Stranger in the Forest by chrissystriped

Turukáno sat on a rock in a clearing in the forest, his face lifted up to the new sun. The wind was blowing his hair into his face. His horse – the animal he’d been given by the Feanorians and that was the least they could do! – grazed a few steps away. He knew he should be at his father’s side during the talks with the Feanorians, but he couldn’t sit at one table with the murderers of his wife.

He understood why Nolofinwe had reached out to Feanáro’s sons. They shouldn’t fight among each other when they had a common foe. But Elenwe was dead because of them and he couldn’t forgive it so easily. Itarille woke screaming almost every night, she had nightmares of breaking ice and burning cold. She’d suffered so much already in her young life.

Turukáno slipped his gloved hands under his armpits. Hissilóme was not as cold as the Ice, but his fingers, barely healed from frostbite, hurt.

He jumped when he saw movement in the corner of his eye and reached for his weapon. They’d thoroughly defeated the Moringotto’s creatures, but there were still some scattered bands running around.

At first Turukáno thought he was looking at an orc and gripped his sword tighter. The person’s face was marked by deep scars, one of them pulled on his upper lip and made him look like he was snarling, the upper half of his right ear looked like a dog had chewed on it. His armour was made up of badly fitting parts, he had a sword, but he made no move to draw it.

He lifted his empty hands and said something that sounded like ‘Quende’ to Turukáno. Did he want to say that he was an elf? (Surely he was aware of his appearance.) Turukáno pulled his gaze from his scars and looked into his eyes. They were brown and Turukáno still wasn’t used to the sight of eyes that didn’t reflect the Light of the Trees, but they didn’t strike him as malicious. This was not an orc.

“Who are you?”, Turukáno asked him in halting Sindarin, then he pointed to himself and said: “Turukáno.”

The other laid his hand on his chest and answered: “Rog. You are... across the salty water?”

Turukáno nodded. The other elf didn’t talk like the Sindar he had met and he wondered if Sindarin was a foreign tongue to them both. He lifted his bag and Rog made a step back. He looked wary, his body tense.

“Food”, Turukáno said and took out the bread and roast meat he had intended to be his lunch. “Are you hungry?”

The wariness didn’t vanish from Rog’s face as he asked: “What do I have to do for it?”

Turukáno lifted his eyebrows. “Nothing. Sit with me. Tell me about yourself, if you want. Or take it and leave.”

He didn’t know what Rog expected him to demand, he just wanted to be friendly. And he hoped he was saying the right things. Rog seemed to think about it, then he sat down beside him, careful not to touch him, and took the offered food. They ate in silence for a while, Rog seemed ravenous and Turukáno left him the bigger part of his provisions.

“You don’t talk like a Sinda. Are you an Avar?”, Turukáno finally asked.

Rog frowned at him and Turukáno couldn’t stop himself from shivering. He looked fearsome.

“Do you mean, I am of the Quendi who didn’t follow the Hunter? Yes, I am, but I don’t like that word. We are Quendi, like you.”

Turukáno bowed his head in agreement.

“Of course. I didn’t want to insult you.” It was a rather insensitive name, he supposed. “Would you say something in your language?”

It must have come from the common language of all elves and he wanted to hear if he could understand anything.

“Will you fight against ...?” Rog used a word that Turukáno didn’t understand, but he was sure he knew who he meant.

“Yes, we are here to bring down the Moringotto. He murdered my grandfather, our king”, he answered slowly in Quenya and Rog smiled – at least Turukáno thought so, it was hard to tell with his scars. “Your language is easier than Sindarin”, he continued and although they didn’t speak the same language it was more like the difference between Vanyarin and Noldorin – Turukáno’s heart ached because it made him think of Elenwe.

“It is good that you fight. Let me fight with you.” Rog’s eyes flashed. “I came here for that. I followed the eagle.”

“The...” Turukáno stared at him.  “You saw Findekáno rescuing Maitimo?”

Rog nodded sharply.

“I hunted orcs. I saw how many orcs went out to fight you and how few of them came back. You are strong. And I think, if you are brave enough to enter his realm and take his property, I want to fight with you.”

“Maybe we aren’t all as brave as my brother." Turukáno smiled wryly. "But if you want to fight with us, I’ll gladly accept you in the name of my father, King Nolofinwe. Do you have companions? You surely didn’t go orc-hunting alone.”

