Failwen’s screams still ringing in my ears, I lie down and close my eyes, but, if anything, the images I have seen grow more vivid. Failwen’s bloodstained hands. Her wild eyes. Her tears.

I sit up again, break branch from a long-withered bush growing nearby, grip it in a trembling hand and trace line after line on the hard-packed dirt among the stones. Merely lines. Haphazard, disordered lines. Like the slashes Failwen’s blade left on the body of that Orc.

“Arafinwë, your hand.”

I recoil, then raise my eyes. Artanar stands a mere step away. I did not even hear him approach. He looks at me closely. “Your hand,” he repeats. “It is bleeding.”

I look. The branch has thorns, and several spikes have pierced my palm. Red drops are slowly dripping to the ground. More blood. I avert my eyes.

Artanar sits on the ground beside me. “Give me that.” He pries the thorny stick from my fingers and casts it in the fire where flames catch and swallow it nearly at once. “Will you let me tend the injury? It will hinder you when wielding a sword if left as it is.”

I nod in silence and numbly watch as he rummages in the bag and finds bandages, washes off the blood, puts a salve on the wound and loosely binds my palm. Then he looks intently at my face.

“There is more. Sit still.”

He cleans blood from my face too, from the gash Failwen left on my cheek. The salve stings and I wince, but sit still until Artanar finishes. He puts away the medicine and the water flask and shifts as if to rise, but then sinks back on the ground and remains sitting, looking in the flames. After minutes of staring into the fire he raises his eyes towards me.

 “I heard what happened tonight. Lady Failwen… is she…”

“My daughter is with her. I do not believe anyone can do more than she can, now.”

“You are likely right.” Artanar sighs. “Nothing has ended, has it?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, it has not. And what the ending will be… That is uncertain. The healing they still need…”

 “I do not think they are the only ones who need healing.”

“They need it most.”

Artanar sits silent for a few moments, then speaks again. “Forgive me for not saying anything about Nelyafinwë’s death. I should have told you at once.”

“You should have. But I understand why you did not. And I appreciate your intent.”

“So… you are no longer angry?”

“I am not.”

“I am glad.” A relieved smile appears on his lips, then fades again. “I want to go home, Arafinwë.” He wraps his arms around his knees. “Never to touch a sword again.”

“We will go home soon. Very soon.”

“I am afraid.” My friend quietly confesses. “More than before. Afraid that something terrible might still happen. That I might never see Valinórë again. That I might never see… her.”

“Nothing will happen. We will go home,” I repeat firmly. “You will go back to that mysterious lady you have kept secret even from your friends.”

Artanar smiles faintly. “Her name is Lindiel. The Teleri invited me to Tol Eressëa, to oversee the widening of the fishing harbour on the northern coast. People there, they needed my skill, so they endured my presence, but they were… not too friendly. Not right hostile either, but… Do you know the feeling when you are not entirely welcome somewhere? Conversations falling silent when you approach, faces turned away. So I kept apart. A few days later, the harbourmaster’s daughter spoke to me. She had noticed me always resting alone, always being alone in the evenings too, when other masons gathered around the fires. We talked long into the night. She returned on the next day, and we walked along the shore. And on the day after too. I was so glad I had found a friend, but soon we realized we had become something more than that. And when news of the war came and I had to leave, she said she would wait for me.”

“Had I known you loved someone, I would not have asked you to accompany me here.”

“Yes.” Artanar nods. “That is why you did not know.” Smile still softens his face. He pulls something from his pocket and unwraps layers of soft cloth. “When we parted, Lindiel gave me this.”

Upon his palm lies a seashell, small and delicate, glistening with a pearly sheen. Tears sting my eyes. He has kept the fragile thing intact for more than forty years of war.

“You will see her soon.”

Artanar sighs. “In truth, this thought helps little against fear. I dread the conversation with her parents. They might not approve of their daughter tying her fate to a Noldo. And I would not want to cause a rift between her and her family.”

“That will be her choice, besides, you do not know whether her parents would approve or not.”

“You are right. It is pointless to worry beforehand. But lately I often think of what might happen when we return.” Artanar carefully wraps the seashell again and puts it back in his pocket. “Life is such a fragile thing, Arafinwë.” A tear trickles down his cheek. “Such a fragile thing. I never valued it as I do now. I want to do so much yet. I want to show Lindiel the mountains. I want to build us a house and to plant an orchard around it. The trees would grow. They would clothe themselves in clouds of white blossoms each spring and bear fruits each autumn. One day, our children would run and play in their shade. I want daughters and sons. I….”

“All of this will be.” I lay my hand on his shoulder. “You will see. As for the house – if all goes well, would you like me to draw a plan for it?”

He brushes his hand over his face and raises his eyes. “I… yes, I would like that. Do you know that place north of Tirion, where the woodland meets the mountains? There is a waterfall. And a large meadow. I would like to build there. Unless… Lindiel wishes to remain on the island. Then I will stay with her.”

“I know the place.” I smile. “It is most beautiful. There is a fair chance she might like it too.”

We sit by the fire for the rest of the night talking about different kinds of stone, about foundations and walls, about window shapes and roofing. We have not spoken about the future as we do now since reaching the slopes of Thangorodrim. Before, it was always about the next day, the next battle, and a shadow of death was always looming over these conversations. Tonight, for the first time in years, we are speaking of life.