The being that hunts them has no name. If they hear the hooves they have wandered too far. Finwë risks a look behind, then he runs again after Elwë. The stars are silent; cold dread creeps over him. But the nameless thing doesn’t touch him, and Elwë waits for him behind a huge oak. Finwë’s mind is clear again; he knows now which way home is.

“There must be a reason,” Elwë ponders, later, “why those who went missing never returned.”

That was not why he walked all the way from the shore, but he turned to the work with ease. “Certainly,” he laughed, taking a handful of grasses from Rinwë to shake off the soil. “Inwen has such terrible luck with her traps, at least her son will be married soon and too busy to accidentally step on them anymore!”

His cousins chuckled their agreement. Inwen’s only son, Irnó, hoped to wed into a family that lived far around the east side of Cuiviénen, far enough that they would only see him occasionally. Everyone agreed it was a good match.

“And you?” Rinwë prodded. “When will you and your sweet Míriel go beyond quiet talks by the fire?”

He looked away from his cousins, studying the dirt and disturbed insects crawling across the harvested grass. “Not while everything is still so uncertain.” 

“Things have never been more certain.” Laswen gestured in an arc before them. “The grass grows thicker and stronger every star cycle. Fish spawn in the streams so dense we scoop them out by hand. Waiting will only risk losing this bounty.”

“This is all temporary,” he said and cast his eyes west. “Have you considered what I said? With you two at my side, great-grandfather could be swayed. We can all go to live among the Valor.”

“You should marry Míriel.”

“You will be happy together.”

He looked at his cousins. They did not look at him. Insects chirped in the grass.

“So, you have decided,” he said at last.

Laswen sighed and finally turned to face him. “You would never convince Eäwë.”

“What you told us of Valinor,” Rinwë said, not meeting his eyes, “sounds like paradise. But we couldn’t get everyone to come, even if Ingwë and Elwë were as convincing as you. We have foreparents who still fear the Valar for their power, siblings who love these lands more than breath itself, and friends and kin around every curve of Cuivienen. They will never leave. How could we ever be happy there, knowing we left parents, children, friends behind here?”

“Better to stay in a good place with our people than leave half of them behind to struggle while we wallow in plenty,” Laswen finished.

Finwë did not look away or close his eyes, but he dearly wished to turn his back so they would not see the pain on his face. He’d been so sure. When Elwë and Ingwë and he left Valinor, they’d felt such a conviction that they’d bring their people back with them. It went beyond hope, beyond faith. Valinor was certain when he left but now, he saw the way back crumbling before him. Would he convince no one?

“Besides—” Rinwë held out another fistful of uprooted grass— “who would gather grass for Inwen’s fish traps if we left?” He said it with a smile and a whisper of laughter, not making light of their decision but trying to lighten the descending disappointment. 

Finwë took the plants but did not smile or joke in return as he used to do. They would not join him to travel to Valinor, and without them, who would come? To the elders, he was still just the unfortunate child—parentless, siblingless—not someone to be taken seriously unless he found others to support his ideas first. Who would follow him, young Finwë, into the great beyond?