II
ANOTHER IRONY: when I first met mortal men, the Dúnedain, I felt assured that I would never follow in my ancestress's footsteps. I met the Men with equanimity, and though they were struck by my beauty, I felt no stirrings in return. Quite the opposite, in fact. So I was safe; I would not become Lúthien. There was absolutely no danger, I felt, of me falling to the same Doom.
The Dúnedain, so my brothers told me, were our cousins from afar, the Northern descendants of Númenor. And their Chieftain really was related to us (in a backhanded sort of way), as he was descended directly from Elros, my father's brother. The uncle we never knew.
Elros was always a shadowy figure to us. Long ago, long even for Elves, around the turn of the Second Age, he had chosen a mortal existence rather than live on forever with his brother my father, his only family member here on Arda. Instead he had turned away and taken up kingship over Men.
To my brothers, he was a hero of old, a figure of immense strength who nevertheless remained shrouded in mystery. It was Fate, in their opinion, that Elros had become human; it was necessary for the race of Men that Elros became their King. And though my brothers did not pretend to understand the choice, neither did they deny its merit or decry him for having made it.
Prompted by Elladan I announced similar feelings during my history lessons, that I couldn't understand the choice, but that since it had been done for good, I supposed (in a rather dubious voice) that it was acceptable. Yes, it was acceptable that Elros had rejected the life of the Eldar—we had to accept it, since there was naught I could do about a choice made many years before my existence had even been dreamed—the choice of Elros, my... my father's brother.
That was what I called him always, both in speech and in my mind, my father's brother. Not uncle. Never uncle. In the private of my own rooms, I would muse over Elros's rejection of Eldar life and wonder how he could face rejecting his brother. Granted, my father did not have an entire family to be rejected back then—he had not even had my mother—but had not it been Elros's fault, in a way, that it had fallen on my father to create his own family?
I realized that far from seeing him as a hero, I was coming to resent Elros. But even as my resentment grew, I found myself seeking him out more and more—minutely observing paintings, tearing through dusty tomes, even absentmindedly beginning to stitch his outline once before I noticed what I was doing. He fascinated me, and it scared me because I didn't know why. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I resented him so: he was another part of my life over which I could wield no control.
Over the years I did my best to avoid Men. Dúnedain were always visiting Imladris, partly in recognition of their connection by blood (however thin) to my father, and partly because, as The Last Homely House, ours was a neutral space where different peoples could meet on equal footing. Father would moderate discussions (though they often veered closer toward fights) and then deliberate on whose was the better claim or the better course of action, depending on the affair at hand. He was a great diplomat, my father; he said once that, after going through war after war, he had come to the conclusion that, if given a choice, words were always preferable to weapons. My brothers always laughed when he said that, but I found the idea intriguing, especially in Father's application of it to mortals as well as Elves. Could the mortal Men, who by all accounts were quick to anger and rarely thought before action, really be governed and subdued with words?
So I studied the question, going through the many histories of my father's impressive library. And I began to question Father's judgment as well, though for different reasons than my military-minded brothers did: mortals seemed incredibly impulsive. But he was my father, and I near-idolized him, so I continued to watch his moves. And the first time I managed to best my brothers using words alone, twisting them to my purpose, I began to understand that diplomacy could be useful after all. I began to emulate my father as well as my mother.
But despite my growing interest in my father's doings with the outside world, I stayed away from the doings themselves. Even though I knew it was foolish—if it were truly Fate, there was no escaping it—I couldn't help but hope that maybe, if I just stayed away from mortals, I could stay away from the Doom as well.
(It was not until long later that I realized that such a dream—hoping against all evidence, even one's own reason, one's own knowing—was a supremely Human thing to do.)
But as the years flew by, I began to wonder: What were mortals like? And my fear of Lúthien's fate perversely drew me closer to the very thing dreaded most. I think that a part of me felt that, if I really were going to lose to a Man, I might as well know what I was losing to. I didn't realize this then, of course. I simply told myself that my fears about Lúthien were ridiculous—after all, Mother had dismissed them, hadn't she? and her the daughter of far-seeing Galadriel herself!—and that I ought to learn something of the world outside of Imladris. Not to mention that attending one of Father's meetings would allow me to finally witness true diplomacy in action...
And thus I unknowingly turned the art of words against myself.
