Chapter Text
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume
Silver light came soft upon the woods, pale and clear, and the birds lifted their voices among the boughs. She woke with the light, and for a while lay still, watching the morning stir. Her heart was as if a thread had been drawn within it and would not slacken. At length she rose, laid out a white gown, and drew about her a green cloak, thinking to pass more quietly among the trees. Her basket she took again, and her longbow, meaning to hunt and gather berries.
The forest received her lightly. Dew lay on the fern, and where she stepped the prints faded, for she moved as one well taught to go in silence. She kept to the hidden paths that wound toward the western shore, and often she paused, listening; yet it was not now for the whisper of streams or the tread of deer. By slow degrees she came where the trees thinned and a meadow spread before her, sweet with berries and silvered by the early light.
Hours passed, the stars brightened, and the shadows grew faint. Then she heard, borne along the forest paths, a sound not of bird nor water: a swift thrashing in the undergrowth, and a cry of pain cut short.
She stilled. The forest hushed about her, as if it too were listening. Again the sound came, lower; and with it the labored breath of the one wounded. She set down her basket and moved toward the noise, slipping between hazel and holly, following broken fern and the drag of a heavy thing across the dry leaf.
In a hollow she found him—an Elf, pale and sweating, dark hair clinging to his brow. His leg was torn above the knee; blood soaked his boot and pooled among the roots.
He looked up as she came, and managed a grimace that might have been a smile. “A boar,” he said between his teeth. “Ill-tempered and swift. I was the nearer fool.”
“Be still,” she answered, kneeling. With a glance she set the wound in her mind—the lay of the tear, the places where the blood welled most. Swiftly she drew her knife, cut a strip from her dress, and with firm hands bound the limb above the gash. She twisted it with a stick until the flow lessened. “You bleed too freely,” she said, her voice calm though her breath was quickened. “You must have fire, and water, and a herb that grows by the lake. Can you stand, if I help you?”
He gave a short laugh that ended in a wince. “If I cannot, I shall be poor company for the wolves—or rather a good one.”
She slipped beneath his arm and took his weight, more than she had thought; yet she did not falter. Slowly they climbed out of the hollow and made their way along the path, pausing often while his breath steadied. In this manner they came at length to the outer rings of his camp; and there, at the sight of the wounded Elf leaning on a white-haired maiden, a cry went up, and two others ran swiftly to them, red-haired both and like to one another as reflections in water.
There she halted. For upon the strand she beheld not one but many—tall figures going to and fro, a brightness and a restlessness about them such as she had never seen. Some tended horses, others bore longswords or spears, and near the water the frames of tents stood in ordered rows, their canvas stirring as with a breath not felt among the trees. She marked a company gathered before a low fire: dark heads and bright, stern faces and quick hands, one who laughed sudden and low, another who spoke swiftly in a voice keen as steel on stone. They were unlike each to another, and yet a likeness ran among them, a glimmer as of one flame held in many lamps, a kindred pride.
“Laurë!” cried one. “What madness is this?”
“Not so much as yours, brother,” the wounded one gasped, yet relief touched his smile. “The boar and I had a misunderstanding, and he was the more persuasive.”
“Bring him to the fire,” said the other, and he turned to her with a searching glance wherein anxiety and courtesy were mingled. “Lady…”
She had already moved ahead, her eyes falling to the flame and the small pot that hung above it. “Water,” she said. “And clean cloth, if you have it.” To one who lingered she added, “There is a plant I must have, low and silver-veined, with narrow leaves that smell of apple when bruised. It grows along damp stones near the lake.”
“I know it,” said the first twin, and ran.
They settled Maglor by the fire. She knelt, unbinding the makeshift tourniquet as the water warmed. When the herb came, she crushed the leaves until the scent rose sharp and clean, and cast them into the steaming pot. She washed the wound, speaking softly under her breath, and a pale light kindled under her fingers that steadied the blood and coaxed the flesh to knit. When she had finished, she dressed the gash and bound it firm.
“It will hold,” she said, sitting back. “Keep him from walking until the light is twice up. If fever comes, brew more of the leaves and bathe the leg again.” She rose, and then became aware of the circle that had formed: faces bright with firelight, intent upon her; the twins nearest, their quick eyes alight with relief and wonder.
“You have a healer’s hands,” said one, low, “and a heart to match them. We are in your debt.”
“Let him sleep,” she answered, half-smiling despite the press of their regard. “That will mend more than any herb.” She turned away, hoping to slip from the company ere the strangeness of it overcame her, for though gratitude warmed the air, it weighed on her also, and she longed for leaves and quiet.
She went down to the water where the shore ran soft, and knelt to wash the stain of blood from her fingers. The lake held the late colors of the sky, rose and paling gold, and her face, bending over it, seemed to look up from another world.
“Fair maiden,” said a voice behind her, quiet and clear. “Accept my thanks.”
Startled, she rose, and turned. He stood tall, perhaps too tall for her liking, hair falling about his shoulders like a blanket of red flame. His white shirt was open at the throat, a dark red cloak clasped back. In his face was gravity, yet warmth as well, and though his eyes were keen, they were not harsh.
