Wolf Luck by arafinwean

“...We, the Eldar, once lived in fear of being hunted, of being stalked like prey by the Dread Master and his allies. When we came to Aman we found a sense of safety, a land of peace where we could watch our families grow. Yet, in coming to Aman we have lost many of our old histories, of the stories and legends we once wrote in ink on our skin.

The loremaster is a being made to remember, and record, our history and legends. This book is an attempt by me, and several other loremasters, to ensure that our legends, no matter how heretical they may seem now, are remembered…”

- an excerpt of “Heretical Tales,” by Rúmil, Loremaster of Tirion.

“...Those with Wolf Eyes were seen as gifted. Neither cursed or blessed but with the potential to do either great harm or greater good, none the less people were wary of them. For having a wolf on your side may bring you victory yet you never knew when the wolf may abandon, or worse yet, turn on you.

One cannot control the wildness in them after all, perhaps that is why Gorthaur enjoyed them so much…”

- an excerpt of “Wolf Eyes: An Index of Omens,” Author Unknown.

Excitement and anger in equal measure ran through Tirion. The news had hit the streets as soon as Laurelin rose and the procession of mixed feelings that followed was something that Fëanáro himself was not familiar with. He was disinterested in the news that his father had sired another child, the white hot anger that had been there when Nolofinwë’s conception was announced barely produced a spark when he heard the news.

He offered his father his congratulations of course, despite the way it stung both his heart and tongue to know that he wasn’t, would never be, enough for Finwë. There was little that could soothe that ache, but there was even less that Fëanáro wouldn’t do for his father.

Fëanáro smiled at the joy that crossed Finwë’s face.

It was a strained smile, all that saw it knew it was.

When Arafinwë first opened his eyes, it is said a hush fell upon the room. It was not unusual for those of the Noldor to have silver eyes, nor was it odd for those of the Vanyar to have blue. It wouldn’t have been odd had Arafinwë had either of those eye colors.

He did not.

Arafinwë’s right eye was a light silver color, so light it bordered on white. His left eye was solid gold, reminiscent of the eyes of wolves.

The room stood frozen as Arafinwë, fresh into this world and not yet screaming, met his father’s eyes. He lay cradled in his mother's arms and for a moment Indis gazed upon her son with wide eyes, a look of horror better suited to a murder victim on her face. Indis was a queen though, and quickly schooled her face to a neutral expression.

It was then that Arafinwë broke eye contact with his bewildered father and screamed.

It was no secret among the people of Tirion that Indis was not fond of her youngest child. Her dislike of Arafinwë was talked of in hushed voices, even when those of the royal family were not around. It was said, in hushed whispers, that Arafinwë was hated by his mother simply because of his birth. The birth itself wasn’t straining, no, rather they said she hated her son because of his eyes. They pointed to the stories they took from Cuiviénen, of how those with silver and gold eyes born among them either suffered greatly or took pleasure in the suffering of others. Some claimed that Indis had the foresight to know her son would take pleasure in the suffering of others.

Those in the palace corroborated some rumors. They told of how Indis and Arafinwë were rarely in the same room. Of how Indis would leave a room as soon as Arafinwë entered it. They spoke of how Indis would brush off the child’s questions, of how the queen was cold toward her son. There were those that approved of her actions, a queen of course should never be affectionate with a potential threat. Those that disagreed with her actions only spoke of their disapproval in tight lips and tighter smiles.

Most who knew Arafinwë would think a the claim that the boy would harm someone deliberately was ludicrous. They would say that such a sweet boy would not even know how to begin to take pleasure in someone else’s suffering. They would claim that instead his eyes meant he was destined for greatness, as all Finwë’s sons were.

Arafinwë himself doubted that second claim. There was something in him, Arafinwë felt, that would delight in the suffering of those who wronged those he cared for. It was a cruel desire he knew, that made him narrow his eyes at thinly veiled insults toward his family. That made him force a smile and nod when those who paid more loyalty to the Valar than his father spoke to him at court functions. If any moved to harm his family Arafinwë knew he would do anything to see them burn.

Arafinwë knew he wasn’t kind.

He still tried to be.

It was enough at times, enough to force him to hide his passion and anger behind the masks Indis made sure Arafinwë knew how to craft. If there was one thing Indis had taught her son it was how to make sure no one knew what laid beneath the facade he wore.

