Next morning I rise early, yet not early enough to find my daughter still in her lodging.

“She asked directions to the healers’ tent and to the other camp,” says one of the guards. “They all went there – lady Artanis and her husband, and lord Celebrimbor.”

I should have known. Bracing myself for the hopeless silence and evasive glances, contemplating how to console my daughter after the inevitable grief at seeing our people as they are now, I head to the settlement of the rescued Elves. Artanar joins me without asking any questions.

The first passage between the rows of the tents is empty. We round the corner. Further away, at the crossing of two passages, a small crowd has gathered around my daughter.

The thought that I should have warned Artanis more, advised her to tread with caution around the former captives, dissipates nearly at once. We are too far to hear them clearly, but, standing on a higher ground than they do, we see well enough. Artanis says something and smiles. And then, an answering smile lights up the faces of those around her. It is faint and swiftly fading, but it is a true smile nonetheless, a sight so beautiful and unexpected that my vision blurs for a moment.

We go closer. Neither my daughter, nor the others notice us yet, their attention on each other. Suddenly Artanis falls silent mid-sentence, her eyes bent on someone in the crowd. 

“Failwen! Failwen, my friend! I thought… I thought…”

Artanis’ voice breaks. She makes a few steps and throws her arms about the dark-haired woman. At first, Failwen visibly tenses. But then she returns the embrace.

“Beyond hope, Failwen…” whispers Artanis. “Beyond hope. Forgive me, I did so little to aid you, to prevent this. Forgive me.” She releases the other woman and looks around, eyes full of tears. “Forgive me, all of you.”

Why is her husband, the who should keep her from sorrow, standing silent now? And Tyelperinquar who calls himself her friend?

“Forgive me,” my daughter repeats in a failing voice.

I am about to go to her, when Failwen raises her head.

“Stop.” Tears glisten on her face, too, but her voice is stern. And… alive. I have not heard so much life in Failwen’s voice before. “It was not your fault, Galadriel. None of it. Each of us made our own choices, took our own risks. I rode to battle together with my husband because I chose to do so. I knew I could be slain or captured. But I chose what I chose. As did you.”

Murmurs of agreement arise from the crowd. There are faint, yet encouraging smiles, light brushes on my daughter’s sleeve. These timid signs of support bring tears to Artanis’ eyes again, but she wipes them quickly away.

“I am grateful for your kindness,” she says softly. “It means much to me. So much.”

When Artanis offers to help them to tend their wounded, they accept it without any objection. Their trust extends easily to Celeborn and Tyelperinquar, and even to me and Artanar, after my daughter spots us in the crowd and pulls along. Soon, we all are treating injuries, dispensing medicines and changing bandages. None turns away, none refuses our aid, and when several hours later we leave their camp, they see us off with quiet, yet sincere words of gratitude and even with some swiftly fading smiles. The silence we leave behind is less solid, less despondent.

My daughter and her husband go in front, hand in hand, talking softly. I follow some twenty steps behind, deep in thought. What I saw today in my daughter is so much more than I remember. So much more than I knew.

My musings likely reflect on my face, for Tyelperinquar smiles. “She surprised you, lord, is it not so?”

“Yes,” I admit. “She did.”

“She is like that,” he softly says. “Valiant. Kind. Compassionate. Coming here and fighting the darkness has brought forth her inner light, has blown it to a bright flame.”

I regard my brother’s grandson thoughtfully. “You, too, are different from what I remember, Tyelperinquar.” When he looks at me with question, I smile. “As I said – you have grown. And I noticed you have fine skill in healing.”

He shrugs. “I believe all who dwell in Valariandë have this skill, to a greater or lesser extent.”

“Yours is certainly on the greater end.”

“I have aided healers and I have learned much from them. I helped to tend my uncle. After Thangorodrim. That took months. And that was…” He looks away.

My heart clenches. The stories I have heard likely conveyed but a small part of Nelyafinwë’s suffering, yet they nevertheless revealed enough to be blood-chilling.

“My words may sound empty, Tyelperinquar, but – I regret. I truly do. I wish all had turned out otherwise.”

“Yes.” Tyelperinquar still avoids looking at me. “I too wish that. But everything we do has consequences. For every voice there is an echo, for every stone thrown in water there are ripples. Nelyafinwë once said that, while still in Mithrim. He never blamed anyone but himself. Always himself.” He suddenly halts and turns towards me. I stop also. “Have you… have you any news of them, my lord? Of my eldest uncles? I find it hard to believe they did not come here to join the fighting. If you know something, lord Arafinwë, I entreat you to tell me. Despite everything, they are dear to me. They are all that is left of my close family.”

His eyes are intent, pleading. He has likely wanted to ask this question ever since he came here. Even though I wish the ground opened and swallowed me right now, I have no right to keep the truth from him.

“They did come here, Tyelperinquar. But not to join the fight. They came… for the Silmarils.”

Silence falls, until the true meaning of what I have just said reaches Tyelperinquar’s mind. He takes a step back and stares at me, eyes wide. “No!”

Let him learn the horrible truth from me, not from someone who hates my brother’s sons.

“They got the jewels. After… after killing the guards. Then they fled. Eönwë forbade anyone to follow them. I was about to do it anyway, but I was restrained. They disappeared in the night. That is all we know.”

“No. That is not all.” We turn towards Artanar who has caught up with us and stands frowning, hands clasped tightly together. “When Ingwil took you back to the camp, I disregarded Eönwë’s command and went after them. They were swift, and I drew near only when they were past the ruins of Angamando. It was a terrible sight there. The Valar were still tearing the place down. The mountains were broken. The ground shook. Deep chasms were rending the earth, fire flickered in the depths. One such gap opened right before me, and I could not reach Nelyafinwë and Makalaurë. I cried out to them, but there was the thunder and the rumbling underground. They did not hear me, and I could only watch.

“They halted, and Makalaurë opened the chest. Oh, the hallowed Light amid all that desolation…! They talked briefly. I was too far to hear but I think Nelyafinwë persuaded his brother that they needed to split. At last, each of them took one of the stones, and Makalaurë left westward. And then…” He looks down.

“Then…?” Tyelperinquar grips his arm.

Artanar raises his eyes and draws a deep breath. “Nelyafinwë long stood by the chasm gazing at the flames below, holding the Silmaril. Then he took a step over the edge.”

Tyelperinquar releases Artanar and staggers back. When I make a move towards him, he turns away. “I… I want to be alone. Please.” As we turn to go, he sinks on a boulder and buries his face in his hands.

We walk in silence until I break it.

“You should have told me, Artanar.”

“You carried enough pain and grief already. I could not.”

“You should have told me!” At the entrance of my tent I turn my back on him. “I want to be alone, too!”

I am sick of death. My sons are gone. My brothers are dead. Of their children, only Makalaurë is left, if even he. This cruel land has taken them all, broken them, destroyed them. I am sick of this place. Curse Endórë! Curse all its places that took my family! I no longer care if it sinks in water or burns in fire; the Valar are welcome to destroy this land in any way they wish! 

I want nothing else than to return home. As soon as may be.