Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

How does one pick up the pieces of a life after one has died? I know that I died, but I have no memory of the actual event and there are none to tell me the tale. Where does one begin? At the beginning? The beginning of what? From when I found myself in Mandos facing its dread lord? From when I woke from the sleep of oblivion that robbed me of everything save my name? I am not even sure how long I slept or how long I remained oblivious to myself. I only know that a time came when Lord Námo summoned me back to Life just as surely as he had summoned me into Death and then I woke up to find myself within a hröa for the first time, again....

It was a voice he did not recognize. Voice? Hear? He could hear! He concentrated on the sensation of sound. There was a rustle somewhere but he could not identify its source. Somewhere further away was....

Birdsong! Yes, that is what it was. He tried to identify the bird itself but his memory was hazy and disjointed.

That voice again. He tried to place it but could not, so instead he concentrated on the sounds it had been making, trying to decipher their meaning. He had heard those particular sounds in that particular order once, he was sure, but again his memory played him false and he could not remember what meaning was to be attached to the sounds.

Wait! He knew that name, and was inordinately pleased with himself that he knew it to be a name and that it belonged to him. Finrod. That is who he was: Finrod.

Now Finrod was in another quandary. Eyes. They were for... seeing. He felt a thrill of excitement course through him. See! Could he see as well as hear? He pondered that for a moment, trying to remember just how eyes were supposed to be opened. He felt a twitch somewhere and then there was a blinding sensation that left him gasping in pain.

"Hush now," came the voice, soothing and encouraging. He felt something brush against him and felt himself relax. "Take your time. Slowly... that’s it."

This time the... light... yes, light... was not so terrifying, nor did it hurt. Still, he had to blink several times to clear the blurriness caused by tears of pain. He found himself staring up at someone whom he did not know. The someone was smiling down at him, still caressing his hair.

"Welcome back, child. I am Tindomerel of the People of Námo. Do you remember me?"

Well he recognized the name Námo, but Tindomerel was not known to him, or at least he could not remember if she was. There must have been something in his eyes to let the Maia know this and he felt a pang of sorrow that he could not give a positive answer.

Tindomerel smiled. "That’s all right, child. It will take time for your memories to surface. I will be one of your attendants while you regain the use of your hröa. The other is Olórin. You will meet him soon. For now, I think you should sleep."

But I just woke up! he wanted to say but his mouth refused to cooperate and all that came from him was a gurgling noise that surprised him more than anything. It didn’t even sound like him. And then he had to stop and ponder what that meant. Did he even remember what he used to sound like when he spoke?

Tindomerel merely smiled more deeply, as if aware of his scattered thoughts and was amused by them. He felt himself sigh and then inexplicably an overwhelming lethargy swept through him and before he understood what it meant or had time to analyze the sensation and categorize it he could feel himself slipping back into darkness. It was only much later that he came to appreciate the fact that he was succumbing to normal sleep for the first time in five hundred and twenty-five years.

"That’s it, child," he heard the Maia murmur even as his consciousness was fading. "Sleep and renew your strength. You have passed out of the realm of Death into Life once again and soon you will come to understand that Death is but the beginning, not the end."

Her words followed him into sleep and entered his dreams, dreams that were too vivid and too frightening. He woke screaming and then there were soothing hands calming him until he slipped into sleep once again, wondering why it all felt familiar, as if he had done this before: waking from a nightmare only to be soothed back to sleep.

Historical note: Finrod died in 468, one hundred and twenty-two years before the end of the First Age, thus this story begins in Second Age 403.

I remember little of those first days of Life. My hröa proved uncooperative and all had to be done for me, which I found truly embarrassing. Tindomerel and Olórin, however, treated me with nothing but love and respect, pooh-hooing my distress, reminding me that I was newly Reborn and such were the natural consequences of having been long separated from a physical body. Those first days are a blur, for in truth there was little for me to do but lie there and try to make the necessary connections between my hröa and my fëa and the endless monotony of those days have made it impossible for me to separate out one event from another.

Finrod was surprised to find that he had slept for most of the first day of his new life, Tindomerel rousing him every once in a while to sip on some broth or water. When he woke completely, the sun was shining through the window of the small one-room cottage that apparently was now his home, at least for a time. He still could not move except to turn his head ever so slightly. He found himself staring into the eyes of another Maia.

"Ah, you’re awake. Good, good. Tindomerel told me you might not remember me. So, let me introduce myself. I am Olórin of the People of Manwë, though I occasionally help Lord Námo out from time to time."

The Maia smiled warmly and Finrod blinked. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but again, the memory proved elusive and he was left with a gnawing sense of frustration. It must have registered somehow in his expression, for Olórin leaned down and brushed a hand through his hair, the motion soothing and familiar. Finrod could feel himself grow calmer with every stroke.

"No need to worry, child," the Maia said gently. "The memories will come when they will. Do not force them." He straightened up and patted the ellon on the head in a paternal manner. "Now, after I’ve cleaned you up, I’ll give you some breakfast."

For the next hour or so (Finrod had some difficulty still in gauging the passage of time), Olórin busied himself with washing him and tending to his other personal needs, slipping a clean nightshirt over his frame. When it was time to eat, the Maia helped him to sit up. Olórin brought forth a steaming bowl of porridge and started to spoon-feed him. Finrod, however, eyed the spoon and its contents with some suspicion and refused to open his mouth.

"Come now, child," the Maia said in an amused tone, "I know your memory is somewhat suspect at the moment, but I doubt me that you’ve completely forgotten about eating. Open up, now. That’s it."

Finrod reluctantly let Olórin push the spoon into his mouth and then he felt his eyes widen as the warm sensation of the porridge slid down his throat. He found himself trembling with overwhelming delight and when the Maia offered a second spoonful, he opened his mouth as wide as he could manage, eager to experience this new sensation again, demanding with his eyes for Olórin to hurry up with the next spoonful.

Olórin laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Easy now, young Findaráto. There’s no need to rush. Take it slowly. Your body still must get used to the idea of food and we don’t want you to be sick."

Finrod wasn’t sure what the Maia was talking about and didn’t care. He only wanted the wonderful sensation to go on and on. He was rather disappointed when the bowl was finally empty and Olórin stood up.

"That’s enough for now, my friend," he said, giving the ellon a fond smile. "We don’t want to overdo it your first time. Now, why don’t you see if you can move a finger or wiggle your toes. The sooner you start working at the connections the sooner you’ll be out of that bed."

Finrod sighed and leaned back into his pillows and concentrated on moving the index finger of his right hand. It was slow, tedious work and he felt sweat beading down his face with the effort. In the end though, nothing moved and his disappointment and frustration was great. When, some hours later, Olórin brought him some soup and bread for his second meal, he did not even want to eat, lost as he was in misery.

"Now, now," the Maia chided gently. "It’s going to take time. Have some of this soup. You need to build up your strength. I’m sure by tomorrow things will be different."

So he dutifully ate the soup, which in its own way was just as delicious as the porridge he had eaten earlier. By the time he was finished, he was in a better frame of mind. He was feeling tired now and as Olórin took away the tray, he settled down and fell asleep.

When he woke again it was dark. There was no light anywhere and he started to panic, screaming in terror, though he did not understand why, and so his terror was increased with the not knowing. Suddenly, two Maiar were with him and a bedside candle was lit, but still he screamed and began thrashing about, unable or unwilling to hear them calling to him, trying to calm him. Finally, Olórin scooped him out of the bed, covers and all, and strode out of the cottage.

Almost at once, his screaming stopped as he found himself gazing in wonder up into the velvety blackness of night to see small twinkling lights. He was not sure what they were but their beauty, beyond anything he could remember experiencing before, seemingly untouched by the small doings of those in Arda, smote him and he could not take his eyes off them.

Stars. Those were stars. Oh, he was so delighted to know what they were. He wasn’t sure if he remembered them, but it didn’t matter. He knew of them now. He lay quiescent in the Maia’s arms, his eyes constantly moving as he gazed adoringly at the twinkling lights above him. He heard their remote, cold song, and a tremor swept through him. Something deep within him struggled to burst forth and with great effort (though he was not conscious of it) he tried to speak.

"E...el...nee...." His voice sounded odd, hoarse, as if long unused and his tongue felt thick and uncooperative, but he spoke and the Maia understood.

"Very good," Olórin said, giving him a pleased smile. "That’s very good. You see? You’re making progress already. Few are able to speak so soon after re-embodiment. Yes, my dear Elf. Eleni. Can you say it again? El...en...ee." The Maia enunciated the word slowly and clearly.

He frowned, knowing he had not said the word correctly, but the effort to speak before had left him feeling faint and dizzy. He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling defeated.

"That’s all right, child," Olórin said gently. "We’ll work on it tomorrow. Now, would you like to stay out here and watch the stars for a little while longer?"

Finrod opened his eyes and gurgled something that the Maia took as a ‘yes’. Olórin looked up and Finrod now sensed the presence of another. Turning his head slightly, he saw it was Tindomerel.

"Bring his bed out here, would you?" Olórin asked his fellow Maia. "It looks as if our latest Reborn wishes to become better acquainted with the stars."

Tindomerel smiled and went to do as Olórin bade. In minutes his sleeping couch was being placed outside, near the door. Olórin placed him back into bed, plumping the pillows and rearranging the covers. All the while, Finrod lay there, staring up into the heavens, a contented smile on his face.

He did not fall asleep again until the last star had faded from sight and Anar rose in glorious splendor to announce the new day.

Perhaps my greatest emotion in those early days was one of frustration. I clearly remember from my previous life being able to do such things as move my fingers or sit up or even walk, but when I attempted to put them into practice, more often than not, nothing happened. Yet, neither Olórin nor Tindomerel seemed unduly upset by my lack of progress in integrating my fëa to my hröa. Still, small victories came — a finger moved, a knee bent, a word was spoken clearly and correctly. I took what I could from these and hoped for more.

My days were often spent sleeping, or if I was awake, working on the connections. My nights, though, were spent outside beneath the stars, for I feared the darkness of the cottage even with every candle lit and the Maiar quickly learned to have me outside before sunset. They set up a small bower where I lay throughout the night gazing up into the heavens. One of the Maiar would sit by me and tell me the names of the stars and their patterns — Carnil, Alcarinquë, Elemmirë, Menelmacar, Wilwarin, and the Valacirca were known to me, or rather, the memory of their names floated up from the darkness of my subconscious once they were pointed out to me.

"What’s that?" Finrod asked, lifting an arm slightly and pointing to the east.

It was nearly dawn and many of the stars had already faded into the bluing sky, but one star shone brightly, almost defiantly, against the brightening sky.

"Ah... that’s Tancol," Tindomerel said as she sat patiently beside the Reborn’s couch. She had spent the night pointing out the different stars and regaling Finrod with tales of their creation. "It’s also known as Eärendil’s Star and in Sindarin it is often called Gil-Estel."

"Gil-Estel..." Finrod repeated softly to himself, smiling. He turned to the Maia. "Why?"

She gave him an enquiring look and he tried again. He had noticed that both Maiar would purposely not answer questions unless he spoke in complete sentences. It was frustrating, but he understood their purpose: it helped him practice speaking.

"Wh-why is it called ‘G-gil-Estel’?" he asked, stuttering a bit as he tried to get his tongue to work properly. "Why is it... hope?"

For a moment Tindomerel did not answer, debating with Lord Námo as to how much she should tell him. *He will not understand,* she bespoke to her lord. *He barely remembers who he is yet.*

*True,* the Lord of Mandos replied, *but he has asked and therefore he should be told as much as he is able to take in at this time. Do not bother with details, Tindomerel. Keep it simple, as if explaining to an elfling, which, for all intents and purposes, he is.*

Tindomerel nodded, thinking of the times when her duties took her to the Mardi Winiron and she had to deal with actual elflings always demanding answers to their questions. She turned her attention back to Finrod who lay there waiting patiently (as if he had no other choice!) for her to speak.

"Some years after you died," she said, speaking Sindarin, for Finrod seemed to remember that language better than Quenya, "the Elves and Edain of Beleriand were sorely beset by Morgoth. Eärendil, son of Turgon’s daughter, Idril, and her Mortal husband, Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador, was a great sailor and he built a ship called Vingilot...."

"Lothwing," Finrod translated automatically into Sindarin, for the Maia had used the name by which Eärendil's ship had been known to all.

Tindomerel smiled. "Yes, Lothwing. He built the ship and set sail in search of Valinor, for he wished to find the Valar and plead for help for his people."

"D-did he... su...su...." He stopped in frustration, for he couldn’t quite remember the word he wanted. He suddenly felt tired as Anar rose above the low hills to the east and Eärendil’s Star faded from view.

"Succeed?" Tindomerel offered and Finrod nodded gratefully. "Yes, he did, and as a sign to the beleaguered peoples of Beleriand, the Valar set Vingilot into the heavens, placing the one Silmaril that...."

Finrod’s body jerked and there was a look of horror on his face as he started thrashing about. He tried to scream, but only a thin wailing sound came from his throat. Immediately, Lord Námo himself was there, taking the ellon into his arms and rocking him, softly singing an ancient lullaby, one that was familiar to Finrod. Slowly, his spasms ceased and he eventually lay quiescent in the Vala’s arms, giving a loud sigh as he drifted off to sleep.

Námo gave a distraught looking Tindomerel a wry smile. "Well, we know what not to mention," he said as he took Finrod inside the cottage and settled him into his bed, tucking the covers around him.

"I never thought...." Tindomerel began but Námo stopped her protestations with a shake of his head.

"It’s not your fault, my dear," the Lord of Mandos said. "Connections are being made and unfortunately not all his memories will be pleasant. Hopefully, next time he will be able to listen to the entire tale without becoming anxious."

Tindomerel nodded, somewhat appeased. "How long do you think it will take him not to fear the darkness?" she asked.

Námo shrugged. "I have no idea. That even candlelight does not calm him is... puzzling. He does not fear the night, only darkness. The night and the stars hold no terror for him." He gazed down at the sleeping ellon, a look of tenderness crossing his stern visage as he gently brushed the elf’s hair. Finrod’s only response was a soft sigh and a further snuggling under the covers. "Only time will tell, as with all things concerning the Reborn," the Vala added, giving the Maia a significant look. "Let us see what his reaction is tomorrow when he again sees Tancol."

Finrod woke later that morning wondering how he had gotten back inside the cottage. He remembered listening to Tindomerel telling him about... someone... and then, nothing. He frowned at the thought, wondering what it could mean. Before he could meditate further on the subject, the door to the cottage opened and Olórin stepped in, carrying a tray. He smiled when he saw that Finrod was awake.

Finrod nodded and managed to sit up with just a little help from the Maia. He felt very pleased with himself and Olórin’s smile told him that the Maia was equally proud of his efforts. While Olórin spoon-fed him his porridge — his favorite dish and one he looked forward to having every day — he turned over in his mind the events of the previous night. He clearly remembered watching the stars fade away one by one until only one very bright star remained in the sky. He remembered asking about that star and something of what Tindomerel told him.

Olórin put the spoon down and gave the ellon an appraising look. "What can you tell me about it?" he asked.

Finrod frowned a bit, trying to remember. "Estel," he finally said. "It is... estel." He gave the Maia a puzzled look. "Why?"

"It was a sign to the Elves and Men of Middle-earth that the Valar had not forgotten them nor would forsake them in their hour of need," Olórin answered, deciding to avoid any mention of Silmarils or Eärendil. "It was a sign that the Valar still loved them. It was meant to give them hope. It still is."

Finrod contemplated the Maia’s words. He thought there was more to it than that, but he found he did not care. It was enough to know what its purpose for being there was. "Hope..." he muttered. Then he gave Olórin an uncertain glance. "The V-valar love me?"

Olórin smiled warmly, leaning over to brush his hand over the ellon’s head. "Yes, child. The Valar love you. They always have and always will... as do I."

Finrod felt inexplicably warmed by those words and his sense of gratitude knew no bounds. He did not remember much of himself, neither the great deeds he had performed nor the evils which he may have committed, but he now knew one thing of grave importance: he was loved and nothing else mattered.

Tancol: (Quenya) Signifer, ‘the significant star’, i.e. Venus. This is an attested name for the planet, literally meaning ‘sign-bearer’.

Lothwing: The Sindarin equivalent of Vingilot (in full Vingilótë): ‘Foam-flower’ [loth ‘flower’ + lenited form of gwing ‘foam, spindrift, spume’].

Days passed and the nights, too. My ability to function improved and a day came when I was able to walk out of the cottage on my own to greet the stars. I still refused to remain indoors during the night, and I could not understand my aversion to the darkness. Neither of my caregivers would explain it even when I asked.

‘You must come to that knowledge on your own, child,’ was the usual answer to any questions about myself that I might ask. Of the world and my surroundings they were willing to speak, of myself they would not. Memory was slow in coming and most of it came in the form of dreams, some beautiful, others not.

And always, I stared at that one last star shining in the early morning before the sun rose and wondered....

Finrod sat looking up into the night sky as the stars faded from view one by one until only Eärendil’s Star remained. It was some days since Tindomerel’s abortive attempt to tell him the story about it. He vaguely remembered her tale, but something about it made him uneasy and he shied away from the memory, nor would he ask the Maiar for a retelling. Still, he could not keep his eyes off it, it’s scintillating beauty piercing him to the very core of his fëa and every time he saw it, he felt a rising sense of... Hope.

Yes, that is what it was — Hope. There were days when he was sunk in despair, wondering if he would ever get used to his hröa, feeling awkward and unsure and just plain embarrassed when his coordination left him flailing about. His two Maiar attendants were patience personified, but it did not help his mood, which fluctuated from one extreme to another. Yet, all he had to do was look upon this one star and he would feel calm and hopeful, believing that all would be well in the end. He began to think of it as ‘his star’. The Maiar were amused by this but indulged him.

"Soon Tancol will disappear for a time," Olórin said one night as he and Finrod sat in the bower waiting for the morning.

"I mean that for a short space of time your star will not be visible, but when it appears again, it will be in the west and you will be able to see it shortly after sunset."

"Why?" Finrod demanded, suddenly growing angry. How dare his star do such a thing!

"It is the way of things, child," Olórin said calmly. "Eärendil’s Star is both a morning and an evening star. It is as the Valar decreed."

"They had no right!" Finrod nearly screamed. How could the Valar be so cruel, taking away his star like that?

Olórin gave the ellon a surprised look and then nodded, as if coming to certain conclusions. "They had every right, Findaráto," he said somewhat coldly and the Elf shivered involuntarily. "They are, after all, the makers of all you see around you, including the stars. In one thing only they had no hand, the making of the Firstborn and Mortals. All else, though, is a product of their own imaginings."

Finrod stared at the Maia for some moments, digesting his words, then he returned his gaze upon Gil-Estel, but in the intervening time the star had faded into the blue and Anar was now above the horizon. He burst into tears. Olórin took him into his embrace and rocked him.

"There, there," he said soothingly. "Do not weep. Your star will return, I promise."

But Finrod refused to be consoled and would not eat the breakfast Tindomerel had prepared for him. Both Maiar sighed as the ellon curled himself into a ball on his bed, resolutely closing his eyes, refusing to acknowledge their presence. Eventually he fell into a fitful doze and then into true sleep as the day advanced. The Maiar decided not to waken him, figuring that his hröa’s own needs would do that for them. Yet, he continued to sleep and as the afternoon continued towards evening the Maiar held a discussion.

"Should we take him outside?" Tindomerel asked Olórin as they watched the slow, even breathing of the Reborn, his eyes only barely opened in sleep.

Both Maiar turned to see Lord Námo there and gave him their obeisance. The Vala acknowledged them with a nod but his gaze fell upon the still sleeping ellon. He shook his head, his expression one of amusement. "They never cease to amaze, do they?" he asked the Maiar and Olórin chuckled while Tindomerel merely smiled.

"They are a constant source of delight," Olórin said, "even when they are being their most obstreperous."

"Indeed," Námo agreed. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the ellon’s forehead, gently soothing it, for even in his sleep Finrod appeared to be frowning. "He needs to face the darkness," the Vala said again. "He cannot go forward until he does."

The Maiar grimaced but said nothing. They knew the truth of their lord’s words, but their fondness and even love for the Elf in their care made them wish he did not have to undergo such a trial. Námo understood their feelings and did not berate them for it; it was those very sentiments that made them such good caregivers of these once lost souls.

"If he has not awakened by the time Anar sets, light every candle," he ordered them. "If he should awaken in the night, perhaps they will help."

"I know," Námo said, "but perhaps now that he is stronger he will not react so aversely."

At first, it was a nice dream: he was walking across a field with friends. He couldn’t quite make them out and their names escaped him, but he knew them to be friends and he felt safe with them. They walked in companionable silence across meadowland already turning brown under an autumn sun. He was unsure of their destination, if they even had one, but he knew that they were traveling together for a reason, though he could not remember why. He happened to glance down and saw a ring on his left forefinger, a ring composed of twin serpents and a crown of golden flowers that one upheld and the other devoured. Something deep within him stirred in an attempt to be recognized but then it faded from his mind. When he looked back up, the scene had changed.

Now he and his companions were in a dark hall, and there was someone there, someone unseen yet felt — cold, inimical and... evil. Finrod stared into the darkness before him but he could see nothing at first. For some reason he glanced down at the ring, noticing the way the emerald eyes of the serpents glowed as if from an inner light. When he looked up again, he saw another pair of eyes, red and glowing in the darkness and for the first time since the dream began Finrod felt terror.

"Let’s take him outside," Olórin said as he started to scoop the ellon into his arms.

Before he could gather the Elf into his embrace, though, Finrod woke fully though his eyes were blank with terror. He stumbled out of the bed, not even seeing the two Maiar. His screams never stopped and he was flailing about in an attempt to escape from something or someone only he could see. The Maiar tried to calm him, but he would not let them near him, backing up out of their reach, falling over a chair and then crawling away, all the while screaming in panic and terror.

And then, Námo was there, though Finrod did not see him. The Vala stooped down and gently picked him up, holding him tight against his chest as Finrod started flailing about. The screams died and became moans and sobs and indistinct gurglings.

"Face the darkness, child," the Lord of Mandos said quietly, "but know that you do not face it alone."

He motioned to Tindomerel with a nod of his head and the Maia quickly uprighted the chair that Finrod had stumbled over so Námo could sit. Finrod clung to him as if to a lifeline, his eyes resolutely shut. Námo glanced down at the ellon and even in the uneven flickering of candlelight, the two Maiar could see the unconditional love and compassion in his expression.

Finrod tried to resist the command but could not and slowly, reluctantly, he complied, finding himself staring into the amaranthine eyes of the Lord of Mandos, reflecting candlelight.

"It is time to face the darkness, child," Námo said again and held him tightly when the ellon started to moan in terror. "Do not fear, for I am with thee, as are Olórin and Tindomerel. See, they guard thee and will let no harm come to thee. It is only a memory, Findaráto. It cannot harm thee, but thou must confront it if thou wishest to be free of it and the terror it holds for thee."

He sat the ellon up so that Finrod was leaning against his chest. Finrod saw the room ablaze with light as a myriad of candles glowed warmly around him. "That’s it," Námo said soothingly. "Breathe slowly and see that there is naught here to afright thee. The darkness is not absolute."

"I...it was so dark," Finrod rasped, his throat sore from his screams. "Only eyes... eyes in the dark...."

"Shhh...." Námo said soothingly, gently kneading the ellon’s shoulders in an attempt to calm him. "A memory only. See, no eyes in the dark, just candlelight."

Finrod could feel his heart rate slowing along with his breathing and soon he was calm again. Still, the darkness infringing upon the borders of the candlelight disturbed him. "Could... could we go outside, please?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, feeling somehow defeated but not caring.

"Come then," Námo said, standing up and motioning Finrod towards the door. "Let us go outside to greet the stars and Isil and we will talk."

Finrod breathed a sigh of relief as they went outside and sat in the bower. Anar had only just set and there was still enough light so that the stars were not yet visible. Námo put an arm around Finrod’s shoulders to give him comfort. He could see the ellon was still distraught.

For a moment Finrod did not speak, but slowly he began to describe his dream. As he spoke, more and more details came to the fore and he realized that he was reliving a memory of the last days of his life. He looked up at the Vala sitting calmly next to him.

"It was so terrible...." he started to say, but Námo hushed him, gathering him into his arms.

"I know," the Vala said quietly as he gently rocked him, "but it is done and thou’rt safe." He softly began singing an ancient lullaby as the heavens above turned indigo. Varda’s stars blossomed forth and Isil rose. Námo looked up and spied Tilion looking down from his great height at the erstwhile King of Nargothrond sleeping in the arms of the Lord of Mandos and the two shared a smile.

Note: A fuller description of this scene between Finrod and Námo can be found in my Tapestry story ‘CONTEST: Power Play’.

I do not know how long I tarried in the Gardens of the Reborn which are found just outside the Halls of Mandos. Looking back, I find it curious that in all the time I was there, I never once wondered about any other garden. I never once asked the Maiar about any others who had been reborn. It was as if I were the only one (and perhaps at the time, I was). Even though I was remembering my former life, remembering a wide world and two continents with a Sea between, I was, strangely enough, fine with the idea of this one garden containing all the world I would ever need from now on. I was content to remain in paradise.

Yet, as with all things, I learned that paradise is not always as idyllic as one would hope....

It was some days after the memory of his death had so shaken him that signs of discontent began to surface in Finrod. Its terror had lessened and he found that he could sleep inside at night now as long as there were several candles lit. He was not entirely comfortable with doing so, though, and delayed going indoors as long as possible, but his attendants gently encouraged him to try. Eventually, he was sleeping less in the day and more at night.

That was both a good and a bad thing, as far as Finrod was concerned. Good, because it seemed to make Olórin and Tindomerel happy and Finrod was, above all else, eager for his Maiar attendants to be happy with him. He craved their approval, for he had no others to affirm him. The memories of his former life embarrassed him on certain levels and he feared the Maiar’s disapproval, though it was never evident. It was also a bad thing, because it seemed that that one memory had opened the floodgates and now other memories crowded his mind, plaguing him while he slept.

Thus, it was that on a morning bright with sunshine and promise, Finrod awoke from a particularly disturbing dream-memory feeling surly and out of sorts. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, face in his hands, struggling to wipe the cobwebs of sleep from his mind, trying to sort out the fractured images of his dream, when the cottage door opened and Tindomerel stepped through, bearing a breakfast tray.

Finrod grunted but otherwise did not respond. Tindomerel gave him a piercing look, though he did not see. She came and sat on the bed beside him, gently rubbing his back.

"My brothers are dead," was Finrod’s response, lifting his face from his hands, his eyes red with tears, his expression bleak.

Finrod gave her a scathing glare. "Is that all you have to say?" he demanded, leaping from the bed to face her. "They’re dead! I saw them die and I could do nothing to save them. Where are they? Are they still in Mandos? Can I see them?"

Tindomerel stood, taking the ellon by the shoulders and trying to calm him. "They have not yet been reborn," she said.

"Why not?" Finrod exclaimed in surprise. "They died before I did. They should have been released before me."

"Stop calling me that! I’m not a child! I’m certainly not yours!" he snarled, pulling himself away and storming out of the cottage in nothing but his nightshirt.

The Maia sighed, wondering if she should go after the ellon. He was in a fine state, that was for sure. There always seemed to be a time when the Reborn began to exhibit darker emotions of anger and distrust. It saddened her that their trusting, cheerful dispositions would be replaced with other less desirable emotions. Yet, it was the way of things and it was always best to let the Reborn alone when they were feeling these emotions. Usually, they would hide in a tree and sulk for a while but that was about it.

She decided to clean up the cottage while Finrod was out. She half thought to go after him with a proper set of clothes and shoes for him but decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. The Maia was just plumping the pillows when she sensed rather than heard something wrong. She went to the doorway and glanced out, looking for her charge. At first, she did not see him, but then she noticed movement further within the garden surrounding the cottage and there was a silent scream of pain reverberating through her fëa.

Tindomerel rushed to where she knew Finrod to be and stopped in shock at the sight of the ellon madly ripping up the plants, heedlessly throwing them over his shoulder or flinging them in any direction. He was caked with dirt and his eyes were dark with fury and pain.

"They’re dead! They’re dead! And I’m alive! Why am I alive? I was dead. Why aren’t they alive, too?" he screamed even as he continued to destroy a part of the garden, seemingly never noticing the blood dripping from his hands as rosethorns ripped his flesh.

"Finrod!" Tindomerel shouted, running to stop him, silently calling for aid, for she had the feeling it would take both her and Olórin to calm him. "Findaráto! Stop that at once!"

"They’re dead!" he screeched as she took him in her embrace and held him, though he continued to writhe and squirm.

The low, darkly melodic voice stopped him cold. Finrod looked up from underneath golden bangs to see Lord Námo standing there. His mien was solemn and his garb was in dark contrast to the brightness of the morning: unrelieved black with the emblem of the Sun-in-Eclipse embroidered in gold on his chest. On his head he wore a crown of white gold intricately wrought in the shape of flames with a single large multi-faceted ruby in the center, the jewel appearing enflamed under the sun.

"Put him down, Tindomerel," Námo commanded, never taking his eyes off the ellon. "And I suppose you should prepare a bath for our... gardener." The last was said in a tone of voice that made Finrod want to crawl away and hide.

Tindomerel bowed to her lord and went back to the cottage. Námo glanced around at the destruction before returning his gaze to the ellon standing before him, panting from the exertion of his fit, refusing to look at him.

"Quite a tantrum," the Lord of Mandos said. "I do not think Yavanna will be pleased. She takes great pride in these gardens."

For a moment Námo stood there gauging the ellon’s state. "Very well," he said in a more commanding tone. "Until you are, you will be confined to the cottage. Go and bathe."

Finrod paled at the Vala’s words but did not speak. Without giving Námo a proper bow he turned and shuffled down the garden path to the cottage where Tindomerel stood waiting for him. Once bathed and wearing a clean nightshirt, he played with his breakfast, not really eating. Finally, Tindomerel took the tray away and he crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over him.

"How is he, my dear?" Olórin asked Tindomerel later that evening. They were sitting on a bench beside the cottage, watching the sun set in a brilliant display of fire and enjoying the peace of the early evening. Olórin would be watching over the ellon through the night and into the next morning while Tindomerel attended to other duties.

His fellow Maia gave him a wry grin. "Miserable. He’s refused to eat, leaving his bed only long enough to use the privy. He’s not moved otherwise nor spoken."

Olórin nodded. "It happens," he said. "It usually takes them a day or two to work their way through the misery. How is the garden? Have any of Lady Yavanna’s People been around to restore it?"

Tindomerel shook her head. "No. Cemendillë stopped by to take a look at the destruction, shook her head in dismay and left again without saying a word. It’s only a small part of the garden, mostly the rose bushes along the left side of the path. The poor child’s hands were nearly ripped to shreds by the thorns. Lady Estë came and restored them while he was sleeping, though she said there would be small scars to remind him of what he did."

"Hmm..." Olórin said, his eyes darkening with thought. "And so our latest Reborn is already marred."

"But they all are from the moment they begin to remember," Tindomerel retorted. "They learn how to hate all over again." Her tone was one of deep regret.

Olórin gave her a sympathetic smile. "A consequence of the Marring, I’m afraid. But that is not what I meant. I meant that he has discovered or rather rediscovered guilt. He does not understand why he has been allowed to live again when his brothers still remain in Mandos. He is feeling guilty for being alive when they are not."

The two Maiar stood to give Lord Námo their obeisance as he appeared before them. Unlike earlier, his appearance was less forbidding, his tunic a midnight blue and heavily embroidered with silver thread in an intricate knotwork pattern. On his head was a simple circlet of silver with a single emerald cabochon in the center that glinted dully in the twilight.

"Yes, lord," Tindomerel said, "at least to me. I’m afraid I was not helpful earlier when he first woke."

"You answered him truthfully," Námo said, waving away her apology with a single gesture. "It was what he needed to hear, even if he wasn’t willing to hear it."

"Not long," Námo answered. "In fact, I mean to put an end to his sulking right now."

Both Maiar kept their expressions carefully neutral though they were both feeling shocked. It was rare for their lord to intervene directly in the lives of the Reborn once they were brought to the Gardens. He usually left it to the Maiar attendants to deal with any upsets.

"You are surprised," the Vala said with a smile. The Maiar nodded, but refrained from speaking. Námo nodded. "Findaráto is a different case from the other Reborn. His position in Eldarin society as the firstborn son of the Noldóran makes him special. My brother and I have decided to take a more direct role in seeing to his... shall we say, re-education."

"You will continue to be his primary caregivers," Námo said, "for as long as he is in these Gardens. However, I will sometimes take over when I deem it necessary, as in this present case."

"That is why you came rather than Olórin when I called for help," Tindomerel said, the light of understanding brightening her eyes.

"Yes," Námo said, "and that is why I am here now. You are both dismissed from your duties tonight. You may return in the morning."

The Maiar gave the Vala looks of concern and Námo smiled. "Don’t worry. If I get into any trouble, I’ll call you."

They were both laughing quietly as they gave him their obeisance and faded from view. Námo stood for a moment, drinking in the night air, redolent with night-blooming jasmine, before entering the cottage. Inside there were several thick candles burning, candles that would burn throughout the night. Hunched in the middle of the bed was Finrod, the covers concealing him from the Vala’s view. Drawing up a chair beside the bed, he sat, contemplating how best to handle the situation.

*Or throw cold water over him,* Yavanna chimed in. Námo could still feel her anger at the destruction the ellon had caused.

*Perhaps you should just wait until he needs to get up and relieve himself,* Vairë said.

Námo snorted silently. *The sight of me at that point might cause him to... um... have an accident, instead.*

There were snickers all around. It was Varda who came up with a plausible solution. *Why don’t you brighten the place up a bit?* she said, sending an image of him standing at the end of the bed and glowing.

*That might just work,* Námo said, getting out of the chair and standing at the bed’s foot. "Findaráto," he called softly yet insistently. "Come, child, it is time you and I talked."

He allowed his true self to seep through his fana so that the light in the cottage brightened perceptibly, though he still retained his physical form. The glow of his aura began to eclipse the candles and it was as if the sun were rising.

Finrod stirred reluctantly, the growing light disturbing his slumbers. He vaguely heard someone calling to him and the voice was one he recognized, though he could not give a name to it. Almost unconsciously he began to come out of his self-induced torpor, throwing back the covers and blinking stupidly.

"That’s it," Námo said encouragingly. "Time to put aside your anger, child. Time for us to talk." He dimmed his aura, allowing his fana to take a more solid form. The candlelight seemed almost negligible afterwards and he allowed the ellon a moment or two to adjust to the dimmer light as he sat down again.

Finrod rolled over, struggling into a half-sitting position, eyeing the Vala with some trepidation. Námo stared back at him with a placid smile. "You’ve been behaving rather badly, you know. The garden did not deserve your ire."

The ellon cast his eyes down, and even in the dim candlelight, Námo could see the flush in his face. "I’m sorry," he whispered, still not looking up.

"I’m sure you are," Námo said, "and you will tender your apologies to Lady Yavanna as well."

Finrod sighed, closing his eyes, waiting. He had no words to express the pain and sense of betrayal that he felt just then. He did not understand what exactly he was feeling. He recognized that it was something he had felt in his previous life but he could not name the emotion that ruled him and that left him feeling vulnerable and confused.

"It’s called guilt," Námo said, divining the ellon’s inner turmoil. Finrod opened his eyes, casting a questioning look his way. The Vala nodded. "The emotion you’re feeling is called guilt," he reiterated. "You wonder why you are alive when others are not."

"And you feel guilty for being reborn first," Námo stated. Finrod nodded. "Tell me, child," the Vala asked after a moment or two of silence, "do you feel guilty for having been your parents’ firstborn?"

Finrod blinked two or three times, trying to understand Námo’s question. Finally, he shook his head.

"Then why should you feel guilty now?" Námo enquired in a gentle tone. "You were the first child to be born to Arafinwë and Eärwen. Is it not proper that you should be the first to be reborn?" He stood, gazing down at the ellon lying there still with a look of confusion on his face and sighed. "I will give you time to think about it. In the morning Lady Yavanna will come. She will administer whatever punishment she deems appropriate." He leaned over and brushed a hand gently through Finrod’s hair. "Sleep now, Findaráto."

He could feel the ellon fighting to remain awake, but as he continued his ministrations, the Elf slowly succumbed. Námo rearranged the covers, tucking the ellon in more securely. Then, he resumed his seat to keep vigil until the dawn.

Fana: The veil or raiment in which a Vala or Maia presents him- or herself to physical eyes when self-incarnating.

My tantrum left me confused, my emotions suspect. I seemed unable to hold a coherent thought in my head for some time after. I felt frustrated at my inability to articulate the hurt that dwelt within me, festering like an unlanced wound. I felt weak in a way that had nothing to do with the physical weakness that still plagued me as I tried to strengthen my muscles into obeying my commands. Neither of my attendants were helpful in alleviating the sense of failure that plunged me into a state nearing despair. I suppose they hoped I would be able to work it all out on my own.

Lady Yavanna came with the dawn. She did not enter the cottage but stood in the garden surveying the ruin with an expression more of ruefulness than of dismay or even anger. Her Fallen Brother had done much worse harm to her creations. It would take very little effort on her part to repair the damage done by the ellon only just beginning to stir from sleep inside the cottage. She turned when she felt the presence of one of the Maiar and smiled as Olórin gave her his obeisance.

"And I was," Olórin replied, "but my lord bid me to come here, for there was need."

Yavanna nodded, knowing that when the Maia spoke of ‘my lord’ he meant Manwë who held his allegiance, rather than Námo. "Your special talents are much appreciated, Olórin, especially where the Children are concerned," she said sincerely and he gave her another bow. "And speaking of Children, I suppose I should see to this one when he is ready to see me."

Yavanna laughed lightly as Olórin went into the cottage. While she waited, she looked at the damage to the garden again and sighed. It seemed that whenever any of the Reborn got angry they tended to take their frustrations out on her poor plants. She suspected it was because the Children knew the plants wouldn’t retaliate in kind. "Maybe I should stick an ent in every garden," she muttered to herself, her expression momentarily wicked as she imagined a hapless Reborn suddenly finding the garden fighting back.

*Thereby frightening the poor things right back into Mandos,* Námo bespoke her with a laugh. She mentally stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed even harder before withdrawing his mind from hers.

A silent call from Olórin let her know that Findaráto was dressed and awaiting her arrival. She walked up to the cottage and knocked primly. The door was opened immediately by the Maia who gave her a mocking look even as he bowed her in. She saw Findaráto standing in a corner, looking both wary and resigned and her heart went out to him. He looked so lost, like so many of the other Reborn before him. She resisted a sigh as he gave her an awkward bow, still physically uncoordinated.

He gave her a puzzled look and shook his head and it was clear to her that he had no idea what she meant. She gestured to him. "Let me see your hands."

He held them out with the palms facing her and she hid a smile, for he reminded her then of an actual elfling in his manner. She took the hands and turned them so the palms were facing up. Even in the dim light of the early morning filtering in through the one window that the cottage could boast she could see the faint white lines of scars where the thorns had ripped his skin. She looked up into his eyes, still full of unrelieved pain and confusion.

He nodded. "I... I hurt the flowers," he whispered, sounding more like a twelve year old than the once King of Nargothrond.

"I... I don’t remember," he replied, his brows furrowing as he attempted to remember what happened the day before, sighing when he failed to recall any real details save for the anger that had overwhelmed him before all else.

"I’m not surprised," the Earth-Queen said. "Come with me, child." She let go of one of his hands but kept the other, leading him out of the cottage and down the path to where the damage was. She allowed him to stare at the crushed and broken rose bushes, the soft petals — red, white, peach, yellow — scattered all about, trampled into the soft earth. She noticed with approval his look of horror and shame. "Anger is a useful tool when employed correctly," the Valië commented. "It helps us when we need motivation to achieve a goal otherwise thought unattainable, such as defeating an enemy greater than ourselves when our loved ones are threatened. Anger, used incorrectly, though, is a vicious monster bent only on destruction. You allowed your anger to overtake you and so this is the result." She swept her hand to embrace the scene. Then she turned to the ellon standing beside her. "What will you do now, child?"

For a long moment Findaráto just stood there, staring at the damage he had caused. There was one small plant he noticed — he wasn’t even sure what it was called — lying uprooted among the dying rose bushes. It looked even more forlorn than everything else, lying there with its single sun-yellow bloom. He felt tears welling in his eyes as he continued to gaze at that one flower, falling to his knees and gently picking it up. With no real conscious thought of what he was doing he dug at the ground by his knees, making a hole into which he stuck the plant, pushing the soil back into place, patting it down. Letting go of the flower, he sat back on his heels, looking at it expectantly. For a few seconds it remained upright but when it drooped over he started weeping, feeling defeated all over again. His tears dripped off his cheeks onto the flower.

All this time, Yavanna and Olórin watched the ellon’s actions in silence. When he started crying though, Yavanna knelt beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Hush now, best beloved," she said, borrowing the favorite phrase from Námo, knowing Findaráto would recognize it. "That is a very good start. Look, look what your tears have wrought."

She pointed to the flower and Findaráto gasped in shock, his tears forgotten as he beheld the plant, now no longer drooping, but upright. There was a glow surrounding it that mesmerized him. Yavanna smiled warmly and bent down to give him a light kiss on the top of his head. "I think you will do," she whispered, more to herself than to him. She felt a sense of satisfaction coming from the Maia standing there as well as from Námo busy with his charges in Mandos proper. "Would you like to help me repair the rest of the damage?"

The ellon looked at her with relief in his eyes, relief and perhaps just a hint of joy. He nodded enthusiastically but then the smile that had graced his face was replaced by lines of worry. "Wh-what about my punishment?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Yavanna took one of his hands and turned the palm up so they could see the scars crisscrossing it. "I think you’ve punished yourself enough, child," she said gently. "Whenever you see these scars they will remind you of the day you let anger control you instead of the other way around. Let that be the lesson you take with you from this day hence. Now, go with Olórin and he will show you where the gardening tools are."