“Alone”, Rog answered and his face became wary again. “I am alone.”

Turukáno thought he could hear a lie, but he didn’t call him out on it. Maybe he didn’t trust him enough, yet, to tell him more about himself. “Then you are as brave as my brother. Fighting alone against orcs.”

He wondered if they had cut the scars into his skin, but he didn’t ask that, either. He stood up slowly, because he had noticed that quick motions startled Rog.

“Will you come with me? I’d like to introduce you to my father.”

Turukáno flinched when Rog suddenly shot up, hand on his weapon. Then he heard the steps, too, and turned around. Galdor, a Sinda who lived around the lake, and two of his men came out of the forest.

“Turukáno, we found your horse in the forest and...”

His eyes fell on Rog and before Turukáno could blink, he had an arrow on the string and pointed it at the elf.

“Move away from him, my prince”, he said with tense voice.

Turukáno looked back and forth between Galdor and Rog.

“What’s wrong? I don’t understand...”

“Don’t you see his face? He’s a mûl, a thrall of the Dark One. You can’t trust them. Sometimes he lets one of them go free to do his works. They are wholly his creatures, as much as the orcs. We chase them away, if they dare to come close to us.”

Rog growled at him, then he vanished between the trees. Galdor took a deep breath and relaxed his string.

“That could have ended badly. We weren’t aware that you don’t know of them.”

Turukáno looked at the spot where Rog had sat a moment ago. He hadn’t felt in danger. There had been no deceit in Rog’s eyes, nothing evil.

“Are you sure, Galdor?”, he said. “He seemed like a normal elf to me, despite his looks. Tell me more about the matter.”

Turukáno caught his horse and walked back to the camp in the company of the three Sindar.

“You don’t notice it, that is the perfidious thing about them", Galdor said. "At first, people were happy when lost members of the family returned, weak and hurt but alive. But then things happened. Orcs attacked, who knew much too well when and where to strike. Whole villages massacred without the traces of an orc-attack. One of them was found covered in the blood of his family, laughing. He’d eaten their hearts.” Turukáno shuddered and Galdor looked seriously at him. “We can’t afford to trust escaped thralls, even if some might have genuinely escaped – which I doubt. There’s no way out of Angband.”

“My brother made it in and out again and stole our cousin from the Moringotto.”

But it was different, Turukáno admitted to himself. Findekáno’s deed had been undoubtedly brave, but he hadn’t needed to go inside the mountain, hadn’t needed to walk through Angamando’s gates – although Turukáno was sure that his brother would have done that too to save his friend. He realised belatedly that the three Sindar looked uncomfortably at each other.

“What?”, he asked Galdor. “What are you not saying?”

“Well... we don’t want to insult you and your family, Turgon, but... many of my people are nervous that Maedhros is allowed to walk free and unsupervised.”

Turukáno always tried to be unbiased when the Sindar he had befriended had different views than him, but he couldn’t stop himself from giving a humourless laugh.

“That’s madness, Galdor! I don’t have much love left for Feanáro’s sons, but Maedhros is no agent of the enemy! And I’m absolutely sure about that.”

“I’m just telling you to be careful with him. What if your brother was allowed to free him?”

Turukáno shook his head. “Maedhros is hurt and maybe not who he was before his capture, but he’s not a traitor. Do you know what is at stake for him?”

Galdor bowed his head in silent acquiescence, but Turukáno could see that he was just being polite. He huffed. Who’d have thought that the day would end with him defending Maedhros Feanárion?

He wished, Rog wouldn’t have vanished so quickly. He would have liked to talk with him further. Maybe he could find him again somehow.

“Rog!”

The elf shouting his name walked up the hill, struggling through the brambles.

“Rog! Let’s talk!”

He sounded breathless, the hill was steep.

“Rog! I don’t want you ill!”

Rog grimaced. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to talk with him. Their first meeting hadn’t been so bad but it had ended on a sour note – but then, that had been the Sindar’s fault. Had Turukáno just not noticed what he was or did he not care?

“Rog!”

He knew he could get the answer only from him and he needed him to shut up in any case. If he continued yelling around like that, he was bound to attract the attention of something evil. Rog crept closer, wound his arms around his chest and pressed his hand over his mouth. He felt Turukáno tense and smiled grimly. He hoped, he taught him a lesson.

