Annael by Tomour

Chapter 2, Section 4

Tuor continues to grow, and gains a friend, but a shadow also grows. 

Tuor’s training as a warrior continued. The enemy spread through Dor Lomin and despite all the elven victories, their numbers grew.  Tuor often overheard discussions about how long they could mintain their advantage.

Twelve years after his birth, on midwinter’s eve, Tuor was sitting by the fire with many of the elves, singing rich harmony, all voices lifted together.  Even in times of sorrow and war the elves wove songs of beauty and courage.  This song was about the historic first day they saw sun rise in the sky as a surprise of glory and vitality and power.  For Tuor it was a song of myth and dreamtime, pulling him beyond into worlds only imagined.   

This particular group were those closest to Annael, and Tuor called them the “Inner Circle.” Annael sat at the west side of this circle.  He laid his hand on a small harp, but did not play it. It was newly made and carved with the shape of ivy leaves.  As one song faded into silent reverie he stood, lifting the harp. “When one has a talent it should be honored” he spoke.  “When a warrior excels that one should be given a mighty weapon.  When someone weaves very well, they should have the best loom on which to create cloth. And one who sings well, should have fitting accompaniment."  Everyone smiled and nodded.  Tuor could not imagine who was to be honored.  He felt again alienated, knowing that no one had told him anything about this. Annael continued his speech, "Thus, I give this harp to one who has sung with us for twelve winters now and shown his talent.” he looked about to the eyes of his people and smiled mischievously "Even though his first songs were of nothing but woe and hunger.”  

The others all smiled or laughed and then they all turned to Tuor, who blushed mightily. “For you my adopted son” Annael beamed, holding the harp in one hand and beckoning with the other.  

Incredulous, Tuor came forward.  He looked into Annel's eyes for assurance, then took the harp.  He could hardly believe the beauty of the wood.  Words celebrating his birthday were carved delicately into its surface, along with spirals, curves and the image of leaves. He admired it for a while then struck a chord.  It's voice was perfect.  Song just seemed to flow from the strings, effortlessly. For a while his lone voice echoed in the hall, then all joined in, layer upon layer, till they were one. 

Only four months later, Annael was speaking in a circle. The elves sat at the end of evensong time beneath the stars and outside the opening of Androth. At first they went over the day's successful raid against an Orc band. Then Annael laughed, "It reminded me of the way The Glorious Battle began." His hand swept from left to right as if clearing a table. “The stupid glamhoth did not know what hit them.” The others smiled. Then they echoed his thoughts recalling out loud details and moments of that victorious day. Tuor knew they were remembering a battle that took place more than four-hundred years before his birth. At that moment the only family he had ever known seemed alien to him.  He felt alone, utterly "other", and fatefully mortal. 

Stepping away and looking into the night Tuor thought of facing death in war, and how it would be better than dying of old age and illness, which the elves said always came to "his kind.” Winter was coming and all was quiet that night. "No moon," he heard his foster-father say. All the elves with him nodded silently, all remembering a time before all this, before sun or moon or even war. His folk surely loved him, but as if he were a flower, beautiful and brief, or like a splash of water on a hot day, invigorating, but too soon gone. They were immortal; he was mortal trapped in-between elf and human, yet of neither.