In the Forest Singing Sorrowless

The leaves were long, the grass was green,

            The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,

And in the glade a light was seen

            Of stars in shadow shimmering.

Tinúviel was dancing there

            To music of a pipe unseen,

And light of stars was in her hair,

            And in her raiment glimmering. 

~The Lay of Leithian~

 The Fellowship of the Ring

Yavannië

I

Right honoured and beloved liege lord, I greet you well.

I pray that this letter finds you in good health and that the realm continues to prosper under your wise and careful stewardship.

I thank you for your letter, which I have but lately received, the roads being as they are at this time of year. Be assured, my lord that I am honoured and indeed, very pleased with your most kind and excellent proposal for the union of your house and mine. 

My elder daughter, as my lord knows, was wedded in the summer, and only the younger, Finduilas, now remains by my hearth. She is the dearest of all my children – dearer perhaps than even Lúthien was to Thingol -  for she is good and fair and wise beyond her years, and I would give much to see her blissfully wedded to one worthy of her beauty and endowments. You must think me a doting father indeed, to be lauding thus the virtues of my own child, but I believe that you and your noble son will not find me much off the mark should you meet in the flesh the jewel of my heart.

It will do me great pleasure to entertain you and your son here at my Hall - in truth, you and yours are welcome in Dol Amroth at all times, and never more so than at Mettarë. I hope that you will join us in our feasting, for unlike the people of Minas Tirith, we keep it in the old way, after the fashion of the Eldar from whom the first of my line was sprung. It will be my honour to then present my daughter to you and the lord Denethor, and if they are both willing, they shall be wed in due course, and with the grace of the Valar, be blessed with much joy and fruitfulness.

I await your reply eagerly, and in the hope that you and the lord Denethor will honour us before long with your presence.  

Written from Tirith Aear, Belfalas, this first day of Yavannië, TA 2975, by my hand,

Adrahil son of Angelimir, your humble liege-man and Prince of Dol Amroth

Mettarë

II

            Dol Amroth.

It was a land of silver frost and brown-wintered earth, bound by a hard grey sky. And even the whispering sea, the stranger-sea, whose song lulled him to sleep on the one night he had spent at a quiet inn by the coast road, mirrored it.

            A land of stars and sea and long silences; and one that remembered still a people who had come and gone, for here and there, he had seen the ancient trees they had planted, the crumbling stone jetties where they launched their long-prowed ships long ago, and the homes they had built. No hearth fires burned there now, and only the terns and gulls rested in the empty house-places from their long journeys over water.

And here, in the Great Hall of the Swan Prince, he could hear it still, the cries of the sea birds circling in the high pale sky. It was a Hall unlike any the Steward’s son had seen before. Smoke-darkened pillars of stone, cunningly fashioned by ancient hands into deep-veined trees soared into boughs that met, looping and twining in leaf and blossom in the high-vaulted ceiling far above. All this was new to him, a man who had lived all his life in a city of stone cradled by mountains, in whose halls marbled columns rose straight and fluted into unembellished domes. It seemed that Dol Amroth was not part of Gondor at all, but of another land, infinitely older, peopled by men and women with fair faces and who spoke a tongue that was at once strange and familiar.     

He shivered and bent to warm his hands over the hearth fire.  

            How odd it was to spend Mettarë with a man he had spoken to no more than twice, with a family he had never seen. But there were stranger ways, perhaps of meeting the woman who would be his wife. Finduilas of Dol Amroth. She had other names, this princess of the sea – Sweet Singer, men called her, Tinúviel, for it was said that in her, the voice of Lúthien was heard again on Middle Earth. He shook his head and smiled a little coldly to himself. It was long since he had learned to distrust the credulity of men.

And what need had he for the charms of women? What need had he of song? In these lightless days, was not war and governance the work of men? Yet Denethor was a faithful son – and he remembered well the deed he had come to do, the gift he had come to make.    

Through the tall latticed windows, the faint winter sun shone upon him, a tall, dark man, with a long sword by his side, stern-faced and grey-eyed, standing with uneasiness of a stranger in a strange place. He was no longer young; nor would any call him handsome, for duty and care had long ago stolen away both laughter and beauty. Yet there was wisdom and nobility still in his face, and gentleness unlooked for if one knew where to find it.  

