Over the ocean at the extent of sight, where only whales go, a storm raged in the south. It sent whirling eddies of gray sea spray up before it: a vast dark front, like a black wing of frozen air, clashing with an opposing warm front of billowing white mountains of cloud. Behind the observer, to the north, was the green-golden canopy of the mighty Yomenïampa. Curin stared in each direction, digging the toe of his boot into the sandy loam of the cliff top. He chewed distractedly at the end of a length of straw.

By strange chance fate had conspired to manifest the opposing forces at play within himself. He felt that his ancient heritage, if humble, was alike to the wonder and distinction of Yomenïampa, and everything he aspired to. But within him, as over the ocean, he was aware of the competing moods at war that drove him through his life. With his hands he had done terrible things, and noble. On the one hand his deeds were a frozen black wing; on the other towering mountains of pure white were the righteousness and loftiness of his actions. In the middle, where the blades of lightening flickered, and the gray spumes of sea spray lashed like striking serpents, was Curin himself.

Curin felt terribly mortal, and terribly cold. He wanted a fire. The trek to the beach provided enough driftwoods to start a decent enough fire, but no sooner than it had begun to blaze, than the impulse came upon Curin to see it larger. He stacked another piece of wood against the pile. Then another.

Far away, months of long particularly hard trek away, there was a bride awaiting him, but Curin could not turn his path that way. Not yet. Naerthêl he had called her in the custom of his people, Pitiable-sister, a hurtful and callous thing to call any free woman; and yet when he had perceived her strength, and the conviction of her promise to wait for him, he was moved to reconsider: Meluinîs, Beloved-bride. But he could not return to his valley until he had reconciled which of these two names was his choice, instead of choosing, he had taken her leave to go out into the world, and find, then face his demons.

He wished all his choices and deeds were like pieces of wood, that he could hurl on the fire: he laughed at himself, wrecklessly. He tilted back his head and laughed until he was hoarse, then tired but feverishly strong, he scrubbed the tears from his eyes with a sleeve, and reached for more timber. Perhaps that it what he was doing, with each piece of wood he was burning all his bad choices away. Curin realized he had piled the fire far higher than his own head now, that it stood twice as high as himself, and sent up a pillar of white smoke that any could see from a horizon away. He looked for more wood, he needed more wood, but could find none. The beach was scoured clean. He needed more wood.

Curin stared toward Yomenïampa, with the searing heat of the blaze against his back. Perhaps it was not the fire he needed. It was the wood; and not dead and burning, but tall, and green with life. He peered toward the shining shadow beneath the trees, knowing all too well that the archers than defended the border would have marked him long ago, and that if they deemed him a threat, he would find an arrow in his eye before he ever laid sight on a single one of them. He regretted the fire now. He let it bathe him its its searing heat.

"Yomenïampa!" He cried out, and his voice was louder and more clear than the greatest horn. "Mighty, ancient and wise! Great Yomenïampa, what comfort can you offer one such as this? Lowliest of men? If I come, will you let me within the shade of your bowers?"

Curin heard no answer from the forest, it simply glowed on. Curin stepped towards the wood. If he was shot, then so be it. Perhaps the guards would take him to their captain, perhaps they would take him in. He realised that he wept openly, and dashed the unstoppable tears way with his hand, marvelling at the tears. "What? Curin, the Weed of Neiruthaun, crying? I didn't think you knew how." Curin chided himself, and walked towards the woods, almost wanting to flinch, as if he knew the arrows were coming. He held out his arms and walked beneath the trees. Come what may. Curin had gotten himself as far as he could with his own limited wisdom. Perhaps the Elves could succour him, with their wisdom, or feather-fledged death. He walked, and realised he had closed his eyes, arms still outstretched.
Come what may.