“Are you crazy?”, he hissed into his ear. “You can’t walk around yelling like that!”

Turukáno’s answer was muffled by his hand and Rog took it away from his mouth.

“I didn’t know how else to find you”, Turukáno said and turned around when Rog let go. “I’m sorry for how we parted ways the other day. Galdor shouldn’t have threatened you.”

Rog growled. “My kind isn’t welcome in the villages of the elves here – and that surely was exactly what the enemy wanted when he sent his Maiar to them feigning to be escaped elves. I can assure you that I escaped by my own efforts and nothing would be further from my mind than aiding the enemy.”

Turukáno met his eyes with an earnest gaze. Rog wondered if he was searching something similar to what he had searched in the eyes of the orcs he had killed. Those, in whose eyes he had thought to still see a last bit of awareness of who they had been, he had given a quick death – they’d suffered enough – the others he had made pay for his suffering.

“I believe you”, Turukáno said and pulled him out of his dark thoughts. “Your eyes are honest and Galdor is prejudiced. He thinks even my cousin might be a traitor.”

“Your cousin?” But even as he asked the question, Rog realised who Turukáno had to mean. “The son of the jewel-smith? With the fiery hair?”

“You know Maedhros?” Turukáno looked surprised.

Rog shook his head. “I know about him. I was still a slave when they caught him and...” ‘...all of Angband talked about the King’s new plaything.’ Rog bit his lip. He couldn’t say that. “The enemy held a feast when he was taken captive. And later... I knew where he hung. I saw your brother – and the eagle. I followed the eagle. I want to fight with you, if you let me.”

“It would be my honour to take you into my service.”

“I’m no one’s servant”, Rog hissed before he could stop himself. But the thought of having to bow to anyone ever again, galled him. Turukáno winced at his sharp tone.

“I’m sorry, if I insulted you. You would not be a servant. You’d be a soldier, fight at my side. But I’m a prince and you’d swear to follow my orders. That is, what I meant. It would not be demeaning, you would be treated with all honour.”

Rog nodded slowly. “We don’t have this kind of hierarchies, but I think, I understand. I’m just a little sensitive after...” He might have overreacted. “You don’t want to know more about me, before you accept my... vow?”

It surprised him. Were all the Noldor this trusting? No wonder that the enemy had managed to outsmart Maedhros.

Turukáno smiled wryly. “Oh, I’d like to hear a lot more about you, but if Maedhros can serve as a rule, you won’t like to talk about that time. I won’t ask that of you. Tell me, how you live now. Are you alone?”

Rog felt his suspicion wake despite Turukáno’s sympathetic words – or maybe because of them. He felt responsible for the elves he lived with hidden in the mountains. They’d be driven away again, if the other elves found out how close to them they lived.

“There are others”, he said warily. “Not all of us can fight.”

“I’m not only interested in military power. I don’t want to believe what the Sindar say, that you all are in league with the Moringotto.” Turukáno shook his head. “I’d be willing to take your people under my protection.”

Rog nodded slowly. His heart beat quicker with hope. They were surviving, but barely. But wasn’t this simply too good to be true?

“I have to speak with them about it. I can’t decide for them.”

“Of course.” Turukáno nodded. “Would you like to come to our camp and look around? You can tell your friends about it.”

Rog thought about it for a moment. A part of him was sensing a trap, it told him that Turukáno only wanted to get him out of his familiar surroundings and bring him to a place where he’d be helpless and at his mercy, but he pushed the thought aside. No, he’d wanted to fight alongside them from the moment he’d found out about this newcomers from across the sea. He’d take the risk to trust Turukáno and maybe win a new life not only for himself but also for as many of his friends as would come with him. Rog nodded decisively.

“I’ll come with you.”

Turukáno smiled pleased and lead the way.

The camp was overwhelming. It was huge, he’d already seen that when he’d followed the eagle and watched from afar, but to be inside it, between all these elves who nodded respectfully at the prince, was intimidating. Rog walked beside Turukáno, his hood pulled down to hide his face – he’d insisted on that, he knew what he looked like and how elves reacted to it – but he looked around warily.

