Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Notes. Here is another First Age story that started quite accidentally a year ago with a one-chapter battle scene and ended with more than 50 thousand words. I post the first two chapters today, and will be updating regularly, as work and summer-related activities allow.

I never thought I would be writing from Arafinwë’s point of view, but I definitely learned a lot about him, and I quite like him. :)

About Ingwil: he is Arafinwë’s cousin, Ingwë’s son. Instead of ‘Ingwion’ I used the name given to him in the ‘Nature of Middle Earth’, as I simply like the sound of it better. I go with the version where Arafinwë and Ingwil are both of the same generation (Arafinwë’s mother Indis is Ingwë’s sister).

About the Edain taking part in the War of Wrath – they did that. In this story, however, they do not take part in the siege of Angband but fight the servants of Morgoth in southern lands and along the coast of Beleriand.

As always, thousand thanks and hugs to Ellynn for beta-reading and suggestions that helped to improve this!!!

F.A. 539

I return to Tirion in the evening. The rays of westering Sun paint the white walls golden and purple, the sparkles of light glitter in the fountains and upon the surface of serene pools in the gardens. I love my city with the proud and somewhat possessive love of one who has had part in its making: many houses have their origin in my thought, later set in drawings. But today my eyes are blind to the beauty of Tirion.

I should go home; Ëarwen is awaiting my return. But I cannot make myself bring her the tidings. Instead, I turn towards the main square, climb the many steps of Mindon Eldaliéva and stand on the top of the tower watching the sunset. Delaying the inevitable.

The Vessel of Arien has disappeared beyond the mountains. Faint stars are shimmering overhead, and shadows have wrapped the streets and gardens below when I hear my wife’s light steps behind me. I turn towards her in silence. For all the time I stood atop the tower I have found no words.

Ëarwen speaks first. “I was hoping to find you here.” She looks at me intently, comes closer and takes my hands. “What weighs on your heart, dearest?”

Minutes pass until I think of something to say, and even then my words are harsh and blunt. “There will be war.”

Her face pales, and I curse myself silently for speaking that way, but she does not let go of my hands.

“So that was the reason why the Valar summoned you to a council?”

I nod. She leads me to a bench beside the carven railing, sits and pulls me to sit beside her.

“Tell me.”

And I tell her. I speak of the messenger from the Outer Lands, of his plea for both Kindreds. Of the decision that Middle-earth should be delivered from evil and justice done upon Moringotto.

“The Valar and the Maiar will go to Endórë and challenge the Black Foe. The Vanyar too will travel thither. Ingwil will lead them. Your father has agreed to provide ships.” I fall silent. Ëarwen’s bright blue eyes are bent on my face, and there is no escape from the words I must say. All is still; silence is pounding in my ears. I draw a deep breath. “And I shall lead the host of the Noldor.”

It is done. I have said it, and now I look away. I look away because I cannot bear to see her disappointment and anger, the slow hardening of her gaze until her eyes become two frozen pools of ice. I have seen it before. I am not strong enough to look at it again.

I wait for the swish of the skirts at her rising, for the sound of retreating feet. The waiting seems endless. But there is silence, and when I at last summon enough courage to raise my gaze again, she still sits beside me. There is no anger in her eyes, no disappointment. Only deep sadness. Perhaps that is even worse.

“Forgive me,” I whisper. “For everything.” For this decision and for the others I have made before. For following my brother. For letting our children take the desperate road. For coming back, in shame, defeated. For not being wise enough, strong enough, brave enough. For everything.

“When are you leaving?” she softly asks.

“I do not know yet. It will take time to get ready. Several months at least. We know so little of Endórë. Almost nothing of war.”

“I shall travel to Alqualondë, to my father.”

Sharp pain stabs my heart at her words.

“Yes.” I turn away from her sad face and look down at my clenched hands. “Yes, I understand.”

I knew that would likely be her decision. Ëarwen did that when we took the woeful road north, and she remained in her father’s mansion for years, long after my return, refusing even to talk to me. For years, I only saw her from a distance – a vision of past happiness walking along the shore or disappearing behind the curtained windows of Olwë’s palace. Years passed until I attained her forgiveness and regained her love – only to lose them once again now. I have no right to make any demands, no right to ask her anything.

Suddenly, her soft palm touches my cheek as she turns my head to face her.

“I shall travel to Alqualondë and dwell in my father’s house.” Her voice trembles slightly. “So that I am there when you depart for Endórë and when you return from it. So that I can see you off with a blessing and welcome home with joy.”

“Ëarwen…”

I feel faint and light-headed. My sight blurs, and then Ëarwen’s fingers are soothing and cool on my face as she brushes away tears. She looks into my eyes for a long time.

“Did you think I would forsake you?”

“I… I would understand that. You would be right to do so.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, I would not. I was not right then, either. It was cruel and selfish to let you suffer alone. I never asked your forgiveness for that. I do so now.”

“Ëarwen, beloved, you do not have to ask my forgiveness for anything!”

I draw her in embrace and bury my face in her hair, in the soft silver locks that bear the fragrance of wildflowers and a distant sea breeze.

“I was a coward then,” she whispers against my chest. “I was afraid of the burden of grief you carried, afraid I would have to share it. I deemed my own sorrow enough. A coward, and a selfish one.”

I laugh amid tears. “Oh no, dear wife, do not claim the title of coward in this family! It is long since taken. My brother saw clear and plain for whom it was most fitting, and he did not keep his thoughts to himself.”

I say this without bitterness. Fëanáro’s resentful words do not hurt anymore. His absence does, though. The absence of my swift and brilliant eldest brother has left a wound in my heart that still throbs painfully whenever I remember him, whenever I recall the rare moments of his kindness towards me.

Ëarwen raises her face, her eyes flash. “You are not a coward, Arafinwë! Do not speak of yourself like that! You will lead an army into battle, just like your half-brother did! But your deeds, unlike his, will be honourable!”

I smile at her fierceness. “I am not made for war.”

She looks at me long, then nods. “You are not. But who of our people is? Maybe wars should be fought exactly by those who are not made for them.”

Nearly a full year of the Sun passes ere we depart. We have spent it in making plans, in building ships, in preparing supplies, in forging weapons. In learning or remembering how to use them. Some of us have trained in swordfight at the time before Darkness fell, and now I find it takes only a little effort to recall my skill. In a way, this is terrifying, and even more so because I understand – this time I will have to put my sword to use. While I enjoy sparring and archery for sport, I loathe bloodshed. I even hunt seldom. Now when practicing, I push aside the thought of battles to come, with varying degree of success.

Despite the seemingly long delay, the moment of parting comes all too soon. On a bright spring morning we are ready to sail. Twelve dozen great ships are moored in the havens. Their timbers gleam white; the wind sings shrill in the rigging. Each vessel is to carry at least three hundred warriors, the largest – twice the number. It must be enough to prevail over the Darkness in Endórë. Surely, it must be enough?

I took leave from my mother in Valmar some days ago. Now it is time to say farewell to Ëarwen and her father on the white pier of Alqualondë.

With effort, my voice sounds calm and assured, yet I cannot banish the uncomfortable feeling that I do not know what the King of the Teleri thinks of this war. He spoke no word against it at the council, and he agreed to provide ships without objection – though on a condition that his sailors would not join fighting. But we have not spoken of deeper things than the arrangements for the journey. Olwë is a quiet one; he keeps his thoughts to himself. In truth, I do not rightly know what he thinks of me either. Perhaps he justly considers me a fateful mistake his daughter has made, yet, unwilling to upset her, has reconciled himself with my presence in her life. An uninvited sigh escapes my lips.

Olwë considers me closely for a while. “It is maybe too late to give you any advice,” he then slowly says. “I should have done that long ago. But I would say it now, nonetheless. Trust in yourself, Arafinwë. Trust in yourself more.” Taken aback, I merely nod. He draws me in embrace. “Go with my blessing, son.”

Then he turns abruptly and strides away ere I have thought of a fitting reply. Now I must take leave from Ëarwen; a moment I have been dreading for weeks. I must forsake her again; I did not want it then and I do not want it now. Yet I have to. I have to.

“Yes, you have to.” She looks up at me, clearly reading my unguarded thoughts. “You must take part in this, Arafinwë. It is your duty. For the sake of your brothers’ memory.” Her words surprise me. She smiles sadly. “I never acknowledged your love towards them. I wanted you all to myself. I was so very selfish. But now I have learned to accept that you might love others too, no less than you love me.”

“I have never loved anyone as deeply as I love you, Ëarwen,” I say quietly. “I will not disappoint you, beloved.”

“Certainly not.” She is blinking away tears. “Just come back, and there will be no disappointment.” She hugs me fiercely and hides her face in my chest. “Please, return to me. Please.”

Ëarwen looks up; she has lost the battle with tears. I kiss her trembling lips, I kiss her eyes, and then I tear myself away from her and turn towards the ship that is to bear me away, towards danger and violence, towards uncertain future, maybe towards death. I do not fear to die, or so I think. But I fear the long, lonely years without her in the Halls of Waiting.

I am already on the deck when my cousin Ingwil takes leave from his family below, beside the gangway.

“I will make you proud, father!” His clear voice rings loud over all others. “We will shatter the might of the Black Foe, and our deeds shall be worthy of a song!”

A song you yourself will write, no doubt, I think with irritation. Ingwil is an accomplished poet and, I must admit, justly praised as one of the best. Yet I find it impossible to understand how someone who writes such beautiful and moving verses may be so aloof and arrogant. We have never been friends. Aware of disdain hidden beneath his flowery words, I have always avoided him; not too difficult when living in different cities. But now, it seems, my luck is at an end. Ingwil ascends the gangway.

Artanar is my friend and a master builder; many of the houses I have drawn have been later raised under his direction. I trust him like I trust only few others, and in this war he is to be my herald. He shares my thoughts of Ingwil, nay, even more: if I am irritated by my cousin’s bearing, Artanar wholeheartedly detests him.

“I doubt he would be content with any other.” I smile faintly despite the sadness of parting. “’The White Wave’ is, after all, the vessel of the chief of Olwë’s captains.” Artanar snorts, and I look at him with half-earnest warning. “No quarrels, Artanar. This is a command.”

I shake my head in frustration but say nothing. Stubbornly he insists on calling me by title now. Wondering whether one day we would again return to the life we once knew, I turn towards Ëarwen who bravely fights tears and smiles to me with encouragement.

The lines are cast off. A fresh breeze fills the sails, and the ship leaves the dock and swiftly gains speed, gliding towards the arch of stone that marks the entrance to the harbour. I stand at the stern, gripping the railing until my fingers feel numb. My eyes are locked with Ëarwen’s eyes until the distance becomes too great to see her face clearly and there is only her slender form crowned with silver hair gleaming in the Sun, and then that too fades to a misty blur.

We are on the open Sea, close to the coasts of Tol Eressëa, when the inevitable happens – my cousin comes to talk with me. Even if I had the slightest hope he was doing it out of courtesy and kindness, I would be in no mood to appreciate that now. When he stands beside me smiling, I only nod curtly and direct my gaze towards the Sea, hoping he would respect my wish to be alone.

“Arafinwë, why the despondent face?” Ingwil’s smile grows wider. “Surely you too desire to put an end to Moringotto’s reign and to gain glory thereat?”

My hope for solitude was vain, apparently. “I wish to see the Black Foe vanquished,” I reply. “But the glory? I understand not of what you speak.”

His eyes widen in a mocking surprise. “Why, the glory of victory, what else? Is it not your wish to hear your deeds praised by minstrels?”

“No?” He laughs. “You surprise me, cousin. But then – maybe not. Maybe you are not made for greatness.”

“Oh, indeed?” His eyes narrow. “But you know nothing of war either, my dear Arafinwë!”

I turn abruptly and stride away, followed by his disdainful laughter. As I enter my cabin, I hear him calling after me, “What are you doing here at all?”

I slam shut the door and cast myself on the narrow bed. Maybe his question is just. What am I doing here?

I attempt to avoid my kinsman for the rest of the journey. With little success, for even the largest ship of Olwë’s fleet is not enough for that, and Ingwil seems to find genuine pleasure in taunting me. Artanar is seething with rage for my sake; several times it comes close to blows, and it takes all my authority to restrain my friend and herald from violence. Therefore, I heave a relieved sigh when captain Falmar announces that the coast of Endórë is within ten days’ journey. We have made a good speed. If the fair wind will hold, we shall reach the Isle of Balar, the appointed place of meeting with Eönwë, the herald of the Elder King, three weeks before the agreed time.

As we approach the Hither Lands, my restlessness grows. I sleep fitfully and often wake long before the sunrise. This morning, too, I am already standing on the deck when the stars overhead slowly fade and the eastern sky colours golden in the anticipation of dawn. Seabirds circle around the ships now, a clear sign the land draws closer; some of them perch on the tall masts or land on the water beside us, amid the long, foaming waves. I watch them despondently.

I dread the moment of arrival, the moment of taking command in battle. The very thought that I shall have to send my people to death makes me cold. And whom shall we fight? Ëarendil and the Valar have told us much about Moringotto’s creatures – Orcs and Balrogs, Wargs and Werewolves. Dragons. Still, these are merely words. I do not know what to expect, I cannot truly imagine what these creatures are like. And there are Men in Endórë, some of them servants of the Enemy; we know as much. Maybe even some Elves are under the sway of Darkness… And if they are, we may have to fight them, too. Another Kinslaying… My thoughts run in tangled circles, now and then entwined with a surge of fear and bitter shame. A fine commander I shall be, no doubt. How pitiful.

A call interrupts my brooding. The lookout has noticed something on our course. Several others gather on the deck, and we peer in the distance, at the expanse of the water, glittering in the just-risen Sun. At the thought that we might already be in the sight of land I suddenly shiver in the morning breeze.

But it is not the shoreline the keen eyes of the Teleri have sighted, but a little boat ahead of us. It bears neither sails, nor oars, and the waves toss it about seemingly steerless.

“Go and see what is there,” the captain orders the sailors. “It looks empty, but we cannot know for certain. Take someone armed in your boat,” he then adds with apparent disgust.

Captain Falmar, commander of the fleet and owner of ‘The White Wave’, hates this journey. He hates the very thought of this war. He resents the Noldor; his son fell in Alqualondë. But he obeys his king; he would not go against Olwë’s orders. And he would not risk danger to his people, even if it meant they would have to sit in the same boat with an armed Noldo.

While Falmar has spoken maybe a few dozen words to Artanar and others from Tirion throughout the voyage, towards me he bears no ill will. He treats me respectfully, like he does my cousin. Apparently, he counts me among the Vanyar, not among the Noldor.

I go to fetch my sword and my dagger. When I return, the boat is already rocking in the waves beside the ship. With little grace I descend the rope ladder and sit down, firmly holding to the gunwale. The little shell seems to me tiny and fragile, until the calm bearing and experienced movements of the two sailors who are with me appease my concern.

The other boat is quite far; it takes more than quarter of an hour to reach it. And when we are close, we gasp in astonishment, for it is not empty, as had seemed from the distance.

One could easily mistake the Elf who lies therein for a Telerin sailor. Silver hair clings to his face in damp strands. His eyes are closed, and at first we fear that life has left him, but as we move him to our boat, a sigh escapes his lips. They are dry and chipped, and his skin is sore and blistered, burned by the Sun. He is clad in rags. His boat has been painted white once, but now most of the paint is gone revealing cracked wood; it is a wonder the vessel is still afloat. It is empty otherwise; there are neither packs, nor weapons there. We release it to the waves and return to the ship.

Many have come on the deck and now reach out to aid us. Falmar lifts the still senseless stranger over the railing, carries him to one of the empty cabins and lays abed there. A healer comes quickly. He tends the stranger and assures us that the Elf will recover. He should be allowed to rest and given water and food when he wakes.

“A survivor of a shipwreck, captain?” suggests one of the sailors who took part in the rescue. “He has been tossed about on the Sea for a long time, apparently. And he had nothing with him in that boat.”

“I doubt it.” The other one shakes his head. “It was a fisherman’s boat, not one usually taken on the big vessels, if I know aught of boats. And an old and shabby one, besides. Nay, he must have set out from the coast. But the lack of gear and provisions I cannot explain. None who has enough reason and some knowledge of the Sea would venture out like this. And without any water.”

We turn towards the bed. The stranger’s eyes are still closed, but his lips tremble.

I raise a cup to his lips, supporting his head. With the first drops of water trickling in his mouth he suddenly opens his eyes, recoils and stares at us, terrified.

“Do not be afraid.” I keep my voice calm and quiet. “You are among friends. Drink, your body needs it.”

Either my words or our looks calm him, and he reaches for the cup. Only when there is not a drop of water left, he sinks back in the pillows and looks at us with eyes full of wonder, in silence.

“We are friends,” I repeat. “You are aboard ‘The White Wave’, captain Falmar’s ship.” The captain bows his head in greeting. “My name is Arafinwë. Who are you?”

Now an even greater confusion appears on stranger’s face. I fall silent, unsure what to think, and when he starts to talk, I exchange dismayed glances with the others. The silver-haired Elf speaks an entirely strange language. Some words sound vaguely similar to Quenya, but all else is different – the rhythm, the pacing, the melody of speech. It seems such a silly failure now, but with all our careful planning, we have overlooked the matter of language. Ëarendil, the messenger, spoke Quenya, after all, and we had no reason to think the others would not.

A thought crosses my mind. “I shall try ósanwe. Maybe my skill will be sufficient.”

I look closely at the stranger. “Language hinders us. I would speak with you mind-to-mind if you would allow me.”

His eyes widen, but then he nods slowly and answers in the same way. “I would. Who are you? Your speech is the speech of those who crossed the Sea to Hither Lands centuries ago.”

“We are akin to them. We come from Valinórë. We come to deliver Middle-earth from the Black Enemy.”

“Deliver us…” His lips tremble, a tear slides down his cheek. “So the Lords of the West have not forgotten Endor.”

“No, they have not forgotten it,” I assure him. “We come with a strong force of Vanyar and Noldor. I lead the latter; my name is Arafinwë.”

The question clearly distresses him. He looks away avoiding my gaze; his hands that lie upon the coverlet start trembling. Opening of the door interrupts the awkward moment; a sailor enters, bearing a tray with food and more water.

Relief flickers in stranger’s eyes. Hesitantly he reaches for the tray. He eats slowly, savouring every bite of the plain sailors’ fare with nearly reverent attention, and there is not a morsel left on the plate, nor a drop in the cup when he has finished. He looks at us then, lays his hand over his heart and bows his head in gratitude. Disquiet creeps back to his gaze. And weariness. He keeps his eyes open only with considerable effort.

“Rest now, friend,” I speak to his mind again. “We shall talk later, when you regain your strength.”

With a sigh Súlion sinks back in the pillows and soon he is already fast asleep.

“What did he say?” Falmar, who has watched us from a chair in the corner, now rises to his feet and looks at me with question.

“Not much. His name is Súlion. He was fleeing from something, but he did not tell more yet. I shall speak to him again when he is rested.”

“Who would have thought that the speech of the Elves in Endórë could change so much,” the captain muses when we have left the cabin and stand at the railing on the deck. “It is fortunate you have the gift of the mind-talk, lord Arafinwë.”

“I have not used it for a long time,” I reply quietly after a while of silence. I have not used it since I am sundered from my children. It is with them I often spoke without words. They all had the gift, and some of them – Artanis and Findaráto – to a much greater extent than I have. But only my daughter still walks upon this earth; and only painful emptiness remains in my heart where the bond with my sons has been. Of five children, only one… I push away the sudden wave of grief and return to the conversation. “The matter of language, though… It is curious, yet maybe not so unexpected. There have been scholarly writings aiming to predict what would happen to a language of the same people, were they sundered for a long time.”

That these are Fëanáro’s writings, I keep to myself, for I doubt Falmar would appreciate to know it. But someone else has heard our conversation.

“It is certainly some comfort to know your half-brother was not entirely wrong about everything, is it not so, Arafinwë?” I spin around to find myself face-to-face with my cousin’s disdainful smile. The anger in my eyes must be obvious, for Ingwil takes a step back and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “No offence intended, cousin. I heard you had had quite an adventure this morning. Will you not tell more?”

While I look in vain for enough composure to counter his insolence with cool tone and calm words, Falmar has already told him about the stranger. Ingwil’s eyes kindle in excitement.

“An Elf of Endórë? He could tell us much about the land, about what to expect when arriving! That language of theirs, it cannot be too hard to understand. I shall try…” He half-turns towards the cabin.

“You shall leave him in peace and allow him some rest, Ingwil,” I say sharply.

Ingwil looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes narrow. “You may perhaps order your herald and your Noldor, Arafinwë. Not me. Your orders mean nothing to me.”

“I give commands on this ship, lord Ingwil.” Falmar now bars his way and looks at him sternly. “You may see that stranger and try to speak with him – after he has rested. I will let you know when that will be.”

An overbearing fool though my cousin is, he does not risk quarrelling with Falmar. “As you say, captain.”

“He does that on purpose.” Falmar looks after my kinsman’s retreating figure. “To anger you. Why?”

“Maybe because he is an arrogant, wilful, presumptuous creature who cares about none save himself?”

Falmar laughs. “I wonder. Maybe you see him in worse light than he truly is. Arrogant he is, certainly; none who knows him would deny it. But the rest? I am not so certain. And he has a brilliant mind. Conversation with him is a delight.”

I shrug sullenly. “I would not know that.” My conversations with Ingwil resemble an uneven sparring match, with him constantly attacking and me fending off his attacks. Far from delightful, at least for me.

Falmar regards me thoughtfully. “I think you care too much what others think of you, lord Arafinwë.”

He then leaves, but I remain on the deck, taken aback by his words. Falmar is mistaken. I care nothing about the opinion of others, I have never… The train of my thought stops as I suddenly see before me my eldest brother’s face, grey eyes blazing with contempt, lips pressed together. “So you would turn back. You would betray our father’s memory, betray me? But then, I did not expect much of you anyway.” His voice rings cold in my ears, and my chest tightens. I certainly cared what Fëanáro thought of me. I always cared.

I keep to the version where Arafinwë has five children: Finrod (Findaráto) , Orodreth (Artaresto), Angrod (Angaráto), Aegnor (Aikanáro) and Galadriel (Artanis).

Day draws towards evening when there is an impatient knock on the door of my cabin. I put aside the sketchbook I have nearly filled with quick drawings to pass time during the journey and rise to open. When I see who is there, irritation flares up again.

This time, my cousin does not reply in his usual quick and biting way. Instead, he stands silent on the threshold for a few moments, frowning, clearly ill at ease.

I raise my brows. “Did you just misspeak, Ingwil?” After days of him taunting me, I am not inclined towards kindness.

He waves his hand impatiently. “Listen, Arafinwë, I think I can figure out the language of Hither Lands. But I need your help. Your gift of mind-talk. My ability at ósanwe is… somewhat lacking, at least for a venture like this.”

I regard him in disbelief. The arrogant fool has not even understood the mockery in my words. For a heartbeat I am tempted to slam the door in his face. But we need to understand the language of the Elves of this land, and ósanwe may help. Therefore, I nod and follow him with a resigned sigh.

Súlion is awake and risen from bed, his tattered clothing exchanged for a Telerin sailor’s garb. A faint smile curves his lips when he sees me, but it disappears at the sight of my cousin, a stranger he has not yet met.

“Súlion, this is Ingwil,” I speak to his mind. “He has some skill with languages. If you would consent, we would try to understand some of your speech.”

“Ask him to name things,” he then says. “Those I will tell you. Slowly and clearly.”

And so we proceed. I speak to Súlion mind-to-mind what Ingwil tells me, he replies aloud in his language, and Ingwil listens attentively and writes everything down in a notebook, underlining some parts of words or connecting them with lines. At first there are only words - words denoting things and actions, words describing features. Then come parts of sentences or entire short phrases. My cousin clearly knows what he is doing. His face glows with excitement; it is a face of one immersed deep into something he loves, of one carried away by the pursuit. Maybe his verses are born like this too, with the same ardent passion and devotion.

Many pages are already filled with words and phrases when Ingwil stops asking. A long silence falls as he scribbles swiftly in his notebook. Then he raises his head and looks at Súlion. And then, he speaks to him.

Súlion’s eyes at first widen in disbelief, but then he replies excitedly. Ingwil shakes his head; it is too fast. Súlion repeats his words more slowly. Ingwil laughs in delight.

He speaks again, a somewhat longer sentence; Súlion smiles and replies, and corrects him in places. Their conversation becomes more and more fluent. Ingwil looks in his notes and sometimes asks my assistance, but that happens more and more seldom. It seems that words he has already collected are enough to lead him to new words; line after line of swiftly drawn Tengwar appears in his notebook, words clustered together or accompanied with quick sketches. In this moment I have forgotten his insults and feel something very near to awe. My cousin truly has a brilliant mind.

Dusk grows in the windows, and I rise to light the lamp. Suddenly Ingwil looks at me and laughs.

“I got carried away, cousin,” he says. “Come, I will explain this language to you. It is indeed not too complicated; I am certain even you can learn it fast enough.”

I swallow the insult, for I wish to learn the language of this shore, and the fastest way now is through my cousin’s instruction. A few more hours pass in learning. Ingwil explains well, I must admit that; soon I am able to grasp the meaning of Súlion’s words and put together simple phrases. Nothing like the elaborate sentences my cousin already builds, of course. He speaks Sindarin, the tongue of the Elves of Endórë, like he speaks Quenya – savouring the beauty of subtly joined words like pearls on a string, relishing in his skill and the sound of his own voice. This irritates me, and at last I fail to hold back a biting remark.

“You are truly brilliant in the matters of language, cousin,” I say. The conceited smile that appears on his face vexes me further. “Indeed, you almost come close to Fëanáro in this regard.”

“Why not?” I shrug. “You know, it has occurred to me that you are quite similar in many ways, the swiftness of thought not the only one.”

The blow is apparently well-aimed and painful. Ingwil springs to his feet and rushes out of the cabin, slamming shut the door.

Taken aback by his sudden departure Súlion looks at me. “Why did he leave?”

I chase away the faint feeling of guilt; then turn away from the mind-talk and reply with words. “I said… something he not liked.”

“Something he did not like.” Súlion corrects me. “Is he your brother? You are so alike.”

That is true, we look alike. We are of the same height, our hair is of the same shade of dark gold, our eyes are of the same blue hue. Even our faces have similar features. But it ends with appearance. Ingwil is arrogant. I am not. Ingwil always puts himself forward, and his voice rings over all others. I usually stand aside and listen. Contrary to my cousin, I listen to other people.

“No.” I shake my head, faintly irritated by Súlion’s remark. “Not brother. He is…” I leaf through Ingwil’s notebook and find not the word I seek, so I must explain it. “His father is my mother’s brother.”

“We are not friends.” I shrug. “He does not like me. I do not like him.”

“Still, he is of your family.” A strange, sorrowful expression appears on his face as he says that.

“No, rest. We shall talk again tomorrow.” I rise to go, seeing that he rubs his eyes. “I am glad to speak your language with you. To learn. I am…” I look in vain in the notebook for the words ‘grateful’ or ‘thank you’. “What do you say when someone does something good for you? Or when you receive something?”

“We say - hantanyë,” I reply, noting the similarities. “Thank you, Súlion. Rest well.”

