Introducing an OC of mine
Since the very first years of the first age of the sun, a rumor wandered around the mortal world. A myth, of sorts.
A tale of a lone being, that wanders the known world, face shrouded by grief and magic.
Some claim he is an elf, having strayed from light.
Others say he is a creature beyond what is known, perhaps even a Maia.
During the first age these tales were but rumors, but as the years progressed, and the second age came, they turned to legend.
Stories of a being wandering Middle Earth, watching over specific elves, spread swiftly throughout the land.
No one ever did see his face, but some heard his voice.
Clear as a melody, they said. Soft and gentle, they said, claimed it brought comfort and peace upon whoever heard it.
Most didn’t take these tales seriously, and wrote them off as children‘s nonsense, or imaginations run wild.
None knew the true tale of the wandering elf, for that was what he was.
Older than any who sailed from Valinor all those ages ago.
And in grief shrouded he was, for he had lost all he held dear. Some early on, some when he thought they were finally free.
He was an elf born beneath the light of the trees, yet he had found no comfort beneath the gaze of the Valar.
He had been unwanted, too weak for his labour family, a burden upon their house.
His profession was the one of a scribe, for through words and texts he had found a voice that had been denied him so long.
And through that love for literature, he had met the elf that he would dedicate his entire life to.
Fëanor, the Prince of the Noldor.
The ambitious elf had taken young Tarion as his scribe, and from there on, a friendship unlike any other had bloomed between them.
Not a day would go by where the citizens of Tirion Palace wouldn’t see them side by side, Fëanor voicing thoughts out loud, and Tarion scribbling everything down.
They became inseparable, and over the years, more and more trust was put in Tarion.
The young elf went from simply writing down what was said, to drafting documents, plans, even official royal letters. He began joining council meetings, on his Prince‘s request, and eventually got as far as to reply in Fëanor‘s name.
The royal smith trusted his scribe more than anyone else he knew. For Fëanor knew that Tarion‘s loyalty to him was undivided, the scribe was devoted to his Prince alone, answered only to his call, and took orders only from him.
All of Tirion knew, not even the Valar could bend Tarion‘s loyalty.
For Tarion was Fëanor‘s alone.
So when that fateful day came, and Morgoth attacked, Tarion, alongside his Prince, found their King slain on the doorstep of Formenos.
The scribe wept with Fëanor, and held his new, official Sire as he grieved the loss of his only surviving parent.
And so Tarion came to share his new King‘s hatred, it wasn’t hard, for he had been deemed imperfect long ago, rebelled against the gods, and joined the Noldor in the flight.
Though, one must attest that Tarion never raised a blade against his kin, nor a torch to the ships. He remained innocent in light of the Noldor‘s crimes, beyond rebellion itself, and has so to present day.
When the day of the attack came, Tarion pleaded with his King to be patient, to plan before following the enemy, but his King did not listen.
And then, when word reached their camp, that Fëanor had fallen, slain by the enemies fiery demons, Tarion, grief struck, fled the encampment, weeping for his King.
He ran into the woods, weeping, screaming and wailing in sorrow, until he eventually stumbled, and fell to the ground in midst of unknown terrain, and remained there.
Tarion cried long, crying out for his King, even though he knew there would be no answer, that there would never be an answer again.
Fëanor had always cared.
Fëanor had always protected.
But Fëanor was gone, and would never hold his beloved scribe again.
For day‘s Tarion laid upon the forest floor, weeping, grieving.
He no longer knew, time seemed meaningless now.
Once he had no more tears to shed, and his eyes were dry and red, Tarion began to curse out the gods who had driven them so far, who had ignored his King‘s pains, had brushed him off, and not listened all the way from when he wept for his mother to when he wept for his father.
They had never cared, had never looked after them, not truly. They, who did not fit the perfect mold, who‘s hearts were not untouched by grief and pain.
Tarion never returned to camp, not that he had wanted to abandon his kin, but that he, for once, did not know the way, and could not handle the idea of returning to an empty tent.
So he wandered. He wandered this new world as his King had wanted to, mapped it out, recorded flora and fauna, met the divers species, and scribed the history that had been and was to come.
Over the span of five centuries Tarion went from place to place, met the second born, as well as fellow elves, who had stayed behind.
But never again did he happen upon his own.
Never again did he see his King‘s son‘s, nor his grandson.
Tarion, ever the wise one, knew the Oath would only bring pain and bloodshed, but could not get himself to step in between.
He could not do that to the boys he had come to love as his own, could not force them to go against him as well.
So he stayed away, even though it pained him greatly, to spare them further pains.
Tarion knew when they began to fall, having seen every last one of the Prince‘s born, and having helped raise each and every one, he could feel when their fëa left the mortal world.
He wept for them, put up altars, and wrote memoriam‘s, so he could remember them as who they had truly been, not who the war and oath had made them into.
When the war of wrath happened, and Beleriand sank, Tarion wandered into Middle Earth.
He began writing a history book, which he later published under the title of 'A history of Noldor'.
For long he wandered this new world, still alone.
And when the second age as well came to an end, and he heard of his King‘s kindhearted grandson‘s fate, he pulled away further.
With Sauron‘s downfall, came a new goal for the ancient scribe.
After all these years, he had only felt six fëa pass on.
And so he finally had a new purpose.
He would find his King‘s remaining son, and at least for him, he would do anything in his power to lighten the burden, to help, to keep safe, give comfort, and perhaps, hopefully, even heal.
