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12 December, T.A. 2980
If one were not particularly observant, Nethril imagined, one might not have noticed the way Elrond’s children disrupted the peace of Imladris. Their arrival was celebrated with two nights of feasts and merrymaking, the household residents taking particular joy in the Lady Arwen’s return after nearly twenty years away. More than once Nethril spotted the lady working in the kitchens or in the great weaving rooms, a warm smile for anyone who approached her. The twins brought their exuberance to the training grounds and held court in the evenings, sometimes in the Hall of Fire but at other times in their own chambers, always with their distinct blend of gravitas and lighthearted cheer.
But Nethril had not maintained her position among the Dúnedain by being unobservant. The undercurrent of tension that ran through the house was faint, to be sure, but even the mildest furrow in Erestor’s brow spoke volumes. The Dúnedain still dined at the high table at Lord Elrond’s invitation, and Nethril noted that though Arwen sat in her place of honor at her father’s left hand, the two barely exchanged a word either night. The lady did not avoid Aragorn’s family outright but neither did she seek them out, a course of action that left Nethril equal parts relieved and chagrined.
“It is just as well,” Mellaer said one morning on a walk through the courtyard below their quarters. “We have enough to worry about without reenacting the Lay of Leithian.”
Nethril snorted. “It is too late for that, verressë. Already we are kin enough to Barahir’s outlaws, yes? Wandering a fallen kingdom in defiance of Morgoth, ever vigilant lest someone betray…”
She trailed off, the attempt at humor soured by the unfortunate parallels to recent days. Mellaer sent her a scathing look, and they continued along the path in strained silence, frustration tight in Nethril’s chest. Every time she thought the fissure between them faded some new misstep revealed the crack, trace amounts of bitterness that still lingered in her sister-in-law. She had not yet tried to speak with Mellaer about Gelhir or his death or the choices they’d made in his shadow; did not know if either of them possessed the strength. Yet in that weakness the crack remained.
“She will be our kinswoman someday,” she tried again. “If all our labors bear fruit. I feel we ought to at least acknowledge that.”
“You may if you wish,” Mellaer replied tartly. “For myself, I have little interest in provoking Lord Elrond’s displeasure, not when there is still so much to learn in the healing halls. We ought to focus on regaining lost knowledge, knowledge that may well save lives. No healer has studied here since Ivorwen’s time.”
“I know,” Nethril said with a soft sigh. Well do I know, she thought when she bid Mellaer farewell at the hall’s entrance. The Dúnedain tradition of sending talented youths to Rivendell had died along with Arathorn, the secrecy around Aragorn’s upbringing too important to risk, and for whatever reason no one ever suggested reviving the practice after his return. Likely Adanel’s influence, Nethril thought wryly, and by extension her own. That it had taken such tragic circumstances to bring a healer to the valley—to say nothing of a blacksmith, or a young female warrior taught only by men—gave the opportunity of it all a bittersweet tinge.
Faint regret dogged her well into the afternoon, a persistent buzzing at the back of her mind as she embarked on her own betterment in the archives. She’d been reteaching herself Quenya conjugations, her once-prodigious grasp of the language faded after years spent devoted to the Chieftain’s duties. A old book of Noldorin poetry remained one of her most prized possessions, but memory more than knowledge informed her readings now, and if she wished to study the first-hand accounts of the Dagor Bragollach a refresher course was in order. But after only an hour or so she pushed the heavy leather volume away with a sigh, confounded once more by the future imperfect. Pride had thus far kept her from asking Erestor for assistance— then again, pride had kept her away from Rivendell all these long years. Perhaps it was not her most flattering trait.
“Stop brooding.” The faint tinge of iron filled her nose as warm arms wrapped around her shoulders. She looked up to find herself face-to-face with Isilmë, who bore a mischievous smile and a faint smudge of soot on her chin. Nethril wrinkled her nose at her and shook her head.
“I’m not brooding.”
