All characters contained herein are the creation of JRR Tolkien and
property of the Tolkien estate. I make no claims of ownership to anything mentioned
in the story, and write solely for personal pleasure. No money has been or will be
made from this writing.
The Most Bitter Parting
Wisdom's Folly
At last we have come to the parting of our ways.
Many that still dwell in Middle-earth account me the wisest of all the Wise. But wisdom did not prepare me for this day, though I long foresaw its passing; nor is it any comfort for the pain in my heart. Wisdom is as nothing beside the grief of losing my child. We have spoken long in these hills, my daughter and I. Of times past, memories both of joy and sorrow. Perhaps it is foolish, but as I gaze upon her now, I see not the noble lady she has become, but the tiny babe that once I held in my arms and sang to in the Noldorin tongue of our people.
She stands before me, clad in the royal finery of Gondor, a more radiant Queen than that realm has ever known or will. I would not have her dress so, for I cannot stop myself from the absurdity of thinking that even the finest clothing of those she will rule is too plain and unflattering for a woman who once was a lady of the Elves. But Arwen believes it fitting that she clothe herself in the raiment of those who now look to her as their Queen. She rode into the White City dressed in the blue gown sewn by Celebrían her mother, but would take no other garment into her possession when we set out from Imladris.
Thoughts of my wife waiting beyond the Sea, stab at my anguished heart. I will sail into the West soon, to be rejoined with one treasure even as I lose another. I wonder if Celebrían has foreseen this day, or if it shall be my doom to carry this news to her when at last I set foot in the Blessed Realm. Ai! I have never seen the shores of Elvenhome, and long have I wondered of the isle which I have seen only in dream and passing fancy. Once I believed that when I finally grew weary and sailed into the West, it would be with my children beside me that I stepped onto the shore of Aman, where Celebrían would greet the four of us and we would be a family restored. Alas, I may no longer find comfort in such a fantasy. The wonder of Elvenhome will be lessened when I bear into that land the knowledge that my family is forever diminished. On a time, the thought of seeing my wife again after so long apart brought a well of limitless joy to me. Now I fear that our meeting will be my ruin, and I look not forward to it. How can it be that now I dread the moment I am reunited with my beloved, where once I cherished the thought and could scarcely find the patience to wait?
As many times before, I wonder if Arwen truly understands the weight of her choice. I fear that she does not, will not, until the Sea sunders us fully. Then may regret set its dragonclaw into her sweet heart, never to be removed. But she has some hope, though her choice has brought only the deepest sorrow for myself. No matter what I think, no matter what wisdom may say about the folly of Mortal uniting with the Deathless, Arwen loves the Man Aragorn. Though she loses me, and her brethren and mother, she will have him, and the children that shall come of their union, to comfort her. Yet for all that she will have, I fear that my foreboding will prove true, and in the end my daughter will remember her choice with naught but bitterness. Such pain cannot be assuaged and I would spare her its sting, were the wisdom of an Elf-lord of any avail. But her choice is made and she is bound to the fate of Men. There is nothing I may do.
Unbidden, my thought turns to Aragorn, once called Estel, King now of Gondor and Arnor. I have ever loved him as my son, for he is valorous and wise, and noble of heart. He is the greatest of the Dúnedain that yet remain, and there is no Man more fit to rule their chief kingdom. I took him into my home and reared him when his own sire was slain, and even after so many years of Men have passed, I still remember the wayward toddler as he was brought forth into my House in the gentle arms of Gilraen his mother. Therefore I cannot say that I hate him, for Aragorn is my kin, as were all his forefathers before him. But as I stare into my daughter's face and behold the Doom of Men that has chased away the grace of the Eldar that once arrayed her, and know that once I depart from this place I will see her no more, I can feel no love for the Man that was once the son of my heart. He is mortal; death for him is the way of Men, and as I accepted the loss of my brother, so did I accept that Aragorn would one day die and leave the world forever. It is knowledge that grieves my soul, for Aragorn is nearer to my heart than all his kin before him, save Elros alone. Yet does my heart rage at the Man for his unwitting cruelty. Is it not enough, the knife-thrust to my heart that his death will be? Must he take from me the child of my blood as well? But for Aragorn, Arwen would be safe from death's grasp, free to see the beauty of Valinor. The Dúnadan has taken from me a gem which no Man is worth. It is not right that the Lady of Imladris should be paid for her bright love with the curse of death!