Findaráto rose and obediently followed the Maia while Yavanna remained kneeling, gazing fondly at the yellow flower standing so bravely against the destruction around it, thinking it was an apt symbol for the ellon now returning with spade and trowel in hand.

In spite of Yavanna’s gentle treatment of him, Findaráto still felt at a loss. He was expecting to be punished. He was not sure what form the punishment would take, but he was quite sure it did not include having mid-morning tea with scones under a spreading oak tree after he and the Valië had finished putting the garden to rights. Yet, there they were, sitting on a blanket, drinking peppermint tea and eating hot scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam. He decided not to worry too much about it, though. The scones were delicious. Still....

Yavanna seemed to divine his confusion and hid a smile behind the porcelain teacup in her hand. "You are puzzled, child," she said after taking a sip of tea.

Findaráto nodded and gave her a heartbreaking look of something very close to despair. "Why am I here?"

"Hmm.... a rather difficult question to answer," the Valië said in all seriousness, "but I imagine you mean, why are you in this garden?"

He nodded again, though more reluctantly. That was something he didn’t want to think about just then. Asking about the garden seemed safer.

"The answer to the one lies in the answer to the other, Findaráto," Yavanna said gently. "You are alive because it is time for you to live again."

"I don’t want to," the ellon whispered, not looking at her, cringing slightly as if to ward off a blow he knew must come.

"Most Reborn do not," she said in a matter-of-fact manner. "With re-embodiment comes responsibilities that were put aside at death. You have existed, Findaráto, for many centuries in a timeless state, free from all responsibilities, free even from your own identity. However, that is not the same as living. It is, in fact, a state unnatural to you, forced upon you by the fact that your first hröa was too damaged to sustain your fëa. You died who should never have tasted Death as the Secondborn do."

He shuddered, images of eyes glowing in the darkness and chains binding him as well as the sound of a slavering beast filled his mind and he mewled in sudden terror. Instantly, Námo appeared, kneeling behind him and embracing him, even as Yavanna reached out to take hold of one of his hands.

"Easy, child," the Lord of Mandos said. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

"Findaráto, look at me," the Earth-Queen commanded. "That’s it. All is well, child. There is no need for fear. Banish those images from your mind. They cannot harm you."

Findaráto gasped as he felt the love and support of the two Valar envelope him and he started weeping. "I died... I died...." he kept saying even as he continued to weep, the sense of defeat washing over him again.

"Yes, you did," Námo said gently, still holding him in his arms. "There is no shame in that, best beloved. Many have died, many more will do so. Take comfort in the fact that you died protecting another, that you gave your life to save another and in doing so, wrought a great destiny not only for yourself, but for others."

"I shall not tell you," Námo replied. "That knowledge should come from yourself, but know that in sacrificing yourself you opened up a future for your people and the Secondborn that might never have been possible otherwise. Your selfless act is one of which even we Valar stand in awe. Believe this."

His tears abated and he grew calmer. Leaning against Námo and drawing in a deep breath he released the tension, the crippling despair and guilt that had threatened to take him. He died and horribly. He knew that. Yet, oddly the emotion behind that knowledge was lacking. It was as if it had happened to another. What he did feel was relief that his death had had some meaning beyond himself, that it benefitted others, that it had not been for nothing.

"No death is for nothing," Námo said, as if he could read his thoughts. "There is always a reason for what happens, whether we understand this or not. Sometimes the deepest tragedies seem to be the result of capriciousness on the part of fate, yet that is not so. From even the greatest of tragedies some good unlooked for always arises. We Valar are a witness to this, for there have been times in our long existence when it all seemed pointless, the waste and destruction that our Fallen Brother wrought across Eä, yet in the end we knew it was not pointless. Do you know how we knew?"

Námo bent down and planted a kiss on the top of his silvery-golden hair. "Because you are here and that has made all the suffering we Valar have endured over the long ages worth while." He kissed him again and Yavanna smiled, giving him a nod when he looked to her for confirmation of Námo’s words.

Findaráto smiled. The Valar shared a look of satisfaction between them and then Námo spoke again. "So now, there is only one last question that needs answering," he said.

Findaráto turned his head to look up at the Vala, his brows creased with renewed worry. "Wh-what question?"

Námo arched an eyebrow. "Why the question of who gets to eat the last scone, of course."

Findaráto blinked at the unexpectedness of the reply and then, without taking his eyes off of Námo, he reached out and snagged the last scone, bringing it to his mouth and slowly taking a bite. Námo threw back his head and laughed, giving Findaráto another hug.

"Hey! That was my scone, you naughty elfling," Yavanna protested in mock anger, fighting not to laugh. "Just for that, I’ll have to come up with a suitable punishment."

Findaráto wasn’t sure if she wasn’t being serious, and he wondered if he should apologize before something bad happened to him but just then Olórin came to his rescue bearing another plate of scones and a fresh pot of tea.

The days and weeks passed. There were good days and bad but nothing like what I had experienced earlier. Sometimes I despaired, for the memories were slow in coming though I made quick progress in bringing fëa and hröa together. At such times, though, when everything seemed hopeless, I would hide in one of the trees dotting the garden, refusing to come down until either hunger or other needs forced me to. These times were rare and became rarer still, for eventually, the pain of living was replaced by something else, something more insidious and more subtle. I did not recognize what it was I was feeling and I hesitated to ask the Maiar. If I had, they would have been able to name the emotion for me. But I did not, and I would have to leave the Gardens of the Reborn and journey on to Lórien before I would learn its name: joy....

"It is time for you to leave, Findaráto," Olórin said one day as the two of them were strolling through the garden, enjoying the day.

The ellon gave the Maia a surprised look. "Leave? Why should I want to leave? Where would I go?"

Olórin gave a small chuckle at the barrage of questions. "You cannot remain here forever, child," he said. "Eventually you need to leave, to experience life again at its fullest. You will never do that if you stay within this small garden. As to where you will go, you will go to Lórien."

"Lórien," Findaráto echoed, mulling the word in his mind. "The realm of Lord Irmo and Lady Estë."

"I’m surprised that I do," Findaráto said with a light laugh, "considering all the things I don’t remember."

Olórin joined him in laughter. "At any rate," he said, "you will go there soon. You have spent these many weeks learning to live in hröa again, but you have been alone all this time."

"But not other Elves, and you need to learn to interact with your own kind again," the Maia pointed out. Findaráto looked troubled by that thought, but said nothing more.

Two days later, he received a visitor, another Maia wearing the white tabard with the rainbow emblem of the Lord of Lórien. The Maia smiled at him benignly as Olórin introduced him.

"This is Ingil of the People of Irmo," Olórin said. "He’s also a good friend of mine and he will take good care of you."

Findaráto turned troubled eyes on Olórin and Tindomerel, who was also there. "Will I ever see you again?" he asked.

Both Maiar nodded. "Of that, I have no doubt," Olórin answered for them both. "Be well, child," he then said, planting a kiss of benediction on the ellon’s forehead. Tindomerel followed suit.

"Be happy," she said softly with a smile. "Know that you have been given this second chance at Life. Use this knowledge wisely." She handed him a haversack.

Findaráto put the pack on his back, nodding, though he was unsure what the Maia meant. Nonetheless, he was grateful for all that she and Olórin had done for him. "Thank you," he said simply and though he wanted to say more, he could not find the words. It seemed to be enough, however, for both Maiar smiled and bade him a fair journey as Ingil led him out of the garden by a gate that he did not know had existed until then. Findaráto had to almost run to keep up with the purposeful strides of the Maia as they headed northward. When he chanced to look back towards the garden he was surprised not to see it. He stopped in amazement and dread. Ingil turned and gave him a fond smile.

"It’s still there," he said, "but as you no longer have need of it, it is no longer visible to you. Come now. We still have a way to go."

Findaráto nodded and together they resumed their walk, Ingil shortening his strides so the Elf could keep up. The day was brilliant with sunlight and a warm southwestern breeze floated around them. There was the subtle scent of brine on the air and Findaráto wondered if they were near the sea and asked.

"I... I remember the sea," Findaráto told him, sounding somewhat hesitant, as if he was unsure of the memory.

Their path led through open meadowland and thick copses of wood. Findaráto was fascinated by the sights and smells and sounds that permeated his senses. There was a vibrancy to the landscape that he had not felt in the garden. He often found himself standing, just staring at a wildflower or butterflies floating on the breeze. Once he spied deer running along the edge of a small copse before disappearing into the gloom of the woods. He gasped in delight, utterly captivated by the sight. If Ingil felt any impatience at Findaráto’s dawdling, he gave no sign. In fact, he often smiled, enjoying the delight that the Reborn ellon was experiencing as they made their way northward.

As the day deepened towards twilight, Ingil indicated that they should stop for the night as they reached a small rise of land. A small spring-fed pool nestled in a dell to their right. It appeared to be a watering hole for the animals that lived in the area. They could see a family of racoons and a small herd of red deer already there, ignoring the Maia and Elf. "We will set up camp here and resume our journey in the morning," the Maia told the ellon. "We should reach the outskirts of Lórien by noon."

Findaráto nodded and soon the two of them were settled beside a cheery fire as the sun set below a ridge of land and the stars began to peep out, hesitantly at first, as if unsure if the time was meet for their appearance, but then blazing forth in all their glory even as the sickle moon began to rise in the east. Findaráto sighed at the sight as Ingil handed him a bowl of broth thick with vegetables and hunks of meat.

"A beautiful sight, is it not?" the Maia said with a smile and the ellon nodded, taking an appreciative sip of the soup.

"What will I do in Lórien?" Findaráto asked, for it had been much on his mind as they were walking.

"That will depend on the Lord and Lady," Ingil answered. "You will be housed with other Reborn and learn how to interact with your fellow Elves again. You will be taught certain skills...."

Ingil shrugged. "That I do not know. Each Reborn is taught skills that will prove useful in their new life, but since everyone is unique, the skills vary from person to person. Much depends on a person’s interest and what they did in their previous life."

Findaráto frowned. "I don’t remember all that I did... before, not really. I know I was a leader."

"Yes, you were a leader," Ingil said with a nod. "You are of the House of Finwë, a prince of Eldamar and in the Outer Lands, you were a king."

Ingil shook his head. "The King of the Noldor is your atar. You are his firstborn and heir."

"My atar...." Findaráto’s expression went blank for a moment, and then he shook his head in dismay. "I can’t remember."

"You will, child," the Maia said sympathetically. "Do not force the memories to come. For now, just know that you have an atar and an amillë and they are anxiously waiting to see you again."

Ingil gave him an enquiring look and the ellon sighed. "I did leave them after all, refusing to return even when given the opportunity to do so. I remember that, at least."

"Well, I’m sure it will work out in the end," Ingil said with a smile. "Why don’t you sleep now? Tomorrow will come soon enough and a new phase of your life will begin."

Findaráto sighed, settling into his bedroll, but he lay for a long time staring up into the star-strewn heavens, deep in thought, while Ingil kept a silent vigil.

They reached what Findaráto assumed were the outskirts of Lórien around noon. Ingil led him to a tree-shadowed gate, large willows, whose graceful limbs formed a roof over it, shading them from the noontide sun, which burned brightly on this particular early summer day. The Maia turned to him with a wistful smile.

"Here is where we must part," he said. "This gate is for you and you alone. When you pass through, choose whichever path you fancy."

"Where should I go, then? Will there be no one to greet me?" Findaráto asked, feeling somewhat confused. He could not understand what the Maia meant.

Ingil nodded. "Yes, but you must find them first." He raised a hand to still the ellon’s next words. "Choose whichever path you will, Findaráto, and find your new life within." Then, he turned and walked away toward the northeast, fading into the landscape, leaving Findaráto alone.

The Reborn sighed, shifted his haversack on his back to a more comfortable position and examined the gate. It was an iron gate in which the images of two trees were wrought. On the left, the tree was brightened with gold leaf while the tree on the right was painted with silver. Findaráto pulled back the bar holding the two parts of the gate together and the right side swung silently open. He slipped through, instinctively closing the gate before looking about. He could see four paths winding in different directions through a stand of ancient oaks and beeches. There was a silence that hung heavily in the air; not even a breeze stirred the leaves.

Findaráto sighed and wondered which of the paths he should take. They all looked equally inviting and just as equally uninviting. As he stood there in indecision, though, a memory crept forth and he saw in his mind a group of elflings in a courtyard playing a counting game. Unconsciously, he began to echo them, pointing to the different paths as he did:

"Balrogs, orcs, and goblin-kind, let them us never find, but if they do, we will fight and they shall learn of elven might."

With the last word he found himself pointing at the path that was to the far right, moving almost directly east before disappearing through the trees. He shrugged and set off. He brushed a hand on the trunks of the trees as he passed them, silently greeting them. The oaks were somewhat reticent with their own greetings, barely acknowledging his presence, but the beeches seemed friendlier, welcoming him with soft murmurs as leaves rustled in the windless air. The silence that had hung about the gate seemed heavier here under the trees and he realized he could hear no sound of birds trilling or squirrels chattering and he began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Still, he continued on.

The path wound its way through the woods so that within a few feet he had lost sight of the gate. Then suddenly he came to a fork and he paused to consider his options. The right-hand path seemed somewhat overgrown, as if it did not see many travelers. The left-hand path looked more traveled. He was tempted to follow the left path, yet even as he stepped forward, his gaze wandered to the right and he wondered what might lie that way and why it was not trod upon as often as the left path. The mystery intrigued him and he decided to chance it, figuring he could always come back to the fork if the way proved too choked with weeds to bother with.

"It’s probably just a dead end anyway," he said out loud, just to hear himself speak, "which is why it’s so overgrown."

And his words proved nearly prophetic. At first the way was not too onerous, for the path was not overly clogged with underbrush, but the further along he went the denser the underbrush became. The path was still discernible but the going was harder. At least twice his haversack got caught in the brambles that he had to carefully negotiate and thorns and burrs caught in his clothes and hair. He was tempted to just turn around and go back to the other path but something inside him refused to give up, determined to see where the path would end.

"If the path disappears, then I will turn back," he promised himself, again speaking out loud to hear his own voice. The silence around him was weighing his spirit down and he began muttering imprecations at himself of which ‘orc-brained fool’ was the mildest epithet in his litany of name-calling as he struggled through a particularly difficult patch of brambles that seemed bent on keeping him in place. With a vicious oath and a sudden lunge, he threw himself out of the patch and landed face down on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. It took him a moment to clear his head and when he looked up he gasped.

Gone were the trees, the brambles, indeed, the very path itself. He looked frantically about and saw only an open field of meadow grass and wildflowers. He could be back outside the gate except there was no sign of the woods at all. He put his head down in the crook of his arm and sighed. Had it all been for naught? What was he to do now? Gathering his resolve, he pushed himself up and stood, looking about.

No trees, no path, nothing to indicate where he was or which way he should go, merely a series of gently undulating downs as far as he could see. He glanced up at the sky to gauge the sun’s position and noticed that it was still high above him as if no time had passed since he went through the gate. He frowned, then shook his head. Too many mysteries and now he realized he was feeling thirsty. His waterskin was only a third full. Unless he found habitation or at least some body of water, he would have to be careful with it.

"Well, Finrod," he said out loud after taking a small swig of water to ease the dryness of his throat. "Next time, don’t be an idiot and take the more traveled path."

With that, he set off in a random direction, deciding that it was ‘north’ since that was the direction he and Ingil had taken to reach Lórien from Mandos. Hours seemed to pass though the sun never moved and he was hot and exhausted, his waterskin nearly empty. There seemed no end to the steppes and he despaired of ever finding Lórien or any other habitation.

Then, reaching the top of a rise, he stopped in amazement. Below him was a flagged terrace of white marble, perhaps ten feet square. Eight fluted pillars, also of white marble, were evenly spaced around the perimeter but there was no roof. In the center of the terrace was a fountain, its waters splashing merrily. The terrace’s presence was incongruous, for there were no other buildings, no other indication of civilization whatsoever. It was simply there.

The ellon made his way down to the terrace, a sense of unreality stealing over him. Nothing about this made any sense, but he needed the water and was grateful for it. He dropped his haversack by one of the pillars and moved towards the fountain. Up close, he saw that it was made of alabaster, white and translucent in the sun. The basin stood on a pedestal so that it was about chest high to him. The bowl was shallow but large, perhaps two feet across. Along its rim were two intertwined serpents, so realistically carved that he could count every scale. Four fluted columns upheld a stone canopy so that the entire structure was nearly eight feet tall. In the middle of the bowl were four life-like fish, standing upright back-to-back with their tails entwined. Water gushed from their opened mouths, falling back into the bowl. Wrapped around one of the columns was a mithril chain to which was attached a mithril cup, hanging down one side of the bowl. Obviously one was meant to drink from it, Findaráto surmised, and he lifted the cup with the intention of dipping it into the fountain. Words were inscribed along the rim of the cup, words that, when he read them, sent a frisson of fear through him: Qui sucil, fíruval — Qui ú-sucil, fíruval.

He stared at the words in consternation, trying to decipher their meaning, but he was at a loss. Was the water poisoned, then? Obviously, given how little water he had left in his waterskin, if he did not find another water source he could well die of thirst, assuming he did not find some outpost of civilization first. He had no idea where in Arda he was but had to assume that he was still somewhere in Aman. He licked dry lips, the heat of the sun beating down on him. The total absurdity of his situation struck him and he flung the cup away in disgust. It clanged against the fountain, sending a dull vibration through the air.

Leaning into the bowl he let the water flow over his head, giving him some relief from the sun’s heat, but he refrained from drinking. Shaking the water out of his golden locks, he went over to his haversack and shouldered it, moving across the terrace to the other side, intending to continue his trek, though he had no idea where he was going or even if he was headed in the right direction. He refused to look back.

Stepping beyond the terrace he felt a wave of dizziness strike him and clung to the middle pillar as he passed it, fighting to keep conscious, but it was no use. Darkness descended upon him and his last conscious thought was wondering if dousing his head in the water had been such a good idea after all.

Findaráto felt someone lift his head and press something against his lips. Cool liquid slid down his throat and his eyes fluttered open to find that he was staring up at Lord Námo who smiled down at him.

"Feeling better, best beloved?" the Vala asked as he helped the ellon to sit up.

"What happened?" he asked. Looking around he found that he was in a small glade surrounded by oaks and beeches. "Where am I? How did I get here?"

Námo chuckled. "So many questions. Come. Let us get more comfortable." He pulled Findaráto up, keeping a steady hand on his elbow until the elf could stand on his own. He then led him to a small pavilion that was set up along one side of the glade where a table and three chairs were set. On the table was a cut crystal decanter of wine and three matching goblets. In one of the chairs was a Personage whose features were similar enough to Lord Námo that Findaráto had to assume this was the Lord of Lórien, an assumption that was borne out when Námo made the introductions.

Lord Irmo smiled at him. "An interesting way to make a choice," he said, "using an elfling counting game."

Findaráto felt himself blush for no particular reason. "It seemed as good a way of choosing as any," he muttered.

Both Valar nodded. "It mattered not which path you chose, only that you did," Námo said.

"And the fork in the road?" the ellon countered. "I think I made the wrong choice there."

"No," Irmo replied. "You made a different choice from those made by others, but it was not necessarily wrong. It did prove difficult though, didn’t it?"

Findaráto nodded. "I should have turned back as soon as it got too overgrown. It was obvious no one had ever traveled that way, at least not for a very long time."

"Perhaps," Irmo said, his tone noncommittal, "but in the end, it only mattered that you made a choice and stuck to it regardless of the consequences."

The Valar nodded. "The choosing between impossible choices, you might say," Námo explained. "Sometimes no choice is a good choice, and any choice you make leads to an undesirable end. You chose the harder route, knowing that dying of thirst would be a more terrible fate than dying quickly from poison."

"Perhaps," Námo replied, his expression giving nothing away. "It matters little now. The point is you made a choice. Our question to you is why did you choose as you did?"

Findaráto thought about it for several minutes, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "As for the path, I can only say that it intrigued me. I wondered where it would go and why none before me had ever walked down it. Something within me rebelled against following the path that obviously has been trod by many feet."

Findaráto shrugged, not entirely sure what the Vala meant. "As for the fountain," he continued, "assuming that the words on the cup were true, death would be certain if I drank from the fountain. While death could also have found me even if I did not drink, it was less certain and there was always the chance that I would find safe water to drink or, better yet, people to succor me."

The two brothers shared a look of satisfaction between them, then turned their attention back to Findaráto who sat there wondering what all this was about. As if reading his mind, or perhaps, simply reading the expression of confusion on his face, Námo spoke. "This was a test, to see how you handle making choices. Until now, all choices were made for you as you struggled to integrate your fëa to your new hröa." Findaráto nodded and the Vala continued. "But now you have reached a stage in your new life where you need to start making your own choices, good and bad. We wished to see how you handled certain types of choices. They are a reflection of your character."

"And of your previous life," Irmo added. "When you had the chance to do so, you refused to turn back from your course, even though it meant treading a difficult path into exile. When you were faced with an impossible choice, either to honor an oath which ultimately led to your death, or to renege on it and thereby bring you dishonor and a different kind of death, you chose the former, for there was always the slim chance that you would cheat fate and live. If you had chosen the latter, though you lived, death would have been preferable to the dishonor and ignominy that would have been yours forever after."

Findaráto mulled the words over, balancing their truth against what he knew of himself. He looked up at the Valar with a set expression. "I could do nothing else than what I did, either then or now."

Irmo reached over and poured some wine into the goblets. He handed one to Námo and one to Findaráto before lifting his own in a salute. "Welcome to Lórien, my son."

Findaráto joined them in drinking the wine. It was the best thing he had ever tasted in either life.

Qui sucil, fíruval — Qui ú-sucil, fíruval: ‘If you drink, you will die — If you don’t drink, you will die’.

Lórien proved an awkward time for me as it must for all Reborn. From solitary existence except for one’s attendant Maiar to having to deal with other people on a daily basis was something of a shock. I think, though, that it is done on purpose, something similar to being thrown into a deep pool and told to start swimming. You either learn to tread water or you sink. So it was when I came to Lórien: I was immediately thrown into situations where I had only fragmentary memories to rely on for guidance, memories of my previous life and how I interacted with others then. Most of the time, or so it seemed, it felt as if I were drowning....

"This is where you will be staying," Ingil said to Finrod as the Maia led him into one of the groves set aside for the Reborn. Ingil had come to him after his discussion with Lords Irmo and Námo, smiling warmly at the ellon.

Finrod looked at the grove with some doubt. It was not very large and there was only a single pavilion with a smaller wooden construction opposite the entrance that Ingil said was the privy. The pavilion was large and consisted of two main spaces. Along the right side were three cots, separated from one another by tapestry screens, providing some modicum of privacy. At the foot of each cot was a clothespress and at the head was a small night table. Two of the cots were already occupied from the looks of things so Finrod placed his haversack on the cot that was furthest from the entrance. On the left side of the pavilion there were three comfortable chairs around a low table, almost like a sitting room. Colorful rugs graced the ground and in the back left corner there was a mirrored washstand with a basin and ewer. A lantern hung from the central post and there was another on the low table. Small candles were on the night tables beside each cot.

Finrod stared at the place with some dismay. He was unsure if he could deal with living with others in the same pavilion. He thought at least he would be given his own place instead of having to share. Ingil, having seen similar expressions on other Reborn, smiled gently, patting the ellon on the shoulder.

"It’s not as terrible as you might think, Findaráto," the Maia said. "I promise that in a very short while you won’t even think twice about it. Now, as soon as... ah... I see Súrilindë is here with your two companions."

Finrod turned to see two ellyn, Sindar by the looks of them, coming towards them in the company of another Maia who wore the purple surcoat with the silver harp denoting one of the People of Estë. The two Maiar greeted one another with smiles while the two ellyn eyed Finrod somewhat suspiciously. Finrod tried not to squirm under their scrutiny. Súrilindë made the introductions, his voice sounding like chimes gently blowing in the wind.

"Brethorn, Saelmir, let me make you known to Findaráto," the Maia said, speaking in carefully enunciated Quenya.

Brethorn turned out to be the taller of the two, his hair a truer silver than Saelmir’s, whose darker locks suggested that he might be of mixed heritage. Both ellyn frowned and Saelmir glanced up at Súrilindë.

"That’s not a Sindarin name," he said almost accusingly, speaking his own language.

The Maia grinned. "Nay. It is Quenya, but you might know the Sindarin form better: Finrod."

Now both ellyn stared at Finrod with something akin to awe, making him feel extremely uncomfortable. He glanced down at his feet, not willing to make eye contact with anyone, wishing he were back in his little garden.

"No," Ingil said firmly. "Simply Finrod. Whatever titles any of you may have held in Beleriand do not apply here in Aman. Finrod, Brethorn was attached to your cousin Fingon’s army and died in the Dagor Bragollach, while Saelmir died a few years after you in a terrible battle called the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnediad. He hales from Gondolin."

Finrod went absolutely white at the mention of Turgon’s name, reeling so that both Ingil and Brethorn reached out to grab him to prevent him from collapsing.

"Elenwë!" Finrod wailed. "We lost Elenwë!" He started weeping and Ingil took him into his embrace, casting a rueful look at his fellow Maia, who began to usher the two Sindar away, their own expressions ones of shock and dismay. "Let’s give him some privacy," Súrilindë said to them quietly. "Come. I hear the bell for the evening meal ringing."

Soon only Ingil was alone with Finrod, gently rocking him and making soothing noises until the ellon finally calmed. "A frightening memory," he said and Finrod nodded. "But only a memory. One of many."

"Is... is Elenwë... alive?" Finrod stuttered, remaining in the Maia’s embrace.

"No," Ingil answered. "She still resides in Mandos. Her time for release is not yet."

"Where would you go?" Ingil asked. To that Finrod had no ready answer. Ingil smiled as he held the ellon away from him. "You are embarrassed by their reaction to your name," he stated.

"You can, if you let others know that you do not want any special treatment from them," Ingil said. "Whatever your stations in life, you all have one thing in common: you died. Death is a great leveler, for it makes no distinction between nobles and commoners, Noldor and Sindar, men and women, adults and children. You are all Reborn and who you were before your death is less important than who you are now. In time, Brethorn and Saelmir and others will not be so intimidated by you simply because of your name."

Finrod still looked doubtful but finally he shrugged as if to put his doubts aside for a time and gave the Maia a sly look. "Did I hear Súrilindë say something about dinner?"

Ingil gave a light laugh. "Come. I will show you where the dining pavilion is where all eat in common." Finrod nodded and together they went in search of dinner.

As soon as they entered the dining pavilion all conversations stopped and Finrod swallowed nervously at the stares he got from everyone there. First one, then another of the Elves stood in respect and soon all were standing, silently looking upon the first of the kings of Beleriand to be released from Mandos, though the object of their scrutiny was unaware of this. Finrod actually took a step back, meaning to flee, but Ingil kept a firm hand on his back. The Maia bent down and whispered in his ear.

"Do not let them intimidate you," he said. "You were once a king. Some of these may well have been your own subjects."

Finrod’s eyes widened and his heart raced at that thought. He felt himself begin to panic and then a memory arose in his mind of himself surrounded by Elves who turned their backs on him, all save ten. He was unsure what the memory meant, or why he was having it now, but it steadied him and he took a deep centering breath, slowly releasing it. He straightened, his bearing and mien becoming more regal, his eyes shining with the Light of the Trees, though he was unaware of this. He saw several of the nearer Elves cast their eyes down, their faces flushed, as if in shame, and wondered, but he dismissed it from his mind as he addressed the assembly.

"If you continue standing like that your dinners will get cold," he said, then he glanced at Ingil, who gave him an encouraging smile, pointing to where several tables were lined against one long side of the pavilion, laden with meat and drink.

Finrod nodded and moved towards the sideboards. Almost at once several Elves rushed to serve him. He held up his hand, frowning. All motion stopped. "Excuse me," he said softly, "but I have not needed help in feeding myself for months now. Return to your seats and resume eating before the food goes cold and all the hard work that went into providing this repast is for naught."

The other Reborn shuffled reluctantly back to their seats while Finrod continued to the sideboards and began choosing his dinner, all the while aware of the eyes that followed his every move. He sighed inwardly, wondering how he was going to survive this. When he reached the end of the tables he turned to see where he might sit, hoping there was a place in a dark corner where no one would bother him. He had the distinct feeling that everyone there was going to ignore their own dinners while they watched him eat his. His appetite was fast waning. Looking about he recognized Brethorn and Saelmir, the latter hesitantly gesturing to him. He nodded and made his way to them.

"We... we saved you a seat... er... aran," Saelmir stammered, giving him an awkward bow.

"Súrilindë said we should," Brethorn said almost at the same time. "Please sit... um... aran." He gestured towards an empty spot on the bench next to him.

Finrod glanced at the two Sindar and the several Elves who shared their table, all staring at him with expressions ranging from awe to trepidation. He carefully placed his trencher and goblet on the table, then straightened, giving them all a cool stare. "The next person who calls me aran," he said in a voice he knew carried throughout the pavilion, "will find themselves washing the dishes...."

"Hey! We do that anyway," someone yelled out, apparently unimpressed by the threat, and there were nervous titters all around.

Finrod turned to where the heckler stood at another table, his smile dangerous. "... of every household in Eldamar," he ended.

There was absolute silence while they all considered the probability of the threat ever happening. Looking at Finrod’s expression some of them decided not to push their luck.

"So what do we call you?" one of the other Elves, an elleth, at their table asked.

"But we can’t just call you that," the elleth protested. "You’re a... a king!"

"No," Finrod said decisively. "I am just another Reborn, no different from the rest of you. Now, you all may do as you wish, but I’m going to sit here and have my dinner." With that, he sat down, picked up a fork and began eating, trying to ignore everyone else. He wasn’t all that hungry any more but he refused to bolt, however much he wanted to just find a tree to climb into and hide.

Then he heard Brethorn sigh and the ellon sat down and resumed his own meal. Soon, Saelmir did the same and then everyone else at their table sat, picking up their forks, all the while stealing glances at Finrod who studiously ignored them. The rest of the Elves also sat, quietly resuming their conversations, though at the table where Finrod was sitting there was silence. Finally, though, Brethorn got up the nerve to say something.

Finrod put down his fork and gazed around at the Elves who had stopped to hear his reply and sighed. "I think I would prefer being back in Mandos giving Lord Námo grief."

There was a brief pause and then Brethorn laughed, clapping Finrod on the back. "Wouldn’t we all," he said and soon everyone else joined him in laughter. The Maiar who happened to be stationed there in case any of the Reborn needed assistance or, more likely, reminders of proper behavior, grinned at one another.

After that, Finrod’s first dinner in Lórien became much more enjoyable. Saelmir and Brethorn introduced some of the other Elves at their table. The elleth who had spoken up earlier was Alpheldis. She was a Sinda who had lived in Eglarest. Another was Nestadôr, a Noldo who had followed Maglor to Beleriand. When Finrod politely enquired of his family in Aman, the ellon shook his head.

"I do not think I have any," he said. "At any rate, I think I will go to Tol Eressëa and live there." At Finrod’s obvious confusion he explained further. "When the Valar permitted the Noldor to return to Aman after the War of Wrath, they let them settle on Tol Eressëa, for they are not allowed to return to their previous homes which they had abandoned." Finrod nodded his understanding and the ellon continued. "Anyway, I’ve met a few other Reborn Noldor whom I remember from before and none of us really want to go back to our old lives before we left Aman."

"What will you do?" Finrod asked. He had not really thought about what would happen to him once he left Lórien. He had not yet thought that far ahead, but talking to Nestadôr brought to mind the fact that some day soon he would be faced with a similar decision.

Nestadôr shrugged. "I was a healer in Beleriand attached to Lord Maglor’s household. I don’t know if there is any need for healers here, outside Lórien, I mean, but I do not want to go back to what I was before the Darkening. Too much has happened since."

There were nods all around, at least among those who were Noldor. The Sindar seemed nervous about the discussion. Finrod turned to Brethorn and Saelmir. "And what about you two? Do you know what you will be doing when you leave here? Will you go to Tol Eressëa as well?"

Saelmir nodded. "Most likely," he said. "If we have kin among the Teleri, I doubt they will be comfortable with us or we with them. I would prefer to live among those who remember our homes in Beleriand and who speak Sindarin. Quenya is too hard."

There was appreciative laughter among the Sindar while the Noldor, Finrod included, all rolled their eyes in mock exasperation. "Well in that case," Finrod said with a glint in his eyes, then he turned to Nestadôr and his next words were in Quenya. "So, how was my cousin Macalaurë when last you saw him?"

Finrod glanced at the ellon and stuck out his tongue, much to everyone’s surprise, Saelmir’s not the least. Then he turned back to Nestadôr who sat there grinning. "He was still alive when I died," he said, also speaking Quenya, "but I do not know what his fate was afterwards."

After that the conversation flowed to other topics, sometimes in Quenya, other times in Sindarin, as the dinner progressed. When they were finished eating, several of the Elves began gathering the dirty dishes, for they had drawn kitchen duty that day. All were amazed when Finrod calmly picked up a towel, offering to help with the drying. No one was foolish enough to object. Some who had not drawn kitchen duty, including Brethorn and Saelmir, remained behind, inspired by Finrod’s example, and offered their assistance as well, thus lightening the load for everyone.

Ingil, standing beside Súrilindë and the other Maiar, watched with approval. "I think he’ll do," he said softly so none but his fellow Maiar heard. They all nodded, equally pleased with the newest Reborn to come to Lórien.

Alpheldis: Swan Friend [alph ‘swan’ + veldis, lenited form of meldis ‘(fem.) friend’].

Dagor Nirnaeth Arnediad: Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Fifth Battle, which occurred in I-471. Finrod died in 468.

If I was hoping for an easy time in Lórien, I was quickly disabused of that hope. In spite of my attempts to blend in, to be just another Reborn, those around me made it difficult. The other Reborn were too in awe of the legend that I was to treat me as one of them, never mind that I barely recalled anything that warranted such veneration. The Maiar and the Lóriennildi who tended to us did not help. Always I was addressed as ‘Prince’ even when I insisted they just call me by my name. Yet the Lóriennildi were unimpressed by my family connections and they treated me much the same as they treated the other Reborn, acting somewhat superior to us, however politely. The Maiar, at least, were being genuinely polite, as they were to all the Elves, according to them their proper titles. Some of the Lóriennildi, however, were not subtle in their dislike for me and often disparaged my behavior, constantly reminding me that I was the son of the Noldóran and that I should act accordingly. Unfortunately for them, I was usually not in the mood to do so....

"Prince Findaráto, what would your atar say if he saw you like this?" The Lóriennildë Míriel said with unfeigned exasperation, glowering at him. She was Finrod’s primary counselor among the Lóriennildi.

Finrod resisted a sigh, gazing at her from his upside down position as he swung himself lazily on a tree branch. She was a Noldo who had not yet seen her first millennium and was thus accounted young among the Elves. Finrod did not like her all that much, for she tended towards bossiness, acting more like an impatient older sister saddled with obstreperous younger siblings than a healer. Considering that many of her charges, including himself, remembered the Light of the Two Trees, Finrod found the situation somewhat ironic.

"I would hope he would ask if he could join me," Finrod answered, giving her his best innocent Reborn look. He had been wandering around for most of the afternoon, not interested in being in his assigned class (today it was Art) with the other Reborn. After a week or so in Lórien he was feeling restless and had no patience with the idea of learning the latest techniques in illuminating manuscripts or herbology or anything else for that matter. So, after the noon meal, he had snuck away to wander through the Gardens, content to do nothing more than swing from a tree branch and let his mind wander. Naturally, as soon as he went missing, they would have gone looking for him. He knew that Reborn tended to wander away and the Lóriennildi and the Maiar generally kept a close eye on them. He had been genuinely surprised that no Maia had shown up to shoo him back to class, so he was rather annoyed when Míriel turned up instead.

"You’re a little too old to be swinging from a tree," Míriel commented with a superior look.

"Define ‘old’," he demanded with a smile. "I’ve been alive for less than a year after all and swinging from a tree is fun. You should try it sometime."

"I wish you wouldn’t call me that," Finrod muttered futilely as he continued swinging.

"...I’m here to take you back to class," Míriel said, completely ignoring his words.

"I am not going back," Finrod said with a frown and swung himself off the branch, deciding that, hanging upside down, he was not really in a position of strength. He straightened his tunic and threw back his head to get his hair out of his eyes and glared at her, trying to remember how he must have been when he was a king. Even if I’m not a king any longer, he thought to himself. "I have no desire to waste my time...."

"It is not a waste," Míriel interrupted, throwing her hands up and shaking her head. "These classes are carefully designed to help you to fine tune your motor control and at the same time give you an opportunity to explore different skills that may help you in your new life."

Finrod leaned nonchalantly against the tree, a large maple that rustled its branches softly. Finrod had felt the tree’s delight when he had climbed into it and began swinging from the branch. He gave Míriel a cool stare. "As you and everyone else in this place keep reminding me, I am a prince of Eldamar. Learning the names of herbs and their medicinal properties is not something I need to know." He smiled at her and he knew his smile did not reach his eyes. "That’s what I have retainers for."

Míriel raised an eyebrow, looking about as if to ascertain if they were alone, then she returned her attention to Finrod and gave him a delicate shrug. "I don’t see any retainers, your Highness. Best come to class and stop being...."

Míriel sighed, her expression calculating. "Ingil, Morilindë," she said without raising her voice.

Immediately, there was the overpowering scent of flowers — roses, lilacs, and orange blossoms predominating with hints of vanilla and lavender mixed in — as two Maiar made their presences known, giving Finrod slight but respectful bows. Ingil smiled at him knowingly while Morilindë stood there quietly gauging the moods of the two Elves. Finrod found himself straightening, his spine stiffening as he tried to figure out what his chances were of being allowed to go his own way.

"Prince Findaráto refuses to return to his assigned class," the Lóriennildë replied with a supercilious sniff. By her expression, Finrod could tell she felt that she had the upper hand.

"And which class is that?" Ingil asked, though Finrod was sure the Maia knew full well which class he was avoiding.

"Ah...." Ingil said then gave Finrod a sympathetic look. "I’m afraid you can’t get out of this one, Prince...."

"Morgoth take you all!" Finrod suddenly shouted in Sindarin, now angry. "Stop calling me that. I am not going back and that’s final!"

"What’s he saying?" Míriel demanded, looking angry herself. "I wish these Reborn would stop jabbering in that ridiculous language...."

She got no further for Finrod lost all sense of reason and, snarling a particularly vicious oath — both Maiar raised eyebrows at that — he leaped into the maple tree, making his way along one of the wider branches until he was near enough to another tree to cross the gap. He was glad that he had stopped at this particular part of Lórien where the trees formed a true forest. He made a second leap into a spreading oak and continued away, ignoring Míriel’s screams of frustration. He had no doubt the Maiar could easily pick him out of the tree and haul him back to the stupid class if they wished, but apparently they were content to let him go. That both pleased him and worried him, but he decided not to think about it too much; his immediate concern was to hide away from everyone and everything.

Eventually, Míriel’s yelling died away as he continued deeper into the woods until he came upon a clearing, one that he had not seen before. He glanced about, spying no one, and then slipped to the ground. The clearing was perhaps fifty feet across and in the center was a pool of still water. He walked over to it, surprised that the water was not scummed over. He could see no stream or other outlet to explain the water’s clarity. The pool was lined with white stones that also surrounded it and Finrod sat at the water’s edge, gazing contentedly into the still waters. As he sat there he could feel his earlier anger and frustration melt away, leaving him calm and centered.

Finrod scrambled to his feet to find himself standing before Lord Irmo whose expression was unreadable. Finrod looked at him warily, trying to gauge the Vala’s mood. "She deserved it," he said defensively. "Your Lóriennildi treat us with disdain and disrespect...."

"I feel justified in putting her in her place," Finrod said almost as coldly. "They all call me ‘prince’ but treat me as if I were no better than a... a mólanoldo."

Irmo raised an eyebrow at that. "Running away solves nothing," he said, not actually addressing the issue which Finrod had raised.

"No, Findaráto. You were not running away from something but running towards something. My fellow Valar and I understood that, even if you did not, and let you go. But in this instance you are indeed running away because you have no other goal. Before, you had a goal: to carve out a kingdom for yourself and to explore new lands. That was your saving grace. You joined in battling Melkor but that was not your main purpose for being in Beleriand. Here, though, you are simply running away."

"I tire of attending useless classes and boring lectures and listening to supercilious Elves berating me, Elves who are too young to remember the Light of the Two Trees," Finrod said with exasperation.

Irmo remained silent for a moment or two before he spoke. "I understand your frustration, child. It’s something that all Reborn experience while trying to adjust to their new lives. I admit some of my people are not as sympathetic as they should be and I will address the situation in my own time, but you need to understand this: you think you know what is best for you at this time, but you do not. I’ve been at this far longer than you, so trust me when I say that as boring as they may be these classes are necessary if you wish to function well in society again."

Finrod sighed, feeling not at all pleased with the Vala’s words but recognizing that they were true. "I’m just finding it all so difficult," he said, "and none of the others are making it easier."

"I know, and I will make some changes for you. I’m reassigning Míriel. Starting tomorrow you will have someone else acting as your chief counselor and I think we can dispense with art classes for now," he added with a smile. "I’ll find some other things for you to occupy yourself with. In the meantime, I think you should go and apologize to Míriel."

Finrod grimaced at the thought. "I still think she deserved it," he muttered, unwilling to back down.

"But you will apologize nonetheless." Irmo’s tone brooked no dissent, and Finrod sighed, giving the Vala a nod of acquiescence. "Good. Off you go now." Irmo pointed in a particular direction and watched the ellon reluctantly walk away. He shook his head in exasperated amusement. *So, any suggestions as to what we should do with him?* he bespoke to Estë and Námo.

*Whom do you have in mind as his new counselor?* Estë asked, deciding to change the subject.

*Eärnur,* Irmo replied without hesitation, sending them an image of a young Teler.

