Chapter 11

“Oh, they are beautiful,” the smith’s wife gasped wonderingly, taking Andreth in her arms.

“I had forgotten how small and delicate babies are,” Angadan quietly agreed, holding Aicanáro in his massive arms.  He made little sounds at the baby, grinning as the boy cooed back in delight.

When at last the smith looked up at Laurehér and Faroniel again, he apologized, “I am indeed sorry that we waited so long to come see the babies. There was an illness in the town and my wife and I both had it as did so many others. It was no place to bring a baby. You were wise to keep them away. I would have come sooner, but as soon as I got well, my wife got sick, and then as soon as she got well, I got sick again. It was horrible.”

“I understand,” Faroniel said, “and we appreciate you and everyone else staying away while you were sick. We do not yet know if the babies will get sick easily like a Mortal or if they will be of a stronger constitution like their adar.”

“I hope for your sakes and theirs that they are like their adar in that regard,” the smith’s wife commented, then shook her head in wonder. “I still cannot believe how beautiful they are!”

And that was the first thing that everyone said of the babies when they met them the first time and the second and the twenty-second and even the two hundred and twenty-second time. Laurehér was amazed at how often he heard comments about their beauty, and surprisingly a bit angry as well, for the words were almost always followed by some variation of, “Well with an adar that handsome, how could they not be beautiful babies?”

He soon realized he was troubled because he believed Faroniel to be the one who was so very beautiful. Her spirit was strong and bright and ever was she full of compassion and gentle, loving concern for him and for others as well. Her curly hair was so soft and beautiful and her eyes so very bright and such a lovely shade of blue.  He hoped more and more each day that his children would take after her on the inside as well as in their physical appearance.  He had even taken to commenting to those who complimented his children’s beauty that his wife was the one who was truly beautiful and she deserved more credit for their loveliness than he. Some would scowl at him and some would agree, but then they all invariably would comment on what a loving husband he was to say such kind things about his wife.

One evening while Faroniel was out tending the animals, picking berries, and generally enjoying some time to herself, Belegon came to call. Laurehér hurriedly answered the knock on the door afraid of the waking the sleeping children.

“Belegon,” he practically growled as he recognized the visitor. Clutching the sleeping Aicanáro protectively to him with his left arm, immediately his eyes strayed to the chest by the wall where his sword and armor were stashed away. There was no way he could get there and protect the children at the same time if anything happened.

“Laurehér,” Belegon said by way of greeting.

“What do you want?” he asked brusquely, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the babies.

“May I come in,” Belegon asked, removing his hat and rolling it in his hands before him.

“No.”

“Very well then, I will say what I have to say from here.”

Laurehér looked at him expectantly, positioning himself such that his son was not within easy reach of the visitor.

“You do not trust me, Elf.”

“I have every reason not to trust you, Mortal.”

“Now, that is true. I have beaten you at every encounter and thwarted any attempts you may have made at recruiting our-”

“I never made any attempts at recruiting your folk for the war,” Laurehér snarled.  “Why are you even here this evening?”

Belegon raised his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I am here, Elf…Laurehér, because I wish for this strife between us to cease.”

“You started it,” Laurehér replied angrily. “I came here in peace and you have done your damndest to turn everyone against me from the very beginning.”

“I have and I did,” Belegon shot back. “And I am sorry. You have done nothing to provoke our people or lead them to war. You have been good to our Faroniel, easing her loneliness and giving her fair babes to cheer her. I…I have never seen her so happy. We love her and her happiness means a great deal to us. I am sorry for what I have said and for what I have done.”

Mouth agape, never taking his eyes off Belegon, Laurehér stepped back in surprise, reflexively rocking Aicanáro in his arm to sooth him where the boy startled at the sudden movement of his adar.

Belegon glanced at the baby and grinned briefly, almost in spite of himself. “I came here to tell you I am sorry. I want there to be peace between us, for the sakes of Faroniel and the children if nothing else.”

“I still do not trust you,” Laurehér said.

“I do not expect you to. I simply want for there to be peace between us, you and me. The conflict grieves my wife and yours. It troubles my wee ones, but it need never trouble yours.” Belegon paused then smiled in wonder at Aicanáro.  “You and Faroniel do make beautiful babes.”

There were many things Laurehér wanted to say to Belegon about just how much grief and trouble he had caused both families, but he restrained himself, simply replying, “Thank you. I will keep the peace if you will.”

“Fair enough,” Belegon agreed. “Good evening, Laurehér.”

