A Choice of Paths

The warm light of dawn spilled through the arched windows of the royal chambers as Aistalë approached her husband, Arinyanénar. Her steps were quiet, but her expression carried a purpose that Arinyanénar immediately noticed. He set aside the scroll he had been studying, meeting her gaze.

"What is it, meleth nîn?" he asked, his voice soft but curious.

Aistalë hesitated for only a moment before she spoke. "I have been thinking, my love. Aurion is growing older, and he is of an age where fostering could benefit him. I believe it would be good for him to go to Himring… to my father, Maedhros."

Arinyanénar froze, his body tensing as if he had been struck. The mention of Himring brought with it a flood of memories, both good and ill. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his face carefully composed. "Your father?" he repeated, his tone measured.

"Yes," Aistalë said earnestly, stepping closer. "He would teach Aurion much—about leadership, about honor. My father is a good man, Arinyanénar, and he loves Aurion. He would keep him safe."

Arinyanénar's jaw tightened, his flame-like eyes flickering with emotion. "Aistalë," he began carefully, "do you not remember what happened when we married? The day after our union, your uncles—your father's brothers—drew blades against my mother. Against Galadriel."

Aistalë winced, but her resolve did not falter. "I remember," she admitted, "but you also know that my father and Maglor tried to stop them. They did not condone what Caranthir and the others did. My father has always been different. He is honorable, and so is Maglor. I trust them."

Arinyanénar shook his head, conflicted. "I cannot forget what happened so easily, nor can I ignore the influence your uncles might have on Aurion. They are still bound by the Oath, Aistalë. The fire that burned in your grandfather burns in them too. What if that fire touches our son?"

"That fire burns in me as well," Aistalë countered, her voice steady. "And yet, I am here, by your side, as your wife. I am not defined by the mistakes of my family. Neither will Aurion be. My father and Maglor will see to it that he grows into a noble and kind-hearted elf, not one consumed by the past."

Arinyanénar sighed deeply, running a hand through his silver hair. "I trust you, meleth, but this is not a decision I can make lightly. My father would likely agree to this fostering, but my mother…" He hesitated, glancing out the window as if searching for answers in the morning light. "You know how she feels about your house."

Aistalë's lips pressed into a thin line. "Your father is the High King, is he not? He is the head of your family. His word is law."

Arinyanénar nodded reluctantly. "Very well. Let us speak with him."

Anórien was seated in the great hall, his fiery red-orange hair catching the sunlight streaming through the high windows. When his son and daughter-in-law entered, he looked up with a welcoming smile.

"To what do I owe this visit?" Anórien asked warmly.

Aistalë stepped forward. "My lord," she began, "I have come to request something of you. I believe it would be good for Aurion to be fostered at Himring, with my father."

Anórien raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. His expression grew thoughtful as he looked at his son. "And you, Arinyanénar? What do you think of this idea?"

"I have my doubts," Arinyanénar admitted. "But I cannot deny that fostering Aurion with Maedhros could bring him great wisdom and strength. If you believe it is wise, I will abide by your judgment."

Anórien nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to Aistalë. "Your father is a good elf, Aistalë, and I trust him. Very well. I will allow this fostering."

Before the words had fully left his mouth, the doors to the chamber swung open. Galadriel swept inside, her golden hair like a halo of light, but her face darkened with disapproval. "No," she said firmly, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "I will not allow it."

Anórien frowned. "Galadriel—"

"No," she repeated, stepping forward. "My grandson will not grow up in the household of a son of Fëanor. Have you forgotten what they did? What their actions cost us? I will not let our grandson be shaped by their hands."

Aistalë's eyes flashed with anger. "I am of the House of Fëanor, Galadriel," she said, her voice rising. "Am I not also shaping Aurion? Am I unworthy to guide him because of the blood in my veins?"

"You are different," Galadriel snapped, her silver and gold eyes narrowing. "You chose to leave that house. But your father—your uncles—they are bound by an Oath that will only bring ruin. Do you truly think Aurion will remain untouched by it if he goes to Himring?"

"My father is not defined by the Oath," Aistalë shot back. "He is a good elf, a better elf than you give him credit for. He will teach Aurion to be kind and honorable, not to follow in the footsteps of Fëanor. You judge him unfairly."

The tension in the room was palpable. Anórien finally stood, his voice calm but commanding. "Enough," he said, raising a hand. "This argument serves no purpose. We should not decide Aurion's fate for him. Let him make his own choice."

Both women fell silent, though the anger between them lingered in the air.

Arinyanénar went to fetch Aurion, who was practicing swordsmanship in the training grounds. When he explained the situation, Aurion listened intently, his grey eyes thoughtful.

"You want me to choose?" Aurion asked, glancing between his parents and his grandparents.

"Yes," Anórien said. "It is your life, Aurion. The choice must be yours."

Aurion looked at his mother, who gave him a hopeful smile, and then at his grandmother, whose expression was unreadable. Finally, he straightened his shoulders and spoke with quiet determination.

"I will go to Himring," he said. "If my grandfather, Maedhros, can teach me to be a better leader, then I will learn from him. I will carry what he teaches me with honor."

Aistalë exhaled in relief, her smile growing radiant. Galadriel, however, turned away, her face a mask of cold disapproval.

"So be it," Anórien said, placing a hand on Aurion's shoulder. "May you learn much and grow strong, my grandson."

As they left the chamber, Galadriel lingered behind, her gaze fixed on the floor. "This is a mistake," she muttered to herself, but no one was there to answer.