Chapter Text
When the refugees from Doriath arrived at the mouths of Sirion, they didn’t stand out much from the crowd. If you were in Sirion, you’d almost certainly fled there from somewhere. Everyone had their story. It would have been easy for them to be swallowed and ignored.
By the look of her, the girl on the rock (arms folded tightly across her body) would have loved nothing more than to vanish, and be forgotten, and forget. But “Doriath” was all the whispers in the streets, because for almost as long as there had been elves spread out from Cuivienen, there had been Doriath, and it had been unbreachable. And now it had been broken – and not by Morgoth. Some of these people had dreamed of some day being allowed inside the Girdle of Melian, where they’d be safe. And now – hard as it was to believe – it was gone.
Annael could tell they were from Doriath, the girl and the pair of guards with her. Or at least, he could tell they were new arrivals. The men still held themselves like soldiers, but as he watched, one of them realised he was standing to attention – and shifted, self-consciously. They had no army, no orders, no homeland to protect any more, and everyone knew it. The stance of a defeated soldier was a familiar one in Sirion.
He was jerked out of his contemplation when he realised the other one – the one that still walked tall, a Sindar elf with an ancient longbow – was heading towards him.
‘Welcome to Sirion,’ he greeted him. The elf didn’t smile.
‘That obvious?’
Annael shrugged. ‘We were all you at one point.’
He wished that were true. He wished he’d been able to stride through the town, meeting people’s eyes without shame. He wished he hadn’t left so many back west, on the field of the Nirnaeth – or worse, dead at the hands of the Easterlings.
‘I’ve been told to look for Annael, at the tide pools.’
Annael blinked. ‘Really?’
‘These would be the tide pools.’ The soldier (almost certainly more than just a soldier, he had the air of a commander, and was dressed better than most refugees) looked along the beach. ‘I’m told.’
‘And I’m Annael,’ Annael admitted. He had a growing suspicion who had recommended him, and why. He held out a hand, and the elf clasped it, firmly.
‘I’m Oropher, of Doriath. Forgive me, I wasn’t told where you were from, Annael?’
Annael looked at him wordlessly. For you that might have an obvious answer – you’re from Doriath, you’ve been from Doriath for thousands of years - you haven’t left Doriath for thousands of years. ‘I…was born up around Lake Mithrim,’ he said. Should he recount all the other places he’d made his home, ending with Sirion? Being born in Mithrim didn’t mean he felt like he was from Mithrim. Although it would do.
‘And you’re a veteran, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ said Annael. ‘Of the Nirnaeth.’
The silence was filled with the gulls, and the voices of the children fishing in the pools. Perhaps he should still be angry that Doriath, in all its ancient strength, had sent a total of two warriors to the Fifth Battle. As if being angry would help. He broke the silence – ‘you don’t seem at ease here by the sea.’
‘I’m not,’ said Oropher, flatly. ‘But…well.’ He waved back over to the rock.
The girl’s age was difficult to judge – her face was round and smooth, with large eyes – but her expression was solemn and knowing. She hadn’t moved a fraction since he first spotted her.
‘Círdan said you were good with the children down here, and might speak to her,’ said Oropher, awkwardly. ‘He sent word that he’ll come for a time, but there’s work to be done in Balar, so…’
Both of his suspicions confirmed at once. ‘I’ll…certainly I’ll speak to her, if you want me to,’ he said. ‘And you’re welcome to bring her down here to the pools – this time of day is best. Some of the orphans team up to collect different things that get washed in – fish, crabs, shrimp, shellfish – and sell them up by the docks.’ He’d – somehow – found himself organising this, and helping to mediate any disputes (it had my line in its claw, Annael, and he grabbed it, but it had my line in its claw!!!) and talking to those who were at the pools in body only, mind elsewhere, staring into the middle distance.
‘Isn’t that one…that one’s not an elf child,’ said Oropher, pointing.
