Artanis sits on the ground close to one of the fires, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her knees. She is alone. Flames cast a flickering reflection on her face. When I sit beside her, she looks away.

Seeing her sorrow is like thousand knives stabbing my heart. Oh, if only I could take her burden on me! But I am not even sure how to speak with her, after all those centuries apart. I do not even know what questions to ask, what words of solace to offer.

“Forgive me.”

As I say the only thing that comes to my mind, she turns towards me.

“For what, father?” she whispers. Tears glisten on her cheeks.

“For abandoning you and your brothers. I should have remained with you.”

Artanis shakes her head. “No, you were right to turn back, to take care of those who chose to remain. None of us ever reproached you for doing so. Returning was maybe more difficult than advancing, at least in the beginning. And you remained untouched by the curse laid on the House of Fëanáro and its followers.”

I suddenly feel cold. This curse still weighs upon my daughter. Will the Elder King listen to my plea?

“Ever has it worked against us, even as Námo then said,” Artanis continues. “All we built fell to ruin. All we started ended in disaster. Angaráto and Aikanáro opposed the Enemy in the north, and death in fire was their fate. Artaresto fell in a needless, hopeless battle. And Findaráto… Findaráto…”

Her voice breaks, and she shivers. I take her hands and warm them between my palms, like I did when she was a little girl.

“Will you tell me of your life here, Artanis? And… of your brothers?” I ask hesitantly. “But only if you want to. I am not questioning you.”

She nods and starts speaking, softly at first, but her voice grows in strength, and I see them all – my daughter, my sons. Artanis, sitting beside a dark-haired woman in vaulted halls of supreme beauty. Angaráto and Aikanáro galloping over a green plain. Findaráto sculpting stone in a light-filled cavern. Artaresto sitting in a library, face buried in a book. Then other visions follow as she speaks of her brothers’ deaths, and now I understand whence come my nightmares of flaming rivers and wolf’s fangs. Tears drown my daughter’s voice, and she casts herself in my arms.

“They died,” she sobs against my chest. “They all died; I felt it, but I was so far away! I could do nothing!  Nothing…!”

“It was not your fault, Artanis.” I lock her in embrace, rocking gently, hoping against hope that what once helped to soothe the pain of a bruised knee will help against this heartache. “Not your fault.”

After a while her crying somewhat subsides. “We so wanted to make you proud, father,” she whispers. “To accomplish something, to justify our departure against your and mother’s will.”

“I am proud of you, Artanis.” I stroke her hair. “I am proud of you all. You accomplished much. Do not underestimate yourself. You kept safe these lands, you aided those who were in need of aid. That is no small feat. As much as your decision to pursue the road hither grieved me, I was not angry. And mother… She forgave you and your brothers long before she forgave me.”

My daughter raises her eyes and shudders, clearly alarmed. “Mother and you… Did she…”

“All is well between us now. Truly.”

She brushes away tears and regards me closely. “You would not deceive me, father, would you?”

“I would not.” Truth be told, I could not, even if I wanted to.

Artanis does not take her eyes away from my face. “You are so pale, father.”

“And how would you see that in this light?”

She dismisses my attempted jest with an impatient shake of her head. “I noticed already earlier. You are pale and weary. Artanar and Ingwil too. Everyone I saw here.”

“It was a long war. Years without sunlight and starlight. But we are recovering now.”

What would she say if she saw the other camp?

“The other camp? Who is there?” Artanis’ eyes narrow, and I reproach myself silently for being so careless. I had forgotten about the depth of her perception.

I can only reply truthfully. “The Elves we rescued from Angamando.”

She does not let go of my gaze. “They are the cause of your grief, father, far more than the memories of war. Tell me.”

I shake my head. “These are my cares, Artanis. I would not burden you with them. You have plenty of your own.”

Such a feeble attempt from my part. A familiar glint of steel appears in her eyes.

“They are my people, even as they are yours, maybe more so. Please, tell me, father. I am not a child.”

You will always be my child. You will always be my little girl, to cherish and protect. She nods and smiles faintly. I know. Still, I ask you to tell me. I look at her, into her, for the first time so closely since we met. She is wise and kind. She is brave and generous. She deserves to know. The knowledge will not break her.

I do not tell everything. There are sights and deeds I am not able to describe; maybe I shall never be. I take care to seal away the greatest terror. But I say enough. When I fall silent, Artanis rises.

“I want to see them.”

Of course. This was to be expected. I sigh.

“Very well. But – tomorrow. You need rest, daughter.” She stirs impatiently. I must find another reason. “They, too, need rest, all rest they can get. In two weeks we are to leave this place, and they must recover their strength by then.”

She frowns but argues no longer. “Fine. I will go there tomorrow.”

“So be it.” I smile in relief. “Rest well, Artanis.”

“Rest well, father.”

She kisses me on the cheek and turns to go. After she leaves the ring of firelight, a tall figure emerges from the shadows some twenty paces away and locks her in embrace. I turn towards my tent comforted. My daughter will not be alone with her grief tonight.