[Selas POV]
A substantial delegation from the Nandor leadership arrived to meet us.
Lenwë himself led them, with Denethor at his side. Denethor's eyes were a little more aged than I remembered, but the recognition in them was immediate. His expression shifted through surprise, confusion, and then a smile of genuine joy that softened something in my chest I hadn't realized was tight.
Many of the older Nandor remembered me. The younger generations had no idea who I was. Most Avari and most Nandor had been born after the Sundering and the Departure.
There weren't many who recognized old friends among our hosts.
"Greetings to you, our Nandor kin of the Nelyar. I am Selas."
I addressed the delegation in passable Telerin. Our guides had been teaching me during the journey.
"And we greet you, Selas," Lenwë replied. His composure was admirable, considering his people had just discovered that the elves they'd left behind at the Lake had shown up on their doorstep with an army.
Beside him, Denethor looked like he wanted to abandon diplomatic protocol and simply embrace me.
"I think we have much to discuss," I said.
"Indeed we do. You Avari have changed considerably." Lenwë's gaze swept across our camp again.
"We didn't stand still after your Departure." I shrugged. "Come. Share my table. Let us exchange the gifts of the land."
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Negotiations. Several days]
[Selas POV]
When the Nandor delegation and my own advisors and elders had settled around a hastily assembled table, the negotiations began in earnest.
The first days were spent learning about each other. Histories, customs, current situations. Each side trying to understand what the other had become.
Lenwë wasted no time making his offer.
"These forests are vast," he said, gesturing broadly. "The Anduin feeds everything. Game is plentiful, the soil is rich, and there is room enough for all. Stay here and build your homes among us."
Genuinely tempting.
The faces around me showed it. After twenty years on the road, the idea of stopping, of putting down roots in a place where kin already lived, pulled at something deep in all of us.
But I refused.
"Your generosity honors us," I said carefully. "But the Avari must find their own land. A place that is ours alone. A place from which to build not just homes, but a state."
Lenwë's expression didn't change, but I caught the flicker of something behind his eyes. Relief, maybe. We were three thousand strong and better armed. Having us as neighbors was one thing. Having us move in was another.
"Where?" he asked simply.
"West. Beyond the mountains."
Denethor stared at me. I could practically read his thoughts. The mountains that we refused to cross?
I met his gaze and said nothing.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
The negotiations settled into a rhythm after that. Give and take, knowledge for knowledge.
We taught them advanced medicine and herbalism. They shared better methods for making lasting ink: proper binders, better soot, and how to seal a writing surface so rain wouldn't turn a map into mud.
They spoke of a lighter writing material made from beaten plant fiber, but it was a craft for settled hands, not something you produced on the road.
We gave them shield-making methods, including full-body tower shields. They taught us improved metalworking and sword-forging.
Oromë had instructed the Eldar in these arts during the Journey, apparently, so they could defend themselves. The knowledge had been trickling down to the Nandor ever since, diluted but still valuable.
Part of me couldn't wait to see what Eol would build once he got his hands on these methods. And how many wagons he'd demand to carry his new "experiments."
We compared maps, naturally, enlightening each other about territories known to both our peoples.
The Nandor helped us prepare for the river crossing. They showed great interest in our wagons, our domesticated animals, our military formations, but we kept many things secret.
I had no intention of revealing all our advantages. Especially our Light manipulation techniques.
We also warned them about potential orc incursions from the north. We'd crossed the Carnen only weeks earlier and had broken a warband there, nearly three hundred orcs camped close enough to make a habit of raiding.
I doubted Utumno could push a full host across the endless steppes of Rhûn in any real strength, but the northern approaches were another matter.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
All of this took time. The negotiations stretched over many days.
By the time we finished, our crossing was nearly half complete. The Anduin was wide, deep, and swift-flowing, forcing us to rely entirely on rafts and boats without the rope ferries we'd used elsewhere.
We rested on the far bank before continuing.
But before concluding our talks, I addressed Lenwë and his delegation one final time.
"Since we have discussed all matters and reached our agreements, there is something more I must tell you."
The Nandor negotiators turned their attention back to me. Whatever warmth the past days of trading knowledge had built, I was about to test.
"Before our Great March began, I, as the First to Refuse and the chosen Chief of the Avari, declared at the Ceremony of Farewell that the Sacred Cradle of all Quendi, Lake Cuiviénen, belongs to our future state. By right of those who stayed. By right of those who lived there last."
The older Nandor, the ones who still remembered Cuiviénen, cycled through a spectrum of emotions: surprise, bitterness, sorrow, guilt.
