I've Hungered for Your Touch by oshun

The room his mother had readied for him was spacious and comfortably furnished. The large bed had been turned-down already, revealing snowy sheets and three large pillows. Caranthir was exhausted—physically and emotionally—but he could not rest until he had read the entire book.

Someone had already lit an oil reading-lamp, but turned it down low. It was placed next to an upholstered chair with a matching footrest near the window. It made a perfect spot for reading. If what his mother had told him about preparing the room for him when she heard he was to be released from the Halls was true—and Nerdanel never lied—the room had been furnished long before she received the manuscript.

He sat in the chair, turned up the lamp, put his feet up, and opened the book. His heart pounded and he felt faint for a moment, but a few deep breaths stopped his escalating anxiety. His curiosity bit harder than his fear. He skimmed through several dozen pages of pontification, by a scholar with fair knowledge, about the history of the First Age in Middle-earth. When he reached the beginning of a series of maps and charts of comparisons among Quenya, Sindarin, and various Mannish languages and dialects, he nearly lobbed the book across the room. Then he did what they always did when they were boys. He skipped to the ‘good part.’ He leafed through the book until, near the middle, he found the words “Haleth the Hunter” centered on a page and began to read.

The dust and fetid stench of orc blood and shit assaulted my nostrils and my throat. It was all I could do to keep myself from vomiting or emptying my bowels where I stood. Tears rolled down my cheeks and, for the first time since my late-girlhood, I felt too young and inexperienced to be forced to confront such horror. But my heart steeled with determination and my sword arm stayed steady. I had to remain at the front—visible to my shield-sisters. I swung and parried and slew, until I thought I surely must be spent. But we all kept finding a little more untapped strength to draw upon. We fought like demons.

Not only did the orcs outnumber us—it felt like ten to one at least—but their powerful, squat builds and total disregard for their own lives or limbs put us at an acute disadvantage. After what might have been an eternity, unlikely to have been more than half an hour, the pure sweet notes of Elven horns split the air. Then in the distance, at the tree line, the sun’s rays broke through heavy cloud cover and caught the glitter of polished armor, shining spears, and unsheathed swords held aloft and ready. Clouds drifted over the sun again, but the wind lifted and whipped their scarlet banners, breaking the dullness of a bleak grey sky. The sudden slash of color struck me as a symbol of our change from aching despair into hope. Their mounted warriors, resembling a magnificent force of avenging Valar, thundered out of the forest onto the plain of battle, closing the gap between their forces and the main body of the orc horde with uncanny speed.

For a moment I thought I had suffered a mortal wound and our unexpected saviors were but my dying dream. I came to my senses when I spotted a tall Elf-lord wearing a red-plumed helm. He surged forward, front and center, on a magnificent white battle-horse brandishing his long, shining sword, shouting, “Death! Death to all orcs!” His men thundered, “Death! Death! Death!” In contrast to the melodious peals of the Elven horns with which they had introduced themselves to the battlefield, they attacked with rough terrorizing battle cries, all but drowning out the guttural shouts of the orcs. Their warriors mowed a path through Bauglir’s monstrous minions like a wind-storm sweeping through a field of grain.

On our side, my shield-maidens pushed with renewed vigor against what was no longer a forward-moving force. Revitalized, we pressed one last time with soaring spirits, meeting only remnants of defensive resistance. The orcs fell back, trying to turn and flee, but the Elven knights surrounded them, cutting many down in their tracks. Another phalanx of Elven cavalry—their massive war horses unaffected by the sounds and smells of battle—cut around from the side and pushed the remaining orcs into the Gelion. I recall thinking: if only they had come seven days earlier!

After a one last, intense period—blessedly brief—the near-deafening clamor of swords and shouting diminished; a period of near silence followed. The Elven warriors combed the battlefield, silently delivering death blows to any surviving orcs. The Elves then gently, even tenderly, extracted our wounded or dead, as well as their own few fallen comrades, from the mire and carried them to the front of the field. They turned their eyes not to their own commander, but to me, a small, exhausted woman, as though awaiting my command.

I looked up to our watchers and archers stationed at the top of the palisade and gave the hand sign for the main gates to be opened. Only the soft murmuring of Elven voices or jangle of their horses’ tack interrupted the eerie silence. As the Eldarin knights dismounted, their beautiful horses stood in their places, apparently also waiting for further instructions.

I listened to the great wooden bar across the entry into our stockade being forced out of its notches—a tense moment for me. It had not been fashioned to be moved by young girls. Finally, the huge fortified door, with much creaking and scraping, slowly opened. I nodded to the nearest Elf and he moved forward toward the gate, his fellows following him. Then I heard a gasp and a muffled sob to one side of me. One of my most fearless shield-maidens reached toward an Elf cradling a young man against his body, with all the care of a father carrying his sleeping child. It was the maid’s younger brother, no more than a boy. In normal times, he would have still been training with a wooden sword.

One of tallest Elves swung off his snow white destrier and approached us. He nodded first to my weeping shield sister.

“Take heart, soldier. He’s not dead, only wounded,” he said. “We have reinforcements following us, with healers, wagons of clean water, food, and a good stock of purifying salves and medicinal herbs.”

He glanced up to catch my eye, his subsequent remarks were clearly intended for me as a captain, not simply as reassurance for my comrade. “Our healers’ skills are second to none in all of Arda and they have had experience with your race before. They will arrive within an hour or even less. I promise you that your wounded will be well-cared for.” His voice, although soft and reassuring, held an authoritative tenor, as though he were accustomed to deference.

Turning to the sister of the wounded boy, I said, “Go on. Follow him,” gesturing toward the Elf carrying her brother who had slowed for a moment. I did not need to tell her twice.

I stood, spent and stunned, watching enthralled as the Elf standing before me removed the red-plumed helm from his head. He had looked like a handsome man with his face partially obscured by the helmet. Without it, he was a marvel of masculine beauty. Long black hair, plaited in warrior braids, tumbled out of the gleaming silver, jewel-studded helm. Were it not for his shy smile and his pleasant low voice, he might have resembled a Maiarin warrior come to unexpectedly save us from total annihilation.

