(A/N:  Many, many thanks to those of you who have been following this convoluted tale!  Thanks to my beta, the remarkable Nieriel Raina, this chapter is now ready for your consumption.  Be sure to thank her!  Without her help, my writing would be nearly incomprehensible.

--Le Rouret)

Chapter 27.  The Sun-Daughter

Dúrfinwen scrambled up the rocky slope in the dark, sobbing as she went.  “No – no,” she moaned, scrabbling in the rock and dirt; the palm of her left hand was bloodied, and the knuckles of her right battered; the sword she had stolen from Vé’s cache was clutched tight in her fist, and she in her trembling panic would at times accidentally cut her left arm as she lurched and staggered along.  “Eat … Muhk … crawl, crawl – “  The loose shingle slid beneath her feet and she fell, striking her head on the rock wall; it stunned her slightly, and she lay weeping for a time, curled up as tight as she could, her left hand covering her stubbled head.

It was dark; so, so dark, and she was so afraid; the eyes were everywhere, the hands cruel and grasping, and echoing through her head were the voices – raucous, harsh, laughing, and the screams of her friends.  And ever, piercing her and driving her thoughts away, the red-gleaming, jet-glittering eyes, and the stench, O the stench!  Death, and mud, and pain; it filled her skull to bursting, ‘til she felt like clawing out her eyes.

Her fear filled her wasted bones with new strength, and she lurched to her feet, blindly groping upward, out of the harsh light and glittering gold behind her, echoing yet with the voices of her captors.  She looked up, and beheld the twinkle of stars; they were beautiful, and strange, yet in their strangeness she knew she ought to recognize them.  She cringed back, clasping ever tighter the stolen sword in her torn and wasted hands; the tip of the blade trembled with the force of her grip.  She looked down at it, its shining knuckle-bow embossed and etched, the elaborate frill of the counterguard.  She saw also her hands, strong in fear despite her trials, still torn from her struggle with the ropes that had bound her on that golden bed.

What good was it, escaping the gold and fire and rope, to die beneath the cold regard of those sparkling and remote stars?  Sword or no, she knew she was weak and alone, and her enemies were many.  The weight of the rock pressed down upon her soul, trapping and smothering her; but outside the confines of the tunnel she would be stripped bare and defenseless, vulnerable and isolated.  She gave a frustrated sob, clutching at her forehead, unable to make up her mind – the press of the earth over her, or the shivering elements; she was doomed either way.

Give up, said the voices in her head, soothing and reasonable.  Release yourself; end the pain.  End it – end it –  And it would have been so easy, so easy to wedge the hilt in one of those jagged stone cracks and pierce herself through, releasing her tormented mind at last.  But deep in Dúrfinwen’s soul there remained yet a tough, hardened core, a fierce and illogical stubbornness that despite her madness rose up in protest – Not yet, she answered, and gathering the tattered remains of her courage, she turned from the tempting clefts in the rock to brave the starlight after all.

But somewhere beneath her feet rumbled a bellow – like a curse from the deepest bowels of Mandos, evil and filled with despair – and overcome in her terror she collapsed, casting the blade down, and covering her head with her arms and groaning, “No, no … you promised … you promised!”  Another bellow, like the alarm of a necromancer, and the dread of it filled her and set her bones to trembling; it seemed to seep within her very skin, soaking into her so that she couldn’t escape it.

Then – the clouds broke; the noise faded; the eyes disappeared – and Dúrfinwen remembered her name.

She sat still, marveling at her empty mind, the clean thoughts and memories; then the enormity of her past rose up in front of her, and it was far more terrible than her madness had been.  She sprang to her feet with a harsh curse, snatched up her sword, and burst out of the tunnel into the starlight, unsure where she would go, or what she would do; she desired only to escape the awful images in her head.

She ran, her breath shrill in the back of her throat, her heart hammering like a drum.  She slid down rocky slopes, falling to her knees only to leap up and run some more; she cared not for her destination, but wished only to run, run, run – away from the memories, now sharp and clear and horribly close, of her friends’ torment, and her own disgrace.  She wept as she ran, her eyes swimming with tears, sobbing harshly; at last she could run no more, and casting the sword aside, she collapsed upon the moist earth, panting and crying. 