*He hasn’t even finished his apprenticeship,* Estë pointed out. *Surely he’s too young and inexperienced.*

There was silence as the other two Valar contemplated Irmo’s words. Finally, Námo spoke. *Why don’t you speak to Aulë and Yavanna about future classes? They may have some ideas. As I recall, young Findaráto was studying metallurgy and crystallography with Aulë’s people around the time of the Darkening.*

*I will do that, thank you.* Irmo felt the presence of his wife and brother fade from his mind as he stood beside the calm pool, contemplating many things.

Míriel took his apology with ill grace and spent ten minutes berating him for his behavior. Finrod put up with it for that long only because he felt he should since he knew he had been in the wrong. He hoped thereby to show her that he could act in a mature manner, but when she started repeating herself, he put a stop to it.

"Enough!" he said in a tone of voice that any Elf who had lived in Nargothrond during Finrod’s reign would have recognized and obeyed. Míriel just glared at him, unimpressed.

Both Elves turned to see Ingil standing there, his usually cheerful smile replaced with a look of solemnity, his normally warm hazel eyes now cold. Finrod suppressed a shiver and noticed Míriel had gone pale. Ingil stared at them both for an eternal moment before he spoke.

Finrod let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and without further protest gave the Maia a respectful bow and strode away, refusing to look at Míriel. He made his way aimlessly through the groves, with no real destination in mind and found himself coming upon several long buildings that he realized were stables. He was surprised, for he was unaware that there were any horses in Lórien. He made his way tentatively along a flagged courtyard fronting one of the buildings, hoping that this area wasn’t off limits to the Reborn. There were some parts of Lórien that were closed to them, though no one seemed to know why.

Moving along he took a deep appreciative breath, enjoying the smells of horse and straw and even manure. Memories from earlier times of riding, both in Aman and Beleriand, began to surface and he wondered if he would be permitted to ride. He stood in front of the open doors of one of the stables, feeling suddenly reluctant and shy, afraid he would not be welcomed, but curiosity drew him in.

The inside was in semi-darkness, light filtering in through openings in the roof. There was the musty scent of straw and hay and he could make out several stalls, most of them empty. He stood there irresolutely, straining to see if anyone was about.

"Well, come in if you’re coming," he heard someone say. The voice had come from the shadows further to his left. He walked down the central aisle between the stalls until he found himself coming into another room where an older Elf waited for him. Finrod immediately recognized that this place was a smithy for there was a forge at one end and a large anvil stood in the middle of the room. Hammers and tongs of various sizes and lengths were hung neatly on racks. The wall opposite him was missing and he looked out onto pastures where he could see horses grazing. The Elf, standing there with a broad smile on his face was wearing a stiff leather apron over his bare chest. His dark brown locks and grey eyes marked him as a Noldo.

"Good," the other ellon said. "I’m needing an extra hand. Grab an apron and you can help me."

"What are you doing?" Finrod asked with growing interest as he looked about, spying a couple of aprons hanging from hooks, though he did not move from his spot.

The smith nodded, amusement in his eyes. "This is a stable and there are horses in need of shoeing."

The ellon nodded. "Normally, but not today. Today, you are here. Now, are you willing to help or not? I haven’t all day, you know."

Finrod sighed. "I was hoping I could ride. It’s been... well, it’s been a long time."

The smith nodded in understanding. "None of these horses are yours though. You would need to get permission. In the meantime, you can earn your right to ride by helping me."

Finrod thought about it for a moment and then nodded, stripping off his outer tunic and hanging it up on an empty hook, then after a brief hesitation, removing his undertunic as well. He grabbed an apron and tied it around him. "Show me what to do," he said as he faced the smith who handed him a thin strip of leather which Finrod used to tie back his hair.

"For the moment, I just need you at the bellows," the ellon said and proceeded to show him what to do. Then, once he saw Finrod settled at his task, he went back to his own work.

They worked in companionable silence for the most part after that, Malantur breaking the silence occasionally with instructions when the fire wasn’t hot enough. Finrod found the task boring and hot. Sweat poured down him in rivulets, stinging his eyes and he felt grimy as well. Malantur seemed unaffected by it all, competently performing his work with easy grace, no movement wasted, every strike of the hammer precise. They continued to work late into the afternoon, and Finrod wondered if they would stop for dinner. By now his arms ached and the heat was making him feel lightheaded. Malantur must have noticed, for he ceased his work and told Finrod to step away from the bellows and go outside.

"There’s a well just to your right," he said. "Drink and be refreshed. I have some food here somewhere, we can stop and sup before resuming our work."

"Will you work through the night?" Finrod asked in dismay as he slowly rose from his seat, stifling a groan as muscles he didn’t know he had protested.

Malantur gave him a smile. "Not through the night, but it will be dark before we finish. Go wash up. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach."

Finrod complied and soon the two of them were sitting under a spreading chestnut tree that stood a little distance from the smithy, munching on crusty bread, new cheese and hard-boiled eggs. Apples rounded out the simple fare and it was all washed down with well water. Finrod had to admit that he did feel better for the meal. He sighed with satisfaction as he leaned against the tree trunk, idly munching on an apple, his eyes half closed. Malantur watched him with amusement.

Finrod shook his head. "I have memories of working at a forge and turning out swords and shields and other weapons and armor, but that was a long time ago, before I... um...."

"Swords," Malantur said with a shake of his head. "Horseshoes are more practical."

Finrod opened his eyes and smiled grimly at the smith. "In Beleriand both were necessary and the lack of one could spell one’s doom as equally as the lack of the other."

Silence reigned between them for a few minutes. "Finish your apple," Malantur finally said. "We still have more horseshoes to turn out."

Anar slipped westward and night bloomed. Finrod only noticed when he happened to look up to see that just the forge now gave them illumination. He stared at Malantur as he worked, the ellon’s back to him. There was power in his arms, in his very stance, that mesmerized Finrod. Against the glow of the fire the smith’s form was wreathed in red shadows. He could see sweat rolling down Malantur’s back. The rhythmic pounding of the hammer and the sound of the bellows were hypnotic and Finrod felt himself slipping into a dreamlike state. At some point Malantur ceased his hammering and turned to look at Finrod, his eyes glowing strangely in the light of the forge. Finrod felt himself grow weak with fear for some reason yet there was nothing threatening about the smith’s stance. Instead, he held out his hand and though he spoke not, Finrod knew he wished for him to join him at the anvil.

He hesitated for a moment, then rose and went to Malantur, unaware that the bellows was still working though no hands were upon it. Finrod found he could not look away from the smith’s gaze. Slowly, dreamlike, he allowed himself to be placed before the anvil with Malantur standing behind him. The smith placed his hammer in Finrod’s hand and the ellon was appalled at how heavy it was and feared he would not be able to lift it. He needn’t have worried, for Malantur wrapped his own brawny hand around Finrod’s, even as he directed Finrod’s other hand onto the tongs holding the piece of shapeless metal that Malantur had been working on. Finrod felt his arm being lifted and then he was striking the metal that seemed to glow with preternatural fire.

Slowly, the metal shaped itself. At one point Malantur silently directed Finrod to place the piece of metal into the fire and it was only then that Finrod realized that the bellows was still working by itself. Fear started to crawl up his spine at the unreality of it all and he wanted to flee but Malantur held him in a solid grip, bringing him back to the anvil to start the process all over again. Finrod did not know how long it lasted, aware only of his own fear, the sense of being trapped with no escape rising with every hammer stroke.

Before it could become too unbearable, however, Malantur released him and he let the heavy hammer fall as he stared down at the metal they had been working on, seeing a horseshoe. Finrod felt drained, physically and emotionally, and did not protest as Malantur took the hammer from him. All he could do was stare at the horseshoe they had made together, trying to gather his scattered thoughts into some semblance of coherency, but he was too fatigued with fear and physical exertion.

Malantur turned him around to face him and in the uncertain light of the forge fires, the ellon’s features seemed to waver. Finrod put it down to being overly tired at first but then he realized that Malantur’s brown locks had lightened into a ruddy gold and he now sported a beard of the same shade. Dark eyes twinkled merrily and there was the sense of uncounted ages behind their gaze that nearly overwhelmed the Reborn prince as a memory of an earlier time made itself known.

The Vala nodded, his mouth quirked in a smile. "Horseshoes, not swords, young prince," was all he said and then Finrod felt his world tipping precariously. He was unaware of Aulë lifting him up and laying him down on a cot that appeared with a single thought, then stripping him of his apron and boots before placing a light blanket over him. Nor did he feel the Vala gently stroke his soot covered brow, fondly smiling down at him as he watched over him through the night.

Lóriennildi: "Followers of Lórien" [Lórien + -hildi]. Elves of Aman in the service to Lord Irmo and Lady Estë whose task it is to act as counselors to the Reborn and see to their needs, both physical and spiritual. The name is modeled after Yavannildi, the name given to the female elves who knew and kept the secret of the making of coimas (lembas). The Lóriennildi, however, could be of either gender: Lóriennildo (males) and Lóriennildë (females).

Mólanoldo: A Noldo enslaved by Morgoth. Mólanoldorin, the language of these slaves, is attested.

Malantur: ‘Gold-lord’ or ‘Gold-ruler’. This is an attested name found in Unfinished Tales.

The encounter with Lord Aulë at his forge was a turning point for me, though I did not realize it at the time. Yet, from that moment on there were definite changes in my life, mostly for the better. One such change was my new counselor....

Finrod woke to someone shaking him. He stared up blearily at two Elves, an ellon with the silvery hair of the Teleri and an elleth whose dark locks pronounced her as one of the Noldor. Both of them were staring at him with consternation. He was unsure where he was for a moment. He could see he wasn’t in his pavilion and it took him several seconds to remember the night before. He sat up so quickly the two Elves stepped back.

"Wh-what happened to the smithy?" he asked in shock, for looking around he did not see the expected forge, but a room that was obviously used to store tack. There were headstalls and blankets and other gear associated with stables but no forge or anvil or anything remotely looking as if it belonged to a smithy.

"What smithy?" the elleth, asked, clearly perplexed. "What are you doing sleeping here, anyway?"

"There is no smithy," the ellon said in a reasonable tone. "Leastwise, not here."

"But... it was here." Finrod took a look at the room again. Its dimensions were right but there was now a wall where before it was open to the outside. He began to feel afraid, unsure what was happening, wondering if he had only imagined the previous night’s events. He noticed that his tunics were folded neatly on a nearby barrel and lying on top of them was a horseshoe. Finrod slowly stood up and went to it, picking it up. He turned to the two Elves. "I made this," he said in a whisper. "Last night with... with Lord Aulë...."

"Lord Aulë!" the elleth exclaimed and the looks of concern now mutated into expressions of wonder. She turned to her companion. "Go find one of the Maiar."

The ellon nodded and left. Finrod stood there staring at the horseshoe, not paying much attention, his expression one of confusion. The elleth put a hand on his arm and he looked up. "Why don’t you get dressed?" she said solicitously. "There’s a well outside where you can wash up and the privy is around the corner."

Finrod nodded and, putting the horseshoe down, he started dressing. Then, the elleth, who introduced herself as Calálcarë, took him outside and by the time he finished with his ablutions the ellon had returned with a Maia wearing the rainbow insignia of Lord Irmo.

"Ah, Prince Findaráto," the Maia said with a smile, "we’ve been looking for you. I am Cucuandor of the People of Irmo." He gave him a slight bow.

Finrod noticed the startled expressions on the faces of the two Elves, but ignored them, focusing on the Maia. "Looking for me?"

Cucuandor nodded. "You disappeared yesterday afternoon. Not even Lord Irmo could sense your presence."

"I... I was here all the time," Finrod said, feeling shaky. "I came inside the stable and someone called out to me and I came in here and there was a forge. There was an ellon, a Noldo. He said his name was... was Malantur."

Cucuandor’s eyebrows went up at that. "Nendilion says you mentioned Lord Aulë." The Maia nodded towards the Teler.

Finrod swallowed nervously. "He... I mean Malantur... he was Lord Aulë all along."

For a long moment there was silence and then Cucuandor motioned for Finrod to follow him. "Let us go see Lord Irmo. He will be able to explain better than I."

Finrod turned to the other two Elves, giving them a sheepish smile. "I’m sorry, I don’t...."

Nendilion waved a hand in dismissal, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Do not concern yourself, Prince Findaráto. We’re rather used to you Reborn doing odd things."

Finrod wasn’t sure how to take that statement so he ignored it. "I would like to come back sometime and do some riding," he said instead, "but Lord Aulë said I had to ask permission and earn the right to ride by making horseshoes."

Cucuandor then ushered Finrod out of the stables, the ellon still clutching the horseshoe. It was the only tangible piece of evidence that he had not dreamt the entire episode. He still did not know what really happened or how, but he was confident that Lord Irmo would be able to tell him and set his mind at ease. He and Cucuandor made their way along a sward until they came to the lake where a pavilion was set up. Inside, seated at a small round table, was not only Lord Irmo but Lord Aulë. Finrod’s steps slowed and he nearly bolted in the opposite direction, but Cucuandor took him by the elbow and gently led him into the pavilion, giving the Valar a respectful bow, which Finrod belatedly copied. Both Valar smiled at him.

"Come sit down," Irmo said and Finrod complied. Cucuandor gave them another bow and left. Irmo poured some juice into a goblet and gestured for Finrod to take it. It was hawthorn juice and Finrod relished the taste that was almost like strawberries but not quite.

"Wh-what happened... last night..." Finrod stammered. "I mean... the forge... it’s not there anymore!"

Both Valar laughed at the confused look Finrod gave them. "Oh, it’s there all right," Aulë said with a wink. "Just not where you think."

"And there is no reason why you should," Irmo replied. "My brother stole you away without consulting me." He gave Aulë a glare that didn’t quite seem convincing to Finrod and Aulë merely grinned, looking decidedly unrepentant.

"Without boring you with the details," the Smith of Arda said, "I shifted reality around a bit so that you walked from the stables to my forge in Valmar. Irmo consulted me earlier about possibly taking over some of your lessons. I understand you’re not too enthusiastic about painting." He gave Finrod a knowing look and the ellon blushed.

"It’s not that," he tried to explain, "it’s just...." he gave them a helpless shrug, unable to articulate even to himself how he felt about it all.

Both Valar nodded in understanding. "Well, it seems Aulë has decided to take you on," Irmo said, "so I will leave him to decide what you should learn."

"Horseshoes, not swords," Finrod said quietly, staring down at the horseshoe that he held in his lap.

Neither Vala commented though they exchanged pleased smiles which Finrod did not see. Then Irmo continued. "You are probably hungry. Go back to your pavilion and I will have someone bring you your breakfast. You’ll also meet your new counselor today."

Finrod grimaced slightly. "I don’t know why I need someone asking me inane questions about how I feel or what I remember."

"No, you don’t," Irmo replied, "but I think you could use a friend and I hope Eärnur will be that for you."

"In the meantime," Aulë said, looking more solemn, "continue with your other lessons. I will arrange for some of my People to come and tutor you and I think my lady Yavanna will also take a hand in your education."

Finrod couldn’t help cringing slightly at the memory of the destruction he’d caused. "She still hasn’t punished me for what I did," he said softly.

"And she won’t," Aulë said gently. "You’re doing a fine job of it all on your own. Time to put aside the guilt, child. It serves no purpose. You made a mistake and you rectified it. That’s all that matters. Now you must learn to let it go and move forward."

"Go now," Irmo said. "We’ll talk in a few days and see how things are going for you."

Finrod rose and gave the Valar his obeisance, then strode away down the sward towards the grove where he resided.

He reached his pavilion to find Brethorn and Saelmir there. Obvious looks of relief spread across their faces at the sight of him. Saelmir leaped up from where he was sitting at the table and actually gave Finrod a hug. "We were worried about you," he said, speaking Sindarin. "What happened to you?"

Finrod sat down and sighed. "I’m not entirely sure," he said in the same language. "All I can tell you is that Lord Aulë came to me and took me to Valmar. We made a horseshoe together." He lifted the horseshoe up for their inspection. "He has agreed to teach me how to make horseshoes and such."

Finrod smiled. "So I told him, but he said horseshoes were more practical. Besides, he told me that I wouldn’t be permitted to ride any horses until I learned to shoe them." He gave them a shrug and laughed at the identical looks of interest in his friends’ eyes at the mention of horses. "You’ll have to ask permission, but I’m sure they’ll let you ride," he said.

Just then they noticed someone standing at the entrance, tray in hand. It was an ellon with the silvery locks of the Teleri. He was wearing a surcoat over his tunic that was a plain blue which they knew meant that he was an apprentice Lóriennildo. "May I enter?" the ellon asked politely.

The ellon came in and placed the tray on the table. There was a basket of bread and cheese and a bowl of fruit as well as some hawthorn juice. There were also crocks of butter and strawberry jam. "Lord Irmo said you had not yet broken your fast," the Teler said.

"Thank you," Finrod replied and gave the others an apologetic look as he took some bread and began slathering butter and jam on it.

"That is all right, Finrod," Brethorn said. "Saelmir and I have to be going anyway. Enjoy your breakfast." The two ellyn rose and left the pavilion, leaving Finrod alone with the Teler who looked in no hurry to leave.

The ellon nodded. "My name is Eärnur," he said. Finrod’s eyes widened, recognizing the name. "Lord Irmo has assigned me to be your primary counselor. I understand you didn’t get along with your last one." He raised an amused eyebrow and Finrod found himself flushing.

"To say the least," he replied, then gestured for Eärnur to take a seat. "I am surprised that Lord Irmo sent an apprentice. I thought only journeymen Lóriennildi acted as counselors."

Eärnur nodded, giving him a sheepish look. "So did I. It will be many years before I achieve journeyman status. When Master Meneldil told me to report to Lord Irmo, I thought for sure I was going to be released from my apprenticeship and wondered what I had done wrong to warrant dismissal. I was never so surprised when Lord Irmo told me that he wanted me to act as your chief counselor."

"And what exactly did he tell you?" Finrod asked with a frown. "I should warn you that I am finished with all this nonsense of talking about my former life or what I’m feeling at the moment. Whatever Lord Irmo says to the contrary, it’s no one’s business but my own."

"Lord Irmo did mention your... er... reluctance to follow procedure," the Teler said with a sly grin and Finrod couldn’t help but laugh.

"No, Findaráto," Eärnur said, "I quite understand. As part of my apprenticeship I had to undergo a similar situation as you and the other Reborn experience, baring myself before another. All part of the training we undergo, you understand. It’s an uncomfortable position to be in. All I will say is, if at any time you feel the need to talk about things, I’m here to listen."

Finrod nodded, pleased when Eärnur did not address him as ‘prince’. He wondered if Lord Irmo had warned him against doing so, but decided it didn’t matter. "So as my counselor what will you do?"

"Try to keep you out of trouble, and if I can’t, try to minimize the damage," Eärnur deadpanned.

Eärnur merely smiled. Finrod smiled back. He had a feeling he and Eärnur would get along just fine.

Eänur did indeed prove a friend, my first in my new life. His status as an apprentice, however, left him feeling unsure and inadequate at times, but my status as a Reborn often left me feeling the same way, so we learned to be supportive towards one another in that regard. That is not to say that my new friend was only that. Apprentice Lóriennildo he might be, but a Lóriennildo he was and he did not let me forget it, even if I wanted to....

"I understand you will be working with Lord Aulë’s people soon," Eärnur said to Finrod a few days after their first meeting. The two were walking through the Gardens of Lórien, enjoying the day. There were no set plans for either of them, for it was Valanya and it was a day of rest and recreation for all.

"So I’ve been told," Finrod answered. "I remember, before I left, that I was studying with Lord Aulë’s People, though not in the making of horseshoes." He cast the other ellon a wry grin. "Many of the Noldor, back then, were students of Lord Aulë. It was expected that those of Finwë’s House spend some time studying under that particular Vala even if eventually we gravitated toward another. My cousin, Celegorm, for instance, became a student of Lord Oromë."

"Who?" Eärnur asked, his brows furrowing as if he was trying to place this particular cousin in Finrod’s family tree.

Finrod blinked a couple of times, mentally recalling what he had just said and blushed. "Sorry, I meant Turcafinwë."

"Then who’s this Cel... celegram?" Eärnur’s expression was still one of confusion.

Finrod stopped and threw back his head in delightful laughter. "Celegorm," he said once he calmed down. "Celegorm is Turcafinwë."

"I don’t understand," the Teler said and it was clear to Finrod that indeed this was the case.

"When we reached the Outer Lands and discovered your lost kin, whom we named the Sindar, we quickly adopted their language, for the Sindar found Quenya too hard for them to master." Finrod paused, his eyes dark with distant memories, but he continued his explanation. "We adapted our own names to Sindarin, or adopted names. My sister, Artanis, for instance, took the name Galadriel, a name given to her by the Sinda who eventually became her husband."

Eärnur’s eyes widened but he refrained from speaking, merely nodding in encouragement for Finrod to continue. Finrod took a deep breath before speaking.

"Yes, well. Turcafinwë chose to adapt his amilessë, which was Tyelcormo and rendered it as Celegorm," Finrod said. "I’m afraid I got so used to thinking of my cousins by their Sindarin names I didn’t stop to think."

"Finrod," the once King of Nargothrond replied. "I actually prefer it to Findaráto."

"It’s rather short," Eärnur said with a shrug. "I think I will continue calling you Findaráto, if it’s all right with you."

"So, we were talking about Lord Aulë," Eärnur said, gesturing for them to resume their walk.

Finrod nodded. "One of Lord Aulë’s People came and told me that a forge has been set up near where the stables are located. I guess if I’m to be making horseshoes that is a logical place for one."

"You don’t sound too enthusiastic," the Teler observed, keeping his expression neutral.

Finrod stopped and stared at nothing in particular, trying to decide how best to answer that simple, yet not so simple, question. Finally he sighed and gave the ellon a wistful look. "I feel naked without one."

Eärnur raised an eyebrow at this. "You don’t look naked to me," he couldn’t help saying, casting a look over the ellon’s attire.

Finrod rolled his eyes at the attempted jest, but when he spoke it was with grave gentleness. "Unless you’ve been where I have been, child, and experienced the things I have seen and done you cannot fully understand my words. Yet, they are true nonetheless. I do feel naked. I cannot explain it any better than that. In the mornings when I am dressing I find myself automatically reaching for my swordbelt only to realize at the last minute that I don’t have one, not anymore."

Eärnur gazed at Finrod, his expression now troubled, for whatever he saw in Finrod’s eyes clearly disturbed him. Finrod gave him a warm hug. "I don’t expect you to understand, meldonya," he whispered into the ellon’s ear.

Finrod released him from his embrace. "Perhaps someday you will, but for now, let us speak of other things."

Eärnur nodded and they continued their walk, but while they studiously spoke of less consequential matters, Finrod could sense his new friend’s unease and sorrowed at the thought that he had inadvertently darkened the ellon’s fëa with his own past.

It was after the evening meal of the same day and Finrod excused himself from Eärnur’s company to wander by himself. He could not shake off the feeling that he had somehow marred the Teler’s fëa in some way with his talk of needing a sword. The ellon was quite young, having been born while Finrod was residing in Mandos. That thought made him feel... old somehow and he recalled his Mortal friend Bëor as the Man lay dying, not from any death wound, but merely from age. It had been a wonder and a terror for the young Noldo to see the Man die, knowing there was no returning. He suddenly understood why even those Mortals in the bloom of health and vigor would remark about feeling old after some youngster made a naive remark. He had always found such an expression amusing even as it had been incomprehensible. Now, however, he was beginning to catch a glimmer of just what his Mortal friends had meant.

Reborn he might be, but he had a store of memories that stretched back some nineteen hundred coranári, if one ignored the time spent within timeless Mandos. He only hoped such memories did not taint the innocence of his new-found friend.

"I don’t want to be the instrument of Eärnur’s loss of innocence," Finrod said as he gave the Vala his obeisance.

"And now you are also being arrogant," Irmo rejoined and Finrod blanched at the Vala’s cold tone. "You are presuming too much responsibility for another’s fëa, child. Eärnur is young, yes, but he will not always be so. He wishes to devote his life, at least for now, to helping others to heal, whether in hröa or in fëa. He is not going to remain innocent for long, though we must guard against him becoming jaded. No one remains innocent forever, Findaráto, not even we Valar."

There was something in the Vala’s eyes, some darkness that stunned the Reborn and Finrod took a step or two back before forcing himself to remain still. Irmo seemed to realize what effect he was having on him and his expression softened to something more tolerable for Finrod to bear.

"At any rate, that is not why I came to speak to you," Irmo continued in a more friendly tone. He gestured and the two of them walked side-by-side along the sward as stars glittered overhead. It was a moonless night so the sky was a dark indigo velvet strewn with diamonds, rubies and emeralds, mantling the earth below. Coll Elbereth, the Sindar had called it, 'Elbereth’s Cloak'. There was a gentle breeze smelling of mint and moss and the woods under darkness that quite took Finrod back to those days when he wandered freely in the tree-shadowed lands of Beleriand. A tension around his neck and shoulders that he had not been aware of having began to ease and he felt himself growing calmer.

"What is it you wish to speak to me about, lord?" Finrod finally asked in a quiet voice.

"I wished to see how you were getting on with your new counselor," Irmo replied, "and to let you know that starting tomorrow you may go to the forge that’s been set up and begin your own apprenticeship. Aulë’s People will be expecting you after the noon meal."

Finrod nodded his understanding and sighed. "Eärnur and I are becoming friends, at least I hope we are," he said. "As for the forge... I will do as I am told, but I don’t have to like it, do I?" He cringed slightly at the whining tone that he heard in his voice, as if he were an elfling being made to do some unpleasant chore.

Irmo gave him a strange look, one that the ellon could not interpret. "But you will be a diligent student whatever your personal feelings on the matter may be." It was not a question.

Finrod gave the Vala a surprised look. "Of course," he replied. "I would not dishonor myself or Lord Aulë by doing anything less."

Irmo nodded, evidently pleased. "Good. Aulë has not spoken to any of the Noldor in some time," he said. "After your little rebellion," — Finrod blushed and hoped that in the darkness the Vala would not notice — "he essentially turned his back on the Noldor who remained and would not allow any at his forge."

Finrod shook his head. "So much destruction... of joy, laughter, hope, trust. We destroyed so much that was good and for no other reason than because we could."

"You allowed yourselves to be beguiled by silver-tongued words spoken in a honeyed voice," Irmo said softly. "And I speak not of Melkor either."

"At any rate," Irmo continued more forcibly, "the fact that my brother has consented to teach you is a good sign. We worried that Aulë would not be able to forgive the treachery he felt had been visited upon him. It took some time for him to look kindly upon your atar and those Noldor who remained behind. Only when we were preparing for the War of Wrath did he open his forge to your people again, but even so, he refused to have anything to do with the Reborn."

"I don’t understand." Finrod’s brows were furrowed in confusion and Irmo could detect a hint of trepidation in the ellon’s voice.

"Someday you will, but to try to explain it now would prove futile. Will you at least accept what I say as true for the time being?"

"I don’t think I have much choice about that, lord," Finrod said, giving the Vala a sly smile.

"Yes, you do, child," Irmo responded gravely. "That’s ultimately what all this is about — choices and what we make of them."

Finrod pondered the Vala’s words for a time and slowly nodded. "Then I choose to trust you, lord."

Before Finrod could offer a reply the Vala faded from view, leaving the ellon much to think about as he returned to his pavilion to ready himself for sleep.

The next morning, as Finrod, Brethorn and Saelmir were finishing up breakfast, Eärnur arrived. He greeted the three Reborn cheerfully and they returned his greeting with one of their own. He then addressed Finrod.

Finrod nodded and both Brethorn and Saelmir cast envious looks upon him. He gave them a smile. "What? Are you jealous? I’m sure Lord Aulë will let you play with his forge if you ask politely."

"Not jealous," Saelmir said quickly then blushed. "Well... yes, we are, but not because you’re going to be working at a forge, but because you’re not going to be in painting class with the rest of us."

"Why does everyone hate the painting class?" Eärnur asked in frustrated confusion. "All your classes have been carefully designed...."

That stopped them all cold for a moment and Eärnur visibly flinched and went white. Brethorn grimaced, looking slightly ashamed. "Forgive me, Eärnur," he said softly, not looking at the ellon, "you do not deserve our ire." Then, without another word or a backward glance he strode out of the pavilion. After a hesitant second or two, and with an apologetic shrug, Saelmir followed.

Finrod put a comforting arm around the Teler’s shoulders. "It’s not your fault, Eärnur," he told him gently. "We’re herded about like... elflings and told what to do and how to do it without any thought as to how we feel about it. And, when we do complain, we’re told that we do not know what is best for us. Do you know how insulting that is? I ruled my own kingdom for over three hundred years and helped with the Leaguer against Melkor, whom we called Morgoth. My memories might be chancy and my emotional responses might not be what I would like them to be at times, but I do remember who I was before I died."

Eärnur gave him a considering look. "You do seem to be more mature than is normal for those so recently released from Mandos. I was surprised."

"Perhaps it is because I was in a position of power where decisions needed to be made by me and by me alone," Finrod replied with a shrug. "Perhaps those memories, scattered though they are, help me. Brethorn and Saelmir were just ordinary Elves, warriors or craftsmen, not lords. There were, in fact, very few of those in relation to the number of commoners going about the business of living."

Eärnur remained pensive for a time, then shrugged. "Nothing I can do about it," he said quietly. "I’m just an apprentice. No one is going to listen to me."

Finrod smiled. "Don’t feel you need to take this upon you, youngster," he said warmly. "You should concentrate on your work. I think if anyone should speak to the Valar about this, it should be the Reborn." He sighed and gave the ellon a rueful look. "Well, let us forget about it for now. I should be going myself. I...."

"Oh, but that’s what I came to tell you," Eärnur said suddenly. "There’s been a slight change in your schedule." Now he gave him a wide grin and his eyes twinkled with barely suppressed amusement.

The Teler nodded. "I’ve noticed since working with you that your motor reflexes are not as smooth as they should be." He took one of Finrod’s hands and stroked the fingers. "Your coordination is off sometimes. The other day, for instance, you went to pick up a quill and had trouble doing so."

Finrod nodded. "I know. I’ve been doing the stretching exercises as I was told to do, but they don’t seem to help much."

"Which is why, with Master Meneldil’s approval, I’ve come up with a possible solution. Will you come?"

"Do I have a choice?" Finrod retorted, though his tone was light and his eyes were sparkling with his own brand of amusement.

"Of course!" Eärnur said brightly. "You may either come with me or you can go to painting class."

The two ellyn made their way from the grove, moving down the sward, greeting those they met along the way, be they Elves or Maiar, with cheerful smiles. Eärnur led him toward Lórellin and they headed west along the lakeshore to where a small pavilion had been set up. As they entered it, Finrod eyed its contents with bemused interest.

"What’s all this?" he asked, pointing to a table where a wooden box full of thin strips of wood lay to one side, along with several different instruments, including an awl, knives of various sizes, some clamps and even a small saw. Sitting in the center of the table was a small woven basket apparently made from the same material as was in the box.

"This is your new class," Eärnur said smugly. "I thought of it myself and both Master Meneldil and Lord Irmo approved."

"And just what sort of class is it and who will teach me?" Finrod asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Eärnur’s smile broadened. "You, meldonya, are about to learn the fine art of basket weaving and I believe this is your teacher coming now."

Finrod turned to where Eärnur was pointing and gasped. Striding towards them were two who were clearly not Elves. One was a Maia dressed in the typical white robe with a blue-green surcoat embroidered with the emblem of Lady Vána — niphredil and elanor entwined — and beside her was the Valië herself, dressed in a yellow-green gown. She was barefoot and her head was crowned with a wreath of spring flowers.

"You have to be jesting," Finrod whispered faintly, but from the smug look Eärnur gave him, he knew the Teler was not.

Eärnur bowed to Lady Vána and the Maia as they reached the pavilion and then gave Finrod a cheeky grin. "Have fun," he said and strode away, whistling a jaunty tune while Finrod stared after him in disbelief.

There was a moment or two of uneasy silence as Vána and the Maia looked upon the ellon with kindly smiles. Belatedly, Finrod gave them his obeisance and then sighed as he glanced over at the table where the basketry supplies were. "I suppose it’s too late to change my mind and go to painting class, is it?" he asked rhetorically.

Both Valië and Maia laughed lightly. Then Vána introduced the Maia to Finrod. "This is Lótessë. She will be your instructor." With a nod to her servant and a bright smile for Finrod she left, fairly dancing along the shore of the lake, eventually fading into the landscape.

Valanya: The last day of the Valarin/Eldarin six-day week. It was considered the High Day of Amanian society as the day is dedicated to the Valar, and would be equivalent to our sabbath-days, however that is interpreted by the reader. Originally, the Valar had a five-day week which the Amanian Elves followed, but after the Darkening the Elves expanded the week to six days when the Sun and Moon were created, dedicating two days to them. The seven-day week is a Númenórean invention, later adopted by the Elves of Middle-earth, though not by the people of Aman. The Amanian days of the week in order are: Elenya (Star-day), Anarya (Sun-day), Isilya (Moon-day), Aldúya (Two Trees-day), Menelya (Heaven-day), and Valanya (Powers-day).

Amilessë: Mother-name. Of the sons of Fëanor, only Curufinwë (Curufin) adapted the name given him by his father into Sindarin, all the others adapted their mother-names to Sindarin.

Tyelcormo: ‘Hasty-riser’ [tyelca ‘hasty’, see Peoples of Middle-earth, HoME XII].

Note: Coll Elbereth ‘Elbereth’s Cloak’ is, of course, what we know as the Milky Way. The name is not canonical.

The fine art of basket weaving became a metaphor for my life. Here were all these separate pieces that needed to be woven in such a way as to create something useful, even beautiful in its own way. The intricacies of patterns, the choice of materials — reed or oak or willow; dyed or not — and even the ultimate shape of the basket all went into the process of creating one. Even as I learned the proper method of weaving around the spokes, thus ensuring that the entire thing would not fall apart , I came to realize that I had to do something similar to my memories, weaving the past into the present to create a whole (and wholesome) life. A basket is meant to hold many things; it is up to the owner of the basket to decide what should go in it. The same was true for memories....

"You need to keep the weaver as close to the base edge as possible, Prince Findaráto," Lótessë said, pointing to where part of a strip of rattan he was weaving was not snug against the spokes.

"Just Findaráto," the Elf murmured distractedly as he made the proper adjustments. He was working on his third basket in as many weeks. The first two sorry efforts (to his mind) sat on a table against the side of the pavilion. Like the one he was attempting to make now, they were both small square baskets, but the first sat crookedly, gaps between rows of weavers indicating that the base had not been packed correctly. The second basket wasn’t much better. He had woven the corners too loosely and the spokes were not as upright as they should have been. Lótessë had refrained from correcting him and he had been ready to tear both baskets to shreds out of frustration, but she had stopped him.

"Use them as a guide," she said softly. "Even our mistakes can be used as models so we can see what we need to do correctly. That is as true for weaving baskets as for anything in life."

So the two failures sat there for any to see and Finrod began to hate the idea of weaving baskets for no real reason other than the fact that he was given no choice in the matter. Eärnur was no help. Finrod recalled their conversation after the first week had gone by and he had complained to the Teler about it....

"You’re not giving yourself a chance, my friend," the Lóriennildo apprentice said with a smile. "Did you know how to defend yourself with a sword the first time you picked one up?"

"At least I knew the reason for picking up a sword," Finrod retorted with a scowl. "What am I doing making baskets? I’m a prince of Eldamar, so everyone keeps insisting on telling me. Why should a prince be doing something so... so menial?"

Eärnur’s eyes flashed at Finrod’s petulance. "Creating anything useful is not menial," he said shortly. "I do not hear you complain about your work at the smithy. Is not the making of horseshoes just as menial in your eyes?"

"At least when I finish with my work in the smithy, I will be permitted to ride again," Finrod exclaimed heatedly. "That’s the only reason why I put up with it. I see no purpose in weaving baskets. What do I get out of it in return?"

Eärnur gave him a cold look. "Perhaps the satisfaction of having learned a new skill, one that you never had the leisure to learn before, since you were too busy killing orcs and Elves...."

"I am not a kinslayer!" Finrod fairly screamed and before Eärnur could react, the Noldo was on him, beating him with his fists, all the while screaming, "Take it back! Take it back!" while tears flowed heedlessly down his cheeks. Eärnur, for his part, did not even try to retaliate, merely crouching into a ball to protect himself. It was only when the beating stopped, though Finrod’s screams did not, that he looked up to see Ingil holding the Noldo by the back of his tunic, giving him a slight shake.

"I... I’m not sure," Eärnur said faintly, grimacing with pain, futilely wiping at the blood pouring from his nose.

Almost at once Lord Irmo and Lady Estë were there, their expressions unreadable. Finrod had stopped screaming, but the tears continued to flow. Estë bent down to ascertain the extent of Eärnur’s injuries, repairing the damage enough so that there was no longer any pain and the bleeding was stopped. She then helped the ellon to his feet. All the while, Irmo stared at Finrod still in Ingil’s grip, saying nothing until his spouse was finished ministering to Eärnur.

"Put him down, Ingil," the Lord of Lórien said quietly and the Maia complied, though he still kept a hand on the ellon’s tunic. Irmo gave Finrod a hard stare, one that the Noldo had difficulty maintaining. "Would you like to explain yourself, Arafinwion?" the Vala asked quietly.

"H-he called me a... a kinslayer," Finrod yelled, then burst into tears again. "I’m not... I’m not."

"I... I might have mentioned something about killing Elves," Eärnur replied reluctantly.

"I see," Irmo said, shaking his head. "And why would you accuse Findaráto of such a crime?"

Eärnur shrugged. "He went with Fëanáro, did he not?" the Teler exclaimed. "They killed...."

"Were you there?" Finrod snarled and Ingil had to tighten his grip on the ellon to prevent him from going after Eärnur again.

The other ellon shook his head. "I wasn’t even born yet, as well you know, but I heard...."

"Not all the Noldor are guilty of kinslaying," Irmo interjected calmly, "nor is there anything like guilt by association, not where we Valar are concerned." He paused, staring mildly at the two ellyn and then glancing at Estë, who had been surreptitiously stroking Finrod’s hair in an attempt to calm him. She smiled at him and whatever thoughts passed between them remained unknown to the others. Then Irmo sighed and gave Eärnur a hard glance. "I may have been mistaken in assigning you to Findaráto," he said. "You have shown great compassion in your dealings with the Reborn, though I admit that until now most of your work has been with the Teleri who have since been released from Mandos. Perhaps it was too soon to give you a task generally left to journeymen and masters."

Eärnur paled and kept his eyes on the ground. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "I fear I let my own frustrations at Findaráto’s intransigence get the better of me."

"I’m not intransigent," Finrod exclaimed almost at the same time, giving Eärnur a glare. "Can I help it if I hate basket weaving and making horseshoes?"

"So far, you’ve hated everything we’ve asked you to do," Irmo said with a thin smile. "What is it you would like to do instead?"

"No!" Finrod replied hotly. "I want to go home." He stressed the last word and while Eärnur still looked puzzled, the two Valar and Ingil nodded, their eyes bright with sympathetic understanding.

Estë bent down to gaze into Finrod’s eyes, her expression loving and gentle. "Even if you could go back, Beleriand now lies under the ocean," she explained quietly. "Your home no longer exists."

The heartbreaking words pierced them all and even Eärnur’s expression softened to one of deep compassion for this confused Reborn. "Perhaps, we can figure that out together, you and I," he offered.

Finrod sniffed back his tears and gave Eärnur a puzzled look. "You still want to be m-my friend?" he asked tremulously.

"If you still want to be mine," Eärnur replied. "I’m sorry for what I said. It was thoughtless and cruel and you did not deserve it."

Finrod nodded. "And I’m sorry I hurt you," he said. "I... I’m not a kinslayer...."

"No, you are not," Irmo said firmly. "Now, dry your tears, child. I think we’ve all learned something from this, haven’t we?" He gave both ellyn a knowing look and they nodded. "Then I see no reason to change things for now. Continue as you have been, both of you. Findaráto, I understand your reluctance to do the things we ask of you. You are certainly not the first nor the last Reborn to be so reluctant, but remember what I told you earlier. I’ve been at this much longer than you have, and I think you should trust me and my People, including the Lóriennildi, just a bit more. We only have your best interest at heart."

"That is all we ever ask, that you at least try," Estë said with a warm smile. Then she gave Finrod a final caress. "May I have one of your baskets?" she asked.

Finrod gave her a surprised look and then nodded. "The first one that I do right is yours, lady."

"Good," the Valië said. "Don’t try to make it perfect, just do your very best and I will be most pleased by it."

With that the two Valar faded from view and Ingil went with them, leaving the two ellyn to themselves. For a moment neither spoke, then Finrod swallowed a little nervously. "Would you like to see my newest horseshoe?" he asked. "I think I’m finally getting the knack of it. Curumo says that I’m getting quite good and maybe he’ll teach me how to make nails next."

"I’d like that, thank you," Eärnur said and together they went off to the smithy, both of them careful with their words to one another....

That had been some time ago, Finrod reflected as he followed Lótessë’s instructions. Things were still a bit rocky between him and Eärnur and they were being careful with one another, but Finrod felt that they were at least making an attempt to repair their friendship and he had hopes that eventually things would be well between them. It still rankled that he would be accused of kinslaying, but he tried to keep in mind that Eärnur, as a Teler, would have good cause to view any Noldo in that light even though he himself had not been born at that time.

"That’s much better," Lótessë said, breaking in on his reverie, "now do another row and you’ll be ready to foot the basket. Keep your right index finger holding the weaver and remember not to pull too tightly on the corners. Try to keep the spokes as upright and parallel as possible. It will make the weaving easier. Very good. Very good. Now when you’re done with that you may start packing the base. Then we’ll work on the top."

Finrod followed the Maia’s directions, being careful to take his time and not rush (one of the reasons for the second failure), as he continued weaving and then packing each row. Slowly the basket began to take shape, its bottom nicely arched, the spokes straight. He began to grow excited at the thought that perhaps this time the basket would come out right and he would be able to present it to Lady Estë, though he wasn’t sure what she would want a basket for, especially one that was rather small and plain looking.

