Next morning, Ingwil is still in my tent.

“Are you my bodyguard?” I glare at him. “Or my nurse?”

He does not reply but does not leave either. Paying no heed to his presence any longer, I wash and dress. Then Artanar enters with a tray of meal. A look and a nod pass between them.

“So you two are suddenly friends?” I do not even attempt to keep the sting from my voice.

Artanar has the decency to look abashed, but my cousin merely shrugs.

“More like allies brought together by a common purpose.”

“And that purpose would be…?” I pierce him with my gaze.

“To restrain you from doing anything foolish, Arafinwë,” he replies with blunt honesty.

Not deigning to reply I gather my coat and my sword and make for the door. Ingwil stands in my way.

“What is the meaning of this?” I clench my fists. I could strangle him right now.

“You have not eaten.”

“I am not hungry!”

“That I well believe. But Artanar says you have not eaten since the evening before battle, and that is more than three days ago. You must eat. Your people need you strong, Arafinwë. And those others, they need you strong too. The war may be over, but our errand on this shore is not.”

I take a step back. Three days? Has it been so long already? His words and the unyielding expression in his eyes convince me to put aside my gear and sit at the table where Artanar has set the tray. I suppress anger and force myself to swallow mouthful after mouthful of the meal. It tastes like ashes. But it gives me strength.

“I shall go and see how fare my people.” I push aside the empty plate and rise. “And those we saved. It seems you are resolved to trail after me anyway, so you may as well show me where they have settled.”

They exchange silent glances.

“I must go and see to my own people,” says Ingwil. “So this is Artanar’s task. Fare well, cousin, for now.”

He dons his coat, takes his weapons and is about to leave the tent, but I restrain him.

“Wait.”

He looks back and sighs. “What else, Arafinwë? If you want to voice your thoughts about me and my meddling, there is no need. I guess them already.”

“No, it is not…” I suddenly feel ashamed. “I just… Thank you, Ingwil.”

He nods and briefly lays his hand on my shoulder ere turning towards the door.

“Shall we go, Aranya?” Artanar looks at me expectantly after Ingwil has left.

“Yes. I am sorry, Artanar. I know you mean well.”

A fleeting smile passes his lips. “It is my duty to keep you safe, and I intend to do so, even if I must ally with your unbearable kinsman.”

“Ingwil has changed. A lot.”

“He has,” Artanar agrees. “You know, he sat with you nearly all time while you slept. War changes people,” he quietly adds. “Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not.” In his voice there is again that grief I recall from the night before, from the conversation between him and my cousin. I am about to ask, but he looks away. “I will tell you some other time.”

I do not question him further about this. Instead, I inquire of other things: our injured warriors, provisions, weapons, guards around the camp. True, the war has ended with our victory, but part of our enemies has fled to the mountains. Though dismayed and scattered now, they may unite again, should one of Moringotto’s captains arise again.

The Valar and our healers have done much to ease the suffering of our wounded soldiers. Still, the injuries of many are still a matter of deep concern, the burns caused by the dragonfire the most. I walk among them, speak and jest with them, attempting to lift their spirits. To some measure, I succeed. Yet lines of suffering and grief are firmly etched on many faces. They have seen and dealt death for years, and this memory will be slow to fade. My mood is less than cheerful when I leave the tents of the healers.

The Elves we have saved from Angamando have settled on the very edge of our camp – in truth, almost outside of it, in a hollow of the land. The cliffs around offer some shelter from the wind, but I shake my head seeing their encampment.

“This is not good. They should have been lodged amidst our camp, for protection.”

“They insisted to be allowed to remain here. We did not want to force them. We set guards around.”

I sigh. “Let us find someone we can persuade to see reason.”

Their camp is orderly, even more so than ours. The tents form neat rows, there are fires burning and people sitting around them. Smell of freshly made food drifts in the air. Still, somehow it is a dismal sight. Merely quiet, abrupt snatches of conversation interrupt the near-silence. Pale, haggard faces turn towards us, then are swiftly averted. I speak to some of them, I ask whether they need anything. The reply is always the same: a fleeting glance, a quick shake of head, a softly spoken gratitude and denial. It is as if they were afraid to be heard, afraid to be seen. Unwillingly I clench my hands into fists. What has the Black Enemy done to these once proud people?

“Aranya, you are frightening them.” Artanar touches my arm.

Indeed, I must be glaring. Those I approach blanch even more and withdraw in the shadow of the tents. With effort of will I suppress the rage seething within me and school my face into stillness. A sudden thought occurs to me.

“Would you kindly tell us where we can find lady Failwen?” More averted eyes, more quick headshakes. But then recognition dawns in the eyes of three Elves sitting beside a fire. They stand up and regard me in alarm, tense, as if ready to flee any moment. I raise my hands in a placating gesture. “Please, forgive me for startling you. I did not mean to. I only wish to speak to the lady. Do you know where she is staying?”

“There… You will find her around the corner, lord,” at length one of them replies and raises a trembling hand to point the direction. His wrists are bandaged.

I thank him, but ere we turn to go, he sways. The others are beside him in a heartbeat, supporting and lowering him on the ground, silently, without word or question.

