Pennas i Arvaethor
Here begins the long tale of Arvaethor of the Ñoldor, from the days of his birth in elder days unto the time of his fateful meeting with the Elven-maid Aduialant beside the grey shores of Celondim, in the waning years of the Third Age of Middle-earth.
The First Age - Years of the Sun
Y.S 274 / Age 0
In the days of the Long Peace, ere the shadow of Morgoth returned in full to trouble the lands of the Eldar, there was born in the hidden city of Gondolin a child of the Ñoldor. Upon the nineteenth day of Rhîw, in the two hundred and seventy-fourth year of the First Age, Arvaethor came into the world. Haldirithion he was named by his father, for he was the firstborn, and a name of honour was laid upon him. Yet scarce had his first cries faded when another voice was heard: his twin brother was born thereafter, and he was named Tathaldirith.
Y.S 274 - 367 / Age 0 - 120
As the years passed and the children of Faidhrodil and Haldirith grew in stature and wisdom, the light of their fëar became clearer to behold. Then their mother, perceiving the shaping of their hearts, bestowed upon them names of foresight: to Arvaethor she gave the name Thorndir, for she saw in him a steadfast will and noble bearing, and to his brother she gave the name Elthirad, keen of eye and bold of heart.
Under the tutelage of their father, they were schooled in the arts of war, though the land lay still beneath the grace of the Long Peace. Swordcraft, the bow, and the riding of horses were taught to them, for though Gondolin was hidden from the eyes of the world, Turgon, its king, would not suffer his folk to grow idle or unready should the veil be pierced and peril come at last. In these disciplines Elthirad proved a master of bow and steed, sure in the saddle and unerring in his aim; but Arvaethor’s hand was as fire upon the hilt, and few in Gondolin could best the mastery and precision of his swordplay.
From Faidhrodil they learnt also the craft of the forge, for she was of the line of those who had dwelt in Tirion and remembered the works of the Nõldor in their pride. Both sons took well to the shaping of metal and the artifice of gem and stone; yet it was in Arvaethor that a true passion for the craft took root.
Great was the bond between the brothers, and seldom were they seen apart. In sorrow or in joy, in toil or in play, they were as one in heart and purpose. So alike were they in mind and form that many who beheld them wondered, saying that it was as though one fëa dwelt in twain, a single soul divided between two.
Y.S 367 / Age 120
When at last his days of learning were ended and Arvaethor was deemed worthy, he was taken into the House of the Fountain, as his father had been before him. There he was set among the guards of the Great Gate, whose duty it was to watch the outer ways of Gondolin with unceasing vigilance.
But Elthirad, swift and sharp-eyed, was taken into the House of the Swallow, whose warriors were famed for the lightness of their step and the deadly flight of their arrows.
Thus, for the first time since their birth, the twins were divided, the first sundering between them since the hour they came into the world. The days that followed bore the weight of change, and though their hearts remained as one, a shadow of distance fell between them, for the paths they now walked were no longer the same.
Y.S 458 / Age 184
With his family beside him, Arvaethor attended the great celebration that was held in Gondolin when Húrin and Huor came upon the Hidden City and were brought before King Turgon. High was the joy of that hour, and many gathered in wonder and gladness, for never had the sons of Men walked beneath the towers of Gondolin.
Y.S 472 / Age 198
Arvaethor, his brother Elthirad, and their father Haldirith marched forth to war beneath the banners of their lord, King Turgon of Gondolin, and so fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.
In the bitter turning of the tide, when Uldor the Accursed revealed his false heart and the hopes of the Eldar were broken, Haldirith, proud warrior of the House of Fingolfin, fell, struck down amid the ruin and tumult of the field. Yet Arvaethor and Elthirad were spared, for by the will of their father they had been forbidden to fight upon the front line and so were spared from the fiercest slaughter.
Before the retreat of Turgon’s host, Arvaethor came to the place where his father had fallen, and there among the slain he found Silvegil, the sword of Haldirith, gleaming still with a pale blue light amid the dust and blood of battle. And he bore it away in silence, though his heart was burdened with sorrow.
When tidings of Haldirith’s death came at last to Gondolin, Faidhrodil was cast into grief beyond healing. The light of Aman that had danced in her eyes grew dim, and though she endured for many years, she was never whole again.