When I leave, I take Ingwil’s notebook with me. Instead of bringing it to him at once, I sit all night by the light of the lamp studying it. The further I get, the better I notice the rules of the language, the words that are the same or nearly so in Sindarin and Quenya, the underlying structures that are different in some respects but alike in others. Now I can see that somewhere far back in time there was one tongue that branched out in two different directions. Morning already colours the sky when I close the notebook, take it to Ingwil’s cabin and slide under his door.

The Sun is already high in the sky when, after a few short hours of rest, I leave my cabin. Súlion and Ingwil are right in front of me, sitting on the deck in the shade of the mainsail and talking. I make a step towards them, but then halt. My cousin would hardly welcome my presence, after our exchange last evening.

“Are they indeed able to hold a conversation already?” Falmar stands beside me and looks at them in wonder. “This is incredible!”

“They are.” I confirm, and then admit rather grudgingly, “My cousin has great gift for languages and words.”

Falmar laughs; he has clearly not missed the tone of my voice. “And you do not like it one bit, my lord Arafinwë.”

“I do not like how he is indulging in the sound of his own voice,” I retort.

Falmar laughs again, then becomes serious. “We should learn more about Súlion. There is something weird about him. An air of… I do not know, maybe of guilt? Of shame? Did he tell you what he was fleeing from?”

I shake my head. “We did not speak of it. At first my question distressed him, and then there was the language learning.”

Resolutely the captain walks towards Súlion and Ingwil, and I follow him. They return our greeting, even though at the sight of me my cousin frowns and presses his lips together.

“Lord Ingwil, I am most impressed by your skill,” says Falmar. “I would speak with our new friend. Would you be so kind to translate?”

Irritation fades from Ingwil’s face; captain’s appraisal has clearly brightened his mood. “Certainly, captain Falmar,” he replies. “What would you like to tell him?”

“First, say that a good fortune has brought us together. That we are glad of the meeting, regardless of the circumstances.”

Ingwil translates, Súlion replies with similar pleasantries, and I note with satisfaction that I can understand their phrases nearly word for word. The night study of my cousin’s notes has not been in vain.

Falmar is not one for long empty conversations. “Ask him how come that he was alone in an empty boat many miles from the coast.”

“I fled from Orcs.” When Ingwil translates, Súlion looks down at his hands clasped together in his lap. “I fled from Orcs,” he quietly repeats, still looking down at his clenched hands. “They chased us through the woodland for days, for their cruel sport. Me and my brother. My brother… he was not fast enough. They caught him. They caught him, and… But I escaped. I escaped, and, as I ran, I heard him screaming. They…”

He falls silent and sits with downcast eyes, his trembling hands grip the hem of his shirt. Ingwil grows pale as he translates, and compassion appears on Falmar’s face. We have heard about the vileness of Moringotto’s creatures from Ëarendil and the Valar, but it is so much worse to listen to someone who has encountered the Orcs mere days ago. I shiver. I not only understand what Súlion says, but also, maybe through some lingering bond of ósanwe, perceive some of his thoughts and memories. A frantic flight. Yells of triumph, uttered by harsh voices. A sound of ripping cloth, desperate screams, cruel laughter. I feel sickened by what he said, and even more, by what he did not say. What kind of place are we approaching? What kind of creatures dwell there?

Súlion raises his head, but at the sight of our dismayed faces lowers his eyes again.

“I abandoned him. I abandoned my brother to cruel torment and death. I should have stayed. I should have died together with him.” He hides his face in his hands and sobs quietly.

“No, my friend,” my cousin says with a compassion I did not believe he was capable of. “Do not reproach yourself. It was not your fault. It was them, those vile creatures.” Anger flickers in his eyes. “That is why we are here. To cleanse Endórë of this filth.”

Slowly Súlion’s sobs subside. He raises his eyes, wipes away tears and continues his story.

“I escaped but halted on my way overcome by grief and weariness, so they picked up my trail again. They chased me all the way to the Sea, and I knew I would rather cast myself in the waves than allow them to capture me. There was that boat, old and long abandoned. Orcs hate water, they even avoid crossing rivers, so I knew - even if I was going to an almost certain death on the Sea, they would not get me. At first I feared that the waves might throw me ashore, so I desperately rowed away from the coast as far as I could. The current caught me and carried me further. After some days, I lost the oars in my weariness, and then there were just the waves, the wind and the cruel Sun overhead. I had no water. There was no hope.”

“Nay, captain.” Súlion shakes his head after Ingwil has translated the apology. “You had the right to ask, and it was my obligation to answer you truthfully. I owe you my life, worthless as it is, the life of a coward and a traitor.”

“We do not judge you to be either,” quietly says Falmar. “And you owe us nothing. We would be grateful for more knowledge about the land we are approaching, however.”

“Good.” Falmar rises to his feet. “Let us go inside; we shall need maps.”

Not a long while later we gather in Falmar’s cabin. Artanar is there too and several other Noldor from Tirion, despite the captain’s frown which is far from welcoming. Several maps are spread on the table. Ëarendil made them for us ere we departed. Súlion recognizes them instantly.

“Ah, Ëarendil’s maps,” he says with no small degree of reverence. “Prized and coveted among the mariners of Endor!”

“Are they accurate?” I ask. “He warned us that the shoreline and the depths may change somewhat with time.”

Súlion looks at them closely. “They are the best there are. Still very precise.”

“We know that havens on these two rivers have been in the hands of the enemies.” Falmar points at two places on the map, and I assume the role of translator. “Has anything changed? Or maybe there is a landing for large ships somewhere further north?”

“No, regretfully. There is no port on the mainland our people still hold.” Súlion shakes his head. “Brithombar and Eglarest were taken decades ago, and enemies still infest them.”

Ingwil sits silent, tapping a rhythm on the armrest of his chair, intently looking at the maps. Then he rises to his feet abruptly.

The din of voices around the table falls silent, many pairs of eyes turn towards him.

“We could retake the ports,” my cousin repeats. “Those two you mentioned, Brithombar and Eglarest. That would be a sensible thing to do.”

“As I recall, lord Ingwil, we were instructed to head for the Isle of Balar.” Artanar’s voice is biting. “To my mind, most sensible would be to obey the orders.”

“To head for the Isle of Balar is the easy way.” Ingwil casts a scornful glance at him. “I do not suggest disobeying the Valar. But there are nearly three weeks until the appointed meeting time. If we could do something meaningful by then…” He looks around, meeting our eyes. “As we made plans for landing, we did not have the most recent knowledge. But now, with Súlion here, we have it! And the enemies would not expect an attack from the Sea. If we came swiftly, with force…”

“Forget it, lord Ingwil.” Falmar interrupts him, voice cold and sharp. “I shall risk neither my crew, nor my ships for this war of yours. We agreed to ferry you over, not to spill our blood on this shore. The Teleri shall not fight!”

His tone is not one to be argued with, and my cousin relents. He takes one of the maps and studies it with a frown. He clearly finds it incomplete.

“The shoreline and the depths may be accurate, but what of inland?” he mutters. “Surely, there must be smaller streams, woodlands, hillocks? None of that shows here.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that.” Ingwil dismisses the captain’s words with a wave of his hand, studies the other sheets on the table, then turns towards Súlion who has been standing silent during the exchange of words. “My friend, do you have a good knowledge of the land? Not only the shore but also further away from it?”

“Could you draw the streams, the forests, the hills that are not shown on these maps?”

“Please, do so.” Ingwil gets the inkpot and quill and sets one of the charts before our guest. “Right here.”

Súlion looks half-terrified to be asked to draw on Ëarendil’s map, yet he says nothing but sets to work. When he has finished there is so much more on it: threads of rivers, clusters of forest, marshlands, ravines and hillocks.

Ingwil takes up the sheet and looks at it closely for a long while. Then he raises his eyes and looks at us all in turn.

“Very well.” His voice is calm and resolute, yet it quivers with a hint of excitement. “There will be no attack from the Sea and no sailors fighting. Still, we can do this. We can land unseen beyond this cape. Stay on anchor in the bay. Take the soldiers ashore in boats. Advance quietly through the forest, divide our forces here, attack from three sides and drive the enemies into the river. We can free those two cities from the sway of the Enemy and secure landing for our ships on mainland, much closer to Moringotto’s fortress!”

He sets the map on the table and explains how he has envisioned it. He translates it to Sindarin and asks Súlion to clarify things about the layout of the land. When he ceases speaking, Artanar steps forward.

“This is folly, lords, surely you see it? To rush headlong against enemies we know nothing about.” He casts a disdainful glance towards my cousin, then looks at me. “Surely, Aranya, you too perceive how reckless this is?”

Falmar folds his arms on his chest. “I do see the benefit of landing further northward, lord Ingwil, but I tend to agree with Artanar. You will have to decide for yourselves, though. I am not the one to offer advice about fighting.”

Some other Telerin sailors nod in agreement. The Noldor look at me, awaiting my judgement. The temptation to dismiss my cousin’s suggestion is great, and yet… I study the map, picturing Ingwil’s plan in action. It is bold and daring, certainly. But it is not reckless. Artanar has spoken but out of dislike towards my kinsman. The features of the land provide cover and support, and if what we have learned from Súlion about the Orcs is true…

“What do you think of this?” I turn towards Súlion. “Can this be done?”

“I…” He shifts in his stance and looks down at his clasped hands. “I would not presume to offer my advice on a war council. But if you ask…” He looks up, and his eyes flash resolutely. “If you ask me – yes, you could do that. With seven or eight hundred men, you could retake the ports.”

I nod slowly and look at the others. “I think so too. This time, I do not agree with you, Artanar. In truth, I think this is a good plan. It can be done, and we should attempt it.”

For a moment Ingwil stares at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. Then he bows his head slightly. I turn away. I care nothing for his gratitude. But I truly think we can do this.

We change our course northward and give the ports a wide bend, so that the coastline remains barely visible from the ships. We should pass by invisible to our enemies; Súlion assures that Orcs’ eyesight by day is inferior to that of the Elves, even though their hearing is sharp. Three days later we approach Brithombar and cast anchor in a long bay, encircled by tall white cliffs. The city remains to the south, some twenty miles in a straight line.

I stand on the deck in the evening. All is ready for getting ashore tomorrow: the armour, the weapons, some provisions. The Sun falls into the Sea beyond the forest of tall masts, and long after the Vessel of Arien has disappeared, a red glow still paints the sky and water. I take hold of the railing and draw a deep breath. Perhaps I am not made for war, but now I want to take part in it. I want to free this land from Moringotto’s filth.

“My lord Arafinwë, I have a request,” he says hesitantly, fidgeting with his sleeve.

“It is. I would go together with you. I can guide you through the land, and I can fight. I am no swordsman, but I can shoot well with the bow. Maybe your soldiers could spare a weapon for me?”

“They could, certainly,” I reply, moved. “And we would be grateful for a guide. But we would not demand this of you. You have suffered enough. You may stay here, with Falmar and his sailors.”

“I want to go. To do something, to help in some way. I want to avenge my brother.” A shadow passes his face, he frowns and bites his lip. “I do not want to hide on a ship while others spill their blood.”

“Falmar has reasons to do as he has decided,” I say softly. “Good reasons.”

“To stand aside at a moment like this?” Súlion’s eyes briefly flash. “I know enough of history to be aware of his reasons. I have dwelt with the Noldor for many years, and I know why and how they came here. Much of what they did was evil, but for how long can you hold a grudge? The punishment must be in measure with the crime.”

“No, it is not. You will see for yourself. What has been done to this land, to its people…” He falls silent and, arms crossed, looks towards the shore ere speaking again. “I love Endor. But now… Now it is a place of dread. We shall have to move with utmost caution tomorrow. Still, the land offers enough concealment.”

He nods. “I am of the Falathrim, born on the coastlands, further to the south. The life of a fisherman or a sailor did not appeal to me, so I journeyed inland as soon as I was old enough to do so. But the Great Sea sings loud in the blood of those who once have heard its call. I returned – to find everything changed. The Long Peace had ended, and the land was perilous.”

“So we call it. For nigh two hundred years the lords of the Noldor held Morgoth in leaguer. Beleriand was safe, the roads were open. But then the Enemy unleashed his fire-demons. The North burned; the leaguer was broken. As soon as I heard the news, I journeyed back to the land of my childhood. Yet concern for my family was but one of the reasons. It was the longing, too. Longing for the Sea, for the soft sighing of foam upon the sand in calm weather, for the roar of swelling waves during the storm, for the harsh voices of the gulls. As I dwelt inland, I oft dreamt of the seabirds, of their cries, of their white shapes, so swift and graceful against the sky.”

He stands beside me at the railing and raises his face towards the sky, towards the seabirds circling overhead. The voices of the gulls are harsh, yet there is a strange music in their wailing. I never paid much heed to them at home, but here everything somehow seems to have a different meaning.

“Yes. They dwelt in Eglarest, and I settled with them. But twenty years later Morgoth attacked Falas. Brithombar and Eglarest fell. Many perished. So many.” He looks in the distance for a while, eyes void, then pulls himself together again. “My family survived, though we were sundered in the confusion of battle. Only later I learned that my parents had escaped to the Isle of Balar in one of lord Círdan’s ships. Me and my brother, we fled inland and took to a wandering life. We became hunters in the wild. We hunted the servants of the Enemy.” His eyes glint. “Swift arrows in the twilight. Knife-work in the shadows. Luck was on our side for a long time, and we did quite some damage to Morgoth’s creatures. But we became too reckless, and one day the hunters became the hunted.”

“I regret, Súlion.” The words seem hollow, yet I cannot find anything better to say. “I understand why you want to return. But you have already taken part in the war. None would hold it against you if you remained in safety now.”

He shakes his head. “I would hold it against myself. I am not so arrogant as to think that my bow could change the course of the battle. But I want to return, for the memory of what Endor once was. I would gladly give my life if I knew this war would bring destruction to Morgoth and his creatures.”

“You said you had dwelt with the Noldor for a time,” I say after a while of silence. “Where was that? Here, on the coastlands?”

“No, not here.” Súlion shakes his head. A far-away look dawns in his eyes, a faint smile appears on his lips. “I was a woodwright at the dwelling of our King. A beautiful place. It was built in a cavern, under a roof of stone, yet there was light, so much light that one could never complain about the lack of it. And the sculptures in the hallways – entire stories unfolded as one went by. Stone ceased to be stone, marble birds seemed ready to take flight, marble trees seemed to expect a sudden breeze. Our King was a marvellously gifted sculptor. We wondered, at first, seeing him with a hammer and chisel, taking part in the work like a common craftsman, but then we learned that it was the way of the Noldor, even of their kings. He made Nargothrond into a place of wonder.”

With sheer force of will I turn to face him. “I am well. It is just… the name of the place. And what you said of your King.” I cannot keep the tremor from my voice.

“Finrod Felagund? Did you know him in Valinor, lord? And his brother Orodreth?”

“Findaráto…” My eyes sting with tears. “Artaresto… They are… were… my sons. My two eldest children.”

“I am sorry.” Hesitantly Súlion lays his hand on my arm in a gesture of comfort. “I am truly sorry, lord. Everyone loved them. They were so kind-hearted. I had already moved to coastlands when we learned the dreadful story of King Felagund’s passing, and later, that of Orodreth’s death and the fall of Nargothrond. I am sorry.” He lowers his eyes for a while in silent mourning, then looks up at me again, eyes wide. “But then… as their father, you must be Finarfin, Fëanor’s and Fingolfin’s brother!”

Despite the grief, I smile at this realization. “Indeed, even though our names in Sindarin are strangely changed.”

Súlion returns the smile, then considers me gravely. “You must understand why I want to join the battle, King Finarfin,” he says. “Are you not doing the same? In a way?”

I stand silent, unsure what my reply should be. Maybe I am doing the same. In a way.

The fine weather we have had during the journey is spent. This morning dawns grey and overcast. It is strangely quiet, and the indistinct shapes of nearby ships loom eerily through chill veils of fog drifting by as we gather on the deck for departure. Eight hundred of us are to go, five hundred Vanyar and three hundred Noldor, lightly armed and on foot, not to draw excessive attention.

“Maybe you should have waited for the Valar, for their counsel and aid ere doing this,” Falmar muses ere we depart.

“Do you see any of them here?” Ingwil snaps at him. For the last few days, my cousin has been in a strange mood. He even seems to have forgotten my presence, at least as his preferred target of witty remarks, and now he shakes his head and says something that makes me widen my eyes in disbelief. An apology. “I am sorry, captain. But no, we cannot wait. Your ships need a proper harbour on mainland ere we march north. I do not want to delay that. And the Valar shall learn of our venture anyway, should they arrive sooner.”

Falmar merely nods. One of the ships has already left for the Isle of Balar with a message. The sailors lower the boats, we embark them, and in a few moments a thick blanket of fog encloses us. I look ahead into the milky haze where lies our destination, a sight portending the uncertain future awaiting us.

The grating of gravel against the boat’s keel heralds the shallows, and I freeze for a moment ere setting my foot on the land of Endórë. My brothers died here. The thought of death is still strange, for our only experience of it is Alqualondë, and many of those present now do not have even that. My former fears threaten to return, but I firmly wrap my fingers around the hilt of the sword. When time comes, I shall draw it without hesitation. To whom do I make this promise? I do not know. Maybe to the spirit of Súlion’s brother. Maybe to the spirits of Nolofinwë and Fëanáro.

The boats return to the ships, and we assemble on the shore. There is a passage over the cliffs encircling the bay. Súlion leads us.

“Be on your guard,” he says quietly ere we set out. “This fog is both good and treacherous. It conceals us, but it may also conceal our enemies. Under sunlight we could move with less caution, for the Orcs stay hidden during the day if the sky is clear. By this weather, though, they may be about.”

“How strong are these creatures?” asks one of the Noldorin archers. Most of the Eldar who came with ‘The White Wave’ have picked up enough Sindarin to hold a conversation.

“A lone Orc, even fully armed and armoured, is no match for an Elf,” Súlion replies. “Maybe not even two or three of those beasts. But beware when there are many. A host of them would tear you to pieces. Not at once, though, if they have time. After hours of cruel torture.” He turns towards the path without another look.

Dismayed by his blunt words, we follow. After ascending the cliffs we come to a plain, overgrown with long, soft grass. The ground is level at first, but after a few hours’ march it starts undulating, rising in low hillocks. Clusters of bushes appear, emerging from the fog like phantoms, half-floating in the pale whiteness; then we notice groves of trees, some of them so tall that their canopies fully disappear in the dense veils of mist overhead. We take a short rest by one of such thickets where three tall evergreens grow. All is quiet, save for droplets of water falling with a soft patter from the low-hanging branches on the dewy grass.

Artanar stands by the trees, measuring them with his gaze. Then resolutely he sets on the ground his weapons, save a short dagger at his belt. “I shall climb up, Aranya. To see what may be seen from above.”

“We must go on.” Displeasure is clear in Ingwil’s sharp voice. “We should not delay. It may be perilous; besides, this fog covers everything anyway.”

Artanar ignores him. Seizing one of the lower branches, he pulls himself up and disappears within the canopy. Ingwil glares at me, but I merely shrug.

The delay is brief. My herald returns swiftly, and when he lands lightly on the thick grass, his face is confused.

“It is weird.” His frown deepens. “This fog. It only encompasses us, our host. Higher above and further away there is bright sunshine and cloudless sky.”

“So this fog shields us, and the weather beyond it drives our enemies into hiding.” I exchange glances with Ingwil and other captains who stand nearby. “Let us use it as best we may. Perhaps we have the goodwill and support of the Valar in this venture.”

Even Ingwil nods reluctantly. In no time we are ready to journey further, wrapped in the protection of the white veils, hidden from unfriendly eyes. Súlion leads us confidently by the signs only his sharp eyes notice, and I am glad he is with us. We would never make such speed if we relied solely on the map.

It may be shortly before midday when we approach the edge of the forest; it is hard to tell the hour in the all-encompassing fog. Instead of scattered thickets, a green wall looms ahead of us now, quiet and strangely ominous. Our guide motions us to halt.

“Be wary, more than before,” he says gravely. “The city is not far, and Orcs sometimes hunt in this woodland. The bright weather beyond the shield of fog has maybe confined them to their hideouts, but some may still be about. So advance very, very quietly.”

He dives soundlessly into the forest. We follow, and our feet make almost no noise. Merely an occasional soft rustle of leaves or dewdrops dripping from branches break the stillness under the canopy.

We have entered a forest of old, large trees. Their stems are of great girth, their tops fade in the fog, lichen hangs from their branches. Soft, springy moss covers the ground, and here and there thickets of undergrowth bar our way, so that we must seek a path around. I like the place. It has a solemn air to it, an untamed loveliness, the kind of which in Valinórë is found only on the steep slopes of the Pelóri. I walk side by side with Súlion, and when I catch his gaze I whisper in a low voice, “Beautiful.”

Súlion smiles and nods, but his smile is sad. He lightly passes his hand over the bark of a large fir-tree we are passing; his palm lingers for a moment.

I wonder whether he can converse with the trees. Some of the Eldar can; in Aman they usually become foresters, gardeners or healers. But here the ability to understand the speech of the growing things is maybe not only a source of delight but also a necessity, a way to survive.

The woodland becomes patchy, thickets alternate with glades. And in one of such glades we suddenly halt, terrified.

Remains of animals litter it; several deer have been slaughtered here. Blood stains the grass, entrails hang on the low bushes, shreds of pelts and bloody bones lie about. Three roughly severed heads are impaled on the lowest branches of fir-trees lining the glade; animals’ glassy eyes stare at us with terror and pain of their last moments.

“Who would hunt in such a fashion?” hoarsely asks one of the Vanyar. His face is sickly pale at the awful sight.

“The Orcs,” Súlion replies shortly. He removes the heads from the trees and lays them reverently on the soft moss among the roots. Then he looks at us, his eyes glinting coldly. “This is another reminder to be on our guard. They do not hunt only beasts in this manner.”

We dare not ask more but, silent and stricken, advance into the thicket ahead. The passage through the woodland shows increasingly frequent signs of devastation - burnt patches, trampled plants, trees hewn down and left to rot on the ground, deep cuts made in the bark of still living firs. Dismay turns into rage. I clench my fists. Cursed creatures! A sharply drawn breath, an angry whisper reveal the fury seething in others.

We emerge from the forest and the fog late in the afternoon. Beyond the low-branching trees on the fringe of the woodland stretches a vast plain, overgrown with tall grass and solitary bushes. Further away gleam white walls of the city and a patch of blue – waters of the bay, reflecting the sky and sunlight. All is still, and we briefly halt, getting ready for our first battle.

Like shadows we cross the plain, fading in the grass and in the shapes of the scattered bushes. Like shadows we advance, up to the very walls of Brithombar and, as we come closer, the desolation opens before our eyes. The city is half-ruined; its walls are partly down, its once-proud towers have toppled, houses are crumbling, white walls are smeared with foul signs. My fingers firmly close around the hilt of the sword. We will free this land from Moringotto’s filth! They shall pay a bitter price for terror and destruction they have wrought!

The enemies are at ease; they clearly do not expect an attack. Only few guards doze in the shadows hiding from the Sun, and when we sweep over the ruined walls and through the broken gates and along the streets of the city, the creatures of Moringotto dart here and there, dismayed and confused.

The Orcs are hideous. Everything about them speaks of evil: their looks, their voices, their clothing and gear. It makes killing them easy – merely a hunt of vile beasts. Still, when they turn and flee shrieking towards the river that flows past the southern gate of the city, I raise my hand and shout a command to the Noldor not to chase them. Further away, I see Ingwil giving the same order to the Vanyar.

“No.” I shake my head. “No, we cannot do that. Should we add to the slaughter and cruelty that has already taken place?” His eyes glint, and I sigh. “Look, my friend, I understand. You have suffered from them. You want to avenge your brother. I understand that. But—”

He turns and walks swiftly away. I remain amid the square, paved with flagstones, once white and smooth, but now cracked and broken. Bodies of dead Orcs litter the ground, their black blood stains the stone. Fifty enemies at least lie here, most of them pierced by our arrows. There has been almost no close combat, and none of us has sustained more than scratches. We have freed the city with little effort, and there is a harbour for our ships now; messengers already hasten north, to pass the news. I should be glad of the outcome of this first battle. I should be.

We bury the dead Orcs in a pit outside the walls. Súlion watches us from distance, arms folded on his chest, face hidden in the shadow of his hood. When I approach him, he turns and walks away without a word. He does not join us later at the campfire either.

Ingwil is in an elated temper. He laughs and jests with everyone, and he is friendly even towards me. We sit around the fire in a companionable mood, the Vanyar and the Noldor, when my cousin rises, stretches and looks up at the sky.

“My friends, two days from now these stars will shine over two cities freed from evil,” he says, and firelight dances eerily upon his face and form.

I shake my head. Two days? He has clearly underestimated the time it would take for our forces to arrive. “I believe it will take a bit longer.”

“Nay, it will not. We shall be in Eglarest on the day after tomorrow. I studied the map; the land is flat on the way, with merely some hillocks.”

“Why, to march to Eglarest tomorrow morning, cousin, what else?” He turns towards me with unfeigned surprise.

“No.” I am suddenly cold despite the closeness of fire. “We cannot do that. We must wait for the ships, for reinforcements.”

“Why should we wait?” Ingwil shrugs. “You saw our enemies, Arafinwë. They are no more than beasts. Yes, they can wield weapons and scratch someone with their blunt blades, but in truth, they are pitiful creatures. They barely fought back, they fled like rats to the river. Why should we lose time needlessly? But wait…” His eyes glint in amusement. “I seem to recall you were afraid of harbour rats in Alqualondë when we were children. Fear not, I will protect you, cousin!”

The laughter around the fire, be it a kindly jest or not, makes my blood boil. Reckless fools! And the biggest fool the one who leads them!

“I fear the disastrous consequences of rash decisions. We do not know how many of these creatures infest Eglarest. And those who escaped may carry a warning!”

This last frightening thought has only now occurred to me, and I curse the foolishness I mistook for compassion. Ingwil does not appear concerned in the slightest.

“Let them! How many can there be? They will fly shrieking at the sight of our banners. And if those creatures will carry the tale of terror, the better for us! We may even find the port already abandoned.”

I follow him. “Ingwil, listen to reason! If you would not heed my warning, remember Súlion’s words. You underrate our enemies.”

“No, you overrate them. Súlion is an excellent guide but a poor advisor.” Ingwil waves his hand dismissively. “His mind is clouded by fear and hatred.”

“He has knowledge of our enemies none of us possesses. Eglarest is a larger city, there will be more Orcs present. Our numbers are too small to attack. One hundred already left for the ships. We shall have to leave at least three hundred here, to guard the place until the fleet arrives. And that leaves how many? Do you want to march with four hundred? Ingwil, please…” I seize his arm as he turns away. “I beseech you to see reason and not risk needlessly the lives of the people you lead!”

He pulls free and regards me coldly. “The people I lead will follow me without such whining, Arafinwë. Stay here, you and your Noldor. Guard the place. We shall have the victory!”

I shake my head. It will not be that simple. Does he not see? “This is but a game for you. A game you do not even know the rules of. Do you not realize that, instead of wooden pieces, there are people around you now? People who may be killed?”

His eyes narrow. “This is a game we will win, and every single one of my warriors is a willing player. But you clearly are not. So do not poison our hope of swift victory with your cowardice. Do us a favour – remain here and rid us of your presence!”

He turns and strides away, and I remain standing on the street amid heaps of rubble, shaking with rage, hands clenched in fists. So you would get rid of my presence, cousin? That will not happen!

The dawn is barely painting the sky when we set out from Brithombar. We leave three hundred soldiers to guard the port – an equal number from both hosts. A quarter of those who set forth are Noldor. Ingwil says nothing as we leave; he merely casts at me a single look, full of contempt.