When I first met the Dúnadan leader in the first of my father's many councils that I attended (hands clenched to keep them from shaking), then Arveleg I King of Arthedain, I expected in him something familiar.
I know not why; even if Elros had been identical to my father as my brothers were to each other, many generations of Dúnedain traits—mortal traits, I thought derisively—stood between my father's brother and the man who currently led their people.
But whatever I had been expecting, these men were not it. They were tall, yes, and dark-haired, but their eyes were a steely gray that pierced right through one. When I first saw them I shivered, even though I was then old enough to be many centuries past a Dúnadan lifespan. Their eyes... These Men had seen things that I, with all my age and Elven knowledge, could not even begin to fathom. They made me feel—young.
It was not a feeling that I enjoyed.
In the beginning of the year 1409 of the Third Age, a little under two centuries after my first millennium, I encountered the Doom of Men for the first time. And for the first time I could no longer agree with my brothers, even in speech, that Númenor was entirely at fault for its downfall. For what kind of creator would give its children death and then call it a Gift?
At this time there was open war between the Kingdoms of the Dúnedain and Angmar to the North. We Elves in our protected valley of Rivendell were not involved directly in the war, although my brothers would oft ride out with the Dúnedain on smaller missions that required great stealth and speed. They always returned with nary a scratch, so despite Father's muttered worries and my mother's reproving looks, no one really ever bothered stopping them.
One night early spring, I was awoken from my sleep by my companion Mélië, her face white and strained even in the warm glow of the lamp.
"Arwen, Arwen," she whispered frantically, "you must come. Your parents are calling for you; they are in need."
I sprang out of the bed instantly. What could possibly be wrong? Bad things didn't happen here, not in my father's house. In the outside world, yes, but not here.
When I finally made it to the great hall several frantic minutes later, all I could see was controlled commotion. Elves bustled everywhere, but what was really unexpected were the people laid out on stretchers and tables—Men.
I found Elrohir. He was standing at the end of the hall looking grim. "There were too many of them," he was saying to father, "too many, and too few of us."
My father nodded and moved to the man on the stretcher nearest the fire. My father is—was—a great Healer, definitely the best West of the Misty Mountains if not in all Arda. But when he straightened from the man's side, he looked drained and worried. "Elrohir, I have done all I can for him," Father murmured, "but he will need much care if he is to survive, and there are many wounded. ... – I must see to others."
And he went off towards Mother, herself busy amongst the wounded. None on this side of the sea probably now remember this, but my mother was just as gifted a healer as my father. Father was very good at burning out the root of the sickness or the injury, but my mother made full recovery possible, coaxing a patient along the path of convalescence with her infinite grace and kindness. In healing, as in life, my parents complemented each other perfectly.
Elrohir had turned to me. "Arwen, I must look to the men... Will you help?"
"Of, of course," I stammered out, although I had never even seen an injury in real life, let alone actually tended anyone. Elven injuries tended to heal themselves, and although I and my brothers were not full Elves, what few scratches and bruises we had gotten as children had always disappeared within the hour. "Elrohir, what exactly—"
But he was already striding away, leaving me and a Doomed man. He was definitely a Dúnadan, with the typical dark hair and long limbs. He probably had gray eyes as well, I thought wryly.
I knelt down beside him and, feeling awkward, took up a wet rag and mopped off the remnants of blood round his left temple. At this he moaned softly; I stopped fearfully. But he didn't move again, so I gathered my courage and began dabbing the rag again. The dried blood was a sickly brown color. I stared at it in horrified fascination. I had never seen blood before, not like this, dried and messy.
Soon enough the blood was gone, and I decided to make him a bit more comfortable, arranging his limbs on the stretcher and getting him a blanket so that he would not get chilled—I knew that mortal constitutions were weaker than ours, so I figured he would need some extra care to keep him comfortable; and already his forehead was deathly cold to my touch.
Then Cúwaith and Gonathror came over and lifted the stretcher. "Wait—what? Where are you taking him?"
They gave me odd looks. "Where we always take the wounded."
"Oh, of course!" I blushed. "Ought I come as well?"
"Nay," Cúwaith said decisively. "Your hands may still be needed here, and there are healers waiting in the wing who will tend to him properly."
