A Letter from Lorien

The door opened, the sound echoing throughout the house. In the absence of the melodies of the flute, the wooden walls stood silent. Birds sang no more beside his window, and squirrels hesitated at his doorstep. Only dried leaves and cracked soil remained in earthen pots where once a multitude of plants had thrived.

The majority of his possessions had already been handed over to his acquaintances, Erenien included. The rest of it had been fed to the fire. The house he shared with Feren and the meagre furnishings remained, ready to be handed over to another family in need.

The sound of her elven footsteps was quite audible as she crossed the hallway and paused in front of the carved wooden door. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she undid the latch. Then slowly, the door creaked open.

His scent was in the air, faint yet heady as petrichor and new growth. She greedily inhaled it, even though it made her throat close up, even though her eyes burned in memory. The few rays of sun that escaped an overcast sky slanted down over the bed and table in the far left corner. There wasn't a single sheet of paper on his desk. Neither was his inkwell nor that dark green ink that he'd always preferred.

A sudden crack, caused by a gust of wind slamming the window panes into the outer wall. The glass panes survived the impact, much to her relief. Those who came to clean up his room would have left them open—to cleanse the home of everything that remained as that of the departed.

The bed, thankfully, looked pristine, though only coated by a fine layer of dust. Gingerly, she sat down at the edge, running a trembling hand over the sheet. Then, with much care, Erenien laid herself down, one hand clutching his pillow close to her chest and placing the other where his chest would have been had he been lying beside her.

Suddenly, it was all too much. She withdrew her hand and pressed it hard on her lips. No sound came out of her throat, even when her body shook violently. She had promised herself that she would not cry—not because of any particular bravery. Because every breath she took was the gift of his sacrifice.

"Hey…"

She wiped her face abruptly and slowly sat up, the pillow still clutched in her lap. Too caught up in her thoughts was Erenien, so she had missed the sound of another footfall. Standing at the doorway, Tauriel was donning her usual greens and browns, carrying her assortment of weapons. Her smile was kind. Though Erenien could only return a quirk of her lips.

Tauriel's eyes swept the room as she slowly walked in. Even if she noticed the other's bloodshot eyes, she thankfully decided not to bring it up.

"How's Feren?" Erenien shifted on the bed, leaning against the bed frame to face her.

"He is getting better—physically, I mean." Tauriel trailed a hand over the table, feeling the dust catch at her fingertips. "Aerwen insisted on keeping him in the healing ward for at least another week." Her eyes then came to rest on Erenien. "Come with me."

"I can't," Erenien said, fixing her gaze at the window. Cool spring winds were already blowing outside, tugging the panes wide open, and the trees waved their sparsely budding branches at her.

"We have received messengers from Lorien. They are planning an attack on Dol Guldur."

Erenien's eyes widened momentarily before giving way to impassiveness. But Tauriel was sure that she had the other's attention, no matter how disinterested she made it look.

"I don't know what Lord Thranduil has planned. But it will be worth hearing with your own ears, don't you think? They are meeting this afternoon."

The pull to know more was strong enough for her to not ignore it. Sighing, she dragged herself up, leaving the pillow against the bed frame. Tauriel offered her an arm. Linking her hand with hers, Erenien threw one final glance at the house that would soon become someone else's and walked away.

(***)

She straightened her windswept hair and fixed her coat, pausing in front of the ornate mirror outside her father's office. The girl in black who stared back at her was surely a stranger. The skin around her eyes was only slightly lighter than a bruise. The bones on her cheek and jawline stood out a bit more than usual.

A comforting arm on her shoulder. Tauriel knocked on the door, and the discussions that had been going on inside stopped abruptly. The door swung open a moment later.

Thranduil's eyes were sorrowful as they watched her. Erenien bowed to him without meeting his gaze and repeated the action towards a striken Findir standing opposite his king.

"Please excuse us. I would like to have a word with my daughter." Thranduil said, without taking his eyes off her.

Both Findir and Tauriel left without another word. Thranduil walked over to her and, as the doors closed, lifted her chin. The look in her eyes was enough to slash at his heart. He dropped his hand immediately, as if burned.

"I went to his house," she mumbled.

When she looked back at him, his eyes too were glistening. "Please don't go there anymore. I am losing a piece of you every time you return."

Erenien nodded. She had already bid farewell to his house. It would be better that way for everyone.

"What does Lorien say?" she asked, her voice still thick with emotion.

Thranduil sighed. "Lorien had been attacked twice in the past few weeks. They are planning retribution at Dol Guldur."

"What are you planning to do?"

"The council is split about the decision," he sighed.

"What is your wish, then?"

"I believe that they could use as many allies as they can get."

"We must help them." Erenien nodded, somewhat relieved.

"I will see to it. Come," he signalled her to walk with him.

"The messengers are waiting for you at the throne room, and so are our counsellors," Findir stated as soon as the door opened.

Thranduil dropped his chin in acknowledgement and, along with the other three, went to meet those who awaited his decision.

(***)

With a sigh, Erenien leaned back on her seat, bunching her hands into the shawl on her lap. Even the double doors of the library weren't capable of dampening the commotion. Iron was being melted once more and shaped into ruthless swords; spears and shafts were made, sharp enough to cut a leaf blade. Once more, the people of Greenwood were preparing for war. Their numbers dwindled, as many of them were still in their sick beds.

In the past few days, she had religiously visited the library, carefully avoiding books on poetry. If she wasn't careful, she would stumble across Laerdil's writings, and the fragile peace she had constructed for herself would surely be shattered. History felt like the only logical option. The content was mostly dry—enough to distract her without causing much harm to her mind.