“You aided my brother when his need was sharp,” he said. “For that I am bound to you in courtesy—and in gladness besides. Last we met, you fled ere you gave me your name. Will you grant it now, and ease my wondering?”
“My mother named me Helcelótë.” she said, her voice scarcely above the wash of water on the stones.
He tilted his head, as though tasting the sound. “Helcelótë,” he repeated softly. “I am Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro. Will you not tarry a little? A meal is being set by the fire. Take it as a token of our thanks, and sit in peace.”
She hesitated, caught between old habit and his gentle tone. Behind him the camp had fallen to a lower murmur; the fire burned steady, and the smell of baked grain and meat drifted on the air. At last she bowed her head. “I will sit awhile.”
So he led her back, and a space was made near the warmth. They gave her bread and a portion of stew in a small wooden bowl, and a cup of clear water from the spring. Maglor slept, his leg raised and bound; Ambarussa kept watch beside him, his bright hair kindled by the firelight.
For a time none spoke to her, and she was content to listen. The murmur of the company folded round her like a garment she was not used to wearing, heavy, yet not unkind. At last, finding courage, she turned to the red-haired one where he sat a little apart, the curve of the flame reflected in his eyes.
“Why have you come here?” she asked softly. “Your people, I have not seen the like before, in such number, and with such…brightness.”
“We have journeyed far,” he said, and a shadow, and then a light, passed across his face. “Out of the West we came, out of Valinor.”
“Valinor?” she repeated, frowning. “What is that?”
The talk stilled. Near at hand one of the brothers lifted his head; another exchanged a glance, quick and curious. Maedhros regarded her closely, as one who hears a riddle spoken by lips that know it not. “It is a fair land,” he said at last, “beyond the Sea, where the Powers dwell, and our people with them. Long we lived there under the blessed light.” He paused. “You have never heard its name?”
She lowered her gaze and shook her head. “No. I know the forest and the lake, where my people woke. I know the paths of deer, the hours of birds, the herbs that heal, the cry of wolves at night. Of Valinor I have not heard.”
A silence followed, intent rather than heavy. Maedhros opened his mouth to speak further, but far off in the deepening wood, a long howl rose and fell and was answered. The bowl in her hands trembled.
“I must go,” she said, rising. “The forest is not safe when only the stars shine.”
“May we send a guard with you?”
She shook her head. “No need. I am swift, and the way is known to me.” She bowed. “Your meal was kindly given, and I am glad your brother will mend.”
“Lady Helcelótë,” said Maedhros, setting the name aside as one keeps a rare thing, “If you have further need, come to us. There is welcome here for you.”
She did not answer, but for a breath she met his eyes. In them she saw the reflection of fire and the hint of a grief unspoken. Then she turned and went swiftly from the ring of light, and the forest closed about her, tall and dark.
When she was gone, the brothers spoke softly. Some wondered at the skill of her hands, some at the boldness of her step, others at the strangeness of her ignorance. And the tallest sat a while in silence, looking toward the shadowed wood, until at last he stirred and turned to his brother, and the camp resumed its labors. Yet a small unrest, like the after-ringing of a struck bell, lingered in more than one heart.
As for her, she moved swift through the trees, and though the wolves called again, they seemed far off. The thread within her had not slackened, it drew the more, as if the path were set when first the lake took the colour of the sky. She reached her dwelling beneath the boughs and laid aside her cloak. For a time she stood with her palms against the wall, breathing the scent of leaf and bark until her heartbeat grew even. She lit a little lamp and opened a book, more to quiet her hands than to seek wisdom, but the letters swam, and she smiled, faint and helpless, at her own poor pretense.
At last she darkened the lamp and lay down. She closed her eyes, and the camp-fire shone before them; she opened them, and the same fire burned on the blank of the wall. Somewhere in the wood the wolves cried again, thin and far. And sleep came then, gentle as mist rising from the lake.
Near midnight a soft knock came on the door, closer to the brush of a fingertip. She rose, drew her cloak about her, and unbarred the door.
Mairon stood outside, lantern hooded, the small circle of light touched only his hands. His silken blonde hair shone in the starlight akin to the golden hem of his black cloak. “Meldië,” he said softly. “You were long abroad.”
“The wood held me,” she answered, yet she felt the lie, for it had not been the forest alone.
He looked past her into the room, then back to her face. “You met folk by the lake.” Not a question.
She drew breath. “Elves,” she said. “Many. They were courteous, when I had not looked for it.”
He inclined his head, as though weighing a tool newly forged. “They are not to be trusted. Their quarrels run hot, trouble draws to them as filings to a lodestone. It would please me greatly if you kept away.”
Her heart pricked at the word “pleased”, as at a rose-thorn under silk.
“They did me no hurt,” she said.
“For now.” He unhooded the lantern a little, the light found the fine bones of his hand. “Do you not trust me?”
She did not answer at once. Then, quickly: “Of course.”
His gaze eased, he lowered the hood again. “Good. Keep to the paths you know. If you must pass that shore, speak to none and let them pass you as wind through reeds.” He set the lantern at the threshold, as if gifting her the light, and stepped back into the trees. “Sleep now, Meldië.”
She stood a while with the lamp in her hand. The room was as it had been, yet something in it seemed newly arranged.