We do find Failwen around the corner treating wounds. She sits upon a stone and applies a salve to the back of an Elf kneeling beside her, to a hideous tapestry of half-healed whip-marks. He utters no sound. Nothing gives away his distress but his trembling hands clutching his shirt.

“I am done,” she says as we approach.

Stones grate beneath our feet and they turn their heads, suddenly aware of our presence. A few moments pass as we stare at each other. The Elf hastily rises, dons his shirt, bows awkwardly and disappears amid the tents.

“Forgive our intrusion, lady Failwen,” I say, not knowing what my greeting should be. My face burns with embarrassment, with a reflection of something I saw in the eyes and posture of the retreating Noldo.

Failwen rises and nods. She stands straighter, and some colour has returned to her face, but her eyes are dull and weary.

“Forgive me I did not come to see you earlier.” I desperately seek for some fitting, meaningful words, painfully aware of my failure to find them. “Do your people have everything they need, lady? Lodging? Clothes? Food? Healing?”

“We have everything, thank you,” she quietly replies. “Your people have been most generous, far more than we deserve. We lack nothing.”

“I did not see any of our healers here?” I frown. “They should be helping.”

“They helped. They came as we settled here and helped us. And… the Valar came, too.” She blanches a little at that. “Lady Estë tended those most severely wounded, and your healers aided her. None is in mortal danger any longer. We can handle the injuries of the rest ourselves now. Your people left remedies. I am truly grateful for your care, but we are… well.”

I keep to myself my thoughts on this matter. Aloud I say, “This camp, lady Failwen, it is not well-placed. There are still perils, and here on the edge you may be under threat. Would you not consider moving closer to us?”

Sudden alarm appears on her face.

“No, please, allow us to remain here.” Her hands grip the hem of the coat she wears, too large for her frail, emaciated form. “Please! We are fine here, we truly are. Here, we are out of the way. Out of sight. You have had years of terror and war already, there is no need to…” Her voice trails away, but I can guess what her last words would have been. No need to have a reminder of that in front of you.

“Very well, lady Failwen.” Only with effort I keep my voice calm. “But, please, if you need anything – do let me know.” Relief appears in her eyes, and she nods hastily. I offer her a smile  ere leaving. “Farewell, my lady, for now.”

“Farewell, my lord.”

My smile fades as soon as I turn away. I round the corner suppressing the urge to run, to flee this place, to flee the sight of hunched shoulders, averted faces, downcast eyes, to flee the hopelessness hanging heavy in the air. My chest tightens. I have my sword to set against Orcs, Wargs and Trolls. What do I have to set against this? Nothing!

When out of their camp, I do not turn towards our own but stray downhill to the plain, walking aimlessly.  It is empty now; merely rocks and scorched earth. The bodies of our enemies are gone; the Valar have somehow disposed of them. Once or twice, I stumble over a stone and nearly fall, regaining my footing in the last moment. Still, I keep going, further on, away from the neat rows of tents housing despair I cannot cure and cannot bear seeing. We have freed them. But – have we?

“Arafinwë!”

Artanar has followed me. I halt but cannot make myself turn and face him, so I stare in the distance, at the broken remains of Thangorodrim. A faint shudder creeps over my body.

“I am useless.”

“No, you are not.” Artanar overtakes me, lays his hand on my shoulder and looks at me closely. “You are not useless. You are weary and grieving.”

“That is no excuse.” I shake my head. “How does it help them?”

“You are not the only one to give aid. There are others, too. Do not try to carry the weight of all Arda on your shoulders; that is too heavy even for the Valar.”

I draw a shuddering breath. In the reflection of my friend’s eyes and words I look slightly less pitiful.

“Here is what we might do,” says Artanar slowly. “You could return to our camp. I could go back to their lodgings, look around carefully for what they really need, and try to talk with them. They might be shy and evasive in the presence of a king but speak more openly to me. What do you say?”

“Yes,” I reply after a while of silence. “Let us do so.” He considers me closely, probably weighing in his mind whether he can leave me alone. I brush aside annoyance. “Go, Artanar. They may indeed speak with you rather than with me. Go.”

“Very well.”

He leaves, and I turn back towards our camp, walking slowly. Artanar is right; I am still weary. A careless step on a loose stone throws me off balance, and I fall to my knees with a cry of frustration. The barren wasteland around is but another proof and reminder of my helplessness. What have we been fighting for? What have we delivered? A broken land and a broken people.

The tears I kept at bay before now rise to my eyes again. Nothing holds them back any longer, none is here to witness them, and I do not resist anymore. I surrender to the torrent of grief and allow the tears to wash away at least some of the despair that has been smothering me for the last few days, like the rain washed away at least some of the defilements of the Black Foe.

Some time later, I wipe my eyes dry. And then, just in front of me, on a patch of barren earth amid the rocks I notice a flicker of green. A tiny blade of grass stands out against the black stone, so out of place here that I must touch it to be certain. We have not seen any growing thing on the plain of Anfauglith for forty years. But it is here now, cool and tender against my trembling fingers. I draw back my hand and stand. Perhaps hope may rise again like this fragile, small thing from ashes.