Disclaimer: Tolkien's. Not mine.
Timeframe: T.A. 210
Rating (this chapter): PG for themes of violence

Shadow Child
Chapter VIII: Inheritance

They had never argued before, not like this. No, that wasn't true. Once before. Liniel wanted to discuss having a child. It wasn't as if they had actively avoided parenthood, they simply had been too busy managing their own lives to really consider it. Now, Liniel had said, her face lit up with an uncharacteristic maternal glow, was the time. What did he think?

Findur remembered the fear and the self-reproach that had washed over him at that moment. He had looked at Liniel with new eyes. He could not see her as a mother. Himself, a father? Children, of the son of the Dark Lord? He should have never allowed himself to stay in Greenwood.

He had tried to justify his reply with so many excuses—that he was not ready for the responsibility of fatherhood, that they had both been happy until now without children, hadn't they? Liniel had attempted to reason with him at first, but she had soon become furious with his unrelenting excuses. She had accused him of spending more time in his shop than with her, alluding to his bouts of melancholy. He had angrily retorted that she was misrepresenting the facts.

"What else is to be expected?" Liniel had shouted in reply, her hands in fists. "How am I supposed to understand you if I do not even know who you are?" She had stormed out of the house, slamming the door with such fury that one of the hinges broke, the door left dangling lopsidedly within its frame.

A few minutes later, he had gone to apologize. He had found her sitting on the lowest branch of the small beech tree that bent over the garden like a wizened old man, staring pensively at a rosy pink eglantine blossom that she had plucked from a nearby bush.

"Hello," she had said softly, not looking up.

He had replied by kissing her forehead. "I'm sorry. I was being... selfish. I love you, and if you want..."

"Don't apologize," Liniel had interrupted, lifting her head suddenly. "I was unkind." She did not actually refute her earlier statements. "We have plenty of time to have children. If you want to wait, that's fine."

"Then you forgive me?"

A mischievous smile had appeared on Liniel's face. "All right," she had agreed. "As long as you promise to fix the door."

Thus followed nearly one hundred and twenty years of comparative marital bliss. The question of children had never arisen again. Findur had sometimes wondered if Liniel had resigned to waiting; after all, after two-hundred years, even a couple who tried to avoid conception would eventually have a slip-up. That would be not be uncharacteristic; though she had a forceful personality, she was not predisposed to making emotional shows to get her way. Her first outburst was something of an oddity. And after all, it wasn't as if he would be devastated if Liniel became with child—he simply did not feel it right to purposely pursue such a goal.

Now he walked silently through Thranduil's halls, detesting himself all the more and wondering if his marriage was even salvageable. He looked down at his hands, hands from which violence had flowed forth towards the woman that he loved most. I pushed her away as if she were a fly buzzing beside my ear, a mere nuisance to be dealt with, he realized with a shudder.

He could not lie to her indefinitely. But what could he tell her? He could not afford to lose her. If he did, he would be even more alone than before. The prospect was unbearable.

His footsteps echoed throughout the vacant corridors, unheard by all but himself.


When he returned to their room, all of Liniel's possessions were gone. His own things had been packed rather messily into open bags that sat on his bed. He almost smiled at the crumpled articles hidden beneath neatly folded clothing, designed to give a pretense of tidiness. On the top of his luggage lay a piece of parchment marked with hastily scrawled characters in black ink. "Explained we had urgent business at home." There was no signature. He picked up the note and gazed at it as if were some precious artifact, clutched it tightly in his balled fist. He fancied that there was an aroma wafting from it, a scent like roses. He wondered if she would be there when he returned home.

The next few days were, quite frankly, hell. He took no great pains in speeding home; in fact, he dreaded his arrival. He could not fathom what he would say to Liniel. Each time he attempted to postulate a response, he was soon drawn to the same inevitable conclusion—there was nothing that he could say to justify or properly apologize for his actions. Treating someone like that, it was barbaric, inexcusable.

Why then had he done it? Anger—perhaps. He had only wanted to silence her, to make her leave. She was threatening to ruin everything. Simply put, she had become an inconvenience.