"Lady Estë will be very pleased with your basket, Findaráto," Lótessë said suddenly, as if she’d been reading his thoughts.

Finrod scowled slightly, stopping to look at the Maia. "I don’t know why. It’s not even pretty. We didn’t dye any of the weavers."

"That comes next," Lótessë explained, "as well as working with other kinds of materials. Perhaps you will like to make a basket from willow or hickory. And nothing says you cannot give Lady Estë more than one basket."

With that Finrod had to be satisfied. He turned back to his work and over the course of the next hour or so the Maia showed him how to properly tuck the spokes and then attach the rim, ending with gluing a handle. The ellon sat back to give his work a critical eye. He set it in front of him and grinned when the basket sat firmly on the table.

"Well done, my prince," Lótessë said with a smile. "The next basket should prove much easier for you, now that you’ve done one correctly."

Finrod nodded but said nothing at first, running a finger along the side of the basket, thinking. Finally, he looked up at the Maia, his expression pensive. "Eärnur was right," he said and when Lótessë gave him an enquiring look he explained further. "Maybe the only real reason for learning to make baskets is the joy of learning a new skill, one I never had the leisure to learn before, too busy killing orcs and running a kingdom."

The Maia nodded. "That is one of the purposes of these classes," she said, "even though many of the Reborn do not like them. So many of them were, as you say, too busy killing orcs to learn any other skill. Now, they have the opportunity to do so. Even those who were not warriors benefit from relearning their own crafts and more besides."

Finrod nodded. "So I am beginning to understand." He paused and stared at the basket again for another moment before standing up, taking it in his hands, careful not to touch the handle while the glue was still drying. He gave Lótessë a warm smile. "I will go find Lady Estë now and give her the basket."

Lótessë smiled back. "I think if you head in that direction, you will find her." She pointed further along the lakeshore and Finrod nodded.

"You are most welcome, child," the Maia replied. "We’ll start a new basket tomorrow." Then she was gone and Finrod walked along the lakeshore in search of the Lady of Lórien, already mentally planning his next project.

Memories are tricky and seemingly unreliable. Soon after my re-embodiment, if you had asked me about my elflinghood, I could have told you about it in great detail, though there was little emotional connection to those memories at first. That came later. Yet, the memories of my adulthood came grudgingly, if at all, and never whole or in a chronological sequence that made any sense. The Maiar explained that most memories would be triggered by some other event: a word spoken, a scent smelled, even the simple touch of another’s hand on one’s arm. There was no rhyme or reason for it.

Strangely, to me, was the vagueness of the memory of my time in Mandos. I would try to recall specifics as to what I did while waiting to be Reborn, yet more often than not I would draw a blank. Was I alone or with others? Did I wander the Halls or sit in a room with no doors? Did any speak to me or was my existence a silent void? Did I sleep away the time of waiting or not?

I did not know the answers to those questions at first, but one day the answers came all in a rush.....

Finrod was never sure how long he stayed in Lórien. Sometimes it seemed to him as if he’d only been there a few days, other times, a few years. Other Reborn came and went. The two ellyn who shared his pavilion remained, though they told him that he was the second person to share the grove with them.

"We had another ellon sharing with us when we first arrived," Brethorn told him one day as they were taking their ease after breaking fast. "He was a Noldo, one of those who died during the Crossing of the Helcaraxë. He did not stay long."

"His name was Aldamir," Saelmir answered. "He said he was a follower of Turgon."

"The name is unfamiliar to me," Finrod said. "I did not know all who followed my cousin."

"I would have been surprised if you had," Brethorn said with a smile. "Did you know all who followed under your banner?"

"No, I can’t say that I did," Finrod answered with an embarrassed smile, "though I made a valiant effort and always there were my captains who were charged with keeping an eye on all the rest."

"Well, Aldamir never made it to Beleriand or to Gondolin with Turgon," Brethorn commented. "I’d say he was one of the lucky ones, all things considered."

"Hmmm...." was Finrod’s only comment and then one of the Lóriennildi journeymen came to their pavilion to remind Finrod that he was due to attend a history lecture while the other two ellyn were late for their own classes.

"I will be so happy to be out of here and away from them," Saelmir muttered in Sindarin to Finrod and Brethorn as the ellyn made their way out of the grove, passing the Lóriennildo to go their separate ways.

"Násië!" Brethorn said fervently. Both Finrod and Saelmir smothered giggles, ignoring the glare from the Lóriennildo.

Finrod found the history lectures both interesting and frustrating. He was genuinely interested in finding out what happened to his kingdom after his death and the fate of Beleriand, but he was frustrated by the fact that little of that information was being given by Master Calamírë, a Vanyarin elleth. She was more intent on telling them about what happened in Aman after the Rebellion. Finrod hated that word, not because he did not agree that that is what the Noldor had done, but the fact that the Vanya seemed to delight in blaming everything that happened in Aman afterwards on the fact that the Noldor had rebelled. And frankly, he did not care about Aman at the moment. His only real concern was knowing what happened to his own people in Beleriand. Unfortunately, the other Reborn were of little help in that regard. Most had died before him, and the few who lived after him could recall little of any use yet.

Finrod started, unaware that he’d been daydreaming and paying little mind to whatever the Master had been saying. There were some titters from the rest of the class — three ellith and four other ellyn, none of whom were Noldor, nor were they known to him from his previous life, though they knew of him and what he had done. He felt himself reddening in embarrassment.

"Obviously," the Master said with a wry twist of a smile. "Now, as I was saying, not long after the Noldor left, the present Noldóran, Arafinwë, returned with some of his people...."

"Excuse me, Master," Finrod interrupted, "but do you know what happened to Nargothrond and my people?"

The Vanya glared at him. "All you need to know, Prince Findaráto, is that all of Heceldamar is drowned. Your Narg-whatever...."

"Nargothrond," Finrod whispered sadly, feeling a tightness in his chest as he tried to keep the tears at bay, not wanting to embarrass himself further before the others.

Calamírë nodded, "Your kingdom is gone, destroyed along with all the other kingdoms of Heceldamar during the War of Wrath, which we will get to shortly."

"Nargothrond was the first to fall before Morgoth’s wrath," one of the ellon said in whispered Sindarin.

Finrod felt himself pale at that and turned to the one who had spoken. "How....?"

"Enough!" Calamírë said. "You know you are not to speak that barbarous tongue here. You will never fit in if you don’t start speaking Quenya."

"And what if we don’t want to fit in?" Finrod exclaimed angrily. "Sindarin is not barbarous. It’s a very beautiful language and frankly I prefer speaking it than Quenya."

"Don’t call me that!" Finrod shouted, leaping from his seat. "I used to be a king and...."

"Exactly!" Calamírë retorted, looking somewhat triumphant. "Used to be, but not any more. Eldamar is your home now, for all of you, and you had best get used to the idea. Now, if we can continue this lesson...."

"What do we care of Aman?" Finrod exclaimed. "I have no desire to know what happened here. This is not my home and never will be."

With that he stalked out of the pavilion where the class was being held and headed for the grove’s entrance intent on finding a secluded place where he could mourn Nargothrond in private. But that was not to be.

"Findaráto! Stop!" he heard Calamírë shout and in spite of himself he did just that, but he refused to turn around, merely stood there with his hands clenched in fists, his jaw set. He heard the Master approach but continued staring straight ahead, still seething. Then she stopped and for a moment or two there was silence.

"Turn around," he heard her say but he refused and was ready to move again when a shimmer of light followed by the smell of roses and wisteria warned him that one of the Maiar was there. Ingil appeared before him, looking grave. He glanced over Finrod’s head to Calamírë.

"She refuses to tell me what happened to Nargothrond," Finrod retorted. "All she can talk about is how we Noldor who rebelled are responsible for all the woes in Aman that followed. I don’t care about Aman. All I care about is my home and my people."

By now the others in the class had come to witness the confrontation. Finrod noticed that the ellon who had spoken to him — Gilgaran was his name, previously from Gondolin as he recalled — was looking particularly upset.

"Yet, your home is here now, as are your people," Ingil said in a reasonable tone.

"Just what I’ve been trying to tell them, but they won’t listen to me," huffed Calamírë.

"Peace, Calamírë," Ingil said, holding up a hand. The Maia cast his gaze on the ellyn and ellith gathered around. "You are all Sindar," he said. "Do you feel as Findaráto?"

"You know Gondolin no longer exists, Gilgaran," Ingil said gently. "Nothing of Beleriand exists save a small bit of coast land that was once Ossiriand."

"Why can we not go there then?" one of the ellith asked in a plaintive voice. "There’s nothing here for us in Aman. They’re not even our own people!"

The Maia shook his head. "None who die can ever return to Middle-earth, Hithrían. That is the decree of the Valar. But do not think that there is no place for you here. Many of your kin who survived the War of Wrath sailed and now reside on Tol Eressëa. I assure you that you will find a warm welcome there."

"That has not been decided yet," Ingil said somewhat distantly and Finrod paled as the implications of his words sank in.

"At any rate," Calamírë said in a conciliatory voice, "you need to understand what happened here and why so you will be better prepared for your new life. So, let us continue our lesson, shall we?"

Finrod and the others reluctantly agreed and trudged back to the pavilion with the Master and the Maia trailing. As they were taking their seats, Gilgaran spoke to Finrod, speaking in Sindarin. "I feel the same as you. All I want to know is what happened to my friends and family after I died. I don’t even know if my own lord, Penlod, survived."

"To which House did you belong?" Morwen, another elleth, asked. "I remember that Lord Penlod led two of them."

Morwen nodded. "I belonged to the House of the Fountain, led by Lord Ecthelion," she said. "I remember how he and Lord Glorfindel would...."

"Glorfi!" Finrod suddenly yelled and leapt from his seat, staring wildly about. "Where’s Glorfi? What has happened to my gwador?"

Ingil was immediately beside him, taking him into his embrace and holding him as gently as he could though the ellon struggled to be released. "Hush, child," he admonished him softly. "There is no need to panic. Your gwador is safe, I assure you."

"What is going on?" Calamírë demanded, though her tone was more respectful as she was addressing the Maia rather than one of the Reborn. "I wish they would stop jabbering in that language of theirs."

"Perhaps if you bothered to learn it, you would understand that Findaráto is experiencing a sudden memory," the Maia said somewhat coldly.

Ingil shook his head. "No. He is remembering Mandos and those whom he befriended there. I will take him," he said and gently led the ellon from the pavilion.

Finrod had not paid too much attention to the conversation between Maia and Master, lost as he was in the memory of his time in Mandos, and in particular his friendship with Glorfindel. He looked up at the Maia as he was being led away. "Where’s Glorfi? Is he here? Can I see him?" he asked, his voice plaintive.

"No, child," Ingil said with a tinge of sorrow in his voice. "He still resides in Mandos and I do not know when he will be released."

Finrod burst into tears and tried to leave the Maia’s embrace, but Ingil held him tightly as he continued to lead him away. And then Eärnur was there, his face full of concern. Finrod had no idea how he came to be there but he was suddenly grateful for his friend’s presence. Eärnur spoke softly to Ingil for a moment and then the two of them were leading Finrod into a small grove, one he had never seen before. It was bare of any pavilion but a tall spreading oak rose in the midst of the grove, towering over the trees that surrounded it.

Almost as soon as they entered, Finrod felt a sense of peace mantle over him and his tears abated somewhat. Ingil released him and Eärnur took him by an elbow and steered him toward the oak, encouraging him to sit under it. Eärnur sat beside him while Ingil stood looking down on them both, his expression compassionate.

At first, Finrod felt some reluctance, but after a moment or two he nodded. "I remember my... my ortorno," he said.

Finrod shook his head. "I met Glorfindel in Mandos where we became fast friends. I don’t think I ever met him before that." He looked up at Ingil with a questioning look.

The Maia shrugged. "I do not know either. I only know that Glorfindel followed Turucáno’s banner and became a great lord of Gondolin."

Finrod nodded, turning his attention to Eärnur. "Not long after we arrived in Beleriand, I founded Nargothrond and moved my people there. I never saw my cousin Turucáno again." Then he looked back at Ingil. "Do you know when he will be released?"

Ingil shook his head. "Only Lord Námo and the Elder King know that and they only release someone with Ilúvatar’s blessing."

Ingil smiled. "Oh, I have no doubt he will be in time. Search your memories. Do you remember how it was with you two in Mandos?"

Finrod scrunched his brow in deep thought, trying to gather the memories that had suddenly come to him about Glorfindel into some semblance of sense. After a long moment, his expression cleared somewhat. "I think we were... um... often in trouble with Lord Námo," he said somewhat sheepishly, his face reddening. He noticed Eärnur’s eyes widening.

"To say the least," Ingil replied with a wide smile, "or so I’ve been told. I doubt Lord Námo will keep Glorfindel in Mandos any longer than necessary. Even without you there to lead him astray, he’s still somewhat... troublesome."

"I never led him astray," Finrod protested. "He was the one who was always getting us into trouble."

Finrod glowered at him but the knowing grin that Eärnur gave him was too much and he started to grin back. "Well, there was this one time when I found a door that hadn’t been there before and...."

Finrod began spinning his tale and soon had both Eärnur and Ingil laughing. When he finished, Ingil asked him to verify something one of Lord Námo’s Maia had told him about another incident involving him and Glorfindel, and Finrod began telling them that story as well. It was only some time later that he came to realize what Eärnur and Ingil were doing, encouraging him to tell stories of his and Glorfindel’s exploits in Mandos. As each tale was told, he found himself feeling more lighthearted and accepting of what was. By the time he finished telling the last tale, he was also feeling more hopeful that someday soon he and his beloved gwador would be reunited, never to be separated again.

Heceldamar: (Quenya) Land of the Forsaken Elves, a name for Beleriand used by the loremasters of Aman.

The revelation by Ingil that my fate once I left Lórien was still being decided unnerved me and sent me into a state bordering on panic and despair. Where would I go? Did my family not want me? Had I so disappointed them, especially my atar, by defying the Valar as I had? If they did not want me, would I be welcome in Tol Eressëa? And if not, where else could I go? What truly were my options? These questions roiled in my heart night and day and always in the back of my mind was the wish that Glorfindel were there with me, comforting me....

"You’ve been moping lately," Eärnur said to Finrod a few days after the incident with the history lecture. They were strolling through the Gardens, taking in the soft summer evening. "What’s wrong?"

"And that would be what?" Eärnur enquired, trying not to sound impatient at Finrod’s reluctance to offer details.

Finrod sighed. "The other day with Master Calamírë, Ingil assured the other students that they would find a welcome on Tol Eressëa. When I asked if I would go to Tol Eressëa as well, he said that it hadn’t been decided yet."

Finrod stopped and stared at the Teler in surprise. "What do you mean? It is clear that I may not be welcome there or anywhere."

"No, it is not clear," Eärnur retorted firmly. "Ingil merely said that where you go has not been decided, but the question is, who is making the decision?"

Eärnur gave him a sympathetic look and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "One of the purposes of the Reborn coming to Lórien before returning to Aman or Tol Eressëa is to... hmm... I guess you can say, retrain you in making your own decisions." He held up a hand to forestall whatever Finrod was about to say. "In the Gardens of the Reborn outside Mandos much of your life was circumscribed by what your Maiar attendants told you to do, is that not so?"

"And rightly so," Eärnur said, "for you were new-come to Life again, much like an elfling, and had to relearn many things that you had forgotten from your previous life. But now you are in Lórien, learning to interact with others and to integrate yourself back into elven society. Part of that integration process requires that you begin making your own decisions about your life."

"I guess," Finrod averred somewhat reluctantly, still trying to understand where Eärnur was going with all this.

The Teler smiled. "One of those decisions has to be what you want to do when you leave here," he said. "I’m not talking just about where you will go but also what work you will do. That is the purpose of all these classes. In some cases, a Reborn will simply relearn whatever craft they may have been engaged in before their death, in other cases, especially if they were warriors in their previous life, the Reborn will be retrained in some other craft so they can support themselves."

"And what I decide to do with my life determines where I will go?" Finrod asked, his expression still one of confusion.

"In a way," Eärnur replied. "The Sindar who were in that class have fewer options than you. They may or may not have kinfolk among the Teleri in Alqualondë, but they certainly have family or at least friends among those residing on Tol Eressëa. It is a logical assumption that they will go there rather than anywhere else in Aman. In your case, however, you have other options."

"You could go to Tol Eressëa if you so choose, or you could return to your family in Tirion."

Finrod shrugged, now feeling unsure. "They may not want me around as a... a reminder of my... rebellion."

Silence filled the space between them, but finally Eärnur sighed. "I do not believe that myself, and neither should you. Your family loves you, I have no doubt, and most likely grieved when told you had died...."

Eärnur nodded. "So I understand. Whenever anyone dies, if they have family here in Aman, one of Lord Námo’s Maiar goes to them and informs them that their loved one now resides in Mandos. I have been told by some who have come to Lórien to reclaim their lost kin that the knowledge that one of their family was dead, while heartbreaking, was also hopeful, knowing that eventually that person would be returned to Life. I have no doubt that when you died, a Maia was sent to your atar and amillë with the news. They have had to wait well over five hundred years for your release."

Finrod contemplated this bit of information for a time as they resumed their perambulation. "Yet, what if, in the end, they don’t want me?" he asked plaintively after several minutes of thoughtful silence.

Eärnur only shook his head, not knowing how to answer him. The only thing he could think to do was to put an arm around the ellon’s shoulders in an attempt to give him some comfort.

The next morning Eärnur found Finrod at the forge, pounding away at a twisted piece of metal that he recognized as mithril. From the size and shape of it, he didn’t think it was intended to become a horseshoe or even nails, two items that Finrod had mastered in making.

"What are you doing?" he shouted over the din of the hammer striking the heated metal.

"Lord Aulë’s People are teaching you to make knives now?" Eärnur asked in surprise.

Finrod stopped his pounding to go to the bellows and stoke up the fire, then plunge the metal into it, watching as it heated into incandescence. "No. This is something for me."

"This is no ordinary knife," Finrod said as he removed the piece of mithril from the fire and returned it to the anvil. "It’s more... ceremonial. I’m not even sure why I’m making it, but I woke early this morning with this sudden need to do so. I didn’t even break my fast but came directly to the forge."

Eärnur nodded. "So Brethorn and Saelmir told me when I checked in on you and found you gone. What kind of ceremony involves a knife?"

Finrod shook his head. "It’s not anything I can easily explain, but it’s something that was important to me from when I was King of Nargothrond."

For a moment Eärnur stood there, watching the ellon ply the hammer with consummate skill and confidence. It was a far cry from when Finrod first came to the forge, barely able to lift even the lightest hammer and use it with any semblance of skill. Now, he was wielding hammers twice as heavy and his strokes were sure.

Finrod grinned. "Remove your tabard and outer tunic and put one of the aprons on and you can work the bellows and keep the heat high."

Eärnur quickly doffed his tabard and tunic and was soon seated before the forge, pushing down on the bellows as Finrod had shown him. For several minutes the only sound was the ringing of the hammer on metal. Then, without looking up from his work, Finrod asked a question.

The unexpectedness of the question elicited a short laugh from the Teler. "Not at all," he said. "Furthest thing from my mind."

"So how did you become one?" Finrod asked as he went back to the forge to reheat the metal that was now beginning to take on a triangular flat shape.

Eärnur shrugged. "By accident, I suppose. It was about a dozen years ago. My family, like many of the Teleri, are fisherfolk, though not a few have skill in shipbuilding. My atar’s atar is a friend of King Olwë from when they journeyed together during the Great Migration." Finrod nodded, letting him know that he was listening. "Anyway, Atar’s brother, my Uncle Ossendur...."

Finrod stopped hammering to stare at Eärnur in surprise. "Your uncle was named after Lord Ossë!?"

Eärnur couldn’t help laughing. "I understand Anamillë was furious when Anatar gave him that name, but in retrospect he certainly has the same streak of wildness in him as Lord Ossë, so I suppose the name fits."

Finrod nodded, returning to his task. "Please continue and don’t forget to keep the bellows going."

"Yes, of course," Eärnur said, pumping the bellows more diligently. "So, anyway, I’ve been helping with the family’s fishing and all since I was old enough to walk a rolling deck. This one time I ended up sailing with Uncle Ossendur who is something of an adventurer. He’s even sailed to Númenor a couple of times...."

"Oh, perhaps you don’t know," Eärnur replied. "After the War of Wrath, the Valar raised an island just east of Tol Eressëa for the benefit of the... um... atani who fought against Melkor. It was a reward for their sacrifices and their loyalty to the Elves and the Valar. Some of the Elves of Tol Eressëa sail to Númenor on occasion. Uncle Ossendur has sailed with them a time or two."

Finrod raised an eyebrow but made no comment, merely nodding for Eärnur to continue, which he did.

"Uncle Ossendur tends to fish beyond the calmer waters around Alqualondë, and this time he took us northeast into the deeper ocean. What we did not know and no one thought to enquire, was that further south a fierce ocean storm was brewing. It was traveling northwest, skirting Númenor to the east, and we were right in its path. We later learned that it made landfall in northern Valinor where none live."

"Sounds frightening," Finrod commented as he stopped hammering to inspect his work more closely.

"It was," Eärnur answered, "but luckily we managed to escape without any loss of life. Unfortunately, the ship was damaged. We lost the main mast and there were several injuries. Uncle Ossendur was knocked out by a falling spar, and he wasn’t the only one. I was the youngest and least experienced of the crew so while everyone else struggled to save the ship, I was left tending those who were too injured to help." He paused, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, lost in memory. Finally, he continued. "I felt helpless and I had no idea what I was doing. I just went on instinct. We all had training in basic healing skills, for there is always the chance of injury during a fishing expedition, but this was more than a cut here or a sprain there. Yet, my heart leaped with joy when one of the crew whom I was tending opened her eyes and smiled at me, thanking me for caring for her."

"Oh no!" Eärnur said with a laugh. "I continued doing what I could for the injured but I was never so glad as when Lord Ulmo appeared and gently guided our ship back to Alqualondë and once I had rested from my adventure, I was back on a ship helping with the fishing once again. I continued working with my family for two more years, seemingly content with my life, yet, I must confess that more and more often I found my gaze drifting towards the West and wondering. And that’s how I became a Lóriennildo."

"Huh?" Finrod asked, blinking a bit stupidly. "Did I miss something? What did staring westward have to do with you becoming a Lóriennildo?"

Now Eärnur looked embarrassed. "Well, as it happened, I was on one of my family’s ships helping with a catch and I couldn’t keep my mind on my work. My attention kept wandering towards where the Pelóri Mountains rose in the distance, for we were not too far from shore. Anyway, I wasn’t looking where I was going and somehow I ended up tripping over something, breaking a leg and knocking myself out. When I woke some days later it was to find myself here in Lórien with Lady Estë and Lord Irmo smiling down at me. I’ve been here ever since."

Finrod stared at his friend for a moment before he asked his next question. "Do you regret it?"

Eärnur’s eyes widened and he shook his head. "No. Not at all. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me." Then he looked over at the piece of metal that Finrod had been working on and frowned. "Doesn’t look like a knife to me."

Finrod stared down at his work and grinned. "Don’t worry. By the time we’re finished it will be. You need to add more wood to the fire."

Eärnur complied with Finrod’s directive and soon they were working again on the knife, keeping a companionable silence between them.

True to Finrod’s word, the knife slowly took shape and by the end of the day it was nearly finished. Eärnur admired its simple lines and the runes, which he could not read, that were gracefully etched along the blade. The hilt and the pommel were of wrought silver.

Finrod grinned. "It’s not meant to be used in a battle, but afterwards." Eärnur gave him a puzzled look and Finrod continued. "In Sindarin it’s called a ‘sigil e-hereg’ which means ‘blood knife’."

Finrod shook his head. "It’s too complicated to explain," he said. "And frankly, I don’t know why I’ve made it, because here in Aman it will serve no purpose other than as a reminder of former days." He frowned as he gently ran a finger down the length of the knife.

"You said you woke with the need to make this," Eärnur said and Finrod nodded. "Perhaps it will serve a purpose you do not yet see."

"Perhaps," Finrod averred. Then he gave Eärnur a grin. "Let’s clean up and see what we can find for dinner. I’m starved."

Eärnur laughed. "Considering you haven’t eaten all day, I’m not surprised, and because of you, I’ve missed my own meals."

Eärnur laughed again and soon they were cleaned up and on their way to the dining pavilion, though Finrod stopped at his pavilion long enough to put the knife in a safe place, carefully wrapped in velvet.

Eärnur’s story of how he became a Lóriennildo, along with their discussion of where Finrod might go and what work he might take up, haunted Finrod for some time. As the days progressed and he saw other Reborn leave to take up their new lives, he began to dread what the future might hold for him. About a week or so after the making of the blood knife he was wandering through Lórien, thinking over what Eärnur had said. So deep in thought was he that when he heard a soft moan he started and looked around in confusion, suddenly realizing he was in a part of the Gardens unfamiliar to him. The moan was repeated and he heard soft voices coming from a grove to his left. Feeling somewhat like an intruder, yet unable to quench his curiosity, he made his way to the grove’s entrance and peeked in.

It was a small grove with a single tent, not even a pavilion. The moaning was coming from the tent. Finrod took another step into the grove for a better look and could see an elleth lying on a cot, and from her features, she was a Noldo. Kneeling on one side of the cot was a Lóriennildë, with the white-striped tabard of a journeyman who had pledged herself to Lord Irmo. Like the elleth on the cot, she, too, was a Noldo. She was gently bathing the elleth, placing a wet cloth on her forehead and softly crooning. Finrod could see that the poor elleth was in a bad way, her skin a translucent sheen that signaled that she was fading. Finrod was surprised, for he could not imagine what would cause any Elf in Aman to fade.

A gentle tap on his shoulder startled him and, smothering a gasp so as not to disturb the two ellith, he turned to find himself staring into the amused eyes of a Maia wearing the white tabard with the rainbow emblem signifying that she was one of the People of Lord Irmo.

Finrod blushed. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was wandering by and heard a moan and...."

The Maia nodded, casting a glance behind him. He turned and watched as the Lóriennildë, seemingly oblivious to them, continued to minister to the elleth. Finrod turned to the Maia, his expression one of confusion. "Why is she fading?" he asked.

"It is a malady that afflicts some Elves," the Maia explained. "A desire arises within them to sail West, yet it is something that they can ignore or resist for some time before it overwhelms them. If they do not sail, they are in danger of fading. Martaniel held out far longer than she should have."

Finrod glanced at the elleth still moaning. "I’ve never heard of such a thing," he said.

"It appears to be a recent phenomenon," the Maia said. "We think it is a consequence of the fact that the time of the Firstborn in Endórë is ending, for those lands are meant for the Secondborn. When it first manifested itself, we were quite surprised and it took us time to understand what it was and how to treat it."

The Maia nodded. "We, as in the Valar and Maiar," she replied. "We were not expecting it."

The ellon gave her a disbelieving look and she smiled. "Nay, child. The Valar did not create the malady as a means of forcing the reluctant to Aman. We think it is something that comes from Ilúvatar, some inherent aspect of the Firstborn that lay dormant until the need for it arose."

Finrod was about to comment when the Lóriennildë called out. "Olóremmárië, I think we are reaching the crisis point. I will need your help."

"I am coming, Telperiën," Olóremmárië said and gave Finrod a smile. "Please excuse me."

Finrod gave her a brief bow as she made her way to the tent and, standing at the head of the cot, bent over and placed her hands on Martaniel’s brow, softly singing words unknown to him, though he recognized them as being Valarin. Finrod stood there watching Telperiën continue to minister to the poor elleth, the compassion in her eyes evident. Not wishing to intrude any longer on Martaniel’s privacy, he slipped silently away, making his way back towards the region of Lórien reserved for the Reborn.

He could not get the image of Telperiën and Olóremmárië tending to the distressed Martaniel out of his mind. The compassion and, yes, even love, that the two showed for the poor elleth was nearly overwhelming and Finrod found he had to stop and sit under a spreading oak and think. He wrapped his arms around his knees and closed his eyes, seeing again the translucent body of the fading elleth and the other two fighting for her life. He opened his eyes and sighed.

"Oh Glorfi," he whispered to himself, "I wish you were here to help me with my decision. I don’t know what to do. I do not have any real desire to go to Tol Eressëa, for what would I do there? I don’t think I would be allowed to be a king again. And if my family doesn’t want me, where then should I go? I want to be able to serve my people somehow. It’s what I was born for, I think." He put his head down on his knees, hiding his face. "Perhaps I should consider asking Lord Irmo if he will take me as an apprentice," he said, again speaking out loud, as if in doing so he would come to a decision more clearly. "If I can’t be a king, then mayhap I can help with other Reborn or those, like poor Martaniel, who come to Aman in such distress."

He raised his head and sighed. "I dearly wish you were here with me, gwador nîn," he said, as he stared at nothing in particular. "I really could use your help." Giving another sigh, he rose and continued on his way, unaware that others had heard his plea.

The question of where I would go and what I would do continued to haunt me, yet, such is the air in Lórien that I found I could not remain morose for very long and there were other things that occupied my mind at times. I decided to put aside such troubling thoughts and concentrate on learning all I could in preparation for my eventual departure from Lórien. The history lectures were, to me, next to useless, for they told me little that I didn’t already know or did not care about. Beyond the general remarks about events during the Darkening, very little seemed to have happened in Aman once Isil and Anar were created until Eärendil came to these shores and the War of Wrath was begun. After that, Aman seemed to have slipped back into a state of somnolence once again. The Returnees on Tol Eressëa were apparently left to their own devices, safely ignored by the Amaneldi. The only real incident of note was that shortly after the Host of the West returned from Beleriand, the Valar began releasing the Reborn, beginning with the Teleri victims of the Kinslaying.

Of greater interest to me was continuing with my work at the forge (the day I shoed my first horse was the day I was finally allowed to ride) and even with weaving more elaborate baskets which I gave as farewell gifts to those Reborn whom I had befriended and were being released. And most important of all, the relearning of an old skill....

Not long after Finrod completed the blood knife, he found himself sitting beside a fire, trading stories and songs with several other Reborn. Brethorn and Saelmir were there, as were Gilgaran, Nestadôr, Alpheldis and Hithrían. In fact, they were all gathered in the grove which the two ellith shared, passing around a flagon of wine that Gilgaran had pilfered from the kitchens.

"So, when do you think we’ll be released from here?" Gilgaran asked at one point, after Alpheldis had regaled them with a story of the founding of Eglarest by Lord Círdan and Finrod had added some details about his first meeting with that particular Elf-lord.

"The real question is, where do any of us intend to go and what will we do there?" Finrod asked.

"Lady Estë told me that I have kin in Alqualondë," Alpheldis replied with a frown. "She said they are shipbuilders." She gave them an apologetic smile. "It’s what I was before I died. I can’t imagine doing anything else."

The others all nodded. "I understand there are shipbuilders on Tol Eressëa," Saelmir pointed out. "Do you think you might go there instead?"

"I really don’t know," the elleth replied with a sigh. "Something one of the Maiar said to me once makes me think that Lord Irmo makes the decision for us."

"I think that when we are ready to leave, Lord Irmo sends a message to whoever is to meet us and we go home with that person, be they kin or not."

"So we have no real say in the matter?" Brethorn demanded with a frown. "Seems rather unfair. It’s our lives after all."

There were nods all around. "Perhaps Lord Irmo takes into account our own desires and chooses the best person for us, knowing that person will have to take responsibility for us," Hithrían offered somewhat hesitantly, as if she were unsure her solution held any merit.

"Possibly," Finrod said musingly, "though the thought that someone has to take responsibility for us once we leave rankles. Are we truly elflings in their eyes? Do our experiences before our deaths count for nothing?" He shook his head in dismay and silence fell amongst them as they stared into the fire and contemplated his words.

"I served Prince Fingon faithfully," Brethorn said after some minutes. "I died in his service, protecting him at the Dagor Bragollach. Even before the Noldor came I fought against orcs and other fell creatures under the dark of the stars. But that doesn’t seem to count for anything here." He scowled in disgust and there were sympathetic murmurs among the others.

"I have been told that I have kin among the Teleri," Hithrían said, "but I think I will go to Tol Eressëa even though none of my family is there. Either they have not yet sailed or they are still in Mandos. Nevertheless, the thought of living with strangers who do not know me...." She shivered slightly and Gilgaran, who was sitting next to her, put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her.

"I think if they do send me to Alqualondë, I will run away to Tol Eressëa," Alpheldis declared.

"Good luck!" Saelmir said with a snicker. "With Maiar running about unclad, you might not get too far."

"My situation is more complicated," Nestadôr said, speaking for the first time. "I was once of Tirion and even while I was in Beleriand my thoughts often strayed toward the city of my birth, wondering what was happening to my family that I had left behind. I never thought I would see them again. Yet, now that the time has come, I am of two minds. So much has happened to me that they will never understand, including dying. I fear they will be expecting the person I was before I left and will not recognize the person I am now as their son or their brother."

"I feel the same way," Finrod said quietly. "Yet, I fear I will not find a welcome on Tol Eressëa."

Finrod frowned, trying to marshal his thoughts. "I was once a king," he explained. "To the people of Tol Eressëa I’m a legend, I think."

"Well only to those who did not know you," Nestadôr pointed out with a smile. "I’m sure there are many there who would welcome you as their lord once again."

"Exactly," Finrod replied. "Yet I don’t think I am their lord anymore. My death severed such ties and there will be those on Tol Eressëa who will not acknowledge me as their lord and rightly so. No. I fear my presence there might inflame old conflicts of loyalty best left alone."

"That has not been decided," Finrod replied with a quirk of his mouth. Gilgaran and Hithrían sniggered, recognizing the quote. "At any rate," he continued, looking at Brethorn, "what will you do now that you are no longer a warrior?"

Brethorn shrugged. "It’s as good a craft as any. Often when I was out on patrol, I would while away the time making woodcarvings. I would have no problem fashioning furniture and doing small carvings for others. Already I have found trees here that we did not have in Beleriand and my fingers itch to carve something from them."

They smiled at that and then their talk turned to comparing the plant life between Beleriand and Aman and the matter of where any of them would go and what they would do was dropped.

Finrod, however, continued to think about it, especially when he learned some days after that Alpheldis had left Lórien, much to Hithrían’s dismay.

"We were friends, and now she’s gone and I may never see her again," she practically wailed to Finrod who had come upon her huddled against the bole of a nessamelda tree weeping.

"You are still friends," he said soothingly, crouching down to stroke her hair and comfort her. "And I have no doubt you will see one another soon."

"But I don’t know where she went," the elleth cried. "What if she went to Alqualondë and I end up on Tol Eressëa?"

"What of it?" Finrod asked in surprise. "Think you that you cannot go and visit her, or she you? And remember, she said she would run away to Tol Eressëa if sent to Alqualondë. You could help hide her," he suggested with a grin.

That thought seemed to intrigue the elleth, who stopped crying, her expression becoming first thoughtful and then almost gleeful at the notion of helping her friend hide from her Telerin kin. "I hope I’m released soon, though, so I can be there if she needs me."

"I hope so, too," Finrod said and then stood. "I have to go now. Will you be all right?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied, standing as well and brushing leaves and dirt off her skirts. "I should be going, as well. Ninwanyellë," naming one of the Maiar who regularly tended the Reborn, "is going to teach me how to bind books and repair old tomes. She thinks it will prove a useful skill."

Finrod nodded. "Indeed. I hope that those living on Tol Eressëa will begin chronicling the history of Beleriand for future generations. Your craft would serve them well."

"Hmm.... I hadn’t thought of that," she said musingly. "Do you think a history of Beleriand will be read by the Amaneldi?"

"Perhaps by some," Finrod averred, "but I think it would benefit the Tol Eressëans more, especially if various people provide their own stories. Beleriand may be no more, but its people thrive and their history should be honored, by them, if no one else."

Hithrían nodded. "What you say makes sense. Well, thank you for... you know." She gave him a shy look.

Finrod smiled. "It was my pleasure. I am glad I was able to help and if I ever write my own memoirs you will be the first I will go to to have them bound."

She smiled, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and then she went on her way while Finrod watched her go for a moment before turning to continue on his way, only to yelp in startlement when he found himself staring into the amused face of Ingil standing there.

"Were you there all the time?" Finrod demanded, feeling suddenly angry at the thought that he and Hithrían had been spied upon.

If anything, Ingil’s eyes brightened even more with amusement. "Please come with me," was all he said.

Finrod was tempted to refuse, still feeling unsettled, but he had been in Lórien long enough to know that refusing a request by any of the Maiar was an exercise in futility. He sighed and trudged after the Maia who had walked away as if sure that Finrod would follow. The arrogance of that assumption rankled and Finrod could feel himself getting angrier by the minute as he followed Ingil down the sward toward Lórellin. But his anger faded away when they apparently reached their destination and he stood in amazement at the sight that lay before him.

There, under an awning of white sendal was a collection of harps, harps of every size and shape. Some were no larger than the palm of his hand and others were taller than he. The smaller harps were ranged on a table while the larger ones were placed before it and around it. He could see that they were made from various types of woods, beautifully carved. Some, to his delight, were even fashioned in modes employed by the Sindar and Nandor or were a pleasing blend of those with the styles preferred by the Exilic Noldor.

Finrod nodded. "Yes. I even had a harp that was given to me by Lord Manwë long ago. It was one of my greatest treasures. I took it with me to Beleriand." He paused and his brows furrowed at a sudden thought and then he sighed. "I imagine it was destroyed or simply lost when Nargothrond was sacked."

"As to that, I do not know," Ingil said. "My Lord Irmo asked me to bring you here. You may choose any of these for yourself."

He moved under the awning, carefully looking over the various harps, picking up the smaller ones to test their tone, his fingers clumsy and unsure on the strings. There was a stool and he sat and played the larger harps. He spent some time examining them all. They were all exquisitely made and none were flawed. He sighed as he laid one of the larger lap harps down.

Ingil nodded. "Step back beside me," he commanded and Finrod complied, moving so he was now facing the harps. "Now, close your eyes and clear your mind of everything you know of harps, clear your mind of all thought. When you are ready, just nod. Do not speak."

Finrod closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to settle into a calm pool, slipping one by one under the surface that reflected nothing, as he had been taught to do when wishing to calm his thoughts. His mind stilled and even his heart rate slowed and then he nodded once.

"Good. Now, just listen and when you hear the harp that speaks to you more deeply than any of the others, say so, for that will be the harp that belongs to you."

Finrod nodded again and then stilled himself as far as he could. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but slowly, just on the edge of hearing, he began to hear a harp singing. Its song was sweet and clear but it did not call to him. Finally, the sound faded, only to be replaced by yet another harp playing, this one deeper in tone, but still it did not seem to call to him. One after another harps played, their music fading only to be replaced by another. Then....

"That’s the one!" Finrod cried out and opened his eyes to see Ingil standing under the awning with a small lap harp made from malinornë wood nestled in his arm. Finrod moved toward him, his arms outstretched and Ingil handed it to him. Finrod cradled the harp in his arms, running a hand over its smooth wood and plucking idly on the strings, delighting in its tone. It reminded him of the harp Lord Manwë had gifted him so long ago when he was still innocent of evil. He looked up at the Maia, his expression becoming puzzled.

"You were always known for your harp playing, Findaráto," Ingil explained. "Lord Irmo felt it time for you to relearn how to play. Do you not agree?"

Finrod stared at the harp, still looking a bit dubious. "I... I don’t know if I remember...."

"Fear not!" Ingil said with a smile. "Your fingers will remember with a little practice. Would you like your first lesson now?" Finrod nodded eagerly. "Then sit you here," the Maia said, pointing to the stool, "and we will begin."

Finrod sat, unsurprised when the other harps and the table disappeared to be replaced by a chair in which Ingil sat. He leaned over and gently guided Finrod’s hands into the right positions. "Now, hold the harp like so and place your fingers this wise...."

Over the next few days, Finrod diligently practiced on the harp. As Ingil predicted, once he began playing it all came back to him. Soon, he was giving impromptu concerts for his friends and accidentally discovered a talent he did not know he had. He was sitting outside his pavilion, idly weaving a basket that he was planning to give to Nestadôr, who had told him that he would soon be leaving Lórien, when Brethorn and Saelmir came rushing in, their expressions one of fright.

"Could you please come?" Brethorn asked. "And bring your harp. Something’s happened to Hithrían."

"What?" Finrod pressed even as he leapt up and ran into the pavilion to grab his harp.

"We’re not sure," Saelmir answered as the ellyn ran out of the grove. The two Sindar headed down the sward, veering to the left along another tree-lined avenue. "She was fine one minute and then all of a sudden she started screaming. Nestadôr is with her."

It was Brethorn who answered. "She’s always enjoyed your playing and I think it will help calm her."

By now, of course, Finrod could hear the elleth’s screams coming from a grove further along the avenue. The ellyn ran as quickly as they could and Finrod was right behind Brethorn when they entered the grove to find Hithrían struggling in Nestadôr’s arms as the ellon attempted to calm her. There was no sign of either Maiar or Lóriennildi, which puzzled Finrod, but he had no time to think about it. Instead, he brought his harp up and began playing softly, playing a tune without conscious thought. It was the same lullaby that all of them had heard over and over in Mandos. Even as Finrod played, he and the other ellyn began crooning the words and after a moment or two Hithrían’s thrashing slowed and she finally slumped into Nestadôr’s arms, her eyes closed. Finrod continued playing for several minutes more until he was sure that she was truly asleep. The other ellyn breathed sighs of relief.

It was only then that the air shimmered with lights to coalesce into the fanar of Lord Irmo and two of his Maiar, Ingil and Olóremmárië. The Vala smiled serenely on them all even as Olóremmárië went to the quiescent elleth and gently lifted her into her arms, taking her away to her own grove.

"Did you arrange this?" Finrod asked, feeling suddenly suspicious that he had been set up.

