The Undying Lands were neither kind nor forgiving to mortals who trespassed upon them and particularly not so to those who were injured, hungry and who had misplaced their memory somewhere along the way. 

This was the thread of thought that ran through Silmariën’s mind as she followed Eonwë upon the white road to Tirion.  It seemed as though she walked in a waking dream; now she walked along the tree-lined avenue with Eonwë. In another moment she walked behind her grandfather, his back rigid with anger for her intransigence, her explanations and excuses falling upon his deaf ears.

She remembered their final conversation after the Valar had refused his request for help.  He had seemed oddly at peace for someone whose desperate quest had ended in failure.

‘How could they refuse?’ Silmariën had seethed, her hands clenched into tight fists. ‘Did you not tell them of the abominations? Of the sacrifices and the accursed altar?’

‘Of course I did, child,’ Grandfather Amandil sighed.

‘Then how could they refuse?’ she demanded.

Grandfather raised his hand to forestall further argument.  ‘They are the Valar, Silmariën.  It is not for us to question them.’

How she had longed to scream ‘Why not?’ but her grandfather’s haggard expression stopped her.  ‘Grandfather, are you well?’ she asked.

‘Well?’ he asked, sounding as though the question confused him.  ‘For myself, yes, I am as well as I shall ever be, but you, my dear Granddaughter.’  He shook his head. ‘You should have stayed with your Grandmother, Silmariën.  Now you shall have no one when your time comes.’  His eyes were filled with regret.

‘There, there, Grandfather. You are here and in any case I can see to myself,’ she said, patting his hand and forcing a brave smile onto her face.

‘For now, yes, but not for long. I should have taken better care of you.  Forgive me, Silmariën.’

Fear stabbed at her heart.  She looked to the east.  A dull pall of darkness lay in the eastern sky.  ‘We shall be leaving for home soon, I imagine.’

But they had not left for home.  Grandfather Amandil had died in the night, leaving Silmariën alone upon strange shores.

She returned to the present; the white road and the dappled shadows. There was a pond beside the pond. Silmariën suddenly realized she was parched. Without asking for permission, she veered off the path.  A memory engulfed her as she approached the water. 

She had sat at the edge of a similar pond in the past, throwing rocks and sticks into the still water, her mood blacker than the night.

‘Silmariën?’ someone had asked, his voice calm and gentle.

‘I don’t imagine there are many other mortals in the Undying Lands,’ she said, picking up another rock and hurling it into the water. 

‘I have seen your Grandfather.  He is…’

‘Dead.  Yes, I know.  Several people have been most anxious to tell me.’  She wished he would go way.  Wasn’t it bad enough without people reminding her? ‘By the Grace given to our House, surrendered his life willingly, in accordance with the declaration of the Valar.’

There was a moment of silence.  Silmariën hoped the speaker, whomever it was, would leave.

‘He looked to be at peace.’

‘Well, he is quiet, but the dead usually are.  That was the point, wasn’t it?  To make him be quiet? I imagine they would be pleased if I were to die upon command as well.’

That should have been rude enough to persuade the individual to leave. But this one was particularly stubborn. Silmariën decided to take a more direct approach. ‘Tell me, if you had to chose your own demise, what matter of death would you select?’

‘I would not recommend being torn apart by a wolf,’ he said calmly.

Silmariën finally looked at her visitor, guessing his identity.  His hair was golden and face filled with wisdom.  Of all the people to insult. The rock she had been holding dropped to the ground. ‘Lord Finrod, forgive me.’

‘It is already forgiven,’ he said.  ‘You are mourning your grandfather.’

Her face twisted in anger. ‘There was no need for this. They could have let us go.  Ar-Pharazôn would be more than pleased to see to our deaths.’

‘I cannot speak to that,’ said Finrod.  ‘But I believe Lord Amandil’s death was far more peaceful here than it would have been in your own lands.’

‘And what of my death, Lord Finrod?  Do you have any words of wisdom?’ she asked.

‘What have you decided?’ he asked.

‘What can I decide? As much as I loved him my grandfather had seen many years.  I believe he expected this sacrifice would be necessary before he ever set sail.’

‘And what did you expect?’ he asked.

‘I expected the Valar to help my people,’ she cried.  ‘My grandfather knew what was happening in Armenolos -  he knew how Sauron had corrupted our King -- but he had not actually seen it with his own eyes.’  She squeezed her eyes shut as though to drive away the images burnt in her memory. 

