Special thanks to GloryBee, Dana, and Istarnie, too, for their bits of help with this story in the years it took to write it.

Disclaimer: Playing in Tolkien’s sandbox and making no money from it.

XXXXX

The battle had gone badly. The enemy came forth in far greater numbers than expected, beating them back well beyond the line they had so recently claimed. The casualties had been many. Many sons. Many fathers. Many brothers. Many friends.

Death is to be expected in war, but these last two days so very many had died…

As king, he was expected to go among the living, comforting the wounded, consoling the next of kin, inspiring the rest to fight again tomorrow. But who was there to comfort him?

This whole war saw its roots in the foul deeds of his own kin. It was a son of Finwë who so blindly led the Noldor to this forsaken land, to their downfall and utter ruin. The remaining sons of Finwë spent their lives and their blood trying to win battles which were beyond them. For what can mere elves hope to do against a Vala?

Now here he was King Arafinwë from over the sea, Valinor’s last son of Finwë come with mighty armies of Noldor and Vanyar and the glory of the Valar to save Endórë – but come too late. He had arrived in Alqualondë mere hours too late to stop the kinslaying. Now he had arrived in Endorë too late to save all but a pitiful remnant of the exiled Noldor – several decades too late.

At times he wondered what it would be like to raise his sword alongside his brother or his sons. But after what he had just witnessed…

How many of his friends did he see on the battle field clutching the dying or lifeless bodies of those to whom they had given life? How many cried on the stilled shoulders of their fathers or grandfathers one last time? How many clung to their brothers or cousins or lifelong friends seeking something which was now beyond them to give in return?

It had been his own choice to remain behind in Valinor instead of continuing on the fool’s errand when the Noldor sought to leave Aman. He had done the right thing. He had been the one who was wise. But now, he could no longer help but wonder...

Who held his sons and his brother and his nephews when they struggled to breathe their last? Who comforted those who remained behind after the loss of each one? Who instilled the hope so the rest could go on fighting the next day?

In doing the right thing, he had saved so many of his people, but he had failed his kin. He had failed his beloved sons. That barb stung more deeply, more profoundly than any wound inflicted upon him thus far.

He had failed them.

Voices from outside his tent spoke in hushed tones about his mood and potential volatility, recommending he be left undisturbed for a while. His advisors knew him well. But perhaps not well enough…

If he could, for just a short time, be free of the advisors and the servants and the guards and the captains constantly smothering him with more and more reports and grievous news…If he could just be free of the wails of those mourning their dead, and the cries of the dying whose lives were slowly seeping away, perhaps he could settle again. Perhaps he could find peace. 

No, he would never be at peace, but perhaps he could contain his guilt and his grief, sealing them tightly inside once again. Then he would have the strength to face tomorrow.

But he knew he would never be left completely alone while he remained in the camp. Still girt in his bloody armor and helm with his great sword still belted at his hip from the battle, he thrust his way outside. No one dared speak to him, let alone waylay him as he strode angrily through the maze of tents and out of the camp.

Once out of sight of the encamped Noldorin army, he broke into a blind run. Neither knowing where he was going nor caring, he sprinted on, trying subconsciously to escape from the horrible thoughts and feelings battering his heart and mind. If he ran a little harder, a little farther, a little faster, maybe he would find again his brother and his nephews, maybe he would discover he had been lied to, maybe he would bring his sons back – alive. But that was not to be. His sons were long dead.  His siblings were long dead. All that remained of his brothers’ lines in all of Endórë were two sons and the grandson of one, and of the other, one grandson and twin great-great grandsons. He had come too late to save any of the others – once again, too late.

He did not know how he would break the news to his sisters-in-law and to his mother. Even worse, what was he to tell his wife when he returned home? What could he tell her? It would break her heart. She had begged him to bring her word that Eärendil was wrong and all of their children still lived. It had been confirmed for him that their only daughter yet survived with a handful of Noldor and Sindar on the Island of Balar, but their sons, their beloved sons…

His grief finally caught him and he stumbled face first into the dirt beside a stream. The tears he had fought and denied for so long, since the first word he had received in Valinor of his sons’ fates, finally blinded his eyes. His gloved hands clawed at the earth unable to lift the weight of his sorrow to push himself up off the ground again. His sons, his beloved sons, cursed by Mandos, were gone. His body shook and shuddered with the force of his sobs until no more tears would come.

When he finally became aware of himself again, it was early evening. The setting sun adorned the cloudy sky with a vibrant splash of color in mockery of his pain. The skin on his face felt tight with the mud caking him where the dirt had mixed with his tears. He crawled over to the edge of the stream and looked down at the wretched being staring back at him. The red eyes, the muddy face, the dirty helm splattered with the blood of the enemy, the tangled, matted, once golden hair all looked as if they belonged to someone else, not to himself. This was the face of the grief that still echoed in the hollows of his heart, and he hated it.

He tore off his helm and threw it as hard as he could. He heard it clang against something hard some distance away. He ripped off his gloves and threw them, too. Plunging his hands into the icy early winter waters of the stream, he tried to scrub away the horrible image that continued to glare back at him from the water. Now a red face framed by tangled wet warrior’s braids stared back through bloodshot grey eyes, but the pain-ridden, pitiful creature was still there.

Why did his children, his kith and kin have to go? Why did they not turn back with those who returned to their senses at the proclamation of the Doom of the Noldor? Why did they have to go on to die meaningless deaths in hopeless battles they stood no chance of winning?

The loss of his sons hurt the worst. His dear sons were gone…

Tears started to his eyes once again as he knelt beside the stream, only vaguely aware of its song as it rushed past. The years had rushed past since he had been left there on the coast of Valinor, abandoned by his family – or was he the one who abandoned them to do the right thing, to return home with his wife – alone?

Now he was the reluctant, untrained king of a broken people mended over the years by his care, nurtured by what little wisdom remained in his broken heart. Ironically, the Noldor were once again dying for the cause of fighting Morgoth in Endórë, only this time blessed by the Valar in their quest. But the loss of each soldier in his charge was like the loss of one of his kin all over again, the pain of the survivors his pain. How could he possibly continue on this way?

A sudden sting tore into his left bicep. Startled beyond belief, he looked over to find an arrow protruding from his arm. Where had it come from? More arrows landed in the ground around him and in the stream in front of him. He stared at them for a moment uncomprehendingly. As awareness of his surroundings came rushing back to him, he rose and drew his sword.

Four orcs came crashing through the bushes. He dispatched the first two orcs without much effort. He slashed a third across the chest, but as he turned to engage the fourth, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in the back of his right thigh. His right leg collapsed with the searing pain, causing him to fall hard on his left knee. He parried once, but the fourth orc moved around behind him and struck him hard across the right shoulder. His armor protected him, but he felt something snap beneath the blow and he doubled over, dropping his sword.

Here he was, the King of the Noldor, bowed down on his knees, defenseless.

This was it.

He was going to die.

He was going to join his sons. He should have died with honor like his sons, but he would not. In a senseless battle he should have won, he had been defeated by his own grief, his own stupidity, his own self. He never should have left the camp alone.

The orc circled him, laughing as he struggled to straighten into a more upright position.

He glared at it with all of the loathing and hatred he could muster.

It poked at his hair, seemingly in fascination, then slashed the side of his face.

He tottered dangerously, most of his weight balanced precariously on his one good knee. He couldn’t even raise his hand to the warm wetness trickling from the burning cut now dripping blood from his chin. The pain radiating from his wounds was steadily becoming unbearable.

The orc finally stilled beside him.

Breathing hard, trying not to cry out from the agony that enveloped him, he watched the approach of his death. He wondered if he could possibly hurt any more than he already did, but knew there would only be a moment’s more pain before it was all over.

The orc slowly, deliberately, drew back its sword. As the downward swing began, the orc convulsed violently, an arrow running cleanly through its neck.

Bewildered yet relieved, Arafinwë turned his head in the direction from which the arrow had come, looking for his savior. Suddenly a white hot pain exploded behind his eyes and he saw no more.

*****

Softness enveloped his body. He felt something warm and damp caress his forehead lingeringly, then start down the left side of his face. A twinge of pain jerked him instantly awake. Eyes wide open, he looked in the direction of the pain and straight into the concerned blue eyes of a beautiful, but weary face. The face was young and female, framed with tendrils of silvery hair that wisped away from their braid.

The face smiled and said something to him in a language that he only half understood.

He started to shake his head to tell her he did not comprehend, but the movement made him dizzy and nauseated. He tried to lift his right hand to his head, but his arm exploded in pain. He tried to lift his left arm to touch the source of discomfort in his right, but that arm would not work either. He bent his right leg to lever himself up so he could look around and at least see what was wrong, but that burst of agony hurt most of all. Panic filled him. What was happening?

Eyes darting madly, he nearly screamed, “Why do I hurt so? What has happened to me? Where am I?”

Strong hands gently but firmly gripped his left shoulder and pressed against his chest, forcing him to stillness as the blue eyes gazed at him curiously.

“Please…,” he begged, gasping for air. “Please, answer me. Please tell me what is going on.”

Taking a deep breath, she slowly replied as if carefully choosing each word before she spoke it. “You are from Valinor, are you not? You speak Quenya freely, and your eyes have a light in them that I have not seen before. You must be one of the warriors of the Eldar.”

He looked at her perplexed, a feeling of dread creeping into his being. What was this place she spoke of: Valinor? Who or what were the Eldar? It seemed he should know this, but he could not quite remember. “I…I do not know of what you speak.”

She tenderly grasped his hand, smiling at him encouragingly. “Tell me. What is your name?”

He was afraid now. Had he ever known genuine fear before this moment? He was not certain. But there was one thing of which he was certain as he met her hopeful gaze.

“I do not know who I am,” he whispered incredulously.

He felt insignificant and scared. Inside he was hollow and alone. So very, very alone.

A deeply concerned look replaced her smile as she asked, “Do you remember anything about what happened to you or where you were when I found you or how you came to be there alone?”

The emptiness inside of him ached. “I remember nothing,” he whispered.

She sighed. “I should not be surprised that your memory fails you. You received a horrible blow to the head by an orc’s sword. I shot him through the neck, but the blade turned in his hands as he completed his swing. You were hit hard with the flat of the blade instead of with the edge which would have ended your life.”

He felt as if his life were over anyway, but he did not know why.

Gently touching each body part as she described its injuries, she continued. “I removed an arrow from your left arm and also found a knife buried to the hilt in the back of your right thigh. Your right shoulder is broken. You have a cut on your face below your left eye extending almost all the way down to your chin. You were kneeling on the ground waiting for the orc to behead you when I saved you.”

“I watched you kill three other orcs, and you were so strong and brave. But I was so scared and…” She leaned back from where she knelt beside his bed, bowing her head and averting her gaze. “And I was too slow to bring up my bow to kill the fourth before it injured your shoulder and face and hit you in the head. It is my fault you have those injuries. I am so very sorry.”

A wave of weariness swept  over him. Taking a deep breath in an attempt at fighting it back, he responded. “I…I do not understand. Was it your responsibility to watch over me? I cannot imagine who I must be that one such as you was to look after me.”

She met his eyes again, surprise and amusement on her pretty face. “It was not my responsibility to watch over you. I had never seen you before I came upon you as I returned from checking the traps for the day. Your sword and armor were very fine, so I thought you must be someone important, but you faced the orcs alone. Perhaps the others who should have been with you died in a previous battle, for I found no other bodies besides yours and the orcs’, but dried orc blood stained your armor.”

Tears came to his eyes and slid down his cheeks, burning the cut on his face.

That was it. That was why he had been alone. He had lost them. They were dead. Those who should have been with him were dead. He could not remember who they were, just that they meant everything to him. They should have been at his side, gallant and noble and strong, but he had already lost them and now he was alone.

Amidst his pain, he was only vaguely aware of the woman climbing up on the bed and stretching out beside him. With the utmost care, she put her arm around him holding him close.

“I am sorry,” she said softly. “I am so very sorry for what you must be remembering right now.”

Unable to control himself, he began to sob. Gently she held him, protecting him from he knew not what, but keeping him safe just the same. He did not know how long he lay there, mourning in her embrace, but when the wave of weariness came again, he nestled his head against her and surrendered his consciousness to it.

Sounds slowly filled his perception once again: a crackling fire, a howling wind beating against wooden walls, quiet breathing. As his eyes focused, he realized he lay on a large bed, covered in patchwork quilts. The fireplace across from the bed served as the only source of light in the night-dark room. A couple of sturdy tables, a few straight wooden chairs, some storage chests pushed up against unadorned walls, and a plain hardwood cabinet in a corner were the only objects he could immediately identify.

He turned his head in the direction of the breathing. A beautiful face framed by curly wisps of silvery hair rested close to him. It somehow seemed right that a silver–haired woman should be lying beside him, but something about the curve of her face seemed to not belong. For some reason she was not the one he was expecting to see or used to seeing at his side, but he could not say why. Rolling onto his side in order to see her more clearly, brought sharp pain to his right shoulder and agony to his leg. Gasping, he clutched his shoulder and then his leg only to find them bandaged.

Why were they bandaged? Why was he hurting? His upper left arm was also sore, and upon further examination, proved to be bandaged as well.

He felt a reassuring hand come to rest on his bare chest, as the woman whispered, “It is all right. Be still. You are safe. If you move too much you will reopen your wounds and further damage your shoulder . Be still.”

His wounds…Oh yes. He had been attacked by orcs and she had saved his life.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm, watching as she sat up and poured a cup of water from a jug on a small bedside table he had not noticed before. She turned back to him and helped him to sit up a bit in the bed.

“Do you think you can hold the cup or do you need me to help you?”

“I can manage for myself,” he croaked in reply, ignoring the twinges of pain as he extended his left arm to take the cup from her.

“Drink slowly,” she warned as she handed him the cup.

The cold drink felt wonderful to his parched throat. He did not know that water could taste so good.

“Thank you so very much,” he whispered after he drained the cup and handed it back to her. “I do not hurt as much as I did before. How long have I been asleep?”

“Five days.” She placed the cup on the table and lay back down in the bed, looking at him. “You heal quickly after the manner of your kind.”

“My kind?” he asked curiously.

She propped herself up on an elbow, the collar of her night dress falling and baring one shoulder as she gazed upon him. Bright blue eyes twinkled with her gentle smile as she responded, “You are an Elf of the Eldar from across the sea, probably of the Vanyar judging from your golden hair. I am of the Atani, a mortal woman.”

He reached out, curiously touching her face, tracing the soft skin of her features from forehead to chin and down her neck to her bare shoulder. “You do not feel different. You are lovely to look upon. And yet you are mortal?”

Her face flushed red. “Yes, I am mortal.”

“Remarkable,” he softly observed, brushing the backs of his fingers against her face.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“My house on the outskirts of an Atani settlement in the middle of a forest. We are mainly of the peoples of Hador and Bëor.”

Her response did not help him much. “I do not recognize those names.”

“Finrod Felagund…Findaráto, a prince of the Noldor and former King of Nargothrond met and taught my ancestors of Bëor’s house,” she explained.

Findaráto? He had heard that name before, but he could not place it. It was as good a place to start as any. “Please tell me more of Findaráto. Do you know him?”

“I never knew him. He had golden hair like you and was said to have been very handsome and very wise. He was beloved of the people of Bëor who named him Nom, which means “wisdom”. He taught us much and helped us to achieve our greatest glory before Morgoth destroyed all that we had worked so hard to build. Findaráto aided my distant kinsman Beren in a quest to retrieve a silmaril and gave his life defending Beren from a wolf in Sauron’s dungeon at Minas Tirith. Beren survived and married Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol, well King Elwë and Melian the Maia.”

She looked at him hopefully, but he shook his head. “None of that means anything to me.”

“Findaráto was also a close friend of one of our wise women named Andreth,” she continued.  “His younger brother, Prince Aicanáro, was in love with Andreth, but never pursued the relationship because elves do not wed in time of war. Aicanáro died in the Dagor Bragollach and Andreth perished soon afterward. I have a book Andreth wrote detailing some of her discussions with Findaráto. Perhaps in the morning I can read some of it to you. It is written in Quenya, so you could also read it for yourself if you so choose. It has been snowing for the last three days, so there is little else to do but read.”

“I would like that very much. Thank you.” He was silent for a time contemplating what she had said. He recognized the name Aicanáro, too, but did not know why. There was only emptiness where his memories should have been.

“Has anyone come searching for me since I have been here?”

She shook her head. “No one has come. Most likely, if anyone did search for you, the hunt would have proved unproductive as I am certain that the tracks were covered by the snow rather quickly.”

He painfully raised his hand to rub his face. He could feel the tension mounting inside of him. Certainly someone should have come for him by now. Or was he truly alone? What was he going to do now? What could he do? A spot on the side of his head was beginning to throb.

In a subdued tone, he asked, “What is to become of me? I know not who I am nor what I am nor what I have done in my life.”

She smiled kindly, reaching over to smooth his hair away from his face. “You can stay with me as long as you like. I have plenty of food in store, though I only have this one bed. I do not mind sharing the food or the bed, if you do not mind.”

He looked over at her. “I have little choice in the matter and no other options available to me at this time.” Smiling meekly, he added, “I do not mind sharing.”

He considered her again. She truly was lovely to look upon and the feeling about her was one of patient kindness and warmth of spirit.

“Tell me, why do you not have a husband?”

She cast down her gaze as a look of sadness crossed her face. Her fingers slid through his hair and down to rest on his shoulder. When she met his eyes again, he regretted having asked for he could sense that the sorrow in her was very great.

“My husband went to the war to fight alongside the Elves against Morgoth. He was killed in battle. That same year, I lost both of our children, a son and a daughter, to a horrible illness that spread through our settlement.”

He reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek.

“I am only 26 years old,” she complained bitterly. “And I am a childless widow with little hope of remarriage for there are few men left now. Most have gone to fight in the war or they are dead. I survive as best I can here. We all help each other out. My sister and her husband and children live close by, so that is a comfort.”

“I will help you in whatever way I can,” he offered, hoping to cheer her. He gingerly reached over and took her hand in his. The pain of her loss tore at his heart. Did he know this kind of loss, the loss of a spouse or a child? The only response he received was the echo of the ache in the emptiness of his spirit.

“I know not what my skills are,” he continued in a hopeful voice, “but I am certain I can find something to do to ease your burden and help you in payment for your kindness and hospitality.”

She smiled sadly. “Thank you. Your help and companionship would be much appreciated.”

He smiled in response and squeezed her hand.

She rested her head on her pillow, still holding his hand firmly, her other hand tucked under her cheek as she lay facing him. “You should sleep. You still are not well.”

He did feel weary. At least he was not alone in the world now. “You are correct. Good night…” He paused a moment. “I do not know your name.”

She smiled sleepily, and whispered “Faroniel.”

He repeated her name, learning the feel of it on his tongue.

“You need a name, too,” she said.

“What would you call me?”

“Laurehér”

“What? Why would you call me something like that? That is rather presumptuous. I do not know if I even have a title.”

“Well, you asked what I would call you, so there you have it,” she laughed softly.

He gazed at her a moment, noting the way her joy touched her eyes, then he sighed. “Very well. Until you come up with a more suitable name or even better, I remember my name, you can call me Laurehér.”

“Sleep well, my Laurehér,” she struggled to stifle a yawn, snuggling in to her pillow.

He lay staring at the ceiling, finding the sound of her breathing oddly comforting as it evened out in deep slumber. Sleep soon claimed him once again.

XXXXX

The passing of a few more days finally brought an end to the snow. Faroniel fashioned Laurehér a crutch from a long stick she had found while foraging for firewood, enabling him to move about the room and see to his needs unassisted. His right arm remained in a sling, but his left arm had healed completely as had the cut on his face. Faroniel had patched his clothing as best she could and brought out some clothes that had belonged to her husband, tailoring them to try to fit Laurehér’s leaner, slightly taller, more muscular frame.

The cut of this new clothing seemed odd to Laurehér. For some reason, it seemed unusual to him to wear bland linen shirts with unadorned billowing sleeves and loose collars. The leggings had an unusual cut as well and, although they were extremely utilitarian, they at least were comfortable. He felt strange garbing himself in the drab earthy tones of beiges and browns that Faroniel’s husband had worn. Though he was grateful to Faroniel for her generosity and kind efforts, he found he preferred to wear what had been salvaged of his own clothing whenever possible.

There was little for Laurehér to do in the tiny house but read the few precious books and talk to Faroniel, though she did not seem to mind. He found that he enjoyed whittling and carving images in the firewood as he listened to her soothing voice. Sometimes she spoke of her dear sister who lived nearby with a husband and four children. Other times, she told of the history of the Atani from the time they came over the mountains to the banding together of refugees from the great battles into tiny settlements throughout this forest. Though none of it held much meaning for him, Laurehér mulled it over in the quiet times as she sat sewing or cooking. There had to be some clue about his origins somewhere.

One day after yet another snow storm ended, Laurehér sat on the bed, musing over the book by Andreth that Faroniel had read to him his first full day awake. A knock sounded on the door, startling them both. Faroniel leaped up from her seat by the fire where she had been sewing and opened the door.

A tall man dressed against the weather in animal skins stood just outside. The lines on the visitor’s face, half hidden by long shaggy yellow hair and a beard, betrayed his mortality. However the keen gaze of his wary blue eyes left no doubt that he was not pleased by Laurehér’s presence.

Laurehér arose, leaning on his crutch, knowing somehow that this was proper etiquette when greeting someone. The man glared at him, scowling as he stomped snow from his boots before he entered the house. Fearing a confrontation, Laurehér kept his face impassive lest he anger the man further.

Faroniel and the man spoke rapidly in a strange tongue, obviously arguing about something. They both gestured toward Laurehér often, but he maintained his relaxed, unimposing stance. Finally, the man angrily dumped a pack on the floor, eyed Laurehér lethally, and left.

Why was this man so angry? Laurehér wondered. And why does he seem to hate me so?

Closing the door, Faroniel turned to him, her face full of concern.

“That was my sister-husband Belegon. He is not happy that you are here.” She wrung her hands in obvious apprehension. “I told him what I knew of you, but he fears that having you here will bring the war upon us again. We have hidden safely here for a few years now, while the war has raged around us. He believes that with you here, other Elves will come for you and try to recruit the precious few able-bodied men we have left to us to go fight in the war. I assured him that you do not even know who you are and there is no way that your people could find you, but he was not satisfied.”

Faroniel walked over to Laurehér and placed her cold hand on his face, gently stroking his cheek. Her hands always seemed to be cold. Was this normal for mortals?

Looking into his eyes, she softly said, “I fear what will befall you when the elders learn of you. Belegon is one of the few strong men left to us. He holds much sway in the village.”

Trying to smile reassuringly, Laurehér replied, “I could tell them myself that there is little I remember of the fighting or anything really, but if Belegon will not listen to you, then why should he hear me?”  Leaning into her caress in a meek effort at warming her hand, he pondered her words and her fears for a time.

Suddenly her hand stilled as her face lit up and she proposed, “If you learn Sindarin and find something you can do to contribute to the welfare of the village, then perhaps…perhaps it would show Belegon and the elders that you are a refugee, too. If they think that you only wish to survive and blend in, they will not fear that you are here to lead our men to war.”

Gently, he took her hand in his and asked, “But what if my people do come for me? I will have to go with them. And it may be that they will try to recruit others to join the war with them.” He shook his head in apology. “I just... I do not know what my people would do.”

“Your people will not come for you,” she said firmly. “By now they surely have given you up for dead and the snows will have hidden all sign of you.”

He squeezed her hand, quietly stating his desperate hope, “But they may come for me.”

“No,” she declared defiantly. “They will not come!”

Releasing his hand, she walked over and donned her cloak. “I am going outside for more firewood. Put away the contents of the pack Belegon left for us and then we will begin your lessons.”

Her tone left no question that the conversation was over. Gingerly, he made his way over to the pack. What options did he really have? If he left, where would he go? Could he even survive?

A resigned sigh pressed heavily upon his shoulders. For now, he would do as she had suggested, but if his people came for him, he knew he would leave.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The days mulled on with more snow. Laurehér found being trapped in the little house stifling. He knew that it was unnatural for one of his kind to be so confined, but there was little he could do to remedy the situation. Spending as much time outside as possible, he managed to keep his spirit from railing against the walls of the cabin. He tended the traps with Faroniel, assisting with the skinning and tanning of the hides – something he seemed to have some knowledge of, in spite of his lack of other memories.  Chopping firewood for her also helped to relieve some of his tension. But all the while he watched, silently mourning in growing despair. Would no one ever come for him?

Whenever he found himself confined indoors, he contented himself with bringing the beauty of life outside into the cabin by carving intricate leaf and animal pictures into the wood of the furniture, windows, and door. While he worked, a delighted Faroniel, always sang to him in melodies which seemed oddly mournful to his ears – even when the words were happy. Other times she told him stories of strange folk in places whose names had no meaning for him.

The lessons in Sindarin progressed well. Faroniel seemed delighted to discover that Laurehér learned quickly, and before long he could converse with ease.

Belegon visited many more times, bringing supplies and taking prepared hides for trade in the village. He also brought news that Laurehér was unwelcome there even if he could speak Sindarin. Laurehér tried a few times to engage Belegon in conversation, but Belegon always brushed him aside.

In spite of all of this, Laurehér’s unrest grew. Faroniel seemed to understand his need to be outside and never questioned him when he remained in the blistering cold well past sundown, staring at the moon and the shimmering stars until the hour grew late. She always welcomed him back inside with a warm embrace, a blanket, and a hot cup of tea or cider. He truly did not understand why she tolerated his presence when he wearied of the cloistered monotony of this life.

As he lay awake in bed one night, he realized beyond all doubt that his people would have sought for him. He knew they needed him. Though still unsure as to why, he knew he was of such importance that many would have sought for him, even died for him. And still there had been no sign of anyone. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen them preventing them from reaching him?

Then his heart lurched. Had Faroniel lied to him about Elves not seeking him out? It sickened him to think she might have hidden such information from him. She was so good and so selfless, showing him nothing but kindness with food, companionship, clothing, and shelter. She had saved his life! But she was also so very lonely.

He growled quietly, wiping his hands over his eyes and clenching his hair while kicking the mattress in frustration. Could she really have betrayed him so?

Faroniel stirred in her sleep, startling him. Laurehér immediately stilled, waiting until he once again heard the gentle rhythm of her slow even breaths. The soothing repetition of that sound had been such a balm to his weary spirit when he first arrived, but now, now…

He had to know. He knew enough from their conversations in which direction he needed to travel to begin his search. Certainly he had done enough work to pay off his indebtedness to her. She surely would protest his going if he told her, but the need was too great. Tomorrow while she was in the village, he would prepare for the journey. Then he would leave her a note explaining himself and slip out after she fell asleep.

Even if all he discovered was that he was the last of his people, he had to know the truth. Then he could be at peace at last.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Faroniel – hunter-maiden

Laurehér – golden lord

He found moving through the forest surprisingly exhilarating. His feet left only light marks in the snow as he glided over it. At first he moved with great haste, desiring to put as much distance as possible between himself and the confines of the mortal settlement. Effortlessly he ran for two days straight, stopping only to eat and see to his personal needs. When he finally slowed, the sights and sounds of the forest in winter soothed his restlessness spirit. It truly was beautiful - even if it was not home.

For many more days he wandered seeking signs of anything which might bring him hope or at least indicate the he was not the only one in the forest. He snared rabbits for food when his supplies ran low and speared some fish in a large racing stream. Occasionally he found signs of wolves stalking him and dealt with them decisively, stripping them of their pelts as his prize.

Just past dawn one morning, he found evidence of a large group having moved through the wood. He followed the trail of broken tree limbs and torn bushes until he came to a clearing. The bodies of orcs lay scattered all about as if a battle had been fought there. The snow hid much, but some trees till bore red and black blood stains. The orcs obviously had not simply fought each other.

Little was left to scavenge from the rotting orc bodies and nothing remained of those they fought. No turned earth, nor piles of stones stood nearby to indicate graves of the fallen. Given the number of dead orcs and the amount of red blood even after all of this time, some of their opponents had to have fallen. The thought of what may have happened to any non-orc bodies turned his stomach for Faroniel had told him of the cruel fates of those slain by orcs.

After a thorough investigation of the area, he understood from which direction each party had come to the battle and in which direction the orcs left afterward, dragging many large somethings with them.  He fell to his knees reeling when he realized what the orcs must have dragged, for dried reddish blood still marred trees and rocks all along the orc trail. The orcs took many victims judging from what he could discern from the long cold trail. The thought that this winter the evil creatures would not go hungry made his stomach churn even more.

When he finally felt able to move again, he stood and looked about the fringes of the wide area where the battle had raged, looking for any signs that perhaps someone had escaped. It took him more than an hour, but he finally found evidence of a few non-orcs having moved through some trees in the general direction from which the non-orcs had come. Whoever they were, they moved with stealth in spite of their obvious injuries.

The fading light of early evening did little to obscure his vision as he continued to pick his way through the underbrush, following the trail. As the sun rose the next morning, he found what he sought: the bodies of thirteen Elves lay huddled in cloaks. Some slumped against trees while others were curled in a fetal position as if they had died in great pain. Near the remnants of a long dead fire, he found a lone survivor propped in a sitting position against a tree.

Relieved to see another of his kind and alive at that, he ran to the ellon. Grave wounds marred the ellon's body in spite of crude bandages and dried-out herb packs pressed to the infected injuries. Tearing strips from the cloaks of the dead, he restarted the fire and set about trying to help the survivor. When he moved the ellon to lie down, the elf whimpered in pain. His eye lids fluttered open revealing grey eyes with a fading light barely sparking in them.

Laurehér gave the ellon some water to drink, dampening the parched lips.

Gasping, the ellon whispered, "You live!  I...we tried to find you…one hundred of us. Found...your helm…gloves and dead orcs. We...we...came to rescue you. We...orcs ambushed us..." The ellon coughed wetly, blood spattering from his mouth.

Laurehér clasped the ellon close, the elf’s eyes showing his gratitude as he struggled to continue. "We are dead...all of us dead... I am the last. There are no more to come to our rescue. Our army is gone. None are left who came from Valinor." Coughing more blood on Laurehér’s tunic and cloak, he choked. "Arafinwë, my dear friend...my...my brother-in-arms... You must live…you…you must. My sons are gone...my atar died, leaving me lord of the House of Oaks. I have none to be lord in my place. Let not your atar’s line end as well! You are all that is left. Morgoth will win if your line ends." Tears slipped from the ellon's eyes as he wheezed through the blood on his lips. "I am all alone, b-bereft of all I loved as are you. Bereft and alone... Hide! Do not let the orcs catch you! I...I... Námo calls..."

A name unbidden came to Laurehér's lips. "Sartandil!" he cried, clutching the Elf closer to his breast. “NO! SARTANDIL! NO!"

But even as he called, Laurehér knew it was too late.

For hours he wept, sobbing and aching, tears chilling his face as he huddled there over the cooling body of a once dear friend whom he remembered only in name.

At last he calmed and the late afternoon sun reminded him that he would be spending another night alone in the cold. Quietly, he set about trying to find some way to honor the bodies of his friend and the other fallen about him. All the while, he considered what he had learned.

If his friend had spoken truly, then his name was Arafinwë and he was more alone now than ever before. Faroniel had said that some Elves still lived scattered about Beleriand, but to hear he may be the last of the Elves of Valinor and no more would come! What did Sartandil mean by that?

Had the battle he found been the last stand of the army of Valinor? Somehow he could not believe that. Not from what he had learned from Faroniel about the war. Men should have been here as well and there had been none. What if Men were all that remained to carry on the fight?

No, not all, for he was still here as well and he would fight again if he had to. But where was the fight? And what of his friend’s words about not letting his own line die out? At least that had confirmed for him what he had long feared in his heart – he was the only one left of his kin. He really was alone.

Something else his friend had said troubled him greatly. Why would Morgoth win if his line were to die out? Who was he that he mattered so much that so many came looking for him? In his heart, he knew it was right that they should look for him, but why? And why would Morgoth care if he lived or died? Perhaps his friend was merely trying to encourage him to stand against the despair he knew would assail a lone survivor? He did not know. What he did know now at least was that his name was Arafinwë and he was alone.

A glint of sunlight caught on the gold ring on his right hand as he worked. He also knew now that he was the last of his kin. He had no one to return to either, just like Sartandil. Had he kept the ring as a reminder then of what he once had had and what was now lost to him? Tears stung his eyes once again, blinding him as he wept for the past that he now was to bury with the bodies of these slain who seemed to be the last to remember who he was.

Some time later, his grim task complete, he picked up a helmet and gloves he had found near his friend which seemed to match the armor he wore now. He guessed these must have been his, so he donned them and walked away. Too sick of heart to eat and unable to bear to be in this place of sorrow any longer, he kept moving, uncaring of the direction so long as it was away from the orcs and the dead warriors. Why had so many been willing to endure the cold and the danger to try to find him? Now he was responsible for their deaths. From what Sartandil said, one hundred warriors from Valinor had died, and invariably it was his fault. Where should he have been that he was not so they had to go looking for him? Could he find that place again or should he even bother trying? He deserved whatever punishment awaited him if he ever returned to that place, but then again… Who would be there to mete out his punishment if everyone from the army of Valinor were gone? Perhaps the greater punishment would be to never return to Valinor. Was there any forgiveness to be found there for the crime he committed in being the subject of their hunt, the cause of their deaths?

But then again, Sartandil said they were to rescue him, not hunt him down. Who was Arafinwë that warriors would be willing to die trying to rescue him? He was not certain he wanted to know any longer. Whoever Arafinwë was, Laurehér knew one thing for certain, he did not deserve to live after one hundred ellyn met their deaths because of him.

XXXXX

When the first light of the cold cloudy dawn found him, he recognized some of the features of the land. Without realizing it, he had stumbled upon the way he had come. Well, he decided, it was as good as any other choice for now and more likely to keep him alive for a while longer. He would return to Faroniel and decide his future from there. There were tasks enough to occupy his hands and a kind spirit to keep him company. Besides, recruiters had come to her settlement before to gather men for the war. If they returned again, he would go with them and fight again. Until then, he would have a home, unless Faroniel did not welcome his return. She seemed so lonely though and had genuinely wanted him there, enjoying his presence and his help. She most likely would welcome his return. He hoped so at least. And that was all he could do right now: hope.

XXXXX

It took him longer to return than he had anticipated. Travel was slower with his grief still a constant companion, and he was not entirely certain of the way back. It was snowing again when he found one of her traps near midday on his fourth day of journeying. As a gesture of kindness and apology, he took the catch with him and reset the trap. Now that he knew where he was, it was easier going so he decided to check the remaining traps and bring the spoils to her. This delayed his return, but by the time he saw her cabin in the distance, his arms were full and he knew she would be pleased with that if nothing else.

Working quickly despite the cold, he lit a lantern hanging in the barn, removed his helmet and gloves, and prepared the catch as he had before under her direction so that all would be in readiness for her in the morning. The woodpile was getting low and he would need to chop some more wood in the morning, but he would gather what he thought would be enough for the night when he went to greet her. The work here was not difficult but it would take time and it would keep him busy and that was all that he wanted right now – something to keep him busy while he waited for…He was not certain what he was waiting for really, but he needed something to do and a place to call home for now.

Her horse whinnied, but as he walked over to rub it, an arrow flew past his head and thudded into the wall behind him. Immediately he drew his sword and moved into the shadows away from the horse.

“That arrow was a warning.” Faroniel shouted angrily. “The next one will not miss. Now tell me who you are and why you are here.”

Keeping his sword raised for he was no longer so certain that she would be glad to see him again, he called, “Faroniel, it is I, Laurehér. Please do not shoot me.”

“Why should I not?” She called back, hurt obvious in her voice. “You did not even say goodbye to me, you coward. Why have you come back now?”

He closed his eyes a moment, shaking his head. He probably did deserve her anger. Sighing he opened eyes, but remained still, fearing she might shoot him if he moved suddenly. “I did not know what to say to you and I feared you would not let me go or that you would try to go with me. I needed to go alone on my search.”

“You left me alone even after all I did to help you,” she spat. “Was it worth it going away? Did you find what you were looking for? And why did you even bother coming back?”

“I did leave you alone and I am sorry for that, but it was necessary. You were wrong about my people for they did come looking for me.”

“So why have you come back? Did they not want you anymore? Did you leave them without saying goodbye, too?”

He hesitated, for the grief suddenly welled back up in his heart again. “Oh, they wanted me all right and…one hundred had come in search of me, but I found them too late. They had been ambushed by orcs and…” but his voice broke as he spoke, “The…the last of them died in my arms. His name was Sartandil, Lord of the House of Oaks. I believe he and I were dear friends for so he said to me though I still have no memory of him from before other than his name. I made my farewell by burying him and the other twelve warriors who the orcs did not drag away after the battle. I saw evidence of dozens of wounded or dead warriors having been dragged away by the orcs.”

Faroniel lowered her bow and walked over to him, her face full of sorrow and compassion. “Laurehér, I…”

He lowered his sword, suddenly feeling very tired and worn. “Sartandil told me that I am the last of my house as he was the last of his. He said that the army of Valinor is no more and told me to hide, and that I needed to survive or Morgoth would truly win. I really am alone now, Faroniel. There is no one left to come for me and I have nowhere else to go. I truly am alone.”

Setting her bow and the loose arrow on the ground she straightened and placed a tentative hand on his chest. “There is blood on your clothing. Is it Sartandil’s?”

Nodding grimly and guiltily, Laurehér dropped his sword. Gently she took him into her embrace and he sobbed into her unbound hair.

“Laurehér,” she whispered in his ear. “I am so very sorry for your loss. I…I did not realize…I feel so terrible for what I said. I am so sorry. So very sorry for you.”

Holding him tightly, she patted and rubbed his back, letting him mourn until he could get his emotions under control enough to move again. When he at last stepped away from her embrace, she retrieved his sword and her bow and arrow. Once he sheathed his sword, she took him by the hand and led him back to the house. Quietly she tended to him, preparing him food while he bathed and changed clothes. It was quite late by the time he crawled into bed beside her. As he lay back and made himself comfortable, she turned on her side and looked at him.

“If you do not mind my asking, what else did your friend tell you before he died?”

Laurehér sighed. “He told me that his atar and his sons are dead, I guess in previous battles, and he also called me by my real name.”

“I am sorry,” She whispered, then paused, reaching over and brushing his cheek with her fingertips. “What is your real name then so that I may properly address you?” she finally asked.

He blinked back tears again for his heart still ached fiercely. “I…I do not wish to use that name again or even hear it spoken. I think it must have been important, but it cost too many ellyn their lives. Too many…I am not worth that sacrifice. I…I wish I had not gone searching and I wish I did not know what befell my people. It hurts too much to even think about. Now I wish I could forget it all again. I only wish to be Laurehér so that no one else will die because of me.”

Sitting up a bit, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Very well, then Laurehér you shall be.” Tentatively, she reached out and gathered him into her arms, smiling a little sadly as he rested his head on her shoulder. “And you are not alone in this world, much as you may feel that you are.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. Dreading the dreams of memories that were sure to come, he reluctantly closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her gratefully. At least he need not face it all alone now.

XXXXX

The quiet rhythm of activity living with Faroniel proved much easier to bear now that Laurehér knew he needed to stay and had nowhere else to go and no one else expecting him. The walls of the small house no longer stifled him and the labor of maintaining the house and barn and the trapping of animals kept his hands working and his arms strong. Her brother-in-law was most displeased to discover his return, but Laurehér found he did not mind so much for he learned things from listening to the man rant about him to Faroniel during each visit. For her part, Faroniel remained patient with Laurehér and his new questions.

“What did Belegon do before the war?” Laurehér asked after one of Belegon’s more discourteous visits.

“He was a farmer as he is now. He lost his farm though the last time our folk had to flee our village and start over again in this new settlement, as did we all. It was very difficult. He has established new fields here and the seeds he brought with him enabled other farmers to re-establish themselves as well. Many folk are indebted to him for his generosity, which is why he holds so much sway in the village.”

“I know you are a trapper and you trade in furs and useful bits of animal bones and meat. What other things do people trade in the village? What other work do people do there?”

She sighed as she went about preparing a meal for them. “Folk will trade anything and everything to get cloth and food and tools and whatever else they need. As for what work they do…some cook or bake, some make ale or cider, some weave fabric, some hunt, some build things with wood or stone, some make tools out of metal or wood. I imagine it is like an Elf village would be in that regard. We used to have someone who made jewelry, but he and his family died of the same sickness that took my children.”

Laurehér walked over and put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, knowing that when she spoke of her children or was reminded of them, she often grew sad and quiet for at time. “I have no memory of any Elf villages. Perhaps if I could see your village it would help me to remember.”

Faroniel looked at him curiously even though sadness shone in her eyes. “Do you know what your work might have been or what skills you might have which you used before the war? You are very good at wood carving. Is that a common craft among the Vanyar? I know that the Noldor were good at smithying and the Teleri were sailors and fisher folk.”

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I honestly do not know what skills were common among the Vanyar.” He furrowed his brow quizzically. “I hope I was not a sailor by trade. That would be inconvenient here.”

She shook her head at him, smiling in amusement. “The Vanyar did not live by the sea from the tales I have heard. I do not think you are in any danger of having been a sailor. It would have been inconvenient there, too.”

He grinned at her as she swatted him with her free hand and gestured to the potatoes in the bowl across the table. He handed her two and watched as she deftly peeled them.

Tentatively he ventured, “I was rather hoping that by seeing the village I might remember something of what I once was. I would like to be able to contribute more than I already do or perhaps find other tasks with which to occupy my hands. Perhaps if I could see some of the folk at work, I might remember something of what I used to do before the war.”

She paused in her work and regarded him gravely. “You do recall that Belegon has said that you are not welcome in the village, do you not?”

“I do remember, but I would like to go anyway.”

“Very well,” she said at last. “Perhaps if we wrap you against the cold like a mortal and you remain hooded, it will be all right.”

Smiling, he replied, “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me until we return home tomorrow, Laurehér. You may well regret going.”

XXXXX

That night the wind shook the walls as they slept, howling so fiercely, that it entered his dreams.

Looking up, he caught a rope which had come loose and tied it securely.

“Arafinwë, I told you to check those knots earlier,” a silver-haired ellon chided. “If you would style yourself a brother of mine, you had better pay more attention to these details.”

“Yes, I know,” Arafinwë cried in exasperation, wiping sweat and sea salt from his brow. “I checked all of the others and could not get to this one before the wind picked up again.”

The ellon shook his head, smiling grimly. “Come help me with these nets then.” He paused a moment then added. “I am impressed with the haul, today. You did well mending the nets as you were taught.”

“Thank you, Olwion,” Arafinwë said, grinning in pride and relief at finally getting something right. Moving carefully, he made his way over to the nets so his bare feet did not slip on the wet deck.

Two other ellyn joined them, their shirtless forms glowing palely in the dim light of a starry night and a horizon lit by something other than a sun and a moon. As they all worked, they sang songs of fishing and hauling, the steady rhythms of the tunes setting the tempo for their work.

“When we return to Alqualondë, I will tell atar how you did today. I think he will be most pleased. The folk back home probably would not be terribly impressed with you, but atar will be proud and that is what matters most right now,” Olwion said.

Arafinwë laughed. “I lost my shirt over the side when that big wave hit, and I now stink of sweat and fish. I very much doubt that anyone would be terribly impressed with me at this moment.”

“Ohhh, I can think of someone who would be pleased to see you like this, but even she would probably prefer to have you bathed and properly dressed before you saw her again, be she a sea maiden or no.”

The all laughed at that and continued their work.

Laurehér’s eyes snapped open and he immediately sat bolt upright. He swore so loudly Faroniel turned in her sleep. “Dear Eru. I AM a sailor!” he exclaimed in horror.

He reached over and poured himself a cup of water from the other on the table beside the bed, still muttering curses under his breath. After downing two cups which failed to taste salty though he could still remember the taste of the ocean from his dream, he laid back down. He put his hands over his face as panic continued to well inside of him.

“I am a Vanya!” He whispered aloud to himself. “I am not a Teler. I cannot be a sailor. Yet…my brother was a sailor, and I know how to sail?” He cursed some more. “I am going to be useless here, completely and utterly useless…”

Perhaps it was just a dream? But then, he knew he could tie knots and could feel the rope in his hands and hear the billowing sails and taste the sea and feel the sway of the ship. No…these were memories and he really did know how to sail. Perhaps he was a Vanya who spent some time with the Teleri for some reason and learned their craft? After all, he was…How old was he? Perhaps three thousand years old? Was that right? He was not certain and his head was starting to ache in the place where he had been hit. Vaguely he wondered if that blow had caused far more damage than he previously believed.

Faroniel rolled over and placed her hand on his chest. “Laurehér, you probably had a nightmare. Go back to sleep or I will not take you to the village tomorrow.”

He glared at her in irritation, then grudgingly settled himself once again. If he knew how to sail, then perhaps he knew other things as well. He could only hope that he had skills which were useful so far inland. The sea shanties from the dream resounded in his head as he fell asleep again, muttering them to himself.

XXXXX

The village was not that far away by horse and they rode together at a leisurely pace. The day was clear but exceedingly cold and snow still lay about.

“The winters last longer than they used to since the war started,” Faroniel commented as she guided the horse down the heavily wooded path to the village. “We blame Morgoth for it.”

Laurehér felt her shiver a bit and put his arms more securely around here, leaning closer to her back to share his warmth. “From what you have told me of Morgoth, I would believe that he would do such a thing to further punish those who oppose him.”

“Well the cold is a good excuse for you to keep your hood pulled low over your bright elf eyes and you may want to hunch a bit as well so that you actually look cold like a mortal would.” She gestured to the bushes beside them. “Look how the leaves on the bushes are curled up tight against the weather. It is even colder today than it was yesterday.”

He gave a small laugh, “You will have to remind me. I find the cool air refreshing, and may well forget for this cloak you made for me is almost too warm.”

“I could do with being too warm right now,” Faroniel sighed pulling her cloak a little closer around her. “But I think spring will be late again, so I may not be warm again for many weeks yet.”

When they reached the outskirts of the village, they dismounted and she led the horse with Laurehér walking beside her. The houses and other buildings were made of wood with thatched roofs, each sporting stone chimneys billowing smoke. As they passed each building, she spoke in a soft voice, telling him the names of the folk who dwelt there and the work they did. He stared in fascination at the low structures shut up tight against the weather. Sounds of activity came from most of the structures, voices talking or singing, children chattering and crying. Every so often he would stop and listen in fascination, trying to discern what was being said or sung.

“Laurehér, we need to keep moving. Stopping so much is drawing attention to us and I wish for us to be ignored,” Faroniel admonished.

“I am sorry,” he answered quietly, pulling his hood a bit lower. “I just…it has been so long since I last heard the voices of children. It is beautiful to me – even their fussing. I find that I have missed those sounds, I think, for a long time.”

“We will stop at the candlemaker’s house just ahead there beside the smith’s forge,” she pointed to the building. “We need more candles.”

He nodded in reply, then immediately stopped in front of the next house, breathing deeply. The smells from the place were wonderful and he longed to go inside.

