Rian by Tomour

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Chapter 1: Rian

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Tuor Dreams of Gondolin

Chapter 1: Rian

Before he was born, Tuor's mother, Rian, woke up from a dream in the grey morning light.  The autumn rain trickling and drumming outside. The dream lingered. Someone was pouring water from a yellow glazed ewer, round as her belly; a woman perhaps, under tall trees. Everything was green. "A great good for elvenkind and humankind," the woman's voice had said. Rian whispered the dream words with some hope. Absently, her hand glided over taught skin. But, still, the cold of the morning crept through the room as it had for many days now. Sorrow moved in, and the air bit her, laden with dread. 

She tried to remember something nice. She recalled when she had stood as the proud daughter of Brave Belegund on her wedding day. Her hair, liquid gold, cascaded down her embroidered dress. The trees stood as witnesses, shading her guests.  Even the blue sky smiled as she married the handsome warrior Huor in the land of Mithrim. Beside her family, there also stood a few Grey-Elves. With braided black hair, serenely they watched. One, with raven hair, spoke words of blessing.  Then the elves sang playful songs of spring, their voices like the song of birds, or water over stones. It seemed that between her and Huor was a perfect union, a sunburst of happiness after so many deaths in the long war with Morgoth.  Remembering her parents, it seemed as if even they were there. Nothing could trouble them then. Now, that all seemed years ago and "once upon a time."

That day she knew nothing of the plans growing between men and elves.  Twenty-one years old and full of love she did not hear the talk of war, of one last battle to seal Morgoth forever into his horrid, frozen, halls of iron. In the weeks following the wedding, she caught wisps of words about striking the enemy, but surely it would not come for years, especially now she had a home to make. Each day seemed so full of passionate kisses, the color of sunlight, long talks of a blessed future, and mint-sweet words of affection. 

They were married only three months when she told him a child was on the way.

"We will name him Tuor if he is a boy," Huor said, "He will be a king" They talked excitedly about sons and daughters, but then he became silent.  She asked him what he was thinking.

 

"I have good news also," he replied and then uncovered the strategy and plot of elves and men. She tried to listen, but all she heard was one dreadful word: 'War.'

 

“Ah, beautiful one,” he said to her protests, “Don’t be sad. When we return it will all be done, your father's death avenged, and the Black Lord will never trouble Middle Earth again!" He sounded so like her father then. Rage covered her fear in a wave of tears and yelling, but it did no good.

 

Hours later, alone in her room, she heard a bird signing outside. Looking up, she saw pale yellow curtains rustle in a breeze. One was stained, faded by a streak of something.  She realized that the world moved on without her. The sun shone if she wished it to or not.  Besides, she had married a warrior, and it was her duty to strengthen him as much as it was his duty to join in war. So she put on the brave face and tried to speak encouraging words. 

 

On the day of departure, she came to watch troops move northward. He leaned over to kiss her, took her face in his hands. "It will be over soon," he said before turning away.

 

Never would he speak to her again. News came, but it was not good. The battle against the fortress of Angband was not the final victory Huor had predicted. Instead, it was called the "Niernaeth Arnoediad; “The Battle of Unnumbered Tears;” a flood of grief and loss. 

When her husband did not return, over days while the wounded and lucky straggled in, she fought despair. Others said, “You should be in mourning.”

Rian responded fiercely.  “Not even Morgoth could have killed him in battle.” Then they would be quiet.

 

If anyone spoke his name, she said, "I know that he prowls the northern wastes, cutting down the enemy one by one in cunning and fury, and" she said dangerously,  "when this war ends we shall be together again."  When she was alone, she struggled to imagine life without him.  Looking up that road, she saw nothing but a lonely, haggard woman, destitute and burying her infant child in the frost-hard ground. It was during these days that she dreamed of water and her child to be. For a moment the sorrow softened.

A week later, black storm clouds gathered in the north and rain began to pummel the house.  All through the night, it rained rolling with wind and thunder. The storm broke before, leaving a dread silence.  The morning crept closer, dragging with it a pale gray light. A maid burst into her room without a knock.  For a moment, Rian noticed the weak light in loose strands of the maid's hair.

 

The girl cried out, "They have crossed the mountains! Those vile Easterlings and orcs come with them!"

 

Rian stood still. "Perhaps I will die here," she thought, and could not move a muscle. To the shock of the maid, she said, "I shall wait for the end."

 

But the girl cried, “What?!”  

 

Rian shook her head, and a memory of the dream arose; water flowing.  She moved as she spoke in command, "We must hurry, carry nothing. We can find shelter, but the way will close soon." While many prepared for defense, and others turned south, and some few waited to accept defeat and slavery, Rian took her cloak and rushed east toward the Mountains of Mithrim. 

She remembered the honored guests at her wedding, those gracious grey-elves. They stood then, elegant in flowing shirts of pale green and yellow.  They had seemed so calm and serene.  Now she sought them, though there was no path to follow, no evidence of their lives amid the wild trees and fields. At times she called out, sometimes calling  “Huor,” hoping he was returning from war and would find her. Eventually, the maid became more afraid of death in the wild lands than at the hands of Easterlings. She turned back, leaving her crazy mistress to wander alone.

 

Rian ignored hunger and kept walking through pine-scented forests in the certainty that someone would find her and lead her to safety. Her belly felt heavy.  Exhausted, late that afternoon, she chose to rest beside a small stream.  Alone, looking out through a thin evergreen wood, she sat on moss covering a boulder. The day was warm, but starting to cool as the sun drifted down behind the clouds. She could think of nothing but the aloofness of trees, the thin gurgling of water.