“Good evening, Belegon” he replied as he shut and barred the door. Preparing himself a drink, he sat down on the bed beside Andreth, Aicanáro stirring until he found his own chubby fist to suck on, then settling again. Long Laurehér stared at the door, thinking about this most unexpected visit.  He knew he would never trust Belegon enough to let his children go visit that man’s house let alone even call Belegon uncle, but at least there was a chance for peace between them. He just hoped it would last. If that man or anyone else ever threatened his children or his wife, he knew he would show no restraint in his response. Then everyone would know how dangerous he was and, he realized, it would undoubtedly bring his ruin.

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As the children grew older, Faroniel often commented that they were just like mortal children in all that they did. They rolled over and sat up and even started walking at a rate normal for mortal children. In their speech they were more advanced, mastering many words in their first year. In Laurehér’s mind they seemed to be behaving properly for elven children, but his wife and the villagers called them early talkers and precocious.

Laurehér was not certain what he enjoyed more: waking up in the morning to little ones crawling on him, kissing him, and declaring “I love you, Ada!” or coming home to shouts and squeals of “Ada!” and little arms embracing his head amidst a shower of tiny kisses. In the morning, the children would toddle around the cabin, which seemed to have grown even smaller, climbing on chairs and the bed and running off with the things he needed. In the evening, they followed him around as he did his chores and helped him carry whatever small items would fit in their arms. He had to pay extra attention when they helped him to be certain they did not lose what he gave them to carry because they both had a habit of setting down what he gave them as soon as something else caught their attention.

Faroniel was usually exhausted at the end of the day, but he did his best to see that he reminded her often how much he loved her and how grateful he was to her.  Most nights she fell asleep snuggled up in his embrace.  The rest of the time, he was so weary from the day’s labors and the draw of the children on his fëa that he fell into a deep slumber in Faroniel’s arms.  Surprisingly when he did sleep deeply, he was not troubled by dreams of his supposed past. He lived mostly in the present now, with little care for what was before though much concern for the future.

Would his children make friends? His children got along well enough with the other children of the village, but even they could tell that his peredhel children were somehow different. He feared that one day being the children of an Elf would earn them criticism due to jealousy or make them the victims of prejudice. Folk had said many things about him good and bad because he was an Elf.

What might his children face with some of the skills and traits of an Elf? Would his children be able to perform at the level of their mortal peers physically as well as emotionally? What if their bodies aged like mortals but their minds matured more slowly? Would they continue to be welcome in the village or would they be ostracized for being different? He had seen time and again that mature minds in young bodies were praised but the reverse was always met with ridicule.

Would his children be accepted by adults and appreciated for their skills and not simply for their beauty? Already it disturbed Laurehér how much his children could charm others into giving them what they wanted by using their melodious voices, lovely eyes, and cute smiles to wend their way into the villagers’ hearts.  And it did not help that everyone had to comment to the children that doing these things was the reason why they were getting what they wanted.

The possibilities frightened him, so he did what he could to teach them and help them keep up with other children their age. The problem was that once they turned three, their bodies did slow in growth. They grew in language and knowledge, but it soon became evident that their physical growth was not keeping up with that of their playmates. The healer checked them often, but he could find nothing wrong with them. At every visit he consoled the parents by pointing out that some children grow more quickly once they have a few more years in them and these would likely be that way.  The children obviously were very intelligent and they never got sick - even when their mother took ill for two months with a horrible sickness of the lungs and everyone feared she would die.

After suffering through her long recovery, Laurehér endeavored to see to it that she never grew sick again. If he noticed signs of illness in the village, he handled all of his family’s affairs there until all sign of illness had passed. He made certain as best he could that Faroniel ate well each day and rested well each night. He annoyed her by asking after every cough and sniffle if she needed to see the healer, earning himself much chiding from her and many giggles from the children who also thought he was being ridiculous.

Time and again, Laurehér was counseled to let go of his concerns for her and for the children, but he simply could not. He loved his sweet Faroniel. He loved their dear children. And he could not bear the thought of ever being without them. So he persisted in concerning himself with building their future by making the present the best he could for them all.

Nothing would ever distract him from his commitment to his family. But then one day shortly after the children turned five years old, visitors came to town.

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He was busy at the forge making hooks one morning. It was relatively quick work, but he had many hooks to make while Angadan busied himself shoeing a horse.

“Laurehér,” Angadan called as they both placed their irons in the fire again. “Look over there.”  He gestured with his head in the direction of the basket weaver’s house.

Laurehér wiped his brow on his sleeve, already sweaty and grimy even though the day was still young, then glanced over his shoulder. Curiosity made him pause and turn to gaze more fully on the four men walking down the street.

Two had streaks of grey in their unbound hair while the other two appeared to be somewhat younger with similar dark hair. All were solidly built, wearing matching grey cloaks and armor which made their broad shoulders appear even larger, and each strode with his left hand resting easily on the hilt of a great sword strapped to his hip.  Additionally, each man bore a fine bow and a quiver full of arrows on his back.

