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1.  Arrival

“Here is where you leave these Halls.”

The Vala’s voice filled his ears.  Ears... He had forgotten what it felt like to hear with ears... to walk upon feet... to breathe into lungs.  While being led here, both he and the Halls themselves had gradually taken on distinct form, coalescing from nothingness into solidity.  His body had size and weight now, not merely the impression of substance. 

A face stared back at him from the reflective surface of the black, gold-and-silver-veined doors that loomed before him... to see with your own eyes.

Although he was remembering what it felt like to have a body, no memory remained of anything before his journey here.  Innately familiar sensations – colors, sounds, smells – came to him.  But, no feelings or desires.  He had no knowledge of any person other than himself or of any place other than this immense threshold.

“Beyond this gate is the world in which you once lived and to which you shall return.” 

The glistening doors began to silently open and a blinding pillar of light burst in.  He would have raised a hand to shelter his eyes, but he was surprised and did not remember how to move his arms.  He barely remembered how to shut close his eyes.  The expanding brilliance flowed warm over his body... to caress the skin.

“Go forth!” commanded The Doomsman, unyielding and incontestable.  “You are reborn.  Live now in peace and never return to this place.”

Blinking against the brightness, he opened his eyes just enough to step forward as ordered, passing through the wide-open doorway onto a broad landing where a stair ascended into the source of the light.  It was then that he remembered how to hold up his hand for shade.  With his sight eased, he turned to look back.  The doors were already shut, their surface as dull and grey as that of the endless steps.  There was no other passage; he would have to go up.  He hesitated, unsure that he could climb so far; his legs seemed too weak.  Nevertheless, the Lord of Mandos expected him to leave by this way and so he should be able... to think with your head.

He began his ascent into the warm, golden light that within a few upward steps lessened in intensity or perhaps he had grown used to it.  However it was, he did not need to shield his eyes anymore.  He looked upward.  There seemed no end to the stairs, but it did not occur to him to stop. 

As he continued to climb, he recalled more and more of what it was like to be alive.  How time passed from the moment of a short step to the enni of a long journey.  He remembered measuring time by the slow turning of the stars and the quick arc of the sun.  He felt the movement of the air around him and remembered the flow of water.  Then, the flicker of fire.  The flash of lightning.  The fall of rain.  The rumble of clouds.  The rise of mountains.  The growth of trees.  The smell of flowers.  The rustle of grass.  The chirping of birds.  The color of feathers.  The touch of another.  Fundamental sensual memories such as these rose to the surface of his mind until he abruptly realized that he had reached the top of the stairs.  Looking around him, he was startled at how much of the world he recognized.

He was standing at the center of a sun-drenched park laid out in curving lawns with broad hedges.  There were smooth, low benches and a tiered fountain, quietly spilling water into a placid basin.  Woods formed a thick border around it all.  A person was sitting on a bench, back to him, looking out aimlessly it appeared, towards the snow-capped mountains that floated above the high fence of trees.  He knew the lone figure was an elleth.  And that he was an ellon.

She glanced over her shoulder to see him watching her.  Her eyes were the blue of the sky.  Smiling, she rose to turn and look directly at him.  Tall and lithe, dressed in white with her long, golden hair drawn back, she seemed familiar.  He felt that she had been here a long time, patiently waiting just for him.  Picking up a folded bundle next to where she had been sitting, she came to stand before him.

“This is for you,” she said in a soft, pleasant voice.  After stooping to drop a pair of simple sandals on the ground, she unfolded a long, gray robe for him to wear.  He had not realized until then that he was naked.  She smiled at his discovery.  “So we were born and so we are reborn.”

She helped him into the robe and fastened it with gentle care.  Suddenly, instead of seeing what was actually before him, he saw his mother’s slim white hands clothing him as a child.  His chest thumped as emotion welled up from some deep source within him... to feel in your heart.

He wondered if this elleth was his mother.  She helped him to place his feet into the sandals.  No, it came to him, she was not his mother and his disappointed heart quieted.  She was a handmaiden.  But, then where were his mother and father?  Why were they not here?  Looking into his eyes, the elleth seemed to know what he was thinking.

“No one yet knows that you have left Mandos.  Come with me for now.”  With gentle reassurance, she took hold of his arm and led him down the wide, pavered path that went past the benches and fountain to continue under the shade of the leafy trees.  Looking ahead through the tunnel of arching branches, they seemed to be walking into the open sky itself.  On both sides of the way, calling birds winged and butterflies flickered through scattered beams of dusty sunlight.  A longing to go there and not follow the path pulled at him, but his guide’s grip was stronger.

When they came out from under the trees, he saw that they were on a rise overlooking a broad valley.  She released him to walk free to the end of the path alone.  Lustrous clouds sailed in the sky.  The wafting air tasted bright as if cleansed.  The luminous sun graced a splendorous countryside.

Below him, a gleaming village lay nestled next to a glittering, bejeweled lake.  These were surrounded by fertile patchwork fields and regally forested hills.  Looking closer, he could see people moving about their daily business, unaware or uncaring that they were being observed from above.  There was no watch upon the road or the heights.  There was no fosse or bulwarks.  The people had no defenses and were unafraid. 

This wondrous tranquility felt disconcerting where the alluring peace under the trees had felt serene.  His guide rejoined him.  She swept her arm over the beautiful landscape.

“Welcome to Aman, the Blessed Realm,” she said, her face radiant with the joy of her proclamation.  “This is Elvenhome.” 

She turned him to face right and pointed out a gently sloping road that went past a small, nearby farmstead before heading down into the village.  Amidst the weathered barns and other unadorned buildings of the farm stood an attractive white house, bright and clean, with a blue tile roof.

“That is our destination – a guest house for the comfort of those newly reborn.  You shall rest there until you are ready to go on.  My sisters and I shall care for you.”  She took his arm again and slowly led him to the road.  They had not gone far down the wide track when he wanted to ask a question.  But, only after making a determined effort did he finally remember how... to speak with breath and tongue.

“Will ~ “  His voice was hoarse.  Without thinking, he cleared his throat to try again.  “Will my mother and father be there?”  The elleth looked surprised at his question.

“No,” she replied, sorry to disappoint him.  “Word shall be sent to them, if that is what you want.”  He enthusiastically nodded.  “But, you must say so,” his guide explained.  “And give their names.”

But, he realized, he did not know either of his parents’ names!  How could they be told to come for him?  Wait!  He could not remember his own name!  Who was he?!  He searched his imperfect memory very hard and found no history of himself or of whatever place it was that he had lived before.  He must have parents, but did he have siblings, a wife and children, friends?  It seemed that whoever he had once been was gone.  The emptiness frightened him.

“Do not worry that you cannot remember the past,” the elleth said with sympathy.  “Your body and spirit have been renewed.  But, your heart is the same.  It has not been remade.”  He assumed she had seen his anguish or – and for some reason this thought was more comforting – the same dilemma struck every one reborn.

“So then, I shall remember who I am?”  He sounded childishly anxious and was embarrassed by his fear.

“Amillë Ulbanís will help you,” she replied with surety.  “She is our lady mother and will greet you when we arrive.”

So, he concluded with alarm, he may not remember?  Else why had she avoided answering him?  What had to be despair threatened.  If everyone or even most recovered their identity, would she not have said that?  What was to become of him – orphaned and without kin?  Miraculously at that moment, he remembered how to be patient.  Let time pass; an answer would come.  Being able to set aside the dread – to let it go at least for now – he found himself relaxing and intuitively acting in a mannerly fashion that had to have come from his forgotten life.  It was consoling.

“I ask your pardon,” he begged of his guide.  “You have kindly helped me and I am grateful.”  This behavior felt right to him; very natural and much better than being afraid.  “May I ask your name, my lady?”

