On that very first night the House of Anorwë embraced Hartagil as one of their own, Seregrían welcomed Hartagil into the house and shared her chamber, her clothes and her bed to sleep in; but all the two Elf-maids did was sit up through the night, talking and whispering, and continued for seven nights after. The two girls talked without ceasing, barely eating or drinking unless Gilalaith called them with firm words to meals.
Seregrían spoke of Balar, and Eglarest, and the house of the Gwaith-en-Gelydh. Hartagil spoke of Gondolin, of Tumladen, and the glistening Court of the Fountain before the tower of Turgon. Seregrían told of her acceptance and rising to become an acolyte, then a trusted scribe and archivist, and her gift of memory and instant recall. Hartagil told of how she chose not the arts of healing and making but of the blade and bow, and the way of the maethoriel, the warrior-maid. She became known not for the strength of her arm, but for her incredible speed and agility, both uncanny even in the measure among the Noldor. Just as Seregrían was named the Library With Legs, Hartagil was named the Black Blade of Tumladen.
Time has passed swiftly and slowly on Balar, as is the way of the Elves. Twenty-six years have passed since the fall of Gondolin, and the year Hartagil came into Seregrían’s home and heart. The two girls have become nearly inseparable, seen all about the towns and the docks, frequenting the markets and stalls, laughing gaily in each other’s company, and all who watch them pass smile in their turn. They keep watch at the quays for Carcírion’s ship to come to haven and greet their foster-father in delight. While Seregrían attends the Loremasters, Hartagil shares long speech with Gilalaith, who longs for stories of Gondolin after her departure so long ago.
As the years pass, Gilalaith’s laughter is heard less, her spirit seemingly darkened by the longing for the past and the foreboding of the wars. For the news that Carcírion brings home following each passage grows ever darker and void of hope. King Gil-galad maintains the havens of Sirion on the mainland, the last refuge of the Eldar in Beleriand, where Eärendil the Half-elven holds rule. But the specter of the Second Kinslaying hangs like a cloud of chill rain above all hearts, and the rift between the Noldor and the Grey-elves cannot be wholly bridged.
In this atmosphere of distrust, the House of Anorwë endures each season with stoic patience. Gilalaith has promised Hartagil that they shall seek out and find word of her true siblings, missing since the disaster of Gondolin. Seregrían continues her work with the Loremasters, aiding the family’s effort by searching all the archives she can gain access to, seeking any word or news of Thelyndis or Thenidros. And throughout all this time Carcírion sails on, shuttling between Balar and Sirion, asking for tidings at each landfall.
And then it happens: the news comes to Balar of the Third Kinslaying, havoc wreaked upon the Elves by their own once more. The remnant of the House of Fëanor descends upon the Havens, slaying all in their path, hunting Eärendil and Elwing to wrest their claimed prize. But this time the brothers have gone too far, and their own servants rise up against them, refusing to strike down their own kin, and are slain in their turn; such is the twisting of hearts and minds in this time of chaos.
The Havens have fallen; and once again, flotillas of Elven-ships bring refugees and survivors to Balar. Once again, despair and heartbreak settle upon the Elves like a sodden cloak of heavy cloth. And once more, tempers flare and heated passions rise to the point of swords. The Sindar of the island are filled with a rage that will not be stayed. Noldorin families are dragged into the streets and made to watch their homes put to the torch, then tormented by the mob; but none are slain, for the Sindar for all their fury will not spill the blood of their kin, thus staining themselves as well.
One such angry mob approaches the House of Anorwë, seeking to deliver their wrath to the household. As the first rank marches up the path, they are met by Carcírion and three of his shipmates, all Sindar themselves, blocking their way to the house. Behind them stands Gilalaith, who has locked the door behind her, her eyes betraying real fear but anger rising behind them.
“Stand aside, blood-traitor!” shouts the mob, “Thus shall it be to all Kinslayers, who leave the Grey-elves to wander the shores – they shall know no comfort, no refuge, same as we!”
“Then shall your homes burn, too?” Gilalaith replies. “You, who laugh and rejoice at the suffering of the guiltless, are laughing with the very voice of Morgoth! Go unto him, faithless ones, and claim your reward by the Great Mound!”
“Go!” Carcírion shouts, he and his mariners brandishing wooden truncheons. “Take your madness away from here, or by Össe, none of you shall remain unbeaten!!” The mob presses forward; staves and cudgels are raised; battle is about to be joined – when a loud shrill scream is heard from the street, and all eyes turn to the source of the sound.
