Chapter One

That day remained forever etched in Neldor's memory as one of sadness, though really there was nothing wrong with the day in and of itself. It had been a rather chilly morning, in the early autumn. The sky could be seen past the dense canopy, though still in the gray hues of dawn. Only a few birds dared to interrupt the heavy silence that had fallen upon the great forest of Mirkwood, as if they were aware of the grief that came in accompaniment with the day for one small elven family – and their tunes then had been mournful, as if they were trying to show their sympathy to the heavy hearts present within their midst. He remembered the look on her face: the face of Arlass, the wife of his brother. At one time, the slender young maiden had been one of the most cheerful and happiest that he had known in his life – that was what had made Brethil, his brother, fall so madly in love with her in the first place. Nevertheless, today her pale face was framed with her unbound, raven–black hair, and her dark brown eyes lacked the normal sparkle and luster that had previously spoken of her boundless energy and lightness of spirit. She was quiet, withdrawn and sad, as she had been ever since her husband was slain four weeks ago, and it broke Neldor's heart to see it. Yet today, especially, her expression of utter unhappiness and hopelessness struck him to the core, for he put himself to blame. His brother had died in his arms, to the blade of an orc – one of a group that had ambushed the siblings unawares whilst they were hunting. Brethil had died within moments of receiving the blow, but Neldor could not help but think that if he had been but a little quicker, if he had done something differently – anything – he would have been able to save him, and he would have been able to spare everyone much grief and tragedy. As it was, he had failed, and now he had to bear the consequences of his deeds.

One of these consequences he held in his arms. The young elfling's arms were tossed about Neldor's neck, his small fingers clinging to the back of his uncle's tunic. Tulushall, the son of Brethil, rested his dark head wearily on Neldor's shoulder, and he gave a great yawn. The elven–boy was not accustomed to having to wake – and travel – at such an early hour. For that matter, neither was Neldor, but he cared little. He stared ahead of him, his eyes fixed upon Arlass. He and Tulushall stood in the archway of a stable, and they watched as four elves prepared horses for a journey. The elves were those of Thranduil's warriors who were willing to accompany the wife of Brethil as she rode off to the Havens, mostly friends of Brethil's who felt pity for the widowed elven maid. Arlass was speaking to one of these elves in a quiet tone, though she occasionally shot an anxious glance over her shoulder to Neldor and her son. Neldor sighed, tightening his hold on Tulushall and affectionately nuzzled the tousled locks, which were both just as dark as his mother's and his father's.

"Where are we?" the little elfling asked sleepily, fidgeting in his uncle's arms so that he could look about him a little. He had to shake his head, tossing tendrils of his still baby–soft hair out of his line of vision. He blinked blearily over his shoulder at his mother. "Nana is talking to... Who is he? I want to go home!"

"I know, Tulus," replied Neldor in a murmur, his timbre soft and sad. "We will go soon."

This seemed to satiate the young elf for the time being. He continued to gaze at his mother for a few moments, maybe debating whether to throw one of his signature tantrums and demand acquiescence to whatever his wishes were at the moment, as he was well known to do. Neldor stiffened, bracing himself for this event, but it seemed that Tulushall thought it far too early to engage in such strenuous activity, for he gave another mighty yawn – exaggerated in a way that only those of a young age could do – and snuggled down into Neldor's shoulder again. He released a small sigh of relief – though, perhaps that one tragedy would have been better received than the one that they were about to go through now. Arlass at last seemingly finished going over their plans with the head of her escort, and the dark–eyed beauty turned towards Neldor and his burden. Neldor had taken it upon himself to see her off, for his own private feelings of remorse. He had left his wife – Tinlass, the sister of Arlass – and his own little son behind in the village, and traveled with young Tulushall and Arlass the short distance to Thranduil's halls. He did not blame Arlass for taking this last journey. Her heart had simply broken when her husband was lost so suddenly. Rather than watching her fade before them, Neldor and those who loved her would have her at last find peace – and happiness – within Valinor, and meet again with Brethil in the blessed lands if so their fate was intended. The only regretful aspect of her decision was her son. He was far too young to be given the choice to go along with his mother to Valinor. He had his whole life ahead of him – there were many wonders of Middle–Earth that Tulushall had yet to see, and Arlass would not deny them to him, though it broke her heart twice over to have to part with her child.

"We are ready," came the quiet words from the elven–woman.

Neldor could only form a faint smile – a mere twitch of his lips – in response as she looked up to him. He nodded, though would not meet her eyes – he felt that what reserve he had would break if he forced to look upon the after–effects of his failure for too long. At the sound of his mother's voice, Tulushall lifted his head again. The dark eyes sparkled sleepily, and he reached out wordlessly for his mother to take him. Arlass looked as if she wanted to cry, but took her little son as Neldor willingly relinquished the little creature. Tulushall looked mildly startled when his mother held him very tightly, stifling a small sob. Neldor watched with unshed tears in his own eyes as the slender maiden clung to her child, her white arms trembling along with the rest of her body as she held Tulushall in a veritable death–grip. The elfling's young brow was furrowed with consternation, and he held onto his mother worriedly.

