Cold Falls the Night by

Cold Falls the Night

Read Cold Falls the Night

Her last autumn was a beautiful one. Gilraen had not seen such vivid colors since her childhood, even in Rivendell. And summer stretched longer than usual, with glorious warm days and frosted nights in which the stars seemed especially bright.

Halbarad and his sister Rían visited her often. They seemed to think she was lonely in her small cottage nestled among the trees, set apart from the rest of the village, and with Estel far away on his travels. She wasn’t, not really—but Rían brought her a puppy anyway, when she came bearing her usual basket full of eggs and bread and fruit. Her sister Cannith bred hunting hounds, and this one was the friendliest of the latest litter.

Estel arrived with his usual good timing, just as she pulled a pie from the oven (the apple harvest had been especially good that year). “I had hoped you would come visit,” she said, smiling as he bent down to kiss her cheek. His lips were chapped, he had some new scabs and fading-yellow bruises, and behind his smile he looked tired. “Sit down,” Gilraen said, “and tell me of your travels. But say hello to Thalion first.”

“Thalion…?” Estel paused halfway through sitting down. But at the mention of his name, the puppy jumped up from his bed by the hearth to greet him, sniffing eagerly at his muddy boots and planting his too-big paws on Estel’s leg, tail wagging wildly. “Oh, hello.” Estel abandoned the chair in favor of the floor, stretching out his long legs for Thalion to jump over as he bounded about in excitement. “Is he one of Cannith’s?”

“Yes.” Gilraen stepped over Estel’s legs to put a kettle on for tea. “Rían thought I must be lonely.”

Estel’s smile faded a little, but this was a conversation they had had before—he did not like her living out here, away from the safety and comforts of Rivendell. But he was young still—too young to understand the desire to die among one’s own kin. Gilraen wanted to be buried beside Arathorn, in the land where she was born, not far away in Rivendell, no matter how fair the valley was, where so few understood what mortality meant.

Besides, she was hardly alone. “Scarcely a day goes by that someone doesn’t come by to check on me,” she said, as Thalion set about thoroughly bathing Estel’s face. “Glorfindel and Erestor were here just last week. You should have seen the girls, all starry-eyed over Glorfindel, and those ridiculous bells on his horse.” Estel snorted.

His visit was a pleasant one, and long; he stayed until the leaves turned brown, and the pre-winter chill settled in for good. He told her many tales of his travels, of the desert lands of Harad, and the fading splendor of Gondor, and the wide plains of Rohan. Gilraen had heard many of those stories before, but she did not mind hearing them again, though the talk of Gondor made her heart ache. Almost every night she dreamed of the growing shadow, or maybe of ancient Númenor, with a great dark wave growing and growing, towering over green hills and plains, on the very brink of crashing down to destroy all the world.

At last, Estel prepared to leave. He intended to join Halbarad in patrolling the lands near the Shire before returning east, to take council with Mithrandir. Before departing he embraced her tightly. Gilraen wrapped her arms around him and breathed him in. He released her only when Halbarad came knocking, and left silently; they had stayed up nearly all night talking, and there was nothing more to be said.

Left alone but for Thalion, and Rían’s diligent visits, Gilraen watched the leaves fade from brilliant gold and orange and deep red to dull brown, and fall one by one, leaving the trees bare, dark and skeletal against the cloudy skies. It was not yet cold enough to snow, but it rained, the steady sort of rain that soaked everything quite thoroughly, only adding to the bitterness of the growing cold. It made her joints ache, and as the days grew short she grew more and more tired. Thalion stuck to her side like a bur, resting his head on her lap as she sat by the fire. It cast flickering shadows on the walls, and every day they seemed to her to grow a little darker.

In ancient Númenor, men and women had not feared death, and had laid themselves down to die with grace, in peace. There was no real peace to be found in these dark days, but Gilraen was more than ready to pass beyond the circles of the world, where Arathorn waited, and her parents. So she ordered her meager affairs, and tried to reassure Rían, who diligently visited her every day, and did not want to believe that Gilraen would not live to see another spring. But she promised to take care of Thalion, and to try to take care of Estel when he came home. “Do not let him become too grim. His road is a hard one, but he cannot let it harden him.”

She was alone when her time came, except for Thalion. He lay on the bed with her, his head a comforting weight on her stomach. Out of the window Gilraen could see Gil-Estel rising. She sighed, and closed her eyes.