Chapter Text
He got the news from Seen-Too-Much, storyteller to the Cuind.
“Haven’t you heard about that archer from Nurnen? She did marvels against Orcs from the Ephel Duath. I’d wage at least half the songs sung during the Highdays will be in her honor”
“I had no idea. From the Kinn-Lai? “
“From the Blue Well Fire, which is Windan I think. Oh there are going to be so many war dances dedicated to her. Quite the character as well. They say she is the best archer this age has seen.“
Seen-Too-Much’s eyes were gleaming.
"Quite the character too. She has an interesting name. I-Named-Myself…"
Oh mercy me
"She-Names-Herself?"
That’s the name. Fitting for a song, wouldn’t you say? Rumor has it she’ll be in the City-That-Dreams during the Highdays.
If thunder had struck down Left-With-The-Herons, he would not have felt much different.
She’s back. She’s back.
His first thought was to flee. Escape the city to avoid any chance of meeting her. Invent some lie about a prior engagement. Except what storyteller would be wanted outside the city during the Highdays?
His second thought was to laugh it off. After all the City-That-Dreams in its sprawling splendor was the best hiding place. She was a war hero now, more likely to remain on the outskirts and frequent the war dances. And she never liked stories to begin with. All in all if they ever met it would be pretty unlikely. The chances were negligent.
And yet he knew. They would meet again. And even without that recent development, deep down he had always known he would have to face her again at some point.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to run. He wanted to hurt himself, sink his nails in his hand and climb out of his skin as if he could escape that ordeal. He remembered every moment of that day. Could recite the name and recall the faces of everyone who saw She-Who-Names-Herself’s disgrace. The instructor, drunk on his own power. Silent-Until-Spring, the only one who said anything. Circle-Of-Light, if ever an Elf could vanish into thin air by wishing for it. Strong-Left-Hand who said nothing but pretty much agreed with the instructor. Light-Bug who had always resented She-Who-Names-Herself for beating him at the spear.
And Left-With-The-Herons. Kind, compassionate Left-With-The-Herons. The friend. The one who taught her their ways. The one who thought and said that the Hisildi were too insular. Too distrustful, too fearful of their brothers. The one who got famous for his satirical tales. The coward who remained silent. The Elf with the golden lips who could not even utter a word in his friend’s defence. Admired, courted, wanted, if only they knew what was hidden behind the affable appearance.
You were a child. Barely grown then. Give yourself some grace.
Always the excuses with you. Even then you failed your childish principles. You only remained silent because you tried to protect your reputation.
He spent the Nights of Remembering like a lamb bound for slaughter. Pale, anxious, afraid of his shadow, running around in circles. Constantly waiting for her to appear behind him. He tried working on an apology. Scrapped it. Started again.
She-Who-Names-Herself never came to the City-That-Dreams that year. For good or for worse he could not tell. But on the Night of the Flame, he found himself, for the first time in many years, in front of the fire again.
He had tried to go at a time where most people would be engaged elsewhere, somehow it seemed to him that everyone knew his dirty secret, and he was afraid that even more people would know, watching him throw his paper in the fire.
But as far as he could tell, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Elves from all tribes. Children. Quarreling lovers. Desperate parents and ungrateful sons.
And all of them are better than me.
What do you wish to be free of?
My sin. My guilt. Take me O fire, my wretched feä and my cowardly hroä. Burn me and destroy me.
And as he watched the flames consume the paper he felt a new courage take root in him.
I will find her and speak to her. I owe her that much.
He did not see her for the next ten years.
The stories of her prowesses kept growing. She had managed to unite the warring tribes of the Windan and the Penni and had launched a successful campaign near the great river. She was the youngest Windan chieftain there ever was. Things were moving fast. Beyond the Mountains of Mist, in Eregion, there were rumours of a war between a wizard and the Elves. Nobody cared much about the Noldor but everybody knew attacks on them spelt trouble.
And she got a new name. Rain-In-Her-Face, in memory of the time where she escaped a vicious fight unscathed, but covered in blood.
Left-With-The-Herons kept going to the Night of the Flame, in the vain hope of getting something he could never have. The promises of renewal and absolution never came true. The relief lasted the duration of the Highdays. After that he was back to his old self, and to his old life.
There’s no escaping me.
He wanted absolution. He did not understand that he could not get it by himself.
In the eleventh year, he finally met her as an Elder introduced her. The formal setting prevented him from telling her all he wanted to. The words of apology leaving his mouth sounded far too rehearsed.
“We were elflings back then, Left-With-The-Herons. Of course I forgive you.”
“I… What?”
But Rain-In-Her-Face smiled warmly.
“For old times sake. Farewell, Left-With-The-Herons”.
He still attended the Night of the Flame that year, filled with an unease he could not understand. That unease did not leave him and it took him many years to understand it.
He did not want her to forgive him after all. He deserved her anger, and the pain and the shame. He deserved the humiliation in retaliation for what she had gone through.
Rain-In-Her-Face’s vengeance was complete. She had done the worst thing she could have. She had forgiven him. And now he could never repair what he had done.
Fifty years after that he met her for the last time, in the City-That-Dreams. He was older, and sadder and wiser still. This time he met her during the Night of the Flame.
She was older and alone and tired. And he felt so impressed the words escaped his mouth and without meaning it congratulated her.
“I have nothing and your vengeance is complete.”
And she looked at him. And he felt truly seen for the first time in ages.
“It’s only ever been about you, has it? You think I forgave you to hurt you? What kind of sad pathetic creature are you? I did it for myself. I don’t want to forgive you. In fact I don’t want to see your face ever again, but I am tired. I don’t even hate you, I want you gone. I wish to never speak to you. I wish you to never speak to me. I wish to never speak of you. I have lived through hardships you could never imagine. I do not need to keep carrying that story around. So I cut you loose.”
And Left-With-The-Herons was silent. What could he ever say to that?
“You never thought of that? You saw me as that wronged victim, well the cripple that you try to save is neither starved nor cold and does not ask for your help, nor for your permission. I made myself. You were just a verse in a song someone else composed. The crumbs of forgiveness you hoped to offer me, they’re what I’ve left behind. Forget me. Leave the shadow of my wound. Do not make yourself miserable for me, it does not suit you. And do not love me, I have no need for it. Farewell and may you leave my life.”
And there it was. The final departure. The last chapter of that particular story. And it wasn't the teller who got the last word.
Left-With-The-Herons is alone now. In a few moments, they’ll put out the fire. The Sun is peaking from beneath the horizon.
He’s thrown his paper. He thinks about the words written on it. “To speak is to do”. He’s making a promise he isn’t sure to keep. He’ll try. And should he ever fail, he will come back once more for the Night of the Flame. Kindle it and start again.
The dance of the renewal is starting. Now come the Nights of the Offering.
The wind rises in the high places.
The dust is in the wind
The dust is in the wind
The dust is in the wind
The wind goes up the mountain
The wind goes up the mountain
And makes the rocks sing
The rocks call
The rocks call
The rocks call
The call goes up the mountains
The call goes up the mountains
And they break.
The rocks break
The rocks break
The mountains break
Earth and snow slide down
Earth and snow slide down
The new earth covers the old
The poplars grow tall
The poplars grow tall
The poplars grow tall
They grow tall and green
The grow tall and green
And I, what did I do ?
I came to see my friends.
I came to see the dances