            He never knew how long she watched him from behind smoke-stained tapestries of ships and swans that hung behind the Prince’s high seat in the Great Hall, nor did he see how her hands trembled a little, then steadied on the Guest Cup she bore.

            Soft steps. A chiming of bells in the wind.

            Swiftly, he straightened, then checked in surprise. The tapestry lifted and fell. This was no Lord of Dol Amroth, but a young woman, tall and queenly, with the royal gold-work upon her brow. For a long while, he said nothing as she came to him, bearing an ancient cup of yellow amber.

            Fair as the spring she was, with the beauty of green corn ripening to gold; and the pale morning light lit the cup she bore till it glowed as though she held the very sun in her hands. And so it was that Denethor, beholding for the first time Finduilas of Dol Amroth, looked at her as though he would never look away again.     

            “Hail, Lady of Dol Amroth,” he said at last, bowing low.

And as their eyes met, she smiled and said, “Hail my lord Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Peace be with you.”

A low, singer’s voice she had, a voice of earth and honey. Never again would he hear such a voice in all the days of his life, were they as long as all the ages of the earth.

As he took the Guest Cup from her, their fingers met for the space of a single heartbeat before they drew apart. “And upon you, lady of the house.” Laughter came into her eyes and he saw that they were blue and deeply veined – the brilliant hue of a kingfisher’s feather.

            He drained the Cup to its dredges – a cool, sweet drink with a flame at the heart of it.

            “We did not expect you so early, my lord,” she said, taking the Cup back again into her keeping. “My father and brother are gone hunting in yonder forest for the wild boar that runs in winter, else you should find them here to bid you welcome. Seldom it is that the courtesy of Dol Amroth is found so lacking; nor is it often that our Hall is thus cold and silent, for as you see, my father seems to have taken half the household with him. For that we beg your indulgence.”   

            He found himself smiling, a little unwillingly. “Nay, my lady. The fault is my own that I am come a day early. My father sends his greetings and regrets that he comes not to share in your festivities. A journey for a man of his years is no easy thing, and so I come in his stead.”

            “Aye, we shall miss his company at Mettarë tomorrow,” she said softly. “May the Valar keep him. But come now, my lord, I will not have it said that any guest was left cold and weary in my father’s Hall. Lalaith has built up the fire, and you shall have hot wine and honey-cakes in the house-place.”

            “I should like that of all things, lady,” he answered, love and laughter in his eyes.

*          *          *

She was the fair one in a dark family, a goldfinch among nightingales. There was the stripling, Imrahil who would one day be Prince in his father’s place – tall and fierce and full of laughter; and the grey-bearded Lord of Dol Amroth himself, solemn and blue-eyed as his daughter. There was a sister too, who had married in the summer and gone to a hearth and home of her own; and of the Princess their mother, no one spoke at all. Yet there was no need, for all men saw the empty place set beside the Lord at the high table, as it had been for many years past. Mettarë, as it was here and in the White City, was the feast of the dead.   

They stood together, candles in hand, all four of them under the dark winter sky, the cold faint stars far above. And Denethor saw, all along the long strand that men once called Edhellond, a multitude of lights – the people of Dol Amroth in their festival best, each bearing a glim or a candle. Muted voices, a child’s stifled laughter borne on wind, came to him over the sound of the whispering sea. So, these were the ancient ways that men had forgotten in these shadowed days – and for the first time in a long while, hope kindled in his heart. 

            Finduilas. How lovely she was, robed in a mantle of fine fur, blue winter anemones bound in her hair. “We light our bonfire by the sea, so that the spirits of those who would return from beyond the circles of the world should find their way home again. Here,” she said, “we celebrate Mettarë in the old way, after the fashion of the Eldar. First, the Kindling of the Lights, and then the Giant’s Dance. Thus do we bid farewell to the old year and welcome the new.” And seeing the puzzlement in his face, she paused, her eyes dancing with laughter, “It is strange to you, is it not?”

            “Yes,” he smiled. “We set the feast-places for the dead and light our candles, but we do not dance, as you do. Tell me, my lady, why do you call it the Giant’s Dance?”

            “Bide still my lord, and you shall see it in a while. It is time to put out the lights.”

