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Word came to her the way word came always to Galadriel in Menegroth—whispers echoing in stone and water, threads hooking themselves to the tapestry as if new verses were being added to Menegroth’s Song of making. (Perhaps they were. Under Melian’s guidance, she had plumbed many of the mysteries, but not all.) It was not as it had been in Tirion. In Tirion, it had been possible for Artanis Nerwen not to learn something until long after the rest of her family, but in Menegroth, Galadriel (or a ghost of Artanis, or a shadow of Galadriel, or something that was still in the process of being born) could not claim such ignorance. Even if news was not brought to her on someone’s open mouth, it still rippled and sang in vaults of living stone.
So yes, she knew what Morwen purposed.
Galadriel had taken little interest in Túrin when he arrived in Menegroth, a ragged, solemn boy-child with eyes made keen by hunger for more things than he could express with that oft-buttoned mouth of his. He had skirted the periphery of the things that interested her, a child casting about fruitlessly for a purpose for his hands and his time that did not seem vaguely ill-fitting. Their eyes met over banquet tables, on occasion. No disrespect, no curiosity (on her part)—just the eyes of two strangers meeting by chance, before they went back to attending to other things.
Becoming entangled in the affairs of those too short-lived to really shape the world in any meaningful way, that was her brothers’ folly, not hers. Beren and Andreth, Barahir and Bëor. Many other hands, she suspected, would have found their way to the list, had her brothers been able to confide in her. But Galadriel was the last, and the visitors who lingered on Arda's surface for only a short while had been of more interest to her brothers than to her.
She was discovering too late that she might not have been as immune to her brothers’ folly as she had thought. Too short-lived to shape the world they were destined to leave, but not deedless, and incapable of—
Here are hooks in me, where once I swore that nothing again would ever bind me.
(It was not the same kind of freedom Írissë had sought, not exactly. But the absence of it must feel just as it had felt to her, if less poisoned with imprisonment in a sunless land.)
There was a shadow on Húrin’s house. She’d known it from the moment she had first seen a hungry boy’s twinned shadow in the lamplight of Menegroth. She’d not perceived it stretching its fingers until the moment she began to feel it sinking hooks into her own.
Just now, actually. Galadriel was not certain whether or not she would be happier to feel it leave her.
She came to the chambers shared by Morwen and Niënor to find it as harshly lit as it ever was—the glittering stones in the ceiling and the lamps typically used in such chambers were not sufficient for the eyes of the Edain, and more lamps must needs be lit. The antechamber was empty, though a thick, woolen cloak was tossed carelessly across the back of a chair. From further within, Galadriel heard a faint shuffling, the fainter suggestion of hissing voices. She was reminded irresistibly of her parents arguing in darkness behind closed doors, and hated how young it made her feel.
Niënor burst out, and the eyes that fixed on Galadriel’s face churned with worry and anger both. “Please speak with her,” Niënor entreated, before storming past Galadriel out into the hall, her footsteps reverberating through the open door. Mourning would not cling to her mother’s shadow as she threatened to leave her yet more bereft.
With Niënor gone, there was only a soft shuffling from the room Galadriel knew to be Morwen’s bedchamber. Nothing loud enough to name itself clearly—Galadriel could well imagine Morwen moving through the chamber as crisply and as quietly as she could, years of living partially in hiding in Dor-lómin leaving her creeping about her home even in a place of safety. (Galadriel could still remember how relieved, how shocked Niënor had been to be told that there was no obstacle and no danger in wandering outside of her rooms alone. Morwen had hidden it better, but she had seemed to feel just the same—her shoulders had sagged, some of the stiffness going out of her spine.)
The door was slightly ajar and yielded to Galadriel’s hand without so much as a squeak. Above, the ceiling stones glimmered dully, and below, the light they reflected showed Morwen standing over a pack on her bed, shoulders slightly hunched.
“If you are here to move me to what others consider wiser courses, Galadriel, you are destined for disappointment.”
