Chapter 19

In the year 3319 of the Second Age, the Númenórean fleet, led by Ar-Pharazôn, headed for Valinor, intent on conquest. Despite the overwhelming sense of dread and panic pervasive among the Noldor and Teleri, Arafinwë and Olwë managed to oversee a safe evacuation of their respective lands that lay in the path of the invading forces from Númenor. Three thousand, three hundred and nineteen years into the Second Age and the relationship between Aman and Númeor had brought them to this pass. Ingwë had been correct in his warning all of those years ago, and now Ar-Pharazôn’s fleet was approaching the coast of Aman proper.

Refugees went wherever they could to dwell temporarily and await the notification to return home — whatever home they may have left to them. Most were congregated in tent cities near Valmar. For the time being, Olwë and Arafinwë and all their kin were staying at the royal villa in Eldamas within easy concourse with the Valar. Besides, the desire to avoid Ingwë was quite strong. The Noldóran and Lindaran both agreed that they had little desire to hear the Ingaran say, ‘I told you so’.

Once folk were settled, however, there was little to do but sit and wait and wonder what would happen next…

*****

“Elwing told me where to find you,” Arafinwë said, entering a secluded room high in the royal villa.

“Yet another betrayal by my family,” Eärendil threw back half of his glass of wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you want?”

“I brought you more wine.”

“Put it on the table and go away,” Eärendil gestured to the table beside him then pointed to the door.

“No, I think I will stay for a bit.”

Eärendil said some foul things in Sindarin, then switched to Quenya, his voice dripping with loathing. “Why?”

“Because I do not want to drink alone,” Arafinwë replied.

“I am bad company right now.”

“So am I.”

Eärendil looked over at the two decanters brimming full with red wine, then turned his attention back to the fire which provided the only light in the room. “Fine. Sit.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of the small table beside him.

Arafinwë sat down and filled his glass, the light from the fire playing across the crystal of the goblet. “How are you faring right now?”

Eärendil scowled without looking up, “How do you think, Arafinwë?” He gestured to the knife on the small table beside him. “I feel as if I have that knife in my heart and I am still contemplating putting it there.”

Arafinwë nodded even though his companion was not looking at him.

Eärendil drained his glass then filled it up again. “I…I cannot even begin to put into words what I am feeling right now.”

Arafinwë sat without answering for time as he drained his own glass and poured himself some more. “It is difficult to explain what it feels like to have seen your child rise to rule an entire civilization. Then you wake up one day and receive word that its decedents are coming to invade your land. You feel terrible knowing that you were not there for your child since the time it was small, yet it did far better for itself without you than you ever could have provided for it -  or even dreamed - for your child became ruler of a new land. Now your child’s descendants come and are threatening to destroy you and all that you have in your own land.” Arafinwë paused, finishing and refilling his glass again.

“A choice was made along the way, keeping you from your child. Now you have outlived that child only to have its distant sons and daughters, who by default are your distant sons and daughters, come with the intent of subjugating or killing all of your own kind. How do you not feel responsible? How do you not feel despair? All you have been able to do all these centuries is watch life unfold for these sons and daughters without intervening in any way, without being a part of their lives, just like you were not a part of the life of the child you sired to begin with.”

He gave a self-deprecating laugh as a log fell in the fire, scattering sparks. “It begs the question:  at what point did your line become corrupt? Or perhaps more importantly, at what point did you yourself fail?”

In answer, Eärendil poured himself more wine and continued staring at the fire.

After a few minutes he quietly commented, “I commend you for figuring it out and articulating it so well, Arafinwë. I never could have put it so eloquently.”

Arafinwë just nodded and filled his own glass again.

Eärendil put another log on the fire and sat back down, setting his now empty decanter from earlier on the floor to make more room for the two which remained. Arafinwë picked up the knife, turning it to watch the fire reflect on the blade, then checking the balance. After a few minutes, he grew bored and made to set the knife down out of his companion’s reach.

“Put my knife back on the table where I can get to it. King or no, I swear I will take you down if you keep it from me,” Eärendil hissed. “You may be taller than I am, but I am bigger than you are.”