“How gallant of you... my lord,” she replied with a bashful smile.  “Most never do.  Why, most never speak.”  She stopped their progress, stepping away to face him.  “I am Venyel, a servant of Nienna.”  She bowed.  “You should address me as ‘Seler’.”  He bowed in return then automatically offered her his arm.  Delighted, she took it in a different way than before and they began to walk again.  It came to him that now it should be said that they ‘strolled’. 

Their sandaled feet slapped out a simple, slow rhythm.  The sunshine felt pleasantly warm upon his head and shoulders.  Insects buzzed.  The slight breeze cooled his face.  Beside their path, a little ground squirrel scurried from burrow to bushy cover.  His heart was lightened, lifting his spirits.  He looked forward to arriving at the guest house.  A shining bird with bright yellow plumage swooped down from a tall tree, across the road to a lower tree, perched and sang a slow, sweet trill.  He realized why Venyel might have looked familiar.  The Vanyar were the First Kindred, he recalled, closest to the Valar and had golden hair.  They were a good and magnanimous people.

“I am honored that my first acquaintance should be a Vanyarin princess,” he said.  Venyel’s artless laughter gave him the impression she did not receive much flattery.

“I am a daughter of the Vanyar, but no princess,” she primly replied. “Seler, if you please.”

“Are you certain you are not a princess?” he asked, grinning.  She nodded, smiling at his teasing.

He was silent for a while.  He wanted to give her time to think about how he must feel not being so certain who he was.

“Do you happen to know who I am?” he asked, trying to make his question sound casual.  She laughed again, aware of his ploy, but answered anyway.

“We are not told that, my lord.”  She held her eyes down-cast.  “The Aramillë will answer your questions.”  She paused.  “Although, they may only be the answers she thinks you should have.”

His smile fled, ousted by a petulant frown.  Not another dilemma!  As if having no name was not enough.  Why would what he did not remember for himself not be told to him?

He did not want to think that he was purposely made to forget.  Why would the reborn be burdened with uncertainty?  But now that he thought about it, did he really want to know all about himself?  Indeed, he felt agreeably unencumbered.  He could not recall ever feeling this way before.  Lord Námo had said he was ready to be reborn, not that others were ready for him to return.  What if he had not been a good person?  He might have been a bad son or a careless husband.  A cruel father; a cheat or a liar.  A clear and terrible vision of pitiless faces and cruel hands covered in innocent blood stunned him.  A kinslayer.  Assaulted in mid-step, he lost his balance.

“My lord!”  Venyel steadied him by throwing her strong arms around his waist.  “Can you go on?  Shall we rest a moment?”  Not far ahead of them, there was a small turn-out with a bench and she helped him to reach it.

The horror of it had sent him reeling.  Such atrocity could not be true! 

Venyel tried to ease him down, but he had become slack and unwieldy.  She had to sit them both down quickly, so heavily the little bench rocked. 

He was stricken by hatred and loathing.  He was one of them?!

Supporting him with one arm, Venyel put her other hand against his forehead then to his wrist to count his pulse.  Her tender concern heaped more guilt onto what was already crushing him.

“It is simply hunger, my lord,” she said.  “The journey upwards can be a long one.  You will be fine.  Be calm and breathe slowly.”  But, her tone implied she suspected it to be a worse cause and was speaking more to dispel than reassure.  She knew and he could not bear it.  His chest emptied of air, his ribs collapsing against his spine.  His limbs became boneless.  “No no no,” she begged aloud.  She looked desperately toward the guest house plainly hoping for rescue.  “You should not be remembering it so soon!”  Her words shredded his heart.  “Ah but, was I not warned that Sindar could be like this!”

Sindar?  Then, he was not... !  Glaeru!  He had remembered the evil they had done, not something he had done!  Acquitted, he became righteously angry.  He forced himself to breathe, compelled to speak for his own sake.

“Sindar is the name they gave us!” he protested in a harsh whisper.  “I am Lindar and my people are the Silvan of Eryn Galen!” 

A serene scene of verdant banks on a wide, swift-flowing river appeared to him.  A cloaked figure emerged from the shadow of the forest on the opposite bank and waved.  The fleeting vision calmed him.  He leaned against the bracing Venyel and recovered from the shocking possibility he should never have considered, as grateful as his guide for his not having expired on the spot.

“I must ask your pardon again,” he said weakly.  She shook her head at his apology, helping him to sit upright.

“My lord, there is nothing to fear.  The past is gone.”  Hearing the waver in her voice as she spoke, he now understood that she was not only inexperienced, but a novice.  Her guidance was rote and she was easily misled.  Nonetheless, the lady mother had given him to this poor sister to watch over.  So, he was not supposed to be any trouble.  For some reason, he resented that.  Sighing, he took Venyel’s shaky hand between his equally shaky hands.  There might be another crime he would not care to recall in such a traumatic manner.  Hopefully, the lady mother would know how to spare him the suffering.  For even at the price of his name, he would have preferred to never remember anything about them.

“I am sorry I frightened you,” he apologized.  “I understand better now and will await your Aramillë’s wisdom.”

“If you please,” Venyel asked with a strained smile, “let us await here a little longer.”   

He nodded in agreement.  They both needed to sit and be still after such an experience.  For the moment, he had remembered quite enough.  For Venyel’s sake as well his own, he would hold back any more questions. 

They sat silent.  She slowly regained her confidence.  He held on to her hand and breathed.  Though he could not keep his mind completely blank, the memories that did come to him were thankfully like those on the stairs.

He saw a dark-haired youth running up the road, puffs of dust thrown up by his speedy pace, and he thought that either Venyel had silently called for help or they were not expected to have delayed here for so long.  The young ellon, barely adolescent, pounded to a cloudy stop before them, a worried look on his face.

“Did he fall?  Are you hurt?” the lad asked of Venyel.  The ellon’s supplicating expression made him smile.  Venyel was attractive and worthy of suitors.  Strangely, the youth’s aspirations gave him hope that whatever family or love he had lost he could regain.

“A stumble.  All is well now,” said Venyel, suddenly self-possessed.  “Thank you for coming to check on us.”  They rose together.  “My lord, this is Ilcanu, one of our helpers.”  The youth stood looking at them bewildered, unsure what they seemed to be expecting of him, until a blushing Venyel hinted he should bow.  Ilcanu did his best which was awkward.  He returned the bow feeling sorry that the lad’s social ineptness embarrassed his distraught guide.  “You may go ahead and let Amillë know we are in no distress,” instructed Venyel.  Ilcanu nodded and left with a distrustful look in the direction of her charge.  Venyel took his arm as before and they walked, not strolled.

“He likes you,” he said aloud before thinking that after the shock he had given her that she may not wish to talk with him ever again.  “But, you do not like him.”

“You should not be concerned, my lord.”  Venyel frowned and also looked a little suspicious of him.  He gathered they both thought him too aware for someone newly reborn.

“Better your concerns than mine.”  With a wan smile, he let her know he understood her confusion and frustration with the rather annoying turns of what should have been a blissful chore.  “Forgive me please, Seler.  I shall make no more trouble for you.”

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

ellon/elleth – elf male/female

nér/nís – elf male/female Quenya

amillë – mother Quenya (ammë is mom)

aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

enni – Valarian year of 144 solar years

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru’s Lay! – kinda like saying ‘od’s bodkin! ;)

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2.  Dreams

Holding high her softly glowing lamp, Ulbanís made her last round for the night checking on the sleeping inhabitants of the guest house that had been under her hand since its foundation was laid. 

It was a small, out-of-the-way place, but it suited her.  She preferred homely to extravagant; comfortable to lavish.  Her time in the great mansions, run like guild houses with their inflexible rules and entrenched hierarchies, had taught her to appreciate the closeness of her small community and limited number of guests.  She liked overseeing the everyday operations and still personally helping the reborn begin their new lives. 

