Haleth stared uneasily at her reflection.  The dress had been made for her.  After weeks of tripping over her hem and barely being able to breathe for the tightness of the fabric across her chest, it should have been a relief to wear a garment that fit so well. 

Yet for all that it followed the contours of her body, for all that the spangles matched colour of her eyes, the ethereal dress felt wrong.  She snorted and turned this way and that, hoping to find some imperfection, but the dress was, of course, perfect.  Any flaw was her own. She had grown too accustomed to dressing as a person of no account, one who took pains to be inconspicuous. That transition, now that she could remember it, had been far less awkward.  Trousers and an oversized shirt riddled with hidden pockets offered an ease of movement that could never be equaled by any gown, no matter how soft the material or how beautiful the embellishment. 

She heaved a sigh of regret.  There would be no return to those days.  She was expected to behave respectably and going to the King’s table dressed like a common thief was not acceptable.

Besides, those days had been cold, uncomfortable and lonely.  Why should she want to return to them?  Common sense said that it was far better to be warm and sleep in a comfortable bed with no cares in the world.  

‘Silmariën, it is time to depart.  Are you prepared?’  Anairë’s voice drifted up from the main floor. 

‘One moment!’ Haleth called.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slowly pulled off her boots.  The worn leather was soft and familiar to the touch.  With another sigh of regret, she pushed the moth eaten boots under the bed and shoved her feet into a pair of slippers that matched the dress. 

Anairë and her attendants were waiting by the front door.  They made their way onto the street in a small procession with Anairë in the lead and Haleth lagging half a step behind. Curious elves turned to watch them.  Haleth put her head down, painfully aware of the polite scrutiny.

To Haleth’s relief, the elves of Anairë’s household kept up a constant, quiet chatter which spared her from having to speak.  She was grateful for this for she was still not comfortable with Quenya. 

The party crossed the square that lay at the foot of Mindon. Tall buildings of polished stone shone in the long, low rays of the evening sun.  The ground was paved in marble and diamond dust that sparkled like moonlight on newly fallen snow.  A fountain splashed merrily and the air was filled with the cloying scent of the evening blossoms.

The elves walked with quick, light steps.  Haleth was hard pressed to keep up with them.  It was bad enough that her footsteps were so much louder than the others’; she did not want to disgrace herself by losing her breath. All too soon they reached King Finarfin’s home.  The wide doors at the top of the grand staircase stood open and inviting. The sound of a fiddle drifted into the street. 

Haleth’s footsteps slowed at she mounted the stairs.  It wasn’t that far to the gates.  If she ran and kept to the shadows, she could be out of the city before darkness fell.

She was still planning her escape route when she entered door of the King’s home.  The ceiling soared to a vault high above.  A pair of staircases curved upwards and several corridors led into the depths of the house.  The King’s device, a straight-armed star of gold upon a white background, was displayed upon the far wall.  Haleth’s fingers twitched spasmodically as she studied it.  By the manner in which it glimmered, it had to have been made of precious metals and gems. 

‘Silmariën?’

Haleth jumped at the sound of the name.  Anairë’s concern was plain to see.  Haleth’s heart sank.  She had been so determined not to disgrace herself and here she had done exactly that before even reaching the party.

‘Please go in.  We shall be along shortly,’ Anairë said to her attendants.  She waited until they had disappeared down the corridor before turning to her descendant, a look of muted concern upon her face, and signaling Haleth to follow her into a small waiting room that branched from the main corridor.

‘Is the dress to your liking, Silmariën? Does it fit properly?’ Anairë asked.

‘Yes, My Lady. It fits perfectly,’ Haleth muttered.

‘Do the shoes pinch your feet?’ she asked.

‘No, My Lady,’ Haleth replied, forcing herself to smile.  She was giving the appearance of being ungrateful and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Anairë examined her, compassion in the depths of her grey eyes.  ‘You must feel as though you are on display,’ she said. 

‘No!’ exclaimed Haleth.  It was a bald-faced lie and the look on Anairë’s face left no doubt that she was aware of it.  ‘Well, yes,’ Haleth admitted, blushing and looking at her toes.  The unfamiliar slippers greeted her gaze.  She grimaced and stared at the carpet instead.

