At the Dawn of Their Living Time by Fuin  

---

At the Dawn of Their Living Time

---

[I. – Laughter]

A child of the Edain crouches next to a bubbling stream a little off the edge of the woods. The girl is almost hidden between high tufts of grass and white yarrow flowers, but the tell-tale sun gleams in her hair which is golden like the fields of rye in the distance. 

She raises her head as if she has felt Fingon's pensive glance upon herself, and waves to him.

It is late summer and the harvest season has begun. Fingon has not chosen a good time to call his vassals to council now, when all hands are needed in the fields. But good times are rare and he cannot even allow himself to waste the bad ones. To spare the captains of the Edain a long journey at least, he has assembled them in this nameless place in the middle of Dor-lómin, more of a loose collection of farmsteads than an actual village. Their families are toiling all the harder in their absence, and some of the men again spare them further trouble by bringing their youngest with them who would be an obstacle rather than help in the fields.

Fingon's delight in that has been greater than his astonishment, for since the Dagor Bragollach no Elven child has been born either at Barad Eithel or in the Noldorin settlements by the shores of Lake Mithrim, and the absence of children's laughter drifts through the courtyards and alleys like fog, cold and silent.

 

“Are you an Elf?“ the girl asks unabashedly and glances up at him with wide eyes.

“That I am,” says Fingon, smiling.

She looks him over, head tilted to one side. 

“Why are your ears pointy?“

”Hm,“ he says, puts on a thoughtful expression and sits down next to her on the grass, ”perhaps, the better to hear you with?“

She touches her own round ear with fingers stained with damp earth, and makes clear: ”I can hear well, too!“

Fingon raises his brows in an exaggeratedly doubtful mien. ”Surely you have been told not to stray too far from the village, and certainly not alone? Did you not hear that, then?“

Fingon is not aware whether children of Men at her age have already developed a sense of right and wrong. Either way, the girl is not remorseful.

”Sador looks after me, but he‘s got only one foot and he‘s slow, and it’s boring and it‘s loud and it stinks, and then I ran away,“ she gushes with a mischievous grin. ”And what about you?“

Fingon laughs and realizes that he rarely has done so of late. ”I guess I ran away as well. For quite similar reasons.“ In a more serious tone, he adds: ”But now, we are going back. Sador must be seeking for you and your father will be worried. And I, too, will be missed soon, I fear. Your father—that is Húrin, son of Galdor, I assume, and you are Urwen?“

The girl juts out her bottom lip and shakes her head. ”My father‘s name is Atta, and I‘m Lalaith. What‘s your name?“

”Finno“, says Fingon.

The longhouse at the centre of the village in which his vassals are gathering to prepare for war seems to be far away and yet all to close. The company of a child who does not know Fingon’s name and has no notion of a battlefield is more refreshing than the silence he has sought for a while. But he will not waste any time to take her back, ere the whole village will be in turmoil over a lost child.

Lalaith remains sitting in the grass as he rises, and reaches out her arms to him. 

“I'm tired, carry me!“

He thinks of Ereinion as he walks down the soft slope toward the village across knee-high grass with the child in his arms. When Fingon has seen him for the last time, his son was just young enough still to be carried, at least from time to time. Now, he might have grown as tall as Turgon. Fingon would not know. It is one out of many questions he has never asked in his letters. It seems to him as if he would not posess enough paper and ink to ask all the questions burning in his heart; and he tries to convince himself that paper indeed would be a scarce resource at the Falas, for Ereinion‘s answers became short and factual over the years, while the distance between them seems to have extended. 

The small fingers grabbing for his plaits and tugging at the golden ribbons therein divert his thoughts.

“Your hair is pretty!“ says Lalaith.

Fingon cannot help but laugh. “It is very kind of you to say so.“

Lalaith puts one hand into the pocket of her skirts and pulls out a few pebbles, some crushed petals, and a pink ribbon.

