name means: Noble Eyes
epessë: "Knight of Mars"
Noldor/Sylvan parentage. Niece to Eldalótë the mother of Orodreth and thus linked to the cadet branch of the noble house of Finarfin.
Motto: ""When the Way comes to an end, then change - having changed, you pass through."
Born in 455 of the First Age, in the city of Minas Tirith on Tol Sirion. Took up the sword in desperate days.
Often wears some token of the House of Finarfin, often something of great age and beauty made in Beleriand in a lost time.
Minas Tirith was the tower on the island of Tol Sirion that guarded the Pass of Sirion.
Minas Tirith was built around F.A. 601 by Finrod Felagund to prevent the forces of Morgoth from invading Beleriand from the plains of Ard-galen. After Finrod built Nargothrond he handed over control of the watchtower to his nephew, Orodreth.
Sauron captured Minas Tirith in the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach and Orodreth fled south. The island was then called Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the "Isle of Werewolves".
Although the Noldor regained control of the Pass of Sirion until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad ("Battle of Unnumbered Tears"), they did not attempt to rebuild the tower.
Swore an oath to Gil Galad:
To Defend: This is The Pact
But When Life Loses Its Value and is Taken For Naught - Then The Pact is: To Avenge"
To the girl on the heath, the horse and rider seemed tall as a mountain clad in steel and girt with glittering spear and shield. That the noble face under the high helm wept bitter tears lent a hint of tragic incongruity to the spectacle of power. The last chivalry of the remnant of the House of Orodreth echoed the might of the host that broke the power of the Enemy once long ago. Arrayed on the heath nigh to Taur en Faroth, amidst the makeshift huts of the refugees, the cavalry of the elves bade farewell to kith and kin. That it was a last farewell was not lost on anyone.
Arahen held her mother up when at last father's rank pulled into the line of march to the north. Mother had abandoned any reserve and cried aloud, knees giving way beneath her. The daughter of Telemdil gently sank onto the cold autumn grass with her insensate mother and looked at father's back until the company of knights was lost to sight, gone with their banners and glittering spears, their valor swallowed by the forest path and soon lost to the devouring darkness of war. Lost so that the women and the young ones could have time to flee south once more. Flee before the darkness that pursued relentlessly. Flee to the haven offered by the lord of waters who shielded even the accursed exiles.
The girl nodded to her approaching younger brother and the two of them lifted Aranyesse, their mother up but she surprised them by standing suddenly tall and proud. For a moment they saw the merry woman who had raised them in happier times and brighter places before the light went out of her eyes again. Drawing a cloak around herself, she appraised her children as one might wonder upon priceless gems that must be traded for payment of some trivial debt.
“Arahen and Cirdethan, your father bade me tell thee that he will await us in the Halls of Mandos, in company with warriors of no lesser spirit but no greater purpose than his.” She turned to Arahen, reaching out to tuck a lock of jet hair behind her daughter's ear and spoke thoughtfully. “I will take your brother to Balar, but you asked to stay and it is no longer my place to forbid or not. Only to counsel. But I cannot bear to send you north into that storm. Yet, you are quick and strong and willful like your father. Go now to Naicelë. He asked for you by name. He will find a purpose for you that may suit your spirit and maybe it shall be that you shall find peace someday and bear children of your own ere the end of all things.” Aranyesse kissed Arahen's cheek and embraced her for all too brief a moment. Sighing heavily, her mother took Arahen's little brother by the hand, leading him to their shelter to finish preparing for the final journey to the sea havens. Arahen stood dumbly for a long time on the empty heath in her blue tunic and cloak
Naicelë had come to Middle Earth with the Host of Faënor and, though he never spoke of it, it was whispered that he had been at Alqualondë and bore a dark stain of guilt. His presence amidst Arahen's people had aroused some grumbling, but he had always been kind and was held to have a different doom than his lord of old. He should certainly have ridden with Arahen's father but for the fact he had lost his right arm and nearly his life at the great battle before Angband.
Arahen approached the elder warrior who sat in an improvised wickerwork chair wearing simple crimson robes, a glittering sword made in the fashion of those forged in Aman sat across his lap. He motioned for his guest to sit and spoke to her, “For you, there is no hope in battle. And for your kinfolk there is no hope save in flight. But you have I called because I see in your face a spirit that will not be denied whatever doom is your lot. I can foresee that the valor of your House will live on in your deeds.”
The girl felt the air go out of her and a blush burning her cheeks. What was he talking about? She just wanted to make the orcs pay for her friends. Her father.
Naicelë noted her discomfiture and placed a powerful hand on her shoulder. “That time is not now, young one. I have arms and a good coat of mail for thee.” He turned to a chest set beside his chair. A long casque which he opened, revealing a hauberk of glittering scales. The ancient warrior gestured. “Take a sword from the rack. Or an axe. You have been trained to use them both, I am told.” Arahen started. She thought father had kept all that a secret. But Naicelë only smiled disarmingly. Ride into the east. Follow the Andram to Amon Ereb and cross Gelion below Legolin where there is a good ford in springtime. For it shall surely take you that long to travel so far unhorsed. I am sorry but we may not spare any mounts. We have only enough for the women.” He paused and added, “...and the cripples.”
Arahen drew on the aketon over her tunic and then the mail coat over all. It fell lightly to mid-thigh, made of wondrously wrought steel by the art of the people of Nargothrond. Naicelë nodded approval as she fitted her harness and broadsword. Their eyes met and he spoke again. “Go then north until you cross the Ascar. There is no ford there that I am aware of, but this should shield you against the Enemy, though I doubt he will give much thought to the dwarves until he has trod all of us into the dust. The Naugrim have built a broad highway north of Ascar and if you follow the river eastward, then you will surely reach Nogrod. It is a thin reed, but my name is known there and the people of Nogrod owe me a debt of hospitality and I now send you to collect. My own path lies elsewhere.”
Dwarves, she thought. She'd never set eyes upon one. A strange folk given to gold lust and violent treachery. But also selfless sacrifice. “I shall go then, as you bid, into the east. I do as you bid. But I bid thee shield the others unto the death.” The fine boned face was set like hard adamant, green eyes glitting like gems from Faenor's hoard. Naicelë laughed and nodded. “I accept your charge. And I expect it may yet come to that. But all the same I say that you and I shall meet again in the flesh before the End. Your doom is not to fall in Middle-Earth. And neither, I think, is my own. Go now, sword-maiden to Nogrod and lay your sword at the feet of the Dwarf Lords. I think they will be flattered enough to put you to good use.”
And with that, Naicelë rose and strode off. Arahen looked toward the east, toward the gloaming sky. The great sickle set low on the horizon and she thought it a good sign under which to set out on such a journey. She drew on a rucksack Naicelë had left and took the first step.
Here is a link I found helpful in research: http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Finarfin
Xanderian, Lothiriel, Hecile, Elechir
Aamu (a first cousin)
sea and stars
treason and fakery
What I have dreamed in an hour is worth more than what you have done in four thousand years.'
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