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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smiling, he replied, “Thank you.”

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

XXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The all laughed at that and continued their work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair enough,” he replied with a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand,” said the healer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And to you,” the healer said.

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXX

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

“Explain,” he demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Yes, I believe I was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

“What has your atar said, Child?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXX

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

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

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

Amillë – (Quenya) mother

Atar – (Quenya) father

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