Havens by AdmirableMonster

Refugee (Silmaril)

Days after the cranes, the Exiles of Gondolin enter the Havens of Sirion.  Dírhaval is out in his tiny fishing boat—poetry feeds the soul, but one needs to feed the body as well—and the Sun is nearly down, when the light at the top of the queen’s keep shines forth.  She is young, their queen—three years younger than Dírhaval and with Elvish blood besides—and maybe not wise, but she is also loved.  For safety’s sake, the folk of Sirion do not generally advertise Elwing’s jewel: it is only brought to the topmost tower when the mariners are returning from afar, but as far as Dírhaval knows, all the mariners have already returned from this year’s voyages.  It is growing perilously close to winter, after all.

The bells do not sound, as they might if there were danger, though.  After puzzling a little, Dírhaval turns the Lunteth for shore.  She has a full belly and is lying low in the water, and it takes him a good half hour to ground her and bring in the day’s catch, during which time the light has kept up its steady gleam.  He would ask Egilona or their mother, but they must have gone out to find out and haven’t returned yet.  Finally, wild with curiosity, Dírhaval makes for the town center.

Their little cottage lies near the outskirts of Sirion, so to reach the center, the easiest route is to follow the main road that winds down from the north.  As he vaults the low stone wall that runs along both sides of the road, he stops.  There is a procession still slowly winding its way into the town, though it is clearly the tail end—perhaps the light was revealed to lead any stragglers toward the keep—and at the very end even of that, just across from where Dírhaval has cavalierly joined the road, one of the weary travelers is sitting, staring glumly at his feet.

He looks up and flinches at Dírhaval’s sudden arrival—a smallish sort of person, in ragged robes like the ones that the archivists wear at the lorehouse that Dírhaval frequents during winter afternoons when he wants to make a little coin scribing old texts.  His hair is a queer black shot with silver, but his face is unlined; he looks, if anything, younger than Dírhaval.  

As he scrabbles for a pair of abandoned old leather boots, Dírhaval holds up his hands, flat, palm up.  “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” he says gently.

The young man stares as if he doesn’t understand.  Then he touches his ear—pointed, Dírhaval realizes with that gesture—and his throat and makes a series of increasingly frantic hand motions.  

Dírhaval didn’t know Elves could be deaf—he’d thought they were all perfect, immortal beings, but there is nothing perfect or immortal-seeming about this evidently frightened and weary traveler.  And without a shared language, it’s a little difficult to reassure him.  Maybe Dírhaval should just leave him, but it’s full dark by now, the rest of the group has gone on, and Sirion may be a safe haven, but nowhere in Beleriand is wholly without danger.  

After another moment’s thought, he bends down and takes off his own boots—even from here, in the fading light, he can see that the Elf’s boots are worn right through, which is probably why he stopped—the road grows rocky as it enters Sirion, and for someone who has already been walking for a long time, it must be painful.  Dírhaval goes barefoot often enough not to mind too much, though he wouldn’t ordinarily do so this late in the year, but he’s been sitting in a boat all day.  He’ll be fine.  Mutely, he holds out the boots.

A frown.  The Elf reaches puts out a hesitant hand, and Dírhaval puts the boots into it.  Then he points toward the light of the keep.  Slowly, the Elf pulls on the boots and totters to his feet.  Though still wary, he allows Dírhaval to offer him an arm and leans against him.  Even in Dírhaval’s boots, he’s limping.  He taps Dírhaval’s shoulder, getting him to look, and mouths, clearly, in Sindarin, Thank you.

Sindarin, of course.  No wonder he was so confused; Dírhaval tried to speak to him in Taliska, which is mostly a Mannish language.  Most Elves in Sirion can speak both, but who knows from how far afield this one has journeyed?  Dírhaval’s Sindarin is quite good—he needs it for his work in the lorehouse, and he tries speaking again.

“I’m Dírhaval.  Can you understand me if I’m speaking Sindarin?”

The Elf squints at his face, then brightens a little and nods.

“I won’t do you any harm.  I’m only a poet, fisherman, and scribe of odd jobs,” Dírhaval explains, relieved to have partially surmounted the language barrier.

Nod.  The Elf puts a hand on his own chest and mouths a word that Dírhaval is fairly sure is “loremaster.”  Then he mouths it again and makes an accompanying hand gesture.

“You’re a loremaster?”  He tries the hand gesture as well, and the Elf gives him a faint smile, then another nod.  “I know many loremasters.  I scribe in the lorehouse sometimes, and I scribble verse about the lore I find there.”

The Elf, thankfully, relaxes a little more at that, but after another few steps, he gives a little cry and falls against Dírhaval.  A rapid inspection reveals that Dírhaval’s too-large boot has probably slipped, and now the poor loremaster has twisted his ankle.  Dírhaval sighs, inspecting it.  The loremaster winces and tries to take another step, but Dírhaval stops him.

“Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself more,” he says.  Taking the slim foot out of the boot to inspect the ankle, he realizes that the ankle is not the only injury—the bottom is cut up, bruised and bleeding.  He’s walked far too long on it already, but Dírhaval doesn’t think he can carry him the whole way to the keep.  “You need rest,” he says.  “Listen, come home with me and tomorrow I’ll get Dínaras to lend us his donkey to take you down to the keep.  You’ll really hurt yourself if you keep trying to walk on these injuries.”

The loremaster juts out his chin as if he’s going to be stubborn, then winces and looks down at his foot, sags, and nods slightly.  Thank you, he mouths again, with a simple hand gesture that Dírhaval hopes he’ll be able to remember.  He’s good with languages, but he’s never really tried to learn the gestures the Elves use.

It occurs to Dírhaval as he boosts the loremaster carefully across the wall that he’s already acting as if they’re going to be friends.