She could have taught him this out of a sense of duty. It was likely that she did, Arafinwë mused, out of an obligation she felt to ensure that Arafinwë survived at court. Or perhaps she simply taught him because Finwë asked her to. It didn’t matter either way, Arafinwë was grateful for the one gift his mother had given him.

It came in handy when he was dealing with Nolofinwë.

Nolofinwë was older than Arafinwë by twenty-five years, and Arafinwë, despite being twenty-five and the youngest of his family, managed to fool his older brother as he fooled the rest of them.

“ Nolofinwë I assure you,” Arafinwë said, a calm smile on his face, “I’m fine brother. There is no need to worry.”

Nolofinwë’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s answer.

“Are you certain?” he asked, concern lining his voice, “I know you know about the more unsavory rumours about you. You cannot be unaffected by their presence.” By what people think of you, goes unsaid but Arafinwë hears it anyway.

“I am fine Nolofinwë,” Arafinwë said, shutting the book he was reading with a sigh, “As for the rumors, I’ve lived with them for twenty-five years already. I am,” -a pause- “used to them.”

Arafinwë saw the way Nolofinwë grit his teeth as Arafinwë spoke and moved to rest a hand on his older brothers arm.

“You shouldn’t be,” Nolofinwë said, “You are undeserving of this treatment.”

Arafinwë simply smiled, a small, strained thing, and left the library, book tucked safely under his arm.

Arafinwë felt, with a certainty, that he shouldn’t exist. That the various futures he saw should be fixed as they usually are for his people.

They are not. The future for him was fluid, a shifting, ever changing thing that rarely took the same shape twice. Arafinwë had only heard of such talent in Irmo’s seers. He had heard that those that displayed such powers were shuffled off to the Gardens where they lived under Irmo’s watchful eyes.

Arafinwë sincerely doubted that they were content there. But if so why didn’t they ask to leave? Arafinwë knew that they were taken for ‘training’ but why couldn’t they leave once said training was finished? Being one of Irmo’s chosen was supposed to be an honor.

Arafinwë felt no need to be honored.

Biting his lips, Arafinwë shoved the book he had taken from the library onto a desk in his room. So far his research had turned up nothing but folk tales. The only reference to magic were in songs or in reference to the abilities of the Valar. There was nothing explaining what he could do or why he could do it.

Releasing a breath, Arafinwë absentmindedly wrapped a tendril of silver light around his finger.

It felt like silk, light as air and warm as a summer's day. Arafinwë wondered, and not for the first time, what the Valar would do if they found out what he could do. Would they hide him away from the world? Would his family allow them to? Or would they simply think of him as a danger and be glad to be rid of him? There were so many variables in this equation, so many things that could go wrong.

Arafinwë didn’t like it. But if they tried to lock him up, he’d go down fighting. For a moment his mind wandered to his recently acquired ability to manipulate fire.

He’d go down in flames if he had to.

Letting the light tendril go, he wondered if Rúmil had any answers to his questions. The loremaster was older than his father, he certainly must know something.

On an old faded piece of parchment in between the pages of a book:

“... I fear the worst. My sister becomes more ill by the day, and while she has never been in perfect health (mentally or physically) she has always been able to find a reason to go on. I fear now that our magic has been locked away that she is fading. Perhaps our magic had been too high a price to pay, as she is not the only one I know now facing health troubles now that we no longer have access to what I now believe to have been an integral part of ourselves.

We should have never come to this land. It is not worth the lives of those dying..”

Rúmil had always known there was something odd about his friend’s youngest child. Arafinwë always seemed to be watching, a far-off look in his eyes that made it seemed as though he was going through life in a trance. It made his other tutors angry and worried, they claimed that Arafinwë was not listening to their lessons only to have Arafinwë recite what they had taught him without any problems.

Now though, there was no trace of that wide-eyed, dazed expression, as Arafinwë sat in a high back chair in the library. His eyes sharp and considering as Rúmil went on with today's lesson plan.

“Rúmil,” Arafinwë said, his voice low and emotionless, as though he was considering something, “Forgive the deviation from today’s lesson but I have a rather urgent question for you.”

Rúmil raised an eyebrow and placed his hands on the table before him, a concerned expression taking over his face.

“What is it?” Rúmil asked, his voice low and careful.

Arafinwë looked at him, eyes taking in his concerned expression and the looseness of Rúmil’s body.

Rúmil couldn’t help but wonder what the young prince was seeing.

