Lily of the Valley by Elleth

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Chapter 1

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Rían had lost one of her shoes coming down the mountains and not bothered to stop to put it back on. The wet ground beginning after she'd crossed Sirion at the only remaining ford – trampled ash and old blood – caked thick around her foot, chafing with bone-grit between her toes. If the stories were true, Rían thought, the monsters of the Enemy had worked thoroughly: Anfauglith had been empty as far as she had walked. Apart from coarse pieces of bone too small to gather, no scrap of armour, no dead body remained, and the thick grey mist that was covering her journey from unfriendly eyes also shielded her destination from her sight. She remembered from the children's game of tying a scarf over her eyes and being told to run that it was impossible to walk a straight line without sight; balance would sway everyone into a crooked path, and a stab of pain – the first since she had set out – made her fear she might roam lost forever, never even finding Huor's resting place.

They said that the Great Mound stood in the midst of Anfauglith, but for all she knew she might have been trudging through a formless void that beaded her arms with water, numbed her thoughts and drowned all sound except her own breath and the plod of her feet over the ground. For all she knew she might have been drowning. She knew she might have welcomed that, but not yet. Not before she could rest by her husband's side.

Her hand curled around the wilted leaves and flowers in her pocket: three lily of the valley plants, more than enough to swiftly rejoin her husband when she had found him. When she had dug them from the earth she'd remembered what her mother had taught her, that small amounts of the flower were used to treat conditions of the heart, and she'd choked down her laughter. Her mother would have scoffed at such figurative usage.

After hours, with the sun a faint light creeping higher in the sky, as high as she dared upon the Enemy's very doorstep, and then lower again, Rían's feet hit upon a slab of rock that ran on in either direction underneath the dust. An old road, paved in fashion of the Elves, a bone of their old defense lines that has been caught in the Sudden Flame, the way cracked and blackened. They had had a network of fortresses, and a network of roads between to quickly deploy troups where they were needed. She remembered them from the tales out of the golden past, that Long Peace she doubted had ever existed as such, or had at some point begun to doubt, at any rate. She had not always been so callous.

The road was a relief after the miles and miles of wasteland, even with marks in the dust spelling out that enemy forces – Orcs or evil Men, for who else would roam in Anfauglith? – had marched north on it not long ago. She sat, and loosed the water skin from her belt to drink. It hung limp already; she had not thought to refill it at the last rivulet she had crossed, but that was no matter. She drank it dry of the bit of stale, leather-tasting water at the bottom, and tossed it away. It had only slapped against her thigh as she walked. Then she thought better of it, and picked it back up, her fingers suddenly numb with nervousness. There must be old wells somewhere on the plain, or puddles from some spring rain, if rain ever came here now, and although she would no longer need either food or water soon, she might need help washing down the lily-leaves. She tied it back to her belt.

When Rían picked herself back up to walk on, it had grown dark, or at least twilight in places where no mist obscured her sight. She stood for a moment wondering whether to follow the road, which might lead her straight to the gates of Angband, or to continue across the plain. She chose the plain, though the ash and dust continued chafing at her foot, and the limp water skin went slap-slap-slap against her thigh. Her hips had begun to pain her: Tuor, the mewling bundle that Rhovanglin had pulled from her at the edge of endurance, had strained something within her, and she'd latched onto that, onto all the different aches and pains of giving birth, to push away the feeling of contentedness, even a sad sort of joy when he nursed, the love she knew she ought to feel, but did not allow it. He lay on her stomach and she had torn holes in the bedclothes with her fingernails to avoid touching him. The Elves wondered at it, and Talathros, Rhovanglin's sister who lived in her house and had given birth to a daughter not long before Rían, had taken Tuor from her with a reproachful look after he had finished nursing, saying nothing but making her meaning clear: If his mother deprived him of love, he would find it elsewhere, and from that day on he'd slept, as he had when Rían stole away, in Arthaeglir's crib.

She knew she'd grown wan and silent after giving birth, but that morrowdim she had wanted to scream everyone awake instead of slipping away without a sound. Only her doubt that the Elves, alien and ancient in their grace, who hugged their pain to themselves silently would understand a deranged mortal's grief, clamped her lips shut. Not even they would be able to bring Huor back to her, but they would at least make kind foster-parents to her son.

The pain in her hip grew worse and worse; her steps slowed. Ahead through the misty dark loomed something lighter than the surrounding night, making her pause and watch it warily until the unblinking stare into the darkness made her eyes water, and she was certain it posed no danger. Approaching, she saw the crumbling remains of a building of erstwhile-white stone, windows burst and doors burnt, grinning empty into the night. She entered warily, half-expecting to find it occupied by a band of orcs, but there was no sound. It was empty. Finding a nook underneath a flight of stone stairs in the former hall that would be likely be overlooked if the house were searched, and gathering her robe closer around herself, she began to hum until sleep dragged her down. The last things on her mind were the scent of the lily of the valley in her pocket and the bitter smell of the ash flaking beneath her cheek.