‘Haleth, I can only guess how difficult this must be for you.  I suspected you were not ready for court and I would not insist upon it if I did not feel it was necessary.’

‘Necessary?’ asked Haleth, genuinely confused.  Talking to people in Aman was like talking to Inglor.  Conversations never went in the expected direction.

‘The people are very curious about you,’ said Anairë as she placed her hand upon Haleth’s shoulder.  ‘Most have not seen the Secondborn in a very long time.’

Haleth flinched. ‘I don’t suppose they’re glad to have me here, considering what happened the last time the Secondborn visited Aman,’ she muttered.

‘The circumstances are not the same and the people are aware of this,’ said Anairë firmly.  ‘Besides,’ she said, squeezing Haleth’s shoulder.  ‘You were here then, as well, and your deeds are remembered.’

The memory of marching down Tuna, all by herself, flashed through Haleth’s mind.

‘Oh no,’ she groaned, rubbing her forehead. ‘I was young and very foolish.’

‘You are, perhaps, among those most likely to understand your impetuous nature,’ said Anairë sympathetically.  ‘And your bravery, no matter how foolhardy, has not been forgotten.

‘If you can face down all of Ar-Pharazôn’s army, surely you will not be intimidated by a group of courtiers,’ said Anairë as she grasped Haleth by the arm and ushered her towards the sound of the merrymaking.

‘But I sure I was going to die,’ moaned Haleth.

‘I can assure you that you shall survive the evening,’ said Anairë lightly.

A very unconvinced Haleth allowed herself to be led down the hallway.

Finarfin had chosen to host the gathering in a garden.  Tables set with golden services had been set among the flowerbeds.  A company of elves arrayed in their best finery drifted amid the statues and bushes. 

As Haleth watched, the cultivated garden and its carefully tended bushes faded.  The trees grew higher and the plants took on the unmistakable appearance of wildness that can only be found in a forest.  The assembled company glowed with their own light. Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, locked eyes with her across the glade. 

She gasped and drew backwards into the shadows.  How had he seen her? 

Then the forest was gone and she was once again standing in Finarfin’s garden in Tirion.  Anairë grasped her arm and Haleth was grateful for the support.  ‘Silmariën?’ 

‘Memory.  It was a memory,’ she wheezed. ‘It has passed.’

Anairë examined Haleth as though she expected her to faint. 

‘Very well,’ she said.  ‘It is time to present you to the King.’

‘Oh….’ whispered Haleth, who would have much preferred being fed to sharks.

Finarfin was speaking to a courtier.  He noticed Anairë approaching him and excused himself with an even-tempered smile. 

‘Your Majesty,’ Anairë said, bowing her head.  ‘It is good to see you this fine evening.’

‘It is good of you to attend, Lady Anairë,’ he said. 

Haleth was struck by how much his voice resembled Inglor’s.   She wondered if Inglor was somewhere amid the brightly garbed assembly.

‘If it pleases Your Majesty, I would like to present my descendent, Lady Silmariën.’

The King gallantly took her hand.  It seemed very warm.  Haleth retained just enough presence of mind to curtsy. 

‘Lady Silmariën, it is good to finally make your acquaintance,’ Finarfin said smoothly.

‘Thank-you, Your Majesty,’ said Haleth, still crouched politely before him.  If she stared at the ground long enough, perhaps he would let go. Haleth was accustomed to her wishes not being granted, so it hardly surprised her when Finarfin’s grip on her hand tightened to a band of steel.

‘It is my hope that you enjoy the evening,’ he said as he pulled her upright. His pleasant expression had not changed at all.

‘Thank-you, Your Majesty.  I am certain I shall,’ she replied.  To her immense relief, he released her and turned to Anairë.  ‘I have missed you at court, Lady Anairë.’ 

Haleth, recognizing the dismissal, edged away.  Her eyes darted around the garden, searching for an inconspicuous, empty place to station herself.   The courtiers regarded her curiously, but no one approached her.  After much hunting she located an unoccupied bench tucked behind a large floral arrangement.  Heaving a sigh of relief, she sat down and collected herself.

