The Final Reflection?
You week is almost ended. You have dealt with the Qunari, with the Dalish, with the new arrivals, and of course the continuing process of logging to fulfill your bargain with the dwarf. Most would forgive you for choosing to rest on this final day of the week. Most are not you.
You set yourself a goal not too long ago to become a wiser elf, and that goal is yet to be fulfilled. There remains much of your past yet unexamined, unreflected upon for the lessons contained therein. As some Vanya may or may not have said at some point, 'the risk of an unexamined life is that one learns the wrong lessons[1]'.
Admittedly, last week had been a mixed affair. Some early success had led to, in all honesty, a session of wallowing in memory to no particular end. That it had come with an admittance of your own penchant for refusing to accept when you have made a mistake was more a happy accident than anything you had set out to do.
This week you intend to avoid losing yourself to ancient bitterness and anger. Of course, the slight problem with this resolve is that you never intended to do so. It is simply a fact of memory that you can lose yourself within it. It was rare but not unheard of for eldar to choose memory over reality.
You wonder what those quendi are doing now. Have the healers found a way to pull them away from memory, or do they dream still?
Fortunately, you are nowhere close to that bad, but the fact remains that your memory is filled with rage and bitterness. In order to combat this fact, you need to find something to anchor you 'to the moment' emotionally. Ideally by doing something you greatly enjoy.
The problem is, most of the things you enjoy doing are activities, that is, things you cannot do without devoting your full attention to. Which would run rather counter to the purpose of the exercise.
Thus, with the ideal removed due to your lack of access of singers, you are forced to try finding a site of natural beauty. It had not done much for you last week, and correlation even suggests that you might have caused the problem by doing so. Personally, you attribute the bitterness to memories and what little progress you made to your surroundings, so you are willing to try again.
You consider talking to Ranger but decide against it. Finding the site is, you think, to be a part of the establishing of the correct atmosphere. Taking pride in finding it yourself, the sense of accomplishment, all to stand in stark contrast to the grim failures of the Kinslayings. It sounds plausible, so hopefully it works.
You begin your search with the sun high in the sky, continuing through lunch. You end up eating some things you recall Ranger identifying during one of your outings. Noon turns to afternoon and marches through sundown. Too stubborn to give up, you push on as the stars come out.
Darkness consumes the forest, no barrier to your eldarin eyes, but noteworthy none the less. The new moon was recent, and though it is waxing it gives relatively little light. The shadows cast the forest into a strange atmosphere, one you associate more with the mad desperation and fury of the last days before the sun.
Even your stubbornness has limits, and you are on the verge of turning back, when you finally stumble upon what you were searching for.
A small brook you had been following breaks through a knot of trees into the world's smallest clearing. Soil gives way to rock suddenly, with a large basin formed from the cracking force of the tree roots. The brook runs under the ground and feeds a still pool.
The convergence of the lack of trees and the still pool creates a mirror like effect where the stars and moon glint out from the ground, casting a very faint light upon the underside of the trees that surround it.
Slowly you sink down to rest upon a particularly large root, drinking in the scene like an elf dying of thirst. There is something precious about the stillness, like any loud sound might shatter the delicate balance and destroy this moment.
You can think of nothing that contrasts the First Age more. You take your time, absorbing the serenity of the scene.
Then your thoughts turn to the First Age.
So far, over the last month you have considered two Kinslayings, there is no reason you can think of not to consider the last. Easily the worst of them. With the deaths of Moryo, Turko and Kurvo the most strident voices calling for war were silenced. Their deaths and that of Dior's sons had also left you unwilling to provoke further conflict.
For a time anyway.
Your memories of the lull between combat are of bone deep exhaustion. Kano, the Twins and you had been busy trying to incorporate their followers into yours, as well as picking up the work they had been doing.
There had also been a period of mourning.
The end result was long days that passed in blur and short nights that ended too soon. Physically and emotionally you had been exhausted, so too had everyone else. Eventually though, with the talent of your family, the situation had been stabilised.
Then Gondolin fell and everything got worse again. By that point your small force hiding with the Laiquendi and the toeholds Gil-Galad was holding with Cirdan were all that remained of the Noldor.