Faroniel laughed. “Be they Elf or Mortal, all males think with their stomachs.”

He gazed at her inquiringly, intentionally looking more affronted than he actually felt.

She glared at him though her eyes betrayed her amusement. “If you behave yourself, I will get you a treat from the baker’s, but only if you behave.”

“Fair enough,” he replied with a grin.

Handing him the horse’s reins, she instructed him to remain outside while she went in and purchased the candles. The horse seemed a little agitated by the pounding at the smith’s, but Laurehér spoke a few soothing words to it and it calmed immediately. He watched in fascination as the smith worked in the smokey open forge, squeezing the bellows to raise the flame and then alternately heating and hammering away at the horseshoe he was making. The smith was a grizzled old man with a few streaks of black darkening his grey hair and beard. He was stooped from his many years of labor, but his arms and calloused hands were large and muscular, moving with easy efficiency. Every blow was well-placed and he eyed the piece critically as he worked.

Another man soon came forward, leading a horse. The smith nodded to the man who waved back. The horse whinnied, shying away from the noise of the hammer. A few moments later, the smith came over with the shoe and the man tried to calm the beast. Another man came over to help and together they struggled to settle it enough so the smith could remove the old shoe and put on the new. However, the more they tried to contain the animal, the more it bucked, eventually kicking the helper and the smith.

Laurehér told his horse to stay put, and it agreed to do so as he dropped the reins and strode over to help. He spoke soothingly to the agitated horse in Quenya, calming it. Then he surprised himself by casting aside his cloak, putting on a spare leather apron and gloves, and picking up where the smith had left off. With a practiced skill he proceeded to remove the old shoe, complete the making of the new one, and put it on. The horse remained calm and docile the whole time. It all came so easily to him as if he had been working at a forge and shoeing horses for a long time. The weight of the hammer, the clang of metal on metal, and the hiss of hot iron cooling in the water all spoke to him, and he found to his great delight that he knew their song.

When he finished, he looked up and noticed Faroniel staring at him in surprise, holding the reins of her horse. The smith sat on the ground holding his side and the other man supported him, as he rubbed his own leg where the horse had kicked him. They both stared at him as well.

Laurehér grinned at Faroniel as he said in Sindarin, “I used to work at a forge back home. The smith needed help, so I did what I could for him.”

Faroniel shook her head in surprised wonder as the smith commented, “You’re that Elf from over the sea that Belegon talked about, aren’t you?”

Tentatively, Laurehér nodded, carefully setting aside the last of the tools, suddenly afraid that he had done too much in helping. Were the folk of the town going to chase him away? It seemed that he had done no harm in offering his help. Yet, he had no idea how mortals would react to what he had done. It probably was very presumptuous of him to help out as he had.

The smith smiled, showing yellowed, slightly crooked teeth. “Your voice gives you away as does your way with beasts. My name is Angadan. My boys are away fighting Morgoth like you should be. Why aren’t you?”

Laurehér bowed his head in sorrow and shame. From all that Faroniel had said, the Elves had caused this fight with Morgoth and should be the ones fighting him. He should be fighting him, but he no longer knew how, last of the Elves of Valinor as he was. Raising his head, but not quite meeting the man’s eyes, he carefully replied, “I was away fighting him and I was badly injured. Faroniel found me and healed me. I tried to find the Host from Valinor, but they are gone. I…I have nowhere else to go, so I am here now.”

The smith grimaced, gasping as he clutched his side. “You do nice work, Elf. You have an easy skill with the hammer. I have bruised my ribs, if not broken some of them. This has happened before, and I know I will have trouble working for a few weeks. I could use some help at the forge until I get better. Since the Elves took my sons from me, it only makes sense that an Elf should be provided to help me out. You interested in working at my forge, under my supervision of course, until I am well again?”

Taken aback at the offer, Laurehér looked over at Faroniel, silently seeking her permission. It was exhilarating working with metal and he truly hoped she would give her approval. She seemed to understand for she sighed and nodded her head.

Laurehér flashed her a small smile in return, then leaned over, extending his hand to the smith to help him stand. “I would be honored,” he replied.

XXXXX

While a healer tended the old smith, Laurehér worked at the forge completing the remaining tasks for the day. With newly wrapped broken ribs, Angadan the smith sat stiffly in a nearby chair and gave his approval to each piece Laurehér completed.

“Laurehér, you were well-trained. The master you apprenticed to must have been excellent and he must have been very proud of you. Your village must have been very upset to lose one so skilled as you to the war,” said Angadan.

Feeling quite pleased with the compliments, Laurehér wiped sweat and ash from his brow with a rag as he replied, “Thank you. In truth, I remember little to nothing of my life in Valinor. My hands recall their skills, but my head recalls little else.  I do not think I was the only smith, but I do not know how many others we had nor if they all went to the war.”

“It must have been a bad head injury you received,” Angadan observed.

Putting away tools as the smith pointed to their proper places, Laurehér answered, “My shoulder, arm, and leg were injured and an orc was trying to behead me, but he took an arrow in the throat and the flat of his blade hit my skull instead.”

The smith grimaced as did the healer who had lingered nearby listening. “You could have died from that injury,” the healer commented. “That is why we wear helmets into battle, Friend.”

“I know. I am fortunate to yet live. My helmet was found nearby, I think. I have no idea why I was not wearing it at the time. I was not wearing my gloves either and I think they were found nearby as well.”

“It is said that Elves can endure and survive wounds that mortals cannot. It sounds as if that legend is true,” the healer said.

“I only know about Mortals what I recently have seen,” Laurehér gestured to the smith’s bandaged chest, “And about Elves what I have experienced for myself. But I do know that I have seen Elves die of wounds. We can be killed. One of the few memories I do have is of watching a dear friend die of his wounds after battle.” He closed his eyes against the sudden surge of emotion and turned away, recalling vividly his last conversation with Lord Sartandil and the subsequent burial of his only known elven friend and the bodies of those who had lain dead nearby.

Someone patted and rubbed his back reassuringly and he was surprised to hear Faroniel speak from behind him for he never sensed her approach. “War is hard on everyone be they Elf or Man. And I have found that the wounds we cannot see are the ones that are the slowest to heal. They beat down Elves and Men just the same. Laurehér’s body has recovered, but his mind and heart have not. Sometimes I wonder if they ever will.”

Laurehér opened his eyes and turned to look at her, searching her face for an answer as to why she thought him so…so damaged when she had never before voiced such things to him. All he saw was obvious intense pity, and was that a hint of warning in her eyes? He opened his mouth to ask, but she gave the slightest shake of her head and put her hand on the side of his face as if examining him.

“I knew that Men returned from battle changed. I have seen it myself and have no doubt my sons will be different when they return to me. And some are…more changed than others.” Angadan said gesturing to his own head. “I did not know it happened to Elves a well. I guess it makes sense that it would though.”

“They live forever,” Faroniel explained, “and I have heard that they are half made of memory. You take that away and-”

“You get half an Elf,” the smith said with a grim chuckle.

“Exactly,” Faroniel agreed sadly, nodding toward Laurehér sympathetically. “He can still do things with his hands and he is very smart and very likeable, but…” She shook her head and sighed.

“I understand,” said the healer.

“As do I,” said the smith as he glanced over at Laurehér with new understanding in his eyes. “He is welcome here at my forge, Faroniel, and I do expect him here two hours after sunrise every day to help if he is up to it. I will pay him for his services. He has strong hands and does excellent work.”

Faroniel placed her hand on Laurehér’s arm, drawing his attention back to her. “Are you all right with this agreement? Do you think you can handle this amount of work each day?”

“Yes,” Laurehér replied simply, searching her eyes again for an explanation for why she was behaving this way and saying such things about him. He held back his rising anger and his questions though.

“Do you want me to examine him and see if there is anything I can suggest which may help him?” the healer asked gesturing to Laurehér.

“No,” Faroniel replied in sad resignation. “He made such excellent progress at first in the healing of his body, but it has been months now and his mind…I do not think that even Elven healers from Valinor could heal him further. Some things simply never get any better – even in Elves.”

The healer nodded in understanding. “I watched him work and have spoken with him while he was here and I listened to others interacting with him. In truth, I would not know what else to do besides what you seem to have already done, for he is amiable and functioned well today. If you notice any fainting spells or dizziness or new bouts of forgetfulness, please send for me.”

“I will do that. Thank you,” Faroniel inclined her head, her voice filled with gratitude.

The smith shook his head and grimaced, “And to think Belegon thought the Elf would stir up trouble and inspire more of our young men to go to the war. If anything, this one is a testament to the benefits of staying home.” He chuckled grimly.

“Laurehér, my friend, I will see you tomorrow morning. Have a good rest tonight. You have earned it. Good evening, Faroniel. Take good care of my helper.”

“Thank you, Angadan. And a good evening to you, and to you, Master Healer,” she replied.

“And to you,” the healer said.

Taking Laurehér’s right hand in hers, she gave a tug and they turned and walked away.

“Why?” Laurehér whispered in bitter confusion. He felt humiliated by the whole conversation and betrayed. All he did was offer his help and she repaid him by treating him like this?

“I will explain at home and not before then,” she responded in an equally low whisper.

As they passed the baker’s house, she stopped and told him to wait outside with the horse. A few moments later she returned and placed a warm apple tart in his hand. Taking the reins in her left hand, she said, “You earned that, now eat and be silent, and I will explain when we get home.” 

At the edge of the village, they mounted the horse and rode the rest of the way in silence.

XXXXX

As the door closed behind him, Faroniel stoked the fire, bringing some light to the dim cabin. Laurehér removed his cloak and hung it on the nail by the door, then turned to her. Crossing his arms, he held his head high and glared at her with a look that he knew had made others quell in fear in the past.

“Explain,” he demanded.

She finished with the fire, then rose and seemed taken aback by his expression, almost afraid, but then she visibly steeled herself and replied, “It is a good thing that you did not look like that when you were in the village. They would have killed you on the spot.”

“Looked like what?” he spat. “According to you I am only half of an Elf.”

“You literally are glowing, with fury, I suspect. I had heard tales of the Eldar from across the sea having a great light about them, especially in battle. I never understood that until now. Do you plan on fighting me, a lone defenseless woman?”

“Your words are sharp and poisoned and they cut deeper than any blade, defenseless woman.”

Faroniel crossed her arms, matching him with a glare of her own, her voice stern. “My words were spoken to cut through the beliefs that those men held about you. Belegon told all of the villagers about you months ago, and they all believed that you were there to steal their sons away like the recruiters did before. Belegon and many others have sons approaching the age where they could go fight. If you went into the village as you are now, all bright and powerful and majestic and beautiful, boys would be clamoring to follow wherever you led and their kin would murder you to prevent that.”

“But you lied about me! You made me sound weak and broken and…and as if my mind and spirit are ruined! I can assure you they are not!”

She held out her hands in a placating gesture, but he ignored it. “Laurehér, you are not weak, but you are broken, whether you admit it or not. You have few memories of your past and some that you do have, you hide from. You will not even accept your real name any longer. If the people of the village believe that you are a skilled, intelligent, kind ellon who poses no threat to anyone, then you will not only be allowed to live, but you will be able to make a place for yourself here and make friends. My words were spoken to protect you from the others and to protect you from yourself.”

He uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists, shaking them in frustration as more memories returned while he spoke. “Faroniel, one hundred ellyn, one hundred warriors died because of me and my name. And those are just the ones that I know about. I…my heart tells me that more would have come looking for me and perhaps more did. I…I…” He sighed and pounded his left fist against the doorframe hard enough to make the whole wall shake as he struggled to find the words and make sense of what he was remembering.

“I led thousands into battle. Thousands! With that many elven warriors at my command, what would I care for a few meager mortal boys barely come to manhood?”

“You are a lord then?” she asked in a gentler voice.

“Yes.”

“To have had thousands at your command…it seems you must have been one of the Captains of the West,” she ventured.

“Yes, I believe I was.”

She swore quietly and turned, bending over to put more wood on the fire. He watched the firelight play across her face as she swore again then rose and came over to him. Tentatively, she placed her hand on his chest, smoothing it across to his shoulder and then to rest on and grip his upper right arm. “You can never ever let my people know who and what you really are. You need to let them continue to think you were a villager like them, a lowly smith - albeit a highly skilled one - recruited to fight in a war far away. If they ever find out you were a lord and captain, they will kill you for that alone, even if you do not regain any further memories and pose no threat now.”

He pushed her hand off of his arm. “You want me to live a lie? I thought you were a better person than that!” He turned away from her, breathing heavily as he reached to open the door, trying to figure out where he would go if he left right now.

She grabbed his arm and tugged hard to turn him to reluctantly face her again. “You are a smith and a gifted one, though I do not know why a great lord would need such skills. It is no lie to live as a smith for now. What is a lord without his people? What is a captain with no warriors at his command? Just another ellon. And that is what you are right now, just a simple ellon with no one to command. Iron bends to your will, but folk do not and that is the way it needs to be right now. There is nothing dishonest in you being Laurehér the Vanyarin smith from across the sea. No one need know you were a lord and captain of the Vanyarin army – even you did not know it until now.”

He took a step back, closed his eyes, and smacked the back of his head against the door a few times, welcoming the pain as an outlet for his frustration. Her words made sense and her reasoning was sound, much as he did not wish them to be. He banged his fists against the door as well. Lord Arafinwë of the Vanyar he was! But the warriors from his memories all had dark hair, dark or brown like the Noldor she had described to him. So why was a Vanyarin lord commanding Noldorin warriors? Would the Noldor not have had a lord of their own folk commanding their armies? Unless perhaps his own adar had been a Noldo.

Finrod from the stories Faroniel had told had golden hair and he was a Noldorin prince and later a king. Arafinwë was no prince, but it stood to reason that if that ellon could be of mixed blood and have golden hair then why could Arafinwë not, too? But who was his own adar? Who had sired Arafinwë?

He bowed his head in shame. He could not even remember a face, let alone a name for his own adar. What kind of son was he? Certainly he must have loved his adar. What son would not? What had Sartandil said to him again? Oh, yes. He was the last of his house just as Arafinwë was the last of his. So…his own adar was dead.

Laurehér shook his head, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the tears he felt welling up. His own adar was dead and he was such a terrible son that he could not even remember him nor how he died. If Sartandil had lost his adar in battle, then it stood to reason that he had lost his own that way as well. It must have been early in the war though for he could remember leading more than a few campaigns. Perhaps his adar had been among the first to die?

He searched his heart for any feelings regarding that and realized that indeed that had been the case. His adar had been among the first to lose his life in the war with Morgoth. What would his adar think of him now? Would he want him to persist as he was now or would he expect him to be out on the field of battle, fighting Morgoth with his last breath and strength? Would he be ashamed of him for living in a mortal village with no memory to guide him, existing and persisting but nothing more than that? To that he had no answer, and his heart revealed nothing more.

The gentle brush of fingers on his face broke him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and looked into Faroniel’s concerned ones.

“What are you remembering, Laurehér?” She asked, wiping tears off his face with her sleeve.

“My adar died in one of the first battles and I can remember neither his face nor his name.” His voice broke as he spoke.

Gently she pulled his head to her shoulder and enveloped him in a warm embrace while he wept anew for the adar he had lost.

XXXXX

His dreams that night led him to a forge lit by fire and the light of the Two Trees.

Telperion was waxing as he worked, heating, hissing, and hammering new shapes into the metal he held. The Master looked on, not offering any suggestions nor critiquing his technique. When at least he finished and lay the piece to cool, the Master offered him a cup of cold water.

Arafinwë drank the whole cup in one go. Setting down the empty cup which was immediately refilled, he looked questioningly at his mentor. “You have been quiet. Did I pass the test? Are you pleased enough with my work that I may continue learning?”

“You are not your brother,” the Master said.

“Nor do I wish to be,” he replied honestly, knowing exactly which brother the Master compared him to. “My brother has many fine qualities as a craftsman which I will never possess, but I have much in my heart which he will never know for his pride and his attitude forbid him from learning such things.”

“What has your atar said, Child?”

“He wishes for all of us to learn the crafts of the Noldor,” Arafinwë replied dutifully.

“But is it your wish to learn these crafts? They require time and effort and many mistakes from which you will learn to make newer and better things over time.”

“Master, I am aware of this. Why are you questioning me about this? My amillë may be a Vanya, but I am as skilled as any Noldo, and I have the drive and the desire to learn and better myself. Are my skills truly so poor and wanting at the forge?”

Arafinwë bowed his head in shame. Everyone seemed to compare him to his brothers in all things. He was not them. He had not their skills, but he had his own and no one ever seemed interested in seeing what he could do for himself – they only wanted to compare him to his brothers, especially the oldest one, and see where he fell short. And now his Master was doing the same thing. Just like his Atar did at every turn…

He felt gloved fingers lift his chin and he opened his eyes, flinching as he met the searingly bright gaze of the Vala before him. “Son, I do not compare you to your brothers, looking to see where you fall short as others apparently do. I just wish to confirm that you are here for the love of the craft and not for ambition to be just like them. For like it or not, you will never be like either of them, especially the eldest one.”

“I love my brothers,” Arafinwë replied honestly. “And, like them, I also enjoy working with my hands. I enjoy the effort and the crafting. I thrill at drawing forth that which is hidden within the material and which I can envision as possible within the materials with which I work.”

“You do not perceive your work as bending materials to your will as your brothers see their work. I like that and I admire that in you. It is not a Noldorin trait, but more one of the Vanyar.” The Master leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially though there was no one else to hear. “I will not tell your Noldorin atar if you do not tell him.”

Grinning broadly, Lord Aulë straightened again and spoke more formally. “I will keep you as my apprentice, young Arafinwë. You are not like your brothers and that is a very good thing. You are striving to become as you should be and not as others think you should be. I am proud of you for that, and I would be delighted to help you achieve your potential.”

Confidence and joy thrilled through him. Arafinwë could not help the smile that lit his whole being, fairly beaming as he replied, “I would honored to continue to serve and learn from you, my Lord.”

XXXXX

Olwion – “son of Olwë” the King of the Teleri. Olwion is Arafinwë’s brother-in-law, but I don’t know which of Olwë’s sons he happens to be.

Angadan – Yes, the smith's name means “Iron Man”, deal with it. LOL

Sea maiden – The meaning of Eärwen, the name of Arafinwë’s wife who is the daughter of Olwë.

Amillë – (Quenya) mother

Atar – (Quenya) father

Note: I suspect that Arafinwë, having married the daughter of the King of the Teleri, would have been obliged to learn how to sail and haul nets like any honest Teler.

The next day, Laurehér rode to the village with Faroniel, but she did not stay with him at the forge. Leaving him in the care of the smith, she departed to check the traps. It would be afternoon before she returned, but Laurehér did not mind. He had plenty of work to do for the smith and he was eager to do it. As he labored, memories of technique and training came to him, bringing him much joy.

The smith made himself comfortable in a chair and watched Laurehér work. He critiqued each piece created, always seeming to be pleased with the craftsmanship. At one point after lunch, Angadan stopped Laurehér. “Explain to me the technique you are using making this tool. I would not have thought to do what you just did.”

Laurehér smiled, wiping sweat from his brow and paused in his work. He launched into an explanation of what his Master had taught him. After a few minutes of discussion, he pumped the bellows to bring the fire back to proper temperature so he could continue. As he set down the bellows, and turned to pick up the tongs holding the half-formed tool, someone grabbed his right hand as a fist connected with his face.

He cried out as he fell against the forge, but his assailant struck him again, knocking him to the ground before his clothes could catch fire.

“Belegon! What are you doing?” Angadan angrily demanded.

“Shut up and stay out of this, Angadan!” Belegon yelled. “This is between me and the Elf.” He picked up Laurehér and smashed his fist into his stomach.

“Elf, I told you to stay away from the village. You are not wanted here!”

Laurehér gasped in reply, trying to speak despite the wind being knocked out of him, but the smith spoke up again.

“Let him go, Belegon! He is here helping me,” Angadan shouted. “I got kicked shoeing a horse yesterday and he calmed the horse and finished the shoeing. He is working for me now for the next three months or until the healer says I am well enough to lift a hammer again.”

“I will not have this pretty boy taking our sons away to the war. Too many of our men have been lost to it. Elves live forever, but our folk do not!” He grabbed Laurehér by his leather apron and pulled him up to rain punches down on his face and torso.

Blood streamed from his nose and his lips, but Laurehér did not fight back. After Faroniel’s warning that a lord and captain of an army would be put to death for tempting men to fight, Laurehér felt it best to not resist at all and let them think he was weak. He hated it, but he wanted to live, to spite Belegon if nothing else at this point. Belegon grabbed him by the single braid which bound his hair and by his arm, dragging him up to hit him again. Laurehér clutched at his head, but Belegon abruptly released him when the smith, the baker, and the tanner, who had houses on either side of the forge, tackled Belegon, pinning him to the ground.

“Stop this madness now!” the tanner yelled. “The Elf is helping here! He was injured in the war and does not even remember who he is or where he is from. What fool would want to go to war if he is an example of what happens to a man as a result of it?”

Belegon fought against the three holding him down. “He will bring more Elves here. We should kill him now before he does!”

“If the Elves wanted him so badly, they would have already come back for him. He is damaged and they don’t want him anymore, but we do,” the baker said, driving his knee into Belegon’s chest.

“He’s a good worker and I want to keep him around,” Angadan declared from his perch on top of Belegon’s legs. “Besides he did not even try to defend himself against you. I’m not so sure he even knows how to anymore.”

“The Elf’s making a tool for me right now,” the tanner declared, digging his knee deeper into the struggling Belegon’s right arm. “If it is ruined because of you, then you will pay for him to make me a new one. Now apologize and let him get back to work. By delaying him you are delaying me in my work, you idiot!”

After a few tense moments, Belegon stopped resisting. Laurehér stayed on the ground where he was, too afraid to move, partly because it hurt so much and mostly because he was uncertain as to what to do next.  When the three holding Belegon were convinced he was going to back off, they let him up.

He gave Laurehér a long calculating look, then spat on him and swore. “If you bring the war back to us again, Elf, you will taste my steel and there won’t be anyone in the village who will defend you.” Then he turned and stormed off, pushing his way through the crowd that had formed to watch the spectacle unfold. As the villagers parted way for him, some muttered in agreement though others expressed sympathy for Laurehér.

As soon as Belegon was gone, the three turned to Laurehér while the baker’s wife ran off to fetch the healer.

“You all right?” the baker asked, wiping at the blood on Laurehér’s face with a corner of his flour-covered apron.

“Anything broken other than your pride?” the tanner asked with a grin.

Laurehér spat out the blood in his mouth, trying to figure out just what parts were injured. He hurt everywhere. “I hurt,” he managed. “I do not think anything is broken.” He ran his hands along his chest and took as deep a breath as he could manage, then winced against the pain.

“You probably bruised your ribs, but that leather apron should have afforded you some protection against the blows,” the smith said.

“You best steer clear of Belegon,” the baker said. “He hates you and he will kill you if you cross him. He lost his brother to the recruiters as well as his brother-in-law – Faroniel’s husband. We welcome you though, Elf, and hope you will stay.”

“Thank you for the warning and for coming to my rescue,” Laurehér gasped. “I am grateful.”

“When the healer finishes with you, I’ll help you get home,” the tanner said, moving aside to let the healer through. “I’ll send my son to find Faroniel and let her know what happened to you.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said again as the healer knelt beside him and began inspecting his injuries.

Angadan called for the crowd to disperse and the baker left to go back to his kitchen, but he returned a few minutes later with a few apple tarts wrapped in a cloth. He handed them to the tanner with the instructions, “Keep one for yourself and one for the smith, but the rest are to go home with Laurehér. The Elf deserves something for his troubles.”

“What, none for me?” the healer pouted.

“Come by my shop when you are finished and you can pick out something for yourself.”

The healer grinned triumphantly. “Thanks!”

Briefly Laurehér wondered if perhaps Faroniel had been right about men and their stomachs, but the then the healer removed the leather apron and peeled back his sweaty shirt, causing him to cringe in agony, forgetting all else.

“Bruised, but not broken,” the healer finally said after much probing. “I’ll mix up something for the pain in a few minutes.”

Laurehér just closed his eyes and tried to think about the tarts.

XXXXX

The tanner and the healer both accompanied him home with him riding in tandem with the tanner who kept him from falling off the horse. Between the effects of the injuries and the pain medicine, he was having great difficulty remaining upright by the time they got him to his house. Faroniel was not back yet, so the two undressed him and the healer bathed his injuries.

When they finally got him settled in bed, the tanner commented, “So you sleep with her then?”

Laurehér looked over at him thinking it an odd question. “There is only one bed. Where else would I sleep?”

“We had been wondering about that when we heard that she had taken you in,” the tanner grinned slyly. “So are you as good with your hands in here as you are at the forge?”

Laurehér answered readily enough. “Well, I am good at carving wood and have added to the décor,” he gestured to the now ornate door frame and the carvings adorning the furniture.

“I believe he was referring to using your hands in bed,” the healer clarified with a smirk. “Those are nice carvings though.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said. “But what exactly is he referring to by my using my hands in bed?”

Both men seemed a bit taken aback and the tanner started to make some motions with his hands, but Laurehér stared at them blankly.

“Ah, well, never mind,” the tanner said waving dismissively, then added quietly out of the corner of his mouth, “He really is damaged, isn’t he?”

“Could be an innocent,” the healer ventured.

“He must be a thousand years old. He should know what I’m talking about,” the tanner said. “And if he doesn’t, it’s about time someone told him.”

“I am three thousand years old,” Laurehér clarified, wondering why his age was relevant to this conversation.

“It could be the medicine I gave him making him not think very clearly,” the healer offered.

“Could be,” the tanner agreed. “But you have given me that stuff before when I got hurt and I was still quite capable of thinking about using my hands in bed and actually using them and other things as well, so I am not convinced.”

“I gave him a lot more than I gave you, you lusty fool. It is no wonder you have six kids already,” the healer said, swatting the tanner in the arm.

The tanner replied with a cheeky grin, then addressed Laurehér again. “Well, Elf, should you discover a new talent with your hands and get the lovely Faroniel pregnant, you had better marry her.”

Laurehér was taken aback suddenly realizing what the two men had been talking about. Appalled, he responded, “For Elves, the act which makes a female pregnant also seals a marriage. I could not get any female pregnant without making her my wife in the process. Is it not the same way with mortals as well?”

The healer and the tanner looked at each other both suddenly seeming a bit uncomfortable as they regarded Laurehér again. “Ah, no, it is not the same way with mortals,” the healer said.

Now Laurehér was very surprised and shocked as well, especially when he more fully realized what they had been implying about him. “You think Faroniel and I have been…No. Absolutely not. No.”

“You have to admit that she is very beautiful and very lonely,” the healer pointed out.

“Yes, she is both of those,” Laurehér agreed. “But Elves do not…it is not…I…we do not take advantage of people like that. I must admit I am horrified to think that you thought I would do something like that. I am an honorable ellon!”

The tanner shook his head in disbelief as the door suddenly opened and Faroniel came rushing in, “And a damaged one. Obviously a damaged one,” he said as he rose from his chair and greeted Faroniel as she ran to the bed.

“I trust my boy told you what happened to him. The healer tended him and we brought him home for you. There are some tarts from the baker over on the table. It is time I got back home now.” Turning to Laurehér, he added with a knowing grin, “Feel better soon, my friend, and may your hands discover a new purpose in the days to come.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said a bit uncertainly, feeling most uncomfortable with what the man was suggesting.

“He refers to the effects of the medicine,” the healer said dismissively, nodding to the tanner. “Ignore him. We have been.”

Faroniel looked at the tanner oddly, but she expressed her gratitude then seemed to dismiss him from her thought as he walked outside, closing the door behind him. Turning her full attention to Laurehér, she asked, “Are you badly hurt?” Without waiting for a response, she looked to the healer, “Will he be all right? Belegon can be ruthless when he is angry.”

“He will be fine,” the healer assured her. “No bones are broken and his kind heals quickly. I already see improvement in the hours I have been with him. He should stay home tomorrow, but perhaps in a day or two he will able to return to the forge. I have prepared another draught for him. Give it to him in an hour and then he should sleep comfortably through the night. I will return in the morning to check on him.” He patted Laurehér on the arm, then turned to Faroniel.

“Your brother-in-law made some people very angry today with his attitude and his fighting. Laurehér did nothing wrong and did not even try to defend himself. He is a wise ellon in that regard. If he had fought back, Belegon may well have killed him.”

Faroniel nodded as she bent and gently smoothed Laurehér’s hair. “Thank you for all you have done for him and for bringing him here and for sending for me. I am most grateful.” Leaning forward, she kissed Laurehér on a small unbruised spot on his forehead. “I am so sorry for what Belegon did to you. So very sorry.”

Laurehér reached up and brushed his fingers along her face. “I am all right. You have nothing to apologize for. You have shown me nothing but kindness and tried to warn me about him. I did what I thought best when he attacked me and it seems to have been the right thing to do.”

She kissed him again on the same spot then stood up. “Are you hungry?’

“A little bit,” he replied.

“Best keep the meal light. Anything heavy might make him sick right now,” the healer advised. “Do you want me to stay or do you think you can handle caring for him?”

“I will be all right taking care of him. If I need anything, I can be at your house in a few minutes. My horse is fast.”

The healer smiled as he arose and gathered his supplies. “Very well then. Take good care of him and I will return in the morning. Laurehér, rest easy and stay in bed. Let her take care of you. You do not need to be up and about for any reason tonight. You need sleep.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said, feeling very, very tired.

“Good evening to you both,” the healer said as he walked out the door.

“Good evening,” Faroniel called after him, already pulling out dishes and stoking the cooking fire.

Laurehér fell asleep almost immediately.

XXXXX

He looked up from his desk as the door to his study burst open then immediately slammed shut. Without a word, his brother strode over to the side table and poured two very full glasses of wine. He drank most of one in one swallow, the refilled it and walked over to the desk.

“Here, Arafinwë, you will need this,” he handed over one of the glasses. “I know I certainly do.” Careful not to spill, he collapsed into the chair in front of the desk. He drank most of his glass again, then got up and brought the whole decanter over and set it on the desk in front of him.

Arafinwë reached out and poured half a glass more for his brother, then moved the decanter over to his side of the desk out of reach of his brother. “No more until you explain.”

“I hate him. I swear, I hate him.”

Arafinwë sat back expectantly and took an appreciative sip of his wine. He had done this many times before with his brother. “So, tell me what our dear elder brother has done this time.”

“Set down your glass, first. Your wife made those robes for you and I would hate for you to spill wine on them. She would blame me for it.” He emptied his glass again and held it out to Arafinwë who just shook his head, setting down his own glass.

“Not until you tell me.”

“Very well then. I was speaking with atar, asking him to restrain our brother for all of his outbursts and speaking against the Valar. Then our dear elder brother walked in fully armed with the ridiculous helmet on his head, and tried to gainsay me in front of atar. I told atar that he has two sons at least who will do his bidding and who support all that he has tried to do here in Valinor, and then I left without saying a word to our brother. My silence always angers him. He followed me out and stayed me at the door to atar’s house. There in front of the throngs of people in the square, he drew his sword on me and put the point on my breast. Then he accused me of plotting to usurp his place and the love of his atar and threatened to kill me! Right there in front of everyone - there must have been hundreds there - he threatened to take my life. When he lowered the sword, I again answered him with silence and walked away.”

Arafinwë sat stunned, staring slack-jawed at his brother, shocked horror coursing through his veins. He picked up his glass and downed the contents in one go. Pouring himself and his brother another full glass, he spilled a bit on his desk, his hands shaking with fear and rage. He drank half the glass, then managed, “He threatened to kill you?! In front of hundreds of our people, he threatened to kill you?” He let out a string of curses in Quenya and Telerin, trying to find something to adequately express his dismay.

“He threatened to kill you?” he asked again, shaking his head, his hands still trembling. “Eru, he has fallen even further than I had previously thought. Melkor has poisoned him even more than I believed possible.”

“Do you know what is even worse?” his brother asked, finishing half of his glass again.

Arafinwë choked on his own drink, gasping, “There is more? What could possibly be worse than threatening to kill you?”

“Atar refuses to reprimand him.”

“What?!” Arafinwë demanded, more fury welling within him. “Well what about ‘the king’?” his voice dripped with venomous derision as he spoke. “Will ‘the king’ judge him then if atar will not?”

“No, ‘the king’ will not judge him either.” He held out his glass for more wine, which Arafinwë gladly poured, adding more for himself. “A Maia came to me before I ever even made it here and informed me that the Valar will sit in judgment of him for breaking the peace of the Valar.”

Arafinwë choked on his drink again, coughing and sputtering, “The Valar?” He swore as wine dripped from his chin onto the documents he had been working on. He brother handed him a cloth and they dabbed at the papers. Giving it up as a lost cause a few moments later, Arafinwë sat back still shock and swore some more.

“He really has gone too far this time,” Arafinwë whispered in awe. “He finally went too far.”

“Little Brother, think of how bad it would have been if I had said anything in response to him either time.”

“Especially at the door to atar’s house.”

“Especially there. I believe he would have killed me.”

Arafinwë swore some more and emptied the decanter into his glass. Glancing at his brother he realized his brother’s glass was empty again, so he arose and retrieved another decanter from the table. Pouring his brother another glass, he sank back down into his own chair behind the desk.

“Thank the Valar you held your tongue. I am surprised you were silent before him, but I am grateful. Very grateful and relieved. I do not know what I would do without you. And atar did nothing? What is to become of us, Brother? What is to become of us?”

When Laurehér awoke he could not tell if he had dreamt or remembered again. In any case, his brother Olwion who taught him to sail must be a terrible ellon for the conversation Laurehér and their other brother had had about him.  

XXXXX

Chapter 6

The next day, Faroniel seldom left this side. The healer expressed his amazement many times as he examined and re-examined Laurehér’s injuries for they had healed so much during the night. Though the man was nice enough, Laurehér was relieved when he finally departed.

“Faroniel,” Laurehér asked from the bed where he lay propped up on pillows. “How unusual is my body’s ability to heal itself? It is nothing remarkable to me, yet the healer could not stop talking about it.”

Faroniel looked up from the table where she sat mixing dough in a bowl, flour dusting her dress. “He was becoming rather annoying, wasn’t he? It is very unusual. You were a swollen, bloody mess yesterday, covered in purple and blue splotches, and one of your eyes was nearly swollen shut by the time I got here. If you could see yourself now and understand how much you have improved. It is as if a week went by overnight.”

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

“You are sorry you are getting well so quickly?” she asked, her voice filled with concern as she set down the bowl, wiped her hands, and came over to sit beside him, taking his left hand in her right.

He gave a small laugh, squeezing her hand as he replied, “No, I am relieved I am healing so quickly. The pain was unbearable yesterday. I mean I am sorry for…for all of this.” He gestured with his right hand to encompass many things. “I was foolish in wanting to go to the village. Then when I ended up with honest work I still nearly got myself killed by Belegon. This has been so very unfair to you.”

“No, it has not.” She sighed and smiled back at him a little sadly. “I was foolish for thinking I could keep you contained here. You must be bored with me by now. I am not surprised you craved the company of others. It was wrong of me to deny it to you for so long.”

Her words surprised him so much he did not know what to say. Why was she apologizing to him? She had been protecting him and was the reason he lived even now. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it in gratitude. Then he was surprised even more when the sudden flush of color in her cheeks stirred him deeply. The tanner was right; she really was very beautiful with her kind, bright blue eyes, and her shimmery silver hair which seemed to defy being contained by braids and bonds. He held her hand against his bruised bare chest.

“Please do not think that I have grown bored or weary of you. I enjoy your company very much,” Laurehér pressed her hand flat against his skin. “I feel comfortable and safe when you are near, for I know that even though I am the last of my kind here, I am not alone. You were concerned about me and rightly so, as I had to learn the hard way,” he grimaced as he shifted his position.

“If this is what a week of healing for a Mortal feels like, then I pity that smith even more for what he must be enduring even now only two days after receiving his injury. You were being wise and I was the one being foolish, wanting to go to the village to see what it looked like. Will you forgive me?”

She smiled and this time the joy on her full, rosy lips reached her eyes. “Yes, I will forgive you, but only if you return to the village when you are well and help the smith again.”

“I will return to the forge as soon as I am able. I am grateful to you for encouraging me in this. My spirit rejoices in working with the metal almost as much as it rejoices in being outside among the trees.”

She regarded him with a curious expression, shaking her head, “You are a marvel to me, Elf Man, you truly are.”

She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek as she had done so many times before, but he turned his head and briefly met her lips with his. Gazing into her very surprised, suddenly shy eyes, he placed his right hand on her flushed, warm face and whispered, “As you are a marvel to me, Mortal Woman. As you are to me.”

They remained thus for a few awkward moments, her breath warm on his lips, then she nervously backed away and returned to the mixing bowl at the table. He covered his face with his hands and turned away, wondering what he had just done and why.

XXXXX

For the next few days, they kept their distance from each other. If he happened to come into contact with her in the course of the day, the brush of an arm as they moved about the cabin or the touch of a hand passing food across the table, she always looked at him questioningly and he always bowed his head and turned away. The day he felt well enough to return to the forge, he rejoiced for he could put this awkwardness at home behind him. Unfortunately for him, there was awkwardness at the forge now, too.

“How are you working again already? It has been four days – only four days, Laurehér!” Angadan kept saying all day long. His sentiments were echoed by the baker and the tanner whenever their work allowed them time to slip away and visit with him.

“I am an Elf. I heal quickly. That is the way of it. Just accept it and let me do my work,” Laurehér finally said when the three had gathered yet again to gawk at him and comment.

“You were a bloody mess when we hauled your carcass away,” the tanner replied. “How can you possibly be lifting a hammer again so soon and your face be perfect again, not a scratch on it?”

Laurehér smashed the hammer into the hot metal resting on the anvil, despite the pain it actually was causing his still bruised ribs, pretending it was the annoying tanner’s head. “I am very fortunate,” he finally said through gritted teeth.

“So am I to have you around again,” the smith agreed from his chair, “but I am also jealous of your sorry hide, recovering so quickly when I can’t even bend over to fasten my shoes yet.”

“Faroniel has taken good care of you for you to be back here so quickly,” the tanner observed.

No thanks to you, Laurehér thought irritably. If I had not listened to you, then I would not have noticed how lovely she is and would not have kissed her and caused the uncomfortable situation I have at home now. I am afraid to speak to her because of you. I am afraid to be near her because of you. I am afraid that if I touch her, I will want her nestled close in my arms because of you.

Laurehér said none of this aloud, but pounded his hammer so hard it broke the piece he was molding. Swearing loudly, he threw the broken pieces down, dropped his hammer, and walked away to shake out his arms and get a drink of water. He rubbed his side as he drank, the pain in his ribs growing from his efforts of the day.

“I think you should clean up and go home, Laurehér.” Angadan said, rising from his chair and walking over to place a hand on Laurehér’s shoulder. “You can start on the piece again tomorrow. I can tell that you are in pain and it is affecting your concentration. “

Laurehér nodded, for he did indeed hurt and was ready to stop. “Thank you. I will return tomorrow morning.”

The smith helped put away tools at the forge as best he could, for which Laurehér was most grateful. When the work was complete, Laurehér took his cloak and his satchel with a water skin and some bread left over from lunch, and walked into the woods rather than follow the road back home.

He wandered for a time, listening to the voices of the trees which were awakening from their winter slumber. Their calm sleepy voices welcomed him, speaking of sunlight and the warming earth and skittering squirrels. He smiled, thinking of what concerns a tree holds and comparing them to the troubles of his own heart. The trees definitely had an easier time of things than did he.

It bothered Laurehér greatly that Belegon hated him so much just for being an Elf. Never had the man even tried to get to know him. From the very beginning, Belegon had despised the Elf his sister-in-law had taken in. After the beating he took at the man’s hands, Laurehér feared what might happen if Belegon returned to Faroniel’s cabin. And why had Faroniel’s sister never come to visit since he had been there? Was she forbidden to do so by Belegon? Was she afraid of the influence of an Elf as well? Briefly he wondered if all of the Elves in Beleriand had been treated this way by Mortals, but he dismissed the idea, considering all of the Mortals he had encountered spoke an elvish language and not some other mortal tongue.

Thoughts of Belegon made him wonder further about his dream about his eldest brother who drew a sword on their other brother. If the incident with Belegon had happened in Valinor, would the Valar have passed judgment on Belegon for what he did to him as they had passed judgment on his eldest brother? Or would his king have passed judgment?

Again he wondered why the king of his people had not judged the sword-drawing transgression. Was it not the place of a king to keep the peace in the land? Yet Arafinwë and his brother both seemed to feel that the king would not have judged fairly even if he had been asked to pass judgment. But why? Clearly the brother who drew the sword should have been held responsible for his actions. Yet even now…Arafinwë knew in his heart that the one he respected as king of his people never would have judged the incident fairly at that time.

What had pushed Olwion to be so mean and so cruel to their brother? Why did he hate him so? Olwion had been kind to him and encouraging of him in the dream memory from the ship. He had taught Arafinwë to sail and prove himself a worthy sailor and fisherman. And Olwion was very specific in stating that their atar would be pleased with these skills in Arafinwë.

Now he was very confused indeed! Why would a Noldorin lord want his youngest son to… yes, Arafinwë was his atar’s youngest son, he felt certain of that. So why would a landlocked lord want his sons to know how to sail on the sea and haul nets? That made no sense. Besides, Arafinwë felt he had a good relationship with Olwion. So, what happened that he felt such contempt for him by the time of the incident with the sword?

Then something else occurred to him. What if he had more than just two brothers? If so, then perhaps there was another who was vile and was the one who drew the sword. In his heart, he knew he had been very close with the brother who had been threatened. He also knew he had been very close with Olwion as well.

He swore out loud, startling some birds. What was the threatened brother’s name?! He wished he could remember it.

Laurehér stopped walking and pressed his forehead against the trunk of the nearest tree, breathing hard. He rubbed his side where it ached from the work of the day. His head hurt now, too, from the effort of remembering. Tears came to his eyes as he again recalled that he was the last of his house. These brothers who he could barely remember and couldn’t even properly name were dead anyway. Two of his brothers died in battle long ago – both the one with the sword and the one who was threatened. He felt certain of that. But what of Olwion? What became of Olwion? He truly did not know and his heart revealed nothing more.

When he regained control of his emotions, he patted the tree and thanked it for lending him support. He needed to get home. The sun had already set and Faroniel would be worried about him. He sighed and sagged against the tree again. What was he going to do about her? What was he to say to her? What could he say to her?

He had kissed her and he did not even know why. No, he finally admitted to himself, he did know why. He wanted to know what it would feel like to press his lips to hers. He kept blaming the idiot tanner for calling his attention to Faroniel, but in truth…in truth he had noticed things about her before – her hair, her eyes, her lips, her soft curves, the way she moved. And if he were most truthful, he would accept that from the very beginning, it seemed right to him that he should have a silver-haired maiden at his side. He honestly did not know if she was the silver-haired maiden who was supposed to be with him, but he knew he belonged with one.

He pushed away from the tree determined to actually leave this time and forced himself to walk in the direction of home. In the book Faroniel had with the conversation about Finrod Felegund, Finrod had said that the joining of Elf with Mortal was only for some high purpose of doom. Those seemed to be some rather strong, haughty words. What ellon would be so arrogant as to look at the one he loved and declare that he would wed her, but only because Eru had decreed that their unbegotten child or children were to be great and glorious? That was ridiculous!

Then again, perhaps Finrod was trying to make Andreth feel better about his brother not marrying her. If he himself had been in Andreth’s position he would have been insulted by the implication that the love between Andreth and Aicanáro was not significant enough in Eru’s eyes to be worthy of their joining. Upon further contemplation, he had to wonder if Finrod had advised his brother against the union because he did not want his brother to die of a broken heart later when the Mortal died of old age or illness. But in trying to spare his brother pain, he obviously had denied his brother and Andreth all happiness. According to Faroniel, they both died alone and unfulfilled. And Finrod had died, too, in a dark dungeon after sacrificing himself to save a Mortal who was in love with an Elf.

Then realization suddenly dawned. Finrod had sacrificed himself in part in apology for what he had done to his own brother. He enabled Beren and Lúthien to be together perhaps to assuage his guilt over keeping his brother and a Mortal apart.

Perhaps if two people love each other, then they should be together and their races should not matter. Did not all love come from Eru? He had heard that somewhere long ago and believed it then. Why should he not believe it now?

So…did he himself love Faroniel? He could not say. He felt many things for her, but he was not certain if love was one of them – at least not yet. She might be his only true friend and his only source of comfort and joy, but too many things still troubled him and too much that he should know lay hidden. When he felt more comfortable with who and what he was, he would consider his feelings again. For now…for now he would do what felt right and hope his heart would guide him and that his head would keep him from doing anything else impulsive and potentially damaging to his relationship with her.

When he finally arrived at the cabin, he opened the door and set his things aside. Closing the door, he turned and she was there with words of welcome. Without thinking, he took her into his embrace, holding her close and resting his cheek on the top of her head. She smelled of smoke from the cooking fire, and the room was fragrant with the scents of the dinner she had kept warm for him. He closed his eyes and sighed.

It was good to be home.

XXXXX

Chapter 7

The next day at the forge, things were better. He felt stronger. The pain was less. The baker and the tanner were too busy to harass him about his healing. The smith found activities to occupy himself as he sat unable to lift a large hammer.  The sun shone more brightly and the day warmed nicely. By the early afternoon, more people were out in the street than Laurehér had noticed previously, which surprised him.

When he had occasion to look up from his work, he began to realize that most of the villagers who were out and about were female. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then he started noting the genders of those wandering about or stopping to watch as he worked and he realized that overwhelmingly they were female, females of all ages in fact.

At last he took a break from the piece he was working on to allow it to cool properly before he began the next phase of work on it. Occasionally the slight breeze wafted by, bringing him snatches of comments from the onlookers.

“Oh, he is handsome.”

“Look at that light in his eyes. They fairly seem to glow and I don’t think it is the fire doing that either.”

“Look at his arms. They must be sooo strong!”

He wiped the sweat from his face with a rag, removed his apron, and loosened the ties on his shirt and tunic as he sat down at the table across from Angadan to take a long drink of cool water. His side still pained him, but it was more bearable today. Taking a short rest should help him make it through the day or so he hoped.

“He has healed well. Not a scratch or a blemish on that perfect face of his,” an old woman’s voice admired.

“Mommy, can we come watch the smith work more often?” a little girl’s voice begged, “He is pretty!”

Pushing his cup to the side, Laurehér folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them. He really wished the females would go somewhere else and stop talking about him. He looked up briefly when Angadan reached over and patted him on the shoulder in something between a gesture of sympathy and a punch of admiration. The man had been smirking and chuckling all day. Now Laurehér suspected he knew why, and he hid his face again.

“His ears are shaped like a leaf,” another little girl announced.

“Nice shoulders,” a young woman commented.