It was obvious that the elves had a rough journey behind them. Their clothes were threadbare and their faces thin with hunger. But the houses that were in various stages of construction looked solid and the smell of food was in the air. Everywhere craftsmen could be seen going after their trade. He’d never seen that many elves in one place – not free at least, not as a village community – he’d always been solitary and although he’d travelled with his tribe before he was caught, he’d stayed for himself. He didn’t know if he could live like this, but everyone seemed to know what their task was and he liked that.

Turukáno showed him the bakery – he was allowed to taste some bread that seemed to melt on his tongue in an explosion of taste – and the kitchen. They walked on to a place where many elves where sewing clothes, singing and talking while they worked.

The armoury and the smithy – the sound of the hammers made Rog shudder but it also fanned a longing in him. Before his captivity, his tribe had traded with the Khazad, they’d taught him a lot and he’d loved the work – in Angband he had been forced to it and he thought he felt the burn of the whip on his back. He'd have liked to talk with the smiths, but he couldn't stand the sound, it made his skin crawl.

“Let’s go on”, he mumbled and Turukáno nodded without asking. Rog was surprised but glad that he didn’t question his quirks.

Turukáno started to explain the layout of the camp and describe what they were building and Rog listened politely, but he’d already seen enough. The camp was protected by a sturdy palisade, there were guards who watched the surroundings - they had good armour and weapons - and Turukáno told him of their plans to build houses of stone as soon as the recourses were there. They were settling in for a long war – the dark one was strong, it would be foolish to think it would be easy to bring him down, Rog was glad they could see that. This was a safe place. He could fight with these elves and those of his friends who would never fight again, would be safe here.

“You will make sure that my people are treated well?”, he asked softly.

“I give you my word”, Turukáno answered earnestly. “Swear fealty to me and you and yours will be under my protection the same way as my other vassals.”

Rog nodded. He’d made his decision.

“I'll talk to them. Meet me in two days. At dusk, in the clearing where we met the first time.”

“I’ll be there", Turukáno answered.

They were on their way to the gate when a blond elf called Turukáno’s name.

“We wondered where you are!”

The elf threw Rog a curious glance.

“Findaráto, this is Rog. I met him in the woods and he is interested in joining us. Rog, my cousin Findaráto.”

“An honour”, Rog mumbled from under his hood, he couldn’t bring himself to mimic the bow he’d seen others in the camp make when they saw Turukáno.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Rog.” To his credit, Findaráto didn’t try to look under his hood. “Turukáno, Itarille asks for you.” He sounded worried. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but...”

Turukáno’s face told Rog that this was something serious.

“I’ll see you in two days, prince", he said. “I’ll find my way out.”

Turukáno nodded absentmindedly, already turning away. Findaráto gave him an apologetic look before they walked in the direction of the palace and Rog turned to the gate. He wouldn’t be in the way of what looked like a familial matter.

Turukáno smiled when he saw that Rog hadn’t come alone this time.

“This is Nalie”, Rog pointed at the nisse, “and Ravo.” He had white hair, not silver like many Teleri but white as snow. “I told the others about your offer”, Rog continued. “And they chose Nalie and Ravo to meet you, too.”

“I’m Turukáno. Turgon in the language of the Sindar”, Turukáno said slowly. Rog and he understood each other pretty well, if they both made an effort, and he hoped they would, too.” “I’m glad that you think about joining me.”

“We aren’t used to anyone wanting us close by”, Nalie answered in Sindarin. “And many of us have injuries that make it impossible for us to fight. What are you going to expect from us in return for your protection?”

Turukáno remembered that Rog had asked him what he wanted in return for the food he'd offered, when they’d met the first time. He shuddered to think what prices they’d paid in Angband.

“First, I want to make certain that you know you can leave any time, if the life I offer you shouldn’t be what you want”, he said carefully. He wanted to hit the right tone with them. “No one will force you to stay. No one will force you to do a work you do not want to do.” He felt it was important to say that. “Yes, we are here to fight the Moringotto, but we won’t turn away anyone because they can’t fight. We aren’t all warriors. We are building a city and there’s enough to do that is not linked to war.” T

he three elves shared silent looks among each other, Turukáno waited.

“And you don’t mind that we came through Angband?”, Ravo asked. “That you don’t know anything about us.”

