I remember!
It was winter. My father and I had stood on the balcony of our house, cloaks wrapped about us, intending to watch the stars for a short time. But it was a moonless and nigh starless night, as if another, darker, cloak was thrown across the sky. He put an arm on my shoulder.
“Come, Carnifinde. Let us rejoin your mother. The night is chill and the sky holds little light. We shall see naught of interest.”
Reluctantly I turned away. Our view of the citadel and the shimmering lake beyond, always captivated me. I used to often think how fortunate I was to be born in such a place. Natural beauty and our arts, combined with an abundance of trade opportunities and the epitome of fortifications. We people of Caranthir were blessed. Thanks to the vigilance of our Princes, apart from the occasional skirmish to the northwest, and infrequent attacks on our hill forts, we were safe.
Although the early focus for my craft skills was a combination of gem-smithing (in which I showed promise) and armour smithing (in which I showed less promise, but was inclined to pursue,) I was also very much interested in our Lore, and in drawing. I would sometimes sketch what I saw from my vantage point in our towered abode. The guards about their duties, the market folk selling their wares, the jovial children playing in the gardens and risking the wrath of the Head Gardener; all became subjects of my creativity.
But my mother was the true artist in our family. She worked on portraits, and paintings of people and their families. Or of them indulging in a favoured pursuit. In fact at that time, we had only just said ‘Good night’ to guests who had come to commission a work from her. A family portrait it was to be.
She smiled as I approached, looking up from the table where she was finishing her notes. I remember her small, elegant hands putting down her pen. I remember the shimmer of her light reddish-brown hair, and her bright blue eyes.
“And after this, I wish to make a new portrait of you, daughter mine. You are like a flower in bloom. It will be good to have a more recent likeness of you to display.”
“Or to show someone and their family, when he return from instructing Fingolfin’s armour smiths.” My father nudged me teasingly, and I blushed a little.
“Mayhap,” I had said softly.
“What’s that, Urundir?” My mother looked to my father as he walked across the marbled room to his favourite overstuffed chair.
“Oh, Just saying that I need to speak with someone about further sword instruction for our daughter.”
He grinned.
My mother gave him a look from below her lashes. She knew it was not that.
So we settled in our usual places. My father with his feet upon the footrest, and his eyes scanning recent reports from the outlying forts; my mother still making sketches, and I studying what history we had on jewel making in Valinor. That moment is etched forever in my mind.
It was the last time I was innocent. It was the last time I did not know hate. Listening to others and reading of battles is not the same as experiencing them.
My mother saw it first.
“What is that? What’s happening?” she asked, rising to her feet.
She hurried over to the balcony as we all looked up.
There was a sound. Sudden, like the rushing down of a great storm from the mountain heights. Distant it was, so the Valar know what it must have sounded like further West.
“The sky nigh the Ered Wethrin has turned red,” my father put down his papers, but did not move from his chair. He spoke as if he were noting someone’s hair colour, not as if our ‘world’ was about to collapse. But then he was more knowledgeable than I by far.
Another elemental roar assailed our ears. There was noise from the courtyard and nearby buildings as others came to their windows, or gathered in groups.
My mother turned to face us, pale with concern. “Morgoth?” she said bluntly. “After we thought him contained. For this is no natural happening.”
“I know not.” Now my father was on his feet, heading swiftly for the door. “But I go to our Prince to find out what I may.”
There was no panic then. They had known battle before in their lives. They saw the threat, sought to understand it, and to turn its course. To start with at least.
My mother came and wrapped her arms around me. “We have so few out on patrol this night. Reports may take some time to reach us.” She kissed me on the cheek and hugged me warmly. “We best prepare for an assault of some sort, dear one. It may not reach this far. And Himring at least stands between us. Our warriors must make ready to give aid, wherever it is required.”
We both looked through the open window as streaks of fire started spreading. Indeed, the Princes Maedhros and Maglor would defend from the West….if they could?
Something was afoot that was rooted in great evil and cunning. We did not know with certainty just then, only the most experienced spoke of Balrogs. Fire demons. And Fingolfin’s folk were in the midst of it. Estarfin and our smiths were in the midst of it.
My mother never drew that portrait of me. She was to perish the following eve as the battle engulfed our city.
My father was away with Prince Caranthir’s officers, trying to plan defense….escape….sending swift riders to Himring.
And so it was that I was torn from my Cuivienan, never to return.