Irmo raised an eyebrow and Ingil rolled his eyes and snorted in disbelief while the three ellyn sucked in their breaths in surprise at the audacity of Finrod’s question. "No. I did not," Irmo said solemnly. "I did, however, inspire your friends to go find you and have you bring your harp. I’ve long suspected, based on what I know of your history even before you left Aman, that you had a healing gift that manifests itself through your harp playing, even more so than your singing, though the two are complementary."

Now Finrod gasped in amazement. "I’m a healer, like... like Eärnur?" was all he could think to say.

Irmo chuckled. "Not in the sense you mean, but...." Whatever else he was planning to say was never spoken, the Vala merely shaking his head. "We will discuss this at another time. Continue with your lessons. I am very pleased with the way you are coming along, child. I think we will be releasing you from our care soon."

"What do you mean by ‘soon’, lord?" Finrod asked politely, swallowing a little nervously at the thought of having to leave Lórien. Now that it was coming to that he felt a great reluctance at the idea.

"All times are soon for me, child," Irmo said with a smile, "but in your case... let us say within the month." Then he and Ingil faded away, leaving the four ellyn standing about, looking uncertain.

Finrod nodded. "Of that I have no doubt." He stared thoughtfully at the harp in his hands, recalling Lord Irmo’s words. "In the meantime, I think I should keep practicing." He left them then, heading back to his pavilion, deep in thought. Was this the answer? he wondered. Should he ask Lord Irmo to take him as an apprentice now that this healing talent had been revealed to him? If Lord Irmo had suspected such a talent lay within him even before he left Aman, did that mean he had meant for him to be a Lóriennildo all along, but his rebellion against the Valar put the Vala’s plans to recruit him on hold until such time as he returned? The thought was both liberating and frightening and he wasn’t sure what he should feel.

And then another thought struck him. What if Lord Irmo sent him from Lórien, sent him to live with his family? What purpose would this new-found talent have then if he was not allowed to be a healer? None of this made any sense and he despaired of understanding what the Valar wanted from him. He had a sudden desire to be back in Mandos with Glorfindel. Everything was so much simpler there. As he entered his grove and went to replace his harp he sighed. "Oh gwador," he whispered, "I really wish you were here to help me."

He resumed his seat where he had been working on the basket but the thought of continuing with it did not appeal to him, yet, he knew Nestadôr would be leaving soon and he was almost finished. With another sigh he picked up a weaver and began the next row of the basket, all the while wondering what the future held in store for him.

The next month passed both slowly and swiftly, for I was constantly wondering, not only when Lord Irmo would summon me to tell me that I was to be released, but also whether I should not go to Lord Irmo and formally ask permission to become a Lóriennildo apprentice. Yet, as often as I thought to do so, something always held me back, though whether it was shyness and uncertainty or something else entirely, I never knew. As the month moved inexorably forward, I felt myself dreading more and more the thought of leaving Lórien. Yet, I knew that my destiny lay elsewhere, at least for a time. Perhaps, I thought to myself, Lord Irmo wants me to experience living for real before accepting me back in Lórien as an apprentice. This thought bolstered my flagging spirits, believing that my leaving Lórien was only a temporary thing. It would be many decades before I learned the truth of the matter and in the exigency of living day-to-day in Tirion and the challenges I had to face there, all thoughts of becoming a Lóriennildo would eventually fade from my mind....

Finrod, Brethorn and Saelmir were sitting before their pavilion several weeks after the incident with Hithrían enjoying the quiet of the evening. They had finished dinner and were now relaxing before a fire, sipping on some mulled cider, talking quietly of inconsequential things, when someone entered their grove. The three ellyn looked up in surprise, for none of them had been expecting visitors. They hastily rose to their feet and bowed when they saw that their visitor was none other than Lord Irmo.

"A pleasant evening to you all, my children," the Vala greeted them and they returned the greeting with murmured ones of their own. "Please resume your seats," Irmo continued.

Finrod and Brethorn did as they were bid but Saelmir ran into the pavilion and brought out a couple of large pillows. "Here, lord," he said, "you may have my chair. I will sit on the pillows."

Irmo smiled warmly at the ellon. "Thank you, child. You are most solicitous." He gracefully sat in the proffered chair and looked at the three ellyn gazing back at him with varying degrees of interest and trepidation. They all remained respectfully silent, waiting for him to speak. When he did, he addressed Finrod first.

"I have come to tell you, Findaráto, that you will be leaving Lórien within the next week or so."

Finrod gasped and Brethorn and Saelmir smiled, quietly congratulating him. Then Brethorn turned to Lord Irmo, his expression becoming more worried. "And us, lord?" he asked. "What of Saelmir and me? We’ve been here for so long and...."

"Peace, child," Irmo said kindly. "I am keeping you two here a little longer but not for too much longer, I assure you. Both of you have surviving kin who are even now sailing from Ennorath. We will wait for them to come to Tol Eressëa and then you will be reunited. It will be a lovely surprise for them, don’t you think?"

"More like a shock," Saelmir said with a slight chuckle. Finrod and Brethorn nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps," Irmo averred, "though hopefully it will be a pleasant shock. We will let them get settled first before... um... springing you on them." He surprised them by giving them a wink and then they were all laughing lightly, enjoying the jest. "So, I know you are anxious to be gone from here," he continued more briskly, "but please be patient. I promise you that you will be released soon."

"And you call all times soon," Finrod couldn’t help adding, giving the Vala a sly smile, "even if we don’t."

Irmo laughed. "Indeed. But in your case, it will be soon enough, I fear." He gave the ellon a shrewd look and Finrod could only nod. He wasn’t sure if he should feel happy or sad at the news and said so. Irmo nodded sympathetically. "All of the Reborn have the same reaction, so you are not unique in your feelings, Findaráto. Rest assured that while you will face many challenges once you leave Lórien, we have given you back the skills you will need to be successful in your new life. When all else fails, remember what you were before your death. Use those memories to guide you when you are feeling uncertain and I think you will do well enough."

Finrod nodded, though it was obvious from his expression that he wasn’t entirely convinced by the Vala’s words.

"Good," Irmo said with a look of satisfaction on his face and stood up. The three ellyn hastily followed. "I will send Ingil to you," he said to Finrod, "to let you know the day and time when you will be leaving. You should spend the remainder of your days here saying farewell to your friends. You are excused from all classes, though you are certainly free to attend any of them if you so desire."

With that, the Lord of Lórien reached out and taking Finrod’s head in his hands, gently kissed him on the brow in benediction, then did the same for the other two Elves. Then, he simply wasn’t there and the three ellyn stood there staring at the space where he had been for several minutes before they resumed their seats. For a while no one spoke, and then Finrod sighed.

Finrod nodded and then shook himself. He gave his two friends a grin. "So, how much mischief can we get into before I leave?"

Brethorn and Saelmir laughed with glee and the three of them spent the rest of the evening before retiring coming up with one hare-brained scheme after another. By the time they were ready for bed they had come up with enough ideas to keep them occupied for many years rather than the few days left to them.

When Finrod’s other Reborn friends learned that he was soon to leave, there was much rejoicing, though a few of the ellith cried and some of the ellyn sighed. Still, all were happy for him and wished him the best of luck in his new life. He was showered with small gifts from his closest friends. Brethorn and Saelmir gave him a small intricately carved box in which he could place the blood knife, something they both recognized when Finrod showed it to them.

"We made this together," Saelmir told him. "I designed the box and the scenes and Brethorn did the carving."

Finrod was overwhelmed by their generosity and spent much time admiring the small panels carved in low relief depicting life in Beleriand with figures of warriors being prominent. "‘Thank you’ seems so inadequate," he said to them. "It’s probably a good thing I’m leaving before you, as the only gift you would have gotten from me would have been a basket and such doesn’t compare to this wonderful gift."

"But we were hoping that you would make us baskets, Finrod," Saelmir said with all sincerity. "I was really looking forward to receiving one from you."

Finrod gave them a surprised yet pleased look and smiled. "In that case, before I leave, I will have baskets made for you. Tell me the size and shape and purpose which you would like the basket to have and I will do my best to comply with your wishes."

The two Sindar smiled and they spent a little time describing the type of basket each would like. "I’ll get started right away," Finrod said when they were done, "as I don’t know how much time I actually have."

"I came to let you know that you will be leaving on next Valanya," Ingil said to Finrod. "Please be ready to leave an hour after breaking your fast."

"Valanya!" Finrod exclaimed. "Well, that gives me four whole days. Plenty of time to get your baskets done." He grinned at the two Sindar.

"Yes, indeed," Ingil said, "and that will leave you with no time for mischief-making." He cast them all a knowing look and smiled again as they blushed. "Until Valanya," he said then faded away.

So the next few days were a whirlwind of activity for Finrod, saying farewell to the friends he had made in Lórien and feverishly working to finish the baskets, not only for Brethorn and Saelmir but for a few others who had hoped to receive a basket from him at their own leavetaking. He often worked late into the evening and once Brethorn and Saelmir found him still at his worktable when they woke at dawn the next morning. By the evening of Menelya, though, all the baskets were made and Finrod joyfully gave them away. There was a small party in celebration but Finrod did not stay too late, pleading fatigue.

Actually, he was suddenly feeling nervous, and as tired as he truly was, his mind would not stop racing and his stomach churned with worry as he wondered what the following day would bring him. Sleep was a long time coming, though eventually exhaustion took him and he slept for a time.

The next morning he found he could not eat for the excitement he was feeling. Brethorn and Saelmir convinced him to at least have some tea and a piece of fruit.

"You don’t want to embarrass yourself by fainting in front of your family, do you?" Brethorn insisted, and Finrod gave him a weak smile and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.

Then, Ingil arrived with Eärnur and suddenly it was time to go. The two Sindar looked forlorn, though they tried to be happy for him. "We’ll miss you," Saelmir said softly as he and Finrod hugged one another. "Come visit us when you can."

"I will," Finrod said, trying to choke back tears that were threatening to come, now giving Brethorn a hug. "And you have to come visit me, as well." Both ellyn nodded.

Then Eärnur came forward and hugged him, thrusting a small cloth-covered package tied with white ribbon into his hands. "Open this when you get home," he said softly.

"Thank you," Finrod said simply, tucking the package into his haversack along with his other possessions. "I... I’ll miss you."

Finrod nodded and gave his friend a sly look. "I’ll try, but I make no promises."

Eärnur smiled and then Ingil indicated it was time to leave. At the grove’s entrance Finrod stopped to give his friends a final wave, which they returned, and then he followed the Maia out. He held tightly to his small bundle of possessions, his harp safely in its own covering, as he and Ingil walked down one sward after another until they came to a region of Lórien Finrod had never seen before. In front of them were the Andondi Entulessë, wrought of mithril, and intricately carved with leaves and flowers. What struck Finrod odd about it was that the gates were not attached to anything, but stood alone in the middle of the glade. Before the gates were two Reborn ellith, one of them obviously Noldorin, the other Sindarin, whom he did not know, clutching their own small possessions and looking as scared and as excited as he was feeling. Lord Irmo and Lady Estë were also there along with a couple of Maiar, clearly escorts for the other two Elves.

"Ah, we’re all here, then," Lord Irmo said as he spied Finrod and Ingil approaching, gesturing for them to join with the others. The Vala smiled benignly upon the three Elves. "I know you are all feeling nervous and uncertain of what lies beyond these gates," he said, "but I have every confidence that you will thrive and succeed in your new lives."

Then Lady Estë spoke, giving them all a kiss on their brows. "Remember this, my children, no matter what happens from now on, no matter what you may find on the other side of these gates, know that you will always have our love."

"Indeed," Lord Irmo stated. "You all will face many challenges in your new lives, but we have given you the wherewithal to meet those challenges and overcome them. Be well, my children," he gave them his own kisses, "and be happy. Now, Aearill," speaking to the Sindarin elleth, "why don’t you go through first and then Vardamíriel."

Aearill gave the Valar a bow and with a sigh turned and walked through the gates which had, in the meantime, opened. Finrod was surprised to see that they were now wreathed with a thick fog into which Aearill was quickly swallowed, yet, looking about, he saw nothing but blue skies and the sun.

After about a dozen or so heartbeats, Lord Irmo gestured for Vardamíriel to go through the gates. The elleth looked suddenly frightened, just staring at the gates, and did not move. One of the Maiar, presumably her escort, bent down and whispered something in her ear. Vardamíriel nodded and the Maia took one of her hands and led her to the gates, stopping just before them and giving the elleth a kiss. Then the Maia let go and gave the elleth a gentle push and soon she was swallowed up by the fog. The Maia turned and gave her lord and lady a brilliant, knowing smile, which they returned.

And now Finrod was all alone. Lord Irmo gave him a smile. "So it comes to this, Findaráto. You have been a good pupil, if a little stubborn at times. May you fare well in your new life. Off you go now."

Finrod swallowed nervously, gave the Valar his obeisance, then turned to Ingil, giving him a shy smile. "Thank you," he said softly, suddenly feeling as if the words were inadequate to the situation, but not knowing what else to say.

Ingil smiled warmly. "You are most welcome, Findaráto. May Ilúvatar guide you and bless you in all your endeavors. Be well."

With that, Finrod squared his shoulders and marched through the gates. The fog quickly surrounded him and he lost all direction, but continued on. After a few seconds, though, it cleared and he found himself in a completely different glade where the sun shone brightly. He blinked a couple of times and looked about to get his bearings, wondering if he would even recognize whoever had come to claim him. He saw Aearill and Vardamíriel surrounded by others whom he assumed were their family and friends, but he did not immediately see anyone else.

Suddenly a lithe figure came running to him and before he had time to react he found himself embraced by an elleth who was smothering him with kisses. Her white-blond hair confused him and for a moment he thought it was his beloved sister who held him.

The elleth stood back, her expression, which had been one of joy, was now one of suspicion. "Who is this... this Aladril of whom you speak? Do you not know me, Findaráto?"

Finrod was saved from answering the elleth by the sound of another’s voice, one that he dimly recognized. He looked up to see two others approaching, their regal bearing and the fact that the ellon’s features were similar to his own, convinced him that he was seeing his parents. He stood there staring at them, mesmerized as certain memories started to float up from his unconscious. In the meantime, Amarië, was frowning.

"He doesn’t seem to remember me," she complained, sounding petulant to Finrod’s ears, as if he had deliberately snubbed her.

Finrod just stood there, staring at them, unsure now what he should do or say. He was saved the trouble when his atar reached out and took him into his embrace and kissed him. "Ah, yonya," he whispered, "how I missed thee." Then he stepped back a little and gave him a wistful smile. "Dost thou remember me, child?"

Arafinwë smiled. "Yes, I am, and here is thine ammë." He turned Finrod to the other elleth who now opened her arms to him. He went to her and allowed her to hug him and kiss him, her tears wetting his face.

"Oh, my little Finda," Eärwen whispered through her tears. "I thought I would never see thee again."

"I died," was all Finrod could think to say, as if in speaking the words these people who were his parents yet strangers to him would somehow understand.

There was an audible gasp from Amarië and he felt his ammë stiffen but then she relaxed and gave him another hug and kiss.

Finrod blinked a couple of times trying to remember just what she meant by ‘home’. He had a sudden vision of his rooms in Nargothrond and for a moment grieved for what was forever lost to him. Then, he gathered himself together and gave his ammë a tremulous smile and nodded.

They made their way toward where the royal carriage stood surrounded by an honor guard. Arafinwë gently took Finrod’s possessions from him and handed them to one of the guards who secured them to the top of the carriage. Another guard, meantime, opened the carriage door and bowed them all in, Arafinwë gently steering Finrod to enter first, with Eärwen and then Amarië following, before he climbed into the carriage, giving orders as he did so. He sat beside Finrod who was gazing out the other window, ignoring everyone. Eärwen sat across from him with Amarië next to her.

"He still hasn’t told us who this Aladril person is," Amarië muttered, giving Finrod a glare which he pretended not to see, more interested in watching the landscape through which they traveled.

There was an uneasy silence as Finrod continued to look out the window. Nothing more was said during the rest of their journey.

Note: Amarië mangles Galadriel’s name because Quenya does not have the initial _g_ sound. Cf. Sindarin galadh ‘tree’ with Quenya alda.

My thoughts as we made our way across Eldamar to Tirion were jumbled and confused and I hardly knew how to react or what to think. I could sense the discomfort and concern of the two who were my parents, as well as the puzzlement of the one whom I later learned was my betrothed, but I had no way to relieve them either of their discomfort or their puzzlement. So, I spent the time gazing out at the scenery rolling by. It was familiar, but not, and I spent much of the time comparing what I saw to what I remembered of my (to me) real home in Beleriand. I was a stranger in a strange land that was nonetheless my home and I felt lost....

The road from Lórien wended its way across the plains of Eldamar and the carriage and its escort went quite swiftly, though it would still take them some days to reach Tirion. Hours rolled by with the landscape in which little was said within the carriage. Finrod was at a loss as to what to say anyway to these people and so ignored them, leaning against the window to look out. At some point, though, he sat back and closed his eyes, giving a sigh, feeling suddenly drained. He felt his atar put an arm around him and draw him closer. He started to resist at the unfamiliar (yet so familiar!) touch but then allowed it.

"We will not reach Tirion for some time yet," Arafinwë said softly. "Why don’t you sleep, hinya? I will wake you when we stop."

Finrod gave another sigh and snuggled further into his atar’s embrace, allowing himself to drift, though he could hear the whispered conversation between his parents and Amarië, who seemed to Finrod to be more upset than the others.

"Why does he sleep with his eyes closed?" he heard her say. "You would think he were an elfling or ill."

"He’s just very tired, dear," Eärwen said in a gently scolding voice. "It has to be very traumatic for him to be here."

"Eärwen is correct, child," Arafinwë said. "We were warned that Findaráto would probably sleep much of the time until he has readjusted to his new surroundings."

"How can they possibly be new?" Amarië complained. "He used to live here, after all."

"Yet, we have been told that he might not have any memory of his life here," Eärwen said, her voice sad, "at least not initially, so everything will be new to him at first."

"Hmph," was Amarië’s only response and Finrod almost smiled at the put-upon tone of her voice.

"We must be patient, child," Arafinwë said, "and take things slowly. This is all new to us, as well, don’t forget."

If there was any more of the conversation after that, Finrod did not hear, having slipped onto the Path of Dreams by then.

The absence of movement woke him and he blinked blearily around, trying to remember where he was. He’d been dreaming, he knew, of hunting with his cousins Maedhros and Maglor. It had been a pleasant dream and he was loath to waken from it.

"Where are we?" he said, for it was now dark out and that surprised him, for he did not think he had slept so long. He was alone in the carriage with his atar, who still held him in his embrace.

"Come," Arafinwë said. "We’ll show you." With that, he opened the carriage door and stepped out. Finrod followed him and found, not the expected city, but an encampment of several pavilions all lit up. He gazed about in wonder. Arafinwë smiled at him. "The road to Tirion is quite long," he said, "so we will spend the night here. Are you hungry? I see supper is ready."

Arafinwë led Finrod towards a campfire where he now saw his ammë and Amarië sitting. The two ellith looked up and Eärwen smiled. "Did you sleep well, dear?"

Finrod nodded. "I was dreaming of hunting with Maedhros and Maglor," he said, automatically slipping into Sindarin.

"What did he say?" Amarië demanded, her expression one of exasperation. "What nonsense is he spouting?"

"Hush, child," Arafinwë replied somewhat sharply. He turned to Finrod who stood there looking bemused. "You have to remember to speak Quenya, son," he said gently with a smile and Finrod blushed.

"That’s all right," Arafinwë said. "I’m afraid I learned little of Sindarin save for a few important phrases necessary to issue orders."

Now Finrod looked up, clearly puzzled by Arafinwë’s words. His atar nodded. "I finally went to Endórë," he said quietly. "I was there during the war."

"Oh, I just said I was dreaming about going hunting with... Mae... er... I mean Maitimo and Macalaurë."

Finrod nodded. "We were hunting in the forests south of Himring, Maitimo’s stronghold."

"I am surprised that you continued to have anything to do with your cousins, after what they and Fëanáro did," Arafinwë said, looking somewhat grim.

Finrod shrugged. "We made our peace," was all he could think to say. Indeed, he still had little memory of the early days of the Noldor’s flight from Valinor. His memories of later times were more secure.

"Well, come and sit by me," Eärwen said, "and have some supper. You must be starving, as we did not wake you for the noon meal, deciding to let you sleep instead."

Finrod complied with his ammë’s wish and soon he was spooning up a hearty stew, enjoying its rich meaty taste. Even though he had been re-embodied for quite some time now, he still reveled in the sensations which different foods evoked in him. He hoped that they would be serving porridge for breakfast in the morning.

They had stopped in the early evening and now the night was completely dark with stars blooming above them, gazing down upon them with cold serenity. Finrod finished his meal and gazed fondly up at them as he sipped on some wine his atar gave him. All this while, the others had kept their silence, letting him enjoy his meal in peace, but now Arafinwë spoke.

"We made better time than I thought we would," he said. Finrod forced himself to look at his atar rather than the stars. "We will probably make Eldamas sometime late tomorrow and will spend the night there."

"Eldamas," Finrod repeated slowly, as if tasting the feel of the word on his tongue.

"The town built by those who serve the Valar in their city of Valmar," Arafinwë explained. "We will enter through the western gate, so we’ll see Ezellohar and the Máhanaxar...."

Finrod gasped and suddenly stood up. "No!" he shouted and started running, though where he thought he was going, even he could not have said. Before he had gotten too far, though, arms encircled him and held him close. He struggled, screaming, not really sure what need drove him, only that he was in the grip of some inchoate fear to which he could give no name.

The words made little sense to him, but the tone, gentle and loving, spoke to his fëa and he felt himself stilling, collapsing into his atar’s embrace, for he now realized that was who held him. He was trembling and could not seem to stop. Arafinwë brought him back to the fire and settled him beside Eärwen who threw a blanket and her arms around her son.

"Are you all right, love?" she asked tenderly, rocking him gently, but Finrod could only shake his head. His trembling had lessened but he still felt cold within himself. He felt his atar sitting beside him.

"Drink this, yonya," he said, thrusting a cup under his nose. Finrod opened his mouth automatically and drank what turned out to be tea. Its warmth spread through his body and he felt himself calming, taking the cup from his atar after one or two sips and slowly drinking the contents, savoring the smell of apples that rose with the steam.

"What was that all about?" Amarië suddenly asked. "Why did he run off like that?"

"I don’t know, dear," Eärwen answered. "Why don’t we wait until he’s calmer to ask him." The reproof, mildly spoken though it was, was enough to still the elleth’s tongue, for which Finrod was grateful. He was not sure who Amarië was, but he knew he didn’t like her all that much.

When he had finished with his tea, Arafinwë took the cup. "Would you like to tell us about it?" he asked, rubbing Finrod’s back. "Do you know why you ran?"

Finrod shook his head. "No. I... I was just suddenly afraid, but I don’t know why. I... I think it was something you said but...."

"I was describing our route tomorrow," Arafinwë replied, his brows furrowed in thought, then he gave a grunt of disgust and shook his head. "I’m sorry, child. I did not think."

"What....?" Finrod asked in confusion, but his atar just leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead.

"It’s not important," he answered. "Would you like to retire? We have a pavilion set up...."

"Actually, I would like to sit out here and watch the stars," Finrod said, then gave them a shy look. "I... I like looking at the stars."

For a moment no one spoke. Finrod had the feeling, watching his parents eye one another, that they were in silent communication about him, but he did not really care. Finally, though, his atar looked at him. "Do you mind if I sit here with you and watch the stars?" he asked.

Finrod shook his head. "No. I don’t mind. I would enjoy having you watch the stars with me."

Arafinwë smiled. "Then, that is what we will do." He stood and walked away, issuing some orders to the guards to which Finrod paid no heed. His ammë gave him a hug and a kiss and wished him a good night, then stood and firmly led a protesting Amarië away.

"I don’t see why I can’t stay up with them," he heard her saying, her tone petulant, as the two left the fireside. If his ammë said anything to that, Finrod did not hear, having shut out everything around him except for the stars. He could feel them welcoming him and he trusted them before anything or anyone else, for they were his first friends. They never disappointed and they never judged.

When Arafinwë returned to the fire, Finrod reluctantly turned his gaze from the stars. "Who is Amarië?" he asked suddenly. "I don’t like her very much."

Finrod shook his head. "I thought at first she was Galadriel," he answered, forgetting to use his sister’s Quenya name, yet his atar seemed to understand of whom he spoke for he nodded.

"Understandable. Amarië was once your betrothed." he said and Finrod felt his eyebrows leave his head but forbore from speaking as Arafinwë continued. "She has been living with us all these years, waiting for your return."

"I don’t remember," Finrod confessed with a sigh. "Did I love her?" He couldn’t imagine loving anyone so petulant as she, but maybe he had been a different person back then. With his memories so fractured, anything was possible.

"Yes, you did," Arafinwë replied, "but I wouldn’t worry about it right now. Perhaps as your memories return you will learn to love her all over again."

"I’m afraid Amarië is just confused and frustrated," his atar said. "She has waited all this time for you to return to us and she thinks everything will be as it was before."

Arafinwë gave him a considering look. "Some things never change, though, including our love for you."

Finrod sighed and gazed back into the night sky, smiling at his friends, then he gave his atar a shy look. "Would you like me to tell you their names?" he asked. "Olórin and Tindomerel taught them to me."

Arafinwë stared at his son for a moment or two, his expression unreadable to the younger Elf. Then he smiled and wrapped an arm around Finrod’s shoulders. "Yes, I would like that very much, yonya. Thank you."

Finrod allowed himself to relax in his atar’s embrace and pointed up. "That’s Carnil, and over there is Alcarinquë and that one is ...."

Dawn found the two still sitting by the fire, not speaking, but simply enjoying each other’s company as the encampment woke to a new day. One of the guards came over with some firewood and stoked up the fire, and then began preparing breakfast. Finrod was disappointed that no porridge was made, but said nothing, thinking it would be impolite and petty of him to complain. Instead, he rose from his chair and stretched, his atar following him.

"Why don’t you and I freshen up?" Arafinwë said. "Then we’ll have some breakfast and be on our way."

Finrod nodded and followed Arafinwë to the pavilion that had been set aside for the royal family where they found his ammë already up. Of Amarië, there was no sign and Finrod was grateful. Eärwen smiled at them and gave them each a brief kiss.

"We’re going to freshen up," Arafinwë explained, "and then we will join you for breakfast. Amarië is still sleeping?"

Arafinwë nodded, then turned to his son. "Come along, yonya. I had your things put over here."

Finrod followed him behind a tapestried curtain and found himself in what had been intended as his bedroom, for there was a single cot and a low camp table beside it. In one corner was a basin and ewer on another table. His belongings, such as they were, were neatly placed at the foot of the cot, his beloved harp on top of them.

"I will leave you to dress," his atar said. "We’ll set off as soon as we’ve had breakfast." Then he left him to his own devices.

The day’s travel was much like yesterday’s. Finrod, however, found himself staring, not at the scenery, but at Amarië, his expression one of puzzlement, his brow furrowed in deep thought as he tried to bring some memory of her to his mind. Amarië tried to ignore his stare at first, but finally she had enough and gave him a cross look. "Are you going to stare at me all the way to Tirion?" she demanded.

"I don’t remember you," Finrod said simply, not at all upset by her words. He saw her go pale and shrugged, turning his attention to the passing scenery. He vaguely noticed his ammë put a comforting arm around the elleth, but otherwise ignored the others in the carriage.

The hours passed in an uncomfortable silence, broken only when they stopped around noon to rest the horses and take some sustenance for themselves. Finrod ate very little, and when the journey resumed, he found that he couldn’t stop yawning. Soon he was leaning against his atar, falling asleep.

The sound of the carriage wheels clattering on cobblestone woke him with a start, and he looked around wildly, trying to determine what the sound was and why it felt so threatening to him. His atar smiled at him and gave him a hug. "It’s all right, yonya," he said quietly. "We’re coming into Eldamas now. There’s nothing to fear."

Finrod nodded, trying to slow his breathing. He turned to look out the window, eager to see the town. It was early evening now and they were passing along a wide street lined with white stone buildings that looked residential, for there were gardens surrounding them and he could see elflings playing, pausing long enough to stare at them as they went by. Finrod smiled and waved and they waved back, much to his delight. He wondered what game they might be playing and wished suddenly he could play, too. The escort turned onto another wide avenue and then they were driving through a set of iron-wrought gates, heading up a drive. He turned a quizzical look at Arafinwë.

"We’re coming to the royal estate," his atar explained. "It is shared between the three royal families of Eldamar. Personally, I prefer staying at one of the many fine inns here, but our numbers are too many for any inn to accommodate us, so we’ll spend the night here."

Finrod nodded in understanding. Soon they were stopping before a house that did not look too much different from all the other houses he had seen, though this one was decidedly larger. He followed his parents and Amarië up the steps to the front door which opened as they approached. Several people came out, giving them bows or curtsies before descending to the carriage to retrieve their bags. One of them remained by the door and gave them a smile.

"Welcome, sire, my ladies," he said. Then he gave Finrod a curious stare, which made the ellon blush. "And you, as well, my prince. I am glad to see you again."

Arafinwë answered for them all. "Thank you, Calandil. I trust all is in readiness. The journey has been tiring."

"Indeed, sire," Calandil said with a bow. "Your rooms are all ready and a light repast has been prepared for whenever you desire to sup."

"That will be fine," Arafinwë said. "I don’t know about anyone else, but I sorely could use a hot bath before dinner."

Eärwen and Amarië gave soft sighs and nods of agreement with Arafinwë’s words, but Finrod did not respond, too busy looking around in interest as they made their way through the halls, following Calandil who led them to the wing set aside for the Noldóran and his family.

Finrod nodded somewhat distractedly, gazing at the tapestries and statuary gracing the corridors and comparing them to what he remembered of such in Nargothrond. "I would like that," he said. "I’m feeling a bit grimy."

"I will have baths ordered for you all, then," Calandil said as he bowed them into what turned out to be a large sitting room and then left them.

Arafinwë steered Finrod towards a set of doors to their right. "This is your room, Findaráto. Your ammë and I are through those doors," he pointed across the room, "and Amarië’s rooms are across the hall. You should find everything you need, but if you don’t just let me know. I’ll call you when the baths are ready."

Finrod stopped and blinked at his atar in confusion, stealing a look at his ammë and Amarië. "Are we bathing together, then?"

There were shocked gasps from the ellith but Arafinwë just laughed, clapping a hand on Finrod’s shoulder. "Nay, yonya. There are two bathing chambers set aside for our use. You and I will share one of them and we’ll leave the ellith to their own devices." He gave his son a sly wink and Finrod grinned, feeling less mortified by his gaffe.

"Not to worry, dear," his ammë said, giving him a fond smile. "You go and unpack and we’ll see you at dinner." Then she took Amarië’s arm and together they exited the sitting room leaving Finrod and Arafinwë to themselves.

Finrod exited his bedroom some time later, freshly bathed and dressed, to find the rest of his family waiting for him. He paused in dismay, noticing the fine fabric of their clothes, the rich embroidery and the jewelry they sported and became self-conscious in the plain blue wool tunic with its simple embroidery of leaves and flowers. It was a farewell gift from Morwen who, it turned out, had been a seamstress in Gondolin serving Lord Ecthelion’s household, and for that reason he treasured it and considered it his ‘best’ tunic.

Naturally, it was Amarië who spoke first. "Surely you have something better than that to wear, Findaráto," she said with a look of disgust. "We’re not dining by a campfire tonight."

"It... it’s all I have," Finrod said apologetically, wishing he were back in Lórien with people who knew him and didn’t judge him.

Eärwen came to him and kissed him on the brow. "It’s fine, dear," she said. "Do not fret. It’s a lovely color that matches your eyes."

"My friend Morwen made it for me," he said, hoping that that would make all the difference, but he had a feeling it would not. "She’s a seamstress."

"She does lovely work," Eärwen said. "Is this her embroidery as well?" At Finrod’s nod, she gave him a warm smile. "She shows great talent. Now, why don’t we have dinner?"

They made their way to a dining room further along the wing. It was not an intimate room and Finrod felt a bit lost in it with just the four of them dining at one end of the long table that took up the better part of the floor space. Calandil and an elleth acted as servers, which made Finrod feel even more uncomfortable. He was more used to the informal meals in Lórien. Conversation was minimal and mostly between his parents while he and Amarië remained silent. Most of the conversation seemed to center around people he did not know or at least did not remember, so it was of no interest to him. So he sat there, feeling properly bored, pushing the peas around his plate. Then, a fit of mischief took him, and he picked up a pea and put it on his spoon, flinging it at Amarië, giving her a grin. She didn’t seem to appreciate the game and glowered at him.

"Stop that, Findaráto!" she spat. "Honestly, one would think you were an elfling the way you act."

The words stung and Finrod rose, now angry and disgusted with everything and everyone. "And you’re a... an orc!" he yelled, then stalked out of the room, ignoring his atar’s calls for him to return. He practically ran back to his room, slamming the door and flinging himself onto his bed, wrapping a pillow around his middle and rocking himself. He refused to cry, though, and just closed his eyes, wishing he were back in Lórien, or even better, Mandos.

Some time later there was a soft knock on the door and then his atar was there. "Are you well, Finda?" Arafinwë asked softly.

Finrod shook his head, refusing to look up at his atar. "No. I am not. I hate it here. I hate her. I want to go back to Lórien."

Arafinwë sighed and sat on the edge of the bed and began gently rubbing Finrod’s back. "I’m sorry, child," he said. "I wish things could be different for you."

"Why is she so mean?" Finrod asked. "I just wanted to play. Dinner was so boring."

Arafinwë gave him a considering look. "There is a time and place for everything, Findaráto. You know your ammë doesn’t approve of her children playing with their food."

His atar smiled at him. "Now you know. Come back to the table. We haven’t had dessert and the cooks made it specially for you."

Arafinwë nodded. "You wouldn’t want to disappoint them after all the hard work they put into it, would you?" Finrod shook his head and his atar stood up, holding out his hand, which he took, allowing himself to be pulled out of bed. He stood there while Arafinwë straightened his tunic for him, making sure he was presentable. "Good. And you will apologize to Amarië for what you called her. That was very mean of you and she did not deserve it."

"No, child," Arafinwë admonished, giving him a slight shake. "It is fine not to like her all that much, but she does not deserve your hatred. No one does, unless they are truly one of the Enemy."

"I know you are, yonya," Arafinwë said, giving him a loving hug. "Now, let us return to the ellith."

Hours later, after Finrod and Amarië were both in bed, Arafinwë and Eärwen sat on the settee before the fire in the sitting room, their arms around each other.

Arafinwë nodded, turning to give his wife a kiss on her temple. "I know. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t expect this. He’s a stranger wearing our son’s face and I’m not sure how I should feel about it."

"He looks so lost," Eärwen said sadly. "I wish the Valar had seen fit to warn us about what to expect."

Arafinwë shook his head. "I have the feeling we’re meant to find our own way with him."

"For all that he appears to be an adult, he acts at times as if he’s not much older than thirty," Eärwen commented.

Her husband gave a chuckle. "Did you see Amarië’s face when he threw the pea at her. She looked so affronted. The proper elleth."

"But we are his parents," Eärwen replied. "We’re used to dealing with elflings, though mind you, I thought those days were long over with."

"And now we have an elfling with us once again," Arafinwë said with a sigh. "Findaráto is the first. Someday our other two sons will be released from Mandos and we’ll have to deal with them as elflings again, as well."

Eärwen suddenly laughed. "Do you remember how we kept saying that Findaráto was just for practice and we wouldn’t have any other children until we got it right?"

Arafinwë joined her in laughter, giving her another kiss. "And now we get to see if we got it right all over again."

They were quiet for a time as each was lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Eärwen snuggled closer to her husband. "Our Finda is returned to us, beloved," she whispered. "Our baby is back where he belongs." She started weeping then and Arafinwë held her tighter, his own tears streaming down his cheeks as they both rejoiced in the return of their firstborn from death.

Tirion. The name meant nothing to me... and everything. Even as we continued on our way I could not shake the feeling of dread that seemed to close in on me. What would it be like, being home again, surrounded by strangers? How I longed for my rooms in Nargothrond, surrounded by people whom I knew and whom I knew loved me. The people of Tirion... would they love me who deserted them, refused to turn back, defied the will of the Valar? An even more urgent question — could I learn to love them all over again? Did I even want to?....

The closer they came to Tirion the more the memories of an earlier time crowded Finrod’s mind. Images, incoherent and in no discernable chronology, flashed before his eyes:

A room that he thought might be his, painted in shades of blue... riding with his brothers through the royal reserve and hawking... playing with toys beside a garden fountain while his ammë sat nearby chatting with Anammë... walking through unfamiliar (yet so familiar!) streets, greeting people along the way... chasing his little sister in a game of catch-me... sitting quietly in a room surrounded by books, reading... working at a forge creating swords, and somehow knowing the forge was a deep secret not to be discussed with anyone... standing beside his atar feeling bored while Anatar held Court... kissing his ammë farewell, knowing it was the last time....

That last image jerked him out of his reverie and he had to blink a few times to clear his mind of the image, for there was a depth of pain and sorrow that went with it and he could not face it, not yet. He stared at his ammë sitting across from him in the carriage, wondering what she had felt on that last day.

"Did you hate me?" he asked suddenly, then blinked in dismay, wondering why he would ask such a thing out loud.

Finrod shrugged. "When I... I left. Did you hate me for leaving, for deserting...."

His ammë leaned over, taking his head in her hands and kissing him on the brow. "Never," she whispered fiercely. "I never hated you. I loved you then as I love you now. Never believe otherwise, my little Finda."

Eärwen gave him a wistful smile. "No. I suppose you are not." She kissed him again, then let him go.

Arafinwë touched him on the shoulder and pointed out his window. "Look! There’s Tirion coming into view."

Finrod leaned over to get a better look. The road had taken a bend around a stand of trees so that the city was presently to their right. Finrod saw a large hill on which sat a city of spires, shining white in the afternoon sun. Surrounding the hill were farms and estates of the nobles. Everything looked prosperous and peaceful but he felt uneasy at the sight for some reason. "Not much in the way of defense," he muttered as he leaned back, "in spite of the wall."

Only then did he notice the looks of confusion on his ammë’s and Amarië’s faces. He turned to Arafinwë, noticing the look of amusement in his atar’s eyes. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

Arafinwë shook his head, giving him a hug. "No, yonya," he said gently. "I had the exact same reaction when I returned to Tirion after the War of Wrath. Your ammë was hard put to it to convince me that I did not need to order battlements to be built above the wall nor did I need to have additional guards posted." He gave his wife a fond smile which she returned.

"I’m not sure," Finrod said honestly enough. "Images... all I get are images, but most of the time I have no context for them. It gets a bit frustrating at times."

"I’m sure it does," Arafinwë said, "but hopefully, you will be able to give these images a context soon enough. We’ll take it slowly, all right? We will not push you to remember any faster or any more than you are able to. You set the pace."

Finrod nodded, feeling relieved, but noticed that even as his atar was speaking, he was looking, not at him, but at Amarië and realized that Arafinwë was really addressing his words to her rather than to him. Amarië grimaced but said nothing, refusing to look at him, which suited Finrod just fine. The carriage was wending its way through farmland and landed estates and he occupied his time watching the scenery go by. They were now too close to the city to properly see it unless he leaned out the window and he suspected that his parents would not approve.

Then they were at the gate, but were not stopped. Instead the carriage and its escort continued through and began winding its way upward through the main street leading towards the king’s residence. Finrod started to lean towards the window for a better view, but cringed back when he saw people standing about, in some places three or four deep, staring at them as they passed. He felt his atar place a protective arm around him.

Arafinwë gave him a rueful look. "I suspect they are hoping for a glimpse of you, yonya," he said and Finrod cringed even further into his atar’s embrace, turning his head into Arafinwë’s shoulder.

He felt a pat on his knee and looked up to see his ammë giving him a sympathetic smile. "It’s all right, beloved," she said. "They won’t hurt you. They’re just curious."

"Most have never seen any Reborn, I suspect," Arafinwë answered him. "You are correct that you are not the first Noldo to be Reborn and returned to Tirion, but you are the first of the royal family to do so and that makes you a double curiosity to the citizens of Tirion."

Finrod sighed. "It’s going to be Lórien all over again," he whispered in a dejected tone, closing his eyes, so he missed the puzzled looks that passed between his parents. Before either of them could ask for clarification, though, the carriage and its escort clattered into the courtyard fronting the main portico of the palace and they came to a halt.

Stepping out, Finrod was relieved to see that only their escort, plus a few additional servants were on hand to greet them, the servants quickly taking their bags while the escort, with Arafinwë’s thanks, disbanded, giving the royal family respectful bows before seeing to the horses and carriage. His parents kept him between them with Amarië following them. Eärwen spoke quietly to her son as they moved into the palace towards the family’s apartments.

"Not really," Finrod answered as he looked about him with interest. "I keep remembering Nargothrond and this looks nothing like."

"Nargothrond?" Eärwen enquired, speaking the name slowly as if feeling the taste of the strange syllables on her tongue.

"My kingdom," Finrod replied distantly, more intent on trying to catalogue what he was seeing before him as they traversed the various hallways. Arafinwë simply nodded when his wife looked at him for confirmation.

"Did Aicanáro and Angaráto also have kingdoms?" Amarië asked, sounding somewhat dismissive in tone.

Finrod stopped and stared back at her, his parents doing the same. "No, they did not," Finrod said somewhat stiffly. "They did hold the northern slopes of Dorthonion for me... until they died."

He had the satisfaction of seeing the elleth pale at his words. Arafinwë put a hand on Finrod’s shoulder and the ellon looked up. "Shall we continue?" was all his atar said and Finrod nodded.

Soon they were standing outside a sitting room. "Your rooms are around the corner," his ammë said, pointing down the hall before ushering him into the sitting room. "We’ll just wait until the bags have been brought up."

"I only had the one," Finrod said with a faint smile, "and I could easily have carried it myself."

Amarië actually looked askance at that but Eärwen merely smiled at her firstborn. "Perhaps, but we should not deny others the joy of serving and fulfilling their duty to us."

