Gentle rain along the treetops - it drips down in a cascade. It slips from leaf, to branch, to trunk, to root. It sweeps away dirt and ash. It settles at the floor of the forest; within its wetness pools rot and timber, and leaves that sit gently across the top, and that wait to be swept up again by the wind once more. The rain covers the forest in a misty haze, blurring the outlines of figures and trees. One would not be able to see past the depth of their own fingertips. She wishes she was not able to. She wishes that the rain will wipe away the tragedy that lies just out of her reach. That the rain will embolden her enough to break through the thick undergrowth that keeps her hidden; that keeps her safe. Yet, it does not.
Just within the line of her vision, just within sight, she can make out the scene of a death. With a mighty shout that shook the trees did the Orc sunder her sister to the ground, and with no noise at all did the elleth fall. Although at first her eyes were trained on watching the gentle raindrops trickle down from leaf to leaf in the undergrowth, she can still make out the body of her fallen sister. Even with the rain and the mist trying to obfuscate the sight, leaving a halo of haze over the corpse, she can make out clearly who and what it is. Her sister lies there, her bow cracked in half just out of reach. Her lips parted in her final cry for help. Yet she wasn’t quick enough to save her.
Mornwi sobs. It is a silent, broken thing. It is more of a heave, her knees slipping into the slick mud as she and her world crumble in the shadow of the forest. She can feel the coolness and stickiness of the mud seep through her trousers. It pulls her down, holds her in place while she grieves. She cannot tell if it is tears or rain that leaves streaks through the dirt on her face. But the teardrops, like the rain, sweep the dirt away and pool at the tip of her chin. From there, they drop, one by one, becoming indistinguishable from the mourning of the sky as they meet the mud from whence they rose long ago.
She heaves in a wracking breath as she watches where the salt and the mud mix. Dark hair made slick by the rain falls in front of her face, adding another curtain to the scene. If she loses herself in the rain, she will not have to look beyond the veil that blurs the body. Every time she blinks away tears, fresh ones spring to her eyes and make it harder to see past the leaves that block her in. She tries to wipe them away, but only succeeds in smearing dirt and mud across her face even more. It is cold and smells of rot and death. The scent shakes her, for a moment, out of her mourning, and back to the moment at hand.
Another figure can now be made out, leering over her sister’s corpse. At first, fear floods her, and her sobbing ceases. If it is the Orc, returned, then she does not wish to be found out and struck down here, and now. Not before she has even had a chance to brave the rain and step through the mist. She reaches out a trembling hand and pulls one of the branches down, sending droplets flying in the air as she does so. Blinking and squinting, Mornwi leans forward to try and make out who - or what - it is that has approached the body. Her breath catches in her throat as the familiar figure of her sister’s beloved falls to his knees beside the body. Again, she cannot move. Out of fear, out of respect, out of shame, she remains in place; waiting, watching, as the rain begins to fall heavier on the forest.
One thing she learns is that his grief is unlike hers. It is not silent. She falls back into the mud, clutching her knees up to her chest. She ducks her head and hides, for she silently mirrors every sob and wail that comes from the one who has been left behind. As the rain begins to hit harder, falling no longer in gentle drops but in harsh pellets, the sight of death becomes harder to make out among the haze and the leaves. They fade from view, veiled in their final moments together, and she is left alone in the mud and rain. The water is no longer soothing. It’s salty and bitter when it passes over her lips, and it stings as it gets caught in her eyes and her throat.
She is not sure how long she waits there, at the doorstep of Dol Guldur, grieving in the pouring rain over the loss of that which cannot be replaced by any work of man or deity. All she knows is that by the time that she raises her head, the rain has stopped. She heaves a heavy breath and slowly breaks herself out of the mud that has hardened around her legs and held her in. Once she is on her feet again, she turns her eyes to the gaps between the leaves and branches where the rot still pools; where there once was a corpse now lies a grave. Slender fingers reach out and push aside branch, after leaf, after thorn; she feels the scrapes of wood and bark as she pushes through the thick undergrowth to step out into the clearing.
Atop the mound of dirt lies a single sword. She steps closer. Across the steel of the blade lies an inscribed tengwar script that was written for a wife from a groom. Another step closer, and she can feel the hardened mud restricting the movement of her clothes. She can still see droplets of rain that linger on the silvery steel, but all that is reflected is the cloudy greyness of the sky, and her own face as she plucks the sword from the dirt. Hearth-keeper, reads the inscription. Mornwi winces her eyes closed as she clutches the sword by the hilt close to her chest, as she is barren of any sheath to carry it. In this cold, and in these moments where the rain has washed all away and left only that which is permanent…what hearth is there left to keep?