“Oh, my dearest heart.” Isilmë did not bother to look around them before she kissed Nethril, and Nethril could not bring herself to care what any Elves might think of the sight. The plush warmth of her lips remained such a blessed novelty, a dream made true after so much loneliness. When they finally drew apart Isilmë gazed down at her in fondness, a calloused palm out to cup her cheek. “Two years away has not dulled my senses entirely. I know when you are brooding. And it is not permitted in these lofty halls.”
“Oh no?”
“Not for you, at least.” Isilmë took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Come outside, while the light lasts. The days grow shorter, and I remember how the darkness ails you.”
“Not so much here,” Nethril said, but she acquiesced without further protest, the Quenya book returned to its shelf before she followed Isilmë out onto a balcony that wrapped around the main house’s second floor. Despite the steely-grey sky her heart remained light, charmed by the snow flurries that swirled about the valley only to dissolve on contact with the balustrade. She let herself lean against Isilmë as they walked in contented silence, relishing in the quiet beauty that surrounded them, lush pines around the misting waterfalls. A welcome respite from the stuffy air of the archives, she thought wryly, though she had no intention of confessing such to her beloved. Isilmë already knew, the same way she saw through to every piece of Nethril’s soul.
An even more welcome sight greeted her when they reached a wider portion of the balcony that overlooked the training grounds: her brother Halbarad in deep conversation with Elladan and Elrohir, his stance relaxed as he leaned against the rail. The first few nights after the twins’ return he went out of his way to avoid them, tense and ready to bolt the few times he left the Dúnedain's quarters, but now it appeared they had resumed their old camaraderie, a low chuckle echoing out from Elrohir as they approached.
“I never would have considered it,” Halbarad admitted, his eyes cast on the center practice ring of the training grounds. “To think she must approach the one-handed blade differently from the men. Not for lack of strength but simply the build of her bones.”
Nethril followed his gaze to see that Maerel stood with several of the tirnellith – female marchwardens of Imladris, who had perfected their warrior’s art over the course of centuries if not millennia. From this distance, at least, it appeared Maerel’s usual shyness had vanished, for she followed one of the women’s movements with marked enthusiasm, blade raised up to counter when the tirnelleth turned to deliver a rapid cut.
“You can be forgiven,” Elladan answered solemnly. “Sanaer has been dead for nearly a century; I doubt any of your men remember her. That is why you have us. We’d have stolen her away soon enough, never fear.”
He shot Halbarad a cheeky grin, solemnity gone. Halbarad chuckled and gave Elladan a light shove. “Just as well it happens now, where I can keep an eye on her and learn myself. And keep you two away from her. You are terrible influences, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, that is unfair.” Nethril chimed in with a mischievous smile, her tone light and airy. “They have always instilled greater humility in you. I cannot remember the last time I heard you admit you were wrong about something.”
The twins both chortled while Halbarad scowled at her. She laid a mollifying hand on his arm as she leaned on the rail beside him, one which he answered with a disgruntled noise that only seemed to come out for her.
“Little sisters.” Halbarad rolled his eyes at the twins. “I’d hoped that after fifty years she’d grow less bothersome.”
Elrohir threw back his head and laughed. “Not after two thousand, friend Dúnadan. They simply find more spots to needle.”
“Perhaps I should speak with the lady Arwen after all.” A dangerous gleam now lit Halbarad’s eye as he regarded the peredhel. “Gain a lesson in embroidery before our next patrol together.”
“I suppose it is only fair. We have had ample opportunity to speak with this one, after all.” Elrohir favored Nethril with a playful smile that she returned. But then a shrill whistle sounded below that directed their attention to the training grounds. Lady Arwen had appeared as if they’d summoned her, resplendent despite her practical clothing—well, practical for Rivendell, Nethril amended. The plain burgundy dress looked to be made of velvet, with brass buttons along the front and the skirt split open for easy movement. Her hair was pulled back in a relatively simple plait, and even at a distance Nethril caught the wild energy that danced around her, directing the tirnellith and some other lady Elves who had gathered. Quickly they cleared the long sward that served as an archery range, the targets and shooting line removed as two women brought out wooden posts to stake into the ground.