"True," Finrod said with a nod. "I’d forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me." The utter sincerity of his words impressed his parents though Amarië kept her expression neutral and her thoughts to herself.

"Well, I for one wish for a bath," she said to no one in particular, tossing her cloak to a chair and shaking her skirts out.

"Again?" Finrod couldn’t help saying, his expression one of disbelief, though in truth, he was feeling grimy from the traveling as well and was looking forward to his own bath, but he just couldn’t help teasing this proper elleth, who rewarded him with a scowl and a disdainful sniff

Finrod laughed. "Sorry. I just couldn’t resist. In truth, I want nothing more than to bathe and fall into bed myself."

"Sleep?" Amarië asked. "You want to sleep when it’s not even the dinner hour?"

Finrod shrugged. "I am feeling weary all of a sudden. I think I need to lie down before I fall down."

Arafinwë took him by the shoulders and gave him a piercing stare. "Why don’t I take you to your rooms, then, and you may rest while I have a bath readied for you. There will be no welcoming feast until tomorrow night so it will just be us. In fact, I think I will dismiss the servants and we will serve ourselves, how’s that?"

"That will be fine," Finrod said. "I’m feeling just a bit... unsettled and...."

"There is no need to explain, dear," Eärwen said, giving him a kiss. "Go and rest and bathe and we will call you when dinner is ready."

Finrod nodded and allowed his atar to escort him to his own suite of rooms. He was unsurprised to see that they were painted in shades of blue, quiet and peaceful. His one bag and his harp were placed beside his ornate bed. A servant was opening shutters on the windows as he and Arafinwë entered. His atar instructed the ellon to ready a bath and then he was being encouraged to lie down while the servant went to do his lord’s bidding. Arafinwë stayed with him, but once the bath was prepared, he and the servant left him alone.

"If you need anything or any help," Arafinwë said just before he left, "I’ll be in the sitting room."

Finrod nodded and then went to bathe. He did not stay in the bath long, for he was indeed feeling weary and desired only to lie down for a time before dinner. He pulled a house robe from his bag and donned it. Then he reached into his bag for a brush and noticed Eärnur’s gift tucked away in a corner, completely forgotten until that moment. Pulling it out of the bag, he sat on his bed and untied the white ribbon, wondering what his friend had given him. Unwrapping it, he found a slim volume bound in plain suede leather. Opening it to the first page he had to laugh at the title: ‘Parma Axanion Ennónain’. A bit of vellum slipped out and when he read what was written on it he felt himself choking up with emotions: ‘Hithrían bound this with a little help and I illustrated the pages. Eärnur’.

Turning the page he smiled at the simple yet detailed line drawing of him working on one of his baskets. Then he read what was there and snorted in amusement: ‘Rule One: Everyone, except a Reborn, is always right’. Turning the page he laughed out loud as he read: ‘Rule Two: If anyone other than a Reborn is wrong, refer back to Rule One’. He settled himself on the bed, quite forgetting he was going to brush his hair, and began reading the rest of the volume, admiring the simple illustrations depicting typical scenes from Lórien with many of them showing his friends. Some of the rules were just as absurd as the first two. Rule Fifteen was particularly hysterical: ‘Reborn must attend all classes. The only excuse allowed is death by boredom with a signed note by Lord Námo’. Many of them, however, were more poignant, such as Rule Nine: ‘When overcome by memories and emotions, it is advisable for a Reborn to sleep with their favorite stuffed toy and with all candles lit’; and Rule Twenty-two: ‘Reborn are allowed to act child-like so long as they do not act childish’.

By the time he reached the end of the volume, there were tears running down his cheeks as he read the last ‘rule’: ‘When in doubt, remember that you are loved by Eru and the Valar and by us’. Below this were not only Eärnur’s and Hithrían’s signatures, as he had expected, but also Ingil’s, Olorin’s and Tindomerel’s, and he realized that Eärnur must have asked the Maiar who had been his chief caregivers to help contribute to the volume.

He sniffed a bit as he placed the book on the night table next to his bed and wiped the tears from his face, and settled more deeply onto the bed. It was almost too soft for his taste, for he was more used to the sleeping couches and cots that he had slept in since being reborn. Still, it felt good to just lie still. His eyes wandered around the room trying to make some emotional connection to it, but it was just a room, rather pleasant with the light of the late afternoon sun playing through the embrasures, but nothing more. He stared in bemusement at the sun motes floating in the air and felt himself drifting onto the Path of Dreams.

So it was that when Arafinwë came to call him for dinner, Finrod never heard his knock. Opening the door to the bedroom, Arafinwë found him fast asleep, lying on top of the covers dressed in a house robe. He did not have the heart to wake him, so he found another blanket in a clothespress and covered him with it before giving him a kiss on the brow. Finrod’s only response was to snuggle deeper under the covers, giving a contented sigh.

Finrod woke suddenly to complete darkness, and panicked, unsure where he was at first. "Olórin!" he screamed, flailing about, trying to disentangle himself from a blanket that he had no memory of covering himself with. In his rising terror, he felt trapped, as if chained, and the memory of his death rose before him. "Olórin! It’s too dark! It’s too dark!"

"NO!!" Finrod screamed, seeing only eyes, stumbling off the bed on the other side away from the door. "Olórin! Tindomerel!"

Arafinwë rushed into the room with Eärwen right behind him. He was carrying a candle which he thrust into his wife’s hand before coming around to the other side of the bed where his son crouched in obvious terror, mumbling, "It’s too dark, it’s too dark," and weeping all the while. Arafinwë went to his knees before his son and, as gently as possible, took him into his embrace and began rocking him. Then he turned to Eärwen, who stood there in shock and horror. "Get every candle and lantern you can find," he said to her. "Rouse the servants. I want this room ablaze with light as if if Arien herself were here."

Eärwen nodded and turned to see Amarië standing uncertainly at the doorway. "Come here, child, and take this candle. Light all the candles you can find in this room while I speak to the servants."

Amarië hesitated just long enough for Eärwen to become impatient. "Stop dawdling, Amarië, and do as I’ve bid." Then she handed the candle to the elleth and pushed past her into the outer room, going to the hallway where several servants and guards were standing about, having heard the unearthly screams. She issued orders and immediately they scattered to do the queen’s bidding. Amarië, in the meantime, came around to the other side of the bed, grimacing at the sight of her supposed betrothed huddled in his atar’s arms like an elfling. She was careful, though, to wipe the disapproval from her face when Arafinwë looked up.

"I do not know," Arafinwë answered readily enough. "I think he had a nightmare and waking up in the dark in what must still feel like a strange room set him off. Ah... good." He looked up as several ellyn and ellyth came in carrying candles of every size and shape, a few with lanterns as well. "Place them where you will and light them," he ordered and Amarië took her own candle and went around lighting the ones being brought in. Soon the room was awash in candlelight and there were so many it seemed almost like day. Eärwen thanked the servants for their prompt attention and dismissed them while Arafinwë turned his attention to Finrod, who was still weeping, refusing to look up.

"Finda," Arafinwë said softly. "Look, hinya, look. See, it’s not dark at all. See all the candles. Look, child. That’s it. See. All is well. There is naught to fear." Slowly, Arafinwë stood with Finrod still in his arms and the ellon allowed himself to be pulled up from his crouch and looked around to see all the candles. He had to take several deep breaths as the terror of his initial waking receded.

"Why are you afraid of the dark?" Arafinwë asked softly as he helped his son to sit on the edge of the bed. Eärwen came and sat on his other side, gently rubbing Finrod’s back. Amarië, apparently forgotten, stood by the door and listened with growing dismay at Finrod’s words.

"I... I d-died in the dark," Finrod whispered, not looking at them, but staring at a bank of candles that now stood upon the mantlepiece of the fireplace that graced one wall of the room.

"You weren’t afraid to sleep before, though, when we stopped at Eldamas," Eärwen said.

"I made sure there were enough candles lit to last the night when we were there," Finrod confessed. "I can’t sleep without candlelight. Wh-when I was first re-embodied, I couldn’t sleep inside at night at all, but spent the nights outside watching the stars. It took me a long time to be able to sleep inside at night with candles burning. When I woke up just now and it was dark, I... I guess I panicked. I’m sorry...."

"Hush," Arafinwë said gently. "There is no reason to be sorry. I only wish you had warned us so we would have had a candle lit when we left you sleeping."

Finrod looked sheepish. "I guess I didn’t want you to think I was an elfling."

"Well, unfortunately, yonya, you’ll always be an elfling to us," Arafinwë said with a fond smile, "but in this case, I do not think anything of the sort. I had my own nightmares when I came back to Tirion after the war. There is no shame in that." He gave his son a fierce hug and Finrod seemed more appeased.

"You were shouting some names," Eärwen said, "Olórin and Tindomerel. Who are they?"

"Your Maiar?" Amarië couldn’t help asking, giving him a jaundiced look. "I wasn’t aware you had any. Are you now one of the Valar to have your own Maiar?"

Finrod laughed. "No. I don’t think I’m that good. Olórin and Tindomerel were my caregivers when I was residing in the Gardens of the Reborn shortly after my re-embodiment. They helped me to relearn what I needed to know about living in a hröa again."

Eärwen then leaned over and gave her son a loving kiss. "Are you feeling better, dear? Would you like to go back to sleep? You missed dinner, but if you’re feeling hungry we can have something brought to you."

"I am feeling a little hungry," Finrod said, "but I don’t think I will sleep immediately. I think I’ll stay up and read if there are any books...."

"I’ll find something for you from the library," Arafinwë said, "while your ammë brings you something to eat."

Finrod nodded and in a short while he was happily ensconced in his bed with a tray bearing some cold meat, fruit and cheese, fresh-baked bread and a goblet of mellow wine. His atar brought him not one, but several books, claiming that they had been Finrod’s favorites when he was younger. Arafinwë and Eärwen kissed him good-night and then herded Amarië out the door, leaving him to his meal and his books surrounded by a score or more of candles.

"Why don’t you go back to bed, dear?" Eärwen advised Amarië and after giving them both pecks on the cheek, she retired to her own rooms, her expression pensive. By mutual agreement, Arafinwë and Eärwen made their way to the sitting room and sat quietly side-by-side on a settee, their arms wrapped around each other. Neither spoke for some time, but finally Arafinwë sighed.

"Do you think if I wrote to Lord Námo for a set of instructions on the care and feeding of Reborn, I would get a reply?" he asked.

Eärwen gave him a surprised look but when she noticed the glint of humor in his eyes, she gave a light laugh. "I would love to be there to see his expression when he receives your letter."

Arafinwë gave his wife a kiss on her brow. "So would I." Then he moved to kiss her on the lips and for a time neither spoke. Dawn was only a couple of hours away when they finally sought their own beds.

Parma Axanion Ennónain: ‘Book of Rules for Reborn’. The word axan, adopted and adapted from Valarin, is defined as ‘law, rule, as primarily proceeding from Eru’. The normal word for ‘law’ or ‘rule’ is sanyë. Eärnur is therefore making a joke, claiming that these particular ‘rules’ come straight from Eru.

The first days of my return to Tirion were unsettling and frustrating. As I wandered the hallways of the palace, servants and courtiers would stop and bow or curtsey but I could feel their stares and hear the whisperings that followed me as I passed them. Most I had no memory of; they were complete strangers to me. The palace itself proved frustrating, for, at first, I could not call up a mental map of the place. Always, memories of Nargothrond rose instead and I yearned for my lost kingdom more and more. It did not help any that Amarië took it upon herself to reintroduce me to my new home and the people who lived there....

“...and this is the upper rose garden where you recited that lovely poem you wrote for me about the Trees,” Amarië said.

Finrod resisted a sigh. “I don’t remember,” he said softly for about the tenth time that morning, wishing he could find a polite (or perhaps not so polite) way of excusing himself from the elleth’s presence. It appeared that no matter where they went in the palace or its surrounding gardens she always managed to make some reference to their time together before he left. It seemed to him that about the only place that held no such memory was the privy, and he wasn’t entirely sure about that either.

“Both,” he answered shortly, and before she could comment he continued. “I appreciate you taking the time to show me around, Amarië, but I’m feeling weary again. I think I will go and rest for a while.”

“You’re always feeling weary,” Amarië said with a pout. “I think you simply use that as an excuse to get away from the rest of us.”

Finrod was tempted to correct her and tell her that it was she he needed to get away from, but he refrained. Instead, he simply shrugged. “I was warned that I would feel this way at first,” he said, and now that he had mentioned it, he was feeling tired again even though it was not yet noon.

“Very well,” Amarië said, sighing in exasperation. “I suppose we can continue the tour at a later time. I’ll see you to your rooms....”

“That won’t be necessary,” Finrod said somewhat hastily. “I remember the way.” Before she could make any other suggestion, he gave her what he hoped was a polite enough bow and strode away, just wanting to get as far from her as quickly as possible without actually running. Soon, he was back in the wing reserved for the royal family, his pace slowing as he idly glanced at the tapestries on the walls. He was staring at one in particular that showed the Two Trees when a strange voice behind him startled him out of his reverie.

He turned to find himself facing an ellon whose features appeared familiar but he couldn’t quite place them. The ellon gave him a short bow, though his expression was somewhat mocking.

“I am Lord Rialcar, your Highness,” the ellon said. “I serve on your atar’s Privy Council.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Finrod replied, feeling relieved. He gave the lord a slight smile. “I’m afraid my memories are not all there, yet. I often....”

Finrod blinked a couple of times, feeling nonplused at the unexpected question. “Son? Did I meet him earlier? I’m sorry, I don’t....”

“He followed you,” Rialcar said, his expression turning dark and Finrod took a step back, automatically reaching for a sword that no longer hung on his hip. The lord did not seem to notice as he continued speaking. “His name is Laurendil. Does that ring any bells?”

Finrod could only shake his head, feeling dismayed. “There were many who followed me, Lord Rialcar. I couldn’t expect to remember all....”

“He worshiped you,” Rialcar continued as if he hadn’t heard Finrod’s words. “He could speak of naught but you in those dark days before you stole him away....”

“Did you not?” Rialcar sneered. “Even before the Darkening he would often come home speaking highly of you and your words. He even spoke of seeking a position in your household, stating he would gladly accept the lowest of positions just to be near you.” He shook his head, his fury barely contained. “When you declared that you would follow your fool of an uncle to the Outer Lands, my son couldn’t pack fast enough and could not be persuaded either by me or his amillë to remain. When your atar returned, I’d hoped my son would have seen reason as well and returned with him, but no, he did not, and I think he will never return to us save through Mandos.”

Finrod was not sure how to respond to Rialcar’s diatribe. He truly did not recognize the name of the lord’s son and suspected that if he did know him it was by another name entirely, for many of the Noldor had either adopted Sindarin names or altered their own names to sound Sindarin. He was saved from trying to explain this by the appearance of his atar surrounded by some of his courtiers. Finrod felt weak with relief at the sight of the Noldóran and had to force himself not to run to him.

Arafinwë took in the scene before him at a glance and frowned. “Rialcar, I wondered where you had wandered off to.”

Rialcar gave the king his obeisance. “I came upon your son and introduced myself,” he said smoothly.

“He wanted to know if I remembered his son, Laurendil,” Finrod said. “I told him I didn’t, at least, I don’t think I do. The name is unfamiliar. If I knew him at all it would have been under another name.”

Rialcar and the other courtiers gave him strange looks but Arafinwë merely nodded. “Most likely,” he said, giving his son a slight smile. “I remember when I was in Beleriand how frustrating it was to refer to someone by their Quenya name only to be given blank looks. It took me a while to remember to call your sister Galadriel rather than Artanis.”

Finrod smiled. “She made a point of refusing to respond to me or anyone else if we forgot and called her Artanis,” he said. “Celeborn thought it was amusing whenever Aegnor would sneak up on her and suddenly yell ‘Artanis!’ just to see if she would respond.”

Finrod nodded, giving them a light laugh. “Usually by slapping him. I finally had to order him to stop and threatened to have him sent to Caranthir in Thargelion for a year or three if he didn’t behave.”

There were several raised eyebrows among the listeners and most had looks of bemusement. “Who are these people you mention, Prince Findaráto?” one of the courtiers asked. “Such strange sounding names.”

It was Arafinwë, though, who answered. “Aegnor is my son Aicanáro and Caranthir is Morifinwë. Those are the names by which they are known in Heceldamar, which was called Beleriand by those who dwelt there.”

“My son-in-law,” Arafinwë said, then turned to Finrod, ignoring the looks of surprise on the faces of the courtiers. “Would you like to join me? I was about to tour the granaries to make sure there is enough to last through the coming winter.”

“Are winters harsh here?” Finrod asked as he stepped to his atar’s side, no longer feeling weary.

“Sometimes,” Arafinwë answered as he placed an arm around his son’s shoulders. “It seems that when the Valar created Anar and Isil, they allowed the seasons to progress as they will. We learned early on that there would no longer be a continuous growing season for our crops. Even during the Darkening the Valar somehow kept our crops from failing so we did not starve, but afterwards we were pretty much on our own.”

Finrod nodded. “The same with us,” he said as they walked down the hallway with the courtiers following. “Even without the Light of the Trees, Melian was able to cause crops to thrive within her Girdle, but once Anar rose she ceased to exert her power in that manner. We all had to learn how to plan for the winters that assailed us. It was hard but when the Atani came life became a little easier, for their nissi and the children helped with the farming while their neri joined the ranks of warriors helping us maintain the Leaguer against Melkor.”

“And Beleriand was further north than we are here,” Arafinwë said with a nod, “so your lands were not as arable and I suspect your growing season was much shorter than ours.”

“True,” Finrod said. “Indeed, much of our lands were untamed wilderness where none lived, save outlaws and orcs, but we managed as well as we could.”

“I think from what I was told by those whom I met in Beleriand, that you did very well indeed, yonya,” Arafinwë said, giving him an approving smile. “You were a very good ruler to your people. I’m very proud of you.”

Finrod blushed. “Thank you,” he said softly, “but in the end, I failed them.”

“No, child,” Arafinwë said. “From what I’ve learned, it is they who failed you. Your people allowed your cousins to sway them from their allegiance to you. In the end, though, their own perfidy betrayed them and Artaher cast them out of Nargothrond. I understand they met a sorry and, quite frankly, a richly deserved end.”

“No one deserves to die, Atto,” Finrod said quietly, not looking at anyone. “No one.”

Arafinwë stopped to stare at his son, the courtiers stopping as well. “And you, more than most, know of what you speak,” he finally said with a nod. “Forgive me, yonya. I stand corrected.”

Finrod gazed at his atar, not entirely sure how to respond to his words. His atar saved him the trouble by continuing their walk. Soon they were outside where several grooms were there with horses. Arafinwë asked one of them to fetch another horse for his son and soon the ellon was bringing along a fine grey stallion.

“His name is Mistaráto,” Arafinwë told Finrod as the ellon gladly greeted the horse.

“Mithrod,” Finrod whispered, automatically translating the name into Sindarin, as he carefully examined the steed, even going so far as to check the horseshoes, tsking over them.

Finrod looked up from his examination. “Sloppy work,” he said. “I can do better.”

“You know how to shoe a horse, prince?” a courtier whom Finrod remembered was named Pelendur asked.

“Yes, and how to make them,” Finrod replied, mounting the steed, patting him on the neck. He ignored the many disbelieving looks of those around him, keeping his eyes on his atar instead. “So where exactly are we going?” he asked, hoping to divert attention away from himself.

Arafinwë took the hint and pointed south. “The granaries are to the south of the city, on the road to the Southern Fiefdoms,” he explained as they set out.

They rode in silence as they went through the streets of the city. This was the first time since returning to Tirion that Finrod had been beyond the portico of the palace and he gazed about him with interest. He vaguely recalled how the city looked under the light of the Two Trees, and then under the dark of the stars, but he had never seen it really in daylight. It was as beautiful as he remembered, what he remembered of it. They passed the court of the White Tree and the Mindon Eldaliéva and then wound their way towards the southern gate. There were enough people riding with them that few pedestrians marked him at first, though they all gave their obeisance as they recognized Arafinwë in the cavalcade. Arafinwë nodded and smiled but otherwise did not address them. Soon they were beyond the city walls and making their way along a well-traveled road that wended its way into the south. About a half a mile down the road they turned off and headed now eastward until they came to an open area where large silos stood.

“We’ve had a good harvest this year,” Arafinwë told Finrod as they made their way along the road. “The granaries will be full for a change.”

Arafinwë shook his head. “The last several years have been somewhat lean. The rains came late when they came at all and the winter before was especially long and colder than normal. This year, however, there has been an overabundance as if to make up for the poor harvests of previous years.”

Finrod nodded. “We had similar problems at times,” he said. “Some of the others were wont to keep the better share of their stores for their own use during the lean years, leaving the Atani living among them to scrounge for themselves. I deplored such measures and always made sure that the Mortals under my rule got a fair share, sometimes even more, for they are weaker than we and cannot withstand hardship as well as we.”

Arafinwë frowned. “It grieves me to hear that someone like Ñolofinwë would ever...”

“Oh, not Uncle or Findecáno,” Finrod assured him. “Not even my cousins, at least not Nelyo or Macalaurë. There were rumors that Moryo and perhaps Turco acted thus, though I was never able to prove it. Still, the rumors persisted.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Arafinwë said with a sigh. “Well, they are all dead now and whatever their crimes they have been judged....”

“No,” Finrod said firmly. “They refused Judgment. Lord Námo told me when I asked.”

“Yes, but could we not talk about it, Atto?” Finrod pleaded. “It’s too nice a day....”

“Of course, yonya,” his atar said quickly. “Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you any pain.”

“No pain, Atto,” Finrod assured him, “but I just don’t wish to discuss my late and unlamented cousins right now.”

“Then we will not,” Arafinwë said firmly. “Come. Let us take a look at the granaries and then we will ride a little further to see some of the surrounding farmland.”

They dismounted and made their way towards one of the silos where grain was being stored. The Elves who were working did not stop, but gave cheerful greetings to their group, which Arafinwë acknowledged with a warm greeting of his own.

“How does it go, Ilvanaráto?” he asked an ellon whom Finrod could see was not a worker, for he was richly dressed and he suspected that this one was a noble, for his manner was haughty and his expression lordly.

The ellon bowed to Arafinwë. “Well enough, sire,” he said. “If the weather holds as it has for one more month we will have all the silos filled.” He stared at Finrod, his expression one of puzzlement as if he could not place him. Finrod tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

Arafinwë put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You remember my son, Findaráto, don’t you Ilvanaráto?” He then turned to Finrod. “You might not remember Lord Ilvanaráto but he has been in charge of overseeing our granaries and farms.”

The name meant nothing to Finrod, but he gave the lord a smile and a bow. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Ilvanaráto. I fear I have no memory of you, but hopefully, such memories as I do have will soon surface.”

“Hmph,” Ilvanaráto said, clearly not impressed. “So, is it true, that you died for the sake of one of those Mortals? I heard rumors from those who returned from the war. I must say I can’t imagine why one of the Firstborn would do such a thing for any Aftercomer.”

Finrod felt the blood rush from his head and he was glad for his atar’s arm around his shoulders, steadying him. “I found them to be most admirable and no less Eruhíni than we,” he said quietly yet with great conviction. “I have been told that in sacrificing myself for Beren I opened up a future for our people and the Secondborn that might never have been possible otherwise.”

Ilvanaráto gave him a disbelieving look, and Finrod noticed that he was not the only one. “And who told you this, my prince?” the ellon asked. “I find it rather hard to believe that such is the case.”

“Lord Námo and Lady Yavanna,” Finrod answered and had the satisfaction of seeing the smirk on Ilvanaráto’s face fade.

“More to the point, Ilvanaráto,” Arafinwë said, “I, too, found the Aftercomers to be most admirable and deserving of our respect. They fought bravely and died, sometimes sacrificing themselves so that some of us Eldar would live to see another sunrise. Their lives are so short yet they gave them up willingly in the hope that through their sacrifices Melkor would be defeated, as indeed he was. I would not besmirch their memory or their sacrifices with thoughtless words if I were you.”

“It is not I whom you have offended, Ilvanaráto,” Arafinwë said, looking pointedly at the lord.

Finrod wasn’t sure how sincere the apology was but decided to err on the side of magnanimity and nodded. “Accepted, Lord Ilvanaráto. I know it must be difficult for those who never had the pleasure of meeting any of the Atani to understand how marvelous they are. I dimly remember when I first encountered them.” He gave them a wry grin. “At first I thought they were a strange breed of orcs, except orcs don’t sing and they did.”

Finrod nodded. “And I stayed with them for a year, teaching them about us and the Valar. They called me Lord Nóm.” He blushed a bit at the blank looks on his listeners’ faces. “It means ‘wisdom’ in their language.”

“Hmmm,” Arafinwë said teasingly. “I would never have figured you to be mistaken for one of the Wise.”

“Atto!” Finrod exclaimed and Arafinwë laughed, hugging him and giving him a kiss on his brow.

“At any rate,” the king said, turning back to Ilvanaráto, “we came here to discuss grain and corn. Perhaps you would show us around?”

Ilvanaráto gave him a deep bow. “As my lord commands.” He gestured for them to follow him and soon Finrod was staring into a nearby silo only half listening to Ilvanaráto talk about crops and harvest, his thoughts wandering to the forests of Ossiriand and a certain mountain valley below the springs of Thalos.

Note: Artaher, according to Tolkien, was the original Quenya name of Orodreth. See ‘The Shibboleth of Fëanor’, Note 3, Peoples of Middle-earth, HoME XII. Ñolofinwë is Fingolfin, and Findecáno is Fingon. Nelyo is a pet name for Nelyafinwë who is best known as Maedhros. Macalaurë is Maglor; Moryo and Turco are pet names for Morifinwë (Caranthir) and Turcafinwë (Celegorm), respectively.

I learned quickly not to speak over much about my life in Beleriand or about the differences in the way things were done in Nargothrond compared to how they were done in Tirion. Most did not want to hear my tales. Amillë, I think, listened to them out of motherly concern, but only Atar was truly interested; Amarië could not be bothered. Even those who fought in the War of Wrath wished only to put such memories aside. I found myself feeling more and more alone, mourning for the life that had been mine, one that had had meaning and a purpose. I was no longer truly Noldo, but Exilic, and I began to appreciate just how much of the sensibilities and worldview of the Sindar I had absorbed into my own philosophies. When I came to this realization, I decided I would begin acting accordingly. The people of Tirion thought to have their lost prince back, but what they were expecting and what they got were not necessarily the same thing....

During the ride back to the city after they had examined the granaries and had visited farms belonging to some of the nobles who had accompanied them on their inspection tour, Finrod thought long and hard about certain things concerning himself and his past life and came to certain decisions. He was not sure if anyone would approve of what he was planning to do, and he did not wish to be a disappointment to his parents, but he knew he needed to show everyone who he was now, not who everyone remembered from before. Unfortunately, as he had no idea how to go about obtaining what he needed in order to carry out his plans he had to go to his atar for help.

“Why do you need these?” Arafinwë naturally asked when Finrod told him what he was looking for.

“I just do, Atto,” he said quietly, hoping that he would not be denied so small a request. He had been very careful not to ask for very much since returning home. Every morning he had hoped to see porridge being served at breakfast and had had to hide his disappointment when he saw that it was not. He had come to the conclusion that porridge was not allowed on the Noldóran’s table for some reason and felt too insecure and unsure of his own position to ask for it, fearing ridicule, especially from Amarië.

Arafinwë gave him a considering look, then nodded. “I will take you to one of the jewelers in the city with whom I am acquainted. Írissë will be able to help you find what you need.”

“We’ll leave after I finish with court this morning,” Arafinwë said. “Perhaps you would care to join me.”

Finrod nodded his acceptance of his atar’s suggestion. “I would like that, thank you.”

Court proved both interesting and boring for Finrod. It was interesting simply to see his atar acting as Noldóran and comparing what he saw with what he remembered, both of his own court in Nargothrond and his anatar’s court when Finwë ruled in Tirion. It was also boring, for he simply sat there beside his atar silently watching the proceedings. All the while he tried to ignore the stares from those who were in attendance, especially from the citizens who had come to plead their cases before their king. Had his atar asked him for his opinion on occasion, it might have been more bearable, but he did not and Finrod had to stop himself from speaking up when he thought that a ruling was not as he would have rendered it in his own realm. He had to constantly remind himself that he was no longer a king, only the haryon of the Noldóran.

Finally, though, court ended and after changing into less formal garb and fortifying himself with a light midmorning snack, he joined his atar and the four guards that propriety and good sense required accompany them, setting out to visit the jewel-smith. They crossed the main avenue that fronted the palace, heading north along a narrower street, passing through two squares before coming to the shop belonging to the jeweler. The guards had effectively prevented anyone they encountered along the way from importuning them, so their path was unimpeded.

“Here it is,” Arafinwë said, pointing to the shop. “Írissë is one of the best jewel-smiths in the city.”

“Do you use her services exclusively or do you patronize the other jewel-smiths as well?” Finrod asked.

“Actually, I go through the guild, requesting that whoever is available be sent to me,” Arafinwë answered. “That way I cannot be accused of favoritism. It is the same with all the other guilds. I never approved of my atar choosing one artisan over all others and using their services exclusively. When I became Noldóran I made a point of asking the guildmasters to select whichever artisan was available. In truth, though, there were so few artisans left in the city that I felt it only fair to utilize them all whenever possible.”

Finrod nodded in approval as the two entered the shop, leaving the guards to wait outside. A bell rang when the door opened. Finrod stopped just inside the entrance to look around. The shop was not overly large and he suspected that the jewel-smith did most of her work in a back room. There were three display cases showing off the elleth’s work as well as a counter with comfortable chairs in front of it for customers to take their ease. A door behind the counter was partly open and from the back room they heard someone call out, “I’ll be right there.”

“Take your time, Írissë,” Arafinwë said, giving Finrod a smile and a wink. “We’re in no hurry.” Finrod grinned back.

There was a flurry of motion and the door swung open and an elleth stood there looking a bit flustered. “Aranya!” she exclaimed, giving them a hasty curtsey. “Forgive me. I did not realize....”

“Nothing to forgive, Írissë,” Arafinwë said with a laugh. “If anything, it is I who should apologize for not sending you fair warning of my coming.”

“And how may I be of service to you today, aranya?” she asked, casting a curious look Finrod’s way.

Arafinwë gestured towards his son. “This is my son, Findaráto, newly released from Mandos,” he said by way of introduction and Finrod saw the elleth’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, of course,” she said, giving him another curtsey. “I should have realized. Glad I am that you have returned to us, Highness.”

“Oh?” Írissë said. “Are you looking for something in particular, Highness, perhaps something for Lady Amarië or your Amillë?”

Finrod blinked a couple of times, looking a bit bemused by the question. “Ah... actually, I’m in need of some small diamonds and emeralds as well as silver and dark blue beads. They should be pierced so one can twine them in a braid.”

Írissë gave him a surprised look, though she recovered quickly enough. “Hmmm.... an interesting request,” she said, her eyes narrowing in thought. “How many of each would you need and what are their dimensions?”

Finrod told her and she nodded. “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable, lords, while I gather what stock I have to show you.”

She excused herself while the two took seats before the counter and in a moment she was back with several cases which she placed on the counter, opening them one at a time. “Here are some samples of the gemstones you are looking for,” she told them, “and here are silver beads and in this case beads in various shades of blue. Is there one that matches what you have in mind?”

Finrod carefully examined the gemstones and beads. “This is the size of the diamonds and emeralds that I need,” he said, pointing to a couple of the smaller gems. “This silver bead will do, but none of these blue beads, though, are the right shade. It needs to be darker than this,” he pointed to one of the beads, “but with a hint of green to it.”

“Hmm.... let me bring out another case,” the jeweler said and went back to the workshop, returning and presenting them with a case of beads that were more green than blue.

Finrod looked them over and then pointed to one in particular. “That one is closer to what I need,” he said.

She picked it up to hold in the light streaming through the windows. Finrod then picked up the blue bead he had been examining earlier and compared the two. “Somewhere between these two shades is what I’m looking for,” he said.

Írissë nodded. “I think I can manage that,” she said, “though it will take me a few days to do so.”

“That’s fine,” Finrod said. “I did not expect to find what I needed immediately.”

“If I may ask, just how will these be twined in a braid?” the jeweler enquired. “And why would you want to?”

Finrod explained how the gems and beads would be inserted into a braid. Írissë nodded in understanding, stating that she would see that all was properly prepared. In answer to her other question, however, Finrod was somewhat reticent. “It’s something from before,” he said softly and neither she nor Arafinwë wisely pressed for additional details.

Írissë removed the diamond, emerald and silver bead that Finrod had indicated from their cases and put them aside along with the blue and green beads. “It will take me some time to have all ready for you, Highness. I hope this is not something you need immediately.”

“No,” Finrod said with a shake of his head. “Whenever you have the time....”

“For the royal family, I always have time,” the jeweler said with a smile. “Now, as for payment....”

Finrod blinked and looked at his atar in dismay. “I... I don’t have any....”

Arafinwë put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Not to worry, yonya. The money will come out of the treasury. I don’t think such a paltry amount of gems and beads as you are asking for will see us destitute.” He grinned and winked at Írissë who laughed.

“Indeed not!” she said. “As for payment, I’ll accept nothing less than two bottles of your latest vintage of Tirion white, aranya.”

“Two bottles!” Arafinwë exclaimed in mock horror. “Why, that’s pure robbery. You’ll accept four bottles from me and no arguments.”

Finrod gave his atar a wry look. “A rather odd way of bargaining, I must say.”

Both Arafinwë and Írissë laughed. “In that case, aranya,” she said, “for that amount, perhaps his Highness would like to choose something for the queen and Lady Amarië. Has there been a decision on the betrothal yet?”

Írissë gave him a surprised look. Arafinwë explained. “Findaráto’s memories of his previous life are not all present. He did not even remember Amarië much less their being betrothed. We’ve decided to give him time to become reacquainted with us before making any such announcement.”

“Yes, of course,” Írissë said, coloring slightly in embarrassment. “I should have realized. I recall my cousin’s daughter was the same way when she first returned to us from Mandos. Poor dear was always apologizing for not remembering this person or that.”

“Perhaps I should pick out something for Ammë,” Finrod suggested hesitantly, “and for Amarië, but I don’t know what.”

“As to that,” Írissë said, “I know the queen is rather fond of pearls and I have a lovely pearl pendant that I think she would like. As for Lady Amarië, perhaps a cloak pin would be suitable. Is not her begetting day coming up?” She turned to Arafinwë who nodded. “Then that would be a safe gift for you to give her, I deem.”

“Why don’t you show us what you have,” Arafinwë said and a little while later they left the shop with Finrod carrying two small packages neatly wrapped in paper tied with ribbons.

It took nearly two weeks for Írissë to provide Finrod with the gems and beads that he needed but the wait was worth it, as far as he was concerned, for it coincided with Amarië’s begetting day and he decided that would be a good time to show off his new look. A small party was planned for the elleth where those who were close to the royal family would gather and give her their gifts. Shortly before the gathering, Finrod presented his ammë with the pearl pendant he had bought for her, explaining that he had waited until then to give it to her so Amarië would not think he was slighting her.

Eärwen gave him a motherly hug and kiss, thanking him for his thoughtfulness. “I shall wear it tonight at the party,” she told him and then he left to get ready himself.

He spent a long time with the braids, carefully inserting the gemstones and beads in the proper order. He was grateful that that particular memory had come readily enough for he wanted everything to be perfect. He eyed the braids critically once he was done and satisfied, he picked up the small gift for Amarië and made his way to the dining room where the party would be held.

As soon as he entered, all eyes turned to him and many of the people there registered surprise and even shock at the sight of him. He stood there feeling nervous and self-conscious but it was too late to retreat. Instead, he made his way to where Amarië was standing by his parents and gave her an awkward kiss on her cheek, then handed her his gift. “Happy begetting day, Amarië,” he said shyly. “I... I hope you like my gift.”

Amarië just stared at him for a long moment, completely ignoring the gift which he held out to her. “What are those?” she finally asked, pointing to his braids.

“Warrior braids,” Finrod answered. “It... it was a custom in Beleriand and....”

“Now dear,” Eärwen said gently, “that is neither here nor there. Will you not take Findaráto’s gift? I understand he chose it personally just for you.”

Amarië glanced at the queen and then back at Finrod before nodding, taking the gift from his hand. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, placing it on the table beside her where all the other gifts were.

Finrod noticed with inner dismay that his was the smallest gift there and feared that it would either be scorned or, worse, overlooked by the elleth now greeting another guest. He caught Arafinwë’s gaze and when his atar gestured for him to approach he went to him and Arafinwë led him into a corner away from the others.

“Warrior braids?” Arafinwë asked in a whisper. “I haven’t seen their like since the war.”

“I’ve decided that I’m as much Finrod as I am Findaráto,” he replied in his own whisper, “and these braids are a part of who I am.”

Arafinwë gave him a piercing look. “Many will neither understand nor approve.”

“Actually, I do understand, though I don’t entirely approve,” Arafinwë answered truthfully, “but neither will I forbid it. Wear them if you must, yonya, but I think it a mistake.”

“Because you already have an uphill battle before you, gaining acceptance from others. Remember, you are a curiosity to most, being a Reborn. You are already an outsider in that respect. Do you truly wish to be seen as even more alien than you are?”

Finrod sighed and shook his head. “But I can’t be what everyone wants me to be, either,” he said. “I thought wearing these braids would show everyone that I’m not the Findaráto they remember from before. Too much has happened to me since, including the fact that I died.”

“I know, yonya, and I sympathize, I truly do,” Arafinwë said, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Yet, there are other ways of showing people who you are that are, let us say, less confrontational.” He lifted one of the braids and then let it fall. “The decision is yours. I will not gainsay you, but I do ask that you think through the ramifications of wearing them.”

“I’m sorry, Atto,” Finrod said, casting his gaze at his feet, suddenly feeling like an elfling who had done something wrong. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just....”

Arafinwë hugged him, patting him on the back. “It’s all right, child,” he said. “I’m not blaming you. Now, why don’t we forget about it for the moment. This is Amarië’s day, not yours.”

“I’ll go and undo the braids,” Finrod said in a dejected tone, then, without waiting for his atar to respond, he quietly made his way from the room, returning fifteen minutes later with his hair undone. No one seemed to have noticed that he had even been gone. He spent the rest of the time sitting quietly with a goblet of wine in his hand, ignored by Amarië and the other guests, though both his parents tried to include him in the conversation with little success. When it came time for Amarië to open her gifts, before the feasting would begin, his was the last to be opened. She thanked him somewhat stiffly for the cloak pin, a brooch in the shape of a rose made of garnet and gold, without any of the warmth or enthusiasm she had displayed for the gifts of others, putting it aside almost immediately, barely giving it a glance. Both Arafinwë and Eärwen frowned at her and the queen made a point of praising Finrod for his selection.

“It’s a lovely piece, dear,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “You always had good taste in jewelry as I recall.”

Finrod muttered a shy thank you. Then the feast was about to begin and when Finrod went to take his seat, he overheard one elleth speaking to another as they took their own seats at one of the tables below the high table.

“They’re supposed to be betrothed,” the elleth said to her companion with a disdainful sniff, “yet he gives her such a gift as a cloak pin. How pitiful.” The other elleth tittered in her hands and the two exchanged knowing smirks.

Finrod felt sick and quietly excused himself, ostensibly to use the privy, but in fact, he retired to his own rooms, sitting in the dark with a single candle lit, holding the gemstones and beads of his warrior braids in his hands, silently weeping. Sometime later, when his atar came in search of him and found him thus, Arafinwë took him into his embrace and held him through his tears. When his atar asked him why he had left the feast, he told him what he had overheard. Arafinwë sighed.

“I’m sorry, yonya,” he said, rubbing Finrod’s back to comfort him. “They were being rude and thoughtless, as was Amarië. Your gift was both beautiful and appropriate. Now, dry these tears and come back to the feast. Let us show the others that whatever else you may be, you are still a prince of Eldamar.”

“I know,” Arafinwë replied sympathetically, “but don’t let Amarië or the others win.”

Finrod gave his atar a considering look and finally nodded, putting the gemstones and beads he still had clutched in his hands in a small casket on his dressing table and followed Arafinwë out. Eärwen gave him a motherly smile when they entered the dining room and patted the empty chair beside her. Amarië was seated on the other side of Arafinwë and so he was saved from having to make any conversation with her. He ate very little and ignored everyone but his ammë and when the feasting was over and the dancing and singing began he asked to be excused, pleading weariness that in truth was unfeigned. His parents gave their reluctant consent and it was with relief that he finally retired. If anyone else noticed his absence, they gave no sign.

The disaster that was Amarië’s begetting day party, I think, set me back somewhat. I became surly and unresponsive to those around me, refusing even to leave my rooms. I would sit by one of the embrasures and stare out into a garden I did not see, my mind calling up a different garden, one more familiar to me than the royal pleasaunces of Tirion. I sat there for hours, happily imagining Glorfindel and myself playing in that garden, or tending the plants or just sitting under the bower eating scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam to our hearts’ content. We were glad, for there were no Amariës or tiresome courtiers or even bothersome Maiar ruining our fun.

It was a lovely fantasy, but only that. And as with all fantasies, this one could not last....

Arafinwë and Eärwen let their son mope for two days before deciding that was long enough. Thus, early on the morning of the third day, Finrod woke to his atar shaking him. He focused his eyes, blearily realizing that it was not yet dawn and gazed stupidly up at his atar who was dressed in an old tunic of forest green with a grey cloak thrown around his shoulders.

“Get dressed,” Arafinwë said shortly. “I’ve already laid out your clothes. You have ten minutes and if you are not dressed by then I will have your body servants do it for you.”

Finrod scrambled out of the bed with alacrity, for his atar’s tone was cold and deadly and he knew that it was no idle threat. He looked about frantically for the aforesaid clothes, missing the slight smile on Arafinwë’s face as the king left his son and heir to fend for himself. “When you are ready,” he said as he reached the door, “I’ll be in our sitting room.”

