Mortals: A Case Study (Hour of the Wolf)
Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon
7 Quellë in the Reckoning of Imladris
There is a tale among the Men of the Vales of Anduin, of the "Hour of the Wolf".
The Hour of the Wolf, as the tale goes, is that time of night during the late marches, long before the foredawn, the deepest dark. Those who are awake at that hour, whether for being unable to sleep or dream, or standing watch in the night, are stalked by The Wolf; all the memories of past failures and defeats rise to the waking mind. One revisits all the doubts, all the regrets, all the things which one could have done, could have been, or should have - but didn't and never will.
The Vale-men say that when the Hour of the Wolf strikes, one must take a large draught of the strongest drink at hand, to keep The Wolf from your door. And then, one takes three smaller draughts - in case She left cubs on your doorstep.
The Hour of the Wolf has chimed, and the Wolf has come to Torech Besruth. Even as I sit here, in the Sanctum of the Lair, writing by candle and lamp as shadows dance in mockery on the walls, I can hear the scrabbling of Her paws on the threshold. And I have, many times over, taken the draught to bar Her entry into my thoughts. But what thoughts are these?
The thoughts of the Mortal, Cutch Crane of Breeland, and his declaration, so sincere and simple, of his wish to ask for my hand in marriage;
The thoughts of the pestilence called the Firimar, and all the suffering of the World they have inflicted among even themselves;
The thoughts of the tragic and bitter unions of Elves and Mortals.
This last thought has me pouring through, tearing asunder, and rifling every scroll, every tome, every scrap of lore I possess at the Lair concerning every recorded pairing of the Deathless with the Dying. There have, of course, been many: how could there not be, considering all the long ages since the Two Kindreds met? The most renowned and well-documented of them have been recorded by the High Kindred in their annals: Beren Erchamion and Luthien Tinuviel; and Tuor son of Huor and Idril Celebrindal.
But there have been, inevitably, other unions of less renown to the histories of the Elves, and prudent scholars left record of them, and my gratitude to them is boundless. For one obscure text in my possession (surely a copy, the original long since gone) is the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. Few now remember that Aegnor son of Finarfin fell in love with a Mortal, and she with him; but by the long law of the Eldar no marriage could take place during time of war, and as a prince of the Noldor he was bound to that law. But Aegnor for love of this Mortal took no wife ever, holding himself betrothed until his death in battle.
Finrod his brother, noble King that he was, sought out the Mortal Andreth and shared long speech with her. The pair touched on subjects only the Wise are wont to mention, and the words of Andreth, if true, would have earned for her a place at their side. Then they spoke of love between the Two Kindreds - and my eyes burned with sudden tears.
Finrod the Ever-Wise explained to Andreth that love 'twixt Elves and Mortals could only be for cause of high doom, and any other reason could only end in sorrow and pity. Andreth would have gladly given all she had for the brief time they might be together; and Aegnor , for his love, would not let her cast aside all for him.
Then my eyes find the tale of Amroth and Nimrodel - both Elven-kind, naturally - but appended was the tale of one of Nimrodel's maidens, Mithrellas, who was found by the Mortal, Imrazor the Numenorean, who took her to wife. The Elf-woman bore him two children, Galador and his sister Gilmith: twins, presumably. Because after the birth of her children, Mithrellas fled in the night and was never seen or heard of again by Elves or Men.
This troubles me greatly. Did this Mortal, even being of high Numenorean race, take Mithrellas and beget children against her will? That would be a black evil, which an Elf would never allow; and the Dunedain revere the Elves as friends. No, another reason must be - perhaps it was that Mithrellas realized that with death follows birth, and she might not bear to witness the Doom of Men, not only in her husband but her children as well, and thus turned to flight.
My third draught of Duillond Gold wine stands half-drunk at my desk, awaiting its end. The Hour of the Wolf seems to have stopped the flow of time, and all the world awaits my faltering wisdom to decide my course. Ah, Cutch, would you laugh if you saw my discomfort? Or would you wrap your arms around me in comfort? Would you, as Andreth said, be the moth to the candle? Would you mourn if the candle were put out, or rejoice that you safely fly on? And once more, my eyes feel pressing from behind, and my throat tightens: the onset of tears?
I slam the last of the wine down my aching throat and lurch out of my chair to fill it again. As I walk out of the Sanctum to the Hall, slowly, almost against my will, my eyes are drawn to the wooden cradle where lies Dondangol, my staff. A piece of art from ages past and a work of glamourous might, of holly and oak, the head tipped in ithildin, the lunar moth wavering in the lamplight, beckoning to be hefted in hand.
The moth, again; but the thought comes to me, Dondangol IS the flame, and the moth, together. The union of candle and moth - could this at last be the answer I seek?
My fingers, trembling, brush the haft and travel to the lunar moth. And I hear a sigh - of contentment, or relief. My answer has been found.
Next Entry: A Counter-proposal