I wanted to deny Aragorn the gift of my daughter's hand. I would have, if I had not the foresight to see the importance--for Men, at least--of their joining, or if I were blind to the tenderness Arwen holds for him. And though it avails me nothing, I wish with all my being that my Úndomiel had rejected Isildur's Heir, that she had indeed looked upon him as a sapling unworthy. My heart was broken the day I learned of her choice, and I have regretted many things hence. For what he has cost me, not least among my regrets is that I brought Aragorn Arathorn's son into my House and hid him from the Eye. My daughter's life is too rich a gift for him to ask of me.
Such a thought might seem uncouth to those in whose thought I am a mighty Elf-lord, wielder of Vilya, whose foremother was Tinúviel herself. But I am also a father, and my thought is bent toward what Arwen loses, for her loss will be greater than her gain. And I trust not to the love of Men in these latter days when all is fading. Aragorn loves my child; of that I have little doubt. Were his love untrue, he would not have waited till the eighty-ninth summer of his life to take a wife for himself. Yet his is not the selfless love of Beren. That mortal desired not that his beloved should follow him into death and accepted her fate only after he understood that he could not disentangle Lúthien from his doom. But Aragorn has done naught to restrain Arwen. Indeed, he has encouraged her to welcome the Doom of Men for love of him. Had I the power, I would have prevented their joining, and Arwen would remain with those who love her truly. But Fate scoffs at the desires of a father and curses me with the gifts of Elvish foresight and wisdom. My daughter loves this wretch who has stripped her of her life's grace, and I may no more rescue her from death now, than I may touch starlight or give shape to the song of the Sea.
Many times since learning of Aragorn's brash desire, I have thought of Thingol who once desired death for the daring of Beren. Ere my lad gave heed to such matters, I regarded the father of fabled Lúthien as prideful and blind, but ever since that day have I looked upon him with understanding. None but a father may rightly judge the actions of that king. But I am not Thingol, who ruled solely according to his will. Though some there were who might have believed that Aragorn had earned the reward of death for his bold aim, the wisdom of Elvish foresight demanded a nobler response. But I do not speak now with the wisdom of the Elf-lords. I was grieved when Celebrían sailed into the West, as was she. Yet that parting was for but a brief time as count the Elves. But when I leave these hills, I will be separated from my child for a time longer than even the Wise can tell. Yet greater is my fear of what lies beyond the Ending. For Arwen now is counted among the Secondborn, and not even the Lord of the Valar knows what the One means for the two Kindreds when Arda is remade. It may be that Eldar and Édain have fates apart, though none yet may guess if that be true.
For love of one beneath her worth, the Úndomiel has cast away her grace and willfully chosen death. Accept it though I must, I cannot find it in my heart to forgive Aragorn for the wound he has dealt me by dragging Arwen with him into death. The day is passing. As with all things, this last moment with my precious daughter must come to its end. Pushing aside all my misgivings, I look at Arwen and smile, though it is forced and I know that she sees the anguish behind it. Seeing my pain reflected back to me in her eyes, I am overwhelmed with shame. I cannot stay, and she may not depart, no matter what choice either may now desire to make. Why do I allow my thoughts to dwell on events I cannot change when I should be cherishing each moment we have left to share?
But we cannot delay forever. Better to say our farewells and depart one from another, lest we succumb to the grieve that threatens to bury us. Both our hearts are breaking, but we must separate at last, though neither she nor I wish to leave. One of us must at last turn away, must conquer grief brought on by the unconquerable tide of change. I am the son of Eärendil. Why then can I not find the strength to act as her father a final, and be the one to bear the burden of breaking away? She looks directly into my eyes suddenly, gazing into the depths of my soul as few can. A wretched father am I, that I cannot mask my tortured thoughts from her searching glance. But though her own grey eyes sparkle with unshed tears, she smiles, mingling love with sorrow in her countenance. Arwen rushes forward then, and casts her arms about me with such force that I stumble backward. Catching myself, I return her embrace and we are locked together in a timeless moment as we drown in shared agony.
But the embrace is short-lived, as all such moments are. Too soon, she releases me and pulls away. Arwen watches me in silence for the briefest of moments, tears now streaming down her white face, and then she steps forward to lay a kiss upon my brow. Turning, she whispers a gentle farewell, and walks away. She does not look back.
*Namarie, melda!
*Roughly translated as 'Farewell, beloved'
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Please take a moment to send feedback and let me know what you liked or didn't like, and why.