Mortified by my humiliating response to the obvious leader of our Elven rescuers, I did what I often did in those days, hid embarrassment behind mild aggression. “You’re late!” I stated.

His eyes widened, but he controlled his features. “My deepest condolences for your losses, my lady. Now that we have arrived, we will do what we can to clear this area of any remaining threats before leaving. We did not realize when we set out that you were under siege, only that the area was swarming with orcs and your people faced the threat of imminent attack. We came prepared not only for battle but for any possible hardship their presence in this area might have caused you. I am deeply sorry that we did not arrive in time to prevent such heavy casualties.”

I tried to hold my chin up, but his kindness in the face of my own lack of courtesy caused my voice to tremble with emotion. “We are much diminished. There are few surviving adult male warriors; you will find mainly women, children, and the elderly or unfit. Our stockade would have fallen today—after daily attacks of more than a week—if you had not arrived when you did. We owe our continued existence to your arrival.”

“I presume you are the captain of these valiant warriors.”

I was a feisty girl in those days and sought to offset insecurity with boldness. I involuntarily jerked my chin up in pride. “I am Haleth, called the Hunter by my people. My father Haldad, our chieftain, perished in battle several days ago, along with my brother Haldar. My people have chosen me as their new leader.”

“Your father was known to us by reputation as a strong and well-regarded chief, respected by all and beholden to none. I’m Caranthir Fëanorion and I hold responsibility for the region of Thargelion. How does one properly address the head of the Haladin people?”

“You may call me Haleth, if I may call you Caranthir.” No way was I going to address him as lord. I knew that I needed in our dire straits far more assistance from him than my people would be eager to accept. However, if the Haladin had a central principle it was that they bent the knee to no one. Any extension of my short tenure as their chieftain would be contingent upon me carrying out the wishes of my people.

“That’s agreeable to me, Haleth.” He gave me a crooked, assessing smirk. To say his grin was disarming is an understatement. Reaching inside his gambeson, he pulled out a golden flask, ostentatiously ornate for a water bottle. He removed the stopper and extended it to me. “Please allow me to offer you a drink. You look as though you need one.”

I accepted it gladly and took a long swallow. It scalded my throat and I choked but managed to swallow it all without spluttering. It burned going down but warmed me instantly, chasing away at least part of my tension and bone-deep exhaustion.

“I thought it was water,” I gasped. A few of the women surrounding me giggled. They had figured out that it was some sort of strong Elven firewater. I might mention here that my shield-sisters and I were very young then.

“I’m sorry, Lady. . . hmm. . . Haleth.” He grinned again. “You just tossed down enough of the finest apricot brandy produced in all of Beleriand to last a large man most of an evening. Did you like it?”

I laughed, for the first time in as long as I could remember. “It’s hard to tell. Maybe next time, I can try less and drink it slower.” The sun broke the heavy cloud-cover revealing a clear blue sky. It seemed a portent of something—survival perhaps? “I’m sorry we have not much to offer in terms of hospitality. But you are welcome to what we have.”

A wave of cheering from the back of Caranthir’s troops drew our eyes toward the dark green of the forest behind them. The first of many large, white-canvas-covered wagons emerged onto the plain. “Supplies! Yay!” shouted a cheeky squire at the Elf-lord’s elbow.

“I think we will able to able to provide for ourselves and lay in a new store of provisions for your depleted fortress. Our scouts who left to look for stragglers will not return empty-handed either. No one will go hungry today.”

Tears filled my eyes. I could feed my starving people—the children had grown so thin, frail, and listless. As though he had read my thoughts he said, “And we have a special way-bread, which will be particularly well-suited to restoring the lack of proper nourishment your children have doubtless suffered. It is hearty in its nutrients, but palatable to the young and easy to digest after periods of deprivation.”

“We have nursing women and a few heavy with. . .” I was unable to finish, thinking of those girls I had grown up with who had already miscarried or feared for their unborn infants.

“Our healers will know what they need. I can do nothing at the moment to assuage your grief or erase the horrors you have endured, but at very least, we can help heal your wounded and restore your people’s physical strength before we leave.”

He looked as though he had more to say, but held back. He seemed to recognize that he was treading close to an invisible diplomatic line that stretched between us as the leaders of two peoples meeting for the first time. He’d doubtless been warned not offer too much nor force Elven solutions upon us. Our prickliness as a people was infamous throughout the clans.

“For all of my people, I will accept your generosity with gratitude.” I almost said ‘we are beholden to you,’ which would have been an most unfortunate choice of vocabulary. My people would not have accepted his assistance on those terms.

The first few days after that last battle passed in a whirlwind of activity. Despite the pressure of decisions—Caranthir asked my opinion of every action he took regarding our immediate needs. He explained what they could do to help and how, while allowing me to choose to accept or reject any of those offers. Despite the distraction of so much activity, my euphoric awareness of the beauty of simply being alive faded slowly—never had the sky seemed so blue or the distant line of the forest so vibrantly green against it. The sight of every familiar face brought on a new surge of relief.

When Caranthir informed us that he wanted to give his troops the assignment to clear the befouled field in front of our stronghold, many orcs had been forced into the River Gelion, but others had fallen in place. His reasoning was that we needed to recuperate from what he chose to call 'battle fatigue.' He tossed off the expression as though it were a well-used phrase.

This was a period which we referred to at the time as "The Long Peace." It did not feel like peace to me. The Noldor had indeed prevented the main forces of the Dark Lord from sweeping down from the north. But this so-called peace was not without its threats. Maintaining the watchful peace had not been passive. The Noldor and their allies had, over the past decades, suffered most of the casualties. So, yes, his kinsmen and the people they led knew something of the weariness of the killing field, of losses of comrades, and of narrow escapes with their lives.

By then, the instances of Bauglir’s foul vermin slipping through the Noldorin leaguer had been notably increasing. Without Caranthir's intervention, their harassment in the instant case could have been enough to have eliminated our small, relatively unorganized people in its entirety.

