The Light is Still There by Aldwen

---

Chapter 12

---

Later, we all assemble in the square to hear our doom. Me and Ingwil, we stand a little forward. Ingwil’s features are frozen. I fight a desire to clasp together my hands. What is the worst punishment they can deal us? Send us back to Valinórë in shame?

The faces of the Valar are grave. Eönwë steps forth.

“With the authority given to me by the Elder King, and after taking counsel with the Valar, I will now pass judgement on Ingwil, commander of the Vanyar, and Arafinwë, commander of the Noldor, as those responsible for the actions of this host.”

“We will abide by this judgement.”

Eönwë nods. “So be it. Our decision in this matter is that you shall both resume your duties and continue to lead your people.”

Unblinking, we stare at the Valar. Clearly, we must have misheard. This cannot be their decision.

“My lords…” Ingwil is gripping the hem of his coat. “I am not worthy to lead them any longer. I have failed their trust.”

“Then regain it!” Eönwë snaps. “You said you would abide by our judgement. Do you take back your words now?”

“I…” My cousin’s eyes dart from one timeless face to another. Then he bows and takes a step back, spine straight, posture rigid. “I will abide by it.”

Eönwë’s stern gaze is on my face now. “Do you have aught to say, King Arafinwë?”

“No, my lord.”

“Very well.” He nods. “This matter is settled then. The other ships should be here in two days. After that, we march north.”

This is the end of it. The Valar depart. Ingwil draws a deep breath and walks towards his captains. Artanar takes a step in my direction, but I turn my back on the square ere he has reached me. I desire no company right now, not even his. I go to the harbour, and he does not follow.

Arms folded on my chest, I gaze at the Sea. A gentle breeze drives tiny waves over the surface of water glimmering in the Sun. The day is bright, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of early spring flowers blossoming in the abandoned gardens. But twenty-eight Vanyar, sixteen Noldor and one of the Falathrim will see no sunlight and starlight anymore. And for that, I am to blame.

“You should not be brooding, Arafinwë.”

Startled, I turn. Oromë is nearby, leaning against a column at the entrance of the most ornately decorated building in the port, maybe the harbourmaster’s house. My face likely betrays all my feelings. It always has; my brothers teased me about this sometimes … even Fëanáro.

“I do not see any reason to do otherwise, my lord.”

“Why?” He comes to stand beside me on the dock.

“I am not fit to lead people; that much must be plain to everyone.” Irritation must be obvious in my voice, but I do not care.

“That is not true.”

“I made an unforgivable mistake. And a commander should have a clear head, but I cannot even recall the battle events!” I clench my hands into fists.

“Yes, you made a foolish decision to march here with so few men. But when pitted against a much larger force, you knew what to do. Both you and Ingwil. That is what matters. Once battle is at hand, the commander should make the right decisions during it and afterwards. And you did that.” When I do not reply, he shakes his head. “No mistake is unforgivable, Arafinwë. And the stand you made… When taken unawares and outnumbered more than five times, you still prevailed over the enemies. You freed the city, destroyed them all and lost only forty-five warriors.”

“Only forty-five…” I repeat bitterly.

“Yes.” Oromë lays his hand on my shoulder and looks me closely in the eyes. “Only forty-five. Needless deaths, true, but it could have been much worse. And…” He looks away for a moment and sighs. “You will lose more. People die in war, King of the Noldor. Forgive me if what I say seems cruel, but you will have to accept that.”

His last words are hardly encouraging, but after he leaves I feel a little better. Maybe.

The other ships arrive even as Eönwë has said, and a few busy days pass unloading them and arranging everything for the long march north. On our last evening in Eglarest I approach the burial mound, to pay my respects to the fallen ere we leave. But Ingwil is already there, standing beside the mound with a bowed head, so, unwilling to intrude, I withdraw behind a large boulder nearby.

Suddenly my cousin raises his head with a start, looks around, turns and, shielding his eyes against the low evening Sun, peers in the shadows of the trees beyond the mound. A tall figure, clad in a garb of deep green, approaches him. Ingwil lowers his hand and stands still, looking at Yavanna. Her face is kind as she speaks to him. He listens in silence, then nods. Yavanna smiles and lightly brushes his cheek. Then she kneels by the mound and briefly lays her hand on the fading greenery.