Galadriel didn’t smile. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to smile, and she’d never been inclined to feign cheer, not for any reason. “I’m surprised. I would have thought you’d think me your child, returned to plead with you anew.”
Without turning, Morwen shook her head. “Niënor does not wear perfume, nor scent of any kind. Your tread is lighter than hers, and you have always been averse to knocking.” The bite in her voice pitched high and taut, like a harp string wound entirely too tight.
“You are, as ever, a quick study.”
Morwen turned to her. She wasn’t wearing the threadbare, shapeless dress she had shown up wearing, that first night. Galadriel had never seen Morwen or Niënor wear the clothes they had brought with them from Dor-lómin since they had been gifted new, and she suspected they had been disposed of. Morwen’s clothes were as fine as any Doriathrin lady’s, and the idea of her going out into the wild dressed thusly was absurd. That was itself an absurd thing to focus on, and the incongruous image of Morwen wandering desolate Beleriand in layers of silk lingered in Galadriel’s mind for but a moment before she banished it. As it should be; she had, she thought, enough self-control not to be sidetracked with trivialities.
They stood in silence, until Morwen raised an eyebrow at Galadriel, and Galadriel mirrored the gesture, her lips pursed. “I have rarely known you to be so hasty in your decisions.” Something hot and hard churned in in Galadriel’s stomach like molten metal in a mold, twisting and burning.
“You have not known me so long as all that.” Morwen’s pulse fluttered in her throat. “And in the reckoning of the Eldar, it must feel like no time at all. Can you really claim to know what I will or will not do?”
There were as many hours in the day and as many days in a year for the Eldar as for the Edain. Galadriel registered the changing of the seasons as Morwen did, counted the night as long and the day as short as Morwen did. She inclined her head. “Crisis often brings the unexpected to the forefront.” Blood on gem-strewn sand, corpses floating in the water, blood dripping from her sword. Indeed, crisis could make anyone behave in ways they would never have expected of themselves, let alone other people.
“I will not turn aside,” Morwen told her flatly. “If there is the slightest chance that my son yet lives, I would go to him. And if he is dead…” She shut her eyes, her body quaking in a shudder that seemed fit to shatter her. “…If he is dead, I would go to him. If anything remains, I would not have it rot beneath the open sky, food for wolves and for vultures.” Her face was scored with old pain that crept on her like the eons crept up on stone. “I did not let Urwen’s body rest thusly. Even those faithful who met their end on the Anfauglith were given a burial mound, even if they had to share the space.” Her voice wobbled. “These are evil times, but I will not let the Enemy take even the burial rites of my people from me. It may mean little to those who rise again—”
Galadriel lifted her hand to silence her. Edain and Eldar alike shared that mound; Galadriel could not have denied the kinship if she tried (Would have loved to be able to claim the detachment needed to try). “I have no intention of stopping you, Morwen.”
Morwen frowned sharply, her lips pressed into a fine line. “Oh? Is that so? That would be a first. Every other person I have spoken to on this has told me to continue creeping underground where it is safe, while my own flesh wanders the wilds or lies dead in empty lands.”
“I speak for myself, Morwen, not with the voice of Thingol or Melian the Queen, nor even with the voice of your daughter, who if she counsels you to remain, does not do so because she cares not for her kin.”
“No coddling entreaties about the decrepitude of short-lived Edain?” Morwen’s hand went to her temple, where a few silver hairs stood out against inky black. “No reminders of my own insignificance?”
“No.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“Exactly what I said!” Galadriel snapped. She crossed the room and came to stand at Morwen’s side, gaze torn between the pack from whose depths she could clearly see the glinting hilt of a knife, and the face of the woman herself. “I have no desire to keep you here against your will.”
She reached out for Morwen’s hand. Fingertips brushed only the back of the hand where fine bones could be felt stretching skin before Morwen jerked her hand away. Galadriel did not flinch. She had enough self-control not to flinch at that; she’d had worse, under less dire circumstances.