Y.S 496 / Age 222
Arvaethor and Elthirad stood among the gathered before the Tower of the King, where Tuor, son of Huor, was welcomed by Turgon, and the words they spoke that day were heavy with the fate of hidden Gondolin.
Y.S 502 / Age 228
Like many in the fair city of Gondolin, Arvaethor and Elthirad bore witness to the joyous wedding of Tuor, son of Huor, and Idril Celebrindal, fairest of the Nõldor’s daughters. Yet though the twins entreated their mother to join them, she would not be persuaded. Wrapped ever deeper in shadow and sorrow, Faidhrodil grew ever more withdrawn, and no entreaty could move her from her seclusion.
Y.S 510 / Age 236
With the coming of the Gates of Summer, Arvaethor and Elthirad joined their fellow Gondolindrim in great rejoicing beneath the shining walls of their hidden city. Yet the joy was swift to turn to shadow, for Morgoth’s fell armies, vast and terrible, descended upon Gondolin with the suddenness of a storm upon a tranquil sea.
The earth trembled beneath the pounding of countless feet and the roar of dragons; black banners fluttered like storm clouds over the ramparts. In the chaos, the brothers were sundered, each called to the service of his House and his duty. Elthirad stood with Duilin and the warriors of the House of the Swallow upon the northern walls, where the enemy broke in dreadful waves. Arvaethor, in turn, was set with Ecthelion and the proud House of the Fountain, kept in reserve by the Square of the Palace, ready to answer the clarion call to war.
As Ecthelion rallied his warriors and strode forth to meet the enemy, a grievous pain struck Arvaethor’s heart: a sudden and terrible knowing of Elthirad’s death, struck down by dragon-fire. The vision cleft his fëa asunder; a great darkness closed about his senses, and he sank into unconsciousness, overcome with grief and despair.
By the mercy of the House of the Wing, he was borne from the field, spared to live though the city around him was cast down in flame and shadow.
When Tuor fled with the remnants of his people through Idril’s secret stair, Arvaethor was carried with them, scarred in hröa and fëa, an unconscious witness to the fall of Gondolin. Behind them, the proud towers of Turgon burnt and crumbled; the song of the city was drowned beneath the cries of the fallen and the crackling of fire.
As for Faidhrodil, their mother, no tidings ever came; her fate was swallowed in the dark maw of the city’s fall. Her light, once bright and steadfast, was lost to shadow, and a great sorrow passed over those who remembered her name.
Y.S 511 / Age 237
Long and arduous was the flight of the Gondolindhrim from the ruin of their hidden city, for there were many who were injured and broken. Amongst them was Arvaethor, whose fëa had been struck as with a wound unseen. For since the fall of Gondolin, he had spoken no word nor opened the lids of his eyes. As one in repose, he lay, and his fellows bore him with them in their flight, deeming him near to death, though his body yet lived.
Through secret ways they wandered until they came at last, after many perils, to the banks of the Sirion and followed the great river southward, seeking refuge in lands yet untouched by the shadow.
Thus, finally, they reached the fair meads of Nan-tathren, the Land of Willows, where the River Sirion turns westward before its long journey to the sea. In that place the weary halted and found a measure of healing, and the wounds of body and heart were tended by the gentle hand of time.
In the stillness of that fair land, a dream came upon Arvaethor. Though his body moved not, and no word came from his lips, his mind was stirred by a dream. Deep he was cast, as one sunken beneath the shadowed seas of the world, where all was dark and still, and the waters closed cold about him. There, in that soundless abyss, the torment of memory and the sting of loss grew distant, like a fading echo. Then it seemed to him that far off, beyond thought or reckoning, a music was born: a song of such surpassing beauty that his heart was pierced with wonder. It was not the voice of any pipe or harp wrought by Elves or Men, but a song that was older than both joy and sorrow, and it wove about his fëa like light upon the waters.
Upwards he was drawn, as if by unseen tides, and the blackness gave way to grey, and then to silver and gold. Light grew about him, and he heard the great roaring of waves. Swiftly he rose through the inky depths, up towards the ocean's surface, and as he broke the veil of the sea, gulls cries filling his ears, he awoke from his long torpor, and the sun shone upon his face, though his eyes were filled with tears.