            All about him, the lights dimmed and went out, and the voices died away into silence, and he heard only sea’s endless song. Glimmering under the starlit waters, were the remains of the old harbour, ancient pillars and statues fashioned by craftsmen who had sailed the straight road to the Uttermost West long ago. And the silvered surf came crashing upon them, day after day, year after year, wearing away into smooth whiteness, the features of a beloved face, the carved relief of a deer in flight.

            Silence for the old year.

Seven times the waves swept to shore and back again to the fathomless deeps.       

            And then, the Prince spoke into the silence, "On this night, I mark your passing, through the sunset beyond the circles of the world till you come again. I mark also the passing of all who have gone before and all who will go after. O Elbereth Gilthoniel, Kindler of Stars, teach me to know that in the time of the greatest darkness there is a greater gift: Light."

            Slowly, a tongue of flame grew between his cupped hands, wavering a little in the wind, before it sprang up again to burn steadily from its wick. And with it, the Prince lit the great bonfire. With a roar of crimson sparks and flame it kindled, sweeping up into the night so that the faces of those gathered round were warmed to red and gold.

            A great cheer rose in the night, like the crashing of waves on the strand, and light leapt from candle to candle, glim to glim until the shore became a sea of lights. Never have I beheld a thing more beautiful than this, he thought, looking from the flame’s dark heart to the laughing faces around him. Somewhere, a man struck up a merry tune on his viol, and voices, piping up all round, began a song in another tongue whose words were sung long before the sun shone upon Middle Earth. A little distance away, he saw the Prince, his gaze turned inwards, smiling a little sadly; and young Imrahil sweeping a dark-haired girl into the growing chain of dancers around the fire. And their long shadows leapt in the night, a dance of giants. Quite suddenly he wished that the day would never come, and that this night, with its light and dark, sorrow and joy and the strange music that brought hope to his heart need never end.  

He started, feeling a hand on his own. It was Finduilas, speaking softly so that none but he should hear her, “O Elbereth Gilthoniel, Kindler of Stars, teach me to know that in the time of the greatest darkness there is a greater gift: Light.”

She held out her light; the wick of his own candle caught and woke unwillingly, to a blue-hearted flame the colour of anemones. They did not speak; an island of stillness they were in a sea of merriment, a single flame glimmering between them. Their eyes met, grey and blue and neither looked away.

The ancient words came to him, as easily as though they were his own, and he spoke them with a gentleness that few had ever heard:

“He sought her ever, wandering far

            Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,

By light of moon and ray of star

            In frosty heavens shivering.

Her mantle glinted in the moon,

            As on a hill-top high and far

She danced, and at her feet was strewn

            A mist of silver quivering.

When winter passed, she came again,

            And her song released the sudden spring,

Like rising lark, and falling rain,

            And melting water bubbling.

He saw the elven-flowers spring

            About her feet, and healed again

He long by her to dance and sing

            Upon the grass untroubling.” 

            And quietly, she answered:

Again she fled, but swift he came.

            Tinúviel! Tinúviel!

He called her by her elvish name.

            And there she halted listening.

One moment stood she, and a spell

            His voice laid on her: Beren came,

And doom fell on Tinúviel!

            That in his arms lay glistening.  

            Then, the slivered sea came rushing in, washing over their feet, and they broke apart, laughing merrily as they ran from the waves.

             “Do you dance, my lady?” Denethor asked, the smile lingering still on his face.

            “Aye,” Finduilas answered, her eyes bright. “We of Dol Amroth dance almost before we learn to walk.”

            “Come then, Tinúviel.” And she took the hand he held out to her, as they ran towards the light.

*          *          *

Yestarë

III

            The Steward’s son watched the new year dawn, the spears of light rising red and gold from the sea. There will never be another dawn like this. He had not slept, yet he was not weary. His heart was light, yet fearful with waiting; and he knew now what he must do. In his hands lay a small box of rosewood inlaid with mother of pearl he had brought with him from the White City. Long ago, it had come out of Lossarnach, with another princess come to make her home in the fastness of the Tower of Guard; now it was a gift, in an odd way, from one princess to another.  

