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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had failed them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was it.

He was going to die.

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

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

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

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

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

The orc finally stilled beside him.

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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