The Understanding of a Father by Ellie

Chapter 1

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I stand in the doorway of the darkened room, marveling at the innocent beauty of the still form of my sleeping son. A shaft of moonlight has managed to slip between a gap in the curtains, illuminating the glory of his hair which lies tousled about him like the petals of a golden flower.

I smile to myself at the jest. I named our noble House before I ever even met his Vanyarin mother. Little did I know that I would be blessed with my own golden flower as my first born son.

It has been a peculiar experience having him here in my home again. A few short months ago, my son was added unto our house once again, and even now, I still wonder each time I reach out to him if he will welcome my touch or shun it in shame. When he first came home, his reactions were difficult enough when my wife or I merely were caught staring at him in joyful wonder for his return. For, though Mandos had healed his fëa, our son still felt that he had failed us, but he did not remember fully how or why. All he had were half-forgotten dreams and shadows of past experiences.

There was nothing coherent enough to explain why he felt the way he did – nothing to explain why a son who so very dearly loved his father could no longer bear to even look into his eyes. It seemed very likely my beloved Glorfindel would never forgive himself nor allow us to comfort him. We had no intention of allowing self-loathing to consume him, so we did everything we could to give him a purpose here, to help him nurture pride in himself, to find peace for his heart. But, I fear we have failed him.

The Valar made it clear to us that it was no coincidence our child and those eldest sons of three other noble Noldorin houses were returned to us in the days immediately following Eärendil’s arrival. We were told that the main purpose for their release from Mandos’ Halls was to advise and train the armies of the Noldor and the Vanyar for war in Ennor. In their previous lives, these four had been loyal and selfless beyond all expectation, with each ultimately sacrificing his life to ensure the survival of others. In payment for their sacrifices, they were the first exiles to return from Mandos’ Halls. Out of respect for their newly healed fëar, they would not be allowed to return to Ennor to fight this latest war with Morgoth.

How could we feel anything but pride and love for our son based on that information alone? But whenever we tried to tell him this, he withdrew so far within himself that we feared we would lose him again – body and spirit. Sometimes he would relax again after a while and tell us a little about the life he led after he left our home to follow his cousin Turgon into the cursed unknown of life in Ennor. Other times, he simply watched the flames dance in the hearth, with tears streaming down fair cheeks made ruddy by the heat.

To this day, I still do not know if my eldest or either of my other two sons took part in the kinslaying at Alqualondë, but in truth, I no longer care. There was a time when it mattered, though my reasons were selfish. If they had taken part, then I could at least feel righteous anger toward them to make their absence easier to bear. But if they had not, then I could look my king’s Telerin wife in the eyes each day at court without wondering if a son of mine had slain her kin. As it was, I had to accept that my children left me by their own choice, and the guilt that I believe I have failed them as a father is enough of a burden for me to bear without knowing the truth of what happened that fateful day.

I know in my head that my children had free will. I know in my heart that their mother and I tried all we could to dissuade them, but we were helpless to prevent their departure – even as the Valar were helpless to do so. One son at least has come back to us, and I realize that had we truly failed him as parents, he would not have had the purity of spirit to be absolved of his sin so soon and returned to us in the very hour of our people’s need.

But what happened to my eager, bright-eyed, loyal child when he left us? What did he face? Why is he so changed? And why will he not speak of it? Once we shared everything, and now…now he shares nothing.

For more than five hundred years of the sun, so many of us here in Tirion lived without our children. But then my Glorfindel returned along with Prince Finrod, Lord Ecthelion, and Lord Edrahil – beloved sons who their fathers and their people no longer knew. Under orders from the Valar, these four took up the difficult task of making warriors out of elves who had not touched swords for spite and shame since the kinslaying at Alqualondë. They forced us to trade the gentle grace of harp music and flowing fountains for the sharper sounds of thudding arrows and ringing steel.

At the new army training grounds just outside of Tirion, the four worked the Vanyar and the Noldor in archery and sword play. All the while we wondered how these young ones had become the masters, and when it happened that we, the elder ones and supposedly the wiser, had become the students. Endlessly they drilled us the way we first had drilled them in weapons, and the whole time their frustration clashed with our bewilderment.