“Yes, but I would not want to birth his babies. You girls think those men with broad shoulders are so handsome and wonderful and then you marry them and struggle to bear their broad-shouldered sons. You really should think about this before you go getting pregnant by them,” another woman’s stern voice warned.

“Leave it to the midwife to spoil an afternoon of fun,” the one who made the shoulder comment pouted.

“Sweetie,” an older woman admonished, “You are pregnant with a woodcutter’s child. You had best be nice to the midwife because you will feel the wisdom of her words all too soon.”

“Yes, I know,” The woman replied with a sigh, “But I can still enjoy the lovely view, can I not?”

“As can I,” agreed the midwife, “And he is ever so lovely to watch, is he not?”

“Have you ever considered moving the forge to, say, the middle of the woods?” Laurehér asked without looking up, his voice muffled.

Angadan laughed merrily and patted him on the shoulder again, this time good-naturedly, “Ah, but you are so good for business, Elf. So many items that people have just been making do with have come in for repair, and I suspect it is all because they want a glimpse of you.”

“Glad I could be of service to you,” Laurehér grumbled sarcastically.

“Do not complain too loudly,” Angadan admonished. “It assures you steady work and dependable pay.”

“That may be so, but at what cost to me? Can they not go make comments about someone else, such as the candlemaker?”

Angadan snorted loudly. “Have you seen that man? His wife and his mother love him, but they are the only ones who would venture to call him appealing to the eyes.”

“In truth?” Laurehér asked and the smith nodded, making a disgusted face to emphasize his opinion.

“Well, I have not seen him. I was merely suggesting someone who worked indoors so I would not have to hear these females make their comments.” Laurehér raised his head, noting how the smith’s face was red with obviously suppressed laughter. “I do not think it would be so bad if were not for the fact that it is the old women, the young women, and the little ones all making comments about me.”

The smith grinned a little wider than necessary and asked, “Did your own folk not stare at you as well? I mean even for an Elf you are good-looking, and that is saying something. I saw Elves a few times long ago and you really are, well, prettier, no, that is not the right word, perhaps handsomer and nobler, or…I don’t know. You have more presence than any of them did…If that makes any sense to you.”

“No, it does not,” Laurehér said, intentionally giving the smith a blank stare. He seemed to be coming dangerously close to figuring out that he was more than just a simple village smith. “Faroniel said that the Elves from Valinor are different from the Elves of Beleriand. I would not know as I have never met any Elves of Beleriand, and the only other Elf of Valinor I remember meeting recently was gravely wounded and died in my arms.”

I am sorry,” Angadan apologized, looking truly contrite. “It must be very hard for you when your only memories of your kind are horrific memories.”

Laurehér nodded and put his head down again.

However, Angadan was not finished with him. “Do you remember any of the good times at all?”

Laurehér searched for a safe memory to recount, then settled on, “I remember one of my brothers teaching me to sail a ship on the sea and fish with nets.  I do not think I was very good at it for I struggled with it, but I enjoyed it very much.  And the songs he taught me while we labored were fun to sing.”

“Do you remember any of them?”

Laurehér thought for a moment then sat up and nodded.

“Sing one for me.”

Laurehér took another long drink of his water, then set down the cup and sang the song.

Anagadan applauded when he finished, as did those nearby who overheard his song. “Laurehér, you have an amazing voice! So what was the song about? I do not recognize the tongue.”

As he explained the best translation he could give, more songs of the sea came flooding back to him. Angadan nodded along fascinated, then asked, “Do you remember any others?”

Laurehér felt his face flush as he grinned and nodded sheepishly. “Yes, yes, I do but they are rather, well, bawdy, and I do need to get back to work now.”

The smith grinned back, “I am a man full ripe in my years. I know many bawdy songs as well. You teach me yours and I will teach you mine.’

Laurehér laughed long and loudly as he thought about how absurd this all was, but in the end he agreed. As he worked, he found that the rhythm of the shanties could be adapted to fit his hammering. He spent the afternoon singing bawdy Telerin sea shanties in Quenya, pausing to give confidential translations to the smith after every song. For hours, the two swapped songs and shared in much laughter as they worked, oblivious to the stares and comments of the onlookers who could not make out a word of what they said.

XXXXX

A few days later, Laurehér returned home early to find golden-haired children playing around the cabin. He approached cautiously, calling out a greeting as he passed through the trees and into the open near the house. The children, three boys and a girl of varying ages stopped and turned to stare at him.

“So you are the Elf,” a teenage boy said as he stood staring. “You do not seem so dangerous to me. “

Laurehér replied curiously. “Yes, I am the Elf, and I can assure you I am not dangerous. Who might you be, Young Visitor?”

“I am Beledir son of Belegon,” the boy proudly replied.

Laurehér slowed his pace even more, carefully taking in his surroundings in case Belegon lay in wait. He had nothing with which to defend himself, and his sword and armor were in the cabin, hidden away in a chest near the bed. The man had been silent and conspicuously absent from Laurehér’s life since the attack. So, why were his children here now?

“What brings you here, Son of Belegon?” Laurehér asked carefully.

“We are visiting our aunt,” the girl, who was clearly the youngest of the group, replied cheerfully.

“He said son of Belegon, not daughter,” the youngest boy complained sticking his tongue out at the girl.

Laurehér could not help smiling at her. “Thank you for such a joyful answer, Daughter of Belegon.”

“Ha!” the girl smirked, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her tongue out at the youngest boy.  

“I’m telling mom, Liriel! You aren’t supposed to stick out your tongue at people,” the boy said accusingly.

“Well you did it first, Beregond. You are always the mean one anyway,” she shot back.

“I am not!”

Yes, you are!”

“Nana!” they both yelled at the same time.

Beledir sighed in deep annoyance. “They are so bothersome. Elf, I apologize for their behavior.”

Laurehér smiled wider unable to help himself. How he missed the voices and banter of children – even when they were misbehaving. “Do not worry. That is the way of siblings, is it not? And my name is Laurehér. I would appreciate it if you would call me that instead of Elf. Otherwise I shall call you Mortal Boy.”

“Yes, Mortal Boy, you should be more considerate of guests,” the third boy smirked.

“Shut up, Brandir,” Beledir snapped. Then he turned his attention to Laurehér again. “Thank you for telling me your name. I will be sure to address you by it from now on.”

“Thank you.”

Just then, an obviously pregnant woman emerged from the cabin followed by Faroniel. “What are you two arguing about now?” the woman demanded.

Beledir and Brandir pointed to Laurehér while the two youngest pointed to each other. Faroniel hid her smile behind her hand. Rolling her eyes, the pregnant woman threw up her hands in exasperation and started to scold the two youngest, but then she stopped when she noticed Laurehér standing there.

“Oh, my,” she said quietly in surprise as she smoothed her dress over her swollen belly. “Ah…hello. You must be that Elf I keep hearing so much about.”

Laurehér took a breath to reply, but heaved a sigh instead when he heard her whisper out of the corner of her mouth, “He is even more gorgeous than I was expecting. Nicely done, Sister, nicely done.”

Faroniel scowled at her sister and swatted her arm in irritation. Her sister elbowed her back in annoyance while putting on a lovely smile aimed at Laurehér.

He bit his lip wondering how he should respond, knowing that this was the wife of the man who wanted to kill him and yet also the sister of the woman he cared about and lived with. Finally he settled with, “Yes, I am that Elf. My name is Laurehér. You must be Faroniel’s sister Tathariel.”

Tathariel beamed. “He knows my name,” she whispered to her sister.

Faroniel rolled her eyes, grumbling as she crossed her arms in annoyance, “Of course he does. He has heard me talk about you for months.”

“So,” Tathariel paused a moment, “Laurehér, are you enjoying your work with the smith? I have heard that you are very good with your hands.” She smiled coyly at him and raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Laurehér gasped in dismay, understanding full well what she was implying, having listened to enough of the women in the village talk about him and then of course the fateful conversation with the tanner.  And to think this woman was Faroniel’s sister and pregnant with the child of the man who wanted him dead!  With an abundance of caution, he replied, “I am a smith and I use my hands as a smith must if he wishes to remain employed in the craft. “

“Yes, of course,” Tathariel said. “I understand you were gravely injured, but it appears you have recovered very well.  Was it my sister’s practiced hand which drew you up and made you hale and whole again?”

“Your sister is remarkably skilled and she has been a great blessing to me. Even the healer in the village has said as much.”

“Yes, she is…ah…skilled. Her long deceased husband often said as much.”

Laurehér opened his mouth to respond, but was not certain what to say in response to that. He was fairly certain that Tathariel was implying some things about Faroniel which were inappropriate for them to be discussing.

“Well, I had best be getting cleaned up so I can help with dinner. It was interesting meeting you all.” He made a polite bow, then went to the door. As the two women parted for him to walk between them, he inclined his head graciously. “If you will excuse me…”

As he moved past, Tathariel reached out and pinched his right buttock, causing him to yelp as he hurried through the door and promptly shut it. He leaned against the door breathing hard, torn between being appalled at the behavior of this pregnant married woman toward her sister’s ah… whatever it was her society would consider one in his rather unique position …and terrified of what her husband would do to him if she went home talking about him the way she had spoken of him just now.

Through the door he could hear Faroniel berating her sister for her behavior and Tathariel arguing back. As quietly as he could, he barred the door and then went to the chest, pulling out his sword and his dagger and laying them on the bed in easy reach.  Moving as quickly as he could, he washed up and started dressing in clean clothes.  As he finished lacing his leggings, he heard the argument end and the sounds of the children being gathered to depart.

Barefoot and bare-chested, he unbarred the door and Faroniel immediately came inside. As soon as the door closed behind her, she stopped and stared at him.

“I am glad you were not dressed that way in front of her or she might have taken you right there at the edge of the woods.”

“Taken me where- ,” he started, then realized what she meant and backed away toward the bed, eying his sword. “Oh! Oh my! No! Absolutely not! I would have fled in terror from her. What is wrong with that woman?”

Faroniel stood there shaking her head, then raised her hand to push her unbound hair behind her ear.  Sighing heavily she replied, “I think she is jealous.” Then she looked over toward the bed and exclaimed in dismay, “You got out your sword to protect yourself from a pregnant woman?!”

He crossed his arms and glared at her. “I got out my sword to protect myself from her husband who might well come back and decide to kill me for what she has said and done.”

“I do not blame you for that. But I do not think she will be telling him about the way she behaved toward you.” She kept looking at the sword, shaking her head.

He turned and put on his shirt and tunic, lacing them up.

“You did not wash your hair,” she observed. “You must have had cold water for washing up. I am sorry about that.”

“I stank of smoke and sweat and needed to bathe. My hair can wait. I will need your help though.”

“Need my help with what?”

“I am going to put on my armor.”

“What?!” she exclaimed as she watched him dress. “Why?”

He put on his boots, then went over to the chest and started pulling out pieces of armor.

“Because,” he explained. “If that man comes back and threatens me or you, then he will be met by an Elf lord and captain of the army of Valinor and not by Laurehér the smith.”

She looked about flustered for a few moments, then reached for the nearest piece of polished armor.

“No,” he said waving to another piece. “That one first.”

After a few minutes, he was fully garbed and she stepped back, eyes wide, clapping her hand to her mouth.

He strapped on his sword, then put on his helm and gloves. “Well?” he asked expectantly.

Faroniel’s pretty blue eyes were wide as she moved further away from him, nearly tripping over a chair.   “You…you…” she blubbered

“Am I imposing enough to make him stop and think before he tries to attack me again?” he asked in all seriousness.

She looked fearful as she nodded, “You look terrifying,” she fairly whimpered.

“Good. That is even better.”

Cautiously she moved toward him, tentatively reaching out her hand and placing it on the cold metal protecting his chest.

He sighed and put his hands on her arms. “Why are you acting this way? You saw me in my armor when you rescued me.”

“Yes, but…” she shied away from him. 

He reached out and lifted her chin with his fingers. “But what?” he asked feeling concerned and surprisingly hurt by her fear of him.

“When I saw you then, you were a wounded warrior desperately in need of aid. Now…now  you…you are strong and powerful and terrifying and…and…” suddenly she reached up and pulled his head toward her and kissed his lips. “And beautiful. And I do not want to lose you.”

He raised his hand and smoothed her hair. “I do not want to lose you, either,” he whispered, meaning every word. Then he kissed her again.

He held her to him for a long time, cursing the armor and wishing to feel her in his arms properly. The sun was starting to set when she pushed away at last.

“Well, Belegon still has not come and I am hungry. Do you think you can peel potatoes in that armor?” she teased.

“No,” he replied with a grin, “but I can skewer meat.”

They both laughed and he removed his helm and gloves, then helped her prepare the meal. After dinner, he sat up all night fully armed, but Belegon never did show up.

By the middle of the summer, Laurehér was busier than ever. He worked at the forge side by side with the smith, who was fully healed but asked him to stay on anyway. Additionally he helped Faroniel tend the large garden they had planted as well as work the traps. Faroniel spent much of her free time with her sister, helping with the new baby girl and tending to the other children so her sister could rest. It became a familiar site for Laurehér to return from the forge to find four- year-old Liriel and six-year-old Beregond helping Faroniel in her chores while the other two boys helped Belegon in his fields.

The children squabbled less when they were with Faroniel and for some reason they seemed quite taken with Laurehér. They followed him around as soon as he got home, which delighted him greatly, and they helped him with his chores as well. In return, he would make toys for them out of wood. Faroniel always returned them home at dinner time, never leaving that task to Laurehér for fear of Belegon’s temper.

One night after returning the children home, Faroniel went to the bed and lay down on her side, clutching a pillow instead of starting on dinner. Laurehér left her alone for a time, thinking she was weary even though the children had been particularly well-behaved that day. He started preparing dinner, but she neither slept nor rose to help. Finally he reached a point in the preparations where he could leave the food to cook.

Sitting down on the bed beside her, he gently shook her shoulder.  When she refused to roll over to face him, he lay down behind her. Slipping his arm under her shoulders, he gently exerted enough force to turn her toward him. When she finally faced him, her ruddy cheeks were wet with tears.

“What is wrong, my sweet?” he asked, wiping her face with his sleeve.

She coughed and her voice cracked as she sputtered, “Today, my son would have been six.”

He kissed her forehead, gathering her closer to him, nestling her head against his chest as she loudly began to sob. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, “I am so sorry.”

He could only imagine what kind of pain she must be enduring.  But what could he possibly do to help? He did not know what it would be like to lose a son or at least he hoped he did not know what that felt like.  Tears came to his eyes as well as he considered what it would be like to have little ones, little pieces of his heart and spirit following him around like Tathariel’s children did, and calling him Atto, watching them grow, and then losing them to something outside of his control.  He kissed her head, drawing her closer still as he slowly succumbed to thoughts and emotions buried so deeply inside of himself he had not realized they were even there until that moment.

Laurehér soon found himself weeping in earnest as well for his mind filled with visions of many proud sons he sent away to die on the battlefields and the fathers and generations of grandfathers later clutching the lifeless bodies.  That is what happens in war. Sons die. But they died on his orders. They were under his command. How many hundreds of sons died because of him? How many mothers like Faroniel lay weeping in the arms of others because their children would never return home? Here he was holding her to his breast trying to offer what little comfort he could when he was just as guilty of murder as the illness that stole the lives of her son and daughter.

He choked, trying to be silent in his mourning so she did not hear him crying as well. He needed to be strong for her.  He could not do this to himself. The sons who died at his command did so because they chose to be there. They chose to go to war. They chose to fight Morgoth and his evil ways, and take their vengeance for what Morgoth did to their people and to their peace of mind and heart and for the destruction he brought to their lives.

Yes, that was why he fought Morgoth himself, for Morgoth had killed his own atar and his brothers and, yes, even their sons. And what if…what if Arafinwë himself were the last of his house because Morgoth had killed his own sons as well? How bereft was he truly? He did not know. He could not remember. And maybe that was a very great blessing right now, not being able to remember. Would he have wanted those memories anyway? Would he truly want to be able to put a definition to all that he had lost in his life?

He struggled to take a deep enough breath to try to calm himself. No. It was right that the sons of the Elves should be fighting Morgoth. It was right that HE should be fighting and leading the fight against Morgoth as well. But the sons of men were brief and so very fragile. And they returned not from their graves, and this fight was brought to them by the Elves. It was not their fight to begin with.

And yet…they loved and respected the Elves enough to go and shed their blood to help in the fight. They spent their sons to rid Beleriand of evil so their surviving children could live in peace.  It was no wonder Belegon held such hatred for him and what he represented. He would hate himself as well.

He would hate himself as well…

A while later, he stirred himself from his bitter reverie and rescued their dinner before it burned.  Quietly, he went about preparing a plate with small portions for Faroniel. Helping her to sit up, he propped pillows behind her back to support her. Taking a cool damp cloth, he wiped her face, and gently kissed her lips. She answered his kiss, then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief Laurehér had given her.  He helped her eat, then sat at the table and ate his fill.

When their meal was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen, and climbed into bed beside her. Kissing her again, he held her close and sang lullabies to her in Quenya until she fell asleep.  Through the night he remained awake, whispering lullabies and keeping watch, afraid to sleep for fear she would awaken and need him. He wanted to be there for her just as he hoped that someone was there for the mothers of all of the sons he had lead away who would not return.  He wanted to be there for her, too, because he wanted to see joy return to her beautiful eyes. And he wanted to be there for her, as well, because at last he realized he loved her.

XXXXX

As the days sped on, Laurehér grew more certain of his feelings for her, but he never once told her that he loved her. There simply was never any need to do so. There was a soothing rhythm to their lives together, and he found he enjoyed it immensely.  His dreams of other times and places stopped for a few months which brought him much relief. He was growing weary of the reminders of a past he was not even certain was his. It was sometimes very difficult to distinguish dream from reality. And the dreams he had been having before they finally stopped were most disturbing indeed.

He had seen darkness descend on all of Valinor, constant conflict within his family, his amillë weeping at the news of his atar’s death, an evil prince returning from exile to claim a kingship that should not have been his, slaughtered people lying on beaches and quays, weary frightened Noldorin families wandering like refugees toward a harsh cold land. He recalled being on his knees before the court of a king, apologizing for the actions of the Noldor, and sitting in council with other lords also new to their positions  and to the burdens of a leadership for which none of them, including he himself, had been trained. He did not want these memories or the responsibility which he knew was his by duty and by right. He just wanted to be a smith in a village and live in peace.

At his forge every day, he observed the villagers going to and fro about their business. He watched couples courting and parents chasing wayward children.  The children…he found he enjoyed watching them the most. Their deep emotions over the simple things in their lives fascinated him greatly. They took such a delight in little things like picking flowers or learning a new skill, such anger at perceived injustice (a lot of that abounded, usually the fault of siblings), and intense sorrow over the seemingly mundane such as the death of a butterfly in a spider’s web.

As the autumn chill filled the air, he saw fewer children outside, which saddened him. But Mortals were frail, and the cold which was an inconvenience to him, was an enemy to them.  He knew his own Faroniel would be complaining about the cold again soon and her hands would not be warm again until the spring. Unfortunately, his dreams also started again.

XXXXX

Reclining on warm dry sand, he toyed with the little pile of brightly-colored shells he dutifully guarded. A golden-haired youth, barely past his majority, stood a short distance away ankle-deep in the water, bending over to examine something between his feet.

“Amillë, take these to Atto,” a young voice commanded.

Turning, Arafinwë saw a beautiful silver-haired woman, her skirts hiked up and tucked into her belt against the rolling waves, her bare legs coated with sand. Indulgently, she reached out to take a handful of oozing dirty shells from the grubby hands of a sodden little boy, barely more than 3 or 4 years old.

Arafinwë could not help but smile at the woman as she turned and started walking toward him, shaking her head in disbelief. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled as she walked, holding the shells out in front of her as if afraid of getting any of the slithery sand on her dress.

In his mind he heard her say, We spent all day yesterday doing this, and the day before. How many shells does one little boy need?

Shaking his head in sympathy, he replied in kind, He is no different from his big brother nor from your brothers for that matter, if the stories your amillë tells are true.

Yes, but he must have 200…

But she was interrupted by a yelp a midst the crash of a wave.

Dropping the shells, she turned and sprinted back to the boy. Arafinwë, leaping to his feet, ran to join her as well. She reached the boy first, scooping him up and bringing him to Arafinwë at the edge of the water. Carefully he wiped the crying face with his sleeve, brushing sand from the bright grey eyes which mournfully stared back at him.

“Baby, are you all right?” she asked worriedly. “What happened?”

The boy turned in her arms, snuggling up to her breast. “A big wave came up and knocked me down.”

After a brief examination of the boy, Arafinwë softly admonished, “You need to pay more attention so the waves do not sneak up on you like that, little one.”

Joining them, the youth held out his arms to his little brother. “There was a storm last mingling and lots of pretty shells washed up on the other side of the rocks over there.” He pointed to a place much farther down the beach.  “How about if I take you to go and see them?”

Instantly healed, the boy launched himself at his brother who caught him and swung him around before settling him on his hip. “I will keep him away from the water, Atar. You can guard his shells while we are gone.”

Nodding to his sons, Arafinwë watched them walk away, the younger one chattering excitedly while clinging to his brother’s chest.

Cool wet hands slipped around his waist, dampening his thin shirt. Arafinwë looked down at the woman curling herself around him. His body reacted quite strongly as he noticed the enticing way her damp dress clung to her ample breasts accentuating every peak and curve. One arm went around her, pressing her closer while his other hand moved to explore the sight before him. Exerting every bit of will power he possessed, he tore his gaze away to regard her face where a look of pure seduction darkened her countenance.

“They will be gone for a while, and we will hear them approach when they return.” She nodded toward an alcove obscured by rocks directly behind them. “Shall we?”

Stooping a little, he caught her mouth with his in reply, closing his eyes and delving deeply with his tongue. Passionately, she responded in kind, one hand sliding up his back to grasp his hair against his head with her other cold hand languidly sliding down around his hip to a growing cause of concern below his belt buckle. Skillfully she began to caress him, leaving him no choice but to do as she suggested.

Panting, he broke the kiss…

But when he opened his eyes, the darkness of night surrounded him. Faroniel looked up at him questioningly, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other fondling him below the waist band of his sleeping trousers. His own hands cupped her half-exposed breast and buried in her silky hair.

With a gasp of horror, he rolled away, covering his face with his hands. What was he doing?! What had he done?!

“I am so sorry! Please forgive me!” He pleaded from behind his hands. “I am so incredibly sorry. I was dreaming and… I…I did not realize…” He slid his hands up into his hair, grasping two handfuls and shaking his head as he begged in desperation and despair, “What have I done?  What have I done?”

Her cold hand slid up across his heaving bare chest to rest against his flaming cheek. Gently she turned his head toward her.  “I am not upset, Laurehér,” she quietly said. “Is it really wrong that two people who have lived as closely as we have should desire the touch of each other?”

He closed his eyes and slid his hands back over them, unable to meet her gaze. “But I kissed you. I touched you,” he despaired, “and I never asked. I thought you were the one from my dream, and I just…I…”

She silenced him with two comfortingly cool fingers on his overly warm lips. “And if I had not wanted you to kiss me or touch me, I would have stopped you. I love you Laurehér, and I want to lie with you.” Her fingers drifted away to rest on his chest as his hands fell down to his sides.

Shame, guilt, and so many other feelings raced through him. He did love her and he wanted her so badly - and that made his transgression all the worse. And worst of all, what if…

“Faroniel,” he agonized, “I do not deny that I care for you deeply, that I love you, and that I desire you, too. But what if…what if I am already bound to someone else?” He held up his right hand for her to see. “Is that not what this gold ring on my finger means?”

With a sigh, she propped herself up on one elbow while reaching out to take his outstretched hand in her own. Gently running her fingers over his ring, she replied, “Yes, that could be what the ring means, but if it does, how do you know she yet lives? What if she was the one who left you? What if she was a kinslayer and abandoned you more than 500 years ago? Would she have so willingly let you go if she still loved you? And if you truly loved her so, would you not at least have kept her name sacred in your heart even when so much else escapes you?” 

He turned his head away from her, staring at the dim ceiling, pondering her words. Seeking comfort, his hand closed around hers. What if she spoke the truth? But was it not the way of ellyn to go to war and leave their wives behind? But could he have left his sons as well – if he had any – if he had dreamed true? Was he really even married? He did not think his wife, if he had one, had been a kinslayer, but he did not see how he could have left her either. He knew he had loved the woman in his dream, so why could he not even remember her name? What if she no longer loved him? Or, what if she had come with him and his sons, too, and they were all dead now? Then what was left to him? He knew in his heart that Elves could marry a second time if the first spouse died, but he could remember little else about that.

He remembered his own amillë‘s grief when his atar died even though they were so many leagues apart when that happened. But she had known. She had felt it across their marriage bond and had known instantly that he was gone, that she was alone. He had felt the severance of the bond between atar and son as well. But this gave him hope! Perhaps he could find his family at last or at least know for certain if they yet lived!

Using as much strength as he could muster, he reached out with his spirit, searching for a bond with his wife or with his sons or even with his amillë whose death he could not recall.

But all he found was emptiness.

No sons. No amillë. No wife.

He truly was alone then with no way to ever go back home. But back home to what? To where? There was nothing left for him there now anyway. But here…he had a chance for everything here. Would it be so bad to start a new life here? The forest was safe. This village was safe. This house was safe. Faroniel with her gentle hands, her loving kindness, and enchanting blue eyes always framed by those feathery wisps of silvery hair had been the only haven he had known in this stormy time. Always she greeted his lack of memory and frequent moodiness with patience and comforting concern.

Desperately, he agonized over this choice he was making. He was thousands of years old and she had only seen twenty-seven years.  In a few short years, he would lose her to the death that finds all mortals, but he would persist, he would live on alone. Now he understood the heartache that Finrod had tried to protect his brother from, condemning Aicanáro to be alone forever.  But he could remember little other than heartache in his own life.  Perhaps he should allow himself this time with her. Unlike Aicanáro, who ended his days in regret and sorrow, he was going to grasp what was at his hand and take what small joy he could find.

He smiled to himself. Besides, according to the tanner, he was a smith and should be good with his hands. Well…he would find out about that now, if Faroniel was willing. But there was something more he would ask of her in return, although he really did not think she would mind.

Turning on his side, he looked into the depths of her questioning eyes. Still clasping her right hand in his, he glided the fingers of his other hand down the side of her face from forehead to chin, his resolve and something else firming all the while.

Taking a deep breath, he softly said “Faroniel, I believe I am alone now, except for you. I can feel no bonds between myself and anyone else which would signify a son or a wife or even my amillë being alive – if I even ever had a wife or a son. I am grateful to you for all you have done for me. It is a debt I can never hope to repay. I admit that my feelings for you are quite strong as is my desire for you. I love you… and would have you for my wife if you would have me.”

She drew his hand to her smiling lips and whispered, “I love you, Laurehér, and would have you for my husband.”

He smiled in return, happiness welling in his heart so completely as he stumbled over his words, “G…giving in to our physical desire for each other will result in our marriage. Are you certain this is what you want right now?”

“Yes,” she replied, passionately drawing his hand to her lips again.

“Wh…when we consummate this marriage,” he found it progressively more difficult to express his thoughts because of what she was doing to his hand, “Th-…there is one thing I ask of you in return.”

Her face brightening even more with a mixture of curiosity and joy, she asked, “And what would that be, my beloved?”

“A child,” he hesitantly whispered. “I…I want a child, Faroniel.”

Before he realized what was happening, she was on top of him, straddling his waist, her lips firmly pressed to his. Too bewildered to properly respond, he pushed her away in surprise. “Does this…” he breathlessly began, but was suddenly distracted by the gaping neckline of her gown which left nothing of her voluptuous bosom to his imagination. “Does…” he tried again as fire coursed through his veins, but found himself unable to coherently form the words.

“Yes,” she confirmed leaning forward, teasing his lips with hers. “It means yes.”

An unbelievable joy filled him as he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her onto her back, his mouth finding and filling hers. As he lost himself in her embrace, he fleetingly realized to his intense pleasure that the making of children was something he remembered quite well.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Note: Once the Noldor left Aman, that land was closed to them and nothing passed between Aman and Middle-Earth in thought or in spirit. It is conceivable that the bonds between family and between spouses who were parted by the Sundering Sea could no longer be felt by either party until they were reunited on the same side of the sea.  Also, Arafinwë searched for bonds with a son and never searched for bonds with a daughter. That’s why he didn’t find Galadriel.

Chapter 9

A week after they had wed, Laurehér lay with Faroniel snuggled up in his arms, preferring her warmth and her touch to getting up and preparing for the day’s work. He moved his hand to her soft belly and sensed within her a spark of life, feeling its gentle, barely perceptible tug on his own spirit. His heart sang, but he remained perfectly still, afraid to lose that new awareness. After a time, he wrapped both arms around her and sighed in contentment. The sunrise cast a few tentative beams through the curtains as she shifted a bit and kissed his lips good morning.

With little conversation, they arose and dressed, breaking their fast and making ready for her to ride to check the traps and him to go to the forge. He did not tell her that she was pregnant, deciding to wait until she realized it as well. He did not know how long that would take, but he was content to wait.

He worked in silence much of the day, considering how the pregnancy and a child would change their lives. Soon she would be unable to ride to check the traps, so that task would fall to him in addition to his working at the forge. By that point, he would have to tell the smith that he and Faroniel had wed and that she was with child. So far, he had told no one and she had been silent as well. They both feared what Belegon might say or do, so they decided to wait until there was no choice but to tell others about their union.  That way, they figured, many people would know and Belegon might be more likely to invite the wrath of the entire village with any untoward actions he might plan in retaliation against Laurehér.

Whenever Laurehér paused in his work, he would reach out with his spirit, seeking out Faroniel across their marriage bond though she could not sense a bond with him in the same way. He would then further venture to look for the child’s presence and, to his great pleasure, he realized he could sense its spirit as well.

There were so many things to consider for the child, such as clothing and a bed. It further occurred to him that it might be well to add another room to their cabin. Had he ever built anything like that before? He could not recall. As his list of things that would need to be done grew, he felt panic welling up within him. Would they be able to afford the things that they would need? What did she already have? Would her sister be of any assistance to them or would she shun them on Belegon’s orders? Then again, did he actually want Faroniel’s sister around after what happened the one time he did meet her?

He shuddered as he remembered that horrific day. In anger and frustration, he brought the hammer down on the piece he had just removed from the fire.  Again and again he smacked with all of his might. Suddenly he became aware of Angadan shouting at him.

He stopped the hammer mid swing and looked up at the smith.

“Damn!” the smith exclaimed.

Laurehér looked about stupidly, not comprehending what the smith was going on about.

“Look at what you did, Elf!”

Laurehér followed Angadan’s gaze to the piece he had been venting his frustration on and realized with dawning horror how thin and misshapen the piece had become and just how quickly that had happened.

“What are you made of Laurehér that you can do that to iron?” The smith shook his head in dismay. “I sincerely hope I am never on the wrong end of your wrath on the field of battle. If you can do that to metal, then how by all the Valar did you ever get so wounded in battle?” Angadan wiped his hand across his forehead in shock. “Did an entire army attack you and the sheer numbers are what finally took you down? I swear you are not like anyone I have ever met or even heard of in my life. What are you, Elf? What are you?”

Staring dumbfounded, Laurehér struggled to find words to explain himself. He had become so preoccupied; he had lost his focus or perhaps become too focused. He knew instinctively that his strength was going to start to fade soon because of the child his wife carried, but that did not explain what was happening now.

Setting the hammer aside, he turned to face Angadan. Briefly he looked down at his calloused hands, wondering how he managed to focus so much strength into the blows of the hammer. Vaguely he remembered being taught to focus his anger and frustration that way – but only at the beginning of big projects that did not need fine detailed workmanship yet. There had been much in his life to anger and frustrate him and his teacher, wisely realizing this, had taught him to put it to good use.

Sighing heavily, he met Angadan’s eyes. “I am sorry. There is much occupying my mind right now.”

“Are things well between you and Faroniel? Is Belegon giving you trouble again?”

“Belegon is not giving me any trouble, but things are different between Faroniel and me,” he ventured.

“Different in a good way or in a bad way?” Angadan asked, his voice full of concern.

“In a good way.”

“What? Did you get her pregnant or something?”

Laurehér took a step backward in surprise and shock, bumping the hammer which fell to the ground. Stooping to pick it up, he banged his forehead hard on the anvil, swearing loudly as he straightened. Pressing his hand to his head, he felt something warm and wet. Then it was the smith’s turn to swear.

There was a flurry of activity as the smith fumbled around for a towel, cursing foully all the while. In the meantime, Laurehér’s vision went red as blood seeped through his fingers and down into his eyes. Angadan helped him away from the forge and guided him to a chair.

“Damn it, Elf! Stay put and hold this to your head. I need to go fetch the healer. I think I saw him go into the candlemaker’s house a little bit ago. I hope he is still there.”

The smith took off at a dead run, nearly knocking over an old woman in his haste who shouted at him with much indignant profanity. Laurehér would have laughed at her words if he were not in so much pain and so terrified by what the smith had said to him. Was he really so transparent? Was it really that obvious that he and Faroniel were going to have a child added unto their house? How did the smith guess it so readily when he himself only just realized it this day?

Briefly he removed the towel and looked at it, startled to find it soaked with so much blood. Hastily he put it back on the wound and pressed hard against it. Sindarin lacked the proper words for what he was feeling so he switched to swearing in Quenya. By the time the smith returned with the healer in tow, Laurehér felt dizzy and sick to his stomach.

The healer spent a minute or two examining him and then another while staunching the blood and stitching the gash in his head. Before long, Laurehér found himself lying on a spare bed nearby in the smith’s house with orders not to even think about getting up unless absolutely necessary - at least until the following evening.

Laurehér slept, sometimes fitfully, sometimes deeply, completely unaware of day fading to evening or Faroniel arriving and remaining by his side into the night. The smith’s wife laundered the bloody shirt, removing the stains as best she could.

During one of the times when he dozed lightly but with his eyes completely closed, he overheard Angadan and Faroniel talking.

“Something had him agitated today.”

“I wonder what it was?” Faroniel replied worriedly.

“He said that good things had happened between you two, but he gave me no details.”

Laurehér could hear the smile in her voice. “Good things have happened between us.”

“So, ahhh…” Angadan ventured awkwardly. “Are you pregnant then?”

Faroniel laughed merrily. “Oh my! Is that what you said to him before he hit his head?” She laughed some more and Laurehér felt her hand gently brush his hair away from his injury. “You must have horrified him! My poor, sweet, broken, beloved elf-man…” she crooned.

But then her voice sharpened. “You know, Angadan, you really need to be careful what you say to him. I know you enjoy teasing him the way men jest with each other, but you should know by now that that sort of thing sometimes flusters him and does not always sit well with him. He…” she paused a few moments seeming to search for words. “He does not always handle such things very well, especially when he is preoccupied. You should know that by now.”

“He has amazing strength of hand – much more so than any man I have ever met or even heard of. I do not believe he was just a village smith – unless they worked him to death in Valinor before he sailed and made him mighty like that. If you could have seen what I saw him do today…”

Faroniel’s voice took on an air of sadness. “He lost his whole family to Morgoth’s cruelty. From what I have been able to piece together from what little he remembers, they abandoned him to come here with the Noldor, and then he came here with the army and discovered that they were all dead. How much anger would you feel if you had lived his long, cursed life? How would you have channeled your rage over that? He put his into his work and it made him very strong.” She paused, gliding her hand down Laurehér’s bare shoulder to rest over his heart. “It made him strong, but not indestructible, and he suffers much now because of it.”

“I…I…I am sorry I upset him so, Faroniel. I merely jested and I thought that…” Laurehér could almost hear the smith wringing his hands as his voice trembled with discomfort. “Well…everyone thinks that you two are sleeping together and it would make sense if you are, you being as gentle and beautiful as you are and him being so handsome and innocent-hearted. Why have you two not…you know? Or is he trying to work up the courage to ask you to marry him first?”

Faroniel laughed. “In truth, I know not what was on his mind today – only that there is certainly less blood on it now that he has used an anvil for misguided leech craft.”

The smith chuckled. “Aye, that is the truth.”

Silence settled for a while, interrupted by a yawn and then another one a few moments later.

“Damn it, Girl, now you got me yawning, too. Too much excitement for one day. But then again, it is always exciting ever since he came here.” Angadan griped good-naturedly as he thumped Laurehér on the shoulder.

“Do you mind if I stay the night?” Faroniel quietly asked. “Sometimes he has bad dreams and will wake up screaming. I know what to do to calm him down.”

“Aye, you can stay. It would probably be best for him if you did. I’ll move my other boy’s bed over closer to this one so you can try to get some rest while you can while he is actually sleeping.”

“Thank you,” she said.

After much scraping of furniture on the wooden floor and a few more visits by Angadan’s wife bringing food and drink to Faroniel, Laurehér felt a tender kiss on his cheek and then on his lips and heard Faroniel lie down in the next bed close enough to take his hand in hers. She gave a gentle squeeze and he responded in kind.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too,” he murmured back, then promptly fell into a deep sleep.

XXXXX

The cold of the stone wall seeped through the fabric of his shirt and tunic as he sat hunched in a corner with his knees tucked up under his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. Over and over again he reviewed in his mind his visit home, wondering what, if anything, he could have done differently. And still just as during the time when events unfolded, he could see nothing he could have done any differently.

“Your visit did not go as expected, Child, did it?”

He glanced up to see Lord Aulë enter and sit down beside him on the floor.

“No, Master, it did not,” he replied dejectedly.

“Tell me about it.”

“My ammë and my sisters were pleased to see me. The wedding was lovely and my dearest brother is now married to a nice Noldorin elleth. He is very happy.”

“Sooo,” Aulë prompted as two glasses of wine suddenly appeared, one in the Vala’s hand and one at Arafinwë’s feet.

“My atar is disappointed in me. He said my brothers both made much more progress than I have by this point in their studies. Atar spent a lot of time telling me of the accomplishments of my brothers and how strong and gifted and wise and crafty they are. My eldest brother told me that I am “different” from the rest of them and that atar is most disappointed to have a son like me. My hair is the wrong color. My build is all wrong for a proper Noldo let alone for a Noldorin smith. He said that if an elven family could have a runt, then it would be me. He said I should stop trying to be a proper son of our atar and find some other task more befitting a member of so useless a clan as the Vanyar.”

“Drink, Son,” Aulë said pressing the untouched glass into Arafinwë’s hand.

Reluctantly Arafinwë did as he was bid, savoring the delicious fruity flavor.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I do not know, Master.”

A plate of berries, cheese, warm bread, and slices of steaming beef appeared on the floor near Arafinwë’s feet.

“Eat.”

“Yes, Master.” Arafinwë knew better than to argue with a Vala, so he took a bite of the bread and before long, he had cleared the plate.

“Now, Child, I will indeed agree that you are not like your brothers. Indeed you are more different from them than they are like each other.”

Arafinwë furrowed his brow quizzically.

“Each of your atar’s sons was designed for a different purpose just as Eru Ilúvatar designed each of us Valar for a different purpose. Having a different purpose does not make any one of us less important or less valuable than the others.”

“Then why have my atar and my brother said such things to me?”  He felt tears in his eyes, but he fiercely blinked them back.

“Your atar awoke, he was not born. We Valar have noticed that those who awoke have struggled with parenting much more than those who were born and had parents of their own before they themselves became parents. Can you see where this might cause some problems in raising children if one was never a child himself?”

Arafinwë smiled slightly. “Yes, Master. But…but my atar already had a child before he married my amillë and I am his youngest child and youngest son. Should he not have figured things out by now?”

Aulë smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “It would seem so, but that obviously has not been the case. I think that you and your newly married brother have had an impossible standard set before you in your eldest brother. I believe, as do many others, that he is the mightiest of the Elves.”

“But there are many things that can make one mighty and my brother only possesses some of those,” Arafinwë replied bitterly.

“That is very true and you are very wise to see that at so young an age. Neither your brothers nor your atar even have come to recognize this truth, and they are how much older than you are?”

In reply, Arafinwë shifted his position on the floor and stretched out his legs. Quietly, he finished his wine, then sighed as he set the glass on the floor beside the empty plate.

“I do not wish to be mighty, Master. I…I just…I…” He noticed his glass was full again so he took another sip.

“What do you want then?” Aulë asked, his voice filled with curiosity.

Resting his head back against the wall, Arafinwë thought about it for a few moments, then whispered, “I think I just want to be accepted for what I am and who I am and not for the things I have made or what skills I possess. I am no one to boast about, but…why do I have to be?”

Aulë drank his wine in silence, then replied. “You ask a lot of your family, young Arafinwë – far more than I deem they are capable of giving.”

Arafinwë banged his head against the wall in frustration. “Then what am I supposed to do?” he did not mean to shout, but he could not hide how he felt. A tear slid down his cheek, but he angrily wiped it away.

“You can accept that they are not going to meet your expectations in this. You can accept that they can think or feel however they wish to and there is nothing you can do to change that. You can also accept that you can only control your choices and your reactions.”

“That is hard and it really is not much to move forward with,” Arafinwë scowled in despair and looked away, feeling even worse than he had when he first arrived back at the forge.

“Oooh, my child, my heart tells me that you are destined for greatness though no one else seems to see it,” Lord Aulë said in an eerily knowing voice which stung and unsettled Arafinwë to his core, “Especially you. But, one day you will react differently and you will make a choice and it will change not only your fate but that of thousands. Because you have the wisdom and courage to take control of your choices and your reactions, you will rise above your atar and your brothers. You will do that which they never could have done.”

“I will never be anything compared to them,” Arafinwë said bitterly, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“The choice is entirely yours, young one.” Aulë rose gracefully and extended a hand, which Arafinwë accepted and let the Vala pull him to his feet.

“I do know one choice I will make,” Arafinwë finally said as he donned his leather apron to begin his work. “I am not going to do to my children what my atar has done to my brothers and to me. I am going to do my best to let them be who and what they need to be and do what they feel they need to do - even if it means not being or doing what I think they should be or do as adults.”

“You are a strong ellon, Arafinwë. I believe you just might be capable of doing that. But, my heart warns me, and I warn you as well, you have no idea how hard that will be and what that will cost you.” Aulë’s eyes glowed with a painfully bright red light as he handed the bellows to his apprentice. “Now to your lessons, Son. Let us see if perhaps we can give you an outlet for that anger and frustration you are feeling just now.”

Laurehér opened his eyes, looking around in confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling and walls of the room. He started to sit up, but his head exploded in pain, making him feel dizzy and a bit nauseated.

From somewhere to his right, Faroniel whispered, “Lie still, my love. You were dreaming.” Sluggishly she sat up and brushed her fingers lovingly down the side of his face.

He turned his head a bit and kissed her palm. She smiled then drew his right hand to her lips and kissed it. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”

“I want to be a better adar than mine was to me,” he said simply.

She looked at him a little confused. “Were you dreaming? Is that what you dreamt about?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Well, I have seen you with my sister’s children, and I think you will be a fine adar when the time comes and we are so blest with a child.”

“What if the time is now?” he quietly asked, reaching out with his spirit and sensing the presence of the child.

She sighed, gently admonishing, “Do not get your hopes up so soon. It has only been a week that we have been trying. We will know in a month or so if our trying has been to good result.”

“What if I repeat my parents’ mistakes? What if my children are miserable like I was? Will you keep me from doing that to them?”

“Laurehér, my love, you need to stop worrying so much about this. We will see what kind of adar you are when the time comes and not before. You will make mistakes as all parents do, but if you make certain that the child never questions your love for it, then that will help matters greatly. Now,” she tucked the sheets and blankets around him and brushed his lips with hers. “go back to sleep and stop worrying about a future that is not yet here.”

But it is here! He longed to tell her, but he knew it would be wisest to remain silent for now until she felt the truth of it as well. Silently he sent a prayer to whichever Vala might be listening, asking that he be guided in being the kind of adar he wished he had had, and hoping that he was not being foolish in seeking to do so.

XXXXX

Five weeks after Laurehér’s “accident” Faroniel brought him the news that she was indeed with child and he rejoiced to see her joy. Six weeks after that he felt confident enough in what he was sensing to bring her some additional news: She was carrying twins.

She did not believe him at first, but as the weeks wore on and she grew larger more quickly than she had with either of her other pregnancies, she began to believe him. She was not cold at all that winter which she found to be a great blessing. Laurehér rather enjoyed the lack of stifling heat in the cabin, unlike the winter before where she had kept the fire stoked high enough that even wearing a tunic was almost too much for him to bear. As soon as her stomach grew large enough that winter dresses and cloaks could not hide it, she and Laurehér finally confessed to their marriage months before.

Surprisingly to them, very few people were surprised about their union or the pregnancy. In fact the most common response to their news was, “It’s about time.”

The smith was most accommodating in allowing Laurehér to work the traps and not help at the forge as much. His wife dug through some old chests and gave them some baby clothes which had survived the infancy of her sons. A few other friends spent the remainder of the winter making some baby items for them as well.

Faroniel’s sister was delighted at the news, as were her children, but her husband was not. Fortunately his only words to Laurehér on the subject were before many at the forge one snowy afternoon.

“Elf, at least you had the decency to marry her first. But I’m warning you, you break her heart and I’ll kill you.”

“I love her,” Laurehér said in reply, holding his great hammer before him in an easy manner which left no doubt as to its potential as a weapon. “I would never wish to hurt her.”

Belegon glared but left the conversation at that. As Angadan and Laurehér watched him go, Angadan quietly said, “He has lost much favor with the villagers since he attacked you, and he blames you for that. I mean no offence to your lovely Faroniel, but you would be very wise to never leave your child in Tathariel’s care even if she is your wife’s sister. And another thing as well, if anything ever happens to you and your wife both, you will need to be certain that someone other than Belegon and Tathariel care for your child. I fear what that man would do to a child of yours simply because you sired it.”

Laurehér stood in silence for a time contemplating the smith’s words. At last he said, “I am not mortal and will endure long after this village is no more. I know not what the fates of my children shall be. But if death should find me before it claims my wife, would you and your wife be willing to help care for my children?”

Angadan bowed his head, his cheeks reddening as he took off his leather hat and wrung it in his hands. “I…I was not asking that. I…I simply was trying to caution you for you have become as a brother to me – albeit a little brother which is odd considering you are, what, three thousand years old?” He laughed at the absurdity of his words. “However, Laurehér, I would be honored to help your wife look after your children and teach your sons to be proper smiths. In any case, if you don’t mind, my wife and I would love to be as aunt and uncle to them.”

Laurehér smiled in gratitude, feeling a weight lift inside of him which he did not even know was present until then. Setting down the hammer he realized he was still holding, he embraced Angadan as a brother. “Thank you. I would be deeply honored to have you and your wife be as kin to my children.”

XXXXX

Chapter 10

That evening Faroniel was not pleased to hear the tale of Belegon and the smith’s warning, but she had to agree with the wisdom of it. She also told him that the midwife had come to visit and now at six months, she agreed that Faroniel likely carried twins.

After dinner, Laurehér and his wife lay curled up in bed, staring at the fire.

“You will need to make a second cradle, soon,” Faroniel said, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. “We only have the one that I used before.”

