Confessions of a Sharp Glance by Mercurie

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Chapter 2: My Mother's Pride

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My Mother’s Pride

           I never meant to kill him. It was an accident, whether you believe it or not. I just wanted to be free, you understand. Who doesn’t? I never intended for it to go so far... but once I started, I couldn’t turn back. Maybe it was meant to be. I suppose that sounds like an excuse. But I can’t help but feel, even now, that all along some other will was pushing me, like a river that tosses a leaf over a waterfall. It was fate, perhaps... or the phantom will of my father.

           I was older by a few years. Old enough that my fear of my father had diminished greatly; for by then I knew that I matched him in craft and perception, and would someday soar beyond him in both. The tension between us by that time hummed like an overtuned harpstring. I knew he no longer trusted me; he never took me with him to the Dwarf cities anymore, but went always alone. It made me glad, seeing him in his isolation, in his lonely mistrust. And the more he withdrew from us, the more Mother and I came ever closer together, and the more we longed for escape from him.

           He had been gone for some time, I remember, in the midsummer of that year. Mother and I felt freer than we had for years; we went often together to the borders of Nan Elmoth, to feel the wind and the sunlight. And it was there, blinking in the hot, sleepy rays, that the desire to flee became so strong in me as to be undeniable. I couldn’t bear the thought of returning under the gloomy eaves to the creaking old house and its silent servants. So I suggested to Mother that we leave then for Gondolin, leave behind the dusty forest for the shining fountains she had spoken about so often. I could tell instantly from her expression that the thought was to her liking.

           “The Rock of the Music of Water,” she said softly, wistfully, “It has been too long since I heard the fountains. But I have not forgotten the way, and if you will be my guard, then I will guide us true as gulls returning to the sea.”

           “Then let us be off!” I said, for I was loath to spend a moment longer in Nan Elmoth than need be, “Our horses are here; we are at the border of the wood. We can be gone, and none will know whither we went or when departed. We need not return to the house – surely we may go to the sons of Fëanor as guests, and they will aid and provision us!”

           But she stayed me with a gesture of her white hand. “No,” she said, nobly as always, “We cannot just sneak off like ungrateful guests. We must leave a message, as is befitting. Besides, you are unarmed, and weapons will be needed on the path we ride. Your father’s sword – it is there. Take it, for it is the mightiest of his works.”

           “Anguirel?” I asked. Mighty, indeed – Father had forged the sword from the metal of a flaming star that had fallen from the heavens. It had had a twin, but that rested now in the hoard of King Thingol in Doriath. The two blades were the greatest of Father’s creations. He had lost one already, and losing the other would infuriate him beyond measure. The thought liked me well.

           “Then he did not take it to Nogrod?” I asked further.

           “No,” Mother answered me, “It is in Sarn’s care.”

           Sarn was my father’s chief servant; he ordered the household and saw to it that the forge remained in good condition. I might have expected that Father would leave the sword with him. Sarn was as loyal as a dog, and about as intelligent. Just thinking about trying to convince him to hand over Anguirel to me gave me a headache.

           “If you wish it, lady, then let us return for the sword and provisions now,” I said, “I must admit that I burn to depart with all haste, and leave these groaning trees behind forever.”

           Throwing one last glance on the bright lands, we turned back to the twilight under the tangled branches of Nan Elmoth. Deep in those silent woods lay my father’s halls, and by the time we reached them the trees grew so thick that barely a gleam of light wriggled through the rampant growth. There loomed the house: a tall, frowning monstrosity of carven wood, full of rooms that seemed always empty. The smithy stood behind the house, next to a tall mothorn tree that was my favourite perch.

           “I will see to our provisioning and inform the servants of our departure,” Mother said, “Go and claim Anguirel! Then meet me here and we will be on our way!”

           I nodded my agreement, and we dismounted. After tying the horses to a porch post, Mother made for the front door; but I followed the wall around the house to the back. I had a hunch that Sarn, with Anguirel in his keeping, would be busy at the forge.

           When I rounded the corner of the house, I stopped for a minute in its shade. Faint sounds came from the smithy, but my eyes were drawn to the great mothorn. The mothorn’s blossoms are silver, but they bloom for only seven days in the summer. On the eighth day, the petals all loosen and drift slowly down to form a silver pool at the roots. They were falling now; I watched them flutter gently, glittering in the stray beams of sunlight that made it this deep into the forest. It seemed to me that the tree was raining silver coins, and each delicate treasure was a promise of glory to come. It was an assurance; an omen; a justification.

