Twenty-eight years have passed since young Seregrían joined the Gwaith-en-Gelydh as an acolyte to the Lore-masters, and she has swiftly proven her worth in their company. Her aptitude for rote-learning and memorization has earned her a reputation as “the library with legs”, who could be called upon to exactly recall almost any lore she has read. Her gifts at research make her a sought-out commodity for the senior lore-masters. The precision in which she can copy and restore even the most decayed documents has set a new standard for the other acolytes to emulate.
And all the while, Mistress Gwathnim has watched and smiled inwardly, pleased with her decision to admit this young mercurial elleth into her service. For as Seregrían has grown greater under the labors of the House, she has also benefited from private tutelage with Gwathnim in mastering her passions and her anger. The young elf is more focused and cerebral, and less prone to outbursts of temper as the years pass. Long years later, Seregrían would look back upon these years as one of the happiest of times.
Life has gone on for all the Elves of the Isle of Balar, the years passing in stable refuge but with the clouds of dreadful doom just on the horizon. Rumor of war and death, defeat after defeat, reach the remnant of the Falathrim and the Elves who fled the mainland. One by one, the Elven strongholds have fallen and been sacked; first to fall is Nargothrond to dragon-fire, its people scattered or enslaved. The survivors of Doriath reach the Havens of Sirion, and the mariners of Círdan are often at sea, ferrying back and forth between the island and the Havens bearing supplies and refugees.
It is the news of the fall of Doriath and the second Kinslaying, Sindar slain at the hands of the Noldor, that rocks the Elves of Balar to their core. Those of the Noldor are looked upon by the Sindar with suspicion and contempt, ofttimes harsh words exchanged, even fights breaking out in the streets. For Seregrían and Gilalaith, this time is especially difficult, for Carcírion is often at sea and absent, unable to defend his family from the torment of others. Gilalaith retreats to her garden and avoids leaving the house unless need drives her. Seregrían continues her work with the Gelydh, enduring the taunts of others with a cool aloofness born of her learning with Gwathnim – but in her heart, she is seething over the evils that the High Kindred perpetrates without fear of reprisal. And this anger begins to spill out at terrible times, even against Gilalaith.
“Twice it has happened,” Seregrían says bitterly one day, “twice that these arrogant orc-cousins put their own kin to the sword! And who can stop them? Who dares try? Even their own lords egg them on, driving them like mad beasts in a stampede!”
“You and I both know that Elves are not all of a piece,” Gilalaith says sadly. “The House of Fëanor has wrought much, if not all of the ills the Noldor have endured. But they are not all the Noldor, for the children of Fingolfin and Finarfin are far more noble and wise. And they dealt fairly with Doriath before its fall –“
“And look what that fairness has wrought,” Seregrían retorts with rising anger. “Death and greed and blood – and now, who remains to stand against the Shadow in the North?”
“There remains one,” Gilalaith says, “and of that one it is not permitted to speak, at least not openly. If you would learn more, then you must find it yourself, for I shall not say. Go to the Archives when you return to the Lore-masters, and seek out a name: Turgon…”
And only a few years later, the tidings come flying from the Havens to Balar: the hidden city of Gondolin has fallen, along with the High King Turgon. Deeds of valor and everlasting renown allow the remnant of the once-proud Noldorin realm to flee southward. The young prince Gil-galad has sorrowfully taken up the mantle of leadership, and bids all who can be brought to Balar.
Seregrían and Gilalaith are standing on the quays gazing over the sea, for Carcirion’s ship is part of a flotilla bearing some of the remnant of Gondolin. Gilalaith is looking upon the scene of refugees disembarking and is moved to the point of tears; something Seregrían has never seen on her mother’s face.
“They… they were my people,” she choked through tears. “I am of Gondolin – was of Gondolin.” And in reply to Seregrían’s shocked face, she explained, “I came to Balar with the company of mariners out of Gondolin, at Turgon’s bidding. We began the building of ships – all to naught! And now, Gondolin is gone. Look at these lost ones, see their eyes!” And Seregrían looks on as elves continue to leave the ship, the broken stares, the masks of horror hiding the memories of what they beheld. And very nearly, she beings to feel her throat tighten as well.
One voice rises above the murmur of the crowd, a plaintive call like a kitten seeking its mother. Seregrían looks to see an Elf-maid, straining to see over the heads of those around her, her voice desperate and breaking, calling names over and over: “Thelyndis? Thenidros? Oh, sister, where are you!” The girl abruptly sinks to her knees, almost collapsing under the weight of her despair. Moved by a sudden feeling, Seregrían makes her way to where the Elf-girl has sat down on the gangway, her face a study of sadness and grief. She kneels to comfort the lost elleth.
“Please,” she says, “please, I would help you. You seek your sister, let us find her. You aren’t alone anymore.” The girl looks up with an expression of grief beyond tears; the same look that Seregrían saw on her own mother’s face on that day on the cliff by the Sea, and it smites her heart.
“I… who, who are you?” the girl asks. “How can I find Thelyndis? We got lost on the boats, and the storm arose…”
“She is not wrong,” came a tired voice from behind, and Seregrían turns to see Carcírion walking over to her, he and Gilalaith holding hands. “We were very nearly swamped by the waves, with all the extra weight of people and stores; it was a near thing.”
“Adar!” Seregrían cries as she stands to embrace her father. “Welcome home, adarinya. But, what of all these poor people, what shall become of them?”
“They shall be welcomed, one and all,” Gilalaith says. “Let none now speak ill of the Noldor, for this is tragedy beyond quarrels. But who is this, my daughter?”
Seregrían turns back to the lost girl and kneels once again, reaching for her hand and looking at her more closely. The girl is plainly a Noldo, tall and fair of skin and face, her hair black as jet. Her limbs are thin and spare from the ordeals she has had to endure. Her clothing is threadbare, though clearly it once was elaborate and beautiful, black and embroidered with silver. Her legs and feet are bare, the exposed skin scratched and bruised. And Seregrían feels herself drawn to this forlorn girl, not only out of pity but out of a depth of compassion she has rarely felt. Holding her hand, she turns to her parents.
“Naneth, Adar, can she come live with us? Behold, she has nothing; can we not share ours with her? She can have my chamber with me, I shall make room, and you have given me clothing to spare.”
“What is this I hear, daughter-mine?” Gilalaith asks. “Compassion for a Kinslayer?”
“No,” Seregrían replies, “compassion for her. I… I know her pain.” And she looks at the girl and asks, “Call me Seregrían, and these are my family. What are you called?” The girl looks around at Carcírion and Gilalaith, who are both smiling and nodding, then looks back into Seregrían’s eyes, taking both hands in hers.
“I am Hartagil, once of Gondolin. And I deem I am alone in all the world.”
“Not any longer, Hartagil. Welcome to the House of Anorwë,” Seregrían says, smiling gently and helping her to her feet. As she stands, Hartagil towers over Seregrían, and is matched in height only by Gilalaith. Seregrían wraps an arm around Hartagil’s waist as Hartagil drapes one arm across her shoulders. Carcírion and Gilalaith are arm in arm, smiling at the scene.
“Come along, girls,” Gilalaith says, “let us go home.”
Next Chapter: "Red Maid, Black Blade"
