Refusal, Reconsideration, Repentance

"Succor those kinslayers?" Olwë spat, clenching his fingers tightly about the crushed parchment that had been sealed with the Elder King's sigil.  "You must be jesting, my lord!"

Eonwë looked with pity upon the Teleri king, and said gently but firmly, "It is no jest, Olwë, but a summons to all of the kindred Eldar."

Olwë flung the scroll to the floor at Eonwë's feet.  "My people have shed enough blood, no thanks to those Heldecari!  My harbour is still stained with it!  Only now have elfings enough been born and grown and learned sufficient to replace those forbears slain at Fëanor's and Fingon's hands at sail and oar when we venture beyond the harbour arch!  And you ask me to sacrifice them in order to bring back those—!" 

He threw up his hands and stalked to the window that overlooked the broad harbour, tears of rage and grief staining his fair face.  Under the light of the stars, the swan-prowed vessels gleamed as they rocked gently in their berths.  "No!  I will not let my people die all over again for those Rebels!"

Eonwë bowed to the distraught king, then vanished to take Olwë's reply to Lord Manwë.

* * * * *

Olwë sat at the end of the breakwater, uncaring that the salt spray was soaking his embroidered and bejeweled clothing.  He stared out to the moonlit grey swells of the sea, hating all that had come after the Darkening, still furious at the demand that had been made of him by the Valar .  

"Oh, that I had stayed on Tol Eressëa with my people!" he cried aloud to the night sky.  

"Then I might never have been born, Uncle."

Olwë started, almost falling from the rocks into the sea.  Deceptively strong hands caught him and pulled him back to safety.

"I do not think that Ossë would let you drown, Uncle, but I wouldn't be surprised if he played with you before helping you back to shore."  The elleth who supported him as he found his feet smiled at him, grey eyes sparkling for a moment, before taking on a more somber mien.

"Elwing."  He was heartstruck again, as he had been the moment he'd laid eyes on her when she'd been brought before him upon her arrival in Alqualonde.  He could see much of his brother in her features, despite the dark hair that proclaimed her Noldorin bloodlines—or perhaps her mortal heritage.

She seated herself next to him, and leaned against his shoulder.  "Eärendil was going to come talk to you, but he saw your lovely ships and I couldn't pry him away from the shipwrights."

Sliding an arm around her waist, Olwë found himself chuckling, despite himself.  "I wondered why I hadn't seen him for some time.  But," he looked down at her lovely face, "that's not why you followed me all the way out here, to tell me of your frustrations with your mariner husband."

Elwing shook her head.  "It's not."  She looked east, and suddenly sniffled.  "I just realized that today is my sons' begetting day, and I don't know if they live or are in the Halls of Mandos.  And I am forbidden to return to Middle-Earth to fetch them back here with me."

She began to weep, and he held her close, stricken.

* * * * *

In the throne room in Ilmarin, Olwë bowed deeply before the Elder King, afraid to look up into the Vala's face.

"Forgive me, Lord, for my intemperate words when I received thy command.  I give thee our ships to carry thine hosts to battle in Middle-earth."  He took a deep breath, then begged, "But, if thou wilt, grant that my people remain with the fleet, and not be part of the fighting, lest they be tempted to revenge against those exiles who stained our harbour with Teleri blood."

Silence fell and, despairing of forgiveness, Olwë stared down at the intricate lapis lazuli tiles that decorated the floor upon which he knelt.

The Elder King gazed upon the silver-haired King, and took pity upon him.  "Thy fleets we accept with gratitude, and the boon that thou hast requested is granted, for thou hast abandoned thine anger, and look now to healing."

Tears trickled down Olwë's face as Lord Manwë opened his arms and drew him up into his embrace.

"It is not thy part to set foot nor eyes on Middle-earth, my child.  For thee will be the harder task of waiting for thy ships—and thy people—to sail home."

(written Nov. 5, 2008)

A/N:  It started as a double drabble, and then the muse said "There's more!"

Listening

"Atto?" 

Olwë looked up from the ledger he was perusing, took one look at his son-in-law and immediately dismissed the clerk of the exchequer, promising that they would meet later in the day to discuss restoration of the war-battered fleet.