Arafinwë glared back menacingly, feeling the effects of so much wine himself as he met the challenge in his companion’s eyes. He hesitated, watching Eärendil grow more agitated by the moment, then he casually commented as he set the knife back down on the table. “There you are, Eärendil. But I will warn you that in the long term, being bigger may not be as much of an advantage as you might think.”

Eärendil sat back again, drinking some more then stopped suddenly, a puzzled expression slowly working its way across his face. “Why? What are you talking about?”

Arafinwë lifted his own glass. Taking a few more appreciative swallows, he explained, “A midwife once said that it is more difficult to birth the babies of sires with big shoulders.”

Now Eärendil looked very confused. “I threaten to kill you, so now you are talking about birthing babies.”

The Noldóran nodded.

“I think this has just become the strangest conversation I have ever had. How much did you have to drink before you found me?”

Arafinwë shrugged. “I do not know. I wearied of drinking alone, so I came to find you.”

“And I want to kill you, so you want to talk about birthing babies.”

“Yes. That is how the whole reason for drinking today started, is it not?”

Eärendil eyed him suspiciously for a few moments, then conceded, “All right.” He blinked a few times and shook his head, obviously still trying to process the unexpected change in the conversation, then asked, “So why would a midwife tell the King of the Noldor about birthing babies with big shoulders? That makes no sense.”

“She did not say it to me,” Arafinwë clarified, feeling rather annoyed at the misunderstanding. “She said it about me and I overheard it. She was criticizing some females who were looking at me lustfully at the time.”

Snorting spectacularly into his drink, Eärendil set the dripping glass on the table and sopped at the front of his tunic with the hem of it. “Well, you do have big shoulders for a Vanya.”

Still laughing in spite of the confusion clouding his countenance, Eärendil observed, “And seeing as how your wife had many pregnancies and mine only had one, there may be some truth to that.”

They grew quiet again for a time, finally emptying another decanter. As Arafinwë leaned over to set it on the floor, he noticed pieces of something shiny across the room. Venturing forward on his knees so he would not have to bend over and spill his glass, he picked up the two pieces and returned to his chair.  As he set down his glass to examine them, Eärendil explained how his belt buckle had broken when he first sat down in the room and it angered him so much he threw the pieces of the buckle at the wall. 

“It was my favorite buckle, too, a gift from Elwing.” He pointed haphazardly to the image visible when the pieces were put together. “It is Vingilot amidst the stars.”

“I could fix it for you,” Arafinwë offered, “I was a smith once, learned from Aulë himself.

“And how long ago was that,” Eärendil asked, gesturing sloppily with his glass.

“A long time ago. But I once spent about 7 years as a village smith.”

“Truthfully?”

“Yes, I did. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.”

“Were you any good?’

“The villagers thought so.”

They sat for a while, drinking more slowly now as Arafinwë played with the buckle and Eärendil stared at the fire.

Suddenly Arafinwë suggested, “We should go find a forge and I will fix the buckle for you.”

“I do not want to go out. The streets are crowded with all the evacuees,” Eärendil complained.

“I insist,” Arafinwë said, “Besides, we are getting low on wine and will need to leave soon to get some more anyway.”

“Well what about the guards and telling the family where we have gone? No one will want us to go. And what about the attention we will draw with Lord Eärendil and Arafinwë Noldóran going out into the streets?”

“We could wear our travelling clothes and put our hair in single braids. If we remove any affectation of station, then we will look just like every other refugee in the city right now.”

Eärendil still looked unconvinced, so Arafinwë snatched his knife from the table. “If you want it back, then change your clothes and meet me at the back door by the garden in a few minutes.” 

Reluctantly Eärendil got up and followed him out of the room.  A few minutes later, they slipped out the back door, through the garden, and into the street unnoticed by anyone in the house.

XXXXX

As they wandered through the streets looking for a forge, they amused themselves by sizing up the ellyn they passed and discussing how difficult it would be to birth their babies.

“I think we are agreed then that the Noldorin ellyn have the biggest shoulders,” Arafinwë said after traversing the streets for a few blocks.