High King Gil-Galad, you correct yourself. Son of… someone. Several minutes of thinking do not reveal the answer, to your bitter amusement. Those days had been so hectic you not only do not know his lineage, you do not even know his father name.
You shake your head, pulling your thoughts away from that distraction.
Even when you learned that Elwing had survived you did nothing. Frankly, you were more relieved than anything else. So many Sindar had died, and after the fates of Dior's sons you had wondered if your people had truly become monsters. You were more than happy to leave her to her 'Havens'.
Even then the Oath was nagging at you. At first, it had been easy to ignore, after all you were in no hurry to throw your diminished forces against another heavily defended position. Whatever your faults, you had always kept one eye on Morgoth, and had been wary of leaving yourself defenceless if he attacked.
Nearly a decade of the sun had passed, with the Oath merely nagging at you. You cannot recall when it became more insistent. It was some time before Elrond and Elros were born, you recall that you had been secretly hoping someone would invite you to the celebration.
It must have been close to a decade, or more perhaps, until it became too much. You sent a letter demanding the Silmaril. No one argued.
Your host had marched the same day you received the refusal.
The fighting had been terrible. Both sides were fuelled by desperation. Quarter was not asked for, nor given. This Kinslaying had proven a step to far for all but the most loyal. The stiffest resistance had come from your own ranks, who turned cloak to fight against you.
You wanted to blame them; you really do. You want to summon up the righteous anger you feel towards Thingol and Dior. You cannot. The truth is, it was too far, you had known it at the time, you still know it. You simply had not seen another option, no other path forward.
Forsaking the Oath had proven beyond any of your abilities. That any had followed you into that folly had been astounding. One last gift you inherited from your father you suppose, that wild fervour you could inspire in those loyal to you.
With a sigh you look out over the glade and the brook. You bathe in its beauty, feeling a gentle breeze on your face.
"I should have attacked Angband." You whisper into the wind.
It would have been suicide, even more so than at the Second Kinslaying. But the fact you got your whole host to the Havens and even managed to get most of them to fight by your side proves you could have done it. It would have meant that your warriors all died with you, but it would have spared Sirion.
You laugh bitterly. It is not as though attacking Sirion had left you with much. Half your warriors turned against you, or thereabouts anyway. You were not exactly counting them. Veterans of some of the most bitter fighting of the First Age all, they had savaged those who remained with you. The House of Fëanor had been combat non-functional from that day forth.
You lean back against the tree and sigh. It is not exactly news to you that your stubborn pride had driven you to Doriath. It is equally unsurprising that when you had been faced with an impossible choice you had stubbornly stuck to the plan that had already failed once.
Grimly you wonder what Elwing had seen when you stormed into the room. What visage of fury and desperation had you worn that made her choose death?[2] What had she thought you were going to do with her?
Idly you wonder if there was some diplomatic option you could have taken. You do not think so, the survivors of Doriath had hated you and the Gondolindrim had always been the worst of the Noldor. Arrogant and disinterested in the war as though they were not part of it.
Still, now, thinking on it honestly, there might have been options. Theft, some kind of dramatic public begging. You had been maddened by the oath true, but there had been decades you were not. Time you could have used to seek another option.
That might have been the despair creeping in, now that you think about it.
Since you appear to be making good progress, you turn your thoughts inwards once more. What had stopped you from choosing another option. Obviously, there was the stubborn pride that characterises you, yet you did try to forsake the Oath, so it is not as though that accounts for the whole of the matter.
Perhaps it had been fear? You like to consider yourself a brave elda, but you are no fool who believes himself immune to fear. Ending your life had never been something you would have willingly chosen…
You wince, a memory of heat consuming you, the fires of the earth ending your life.
You take a calming breath. Yes, you had chosen to end your own life rather than live with the shame of your failure. That, and the burning guilt of realising that all that you had done in pursuit of the Silmaril was for naught. Yes, that had made for potent despair that had driven you to end your life.
But you would not have done so prior to that moment…
That thought gives you pause. You examine it in more detail, as it is a strange one. You would not say that you particularly fear death or pain. Those who fear such things tend not to spend so much of their life seeking battle wherever it can be found as you have.