‘No,’ said Annael. ‘Plenty of them aren’t, it’s a mix.’ And perhaps that was one reason he’d fallen (been pushed) into this job. He had experience caring for a child of a different kindred - and realised that children are children. Although that particular child was long gone. ‘I shouldn’t think it will matter, will it?’ he said, looking back at the girl, to get the golden-haired boy with the ready grin out of his mind. ‘If she’s who I think she is, then her grandfather was one of the Edain – wasn’t he?’
*****
She glanced at him as he sat beside her, and her arms tightened around her. She was actually clutching a small box, but he made sure to pay it no attention at all. ‘Welcome to Sirion, Elwing of Doriath,’ he said.
She didn’t reply. He wondered if he shouldn’t have said “Doriath” at all. But worrying too much about the right thing to say was useless, he’d found. It rested on the assumption that there was a Right Thing To Say that would make it all better. And of course there wasn’t.
‘I’m Annael. Of Mithrim,’ he added. ‘But of Sirion, now.’
He wasn’t too surprised when she didn’t say anything to that, either. They watched the children in the pools. ‘They came here to work,’ he told her dryly, as there was a shriek and a splash. ‘Or so they say. Some work, they find fishing a good distraction. Some need the time to play and forget everything that way. And usually, they manage not to interrupt each other…’ another splash followed by a roar of laughter. ‘It’s alright. There are strict rules about who gets pushed into the pools and who does not. I’m top of the list of people who do not.’
She hadn’t moved away from him, but she wasn’t looking at him. And why should she? A complete stranger, a man, trying to interest her in a place she didn’t want to be, when she had many far more important things to distract her. Her mother and father were dead. She’d had two little brothers, the rumours said – they hadn’t come to Sirion. He knew what that meant.
‘You remind me of someone,’ he told her.
That, at least, caught her attention.
‘She was older than you. But you look a little like her. She…well, she had lost a lot too.’
*****
When they’d first found her, she didn’t have a clue where she was – she was trying to get to the battle field, she said, but had lost her way. She hadn’t said much else – hadn’t denied she was with child, that she was one of the Edain, but hadn’t answered any other questions for several days. They’d taken her in as one of their own – what else could they do?
There was a tiredness in her that no rest could cure. She wasn’t tired of walking – she was tired of hoping, tired of believing, and tired of loving. She said, often, that as soon as the child was born and she could travel, she would go to the battle field, and find the child’s father. They’d asked her how old she was. If she were an elf, she would still be a small child herself. And you don’t dash a small child’s hope like that.
When her son was born, and she named him Tuor – the name his father Huor had chosen before he left for the Nirnaeth – she declared that she was going to leave. It had been Annael, the only one there who had been at the Nirnaeth, who had told her.
He had left too many people behind at the hill of the slain. And all he could do for their children was to send them west (in fact he’d reunited with most of them here in Sirion). He told her what had happened to Huor, son of Galdor.
She said nothing. That night, somehow, she slipped away from all of them and vanished. Her trail headed towards the battle field. Perhaps his words hadn’t had any effect at all – although he couldn’t forgive himself for them, even today.
He couldn’t be certain, but he believed he’d been the one to rob her of her last hope. If she’d had a shred of hope – she would have taken Tuor with her.
*****
‘Her name was Rían,’ he said. ‘In fact, she was kin of your grandfather Beren.’
Elwing stood up. ‘Oropher,’ she called. ‘I’m tired.’
Annael kept his expression neutral, as his insides clenched and unclenched. There may not be a right thing to say – but some things were more wrong than others.
Although his worst fear wasn’t crushing her hope. It was that she might not have any hope to crush.
*****
It had been too early to have her at the pools, surrounded by shouting and splashing, introducing her to strangers. She’d barely been in Sirion a week – she needed to adjust, be with people she knew first.
Some days later, he invited Oropher to walk with him by the river – away from the sea. Oropher accepted, but brought Elwing along. She was wrapped in a fine, thick cloak – grey, like her great-grandfather’s namesake, and Annael had to wonder, from the size (it was folded up several times to keep it from trailing) and the way she held it around her, if it hadn’t in fact been Thingol’s. Perhaps it was one of the last treasures of Doriath saved, thrown around her as she was rushed away…he guessed she was still holding the box under there.
