An occasional spark of mirth in dull eyes. A straightening of back, previously bent in slavery and fear. A greeting and an open smile instead of averted eyes and quiet slipping away in the shadows. The change is subtle, but it is there. The road will likely be long, but this at least is a beginning. A beginning which would not be here without my daughter and her companions.

First, I watched Artanis with wonder, but then I realized. They know her. They know and trust the one who led them over the Grinding Ice. And she recognizes the former prisoners of Angamando, many by name, the others by destiny that repeats in a cruel pattern again and again. Battle of Sudden Flame. Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Orc raid in the night. Artanis has already seen all terror I wanted to shield her from. She does not fear the burden of their anguish. While we, others, can offer only our sympathy to the former captives, she gives them understanding and, facing it, their fear and distrust slowly melt. While my eyes are mostly on my daughter, I must admit – her companions are probably doing as much as she.

Two weeks have passed. The wounded have recovered enough that they can travel, and we set out with the slanting rays of the morning Sun. At last. I want to leave this place behind me, forever. I am eager to start the journey, but still, my heart is not at peace. I cannot banish the memory of a conversation I had a few days ago.

“King Finarfin, is it true we are leaving soon?” asks one of the rescued Elves as we sit by the fire in their camp. The few voices that have joined my daughter’s song fall silent, questioning faces turn towards me.

“That is true, my friend,” I reply. “This place shall come under the power of Ulmo. Morgoth’s former abode is evil and poisoned. It must be cleansed, and only water can do that.”

“Yes, but where are we to go?”

“Eastward, to the Blue Mountains. We shall climb higher where it is safe.”

His eyes are intent on my face. “And… then?”

I look in the distance for a few moments ere replying. “We shall see when we get there, away from danger.”

Slowly, he nods and asks no more. The voices do not join the song again. After a while of uneasy silence I rise and take my leave, feeling a traitor. I realized the true meaning of his question at once. Where are we to go after all this, he asked. What will happen with us? But I do not know. I have not received any reply from Eönwë.

It takes longer than two weeks to reach the feet of the Blue Mountains, and as we start to climb, our pace slows even more. The Valar and the Maiar clear a way before us, but the ground is still rocky and uneven, and the path narrow. In the jagged terrain we see only a short distance ahead. Fearing a sudden assault, many have weapons ready; we have armed all who are sufficiently recovered to wield a sword or a bow.

The steep climb swiftly drains the barely recovered strength of the former captives and soldiers injured in the last battle. On the third day of climbing, we halt less than an hour before the sunset on a wide, flat, rocky terrace, half-encircled by sharp cliffs. Many sink to the ground in complete exhaustion.

We light fires and set guards around the camp after yet another vain attempt to persuade Failwen to pitch their tents amid ours. She has assumed some kind of leadership among the rescued Elves and often speaks for them all. While they avoid us no longer, at night they keep to themselves, and even my daughter’s pleas have yielded nothing. During the day, there is light and there is hope, but at night the shadows of evil memory return. Moans and muffled screams often sound from their lodgings. They want to keep all that away from us. 

The air grows chilly. The noise of conversations around the campfires fades to an indistinct din, then to silence. My watch is later, so I doze off. A dream carries me over the Sea, to the white shores of Aman. I walk hand-in-hand with Ëarwen along the coast. Her silver hair shimmers in the Sun, laughter dances in her eyes. She looks at me and tilts her head, about to say something—

A scream rends the still night air. I sit upright, shaking off sleep. More screams follow. They do not sound like those brought forth by nightmares. I spring to my feet, seize my sword and rush towards the source of the sound. Towards the edge of the camp where Failwen and her people have settled.

In the distance shadows move in the reflection of fires. Steel clashes against steel. Growls and yells echo in the night. I and a few others reach the place swiftly. But the growls have already fallen silent. A dozen or so Orcs lie dead, several Elves stand around, holding blades dripping with black blood. They stand pale, unmoving. All, save one.

Failwen, gripping in both hands the hilt of a sword, is madly slashing the body of an Orc on the ground, each strike accompanied by a scream of anger and hatred. The enemy is clearly dead, but she does not stop. The swishing of the blade and her yelling alternate in a terrifying rhythm.

“Lady Failwen, stop!” It is obvious she does not hear me. “Failwen, enough! Please, stop!” I repeat with a growing sense of despair. When there is no reply and no sign she has noticed me, I shove my own sword in the hands of one of those watching and hold her fast. “Let go of the weapon, lady, please!”

Failwen releases the sword; it falls on the stones with a clank. Then she tears free from my hold and turns to fight me with her bare hands, still screaming, eyes wild, hair dishevelled, hands and garment spattered with the black blood of the Orc. Fury lends her strength she would not otherwise possess; blow after blow lands on my chest, her nails leave a bleeding gash on my cheek, her teeth sink into my arm.

“Look at me, Failwen! Listen to me! It is me, Arafinwë. I am a friend!”

At last my voice pierces the fog of madness enveloping her. Her wild gaze somewhat clears, her struggling weakens, then ceases altogether. She looks at me with wide, confused eyes. “Ara… Arafinwë…?” she whispers hoarsely. “What…”

She looks around. I am too slow to step between her and the mutilated Orc. With a wail of terror she turns away and hides her face on my chest, shaking violently.

“Get my daughter! This very moment!”

One of the Elves hastens away. The others still stand around us in a horrified silence.

“What happened? Was here an attack?” Ingwil and several of his warriors run into the ring of firelight. “Is anyone injured?”

“No,” replies one of those standing by. “We killed them before they did any harm.”

Ingwil notices the body on the ground. His eyes widen. “What in the name of…” He falls silent when he meets my look.

I am still holding Failwen who is trembling like a leaf in a gale.

“Failwen, Failwen, dear, what happened?” My daughter hurries towards us. “Are you hurt?” She sets her arms around her friend. I step back. Artanis looks around, spots the mutilated Orc and blanches.

Failwen raises her eyes. “Galadriel, I… I killed it.” Her lips tremble. Within moments, she is sobbing. “I killed it! And then I… It fell, but I just could not stop! I could not! I…”

“I know. I understand.” Artanis strokes her hair. “It is gone now. You are safe. It is gone.”

“I hate them!” Failwen is choking on her tears. “I hate them so much!”

Artanis sits on the ground, pulling Failwen along, still holding her in embrace and rocking gently as she would comfort a frightened child. Then she looks up at me.

“I will stay here, father. Make certain the camp is safe. And…” She directs her gaze at the dead enemies.

I nod in silence. We carry away the bodies and throw them in a deep ravine beside the path. We scout the surroundings and find no more threats. This has likely been but a single ravaging band, desperate to scavenge some food.

It is long past midnight when I finally return to the campfire. A tall figure stands on the path, an intent questioning gaze turns towards me as my steps grate on the stones. Hands clenched in fists, I avert my eyes and brush past the Herald of the Elder King. He lets me pass in silence.