After Yavanna’s departure Ingwil remains by the mound for long moments. Finally he wipes his eyes dry and pulls himself straight. Ere leaving, he sets his hand over his heart and says something that looks like a solemn promise.

As he walks past me, I withdraw further in the shade of the boulder, but a twig snaps under my feet. Ingwil halts and turns abruptly. At the sight of me, he clenches his fists.

“Are you spying on me, Arafinwë?”

“I am not spying. I came to say my farewells and was unwilling to intrude upon yours. Why are you so wrathful with me?”

“I did not ask you to defend me before the Valar!” His eyes flash. “Leave me alone!”

I take a step towards him. “Ingwil, we share the same guilt and grief. Should we be at war with one another when there is a war to fight ahead of us?”

“I am not at war with you.” Ingwil’s lips quirk in contempt. “But neither do I want the company of you and your unbearable righteousness.”

He brushes past me and strides away as I look after him with a bitter mixture of anger, disappointment and sadness. I tried more than once, Súlion. I truly did. I am sorry.

When I turn towards the city, the light of evening has turned into dusk and the first stars have kindled. The faded green on the silent mound is fresh and vibrant again, the vines have taken root and the wilted flowers have raised their heads. With Yavanna’s blessing, this place will keep the memory of our fallen people.

Less than a week after we have left the coastlands behind, we meet a company of Men, several hundred strong. We eye each other warily at first, but then their captain speaks to us in Sindarin.

“I am Roal. We are Edain, of the house of Hador,” he says. “For centuries my people have been friends with the lords of the Noldor, and you look akin to them.”

When he learns of our purpose, he raises a clenched fist. “Long we have fought the filth of Morgoth and would see him and his creatures vanquished. Sadly, the Men are divided, and only Edain now oppose the Dark Lord.”

This evening we sit by the fire together, and we watch the Secondborn in wonder. They are somewhat like us and yet unlike – more frail in some ways, and their spirits glow with urgency we do not comprehend until we learn that their lifespan in this World is but few score-years.

“What can one accomplish in such a short time?” Artanar muses to himself, yet his voice is not sufficiently quiet, and our guests apparently understand some Quenya as well. Roal’s eyes glint in amusement.

“Much of what you accomplish in centuries, Master Elf,” he replies. “Let me ask you – how long have you dwelt in Arda?”

Artanar replies. He is a few centuries younger than I am.

“Have you family and children?” asks the Man.

“Not yet.” Artanar shakes his head. “So far, craft has taken all my time. Even though…” My friend falls silent and blushes. Can it be he has left someone behind, someone I was not aware of? I look at him closely, but he avoids my eyes.

“If there is a lady waiting for you, you should speak to her at once when you return. Or maybe do more than speak.” Roal grins. “I can think of a few things more convincing than words.” I nearly laugh aloud when Artanar’s face assumes a distinctively scarlet tone, but the captain of Men nods. “See how different this is? I am forty-four. I have been married for two-score years, and we have two sons and a daughter. Both our sons are already skilled in the craft of their choice, and our daughter is learning. Our eldest son’s wedding took time last autumn, and our first grandchild is on the way.”

We merely shake our heads in wonder. This is indeed so very different from us. The Eldar would not choose to wed and have a family during times of such peril.

“I know this is not your way, but we do not have the years you have,” the captain of Men says quietly. “And I do not complain, despite the hard times. My life has been… good. Beautiful, in many ways. I first met my Airith by the wide waters of river Nenning, and later we plighted our troth in the shade of the ancient willow trees growing there. We built our house nearby that place, upon a hillock; from the windows one can see sunsets colouring golden the forest beyond the river. We have been happy, you know. The coming of children, the shared cares…” He smiles and looks in the flames for a while, then raises his head. His eyes flash. “Some years ago, with more and more Orcs starting to roam around, we decided to resist, to protect our homes. We have gathered others to us. Many of those now here have fled from the north before; they no longer want to run. Our numbers grow, and if we keep together, we can prevail over Morgoth’s filth. And now, with the hope you bring…”

We camp and take counsel together for another day, and when we part, the company of the Edain continues their way westward, to fight the enemies along the coast of Valariandë. They need some convincing, though. At first, they want to join us and march north.

