On clear nights when no shadow or clouds marred the starlit sky, and the moon was full and bright, Lauranel Arestel could sometimes almost remember what it used to be like before, when she answered to a far different name. That was a rare moment, though, and it had been many long years, and more than an Age of the second world in which she now dwelled.
She would come back to that prior life, what had become a mere blink to the years she had already now lived, and walking in its memory, such as all Firstborn were want to do, was to drink the cup biter cup of joyous sorrow. It seemed to be the fate of the Eldar, that joy was mingled with grief. But on those rare nights under the blanket of Varda's stars, Arestel knew it was still a bit different for her. She was not resentful of what luck of grace had been granted to her, not at all, but she did sometimes think on the Fate of the Secondborn. The race of Men to which she had once, a world away, been so counted.
It would be easier, she thought, still admiring the brightest— and newest— star, Gil-Estel, if he was here still, in the middle-lands. But the one closest to her heart had departed through fire and shadow, terror and treachery, in the preceding Age. She had now spent nearly as much time in this Second Age of the Sun as she had in the Hallowed Lands with him, and even after in the middle lands.
He was the only one she had considered telling her story to in full, the only one she could think of who was both close enough to her heart and also deserved the truth of her with completeness. But she had been, and still probably was, a coward.
She had remained silent.
And, as she often did on these clear, bright nights, she walked in memory of two lives. One short lived, even as counted among mortal-kind, and another, longer-lived and still tallying. The weight of memory was pressing, but mostly due to her guilt and regret.
And she had so much of both.
Their close friendship had begun in peaceful times when both dwelled in Aman, where the light of the Two Trees shone brightly and the Spirits walked the Holy Lands. It had been an unusual, and unexpected comradery slowly built upon mostly chance meetings in passing. She would visit her cousin's House, and he would be walking past in the same hall, or he would come upon her in her cousin's garden while she sang with Itarillë. Soon enough they would say hello, and then it became humorous quips, and later longer conversations.
She had seen his looks to her when he thought she was paying him no mind, she was not that unobservant. She was sure many speculated why she spent such a large portion of her time dwelling in Turucáno's halls instead of her own father's. Most believed it to be borne out of her close friendship with his daughter Itarillë, and that was not untrue. But seeing him slowly became near as large part of her visits as did the cousin who was closest in age to her. Though, really, neither of them is the truest reason of all, just a brilliant excuse at first.
He did not speak to her of anything more than friendship then, for what reason or more she could not guess. But neither did she, too afraid of what possible foreknowledge she held from words written in pages that did not exist in Arda. And after the Darkening, after the bitter cold of the Helcaraxë— which she is still sure each only survived by clinging to the other in the dark— neither her nor she spoke of anything which their glances and longing gazes might mean.
At first, and for so long, she did not speak for fear foreknowledge. Then she did not speak because she feared losing their friendship, and then because he had not spoken and she feared that what she had observed was not what she had begun to believe it might be. Because she feared he did not share in his heart for her what she held in hers for him.
She regrets it on the quiet cloudless nights. Regrets that she did not take the risk and open her mind and heart to him fully. And yet she still fears.
Because the Second Age is half gone, and if her scant memories from a time afore hold true, he will be returning to these shores soon. He will wonder why he finds her here in Mithlond, or possibly in a valley yet to be established, and not with her sister in a city which is doomed to burn, or under the trees of singing gold. Her memory, at least of that life before under different stars, is not all that perfect, and has weakened with every passing year. There have been far too many to count already.
Artanis—Galadriel— knows, or at least suspects why her little sister does not abide with her, even if Arestel has never told her, never let her see it in her mind. But Arestel cannot chance that which might come from her sister ever uncovering the terrible truth, could not even when they dwelled in Aman.
So, she thinks, and she regrets. She walks in memory in the 1598th year of the Second Age of the Sun, and her soul cries with tears of guilt and shame and fear.
Laurëfindel, Glorfindel of Gondolin, will be returning to Middle-Earth soon, so very soon, and Arestel Arafinwiel both knows and dreads the accounting that will eventually come from such.
The worst of it all, she thinks as Arien begins to crest, light still faint enough that the stars still shine brightly, is the miniscule spark of hope that when the accounting comes time to be paid, that she will not lose what little she has kept for herself. That there might be something instead to gain.
Hope, after all, is one of the most dangerous things.