for time runs more swiftly than justice by Arveldis

for time runs more swiftly than justice

Read for time runs more swiftly than justice

 

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Starlight fell upon the Aeluin in a thousand pinpricks of light, the sky caught in a deep bowl. Andreth walked arm in arm with Aegnor, their pace unhurried as they wandered about the shores of the lake under the starlight. The hour was late, Andreth was certain, but time seemed to slip away, immaterial and insignificant, when they were beneath the stars, lost in conversation and loosed from the bounds of their kinds.

She could hardly remember where their conversation had begun, or where it had meandered to over the course of the evening, only that she had beseeched Aegnor to tell the tales of the first of his kindred, and he spoke now of the tragedy that had befallen the House of Finwë upon Finwë’s second marriage to Indis, much opposed by his son Fëanor and later blamed by many of the Noldor for the disastrous events that followed.

“Among my people, it is not a rare occurrence for a man or woman to take a second spouse upon their first spouse’s death,” Andreth mused. “Doing so lessens the burden of managing a trade, household, and children alone. It is a practical choice for many, but that does not mean that love cannot grow anew from the soil of grief, nor does it mean that loving again would lessen the love one bore for one’s first spouse.” She turned to him, curious. “Do your people not believe thus?”

“The Eldar love only once, Andreth,” he said, trailing the pad of his thumb along her jawline. “It is not our nature to do otherwise.”

Andreth felt a flush sweep across her collarbones and up her neck, and she looked down, wordless.

“That is why many consider Finwë’s second marriage ill-fated and wrongly done.” His thumb paused beneath her earlobe, and he tilted her chin up so that she looked into his eyes, fathomless and ageless. “And that is why for as long as I live—and for all the ages after—I will love none but thee. I could never wish for another, nor be content with any but thee.”

“And what will you do when I am gone?” She would have looked away if not for his hand beneath her chin, keeping her gaze on him.

“I will remember times such as these, and I will await the day when thou and I may share them again.” His eyes shone with warmth, and Andreth looked into them with wonder.

“And that will be enough? Enough to hold onto for all the ages of this world?”

“It is enough for me.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “For my people dwell much in memory, and I no less than my kindred.”

“The Edain have little time to dwell in memory, and few days of which to remember, and those of us who do remember the forgotten days are fewer still.” Andreth reached up and traced the shape of his cheekbone with a fingertip. “And none have memory of a love such as ours.” Her hand fell from his face. “Many among my people would call this folly.”

“As would many among mine.” He caught her hand in his and twined his fingers through hers.

She turned in his grasp, hesitant to say the words that leapt in her heart, the memory of Adanel’s tales that pushed to the front of her mind each time she considered the gulf that sundered their kinds.

Aegnor pulled her gently back to him, his fingers angling her face toward his, a question in his eyes.

She resolved herself to speak the words that had taken root in her heart for so many months, her gaze clear and determined. “And yet is it not the greater folly to imagine that such love could never grow between our kinds? Was it not folly for us to be made thus and yet driven to dwell together and take up arms together?” She cupped his face in her hand, beseeching him. “Would not the One, who your people say commands the Music of the world—though my people hear it not—have surely foreseen such a grief? And if he did foresee such grief and did nothing, allowing it to pass, what difference is there between his allowance and his will? And if he did will such a grief, then how can your people say that he is good?”

His fingers combed through her hair, steady and soft. “You ask questions I have no answer for, nor do any among my people. We know only that which we have learned from the Valar. And those who have walked with them and dwelt in their halls would say your words stray too near evil.”

“And you?” she pressed. “What would you say?”

His hand stilled in her hair, and he was silent for a moment. “I would say that I know not. Exalted as they are, even the Valar do not know every strain of the Music. Nor do I believe that the One would will such a grief.”

Andreth pressed on. “In the House of Marach, it is said in their histories that there once was no difference between our kinds, that the Edain were once like the Eldar, and that the bitter gulf that now sunders our kinds was brought about by great evil. In their tales, it was a wound dealt by the Enemy, not our natural state, that made the Edain as we now are. What say you to that?”

Though surprise and wonder was writ across his features, he nonetheless spoke with careful thought. “Great indeed must be the lore of the House of Marach, for my people have never learned of such an evil, and grievous it is, if it be true. But I do not deny that it may be so. Ever has Morgoth sought to sow discord and enmity, and ever has he sought to curse and blight that which is fair and good. But great must his power be—greater than the knowledge of the Eldar accounted and greater than that which the Valar have revealed to us—to work such an evil. To corrupt the nature of the One’s purpose—” Aegnor faltered. “Ever and anon he has been the mightiest of the Valar, but such a working of evil surpasses even the most heinous of deeds he has done.” He fell silent, and his eyes were distant and troubled, withdrawing to ages past.

Andreth covered his hand with hers. Though she had not intended it, she knew that her words worried him, for if the Enemy’s power were greater than even the accounts of the Eldar and Valar attested, it meant ill for the siege, and for every battle waged against him.

When he turned to her again, his eyes were bright—with pain, with sorrow, with wrath—lit by the flame that burned ever within him. He clutched her hand in his. “I would see him suffer for the injury he has dealt thee and thy people, Andreth. I would have him suffer torment unending, in like measure as he has dealt to Men, were it in my power to do so. No punishment could wound him enough, not even were he flung into the darkness of the abyss and devoured by his own carrion until the end of Arda.”

“No injury thou dealt could undo what he has wrought,” she said softly, cradling his face in her hand. “Elda thou art, and adaneth I am. But still I would not forsake or regret that which has grown between us. Nor would I do so were I given the choice again. I would choose thee again and again. No working of evil could dissuade my heart.”

Aegnor leaned against her hand, but his eyes were distant, though still ablaze with wrath. “Still I would have him suffer for the suffering he has wrought upon thee. I would have justice be done upon him.”

Andreth twisted out of his grasp and held his face in both her hands, looking long into his eyes. “And I would have thee with me for the time that is ours to share, not seeking vain battle with one whose treachery runs deeper than the veins of the earth.” She smoothed the furrow in his brow with gentle fingers and searched his face. Still he was far away, lost to the north and the walls and the siege.

Her fingers trailed into the stiff strands of his hair, smoothing them away from his face. “Aegnor, Aikanar, can we not share this moment together, untroubled? Time runs more swiftly than justice, and the time of my people swifter still.”

His gaze refocused as if he had been called back from a remote land or memory, and the fire dimmed in his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said softly.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thou art with me now. All is forgiven. Now, let us think not of the north and the siege, but of the starlight and the wind whispering through the trees and of the hours of this evening that are still left to us. It is the Enemy’s desire, as thou said, to see us driven to despair and to mar that which is good. I would not see him do so here.”

"Nor would I. Saelind thou art indeed," he said with a fond smile, kissing her brow before tucking her arm in his. "Let us give the Enemy no foothold here, and let us speak no more of the matter."

She brushed the tumble of his hair away from his face and pressed her lips to his, and as the starlight fell upon them, they spoke no more.