Chapter VIII: the Flight
In the confusion of those hours, the small figure of the dark-haired Elf mounted on his golden mare looked almost invisible. Their progression seemed assured in spite of everything with a pace so fast that it seemed to belie the danger of the thunder.The beholder that would have stood at the top of the mountain would have wondered at the grace of the horse and the feeling that rider and mount were one and the same. Theirs was an attitude of challenge to the angered elements, like scorn in the face of danger. But in the storm, appearances were deceiving. It was not a challenge. It was a flight from the harshness of reality and madness of life.
Indeed...
Long ago, Erestor had stopped his efforts to contain the sobs that tore at his chest and burned his throat. The tears that he had refused to release were now flowing freely the length of his narrow face, melting with the rain pouring in heavy curtains of water over the younger rider that clung onto the mane of his mount. However, the darkling youth's mind was far from the realities of his world. He did not feel the rain, did not hear the storm that raged over them. He was not aware of the pounding of hooves through the ground. The only thing he felt really was the seizing cold that made him shiver violently. His whole body seemed frozen; he could not feel his feet or his hands anymore. He could not even remember what it meant to be warm. His long ebony hair was sticking to his wet clothes, enveloping him like a dark mantle, making a strong contrast with the golden coat of the horse. His head hidden in the long wet strands of the mane, his eyes closed as though to hide from the world, Erestor was lost in a twirl of images and memories he could not escape...had no wish of escaping.
The dark-haired Elf hiccupped violently and his breathing quickened as he struggled to catch his breath. Nearing panic in his fight against choking, he lost the contact that bound him to his mare; too busy with his own battles to notice that he was pushing his mount beyond what he had ever asked from her.
She had been a gift from his father when he had been deemed mature enough to understand what it meant to take chargeof another life. She had been no more than a trembling foal then but her coat was as golden as Anor's rays; her mane as white as the winter snow. However, her eyes had been shining with intelligence and he had felt attracted to her immediately. As she grew up, it had soon becomeevident that she would never become as tall or as noble as others were. But he did not care. She was strong and faithful. The only thing that mattered was that she was his and he hers.
She was a docile one, the little mare. She loved her master and she answered courageously, not taking umbrage of the heels in her flanks that urged her to go faster and faster as she felt his need to go away and to forget. In the fingers threaded with her hairs, she could read the unbearable sorrow agitating him and precariously threatening his frail balance. Her moving ears and her occasional shivers were the only signs of her fear of the storm as she kept going forward; her steps light and dancing in spite of the slipping mud beneath her dark hooves.
Erestor was oblivious to her insecurity, lost as he was in his own living nightmares to notice. His mind was filled with images of times of happiness that would never be again. His mother...his father...the void in his feä and the cold of his body; that was all that mattered and all he wanted to forget. He wanted to close his eyes and forget; to put the greatest distance between the white city of doom and him. To go to Nevrast! Aye. There he had been happy. He would curl in his old bed that had been left in his small room beneath the roof pretending that his mother would awaken him with kisses and his father teach him to fight with knives.
Tightening his grasp on the mane of the small mare, uncaring of the strands cutting his tender flesh, he strengthenedthe hold of his legs, urging her to go faster. He did not see the fallen tree that made an obstacle to his wild race but the little horse saw it. She knew it was near impossible but she tried nonetheless, knowing that a detour would destabilise her precious burden and cause his fall. She tried and put all her fading strength in the effort. But either it was too much, or the ground was too slippery, the result was the same. Erestor felt the tightening of the muscles beneath him and the rising of the sturdy body. The next thing he knew was his lying sprawled in the mud, dazed and bewildered. His sobs had stopped at the surprise of this unexpected event. He stared at the dark sky where no star shone its comfort, his breath short and ragged. Trying to rise while using his arms to support himself, he collapsed with a cry of pain. Pressing his injured left arm to his chest, his examination identified the source of his pain: a rock cutting through his flesh.
Thunder sounded strongly around them and the youth had trouble suppressing his moan of fear as it seemed never to end. A few seconds later, lightening struck setting ablaze a tree in the distance. The youth remained dazed for long seconds staring at the fire that was soon extinguished by the rain. It was only then that he remembered all that had happened, the course of events that had led him to lying in the mud. A sob caught in his throat as the tears started anew, inundating his cheeks. When the soft nostrils of his small mare snuggled his shoulder as though seeking pardon for her fall, he rose without using his injured limb. Encircling her strong neck, he pressed his face to her shoulder as she rubbed her head against his wet clothes. Feeling her warmth, he embraced her wholly, pressing his slender body to her as he sought instinctively to be warm again. With words that stumbled quickly, he asked forgiveness again and again not really aware of the words he spoke nor really knowing whom he wanted to ask for pardon or why he felt so guilty.
