Next day we climb higher. Even the withered bushes disappear, and now there is only bare rock. Snow lies on the ground in patches. Around midday, we halt to rest beside the tongue of a glacier that feeds several small streamlets of cold, clear water. I am filling my water flask by one of those when quiet steps sound behind me.

“King Arafinwë, I came …” Failwen’s trembling voice breaks, but then she pulls herself together. “I came to ask you to forgive me. You saved us. You showed us kindness. Compassion. And I… I attacked you. I…” Her hands are clutching handfuls of her coat. “I apologize,” she whispers and bows her head.

I gently lay my hand on her shoulder. “My lady, whoever you were attacking yesterday – it was not me. I know that. So there is no need to apologize.”

As Failwen looks up, the gratitude in her eyes is unbearable. “I… Still, I hurt you. I should not have… Also that Orc… But when I saw those creatures again… Their faces… I just could not stop. I remembered. Remembered how…” She falls silent and stands, still clutching her garment.

I look at her closely. “Do you want to tell me?”

She does not reply but does not leave either. Lightly I touch her arm.  She trembles, but then leans against me. I lead her to a large flat stone and sit beside her.

“I am not questioning you, lady. But I am here, should you wish to speak. I am a friend. Please, believe me.”

A barely perceptible nod and whispered words, so quiet that I must lean towards her to hear. “I… believe you.”

Failwen looks down at her hands clasped firmly together. Then she raises her eyes towards me.

“In the Battle of Sudden Flame we stood with our King in the Fens of Serech. It was hopeless. Heavily outnumbered, the Orcs closing in, we made ready for the last stand. Then the Edain came to our aid and drove the enemies back. But our company was cut off from the main host. The retreating Orcs took us captive and dragged to Angband. There, they questioned us – about our forces, about the outposts, about the fortifications of Nargothrond. We kept silent. Then they questioned us... more.”

Failwen speaks on, short, broken sentences, interrupted by long whiles of silence. I have no words of consolation for what she tells. I can only offer her a shoulder to cry on, and when the story is over, she does that; quiet, anguished sobs are shaking her thin body, finally fading to silence. We share the silence too, her face still pressed into the folds of my cloak. I look in the distance, the black cliffs and the cold blue ice of the glacier blurring together to an indistinct grey.

In the evening we cross the pass and make our camp on the other side. I am skinning one of the mountain goats our archers have hunted for supper when Eönwë comes to speak with me.

“You must camp here, beyond the ridge, until the danger has passed,” the herald of Manwë says.

“We shall do as you say.” Only with great effort I keep my voice steady.

Eönwë considers me closely. “I saw you talking with lady Failwen earlier, and now you are angry.”

“Yes, I am!” I drop the knife and the game and look right into his eyes. “Moringotto’s beasts blinded her husband – after beating her nearly senseless and making him watch that! The last thing he saw in this world was his wife’s suffering! Later, in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, they dragged him out on the battlefield and killed in sight of everyone. They hewed off his hands and feet, beheaded him, and afterwards they described to her what they had done! I do not understand where she still finds the strength to cling to life after all that, to care for and protect those who are weaker. Her story is but one of such kind. I have listened to such stories for weeks! We all have! And we have only our tears and compassion to give, nothing else! How do you think, my lord, will tears and compassion help them put together the shards of their shattered lives?”

I must be shouting. Frightened faces turn towards us and then swiftly look away. Eönwë stands silent for a while.

“We are neither all-knowing, nor almighty, King of the Noldor,” he says softly. “We, too, make mistakes and rue them. But choices and promises made by the Children of the One cannot be easily revoked. Not even by the Elder King.”

I look away. “They are my people. My heart bleeds for them.”

Manwë’s herald lays his hand on my shoulder. “I know. We are not without pity, Arafinwë. What we have seen on this shore has turned even the most unyielding hearts. And Ilúvatar is merciful. Have faith.”

Throughout the next days I linger on the edge between cautious hope and bitter resentment.

We wait in the camp beyond the ridge. On the morning of the third day a fierce storm descends. It is not a weather of this world. Black clouds gather in the west, then cover the entire sky. It is dark despite the early hour. Rain starts pouring down in sheets quenching all fires. Lightnings rend the sky, flickering in blinding shafts. Thunders crack unceasingly. The ground shakes. Wind howls around us. We keep together, huddled in the tents, comforting each other in trembling voices. The storm keeps raging for the whole day and long into the night. None sleeps. The night is at its darkest when rain, thunder and lightning finally cease, but now there is a great roaring and rushing as if of tumultuous water just beyond the ridge.

“I wish we could see what is happening.” Ingwil rises, steps out of the tent and stands stone-still by the entrance, face turned towards the jagged cliffs that separate us from the noise. “No matter how terrible it may look. This ignorance is worse. Much worse.”

I follow him, and we peer into the night waiting for the dawn and whatever it may bring.

The morning comes grey. Pale shrouds of mist wind about the cliffs. It is eerily quiet after the tumult in the night, and the people, too, are silent, subdued. Anxiety and uncertainty become unbearable.

“Lord, may we go and look?” I ask Eönwë. “Is it safe now?”

“It is safe,” he replies after a moment of hesitation. “You may look.”

We climb the ridge. Before and below us lies a thick veil of mist, and we strain our eyes in vain to pierce it. Then wind rises. The mists scatter. A thin strip of land, covered with driftwood and seaweed, somewhat widening towards southeast, remains visible, but otherwise, as far as the eye can see, water covers everything.

Everything.

Valariandë is no more.

I stand frozen, eyes wide, staring at the desolation on the shore and the grey expanse of water. Fearful gasps and cries of dismay sound all around. Some cover their faces, some sink to the ground. Sobs and terrified whispers rend the stillness.

“What shall we do?... Where shall we go now?... Everything is lost…”

“Hearken to me, people of Eldalië!” Eönwë’s mighty voice rings clear in the air. He stands upon a cliff with upraised arms. “Despair not! Beleriand is lost, but you have home again! The Valar have revoked the ban, and all who wish it may return to Aman!”

Complete hush falls after his words. Pale, tear-streaked faces turn towards Manwë’s herald.

“That is true.” He confirms. “You are forgiven. On this shore, you have resisted the greatest evil of our time. You have fought against a power far beyond your strength, and yet you never surrendered to it. You are forgiven. As soon as the ships arrive, you may sail home. This I say on the authority of the Elder King.”

“Home… We may return… see our loved ones again…”

A keen breeze sweeps away the lasts wisps of mist. Clouds break. Patches of blue sky appear and Sun-rays turn water into dazzling blue glitter. Someone in the crowd sings the first few lines of a hymn to the Starkindler, the others take up the song. It is quiet and hesitant first, but as fear fades in the eyes turned towards the shimmering Sea, voices grow in strength and entwine with the sound of the waves.

Artanar smiles. “This is how hope looks and sounds.”

“Yes.” I brush away tears that have gathered in my eyes. “Yes.”

Hope. Peace. Going home.