Chapter Text
As the year lengthens, Aredhel spends her days in contentment among Marach’s people, coming to know them so deeply that it is sometimes strange to remember she had only recently met them. The stories they tell of their life in the East, the strange beliefs they hold of how the Moon and the Sun came to be, and the small, ordinary things that bring them delight and woe — Aredhel treasures it all.
She commits to memory every cry, every laugh, every slight change upon their faces, fearing that if she all but blinks, she may lose their stories like leaves carried down by rushing rivers.
Marach tells her one night as they sit around the fires, ‘The life of my people is short, Írissë, so it is our duty to find joy where we can, even when times are dark.’
Aredhel’s own life is long, but she can feel at times that even the fate of the Eldar is finite. So she heeds Marach’s word and finds joy where she can. She rides with Randir, always eager for a gallop, and explores the plains of Estolad. During long winter evenings, she sits in the wooden huts in the village and tells tales of her kin and their deeds in Eldamar, and of the might and valor of the princes of the House of Fingolfin.
By springtime, Zimrahin becomes her shadow, mirroring her steps and mood even as Idril had in childhood. She never tires of learning all Aredhel can teach, but stories she loves above all.
Aredhel smiles as she sees her young friends approach at eve, readying for what has become their ritual.
‘Tell us again about how Findekáno defeated Glaurung!’ Imlach demands. Fingon remains their favorite. Aredhel is not surprised.
‘How about you tell me a story for a change? I know you have gathered many over the winter,’ Aredhel teases.
Zimrahin, always the quickest among them, decides on a story swiftly. ‘We shall tell the tale of the Fairy of the Night!’ she slaps her hands together. Malach and Imlach nod their heads approvingly.
‘Long ago, before the Sun and Moon rose in the sky,’ Zimrahin begins in perfect imitation of Aredhel’s own narrative tone, ‘there lived an Elf across the Eastern Mountains—’
‘But he is not an Elf from the East, Zimra,’ Amlach interrupts with a raised finger. ‘He originally descended from the stars. Father has seen him riding in the night and his black armor shines like a gleaming star. He cannot be from this earth.’
‘That’s not how the story goes!’ Imlach adds also. ‘My grandmother told me he is an evil spirit who enchants the trees of Nan Elmoth and if anyone goes there, they are trapped by the trees and can never leave again.’
‘That is just a story to scare children away from leaving the village, Imlach,’ Zimrahin responds and crosses her arms. ‘The Wise-women say that the Dark Lord ruined the home of the Elves in the East. Like us, the Fairy of the Night journeyed long before he found a new home in Nan Elmoth.’
‘If he is like us, why does he only come out at night and is gone before dawn?’ Malach challenges.
‘I believe he is scared of sunlight,’ Zimrahin explains with certainty as if she has spent many long hours pondering this matter. Perhaps she has, Aredhel considers; she has found that the girl thinks deeply for her age and feels even deeper.
‘Do not be silly, Zimra,’ Malach teases her. ‘Have you ever heard of Elves scared of the Sun? Only evil creatures fear the light like the Orcs on Thangorodrim.’
Zimrahin has no answer to this. She frowns and her bright eyes turn to Aredhel in a silent plea for help.
Have you ever heard of Elves scared of the Sun?
Aredhel knows the answer to this question better than most. Her body remembers with stark clarity the darkness that had eaten away at its edges.
They had all chased after fleeting light and warmth upon the Helcaraxë. Such moments had been rare, more than rare. Still, Aredhel considered herself fortunate to have found them. Her collarbones recall the warm breath of an old childhood friend turned lover; her wrists still feel the trickle of hot blood spilled from the gut of a snow beast taken down with much hardship.
The everlasting darkness was not outside of Arda, but upon it, they had found. It could not be further from a vain prophecy as some had thought, and it was a real, material thing stretching upon the Ice for time immeasurable.