A spark of excitement lit within Nethril, suspicion mingled with hope, but when she sent a querying glance toward Elrohir she saw only profound exasperation on his fair Elven face.
“How about you speak with our sister now, Halbarad? In fact, if you head her off, you can keep her from terrorizing your poor ward.”
Elladan followed his brother’s gaze and let out a mild groan, a hand brought to his temple as if to ward off a headache.
“Oh, save us,” he muttered. “Is Turuhalmë not enough?”
“She must have quarreled with Father again.” Elrohir shook his head and mirrored Elladan’s gesture, rubbing at his forehead in weariness. “One of us should alert the healers.”
Nethril arched an eyebrow, interest now fully piqued. Isilmë and Halbarad both appeared puzzled.
“What in Arda are they up to?” Halbarad asked. “Not clout shooting, surely?”
Elrohir shook his head. “Worse. Ohta paliso.”
Nethril’s heart leapt, the spark of excitement now a roaring fire, and a satisfied “hah” escaped her as she leaned farther forward on the rail to watch more closely. Netting had now been strung between the posts and the tirnellith had traded swords for hurleys. Other women from the household joined as well, with even the archivist Merineth out in a close-fitting white surcoat and scarf. Nethril turned to the twins in wonder.
“You have enough women for a full team? Two?”
“The women have always played separately from the men. And a good thing too.” Elladan shuddered. “Arwen is a bloody demon on the field. Learned it from our mother. Their matches make ours look like child’s play.”
“Splendid.” Nethril was already removing her cloak, her gloved hands clapped together in anticipation. After a brief evaluation she decided her wool gown would not do; she’d have to return to her quarters to change. “Will they wait for one more? Two more, maybe?”
She turned to Isilmë with hopeful, pleading eyes, but her beloved shook her head, arms crossed firmly in refusal. “I need my hands in working order, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Alight in eagerness, Nethril dashed through the halls until she reached her room, changing into a pair of thick woolen hose, shirt, a warm tunic and riding coat for good measure. Hot springs, indoor plumbing, and now this, she thought with a delighted grin. Whoever would have guessed Rivendell held such wonders?
For all it was a game, played on festival days or during rare hours of idleness, ohta paliso was treated among the Dúnedain much the same way as swordcraft. Though the boys usually outnumbered the girls, all children played together until the age that the Ranger trainees among them entered the field. At that time most of the young women withdrew, and for the young men the game became another place to test themselves as comrades. Supposedly in Adanel’s day enough girls maintained an interest to continue playing amongst themselves, but all those in Nethril’s generation decried the game as too “dangerous” and “uncivilized.” For a few years she stubbornly played beside Halrovan and Gelhir and her brother, skilled enough that they welcomed her presence, until a pair of broken fingers at age sixteen made her mother put her foot down. “Unless you wish to be a Ranger yourself,” Finnael had snapped, “you have no place out there.”
And so Nethril withdrew with some bitterness, the grudge against her mother one she nursed even now, and she had not played the game in nearly forty years. Now her fingers practically itched to hold a stick again as she jogged through the halls back to the training grounds, decently warmed up by the time she approached the sward. They did not appear to have started yet; instead the ellith aimed wicked practice shots at the net or passed a leather-hide ball down the field. Arwen stood speaking with Maerel, a hand on her shoulder, her musical voice too soft for Nethril to hear. A pang shot through Nethril as she realized she could not remember ever seeing Maerel on the field with her peers at the Angle. That did not necessarily mean anything—Nethril did not pay much mind to the children’s games now—but it would not surprise her if the girl had chosen to give up the game, already marked as different in so many ways. She did not even know if they taught it to children who grew up in the Dúnedain’s northernmost encampments.
