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'Til Death Do Us Part  by Haleth

The road was white and smooth as glass and it wound from the western gates of Tirion through the Calacirya and into the heart of Valinor.  The way had been built by the clever hands of the Elves as a sure path between Tirion and Valmar, the city of the Valar, and it was bordered by the wonders of the Undying Lands.

Silmariën had walked this way at least twice before, once with confident aspiration, and once again in the bitter loneliness of hope defeated.  She recalled both passages and they blended together like paints on an artist’s palette. The last time she had walked this path her emotions had nearly engulfed her, yet now the memory stirred little more than a vague sense of embarrassment.

The fragrant trees of Valinor, the lairelossë and the nessamelda, soared overhead, their boughs intertwining high above the white road.  The air was perfumed with their fragrance as it had been in her childhood home, in Eldalondë.

The round, scarlet fruits of the yavannamirë hung dependant before her.  A childhood memory passed through her mind.  She had picked the red, globular fruit and hung it about her as a necklace, staining her clothing in the process.  Her mother had found it difficult not to laugh when Silmariën had proudly displayed her new jewelry, although the merriment had lessened when she had refused to part with it when she had been tucked into bed.  The fate of that necklace she had never learned, for it had been gone when she had awakened the next morning, the only memory of it the stains on the bedclothes.

They passed an ancient oiolairë, its trunk so thick that five full-grown men standing with arms extended could not span the circumference. 

She had attached the Bough of Return to the ships of her friends when they had run supplies in and refugees out of the rugged harbour on Forostar.  Once, in a fit of pique, she had refused her duty. The ship had never returned and she had never forgiven herself.  Thereafter the gifting of the Bough of Return had been left to others.

Silmariën dwelt upon the memory and examined it with regret, not for the deaths of her friends, but for the ill will with which they had parted. 

The trees crowded close together, the thickness of their whispering leaves plunging the road into twilight.  She glanced upwards, where silver and white blossoms twinkled like the stars, and remembered a desperate ride along another road, clinging to the back of Isildur’s horse, frantically trying to hold her grievously wounded cousin in the saddle while the King’s Guards thundered behind in swift pursuit.  If not for the sacrifice of a farmer they had met along the way, they would have been captured and all would have been lost.  Silmariën thought of the man with remorse; he had been poor by the standards of her people.  She could barely recall his face and she never knew his name.  He had paid the ultimate price, but she had barely thought of him since.

Time stretched behind her like the white road to Valmar but unlike the road the points in the distance were the clearest while those close by remained indistinct. She tried to focus upon them but they blended together and dissolved into misty nothingness.  She shrugged helplessly, comforted by the odd certainty that the memories would return in time. 

Only how much time did she have?  She had broken the Ban and entered the Undying Lands without leave.  As before, her life was draining away; she could feel it ebbing with each step.  When she had first been here, she had been young and strong.  Desperation and anger had kept her from relinquishing her vitality. Now, with everyone she had known gone, there seemed little point in fighting.  Her life could run out before she reached the Ring of Doom.

‘That would solve the problem, wouldn’t it?’ she said grimly.

‘What problem would this be?’ Eonwë asked over his shoulder. 

Silmariën examined him from under her lashes.  Did the Aina know her thoughts?  It seemed unlikely; if he had, he would never have asked the question.

‘Nothing,’ she said shortly.  Even if he did realize she was lying, what could he do about it?  

‘If you require…rest,’ he said.  The pause was shorter this time.  He must be growing more accustomed to the unfamiliar word. 

Silmariën shrugged and continued walking.

The forest gave way to fields.  Irises bloomed on the banks of the stream that ran alongside the road so the grass was awash with subtle shades of blue and purple, white and gold.  It seemed odd, although it took some time for her to understand why.  It was summer here, and the wrong time of the year for irises which should only blossom in the spring. 

‘Do they always do that?’ she asked, puzzled.

Eonwë followed the direction of her gaze and gravely considered the scenery. ‘Do the flowers of Middle-earth now do something other than blossom?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ said Silmariën slowly.  ‘But they do so in their own season and the season should be over.’

‘Aman is what Arda should have been,’ he said.  ‘These flowers were meant to be delightful throughout the year, not for one brief span in a single season.’

Silmariën studied the delicate hues of mauve and azure blending with the vibrant green of the eternal grass. ‘So flowers in Middle-earth are more like the Second Born who soon fade and die while the flowers in Aman are like the First Born.’ She examined the fields and streams, her features creased by a frown.  ‘I like the others better. This place is not meant for my kind.’

‘Yet the Second Born are accounted the Children of Eru,’ he said.