* * *

"She must be hiding in this house," said a voice that jolted Rían out of sleep – not for danger, but because it was a perfectly ordinary voice to be hearing in Mithrim upon waking in the morning, and it ought not be in this place of all places. She was not in Mithrim.

Her nook underneath the stairs was still shadowy, perhaps enough to not be found, but with a cold rush of shock she registered that there were scuff-marks in the dust-cover on the floor; a bare foot and a booted one, and the hem of cloak and dress had swept a trace that would give her away – and the Elves were adept trackers. Rhovanglin as much as the others, if not more, so it was no surprise that she and a companion had found her trail.

"I am here," she said, and emerged from her hiding place on hands and knees. Rhovanglin's dark head shot around to face her, and Talathros stepped into view beside her. Rían felt her stomach lurch, her mouth opening in protest silently, for across Talathros' chest was strapped a sling of cloth, the type the Mithrim used to carry young children when they needed to have their hands free, and there was a thin voice mewling in discontent, a second soon joining in. She had brought Arthaeglir – and Tuor.

"Rían, finally," Rhovanglin said, in a voice that hinted at satisfaction rather than relief. "We have been tracking you for days – what were you thinking to simply vanish?" Her eyes flickered to the crumpled water-skin. "Or perhaps not simply."

Rían lifted her head. A shred of defiance woke in her, and she clung to it. If they only let her go again! "Yes, I meant to. I mean to find Huor, not to see the heir of his house to be taken into the midst of this waste!"

"You have some life within you yet," said Rhovanglin. "That is good. Come back with us, and your son will be safe sooner than he will be if you keep us arguing with you."

Once again Rían was reminded that Rhovanglin was a hard woman. She did not look it, deceptively round-faced and dark-eyed, and beautiful even among the Elves, and even though she was kind, she was seldom gentle, doing what survival in Mithrim required: keeping defenses, supplies and stores of the small community in rigid order, labouring in the fields, and ensuring the people's hands were busy. A single instance of Rhovanglin pausing in her hall, to brush her fingers over an aged wall painting of a horse herd in coal and yellow ochre had betrayed a flicker of the person she had been before, but catching Rían's gaze she had withdrawn her hand and marched from the room as though she had betrayed a great secret.

She was just as unrelenting now.

"Unless you would rather have me bundle you up and truss you onto the pony. She would have no trouble bearing you that way as well as any other."

"What is a mortal woman to you?" Rían bit her lip. She had never before dared speak that aloud since she had fled from Dor-lómin and they had found her crumpled in sheer exhaustion in the hills above Lake Mithrim and taken her in, sharing their precious supply stores. As the days progressed she had felt increasingly more among strangers; they were kind enough to her, but there was something about the Elves that made her feel small and unimportant, a mouse skittering among the great, graceful cat lieutenants of Tevildo of her childhood's tales, too small and insignificant to be regarded in any way at all.

Rhovanglin was staring at her, then turned away abruptly. "An ingrate may cause me grief and anger, but prophecies that are true-spoken are not to be ignored."

"Prophecies?" Rían echoed. Her knees felt weak suddenly, with the weight of some unhappy truth that she had not yet discovered about herself. "What prophecy, and why have I not been told of it sooner?"

"You were unwell. You were grieving, and to present you with the last words of significance that Huor of the House of Hador spoke would have been cruel. We meant to wait until your grief had quieted somewhat, lest we place an undue burden upon you."

"Cruel? An undue burden? Wait for a mortal who will wither before your very eyes?" Rían sat before her legs would buckle beneath her, amid the ash and dust on the floor, and Rhovanglin knelt before her. She towered over Rían by half a head even so, imposing rather than protective, and Rían wished she still had water to wash down the bitterness on her tongue – partly the ash she had breathed in while she had slept, but not merely that.

"It is no less cruel if you speak your piece now," she said. "I have nothing to lose, and I will gain nothing from it except perhaps understanding why you brought my son in such danger."

Rhovanglin's expression wavered. "Alongside his nightmares, Annael carried these words as a burden when he returned from the war. We did not know what to make of them at first, not until we found you in the hills and you revealed that you were the wife of Huor."

"Widow."

"You did not call yourself such then."

"I call myself a widow now."

Rhovanglin glared at her. There was enormous anger roiling underneath the surface of her face. Rhovanglin's great failings were not competence or experience, but she reminded Rían of Morwen in her whole demeanour save this: Rhovanglin utterly lacked the silent, steadfast endurance of the women of Dor-lómin.

"Then do so. It changes nothing: The Swan's House of Mithrim has an obligation to fulfill; we do not believe in momentuous chances such as Annael overhearing Huor speaking to Turgon of Gondolin of a new star arising between him and Turgon. Speaking with the eyes of death, as he said. And now Huor is dead indeed, and even our wise-woman much wondered at that, until the day we found you and we understood at last: Huor's wife and child, and from one of you this star will come." Rhovanglin drew back, so she no longer towered over Rían quite so much, and rose, offering her hand.