Some of my shield-sisters, more than willing to leave the brave and handsome Elf-warriors to the filthy task of clearing the battleground and burning the orc corpses, hoped to observe them use some arcane form of legendary Elven magic. The only thing magical about their method was their impressive stamina and stoicism. They had the numbers, the competence, and an admirable determination to have it finished.

They constructed pyres downwind from our settlement to prevent the stench of burning carcasses from reaching our side of the barricade. In less than three days, due to their indefatigable labor, they had cleared the plain of orc cadavers and plowed any remains under the soil.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Last night I wrote of how I met Caranthir and our first interactions with one another. Re-reading my pages it seems to me that one might take away the impression that he was a talkative man. In fact, I have recorded to this point in my story almost every word he said that I am able to remember from those first few days. He was what my mother had called ‘a man of few words,’ remarkably soft-spoken among a forceful, arrogant people.

To call Noldor arrogant is not to say that I did not like the followers of Caranthir I met in those two short months. I admired their skills—those of war and of peace. They had a prodigious willingness to work. One had to appreciate their loyalty to their lord and their generosity with my beleaguered people. But their high self-esteem at times was almost laughable. They fought like devils and all but glowed with a terrible beauty. Underneath their preternatural intelligence and self-assurance, I learned quickly that they were only human, possessing at their core the same flaws and virtues of the rest of us.

I learned later that Caranthir had the reputation of having a bad temper. The rumor was this was why he had been named Dark Finwë, either that or his moodiness. As much as I wanted to know him better, I hesitated to initiate conversation with him at first. There may have been another reason that I did not approach him. I desired him from the moment I first saw his face.

There was so much to deal with during those days—sick children, mourning our fallen, caring for the wounded, and stocking up on clean water and food before any major late-summer thunder storms. The last few weeks had been unseasonably warm; luckily for us, autumn was slow in coming. I had to figure out when and how to move this depleted people of mine. We could not stay there.

Meanwhile, every time I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I found myself compelled to turn and look. Occasionally he caught me and shot me a melancholy smile. I wanted to talk to him. He fascinated me. I wanted him to tell me things about his life. The more time I spent around him and his men, the less strange they felt to me. "Only people," I thought time and again.

Of course, it was not that simple. They were people who never aged, were uniformly good-looking, and incredibly smart and agile of mind. I wanted to talk to him and find out how different we might be from one another or how similar. Truth be told, I wanted to touch him. I knew I found men attractive, but this was another level of that impulse. I hungered for his touch.

The outrageousness of my inner feelings made me fight to exert control over any outward manifestations. I had barely exchanged a direct gaze with him, despite our frequent encounters. We limited our verbal interactions to the practical. While some of his warriors laughed and talked a lot, and liked to sing and dance around the campfires at night, even flirting with the bolder and more comely of my shield-sisters, Caranthir was quiet and withdrawn, content to be left in peace. Well-spoken and gracious when addressed, but not seeking out company, even among his own.

I had begun to think of him as Dark Caranthir myself, comparing him to his gregarious and opinionated comrades—so quick to laugh and quick to argue. The Noldor, as I observed them, were not a somber people.

Everything changed one morning when I went the to training gound behind the fortress. Among the sparring pairs, I noted that my shield-sisters had each found themselves an Elven partner. Caranthir alone stood to one side, voicing an occasional shout of instruction or encouragement to one of his soldiers. I had never heard him raise his voice before.

“I see your men are schooling my sisters.”

“Not entirely. They have learned a thing or two from them.” His dark eyes glittered with humor.

“I’d be interested to know what that might be.”

“Mainly, not to underestimate them.”

I laughed. He turned to me and bowed solemnly. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, my lady?”

“I would be honored,” I said with equal solemnity bowing back. “I’m very afraid I’ll make a fool of myself, but I am willing to take the chance.”

He tossed me one of the Elven practice-blades—it was marvelously well-made, weighted and balanced to closely resemble the feel of a real blade, nothing like the clumsy wooden swords we used for training. He bowed again and took a stance. “Have at me,” he said with a challenging smile, showing his perfect white teeth.

I attacked and he parried effortlessly. A few more thrusts and parries—me aggressive and him relaxed—until I started to lose my temper. This was not any kind of a fair fight. And, anyway, what did he think I could learn by being totally outclassed? Then something in me broke and I went full-out at him until I found I had managed to point my blade at his throat.

“Now that is more like it.”

“You cheated!”

“And you are good enough to know that I did.” His smile was like that of a delighted child. “I wanted a break. You’re a fiery little demon.”

“You’re a great tall immortal Elf from the land of the gods!”

“Not all of the foes one may face here are going to be ham-fisted degenerate orcs!”

“Fine. Let’s go again. This time use your words, big man, give me a little instruction. Otherwise, this is a complete waste of time.”

“Not true. You made me sweat. Ready?” The next time he went at me without warning and I managed to counter him. We went on for a long while. I’ve never worked harder in my life.

“Help! Stop!” I yelled, laughing and gasping for breath. He kept going.

“Ask nicely,” he said.

“I surrender!” I let out an ear-splitting shriek, like a little girl, angry and harried as if I were being teased by a bully. I had to laugh at myself. He laughed also, his eyes turning gentle and pleased.

“That was terrific! You are really very good. Let’s do this every day until I leave. I promise I will make some notes for you later. Can you read?” I nodded in the affirmative, not even thinking to be insulted that he thought he had to ask. “And I’ll give you more advice next time as we work.”

“Too tired for more now?” I mocked.

“I wanna sit down for a while.” His happy laugh broke through any remaining walls of defense I had against his all too obvious physical charms. I determined I would seduce him. Whyever not?

“Try that short Sindarin guy with the blond hair.” He pointed across the field. “He’s lazy and needs a real workout.”

By the time I had made the young Sindarin fellow sweat, I was totally worn-out myself. To my surprise, Caranthir was still sitting on the grass where I had left him. He rose gracefully to his feet, his face somber again. I tried not wobble as I approached him; my legs felt like water and my arms heavy as lead. He wanted something of me and I dearly hoped it would not involve work or negotiations.