In those larger institutions, she had found that the reborn were often not guided as well as each individual deserved and many times not as needed.  She and her few sisters were not only proud of their service to Nienna, they were dedicated to their charges.  Here they could handle cases that would have become failures elsewhere.  And she did believe that Nienna sent particular people to her for just that reason.  It was fulfilling work.  Although once in a while, They did not send enough warning to be properly prepared.

There were only two other guests at the moment, a situation for which she was grateful.  It allowed her to give more attention to Feren.  He was one of those needful individuals.  A season had passed and he was still here and sadly slipping into a decline.  His reluctant memory was sapping him and every therapy she had tried, even giving him a name, had not worked.  So, she had fallen back upon the tried and true treatment of talking with him about his dreams – or rather the dream.  For he had only one recurrent dream of his past – when he had died, slain upon a battlefield.

She arrived at his room and looked in.  Not surprisingly, he was not there.  He was probably where he went whenever the events of his death visited him.  The eastern end of the garden where he could watch the rising stars.  With a resigned sigh, she went to find him.

A fair number of Umanyar had reentered the world by way of her house.  Depending on the personality, some progressed quickly while others took time.  Eventually, within a few weeks at the very most, they were ready to embark upon their new life in Eldamar.  Forest quendi, such as the Silvan and Laiquendi and their parent people, the Nandor, emerged on the western side of the Pelori where they could go further west into open lands and need never have to cope with Amanyar.  Which was best for both parties.  She suspected that most Eldar never even knew the patently moriquendi were being reborn at all.  Only two of their kind had ever before come to her.  On the other hand, she had welcomed many of the sea quendi, the Teleri remnant of Olwë’s people in Endor.  They usually went down to the coast after their time here.  Some of them would occasionally come back to visit and tell of goings-on outside the valley.  The majority of Sindar were like to Elwë’s people, the star quendi.  They always looked for family first.  She assumed the Kinslayings had affected them in this way.  Oddly though, after leaving to stay with kin for a time, they could end up resettling just about anywhere in Eldamar, even Tirion.

Setting her lamp down on the small table beside the door, she went out onto the portico.  The night sky was clear; the air crisp.  With the coolness, there were less than the usual nocturnal sounds of early summer, something rather disquieting.  She stepped down onto the dim path knowing Feren would instantly feel her presence.

That he was Sindar had been revealed to her before his arrival, but he was not of the star quendi as would naturally be assumed when given that information.  He was of the forest quendi who were even more attuned to the natural world around them.  Their unique sensibilities resided in the orë and sweeping away the past did not make such a quende forget what he was.  Feren’s differences were evident on his first day.  He had talked and begun remembering too much too soon.  As well as confused Venyel about her vocation.  From now on, Ulbanís would make a point of sending an older sister when awaiting any sort of Umanyar.

As expected, she found him sitting cross-legged, perfectly balanced on a strong branch in the birch with his head bent back gazing at the stars.  But, she knew he was finding little comfort in their light these days.

The most important part of the process the reborn went through to come to terms with their deeds and rejoin society a renewed person was to safely dream of their past.  In doing so, they relearned their lives from a higher perspective.  Having forgotten themselves made that new perspective possible.  It provided a needed detachment.  Usually, the Dying Dream was welcomed as an important milestone, rarely suffered more than once.  But for poor Feren, only that dream repeated and it always moved quickly, soundlessly to the same dark and fruitless end.

He saw the same faces without knowing their names, speaking words without voices.  There was no sound of battle and he felt no pain from his wounds.  He never moved past his last breaths to any other moment, forward or backward.  Fortunately or not, his visions had ended early.  But at least, without any more bad episodes as suffered on his first day.  Only one single, dissonant note had rung for him in all these weeks.  The third time he had dreamed his end, he awoke to swear he had refused Mandos and been taken anyway.  Sensibly, his anger – over what to him was an incredible injustice – was swiftly spent.  After all, it could not be undone any more than the Kinslayings.  What also could not be undone was his unspoken fear that he had died a coward.  Ulbanís was convinced that guilt was indeed what blocked him knowing himself.  An act of cowardice might be the reason, but personally she could not believe it.  It simply was not in his nature.

She tsk-tsked as she approached his retreat for he wore only his sleeveless night shirt which hung loose over his shoulders. 

His thinning body was of increasing concern to her.  Lately, only Venyel could coax him to eat.  Even before, he had hated eating alone and would wait, hungry or not, until the sisters gathered and he could join them at their table.  To give him some simple companionship, she had allowed him to work in the barn for a short time.  Except that, the contented animals reminded him of his own discontent and had stoked his temper instead of dampening it.  The nér needed to be reunited with his family, but he also needed to know that he deserved them.  It was heartbreakingly simple to her.  He should surrender to any dishonor and go on to atone if necessary.  Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to do that and so moving on had become impossible.  Try as she might, she had yet to find the true source of his guilt in order to help him cope with it.  Her last hope was that she would find someone who knew the warrior and would become a catalyst.  If they forgave him whatever trespass they might, she hoped it would pry loose a rock from beneath the jammed rubble of his old life and the rest might tumble.  But, there were not enough clues to send for a comrade, family member, or friend.

Feren did not come down when she stopped beneath him and she was pleased by that.  It had taken a while to convince him that courtly graces were unnecessary and that being at ease with her was important to his recovery.  There was no doubt in her mind that he was of the nobility, if not a prince of his people.  Which again put him among the very few of a kind she had helped.

“So,” she began, “you saw it again.”  He nodded.  “Any change?”  He shook his head.  “And the face above you, still unknown?”  He nodded.

“Oh, what is the use of this ritual, Ulbanís?”  His voice was weary.  In fact, weariness draped over his lean frame like a thin cloak, stealing away warmth instead of giving it.  “I cannot remember or I will not remember.  What is the difference?  And if I were to die again, I will likely come back again.”  He heaved a sullen, frustrated sigh.  “Who is to say I have not been to other guest houses and Mandos is not just going down the doors to see if one of them clicks.”

“Special need might be precisely why you were sent here.  But, being reborn again is not so likely.  Do not waste your best chance like a foolish child,” she sharply admonished.  “I know you have more courage than this.”  She had learned not to be too soft with him.  He reacted much better to rebuke than cajoling.  As it was, he permitted only Venyel to be maidenly with him.  At first, Ulbanís thought it was a physical attraction, but it turned out to be paternal.  A fair indication that Feren had a wife and possibly children.  Now if his lady could be found, Ulbanís was absolutely certain the barrier to his memories would break down completely.

“So, describe him that held you as you were dying,” she ordered him.

“Again?  Why?  I have often enough that you know him better than I.  Nothing comes of it.”

“Yes again, if you please,” she firmly pressed.  What little they had learned had come from persistence.  Also, she knew that he found it pleasant to think on this person despite his protests.  She had pointed out to him that the face he described was very similar to his own.  Most likely a father or brother – maybe a son.  But, as he said, nothing more about the fellow had been learned.

Suddenly, Feren smiled a smile that was not ordinary.  Once before she had experienced this amazing openness on his part and marveled at it again.  His feelings were almost tangible.

“For those few moments, I feel at peace,” he whispered, his hands rising from off his knees.  He looked to be holding up the memory before his eyes, like a jewel; his glowing countenance like a reflection.  “I wanted it to end.”  The incredible smile vanished.  Elation was replaced with resentment.  “I would not be here if my true wish had been granted as it should have been.”  His eyes rose from his hands and fixed on something else.  Now, he drew back his inner Light until he was imperceptible.  She knew this to be an ingrained ploy of forest quendi, something learned by those who needed to hide from the truly dark creatures of Endor.  She had met a long count of reborn Exiles that had died because they could not hold back like this and evade their killers.

“But, all those that love you wished for you come here – to be with them again,” she began to explain, to try and make him see that just his being reborn was a sign of their love and acceptance.

“No,” he said quietly.  “They would not wish this upon me.”

