Across the Sea by Alena

Chapter 1

She had my brother's eyes.

She had been found wandering along the beach, lost and alone, by a couple of young people-children, in fact-who had been sailing up in the Bay of Nénufal. So they brought her back to Alqualondë, up the street winding from the quayside, and to my gate. The oldest boy walked by her side, guiding her lightly; behind her and a little to the side came another lad, and a girl with two long braids of black hair, leading a small boy by the hand. These children flanked her, as if wishing to protect their newfound charge from the curiosity of the crowd, already starting to gather around them as they passed. They came before me and halted. And I found myself looking straight into my brother's eyes.

They were the exact same shade of blue-grey as my brother's eyes, and the exact same shape. There was also the same light in them, though it was only a faint glimmer, and I barely discerned it. For these eyes were also different, terribly so: she was gazing at me with such an expression in them. No, she was not even gazing at me, but at another place, in some space all her own. I could see a desperate grief in these eyes, and a vast fear that went deep, deep down. And beyond the grief and the fear were a host of things that I could not read.

She stood there facing me, as still as a statue, with all that grief and fear and other things staring out at me and past me. I heard whispers all around, among the gathering crowd, but they kept back a little, as if an unseen voice commanded them to give her room. She wore a torn white dress, which fluttered in the breeze. Her dark hair, long and loose, fluttered also in the breeze. She was astonishingly and heartbreakingly beautiful.

I found my voice.

"I bid you welcome to Alqualondë, lady. Tell us, what is your name? Where is your home?"

At first, I did not know if she had heard my words at all. But slowly, very slowly, her eyes-so alike to my brother's and so different-focused on mine.

"Have no fear, for you are among friends now," I added, hoping to encourage.

Another long pause, while her gaze searched my face. Then she replied in a voice that was low and sad, yet surprisingly clear:

"I come from Middle-earth, across the sea."

Whispers like the crackle of flames, running through the crowd. Only a small part of my mind heard them.

How could so few words be so shattering? How could I have been so unprepared for them, when she was looking at me with eyes like those? Middle-earth, across the sea. Where I had left my brother, all those ages ago. Where so many of our kin remained. Middle-earth of starlight and dark shadows in the forests...

And of the Noldor, who had also been our kin.

The young woman fell silent, retreating once more into whatever lonely space she inhabited. Yet her words kept on reverberating, seemingly at once soft and as loud as thunder.

I come from Middle-earth, across the sea.

Middle-earth, where I, too, had walked in wonder beneath the stars.

"She is exhausted."

Sílaniel's clear voice cut through the echoes. Giving the crowd a reproachful look, my wife stepped forward to the stranger and with gentle hands began to guide her away, murmuring soft words of comfort. Meekly, the young woman allowed herself to be led towards the gates of the house. I sent Sílaniel a quick mental whisper of gratitude.

Bidding the children who had found her to remain, I questioned them on their discovery. They had sailed out of Alqualondë, going up the coast. And as they came into the Bay of Nénufal, they had heard a mysterious voice in the distance, singing sorrowfully upon the shore. She had spoken very little, but from the few fragments that she had offered, it seemed that she had fled from some horrible destruction in Middle-earth, to seek her husband upon the sea. And she had spoken her own name to them: it was Elwing.

"We heard her song, lord. It sounded so sad - sad and strange -" the oldest boy told me, his voice quiet, as if speaking of a dream. "But we recognized the tune of the song, for my father sings it sometimes. He told me of it once, that it was an old tune, from the times when our people still lived in the lands of Middle-earth..."

Middle-earth, across the wide sundering sea.

I come from Middle-earth, across the sea. I have sought long for my brother, who first told us of Aman's light, but I found him not. I have sought for him beneath the stars, everywhere; I have sought in all the forests and fields, and all the mountain-passes and valleys, and by the rivers, and by the lakes, but I found him not. And the sea was calling; my people wished to follow the call of the sea, to seek the land of light. My brother is lost, I do not know if he is living or dead and I abandoned him...

"Lord Olwë?"

I returned to the present. The girl with the black braids was looking up at me, wide-eyed, as was the small boy, also dark-headed, standing beside her.

"Lord, we were wondering, may we-" she faltered, bit her lips, then plunged on, "may we come see her sometimes? It's not that we are curious - we are, I mean, but she also told us that she had children... I thought we could try to cheer her up, perhaps? Just a little?"

Her face was hopeful and full of pleading.

"What is your name, my child?"

"Eärlinde, my lord. And this is my younger brother Annairo." She gave the boy next to her a little tug.

I smiled, though my heart felt no lighter.

"I will let her know, Eärlinde. And if she wishes it, you may visit Elwing. But only if she wishes it."

The girl nodded eagerly. "Thank you, my lord," she breathed, and ran off, her little brother in tow. Watching her lithe young form disappear down the street, I suddenly found all the memories come rushing back to me, crashing and roaring about me, tossing me in their great waves. How little it took, for the countless years to disappear like a mist in the sun, and turn to nothing. How little it took for all the old wounds to open anew, bleed anew.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: The Professor created the great Belegaer, and both its shores.

Note: Thanks to everyone for the feedback! Regarding some of the questions in the reviews, I assumed that Olwë survived the Kinslaying from this line in The Silmarillion: "And Olwë called upon Ossë, but he came not, for it was not permitted by the Valar that the flight of the Noldor should be hindered by force." This seemed to take place after the battle. As for whether Olwë knew his brother was dead, I suspect that depends somewhat on what you define as "knowing"...

Chapter 2

The nearly-full moon emerged from the fleecy clouds, flooding the world with its silvery radiance. A breeze came from the shores down below, and brought the ever-present music of the waves washing the beaches, in endless rhythm. The tide was starting to rise. I paced the halls, passing from corridor to corridor, turning back, then back again. I paced in silence, though within me clamoured a thousand questions, a thousand voices out of the past.

Since the wanderer's arrival, Sílaniel had watched over her, gently bullying her to eat a little, soothing her with soft whispered words. It reminded me of how she used to soothe our own daughter after childhood nightmares, almost an eternity ago. The young woman accepted my wife's ministrations quietly, saying little, though her eyes seemed grateful. Yet those eyes - my brother's eyes - remained laden with unseen horrors.

She was my kinswoman - I knew this with certainty now. She was my brother's flesh and blood. What terrible things had she suffered? What had they done to her?

She came from Middle-earth, where fell shadowy shapes prowled the forests and the hills. There had the Enemy fled; there he had built his fortresses and pits, there he had bred his monsters, his demons of dread. There had the Noldor followed in pursuit, in wrath and unbending pride, stained with the blood of our people, cursed. My five grandchildren were among them.

Oh star-lit Middle-earth, home of my youth.

She came to us, and I could no longer suppress my fears.

I looked up, and found myself once more in front of Elwing's room. Sílaniel stood just outside the closed door, talking in urgent whispers with one of the maidens.

"How is she?"

My wife turned to me. "She is silent and still," she replied slowly, choosing her words with thought, "yet without rest, though she is weary to the end of her strength. For she is alone in a dark place, inside her own mind."

Her face was full of concern, her blue eyes compassionate. I met her gaze. In one brief span of time, many thoughts were exchanged between us, wordlessly and in quick succession, and Sílaniel smiled a little.

