The Time of Moths and Warm Evenings by Maggie Honeybite

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The Time of Moths and Warm Evenings

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When Tuor first sees the Elf sitting by the shore, gazing out at the waves, he honestly doesn’t give him much thought. He has just spoken to one of the holy ones and been told about his Doom; the Elf’s presence seems like a natural progression on that path. When the words, “Welcome, Voronwë!” leave his lips even though the name feels as foreign upon his tongue as the taste of seawater, he is merely humbled by Ulmo’s ability to make this miraculous thing come to pass. Voronwë is supposed to be there and so he is. That is all.

Voronwë seems open and willing, determined to help Tuor reach Gondolin, though the way be perilous. This makes Tuor relieved but not surprised; clearly the Elf has his Doom too and it is alongside Tuor on his quest. If Voronwë speaks with yearning of a place where willows grow and where spring is sweeter than heart’s desire, it matters little. Gondolin is the goal, the Elf merely a means to an end.

At first, they talk a good deal after pitching camp for the night, stars overhead, no fire to give away their position. It passes the time and cheers them both – companionship is a boon. But as weeks pass and the weather turns colder, conversation lags. Bands of Orcs roam the land, so near that sometimes he and Voronwë can hear their harsh speech. The threat of discovery is a constant, like a lump in the throat or the clammy feel of stale sweat.

In no time they dispense with the formality of sleeping separately; it is far too cold for that. Now Tuor’s magic cloak covers them both as they try to find warmth in each other’s embrace – try and fail most nights, for the cold is brutal. Ulmo may be a visionary but he isn’t the practical sort, which is really too bad: it would make things so much more bearable to have been outfitted with wool alongside the shining silver armour.

Their waybread supply has been running short for some time on the night they find a shallow cave to shelter in – not deep enough to have a fire but hidden enough to give a sense of safety and thus some respite. Tuor is shivering and can scarcely stand. “Fire?” he asks, already knowing what the answer will be and, sure enough, Voronwë shakes his head.

But then the Elf opens his tunic, draws Tuor close and places Tuor’s hands in his bare armpits to share his own body heat. Tuor’s frozen fingers thaw a little as Voronwë holds him close, his head in the crook of the Elf’s neck. The blasted armour lays on the ground, more hindrance than help.

“You must be cold too,” Tuor says, and Voronwë denies it, though his body trembles like Tuor’s. Tuor thinks then that Voronwë is kind, but also that the Noldor are a hardy people who can handle the elements better than the race of Men. Plus, there’s the matter of their respective Dooms; surely Voronwë is merely doing his duty.

“I’m not sure I can go on,” Tuor whispers through chattering teeth, and Voronwë gives him some of his own waybread and says, “We’re almost there, a few days more.” And then, instead of talking of Gondolin, he offers his comforting tale of the Land of Willows, where the sun shines gently to soothe body and soul. “I’ll take you there one day,” Voronwë says. “You’ll see how lovely it is. Just hold on a little longer.” And Tuor’s spirit warms at the thought.

When they finally reach Gondolin, it is all Tuor has envisioned and more. White shining spires, a mountain city resplendent in the sun. Tuor’s silver armour proves its worth then as Turgon welcomes him with all the honour owed the messenger of the Lord of Waters. They get a hot meal at last and warm beds too. But it feels odd to no longer lie in Voronwë’s arms; Tuor has grown accustomed to their comfort on the journey.

As Tuor settles into his new life, Voronwë is never far, as if his role as guide hadn’t ended when they were received in Turgon’s court. Together they walk the cobbled streets of Gondolin and breathe the fresh mountain air. The bustle of city life is a novelty for Tuor and takes some getting used to; Voronwë’s presence at his side makes it easier. They eat grilled meats purchased from street vendors and drink wine from a shared metal flask as the last of the day’s warmth leaches out of the cobblestones under their feet. They watch pink-tinged sunsets reflect off the city’s battlements and Tuor is happy.

Court life feels a bit oppressive but soon enough that ceases to matter because Idril is there – clever, radiant, her spirit as bright as her hair. Her eyes turn toward Tuor more and more, and so Tuor and Voronwë take fewer evening walks and drink wine together less often. When they do, Tuor talks about the king’s daughter and Voronwë listens. Never once does Voronwë tell Tuor that what he’s starting to hope for is a pipe dream or that he should aim less high.

One night, after Tuor gets in his cups and, maudlin, wonders aloud whether the daughter of the king would ever consent to calling him her lord, Voronwë pours a glass of water down his gullet and sternly walks him to his bed. “Why would she think herself above the messenger of the Valar?” the Elf says. And when Tuor, drunk and beyond reason, shrugs off his tunic to show his scars and says, “Because I used to be a thrall,” Voronwë slips off his own shirt in turn and, showing his marked back, says hoarsely, “I was too.”