She looked up to the patch of sky where he was staring and saw a slow-moving, shooting star.  It streaked across the sky from horizon to zenith before expiring in a peculiar flash.  He gasped.  Drawing up his knees, he wrapped his arms around them and buried his face, helplessly weeping.

“Feren!”  She climbed up to him and held him as he sobbed. 

“They are not here!” he wailed.  “They are there!  They are in Greenwood, where I should be!  I have failed them again!”  She could not get him to say more.  At dawn, when he was exhausted, she called for Ilcanu and they put him in his bed where he collapsed into unconsciousness.

Now, she was close to despair.  Drastic action would be necessary to save him.

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

nér/nís – elf male/female Quenya

orë – spirit (inner mind) one’s innate nature

quendi – elves Quenya – quende is the singular

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3.  Reconciliation

Rostaro was wistfully looking out the small window when Ulbanís came into her chamber.  He turned around to greet her with a broad, loving smile.  It had been a very long time since they had seen each other.  Joyfully, she came to him and took his hands.  He leaned in for her to kiss his brow; instead she loudly kissed each cheek as though he were still a small child.

“Mother,” he said, then kissed her cheek.  They embraced and he leaned back to playfully lift her off her feet.  Though a hair shorter than she, he was stronger by far.

“Son,” she replied, warmly returning his embrace.  He set her down and she took his hands again, stepping back to look at him.  They were not blood-kin.  But, they were as close as a mother and son could be having never lived in the same house for more than a few months at a time.

Rostaro was the only infant that had come out of Mandos to her guest house.  Infants had been reborn other places – her little seldo was not the only one ever.  But, he was her only one.  The reborn maiden that had carried him up was not his mother and so Ulbanís had had to quickly find a wet-nurse for him.  It was a fretful task for he could have died without immediate nourishment, but all had turned out well.  Surprisingly, he had bonded with Ulbanís, taking her as his new mother and not the nís that had fed him.  Through all his childhood, every Isilya and every feast day unfailing, she had visited him at his foster-family’s home in the village.  When he grew older, he had visited the farm.  During his schooling away, he had come back and worked as her helper over any long leave.  That he would become a brother servant of Nienna was everyone’s expectation.  However, upon his becoming apprenticed to a curator, which had made her very proud despite it not being what she had hoped for him, he came back to the village and farm less and less until he came back no more.  Now only letters kept them close, not nearly as close as she wished.

“So, Amillë, why am I here?” he asked her, beaming and golden.

His Vanyarin features were deceiving.  As an adult, he was entirely straight-forward, but without the ingenuousness of her kindred.  A scholar, but with an adventurous streak that extended to mapping unknown terrain and studying natural history.  He was as capable with his hands as he was with his mind.  Much more generous than most Noldor she had met, tending to simply give away his works rather than accumulate wealth or reputation.  For whatever reason, he often pursued solitude – in a library, at sea, in the mountains – in his small apartment in Tirion.  So, she figured that there was Telerin blood in him too. 

She had sent for him weeks ago thinking he would be ideal help for Feren, but it had taken time for her message to catch up to him.  In the meanwhile, Feren’s condition had changed.

“Hmph,” she lightly huffed.  “Not even waiting for the tea and gossip.  You have become too important and too busy for simple courtesies?  How disappointing.”

“Oh no, do not start with me,” he replied in good humor.  He took back his hands and wagged a finger at her.  “You summoned me to ask a favor, not to visit.  But, I will not complain,” he said adopting a tolerate expression and a fond twinkle in his eyes.  “Since you would not have done so unless you had something immensely interesting for me to do”.

She laughed, not minding being teased about her promise never to punish him for leaving behind what he called ‘this boring, rural life’.  Taking his arm, she led him over to sit in the chairs by the small fireplace, the coziest place to talk and where they had always sat together to discuss the high and low.  Pulling up the tray-table, she proceeded to pour their tea, gesturing for him to take a sweet biscuit.  He grinned affectionately at her knowingly providing his favorite kinds.

“I do have someone immensely interesting I want you to meet,” she said confident that she did.  “And to help.”

He remained silent, politely waiting for her to explain.  He took the cup she offered, but did not drink, again courteously waiting upon her to pour her own.  His younger self would never have done that after such a petty scolding as she had just given.  Well, she told herself a bit sarcastically, maybe there were some benefits to having a grown child after all.

“Do you remember that Umanyar fellow that could not remember for all the anger he felt toward the Noldor?” she asked.  “You were in your twenty-fourth coranar with Ñolmo Yulindo.”

“Yes, very well.  And it was hatred not anger that bound him,” he clarified.  “I never really understood why Mandos even sent him out.”  She stirred a dollop of syrup into her cup and sipped it.  Rostaro looked into the cold fireplace, recollecting.  “His name was Naurdothir.  It so happened at the time, I was reading about the battles in Beleriand.  We argued a lot.  About everything I had ever read about Endor.  After his recovery, he left for Tol Eressëa.”  Her son drank some tea and picked out a treat from the plate.

“I have another like him.  He has been here since the beginning of spring.”  She was pleased that Rostaro had started munching and did not politely hide his enjoyment.  She sipped her tea, savoring it even more.  “He is Sindar, but also Silvan.”  Rostaro’s eyebrows rose.  She nodded.  “That seemed a bit odd to me too.”

“Actually, it is not,” he replied, after swallowing.  “There was a large eastern migration at the beginning of the Second Age.  He might be one of those Sindar.  I certainly would like to talk with him about it.”

“All he can tell you is that he died on the battle field and not where.”

“I see.  This is where I can be of help.  You have very little to go on.”  He looked at her with some suspicion.  “Come then, tell me exactly what it is you think I can do.”  He set down his cup, adjusting himself in his chair to listen more closely.

“Take him to his family.”  Rostaro became confused, shifting nervously in his seat.  “He cannot tell us who they are, but they must be found or he will die.”

“Well,” her son slowly replied with obvious misgivings.  “I can do a reasonable search on minimal information and if there are some distinguishing physical features than all the better.  But, taking him along, I do not think so.”  His mood shifted from dubious to serious.  “You cannot let someone who does not know himself leave here.  The damage he could do – ”

“He will not last standing idly by.  Going with you on a quest will give him purpose and hope.”  Rostaro was plainly skeptical of her simple plan.  “You are perfect for this, Yondo.  You know what questions to ask and where to find answers.  You have acquaintances that will help you.  The trail will likely lead into unsettled forest and you are capable of following it even there.

“No longer unsettled, Amillë.”  A keen light sprang up in his eyes.  Meaning she had caught his interest and that was encouraging.  “There has been another Sindar migration, right here in Aman.  A fascinating turn of events precipitated by the arrival of the arelenlië.”  He gleefully smiled.  “Once again, they have left civilization and taken to the wild woods.”

“Oh, please tell me about it!”  She had heard very little of the grey princes’ doings since the muddled rumors that Finarfin wanted to be rid of them, especially his son-in-law.  Then, she thought about Feren’s last spoken words.  “Perhaps that is what Feren’s heart – no, he has not remembered his name,” she said, cutting Rostaro short.  “If he had, I would have told you.  ‘Feren’ is a given name from me, a treatment I know you do not support.”  Her son scowled his disapproval.  “However as I was saying, two nights ago in the garden, Feren’s heart told him that his family was not in Eldamar.”

“Careful you do not read that wrong.  It might be quite literal,” Rostaro gravely cautioned.  “Did he at first refuse Mandos?”

“Yes!  How did you know?”  More and more she was glad she had sent for him.

“There have been others who have said much the same.  All Umanyar and all forest quendi.  However, the reason They would do this is not understood.”  From his expression, she knew he had his own theory.

“What do you think?” she asked, curious.

He waved his hand in a vague gesture of humility.