“Atta has plaited my hair, but he can't do it right!“ She tries in vain to tie her hair into a plain ponytail, but her fingers are yet too clumsy for such movements.

“Would you like me to help you?” asks Fingon, but she firmly shakes her head.

Instead, she ties the ribbon with a simple knot into his hair above the temple, so that its frayed ends tickle his ear.

 

 

A short time later, Húrin, son of Galdor, Lord of Dor-lómin, walks in their direction with worry written on his face. As soon as he realizes it is his king approaching the village with Lalaith in his arms, his expression changes to a mixture of relief and astonishment—and to pure horror when he catches sight of the pink ribbon in Fingon's hair.

But Fingon laughs and decides to leave the ribbon where it is; his vassals just like him have had few reasons to laugh lately, and they shall at least have an amusing story to tell when they return to their homes.

 

---

 

[II. – Ill-fate]

Night has already fallen and most inhabitants of his halls by the shore of Lake Mithrim have retired to their chambers. Fingon is alone in his audience room. Having awaited Ídhiel already before dusk, he has given up on sitting in the armchair at the far end of the room and drumming his fingers on the velveteen armrests. The impatience for her report and the unease at the thought of it tear at his nerves, and yet he cannot take offense in her delay. 

Finally, the door opens and, silently as a shadow, she enters, clad in coarse, soiled gowns, dark hair plainly braided. She bows, and does not fully rise again afterwards; something about her remains bent, her glance cast down.

“Ídhiel,” says Fingon, “I will refrain from all formalities for both our sakes. Tell me, what is the current situation?“

He barely hopes that anything has improved. Turbid mists drift across the land from the north like the stale breath of a dying man. Hithlum is frequently shrouded in fog, but that which the Evil Breath carried down from Thangorodrim has naught in common with Ulmo's cool sea breeze often rising from the coast in the in the early morning hours.

 

Ídhiel raises her hands in a helpless gesture. 

“My Lord, it is the same everywhere. The ailment befalls many elders and takes from them the last years of their lives. But more often yet, it takes all the years that the youngest ones should have left to live. Only mortal Men fall sick. I haven't heard of even one case in which either Quendi or Naugrim suffered from it.“

”How many are ill?” asks Fingon, “How many have died? And how many healers are in your service?“

“I have one hundred and fifty-three healers. However, many of those are still apprentices and some are mortal Men at risk to fall ill themselves. The sick, the already deceased… I do not know—I beg forgiveness, but I cannot say how many. Each day, more are taken ill than the day before, it seems. A few recover, but we have given up on—I have decided that we give up on counting the dead. We must stand by the living.“

“Did you not find a remedy, then?“

“No, we—we did not… we don't know of any remedy. The cold worsens the condition. We had thought it might help, if parents let their children sleep next to them in their bed. But now it seems to us that the closer people are together, the faster the disease spreads. Like a great fire that sets house by house ablaze, just that the flames become visible only when it is too late to quench them. What shall we advise them instead? That a father should not hold his children in his arms when they need it most? That a daughter shall not hold her own mother's hand when she takes her last breath? That siblings who shared everything only yesterday shall keep their distance from each other?“

She takes a deep breath. Exhaustion and bitterness have become deeply etched into her expression.

“We found no remedy. No medicine we know shows great effect. We have the sick drink chicken broth so they stay warm and may keep a little strength up. Then, we sing to them songs for plain comfort; as all songs of healing are ineffective, although we know many of them. They might help to staunch bleeding, heal wounds, let bones grow back together and soothe the hurts of the fëa—but with this…” She shakes her head and brushes a stray strand of hair from her face. “How can we bring healing, if we do not know from which roots this evil grows? If we do not know  from where the fever hails which lays them low with convulsions and nightmares? Oh, it is almost the same as with them aging—inevitably, they die, and we helplessly watch! I only wish the children got at least the chance to grow old themselves…”

Ídhiels voice fades away. 