“Angadan and his wife said they will loan us the one their children used. It is still in good condition,” Laurehér commented.

She smiled. “Good. We have enough blankets. I have the clothes that Tathariel’s children wore which are still usable. She and I shared children’s clothing back and forth before...”

He tightened his arms around her and rested his chin on her hair. “It is all right, my love. Your arms will soon be full again.”

“I know.” She shifted until she was looking into his eyes. “And holding and loving these two new ones will be all the sweeter for my memories of the ones I lost.”

Her joy amidst the sadness which still shimmered in her eyes touched his heart. Tenderly he kissed her, his fëa reaching out to the children nestled within her. The feeling of their presence seemed so right to him and of such enormous comfort - as if a deep void within him had once again been filled - that again he wondered if he had indeed sired and lost children. The implications of what that meant his further losses in life must have been as well nearly overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes even tighter, deepening the kisses so he would not have to think about what could have been, what might have been, and perhaps what very likely was.

Her hands slid up to his face and then down to tempt him to something else. Grateful for the distraction from his thoughts, he accepted her invitation, losing himself for the rest of the evening in the promise and the comfort of her.

XXXXX

As Faroniel’s time grew near, her sister came to stay with her during the day while Laurehér checked the traps or worked at the forge. He found that he was so weary by the end of the day that he had to rely on Tathariel’s children to do his chores for him while he was away. Each night he slept deeply and dreamlessly. Each day he struggled through the tasks he needed to accomplish. Never could he remember being so weary of body and spirit. Desperately he hoped that once the children were born he would not be so exhausted. He would need to be strong for her for her weariness would be great with caring for two babies.

Fortunately, Angadan noticed Laurehér’s flagging strength.

“Elves always seemed so strong and well-nigh indestructible to me. Is it always so with them that pregnancy drains the ellon as much as it taxes his wife?” Angadan had asked one day when Laurehér was struggling to get through the piece he was making.

“I honestly do not know,” came Laurehér’s winded reply as he took yet another break and drank a cup of water.

“If that were so, then it would do much to explain why Elves have so few children. And it would explain why you space them out so much with whole lifetimes of Men passing between the births of your children,” Angadan added knowingly.

“Yes,” Laurehér fervently agreed. “There is a great deal of wisdom in what you have just said. I cannot believe how weary I am, and all I have done is make horseshoes today!” He put his head down on the table before him and immediately felt his consciousness slipping. Whatever Angadan said in response was lost to him as he slipped onto the Path of Dreams.

Someone gently shook his shoulder, jostling him awake. Sitting up, he stretched, yawning magnificently. Looking around, it took a few moments for his foggy mind to register the fact that he was no longer sitting at the forge. Flowers hung in great bowers, filling the air with heady perfume. The music of rushing water mingled with the hushed tones of wind flowing most deliberately through trees, making certain to brush every leaf on every branch.

Turning to face the table once again, he realized it was made of carved marble with green veins like vines running throughout. A glass of fragrant red wine rested within easy reach along with platters of fruits, cheeses, and meats. How long had it been since he had last seen a spread of food like this? How many years?

“Eat, Arafinwë, for you are famished and need to renew your strength.”

Arafinwë looked about for the owner of the deep, melodious, female voice, but saw no one.

“Thank you,” he called most graciously to the air and tucked in. He could not remember ever having eaten fruit so vibrant in flavor or meats so succulent or cheeses so simply delicious. When he had devoured his fill, he sat back, savoring a second glass of the wine.

“How do you feel, Child?” the voice asked again.

He startled and scrambled to his feet as an elleth appeared in a chair across the table from him. Hastily, he bowed deeply and most reverently. The elleth, with her luscious brown hair like rolling hills of freshly tilled earth, her exceedingly bright forest green eyes, and her green silky gown which graced her woman’s form in a manner which screamed of wholesomeness and fertility, obviously was one of the Valar.

“My Lady Yavanna,” Arafinwë gasped in awe, still deep in his bow.

“There is no need for such formality here, my Child. Please sit and enjoy your wine. I made it especially for you.”

Awkwardly, he straightened and returned to his chair. “My Lady, w…why are you here?” then he paused a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion. “And why am I here?”

“Ah, Child, it is too early in the afternoon for such deeply philosophical questions,” she waved her hand dismissively as she spoke. Lavender flowers appeared in her hair, sprouting and blooming in the span between one breath and the next.

He stared at her, uncertain what to say or do, so he sipped his wine.

She took a long drink from a glass which materialized in front of her. “You have been busy, young one.”

“I have,” he agreed uncertainly.

She regarded him shrewdly. “It is very strange indeed that which you remember and that which you have forgotten. Still though,” she reached across the table (which seemed to have shrunk in order to facilitate her movement) and brushed a few stray hairs back into his fraying braid. “I guess it was necessary for your healing and for all of this to take place,” she gestured encompassing, he was not certain what exactly.

“You have lovely eyes,” she observed brushing his cheek with her fingertips and lifting his chin to turn his head slightly this way and that, obviously examining him, though for what purpose he did not know. “As we speak, I am seeing the light of your spirit burn more brightly in them. That is good. Very good. You do love her dearly and have poured so much of yourself into her and into sustaining the children.” She reached out with her other hand and brushed the back of his head. He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled as the urge took him. Repeating this simple process several times, he felt the strength return to his spirit and his limbs.

“Good! Excellent! You learn quickly and you remember my touch from a time before. Did she tell you that she nearly died in childbirth with her last child?” - he worriedly shook his head no, tears springing to his eyes at the implications of what could happen to Faroniel.- “Even now she does not possess the strength needed to bear these two without you by her side. I am so pleased that you were open to my assistance today. I believe the four of you will come through this just fine. She has brought you healing which I deem you would not have found otherwise. The Second Born are so remarkable that way! Rejoice in her and in your children. The lives of the Second Born are all too brief. Savor your time with them while you can.”

She handed him his glass. “Finish your drink. Your time is at hand atar Laurehér. Remember my touch and the peace you feel in your heart at this moment. It will strengthen you and thereby strengthen her and the children though this long night. Be sure to give your thanks to Eru Ilúvatar when your family greets the new dawn. You truly have been blessed in a most remarkable way.”

Leaning forward, the table vanished, allowing her to place a kiss on his forehead. He bowed his head and immediately felt someone shaking his shoulder.

He opened eyes to see Angadan and Tathariel’s eldest standing over him. “Aunt Faroniel sent me to fetch the midwife, Uncle Laurehér.” The boy said breathlessly. “You must come. It is time.”

XXXXX

The cabin was crowded with the bustling about of the midwife and Tathariel, seeing to Faroniel’s needs and preparing this and that for the arrival of the twins. The smith’s wife brought dinner for everyone except for Faroniel who had no interest in eating as her pains grew greater and closer together. Laurehér felt rather useless and out of place, not knowing what to do other than to stay by his beloved’s side. He held his wife through the contractions, rubbing her back, encouraging her, and singing to her to help relax her. As the evening turned to night, the draw on his strength and spirit grew greater.

Even though the pains were strong and frequent, lasting a long time at each instance, still little progress seemed to be made as the agonizing hours passed. The room smelled increasingly of sweat, blood, and fear. Faroniel wept uncontrollably, her tears mixing with perspiration, as she begged again and again for easing and relief. Laurehér felt panic rising within him, unsure how he could possibly help and frightened at what could happen to her. He could not bear to lose her. She and the children were all he had. They had to survive!

Freely he poured more and more of himself into the children’s spirits, allowing them to take whatever they needed to get through this difficult time. At one point as Faroniel dug her nails into his back, clinging to him weakly in her distress, her slick hair sticking to his cheek and neck, Laurehér recalled Yanvanna’s peace and suddenly a song came to his lips.

Clutching Faroniel to him as best he could, he gently rocked her, singing the unfamiliar song. The air grew lighter, the room grew brighter, the stench lessened.  The midwife swore as she and Tathariel stepped back away from the bed but Laurehér closed his eyes, ignoring them as he continued to sing. He sensed a strong light in the room dazzling through his eye lids, but kept on singing as the words came to him. Suddenly Faroniel gasped and relaxed in his arms. The light seemed to be dimming after a few more verses, finally fading when the song faltered and she suddenly held him tighter than she had for some hours.

“I love you so much,” she whispered in his ear.

He opened his eyes and leaned back, surprised to see an almost elven brightness to her eyes. Her skin literally glowed with a fading golden light as did his arms. He held up his hands in wonder and looked at them as they dimmed as well, returning to their normal color.

Faroniel rubbed her swollen belly. “Something had changed,” she said.

Laurehér placed his hand on her stomach and noticed the change as well. “Check her again,” he told the midwife.

She looked at him uncomprehendingly, pointing and gaping. “You…You-“

Sighing in exasperation, Laurehér arose and took the midwife’s hand and drew her back to the bed, “Please check her. Something has changed, I think it might finally be time.”

“What did you do, Laurehér?” Tathariel asked equally awestruck.

“I…I think it was a song of power,” he replied quietly. As they continued to stare uncomprehendingly, he elaborated, “A song of healing and renewal. Please…please just see to my wife.”

The midwife nodded slowly. “I have never seen…” but then her voice trailed off as she snapped back to the duty at hand. Briefly she checked Faroniel then agreed. “The first one is here. It is time.”

Not long afterward, Laurehér held first a daughter and then a son in his arms.

XXXXX

While Tathariel and the midwife still tended Faroniel, changing the bed and helping her settle in to sleep, Laurehér took the babies outside. The first rays of dawn kissed each downy head. He noticed to his delight that his daughter’s hair shown with radiant gold in the new light while his son’s curly hair glistened silver.

True to his word to Yavanna and because he felt in his heart this was something he needed to do, he gently raised his left arm just a bit where his daughter snuggled close.

“Eru Ilúvatar , Manwë, and Varda, and all the assembled Valar who may deign to hear... I present my newborn daughter Andreth Laurehériel. My wife chose her name and I concurred to honor the mortal maid Andreth beloved of Prince Aicanáro Finarfinion. I give my thanks for the life of this child added unto my house and I ask your blessings upon her. I pray that she will be wise and strong and serve you well.” Bending a bit, he kissed his daughter’s forehead and she sighed in her sleep. Tears slipped down his face, but he did not bother to wipe them away, realizing that more would be following.

In the same manner, he lifted his son. The boy started to cry, so he cuddled him close again, until he calmed. Chuckling, Laurehér said, “Well, you will have to admire him from here, because the little one does not seem to want to be so far away from me. I present to you my son-” the baby started to cry again so he paused, cuddling him some more and kissing his forehead and chubby cheeks, “my son Aicanáro Laurehérion. I chose his name and my wife concurred to honor the Noldorin prince who loved a Mortal but never pursued nor consummated that love. I give my thanks for the life of this child added unto my house and I ask your blessings upon him. I pray that he will be wise and strong and serve you well.”

He paused again, sniffling and trying to figure out how he could wipe his face or his nose while holding the children. Smiling guiltily, he continued, “You will have to accept me as I am. It has been a very long night and a very long pregnancy for me. I am so weary now, yet my joy knows no bounds. I thank you for the blessing of my beloved Faroniel and this joy added unto us. I do not know what fate awaits my children, being the offspring of Elf and Mortal. I only know the fate awaiting my mortal wife, and I know I will persist after she is gone. I…”

He wiped his face on his son’s blanket. “I am sorry, my sweet, but I had to. Do not tell you ammë! She will not be pleased.” He turned his face upward again. “I am sorry. I…I ask that my children…I do not know what I should wish for them. I am three thousand years old, but I was so alone and unhappy, hating the memories of my life before until Faroniel loved me. I do not want my children to persist if they must be alone and know the pain I know and have known. I would not wish that fate on anyone. I guess…I guess I wish for my daughter and my son to be happy and to know love. Perhaps it is more merciful if they are fated to be mortal.”

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, tears flowing freely. “I do not want to lose Faroniel. I do not know what I will do when she dies. It hurts so much to even think about it.” He buried his face in his son’s blanket and wept.

The sun shone brightly through the trees, the last visage of dawn fading from the sky when he stirred again. He felt an arm around his shoulders and looked up into the face of Tathariel. Gently she wiped his face with a cloth.

“My sister is so very lucky to have you. Come inside. I have made you something to break your fast. The babies, I’m certain, need new diapers. I can teach you how to change them as well. We need to bathe them, too. The water is warming as we speak.”

He nodded to her and allowed her to lead him into the cabin. Carefully she and the midwife each took a baby from his arms while gesturing to the table for him to sit. Faroniel slept peacefully on the bed, enjoying a well-earned rest. Quietly, he went to her and kissed her lips.

“I love you so very much,” he whispered, then backed away and went to the table to eat.

XXXXX

Later that day, he lay on the bed beside Faroniel. Her sister and the midwife had left a little while before with the promise of returning later to fix a hot meal for them. When Faroniel finished nursing the babies, he held the sleeping Andreth and she held Aicanáro who had fallen asleep first.

“They are so very beautiful,” Faroniel whispered in awe, repeatedly kissing the little boy’s head and rubbing her chin against his soft hair.

Laurehér could not help smiling. “He has your hair, I think, and his face promises to be more like yours, but his eyes are shaped like mine. It was so strange holding him earlier when he first woke up and seeing my own eyes staring back at me.”

Faroniel beamed brightly with delight. “Well, he has big shoulders like yours. I bet he will make a fine smith just like his adar.” Faroniel leaned over and appreciatively kissed Laurehér on the lips. He grinned unabashedly when she leaned away again and settled back on the pillows.

His son might grow up to be a smith like him. The thought thrilled him as he suddenly found himself struck with a vision of a tall broad-shouldered ellon, curly silver hair wisping away from the single braid down his back. Dirty from working at a forge, the ellon was busy examining something small and metallic in his hands – hands which were large and strong just like Laurehér’s.  Behind him another ellon with golden hair that was just as curly, but only a little more neatly braided, pumped the bellows to bring up the fire in the forge. When the golden-haired ellon straightened, he turned, and Laurehér was surprised to see that his eyes were the same shape and shade of blue as Faroniel’s.

The image faded, leaving Laurehér feeling dazed with wonder. Had he just seen a vision of another child of his? He knew in heart that the silver-haired ellon was his Aicanáro, but the other one? Was Aicanáro to have a brother then? Two sons to work side by side with him!

He sighed, shaking his head. The bearing of the twins had been hard on him and Faroniel both. He was not certain that he could endure another pregnancy with her. Glancing over at her while holding Andreth, he realized that if his wife asked him for another child in a few years’ time he would have great difficulty refusing her no matter the cost to him. His heart rejoiced in the joy on his wife’s face at this moment and at what he felt within himself as well.

But then it occurred to him, too, that he was a warrior as well, and he knew he was a good one. He had been a captain of an entire army. His grin faded as he realized that it just might fall upon his son to fight one day. It was one thing to make swords, but quite another to have to wield one and kill with one. Desperately he hoped that his son would never have to use one to kill.

Andreth stirred in his arms. He touched the back of one of her hands with his finger and she clutched the tip of his finger in her tiny hand as she drifted back to sleep. He smiled at how little and perfect she appeared before his eyes. Gently turning the hand still wrapped around his finger, he admired the impossibly small nails which were already surprisingly sharp. Something would have to be done about them before she hurt herself. Her face, her hands, everything about her was simply beautiful to him. He could see himself in her face, but he could see her mother in her as well.

For a long while, he stared at her, marveling at her and the fact that she had been added unto him – and the fact that she was their child. The longer he observed her, memorizing every detail of her, the more he realized that he was hopelessly in love with her. Briefly despair filled him as it occurred to him that he would be able to deny her nothing, but he shook it off. He and Faroniel had few possessions, but they could and would give their children what they did have: knowledge and love.

He felt warmth against his shoulder and looked over to see Faroniel nestling in beside him, her eyes closed, already succumbing to a deep slumber. Turning a bit, he kissed her forehead, earning himself a weak smile. Settling back a bit more, he made certain Andreth was secure in his arms, then allowed himself to slip onto the Path of Dreams yet maintaining just enough awareness to know when the babies stirred even the slightest in their sleep. No more visions came to him that night.

Chapter 11

“Oh, they are beautiful,” the smith’s wife gasped wonderingly, taking Andreth in her arms.

“I had forgotten how small and delicate babies are,” Angadan quietly agreed, holding Aicanáro in his massive arms.  He made little sounds at the baby, grinning as the boy cooed back in delight.

When at last the smith looked up at Laurehér and Faroniel again, he apologized, “I am indeed sorry that we waited so long to come see the babies. There was an illness in the town and my wife and I both had it as did so many others. It was no place to bring a baby. You were wise to keep them away. I would have come sooner, but as soon as I got well, my wife got sick, and then as soon as she got well, I got sick again. It was horrible.”

“I understand,” Faroniel said, “and we appreciate you and everyone else staying away while you were sick. We do not yet know if the babies will get sick easily like a Mortal or if they will be of a stronger constitution like their adar.”

“I hope for your sakes and theirs that they are like their adar in that regard,” the smith’s wife commented, then shook her head in wonder. “I still cannot believe how beautiful they are!”

And that was the first thing that everyone said of the babies when they met them the first time and the second and the twenty-second and even the two hundred and twenty-second time. Laurehér was amazed at how often he heard comments about their beauty, and surprisingly a bit angry as well, for the words were almost always followed by some variation of, “Well with an adar that handsome, how could they not be beautiful babies?”

He soon realized he was troubled because he believed Faroniel to be the one who was so very beautiful. Her spirit was strong and bright and ever was she full of compassion and gentle, loving concern for him and for others as well. Her curly hair was so soft and beautiful and her eyes so very bright and such a lovely shade of blue.  He hoped more and more each day that his children would take after her on the inside as well as in their physical appearance.  He had even taken to commenting to those who complimented his children’s beauty that his wife was the one who was truly beautiful and she deserved more credit for their loveliness than he. Some would scowl at him and some would agree, but then they all invariably would comment on what a loving husband he was to say such kind things about his wife.

One evening while Faroniel was out tending the animals, picking berries, and generally enjoying some time to herself, Belegon came to call. Laurehér hurriedly answered the knock on the door afraid of the waking the sleeping children.

“Belegon,” he practically growled as he recognized the visitor. Clutching the sleeping Aicanáro protectively to him with his left arm, immediately his eyes strayed to the chest by the wall where his sword and armor were stashed away. There was no way he could get there and protect the children at the same time if anything happened.

“Laurehér,” Belegon said by way of greeting.

“What do you want?” he asked brusquely, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the babies.

“May I come in,” Belegon asked, removing his hat and rolling it in his hands before him.

“No.”

“Very well then, I will say what I have to say from here.”

Laurehér looked at him expectantly, positioning himself such that his son was not within easy reach of the visitor.

“You do not trust me, Elf.”

“I have every reason not to trust you, Mortal.”

“Now, that is true. I have beaten you at every encounter and thwarted any attempts you may have made at recruiting our-”

“I never made any attempts at recruiting your folk for the war,” Laurehér snarled.  “Why are you even here this evening?”

Belegon raised his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I am here, Elf…Laurehér, because I wish for this strife between us to cease.”

“You started it,” Laurehér replied angrily. “I came here in peace and you have done your damndest to turn everyone against me from the very beginning.”

“I have and I did,” Belegon shot back. “And I am sorry. You have done nothing to provoke our people or lead them to war. You have been good to our Faroniel, easing her loneliness and giving her fair babes to cheer her. I…I have never seen her so happy. We love her and her happiness means a great deal to us. I am sorry for what I have said and for what I have done.”

Mouth agape, never taking his eyes off Belegon, Laurehér stepped back in surprise, reflexively rocking Aicanáro in his arm to sooth him where the boy startled at the sudden movement of his adar.

Belegon glanced at the baby and grinned briefly, almost in spite of himself. “I came here to tell you I am sorry. I want there to be peace between us, for the sakes of Faroniel and the children if nothing else.”

“I still do not trust you,” Laurehér said.

“I do not expect you to. I simply want for there to be peace between us, you and me. The conflict grieves my wife and yours. It troubles my wee ones, but it need never trouble yours.” Belegon paused then smiled in wonder at Aicanáro.  “You and Faroniel do make beautiful babes.”

There were many things Laurehér wanted to say to Belegon about just how much grief and trouble he had caused both families, but he restrained himself, simply replying, “Thank you. I will keep the peace if you will.”

“Fair enough,” Belegon agreed. “Good evening, Laurehér.”

“Good evening, Belegon” he replied as he shut and barred the door. Preparing himself a drink, he sat down on the bed beside Andreth, Aicanáro stirring until he found his own chubby fist to suck on, then settling again. Long Laurehér stared at the door, thinking about this most unexpected visit.  He knew he would never trust Belegon enough to let his children go visit that man’s house let alone even call Belegon uncle, but at least there was a chance for peace between them. He just hoped it would last. If that man or anyone else ever threatened his children or his wife, he knew he would show no restraint in his response. Then everyone would know how dangerous he was and, he realized, it would undoubtedly bring his ruin.

XXXXX

As the children grew older, Faroniel often commented that they were just like mortal children in all that they did. They rolled over and sat up and even started walking at a rate normal for mortal children. In their speech they were more advanced, mastering many words in their first year. In Laurehér’s mind they seemed to be behaving properly for elven children, but his wife and the villagers called them early talkers and precocious.

Laurehér was not certain what he enjoyed more: waking up in the morning to little ones crawling on him, kissing him, and declaring “I love you, Ada!” or coming home to shouts and squeals of “Ada!” and little arms embracing his head amidst a shower of tiny kisses. In the morning, the children would toddle around the cabin, which seemed to have grown even smaller, climbing on chairs and the bed and running off with the things he needed. In the evening, they followed him around as he did his chores and helped him carry whatever small items would fit in their arms. He had to pay extra attention when they helped him to be certain they did not lose what he gave them to carry because they both had a habit of setting down what he gave them as soon as something else caught their attention.

Faroniel was usually exhausted at the end of the day, but he did his best to see that he reminded her often how much he loved her and how grateful he was to her.  Most nights she fell asleep snuggled up in his embrace.  The rest of the time, he was so weary from the day’s labors and the draw of the children on his fëa that he fell into a deep slumber in Faroniel’s arms.  Surprisingly when he did sleep deeply, he was not troubled by dreams of his supposed past. He lived mostly in the present now, with little care for what was before though much concern for the future.

Would his children make friends? His children got along well enough with the other children of the village, but even they could tell that his peredhel children were somehow different. He feared that one day being the children of an Elf would earn them criticism due to jealousy or make them the victims of prejudice. Folk had said many things about him good and bad because he was an Elf.

What might his children face with some of the skills and traits of an Elf? Would his children be able to perform at the level of their mortal peers physically as well as emotionally? What if their bodies aged like mortals but their minds matured more slowly? Would they continue to be welcome in the village or would they be ostracized for being different? He had seen time and again that mature minds in young bodies were praised but the reverse was always met with ridicule.

Would his children be accepted by adults and appreciated for their skills and not simply for their beauty? Already it disturbed Laurehér how much his children could charm others into giving them what they wanted by using their melodious voices, lovely eyes, and cute smiles to wend their way into the villagers’ hearts.  And it did not help that everyone had to comment to the children that doing these things was the reason why they were getting what they wanted.

The possibilities frightened him, so he did what he could to teach them and help them keep up with other children their age. The problem was that once they turned three, their bodies did slow in growth. They grew in language and knowledge, but it soon became evident that their physical growth was not keeping up with that of their playmates. The healer checked them often, but he could find nothing wrong with them. At every visit he consoled the parents by pointing out that some children grow more quickly once they have a few more years in them and these would likely be that way.  The children obviously were very intelligent and they never got sick - even when their mother took ill for two months with a horrible sickness of the lungs and everyone feared she would die.

After suffering through her long recovery, Laurehér endeavored to see to it that she never grew sick again. If he noticed signs of illness in the village, he handled all of his family’s affairs there until all sign of illness had passed. He made certain as best he could that Faroniel ate well each day and rested well each night. He annoyed her by asking after every cough and sniffle if she needed to see the healer, earning himself much chiding from her and many giggles from the children who also thought he was being ridiculous.

Time and again, Laurehér was counseled to let go of his concerns for her and for the children, but he simply could not. He loved his sweet Faroniel. He loved their dear children. And he could not bear the thought of ever being without them. So he persisted in concerning himself with building their future by making the present the best he could for them all.

Nothing would ever distract him from his commitment to his family. But then one day shortly after the children turned five years old, visitors came to town.

XXXXX

He was busy at the forge making hooks one morning. It was relatively quick work, but he had many hooks to make while Angadan busied himself shoeing a horse.

“Laurehér,” Angadan called as they both placed their irons in the fire again. “Look over there.”  He gestured with his head in the direction of the basket weaver’s house.

Laurehér wiped his brow on his sleeve, already sweaty and grimy even though the day was still young, then glanced over his shoulder. Curiosity made him pause and turn to gaze more fully on the four men walking down the street.

Two had streaks of grey in their unbound hair while the other two appeared to be somewhat younger with similar dark hair. All were solidly built, wearing matching grey cloaks and armor which made their broad shoulders appear even larger, and each strode with his left hand resting easily on the hilt of a great sword strapped to his hip.  Additionally, each man bore a fine bow and a quiver full of arrows on his back.

All four looked around in interest, until one of them said something to the others and pointed to the smithy. Angadan motioned for Laurehér to stand behind him as the four men approached.

“Good morning, friend,” one of the older men said as the others nodded their greetings. He smiled amiably, causing his skin to crinkle around his eyes and accentuating a scar which ran the length of the left side of his face

“And to you,” Angadan replied, nodding his head in kind.

“We are strangers in town, as you may have guessed. Do you or your young assistant (the man smiled indulgently at Laurehér) there have any experience repairing swords?” The man withdrew his blade and laid it on the wooden table standing between himself and the smiths.

Laurehér bit his lips to keep himself from laughing out loud at the observation that he was young. Apparently with his hair pulled back the way it was, obscuring the tips of his ears and the amount of soot and ash on his face, he looked the part of a young assistant.

Angadan lifted the sword, examining the nicks and scratches on it. “This is a fine blade,” he said admiringly. “But it has seen much action, in battle I would wager.”

The four men glanced at each other approvingly and with no small amount of pride and perhaps arrogance as well.

“Indeed it has,” the man replied. “It has seen much battle, fighting Morgoth and his orcs.”

“You probably are not used to seeing such fine weapons in this quaint little village,” one of the younger men commented.

“No, we are not used to such finery here,” Angadan agreed as he handed the sword to Laurehér.

“Young One,” Angadan smirked, “Do you think you could make the repairs to this or shall I?”

Laurehér scowled at Angadan, but ruined his displeased expression by winking at his companion as he took the sword and looked it over. His eyes grew wide as he turned the blade in his hands.  

Did this man steal it from an Elf? Or did he buy it or receive it as a gift? He made a show of testing the balance, as he sensed the spells laid upon the metal during the crafting. Definitely not made by a son of Fëanor, but by some other Noldo who was well-skilled. He looked more closely at the base of the blade, noting the signature of the smith. The name meant nothing to him, but it did sound like the name a proud Noldo would give a son.

“This blade is of elven make, most likely fashioned by a Noldo. How did you come by it?” Laurehér asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“How do you-” the other man with graying hair asked suspiciously, but the one with the scar interrupted him.

“It was a gift, given to my mother’s great-grandfather from an Elf lord for service to his folk. How did you know it is of elvish make?” All four of the men scrutinized Laurehér carefully.

“First, there are the Tengwar runes.” Laurehér pointed to them with his index finger. “Then if you hold the sword like so,” he held the sword up so the sunlight glinted off of it, “you can see this swirling pattern in the steel. This method of layering the metal was used by the Noldor.”

All four of the men eyed him dubiously, “And how would you know such things, Young One?” the man with the scar asked.

Laurehér realized too late he may have made a mistake in revealing his knowledge of Noldorin metalworking. He bowed his head, pretending to be embarrassed, then intentionally stumbled over his reply, “I, uh, we…that is to say my kin learned of these techniques many years ago from…from smiths who learned from the Elves.”

Angadan turned and patted Laurehér on the shoulder in fatherly pride. “Son, would you like to make the repairs to this fine blade?”

Laurehér lifted his chin, meeting Angadan’s eyes, noting a hint of warning to continue to play along. “Yes, Master, I would, under your supervision of course.”

“Naturally,” Angadan agreed. Then he turned to face the men again.

“We will begin work on the blade this afternoon as soon as we finish the hooks and horseshoes our customers are waiting on.”

“Thank you,” the man with the scar said, reaching over and patting Angadan on the shoulder.  

The four turned as if to depart, when one of the younger ones commented, “We have not been here long, but I have not noticed many able-bodied men besides your assistant really who look as if they are between the ages of 22 and 50 years old.”

Angadan’s expression sobered. “They were all taken away to fight in the war.”

The man gestured to Laurehér. “What about him? To be a smith, a man has to be strong and able-bodied.”

“We got him back from the war,” Angadan explained. “It took years for his wounds to heal and he still has problems on occasion.”

“Well, he looks solid and strong to me,” the man commented. “You must have good healers among you. The war could use good healers and strong smiths.”

“I’m sure it could,” Angadan agreed rather gruffly. “Now if you will excuse us, we have work to finish so we can start on your fine sword.” 

“We will come by tomorrow to check on your progress.” The man with the scar called over his shoulder as they turned and walked away toward to the tavern.

“Damn recruiters,” Angadan muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disgust. “I will be glad to be rid of them.” Glancing at Laurehér who kept a neutral expression on his face, he said, “Let us get back to work, my friend. We have much to do.”

XXXXX

Laurehér stayed at the forge until late into the evening working on the sword, not so much because the sword was that badly damaged, but because of the sheer pleasure he took in working with Noldorin steel once again. The metal called to him and the feel of the spells imbued in the blade thrilled him with each blow of his hammer. He would have stayed at the forge all night had Angadan, brandishing a fork full of venison, not yelled at him out the window of his house to put down the cursed hammer and go home to his wife and children.

Having lived so long among mortals, Laurehér had forgotten the pleasures of things crafted by his own kind. He made his way home through the woods, not bothering with the road because the way was too short to give him time to think. If metal forged by Elves spoke to him so, what about other objects crafted by Elves? Unfortunately he had nothing left to him of his old life but his weapons and armor. Did baskets or fabric bear the memory of the elvish weavers who made them? What about furniture or ships? Did these remember their makers in the way that the sword he repaired still bore the grace given it by the smith who originally forged it? Would the house he shared with Faroniel remember his presence after he left it when his family finally died and he was alone?

He paused, grasping a tree limb for support while he blinked back the emotion that overwhelmed him at the thought of losing his mortal family. He loved them more than he believed he could have ever loved anyone else in his life. It would break him when his family died. Of that he had no doubts. But what could he do? What would he do?

And these recruiters who had come - if indeed that was what those four men were - they would break apart families and entice sons and husbands to go to war. If this war lasted too much longer, would his own son be courted by recruiters to go away and fight in distant battles? He could not let that happen, would not let that happen. But then who was he to make such decisions?

If it had not been for the war, then he would not be here. He would not have the wife and children and life he had now. He chose to go to war. Someone came to his village and said words that tempted him, that changed his life, that made him a captain of an army, that nearly cost him everything, that stole his memories of his past, that gave him the blessed life he had now.

The feel of the elvish metal came back to him as he pushed away from the tree and resumed his walk. That was part of the life he had left behind to march to war. Flashes of memory came to him as he wound his way through undergrowth that had not hindered him before. It had been years since he had taken any path other than the road to get home from the forge.

He was not from a village, he was from a city. It was not the honeyed words of recruiters touting the glory and might of battle who came to call him away to war, it was a messenger from a distant land. The Valar had summoned the nobles to hear what news Lord Eärendil had from Endórë, then King Ingwë, the High King of all the Elves of Aman, called a council of war. Laurehér…no, Arafinwë had no choice but to attend.

XXXXX

They gathered in an enormous council chamber in Manwë’s mansion. The kings and all of the lords of the Noldor and the Vanyar were present. Eonwë herald of Manwë presided as the Maiar captain who would lead all of the hosts of the Army of Light. King Olwë of the Teleri had been summoned with his lords, but he had refused all Telerin attendance, wanting nothing to do with rescuing those who had murdered his folk and stolen their ships. This was not just a rescue mission, though saving the folk of Endórë from the tyranny of Morgoth was one of the objectives. The primary goal was to remove Morgoth and his influence from Endórë so that all of the folk in all of Arda could dwell in peace. Olwë allowed himself to be persuaded to pledge ships to transport warriors and the mariners to sail them, but nothing more.

Training of the warriors was to begin immediately, the forging of weapons, the weaving of cloth, the sewing of uniforms, the making of armor, contingencies to cover the loss of the labor force had to be implemented, extra crops had to be grown, and pack and farm animals bred. The guilds would have to have plans in place to deal with the loss of skilled crasftsmen. There was much to do and the longer it took to raise this army, the more of their kin in Endórë would die and the harder it would be to win this war.

For Arafinwë personally,this was also a war for vengeance against Morgoth for all the evil he had wrought. Morgoth had destroyed the peace in Aman as well as in Endórë. That evil Vala had destroyed Arafinwë’s family and now Arafinwë wanted revenge.

He may have been a smith and the youngest son of his atar’s line, but he was a noble, high and lordly. One day, many months into the training, Eonwë had taken him aside and told him that even if the command of the Noldorin army had not been his by right, Eonwë would have been hard put not to grant him a captaincy for his skill in strategy, his might at arms, and his ability to lead and inspire men.

The command of the Noldorin army…

He had not merely been a captain under Eonwë’s command; he was THE Captain of the Noldorin army. He was the king’s voice on the battlefield. But the Noldorin king had gone to the war, as well...

Laurehér stumbled and fell to his knees, the wind knocked out of him as the realization struck him like a blow to the gut. He knelt there for a long time, panting, his eyes unseeing, his mouth agape with shock as he tried to reconcile what he remembered of his past.

The dying elven warrior had told him that above all others Morgoth wanted him dead, and now, at last he understood why. HE, Laurehér, no Arafinwë, the captain of the Noldorin army was the King of the Noldor!

XXX

Chapter 12

Laurehér was late to the forge the next day. The night before he had spent holding and singing to his children until they fell asleep, then making love to his wife until she fell asleep. He slept not at all. Instead he held his dreaming Faroniel close to his heart and wept soundlessly the entire night. Not once did he tell her who he really was or about the recruiters come to town.

Anger and despair filled him as he drew the sword from the fire to begin working it once again. Each blow of the hammer, each stab in the cooling water, each smoothing swipe of the polishing cloth brought his heart one beat closer to the realization and the understanding of what he must do.

When the four men returned in the afternoon for the sword, the owner hefted the blade, examining it from all angles then giving it a few practice swings.

“It has never been so beautiful in my lifetime. Your work is exquisite, smith,” the man marveled.

Laurehér nodded his gratitude for the compliment, but Angadan did not look quite so pleased.

“Come away with us, young one,” the man with the scar enticed. “You are but another smith fixing trinkets and baubles and shoeing horses. Your talents are wasted here, working in the shadow of a master when you could be a master in your own right. Your skill in repairing weapons could well save many lives on the battlefield.”

“Do you fight alongside the Elves?” Laurehér asked.

“Indeed we do,” one of the younger men replied. “They are mighty and terrible to behold, come in splendor as they have from Valinor across the sea. I saw the way you looked at that sword and how reverently you touched it. There are many such blades of elven make that are in need of repair. You could work metal like that every day if you wished.”

“When did you last see the Elves? Which clans have you fought alongside?” Laurehér carefully asked.

“When I first joined up,” the man with the scar said, “I fought under the command of the Vanyar. They have yellow hair like yours. These last few years though, we four all fought side-by-side with the Noldor. We blend in better with them, being dark-haired and of a strong build and all. In my mind, they are more passionate, more aggressive, and angrier than the Vanyar, far angrier and deadlier for what they have endured. They hold us to a higher standard and I like that. I am a better man and a better fighter for my experiences with them. We left them well-nigh three months ago and are eager to return to service.”

Nodding his understanding, Laurehér further ventured, “Who leads the Noldorin army?”

The man scratched his scraggly beard thoughtfully as he replied, “Well, Eonwë the Maia, herald of the king of the Belain, leads the combined armies of Elves and Mortals. A mighty prince leads the Vanyar, but I am not certain who leads the Noldor. Their king was captured by Morgoth, or so the rumors say. A lot of their warriors sacrificed themselves trying to rescue that ellon, such was their love for him. We have no dealings with any of the leadership of the Elves. We have a mortal captain to whom we must answer and he gets his orders from Elf lords. Your orders would come from Mortals as well, most likely, but there are Elves all about. They have a great light in their eyes and fire in their spirits. They are beautiful and glorious in so many ways. You would grow to be a great man indeed for their influence, young smith. Come away with us and see for yourself.”

Angadan stepped up to the table, placing himself squarely between the visitors and Laurehér. Folding his arms in defiant challenge, he growled, “Belegon and the village elders told you last night to be gone from here when your sword was repaired. Now take your weapons and your honeyed words and stories of battle glory and be gone from my forge! We will spend no more sons on your war. The Elves brought this war, let them go fight it. You have stolen enough of our sons in years past, leaving us old and bereft. Now get you gone and leave our village in peace!”

“As you wish.” The man with the scar nodded, then threw a few pieces of gold onto the table in payment for the work. “If your assistant wishes to prove himself a man though and reach his full glory, he can join the others who have decided to come with us. We are meeting at the mill down by the creek at dawn tomorrow to march to war.”

With that, the four turned and walked away.

Laurehér watched in surprise as villagers came out of houses and shops, glaring as the men proudly strode away. A few called insults after them, but Laurehér remained silent, mulling over Angadan’s words.

Mortals are brief though they are strong and proud and passionate. But this is the Elves’ fight. Morgoth fled to these lands because of the crimes he committed against the Valar and the Elves. Elves were already fighting this war before Mortals even awoke. In a very real sense, this was the Elves’ war. And he, Laurehér was an Elf.  And Arafinwë was the King of the Noldor, supposedly being held captive by Morgoth, leaving how many ellyn to fight and die without the leadership of their king?

“Damn recruiters!” Angadan grumbled once they were out of sight. “And they thought to tempt you to leave.” He laughed derisively, shaking his head in dismay. Heaving a great sigh, he turned and started gathering supplies for the next task at hand. “Laurehér, you know all too well what war does to a man – or an ellon. You are just about the last person who would ever go to war with them. Those fools were wasting their breath. Well, we had best be back to work.”

Laurehér nodded, not trusting himself to speak at the moment, and truly he did not know what he would say. The Army of Light still stood. The Noldor missed their king. Warriors had sacrificed themselves trying to save their liege when all this time their damaged leader has been living as a smith among Mortals, having taken a mortal wife and sired half-mortal children. The recruiters did not need to try to entice him with promises of glory if he went away to war. The most potent words they could have used to persuade him were said in passing. Elves had willingly given their immortal lives in a foreign land to rescue the ellon they called king, such was their love for the captain of their army.

The King of the Noldor owed it to his soldiers to return to the fight. Arafinwë owed it to his folk who stayed behind, allowing their loved ones to depart for a distant, dangerous land with the sure knowledge that their king was going to lead the ellyn himself.  And Laurehér owed it to his mortal wife and half-mortal children to return to the war and fight so that they would never have to raise a weapon in defense later on, and so that his children and his grandchildren for generations after would know a land without the threat of Morgoth and have lives filled with peace.

Dawn tomorrow would find him at the mill, garbed for war.

XXXXX

The work load for the day had been light so Laurehér and Angadan finished up earlier than usual. As they put away the last of the tools, Laurehér called to the master smith.

“Angadan, we need to talk.”

The smith turned from hanging the last tool, took one look at Laurehér, and sighed. “You’re going away, aren’t you?”

Laurehér gasped in surprised then gave a small embarrassed smile. “Is it that obvious?”

Crossing his powerful arms grimy with sweat and soot, the smith looked Laurehér squarely in the eyes. “What did they say to persuade you? You have a wife and young children to think about. You know there is no glory in this fight, only struggle and death. You have seen this yourself and suffered yourself.”

Hesitating as he looked about for potential listeners, Laurehér replied, “Could we please go someplace private to discuss this? There is much I must tell you and…and I do not want other folk to know what I have to say.”

“Very well. Let’s go to my house. My wife is helping her sister-daughter today with that new baby and won’t be back until tomorrow. I have some good ale as well. Eru did not mean for men to discuss important things without a good cup of strong ale at hand.”

Nodding his thanks, Laurehér hung up his leather apron for the last time and followed the smith to his house.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of remarkably good ale in his hand, Laurehér sighed. Angadan had been his dearest friend in the village. These words were going to be difficult to say, but if anyone would understand it would be Angadan.

“Ever since I have been here in this village, I have struggled to regain the memories stolen from me as a result of my injuries. Through the years I have remembered much, but only in bits and pieces. It has been difficult putting it all together, but there are some very important things I have learned.” Laurehér took a good swallow of his drink.

“Do you remember when I brought my armor to the forge to repair it a few years ago and you commented about how fine it was?”

“Indeed I do. It is magnificent. I cannot believe that all Elves have such fine armor. I said as much to you then, but you did not comment,” Angadan replied.

Laurehér ventured a small smile. “I know. You were guessing near a truth I wanted no one to know. By that point in time, I had remembered that I was one of the captains of the Army of Light, though at that time I thought I was a Vanya or part Vanya anyway.”

“You aren’t? Well, you certainly aren’t one of the Sindar.”

Chuckling, Laurehér shook his head, “No, no, I am not. My naneth was a Vanya and my adar was a Noldo – a very important Noldo.” He took another drink.

Angadan arched an eyebrow. “How important?”

“I…I…when I talked to the one other Elf who I have met since I was injured, he told me that Morgoth wanted to end my adar’s line and that I was the last survivor of my adar’s house.  He told me that if my adar’s line ended, then Morgoth truly would have won. He also told me that many, perhaps a hundred, had died searching for me as he himself had been searching for me before his group was ambushed and killed.  His name was Lord Sartandil of the House of Oaks. He also called me by my right name, Arafinwë.”

Nodding his head for Laurehér to continue, Angadan reached over and added more ale to his friend’s cup.

“I felt so guilty having watched Sartandil, who I knew was a close friend of mine, die. And then seeing and burying the dead who lay about him so the orcs would not desecrate - well let us not honey-coat words here – so the orcs would not eat their bodies like they had the rest of the force that was destroyed looking for me...” He paused a moment, shaking his head. “I still had no memory of who I was, but I hated myself for the deaths that had resulted from my absence from the army. In the following months, I came to realize that I was a captain of the army. I feared what would become of me if Belegon ever found out. I knew he likely would kill me just for that, seeing as how he wanted me dead for so long just for being an Elf come from the war. I am sorry I never told you before. I feared for myself and, later, I feared for my family.”

Angadan whistled in amazement, shaking his head in disbelief. “No wonder you have played the weak and wounded idiot Elf so hard and so well. What did you or your adar do in the war that Morgoth hates you and your adar’s line so much?”

“From what I can recall, my adar was the first to take on Morgoth in single combat and, later, one of my elder brothers did the same. From what I recall of the messages brought to Valinor by Lord Eärendil, Morgoth systematically hunted down and destroyed every son of my adar’s line and along with them, he destroyed every kingdom they ever ruled in Middle-Earth.”

Swearing loudly, Angadan took a swig of his ale, then choked, coughing and sputtering as he nearly dropped his cup on the table, sloshing ale over the sides. “Damn it, Elf!” He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over backwards with the force of his rising, and pointed accusingly at Laurehér. “You’re a king aren’t you? You’re that missing king of the Noldor that warrior was going on about, aren’t you?” He swore some more, stomping around to pick up the chair.

“You! You! Damn it, Elf!  Laurehér! Why did you- How-” He righted the chair rather loudly, then wandered around the small kitchen, banging his fist on walls, occasionally wiping his face with his hand and looking over at Laurehér. Finally he stopped and dropped to his knees before his house guest.

“Laurehér, you’re a king!”

Calmly Laurehér replied, “Yes, I am, and I only put enough memories together last night to realize this myself.” Gesturing to Angadan, he added, “You are being ridiculous. Please get up and get back in your chair.”

“But you’re a king! I have never met a king before, your Majesty.”

Laurehér rolled his eyes, then sighed in exasperation. “Do not call me that and please get up. You are making me uncomfortable. We have worked together side-by-side at the forge for years as close friends. Please, do not do this to me now. I am not your king. I am the king of the Noldor from across the sea.”

Angadan seemed to think about these words for a few moments then slowly rose and made his way back to his chair, sitting down heavily. Downing his cup of ale in one go, Laurehér politely poured him another and then he drank half of that as well before meeting the king’s eyes again. “So why in hell do you know what you are doing at a forge? That is dirty, back-breaking work. Did you dishonor your adar or something and he punished you by making you get your hands and face dirty like a common laborer?”

Laurehér laughed loudly, leaning back in his chair and clapping his hands. “Now that is the Angadan I know and love well. The Noldor hold crafting in all forms to be desirable and honorable skills. All of the sons of Finwë were trained by Aulë the Vala himself in smithing of all forms, including black smithing, gold, silver, copper work, and the mining and crafting of jewels. My brothers were far better at it than I. My work did not make my adar proud.” Then he added softly as he turned his head and took a drink. “Very little that I did ever made him proud.”

The smith choked on his drink and coughed, pounding himself on the chest until his throat cleared. “But you are amazing in your strength and skill and your attention to fine detail! I have been at a forge all my life, and even I have learned much from you. Your adar was a fool to not be proud of you!” Then he glanced sideways at Laurehér. “And don’t you dare get angry with me for criticizing your adar.”

“I am not angry, not any more. Having a half-brother who was the greatest of our kind in skill of word and hand who ever existed is rather much to live up to. And I was the youngest son of my adar’s second marriage when he valued the love he had for his first wife and her child more. Not as much was expected of me that I actually had to live up.”

“And yet that half-brother was a prideful, hot-headed fool who slew kin and cost how many tens of thousands of your folk their lives and their homes?”

Laurehér looked down at his cup, idly toying with the handle. “And how many have died because of me? How many have I ordered into battle, never to return? How many died looking for me? I do not know the answers to those questions. It makes me sick to even think about it.”

“And that, my majestic friend, is a testament to your greatness as a king. Your conscience and your compassion speak highly of you as an ellon and as a king. And it speaks highly of you as well that so many would be willing to die trying to find you. Your half-brother was good with things and, if I understand the stories aright, he used people as things as a means to his own ends. I have known you when you knew nothing of yourself and were reduced to nothing, no title, no fancy clothes or jewels, just an ellon. I have come to love and respect you and I know many others who do, too. We turned against the most powerful man in our village because of the way he treated you. It does not surprise me at all that ellyn would find it in their hearts to be willing to die on your orders and in your defense.”

Sighing, but feeling immensely grateful, Laurehér met his friend’s gaze and smiled. “Thank you.”