"Perhaps it will do her good," she said softly. "But do not press her."

I nodded, and knocked lightly on the door.

* * * *

The lamps were unlit, and the room was filled with the delicate glow of the moon. The young woman was sitting by the open window, arms folded tightly about her chest. Maybe it was only a trick of the light, but she looked even paler and more frail than during the day. She looked as if she would shatter at a touch.

"Elwing?" I asked tentatively, unsure whether she would hear me.

She started slightly, looking up with those dark fearful eyes of hers. I was already beginning to regret having come into the room. How was this going to help her? Yet then she spoke, and I was again surprised by her voice, which was mostly steady.

"My lord? I wish to thank you, for your kindness. And - they told me that you are the brother of King Elwë Singollo, who was my father's grandfather - is it true?"

I crossed the room, going next to her, but not too close. "Yes," I answered, "I am his brother. You and I are kin to each other."

Elwing turned a little, her eyes still fixed upon me. Moonbeams from the window fell on her hair and face, making her fairly glisten with light. I wanted to ask her about my brother, about Middle-earth, about our people. About my grandchildren. I wanted to ask her what evil creatures had done this to her. But I could not. I was afraid to ask, and of course I already knew the answers far too well. Had my brother been living she would not have come to this.

"Nothing can harm you now; you are safe here with us," I managed finally, after a silent moment that seemed to last forever. "Perhaps we can speak later. Rest now."

"There is no rest for me..."

She sounded rueful and apologetic. "For as soon as I am not on my guard, they come."

Already on my way out of the room, I stopped.

"The sons of Fëanor," she whispered, though I did not ask.

In the blink of an eye, the room dissolved around me, and I was alone in space, with only her voice:

"They came at dawn - they came for the Jewel. My lord was far away, and we tried to defend the city...But they were like demons; they would not spare even Sirion. We had suffered so much, but they would not spare us even this last place, the last refuge...and we could not hold on...My sons, my sons, they were only little children...and there was blood everywhere, so much blood..."

I realized that my hands were clenched tightly. They felt icy cold.

Fëanor's sons. Finwë's sons. For so many years I thought I knew them. I thought they were our kin; I thought they were good. I thought I knew them so well, those dark-haired boys, my friend's children and grandchildren. But I did not know them. I never did know them at all.

They came by the light of the stars; they came demanding our ships. We tried to defend the quays, but madness was upon them, and they were fierce with the darkness of the world, and they slew without mercy. And the dead were everywhere...We must defend the ships, we must defend our people...There was so much blood, covering the walls and the pavements, running into the harbor, turning the waters red...

"My little sons, my sweet darlings, I could not protect them..."

I knelt on the dock holding my son in my arms. The storm of death all around me, the sound of swords clanging, shouts and screams, the sound of arrows flying. Somewhere behind me, something was burning. And my child was covered in blood, blood gushing from a gaping wound in his side. I put both hands down upon the wound. I tried to press hard against it. My hands were stained red instantly, but the blood kept on gushing out.

"It's getting so dark, father..."

His eyes were losing focus. No. My dear son, my dear child. Do not die. Please do not die.

"I must guard my boys -" Elwing's voice came faintly through the wails. "I must guard my babies - But they were coming, and I could not hold on anymore, for It was burning so much...I could not hold on anymore...Oh my darlings I am so sorry..."

Her breathing was ragged, and she was beginning to shiver. Going over to her, I knelt down and placed my hands on her shoulders, forcing myself to gaze into her face, calling her name softly. Something - was it the sea? - roared madly in my ears, and I could barely concentrate -

Oh roar and rage, troubled waters! Oh Ossë, friend and guide, master of storms, do you not hear the widows and the children sobbing, do you not see the harbor running red? Do you not weep, oh Uinen, Lady of the Seas? For your mariners lay floating dead upon your breast. They walk no more amid the breakers; they sing no more upon the shore. No more the white lamps bright as stars, no more the white sails flying, no more the laughter and the music, only fire, fire reflected over the waves...

"But the sea refused to take me..."

I found Elwing sitting before me again, in this room, glistening with the moon. She was very still now, and her eyes seemed to see me once more. There were no tears in them.

What could I say? What could I possibly say to her?

"Elwing, child," I fought to keep my voice steady. I was still kneeling in front of her, with my hands on her shoulders. "I know you have suffered terribly, far more than ever should be allowed in this world. Perhaps more than I can understand. But you are here now, and you are my brother's flesh and blood. Though you have lost your family, I want you to know that we are your family, too, and we will care for you, always. And I want you to know that if anyone ever tries to hurt you again, he will have to kill me first. I want you to know that you will be as my own child to me. Always. I promise you this."

Was that a glimmer of Elwë's light in her eyes? Finally, she nodded slowly, wordlessly.

"Try to sleep now," I murmured, kissed her forehead, and went from the room.

Closing the door behind me, I made myself take a deep breath, leaning wearily against the wall. No, it was not happening now. It was another place, another sea raging, another haven lost. Another scene of murder, though the murderers were the same. And it was another time. It was not happening now. Now the waters were calm, rippling, gently glittering with silver and the city lay at peace.

Out on the long balcony, I saw Sílaniel standing alone, beside the balustrade, her back to me, gazing out over the shimmering, tide-swollen sea. The pale gold of her hair shone brightly in the moonlight; the night wind nipped at the edge of her dress. She was thinking of our children and grandchildren.

All those children, sons and daughters and brothers, lost in one Night. Husbands and wives, fathers and mothers...

Without a word, I went up to my wife and put my arms around her. Sighing softly, Sílaniel leaned against my shoulder, her warmth comforting me. And so we stood there in silence, together, watching the waves, until the tide ebbed again, and the dawn came.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: All of Arda belongs to the Professor.

Note: Although it is not necessary, this chapter probably works the best together with The Other Shore, a related fic.

Just a quick reminder that the hidden city of Gondolin had seven gates, and its name meant "Song of Stone".

I wish to thank Nemis, as always, for beta-reading and for putting up with me.

Chapter 3

Where is your brother? The voice asked out of the shadows.

I stood atop a hill, in Middle-earth. The sky was overcast, without stars, and it was very cold. Behind me loomed the mountain-range, vast and oppressive, without break; before me there was no more road. And the air was heavy with the portents of storms, and with harsh unseen voices asking me:

Where is your brother? Where have you left him?

I could not find my brother, and I was alone.

In every direction, the lands of Middle-earth stretched on forever, yet I was in a narrow and constricted place, and the black sky pressed down upon me. And I could go forward no more, for the road was lost amid the tangle of thorns. The mountains were draped in darkness, and the valleys were filled with thick, murky fog. Somewhere in the darkness and the fog lay my brother, but I could not see him, and I was alone in the world, except for the voices ringing out of the valleys and the hills, and out of the dank, bramble-filled woods, accusing me:

Where is your brother? Where have you abandoned him?

* * * *

"I wish Elwing's sons would come," said the child. "She would not be so sad then, and it would be fun to play with them."

"I have told you so many times, Annairo," the girl sighed. "Do not say things like that."

"Why not? You wish it too, Eärlinde, don't you?"

"In any case, just do not speak of it in front of Elwing, do you hear?"