‘I do not know how welcome I would be if all the world was as Aman,’ she said, chewing her lip.  ‘And there is the Ban.’

Eonwë continued walking.  Silmariën followed in his wake.

White city walls rose in the distance.  Sunlight glinted from silver and golden roofs.  ‘Which place is that?’ she asked, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the reflected light.

‘That is Valmar,’ said Eonwë.  ‘The City of the Valar.’

‘Oh,’ said Silmariën. A distant part of her wondered at the variety of interesting things that were hidden in that city.  It would be a professional challenge to borrow some of them for a time or even to look upon them illicitly.

Not that she would have the opportunity. Eonwë was certain to insist upon her good behavior.

It took most of the day to reach Valmar.  Try as she might Silmariën could gain little more than brief glimpses of the mansions of the Valar.  What little she did see was so overwhelming that she could not form a clear memory of it. 

‘Half a moment,’ she said as trudged along an eerily empty street paved with gold. 

Eonwë stopped and watched her with an impassive expression.  Silmariën wished he would at least have the courtesy to appear annoyed.

‘I take it am I here to be judged by the Valar?’ she asked.

‘You are summoned to Ring of Doom,’ said Eonwë.

‘Yes, I know.  You’ve told me over and over since you found me.  But I will be expected to stand before the Valar, will I not?’

‘The Valar do not tell me the reason for their summons,’ he said.

‘Don’t you ever wonder why they tell you to do things?’ she asked in exasperated disbelief.

‘It is not my place to know,’ he said. 

‘That doesn’t matter.  Don’t you ever wonder?’

Eonwë studied her.  It was as though a marble statue had stepped from its pedestal to examine her.  Silmariën shifted from foot to foot and wished she had never asked the question.

‘Did you?’ he finally asked.

‘I…what?’ she asked.  Of all the answers he could have given, this was the last she had expected.

He continued walking.  Silmariën jogged after him, groping after the frayed ends of her thoughts.

‘Look, if I’m going to stand before the Valar, do you think there is any chance I could wash up?’

Eonwë did not answer immediately.  Silmariën wondered if he had heard her.  She glanced down at her travel stained clothing.  Perhaps she was so disrespectable that no amount of scrubbing would make her worthy.  A lump of anger grew in the pit of her stomach. 

‘I’m doomed anyways.  Would it cost you so much to allow me a little dignity?’ she growled.

‘There will be a place for you to make whatever preparations you deem necessary,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘Where?’ she demanded.

Eonwe marched onwards.

Silmariën considered refusing to take another step.  What would the Herald of Manwë do?  Carry her over his shoulder like a recalcitrant sack of potatoes?  It would hardly be a dignified entrance to her judgement, but there was no way it could end well.  Why not cause a last bit of trouble while she could?

Then she remembered her Grandfather and all of her ancestors.  What would they say if the knew their descendent had disgraced herself before the Valar?

Silmariën cursed under her breath and stomped after her guide.

They reached the western gates of the city as the sun was setting.  Anor still ran a straight course over the lands of Aman. As of old, she tarried on the West, prolonging the evening hours with her golden light.

There was a tent beside the road, its white walls billowed in the breeze.  Eonwë stopped before it.  ‘Anything you might wish is inside,’ he said.

‘What about a nice, fast boat back to Middle-earth?’ she asked.

Eonwë looked puzzled.  ‘It would be of little use.  There are many leagues between here and the sea.’

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Silmariën, feeling quite foolish.  She shouldn’t have expected Eonwë to have a sense of humour.

She stepped into the tent and discovered a treasure trove.  The place was sparsely furnished, with only a desk and a chair.  What the effects lacked in quantity they more than made up for in quality.  The furnishings were made of a dark wood with deep grain and decorated with an inlay of silver and mother of pearl.  Silmariën traced the arm of the chair with her fingertips and whistled quietly.  Powerful kings of Middle-earth would have valued this chair over their thrones.

A silver brush, comb and hand mirror rested on the desk along with ribbons the colour of the sky and a white, folded garment. Silmariën loosened the string that tethered her hair and reached for the brush but stopped short of picking it up.  Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble just to let her brush her hair.  There seemed little point in doing so when she was covered in the dust of the road.  If only she had asked for the opportunity to bathe! 

The interior of the tent was smaller than she had expected it to be.  On a hunch, Silmariën pulled back the wall of the tent and discovered a tub filled with scented water. She thrust her hand into the water, half expecting it to be freezing cold.  To her delight, it was quite warm. Scarcely believing her luck, she removed her clothing and climbed into the tub to bathe her skin and hair. 

