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In the early days of winter, Niënor always spent more time with her mother in the kitchen, where the big fire and silent company made the cold more bearable. In truth, she liked winter - it made the enemy riders less eager to venture far from their village - but the days also grew shorter during these times, and Niënor would often find herself idle and bored inside the big empty house. With nothing else to do, simple kitchen tasks such as sweeping the floor while her mother made bread were pleasant enough distractions, and her mind was wandering far when her mother’s voice cut in and brought her back to herself.
“Who taught you that song, Niënor?”
She hadn’t even noticed she was singing. The song had been stuck in her head for days now, and she liked it because it was about flowers and warm summer days. “It is a song Sador sings sometimes, Mother. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she added quickly. Everyone in the house knew Morwen liked to work in silence.
But while her piercing gaze never wavered, Morwen didn’t seem angry, and Niënor should know, because she could always tell when her mother was angry. Fidgeting in the uncomfortable silence, she made to return to the task at hand, but Morwen spoke again before she could begin.
“I have neglected your education. Leave that and sit by the fire. I will be back shortly.”
She returned with an old, cumbersome book in her hands, and began to draw in the rear blank pages with the blackened end of a stick she took from the cooking fire.
“You know that you and and your brother are heirs to two noble houses. From your father you have the blood of the House of Marach and Hador, the rightful lords of Dor-lómin. And your mother belongs to the House of Bëor the Old and Beren the bold.” Morwen’s eyes seemed suddenly alight with a strange sheen, never leaving the page that she was covering with lines and swirling shapes. Niënor was struck by how much she liked her mother’s voice, and realized that she was even more handsome than the lady Aerin, even more beautiful than the elves who sometimes visited. How would Morwen look in braids and furs and gold?
“Of these two houses, the latter is more famous, for Beren won the hand of Lúthien, the princess of Doriath, by daring to do what no other had even dreamed possible. Thus it is that your brother now dwells with Thingol, who is the king of the elves of Doriath, but also our kinsman by right of marriage.”
“And when will we join him, mother?” Niënor asked, pride and excitement swelling in her heart. Thingol’s messengers had said many times that the ladies would be welcome in Doriath, but still they tarried, for what reason Niënor could not say. Yet she regretted the question, for as soon as it left her mouth, a shadow darkened her mother’s face. Niënor almost despaired. She still had so many questions to ask, and she knew her mother still had much to say! It was a great relief when Morwen’s sharp gaze focused on her once more, and her voice came out fierce and proud.
“Trouble yourself not with this. Instead, learn of your lineage and your ancestors, daughter of Húrin. Our enemies might steal from us as they please now, but your pride no man can take from you. It is your treasure. Pay close attention to all I say, and hold it dear in your heart.”
Niënor obeyed.
In the autumn of the year 495, they finally left.
Crossing the mountains was every bit as dangerous as they knew it would be. They slowed down upon reaching the woods, with something that passed for relief in their hearts and faces. Sitting under the shadow of a mighty oak to rest, Niënor tried to steady her breathing. She knew much of the history of her people, but despite the education her mother had given her, it hadn’t occurred to Niënor that Morwen had braved these wilds once before, many years ago.
Morwen seemed to have the same thing in mind. She spoke in a lower voice than usual, as if her mind was somewhere else, her eyes not on Niënor’s face. “Weary and dispossessed…thus I came to this place, and thus I leave. However -” she put a hand on Niënor’s arm, her eyes fierce, “- we do not go as beggars, to rely on the kindness of strangers. King Thingol is our kinsman.”
“And we go to find my brother, who braved this path before us.” Niënor knew the thought had always been in her mother’s heart, and yet now that it had escaped through her own mouth it seemed to weigh on them both with newfound heaviness. Why had he not come for them? In her mind she fancied she could see him, tall and proud, a bright sheen to his eyes. Not so different from the elves whom she had known in her childhood, in truth, and who had also deserted them once the forces of the Enemy swarmed the vale of the Teiglin in great numbers. Years later, when they were unexpectedly pushed back and the foul smell of Orcs blown away by the autumn wind, Niënor had dreamed it was all thanks to some heroic deed of Túrin’s. But this time, instead of waiting in hope of rescue, she had once more urged her mother to go, and this time Morwen heeded. Nienor had saved both love and bitter words in her heart for her brother, but more than either, she had questions.
The women exchanged a long look. Worn-out, Morwen soon rested her head against Niënor’s shoulder, and they allowed themselves to rest, and to dream.