Ostracism and Exile. by hennethgalad

ostracism and exile

bingo...

Ostracism and Exile.

'Ulmo was alone.'

Voronwë sat miserably, idly flicking pebbles into the sea. He wondered darkly if the Valar saw the Eldar as pebbles; all seven ships had been swallowed up as though they had never been, and the horror of the darkness of the bewildering voyage felt like something that would never leave him, a permanent shadow on his spirit. Now he was alone, in a deserted city; the city of his birth, he could not decide which way to gaze, whether out to sea where all his companions had perished, or ashore, to the overgrown and overwhelmed ruins of Vinyamar where his youth had passed so sweetly. He sighed, and threw a pebble with especial vehemence. To his astonishment, a hoarse voice cried, in intelligible but somehow not quite Elvish tones, and in perfect Sindar, from the collapsing buildings behind him

  'Say 'friend' or perish !'

   'Friend !' cried Voronwë, leaping to his feet, turning around and holding his hands out alongside himself, to show he was no threat. A tall figure emerged from an ivied archway. Voronwë lowered his hands, then opened and closed his mouth, like the landed fish he felt himself to be, for surely this was the Armour of Turgon, ordered by Ulmo, and fitting the strange, golden-haired mortal as snugly as though he had had it built around him. Voronwë frowned up at the ferocious blue eyes 'You are a mortal ? My name is Voronwë, of the House of Fingolfin. I have been at sea, though we were wrecked, and all save myself perished. Turgon sent us to plead with the Valar, but though our quest drove us through storm and darkness for seven years, the Doom still holds; we could not pass.'

  But the stranger lowered his bow 'You have been seven years at sea ? You are alone ?'
Voronwë nodded, his teeth clenched, but sensing an easing of the tension, almost a wistfulness, in the stranger. He looked curiously up at him; for a mortal he was lovely, though to Voronwë's Eldar eyes, the beard gave him an incongruous air of antiquity, as a child clattering around in the boots of an adult. The face of the stranger lightened 'I am Tuor, son of Huor, of the House of Hador, and I am charged by Ulmo to deliver the message of the Valar to Turgon. I think it is not mere chance that has caused our paths to meet here. '

  'You are alive ? Tuor, son of Huor ? All feared you dead, Annael himself, who I saw in Nan-Tathren, mourned your passing.'

  An incredulous smile lit the grim face of Tuor 'Annael yet lives ? Alas ! I would have scoured the whole of Arda to find my foster-father, had I but known ! ' he put a hand to his forehead and muttered to himself, Voronwë lightly climbed the slope between them, and their eyes met. After a searching, they knew they would be fast friends. Tuor smiled at Voronwë, 'I must crave your pardon, my friend, for I too have been through...' he paused and looked away, then met Voronwë's eyes with a visible effort 'difficult times. But let me offer you hospitality, and we can share our stories by the fire.'

  The homely crackle of the burning wood eased the spirit of Voronwë almost more than the fine wine, which had been made by the elves, stolen by the Easterlings and reclaimed by Tuor. Voronwë listened in fascinated horror to the tales of Tuor, of capture, of brutal slavery, and of grim endurance. 'So none would address you, not even of your own kind, while you were the thrall of this monstrous Lorgan ?'

  Tuor looked into the distance with a sneer on his face 'It seems that the hatred the Enemy bears for the House of Hador extends into keeping a boy in silence, ostracised even from his fellow slaves. For it happened that years after my escape, I cut down a troop of Lorgan's lackeys. With them were three elves, being taken in chains to the mines. Before I released them I asked them why they would not speak to me, or even look at me, when I was of their number. They looked at each other, then at me, then one spoke

  'But sire, you were not of our number. Lorgan was very clear on that. He swore that any who looked at you would be blinded in one eye, any who spoke to you would lose their tongue, and any who dared to touch you would lose a hand. We did not ostracise you by our own will, but in craven terror of the savagery of Lorgan, of which you will need no reminding.'

 
 So I lived, hunting and pursuing my tormentors, certain that all those dear to me had perished, since I was stunned by some orcish missile in the attack; and finding none who had news of Annael, I perforce supposed him dead. For, I believe, should our positions have been reversed, and a child of mine, even a fosterling, been taken by the Enemy, that I would pursue the captors til the end of my days. '

 Tuor threw another dead branch on the yellow flames, and Voronwë gazed at him with round eyes. These mortals, so fragile and fleeting, like snowflakes, yet full of vigour, passion and a remorseless wrath which seemed to shame the Eldar, skulking in their woods and caves, ignoring the world, as though the Enemy would ever be content while even one elf yet lived. Here was this Tuor, twenty three years of the sun, a child to elvish eyes, yet single-handedly he had devoted more years to slaying his tormentors than they had been able to spend tormenting him, until he escaped into his grim and lonely exile.