Tales of East

The Burden of Souls Part 3

Dry scorching summer that was laced with seething winds that graced hot afternoons. Sand storms that left a slight flavor of the earth in her mouth and the winds of the Monsoon that brought smiles to the faces of eager farmers.

Amongst all these memories there was one that stood out the most. A majestic mango tree. She could clearly remember the web-like branches that spread wide. Fragrant green leaves that smelled so much like the fruit itself. Thick trunk where she would find her siblings resting their backs as they slacked off their chores.

During the Spring, when the winds turned pleasant the tree would start to flower. Its flowers were so minuscule that they seemed to look like pores. Yet, clumped together in bunches they would form a beautiful bouquet.

Bees would buzz around preparing their treasured sweet gold and giving everyone the gift of harvest every year. As the summer would grasp its throne, white flowers on the tree would start shifting into tiny unripe green mangoes.

Kids would throng the tree to pluck those unripe fruits. Sneaking away from guards they would scrunch their dusty faces at the sour taste of the fruit. Her brother had tried to feed it to her but she hadn't liked it. Mothers would make a savory drink from unripe mangoes. She could almost hear her mother humming a distinct tune as she peeled the green fruit to make it into pickles, chutney, or drinks to soothe the heat of the Sun.

She had spent the entire winter and spring yearning for the sweetness of mango. She would dreamily stare at the tree's branch waiting for it to be laden with the fruit of her patience.

However, that summer she never got to taste the heavenly fruit of her yard. First ripe mango that her brothers would rush to bring to her. She had earnestly waited for that sweetness yet, her yearning was never answered. How could it be? Fruits of the East don't bloom well in the West.

Mehtab clutched the memories of her past in a grip so vise that even the ever-changing time had failed to pry open her tightly closed fingers. Neither the greying hair nor the dimming light could change the young faces of her brothers and the gentle voices of her parents.

She had stubbornly played every memory out in her mind. She had to remember it. Someone had to.

She was the youngest of her family. Her father... she couldn't remember what he did but he was a wise man. He had coddled her with sweets and trinkets that seemed to appear in his hands out of nowhere. Despite all that she couldn't remember his name to her he was nothing more and nothing less than her father.

Her father, who had led his people to the West in the hopes of giving them a better life...

With him, all of them had come to the dusty and desolate Hirming. Her two brothers. Both had been older than her. They had doted on her ever since she had come to her senses. They were gone both. Slain on unknown lands where no one had cared to give them a burial. Their bodies, which were yet to reach maturity were left to rot and feed the vultures.

And of all most precious to her was her mother. She could remember her voice, her face, her scent, and her hand pulling her ear as she tried to sneak out of the house. She could almost hear the sound of her mother's silver anklets as she raced to try to catch her brothers. To Mehtab it seemed just yesterday when her mother had braided her hair and put a precautionary dot of kohl behind her ear to ward off anything evil.

Her dearest mother who had lived praying for peace, who had fed starving, who had left her entire life for the sake of a promise of West...her mother. She had died or at least that's what Mehtab wished for. Death was better, it was better for women stranded on the blood-bathed battlefields. It was better than the dark prisons of elves or the greedy hands of the men of the West. Maybe the One had more pity for her mother than his children had shown for their own kin.

Somedays Glorfindel would come to visit her and she would tell him of her childhood. She would tell him of all that she could remember. She did that so that she could remember it too.

The Lord would sit there and listen to everything without a single complaint uttered from his lips. He would bring her small trinkets as her father had once done. Once he even got her a piece of bread so sweet that she tasted it for days.

Some days when she would be too tired to speak of anything more Glorfindel would tell her his stories. He would tell her of ancient trees and gems that lit up the entire world. It seemed an unimaginable tale in her unlit cell.

Other days he would tell her of the land of Valinor, where his father still lived. He talked of it the same way she talked of her mango tree.

They both seem to yearn for a long-gone past that would never return. Yet, somehow both carried a small lamp of hope in the void. After all, of all the things that the one had given his children hope was most persistent.

To her, Glorfindel had become a part of her small family. From the moment that she had reached out for his gleaming hair out of a fascination of a child to the present, where she could barely see his outline. She had come to care for him as she had for her brothers. She would carve his memories the same way she had her family's. Whatever fate the One had for her, Glorfindel's name would always stay with her.

After all, he had taught her his name the first thing. It had been a long process but somehow even the dark cell had to bow to the light of Glorfindel, who had taught her speech and writing.

He had held her hand and taught her names, places, and people. With every stroke, he had painted a world in the pitch-black prison. He had painted stars that Varda put in the sky, he had painted flowers and trees of Yavana in the tales, and wisdom of Nienna in his sorrow.

"Veere..." She had held his hand back. "Whatever fate I am made for I hope we meet someday. When the world will be back in its sleep from all the chaos we will meet. I will come with my parents and my brothers and you must bring your father. That day we will talk for hours, laugh at crazy dandelions and all will be good."

Mehtab paused as she looked at Glorfindel. Even though she couldn't see him she could feel the slight wetness on her hands and the trembling hands that were not hers. "That day King Turgon will take a stroll with his brother under the same sky. No one will burn in the rage of revenge. There will be no East or West dividing us. I will look forward to that day." She smiled somehow the thought had eased her heart.