All four looked around in interest, until one of them said something to the others and pointed to the smithy. Angadan motioned for Laurehér to stand behind him as the four men approached.

“Good morning, friend,” one of the older men said as the others nodded their greetings. He smiled amiably, causing his skin to crinkle around his eyes and accentuating a scar which ran the length of the left side of his face

“And to you,” Angadan replied, nodding his head in kind.

“We are strangers in town, as you may have guessed. Do you or your young assistant (the man smiled indulgently at Laurehér) there have any experience repairing swords?” The man withdrew his blade and laid it on the wooden table standing between himself and the smiths.

Laurehér bit his lips to keep himself from laughing out loud at the observation that he was young. Apparently with his hair pulled back the way it was, obscuring the tips of his ears and the amount of soot and ash on his face, he looked the part of a young assistant.

Angadan lifted the sword, examining the nicks and scratches on it. “This is a fine blade,” he said admiringly. “But it has seen much action, in battle I would wager.”

The four men glanced at each other approvingly and with no small amount of pride and perhaps arrogance as well.

“Indeed it has,” the man replied. “It has seen much battle, fighting Morgoth and his orcs.”

“You probably are not used to seeing such fine weapons in this quaint little village,” one of the younger men commented.

“No, we are not used to such finery here,” Angadan agreed as he handed the sword to Laurehér.

“Young One,” Angadan smirked, “Do you think you could make the repairs to this or shall I?”

Laurehér scowled at Angadan, but ruined his displeased expression by winking at his companion as he took the sword and looked it over. His eyes grew wide as he turned the blade in his hands.  

Did this man steal it from an Elf? Or did he buy it or receive it as a gift? He made a show of testing the balance, as he sensed the spells laid upon the metal during the crafting. Definitely not made by a son of Fëanor, but by some other Noldo who was well-skilled. He looked more closely at the base of the blade, noting the signature of the smith. The name meant nothing to him, but it did sound like the name a proud Noldo would give a son.

“This blade is of elven make, most likely fashioned by a Noldo. How did you come by it?” Laurehér asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“How do you-” the other man with graying hair asked suspiciously, but the one with the scar interrupted him.

“It was a gift, given to my mother’s great-grandfather from an Elf lord for service to his folk. How did you know it is of elvish make?” All four of the men scrutinized Laurehér carefully.

“First, there are the Tengwar runes.” Laurehér pointed to them with his index finger. “Then if you hold the sword like so,” he held the sword up so the sunlight glinted off of it, “you can see this swirling pattern in the steel. This method of layering the metal was used by the Noldor.”

All four of the men eyed him dubiously, “And how would you know such things, Young One?” the man with the scar asked.

Laurehér realized too late he may have made a mistake in revealing his knowledge of Noldorin metalworking. He bowed his head, pretending to be embarrassed, then intentionally stumbled over his reply, “I, uh, we…that is to say my kin learned of these techniques many years ago from…from smiths who learned from the Elves.”

Angadan turned and patted Laurehér on the shoulder in fatherly pride. “Son, would you like to make the repairs to this fine blade?”

Laurehér lifted his chin, meeting Angadan’s eyes, noting a hint of warning to continue to play along. “Yes, Master, I would, under your supervision of course.”

“Naturally,” Angadan agreed. Then he turned to face the men again.

“We will begin work on the blade this afternoon as soon as we finish the hooks and horseshoes our customers are waiting on.”

“Thank you,” the man with the scar said, reaching over and patting Angadan on the shoulder.  

The four turned as if to depart, when one of the younger ones commented, “We have not been here long, but I have not noticed many able-bodied men besides your assistant really who look as if they are between the ages of 22 and 50 years old.”

Angadan’s expression sobered. “They were all taken away to fight in the war.”

The man gestured to Laurehér. “What about him? To be a smith, a man has to be strong and able-bodied.”

“We got him back from the war,” Angadan explained. “It took years for his wounds to heal and he still has problems on occasion.”

“Well, he looks solid and strong to me,” the man commented. “You must have good healers among you. The war could use good healers and strong smiths.”

“I’m sure it could,” Angadan agreed rather gruffly. “Now if you will excuse us, we have work to finish so we can start on your fine sword.” 

“We will come by tomorrow to check on your progress.” The man with the scar called over his shoulder as they turned and walked away toward to the tavern.

“Damn recruiters,” Angadan muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disgust. “I will be glad to be rid of them.” Glancing at Laurehér who kept a neutral expression on his face, he said, “Let us get back to work, my friend. We have much to do.”