Angadan nodded, then got up and went to the shelves behind his guest. Coming back to the table, he unwrapped a pastry from the bakery and some cheese. Placing some of each on two plates, he took his seat once again, pushing one plate over to Laurehér. 

“There. Eat.” After a few mouthfuls, the smith wiped his beard with the back of his hand, then asked, “So how much of this does your lovely Faroniel know?”

Swallowing some cheese, Laurehér quietly replied, “She knows nothing of my lineage.”

“Will you tell her before you go?”

“I do not know yet. I believe she has a right to know, but…I…I honestly do not know what my people will do when they find out their king has taken a mortal wife who cannot return to Valinor with him. I do not know what I will do. I love her so much and it grieves me greatly every time I consider the mortal fate which awaits her, but will leave me alone again and bereft.”

“You have two children who love you dearly. What will become of them while you are gone? Your son is your heir, is he not?”

Laurehér grinned. “I guess he is. I had not thought of that, but, yes, I guess he is. But he is the heir to a kingdom that he may not ever be allowed to set foot in because of his mortal blood. It is a bitter jest, is it not? To be heir to a kingdom and a fortune because of the blood in his veins, but also because of his blood, he can never claim it.”

“Yes, that is pretty bitter. At least you can put off worrying about it until the war is over.”

“That is true. And speaking of my children…Would you be willing to be as an adar to my children while I am away?”

“A prince and a princess?” Angadan leaned back from the table as if to distance himself from the possibility.  “What would I do with them? I’m a grimy blacksmith with a feisty, plump little wife.”

Smiling knowingly, Laurehér explained, “Raise them to be caring and compassionate, to be an ellon and an elleth of wit and skill of hand. Make my son your apprentice and teach him what you know while he waits for me to return. Your wife could teach my daughter to be strong and feisty and bake good pies. I know Faroniel will need the help while I am gone.”

“What about Morgoth? Will he come after the children and your wife once he learns about them?”

Closing his eyes, Laurehér slid his hand over his face, then put his elbow on the table, resting his forehead on his palm. “I…I had not thought of that. They will all be in danger whether I stay or leave if Morgoth ever learns of them. His spies are everywhere, in places we do not expect. It is a blessing indeed that he never found me in all of my years here.”

Wiping tears from his eyes, he looked up again. “I cannot tell them, can I? If Faroniel knows she will tell her sister, if no one else, and then everyone will know, and…and…” He pushed back from the table and shakily rose to his feet.

Pacing back and forth Laurehér struggled with his thoughts and emotions, tears angrily falling. “I…I cannot tell them. My son and my daughter and my beloved wife who I have trusted with my life for so long can never know the truth about it. They have a right to know who they are and who I am, but…but…that knowledge could bring their deaths.”

He banged his fist against the nearest wall. “I am cursed no matter what I do.”

Angadan came over and placed his hand on Laurehér’s shoulder. “Then do not tell them until this war is over, my friend, and I will not tell them either, not until I have your permission to do so. I will care for your children and love them as my own. And I will look after Faroniel and see that she and the children want for nothing while you are away. I swear it.”

Taking a few deep breaths and slowly letting them out, trying get his emotions back under control, Laurehér finally turned and embraced Angadan as the brother he knew him to be. “You truly are my gwador, and I am ever so grateful and so very proud to call you my brother. Thank you. I will find some way to repay you for your troubles when I return.”

Angadan clapped him on the back a few times before finally drawing away. “There is no need to repay me. The gift of having children in my house again when I may never have my sons returned to me will be joyous reward enough.”

Laurehér stayed a while longer and they talked of old times as well as things to come. Their final farewell was difficult for both of them, but Laurehér made it to the woods on his way back home before he broke down and wept for the loss that was to come.

XXXXX

Belain – the Valar

Gwador – sworn brother

Chapter 13

The march to the front lines had been long and arduous. There were many stops, collecting new recruits from other villages. When Laurehér joined the march, he was but one of approximately one hundred men from surrounding villages whose existence he knew of by name and tale only. He had never seen fit to leave the lands near what had been his village these last seven years, until now. Would he ever return? He hoped so. To what would he return? He knew not, and that still grieved him greatly – even after all of these months of travel. Winter was drawing upon them with more than the occasional chill wind and the brush of snowflakes.

How long had this war been going on now? Fifteen, perhaps seventeen years? He could not remember and really did not care.  Still, the army was far from Angband, for every inch of the way was a hard-won battle since the army from Valinor first landed on the southwesten coast.  Laurehér did remember that much as least.

Laurehér looked about the many rows of tents as he made his way to his own with a bowl of food.  The only other folk from his village who had joined up this time around, besides Laurehér, were the healer’s third son, Barandir, who joined as a healer in his own right, and the fifth of the miller’s eleven sons, Damrod.  These two knew he was an Elf, but no one else seemed to have cared to notice.  Not that he had called attention to the fact, keeping his hair over his ears and his cloak about him to hide his armor. It was surprisingly easy to hide in a crowd of more than one thousand such as this, with mortal men from so many different places with so many different accents and builds of body.

All along the road, they had trained as they marched, practicing the skills which would be useful in battle. Laurehér held back in all of his sparring, not wanting to reveal himself for what he was. After all of these months, his armor once again felt like a second skin, his strength of body more fully returned to him. The draw on his fëa could be another matter for him with his children still very young, but never on the road had he felt weariness encroach upon him. He had no idea what his limits would be in full strength on the battlefield, but he supposed he would find out on the morrow.

Joining Damrod and Barandir by the fire near the tent the three of them shared, Laurehér watched a few errant snowflakes land in his stew.

“They will enhance the flavor,” Damrod assured him with a grin, dabbing at his own bowl with some crusty bread.

Laurehér took a bite. “No, still as flavorless as yesterday.” He grinned back.

“This might help,” Barandir said, reaching into a pouch at his belt and then dropping a pinch of salt into Laurehér’s bowl.

Laurehér tried another spoonful. “Definitely an improvement,” he nodded. “Thank you.”

“It certainly could not make it any worse, could it?” Damrod observed and they all chuckled.

“Have you heard anything about what we should expect tomorrow?” Damrod asked, his voice sounding young and a bit nervous.

Laurehér nodded around a chunky mouthful of stew. Once he managed to swallow, he replied, “I heard we are to form up at dawn. Then we will march north and join up with the other forces.”

Damrod nodded, then bowed his head over his bowl.

“Nervous?” Barandir asked.

“A bit,” Damrod replied quietly.

Laurehér reached over and patted Damrod on the knee consolingly. “You would be a fool to not be nervous and even scared. I feel that way as well, and I have seen many battles. For what it is worth, you have learned well on the road and even back in the village when you used to come round to the forge and ask me to show you moves with a sword.”

“What if I forget it all as soon as I see the enemy?”

“You won’t. In fact you will be surprised at what you find yourself capable of doing as soon as that first strike comes toward you, and you realize that you are in a fight for your life. I have faith in you,” Laurehér encouraged.

Damrod sighed, poked at his food a bit, then dropped his spoon into his half-eaten stew. “But what if it doesn’t happen that way for me? I mean, you are an Elf and a survivor. You are stronger, smarter, and a better fighter than you have led our folk to believe all this time. I have seen evidence of it time and again, ever since you came to our village.”

Laurehér glanced sideways at the youth, who smirked back at him briefly.

“I pay attention to what goes on around me, friend smith. People just ignore me because I am quiet, and they don’t realize what I know. In a way, it is just the same as the way they have underestimated you all of these years.”

Laurehér nodded at him carefully, keeping his expression guarded. The boy was shrewd indeed or perhaps Laurehér’s true self had come through more than he had ever realized over the years.

“Well, Damrod, now that you have made Laurehér uncomfortable, I would say that if things do not go as our good friend has said they might, then you will be seeing a lot more of me than you might like,” Barandir grinned, raising his eyebrows for emphasis.

“I hope neither of us has cause to be a victim of your services,” Damrod said, jabbing his spoon in his bowl again and toying with the contents.

Barandir shot him an annoyed look, which Damrod returned whole-heartedly, then turned to Laurehér. “What if the Elves see you in battle tomorrow? Will they make you rejoin your old regiment? Do you remember which lord’s banner was the one you marched behind?”

Laurehér sighed. “I do not know what the Elves will do when they see me again. I do not know if I will be recognized. If I am, then I will be forced to rejoin them. I will not be given any choice in the matter. As for which banner…I will know it when I see it.”

“Avoid it then,” Damrod suggested, his tone quite serious. “I don’t want you to leave us.”

“Neither do I,” Barandir added, just as determinedly.

“You have been gone a long time, years in fact,” Damrod continued. “Perhaps they won’t recognize you and you can stay with us where you belong.” He met Laurehér’s eyes with his own steely gaze. “You are from our village after all, and your family awaits you there. You are not theirs any more. You are ours. And our village will want their favorite smith to come home again. If those Elves try to take you away, they will have to answer to us.”

Deeply touched, Laurehér stood and holding his bowl so as not to spill it, saluted and executed a most honorable bow to his companions. Taking his seat once again between his most delighted and proudly smiling fellow villagers, he said with a small smile of his own. “We will just have to hope that the Elves are amenable to your claims.”

They both slapped him on the back, sloshing a bit of his stew over the side of the bowl. They laughed at him as he swore and shook the murky liquid off his hands, the spray of droplets hissing as they hit the fire.

The rest of the meal passed amidst companionable chatter of home.

XXXX

As Laurehér lay rolled in his cloak, the other two finally having fallen asleep, he thought about his wife and children. His parting from them had been every bit as difficult as he had feared it would be. Faroniel had been angry with him, so very, very angry.

She threw things. She yelled and screamed. She angrily pounded his chest with her fists, cursing, amidst her tears, the recruiters and Morgoth and her stubborn husband’s sense of duty as an elven warrior once again heeding the call to arms.  

“It never stopped being my fight even when I was removed from it. I go to fight once again so that my children will not have to.  Is it unfair that the sons of men should…” he had paused, placing his hands on her strong, slender shoulders, desiring to cleave her to him, yet knowing she would not have him. “Beloved, I plead with you to understand that my conscience will not allow me to watch mortal men go to a battle that Elves should be fighting, that I should be fighting, that I was sent here to fight. If anyone is to bear the burden of this responsibility to destroy Morgoth and end his hold over these lands, then it is the Elves – all Elves, including me. You and the children mean more to me than you can know, but I will not see my son march to war, and I will not see my wife and daughter left alone and bereft as victims of Morgoth. If every able-bodied Elf fights in this war, then that many fewer sons of men will have to join the fray and spend their lives needlessly beneath the enemy’s blades.”

Faroniel turned away from him then and began clearing the table of the dirty dinner dishes. She scrubbed the table and cleaned the dishes without a word or glance at him. Occasionally, she sniffled or sobbed under her breath, wiping her face on her damp sleeve, but she never once looked at him.

The children remained silent, watching her and watching him as he went about preparing his armor and packing a bag.

Finally his son spoke, “Ada, I do not mind going to fight so you can stay here with Nana and Andreth. I have a sword…” Aicanáro ran across the room and dug out his small wooden sword from underneath a pile of neatly folded clean clothes, leaving them in a heap. “And I know how to swish it and poke and stab and smack.” He proceeded to demonstrate his prowess with the weapon and then dramatically killed an imaginary enemy.

Laurehér stopped his packing and knelt before his son, taking him in his arms. “Oh, my brave little prince…” he blinked furiously at the tears threatening his eyes as he spoke. “I…I…” His voice broke, and all he could do was huddle there on his knees, holding his precious son to him. The boy hugged him around the neck and held on tightly, as Laurehér buried his face in the curly, silver hair that seemed to defy all efforts at combing. After a bit, the boy began stroking his ada’s hair and patting his back.

Soon Andreth came over and wiggled her way under one of Laurehér's arms as well, shoving her brother over a bit and hugging her ada with all her might, too. Laurehér clung to her as well just as fiercely as he held his son.

“My little princess,” he whispered. “I love you so very much, too. Just as much as I love your brother.” It took him some time to get himself back under control again and the children stayed there in his arms until he finally released them. He coughed a bit and wiped his face on his sleeves, his hands shaking as he finally let the children go.

When he found his voice again, he held hands with each child and quietly said, “I need you two to help your naneth while I am gone. I need you to be strong and helpful and take good care of her for me. I love her so very much. Just as soon as I am able to come home again, I will. I promise you, I will. I will keep your faces and your voices and your love in my heart every moment I am gone. It is because I love you so much that I have to go away. I do not want anything bad to happen to either of you ever. If I go away and fight the enemy, then you should be safe from him for your whole lives. Forever.” He kissed each one and then held them at arms’ length.

“Aicanáro, Angadan told me that as soon as you can lift a hammer, he will begin teaching you to be a smith. It would make me very proud if you could help him out at the forge while I am gone.” His son’s eyes lit up excitedly.

Turning to his daughter who looked a little disappointed, he said, “Andreth, I am sure he would be willing to teach you as well.” (She gloated triumphantly at that.) “Also, his wife is going to teach you to make her pies. Every boy in town will kneel at your feet if you can bake a pie like that woman does and wield a hammer.” Andreth smiled joyfully.

He hugged them again, unable and unwilling to let them go for a long time.

When at last he finished his packing, he turned to find his wife standing nearby.  She reached up and gripped his upper arms. Her eyes were red when her gaze met his and her face splotchy from crying. He did not imagine he looked any better at the moment. 

“I do not apologize for my anger,” she said. “I love you more than you can know, and I do not want you to go away from us. But…” she hesitated, looking away and breathing deeply through her nose. “But I understand why you must go. I respect your decision, and I respect you for doing what your sense of duty calls you to do. I know it hurts you to leave us, and I’m glad it hurts you.” Tears started from her eyes again as her voice cracked. “Because mayhap that pain in your heart from missing us will lead you back to us again all the sooner. We love you so much. I love you so much. It will be so hard to be without you.”

He took her in his arms and cried with her.

After a time, she looked up and wiped at the tears still glistening on his face. “My Golden Lord, I love you so.”

He drew her to him and kissed her desperately, longingly, and she kissed him back.

Once the children were asleep, he made love to her and fell asleep secure for one last night in her loving embrace.

XXXXX

Rolling onto his side to face the entrance of the tent, Laurehér concentrated on the mental images of each of his twins and his beloved wife, sending them his love. Faroniel’s fëa seemed so very weak and mortal and far away tonight. Up until recently, she had been a strong presence when he reached out across the bond he held with her, although he knew she could feel neither the bond nor his attempts to reach out to her through it. Perhaps the great distance he had traveled had taken its toll on his ability to sense her of late. But his children…they responded easily to his mental touch across the parental bond he held with them. They were half-elven after all, so sensing these things came more easily to them. To him, it seemed that he could feel a fervent hug and a whispered ‘I love you’ from each of them as well as a desperate plea to hurry home, but he never could be certain. He hoped he had felt those things as he had hoped every night since he had departed when he longingly sent them his love before he ventured down the Path of Dreams. Tonight, he drifted off in true sleep with the feeling of those hugs wrapped around his heart. 

XXXX

The first, barest inklings of dawn stirred the clouds when the horns sounded, rousing the camp, summoning the men to break their fast and gird themselves for war. Judging from the shadowed nervousness of the soldiers, Laurehér figured that few had slept well the night before. His own rest had been untroubled, for a seasoned warrior knew how to grasp tightly at rest whenever the opportunity for sleep presented itself. These, he knew would learn that skill soon enough if they survived these first few encounters with the enemy.

It was perhaps a half an hour’s march to reach the front lines. The great armies of Mortals and Elves lay sprawled before them. Barandir, Damrod, and many others whistled and whispered exclamations at the sheer numbers of men and Elves arrayed before them. Never had any of those folk seen so many people in one place ever in their lives. It was a mighty force to behold. However, Laurehér knew from a glance that the elven force was diminished from what it had been when he left that fateful day all those years ago to grieve his losses alone in peace. 

Back then, there were not nearly as many mortals engaged in the combat as he saw now. Eonwë must have resorted to supplementing the elven troops with mortals to keep the army strong and the numbers high after the losses early on. It grieved Laurehér that so many elven lives had been lost. Briefly he wondered how many more of his friends had fallen. Heaving a sigh, he shook his head and pushed those thoughts aside. He would know soon enough how things stood with his army from Valinor. He just had to get through the fighting today and then the captains would fill him in on everything.

As his regiment of Mortals formed up at the rear of the mortal army, he looked long upon Damrod who stood at his left side. The boy was barely into his twenties with a wife and two little boys of his own waiting for him at home. Fervently he hoped that one day they would be reunited. Barandir was safe enough back at the main mortal encampment, already helping to tend the wounded and make preparations for the additional wounded who would return from today’s encounter. Damrod’s welfare as well as his own would be his primary concern this encounter. At least they were at the back where there would be less fighting and the enemies who made it through to them would be more weary and possibly wounded. There was a better chance of survival. If the situation presented itself, he himself might well venture further out into the fray. If Damrod proved to be competent enough to acquit himself as well as Laurehér felt he would, then perhaps Laurehér could rejoin the elven ranks sooner. If not, then Laurehér would hang back and protect Damrod until the boy’s skill improved or death found him.

Before they marched forward to the battle line, Barandir hugged each of them, making them promise they would do their best to return in one piece. He in turn promised he would do his best to keep them alive if they should return in less than favorable condition.

The call to draw weapons came at last. Amidst the ring of steel, the stirring of armor, and the creek of arrows upon taut bow strings, Laurehér felt Damrod nudge his left arm.

Turning slightly, he saw Damrod gesturing as he asked, “What of that helmet you have carried beneath your cloak up until now? Aren’t you going to put it on?”

Laureher hesitated a moment. He had intentionally not worn the helm until the moment of battle for it would be an obvious revelation of not only his elven heritage, but his kingship as well. Nodding and feeling a bit self-conscious, he replied, “Yes, I guess I ought to wear the thing since I did haul it all this way in my pack. Thank you for the reminder.”

Damrod nodded in return, his eyes growing wide as Laurehér put the helm on his head.

After an awe-filled moment, Damrod grinned, “Well you will be easy to spot in battle now. Laurehér…” he seemed to ponder something a moment. “Seeing you in your full armor now with the helm…your name, Laurehér, ‘golden lord’ speaks of your true rank, does it not?”

Laurehér, nodded. “It does hit near the mark.”

“You marched beneath your own banner before then didn’t you?”

Laurehér nodded again.

“When you rally to it again, I will not be far behind you. We are fellow villagers after all,” Damrod smiled, wonder and awe lighting his face.

“Thank you, my friend,” was all that Laurehér could think to say. If he did find his banner and his men, then explanations would become exponentially more difficult with Damrod there. He sighed. He could not worry about that now.

All around him, he heard more than a few whispered prayers beseeching the Valar for protection in the fray. He added his own prayers as well, asking for safety for his children that Morgoth never find them and that one day he would return home to his beloved Faroniel, Andreth, and Aicanáro.

At first, few of the enemy came within reach because of the multitude of blades and arrows of those before them. Laurehér allowed the first four or five orcs that came within reach to engage Damrod, so the man could gain confidence. However, he kept a close eye to be sure the orcs never got the advantage over Damrod.

Damrod accepted the occasional pointer on technique from Laurehér during those first engagements, and soon seemed confident in the slaying of orcs or at least comfortable with the idea. The first encounter with a mortal man in service of Morgoth was another matter though and Damrod fell to his knees retching after he killed the soldier.

Laurehér stayed with him and guarded him from the occasional orc who broke through the lines while Damrod struggled to regain his composure. 

“I do not know if I can do this,” Damrod mourned. “What if he has – had a wife and children at home like I do? What if he had no choice in being here? Or came here like I did to defend a home far from here?”

When the situation allowed, Laurehér helped Damrod to feet, wiping the young man’s face with the edge of his cloak. “You have no choice in the matter now, my friend. They most assuredly will slay you if you allow doubt to assail you while you fight. Acknowledge not whether it is an orc or a mortal man when you fight. See only the enemy who will slay and eat your children if you fail to stop him. The rage of battle will soon overtake you and you will only take note of the race of your opponent to adjust your style of fighting.”

Damrod took a deep breath and nodded, his eyes downcast. “I am sorry, Laurehér. I am ashamed. I would probably be dead if you had not been here with me. Forgive me.”

Laurehér lifted the young man’s chin until their gazes met. “There is no shame in having a conscience, and never apologize for it. It is supposed to be difficult to kill your own kind. I am proud of you for being willing to march all this way to at least try to raise a blade to defend the freedom of your folk. And you should be proud of yourself as well. I am honored to fight alongside you.” He glanced over his shoulder and quickly added. “It looks like the battle is finally upon us. Let us hence and fight side by side as brothers.”

Damrod took another deep breath, then raised his own blade once again, his voice much more confident than before. “Yes, my brother, let’s.”

Together they charged into the fray.

XXXXX

An indeterminate amount of time passed, measured only by the lull and rush of enemy to fight. Strike. Slash. Parry. Thrust. Cut. Rest for a few breaths. Resume.

When Damrod grew weary and withdrew a bit to gain some room to breathe and rest, Laurehér waded deeper among the enemy, the bloodlust more fully coming upon him now that he was free to move at his own rate of speed. In the distance, he observed a blood-stained white banner waving amidst a small group of Elves who stood in a circle, a shimmering island in the sea of orcs. When the fight allowed, Laurehér looked more carefully at the group and noticed a tall ellon in very fine armor stained with orc guts.  The ellon moved more slowly than he should have, suddenly turning to reveal splash of sticky red blood down his left side.  The ellon skillfully dispatched his current opponent when another got in under his guard and dealt him a serious blow.

The ellon crumpled and the Elves around him moved to try to protect him. Laurehér knew the ellon was important, though he could not immediately remember his name. Charging on ahead, Laurehér cut a path through to the Elves and joined them in protecting the ellon.  Slicing through orc after orc, Laurehér came to realize that the orcs recognized the importance of this ellon as well.

Blow upon blow he dealt, but more orcs kept coming. Two, then three, then four of the Elves around him fell. Still more orcs advanced, hacking at the fallen as they bore down upon Laurehér.  A gash on the cheek, a slash on his left wrist, a cut on his hip, yet still he fought on. At some point he caught a glimpse of the ellon he was so intent upon protecting, and a few dead orcs later it dawned on him who the ellon was. He was the leader of the Vanyarin army. He was Ingwion, the heir of the High King of all the Elves and he was Laurehér’s, no Arafinwë’s cousin.

Anger welled within him and he swung as if a spirit of wrath had taken control of his sword, cutting and hacking through every one of the enemy who drew too near.  For a brief moment he caught sight of his own reflection in the armor of the Elf nearest him. It struck him with amaze that his eyes blazed with flame like a crazed wrathful Vala amidst the blood and gore covering his armor. The vision served to add fire to his already insatiable bloodlust and he fought on, causing the dark mortals among his enemy to flee him in terror.

The sun settled down into late afternoon, but still the battle drew on. Eight more of the prince’s guard fell, but Laurehér still held his own. The number of the enemy lessened, but he felt himself growing weary now. Though his wounds ached, he vowed to fight on, for what else could he do? The two Elves in this whole war of wrath that Morgoth most wanted dead were the Noldóran and the heir to the Ingaran. Ingwion lay at his feet, his bright blood muddying the dirt around him and Arafinwë felt himself growing weaker. His own wounds were neither deep nor vital, but they had seeped for hours now, draining him of his vitality.

Arafinwë parried, struck, another orc fell, but so did the Elf who had his back. He turned and beheaded the orc who had struck down the ellon. There was a lull, and Arafinwë looked around bewildered, discovering that he was the only Elf still standing in defense of the prince. He lowered his sword breathing heavily, the drain on his fëa becoming more pronounced with every breath. His wounds should not be doing this to him! What was wrong?

He looked about, gasping as his strength quickly drained from him.  All of a sudden he felt a tremendous rending of his spirit which drove him to his knees even as he cried out in agony. Instinctively his thought turned inward and then cast out searching for his family. He felt for Andreth, then Aicanáro, finding them both safe and responding to his touch. Then something bright and silvery-white and glorious brushed his mind and he felt Faroniel’s touch upon his fëa, felt her love for him hold him and surround him.  And then he felt nothing.

Faroniel was gone.

His wife was dead.

He bowed his head in dread and horror.

His wife was dead.

Again he cast about for the children. But they were alive and crying out in despair, clinging to his fëa. They had been at her side when she breathed her last.

He sent them his love as best he could, trying to comfort them while reeling in shock and despair.

His wife was gone.

Somewhere to his right, Damrod called out to him, but he had not the strength to look up.

Were the children alone? No. Someone else was there with them, too. The healer? Angadan? Their aunt? All of them. Good. The children were going to be all right.

But Faroniel…

His beloved wife was dead. He was alone again. The hole in his heart and fëa where his bond with her had been ached, raw and gaping. Slowly he felt it eating away at him, destroying him from the inside out.

“Laurehér!” Damrod called again nearer.

Faroniel was gone.  His wife was dead. He needed to go home. His wife was dead. His children needed him. Their mother was gone. His wife was dead.

“Laurehér!” Even closer.

He could not move. Damrod would have to come to him.

“Laurehér! Noooo!!!”

A swoosh in the air beside him. The sound of cleaving armor. His sword leaving his useless hand and hitting the ground. Blood spraying wide and red, covering his stomach and legs even as he watched fascinated, horror struck.

His blood. Red and warm and freely flowing.

Another strike, Rending armor. More blood. The ground rushing up to meet him.

A bright flash of lights all around him. An orc turned to dust nearby.

No pain. The ground a comforting pillow beneath his weary head. No feeling in his arms and legs.

“Lord Eonwë, we are too late! Already I see his fëa preparing to depart to Mandos!”

“No! Manwë asks that I heal him!”

“My Lord, look at him. It is too much! The Noldóran is as good as dead.”

“Lord Manwë has commanded that I try!”

“But these wounds would have unhoused one of us Maiar!”

“Lord Námo will hold his fëa here while I force the healing. Tend to Ingwion. We cannot lose him either. Do whatever you must!”

Darkness.

Light.

XXXXX

Fëa – spirit

Noldóran – the King of the Noldor

Chapter 14

“Arafinwë.”

A familiar voice in the darkness disturbed his slumber.

“Arafinwë.”

It sounded just like…but it could not be. That would be impossible.

“Open your eyes, my son, and look at me.”

Warmth caressed his cheek, as he gently turned his head in the direction of the voice.

“But I do not want to open my eyes,” he protested. “I might see that you are not really there. I could not bear to lose you again.”

Tinged with amusement, the voice replied, “My beloved son, you will be the one who leaves me, not I you. Please open your eyes and look on me so we might share what precious time is given to us.”

Savoring the sound of the voice for a few moments longer, he finally obeyed and opened his eyes to find himself staring directly into the face of his...

“Atar,” Arafinwë whispered, feeling tears spring to his eyes and trail down his face. Sitting up abruptly, he threw his arms around the ellon who had sired him

Finwë met his son’s embrace with equal fervor. “I have missed you. I have missed all of my children.”

Arafinwë drew back, gripping his atar’s shoulders and glaring accusingly into his eyes. “But some of us you miss more than others, I am certain.”

“That is true,” Finwë freely admitted, “and the quality of the relationships I had with some I regret more than others as well. I know I neglected you and Nolo and your sisters, and I failed to be the atar I should have been to you, the atar you deserved.”

“And what of my amillë?” Arafinwë accused, unable to keep the venom from his voice. “Do you admit that you failed her as a husband?”

Finwë smiled grimly. “Will you believe me when I tell you that I do admit and regret that as well? I am truly sorry for all that I have done and all of the many ways in which I have failed you and your amillë and my other children as well.”

“I hated you for the way you treated us. Why should I believe you now? Why should I believe any of this?” Arafinwë gestured around the room, suddenly feeling confused. Where was he exactly? How was it that he was speaking with his atar, his atar who was dead?

The realization struck him so hard that he numbly lost his grip on his atar and would have collapsed backward, but large hands just like his own seized his arms and gently guided him back to rest against his pillow again.

“I am dead.”

“No, my beloved son, you are merely resting here for a time and then you will be allowed to return.”

“My…Faroniel, my…my wife is dead. I felt her spirit brush mine as she departed. Where is she? Is she here, too? I wish to see her again, to explain it all to her. I…love her so much. I miss her so…”  Anguish filled his fëa as tears spilled from his eyes. His atar drew him up to a sitting position again and held him close as he mourned for his loss. Uncaring of his anger toward his atar, he clung to Finwë, burying his face in his shoulder as he mourned.

When no more tears would come, Finwë gently pushed him back and wiped his face with a cool damp towel. “I understand what is in your heart, my child, for that is what was in my heart when I lost Míriel. The ache never goes away, but it does lessen over time.”

Angrily Arafinwë pushed his atar away. “But I do not want to be like you! I have no desire for your pity. I do not want you to be the one to understand how I am feeling. I…” he cast about the room suddenly realizing he remembered everything about his past now – all of it. 

“Eärwen,” he gasped in dismay. “What have I done? Dear Eru, what have I done…” His body began trembling uncontrollably as the horror of his actions filled him, chilling his bones to the marrow.

Finwë laid down beside him, taking him into his arms and holding him fiercely. “Arafinwë, I will not leave you to face this alone. I promise you, I will stay with you through this as I should have been with you in life. I love you, and I will not leave you until you are ready to leave me.”

Soft words floated around him from somewhere else as a gentle hand descended and stroked Arafinwë’s forehead, bringing warmth back to his body.

“Lord Námo,” Finwë breathed.

“Arafinwë, be at peace, Child. Be at peace,” the Vala said as Arafinwë suddenly felt the tension drain out of him.  “Some of what you feel is the effects of the healing of your body. Your fëa is safe with me until your hröa is habitable again. That is it. Good. Very good. Remember this calm. Remember this peace.”

When Arafinwë could think and move again, he whispered, “Lord Námo, may…may I please see Faroniel again. There is much I need to say to her.”

“She already knows, Child, she already knows. She has passed beyond the Circles of the World now to a place where you may not go. An illness claimed her, and there is nothing that you nor I can do about it. You made your farewell to her before you departed for the war. She understands and accepts this. She made her farewell to you on the battlefield just before you fell, and you felt in that moment her great love for you. That was all I could do for you, all I could allow you or her.”

Peace continued to flow through him and something else as well, something very much like what he felt when her fëa brushed his that final time. He found himself breathing hard, struggling against the warmth coursing through his veins. At last he managed, “But…what…what of my son and my daughter – our son and daughter? What will become of them?”

“The smith and his wife will raise them as their own as you requested of them before you left. “

“But my children need me,” he pleaded.

“A battlefield is no place for small children. Besides, how would you explain them to your army? They believe you were a prisoner of Melkor.”

“Why do they believe that? Why did you lie to my soldiers?”

“No one lied to them. When we heard the rumors and saw how your warriors believed that only Melkor himself could keep you from leading them, we allowed them to continue in that belief. It kept them going, believing that they were fighting for the cause of freeing you, their most beloved king. For, as king, you were dearer to them all than any who held the crown before you. Such is their love for you and their faith in you, and the loyalty you have commanded of them. Finwë may have led them out of the darkness the first time, but you had a far more difficult task in leading your folk out of despair as well. Your people love, admire, and respect you for it. And this is why they can never know that you gave in to your own despair and, however briefly, abandoned them.”

Arafinwë lay there speechless, not knowing what to say or how to say it as so many feelings warred for control of his heart.

Then Finwë spoke, his voice filled with love and admiration. “I am so very proud of you, my son. You, whom I treated as the least, are the greatest of us all. I am so very proud to call you my son.”

Bitter anger welled up within him as Arafinwë turned on his side to face his atar. “Does your pride rule you even now? Only now that a Vala has good things to say of me do you have words of love I had longed to hear my whole life?” He turned away from his atar, unable to contain the loathing and hatred he suddenly felt.

“At one time I deserved those words and those feelings, but now they are unjust. Arafinwë, Míriel weaves tapestries showing all of the deeds of the Noldor and of my children and their children in life. I have been allowed to see these periodically, and thereby keep informed of all of the trials and sufferings of the Noldor and of my own kin. I have seen the results of all that has befallen because of my poor choices in life. I also have seen the triumphs and joys. As an atar and as a king, I feel more admiration and respect for what you have accomplished than for what all of the others did combined. They were skilled at forging jewels and weapons, but your skill lay in repairing the broken and forging hope in those who had none. You had the most difficult task of all and succeeded where I never could have. And what is more, I…” Finwë’s voice faltered and Arafinwë turned to face him again after the silence lasted too long.

“And what is more, you what?”

Finwë bowed his head in shame. “I…I watched your relationship with Faroniel and with the children she gave you, and I…I came to understand what I should have done and regret what I had not done with Indis and the children she so willingly and lovingly gave to me.” He looked up again and met his son’s eyes. “I love your amillë and I love Míriel, though in different ways. You are the only ellon who will ever understand what I have experienced in my life, for you have loved the way I have loved. I just wish I had handled it as well as you did, and that Indis and you and your siblings had never had cause to question my love for you or your place in my heart. Thank you for teaching me that lesson though I have learned it too late. I do love you, my son, and I am sorry.”

Arafinwë lay there staring at the ellon who sired him, wishing to hate him and loathe him for so many things, but found that he could not. Those would have been feelings borne from pride and bitter arrogance, but neither of those commanded this son of Finwë, not like they had controlled so very many of the other scions of Finwë’s house.  Much to his own surprise, though perhaps in retrospect it should not have surprised him at all, Arafinwë took his atar in his arms and held him to his heart.

“I forgive you, Atar,” he spoke in Finwë’s ear. “I am just sorry that it took so very many trials and woes to bring us to this.” He sniffed and swallowed his own tears for a moment, then added for the first time in many, many yéni, “I love you, too, Atto. I love you, too.”

However long it was they remained there locked in their embrace, it was too short a time for Arafinwë when Námo gently placed a hand on each of their shoulders and pulled them apart. They both looked up at the Lord of Mandos as he moved his hand to each of their heads and spoke a blessing. Peace and warmth and bright love filled Arafinwë, with the sensation remaining with him even after Námo removed his hand.

“The two of you have received much healing, but it is time for Arafinwë to move on now.”

Arafinwë embraced his atar one more time, speaking words of love and receiving messages of love in return to take back to Valinor with him when he finally returned home again. Finwë helped him to stand, then led him to a door which Arafinwë had not previously noticed.

“Farewell, my beloved son,” Finwë said as he gently pushed Arafinwë through the doorway and into another place.

Arafinwë turned around and saw that the door was gone, but turning back, he found himself beside a beautiful lake with stars and the crescent moon reflecting in the still waters from the night dark sky. Taking a few steps, he soon found himself looking down upon a quiet ellon seated on the shore with unbraided wiry golden hair dancing like flames about his shoulders in the warm breeze.

“Aicanáro,” he gasped, his breath catching in his chest. “Aicanáro, my son! You are returned to me! You live!”

“No, Atar,” Aicanáro said as he gracefully rose to his feet and turned to greet him. “You are the one who came to me. I am dead, though you are not.”

A few unsteady, wavering steps later found Arafinwë with his son wrapped in his trembling arms. He knew of no words to say to express what he felt holding his son again after more than five hundred years of being apart.

A long time and many tears later, Aicanáro drew back, holding his atar at arm’s length, regarding him carefully. “I have missed you, Atar, you and Ammë and my brothers and sister. But please do not seek to take me back with you for I will not go.”

Confused and very concerned, Arafinwë looked searchingly at his son. “I do not know that I could take you back with me. That is for Námo to decide, I would guess. But even if you could go with me, why would you not?”

Aicanáro smiled sadly. “My love was mortal and I have lost her. I will not return to life until I can do so with her at the Second Music.”

Arafinwë took a step forward and embraced his son again, patting him on the back. “I understand completely the choice you have made. In truth, I just wish you had married her in life so you could have known the joys I have known.”

Drawing him down to sit beside the lake, Arafinwë told Aicanáro the tale of the last seven years of his life.

When he finished, Aicanáro put his arm around his shoulders and met his gaze. “Atar, I knew some of your story, but not all that you have told me. I am…”

“Shocked?” Arafinwë offered with a grin.

Aicanáro laughed, shaking his head, “No, well, yes, very much so, but I am…I am honored. I…the story of my love for Andreth was your inspiration... Atto, I fought and I tried and I...it was not enough. I love her so much and I wanted her so, and now…I miss her and that pain cuts me so deeply that it slays me again and again every time I feel it.” Tears started from his eyes. “I lost my chance, Atto, and I miss her.”

Arafinwë held his son close to his heart, weeping with him and for him and for the memory of his own Faroniel who he would not hold again either.

When they parted, Aicanáro took his atar’s hand. “I am proud of you, Atto, for having the courage to do what I could not. I grieve for your loss, for you know in your heart what I know in mine, having lost a mortal love with only the promise of the Second Music to sustain any hope for reunion. Atto, I hope…This is so difficult for me to say. Forgive me. I-I hope that you will take your Andreth and Aicanáro back with you to Valinor and let them fill the place in your lives and hearts I have left empty by not returning. Please, Atto, love those two little ones well and remember me and my beloved when you look upon them. It will bring me some comfort and joy knowing that the legacy of the mortal love of one of us will live on, and…” he paused grinning in wonder and laughing in a most beautiful, heart-healing way. “You named your son for me and your daughter for her.”

A strong sense of the need to leave pulled at Arafinwë, but he shoved it aside, desperate for more time with his son. “The children are half mortal. I do not know if they can ever go to Valinor with me. They may be doomed to follow the fates of mortals.”

“If that is the case, Atto, then perhaps, due to their half-elven blood, they will be allowed to reside here with me, and I will share with them my fondest memories of my Andreth with her glorious smile reflected in this water with a star caught in her silky, fragrant hair. I will tell them stories of you so they can know you as I knew you, and I will listen to the stories of their lives as well. If Valinor is denied to them, my little brother and sister, then I will look after them here for you, and we will await the Second Music together when our families will be reunited once again.”

Blinking back tears for he wearied of all the tears he had shed in so short a time, Arafinwë stood and drew his son up to him. Embracing him again, he whispered, “I love you with all of my heart and am so very proud that you are my son. Your ammë loves you so very much as well, and your Andreth held you ever in her heart until she died. I look forward to the day when our whole family will be together once again – or, I guess, it actually would be for the first time.”

“I love you, Atar, and thank you for this gift you have given me.” Turning his head, Aicanáro kissed his atar’s cheek and stepped out of the embrace. “Farewell.” He raised his hand to wave and vanished along with the lake and the star-filled night.

XXXXXXXXX

Some weeks later, Arafinwë stood in his tent, newly outfitted in a suit of armor of a different fashion from what he had worn before. His movements once again graceful and fluid, he prepared to head out to the fighting. Sheathing his blades, he turned as his guard called out the name of a visitor.

“Lord Eonwë,” Arafinwë said, bowing in acknowledgement of the Maia in charge of the entire Army of Light.

“King Arafinwë,” Eonwë replied with a gracious nod. Entering the tent, he inspected the armor. “Your new armor suits you well. I think you will find that it protects you better than the previous suit did.”

“Yes, I am pleased with the ease of mobility in spite of the added protection,” he moved around a bit, flexing his arms and going through the motions of sword play without a weapon in his hand.

“The healers agree that you are hale enough to return to the fighting.”

“Yes, I believe I am ready. I feel strong and eager to be back out there leading my warriors.”

“That is good to hear. We have missed your sword and your presence on the battlefield.”

Arafinwë moved closer to Eonwë to speak confidentially without the guards overhearing. “I notice I have missed something else as well and wonder if you might be able to help me.”

Eonwë put his hand on the king’s shoulder, answering in an equally low voice, “And what might that be?”

Sighing, Arafinwë looked around cautiously before speaking even more quietly. “Ever since I awoke in the healer’s tent all those weeks ago – it seems like yéni and not mere weeks – I…I find I cannot feel the bond with my children any more. My…my son and my daughter are lost to me. I can no longer communicate with them. Please tell me, are they dead? Do you know?”

Placing a hand on Arafinwë’s other shoulder, Eonwë turned him to look directly into his eyes. “Your bond with your children has been severed. When you were in Mandos awaiting the healing of your body, you were gone long enough to sever the bonds with them.”

“But I survived! I came back!” he desperately, yet quietly cried.  “I am here now. My children need me. If I am to be denied seeing them again in Endórë as Námo has said and you have reiterated many times to me, why must I be denied the bond which is my right as their sire?”

“My son, your children believe you are dead. They have moved on with their lives in the care of Angadan and his delightful wife. If they were able to sense that you live and feel your love and sense you touching their fëar as they seek their dreams each night, then they will never know peace and will never be able to go on and grow up and do the things they are meant to do.”

“But they are so little! They need me. They need their atar especially now that their amillë is lost to them.” He looked away, closing his eyes and shaking his head in anguish. “And why…why can I no longer feel their draw upon my fëa? They have only seen five short years. They should still be drawing strength from me for many more years yet.”

“They have the blood of mortals in them as well. And while mortal children may tax the strength of their parents, they do not draw nourishment from their fëar. It was necessary for the children to fully adhere to their own mortality in order for you to lead the army and fight the battles you need to fight. If you would make these lands safer for your children so that they will not know war in their lifetimes, then you must be at your strongest when you fight this war. This severance mutually benefits you both.”

Arafinwë faced Eonwë again, scowling, “Denying us that which is ours by virtue of the bond of parent and child is not a benefit.”

Eonwë’s eyes flared brightly causing Arafinwë to blink furiously, but he would not look away. “Awareness of your bond with Faroniel and the children very nearly cost you your life, and I will not risk you like that again. Too many soldiers have died because you were not there to lead them. I will not jeopardize the lives of ellyn just so you can selfishly weaken yourself with bonds to your mortal family.”

“I am still here. The bond did not cost me my life.”

“You only live because Lord Manwë commanded that I repair your body and make it habitable again. I honestly do not know that you would be granted such a blessing a second time. The bond is a liability we cannot afford in this war. And by the time the war is over, your children may well be dead from illness or mishap anyway. I can tell you now with the sight that has been given to me, you will neither see nor communicate with Aicanáro and Andreth again while you are in Endórë.  Perhaps at the Second Music when you see Faroniel again, it will be granted to you to see your children again as well, but not before then in Endórë in any foreseeable future which has been revealed unto me.”

Turning away, Arafinwë breathed heavily, anger, sorrow and despair filling him. What was he to do?

There was nothing he could do. He had lost children to Endórë all over again just like when his children left Valinor and he stayed behind to fight the battles on the home front and clean up the mess left behind. Now he faced battles of a different sort. And even in spirit, he could never touch his children again.

“Melkor is the one to blame for all of this, Arafinwë. Let your anger and sorrow fuel your fight on the field of battle. Be like your elder son Aicanáro, and in every evil creature you slay, see the enemy who did this to you and to those you love. Be a spirit of wrath, a shining light in the fray. Be the king you were forged to be and lead your army to victory. This is the only way you can assure any hope of a future for your children and their children as well. In their hearts, your children will know that their atto bought this victory for them. Even when you are but a distant memory of a proud smile and a kiss goodnight, your children will remember you in that.”

The king turned away again, seeking control of his emotions. When he felt he was calm enough, he turned back and clapped Eonwë on the shoulder. “Let us hence and get this battle over with. I have many more to fight and would be done with them all as soon as possible.”

Eonwë gave him a warrior’s embrace, then guided him toward the entrance of the tent. “Let us hence, King Arafinwë, and be on our way into the fray.”

XXXXX

Note: King Finwë led the Noldor out of the darkness of the Night before nights to the land of the light of the Two Trees, Valinor. Arafinwë led the remnant of the Noldor from the darkness and despair after the rebellion of the Noldor and the death of the Trees and rebuilt the Noldor and their relations with the other clans. The new physical light of the sun and the moon eventually greeted them some time later.

Fëa/fëar – spirit, spirits

Hröa - body

Endórë - Middle-Earth

Chapter 15

Arafinwë stood at the prow of his flagship, the steady wind streaming his hair behind him. The smell of the salt and the rush of the breeze felt so very good to him, reminding him of his hopes of a pleasant life by the sea with Eärwen before the loss of the Two Trees.  They had planned to build a house by the sea to which they could escape from the tension in his family in Tirion, but that dream as yet remained unrealized. Always the duties of royal life seemed to intervene, foiling his plans and spoiling his dreams.

He could see Alqualondë in the distance. What dreams lay forsaken on those shores now? What hopes were dashed by the point of a sword or the head of an arrow?

He returned with a much lesser force than the one with which he had departed these shores so many years ago. What was he to say to those who greeted him, seeking loved ones who would not return by sea but by the doors of the Halls of Mandos? He had come close to returning by the latter method more than once. But, he had been spared and now he lived to deliver the news of those who had not survived.

A house on the beach with his beloved Eärwen would be so very inviting, but such a luxury was beyond him now – now that he was king, now that he was returned from the war, now that he had transgressed so horribly that his wife, in all likelihood, would never want to see him again.

He had to tell her what he had done. She deserved to know, but then she would hate him and go away. She would live by the calming sea and he would be alone among the stone of Tirion, left to pick up where he had left off, left to persist in emptiness and sorrow, left to unassuageable grief with no outlet for his emptiness and pain.

He loved her. He never stopped loving her and did not believe he ever would stop loving her. But he had loved another as well…

The Valar had already punished him for this transgression, taking away his twins, denying his daughter pardon for her lack of repentance for her deeds of rebellion, keeping his dead sons in Mandos until Eru knew when…

Eärwen had every reason to hate him, and he had no doubt she would hate him even more for what he had done.

There was no comfort for him anywhere. Even many years and a victory over Morgoth later, no one knew what had truly happened to him. He dared confide in no one. Silent as a stone, he had remained about his years missing from the war. Everyone thought him damaged in some way by what had happened to him. Everyone blamed Morgoth. No one blamed him, but they all talked about him when they thought he could not hear. Ever since his return, he had endured their hushed tones and whispered discussion of him. How they would talk if they had known what had really happened to him!

No, no one could know what had befallen him and how he had fallen from grace in his wounded forgetfulness and grief. He would continue to remain silent as a stone and go live in his house of stone in his city of stone. He had been isolated and alone since Faroniel had died, he could remain alone.

It was going to hurt even more when Eärwen left him.

Angrily he wiped at the tears he felt falling from his eyes. Was it the sting of the wind or the barbs of his anticipation of grief? He shook his head. No, it was the grief of the parting he knew was to come. He wished he could blame the wind. He wished he could blame the war or Fëanáro or Morgoth or some other person or thing. But the fault was his and his alone to bear. He had been wounded and tired and weak.  He gave in to despair. He gave up. And therein lay his downfall. Therein lay his doom. Therein lay the despair that was to come. Losing all of his children and losing his beloved Faroniel were but the beginning. Now the rest of his punishment was at hand. He was going to lose Eärwen as well, and there was nothing he could do about it. He deserved it.

He deserved it.

“Your Majesty?”

He turned, hastily wiping at his face with his sleeves, to see one of the sailors standing a few paces away. Briefly he met the ellon’s gaze, but then the ellon cast his eyes down out of respect. “We will dock soon, your Majesty. I just climbed down from my turn as lookout and it appears as if the Ingaran and the Lindaran both await our arrival as well as a party of Noldor. Prince Ingwion’s ship will reach the dock momentarily. If you wish to prepare yourself to meet them, you should consider going to do so now.”