Morwen slid her hands into the folds of her skirt and stood straight, her face suddenly smooth and impassive. The thought was a thorn dully pricking Galadriel’s heart—as fair as any lady of the Eldar she was, in spite of the signs of age creeping on her. The silver beginning to touch her dark hair glimmered in the lamplight and reminded Galadriel of nothing quite so much as some of the Falmari with their silver-dark hair. The lines of age that showed themselves in worry or anger or the occasional smile were little different than those that showed themselves on the faces of the Eldar.
They were so close, Eldar and Edain. Too close, perhaps, for there had been times when they spoke together that Galadriel had been able to forget, if only for a few moments, that they were of two different kinds. But they were bound to different things (there; Galadriel could not avoid being bound to the earth, any more than Írissë had), and similar flesh could not disguise dissimilar spirits. Artanis had not given the Fírimar a second thought beyond counting them among the people she would rule. Galadriel did not know what to think. Perhaps she never had.
“Funny,” Morwen said tonelessly. “I’d not thought you to be one for private farewells.”
Despite herself, a chuckle wormed its way up out of Galadriel’s mouth. “As you say, we have not known each other as long as all that. We do not always know what the other will do.” Any humor died suddenly in her throat, and she clasped Morwen’s shoulders with one hand—and this time, she wasn’t shaken off. “Morwen, I do not think it wise—“ Morwen’s face darkened, and Galadriel stared ever more intently at her “—but I would not keep you from this. If you believe nothing else, believe that. Nargothrond was…” Her throat tightened, and Galadriel drew a deep breath. She would not come to pieces. Not over this. She would not grant the Enemy the satisfaction of seeing her come to pieces, even if his sight must be distorted by all of Melian’s enchantments. “…The last of my brothers was there, and my niece as well. I would not keep you from it.”
Almost imperceptibly, even to Galadriel’s keen eyes, Morwen softened. “And you will not come with me?” Slowly, she wrapped her hand around Galadriel’s wrist, skin warm, spirit that was bound to nothing but the promise of a short life swirling beneath her flesh like starry water. “Orodreth was slain in battle, I heard, but Finduilas may yet still live.”
Artanis would have said “I will come” in an instant. Artanis had been possessed of tender pride, and would have chafed at the suggestion that she should stay behind where it was safe, even more so than Írissë had. Artanis rejected out of hand the idea that she was unequal to the task, however perilous it might be. Artanis had been sidelined for too long, her voice and her thoughts regarded as unimportant, and once she had found a chance to have her words heeded, her worth recognized, she would not let go of it.
Her pride was still tender. It was a trait Morwen shared—Galadriel thought she would understand. Her pride was still tender, and she still bridled at the implication that she was unequal to any perilous task set before her. She had no fear of pain, and the thought of finding herself helpless in the hands of the Doomsman who damned her filled her with nothing but a gray, shifting scorn. She did not fear the judgment of one too craven to face his erstwhile fellow, even as the Enemy rent Endóre in his hands. Galadriel would just as soon not die—if she died here, any chance of great deeds would be lost to her forever—but she was not afraid.
Slowly, bitterly, Galadriel shook her head. “I am yet needed here.” And what a thing it was to be needed, when being needed meant that you could not even search for some sign of your niece, whom no one knew to be alive or dead. She could search when Írissë went missing, but now Finduilas must languish (if she yet lived) with none of her kin to search for her and bring her to safety. “My prayers go with you, but I cannot.”
Morwen sighed softly. “I will miss your company in the wilds, I think. Solitary wandering is a bitter task, no matter the reason, and it is all the more bitter in evil days such as these.” Her grip on Galadriel’s wrist tightened slightly. “May we speak? It… may be some time before we can do so again.”