Pouring over his papers on his desk, General Ancalë cursed silently to himself, this was just so irritating, if they hadn't gone and...
There came a few knocks on his door.
"Edro." he said in a bored voice. The door opened. It was Larcamacil, the Swordmaster.
"Yes, brother? What is is?" he asked the other elf, who himself was recently promoted to General.
"Intruder." the taller one said shortly. Ancalë frowned a little.
"Hostile?" he asked, Hoping it was not.
"We're not sure, but he is acting very strange, those on patrol heard shouting in the common-tongue to no one in particular, though the words were garbled. We can smell smoke and believe it to be on him, and he is walking in a strange manner." With a grim nod, the Paladin of Life nodded. He grabbed only his spear on the way out, for he had his knife tucked away at the rear of his belt.
"Just like old times, eh old friend?" Ancalë asked. Larcamacil just nodded, smiling.
"If he's not sane, we have to bring him down, you know." again, the Swordmaster just nodded, this time the smile faded from his face.

As they descended the spiral stairs to the floor, the Spearmaster and Swordmaster of Yomenïampa set the task in their minds. They went to face the unknown threat on the ground, with elven archers at their backs, though high and hidden in the trees, some scattered far behind. The smell of smoke was definately distinguishable, and the form of a man, arms outstreched, was seen walking in their general direction.
Ancalë's ears twitched as he cocked his head to one side, lifting an eyebrow. What was this man doing? As he drew closer, Ancalë noticed that the man's eyes were closed. Did he want to die? He looked oddly familiar but the elf didn't think about it. Inhaling sharply, he called out to the intruder who stood about ten feet from him.
"Ai! Stop right there! What in the hell do you think you're doing? You know that you could be considered a threat? Do you even know just where you are?" he held his spear loosely, but was ready to use it anyway. Larcamacil's face was unreadable, especially now, and his fine elven saber was out. Both Generals knew that all they had to do was give the command to fire and this threat would be eliminated, but their presence might add some authority and possibly save a life this night.

Curin opened his eyes, and beheld the faces of Elves, and their unveiled fire in them struck fear into his core; he stopped and sank to his knees, hands on his head. "Lords, do not fire!" He felt the queer calm settle upon him, such as when he was in the midst of battle. The strange fit of anxiety lost its grip upon him. He panted, having exhausted himself. He could smell the pall of the smoke on himself, and hung his head. "I meant no harm. A fey mood took me. I am myself again." He whispered, almost to himself, but knowing the elves would hear him. He could hardly bring himself to look up at them now, he was so humiliated. He wept, bitterly, for the fool he was becoming. One day filled with joy and wonder, the next day lead by the nose by terrible day mares of darkness.

Curin realized how far he'd gone this time, hands still on his head, hair hanging down over his face. His recklessness had brought the wrath of the Elves upon him. It was a sickness, he had spent too long in solitude, and it was beginning to crack him apart. He had been picking himself to pieces too long. Spending too much thought on himself, albeit in the hopes of improving himself. But it all seemed foolish and selfish now.

"My lords. Please. He spoke louder now. "I have been lost in the wild. I need council. I need work, an honest days work." Curin dared to look up at the faces of the Elves. Their expressions were drawn, and grave. They had a hard decision now, to let him live, or to put him to death. This thought brought a terrible sense of release. Curin let his hands drop down, upon his lap. He let his head hang back, looking up into the darkening sky, where the earliest stars were being unveiled. A part of his mind began counting them, drinking in how lovely they were. A part of his mind could hear the breath of the elf-lords, and the shifting grip of their hands upon sword and spear. The wind shifted, coming out of the north, from within Yomenïampa, and it bore the scent of trees, and the sweet smell of grass trodden underfoot. He made a quiet vow to himself, that if the Elves took him in, he would never let the darkness take him again.