"Come in, Arafinwë."  He busied his hands with pouring wine as the haggard High King of the Noldor crossed the room.  "You look like you could use this, hinya."  He carried both cups to the broad window seat that graced his study, and beckoned to the younger elf to join him. 

He'd rather expected the golden-haired Noldo to speak to him before this.  His own sons had come, one at a time, in the first few days after the fleet's return, to softly tell of their experiences while across the sea; seeking comfort in confession in their father's arms. 

Some of what they had related made Olwë's blood run chill, for even though they had not fought in the many battles that led up to the capture of Morgoth, there had been conflict along the shorelines, and they'd had to defend the ships.  But Arafinwë had not only fought, he had seen the horror of Thangorodrim when the Hosts of Valinor had broken through.  And Olwë suspected that he'd not unburdened himself to anyone since his return.

The wine eventually loosened Arafinwë's tongue and tears. Olwë closed his eyes, repulsed by the images that arose in his mind as the words of things an elf should never have seen or experienced poured out.  He didn't want to know of such dreadfulness, but as he held his son-in-law close, golden head tucked beneath his chin, he listened; taking on the burden willingly as penance for the years of peace he'd had in Alqualondë, while those he loved had endured the war.

A/N: I was thinking today of how many times I've hugged and listened to my foster-brother who was injured by a mortar-round in Baghdad about a year and a half ago. His physical injuries are long healed, but he is still healing from the mental trauma of his war. Then Olwë began to tell me of Arafinwë's return...

Grieving

On the high day, Olwë slipped out of the palace, refusing an escort, and made his way north along the jewel-strewn beach to where a headland projected out into the surf.  Great basalt columns were strewn about from the erosion of the waves, and he clambered across them until he'd achieved his objective, a hexagonal stump that would allow him to dangle his legs in the surf, and to commune with the Sea.

Sometimes, Ossë would come to speak with him, temporarily abandoning his oversight of the seas along the coasts of Beleriand.  No, Lindon, Olwë corrected himself, for Beleriand is no more.

And neither was his brother.  Silent tears wet his cheeks as he stared east at the distant blur where the cloudy sky met the horizon.  That particular grief was old enough that he no longer felt as if his heart was being ripped from his chest, but the ache remained, and would, he suspected, for however many yeni it was before Elwë was released from the Halls of Mandos.

A wave, much higher than the rest that flung themselves at the barrier of the Pelori, soaked him to the waist, almost like arms embracing him, and he allowed it to pull him with its retreat into the foam-laden water, letting the salt of the sea replace the taste of salt from his tears.

He swam, diving deep until his lungs finally protested, then making his way back to the surface to fight with the currents that threatened to drag him into the tumble of rocks or far out to sea.

When he finally tired, he made his way back to his 'thinking rock'.  As he began to haul himself onto it, a large, strong hand seized his wrist and pulled him up, to sit, dripping, in front of the incarnate form of Lord Ulmo.

"Thank you, my lord—" Olwë began.  Then, as his eyes met those of the Vala, a memory from when he had departed Middle-earth forever drifted from the depths of his mind, breaching like one of the great Singers whose voices sent alien yet comforting songs through the sea.

"I—I miss my brother, lord."  An odd expression crossed the Vala's face for a moment and Olwë thought he heard the words *As I miss mine.*

Olwë took Ulmo's hand and drew him down to sit next to him.  "It's all right to miss him, lord.  He did terrible things, but, still, he was your elder brother, and you loved him once."

Pain filled Ulmo's voice.  "I know that we had no choice in expelling him past the Door of Night, for Arda's sake and the sake of you Children. Yet, I love him for what he was, although I hate what he has chosen to become." 

Olwë put his arm across Ulmo's shoulders, and pulled the Vala against his side, just as he had Arafinwë and his sons.   He rested his chin on the seaweed-green hair, and wept himself as Ulmo grieved.

Sailing Lesson

"One would think you've never been in a boat before, Arafinwë."  Olwë trimmed the sail of the small craft, adjusted the tiller, and tilted his face up to the sky. 

The Noldo flushed, but didn't let go of his death grip on the edge of his seat.  When Olwë looked directly at his passenger, he could easily see the poorly hidden unease in Arafinwë's grey eyes.  "You haven't," he stated. 