When he arrived home, Liniel was not there. His first reaction was that she had left for good, but this was a ridiculous notion. If there was a separation between them, he would be the one leaving, not Liniel. It had been her home in the beginning. Besides, she would never let herself be supplanted. Liniel did not run away from her problems.

Arandulë was kneeling in the main room, scrubbing the floor. She was a very diligent worker and did not hear him as he took off his cloak in the foyer. On a whim, he grabbed a damp cloth from the soapy bucket of water near the doorway and knelt down in order to assist her.

At this, Arandulë looked up suddenly. "Stop! I have a system. You will only get in the way."

Findur smiled for the first time in days. "All right," he conceded, putting the cloth back into the bucket and edging away back into the hallway as to not step on the damp floor.

"So, how did your business go?" Arandulë asked as she continued scrubbing.

"Business?"

Arandulë shrugged. "I assumed that was what held you up. Liniel has hardly spoken a word to me in explanation. She has been acting strangely all day."

Findur chose to ignore this comment. "Do you know where she is?" he asked in a more subdued voice.

Arandulë thought for a moment. "I'm honestly not sure. I remember her saying that she had to meet with someone, but she's been gone for quite a long time. Perhaps she had something else to do. She has been meaning to go into town for weeks to purchase wool for winter clothes."

Findur nodded, wondering whom Liniel could possibly have gone to see. "Thank you. I'll bring in my bags, and then I'll be down at the shop."

Liniel was standing beside the mere, as if waiting for him. She must have returned while he and Arandulë were talking. Findur turned off his course towards the shop and slowly walked towards her.

He felt as if he had lived this moment a thousand times. The shimmering mere, the indignant expression in Liniel's eyes, a tension in his stomach like the shaky building strains of a stringed instrument before reaching the climactic note—they all came together perfectly, as if preordained echoes of an inevitable future become present. He had been asleep for almost two centuries, his dreams plagued with the eyes and the fears, only to wake and find that they had not been dreams at all, but a glimpse of his destiny. All along, he had known in his heart that this could not last.

Liniel's face was turned away from him, but he could see her image reflected in the water, a rippled portrait of sharp lines and cold eyes. It reminded him of the many paintings that hung on the walls of their house, Liniel's paintings. She did not paint so much anymore. He did not think he had ever seen her looking so hostile and alone as she did now.

She undoubtedly had heard his approach, but did not acknowledge him. Her forehead was wrinkled in frustration, as if she were trying to solve some terrible, infinitely complex problem. A few moments of silence lapsed. A cool autumn breeze circled their two bodies, sending curled, browning leaves to the ground.

"Liniel," he said softly. "I know you have every right to be angry with me... but could you at least look at me?"

She slowly turned around. Face to face, she looked far more careworn than her hazy reflection had revealed. Her face was purposely stiff, a mask of anger, but her eyes were bloodshot, the skin underneath red from crying. She did not look like she had slept in days.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was rough but hardly louder than a whisper. "I had no right..." His words trailed off, and Liniel interrupted him. Though her voice was stern and forceful, it was also surprisingly measured. Only her eyes hinted at the pain that she held within.

"Before you breathe another word," she said, "you will tell me who you are, and where you come from, and why we left that banquet. Do you understand? We will stand here as long as it takes, but neither of us is leaving until you tell me the truth, Morfindel."

"Liniel," he began, but again he faltered. What could he tell her that would appease her?

Only the truth.

"My name is Findur," he said. The name, unpronounced for so long, sounded strange on his tongue. "I am the son of the Lady Galadriel. I came here from Imladris."

For a moment, an expression of horror formed on Liniel's face, her mouth half-open in shock, her eyes bright with tears. But this flicker of emotion was quickly replaced by a mask of deceptive calm only tinged with uneasiness.

"I see," she said. "I should have guessed you were of high blood. But... but what cause would a man of such great lineage have to leave his home?"

The question that he could not answer. He gave Liniel a pleading look. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But I honestly can't give you a satisfactory answer. As I said when we were married—I am a dangerous person to be near. Cursed, if you like. There is nothing more to say."