Rían spat on it, and before the tears came saw that her spittle running down Rhovanglin's palm was mottled grey, but nontheless Rhovanglin kept holding out her hand, though the muscles were working in her arm to hold it steady. She didn't want to see it, she wanted to see nothing. Rían bent over, forehead pressed into the cool floor so hard the pattern of the ruined tiles would surely show in her skin. A sob ripped through her that she thought would tear her apart.

"Will you leave me alone? I want none of your obligations! What difference do I make?"

Finally, Rhovanglin withdrew her hand, but instead of turning away and leaving, she knelt before Rían again, wiped the spittle into the dust and grasped both her shoulders. "You make no difference, Rían. Fate will do as she will, and none of us are irreplaceable in her schemes. But if we let you go and you die to find Huor, then you cut the thread woven to lead to this point. His death and the words he died to speak, and all the events that lead you to us, and us to you so you could hear them, wil be vain. If you would have that, we will let you go."

Rhovanglin rose and brushed a cloud of dust from her riding leathers. Rían coughed through her tears and wiped a hand down her face, and although she wanted nothing more than to coil into herself and wither to dust and bitter ashes on the spot, she knew fate would not be so kind. The hollow throb in her breast continued stubbornly even as she wished her heart would cease. Already, Rhovanglin's words had taken root there. If Huor had died indeed just so she could hear his message...

When she looked up, Rhovanglin had stepped outside the house, but in the stillness Rían could hear the horses snort and stomp. They were not yet gone.

"Rhovanglin?" In her position, her hips had begun to radiate a dull, hot pain up her spine, and she found it impossible to straighten again. "Please, help me up." Her voice sounded piteously thin even to her own ears, but it made her think of a slender rope to pull her from a raging current, odd though the thought seemed in the flat, lifeless desert that surrounded them.

"Rían." Rhovanglin had returned, and like before offered her hand. Rían grasped it, and with the elf's help straightened, and let her pull her to her feet. Her hips protested, and she nearly pitched forward into Rhovanglin's arms, coming steady with both hands on Rhovanglin's shoulders. Neither spoke, but together they walked from the house into the sunlight where three ponies stood tethered, and where Talathros waited with the children.

"There is one thing I would ask, if it is not too much,” said Rían, feeling in her pocket for the lily of the valley plants, and revealing them in her open palm to the Elves. Rhovanglin looked as though she did not comprehend their significance, and, perhaps she did not, but from the way Talathros' eyes narrowed, she knew about the nature of the flowers.

"They mean remembrance to your people, do they not?" she said.

"The return of joy and a better life," replied Rían with a dry mouth. "I intended to leave them on the Mound."

"Undoubtedly," said Rhovanglin. If she understood the lie, she let on nothing of it and Rían's true intent, instead she ran a hand over Tuor's head, resting nestled against her sister and Arthaeglir. Rían's heart lurched painfully.

"It is not far to the Hill now, and after you came so far before we found you, I would not want to deny you that wish. Surely Talathros agrees."

Talathros nodded stiffly. She walked to her pony, steadying the sling with one arm when she mounted.

"Why did you let her bring the children?" Now that her anger and grief were beginning to quiet back down into the same dull mist as before, her voice easily slipped back into a lower register.

"They cannot be left alone while they need to nurse, and we did not know what we would find – whether you had merely strayed and been lost, or were gone on purpose or misguided obligation, and we hoped they would calm you, or cause you to relent."

"And place the children at risk for me?"

"They are not in any more danger here than in Mithrim. Anfauglith is almost utterly devoid of life; patrols only pass upon the roads, and if one were to make for us, we could easily outrun them while they are yet miles away. Talathros had her misgivings, and indeed asked to leave you to your fate, but I am her leader as much as I am her sister."

Rían nodded. She was not convinced, but refused to examine the feeling lest she weep again. In the aftermath of her tears came an ache pounding her temples, and it would grow worse the more she wept. "Then... let us go to the Mound."

Rhovanglin took her by the arm and guided her around the corner of the house. There were more ruined buildings scattered like a child's building blocks across the plain, perhaps once small a garrison town that had once served as dwelling for part of the besiegers of Angband.

And beyond it, stretching all-too-near and rising above the ruined houses in the foreground, the Hill of the Slain.

"It is green," said Rían, unable to avert her eyes. She half-expected Huor to be sitting on its slope, whittling away at a piece of wood and whistling one of her tunes, but it rose empty against the sky in the east.

"In all of Anfauglith the only place where grass grows and life persists, even now," said Rhovanglin, and from her saddlebag she pulled the shoe Rían had lost on her way. "Let us go and plant your flowers, and then return home. In time you will learn to live for yourself again. Even you."