“Lady Nethril!” Arwen called out with a wide smile and beckoned her over. “I am delighted to have you join us. The golds desperately need another fielder, if you do not mind being the sole adaneth among them.”
They all wore cloth armbands, Nethril noticed now, blue or gold dispersed in an even enough number. She frowned as she realized Maerel sported a blue one, same as Arwen, and wondered if she ought to be on the same team as the girl, to look out for her in a contest more likely to cause injury than any training regimen. Or perhaps that fell into the realm of overprotectiveness, a trait fifteen-year-old Nethril had found most aggravating in her mother and grandparents. Still…
“Would you like to join me, Maerel? Or are you terribly attached to blue?”
“I’ll be fine,” Maerel assured her softly, a rare smile on her face. She glanced back to a couple of tirnellith in blue armbands, who nodded at her in encouragement. “They’ve shown me how it’s done.”
May the stars bless you all, Nethril thought toward the women, then flushed when she remembered they might very well be able to perceive such thoughts. She distracted herself with a few warmup stretches, breath fogging out in the cold. Someone handed her a hurley and she hefted it in satisfaction, relishing in simple rightness of holding a stick in her hands once more. That it pitted her against the fabled Evenstar herself, the daughter of her host with whom they were all so awkwardly intertwined, only lingered as a secondary concern. It was a large enough field, with plenty of other players who had far more experience facing the lady than she.
She scooped up the ball with the rounded blade of the hurley, shaky but capable, and bounced it a few times before she sent it flying to another gold-banded woman, who caught it with a wide grin. After so many years without practice Nethril did not trust herself to handle the ball for long, so despite her preference for midfield she positioned herself on the defensive line. Merineth, it seemed, had been appointed the match’s arbiter, for she wore no armband and strode to the center of the field with another shrill whistle, motioning the players to their positions. Arwen had claimed center forward for the blues, staring down her gold opponent with a smile akin to a wildcat. With a final whistle Merineth tossed the ball into play, and the match began.
Too late Nethril realized that, with Arwen on the offense, they stood poised to clash directly if the Golds failed to stop her advance. “ Now what?” and “go!” echoed in her mind almost simultaneously, her rational voice overpowered by instinct as she sprinted forward to meet the charge. The Blues had possession of the ball, Arwen weaving between her opponents with startling speed, a blur of burgundy who stopped only long enough to pass the ball to another teammate. She ran past Nethril, who then sprinted after her in an attempt to block any opening near the goal. The two women jostled briefly, each fighting to push in front of the other, until Arwen checked Nethril in the shoulder so hard she fell to the ground. The dampness of the earth softened the impact, but the split second it took Nethril to regain her bearings was enough for Arwen’s teammate to pass the ball. Arwen then swung with all her might, the ball hurtling like a comet past the goalkeeper and into the net beyond.
Cheers echoed out along the field, loud enough to drown out the disappointed groans from the Golds. Nethril cursed herself inwardly; she’d been afraid to push too hard against the Evenstar and it cost them the goal.
“Do not hold back on my account.” Arwen’s eyes danced as she jogged backwards past Nethril, an added insult to injury. “Not unless you wish to concede defeat already.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” Nethril growled low and jammed her fist hard into the ground. She scrambled to her feet, leg muscles burning as she chased the Evenstar up the field. Her brothers were right, curse it all.
It was exhilarating—the winter air in her lungs as she ran, the tips of her ears cold but the rest of her warmed from running after her opponents. Even her frustration at Arwen’s playful taunting was fueled by the thrill of competition, a half-feral abandon that she too often denied herself. Her coordination was rusty, unable to whack the ball to her teammates with reliable aim, but she made up for it in her forceful defense. The next time Arwen came up the field Nethril stopped her with a valiant check of her own, her hurley raised to strike Arwen’s just as she attempted a throw. Again and again they clashed, Arwen light on her feet in that infuriatingly Elven fashion. She scored twice more, but Nethril blocked nearly half-a-dozen shots in turn and thus did not begrudge her. Given the physical disparities between peredhel and Dúnadan, it was as good a fight as she could muster.