‘I have seen it, Lord Finrod -- the prisons, the torturers, the sacrifices -- seen all these thing.  I thought if the Valar would but look into my mind they would see the dire situation my people face. I thought if they knew, were not simply told but knew, they would have no choice but to help.  I was as certain of it as I have been certain of little else in this life. If they had done this, if they had agreed to come to the aid of my people I would have gladly surrendered my life and found the price small.’

She threw back her head and drew a deep, ragged breath. ‘I was wrong,’ she said, forcing a false smile to her lips.  ‘And now I find myself stranded on unfriendly shores and expected to die, all for nothing.’

‘What help would have been acceptable?’ he asked.

‘Anything that would rid my country of Sauron,’ she said fervently.

‘Sauron is of Middle-earth,’ he said.

‘Sauron is one of the Ainur,’ Silmariën countered.  ‘I have studied the old texts. The Host of the Valar demanded he surrender at the end of the War of Wrath; but instead of seeking him out and insisting justice be exacted for his crimes, he was allowed to flee.  How much damage has been inflicted upon Middle-earth because those who could have done it did not bother to capture him?’

‘It is not the way of the Valar to force their will upon others,’ said Finrod.

‘Yet they would force me do die,’ she countered.

‘They do not force you to do anything,’ Finrod insisted.

‘Lord Finrod, what else am I to do?  No one will bear me away from here, yet if I stay I will die.  I am dying already.’

Happily the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger.  He was agitated although in comparison to Silmariën’s outbursts his agitation seemed pale.    ‘Forgive me for interrupting, Lord Finrod but you are summoned by the King to return to Tirion immediately.’

‘Of course,’ said Finrod calmly.  ‘Can you tell me why I am summoned?’

The messenger glanced apprehensively at Silmariën who was too busy chewing her lips to notice him.  ‘A great fleet of ships approached the Bay of Eldahome,’ he said.  ‘There are so many that the sea is black with them. They bear the device of the King of Númenor. The Teleri have come to Tirion and King Finarfin has welcomed them gladly,’ said the messenger.

‘I shall come at once and aid the Host of the Valar in giving battle,’ said Finrod. Silmariën thought he looked mildly surprised.

‘Forgive me, Lord Finrod but the King said nothing about giving battle.’

Finrod paused in confusion. ‘Very well.  I shall help in the defense of my city.’  He turned to Silmariën.  ‘If you will please excuse me,’ he said.

‘If you please I am coming with you,’ she replied.

‘Forgive me but it is not safe,’ he said, annoyed with the delay, however slight.

‘Forgive me but nowhere in Valinor is safe for me,’ she said.  ‘Besides, I have chosen the manner of my death.  If the Ainur and the Elves will not fight for Valinor, I will.’

The images whirled about in her mind as they began to climb the green hill of Tuna.  Tirion, the white city of the Noldor, shone upon the summit but Silmariën would not raise her eyes to gaze upon it.

She halted, turned, and looked back the way she had come and was engulfed by memory. The green grass and flowers of the Calacirya disappeared.  In their place was a host of men and horses the like of which had never been seen before. 

The army of Numenor and the flower of Númenórean chivalry stood arrayed in the pass of Calacirya.  The banners of the five of the six regions, Forostar, Andustar, Hyarnustar, Hyarrostar and Mittalmar snapped in the eastern wind alongside those of the King.  Only the banner of Orrostar, once the symbol of her grandfather – her uncle’s now – was missing.  She wondered what that absence might mean.  Was the rest of her family now dead at the hands of Sauron’s agents?  Or had they somehow escaped without answering the summons?  She fervently hoped it was the latter but she would never know and soon it would not matter.

As she brandished her sword she realized she was being a fool again. Who did she think she was marching alone against the entire host of Numenor? Her proud words, spoken in the heat of fury before the Princes of the Noldor, came back to haunt her:  “If you will not fight for the Undying Lands, I will.”  At the time it had seemed the right thing to say; the Valar had spurned Grandfather’s request for help.  Silmariën, in spite of all her determination, had not been allowed to enter the Ring of Doom, much less address the Powers. Now her grandfather was dead.  So was the crew who had faithfully sailed with them. Although no one had told her, Silmarien was certain she was dying as well, her life force draining away with each passing day.  With nothing to lose, why not die fighting?   

It had all made sense at the time, but now she was a ridiculous child playing at war and the figure she cut marching down Tuna alone was far from heroic. It was cold comfort to know this would be the last poor decision she would make.