I opened my mouth, rather insulted at this, but at the same instant I heard my father's voice calling me. "You see, my lady?" Gonathror said. "We shall go now."
I hurried over to my parents. Both looked wan. "Arwen," my mother murmured, "I know you are as yet untrained in the healing arts, but I find myself needing your strength."
I was about to question what exactly she meant, but one look at my father's worried face caused the words to die on my lips. Instead I said simply, "Of course," and held out my hand to her instinctively.
The world disappeared for a moment. When it returned, I found myself with a strange feeling of weariness, while my mother looked as refreshed as if she had just risen. I felt strange. Did I have power like my parents?
"Thank you, Arwen. If you would like, I think we can now manage—so you can go wash up and rest," Mother said kindly.
I nodded. They turned and went on to the next patient as I hurried from the hall, dazed by my experiences and feeling oddly heavy and muddled in the brain. It took me a few minutes to realize what I was feeling: tired. I was weary, an almost unheard-of ailment for someone like me. It would have been frightening if I had not want to go to sleep so very badly.
In the morning, Melië came to tell me that the man I had watched over had died despite all our attempts and Elven skill; "he was released from his suffering," she told me. I sat frozen for a long moment. Never more would anyone on this earth see the man whose brow I had cleaned last night. Never, not until the world's ending. It was an incredibly paralyzing thought.
Some time after that incident I went down to the gardens to embroider in peace and quiet like usual. To my surprise, my solitude was soon interrupted by my father.
When he sat down on the bench beside me and looked as though he would not speak, I decided to pose a question of my own.
"Why did you never tell me I had power?"
He shifted in his seat. "It is not very much, my dear. And since it is not quite manifest yet, I suppose you could just call it strength."
"Strength in what? The kind I gave Mother that night, or...?"
He shook his head. "I cannot say."
"Well, I doubt it will ever be like Glorfindel's," I mused aloud, adjusting the cloth to get a better angle. "But why do you not know?"
Father gave me a lopsided smile. "Powers only specifically manifest themselves after one has lived some time. Most Elves do not have that much power, just a little something that helps them out with their chosen craft."
That gave me pause. "So it could help me with embroidery, if I chose? And if so, how was I able to give Mother strength? That's not related to sewing at all..."
"Everyone can transfer strength in small doses, though you gave a bit more than a small dose last night; that is why you were tired afterward," Father explained. "Anything beyond that depends on what has been given by our Maker."
Lúthien's power had been amazingly strong, and it had been in song, not embroidery. But despite this assurance I still felt uneasy and sought at every turning to convince myself that I was not and would never be her. "Lúthien had not been a diplomat," I would tell myself, "so there is no reason I should worry about that. Yes, she was good with words, but that was in song, and diplomacy is as much corrupting words as it is using them." Another time I would muse, "Lúthien had many suitors besides Beren; maybe that is why she was always running away into the woods. I do not like woods, only open meadows at their edges, and I do not run or even wander. And Lúthien could fight. I cannot even string a bow."
It was true. Many of Imladris's inhabitants had been training more often, even my father, who surprised me by nearly beating Glorfindel himself in a mock duel. To our North, the Dark stronghold of Angmar was spreading its influence ever southward. Arthedain and Cardolan had strengthened their borders and repelled many attacks, as I had learned from the council meetings, but now the Witch-King apparently had decided to move his troops toward more easterly pickings—Rivendell. There might be real fighting once summer commenced, some said, though I knew not what this meant. Rivendell was so safe, so protected. I could not imagine something so terrible as war occurring right on our borders. My brothers, too, were increasingly spending more time fighting, both in training and with the Dúnedain, and even Melië went out to practice once or twice—she was an excellent archer, it turned out—but the closest I ever got to the training yards was the bench on the side where I could sit and sew while cheering on my brothers.
Summer came in full, and Angmar did attack, but not for long. There were some border skirmishes, mostly sentries ridding the woods of a few intruders who had managed to sneak in past the usual light defenses, but when the large force tried to invade, father simply spoke the old words and invoked the ancient boundary. The force disintegrated against the Power of Vilya, and the Witch-King turned once again toward the Dúnedain holdings, battles in which our people aided greatly. Danger could not come to Rivendell; Imladris and its inhabitants remained untouched. Despite occasional unrest, I remained content enough, and the years continued to flow by as easily as the stream in our gardens.