Before The Dawn by Grundy

---

Chapter 2

---

By the time they turned to ride back to the city, Itarillë was in a much better frame of mind. It was, as Lomion had confidently predicted, bracing to be out in the sunlit fields of Tumladen, surrounded by green and growing things under a blue summer sky.

She felt almost at peace as their horses ambled along. Though they had raced out, giving their horses a rare chance to get up to a proper gallop, neither of them were in any particular hurry on the return. Lomion did not seem to mind as much, for he had the forge to look forward to, but Itarillë realized to her surprise that she was beginning to feel dimly what Aunt Irissë must have felt before she left – stifled within the walls, as though she were caught in some trap.

She did not mention it, though, for she worried that Lomion might feel similarly, and she could not bear the thought of him running away as her aunt had – all the more for her conviction that if Lomion ever left the valley on his own, he was unlikely to return.

It was her cousin who spotted it first. Two great birds spiraling down from above. Eagles.

Itarillë froze. What new horror could they have to tell?

Lomion drew his horse to a halt beside hers, and only then did she realize that she had stopped.

“I do not think it is ill tidings,” he told her bracingly. “Look, they are bringing people into the valley!”

This had happened once before – Irimë and Laurefindil had come to the city so, having gotten lost in the mountains and been rescued by Thorondor. That was how news of Elwë’s ban on their language had reached Ondolindë.

Her father had forbidden that news to be given to the city at large, however. Most of their people already spoke Sindarin, with vary degrees of proficiency, and relations between the Noldor and those Sindar who had chosen to join Turukano in his hidden kingdom had always been harmonious. He had not wished to risk it becoming otherwise, as thousands of survivors of the Ice discovered that they were to be punished for a Kinslaying they had taken no part in. He did not wish to jeopardize the safety or even enjoyment of life of his Sindarin folk if the Noldor reaction was, as seemed likely, anger and resentment.

Lomion knew of the Ban, of course. But as Sindarin was his cradle tongue, and Thingol his kinsman, he was unlikely to ever be taken to task for flouting it. She has never asked his opinion of it. Speaking his mother’s language did not appear to bother him.

The eagles were nearly to the ground now, and changed course to meet them rather than attempt a landing in the city itself. Itarillë was startled to see that it was children the eagles were bringing to them.

The two younglings were quick to scramble down, and equally quick to thank their benefactors – in Sindarin, of course. It was only as the eagles took off again that the pair turned to face the prince and princess of Ondolindë – and it was then that Itarillë spotted the hair on the face of the taller one.

“What is wrong with him?” she whispered urgently to Lomion in Quenya. “That cannot be normal!”

Her cousin smothered a laugh.

“I believe it is normal for Men,” he replied, equally quietly. “Or have you not read any of Cousin Finderato’s letters?”

“Men? Here?” Itarillë squeaked, worried by the strange newcomers. “Are you sure they are not dangerous?”

Lomion did laugh at that.

“They are rather small... I do not think they are yet full grown, and they were brought by eagles. I doubt they are agents of the Enemy.”

She glared reprovingly at him and he shrugged.

“Even if they are,” he murmured, “they are not very long lived. We have only to keep them with us until they expire. I believe they last only slightly longer than horses.”

She did not trust these strange children, but she did let her glare drop.

“Well met, strangers,” Lomion said in Sindarin. “Any brought here by Thorondor’s folk will find shelter in our valley.”

“Well met, my lord,” the taller one with the hair on his face said. “I do not know where we find ourselves, but my brother and I are grateful for your hospitality – all the more so for it being so unexpected. Until the Eagles came to our aid, we expected to be set upon at any moment by orcs coming down from the mountains.”

Itarillë knew herself to have an accent in Sindarin, for Lomion had told her so and done his best to train her to sound more like one of the Iathrim, saying that should she ever venture beyond Tumladen the Sindar would look more kindly on that accent than any other. But even so she knew the shape of her words was not as strange as the child’s.

“You have been brought to the hidden kingdom of Turgon,” Itarillë spoke up. “We shall take you before the king. He will decide what is to be done with you.”

Both children bowed.

“We thank you, my lady,” the younger one said, looking in awe at the city walls. “I am Huor, and my brother is Hurin.”

“We do not know much of the Aftercomers here,” Lomion began, “but you do not look full grown to my eye.”

The younger boy blushed, but his older brother stood up straighter.

“That is because we are not, my lord,” he said plainly. “We were too young to go to open war, but we were not so young that my uncle would not allow us to ride out with him to destroy some of the orc filth that thought to menace Brethil.”

“Ah,” Lomion nodded, the name evidently meaning more to him than it did to Itarillë. “I see. How old are you? And how should we reckon you according to the ways of your kind?”

“I am sixteen,” Hurin answered, “and my brother is shortly before his fourteenth birthday. He was lucky to be included in the riding, but I will be considered a man grown in five years, and old enough to marry in seven.”

Itarillë was shocked to hear that the Atani married so young – though she supposed if their lives were as brief as Lomion said, perhaps to marry and beget their offspring at scarce more than twenty was sensible.

She also noted that for all his fine words about how harmless these atani were, Lomion had neither given their names nor revealed that it was not just any elves Hurin and his brother spoke to, but the daughter and nephew of the king. Perhaps he did not think them so trustworthy after all.

