Chapter Text
Dark are the eaves of Doriath, beyond Brethil which Morwen knew as a child, where paths twist under the trees. They walk on, and even these winding paths disappear, leaving but roots to trip them; and what meager rags of sky showed between branches vanish, and they no longer know whether it is noon or midnight; and all about them is the scent of rot, of decaying leaves slippery underfoot, of soil to swallow them up.
Soon there is no sound, as if her ears were stopped with felt; nothing to see; nought but poisonous air in her lungs. Only one thing remains: Nienor’s hand in hers, warm and strong - but not so strong as Morwen, for a mother must be stronger, and harder, and so she leads her daughter.
Somehow she stumbles, and then -
the fear that comes is not a fear of the dark, or of what beasts may lurk in the wood, or hunger or thirst - it is a thing that springs from within herself, that is summoned from within, that claws its way through her chest, and she would fall if not for Nienor’s hand, she who has never spoken a word of her fears but would scream now, a fear greater and worse than when Ladros was overrun, and when Húrin rode away, than when she lay in a bloody bed that first time, thinking she would never meet the child she was struggling to bring into the world, and worse than the day she saw that same child walk away weeping in the woods… (but not so sharp a fear as on a bright, lovely winter day when she saw Urwen’s red cheeks and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow and she knew, she knew…)
Suddenly - was it because of that memory? - the oppression on her chest lifts. The darkness lightens, to the mild grey twilight of dawn. Marchwardens come to her, give her water to drink. They are much like those messengers who came bearing tidings of Doriath, but - more resplendent somehow, here in their own lands, their majesty unveiled.
‘The worst is past now, lady,’ one says. ‘You have passed through. May your burdens be lighter, and your way clearer, here in Melian’s power.’
In her power.