Something Stronger by Tehta

At this moment, the brightest of the day, golden light seemed to hang, motionless, in the air, as if resting after the long journey from the Trees to the Sea. Only a few diligent rays made an effort to attempt one last task, that of painting brilliant highlights on the waves.

The jewels scattered on the beach must have absorbed some of the omnipresent radiance, for they appeared to glow with their own inner light. Laurefindil sat up, collected a few stones, and let them tumble through his fingers: yellow, red, violet, blue-green as the calm water. The bright sounds they made as they struck each other came together into a pretty, if unstructured, tune that seemed perfect for dancing. Perhaps he would write it down. In a day or two. When he got bored.

And then, suddenly -- shadow. Someone must have entered the hidden cove, footfalls masked by the tinkly music of the jewels. Laurefindil gazed up at the backlit figure, taking care not to squint too much. It would be wrong to assume an unattractive expression when surrounded by so much beauty.

Fortunately, he did not need to look very hard: the silhouette was unmistakable. Aikanáro’s hair never would lie flat, not even when freshly arranged for some formal occasion. After any exertion, frivolity, or encounter with water, it rose up just as it was doing now: like leaping flames, a ceremonial crown, or a thicket Yavanna herself would envy.

But why was Aikanáro here? He had been all but ignoring Laurefindil since-- Not that his presence was at all unwelcome.

“Hello!” Laurefindil smiled. “I thought you were fishing today.”

“I ran into Father.” Aikanáro flopped down beside him. “Last night, at the oyster festival. We had a little chat.”

“Oh?”

“He said I remind him of a grasshopper. Flighty and idle.”

Though indignant on his friend’s behalf, Laurefindil was wary of criticising his lordly father. He settled on, “But grasshoppers are anything but! In mating season, they dig--”

“No, he is right.” Few could frown as well as Aikanáro. His narrowed eyes were truly piercing, an impression reinforced by the spiky ends of his hair. “As a prince of the Noldor, I have real responsibilities. My actions should have purpose, and this seaside interlude has none. Perhaps that is why I am so… restless.”

It felt distinctly odd to hear someone who wore his hair unconventionally short just to demonstrate his individuality -- mostly to his parents -- speak in this conventional manner. But was it so odd, really? If a nonconformist haircut had failed to hold Arafinwë’s amused attention for more than one cycle of the Trees, perhaps conformity would succeed.

Still, such philosophical musings did not explain Aikanáro’s surprise visit. Not directly.

“That does sounds plausible,” said Laurefindil. “Only… I thought you did have a purpose today. Spear-fishing. With, you know, your new… friend. The sailor.”

“Yes. Well. Spear-fishing is hardly part of my serious responsibilities, is it?” Aikanáro picked up a flattish jewel and weighed it in his palm, his expression grim. “I did stop by his boat, to explain the situation. My birthright -- my destiny, if you will -- and the unpleasant duties it will soon involve. The lack of free time. I think he understood... well, he will understand, in a day or two.” He sighed, and threw the jewel sideways so it skipped over the water, a bright red blur. Then, he turned to Laurefindil with a sudden smile. “So, anyway. You have been to Valmar, have you not?”

“Yes, of course. As you know, my mother is Vanyarin, and I was actually born--”

“Care to visit it again? As my aide?”

“Me?”

The question, inane beyond reason, came out in an undignified squeak, but, to his great surprise, Laurefindil found he did not really mind. He had feared -- he could now admit -- that he would soon lose his princely friend for good: to new intimacies and pleasures, or even to his noble birthright. But to be shown such trust, and given such opportunity: a visit to the highest court, with its magnificent architecture and fascinating fashions… He felt so, so--

No. An aide should never be lost for words.

“I would be honoured,” Laurefindil said, with exaggerated dignity. “And I will make an excellent aide, as I am charming, patient, and clever, and, moreover, I can read every alphabet and dialect in existence.”

“Yes, I know. Although I also know how, and why, you learnt them.”

“Vulgar poetry is still poetry. Anyway, surely the means justify their ends?”

Aikanáro rolled his eyes, but Laurefindil could sense his suppressed laughter.

The darkness surrounding Laurefindil was not true darkness, not as it had been at that first shocking moment when all light had been drained from the world. Only the shadows recalled that original unlight -- the shadows thrown on the walls and in dark corners by the many torches now held in people’s hands, or hastily attached to buildings.

