F.A. 539

I return to Tirion in the evening. The rays of westering Sun paint the white walls golden and purple, the sparkles of light glitter in the fountains and upon the surface of serene pools in the gardens. I love my city with the proud and somewhat possessive love of one who has had part in its making: many houses have their origin in my thought, later set in drawings. But today my eyes are blind to the beauty of Tirion.

I should go home; Ëarwen is awaiting my return. But I cannot make myself bring her the tidings. Instead, I turn towards the main square, climb the many steps of Mindon Eldaliéva and stand on the top of the tower watching the sunset. Delaying the inevitable.

The Vessel of Arien has disappeared beyond the mountains. Faint stars are shimmering overhead, and shadows have wrapped the streets and gardens below when I hear my wife’s light steps behind me. I turn towards her in silence. For all the time I stood atop the tower I have found no words.

Ëarwen speaks first. “I was hoping to find you here.” She looks at me intently, comes closer and takes my hands. “What weighs on your heart, dearest?”

Minutes pass until I think of something to say, and even then my words are harsh and blunt. “There will be war.”

Her face pales, and I curse myself silently for speaking that way, but she does not let go of my hands.

“So that was the reason why the Valar summoned you to a council?”

I nod. She leads me to a bench beside the carven railing, sits and pulls me to sit beside her.

“Tell me.”

And I tell her. I speak of the messenger from the Outer Lands, of his plea for both Kindreds. Of the decision that Middle-earth should be delivered from evil and justice done upon Moringotto.

“The Valar and the Maiar will go to Endórë and challenge the Black Foe. The Vanyar too will travel thither. Ingwil will lead them. Your father has agreed to provide ships.” I fall silent. Ëarwen’s bright blue eyes are bent on my face, and there is no escape from the words I must say. All is still; silence is pounding in my ears. I draw a deep breath. “And I shall lead the host of the Noldor.”

It is done. I have said it, and now I look away. I look away because I cannot bear to see her disappointment and anger, the slow hardening of her gaze until her eyes become two frozen pools of ice. I have seen it before. I am not strong enough to look at it again.

I wait for the swish of the skirts at her rising, for the sound of retreating feet. The waiting seems endless. But there is silence, and when I at last summon enough courage to raise my gaze again, she still sits beside me. There is no anger in her eyes, no disappointment. Only deep sadness. Perhaps that is even worse.

“Forgive me,” I whisper. “For everything.” For this decision and for the others I have made before. For following my brother. For letting our children take the desperate road. For coming back, in shame, defeated. For not being wise enough, strong enough, brave enough. For everything.

“When are you leaving?” she softly asks.

“I do not know yet. It will take time to get ready. Several months at least. We know so little of Endórë. Almost nothing of war.”

“I shall travel to Alqualondë, to my father.”

Sharp pain stabs my heart at her words.

“Yes.” I turn away from her sad face and look down at my clenched hands. “Yes, I understand.”

I knew that would likely be her decision. Ëarwen did that when we took the woeful road north, and she remained in her father’s mansion for years, long after my return, refusing even to talk to me. For years, I only saw her from a distance – a vision of past happiness walking along the shore or disappearing behind the curtained windows of Olwë’s palace. Years passed until I attained her forgiveness and regained her love – only to lose them once again now. I have no right to make any demands, no right to ask her anything.

Suddenly, her soft palm touches my cheek as she turns my head to face her.

“I shall travel to Alqualondë and dwell in my father’s house.” Her voice trembles slightly. “So that I am there when you depart for Endórë and when you return from it. So that I can see you off with a blessing and welcome home with joy.”

“Ëarwen…”

I feel faint and light-headed. My sight blurs, and then Ëarwen’s fingers are soothing and cool on my face as she brushes away tears. She looks into my eyes for a long time.

“Did you think I would forsake you?”

“I… I would understand that. You would be right to do so.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, I would not. I was not right then, either. It was cruel and selfish to let you suffer alone. I never asked your forgiveness for that. I do so now.”

“Ëarwen, beloved, you do not have to ask my forgiveness for anything!”

I draw her in embrace and bury my face in her hair, in the soft silver locks that bear the fragrance of wildflowers and a distant sea breeze.

“I was a coward then,” she whispers against my chest. “I was afraid of the burden of grief you carried, afraid I would have to share it. I deemed my own sorrow enough. A coward, and a selfish one.”

I laugh amid tears. “Oh no, dear wife, do not claim the title of coward in this family! It is long since taken. My brother saw clear and plain for whom it was most fitting, and he did not keep his thoughts to himself.”

I say this without bitterness. Fëanáro’s resentful words do not hurt anymore. His absence does, though. The absence of my swift and brilliant eldest brother has left a wound in my heart that still throbs painfully whenever I remember him, whenever I recall the rare moments of his kindness towards me.

Ëarwen raises her face, her eyes flash. “You are not a coward, Arafinwë! Do not speak of yourself like that! You will lead an army into battle, just like your half-brother did! But your deeds, unlike his, will be honourable!”

I smile at her fierceness. “I am not made for war.”

She looks at me long, then nods. “You are not. But who of our people is? Maybe wars should be fought exactly by those who are not made for them.”