Súlion marches with us, his face like carven from stone. At least he speaks to me again, aware of my cousin’s choices and our disagreement about them.

“This will end badly,” he mutters. “Very badly. Lord Ingwil has no clue what may await us.”

I must admit, Ingwil has estimated the time well. On late afternoon of the next day we watch the port-city of Eglarest from a ridge overgrown with low trees, their trunks bent by the sea-winds. Grey veils of rain obscure the sight, and we discern merely indistinct shapes of walls and towers in the distance. The downpour started early this morning, and the low clouds above our heads show no signs of breaking. Everything around looks as miserable as I currently feel.

I cast a glance at my cousin. He stands atop a boulder peering intently in the gloom. Feeling my gaze, he turns and throws back his head spitefully.

“Certainly, you will not. Admitting the folly of a rushed counsel is a trait of the wise,” I reply quietly.

Ingwil’s eyes flash. He steps down, turns towards his warriors and gives a sign to advance.

“Aranya, this is madness.” Artanar grabs my sleeve. “Will the Noldor take part in this?”

Torn in two, I look after Ingwil’s retreating company. I already turned back once. It was a wise decision, but one I afterwards regretted for centuries. “Can we abandon them now?”

Artanar frowns, then slams his fist against a stem of a gnarled tree. “No, we cannot.”

I nod and give command to the Noldor to follow Ingwil’s soldiers. We are in this together.

Cautiously we approach the open gates. None is in sight, no other sound than the pounding of raindrops on the stone and our armour. Ingwil gives a sign to proceed, and silently we pass through the gates into the main street that runs straight and wide towards the harbour in the distance.

Eglarest is similar in planning to Brithombar, but at least twice as large and considerably less ruined. The city walls still stand, and the towers, too. The houses lining the street are abandoned and despoiled, but not turned into heaps of rubble like in Brithombar; some even still have glass in the windows. And they are beautiful houses, built of white stone, with perfect proportions, leaning gracefully against the cliffs, surrounded by gardens, now overgrown and gone wild, but once carefully tended. Small pools of water or fountains adorn many courtyards, and in my mind’s eye clear droplets glisten in the Sun for a while. But then there is the dark, stagnant water again, its surface broken by ripples of persistent rain.

Sadness floods me that I must see the cities of Hither Shore like this – abandoned, plundered. If this was some other time… If I could just travel in a strange land, meet those who have designed and built these houses, exchange knowledge… We could learn so much from each other; some things I would have planned differently, though not necessarily better. If only… If…

Ingwil’s sudden laughter interrupts my train of thought, and I glare at him. But this time he is not laughing at me.

“There is nobody here; the city is abandoned. It is even as I thought – the rats have fled at the word of the cat approaching!”

He kicks a roughly shaped helmet that lies in the middle of the street, and even as it rolls aside with a loud clatter, nightmare breaks loose.

At the entrance to the harbour, between the two rows of storage houses standing on both sides of the street, we have walked right into a trap. Deafening yells pierce the stillness, dark shapes pour from the seemingly empty buildings. In no time, the Orcs have surrounded us. These are not the terrified, shrieking beasts we defeated so easily two days ago. These are warriors, armed and armoured, and fierce, with hatred instead of fear flashing in their eyes. Their advance is swift and well-ordered.

The moment of our confusion is short. I take up Ingwil’s call, and then time is lost in a blur of sound and motion. So much happens at once. An Orc falls dead at my feet, and his severed head rolls some steps away. A fellow warrior sinks slowly to the ground beside me, his eyes wide in disbelief, a curved dagger protruding from his chest. The Orcs are not as strong as we are, I repeat to myself Súlion’s words as I raise my blade again and again. But they are many, so many. We are heavily outnumbered. Frantic yells ring in my ears. Soon the white pavestones are anything but white, and too much of the blood colouring them is red.

Seemingly hours later, I pull my sword free from the chest of an enemy, stagger back from the fallen body and raise my blade to counter the next assault. It does not come. I lower the sword and, struggling for breath, look around.

The fight is over. We have prevailed, but the victory is dearly bought: maybe but a half of our warriors is still on their feet, and some of them only barely. The clamour of battle fades, and suddenly it is very quiet, save for an occasional moan of pain. Fighting the terror rising in my heart I force myself to make a move.

“Set guards around the place in case more Orcs lurk somewhere! Search for the wounded!”

Surely, that cannot be my voice, so calm and steadfast when my hands shake and tears threaten to slide down my cheeks? But it breaks the standstill silence, and we search among the dead Orcs, where beside the black armour too often gleams silver and gold. My heart skips a beat when I discover Artanar beneath two fallen enemies. Is he…? I cannot even end the sentence. But as I shove the Orc-bodies aside he opens his eyes, and a loud sigh of relief escapes my lips.

“I am well.” Artanar struggles to his feet. “I lost my helmet, and one of the cursed creatures hit me on the head.”

He waves away my concern and, still slightly swaying, joins the search. Thankfully, there are enough of those with skills in healing, and they immediately turn to tending their fellow warriors.

On one of the piers I find Súlion. He lies nearly on the waterside, beside his shattered bow. His hand still clutches a dagger, bloodied up to the hilt. A long knife has pierced his chest, cunningly driven beneath the light breastplate, the only piece of armour he wears, and there is another gaping blade-wound in his side. He still lives; when I kneel beside him, he opens his eyes with a gasp of pain. His breath is shallow and laboured.

“Do not speak. Save your strength. The healers will be here in no time.” I take his hand, fighting tears. “Had you not refused the full armour…”

Súlion’s lips move as if he is attempting a smile, but it looks more like a grimace of pain. “I am a woodwright… not a warrior. I do not know how to wear one.”

His voice is lost in a fit of coughing; blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Ere setting out we learned about different injuries that may occur on the battlefield, and I recognize the signs of a pierced lung.

“No… it is over,” he interrupts me. “The wounds… too deep… and poisoned… I have to leave. Let me.”

Súlion’s squeeze of my hand is no stronger than that of a small child. “I forgive you. You did not know the true peril. How could you know? Do not lash at your cousin and yourself with reproach. Promise me you will not.” Exhausted by the effort, he falls silent, then gathers his strength again. “And promise… you will go on.”

His fingers relax. “You will win this war, King Finarfin. You will prevail… over Darkness.” Another fit of coughing interrupts him; this time there is more blood. “Please… stay with me until…”

“I will stay with you, my friend.” Tears are now flowing freely over my face.

Súlion notices this. “Grieve not. I could have died a worse death… than fighting for the city I once loved.” He falls silent for a few moments, then searches my eyes again. “Lord Ingwil… he…”

Despite the stab of anger at Ingwil’s name, I cannot gainsay one who is dying. I merely nod and sit beside him in silence, holding his hand, listening to his breathing that grows more and more laboured and shallow. Suddenly the clouds over the Sea break. Patches of blue sky emerge, and rays of low evening Sun fall on the dark waters of the bay turning them into dazzling brightness. An arch of shimmering colours appears against the dark cloud in the distance.

“For this…” Súlion smiles, his voice little more than a whisper now. “For hope… it was worth it…”

The voice and the breath fade altogether. Súlion’s eyes stare unseeing at the sky, at the white shapes of seabirds against the scattering remains of grey clouds. I pass a trembling hand over his face, closing his eyes. Then I wipe away tears and rise unsteadily. We must go on. I promised.

I look around for Ingwil. I have not seen my kinsman after the battle. Despite my anger, I wish him to be unscathed, if only to bloody his arrogant face myself. I search for him in vain among the wounded. I walk along the row of bodies laid side by side on the white stones and do not see his ornate armour there. I find him just around the corner of one of the harbour houses, doubled over, leaning against the wall.

Ingwil shakes his head, straightens, but then collapses against the building again, and I realize that my cousin is very sick. He is struggling for breath, and his face is as white as the wall beside him. His hand fumbles for the water flask at his belt but finds it not.

Ingwil takes it and raises to his lips, but his hands shake so much that at least half of the water spills, and at last the flask falls to the ground.

“Look at me!” I seize him by the shoulders and shake. “Look at me, Ingwil!”

“Yes, it is.” He flinches at my words, but I do not allow the pity to take over. “And that is why you shall do your duty and go back to your warriors. You shall not hide from the consequences of your choices!”

Ingwil turns and goes back to the others. His back is now straight and his steps firm. Something remotely akin to grudging respect enters my heart as I follow him. My cousin may be an arrogant fool, but he is certainly not a coward.

As we pass the line of the fallen soldiers on our way back, Ingwil’s steps falter, and for a moment he appears to be sick again. But then he draws a deep breath and slowly walks past the silent shapes on the ground. He looks closely at every one of them, as if to keep them all in memory. At the end of the line he halts and gazes long at Súlion’s lifeless face.

We have lost thirty-seven warriors, and four times as many are injured, some of them gravely. In the harbour house those most skilled in healing are tending the wounded, and as we approach the place, my cousin’s steps slow. I overtake him, assuming he would avoid approaching the others. But I am wrong. As I enter, he follows a few steps behind me.

“We lost three more, King Arafinwë.” The healer’s voice is hollow. His face is pale, his hands and garment covered in blood. “Several others linger on the threshold to Námo’s Halls. And most of the wounds are poisoned. Our medicines help, but, sadly, not enough.”

He speaks solely to me, without even looking at my cousin. Some others turn towards us, then avert their faces in icy silence. Some looks flash in open anger.

At my words, Ingwil raises his eyes and looks at me with unreadable expression. The healer frowns; his gaze passes from me to Ingwil, then back. At last he nods. “Yes. We do need help.”

We set to work, to cleaning injuries and dressing them. At first, it takes all my resolve to steady my hands and keep working when confronted with the deep cuts, with limbs severed partly or entirely, but after a while the terror recedes before the urgency of saving lives. Ingwil fares likewise. I cast a glance at him as he is stitching close a long gash on a warrior’s arm. My cousin’s face is white as chalk, but his movements are sure and skilful. Still, some of those he tends turn away their faces. A few who can walk rise without a word and go to seek help elsewhere. Ingwil lowers his eyes; I notice a tear on his cheek, but he swiftly brushes it away.

The evening is already late when we stand by the mound, raised over our fallen people outside the city walls on a small hillock, beside a grove of evergreen trees. Should someone say something? But our grief is too deep for words, and every one of those present merely lays upon the mound a green branch, a wreath of vines, or a handful of flowers cut in the abandoned gardens.

We still stand in despondent silence when Ingwil takes a step forward. Faces turn towards him with the same cold reproach as before. My cousin squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“I have led you to disaster.” His quiet voice carries through the icy silence. “My overconfidence and poorly weighed decisions have caused deaths that otherwise could have been avoided. For that, I shall stand trial before the Valar and, until I am judged, I lay down my authority as your commander. If you would consent, I would pass command to Arafinwë, King of the Noldor. Had I heeded his warning, we would not be standing before a grave-mound now.”

There are nods and whispers among those present. The captains of the Vanyar exchange looks. “We consent.”

“I am grateful.” Ingwil looks down, then raises his head and meets the eyes of the people again. “And… I regret. I do not ask you to forgive me. I do not deserve to be forgiven. But I regret with all my heart. Could I take back my choices that led to this, I would.”

He steps aside. There is no reply, but perhaps the silence after his words is slightly less hostile and the eyes directed towards him a little less cold.

Night falls, yet few of us sleep; maybe only those with wounds so grave that they flee to the realm of dreams for healing. The hours pass. I hold the hand of a wounded soldier who shivers in fever. Amid moans of pain he speaks, mostly incoherent words, but there is also a name he repeats again and again. Name of his spouse? Of his daughter? I ask but he does not hear me. His eyes turn glassy. Is there nothing we can do to take away his pain, to save him? To save the others? I look around for some hope, some encouragement. The healer meets my gaze, then shakes his head and looks away with tears in his eyes. The soldier’s breathing grows slower and slower. His palm in my hand turns cold. One last shallow breath… and then, stillness. Forgive me— But I cannot even finish the sentence. For I do not know his name. And I will never find out.

By midnight, four others pass to the Halls of Mandos. At last I cannot bear the presence of death and pain any longer. The Vanyarin archer I am now tending slips into uneasy sleep, and I rise from my seat beside him and stagger outside. The responsibility of command has added double weight to my burden of guilt. Ëarendil warned us of the poisoned weapons of the Orcs. We had knowledge of this peril, yet we chose to ignore it. Not only Ingwil. I chose to ignore it, too.

The air on the street is clean and fresh after the sharp reek of blood inside. It is long past midnight, and the sky is at its darkest, with no Moon and merely distant stars twinkling above veils of mist rising from the Sea. The seabirds are silent, but waves wash against the white stone docks with a soft sound as I stray aimlessly through the harbour. We have lit fires and torches on the streets and in the port, but the flickering lights give little cheer. Immersed in gloomy thoughts, I pay little heed to my surroundings. Only when I reach the end of the long stone pier, I notice Ingwil standing in the shadow of a half-ruined low building, presumably built to house lights guiding the ships into haven. My cousin stands stone-still, looking in the distance, his arms wrapped around himself, as if he were cold. Yet he has noticed my presence.

“How does it feel, Arafinwë?” he asks in a hollow voice. “How does it feel to be right?”

“What?” I stare at him, uncertain whether I want to hit him or throw him in the dark water of the harbour, but then he turns toward the torchlight and my anger somewhat fades at the sight of raw grief in his eyes. “How can it feel? How do you think it should?”

“Did someone else… die?” he asks hesitantly. When I speak of those who have passed away during the last hours, he flinches and hugs himself tighter.

“Súlion forgave us… ere he passed away,” I say quietly. “He made me promise we would go on and defeat Moringotto. If you want to honour his memory, you will make the same promise.” He stands still, face like chiselled from stone. I lay my hand on his arm. “Ingwil, listen… I know…“

“You know nothing! Leave me alone!” He shoves me away. “I do not need your condescending pity! Leave me alone!” he shouts one more time over his shoulder as he strides away.

At least back in the harbour house nothing has changed for the worst. None has passed away; those with poisoned injuries seem to have less difficulty breathing, and cautious hope appears in the healers’ eyes. When I am about to take my place again, they send me away.

“We believe the worst may be over, King Arafinwë,” one of them says. “Those who have survived so far – they will likely recover. Go and rest.”

Relieved that I do not have to remain inside, I sit down by the fire in the yard. The warmth and the light should be comforting, but whenever I look into the flames, disconnected scenes from the battle flash before my eyes again and again. I see faces of enemies, faces of our people. Glint of weapons. Stains of blood on armour, stains of blood on the pavestones. Despite the closeness to fire, I am cold.

Feeling somebody’s presence, I look up. Artanar’s head is bandaged, his eyes red rimmed. He takes seat on the uprooted tree trunk beside me, and we sit, sharing grief in silence until he speaks.

“Do not call me that!” I interrupt him and bury face in my hands, startled by my own fierceness. I have forfeited my title and position with my choices.

Artanar stirs, and I open my eyes. He lays a sketchbook on my knees. Where has he found one? I did not take any with me.

“You did not take it,” Artanar answers my unspoken question. “I did. I thought you might want to draw something of what we see here. I did not think it would be… this.” He looks at me closely. “Still… Do it, Arafinwë. Draw. I know it helps you.”

Artanar knows. He is the only one who has seen my sketches of Alqualondë ere I burned them.

Briefly he lays his hand on my shoulder, then leaves. I open the sketchbook and stare long at the blank page. But when I at last set the pencil to paper, I draw no battle scenes. I draw neither enemies, nor our warriors. I draw houses we saw on our way: not empty but inhabited, enclosed by well-tended, blossoming gardens, with light curtains flowing in open windows, with fountains sparkling in the courtyards. I draw people: children playing amid the flowerbeds, dancing couples, friends laughing together. I do not draw death. I draw life. I draw what this place once was. And maybe – what it can again become?

I keep drawing by the firelight until the dawn. The flames have dwindled to embers when I rise and put the sketchbook in my pocket, shivering in the morning chill. The Eldar should not feel cold like this. Yet I do.

But inside the harbour house I find hope. The healers’ weary faces are smiling. There have been no more deaths; those injured most grievously are peacefully sleeping, those with lighter wounds sit up, some are even about to rise. I leave the place, somewhat comforted.

We hold a council an hour later, the Noldor and the Vanyar, to decide our further course. The decision is easy. With so many recovering, we cannot risk the road back to Brithombar. We must wait for the ships to arrive here.

“What of the Valar?” hesitantly asks one of Ingwil’s captains. “Should we not send a message to the Isle of Balar? About… all this?”

I sigh. “Believe me, the Valar know. With so many who have passed to the Halls… And we do not have enough men to divide our forces further. Let us hope none will assault us here while we wait.”

Waiting for the ships, we explore the harbour and make certain that no debris block the way for the ships. We repair the harbour lights. We clear away rubble from the streets and make some of the houses habitable. We fill our hands and minds with work, to escape thoughts about our failure. About the burial mound in the shade of evergreens.

Five days later, white sails appear on the skyline, and after a few hours ‘The White Wave’ docks in the harbour. We stand on the pier. Ingwil is there, too, a little apart, silent, with unreadable face.

The vessel lowers the gangway, and at once I feel light-headed; my heart is pounding heavily in my chest. Beside me, Artanar draws a sharp breath. Some of the Valar are here, clad in their raiment of Arda. Oromë. Aulë. Irmo and Estë. Nienna and Yavanna. And Eönwë too. They descend on the pier, approach us and halt, measuring us with timeless, otherworldly eyes.

“You were to head for the Isle of Balar.” Eönwë’s tone is level but there are undercurrents. As the one currently in command I am about to reply, but Manwë’s herald raises his hand and turns towards my cousin. “Lord Ingwil, explain.”

Ingwil straightens gathering courage, then looks at Eönwë and the Valar unflinching. “We were about to arrive three weeks before the appointed meeting time. As we were nearing the shore of Endórë, we received new knowledge about the Hither Lands.” He briefly describes Súlion’s rescue. “With better maps and sufficient forces, we decided to retake the ports of Brithombar and Eglarest and to secure landing for the ships on mainland, closer to our destination that lies north. Conquering Brithombar was a question of hours. But then…” He falls silent searching for words.

“Then…” Ingwil draws a deep breath. “…I grew overconfident. After leaving three hundred warriors to guard the city and sending back hundred more with the message, I still deemed our strength sufficient to take Eglarest. I erred.”

“Ëarendil warned you about the perils of this land.” The air around us suddenly grows cold, and I shiver. Oromë’s voice sounds like the crack of a whip. “We warned you. About the Orcs. About the poisoned weapons they wield. What made you disregard all warnings?”

“Our first encounter with them, lord.” Ingwil lowers his eyes. “They seemed no more than beasts, those we drove away from Brithombar.”

“Just so I understand correctly, lord Ingwil, - you allowed the enemies simply to leave?” Oromë’s eyes now throw green lightnings. “The Orcs?”

“It seemed wrong to kill those clearly defeated and fleeing,” my cousin replies in a slightly trembling voice.

“Wrong?” Lord of Forests bellows. “You disobey orders, you lead your people to disaster and now you tell me you thought killing Orcs was wrong?”

“Compassion led them to do so.” Nienna steps forth and lays her hand on Oromë’s arm. “Shall we judge compassion as a mistake, even if directed towards the enemies? They had warning but no true knowledge.”

“They would have had both warning and knowledge, had they held by what was decided earlier,” Eönwë says gravely. “Our meeting on the Isle of Balar was not foreseen without a reason, lord Ingwil. Had you obeyed us, you would have met people who have been fighting the same fight on these shores for centuries, people who have experience. You would have learned many useful things about Endórë before going to the first battle. You would have known better than to rush ahead blindly with a single guide.”

“All you say is true, lords.” Ingwil raises his head and looks Eönwë and the Valar into the eyes. “My rash counsel has cost lives. I have failed as a commander, so I lay down my authority and ask you to judge me as you see fit. I take the blame upon myself fully.”

“I do not agree.” I take a step forward. All faces turn towards me. “I share the blame. I supported lord Ingwil’s plan to retake the cities. I thought it a good plan and, truth be told, I still think so. Brithombar proves this. Our mistake was pressing on, without waiting for reinforcements. Had we acted more wisely, we would have taken both ports without losses and we could have met on the Isle of Balar at the appointed time. But Ingwil is not the one solely responsible. As I followed his overconfident move, I am to blame also, for I command the Noldor. Therefore, I will share the punishment you choose to deal him and lay down my authority of command too.”

“I would not relinquish it.” Ingwil’s eyes flash briefly. “I would fight as any soldier, die in battle if that be my fate. But I am not fit to lead people, obviously.”

He looks away. I recall his excitement at the prospect of leading the Vanyar to victory.

“I too have failed as commander. I shall likewise fight, but command is clearly above me.” I keep to myself that I do not want to be my kinsman’s rival, to retain command while he loses it.

Eönwë and the Valar look at one another; thoughts pass between them like barely perceptible flashes of light, incomprehensible to us.

“We shall later decide on your judgement,” the herald of Manwë then says. “Show us the harbour and the city now.”

“And I would tend those who sustained injuries in battle,” Estë steps forward.

“If you would follow me, my lady.” Artanar bows before her. “Most have almost recovered. Only a few need some more days of rest.”

He leads her to the harbour house where our people are still recovering. Irmo and Nienna join them, but Eönwë, the other Valar and captain Falmar follow us.

“Those who built the place knew their craft well.” The captain nods with appreciation as we walk through the harbour. “And you have done well with the repairs, even though you are no sailors.”

Aulë sets his broad palm to the wall of a house, then nods. “Good stone and outstanding craftsmanship. It is good the filth of Moringotto do not infest this place any longer.”

As we walk along the streets, the Valar question us about the battle. I tell truthfully what I remember, but that is mostly a confused blur of forms and weapons, shrieks and clashing steel. In wonder I listen to what others recall. Someone hesitantly mentions Ingwil saving his life. Another has seen my cousin standing guard over a wounded soldier. Some speak of me commanding and leading a counterattack, freeing a passage, killing an Orc captain. I recall none of this, despite it happened but a few days ago; how miserable is that? I follow, dragging my feet, keeping my eyes on the pavestones. They deserve a more capable leader.

Silence falls, and I raise my eyes to find that all others are far ahead, and the Lord of the Forests clearly expects a reply from me. “Two thousand three hundred eighty-four.” We know the number. We counted the bodies ere burying them in an abandoned quarry.

Later, we all assemble in the square to hear our doom. Me and Ingwil, we stand a little forward. Ingwil’s features are frozen. I fight a desire to clasp together my hands. What is the worst punishment they can deal us? Send us back to Valinórë in shame?

“With the authority given to me by the Elder King, and after taking counsel with the Valar, I will now pass judgement on Ingwil, commander of the Vanyar, and Arafinwë, commander of the Noldor, as those responsible for the actions of this host.”

Eönwë nods. “So be it. Our decision in this matter is that you shall both resume your duties and continue to lead your people.”

Unblinking, we stare at the Valar. Clearly, we must have misheard. This cannot be their decision.

“My lords…” Ingwil is gripping the hem of his coat. “I am not worthy to lead them any longer. I have failed their trust.”

“Then regain it!” Eönwë snaps. “You said you would abide by our judgement. Do you take back your words now?”

“I…” My cousin’s eyes dart from one timeless face to another. Then he bows and takes a step back, spine straight, posture rigid. “I will abide by it.”

Eönwë’s stern gaze is on my face now. “Do you have aught to say, King Arafinwë?”

“Very well.” He nods. “This matter is settled then. The other ships should be here in two days. After that, we march north.”

This is the end of it. The Valar depart. Ingwil draws a deep breath and walks towards his captains. Artanar takes a step in my direction, but I turn my back on the square ere he has reached me. I desire no company right now, not even his. I go to the harbour, and he does not follow.

Arms folded on my chest, I gaze at the Sea. A gentle breeze drives tiny waves over the surface of water glimmering in the Sun. The day is bright, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of early spring flowers blossoming in the abandoned gardens. But twenty-eight Vanyar, sixteen Noldor and one of the Falathrim will see no sunlight and starlight anymore. And for that, I am to blame.

Startled, I turn. Oromë is nearby, leaning against a column at the entrance of the most ornately decorated building in the port, maybe the harbourmaster’s house. My face likely betrays all my feelings. It always has; my brothers teased me about this sometimes … even Fëanáro.

“I am not fit to lead people; that much must be plain to everyone.” Irritation must be obvious in my voice, but I do not care.

“I made an unforgivable mistake. And a commander should have a clear head, but I cannot even recall the battle events!” I clench my hands into fists.

“Yes, you made a foolish decision to march here with so few men. But when pitted against a much larger force, you knew what to do. Both you and Ingwil. That is what matters. Once battle is at hand, the commander should make the right decisions during it and afterwards. And you did that.” When I do not reply, he shakes his head. “No mistake is unforgivable, Arafinwë. And the stand you made… When taken unawares and outnumbered more than five times, you still prevailed over the enemies. You freed the city, destroyed them all and lost only forty-five warriors.”

“Yes.” Oromë lays his hand on my shoulder and looks me closely in the eyes. “Only forty-five. Needless deaths, true, but it could have been much worse. And…” He looks away for a moment and sighs. “You will lose more. People die in war, King of the Noldor. Forgive me if what I say seems cruel, but you will have to accept that.”

His last words are hardly encouraging, but after he leaves I feel a little better. Maybe.

The other ships arrive even as Eönwë has said, and a few busy days pass unloading them and arranging everything for the long march north. On our last evening in Eglarest I approach the burial mound, to pay my respects to the fallen ere we leave. But Ingwil is already there, standing beside the mound with a bowed head, so, unwilling to intrude, I withdraw behind a large boulder nearby.

Suddenly my cousin raises his head with a start, looks around, turns and, shielding his eyes against the low evening Sun, peers in the shadows of the trees beyond the mound. A tall figure, clad in a garb of deep green, approaches him. Ingwil lowers his hand and stands still, looking at Yavanna. Her face is kind as she speaks to him. He listens in silence, then nods. Yavanna smiles and lightly brushes his cheek. Then she kneels by the mound and briefly lays her hand on the fading greenery.

After Yavanna’s departure Ingwil remains by the mound for long moments. Finally he wipes his eyes dry and pulls himself straight. Ere leaving, he sets his hand over his heart and says something that looks like a solemn promise.

As he walks past me, I withdraw further in the shade of the boulder, but a twig snaps under my feet. Ingwil halts and turns abruptly. At the sight of me, he clenches his fists.

“I am not spying. I came to say my farewells and was unwilling to intrude upon yours. Why are you so wrathful with me?”

“I did not ask you to defend me before the Valar!” His eyes flash. “Leave me alone!”

I take a step towards him. “Ingwil, we share the same guilt and grief. Should we be at war with one another when there is a war to fight ahead of us?”

“I am not at war with you.” Ingwil’s lips quirk in contempt. “But neither do I want the company of you and your unbearable righteousness.”

He brushes past me and strides away as I look after him with a bitter mixture of anger, disappointment and sadness. I tried more than once, Súlion. I truly did. I am sorry.

When I turn towards the city, the light of evening has turned into dusk and the first stars have kindled. The faded green on the silent mound is fresh and vibrant again, the vines have taken root and the wilted flowers have raised their heads. With Yavanna’s blessing, this place will keep the memory of our fallen people.

Less than a week after we have left the coastlands behind, we meet a company of Men, several hundred strong. We eye each other warily at first, but then their captain speaks to us in Sindarin.