Tuor didn’t know this, and the revelation is a comfort to him. Voronwë traces Tuor’s scars with gentle fingers then, saying, “They’re hardly visible at all,” and Tuor pulls him close, feeling Voronwë’s scars under his own hands. Voronwë trembles, though it isn’t cold. And the prospect of Idril saying yes is so remote, and the feel of the Elf in Tuor’s arms so familiar – the trembling too (though it isn’t cold now) – that Tuor pulls Voronwë down with him as he tumbles on his bed. Kisses his mouth, tugs at the laces of his breeches. And Voronwë doesn’t deny him.

The next morning Tuor notices Voronwë watching him with an expectant look, as if something has changed between them. But of course nothing has; why would it? They go back to how things were before, even if shadows soon appear under the Elf’s eyes, suggesting he hasn’t been sleeping. Still, Tuor doesn’t dwell on that for his heart is full of Idril’s love now.

She says yes, and her father approves. The wedding is joyous and festive and grand, and Voronwë is there, in the background as always. Afterwards, for some weeks he disappears from view and Tuor isn’t certain where he went. Not that it matters; the happiness that Tuor and Idril share is so big as to eclipse all other concerns.

By the time Tuor has emerged from his haze of bliss Voronwë is back, playing his usual role. Idril invites him for dinner once a week and he becomes a fixture in their home. When Eärendil is born, the Elf is one of the first to hold the baby, and as the boy grows, Voronwë is a trusted adult second only to the little one’s parents. It is good to have a friend they can trust as much as they do Voronwë, especially when times are hard.

And hard times are coming. Idril has dreams full of portents, and Tuor does his best to heed her warnings.

Voronwë is closely involved in the building of the escape tunnel, helping to keep it secret. He is there for all of Idril and Tuor’s discussions and arguments about the project, aware of her sense that some terrible fate is creeping closer every day. And so, it is only natural that Tuor entrusts him with the welfare of his family, asking for a promise that Voronwë will lay down his life in their defence. Voronwë promises readily; doesn’t hesitate for a second.

But no one is prepared for the horror that descends from the sky at dawn on the day of the Gates of Summer celebration. The magnitude of it is staggering; the timing, perverse. Fire rains from above, the heat of it drying tears before they’ve even had a chance to fall. Voronwë is by Idril’s side through most of it, supporting, guiding, urging her to safety. Tuor doesn’t doubt for a moment that his own ability to fight more fiercely is due to his mind being at ease; he has left his beloved with the man he trusts almost more than he trusts himself. That is a great gift, and he is thankful even as the city crumbles around him.

Only, Idril doesn’t escape unscathed. Her body is well but her spirit remains back in Gondolin; it’s like her vacant eyes keep seeing the burning buildings and falling towers as if the horror were happening now. Her father, plummeting to the ground, lit up like a torch. The company of survivors struggle on through the wilderness as best they can, Voronwë leading them toward the sea. Tuor is beside himself, trying to rouse Idril from her stupor, but though she walks hand in hand with him, willingly, she is miles away.

At night, Idril lies curled up around Eärendil, and Tuor and Voronwë sit by the fire, sharing a cloak as they did once, when the world seemed simpler if no less dangerous. “I don’t know what to do,” Tuor confesses one night, broken. “I don’t know how to heal her.” He is trembling again, and Voronwë holds him close like he used to, and then says, “There is a place. I promised you once that I would take you there, and I will.”

They walk on. The land through which they wander is marshy and humid, and they are pestered by insects and unclean air. Some of their company fall ill with fever, and Tuor can see that Voronwë’s determination is wearing thin at last, tinged now with something desperate and brittle. Then, just as they fear the morass will never end, the landscape changes and Voronwë visibly sags with relief. They have made it; they are in Nan-tathren, the Land of Willows.

The trees’ silver branches trail their ends in the water and the air is clean as if no evil had ever touched this land. Everyone breathes easier. Even Eärendil laughs now nearly as often as he used to, wading in the river up to his knees, trying to catch fish with his bare hands. Idril sits on the riverbank, still absent, but with some of the tension gone from her shoulders. This is clearly a healing place. Still, healing takes time.

It is then that Tuor begins to glimpse it, begins to understand something about Voronwë to which he has heretofore been blind. Maybe it’s because they have more time now, distractions stripped away until all that’s left is simply survival and a space for healing. There is no Gondolin anymore, no court with its pomp and ritual, no frantic and secret digging into rock. Maybe it’s because this place where willows grow really is as special as Voronwë has described it. In any case, Tuor feels life slow down, the very air in his lungs like a balm.

With nothing much to do other than look after his family, he watches. He sees Voronwë take extra care with Idril, bringing her water to drink and flowers to smell and the odd butterfly perched on his hand. Sees him address her with patience and gentleness, his eyes unfailingly kind. And then sees those same eyes turn his way, and catches something in them that isn’t there when Voronwë looks at anyone else. A lingering softness, like deep velvet. A depth, like fathomless water.

Slowly, the pieces begin to slot into place. But what to do with knowledge that changes everything and yet changes nothing at all?