“Aye, I believe you are correct about that,” Eärendil agreed, rubbing his chin contemplatively. “And I believe that would also explain why the Noldorin ellith are all so…so…so tough and strong and bossy and haughty and mean. It must be from bearing those big-shouldered Noldorin sons.”

Arafinwë paused a moment, then whispered conspiratorially, “Since I am currently disguised as a Vanya, I can agree with that without fear.” They both laughed at that and they laughed uproariously every time a Nolodrin elleth walked past, especially if she was accompanied by a Noldorin ellon.

After no small amount of haphazard wandering, they found a forge with an adjoining wooden booth and a smith at work. Pausing, Eärendil pointed to the smith, “Look at his big shoulders. I bet he was an only child.”

They both laughed, then Arafinwë considered the ellon for a few moments, and added, “But look at his hair. There is much silver mixed with the gold and it is fairly curly. He is not a Noldo. Obviously he is part Telerin. That is an odd combination – Telerin and Vanyarin.”

Eärendil crossed his arms and gave the Noldóran a disbelieving look. “I am going to tell your wife you said that.”

Quickly Arafinwë waved his hands defensively and clarified, “No, no! Do not tell her! What…what…what I mean is that it is not as common of a combination as Vanya and Noldo or Noldo and Teler. That is what I mean.”

In an irritated voice, the smith called over his shoulder, “I do have a sister. My atar was a Vanya but my amillë, though silver of hair, was not Telerin. And there have been more marriages between the Vanyar and the Teleri than you obviously have imagined, especially here in Eldamas. Now, if you good folk are finished talking about me, may I be of some assistance to you? Perhaps to call the city guard to escort you back to wherever you are staying?”

Immediately, Arafinwë and Eärendil adopted a more proper demeanor. “You can be of assistance to us. My kinsman here broke his belt buckle. I would like to borrow your forge so that I might repair it for him.”

Calmly the smith wiped his brow with a cloth, then turned and took a few steps toward them. A disgusted expression clouded his face. “I can smell the wine on you two from here.” He waved his hand in front of his nose to clear the air. “I am not about to allow two drunk ellyn anywhere near my forge nor my tools.”

When they made to protest, the smith added sternly, “Even if the King of the crafty Noldor himself came here and asked, I would deny him the use of my forge and my tools if he had been in the drink as much as you two obviously have. And you two obviously are not even of the Noldor. So, is there anything else I may do for you?”

Eärendil and Arafinwë looked at each other then burst out laughing.  If only the ellon knew to whom he was speaking!  When he calmed again, Arafinwë set his ample purse on the counter enclosing two sides of the wooden structure beside the forge.  Amiably he offered, “I am a smith in my own right and I gladly will pay you for the use of the forge”.

The smith crossed his arms defiantly and shook his head. “I have a hard-earned reputation to uphold. I will not have my good name besmirched by allowing drunken ellyn to use my forge, no matter how much they might pay me. However, good sir, if you are so eager to part with your money, then perhaps you should give it to me to do the work for you.”

“And what might your good name be?” Arafinwë asked, still amused by the whole situation.

“Aicanáro Laurehérion,” the smith replied proudly.

Suddenly sober, Arafinwë gasped, certain he must have misheard the ellon. “What did you say?”

The smith moved a step closer and put it his hands on the counter, leaning closer. Slowly and distinctly he replied, “Aicanáro son of Laurehér.”

“Laurehér?” Arafinwë repeated in surprise. “Laurehér.” He shook his head not quite believing what he was hearing. “Did…did you atar teach you in your craft?”

The ellon regarded him suspiciously, “Why do you ask?”

“Please, just answer me.”

“My atar was a smith, but he went away to the War of Wrath when I was just a boy, and he fell in battle.”

Arafinwë stared at the ellon in wonder, then ventured, “Where were you born?”

“Why do you care?” the smith asked.

Another ellon with oddly familiar, piercing blue eyes and curly golden hair walked over and entered the stall beside the forge. He tucked a wisp of his hair, which was just as unruly as the smith’s, behind his ear as he asked, “Atar, should I tell amillë that you will be late for dinner or will you be coming along now?”