The game lasted through sunset, the Blues with a decided edge but with Nethril’s Gold teammates possessed of their own ruthlessness, netting themselves four solid goals on the other end of the sward. By the time Merineth called a halt it had grown too dark to see the ball and Nethril had drained all her stamina, muscles burning, a sharp pain in her throat when she gulped in the cold night air. She remained standing long enough for her teammates to slap her encouragingly on the back, congratulating her on a match well-fought, before she sank to her knees and rolled onto her back, arms spread out beneath a starless sky. Snow flurries still danced over her, buffeted by the wind, and the prospect of simply spending the night out here grew rather appealing, so long as she did not have to move.
Presently a round, youthful face appeared above her, cheeks flushed pink from exertion. Maerel’s brow furrowed in concern as she peered down at Nethril, a hand extended to help her up.
“Are you all right, auntie?”
“Oh no,” Nethril groaned, though she took the proffered hand and hauled herself up. “No, I am too young for ‘auntie.’”
Maerel eyed her dubiously. “That is what mistress Isilmë said you both were now.”
“Isilmë has embraced her own decrepitude. I, on the other hand, remain full of youth and vigor. In the prime of life! I—oh ouch, Morgoth’s balls…”
She’d put too much weight on her right knee, throbbing after a hard whack from a hurley. Apparently fifty-four was no longer young enough to keep her joints from protesting under such treatment. Years of physical labor left her confident in her own strength, but she could not remember the last time she’d run so far or for so long. Preferring not to dwell on it, she braced her hands on her thighs and sent Maerel a baleful look. “Do not say a word.”
Maerel pressed her lips tight together as if to hold back a smile and shook her head. But before she could reply Arwen came up beside her, looking for all the world as if she’d just finished a light walk. The only signs of exertion were the the small wisps of hair that had escaped her braid, a faint halo around her head that somehow still looked elegant. She bowed deep first to Maerel, hand over her heart. Then she reached out to grip the girl’s forearm in a gesture akin to pride.
“You played beautifully, Maerel Dúnadan. And Lady Nethril!” She turned to Nethril with a wide smile. “Well fought indeed! I trust you enjoyed yourself?”
“Very much.” Nethril grinned back. “I have not had the opportunity for many years."
“Nor I. It is far less popular in my grandmother’s halls. It is a rare gift now, the chance to play, especially among such cherished friends.” Her smile grew all the more radiant as she beckoned to a nearby Elf, one Nethril was accustomed to seeing behind a harp or wheel fiddle in the Hall of Fire—Ravennë, if she recalled correctly. Her auburn hair had fared less well than Arwen’s, almost entirely out of its secure plaits, but she did not seem to care, a teasing smile on her lips when she clasped hands with the lady. The two women embraced happily before Ravennë turned to regard Nethril, measured respect in her eyes.
“Always a treasure when Lady Arwen returns to us. And this is only the beginning. Will you join us for the games at Turuhalmë, mistress Nethril? They are a sight to behold.”
She did not even have to think before she answered. “You can count on it.”
***
Despite the continued snowfall Nethril walked the quarter mile to the outdoor baths to wash, wrapped in a thick fur cloak to protect her sweat-soaked body from the growing chill. A stone archway marked each entrance to the baths, with carvings of Ossë and Uinen intertwined. Nethril followed the path of the rightmost arch until she came in sight of clear springs, formed and heated naturally from steam let loose by the mountains. It rose from the pools to create a fine mist, suffused with the pleasant scent of pine and mineral. Soft teardrop lanterns ringed the area, illuminating stone benches with a soft white light. As expected Nethril found the place deserted, most of her fellow players having retreated to the indoor, Elven-made baths on the far end of the main house. She welcomed the solitude, still not quite able to shake the discomfiting vulnerability whenever she undressed among the ageless, flawless Eldar. The contrast of the frigid air and enveloping warmth of the pool soothed her in some strange way, her body’s tension against the cold eased as she immersed in the clear, impossibly blue water.