Past experience had made her extremely cautious of monarchs, but Finarfin did not seem overtly nasty.  Of course, neither had Ar-Pharazôn; at least at first.  She twisted the silver ring that Inglor had given her and told herself to not be foolish.  This was the Blessed Realm, not Númenor.  If she continued to allow her past to colour her present experiences, her life would be very unpleasant indeed.  But the tide of memory that had begun on Tol Eressëa had never lessened; if anything it had grown stronger.  A stark realization struck her; if she did not find some way to occupy herself, the memories would engulf her. 

Here she was, in Tirion in the Blessed Realm.  She had been granted immortality and she was going insane.  It was so ridiculous, it was enough to make her crow with laughter.  But she did not wish to embarrass Lady Anairë any more than she already had. 

Perhaps sharing her recollections would make them less powerful. Anairë was wise and sympathetic; she would understand.  But how would Haleth explain that she had known Anairë’s long dead husband?  Where was Inglor?  Haleth was certain he would not understand her ravings, but he would, at least, listen. 

‘Lady Silmariën?’

‘Haleth,’ she responded automatically before looking up to find a very confused courtier…or perhaps a servant for he was wearing a garment embroidered with the King’s device…standing before her. 

‘I apologize.  I was searching for Lady Silmariën,’ he said smoothly. 

‘I’m sorry.  I am Silmariën,’ said Haleth, her face burning.

‘The evening repast will soon be served.  If you could please follow me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course. Thank-you,’ she responded with a half-hearted smile.

She followed the servant into the main press of the gathering.  Anairë, she saw, was seated at the high table to the left side of the King.  A woman with silver hair sat at Finarfin’s right.  This must be the Queen, Eärwen.  

Haleth’s throat constricted.  Surely they would not seat her at the head table?  She was visible enough without being displayed in such a manner. 

To her immense relief, the liveried elf led her to the side table at the extreme right of the arrangement.   She mumbled her thanks as she sat down, only to be confronted by an incredible display of utensils. 

Haleth stared at the table in dismay.  A collection of glasses and goblets formed a bulwark between her and the as yet empty seat in front of her.  A welter of knives, forks and spoons, several picks and a few instruments whose use she could only guess at bracketed a stack of plates and bowls.  She held up one of the picks and examined it with professional interest.  The slim length of silver ended in a tapered, curled point.  It could prove useful for getting into interesting places where she wasn’t welcome.

‘Good evening,’ said a cultured feminine voice.

Haleth started and dropped the pick.  It landed on a golden plate with a crash that reverberated around the garden. 

‘Please forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.’

‘No.  I’m sorry.  I wasn’t expecting….I mean I didn’t hear…I mean there is nothing to forgive,’ stammered Haleth.  The newcomer, whose dark hair was covered in a net of diamonds, smiled politely. 

‘You must be Lady Silmariën.’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Haleth.  What had given her away?  The wrinkles?  The grey hair? The general lack of grace?

‘I must ask your forgiveness again.  I have not introduced myself. I am Edellos, although you might find it easier to refer to me as Eldalotë.’

The Sindarin name was familiar.  Haleth made the appropriate polite noises while she scoured her patchwork memory.  Unsurprisingly, there was an enormous hole where Eldalotë might have been.

Eldalotë bent close to her.  ‘My husband and I are to be your dinner companions this evening.’

‘How delightful!’ said Haleth with a forced smile.

‘That is my hope,’ said Eldalotë, although she seemed anything but hopeful. She leaned closer to Haleth’s ear and lowered her voice to a whisper.  ‘I hope it is not too much of an imposition, but please do not expect scintillating conversation from him.’  She stopped and bit her lip.

Haleth could understand.  It must have been terribly disappointed to be invited to Finarfin’s dinner party only to discover yourself seated with a Secondborn.  ‘Of course not,’ she said, her face a careful blank.

Eldalotë took in her cold expression and grew even more agitated.  ‘No.  You do not understand.  He is but recently returned from Mandos and cannot yet tolerate such a crowd.’

‘Lady Eldalotë, please believe me when I say that I understand your husband and sympathize with him completely,’ said Haleth with great conviction.