“Can I trust you?” Arafinwë asked, his voice lose and careless despite the serious expression on his face. Were Rúmil anyone else, he would have thought that Arafinwë was asking a question he already knew the answer to. But Rúmil saw the hesitance in Arafinwë’s face, the mask the golden youth wore unable to hide the emotion that shone through his eyes.

Rúmil moved around the table and strode over to Arafinwë to kneel in front of the prince. Rúmil met the eyes of the startled youth and carefully picked up the hand that held the ring bearing the sigil of the house of Finwë all of Finwë’s sons wore.

“My prince,” Rúmil said, fatherly affection coating his voice, “When I swore fealty to your father I told him I would lay down my life for him. I would do no less for you.” 

Arafinwë looked away, “I would not ask that of you.”

“You would not need too,” Rúmil said gently, and Arafinwë turned his head to look at him, “I would do so anyway.”

Determination lit Arafinwë’s eyes, they shone bright silver and gold and Rúmil was breathless as Arafinwë spoke; “None shall die for me,” he said words echoing around them, “I would sooner give my own life than have others lay down their life for me.”

The moment passed as a breeze through water, and what was left was a boy and man staring at each other. For a moment, Rúmil fragility in Arafinwë’s face before it was hidden by a mask of ice.

Rúmil cursed Indis for teaching her son to hide behind layers of masks and lies hidden by polite words. The queen had tried to quell the fire in her son’s heart, to force him into a facade of icy authority. Whether he knew it or not Arafinwë had stopped that by simply being himself.

Rúmil would not have him any other way. This boy made wiser than his years by the cruel words of others, by the coldness his own mother showed him, was someone Rúmil would follow just as he would follow Arafinwë’s brothers Rúmil would follow Arafinwë.

“Why ask such a question?” Rúmil asked, his voice gentle as he rubbed comforting circles on Arafinwë’s hands.

Arafinwë shifted in his seat, the light of Laurelin casting shadows from the great library shelves onto his face. 

It was true that Arafinwë was a fair youth, his eyes shining like gems from where they were set in his face, his golden hair rarely held back cascaded down one of his shoulders. In that moment Finwë’s third son looked every bit a king his father did.

Arafinwë cast his gaze about the library as if to ensure they were thoroughly hidden by stacks of books and paper before letting out a heavy sigh.

“There is something I must show you,” Arafinwë admitted, and Rúmil raised an eyebrow at his words, “It is a secret of sorts.”

“I will not betray you.”

Silence, a stillness reached them for but a moment before Arafinwë nodded. Taking his hand from Rúmil Arafinwë held his hand high and a barrage of color and imagery burst forth. 

Dancing figures made their way through the area the two were enclosed in. Fields of wildflowers bloomed and forests took root as Rúmil watched with widened eyes. It was as though he was seeing the essence of spring come out of Arafinwë’s hand. It was only Laurelin’s light that reminded him of where they were.

Of the danger, Arafinwë would be in.

“Enough!” Rúmil snapped, harsher than he meant too and the arrays of colors dissipated at once, meeting Arafinwë’s frightened gaze Rúmil forced himself calm.

“You cannot show such things to people,” he said, voice shaking, “No matter who they are. You cannot show them this.”

“Why?” Arafinwë’s voice was cool as a breeze before a storm, “Is it because people such as me were struck from the records?”

Rúmil feels his heartbreak. His prince should not know this, should not know how the names of those who crossed into Aman with magic in their veins died slowly. Rúmil’s sister had been one of them, she had hung on longer than most but had succumbed in the end.

The Ainur had taken their magic, they were told, payment for allowing the Quendi into their lands. They were told that their loved ones were resting in the Halls, that it would take some time for them to reembody. 

It had been centuries, and yet Rúmil had still not seen his sister.

Arafinwë had done nothing to deserve this, he did not deserve the fate the highest of the Valar would deal him if they knew about his magic. Arafinwë was a child still, yet that would matter little in the eyes of those who would wish him harm.

Arafinwë would not be a danger. The Valar would have no reason to seal his magic away because they would never find out Arafinwë had magic in the first place.

Rúmil would ensure it.

“How did you find out?” Rúmil asked, his voice quiet even in the library, “We burned any mention of them.”

“There’s a fine line between legend and history,” Arafinwë replied, “Neither you or your contemporaries thought to hide the truth very well.”

Rúmil raised an eyebrow.