“I am Roal. We are Edain, of the house of Hador,” he says. “For centuries my people have been friends with the lords of the Noldor, and you look akin to them.”

When he learns of our purpose, he raises a clenched fist. “Long we have fought the filth of Morgoth and would see him and his creatures vanquished. Sadly, the Men are divided, and only Edain now oppose the Dark Lord.”

This evening we sit by the fire together, and we watch the Secondborn in wonder. They are somewhat like us and yet unlike – more frail in some ways, and their spirits glow with urgency we do not comprehend until we learn that their lifespan in this World is but few score-years.

“What can one accomplish in such a short time?” Artanar muses to himself, yet his voice is not sufficiently quiet, and our guests apparently understand some Quenya as well. Roal’s eyes glint in amusement.

“Much of what you accomplish in centuries, Master Elf,” he replies. “Let me ask you – how long have you dwelt in Arda?”

“Not yet.” Artanar shakes his head. “So far, craft has taken all my time. Even though…” My friend falls silent and blushes. Can it be he has left someone behind, someone I was not aware of? I look at him closely, but he avoids my eyes.

“If there is a lady waiting for you, you should speak to her at once when you return. Or maybe do more than speak.” Roal grins. “I can think of a few things more convincing than words.” I nearly laugh aloud when Artanar’s face assumes a distinctively scarlet tone, but the captain of Men nods. “See how different this is? I am forty-four. I have been married for two-score years, and we have two sons and a daughter. Both our sons are already skilled in the craft of their choice, and our daughter is learning. Our eldest son’s wedding took time last autumn, and our first grandchild is on the way.”

We merely shake our heads in wonder. This is indeed so very different from us. The Eldar would not choose to wed and have a family during times of such peril.

“I know this is not your way, but we do not have the years you have,” the captain of Men says quietly. “And I do not complain, despite the hard times. My life has been… good. Beautiful, in many ways. I first met my Airith by the wide waters of river Nenning, and later we plighted our troth in the shade of the ancient willow trees growing there. We built our house nearby that place, upon a hillock; from the windows one can see sunsets colouring golden the forest beyond the river. We have been happy, you know. The coming of children, the shared cares…” He smiles and looks in the flames for a while, then raises his head. His eyes flash. “Some years ago, with more and more Orcs starting to roam around, we decided to resist, to protect our homes. We have gathered others to us. Many of those now here have fled from the north before; they no longer want to run. Our numbers grow, and if we keep together, we can prevail over Morgoth’s filth. And now, with the hope you bring…”

We camp and take counsel together for another day, and when we part, the company of the Edain continues their way westward, to fight the enemies along the coast of Valariandë. They need some convincing, though. At first, they want to join us and march north.

“We do not want you to shelter us.” Roal frowns. “It is unfair you should face the greater peril.”

“We have greater strength and numbers,” I reply. “And better weapons. Be not offended, my friend.”

“I am not offended. But even with less men and worse gear we could be of some use. We would gladly die defending Middle-earth.”

“It would be much better if you defended Endor and lived,” Eönwë says gravely. “You spoke about your family, and your men likely have families as well. Guard your homeland. Alert other companies of your people. The coastlands and south of Beleriand need protection too, and we cannot spare our forces for this purpose; the Eldar will be needed in the north.”

“By which you mean, lord, we will not be needed there.” Roal laughs mirthlessly. The Man likely takes Eönwë for just another Elf, our commander. “But you are probably right. We shall cleanse the coastlands then. Plenty of opportunities to die doing that, too.”

“Indeed.” Eönwë sighs, then looks Roal closely in the eyes. “Go with the blessing of the Valar. May your armour protect you well and may your aim be true.”

The captain of Men considers him intently, then bows low before him. “I believe you have the power and authority to bestow such blessing, lord.”

We cover mile after mile. The air grows warm, and the days lengthen. Carpets of white and blue flowers cover the forest floor amid burnt and uprooted trees. Orchards bloom by desolate farmsteads. Birds sing and nest in ruins of long-abandoned cities. This land is fair even now, with scars of war upon its face. What was it like in the days of the Long Peace?

The deeper inland we pass, the more often we encounter our enemies. Sometimes they give us fight, but usually they turn and flee northward. Behind them, remains fire. Devastation. And people. Men, women and children, hacked to pieces. Pinned to walls with spears and arrows. Burned. How can such cruelty even exist in the world, in any creature? With time, our tears run dry, and we merely bury them in silence. But always we cover the graves with green branches and flowers. Maybe some of them will put down roots and blossom in memory.

In the beginning of our march I often think of Ëarwen. Recalling her smile, her beloved face and our days together brings some hope and consolation. But soon I lock these memories in a remote corner of my heart and allow them to fade to an indistinct image. It seems unfitting to think of her, when those other memories, the memories of the burnt houses, the bloated corpses, the hideous faces of our enemies, are so close. With each new day, the images of home and peace retreat further and further behind the harsh reality of war. Sometimes I look northeast. I have learned that my daughter dwells there, in a land called Ossiriand, but I lock away thoughts of Artanis too. Let her be safe and well, and far enough from evil.

In evenings I sit by the fire and draw images of Endórë - of Endórë as it should have been, with thriving farmsteads and proud cities, with tall trees in great forests, with wide rivers running swift and clear. When the sketchbook is full, Artanar gets me another. When that, too, is full, he finds some loose sheets of paper somewhere. When there is no more paper, I draw on cliffs with a charcoal from fireplace, I draw with a stick on hard-packed, scorched ground. When I draw, I almost forget the devastation around. Sometimes I even convince myself that the sights I am depicting truly exist somewhere, that they are not merely an imagined replacement for ruined buildings, for desolate woodlands, for defiled waters. I stop drawing when we reach our destination, when we cross the mountains encircling Anfauglith. Facing this sight, all other images fade, and all memories lose their colours.

Here, the light of the sky dwindles. Acrid smoke stings our eyes. Bitter wind drives grey ashes over the black and barren wasteland below. In its narrowest place, the plain is some fifteen miles wide, and beyond it looms a mountain ridge with jagged tops, crowned with three misshapen peaks, seemingly formed of slag, piled for centuries. They spit forth dark fumes that obscure the sky so much that it feels like the grey hour of late evening or early morning. The Noldor who stand with me gasp in dismay.

“I do not know,” I reply after a long silence. “But we must. Somehow, we must.”

I rise in a grey twilight of the early hour. Not that the day will grow any brighter; the fumes from Thangorodrim have stolen even the meagre light that was here when we first came. With time, it has become harder and harder to recall that in other places dawn colours the sky every morning, that midday Sun shines bright overhead. In truth, I am not trying to remember it. The memory of light, like all other fair memories, has retreated to a remote corner of my mind.

I pour myself a glass of water and wince at the acrid taste. Water comes from the streamlets flowing down the black faces of the cliffs around our camp. This shoulder of hills, separated from Anfauglith by a low ridge, is the closest place to Moringotto’s fortress where we could fortify our positions and secure provisions for the long siege.

Artanar comes to help me don my armour. He is quiet this morning, more so than ever.

“Moringotto has emptied Angamando,” he says when I look at him with question. I nod. We have come to the end, whatever that might be. Artanar frowns and shifts in his stance. “Before we go out there… you should know… It has been an honour to fight beside you, Aranya. My friend. And … if today…”

“No!” I grip his arm. “Do not say it!” I will not allow a thought of defeat in my heart. I will not allow a thought of losing my best friend. “Please, do not say it,” I repeat in a low voice.

We step outside and climb the ridge. It takes all my strength of will to keep my face calm and my steps steady at the sight below on the plain. Artanar has spoken the truth; Anfauglith can hardly contain the dark mass of our enemies. Fires glare through the coiling vapours and lightnings flicker above the peaks of Thangorodrim.

The northern slopes of the mountains facing the plain gleam with the pale sheen of our armour. I stand by my banner; Ingwil’s banner streams in a breeze upon a peak a few hundred steps away. The Vanyar cheer when he appears in his gilded armour. Regret stabs my heart. I have not made peace with my cousin. The Vanyar and the Noldor have fought as separate hosts, and on occasional council meetings we have avoided speaking to one another, unless necessary. From what I know, Ingwil has led his people well. His decisions in battle have been bold, yet carefully weighed, and he has not risked lives needlessly. It would grieve me to leave our enmity smouldering, if today… No, I cut myself short. No thoughts of defeat and death before the battle.

There is no way back, only forward. My people stand alert, ready to advance. Some of those in the front row have already made the first step, eager for the sign to attack. Faces of those closest to me are serious and determined; their eyes show ice-cold resolution. This must be how my brother stood at the gates of Angamando challenging the Black Foe. I do not believe he rushed into combat blindly, in despair, as some say. Nolofinwë was not like that. Cold fury was so much more like him; restrained anger, directed like deadly arrow to a target. In rage, Fëanáro was fire, and Nolofinwë was ice. What am I? I do not know, but today I stand here for them both.

Suddenly the wind dies and strange silence falls on our host. A gleaming figure stands atop a boulder with upraised hand; countless shapes of light shimmer beside it. Valar and Maiar have shed their garments of Arda and appear in their true forms.

“Eldar of Aman, you have fought valiantly so far.” Eönwë’s voice carries through the still air. “And you shall fight valiantly today! Believe in your strength! Believe in victory!”

A loud cheer follows his words. Thunderous blast of Oromë’s horn, Valaróma, echoes over the plain, the clear ringing of our trumpets joins it. The host starts to move downhill. The final battle is beginning. Either we defeat Moringotto now or the land of Endórë will be forever covered in Darkness, and even Valinórë will not be safe.

Flames flicker in the sky. Fire is licking the clouds. The air, full of foul reek, burns in my chest. All around me warriors gasp and struggle for breath. I do not see any more how the host of the West can prevail. The winged dragons circle overhead. Valar and Maiar hold them back but barely. New and new hordes of Orcs and Trolls issue from the gates. We still hold our ground but are heavily outnumbered. We cannot stand much longer. Even so, we shall fight to the last. I raise my sword again and cut down the next Orc, barely paying attention to my opponent’s face. Just another servant of the Enemy. The number of those fallen by my hand has long ceased to matter.

The screeching of dragons grows louder. They circle lower and lower above our heads. Suddenly a mighty roar rends the air, so loud and hideous that we cover our ears. From the low-lying clouds another dragon emerges and crosses the line of defence the Valar have set above us. This new monster is at least ten times the size of the largest of the other beasts. The black scales covering its hideous body gleam in the dusk and reflect the flames. The foul wind of its enormous leathery wings swipes the warriors off their feet. Our enemies cheer and chant a name. Ancalagon. Ancalagon the Black. Moringotto has unleashed Ancalagon the Black. We have no strength to set against this terror. This is over.

Another deafening roar. The beast is now so close that I feel the heat emanating from him. I stand still, sword in hand, staring at the approaching demon. I will not cower before it. If this is the end, I will be turned to ash standing.

“Dragonfire, Aranya, beware!” Artanar sweeps me off my feet and drags behind a large boulder. “That creature is nearly upon us!”

The heat draws closer, becomes nearly unbearable, then subsides again. I struggle to rise.

Artanar attempts to restrain me, but I shove him away and leave the shelter of the cliff. He follows me closely. “Very well, if you are so determined to seek your death, I will die beside you!” Anger in his voice overcomes terror. For a short while.

The horror of the sight that now opens before our eyes exceeds everything we have seen this far. A scorched patch of earth stretches before us. Smoking remnants of our warriors, turned to char and ashes, are scattered all around. Screams rend the air. Some of the blackened shapes are still moving, but soon stop, dying in terrible anguish. Some of those standing are ablaze; they fall to the ground in hope to beat the flames down, but the very earth here fights for Moringotto, and new tongues of fire leap up and enclose them. Some are running frantically, struggling to remove their vambraces and breastplates, and I realize with a sickening clarity that they are being roasted alive inside their armour. There is no hope for those touched by the dragonflames. There is no water here to set against fire. Anfauglith is a dry wasteland.

Still, I struggle forward to aid at least some of them, but the heat is unbearable. Flames leap up to hinder me. I cannot enter the blackened patch. I can do nothing to help. I stagger back a few steps, collapse to my knees beside the field of smoking ash and scream in anger and frustration.Ilúvatar, why? Why do You allow the Darkness to prevail over the Light? Why do You allow Evil to claim this land? Why? Ëarwen’s face flickers before my eyes, and the faces of my children. My beloved wife, I will not return to you as I promised. My daughter, we did not deliver your home in exile from evil. Dry sobs rack my body. We have failed.

Unsteadily I stand and raise my eyes to the sky covered with thick, black clouds. At first I discern only the shapes of the dragons circling above our heads, the mighty figure of Ancalagon in their middle. “They are not attacking anymore,” numbly I state the obvious. But why have they retreated?

Artanar’s eyes are sharper than mine. “There is more. To the West, Aranya.”

And then I, too, see it: a tiny dot of light is approaching swiftly and growing greater and brighter. The brightness grows dazzling, but I discern the shape of a great ship, bearing on her mast a jewel that gleams with an otherworldly radiance and beauty. At the helm of the ship stands her captain, a warrior in burnished armour. He holds an unsheathed sword, its blade reflecting the light of the Silmaril. Smaller shapes, swift and golden-feathered, accompany the ship, and their calls, shrill and clear, drive away the despair.

“Vingilot! Vingilot and Ëarendil!” Someone shouts somewhere in the field, and then thousands of voices take up the call. “Ëarendil! Vingilot! The Eagles of Manwë!”

The black clouds overhead burst, and rain pours from them and douses the flames. I seize a horn from Artanar and blow my call, a sequence of winding notes. Many turn towards me, many are still standing.

My voice carries far over the field. Soon my people surround me. Swiftly I divide them, sending some to aid the wounded. The others I lead to attack. The tide of the battle has turned. Orcs dart here and there in dismay. Trolls stagger around confused, an easy target for our swords and spears. Overhead, the Eagles take out the smaller dragons. Ëarendil fights Ancalagon. His blade pierces the dragon’s scaled armour. Soon the beast roars in pain. He has no fire left, either the rain or the light of the Silmaril has quenched it. He attempts to bring down Vingilot, but she sails the clouds steadily. Then Ëarendil strikes the last mighty blow. He sunders the hideous head from the long neck. Ancalagon’s body plummets to the ground, on its way smiting the towers of Thangorodrim. They topple down in heaps of slag and ash.

Thank you for reading so far! We are only in the middle of the story, so nothing, of course, has ended. I am posting two chapters today, because I am travelling this weekend.

It rains. Rain abated while we carried our dead and wounded from the battlefield, but now it is pouring down again. It quenches the last flames, washes away some of the dust and blood. I remove my helm and raise my face to the sky; water tastes clean and sweet on my lips, and a little salty at the same time. Whether that is because the clouds are borne from the Sea or it is the salt of my own tears, who can tell? And does it even matter?

I turn at the sound of a quiet voice beside me. Ingwil also looks skywards. Ash and blood cover his face. His eyes are red-rimmed; the war has etched lines of grief on my kinsman’s face. I hesitate only briefly ere I lay my hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly a loud clamour comes from the fortress. Startled, we turn towards it, in time to see Tulkas throwing open its black gates. The host of Valar and Maiar passes inside and emerges again after a while, dragging a dark figure with them.

Frozen, we watch the Black Enemy of the World, as Fëanáro has named him. Moringotto is tall, taller than Eönwë, but his form radiates rather malice than strength. His eyes burn like coals in his scarred face, his lips are twisted in hatred. Even from afar I feel the darkness of his spirit, the ill-will that has long since ousted anything even remotely resembling honour. And I feel his fear. He struggles in vain against Tulkas and Oromë who hold him firmly. The crown upon his head blazes with the light of two hallowed jewels. Eönwë takes it off, and the Valar drag Moringotto away. Eönwë remains, together with Aulë. The Smith frees the Silmarils, then he hands the jewels to Manwë’s herald, takes the crown and follows the other Valar.

“We shall raze this fortress to the ground and destroy its foundations,” Eönwë says gravely. “But first it must be searched for captives. You should...” He falls silent and considers us closely. “Can you do it? For what you may find beyond those gates...”

“We shall do it, my lord Eönwë,” Ingwil asserts. “If there are captives, it is our duty to free them.”

“Very well,” replies the Maia. “But be wary. There may be many dangers in that evil place. Take sufficient force with you.”

Ingwil bows and turns to go, to gather his men, and I follow him to do the same. As I leave, Eönwë sighs and looks away. Why?

I understand that flicker of sympathy only when we enter the Hells of Iron. We have confronted countless Moringotto’s servants. Violence and bloodshed have hardened us. But nothing of what we have encountered during the years of war has prepared us for what we face now.

An overwhelming sense of evil encircles us as soon as we pass the broken gates. I shudder and struggle for air. It has been dark outside too, with the clouds and the coiling fumes ever obscuring the light of the sky, but inside, the darkness is other, it is nearly a being of its own. The light of the torches we carry is dimmed, almost quenched. After the rain-washed air on the field, here it reeks of filth, gathered for centuries. It reeks of blood and rotting flesh.

Our footsteps echo in vaulted hallways; there is no other sound. Angamando is empty of enemies. Moringotto’s creatures have all been sent out to battle, and they have all perished in the last desperate fight or fled to the mountains. But signs of their abiding and of their deeds are there.

Closest to the entrance are deep pits with sturdy leashes fastened to the walls; likely a place for keeping Wargs, the beastly steeds of the Orcs. We step closer. When we see what litters the ground in these pits.... Bones. Gnawed bare of flesh. Bodies, shredded to pieces. Torn, rotting limbs. Remnants of… animals, surely? Let them be just that, remnants of deer, of elk, of mountain-goats. Please, Ilúvatar. Merely beasts. Please.

But… The hope – the self-deception – crumbles to dust. The beasts have been feeding on people.

Gasps of horror sound around me. Someone staggers back dropping the torch. I am—

A keen wail pierces the stale air. Something moves in a shadowed corner of the furthermost pit. Drawing blades, we raise torches for more light, and then we wish we had not done so.

One of those thrown to the Wargs still lives if life that may be called. In the dim half-light it is not possible to tell whether it is one of the Eldar or one of the Atani, a woman or a man. Covered in blood and gore, the shape is writhing and screaming in agony, slowly moving towards the middle of the pit. The faces of the Noldor and the Vanyar are white as chalk.

I suddenly recall my nightmare in Valinórë, an image of a dark prison and red froth dripping from the fangs of a wolf-like creature. Shuddering, almost against my will, I approach the edge of the pit and descend the crude ladder to the bottom. Each step on the slippery floor is a struggle against fear and revulsion, but at last I kneel beside the figure on the ground and force myself to look straight at it.

It is one of the Men. Layers of dried blood cover his face, his once-golden hair and beard, agony distorts his features. His right arm and both his feet are chewed off, half-eaten, his stomach is shredded open. It is a wonder he still lives. Even were he an Elf, there would be no healing for injuries such as these.

Somehow, the Man senses my presence. He is mad from pain, but his gaze suddenly clears when it meets mine. His eyes are like summer sky in places where the Sun still shines.

“Please...” whisper the bloody lips in-between wails of anguish. “Please...”

I draw my dagger. At the sight and sound of it, relief flickers in the blue eyes. He stops writhing and lies still, with merely occasional shudder running over his body. I thrust the blade in his heart; his eyes slide shut, and dead silence falls.

As I climb the stairs back to the others, terrified faces turn towards me. I am shaking all over. Only Artanar’s support prevents me from collapsing on the ground. Everyone stands frozen and mute. I should say something, but I have no words. Someone else speaks.

“Eldar of Aman, we shall now go forth and deliver everyone from thraldom of this place! We shall go forth!”

Ingwil’s firm voice pulls us together, and we go on, further inside the mountain, where not a tiniest sliver of daylight penetrates the walls of stone. Endless tunnels stretch to all directions like an underground spider web. These passages lead to workshops and mines where the captives of Moringotto have toiled in slavery, to dark barren cells that have been their only place of rest, to torture chambers where their souls have been broken. The very sight of all these places… I cry. We cry. My heart bleeds for what I see.

Yet not as much as for the sight of those we have come to free. First, we come upon them in one of the mining shafts, a dank and cold tunnel. Maybe some fifty people are huddled together in the corner there. At the sight of our torches they shield their eyes or look away; it almost seems as if the light hurts them.

Some of the captives turn slowly, blinking against the light. A few hushed whispers and some quiet sobs echo in the silence, yet none of them speaks aloud. The faces turned towards us are pale and gaunt. Their clothing is scarce; it keeps away neither the cold, nor the dankness. Many bear wounds and scars on their bodies. And their eyes... Ai, Valar, their eyes…!

Their eyes are like windows of a long-forsaken house, and behind them lurks only emptiness. Their eyes are like frozen pools, sealing away with an impregnable shield all that was once alive and hopeful. Their eyes... their eyes are not the eyes of my people.

This is a nightmare. Our journey over the Sea. Endórë. This war. All of this. This is a nightmare, and it will fade with the first light of the morning. The Sun will rise, I will wake up, and the evil dream will be gone. Surely such horror cannot be present in Arda? For a brief while I convince myself of that.

But then my self-deception shatters. This is reality. These are my people. This is what Moringotto has done to them.

“Come, we shall lead you out of here,” my kinsman repeats. He takes a step towards them; they recoil, some cover their faces. “Do not be afraid. My name is Ingwil. We are of your kinsfolk. Please, do not be afraid.” A slight note of despair enters his voice. “Please.”

At first, only some muffled sounds from the corner break the silence, but then one steps forth and approaches us with slow, hesitant steps. The figure enters the ring of torchlight. It is a woman. Dark hair and pale skin, as much as can be discerned under the layers of grime and dust, mark her as one of the Noldor. She has been tall and beautiful once, but slavery has left deep marks. She is limping, her spine is bent, and a long scar disfigures her face. Still, her eyes glitter defiantly, almost wildly in the dim light. She stands before Ingwil and looks at him closely.

“Do it!” she repeats sharply, and he obeys, naming the Valar and the Valier. That is not enough. “And… songs. Songs to Elbereth. Do you know any?” Her intent gaze is still bound on Ingwil’s face.

Understanding dawns in my cousin’s eyes, and he starts to recite one of his own lays about Varda kindling the stars. For a short while the black, dank walls retreat, and we stand under a dome of dark velvet, as countless dots of light slowly appear above our heads and arrange in familiar constellations. Some other captives step forth slowly. A glimmer of uncertain, hesitant hope appears on their faces.

“Yes. You are of our kinsfolk,” admits the lady when Ingwil has fallen silent. Then she sighs. ”Something… happened. Our chains fell off. But we were not certain. We cannot be.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Never certain. Never safe. They have deceived us before. Kind words, fair forms… and then – pain. Terror.” Her wide eyes gleam with a feverish sheen.

“My lady, I understand.” Ingwil says gently. “But it is past. It is all in the past. Fear no more. We shall protect you.”

“Yes.” She draws a deep breath. “Yes. I believe you.” Slowly, her eyes clear, and she adds, “We shall help you to find the others and bring them out.”

Most of the captives have now risen to their feet and come forward. My heart clenches at the sight of the raw bruises around their wrists and ankles, of their unsteady, faltering steps.

“My lady, you should allow us to search for the others. You all should get out of this confinement as soon as you can, to receive care and healing.”

She shakes her head. “No. You would not… you would not find all places. Our aid, weak as it is, may be of some use.” Her gaze passes her companions of misery. “Some of us do need to get out swiftly,” she admits. “But the others shall aid you.”

She speaks to them quietly, and they divide. Nearly half of the captives seek the door; most of them must be either supported or carried. The rest join us, guiding us along the dark passages, pointing towards new and new places of imprisonment. Without their help we would miss at least half of those, and hundreds would remain trapped in this place of terror.

We find only Elves. When someone remarks on that, the dark-haired lady merely shrugs.

“We are stronger,” she says shortly. “Better as slaves. The Secondborn were fed to Wargs and Orcs.”

We shudder, recalling the Warg-pit, and also hearing her nearly indifferent voice as she says this. But maybe this shield of indifference has been the only way to survive, the only way to retain a little bit of sanity in this unending nightmare.

“Who am I…” At first she frowns, as if trying to unravel the meaning of the question, but then her confusion somewhat fades. “Failwen. I am Failwen. Yes. How long…? I know not.” She shrugs. “How do you measure time… here? I was captured in the Battle of Sudden Flame. My husband Gelmir is one of the lords of Nargothrond.” Failwen falls silent and stares ahead unblinking. “Was,” she then corrects herself quietly. “He was.” Her eyes are dark with memories, and she says nothing more for a long while, merely points to the doors to be opened, to shadowed hallways to be explored.

I do not know how much time passes; it seems to stand still in this place of torment. The scenes of suffering and misery soon blend together, but entwined with all I see is an overbearing sense of shame. We encounter Moringotto’s darkness now and are terrified. They suffered it for years. More than one hundred and thirty years of the Sun have passed since the Battle of Sudden Flame.

We have come to one of the lowest levels, to a tunnel with roughly hewn walls and a ceiling that nearly brushes our heads when Failwen’s strength falters. She stumbles and leans against the wall; her face is pale, her eyes closed.

“Lady Failwen, you must seek rest at once.” Ingwil approaches her. She opens her eyes, full of fear. Her breath comes in swift, painful gasps. My kinsman extends his hand towards her. “Please, allow me to help you.”

Failwen recoils at first, but then her eyes clear. Hesitantly she takes a step towards Ingwil and leans on his arm. My cousin looks at me, as if seeking my permission to go with her. I nod.

“Go, lady, we shall look in there,” I fill my voice with reassurance I do not feel.

“This passage yonder – it is the last.” Failwen’s voice is barely audible. She is trembling.

Ingwil leads her away, back towards the entrance. We remain in the torchlit twilight, the tunnel stretching in front of us. I draw a deep breath and turn towards the others.

As soon as we open the first door, Failwen’s fright becomes clear. At the very beginning of the passage are torture chambers, further on – cells. How can any living creature deliberately cause such suffering to others? What mind is capable of contriving such atrocities, what hands of accomplishing them? Whips and blades. Broken bones. Fire. My own hands shake as I reach to open doors after doors, guessing with faltering heart what terror awaits on the other side.

Doors after doors. Prisoner after prisoner. In the dark, narrow cages we find but few alive. We carry out them all, also those whose faces are stilled by death, either contorted in pain or frozen in relief that the torment at last has ended. Some die in our arms. And some… some…

I stagger out of a cell, squeeze shut my eyes and lean against the wall. Dagger falls on the stones with a loud clang from my trembling hand. No more. I cannot do this any longer. Darkness and horror have conquered me. Artanar catches me ere I sink on the floor.

“No.” I shake my head; my voice is no more than a strangled whisper. “No, it is not.”

It is not over. It will never be. All light has faded in the gloom, all hope is crushed under the impregnable stone. There is no more life. Only death.

Artanar tightens his hold on me. “Aranya, listen to me!” I shake my head. How does he not see – it has all been in vain? His voice reaches me as if from a great distance. “Arafinwë, return! By the light Varda Elentári set in heavens – return! Arafinwë!”

His words break the spell of terror. I draw a sudden, deep breath as one emerging from deep water and force my eyes open. Artanar’s frightened face looks foggy and distorted in the flickering torchlight. I blink a few times. My vision clears.

He sighs in relief, then considers me closely. “No, you are not well. You should get out of here at once.”