"It is true, though. They are alive and well," the little boy returned, pouting at his sister, who in turn glanced up at me.

"He says that all the time," she muttered apologetically.

We were on the terrace above the gardens. Annairo skipped about, running in circles with merry cries, while his sister walked next to me, a serious expression on her young face, trying to look all grown-up. The late afternoon sunlight reflected off the massed leaves below us, flashing and sparkling, and there was a new coolness in the air.

"Lord Olwë?" Eärlinde asked after a silence. "Do you think - do you think they are alive? Elwing's sons?"

"Do you, my child?"

She hesitated, crinkling her brows slightly. "Sometimes, I would imagine that those boys are here and that she is happy... I mean, those Elves who hurt Elwing - I know they were bad people, but still - her sons were only small children, right? They could not actually...right?"

I looked at the girl and her bright-eyed little brother. And I could not tell them; I could not explain any of this to them. Not the sons of Fëanor, nor the Jewels. Nor the deaths of children.

"Your sister is right, Annairo. Elwing misses her sons very much; that is why she is so sad, in part. And -" I lied, gazing into the boy's eyes, "we all hope greatly that they would come to find her, but it may be a long time, years and years, before it happens. But in the meanwhile, if you speak of them, it will just make her miss them even more, don't you see?"

"Yes, I suppose..." Annairo nodded, though he did not seem to truly understand.

"Go on now, find Elwing,"

The children ran off, and I turned away. More than a month had passed since Elwing first came to us. Thanks to Sílaniel's tender and tireless care, signs of health were returning to her, at least in body, and it seemed that she was beginning to struggle out of her dark solitary world. Recently, she had even been able to eat, most of the times, without needing to be constantly reminded of the food before her. Yet it was a painful effort; she was easily frightened and often withdrawn, and on the bad days she would cry out for her sons, repeating their names again and again in helpless terror. And her sleep remained troubled and fitful, plagued with ceaseless nightmares.

After the first night, I had talked with her several times, slowly piecing together most of her strange and heartbreaking tale - the burning city, the howling waves, the wind roaring and rushing through her desperate wings. The long lonely wandering upon the sea's margin. But beyond the sudden attack on Sirion, I had not asked Elwing any more about her previous life.

And I had not asked her for news of my grandchildren, nor of my brother. I told myself that she should be spared all such questions, in her state, but the truth was simply that I could not bear to think of it. Not yet. Even though I knew now, and I could no longer delude myself with hope.

Perhaps I had known, all along.

And the dream was coming nearly every night. It was the same dream as always, except now more vivid than ever. In the dream, I stood atop a hill, in Middle-earth, and I was young, and I could not find my brother. And there was no other living being in the entire world.

I shook my head. Trying to not think of the dream, I walked out beyond the gardens, past the lavaralda hedges thick with flowers, and onto the path going down to the sea. Slanting sunbeams filtered through the trees overhead, lighting up the dark moss at my feet, gilding the early asters and the late lilies. As I neared the rock-hewn steps at the trail's end, the breeze carried over the sound of a young voice.

"...and Beledir is so clever, and brave too; when he takes us sailing, he always tries to make the boat go as fast as it can, and he can make it go so fast! But Calion has been my best friend for-for always; I can tell him everything, and he never laughs at me..."

I could naught but smile. The innocent child was prattling on about boys. Passing under an arch of shining leaves, I came out onto the open beach. Eärlinde and Elwing were sitting together, on a great smooth boulder, the girl keeping up a quick stream of soft chatter, and Elwing seemingly listening attentively. But little Annairo appeared to have lost interest in the conversation, and was a short distance away, with his feet in the foam, playing with a flock of white seagulls.

The young women rose at my approach. Eärlinde grinned, and there was something close to a smile on Elwing's gentle face. She looked almost well this evening, and in the light of the setting sun, there was even a touch of colour in her cheeks.

"Yes, I also had a best friend, when I was a girl - even younger than you," she was replying to some question that the other had asked. "And we, too, used to sit on the beach and watch the waves, together. And he would be there for me, whenever I felt sad or afraid; his mere presence would always make me better..."

"What happened after?" asked Eärlinde.

"I wedded him, after we grew up," answered Elwing. "But he had to go away, to plead for pity from the Exalted Ones. For he believes that the hearts of the Valar are ever merciful, and though great are the sins of Middle-earth's people, so are their sorrows."

"When will he return?"

Elwing was silent for a while. Turning her face away from the sea, she gazed into the sunset. "I know not," she said at last. "I want so much to hope that he will return, for it is the last hope left to me, but I know it not."

"What is he like?" asked a new voice. Annairo had come close again quietly, without our notice.

"He is very brave, very kind, and very good. And he is a child both of the Hildor and of the Firstborn: for his father was Tuor of Dor-lomín, and his mother Idril, King Turgon's daughter."

"What is the Hildor?" asked Annairo.

"King Turgon?" asked his sister. "But I know that name! My grandmother-"

She stopped dead in mid-sentence and blinked, biting her lips.

Yes, I knew that name, too.

"Your grandmother is of the Noldor?" I tried to make my voice as gentle as I could.

Eärlinde wavered for a moment, then nodded. "I only overheard it once, my lord, that all her family went away with the Lord Turgon. And she...she was just wedded to my grandfather at the time. I think she misses them awfully, though she does not speak of it."

"Tell us his story, Elwing," piped Annairo suddenly. His eyes never left her face.

Eärlinde made a little sound, glaring at her brother. But Elwing looked up at me, and the light of her eyes was sorrowful and fair, and there was something else in them, something more.

"Will you tell us the story?" I asked her.

So she told us the story, as we walked together there on the beach, with the surf lapping at our feet, and the white sea-birds fluttering about us in the sunset. Her voice was low, and she often struggled with the words, often faltered and fell silent. But every time, when I was about to tell her that she did not have to go on, she would pull herself back to the present, and continue to speak, though the effort it cost her was clear. At times Annairo would interrupt her with a question, and Eärlinde would hush him. Yet as her tale went on, an uncanny feeling came over me that she was telling it not to the children, but only to me.

It was a story of desperate hardihood and fiery pride, and of bitter suffering lit up with flashes of joy. It was a story of many deaths and innumerable tears, and it was a love story.

"...and so they pressed on, braving the frozen wastes of the uttermost North. The endless snow cut their feet like blades, and the cruel wind lashed them, and in every direction, for as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but mountains of ice, clashing and grinding. Many fell, and did not rise again; the fair Elenwë was one of them. But they still pressed on..."

She told us the story of a kingly hall by the strands of the Sundering Sea, and of a voice deeper than the ocean's deeps, that spoke of Fate, and Fate's defeat. She told us of a lost road through dark places, and of a green plain surrounded by mountains of snow, covered with white simbelmynë flowers that changed not with the seasons. She told of banners of silver and blue, and of a high crown of diamond, and seven gates, and a song of stone.

"... and Maeglin watched Idril, desiring her light, yet without hope. And as the years passed, his love for her turned into a festering curse, to a darkness in his heart..."

She told of a battle, of blood like rivers and tears like rain, and of one last hope. She told of a betrayal, by one who was the lord's own kin, one who was honoured, trusted, and deeply loved. And on an eve of festival the Darkness fell.