“I know not the reason,” he began.  “But, I would guess it is a deep instinct for survival.  The Third Kindred flourished in Endor before and after the Great Journey.  Even in this Fourth Age, they have held out, continuing to ignore the call of the sea in significant numbers.  It is possible that many who can resist also refuse.”  He leaned forward, enthused with his idea.  “However I think, for most of those that do, at their heart’s last beat and falling into final unconsciousness, they concede.  The very thing that preserved them cheats them of their chosen End.  Their orë will not let them expire.  I am not surprised that They would ignore the mindful intention in favor of the heartfelt.  Can you imagine how many unhoused would haunt the hither shores otherwise?”

“Neither is it kind nor fair that They not allow ‘those that do’ to fade quickly if that is indeed their choice.”  She spoke as one who felt she had the right to criticize her Ainur patrons.  “But, if this instinct is so strong, then why does grief and guilt affect them so badly?” she asked with empathetic concern.

Rostaro shrugged and shook his head, baffled.

“Another paradox of the heart,” he suggested.  Being so vulnerable, how do they so often carry on after great tragedy?  After some events that would have devastated the Vanyar and Noldor?  Just look at the Teleri after the Kinslaying in Alqualondë.  The Sindar survived two kinslayings.  The loss of their kings did not fragment the Lindarin people, which is remarkable.  Seen as a fourth Kindred, they are the largest, most widespread, and most diverse within, yet they somehow retain their unity.”

He leaned over to pick up his cup again, but Ulbanís stayed him until she refilled it.  Choosing another biscuit, he thoroughly dunked it and popped it into his mouth.  They drank in silence for a short while.  Ulbanis wondered if she was being too dramatic concerning Feren’s needs.  Maybe he would get through his crisis.  No, she decided.  Not this crisis, not on his own.

“Yondo,” she said, broaching her request again.  “I am thinking that I should send a sister and helper with you.  You should not have to care for Feren and do your work too.”

“A warrior has become so feeble in so short a time?” he lightly questioned.  “I am surprised.  Silvan are supposed to be a hearty people.  But then of course, he is Sindar by breeding and Silvan only by custom.”

“In truth, he has been weakened by guilt and loss.  Do not be deceived by his slightness for he will be very strong when in better health,” she advised.  “Now, seeing that you must sort out so much and protect him and lead the way and deal with their language - ”

“Languages,” he interrupted.  “It is a misconception to think all Umanyar speak only Sindarin,” he said this in Sindarin with no detectable accent, improved from the last time she had heard him speak the language.

“You see,” she said, putting down her cup and clasping her hands.  “You know that at least if not their native tongues already.  I will send Venyel and Ilcanu with you.  They have come to know Feren.  Besides his healing, Venyel will keep him in line for you.”

“And why should she have to do that?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Well, he can be troublesome... ” she admitted with a touch of annoyance.

“Venyel is distracted by me,” her son pointed out.  “You do know that?”   He was blushing slightly so Ulbanís knew he was flattered by Venyel’s long-standing interest.  But, she was also aware that he had no romantic feelings for Venyel.  She was his mother and Venyel his younger sister.

“Yes,” she sighed in acknowledgement.  However, this mission would definitely help Venyel to better understand her vocation.  It would be no surprise if the maiden never returned to the guest house.  She just might belong in the village raising a family.

After setting down his cup, Rostaro leaned back in his chair and appeared to be deliberating on her proposal.  She knew what he was thinking about because she had already thought about it many times over.  To allow Feren to leave her oversight while in his unrecovered condition bordered on immoral.

What if someone recognized him and tried to speak with him?  How would he respond to strangers insisting he trust them?  Most likely with rejection or uncertainty thus inflicting iniquitous pain upon innocent hearts and spirits.  Even worse, unrequited love could kill a bonded elda with a weakened fëa.  What if someone convinced him he was who they simply wanted him to be?  He may never know the truth for not having rediscovered himself.  Hröa and fëa unreconciled and living a lie that one day could cause madness.  Indeed, not unlike an unhoused spirit inhabiting one of the living.  An insidious condition where dying again was perhaps preferable.

Rostaro, raised as he was, understood these and the other even greater calamities that had lead to the establishment of his mother’s hospital order.  Laurelin and Telperion had been reborn in the sun and moon and that had signaled the start.  After ages of waiting, the reborn suddenly began to issue forth – as helpless as children.  Sunburn was not the worst that had happened to those first eldar returned to life.  Certainly, her son knew enough to avoid the pitfalls while on such a questionable mission as this would be.

“Shall you do this for me, Rostaro?” she asked, wanting a firm answer.  Ironically, this was the first great favor she had asked of him since his becoming his own master.  Moral quandary or not, the decision was his to make.  She could not command him.

“Do I get any compensation other then your gratitude?” he darkly joked.

“It is right that you ask for a favor in return,” she conceded, acknowledging his equality and his established worth in the outside world.

“Very well.”  He sat up straight, his hands holding onto the arms of his chair.  “I will do this under one condition, Aramillë.”  His head angled back, his jaw stiffened.  “That you will come to me when I summon you.”

“Why do you ask for that?”  It sounded rather calculating on his part and surprised her.  “I cannot leave my duties unattended.”

“Because I want you standing beside me when I marry,” was his simple reply.  “Absolutely no excuses.”

“Very reasonable,” she quietly agreed, holding back happy tears.  To see him wed with a loving wife, a real home and children, would be her reward as well for leading a good and unselfish life.  “How soon may I anticipate your summons?”

“Not for some time,” he sheepishly grinned.  “Since I have not yet met my spouse.”  Blushing, he apologized.  “Sorry, I just could not let the opportunity pass.”  He rose and moved the tray-table aside.  Kneeling down on one knee before her, his sincere eyes gazed up into hers.

“Bless your son, Mother.”  He placed his empty hands, palms up, in her lap for hers to cover.  “And pray for us and the success of our quest.”

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

nér/nís – elf male/female Quenya

orë – spirit (inner mind) one’s innate nature

amillë – mother Quenya (ammë is mom)

aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

ñolmo – wise person or loremaster Quenya

seldo/selde – boy/girl Quenya

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

quendi – elves Quenya – quende is the singular

ainur – high ones, the Valar Quenya

yondo – son Quenya

arelenlië – high star folk, the Sindar princes Quenya

hröa – body Quenya

fëa – spirit (soul) Quenya

coranar – a solar year (sun-around) Quenya

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4.  Recovery

Wearily, Feren sat down beneath a shady beech a ways away from the Venyel and Ilcanu, who were noisily removing their shoes to enjoy the grass.  He heaved a sigh of relief for getting off his own feet.  Rostaro stood leaning against another shady tree, smiling at their younger companions while keeping a close eye on him.  He did not mind being watched so carefully for then he could lower his guard.  That had been one of the best things about the guest house.  He had felt safe there.

The loremaster had called for a break from their steady march to the sea, mostly so he could rest.  His general fitness had improved.  It helped to be doing something to work up an appetite.  However the past several days, he had not been able to sleep, becoming fatigued.  While passing a tranquil grove by a swift-flowing brook, Rostaro had decided that they would stop to cool off.  The road was empty of other travelers for a change, so they had the pleasant spot all to themselves, without any curious onlookers.  Rostaro also figured they should take advantage and stay longer then they normally would.

His tired body was yearning to restore the reserves used up since his return to life.  Except that his jittery mind continued to hover in the air like a dragonfly – deceptively idle but in fact tauntingly aware.  Reclining limp-limbed against the tree trunk, he gradually began to feel drowsy and that he might finally fall asleep.  Then in a flitter, his thrumming thoughts jerked away from his drooping body like a light sleeper jarred by a sudden footfall.  Amazingly, his mind was seeing, hearing, and conscious, while his body was in a deep slumber.

And he was dreaming while yet awake!  Delighted and frightened at the same time, he stared unblinking into night in the middle of the day.