“No.” I shake my head. Who would abandon duty thus? Besides, only me and my herald are left here now; all others are gone. “How many doors left, Artanar?”

Scraping together the last remnants of courage and determination, I turn towards the door of the last prison cell. “Let us go. Let us finish this.”

It swings open. Artanar holds aloft the torch. At first, my heart sinks at the sight of the motionless figure on the floor. But then the Noldorin prisoner stirs.

“No. I will work for your foul master no longer.” His voice is faint and rasping. How long must one scream in pain for it to become like this? “No,” he repeats. “Burn me alive if you will.”

They have tortured him with fire. Bleeding blisters cover his arms and chest and the soles of his feet; in some places the skin is charred and black. I kneel beside him, hardly able to keep my voice steady.

“Free?” He regards me with veiled, confused eyes. “Death is the only freedom here. Can you give it to me?” His look suddenly grows sharp, hope flickers. “Can you?”

I squeeze shut my eyes for a moment, to banish tears and those other images. “There is freedom in earnest, not that of death. Morgoth’s reign has ended. The Valar have defeated him.”

A strange expression dawns in prisoner’s eyes. “The Valar…” he whispers bitterly. “So now they come. When Beleriand is long overrun, when the Firstborn and Secondborn Children of Ilúvatar have toiled in slavery for centuries… Now they come.” He closes his eyes.

I lift him up in my arms feeling little weight, so worn out he is. Artanar goes in front with the torch, and I follow, bearing this last prisoner along the winding passages, towards the gate, towards freedom. It is a long way, and each step causes him agony. He draws breath sharply through clenched teeth, but soon his consciousness loses the battle against pain and his body, trembling and rigid before, goes limp.

At length, there is the last hallway. We pass the gate and step outside on the plain. It is night. Low clouds trail across the sky reflecting a red glow. Low rumbling echoes in the hills, the ground under our feet trembles, and we barely retain balance. The rumble and tremor persist, lessening only when we have put several miles between us and the dark fortress.

My burden – light as it seemed in the beginning – is getting heavier. My muscles burn. My arms start to tremble. I stumble. My sight blurs; red and white streaks dance before my eyes. My feet feel leaden, and each step is a struggle. At length I slowly sink down on the stony ground, staring numbly at the lights flickering in the distance. The camp is too far for me to reach it. I have not the strength.

Artanar casts a quick glance at us. “I shall get help, Aranya. Stay here. I will be back swiftly.”

He hastens away. I remain sitting, still holding the motionless body of the one we have freed. Another tremor shakes the ground and thunder cracks loudly. I turn my head. Shafts of lightning flicker above the fortress of the Enemy, and the black walls shake and shatter, falling to pieces in a cloud of dust. Wind rises; a fresh, sudden breeze dries my tears, tears I was not even aware of. The wind drives back the clouds, and they gather over Angamando, but above us the sky clears revealing the glitter of countless stars, a sight I do not recall seeing for forty years. Full Moon rides high overhead, shimmering in the pools of rain and drawing sharp shadows of scattered rocks.

The cool night air awakens the Noldo. With a painful gasp he stirs in my arms and looks up at the sky. Isil is right above us. It casts a silvery sheen upon his haggard face, and his eyes shine large and bright, and full of wonder. His lips tremble.

Then he speaks no more but watches the sky in silence, and tears roll slowly over his sunken cheeks.

And then I too say no more but sit still with him until Artanar returns with the healers, and they carry the Noldo away. Suddenly my arms are empty, and my heart feels empty too; my whole being is empty, drained of all strength and hope. Overwhelmed by this emptiness, I sink to the ground. The world goes dark.

The darkness dissolves into a twilight, and then I discern the grey fabric of the tent above me, the familiar feeling of my bed beneath me. How have I come here? I cannot remember. I was outside. I was carrying someone over the stony plain. My fingers were sticky with half-dried blood; it was not my blood… I blink. No more blood and dust on my hands now, and I am no longer in attire of war but in clean clothes. How can this be? Why did I not feel them carrying me, washing me…?

Slowly I turn my head. A single burning lamp dispels the dusk. Ingwil sits beside the bed on the edge of a chair, head bowed, hands clasped, fingers locked tightly together. He senses me stirring and raises his eyes.

Ingwil considers me closely. “When Artanar carried you back senseless, we were all afraid, even the Valar. Lady Estë tended you. Do you remember what happened?”

I look at him with narrowed eyes. Is it one of his jests, like before? But there is no mockery on his face.

“I remember the battle. Fire. Dragons. Ëarendil slew Ancalagon. We had victory.”

The genuine concern in his voice surprises and alarms me. There must be something else. Something… Yes, there was. Tunnels. Torches. Despair.

“Angamando!” I sit up with a start. I remember. “We searched the fortress. For captives.” My cousin heaves a relieved sigh and nods. Scene after scene of the rescue comes back to my memory. “That last prisoner… Did he…” My voice breaks ere I finish the sentence.

“Throughout the night and the whole next day. It is long past midnight now.”

“So I cannot withstand even a little darkness,” I murmur under my breath, but not softly enough.

“A little darkness, Arafinwë? You faced it longer than anybody else, save Artanar. But Artanar did not take the decisions you took.” I realize immediately of what he speaks, bite my lip and turn away, hoping he will have enough tact or sympathy to fall silent. But he continues. “What you did in that Warg-pit, Arafinwë… for that Man… And… how many you delivered later?”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Three,” I whisper hoarsely, covering my face with a trembling hand. “Three more. In that last passage… None of them would have lived to see the healers, and the pain they were in… I could not leave them in such anguish.”

Visions of torture chambers again flicker before my eyes, screams and pleas for release from pain ring in my ears, and my restraint shatters to pieces. I no longer care how weak and broken I might appear in my cousin’s eyes. I weep aloud, and then Ingwil does something entirely unexpected. He draws me in embrace and holds me as I sob against his shoulder.

“That was brave, Arafinwë,” he says quietly. “The others had no such courage. Not even me. Some of the captives died as we carried them towards the gates. We freed them, yes. And then we bestowed upon them those last moments of agony.” His voice is bitter.

I raise my head only when I feel certain that my voice will no longer be drowned in tears. Ingwil looks past me with unseeing eyes.

“Still, they did not die alone in the dark. They died in the arms of their kinsmen, on the way to freedom,” I say to comfort him. To comfort myself.

Ingwil releases me, sighs and draws his hand over his face. “Yes. Anyhow, that is already in the past. We have to think of the present now. And of the future.”

A noise outside interrupts my question – distant shouting, clamour of steel. We look at each other in dismay. I spring to my feet and seize my sword. We run towards the frightening sounds.

Within moments, we are near the tent where the Silmarils have been kept under guard. Before it, many people stand around something in the middle; many have weapons. I push through the crowd and freeze at the sight. Two Elves are standing back-to-back amid the circle, a dark-haired and a red-haired one. They are armed; a sword and a long dagger are dripping with blood. The dark-haired one holds to his chest a wooden casket.

“Maitimo, Makalaurë, stop this madness!” Despite an attempt to keep my voice steady, it breaks anyway.

My brother’s eldest son turns his head. Torchlight casts a red glow upon his face and hair. When he meets my gaze, his lips move to speak, but no words come. And his eyes… Regret and shame, despair and self-loathing. Eyes of one who has nothing left to lose anymore.

The ring of people draws tight around them, angry voices ring out, demanding that they drop the weapons and surrender the Silmarils. Instead, they raise their blades higher, ready for the hopeless battle that draws nigh.

“Stop! Please, stop!” I stand between them and the enraged crowd with outspread arms, in a futile attempt to protect… who and from what? My brother’s sons from death? The others from staining their hands with the blood of their kinsfolk again?

“Step back, all of you!” A commanding voice suddenly rings out. The crowd parts, and Eönwë strides in the open space. “You shall not spill another drop of blood for this! None of you! Step back!” People back off slowly. Eönwë turns towards my brother’s sons. “Did I not say to you that your right to your father’s treasures is rendered void by your own wrongdoings? Repent of your crimes and return the jewels!”

For a fleeting moment it seems they might surrender the Silmarils to Manwë’s herald. But then they shove aside those who stand on their way and vanish in the night. Many, including me, turn to follow.

“None is to go after them!” Eönwë’s voice rings again, and the Eldar halt.

I do not. I back away in the shadows in silence, even though a scream is building up in my chest. Why? Why this? We vanquished the enemy, we won the war; why this madness, this new bloodshed now? And these are my brother’s children! I must go after them, I must speak with them! In haste and weariness that still chain me I stumble and nearly fall but then steady myself again. Surely, I can find them and make them listen to reason!

Ingwil does not release his grip, and I struggle, attempting to free myself. When my efforts prove futile, blind anger descends.

“You command people, Arafinwë, you cannot yourself disobey commands! And you are not fit to go anywhere!”

Both are true, but that only makes me angrier. Curse him! Why does he of all people has to be right?! Somehow I find the strength to fight him. Ingwil fends off my blows dealing none in return, but at length he seizes both my arms and holds me still.

“You are not going anywhere, cousin. You cannot help them. They are past any aid. Gone. There has been enough madness already. I will not allow you to go; I will carry you back in bonds if needed.”

Ingwil’s voice is calm, but it sounds like he means every word he says. At last I cease struggling, partly because he is right, and partly because my strength is at an end. My cousin releases his grip, and I sway, so he must support me. Some of my blows have been well-aimed and blood is seeping from the corner of his mouth, but I do not feel any regret now. All I feel is numb and complete exhaustion.

Ingwil leads me to my tent. There I collapse on the bed and turn my back. “Go away.” He covers me with a blanket. My attempt of yelling at him fails miserably, my voice fades to a whisper. “Leave me.”

He stays; I hear him pulling a chair. Irritation flashes and fades again in the fog of exhaustion. Yet sleep flees from me, or maybe I flee from it, so I linger on the edge between a dreary dream and weary wakefulness. I do not know how much time passes like this. At one moment I hear steps and a soft conversation. I cannot discern the words but recognize Artanar’s voice, grieved and distressed. I should get up and ask what is amiss, but I cannot move. My limbs are too heavy for lifting them even fraction of an inch. I cannot even turn. At last, sleep takes over.

He does not reply but does not leave either. Paying no heed to his presence any longer, I wash and dress. Then Artanar enters with a tray of meal. A look and a nod pass between them.

“So you two are suddenly friends?” I do not even attempt to keep the sting from my voice.

“To restrain you from doing anything foolish, Arafinwë,” he replies with blunt honesty.

Not deigning to reply I gather my coat and my sword and make for the door. Ingwil stands in my way.

“What is the meaning of this?” I clench my fists. I could strangle him right now.

“That I well believe. But Artanar says you have not eaten since the evening before battle, and that is more than three days ago. You must eat. Your people need you strong, Arafinwë. And those others, they need you strong too. The war may be over, but our errand on this shore is not.”

I take a step back. Three days? Has it been so long already? His words and the unyielding expression in his eyes convince me to put aside my gear and sit at the table where Artanar has set the tray. I suppress anger and force myself to swallow mouthful after mouthful of the meal. It tastes like ashes. But it gives me strength.

“I shall go and see how fare my people.” I push aside the empty plate and rise. “And those we saved. It seems you are resolved to trail after me anyway, so you may as well show me where they have settled.”

“I must go and see to my own people,” says Ingwil. “So this is Artanar’s task. Fare well, cousin, for now.”

He dons his coat, takes his weapons and is about to leave the tent, but I restrain him.

He looks back and sighs. “What else, Arafinwë? If you want to voice your thoughts about me and my meddling, there is no need. I guess them already.”

“No, it is not…” I suddenly feel ashamed. “I just… Thank you, Ingwil.”

“Shall we go, Aranya?” Artanar looks at me expectantly after Ingwil has left.

A fleeting smile passes his lips. “It is my duty to keep you safe, and I intend to do so, even if I must ally with your unbearable kinsman.”

“He has,” Artanar agrees. “You know, he sat with you nearly all time while you slept. War changes people,” he quietly adds. “Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not.” In his voice there is again that grief I recall from the night before, from the conversation between him and my cousin. I am about to ask, but he looks away. “I will tell you some other time.”

I do not question him further about this. Instead, I inquire of other things: our injured warriors, provisions, weapons, guards around the camp. True, the war has ended with our victory, but part of our enemies has fled to the mountains. Though dismayed and scattered now, they may unite again, should one of Moringotto’s captains arise again.

The Valar and our healers have done much to ease the suffering of our wounded soldiers. Still, the injuries of many are still a matter of deep concern, the burns caused by the dragonfire the most. I walk among them, speak and jest with them, attempting to lift their spirits. To some measure, I succeed. Yet lines of suffering and grief are firmly etched on many faces. They have seen and dealt death for years, and this memory will be slow to fade. My mood is less than cheerful when I leave the tents of the healers.

The Elves we have saved from Angamando have settled on the very edge of our camp – in truth, almost outside of it, in a hollow of the land. The cliffs around offer some shelter from the wind, but I shake my head seeing their encampment.

“This is not good. They should have been lodged amidst our camp, for protection.”

“They insisted to be allowed to remain here. We did not want to force them. We set guards around.”

Their camp is orderly, even more so than ours. The tents form neat rows, there are fires burning and people sitting around them. Smell of freshly made food drifts in the air. Still, somehow it is a dismal sight. Merely quiet, abrupt snatches of conversation interrupt the near-silence. Pale, haggard faces turn towards us, then are swiftly averted. I speak to some of them, I ask whether they need anything. The reply is always the same: a fleeting glance, a quick shake of head, a softly spoken gratitude and denial. It is as if they were afraid to be heard, afraid to be seen. Unwillingly I clench my hands into fists. What has the Black Enemy done to these once proud people?

Indeed, I must be glaring. Those I approach blanch even more and withdraw in the shadow of the tents. With effort of will I suppress the rage seething within me and school my face into stillness. A sudden thought occurs to me.

“Would you kindly tell us where we can find lady Failwen?” More averted eyes, more quick headshakes. But then recognition dawns in the eyes of three Elves sitting beside a fire. They stand up and regard me in alarm, tense, as if ready to flee any moment. I raise my hands in a placating gesture. “Please, forgive me for startling you. I did not mean to. I only wish to speak to the lady. Do you know where she is staying?”

“There… You will find her around the corner, lord,” at length one of them replies and raises a trembling hand to point the direction. His wrists are bandaged.

I thank him, but ere we turn to go, he sways. The others are beside him in a heartbeat, supporting and lowering him on the ground, silently, without word or question.

We do find Failwen around the corner treating wounds. She sits upon a stone and applies a salve to the back of an Elf kneeling beside her, to a hideous tapestry of half-healed whip-marks. He utters no sound. Nothing gives away his distress but his trembling hands clutching his shirt.

Stones grate beneath our feet and they turn their heads, suddenly aware of our presence. A few moments pass as we stare at each other. The Elf hastily rises, dons his shirt, bows awkwardly and disappears amid the tents.

“Forgive our intrusion, lady Failwen,” I say, not knowing what my greeting should be. My face burns with embarrassment, with a reflection of something I saw in the eyes and posture of the retreating Noldo.

Failwen rises and nods. She stands straighter, and some colour has returned to her face, but her eyes are dull and weary.

“Forgive me I did not come to see you earlier.” I desperately seek for some fitting, meaningful words, painfully aware of my failure to find them. “Do your people have everything they need, lady? Lodging? Clothes? Food? Healing?”

“We have everything, thank you,” she quietly replies. “Your people have been most generous, far more than we deserve. We lack nothing.”

“I did not see any of our healers here?” I frown. “They should be helping.”

“They helped. They came as we settled here and helped us. And… the Valar came, too.” She blanches a little at that. “Lady Estë tended those most severely wounded, and your healers aided her. None is in mortal danger any longer. We can handle the injuries of the rest ourselves now. Your people left remedies. I am truly grateful for your care, but we are… well.”

I keep to myself my thoughts on this matter. Aloud I say, “This camp, lady Failwen, it is not well-placed. There are still perils, and here on the edge you may be under threat. Would you not consider moving closer to us?”

“No, please, allow us to remain here.” Her hands grip the hem of the coat she wears, too large for her frail, emaciated form. “Please! We are fine here, we truly are. Here, we are out of the way. Out of sight. You have had years of terror and war already, there is no need to…” Her voice trails away, but I can guess what her last words would have been. No need to have a reminder of that in front of you.

“Very well, lady Failwen.” Only with effort I keep my voice calm. “But, please, if you need anything – do let me know.” Relief appears in her eyes, and she nods hastily. I offer her a smile ere leaving. “Farewell, my lady, for now.”

My smile fades as soon as I turn away. I round the corner suppressing the urge to run, to flee this place, to flee the sight of hunched shoulders, averted faces, downcast eyes, to flee the hopelessness hanging heavy in the air. My chest tightens. I have my sword to set against Orcs, Wargs and Trolls. What do I have to set against this? Nothing!

When out of their camp, I do not turn towards our own but stray downhill to the plain, walking aimlessly. It is empty now; merely rocks and scorched earth. The bodies of our enemies are gone; the Valar have somehow disposed of them. Once or twice, I stumble over a stone and nearly fall, regaining my footing in the last moment. Still, I keep going, further on, away from the neat rows of tents housing despair I cannot cure and cannot bear seeing. We have freed them. But – have we?

Artanar has followed me. I halt but cannot make myself turn and face him, so I stare in the distance, at the broken remains of Thangorodrim. A faint shudder creeps over my body.

“No, you are not.” Artanar overtakes me, lays his hand on my shoulder and looks at me closely. “You are not useless. You are weary and grieving.”

“You are not the only one to give aid. There are others, too. Do not try to carry the weight of all Arda on your shoulders; that is too heavy even for the Valar.”

I draw a shuddering breath. In the reflection of my friend’s eyes and words I look slightly less pitiful.

“Here is what we might do,” says Artanar slowly. “You could return to our camp. I could go back to their lodgings, look around carefully for what they really need, and try to talk with them. They might be shy and evasive in the presence of a king but speak more openly to me. What do you say?”

“Yes,” I reply after a while of silence. “Let us do so.” He considers me closely, probably weighing in his mind whether he can leave me alone. I brush aside annoyance. “Go, Artanar. They may indeed speak with you rather than with me. Go.”

He leaves, and I turn back towards our camp, walking slowly. Artanar is right; I am still weary. A careless step on a loose stone throws me off balance, and I fall to my knees with a cry of frustration. The barren wasteland around is but another proof and reminder of my helplessness. What have we been fighting for? What have we delivered? A broken land and a broken people.

The tears I kept at bay before now rise to my eyes again. Nothing holds them back any longer, none is here to witness them, and I do not resist anymore. I surrender to the torrent of grief and allow the tears to wash away at least some of the despair that has been smothering me for the last few days, like the rain washed away at least some of the defilements of the Black Foe.

Some time later, I wipe my eyes dry. And then, just in front of me, on a patch of barren earth amid the rocks I notice a flicker of green. A tiny blade of grass stands out against the black stone, so out of place here that I must touch it to be certain. We have not seen any growing thing on the plain of Anfauglith for forty years. But it is here now, cool and tender against my trembling fingers. I draw back my hand and stand. Perhaps hope may rise again like this fragile, small thing from ashes.

I have just entered my tent and set down my coat and weapons when Ingwil appears in the doorway.

“How are they?” I sigh. “I do not have a clear answer. They were reluctant to speak with me, so I learned very little, and what I saw gives little reason for cheer. Pain and grief weigh on them heavily. Artanar is still there; he may bring more news. I am… better. Not well, I do not believe anyone of us is well after all this, but – better.”

“I am glad of that. Truly. I…” Ingwil averts his eyes for a few moments, then looks at me again, his gaze determined. “I did not think well of you, Arafinwë, before, in Valinórë. I despised you for following Fëanáro, for how you afterwards returned - in shame, as it seemed to me then. And when we set out for this war, too. I took your restraint for fear. Even when I was finally aware of the silent courage that lay at the heart of your actions, I was not wise enough to acknowledge that. Still, late is maybe better than never, so... I ask your forgiveness for every slight I have given you, intended and unintended.” When I look at him without a reply he sighs and lowers his eyes. “That may be too much to ask.”

“No, you misunderstand.” I take a step towards him. “It is just… You are not the only one who should apologize. I thought ill of you as well. You insulted me, and I replied with bitterness. At whiles I sought to hurt you on purpose with my words. Therefore… I forgive you and ask your forgiveness too.”

“Yes.” I firmly clasp his slender, narrow palm, seemingly so unfitting for wielding weapons. So alike my own. “I am honoured to be your friend.”

“I am honoured to be yours.” Ingwil smiles faintly, and frowns for a few moments before continuing. “I also envied you.”

I stare at him, eyes wide. What? Have I heard correctly? He, the famous poet, envied me?!

This time, his smile is wider. “That is true. I have always wished for a brother, and you had two elder brothers who loved you.” When I am about to object, he shakes his head. “They did, Arafinwë. Even Fëanáro. I think he, too, loved you in a way, even though love in his heart may have fought with resentment. Yes, I have sisters, and I do not doubt their affection. But that is different. They are so much older than I am; they were already long into their own lives and families when I was born. I grew up as the only child. I had the full attention and love of my parents; I had everything I desired. But I never learned to care for others. I have never made friends easily, for… I do not know how. And - who would befriend me, vain and arrogant as I am?”

“That is only one side of you.” I shake my head. “You are also valiant. Generous. Compassionate. And you have changed much during these years - for the better. Besides, you have reasons to think highly of yourself. You do have a brilliant mind. And your verses have always enchanted me.”

A fleeting smile passes Ingwil’s lips. “My verses… They are a reflection of who I so wanted to be and never succeeded becoming.”

“In truth, …brother,” I quietly admit and recall Súlion’s words. He is of your family. You should care for one another. We will. Now, we will.

“Did they speak with you more freely than with me?” I ask with little hope, for his gloomy expression conveys scant success. “Did they tell you what they needed?”

“They did speak a bit more. And yet what they said did not differ much. They have everything they need. They can care for their wounded themselves. They wish to remain out of sight. I looked around carefully. They do have lodgings, garment and food, that is true. Remedies too. What they do not have, is hope.”

I merely nod and keep my doubts to myself. Artanar says nothing either, but his frown is telling. How do you help someone find something that they are not even seeking?

Later on the same day there is a council. We hold it outside, under an open sky, for we are many: together with all commanders, almost three dozen. Nearly all captains have already gathered when my cousin storms in the ring of seats. He drops on a bench beside me and, arms folded on his chest, face like a thundercloud, stares at the ground at his feet. I am about to ask what is amiss, but then the Valar approach. Eönwë speaks.

“The war is over, the dark fortress is overthrown,” he says. “Now the Sea shall rise and cover this part of Valariandë, washing away the stain of Moringotto. The Children of Ilúvatar must therefore journey east and withdraw to the mountains, to a higher ground where it is safe. All should leave this place within three days.”

The captains of Vanyar and Noldor murmur. Ingwil rises abruptly and takes a step forward.

“With all my respect, ladies and lords, that will not be possible.” The whispers turn into astounded silence. Ingwil stands very still, back straight, shoulders squared, eyes glinting. An image of restrained anger. “Most of the Eldar we saved from Angamando are not fit to travel, nor will they be in three days. They need a longer time to recover.”

Now I understand Ingwil’s mood. He, too, has visited their camp; and what I meet with grief, he meets with fury. First time I heard this note of steel in my cousin’s voice when he proposed the attack on Brithombar and Eglarest, after we had listened to Súlion’s story about the Orcs. Since then, I have heard this unyielding tone a several more times, always on the battlefield.

“I second lord Ingwil’s opinion.” I rise and stand beside my kinsman. “Many still need help and healing, no matter how brave and strong they attempt to appear in your eyes.”

“They assured us they needed our help no more.” Irmo frowns. “Why would they deceive us?”

“Deceive you?” The straightforwardness of the Valar and their people, their inability to perceive undercurrents have oft fascinated me. But now this? This?! How can they, the supposedly wise, all-knowing beings, be so blind?! Fighting the urge to grab and shake one of those who now look at me with unfeigned surprise, I draw a deep breath. “They do not seek to deceive you, lord. They simply deem themselves unworthy of your care. Unworthy of any care.”

While I attempt to find words that would lead me no further along the path of insolence, my cousin has no such qualms.

“I suggest you ask them, lord. Or better yet, walk among them unseen and look. You may find many answers by just looking.”

“Something may have gone unnoticed for us, so we rely on your knowledge about your kinsfolk, lord Ingwil,” Eönwë says at last. “We shall do as you suggest. Would two weeks suffice for their recovery?”

“In two weeks, all should be able to travel, with aid and at a slow pace” Ingwil replies. “As for their recovery – I cannot tell, for such suffering is beyond my experience.”

Manwë’s herald nods. “Two weeks then. We shall see how we can help.” Nods and murmurs of consent from the Valar follow.

The edge is gone from Ingwil’s voice, and my anger, too, is fading. How would they understand something even we are unable to grasp fully?

The council leaves us in a decidedly subdued mood. We have two weeks to kindle at least some spark of hope in the hearts of those who have none. I do not question the ability of the Valar to give the promised aid, but I doubt the ability of Moringotto’s former thralls to receive it. They fear and distrust the Powers. And even when they are healed enough to undertake the journey - I rebel against the thought of dragging my people anywhere against their will. That feels too close to but another kind of thraldom.

Voicing the thoughts of us all, Ingwil suddenly halts and looks at me and Artanar in turn. He has been pacing back and forth in my tent for a good while. His presence is mildly irritating, yet somehow comforting too. It reminds me - we are in this together.

“I do not understand them.” Ingwil quietly confesses. “I went there. I attempted to speak with them, to encourage them. It was awful. Pity tore me apart, but all I said… it all sounded so hollow. So useless. Merely empty words. But they need so much more than that. They need… I do not know what they need,” he admits with a helpless shrug.

Artanar raises his eyes. “Nobody knows. Not even the Valar, I think.” He shoves aside the plate where he has been pushing the food around rather than eating it, looks away and despondently stares in the distance.

Ingwil resumes pacing. I attempt to think, to weigh the possibilities, but my thoughts run in tangled circles, bringing no clarity. At length I get to my feet abruptly.

Ingwil and Artanar regard me closely for a moment. Artanar shifts as if to rise but then nods and remains seated. My cousin does not follow me either.

Outside, people sit around fires sharing a meal. A din of conversations interrupts the stillness of the clear evening. Occasional laughter rings out. Someone even rises voice in a song. In the other camp I did not hear anything even remotely resembling any of the latter two.

The small ridge I climb offers a view of both the plain and the camp, yet it is not the best place for lookout, so I do not expect anyone to be here now. But I am mistaken. A hunched figure, clad in a heavy cloak, already sits on one of the scattered boulders. A sound of muffled sobs reaches me.

I nearly turn back at once. A mere thought of sharing yet another burden of grief seems unbearable; besides, whoever sits here has likely come to seek solitude. But shame swiftly sweeps away these thoughts. Who would leave another alone in distress? I should at least offer consolation.

“Can I help you in any way?” I ask. The stranger turns. I gasp and step back when I see the tear-streaked face of lady Estë. “Forgive me, lady, I did not mean to…” But then I fall silent. Body may be just a raiment for the Valar, but it conveys their feelings even as it does for us. “My lady…”

I hesitantly approach and sit down on a stone close to her. I do not know what to say. It seems so unfitting to witness the grief of one I deemed so much stronger, so much greater than myself. Yet simply leaving seems cruel. After a while Estë speaks.