            Standing in the shadow of the Great Hall, he waited, watching the seabirds winging overhead, and the dark specks of men on the strand far below, carrying away the remains of last night’s bonfire. Pale and still he waited, each moment an eternity, the rising wind parting the harsh hairs of his cloak.   

            But the doors of the Great Hall opened at last, and she came, a slight figure in a kirtle of dark blue and a hooded mantle edged with fur. There were no flowers now in her braided hair; but the wind caught the long golden strands, and her maids, laughing, drew the hood over her head. Down the long steps they came, their heads bowed, talking in the soft, animated manner of women, each bearing a covered basket. Then one of the girls caught his eye, and smiling, whispered to her lady, who in turn lifted her head in surprise.   

            “Good morrow, my lord,” Finduilas said, making her obeisance. “May the sun and stars shine upon you on this day of days, and on all the days of your life.”

            “And upon you, my lady.” They stood in awkward silence, neither looking at the other, until at last he found the courage to speak again. “Where do you go, my lady, so early in the morning? The sun has barely risen.”

            She smiled. “It is the custom of my father’s house to bring food and clothing to the poor among our people on the first day of the new year. Thus you see us, carrying what little gifts we have to those in need. And what of you, my lord? You have the look of one who has waited long for another.”

            “Indeed I have,” Denethor answered simply.

             Gravely, Finduilas looked up at him for a long moment. Then, turning to her women, she said, “Lalaith, Aerin, do you bring these baskets to Míriel’s house. I shall come after you.” When the women’s soft footsteps had died away, she spoke again.

“So what is it, my lord that you wish to say to me?”

“Let us speak instead, in a place where none may hear us.”

            “Very well then. I know of a place where only the sea and the sky need hear us.”

            Down the sea-path she led him, her nimble feet stepping over sand and stone and long waving grass. In silence they walked, for words had abandoned him, and he followed the slight form of his guide over the narrow, winding road, the cliff-edge dropping sharply to sea and sun-warmed strands far below.     

At length, the path rose again, and they came to an ancient pavilion of stone scoured white by the salt sea-winds, where it was not covered by the wild honeysuckle that grew in winter. And the sweet scent of it mingled with the smell of sea and grass. He saw the blue shadows of the ruined harbour beneath the sparkling sea, the glittering shores of Langstrand to the west, and far away, the place where sea and sky met and became one.

Laying a hand on the smooth stone, Denethor whispered, “I have never seen its like. Truly, Dol Amroth is a land of wonders.” His fingers traced the faded lines of flowering stone, half hidden by the green curling stems of honeysuckle; and he saw how the high domed roof was fashioned of intertwining leaves and flowers worked in stone, and between the stony spaces, the shifting blue sky.

She smiled, and stooping, touched the shadow-patterns on the ground. “I do not know what it is. Perhaps it was built for Mithrellas long ago when the world was young, so that she might watch the ships that sailed towards the sunset, never to return. Long she lingered here, I deem, singing her sad songs to the sea. I used to come here with my mother as a child, and I come still now and then when it is in my heart to be alone and away from my father’s Hall.”      

            Rising, her hood fell back; once again the wind took up the long strands of her hair; and to him, she seemed beautiful and sad as one who belonged to another day and another place, and for a moment, there was a shadow on his heart. 

“I wish that the day and the light would be ours always and always, and that night need never fall; I wish that there were no tears, no grief, no laments in this world, only laughter and music and songs of joy.”  

            Slowly, he came to her and took her hands in his own. “But Finduilas, my heart, we live in a world of shadow, for the days of peace have long passed away. Yet I would give them to you if I could; I would give you light, laughter and songs of joy and more – yet love is all these things. And that you shall have from me if you will.”

            He drew then from the breast of his tunic the little box of rosewood and took from it a single gleaming sapphire, cunningly fashioned in the shape of a flower nestled in filigree of mithril leaves. A single stone the colour of the sea, or of the twilit sky - the blue of a kingfisher’s feather. 

            “Will you come with me to the White City?”     

            For a long moment, she did not answer; and in the silence, he heard only the pounding of his own heart, the rush that was the lapping of waves on the shore. Finduilas turned from the sea to her father’s Hall on the high hill, its great stone roof soaring into blue sky. He saw her shiver, as though a cold wind had brushed her cheek. But there was no wind now, and all was still.