The mood of the milling crowd was different, as well: yes, many of their voices still conveyed confusion, but the accompanying terror had been replaced by excitement. Which made sense: for how could one help feeling thrilled when living through such an important moment? Actually experiencing it, rather than hearing about it?

Speaking of which... Laurefindil raised his own torch high, and glanced around seeking the distinctive figure of his patron -- his friend.

True, he himself had seen much tonight: his seat halfway up a statue symbolising Dignity had been rather cleverly chosen, yielding a clear view of the speeches, the arguments, and that blood-chilling Vow. But Aikanáro -- Aikanáro had been right there, at the thick of it! He would have witnessed everything, even the half-voiced asides; would be able to explain the subtleties.

“Here! Laurefindil!”

And there he was, striding through the crowd, his pose mirrorring Laurefindil’s -- though the light raised in his hand was not a smoky torch, but a Feanorian lamp.

“Aikanáro!” Laurefindil hurried towards him. “So, Middle-earth, after all! But how did your uncle know all these things, about the Valar, and the new Children? And the way your cousins spoke, in unison… Do you think that took much rehear--”

“Hold on a moment. I need your help.”

The unexpected, sincere plea made Laurefindil feel selfish, and ashamed of his importunate questions. “I am happy to offer it, of course. What can I do?”

“Find me some paper. And, you know, writing things,” replied Aikanáro. “I need to send a letter.”

“I brought my small sketch pad.” Laurefindil retrieved it from his sleeve. “A bit ridiculous of me, really, given the lack of light, but--”

“Thank you. Here, turn around, and-- But no, bring your torch up, just so...”

Under Aikanáro’s instructions, Laurefindil assumed a hunched-over posture that turned him into a makeshift writing desk, one with a handy light fixture. Soon, he could hear the scrape of a pen being hastily run over paper.

“Who are you writing to?” he could not help asking.

“Aurewen.” Aikanáro’s voice was abstracted.

“Ah.” Was it a love letter, then? The pen’s scratchings did seem to be getting more vigorous. “Are you... asking her to join you?”

“What?” The pen paused. “No, no, of course not. This will be a military campaign. Even Findaráto says that an army is no place for a noble Vanya, and he is actually betrothed to Amarië.”

“Is he asking Amarië to wait, then?”

“He hopes she can follow later. Once Morgoth has been, you know, crushed beneath our...” Aikanáro’s voice faded away. “Wait, is there an ‘a’ in ‘responsibilities’?”

“What? No.”

“Oh, too bad.” After a few more brief pen-strokes, and then a lengthy flourish that could only be an aristocrat’s signature, the pressure on Laurefindil’s back eased. He straightened up, stretching.

“All right, then.” Aikanáro rolled up the paper. “I suspect she will be at her grandfather’s house: his Eagle-watching tower is very defensible. But if I am wrong, surely someone there will be able to tell you--”

“Me?”

“Who else?” Aikanáro’s crooked smile was a quick flash in the dark. “You are the best -- no, the only -- person in Valinor suitable for this task. You will be able to convey my sincerest regrets, explain the demands placed upon me by my birthright, and to-- Oh, you know what to say.”

“I do. But--” Although the implicit trust felt very gratifying, the errant went against all of Laurefindil’s own desires. “Look, you are setting me among the Vanyar just when I am feeling more Noldorin than ever. I long to go to Middle-earth! With you!”

“And you shall.” This time the bright smile lingered, broad and confident. “A host this large cannot move very fast. You will catch up long before anything important happens.”

The landscape was changing, again.

Back in Valinor, Laurefindil had always pictured the Grinding Ice as flat and greyish, like a frozen mountain pond, but larger. Now, he knew that it was as varied as the whole wide world.

They had walked through dull, flat areas, yes; but also areas that looked dull and flat, but were full of secret holes; and areas where ice columns reached towards the sky like fantastic trees, or even towers. His favourite areas, though, were the ones covered in gentle snowy hills, which seemed to resemble either sugar or a warm down coverlet -- depending on whether one was currently hungrier, or colder. He found both metaphors cheering.

The most recent stage had taken them through drifts of sugar-like crystals that sparkled gaily in the light of their lamps, but those were petering out now, to reveal a harder surface with an odd blueish tinge.