"No."  Arafinwë dropped his gaze to the smooth white deck of the sailboat, embarrassed. 

Olwë took pity on the younger elf and adjusted the sails so the sleek wooden hull wasn't racing quite so fast across the sea-green swells, and turned their course towards the more sheltered waters of the harbour.  "Out of curiosity, why didn't you say anything before we set out?" 

He couldn't help chuckling when Arafinwë admitted, "I didn't want Eärwen to think me completely inept." 

"Well, then, my son in law to be, let me be your teacher.  Come, sit next to me."  Olwë pointed to the empty bench on the other side of the helm.  "Now, the winds draw us forward as they flow across the sails, but we use this, the tiller, to make our direction…"

Escape Attempt

"And just where do you think you are going?" Olwë hid a smile at the guilty expressions on Eärwen and Arafinwë's faces. Behind them, the merrymaking was still going on in the palace ballroom and gardens, but the quay where Olwë's sailboat was berthed appeared deserted save for the silver-haired king.

"Ada!" Eärwen's fair face went pink as she glanced up at her newlywed husband.

"Daughter!" Olwë relented and smiled at the couple, opening his arms to them. He embraced them and then, keeping his arms about their shoulders, walked them to where the flower bedecked sailboat was moored. "You can sail away as you planned, but your Ammë and I were just making certain that you hadn't forgotten anything you'll need."

Lirillë stepped off of the boat onto the pier, beaming at the younger elves.

Arafinwë blinked, "But—how did you know? We kept our plan secret from everyone."

Olwë clapped the prince on the shoulder, grinning. "That's my secret. Just get on board before the guests get curious." He kissed his daughter on the brow, and his new son likewise. "Be happy, my children. May the One bless you both." Once the couple had boarded, Olwë and Lirillë released the hithlain mooring ropes, and the elegant craft drifted away from the pier.

"We'll give you two weeks before we send out search parties," Olwë called as the Noldo and his bride sailed off into the starlit night. He watched them out of sight, holding his own wife close.

(written Nov. 11, 2008)

Squall/Trust/Apology

 A/N: Findarato is the equivalent of a mortal 11 or 12 year old in this ficlet.

-Squall-

The storm came out of nowhere, catching Olwë by surprise as he secured the fish in the water well on the foredeck.  "Findaráto!" he shouted over the noise of the sudden squall, "start drawing in the lines, we've got to go back to the harbour!"

A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that his young grandson looked a bit green as the sailboat was tossed about, but the young Haryon gamely began to haul in the fishing lines on the starboard side of the vessel.  

Olwë turned to pull in the lines that dangled on the starboard side, and wondered just what had upset Ossë so much.  It was rare that there would be no warning of an incoming storm, and this one looked bad.  He gave a glance at the roiling clouds that were racing in and decided to cut the fishing lines instead of trying to pull them in.  He drew the knife from his belt and leaned over to slice the thread-fine hithlain, just as he heard something aloft crack.  Before he could look up, the mast top crashed down on the back of his head and shoulders.  The last thing he heard was Findaráto crying "Anatar!" 

* * * * *

-Trust-

This can't be Mandos.  I hurt too much. And I'm cold.  And wet.

Olwë could feel the wooden deck beneath him, somewhat padded by what he assumed were the hithlain blankets from the storage spaces beneath the stern seats by the tiller, rocking gently. The storm is over.

A familiar high pitched voice was shouting but it took him a little time to work through the throbbing pain in his head and back to realize that it was his grandson, Findaráto, apparently berating someone. Who could he be talking to out here?

"—Anatto's hurt bad! All because you lost your temper! Anatto told me that you loved us, but instead you almost killed him!"

"I'm sorry, so sorry!" 

Olwë, surprised at recognizing the penitent voice, opened his eyes to the unimaginable sight of Findaráto, soaking wet and furious, shaking his finger at Lord Ossë.  The Maia was seated tailor-fashion on the deck, his shoulders hunched, wringing his hands in his lap and his luminous face was streaked with tears.

"Sorry isn't going to help Annato, Ossë!  Our sail is gone, and I can't row a boat this size!" the not-yet-adolescent elfling snapped, stamping his booted foot on the deck for good measure. 