Aicanáro looked expectantly at Arafinwë. “Well, do you want me to do the repair or not?”

“Yes,” Arafinwë said absently, staring at the son of the smith and comparing him to his atar.

“I will be along when I finish up here,” the smith said.

His son nodded. Going to the forge, he used the bellows to raise the heat while Aicanáro took the two pieces of the buckle, turning and examining them. “Beautiful work. It is a pity it broke. This will take a little bit to repair.”

“We will wait,” Eärendil said, leaning on his elbows on the counter.

As soon as the forge was hot enough, the son patted his atar on the back and left.

Eärendil watched him go then turned to Arafinwë, asking quietly. “Is something wrong? You do not look well.”

“I do not know,” Arafinwë whispered, shaking his head as he leaned on the counter beside Eärendil, watching the smith intently.

Eärendil glared back then shook his head and rolled his eyes in annoyance. After a few minutes of watching the smith work, he asked, “Aicanáro like the Noldorin prince?”

The smith answered readily enough without looking away from his work. “Yes. My amillë had this book of tales about some of the Noldor in Beleriand. Her favorite one was about a conversation that Prince Findaráto, well King Findaráto – he was king of Nargothrond at the time – supposedly had with a mortal woman named Andreth concerning a romance between the woman and Prince Aicanáro. My sister, as you may guess, was named Andreth.”

“Was?” Eärendil asked curiously.

“Yes, she is dead. Died many yéni ago.”

“I am sorry,” Eärendil said, then offered, “At least she will be returned to you.”

The smith shook his head and grunted in reply.

“So where were you born?” Arafinwë ventured again.

“Beleriand.”

The smith looked over his shoulder, smiling at the surprised reactions of the two and chuckling. “You were not expecting that answer were you?”

“No,” Eärendil conceded. “I do not think either of us were.”

“No one ever does,” the smith commented, still chuckling as he turned his attention back to his work.

Eärendil glanced at Arafinwë, concern clouding his face. “Are you all right?”

Arafinwë blinked a few times and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“My atar was a Vanyarin smith,” The smith continued after a time. “I was taught the craft by his business partner when I was old enough to apprentice. When I finally sailed here, I sought out my atar, hoping he had been reborn. He had not and no one in any Vanyarin settlement had heard of him. Lord Aulë summoned me and offered to instruct me. I was surprised that he would even care about me, my being what I am, but I took him up on the offer, and here I am now. I have been here in Eldamas for nearly three thousand years and my sons and grandsons have taken to the craft as well.”

“What are you then?” Eärendil asked curiously

“The same thing that Lord Eärendil and Lady Elwing are, if you can believe it.”

Eärendil started, looking at the smith more intently.

“I would love to meet Lord Eärendil sometime,” the smith continued whimsically, “and talk to him about what it is like being what we are. I can truly empathize with him right now. He must be going through hell with all that is going on with the Númenóreans.”

“Yes, he probably is,” Eärendil agreed.

“What was the name of your amillë?” Arafinwë asked in a daze, certain he already knew what the answer would be.

“Faroniel. Why does any of this matter to you anyway?”

“Faroniel,” Arafinwë whispered, his vision starting to go dark. He took a step to try to steady himself and a quick moving Eärendil caught his arm as he crumbled to the ground.

“What is wrong with you?” Eärendil asked his voice full of worry. “Do you want me to send for a healer?”

“No. I…I… dear Eru, I just did not think it was possible,” Arafinwë muttered to himself. “I…I thought they were all gone and…”

“Your friend okay?” the smith called out “Finally succumb to the wine?”

“I do not think it was the wine,” Eärendil replied, clearly troubled.

The smith came over and helped Eärendil bring Arafinwë inside the stall to a chair. After they set him down, the smith lifted Arafinwë’s chin and looked him in the eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

Arafinwë looked into Aicanáro’s eyes, realizing how much they still looked like his own even after all these years. “I…I do not remember. So much has been happening and there was so much to do.”