Soft footsteps sounded to her right, ones Nethril would not have heard even a month ago, unused to the eerie, elegant silence of the Elves. Now, however, she turned to see a figure approach, features obscured by the thick clouds of steam that rose from the pools. Not until the figure reached the pool did Nethril identify her as the lady Arwen, her raven hair stark against the white fur of her robe. The lady stopped at the sight of Nethril, her mouth open in mild surprise before it softened into an open, easy smile.
“So you prefer the night sky as well.”
“I do. Though tonight the view is somewhat muted.” Nethril tilted her head up, the evening’s snow clouds indistinguishable from the steam. “Yet it remains a wonder. I never knew such places existed in Arda.”
“There are few to match its beauty—at least, from all I have seen. But I have not seen all. Perhaps one day I will travel as I once did, and see lands of splendor that entirely surpass it.”
Nethril did not answer, cautious and unsure of her footing. But it seemed Arwen did not expect a reply, her attention turned to her hair as she removed her robe, winding it around the crown of her head to keep it dry. She truly was beautiful, Nethril observed, every inch of her unblemished perfection, save a massive, hurley-shaped bruise that bloomed along her upper arm. The sight surprised her, for though she knew Elves to be capable of injury and scarring she’d never seen it here in Rivendell, where even the warriors healed from most wounds without a trace. Instinctively she grasped at her right shoulder to massage where warg claws had rent her skin thirty years ago, the scars faded but palpable under her fingertips. A hard lesson in the wild’s dangers, one she carried with her forevermore.
Across the pool Arwen did not seem to notice the movement, her face contorted in brief discomfort from the heat, replaced by a look of utter bliss as she sank into the hot water. Her head tilted back to rest upon the stone edge, eyes closed for a moment, before she tilted her head toward Nethril and opened one with an indolent smile. But then she lurched up, suddenly alert, her eyes fixed on Nethril’s chest.
“Where did you get that?”
Nethril followed Arwen’s gaze down to the pendant she always wore, an intricate knot of silver that hung from a chain of the same hue, fashioned by Isilmë to replace the tattered leather cord she’d used for so many years. Another relic of her youth, from when she’d accompanied Adanel on a tour of the Dúnedain’s outlying encampments: Minhiriath to Evendim and beyond. It had been the first time she ever left the Angle; saw with her own eyes the lands her people fought so hard to protect. Her hand shifted to lift the pendant between thumb and forefinger, the metal bands worn down smooth.
“I found it in Emyn Uial. Years ago now—I must have only been a few years older than Maerel. We were exploring a ruin near the lake, north of Annúminas. A smaller city high in the hills, with a clear sight to the water below. I never learned the provenance of the building where it lay buried, nor its meaning. Yet it called to me all the same.”
That last sentence sounded deeply foolish to her ears, and she hoped the flush to her face came from the heat of the water. She stared down at the pendant again, barely visible out the corner of her eye, then looked back up to meet Arwen’s eyes, pale and strangely glittering. “Do you recognize it?”
Arwen dipped her head in a faint nod. “It is the sigil of the house of Thaliel."
Nethril furrowed her brow as she searched her memory. She considered herself a decent history scholar, certainly as well-read as any Dúnadan of the Angle could hope to be, but the name carried not even a trace of familiarity. “The house of Thaliel?”
“She was the daughter of Arthedain’s first king, Amlaith. His eldest child. Her younger brother’s ambition rivaled her own, and their father feared further division in a land already torn to pieces by kin-strife. So he named his son Beleg heir and gave to Thaliel the title Lady of Nenuial. Like the Lords of Andúnië her descendants ruled the lakeside for centuries. Though they had no sea to save them when their kingdom fell to ruin.”