She pushed him forward, taking a trembling step forward as well, and unwilling to lose the warmth of her comfort, he followed her; his arms still encircling her strong slender neck. Sliding in the mud, he stumbled slowly in the direction she had chosen till his back hit something smooth and wet. Surprised, he turned around defensively ready to flee if the need arose. But all tension left his shoulders as he realized they were facing one of the small barracks built by the guards charged with watching over the mountains. It was bare; no more than four pillars of woods supporting a roof of panels. However it was better than nothing, for he could not go farther his feet refused to bear him. Collapsing on the ground as his legs gave way beneath him, he rolled into a ball, gathering his long legs to his chest, closing his eyes as he gave in his weariness. In spite of the storm, the fear and his grief, his mind escaped towards the more peaceful lands of Elven dreamscape beneath the ever watchful gaze of his faithful mare.
He was warm. That feeling felt so alien that he could not help but notice it. Warm from the top of his dark hair to the top of his toes, he rocked in an ocean of liquid peace and comfort. Around him, he could hear whispers and feel hands touching him for brief moments. Sometimes, the voices became stronger as though trying to lull him out of this place where he felt well, where his mind was only filled with comforting emptiness. He did not want to think. He did not want to move. He was well.
But the voices continued to become stronger and stronger. Sometimes, he could distinguish a word or a sentence. Storm...Shelter...Grief...Burial... He knew that somewhere his elusive mind could connect these words and gave them a meaning beyond their simple common sense. But he did not wish to find out. He was at peace. He wished the moment would never end. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He closed his mind to them and let the benevolent darkness engulf him completely.
He was not aware of the time that passed. He did not know where he was. The darkness all around him was alien but not threatening as he could feel her presence surrounding him, rocking him. He did not see her. Her tender face, smiling eyes and comforting beauty remained absent. But he knew it was her. His mother...He wished that he could reach out to her and take her in the shelter of his arms to comfort her and tell her not to be afraid anymore. But he could not. He felt her presence escaping the nets of his mind and he cried out for her. But no word was heard in the world of silence where he had chosen to dwell and she continued fading from his mind till she was no more than a mere wandering shadow. With her, the warmth he felt left and he felt there was nothing left for him to remain in this place.
It was then that he opened his eyes.
Turgon waited. He had waited for many hours now, hours that had been interrupted by the short discussion with Glorfindel an hour ago. He had waited at the youth's side since his two faithful Captains had brought him back unconscious and shivering almost delirious. At his arrival, he had sent his daughter to prepare new rooms for his new charges. He had seen Idril a few minutes ago and she had assured him that Erestor's belongings had been brought from the small house to the palace and that none had touched Earina's belongings. The King had thanked her with a smile. It had been his order that none of the youth's mother's belongings were disturbed. It was for Erestor to put them in order. None other than a loving hand should touch them.
Turgon turned his head and examined the glorious painting adorning the walls. They were rich decorations, worthy of Miriel's hand, but he found himself impermeable to their beauties and his mind wandered soon in other landscapes. He thought on the short discussion he had shared with the golden-haired Chief of the House of the Golden Flower. He had asked him to take charge the education of the youth in his House for studying the languages, the history and training. He had long pondered his and had reached the decision that the youth would be happier if he was not considered as the King's pupil. It was difficult for the King to accept it but it was the wisest thing to do. Some had not forgotten that Earina had been disowned and would look down on her son occupying such a privileged place in the King's House. There would be time for such a thing later when Erestor would be older and better able to protect himself.
The youth's soft cry tore him from his musings. "Naneth!" A pained sigh escaped the King's lips as he gazed once more at the youth lying on the bed. Even in his sleep, he called to her. Rising from his comfortable chair, he quickly covered the few steps separating him from the bed, not the least hampered by his imposing robes, and sat close to the darkling Elf's agitated form. He stretched out his hand and softly caressed the youth's moist brow; repeating a gesture he had often done with Idril after her mother's death when he wanted to soothe her in her sleep. Instinctively, his lips formed a gentle lullaby and he sang trying to reach him. He felt the tense body relax beneath his touch and still its erratic motions.
The youth's dry lips moved as though he tried to speak but no sound passed the barrier of his throat. However, Turgon needed no word to know the turmoil the youth was in. He had seen enough pain and despair to recognize them when he came to cross their paths. He had soothed mothers and wives whose children and spouses would never come back home again. He had witnessed the tears and the slow fading that came along. The most difficult task for Erestor now was to open his eyes and face a world deprived of illusions. If the youth awakened, it would be a victory in itself, a proof that Earina's child chose to live rather than to die. The King would have liked to find the right words that would have convinced Erestor that life was well worth living. But he had found none. He knew in his heart that each pain was unique and that one needed to overcome his grief to understand the beauty of every day. The pain of an innocent soul is the worst of witness, for those who tried to help were believe intruders and the words of comfort were cast aside. The memory of Idril's tears at the hour of Elenwë's passing still haunted his dreams.
But the image was quickly chased away as his eyes met Erestor's and the King's breath caught in his throat.