Then this morning, they tried another strategy.

Glorfindel called me forward to duel with him before the combined Noldorin and Vanyarin hosts with my king and the high princes of the two kindreds observing in the forefront. Patiently they all watched as we, son and father, clashed weapons flawlessly, honorably as we had all been taught since Fëanor had first begun the forging of swords in Valinor. But then my son did something I did not expect, something I never would have considered. He slammed his sword against mine, his blade sliding downward as if to disarm when suddenly he…he plunged his mail-clad fist into my face!

Blinding white pain exploded across my mouth and nose, sending me sprawling into the dirt, my weapon flying from my hand and his sword pricking my throat. When he finally sheathed his blade and walked away, I lay there for a time, too stunned to move. Then slowly, in deep humiliation that my son had struck me so and in the presence of others, I turned my back on the assembly and spat on the ground. Gingerly, I wiped blood and spittle from my broken mouth with my sleeve and dabbed at my bleeding nose with my dirty hands.

Quietly, the four stood regarding me with grim satisfaction. I gaped in confused anger at Glorfindel, my child, my beloved eldest, known for his kind, generous, noble heart.

How dare he to strike me such a vicious blow?

“Orcs do not fight honorably,” Prince Finrod stated simply as he strode forward, addressing the shocked assembly of troops as if he were lecturing wayward children. “They will injure or maim you any way they can and feast upon your flesh afterward. Balrogs will not show you courtesy as they wrap their flaming whips about your struggling bodies, searing the living flesh from your bones. Just ask Glorfindel and Ecthelion for they were killed by the balrogs they destroyed.”

I gazed anew at Glorfindel, my swelling mouth slack in horror. I knew…I had been told by the messenger…I remember my nightmare…I saw the nameless horror of hideous shape... But the flames burning his fair skin as the Prince had said… The agony he must have endured…A balrog killed my son!

Then Finrod turned to his father Finarfin.

“My king and atar,” Finrod said for all to hear, “I apologize for the injury done to one of your lords and closest advisors, but I knew of no other way to begin to teach the lessons our warriors need to learn. I know what it is to be held prisoner by one of Morgoth’s minions. I know the agony of binding chains which ate my flesh while I waited in the dark for a werewolf to come and devour those most loyal to me. I was forced to listen to their struggles for life and their dying screams while I waited all the while for my own death in a deep dungeon under the earth. So I endured Edrahil’s death before I faced my own.”

I knew that Finarfin had had messages and dreams of his son’s death – of the deaths of all of his sons – just as I had had of the deaths of my sons. But I see from the horrified dismay on my friend’s overly pale face that his son had not told him any details of his death before this moment as mine had not told me.

Finrod turned back to us. “My lords and men, Morgoth would savor the deaths of every one of you just as he delighted in the deaths of your sons, brothers, kin, and friends. You must change the way you fight. You must listen to us, and you must learn to be fierce. You must learn to fight as cunningly as your enemy if you would have your fates be different from those of us who went before you.”

I shall never forget the shiver down my spine and the shock I felt at what I had just experienced. I looked on my son at that moment as he stood alongside Edrahil and Ecthelion, arms folded defiantly in front of their chests as if daring any one of us to challenge what the Prince had just said. I believe I will always remember the mind-numbingly painful realization that we did not understand all that had transpired in Ennor since our kin had abandoned Valinor. We knew little of what they faced, and in some cases continued to face. We truly did not comprehend what we were going to be up against in this war.

As I stand in the doorway of Glorfindel’s bed chamber now, I resolve that I will pay attention as never before, and I will learn, as will we all. When the time comes and the armies of Valinor are ready to move out, I will go.

I do not like the thought of leaving my wife, my most beloved, my strength, my constancy in the face of storm and doubt. It equally pains my heart to think of leaving my son. But, under the circumstances, I have no choice. Nearly every adult male of the Noldor and the Vanyar is going away to this war. Though I am ashamed to admit it, I really do wish to go, but my willingness to depart is based on desire for so many things.