Then, the glare of the first dawn had come unlooked for. Arien’s naked body rising violently above the high peaks of Beleriand. Its light dispersed over the frozen flatlands, bathing them in hues of deep red as if a great battle had been fought right at the feet of the Iron Mountains.
Aredhel screws her eyes shut on instinct, as she had done that first day long ago.
Watching her father’s face, his eyelids heavy with grief, his jaw tight with concern, Aredhel had believed this new light a curse. It had come to expose their sorrows, to shine upon the losses that had marked their bodies. It had to be a curse to see under such bright light a father who had just lost his youngest son.
With time, Aredhel had taught herself to find beauty in the new Sun, for Idril’s hair shone beneath its light with splendor never before seen. Arien’s light was for her, for those who would come of age in these new lands.
Idril’s golden tresses morph into Zimrahin’s braids and Aredhel’s memories release her at last.
The girl is still watching her expectantly, searching for a resolution to her tale.
Aredhel decides to tell the truth because the children of the Edain grow up too quickly. ‘The Elves awoke long before the rising of the Sun and many of our kin in the East spent long ages living under the light of the stars alone. Some of them may still be unused to its presence.’
Zimrahin’s smile returns upon her face like sunlight. ‘Yes,’ she says with more courage, ‘the Fairy of the Night must love the twilight under the stars. This is why he chose Nan Elmoth as his home.’
‘Then why does he leave his forest at night all alone?’ Malach asks with the last trace of doubt.
‘Maybe he is lonely,’ Zimrahin concludes simply.
Just a children’s tale or no, Aredhel suddenly feels pity for this Fairy of the Night. Has she not also felt loneliness? That void that filled her heart even when she was surrounded by many in Gondolin.
As the light of day lengthens under the spring Sun, Aredhel finds herself thinking about Zimrahin’s story again and again. The women in the fields, the guards along the palisades, the stablemasters, all tell a different version of this tale, each revealing a little more about the Fairy of the Night. Some believe him an escaped thrall of Morgoth, others, a powerful lord of the Sindar, and yet others take him for a guardian of the ancient forest, grim but noble.
The more of these stories reach Aredhel’s ears, the more her heart stirs with its familiar restlessness. At every new sunrise, she stares at the growing Sun and wonders about the solitude its light must bring to Nan Elmoth.
Malach had said that his father had seen the Fairy of the Night, so Aredhel chases Marach around the village, asking for stories in turn.
'Thrice I saw him,' the chieftain reveals, 'and the first time he spoke not to me but turned to his forest, though I heard his song, and it was a song of might and the fire of a star and burning forges. The second time, my people and I watched him ride from afar, and on his shoulder sat a great black Hawk-eagle.'
Aredhel is horribly tempted to intrude upon Marach's mind, to seek an image of the Fairy and his mighty black bird riding freely across the land.
'What of the third time?' She prompts Marach eagerly.
'Oh, see, that was fortunate for we met on the borders of Nan Elmoth as I was coming back to the village. There he was beneath the tall trees with his black armor and blade, and he looked me in the eye and spoke in a voice as thunder, and told me to ride fast from the forest and not look back, and he frightened me. But just as I came back home, a great storm came with heavy rains and lightning and had I tarried on the road, I would not have been able to return.'
Aredhel can no longer restrain her burning curiosity, and as Marach tells these tales, she allows herself a small glimpse. Just a thread of his thoughts, revealing a long silver braid resting upon armored shoulders, and eyes as dark as a deep forest.
But the remembrance of mortal people is treacherous, and Marach's memories shift before her like the swift change of the seasons. What little she sees, kindles the wanderlust in her heart all the more.
At midsummer’s eve, when Arien’s fruit comes to full ripeness, Aredhel decides it is time to depart, once again.
She joins Marach’s people for a day’s full celebration of the harvests, sending flower wreaths down the streams and jumping over joyful fires until laughter exhausts them and dreams overcome the village. Aredhel prepares to go away as is her custom — quietly, at night — for she cannot bear to say goodbye, fearing she may never leave otherwise.