They went into the antechamber, sitting down at the low table where several books were strewn and a lamp with a globe of glass flecked with mica glittered dimly. Galadriel shifted her weight slightly, having to take a moment before she could find a comfortable position for her legs. The tables in Tirion and Valmar had been higher, and in Alqualondë they had simply sat on cushions on the floor. She had never grown accustomed to these low tables and low chairs, no matter how many times she sat at them, and the furniture in her own chambers was constructed instead to her preference. Lúthien had stared the first time she saw them, had giggled every time she saw them afterwards. She’d said—
No. Lúthien was gone, now. Not dead, but surely gone, all the same, and destined for a parting more permanent than the sort of death the Eldar knew. It served her nothing but ill to think of Lúthien now, when facing a parting from a child of the Edain.
Morwen did not seem to register any discomfort with the seating—if she did, she hid it well, well enough to hide it from a keen-eyed Lachend. She drew another sigh, even softer than the last, staring wistfully at the books resting on her table. “You were kind to me and mine, when we came,” she said, “and did not make me feel as a beggar who sat in your company only because pity moved you to seek me out. I have never thanked you for that, and I would not have you think me as churlish as the ones who drove me and mine from our home in the first place.”
‘There is no question of me ever thinking you churlish’ rose to Galadriel’s tongue, and perhaps its ghost showed in her face, for Morwen stiffened slightly in her chair, though she did not glare or respond. “You have always been…” she paused, rooting about for a word to describe what she felt, and finding herself curiously bereft, settled on “…interesting company,” despite how inadequate it was, and how the inadequacy lanced her chest like a burning knife. These were not the days of safety and plenty, when they could have whatever they wished for without a shadow looming long and dark over their own bodies. Morwen had never known days like that, and sometimes Galadriel did not think she had ever known them, either—the bliss of Valinor had begun to turn by the time Artanis Nerwen was born. Perhaps that was why they had ever managed to understand each other.
Perhaps it was also why Morwen seemed to grasp at what Galadriel had been attempting to express, for something forlorn flickered over her face like a guttering candle flame. “’Interesting.’ Hmm.” Her mouth twitched almost ruefully. “Yes, you were quite interesting as well. Thank you for that. It was a…” She paused, her jaw clenched, and when she found her voice again, it was decidedly brittle. “…Help, to me.”
They did not touch each other. To begin with, neither of them were given to seeking out physical contact as a comfort, nor to caresses or warm embraces. Galadriel had never been the most tactile person, and she suspected Morwen considered it beneath her dignity to indulge in such displays. Their eyes locked in the gloom and the silence of the room, and it was as much as any touch ever could be.
Morwen sucked in a deep breath, her face creasing with tired, regretful lines. “There is… There is something I wish to give you. I may not return from the wilds, and even if I did, I am of mortal Man, doomed to die. What I wish to give you, it is…” She shut her eyes, drew another deep breath. “It is important to me that I know it goes to someone who will value it and preserve it.”
Galadriel nodded wordlessly. There were so many hooks caught on her too-tender (more tender than she had thought) flesh already. What was the bite of just one more?
Morwen reached for one of the books on her table, a slender volume with a binding of cracked brown leather, held shut with crisscrossing leather thongs. “Of all the things we have spoken of, we have never spoken of Andreth, have we?”
They had not, though the name was hardly unfamiliar to Galadriel’s ears. Sister to Aegnor and Finrod, it hardly could be. Sometimes, these days, she counted it unfortunate that she had never met Andreth the Wise herself. The truly wise were few and far between, and they were only growing fewer. “Of Andreth I have heard.” Galadriel nodded slightly. “You have told me that you were educated in the lore of the House of Bëor. It stands to reason that you had a teacher.”
A humorless smirk flitted over Morwen’s mouth before disappearing. “It does indeed.” She sobered. “When the Enemy let loose the flames of Angband over Dorthonion, Andreth refused to flee. She…” Morwen’s eyes took on a hard, glassy sheen as she reached back into memory. “…She said that she was old, and unable to make the journey Emeldir would lead us on. She said—“ Morwen cut herself off, her knuckles white as she clutched the book in her hand. “For many years,” and her voice was too even for the way her hands had begun to tremble, “I thought to do as she had. I thought to remain, as she had. I thought it better to refuse to be driven from my home, no matter what adversity I would face. I had been made to flee once, as a child, and I thought that making that decision again as a woman would be unforgivable cowardice. If the Enemy is set on killing us all, I would sooner meet death face to face than have it strike me down while I was fleeing.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “But I have greater responsibilities than those simply to myself, however long it might have taken me to fully remember them. So I fled, and besides my daughter this is the most precious thing I took with me.
