Anaire knew when her children died, one after the other, separated by century or decade. She knew when he husband died, the despair that came from him finally replaced by nothingness.
She did not know of her granddaughter, of her nephews and niece. Their fates were lost to her.
Only Arafinwë and Earwen, ever paler in sorrow and despair, told her of their fates. Only Nerdanel, quieter than ever she had been, was able to piece together when their lost family had faced some new horror.
Not an echo of their lamentations. Not a whisper of news for their families.
Not until a boy with Turukano’s nose and Elenwë’s eyes. Not until a girl with Olwë’s bearing. Not until two children cross the Sea bearing news and light.
Their tale hurts. It is cruel, difficult to hear, harder still for them to tell.
Anaire offers what kindness she can to her grandson. He is so young, barely more than a babe, yet speaks of having children of his own.
He left them behind. His Elwing left them behind. Anaire offers what hope she can, Maitimo ever was their first choice of babysitter. If he found the children then they will be safe.
She knows that it is bitter comfort. That were it not for her nephews, the grandchildren of her granddaughter would not have been left at all.
Arafinwë announces, to the relief of many of the Noldor left in Tirion, that they will be marching to Beleriand with the backing of the Valar and Vanyar. Earendil’s Silmaril has bought the Exiles an army.
Too late for Anaire’s family.
Earwen will not go. She has been left to rule Tirion, to care for Findarato newly released from the Halls and so terribly fragile.
Nerdanel will not go. She fears to see what her sons have become. She fears that her face, so similar to that of her children, will spark distrust among those hurt by her sons.
Anaire does not speak of her choice at first. She returns to the home she has barely entered in centuries. Enters the chamber she had shared with her husband, and looks in the chest at the foot of their bed.
A sword lay within. Wrapped in linen, embellished with a star.
How she had hated it when Nolofinwe had brought it home! How she had despised the very thing! It had been pressed against his throat, been used to threaten his very life, and he had brought it into their bedchamber.
The last sword on the shores of Valinor forged by Fëanaro.
Anaire took it up, admired the gleam of the blade in the pale moonlight, and made her choice.
She would sail to Beleriand with the army. She would avenge her children and husband.
Findarato and Earendil had both spoken of Nolofinwe injuring Morgoth. Seven blows they said the songs spoke of.
With that hated sword in hand, she was sure she could do eight.
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