“Thank you,” Arafinwë replied, nodding his gratitude. “I will go below now and prepare. Please send Sulwion to attend me.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The sailor bowed, then departed.

XXXXX

Ingwion still stood with his parents, wife, children, and grandchildren when Arafinwë’s ship finally docked. All of the royals in attendance were arrayed in finery, though the wind had had other plans for their hair. Tears of relief and joy still glistened on the faces of King Ingwë and his kin as they watched Arafinwë disembark.

The king of the Noldor would have liked to be the last off the ship, but tradition dictated otherwise. Taking a deep breath, Arafinwë squared his shoulders and proceeded to meet those who awaited him.

The Ingaran met him first with a tight embrace while whispering in his ear, “Welcome home, Nephew. I am so grateful to Eru that you have returned to Us safely.”

Ingwe’s wife embraced him next, confiding, “Your ammë has missed you so, but she could not bear to be here right now, knowing who would not be coming home with you. She still has not recovered from the loss of your brother and sister and her grandchildren. Please send her a message when you are able.” Kissing him on the forehead, she passed Arafinwë to the arms of his wife’s atar, the Lindaran.

“Ulmo answered my prayers for a safe journey on the sea. He told me he could do little for you once you were away from Aman, but he assured me that the Valar ever watched over you – especially in your times of trial and difficulty. I love you, my Son. I am so relieved you have returned home safely.”

King Olwë’s wife did not manage to say anything at all at first, struggling as she wept on Arafinwë’s shoulder. At last she managed to gasp, “Thank you for coming home, Child. Please do not ever leave again.”

The wind smeared hot tears on his face as Arafinwë managed a grateful nod to each of those whom he had embraced. No words had come to him at all the whole time he was in the arms of those who had greeted him thus far.

Ingwion smiled at him. “I could not manage to say anything to them either when they were hugging me,” he offered weakly.

Arafinwë nodded again, biting his lips and clenching his fists as he struggled to keep his emotions under control.

Then She stepped toward him, regally adorned in a sea green dress which shimmered whenever she moved just so as if drops of watery diamonds were sprinkled about her.

“Eärwen,” he breathed as he reached out to her. His hands glided across her shoulders and down her arms to catch fast around her waist. All of his strength, all of his resolve, all of his self-loathing evaporated in that moment as he fell to his knees in worshipful supplication before her, pulling her tightly to him. Pressing his face to her stomach, then nestling his head there against the place where his beloved children first dwelt, he tightened his arms around her. Silently he begged her forgiveness and pledged anew his undying love in words that screamed in his mind, but never reached his lips as he wept.

“Eärwen, my Eärwen,” was all he managed to say amidst his tears as she possessively pressed her hands against his head.

Soon she was on her knees, too, holding him, kissing his tears away, whispering his name.

XXXXX

He had only vague memories of being helped to his feet and making the long trek to the palace and at last to the suite of rooms that was his whenever he visited Alqualondë. Eärwen had joined him for a hot bath, made all the warmer for her presence in the tub with him. Now she snuggled against him in true sleep, something from which he had only just awoken himself. Stars were just beginning to glisten in the patch of sky, peeking through the white curtains which fluttered lazily in the ever-present ocean breeze. Vaguely he wondered why no one had been sent to summon them to dinner with the kings. Surely there would be a feast of welcome on this auspicious occasion.

The sky grew darker and the stars brighter, but still no one came. Shifting Eärwen in his arms, he kissed her nose then her forehead. He turned, pressing the length of his naked body against hers as she sighed in her sleep. This was where he belonged, wrapped in the arms of his Maiden of the Sea.  Soon he slipped onto the Path of Dreams, remembering the first time he held her to him.

XXXXX

The welcome home feast for royalty and nobility occurred the next evening. Once the other kings had learned of the extent of the losses, the cost of the hard-won victory, the original plans had changed. The folk who remained behind all rejoiced for those who returned home, but the memory of those who had not returned hung heavy upon all present.

Breaking with the tradition of arriving last amidst much pomp and fanfare, King Arafinwë stood alone at the door, personally greeting every guest whether they were nobles of the Noldor, Vanyar, or Teleri. Speaking words of condolence, he expressed his gratitude for service to the kin of the fallen nobility of the Vanyar and Noldor. To the Telerin lords who had leant the use of their ships for troop transport, he gave his personal thanks as well. Remembering Faroniel and her suffering in widowhood, he hugged and briefly held each tearful widow and each mother whose child had been lost in battle. To each returned fighter, he gave a warrior’s embrace. He also embraced in turn and expressed empathy to each son who had found himself lord of a house at the news that the previous lord now resided in Mandos’ halls. It took nearly two hours for the guests to file in. Those who had lost no kin to the fighting simply bowed and curtsied in surprise if not outright dismay at the breach in decorum as they passed by the Noldóran, but they were relatively few in comparison to those who had suffered loss.

Ingwë, Olwë, the three queens, and their kin remained apart in another room, awaiting the time for them to enter properly. As soon as the last guests had arrived and gone to their places, the rest of the royalty somewhat impatiently joined Arafinwë at the door, but Eärwen briefly pulled him back into the corridor.

Carefully she wiped his face with a handkerchief, removing the last vestiges of the many trails of tears. Primly, she straightened his clothing which had rumpled with all of the embracing, and adjusted his robes a bit to hide the stains of mourning left by the more emotional guests.

While the queen of the Noldor fussed over his appearance, a regally adorned Ingwion came up to him, his eyes sad and ashamed. “I wish I had known you were going to do that,” he gestured toward the doors. “I would have greeted the Vanyar at least and relieved you of some of the burden.”

Arafinwë shook his head grimly. “I wish you had joined me as well, for the burden belongs to both crowns, not just mine. However, I know in my heart what they are all going through and what they have yet to deal with in their sorrows. Few among them have lost what I have lost. No words or embraces can ever heal what they have yet to bear in their grief. I can only hope that the knowledge of my personal gratitude and sympathy will go a little ways in assuaging their sorrow.”

“You cannot possibly do this for everyone who lost kin to the war. Imagine how long that would take you! You are their king, not their caregiver. It took long enough for you to get through the guests tonight,” Ingwë’s younger brother commented disdainfully, rubbing his stomach as he turned to face the doors in preparation for entering the hall. “I hope the meat is not cold. I am famished.”

“I thought ‘king’ and ‘caregiver’ were synonymous,” Arafinwë muttered under his breath as Eärwen adjusted his crown.

“They are. Ignore him,” the Ingaran replied.

“I am proud of you, my Son,” the Lindaran said, clapping Arafinwë on the back.

Once the royal procession stood in place at the high table, Ingwë and Olwë spoke words of greeting and welcome to those present, for never before had all of the nobles of the three clans been assembled in one place, let alone joined together for a feast. When it was Arafinwë’s turn to speak, he reiterated the sentiments of welcome and pride in a war well fought. Pausing a moment he added, “I have observed many of you looking around at the empty chairs present at each table, including this table.” He gestured to the empty seat at the end of the high table.

“The servants did not miscount, as I have heard some of you comment. I ordered this. Each empty chair has a place setting prepared with plates, utensils, and glasses in honor of our kin who should have been here dining with us, but cannot be. The Lindar lost nobles in the kinslaying, the Vanyar lost nobles in war, and the Noldor lost nobles to both of those as well as to perils of life in Endórë. I ask each of you to take a few moments before you begin your meal and look at the empty place at your table. Please remember fondly those who should have been seated there this night but are not.”

After everyone took their seats, the hall remained silent for a time as guests seemed to comply with Arafinwë’s request. He himself considered the abundance of kin who should have been there with him, from his atar on down through the generations of slain members of the House of Finwë, including his little twins who could never even set foot in Valinor. Did they already reside in Mandos’ Halls with their amillë in the place reserved for mortals? That was something he would never know, and with a great tightness in his chest, he realized he did not want to know. It was easier to dwell on the happy memories of them as small children than to worry and wonder about whether they even survived childhood, or if they found love and had children of their own, or what mortal peril would or had finally claimed their lives. He would never be allowed to know their fates, so it was best to let them go. Heaving a great sigh, he knew he seldom did what was best of himself and accepted that those two little ones would forever reside in his heart beside his memories of the children Eärwen gave him.

Suddenly a flute began to play an old tune of remembering from the Day before Days and soon all of the musicians in the corner joined in. Eärwen quietly placed her hand over his where it rested on the table. He turned his hand, enfolding hers in his, but he did not turn his face to meet her gaze. His breath caught in his chest as he glanced again at the empty chair at the end of the table and realized that her chair would soon be empty as well, once she knew the truth about what he had done. He would be alone once again – more alone than ever before, for this time he would have full knowledge of all that he had lost and why.

The food immediately arrived but he found he suddenly had little appetite. Stifling a sob, he forced himself to eat, but he talked as little as possible during the meal, not trusting himself to keep his emotions under control. When the dancing started afterward, he participated only in those dances required of him on this formal occasion. As soon as custom and propriety allowed, he quietly retired to his chambers claiming weariness as an excuse. Eärwen stayed behind, dancing and singing gaily with her kin.

He struggled out of his finery on his own and set aside his crown. Donning a simple shirt and breeches, he sat outside on his balcony overlooking the harbor. With a glass of wine to keep him company, he listened to the rush of the waves intermingled with the dance music drifting up from the main hall somewhere far below. How he wished he could live beside the sea! For the next few hours he entertained himself with designing his cottage beside the sea and his garden and the fast ship he would build.

Arafinwë was almost asleep when Eärwen finally joined him in bed, the sky just beginning to lighten with thoughts of dawn. Tucking her securely beside him with her head on his shoulder, he closed his eyes and drifted away.

XXXXX

The next day, King Arafinwë and Prince Ingwion, as leaders of the two armies, dismissed their warriors to return to their homes. The royals of the three clans remained in Alqualondë, as did their nobles for there was much to be discussed. At Arafinwë’s request, the privy councils and the royals of the three clans met, joined by Lord Eärendil who had just returned from an errand for the Valar.

The Lindaran’s council chamber sported tapestries of blue and green, depicting Ulmo and his Maiar servants among the waves. Through the myriad of windows, the sounds of the sea lulled and beckoned. Briefly from his seat to the left of Ingwë’s queen, Arafinwë wondered how Olwë’s councils ever stayed focused on the issues at hand with the temptations of the sea beckoning to them. However, with the sea as the primary source of trade and commerce, it suddenly made sense. Arafinwë still found it distracting through for he desperately wanted his house by the sea.

At a gesture from Ingwë, Arafinwë briefly squeezed Eärwen’s hand where it rested beside his, then began to speak. “With the return of our warriors from the war, the Noldor and the Vanyar will have much to do re-integrating the soldiers into the workforce. We lost of a lot of ellyn in the war and many villages will be impacted.”

“Arafinwë, this is a matter for the individual realms to address,” Ingwë commented. “We already know that we will have to deal with this, but each realm can deal with it on its own. Why bring this up here?”

“I bring it up because some villages will have been hit harder than others and we might need to call upon each other for resources, such as labor, if those who return are not able to handle what will be required of them in returning to their previous trades,” Arafinwë said.

Eärwen replied, “We have survived well enough, my Lord, without those ellyn on hand. Folk have taken up the burdens necessary to accomplish the tasks at hand, and in many cases we now create a surplus. Having the extra mouths feed as well as the extra laborers will not be a problem.”

“But,” Arafinwë continued emphatically, “What of those who return whose injuries prevent them from performing the tasks they used to do or those whose minds or spirits are damaged such that they cannot perform those tasks? We need to consider what must be done to train them in useful skills so they can survive and provide for their families so they are not a burden to them.” He knew from his own experiences when he went to live among the mortals, just what some of the returning warriors could face and it had taken him seven years to recover.

“Arafinwë,” Ingwë commented, “I realize you have just returned from much close association with the various folk of our lands, but little has changed here in Aman, while obviously things changed frequently where you spent the last several years. Where you were, it makes sense that folks with injuries to the body or spirit would have to be cared for among the masses, for there was no place else for you to put them.  Here in Aman, we have Lórien where folk can go to be healed. If someone is injured, they can go there for healing. There is no need for the crowns to get involved in the minute details of the lives of our folk. If an ellon returned from the war and he is damaged in some way, then Lórien is the place for him until he can return to his previous way of life.”

The members of the privy councils and royals all nodded in agreement except for Ingwion, Arafinwë, Eärendil, and their advisors from the war.

“Atar,” Ingwion spoke up, “those who went away to the war all experienced some terrible things and saw much that defies adequate description. I think that a fair number of ellyn may well be affected in the way King Arafinwë has described.”

“My Son, our people witnessed many dark and terrible things in the journey here from Cuiviénen,” Ingwë patiently explained, “Folk were even stolen away and never seen again, victims of Morgoth’s corruption. We who journeyed here cast that road and those experiences into dark memory and moved on with our lives, turning toward the light. We rose to greatness afterward, due in part to the hardships we suffered. You are young and never knew these things. In time, all folk learn to put the past into the past and look with comfort on the gentle present and perpetual promise of the future.”

Amidst many murmurs of affirmation, one of Olwë’s advisers, the lord of the House of the Seven Shells, observed, “Perhaps King Arafinwë speaks less concerning his own folk and more concerning misgivings concerning his own person. I have heard that he was a prisoner of Morgoth for seven years where he endured many things. Apparently mortal creatures had to rescue him because his own folk were incapable of rescuing him, or more likely, unwilling to. I should not be surprised if the latter were the case and that the Noldor may well have not forgiven him for the sins of his brothers and other kin in leading them astray.”

The lord turned to address Ingwë, “Your Majesty, any problems that the Noldor may have in coping have been brought upon themselves by their own actions. The only reason the good folk of Aman had cause to go to war and suffer whatever dark experiences they did was because of the Noldor. We of Aman owe the Noldor nothing. I will further venture that the Noldor owe the folk of Aman for any hardship experienced as a result of this war they brought upon us and upon themselves.”

“I would remind you all that the Valar called us to this war, not the Noldor,” Ingwion defended. “And our objective was to defeat Morgoth and aide the children of Eru in Endórë, not to rescue the Noldor who went into exile. In truth, most of those Noldor who went into exile were already dead before our army ever even arrived there.”

“A fate they clearly deserved,” another Lindarin lord muttered, and the Lord of the Seven Shells agreed.

“Sounds to me like another problem for the Valar to solve then for bringing this war upon us,” Olwë commented. “Yet another reason why I am glad I kept our people out of it.”

Arafinwë closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. No one had said anything in support of him and he had to admit that it hurt. However, he could not think of any way of defending himself without sounding prideful, thereby making the situation worse. Was it just the lingering anger of the Lindar against his folk for the kinslaying or was there more to it than that? He had no desire for petty self-serving Amanian politics when there were more important matters that needed to be addressed.

Fortunately a most indignant Ingwion came to his defense. “As for you, my Lord,” he hissed, glaring at the Lord of the Seven Shells, “I realize you lost your atar and your younger brothers on the point of Fëanáro’s own sword, however, your anger is misdirected. King Arafinwë (he placed great emphasis on the title) is so well loved by his folk that one hundred warriors among the Noldor immediately volunteered to go in search of him when we first discovered he was missing. I lost count of how many among the Vanyar also volunteered to go in search of him at the same time, for so many of my own folk wished to be a part of his rescue. Such was their love for King Arafinwë! Lord Eonwë forbade more than those first one hundred Noldor going in search of him, which turned out to be wise for they were ambushed by orcs and slaughtered to the last ellon. Morale among the Noldor deteriorated while their king was away, but upon his return they fought even more fiercely than before.”

He paused, looking around the table at each group of advisors. “As for the mortal creatures as you call them, they were our comrades-in-arms and in many ways our saviors in the war.”

“They passionately, indeed fiercely gave their brief lives, recruiting youths from their own villages,” Arafinwë continued with a grateful nod to Prince Ingwion. “Some villages sacrificed whole generations to the war – our war, when the fighting and conflict would not have impacted them otherwise. Speak of them respectfully, for they have earned our respect and our gratitude for their service to the Valar and to us. And, yes, I do owe Mortals my life for they succored and healed me so I could return to my army and go on to lead my folk to victory. Even the Valar themselves have praised the Mortals for their service.”

He shuffled through the papers on the table before him, notes he had written on the voyage home in preparation for this very meeting. “Which brings me to another important matter which we need to address, if not now, then very soon. When the Valar rent asunder the land of Beleriand, flooding it beneath the ocean’s waves in order to thoroughly destroy Angband and Morgoth’s surviving servants, they raised an island as a gift for the Mortals.”

Eärendil spoke up for the first time. “This new land, from which I have just returned on an errand for the Lord Manwë, is abundant with resources. It is called Númenor and is located about seven hundred miles from Aman. It is to be a realm of Mortals, ruled by Mortals. Specifically, it will be ruled by my son Elros who has chosen to be counted among mortal kind.  He is the ideal leader for these folk, claiming elven kinship with the house of Finwë, the house of Olwë, and the house of Elwë, and mortal kinship with the three houses of the Edain.”

“Why should any of this be of concern to us?” Ingwë asked.

“There are many reasons why this should concern us. First, it presents a unique opportunity for establishing new trade and new trade routes between us and the Mortals, which is something we have never had before. Economically, it could be very good for our kingdoms to be involved with trade and commerce with this land. Mortals tend to have many children, thereby increasing their populations rapidly, and therefore their need for goods. Trade would be by ship, which will benefit the Lindar immensely, providing the transport for this trade in addition to any goods or services they may wish to lend to this venture.”

Olwë nodded, clearly intrigued. “Tol Eressëa would need to be fortified with a better port. We could use the help of the Noldor in building a more suitable port city. However, each of our clans have suffered great losses in the last few hundred years. We might not have enough folk from each clan willing to relocate there to populate a port city.”

“Remember, the Valar have decreed that the returning exiles and other Elves who never left Endórë before have to reside on Tol Eressëa for a time of healing before they may come to Aman proper,” Ingwion reminded them. “We have a population for that port city and other cities already on its way here in the coming months and years.”

“But is Elros even interested in trading with us?” Ingwë asked, skepticism clearly evident in his voice and countenance.

“Yes,” Ingwion and Arafinwë both answered at the same time, grinning at each other.

“He asked our advice concerning ruling his folk, and we already have discussed with him at length the trade agreements that would be necessary as well as offering the assistance of the Noldor in building their cities,” Ingwion explained.

Ingwë shook his head. “I still am uncertain about this. My heart misgives me in this matter.”

“Why, Uncle?” Arafinwë asked. “How can you possibly say that after all that the Mortals have sacrificed for us? How can you deny them this opportunity to learn from us and deny us this opportunity to benefit from interaction with them?”

Ingwe took a deep breath as he turned to look at his son and then at Arafinwë. “Because, Nephew, the lands from which they hail, those same lands from which we originally came, are so tainted that death follows all who dwell there or have dwelt there. And death is unnatural. Olwë lost all of his kin who dwelt there – his brothers and their families with the sole exception of your daughter and her husband and Eärendil’s sons. Look what the false promise of those lands have cost the Noldor, have cost your family!  How many thousands of Vanyar and tens of thousands of Noldor died there in total? How many of the Lindar died because of folk striving to regain those lands?”

“But it is an excellent opportunity, your Majesty,” Eärendil pleaded.

“You mean it is an opportunity for you to keep in contact with your mortal son!” Ingwë angrily slapped his hand on the table, his breathing becoming ragged. “Damn it! I will not do anything more to sacrifice the safety of my people. We have paid for the welfare of mortal lands with enough blood!” Tears started from his eyes.

“What am I to tell my people, tell the people of Aman concerning this? How do I tell them association with another mortal land will be a good thing when I do not even know what I will say to the widows and fatherless families when I return to Vanyamar? This war was supposed to be a good thing for a good cause and yet…and yet so many of my dear friends have not come home and will not. So many of my people are dead.”

Ingwë suddenly rose from his seat, nearly knocking over the chair. “I will not endanger any more of my people! This discussion is over!” In a whirl of white robes, he turned and fled the room, slamming the door to the council chamber behind him.

In the silence that followed, everyone sat stunned, staring at the door. After a time, Ingwë’s queen arose as well. “I beg your indulgence for the sake of my husband. The events of late, well, since the death of the Trees really, have weighed heavily upon him. The Valar promised a land which perpetuates as we Elves do, free of evil and the taint of death. However, what have we seen these last few hundred years? Strife, rebellion, death, kinslayings, the loss of family and friends... This war the Valar called us to fight was to end Morgoth’s hold on our homeland of old and yet…how many thousands of our folk from Aman perished? Death is not natural for our folk, and yet in spite of the Valar’s sacred promise, our trust has been betrayed. Our folk have died. So very many have died...” She paused, shaking her head sorrowfully, blinking back tears.

“And now, Arafinwë, Eärendil, you ask of us to build a relationship with Mortals: creatures who are destined by their very nature to be brief and to die. No matter how well intended your desires and how logical your motivations, for I do see the sense in what you are proposing, the ending can only result in grief for our people. In time, Ingwë may come around and agree with you once his own grief over our latest losses has passed, however…” Her voice grew stern as she locked the two with her steely gaze.

“You need to understand that the folk with whom you deal now will not be the same folk with whom you will deal later. Trade agreements and commerce and friendship constantly will have to be renewed all over again with each successive generation of Mortals. What begins easily now with close kin, may well change later when kinship is farther removed or even forgotten. I encourage you to discuss thoroughly any ideas you may have of pursuing such an agreement with Númenor and consider it well before you take action.”

Glancing toward the closed door, she stepped back from the table. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to check on my lord and see if there is anything I can do to ease his pain. Good day to you.”

Everyone rose, bowing and curtseying their respect, as the queen turned and glided out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

As they all took their seats once again, Olwë quietly said, “Arafinwë, Eärendil, I support this venture. You will have my ships and I will gladly work with your folk in assisting the Mortals of Númenor. Perhaps with our influence, they will prosper and become friends to our folk as well as trusted trade partners in spite of what the queen has said.”

“Thank you,” Arafinwë said, inclining his head to his wife’s atar. “I will meet with you later and we can go over the information I have from Elros and what Ingwion and I discussed with him.”

“I would like to be part of that discussion as well,” Ingwion quietly intoned. “I honestly do not know if my atar was speaking as Ingaran or Vanyaran, but I do know that his emotions were speaking for him. He has not grieved for our losses yet, and I believe it has finally caught up with him. Give him some time, a few years perhaps,” he laughed mirthlessly. “And atar may well come round. The Mortals do not have years. We need to help them now.”

“Then let us discuss this now,” Olwë offered, “while out councils are present, and see what we can do. No trade can begin until the kingdom of Númenor is established, but we can offer our help before then.”

Olwë turned to the atar of the Númenorean king. “Eärendil, if you could please begin and tell us what you know and then we can progress to the things Ingwion and Arafinwë discussed. The lands can shape the people, and I would know more of the lands and the sea around them before I consider any trade agreements with the people who will live there.”

Giving a grateful nod, Eärendil began.

XXXXX

Ingaran – High King of the Elves of Aman

Vanyaran – King of the Vanyar

Lindaran – King of the Lindar (Teleri)

Chapter 16

Arafinwë broke his fast at dawn with the other royals at the family table with Eärwen at his side. After two solid weeks of meetings, updates on realms, discussions of building a city on Tol Eressea for the returning exiles, among other matters, everyone was ready for a break. Olwë insisted that his daughter and her husband go for a long stroll down the beach, seeing to it that they were provisioned for several hours of leisure. He sent Ingwë and his wife down the beach in the opposite direction similarly provisioned, assuring both kings and queens that time spent alone as couples with neither duties nor responsibilities would benefit everyone.

Hand in hand, Arafinwë and Eärwen waded in the water and strolled across the jeweled beaches on their way to their favorite little alcove rarely frequented by anyone – except for the purposes for which they currently sought it. There was a spot not too far beyond where the shell hunting was exquisite. This was the place where Arafinwë went in his dreams when he needed to find peace. However, being here in person brought him no comfort now.

Stashing their clothes and their basket safely away, they swam in the ocean, frolicking among the waves. After making love in the alcove a few hours later, they dressed and reclined on a blanket out of reach of the rising tide, drinking wine and eating sweet cakes. It should have been a perfect day, but how could it be when Arafinwë felt as if he were reenacting the dream he had had before he made Faroniel his wife? It just felt so wrong!

Eärwen rolled to face him, propping herself up on her elbow. Gently brushing his still drying hair out of his eyes, she looked on him, her bright blue eyes full of concern. “Why does this not make you happy? I have done all I can think of to draw you out of this tense melancholy which has haunted your every step since you returned to me. I have heard tales from others of the tortures to which Morgoth’s slaves were subjected. I have seen for myself how every ellon who went away to fight has returned changed and…and darkened by his experiences. Please tell me what Morgoth did to you when you were his prisoner that changed you so. No one else will tell me and, indeed, I do not believe that they even know what happened to you. I am your wife, and I love you!  I need to know so that I can help you begin to heal, so I can help you find your peace again.”

“I do not deserve to be at peace,” he replied simply, sitting up beside her. “I do not believe I will ever be at peace again.”

Sitting up, she refilled his glass with wine. Handing it back to him, she made herself comfortable, then took his other hand in hers. “My love, being at peace is a choice you can make. We have discussed this before, concerning strife within your family and when you took the throne of the Noldor. I have stood by you through all of the other terrible things we have faced in our lives. I am here now to help you through this.” Leaning forward, she kissed him on the lips, then settled herself again still holding his hand in hers.

He looked down, rubbing his thumb over her wedding ring. “When I tell you what happened to me, and…and what I did, I do not believe you will stand by me any longer.”

Furrowing her brow in pain and worry, she whispered, “How could you ever question my love for you? Dear Eru, what did Morgoth do to you?”

“Eärwen, there are some things that an ellon can do which are unforgiveable, no matter what drove him to do them. And what I did…I…it is unforgiveable. I do not ask you to even try. I cannot even forgive myself and yet at the time, it…it was the right thing to do at the time, so I believed.”

“Were…” her breath caught, “were you tortured?” She reached out to him, touching his body in different places as she asked, “Is that how you got the scars I saw on your arms and leg and your shoulders, and back, and here on your chest? Please tell me what Morgoth did to you while you were his thrall. I…I am certain we can take you to Lórien and Irmo can bring you healing if you cannot find it elsewhere.”

Suddenly, he was reminded of Faroniel touching his injuries as she described them to him when he first met her, flooding his mind with images of her lovely face and whispy, curly hair. “Faron-!” he stopped himself in horror mid-word.  “Eärwen…Eärwen, please stop.” He removed her hand from where it rested on his chest, holding it in his lap. “Please, just stop.”

“I…Eärwen, I was not a prisoner of Morgoth. I was never held captive in Angband though everyone from Ingwion on down in both armies will tell you I was. That was a rumor that Lord Eonwë allowed everyone to believe to explain the seven years I spent away from the army.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Why are you saying this? Why…why would Eonwë let people believe a lie? Why did you leave the army? Did you abandon them?”

“I am telling you the truth as you would have it from me for you deserve to know. And no, I did not abandon my people, not intentionally anyway.”

He shifted his legs a bit, then continued. “When our ships passed a certain point about two weeks out to sea, our bonds with Aman and everyone there were severed suddenly. I thought I was going to die, it hurt so much suddenly being alone, no longer able to feel my spiritual bond with you or with my amillë. The severance drove me to my knees and many around me lost consciousness in their distress.”

“I…I know. Or at least I understand. I felt the severance from you and I actually did collapse. It was two full days before I could function again, and then I heard reports of this having happened all over Aman. I was so happy when I saw you again. I felt your return before I ever saw your ship. I was so relieved!” She put her arms around him, kissing his face and neck. “Now that I have you back, I cannot bear to think of being away from you ever again.”

He kissed her in return, nestling close, breathing in her scent. It was going to destroy him when he lost her again. Of that he had no doubt.

When at last she drew back, he felt a chasm opening up between them that only he could see.

“It was some years into the war, we had suffered heavy losses yet again. I had lost some friends and the wails of the dying and mourning filled the camp. I…I could not handle it anymore and needed to be away from the death and despair for a time, for just a few hours. I needed to grieve without being harassed by captains with casualty reports and strategy meetings. I…I kept thinking of my sons and nephews and brother and how they died, wondering if they all had died alone, and regretting I never got to fight at their sides. I was so full of anger, and grief, and despair… I just needed to get away for a short time and find my peace again so I could go back and reassure everyone once again that it would be well… and remind them that their sons and brothers and fathers would return to them from Mandos one day and that we needed to press on and keep fighting.”

Quietly, she asked, “How many went with you when you left?”

He shook his head, blinking back the tears that those memories of the losses that day still evoked. “None, for I left abruptly, still fully girt for battle, having just come from the fray an hour or so before. I ran as fast as I could to put as much distance between myself and them as possible and give myself more time to grieve where none could see or hear me.”

“Were you allowed your time to grieve undisturbed?” Eärwen carefully asked, gently brushing his arm with her hand.

He smiled weakly. “Yes, I grieved for a few hours and about the time I was starting to think that perhaps I should head back, I was ambushed and badly injured. A Mortal came to my rescue, but not before I received a vicious blow to the head that destroyed my memories of who and what I was and almost all of my entire past life before that moment.”

“I thought that was why you were supposed to wear a helmet into combat,” she responded knowingly.

“Yes, the helmet would have prevented such a devastating injury had I not thrown it in my anger and grieving rage a few hours before.”

“Oh,” she replied. “So what happened with the Mortal?”

“She took me to her home and cared for me until my injuries healed.”

Eärwen started in surprise, “She?”

Arafinwë smiled slightly in amusement. “Yes, she. Her name was Faroniel. She was a young adaneth with curly silver hair and bright blue eyes and a spirit very much like yours. She lived alone in a tiny one-room cabin on the outskirts of a small mortal village. Her husband had gone to the war a few years before and was killed in battle. Her two young children died of an illness a few months after he left for the war.”

“How very sad!” Eärwen whispered, sorrow creasing her brow. “I understand how she must have felt at the severing of bonds with her family for I, too, was just like a childless widow while you were away at the war.” She looked into his eyes, a tear escaping down her cheek. “My husband finally returned to me, but my children may never do so. I can understand how she must have grieved, for I know how I have grieved.”

He grasped her hand in both of his and kissed it in sympathy. She nodded her gratitude as he lowered his hands to his lap, still holding hers.

“Yes, she did grieve,” he continued. “It was most difficult for her when her sister’s children came to visit and on the begetting days of her children.”

“I imagine you could empathize with her in grieving the loss of children.”

“I could have empathized if I had remembered that I had children or even a spouse. As I said, I remembered very little of my previous life, but seeing her suffering grieved me.”

Eärwen looked deeply hurt. “You did not even remember me?”

Sadly, shamefully, he shook his head. “I had dreams on occasion, but I could not discern what was dream and what was a real memory. You were a distant, treasured, beautiful dream to me, and I knew in my dreams that I loved you dearly, but I had no idea who you were or if you were even real.”

She withdrew her hand from his and scratched the side of her face, brushing away a bit of sand and a stray whisp of hair.

“I…I cannot believe you did not remember me. I thought of you every day that you were away from me,” her voice grew softer, her gaze focused far away. “Every day.”

Arafinwë sighed. It was only going to get worse from here.

After a few moments of silence, she asked in harsh tones, “So why did you not return to the army? Why did she not return you to the army? I imagine they could have healed you more quickly.”

“I did try to return to the army on my own as soon as my body had healed enough for me to travel. My memory was still gone, but I deduced the direction I should travel as best I could and I sought them out. But what I found…”

“What did you find?”

He brushed his hair out of his eyes, cursing the sea breeze which seemed determined to torment him in his grief. He bowed his head. “Ingwion mentioned that one hundred warriors came in search of me. Their search was futile because an early winter snow storm had erased all trace of my passing. I found them a few days out from Faroniel’s house. Or at least I found their bodies. They had been ambushed and slaughtered shortly after they found the only evidence of my passing – my helm and my gloves. There were thirteen who had not been dragged off to be eaten by the orcs. Of those thirteen, only one was alive when I found them. He…” His voice broke at the memory and it took him a few moments of deep breathing with his eyes closed to be able to look on his wife again and continue. “It was Sartandil, but I only remembered his name when it was too late. He told me about the failed rescue and the ambush and told me that the army of Valinor was gone. He cautioned me to hide and not let Morgoth find me because I was the last of my atar’s house, bereft of all whom I had loved just as he was the last of his. He told me that if my line ended, then Morgoth would win. Then he died in my arms.”

Arafinwë looked down at his hands, seeing instead those last moments with one of his closest friends.

Eärwen gasped in horror, then took her husband into her arms. It took him a few moments to realize where he was and respond to her, putting his arms around her, allowing her to comfort him.

After a time she drew back, brushing from his cheeks tears he had not even realized had fallen.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Arafinwë, my love, I am so sorry. Lady Estë herself came and spirited his wife away to Lórien the day after you returned from the war. My atar was so afraid she would kill herself in her grief, he called upon one of Ulmo’s Maiar and that Maia returned a short time later with Lady Estë.”

Arafinwë looked on his wife in gratitude. “I…I did not know. I…I had wondered why his wife had not come to see me so I could tell her of him. Now, I know. Will she be all right?”

Eärwen shook her head, “In truth, I do not know. She is receiving the best of care in Lórien, but that is all that I know.”

He nodded. “I must remember to thank your atar and Lady Estë both. I cannot believe how negligent I have been. I remembered to speak to the widows of all of my other friends, but I missed her.”

Gently brushing his arm with her hand, Eärwen smiled. “You have had much on your mind since your return. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

For a time he looked away and watched the waves roll in to the shore, the constant motion and the rushing sound a soothing balm for his weary fëa.

“So what happened after that?” Eärwen’s melodious voice gently called him back to the present.

Arafinwë’s heart sank as he met Eärwen’s kind eyes. “Believing that I was all that remained of the army from Valinor, I buried the dead and returned to the only person I knew and the only home I knew, however briefly I had known the home and the person. Faroniel nearly murdered me, literally, when she saw me because I only had left her a note as my farewell, which I admit was foolish on my part. And then I had the audacity to return some days later, begging her to take me back. Fortunately for me, she forgave my thoughtlessness and accepted me once again.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“That was a kindness you did not deserve,” Eärwen agreed.

“I worked her land and helped her in her trade as a trapper. She taught me to speak Sindarin, though we sometimes still spoke Quenya together. She knew Quenya because her ancestors had had close contact with the Elves of Nargothrond, namely our sons Findaráto and Aicanáro.”

Eärwen raised her eyebrows at that, her curiosity clearly peaked. She leaned forward eager to hear more.

“One of Faroniel’s distant kin who had died many years before Faroniel was even born was an adaneth named Andreth who had had many conversations with Findaráto. Faroniel had a book which recounted many of the discussions between Andreth and Findaráto. Faroniel read the book to me many times my first winter with her for the snows were deep and the folk of her village hated Elves. I was effectively trapped with her with nothing to do otherwise.” He paused, taking a deep breath.

“Of more importance is that this maiden Andreth was the beloved of our Aicanáro. He never married Andreth, though he loved her dearly. The exiles who went to Endórë believed that Elves should neither marry nor bear children in time of war, so our son never married the Mortal who held his heart. He died in battle and she died sometime after him.”

Arafinwë took a long drink of his wine before continuing. “I spoke to him, learning of his love for her and his decision. He said to send you his love as well and his apologies for not coming back. You see, I was allowed to see and speak with him for a short time during my brief sojourn in Mandos’ Halls while Eonwë desperately tried to repair my body after I was cut down in my first battle back with the army.“

“WHAT?!” Eärwen cried in alarm. “What do you mean by ‘your brief sojourn in Mandos’ Halls’? You…you died?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, “I died. I was…I…This is getting ahead of the order in which the events I am trying to explain to you actually happened, but yes, I briefly died.”

“And you did not think to tell me about this until now?! Did you not think it important enough to tell me before?”  Her face was red with fury and she looked as if she were ready to strike him.

He raised his hands in a placating gesture, hoping she would calm down. None of this was easy for him to say and her getting angry now was not helping matters. She would be angry enough later on.

“Yes, I nearly died. I was defending Ingwion who was unconscious and badly injured. His guard was falling about him until I was the last one standing. There was a lull in the onslaught and I was stricken by a loss of another kind that rent my fëa so badly, I could not defend myself. I literally was cut down by, I think it was two orcs, but I am not entirely certain anymore. Eonwë came to my rescue and under orders from Manwë, he healed my body. I vaguely remember one of his Maiar saying that my injury would have unhoused a Maia, but I remember nothing else besides my time in Mandos and then waking up a long time later. I guess it was weeks later maybe, I do not really remember.”

He drank more of his wine and she automatically refilled his glass, still glaring at him.

“I nearly lost you.” She set the wine skin on the blanket beside her then turned away, seeming to study the sea for a time. “I nearly lost you. Dear Eru, I nearly lost my love,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. “I would have been a widowed, childless mother just like your Faroniel, just like Sartandil’s wife. All of my nightmares would have come true. They would have taken me to Lórien to mourn in despair and try to die but not be allowed to because I am supposed to be strong and be the queen.” She looked back at him again, her hand falling to her side.

“Why did you have to be king?” she angrily demanded. “We always have to be strong for everyone else and look to their well-being before ours, and all the time we are never allowed to be husband and wife or siblings or parents or friends and…and feel as those people feel and grieve as those people grieve. I…I understand why you ran away that day, my love. And I am sorry. I am so very sorry.”

He took her hand in his, squeezing it lovingly. “Being king was never my choice, but it was my duty and my honor, my obligation. I ran away for a time and my army nearly fell apart. My life did fall apart. It took me seven years to rediscover who and what I was, and as soon as I fully understood and remembered, I took my leave of my new family and I returned to the war.”

His wife looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Your…You…I…I do not understand.”

He licked his lips which had suddenly gone dry. Softly he explained, “Faroniel healed not only my body, but my fëa as well. She healed my despair and brought me hope again. I took work in the village as an assistant to the blacksmith, becoming a useful member of the community and close friends with the smith. The village was full of children in spite of the perils of mortal life, and Faroniel and I enjoyed watching them play. We both felt an ache of loss when we saw them, though I did not know I had lost children of my own. In time I grew to love her, and I… I made her my wife. Five years after twins were added unto us, recruiters came to the village to call more of the men to war. Many more of my memories returned, reminding me of my obligation to fight in this war.  I returned to the fighting, but did not reveal myself as king. I was recognized when I joined the elven warriors defending Ingwion as he lay wounded.  I still did not remember you or our children, but I remembered most everything else.”

Eärwen withdrew her hand, shaking her head as she stared at him in shock.

“Faroniel died from an illness,” he continued quickly. “The rending of the bond with her drove me to my knees and left me vulnerable to the attack which took my life, however briefly. I lost my bond with our two children then as well. My Andreth and Aicanáro, who were named for the Mortal and Elf lovers from Faroniel’s book, were left orphaned to be raised by the smith I worked for in the village. Eonwë told me that the punishment for my transgressions against you, against the blessed bond of our marriage was that I would never see my children again in Endórë. They brought me such joy and healing, forging hope where I had had none for so very, very long. For all I know now, they are dead, too. To be king, I had to abandon them all and now they are gone forever.”

The anger and horror in her face tore his heart to shreds, but he endured her brutalizing glare for he knew he deserved her hatred.

“Eärwen,” he reached for her hand, but she leaned back out of reach. He nodded, returning his hand to his lap. “I swear to you that I never stopped loving you, and I love you still. I always will. I swear to you, I always will.”

“How could you?” she begged, her hands scratching at the sleeves of her dress. “I love you… I loved you...”

After a few tense moments, Eärwen looked away, but she clenched her fists as once again her gaze met his, her bright blue eyes burning with an icy chill. “I see why Eonwë did not allow anyone to know what really happened to you. Your own army would have slaughtered you for the disgrace such knowledge would have brought them, and rightly so.”

Arafinwë nodded in agreement. “You are correct.”

Angrily, she stood up and he arose as well. Drawing her right hand back, she slapped him hard across the face. “Get out of my sight!” she cried, angry tears spilling from her eyes. “I do not ever want to see you again! I wish you had never come home and had died in Endórë instead! Then I still could have loved your memory, instead of hating this vile betrayal!”

He nodded taking a step backward, his hand going to his face which stung from her slap. He drew his hand and away and was surprised to see blood. Her ring must have cut his face. “I…I will tell your parents that you wish to remain in Alqualondë for a time and rest by the sea which is your real home and never stopped being your home even when I took you away from it. They will not question it or should not at least. I will return to Tirion this evening. You need not look upon me again.”

She turned her back, her shoulders heaving. He did not bother trying to stay his own tears for they were too many. “I am sorry, Eärwen. I swear to you that I never stopped loving you, and I love you still. And I swear to you that I always will. Farewell.”

She said nothing to him in reply, so he turned and slowly started the long walk back to the palace. Frequently he looked back, but she never followed that he saw. At one point early on, he thought he heard an agonized scream in the direction from which he had come, but he was never certain.

Why did he bother coming back to Aman? Because it was home. Because She was there. Because he was king and therefore the one person no one would leave behind.

Why did Eonwë did not let him die? It would have been an easier fate. A much easier fate…

XXXXX

Neither Ingwë nor Olwë were pleased that he was leaving so abruptly, but he really did not care. His duties as king were concluded in Alqualondë and it was time for him to depart. He gave his excuses for Eärwen’s absence from his departure, claiming that she needed to remain by the sea for a time and renew her spirit. For any other among the Lindar, this would have been a valid explanation, but it was clear that Olwë and his wife did not believe him.

As he hastily mounted his horse, Ingwion came to him advising, “Please seek Irmo in Lórien. I believe he can give you the healing which you so desperately need. Then perhaps you can return to the sea that you love and the Sea Maiden who so desperately loves you.”

Nodding more in dismissal than in acknowledgement, Arafinwë tugged at his horse’s reins and rode away into the oncoming night.

XXXXX

amillë - mother

adaneth – mortal woman

Chapter 17

The king of the Noldor did not stay at the palace for long. After a week or two, he felt too restless, the walls too confining, and the corridors too devoid of family, so he ventured forth again. His steward, who had been in charge when he arrived home unexpectedly, remained in charge of matters until Arafinwë felt able to resume his duties. In Arafinwë’s mind, that might take a long time.

With his ever-present guard in tow, Arafinwë set out to visit every village that had sent ellyn to the war. The steward, who had not gone to the war, argued with him about the wisdom of such a venture, especially after so recently returning, but Arafinwë was adamant that he needed to go.

As he entered the first village, Arafinwë was struck with the similarities between elven and mortal communities – the bakers, the millers, the tanners, the weavers, the smiths all going about their business. The small houses ringed or were integrated into the village among the shops with the outskirts surrounded by farms. People went about to and fro, staring at him and his retinue as they rode through town.

It grieved him to see that there were no children about. While the Elves of Endórë seemed to have felt that having children in time of war was not a good idea, he found it troubling that those who had stayed behind in Aman had not seen fit to have children either.,  Then again, a large number of the ellyn had gone away to the war, but even still… Perhaps this village was the exception. He hoped that was the case and that he would find children in the other villages he visited.

The villagers watched in awe as he passed, making their obeisance, but some regarded him with anger and loathing as well. Some of those angry folk, he decided, would be the ones he would try to visit personally. He had lived in a mortal village with a lot of folk who were angry about the war and the sacrifices they were called upon to make because of it. Apparently, Elves were no different in that regard.

The village elders, though flustered and very surprised at receiving a visit from the king himself, were polite and amiable enough. The discussions with them, which were held at a table in the kitchen of the chief elder’s house,  ranged from hardships overcome while so many of the ellyn were away during the war to the difficulties of having so few of those ellyn returned to them.  But the most insistently asked question of all surprised Arafinwë greatly.

“Why were our exiled kin not returned to us at the conclusion of the war?”

“We want our children returned to us,” the chief elder explained after the third time the question was broached and Arafinwë still had not answered it. “We gladly sent warriors to avenge ourselves upon Morgoth for his heinous crimes against us all, but our children who followed King Fëanáro have not come home yet. Why is that?”

“We have kin in Mandos’ Halls who will be returned to us eventually, but what of our exiled kin?” another elder asked. “If they are forgiven, as rumor has said, then why have they not come home again?”

Arafinwë leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his tea while the ellyn spoke. No one was going to like the answer he had to give, so he posed a question of his own.

“I have not seen any children since I entered the village. Where are they?” Arafinwë asked.

“Are you expecting us to just forget we had the others and make new ones to replace the ones who left us?” The elder scoffed in disbelief.  “There was too much work to be done by too few for us to worry about having children while so many of our folk were away at the war. Now that our ellyn have returned, you may well see children being added unto families. However, we did not seek to replace those who chose to go into exile, and we will not seek to replace those who we lost to the war. We will simply wait for their return.” He looked pointedly at Arafinwë. “Where are the exiles now and when will they come home?”

Setting his cup on the table, the king straightened in his seat. Using the most matter-of-fact tone he could muster, he explained, “The taint of Morgoth on the folk who dwelt in Endórë is considered by the Valar to be very great. Therefore the Valar have decreed that those who went into exile and survived to return across the sea must abide for a time on Tol Eressëa. When the Valar deem they are ready to return to Aman proper, then they will be permitted to do so, but not before.”

The shouts were many as chairs scraped the floor and the elders rose to their feet in anger.

“What?!” 

“But we shed our blood to destroy Morgoth and rescue them!”

“The Valar lied to us!”

“How dare they!?”

“So many left, it is impossible for them all to fit on Tol Eressëa!”

“How could you betray our trust and allow them to keep our children from us?”

Arafinwë raised his hand and the room immediately calmed. Sweeping the room with a stern look, all returned to their seats.

“Your Majesty,” the chief elder began, “We-“

But Arafinwë stayed him.

“The choice was not mine to make nor mine to question. The fact that they let the exiles return as far as Tol Eressëa is a blessing in itself. So few of our folk even survived all that they were forced to endure in Endórë... The living conditions were harsh, especially after the elven kingdoms fell. The Valar cleansed the land after Morgoth was chained, but so little of the lands of Beleriand which our folk traversed from Cuiviénen even survived those floods.”

One elder indignantly rose to his feet again, “Why should you care what happens to us country folk? All we are good for is providing your food and populating your army. What are any of us worth to someone as puissant and mighty above us as you nobles believe yourselves to be? I bet your kin are all forgiven and back at the palace even now!”

Arafinwë motioned for the ellon to sit down again. “Please.” He gestured again and the elder grudging took his seat. “I do not believe myself to be above you, and I value each and every one of you or I, so newly returned from the war, would not have taken the time to come talk to you now. As for my family…”

He paused and took another drink of his tea. “My atar is not likely to ever return from Mandos nor will my brother Fëanáro. All but one of Fëanáro’s sons are dead and his one grandson survives still. Neither will return to Aman. My sister Lalaith and her family are all dead. My brother Nolofinwë was killed by Morgoth himself and his children are dead. Lady Idril and Lord Eärendil are the only ones to return of my brother’s line. My daughter Artanis is my only surviving child and she was refused a pardon.”