A turning ring of merry people were vigorously dancing as lively drums, strings, and pipes loudly played.  Strangely, the dancers moved in a suspended, liquid motion; both feet too long off the ground, their clothes and hair floating through the air as if through water.  Whereas, the moon moved more in time with the melody; vaulting over the trees, casting crawling shadows across the ground.  The stars swiftly wheeled behind Ithil as he arched in full brightness across an infinite, black sky.  Call to me...  His heart begged of the revelers.  Call me to come join you... please!...

A tall couple whirled out from the throng and came directly to him, walking hand-in-hand.  Sharp, lancing lights dangerously flashed in their eyes as they ardently gazed at each other.  They drifted down to their knees and sat back on their heels before reluctantly turning their attention to him.

The golden-haired lady leaned provocatively towards him, curiosity plain on her familiar face.

“Is he awake?” she asked her silver-haired companion, speaking in a low, sultry voice.

He wanted to tell them to speak to him and not just to each other.  That he could hear them.  That he knew they were there.

“Yes,” was her partner’s sly, whispered answer.  “But surely, also dreaming.”  The lord’s face was like a clouded mirror, reflecting his own face.  There was more then a blood-bond between him and this kinsman.  You know me, gwanur... name me, mellon...

Another dancer peeled away from the fluid festivities, jubilantly leaping and turning, to fall to his knees between the lord and lady; his long, candle-light locks spilling loose over his young shoulders.  The lad’s unsullied innocence touched him and he remembered feeling the same poignant sweetness before.  Dearest child... let me hold you again...

“Do you see us?”  The youth leaned forward and reached out to him.

“No!” cried the lord, his warning too late.  “Do not touch him!”

The lad poked his shoulder and his body reflexively struck out, protecting itself.

Venyel cried out in fright and was thrown back as Ilcanu fell heavily against her. 

“Feren, stop!  Stop!” yelled Rostaro, holding his hands up in a flat, halting gesture, not daring to grab him.

He angrily leapt to his feet, hands fisted, wholly alert.  The dancers were real people; he had seen them all before – somewhere.  The three that had come to him had brought with them the possibility of names.  Names sliding like droplets to the edge of his memory where they might have been caught and gathered up ere they fell away.  Until Ilcanu recklessly nudged him and shook them off.  He wanted to strike the idiot helper again.

“No, Feren!” ordered Rostaro, rising up.  “Calm down.  He is just too young to understand.”

Frustrated, he sat down again, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

“I almost had their names!” he cried aloud, passing his hands over his hair.  He knew that if sent for, they would have come for him and taken him in with no questions.  “I almost had their names,” he bemoaned more quietly.

Red-faced, Ilcanu helped Venyel sit up, apologizing profusely to her.  Rostaro gave the helper a hard look.

“I am sorry, Feren,” said Ilcanu, obeying the loremaster’s unspoken insistence while rubbing his bruised chest.  “I did not think.”

“You never do,” he crossly replied.  “But then, Ñolmo Rostaro has yet to teach you how.”  Ilcanu’s face crumbled and Rostaro looked ready to protest. 

The lad was not stupid.  Despite being clumsy, or perhaps because of it, the young ellon was very likable.  The loremaster had taken up lecturing the helper as a way to shorten the miles.  They were always careful to talk out of his hearing so that he would not accidentally learn something that would ruin his recovery.  However, he felt that Ilcanu needed a stronger guiding hand then what had been applied so far.  The sister and loremaster patronized the youth too much.

Venyel scooted over to sit beside him.  Taking his hands away from his head and placing her own hands on each side, she drew his face around to look at her.

“Tell me the dream,” she said.  “Describe who you saw.  No, do not close your eyes.  See them again.”  He did his best for her, but the dream was disappearing like dew under the sun.  Considering the odd nature of this sleep and disrupted as it was, he feared that it would never come back.

“There were dancers,” he said.  “All familiar faces and I heard the music and voices.”  He sucked in a breath between his teeth, hissing his anger.  “’Tis already fading.”

“Then, tell me more before it does,” the sister insisted.

“A lady Vanya and a lord Teler,” he told her hesitantly.  “And their son... I think.  Glaeru!”  

“Language, Feren,” automatically admonished Rostaro.

“He’s your tyro, not me!” he snapped back, irritated.  Venyel held on as he almost slipped from her grasp.

“What did he say?” asked Ilcanu.  With a terse expression, Rostaro grabbed the helper’s shoulder and pointed his finger under the lad’s nose, a clear order to shut up.

“Think where you could have met them,” urged Venyel.  “How would they have come to Ennor?  Where would such people live?”

He snickered because he suddenly had the answer to her last question.  And it was so sublimely ridiculous.

“In a friggin’ tree,” he said helpless to stop his laughter.  He grabbed Venyel’s hands and took his face away from her, leaning away and stretching out on his back over the ground.  He was laughing, really laughing, for the first time since being reborn.  It felt wonderful!  Venyel had grasped his arm and was tugging on it, trying to get him to sit up again.  She must think him gone mad!

“Leave him, Seler,” Rostaro told her with a shake of his head.  “He has gone beyond his Dying and that is what matters.”  Hearing that diagnosis, he rejoiced, intoxicated with hope. 

“Hurrah!” he yelled, sitting upright and throwing his arms up in the air, then falling back to the ground still laughing.  Venyel sat up straight, her hands useless in her lap.  Hers was a forlorn smile.

“So then we shall not be going to Alqualondë?” she asked, expecting confirmation.  He stopped laughing, anxious what Rostaro’s answer would be.  He was recovering his memory; the loremaster might well have them return to the guest house.  Which would be a sad thing for they all had been looking forward to seeing the harbor city and swimming in the waves.

Before embarking on this journey, Rostaro had had a candid discussion with him about the perils they would face.  Not only was his future at stake, but the future of everyone he encountered.  There were rules that must be followed, but even more they must trust one another.  Rostaro would be leader, but they were on this quest together.  He was assured that he would have a say in every decision.  So, he decided to exercise that privilege.

“Now, didn’t I promise you I wouldn’t talk with anyone – especially if they looked familiar?” he said wryly smiling up at the looming loremaster.

“Easier said than done, malo-nya,” said Rostaro, looking down at him, vexed.  “You are a very impulsive person.  If we should come across these people you have just dreamed of... “  The loremaster shrugged, heaving a showy sigh.  “Well, you may not be able to help yourself.”  A pointed look with a loose gesture in the wounded Ilcanu’s direction added a further indictment of possible violence.

He rose swiftly and stood toe-to-toe with the loremaster putting on a fierce grin that did not completely hide his real intent.

“Care to wager?” he challenged.  Rostaro had to see the benefit of a bet as a simple incentive that would help him keep his nose on the trail and avoid misbehaving.

“Why yes, I think so,” Rostaro urbanely replied, falling in with him.  “Only because I always lose at gambling.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?” he asked, as usual slightly puzzled by the loremaster’s dry wit.

“That we shall go on,” decided their leader.  “We shall get a royal pass before going into the forest as planned.  Things have gotten a little trickier, is all.” 

“Hurrah!” shouted Ilcanu, imitating his previous exclamation.  He had let Rostaro get by mocking his vocabulary, but he turned a threatening eye on the helper.

“Watch it, urchin,” he coolly cautioned.  The helper smiled, looking naively undaunted.

“Feren, do you think you could go back to speaking Sindarin?” asked Rostaro with a crooked grin.  “The seler does need to know exactly what you are saying.”

Realizing what his friend was pointing out, he barked an astonished shout.  He had been speaking in Nandorin!

All at once as a whole, a wood-elf drinking song came back to him and he began to sing it loud and triumphant in celebration while holding up his arms and dancing a happy jig.  As he held the long note at the end of the verse, he rushed Rostaro, hugging the chagrined loremaster.  Going on with the chorus, he drew Venyel to her feet and swung with the sister several times, leaving her laughing and clapping.  On the long note again, he hoisted the protesting Ilcanu over his shoulder and headed for the stream to toss the helper in, singing the chorus with renewed gusto.