“Thank you,” he said. “You did make the lad work and taught him a lesson in humility. I know you are tired now but, if you feel better later, after some rest, I had hoped that you might join me at our campfire tonight.”

Ugh, I thought, maybe not physical work, but certainly practical discussions would be involved. One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile and he looked into my eyes, in that way he had which felt almost as though he could see what I was thinking.

“No negotiations or decision-making involved. I offer simply an evening of relaxation—a chance to ease one’s cares. One of my men has agreed to sing for us tonight. He is very good—not anything like my brother, but he is considered to be a master bard. I thought you might enjoy hearing our music. The singer is one of those who can sing away memories of toil and darkness, if only temporarily, and remind one that there is always a reason in life for rejoicing.”

My relief must have been palpable to him because a compassionate smile lit his dark eyes. My curiosity, of course, was overwhelming.

“I’d be a fool not accept your invitation,” I said.

The sun had set before I had finished my uncharacteristically careful toilet. I had braided my thick, wild hair away from my face and fastened it on top of my head in a wreath. I allowed the rest of it to hang loose down my back. A long, flowing tunic of finely-woven pale wool, which had belonged to my mother, fit snugly across my chest—not too snugly I hoped. I did not want to be remembered only for my ample bosom. I grudgingly thought that I might not be beautiful, but with a little effort, I could look pretty for a night at least. My youth was an asset, as was my high color. Everyone agreed that my father had been a comely man before his face had become so careworn in recent years. I remembered thinking my mother was beautiful when I was a little girl. People have told me that I look like my mother.

Our people found a little rose in a woman’s cheeks appealing. I’d liked that a lot about Caranthir. His complexion was fair to the point of translucent, but he had rosy cheeks and he blushed easily—two things that I liked. He might be able to read my thoughts, but I could read his face.

Admiring my reflection in the back of my father’s shield, I decided that I looked appropriately womanly without appearing to have primped and fussed too much. My pride could not tolerate that. I did not see a stranger in my mirror image, but a slightly nicer-looking version of myself. I had no choice but to be satisfied with the result. I did hope he might find me attractive. Comeliness mattered a lot to most men. Too much perhaps. However, I thought with relief, he wasn’t most men. He seemed to see more in a person, to see beyond the surface. And, I thought he needed heartsease every bit as much as I did. I’d seen the strain in his eyes, which could be so soft and warm at times and periodically closed and guarded. On occasion, his tension showed in the set of his jaw as well. I imagined with a thrill that, given a chance, I might be able to make him forget some of his troubles for an evening.

The aroma of meat—spit-roasted pheasants—overwhelmed me before I reached the sandy beach on the Ascar they had chosen for their gathering. Both Elves and Men avoided the recently polluted bank of the River Gelion, where the Noldor had driven the orcs to drown. The Gelion was no longer despoiled from the battle, because of its size and the strength of its current and the efforts made to clear it. But it was nevertheless avoided because of the foul associations.

When I reached the bonfire, I instantly spotted Caranthir, not insouciant and happily quaffing a mug like most of his men. He sat erect on a long log, head held high, his expression solemn and shoulders straight, a picture of tense expectancy.

If I had worried that I would look as though I had preened excessively to prepare for this rendezvous, I should not have. I had never seen him more exquisitely groomed. His midnight hair, brushed to a high-sheen, fell glossy over his shoulders and down his back. He wore an elegant crimson tunic, with full sleeves cuffed tightly at his wrists and a deep opening at the chest. The light of the fire caught the shimmer of a small diamond-encrusted, eight-pointed star—the sigil of his house—on a fragile gold chain at his throat.

I wished I had worn my mother’s opal earrings. I could not match Fëanorian jewels but, simple as they were, my lesser gems were perfect in their own right. Then I thought ruefully that it could not have mattered less, nothing I could do would permit me to match his beauty. My only choice was to accept myself as I was and enjoy his splendor.

He stood and bowed at the waist, looking up at me, his smile shy and his eyes warm. “I am so happy that you came.”

“I told you I would!” He grinned at me. By then he had grown accustomed to my bristliness and more often than not found it amusing.

“I’ve saved you a seat,” he leaned forward to whisper in my ear, nodding toward an ample space on the log for the two us. I moved to sit and he grabbed my arm. “Wait! Let me find something for you to sit on. I don’t want you to spoil your lovely gown.”

His ever attentive young squire rushed over to us, holding a rustic blanket. “Will this do, sire?”

“Thank you. This is perfect. What would I do without you?”

The lad grinned, thoroughly pleased. “Tis nothing, my lord.”

We settled ourselves on the log. The closeness of our bodies felt comfortable and yet somehow intimate. I decided he might be courting me. My awareness of his altered demeanor made my heart ache and my blood race. I had intended to entice him, but I had not expected his intentions to run along the same line.

“You look lovely tonight,” he said. The intensity of his bashful gaze left no doubt in my mind as to whether he was sincere or not. He certainly did not strike me as the sort to invent fine phrases to beguile a woman.

Since I was a young girl, I had not felt at ease with that sort of compliment, but I took the advice my mother had always offered and said, “Thank you.”

The game was soon ready to eat. I was ravenous. While I ate, I glanced about the company. I spotted a large number of my own people, including most of my shield-maidens. Word had spread about the much-lauded bard perhaps. Or mayhap simply the idea of eating again had drawn them here! Several days after their arrival, we were still eager at the thought of any food, but especially meat. We had survived on a diminishing supply of grain and tubers for far too long. I watched people sniff with interest and respond with approval or curiosity at the foreign spices that the Noldorin cooks used on the fowl. The Dwarven ale they brought with them was flowing freely. The Noldor liked to drink. I hoped it was not too strong for my girls. But I reminded myself I was not their mother or their wet-nurse.

