The night was clear over the rolling grasslands, the sky awash in silver moonlight. The wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and the low murmur of horses resting in the paddocks near the wooden halls of the Northmen.
It was on such a night that the Princess of the Horse-lords rode alone, her white mare sure-footed on the gentle slopes. She was returning from a pilgrimage of mourning, her heart heavy from tales of battles fought far away — the Last Alliance, the fall of Sauron, and the great cost of victory.
Then she heard it.
A cry — faint, but sharp, cutting through the whisper of grass.
Sliding from the saddle, she followed the sound, lantern bobbing as she walked. At the base of a small hillock, nestled against the roots of a gnarled oak, she found a bundle swaddled in strange, silken cloths.
Inside, a child no larger than her forearm.
The infant's hair was like burnished gold, glinting even in moonlight. His eyes — wide open, as though too curious for slumber — were a molten amber, deeper than any she had seen in her kin. His ears were gently tapered to slender points.
"An Elf?" she whispered.
The babe fussed and kicked, but when she gathered him into her arms, he calmed, staring at her with startling intensity, as if he already knew her.
Her heart softened. She stood tall, and though she knew Elves were not born among Men, she made her choice in that moment.
"You are mine now," she declared, voice steady against the night. "My son, though you were sent by fate. I will raise you as one of the Horse-lords, and you shall never be alone."
The babe blinked, and somewhere, deep within, the soul of a boy who had once crossed worlds stirred.
By his third year, the boy — now called Edwen — astonished everyone with his cleverness. But one fateful night, something more profound happened.
Edwen awoke in the night, gasping as though pulled from deep water. For a long moment, he stared at his hands, flexing his small fingers. Images flooded him — a world of machines and science, of war and sorrow, of a younger brother he could never forget. Alchemy circles. His automail arm. The Gate. His final sacrifice.
Edward Elric remembered.
The child sat trembling in the darkness, the weight of two lifetimes pressing against his tiny chest. Tears welled in his amber eyes, grief for what he had lost, awe at what he had become. Slowly, he lay back down, whispering to himself.
"This is my second chance," he whispered into the darkness. "I won't waste it."
From that day onward, Edwen carried himself with an odd gravity for one so young, even as he drove his mother to the brink of madness with his antics.
By five, he was sneaking into the stables to "study" the horses, which usually meant he ended up trying to climb onto their backs without a saddle, clinging to the mane and whooping as stable hands shouted in horror.
"EDWEN!" his mother's voice thundered one afternoon as he went racing past the hall on a very disgruntled stallion.
"I'm learning balance!" he hollered back, gripping with all his strength.
"You're learning how to break your neck!" she shouted, tearing after him with her skirts in her fists.
Other times, she found him in the kitchens, elbows deep in herbs and powders. Once, he proudly presented her with what he claimed was a new healing salve — only for her to discover he had smeared it across the dog, turning the poor creature's fur bright green.
"Edwen…" she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose while the hall roared with laughter.
"In my defense," he muttered, "it was supposed to heal wounds. The green was… an accident."
Despite her exasperation, there was no mistaking her pride. He was clever, strong-willed, and kindhearted, though far too reckless for her peace of mind.
When Edwen turned seven, the princess called her people to the great hall. Warriors, elders, and servants gathered, their voices hushed as she stepped forward with the golden-haired child at her side.
"This boy was given to me by fate," she declared. "Born of Elven kind, yet raised among us. He is no orphan, no castaway. He is my son and from this day forth, my heir."
A murmur swept through the hall, but none dared challenge her. They had seen the boy's gifts, his bright amber eyes, his spirit like a flame. Some whispered that the Valar themselves had set him upon their people.
The princess lifted him into her arms, and he wriggled indignantly.
"Mother! Put me down, I'm too old for this!"
She ignored his protests and kissed his forehead. "You'll never be too old for me, little star."
The hall erupted in laughter, and Edwen sulked, cheeks red. "I'm going to build something to make me taller than you, you'll see!"
But even as he pouted, he leaned into her embrace, safe in the warmth of her love.
Far away, in Rivendell, Arwen Undómiel was even then being cradled by her mother, her fate still hidden in shadow. One day, her path and Edward's would cross, and the choice he made tonight to be both Elven and of Men — would matter more than anyone could yet imagine.
For now, he was only a boy of golden hair and boundless spirit, driving his mother to the edge of her patience and her heart to overflowing.