On further examination of your feelings on the matter, you recognise that you do fear death to a certain degree. A surprisingly deep degree actually. It is merely that you do not value that fear higher than the various causes you have fought for in your life.
That is useful insight on its own, but not what you are truly interested in.
So it was not fear itself then, was it that you valued the Silmaril over not slaughtering other elves wantonly? Well, no, otherwise you would not have even attempted to forswear the Oath at all.
Once more you re-examine your thought. You would not end your life prior to that moment of utter despair, or while you saw another path forward.
Is that it? Memory yields the days you had spent debating with yourself whether you should attack the Havens. It had seemed less like an option and more like an inevitability you were grappling with. Which does not seem like it lines up with your previous thoughts.
You gaze out over the clearing, drinking in the beauty before you. Simply enjoying the moment as you let your thoughts still to prevent yourself from getting stuck in a rut. When you return to your ponderings the answer presents itself.
You had not known how it would end, or more accurately, you had believed you knew how it would end. When you had been deciding whether or not to attack the Havens, you had acted and thought of it as though doing so would guarantee you the Silmaril.
Obviously, this was untrue on multiple levels, but you had not known that.
Had your brothers been thinking on similar lines? They must have been. In fact, your whole people had often thought that way. When you had set out to attack Morgoth, everyone had expected to win the battle. Then when all had seemed lost, everyone had given up on victory.
So too had no one believed Angband could be taken until someone had snuck in.
Over the last month, you have often thought that there was no real reason not to attack Angband. It would have been the right thing to do, and would have enjoyed exactly as much success as attacking either Doriath or the Havens. But you had not known that at the time.
Most eldar take pride in their foresight, especially when compared to humans. Now you are not so sure, after all, you have personally misjudged the course of the future with alarming regularity. So too have many eldar, Thingol had believed Beren would perish in Angband. Turgon had believed his fortress would never fall.
Dior had believed you would never attack Doriath.
Your foresight is not as keen as you think it is, both personally and as a characteristic of your people. All too often, you have allowed pride to dictate your expectations, and you are far too easily led to believe that what is now is what will always be.
Yes, that sounds like a valuable lesson to keep in mind. It is also a fitting answer to your question. You and your brothers had chosen your path because you had believed that in doing so you would fulfill your oath. You had not known you were doomed.
Your smile twists bitterly. After all, you had been told that you were doomed and you had not listened. Perhaps there is another lesson in that.
A chill wind rustles your cloak, held at bay by your mother's arts. The still pool ripples, shattering the illusion of its mirror sheen. The roots of the tree dig themselves into your body.
With a sigh, you stand and turn to home. Whatever else there is to learn, you will have to leave for another day. The night grows long, and the moon sinks towards the trees. If you do not sleep tonight, tomorrow will be most unpleasant.
You leave the small clearing feeling tired but, at long last, wiser.
Buying and Selling
Martin feels a sense of relief as he finally gets into the shade of the forest. With the stone road, and the clearing of its more undesirable inhabitants, the forest has come to be a welcome, and beautiful, relief from the dusty tracks of most of Ferelden.
There was a smell in the air, of flowers and moss and, well, forest. It wasn't a scent he came across anywhere else and it was, slowly and surely, coming to remind him of home.
Along the road he walked, passing Dalish merchants who chatted briefly about the price of meat and the outrageous rates on herbs. Rangers rode past once, eyes on the forest, nodding briefly to him before they continued on their way. Villagers passed him by, mostly carrying sticks and firewood.
Eventually the cream walls and green rooves of Endataurëo came into sight, and Martin sighed. It was good to be home.
He manages to avoid being immediately roped back into the endless grind of work, taking some time to visit his wife. Her work at the winepress prevents a long reunion, but they promise to have a better one later that evening.
From there he goes to visit his two daughters. Joy abandons her cleaning to embrace him warmly.
"Papa!" She exclaims. "You're back! How was uncle Aaron? And Grandmother?"
Martin chuckles and returns her hug. "My darling girl, it is good to see you! Aaron is well, he has gotten himself a wife at last, and they have two adorable children. Mother is well also."
"Children? Wife?" Joy squeals. "What're their names? How old are they? How big are they?"