“We do not want you to shelter us.” Roal frowns. “It is unfair you should face the greater peril.”

“We have greater strength and numbers,” I reply. “And better weapons. Be not offended, my friend.”

“I am not offended. But even with less men and worse gear we could be of some use. We would gladly die defending Middle-earth.”

“It would be much better if you defended Endor and lived,” Eönwë says gravely. “You spoke about your family, and your men likely have families as well. Guard your homeland. Alert other companies of your people. The coastlands and south of Beleriand need protection too, and we cannot spare our forces for this purpose; the Eldar will be needed in the north.”

“By which you mean, lord, we will not be needed there.” Roal laughs mirthlessly. The Man likely takes Eönwë for just another Elf, our commander. “But you are probably right. We shall cleanse the coastlands then. Plenty of opportunities to die doing that, too.”

“Indeed.” Eönwë sighs, then looks Roal closely in the eyes. “Go with the blessing of the Valar. May your armour protect you well and may your aim be true.”

The captain of Men considers him intently, then bows low before him. “I believe you have the power and authority to bestow such blessing, lord.”

We cover mile after mile. The air grows warm, and the days lengthen. Carpets of white and blue flowers cover the forest floor amid burnt and uprooted trees. Orchards bloom by desolate farmsteads.  Birds sing and nest in ruins of long-abandoned cities. This land is fair even now, with scars of war upon its face. What was it like in the days of the Long Peace?

The deeper inland we pass, the more often we encounter our enemies. Sometimes they give us fight, but usually they turn and flee northward. Behind them, remains fire. Devastation. And people. Men, women and children, hacked to pieces. Pinned to walls with spears and arrows. Burned. How can such cruelty even exist in the world, in any creature?  With time, our tears run dry, and we merely bury them in silence. But always we cover the graves with green branches and flowers. Maybe some of them will put down roots and blossom in memory.

In the beginning of our march I often think of Ëarwen. Recalling her smile, her beloved face and our days together brings some hope and consolation. But soon I lock these memories in a remote corner of my heart and allow them to fade to an indistinct image. It seems unfitting to think of her, when those other memories, the memories of the burnt houses, the bloated corpses, the hideous faces of our enemies, are so close. With each new day, the images of home and peace retreat further and further behind the harsh reality of war. Sometimes I look northeast. I have learned that my daughter dwells there, in a land called Ossiriand, but I lock away thoughts of Artanis too. Let her be safe and well, and far enough from evil.

In evenings I sit by the fire and draw images of Endórë - of Endórë as it should have been, with thriving farmsteads and proud cities, with tall trees in great forests, with wide rivers running swift and clear. When the sketchbook is full, Artanar gets me another. When that, too, is full, he finds some loose sheets of paper somewhere. When there is no more paper, I draw on cliffs with a charcoal from fireplace, I draw with a stick on hard-packed, scorched ground. When I draw, I almost forget the devastation around. Sometimes I even convince myself that the sights I am depicting truly exist somewhere, that they are not merely an imagined replacement for ruined buildings, for desolate woodlands, for defiled waters. I stop drawing when we reach our destination, when we cross the mountains encircling Anfauglith. Facing this sight, all other images fade, and all memories lose their colours.

Here, the light of the sky dwindles. Acrid smoke stings our eyes. Bitter wind drives grey ashes over the black and barren wasteland below. In its narrowest place, the plain is some fifteen miles wide, and beyond it looms a mountain ridge with jagged tops, crowned with three misshapen peaks, seemingly formed of slag, piled for centuries. They spit forth dark fumes that obscure the sky so much that it feels like the grey hour of late evening or early morning. The Noldor who stand with me gasp in dismay.

“How shall we prevail over this?” asks Artanar quietly.

“I do not know,” I reply after a long silence. “But we must. Somehow, we must.”