“There was also a note,” Arafinwë added hesitantly, “I found it in a book I took from the library, it mentioned someones sister having their magic sealed. Upon further research, I could find no references to such an event happening. All references to magic were either found in dissertations on the Ainur or in folklore.”

A harsh laugh escaped Rúmil’s throat. Leave it Nécano to leave notes buried in books. The silver-haired man was always a trickster, always refused to leave well enough alone.

“I believe it’s time you met someone,” Rúmil said.

“Who?”

“The late queen's brother.”

_____

Nécano was a pale man. His hair shone silver and his eyes were white save for the pupil. His skin the color of freshly fallen snow he was a stark contrast to Arafinwë.

When Arafinwë and Rúmil arrived at his residence, the pale man took one look at Arafinwë and raised his brow.

“It seems you brought me a wolf,” Nécano said, amused.

“He found your note.”

“Then he has found something he shouldn’t have. Unless he’s willing to face the consequences of such knowledge.”

“Should I be denied knowledge of my history?” Arafinwë asked, a single golden eyebrow raised, “If I am to die, I should be at least told why.”

Nécano froze, eyes staring at Arafinwë as though the young prince was a ghost.

White eyes darted to Rúmil.

“He has the gift then?”

Rúmil nodded, “He does.”

Nécano laughed, harsh and feral.

“Come in,” Nécano said, gesturing to the door of his villa, “We should discuss this inside.”

____

Nécano, Arafinwë thought, is an odd man. Beset by the grief of losing his sister or something else. Perhaps it was his homeland Nécano mourned, knowing that he would never see the shores of his home again. Perhaps he mourned both the passing of his sister and the loss of his homeland at the same time.

But the man was knowledgeable, and Arafinwë could appreciate that. So he sat and listened as Nécano told them of how Mírel had been hale in body if not mind upon arriving in Aman, of how her strength faded with time. Of how determined she was to give life to her son that she carried on even though she should have been dead by then.

Nécano told him of how the Ainur had forced them to give up their magic. How they told them that there was no need for such a weapon in their lands. Too caught up in what he was being told Arafinwë didn’t inject that magic wasn’t necessarily a weapon.

“The Ainur think those with magic a threat,” he observed, “That we could take their power from them should we wish.” Arafinwë open his mouth to continue but-

There’s a wind roaring in his ears, screams of outrage echo behind him as he fell from the sky and into the open sea. His own laughter rang in his ears just as the waves swallowed him.

“ Arafinwë!” Rúmil exclaimed, reaching over and shaking Arafinwë out of his trance, “Arafinwë-”

“I’m fine,” Arafinwë cut him off, the dazed expression sliding off his face to be replaced with a mask of politeness, “Fine.”

“What did you see?”

Arafinwë smiled grimly, “My death.”

Stunned silence met his response.

“Do you fade, little wolf?” Nécano asked, his head tilted to the side.

“No,” Arafinwë replied, “I fall.”
______

Arafinwë grew older, and though his strength in magic grows, nothing else changed. Nolofinwë still fretted over his well being, his father paid little attention to him, and Rúmil and Nécano became fathers to him in their own right.

He learned much from them, even as they learned from him and each other.

When asked what he thought of Arafinwë’s father, Nécano had laughed a sad laugh.

“When you are older,” he promised, his eyes far off, “When you are older I will tell you.”
_______

Arafinwë was almost of age when he met Eärwen. He spied the princess making dancers of water float through the air as he stumbled into a seaside cavern to escape the noise the ongoing festival brought.

The dancers fell to the floor in an act of rain as Eärwen stopped suddenly as she noticed the prince.

“Peace,” Arafinwë said raising his hands. 

Eärwen narrowed her eyes and Arafinwë let dancers of light erupt from his palms.

_______

Years pass, and Arafinwë failed to fall even as his magic continued to grow. The gold prince could manipulate all four elements as well as light by now. Were they not in Aman, Rúmil had little doubt that Arafinwë would be on the front lines, protecting their people.

Still, Rúmil worried for the youngest prince. They had grown only closer over the years, so close that there were times that Nécano teased them of being father and son.

It was true that Rúmil thought of Arafinwë as a child he would never have, for Finwë himself held little interest in what his youngest did and as such Arafinwë came to the loremaster often for advice.

Yet as he was there watching his former student get married he thought for a moment that everything might turn out alright.

He didn’t know how wrong he was.