The youth was staring blindly at the ceiling, ignoring his presence; emerald orbs devoid of any emotion. Turgon did not dare to move as though fearing Erestor's reaction when he would notice him. But the raven-haired Elf did not keep his frightening stillness for much longer. His head rolled slowly aside till his cheek rested on the silky fabric of the pillow; his eyes catching the King's. The latter did not dare to breathe, much less speak, as he waited for his cousin's reaction. He did not have to wait for long. Tears veiled the beautiful green eyes and Turgon gathered the youth in his arms as sobs racked his thin frame.
A week later
"I know what you want me to do"
Those were the words that Erestor had not uttered but that his eyes spoke nonetheless. Accusing and angered, the green orbs had not ceased to stare at the King's back as he followed him silently through the long corridors of the Gondolindrim palace. The rustling of the heavy robes was the only sound heard as Erestor had obstinately refused obstinately to answer Turgon's attempts at conversation.
The King sighed as he led the youth to the nursery where his sister lay. Since his awakening, Erestor had shown no wish to seek out his newborn sibling. Truth be told, Turgon had been quite disturbed by the dark-haired Elf's attitude. Few had been the words that passed his lips and fewer had been the moments when the child's eyes had lost the frightening sparkle of despair inhabiting them. But those had not been the actions causing the King's worry. Indeed, the spies once charged with the watch of the small family had always spoken of Erestor as a quiet peaceful Elfling, a child of the silence and of the night. What caused Turgon to worry was the absolute lack of will in the youth. Never did he express any wish or any need. His caretakers had to dictate him on the least of his acts, even the most simple such as eating or drinking. Never in a week had he expressed the wont to meet his sister. To Turgon, it seemed as though the youth's soul had departed his body, leaving in his stead a well-shaped machine.
"Tis not far away" assured the King without looking at Erestor, knowing that the youth did not care and that he would only meet hostile eyes. But Turgon did not care either. He could feel his desire to act and push the youth in the right direction growing with each passing day. The King was a patient being but he prided himself with knowing when action was needed. He would destroy the walls of the prison Erestor had built around himself.
Turgon stopped in front of a small door and without knocking as he knew that his presence was expected, he turned the knob and entered, motioning for Erestor to follow him. The room was plunged in half darkness but the Elleth standing watch over the baby immediately recognized him and curtsied as he approached.
"My Lord, I was expecting you" she explained as she walked towards the corner of the room, taking in her arms the small body of Earina's last child. Turning on her heel, her precious burden held comfortably in her arms, she approached the King, releasing the Elfling into his care. Turgon nodded his thanks before turning towards Erestor who stood in the frame of the door, visibly uneasy. Beckoning for the youth to approach, the King suppressed his smile at the sight of his cousin's reluctance. When Earina's oldest child faced him, Turgon ordered, "Take her in your arms"
The youth startled and shook his dark head, muttering, "I cannot..."
But the King's command brooked no refusal. As his eyes hardened, his voice sounded slightly threatening, "Hold her." Erestor lowered his eyes, refusing to look at the King, clearly unwilling to take hold of the infant. Turgon felt his kingly composure slip away and he frowned his gray eyes betraying his growing impatience. Taking a step closer to the youth, his gaze fixed on his cousin as though his regal will could influence him and repeated, "Hold her." He saw the discreet movement of denial, the battle of wills between rebellious refusal and weary acceptance, and finally the slight slump of shoulders indicating the Elfling's submission to his monarch's decision. Turgon moved slightly away to give the two siblings some privacy. However, he did not avert his keen gaze from the reunited family blood pounding strongly in his ears.
Erestor felt as though his heart would burst in his chest when he first beheld his sister's peaceful features. Blue eyes seeming too big for the small face held no fear or discomfort as she watched him with all the seriousness of her age. Feeling that his legs would bear him no longer, he gave into the overwhelming need to sit and let himself slide to the ground, holding his precious burden close to his heart. This was what he had feared the most. With the small body cradled in his arms, he could no longer pretend it was a maddening nightmare. It was reality. Looking into her trusting eyes, he was helplessly reminded of the oath he had taken. ‘I will protect you, pen-neth. With my life if it needs to be so.'
The King's voice broke his trance-like reverie and the dark-haired youth raised his head, surprised to find Turgon's silhouette hovering over them. He had completely forgotten the King's presence. ‘This little one needs a name to face the events of her life. Tis your duty to choose for her a name that will do her honour for the years till she is grown enough to choose by herself."
Erestor absorbed himself again in the contemplation of his sister. Never had he thought that this task would be his to perform. Such a choice was not to be taken lightly. A name determined much in one's life. It meant so much. He studied her features, realizing that time would turn her into a creature as beautiful as their mother had been – perhaps more.
She was a gift from the Valar, he came to realize. His life would have become dark if she was not there. She was the dawn that chased the night away, the star that would light his way.
"Amaurea," he murmured. Raising his eyes to meet Turgon's as though trying to find strength there, he got up and spoke for all to hear, "With Eru as witness, I name thee Amaurea."
A few tears slid the length of his cheeks but he cared naught. His life had a new purpose. He was not alone anymore.
Next: TBC
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