Martin pats his daughter on the head. "Slow down Joy, one question at a time. Besides, I don't want to repeat myself, I'm sure your sister wants to hear the answers to these questions too.
The merchant raises his head to the door, "Faith, are you going to join us?"
His other daughter entered the room slowly, a forced serious expression on her face. "I only just arrived. 'Cause, I have to tell Joy to get back to work…"
"Come here." Martin says, holding his arms open.
His other daughter races across the room to embrace him. She presses her head against his chest and mutters about missing him, and also that he can't tell anyone she's slacking off. Martin pats her back and smiles.
It's good to be home.
Martin emerges from the halls of his home after some time. He guesses around an hour based on the sun, but in all honesty, he wasn't tracking the time he spent with his daughters.
He's somewhat surprised he hasn't been ambushed by his assistant yet. The guards certainly knew he was back. Perhaps she's out doing deliveries? He heads towards the courtyard, and the cart storage area to find out.
When the human enters the courtyard, he quickly notices the elf managing the loading of barrels onto carts. When they see him, one or two of the warriors nudge each other and smirk. Almost immediately he realises what is going on, but he does need to speak to Delora, so he has no choice but to play along.
"Delora!" He calls as her approaches his assistant. "How's it going?"
The elf starts at the sound of his voice, whirling to face him. He will admit that her expression, a mix of embarrassment anger and relief, is kind of amusing. The warriors who neglected to mention his return snicker to themselves and Delora glares fiercely at them.
She folds her arms and turns her glare on Martin. "I'm fine. You took your sweet time getting back here."
"Well, it's a long way up to Aaron's." Martin replies apologetically. "A week either way really."
The elven assistant sniffs. "Did you at least make sure to tell your family you loved them?"
Slightly taken aback, Martin's reply is somewhat hesitant." Yes?"
"Good." Delora says, nodding sharply. "At least I didn't completely waste my time giving you a holiday. Now get over here! I'm dumping as much of this work on you as possible then taking the rest of the day off!"
Martin trots over somewhat bemusedly. Delora starts rattling off instructions that are equal parts useful information and complaints about how much work she's had to do in his absence.
"So there I was, searching for…" Delora trails off mid rant and flushes. "Never mind what I was searching for! I found a bunch of barrels of wine just sitting around that we weren't selling."
Martin's eyes widen in realisation. "Ah, right, the wine we put aside to mature. I totally forgot about that."
Delora lifts her chin proudly. "I knew it! Anyway, I dragged those out. Well, I had other people drag them out, they are heavy. Then I sold them, for a great deal of money I might add."
"Right. Honestly, we should probably do something about that." Martin muses. "Mature wine is worth more, mostly for the prestige, I don't think it tastes that much better."
"Way ahead of you, human." Delora crows, expression proud. "I created a system by which we always store ten barrels of wine. That way, while we're down there and thinking about it we can check to see if any's matured."
Martin stops walking, staring at Delora. The elven woman takes a few seconds to realise that he is no longer beside her, and turns with a concerned expression.
"Delora." Martin says. "That's a great idea."
"Wha?" The elf answers, taken aback. "Huh?"
"It's a great idea. I'm speechless. I mean, it's kind of obvious in hindsight, but it's still good that you came up with it. I'm really proud of you." Martin repeats with a wide smile.
"You mean… I mean, of course you do." Delora says turning away from him. "I'm brilliant, and you better remember it."
Martin laughs, shaking his head. "To think, you started out as this snot nosed kid with an attitude, now look at you. You're a real merchant now."
"I've always been a real merchant." Delora says quietly, kicking at the ground. "It's not like I care about your opinion or anything. You're not my dad."
"Sorry." Martin hurries to reply. "I'm not trying to be, it's just, you know what I'm just going to stop talking now."
As Martin turns away, the elf races to finish running through her plans for the week, before hurrying off on her break. If she brags incessantly about her brilliance to her parents, they take it in good humour.
[1] You try to listen to the Vanyar out of politeness if nothing else, but they are dull to listen to. Also prone to pontificating in their own language mid conversation. There is a reason they are not often invited to parties.
[2] Sure she survived, but she had no way of knowing that ahead of time