Eight minutes later Finrod was stumbling into the sitting room dressed in an old tunic of rain-washed grey with an equally old cloak of dark grey draped over his arm. He found his atar waiting for him, seated before a table, sipping on some tea. He gestured for Finrod to join him. “Eat. We leave in half an hour.”

“Wh-where are we going?” Finrod asked, as he helped himself to some toast, slathering butter and black cherry jam on it as Arafinwë poured some tea into another cup for him.

“You’ll see,” was his atar’s reply and Finrod had to be content with that as he chewed on his toast and downed his tea. Once they were done with breakfast, Arafinwë rose and headed for the door with Finrod following him, wondering what this was all about. Few servants were up yet, so early it was, and only the guards of the last watch were about, smartly saluting them as they passed.

Rather than heading for the front portico, Arafinwë led him through back corridors until they came to a door that opened onto an alley. Finrod refrained from asking any questions, thinking that no answers would be forthcoming anyway, and followed his atar down the alley and across a small plaza to yet another alley. In the pearly-grey of false dawn they encountered no one along the way. Their route took them downhill towards the city wall and eventually they came to the south gate where two guards waited with four horses. Finrod recognized Mistaráto and smiled at the sight of the great grey who whinnied a greeting to him. He also recognized the guards — Calandil, who was his atar’s chief guard and Amandur, who had been assigned to him upon his return to Tirion. The ellon was young, having been born around the time of the War of Wrath while Finrod was wandering the Halls of Mandos with Glorfindel, giving Lord Námo grief. Finrod suspected that was why his atar had assigned Amandur to him, for they had no previous history and Amandur was not in awe of him. A tentative friendship had grown between them and the young guard gave his charge a merry smile in greeting, though he did not speak. Finrod gave him a smile in return, though, in truth, he was feeling rather bemused, not knowing what was going on.

Arafinwë nodded. “Good. Let us go then.” With that he urged his horse forward and the gate guards gave him a salute as he passed through with Finrod beside him and the two guards trailing. The king made his way along the road, the same road that they had traveled to the granaries, but they passed the road leading there and continued on into the south for another hour. By then, the sun was up and the day promised to be fair. They eventually came to another road that was little more than a slightly overgrown path, heading west, and Arafinwë took it. In the middle distance Finrod saw a smudge of blue-green that marked the eaves of a forest and tried to recall if he knew of it.

“You’ll see when we get there,” his atar answered and the silence that had been between them earlier settled around them again.

The forest was not far and soon they were riding under its cool shade, the path continuing between the trees until it was lost. They dismounted and gave the horses leave to graze, while the four made their way further into the woods. Calandil went ahead while Amandur took the rear; Finrod followed behind his atar. As they moved silently through the forest Finrod felt himself relaxing muscles he was not aware were even tense and the heavy gloom that had settled over his fëa since the party lifted somewhat and he began to feel less sad.

About a half an hour later they came into a small clearing where a hunter’s hut was located. Finrod eyed it curiously. It was small, barely big enough to fit two people, but Finrod realized that its primary purpose was to store hunting bows and other supplies. Calandil went inside and soon was passing out bows and quivers, bringing along a satchel bulging with viands. Finrod automatically gave the bow and arrows handed to him a critical eye, running his hand along the shaft, stringing it and testing the tension.

“You do not recognize it?” Arafinwë asked suddenly and Finrod gave him a bemused look. “The bow. You do not recognize it.” Finrod shook his head. “It was yours a long time ago,” his atar said and Finrod gave it a closer look.

“Sorry, Atto,” he said after a moment of reflection. “I don’t remember.”

Arafinwë shrugged. “Not to worry. It’s a minor detail of no real importance. I just thought you might remember it from before. I was surprised when I returned to Tirion to find it in your room, propped in a corner.”

Finrod shrugged. “As to that, I have no answer. Perhaps I was in too much of a hurry to leave and forgot. I seem to recall having a bow with me, though, as we made our way across the Helcaraxë.” He frowned, trying to dredge up the memory more clearly, then gave them another shrug. “Perhaps I ended up borrowing someone else’s spare.”

“Well, it matters little now,” Arafinwë said with a nod. “Shall we go?”

“Where exactly are we going, Atto?” Finrod asked as Calandil again took the lead, heading further west.

“Why, we’re going hunting, yonya,” Arafinwë said. “I would think that was obvious.”

His atar stopped and gave him a searching look while the two guards stood by pretending indifference, yet their eyes never ceased to move and their stances were ones of readiness should the need arise. “We used to do this a long time ago, you and I,” Arafinwë finally answered, his tone somewhat wistful. “I thought you would enjoy doing so again.”

Finrod stared at him for a moment before nodding. “I don’t really remember, but Lord Irmo warned me that some memories will never come and that it was more important to create new memories to go with my new life than to spend my days searching for old memories of a life that was no longer mine.”

“Lord Irmo is correct,” Arafinwë said, putting an arm around his son’s shoulders. “So, let us see what new memories we can create between us today, shall we?” He gave Finrod a warm smile and a quick kiss on his forehead and Finrod nodded, giving his atar a smile in return. Satisfied, Arafinwë turned to Calandil, nodding to him and the guard bowed briefly before turning back to the track that he was following and they continued on their way.

After a period of silence, Arafinwë spoke softly to his son as they loped quietly through the forest side-by-side. “I have spoken to Amarië and told her how displeased I was by her behavior the other night.”

Finrod cringed somewhat. “You shouldn’t have,” he said, speaking softly as well. “I don’t know why she stays here. She should go back to Vanyamar where she belongs.”

Arafinwë glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Her parents said the same thing, but she was adamant that she remain in Tirion.”

“Why?” Finrod asked, clearly puzzled and at a loss to understand the motivations of ellith.

“I asked her that myself,” Arafinwë told him, “and she said that it was important that she abide in Tirion. She was sure that you would come to your senses and return to us at some point. She was not happy to find that you did not return with me, but she insisted you would return someday and she would be here waiting.”

Finrod shook his head in dismay. “Stupid,” he muttered, “wasting her life that way and I barely remember her now.”

“She still hopes that you will and when you do you will remember the love that you shared,” Arafinwë said.

They continued on in silence again and the further into the forest they traveled the more tense Finrod began to feel, though he could not say why. His senses were heightened and he began to glance around as if looking for something. “What are we hunting, Atto?” he asked in a whisper.

Before Arafinwë could reply, though, there was a sudden flurry of motion in the trees and several black-feathered birds rose in the air. Finrod went into a crouch, quickly nocking an arrow. “Yrch!” he hissed, slipping effortlessly into Sindarin. “Angrod, Aegnor, godhartho nin. Edrahil, no tiriel!”

He started moving again, seeing not the Royal Reserve of the Noldóran but the trackless forests of Dorthonion hard by Ladros which he had given unto Boromir, the grandson of his Mortal friend, Bëor, and their people for their own. There had been rumors of incursions by orcs in that region and Finrod had traveled north out of Nargothrond to consult with his brothers and to see for himself if the rumors were true. He vaguely heard someone calling ‘Findaráto! Findaráto!’ but the name held no meaning for him. He was Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond and these were his lands.

He ran effortlessly through the woods, silent as a leaf falling to the ground, all senses alert as he hunted the hated orcs. Yet, oddly, there was no trace of them, and that puzzled him, for the birds often had been their first warning of the presence of Morgoth’s minions. He stopped to ponder the situation and then, oddly, a horn sounded in the distance, high and sweet and wild its sound, sending his blood pounding and his breath quickening. He saw his brothers and Edrahil going still at the sound as well.

The horn sounded again, and the power of it took him, and with a wordless cry Finrod was running again, heedless of all but the horn and his need to follow it, to come to the one who blew it. On he ran. Forgotten were his atar and the two guards. Forgotten were his brothers and Edrahil. Forgotten, even, were the orcs whom he had been hunting. The horn sounded a third time and he gave an exultant cry, for it was nearer now. He ran even faster, never noticing the subtle shifting of Reality as the Royal Forest made way for another forest far to the north, a forest no Elf had ever trod.

Only when he came into a glade full of golden-green sunlight did he slow his pace, stopping to catch his breath and stare in wonder. There, before him, was Lord Oromë holding a large horn belonging to an animal Finrod could put no name to, chased in bands of mithril and gold with a baldric of green. Etched upon the horn were runes that seemed to flow across its face, causing Finrod to look away for the sheer power that they evoked. This was the Valaróma he had heard blowing and he stood there blinking away his confusion while the Lord of Forests and the Hunt, along with several Maiar who were ranged about him, stood there smiling.

“Welcome, my children,” the Vala said warmly and it was only then that Finrod realized that his atar, Calandil and Amandur were with him. Arafinwë put a hand on his shoulder and Finrod turned to face him.

“Yonya,” the king said, looking both concerned and upset, “why did you run away?”

Finrod blinked a few times, trying to gather his thoughts which seemed to have scattered like leaves in the wind. He shook his head. “F-farannen yrch ir....”

“Quenya, child,” Arafinwë said with some exasperation. “You must speak Quenya, not Sindarin.”

Before Finrod could formulate a reply, Lord Oromë spoke. “Come here, Findaráto.”

Finrod went to stand before the Vala, still feeling confused. Oromë gazed at him calmly, deep love in his eyes, and the longer Finrod stared into the Vala's eyes, the quieter his mind and fëa became until at the last he let out a deep shuddering breath and all the tension seemed to leave him, and he felt more centered.

“That’s better,” Oromë said kindly. “Tell me, child, where were you before I sounded my horn?”

“I... I was in Dorthonion, in the region of Ladros,” Finrod answered, then paused for a second. “Wasn’t I?”

Oromë shook his head. “Not in reality,” he replied, “only in your mind. You were deep inside a memory of an earlier time and could no longer differentiate between the past and the present. Do you know what triggered the memory?”

Finrod had to think for a moment, recalling what had happened. “There was a sudden flight of birds, black-feathered birds,” he said slowly, gathering his thoughts. He looked up at the Vala. “They always warned us of the presence of orcs and such,” he ended, now looking apologetic as he realized what he had done.

Arafinwë came to stand next to him. “You were issuing orders in Sindarin that I did not understand, for I never bothered to learn more than a few phrases of command in that language while I was in Beleriand.”

“I’m sorry,” Finrod said, frowning. “I don’t really understand it. One minute I was walking by your side, the next I was running through the forests of Dorthonion chasing after orcs with my brothers.” He gave Oromë an enquiring look.

The Vala merely shrugged. “My brother Námo tells me that often a memory becomes so overwhelming as an emotional connection is made that the one experiencing it does not realize that it is merely a memory. Instead, they relive it.”

“It was so real,” Finrod said in amazement, “though at the time I wondered why there were no signs of the orcs which the birds had warned me were near.”

Oromë nodded in understanding. Then Arafinwë spoke, addressing the Vala. “We’re no longer in the Royal Forest, lord,” he said, casting a look about him. “How is that possible?”

Oromë laughed. “I altered Reality somewhat so that you have traveled many hundreds of leagues in a matter of minutes. We are far to the north of Eldamar. Indeed, even further north than Formenos.”

“Why?” Finrod couldn’t help asking, then blushed when both his atar and Lord Oromë gave him amused looks.

“Because I desired to speak with you,” Oromë said with another laugh, “and I decided to bring you to me rather than me chasing you all over Aman.” The Maiar all laughed at their lord’s words while Finrod found himself blushing.

“Will this happen again?” Arafinwë asked then, nodding toward his son, “and if it does, how do we deal with it?”

“You do not,” Oromë said gravely. “We will.” And the implications of his words were not lost on any of them. “As for your first question, the answer to that is, perhaps. My brother says that there is no rhyme or reason as to when or if such will occur.” He gave Arafinwë a knowing smile. “When it comes to the Reborn, my son, expect the unexpected.”

Both Arafinwë and Finrod sighed, though for different reasons. “I’m sorry, Atto,” Finrod said remorsefully. “I don’t mean to cause trouble....”

Arafinwë took him in his arms and hugged him. “You are no trouble, child,” he said gently, then gave him a wry grin. “I just hope we don’t have another episode such as this one. You gave us a merry chase.”

Finrod replied with a weak grin of his own, stealing a glance at Calandil and Amandur who had been standing silent during their discussion. He felt a little better when he saw Amandur give him a wink.

“So what now, lord?” Arafinwë asked Oromë. “You say that we are many hundreds of leagues away from where we were and the way back will be long and wearisome.”

Oromë shook his head. “When the time comes, I will return you to your forest, Pityahúnya, but until then, will you hunt with me, my children?”

Oromë gave him an almost feral look and Finrod found himself taking an involuntary step back. “Evil,” was the Vala’s reply and before any of them could speak, he raised his great horn to his lips and blew upon it.

The sun was low in the west when Finrod came to himself. He was standing in a small glade with his atar and the two guards, all of them blinking as if just waking from deep sleep. Finrod tried to remember what had happened to him, but all he caught were scattered images: running beside Lord Oromë and his Maiar, battling creatures out of nightmare, exalting in his first kill as the Vala blooded him. He raised a tentative hand to his face and felt the sticky wetness on his cheek. When he drew his hand away there were bloodstains upon his fingers.

“It... it was real,” he whispered in awe as he stared at his fingers. He noticed that Amandur, too, had been blooded and the ellon looked dazed, his grey eyes dark with emotion.

“Yes,” Arafinwë said. “It was real. Come. I recognize this part of the Reserve. There is a stream nearby where you may wash off the blood before we return to Tirion. It will not do to show up looking as you do. Your ammë would have a fit.”

Finrod grinned at his atar and nodded as Arafinwë led them to the stream and the two younger ellyn washed the blood from their faces. It turned out that they were not too far from where they had entered the forest earlier that day and soon they were reunited with their steeds, heading back to Tirion. The first stars greeted them as they came nigh to the south gate.

Angrod, Aegnor, godhartho nin. Edrahil, no tiriel!: ‘Angrod, Aegnor, stay together with me. Edrahil, be watchful!’

Pityahúnya: (Quenya) My little hound. Pityahuan ‘Little hound’ is an epessë or nickname given to Arafinwë by Lord Manwë. When appending a suffix, ‘huan’ becomes ‘hún-’.

22: Confrontation

The Hunt with Lord Oromë changed things for me and my atar, though it was not immediately apparent. Still, a bond was formed between us that had not been there previously. It was tenuous and there were times when my immaturity strained it, yet it was never broken and it only grew stronger as the days, weeks and years passed.

By mutual consent we kept our adventure with Lord Oromë to ourselves, for we did not wish to alarm my ammë unduly. When she noticed we returned without any game we simply said that there was none to be had that day but that we had a good time anyway and she was content with our explanation.

And so time passed. I became used to the routine of the palace and no longer felt as if I were a visitor in my own home. Atar invited me to attend court and to sit in on his council meetings, but did not press for me to do more than observe. He did sometimes quiz me about how I might have handled certain situations when I was ruling in Nargothrond, and often I could dredge up some memory to aid me in my answer. We did not always agree about each other’s methods of ruling, but I think we both learned from each other.

In spite of this, though, some people in Atar’s court were less than welcoming of my presence....

****

Finrod usually spent the mornings sitting beside Arafinwë observing his atar conduct court. This particular morning there was an open court allowing any citizen of Tirion to come before the king with their complaints. Finrod remembered times when he, too, did something similar, and recalled that half the time the proceedings were so boring and the complaints so banal that it was a wonder he didn’t fall asleep on his throne. He gave a sideways glance at his atar and hid a smile. For all that the Noldóran’s expression was one of studied attention to the case before him, Finrod could tell that his atar was as bored as he, probably more so.

He turned his attention back to the case at hand, something to do with a property dispute. As near as he could figure, there was a question about who had the responsibility of maintaining the common wall separating the gardens of the two parties. Apparently, the wall had been neglected for some time, each party believing that the other was responsible for its upkeep. The two ellith involved were each giving reasons why they should not be the one responsible. To Finrod, the solution was obvious and he wondered if living in the peace and serenity of Aman had dulled the wits of its inhabitants, for neither ellith was exhibiting any common sense in the matter, as far as he was concerned.

He sighed, almost wishing for an invasion of orcs to liven up the proceedings a bit. He idly wondered if he should take the initiative and threaten them with death if they didn’t come to an agreement within the next five minutes, but then he realized he no longer had a sword handy and spent some minutes fantasizing about making one. It took him a moment to realize that his atar had spoken to him.

He blinked, feeling a bit stupid for his inattention and looked at Arafinwë, whose expression was actually sympathetic, even amused. “Sorry, Atto,” he mumbled. “What was your question?”

“I was wondering how you would decide this case,” Arafinwë asked.

Finrod glanced at the two ellith standing before them. They stared at him curiously, as if not sure who he was, for no one had introduced him to them. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Well, I was just thinking I should threaten them with death if they didn’t come to some agreement between them,” he answered and smiled as the two ellith blanched and several courtiers standing around raised their eyebrows at him.

Arafinwë’s own expression became unreadable. “Is that how you would have decided in your own court?” he asked quietly.

Finrod gave him a startled look, as if just realizing that what he had said was inappropriate. “Oh no, but only because no one would have dared come to me with such a petty complaint, not when orcs were running about loose in the countryside threatening everyone. If anyone had been foolish enough to waste my time, I would have thrown them out of Nargothrond without any weapons and let them fend for themselves.”

More eyebrows went up.

Arafinwë gave his son a considering look. “So you never had such a case come before you?”

“Well, nothing like, but there were a few who dared to importune my time with banalities,” Finrod allowed, giving his atar a lopsided grin. “I got real creative doling out punishments. After a while people learned to solve their own petty problems.”

“Punishments?” asked one of the courtiers whose name escaped Finrod at that moment.

Finrod nodded. “We lived under constant threat of discovery by Melkor and death,” he answered readily enough. “I had no time for trivialities, so after deciding on the case I would exact punishment on both parties as a lesson on not wasting my time.” He turned to Arafinwë with a wicked grin. “It worked too.”

“I bet it did,” Arafinwë replied, and Finrod could tell his atar was hard-pressed not to start laughing. “Still, I would hear your thoughts on this particular case.”

Finrod wrinkled his nose. “They should take turns maintaining the wall in alternate years, but they should share the expense of maintenance between them.” He saw his atar nod, giving him a look of approval, and couldn’t help adding, “I figured that out five minutes into the first argument. Why did you let them go on for so long? I was wondering should I die of boredom in the meantime would Lord Námo accept that as a legitimate excuse for my showing up on his front doorstep again.”

All eyebrows went up this time, including Arafinwë’s. “We’ll discuss tactics over dinner,” was all he said, as he turned to the two ellith. “My son’s solution is equable and fair and so we decree. Let the decision of this court stand as stated.” Then, without further ado, he stood and Finrod hastily followed him out through a side door leading to an antechamber for their use.

No sooner were they alone, the servants having been dismissed, then Arafinwë tossed his coronet on a table and turned to his son, who stood there looking somewhat uncertain, as if unsure if he was about to be punished or praised. Arafinwë gave him a smile. “Threaten them with death?” he asked and started laughing, taking his son by the shoulders and hugging him. “Oh, yonya, just to see the expressions on everyone’s faces when you said that was worth all the boredom that came before.”

“Sorry, Atto,” Finrod said with some remorse. “I know I was out of line, but....”

“It’s all right, Finda,” Arafinwë said soothingly. “I know how you felt, for I was just as bored, but I let the proceedings continue for as long as I did because sometimes the complainants end up boring themselves as well and are more willing to accept any solution offered them.”

Finrod nodded. “I guess,” he said, “but truthfully, I sat there thinking an invasion of orcs would do them all some good. Having an orc in your face makes things so much clearer and simpler and you learn to come up with solutions fast or you die.”

“Well, unfortunately there are no orcs to be had,” Arafinwë said, giving Finrod another hug and a brief kiss on his forehead. “At any rate, I think we are done with court for the day. I hope soon you will feel confident enough to conduct court on your own. It’s time for you to take up the responsibilities of being my heir.”

Finrod paled at that. “I... I don’t think... I mean... it’s too soon.....”

“I did not say immediately, yonya,” Arafinwë assured him with a gentle smile. “I said soon. In the meantime, let us put such thoughts aside for now. It is nearly noon. Why don’t we join your ammë and Amarië for lunch and then you are free for the rest of the day. Do as you please, but do not leave the palace grounds.”

Finrod nodded and in truth he did not mind the stricture, for he still felt nervous having the citizens stare at him whenever he ventured beyond the palace gates. He was content to amuse himself by wandering through the gardens. Thus, as soon as the noon meal was done with he excused himself and went to his room to retrieve a book and a couple of apples from the fruit bowl in his sitting room and then made his way into the gardens, nodding to the gardeners as he passed them. He had a specific goal in mind, an oak tree, old and gnarled, whose ancient branches made an ideal roost. He clambered up into the tree, silently greeting it and then settled down to read, munching on an apple.

The book, a treatise on languages by the Loremaster Rúmil, was interesting, but not quite as interesting as the tree in which Finrod sat. Every once in a while his eyes would lift from the pages of the book to look at one of the lower branches, so inviting, and he could almost feel the motion of his hröa as it swung from it, creating a breeze on this warm early autumn day. Then he would shake his head, determined not to give into what he knew to be an elflingish impulse and return to his book, but it was no use. Even the tree seemed to murmur to him, its leaves rustling slightly, ever inviting him to play. With a sigh he closed the book and leapt from the tree, placing the book carefully on the ground with the second apple sitting on top of it. Then he straightened and eyed the branch that was so perfect for swinging on. Glancing around and seeing no one, even going so far as to peek over the nearby hedges to make sure no one was in the immediate vicinity, he grabbed hold of the branch and was soon swinging merrily from it, playfully attempting to snatch the apple from on top of the book as he hummed a wordless tune, though the apple was just out of his reach.

Thus, he was not paying attention to anything else and was taken by surprise when several people approached him. Finrod could see that they were courtiers, three ellyn and a couple of ellith, apparently taking an afternoon stroll through the garden. He silently cursed himself for being so inattentive as not to hear them coming in time, but continued to swing from the branch, effecting an unconcerned look as he watched them come near. They had obviously seen him and he could hear the ellith giggling at something one of the ellyn was saying even as a second ellon was pointing at him. He did not know any of them well, for as yet he was still putting names to faces and these particular courtiers were not always present at his atar’s court.

“So, tell me, Selmacas,” Finrod heard one of the ellyn say, “what punishment would you mete out to a prince of Eldamar found swinging from a tree like an elfling?”

Selmacas grinned and the two ellith tittered. None of their expressions were particularly friendly, as far as Finrod could tell, save the third ellon, who cast him a sympathetic look. The ellon then spoke before Selmacas could give an answer to the first ellon’s question.

“Now, Nambarauto,” he said chidingly, “don’t be nasty.”

Nambarauto gave the ellon a cool stare. “I’m not being nasty, Herendil, I’m just curious to know what Selmacas thinks.”

“What he thinks is unimportant,” Herendil retorted. Then he turned to Finrod, still swinging from the tree branch, and to the prince’s surprise and everyone else’s disgust, he gave Finrod a respectful bow. “Forgive us for disturbing you, Highness.” He smiled somewhat wistfully as he gazed at the tree. “I remember my sons swinging from this very same tree when they were younger. I think the tree misses them and I can feel how very glad it is to have someone swinging from its branches again.”

“It kept luring me away from my book,” Finrod explained almost apologetically, not sure how to take Herendil’s words. That they were sincere and not spoken in mockery was clear, but Finrod wasn’t sure how to react to them.

Herendil smiled more broadly. “Trees are very good at that, so I am told,” he replied. “I remember Vorondil and Aldundil telling me the very same thing when they should have been studying their lessons.”

“Bah!” Nambarauto exclaimed in disgust. “Why do you pretend to even care, Herendil? He’s responsible for your son’s death, after all.”

Finrod went completely still and the expressions on the faces of the two ellith became unreadable to him. Selmacas frowned and Herendil paled somewhat. “Prince Findaráto is not responsible for Vorondil’s death,” he said quietly. “The blame lies solely upon Melkor, as far as I am concerned. His Highness wasn’t even alive then.”

Nambarauto turned to Finrod and sneered. “I wonder if your precious atani, whom I met when I followed Arafinwë to Endórë during the War of Wrath, would find you quite so worshipful if they could see you now, swinging from a tree like an elfling. Their veneration of you was quite amusing to see, and I could never fathom their blind devotion to your memory, considering what a miserable failure you were both as a king and an Elf....”

He got no further for suddenly Finrod was down from the tree and there was a fire in his eyes as he faced them and the older Elves were reminded of the look in Lord Námo’s eyes when the Vala had issued the doom against Fëanáro. All of them, save Herendil, took an involuntary step back.

“I was not a failure,” Finrod hissed. “I was a great king to my people.”

“They turned their backs on you,” Nambarauto nearly shouted, “or at least, that’s what I heard. You threw away your crown for a Mortal and died a miserable death and for what? Whatever you hoped to achieve when you fled Aman, you failed. Your kingdom now lies under the Great Sea, forgotten by all.”

Finrod shook his head, anger beginning to cloud his judgment. “Not by all,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “While I live, Nargothrond will never be forgotten.”

“Did you really die for a Mortal?” one of the ellith asked.

“Not only died, Tarwen,” Nambarauto said before Finrod could answer, “but died in his own watchtower which the Enemy had seized. Ironic, isn’t it? And all because of some useless Mortal.”

“He wasn’t useless!” Finrod nearly screamed, tears beginning to stream from his eyes. The memory of Bëor and Barahir and Beren and all the Mortals he had come to know and love passed before his eyes. “Beren was noble and honorable in blood and spirit, and if it were not for his atar, Barahir, I would have been captured and brought before Melkor to be tortured and possibly enslaved. Barahir’s bravery and that of his men in rushing to my rescue when I was cut off from my troops and surrounded with but a small company of warriors was nothing short of wondrous and I will always be grateful for them.”

“What was it like to die?” the second ellith asked suddenly, her expression somewhat disturbing to Finrod, though he could not say why.

“That’s enough, Calalindalë!” Herendil said brusquely. “Prince Findaráto’s death is not a subject for public consumption.”

“I’ll thank you not to reprimand my daughter, Herendil,” Selmacas growled, his brows furrowing in anger. “You do not have the right.”

Herendil apparently was unimpressed, for he gave Selmacas a cool stare. “It’s high time someone did, Selmacas,” he said, “and as she is betrothed to my son, I have as much right as you.”

“At any rate,” Nambarauto interjected, ignoring the two ellyn as he gave Finrod a disdainful sniff, “in the end, you died anyway and not even for one of our own, but for a Mortal. Frankly, I think you should have stayed dead.”

Finrod went absolutely white and Herendil gasped in shock. Even Selmacas and the two ellith seemed nonplused by Nambarauto’s words. Then Finrod straightened to his full height, his blue eyes turning cold and there was an imperious look that reminded them of Arafinwë when he was angered.

“Yes, I died,” Finrod said in a voice of steel gloved in velvet, “and gladly would I do so again if in doing so my sacrifice serves the greater good. You accuse me of not being a very good king to my people, Nambarauto, but you have no concept of what kingship requires of one. Yes, in the end, when I needed them the most, they turned away from me, but some few remained loyal to me and ten of them died with me. I gave up my crown for the sake of an oath, an oath that was dearer to me than my life, for I would have had no life worth living if I had reneged on it. If that makes me a bad king, so be it, but you do not have the right to judge, none of you do.”

With that, he bent down to retrieve the apple and book, gave them all a scathing look and started to walk away, but then stopped and turned to face Nambarauto. “You are right about one thing, though,” he said. “I wish I had stayed dead, too.”

Then he stalked away, not caring where he was going, only knowing he needed to get away from them, from everyone. Tears streamed down his cheeks, blurring his vision, so he nearly crashed into someone who stood in his path. He stepped back, wiping the tears from his face to find himself gazing into the eyes of the Lord of Mandos.

“I hate them,” he whispered despairingly, “I hate them. Why are they so mean?”

Lord Námo said nothing but his eyes were so full of compassion and unconditional love that Finrod felt himself overwhelmed and a sense of shame and failure flooded him and he started to weep even harder. Námo took him into his embrace and held him through the storm of his emotions. When he finally calmed down, the Vala kissed him on the top of his head.

“Thou art my best beloved in whom I am well pleased,” the Lord of Mandos said softly as he continued to hold him, and there was a timbre to his voice that seemed to Finrod as if Another Voice spoke through him. “Do not ever regret being reborn, child. It is a gift to be cherished and those who do not understand or appreciate what a gift it truly is are not worthy of your hate, but your pity.” He kissed him a second time on the top of his head. “And I think you might have an ally in Herendil.”

“I wish Glorfi were here,” was all Finrod could think to say.

The Lord of Mandos sighed. “So do I,” was his surprising response and Finrod looked up to see the glint of humor in the Vala’s eyes and found himself grinning in spite of his tears.

“I just bet you do, lord,” he said slyly and Námo laughed, kissing him a third time on the top of his head before fading from view.

****

Note: Nambarauto appears in my story ‘Once Upon a Blizzard’. Selmacas, Tarwen, and Herendil are mentioned in Elf-Interrupted: Book Two. Calalindalë and Aldundil are recently betrothed and will marry within the year. Their son, Vorondil, named after Aldundil’s brother, will not be born for another sixty years.

In spite of Lord Námo’s reassurances and words of comfort, I was despondent and felt more a stranger in my own home than before. I despaired of ever fitting in again. Too much time, too much history had passed since I had last lived in Tirion. It wasn’t really my home anymore, just the place in which I happened to be living at the moment. I thought of my friends from Lórien and wondered if they were as miserable as I....

Finrod returned to the palace still angry, shaken by Nambarauto’s words and the reactions of Selmacas and the two ellith. He was in no mood to be cheerful or polite to anyone. Unfortunately, the first person he encountered on his way to his rooms was Amarië.

“Oh, there you are, Findaráto,” the elleth exclaimed as she met him in the hall leading to the royal apartments. “Where have you been?” Then she frowned, giving him a shrewd look. “Have you been crying?”

Finrod hastily wiped the last of the tear tracks from his cheeks, reddening slightly. “I was remembering....”

“Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “You’re always remembering something from that other place, but you never seem to remember anything about us or our lives here in Tirion. That other place doesn’t even exist any....”

“As long as I live, it exists,” Finrod hissed angrily, “in here, if nowhere else.” He stabbed at his chest, giving her a fierce scowl and made to move away but Amarië stood in his path.

“That was before, this is now,” Finrod retorted. “Atto told me you refused to return to Vanyamar after I left, insisting on staying here in Tirion to wait for me. That was foolish and a waste of your life.”

“I had a life, with you,” Amarië nearly screamed, tears streaming down her face, “but you threw it away on a whim and all it got you in the end was death. If anyone was the fool, it was you.”

The words, so similar to Nambarauto’s, stung. “Go home, Amarië,” he whispered, his fury barely contained. “Go back to Vanyamar where you belong. Give up this hopeless dream of us ever being together. It will never happen.”

He did not wait for her reply; indeed, he did not want to hear it. Instead, he turned on his heels and strode away, reaching his rooms by way of another hall, flinging both book and apple at a table. The book missed and landed on the floor while the apple bounced, then rolled to a stop as it brushed up against a miniature statue, only a foot high, depicting the Elentári with her arms raised above her. A small yet perfect diamond floated between her hands. It was a copy of the statute of Varda that graced the front courtyard of Ilmarin and had been a gift from the Queen of Stars herself long ago. He stood in the middle of the room, his heart racing and his breathing rapid as he allowed anger and despair to take hold of him. He wanted to destroy something, anything, but the lesson of the ruined garden still held him in check and in the end, the impotent rage building up inside of him forced him to his knees and he started screaming.

There was the sound of running feet and voices shouting but they did not truly register. When arms grabbed him he resisted, fighting whoever was trying to hold him as if all the demons of Morgoth were upon him. He continued screaming and fighting, unwilling to hear what the voices were saying to him. He simply fought, wishing he had a sword. He felt more hands on him and then he was being held against the floor by several bodies. By now the rage that had filled him was dissipating and he felt a wave of dizziness sweep through him, forcing a moan from his lips as he nearly blacked out. His thrashings ceased and he simply lay there, his eyes closed, breathing harshly for a time while the bodies pressed against him, keeping him in place.

“Let’s get him up and into bed,” he heard someone say and it took him a few seconds to identify the voice as belonging to his atar.

Now the bodies shifted and he was being lifted into someone’s arms and brought to his bed where they competently stripped him of his outer tunic and boots. Someone covered him with a blanket and then there was the soft shuffling of feet as people left. He heard the door click shut and gave a sigh, too weak to do anything but lie there. Then, someone sat on the edge of the bed and a cool hand began stroking his hair, sending waves of comfort through him. He cracked open his eyes to see his ammë, smiling down at him, though her eyes were dark with concern.

Finrod did not answer, simply sighing and closing his eyes again, letting his ammë’s touch soothe him into a dreamless sleep.

Finrod woke to find that it was now early evening, so he probably had slept only for a couple of hours. He felt drained of emotion and heartsick. It had started out to be such a lovely day. He had felt content, sitting beside his atar in his court, and then, afterwards, sitting in the oak tree with his book. If only he had not given into the temptation of swinging from the tree branch, the day would have continued fine, but now it was all ruined. First Nambarauto and then Amarië. It was just unfair. He was trying to fit in, to be accepted for himself, not for what he used to be. That person died, and in more ways than one. He couldn’t go back to being that person no matter how much he or others might wish.

He sighed and climbed out of the bed, going into the bathing chamber to splash some water on his face and brush out his hair before returning to his bedroom to don his tunic and houseboots. He forwent belting the tunic and went out to his sitting room to find his atar seated in a chair on the balcony that overlooked one of the palace gardens, calmly reading. Arafinwë looked up from his book, closed it and gestured for his son to join him. Finrod did so, eyeing his atar somewhat warily, not sure what to expect, as he took a seat. A small, low table stood between them where a pitcher of hawthorn juice and a couple of glasses sat. Arafinwë placed the book on the table, then poured the juice into the glasses, handing one to Finrod who drank the nectar that had a faint strawberry taste to it.

“I heard from several people what happened in the garden,” Arafinwë said without preamble, “as well as your... er... conversation with Amarië.”

Finrod closed his eyes, feeling defeated. No doubt those other people, and he suspected two of them to be Nambarauto and Amarië, had painted him in the worst light possible. Anything he might say in his defense would surely be dismissed as the whinings of a Reborn elfling.

“You have nothing to say?” Arafinwë asked, his expression giving nothing away as to his own thoughts on the matter.

Finrod shook his head, opening his eyes. “Nothing I say will matter. You’ve already made up your mind about me.”

“Indeed?” Arafinwë retorted. “And what exactly have I decided about you, if I may be so bold?” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Finrod, but he ignored it, giving his atar a cool stare.

“Whatever version of the truth Nambarauto and Amarië gave you is what happened and that I am entirely at fault,” he replied, then continued on before Arafinwë could respond. “You all have made up your minds about me. You see me as I am and compare me with what I used to be, what you remember me being, and you find me now to be wanting. I’m a disgrace to you and all of Elvenkind, first for having left and then for having the temerity to get myself killed and Arda would be better off if I had stayed safely dead so you could continue with your fantasies about me as I was and not as I became.”

The silence that stretched between them became almost unbearable. Finrod longed to leave, but it seemed ludicrous to do so, considering that they were in his rooms, not his atar’s. Arafinwë sat there, eyeing his son, his expression still unreadable to the younger ellon. Finally, he spoke, his tone soft, almost emotionless.

“You are not a disgrace to me, yonya,” he said. “I never blamed you for not turning back. I knew that your brothers and Artanis were intent on going forward and I was glad that you were with them, to watch over them and protect them.”

“I couldn’t protect either Aicanáro or Angaráto,” Finrod replied sorrowfully. “They died before I could reach them. I don’t know what happened to Artanis.”

“She still resides in Endórë with her husband, Celeborn,” Arafinwë replied. “She alone of all the Noldor who still lived was not allowed to return to us. Not that she wanted to, mind you,” he added with a slight grin. “You know your sister, strong-willed and stubborn as they come.”

Finrod nodded, but said nothing. Arafinwë gave him a considering look. “I dismissed Nambarauto’s ranting along with Amarië’s,” he continued, returning to the original subject. “Herendil told me what really happened and one of the servants who happened to be nearby when you and Amarië met gave me an unvarnished version of your conversation.”

Finrod just shrugged, evincing an unconcerned attitude. “It matters not,” he said. “You made up your mind about me long before this, you and ammë both.”

“The only thing your ammë and I have decided about you, yonya,” Arafinwë replied, “is that we love you. We love you for who you were when you were our little Finda in truth and we love you for who you are now, our son returned to us when we thought we would never see you again before the ending of Arda. That you came back to us by way of the Halls of Mandos matters little to us, only that you came back. You being here has renewed our hope that someday we will be reunited with all our children and we will truly be a family once again.”

The utter sincerity of his atar’s words nearly unmanned Finrod, but he steeled himself, shaking his head. “Perhaps,” he said, “but that cannot be said for others. Nambarauto....”

“Nambarauto was as intolerant of the Sindar and the Atani when he was in Beleriand as he is of those Noldor who left Aman, especially the Reborn,” Arafinwë interjected and gave Finrod a wry grin. “I understand that one of the Atani actually attacked him for disparaging your memory.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “What happened to the Atan?” was all he could think to ask.

“Ereinion had to pull him off Nambarauto and throw him into a snowbank in the middle of a blizzard to cool him down, but other than that, not much else.” He gave Finrod a wide grin. “So, you see, even now after all this time and many generations of Men, you are still revered. Indeed, I actually heard at least three different ballads about your exploits when I was in Beleriand, two of them composed by the Atani. Lord Eönwë assured me that the description of your deeds as sung was more or less accurate.”

Finrod sat there feeling slightly stunned and was not sure how to react. He no longer desired to be among the Mortals whom he had loved. He was glad that they had survived the final cataclysm of the War of Wrath and that many were now dwelling on the island of Númenor, flourishing as a nation in their own right. He would never go there, he knew, and that was fine. Yet, what his atar had just told him wasn’t enough to appease him. He was here, not there. It was here where he needed to find acceptance.

“I just wanted to swing in the tree,” he said quietly, not looking at his atar. “Why couldn’t they just leave me alone to enjoy myself? I wasn’t hurting anyone.”

Arafinwë leaned over and placed a hand on his knee, giving it a fatherly pat. “I know, and I have made it clear to Nambarauto and to others that you are not to be harassed in the future. As long as you are not committing mayhem, you are to be left alone to do as you please. Now, your ammë is in our sitting room. I think you should go and spend some time with her, reassure her that all is well with you. I’ve ordered dinner for just the three of us tonight. Amarië is dining elsewhere at my suggestion.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow, knowing that his atar’s ‘suggestion’ most likely had been a direct order, but he did not comment. Instead, he drained his cup and stood. “I’ll go see ammë now,” he said and exited his suite, leaving Arafinwë sitting there for some time contemplating certain things as the sky darkened to indigo and the first stars began to peep forth before rising to join his wife and son for the evening meal.

The following days were torment for Finrod. It was impossible to ignore the stares and sniggers of servants and courtiers alike as he roamed the halls of the palace, or to overhear snatches of conversations that included the words ‘tree swinging’, though these conversations ended abruptly whenever he approached. He kept a stoical mien wherever he went, pretending indifference or ignorance, but inside he felt hurt and shamed. He tended to stay out of everyone’s way as much as possible, even refusing to attend court with his atar, and he avoided the gardens completely. He spent much of his time in the library that was just off Arafinwë’s study. Not that he did any reading. He would find a nook and spend hours doing nothing but think.

It was just too much, he decided. He didn’t belong here and never would. Over the course of the week that followed the run-in with Nambarauto, Finrod came to the conclusion that he should run away. He recalled Lord Irmo’s admonishment that he should be running towards something and not just away from something. He knew that if he left, he needed a legitimate (at least to his mind) goal. So, he sat in the library with a map of Aman on his lap and thought out his options.

He eliminated both Lórien and Mandos immediately from his plans. The former was too obvious and it would be the first place anyone would look for him; the latter, he instinctively knew, was forbidden to him, assuming he could even find it, for he knew that Mandos was hidden from normal sight and only those who needed to be there ever found it. He glanced eastward on the map where Tol Eressëa was situated. His first impulse was to go there and be with his friends from Lòrien, but on further reflection he realized it would not work. For one thing, he would need to find a ship to take him there and he doubted any would accept him as a passenger. He thought about stealing a small boat and rowing across the bay but decided that option was plain ludicrous. He was no thief, and wasn’t about to have that sobriquet placed upon him.

He sighed and let his eyes wander until they found Alqualondë. Anatar Olwë and Anammë Lirillë lived there. He shook his head. No, that was no good. The last time he had been there was during the Kinslaying and even if he had taken no part in it, he rather doubted that he would be welcomed there. That left north or south. North lay Vanyamar, the city of his Great Uncle Ingwë, High King of all the Elves in Aman and his Queen Elindis and their children. He remembered that he had been rather close to his cousins at one time, before everything spiraled out of control.

Again he sighed, knowing that north was out as well. Ingwë would just send him back to Tirion under heavy escort and a lot of paternal admonitions against running away again. So, that left south. What was south, though? He gave the map a closer look, finding the road he had taken twice with his atar. There was the road to the royal granaries and here was the Royal Reserve. He felt a thrill run through his fëa as the memory of the Hunt came to the fore. He had hunted evil in Beleriand many times, but this time with Lord Oromë had been different somehow, though he could not have said why. Well, the Reserve was an option, but....

The Southern Fiefdoms. Hmm.... he recalled them in a vague sort of way. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been there before, for no real memories rose in his mind. Still, he knew that it was an area of rich farmland, the bread basket of Aman, where small villages clustered amidst the fields of grain and grape and orchards. Could he lose himself there? He doubted he would go unnoticed. His hair alone would stand out among all the dark-haired Noldor who lived there, and he certainly was no peasant. Yet, what other option did he have? He was determined to leave, but it seemed all directions were closed to him.