Eldalotë held her gaze for a moment, then say down in the chair beside her. ‘Thank-you.  Inglor said you would understand, but I thought it would be best if I explained.’

‘Eldalotë?  There you are.  Please don’t run off…’ The speaker, a tall blond man, stopped and stared at Haleth.  His gaze flicked from her rounded ears to the grey hair at her temples and settled on her face. 

‘Husband!  I am so happy you found our table. Please allow me to introduce…’

‘I know you,’ he interrupted, looking directly at Haleth.

Haleth looked to Eldalotë in panic.  Although she could not put a name to him, he was unsettlingly familiar.

‘Dearest, you cannot possibly know Lady Silmariën.  She was born long after…’ she trailed off in dismay.

‘What Lady Eldalotë is attempting to say is that I was born upon the Isle of Númenor,’ said Haleth. 

‘Yes,’ said Eldalotë, giving Haleth a strange look. ‘Lady Silmariën, may I present my husband, Lord Angrod.’

Angrod?  Haleth tried to understand why Angrod would be familiar and drew the typical blank. 

Eldalotë took the seat beside Haleth while Angrod settled himself across from his wife. 

The food began to arrive.  Haleth waited until Eldalotë selected a utensil and mimicked her. 

Minstrels played upon harps and viols throughout the feast. The conversation was sparse, which was a relief to Haleth. She studied the crowd, searching for Inglor and found him dressed in livery, standing directly behind Finarfin as the King’s Champion.  She tried to catch his eye, but he was standing at stern attention. 

He still looked haggard.  Whatever was wrong, it even seemed to have affected the light that came from him.  Compared to the King, Queen and Lady Anairë, his light was different; less golden and more diffuse and somehow, now that she had a good view of him, clearer. 

Were elves supposed to do that? Did it happen when they were ill the way that mortals grew warm with fever? She had no idea. Eldalotë might be able to enlighten her, but it hardly seemed polite to ask about it. 

It was an immense relief when the last of the dishes and cutlery were cleared away. Haleth silently congratulated herself for using all of the proper utensils and not having an unpleasant exchange with her dinner companions.  Soon she would be able to escape to a dark corner without appearing rude.   

Angrod, who had been examining her with a puzzled expression the entire course of the meal, finally spoke again.  ‘Please forgive me for my earlier confusion, Lady…’

‘Haleth,’ she said without thinking.  Angrod’s expression changed from puzzled to knowing.   Haleth’s heart sank.  How could he know her?  What had she done?

‘I though your name was Silmariën?’ asked Eldalotë. 

‘It is,’ Haleth said quickly.  ‘But I prefer to be known as Haleth.’

‘I met Haleth when she passed through my lands,’ he said as Haleth stared at the table and twisted the stem of a goblet between her thumb and forefinger.

‘She must have led her people across your lands on their way to their new home,’ mumbled Haleth.

‘No, she was alone,’ he said.  ‘Well, not quite alone.  She was traveling in the company of Fëanor’s fourth son, Caranthir.’

Haleth blanched as a sliver of memory returned.  She had been searching for something; she could not remember what although she knew it had been vital.  Along the way she had taken up with an unpleasant person who had shouted, called her names and, in his own unpleasant way, protected her. She could clearly recall the way his face would flush when he screamed at her. 

‘Husband, perhaps you could attend me for a moment?’ Eldalotë said sharply.  She stood up and marched away.  Angrod followed in her wake, leaving a miserable Haleth alone. 

Angrod must be mistaken.  Eldalotë had warned her that he was still confused. There was no way he could have known her.  Logic said it was impossible, but in her heart she knew that Angrod was right. The vision of Caranthir’s angry, flushed face rose in her mind’s eye.  The vision sent a cold chill down her spine.  This memory was better left alone. 

Moving with deliberate slowness to hide her trembling, Haleth returned to her sanctuary on the bench behind the decorative vase of flowers and watched the gathered company. Finarfin’s court was a thing of beauty.  Silks and rich brocades were everywhere.  Deeply coloured gems sparkled in the lamplight.  The elves were graceful and ageless, their voices like music.  It was achingly beautiful with the assembled company and the sweet scent of the evening flowers drifting through the air.