“I do not trust that colour,” he told his companion. “I have never seen its like, out here. What does it mean?”

“Eh.” Aikanáro’s shrug was barely detectable beneath his layered furs. “The scouts will have tested the ground, and found the best path.”

But best did not mean safe, after all, and-- Laurefindil glanced over to their left, where the main column trudged on, with that trusting apathy he found so puzzling. To see Aikanáro equally passive disturbed him even more.

“Is your leg all right?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your leg -- is it bothering you? You have been so withdrawn all morning.”

“My leg is fine,” said Aikanáro. “Has been for months.”

Which meant that, while the mystery of Aikanáro’s mood remained unsolved, at least Laurefindil felt free to pick up the pace. The sooner they could reach their next shelter, the sooner they could cook something warm, and that never failed to help.

They were well into the flat blue landscape, walking carefully to avoid slippery patches, when Aikanáro spoke again.

“Little Itarillë came and talked to me, back at Turukáno’s camp,” he said. “While you were out filling the kettle.”

“Did she?” Laurefindil had been outside for quite a while, looking for good, dense snow. “What did you two discuss?”

“She…” Aikanáro coughed. “She came to ask me what had made me stop killing people.”

Laurefindil stared at him. Unfortunately, this involved taking his eyes off his feet, so he failed to notice a particularly slick piece of ice; his right leg shot forward, and he flailed his arms, unbalanced. Fortunately, Aikanáro caught his elbow, and hauled him upright.

Laurefindil kept his hand where it had settled, on Aikanáro’s bicep, and turned to face him. “Sorry… But, what?”

“She turned out to have a very rational explanation for her question.” Aikanáro’s eyes looked oddly dull -- but still bluer than the treacherous ground. “She wants the ice to stop killing people, too. She thought that whatever worked on me might also work here.”

Laurefindil sought for something to say, but in vain. He could only raise his other hand to touch his friend’s shoulder, in sympathy.

“I started to tell her,” Aikanáro eventually continued, “that I have never killed the way the Ice does, and therefore whoever said this was using ‘kill’ in a different sense, a bit like in the phrase ‘killing time.’ But then I felt dishonest, so I said that it was true I had been in a fight, and had hurt some people, but that those people are probably all better now, sitting in their warm houses, eating delicious food.”

“Well... they might be.”

“Possibly, but I regretted my reply at once. I feared she might ask about those killed by the Ice. About how they were so different from my victims, or whether they are all better now… And then, I would have had to explain that nobody gets better outside Valinor, from where we are now banned, and that I suspect our dead are doomed to a disembodied, powerless existence until the end of time. Which sounds so, so--”

“Tragic?”

“Worse: tedious! At any event, she did not ask, but the question might still occur to her. She is very bright for her age.”

“Yes, she is. Bright enough to know that the answer would be bad, surely?”

Aikanáro showed no sign of having heard the question. “I suspect that it would have been kinder to lie outright, from the start. But somehow I spoke before I could stop myself. I do think about it, all the deaths, you know, and then nobody ever brings up the topic. Not with me.”

His eyes were averted now, troubled. Laurefindil suppressed his first thought -- that people might be unwilling to discuss angry violence with a man who had a history of it, for fear of making him, well, violently angry -- and went with the second.

“Am I nobody, then? We two have certainly spoken of Alqualondë. You told me that horse metaphor… how did it go, again?”

“The horse meta--? Oh, right.” Aikanáro’s gaze moved even further, towards the horizon. “I think I told you that Olwë had been acting like a man who refuses to lend his brother a horse, even though the brother needs it to chase a villain who has kidnapped his children. And that few people would blame the brother for getting the horse-hoarder dead drunk so he could steal the animal.”

“Right. And I did say--”

“You were very sympathetic, as usual. But later, when I shared my parable with Findaráto, he said the metaphysical inaccuracies were too glaringly obvious to admit rational opposition.”

“Of course he did… I mean, that is how he always talks, about everything. Just last week, he called my comments about the weather epistemologically unsound.” Laurefindil tried to smile encouragingly, but it felt forced -- until he was struck by a brilliant idea. “But, wait! Why not ask him to talk to Itarillë? I suspect he would end up confusing her so deeply that she will never be able to phrase an uncomfortable question again.”

