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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My kind?” he asked curiously.

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

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

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

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

“Where are we?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek.

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

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

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

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

He smiled in response and squeezed her hand.

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

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

She smiled sleepily, and whispered “Faroniel.”

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

“You need a name, too,” she said.

“What would you call me?”

“Laurehér”

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faroniel – hunter-maiden

Laurehér – golden lord