They called their singer Calyaro. He was another moody, quiet Elf, somewhat like Caranthir, another exception to the rule. The Noldor I encountered within Caranthir’s company were talkative and loved to argue; they laughed, sang, and danced when at leisure, flirted with one another and our youth. In the past, I had heard it said that the Noldorin Elves were remote and disdainful. As soon as I had spoken with a few of them at any length, I decided they were neither. When they were serious, they maintained a fierce focus. They were athletic warriors, proud of their hard-won martial skills and their discipline. Plain-spoken they freely admitted to cultivating practical skills to a level of genius and loved to describe their famous craftsmanship as well.

Before I met Caranthir’s soldiers, I might have thought that Elves, with their beauty and otherworldly grace, would be lordly pretty boys. I could not have been more wrong if the Noldor I had come to know were a fair sample. As my father would have said they had ‘their feet planted on the ground.’ They played hard and worked harder. The Sindar in their company modeled their ethics upon those of the majority.

But the Noldor, as exuberant as they could be in their leisure time, guarded a shadow lurking within the depths of their bright eyes, intriguing and compelling, mayhap even a little dangerous. I had already heard rumors of dark secrets then and would be privy to more later, but I respected their bravery and owed them a debt of gratitude which I could never recompense. I looked at Caranthir that night, mesmerized by his broody beauty and self-containment, and decided that I did not want to know anything he chose not to share with me.

When the minstrel Calyaro finally sang, he transformed himself from a dour-faced silent type into an enchanter. He wove pictures with his voice of stirring deeds of valor, wrongs to be righted, as well as high romance. And what a marvelous voice! That humble river bank had never echoed with such a wall of sound and all of it created with a simple lap harp and the voice of a single man. If Caranthir’s famous brother was better than this, I thought he must indeed be a wizard.

Calyaro began the evening’s entertainment with a familiar song. His audience murmured approval at his choice. I could not understand a word, but Caranthir whispered a not poetic but serviceable translation of it into my ear. I shivered at his warm breath tickling my ear and neck. As he leaned closer his muscled thigh pressed against my leg. I wondered if he was as aware of our bodies touching as I was. The sensation thrilled me.

Unlike the Sindarin songs I had heard, all about nature, trees, waterfalls, and glorious mountains and green valleys, his opening ballad was about a shimmering white city of high towers and wide avenues lit by magical trees of unimaginable power which waxed and waned with golden and silver light. Caranthir explained this was the city where his grandfather had ruled as king. He insisted it was not a tale of a fairie land, but one as real and ordinary to him growing up as the forests and vales of East Beleriand were to me.

Calyaro sang several rousing battle songs in Sindarin and the company stomped and clapped in time, adding their voices to the choruses. Then to quiet them, he turned to simple songs they might have learned at a grandmother’s knee.

“That’s enough for now,” he said, ending the virtuoso performance abruptly. The crowd clapped with enthusiasm, a few calling out for more. He held a hand up to quiet them. “There will be another time. I live to sing, you know,” he said laconically. “But now, I need a drink.”

Caranthir swiftly compiled. He pulled the flask from his pocket that he had offered me that first day on the battlefield and handed it to the bard. “I think you’ll find this to your taste.”

He took a generous swig. Unlike me, he did not cough. “My lord, you know me well. That is a magnificent brew,” he said offering it back to Caranthir.

“Keep it.”

“Easy to say when it’s almost empty.” Calyaro bowed deeply, obviously pleased, but with a tight grin of suppressed laughter quirking around his mouth.

“I meant the container, Caro. It’s of some considerable value!” Caranthir gave a short laugh, enjoying the banter.

“Some value indeed, my lord!” He whistled softly. “It’s an heirloom. I cannot take it for a song.”

Caranthir gave him a melancholy half-smile. “Not one song, but several, and years of service and loyalty. Anyway, what value is an heirloom to one who will never father an heir? Ask my squire and he’ll refill it for you. Tell him I said to use the good stuff.”

“Thank you, sire. I’ll accept both. Is this your father’s work?”

“Nay, but as fine as to be indistinguishable from his. My brother Curufin made it in his glory days as my father’s best apprentice. I’ll rather enjoy telling him I traded it for a song.” Calyaro and Caranthir both enjoyed a wicked laugh, apparently, at a private joke that I did not understand.

“Perhaps you could add a song or two of your own in further thanks,” Calyaro said.

I liked that idea very much. “Do you sing also, Caranthir?” I asked.

He groaned and blushed a firery red. “I can carry a tune—barely though!”

Calyaro shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. He has a better than good, if untrained, voice. And perfect pitch. All of Maglor’s brothers sing well, but they are too vain to admit it. Afraid to be compared with a natural wonder amongst our people! I always ask him to sing, because he knows more songs than I do.”

“I have a good memory,” Caranthir said. turning to me. “My brother sang for us every night and he composed in the room next to my bedroom throughout my childhood!”

“I want to hear you sing,” I said. I probably should not have pressed him, but I can be like a hound with a bone in his teeth when I want something.

“Fine, Lady Haleth,” he said, with emphasis on the ‘lady’ to tease me. “Your wish is my command. But only a short one and don’t compare me to the last singer.” He turned to Calyaro. “Do you know Macalaurë’s ‘Unchained Melody’?”

“Sorry, my lord. I’ve never heard of it. If you want to use my priceless harp, I trust you won’t drop it and step on it.” The silent crowd, who had been listening with rapt attention to the exchange, chuckled at the bard’s jibe. They wanted to hear Caranthir sing as much as I did.

“All right then. Give me the harp. I will handle it with the utmost care.” His patient audience burst into applause, punctuated by a few sharp whistles of approval.

His voice, soft at first, grew bigger as he relaxed. He conveyed a sense of someone sharing a confidence with the listener rather than an expert rendition capable of drawing a desired emotional response from his audience. It contained none of the magical skill of the bard. And the song he chose appealed to his listeners.

“Lonely rivers flow to the sea,” he crooned. A deep sigh rippled through his audience. When he reached the end of the first verse, “Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me./I'll be coming home. Wait for me.” I heard more than a few audible sobs—from none other than these tough, arrogant Noldorin soldiers who seemed at times to think they knew everything or could learn it in a heartbeat. I empathized without knowing the story behind the effect he had on his countrymen. No wonder they wanted to hear him to sing. They’d heard him sing before. He enchanted me without any of the polished artistry Calyaro had used to capture our hearts.