“Yes, I might well ask him, at that.” Aikanáro seemed to collect himself; his gaze met Laurefindil’s, at last. “Thank you. For the suggestion, and… everything. You are a good companion, far better than I deserve.”

“Nonsense.” Laurefindil might have blushed, had his cheeks not been half-frozen. “Anyway… I suppose we should get moving, before we lose all body heat--”

“True.” Aikanáro shuffled his feet and stepped a little closer. “Although--”

“But first, let me just say one last thing.” Laurefindil inhaled, but not too deeply, not in this freezing air. “I know some people treat you differently now, after the… Well, the kinslaying. But this has little to do with you. They are wondering about themselves -- about what they would have done, in your place -- and deciding that you are intrinsically flawed, while they are not, is one way they can convince themselves they would have held back. But, of course,” he spoke on, even as Aikanáro opened his own mouth to respond, “they cannot know what it was like. None of us can; we were not there, facing an impossible choice. We were the lucky ones. And, well, thank you for making my luck for me. If it had not been for your stupid letter, I--”

And then, just before he could finish his speech, Aikanáro laid a hand against his cheek. Laurefindil’s mind went blank; words deserted him. The gesture was intimate, far beyond friendship -- he had only seen it, envied it, with others -- but, actually, the gesture was nothing compared to the light in Aikanáro’s eyes. Where earlier they had been dull, their gaze turned inward, now they looked straight at Laurefindil, and saw him, and shone.

“Yes, my stupid letter,” said Aikanáro. “Stupid letter, stupid choices. Eru, but I have been blind, blinkered, looking everywhere but right beside me. You understand me so well, and I… I know now that it has been you, all along.”

Laurefindil felt too tongue-tied, still, to do much more than nod, as Aikanáro’s thumb slid along his cheekbone. But what was there to say? His own feelings were clear; must have been clear to anyone who cared to look, for quite some time.

They kissed then, in the icy cold, while the unseeing host shuffled past on the left. It was not much of a union of bodies: their lips were numb, and their limbs awkward in their many wrappings. But Laurefindil’s spirit, at least, rejoiced in every second.

Aikanáro broke away first.

“Come on,” he said. “Let us go. And warm up properly.”

When they reached the lakeside, Laurefindil had to smile. He had guessed right: the cherry trees were flowering again. Their luxuriant blossoms reflected clearly in the still water, producing the illusion of two streaks of pink cloud, one around the lake, and one, miraculously, in it. Exactly like the previous year!

So the trees truly were part of nature’s cycle, of that pattern people were beginning to trust, where darkness and cold might recur, but spring would always come again, just like the dawn.

“Look!” he told Aikanáro. “The trees are reborn!”

“So they are.”

“You know, I have heard people compare this new-found cycle, of nature’s retreat and rebirth, to the cycle of the Trees’ light. I suppose they find the association comforting, like most reminders of Valinor. As for me,” said Laurefindil, a bit slyly, “I find that the periods of deprivation make the returning pleasures all the sweeter.”

With that, he sent his lover a sidelong glance -- but to no avail. Aikanáro seemed entirely focused on staring out over the lake. Only after a while did he say, “Yes, Valinor was rather boring overall, I suppose.”

No question about it, he was in an odd, distracted mood. Had something happened on his scouting trip -- or was it a family matter? Laurefindil had his suspicions.

“I have also heard,” he began, “that spring has worked its miracles on more than just plantlife. There is a rumour that Maitimo Feanorion has recovered enough to leave his bed, and to, once again, walk around making people uncomfortable with his great height, his good looks, and his serious demeanor.”

Aikanáro made no response to this beyond running a hand through his hair, leaving it even spikier than before.

Laurefindil pressed on. “So, have you seen him? Or heard anything about him? From Findekáno, perhaps?”

“Findekáno does not speak to me as he used to,” said Aikanáro flatly. “Things have been awkward between us ever since his rescue mission -- he should have taken me with him, surely. I could have used the excitement.”

“Perhaps he felt he could not spare the time to fetch you? If it had been you in captivity,” Laurefindil ventured, “I would have rushed off just the same.”

At least that provoked a brief smile. Then, Aikanáro raised his eyes to the blossoming trees.

“By the way, did you ever try the actual cherries? We did say we should, last year, but then I -- I must have been out scouting.”

“Yes. You were, and I did.”

Aikanáro tilted his head “And?”