To his surprise, Liniel did not argue. "All right. I believe you. I... I trust you, although I certainly have little reason to. Why did you leave the banquet, then?"

He exhaled, thankful that the subject had been changed. "I saw someone from Imladris—my old teacher. I did not want him to see me; I don't want them to know where I am." He paused. "Liniel, I've hurt you. A shadow came over me, and I have said and done things that I will forever regret. You cannot know how sorry I am."

The coldness returned to Liniel's eyes, and the hostility to her voice. "If it ever happens again—"

"It won't."

Liniel continued as if she had not heard him. "I won't be treated like that," she said. "I will not suffer for your secrets; I will not sacrifice myself for you." She shook her head. "All this day—I can only think of my mother. She was so weak, so dependent in her love. She realized my father was dead, and died with him. I won't be like that."

"That's not what I want," said Findur, caught off guard by this comparison. "That's the last thing I want."

There was a long silence. Findur could hear the calls of migrating birds and the noisy flow of the river into the mere. A thought came to him, and he spoke. "Liniel... if you want to me to go, I will. I will go and never trouble you again."

At this, Liniel looked up and met his eyes. "Do you think that's what I want?" Her gray eyes were suddenly so warm and sad, as if with compassion. She stepped closer to him, lifting up her small hands and running her fingers over the contours of his face, as if she were trying to memorize his facial features. As she did this, she stared at him intently, and he longed to turn away, afraid that his gaze would reveal the thoughts of his innermost heart. But her eyes... they were so soft, almost kind, his wife's eyes. He yielded to her touch.

Her hands traveled over his lips, his cheekbones, his eyelids, his brow. Finally, she gently kissed his mouth. "Oh, Morfindel, my Morfindel." Her words were almost a sigh. "It's not your name, I know—but to me, you will always be Morfindel, my dark-haired one."

She had forgiven him.

"Come," she said, taking him by the hands and leading him into the house. "Let's sit down. I want to know everything that you can tell me. I want to know Findur."

He wordlessly followed her inside.


The next morning, Findur woke to the pounding of hooves against the dirt road that ran past the house. He automatically turned to rouse Liniel, but found her side of the bed vacant, though the mattress was yet warm. As he drowsily tried to process the events around him, the sounds from the road gradually diminished and stopped entirely. Two voices began speaking. One of them was Liniel's, but in his half-asleep state, he could not make out the words.

He pulled himself out of bed, staggered over to the basin beside the window, and splashed some water on his face. From the window, he could see that the sun was high above the trees, giving the browning forest canopy a golden sheen.

Slowly, his mental capabilities returned to him, and he began to dress. As he was buttoning up his shirt, Liniel burst into the room. Her hair, which she often braided for functionality, still flowed freely around her shoulders, but she wore an alert, cheerful expression on her face. "Come, be quick!" she exclaimed. "A messenger from Thranduil is here. He says he has good news!" Spontaneously, Liniel leaned over and kissed her husband, her smile growing wider every second.

Findur felt a wave of disbelief come over him. "Are you sure... I mean..."

Liniel laughed, straightening his collar and smoothing his unruly hair. "Of course I'm sure! Findur, this is it. Now hurry!"

As he slipped on his shoes, Findur assimilated this new, heartening piece of information. A messenger from King Thranduil, bearing good words. Liniel, positively giddy, as if the past few days had never happened. He had surely gotten the post with Thranduil. His face suddenly broke into a grin, Liniel's glee and his own wonder getting the best of him.

This day is the beginning of something momentous, he realized as they ran up to the road where the messenger waited.

Something great in my life. I am no longer Morfindel, the dark one, the hidden. I have mastered my destiny. I am the lord of my own fate.

He looked at Liniel, with her shining eyes, and at the brown-clad messenger who stood above them on the road. Behind him, the sun bathed the forest in light, the crown jewel of a flawless blue sky. He inhaled deeply, taking in the warm forest air as if it were some sweet ambrosial substance. And he knew that it was so—this day, he had come into his inheritance.