My heart cracked, although I managed to not sob or sniff, when he sang the lines near the end: “Oh, my love, my darling I've hungered for/Your touch, a long lonely time.” A tear rolled down my cheek. I had been looking straight ahead beyond the dwindling bonfire toward the river, not wanting to reveal the depth of sensibilities he aroused in me. I lost the thread of the Sindarin words and missed the meaning of the last few lines. Years later I encountered someone who knew the complete lyrics and wrote them down for me, but that is another story entirely. I turned to look at his face to find his expressive black eyes were fixed upon me with shockingly open tenderness.

The entire gathering broke into applause. “Thank you. Thank you for your generosity,” he stuttered. “You liked it!” he whispered to me, as though surprised.

“I loved it. Like Calyaro said, you have a beautiful voice.”

“That’s not what he said!”

“Maybe not those exact words, but that’s what he meant,” I insisted.

We might have continued bickering for quite a while, but we made eye contact and broke out laughing.

“My brother Macalaurë—he’s called Maglor now—left his wife across the sea. Actually, he begged her to come and she refused. He has been slow accepting that. Who wouldn’t be? He wrote this song in our early years here.”

“Did you leave a wife or sweetheart behind?”

“No! More’s the pity. I had no one to leave.”

His singing had demonstrated a charm that far overshadowed Calyaro’s virtuosity for me. The self-conscious modesty and painfully honest melancholic self-reflection that infused his plain and simple interpretation ripped my heart apart and put it back together again.

“It’s perfect,” I said, meaning his singing more than the song.

“Macalaurë doesn’t think so.”

“Why not?” I asked.

There was nothing to be gained from arguing any further on the quality of his performance. He would believe what he believed and was stubborn enough to keep debating.

“It’s a simple, old-fashioned love song. He prefers grand, epic pieces based on world-shaking events, or innovative ones with complicated and difficult artistic elements, or both.”

He refused to sing again despite repeated requests. It must have been past midnight; the air was cooling fast. I shivered and he put his arm around me. Others were snuggling closer as well and we seemed to draw little attention.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Tired but happy. I’ve enjoyed the evening very much. I hate for it to end.”

“Would you like to go for a walk?” His voice sounded eager. I thought that if the light were not so dim I might see him blushing again.

“I’d love to.”

In fact, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more than to have him to myself for a while.

He stopped at a group of his men clearing up the food tables and packaging up leftovers, although there were not a lot, and giving them to families with children as they left. Caranthir picked up a small lantern and asked the soldier in charge, “Can you spare this one?”

The soldier bowed deeply to his lord, as they all were wont to do. “Of course, sire,” he said, winking. “I would not be much of a knight if I would begrudge my most gracious liege-lord a light to walk his lady-friend home.”

“Why do I always feel like they are laughing at me?” he muttered under his breath. I do not think he expected an answer.

But two contradictory feelings forced me to reply. Why was he so filled with self-doubt when he was manifestly gifted as an individual and also their sworn lord, freely chosen and much admired? Something had broken in him at an early age or perhaps it was fate. The Noldor blamed a lot of things on ill-fate, the ordinary tragedies of daily life.

I wished I could help him heal himself. Now there is the ill-fate that comes with being a woman. That infernal impulse to mend everyone. That time, I laughed at him. It was as though I thought I could communicate to him—‘see I’m laughing at you. And I am obviously madly, crazy in love with you.’

Then I tried to soften my possibly hurtful laugh by using reason. “They are not laughing at you. They are showing you that they love and trust you and are comfortable in your presence. My people do that to me also and I consider it an honor.” He cocked an eyebrow at me as though he believed that was a highly unlikely reading of the situation.

We had reached the outside of the circle of lingering glow from what remained of the bonfire. “If you’re cold I could run back and borrow that blanket again.”

“I’ll be fine once we start walking.” I was sure, given the length of his legs, I’d have to scamper to keep up. He reached down and took my hand. I had spent entire evenings making love without ever feeling anything as thrilling as that light touch. But I tried to not act like a love-starved lad in his teens.

I felt smug also, walking along like that holding his hand. I do admit to having had twinges of jealousy watching one or another of my shield-sisters walk home from a gathering with a young man, hand-in-hand, looking not entirely dissimilar to way we must have appeared to an observer that night—lost in one another, speaking softly, brimming over with not yet acknowledged lust.

Holding the lantern up to light to path than ran through the forest in the direction of the stockade, Caranthir slowly led us to the opening onto the field where the Noldor had pitched their encampment. He had moderated his stride to match my own.

“I have something to share with you.”

“A surprise?” I asked.

“Well, maybe. It ought not be. I wanted to offer you some more of the liquor you tasted before and were not sure you liked.”

“And where is it?”

“Uhm. In my tent, but I can fetch it. If you’d rather not come in.”

I stopped where I stood. “Why in the world would I not want to come in?”

“People might talk?”

“And then, again, they might not.” I laughed to hide my nervousness. “I am beholden to no one. I am a grown woman.”

He sat the lantern carefully on the ground and took hold of both of my arms above the elbow. He looked at my mouth for an attenuated moment, his breathing growing shallower, before he asked, “May I kiss you?”

“If you do not, I just might strangle you.” I could see in his face that he wanted to kiss me more than he wanted to laugh. Still, I was surprised at how quickly he acted. Before that kiss, I had thought that he might be unpracticed at lovemaking, strange as that might seem. I had heard earlier that the Noldor had very strict prescriptions of what was permitted and taboo in terms of the pleasures of the flesh. He could not be wholly inexperienced to be able to kiss like that.

I could smell the warm, woody fragrance of his soap in his hair, which fell like a curtain around us as we kissed. He was so much taller than me. I was happy that I had taken the time to wash my hair. Although our simple lavender-scented soap was not striking like his, I was confident that I smelled clean and fresh.