When she had caught her breath, she lay on the ground, curling her legs up into her belly and staring at the sword by her hand gleaming dully in the starlight.  Despair followed dismay all too easily; she lay in blue and silver shadows, breathing in dust and dirt and the strange, homey smell of grass, of shrub and kine.  End it, whispered the voices again; the starlight glinted on the blade, tempting her.  But then she heard the heavy shuffling movement of a large animal, and rolled over wearily, hoping it were a lion come to devour her, and so end her misery.

But she sat up in surprise, for looking down at her was a little white horse!  “I know you,” she said, amazed; the small stallion glowed like snow in the dimness, his black eyes curious and unafraid.  “You are Tormal’s cart-horse … I would know your stout neck and funny face anywhere.”

The little white horse shuffled up to her, head lowered, sniffing.  He was chewing comfortably, long stalks of grass with dirt still on the roots sticking from his mouth like wriggling whiskers.  She put out her hand, and he snuffed at it; his lips were wet and warm.  Then he nosed about around her, finding more grass, and twitched it with his upper lip, and ate it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, greatly puzzled.  “You ought to be in Eryn Vorn – not – not here …”   She trailed off, and got to her feet, dusting off her breeches.  “Here … where am I, anyway?”  She looked around.  She had ended up somehow in a little green vale, speckled with scrubby bushes and small stunted trees; but there was the sound and smell of fresh water trickling nearby, and the low comforting hoot of an owl.  A dark mass to her left she readily identified as a wood; she could hear the trees, calling to her, pitying her, welcoming her.  She took a deep breath; the air was clean – no smell of decay, or smoke, or death.  The little white horse thrust his nose into her hand, and drooled on her.  She gave a breathy laugh.

“The same as always, Snowy, are you not?” she asked, caressing the broad short ears; they were velvety to the touch.  “Ever you would leave some smut of half-chewed greenery upon my skirts and sleeves … but I begrudge you not; Tormal is not a loving master, is he?”  The little horse let her rub his nose, whickering a little and nibbling on the tunic sleeve.  Absently Dúrfinwen looked down at her clothing; she did not recognize it.  “I am dressed like a boy,” she said to the horse, amused despite her pain and fear.  “Well, it is not as though anyone is around to see me …”   She trailed off, her heart sinking when she thought of her beautiful wardrobe, filled with dress after dress in glorious embroidery hanging; of her pin-tucked petticoats, elaborate sleeves and shining ribbons.  And gone was the pretty riding-dress she had worn when striking out with Belias, Belegtilion, and Melima to the East – the pretty dress Edlothiel had given her, its very beading worked upon the collar by her beautiful queen’s hand.  How she had ever envied Edlothiel her hair – her long, glorious, silvery-white hair, like a cataract of mithril!  And how as a child she had despised her own chestnut curls!  She touched her head, and felt the scarred and stubbled scalp; and then she remembered Belias’ breaking grief, when he was forced to see her so violently lose her status as a maid in a prince’s household.  She felt ill when the images of those terrible men returned to her; but she fought them back, and buried her face in the horse’s fragrant mane.  “I will not think on it,” she said into the warm soft neck.  “It is … it is too much … O, Melima, poor Melima!”  She wept anew then, more comfortable with pity than shame; then the voices of the trees called her again, and she heard, warbling in some hidden brake, the voice of a nightingale.

She smelled fir and pine and loam, and the lure of the fresh green overtook her.  It would do Melima’s memory no good for her to waste away in this sparse wilderness; she might as well seek to determine the fate of her people and lands, in spite of her handicaps.  She picked up the sword and hefted it.  It was a light blade, almost a rapier; not a weapon with which she was terribly familiar, beyond the standard combat training any member of the prince’s household followed.  But it felt solid and comforting in her grip, and she reflected that it was better than nothing.  Following the nightingale’s voice, she walked toward the dark wood, Tormal’s cart-horse following at her elbow, head down, ears pricked forward.  Together they trudged beneath the eaves and boughs of the wood, and Dúrfinwen’s Laiquenda soul rejoiced to touch the green and living things; she leant against the bole of a fir tree, inhaling the sharp fragrance, and sighed.