"...and in the square of the King, Ecthelion stood facing the Demon. Above him, the bright towers of the city burned, and all around him the fair fountains of the court were withering in the dragon-flames, turning to a heavy fog. The Balrog was lit up with a fierce red light, huge and monstrous, and he wielded a thong of fire. But Ecthelion stood firm; amid the dense steam and the fumes of the burning, his shield glittered like a field of stars. And he lifted his sword, and its light shone out, piercing the black shadow..."

She spoke on, and more than once her voice caught in her throat, more than once it sank with fear and sorrow. And each time she would struggle out of the past, shuddering, yet with her face lifted to me, and go on with the tale, as if it was her own. And there was love, too, in her voice, and she spoke of this Noldorin people as if they were her own.

And they were. By adoption and by the ways of her heart. And as this realization dawned upon me, something strange happened. I started to remember the Noldor. I tried hard to fight against the memories, to force them back, but a door was opened by her words that I had long held shut, and I could not help but remember.

"...and on the narrows of the pass, high up among the cold mountain peaks, the watchers of the Enemy fell upon them, and their plight was desperate. But Glorfindel the valiant stepped forth and fought the Demon upon the rocky pinnacle, and he sacrificed himself..."

"...and by long weary marches they came at last to the Vale of Sirion, and met the sea. There they rested, and healed their wounds, though their sorrows remained. And there, upon the banks of the River and the sands of the Sea, they dwelt at peace. For a little while."

A part of me knew that the memories were real, though I wanted to believe that they were only illusions and ancient dreams. But they had to be real. They could not hurt so much if they were not real.

I remembered the sound of laughter by jewel-sparkling pools, and the sound of many voices singing. I remembered the radiance of the Trees flowing out through a green gap in the mountains, and fair streets and stairs of crystal, shimmering with pearls. I remembered starlight at a long road's end, and my heart was filled with a deep yearning, for our friends and kin had gone from us, across the sea...I remembered Finwë.

I remembered two tall dark-headed youths, Fingon and Turgon, Fingolfin's sons. They were standing atop Alqualondë's walls. The light of Laurelin was bright in their faces, and the breeze from the hills lifted their hair. Turgon called out to his brother in a clear voice, pointing with an outstretched arm, and they grinned with enthusiasm. They were going to build a shining white tower, by the city's north gate, and-so they said-a garden high in mid-air.

I did not wish to remember these things, but the images came against my will, mixing with Elwing's words, burning me inside. There had been such love, once upon a time-yet the memories of it were more terrible to me than the memories of blood and flames, and more bitter than even that long dark night.

* * * *

Eärlinde lingered beside the garden gate. By the newly-lit lamps, I saw that her dark blue eyes were full of tears.

"What shall I say to my grandmother, lord?" she asked me in a small voice.

Once again, I had no answers to give her.

"Speak of it to your mother and father. Tell them the story, as Elwing told us, and perhaps they will know how to tell her."

She sighed, and nodded slightly. "Come along, Annairo,"

"Return with your brother to see Elwing soon, Eärlinde," I added. "And bring some of your friends, too, if you wish. I think she would like that."

The girl looked up at me questioningly, then nodded again, and slipped away.

Back in the garden, I found Elwing sitting alone beneath the spreading boughs of a great oak tree, staring out into the night. The light had faded from her face, and she seemed lost and despondent, slipping back down once more under the weight of her grief.

"The hearts of the Valar are ever merciful," I told her. "Try to be well, for his sake, for he will come back to find you."

"Do you believe it?" Her voice sounded hollow and distant now.

"I do," replied I. "Absolutely."

And I did believe it. Absolutely.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: All of Arda belong to Professor J. R. R. Tolkien.

This chapter is for Finch.

Chapter 4

A silvery drizzle filled the sky, bringing an autumnal chill to the city. On the branches, in the air and on the ground, the wet leaves glistened, red and gold. Passing under a white stone arch, I stepped out into the courtyard, where Eärwen and her companions were dismounting. My daughter greeted me with a smile, throwing back the hood of her traveling cloak. Her hair, so bright like her mother's, shimmered in the rain. We embraced.

"How is my son-in-law?" I asked.

"He is well, dear father."

"He should come with you next time, you know."

Eärwen glanced up at me, and lowered her eyes again. "Yes, father," she replied.

A familiar twinge stirred my heart. For far too many years now, we have had this exchange, always in nearly exactly the same words, every time she came to Alqualondë. Pausing for a moment, I turned and took a good look at her.

"Have you taken good care of yourself, little girl?"

Reaching for my hand, Eärwen squeezed it without a word, then pulled close and embraced me once more. We went into the building together in silence. When she finally spoke again, I detected a trace of nervousness in her voice.

"Father? I have heard...that someone has come to Alqualondë? From across the sea?"

"That is true, my dear,"

Eärwen nodded pensively. "They have summoned Finarfin to Valmar," she added, trying to sound as if it was nothing important at all.

"This is news indeed. You have certainly given me food for thought, daughter."

However, there was no time to consider the news, for another worry soon preoccupied me. Immediately after her arrival, I noticed something different in my daughter's demeanour, some feeling of anticipation, signs of suppressed tension. And I noticed her watching Elwing. She did this quietly and cautiously, with a look almost of fear in her eyes, but there was also a light in her face, which I had not seen for many years. Elwing must have sensed it, too, for from time to time she would glance in Eärwen's direction, and she seemed afraid. Yet my daughter never met her gaze, but would always turn away quickly, and start to talk of other inconsequential things. Nevertheless, the cause of her increasing agitation was only all too painfully obvious to me, and to her mother. She was watching Elwing as if the other woman held the answers to all the questions in the entire world.

"I will ask her," said Eärwen that night when we were alone. "For so many years, I thought that I had no more hope, but now, now that she has come, everything has changed somehow. And somehow just by looking at Elwing, I feel hope again; I feel it-alive in me again. After all, my children, my sons and young Nerwen-they are so good; they have to be alive. They have to be well..."

My poor girl was looking at us with unnaturally bright eyes, trying hard to convince herself of the truth of her own words.

"Do you believe this, my child?" Sílaniel asked at last, gently and carefully.

"Oh, I know what you will say, mother, I know what they say about the chances, about the Enemy, and about...about the Curse. It is true that I have had the dreams-nightmares, and I would see them, and I would see-terrible things. And sometimes such a blackness came over me, that I thought I could not go on living..." She had to stop for a moment, then collected herself. "But those are only dreams in the end, and visions, is that not so? Oh mother, father, I simply cannot give up hope. Please, please do not tell me to brace myself, because I do believe..."

A note of desperation crept into her voice, and my heart sank further. I knew the things that my daughter had seen in her nightmares, for I had seen them also: visions of fire and swords, and of dark places. Monstrous creatures. Knowledge of death.

And my girl had always been so strong, so brave, in the time of Darkness and in all the long years after. But now...Perhaps this hope, even now and in defiance of everything, was but a sign of her heart's strength. A strength that I could no longer find in myself. How many times had I told myself that my grandchildren were alive? How many more were the times I told myself that they were dead? And each time I heard that dark voice within me, each time my heart struggled to keep faith, another small piece of my hope had crumbled away, night by sleepless night, year by wordless year. Unlike my daughter, I no longer had the courage or the foolishness to believe.