“I hope to get to know all of you better, but I won’t interrogate you on your time there.”

“And all your people see it like that?”, Nalie asked.

“I told my father, the king, about my conversation with Rog. He is open to my offer to accept you among my people. You won’t be treated with hostility, but people will be curious.”

“And we can reconsider at any time?”

Turukáno nodded. “Of course. No one is going to force you to live with us. Have a look, get to know us and then decide.”

“As your camp is still under construction, we wondered if we won’t be just in the way”, Rog said. “We wouldn't want to inconvenience you.”

“It is true that living space is scarce at the moment”, Turukáno admitted, feeling awkward. “Although we are working hard to change that. We should have enough tents for a start, if you wouldn’t mind sleeping in the open for now.”

They exchanged amused glances.

“We only build huts in the winter”, Rog explained with a laugh. “And we, who lived in Darkness, delight in seeing the stars again. We don’t mind sleeping in tents if we know there’s a wall between us and the creatures of the Dark Hunter.”

It embarrassed Turukáno that he couldn’t offer better living spaces to elves who would be under his protection, the fact that they seemed to view houses as unnecessary luxuries changed little about that.

“It would be easier for me to plan for your arrival, if I knew how many you are”, he dared to say. He’d noticed that Rog got nervous every time he asked more specific questions about his people and he didn’t want to frighten them off.

The three elves shared a look and seemed to come to an agreement.

Rog said: “We are about thirty elves, but I can’t tell you how many will decided to move to your camp. It’s a huge change, you changed on the other side of the sea, and we’ve had bad experiences with other elves.”

“I won’t force you to rush into a decision. Take all the time you need”, Turukáno answered.

“You looked worried, the other day”, Rog said to Turukáno.

They were alone. Ravo and Nalie were already on their way back to the village but night had fallen and he’d thought it better to accompany Turukáno back to his camp. He’d noticed the elf’s vision was worse under star-light than theirs.

“My daughter noticed that I was gone and panicked. Since her...” Turukáno’s voice broke. "Since her mother died on the Ice, she’s afraid to lose me too. She gets scared when she’s left alone. My sister is good at keeping her occupied when I have things to do, but sometimes it’s not enough.”

Rog could see that Turukáno was crying silently and touched his shoulder gently. He would offer comfort, if it was wanted. Turukáno looked at him with tear-bright eyes.

“It hurts so much. I loved Elenwe so much and now she is gone! If Itarille didn’t need me... I don’t know how to live without her.”

Rog laid his arms around him when he leaned against his shoulder.

“It is hard to lose loved ones", he said. "Many of us lost someone in Angband. Spouses, parents, children, friends who were like family. If you want... I don’t know how your people grieve, but we come together sometimes and talk about our deaths, remember them as they were. Would that help you?”

“Maybe.” Turukáno sniffled quietly. “Findekáno was able to rescue his best friend from hell, but there’s no freeing someone from Mandos against Lord Námo’s will. I’ll never see her again. We... we aren’t used to elves dying. I don’t know how to cope with it. I feel so alone.”

“You aren’t alone”, Rog answered, rubbing his back. “I’ll be there for you, if you want me to be.” He did not know what Mandos was, but he'd help him in any way he could.

Death – and things worse than death – had been a part of his life for so long that he couldn’t imagine living without the knowledge that every day could be the last one. How would it have been to live in paradise, only to be thrown into the real world and realise that death was reality – and not to know how to cope with it?

“I’d like to see how you grieve”, Turukáno said finally and wiped his eyes. “If you don’t mind.”

“You are giving us hope for a better life”, Rog answered. “The least we can do is help you with this. I’ll let you know when we are ready.”

They walked on silently until the camp came in sight.

“Good night, Turukáno”, Rog said and squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. Turukáno smiled back gratefully.

“Save walk home, Rog. Be careful.”

Rog shrugged, feeling awkward that someone was worried for him.

“I’ll be fine. See you soon.”

With that he vanished in the darkness between the trees, but he kept his eyes on Turukáno until he’d walked into the safety of his camp.

Turukáno followed Rog through the underbrush up the hill. He couldn’t see a path but Rog seemed to know exactly where he was going. It was night already, although the darkness brought out dangerous creatures, Rog’s people were more distrustful of the sun than of the star-light they were used to. Galdor had told Turukáno that the bright light was painful for the eyes and he supposed it wasn’t different for Rog’s people.