"Finda?"  Olwë winced at how shaky his voice sounded.  He tried to extend a hand towards his grandson, but went still once more as the movement made the pain worse.

"Olwë!" Ossë gasped.  "I'm sorry, Olwë, I'm truly sorry!"

Findaráto hurried to kneel next to Olwë.  "Anatto! You're awake!"  The youth gingerly touched Olwë's forehead.  "You hit your head on the rail when the top of the mast broke and fell on you, and then the sail blew away.  I thought you were dead!"

"Lord Námo didn't call my name this time.  How did you get the mast off of me?"

Findaráto flushed, "I started screaming, Anatto.  Um—I called Ossë—"

"Lord Ossë," Olwë corrected automatically.

The young prince scowled but corrected himself, "I called Lord Ossë some names, and yelled that it was his fault.  Then--"

Ossë reached over and brushed a strand of Olwë's hair away from his eyes.  "I heard him and came rushing in to see just who was ready to consign me to the void.  He was trying to move the mast off of your shoulder, so I lifted it off, and we found you still lived.  I'm sorry, Olwë.  I'm sorry you're hurt.  I'm sorry I scared Findaráto.  I didn't know you were out sailing."

The king closed his eyes as Ossë continued to apologize, then interrupted, "How far are we from home?"

About two hours if only we had a working sail," Findaráto told him.  "The storm blew us a long way off course."

"I can take you home.  It wouldn't take a moment to get you there," Ossë offered.

Olwë considered that before responding, "I hope you aren't asking me to abandon my sailboat out in the middle of nowhere."  Despite the ongoing headache and the pain in his neck and shoulders, Olwë managed to raise an eyebrow at the Maia.

Ossë looked a bit offended.  "Of course I wouldn't do that."  His expression changed and he looked suddenly anxious. "You do believe me, don't you, Olwë?  I never meant for anything like this to happen to you."

Olwë couldn't help laughing at Ossë's mercurial emotional shift, then moaned as his battered body protested.  "Valar, Ossë!  If this is what I feel like when I'm not the target of your wrath, I do not wish to be the focus of your anger."

"I'm sorry."

"Enough sorries!" Findaráto, impatient, slapped his hand on the deck.  "How are we getting the sailboat and us home?  Anatto needs a healer soon.  Fly?"

Ossë went still and then a smile slowly crept across his face.  "Do you trust me, meldonya?"

Olwë stared up at his friend and said, unhesitatingly, "Of course."

The Maia's incarnate form shimmered and shifted.  Findaráto gasped and stared.  Olwë smiled.

The large white swan brushed a wingtip against Olwë's cheek, and blinked an onyx coloured eye at Findaráto, before seizing the end of the forward mooring rope in his beak, and launching himself into the cloudy sky.

* * * * *

-Apology-

"Anatto, wake up.  You can't sleep yet."

Olwë opened his eyes and found what appeared to be two Findarátos leaning over him.  He squinted to bring his grandson into focus.  "I'm awake, hínya."

"Anatto, may I ask you something?"

A drop of water splashed on Olwë's face from a strand of Findaráto's hair, and the ellon hurriedly wiped it away, and pushed the golden lock aside.  Over the youth's shoulder, the injured king could see Ossë, still in swan form, pulling the battered sailboat back towards the harbour at Alqualonde.

"Of course you may."  Perhaps answering questions would help make staying awake easier.

Findaráto whispered, "Is-is Lord Ulmo going to be angry that I cursed at Lord Ossë?"

Olwë smiled gently at his grandson.  "Do you think that he should be, Finda?"

He hunched his shoulders and looked down, then nodded.  "I was awfully rude."

"You were frightened and angry.  Sometimes it's very hard to not be discourteous when you are afraid."

"But—" The youngster broke off a bit of lembas from their forgotten lunch, and offered it to Olwë. 

After opening his mouth for the fragment, and letting it dissolve on his tongue, the king prompted, "But?"   

"Being angry isn't an excuse, Ammë says."

"Well, your Ammë is a very wise elleth.  What do you think she would tell you to do?"  

Before Findaráto could reply, a host of gulls swept above them, screeching a noisy welcome home as Ossë drew them through the arched harbour entrance. All became pandemonium as the Maia alighted on the dock and transformed in time to prevent the damaged craft from banging against the pier.  

