Face The Wind Alone by Elwin Fortuna

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Chapter 1

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"But hold your own, face the wind alone!
Reel on, love, toughen your scars
Year by year, we're falling like stars..."

"Through the mist your lover is beckoning
Comes that moment of reckoning
Faces change, even smiles grow strange..."
The Riddle, from The Scarlet Pimpernel

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"Findarato." Amarie's voice was calm, cool, as ever, as if twenty minutes had passed since they parted instead of hundreds of years. "I had heard that you returned to us."

"I'm sorry I did not come to see you sooner," Finrod said, trying to match her tone, but unable to keep a little eagerness out of it. "I needed some time to adjust, and then, Father required my presence, so I..." He trailed off: she was not looking at him at all, but rather concerned with the way her dress seemed to be lying, smoothing it down against her side.

"Do not worry," she said. "I was not expecting you. As far as I was aware, our betrothal was dissolved, and you would never come back to me, even if one day you returned to these shores, even as you have done." She looked up now, levelling a glance at him directly. "So why are you here, Findarato?"

"I," Finrod started, and then paused, unsure. The words had seemed so easy, before, but she was entirely too cool, and hardly even looked pleased to see him. It was not what he was expecting. "I had hoped that we could begin again."

If anything, the temperature in the room got even more frosty. Amarie frowned. "I do not think that would be possible." Her voice remained completely level. "Indeed, I would say that you offer me insult by even attempting to suggest it."

"I...what?" Finrod actually found himself lost for words at this point. "Why?"

The first flicker of an emotion hit her eyes; she glared at him from the other chair, before blinking back to her cool, collected self. "You gave your heart away in pieces to half the inhabitants of Endor, and now you return here to offer me, what, the battered shards of whatever you have left, and you do not think it insult?"

"Half the inhabitants of Endor?" Finrod said, amused despite himself. "I do not know what tales you have heard."

"An exaggeration," she admitted, "but not by much. I have heard three names: Beor, Andreth, Barahir, that you loved, and a fourth, Beren, for who you gave your life willingly and in full knowledge of your doom."

Finrod bowed his head. "I did love those three, and for their sake, and the sake of the Oath I gave, sacrificed my life for their kinsman. But my heart is no less whole because of it, nor do I have any less to offer you because of what I gave them."

She was frowning now, a thundercloud on her fair face. "But not only did you love them," she said. "You slept with them." Disgust filled her voice as she said the last sentence, and she stood, as if even the space between the two chairs where they sat was too little, and walked away to the window at the other side of the room.

Finrod stood, and took a few steps toward her, but stopped, as she cast a look of horror back at him, and spat, "There's not even a word in our tongue for what you are."

He breathed in, willing his heart to stop beating so fast. "Men are the Children of Eru, even as we," he said. "Or did you find the tale of Luthien so distasteful?"

She looked back at him again, still frowning, still angry. "It is not that which I object to," she said. "If you had loved a woman of the Race of Men, even as Luthien loved a Man, and devoted yourself to her, it would grieve me to hear, but it would not anger me." She took a fold of the curtain in her hand, twisting it hard. "But you loved without regard to bodily sex, you loved more than once, and that is unnatural. We were made to love once, and once only."

"You may be," Finrod said, "but I am not. And others of our race are not, or where else am I descended from?"

"That was done with the permission and knowledge of the Valar," she said, and her eyes were turned away from him. "From how I see it, you left me behind to frolic among smaller lives, thinking that the consequences of your deeds would never catch you up. But you erred, if you think that I was ignorant, or that you would ever find you could touch me again with tainted hands, or that I would exchange my heart for your shreds and tatters. Love the Race of Men in its entirety if you will, but do not come crawling back to me when they fail you. I am not a second choice, a substitute for your true desires." She turned back now, dropping the twisted curtain back again, her eyes glittering with tears about to fall. "I know what you cried out when you returned. 'Let me go back!' you said."

"I cannot go back," Finrod said. "I know that now. But, Amarie, you err in your turn to think that Beor, that Andreth, that Barahir's lives were smaller simply because their lives were shorter." He looked down at the hands she had called 'tainted', and sighed. "I will leave you in peace, for it is clear that we have grown apart in ways that cannot be mended. Yet know this: that I regret nothing of what I did on Endor with regard to the Race of Men; that I count myself blessed and beloved thrice over because of them; and that my heart is not broken nor are my hands tainted by their love."