The Noldor had gotten used to the brightness during the centuries they’d lived under the Light of the Trees, but these elves had only ever known the stars, even the moon meant that the night was brighter to them now. Turukáno could barely see anything in the shadow of the trees, but he knew by the way Rog sometimes sped up for a moment that he was slowing him down.

The little village was hidden so well that Turukáno only noticed they’d reached their destination when he was already standing before a low burning fire that was screened from view by mats of woven twigs. Elves sat in a circle around the fire and looked up at them. They didn’t seem surprised and Turukáno suddenly remembered the quiet bird cries Rog had sometimes made during their walk.

Rog introduces him with quiet voice and they sat down on the dry pine needles that covered the ground. Turukáno looked around, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say something, but then a silver-haired elf-woman who was missing an eye started to sing, others joining her, and he just listened. Turukáno didn’t understand the words. It sounded more like Quenya than Sindarin, but there was a roughness in her consonants he wasn’t used to.

Rog moved closer to whisper into his ear: “She sings for the houseless fёar. 'May all pain be over for them. May they be safe from the Hunter. May they find their way back to their families. May they be free under the stars.'”

Turukáno shuddered. For him Orome was the Hunter, a guardian of their people during the Great Journey, but for Rog it was the Moringotto – the Dark Hunter catching elves who strayed too far from their families.

“We’ll sing many songs like this today and share memories about the dead. We tell stories about their lives so they may recognise them and thus find their way back to their families.”

They didn’t know about Námo’s Call that led the elves to Mandos. He closed his eyes against the tears. He was sure Elenwe had followed Námo’s call. She would be reborn, she had come under the Prophecy when she came with him, but she hadn’t fought at Alqualonde, she had done nothing wrong. Surely Namo would take that into account! He and Itarille were Exiles, they could never go back to Aman, they would never see her again.

These elves were used to their dead not coming back, but they believed them to be close nonetheless. He couldn’t wish for Elenwe to have disregarded the Call and thus lose the possibility of being reborn, but for himself... He wished she were here. Turukáno sobbed and leaned into Rog’s hand that stroked his back.

“I miss her so much”, he whimpered. “She isn’t here!”

“Do you want to talk about her?”, Rog asked softly.

“Not right now.”

It felt good to let himself be comforted by Rog and listen to the songs and stories he barely understood. He saw tears on other faces and elves giving each other comfort. All of them had lost someone, they grieved together. He was not alone.

When the message of Finwe’s murder had come, they’d been paralysed with shock. He’d felt numb, hadn’t known what to feel about something that seemed impossible – unimaginable. He still barely could believe it to be true.

Elenwe’s death had been pure agony. The cold water biting into his skin as he jumped after her into the gap that had opened in the ice, reaching for her in vain. She had sunk into the deep sea, tearing out his heart.

“She was so brave”, he said in the silence after a song. “Her family didn’t want her to come with us on the journey. They told her that she couldn’t take a child as young as Itarille on such a journey, but she didn’t want to leave my side. She let a harness be made for her and took up a sword and demanded of me to teach her the use of it. She knew it would be dangerous here and she didn’t want to be helpless. She was strong and proud, but also tender and unendingly patient. I loved to watch her teaching Itarille to read and write. We could have employed a teacher, but she wanted to do it herself, she wanted to spend as much time with her daughter as she could. She painted on silk. She loved bright, brilliant colours.”

He pulled out the silk shawl from under his shirt and lifted it up so the cornflowers and bluetits glowed in the firelight.

“She made this for me as a present when we became engaged.”

He never took it off now, wanting to have something of her with him at all times.

“On the ice she looked out for the children. Made certain that they at least had enough to eat and told them stories when we rested so they weren’t frightened. She broke through the ice.”

Turukáno closed his eyes when the tears started flowing again and pressed the shawl to his cheek. It smelled of the drops of Elenwe’s perfume he had sprinkled on it. With his eyes closed, he could almost believe she was sitting beside him.

“I tried to rescue her, but... I lost her. She followed Namo’s Call, I’m sure of that, to Mandos, where she can heal and wait for being reborn and I won’t see her ever again.”