Olwë gritted his teeth as even the gentle lurch when the sailboat stopped jarred his cracked head and broken shoulder blade.  The dock workers swarmed in, and healers were swiftly summoned.  He saw Findaráto scooped up, wrapped in a blanket and carried to the quay, and he tried to reassure the worried elves who had taken the ellon's place.

The healers carefully transferred him to a litter and he blacked out briefly as they lifted it up over the railing.  But before he was carried up to the palace, he came around enough to hear Findaráto's voice.

"Lord Ossë, I'm very, very sorry that I called you all those awful things. Will you please forgive me for being so discourteous?"  

Olwë turned his head despite the dreadful throbbing, and smiled as he saw the Maia pull the young prince into a hug. 

Finis

(written Nov. 13, 14, 15 & 16, 2008)

Obdurate

"Let me pass!" Olwë snarled at the guard who blocked the door.

"No, my king." The ellon would not be moved.

They are killing my people; stealing our ships!" Olwë, furious, betrayed and desperate, cast a glance out of the window that overlooked the harbour. Far too clearly he could see the bodies that lay strewn on the encarmined stone quays as a new wave of Noldorin warriors swept in like the toxic red tide that brought death to the bejeweled shores without warning.

The warrior remained as obdurate as the Pelori. "My duty is to see you safe, my king. And if you go down to the harbour, I will not be able to protect you from the followers of the rebellious sons of Finwë. They kill even their own people in their madness!"

Olwë shoved the younger elf out of the way only to find three more before him. Undeterred, he threw himself at them, struggling against the hands that that restrained him, even going so far as to snatch a dagger from one of their belts.

"My sons are out there!" His desolate wail echoed the fear in his heart. He wrenched free of their hands, wild-eyed and blinded by anguish and terror. The guardsmen danced back out of range as he swept the weapon before him.

"Olwë, stop!" Lirillë's voice cut through the torment in his mind, and he turned to look where she sat, the tapestry work forgotten on her lap, her face grief-stricken.

He looked from his wife to the knife in his fist, and dropped to his knees, horror-struck at what he might have done. The pearl-handled blade trembled, gleaming in the lamplight, then tumbled to the floor.

Olwe wept, impotent to stop the Kinslaying.

(written Nov. 17, 2008)

Guilt

(300 words)

The stench of wood smoke and death tainted everything. Hollow-eyed and heartsick, Olwë made his way through the city, escorted by guards carrying torches and swords. The rage that had incited him to fight those sworn to protect him still burned within, but the terrible thought that he had almost broken the Sere Valeron turned his blood chill. He'd refused to don his own weapons when he'd dressed for the day for he was not sure that he could keep his anger contained.

The torches left the white, pearl inlaid walls streaked black with soot, and reddish fitful shadows danced in the corners and across the pavement. Above, the stars glittered over the devastated city, and Olwë paused in his progress to the harbour as he absorbed the silence of the streets that was broken only by the songs of lamentation that swelled up and then dissolved into weeping. Most shops were dark, and no elflings raced up and down the pavement, escaping from their tutors, nor apprentices running errands for their masters. Ellith stood red-eyed and mourning in the doorways of their homes while frightened elflings clung to their skirts.

He could not meet their eyes as he passed by, sure that the torches carried by his escort would illuminate their condemnation. He should have done more to keep the Oath-sworn from killing his people. How could they forgive him the loss of their loved spouses, fathers, brothers and sons?

Avoiding, for the moment, the main quays where the stone was stained red-brown although the injured had been succored and those hröar whose fëar had been sent untimely to Mandos were being removed from where they had died, Olwë turned towards the shipyards. He was not yet ready to put names and memories to the faces of the fallen.

(written Nov. 18th - 19th, 2008)

Doubt

(A true drabble)

The white ships which had capsized beyond the harbour looked as if they were burning, reflecting the light of the funeral pyres that burned on the shoreline. The Fëanoreans who had known nothing of ship handling had quickly drowned, joining the Teleri sailors they'd killed in Lord Námo's Halls.