“What do you see, my heart? What ails you?”

She started, as though waking from a dream, then laughed, shaking her head. “Nothing. It is not given to me to see the doings of men in sea-water or hearth-fire, nor to draw down the moon and stars with dark songs.”

            Meeting his eyes, she took the ring and held it in her cupped hands as though it were the most precious thing in the world. “I will follow you even unto the City of Stone – anywhere at all, only that it is with you. Love you shall have from me, and faith and constancy in all the days of our lives.” 

            With a smile, he stooped and kissed her brow. “Let us go to your father, for I must thank him for this greatest of gifts that he has given me.”

*          *          *

“I regret that I do not have a silmaril for your daughter’s hand.”

Laughing, the Prince said, “Well. She is not Lúthien, and I am not Thingol to deny her to you, though it grieves me much to part with her to any man, no matter how high or worthy.”

            The Prince rose. A tall man he was, taller even than Denethor was himself, and the keen blue eyes met his own as he spoke the ancient words spoken by every father to the man who would take a daughter from his hearth:   

             “What can you give my daughter in place of what she leaves for you?”

“My heart for her keeping, my hearth-fire for her warmth, my kill for her food, my sword and shield for her shelter, and my name for her honour.”

“That is well. So take her from my hearth to yours, and may she be to you all that she is to me and more – a bringer of joy and hope in dark days.” He took their hands and joined them; the hand of a scholar and warrior; and a fairer, slender one, with a blue stone that glimmered in the fire-light.

            Smiling down at Finduilas, Denethor said softly, “Great is the gift you have given me, my lord Prince. There is nothing more that I could ask for.”

But across the brazier, Imrahil came to his feet, a dark young man with fire in his eyes. “Keep my sister well, lord Denethor, and love her as you should. If any word should come to me - any word at all of any harm or sorrow you bring upon her, let you remember that Finduilas of Dol Amroth has a brother with a long arm and longer sword.” 

            “Imrahil!” cried Finduilas softly. “There is no need –“

            But Denethor smiled and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I know well that the Lords of Dol Amroth are not makers of idle threats. When that day comes, you shall find me a swift runner.” 

            With that they all laughed. And not long after, in the shadowed firelight, three men listened to a woman’s voice rising in the dusk; a voice as sweet and sorrowful as a nightingale’s.  

            *          *          *

Long was the way that fate them bore

O’er stony mountains cold and grey,

Through halls of iron and darkling door,

            And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

            And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago they passed away

            In the forest singing sorrowless.

Note:

This story owes a great debt to many. To the good Professor, without whom the world of Middle Earth would never have been, and whose Lay of Leithian I have quoted extensively; to Maya who has kindly allowed me to steal her idea of starting this story with a letter, as she did in her own story, the “The King’s Justice” and to Altariel who likewise gave permission to borrow the lighting of the candles she has used in her own works, namely “Spirits of the House” and “A Pale Light Lingering.”

I have also adapted from Rosemary Sutcliff’s Arthurian novel, “Sword at Sunset” the following, in which Artos takes to wife Guenhumara:

“…“What can you give the maiden in place of what she leaves for you?

“My hearth for her warmth, my kill for her food,” I returned. “My shield for her shelter; my corn for her quickening, my love for her contentment, my spear for the throat of the man who offers her harm. There is no more that I have to give.”

“It is enough,” said the hollow voice.”

I have no idea how the people of Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth celebrated Mettarë and such celebrations, to my knowledge, do not appear to have been described anywhere in Tolkien’s work.So all the customs found in this story were either adapted by me from the traditions of the Celtic Samhain festival, which celebrates the ending of the old year and the beginning of the new, or were used with Altariel’s kind permission. Thanks also goes to Isabeau who answered my query on Mettarë when I was hunting about for Mettarë traditions in Tolkien’s work.

Adrahil’s speech was adapted from the ritual words found at:

http://roxirulz.com/wiccan/samhainoct31.asp

The regional differences in architecture, speech and tradition between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth is of course entirely speculation on my part. Given that the elves lingered in Dol Amroth for a long time before sailing into the West, it is possible that the people of Dol Amroth adopted their language and customs and held to them more fiercely than in other places where elvish culture had less influence.