Something Stronger by Tehta

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Chapter 5

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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.”