“I went there.” Her voice is trembling. “Unseen, as your kinsman suggested. What I saw… that silence… And their eyes… Ai, their eyes…!”

She buries her face in her hands and starts sobbing anew. Suddenly I do not see before me a powerful, superior creature. Estë is sad and hurt, and then, all distance and reverence forgotten, I embrace her and whisper words of comfort and hope, and she clings to me hiding her face on my shoulder. There are no more walls. There is only grief and comfort.

Dusk wraps the plain when Estë finally raises her head and brushes a slender hand over her eyes.

“When I first realized the true horror of what they had endured, I was ready they would hate us,” she says softly and looks down at her hands, now locked firmly together on her knees. “That would be just, in a way. At least understandable. I was not ready to face their guilt. Their resignation. They think they deserve this, Arafinwë.” A note of despair enters her voice.

“Yes!” Abruptly she raises her head, her eyes glint. “How can you think we would wish something like this upon any living being?” She shudders, wrapping the cloak tightly around her shoulders.

“…and the Valar will fence Valinórë against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.” I do not say these words aloud, but I cannot banish the memory. I was there. I heard them.

“He did say that; you remember every word correctly,” she whispers with trembling lips. Her face looks stricken. “That is true. But he never meant… this. He did not know… We do not know everything, Arafinwë, even Námo…”

I sigh. “Forgive me. I did not intend to add to your grief. I merely… remembered. It was their choice to go on. Maybe none truly understood the consequences. Whatever the past, we should look towards the future now.”

I do not yet know. But somewhere deep within my heart hope fights its way through despair, like that small blade of grass through the scorched earth on the plain of Anfauglith.

“Can you heal and strengthen them unseen, my lady? Without them being aware?”

“Yes.” She nods. “I can heal the hurts of body in this way. But I cannot mend their fëar by stealth.”

“We shall find a way. First, do what you can for their injuries, and then...”

I fall silent abruptly, realizing in horror that I have just given an order to one of the Valier. I am about to apologize, but she sets her finger against my lips to silence me and smiles.

I remain upon the hillock after lady Estë leaves. The wind is fresh and crisp, and the sky is clear, an expanse of dark-blue velvet dotted with countless stars. A beauty for everyone to see at last when the coiling smoke and fumes have dispersed. The Light is still there, I repeat to myself. It is still there. All of it.

Wrapped in cloak against the nightly chill, I sit down on the ground. Once, I loved to sleep under stars. Ëarwen and I, we would often climb the mountains encircling Tirion, even as far as the treeline, and we would stay there overnight. The memories I had hidden away before now drift to surface and fill my mind, and I no longer turn away from them. The lights of the city so tiny below, the stars burning large and bright overhead… Starlight playing in Ëarwen’s eyes, her hair gleaming like a river of silver… Ëarwen… Longing grips my heart, but it is no more hopeless. I shall return to her. Soon, very soon now.

I remain upon the ridge, watching the stars. At one moment Artanar’s familiar footsteps sound behind me, but then they retreat and fall silent, and I am again alone in the night.

Morning finds me stretched on the ground amid the scattered stones, some of them digging uncomfortably into my back. The Sun has just climbed over the mountains when I rise and look around. It is a fair morning even in this dismal place, and I smile at the blue sky and gold-tinted clouds. For a moment I imagine wild horses racing over the plain below, not barren any longer but covered with lush grass and bright flowers. This place was called Ard-galen once, it was green and beautiful… How I wish to see it come alive once more! What if… what if the Valar are wrong? What if this land may be healed?

“Sadly, it cannot. The defilement runs too deep. The mountains are full of bottomless shafts, filled with poison and other evil. There is no freshwater. What streams this land once harboured are gone forever, used up by Moringotto’s creatures and devices of war. Rain will not suffice to sustain this place.”

My cheeks burn as I greet him. “I did not intend to question your counsel, lord.”

“Did you not?” Irmo comes closer and stands beside me looking out over the rocky expanse of Anfauglith. His lips quirk in a smile. “Maybe you should have. And maybe we should admit our mistakes more often. We have made plenty of them, it seems.”

“We did not intend to be rude yesterday, neither my cousin, nor me,” I say softly. “But we feel so helpless. The war is over, but this… This, too, is a battle. And it cannot be won with swords if it can be won at all. For who is the true enemy now?”

“Who indeed?” Irmo sighs. Amusement fades from his face. “You are a mystery to us, Children of the One. I also went to their camp. And I still do not know whether I saw great weakness or great strength there. Maybe both. But I am confident - those who have endured something like that have a strong chance of healing. It will take time, though. Sadly, this is not Lórien. Much of my power resides there.”

His words bring encouragement. I look at him closely. “Could you help them there, should the ban be lifted and they – allowed to return? And… would you?”

The lord of Lórien nods. For a while we watch the plain in silence. It is strange and sad – to look upon something that will be gone so soon.

Irmo likely senses my mood. “Do not grieve, King of the Noldor. There is life and beauty in the water, too.”

He touches my hand, and the vast expanse of scorched land fades away. The Sea sparkles silver in the sunlight, seabirds circle above the waves filling the air with the strange music of their cries. Below in the depths, a shoal of bright fish winds amid the swaying stems of yet unseen plants and flowers.

“Thank you.” Comforted by the vision, I voice my last fears. “If this land is to go under the wave… There must still be Elves in West Valariandë. And the Atani who valiantly fought Moringotto’s creatures around River Sirion and to the south...”

“The Elves of Endórë have already departed eastward. We know of the valour of the Secondborn, too, and it will not remain without acknowledgement. Do not fear for them, they are all under our protection. No life will be threatened.” Then lord of Lórien regards me curiously. “I said already we did not fully understand your people. Therefore, I would ask you something, Arafinwë. Why did you come on this war? I hope my question does not offend you.”

“It does not.” I smile. “In truth, I often thought of that myself, in the beginning. Then, I would have probably said – I came to do the right thing. To fight on the side of Light against Darkness. That would be no lie, but not the whole truth either. The truth… At first I came because doing so was something my brothers would have approved. And then… When I saw Endórë, when I saw what had been done to it… then I simply wanted to end the evil and cruelty here. To save the people. To give this land a chance to blossom again.”

“These are all good reasons, Arafinwë.” Irmo nods. “None for the war itself. Few of the Eldar fight because they enjoy fighting, yet you are deadly foes.”

“Do you think so? But the Orcs were saying just that about you and Ingwil. They called you the pale demons with eyes of ice.”

“What?” I stare at him in disbelief. I have never thought myself capable of instilling fear in anyone.

“That is true. You terrified them.” Irmo looks at me closely. “You do not see yourself like the others see you, Arafinwë. Try to look with their eyes, sometimes. Not merely enemies. Also with the eyes or your warriors. Your friends. Your wife. You will learn much about yourself. Words and deeds of those who love you are a mirror.”

I smile at his words. “Is it not a convex mirror, my lord, such as the Noldor sometimes make for amusement? Affection… what if it blinds the eyes of those who love us?”

Lord of Lórien returns the smile. “What if love renders their sight sharper?”

When back in the camp, I head straight for Eönwë’s tent. The guards admit me inside, and as I enter, the air shimmers faintly, distorting the images around. The shimmer disappears, and Manwë’s herald stands before me in his embodied form.

“King Arafinwë.” He acknowledges my presence and my greeting with a nod. “I am glad to see you awake and well. How fare your warriors? And the others? Do you bring any news?”

“Our warriors are resting, those injured – recovering, with the aid of the Valar and our healers. The others are recovering too. In truth, I have come to speak about them, lord. I come with a plea.”

Eönwë motions towards a chair, pulls another one for himself, sits and leans forward. “I am listening.”

“I would plead to the Elder King through you, my lord, that the Eldar who left Valinórë after the Darkening would be forgiven. That they would be allowed to return to the Blessed Realm.”

“No, they did not. They would not plead for themselves, nor ask anyone to do it for them. But someone must. Most of them are hurt too deeply to find healing on Hither Shore. In Valinórë, they might.”

“I see.” Eönwë regards me with unreadable face. I do not avert my eyes. After a moment of somewhat tense silence, he rises. “Very well, King Arafinwë. I will make your request known to the King of Arda.”

I feel somewhat better after leaving Eönwë’s tent. At least I have done something.

“King Arafinwë, a company of fifty riders approaches from the south, over the mountain pass. They are the Sindar, by their attire. Should we meet them and direct them to your lodging?”

I head for the southern gate of the camp, curious to meet the Sindar. We have had little dealings with the Elves of Endórë during these years. They took no part in the siege. Only small companies of hunters now and then brought news of the world and events to the south, but they never stayed long. The proximity of Moringotto’s evil would weigh on them heavily, and after days, sometimes only hours, they would depart to places where one could still see the sunlight. Sometimes, I envied them. Sometimes, I had to remind myself that they were fighting the same battle, that they had been fighting it for centuries. In truth, longer than any of us.

The faint clatter of horse hooves in the distance draws closer. The path that leads to the gates where I stand waiting winds among large boulders, so there is no plain view of our visitors. At last, their company appears from behind the nearest cliff. And then the foremost rider halts, jumps off the horse and runs towards me, hood falling back, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. My sight blurs. This cannot be true… can it?

Crying and laughing at the same time, my daughter throws her arms around my neck. Light-headed, still uncertain whether I am not dreaming, I lock her in embrace.

Moments, or maybe hours later Artanis releases me, takes a step back and brushes away tears. All her companions have dismounted and wait a few steps away. One of them stands somewhat closer, a tall silver-haired Elf with a serene face. My daughter takes him by the hand and pulls towards me.

I stare at him. Her husband… Why should I be surprised? I have been absent from my daughter’s life for centuries; I have no right to feel… like I feel now. I cannot even name the feeling. Is it irritation? Disappointment? Greeting Artanis’ spouse… that should not be as difficult as it is.

Celeborn bows, hand over his heart. “King Finarfin, I am honoured to meet you. We apologise for not adhering to the ceremony concerning our betrothal and marriage. It saddened me deeply I was not able to obtain the consent and blessing of my bride’s parents.”

His name suits his looks and bearing, and he has a strong, deep voice. Like his name, it reminds of growing things with deep roots and strength to reach towards the sky. He shifts in his stance slightly yet does not look away. And, admittedly, he has offered a courteous greeting, even if some of what he has said was nonsense.

“As we both know, you could not ask our consent – for apparent reasons. And I sincerely doubt it would have changed anything had we refused. If my daughter had decided she wanted to marry you, I can think of no power in Arda that could have stopped her.”

“I am fully aware of that, my lord.” Celeborn’s lips curve in a smile, sparks dance in his eyes. “But apology was still needed.”

My daughter laughs, and this sound of pure mirth nearly brings tears to my eyes. Artanis is firmly holding to her husband’s hand, and the way she looks at him… My irritation vanishes.

“You have my blessing. I am confident Artanis has chosen well. I am glad to meet you… my son.” The last words feel only a little awkward.

“I am happy for my daughter. And…” I admit after looking at him closely for a few moments, “I like you.”

I laugh as well. A strange, nearly forgotten feeling stirs in my heart, something I have not felt since I boarded the ship in Alqualondë. All will be well now. My daughter is with me again. We shall soon go home. Ëarwen, too, will like Artanis’ husband; I am certain of that.

I greet their companions. They are clad after the fashion of the Sindar but at least half of them is Noldor, by their looks. Their faces and names are unfamiliar, until the last one of them who has been busy with his horse’s tack finally turns towards me.

I fall silent abruptly. I can only imagine what my eldest brother would reply to such a greeting. But Tyelperinquar smiles.

My heart clenches. When he smiles, he looks so alike Fëanáro, Fëanáro in one of his kindest moods. And the gravity and confidence with which he holds himself is also something I recall rather from my brother’s bearing, than from the carefree and brash youth I knew in Valinórë.

After our guests have settled and refreshed themselves, I welcome them to my tent. We share a meal and later sit together, talking. They have brought some flasks of wine; a welcome change from the stale water we are so used to.

It turns to be an awkward evening. When the first joy of meeting somewhat subsides, I notice that my daughter is very quiet. Her husband casts a concerned look at her now and then. Tyelperinquar, too, hardly speaks. He avoids my gaze, and an occasional glint in his eyes gives away his irritation at something. I remember my eldest brother thus brooding in silence, until a careless word blew his anger to a blazing fire. Now the same happens with his grandson when someone mentions the Valar.

“The Valar!” He clenches his fist and pounds the armrest of his chair. “They forbade us to join the siege, to fight for this land! For our land! They took away our chance to witness Moringotto’s downfall!”

“I do not think it was their intent.” I lay a placating hand on his shoulder. “I rather believe they wanted to spare you the horrors of this war.”

“Whatever was their intent, it was not fair!” Tyelperinquar folds his arms on his chest and glares at me. “We have fought Moringotto’s creatures for centuries, and it was our right to take part! Yet they made a decision for us. Again! We are but wayward children in their eyes!”

He looks away and sits silent for a moment, then mutters an apology. I turn towards my daughter seeking something I could say to direct the conversation away from any dangerous currents.

“Yes.” The alarmed expression that appeared on her face at Tyelperinquar’s outburst somewhat fades. “First, in Ossiriand. Then, over the Blue Mountains, in the lands of the Nandor.”

“The Nandor?” Ingwil raises his brows. “But the Green Elves are even more wild than the Sindar, are they not? Why would you choose such a place and company?”

I curse inwardly. Ingwil, you fool! Do you ever think before speaking? Oh, centuries of arrogance and disdain are slow to wear off, apparently!

Artanis gives him a cool look. “Forests around the Great River are very fair, and wonderful people dwell there. Celeborn’s brother has lived in that land already for a long time. But after Valinor, all Hither Lands probably seem wild to you, uncle.”

I sigh. What was supposed to be a joyful family reunion, is swiftly turning into a disaster. “Please, forgive my cousin. The last years have been… difficult.” I do my best to resume the conversation after Ingwil’s departure. “I am glad you were safe in more distant lands.”

“Safe…” Artanis lowers her eyes. “Yes, we were safe while others suffered. We lived in peace while others shed their blood.” When she looks up again, tears glisten in her lashes. “We have failed, father, we have failed miserably! We should have brought aid to Endórë, succour in the battle against Moringotto, but we brought destruction and evil, nothing more.”

I stare after her with a sinking heart as she jumps to her feet and rushes out of the tent with a sob. What did I say to upset her so?

“Please, wait.” I restrain Celeborn who is about to follow my daughter. “Clearly my knowledge of the events in Valariandë is too scant to understand this. I entreat you to explain. Why is Artanis so sorrowful?”

“Very well.” He draws his hand over his face and sits back on his chair. “I will do my best to explain. When we had to leave Doriath…”

“Had to leave…?” I narrow my eyes. “Why? Elwë is our kinsman. Surely, he would welcome Ëarwen’s children?”

“He did. But… The Noldor, after their arrival, kept secret some things they should have revealed at once. Alqualondë. Losgar. The terror of Helcaraxë. When King Thingol learned the truth, he was furious. He banned Quenya. He forbade the Noldor to enter Doriath. Even though the ban, for the sake of kinship, did not extend to Galadriel and her brothers, it was… rather unpleasant for her to remain there. We were already wed then. I would not have the one I love looked upon with resentment, so we left and dwelt in Nargothrond for a time. But Galadriel, she needs trees and sky above her head, not a roof of stone. Therefore, I thought of my brother Galathil in the lands of the Nandor. We moved there in the first years of the Long Peace.

“The news travelled slowly over the mountains, and for a long time we thought all was well in Beleriand. But when the leaguer was broken… she felt her brothers die.” Celeborn averts his eyes for a moment, then continues. “After the Battle of Sudden Flame I still convinced Galadriel to remain there. But when Finrod perished… and Orodreth… when Nargothrond fell… I could not console her any longer. I could not persuade her to stay away from the war. And…” His eyes glint. “I did not want to stay away from it myself. We crossed the mountains and led the fighting in Ossiriand.”

“What your daughter said, my lord, merely reflects her frustration of not being in the front lines.” He smiles with pride, and that warms my heart towards him even more. “Galadriel is a warrior. Fierce and brave. And reckless, sometimes.”

“Indeed,” I remark drily. “That I noticed already when she was a child. So this, at least, has not changed. Thank you for explaining all this. I am very glad you are beside her now, to keep her safe.”

Celeborn rises. “I will be beside her as long as she needs me, I promise you that.” At the door he turns back. “Would you, please, go and speak with her after some time, lord? I doubt Galadriel would welcome my presence now, but perhaps she would not avoid her father.”

“You should not believe even one disdainful word your daughter says about herself.” Startled from my thoughts, I nearly drop on the table the goblet I am holding. Tyelperinquar continues. “If Artanis describes herself as weak and selfish, if she calls herself a coward – do not listen. None of that is true. From the very crossing of Helcaraxë...” His voice breaks for a moment. “I was not there, as you may already know. I was among those who are to blame for the suffering and death on that evil road. But I have spoken with many who survived it. Every last one of them would mention her. Her courage. Hope she inspired in others. She was their light in the darkness before the Moon and the Sun, their guiding star. With that passage alone Artanis has earned the respect and love of her people. Do not blame your children for the disasters in Endórë, lord. Blame the House of Fëanáro. We have earned that.”

“I blame neither.” I stare at the few drops of wine left on the bottom of my goblet. “Blaming anyone now will not bring back those who have perished. Nor will it erase the suffering and grief, past and present.”

“No,” he admits softly. “It will not. Still, some would call for justice. For atonement.”

“I would not. To my knowledge, you have atoned.” He is about to say something more, perhaps to object, but I shake my head. “I have seen enough suffering of the Noldor to stand by my words, so - enough of this. Look to the future, not to the past. But I am glad Artanis has found a true friend in you, Tyelperinquar.”

Artanis sits on the ground close to one of the fires, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her knees. She is alone. Flames cast a flickering reflection on her face. When I sit beside her, she looks away.

Seeing her sorrow is like thousand knives stabbing my heart. Oh, if only I could take her burden on me! But I am not even sure how to speak with her, after all those centuries apart. I do not even know what questions to ask, what words of solace to offer.

Artanis shakes her head. “No, you were right to turn back, to take care of those who chose to remain. None of us ever reproached you for doing so. Returning was maybe more difficult than advancing, at least in the beginning. And you remained untouched by the curse laid on the House of Fëanáro and its followers.”

I suddenly feel cold. This curse still weighs upon my daughter. Will the Elder King listen to my plea?

“Ever has it worked against us, even as Námo then said,” Artanis continues. “All we built fell to ruin. All we started ended in disaster. Angaráto and Aikanáro opposed the Enemy in the north, and death in fire was their fate. Artaresto fell in a needless, hopeless battle. And Findaráto… Findaráto…”

Her voice breaks, and she shivers. I take her hands and warm them between my palms, like I did when she was a little girl.

“Will you tell me of your life here, Artanis? And… of your brothers?” I ask hesitantly. “But only if you want to. I am not questioning you.”

She nods and starts speaking, softly at first, but her voice grows in strength, and I see them all – my daughter, my sons. Artanis, sitting beside a dark-haired woman in vaulted halls of supreme beauty. Angaráto and Aikanáro galloping over a green plain. Findaráto sculpting stone in a light-filled cavern. Artaresto sitting in a library, face buried in a book. Then other visions follow as she speaks of her brothers’ deaths, and now I understand whence come my nightmares of flaming rivers and wolf’s fangs. Tears drown my daughter’s voice, and she casts herself in my arms.

“They died,” she sobs against my chest. “They all died; I felt it, but I was so far away! I could do nothing! Nothing…!”

“It was not your fault, Artanis.” I lock her in embrace, rocking gently, hoping against hope that what once helped to soothe the pain of a bruised knee will help against this heartache. “Not your fault.”

After a while her crying somewhat subsides. “We so wanted to make you proud, father,” she whispers. “To accomplish something, to justify our departure against your and mother’s will.”

“I am proud of you, Artanis.” I stroke her hair. “I am proud of you all. You accomplished much. Do not underestimate yourself. You kept safe these lands, you aided those who were in need of aid. That is no small feat. As much as your decision to pursue the road hither grieved me, I was not angry. And mother… She forgave you and your brothers long before she forgave me.”

My daughter raises her eyes and shudders, clearly alarmed. “Mother and you… Did she…”

She brushes away tears and regards me closely. “You would not deceive me, father, would you?”

Artanis does not take her eyes away from my face. “You are so pale, father.”

She dismisses my attempted jest with an impatient shake of her head. “I noticed already earlier. You are pale and weary. Artanar and Ingwil too. Everyone I saw here.”

“It was a long war. Years without sunlight and starlight. But we are recovering now.”

“The other camp? Who is there?” Artanis’ eyes narrow, and I reproach myself silently for being so careless. I had forgotten about the depth of her perception.

She does not let go of my gaze. “They are the cause of your grief, father, far more than the memories of war. Tell me.”

I shake my head. “These are my cares, Artanis. I would not burden you with them. You have plenty of your own.”

Such a feeble attempt from my part. A familiar glint of steel appears in her eyes.

“They are my people, even as they are yours, maybe more so. Please, tell me, father. I am not a child.”

You will always be my child. You will always be my little girl, to cherish and protect. She nods and smiles faintly. I know. Still, I ask you to tell me. I look at her, into her, for the first time so closely since we met. She is wise and kind. She is brave and generous. She deserves to know. The knowledge will not break her.

I do not tell everything. There are sights and deeds I am not able to describe; maybe I shall never be. I take care to seal away the greatest terror. But I say enough. When I fall silent, Artanis rises.

“Very well. But – tomorrow. You need rest, daughter.” She stirs impatiently. I must find another reason. “They, too, need rest, all rest they can get. In two weeks we are to leave this place, and they must recover their strength by then.”

She kisses me on the cheek and turns to go. After she leaves the ring of firelight, a tall figure emerges from the shadows some twenty paces away and locks her in embrace. I turn towards my tent comforted. My daughter will not be alone with her grief tonight.

Next morning I rise early, yet not early enough to find my daughter still in her lodging.

“She asked directions to the healers’ tent and to the other camp,” says one of the guards. “They all went there – lady Artanis and her husband, and lord Celebrimbor.”

I should have known. Bracing myself for the hopeless silence and evasive glances, contemplating how to console my daughter after the inevitable grief at seeing our people as they are now, I head to the settlement of the rescued Elves. Artanar joins me without asking any questions.

The first passage between the rows of the tents is empty. We round the corner. Further away, at the crossing of two passages, a small crowd has gathered around my daughter.

The thought that I should have warned Artanis more, advised her to tread with caution around the former captives, dissipates nearly at once. We are too far to hear them clearly, but, standing on a higher ground than they do, we see well enough. Artanis says something and smiles. And then, an answering smile lights up the faces of those around her. It is faint and swiftly fading, but it is a true smile nonetheless, a sight so beautiful and unexpected that my vision blurs for a moment.

We go closer. Neither my daughter, nor the others notice us yet, their attention on each other. Suddenly Artanis falls silent mid-sentence, her eyes bent on someone in the crowd.

Artanis’ voice breaks. She makes a few steps and throws her arms about the dark-haired woman. At first, Failwen visibly tenses. But then she returns the embrace.

“Beyond hope, Failwen…” whispers Artanis. “Beyond hope. Forgive me, I did so little to aid you, to prevent this. Forgive me.” She releases the other woman and looks around, eyes full of tears. “Forgive me, all of you.”

Why is her husband, the who should keep her from sorrow, standing silent now? And Tyelperinquar who calls himself her friend?

“Stop.” Tears glisten on her face, too, but her voice is stern. And… alive. I have not heard so much life in Failwen’s voice before. “It was not your fault, Galadriel. None of it. Each of us made our own choices, took our own risks. I rode to battle together with my husband because I chose to do so. I knew I could be slain or captured. But I chose what I chose. As did you.”

Murmurs of agreement arise from the crowd. There are faint, yet encouraging smiles, light brushes on my daughter’s sleeve. These timid signs of support bring tears to Artanis’ eyes again, but she wipes them quickly away.

“I am grateful for your kindness,” she says softly. “It means much to me. So much.”

When Artanis offers to help them to tend their wounded, they accept it without any objection. Their trust extends easily to Celeborn and Tyelperinquar, and even to me and Artanar, after my daughter spots us in the crowd and pulls along. Soon, we all are treating injuries, dispensing medicines and changing bandages. None turns away, none refuses our aid, and when several hours later we leave their camp, they see us off with quiet, yet sincere words of gratitude and even with some swiftly fading smiles. The silence we leave behind is less solid, less despondent.

My daughter and her husband go in front, hand in hand, talking softly. I follow some twenty steps behind, deep in thought. What I saw today in my daughter is so much more than I remember. So much more than I knew.

My musings likely reflect on my face, for Tyelperinquar smiles. “She surprised you, lord, is it not so?”

“She is like that,” he softly says. “Valiant. Kind. Compassionate. Coming here and fighting the darkness has brought forth her inner light, has blown it to a bright flame.”

I regard my brother’s grandson thoughtfully. “You, too, are different from what I remember, Tyelperinquar.” When he looks at me with question, I smile. “As I said – you have grown. And I noticed you have fine skill in healing.”

He shrugs. “I believe all who dwell in Valariandë have this skill, to a greater or lesser extent.”

“I have aided healers and I have learned much from them. I helped to tend my uncle. After Thangorodrim. That took months. And that was…” He looks away.

My heart clenches. The stories I have heard likely conveyed but a small part of Nelyafinwë’s suffering, yet they nevertheless revealed enough to be blood-chilling.

“My words may sound empty, Tyelperinquar, but – I regret. I truly do. I wish all had turned out otherwise.”

“Yes.” Tyelperinquar still avoids looking at me. “I too wish that. But everything we do has consequences. For every voice there is an echo, for every stone thrown in water there are ripples. Nelyafinwë once said that, while still in Mithrim. He never blamed anyone but himself. Always himself.” He suddenly halts and turns towards me. I stop also. “Have you… have you any news of them, my lord? Of my eldest uncles? I find it hard to believe they did not come here to join the fighting. If you know something, lord Arafinwë, I entreat you to tell me. Despite everything, they are dear to me. They are all that is left of my close family.”

His eyes are intent, pleading. He has likely wanted to ask this question ever since he came here. Even though I wish the ground opened and swallowed me right now, I have no right to keep the truth from him.

“They did come here, Tyelperinquar. But not to join the fight. They came… for the Silmarils.”

Silence falls, until the true meaning of what I have just said reaches Tyelperinquar’s mind. He takes a step back and stares at me, eyes wide. “No!”

Let him learn the horrible truth from me, not from someone who hates my brother’s sons.

“They got the jewels. After… after killing the guards. Then they fled. Eönwë forbade anyone to follow them. I was about to do it anyway, but I was restrained. They disappeared in the night. That is all we know.”

“No. That is not all.” We turn towards Artanar who has caught up with us and stands frowning, hands clasped tightly together. “When Ingwil took you back to the camp, I disregarded Eönwë’s command and went after them. They were swift, and I drew near only when they were past the ruins of Angamando. It was a terrible sight there. The Valar were still tearing the place down. The mountains were broken. The ground shook. Deep chasms were rending the earth, fire flickered in the depths. One such gap opened right before me, and I could not reach Nelyafinwë and Makalaurë. I cried out to them, but there was the thunder and the rumbling underground. They did not hear me, and I could only watch.

“They halted, and Makalaurë opened the chest. Oh, the hallowed Light amid all that desolation…! They talked briefly. I was too far to hear but I think Nelyafinwë persuaded his brother that they needed to split. At last, each of them took one of the stones, and Makalaurë left westward. And then…” He looks down.