Filtering out the noises, she focused her mind on the tome on the desk: Wars of the First Age, faithfully transcribed by a knowledgeable Sindarin scribe of her father's court. Many who lived in the kingdom were living witnesses to the crucial age—her father included.

With much struggle, she made it to the end of the First Age, where the Silmarilli were retrieved, stolen, and then lost forever, and the only remaining son of Feanor wandered upon the shores, lamenting about his deeds for all eternity. It was hard for her to believe that this was indeed history, not a story written by skilled hands, when there was still a chance of the same elf existing even at this late age.

Against her wishes, this time history helped only to worsen her mood. A weight had settled on her chest—a feeling of sadness and misery, even though it had nothing to do with her own loss.

But there was nothing for me to read; she tried to reason with herself. Sighing, she closed the book and walked out. She opened the door, the action ruining the tranquility of the room. Offering an apologetic smile at the scribe at the far corner, she scurried out and closed the door firmly shut. Turning the corridor, she nearly stumbled upon Findir, grim-faced as always.

"May I have a word with you, my lady?" He asked smoothly, as if the very meeting was intentional.

"Yes." Erenien nodded, wondering what could be on his mind.

"Please follow me." He guided her to the balcony on the uppermost storey, where the clamour was much muted. Erenien wrapped her shawl tight around her shoulders as they climbed higher above the treeline.

The moon shone brightly over the woodland canopy. Some distance away, through a cleft in the greenery, silver flashed in the dark, followed by the sound of metal on metal. At the farthest end of her vision, lamps burned golden at the watchpost of the elves.

"I will be leading the company to Lorien, then to Dol Guldur." He said, following her gaze.

"When will you be leaving?" she asked without taking her eyes off.

"The day after tomorrow. Tauriel will be coming as well."

"Mm," she nodded in acknowledgement. From down below, the whistle of arrows was to be heard as the archers tested their aim.

"Would you like to come?"

Her head jerked in his direction, just fast enough to catch his wince before he hid it under his usual demeanour of composure.

"Why me? I am of no use to you."

"You are a healer."

"I was," she cut in.

"... and you are a warrior. You defeated the orc chief."

"She is no more."

"Don't do this to yourself. Laerdil wouldn't have wanted it," he added.

Her heart skipped a beat. Erenien had made herself believe that she was immune to such simple things as the mention of his name and that the pain would fade away the more she suppressed it. But now…

"He is dead." She turned back to face the night, blinking away the treacherous tears.

"Not forever." The words came easily out of his mouth, as if he were utterly sure of them. As if he believed in it.

She glanced at him, lips thin. Of all the years she had known him, Findir was certainly renowned not for his optimism but for his logic and way with words. His eyes didn't back down from the scrutiny.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked a moment later. "You know that we both don't get along well. Why now?"

"I've wronged you. Consider this my way of atonement."

The earnestness of his words surprised her. But then her mind supplied every instance of their past interactions. "You hated me," she spat out. "I bet you wished that Laero chose somebody else. But definitely not me."

"I wanted to protect him from a possible heartbreak. Sadly, it wasn't his that broke." The last line was nearly a whisper.

"Is this why you are doing this? Do you think I'm broken?"

"Trust me, my lady; each one of us is broken in a thousand different ways." A faraway look was in his eyes, as if he were revisiting the old pages of his memory. Then it was gone as fast as it came, without leaving any traces behind for her to marvel at.

"What if I don't want to see another war? What if I don't want to fight?" she argued.

"Ha, there it is!" he laughed once, harshly. Now it was her turn to wince.

"Do you think if every other soul in this kingdom had that choice, we would still be here? This war is not an option. Not for you. Not for anyone."

"I don't think I can summon my powers anymore." Her hand tightened at the rail.

"You can. If you put your mind into it.", He stated it plainly. "You can wield a blade nonetheless," he added.

"I don't think..."

"Don't say that you cannot do that, your highness," he mocked. "I didn't train you to sit safe behind closed doors while others fight and die for you." He paused for a moment, wondering if he should really say what came to his tongue. After a few moments of hesitation, he continued in a serious tone. "Believe me," he took a deep breath, "if you had been there, out on the battlefield that day, Laerdil could have been saved. And a major share of our people along with him."

Erenien reeled at the impact, eyes widening. She clung to the handrail with all her might, as if the very ground beneath her feet was cracking and falling apart.

Stupid, stupid heart. Stop the tears. Stop it now!

Her throat convulsed painfully. No amount of blinking seemed to stop her eyes from brimming. The thought hadn't been alien to her mind. Until this time, she had ignored it as a voice of guilt. But the cruellest accusation of her mind to get validated this way...

The first teardrop fell with a soft patter on the handrail. She drew in a sharp breath, keeping the rest of the tears at bay.

"The Mauler could have killed me. I hope that doesn't matter to you." She retorted through clenched teeth to hide the hurt.

"Your friends would have backed you. I would have protected you. But you chose to stay safe. Look at what it has caused. For once, do what you've been made for." He said, forcefully. "You have lost your love to this evil. Many more will lose theirs as well if this goes unchecked. Don't put your skills to waste when he sacrificed everything for you. Fate only belongs to those who sit idle."

"The king asks for you, Lord Findir," the young squire announced, eyes flitting between them.

"Think of my offer. It will only do you good." He walked out, leaving her to deal with her mind. Blood trickled through the cracks in her frozen soul, in a warm stream. Yet, in the depths of her mind, beneath all the ashes of grief, a tiny spark blossomed into existence. The feeling that is only slightly less powerful than love - revenge.

Note

Feanor - He was the eldest son of Finwe, the High king of the Noldor elves. He was the greatest craftsman among the Elves and was the creator of three precious jewels called Silmaril. This tale is the core of Tolkien's work called 'The Silmarillion.'