And my twins and any children they may have had could never see these lands anyway, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

“As for the folk who are to go to Tol Eressëa, we are working with the Teleri to build ports and to build at least one city for the returning exiles. Additionally, the mortals who served the Valar in the war are being given a land of their own. We are setting up trade agreements with the Mortals to the benefit of us all with Tol Eressëa as a halfway point between the two lands. This will provide trade and commerce for Tol Eressëa to help make it all the more viable, for the returning exiles and for the folk who only now have decided to seek the Undying Lands. The Valar may have said our folk cannot come to us, but they do not prohibit us going to them. The Valar ask for our patience in the healing of our returning kin.”

Arafinwë finished his tea while the others sat in thought.

“Is there a way we can contact them and find out if any of our kin have arrived on Tol Eressëa yet? Or if they even live?” one of the elders finally asked.

“No one has arrived on Tol Eressëa yet, however, they may begin arriving soon, though I do not know exactly when.” The king smiled ruefully. “I have only just returned to Aman myself and it took longer than I expected to prepare an army, which was used to picking up and moving frequently, to pack up and return here. I can only imagine how long it would take to build ships, pack up all of one’s family and possessions, and come here.”

Watching the ellyn as they pondered his words, an idea came to Arafinwë. “Many of you are from Cuiviénen or made the journey here. You know what is involved in moving a family and starting over again in a new land. Would you be willing to come up with some suggestions for establishing settlements on Tol Eressëa which might make the transition smoother for our returning kin?”

The chief smiled. “We would be honored to help. Now, if those children had listened to our stories when they were younger, they might not need our help to establish settlements.”

Arafinwë smiled grimly, “If they had taken to heart your cautionary tales of hardship and woe in Endórë, they would not have gone back there to begin with.”

Amidst many nods of agreement, the elders set about making suggestions concerning settling folk on Tol Eressëa.

When the meeting adjourned, the elders returned to their trades for they had lost a few hours of work and needed to catch up. Arafinwë decided to wander through the village, taking note of the condition of the buildings and the people.

In front of the bakery, Arafinwë called a halt. His captain and several other guards immediately joined him as he walked to the door. He turned and glared at them.

The king gestured to the large group of heavily armed ellyn, “Is this really necessary?”

“Your Majesty,” his captain replied, “with all due respect, you disappeared for seven years in the war, and you have only recently returned to us in Valinor now. We are not going to let you out of our sight.”

“Must so many of you accompany me though?” he asked in exasperation. “I promise I will not run away, and I am fairly certain that there are neither orcs nor balrogs nor other creatures of the dark present in these lands.”

“At least four of my warriors and I will attend you wherever you go. There may not be any evil creatures about, but I can tell you truthfully that not all of the folk of this village or many of the other villages will be pleased with a royal visit so soon after they have received news that so many of their ellyn are not coming home again. I apologize for being so blunt, your Majesty, but I know that is the sentiment in my village.”

Arafinwë smiled grimly, “My Captain, that is precisely why I am visiting each village. I understand the sacrifice my people have made, and I think they need to know of my gratitude and that I care.”

The entire retinue looked on him in surprise.

“You all stayed behind,” the king explained, “as your duties required of you, protecting and supporting my queen and helping to keep the order while so many were away. I fought and bled alongside the ellyn of these villages. Numerous times one of them saved my life or I saved theirs. I owe them this.”

The captain nodded. “Very well then.” He gestured to four of the guards. “I will announce you, but please do not take it personally if your welcome is less than warm.”

“I understand,” Arafinwë replied. “And I thank you for your honesty.”

Straightening his tunic and adjusting his travelling cloak, the king followed the captain and two soldiers into the bakery, with two guards trailing behind. The rest of the guards looked after the horses and took up position outside.

The interior was far more elaborate than the bakery in Faroniel’s village, with cheerfully painted walls and many tables, but the air smelled just as delightful. A dark-haired elleth emerged with a harried look on her face. She was short for a Noldo, but made up for it with the air of indignation which surrounded her. She curtsied deeply, looking suddenly ashamed when the captain introduced the king.

“Welcome to my bakery, your Majesty,” she said in a trembling voice. “What may I do for you? I am afraid I have little to offer today for I am baking for a wedding at the moment, but I am sure I can spare something.”

Arafinwë gestured for her to rise, which she did. “I do not wish to importune you. I saw you at the window and you appeared ah…troubled, so I thought I would stop in.”

The elleth blushed as she gasped. “Oh. Forgive me, your Majesty. I did not mean offense, I was thinking of…I mean…I simply, well-“

“Do not worry. What is your name? Are you alone here? If you are preparing for a wedding, should you not have help?” he asked.

“My name is Suliel, your Majesty,” she curtsied again as he inclined his head in greeting. “My husband, sons, and grandsons went away to the war,” she said, bowing her head as she wrung her hands in her flour-covered apron. “My daughter and I ran the bakery while they were away, but she is helping with other wedding preparations. Only my youngest great-great grandson has returned to us. His beloved waited for him all this time. He is the one getting married. I…I have much to do to prepare.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Arafinwë said. “We lost many good ellyn in the conflict. I thank you for allowing them to go, and I regret that they did not come home again. I understand your loss and I grieve for you.”

Boldly she looked up, her eyes ablaze with anger as she met his gaze, shaking her fist in rage. “Do you now? Do you truly understand the loss I have endured? You in your fancy palace in Tirion, do you truly understand what it is like to have to go on alone, worried night and day, fearing the worst for those you love?  Not knowing if they lived or died?  Trying to go on each day and remain strong for the rest of the family, trying to hide your fear every day and your tears on your pillow every night? And for what? To what end? Only one of them ever came home!” Tears sprang from her eyes as she weakly shook her fist one last time and limply let it drop to her side.   

“Do you know what it is like?” she whispered, her face contorted in sorrow. “Only my very youngest boy came home.”

Taking a few steps forward, he closed the gap between them. “I understand all too well. None of my kin…my atar, my brothers, my sister, my nephews, my dear daughter, my beloved sons ever came home.” He held out his arms and the weeping elleth tentatively leaned into them.

For a few minutes she sobbed into his chest. He just held her there, rubbing her back, offering what comfort he could while his guard looked on uncomfortably in a mixture of confusion and sympathy. Briefly he thought about Faroniel who lost two husbands to the war and Angadan whose sons probably never returned. Visiting some of those who had lost so much, seemed such a petty recompense, but he truly did not know what else he could do to comfort those who had remained behind.

When the elleth calmed, she pulled back, her face flushing in embarrassment. “My Lord, I…your Majesty, I…I am so…” she stepped back, wiping her eyes with her apron, smearing flour on her face amidst her tears.

Smiling in sympathy, he reached out and used a clean corner of her apron to properly wipe her face. “You are covered in flour, my dear,” he said.

“I…I am so sorry,” she flustered about patting her face with her hands. “I…Oh…”

“Do you need help finishing up the preparations for the wedding?” he asked.

She covered her mouth with her hands, looking over her shoulder at the tables of pastries and dough. “I…Oh dear!”

Then she turned and ran across the room to the oven. Hurriedly, she pulled out a pan of pastries, setting it on a nearby table. “Oh, thank the Valar, they did not burn!”

“I…” She looked about her, then sighed in defeat. “I do not know how I am going to finish this.”

Arafinwë reached up and unfastened his cloak, then removed his riding gloves, handing them to his captain, who accepted them with a bemused expression as if he had just been handed a snake. “Show me where I can wash up and then tell me how I may assist you.”

She looked at him in shocked bewilderment. “I…I…your Majesty forgive me, but have you ever even been in a kitchen before? I fear you would do more harm than good, no matter how well intended your help may be.”

He laughed merrily. “I had occasion to befriend a baker during the war, and he taught me a thing or two about cooking and baking. I can assure you I am not completely inept in that regard.”

She looked at him worriedly, glancing questioningly at his guards who shrugged in confusion, disavowing all knowledge and blame in this with their expressions. Arafinwë chuckled at the silent exchange.

“Ah…very well. Ah…I suppose you could spread the cream on those pastries there to begin with. That should not go too badly, I suppose.” Pointing to a back room she added, “Your hair is already braided out of the way. You can wash up back there. There is an apron on the nail over there. Put it on when you are clean.”

With a nod, he excused himself and went to wash up.

He did well enough with the cream, so he was allowed to help with the cherry filling and finally with constructing the apple tarts, too. Admittedly the approving comments he received from the baker made him blush with pride, especially when his captain paid him compliments about his work when the elleth left the room. The baker eventually brought out chairs for the guards as well as drinks and a pastry for each of them, smiling indulgently like a doting mother as they graciously accepted the food.

Lingering in front of the shortest of the guards who was still a good head taller than she was, she said, “Child, you remind me of my eldest grandson when last he sat here with me all smartly dressed in his uniform before he marched away.” Fondly she stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, then shook herself and gave him an extra pastry before returning to the kitchen.

Arafinwë nodded to him with an approving smile, then turned to continue his appointed task, not missing the gloating smirk the guard flashed at his obviously jealous comrades.

Gradually the elleth grew comfortable enough around the king to talk to him about her life and her family, from her childhood in Cuiviénen to the impending wedding of her great-great grandson who was the only son of her youngest great-granddaughter.

A few hours later, the work was done, and as the king donned his cloak and gloves, Suliel dropped a low curtsey. “Your Majesty, I have not the words to adequately express my gratitude for your help. No one will ever believe me when I tell them who helped prepare the deserts for the wedding.”

He smiled, his heart warming at her words. “It was but a small token of my gratitude for the sacrifice of your family, Suliel. I am grateful to you for allowing me to help and for feeding my guards.”

Each of the guards expressed their gratitude as well, to the obvious delight of the baker.

She blushed as she rose, then gasped. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She scurried off to a table, then returned with a bulging bag. “These are for you, your Majesty, and for your soldiers, especially those who so patiently waited outside. And…” she leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially as she pointed to the shortest guard. “See that that boy gets two. His face brought back so many joyful memories.”

Arafinwë repressed a laugh for ‘that boy’ had great-grandchildren of his own, but he refused to tell the baker that. Smiling at her joy, he reached out and gave the surprised elleth a fond embrace, which she willingly returned. “Thank you. I will see that ‘that boy’ is fed.”

When the king released her, he said, “Now I must go. The attention of the village should be on the bride and groom and not on me. I will be a distraction. Farewell!”

“Farewell, your Majesty,” she said graciously, curtsying again.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Arafinwë turned to his captain. “Did you leave it for her?”

“Yes, your Majesty, I did,” he replied with a proud smile. “She should find it soon.”

Mounting his horse, Arafinwë heard a cry of surprise from the baker. As he gave the word for his guard to wheel about and ride out of town, the baker opened the door.

Tears glistened on her face as she held up a bag of coins. “Thank you, your Majesty!” she called. Thank you!”

He inclined his head, then smiled even wider as her favorite guardsman blew her a kiss as the ellon waved farewell.

One village down, many more to go, Arafinwë thought as he rode past the last shop in the village.

XXXXX

It took weeks for him to visit every Noldorin village, passing even into the Southern Fiefdoms to pay his respects to the Noldor who served under his command.

In every village, he met with the elders first. Although many had some sort of meeting hall, he still found himself holding council in the kitchens of quite a few village elders, much to his amusement. He wished he had met with his people thus long ago, but at least he was doing it now.  The experience of meeting with the folk in their homes proved enlightening, seeing how they lived and how they conducted local affairs. In each village he asked the same questions and received similar answers. Likewise, he visited one or two families in each village who seemed to be experiencing hardship, offering what aide he could. Sometimes he offered help with labor and other times he only offered financial assistance. It touched him deeply to see that the gratitude of the folk was genuine, no matter the degree to which he had helped them. His guard received gracious treatment from many as well besides that first baker, which also quite pleased him.

When at last he returned to Tirion, the king was weary, yet he felt more a part of his kingdom than he ever had before. His guard seemed renewed in some way he could not identify as well, but his captain explained it to him on the ride to the city gates.

“Many of us who stayed behind felt that we were somehow less for not having gone to the war.”

“Did you truly wish to go?” Arafinwë asked in surprise. “I allowed as many as I could to go to Endórë.”

The captain bowed his head in embarrassment. “No, your Majesty, I dare say most of us in the guard did not wish to go. We remember too much of the long perilous journey here to Aman or we simply love this land too much to want to ever leave it. However, not everyone among the Noldor respected our decision to stay here and not go to the war. It was a matter of pride for many to go to the war, and it became almost a matter of disgrace to be a hale warrior who stayed behind.”

Arafinwë was stunned, but on consideration, he realized he should not be. The war after all had become a way for the families who felt disgraced by the actions of their exiled kin to redeem themselves in society and in their own perception of themselves. “Captain, have I ever given you the impression that I hold any of you in any less regard for your decisions to stay behind and provide a desperately needed service to your king and your folk?”

The captain shook his head, the entire retinue having gone silent, listening to their conversation. “No, your Majesty, you have not. I think I can speak on behalf of all of my ellyn and say that I thank you for the respect you have shown us.” He smiled. “No one outwardly treated us with disrespect during the war, but we heard them in the inns and taverns, talking about us when we were off duty and they did not hold us in high regard.   Travelling with you through the villages as we have…I must admit it was refreshing to see folk thinking highly of us again as well as treating us with the respect due our position.”

Calling a halt for they were just shy of the gates, the king motioned for the guard to gather closer. “My friends,” he said, “Please do not ever think for one moment that I have held you in any less regard for staying behind. If anything I hold you in higher regard, for I understand myself what it is to be the ellon who stayed behind when others departed. I understand what was asked of you and I admire you for it. I am proud and indeed honored to have each one of you in my service.”

The guards as one drew themselves up and saluted him. The king inclined his head in gratitude to his soldiers. As they surrounded him and entered the gates, Arafinwë noticed that their backs were straighter and their eyes prouder than they had been the entire journey.

XXXXX

The king arrived at the palace with little fanfare, as if he had just returned after leisurely riding for the day rather than being gone for weeks. He dismissed those who had accompanied him and acquired new guards as he made his way to his private chambers.  Taking a long soak in a very hot bath, he allowed himself to relax more completely than he had in a long time. He had much to consider from his visits, and would meet with his privy council in a few days or so after he had time to organize his notes and consider how he might be able to act on this new information. He needed to learn the state of affairs from his advisors who had stayed behind, as well as a host of other things that demanded the attention of a king. His obligations that he had most feared were met now with the discussion with Eärwen over with and the visits to learn of the state of his subjects. For now though, he felt that he could go on again with his duties and with his life. It would be difficult, but he would go on – after all that was what he did best, he went on in spite of the things that happened to him or conspired against him, and in some cases, because of them.

When the water started to turn cool, he climbed out of the tub, drying off and donning a green silk robe rather than dressing. After all, he had nowhere he needed to be for now and dinner was not for a few more hours yet. Picking up the book he half-heartedly had begun reading before he departed to visit the villages, he thumbed through the pages, realizing he did not remember any of it. With a shrug he decided to begin the book again.

Wandering into his sitting room, he went straight to a side table where a decanter of wine and some cheese and bread awaited him. He snacked on a few bites, before piling some more on a small plate and pouring a glass with which to wash it down later. After a few appreciative sips of the Vanyarin red, he turned and managed two steps toward his favorite chair before he dropped the book and the plate on the floor, nearly spilling the wine as well.

Eärwen was sitting there staring at him.

Chapter 18

“Eärwen!” Arafinwë exclaimed in shock. “My love,  wha…Why are you here? How…how come no one told me you were here?” Quickly he switched his glass of wine to his other hand, trying to keep the bit that had sloshed over the rim from staining his robe. 

“Am I still your love?” she asked, her tone and face revealing nothing of her feelings as she gracefully rose to her feet.

Shaking his damp hand, he took two swallows of the wine to prevent any more from spilling, for his hands were trembling badly as he returned the glass to the table.  Drying his hands on a serving towel, he turned to address her again.

“When we last spoke, I swore to you that I love and I still do. I just…I did not expect to see you again. You told me that was how you wanted it to be.  I respected that, so I left.  Why have you returned?”

“I still live here, do I not? No one here is aware that there is anything unusual between us, for you have told no one and neither have I.  I do not have to be announced to enter my own chambers. When I left the palace to meet your ship, this was still my sitting room and that,” she gestured behind him, “was still my bedroom.”

“So they were,” he replied, keeping his voice neutral as well. Unless she had returned to retrieve her possessions, he could not understand why she was there. She hated him and rightly so.

“You were gone a long time,” she observed. “The Ingaran decided not to await your return before continuing on his journey. He departed six days ago.”

“The Ingaran? Six days?” Arafinwë gasped.  “When did he arrive here? Why was I not told?”

Eärwen crossed her arms in front of her, her figure regal and imposing like the queen she was. “He arrived two weeks ago. We travelled together. I saw to his comfort during his stay and briefed him on the state of affairs in the Noldorin realm.  We did not know exactly where you were at the time, other than out investigating the state of affairs in each village since the return of the army. By the time we would have found you and told you of his arrival, he likely would have been packing up to leave again anyway.”

The king nodded his gratitude. “I appreciate you handling things with him and with the whole realm while I was away. I needed to do what I did out there.”

She smiled, genuine kindness and respect in her eyes. “I know you did. By the time I arrived here with Ingwë, messages were already coming in from the villages you had visited, with chief elders expressing their gratitude for your visit and their appreciation for you. Ingwë said you have set a precedent and that he or Ingwion would need to visit the Vanyarin villages after they return home and settle affairs there. He left you a long letter. It is on your desk when you feel up to reading it. He said there is no hurry in the matter. He prefers that you heal some more before resuming your duties as Noldóran.”

“Thank you,” Arafinwë nodded again. “I learned many things while out among our people. I am glad I went. It was most edifying and surprisingly enjoyable.” He smiled at the memories that suddenly came to him, recalling some of the folk he had met, especially that feisty baker.  After a few moments indulgence, he returned his attention to the lady standing before him.

He did not mind the company, but he was not in the mood to be trifled with. He simply wanted to let go of the past and go on. With no hope of getting his wife back, he had no desire to prolong a second parting with her.

Steeling himself, he softly stated, “You have not yet answered me, Eärwen. Why have you returned?”

“Would you like to sit down?” she asked gesturing to his chair.

He shook his head, “I will remain where I am.”

“Very well.” She wrung her hands, looking about uncertainly. “I…Ah…this is more difficult than I thought it would be.” Turning, she sat heavily in her favorite chair which was beside his.

“Oh, how do I say this,” she breathed. Looking up, she met his gaze, but her eyes looked weary and defeated. 

“A few days after you left me there on the beach, perhaps three or four days, Lady Estë and Lady Yavanna came to visit me in my chambers.  I had not dined with my family in all of that time and had spoken to no one other than to my handmaid.  Even she had heard few words out of me in that time. I spoke long with the Ladies and they helped me understand many things. I was so angry with you for your betrayal of me and being so broken and damaged by all that you have experienced with the war and even with becoming king when you were so unprepared for the throne.  I…I never noticed how broken and damaged I was by all that has happened to me.”

Eärwen  averted her eyes, “I…I was so hurt by the rebellion, the loss of my children, the deaths of so many of my people at the hands of my husband’s people. Then the Valar took my husband away from me and left me to rule a people who are not my own.  It was difficult. So very very difficult. And…I suppose I expected it all to be better when you came home again. I think I felt that the war would solve everything and our children and the others lost to us would come home, and we could have our dreams back…we could have our lives back just as they were before the death of the Trees. But that has not happened, has it?”

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “When you came back to me, for a brief time, I thought we could perhaps be as we were before.  But you were different and so was I, and I could not accept that.  Did you know that I still dream of having a house on the beach with you with a garden and a path made of jewels and shells leading down to the sea?”

Arafinwë smiled sadly, “I did not know that you still dreamed of that house by the sea. There were many many days, almost beyond count, when that dream was what sustained me and kept me sane.”

“What happened?” she whispered. “How…” she gestured around her. “Why did all of this have to come to pass?”

“No one asked us what we wanted,” he said.  “We were tangled in the middle of all of it, and we simply reacted and did what we had to do, became what we had to become.”

“It is not fair,” she said bitterly.

“No, it is not,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She looked down and began twisting the ribbons on her dress around her fingers, then untwisting them again. It was an old familiar nervous habit of hers which he found oddly endearing.  “Yavanna told me that you were bowed by the weight of what you had to do in the war, ordering ellyn to their deaths, fighting, watching your friends die, and at the same time you were so grieved by the losses you had suffered already. She…she said that had Faroniel not come along, you would have died and Námo did not believe he ever would have been able to heal your fëa. She also said that without you to lead the Noldor, the war, in all likelihood, would have been lost. I always knew you were a strong ellon and powerful beyond what anyone ever expected or believed you capable, but I never wanted you to have to be. I believe you were tested, but I was the one found wanting.”

Eärwen stilled her hands, meeting his eyes again, intense pain marring her lovely features. “Why could that adaneth and her love for you do what my love for you could not? I tried. I swear I tried, for yéni I tried, but…” she exhaled sharply shaking her head. “Did you love her more than you loved me?”

Arafinwë was taken aback. Why would the Valar have intervened to help her understand him? Why should they? Why did they explain all of this to her and not to him, and why did he not perceive it himself? Or perhaps he did, but…He was tired. Still so very weary of fëa…

“I…” he began, “I do not know if I can adequately answer your questions.  You are my strength and my joy.  You always have been.  My atar once told me that an ellon can love two ellith and love them differently without the love for one diminishing the love for the other.  I understand what he meant by that now.  I love you and will always love you, but I will always love Faroniel as well. My love for you is as eternal as are we. I loved Faroniel, knowing that she would die and that it was a risk and fleeting and temporary. But I was so empty and devoid of all that I remembered, and when I did remember, it was all of the bad things, the fears, the inadequacies, the struggles, the disapproval of my atar... I had the chance to remake myself, but had to hide my greatness the whole time, whereas in my forgotten past, I strived for a greatness that was always unattainable in the eyes of my judges.”

He sighed, nervously running his fingers through his wet hair. “I do not know how to explain this. I…She…she only knew me as a broken ellon who was struggling to regain himself-- even just to figure out who and what he really was. Her expectation for me was that I survived and helped provide for a family. I had the opportunity to live with that being the only expectation of me.  It was so very liberating and enjoyable and…I guess now that I think about it... It was what you and I so desperately wanted, but could never have in our dream house by the sea. I got to live that dream – granted it was in the  woods and among Mortals, some of which feared me and wanted me dead – but I had seven years free of the burdens that I have known most of my life here in Aman.  And I paid a horrible, horrible price for that brief freedom.  I needed that time to heal my body and my fëa. I needed Faroniel and our twins to love and nurture and be strong for and be willing to die for, even though I knew all along they were going to die first and leave me all alone.”

He wiped his face with his hand, surprised at the tears he found there. “Your love is constant and saw me through the difficulties and horrors I faced in Aman my whole life. You are the one who binds me to this life. You are the one I dreamt dreams with and the one I wore a crown with. I trusted Faroniel with my life and my heart for a short but necessary time when that was all I had to give, but you are the one I trusted with my fëa and with the lives and well-being of my whole clan. I do not know what else to say or how else to begin to explain this. I am sorry.”

Turning away, he picked up his drink and emptied the glass in one go then poured himself another.  As an afterthought, he poured her a glass as well and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she nodded, drinking half of it before setting the glass on the small table beside her.

“Tell me about the children added unto you two.”

Bringing his drink with him, he walked over and sat in his chair beside her. “They were beautiful. Andreth was golden and fiery and strong-willed much like our Artanis, but Aicanáro had silvery twisty curly hair that never stayed well groomed. He believed himself fearsome like a warrior, but he was gentle as well. They tried so hard to please me and they followed me everywhere.” He launched into a long animated recounting of the antics of the children.

Eärwen was a good listener, gradually coming to laugh and sigh with him as he remembered. At some point, she started telling comparable stories of their children’s antics growing up, causing them both to laugh as they reminisced.

When the tales were told, she asked between mouthfuls of bread and cheese from the new plate she had prepared for them, “Why did you choose to have children with her if you knew you were going to lose her eventually?”

“It broke my heart to see her grieve for the children she had lost. I would have done anything to bring joy to her again. Also, my own heart ached for what I felt I was missing every time I saw children in the village. I did not understand at the time that I was grieving on some level for the loss of my own children as well. Feeling my twins little fëar as soon as they were made brought me such unbelievable joy, as if a great void within me were suddenly filled again. And seeing her joy at being a mother again, it…it was almost too much to bear. It was glorious and wonderful and terrifying all at the same time and wearying…so very, very wearying…” He smiled, remembering the joy.

Eärwen grew quiet for a time, twisting and untwisting her ribbons while he sat enjoying the companionable silence with her as he finished the cheese and bread.

“Would you do it again?” she finally asked, still studying the twisting ribbons.

He paused worriedly, unsure of what she was asking. Would he marry again? Probably not, no, but he needed clarification before he answered, lest he misunderstand whatever she was trying to ask. “Would I do what again?”

She raised her gaze to meet his. “Would you once again look on your wife as she grieves for the children she has lost and be willing to do anything to bring her joy again?”

He answered her truthfully, “If my wife still loved me and still desired to be at my side, then yes, I believe I would.”

She looked down, untwisting the ribbons from around her fingers, then arose and moved to stand before him.  “Your wife still loves you and desires to be at your side forever.”

Rising to his feet, he blinked back the tears he felt threatening his vision once again. His heart sang so loudly he could have sworn that she could hear it. Tentatively, tenderly placing his hands on her shoulders, he quietly asked, “And what could I do to bring my wife joy again?”

She reached up, sliding her hands across his bare chest and pushing the silk robe from his shoulders. “Give me a child, Arafinwë. Fill my empty womb. Fill our empty arms.”

Arafinwë smiled, rejoicing as he bent to kiss her in reply.

XXXXX

“Atto!” a melodious female voice cried in the distance. “Atto!” The sound of doors opening and closing grew nearer as the voice seemed to call in each room as it came closer.  Finally a breathless elleth bounced into the room in a swirl of skirts and tousled, long silvery hair.  Shouting once again just as loudly as she seemed to have been calling every time before, she cried, “Atto!”

“For goodness sake, Falmamírë. I am certain the entire palace knows you are looking for me. There is no need to shout,” Arafinwë glared at his daughter sternly. “You also should not have been running through the corridors.”

She blushed, bowing her head shyly at the reprimand. “How did you know I was running?”

“You are out of breath and your hair is a mess.” He reached up distractedly and tried to straighten the most distressed of her hair ribbons.

“Oh. I am sorry, Atar. I did not mean to shout, but I had to find you. I did mean to run though. Three of the servants and one lord and two ladies and a visitor who looked like a Vanya wearing the tabard of the high king and also the steward did tell me to slow down, so I did not run as fast as I could have.”

“Did they all tell you that at the same time?”

“No,” she cheerfully added after a moment of thought, “At different times. But it takes so long to walk all the way up here from the front door of the palace. Oh, and one retainer also told me not to run on the steps.”

Arafinwë looked away rolling his eyes and praying for patience, trying to hide his amused smile. “Well, thank you for being honest, Child. Your amillë would tell you that ladies do not run across the palace and up three flights of steps.”

“Four.”

“What?” He set down the document he had been reading to more properly pay attention to her.

“I went the wrong way and had to go back down and find the right stairs.”

“All right. You still should not run on the stairs or through the corridors or anywhere else indoors.”

“Is that a rule from Atto or a rule from the king?” she asked coyly.

“Yes,” he replied irritably.

“You are a lady and a princess and a child who is indoors,” Eärwen scolded as she approached from the other side of the room. “No running!”

“Yes, Ammë,” she conceded, bowing her head penitently.

“So why were you running and trying to find me?” Arafinwë asked.

“Oh! This came for you,” Falmamírë handed him a slightly bent, sealed document imprinted with marks from her tight grip as she ran through the palace with it.

“Who gave you this to bring to me?” Arafinwë asked in exasperation as he shook the folded parchment at her.

“The messenger from Alqualondë did. I greeted him in the proper Lindarin fashion, and he recognized me as the granddaughter of the Lindaran and the Swan Maiden’s daughter. He said I am as going to be as lovely as my amillë,” she paused to cover her mouth and giggle.  “I assured him I would find you and bring this to you straight away. And since he needed to continue on to Vanyamar anyway, he gave it to me to bring to you.”

There were many things Arafinwë wanted to say at that moment about harried messengers and pretty ellith, but he bit them back as Eärwen came up behind him and began rubbing his neck. He motioned for the child to go sit on the bench by the window, watching as she dutifully curtsied and complied.

“She is but a child,” Eärwen crooned in his ear.

“A very beautiful, manipulative, energetic one,” he muttered back. “Clearly your daughter.”

“And yours, Dear. And yours,” Eärwen kissed his neck below his ear, trailing the tip of her tongue against his skin as she did so. “You cannot pin all of the blame on me.”

He growled softly and turned to kiss her lips. Eärwen’s quiet laughter rang in his ear as she leaned away, allowing only one kiss and drew up a chair to sit beside him.

“So, my love, what is this missive that was so important that it could not wait?” She turned it in his hand. “I do not recognize the seal.”

“I think it is from the king of Númenor. That looks like some variation of Eärendil’s star,” Arafinwë said.

He reached for a letter opened and broke the seal, unfolding several neatly scrawled pages.

Elros Tar-Mintataur, King of Numenor

Year 42 of the Second Age

Arafinwë Noldóran:

I send you greetings from the newly completed palace in Armenelos. Construction on the capital is coming along nicely thanks in large part to the smiths and masons you have leant to assist us. Considering all that you have done and are doing to aide us, I felt that the first letter I wrote from my new study should be to you.

Included in this missive on pages two through seven, please find details of the trade agreements you, Prince Ingwion, and I had discussed earlier. Please understand that this is but a draft. I would like your advice on how to proceed from here when negotiating with the Lindaran for transport by ship. Are our requests and stipulations reasonable? Should some of these be worded differently? Any advice you could offer in this matter would be most appreciated.

On a more personal note, I have taken a wife. I knew the woman for a few years, having met her while constructing the palace. This month as a fitting honor at the completion of my palace, I married the lovely Andreth Laurehériel and made her my queen. The Valar have indeed smiled upon me for she is, in all likelihood, the only peredhel nis in all of Endórë and certainly in all of Númenor. Those who concern themselves with genealogies said that we should learn of her elven ancestry for the royal records. We need to identify if not locate her elven kin, for she spent her whole life among the folk of her mortal amillë Faroniel and knows very little of her elven atar for she was orphaned at five years of age. Her atar is from Aman, most likely one of the Vanyar, for he had golden hair like hers. He met her amillë when he was wounded while fighting in the War of Wrath.  Rumor has it he died in battle the same day her amillë died of an illness. He was cut down defending Prince Ingwion.  Any news you can find for us regarding Laurehér the Vanyarin smith would be most appreciated.

Arafinwë dropped the letter, folded his hands and rested his head on the desk before him. Eärwen leaned over and held him as he trembled and cried. His daughter was alive!

After all of this time, his daughter was alive!

Sometime later he became aware of another set of hands rubbing his back.

“Atto, why are you crying?” Falmamírë pleaded, patting his back and shoulder. “It hurts my heart to see you so sad. Please tell me how I can make you smile again.”

She hugged him and started weeping as well, dampening his tunic with her tears. “Please, Atto. I love you so very much. Please, do not be sad. It is just a letter from someplace far away. Please, do not be sad.”

It was a long time before he was even able to sit up, let alone stay his tears.

“Child, fetch your Atto some wine from the other room,” Eärwen commanded.

“Yes, Amillë,” Falmamírë wiped her face on her sleeve and curtsied, then ran to the door.

As soon as she was out of the room, Eärwen said, “You cannot tell them anything about Laurehér other than what they already know. No one can find out he is you.”

“I know,” he nodded, wiping his face on a handkerchief she had pressed into his hand. “I know. I…I just. My little girl is alive. Beyond all hope, my little girl is alive!”

“Yes, yes, she is. And because she is…,” Eärwen smiled warmly, “Queen of Númenor, you will always know about her life and about the lives of her children. You need never wonder again. She will be well-cared for and lead a good life. There is no more you could wish for her than that.”

“No, no, there is not. You are correct. It seems they would have mentioned her brother if he yet lived, so I assume he did not,” he dabbed at his eyes again. “Well, at least I have news of my daughter, and I know that she lives. That is a greater blessing than I ever thought to be granted.”

“What will you say in reply to the request for information about Laurehér?” Eärwen asked.

“I will say that the information they gave me about him could apply to hundreds of Vanyarin soldiers and not to hold out hope of ever finding him. The Vanyar suffered heavy losses ere the end of the war and who knows how long it will take for all of those who were lost to be reborn? Besides, if he loved a mortal he may choose to refuse rebirth as our son did, in which case no one will see him again until the Second Music when Elves and Mortals will be reunited. I will suggest that as the hope to sustain her even though it is not much.”

“That sounds like a wise, safe answer. I will help you compose the letter tonight,” Eärwen said. She adjusted her hold on him, whispering softly for their daughter had returned with the glass of wine, “My love, I am happy for you. I love you.”

XXXXX

Fëar - spirits

Nis – female

Falmamírë – wave jewel or jewel of the waves

Chapter 19

In the year 3319 of the Second Age, the Númenórean fleet, led by Ar-Pharazôn, headed for Valinor, intent on conquest. Despite the overwhelming sense of dread and panic pervasive among the Noldor and Teleri, Arafinwë and Olwë managed to oversee a safe evacuation of their respective lands that lay in the path of the invading forces from Númenor. Three thousand, three hundred and nineteen years into the Second Age and the relationship between Aman and Númeor had brought them to this pass. Ingwë had been correct in his warning all of those years ago, and now Ar-Pharazôn’s fleet was approaching the coast of Aman proper.

Refugees went wherever they could to dwell temporarily and await the notification to return home — whatever home they may have left to them. Most were congregated in tent cities near Valmar. For the time being, Olwë and Arafinwë and all their kin were staying at the royal villa in Eldamas within easy concourse with the Valar. Besides, the desire to avoid Ingwë was quite strong. The Noldóran and Lindaran both agreed that they had little desire to hear the Ingaran say, ‘I told you so’.

Once folk were settled, however, there was little to do but sit and wait and wonder what would happen next…

*****

“Elwing told me where to find you,” Arafinwë said, entering a secluded room high in the royal villa.

“Yet another betrayal by my family,” Eärendil threw back half of his glass of wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you want?”

“I brought you more wine.”

“Put it on the table and go away,” Eärendil gestured to the table beside him then pointed to the door.

“No, I think I will stay for a bit.”

Eärendil said some foul things in Sindarin, then switched to Quenya, his voice dripping with loathing. “Why?”

“Because I do not want to drink alone,” Arafinwë replied.

“I am bad company right now.”

“So am I.”

Eärendil looked over at the two decanters brimming full with red wine, then turned his attention back to the fire which provided the only light in the room. “Fine. Sit.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of the small table beside him.

Arafinwë sat down and filled his glass, the light from the fire playing across the crystal of the goblet. “How are you faring right now?”

Eärendil scowled without looking up, “How do you think, Arafinwë?” He gestured to the knife on the small table beside him. “I feel as if I have that knife in my heart and I am still contemplating putting it there.”

Arafinwë nodded even though his companion was not looking at him.

Eärendil drained his glass then filled it up again. “I…I cannot even begin to put into words what I am feeling right now.”

Arafinwë sat without answering for time as he drained his own glass and poured himself some more. “It is difficult to explain what it feels like to have seen your child rise to rule an entire civilization. Then you wake up one day and receive word that its decedents are coming to invade your land. You feel terrible knowing that you were not there for your child since the time it was small, yet it did far better for itself without you than you ever could have provided for it -  or even dreamed - for your child became ruler of a new land. Now your child’s descendants come and are threatening to destroy you and all that you have in your own land.” Arafinwë paused, finishing and refilling his glass again.

“A choice was made along the way, keeping you from your child. Now you have outlived that child only to have its distant sons and daughters, who by default are your distant sons and daughters, come with the intent of subjugating or killing all of your own kind. How do you not feel responsible? How do you not feel despair? All you have been able to do all these centuries is watch life unfold for these sons and daughters without intervening in any way, without being a part of their lives, just like you were not a part of the life of the child you sired to begin with.”

He gave a self-deprecating laugh as a log fell in the fire, scattering sparks. “It begs the question:  at what point did your line become corrupt? Or perhaps more importantly, at what point did you yourself fail?”

In answer, Eärendil poured himself more wine and continued staring at the fire.

After a few minutes he quietly commented, “I commend you for figuring it out and articulating it so well, Arafinwë. I never could have put it so eloquently.”

Arafinwë just nodded and filled his own glass again.

Eärendil put another log on the fire and sat back down, setting his now empty decanter from earlier on the floor to make more room for the two which remained. Arafinwë picked up the knife, turning it to watch the fire reflect on the blade, then checking the balance. After a few minutes, he grew bored and made to set the knife down out of his companion’s reach.

“Put my knife back on the table where I can get to it. King or no, I swear I will take you down if you keep it from me,” Eärendil hissed. “You may be taller than I am, but I am bigger than you are.”

Arafinwë glared back menacingly, feeling the effects of so much wine himself as he met the challenge in his companion’s eyes. He hesitated, watching Eärendil grow more agitated by the moment, then he casually commented as he set the knife back down on the table. “There you are, Eärendil. But I will warn you that in the long term, being bigger may not be as much of an advantage as you might think.”

Eärendil sat back again, drinking some more then stopped suddenly, a puzzled expression slowly working its way across his face. “Why? What are you talking about?”

Arafinwë lifted his own glass. Taking a few more appreciative swallows, he explained, “A midwife once said that it is more difficult to birth the babies of sires with big shoulders.”

Now Eärendil looked very confused. “I threaten to kill you, so now you are talking about birthing babies.”

The Noldóran nodded.

“I think this has just become the strangest conversation I have ever had. How much did you have to drink before you found me?”

Arafinwë shrugged. “I do not know. I wearied of drinking alone, so I came to find you.”

“And I want to kill you, so you want to talk about birthing babies.”

“Yes. That is how the whole reason for drinking today started, is it not?”

Eärendil eyed him suspiciously for a few moments, then conceded, “All right.” He blinked a few times and shook his head, obviously still trying to process the unexpected change in the conversation, then asked, “So why would a midwife tell the King of the Noldor about birthing babies with big shoulders? That makes no sense.”

“She did not say it to me,” Arafinwë clarified, feeling rather annoyed at the misunderstanding. “She said it about me and I overheard it. She was criticizing some females who were looking at me lustfully at the time.”

Snorting spectacularly into his drink, Eärendil set the dripping glass on the table and sopped at the front of his tunic with the hem of it. “Well, you do have big shoulders for a Vanya.”

Still laughing in spite of the confusion clouding his countenance, Eärendil observed, “And seeing as how your wife had many pregnancies and mine only had one, there may be some truth to that.”

They grew quiet again for a time, finally emptying another decanter. As Arafinwë leaned over to set it on the floor, he noticed pieces of something shiny across the room. Venturing forward on his knees so he would not have to bend over and spill his glass, he picked up the two pieces and returned to his chair.  As he set down his glass to examine them, Eärendil explained how his belt buckle had broken when he first sat down in the room and it angered him so much he threw the pieces of the buckle at the wall. 

“It was my favorite buckle, too, a gift from Elwing.” He pointed haphazardly to the image visible when the pieces were put together. “It is Vingilot amidst the stars.”

“I could fix it for you,” Arafinwë offered, “I was a smith once, learned from Aulë himself.

“And how long ago was that,” Eärendil asked, gesturing sloppily with his glass.

“A long time ago. But I once spent about 7 years as a village smith.”

“Truthfully?”

“Yes, I did. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.”

“Were you any good?’

“The villagers thought so.”

They sat for a while, drinking more slowly now as Arafinwë played with the buckle and Eärendil stared at the fire.

Suddenly Arafinwë suggested, “We should go find a forge and I will fix the buckle for you.”

“I do not want to go out. The streets are crowded with all the evacuees,” Eärendil complained.

“I insist,” Arafinwë said, “Besides, we are getting low on wine and will need to leave soon to get some more anyway.”

“Well what about the guards and telling the family where we have gone? No one will want us to go. And what about the attention we will draw with Lord Eärendil and Arafinwë Noldóran going out into the streets?”

“We could wear our travelling clothes and put our hair in single braids. If we remove any affectation of station, then we will look just like every other refugee in the city right now.”

Eärendil still looked unconvinced, so Arafinwë snatched his knife from the table. “If you want it back, then change your clothes and meet me at the back door by the garden in a few minutes.” 

Reluctantly Eärendil got up and followed him out of the room.  A few minutes later, they slipped out the back door, through the garden, and into the street unnoticed by anyone in the house.

XXXXX

As they wandered through the streets looking for a forge, they amused themselves by sizing up the ellyn they passed and discussing how difficult it would be to birth their babies.

“I think we are agreed then that the Noldorin ellyn have the biggest shoulders,” Arafinwë said after traversing the streets for a few blocks.

“Aye, I believe you are correct about that,” Eärendil agreed, rubbing his chin contemplatively. “And I believe that would also explain why the Noldorin ellith are all so…so…so tough and strong and bossy and haughty and mean. It must be from bearing those big-shouldered Noldorin sons.”

Arafinwë paused a moment, then whispered conspiratorially, “Since I am currently disguised as a Vanya, I can agree with that without fear.” They both laughed at that and they laughed uproariously every time a Nolodrin elleth walked past, especially if she was accompanied by a Noldorin ellon.

After no small amount of haphazard wandering, they found a forge with an adjoining wooden booth and a smith at work. Pausing, Eärendil pointed to the smith, “Look at his big shoulders. I bet he was an only child.”

They both laughed, then Arafinwë considered the ellon for a few moments, and added, “But look at his hair. There is much silver mixed with the gold and it is fairly curly. He is not a Noldo. Obviously he is part Telerin. That is an odd combination – Telerin and Vanyarin.”

Eärendil crossed his arms and gave the Noldóran a disbelieving look. “I am going to tell your wife you said that.”

Quickly Arafinwë waved his hands defensively and clarified, “No, no! Do not tell her! What…what…what I mean is that it is not as common of a combination as Vanya and Noldo or Noldo and Teler. That is what I mean.”

In an irritated voice, the smith called over his shoulder, “I do have a sister. My atar was a Vanya but my amillë, though silver of hair, was not Telerin. And there have been more marriages between the Vanyar and the Teleri than you obviously have imagined, especially here in Eldamas. Now, if you good folk are finished talking about me, may I be of some assistance to you? Perhaps to call the city guard to escort you back to wherever you are staying?”

Immediately, Arafinwë and Eärendil adopted a more proper demeanor. “You can be of assistance to us. My kinsman here broke his belt buckle. I would like to borrow your forge so that I might repair it for him.”

Calmly the smith wiped his brow with a cloth, then turned and took a few steps toward them. A disgusted expression clouded his face. “I can smell the wine on you two from here.” He waved his hand in front of his nose to clear the air. “I am not about to allow two drunk ellyn anywhere near my forge nor my tools.”

When they made to protest, the smith added sternly, “Even if the King of the crafty Noldor himself came here and asked, I would deny him the use of my forge and my tools if he had been in the drink as much as you two obviously have. And you two obviously are not even of the Noldor. So, is there anything else I may do for you?”

Eärendil and Arafinwë looked at each other then burst out laughing.  If only the ellon knew to whom he was speaking!  When he calmed again, Arafinwë set his ample purse on the counter enclosing two sides of the wooden structure beside the forge.  Amiably he offered, “I am a smith in my own right and I gladly will pay you for the use of the forge”.

The smith crossed his arms defiantly and shook his head. “I have a hard-earned reputation to uphold. I will not have my good name besmirched by allowing drunken ellyn to use my forge, no matter how much they might pay me. However, good sir, if you are so eager to part with your money, then perhaps you should give it to me to do the work for you.”

“And what might your good name be?” Arafinwë asked, still amused by the whole situation.

“Aicanáro Laurehérion,” the smith replied proudly.

Suddenly sober, Arafinwë gasped, certain he must have misheard the ellon. “What did you say?”

The smith moved a step closer and put it his hands on the counter, leaning closer. Slowly and distinctly he replied, “Aicanáro son of Laurehér.”

“Laurehér?” Arafinwë repeated in surprise. “Laurehér.” He shook his head not quite believing what he was hearing. “Did…did you atar teach you in your craft?”

The ellon regarded him suspiciously, “Why do you ask?”

“Please, just answer me.”

“My atar was a smith, but he went away to the War of Wrath when I was just a boy, and he fell in battle.”

Arafinwë stared at the ellon in wonder, then ventured, “Where were you born?”

“Why do you care?” the smith asked.

Another ellon with oddly familiar, piercing blue eyes and curly golden hair walked over and entered the stall beside the forge. He tucked a wisp of his hair, which was just as unruly as the smith’s, behind his ear as he asked, “Atar, should I tell amillë that you will be late for dinner or will you be coming along now?”

Aicanáro looked expectantly at Arafinwë. “Well, do you want me to do the repair or not?”

“Yes,” Arafinwë said absently, staring at the son of the smith and comparing him to his atar.

“I will be along when I finish up here,” the smith said.

His son nodded. Going to the forge, he used the bellows to raise the heat while Aicanáro took the two pieces of the buckle, turning and examining them. “Beautiful work. It is a pity it broke. This will take a little bit to repair.”

“We will wait,” Eärendil said, leaning on his elbows on the counter.

As soon as the forge was hot enough, the son patted his atar on the back and left.

Eärendil watched him go then turned to Arafinwë, asking quietly. “Is something wrong? You do not look well.”

“I do not know,” Arafinwë whispered, shaking his head as he leaned on the counter beside Eärendil, watching the smith intently.

Eärendil glared back then shook his head and rolled his eyes in annoyance. After a few minutes of watching the smith work, he asked, “Aicanáro like the Noldorin prince?”

The smith answered readily enough without looking away from his work. “Yes. My amillë had this book of tales about some of the Noldor in Beleriand. Her favorite one was about a conversation that Prince Findaráto, well King Findaráto – he was king of Nargothrond at the time – supposedly had with a mortal woman named Andreth concerning a romance between the woman and Prince Aicanáro. My sister, as you may guess, was named Andreth.”

“Was?” Eärendil asked curiously.

“Yes, she is dead. Died many yéni ago.”

“I am sorry,” Eärendil said, then offered, “At least she will be returned to you.”

The smith shook his head and grunted in reply.

“So where were you born?” Arafinwë ventured again.

“Beleriand.”

The smith looked over his shoulder, smiling at the surprised reactions of the two and chuckling. “You were not expecting that answer were you?”

“No,” Eärendil conceded. “I do not think either of us were.”

“No one ever does,” the smith commented, still chuckling as he turned his attention back to his work.

Eärendil glanced at Arafinwë, concern clouding his face. “Are you all right?”