“And I do not plan to tell you anything about them. You will have to make a point of returning here yourself, at the right time.” The cherries had been strange -- far more sour than any fruit of Valinor -- but Laurefindil had liked them... though probably more for their associations with last spring’s idyll than for any virtue of their own. He sighed. Perhaps he was the one acting odd here, expecting pure romance when, in truth, they shared so much more.

“How was your latest scouting trip, by the way?” he asked. “Did you discover any new wonders? Trees that grow and die in a single night, the dwellings of Eru’s new Children, amusingly-shaped rocks?”

“None of the above. Well, Findaráto did get over-excited by some rock formations, but that was because of their evident mineral content, not their humour potential. You know how he is.” Aikanáro took a step towards the lake, then turned to face Laurefindil. “If you must know, I have lost my enthusiasm for exploring this land. It used to feel new, and fresh, and right, but now it seems so… predictable. Even these pretty trees are repeating themselves. Same shape, same colour, same everything.”

“Well, yes, they are, but why is such repetition bad? I mean, music revolves about repeated patterns, though with variations, of course, and music is--”

“Oh, never mind,” said Aikanáro. “My complaint is irrelevant. After all, we are not in this land merely to explore. No, we have a duty to overcome the Enemy… the scouting trips were just the preliminary reconnaissance phase.”

Glorfindel blinked, confused by the change of topic. “The preliminary reconnaissance phase? So what comes next?”

“Strategic planning.” Aikanáro stood up straighter, as if these military-sounding words had turned him into a soldier. “Actually, that is why I asked you to come here.”

“It is?”

“Yes, I must tell you... We have decided -- during Family council, I mean -- to split the strategically significant territories among us.”

“Oh, I know that. While you were away, I made some lunar phase tables for Turukáno, and he told me that he needs them because the sea--”

“Anyway, Angaráto and I have spoken at length, and we both like the look of Dorthonion.”

“Dorthonion?” Having his future reorganised thus, without any chance to express an opinion, filled Laurefindil with no small resentment. But then, Aikanáro must have foreseen that; it might explain his awkwardness. “Where is that? And what is it like? Ever-green, I suppose?”

“Yes, of course, what with all the pines -- a good resource. Close to the enemy, too.”

“Pines...” Laurefindil looked at the cherry trees again, with their delicate, ephemeral beauty. “Well, I will be sorry to leave this place, but I am sure Dorthonion will have a charm of its own.”

“Ah. About that...” Aikanáro frowned deeply, his eyes flashing, his hair standing up like a crown -- and, suddenly, he looked like a war-leader, a man to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.

Laurefindil had not seen this expression on him since Valinor. Though he was no enemy, fear entered his heart. Fear, and comprehension.

“As I mentioned,” Aikanáro was saying, “this is a time of change. We have idled in this camp far too long, and, as a prince of the Noldor, I--”

“You have responsibilities, a birthright, and no time for pointless romantic diversions,” Laurefindil finished. “I know this.”

“Then you understand?” Aikanáro’s strained face relaxed. “I should have known. You have always been astoundingly sympathetic. Indeed, I suppose that is why I--”

“No. I do not understand.” The force behind Laurefindil’s own words surprised him. “Or, rather, I do see your intent, but it makes no sense to me. I am part of this venture, just as you are, and I have duties of my own. While you scouted, I worked here: building houses, guarding farmers, observing this new world and making sense of its ways. I can explain the weather now, as well as anyone -- even Findaráto requests my predictions. I am a useful person. How can you…” His voice suddenly ran out of strenght, perhaps because of a growing pressure in his chest. “How can you think me a burden? On the Ice, you said-- Have I ever failed you? Or made selfish demands on your time?”

“Of course not! It is just that… You see, I…” Aikanáro grimaced, lost in thought. “What I mean,” he continued slowly, “is that I do not wish to hold you back from your own destiny. You deserve more than service with a minor lord.”

“Is that not for me to decide? I have long seen my destiny as--”

“You are a useful person. You said so yourself. You should be helping shape a great realm, not a pine-infested backwater like Dorthonion.”

Well, that was clear enough; further words seemed pointless. Humiliating, even. Laurefindil gazed out over the lake, where wind had rippled the water, destroying the perfect reflections. Soon, it would bring real clouds, which would overshadow the small, illusory clouds of blossoms.