Fingon looks out the window in silence, one hand resting on the cold marble sill. The lakeshore whose sight ever fills his heart with joy is veiled by the suffocating mists. 

He had planned to set out for Barad Eithel two weeks ago, to inspect the new ramparts of his fortress and the strength of his forces. He has sent one of his commanders instead. Then, ere winter would make the roads hardly passable, he would have travelled on to Himring. The delay will fuel the flames of Maedhros' wrath with which he drove the Orcs far back from Dorthonion and Lothlann. 

So many precautions are yet to be taken for their campaign against Angband, so many issues to be discussed, so many plans not yet made… and selfishly, during these times  Fingon longs more than usual to be close to Maedhros, betwixt strategies and battle plans. But he will spend the cold winter staying with his people, powerlessly watching them die. He hopes that it is wrath growing within him, too, and not despair. 

Each and every dreadful thing that Angband might bring forth he would face, be it Orcs or Fire-drakes, Wolves or Balrogs, and be it Morgoth himself who came—oh, he will very well remember the bite of Ringil. Fingon is convinced he would at least be able to sever the Foe's uninjured foot, and thus Morgoth would return to his pits crawling.

But the sickness, this new enemy, fears no sword, no arrow, no lance, and neither shield nor armour will offer protection from it. However much strength lies within mortal Men during their youth, all too fleeting are their lives, and Fingon must not forsake them in this battle. 

He closes his eyes for a moment before he turns to the healer again and looks at her emphatically. 

“What do you need, Ídhiel? No matter what you may ask, I shall grant you whatever lies within my power.“

Ídhiel's face is bare of any expression for a moment.

“I don't know,” she replies, voice hoarse. Then, a sob runs through her body like a wave breaking through a dam. 

Fingon has trusted Ídhiel's healing arts for centuries, she has cared for his own injuries often. Not without reason had his father named her First Healer shortly after they set out onto the Helcaraxë.

Ídhiel's right eyebrow is split by a scar—a momery of one time out of many in which Maedhros, panicking, struck at her, when his freedom seemed inconceivable to him and reality blurred; and yet she never lost her patience with him. 

Not even once has Fingon seen her lose her temper while she treated burns from ice and from fire, stitched uncounted wounds or amputated limbs that could not be saved. Ídhiel holds dying warriors' hands while their fëar flee their screaming bodies and seek refuge in the Halls of Mandos. Later, she delivers the news of their passing to their families with composed sympathy.

This selfsame woman now stands before Fingon, out of helplessness crying bitter tears for the children of the Edain in Dor-lómin.

As his power as a ruler is insufficient to ease the weight off her shoulders, Fingon takes her in his arms as a friend. And yet, his responsibility as her High King is too great for him to be infected with her tears—at least as long as she can see. 

 

---

 

[III. – Mourning]

Even though no one would dare to reproach him for his presence, Fingon knows of the bitterness it must bring mortal Men whenever the Eldar attend their funerals, and he cannot begrudge them for it. 

He closes his hand around the pink ribbon in his pocket while he waits, twists it around his fingers until they go numb. 

The sun has set already, when he finally steps out from among the fir trees. The small burial mound itself is unadorned, but it lays upon a height enclosed by the bend of a murmering stream on three sides. In spring, the sun will gleam on the water and the hill will be dotted with wild flowers. 

The village where Fingon has assembled his vassals in summer is many miles away, but this place reminds him much of the one where he has found Lalaith playing in the grass.

Húrin now stands alone by his daughter's grave. His reddened eyes widen as Fingon closes the distance to him. He lays his hand on Húrin's shoulder; to comfort, and to keep him from bowing, for this is neither the place nor the time for that. 

“Even if there were words to ease your grief, it would be presumptuous to say them. But if I may…” Fingon reaches for the harp he carries on his back. “… I will play a song for Lalaith.“

Húrin gives a humourless snort. 