Eyes snapping open, the man fell to his knees, begging to be spared.
Ancalë looked over at his friend at the words of the human. He seemed desperate, tears streamed down his face, and he did smell terrible. He turned his face up towards them. Ancalë turned his back. In silence, he nodded.
"I think his intentions are pure, in Lothlómendil's name, I believe we should spare him." he said to Larcamacil in the Sindarin tongue, not believing this human to speak it.
"You would say that, wouldn't you? But I believe you are right. What possible harm could come of it?"
Again, the Priest of Lothlómendil nodded, and the tap upon Larcamacil's sword arm let him know to put the weapon away. Even though they were of equal rank, the swordsman always deferred to Ancalë in these situations, Ancalë being the more experienced. Swinging his spear back over his shoulder, the Paladin extended his left hand out to the man who still remained on his knees. His hand gestures let the elves in the trees and bush around them know that they were relieved and should leave. Larcamacil and he could handle things from here.
"I believe you have been led here, my friend." said Ancalë, his voice a bit of a mystery.
"I believe that you have been guided here by the secret and divine hand of my Lady of Life."
Larcamacil said nothing, though it he was not the most devout in religion. He had the utmost respect for the Pantheon, but he was nowhere near as dedicated to the calling as Ancalë was.
"Rest assured that while you remain here, you shall be treated with the utmost care. If you are wounded, we shall do our best to heal them, so it is best to speak up now, and if you require anything, ask it of me. My name is Ancalë Varnoi, but you may call me Ancal for the sake of simplicity. I tend to see things in a different light than the other elves here." Tired of looking down at the man, whose eyes held mixed emotions behind them, he spoke up once more.
"Rise, man, and tell me your name, and just what it is exactly that compelled you to amble your way here, of all places." the elf asked finally, curiousity taking his tone.

Curin was as tense as a tuning-iron, that once struck, hits a single note. A long, clear note: as long as it is hit correctly. That note is so clean and so pure, any instrument can be attuned to it. So it is with music, and now, on his knees, it was with the lowliest son of the valley of Neiruthaun. He felt as if hands so skilled and so compassionate had picked him up, and even guessed the note he might hit.

"I believe you have been led here, my friend." said the Captain of the Elves, dismissing his body-guard. Curin perceived that the guard relaxed, indeed even the air relaxed, and the very birds in the trees, that appeared to have been silent, resumed their evening choir. "I believe that you have been guided here by the secret and divine hand of my Lady of Life." Of all the tings that might have been spoken, of all the things Curin might have hoped to hear, those were the most simple, effective words. There was a held breath, a breath Curin had held since he was a tiny child, that he at last let go; for here was a worthy leader, here was a mighty lord, that had perceived Curins' need, and offered aid.

Curin perceived the slight hesitation of the Captains right-hand man, the one with the particularly splendid sword. The set of his mouth betrayed held words, and the shadow over his eyes, of concealed doubts. Curin looked at him openly, trying to guess the cause of his hesitation; but then he realised what a vagabond he must seem. Indeed, Curin realised, he was indeed a vagabond. That was an important thing to recognise, he deemed. He had come as low as he could go, and now he must rebuild himself. This time he would build a character of dignity and respect. He made a note to learn the hesitant captains' name, and seek him out. If the hesitant-one perceived a doubtful flaw in Curin, then Curin must attend to it.

But the Captain held out his hand. "Rest assured that while you remain here, you shall be treated with the utmost care. If you are wounded, we shall do our best to heal them, so it is best to speak up now, and if you require anything, ask it of me." The Captain held Curins' eyes, and they delved deep into Curins soul, and indeed, even if Curin had been a liar and a thief, after that gaze, he would be capable of nothing but truthfulness. "My name is Ancalë Varnoi, but you may call me Ancal for the sake of simplicity". Curin bowed his head, hand over his heart, so honoured with the introduction was he. Then the Captains', Ancals', voice softened, as if his tests had all been conducted, for the time being, and he had deemed Curin worthy of an element of warmth and trust. "I tend to see things in a different light than the other elves here."

Now Curin saw a decision reach the Elf-lords eyes, that lit them up like the light of a welcoming door in the dark of night. The eyes held Curin firmly, and with an offer of dignity. "Rise, man, and tell me your name, and just what it is exactly that compelled you to amble your way here, of all places." Lord Ancal asked, and his voice was animated with curiosity.

