There were sad times and happy times, as all lifes, long or short, hold. They both held their allegiance to the house of the high lord Curufin and those were perhaps the mightiest and the most knowledgeable crafters among the Noldor and that was no small thing to be said. Wherever they went the land and stone obeyed them and their skill and might made life comfortable and any pain more bearable. The princes Celegorm and Celebrimbor their land and it was in Himlad where their dwellings dominated the Pass of Aglon, in Himad, between Doriath, Maedhros' Himring and Nan Elmoth. Calanaro loved not the cold Himlad but Narwen did, the hunting parties of both beast and yirch bringing pride and joy. The fire of her eyes, the redness of her face after such a hunt made her more beautiful and, while Calanaro was happier to take care the armies were well supplied in weapons, arrow heads and armor, he would have felt ashamed not to hone his martial prowess as well. He had the strength and he learned the skills and he was as proud warrior as any of the feanorians and he dis not feel weaker than Narwen had they tried to test or train.
When they lost the path of Aglon during the siege breaking he mourned another home but he was not displeased with Nargothrond, and their life there was good. While later things became complicated when the maiden Luthien did not respond to the love of prince Celegorm as her heart was doomed to love a man, and love, as it often does, lead to rushed and unwise decisions that even made the lords Curufin and Celegorm wander alone far from their own kin and Nargothrond and poisoned their hearts with even more hate for Doriath and the house of Thingol.
While much happened during those years, and all of it became legend, not much of it would impact the fate of Calanaro and Narwen as the war unto Doriath and its king Dior, son of the beautiful lady Luthien, did. If before that they held to their love and to their duties like all did an invasion of another elven realm made memories buried for long time return to hunt Calanaro’s rest hours.. Narwen was of those whose hearts burned each time new information and hope added oil over the unextinguished fire of their oath. When the rumors that the king of Doriath had one of the Silmarils and would not give it back to the rightful heirs of the king Feanor they threatened with war for such offense, and the threaths of the Noldor are never bare words.
Under the lead of Curufin and Celegorm they rode, Calanaro’s heart shrinking under a heavy burden of undefinable worry. Though he would not be called a coward and his wife was among the brightest flames burning of pride and anger. They rode together. He shielded his will and reminded himself that war will claim lives and blood on both sides, and kinship was staying by the side of your kin no matter what.
But it was Narwen falling that turned him. The fight was ugly and hundreds of caves and corridors of the realm of Thingol and Melian a deadly trap. While Doriathrims fought with the despair that only defending your home and your loved ones gives the Noldor warriors were better trained with warfare and trained by long years of keeping Morgoth’s forces at bay. Darker were also their hearts and loss made them darker. For each Noldor falling to the Doriathrims they paid ten times, and the price they paid was in terrible currency: merciless fight against all the Doriarhrims, even children.
Calanaro was hearing all again the ghosts of Aqualonde. He even thought seeing silver haired teleri coming to fight once again the Noldor. But seeing his wife falling was what brought a veil of darkness over him and he did not hold back. No ghosts, no mercy, no pity for little lifes or for feeble hands stayed his sword. His darkest hour was upon him and he had nothing else to lose and everything to revenge. He did not care anymore who’s blame anything was, he wanted to share the pain that was tearing his heart apart with every one of THEM, of their enemies. Everyone of them was someone’s child, wife or mother? Then their son, or father or husband was maybe the one who took away from him his light, his heart of fire, his reason to be. And he wanted to pay it back. And he did. Mortanaro avenged what he thought was the death of his Nairawen.
The whole enormous weight of his deeds came over him only hours later, when almost nothing remained alive of Doriath splendor or its people. He, alongside the others returned to claim their dead to give them the final care one would give to his loved and kin. He found her where he left her for dead, covered in her own blood and that of the ones whose lives she had ended before falling. He took her up in his arms to cry over her beloved face one last time, to wash away the blood in his tears, and he thought that he heard a weak, so weak sound of pain. He realized that she was not as cold as she should have been. She was dead-pale but when he raised her more red of the blood spread on her garments. He realized in a horrible painful moment that she was still alive. Barely alive. Absurdly, life clinged to her against any odds that such wounds would predict. He went to kill Doriathrim children instead of saving her. His revengeful madness was as much the murderer of all that he loved as the Doriathrim sword that found her chest in the madness of the fight. The world went black once again and he knew not what to do except scream for help, a roar pouring out all despair, helplessness and guilt.
He did nothing but stay, silent and deaf, by her bed through weeks of agonizing, unchanging unlife. She was motionless and pale as the dead. She somehow clinged to life and there were among them some knowledgeable and powerful who learned the arts of healing the wounds of the body and soul from the wise Valar of the West. He would not have understood much of what they did or tried if he was in his full strength of mind, but his mind was clouded by one thought: he lost precious time, time that maybe would have made the difference, spreading death instead of fighting for her life. Those were the worst days of his life, hard to bear, and he wished to die rather than watch her die, oh, so slowly, before his eyes crying our tears of guilt and helplessness.
And yet, she recovered. Unbelievably, against all odds, she recovered. He could not believe when he saw her eyelids tremble again for a first time, when her breath has some sound, when her hand moved slightly. When she opened her eyes again but for a moment and there was no understanding in them, he gathered hope from their light of a moment. Some of the wounded did die and some recovered faster and each of those was quenching his hope. But she did recover and while she was getting better he had no thoughts other than what he could do for her.
Even when hope returned Narwen needed many years to regain her strength and this took them both out of any of the brave or shameful deeds that followed up until the War of Wrath, and they were both changed. Some of the old and wild fire within them died forever in the depths of Doriath.