I watched them carefully as I continued.
"And we, the Avari, will return to our original homeland. By right of the Refused. By right of those who remained."
Another wave of shock passed through them.
They simply hadn't thought about any of this. They'd walked away from the Lake and kept walking, and the thought of going back, of anyone going back, had never occurred to them. And now these strange Avari had appeared and struck them with claims they couldn't refute.
"We fought for Cuiviénen. We bled for it. We buried our dead there." I kept my voice level, but let the steel show through.
"But you, the Eldar, renounced your homeland and simply left. You didn't even thank it or bid it proper farewell. Therefore, you have no territorial claims to our Sacred Lake. None."
Lenwë, Denethor, and the rest of the Nandor leadership hung their heads, staring at the ground.
They had no counter-argument. I was certain they felt crushing shame.
But I wasn't about to coddle twice-over renegades.
"Though what else could one expect from Eldar?"
That was too much.
Several Nandor couldn't contain themselves. Tears streamed down their faces. Now they understood how they'd looked in our eyes back then. The ones who'd walked away from everything, without a backward glance, without even a goodbye.
My advisors and elders regarded the Nandor with expressions ranging from righteous anger to contemptuous disgust.
But I wasn't finished.
"Still." I let the word hang. "You are the Turned Back. You refused the Journey and remained in these lands. Perhaps from fear of the mountains, but you made that decision by your own will. You rejected the Valar's grace and found your own new home, your own new homeland."
I paused, letting the words settle.
"You chose your own path and your own freedom."
Another pause.
"We judge you worthy."
With that final phrase, I bowed slightly to the Nandor in acknowledgment of their choice, then turned and walked away to attend to camp business and the crossing, concluding the negotiations.
The real question would only be answered in the future: would the Turned Back prove worthy of the Refused?

{ image: The Anduin — the Great River }
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[After the Avari departure. Nandor settlements. Rhovanion]
[Lenwë Witness]
The Avari's column had been gone for three days. Their tracks were already fading from the riverbank, the trampled grass slowly straightening.
The camp looked as if they'd never been there.
But they had been. And nothing was the same.
Lenwë walked through the settlement in the gray hours before dawn, when the forest was quietest and his thoughts loudest. He hadn't slept well since the Avari's departure. Selas's final words circled in his mind like a bird that wouldn't land.
You have no territorial claims to our Sacred Lake. None.
Though what else could one expect from Eldar?
The shame of it sat in his chest like a stone. Not because the words were cruel. Because they were true.
He'd left Cuiviénen. Walked away from the Cradle of all Quendi without so much as a backward glance. Without a farewell, without a prayer, without… anything. He'd been so focused on the road ahead, on Oromë's promises, on the fear of what lurked in the darkness, that he'd never stopped to look back.
And then, when the mountains rose before him and the Journey demanded more than he was willing to give, he'd turned aside. Refused to cross. Led his people into the forests and told himself it was wisdom.
Was it? Or was it simply the second time he'd chosen the easier path?
The Avari hadn't. They'd stayed at the Lake when staying meant fighting. They'd left when leaving meant a march that made the Eldar's Journey look like a stroll. They were crossing the very mountains his people had balked at.
And they'd arrived on his doorstep not as refugees, but as something stronger than anything he'd built in all his years of comfortable safety.
How?
The question had haunted every conversation around every fire since the strangers departed. His people couldn't stop talking about what they'd seen.
Nearly everyone had been stunned by the visitors' level of development.
Some marveled enviously at the strange clothing. Others puzzled over the precise formations and complex maneuvers of the warrior units. Children pestered their parents with questions about the tamed creatures, the enormous horses, the wolves and cats that padded alongside the column like guardian spirits.
Many admired the Avari culture and their physical conditioning. The men and women of the Refused were taller, stronger, broader than any Nandor.
They moved differently. Stood differently. Even the way they held eye contact was different, as though every Avari had learned to look at the world without flinching.
The appearance of these kin from the past had stirred the still waters of the Nandor forests like a stone dropped into a pond.
{ image: Nandor settlement in Rhovanion }
Yet only a few noticed the truly important details.
The Avari were superbly organized for their march. Far better prepared than the Eldar had been for theirs.
Their numbers exceeded the Nandor, and their birthrate was clearly higher. Many had seen families with five or more small children.
Their language had drifted far, and their writing was standardized and used constantly, even on the march.
But the most significant thing: the Avari had apparently been fighting orcs constantly and successfully.
Selas even claimed the strangers had met a great warband on the Redwater and wiped it out in a single, brutal morning. Hundreds of bodies burned, and the stench of smoke carried for miles.
