Still don't own it. Darn. The italicized line comes from The
Silmarillion, page 170, Chapter XIX: Of Beren and Luthien.
A/N: I adore Edrahil, despite his incredible minor-character-ness. I've been a bit behind on my Silmarillion fanfiction production lately…most remiss of me. I may, however, end up coming back to this piece to edit/elongate; I was not sure precisely what I wanted from it. Reviews are a very nice thing!
I do not know what the books of lore say. I have never had the heart to look.
I had never been important. I watched, on the borders, longing to move freely once more. I did my duty, but oh – how I wished to go beyond our fences, to remember the days when the sun was bright and we Elves of Nargothrond were not afraid to walk in the light of day. When despite the shadow in the North the Eldar were not afraid.
I waited, and all the shadows grew deeper.
And then the Mortal came. He entered our lands, bold and terrified, holding aloft the ring that was his father's, and our king's. He held his passage and his hope in the palm of his hand.
Perhaps the Secondborn are not so complicated. But they are much more able to throw themselves away – away upon a dream or folly; for them, the consequences are only for a decade, or two or three, or the rest of their lives, short flickers that they are.
They do not face eternity with themselves. But we – when we stoop to madness and to wrong, we will always, always know.
And the young one, Beren son of Barahir, came and reminded our king of an oath.
And our king never did break his word.
He spoke, telling us why. Why he was leaving to die with one who was only a child, to us. And he asked for the help of his chieftains, his people.
Celegorm and Curufin. Sometimes I wondered why the king thought to give the kin of Feanor a home in his realm. I wondered, then felt abashed for silently questioning my king.
That is how Saereth always described me, when she would find me after I came home from the borders, knowing how I ached to go beyond. Loyal, she would say, and smile.
I miss her.
We were together in the crowd when the king and the brothers spoke. And she closed her eyes in pain when he, forsaken, cast his crown away. His word would not be broken. I did not know then, why I went forward.
Now I do.
It was because or lives are eternal, and when we leave our duty we know it forever. And loyal, she said, I have always been.
I had no idea what I was doing. I was before too many eyes, doing what I hoped and thought was right; what was fitting for one was truly great – who left his kingdom for a promise given. The crown was heavy. And I asked that it be kept till he returned. Though that day never came.
For you remain my king, and theirs, whatever betides.
She told me she was proud; that what I had done, would do, was right after all. She blinked away her tears and smiled and said that some day, some day she would see me again.
That day has not come either.
When we were in the dungeon, beneath the Isle of Werewolves, waiting for our deaths, the king asked me why I came. Why I went beyond our borders only to die. Why I, one who looked to the greater and the wiser for reason, had come when none of them had dared.
Because he was the king. Because it was right. Because I could not do otherwise and be able to look back upon the ages of my life without shame.
And he wept, then, in the darkness, when loyalty was all that remained.