Then the trees spoke to her in soft cautioning tones, telling her of a walker nearby; trembling, she sank behind a low shrub, resisting the urge to cry angrily to the heavens that she had had quite enough by now, thank you!  But then the trees relented, and the warning faded into reassurance; crawling cautiously out from the shelter of the shrub, Dúrfinwen looked around, sniffing, her sword held low.  She smelled something burning … something fragrant and familiar.  “Pipe-smoke!” she thought, surprised; she knew the men of Dale and Esgaroth did not indulge.  “Is it a Dwarf, I wonder?”  And she rose shakily to her feet.

Something fluttered by her head, and she started; it was however but a nightingale, clicking and chirping earnestly.  She looked back at the white horse.  “Well?” she asked him.   “Do I follow?”  The horse merely stood and chewed at her, and with a wry smile, Dúrfinwen turned to the nightingale.  “Well, lead then!” she said, and the bird disappeared around the trunk of a large oak.

She went round it, but the bird had vanished; greatly puzzled, she pushed forward through the thickening wood ‘til she came upon a clearing.  Then she stopped and stared, her heart in her throat.

The old man was knocking his pipe on a branch; ashes and burnt weed tumbled out of it and misted onto his dirty brown cloak.  He merely grunted and shook out the sleeves, tucked the pipe into a soft leather pouch at his waist, and removed his hat, scratching at his grizzled hair.  He did not seem to notice Dúrfinwen at all, but was muttering to himself, frowning into his tangled, dirty brown beard and glaring at the plants by his feet.  “Comfrey, star-weed, butterbur,” he growled, kicking at the unoffending flowers with one dusty boot.  “Toadflax … lemon balm … marjoram … elecampane … not hyssop, damn it!  And too cold for aloe.”

The horse nickered, and Dúrfinwen jumped in alarm; the old man but looked irritably at her and said:  “Well, Anóriel, don’t just stand and stare!  Help me find these herbs!  You are the Laiquenda, after all.”

Dúrfinwen was stunned; the old man simply glared at her, his brown eyes glittering dangerously beneath lowered brows.  Not quite knowing what else to say, and her senses numbed by repeated bludgeoning, she said:  “Toadflax, sir?”

“Toadflax will do,” he growled, shifting his dirty brown cloak.  “Comfrey is best.  But I must – must! – have star-weed, or the burns inside will never heal.”

“No?”  Dúrfinwen stepped back cautiously, sword at ready; the white cart-horse whickered and blew, nosing at her feet incuriously.  “Star-weed … grows hereabouts.”

“I know it does, Anóriel!” snapped the old man.  “That is why I brought you here to find it.  So, find it already!”

He is madder than I, she thought, only vaguely alarmed; she reflected that very little besides death would rival what she had already experienced – and even then, death might be preferable.  So sniffing and casting about, she sensed the star-weed, and a patch of butterbur too; she drifted through the thick holly brakes toward it, the prickly branches lifting for her as she passed.  The cart-horse followed, lipping casually at the leaves; the old man stumped along behind them, grumbling under his breath.

Dúrfinwen found the star-weed, and watched bemusedly as the old man harvested it, root to leaf-tip.  Then, still calling her “Anóriel” and berating her relentlessly, he harried her to help him find comfrey, and butterbur, and lemon-balm and elecampane.  When his sack was full he shoved the plants into her arms; she held them as a maid newly presented in court displays her bouquets, and the little white horse nibbled on them; her sword stuck awkwardly out until she decided the old man posed little threat to her, and she slipped it carefully into the tunic belt.  “Enough of that,” the old man growled.  “Is that the only horse you’ve brought us, Anóriel?  That’s very short-sighted of you! We will have to walk.”

“I have walked all this way already, and I perceive you are as I mountless,” said Dúrfinwen, weary of supporting his grumbling; she felt she had done quite well to lead him to his plants, and not cut off his beard.  “And this is not my horse.  He belongs to Tormal, though what he is doing here is beyond my ken.”