And so the next day, Eärwen came into the little library where Elwing and Sílaniel were sitting. Giving us a weak smile, she crossed the room to Elwing. The young woman started at my daughter's approach, rising quickly to her feet. Her eyes widened, and she looked as if she would have run away, if there was any place for her to go.

"Elwing, I wanted to ask - do not be frightened, I mean you no harm, please," Eärwen paused, took a deep breath, then continued softly. "I have five children, you see. Four sons and a daughter. Their names are Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod," her voice lingered tenderly over each name, "and Aegnor, and Nerwen-or perhaps you know her as Artanis? They are my children, but they went away, to Middle-earth, and I have not had news of them since...Tell me please, if you know anything of them. Are they well? Are they happy?"

The two women faced each other. I realized that Sílaniel was standing next to me, her hand on my arm, and I could hear her heart pounding. Across the room, Eärwen's gaze bore intently into the other's face, searching for a hopeful sign, but Elwing seemed transfixed, as if she did not wish to meet my daughter's eyes, yet could not look away either.

"Lady Eärwen," she began, then said no more.

"If you know anything of them, tell me - please, you see, for so many years I have not known if my children are alive, my own children, I have not known for so long..."

Elwing went pale.

"If you know anything, anything at all..."

My daughter's voice caught in her throat. Elwing gave a little gasp.

"Lady Eärwen," she said quickly, sounding fearful, "I did know the Lady Artanis. She is living. I have seen her, and I knew her, the Lady Galadriel - for that was the name given to her by Lord Celeborn, her husband."

Suddenly, I found myself breathing again. My granddaughter was alive. She was alive. Eärwen closed her eyes, her shoulders trembling with relief.

"She is wedded then...She is wedded, and I never knew...Galadriel, maiden crowned with a radiant garland..." she whispered. "And my sons? What of them? Finrod? Orodreth, and Angrod? And Aegnor?"

Elwing did not reply. She just stood there in front of my daughter, staring at her, unable to speak a word. Pity slowly filled her eyes. Time stopped, and the room was utterly and relentlessly silent. A remote part of my mind registered the pressure of Sílaniel's hand on my arm, clutching hard. I felt panic, Eärwen's increasing panic, and a terrible agony that was starting to rise in great waves, from somewhere deep inside her, threatening to overwhelm everything, merging with my own. Knowledge of death. Dreadful monsters wreathed in flames. A field littered with corpses. A place without light.

Eärwen swayed slightly on her feet. But then she straightened again, and rallied impossibly for one last time.

"Please, if you know them...They are my sons..."

I took a step forward to go to my child, to make all this stop and take her away, I knew not where but just far away, but Sílaniel's fingers were dug desperately into the flesh of my arm, keeping me back. My daughter's sons. My grandsons-

"Tell me, I beg you! Take pity on a mother's heart!"

She looked like she was about to sink to her knees. Frightened, Elwing reached out as if to steady her, but still said nothing. Silence. My grandsons, my golden-haired grandsons, so strong and merry, so full of joy. Silence. Finrod. Orodreth. Angrod. Aegnor. Silence. It went on, and on; it was going to last forever. Nothing was left but the hopeless weight of the silence, taking my heart with it down, down, down...

With a low, choked cry, my daughter turned abruptly, and stumbled out of the room.

* * * *

I caught Sílaniel by the shoulders. With a visible effort, she pulled herself together, forcing back the tears. Something in me I noticed that Elwing, too, was gone.

"Eärwen. Oh Eärwen..."

We ran from the room and through the halls. Outside, the cool air struck me in the face: only an instant had passed. We found Eärwen a little distance ahead, in the courtyard; to my surprise, Elwing had reached her first. She held Eärwen in a tight embrace, and my girl, my brave, stubborn girl, who had refused to give up for so long, clung to hope so fiercely for so long, was weeping brokenly in her frail arms.

"I should never have let them go...I should never have abandoned them...I abandoned them..."

My daughter was shaking uncontrollably, racked with convulsive sobs. It was as if the whole world was gone from her, everything was gone, and I knew she was once more in that Night of horrors, back in that one awful moment, many years ago, when her children had stood before her, and she had not seen them. Elwing's arms were around her, supporting her weight, comforting her. Yet the younger woman's face, too, was covered in tears.

For the first time since she came to us, I saw Elwing weep.

Rapidly Sílaniel went across the courtyard to them, and I followed. Very gently, we parted Elwing and our daughter, took their arms, and slowly led them-both of them-back to the house.

* * * *

 In my memory, I saw Laurelin's golden light, and young leaves fluttering and flashing like a canopy of emerald in the sea-breeze. The air was filled with the fragrance of flowers. Swallows and larks called out to each other, chirping and trilling, cutting swift arcs across the azure sky.

I saw my daughter and her husband sitting in the garden down below, in the distance, beneath a great lairelossë tree; the branches above their heads drooped low with silver blossoms. Eärwen whispered something in Finarfin's ear, and he turned to her, fingers lightly touching her hair. Their lips met in a kiss.

I saw a young Elf sitting cross-legged on the white stones of the terrace, gazing out towards the blue horizon. He looked up at me and smiled, his grey eyes full of dreams.

"Do you remember all those stories you used to tell me, grandfather? Stories of Middle-earth?" he asked me. "The sea always makes me think of them, of Cuiviénen's waters rippling and shining under the stars, and of all those distant lands, all those forests and hills and great wide rivers, which I shall never see..."

"Finrod!" A small child came running up, yellow hair streaming out behind him. "Come along! You promised to go down to the shore with me!"

Laughing, my older grandson leapt to his feet.

"I am coming, Orodreth!"

He gave me a last bright grin, then turned away. Together, the two boys ran off, and disappeared down the path that led to the sea.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: Professor J. R. R. Tolkien made the seas and the lands of Arda.

Note: At this point I really cannot avoid it any longer...My apologies for ignoring Elmo. I have paraphrased freely from The Silmarillion for this chapter.

Chapter 5

I stood atop a hill, in Middle-earth, beneath a heavy clouded sky. The wind blew cold from the north; a storm was coming. In every direction, I could see nothing but hills, dim with forests of cedar and pine. I shouted my brother's name, again and again, but the only voices answering me were the echoes ringing out of the darkness, mocking my sorrow.

Where are you, my brother? In my mind I could still hear your voice. You told me that you would go on ahead, to seek out our kinsmen; you said that you would return soon. If I only had known. If I only had thought for but a moment, for Finwë was far away, and the woods were dense and trackless, and there were many prowling creatures, monsters red of tusk and wicked of claw...

Where are you? The echoes returned.

Oh Elwë, we came such a long way from home. Why did you abandon our journey, the hope you instilled in us? Why did you abandon your promise of light?

"Leaving his people behind, my great-grandfather came alone into the wood of Nan Elmoth. There, beneath the pale stars blossoming in the firmament, amid the woven shadows of the great trees, he suddenly heard the sound of nightingales singing. And beyond the music of the nightingales, from the far distance, came faintly the song of another voice. And his heart was filled with enchantment and desire."

"Following the song, my great-grandfather passed deeper and deeper into the forest. Ahead, the birds fluttered, calling, calling, and around him the trees became ever taller and darker. And as he went on, the music grew in sweetness and power, until at last he came into a small clearing open to the sky. In the midst of the glade stood a fair maiden, and in her face was a light, not of Middle-earth."