Turukáno sobbed helplessly and leaned against Rog who was stroking his back again. He would have been embarrassed to break down like this in front of his followers. It was different with Rog, although he would soon join them, he only felt relieved that he didn’t have to hide how deep his grief went. It felt good, to cry at someone’s shoulder who could empathize with what he felt. He wondered how many Noldor felt like him and if a night like this would help them as much as him. Yes, their understanding of what happened after death was different than these people's, but the solidarity, the talking about it, helped. One of the elves said something and Rog made a discouraging sound. Turukáno wiped his face and looked up.

“What did he say?”

“Just a question. Take your time, you don’t have to answer right now.”

“What did he want to know?”

“If it is true, then, that the Valar call the dead to them and judge them. Some Sindar say that.”

Turukáno nodded. “That is what the Valar told us. There are halls for the dead in Aman and they’ll stay there until they are given a new body. How long that takes depends on how they lived their life. Namo calls the dead to him, but you don’t have to follow the Call.”

“I’d rather be with my family as fёa without body than live in a land I decided against going to”, Rog translated the words of another elf.

“And who gave the Valar the right to judge us anyway?”, the women who’d sung first, said heatedly in heavily accented Sindarin.

Before Turukáno could answer, Rog said: “Friends! The Noldor came back to fight the Dark in the North. Turukáno is not the Valar’s representative. He is here to grieve. Please, temper yourselves.”

Turukáno squeezed Rog’s hand gratefully. He didn’t know how to answer this question. He knew what had been taught to him – and the things, Feanáro had said, they'd spoken to his heart while he argued against his uncle.

“The Valar were tasked by Eru Iluvatar to ready the world for his Children and govern it”, he said slowly. “Some of us think like you, but the Valar never did anything unjust to me and I don’t want to speak against them.”

It was silent for a moment, then someone started a new song and Turukáno was glad that the attention shifted away from him. There would come a time when they’d have to talk about things like that, it was inevitable once they’d interact more with the Noldor, but not today.

“Rog”, he said softly. “I have to go back. I can’t leave Itarille alone the whole night.” He had tucked her in and Írisse was watching over her, but if she woke from a nightmare, she usually needed him to be able to go to sleep again and it had gotten late. “I’d like to bring her next time. I think this would be good for her, too. Please give your people my thanks for allowing me to participate, I don’t want to disturb them.”

“Maybe the next time will already be behind your walls”, Rog answered and helped him up. Turukáno whispered a voiceless thank you to those who looked up.

“I’m glad we could help you in your grief”, Rog said. “To grieve alone is hard and no one should have to do it."

"Thank you for being there." Turukáno squeezed his hand in gratitude.

They'd already left the light of the fire and he couldn't see Rog's face clearly, but he thought he was smiling, when he answered: "Thank you for not believing what the Sindar say about us."

Rog breathed deeply the cold night air. He needed a moment for himself before going back into the house. Turukáno had invited his most important lords to introduce him and although they’d treated him with courtesy, he could read in some faces that they wondered what Turukáno was thinking by accepting someone like Rog into his service. The many voices and curious questions had gotten too much for him, he wasn’t used to this kind of company, his people usually noticed if someone needed space.

They’d moved into the settlement a few days ago, setting up their tents and temporary dwellings. They were treated kindly for the most part, the Noldor were more curious than hostile – and it surely helped that Turukáno was holding his hand over them. He should to go back in, the party was in his honour after all and he didn’t want to insult Turukáno.

He halted in surprise when he saw the small figure standing in the dark hallway before the room where the party was going on. Turukáno had introduced him to his daughter Itarille, who had hid shyly behind her father at the occasion, her eyes staring horrified at his face. Rog felt sad that his appearance was so frightening to children. Now she looked at him with big eyes when he slowly moved closer.

“Princess Itarille”, he said and bowed deeply. “Can I do something for you?”

She had tears on her cheeks that shone in the light that fell through the door.

“Is atya inside?”, she asked with trembling voice.

“Yes, do you want to go to him?”

“I don’t know...” Itarille sniffled. “If he is having fun, I don’t want to be in the way."

“Princess”, Rog went to one knee so he was at a level with her, “your father would happily drop everything to be with you. He loves you beyond all measure.”