And though he had never before beheld the Sea, a longing for it was kindled in him, fierce and unquenchable, and he knew that the Sea would call him ever after.
Upon waking the power of the dream waned, and with the passing of its light, the weight of sorrow returned. Those who tended him were amazed. But he spoke not, and the fire that once dwelt in his gaze was quenched. His hair, once dark as night, had turned to a hue pale as moonlight on snow, and a great sorrow seemed to lie upon him still.
None among the exiles knew his name, nor from whence he had come, and seeing the depth of woe in his countenance, they named him Fëarissë, which in the tongue of the Eldar is Soul-Cleft, for they perceived that a sundering had come upon his fëa, and that though his body endured, some part of him had passed away beyond the reach of healing.
Thus they journeyed on, bearing him with them, until at last they came in time to the Havens of Sirion, where for a while the griefs of the world were held at bay, and the weary found rest.
Y.S 512 - 537 / Age 237 - 264
In the weeks and months that followed, Arvaethor began at last to stir from the deep torpor that had held him in its grip since the fall of Gondolin. Slowly his strength returned, though the light of his fëa remained dimmed, and he spoke few words to those that questioned him. Of his former names he made no mention and in time cast them aside, as though the man who had borne them had perished in the ruins of the hidden city.
Grief lay heavy upon him, and most often he was troubled by dreams in the night, wherein the face of his slain brother would come before him, pale and bloodstained beneath a burning sky. So he departed from the company of the refugees and went alone into the wild country east of the Havens. There, under the shadow of the trees, he found a cave beside a still pool, and there he made his dwelling.
He hunted no more and would take no life, not even to preserve his own. He lived by what he could gather; roots, berries, and wild herbs, and drank from the clear waters of the pool. Beneath a great outcropping of stone that jutted like a spear from the hill above his cave, he dug a shallow grave and there laid to rest his father’s sword, wrapped in cloth and bound with ivy. With it he buried all thought of war, for his heart was weary of blood and fire.
Those among the refugees who remembered him pitied him, yet few dared to approach. A hush seemed to hang about the place where he dwelt, and the sorrow that clung to him was more than most could bear. Thus the years passed, and Arvaethor became a shadow among the trees, a fading presence in the memory of the Eldar, as though he belonged no longer to the world that moved on without him.
Y.S 538 - 590 / Age 265 - 317
One morning, in the waning days of that year, Arvaethor was abroad in the woods, gathering what little the forest yielded to his quiet foraging. The air was still and heavy with the breath of summer’s end. But as the sun climbed beyond the trees, he paused, for he saw far off on the southern horizon a dark smudge of smoke rising against the pale sky.
He stood still, watching it with unease. Then upon the wind came faint cries, shouts, the clash of weapons, and the unmistakable sound of terror. The forest seemed to hold its breath, and Arvaethor felt a chill pass over him, though the sun still shone.
His heart was struck as with a blow, and he stood motionless beneath the boughs, rooted in dread. For though the hour was fair, a shadow passed over the land, and fear took him, deeper than any he had known since the ruin of Gondolin. Long he remained thus, torn with doubt and foreboding. But at last, driven by urgency, he turned and fled back through the trees, swift and silent, to the cave by the pool. There, beneath the spur of rock, he dug once more into the earth and drew forth the longsword that had belonged to his father, a weapon he had hoped never to lift again.
With sword in hand he hastened to the source of the smoke, and the truth of his fears was laid bare before him. Fire and ruin had fallen upon the Havens of Sirion. The sons of Fëanor, led by Maedhros, had come once more in wrath, seeking the Silmaril that bound them so, and they spared none who stood in their path. Elves lay slain in the streets, and the sea ran red at the quays. It was the third and last kinslaying, and the bitterest of all.
Too late had Arvaethor come. The battle raged fiercely, and the ground was strewn with the dead. Though his heart quailed, he did not flee. He came upon a group of stragglers: elves and children, hemmed in by sword and flame. Without thought for his own safety, he leapt to their defence. Great was his wrath, and he fought as one possessed, for the old fire of the Ñoldor awoke within him once more. Yet he was but one, and they were many. Wounded in body and spent in strength, he would have fallen at last beneath the blades of Maedhros's men had not salvation come at the last hour.