“You could have thought to collect the others as you went,” said the old man discontentedly, stumping to the edge of a clearing and glaring at her.  “They’re out there wandering around; we might as well put them to good use.”

“Why do you not catch them yourself?” asked Dúrfinwen; her arm was starting to ache from holding the herbs.

“Have I not done enough?” the old man demanded.  “Well, get moving!  We’ve got a ways to go still.”

“You are too aggravating,” said Dúrfinwen primly, setting the bouquet of plants down on the ground despite his protests.  “I am going nowhere.”

“How am I aggravating?” demanded the old man, frowning fiercely at her.  “At least I’m trying to get something accomplished, and not pining in the wilderness!  Do you not be impertinent with me, little Laiquenda!”

“What right have you to say thus to me?” asked Dúrfinwen, growing angry.  “Little Laiquenda!  Telling me to find you herbs, and ordering me about, and not even calling me by my proper name.”

“Piffle!” said the old man, rudely, picking up the bouquet of herbs she had dropped and going to the little white horse.  “Laiquenda I called you, and Laiquenda I aver is your race.  I know I am not mistaken.”

“You are not,” said Dúrfinwen.  “However, I question your right to tell me what to do, and to call me by a name that is not my own.”

“Piffle again!” said the old man.  He crammed the herbs into his sack and they bulged and strained, sticking out at all angles; the white horse nosed them curiously, and snorted.  The man straightened and tucked his hands in his sleeves, and regarded Dúrfinwen with a shrewd and very sharp eye; she shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze, for he seemed to look into the very heart of her, and she was not very happy with the current state of her soul.  So much had happened; so much pain and horror!  But it was actually easier to maintain her brittle civility to this strange man, than to process the terror of her past days.  “I tell you what to do because you don’t know what to do,” said the old man, smiling; Dúrfinwen felt suddenly very young and inexperienced, and this sensation around a mortal man surprised her.  “And also, why should I not call you Anóriel?  It is what your father named you, after all.”

Dúrfinwen stared.  “My father!” she exclaimed, shocked past grief and anger.  “The only man I can closely identify as my father is Thranduil Oropherion, and he named me not; ‘twas Edlothiel of Cardolan named me thus:  Dúrfinwen.”

“A hard name,” said the old man, shaking his head.  “Your father would not like that.  Your mother either.”  He gave her a shrewd look, his eyes tracking over her shorn head; she blushed and turned away, ashamed of her ill looks.  “Don’t like what you’ve done with your hair,” he said curtly, folding his arms across his chest.  “Doesn’t suit you.  What would your mother say?  And you with her chestnut curls!”

Dúrfinwen staggered back, stunned.  “How – how do you know what my hair looks like?” she whispered, her heart going very cold.  “How – who are you?”

But the old man did not answer her question; he was regarding her with an astute and cunning eye, his mouth though hidden in the dirty brown beard smiling nonetheless.  “Chestnut curls!” he repeated, nodding.  “Cascaded down her back like new coiling vines in the spring – and her eyes, brown and shining like fresh-husked chestnuts!  It’s no wonder your father fell for her, coming across her in Dale, singing in a clearing and gathering everlastings.”  A shadow crossed his face, and he looked sad.  “Everlastings,” he murmured, and sighed.  Dúrfinwen stared, unsure; after a few moments he raised his head and winked.  “Look just like her,” he said.  “Except for the dimples – those you get from your father – the handsome devil he was!  Swept off her feet, was Vandalia; Fércast had but to press her with his sweet ways, and she was his.  A very good-looking couple they were, though as I recall, there were few who praised the pairing.”  Dúrfinwen, unsure what if anything she should say, was silent, wondering who this old man was, and whether his information were true; the old man studied her carefully, then smiled again.  “You’re too thin,” he said.  “Well, nothing a few months of butter and cream won’t cure!”

Dúrfinwen watched him, eyes narrowing; she said slowly:  “How do you know these things?  No one I have spoken to has ever said they knew my mother and father.”

