In Nargothrond, the fair city of Orodreth, an Elf stood in the garden of his dwelling and bid farewell to his Lady wife. It was autumn, and the mallorn trees were golden over their bowed heads as they stood together, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of the dying leaves. She was clothed in garments of green and silver, with a circlet of silver on her dark hair, and he was dressed in bright mail and girded for war. He was to ride with the host of the great city with his king, for Glaurung the dragon had passed into the north of the realm of Nargothrond with a great host of Orcs following, and Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain, was burning.

For a long while they held hands and did not speak. They were old in the reckoning of Elves, though their faces were unlined and there was no silver in their hair, and only other Elves could have seen the subtle signs of age in the depths of their eyes. For uncounted lifetimes of Men they had walked side by side since the awakening of their folk at Cuivenen, enduring much for the sake of each other. Together they had left the bliss of Aman, and then felt the bitterness of Feanor’s betrayal as they stood afar in Araman and saw the smoke of the burning ships at Losgar. Together they had survived the cruel Crossing of the Ice, during which many of their kin had perished. Through fear and peril they had come at last to the safety of Nargothrond many ages before, and long they had dwelt there in bliss, but now a bitter parting had come to them.

“Last night I dreamed of Cuivenen,” he said at last. “I dreamed of the first time I saw you walking toward me, clad only in your long hair. Do you remember what you said to me then, Silwen?

Silwen’s eyes were cast down. “I saw the stars falling and I was afraid. I said, ‘Oh, how sad if they all should fall, and we should see them no more!’ How young and foolish I was then.”

“No more foolish than I,” Aerandir said. “I was only a little older than you, but I thought myself very wise. ‘Ah,’ I said to you, ‘Even the stars that fall grow in the sky again, as the sweet berries return when they are plucked, else the sky should soon be empty’.”

They laughed together and were silent, remembering, then Silwen lay her head on his breast. His mail was cold and hard against her cheek, even through his surcoat, and she could not feel the beating of his heart. Aerandir pressed his face into her dark hair and breathed in her scent. “Much has changed since then, has it not, Lady?”

She drew back and looked into his dark eyes, placing his hand over her heart. “This has not changed, nor will it ever, while the world lasts.”

Low and clear, but far away, a horn sounded, calling the host of Nargothrond to assemble. Aerandir sighed. “Ah, Lady, you are wicked to tempt me thus, when I must go.”

“Then stay,” she begged, and her lip trembled. “We are free, and Arda is wide; let us flee away together from Nargothrond, and war. My dreams of late have been dark and strange, and they speak to me of some doom I do not understand, and I am afraid.”

“We are no longer innocent Elf-children of Cuivenen, melamin,” he said. “We cannot hide ourselves in the shadows of the trees, cowering at the sound of the thunder as the storm approaches. We have our duty, and mine is to my city and my king, as yours is to keep our home until I return.”

“Duty!” Silwen wept, and her voice was bitter. “It is ever thus: The woman’s duty is to wait and do nothing, and when battle is finished, her duty is to mourn the fallen and collect their scattered bones. The foes of Nargothrond are many, and who can stand before Glaurung? The pride and host of Orodreth will wither before him, and you will fall.”

Aerandir spoke with a confidence he did not feel. “Our king Orodreth is brave, and he has at his right hand Adanedhil, the man they call Mormegil, the Black Sword, and it is said that he cannot be overcome.”

“He is still only a Man,” Silwen said bitterly. “And I have heard it said that he came to Nargothrond under false colors, calling himself the Blood-stained son of Ill-fate, and no name would suit him better, for he is truly Turin, the son of Hurin of Dor-Lomin, whose kin Morgoth has cursed. He is too proud, and he will have everything as he wishes, and it is said even the king now bows to his will. He cares nothing for Nargothrond or its people, he cares only for himself. I do not trust The Black Sword.”

Aerandir was shaken to hear these rumors spoken aloud from the lips of his wife. These thoughts had also been in his mind, but had said nothing for her sake, hoping to shield her from unreasonable fear. Still, he put his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “We will not fall, Silwen. Though all the host of Morgoth stood between us, still I would come home to you, my Shining Maiden. Has it not always been so?”

And so he kissed her and she clung to him, and at last he pried loose her hands, placing a kiss into her palms and pressing them together. “Let us not part with these fearful words between us, love, but keep hope for me, and hold this kiss for me until I return to claim it.” But his heart was heavy with foreboding, and he could not help but look behind him as he departed from her. To the end of his days he would remember her fair face, her lily hands upraised in farewell as she wept to see him go.
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