“It makes him sad that I’m afraid”, Itarille whispered. “And he is already so sad because emya is dead. I’m sad, too.”

Rog nodded seriously. “Of course you are. You both lost someone you loved.”

“I don’t want him to be more sad because of me. But I get so frightened!” She sobbed.

“What are you afraid of?”, Rog asked gently.

“It is foolish”, Itarille whispered. “Atya isn’t leaving, everyone says that, but... I always dream of the cold and the storms and how atya jumps into the water to save emya. Only that he doesn’t surface again in my dreams. And then I wake up and don’t know if it was only a dream or if atya is dead, too. And I have to see him to know that he hasn’t left me, too.”

“It’s not foolish”, Rog answered thinking of his own nightmares. “I sometimes have to see the stars when I wake at night, to know that I’m no longer caught under the earth.” He stood up and offered her his hand. “Do you want to accompany me to the party, my princess?”

She gave him a shy smile and laid her little hand in his.

“But don’t tell atya that I had a nightmare.”

“Of course”, Rog promised, although he was sure that Turukáno would figure that out himself.

Turukáno looked surprised at them when the entered the room, a line of worry formed between his eyebrows.

“Princess Itarille wants to party with us”, Rog said seriously. “May I bring you something to drink, my princess.”

Itarille beamed at him.

“Apple juice, please”, she answered. “Thank you, my lord.”

Turukáno spread his arms and she ran to him to climb on his lap. Rog heard her whisper: “I love you, atya.”

He turned to the table with beverages and poured juice into a wine glass. She thanked him again when he brought it to her with a bow and he sat down beside Turukáno again. Itarille had persuaded Ecthelion to play his flute and the sweet music permeated the air. Rog and Turukáo shared a silent look. Of course the Prince knew why Itarille had shown up here after her bedtime,  but she didn’t seem frightened now and he smiled gratefully at Rog.

A few days later, Rog was doing his ‘homework’ – he wanted to learn the Noldor’s writing system and his teacher had given him a few exercises – someone knocked on the tentpole and Itarille came in, followed by Írisse, Turukáno’s sister.

“I’m sorry to bother you”, the older Princess said, “but Itarille insisted on visiting you.”

“Don’t worry, it’s time for a break anyway.”

Rog spread his cramped fingers and cleaned the quill. He looked unhappily at the shaky words on the page. It looked easier than it was. He laid an empty page above it, they didn’t need to see his clumsy efforts and stood up to offer his chair to Írisse, but she was having none of it.

"Please, stay seated", she said and sat down cross-legged on the floor, pulling Itarille into her lap.

“What can I do for you?", Rog said as he sat down again.

Itarille looked a little nervous when she answered: “Atya says you also know dead people.”

She had tears in her eyes but Rog could see that she tried to hold them back. He took her hand in his.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”, he said softly and she nodded, her lip was trembling. “It is okay. You are allowed to cry, you are allowed to grieve.”

Itarille sobbed and threw herself into his arms. Rog held her and caressed her back. He was surprised that she’d turn to him for comfort but he wouldn’t withhold it from her.

“I know”, he murmured. “I know how much it hurts. How hard it sometimes is to start a new day when everything you do reminds you of the beloved dead. It is like a knife in the heart and it hurts every moment. Grieve together.” He looked at Ítarille who had tears running down her cheeks, too. “Talk. About the dead, about your feelings, with Turukáno, too. Believe me, you’ll feel better, if you don’t grieve alone. Don't be afraid to cry, that helps, too.”

“Thank you”, Írisse whispered with husky voice.

“And Itarille?” The girl looked at him with red eyes. “It isn’t a bad thing to feel happy. Your life goes on and the dead would want it so. Grieve, but don’t try to live in the past. You have a future and it is not a betrayal of the dead if you are happy.”

“I’ll try", she sniffed. "But I miss emya so much."

Rog kissed her forehead before he could wonder if he wasn’t taking liberties with that. She had suffered such a loss and he had already seen with Turukáno that the Noldor were badly equipped to deal with death. He’d come here because it meant a save place for his people and the possibility of fighting the Dark One – and also because he liked Turukáno. But the prince wasn’t the only one with grief in his heart and the pain of little Itarille touched him deeply. Maybe they needed him more than he’d thought they would when he accepted Turukáno’s offer.