All comments are highly regarded, but constructive criticism is what I prefer.
Wisdom's Folly
At last we have come to the parting of our ways.
Many that still dwell in Middle-earth account me the wisest of all the Wise. But wisdom did not prepare me for this day, though I long foresaw its passing; nor is it any comfort for the pain in my heart. Wisdom is as nothing beside the grief of losing my child. We have spoken long in these hills, my daughter and I. Of times past, memories both of joy and sorrow. Perhaps it is foolish, but as I gaze upon her now, I see not the noble lady she has become, but the tiny babe that once I held in my arms and sang to in the Noldorin tongue of our people.
She stands before me, clad in the royal finery of Gondor, a more radiant Queen than that realm has ever known or will. I would not have her dress so, for I cannot stop myself from the absurdity of thinking that even the finest clothing of those she will rule is too plain and unflattering for a woman who once was a lady of the Elves. But Arwen believes it fitting that she clothe herself in the raiment of those who now look to her as their Queen. She rode into the White City dressed in the blue gown sewn by Celebrían her mother, but would take no other garment into her possession when we set out from Imladris.
Thoughts of my wife waiting beyond the Sea, stab at my anguished heart. I will sail into the West soon, to be rejoined with one treasure even as I lose another. I wonder if Celebrían has foreseen this day, or if it shall be my doom to carry this news to her when at last I set foot in the Blessed Realm. Ai! I have never seen the shores of Elvenhome, and long have I wondered of the isle which I have seen only in dream and passing fancy. Once I believed that when I finally grew weary and sailed into the West, it would be with my children beside me that I stepped onto the shore of Aman, where Celebrían would greet the four of us and we would be a family restored. Alas, I may no longer find comfort in such a fantasy. The wonder of Elvenhome will be lessened when I bear into that land the knowledge that my family is forever diminished. On a time, the thought of seeing my wife again after so long apart brought a well of limitless joy to me. Now I fear that our meeting will be my ruin, and I look not forward to it. How can it be that now I dread the moment I am reunited with my beloved, where once I cherished the thought and could scarcely find the patience to wait?
As many times before, I wonder if Arwen truly understands the weight of her choice. I fear that she does not, will not, until the Sea sunders us fully. Then may regret set its dragonclaw into her sweet heart, never to be removed. But she has some hope, though her choice has brought only the deepest sorrow for myself. No matter what I think, no matter what wisdom may say about the folly of Mortal uniting with the Deathless, Arwen loves the Man Aragorn. Though she loses me, and her brethren and mother, she will have him, and the children that shall come of their union, to comfort her. Yet for all that she will have, I fear that my foreboding will prove true, and in the end my daughter will remember her choice with naught but bitterness. Such pain cannot be assuaged and I would spare her its sting, were the wisdom of an Elf-lord of any avail. But her choice is made and she is bound to the fate of Men. There is nothing I may do.
Unbidden, my thought turns to Aragorn, once called Estel, King now of Gondor and Arnor. I have ever loved him as my son, for he is valorous and wise, and noble of heart. He is the greatest of the Dúnedain that yet remain, and there is no Man more fit to rule their chief kingdom. I took him into my home and reared him when his own sire was slain, and even after so many years of Men have passed, I still remember the wayward toddler as he was brought forth into my House in the gentle arms of Gilraen his mother. Therefore I cannot say that I hate him, for Aragorn is my kin, as were all his forefathers before him. But as I stare into my daughter's face and behold the Doom of Men that has chased away the grace of the Eldar that once arrayed her, and know that once I depart from this place I will see her no more, I can feel no love for the Man that was once the son of my heart. He is mortal; death for him is the way of Men, and as I accepted the loss of my brother, so did I accept that Aragorn would one day die and leave the world forever. It is knowledge that grieves my soul, for Aragorn is nearer to my heart than all his kin before him, save Elros alone. Yet does my heart rage at the Man for his unwitting cruelty. Is it not enough, the knife-thrust to my heart that his death will be? Must he take from me the child of my blood as well? But for Aragorn, Arwen would be safe from death's grasp, free to see the beauty of Valinor. The Dúnadan has taken from me a gem which no Man is worth. It is not right that the Lady of Imladris should be paid for her bright love with the curse of death!