I want to see the land in which my own parents were born. I want to see the shores my children risked all to survey, conquer, and cleanse from evil with their own blood. But more than anything, I want to inflict upon Morgoth the pain he has brought to my people, to my family, to me. I want him to know the anguish of losing one’s kin, one’s own children in a hopeless, futile cause. I want him to know what it is like to awaken terrified from nightmares of violent death only to have their veracity confirmed by messenger from Mandos stating that indeed one’s child does now rest within his care. I want him to…

My chest heaves, and I press my trembling hands to my face. After a few moments, powerful arms surround me, pulling me sideways into a tight embrace. Startled, I look up into my son’s bright compassionate gaze. But, I bow my head ashamed that he has found me so, with my lips and nose still swollen and bruised from today’s assault and my eyes full of tears. Gently, he presses my head to his shoulder and strokes my hair, comforting me as I wish I could comfort him.

“Forgive me, Atar. I have looked into the turmoil in your heart, and I do understand,” my Glorfindel whispers. “I understand… I love you so much and I am so very sorry for everything.” He pauses, taking a deep breath and I feel the nervous tension in his body as he continues to hold me close.

“Atar, I am sorry I struck you today. But I had to make you and the others understand so you do not go blindly into the fray in Ennor as did we. My impetuous young cousin Argon died as did so many others in the very first battle we faced because he…they did not realize how vicious our enemy truly is. I need you to understand the realities of this war you are going to fight. I…I …Atar, I need to know that you are going to come home again.” He pauses again and I feel his body shudder.

“I…I spent hundreds of years of the sun in struggle and strife, regretting having left you and our home. But, Atar, I know now that had I not gone, I would not have met and married the beautiful maiden I lost when Gondolin fell. I would not have sired the sons who fought so valiantly at my side, wanting nothing more than to please me as I so desperately wanted to please you.

My nephews died in my brothers’ arms during that last battle as my brothers later died in mine. But at least I was there for them, Atar! I took care of my little brothers as you told me to before I left, but…but I could not save them in the end just as I could not save my own sons that night.

Forgive me for not saying anything of this to you before now, but I did not know how. I could not forgive myself for failing them, for failing you. I should have realized you would understand. But… it never occurred to me that you would ever feel in your heart the helplessness and the ache at the departure and deaths of my brothers and I that I have felt at the loss of my sons.”

My tears continue to fall, but no longer for me. Now they are for him. So this is what has haunted and changed and destroyed my child, bereaving me of my first born son.

Now I understand more fully why he has been so distant since his return. I wish I could do something – anything to try to comfort him, but I know not what. If Mandos could not relieve this burden he still carries, how can I? How can I…

Turning in my son’s embrace, I raise my head and wrap my arms around him. I hold him close as he chokes and gasps, his tears soaking my shoulder. Soothingly I rub small circles on his back as he weeps uncontrollably. His hands cling to me, gripping my tunic as he used to when he was a boy. I press my face to his hair, despite the pain it causes my injuries.

But my injuries are nothing compared to what he has endured.

With a sigh, I accept what I must do for him. Tomorrow, I will go back out to the training field and take up the fight for my sons and for the daughters-in-law and grandsons I never knew, but may yet know upon their return from Mandos’ Halls, upon my return from war.

After a long while, my eldest finally raises his head from my shoulder. I look into Glorfindel’s tear-streaked face which is so like my own. I see sorrow, anguish, and pain staring back at me from behind the eyes of a penitent little boy who knows there is nothing he can do to mend what has been broken. Yet I also see the shadowed horror of a husband and father who has lost his family. I recognize in him everything I saw in the mirror everyday after my children left.

Bitterly, I realize “I” am the atar. I am supposed to be endowed with natural powers of healing through the touch of my fingers and the brush of my lips. I should possess the profound ability to repair anything with the strength and skillful prowess of my hands.

And yet…

As I gaze on my little boy, all I can give him is a weak watery smile as I finally reply, “I love you, my son, with all of my heart. And I sincerely hope that when I return from this war, you will be proud of me as I am proud of you.”