“How about Findaráto’s domain?” Aikanáro’s voice carried forced cheer. “I know he shares your taste for beauty, and you say he appreciates you. He would take you on, I am sure, if I spoke to him.”

He would take Laurefindil on, regardless: he had already made the suggestion. But had there not been a certain softness to his voice, a knowing look in his eye? Findaráto surely knew his brother. He might have foreseen this very moment, and thought to offer kindness.

Laurefindil had once been very kind himself, to Aurewen, back in darkened Valinor. He had no wish to experience her side of the encounter. Anyway, Aikanáro was wrong: he had always found Findaráto’s aesthetic sense somewhat contrived.

Turukáno, on the other hand… Turukáno, who had every right to be an expert on heartbreak, swore by the healing properties of tireless, honest labour. And then there was that coastal realm of his. Laurefindil had long wanted to observe the moon’s effect on the sea for himself.

“Thank you, Aikanáro,” he said, “but there is no need. I will make my own arrangements.”

With that, he strode off, ignoring Aikanáro’s mumbled, awkward response. It felt good to do so -- and it felt even better to deliberately withhold the knowledge that rain would come soon. Serious rain, heavy enough to flatten even the spikiest hair.

This forest -- this glorious, unlikely mix of trees stretching across the foothills of Taniquetil -- reminded Laurefindil of… well, of everything. Of his childhood, when he had come here to wonder at all the different shades of green; of the noisy, frivolous hunting parties of his early adulthood; and then, of all the ever-changing forests of his Middle-earth days. He suspected that, in the future, it would also remind him of all these serene strolls he had taken when, happily reborn, he had wished to recall his first life.

Today, his nostalgia had a specific form. He was hoping to find a few trees that blazed with all the rich, bright colours he had come to associate with the season of autumn -- though, of course, here they meant only that the trees were going through one of their periodic molts. Thus, when he caught a glimpse of yellow, he naturally moved towards it. By the time he realised that the yellow object was not a tree or shrub, but a person with hair the colour of celandine, it would have been rude to turn back.

When he realised that the person was Aikanáro, now surprisingly long-haired, and staring at him in surprise, he did hesitate. But overcoming his natural cowardice was a hard habit to break, so Laurefindil stepped forward with a pleasant smile.

“Well met, Aikanáro,” he said.

“Yes, what a strange coincidence.” Aikanáro’s stare did not waver. “I had heard you were around, of course.”

“Oh, had you?” It would be impolite to mention that he had forgotten to inquire about Aikanáro’s own circumstances. But now that they had encountered each other… “You know, there is a tea-house just ahead, on a little rise. Perhaps we could--”

“Well, I am certainly thirsty,” said Aikanáro. “Lead the way.”

They chose a table with a particularly fine view of the magnificent foliage below, and Laurefindil lost no time in ordering a spiced blend that seemed appropriate for an afternoon spent in an autumnal wood, tinged with remembrance and regret.

“I will have the same,” said Aikanáro, “but prepared in the Dwarven style.”

The tea master gave him a long look before saying, “Very well.”

“Dwarven style?” Laurefindil asked, once the man was gone.

“Something a little bit stronger; an acquired taste, I believe,” said Aikanáro. “But never mind that. You must let me congratulate you: I hear you are a warrior hero now!”

Laurefindil sat back. “I would not call myself one.”

“But everyone else does! Songs of your valour are very popular. Every fame-seeking minstrel has composed at least one.”

“Yes, well, I did die a very picturesque, widely-viewed death, compared to my more heroic peers. But that was pure chance, one brief lucky moment.” Unlike, for example, the centuries he had spent compiling the star charts that would later prove so useful to Eärendil. A far more laudable contribution, surely.

“Still…” Aikanáro was staring at him speculatively. “To take on a Balrog at all, you must be a very competent fighter. I suppose you did well enough in fencing class, whenever I dragged you along with me.”

“Come on, you know I accompanied you quite willingly.” Though not, Laurefindil remembered ruefully, out of love of fencing. “But yes, thank you for those classes. They gave me a solid foundation to build on. Later, as I improved, I came to enjoy training. It gave my days structure, I suppose, which I needed, given my intrinsic lack of focus.”

Aikanáro shrugged, looking rather unfocused himself, as the tea master returned with their trays. Laurefindil waited for his tea to finish brewing; Aikanáro poured his at once. The smell -- or, more accurately, the fumes -- wafting from it made Laurefindil’s eyes water.