There in the street stand two Elf-maids, Seregrían in scarlet, Hartagil in black. Seregrían bears a broom handle, broken at the haft in a makeshift quarter-staff, anger on her face but fear in her eyes. Hartagil wields two cudgels windmilling in her hands, wrested from two of the mob she has just beaten senseless, her feet planted wide in a warrior’s stance, her lovely eggshell face a mask of rage.
“You were warned,” Carcírion shouts, “and yet you stayed. You thought to assault women and children – now see what happens when they fight back!” Three of the mob break ranks and spring upon the girls, their first and only mistake; for Hartagil launches forward, braining each of them with strokes faster than even an Elven eye can follow. Standing over the unconscious elves, she fills her lungs and shouts mightily, “Öndolinde!!” and wades into the mob, smashing heads and limbs, no blow coming close to touching her, such is her speed and skill.
Seregrían can only follow in her sister’s wake, brandishing her staff in her own defense; Hartagil has taught her the ways of staff-fighting, and she can defend herself easily, though mounting an attack of her own is beyond her simple skill. But attacks are not needed, for Hartagil carves a path to Carcírion’s side, the mob giving way more out of terror at her coming. The two girls stand at their father’s side, awaiting the next move.
It is that exact moment that a harsh horn-call rises from behind the mob, and cries of retreat and fear fill the air. The City Guard, bearing the livery of the High King, marches up to the scene, lances leveled at the rapidly vanishing throng. With the mob dispersed, the guardsmen secure the house and street, their leader with two guards flanking him approaching the house.
“I thank you indeed,” Carcírion says, “for your timely arrival. I fear that my mariners, and my daughters, could not have held them off for long.”
“Knowing your daughters as I do, I deem they would have carried the day,” the leader says, removing his helmet and revealing himself as –
“Maribar!?” Seregrían cries. “You- you are our rescuer??”
“You carry tales, little sister,” Hartagil sneers. “You told me this Maribar was a craven and a fool, and here we find him leading the guard! Though late in coming, I admit – but rather late than not at all.”
“Think you that you’re the only family assaulted this night?” Maribar replies. “My patrol has dealt with this same mob twice now. We scattered them once, but then they reformed and came for you. They shall not find us lenient when next we meet, I assure you.
“My orders are to prevent any further blood spilled by our kin, by any means save lethal blows on our part. But I see you are more than capable of such skill; indeed, I beheld your charge as we rounded the corner there. That you are maethoriel there is no doubt, daughter of the Noldor that I see you to be.”
“And is that the only reason for your ‘timely arrival’,” Seregrían snorts, “that the mob tried to burn a Noldorin house? Would you have let a Sinda’s home burn, knowing you as I do?”
“Seregrían, hold your tongue!” Gilalaith says hotly. “Maribar does his duty to the King, as you shall do your duty to me! You shall not be ungrateful to the one who stopped an attack!” Seregrían is cowed by her mother’s angry tone.
“Mistress, if I may,” Maribar says, “Seregrían has every right to say such. For once upon a time, I would have done as she says; and for that, I would know shame and scorn.” He turns to Seregrían, who stares at him in disbelief.
“Seregrían, much has changed since you knew me from lessons, and from our day in the judgement of Gwathnim. Most seriously are these two terrible Kinslayings, at the hands of the High Elves. Never would I have thought such things would transpire once, but twice again. As a Noldo, I am filled with shame – and I would ask your pardon, yours and your family’s also.” And Maribar sinks to one knee before them all, his head bowed in deep remorse.
Carcírion steps forward and offers his hand to Maribar. “Rise, young ellon, and receive my pardon and the pardon of my House. Our thanks be to you for your intervention. I shall make it known to others of your deeds – and I daresay my daughter will bear news of this night to Mistress Gwathnim, shall she?” He stares firmly at Seregrían, who nods wordlessly. With that, Maribar takes his leave with a nod and rejoins his patrol, who quickly march away. The family watches their leaving, and Hartagil leans closer to Seregrían.
“So that was Maribar, eh, sister-mine? He wears the armor well, and with a good leg – or hadn’t you noticed? And contrite to you as well. I taught you lessons of the staff, perhaps lessons in boys should follow?” Seregrían’s only reply is a punch that Hartagil effortlessly blocks, followed by their laughter.
Next Chapter: Speech in the Night
