhere." Delora states tiredly.
That seems to manage to get the human moving at least, but it's not the last time she hears about the whole affair.
"Did you hear that the Dark Moth company might be dissolving?" Asks a noble.
"I heard that that mysterious head got assaulted in his office." A random woman feels the need to tell Delora.
"Tell your boss to stop barging into our office and yelling at my employer!" Their newest customer yells at her. "It's doing terrible things to my stress levels."
When she finally meets up with Martin at their final delivery he asks, "Hey, did you hear about the Dark Moth Company thing?"
"YES!" Delora screams at the top of her lungs.
"Alright, sorry." Martin says, holding up his hands defensively. "Just wondering if you had any thoughts on it. Given Maeglin's, uh, whole thing."
"I don't like thinking about him or his stupid company, and frankly I could care less what he's doing." Delora growls.
"It's couldn't care less." Martin corrects carefully.
Delora shoots him a venomous glare that stops him from speaking at last. However their customer, a dwarf who runs an inn, has his head cocked to the side and is stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"What's Maeglin gotten up to with you, lass?" He asks.
"None of your business." She snaps.
"Alright." The dwarf says with a shrug. "If he's up to anything shady, let me know. Don't want that sort in my pub. Get enough stress from that blasted void."
Delora ignores the muttered comment at the end, and focuses on the first statement. "Sure. Whatever you say."
"I ain't a liar girl." The dwarf growls. "Facts are, you're one of my suppliers, and we're both not humans in a city made and run by them. I don't stick up for you, I lost supply, and it might be me next. Dust one, dust all."
Delora blinks in confusion. "Thanks. I guess. It's not like it was a big deal. Just a bit of a scare."
"Grand. Keep me in the loop." The dwarf grunts. "Merchants aren't the worst, but they're up there."
Delora isn't sure how to respond.
"Ok, that's your order." Martin says to the dwarf. "Thanks for your patronage."
The dwarf grunts in reply.
The human pauses awkwardly. "Uh, that thing you said about dust… What did you mean by it exactly?"
"None of your business merchant." The dwarf replies flatly.
The two non dwarves share a look and a shrug. A few pleasantries are exchanged then they depart.
After a few minutes travelling Delora speaks up. "Alright, we're done. Why'd we set out so early again?"
"Well." Martin says. "We're picking up the extra carts so we can fulfil an emergency order I got."
"Yeah?" Delora asks leadingly.
"The king's having some kind of party or something." Martin explains with a shrug. "And we've got that wine that matured."
"You mean the enormous vat that you said was never going to mature?" Delora asks teasingly.
"You know I said that sarcastically." Martin replies tiredly.
"Sure, now you say it was sarcasm." Delora continues to tease.
The human rolls his eyes. "I don't even know why I tried to argue that."
Delora doesn't either. The man has two daughters, he should know better.
"Actually, now that I think about it, we've got quite a bit of wine maturing." She says. "How many barrels are we delivering?"
"Oh, one hundred or so." Martin replies.
For a long moment Delora stares into the horizon, then looks about her at the passing citizens.
"We're going to get mugged." She says with weary resignation.
As it turns out, having a lot of soldiers with nothing to do hanging around is actually a great deterrent to thieves and muggers, so they don't. Delora's a little surprised when Martin still teases her mercilessly about it.
She really shouldn't be. He's a father of two daughters, she should know better.
Weekly Report
There is little news of note from your informants. Reports on troop movements would be helpful in a number of where you have walked up to the leaders of the movement and asked what they are doing are not among that number.
Fortunately the news on the home front is better, or at least more useful. The Chasind are getting organised, the farms you ordered begun have finished which means that you should have some food surplus. Merrill is in a foul mood, which is not great.
Still, it's been a reasonably successful week, and with the right decisions in the next two weeks you should be more than ready to march when the time comes.
[1] May the stars shine on the hour of our meeting.
[2] May their light illuminate your face.
[3] What are you saying. Lit. What you (plural) speaking?
[4] My name is Shilya Lit. My name Shilya or (Quenya does not usually use the copula which is a term I had to learn for this translation specifically)
[5] This would have to be someone who died before they arrived in Aman, while I find it hard to believe that nobody died by accident but Finwe is said to be the first elf to die in Aman by the Silmarillion.