With care and patience, and with the magic of Nan-tathren, Idril improves, returning to dwell among the living once more. She is no longer trapped in her mind, reliving the horror of Gondolin’s fall, and Tuor is joyful but he’s also tired. So very tired. As if he didn’t realize how heavy a burden he’d been carrying until he set it down.

His days he spends with his wife and son, and by starlight he holds Idril in his arms, but at dusk he sits by the fire like always. Voronwë sits by his side, and they don’t talk much at all – because silence is restful and because it feels comfortable between them. Only, now that Tuor knows what to look for, he catches those sweeping velvet glances cast his way. Remembers the times when Voronwë offered his body as comfort: the cold evenings during their trek to Gondolin and the one drunken night when they’d traced each other’s scars with their fingertips.

For months on end, Tuor thinks about what he might say but can’t find the words. And then one night he opens his mouth and what comes out is, “Thank you.” And when Voronwë turns to him with a question in his eyes, Tuor says, “Thank you for all you’ve done for my family. I know you really did it for me.” All those acts of service offered like gifts – Tuor recognizes them now for what they have been: proofs of love, every one.

Voronwë shrugs and says, “It’s nothing,” but it isn’t nothing and Tuor knows it. And so he says, “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”

They look at each other then and it’s clear that Voronwë knows exactly what Tuor means, and the velvet in his eyes turns bright and burning like coal in fire. His face colours a bit too, but he doesn’t reply.

Tuor says, “You deserve more.” And then, because it’s true and because this is a night for speaking truths, he adds, “I would, you know. If the circumstances were different. Give you more. That night we lay together—” He swallows, takes a breath. “I liked… I mean—it was… Well, it was no hardship.”

Voronwë casts his burning-coal eyes down and blushes to the tips of his ears. “I would never ask for more, for I know it cannot be given,” he says. “But thank you for telling me that.”

Tuor leans over and clasps Voronwë’s shoulder. “My family is beholden to you. We will always be grateful. But will that be enough? You could do better.” He motions to the moths that flutter around the fire. “We are merely borrowed light. You could shine on your own.”

“All I ask is that I be allowed to serve you, your fair lady, and your son, for all your days. It’s all I need.”

“You never have to ask. Your place at our side is sacred,” says Tuor, and means every word.

Voronwë smiles. And maybe there is something to the healing power of the Land of Willows because, just then, all seems right with the world. The space between them feels comfortable and free of tension, like the air after a storm.

After a while Voronwë says, “I’ve been thinking it’s time we left this place and started for the sea. We’ve lingered too long.”

Similar thoughts have occurred to Tuor but there are still people of their company who aren’t altogether well. Nan-tathren’s healing magic could do them some good if they remained a while. So he asks, “Why start now?”

Voronwë reaches out a tentative hand and brushes the hair back from Tuor’s forehead. “See there?” he says. “Threads of silver where once there were none. Whatever fate awaits you, we can’t afford to lose any more time.”

“What fate could there be for me but the Doom of Men?” Tuor asks, and Voronwë startles and says, in a way that manages to sound both hopeful and desperate, “I wouldn’t be so sure. Maybe Lord Ulmo has other plans. And anyway, won’t you be glad to see the Sea?”

“I will,” Tuor says. “But what about you? Last time we were there, you didn’t seem too fond of salt water.”

Voronwë shudders theatrically. “Wet feet, endless wandering, shipwrecks… You’re right, I do prefer these willows. But you don’t say no to the Lord of Waters. And besides, my place is at your side.”

“I don’t deserve you”, Tuor says, feeling the truth of that statement resonate with every beat of his heart. But Voronwë only smirks and replies, “Let me be the judge of that.” And suddenly Tuor finds the voyage ahead of them less daunting and the task of rebuilding their community, manageable. More than that, it all starts to seem like an adventure, one to which he knows he is equal, with Voronwë at his side. At Idril’s side. At Eärendil’s.

Voronwë throws more wood on the fire and sits back to relax in its glow, and Tuor watches. This has been Ulmo’s doing, their entire journey. From the ruined halls of Nevrast, to Gondolin, and back again to this quiet and wondrous land where willows kiss the water with their supple branches and where hearts grow easy. Voronwë was supposed to be there, on that beach, and so he was. It had seemed self-evident then, such a minor and unimportant detail in Ulmo’s grand plan. Tuor didn’t give the Elf much thought, focused as he was on Ulmo’s miraculous design. The scope of it, the ambition! It was heady stuff.

But Voronwë’s part in the plan wasn’t minor or unimportant. Just as Voronwë is neither of those things. Self-effacing, maybe; insignificant, never. Loyal, steadfast, loving beyond reason – that’s Voronwë to a tee. Old-fashioned, unsung virtues that aren’t flashy but that move mountains one drop of water at a time. And Tuor knows now, deep in his bones he knows that Voronwë’s presence on that shore, his presence here now — that’s been the real miracle all along.

 

 

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