I was an artist, a creator, the tiny, frail child of Man murmurs when he finds them long past sunset, seated in the darkness of the armory. Their legs are crossed like an Elfling's and a dull steel practice sword balances across their thighs, right thumb idly rubbing the edge of the blade. I crafted art and songs and stories and lives and buildings and worlds, and it is hard to match the softness in their voice to any emotion he knows the name of, save for longing, heart-ache and longing. They turn their bright shining eyes to him, and a shiver runs down his spine at the fury in their gaze. Fighting is an art, too, in its own way.
Yes, he agrees, for what else can he do when faced with this wild animal of a person, staring him in the eye and asking for a fight, a battle, any small way to release the energy and anger they can hardly contain?
Teach me, and it is a question and a request and an order all in one, and he obliges because it is not the words that are silver, but the tongue, and for what else can he do when faced with this gentle child of a person, not quite meeting his gaze and asking for a lesson, instruction, any big way to learn the ways of a world they do not quite fit into yet?
The clash of metal on metal and the scent of sweat and dust rises into the night air and come morning, the Man is exhausted and grinning and there is gold in their muddy eyes, silver in their earthen hair, and a sheen that isn't perspiration has settled over them.
Men do not live forever, and they are young and grey all at once.
This he knows, yet a shadow of doubt has wormed its way into his mind. He is not entirely sure he desires to explore it further, and simply inclines his head at the beaming smile they turn on him as they bow out, back away and down the hall and back to their rooms.
Days pass into weeks pass into months and the frail child grows strong, grows bright, grows into themself, and despite being just as small as they were upon their arrival, seem bigger, take up more space, hold themself with more confidence, more grace, more belonging each time they come and go and come and go and come and go from the valley.
Lindrhovan, he says when he finds them standing at the edge of the main bridge late one night, freshly returned from a months-long journey to the east and whispering prayers and poems and verses under their breath, and they shiver, smile, press a hand over their heart, dip their head in acknowledgement. He knows not their name and has thus chosen to give them one of their own.
When they turn towards him, their hair shines silver and brown and their eyes flash gold and brown and the ink that snakes up their arms writhes when they are unnerved and they join him in his private quarters for a meal shared, and of the four names that tumble out of their mouth on their fifth glass of wine with him, only one is recognizable to him.
He does not need to wonder what this means. He has known since the beginning, but knowledge and acceptance are two different things.
Days pass into weeks pass into months pass into years and they do not demand answers so much as come into them, and it is this that tells him that they, too, have known all along.
They are nineteen, are thirty-six, are fifty-four, are seventy-one, are nineteen still, still, still, and their eyes glint gold and on the sixtieth year since they arrived in the valley, a terrified child gasping prayers and curses, a lost child crumpled to the bridge and in danger of throwing themself off, he names them Captain, names them Peredhel, names them his, gives them a father, a sister, two brothers, gives them a home.
And still they come and go and come and go, staying for a few months, a few weeks, a few days, before setting off again and each time they leave, a flicker of fear warns him that someday they will not return and he will be left burning an empty pyre for a lost child. But still they appear at the entrance to the valley, filthy and exhilarated, each time wiser and braver and brighter.
They call me Runner, call me Stormbreaker, call me Half-Elf, they whisper once, age eighty-three and still young, still barely a child in his eyes, tracing strange letters and symbols and words with a pen into paper, ink seeping from between their fingers with practiced grace long past sunset just as summer is breathing its last winds into fall. He watches them, eyes flickering with the candlelight and waits. The Dunedain and the people of Rohan and the Easterlings and those of Gondor and and and. There is a note of awe in their voice that he understands from ages long past and they look up at him, eyes wide and a half-smile playing on their lips. The pen presses deep into the parchment, leaving a spreading pool of ink and staining their fingertips.
And the next morning he tucks more lembas bread into their pack and brushes the braid behind their ear and kisses their forehead and by sunrise, they have vanished into the mountains, on to the next path, the next dawn, the next sunset, chasing head and heart and is this what home feels like?
He cannot tie this Man, this child, this grown wild thing to him or to his realm or to anywhere in the world, and yet—
Come home.
I belong not here.
You belong where your heart lies. Come home.
They do not stay in the valley that night, or in the nights following, and it is nearing the turning of the moon before they find their way into his and his children's chambers and their eyes find four sets of matching blue ones and they let him hold them then, like a lifeline, like they will slip away if he breathes too sharply, and they allow him to press a kiss to their forehead, allow their sister to polish their sword, allow their brothers to braid their hair, all five of them speaking in an ancient language they picked up like second nature and the sun rises and rises and rises and they come and go and come and go and come and go and go and go and go—