“Not something the queen wanted to talk about,” shrugged the old man.  He whistled to the little horse, who came to him willingly, and suffered the man to put the sack on his withers.  “Truth be told she was rather ashamed of how you came about, and when your mother died, and your father didn’t return from the battle, it was best in her eyes to pretend nothing had happened.”

Dúrfinwen was offended.  “Edlothiel would never have done that,” she said firmly.  “Never!  My queen is good as she is lovely, and knows how I have longed to know mine ancestry!”

“Edlothiel!” exclaimed the old man, staring at her.  “Who said anything about Edlothiel?  Good woman, that; some questioned her choice of mate, but what I say is, you fall in love with whom you fall in love, and if it’s a good match, who’s to say a few differences here and there won’t add a bit of punch to the mixture?  Look at Melian and Thingol, after all. No, I leave that sort of thing alone; ‘tis none of my business, really, and I’m none too comfortable with all this love-making.  But no, Anóriel; Edlothiel’s got no notion who you are.  I was speaking of Renna, Queen of Dale.”

The name set icicles of fear shivering through her, and she put her hand on the hilt of her blade.  “Renna!” she whispered; her voice trembled.

“Not that Renna,” said the old man disgustedly.  “Pull yourself together!  Honestly!  The Renna we know and loathe has only been tormenting the very ground upon which she walks for thirty-three years.  No!  Renna, Queen of Dale, who ruled with her husband Brand many, many, many years ago … two centuries, at least; my memory for time’s passing is not what it used to be. Vandalia was her daughter, and when she ran off with Fércast and got married – and they did marry, by the way; don’t let anyone bastardize you! – Renna was terribly offended by the match, and preferred to pretend nothing had ever happened.”

Dúrfinwen’s legs gave out beneath her, and she sank to the damp loam, her breath escaping in a long sigh.  Her head felt very light.  “Dale – “ she said, pressing one trembling hand to her forehead.  “My mother – “

“Died when you were barely ten days old,” said the old man gruffly.  He squatted in front of Dúrfinwen and gave her a keen look.  His eyes were amber-colored, and very bright and clear; they belied the wrinkles and hoar and were young and wise.  He took her hand in his own; his grip was very strong, and she shivered beneath it, suddenly very afraid of him in spite of her mind reeling with his revelation.  “Your father gave you in hand to a village matron, for the folk of Dale were forbidden by Brand and Renna to succor you – there are a couple of compassionate grand-parents for you, eh? – but he never came back from that battle at Rhosgobel, and the matron got ill and died; so her husband, not wanting another mouth to feed, and knowing you had Elvish blood in you, sent you to the Elvenking, knowing you would be well cared for there.”  He watched her as she struggled with his news, and his golden eyes deepened.  “There is no shame in being half-Elven,” he added, a little gruffly.  “Look at Elrond, now – nice enough fellow.”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “Boys were twin devils, though!”

“I – “ Dúrfinwen could not speak; her head reeled.  She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but he held it more tightly, and taking her chin in his other hand, he forced her to look into his eyes.

“Anóriel,” he said firmly.  “You are the daughter of Fércast, last king of the Laiquendi, and of Vandalia, princess of the house of Dale.  Bent and battered are you, but not broken; bloodied and bewildered are you, but not bowed.  You are better than your circumstances.  Now, get up!  There is little time, if you wish to preserve the life of a prince who nearly died to save your life, and the lives of your companions.”

“What?” cried Dúrfinwen, startled; she let him pull her to her feet and stood swaying, resting her hand upon Snowy’s broad soft back.  “Legolas?  Here?”

“Here, or close enough to here,” said the old man, and turning, he struck west out of the wood.  “I had need for herbs, and thanks to that stinking drake, there are few places hereabouts to find them.  Come, Anóriel!  This tale is not over yet, certainly not for you!”

Dúrfinwen stood and watched him go; the little white horse walked alongside him.  They reached the edge of the wood, and the old man stepped over the brakes and into the wilderness, but the horse paused and turned back to her, his black eyes curious.  Though it frightened her to leave the security of the forest behind, Dúrfinwen took a deep breath, grasped the hilt of her rapier firmly, and setting her shoulders said:

“My name is Dúrfinwen.”  And shoulders high she strode out of the wood and into the starlight once more.