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Laurehér stayed at the forge until late into the evening working on the sword, not so much because the sword was that badly damaged, but because of the sheer pleasure he took in working with Noldorin steel once again. The metal called to him and the feel of the spells imbued in the blade thrilled him with each blow of his hammer. He would have stayed at the forge all night had Angadan, brandishing a fork full of venison, not yelled at him out the window of his house to put down the cursed hammer and go home to his wife and children.

Having lived so long among mortals, Laurehér had forgotten the pleasures of things crafted by his own kind. He made his way home through the woods, not bothering with the road because the way was too short to give him time to think. If metal forged by Elves spoke to him so, what about other objects crafted by Elves? Unfortunately he had nothing left to him of his old life but his weapons and armor. Did baskets or fabric bear the memory of the elvish weavers who made them? What about furniture or ships? Did these remember their makers in the way that the sword he repaired still bore the grace given it by the smith who originally forged it? Would the house he shared with Faroniel remember his presence after he left it when his family finally died and he was alone?

He paused, grasping a tree limb for support while he blinked back the emotion that overwhelmed him at the thought of losing his mortal family. He loved them more than he believed he could have ever loved anyone else in his life. It would break him when his family died. Of that he had no doubts. But what could he do? What would he do?

And these recruiters who had come - if indeed that was what those four men were - they would break apart families and entice sons and husbands to go to war. If this war lasted too much longer, would his own son be courted by recruiters to go away and fight in distant battles? He could not let that happen, would not let that happen. But then who was he to make such decisions?

If it had not been for the war, then he would not be here. He would not have the wife and children and life he had now. He chose to go to war. Someone came to his village and said words that tempted him, that changed his life, that made him a captain of an army, that nearly cost him everything, that stole his memories of his past, that gave him the blessed life he had now.

The feel of the elvish metal came back to him as he pushed away from the tree and resumed his walk. That was part of the life he had left behind to march to war. Flashes of memory came to him as he wound his way through undergrowth that had not hindered him before. It had been years since he had taken any path other than the road to get home from the forge.

He was not from a village, he was from a city. It was not the honeyed words of recruiters touting the glory and might of battle who came to call him away to war, it was a messenger from a distant land. The Valar had summoned the nobles to hear what news Lord Eärendil had from Endórë, then King Ingwë, the High King of all the Elves of Aman, called a council of war. Laurehér…no, Arafinwë had no choice but to attend.

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They gathered in an enormous council chamber in Manwë’s mansion. The kings and all of the lords of the Noldor and the Vanyar were present. Eonwë herald of Manwë presided as the Maiar captain who would lead all of the hosts of the Army of Light. King Olwë of the Teleri had been summoned with his lords, but he had refused all Telerin attendance, wanting nothing to do with rescuing those who had murdered his folk and stolen their ships. This was not just a rescue mission, though saving the folk of Endórë from the tyranny of Morgoth was one of the objectives. The primary goal was to remove Morgoth and his influence from Endórë so that all of the folk in all of Arda could dwell in peace. Olwë allowed himself to be persuaded to pledge ships to transport warriors and the mariners to sail them, but nothing more.

Training of the warriors was to begin immediately, the forging of weapons, the weaving of cloth, the sewing of uniforms, the making of armor, contingencies to cover the loss of the labor force had to be implemented, extra crops had to be grown, and pack and farm animals bred. The guilds would have to have plans in place to deal with the loss of skilled crasftsmen. There was much to do and the longer it took to raise this army, the more of their kin in Endórë would die and the harder it would be to win this war.

For Arafinwë personally,this was also a war for vengeance against Morgoth for all the evil he had wrought. Morgoth had destroyed the peace in Aman as well as in Endórë. That evil Vala had destroyed Arafinwë’s family and now Arafinwë wanted revenge.

He may have been a smith and the youngest son of his atar’s line, but he was a noble, high and lordly. One day, many months into the training, Eonwë had taken him aside and told him that even if the command of the Noldorin army had not been his by right, Eonwë would have been hard put not to grant him a captaincy for his skill in strategy, his might at arms, and his ability to lead and inspire men.

The command of the Noldorin army…

He had not merely been a captain under Eonwë’s command; he was THE Captain of the Noldorin army. He was the king’s voice on the battlefield. But the Noldorin king had gone to the war, as well...

Laurehér stumbled and fell to his knees, the wind knocked out of him as the realization struck him like a blow to the gut. He knelt there for a long time, panting, his eyes unseeing, his mouth agape with shock as he tried to reconcile what he remembered of his past.

The dying elven warrior had told him that above all others Morgoth wanted him dead, and now, at last he understood why. HE, Laurehér, no Arafinwë, the captain of the Noldorin army was the King of the Noldor!

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