She looked at him, and shuddered as she looked down at his hands. "If you touched me, I would ever see your hands on them," she said. "And if you loved me, you should have kept yourself for me alone."

He took a breath. "I owed you nothing," he said. "We were not betrothed at the time."

"By whose doing was that?" she snapped back, and he put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Mine, of course, I would not say otherwise," Finrod said.

"I think there are also words to be said about the way in which you dealt with your brother," Amarie said, frowning again. "I do not think I understand this fully, but was not Andreth beloved by Aegnor, and did she not love him? Are you so sure that you have not done him ill?"

It was Finrod's turn to frown. "With what has now been said between us," he said, "I hardly feel that I owe you any explanation for this, and yet if you wish I will give it. Andreth and Aegnor did indeed love each other and wished to marry but never were betrothed. Andreth became my friend, and we loved each other greatly, but without desire for marriage. Aegnor knew this; I did not hide it from him, and he does not think I treated him ill because of it." He looked down again, and his voice, when he spoke, was soft and grieved. "You are the only one I have ever wished to wed, but I must say that I do not wish it now."

She looked at him, anger and bitter scorn mingled on her face. "I am not surprised to hear it, with your changeable heart. What, you might claim to love me today, and then tomorrow decide an Ent was more to your taste, or one of the Dwarfkind!"

His eyes snapped up to meet hers. For the first time in the whole conversation, he looked angry too. "So speaks one who never met an Ent or a Dwarf," he said. "I have never loved a member of either of those races in such a fashion, and yet there were some of both who were dear to me." He took a step toward the door. "I think, lady, that our converse is done," he said. As she stood silent, angry tears running down her face, hands clenched at her sides, he opened the door and walked out, letting it fall shut behind him.

He was some distance from her house before he paused, bending almost double with swift and sudden pain, tears coming into his eyes. He stumbled to a quiet corner of a nearby garden, and leaned against a tree, head in his arms. Her face in anger swam before his eyes, and he took several deep breaths, and then sank into memories of a life now gone, dearly remembered ones now dead.

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Beor looked up at him with sweet longing and worship in his eyes as they lay under a tree in the noonday sun, resting in the heat of the day on their long journey back to Nargathrond. It was as though his entire being was crying out to be kissed, although he said nothing of it.

Finrod watched him, feeling his own heart sweeping away on a tide of emotions he could not control, and before long, he gave in: put his arms around the Man, leaned in, kissed him, carefully, sweetly, the first kiss for him in such a long time. He feared for a moment that it would feel like betrayal, but instead it felt only like the purest joy.

Beor gasped softly and surrendered, all warm red lips and dark scratchy beard - delightful novelty! - and Finrod ventured to take the kiss deeper, not quite sure how or what was needed, but eager for it, desperate for it. Beor's arms came around him, and before he knew it, Beor was rolling them over, kissing him deep and long, and his whole body was thrumming with need and desire.

Beor drew back, lips swollen just a bit, and laughed softly. "My lord, can it be that you have lived on this fair earth for so long and never done this before?"

Finrod shook his head, breathless. "I loved someone, long ago, but we were parted, and I have not found that anyone caught my attention since then." He smiled, poking Beor's shoulder with a slender finger. "Until you."

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"And what shall I remember?" Andreth said. "And when I go to what halls shall I come? To a darkness in which even the memory of the sharp flame shall be quenched? Even the memory of rejection. That at least."*

“No, do not say so,” Finrod answered. “If you feel that you were rejected, know also that loved you were and are, and not only by my brother.”

Andreth smiled in the dim light, holding out her hand to Finrod. “I have felt it to be so, ere now. But the love I remember from Aegnor is different in kind from that which you bear me, I deem.”

He took her hand in the light of the fire, in both of his, and moved nearer to her. “It is different, beloved adaneth, but not so very different. I do not wish to wed you, as he did, but my heart reaches out to yours. In the brief days you spent with Aegnor, I felt your flame too, even then, but with our great friendship I feel it even more now.” He made no further move toward her, but waited, as expressions of both joy and grief passed over her face.

At last she spoke, and the words were mingled bitterness and wonder. “This hroa ages and withers, and still you look upon it with desire?”

