Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn!” the smith exclaimed.

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

“Look at what you did, Elf!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In a good way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something had him agitated today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” she said.

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

“I love you,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I do not know, Master.”

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

“Eat.”

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

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

Arafinwë furrowed his brow quizzically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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