The kiss went on and on and drove away all of my silly ruminations. He started slowly at first. I had always liked first kisses—fully clothed, before one had made love with the person—the kind that ignites one with incendiary lust, but yet is filled with hope, magic, mystery, and expectation. This kiss was one of those, but more explosive—a sudden conflagration. His artistry brought me to his level of desire until I hoped it would go on forever and he’d somehow take me to a higher level. I was aware of the spicy warmth and dark sweetness of him. When he finally pulled back, I wondered if I had the strength to hold myself upright.

He whispered, “My neck is killing me and my knees are weak.”

Yeah,” I answered, thinking this would work even better in a horizontal position.

“I can see my tent from here,” the simple statement, like so many things about the last few days, became an invitation and promise of wondrous things. I opened my eyes and the moon nearly full, hidden all evening behind clouds, had suddenly revealed itself, so close and bright that it turned the entire landscape a bluish-silver, maybe a bit like the magic silver tree of the land of his childhood.

We finally did make it the several yards to his neat little tent with neither of our legs giving out. An experienced kisser and breathtaking tormentor while kissing, he was, however, wholly innocent of how to make love to a woman. But when he chose to do so, it was with a passion whole-hearted and pure. I became the center of his universe for that limited time and the headiness of his experience left us both wonder-struck.

He bravely led us, as though we were the first to discover and share these joys. He approached the art of love as both natural and magical all in one. I adored watching his face transform with pleasure, his eyes closed and lush scarlet lips parted. He stubbornly refused to allow himself to reach release until he was certain that I had done so more than once.

Afterwards, he cupped my face in his hands. “That was incredible for me. No matter what happens, I will never, never forget this.”

I didn’t mean to say anything, but it just slipped out. “I can’t stand to think that this has to end.”

“I didn’t mean to make your life harder or more complicated. Should we have discussed doing this first? I’m not good at talking when I should.”

“Shhh,” I said, touching my finger to his lips. He surprised me by licking the tip of my finger and grinning.

“Not sorry, though, not at all! I’ve never regretted anything less,” he almost crowed, proud of himself.

“I’d hate you if you did regret it!” I said, punching him hard on the upper arm. “I’d be insulted. Probably have had to challenge you to defend my own honor!” He laughed aloud at that idea. It wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought it was, but I was too languid in the aftermath of lovemaking to even be irritated.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to defend any honor with me. I am totally besotted by you,” he said smiling, one of those irresistible smiles of his, the ones filled with the shadow of all my impossible hopes and dreams.

We both knew the truth behind it. There was no future. Duty and honor would lead us apart. We knew that--all strange fates had been considered and tossed aside without discussion--the happily-ever-after would never be for us. Yet the ephemeral quality of ‘us’ increased rather than diminished the sweetness of each moment together.

In later years, I wished at times that there had been a man among my people somewhat like him. I wouldn’t have needed him to be as ridiculously pretty or shockingly intelligent, or able to read my thoughts like Caranthir. If only I’d encountered one who could listen like he did, someone who could pause and consider before offering an opinion. That would have been wonderful.

But I wanted Caranthir. I could even have handled his moodiness and his purported flashes of temper (from my observation, greatly exaggerated by the gossips). Was it too much to ask that I might have met someone among my people who smiled the way Caranthir did when I bested him in an argument, as though he were pleased by my cleverness? I did not look and that fellow never found me.

But we still had weeks then. He made me happy. I felt cared for and cherished. And every day my heart broke a little more. Those were busy days. We had so much to do and so much to argue about. But we parted as tearful lovers and best friends.

Caranthir found my people a few more times, after we had returned to our separate lives. Each time he left, it felt a little more final. After the latest move of my people, he could no longer follow us. As for me, like the fellow in song, I've had many long, lonely nights and I've hungered for his touch.

He heard the door of his room creak open. “Carnistir?”

“Ammë?” He sat up and rubbed his sandy eyes. “Good morning,” he said, forcing himself to sound vaguely human.

“It’s mid-afternoon, son. If you bathe and dress, I will bring you something to eat and drink.”

Mothers will be mothers, he thought. There would be no way to put her off without hurting her feelings. “All right. I won’t be long.”

“Good. I will bring a tray and we can have a late lunch together.” The implication, of course, was that she wanted to hear what he thought of the manuscript. “Shall I open your curtains?” Like most mothers he had known, she did not wait for a response and yanked the curtains open. The afternoon sun nearly blinded him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He was grateful to his mother’s cook. He had thought he would not be able to eat after drinking so much the night before, but the food was expertly chosen and well prepared—thinly-sliced grilled steak, sautéed greens, and a bowl of savory rice, none of the dishes too heavy. The tea was dark and strong. She brought them a basket of freshly baked, country-style, whole-grain rolls with butter and they finished the entire basket between the two of them. Caranthir thought of asking for more bread, but decided to err on the side of caution. The food and the sunshine did a lot to pull him out of the mood left by his painful expedition into his own history.

“So, darling, are you going to tell me how you responded to the diary?” she asked when they had finished eating.

“I’m glad I read it.” Wasn’t that a typical, taciturn Caranthir answer if ever there was one? His mother deserved far better. “Do you want the truth unvarnished?”

“Of course, I do!”

“All right then! All of this stuff about nice eyes, nice skin, rosy cheeks, awkward lover, fancy red shirt, flashy jewelry, a tight-lipped and clumsy conversationalist…whoa, Ammë! And yet, she describes me as one with the brass balls to try to woo the most magnificent woman he ever encountered with a sappy love song and strong drink? Do you seriously think I would ever consider letting anyone read this if I had any choice?”

“People can read between the lines,” she responded, with a gentle teasing grin. “They’ll probably be impressed that you succeeded,”

“Now you are making fun of me. You’re a lot like her, you know.”

She held her hand out to him, palm up. “Give me back the book then. I think I’d better read it again. The way you tell the tale is not what I recall reading.” He pushed book under his bottom and scowled at her, crossing his arms over his chest. That was the Carnistir of his childhood—prepared to arm-wrestle his good, sweet mother over a book. He was the worst little kid anyone ever knew. He blushed—just the way Haleth described him blushing in her story.