The sour note in Arwen’s voice was only fleetingly marked by Nethril, her mouth open in amazement. All these years she’d kept the pendant close, with no connection beyond a wish to honor the history of her people, a fantasy that a thousand years before someone like her once wore it and cherished it. “I never knew Amlaith’s line had a distaff branch. One that ruled near Annúminas? There’s no record of anything like it! Not in our archives, not here…”
Arwen’s face twisted in distaste. “Sometimes history is lost through accident or misfortune. Sometimes it is deliberately erased. What hope did Arvedui have for his claim to Gondor, if it came out that the North once rejected the law he pushed the South to accept? By that time Thaliel’s line had died out. So much of Nenuial was destroyed by Angmar, no one questioned the loss of the records or heraldry. Save those who had known her, and dwelt for a time among the women of Fornannún.”
“Elbereth,” Nethril breathed, her throat dry despite the moisture that hung thick in the air. Unbidden she reached behind her to unhook the clasp of the chain; cupped the pendant in her palm to examine it anew. Whoever crafted it had woven a thin strip of silver into an intricate knot, with no beginning or end, though two points jutted inward as if to chase each other in an endless circle. Arwen moved in closer, the water swilling between them, one elegant finger raised to trace over the metal.
“You see the points encircling each other? The artist’s rendition of two serpents. It ties the house to Elendil’s even as it stands alone, a subtlety designed to be overlooked. Thaliel was always clever in that way.” Arwen raised her head to give Nethril a bittersweet smile. “It is fitting that you wear it. You have something of her mettle, and her heirs all bore it proudly. They remained fiercely loyal to Arthedain; advised her king with sage counsel. As you do now to Estel.”
The mention of Aragorn jolted Nethril out of her reflective daze, eyes narrowed in on the lady before her. Sweat mixed with water glistened on pale, smooth skin, the ethereal light about her an effect of the steam rather than any legends of old. It made her appear more real somehow, made it all the more difficult to comprehend that Arwen had walked in the city of Fornannún when it lived and breathed; bright towers of fresh-cut stone instead of moldering shells.
“I had no idea you’d dwelt for so long among the Dúnedain.”
“Oh, yes. I served as our people’s envoy to Arthedain—the perfect opportunity for an impetuous young Elf who yearned to see the more of the world. And my father wished for me to live among mortals for a time, to better understand that piece of my heritage.” Arwen’s mouth curled in faint bitterness. “I imagine he regrets that now.”
Nethril found herself at a loss to answer, but once again Arwen spared her from having to. She let out a long sigh and shook her head, the tips of her ears pink from the heat or mild embarrassment.
“Forgive me. That was untoward.”
“Not at all,” Nethril murmured, surprised but not offended that the Evenstar had dared to speak in such a way. Indeed, perhaps it would do them both some good to speak of it all outright. But she could not quite bring herself to do it.
Something almost vulnerable dimmed the brightness of Arwen’s eyes, and she searched Nethril’s face as if she expected to find disapproval or dismay. Then she drew in a deep breath.
“I know my betrothal to Aragorn places a great burden on your people. On you. Many times these past days I have raged against my father’s conditions, threatened to defy them and wed now, so we might conceive an heir. But Estel would not do that. He is too honorable, too loyal to my father.” She shook her head with a sad smile. “It is his most infuriating trait, I have found.”
Nethril let out a soft huff. “It is at that.”
“Nor, in the end, could I cause my father such pain. So we wait, and risk everything.” Arwen kept her steady gaze on Nethril, open and honest. “Any resentment or anger that stems from that is entirely justified. But one day, I hope to prove myself worthy of the risk.”
“You do not need to,” Nethril murmured, the words escaping her without thought. “Not with me, at least.”
It was almost imperceptible, the way Arwen's eyes widened, only a brief spark in her dark eyes that showed how deeply she'd been moved. Yet in that moment Nethril felt some distant kinship made near, even that small spark bright enough for them to share in its warmth. As if for the first time, the relics of the past that she held so close had finally lit a way to the future.