Without anyone's help.
On their own.
They hadn't possessed the magnificent weapons Oromë had taught the Eldar to forge. Yet the Avari had managed with their own weapons, different from Eldarin designs. Perhaps less elegant, but entirely their own invention.
The Refused had advanced tremendously in military craft and art.
One thing every Nandor noticed without exception: the eyes.
All Avari had a different look about them. Hard. The gaze of those who had endured much and seen much.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Lenwë's council hall. Evening]
[Lenwë Witness]
"What do you think about the orcs?" Lenwë asked his advisors after they'd finished discussing the Avari for the third hour running.
The council fire had burned low. Outside, the forest rustled with its usual sounds, but Lenwë no longer found them as comforting as he once had.
"We know them," Denethor said at once. His son sat across the fire, jaw set, eyes distant. Something had changed in Denethor since the Avari's visit. A restlessness that hadn't been there before. A dissatisfaction.
"Small bands," Denethor continued. "They've come before, and we've driven them off. In the forests, they've never been a serious threat."
"But if their numbers grow…" Lenwë prompted.
Denethor met his eyes. "Then we may be forced to move. As the Avari did."
The words hung in the smoky air.
"We could scatter into smaller groups throughout the nearby forests," suggested Galathil, one of the older advisors. "We've done that before. Orcs have trouble finding what doesn't stay in one place."
"In the woods, the advantage has always been ours," said Tathren, the settlement's hunt-master. "Traps, ambushes, the land itself. Until now, that's been enough to kill every orc that came too close."
"Until," Denethor said quietly, stroking his chin, "there are too many for hunters alone." He looked around the circle, meeting each advisor's eyes. "We have skilled bows and sharp eyes. But no one among our people truly knows the warrior's craft. Not the way the Avari do."
Silence.
Lenwë heard what his son wasn't saying. That the Avari had shown them a mirror, and the reflection was unflattering. That their comfortable life in the forests had left them soft in ways they couldn't afford.
"In any case, we must prepare before that day comes," Lenwë said at last. "First, we'll establish small, hidden settlements deeper in the forests and prepare ambush sites along the borders."
He paused. Looked at his son.
"And we will begin turning our hunters into warriors."
Denethor nodded once. The restlessness in his eyes sharpened into something that looked like purpose.
The council dispersed to begin their preparations.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
Lenwë walked alone through the evening forest.
He found himself pausing at the edge of the settlement, looking north. Toward the mountains he had never dared to cross. Toward the lands beyond them, where the Avari were even now pushing forward into territories the Nandor had never seen.
The Avari Chief's words came back to him, as they did every evening.
You chose your own path and your own freedom.
We judge you worthy.
The mercy had stung worse than the condemnation. Because mercy implied that the one giving it stood above the one receiving it. And Lenwë couldn't argue with that assessment.
He stood at the treeline for a long time.
For the first time since the Turning Back, the forests no longer felt like shelter.
They felt like a frontier.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
{ image: Map of Rhovanion and the Greenwood }
[End of Chapter 8]
⸻
GLOSSARY
For those who wish to delve deeper. This glossary covers terms and characters introduced in this chapter.
PEOPLES AND CHARACTERS
Lenwë — Chieftain of the Nandor. A Teleri who refused to cross the Misty Mountains during the Great Journey, leading his followers into the forests of Rhovanion. Father of Denethor.
Denethor — Son of Lenwë. A childhood friend of Selas from Cuiviénen.
The Nandor — "Those Who Turn Aside." Teleri who broke away from the Great Journey at the Misty Mountains under Lenwë's leadership. Known to the Avari as "the Turned Back." Forest-dwellers skilled in archery and woodcraft but lacking formal military structure.
Eldar — The Elves who accepted the summons of the Valar and set out on the Great Journey from Cuiviénen to the West. They are those who chose to follow Oromë and seek the Blessed Realm.
The Eldar later divided into three main kindreds:
Vanyar (Minyar) — The First Kindred. Closest to the Valar. Most reached Valinor.
Noldor (Tatyar) — The Second Kindred. Skilled in craft, lore, and learning.
Teleri (Nelyar / Lindar) — The Third Kindred. The largest group. Many remained behind along the way, giving rise to the Sindar and Nandor.
PLACES
Rhovanion — "The Wilderland." The vast region east of the Misty Mountains, including the Greenwood and the lands along the Anduin. Home to the Nandor settlements.
The Anduin — "The Great River." The mightiest river in Middle-earth, flowing from the far north to the Bay of Belfalas. The most challenging river crossing of the Avari's Great March.