As Aredhel readies Randir in the stables, a familiar figure appears with her hair unbraided, a shine of silver upon the gold beneath the full Moon.
‘You are leaving,’ Zimrahin says. It is not a question.
‘You should be in bed, Zimra, the hour is late.’
‘Where are you going?’ The girl asks, undismayed.
Aredhel has not the heart to lie because one does not tell lies to good friends. ‘I am departing, yes, to seek the Fairy of the Night.’
Contrary to what Aredhel expects, Zimrahin’s face alights with unguarded glee. ‘That is well! If you find him, he won’t be lonely anymore.’
‘That is my hope,’ Aredhel says wistfully.
‘When you are gone, I will keep telling your stories to the people.’
Tears of gladness and remorse cloud Aredhel’s vision then, and she falls on her knees to take her little friend in a long parting embrace. Zimrahin has become a Wise-woman already.
One final kiss on her cheek, and Zimrahin runs home. Aredhel takes a deep breath, and bids Randir take them to Nan Elmoth.
They travel up the Celon to the southern border of the forest, where the thickets form a natural defense taller than any battlement. Aredhel has never feared the woods, so she leaves Randir on the edges before diving between the trees alone. ‘Wait here, my friend, not all forests are friendly to horses.’
Aredhel’s feet move along the clear streams that branch out from the Celon like veins across the forest floor. Their slim banks lead to a natural hall, grander than anything the hands of Elves have ever built in marble. Its foggy roof rests upon the strong furrowed bodies of trees the color of moist clay.
With every step, the tall canopies turn thicker and dim the light of day to a gentle crepuscule. Nan Elmoth is shy before her and Aredhel’s footsteps seem almost loud in its stillness, interrupted only by the occasional creaking of heavy branches as they lean against each other.
Aredhel halts, unwilling to interrupt this treasured calm, and after a while, she is rewarded with a greeting. Moon moths begin gathering about her, drawn to the whiteness of her raiment. One of them accepts Aredhel’s open hand and covers her palm with its wings.
She takes this as permission to keep walking, feeling the soft brush of ferns against her arms, the dipping of the mosses beneath her feet. The forest turns crowded as she wades through its greenery, heavy with memories like thick droplets of rain upon the wide leaves.
She retraces the trails of time, seeing her past before her very eyes, etched against the shadows between the tree trunks. It is a drawing of her own life, somewhat pale and yet so true, as one of Celegorm’s carvings.
It is impossible to resist this call, the chance to relive a piece of her lifetime. Aredhel goes back to where it all started. The tall trees of Nan Elmoth morph into oaks that cast a wide shade upon well-tended patches of clover. This garden is intimately familiar, and even more so, the woman standing beneath the trees.
‘Mother.’ Aredhel’s lips move on their own will.
The woman answers with a gentle smile. Aredhel knows that smile, warm as the fruits of Laurelin. Yet, Laurelin is long gone, and this meeting cannot be true.
Aredhel says as much, ‘You cannot be here. This is not real.’
‘I am here,’ Anairë speaks at last. ‘I live in your heart, and your heart is here, very real and alive.’
Aredhel reaches for her mother’s hand. It feels as solid as the marble walls of the house behind her. ‘This is my last memory of you as I saw you when we parted in Tirion.’
‘Yes, you refused to say goodbye despite knowing you would not be coming back.’
‘You never asked me to stay. Why?’
Anairë rubs the inside of her palm as she had done when Aredhel was a child. ‘I built this house, Írissë. I planted these trees and watched them grow tall. I chose this as my home long ago, and I chose it again even when you all decided to leave. But you, my daughter, have yet to find your own home.’
Aredhel suddenly feels the full length of the road she has followed. ‘I have walked for so long, mother. Where is my home?’
‘You are almost there.’ Anairë places a kiss on her forehead. There is no sorrow in their goodbye this time around.
Aredhel watches herself step outside of her mother’s gardens and set out on her road, never stopping, walking ever closer to Beleriand, to the East, to this forest.