Olwë stared out at the broken hulls and wondered what else he could have said to Fëanor. What words would have prevented his people's deaths? Should he have given in to the demands? Should he have told his people to sail the Noldor east to Middle-earth; defying the Valar's command?

No.

(written Nov. 20, 2008)

A/N:  250 words. Going waaaaay back in time. I'd wanted to follow up on "Doubt" but Olwe insisted on this flashback tonight.

Destiny

Young Olwë squealed in glee as the water in the lake lapped around his ankles, tickling them. His brother, Elwë, was further up the shoreline, playing with other elflings. Olwë hopped up and down, splashing harder, droplets of water landing on his face. He licked his lips and laughed at its sweet taste. A bright pebble beneath the surface caught his attention and he stooped over to grab it. It was further away than he thought; his face dipped into the water as he overbalanced. As he stared at the wavering gleam of starlight through the water, he heard a kind and deep voice in his head and not his ears.

*Greetings, little one. It is not yet time for you to know me, but know that water will always be your friend, no matter where you are in Arda.*

Even as he felt his amillë's hands seize him around the waist and pull him upright, Olwë heard a beautiful sound that was unlike any he'd heard before. In the fuss of drying him off, and the scolding he received for not staying on the shore, it echoed in his head and lingered to resound when he slipped onto the Path of Dreams.

Yéni later, he heard it again, when he stood on the westernmost shore of Beleriand, his bare feet ankle-deep in the waves. He watched Lord Ulmo play upon the Ulumúri, and he finally understood that even from his elflinghood, he had been called to find the Sea.

(Written Nov. 20-21, 2008)

Watching
(130 Words)

"Do you think they are coming back, Atto?" Salmar asked.

Olwë stared north along the shoreline, his vision curtailed by the thick clouds that blocked out the starlight, trying to make out the details of the darker mass that was slowly growing in the distance. "If so, the next question is 'why'," he said.

Behind him, their shadows cast long across the sand by the flickering lamps of Alqualonde, the majority of the remaining seamen held tightly to their makeshift weapons. They had few seaworthy ships left, and they could not allow them to be taken from them.

The approaching leader brought the column to a halt and came forward a few more hesitant steps. Olwë stood frozen as his gaze met the remorseful eyes of his son-in-law, Arafinwe.

"Olwë, please, can you forgive me?"

Rebuke

(exactly 1000 words)

Olwë stood, plainly clad, on the broad plaza that fronted the pearlescent towers of the palace, surrounded by his advisors and his fleet captains, facing the fountain that looked like a great swan alighting on the water. He listened, his grey eyes hooded and face impassive, as the sea wind blew his silvery locks about his shoulders. He watched the changing expressions of his people in the torchlight as the fiery-haired Fëanáro, who stood on the fountain's rim, urged them to return to Middle-earth. At Olwë's sides, his sons, Lindarion and Salmar, stood and he wondered what they thought of their kinsman's words.

"Cuiviénen's waters await us!" Finwë's eldest son cried out. "Take ship and go to Middle-earth to take back from Moringotto our first home under the stars, which is fair and free. We, who ought not to have forsaken those lands, have vowed to return there, to win freedom and great realms of our own, and not be bound to these narrow shores."

The torches flickered and flared, emphasizing the—Olwë could only call it madness—in Fëanáro's eyes as he exhorted the Teleri to help them build ships to carry the Noldor and themselves across the sea. When he finally fell silent, the Telerin ruler was surprised when Salmar stepped forward and faced Fëanor.

"Why would we wish to go back to those lands?" he demanded. "I am old enough to recall at least part of our great journey, and the joy we had in accepting the invitation of the Valar to come to Aman. It is this land and waters that I love, and I desire no other home besides this. I desire not to rule, but to be ruled by my lord father. I grieve that you do not trust that the Valar will do what is necessary to heal the hurts that Melkor has given this land. What you ask is folly and I will not sail east, not even to carry you and your people thence on my ships."

As if a trickle had become a stream, others in the crowd began to question Fëanáro, until it was clear that the tall elf was getting frustrated by the Teleri's rejection of his vision and their refusal to assist him.

Olwë patted Salmar on the shoulder and stepped forward, raising his hand to bring silence to the plaza. "Turn back, Fëanáro," he said. "Take thy people home to Tirion and apply thy great skills for the healing of this land. I have faith that Lord Ulmo and the other great among the Valar will redress the hurts of Melkor and that this darkness will be overcome and the night pass into a new dawn."