A light moved over the waters, a star streaked across the sky. The clouds broke, the dark Mere rippled into liquid silver. All the stars drooped and trembled, white fire in a deep blue field. In the distance, a hidden shore-bird called, shrill and clear. An answering cry from the rushes, and a fluttering of wings.

A thousand streams flowed into the Mere; they came singing from the heights, falling over stone, leaping down the slopes. A thousand waters flowed into Cuiviénen, but only one flowed out. A single wide river bent south, then westwards, away, disappearing past the hills. To what places? What end? Where would it lead?

"I do not know where the river leads, little brother; it goes away and does not return," replied my brother. The glow of the campfire flickered across his face, reflecting in his eyes. "Maybe there are lands like these beyond the woods, on the other side of the mountains, where the river goes. Maybe beyond them are more strange and wonderful places, though I cannot imagine them. But we must not stray far."

Behind us, the forest rose like a black wall. Its shadows reached nearly all the way to the Mere's bright edge. Far away, some wild fearful creature howled, a long lonely wail. I sat up. My bow and quiver lay next to me. Holding still, I listened, but all was silent again, except for the soft crackle of the fire burning low.

"Do not fear, little brother," said Elwë gently. "Go to sleep now. I will keep watch."

"The people gathered about him in amazement and joy. For a new grace and power was about him like a mantle, and the starlight was in his face. With Melian his Queen he dwelt in bliss, in Beleriand, and the wisdom and gladness of his people grew, the rivers and fountains flowed, and the white niphredil sprang from the earth. Yet the greater part of Middle-earth still slept in the twilight."

"But in Arda times of peace and joy lasted not forever. The shadows lengthened, and evil things crept back into the forests of Middle-earth. Out of the West the Enemy returned, and in pursuit Fëanor and his sons came in the white ships, crossing the sea. Battle was joined."

"Thus the King learned of all that had passed, of the withering of the Trees, and of the coming of woe. Great was his grief and anger at the tidings, for the blessed land of Aman was stained with the blood of his kin."

"An unstained land, that I have seen with my own eyes, a land without fear and sorrow, a land without the hideous monsters that stalk the shadows and prey upon your children, a land without wolves, without demons..."

My brother stood on top of a large boulder, in a field just outside of the little village, making a speech to the crowd. He spoke of exalted and beautiful beings, the Lords of the World, whose lands lay to the uttermost west, beyond the great water. He said that they loved us, that they made war upon the darkness for us. And they would deliver us from the grief of the earth and the deceits of the dusk. He spoke of their summons, and of the wonders and happiness to come, if we but followed. And he spoke of light. Always, again and again, his words returned to the light of two great trees, brighter than starlight and the light of the waters, pouring out over the mountains, turning all the land green and fair. He spoke of hope, and his voice rose with passion; his eyes flashed upon their faces.

It was a speech already familiar to me. Before coming here, he had spoken like this in another village, and another one before that. Turning from him, I scanned the faces in the crowd. Some seemed hopeful, ready to be swayed; most looked doubtful. I caught sight of a boy standing on tiptoes, craning his neck to gaze upon my brother, his dark eyes rapt. But the Elf beside him was shaking his head.

Elwë had changed so much. There was now a new air about him, and a new fire in his eyes. "For you will hear the voices of the exalted ones, like a deep music, older than us, older than the world. Then you will never forget..." The words washed over me, and I started, for strange images were rising before my eyes, almost like memories, yet not so. An agonizing longing. Something incomparably bright in the blackness, and the roar of grey waves, like the waves of the Mere but much, much higher...And as he stood there speaking passionately, only a few yards away, all of a sudden it seemed that my brother was already infinitely distant, lost and gone from me. In the midst of the glory of the light evoked by his words, my heart trembled with a fear that I could not explain.

"The hopeless War of the Jewels continued, and the lands of Beleriand were defiled and became full of horrors, though in the Fenced Kingdom there was still mirth, and songs of peace. But even the girdle of enchantment did not keep out Fate."

"So this ragged wanderer - this Man - dared to come before his throne and ask for the hand of his beloved daughter, who was as beautiful like the dawn in spring. In his pride and wrath the King would hold back doom, and he sent Beren upon a quest for which he would surely die."

"This is impossible,"

My brother stopped abruptly, entire body going tense in an instant.

"It was not impossible for the hosts of Ingwë and Finwë," he replied without turning, still staring up at the heights. "We are not a lesser people."

"We are a more numerous people." To one side of us, I could glimpse the many red fires of the camps like twinkling eyes, dotting the length of the valley below. To the other side the mountain-range rose, layer after layer of stone and snow, peak upon blindingly white peak, into the clouds, blotting out the sky. It stretched away north and south with no break in sight. I took a deep breath. "My brother, it was perhaps hasty of me to call it impossible. But there are more of us, more women and children. Look at it. We cannot cross here, not as we are. Would it not be better to turn and go along the range, at least for a while? To seek a gap, a place that can be passed?"

Suddenly Elwë spun around to face me, eyes smouldering. "We have come this far, and I will not be stopped by the fear of a large pile of earth and rocks-"

"How will you get them over this 'pile', then? Do you propose to throw them wildly at these peaks? Take thought for but a moment, brother. Our people have already come through such a long march, so many dangers. They are weary. There are already some who speak of turning south-"

"I will throw them at these peaks if needs be! Fools. They have no idea  -they would rather have stayed in the cradle forever. They see nothing of what the journey means, of the future before us!"

"You are right, they have no idea." I could no longer restrain the hotness of my heart, and all the frustrations rose to my head. "They know nothing of the perils and pains on the way, and nothing of what lies at the end, because they are only following you. They left behind so many of their loved ones, and the only home they have ever known, and went into the vast wild world with you, because they believed you! But you have changed, Elwë. Where are you leading them? What is the meaning of the journey, if you know it so well? Is it for the sake of our people? Or merely to satisfy your own pride?"

My brother glared at me, then returned his gaze to the mist and clouds of the summits high above. His shoulders slumped. A long moment passed.

"It is for the good of our people that I lead them into this wilderness," he replied at last, slowly. "But I will still cross these mountains even if I must go all alone, if none will follow me."

"I will follow you." He did not respond, and I walked to his side. My anger had evaporated. "You are my brother and my lord and I will not abandon you. But think of our people. Please."

Elwë sighed. "I suppose you are right after all, little brother," he said after a while. To my surprise, a small smile appeared on his face. "Come, let us return to the camp, and-take thought, as you say..."

"My great-grandfather knelt by Beren, who was mortally wounded, and gave no heed to the hound and the maddened wolf, fighting to the death. A change came over him at that grievous moment, for he perceived that Beren was mantled with doom itself, and the love of Lúthien could not be withstood by any power in Arda. And a different kind of love sprang up in his heart also."

The highest peaks were behind us now. Coming to the edge of a rocky precipice on the mountain's western shoulder, just below the snows, we surveyed the new world. Below us, the steep bare walls of stone were already softening to dusky pine-clad foothills. Beyond the hills lay a wide green country, gently rolling for as far as the eye could see. A swift river ran through it, winding westwards like a grey ribbon with flashes of silver.