When she returns to herself, the dampness upon her face is not a mother’s kiss but the wet breath of a loyal companion. Randir has run out of patience and come after her. He has saved her from the maze of her own remembrance.
Aredhel does not know how much time has passed nor where she is, but she is not lost. She is certain of one thing only, that she was meant to come to this forest all along. That every step she has taken upon ice, and stone, and wood has only brought her closer to this place.
She closes her eyes and calls to Nan Elmoth.
‘Show me, show me your heart,’ Aredhel pleads, and the forest obeys.
The trees slowly awaken and detangle their heavy limbs from one another. The ferns at their feet shake their leaves from the moisture that weighs upon them, and the mosses crawl to cover the path that opens ahead. One by one, the moths resting upon Aredhel’s body stir and take flight, each beckoning her to follow.
Aredhel follows willingly. You are almost there.
Her guides lead the way toward the core of the woods, where the trees begin merging their trunks, forming a single living body. A small opening forms in the tree bark, and the moths disappear within. Aredhel follows still, Randir behind her heels.
When they step inside, she is met with a profound darkness and the smell of ancient cypress and rich earth. It mingles with the subtle scent of flowers. Aredhel wills her eyes to adjust to the lack of daylight and then she begins to see it — the small world that unravels within the hollow of the tree stretching as an open glade.
Orchids hang from the wooden walls like lanterns, their blooms reflecting the coral hue of the glowing fungi that emerge from the floor and along old roots. Melian’s dusk singers fill the space, their song echoing up the seemingly infinite height of the tree.
It is a sight unlike anything she has ever seen. The heart of the forest is bursting with life. Aredhel allows her own music to merge with its beating pulse and fill her with wonder and desire.
Here, in the bosom of Nan Elmoth, all but indistinguishable from the life around, Aredhel finds him, at last. The Fairy of the Night.
He stands tall, hands covered in the soil he’s been tending between the ferns. His black raiment and the blade at his side shine like jet. Malach was right; he seems as if descended from the stars.
But this is no otherworldly being, no ephemeral spirit or an imaginary fairy from children’s stories. It is a beautiful Elf, as real and tangible as Aredhel herself. Her body aches for a touch, to feel the solidity of his body beneath her fingers.
Wordlessly, Aredhel steps forward, more sure than she ever has been, and takes his hand. He looks back at her, wonder filling his deep dark eyes. Watching him thus, the pity in her heart unfurls into love.
They do not need words for this. They simply stand there, enchanted, as their hearts slowly begin to open. Aredhel lets her thoughts spill forward and receives the same trust in return.
She watches his long journey beneath the starlight, the flame of his heart as he sought the unknown far from his people, even as Aredhel did. Then, the ache of loss of freedom as Melian's borders closed around him, as heavy as the very mountains encircling Gondolin.
Both of them are wanderers, coming closer to each other over the ages to meet at this piece of land where the light of the stars still shines with the same glow as before the Sun and the Moon, before the Trees of Valinor even. They meet with their hearts laid naked. Without language, without expectation, pure and pristine, as the firstborn at Cuiviénen in ages long past.
Love and fear, sorrow and joy, loss and glory — they share all the emotions they have ever lived. New to each other they may be, but they are not strangers.
Aredhel suddenly wishes them to come closer, to fill every little distance that still separates them from one another. She wants to run her hand along the silver braid that falls upon his shoulder, to press her lips against the inside of his wrist, to wrap her arms around his neck.
She wants to claim this being, one who has been created for her own sake. She lets her wish flow forward unrestrained, and when he lifts her in his arms, her whiteness shining above him like a bright star, she knows her desire to be returned.
They shall build a house between each other’s hands, their gardens shall grow between their warm lips, their fruit shall ripen between their hips until a new Song fills their hearts.
Shadow and mist come together, a convergence of soothing darkness and warm light, and the forest absorbs them as one.
Aredhel comes home in the scarlet twilight.
