From the Mouths of Babes

The door to the armoury was thrown open with a force that rattled it on its hinges, startling Ararusco into dropping his charcoal pencil.  It rolled over his careful notes and fell to the flagstones with a clatter.  He turned in annoyance to see who had made such a noisesome entrance and was met with the sight of a furious dark-haired maiden approaching him.

“What is this I hear about you refusing to teach my sister to fight?”

Ararusco settled back into his chair with a sigh and cast a glance over the messy tabletop – two ancient swords lying unsheathed over a dozen sheets of parchment, on which he had been translating and tracing their inscriptions; broken pencils; a bottle of polish, and a crumpled rag; a plate of bread and fruit, untouched; a guttering candle. All of these things were far more pleasant to gaze upon than the face of this wrathful Sinda.

“I gave her my reasons.”

Something seized in his heart when he saw Nelthiel take the dagger in her hands, a glint in those soft eyes that he liked not at all.  It took all his will not to snatch it back from her and lock it away where she might never touch it again.

Instead, he asked, soft, ‘What would you do with such a blade, little one?’

She set down the dagger.

‘Brasseniel has already made herself useful. She has joined the Hammer and has given lessons to the Harp and Pillar. It seems that there is little value without knowledge of war. I… I too should like to be of value.'

Ararusco turned his back to her and busied himself with the care of his weapons.

'You are of value. There are those who fight, and those one fights for. Without one you cannot have the other.'

'I will not sit around and let others defend me. It is important to be one's own defense. And offense. I will not seek out war, but should it find me, being useful to defend those who cannot do so.'

Nelthiel was young – breathtakingly young – and her words betrayed her age.  Normally, it was that same innocence that drew him to this young Sinda girl, asking him countless questions while he went about his work.  Now that naivety grated. He had heard such words before.  He had seen the path such words led to.

‘It will not find you,’ he snapped. ‘You are safe in Imladris, one of the last true havens of the Eldar. If it falls, then we are all doomed, and learning to shed blood will only prolong the inevitable.'

He could feel her glare. 

'I was not proclaiming Imladris' doom, but I will not cower behind its walls. It is not my home. My home is assailed every day by growing darkness, Ararusco. I have lived all my life in its shadow, and it is time I learn to face it.'

Ararusco finally turned to face her, fire in his eyes. 

'I have lived half my life in a greater darkness than this,’ he growled. ‘I have seen with my own eyes -- trained, with my own hands -- those who took up the sword only to defend what was theirs, and it never ends at that. One does not learn to sing and vow only to raise one's voice in times of darkness.'

She would not yield.

'Just because you have felt a 'greater darkness' does not mean that the one we face today will not be our undoing. The Eldar have already begun leaving these shores. And someday I hope to do the same. Surviving until that moment matters to me. And life is unexpected. One never knows when singing is required.'

'There is more to life than survival,’ he insisted. ‘There are fates worse than death at the hands of a greater enemy. One such fate is to live to see yourself warped and changed by the darkness in the attempt to overcome it.'

Nelthiel glared at him, defiant. 

'I am not one of the Noldor, Ararusco. I am not those that you trained in the pages of history.'

“Your reasons are excuses.”

Ararusco turned a sharp eye on the maiden.  Brasseniel stood before him, arms crossed over her chest, clad in the blacks of the Hammer.  She, too, was young, but she lacked the innocence of her sister.  She had practically been born with a sword in her hand and would likely die with one as well.  He doubted that she shared Nelthiel’s wish to leave these shores.

“Forgive me, lady, but that is none of your concern.”

“Nelthiel is my concern, and for reasons beyond my understanding, she holds you – and your words – in high regard.  I will not have you dismiss her desire to protect herself as if she were a child.”

“And I will not put another sword in the hands of an innocent. She is a child, safe in the Valley.  She need not measure her worth by her skill in the sword.”

“Innocent? What do you know of innocence, Fëanorian?”

Ararusco rose abruptly to his feet, the legs of the chair scraping against the stone floor.  Brasseniel met his glare with narrowed eyes.  She had nerve, he would give her that. 

“How many ‘innocents’ did you cut down in Doriath? Sirion?” she asked, voice like ice. “How many of them might have lived another day if only they had learned to defend themselves?”

The silence that fell between them then was as thick as blood.  Ararusco stared the girl down as the rush of guilt smothered his anger, choked his indignation.  He had spent most of his long life trying to bury that guilt, but even now, it took no more than a word for that wound to bleed anew.  Brasseniel saw him falter and smiled in triumph.

“I will protect my sister until my dying breath, but if you do not teach her to be her own protector, Ararusco, then I will do it myself.  You cannot shelter her from this.  It is not your place.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and sauntered out of the armoury, leaving as abruptly as she had come.  Ararusco stood still for a long time afterwards, eyes on the weapons spread out over the table, before he finally moved to put them away.