Chapter 10
It was quite early when Ára and Mithrandír left the Prancing Pony in Bree, and she was tired, far more so than she remembered being in years.
Before she’d come to Imladris with Gilraen and Estel, Ára had been used to stifling her nature day in and day out. There were rare times when she was off duty, a few days here and there, in which she spent relaxing around the current Chieftain’s home in private, able to allow the shrouding of her nature to fall away. It is a tiring thing to consistently conceal herself, to dim the light of her power, but it was something she had grown used to doing after spending so long with Men. In Imladris, she had grown used to not having to shroud herself so heavily. Ára had gotten complacent, and in doing so she had weakened herself—far faster than she had thought.
She wondered as she and Mithrandír trotted down the East-West Road toward Hobbiton, how he must have felt at first to be so trapped in such a body, to have so much of his power bound and his spirit dimmed for the sake of appearing as an old man.
She doesn’t think she could have done it, not even fresh from being remade in Mandos’ Halls. She is glad she hadn’t had to.
When the Istar she has grown to like over their traveling together had recommended she veil herself to such an extent, Ára had known how to do so, of course, but it had taken her much longer to conform to his expectations, to dim herself until he’s said she was now as perfectly human in presence as she could possibly be.
And it was agonizing.
Ára hadn’t remembered the constant itch, the constant strain. She’d remained quiet as they entered the town, and quiet when they’d made their way into the inn as she’d let Mithrandír rent them two rooms for the night.
She’d still drawn looks, young as she was with such an elderly-looking companion, and garbed as she was, even if she had chosen her plainest clothing. So she’d let the wizard stay in the main hall of the inn and retreated to her bath, and then taken her hot meal to her room afterward to stay there for the rest of the night.
Ára had decided to keep her masking in place, even though the effort in concentration to hold it constantly was continuously tiring. It wouldn’t do, Mithrandír had pointed out and she’d reluctantly agreed, to appear any more out of the ordinary than she could help. So riding at a slower pace than they had been was going to be necessary for the rest of the trip.
Or at least until she’d regained a good fraction of her past ease with holding herself in.
So as they rode on, Ára lost herself in memory with the concentration she did not have to put forth to stay on her horse or veil her essence.
She remembered those first days after leaving the beach she’d landed on in Eriador, how the Men she’d come across had looked at her, wanted her, the vile things that had been in their minds, and the way they’d seen her through their eyes. She had practically glowed, shone with light beyond their comprehension, and it had made them greedy and lustful. It had taken countless years of trial and error and even more practice until she had learned to properly contain her spirit enough to travel among Men without standing out as more than just a young woman alone.
Lessons and meditating on the Song with Iarwain-Ben-Adar and Goldberry had helped her refine the practice nearly into an art form.
She’d also learned—mostly from Goldberry—how to shift the shape of her body in small ways. She’d changed the color of her hair many times, though she’d found that maintaining a color too opposite her natural was more difficult than changing the shade of color. That had been a pity, as the Dúnedain were mostly dark of hair, and so the long strain of nearly identical daughters of her ‘bloodline’ had come into being, though sometimes she would sport a different eye color.
Eye color, strangely enough, had been far easier to maintain different colors with. During her time in Middle-Earth, she’d worn many different shades of many colors for her eyes. One time, she’d decided to try a few years with a lavender-blue hue, and while she’d absolutely loved the coloring, it had stood out far too well for it to be practical. In the past, she’d often tried sporting similar grey eyes with which the Dúnedain were well known for, but she’d had the color so often she’d begun to miss her natural eye color, and so for the past few Chieftains’ lives, she’d kept the bright green she’d been born within another world.
Mithrandír had suggested, before they’d made it to Bree, that she shift her coloring slightly, just enough that if anyone ever saw her in Imladris unmasked, she might seem familiar, but they would remember darker hair and skin, and blue eyes instead of green.
So when she would finally meet the dwarves, she would not be Ára, the Elf, cousin to Elrond, nor would she be Ára the Maia. She would be Elanor, the dark-blonde, blue-eyed companion of Gandalf the Grey Wizard.
She was not looking forward to it, traveling as weakened as she would be, for she would not be able to release the hold on her guise even while in reverie.
