1252 years ago in Tirion, the city of the Noldor in Aman, a young Loremaster was born. Quickly, however, murmurs of how he was 'different' gave unrest to an already distraught city, left disheveled after the Kinslayings and battles before their time...
The waves tumbled and crashed as the ship jostling its movements against the bruised ribs of the young Noldorin elf. With his back pressed against the creaking wood, his heart thumped whilst on fire and his eyes stung from salty tears as fresh as the sea. Aiwendil lifted his wrists to rub them absently with the other hand as his doe eyes peered up, blinking at the bright aura surrounding the elleth.
"im Arwen. Telin le Thaed." [I am Arwen. I've come to help you.]
The language was foreign to him and he furrowed his brow in confusion. She noted the hint of pause from him and dropped down to take his hands in her own.
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"Forgive me, I know you come from our old lands where the Noldor speech is Quenyan, not of the Sindar," Her blue eyes bore into him and he dropped his own hazels to the floor but for only a moment until she spoke once more, this time in a language he recognized.
"Nánye Arwen- Tullen tye-rehtien" [I am Arwen. I've come to help you.]
The young elf nodded and swallowed, "Man carnel Atar? [Where is my father?]" Part of him hoped that his father had been slain for his atrocities upon the shores of Tirion, but then if so, he would have lain next to Giran's lifeless corpse as the high tide rose to meet them both and carry them away. No. Hyandomir didn't deserve something so easy, though Aiwendil knew that his father would not be bothered much by his own gregarious actions. In fact, he was surprised he was not also there, pressed against the rocks like a lifeless fish whose guts were laid to ruin.
"Your father lives and is safe," Arwen explained to him, "Our qualms do not lie with him, but in your safety."
Moving from him, she released a bedroll, watching as it spread out across the wooden planks. There was naught for a decent place to rest one's head. However, Aiwendil had known worse and his weariness crept upon him like an old friend he hadn't seen in ages.
"A lore sinome...[sleep here]" she spoke as if she sensed his aching body's pleas, and Aiwen shuffled with brittle bones away from the wall in which he had been held. He eyed the shackles that had restrained him and Arwen watched over him with much concern.
"Your father is a vicious man. You were meant to sail across the Sea of Rhûn and be sold to Men of the East. Our people saved you, then took command of this ship. And we will bring you refuge in the Last Homely House."
Aiwendil continued to nod, taking in bits and pieces of the conversation, his eyes heavy from the laments of the day. The shambled cloth of his robes draped along the floor as he crawled over to the spot which was laid out for him. He glanced to the elleth, hazel eyes brightened by the soothing aura that radiated around her. But he could not catch a breath, his chest tormented from days without food, whilst he shook as the cold air coiled around his small form.
From there, Arwen continued to speak to him in Quenyan. "It is a safe place, hidden within a valley, beneath a cleft. You will be safe there, far from those who wish to chart your course for you. I am to see to your safe passage there. Your wariness is just, but you must trust that I mean you no harm."
