Disclaimer: playing in Tolkien’s sandbox with his sand castles and making no money from it.

Many thanks to Fiondil for the beta.

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Battle raged all around him.

Never before this had he ever raised his weapon against an enemy. Of course he sparred often with his kin and friends, but never anything like this…No, not like this. He always finished matches somewhere near the bottom of the list. Being a smith had its advantages, strength of arm, precision swinging with a heavy object, but these never served him that well in duels before. But, now…against a real enemy… he felt mighty and strong. With every swift blow he dealt, he found targets with such ease! Such surety! Why he felt as if he were one of the greatest with a blade!

The first enemy stricken by his hand had been the most difficult to bear. The sickening impact of steel in warm living flesh, the grunt of surprise from the one breathing his last, squeezed his heart and turned his stomach in revulsion. After that one though, so many more enemies were instantly upon him that he had no time to further dwell on the horrific fact that he had taken a life.

He had killed.

The tides of battle turned this way and that, but fortune smiled upon them and finally his folk won through. Covered in blood which was not his own, he gestured frantically to the women and children to board the ships quickly and escape. The bodies of the enemy lay everywhere with not a few of his own kind among them. As the hastily-manned ship, alongside many others, drew away from the dock, he leaned on the rail, regarding the carnage from this new safe haven. So many of his folk had not made ship...so many looked on in dismay at the departure of the vessels. So many lay dead or grieving over bodies of those whom they had loved. Yet he had been spared…

The new awkward captains of the ships did their best to steer clear of each other and yet stay within sight of the shore. It was vital to keep track of those trapped on land who had not been so fortunate. Soon the sea had other ideas though. Waves suddenly rose ever higher sweeping over the sides of the gleaming vessels. With a deafening roar, cold violent waters washed away cargo and crew alike as mothers screamed trying to grasp their children and maidens wailed as their fathers and brothers slid away into the depths.

When his ship finally succumbed, he found a section of wood splintered from the hull to succor his bruised and broken body. Clinging to this gift of hope, he alternately held his breath and choked on sea water and salty tears as he helplessly watched those whom he knew and loved go to their merciless deaths in watery graves.

Stars turned and water churned before he finally came to rest on solid ground, sand kissing his face as he snuggled his shivering battered body against the sodden shore. Exhaustion took him in a careful embrace and he surrendered to her gratefully.

When next he knew warmth, gentle musics floated in the air around him. His eyes focused on piercing feminine eyes so blue that even Manwë’s prized sapphires paled in comparison. Lustrous hair like liquid silver surrounded her delicately-featured face and flowed lovingly around her shapely body which was just then pressed so closely to his. When she spoke, her voice caressed his ears like the finest if Irmo’s harps.

“Hapless victim of a horrible shipwreck,” she described him as she tended his many wounds.

“Blessed by Ossë with deliverance to the safety of our tiny village,” her sister praised the Valar, for he had found safe passage to land when no others from any of the ships survived.

 “Fortunate indeed!” her aunt exclaimed, for she herself was a master healer visiting from Lórien and the reason he yet drew breath and grew hale with each passing day.

And blessed, though hapless he was, for was he not delivered into the care of the most beautiful of maidens ever to grace Arda? And now she graced his presence with the blessing of her very being.

Rarely did she leave his side, singing softly, seeing to his comfort, feeding him, tending his every need, vanquishing away all of the grisly horrific memories which haunted his waking and sleeping dreams. When he grew well enough to leave his bed, she provided him with linen shirt and woolen trews and supple leather boots - all of which fit perfectly. As surprised as he was at the perfect fit of her atar’s clothing upon him, he was even more surprised when she threw her arms around him, drawing him into a dance about the room.

He kissed her in gratitude and she kissed him affectionately in return, igniting fire in him which could have melted steel. Together they danced and kissed until the candles burned low, losing themselves in each others’ attentions.

A knock on the door to her cottage called her away, and when she did not soon return, he sought her out. He found her wailing in the healing arms of her aunt, both of them weeping in sorrowful denial. His heart aching to see her so, he reached out to her, only to have his hand immediately snatched away and pinned to his back. Cold steel pricked his neck just below his chin as a strong hand clamped as a vice around his throat.

“Kinslayer!” her uncle accused.

“My atar and brothers lie dead in Alqualondë!” The silver maiden wailed.

“My sister was at market and lies dead as well.” The aunt lamented.

“Thrall!” snarled the uncle’s son in vengeance, fastening a chain around the hapless Noldo’s right ankle.

“Ossë blessed us with a strong one to replace what has been taken from us,” the uncle said as he gingerly rubbed a large bloody spot on the bandage around his own left leg. “Many villages lost all of their mariners and most of their men.” He backhanded the bewildered, guilt-ridden Noldo across the face, splitting lips and bloodying nose. “This one will be a great boon to us in the years to come as we await the return of our loved ones from Mandos. We are most fortunate indeed.”