But then, he himself drank only light, dry wines, and only on special occasions.

Emptied cup in hand, Aikanáro scrutinised him again. “You know... I find I cannot hate you. Even when I try.”

Was this the liquor speaking, already? “Why on Arda Marred would you try to hate me?”

“Because you make it look so simple. I told you to go off and find your own destiny; you obeyed me, and found one in the first place you looked. And now you are content.”

Laurefindil supposed he was, but… “Are you not content, then?” he asked.

“Me?” Aikanáro smiled. “You knew me quite well, once. Have you ever known me to be content?”

His crooked grin looked sincere -- and familiar. Memories crept into Laurefindil’s mind: a tent on the Ice, a river-boat, the shade of a cherry tree… “I am afraid,” he said, feeling his face redden, “that I believe I have. But I expect I am misremembering things?”

“I doubt you are.” Aikanáro’s expression had softened further. “But what you remember was not contentment, but joy. A far less stable state.”

“I see. Your moods were always rather mutable, it is true. But perhaps… Perhaps that is just your nature. If you can experience joy--”

“But I cannot! Not often. Not anymore.” Aikanáro drained his second cup; or was it his third? “You are right, though, it is a question of my nature. My soul is all wrong, you see, and I have missed my chance to fix things.”

“Your soul? What--”

“Arda is our home, and so all our souls should love it, untiringly. But I despise it. I am so very, very bored, you see. Like a Secondborn man who has lived too long and seen too much.”

It must have been his fifth cup, at least.

“I am not sure how to phrase this,” said Laurefindil, “but you appear to have stopped making sense. Perhaps some non-Dwarvish tea, or water--”

“Sorry, I forgot that you are not familiar with Findaráto’s theories. You never did enter his service, in spite of my offer... Let me this a different way: have you heard of Lúthien?”

“Yes, but how--”

“Humour me, please.”

Well, why break such an ancient habit? “Very well,” said Laurefindil. “Yes, I have heard of Lúthien.”

“And so you know that she married a mortal?”

“Yes. Just like Idril.”

“No! Not like Idril at all -- Idril is still here with us, as is her husband, while Lúthien is now numbered among the Secondborn, with hers.”

“Yes, I know -- she gave up her immortality for love, which was…” Romantic? But what would Aikanáro know of romance? “Well, tragic, really.”

“For her family, certainly, since they are unlikely to see her again. But not for her. You see, she did not give up immortality, she exchanged it. For the Gift of Men.”

“Which is what? The chance to die sooner? I am not sure--”

“It is the chance to get off this tedious, tedious world. The Secondborn are visitors here, not prisoners; their souls go on to glories unknown. That Lúthien certainly knew what she was doing.” Aikanáro exhaled slowly, his explanation clearly at its end.

Laurefindil frowned. “So, if I understand correctly, your theory is that you have the sort of soul that would have appreciated the Gift of Men, and that you would be more content if you had been born a mortal?”

“If I had been born, and died, a mortal.” Aikanáro peered down into his teapot, now blessedly empty. “Or, more realistically, if I had made Lúthien’s choice. Before she did, and thus before the Valar realised all the complications, and took the option off the table.”

Confused as he was, Laurefindil could see a small flaw in this, otherwise so rational, plan. “But that option was never so freely available, was it? Lúthien got the Gift you desire because of Beren; you, too, would need to find love with a mortal.”

“Right, perhaps I should have started with that, but I thought it might be tactless, considering…” Eyes still lowered, Aikanáro made a gesture that encompassed himself and Laurefindil. “Anyway, her name was Andreth.”

Laurefindil’s cup slipped from his fingers. Fortunately, he managed to recapture it before it shattered, and to set it back on the table carefully.

“I suppose,” Aikanáro’s voice broke the subsequent silence, “that you are wondering why I did not seek to share Andreth’s fate at the appropriate time.”

“It is... one of the questions I was pondering, yes.”

“Well. I suspect you can guess why.”

Laurefindil thought about it. The obvious answer seemed rather cruel -- and yet… “Was it because you suddenly recalled your responsibilities as a prince of the Noldor?”

Aikanáro sighed. “I could not help myself. I suppose it was too ingrained a habit, by then.”