Artanar raises his eyes and draws a deep breath. “Nelyafinwë long stood by the chasm gazing at the flames below, holding the Silmaril. Then he took a step over the edge.”

Tyelperinquar releases Artanar and staggers back. When I make a move towards him, he turns away. “I… I want to be alone. Please.” As we turn to go, he sinks on a boulder and buries his face in his hands.

“You should have told me!” At the entrance of my tent I turn my back on him. “I want to be alone, too!”

I am sick of death. My sons are gone. My brothers are dead. Of their children, only Makalaurë is left, if even he. This cruel land has taken them all, broken them, destroyed them. I am sick of this place. Curse Endórë! Curse all its places that took my family! I no longer care if it sinks in water or burns in fire; the Valar are welcome to destroy this land in any way they wish!

An occasional spark of mirth in dull eyes. A straightening of back, previously bent in slavery and fear. A greeting and an open smile instead of averted eyes and quiet slipping away in the shadows. The change is subtle, but it is there. The road will likely be long, but this at least is a beginning. A beginning which would not be here without my daughter and her companions.

First, I watched Artanis with wonder, but then I realized. They know her. They know and trust the one who led them over the Grinding Ice. And she recognizes the former prisoners of Angamando, many by name, the others by destiny that repeats in a cruel pattern again and again. Battle of Sudden Flame. Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Orc raid in the night. Artanis has already seen all terror I wanted to shield her from. She does not fear the burden of their anguish. While we, others, can offer only our sympathy to the former captives, she gives them understanding and, facing it, their fear and distrust slowly melt. While my eyes are mostly on my daughter, I must admit – her companions are probably doing as much as she.

Two weeks have passed. The wounded have recovered enough that they can travel, and we set out with the slanting rays of the morning Sun. At last. I want to leave this place behind me, forever. I am eager to start the journey, but still, my heart is not at peace. I cannot banish the memory of a conversation I had a few days ago.

“King Finarfin, is it true we are leaving soon?” asks one of the rescued Elves as we sit by the fire in their camp. The few voices that have joined my daughter’s song fall silent, questioning faces turn towards me.

“That is true, my friend,” I reply. “This place shall come under the power of Ulmo. Morgoth’s former abode is evil and poisoned. It must be cleansed, and only water can do that.”

I look in the distance for a few moments ere replying. “We shall see when we get there, away from danger.”

Slowly, he nods and asks no more. The voices do not join the song again. After a while of uneasy silence I rise and take my leave, feeling a traitor. I realized the true meaning of his question at once. Where are we to go after all this, he asked. What will happen with us? But I do not know. I have not received any reply from Eönwë.

It takes longer than two weeks to reach the feet of the Blue Mountains, and as we start to climb, our pace slows even more. The Valar and the Maiar clear a way before us, but the ground is still rocky and uneven, and the path narrow. In the jagged terrain we see only a short distance ahead. Fearing a sudden assault, many have weapons ready; we have armed all who are sufficiently recovered to wield a sword or a bow.

The steep climb swiftly drains the barely recovered strength of the former captives and soldiers injured in the last battle. On the third day of climbing, we halt less than an hour before the sunset on a wide, flat, rocky terrace, half-encircled by sharp cliffs. Many sink to the ground in complete exhaustion.

We light fires and set guards around the camp after yet another vain attempt to persuade Failwen to pitch their tents amid ours. She has assumed some kind of leadership among the rescued Elves and often speaks for them all. While they avoid us no longer, at night they keep to themselves, and even my daughter’s pleas have yielded nothing. During the day, there is light and there is hope, but at night the shadows of evil memory return. Moans and muffled screams often sound from their lodgings. They want to keep all that away from us.

The air grows chilly. The noise of conversations around the campfires fades to an indistinct din, then to silence. My watch is later, so I doze off. A dream carries me over the Sea, to the white shores of Aman. I walk hand-in-hand with Ëarwen along the coast. Her silver hair shimmers in the Sun, laughter dances in her eyes. She looks at me and tilts her head, about to say something—

A scream rends the still night air. I sit upright, shaking off sleep. More screams follow. They do not sound like those brought forth by nightmares. I spring to my feet, seize my sword and rush towards the source of the sound. Towards the edge of the camp where Failwen and her people have settled.

In the distance shadows move in the reflection of fires. Steel clashes against steel. Growls and yells echo in the night. I and a few others reach the place swiftly. But the growls have already fallen silent. A dozen or so Orcs lie dead, several Elves stand around, holding blades dripping with black blood. They stand pale, unmoving. All, save one.

Failwen, gripping in both hands the hilt of a sword, is madly slashing the body of an Orc on the ground, each strike accompanied by a scream of anger and hatred. The enemy is clearly dead, but she does not stop. The swishing of the blade and her yelling alternate in a terrifying rhythm.

“Lady Failwen, stop!” It is obvious she does not hear me. “Failwen, enough! Please, stop!” I repeat with a growing sense of despair. When there is no reply and no sign she has noticed me, I shove my own sword in the hands of one of those watching and hold her fast. “Let go of the weapon, lady, please!”

Failwen releases the sword; it falls on the stones with a clank. Then she tears free from my hold and turns to fight me with her bare hands, still screaming, eyes wild, hair dishevelled, hands and garment spattered with the black blood of the Orc. Fury lends her strength she would not otherwise possess; blow after blow lands on my chest, her nails leave a bleeding gash on my cheek, her teeth sink into my arm.

At last my voice pierces the fog of madness enveloping her. Her wild gaze somewhat clears, her struggling weakens, then ceases altogether. She looks at me with wide, confused eyes. “Ara… Arafinwë…?” she whispers hoarsely. “What…”

She looks around. I am too slow to step between her and the mutilated Orc. With a wail of terror she turns away and hides her face on my chest, shaking violently.

One of the Elves hastens away. The others still stand around us in a horrified silence.

“What happened? Was here an attack?” Ingwil and several of his warriors run into the ring of firelight. “Is anyone injured?”

“No,” replies one of those standing by. “We killed them before they did any harm.”

Ingwil notices the body on the ground. His eyes widen. “What in the name of…” He falls silent when he meets my look.

“Failwen, Failwen, dear, what happened?” My daughter hurries towards us. “Are you hurt?” She sets her arms around her friend. I step back. Artanis looks around, spots the mutilated Orc and blanches.

Failwen raises her eyes. “Galadriel, I… I killed it.” Her lips tremble. Within moments, she is sobbing. “I killed it! And then I… It fell, but I just could not stop! I could not! I…”

“I know. I understand.” Artanis strokes her hair. “It is gone now. You are safe. It is gone.”

Artanis sits on the ground, pulling Failwen along, still holding her in embrace and rocking gently as she would comfort a frightened child. Then she looks up at me.

“I will stay here, father. Make certain the camp is safe. And…” She directs her gaze at the dead enemies.

I nod in silence. We carry away the bodies and throw them in a deep ravine beside the path. We scout the surroundings and find no more threats. This has likely been but a single ravaging band, desperate to scavenge some food.

It is long past midnight when I finally return to the campfire. A tall figure stands on the path, an intent questioning gaze turns towards me as my steps grate on the stones. Hands clenched in fists, I avert my eyes and brush past the Herald of the Elder King. He lets me pass in silence.

Failwen’s screams still ringing in my ears, I lie down and close my eyes, but, if anything, the images I have seen grow more vivid. Failwen’s bloodstained hands. Her wild eyes. Her tears.

I sit up again, break branch from a long-withered bush growing nearby, grip it in a trembling hand and trace line after line on the hard-packed dirt among the stones. Merely lines. Haphazard, disordered lines. Like the slashes Failwen’s blade left on the body of that Orc.

I recoil, then raise my eyes. Artanar stands a mere step away. I did not even hear him approach. He looks at me closely. “Your hand,” he repeats. “It is bleeding.”

I look. The branch has thorns, and several spikes have pierced my palm. Red drops are slowly dripping to the ground. More blood. I avert my eyes.

Artanar sits on the ground beside me. “Give me that.” He pries the thorny stick from my fingers and casts it in the fire where flames catch and swallow it nearly at once. “Will you let me tend the injury? It will hinder you when wielding a sword if left as it is.”

I nod in silence and numbly watch as he rummages in the bag and finds bandages, washes off the blood, puts a salve on the wound and loosely binds my palm. Then he looks intently at my face.

He cleans blood from my face too, from the gash Failwen left on my cheek. The salve stings and I wince, but sit still until Artanar finishes. He puts away the medicine and the water flask and shifts as if to rise, but then sinks back on the ground and remains sitting, looking in the flames. After minutes of staring into the fire he raises his eyes towards me.

“My daughter is with her. I do not believe anyone can do more than she can, now.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, it has not. And what the ending will be… That is uncertain. The healing they still need…”

Artanar sits silent for a few moments, then speaks again. “Forgive me for not saying anything about Nelyafinwë’s death. I should have told you at once.”

“You should have. But I understand why you did not. And I appreciate your intent.”

“I am glad.” A relieved smile appears on his lips, then fades again. “I want to go home, Arafinwë.” He wraps his arms around his knees. “Never to touch a sword again.”

“I am afraid.” My friend quietly confesses. “More than before. Afraid that something terrible might still happen. That I might never see Valinórë again. That I might never see… her.”

“Nothing will happen. We will go home,” I repeat firmly. “You will go back to that mysterious lady you have kept secret even from your friends.”

Artanar smiles faintly. “Her name is Lindiel. The Teleri invited me to Tol Eressëa, to oversee the widening of the fishing harbour on the northern coast. People there, they needed my skill, so they endured my presence, but they were… not too friendly. Not right hostile either, but… Do you know the feeling when you are not entirely welcome somewhere? Conversations falling silent when you approach, faces turned away. So I kept apart. A few days later, the harbourmaster’s daughter spoke to me. She had noticed me always resting alone, always being alone in the evenings too, when other masons gathered around the fires. We talked long into the night. She returned on the next day, and we walked along the shore. And on the day after too. I was so glad I had found a friend, but soon we realized we had become something more than that. And when news of the war came and I had to leave, she said she would wait for me.”

“Had I known you loved someone, I would not have asked you to accompany me here.”

“Yes.” Artanar nods. “That is why you did not know.” Smile still softens his face. He pulls something from his pocket and unwraps layers of soft cloth. “When we parted, Lindiel gave me this.”

Upon his palm lies a seashell, small and delicate, glistening with a pearly sheen. Tears sting my eyes. He has kept the fragile thing intact for more than forty years of war.

Artanar sighs. “In truth, this thought helps little against fear. I dread the conversation with her parents. They might not approve of their daughter tying her fate to a Noldo. And I would not want to cause a rift between her and her family.”

“That will be her choice, besides, you do not know whether her parents would approve or not.”

“You are right. It is pointless to worry beforehand. But lately I often think of what might happen when we return.” Artanar carefully wraps the seashell again and puts it back in his pocket. “Life is such a fragile thing, Arafinwë.” A tear trickles down his cheek. “Such a fragile thing. I never valued it as I do now. I want to do so much yet. I want to show Lindiel the mountains. I want to build us a house and to plant an orchard around it. The trees would grow. They would clothe themselves in clouds of white blossoms each spring and bear fruits each autumn. One day, our children would run and play in their shade. I want daughters and sons. I….”

“All of this will be.” I lay my hand on his shoulder. “You will see. As for the house – if all goes well, would you like me to draw a plan for it?”

He brushes his hand over his face and raises his eyes. “I… yes, I would like that. Do you know that place north of Tirion, where the woodland meets the mountains? There is a waterfall. And a large meadow. I would like to build there. Unless… Lindiel wishes to remain on the island. Then I will stay with her.”

“I know the place.” I smile. “It is most beautiful. There is a fair chance she might like it too.”

We sit by the fire for the rest of the night talking about different kinds of stone, about foundations and walls, about window shapes and roofing. We have not spoken about the future as we do now since reaching the slopes of Thangorodrim. Before, it was always about the next day, the next battle, and a shadow of death was always looming over these conversations. Tonight, for the first time in years, we are speaking of life.

Next day we climb higher. Even the withered bushes disappear, and now there is only bare rock. Snow lies on the ground in patches. Around midday, we halt to rest beside the tongue of a glacier that feeds several small streamlets of cold, clear water. I am filling my water flask by one of those when quiet steps sound behind me.

“King Arafinwë, I came …” Failwen’s trembling voice breaks, but then she pulls herself together. “I came to ask you to forgive me. You saved us. You showed us kindness. Compassion. And I… I attacked you. I…” Her hands are clutching handfuls of her coat. “I apologize,” she whispers and bows her head.

I gently lay my hand on her shoulder. “My lady, whoever you were attacking yesterday – it was not me. I know that. So there is no need to apologize.”

As Failwen looks up, the gratitude in her eyes is unbearable. “I… Still, I hurt you. I should not have… Also that Orc… But when I saw those creatures again… Their faces… I just could not stop. I remembered. Remembered how…” She falls silent and stands, still clutching her garment.

She does not reply but does not leave either. Lightly I touch her arm. She trembles, but then leans against me. I lead her to a large flat stone and sit beside her.

“I am not questioning you, lady. But I am here, should you wish to speak. I am a friend. Please, believe me.”

A barely perceptible nod and whispered words, so quiet that I must lean towards her to hear. “I… believe you.”

Failwen looks down at her hands clasped firmly together. Then she raises her eyes towards me.

“In the Battle of Sudden Flame we stood with our King in the Fens of Serech. It was hopeless. Heavily outnumbered, the Orcs closing in, we made ready for the last stand. Then the Edain came to our aid and drove the enemies back. But our company was cut off from the main host. The retreating Orcs took us captive and dragged to Angband. There, they questioned us – about our forces, about the outposts, about the fortifications of Nargothrond. We kept silent. Then they questioned us... more.”

Failwen speaks on, short, broken sentences, interrupted by long whiles of silence. I have no words of consolation for what she tells. I can only offer her a shoulder to cry on, and when the story is over, she does that; quiet, anguished sobs are shaking her thin body, finally fading to silence. We share the silence too, her face still pressed into the folds of my cloak. I look in the distance, the black cliffs and the cold blue ice of the glacier blurring together to an indistinct grey.

In the evening we cross the pass and make our camp on the other side. I am skinning one of the mountain goats our archers have hunted for supper when Eönwë comes to speak with me.

“You must camp here, beyond the ridge, until the danger has passed,” the herald of Manwë says.

Eönwë considers me closely. “I saw you talking with lady Failwen earlier, and now you are angry.”

“Yes, I am!” I drop the knife and the game and look right into his eyes. “Moringotto’s beasts blinded her husband – after beating her nearly senseless and making him watch that! The last thing he saw in this world was his wife’s suffering! Later, in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, they dragged him out on the battlefield and killed in sight of everyone. They hewed off his hands and feet, beheaded him, and afterwards they described to her what they had done! I do not understand where she still finds the strength to cling to life after all that, to care for and protect those who are weaker. Her story is but one of such kind. I have listened to such stories for weeks! We all have! And we have only our tears and compassion to give, nothing else! How do you think, my lord, will tears and compassion help them put together the shards of their shattered lives?”

I must be shouting. Frightened faces turn towards us and then swiftly look away. Eönwë stands silent for a while.

“We are neither all-knowing, nor almighty, King of the Noldor,” he says softly. “We, too, make mistakes and rue them. But choices and promises made by the Children of the One cannot be easily revoked. Not even by the Elder King.”

Manwë’s herald lays his hand on my shoulder. “I know. We are not without pity, Arafinwë. What we have seen on this shore has turned even the most unyielding hearts. And Ilúvatar is merciful. Have faith.”

Throughout the next days I linger on the edge between cautious hope and bitter resentment.

We wait in the camp beyond the ridge. On the morning of the third day a fierce storm descends. It is not a weather of this world. Black clouds gather in the west, then cover the entire sky. It is dark despite the early hour. Rain starts pouring down in sheets quenching all fires. Lightnings rend the sky, flickering in blinding shafts. Thunders crack unceasingly. The ground shakes. Wind howls around us. We keep together, huddled in the tents, comforting each other in trembling voices. The storm keeps raging for the whole day and long into the night. None sleeps. The night is at its darkest when rain, thunder and lightning finally cease, but now there is a great roaring and rushing as if of tumultuous water just beyond the ridge.

“I wish we could see what is happening.” Ingwil rises, steps out of the tent and stands stone-still by the entrance, face turned towards the jagged cliffs that separate us from the noise. “No matter how terrible it may look. This ignorance is worse. Much worse.”

I follow him, and we peer into the night waiting for the dawn and whatever it may bring.

The morning comes grey. Pale shrouds of mist wind about the cliffs. It is eerily quiet after the tumult in the night, and the people, too, are silent, subdued. Anxiety and uncertainty become unbearable.

We climb the ridge. Before and below us lies a thick veil of mist, and we strain our eyes in vain to pierce it. Then wind rises. The mists scatter. A thin strip of land, covered with driftwood and seaweed, somewhat widening towards southeast, remains visible, but otherwise, as far as the eye can see, water covers everything.

I stand frozen, eyes wide, staring at the desolation on the shore and the grey expanse of water. Fearful gasps and cries of dismay sound all around. Some cover their faces, some sink to the ground. Sobs and terrified whispers rend the stillness.

“Hearken to me, people of Eldalië!” Eönwë’s mighty voice rings clear in the air. He stands upon a cliff with upraised arms. “Despair not! Beleriand is lost, but you have home again! The Valar have revoked the ban, and all who wish it may return to Aman!”

Complete hush falls after his words. Pale, tear-streaked faces turn towards Manwë’s herald.

“That is true.” He confirms. “You are forgiven. On this shore, you have resisted the greatest evil of our time. You have fought against a power far beyond your strength, and yet you never surrendered to it. You are forgiven. As soon as the ships arrive, you may sail home. This I say on the authority of the Elder King.”

A keen breeze sweeps away the lasts wisps of mist. Clouds break. Patches of blue sky appear and Sun-rays turn water into dazzling blue glitter. Someone in the crowd sings the first few lines of a hymn to the Starkindler, the others take up the song. It is quiet and hesitant first, but as fear fades in the eyes turned towards the shimmering Sea, voices grow in strength and entwine with the sound of the waves.

None wants to remain among the barren rocks any longer, so we move our camp to the coastland, just above the tideline, and wait for the ships. Hope, so slowly kindled but blown to flames after Eönwë’s words, is everywhere now: in smiles, in bright eyes, in lively conversations about the future.

“If you were to build a city, lord, how would you do it?” Tyelperinquar asks me one evening as we share a meal by the fire. “How would you start?”

“I would scout and chart the land, first,” I reply, somewhat surprised by his question. “Terrain, soil, watercourses. Then find the exact place where I want the city to be.”

“Yes. Then draw the plans – of the whole city and every single house. Of the streets, gardens, fountains, whatever else you want there. Only then comes the building itself.”

“Why do you ask?” I am curious. I do not recall my brother’s grandson taking interest in any other craft than his own.

He looks into flames. “Because I want to build such a city,” he replies at length. “A place of beauty. A place where everyone is free to create. A place where one can see the mountains. And far from the Sea.”

Tyelperinquar raises his eyes and looks at me gravely. “It is not in Valinórë where I want to build it but here, in Middle-earth.”

“Do not attempt to reassure me, lord.” Tyelperinquar shakes his head. “I have decided.”

I sink back on the ground. “How… how can he even consider remaining here?!”

“It is his right, my friend,” says Artanar. “This land… They have suffered and bled for it. Does it surprise you it has become their home?”

“Home?” I turn towards him abruptly. “What kind of home this may be after… after all that has happened? What is there to stay for? Valariandë is destroyed, nothing remains of it!”

Artanar nods. “Yes. But there are other lands east of the mountains. And to build anew is to prevail over the past suffering. Do you not see? What would you do if enemies destroyed Tirion? Would you flee to Valmar and never look back?”

“No!” The thought of Tirion’s white towers in wreck terrifies me. “Of course not! But that is not the same at all!”

I throw a piece of driftwood into the fire with greater force than necessary. Sparks fly up and scatter in the air. Then I look closely at Artanar. “You said – they.”

Artanar’s words trouble me deeply. In the following days I closely observe the Elves we rescued from Angamando. I ask cautious questions. Most of them are desperate to return to Valinórë. But some… Some, mainly craftspeople – smiths, stone masons, woodwrights - gather around Tyelperinquar. Oft his melodious voice rings by one of the fires as he speaks of his dreams for the future, and his face glows with excitement, with the bright flame of his spirit, kindling the hearts of those listening. The likeness of what he is doing to what my brother once did terrifies me.

On one such evening I pull him aside. “What are you doing? Why are you denying them a chance of healing they would receive in Aman?”

He counters my anger calmly. “I do not think healing may be found only in the Gardens of Lórien, lord. I believe doing what we love may also heal.”

“I am not doing that. But I believe everyone has the right to decide for themselves. For too long they have been denied this right. I am merely giving them a choice I myself have made. That choice was not easy for me, yet I know it to be the right one.” He falls silent and considers me closely. “I know you want what is best for our people, King Arafinwë. But so do I. Most of them would still return to Valinórë, yet, for some, staying here is for the best.”

Days pass in waiting. Weeks. Then – a month. Signs of life appear in patches of the barren earth on the seaside – greenish-grey stalks of grass, tiny white and yellow flowers on short stems. Other living things return, too. Birds start nesting in the crevices of the cliffs. Butterflies with delicate, nearly transparent wings flutter above the blossoms. Tiny furry creatures, maybe something akin to field mice, scurry over the sand. All these things, seemingly so small and insignificant, move us to tears. Now and then I see someone kneeling beside a patch of flowers or observing the seabirds’ flight with nearly reverent attention. Sometimes I am doing this myself. The return of light and colours after forty years of grey bleakness is a gift beyond price.

The waters are calm this evening. The Vessel of Arien is nearing the horizon, and tiny waves carry reflected hues of the sunset. Artanis stands by the waterline, a light breeze playing with strands of her hair. She mostly wears it loose now – a river of shining gold that falls over her back and shoulders, different from the time in Valinórë. She loved intricate braids then, and I, being more patient than Ëarwen, often plaited her hair.

When I approach, she turns towards me and smiles. I return the smile, my heart swelling with pride and affection. My little girl has grown into this wise, brave and kind being, into someone towards whom others look for guidance.

Artanis reads my mind effortlessly and blushes. “You think too highly of me, father.”

“No, I do not. You have returned hope to many, Artanis. When we were at loss, you knew what to do, what to say. You had the understanding we did not have.”

“It is only because I know these stories so well, father,” she replies quietly. “I have witnessed their broken destinies again and again. They are all similar, in a way.”

She falls silent. I sense her grief and set my arm around her. She lays her head on my shoulder.

“Do not grieve, Artanis. The healing is nigh. The ships will be here soon, and we all shall return home.” She tenses, and I pull her closer. “Fear nothing. As I said, mother has long since forgiven you. She will be overjoyed to see you and your husband. Fear nothing.”

“Father…” Artanis frees herself from my arms, takes a step back and stands still, looking down. My heart skips a beat. I freeze and hold my breath. What will her next words be? Ilúvatar, please, let her not say…

She raises her eyes. “I am not going back to Valinórë.” Her voice and gaze are both resolute and sad.

The world around me seems to fall apart. Waves fall silent. Colours disappear. Everything goes black and deadly quiet.

Then… I blink and shake my head. My senses return. How long has it been? A heartbeat? An age of the world?

I look around me. The Sun has already disappeared beyond the skyline. The wailing of seabirds sounds like a lament. Artanis’ frightened gaze meets mine. She is supporting me.

“Forgive me this new grief, father!” Tears glisten on her cheeks. “Please, forgive me! But I… we… we cannot go back now. Not only because of Celeborn’s love for Endor. I love this land too. I want to stay and help rebuild it. I see my place here, not over the Sea. Please, understand me, father! I want to accomplish something! Something meaningful, something good!”

She speaks on, and my reasons against her staying fade one by one, like seafoam left behind retreating waves, and those that remain take their being merely in my selfishness. Artanis is right. She can do so much more here, in healing this land and those who will choose to remain. Her strength and her wisdom are needed here much more than they are needed in Aman. But realizing all that does nothing to dull the clawing pain in my heart, and for a long time I find no words.

“Please, speak to me, father,” Artanis whispers. “Say something. Be angry, reproach me. But do not stand thus in silence.”

I draw a deep breath. I cannot add more guilt and sorrow to the burden my child already carries.

“I understand you, Artanis.” She looks at me with apparent disbelief. I take her hands. “I truly do.”

“I will explain her everything.” I seal away the cold that rises at the thought.

She embraces me tightly and hides her face on my chest. “I am so grateful to you, father! I hoped you would understand.”

“I understand.” I hold her close for a few moments, then step back. “Go, speak with your husband. He will want to know this.” She hesitates, but I shake my head. “Go, daughter. I will be well. I shall walk along the shore for a while yet.”

She considers me closely, then lightly touches my cheek ere leaving. I watch her retreating form until she disappears among the tents. Then I turn back towards the Sea. The waves still shimmer with the reflection of sunset. Hot tears rise to my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. In vain. The tears find the way, and I sink to my knees on the cool sand.

Two more weeks pass until the first ships arrive. During this time Artanis clings to me, as if to redress the centuries of past separation and the sundering that lies ahead of us. We sit together or walk by the Sea; we remember the past and speak of the future. And each of these conversations strengthens my conviction – my daughter’s place is here.

Ingwil and Artanar watch me closely. Whenever I am alone, one or both of them linger nearby, casting intent, concerned glances at me when they think I am not looking. This both irritates and moves me, but I say nothing.

When white sails appear on the horizon at last, Eönwë speaks to me and Ingwil.

“The Valar shall now withdraw,” he says. “Other places in Middle-earth need our attention and aid too. Some of the Maiar will remain to guard you, and lord Ulmo will grant you safe passage home. Fare well. We shall meet in Valinórë again.” We bow. He looks at us thoughtfully. “You have lost much in this war. But maybe… maybe you have found something too.”

Then he is gone. The air shimmers briefly; the shimmer disappears, and we stand alone on the shore.

“Have we found anything?” I ask despondently watching the approaching ships. The inevitable parting with my daughter weighs heavily on my heart.

“I have,” Ingwil replies quietly after a while of silence. “I have found… myself. Someone much better than that Ingwil who left Valinórë more than forty years ago. And I have found a friend. A brother I never had.”

It is unfair to wallow in my grief. “You are right. I, too, have found a friend where I least hoped to find him. And I know my daughter is happy. We may be sundered, but I will always be certain she is loved.”

“She will be well.” Ingwil lays his hand on my shoulder and looks at me closely. “But – will you?”

The sails draw closer. It is but part of the fleet, a dozen vessels led by ‘The White Wave’. There is no mooring place in the newly made bay, so the ships stay on anchor some distance from the shore. ‘The White Wave’ lowers a boat.

“King Arafinwë, lord Ingwil, captain Falmar invites you on the deck,” says one of the sailors when the boat has reached the shallows. The Teleri observe our camp curiously. Their eyes widen at the sight of Failwen and a company of Noldor who have left their tents and are watching the ships and the boat uneasily from a distance.

“I am glad to see you alive and well,” the captain says. Then he looks at us closely. “You have been through some tough ordeal,” he quietly adds.

Ingwil frowns. “We have, but these stories are not fit for a meeting of friends after a long time. Let us leave them for now. Rather, tell us of yourself.”