“The name 'Lalaith', we say no more. But Urwen knew many joyful songs. She would have been delighted, and I would be honoured… I myself would've…” He runs his hand over his face. “But no chord sounded right—and that is, how Morgoth tainted Arda, isn't it? It seemed to me, as if my harp played his discords only. I broke it into pieces.“

Fingon thinks of the words of his healer whose songs were not capable of healing the sick. Perhaps, it truly is that spoiled theme of the Great Music which echoes in the wheezing and lamenting of the dying, and the choir singing it grows one voice louder with each torn-away fëa. 

Fingon remembers Húrin's little daughter well, and he shudders at the thought of how her cheerful voice must have been filled by sickness before it fell silent.

He sits down on the cold earth and plucks the strings. His fingers are cold and his throat feels tight, but the harmonies are untainted.

He plays a children's song his mother once sang to him in the golden light of Laurelin at noontime, reminding him of the smell of ripe apples, a lullaby bringing dreams of far-away lands beneath starlight he himself played for Ereinion, and then a faster melody to which Idril danced laughing when her feet had still been small and unpracticed. It would not feel right to sing of mourning, for these songs are meant for Lalaith, and Fingon perceived no trace of sadness within her fëa. 

Húrin crouches next to him, head buried in his hands.

Finally, the last chord fades, vibrates within the falling night for a moment, and then it is swallowed by mists and shadow. 

“Would you tell me of her?“ asks Fingon. “I will preserve Urwen's memory, but I only met her for a brief moment. Gift me a few more memories—I will honour them for you, even after you as well have passed from the circles of this world.“ 

Húrin begins to speak with a hoarse voice, lists her everyday habits: Her favourite colour. What she liked to eat and what she balked at. The names she gave the seven kittens in the barn. Which flowers she picked in the meadow. How she played by the course of the Nen Lalaith, her brother making sure she would not fall in; and how he affectionately gave her this stream's name, which, until this very day, has rung truer than the one Húrin and Morwen chose for her. 

Eventually, his voice catches. “Many such things… I have been told just as I now tell them to you. My son and my wife, the nursemaid and others of my household— they have known Urwen, they beheld her first steps, heard her speak the first words, and when I returned from my service at your fortress, they told me of it. I said to myself…” He swallows. “I said to myself: This would be the price I'd pay for my family—and so many others, too!—to be kept safe behind our borders by our guard. All the moments of her life I could have witnessed, had Morgoth's shadow not forced us to tear our watchful eyes away from home and have them turn toward the peaks of Thangorodrim.“

Fingon nods as silence covers them like a shroud. He himself does not know more about his own child than what Ereinion writes to him in his sparse letters. They are not addressed to a father anymore, but to a king, and little do they reveal about everyday matters. Yet he cannot permit himself to mourn such a thing, whilst Húrin's child will never even write a single letter. 

“I thought of your sire and I vowed to inflict just as many wounds onto Morgoth, should I meet him in battle,” says Húrin into the silence after a while. 

Fingon casts him a long glance. How often he himself has thought about his father and wished he had inherited all of his valour, when in fact it might just be all of his folly! But this is not a thought to be said aloud. He lowers his gaze. 

“I do not know, whether Turgon might have ever mentioned this: We had a brother— Argon his name would have been in Sindarin, but he never came to hear it. Young was he in our eyes when he was slain, just after we had first set foot in these hither-lands. Though a different death was dealt to him than to your daughter, it was dealt by the hand of the same Foe still. When he rode towards Angband, Argon was in my father's heart, I am sure of it.“ 

“And yet you do not die as we Men do.“

“It is true that our fëar are bound to Arda and that we might return when after many centuries all our transgressions are atoned for, and all hurts of the heart are healed. It is not said though, that this is to be the fate of each and every one, and if it were, it shall not be on this side of the ocean. Thus we fear that we may not meet all those we love again. Yet you, mortal Men, are inevitably destined to leave the spheres of Arda and wherever you may go—there, you will be reunited. It is a certainty, not mere hope. If it were not so, indeed Eru Ilúvatar would have made you a cruel gift! I refuse to believe that.“

Ire flashes in Húrin's eyes. “My elder child has fallen ill as well, Túrin, my son! Am I to hope then, that he shall follow his sister swiftly, so as to soon see her again?“ he asks with a trembling voice. 