For even as darkness closed about him, there came a cry from the sea, and into the fray rode Círdan the Shipwright and Gil-galad, leading the last strength of the Elves of the Falas, and with them came a wind like the wrath of Ulmo. The slayers were driven back, though little joy followed in their victory.
Thus was Arvaethor borne, grievously wounded, unto the Isle of Balar, where the last hope of the Elves of Beleriand endured. There his hurts were tended, though the deeper wounds of his fëa were not so easily healed. And in the company of the exiles he remained, once more adrift upon the edge of fading days.
Long did Arvaethor dwell upon the Isle of Balar during the days of the War of Wrath, for his wounds were grievous, and the healing of them was slow. In that time of waiting and sorrow, he came to know Gil-galad, and though the blood of Fëanor ran in the young king’s veins, Arvaethor beheld in him a wisdom and valour beyond the pride of that house. And though his heart was yet shadowed by pain and bitter memory, Arvaethor found, to his own wonder, a flicker of hope kindled anew.
The Second Age
S.A 1 - 499 / Age 318 - 816
And so, when the War of Wrath was ended, and mighty Beleriand was broken and swallowed by the sea, the sun rose upon the Second Age of the world. Then the remnant of the Eldar, those who had withstood the long defeat and yet chose not to heed the summons of Eönwë, followed Gil-galad, son of Orodreth, High King of the Ñoldor, and with him Círdan the Shipwright, wise among the Falathrim, into the west of Middle-earth. There upon the shores of the Belegaer they founded Lindon and in time raised the fair havens of Mithlond, a haven of hope for the weary and a bastion against the shadow.
Now before the breaking of Thangorodrim and the end of the First Age, Arvaethor had endured sorrow beyond telling, for in the last Kinslaying he was sorely wounded, and not in flesh alone. Long did the memory of Gondolin weigh upon him, and the pain of it clung to his fëa like a shadow that the sun cannot wholly dispel. Yet when he came at last to Lindon and beheld the rising of a new realm beneath the hand of Gil-galad, a glimmer of healing came upon him. For though the sea called him with a voice both fair and cruel, there awoke in his heart a small and steadfast hope.
And so it was that Arvaethor laid his hand in fealty upon the High King's and swore to him an oath of service, to stand beside him in peace and in peril so long as his strength endured and his vow remained unbroken.
Yet still did dark things move in the wilds of Middle-earth. Though Morgoth was thrust into the Outer Void and his great strongholds cast down, many of his foul servants had escaped the ruin of Beleriand and crept eastward, like vermin fleeing a sinking ship. In secret they gathered strength, and the wild lands beyond the Blue Mountains knew again the shadow of fear and sudden death.
Against these Arvaethor went forth, steadfast and without fear. Oft he wandered far into the deep woods, where the orc-kind lurked in hidden dens, or ranged the hills of the North to hunt the fierce wargs that still roamed abroad. At times he rode beside Gil-galad himself, as one of his personal guard, his eyes ever watchful and his hand swift to the hilt.
Long were those years and full of peril, but by the labour of many and the valour of a few, Lindon was made secure. And at length, though the threat was never wholly ended, a measure of peace came to the lands beside the sea, and the light of the Eldar shone undimmed in the West.
Since the Fall of Gondolin and the bitter ending of that hidden realm, Arvaethor had laid aside the name of his youth, for grief had sealed it in silence. In its place he bore another, an Epessë given to him by the elves of the havens: Nimedhel he was called, the White Elf, for his hair was as pale as fresh snow, and his raiment was ever of white and grey, like moonlight on still water.
But in the days of Lindon, when the realm of the High King grew strong beneath the shadow of the mountains, Arvaethor proved steadfast in toil and valiant in war. Many perils he withstood, and in all his labours he faltered not. Therefore Gil-galad, perceiving the truth of his heart and the might of his arm, bestowed upon him a new name in honour and gratitude: Arvaethor, the Royal Warrior. And by that name he was known ever after.