“The coastlands were safe,” the captain replies. “Soon after your departure nearly all Moringotto’s beasts left north, to join the main host - so we learned from the Sindar and the Men. There were no attacks. But the waiting was long. We made repairs in the harbour and the city, to pass time. Sadly, it all lies on the bottom of the Sea now.” He sighs. “So much beauty lost. But… I understand. I trust it had to be done.”

“Did you see… how it happened?” I ask hesitantly. “We did not. We were beyond a mountain ridge.”

Falmar shakes his head. “We did not see it either. We were on the ships, far to the south. We only saw a great storm in the distance, dark clouds and lightnings. The seas were rough on our way here though. No great danger, but the rest of the ships lagged behind. They should be here in a day or two. You will want to depart from this place as soon as possible, I am sure.”

“Indeed.” I nod. A part of me desires to remain longer. To spend more time with my daughter. To meet my brother’s grandson Gil-galad, now the High King of the Noldor, to meet lord Círdan and Ëarendil’s sons. But that would only make departure more difficult. And I am weary of this place. As are the others. “We would leave as soon as may be. Our warriors are impatient to go home. And those we freed from the terrors of Moringotto’s dungeons need healing they can receive only in Aman.”

“Some of them are Sindar from Endórë. Most are Noldor, my brothers’ people. The Valar have granted them leave to return.”

“I see.” Falmar rises, goes to the chart table, takes up a map, studies it a while, sets it down again. He rearranges pencils and rulers on the table. Then he turns towards us, arms folded on his chest. “I cannot grant them passage.”

“Surely, we misunderstand you, captain!” Ingwil’s eyes glint. “Your ships have enough room to accommodate everybody. Their number is less than the count of our men we lost in the war.”

“It may be so. But the ships of the Teleri will not carry traitors and kinslayers.”

“I take orders from my king, lord Ingwil,” Falmar replies coldly. “And from him only. My duty was to ferry you to Endórë and back. Nothing more. I stand by that order. If they are permitted to return – so be it. But not in our ships. Let them build their own.”

Something snaps within me. I stride towards Falmar, seize him by the arm and drag him out on the deck, towards the side of the ship facing the coast. Utterly bewildered by my sudden violence, he merely gasps. Still gripping him tight, I point towards the shore.

“Look at them, captain! Look closely! What ships can they build, how do you think?”

Several dozen former captives have gathered by the waterline. Pale faces turn towards the ships, bony hands shade eyes from the Sun. While they have recovered some of their strength, it is still a dismal sight. The coast is close enough even for me to see clearly. For the far-sighted Telerin sailors it all must be even plainer – their fatigue and frailty. Their scars.

“Look closely, captain,” I repeat in a strangled voice. “And then say once again that you would deny them passage! Say it! If you dare!”

I release Falmar and take a step back. Several of his sailors, alarmed by our exchange, approach us, their hands on the daggers at their belts. Falmar raises his hand. They halt. The captain of ‘The White Wave’ long observes the coast in silence, his face unreadable, his hands gripping the railing.

“We will accept them on our ships.” When he speaks at last, he avoids meeting my eyes. “I will talk to the other captains. I… did not know.”

“Well, now you do!” Ingwil casts a glance full of blazing rage at Falmar, then pulls me towards the rope ladder that leads to the boat.

We return to the shore in silence. Ere I disembark, one of the sailors stops me.

“Lord, if you are worried any of our people would treat the Noldor with disdain or hatred – have no fear,” he says earnestly. “In the face of this suffering, we will find in our hearts the strength to forgive. I am certain of that.”

I nod and turn towards the shore. I must show a cheerful face to those anxiously awaiting tidings.

When the rest of the fleet arrives, the sight of white hulls in the bay fills my heart with mingled joy and sadness. Going home is so close now. But, in doing so, I will once again leave a part of my heart behind.

Three more days pass in preparations for the long voyage and repairs of minor damage some of the ships have sustained in the rough weather. Then, inevitably, comes the day of parting. The Sun has just risen, and, for the last time, I walk along the shore together with my daughter. Suddenly, Artanis halts.

I nod in silence, for my voice would surely break, and for the next hour I sit on the sand plaiting Artanis’ golden tresses. When I have finished, she turns towards me with a tear-streaked face. She is less successful in hiding her grief than me.

“Do not grieve.” I wipe her cheeks dry. “All will be well. It is your fate to stay here and care for this land. You will be very happy, my daughter.”

“Do not grieve,” I repeat later when it is time to board the boat and we say our last farewells by the waterside.

I smile faintly at Celeborn’s words. “I know that, my son. And she will keep you safe as well.”

Celebrimbor firmly clasps my hand. “Farewell. Please, take word to my mother and grandmother. Tell them… Tell them our destiny lies here. Tell that to the families of the others, too.”

“I will tell them. Be well, Celebrimbor. Find joy. Take care of your people. Build your city.”

Calm confidence rings in his voice. He looks at me with my brother’s eyes, smiles my brother’s smile. A shadow of sudden dread falls on my heart, and I draw him in embrace. “And be careful. There is still evil in Endórë, and it will strive to ensnare the unwary. Keep your eyes open.”

Ingwil steps forward now. “Celebrimbor, you are to meet lord Círdan sooner or later. Among his people are the parents of a Falathrim Elf named Súlion.” He shifts in his stance and briefly looks away. “Their son… he perished in the second battle we fought here, in the battle for Eglarest. He was our guide. His death was my fault. My overconfidence led to a slaughter that could have easily been averted. Tell them I regret, have regretted for all these years. And… give them this.” He holds out a folded parchment, frayed and worn in long years of use. “It bears his writing and drawings, the last of them. What Súlion added to this map, aided us greatly.”

Ingwil embarks the boat. I linger for a few moments. Artanis embraces me for the last time.

“Go, father,” she whispers. “One day, we will meet again. All of us. I am certain of that. But now – go. This parting breaks my heart.”

Minutes later, the sailors haul up the anchor and hoist the sails, and ‘The White Wave’ glides towards the open Sea. I remain at the stern, straining my eyes until the figures on the shore diminish to tiny specks and then disappear altogether in a shimmering mist. Only then I turn around, sink on the deck and bow my head to my knees.

When I look up again, it is past midday. The Sun is high overhead. The ship moves smoothly over the waves, seabirds circle around the tall masts. Ingwil and Artanar are sitting on the deck, on both sides of me.

A part of me would like to be alone. What do they think, that I need watching over? But they are my friends. Let them have it their way. I rest my head against the planks, and so we sit in silence, the sunlight warm upon our faces, the life of the ship busy around us. Artanis is safe and happy, I repeat to myself. She is where she wants to be. She will be well. They all will be well. They are now free to build themselves a future they want. In peace.

For the next days I closely watch captain Falmar and his sailors, but not once do I notice the Teleri treating the Noldor with disdain. And even in Falmar’s eyes I see unfeigned sympathy.

We have been on the Sea for less than a week when someone knocks on the door of my cabin one evening.

Captain Falmar enters, and his visit surprises me. I have not spoken with him more than a few sentences since our exchange before the departure.

“Thank you.” He makes a step and remains standing in the middle of the small room. “How are you, lord Arafinwë?”

We stand in awkward silence. Suddenly the ship heaves to the side encountering a wave. We retain the balance, but the sketchbook I dropped on the table when rising to go to the door now falls to the floor landing open at Falmar’s feet.

The captain picks it up. He is about to return it to me, but then slowly draws back his hand and stares at the sketch of the Warg pit of Angamando. He pales.

When back on the ship, I started drawing everything that festers in my mind and memory. The battle scenes. The enemies. Moringotto’s dungeons and torture chambers. The prisoners. I did not intend to show these drawings to anyone; I take a step to wrench the sketchbook from Falmar’s hand. But then I halt and fold my arms on my chest. Let him see! “You may look if you want to.”

Falmar nods, sits down on a chair and examines each page attentively. When he returns the sketchbook, his hand trembles.

“You must think me either an arrogant fool or incredibly cruel.“ At length he looks up at me. “Maybe no less cruel than those you fought in Hither Lands.”

The sadness in his voice moves me. “I know you are neither. You did not know. You had reasons to speak as you spoke in the beginning, and it was wrong of me to act as I did. So… I apologize for the violence against you, captain.”

“I deserved it,” he replies quietly. “But I… I truly did not know. I did not think it was so… terrible.”

“It was terrible.” I stare at the open page for a few moments, then close the notebook and drop it on my bed. “Now, captain, would you kindly tell me the reason of your visit? It was not to look at my sketches, I am sure.”

“No, of course not. Even though…” He bites his lip. “It is surprisingly close. I came to ask you to tell me of Endórë. Your cousin refused to speak with me. But I want to understand. Not only about the war. About them, too. The Noldor. What happened to them that they look… how they look now.” When I do not reply at once, he rises and sighs. “If you, too, will refuse, King Arafinwë, I will understand. Still… I would be grateful for the knowledge. I never thought I would want to understand them. After the events in Alqualondë when my son… He was not even fighting; a stray arrow pierced his heart. He was not yet of age. We lost our little boy, and I thought… I thought I would forever hate those who made it happen. But now, the hate is gone. And I do not know how to go on without it.”

He blinks a few times swiftly, then takes a step towards the door. I do not have the heart to send him away.

The further behind we leave Middle-earth, the more I notice a change in the former captives’ mood. Where there was hope and excitement before, fear settles in. I do what I can to reassure them, but my words are not enough. The conversations lift the subdued spirits only briefly, and after a while I again sigh in exasperation at the sight of worry-creased brows and averted eyes.

They are uneasy around the captain and the sailors, even though none of the Teleri ever addresses them otherwise than with kindness. Falmar is at a loss.

“I do not understand.” He shakes his head. “None would treat them harshly here, and surely they will receive aid when we arrive home. What do they fear?”

“They have had years of captivity, humiliation and pain, captain.” Ingwil’s eyes glint. “Some of them – decades and centuries of that. For all this time, none has treated them even close to kindly, none has treated them as people. How would any of us respond to the world after such suffering?”

“Do you?” My cousin turns abruptly, enters his cabin and slams shut the door. He has not yet forgiven Falmar.

On the evening of the same day I walk along the deck to stretch my legs. Failwen stands by the railing, looking ahead with a fixed gaze. When I stop beside her, she swiftly turns and recoils, then averts her eyes.

Failwen grips the railing. “How long will it be like this?” she whispers bitterly. “How long shall I fear darkness, each sound, someone standing close to me?”

“It will pass,” I say softly. “After what you have endured… It will take time. But you are incredibly strong. You have already come a long way towards healing, Failwen.”

She has, indeed. She is no longer skin and bones; her wrists no longer look like twigs that might break in a stronger wind. She stands straight again and limps no longer. Her face has lost the greyish pallor, and the scar on her cheek is less visible. Still, the haunted expression in her eyes is slow to fade.

“It seemed the right decision to return.” Failwen is staring at the wide expanse of water that reflects the glow of the setting Sun. “But now… now I doubt it.”

“It was the right decision, my lady,” I say firmly. “You need healing. You need to leave behind the place harbouring evil memories.”

She sighs. “Not all memories are evil. I was happy in Endórë. We were happy. Had the Long Peace lasted, we would have had children. Gelmir… he wanted that so much… but I hesitated. I think, in my heart I did not believe the peace would last. And when it indeed ended… I was relieved that our children would not have to see the war. And also… that I could fight. Still… sometimes I think of sons and daughters we might have had, babies with their father’s eyes. Gelmir, he had eyes of the most beautiful shade of blue, like a mountain lake on a clear summer day reflecting the sky. When I first met him, I lost myself in his eyes. Forever.”

A tear slides over her cheek. Slowly, not to frighten her, I lay my hand on one of hers resting on the railing. She looks up. A ghost of a smile appears, then fades again on her lips.

“Thank you. You have been a true friend, Arafinwë. And I have done so little to return your kindness. I have burdened you only with the stories of my grief, even though there are other stories I might tell. About Nargothrond. About your children. If you would like that.”

“I would.” My voice breaks. “I… I would be immensely grateful if… if you could tell me of them.”

We sit down on the deck, and she speaks. She tells of Nargothrond and its beauty. She tells me of my children, and I learn to understand them better. Their reasons for leaving Aman. Their love for Middle-earth. Some of Failwen’s stories make me laugh, some bring tears to my eyes. I brush them away when she falls silent.

“I am most grateful to you, my lady. I feel like… like I had met them all in your tales.”

Night has fallen by now. Stars blaze in a cloudless sky overhead. The ship moves in a fresh breeze gliding smoothly over the waves, and foam sighs along the hull. We stand yet awhile by the railing in a quiet companionship when captain’s firm steps behind make us turn.

“In truth, my lady, I was seeking you,” says Falmar. Alarmed, she raises her eyes towards him. “I have a favour to ask of you and your people. Perhaps you can help us.”

“Yes.” Falmar nods. “You see, on our way here we encountered some rough seas. Much of the rigging was damaged, and we were able to carry out only the most urgent repairs ere leaving Endórë. But now I am afraid the weather might change again, and then we would sorely miss the spare sails and lines. So I was wondering – maybe you could help us mend them?”

“I… we… We would be glad to help, captain, certainly,” she says at length. “But we do not have the skill. None of us is a sailor, I am afraid.”

“I am most grateful to you, lady Failwen.” Falmar offers her a smile of apparent relief. “Fear not about the lack of skill – this is not a difficult task, and my sailors would show you all you need to know.”

When she has left, I raise my eyes to the clear sky, then look closely at Falmar. “So there is a storm coming, captain?”

Falmar smiles and shrugs. “There might be. Lady Uinen is so unpredictable. It is always good to be prepared.”

Next morning, the deck is crowded. Torn sails, coils of frayed rope, balls of waxed thread lie everywhere. The Telerin sailors gather the Noldor in small companies and show them how to splice the ropes, how to repair the sails.

“Do you care to join us, King Arafinwë?” The captain’s first mate waves his hand at me, and in a while I am holding a splicing needle and a rope with a frayed end.

The Sun is long up when the door of my cousin’s cabin opens. Ingwil stands on the threshold and stretches, then steps on the deck, eyes wide at the unusual sight.

“There is a storm approaching, lord Ingwil,” explains one of the exiles. “So we help to repair the spare sails and ropes.”

Ingwil raises his eyes towards the sky without one single cloud. He looks at the heads bent over busy hands, eyes intent on the work. Then he nods vigorously. “Yes, certainly. A wise decision.” Now, he turns towards me with a grin. “How is it going, Arafinwë? As easy as drawing houses?”

I glare at him. “Far more difficult, in truth. But I suggest you try for yourself. Maybe it is easier than writing verses.”

Some quiet chuckles sound around. Ingwil, too, laughs. “Very well, I accept your challenge, cousin! Here is a thing I have never done before. Let us see how long it takes for me to master it.”

He joins a company of six Elves beside me. They are repairing sails. The Telerin sailor hands him a palm, a needle and a thread, and shows the stitches. Brow furrowed in concentration, Ingwil sets to work.

To my half-acknowledged satisfaction, he fails miserably. After less than an hour he drops the sail and the tools on the deck, springs to his feet and throws his arms up in exasperation.

“One cannot be gifted at everything! I shall have to find another way to be of use. What do you say to a song?” He looks around with question.

“Spare us the trial, cousin. You cannot sing. You said yourself - one cannot be gifted at everything. Sadly.”

Our banter brings smiles to the serious faces, and when Ingwil starts an off-key tune, several voices join at once, to keep the melody on track. Other songs follow the first one – ethereal hymns of the Vanyar, lilting ballads of the Teleri, even some rhythmical chants of the Silvan Elves of Endórë. And lays of the Noldor composed in exile.

Within a few days, all sails are repaired, all ropes neatly spliced. The storm, of course, never comes. But the returning exiles and the Telerin sailors do not avoid one another any longer. The common work, conversations and singing together have brought forth friendship and understanding where there was distance before.

“Thank you, captain,” I say as we stand on the deck watching the unfolding day. “It was a wise plan.”

The captain smiles. “The whole fleet has repaired sails and spliced ropes now.”

“I can.” Smile lingers on his lips as he raises his eyes towards a great seabird circling around the masts.

A great bird sits on the railing beside Falmar also when our journey draws to the end. We are one day away from passing Tol Eressëa.

“Are we going to Alqualondë, captain?” asks one of the exiles. His voice is calm, but he stands very still, back straight, hands firmly clasped together.

Falmar shakes his head. “No, we shall stop at the island first. You must be weary from the journey and willing to tread a solid ground as soon as possible. You may rest on Tol Eressëa, then travel further to the mainland.”

“Very well.” The posture of the Noldo visibly relaxes. He even smiles faintly. “We are indeed weary of the Sea, captain. No offence intended.”

“None taken, my friend,” the captain replies amiably. “Not everyone can be a sailor.”

The scattered fleet draws together shortly before entering the port of Avallonë. The ships approach the crowded docks. Many have gathered on the pier, including the King of the Teleri. Failwen, who stands beside me during mooring, blanches and shivers.

“Fear nothing, lady.” I give her an encouraging smile. “You have leave to return, and a promise you would receive aid and healing once home. And any of us would protect you, should it be needed.”

She looks at me. “I know. I am grateful to you, my lord. My friend. But you cannot protect us from everything.” Her attempted smile fades nearly at once.

When the gangway is lowered, she draws a deep breath, squares her shoulders and steps down on the pier. The rest of the exiles follow her; those from other ships join them. I exchange glances with Ingwil and Artanar, and we disembark also, accompanied by a part of our warriors. I notice the same happening on other ships.

Failwen casts a glance at her companions, nods resolutely and approaches Olwë. A few steps from the King she halts.

“My lord, I am Failwen, and I speak for the Noldor who once left Valinórë in pursuit of the Black Foe and the Silmarils.” Her voice rings clear and steady in the hush that has suddenly fallen. “We failed. Had the Host of the West not come, Endórë would still lie under the sway of the Enemy, and we would still toil in his dungeons, without hope of ever seeing daylight again. By the courage of our kinsfolk we have been delivered from thraldom and by the mercy of the Valar we have been permitted to return to this shore. Still, guilt and regret weigh heavily on our hearts. We repent of the bloodshed and violence we have committed against your people, and we ask your forgiveness for the sorrow we have caused.”

The silence stretches on, and a sudden dread seizes me. Olwë’s face is unreadable. Will he refuse to forgive them?

“Rise, my lady. Rise, all of you.” Wary, questioning eyes look up at him. Olwë sighs. “We forgive you. We offer you the hospitality of the island. Rest here. Afterwards, you may journey further to Aman, to find healing in the Gardens of Lórien, to reunite with your families. Now, rise and be welcome home. We shall build anew the friendship between our peoples.”

Most of them stand up, yet some still linger on their knees, their fingers caressing the smooth white stone of the pier. Maybe they have crafted it once. Like all great buildings of Aman, the havens of Avallonë are the work of the Noldor.

“We are grateful for your kindness.” Failwen’s voice breaks. “We… we do not deserve it.”

Olwë looks at her thoughtfully. “It has always been my belief, lady, that many valuable things in life come undeserved. Sometimes – unexpected.” Then he smiles. Faintly, uncertainly, she returns his smile.

The harbour becomes crowded. Part of the sailors get off the ships carrying their belongings. There are hugs and tears of joy as their families greet them. Some of the Teleri lead along the exiles they have befriended during the journey.

“Many of the sailors dwell on the island,” explains Falmar. “We shall ferry you to Alqualondë with a smaller crew.”

Suddenly the crowd beside us parts. A silver-haired woman rushes towards us and throws her arms around Artanar.

“You returned! I was afraid you would not!” Tears trickle down her cheeks. “I was so afraid!”

Artanar locks her in embrace. “Of course, I returned. I promised I would, Lindiel, remember?”

Artanar does not let go of Lindiel. “I regret every single tear your daughter has shed because of me, lord.” He resolutely meets the stern gaze of a Telerin Elf who observes the scene from a few steps away, arms folded on his chest. “I will make amends.”

“By making her smile,” Artanar quietly replies. “For years and centuries to come.”

The Teler watches them both in silence for a few moments, frowning. “Do I assume correctly that you two have already decided to share those years and centuries to come?”

Lindiel raises her tear-streaked face from Artanar’s chest and smiles. “We have indeed decided, father.”

Another moment of uneasy silence follows, then her father sighs. “You better keep your promise, Noldo. Come along. You may rest at our house. And Lindiel’s mother will want to speak with you.”

“Your service in the war has ended, my friend. You are free of your duties now. Send me a message once you need those plans for the house. And invite me to the wedding.”

An expression of elated joy dawns on Artanar’s face. Ere running up the gangway to gather his belongings, he again draws Lindiel in embrace and kisses her in plain sight of everyone. I must bite my lip to refrain from laughing as I remember Roal’s words about things more convincing than words. Indeed. Artanar’s wife-to-be certainly looks convinced.

The crowd slowly disperses. We have boarded ‘The White Wave’ again, and the lines are soon to be cast off, when I notice Failwen looking around, alone and forlorn amid the emptying harbour. Olwë restrains me as I approach the gangway.

Failwen suddenly freezes, her gaze fixed on a dark-haired Elf with distinctly Noldorin features who stands in the shadow of a column at the harbour entrance. She takes a few hesitant steps towards him, then halts and covers her scarred cheek with her palm. He comes close and gently pulls her hand away from her face. She lets him.

I nod and blink away tears. As the wind fills the sails and the ship glides towards the harbour entrance, we watch the pier where Failwen stands still, looking in the eyes of the most beautiful shade of blue.

We reach Alqualondë in late afternoon. Here, too, the harbour is crowded. The sight of anxious faces turned towards the ships breaks my heart. For many, our arrival will bring nothing else than grief and loss. For too many.

“What shall we say to them?” Ingwil quietly asks. “How shall we explain?”

“I do not know.” I lower my eyes. I bear responsibility for every life lost during the last forty years. It was different while fighting. Then, death seemed so inevitable. But now the weight of doubt and guilt return with a new force.

“Stop it.” Olwë’s voice is stern. “Stop blaming yourselves. Everyone who boarded these ships did so willingly, knowing they could be slain in battle. You all went to war. And you fought and prevailed over the greatest evil of our time. Yes, people fell in that fight, but victory has a price.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ingwil smiles faintly. “My mind knows the truth in your words, but my heart is slow to accept it.”

Olwë nods. “Grief, like joy, is a part of this life and has its place. But promise me, both of you, that you would not attempt to punish yourselves for any imagined faults. Promise you would seek aid and healing should the burden of sorrow prove too heavy.”

“Do not lock away the grief, my son,” he says. “Speak to Ëarwen. Reveal her your heart. You may find her stronger and wiser than you think.” I nod, and he continues, “I am proud of you, Arafinwë. I am very proud of you, and I regret I never told you that before. My daughter chose well.” I am about to say something, but he pushes me gently towards the gangway. “I want no replies now. Go.”

I step down on the pier and discern Ëarwen’s slender form in the crowd. Seeing her smites me to the heart. She is far more beautiful than I recall. Her beloved face. Her gleaming silver hair. Her eyes shining like sparks of sunlight on the water. All I was missing so painfully for the long years of war. But then sudden fear chains me. Will she be happy to see me now? What will she say when she learns of our daughter’s choice? I stand frozen, not daring to approach her.

She runs towards me, no, she flies through the parting crowd. The spell of uncertainty breaks. In a moment I hold my wife in my arms, and we both cry.

Once I have my voice back, I make an effort to joke. “That was your order, my lady. I dared not go against it.”

“No, father.” Ingwil looks away briefly. “They are not. I learned that there is no glory in war. There is only pain. Still, I found other things more important than glory. I found friendship. Honour. Responsibility. I do not know whether that is enough to make you proud, as I promised when leaving.”

“That is more than enough.” Ingwë laughs amid tears and draws him in embrace. “More than enough, my son.”

Ëarwen still clings to me. The inevitability of telling her of our daughter’s choice chills my heart, but then I scrape together my courage.

“Ëarwen…” She looks up at me. “Ëarwen, as you see, I… I return alone. Artanis… she remained in Endórë. She sees her place there. She wants to help rebuild it, to aid those who dwell there still. She thinks of Middle-earth as her home now.”

A shadow passes over her face, and she watches me in silence for what seems to be eternity. “Is she happy there?”

A tear trickles over her cheek, then she brushes it away. “That is enough for me.”

Ëarwen does not let go of my hand as I walk around the harbour offering condolences to those who have lost their loved ones in the war. Ingwil is doing the same. Weeping mingles with laughter. Joy and sorrow. Happiness and despair. Like life itself.

The din of voices around suddenly seems strange, like a dream, and I half-expect it to fade and to awake to the noise of battlefield or to the silence of restful camp. I stand on the emptying pier looking around, blinking uncertainly in the light of the setting Sun.

Ëarwen notices my confusion. “You are weary. We shall stay in my father’s house today and travel to Tirion tomorrow.”

I nod, grateful to her for taking decisions. I am indeed too weary to do it myself.

Olwë’s palace is close to the harbour, and we retreat to our rooms at once. I pass the doorstep and look around, at the walls of pale stone inlaid with pearls, at the filmy curtains stirring in a breeze by the tall windows, at the large bed, covered with sheets of dark blue silk, bedposts carved of silver-grey driftwood. When visiting Ëarwen’s father, we have always stayed here. This sight should be familiar, yet somehow it is not.

What do I reply? For much of our time in Endórë I desired nothing more than to return, to go back to the life of peace. I am back now, but this is not how I imagined this. I am changed. I look at my wife’s face with eyes that have seen violence and terror. I hold her palm in a hand that has been covered in the blood of enemies and friends. I am a different person now. How do I tell her that?

I attempt to withdraw my hand, but she does not let me. Her slender fingers link me with something I once knew but now have nearly forgotten.

She leads me to the bathing chamber where air is full of steam and scent of herbal oils. With a sigh I sink in the hot water, and the heat and the fragrances soon make me drowsy. Ëarwen remains beside me. She washes and combs my hair, she clothes me in light garment. While doing that, her eyes and her hands linger on the scars lining my body, and tears tremble in her lashes. I want to speak, to say that these are merely faint marks, and few at that, that they do not bother me at all… but I remain silent.

I remain silent and lie down. The silken sheets are cool against my skin, and Ëarwen’s hands, too, are cool as she is tracing my face, as if to remember, to recall every line, every curve. I close my eyes. I do not deserve her tender care.

“Why would you think so?” she whispers, clearly aware of my thoughts, and presses a light kiss to my temple.

“I have failed you, Ëarwen,” I reply wearily. “I returned home without our daughter. I returned with stains of blood on my hands, with stains of darkness on my soul. I have failed you.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, you have not. I had but one request – that you return to me - and that one you have fulfilled. Our daughter has her own life. Her choices are hers only. And I care nothing for the blood on your hands. I know that not a drop of it was spilt needlessly. The darkness in your soul will fade in the morning Sun as we shall walk side by side again.”

And I tell her. Maybe one day I will be able to tell her everything about the battles and the terrors of Angamando. But now I speak of nightly watches with lonely fires burning under a starless sky. I speak of endless marches over fields and mountains, of bitter rain and cold. I tell her of weariness that goes deeper than body, weariness that chains me still. She wraps her arms around me and listens in silence, and when my words cease, she holds me and hums a soft wordless tune. Wind carries the scent of flowers from the gardens, and white stars kindle over the Sea.

Thank you for reading! And, once again, my sincere thanks to Ellynn for beta-ing, for spotting errors I was no longer able to notice and for offering great suggestions!

The Light is still there by Aldwen