 

In the next moment, three elves were standing beside her, clothed in leather and green cloth.  They spoke something in their language, then asked her to rise and come.  She followed in silence. After an hour’s walk into the foothills, they met a large party waiting in the forest. Rian wondered that they could make a clearing in the woods become an elegant room. All there carried weapons.  Some had battle wounds. They looked threatening. 

 

The leader, who said his name was Annael, had dark hair and his eyes seemed as cool as the night. Looking down, clumps of grass and sedge at his feet, she bowed. "I am at your mercy," she said, in the few formal Elven words she knew.

 

But he spoke with kindness, "Rian, wife of Huor, it is an honor to welcome you" he said politely. Then he spoke orders in Elven.  There in the glade, with logs as chairs and tables, they shared a small meal, and he spoke heartily of her husband. “I remember his bravery; he and his brother stood together, guarding the way of the high-elves in retreat. Huor and Hurin were shining stones on that dark day."

 

When the meal ended she felt a little revived, and despite the meager portions, a dense seeded bread, flavored with unrecognizable herbs, some thin brown strips of meat and cool water.   As the world faded to twilight, the elves took her to their secret home in caves hidden in the mountains. There, Rian slept two nights and all the day between them. 

A range of short mountains divided her home in Mithrim from the land of Dor-lomin.  These mountains stretched in a ragged line north to fade into the plains of Hithlum. Here the elves lived, making their home in the Androth, or ‘long caves,' hidden in one low mountain valley. Rian lived with them for six months as the summer passed her unnoticed and the leaves of autumn fell in colored drifts. Daily, her mind grew more distracted and restless. Finally, at mid-winter of that year, her son was born, and she said "Let him be called Tuor for that is the name his father chose," a cloud passed across her face, "before war came between us." She looked sadly into her son's little face, but all she could think of was how Huor should have been there; how she longed to tell him his son was born and to see the joy on his face.

 

Annael’s people had fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. So, in the days to follow, they spoke to her of her husband's end on the field of battle.  They said her sorrow was  their son's birth. This idea only troubled her more and grief gnawed at her. Their songs and poems and kindness would not dissuade or sooth her. When she could speak, Rian replied to their stories saying, "My husband will tell me his version when we are together again.”  O she argued, “Huor lived in in strength. I cannot accept stories of his death till I see for myself his grave.” The elven woman, Maerwin, noted how aloof Rian was with her child. Caring for him seemed a responsibility, sometimes soothing, but never joyful. 

 

In a few days later she came to Annael and said, "I beg of you to foster my son and to keep him hidden in your care.”  Annael hesitated, so she said,  “I have had a foretelling that a great good, for both Elves and Humanity, will come from him." She looked away as if to hear a distant sound.  Still, Annael said nothing, so se concluded, "My heart is not with him. I need to know my husband's fate.  I will seek him. You can raise our infant while I do so."

 

Annael shook his head.  "Your husband's body lays buried with the mighty horde of war dead. You will achieve nothing by seeking him." But her her heart and thoughts all flowed one way.  “I am going to seek my husband. You know I can't protect him on that road.  Only you can keep him safe until I return.” 

Annael narrowed his eyes and said what she was thinking.  “You may never return.”

“I release him into your care.  Until Huor has vanquished all enemies and returned safely to Mithrim, he is yours.” She looked at Annael fiercly, and he looked down, “He must be,” she insisted.

 

Annael could not tell of whom she spoke.  He looked to her eyes.  Finally, the highest of all gray-elves simply said, “As you say.”

 

The next morning he came to her chamber to welcome the babe to his circle.  Rian looked to Tuor in his elven crib, and she smiled briefly.  It was good to see him swaddled in fine cloth. Someone had placed a crown of winter ivy on his head. Annael took Tuor in his arms and said, "I shall be your father, and you shall be my son. All that is mine is for your care and rearing. Welcome, little one, to this family." 

 

Rian smiled, imagining him as elven royalty, but she felt sorrow standing off in the corner, waiting.  She listened to the elves sing of life everlasting until grief tugged on her sleeve and led her out.

Within days her preparations were done. With several, she discussed the path she would take. She packed a backpack with meager supplies.

 

On the day of her leaving, she came to the elven woman who held her son.  Rian did not take him, but cupped his face in her hands and kissed Tuor's brow and lips. She said in a low voice, "With these deathless lords I know you will never be lonely.  You will not be like your mother, never driven by grief and loneliness."  Then, wrapped in a gray cloak, she went out. 

 

She rejected any escort.  However, without her knowledge, two gray-cloaked scouts followed her to the end. On her long journey northward she crossed the Hithlum prairie, turned east to traverse a mountain pass, and sheltered one night in the ruins of Fingolfin's old fortress. Beyond the mountains, Rian came out of a ragged forest onto a vast and dusty plain. Jagged and shadowy shapes like volcanoes brooded in the north. Only scrubby brown grass and choking dust clung to the frosty ground.

 

She followed her heart which led her that long day to a high rough mound, the only feature in a drear land.  The hill was littered with broken swords, leather tooled with elven runes, and other fragments of war.  Around it, skeletal heads of warriors were mounted on rough polls as markers of Orc victory. This was the mass grave of elves and men who had been killed in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

 

Driven by grief, she climbed it.  A bitter wind cut through her cloak. Exhausted she fell on the mound's crest with a last fierce cry. Despair overwhelmed her and dust felt like gravel in her sobs.  With heavy tears, she breathed her last, and there she was as close to her husband as she could ever be.

 

However, in the long-caves of Androth, Tuor their son, lived on and thrived.  Despite the darkness that spread over Hithlum, he was a signal hope.