"It is beautiful," I shouted.

My brother was silent for a while, seemingly lost in thought.

"Thank you," he said suddenly. "For aiding me in my mad quest," he added, in answer to my unspoken question.

I was about to protest, but he lifted a hand and went on speaking quietly, his eyes still fixed upon the horizon.

" I know how much you miss our home, little brother, the whispering forests and the rippling Mere, where we wandered together in such joy, when we were young. I know your misgivings, though you never speak of them, for our people is ever foremost in your mind; you fear for them, worry about what lies ahead of them...All you had were my words - my strange talk of far-away lands and the music of great horns calling, and Trees, and light...How could anyone truly believe such things? At times I could barely believe them myself; at times I almost think perhaps the things that some say are true: that I am a mad fool, that I have uprooted our people from their homes, dragged them through mountains and wilderness and pathless forests, all for some wild dream of mine, for a voice that only I could hear..."

He gave a little laugh, as if coming out of a reverie. "But you came with me. Through such a hard and perilous journey, you have always been alongside of me, helping me. You came with me, little brother - out of love. But there will come a time when you will also hear the voice that never leaves me now, the voice of the Lord of the Deeps, and you will know then, and understand. And all our people, they will also hear it, each one of them, and they will understand, too."

Something was brimming over inside me, and I looked into his warm shining eyes.

"I do not think that I need to understand, Elwë. For I have your words, and I have you -all that I need."

My brother put his hand on my shoulder.

"But you will. You will see for yourself the radiance and the splendour of the Two Trees, silver and gold - believe me that then you will know true joy. We will see them, together. I promise you this."

"Their hearts filled with greed and rage, the Dwarves laid hands on him and slew him, deep in Menegroth. And as he died, my great-grandfather beheld with his final sight the Silmaril, the last bright thing in the deep cave, the last reflection of the radiance and glory of Telperion and Laurelin, which he alone among the forsaken Elves of Middle-earth had seen, many ages ago, when the world was young."

"So came darkness and ruin to Doriath, for Melian departed from Middle-earth, never to return. The Guarded Land lay open to its enemies; death and sorrow befell its people. The woods fell silent and cold, and where laughter and music had been, only an echo remained, an echo of all the songs of bliss and beauty, a memory of all that were lost, a memory of the King."

* * * *

I stood atop a hill, in Middle-earth, beneath a sky ablaze with stars. Behind me loomed the mountains, endless and majestic, glinting with snow; before me the road stretched away, disappearing into the forest darkness. The wind came, making the trees murmur, and it brought a new sound, the echo of a distant roar beyond the hills, an unknown voice calling. And there was a new scent in the air, a faint smell of salt, and of vast open spaces.

"That is the sea."

I found my brother; he was standing right next to me.

"What is the sea?" I asked.

"The sea is greater than the eye could encompass, and more beautiful than the heart could imagine. The sea's voice heals all wounds; its song lets loose the soul. Yet I will not see it again, not for many ages to come. And beyond the sea is a land blessed and fair, filled with light, yet I will not see it again, not for many ages to come. So it is up to you now, little brother. Go to the sea. Cross it, for you must lead our people to the light."

Turning where my brother pointed, I saw that on the horizon the hills fell away, and there was a shimmer of silver and blue, bright with the reflections of countless stars. Amid the murmur of the trees, the voice called, then another voice welled up in response within me, and my heart was torn apart.

"Come with me."

He shook his head sadly.

"No, I will not come. For my doom is different from yours, and we must part now."

"But you were the one who always urged us on!" I cried, my voice catching. "You were the one who always held us to the road..."

"The road had more branches and turns than I could foresee," my brother replied gently. "I am sorry, dear brother."

"Don't leave," I whispered.

"I cannot take care of you anymore, dear little brother, but the sea will." There was a teardrop on his cheek, but his eyes were smiling at me, full of love. "Go now. Be free."

And he was gone.

"I never knew my great-grandfather," said Elwing softly. "But they used to tell me stories of him, of Melian his Queen, and of Lúthien the Fair, their child, my grandmother. I think of them often, and I love them."

I looked up, and saw in her eyes a light like that of stars glimmering over the waters of Cuiviénen. I saw the light of Elwë's eyes. And in that moment, all the barriers within me, all the walls and floodgates were shattered at long last. Grief overwhelmed me, and the tears came.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: Professor J. R. R. Tolkien made Arda.

I want to thank Nemis for beta-reading (as always), and all the wonderful people who gave me feedback. And my apologies also: there were too many things for which I could not find the words.

Chapter 6

"When I was a child, the waves called to me, but I could understand nothing of their words, only my father's name, and my mother's name, and the names of my brothers. Those names the waves spoke, and repeated, and kept on repeating, again and again, until I wept, and held my hands to my ears."

"But when the time came at last, instead of drowning me, the sea shattered and quenched me, and sent me away into the air. And now it seems that the waves speak to me with new voices. Yet even as the fear ebbs, the ache grows, and my children cry out to me ceaselessly."

She sat beside the window, as she often did these days, watching. Sails came and went in the harbor below, and white sea-birds wove amid the sails, flitting low, skimming the water. And always the wild-plumed breakers roared and sang, galloping forward on a rolling field of cobalt and grey, one after another dashing themselves to pieces on the beach. But I did not know if her eyes saw any of these things.

I went to Elwing's side by the window, as I recalled her words. With a slight start, she turned away from the horizon, out of a dark world of memories, and met my eyes. She was still so very young.

"I see them now, in the middle of all the panic and death, the swords clashing, the screams, the Kinslayers shouting. All that smoke, and the smell of blood, and my boys in the middle of it all...They were too young to know what was happening, and they begged me, don't leave please oh mother don't leave, but I-"

She must have seen something in my eyes. "I am sorry, my lord," she whispered.

I took her hands in mine, as if she was my own poor lost child.

"I do not know how to comfort you, Elwing, except to say that I understand - something of it." I wanted to say something more to her, to tell her that her sons would be well, that all would be well and the pain would diminish with time. But that would not have been the truth.

"But for your comfort and kindness, lord," she replied, gazing into my face, "and that of the queen, I would have already died many times."

"My gentle child," said I, "you did not die. A Lord far greater than I rescued you; the wind's unseen hands guided you to us. And I am thankful beyond words, for you have become very dear to me."

Elwing pressed my hand, then quickly looked away again, but not before I caught a flash of tears in her eyes.

"Forgive me, for I know not how to speak my emotions. I lost my own father when I was a girl...I have brought you only anxiety and heartbreak, my lord. Would that I have anything other than these to offer, to lay at your feet!"

"No, not only anxiety and heartbreak." I stopped for a moment, trying to choose the right word. "You have brought us joy."

She shook her head incredulously.

"How can that be, when I have none to give? After I left my innocent babies to die, and fled here in defiance of the Valar's prohibition? After all that I have seen and known, all that I have done?"

"Yet you still watch the sea," I reminded her, gently. "And you still watch the western hills."

Elwing did not reply for a while, and we fell silent. Outside, the wind cried, lifting the waves, shaking the leaves of the evergreens in the garden. In the distant sky, a solitary eagle wheeled among the lowering clouds, very slowly, its wings hardly moving. The year was getting late.