Laughing at him, she continued, “I nearly burst with a mother’s pride reading it. I found that my endearing, clumsy, awkward son had grown into a strong man, a leader who inspired great loyalty, was a champion on the battlefield, and one who used, not just superior force, but tactics to eliminate his enemies and save a people. You did not simply beat back the invaders, but you sought to heal the victim-people and restore their strength and self-confidence. You made no paternalistic attempts to force your solution upon them and you treated their leaders with respect—and they were largely young and female. Are you serious? Don’t denigrate yourself, Carnistir.”

“Sorry,” he grumbled. “I know I’m vain and silly. I am happy—even now— to discover that she did love me. I loved her so much. But she is so incredibly honest in this account. I’m certainly not the stuff which makes a shining knight in a hero-tale.”

“Ah! He vacillates. First, you complained that she sees you as a charming prince and then accuse her of exposing all of your imagined flaws. And she does a little—see the magical prince of children’s tales in you—I loved the red plume on the helmet, with the warrior braids tumbling out!” Nerdanel giggled. “But, due to you, she also remembers her only encounter with an arrogant, imperious people, with a terrible reputation, as a positive one.”

“Well . . . huh,” he mumbled gracelessly. “Then there was the lovemaking! Ai, Ammë! No one wants people reading those kinds of details about themselves. Especially if the particulars are not flattering.”

“I told the publishers that if you do not want it printed and they insist, I will hire a lawyer and look into your rights.”

“Ha! My Ammë! I’ll try to never offend you. I want you on my side!”

“I simply needed to make my position clear, dear, that I wanted to consult with you first and then for them to consider your response. I didn’t even use Arafinwë’s name or your grandmother Indis’ yet! I still have arrows in my quiver.”

“Fine then.” He could not resist smiling, at her belligerent mother-hen behavior. “Here’s how I feel. Aside from the fact that I cannot bear to be looked at and talked about, I could not stand it if the interest was in my most personal and private affairs. And I do not want Haleth exposed to their prurient gaze and gossiping book reviews.”

He imagined walking down a side street filled with bookshops in the City Center and seeing glossy lurid volumes with his homely face on the cover. Far, far worse, he could vividly imagine an artist’s sensationalist illustration of their image of Haleth as a barbarian warrior princess, legs akimbo and sword aloft, her arm more muscled than Tulkas’, and half-naked breasts pushed up and poking out of some metal brassiere, which passed for women’s armor in their fantasy world.

His mother deftly read his thoughts and chuckled. “But they present the manuscript as a marvelous discovery, invaluable for scholars, that even as short and simple as it is, it gives us insight into the lost world of Beleriand.”

“There are ways to make it available to those who need to use it. I couldn’t bear to read all of the language discussions, but those could be important to linguists—she uses a smattering of vocabulary from her birth-tongue and an occasional bit of Doriathan. One could bind it lavishly and make it very, very expensive, for example—but then only the wrong people would have access. Or they could print it in a limited edition and hold it in restricted sections of libraries.”

“Shall I tell them that you are wary of exploitation of the reputation of its author as well as your abhorrence of the notoriety it might bring you, but you are open to discussion?”

“Something like that,” he grumbled.

“So tell me how you really feel now having read her manuscript.”

“She sounded so alive. She didn’t write as easily when I knew her. Sindarin was a second language she hadn’t used much and her instruction in reading and writing had been limited. But clearly she never stopped learning. Her honesty shines through all of it. Perhaps she even hoped it would find its way to me one day.” He gave a wistful sigh.

His mother reached out and grasped his hand and squeezed it.  Her touch comforted him. He yearned to reassure her as well, knowing it had troubled her to show the document to him. She had not known if it would hurt or help him. But his mother believed in doing the right thing however difficult.

“She knew things about me I never told her. And I like knowing that. I learned things I never knew about her before I read it. She loved me too, Ammë. I’m very glad to know that now. I’m happy that you gave me the book.”

First, I am terrible at naming OCs, so I stole the name of the Elven singer, Calyaro, from “By Stars' Light” by Erfan Starled. (A heartbreaking story that I would highly recommend.)

I wrote this story as I did, because I relished the idea of creating a romance for Caranthir and Haleth. That was the story I learned when I first came around the Tolkien fandom and I loved it (despite knowing it had no basis in canon). It was told in fanfic as every bit of a tale of star-crossed lovers as Aegnor/Andreth and Beren and Lúthien. The tale of this Fëanorian brother and his lost love did not earn itself, even in fanon, the happy ending of Beren and Lúthien, but rather a heartbreaking tragedy similar to that of the ill-fated lovers whose separation is discussed in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth.

The beauty and the diversity of fanfiction is that we are able to write the stories that touch our hearts. “History as the historians practice it is in constant motion, but history as the general reader remembers it is held down by inertia. Like Tolkien’s hobbits, we like to hear stories we already know, after all.” (James J. O’Donnell, Pagans: The End of Traditional Religion and the Rise of Christianity.) My aim is not to sell a book or promote an agenda; it is to entertain myself and small number of people at least who may find that story moving.

I apologize to readers who would have liked to read the story of Haleth which celebrates that she did not need a man to complete her life. Actually, even in my romance, she isn’t looking for one. In her brief encounter with Caranthir, she finds a kindred soul and falls in love. She did not want or need a husband and, being true to herself and her principles, she refused even to follow him to a safer land, closer to him.

But I have written her as a warm and romantic sort. Many, looking back at long, eventful, and difficult lives, realize that love relationships often need to end. Knowing that does not kill the romance for all of us. Some of us, like me, turn to fantasy to find comfort in the age-old story of star-crossed lovers. Perhaps, like the author said above, this impulse is held in place by inertia. It might be better defined as the transcendentally human desire to be soothed by the old familiar stories.

She loved him and he loved her, but they could not make it work. Well, perhaps the unwritten truth here is that through loving and parting, turning to duty and oaths sworn, they gained strength to go on alone and do what they believed was right. The memory of the heartbreak meant they could put sentimentality behind them and do what they believed was needed of them. As I imagined it here, to write that story or read it drew bittersweet tears from both but left them with a memory that they honored.