Stranger in the Forest by chrissystriped

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Chapter Four

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Turukáno followed Rog through the underbrush up the hill. He couldn’t see a path but Rog seemed to know exactly where he was going. It was night already, although the darkness brought out dangerous creatures, Rog’s people were more distrustful of the sun than of the star-light they were used to. Galdor had told Turukáno that the bright light was painful for the eyes and he supposed it wasn’t different for Rog’s people.

The Noldor had gotten used to the brightness during the centuries they’d lived under the Light of the Trees, but these elves had only ever known the stars, even the moon meant that the night was brighter to them now. Turukáno could barely see anything in the shadow of the trees, but he knew by the way Rog sometimes sped up for a moment that he was slowing him down.

The little village was hidden so well that Turukáno only noticed they’d reached their destination when he was already standing before a low burning fire that was screened from view by mats of woven twigs. Elves sat in a circle around the fire and looked up at them. They didn’t seem surprised and Turukáno suddenly remembered the quiet bird cries Rog had sometimes made during their walk.

Rog introduces him with quiet voice and they sat down on the dry pine needles that covered the ground. Turukáno looked around, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say something, but then a silver-haired elf-woman who was missing an eye started to sing, others joining her, and he just listened. Turukáno didn’t understand the words. It sounded more like Quenya than Sindarin, but there was a roughness in her consonants he wasn’t used to.

Rog moved closer to whisper into his ear: “She sings for the houseless fёar. 'May all pain be over for them. May they be safe from the Hunter. May they find their way back to their families. May they be free under the stars.'”

Turukáno shuddered. For him Orome was the Hunter, a guardian of their people during the Great Journey, but for Rog it was the Moringotto – the Dark Hunter catching elves who strayed too far from their families.

“We’ll sing many songs like this today and share memories about the dead. We tell stories about their lives so they may recognise them and thus find their way back to their families.”

They didn’t know about Námo’s Call that led the elves to Mandos. He closed his eyes against the tears. He was sure Elenwe had followed Námo’s call. She would be reborn, she had come under the Prophecy when she came with him, but she hadn’t fought at Alqualonde, she had done nothing wrong. Surely Namo would take that into account! He and Itarille were Exiles, they could never go back to Aman, they would never see her again.

These elves were used to their dead not coming back, but they believed them to be close nonetheless. He couldn’t wish for Elenwe to have disregarded the Call and thus lose the possibility of being reborn, but for himself... He wished she were here. Turukáno sobbed and leaned into Rog’s hand that stroked his back.

“I miss her so much”, he whimpered. “She isn’t here!”

“Do you want to talk about her?”, Rog asked softly.

“Not right now.”

It felt good to let himself be comforted by Rog and listen to the songs and stories he barely understood. He saw tears on other faces and elves giving each other comfort. All of them had lost someone, they grieved together. He was not alone.

When the message of Finwe’s murder had come, they’d been paralysed with shock. He’d felt numb, hadn’t known what to feel about something that seemed impossible – unimaginable. He still barely could believe it to be true.

Elenwe’s death had been pure agony. The cold water biting into his skin as he jumped after her into the gap that had opened in the ice, reaching for her in vain. She had sunk into the deep sea, tearing out his heart.

“She was so brave”, he said in the silence after a song. “Her family didn’t want her to come with us on the journey. They told her that she couldn’t take a child as young as Itarille on such a journey, but she didn’t want to leave my side. She let a harness be made for her and took up a sword and demanded of me to teach her the use of it. She knew it would be dangerous here and she didn’t want to be helpless. She was strong and proud, but also tender and unendingly patient. I loved to watch her teaching Itarille to read and write. We could have employed a teacher, but she wanted to do it herself, she wanted to spend as much time with her daughter as she could. She painted on silk. She loved bright, brilliant colours.”

He pulled out the silk shawl from under his shirt and lifted it up so the cornflowers and bluetits glowed in the firelight.

“She made this for me as a present when we became engaged.”

He never took it off now, wanting to have something of her with him at all times.

“On the ice she looked out for the children. Made certain that they at least had enough to eat and told them stories when we rested so they weren’t frightened. She broke through the ice.”

Turukáno closed his eyes when the tears started flowing again and pressed the shawl to his cheek. It smelled of the drops of Elenwe’s perfume he had sprinkled on it. With his eyes closed, he could almost believe she was sitting beside him.

“I tried to rescue her, but... I lost her. She followed Namo’s Call, I’m sure of that, to Mandos, where she can heal and wait for being reborn and I won’t see her ever again.”

Turukáno sobbed helplessly and leaned against Rog who was stroking his back again. He would have been embarrassed to break down like this in front of his followers. It was different with Rog, although he would soon join them, he only felt relieved that he didn’t have to hide how deep his grief went. It felt good, to cry at someone’s shoulder who could empathize with what he felt. He wondered how many Noldor felt like him and if a night like this would help them as much as him. Yes, their understanding of what happened after death was different than these people's, but the solidarity, the talking about it, helped. One of the elves said something and Rog made a discouraging sound. Turukáno wiped his face and looked up.

“What did he say?”

“Just a question. Take your time, you don’t have to answer right now.”

“What did he want to know?”

“If it is true, then, that the Valar call the dead to them and judge them. Some Sindar say that.”

Turukáno nodded. “That is what the Valar told us. There are halls for the dead in Aman and they’ll stay there until they are given a new body. How long that takes depends on how they lived their life. Namo calls the dead to him, but you don’t have to follow the Call.”

“I’d rather be with my family as fёa without body than live in a land I decided against going to”, Rog translated the words of another elf.

“And who gave the Valar the right to judge us anyway?”, the women who’d sung first, said heatedly in heavily accented Sindarin.

Before Turukáno could answer, Rog said: “Friends! The Noldor came back to fight the Dark in the North. Turukáno is not the Valar’s representative. He is here to grieve. Please, temper yourselves.”

Turukáno squeezed Rog’s hand gratefully. He didn’t know how to answer this question. He knew what had been taught to him – and the things, Feanáro had said, they'd spoken to his heart while he argued against his uncle.

“The Valar were tasked by Eru Iluvatar to ready the world for his Children and govern it”, he said slowly. “Some of us think like you, but the Valar never did anything unjust to me and I don’t want to speak against them.”

It was silent for a moment, then someone started a new song and Turukáno was glad that the attention shifted away from him. There would come a time when they’d have to talk about things like that, it was inevitable once they’d interact more with the Noldor, but not today.

“Rog”, he said softly. “I have to go back. I can’t leave Itarille alone the whole night.” He had tucked her in and Írisse was watching over her, but if she woke from a nightmare, she usually needed him to be able to go to sleep again and it had gotten late. “I’d like to bring her next time. I think this would be good for her, too. Please give your people my thanks for allowing me to participate, I don’t want to disturb them.”

“Maybe the next time will already be behind your walls”, Rog answered and helped him up. Turukáno whispered a voiceless thank you to those who looked up.

“I’m glad we could help you in your grief”, Rog said. “To grieve alone is hard and no one should have to do it."

"Thank you for being there." Turukáno squeezed his hand in gratitude.

They'd already left the light of the fire and he couldn't see Rog's face clearly, but he thought he was smiling, when he answered: "Thank you for not believing what the Sindar say about us."