But then, suddenly, subtly, something felt different. Perhaps it was the momentary glint of the sunlight streaming through the grey clouds, perhaps the shifting wind, or the voice of the sea, or perhaps it was the entire world itself that changed, impalpably, unexpectedly. Something seemed to stir and lighten within her, and she took in a deep breath, almost with a gasp, and lifted her face to me once more.

"You have spoken to me of hope before, lord." Her eyes were brimming now with surprise, bewilderment, wonder. "But now I believe you. I believe you. For there came to me a mysterious feeling, just at this moment, like a movement of the air, or a voice out of the silence that I cannot understand. Something quickens my heart, saying - saying that my Eärendil is coming back to me. It cannot be...But it must be,"

Her voice trembled a little, and she halted, seeking confirmation. I nodded, slowly. I believed her. Of course. She would not have everything taken from her after all.

"Listen-do you hear it?" A smile was starting to rise to my face. "I think Annairo and the others are coming to see you."

Outside the room, on the stairs, the laughter of a small child rang out, crystal-clear, glorious and free.

* * * *

"Father?"

Eärwen's soft voice roused me from my thoughts.

"News have come, father. I received a letter from Finarfin." My daughter paused briefly, and I saw that she held a sheaf of closely written pages in her hand. "The Great Ones have heard the prayer of Eärendil the Mariner and granted it," she went on, her voice outwardly calm. "They will go to war against the Dark Enemy, to deliver Middle-earth from his shadow. Battle is preparing."

I should have been surprised and perhaps troubled; instead somehow all I felt was weariness.

"The hearts of the Valar are merciful indeed," I murmured.

"Their messengers will come here soon, I believe. My husband will march with the host." Eärwen hesitated again, though only for a nearly imperceptible instant. It occurred to me that she was trying to read my reaction. "He has been waiting many years for this."

She was pale and lovely and weighed down with sorrows, nevertheless there was something different about her: in her expression I saw both anxiety and a quiet determination. Her eyes, although still a little red-rimmed, were clear and dry. My child had wept so much in recent days. No tears were left now.

And suddenly there flashed before my eyes a memory from another time of mourning, an image of her with her head bowed, alone and silent, lit with the fitful glow of candles and torches, for the other Lights had gone out. She had been sitting long beside her brother's bed and later his grave. Then as now, she had wept her eyes dry. And she had come to me, then as now.

Could it be that she had made herself forget, and thought of it no longer? How? How could it be that she no longer remembered the pallor of her brother's face, no longer remembered herself kneeling on the dock, sobbing, the entire front of her dress red with his blood? The storm in the darkness, and the black waves? The bodies and the broken wails? The little girl crouched by her mother and father who lay dead in the street, endlessly pleading for them to wake up? The helplessness of all the mothers and fathers?

"How many of our people, do you imagine, would be willing to bleed for the Noldor?" I asked. "And I will not command them to do so. I will not. I cannot."

I did not intend for it to come out like this. I did not intend to be harsh and angry at her. But Eärwen just nodded. Then as if acting on a quick impulse, she took a step forward and placed her hand lightly on my arm.

"No, of course not," she replied simply.

No. She did remember. Like each one of us, she remembered it all, the blood and the betrayal, and the agony, and the rage, remembered it every day, relived it every day. Yet somehow, her heart had turned differently than mine.

Eärwen stepped back a little, looking up at me. There was no reproach in her eyes, only-regret? Awkwardness? A trace of disappointment? But she soon regained her composure.

"I will return to Tirion, father. He needs me."

My turn to nod. She had said these same words to me, once upon another time.

"I'll just go talk to mother, then. And pack some of my things."

I nodded again. We stood there facing each other without a word, and after a moment Eärwen turned away. She began to walk to the door.

She was walking away from me. The lamps threw distorted shadows of her receding form against the walls. She was walking away down the corridor, her back rigidly and defiantly straight, resolutely not looking back, towards the night, the leaden gloom which the lamplight could not penetrate. Though I could not see her face, it came to me-it struck me with absolute certainty and clarity that my beloved girl was fighting, with all her strength, to hold back tears...

"Eärwen!"

She stopped, her hand on the door handle, and in two or three desperate strides I crossed a distance of five-hundred-odd years and was by her side.

"Eärwen, I know this comes years, many years too late, but I want to tell you that I am sorry. To have blamed Finarfin for the dreadful deeds of others, and then - and then to have blamed you for your courage and your great love for him. I was heart-sick with anger and grief. I love you, Eärwen, my dear, sweet child. And Finarfin also. I remember that, before all this, I used to tell him that I loved him as my own son...My love should have better withstood the darkness."

I could not find any more words. My daughter stood completely motionless, one hand still gripping the door, her eyes fixed on my face. Then she uttered a soft, wrenching cry.

"I never meant to add to your pain, father." The words, when they came, tumbled out of her at a rush. "I never meant to hurt you at the very worst of times...I knew you were suffering so much, as was mother, and all of us. As was I. As was I. Please, father, believe me, I never meant to abandon you. It was just that I had to-"

She bowed her head, and I took her into my arms. With a small shiver of relief she clung to me tightly, burying her face against my shoulder.

"Will you tell him that I miss him - that we miss him?" I asked, after releasing her at last. "My timing is terrible, I am afraid, but I speak sincerely."

She gave me a tiny smile, the first in days. But when she spoke again, her voice was thoughtful.

"He will come to Alqualondë, I think, but it will be with the host." She shook her head. "Oh father, I am so afraid that I will lose him, too...But I must not hold him back..."

* * * *

I stood beside the window, as I often did these days, watching. Eärwen had gone. Down in the garden, the cedars and cypresses rustled, calling out to each other, and sere leaves fluttered and danced like yellow butterflies over the still green grass. Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing. The faint snatches of melody were mingled with the cries of the gulls, wistful, but clear and pure. And a peal of bright young voices burst out right beneath the window, almost as if in response, though I could not see the children. The Darkness was only a tale to them, and Middle-earth only a dream.

Above, the clouds were dispersing, flying across the sky like wild swans. And upon the sea passed slender boats and proud tall-masted ships; the snowy wave-crests glistened and frolicked about their hulls. Some were coming to dock, returning from long journeys, and others were just setting out towards the deep waters, their newly-hoisted sails billowing with the wind and with hope.

Then the light or my own heart must have played a trick on my eyes, for I saw many more ships on the water, white-prowed with sails of silver, gliding out of the harbor in swift succession, steering forth over the ocean once again. But it was a memory no longer, for this time the rhythm of the waves was a deep and gentle music instead of a raging storm, and instead of red flames in the black night, it was sunlight that gleamed upon the foam.

And there rose within me an irresistible thought, an utterly irrational thought, though it felt as true as the sun and the waters, and the very air. I thought that Elwing's young sons, whom she had left behind in such sorrow, were not dead after all. I thought that they would grow up, grow wise, grow strong. And maybe one day, they would come to find her.

Maybe one day - though it was not a day that I could yet foresee - I would find all the pieces, and make things right once more. Maybe the pain would lift one day, and turn to light, though now its weight seemed far too heavy to bear. Maybe one day it would become possible to forgive, and be forgiven. Maybe one day, our lost loved ones would return to us, crossing time and death, crossing the wide, sundering sea.

Maybe one day.

The End