It was time to depart the small island remnant of Beleriand.
He had been lying on the eastern beach for a few hours, elbows bent, hands supporting his head, his body at peace on the soft white sands. He had been looking up and watching the seagulls hover and swoop in artistic displays of their skills, their freedom to travel where they wished. Anor had grown from a rising sliver of rose-gold on the horizon, to the full-flaming orb she was at noon. The light southerly breeze among the trees at the edge of the sands and the regular lapping of the water against the shore, had soothed him. He was almost content.
The day was no different from many, many others. But something was different. He knew his life, as he had long known it, was about to change. His self-imposed exile was almost over.
Sitting up, he stretched his arms, easing a little of the stiffness in his shoulders. He had not been lying in the most comfortable position, and needed exercise. He needed practice with his sword. If they were to depart the island, their hideaway, they would certainly come across others, including enemies. Middle Earth could not have become Cuivienan again, not even in over six thousand years. He was not truly ready to move from the beach just yet though.This final time of nigh solitude was to be treasured. For the first time in ages, his thoughts had turned to planning for the future. His cousin wanted to journey to Imladris. Not something unusual for an Elf of the Noldor, but something unusual for one who had hidden himself away for so long. His friend wanted to journey to Mithlond, to watch those departing for the Undying Lands and perhaps join them?
And he? He wanted to see if she yet lived; if she had taken a ship into the West, or had perished in one of the battles. He wanted to know where she was? Regardless of if he could return home or not, he needed to know her fate.
He had thought of her increasingly over the last few hundred years. So many questions ran through his mind, and the more he remembered of their old life the more torn he was. She had been his life, after her mother, his wife had been slain in Thargelion. There were only the two of them when at Amon Ereb. He had friends there, but she was his only immediate family. A lively child in her own way, she had been in Thargelion. She was full of curiosity, wanting to understand everything, to be as learned as those Noldor who had come to the Hither Shores as rebels from Valinor. She had been well taught. He smiled to himself at the memories. He and her mother had seen to that. Well trained in defensive arts and general skills fitting one of her station, too. Though she was never meant to become a warrior, she could defend herself and others. They had been so proud of her. A favourite of the Prince, he had ever sought her good, until that day when the wild-haired youth returned, himself a warrior, and she had publicly defended him. Caranthir had been so angry with her disrespect. But the two neri had spoken the following morn, so he had understood the anger of his Prince, though not the exile of the young armour-smith. His daughter had not understood the latter at all.
And in due course he had knowingly lied to her. He had not explained to her what would happen at Doriath if the Silmaril was not returned. She likely knew it may come to a struggle between their folk and the people of Dior, but not that Caranthir and his brothers would do whatever it took to reclaim their father’s jewels. He knew any who journeyed with their Prince were likely to become Kinslayers, a fate most dishonorable, and also damnable before Eru? He had not wanted that for her.
In his distant memory he was striding along another beach, that on the shores of Lake Hellevorn, and with her no more than seven years of age, in a pretty blue dress, sitting on his shoulders. He had loved those days when he was off duty, and he could take her and her mother out of the Citadel. Or sometimes just her, out for rides, walks…picnics. She was the light of his life, and he had snuffed out her light in his attempt to protect her.
It came back to him like a wave rushing for the shore. The youth, the wild haired boy, grew into a warrior who fought alongside his Prince. He had told her her would-be love was slain before any departed for Doriath, that she did not want to go with him. He had know her heart was set on a life with that then-grown boy, and he watched all hope for her future die in her eyes.
“Let me come with you,” she had said, numbly. “I would die in the tunnels of Menegroth, for there is no joy in life for me. I have no future save sorrow. As a widow am I, before being wed.”
Had he slain her spirit to save her from being cursed? Was kinslaying so very much worse than oathbreaking? It had been so very long ago.
The Eldar were now departing Middle Earth in larger numbers. It was almost time to leave the lands to the Secondborn. Now he could not even think of going to the Undying Lands and facing his judgement without knowing what had befallen his only child. Did Carnifinde yet remain?
Thando would seek the shores, and to come to terms with his own actions in two kinslayings, his cousin had come out of his own isolation to say ‘namarie’ to one who was as a son to him, before that ‘son’ took ship. What would he do now they were to depart their sanctuary?
‘Lennion’ he had long ago named himself. ‘Son of leaving’, for he had run from his people after Doriath, and hidden away on the western shores. Not out of cowardice had it been, but out of shame. He had seen his Prince fall in battle, he had seen his friends and other officers slaughter fellow elves, he had seen his daughter’s favoured warrior slaughter others. It was madness! He would have faced a Balrog ( though certainly not have overcome it) rather than slain women and children in the lower tunnels. “Burn it, burn it all,” Maedhros had said*. And for a moment he was there again in thought, the screaming of those trapped below as his companions set fire in the caves. He shook his head, desperate to be free from such nightmares.
Though the Prince's cause was just, he would have conceded rather than slain others of his kind. He knew he was not the only one who walked away after that terrible confrontation. He had dwelt alone until Thando had joined him, after the War of Wrath, and the changes of the land that saw Beleriand sink under the waves. He had left all concerning his people behind.
His cousin had named him Berenaro, after they had been through an altercation with some orcs, before they found the island that had become ‘home’ for the past few thousand years. ‘Bold fire’, yes, he could still be bold, but that would not wash away his guilt.
‘Lennion’ felt more appropriate to one who hid away from his people. He hardly recalled how it had felt to be called ‘Atar’, even less to be called Urundir, grandson of Mahtan.
- Memories of Doriath | The Laurelin Archives By Estarfin