“Andreth gave this book to me before I fled south over the mountains with the others.” Morwen ran her hand over the cover almost reverently. “In it are many short tales of lore of the House of Bëor, but there is something else that gives the book its true value.”
Galadriel could only attribute to her own disordered feelings the fact that she didn’t recognize the prompt for what it was for several moments. Only when an edge of impatience sharpened Morwen’s jaw did she ask, “And what is that?”
“I suppose Adanel is too obscure a name for you to recognize it?”
“I’m afraid so. I have spent much of my time in Ennor within the vaults of Menegroth.” A mode of living I had never considered for myself, in a land where I would have the freedom to choose for myself. But good had come of it, nonetheless. “I did not know her.”
“Adanel was a Wise-woman of the House of Hador, who married a man of Bëor and spent much of her life in Ladros. She taught Andreth much of what she knew, and in this book took down a tale that is the seed of the Edain as the journey to the Undying Lands is to the Light Elves.”
With moments that each seemed to last an Age, Morwen leaned forward, and offered the book to Galadriel. When Galadriel’s hand closed over it, the book felt as dense as though every one of its pages was made of lead. “Read it if you will,” and Morwen’s voice wobbled again, and Galadriel willed herself not to register the emotions that thickened it. “Living or dead, I will be gone, and it is now in your care. If is to be preserved, someone must read it, if only so the contents can be copied. Read it, and you will know the Edain. Read it, and you will understand that you have never known us, not as we know ourselves, not as we know the shadows that stalk us every moment of our lives.” Her eyes swam, and for a moment, Galadriel thought Morwen might turn to weeping, but she mastered herself. “I would give it to Niënor, but there is a shadow over us, and I cannot risk this falling into shadow with us.”
There was a shadow over Galadriel, too—her shadow had been twinned since Alqualondë’s jeweled sands were stained red with mingled blood. Perhaps her lack of desire to get to know Túrin son of Húrin had simply been discomfort at subconscious fellow-feeling. But she need not tell Morwen this. She suspected Morwen already knew.
The book felt heavier still in Galadriel’s grasp, but she tucked it carefully into her pocket, as she would anything of great value that must needs be concealed.
Morwen seemed to shrink, years and decades descending on her shoulders like a yoke. She curled one of her hands into a fist, and rapped it on the back of the other, making a dull, soft thumping noise that sounded entirely too much like a heart beating out of rhythm, like the arteries of Menegroth when Melian was repelling an attack.
“I had a cousin.” That her voice was even was frankly impossible, but Galadriel shook that off soon enough—she had borne witness to so many impossible things that this was frankly tame by comparison. Morwen sounded absolutely nothing like herself, high and softly sad, her voice worn ragged with the edge of desperation. “When the strength of Dor-lómin was broken, she fled over the mountains into the wilderness. She…” A deep breath, wet with a choked back sob. “…I cannot image she yet lives.”
Galadriel’s legs seemed to work almost of their own accord as she stood. When she swept over to Morwen’s chair and wrapped her arms loosely around Morwen’s shoulders, that was her choice, though. Morwen stiffened a little, but only for a moment, and did not pull away. “I had a cousin, too,” Galadriel murmured into her hair. “When she disappeared into the wilderness, it was for different reasons, but the result was just the same.”
“I did not understand her then, but I fear I may.” Morwen’s shuddering sigh shook her entire body, almost infectious in the way any part of Galadriel that touched her body seemed to shake as well. “But I am not like Rían. I do not wish for the same things.” She reached up with one hand to grasp at Galadriel’s shoulder, fingernails going into pliant skin like knives. “There is no sanctuary in being swallowed up in darkness. For good or for ill, I have no desire to disappear.”