“That may be your problem right there,” the smith replied. Then he looked over at Eärendil. “Friend, you do not look that much more rested than he does.”

“No…no, I probably am not,” Eärendil agreed.

The smith poured a cup of water, pressing it into Arafinwë’s hand. Their fingers brushed and Arafinwë looked down to see hands just like his own.

The smith stepped back and stared as Eärendil encouraged Arafinwë to drink small sips.

Eärendil looked over at the smith after a few minutes. “What are you looking at? Have you never seen a distressed ellon before?”

The smith shook himself, then replied in wonder, “Forgive me. He…he reminds me of my atar. He is the only ellon I have met here in Aman who has.”

“He is not like anyone else I have met in Aman, either,” Eärendil agreed, patting Arafinwë on the shoulder and encouraging him to drink some more.

“I can help you take him back to wherever it is that you are staying if you would like and bring you the piece later,” the smith offered.

“No, finish it. We will wait,” Eärendil said.

“Very well then.” The smith returned to his work.

“You need to pull yourself together,” Eärendil urgently whispered in Arafinwë’s ear. “It is getting late and no one knows we are out. Our families will make the guards stay with us all the time - if they even let us out again after this.”

“I am trying,” Arafinwë desperately whispered back. He looked longingly at his son. “I just…” but he could not find the words to say anything more.

Eärendil patted him on the shoulder again and watched the smith work. After a while, his expression became puzzled. “Aicanáro, you said that you could empathize with Lord Eärendil right now concerning the Númenóreans. What did you mean by that? You also said your sister was named Andreth and that she is dead now. Was she the same Andreth Laurehériel who married my s-…who…who married King Elros when he established Númenor?”

Yes,” the smith replied. “Yes, she was.” He sighed as he put the buckle in the water to cool a final time. “I guess I should be glad that my atar has not been reborn. He has been spared this grief, this sorrow and betrayal that Eärendil must be feeling right now. I know I feel it, and I am but a distant uncle to them.”

Eärendil took a deep shuddering breath and put his hand on Arafinwë’s shoulder to steady himself. Arafinwë patted Eärendil’s hand and gripped it reassuringly as he watched him struggle through his emotions, trying to keep them in check.

At last the smith came over, polishing the buckle with a cloth. “This is a beautiful piece. A ship with stars around it. Is it Vingilot?”

“Yes,” Eärendil managed. “It was a gift from my wife years ago.”

The smith regarded him carefully for a time, then shook his head as if to clear it and told them the amount they owed.

Arafinwë reached for his purse as Eärendil reached for his.

“I will pay for it as I was supposed to be the one repairing it for you.”

“No,” Eärendil said, handing more than the required amount over in payment. “Let me do this, please.” He paused a moment, blinking a few times. “It was my buckle that broke. Besides I got more out of this than just a mended buckle.”

As did I, Arafinwë thought, as did I, but he simply nodded in acquiescence. Arafinwë took the buckle from the smith and looked it over carefully. “You do beautiful work. I cannot even tell that it was ever broken or mended. You matched everything perfectly. Thank you. I am impressed.” And proud, he added in his heart. So very, very proud!

“This is too much money for this simple repair,” Aicanáro said, trying to give back the extra.

“Keep it,” Eärendil said. “It is worth it to me.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Are you here every day?” Arafinwë asked hopefully.

“Someone is at the forge every day,” the smith replied. “Either myself or one or more of my sons or grandsons.”

“How many children and grandchildren have been added to your house?” Arafinwë asked, trying to keep his own emotions in check.

“Three sons and a daughter and four grandsons and six granddaughters. They all live here in Eldamas.”

“You are blessed to have so many and to have them all close by,” Arafinwë complimented as Eärendil offered him a hand and helped him to stand. He wavered a bit at first and the smith grabbed his other arm to steady him. When he felt calm and centered again, he patted the smith on the hand in gratitude.