Curin stood, and doing so, let his cloak of furs fall to the ground. "My lord, I am Curin of Neiruthaun. The first things I beg of you is a good knife to tame my beard, and a good bath to clean myself. The last thing I beg is clothing, for I have made what I am wearing with my own hands, in the wild, and I wish to be rid of it." Curin took a deep breath, finding it harder, and more humbling to beg for anything than anyone could ever guess. "And I would ask of you, for I deem I begin to delve out of the realm of what you may grant without hesitation: let me serve you, lord. Let me tend to little things for you. I would tend your armor like a squire; I would tend to your house like a butler. Then, when you have come to know me better, let me train amongst your warriors, for I am a warrior in my own right, but have never been a soldier, with a commander. I ask this as you are high in the council of the Lady of life, and I have seen much, and been through much, and have been every bit as rich as you see me in poverty now. But I have never been so filled with hope as now."

Curin beheld his hands, and marvelled to see that they shook like leaves. He held them against his stomach, wishing to conceal them. He looked with quick glances at those around him. Hoping they could perceive the great dignity required to make himself so humble before them.

He considered the Lords second query, as it seemed the Lord was still waiting for that to be answered. Curin wondered himself. What had had compelled him to come to Yomenïampa? "I was in the Taurai, and I meant to turn to Neiruthaun, which is far west of here, at the utmost south of the Alps. But I was captured by brigands, who tormented me, before I escaped by chance." Curin gritted his teeth, fighting against the swimming sensation of recalling the memories. "The torture went on so long I began to wonder if I deserved it. I wondered if my fate required such punishment. My spirit fled. I was as an animal. My tormentors grew weary of me, and left me for dead. But I was not dead. I escaped, but carried with me a shadow of death. Which I have shaken off. I am myself.' Curin looked at the Elves gathered nearby, feeling for all the world as if he stood undressed before them. "Or rather, for the first time in my life, I realise I have a chance to become who I wish to be, to become the man I hope to be. Will you have me masters? Squire, Butler, even stable-hand. Just put me to work, I will not fail you.'

Aralsihia Bandaar was crouched, like an animal of sorts, behind a bush, listening to Curin begging for life, a comfortable life, out of the wild, and Ara scoffed silently. She, an elf herself, would have commanded the pitiful man to stand, have some dignity for goodness sake! But they seemed to shelter him, take him in, as if a small, innocent child. But Ara could see a lost darkness in his eyes.

This darkness may haunt Ara's eyes, she realized. He was a lost soul, as was she. Bu she was getting stronger, she knew, because she would have killed this man a mere few months ago. These elves were, indeed, very kind. "I believe that you have been guided here by the secret and divine hand of my Lady of Life." How did Ara arrive upon this city? She realized that she had wandered here, perhaps out of instinct, the instinct of an elf, and she must look ridiculous hunched on the ground like an animal. All the same, she hid in the bracken and listened."...if you require anything, ask it of me." Ara had been in search of her mother, captured and stolen from Ara, for far too long, why was Aralishia here? Her mother must not have been here, in the grand city of elves?
"My name is Ancalë Varnoi, but you may call me Ancal for the sake of simplicity Alas, Ara could find this General. He may be of use to her. Curin, he is fragile, she may be able to get him to help her.

Ara felt evil coming at her. She didn't, by any means, want to manipulate them, but, she needed help, and she knew this, oh why could she not handle this on her own?
"....better, let me train amongst your warriors, for I am a warrior in my own right So they could relate. But this man needed training, and Ara would be accepted amoungst these elves, perhaps she could train him, or train with him. She didn't want all these luxeries from the elves, she had no gold to spare, but she could survive, she had been surviving on her own for the longest of times...but she needed a bow. Where was the elven bow given to her by her mother and father? More tears came to her eyes. She had left her bow with Danila, the finest of riding mares, who was in her own travels at the time. Arestu was with her, Ara coud sense it, her wolven friend was near...and her horse with him.

She listened to their conversation longer. What had compelled the man to trust his soul with the elves? Ara would have never done such a dangerous task, Ara wouldn't have opened up. She could feel her eyes turn to ice.

Ara cursed her gracelessness. She had made a rustle in the bush. Barely audible to human ears, but to an elf, it was loud enough to capture attention. Damn