He put out his hand then, gently touched her greying hair. “Your flame burns ever bright, Andreth, and age, such as you speak of, cannot dim it or quench it. More beautiful are you to me now than you were in those first days far away, for now we are friends, and the beauty that you have always had is now tempered by wisdom.”

She breathed in, careful and slow. “And do you think, Finrod, that if desire passed between us, that I would be touching you, or touching my memory of Aegnor?”

He shrugged. “It matters little to me, but I think both in some ways. You forget, dear adaneth, that your thoughts are open to mine somewhat.”

She laughed. “It is so, I had forgotten. I guarded myself earlier, as we spoke of more weighty matters, but since we began to talk of Aegnor I have not wished to hide my heart from you.” And she moved closer, her free hand tracing Finrod’s face, her eyes meeting his eyes. “No, I think I shall be here with you, not long years ago in a time that shall never return.”

“And so shall I be here with you,” Finrod said. “For you are not the first of your people that I loved.”

Andreth smiled, quick and mischievous but gentle. “All our people know of your love for Beor and of his for you. You are a matter of legend and story, dear Finrod, and I have heard all the tales!”

He laughed, throwing his head up, golden hair glinting in the light of the fire. “In that case, I shall do my very best to match my reputation, bright one.” And bending down even as she reached up, their lips met, her arms around his neck, his arms around her waist.

She was warm like a shaft of sunlight in his arms. Her eyes, dark blue and expressive, changing and darkening many times over the course of their converse, were now alive with laughter and gentle with warmth. When she smiled, tiny wrinkles fanned out from the corner of each eye and her forehead was traced with thoughtful lines. Her lips too, were warm and soft, and her mouth yielded under his.

He moved a hand to the long dark fall of her hair, sprinkled through with bits of silver that caught the light. Loosening her long braid, he ran his fingers through it, untangling it, feeling it against his hand, shivering with delight at its softness. She smiled softly. All the bitterness was gone from her eyes, and the warmth of welcoming joy surrounded her.

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Finrod sang there, trapped with only his guards about him, pinned against an impassable marshland with the foes advancing in. He sang of walls and weapons, shining-bright swords in misty gloom, tall spears and burning arrows.

The Orcs shuddered, hesitated, but advanced, too great a number to be held back by the power of song alone.

He sang of freedom, of walls falling, of sudden and deft escape, of hidden paths and sacrifices, of rescue, of toughened scars, and of hope beyond hope.

Some of the Orcs fell back again, but more came onward.

He was singing of dear-bought, glorious death, of the falling of stars in the blackest night, of black blood staining the white stone and turning the marshy water all dark, when Barahir and ten of his bravest men fought their way through to him. Only two of Finrod's guards remained by then, and Finrod sang even as they cut their way through the fight, pushing back their foes with more than swords and spears.

It was a long day, agonising, painful. All but one of Finrod's small company was lost, and many of the Men who fought that day. Nearly all who had rescued him had given their lives to do so, and many others besides. And yet, here at least the battle was won, here at least the Orcs were driven back.

Barahir brought Finrod to his own tent as the sun set, and they both lay down on the grass just outside it exhausted for some little while, not even speaking, weary beyond all grief or feeling. Neither was wounded beyond small cuts and bruises, and both wore armour covered in mud and blood that they had not the strength to take off, not yet.

And yet they were looking at each other all the while as they lay there, each finding new strength in the other's eyes. When at last they spoke, it was nearly at the same time.

"You remind me so of Beor who I loved," Finrod said, even as Barahir said, "I think you must be the fairest being I have ever seen."

Finrod caught his breath. "Even like this?" he said, gesturing to bloodied and burnt armour and clothing.

"Even so," Barahir whispered, and reached out a sun-darkened hand, caressing Finrod's face, brushing back stray strands of golden hair.

After that, what would happen between them seemed inevitable. Unlike Beor's initial reverence followed by eager instruction, or Andreth's straightforward negotiations regarding desires between them, he and Barahir hardly needed to speak before they each knew what they wanted from the other.

It was a time of war, and while Elves did not wed during wartime, and indeed Finrod felt no inclinations toward that state whatsoever, not since before the Ice, desire might still strike swift as lightning and be gone just as swift. When Barahir pulled Finrod toward him on the grass, and began unbuckling the bloody armour, each fastening undone matched with a sweet burning kiss to Finrod's mouth, he lay back, shivering with delight, and let Barahir do with him as he would, undoing buckles and braces on Barahir's armour as well, when the opportunity presented itself.