Yet peace in the land could not still the unrest of his heart. From the destruction of the city of Turgon to the waking of the new age, Arvaethor had been troubled by dreams: dark and sorrowful visions of his brother Elthirad, who had perished in flame and ruin. As the years wore on, the dreams grew more bitter, and he beheld his brother not only in sleep but even with open eyes, clad still in blackened armour, his face marred by dragon-fire. At first, Arvaethor deemed it a shadow of his grief, a wound of memory reopened. But in time he perceived a deeper truth and a fearsome one: his brother had not passed the gates of Mandos. Elthirad had refused the call of Námo and lingered still in Middle-earth, a houseless spirit, unresting and unappeased.
This knowledge became a heavy doom to Arvaethor, and guilt grew like a shadow upon his fëa. Often he would stand beneath the stars and seek to speak with his brother, but no voice answered him save one word carried on the wind: “promise.” That word he heard again and again, like a tolling bell of grief.
At last, in the silence of the night beneath the stars of Elbereth, Arvaethor knelt and swore a mighty oath. By The One he swore it, and by the memory of his brother, that he would not pass into the West nor seek the grace of the Undying Lands until the blood of his brother had been avenged and until all the works of Morgoth and those who served him were cast down and brought to ruin.
S.A 500 - 599 / Age 817 - 916
Though Lindon had found a measure of peace, and the shadow of the Elder Days seemed at last to wane, a new darkness stirred far in the East. Its shape was yet veiled, and the name of its master unknown to the Eldar, for the craft of the Enemy was subtle, and his power grew in silence. But rumours came nonetheless, dark whispers borne on the winds out of the wild, and though none named him as yet, the wise feared that some great servant of Morgoth had risen anew, drawing to himself all that yet lingered of evil in Middle-earth.
Then greater vigilance was set upon the eastern marches, and the watchful eyes of the Elves turned once more toward the gathering gloom. And in that time the sea-longing awoke again in the heart of Arvaethor, more fiercely than before. First it had stirred in him at the mouths of Sirion, in his time of repose, but now it grew into a great burden. The voice of the ocean, the hidden music of Ulmo, called to him unbidden, like a dream once cherished and half forgotten, yet never wholly lost.
But the call became a torment to him, for he was bound still by oath and sorrow to the lands of the Hither Shore. And so, rather than dwell by the sea and endure the ache of his heart, he turned his face eastward and often sought out perilous roads, volunteering for distant missions and watchful journeys. Thus did he flee the voice of the waves, though it ever followed him, soft and sorrowful, like the memory of things lost beyond recall.
S.A 600 - 749 / Age 917 - 1066
In the spring of the six hundredth year of the Second Age, there came to the White Havens of Mithlond the great ship Entulessë, first of the vessels of Númenor to return to the shores of Middle-earth since the raising of that isle from the deep waters by the grace of Ossë. Its captain was Vëantur, most renowned among the mariners of his people, and with him came others of the Dúnedain, eager to behold once more the lands from whence their forefathers had come.
Great was the wonder and joy at their arrival. Gil-galad, High King of the Elves of the West, stood beside Círdan the Shipwright, and they welcomed the men of Númenor as long-sundered kin. In those days, friendship blossomed anew between the Eldar and the Edain, and many tales were told of the deeds and sorrows of the Elder Days.
Among those who stood beside the king was Arvaethor. Yet though he bowed with honour before the mariners of the West, his heart was not wholly at ease. For he remembered the ruin of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the treachery of Uldor the Accursed, by whose betrayal his father fell. And though he knew the Dúnedain to be of noble blood and just in deed, the shadow of that ancient wrong lay still upon his fëa, and trust came not easily to his heart.
In the years that followed, the ships of Númenor returned many times to the havens of the Elves, and bonds of friendship grew strong between the two kindreds. Yet with each landfall, the longing of the sea stirred more fiercely in Arvaethor’s heart. The cry of the gulls and the sighing of the waves spoke to him in dreams, and he yearned to take ship and pass into the West, where healing might be found for the wounds of long ages past.
But that road was denied him. For beneath the stars he had sworn an oath unbreakable, that he would not seek the Blessed Realm until the works of Morgoth were utterly undone and the captains of his evil brought low. Bound by grief and honour, he turned his face from the sea and remained in Middle-earth, though his heart was ever drawn westward with the tide.
S.A 750 / Age 1067
(WORK IN PROGRESS)