The only good thing she could think was that she was fairly certain she would leave them well before she ran into the company again. Perhaps when she did, she would be able to be in her mostly natural shape—with the addition of pointed ears.
It was a clear day, not a cloud in sight, and the sun was high in the sky as Mithrandír asked, “How are you holding up?”
Ára took a moment to breathe through her nose. It was fairly obvious, she thought, how she’d been holding up. “I will be fine, Mithrandír. It is only tiring because it has been years since I have forced myself into any bindings such as this.” She shot him a narrow-eyed look full of every ounce of irritation she felt with his question.
The twinkling eyes that gazed back at her as he maintained his mount on a straight path did not help her irritation at all. “Careful, dear girl, or you’ll give the ones we meet the wrong impression.”
Ára tore her gaze from him and pointedly kept looking forward as she huffed. “I doubt anyone will have a good impression of me regardless of if I am irritated or not. I will be, to all purposes, a young woman traveling alone with an old man.”
His barking laughter only cut her irritation deeper. “No matter, I will just say you are my apprentice.”
Ára very carefully did not look at him. “Your apprentice? In what exactly? How to speak in riddles and annoy everyone around you?”
More laughter sounded, but he said, “That, and magic of course.”
That statement made Ára swing her head around so fast her torso followed. If she hadn’t been so experienced she may have unseated herself. “Magic! Why ever would you want to tell them that? How do I possibly explain having such power as a mortal woman?”
“Simple, just say it has run in your bloodline for centuries,” he said blandly, and if Ára hadn’t known better—she had never told him, she knew no one else had—she would have sworn by the twinkle, by the blasé comment, that he’d known that his statement was technically true.
It threw her off guard enough that she could only quickly face front again so as not to give herself away.
There was only one being in Middle-Earth who knew that truth, the full truth, and she wasn’t even sure he was alive anymore. She had never told a soul after that meeting, not for thousands of years. She would not be telling anyone else anytime soon either; and if she were to, Mithrandír would not be the first person she spoke of it to.
No, someone else deserved that truth before he did, Maia himself or not.
“If you think they will buy it and will not condemn me for it,” Ára finally said, “I suppose that will have to do.”
“Wonderful.”
That night they made camp under the stars next to the trees in tall, green grass, and Ára laid back upon her pack with her cloak covering her, losing herself in her thoughts as much as she could while sparing a portion of her concentration to keeping her essence veiled and her new coloring intact. Her mind had been in turmoil all day after Mithrandír’s unintentional but frighteningly accurate comment considering her heritage.
He could not know, should not know, it was impossible, she thought. But was it? What did she know about the Maia Olórin, truly?
Glorfindel had been friends with him in Aman and again in Middle-Earth. He’d told Ára that Olórin had served and learned from multiple Valar, but that his primary allegiance lay with the Elder King Manwë.
Could the King of All have told Mithrandír about her somehow? She didn’t rightly know. She never spoke to Námo. Though occasionally she’d had the odd dream or two, that was more her Lord Vala’s brother’s domain. Irmo could have assisted his fellow Fëantúri, but Ára was disinclined to think that he had done so too often; Ára’s intuition was generally good enough to guide her.
Usually. It had failed with Gilraen’s husband Arathorn. Ára’s magic had informed her of his danger, but she’d gotten there too late to do anything to save him, only revenge him and take his family to safety with the help of Elrond’s sons.
Sometimes she wondered what the point of having such power, having such varying abilities was if all she’d ended up doing was watching everyone around her age and die. Death was easier to handle for her, strangely enough, when it was a death born of battle, not old age.
Odd, as that had been the opposite for her before coming into Arda.
“Mithrandír,” Ára called out softly, eyes still gazing at the bright stars which had strangely brought her comfort for centuries in this world. “How do you handle the mortals’ deaths?”
Ára could smell the heavy scent of the pipeweed he’d been smoking for the past hour; it had strangely and quickly become a comforting smell. He took a while to answer, and when he did his low voice was soft, and strangely wistful, “I contend myself with knowing they are safe beyond all harm and grief. That their souls are finally at rest and peace with our Father they have returned to.”
“Yes,” Ára did at least agree with that view, she had hoped for it once for herself, before. But that wasn’t precisely what she was asking, not all of it anyway. “But what about your grief? How have you accustomed yourself to that and handled it?”