He nearly flinched at the wrathful expression that filled Fëanáro's face, but stood steady and unmoving as the hot words poured forth. "You renounce your friendship, even in the hour of our need!" 

When Fëanáro's next words twisted to insult, Olwë was tempted to respond in kind, but resisted the urge to fuel the fire. 

Olwë drew in a deep breath and said, his voice mild yet firm, "We renounce no friendship. But it may be the part of a friend to rebuke a friend's folly. And when the Noldor welcomed us and gave us aid, otherwise then you spoke: 'In the land of Aman we were to dwell forever, as brothers whose houses stand side by side.'" He drew himself up and waved his hand towards the white ships that were moored at the quays, rocking gently in the sheltered waters of the harbour. "But as for our white ships: those you gave us not. We learned not that craft from the Noldor, but from the Lords of the Sea; and the white timbers we wrought with our own hands, and the white sails were woven by our wives and our daughters. Therefore we will neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship. For I say unto you, Fëanáro son of Finwë, these are to us as are the gems of the Noldor; the work of our hearts whose like we shall not make again."

Olwë thought for a moment that Fëanáro was about to draw blade on him, as he had years before on Fingolfin. Instead, he snarled, then whirled and stalked towards the street that led south to the Tirion gate of the city, disappearing into the murk beyond the reach of the torches. 

The princes, Salmar and Lindarion, moved to join Olwë and they, all three, stared after Fëanáro for a time, while the gathered crowd murmured and whispered, then began to trickle away to their homes or back to the ships they manned.

"He is unhinged," Salmar said finally. "I pity him. Atto, Veriéldar is waiting for me to look at the new rudder on the White Swan. I'll go ahead and check on the other ships there before coming home." He embraced Olwë and, beckoning to a pair of ellyn who were waiting just out of earshot, headed to the north side of the harbour where the shipyards were located.

Lindarion walked with Olwë back towards the palace, but paused near the portmaster's office. "Duty calls, Atar, along with the ledgers from the most recent voyages."

Olwë nodded to his heir. "When you are finished come and share supper with your mother and me." He watched until Lindarion had closed the door to the office behind him, then walked up the steps of the palace, his councilors and a quartet of guards trailing behind him. Fëanáro's abrupt departure was quite disturbing, but he could not determine just why. He pondered briefly if he should have sent anyone after the Noldo, but put it from his mind until after the council's business of the day was done.

I'll talk to Lirillë about it, he decided as, hours later, he turned towards the family sitting room where he'd left her when Fëanáro had appeared in the square. I wonder where his sons are?

(written Nov. 24-29, 2008)

(300 words)

Olwë stared up at Taniquetil's peaks, allowing the other riders in the train traveling from Alqualonde to pass him. Arafinwë paused at his side, silent, waiting for him. It was Arafinwë who had been summoned to Lord Manwë's presence, not him. It was the leader of the remnants of the Noldor, the one son of Finwë who had never expected to become heir to his father's kingdom, who had been given the message. A stern-looking Maia clothed in white with a sky blue tabard embroidered with the eagle sigil of the Elder King had appeared in the council room of Olwë's palace three days after his son-in-law had appeared out of the darkness and begged his forgiveness.

"I am Nornoros, of the People of Manwë. I bear a message to Arafinwë son of Finwë."

Olwë was secretly ashamed at his relief that it was the younger ellon who was the recipient of the summons, and not himself. Ever since the Kinslaying, he had tried to repress his feelings about the Powers who had allowed Fëanáro and his people to slay his people. The terrible sense of betrayal still churned within him. Why hadn't they come? Why had they allowed the massacre?

Olwë feared that if he did receive a summons from the Valar, he would lose his hard-won control over his grief and rage, and refuse it, defying the Powers and becoming just as much a rebel as the Kinslayer he so hated.

He shuddered and shoved the questions back once more as he urged his mount to follow the rest through the gates of Vanyamar. Arafinwë had begged him to accompany him at least as far as the city of the Vanyar, and so he had. But he could not, dared not take the pathway that led to Ilmarin.