What would the elvish minstrels sing of her, assuming they sang anything at all?  Would Silmariën be remembered for her foolishness? Would elvish children dress up as the silly mortal woman who walked directly into death?  Part of her wondered, in a detached way while the larger part of her mind assured her that she would soon be beyond caring.

Several of the nearby knights were looking in her direction.  They seemed bored, or perhaps amused.  They certainly did not seem intimidated. One knight, a large fellow astride an even larger horse, barked an order to the archer who was following on foot.  The archer glanced her way, shrugged then casually began stringing his bow. 

The Númenórean archers were the best in the world; entire armies had been put to flight at the rumour of their coming.  There had been more than one general in Middle-earth whose army had been cut down before it ever had the chance to engage them. Silmariën marched directly towards him.

The ground began to tremble. She stumbled but continued onwards, determined to meet her end bravely.

Then the world splintered.  There was a great roaring, louder than anything she had ever heard.  It was all she could do not to clasp her hands over her ears as the earth rattled beneath her feet and she slid down the slope.  In the valley, the Host of Numenor was in disarray.  Men and horses screamed in panic.  Knights on horseback trampled foot soldiers in their rush to quit the narrow-walled cleft. 

Suddenly, beginning at the sea and racing inland, the sides of the Calacirya cracked and collapsed inwards. As Silmariën watched in disbelief the Host of Numenor was covered in an avalanche of stone and dust. 

The last to be taken was the King.  He and the members of his household and guard were in the vanguard of the Host.  They raced towards the end of the Calacirya, towards the Plains of Valinor, when they were overtaken by disaster and disappeared forever beneath the bones of Arda.

A cloud of stone dust enveloped the world, blinding and choking Silmariën.  Throwing her arm over her nose and mouth, she collapsed to the ground and waited for the earth to swallow her. 

The dust began to settle, but the roaring, instead of abating, grew louder.  Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the east and the sea.  The Bay of Elvenhome, which had been darkened by the ships of the Númenóreans, was unaccountably empty. Not only was it empty of ships; it was empty of water.  A black cloud bloomed in the eastern sky, spreading inky strands across the clear blue vault.

Silmariën was gripped with a terrible certainty.  The horrible dreams that had haunted her for the past years suddenly made sense.  ‘No!’  She meant it to be a cry but it was little more than a croak.  She fled down the hillside and scrambled over the rocks, heedless of the bruises and scrapes she endured when she lost her footing and fell to the ground. ‘No. No. NO!’ she shouted, falling painfully to her knees.

Hands pulled at her shoulders.  She violently shook them off.

‘They’re gone!’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ a calm voice agreed.  ‘The pass has swallowed them.’

“They’re all gone.  It must be my punishment to yet be alive!’  She sank to her knees, sobbing hysterically, pounding her fists into the sharp rocks.  ‘They’re gone.  All gone.’ 

Silmarien looked up.  The figure before her, barely discernable in the dust, was tall and imposing.  A bushy beard obscured his features.

‘Hush, child. All is not lost. Come with me.’

Silmariën came back to herself.  The rocks were gone.  She had two fistfuls of grass in her hands, the green blades trailing to the ground.

‘Hush.  Hush.  You are frightening the birds.’  Eonwë towered over her.  Refracted through her tears, there appeared to be three of him.  His placid features had shifted ever so slightly, although it was impossible to tell what emotion his expression was meant to convey.  Silmariën viciously rubbed her eyes.  He probably just wanted her to be quiet.

‘I don’t want to go to Tirion.’  The words were meant to be fiery and defiant, but they sounded petulant.

This seemed to confuse Eonwë for he hesitated before replying. ‘I was told you would need food and…’ he seemed to grope for the word, ‘Rest.’

‘I’m not hungry.’ It was a lie, but seeing Eonwë off balance had given her confidence.  ‘And I believe I will soon have a great deal of time to rest.’

Eonwë blinked.  A sense of familiarity hit Silmariën in the gut. 

‘Have we met before?’ she asked. 

‘Yes.’

‘When?  Where?’ she asked, excited at the prospect of learning more of her own past.

‘Several days ago upon the eastern shore of Tol Eressëa.’

‘Oh,’ said Silmariën, a bitter taste of disappointment filling her mouth.  She briefly wondered if Eonwë would kill her if she hit him.  She clenched her hand into a fist, but his jaw was a long way up and she was very tired.  It was just too much work to find out.  Besides, it would be incredibly bad manners. 

‘Shall we go, then?’ she asked without any enthusiasm.