           The smithy door opened, and Sarn stepped out. He looked as if he had been cleaning the forge; he wore a leather apron, which he removed and hung onto a peg next to the door. Beneath the apron his raiment was black - everyone in the household wore black, except for Mother. At Sarn’s belt hung Anguirel; though the fool would never use it, he would guard it possessively as a dog does his bone.

           When I stepped out of the shadows, surprise swamped his placid face.

           “Sarn,” I said, “I must speak with you.”

           “Why, of course, Master,” he said hesitatingly, “What is your wish?”

           “My lady mother and I are leaving for Gondolin,” I said, “But I will need a weapon, for the ways are dangerous. I require Anguirel.”

           Sarn blinked and frowned. I could almost see his slow mind puffing with exertion.

 

          “But Lord Eol forbade you to leave the forest,” he said, “You are acting against the lord’s wishes!”

           “Nevertheless, we depart today,” I said as patiently as I could, “Now give me the sword!”

           Sarn shook his head and backed away from me slowly. I followed, restraining my rising anger.

           “I cannot forbid you to go,” Sarn said, “That is not within my power. But I can withhold Anguirel from you. My lord entrusted it to me, and I swore to keep it safe in his absence.”

           I ground my teeth. “I doubt you could keep it from me, if I choose to take it. It would be wiser to simply hand it over now.”

           I must have sounded threatening, for his bovine eyes widened. He took another step backwards and came to a halt, unable to go further. He had backed against the moulting mothorn, and stood there facing me like an animal at bay. The petals rained on undisturbed around us.

           “Try to take it at your own peril,” he said, setting his jaw in determination.

           My own peril! Had I but listened to him then... but all I could think was that the fool was actually going to try to resist me. Annoyance nettled me at the idea. It was like having a tiny stone in your shoe; such an inconsequential thing, and yet it prevents you from running. And time was flying; I itched to be gone.

           He shouted as I lunged forward and grabbed his throat, shoving him against the tree trunk. I mastered his flailing efforts at defence easily; but I was not aiming to harm him.

           “Stop your foolish wriggling!” I said, “I won’t hurt you!”

           He twisted tremendously in my grip but could not escape, though his tunic ripped under my hands. We wrestled for a moment, the heavy breathing loud in my ears, but in the end he slumped back against the tree, exhausted. His torn shirt hung open, the skin beneath eerily pale in the dusky light.

           Quick as a snake, I made use of the moment of weakness and tore the sword out of its scabbard. The theft of his charge seemed to prod Sarn to a new effort at defence. He threw himself at me so suddenly that all I could do was stumble away.

           “Back!” I cried, throwing up my arms to protect myself. Then I felt a sudden weight, and a choked gasp hung trembling in the air. I lowered my arms and stared dumbly at what I had achieved.

           When I had thrown up my hands, I had forgotten that I still held Anguirel. With his unexpected leap, Sarn had hurled himself onto the indiscriminate point. He hung there, impaled, blinking in confusion. Spiderwebs of red blood spread over his ghostly skin.

           With a last, soft whistle, he slumped to the ground, tearing Anguirel out of my hands. My hands; I could not seem to move them. They hung limply, curled into impotent claws at my sides. Sarn lay at my feet, staring blindly skywards. That image seemed almost beautiful, so ridiculously artistic in its horror: the staring eyes, the blood tracing indecipherable maps on white skin, the sword rearing obscenely from the two-toned scenery. And the mothorn wept silver tears onto us both.

           Suddenly I felt so terribly alone. The woods were damningly silent. There was not a living soul there, but for myself. I think there were tears on my cheeks, but I don’t remember. All I recall is an unfathomable horror of the stillness, the abominable stillness.

           With shaking hands I pulled Anguirel out of the body. I stooped to wipe it on Sarn’s cloak, closing my eyes to shut out the sight. I took the scabbard as well. Then I fled.

           By the time I reached the meeting place, my trembling nerves had stilled. Mother was waiting for me. I did not tell her what had happened, only saying that I had procured the sword without trouble. She was pleased at that.

           “Lómion, my son,” she said, using her secret name for me, “I am proud of you.”

           I had to laugh at the irony.