Aicanáro smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am blessed.” His expression changed and he looked suddenly nervous. “This is none of my business, but will you be staying in the city for long? You are the first ellon I have met in all of Aman who looks like he could be kin of my atar. And, it …it gives me hope. Your face brings back many good memories to me in this time of sorrow I am enduring. Do you have anything else that needs to be repaired? I will gladly give you a discount.” He covered his face with his hand in embarrassment and turned away. Taking a few deep breaths, he turned back and put his hands on his hips, his eyes cast down in shame.

“I must sound so foolish to you. Forgive me, please. I…I hope I see you again though - even if just from afar.”

Arafinwë nodded when the smith looked up again. He walked out into the lamp-lit street, trying to figure out how he could see his son again without revealing who he really was. Then it occurred to him. “We will be in the city until the High King says we can safely return to our homes. I think my kinsman and I would like to see you again as well, Aicanáro.”

Then he took a deep breath and ventured, “I knew your atar. But he was not a smith in Vanyamar. He was from Tirion. And I can tell you in all certainty that you and your amillë and your sister were in his thoughts and prayers the day he fell. The seven years he spent with your amillë were among the happiest in his long life. She healed him and brought him much joy. One of the hardest things he ever had to do was leave his family behind with you and Andreth having turned five years old just a short time before. He loved the three of you more than you could possibly know.”

Aicanáro’s face filled with emotion. “H-how…how could you possibly know this? I have asked hundreds, nay, thousands about him and no one…not one single person has ever even heard of him. How is it that you know when no one else does?”

Arafinwë steeled himself, trying to continue to keep at bay the emotions which sought to betray him. “I…I know, Son, because I was the last one with him when the orcs cut him down. He felt the severance of the bond with your mother when she died. He was already wounded as he defended the injured son of the Ingaran. The sudden loss of your amillë literally drove your atar to his knees. Then two orcs came and each took a swing at him. I was there with him when you lost him. That is how I know what was in his heart and whose names were on his lips. And until this evening, I did not believe I would ever find any of his kin to tell them.”

Aicanáro sniffed, wiping at the tears which were starting down his cheeks. “I believe you. You gave me details which only my family knew. There is no way you could have known how long my amillë had him or how old my twin sister and I were or that my parents were lost to us on the same day or that he died defending the haryon to the Ingaran.”

When his son took a few tentative steps toward him, Arafinwë met him in a few long strides and took him into his embrace. Long they stood there, atar and son though Aicanáro did not know who held him. Reluctantly, Arafinwë let him go when Aicanáro got his emotions under control enough to step back.

At least he got to hold his son that one time and he knew where he lived and what his fate had been. For now that would be enough for him.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” Aicanáro asked, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“I know I would very much like to talk with you some more, but I do not know if we can tomorrow,” Eärendil replied. “There is much we have to do, and we will be in a great deal of trouble with our families as it is for slipping out this evening without telling anyone where we went.”

“You are refugees here, friend,” Aicanáro pointed out. “What could you possibly have to do?”

“Meet with the High King,” Arafinwë said with a sigh.

“Why would you be in trouble for stepping out for a simple repair, and more importantly, why are you meeting with the High King?” Aicanáro crossed his arms, giving them a stern look. “Who are you?”

Arafinwë looked at Eärendil and they both grinned a bit mischievously in spite of everything.  Turning to face him, they each threw an arm over the other’s shoulders. “He is Lord Eärendil,” Arafinwë said pointing at his companion.

“And he is Arafinwë Noldóran,” Eärendil said, poking Arafinwë in the ribs.

“If we do not find you tomorrow, we will the next day,” Arafinwë said. Clapping Eärendil on the shoulder, the two turned away from Aicanáro’s expression of stunned disbelief and walked back toward the royal villa.

Once they were a block away, Eärendil, staring straight ahead, asked in a quiet voice, “Are you going to tell him that you are Laurehér?”

Arafinwë was silent for a time before asking, “How did you know?”

“I saw how you looked at him and how desperately you asked your questions. And I saw how much you two were alike. His eyes are the only part of his face that betrays your kinship, but his hands and his build are like yours. He moves like you do and his spirit is of you as well.  You were lost to the army of Valinor for nearly seven years, and it was common knowledge that when you returned, something had happened to you and you were never the same. Everyone believed that you had been a slave of Morgoth and mortals had rescued you. At least that was the story I heard. Now I know little to none of it was true.”