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

ellon/elleth – elf male/female

gwanur – kin

urchin – orc child Nandorin

ñolmo – wise person or loremaster Quenya

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

málo-nya – my friend Quenya

mellon – friend

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru’s Lay! – kinda like saying ‘od’s bodkin! ;)

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5.  Acceptance

As he looked through the open window down to the beach, Rostaro yearned to join his three companions.  They were having stupendous fun playing some crazed game where the rules got whimsically complicated by whoever was holding the ball.  Sometimes the melon-size prize would be tossed to the next player and sometimes snatched away.  The raucous trio chased each other up and down the small, sunny cove they were restricted to, kicking up sand and water, tumbling over each other, alternately getting soaked in glistening water then coated in shimmering sand.  He had to admit, if he were in the game, somehow things would get too serious to be fun for anyone anymore.  It was just as well he must work inside.

For the short time they had been together, their little company had become closer than the loremaster ever expected.  Having to keep their secret certainly contributed to that, but Feren himself had the most to do with it.  The Silvan warrior knew how to lead and unite those around him by the most unsuspecting means.  Under any other circumstances, Rostaro would have insisted that Feren be in command and himself follow.  Reluctantly, he turned away to nervously scan the parlor once more and assure himself that everything was in place for the impending visitors.

The secluded cottage provided by the Aratar of Alqualondë was comfortable besides being private.  Situated on an ancient estate, it was not very far by road or wave from the city.  There was room enough for a small family with a big kitchen, stable and boathouse, a wide portico facing the sea, and a soft sand-filled beach.  A perfect place for keeping Feren out of sight and yet permit frequent trips to the palace.  However despite the comforts, having to stay inside, the loremaster could sympathize with Feren’s complaint about always being left behind, with the circumspect Barancevion as his ‘babysitter’, and not being included along with Venyel and Ilcanu when Rostaro went to his appointments.  On the other hand, the two younger members of their quest were having the time of their lives.  He smiled at the thought.  Whatever happened next, at least there was that.

The door-bell gently rang, struck twice to announce the visitors he was expecting and that the others knew nothing about.  These visitors were the reason he had sent the sister, helper, and reborn out to play.  He took a deep breath and held it, slowing letting it go.  All morning in anticipation, he had been preparing himself to answer for his unconscionable act of bringing Feren out of a guest house without his memory completely restored.  The irate Aratar would not even see him when upon arrival Rostaro came seeking his aid.  Accommodations were left in the hands of an also disapproving assistant.  When asked, Rostaro had made a point of taking the blame from Ulbanís saying it was his decision.  Which it was.  However, the assistant had condescendingly stated that he was unimpressed by self-sacrificing pride.  The Aramillë would eventually have to answer for herself.  The last important accommodation made was for a very discreet servant to look after them.  And of course, to spy on them.

Barancevion answered the door.  With a well-mannered wave, he invited the two lords inside, bowing his head respectfully.  After taking their cloaks, he showed them into the parlor to be welcomed by the loremaster, then left to fetch the refreshments.

They had come alone as requested which was a relief to Rostaro.  In finagling an audience with Cirdan, he had been forced to reveal that Feren was likely nobility.  That said, Cirdan’s secretary became even more concerned and went immediately to his master just as Rostaro had hoped.  The Shipwright had sent him away that day without a final answer.  Unbeknownst to him, the price of the petitioned pass had steepened.  When summoned back, it was not to give him the pass.  He was told that Lord Cirdan was going to come to the house to see Feren.  No one would be allowed to leave until he did. 

Rostaro was at first alarmed, thinking they may have to flee Alqualondë.  But after putting himself in Cirdan’s place and understanding the lord’s reasons, he agreed.  He had managed well enough so far, he had thought at the time.  Cirdan could be trusted.  He would somehow use this ‘viewing’ to the mission’s advantage.  He was told later on there would be a second person coming and he had worried that two would not be the final tally.

“Master Rostaro, Captain Draugryn,” was Cirdan’s austere introduction.

They bowed, eyeing each other closely.  Warriors and scholars clash on principle Rostaro reminded himself, Draugryn’s glare was nothing personal.  According to Rostaro’s friend in Cirdan’s household, the Captain of the Guard had told his lord that he was coming along on his next excursion.  Now that he had met him, Rostaro could understand how it was that this reputed most-loyal servant could threaten the Shipwright so unashamedly.  And he was more than a bodyguard.

Draugryn did not appear to be Teleri.  His profile resembled Feren’s which meant he was probably born of the star quendi.  Like the reborn Silvan, Draugryn must have emigrated – except to the havens instead of the great forest.  For a moment, Rostaro considered having the two Sindar meet face-to-face.  He had thought Ulbanís wise about a fellow warrior being an answer to Feren’s blocked memories.  However at this point, Feren was no longer in such dire need.  So, at second thought, Rostaro decided a meeting was not warranted.

“I want to see him,” said Draugryn, adamant.  Cirdan sighed and looked askance at Rostaro.”

“I have explained the rules to him,” said the Shipwright.

“Then of course,” replied the loremaster, happy to appease the captain’s obviously quick temper – another characteristic he shared with Feren.  Besides there was little time before the others would be heading back inside for supper.  He led them over to the windows facing the beach.  “Please do not let him see you.”

Cirdan and Draugryn stood between the two windows back to back, each stealthily looking out from behind sheer curtains.  Rostaro stood opposite the captain at the same window warily watching him.  He could see that Draugryn instantly recognized Feren and was greatly affected; tears welled up in his eyes.  Rostaro judged that the captain had not thought to ever see the Silvan again.  No doubt he believed that Feren had faded into Arda with other forever-departed kin.  That had been Feren’s intention, after all.  When the captain looked like he was going to call out, Rostaro moved to prevent him.  However at that moment, Cirdan quickly turned around, putting a heavy hand on his minion’s shoulder.

“No.  You must not say anything,” he severely warned in a deceptively mild voice.  “It is for the best that he goes west.”  His lord pulled Draugryn away from the window and into the center of the room.

“Why?” asked the pained warrior, striving to keep his voice steady.  “We can accommodate his handicap and protect him.  Hwestwën and I will give him a safe home.”

Rostaro had to admire the restraint Cirdan maintained for he too was struggling with strong emotions.  Both néri obviously cared deeply for Feren.  As did he.  Perhaps his friend would be safer here, better off then in the wilderness.  He and their companions could stay on and continue to help him however long complete recovery might take.  Being a sea quende, Daugryn might be the only living kin Feren had left.

“The forest would be better even if he were alone,” Cirdan firmly declared.  “But, he has kin in the new realms that will welcome him.”  This was obviously said, not just for Draugryn, but for Rostaro too.  The lord and warrior stood silent and implacable, looking one to the other, each hoping for the other’s capitulation.

Barancevion came in with the wine and they broke off their mutual stare.  He poured at Rostaro’s permission and left.

They drank in silence.  Cirdan and Rostaro sipped.  Draugryn tossed his back in one swallow and afterwards heaved a resolute sigh – his surrender.  Rostaro could feel the captain’s deep regret.  There was no reason to think Feren would ever return once gone beyond the Pelori.  To be given back someone so dear, only to have him leave again without ever knowing you cared.  Without speaking to him once more, giving up the chance to say what had been kept in your heart for ages.  They set down their glasses, finally ready to continue the business at hand.  Rostaro steeled himself for their castigation and whatever new demands they would think of now that they knew who Feren was.

