#tocweek2024

Arondir took one final look around the land he used to call home. He was young, only barely an adult, but he had already grown very close to this place and the memories he had made there. He had walked the hills under the eternal starlight, herding livestock. He had played, and fished, and learned to swim in the little, winding rivers. During cold seasons, he swam with his siblings in the volcanically heated pools. He had explored the caves with his cousins and they had carved pictures in the living stone.

He would certainly miss this place, he thought to himself as he and his family crossed over the three-walled mountain range that had protected them for so many years. It was time to move on though. They were the only intelligent beings they knew of and, no matter how idyllic their home, it was incredibly lonely; particularly for his older cousins who were now old enough to marry.

With that in mind, they were leaving to go West, to follow the trail of what Grandfather had described as hundreds and hundreds of elves, more than any of them could imagine. As excited and nervous as he was, Arondir could not help the feeling of calm that came over him. He knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that he would be back someday.

—----

Arondir groaned as he hoisted the final box of produce out of the family cart and began unloading it into the open-air market stand. The market was a cheerful place, located in a peaceful clearing a few miles outside of Menegroth. On a clear day like this one, it bustled with buyers from the city and growers from all up and down the river valley. There were even a few other Silvan migrant families like his own.

As he placed the last bundle of asparagus in its place, he turned and came face to face (or, well, stomach to face) with his little cousin, Naurion. “Arondir! Look what I caught!”

He held out his hands to show off a dead, blood-covered squirrel. It was all Arondir could do to keep his breakfast down as he patted Naurion on the head. “Well done, rend. Go and show Grandfather."

The boy ran off excitedly, taking the horrid sight with him. Arondir had never quite had the stomach for violence that most everyone else he knew had. No matter how many animal carcasses he saw or how many times his mother had made him break down a chicken for dinner, he simply could not handle it.

Luckily, he thought to himself, he would never have to handle it. He could marry a woman who did not mind it and handle the other household responsibilities instead. In the meantime, he could continue bribing his brothers to do his butchering chores for him. 

It was not as if he would ever have to live entirely alone or face some kind of battle. Doriath was the most well-protected realm this side of the Sundering Sea, protected by a maia! The Enemy Himself would be hard-pressed to send any kind of force to hurt them there.

—--

In the end, it was not The Enemy they had to fear. First, it was the selfishness and wrath of the dwarves that destabilized their realm, causing Queen Melian to flee and leaving them all but defenseless against attack. Then came the kinslayers that killed their new king and slaughtered their people.

Sirion, where the river fed the sea, was the place the survivors fled to. Too few survivors in Arondir’s opinion; his own family not among them. His sister, as the princes’ caregiver, was almost certainly dead. His parents, hearing that Menegroth was under attack, had run to their daughter’s aid, but never returned. His grandfather and two of his brothers had been killed in defense of their farm. His third brother had received a wound that had soured on the road and he had died of it. He had no idea what happened to his aunt, uncle, and cousins, but he had seen neither hide nor hair of them since the attack.

Arondir did his best to make a life for himself at the Havens of Sirion, but it was hard. He was alone for the first time in his life. Nevertheless, he built himself a ramshackle dwelling like everyone else and employed his time by growing food for the community.

He grew all sorts of things; potatoes, water chestnuts, paw paws, and blackberries; but his favorite were the strawberries he grew next to his porch. That was where he was now, tending them. He could feel the warm sun on his neck, the soft earth under his fingernails. He could watch the slugs try to slither away from him as he pulled the weeds from the shoots and “relocated” the pests. He could smell the scent of the river and the sea mingling in the air, as well as the less-than-pleasant smells of daily life in a refugee village. He could hear the sounds of distant waves and the excited shrieks of the pack of children that ran the streets during the day.

They quieted down as they reached him. “Redhor Arondir,” the ringleader of the group spoke up. She was a peredhel girl by the name of Daniel and was by far the boldest of them all. “May we have some strawberries?”

They were all sweet children, fixing as many problems as they caused, and Arondir was always happy to provide them with treats on his days off. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with them first, though. “Hmm…” he said thoughtfully, enjoying the identical wide-eyed looks of suspense on each tiny face. “Do you happen to remember the magic word, children?”

Daniel straightened and took a deep breath. “Is it listo?”

“No.”

“Mecin?”

“No.”

“Enel?”

Arondir heaved a great sigh. “Oh, I suppose I can spare a few berries for a maiden who asks so sweetly.”

He ducked his head in an attempt to hide his smile at the cheers that rose up from the little group and produced the basket of strawberries he had picked for them fifteen minutes before. They raised the basket above their heads and ran off, crowing about their “victory” and sharing their “spoils” amongst themselves. A few of the older children threw a brief “thank you!” over their shoulders and promised to bring his basket back when they were finished with it.

After watching them go with a fond smile, Arondir turned back to his strawberry patch. Perhaps this was not so terrible a place to make a home. His family had built a new life from scratch once before and, while it would certainly be more difficult on his own, the war was far north of their peaceful little corner of the world. If they were careful, watchful, prepared, they would have time.

—----

Arondir looked out over the Southlands from the top of the guard tower. More than 600 years after the War of Wrath and twenty years into his current deployment, things were quiet. He had established a routine and befriended the (largely Sindarin and Noldorin) other soldiers within his regiment, but still he couldn't truly relax. The Enemy could still be out there, waiting to strike, waiting to corrupt these Men.

The Southlands looked different now than it did in his youth, under an endless starry night. Hundreds, maybe thousands, more people roamed the land he once called home. They had built and carved the land according to their needs. 

And yet, in many ways, it was still the same place. The hills he had walked, the rivers he had bathed in, the geothermal pools he had played in, and the petroglyphs he had carved were all still there (although the petroglyphs were faded and worn a little by now).

People still herded cattle on those hills. People still bathed in those rivers. People still warmed themselves in the volcanic pools. Children with too much time on their hands still wandered the caves, carving pictures by torchlight. 

There were times when Arondir felt more kindredness with the Southlanders than with his own regiment. He had been sent there to keep the outside world safe from the Southlanders; but the longer he stayed, came to know them and their ways; the more he found himself trying to protect them from the outside world.