"What's wrong, nana?" he asked. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

Neldor sighed – Tulushall had been told of his father's death, but the elfling had no concept of the idea. Already he had asked – several times – when his 'ada' was to return from his hunting trip... hopefully this would be a parting that he could more easily understand, though undoubtedly it will distress the child to no end. Arlass sniffled a little. She hid her face in her son's shoulder and soft black hair so that Neldor could not see, and her tone, though tremulous, was surprisingly calm considering the extent of her emotions. Neldor politely averted his eyes and his attention to something else, though he could not help but overhear the conversation between mother and son.

"Tulus... I have to go, ion–nîn."

"Go? Where are you going?"

"Do you remember the stories that your ada used to tell you of Valinor? Of Elbereth and the Valar?"

"Yes! I can remember every one."

"Good," the maiden gave a shaky laugh. "Good, I am glad. Well, that is where I am going, Tulus – to Valinor."

"Really? Will you see Elbereth? And Manwë and Tulkas and... and..."

"Maybe. I think I will."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you going?"

"...I have to. You see... your ada..."

"Is he there too?"

"I – I d– yes."

"Ai! That is where he has been. Can I come too?"

Neldor inwardly winced.

"No," the mother replied quietly. "No, Tulus, you must stay here."

"Why?" The young elf demanded pitifully. "I want to come!"

"You cannot. You see, Tulus, you have to stay here. You know your little cousin? Arad? If you leave, he shall have no one to play with."

"But – but I want to go with you! I miss ada, and I don't want you t–to go!'

"Ssh. Sîdh, pen–neth. You can, someday, but for now you have to stay behind. Can you do this for me, Tulushall Brethilion? It is a very important task. You are going to have to be strong, for your uncle Neldor and your aunt and cousin – and for me and ada."

"I–I... I will be, nana."

"There is my good boy. Now, do not cry, ion–nîn! What did I tell you about being strong? All is well, little one – we shall all be together again soon."

Tulushall nodded very quickly. His eyes were tightly shut, and heavy tears were rolling off of his round cheeks, but he clung to his mother, and did not give so much as a whimper as she smoothed back his dark hair, and kissed his forehead tenderly. Neldor's heart ached, knowing the anguish she must feel. He would never be able to bid farewell to his son in such a way – he had to admire her courage, and that of Tulushall's. The elven–woman then knelt, and set her son's two feet steadily on the ground. She carefully wiped the tears from his faced, and then kissed his cheek.

"Just wait one moment, ion–nîn. Let me speak to Neldor."

He simply nodded, and so Arlass rose gracefully to her feet. Neldor bit his lip as he gazed into the tear–stained face of the anguished mother. Arlass was doing her best to keep her emotions in check, though her eyes were red and she could do nothing about her tears. Yet, she did manage a shaky smile for Neldor. She stepped forward, and he carefully enfolded her in an embrace, as if he believed she would break.

"Take care of him, Neldor," she whispered brokenly, sniffling into his shoulder.

"I will," he promised in an undertone, but conviction was there. "With my life, Arlass."

"I know you will," he could sense rather than see that she was smiling. "You are a good man, Neldor. Thank you."

He shook his head, thinking himself undeserving of the thanks when it had been he who had brought them all into this unhappy situation in the first place – he who had simply let his brother and dearest friend die in his arms. "Do not thank me, my lady."

"Do not be foolish," she pulled back from him, and tossed back some of her dark locks. She smiled up at him, and this time there was sincerity in the gesture. "If it were not for you... ai, things would have been so much worse. You have been a great comfort, but do not deny any for yourself. Do not shake your head at me! You did not kill – you did not kill Brethil, my friend. The orcs did, and you then killed them. You did all you could."

He bowed his head, feeling the heat behind his eyes that spoke of encroaching tears. He closed his eyes briefly in a nod. He knew her words were true, and in time he would accept them, but he was not quite ready to just yet. "Navaer, my lady," he whispered.

"Farewell, Neldor," she replied, and then lifted herself up to kiss him chastely on the cheek. He watched morosely as she knelt beside Tulus again, and hugged him tightly to her breast. The little elf sniffed loudly, but actually seemed a bit more composed than he had been a few moments ago.

"Good–bye, my little one," Arlass breathed into his miniature pointed ear. "Be good for Neldor."

He nodded. "I will, nana. Good–bye."

She squeezed him once more, and then she stood. With a last longing look upon both Neldor and Tulushall, she turned, and walked towards the waiting escort. Neldor gathered his nephew – and newly appointed foster–son – in his arms, and the two watched tearfully as she and the warriors rode off, down a path into the forest. Neither saw Arlass again for as long as they lingered on the shores of Arda. Once she was completely out of sight, Tulushall gave a strangled whimper. He buried his face in his uncle's shoulder, shaking now and then as he suppressed his sobs, giving an extreme effort to keep his promise to his mother. Neldor closed his eyes, holding the elf comfortingly in his arms.

"It is alright, Tulus," he whispered. "You can cry."

And so he did.

Author's Note: My friend, dear Talon, gave me a song just a while ago that I thought fit into this situation perrrfectly. Bring Him Home, from the Les Miserables soundtrack, lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer. So... I name that song the soundtrack for this chappy. ^^