Someone had kindly provided oil.  Silmariën rubbed it into her skin.  She was covered in a rough patchwork of scars.  A particularly large and ugly one marred her right side.  Running her fingers over the ridge of scar tissue, Silmariën wondered how she had acquired it.  A dim memory stirred at the back of her mind.  She stood on the deck of a warship, alone under the night sky except for a tall, muscular man who wielded a long, wicked sword.  The blade glowed with cold, white light as it lunged towards her heart. She barely managed to raise her own sword to block the deadly thrust. The blades met with a resounding clang and Silmariën distantly noted that her own sword shone with cold fury.

 

She sat up, clutching the scar and discovered the water had grown cold.  How much time had past while she had been lost in memory?  Now she would have to dunk her head under cold water to rinse the oil out of her hair.

This proved to be harder than it should have been.  It was not simply physical discomfort that made her reluctant to go beneath the surface.  Try as she might, she could not force herself to put her face under the water.  At last she grew annoyed.  Pinching her nose between her fingers, she pushed herself backwards.  The water closed over her head.

It was icy cold and a strong current was insistently pulling at her. To give in to it would be certain death.  She was clutching a black arrow in one hand.  It was unthinkable to drop it.  Her chest burned like hot coals as she struggled to regain the surface.  Yet even as she struggled, she knew she would not survive.  A bright light appeared before her…   

Silmariën broke the surface of the water, gasping for air.  She scrambled out of the tub as quickly as she could, anxious to get out of the water.  Evidently she had gone on to do things after her first visit to Valinor, but what, exactly, had she been doing and why?  The sword and the arrow had been of the utmost importance.  She had needed them.  But if she had needed them, where were they now?  What had she done with them?  Had she lost them? What had she been doing since her King’s ill-fated invasion of the Undying Lands? 

Try as she might, no other memories presented themselves.  The only sound was the quiet flapping of the tent and the drip of the water as it fell from her skin and hair to the ground.

Silmariën came back to herself and looked around.  A fine layer of scum and dirt floated on top of the water.  She felt a pang of embarrassment for the mess.  Who, she wondered, cleaned dirty tubs in Valinor?  She had seen no one that she could identify as a servant; then again, she had hardly seen anyone at all. 

Wrapping herself in a thick white towel, she picked up her discarded clothing.  It seemed a shame to put the dirty garments onto her clean body.  There may have been a white dress in the other part of the tent.  Holding the towel around her, she made her way to the front room.  She shot an uneasy glance at the door of the tent, wondering if her ablutions had continued too long and if Eonwë was about to barge in and order her out before she had a chance to dress.

There was a gown on the desk.  It was made of a soft, gossamer like material that reminded Silmariën of her mother’s best dresses.  She shook it out and examined it with some dismay.  Not only was it too transparent and clingy for her tastes, it was doubtful that it held any of the hidden pockets that lined her old shirt.  If she was going to wear this, she would have to leave all of her accouterments behind. It would be worse than being naked. 

Then again, she was unlikely to need them anymore. 

Sighing with resignation, Silmariën pulled the white gown over her head.  It was a struggle to squirm into it as the fabric stuck to her damp skin. She then emptied her hidden pockets of her old shirt. 

There were many small, well-balanced knives as well as a tinderbox, a lump of wax and something that might have been soap.  One pocket yielded a tightly rolled piece of leather.  Silmariën unwound the leather to discover a set of long, thin, metal rods.

She held one up to scrutinize it. 

Lock picks.  They were lock picks.  Why was she carrying a set of thief’s tools? 

She had used them to very good effect, opening doors and treasure chests believed to be immune to thievery.  In fact, she had used the very tool she currently held in her hand to open the chest that had held Daeron’s flute.

The lock pick dropped out of her nerveless fingers.  Daeron’s flute?  She must have crossed from memory into delirium. 

She folded her old clothing and carefully stacked her belongings beside it.  She doubted she would need any of it again.  Whoever cleaned up after her would probably burn the lot. 

There was a set of delicate slippers beside the desk.  Silmariën considered them briefly, then reached for her extremely old boots.  The man who had made them for her had been a dear friend.  She owed him her life.  There was no way she was leaving his gift to be burned.

She grabbed the silver brush.  It was far lighter than she had expected it to be.  Silmariën stared at it in disbelief.  It was mithril.  They had given a condemned trespasser a mithril hairbrush to use.  The riches of this place boggled the mind. The brush alone would be worth enough to afford her a comfortable retirement anywhere in Middle-earth.  

