Ah, mellon, what have you been waiting for?

So much, my friend, so much.

Why?

Because it had to be. If only you knew it all...

I can, if you tell me.

You are an elf, and it will drive even you to tears, for you knew Trialwen.

Trialwen? What does my sister have to do with this?

More than you can ever know.

Why? Stop dropping hints and tell me the story. What happened after you ran off with her?

Shall I tell you? Listen, then, and hear the Tale of Farior and Trialwen...


A song floated through the trees, as lazily as the morning breeze that toyed with Farior's pale blond hair. It was a cheerful, joyous song, not at all befitting the young elf's mood.

The haven that Lord Elrond had founded was beautiful, now that he was conscious and no longer driven mad by pain and was able to see and appreciate it. But Farior was truly oblivious to its majesty, would have given up this home for his old one, and all that he had lost.

Curse the Dark Lord's spirit, and Isildur's with him!

Too caught up in his memories to realize what he was doing, Farior moved to put his head in his hands, and Sauron's work looked him in the face.

The elf winced painfully and looked away from his war tokens. Farior had been caught directly in the path of the Enemy as he swept his way through the ranks of Gil-Galad and Elendil. He had managed to dodge the worst of the Dark Lord's strikes, but had been clipped with the full force of his magic. Elrond had been able to save his mind, though it had taken many long and hard months of painful work, but no healing could save his arm. From the elbow down on his left side, there was nothing. The lower half of the limb had been completely incinerated. And the left side of his face was twisted and burned grotesquely, looking more like the features of an orc than those of an elf. The thought made him wince again. And those weren't all his injuries. His entire left side was one solid burn scar, and his left leg had been deformed, his foot twisted sharply inwards.

He would never run again. He would never draw a bow again. He would never ride again. He would never even walk straight again.

And there were other wounds, too, wounds that ran far deeper that the physical. Such long and terrible pain as he had lived with for the last several months was not quickly thrown aside. It had driven him mad at first, and only Elrond's patient, careful work had retrieved his sanity. And Shanor...

Well, Shanor was dead, wasn't he? He'd been killed in the battle. Farior had dragged his best friend, his brother in all but blood, the one he was closer to and loved more than any other in the world, away from the fighting. The other elf had died in his arms. Farior, driven mad—though not as mad as he would soon be—by grief, had charged back into the fray, slaying many before Sauron brought him down.

And now he was here, in Rivendell, alive and healed in body if not in soul.

Damn you, Sauron, damn you...

The song ended, but the musician began another, this one slow and sad—far more appropriate for Farior. The singer had a beautiful voice, befitting Rivendell. Shanor, had he been there, would have made a comment about how whoever she was probably had been left behind in the looks department because she'd been given such a lovely voice, then would have hurried off to meet her and fallen in love with her—for about a week. Shanor was like that. He'd never found anyone he wanted to stay with forever, but Farior suspected that things had been brewing between him and Varuviel, another elf who had fought in the war.

Another elf who was dead.

Farior was too lost in his grief to notice that the song had grown louder—the singer was coming closer. He leaned his forehead on his remaining hand and took a slow, shuddering breath, striving to keep his tears inside.

The song stopped suddenly. Farior looked up, sidelong, to see the singer standing before him, looking almost like a startled deer.

Had Shanor made that comment about her being left behind in looks, he would have been very wrong. She had long, slightly wavy, midnight black hair that flowed unbound down her back almost to her knees. Her eyes were an unearthly blue. She wore a simple green dress, and a finely crafted elven dagger was strapped to her waist. She stood to his right, and Farior had not yet turned his head, so she hadn't seen any of the horrible deformities he now bore.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. Her speaking voice was just as nice as her singing one. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Are you new to Rivendell? I haven't seen you before. My name is Trialwen. What's yours?"

Farior kept his head straight and his arm—or what remained of it—down. He didn't want her pity. "Farior."

"Did you arrive here recently?" Trialwen sat beside him on the bench.

He turned subtly. "No. I've been here for months—over a year—recovering from war injuries."

She nodded. "Ah. That explains it. I'm not a very good physical healer, so I usually stay out of their business. I'm more of a mind-and-soul healer—comes along with my music, Lord Elrond thinks." Farior wished she wouldn't be so cheerful, though he knew she was just being friendly. "But the war was ages ago. You must have been greatly injured indeed." Farior nodded shortly. Even though her happiness was becoming annoying, he found himself somehow soothed by her presence. Probably the healing talents she'd mentioned. "Was Elrond healing you?" He nodded again. Trialwen raised her eyebrows. "Will you look at me when I'm speaking to you, please?" Her tone became a bit sharp.

Farior gave a cruel parody of a laugh. "Trust me, you don't want me to."

She crossed her arms. "Don't I?"

"No, you don't."

"And why not?"

Farior sighed. "This is why." He turned to face her, twisting so that she not only saw his horribly marred face but his half an arm as well.

Trialwen was surprised, and she let it show. But, to Farior's own surprise, he didn't see any of the disgust or pity he'd expected in her eyes. Only surprise, and another emotion he couldn't name. She nodded. "And that's why Elrond himself was working with you."

"Yes, it is," Farior snarled. "And I'll thank you to leave me alone now." He stood and began to hobble away, flushing in shame at his pace.

"Why?" Trialwen asked softly.

The question stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly. "What?"

"Why? Why do you want me to leave you alone?"

That was a good question—and one he didn't know the answer to.

Farior looked at Trialwen, then towards the empty wood and solitude. Perhaps, he thought, it is time for my soul to heal, as well as my body. For the first time in at least a year, he really, truly smiled. "I don't," he told Trialwen, and dragged himself back to the bench to sit beside her.

The elf-maid smiled back. "I thought not. If you don't mind my asking, what happened?"

Farior hesitated. His newfound resolution to trust Trialwen was put to an immediate test. He hadn't told any one what happened—not even Elrond knew everything, about Shanor and all. He took a deep breath and began his story.