She didn’t speak, but Oropher asked plenty of questions about the road east. Which route would he recommend, in getting to the Blue Mountains? How would he pass them? How big a group was too big, and how many too small?
Annael answered with what he knew, and added the names of people who’d travelled that way more recently. He also added that getting to the Blue Mountains alive from here was enormously unlikely, without going far to the south. Oropher didn’t look surprised to hear this.
‘Celeborn and Galadriel headed more south than east, in the end. But I think they will’ve made it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Annael. ‘Forgive me, from your questions I thought you were planning to travel east yourself.’
Oropher looked at Elwing out of the corner of his eye, and Annael understood. He wanted to run east. But he couldn’t go until he was sure Elwing was safe.
It was hard to tell if she’d noticed – she walked quite a way behind them, still swamped in the grey cloak. Her attention was caught by four large white birds on the water.
Annael wandered back to her. He opened his mouth – and was stuck at the first line. What should he address her as? She was the daughter of the King – was she used to people calling her just… “Elwing”?
“Elwing of Doriath” might be wrong now, and “Elwing daughter of Dior” or “of Nimloth” almost certainly was. But there might come a time when this was exactly the right thing to call her – when remembering who she was, was important.
He called his foster son “Tuor son of Huor” from time to time, for just that reason. So that he would remember who he was, and feel some pride and connection to his heritage. Because Annael didn’t know how to begin to bring up a child as one of the Edain would – he didn’t know what the differences might be. All he could do was bring him up as his own son. And that was the other reason he would call him “son of Huor” sometimes – to remind himself that the little six year old he wrapped in their least patchy blanket, and settled close to the fire, was not his own son. And that some day he might have to let him go back to his own people, and he shouldn’t get too attached.
Sometimes instead of lying down to sleep the boy would climb into his lap, and ask “Will you sing to me, Annael?”. When Annael did, Tuor’s face would light up as he rested his head against the elf’s shoulder – then Annael would have to finish off his song, and say “and now, Tuor son of Huor, it’s time for sleep.” Because when the boy wrapped his arms around Annael’s neck and kissed his cheek, then he had to try and remind himself that Tuor wasn’t his own son.
Although if he had a son, he didn’t know what the difference would be. And he had to admit to himself that calling him “son of Huor” had never really made him stop thinking of Tuor as his.
But in herding all his people away during the attack, he hadn’t been able to stand by his boy, hadn’t been able to drag his fearless Tuor west, and the Easterlings had taken him who knew where. He’d wanted to go after him, but how to find him? What to do alone against so many Easterlings, when his people needed him to lead them?
In the end, it had been the memory of Rían that stopped him. The memory of what it felt like to be left behind when someone walks away from you into death (because that was what would happen. Only one person had ever found the one he sought still alive in the enemy’s hands, and had an Eagle of Manwë swoop down to help him escape. And that person was dead now too).
Elwing had caught up, and still having no answer, Annael skipped greeting her at all.
‘You’ve noticed the swans?’
She nodded, eyes still fixed on them.
‘The swan is my token,’ he said. ‘I would say, the banner of my house, if I had a house, and if we needed banners.’
She nodded again.
‘There were many at Lake Mithrim,’ he said. ‘The water’s edge on the northern side was clogged with twigs and feathers, where they made their nests under the trees. Have you seen them before?’
‘I’m not sure…’ she said. ‘Can they fly?’
‘Certainly they can fly. Not quietly. They’re not really built for stealth. They often fly in groups, in “v” shapes, I’m not sure why. You’d see – and hear – them of an evening in Mithrim.’
They watched the swans as they continued to walk slowly up the river. One nibbled at its wing, but none of them obliged by taking flight.
‘I like to see them here,’ he said. ‘And I like to remember Mithrim. They’re…probably not there any more, at the lake. Even if I could go back, it won’t be the same. But I like to remember it.’
A long time after he’d stopped waiting for her reply, she murmured: ‘Why do you want to remember it.’
It wasn’t a question. Even if it had been, he wasn’t sure what he could answer – not a right answer, or a wrong answer, or any answer, once he’d caught sight of the frighteningly familiar look of tiredness on her too-young face.