“It is not what I said,” replies Fingon patiently. 

He feels the urge to give Húrin hope, to tell him his son would recover—but it is all too likely to turn out differently. Fingon's gaze lies heavily on Lalaith's small burial mound, and the sight hardly matches his memory of the lively child. Again, he thinks of Ereinion, of the farewell ache still burning in his chest. But he has sent Ereinion to a safe place and he has hoped—still hopes— that their parting will not be final.  

The Eldar do not beget children during war times, but the Edain cannot afford to wait for peace for dozens of years. There is no choice for them but to expose their children to the cruelties of their times and to endure, if they are to leave Arda prematurely. This weakness Morgoth has recognized, and, taking advantage of it, mercilessly he thins the ranks of his enemies, wearing down the hearts of those who remain at the same time. Grief and despair now lie over the land like wafts of fog, they have torn apart families, and many whom Fingon had known to be unflinching warriors seem to have lost their strength to illness and the death of their loved ones. Too often has he gazed into hollow eyes over the last weeks and barely beheld a difference between those of the living and the dead. Too many has the Evil Breath carried away already, leaving despondency in its wake.

 

Fingon remembers, and not for the first time, what some of his vassals had muttered in summer: Maedhros would be too rash and impatient, and his triumphant strikes against the Orcs in the east would only grant Morgoth ample time to thoroughly investigate all of his strategies. Back then, Fingon had vehemently contradicted them. Now though, he is inclined to agree.

The Foe studies their strengths in the east, and in the west—their weaknesses. 

He tears his gaze away from the burial mound and watches Húrin's face; the reddened eyes, the tear-streaked cheeks, the hard lines engraved in his features making him seem older by years, and not by months, since last they met. Comforting words seem presumptuous to Fingon, for mourning is a ppnecessary aftermath of loss. It is not right to repress it out of misplaced pity—and he has not come here to comfort only. 

“Each pain Morgoth inflicts upon us,” he pledges, “we will repay him in kind. He will cower deep within his pits as would a rat, and none of us will meet him on the battlefield. We will seal his gates and forevermore, he shall be captive in his very own dungeon to rot in the hell he himself created, until Arda's end. And the day after the battle, you will see the sun rise, and you will know she rises above a better world. Your child shall have been avenged, and all who are to come after you shall be free of Morgoth's terror.“

Húrin does not answer. Yet in his eyes, Fingon does not behold the emptiness he has nigh feared, and it is not weakness which is written upon his face. It is that kind of grief and hate from which new strength arises and which makes a sword all the deadlier. There is now no doubt that, when winter passes, Húrin will lead his men into battle against Morgoth even more fiercely—yet a high price is paid for the wrath-fuelled strength of Fingon's ally.

 

He remains standing by the grave beside Húrin until dawn breaks. When the day comes, Fingon bids him farewell, and on his way back, passes over the bridge of Nen Lalaith for the last time.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Atta = Father (Gothic, or rather Taliska, a tongue of mortal Men from the First Age supposedly represented by Gothic)

 

The name Ídhiel is from Chestnut_pod's Elvish Name List

 

Title from Blind Guardian – Harvest of Sorrow (because they got me reading the Silm for the first time ages ago and deserve my eternal love for it):

At the dawn of our living time / Hope it soon will pass by / Facing a darkness / I stand alone

 

Subtitles refer to Húrin and his family:

[I – Laughter] Lalaith

[II – Ill-fate] in Nargothrond, Túrin names himself Agarwaen, son of Úmarth = Bloodstained, son of Ill-fate

[III – Mourning] Niënor

 

Thanks for beta-reading Elrond's Library & Leetor!