Arafinwë blinked a few times and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“My atar was a Vanyarin smith,” The smith continued after a time. “I was taught the craft by his business partner when I was old enough to apprentice. When I finally sailed here, I sought out my atar, hoping he had been reborn. He had not and no one in any Vanyarin settlement had heard of him. Lord Aulë summoned me and offered to instruct me. I was surprised that he would even care about me, my being what I am, but I took him up on the offer, and here I am now. I have been here in Eldamas for nearly three thousand years and my sons and grandsons have taken to the craft as well.”

“What are you then?” Eärendil asked curiously

“The same thing that Lord Eärendil and Lady Elwing are, if you can believe it.”

Eärendil started, looking at the smith more intently.

“I would love to meet Lord Eärendil sometime,” the smith continued whimsically, “and talk to him about what it is like being what we are. I can truly empathize with him right now. He must be going through hell with all that is going on with the Númenóreans.”

“Yes, he probably is,” Eärendil agreed.

“What was the name of your amillë?” Arafinwë asked in a daze, certain he already knew what the answer would be.

“Faroniel. Why does any of this matter to you anyway?”

“Faroniel,” Arafinwë whispered, his vision starting to go dark. He took a step to try to steady himself and a quick moving Eärendil caught his arm as he crumbled to the ground.

“What is wrong with you?” Eärendil asked his voice full of worry. “Do you want me to send for a healer?”

“No. I…I… dear Eru, I just did not think it was possible,” Arafinwë muttered to himself. “I…I thought they were all gone and…”

“Your friend okay?” the smith called out “Finally succumb to the wine?”

“I do not think it was the wine,” Eärendil replied, clearly troubled.

The smith came over and helped Eärendil bring Arafinwë inside the stall to a chair. After they set him down, the smith lifted Arafinwë’s chin and looked him in the eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

Arafinwë looked into Aicanáro’s eyes, realizing how much they still looked like his own even after all these years. “I…I do not remember. So much has been happening and there was so much to do.”

“That may be your problem right there,” the smith replied. Then he looked over at Eärendil. “Friend, you do not look that much more rested than he does.”

“No…no, I probably am not,” Eärendil agreed.

The smith poured a cup of water, pressing it into Arafinwë’s hand. Their fingers brushed and Arafinwë looked down to see hands just like his own.

The smith stepped back and stared as Eärendil encouraged Arafinwë to drink small sips.

Eärendil looked over at the smith after a few minutes. “What are you looking at? Have you never seen a distressed ellon before?”

The smith shook himself, then replied in wonder, “Forgive me. He…he reminds me of my atar. He is the only ellon I have met here in Aman who has.”

“He is not like anyone else I have met in Aman, either,” Eärendil agreed, patting Arafinwë on the shoulder and encouraging him to drink some more.

“I can help you take him back to wherever it is that you are staying if you would like and bring you the piece later,” the smith offered.

“No, finish it. We will wait,” Eärendil said.

“Very well then.” The smith returned to his work.

“You need to pull yourself together,” Eärendil urgently whispered in Arafinwë’s ear. “It is getting late and no one knows we are out. Our families will make the guards stay with us all the time - if they even let us out again after this.”

“I am trying,” Arafinwë desperately whispered back. He looked longingly at his son. “I just…” but he could not find the words to say anything more.

Eärendil patted him on the shoulder again and watched the smith work. After a while, his expression became puzzled. “Aicanáro, you said that you could empathize with Lord Eärendil right now concerning the Númenóreans. What did you mean by that? You also said your sister was named Andreth and that she is dead now. Was she the same Andreth Laurehériel who married my s-…who…who married King Elros when he established Númenor?”

Yes,” the smith replied. “Yes, she was.” He sighed as he put the buckle in the water to cool a final time. “I guess I should be glad that my atar has not been reborn. He has been spared this grief, this sorrow and betrayal that Eärendil must be feeling right now. I know I feel it, and I am but a distant uncle to them.”

Eärendil took a deep shuddering breath and put his hand on Arafinwë’s shoulder to steady himself. Arafinwë patted Eärendil’s hand and gripped it reassuringly as he watched him struggle through his emotions, trying to keep them in check.

At last the smith came over, polishing the buckle with a cloth. “This is a beautiful piece. A ship with stars around it. Is it Vingilot?”

“Yes,” Eärendil managed. “It was a gift from my wife years ago.”

The smith regarded him carefully for a time, then shook his head as if to clear it and told them the amount they owed.

Arafinwë reached for his purse as Eärendil reached for his.

“I will pay for it as I was supposed to be the one repairing it for you.”

“No,” Eärendil said, handing more than the required amount over in payment. “Let me do this, please.” He paused a moment, blinking a few times. “It was my buckle that broke. Besides I got more out of this than just a mended buckle.”

As did I, Arafinwë thought, as did I, but he simply nodded in acquiescence. Arafinwë took the buckle from the smith and looked it over carefully. “You do beautiful work. I cannot even tell that it was ever broken or mended. You matched everything perfectly. Thank you. I am impressed.” And proud, he added in his heart. So very, very proud!

“This is too much money for this simple repair,” Aicanáro said, trying to give back the extra.

“Keep it,” Eärendil said. “It is worth it to me.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Are you here every day?” Arafinwë asked hopefully.

“Someone is at the forge every day,” the smith replied. “Either myself or one or more of my sons or grandsons.”

“How many children and grandchildren have been added to your house?” Arafinwë asked, trying to keep his own emotions in check.

“Three sons and a daughter and four grandsons and six granddaughters. They all live here in Eldamas.”

“You are blessed to have so many and to have them all close by,” Arafinwë complimented as Eärendil offered him a hand and helped him to stand. He wavered a bit at first and the smith grabbed his other arm to steady him. When he felt calm and centered again, he patted the smith on the hand in gratitude.

Aicanáro smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am blessed.” His expression changed and he looked suddenly nervous. “This is none of my business, but will you be staying in the city for long? You are the first ellon I have met in all of Aman who looks like he could be kin of my atar. And, it …it gives me hope. Your face brings back many good memories to me in this time of sorrow I am enduring. Do you have anything else that needs to be repaired? I will gladly give you a discount.” He covered his face with his hand in embarrassment and turned away. Taking a few deep breaths, he turned back and put his hands on his hips, his eyes cast down in shame.

“I must sound so foolish to you. Forgive me, please. I…I hope I see you again though - even if just from afar.”

Arafinwë nodded when the smith looked up again. He walked out into the lamp-lit street, trying to figure out how he could see his son again without revealing who he really was. Then it occurred to him. “We will be in the city until the High King says we can safely return to our homes. I think my kinsman and I would like to see you again as well, Aicanáro.”

Then he took a deep breath and ventured, “I knew your atar. But he was not a smith in Vanyamar. He was from Tirion. And I can tell you in all certainty that you and your amillë and your sister were in his thoughts and prayers the day he fell. The seven years he spent with your amillë were among the happiest in his long life. She healed him and brought him much joy. One of the hardest things he ever had to do was leave his family behind with you and Andreth having turned five years old just a short time before. He loved the three of you more than you could possibly know.”

Aicanáro’s face filled with emotion. “H-how…how could you possibly know this? I have asked hundreds, nay, thousands about him and no one…not one single person has ever even heard of him. How is it that you know when no one else does?”

Arafinwë steeled himself, trying to continue to keep at bay the emotions which sought to betray him. “I…I know, Son, because I was the last one with him when the orcs cut him down. He felt the severance of the bond with your mother when she died. He was already wounded as he defended the injured son of the Ingaran. The sudden loss of your amillë literally drove your atar to his knees. Then two orcs came and each took a swing at him. I was there with him when you lost him. That is how I know what was in his heart and whose names were on his lips. And until this evening, I did not believe I would ever find any of his kin to tell them.”

Aicanáro sniffed, wiping at the tears which were starting down his cheeks. “I believe you. You gave me details which only my family knew. There is no way you could have known how long my amillë had him or how old my twin sister and I were or that my parents were lost to us on the same day or that he died defending the haryon to the Ingaran.”

When his son took a few tentative steps toward him, Arafinwë met him in a few long strides and took him into his embrace. Long they stood there, atar and son though Aicanáro did not know who held him. Reluctantly, Arafinwë let him go when Aicanáro got his emotions under control enough to step back.

At least he got to hold his son that one time and he knew where he lived and what his fate had been. For now that would be enough for him.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” Aicanáro asked, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“I know I would very much like to talk with you some more, but I do not know if we can tomorrow,” Eärendil replied. “There is much we have to do, and we will be in a great deal of trouble with our families as it is for slipping out this evening without telling anyone where we went.”

“You are refugees here, friend,” Aicanáro pointed out. “What could you possibly have to do?”

“Meet with the High King,” Arafinwë said with a sigh.

“Why would you be in trouble for stepping out for a simple repair, and more importantly, why are you meeting with the High King?” Aicanáro crossed his arms, giving them a stern look. “Who are you?”

Arafinwë looked at Eärendil and they both grinned a bit mischievously in spite of everything.  Turning to face him, they each threw an arm over the other’s shoulders. “He is Lord Eärendil,” Arafinwë said pointing at his companion.

“And he is Arafinwë Noldóran,” Eärendil said, poking Arafinwë in the ribs.

“If we do not find you tomorrow, we will the next day,” Arafinwë said. Clapping Eärendil on the shoulder, the two turned away from Aicanáro’s expression of stunned disbelief and walked back toward the royal villa.

Once they were a block away, Eärendil, staring straight ahead, asked in a quiet voice, “Are you going to tell him that you are Laurehér?”

Arafinwë was silent for a time before asking, “How did you know?”

“I saw how you looked at him and how desperately you asked your questions. And I saw how much you two were alike. His eyes are the only part of his face that betrays your kinship, but his hands and his build are like yours. He moves like you do and his spirit is of you as well.  You were lost to the army of Valinor for nearly seven years, and it was common knowledge that when you returned, something had happened to you and you were never the same. Everyone believed that you had been a slave of Morgoth and mortals had rescued you. At least that was the story I heard. Now I know little to none of it was true.”

Eärendil grew silent as they walked through a large crowd. As soon as the last person passed, he continued, “I had wondered how you could possibly know what was going through my mind right now. And now I know. It is because you are in the exact same position I am in. I am grateful to you for your company and I am glad that you sought me out. But, please, tell me that your wife knows all about this.”

“When I returned from the war, I told her everything. I lived for nearly seven years without any memory of who or what I was. Faroniel found me wounded, on my knees defenseless and waiting for an orc to behead me. She shot the arrow that killed the orc and saved my life, but the flat of his blade struck my head and I remembered nothing before that moment except for jumbled snatches of memories. I could no longer feel any bonds with any of my kin anywhere. I believed that I was alone in the world, the last of my house for so were the dying words of the one living elf I did find who knew me. Faroniel named me Laurehér because I did not know who I was and she needed something to call me. When I did remember my name at last, I hated all that it represented and all of the horrible disjointed snatches of memory that came with it. I never told Faroniel my real name and our two children never knew who I really was either.”

“You have two sons named Aicanáro.”

“Yes, I do. Until this evening I believed them both lost to me forever. But the younger one was returned to me against all hope. I knew Andreth’s fate, but never heard anything more about him from the time I last saw him as a child. I thought he was dead as well.”

“Why is the elder Aicanáro not returning? Surely he will be reborn.”

Arafinwë shook his head sadly. “No, he will not. He has chosen to remain in Mandos until the end when Mortals and Elves will be reunited in the Second Music. He loved the mortal woman Andreth and chose not to consummate that love because it would be too brief and Elves do not wed in time of war and other issues like that. So they both died alone. I knew their story when I chose to consummate my love for Faroniel. I understood that my choice would bring me pain and grief and that our time would be all too brief. I just did not realize how brief and how much pain. But it was worth it. I was so very alone and I had no memories and no way or returning to Valinor and no bonds that I could sense connecting me to anyone.”

Silence settled between them for a time as they turned the final corner and came upon the front door of the villa. Arafinwë stopped and caught Eärendil’s arm, stopping him as well. “Do you hate me now that you know what I have done?”

Eärendil stood gazing at him for a few long moments before responding, “No. I pity you. I always have for what you have endured in your life. Now I pity you even more, but I admire you as well. I believe you are the strongest ellon I have ever had the pleasure to know. And I admire you as well, especially after what I saw you do tonight. I could not have done what you did. You gave your son some sense of closure and peace at the cost of assuring that you will never find that for yourself.”

Relieved, Arafinwë replied, “Thank you.” Resuming the walk toward the door, he added, “I will tell my wife what happened this evening.”

“As I will tell mine. But I will leave out this discussion we had on the way back.”

“Again, thank you. I admit that it will be difficult for me for a while, seeing you and knowing that you know.”

“It is difficult enough for me seeing myself in the mirror every day and knowing that a son of my line is the one leading the assault against our people. Please do not add to the grief I already hold against myself. Elwing, you, and Aicanáro are the only people in all of Aman who understand what I am dealing with in my heart right now because you feel it as well. I need you to be my friend and a kindred spirit right now more than anything.”

Arafinwë looked on him unable to express the gratitude he felt so he settled with, “That I can do, that I can do.”

XXXXX

Notes:

Many thanks to Fiondil for the historical bit at the very beginning of the chapter.

The Assault on Aman – in the year 3319, Ar-Pharazon king of Numenor lead an attack on Valinor. The warriors invaded as far inland as Tirion which they surrounded. All of the Teleri and all of the Noldor had fled from those lands before the invasion took place. In punishment for attacking the Blessed Land, Eru destroyed Númenor with a mighty flood, buried the invading army beneath fallen rock in what came to be known as The Caves of the Forgotten, and removed Valinor from the Circles of the World.

Yéni – periods of 144 years

The haryon to the Ingaran – the heir to the High King of the Elves

Chapter 20

“Arafinwë, stop fidgeting!” Eärwen said, adjusting his collar and then his robes. “You do not need to be so nervous. You hardly touched your dinner, so our children already know that something has unsettled you.”

He sighed, “I know, but once they hear what I have to say and they meet him, then they may never want anything to do with me again. He may not want anything to do with me either. Are you certain this is a good idea?”

Standing on her toes, she put her arms around Arafinwë and drew his head down until his lips met hers, holding him in a passionate kiss until he calmed down. When she finally released his mouth, she slid her hands around to cup his face. “Good idea or not, it is the right thing to do. You owe it to all of your children. Besides,” she paused, blinking back tears, “he is the only Aicanáro we will have in our lives now. You owe it to your son who was orphaned when he was only five-years-old to give him some sense of history for his family and the chance to finally know the ellon who sired him, and you owe your other children the truth about what happened to you.”

Steeling himself, he nodded grimly. She gave him another brief kiss, then took his arm and led him down the corridor. At the open door to the salon, they were greeted by their children and their spouses who lingered just outside the room.

“Atar,” Angaráto asked, his wife Eldalote at his side, “Who are the uncomfortable looking elleth and ellon in there?”

Eärendil walked up at that moment with Elwing on his arm. “The ellon is the smith who repaired my belt buckle, and I am guessing that is his wife, but I do not know for certain.”

“How about we go inside and find out?” Arafinwë encouraged.

“Why are we meeting with a smith?” Findaráto asked, his eyes narrowing. “What is this about, Atar?”

“Let us go inside and sit down and then you will all find out,” Eärwen made a shoeing gesture to her children and they reluctantly entered the room.

Eärendil walked up beside Arafinwë.  Clasping him on the shoulder, he whispered, “I told my wife everything last night after you informed me of what you intended to do tonight. We will support you in any way that we can.”

“Thank you,” Arafinwë replied. “I am going to need it. I am terrified, but as Eärwen has pointed out repeatedly, it is the right thing to do.”

“Yes, it is,” Elwing agreed. “That is why we are here to support you.” She stepped forward and embraced Arafinwë, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “It will be all right,” she whispered. “And you will be, too.”

“Thank you,” he whispered back. As Elwing returned to Eärendil’s side, Arafinwë took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. His life was about to change all over again and he was afraid…very, very afraid. Eärwen slipped her arm around his waist instead of taking his arm. Giving a gentle tug, she led him into the room behind Eärendil and Elwing.

There was a large table in the middle of the room with many chairs around it. Carafes of red wine and plates of bread and cheese lay in the middle of the table. At each seat was a small plate and a crystal goblet. Everyone in the room was already standing when Arafinwë walked in and they all turned to face him. The smith and his wife blanched as they looked upon him, bowing and curtsying deeply in greeting.

Arafinwë gestured for them to rise. “Please, there is no need for that tonight.”

Aicanáro nervously clutched the elleth’s hand, his head bowed. “Forgive me, your Majesty, for my behavior the other night. I…I truly did not know who you were. And I did not believe you and Lord Eärendil when you introduced yourselves before you departed. I thought over our conversation and realized that he at least was Lord Eärendil. Then I received the royal summons to come here with my wife tonight and I-” His voice trailed off.

Arafinwë walked over and put his hands on the ellon’s shoulders, drawing his gaze to his own. “You have nothing for which to apologize. You were wise to not let me near your forge in my, shall we say, inebriated state, when we met. But I am impressed with your work and I am very, very glad that we found you.”

“Your Majesty, if I may ask, why did you summon me here?”

Arafinwë lowered his hands and stepped away. “My children,” he nodded to where they had congregated on the other side of the room, “have been asking me that very same question. And the answer concerns you all.”

“First though, I believe that introductions are in order. Would you please begin by introducing yourself and this lovely elleth to all us?”

Aicanáro’s face reddened in embarrassment as he turned and bowed to the group. “My name is Aicanáro Laurehérion. And this,” he gestured to the silver-haired elleth at his side who blushed as she curtsied, “is my wife Eärliniel.”

“I am honored,” she said softly in a shy voice.

“As am I,” Arafinwë said with a courteous nod. He looked around and saw that his children all nodded in greeting as well.

“This is my wife Queen Eärwen.” Arafinwë put his arm around her waist as she moved to his side.

“It is good to meet another Lindariel when we are so far from home,” Eärwen said, smiling brightly.

“Yes, Your Grace, it is,” Eärliniel replied a little more audibly than before. “We have nothing as fine as what you have.” She gestured to her simple blue dress which matched her eyes. “I apologize if we are dressed inappropriately for this meeting.”

Eärwen shook her head. “Worry not. We are the ones who importuned you in summoning you here. This is an important discussion we are about to have, and I do not want you to feel uncomfortable in any way. Please, be at peace.”

In his mind, Arafinwë heard Eärwen’s approval of Aicaináro’s choice of a Telerin wife, then she added, What was our son’s Andreth like?

Arafinwë replied in kind, She had dark hair and was very wise according to what I read about her.

Disappointing that he was drawn to a mortal who was so like a Noldo. At least this Aicanáro has good taste in females.

You are the queen of the Noldor. You are not supposed to say such things!

I did not say them, I thought them. There is a difference.

Resisting the urge to glare at his wife and sigh, Arafinwë proceeded to introduce all of his children and their spouses, then directed everyone in the room to sit around the table.

As he passed Arafinwë, Eärendil whispered, “The apple does not fall from the tree, does it? So… are you rethinking that comment the other night about Teleri and Vanyar marrying?”

Arafinwë whispered back, “I am rethinking many of my comments from that night. I really wish I had kept my teeth together. I did not know his wife was Telerin.”

Eärendil laughed, “But we had fun and it was far more entertaining that way.”

Arafinwë rolled his eyes and clapped Eärendil on the back rather harder than necessary, causing the ellon to wince and then laugh even harder.

Eärwen placed herself between the two, sternly gesturing to their chairs while whispering harshly, “Sit down both of you and behave.”

With a conspiratorial glance at Eärendil, Arafinwë took his place at the head of the table with Eärwen at his left and Eärendil at his right. Aicanáro sat beside Elwing with his wife seated beside him and the rest of the family arranged themselves as they saw fit.

Once they were seated, Aicanáro placed a book on the table before him. “Your Majesty, if I may…I…I was rather hoping that Prince Findaráto would be here. Do you remember that book I told you about? My granddaughter made copies of it for me as I have recopied it through the years when the binding and paper wears. I…I realize this is presumptuous of me, but I brought a copy of it for Prince Findaráto since it concerns him closely. I do not know that he is even aware that the book exists.”

“What book?” Findaráto asked, holding out his hand as Eärliniel and then Amarië passed the book to him.

“My Lord, it…it was written by the mortal Andreth and recounts many of your conversations with her.”

Findaráto quickly opened the book and thumbed through a few pages, his eyes growing wide with wonder. His expression filled with memories and it took him some time to compose himself enough to ask, “How…How did you come by this book?”

Aicanáro smiled tentatively. “It belonged to my amillë.”

“Who is your amillë that she would possess such a book?” Findaráto asked, clearly intrigued.

“She was a mortal, a kinswoman of the same Andreth who wrote the book.”

Findaráto glanced at the book again, then looked more closely at Aicanáro. “You are peredhel? From the look of you I thought you were of Telerin and Vanyarin origins.”

Aicanáro smiled. “That is what most think of me. I was born in Beleriand. My amillë was mortal, but my atar was a Vanya. He was injured in battle in the War of Wrath and she found him and cared for him. He was a smith and worked alongside our village smith. When I was five years old, the war found our village again and my atar went back to the fighting. My amillë took sick and her health deteriorated. She soon died and sometime later word came that my atar had fallen in battle on the same day.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Findaráto said quietly, nodding his head in condolence.

“Thank you,” Aicanáro said.

After a respectful pause, Angaráto asked, “How did you come to be named for our brother?”

Flushing in embarrassment, Aicanáro explained, “My amillë was very fond of the book and the tale of the love of Andreth and Aicanáro. I honestly do not know if it was her idea or my atar’s that my twin sister and I should be named Andreth and Aicanáro.”

There were chuckles all around, then Eärendil added, “And your sister grew up to marry my son Elros.”

“Yes, my Lord. My amillë had a sister with many children, but my atar’s business partner took us in and raised us as his own out of respect and love for my atar. When I was older, I was told that my uncle hated my atar for some reason, and my atar’s friends feared what might have happened to us if we had lived in his house. I was taught to be a smith from the time I was strong enough to lift a hammer.”

He paused and took an appreciative sip of the wine that Eärendil had poured for him while he was speaking. Eyes wide, he nodded his gratitude, then continued, “When the war ended, my sister and I were offered the choice just like Elrond and Elros were. However, neither of us had ever met an Elf other than our atar, and we only knew him for five years. Blessedly, we were granted a delay in making our choice, so we moved to Númenor along with all of the other Mortals who were offered relocation since Beleriand was to be no more.”

Elwing commented, clasping Eärendil’s hand where it rested on the table, “We were granted our choice after Eärendil’s task of beseeching aide for the folk of Endórë was complete. It is a very difficult decision to make and then to wonder if one has chosen correctly or not.”

Aicanáro nodded, giving them a small smile of agreement. “My sister was tall and golden-haired and very beautiful. Elros told me that he fell in love with her the first time he met her and it was much the same for her as well. That sealed her fate as a Mortal. I had a smithy near the palace, but no love had stolen my heart, and I was content to watch my sister’s children grow up. My sister died before Elros did. My heart was broken for she was the last living memory I had of my past and I was alone after that, so very alone.” His wife took his hand in hers and they exchanged a loving glance. With a sigh, he went on.

“I felt no weariness like mortals do when age creeps upon them and I realized that in my heart I was an elf. That night Lord Eonwë came to me and told me that I must speak my choice to him. When I did, he told me where to go to seek passage on an elf ship to Aman. I came here in search of my atar, but no one in all of my yéni here had ever even heard of him until,” he paused and gestured to Arafinwë and Eärendil, “I met your Majesty and your Lordship two nights ago.”

“And here you are now,” Eärendil said gesturing to the room in general.

Aicanáro sighed nervously. “Here I am now, still wondering why I was summoned here.”

“I suppose it is time I answered that for you and for the rest of you as well.” Arafinwë conceded as he drained half of his glass in one swallow.

Eärendil reached out and put his hand over the glass. “You are not going down that path again, my friend. Not tonight.”

“No, I am not, I promise.” Arafinwë said, pulling his glass away from Eärendil’s reach. “But something to bolster the courage and numb the pain would not be remiss right now.” He proceeded to refill his glass, ignoring the mixture of curious expressions and amused smiles directed at him from around the table.

Taking another swallow, he braced himself and began. “As you know we are facing some very difficult times right now and understandably they weigh heavily upon me. However, what troubles me is more than just the fact that there is an impending invasion and siege of Noldorin and Telerin lands and we do not know to what either clan will return once this crisis is over or if either clan will even have lands as we know them to return to.”

“And that is not enough to trouble the King of the Noldor?” Angaráto asked in disbelief.

Arafinwë laughed mirthlessly. “That is indeed more than enough to trouble the King of the Noldor, but more than that lies on the shoulders of Arafinwë.” He clenched his fists and unclenched them a few times, then Eärwen slipped her hand into his, gripping it tightly and reassuringly. “In truth, I never believed I would have cause to have this conversation with any of you, least of all you, Aicanáro.”

“Then please, Sir, just tell why I am here, and I will leave.” Aicanáro said.

“You have just as much cause to be here as any of them do,” Arafinwë gestured to his other children. “Perhaps more so.”

“Then just say it, Atar,” Findaráto said clearly growing impatient.

“Findaráto! Please!” Arafinwë snapped. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to settle himself. When he opened his eyes again, his voice was calmer. “Please. You have no idea how difficult this is for me. Everything…everything changes for us tonight and it is all because of me.”

Eärendil spoke up. “What Arafinwë needs to tell you had its roots with some things that happened during the War of Wrath and now, after many yéni, those things are having an impact once again.” He turned to the king. “Perhaps, Arafinwë, you should start there.”

Arafinwë nodded. He took a sip of his wine, then sighed. This would either be the beginning of the end for him or simply a new beginning. Eärwen squeezed his hand reassuringly and he gave her a small grateful smile. At least he still had her.

“When the Army of Light departed for the War of Wrath, we were warned that after a certain point at sea, we would feel a sundering from Aman. Sure enough, one day those of us with kin in Aman felt the rending of our bonds with our parents, spouses, and children who did not accompany us on the journey. It was debilitating, with some collapsing to their knees and others losing consciousness. I had precious few left to lose – only my amillë and my wife - but it still felt as if my heart had been ripped from my chest and the sense of isolation and…and aloneness afterward left me breathless.  Fortunately we still had more than a week of sailing to recover from the horrific sense of loss. Unfortunately, it was only a matter of days after we landed that our first battle began for Beleriand was completely overrun with orcs and other servants of Morgoth.”

He paused, blinking back the memory of that pain. His daughter Falmamírë rose and came to him, giving him a hug from behind, “Atto, we are here now and you will not be without us again.”

He patted her arms, turning to meet her eyes, “I wish I could believe that. But you do not know what I have done. You may no longer feel that way once you know.”

“Well, I love you and I do not intend to let you go.” She kissed his cheek and returned to her chair beside her husband, but everyone else remained in expectant silence.

“We fought skirmishes and battles constantly, often daily, with little reprieve,” he continued. “About ten years into the conflict we had several weeks of gaining and losing ground, taking horrific losses. I remember fighting all morning one day in the late autumn and the cries of the dying and those mourning their loss cut me so deeply and so many of my friends had recently died…I…I just…I could not stand it anymore and I needed to be alone for a while. I left camp without any personal guard and ran as fast as I could, trying to clear my head. I kept thinking about all of my own personal losses. I wondered if my sons and brothers and nephews had died alone or if someone had held them as they breathed their last. I questioned why I had turned back and abandoned the rebellion and abandoned my family. Was it really courage or was it cowardice when I turned back to do the right thing and go back to Tirion and sue for forgiveness from the Teleri and take up a crown for which I had never been trained.”

“You were the wise one, Atto,” Findaráto said. “We were the fools. Good things did come of our time and efforts there, but we were fools for ever leaving Aman.”

Arafinwë nodded and gave a small sad smile in acknowledgement. “I do not know how far from camp I ran. It may have been hours. I did not pay attention. Finally I tripped and collapsed beside a stream. I lay there, still fully girt in my armor from the morning and cried until no more tears would come. When I finally pulled myself together, I remember rising to my knees, ripping off my helmet and gloves and throwing them in anger. I washed the mud from my face and immediately took an arrow to my left arm. I rose and drew my sword, fending off an orc attack. I managed to kill all but one, but took enough serious injuries to be left on my knees, disarmed, waiting for the final blow as the last remaining orc prepared to behead me. An arrow from somewhere passed through its neck mid-swing. The sword turned as it struck and the flat of the blade hit my head.”

The ellith in the room gasped, covering their mouths and some hiding their heads on their husband’s shoulders for none had heard tell of these injuries before now except for Eärwen.

“From that moment, until I woke up in a healer’s tent roughly seven years and many many leagues of battlefield later, I had little memory of who I really was or what my life had been. Snatches of memory came to me at times but seldom could I distinguish what was dream and what was memory.”

He glanced at Aicanáro who was staring at him intently, his face betraying nothing.

“I was succored by a mortal who tended me until I healed. I helped out in repayment as best I could, but I had this feeling, this sense that I needed to be back in the fight and that many would be looking for me. One day when the mortal was away, I left and sought out my own kind. After a few days of wandering in the direction where I was told I had been found, I came upon the remnants of a battle. Many elves had fallen and been dragged away by the orcs who would have tortured and/or enslaved the survivors and eaten the bodies of the dead as was their custom.  Eventually I found a group of thirteen elves, twelve of which had recently died of their wounds. The lone survivor, in his dying words called me by my right name, Arafinwë, though not by my title, and told me that I was the last of my house as he was the last of his. He said that one hundred had come looking for me, but they had been ambushed and he was all that remained alive. He told me to run away and hide, for my death would mean that Morgoth had won. He also told me that the army from Valinor was gone.”

Arafinwë took a drink of his wine and Eärendil topped off his glass for him again. “I was alone then, more alone than I have ever been. I buried the bodies of the thirteen and returned to the mortal who had succored me. She nearly put an arrow through me for having left without saying goodbye, but she accepted me back and allowed me to live with her in her small one room cabin. In return, I helped her in her trade as a trapper and did whatever odd jobs I could. It was the only place I had to go and she was the only person I knew. I never told her my real name because my guilt was so great that so many had died while searching for me, instead I chose to go by the name she gave to me when she found me.”

“Laurehér,” Aicanáro whispered incredulously.

“Laurehér.” Arafinwë nodded gravely.

Aicanáro hid his face in his hands for a few moments, then wiped his fingers across his eyes. “Dear Eru…” he whispered. “I…I…” His wife’s expression turned to deep concern and confusion as she rubbed his arm and shoulder trying to calm him. He reached over and took her hand in his and held it.

“Her name was Faroniel,” Arafinwë continued. “She had long, curly silver hair and kind blue eyes. She was the one who shot the arrow that saved my life, and she very patiently taught me Sindarin and helped me find some semblance of peace. Her husband had gone away with the recruiters who came to the village a few years before. He died in battle and then her two small children died of a fever a few months after that. Her sister lived nearby with a husband and four children of her own. The husband, Belegon, hated me and feared I would bring the recruiters back to the village again to take away even more young men and boys to fight in the elves’ war with Morgoth. He told her that if I ever went to the village then he would kill me.”

“So when did you finally go to the village?” Eärendil asked knowingly.

“I waited a few weeks after my return and then talked her into letting me go. I was curious to see other mortals and to see what a village looked like because I had no memories of ever having been to one before. I was desperately trying to find something that I could do to contribute in some way. We went on a cold day so I could stay wrapped in a cloak and hide my head easily enough under a hood. I saw a smith at work and watched him struggle with shoeing a horse. When the horse kicked him and the owner, I intervened, calming the horse and finishing shoeing it. I realized then that I had been trained as a smith, which I found to be an enormous relief for my only memories of a trade previous to that were of a time when Olwion, who I believed was my brother by blood, had taught me to sail and haul nets.”

“Which of my brothers?” Eärwen asked.

“The eldest.”

Everyone chuckled at that, but Aicanáro asked, “Why would you ever have been trained as a smith? You are royalty.”

Findaráto smiled and answered, “All of the sons of Finwë were apprenticed to Lord Aulë in their youth. Every one of us could make swords, horse shoes, jewelry, and all manner of other items.  Atar, I cannot believe that you thought one of amillë’s brothers was your brother.”

“What was worse than that was that I believed that I was a Vanyarin sailor. What a horribly useless set of skills in a forest village, let alone in Vanyamar! I was so relieved to realize that I had been a smith.”

When everyone calmed their laughter, Arafinwë took another drink and continued.

“The smith thanked me and asked me to stay on since I obviously knew my way around a forge and help him until he recovered enough from his now broken ribs to be able to work again. The local tradesmen saw that I was not the threat that Belegon had described, and Faroniel made certain that they did not find me threatening by telling everyone that I was mind-damaged from the war. This angered me greatly, but I understood her reasoning. The next day, Belegon came to the forge, which was in the middle of the village and attacked me. I did nothing to defend myself because I realized that if I showed I was strong or threatening, he would kill me and the villagers would likely help him. As it was, it took three men to pull him off of me and four or five days for me to recover from my new injuries. The villagers were on my side when I returned to the forge, and I worked there for nearly seven years.”

“Atto,” Falmamírë asked, “Why would you think that this would make us displeased with you? I do not understand. You helped others and found a way to honorably make a living. I see nothing wrong with what you have described.”

“It is what he has not yet said that you will find shocking and deplorable,” Aicanáro said bitterly.

“And how would you know this, smith?” Angaráto asked haughtily.

“Because I am a direct result of it,” Aicanáro quietly replied.

Angaráto looked at his siblings and then back at Aicanáro, clearly confused. “What do you mean by that?”

“Aicanáro,” Arafinwë gently admonished. “It is my tale to tell.”

Chagrined, the smith nodded. “Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir. I just…I…I could never have imagined…” he spread his hands helplessly. “this.”

“I know.”

“And back then you truly had no memory of who and what you were and what you had left behind in Aman?” Aicanáro asked.

“I knew I was someone important and Faroniel helped me deduce that I had been a great captain of the army of Valinor. Beyond that, I had memories of a troubled uncomfortable life with an atar who loved my eldest brother more than me and refused to punish that brother for threatening my dearest brother with a sword. Actually I thought that Olwion was the one who had done the threatening and only later realized that I had yet another brother, Feanaro, who was cruel and who hated me and I hated him. I remembered bodies littering the beaches and quays of Alqualondë, myself kneeling before a king begging forgiveness for the deeds of the Noldor, and a host of other unpleasant, uncomfortable memories. Only on rare occasion did I remember happy times. I have had precious few of those in my life anyway.”

“Were your years as a village smith happy for you?” Aicanáro timidly ventured.

“Yes, very much so.”

Aicanáro pursed his lips, nodding his gratitude.

“When I worked in the village I very much enjoyed watching the children and there were many of them about. Faroniel’s sister had a child added to her house my first summer there, and we helped mind two of her younger children. I found that I loved having children around me. I often wondered if I had ever had any children and I watched Faroniel grieve for hers who were no more.  My heart was hollow and empty inside for there were no bonds of kinship that I could feel with anyone, so I continued to believe that I had never wed and had no children, or, if I had, then my wife and children were dead. Either way, I was very much alone and I ached inside for what I was missing. I had vague memories of remarriage among elves if a spouse died. But that was all I could remember. I did not even know that I myself was the result of a remarriage.”

Arafinwë emptied his glass again, but Eärendil did not offer to refill it.

“You need to do this part on your own,” Eärendil whispered, “But please remember you are not alone in this.”

The king nodded, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling. “It seemed right to me that I should have a silver-haired woman at my side. I dreamed of one on rare occasion and I knew that I desperately loved the silver-haired elleth from my dreams. In time, I came to love Faroniel and I took her for my wife. We had two children together, twins, a son and a daughter. We named them for two people from her favorite story in her favorite book – the book that Findaráto is currently holding. I knew from the book the worries and concerns of wise elves concerning the union of elf and mortal, and I went into the relationship with full knowledge that she would die one day and I would be bereft and alone. But I also knew that Aicanáro from the book had died alone as had Andreth, and Faroniel and I both believed that it was very wrong that they had never wed.”

He paused long enough to catch his breath for he saw the protest about to arise from his children and he wanted to have his say before they stopped listening to him, possibly forever.

“When the children were five years old, recruiters returned to the village. I went back to the war as had been my intent from the beginning, for I believed that this was a war the elves brought to Endórë and they should be the ones fighting it. I parted from Faroniel and the children with the intention of returning as soon as I was allowed. I wore my armor but not my helm until I actually walked onto the battlefield for the first time as Laurehér, for I did not want anyone to guess from my appearance that I was someone important. In the course of the struggle, I came upon Ingwion gravely wounded and beset by the enemy with his guard falling about him. I recognized him as a leader of the elven army and knew it was imperative that he not die. I defended him as he lay unconscious until I was the only one standing though I had taken a few wounds myself. More orcs approached, but as I raised my sword again, I felt the rending of my bond with Faroniel. The shock and pain of it drove me to my knees just as the shock of losing my bond with Eärwen had done. The two nearest orcs swung at me and I felt nothing as I watched my blood spray all over me and them. There was a bright flash as Maiar appeared all around me and the orcs died instantly. I…I think I died for a time as well.”

“You did.”

Arafinwë snapped out of his reverie and turned to see a Maia standing just behind him.

“Lord Eonwë!” Arafinwë exclaimed.

Everyone started to rise, but Eonwë motioned for them to remain seated, then placed his hands on Arafinwë’s shoulders. The gesture brought comfort and peace as strength flowed through to Arafinwë, causing him to relax, but it effectively kept him from rising as well.

“What Arafinwë is telling you is true. And if I may, I will continue the tale from here for a time.”

“Why?” Angaráto asked angrily, smacking his hand hard on the table. “Why are you here? Why was he allowed to go through with his marriage to that woman? Our grandfather had to wait twelve years as we counted them then by the light of the Trees before he was allowed to remarry after Miriel died, yet with our amillë still living, our atar was allowed to remarry. Why was nothing done to stop this?”

“Everything happens for a reason, Child,” Eonwë said gravely. “And while many of the happenings in Aman are under our influence, very little which happens outside of Aman is under our control. When Arafinwë was lost to us, I was informed by Manwë that he was safe, but that we were not to search for him beyond the party that first departed to look for him. I was told that he would be returned to us in time, but for his sake, for the healing of his body and spirit that needed to take place, he needed to remain where he was.”

“So you abandoned him,” Findaráto exclaimed rising to his feet and pounding his fist on the table as well, “and condoned a second marriage to a mortal no less and…and children,” he gestured angrily at Aicanáro, “when his wife was still alive?”

“I was following orders from the High King of all of Eä. I personally condoned nothing. I did not know what had become of your atar. I can assure you that your atar was suitably punished for his unwitting transgressions against the laws and customs of the Eldar as set forth by the Valar. However, Findaráto, I am appalled that you would speak disparagingly of mortals when you yourself gave up your kingdom and your own life to aid a mortal. If you do not now repent of that noble and honorable sacrifice, then I suggest you be very careful in how you speak of your atar’s mortal wife, for she and her children brought him healing he could not have found anywhere else. She saved his life and his spirit when she succored him for those years. If he had died from the wounds he received the day he left camp, his spirit would even now still reside in Mandos, awaiting healing. In less than seven years, she and her children achieved what Námo would have taken many yéni to achieve in Mandos. If you truly love your atar, then all of you owe that woman and her children your gratitude!”

Red-faced, Findaráto sat down heavily. Resting his elbows on the table, he put his head in his hands for a time, silent and not looking at anyone.

In a calmer voice, Eonwë added, “It has been my experience time and again that evil which Morgoth begins oft is turned to unforeseen good by Eru Iluvatar. This was one of those times.”

Eonwë squeezed Arafinwë’s shoulders, then leaned over, whispering so only he could hear, “Be at peace, Child. You have not lost them. They are more angry with the situation and with the Powers than they are with you. Now ask me your question.”

Arafinwë did not wonder how Eonwë knew, for he had fought at the Maia’s side for too long to question his knowledge of anything. “Faroniel and the children healed me and saved me. Broken as I was, what could I possibly have given them back in return?”

“You gave us our lives,” Aicanáro answered simply. “Before amillë died, she told Andreth and I that she had despaired of ever being happy again or ever having a family again before you came along. She had been very lonely and you gave her purpose again and hope. She loved you so very much as did we. Andreth and I never questioned our atar’s love for us and often asked each other if we thought atar would be pleased with what we had done and what we had become. It may seem silly, but we used those last perceptions of you from the perspective of five-year-olds as a sort of guide to the choices we made in our lives. We saw you do what was right and noble and you were always loving and caring to us and to amillë. We wanted you to be proud of us, and amillë told us as she lay dying to be sure to make you proud.”

He chuckled as he blinked at the tears glistening in his eyes. “If you are not proud of Andreth then I really would like to know how she could have done better than becoming the first queen of Númenor. As for me, I wanted to be like my atar, so I took up his trade. Of course now I realize that I took up his hobby and Andreth actually took up his trade, but still…”

The others in the room smiled or joined him in quietly laughing as well.

After a few moments, Angaráto asked, “You said that atar died. What did you mean by that?”

Eonwë sighed, guilt marring his visage. “We arrived just too late to prevent the last two wounds that Arafinwë took. When I reached his side, his fëa was departing. Námo did stay his complete departure and spoke with him for a time while I forceably healed his body to make it habitable again. Had he been anyone else other than perhaps Ingwion, he would have been permitted to die for his wounds were too severe to survive. Even a Maia would have been unhoused by what was done to him.”

Everyone looked questioningly at Eonwë, asking why, so he further elaborated.  “The Noldorin army believed that he had been taken prisoner by Morgoth and their anger over this fueled them in battle. However, if they learned he was dead, I knew the army would fall apart. Already his absence had taken an enormous toll on morale and we were losing many more in the fighting than we should have been. It had become so bad that I kept the Noldor back from fighting whenever I safely could. King Arafinwë’s mere presence was an inspiration to the troops for all that everyone knew he had endured in his life and overcome. His folk loved him and admired him greatly. When he first disappeared, the entire army wanted to go searching for him. I had to limit the numbers who went. This war was so important and the Noldor so necessary to any hope of victory that extraordinary measures were permitted to assure his continued survival.”

“Atar, what did Námo say to you?” Findaráto asked. “Did he tell you what a nuisance we were and beg you not to join us in Mandos?”

Arafinwë smiled, relived that his eldest son was still speaking to him. “No, he told me nothing of most of my kin residing with him. He would not allow me to speak with Faroniel for her spirit had already departed for the place appointed for mortal spirits. He did however allow me to speak with Aicanáro.” He caught the confused look on his youngest son’s face and clarified, “My elder son named Aicanáro. We talked long about his love for Andreth and the choice he had made to never return to life until the Second Music when elves and mortals will be reunited and reborn again. I told him I completely understood his choice and I also told him of my regret that he did not marry Andreth. When I told him about Faroniel, he told me he was proud of me for having the courage to do what he chose not to do in life. He…he also told me that he was comforted that I would have an Aicanáro in his place and asked me to let the other Aicanáro fill the void he knew he had left in me.”

“What?” Angaráto demanded, his face filling with anguish. “Atar! You…you mean our little brother is not coming back?”

“Yes, my love, that is what I mean. He is not coming back.” Arafinwë sadly confirmed, his heart aching as he looked around the table at the mournful reactions to this news.

Eonwë rubbed Arafinwë’s shoulders reassuringly. Handkerchiefs appeared on the table in front of those who obviously needed them and were gratefully accepted. Leaning forward once again, Eonwë whispered, “You have carried the burden of that knowledge in your heart for a long time. I am proud of you for having the courage to tell them at last. The news is painful, but necessary for them so they can go on and let go of the anguish of unfulfilled expectation at his lack of rebirth.”

More comfort and peace flowed into Arafinwë, making it all the easier to endure his family’s emotions while keeping his own under control.

Aicanáro looked at him, his face betraying an array of troubled feelings. “Your Maj--…Atar. May I call you atar, at least for tonight?”

“You have just as much right to do so as they do.”

Aicanáro smiled in pleased wonder, whispering “atar” under his breath a few times before addressing Arafinwë again. “Atar, did you choose my name or did amillë?”

Arafinwë sighed, feeling a little embarrassed, but Eärwen squeezed his hand and smiled in amusement. “Your amillë told me she wanted to name your sister Andreth and she suggested that we could name you for Andreth’s love. I have to admit that it felt right to me somehow to have a son named Aicanáro not realizing I already did. So I consented. I hope you two were not too horrified to be named after ill-fated lovers from a book.”

Aicanáro smiled, “No, we were not horrified. We were amused and a little embarrassed when we were old enough to understand that the choice to name us such was likely to honor them, but we recovered well enough and forgave you both.”

Arafinwë returned the smile with a fond one of his own.

When everyone else had calmed enough, Falmamírë regarded Eonwë coolly, her voice quavering as she spoke, “Y-you said that my atar was punished for his transgression. Why? What was done to him?”

Again Eonwë sighed. “Even though your atar acted without his memories or knowledge of who or what he was, he still transgressed by taking another wife while his first one lived and without the blessing of the Valar. In punishment, he was forbidden to return to his children or ever speak to them again in Endórë. It was cruel and perhaps overly harsh, but we could not afford for him to leave and we could not risk the damage that the knowledge of his actions was sure to do to the Army of Light as a whole.”

“That was cruel!” She cried.

“Yes, it was. But it was necessary, as I am certain even your atar has realized now.”

Arafinwë nodded grimly.

Eonwë added, “He did receive word of Andreth’s fate and assurance that she had far better life than he ever could have provided for her. He also has had word ever since of the actions and lives of her descendants, which is part of the reason why he has been so upset lately. He shares in Eärendil and Elwing’s grief over the current actions of their children many generations removed. He had long believed that his son was dead, but now Aicanáro has been returned to him.”

Wiping at the tears starting down his face, Arafinwë gave his youngest son a tremulous smile which was returned to him in kind.

Eonwë patted Arafinwë on the shoulder. “You all will be staying Eldamas for some until my Lord Manwë determines it is safe for you to return to Tirion. It is his hope that you will take this time as a newly complete family – or as complete a family as you can be at this time – and get to know each other. He advises against public proclamations of kinship, but your family can still grow close without folk bowing to another Prince Aicanáro.”

Arafinwë patted Eonwë’s hand in gratitude. “Thank you, my friend.”

“You are most welcome,” he replied and then he simply was not there anymore.

Eärwen squeezed Arafinwë’s hand and nodded toward Aicanáro. Arafinwë nodded in acknowledgement then rose from his chair. Walking around the table, he stopped behind Aicanáro. He held out his hand and Aicanáro slowly rose. Stepping away from the chair, he allowed Arafinwë to pull him into his embrace. Long they stood there atar and son, tears on both of their faces, neither seeming to want to be the first to let go.

Eärwen joined them and soon the entire family encompassed the two. Arafinwë’s family was finally together and he was at peace.

The End.

Author's Note: This story was 6+ years in the writing. I would very much like to hear what you think of it now that you've made it to the end.