Somber Reflections by Artano  

Somber Reflections

Finrod stared up at the stars glimmering in the sky above him, sparkling like diamonds strewn across indigo satin. He hummed and plucked at his harp. So many stars, each beautiful in its own unique way. Almost like people - each one shimmering as if alive, each one pulsing with it's own heartbeat. And countless, just like the number of lives in the world. He could stare up at the stars forever and never know each one. And how many people would he never know? How many would he never even meet? He had discovered Men decades ago, but it felt like such a short time. And so many had died before he discovered them. So many more had passed without his knowledge since then, like so many nameless stars.

Beor looked up from banking the fire. "That sounds like a dirge, Nóm. And on such a beautiful evening, too."

Finrod raised an eyebrow. "On a harp? I don't think such a thing is possible."

Bëor raised his own eyebrows in response and waited.

Finrod plucked a few more notes, then sighed. "You know me too well. Very well. I was thinking…there are so many of your people I have never met. Such as your father. He must have been quite a person, from all you've said about him." Finrod stared down at his hand. "I wish I had a chance to know him. I have met many Elves from ages past, but I shall never meet a Man from those times. Or a Dwarf. I can never know what they were like then- what jokes they laughed at, what stories they told, what songs they sang."

Finrod reached down to the white wildflowers blooming at his feet. He plucked one, his fingers brushing over the soft petals. "Your people are like these flowers - so quick to bloom, and yet so quick to fade. How many of your people have I not known? How many have I only glimpsed before they passed on?"

Bëor stood and strode towards Finrod. He gestured at the wildflowers spread about them, dancing in the soft breeze. "Perhaps we do fade quickly to your eyes, Nóm. But as a people, we persist. Our ancestors make their marks on our lives, and we pass ourselves on to our own descendants. Those who came before us are not lost completely." His weathered hand settled over Finrod's. "When I die, remnants of me will still live on in my children - my jokes, my stories, my mannerisms. And so with them and their children."

Finrod stared morosely down at the flower in his grasp. "That is not much consolation. I cannot tell what aspects of you are yours and which are your father's. Or mother's. Or uncle's or aunt's."

A laugh rumbled in Bëor's chest. "Nom, you are the only one I know who would grieve not having the chance to know people. You cannot meet everyone in the world. Spend your time becoming more familiar with those whom you do have the chance to meet."

Finrod smiled wryly. "You are a poor comforter."

"But a pragmatic one." Bëor smiles. "Now come. You should rest so you have enough energy to keep up with all the children at the festival tomorrow. Then there will be a few less people in the world you don't know, eh?"