The last of their armour fell away, and Barahir rose to his feet, tugging Finrod along with him inside the tent. Two buckets of water, along with fresh towels, waited just inside, and Barahir turned, fastening the tent closed so that they would not be disturbed. Finrod wasted no time in beginning to remove his stained clothing, and Barahir turned back again to the sight of him clad only in his skin. He caught his breath, and they looked at each other again. Barahir's hand went to his own clothing, stripping it away as fast as possible, leaving it where it lay on the ground.

Even without clothes, they were still sweaty and bloody, stained and dirty, not yet fit for clean bedding. Barahir grinned, taking the two smallest of the towels, and soaking them completely in the water, which was even still somewhat warm. He handed one of the towels to Finrod.

They washed each other efficiently, and yet there was something of a fire even in this, the curve and play of muscles beneath skin being shown to best advantage, hands that trailed down drying skin entirely unnecessarily. Finrod unbound his hair and Barahir washed that too, for him, cleaning the mud and blood from the golden locks until they shone once more. Barahir's hair was far shorter, but Finrod took the opportunity to wash it as well, running his hands through the dark wet strands when it was done, and pulling Barahir against him into a kiss.

The stained and dirty towels were thrown aside, into the remaining clean water, to soak there. Barahir tugged Finrod over to the corner of the tent, where a makeshift bed had been set up. They fell together into the furs and blankets and gave themselves up to love, Finrod somewhat overwhelmed by Barahir's eagerness and need, crying out softly beneath him.

When he finally came undone completely, he nearly cried out 'Beor!' but managed to stop himself just in time, corrected the word to a gasp. As they collapsed down together on the furs, Finrod turned into Barahir's arms, which came around him, strong and sturdy. Finrod found to his own surprise that he was weeping, breathless small sobs against Barahir, relief and joy and grief all mingled together, and something more, something that lingered just beyond his sight: doom, marching relentlessly toward him.

"I thought I was lost," he said at last, partly to explain the tears, partly because that was why he wept. Barahir's hand gently stroked his hair, then drifted down to his shoulder, to his arm, to his hand which rested on his hip. He said nothing, but somehow no words needed to be said, just then.

In the early morning, while it was still dark, Finrod awoke, curled against Barahir, who lay with one arm draped around him, on his side facing Finrod. In the dim light it could almost be Beor, the beloved, who lay there, or looking closer still, Andreth, the wise one of his heart, who slept at his side, but it was Barahir, the bold, his saviour.

"To thee an oath I swear," he whispered to the sleeping Man. "For thee and all thy kin so long as I shall live on these shores, I promise abiding friendship and aid in every need. Whatever is within my power to give thee, I shall not withhold, and for love of thee I would face any peril, risk any danger, to save thee or thy kin, even as thou hast risked for me."

Barahir stirred softly in his sleep, clutching Finrod closer, and Finrod knew that when the morning came, and they parted, these words would be said again, and that vow would be remembered.

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The sun was setting when Finrod came back to himself, standing alone in one of Tirion's gardens, head leaning against the bark of a tree, tears in his eyes. In these days as Reborn ones were beginning to come back, such a sight was common enough not to draw comment. All knew that newly-Reborn ones at times dwelt half in memory, and often could be seen standing stock-still, lost at the flutter of a bird's wing, or in the play of water over stones in a brook, dreaming of what was now gone. With time, these memories would settle, be at peace, trouble them no more.

Finrod breathed in, a long drawn-out sigh. He felt grieved to the bone, and yet freed, some weight lifting from him that he had not even known was there. The lingering remnants of his love for Amarie were gone beyond retrieving now, scattered ashes in the wind that once could have been a rekindled flame. The moment of reckoning had come, and was gone.

Alone, he faced the future, and in his eyes now shone nothing but light. If love was to be only a memory for him, it was well that the memories should be sweet, and that the loved ones should be well-remembered.

"Beor, Andreth, Barahir," he whispered, the names a chant, the chant a prayer, the prayer often spoken in the unseen watches of the night. "Where you go, may you find light. Await me there."

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Chapter End Notes

*The first paragraph of the scene between Finrod and Andreth is a direct quote from the Athrabeth.