He was quiet for a time again, and Ára allowed him his thoughts. She knew she would probably end up giving him a cold truth in return, and she was not excited to admit to him what she felt.
“I think, in the beginning, it was easier for me, at first,” he murmured. “I had stayed with the elves to learn the lay of the land and lore, in order to help me define smaller missions for the ultimate completion of my task. Lord Elrond was especially helpful in that regard, but he also gave advice on this matter which was very wise.”
“What did he tell you?” Ára was intensely curious. She had spoken with Elrond before about mortal death, he had been curious as to her experience, as he was terrified one of his children—or more horrifying, all of them—would choose to count themselves to Men and accept the Gift of Death to one day pass beyond the circles of the world.
“He said that each race held a part in the world,” Mithrandír intoned. “Elves were tied to the Fate of Arda, to be as immortal as the world, and watch the Ages pass by, to hold the history of the lives of Men, Dwarves, and all free peoples in memory, even if that memory would only be known to themselves.”
Ára turned that over in her head, but even with her long years, it still sounded terribly sad. She had once wanted to know everything of the past, in her old life as a simple witch, wanted to be able to see history in the making—what a cruel joke that had been—but as soon as she’d learned she would live an eternal life, as soon as it had settled in that she was not going to age and die…she’d nearly lost herself to madness back then.
“I think that is terribly sad, in truth,” she whispered.
There was a rustled movement and Ára could suddenly feel the intensity of her companion’s gaze on her. She refused to look over at him, keeping her eyes on the stars. She would not give herself away in body language.
“I cannot help but feel, even after all my time amongst Men,” she continued softly, “how sad it is to consigned to merely being the keeper of their memory. It feels cold to me, to leave it at that, to not be involved. And yet…” she let out a long sigh, “and yet I fear I had become cold, before meeting Arathorn and Gilraen.
For many, many decades I distanced myself from the deaths of Chieftains and their wives, to their sons and daughters, to the rangers of the north. I had grown so used to them dying in what quickly became a mere few blinks of an eye. And already now I wonder how many blinks it will be before Gilraen passes, and also little Estel. He is growing so quickly.”
Ára abruptly stopped and blinked, her eyes had misted over and she would not allow herself to cry in the company of another. Not again, and not now. Not yet.
She could still feel his attention on her, but she refused, especially with tears in her eyes, to look over to him.
“I cannot help to think how much of myself I will be allowed to take with me to Aman when this is over, when our tasks here are done and the elves sail,” Ára said quietly, admitting a truth she usually dared not think too hard on. “It has become easier for me recently. Living in Imladris I have made friends, but even only a few of those I know there are aware I am not an elf. What will happen when I eventually return to Aman? What will happen when I disappear from their lives?”
“I do not think,” he began slowly, “that you will simply vanish back into the halls in which you previously served.”
Ára wanted to snort and laugh hysterically, but she held it back even as she felt it build within her. What would those who didn’t know which Vala she served say? The living elves would not be able to visit her there, and time passed differently in the Halls of Mandos, that much she knew, both from her own barely remembered experience there, and from Glorfindel’s.
“I do not know, Mithrandír, what will happen.” She inhaled sharply, but let her breath out slowly and added, “But that is not something I think needs to be examined tonight.” She hoped they could drop the subject, even if she was the cause of its tour there.
Thankfully, he recognized her dismissal and remained quiet.
Ára would think about the future when it came, or at least that portion of it, she told herself. There was no use worrying over what would happen when she eventually sailed to Aman. Only, the agony of not knowing made her feel terribly lonely all of a sudden.
That was alright, she needed to think about what she could and would say to the hobbit and to the dwarves.
Dwarves, she knew, were a very private, untrusting race. She’d known some in the past and even been friends with a few. But she hadn’t had contact with dwarves for many decades, and she knew the line of Durin was possibly the most stubborn of the lot.
Internally, she cursed at her intuition and the feeling of need to meet these dwarves for whatever reason.
At least the next months were not going to be dull by any means.
If only she knew what the foreboding feeling of darkness and shadow was that had been clouding her mind when she turned it of things to come. She knew it had something to do with Mithrandír, and another part of it was largely the dwarves—probably the dragon—but she sensed a bleakness as well, and death. Much death. If she didn’t know any better, she would say she felt war.
Curse Námo!