Eärendil grew silent as they walked through a large crowd. As soon as the last person passed, he continued, “I had wondered how you could possibly know what was going through my mind right now. And now I know. It is because you are in the exact same position I am in. I am grateful to you for your company and I am glad that you sought me out. But, please, tell me that your wife knows all about this.”

“When I returned from the war, I told her everything. I lived for nearly seven years without any memory of who or what I was. Faroniel found me wounded, on my knees defenseless and waiting for an orc to behead me. She shot the arrow that killed the orc and saved my life, but the flat of his blade struck my head and I remembered nothing before that moment except for jumbled snatches of memories. I could no longer feel any bonds with any of my kin anywhere. I believed that I was alone in the world, the last of my house for so were the dying words of the one living elf I did find who knew me. Faroniel named me Laurehér because I did not know who I was and she needed something to call me. When I did remember my name at last, I hated all that it represented and all of the horrible disjointed snatches of memory that came with it. I never told Faroniel my real name and our two children never knew who I really was either.”

“You have two sons named Aicanáro.”

“Yes, I do. Until this evening I believed them both lost to me forever. But the younger one was returned to me against all hope. I knew Andreth’s fate, but never heard anything more about him from the time I last saw him as a child. I thought he was dead as well.”

“Why is the elder Aicanáro not returning? Surely he will be reborn.”

Arafinwë shook his head sadly. “No, he will not. He has chosen to remain in Mandos until the end when Mortals and Elves will be reunited in the Second Music. He loved the mortal woman Andreth and chose not to consummate that love because it would be too brief and Elves do not wed in time of war and other issues like that. So they both died alone. I knew their story when I chose to consummate my love for Faroniel. I understood that my choice would bring me pain and grief and that our time would be all too brief. I just did not realize how brief and how much pain. But it was worth it. I was so very alone and I had no memories and no way or returning to Valinor and no bonds that I could sense connecting me to anyone.”

Silence settled between them for a time as they turned the final corner and came upon the front door of the villa. Arafinwë stopped and caught Eärendil’s arm, stopping him as well. “Do you hate me now that you know what I have done?”

Eärendil stood gazing at him for a few long moments before responding, “No. I pity you. I always have for what you have endured in your life. Now I pity you even more, but I admire you as well. I believe you are the strongest ellon I have ever had the pleasure to know. And I admire you as well, especially after what I saw you do tonight. I could not have done what you did. You gave your son some sense of closure and peace at the cost of assuring that you will never find that for yourself.”

Relieved, Arafinwë replied, “Thank you.” Resuming the walk toward the door, he added, “I will tell my wife what happened this evening.”

“As I will tell mine. But I will leave out this discussion we had on the way back.”

“Again, thank you. I admit that it will be difficult for me for a while, seeing you and knowing that you know.”

“It is difficult enough for me seeing myself in the mirror every day and knowing that a son of my line is the one leading the assault against our people. Please do not add to the grief I already hold against myself. Elwing, you, and Aicanáro are the only people in all of Aman who understand what I am dealing with in my heart right now because you feel it as well. I need you to be my friend and a kindred spirit right now more than anything.”

Arafinwë looked on him unable to express the gratitude he felt so he settled with, “That I can do, that I can do.”

XXXXX

Notes:

Many thanks to Fiondil for the historical bit at the very beginning of the chapter.

The Assault on Aman – in the year 3319, Ar-Pharazon king of Numenor lead an attack on Valinor. The warriors invaded as far inland as Tirion which they surrounded. All of the Teleri and all of the Noldor had fled from those lands before the invasion took place. In punishment for attacking the Blessed Land, Eru destroyed Númenor with a mighty flood, buried the invading army beneath fallen rock in what came to be known as The Caves of the Forgotten, and removed Valinor from the Circles of the World.

Yéni – periods of 144 years

The haryon to the Ingaran – the heir to the High King of the Elves