Lord Cirdan pulled out a small pouch from his surcoat.  From it, he produced a palm-sized medallion of scintillating mithril attached by an elaborate knot to a strong, blue cord.  He held it out to Rostaro who took it and examined the embossment – a white ship in full sail with a single shining star above the first mast.  The well-known sigil and tengwar glyph of the Teleri lord engraved on the other side.  With this, the loremaster and his friends would not be detained by any Umanyar for any reason.  Most would even offer their aid, hospitality and protection.  The company would be directly presented to any ruler whose jurisdiction they crossed and not be driven away.  A safe passage throughout the western wilderness was theirs.  The only thing they had to fear now were the bears.  And they had Feren along to take care of them.

“Hantale, héru-nya,” he said bowing, properly grateful.  Cirdan nodded once in acknowledgement.  Draugryn turned to Rostaro and scowled.

“If anything happens to him, I am coming after you,” was the captain’s fierce promise.

“Túro-nya, I share his fate, good and bad,” Rostaro sincerely replied.  “I have no advantage over him for I am no more informed of his true identity then he is.  I too can only guess who is family, friend, or foe.  His hurts are mine.  His recovery means freedom for us both.  I protect him with my honor and my life.”

This was a commitment the captain could understand and a small portion of Draugryn’s pain was visibly eased.

With a resigned air, Cirdan once more nodded, satisfied.  He gave the empty pouch to Rostaro and turned to leave; his aggrieved captain following after.  Taken by surprise, Rostaro stood where he was.  He had expected the worse from them and instead there was nothing.  Barancevion brought their cloaks and let them out.  Coming back to himself, Rostaro slipped the medallion into its cover and rushed to the door to see them off.  There were no farewells; no perfunctory waves.  They dourly mounted their horses and rode away leaving Feren’s welfare in Rostaro’s hands.

“Thank you, Barancevion,” he said to the attentive servant after shaking off his daze.

“My honor and pleasure,” replied the elda.  He smiled at the still bewildered loremaster.  “Someday I may be permitted to boast of this hour, but it matters not.  I have personally served both a high lord and a prince.  I am content.”  Wearing a self-satisfied mien, he went back to the kitchen.

Venyel, Ilcanu, and Feren burst in from outside deafeningly teasing one another and Rostaro hurriedly returned to the parlor.  They were wrapped in blankets and still soaking wet.  Apparently, Venyel had dumped buckets of clear – cold! – water over their heads to wash off the salt and sand.  Upon his entrance, Venyel rushed up to Rostaro, laughing and in high spirits.  Back in the valley, she would have thrown the blanket over her head and ducked out mortified to be seen by him in her bedraggled condition.

“Are you ready to eat for we certainly are!” she cheerfully exclaimed.

“Yes, thank you.  Perhaps you all should go help Barancevion if you are in such a hurry and quit dripping on the carpet,” he replied with a teasing, tolerant smile.  

She and Ilcanu immediately went off to the kitchen competitively comparing their famished conditions.

Feren stayed.  He patted himself dry and straightened his attire, conducting the process with what had become his usual nonchalance.  His friend’s abiding confidence in his good appearance even shoeless, in rumpled clothes and crowned with straying, sticky hair never failed to amuse.  But then, was not panache an aristocratic skill?  A disheveled scholar such as himself simply did not pay any mind to his appearance.  Feren gave him a significant look, his eyes sliding over to the wine tray with its used glasses.

“We have our pass,” Rostaro quietly told him.”

“You mean this?”  He had the medallion in his outstretched hand, releasing it to drop and swing loose at the end of its tether.

When he rushed out, Rostaro had not meant to leave it where anyone could find it.  He moved to take it away, but Feren kept it out of his reach; stepping away and leaving his wet blanket where he had dropped it.  Rostaro kicked it aside, but Feren easily evaded him and the loremaster gave up the short chase.

“Cirdan,” Feren said conclusively, examining the markings.  “Hmm, yes.  A much better choice than Olwë.  Good you figured on that.”

The loremaster quickly checked to see that no one else was listening.  Despite that precaution, he switched to speaking in Nandorin.

“I’m thinking of leaving the others behind,” he said meaning to provoke.  “Their work’s mostly done.”  He expected Feren to react and be distracted.  However, the Silvan’s gaze remained fixed on the pass he held.

“Was Draugryn still with him?” he asked, still not looking up.

“Yes.”  The question did not surprise Rostaro.  Feren had progressed a little each day they were here.  Every morning, he sat with Venyel discussing his dreams and thoughts.  Now, he had this token to remind him of more.  A promising smile spread across the reborn’s face and Rostaro decided to chance a little more information.  “Your remembering him would make him very glad.  He said there’s a home here for you with him and his lady.  ‘Least, I think that’s who he referred to.  He’s very concerned about you.”

“Ha!  Which means he threatened you,” smirked Feren, still intently studying the medallion, rubbing it methodically between his fingers.  “Hwestwën’s his wife all right.”  He sobered slightly.  “I put him in Cirdan’s service before I left Lindon.  I hope he doesn’t now wish to leave.  It’d mean he’s been unhappy with the Falathrim.”

“No,” said Rostaro.  Feren had placed the captain with Lord Cirdan?  If Daugryn had been Feren’s follower, not just his kinsman or comrade, then the Silvan was indeed a lord... or prince – just as Amillë had thought from the beginning.  “He wants you to stay.”

“Are you sayin’ I’ve a choice?” Feren asked, raising his head and looking troubled.

“Yes.” 

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”  He handed the medallion back to Rostaro.

“They were in the circle of dancers – Draugryn and Hwestwën – in that dream in the grove on the way here,” he calmly continued.  “All the dancers were survivors, those who had not died or stayed in Ennor.  If only she had been among them.”  So, Ulbanís was right again.

The one person Feren loved most was gone from him.  He had been released by Námo because there was no solace for him in Mandos.  But, he might find it with other family come to Aman.

“Do you wish to stay here?” Rostaro asked, as he was obliged to do.  “You’d be welcomed, cared for, and loved.”

“Varda’s Stars, no,” he replied.  “Did I not just say that?  A forest’s the only place I can happily dwell... for it is where we chose to dwell.”

“Will it not remind of your loss?” Rostaro sadly asked.

Feren smiled, fondly reminiscing, making Rostaro think there might not be a need for penance.  It seemed his grief had passed.  His guilt at not joining her at the last dispelled.  His anger spent.  He would always miss his beloved, but the sorrow would not destroy him.

“Her will always was greater than mine though it may not have seemed so,” he easily admitted.  “It’s just that, her sensibilities were too tender to exercise it much.  Unlike some I could name.”

“Can you?”  Rostaro was unsure he should do Venyel’s job without asking her, but a critical moment had clearly arrived and must not be wasted in hesitation.  Feren’s name might soon be his again and the reborn could fully rejoin the living.

“I know who awaits me in the west,” he said with a confident, almost smug, smile.

“The lord and lady and their son?” Rostaro suggested.  If Feren had identified these three, Venyel had not told him when she had every reason to.  Had Cirdan’s medallion done all this?

The Silvan’s countenance changed, brightening and becoming ennobled yet remaining quite untamed.  Rostaro instinctively knew he was seeing only the margins of Feren’s orë.  The hidden powers residing within those confines merely hinted at.  Fascinated, the loremaster hoped to be present if they were ever revealed, regardless of the danger.

“The lady is Galadriel,” the reborn lord said in a level voice.  “The lord is Celeborn.” 

A chill ran down the loremaster’s spine.  Feren was in both Cirdan’s and Celeborn’s circles?  Rostaro had thought him only a follower of Oropher.  He might have marched with Thingol or Denethor!

Rising emotion warmed the Silvan’s almost indifferent tone and demeanor. 

“The lad – though not a lad for ages to any other but forever to me – is my son, Thranduil.”

Rostaro gazed at him with renewed wonder.  Not a prince, but a king!

“And I am Oropher.”

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

orë – spirit (inner mind) one’s innate nature

amillë – mother Quenya (ammë is mom)

hantale – thanks Quenya

héru-nya – my lord (master) Quenya

túro-nya – my lord (warrior) Quenya