Not that it mattered now.  She quickly ran the brush over her still damp hair to remove the worst of the knots.  Once upon a time, someone would have braided it for her.  If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel gentle fingers caressing her hair.  Embarrassment and awkwardness swept over her.  Someone had brushed her hair only it had been wildly inappropriate.  Silmariën threw the brush onto the desk, releasing it as though it had burned her.  How in the world could having her hair brushed be unseemly?  Could it be the person brushing her hair have been male?  She shook her head in confusion.  Why would brushing her hair bring back such a vivid yet maddeningly incomplete memory?  More to the point, why would a man have brushed her hair at all?

There were so many mysteries.  She wondered if the Valar would be kind enough to explain them to her before she met her fate.  It seemed unlikely and she was almost too tired to care. 

Her gaze drifted to the hand mirror that still lay on the desk.  Silmariën had not taken a good look at herself since she had awakened in Elrond’s home on Tol Eressëa.  She picked up the mirror, gazed into it and gasped. 

In her memories, she had always pictured herself as young, yet the person who gazed back at her was no youth.  Crows feet marred the corners of her eyes and thin, permanent lines creased the skin around her mouth. Her sandy hair, she was dismayed to find, was liberally streaked with grey. Silmariën ran her fingers over her face and hair.  Her family aged slowly.  How many years had passed since her first visit to Valinor and what had she been doing all of that time?

 

Hands shaking, she slowly placed the mirror back on the desk.  At the last moment she took the lock picks and jammed them into the top of her boot.  The sharp ends bit into her skin, but she doubted she would have to walk much further.  Taking a deep breath, she prepared to meet her fate.

Eonwë was waiting for her, his face serene as always.  He seemed to be in exactly the same spot he had been in when she had entered the tent.  She briefly wondered if he was, in fact, a statue that only came to life when someone was there to see him.  If her mind hadn’t been buzzing with so many other questions, she might have asked him.

‘You are ready?  There is food and drink if you require it.’

Silmariën looked past him.  Someone had set up a small table.  Fruits, cheeses and bread were arranged on small platters around a silver table setting.  The ghost of a smile crossed her face when she recognized that the entire setting was fashioned of mithril.  She should have been hungry; she had barely eaten since setting foot on the mainland of Valinor.  Yet when she looked at the food, her stomach tightened into a painful knot. 

‘I think I’d just like something to drink, thank-you,’ she said. 

To her amazement, Eonwë himself poured liquid from a mithril pitcher into a mithril goblet and handed it to her.

She stared from the goblet to Eonwë and back again. 

‘Have you no thirst?’ he asked.

‘I am very thirsty, thank-you,’ she said, licking her dry lips.  ‘Only…’

Eonwë continued holding the goblet out to her.  He looked neither confused not upset.  His utter lack of expression was unnerving and yet, somehow familiar. 

‘Only.’ There was no inflection in his beautiful voice.

‘Only you are treating me like an honoured guest, which I did not expect. Thank-you,’ she said as she finally took the goblet from him.

‘You have been summoned,’ he said.

‘I know.  You’ve told me enough times.  I can remember that, at least,’ said Silmariën.  She sniffed the contents of the goblet cautiously.  It smelled of liquid sunshine.  ‘What is this?’

‘It is made by the First Born.  They seem to favour it.  I was told it is safe for your kind and that it may help with your condition.’

For some reason, this did nothing to reassure Silmariën. She took a tiny sip.  The beverage tasted of sweetness and light.  It seemed harmless enough, so she risked a larger sip.  No sooner had she swallowed it than a rush of memory engulfed her.

She had nearly drowned in the Long Lake and had been rescued and then nursed back to health by a tall, blond man named…Inglor.

Inglor.  Only he had not been mortal; but one of the First Born instead.

He had been her constant companion, both lightening the burden of loneliness while serving to make her aware of her utterly isolation. 

A series of images passed through her mind with lightning quickness; running for her life while a pack of Wargs howled behind her; Inglor walking beside her, droning on about some minutiae of history while she planned how to be rid of him; a single window lit by candlelight in a tower in Dorwinion; the stifling heat of the jungles of Far Harad; the pale, unclean light of a barrow; the wind whispering around the ruins of Annúminas; standing at the bottom of a pit, hardly daring to breathe, while a dragon moved about its lair; a palantir, blue and green sparks within its depths, spinning through the air; the burning pain in her fingers after hanging for hours over the edge of a bridge in Ithilien.  He had called her a different name: Haleth. It was a stolen name but that was somehow fitting.  She had helped herself to more than enough other things in her years of wandering; why not a name?  It certainly suited her better than Silmariën.

Her final memory was the concerned expression on Inglor’s face just before the poison robbed her of her senses. 

Inglor.  Where was Inglor? 

‘Inglor.  Eonwë, please, where is Inglor?’ she croaked as she returned to her senses.

To her horror, Eonwë was nowhere to be found. 

 

 





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