She was pleased to find him so cautious, for with the arrival of these boys the memory of her unsettling dream had sprung once again to her mind, and she could not shake her certainty that the two mortals were somehow connected with the fear and foreboding she had felt.

“So you are children,” Itarillë exclaimed, “and we should look after you as such.”

She could see that young Huor was rather amused to see his older brother – so clearly striving for adulthood – reduced to the same station as himself.

“Come,” she continued sweetly, “you shall ride with us.”

Turning to her cousin, she added, “Huor will come with me, and Hurin with you.”

He nodded, and extended a hand to help the lad up, while Itarillë tried to think of a tactful way to ask Huor if he knew how to mount a horse. Fortunately, he seemed to know what he was about, though he looked a bit bemused.

“What is the matter, Huor?” she asked.

“I was looking for the saddle, lady, but I see none,” he told her, turning red once again. “I have never ridden without one before.”

“We do not use them for short rides,” Itarillë explained, extending a hand. “Here, I will help you up.”

The boy looked hesitant, but took his cue from her confidence – and looked somewhat surprised to be pulled to sit in front of her, rather than behind.

I take it back, I do not like them, Lomion told her silently.

Oh? she replied. They are untrustworthy after all? I shall be saying ‘I told you so’ for yeni.

I have no idea as to how trustworthy they may be, Lomion replied. But either the Atani in general smell unpleasant, or you were lucky in choosing the smaller one for yourself.

She found it very hard not to laugh out loud, though now that he mentioned it, the boy did smell a bit odd – a sort of earthy, musty smell with an odd whiff reminiscent of cabbage. It wasn’t exactly bad, but nor would she have liked to have to spend hours in close company with him.

They said they were fighting orcs, she pointed out.

Orc stench is another matter entirely, Lomion said decisively. I’m hoping he just needs a bath, but I can’t imagine what could have happened to him to produce such an odor!

The ride to the city walls passed quickly, and once at the gates they turned their horses over to the nearest stable hand and set out for the palace on foot.

The two young atani could not contain their amazement at the city – which Lomion helpfully informed her was beyond anything they would ever before have seen. The other major elven strongholds were either hidden caves – Menegroth and Nargothrond – or northern fortresses, built for defense and war, not for sheltering large populations. The Atani themselves had no cities or strongholds, only scattered villages, most of which depended on elvish neighbors in some degree for their security.

Engrossed in their surroundings, the children did not notice the reactions their presence – or their escort – was drawing from the people of the city.

Itarillë was relieved that no one had hailed her or Lomion as they led their young charges to the palace. The steward blanched at the mud-caked boots and worn clothing of the guests, but had the sense not to protest as the prince and princess conducted them to the king’s office, where he spent most afternoons.

Today was no exception.

Turukano was seated at his desk, perusing reports from the various houses. He worked hard to keep his kingdom running smoothly and its people happy – too hard, according to his aunt and her son. He rarely smiled, though when he did, it was usually at Itarillë or Lomion. He often said it as a jest, but it was true that they were his treasure, dearer to him than any gold or jewels. He could bear no threat to them.

For that reason alone, Itarillë knew, neither of them would ever be permitted to leave the hidden kingdom.

Her father, if he was startled by the company his daughter and nephew were currently keeping, hid his surprise well when he looked up.

“May I present the Atani Huor and Hurin, my king?” Lomion introduced them. “They are not yet adult by the accounting of their own people, and were brought to us by the eagles.”

A subtle prod from Lomion prompted Hurin to bow, and his brother followed his example.

“Indeed?” Turukano said, looking curiously at the young mortals. “Welcome, Huor and Hurin, to my city. What do you mean to do with them, my children?”

Itarillë nearly laughed at the comical expression on Hurin’s face as he realized that the elves he and his brother had been riding with were not just anyone, but the kin of the king.

“Surely that is for the king to decide,” she cut in.

“The king can see from here that the lads need a bath, a good meal, and a good night’s sleep,” her father said drily. “Most likely in that order. And he would have hoped that the prince and princess of Ondolindë would have the sense to recognize it. Anything more can wait until the morrow.”

“Yes, atto,” she murmured.

Lomion nodded.

“Should they be lodged in your house or mine?” he asked his uncle.

Her father gave Lomion a closer glance than he’d spared for the brothers, and sighed. He was no more fooled than his daughter had been about how Lomion had been spending his time of late.

“The House of the King would be best, I think,” Turukano replied, mild reproof creeping into his tone. “Lomion, please see that you also bathe before dinner, lest you give Pillar or Harp the opportunity for further commentary about the Prince of the Mole being overworked and handed far too much responsibility.”

Lomion reddened slightly.

Rather than seeing the others’ concern about how much Turukano placed on his young shoulders, he tended to take the sharp comments of the king’s other lords as criticism of his capabilities. This had the paradoxical effect of leading him to work even harder. Itarillë had pointed out to him many times that he had staunch supporters in Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and if Egalmoth was criticizing anyone when he spoke of how much was expected of the Mole, it was Turukano.

“Certainly,” he said, his tone implying that he would have thought to do so without prompting – something anyone who knew him would have doubted, for he was far likelier to slip off to the forge again. “I shall leave Hurin and Huor in the care of your steward.”

“Very good,” Turukano nodded. “Itarillë will see to having fresh clothing and rooms prepared for them while they bathe.”

“Of course, atto,” she replied. “Come, young ones, I will introduce you to the steward and have him show you to the baths.”