I wanted to deny Aragorn the gift of my daughter's hand. I would have, if I had not the foresight to see the importance--for Men, at least--of their joining, or if I were blind to the tenderness Arwen holds for him. And though it avails me nothing, I wish with all my being that my Úndomiel had rejected Isildur's Heir, that she had indeed looked upon him as a sapling unworthy. My heart was broken the day I learned of her choice, and I have regretted many things hence. For what he has cost me, not least among my regrets is that I brought Aragorn Arathorn's son into my House and hid him from the Eye. My daughter's life is too rich a gift for him to ask of me.
Such a thought might seem uncouth to those in whose thought I am a mighty Elf-lord, wielder of Vilya, whose foremother was Tinúviel herself. But I am also a father, and my thought is bent toward what Arwen loses, for her loss will be greater than her gain. And I trust not to the love of Men in these latter days when all is fading. Aragorn loves my child; of that I have little doubt. Were his love untrue, he would not have waited till the eighty-ninth summer of his life to take a wife for himself. Yet his is not the selfless love of Beren. That mortal desired not that his beloved should follow him into death and accepted her fate only after he understood that he could not disentangle Lúthien from his doom. But Aragorn has done naught to restrain Arwen. Indeed, he has encouraged her to welcome the Doom of Men for love of him. Had I the power, I would have prevented their joining, and Arwen would remain with those who love her truly. But Fate scoffs at the desires of a father and curses me with the gifts of Elvish foresight and wisdom. My daughter loves this wretch who has stripped her of her life's grace, and I may no more rescue her from death now, than I may touch starlight or give shape to the song of the Sea.
Many times since learning of Aragorn's brash desire, I have thought of Thingol who once desired death for the daring of Beren. Ere my lad gave heed to such matters, I regarded the father of fabled Lúthien as prideful and blind, but ever since that day have I looked upon him with understanding. None but a father may rightly judge the actions of that king. But I am not Thingol, who ruled solely according to his will. Though some there were who might have believed that Aragorn had earned the reward of death for his bold aim, the wisdom of Elvish foresight demanded a nobler response. But I do not speak now with the wisdom of the Elf-lords. I was grieved when Celebrían sailed into the West, as was she. Yet that parting was for but a brief time as count the Elves. But when I leave these hills, I will be separated from my child for a time longer than even the Wise can tell. Yet greater is my fear of what lies beyond the Ending. For Arwen now is counted among the Secondborn, and not even the Lord of the Valar knows what the One means for the two Kindreds when Arda is remade. It may be that Eldar and Édain have fates apart, though none yet may guess if that be true.
For love of one beneath her worth, the Úndomiel has cast away her grace and willfully chosen death. Accept it though I must, I cannot find it in my heart to forgive Aragorn for the wound he has dealt me by dragging Arwen with him into death. The day is passing. As with all things, this last moment with my precious daughter must come to its end. Pushing aside all my misgivings, I look at Arwen and smile, though it is forced and I know that she sees the anguish behind it. Seeing my pain reflected back to me in her eyes, I am overwhelmed with shame. I cannot stay, and she may not depart, no matter what choice either may now desire to make. Why do I allow my thoughts to dwell on events I cannot change when I should be cherishing each moment we have left to share?
But we cannot delay forever. Better to say our farewells and depart one from another, lest we succumb to the grieve that threatens to bury us. Both our hearts are breaking, but we must separate at last, though neither she nor I wish to leave. One of us must at last turn away, must conquer grief brought on by the unconquerable tide of change. I am the son of Eärendil. Why then can I not find the strength to act as her father a final, and be the one to bear the burden of breaking away? She looks directly into my eyes suddenly, gazing into the depths of my soul as few can. A wretched father am I, that I cannot mask my tortured thoughts from her searching glance. But though her own grey eyes sparkle with unshed tears, she smiles, mingling love with sorrow in her countenance. Arwen rushes forward then, and casts her arms about me with such force that I stumble backward. Catching myself, I return her embrace and we are locked together in a timeless moment as we drown in shared agony.
But the embrace is short-lived, as all such moments are. Too soon, she releases me and pulls away. Arwen watches me in silence for the briefest of moments, tears now streaming down her white face, and then she steps forward to lay a kiss upon my brow. Turning, she whispers a gentle farewell, and walks away. She does not look back.
*Namarie, melda!
*Roughly translated as 'Farewell, beloved'
Please take a moment to send feedback and let me know what you liked or didn't like, and why.
All comments are highly regarded, but constructive criticism is what I prefer.