“Except up and down,” he said out loud, giving a snort of disgust, as he flung the map from him. Well, what about those directions? He knew there were mines somewhere in the mountains. Hmm... the mountains. Why not? He was quite capable of living off the land, having done so enough times in Beleriand. There were bound to be caves where he could live. You mean, hide out, a small inner voice said, but he thrust that thought away and contemplated the idea further, gathering up the map to see where he could go. The mountains were not that far away with Tirion set within the Calacirya. If he took the southern road a bit and then headed southeast....

Yet, how to get away without anyone knowing? His personal guard, Amandur, always accompanied him whenever he left the palace grounds and if he attempted to take his horse out of the stables, someone would alert him... and his atar. He scrunched his face in furious thought, trying to remember if there was a way....

Wait! A memory, slow and grudging to come to the fore, surfaced. It was a memory of him and his younger brothers and sister, sneaking out of the palace with none the wiser. Of course! The arbor that led down to the park. He remembered now. While the bulk of the palace grounds stood at the pinnacle of Túna, there was an arbor, actually a tree enclosed tunnel that led down to a park that lay just outside the eastern section of the wall, south of the gate itself. The arbor had been constructed primarily to allow the royal family privacy while visiting the park. It wended its way south, then east, following the contours of the hill and there were only two entrances, one at either end. The postern gate at the wall was wide enough and tall enough to get a horse through. If he waited until around midnight or so it would be unlikely that anyone would be at the stables and from there it was an easy walk through a small section of the gardens devoted to the trees of the culuma fruit.

Satisfied that he could escape without being caught, Finrod evinced a more cheerful mien over the next few days to allay suspicions as he surreptitiously gathered his supplies, wheedling food from the kitchens with his best elfling act. He was polite to Amarië and even rejoined his atar at court. He felt a pang of remorse and guilt at the genuine look of pleasure on his atar’s face when he appeared unannounced for a morning court session, taking his usual seat beside Arafinwë, but it was too late to change his mind. He needed to leave. He had no real life in Tirion and, except for his atar and ammë, no one else really wanted him there. It would be better for all concerned if he just left.

And so, he timed his leaving for a night when Isil would not rise until nearly dawn. He retired at his usual time, assuring Arafinwë that he would be present at court the next morning, kissed his ammë and wished everyone a good night. Once in his rooms, he changed quickly into the same nondescript tunic he had worn at the Hunt, gathered his supplies which were in two haversacks and waited.

The lights in the palace dimmed and the second watch relieved the first. Then, he snuck out of his rooms, going quietly down the hall, taking the stairs that led to the gardens. The stables were on the other side and he made his way silently with only the light of the stars to show him the way. He stood for a moment or two to make sure no one was around before going into the stables. It was always possible that a stablehand was up tending to one of the horses for some reason or another, but his luck held and all was dark and quiet. It was only a matter of minutes before he found Mithrod’s stall (he preferred to call him by his Sindarin name) and then he was leading the horse out, cautioning him to be as quiet as possible. Then, he made his way to another section of the palace grounds where the tunnel began.

So far, so good. He breathed a sigh of relief once they entered the tunnel. If no one had spotted them before, they would never know they were in the tunnel. He took the path slowly, for without the light of the stars, it was truly pitch black and he had only his fractured memories to guide him. He had decided against bringing a lantern, for there was always the possibility that the light would be noticed from the outside. Luckily, the way was smooth and keeping his left hand out, he let it brush against the trunks of the trees that created the tunnel to guide him.

Finally, the tunnel ended. He had to search for several minutes before he found the latch to open the door and then they were outside, the stars greeting them, seeming almost merry in their twinkling. He mounted Mithrod, got his bearings and headed due east along a path that would lead out of the park, passing trees that gave him a sleepy greeting which he returned with a quiet word.

Once they were free of the park he bent down and whispered into Mithrod’s ear. “Bedim, mellon nîn, nan eryd.”

Mithrod gave a whinny and set off. Humming a sprightly tune, Finrod congratulated himself for having escaped Tirion undetected. But, in fact, his going was noted. So intent was he on reaching the mountains, that Finrod never saw the dark watchtower that rose to his left some few leagues away. Had he looked in that direction, he would have seen it and wondered, for it had not existed when he had lived in Tirion before. However, he kept his attention resolutely to the southeast where the dark bulk of the northern spur of the southern Pelóri rose to precipitous heights.

Standing sentinel on the watchtower, Ravenni of the People of Tulkas watched as Finrod stole away. Even from that distance and with naught but the stars by which to see, she recognized the Reborn prince and relayed the information to her lord, who thanked her. Then, she dismissed the Noldo from her mind and resumed her eternal vigilance upon the Leaguer of Aman.

Bedim, mellon nîn, nan eryd: (Sindarin) ‘We go, my friend, to the mountains’.

Note: The full tale of Nambarauto being attacked by a Mortal for disparaging Finrod’s memory is told in my story ‘Once Upon a Blizzard’.

Running away... I preferred to think of it as retreating against insurmountable odds. I was one against the whole of Eldamar. At least, that is how I saw it at the time. Looking back, I know that what I did was foolish, even childish, but the sense of freedom that I felt as I made my way towards the mountains cannot be denied. For the first time since being re-embodied, I was genuinely happy....

“So, history is repeating itself,” Manwë mused when Tulkas informed him and the other Valar of Findaráto’s flight from Tirion.

“If it is, he’s heading in the wrong direction,” Námo pointed out with a snort, sounding more amused than anything. “He should be making his way down the Calacirya. Where does he think he’s going?”

“Or perhaps he’s laying a false trail, and he plans on circling back around before heading elsewhere,” Oromë offered. “There is nothing to the southeast for him.”

“Except the mountains where he can lose himself,” Aulë stated. “He has had centuries of practice in living off the land in Beleriand after all. It would be easy for him to disappear into the Pelóri and Arafinwë would never find him.”

“Unless someone told him where to look,” Námo said. “When our elfling prince is found missing, Arafinwë will waste time looking for him in Lórien or on Tol Eressëa. He will never guess that his son has chosen the route that he has.”

“Yet, helping Arafinwë and Eärwen with their Reborn while not helping the families of other Reborn would be unfair for all,” Manwë said in a reasonable tone.

“Findaráto is not just any Reborn, though,” Varda pointed out. “He is haryon to the Noldóran and a prince of Eldamar, and those are just his titles here in Aman, never mind those he garnered in the Outer Lands.”

Námo, however, shook his head. “Manwë is correct. Neither I nor Irmo keep constant tabs on the Reborn once they leave our demesnes. This is a crisis that happens with most Reborn and we leave them and their families to deal with it as they can. It is how both parties learn to cope with the reality of their new situation. We should do no less for this particular family. To do otherwise would be a disservice to them.”

“Still, the other Reborn have all reacted as predicted,” Vairë said then. “Whenever any of them decide to run away, it’s nearly always to Lórien, though a few who reside in Tirion or Eldamas will head for Tol Eressëa instead. In either case, their families are able to find them quickly enough and bring them back to where they belong. Findaráto is doing neither. He is acting in an unpredictable manner and that could prove disastrous.”

“He has obviously thought it all out,” Manwë said, almost approvingly. “He is acting rather than reacting. I have no doubt that he has a particular goal in mind if not an actual destination, for he cannot know what lies within the mountains themselves.”

“So, if we do not inform Arafinwë where to find his son, what do we do?” Oromë asked.

“Should we do anything at all?” Nienna enquired. “When Arafinwë has looked for his son in all the obvious places, he is likely to come to us for help.”

“And we do not want him to do that,” Irmo replied. “It would set a precedent for others trying to deal with their Reborn. Námo and I have been very careful to keep out of the way of our former charges’ lives once they are reunited with their family and friends, except in rare instances. For all that he is of the House of Finwë, Findaráto is really no different from any of the other Reborn and he should be treated no differently.”

“Yet, he is different,” Aulë said. “His destiny is not that of other Reborn.”

There was silence amongst them for a time as each contemplated possible avenues of action. Finally, though, Manwë spoke. “Telling Arafinwë where to find his son is not an option at this time, however, convincing Findaráto to return to Tirion voluntarily is.”

Finrod brought Mithrod to a halt and stared up in awe at the sheer heights of the mountains before him. By now it was nearly dawn and the pearly grey light allowed him to see them better. He did not remember them being so high before, though admittedly, he also did not remember ever climbing them. The Pelóri had simply been there, a part of the background, but not any place he had wished to venture into.

He swept his gaze about him, gauging the land for any possible dangers. At least he did not have to contend with orcs, but that did not preclude the possibility of other dangers just as deadly. Still, he breathed in deeply the dark green scent of mountain laurel and pine and smiled. Yes, this is where he belonged. He heard the sound of water somewhere nearby and urging his horse forward he went in search of the source, coming upon a stream that ran out of the mountains towards the southwest. He dismounted and let Mithrod drink for a time before setting off again upstream, deciding to walk along the stream bank while Mithrod followed.

As he walked he recalled roaming through Ossiriand and coming upon Bëor and his people beneath the springs of Thalos hard by the Ered Luin. He smiled at the memory. That had perhaps been the happiest time for him, the year he spent among the Edain, teaching them, and learning from them. Well, he was not going to find any Mortals haunting these mountains, unfortunately. In fact, he was unlikely to come across anyone at all, and that suited him just fine.

Anar rose as he was beginning to wend his way deeper into the higher reaches of the mountains, still following the stream. He kept his eyes open and his bow at hand, wary against possible danger. He remembered that it was in the south somewhere that Melkor had found Ungoliantë. Most likely other monsters still existed, though hopefully there were none who were Úmaiar as she had been.

The way became steeper and the going slower, for the stream now cut its way through a series of ravines and there was no place for him to walk along it. Instead he was forced to climb to the top. Mithrod followed willingly enough, though the horse was clearly unhappy about it, much preferring the open plains below them with their succulent grasses.

“Sorry, Mithrod,” Finrod said, giving the horse a pat on his neck. “I should have let you go your own way but if I had you would have led Atar here and we can’t have that, can we?”

Mithrod gave an equine snort and Finrod wasn’t sure if the horse was agreeing with him or not. He patted Mithrod again and then turned his attention to his surroundings. They were on a sort of plateau, very narrow but more open than what they had traversed earlier. Before him the mountains continued to rise into the heavens and he could only marvel at their snow-capped peaks shining whitely under the sun. He would not go that far up, he decided, but would seek a place where he could set up camp and hunt. Water was critical and he hoped that the stream he had been following would lead to a tarn. He gazed down into the ravine where he could see the stream, a ribbon of silver winding its way through the dark firs and mountain ash.

“Come on, Mithrod,” he said, heading due south along the ridge. “Let’s see if we can’t find a nice cave to live in.”

Mithrod gave another snort and a shake of his head, but followed his master willingly enough, for which Finrod was grateful. He might not have the company of other Elves and he knew his new life would be a lonely one out here in the wilderness, but as long as he had Mithrod that would be enough.

Arafinwë held Eärwen in his arms, trying to comfort her, though he knew there was no comfort to be had for either of them. “We’ll find him,” he said softly, hugging her. “We’ll find our son. He cannot have gotten far.”

“There are two places he might have gone,” Arafinwë replied. “Lórien would be my first guess and I will go there and send Amandur to Tol Eressëa in case he went that way instead.”

“I know he was feeling sad and lonely,” Eärwen said with a sigh, “but I thought he was adjusting to being here.”

“As did I,” Arafinwë said, “but apparently we were wrong. I was wrong.”

Eärwen stepped out of her husband’s embrace. “Go, my love. Go find our son.”

Arafinwë bent down and kissed her gently on her cheek, then straightened. “We’ll find him, Eärwen. Believe this.” Then he turned, shouting for Calandil and Amandur to attend him as he strode out of the royal apartments to go after his firstborn, never realizing that his search would prove fruitless.

The stream’s source turned out to be a spring bubbling up from the ground near a rocky outcrop in the midst of a mountain meadow. Along the way Finrod encountered three successive waterfalls, the last one (or the first depending on one’s direction) about a quarter of a mile from the spring. He decided to call them the Nésar Neldë. Looking about him, and seeing that Mithrod was already settling in, grazing on the rich meadow grass and flowers, he decided this was as good a place as any for his camp. It was now well past noon and he knew he needed to stop and construct some kind of shelter before nightfall.

“Well, Mithrod,” he said, unloading the bags of supplies from the horse’s back, “I guess we’re home.” Mithrod did not deign to answer, but merely continued eating.

Finrod gave his horse a fond smile as he pulled a small hatchet from the pile of supplies. He was glad he had had the foresight to include one. He still was wishing for a sword but had to content himself with several long-handled knives. He stuck one in his belt and then headed towards a stand of trees to see if he could find suitable deadfall with which to construct a lean-to. He wasn’t sure he would be staying here in this one spot forever. Most likely, after he and Mithrod had rested for a few days and explored the area, they might move deeper into the mountains, but he postponed making any definite plans for the moment.

He was in luck. Sometime in the past a mountain storm had brought down several large pines and there was enough wood to be had to construct a decent lean-to as well as provide for a fire. He set about eagerly, whistling a sprightly tune as he hacked away at the branches and dragged them to a spot near the spring where he had decided to set up camp. The afternoon was waning and Anar was setting behind a ridge that blocked his view of the west by the time he was finished.

He looked upon his handiwork with quiet satisfaction. For once his memories had not betrayed him. In fact, he realized that he had not had to call up any memories consciously, he had simply known what to do instinctively and that pleased him. Rummaging around in his packs, he pulled out some dried meat and fruit and a loaf of crusty bread and sat before the open doorway of his shelter and ate his first dinner in his new home. Tomorrow, he decided, he would go hunting. When he had finished eating, washing everything down with the cold mountain water, he found his harp and spent the rest of the evening softly strumming the strings, idly humming tunes but not really interested in singing anything in particular as he watched the stars bloom above him. They seemed so much closer here than in Tirion, as if he could just reach out and touch them. Only when Isil rose shortly after midnight did he put the harp away and stretch out in front of the fire, throwing his cloak around him. He gazed up into the starry heavens and allowed himself to slip onto the Path of Dreams as Tilion, gazing from his great height, watched over him.

The week that followed his flight into the mountains was a fruitful one for Finrod. Hunting was good and as he sat before his fire smoking deer meat he felt a contentment rising within him that had not been there before. Roaming about, he realized that he had perhaps found the ideal spot for his new home and thus set about making the camp more permanent. The hastily constructed lean-to was torn down and a more stable structure was raised modeled after the rude huts of the Edain among whom he had lived for a time. Suspecting that the weather would worsen as the seasons turned from autumn to winter, he set about waterproofing the hut and making it as snug as possible against inclement weather. Again, his memories played no tricks on him and he was pleased at how quickly they came to his aid. Perhaps living by himself was just what he needed. It seemed that without the distractions of court life constantly demanding his attention, he was able to recall more and more of his former life. Sitting beside the fire or hiding in a tree waiting for game to appear, he had time to contemplate his life, both lives, and put things into perspective.

“Now, if only Glorfi were here, life would be perfect,” he said to Mithrod one day. He had gotten into the habit of speaking out loud to his horse though Mithrod rarely responded with anything more than a snort. He also began speaking to the trees the same way, telling them of his hopes and dreams as he sat in the crook of a branch or indulged himself with a good swinging session. They proved good listeners and even on a windless day they would rustle their branches at him, letting him know that they were aware of his presence.

He made friends with the birds, though he did not understand their language. “I should have had my cousin Celegorm teach me,” he said with a chuckle as he listened to the trilling of redwings and ammali. He spied a peregrine falcon high in the air above him one day and wondered if it was keeping a watch on him. The thought unsettled him for a time but finally he shrugged his unease away. He had been here for a week and no plaguey Maia or even one of the Valar had shown up to shoo him back to Tirion. He had no doubt they knew full well where he was. That his atar hadn’t shown up with half his guards to drag him back by now led him to suspect that, for reasons of their own, the Valar had not told his parents where to find him.

He felt a pang of remorse at the thought of his parents worrying about him, but against the hostility, indifference and callousness of the court towards him, it wasn’t enough to send him back to them. Perhaps, in time, he would return to Tirion. He did wish that he had a means of letting them know that he was well and happy and even contemplated sending Mithrod back down the mountain with a message tube around his neck but decided against it. For one thing, he had nothing with which to write and there were no message tubes to be had anyway.

And so, the first week went by and a second week was half over when things began to go wrong. It started one night when Finrod woke to a flash of lightning followed almost immediately by thunder. Then, the skies opened up and a torrential downpour commenced. Finrod cursed in Sindarin as he called to Mithrod and brought him into his hut. It made for crowded conditions, but at least it was warm and more or less dry.

Unfortunately, the storm did not pass over quickly though the downpour slackened to a steady rain by the time dawn came stealing over the mountain peaks. Finrod looked out from the doorway and gave a sigh, his expression glum.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be doing any hunting today, Mithrod, or much of anything else.” He let his horse out to graze, for Mithrod did not mind the rain as much as he did.

Finrod glanced skyward to see that more dark clouds were piling up around the mountain peaks and grimaced. He was sure he was safe enough for now, but if the rains continued for too long, there was the danger of the stream overflowing its banks and flooding him out. Coming to a decision, he gathered all his supplies and loped off towards the trees, deciding to wait out the rain sheltered by the woods. If his hut was destroyed, he would just build anew, perhaps on higher ground away from the stream. It would be less convenient but probably safer.

He glowered at the sky as he settled into the branches of a mountain ash and wished he had one of his Sindarin-made cloaks from before. His Amanian-made cloak did not seem to be as waterproof as his old cloaks from Beleriand had been. Still, he had endured worse weather and at least he did not have a contingent of orcs to deal with at the same time.

The rain eventually tapered to a drizzle around noon and by mid-afternoon it had stopped completely, though the clouds did not disperse. Finrod climbed out of his tree and slogged his way across the meadow to ascertain the state of his hut. It was still standing, and that was the only good thing about the day. Everything was wet and it was nearly impossible to start a fire, for he had not had the foresight of putting some wood inside his hut to keep dry.

“I’m glad there aren’t any Nandor around to laugh at me,” he said out loud, disgusted with himself as he went back towards the trees to find some kindling that was only partially wet. “You would think I would have remembered that much from before.”

Eventually, he got a small blaze going and gathered some branches to dry before it while he rummaged around for whatever he could find to eat. He had meant to go hunting that day, but the rain had forestalled him and now he was scrounging for leftovers. Well, he had gone hungry before, and hopefully the next day would prove better. Rain or no rain, he needed to hunt. That was his last thought as he huddled under his cloak and slipped onto the Path of Dreams.

The next couple of days, the clouds continued to darken the skies, but the rain held off. The temperature began to drop, though, and a cold northern wind blew down upon him. Winter was coming, but even so, he was surprised at how cold it had turned overnight. He contemplated moving down the mountain where it might not be so cold, but decided against it.

“You crossed the Helcaraxë,” he muttered to himself as he went about gathering more wood. “This is nothing in comparison.”

It was time to hunt again, but it was proving difficult to find suitable game. For some reason it had mostly disappeared and he could not fathom why. He was forced to travel further and sometimes the best he could find were some coneys and once he came upon some wild goats, but the deer seemed to have vanished. Still, he refused to give up. If he had to, he would move elsewhere in the mountains, see if he could track the deer to wherever they had fled. In the meantime, he would not starve, but rabbit stew morning, noon and night was becoming tiresome.

Another week or so went by and Finrod had been away for nearly a month. The days were growing shorter and the cold was increasing, but he felt he would make it through the coming winter. The rains fell occasionally, but not as much as before. Still, it was only a matter of time before rain would turn to snow and that might be a different story altogether. He did what he could to make his hut more secure and snug and hoped for the best.

That hope proved to be in vain, for one day it rained and it did not stop raining for some days. There was little let-up and when the sun set the temperatures dropped even more and the rain would turn to sleet and snow. It was a miserable time for both Finrod and Mithrod, who had to dig under the snow and ice to find enough forage. Then, the cold stayed and so did the snow. In fact, Finrod woke one morning to find the entrance of his hut blocked with it. It took him some time to dig himself out and he feared for Mithrod, wondering if his horse had been drowned in snow overnight. Oddly enough, when he finally escaped his snowbound prison, it was to discover that the snow was deep only around his hut. Elsewhere it was no deeper than it had been the day before and Mithrod was calmly foraging under the trees. Odder still, every morning for the next three days he woke to find his doorway blocked with snow. “Remember, you survived the Helcaraxë,” he kept telling himself as he dug himself out once again.

He also had to go further and further afield in search of game, coming back late in the afternoons with only a brace of coneys or a couple of scrawny looking mountain pheasants or with nothing at all. He had begun taking Mithrod with him for sometimes he had to go quite a distance from the camp before he found anything, if he found anything at all. It was wearying both on hröa and fëa. ‘You survived the Helcaraxë’ soon became a sort of litany that he repeated to himself whenever his resolve weakened and he thought to return to Tirion.

And so, the days passed and it was now the beginning of the second month since he had fled Tirion. Coming back to his camp one afternoon, Finrod was in high spirits. He had been out hunting and had actually found a stray deer, which cheered him. Every once in a while on the way back to camp he would turn to make sure that the carcass was still tied to Mithrod’s back, patting it as if to assure himself that it was really there. As they neared the hut, Mithrod suddenly stopped and refused to move forward, his ears twitching and his eyes rolling in obvious fear. Finrod slid off his back, instantly alert to trouble, unslinging his bow and nocking an arrow as he inched his way forward towards the open doorway. He had not bothered with constructing a proper door as yet, only a screen of branches that during the day was placed to one side of the doorway. He was almost at the entrance when a shadow filled the opening and then a black bear came out, snarling.

Finrod leapt out of its way as the creature rose to its full height, perhaps ten or twelve feet. Mithrod gave an equine scream and ran, carrying the deer carcass with him. The bear, obviously smelling the fresh meat, started after the horse.

“No!” Finrod screamed and he shot an arrow at the bear. It struck its shoulder and the bear now turned on him. He scrambled out of its way, reaching for his knife, knowing that against such a creature it was not much of a weapon. The bear, enraged both by the arrow in its shoulder and the loss of an easy meal, lunged at Finrod, who sidestepped it, moving back towards the stream. He had no real plan save to stay alive. His only chance of that was if he managed somehow to kill the beast. He continued backing up and the bear followed. If he could reach the rocky outcrop he could leap up to the top of it, thereby giving him the advantage of height.

He stole a quick glance behind him to gauge his distance and seeing that he was close enough, he began running towards the outcrop. The bear gave a growl and followed quickly. Finrod could almost feel the hot breath of the creature on his neck as he leapt upward. He landed on a flat part of the outcrop and was congratulating himself for having avoided the bear when he suddenly felt himself slipping from a patch of ice that lay under the snow covering the rocks. He flailed about, trying to regain his balance, but it was too late. He found himself falling right onto the bear who had risen on its hind legs in an attempt to reach him. Instinctively, he brought his knife up at the last minute and by some miracle he thrust the blade into the bear’s open mouth even as he rammed into the creature, knocking it to the ground. He, however, bounced back onto the rocks, screaming in sudden agony as he felt bones snap. Then he was falling, the ground rushing up to meet him, and he remembered nothing more.

Finrod woke to pain and to someone licking his face. He cracked open his eyes and saw Mithrod standing over him. The horse bent down and nudged him. He licked dry lips and tried to move, only to nearly pass out again for the pain. His right leg was broken and in more than one place he thought. Despair took him at that moment. There was no way he could remain on the mountain with a broken leg. He doubted he could even splint it adequately enough and then the bones would heal crookedly and he would be crippled. He scooped up some snow and used it to wet his lips, the coldness of it clearing his head a bit.

“Mithrod,” he croaked, tears brimming and then freezing on his cheeks, “oh, Mithrod, I’m so glad you came back. We cannot stay. I have to leave the mountain and find help.” He forced himself to a sitting position, gasping with the effort and looked about him. The sun was nearly setting and soon the night would come and the temperatures would plunge well below freezing. The bear lay dead with his knife still lodged in its mouth. He crawled over to it, ignoring the fire in his right leg, and pulled the knife out, cleaning it with snow. He then continued crawling across the meadow to the hut. It was grueling and he had to stop several times to catch his breath and let the waves of pain subside. Finally, though, he reached the hut and gathered up a few items. Much of what he had he could easily leave behind, but he would not leave behind his precious harp or his other knives. Then he crawled back outside to where Mithrod stood silently waiting.

It took some time and much cursing before he managed to stand and cut the deer carcass off the horse before slinging the saddlebags on him. Then he struggled to climb onto Mithrod’s back. It was excruciating and the pain was overwhelming. He leaned over and in a harsh voice full of pain and a sense of defeat he whispered, “Bado, Mithrod. Tegi nin na mar nîn. Tegi nin na Dirion.”

Mithrod gave a whinny and then set off down the mountain with his beloved master who had given into the pain and had passed out again.

“Stubborn child,” Irmo said almost admiringly at Findaráto’s tenacity. He and the other Valar were standing on a south-facing balcony overlooking the Pelóri where they had gathered to watch the drama unfolding in a certain mountain meadow. “I was sure all that snow you dumped on him, Manwë, would do the trick.”

“Indeed,” said Námo who was standing next to him. He turned to the Elder King who stood to his right. “The bear was a nice touch, though I think a bit overdone and quite unpredictable as to the outcome. Findaráto could well have been killed and that would have made me very unhappy.” There were snorts of amusement from the others.

Manwë gave him an apologetic shake of his head. “Sorry, the bear wasn’t my idea.” He turned to Oromë standing further along the balcony. “Your idea, Oromë?”

“No. I only made the game scarce,” the Lord of Forests said. “I wish I had thought of it, but Námo is right. Introducing the bear was pretty risky.”

“Well, if you didn’t call the bear,” Námo said, “and Manwë didn’t, who did?”

There were shrugs all around. Oromë frowned. “Coincidence?” he asked, sounding tentative.

There was a considering silence as the Valar contemplated many things even as they continued watching Findaráto’s horse make his way back down the mountain with the unconscious ellon on his back.

Nésar neldë: The Three Sisters. In Quenya, the numeral follows the noun, which also receives any case endings. The numeral is indeclinable and inflects as a singular noun.

Ammali: Plural of ammalë: yellow bird, literally, ‘yellow hammer’. Also spelled ambalë.

Bado, Mithrod. Tegi nin na mar nîn. Tegi nin na Dirion: (Sindarin) ‘Go, Mithrod. Bring me to my home. Bring me to Tirion’.

25: Recuperation

I have no memory of the journey down the mountain. My first conscious thought was finding myself back in my old room in the palace. Words cannot adequately describe the sense of defeat and despair that took me then. The great Finrod Felagund... hah! I was only glad that there was no one from Beleriand there to see me in such a wretched state. I would have been in for some friendly teasing by Celeborn and Elu Thingol, but my sister would have been merciless in her scathing remarks. As it was, I had to endure the hurt looks in my atar’s and ammë’s faces, and knowing that I had disappointed them made my despair even blacker....

****

Manwë waited until Findaráto’s horse was making his way across the plains towards Tirion before he sent word to Arafinwë by way of one of his lesser Maiar. Arafinwë wasted no time in questions but made haste to intercept his son with only Calandil and Amandur accompanying him. They came upon Findaráto about two leagues from Tirion. The ellon was barely conscious, muttering something unintelligible as Calandil pulled him off Mistaráto and handed him into Arafinwë’s arms. Findaráto cried out with pain as his broken leg was jostled. Arafinwë’s expression became grim when he realized his son was injured.

“Hush, yonya,” he said. “All is well. Mistaráto is well and so are you.”

Findaráto lapsed back into unconsciousness. Calandil took a moment to softly assure Findaráto’s steed that his master was well and thanked the horse for bringing him back to them. Then they returned to the city where Arafinwë ordered healers to attend him. Eärwen took one look at the state of her son’s condition as Arafinwë brought him into the palace and cried out in dismay.

“He has suffered only a broken leg,” Arafinwë assured her, “and I do not sense anything else wrong with him save extreme fatigue.”

Eärwen allowed Arafinwë to lay their son on his bed before caressing his hair and face. “He looks so worn and thin,” she whispered.

“But he is alive and he will recover,” Arafinwë said. “That is the important thing. Come, meldanya, let the healers have him.”

Eärwen reluctantly gave way to the healers who had come and Arafinwë led her out of the room to their private sitting room where they sat together on a settee in silence while Calandil stood guard outside the door; Amandur was doing similar guard duty outside Findaráto’s rooms. After some time, there was a knock on the door and when Arafinwë called out, the door opened and Calandil admitted the chief healer into the room.

“How is he, Vardamir?” Arafinwë asked. The ellon had been an apprentice Lóriennildo at the time of the War of Wrath and had followed Arafinwë to Beleriand, becoming one of the Noldóran’s most trusted battle-healers. When they returned to Aman after the War, Lord Irmo had granted Vardamir his mastership immediately, thus confirming Arafinwë’s appointment of him as a court healer. The two, in fact, had become close friends during the course of the War and Vardamir was as much Arafinwë’s confidant as he was his chief healer.

“Aside from the broken leg and the fact that he apparently has not eaten a proper meal in some time,” Vardamir answered, “he is otherwise well. The leg was broken in two places and it will take some time for him to fully heal. What he needs most is rest and food, though he should be fed light broths and white rolls and perhaps lightly boiled eggs for a day or two until his stomach is able to tolerate more substantial foods. At the moment I’ve put him in healing sleep. I will have one of my people remain to rouse him on occasion so he can take some broth and see to his personal needs, but I will not let him waken fully until the day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Vardamir,” Arafinwë said with relief. “Do whatever you must to ensure our son recovers completely.”

“Physically, he should be well in a couple of weeks,” Vardamir said, pursing his lips, his brow furrowed in thought, “but as for his emotional state... that might take longer to heal. He suffered a grave trauma and then one must also consider the underlying cause of his flight as well.”

“We will deal with all that as it arises,” Arafinwë said firmly. “Surely there are healers who are more conversant with the ills of the fëa than the hröa. I know that is not your specialty.”

“No, it is not, and the fact that Prince Findaráto is also a Reborn complicates things,” Vardamir replied. “I may have to consult with Lord Irmo about this, with your permission, of course, Arafinwë.”

“You need not my permission to consult with your own lord, my friend,” Arafinwë said with a faint smile. “I know that I am only borrowing you from him for a time.”

Vardamir snorted as he raised an eyebrow. “Well, in that case, I will speak to Lord Irmo about this.” Then he made his obeisance to his king and queen and left.

For a time Arafinwë and Eärwen remained silent and then Eärwen spoke. “Let us hope between Vardamir and Lord Irmo, our son can find full healing for all his wounds, especially those that are invisible.”

“Násië,” Arafinwë replied with great feeling. “Come, let us sit with our son for a while.”

Eärwen nodded and together they rose and went to sit with Findaráto, though he never knew they were there.

****

Finrod woke fully to find his parents sitting beside his bed. He blinked stupidly up at the ceiling, as if not sure where he was, and then memory came forth and he sighed and closed his eyes.

“No, yonya,” he heard his atar say, “open your eyes.”

Finrod complied with the command, for command it was, and he had the feeling that he was looking, not at his atar, but at the Noldóran. Arafinwë’s expression gave nothing away as to what he was thinking, but his ammë’s eyes were full of tenderness and love, though there was a hint of worry and perhaps even dismay lurking in their depths. Whether it was dismay at what he had done or what had happened to him, he could not say.

“I will not ask you why you left as you did,” his atar said without preamble, “for I have a very good idea why. I will only say this.” He leaned closer to lock gazes with his son. “Don’t ever do anything like that again. Is that clear?”

Finrod nodded, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Atto.”

“I know you are, yonya,” Arafinwë said, brushing Finrod’s hair in a gentle manner. “The important thing is that you are back home where you belong. Would you like to tell us how you managed to break your leg? You have the healers all in a dither over it.”

“Why?” Finrod asked in honest confusion.

Arafinwë actually smiled. “Broken legs are not something that happens on a regular basis in Aman,” he explained. “I think Vardamir actually had to arm-wrestle with half his staff for the privilege of setting the bones himself.”

“You’re jesting,” Finrod declared in disbelief.

“Almost,” his atar said with a laugh. “Vardamir hasn’t had a chance to do much bone-setting since the War. He was quite eager to get his hands on you, let me tell you.”

“Maybe I should break more bones just so the other healers can get a chance to practice,” Finrod quipped somewhat sleepily as he yawned and rapidly blinked his eyes, trying to keep awake.

“Get some rest, yonya,” Arafinwë said, giving him a kiss on his brow. Eärwen did the same. “When you waken again I’ll have something brought for you to eat. Vardamir says you are much too thin.”

Finrod, however, was already asleep and never heard what his atar was saying.

****

The next week went by in a haze for Finrod. He was physically weakened by his travails and he was heart-sore. He did not eat much of what was given him and was generally unresponsive to those around him, sleeping much of the time, or at least, pretending to. Vardamir was as concerned by his low spirits as he was by the fact that the bones were not mending as quickly as they should.

“He is not responding well,” he told Arafinwë and Eärwen about a week after Finrod was brought out of healing sleep. “He should be up and hobbling around on crutches by now.”

“He is very depressed,” Eärwen said worriedly. “He won’t talk about what happened. I think he is trying to fade.”

Vardamir nodded. “So do I,” he said. “I wish I understood more what the effects of dying are on someone’s fëa. I just don’t have enough experience dealing with any Reborn to know what to do for him.”

“Have you consulted with Lord Irmo, as you said you would?” Arafinwë asked.

“I delayed doing so as I wanted to see if Findaráto would recover on his own,” Vardamir answered.

“Then I think it is time that you did,” Arafinwë said, “before it is too late.”

Vardamir nodded and sighed, his professional pride slightly bruised by the prince’s refusal to cooperate in his own healing. “I will leave for Lórien tomorrow,” he said and then left to make the necessary preparations.

****

During the next week Findaráto’s condition did not improve, though neither did it deteriorate. The bones finally knitted and he was encouraged to begin strengthening the muscles by walking short distances. Findaráto would have been happy just to lie in bed but Arafinwë would not hear of it and ordered him to get out of bed.

“You may do so voluntarily,” he told Finrod, “or I will have Amandur and Calandil drag you out of bed. Your choice.”

Finrod could tell his atar was serious and did as he was told, little though he liked it. Still, the enforced activity seemed to lighten his mood somewhat and he even ate more than usual, which heartened his parents and the healers. Yet, none of them were satisfied with the ellon’s progress and counted down the days when Vardamir would return from Lórien, hopefully with a solution to their problem.

The solution came in a rather unexpected manner.

****

Finrod woke one morning about a month after his return to Tirion to find the last person he expected to see sitting quietly beside his bed.

“Eärnur?” he said in a shocked whisper.

“I’m rather disappointed in you, Findaráto,” Eärnur said by way of greeting. Finrod actually cringed at the coldness in his friend’s voice. “I little like being dragged away from my work and my studies to tend to a recalcitrant Noldo. I have better things to do with my time, believe me.”

“What are you doing here?” Finrod demanded, growing somewhat angry at Eärnur’s attitude.

“I am here at the behest of Lord Irmo and your parents,” Eärnur replied. “Apparently, no one seems to know what to do with you, so they sent me to straighten you out.”

“I don’t need straightening out,” Finrod protested angrily. “And I certainly don’t need you here. Go back to Lórien, Eärnur, and leave me to myself.”

“Sorry, but I don’t take orders from you, aran,” Eärnur said haughtily and Finrod paled at the implied insult. “I understand your leg has healed and you have begun exercising the muscles.”

“They make me walk from here to the sitting room and back,” Finrod said quietly.

“Huh! That won’t do at all,” Eärnur snorted in disgust. “Come. Let’s get you dressed and then we’re going out to the gardens.”

“Don’t I get to break my fast first?” Finrod demanded.

“Exercise first, eat second,” Eärnur said in a no nonsense voice as he rose, reaching down to drag the bedclothes back. “I’ll have them bring breakfast out to the garden. It’ll be more pleasant there even though it’s nearly winter.”

Finrod sighed. “I’ve had enough snow to last me for several lives of Men.”

“You can tell me all about it while we walk,” Eärnur said, going to the wardrobe and pulling out a couple of tunics. “Now, do you want to wear the blue tunic or the green?”

****

Finrod later had to confess that Eärnur was the best thing that could have happened to him. The young Teler was not in awe of him and took no nonsense from him either. Finrod wanted to hate him, but the ellon’s perpetual cheerfulness was too infectious and he couldn’t stay angry with his friend for very long. So it was that within two days of Eärnur’s arrival, Finrod was walking without the aid of crutches and was eating well. When Arafinwë happened upon the two ellyn in one of the gardens some days later and heard his son’s unforced laughter at something Eärnur had said, he silently gave thanks to Lord Irmo for sending the young Teler to them.

He had to admit to himself that when Vardamir had returned with Eärnur, he had been doubtful that the apprentice Lóriennildo could do for his son what even Vardamir could not, but now he realized that Lord Irmo had sent the one person who could bring his son out of his depression and for that he would be forever grateful.

With Eärnur’s encouragement, Finrod reluctantly shared with his parents the tale of his adventures which had ended in such disaster. “It was as if the mountain itself was conspiring against me,” he concluded. Arafinwë kept his own counsel about that, suspecting that more was behind his son’s misadventures than met the eye.

“At least you survived,” was all he said, “and that is all that matters to us.”

Still, Finrod remained puzzled by it all and his mood would darken from time to time at the thought of having been bested by the mountain. “I lived in a harsher environment than that mountain field for centuries,” he said to Eärnur one day as the two ellyn were sitting under a maple tree almost denuded of leaves now that they were only a month away from the winter solstice, “yet in less than two months I was forced to leave it.”

“You were never meant to hide in the mountains, Findaráto,” Eärnur said, “of that, I am sure. If the mountain defeated you, there was a reason. I know you do not like it here in Tirion and I am sorry you are not finding acceptance among the people in your atar’s court, but running away solves nothing and it nearly ended in complete disaster. You could just as easily have died... again. Do you really think Lord Námo would have been very happy to see your sorry fëa cluttering up his doorway again?”

The last was said so drolly that Finrod couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess not,” he averred once he calmed down. “About the only good thing that’s come out of it is that Atar sent Amarië back to Vanyamar for a time. At least I won’t have to listen to her complaining about everything to do with me.”

“I do not know the Lady Amarië,” Eärnur said, “but it does sadden me that the two of you no longer get along. I understand you and she were very much in love.”

“If that’s so, why did I leave or why didn’t she come with me?” Finrod retorted with a frown.

“I have no answers for you,” Eärnur said. “I doubt if anyone really does. You did not remain behind or even turn back as your atar did and she did not accompany you. I’m afraid you and she will have to deal with the consequences of both your decisions — yours to go and hers to remain behind — as best you may and hope for the best in the future.”

Finrod sighed and leaned back against the tree which whispered sleepily but did not fully waken. “I wonder if my friends are having the same trouble adjusting as I am.”

“Probably,” Eärnur said. “Unlike you, though, they don’t have an atar who is the Noldóran and can appeal to the Valar for help whenever their Reborn child does something like run away. They are forced to muddle through on their own. You might keep that in mind when you think you’re the only one suffering.”

Finrod blushed at the mild reprimand. “I’m glad you’re my friend, Eärnur,” he said softly.

Eärnur threw his arm around Finrod’s shoulders and gave him a hug. “So am I, meldonya,” he said with all sincerity, “so am I.”

****

Meldanya: My beloved.

Meldonya: My (male) friend.

Eärnur stayed a month and then returned to Lórien and his duties as a Lóriennildo. I was sad to see him leave but no longer despondent. My experiences in the mountains taught me one thing — running away from my problems only created more problems. By running away as I did, I allowed Nambarauto and others like him to win. I was determined not to let that happen again. And so, I set out to find a new purpose in life. First, though, there was some unfinished business which needed to be addressed....

“Try to stay out of trouble,” Eärnur told Finrod as they were making their way down the front portico of the palace to where a groom was waiting with the Teler’s horse.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Finrod said sadly. “You’re the only friend I have here.”

Eärnur stopped and stared at the prince with some exasperation. “No I am not,” he said firmly. “There are others who would befriend you if you give them half a chance. Not all of them are like Lord Nambarauto or that silly elleth who only wanted your friendship so she could get something out of the Noldóran.”

Finrod scowled. “That’s what I mean. People either want nothing to do with me or they want something from me, but no one just wants to be my friend. Not like you.”

“What about Lord Herendil?” Eärnur asked. “He seems genuinely interested in you and I think he would like to be a friend. You just have to give him and others like him a chance. At least try.”

Finrod nodded, giving him an embrace. “I’ll think about it,” he said, not really wishing to commit himself one way or the other. Lord Herendil did seem to accept him and treat him with respect. Still, he felt uneasy around Herendil with his wistful expression and the sadness that lurked behind his smiles, for the ellon was still grieving for his eldest son, Vorondil, and Finrod was at a loss as to how to handle the situation. Whenever he saw Herendil he could tell that the ellon had many questions, questions for which Finrod knew he could give no real answers, and that made him uncomfortable. He tried never to be alone with Herendil if he could help it, knowing that the lord would be too polite to importune him in the presence of others.

“Do more than think about it, meldonya,” Eärnur admonished him as he mounted his horse, giving the groom a nod of thanks.

“I will. I promise,” Finrod said. “Fair journey. Give Lord Irmo and Lady Estë my sincerest regards.”

Eärnur nodded, spoke softly to the horse and soon they were away, leaving Finrod standing alone on the steps. After a time, the ellon sighed and went back inside. Eärnur’s presence had brightened the place up and now everything seemed dull and uninteresting again. He wished he felt more at home here, but he still felt at times as if he were only a visitor rather than a son of the house.

The one bright spot in all this was that Amarië had not yet returned from visiting her family. Indeed, in the last missive that she sent him, she vaguely implied that she would be staying in Vanyamar for an indefinite period of time. Finrod had a feeling that her return to Tirion was conditioned on his atar’s permission for her to do so. That was fine with him. In the meantime....

Finrod resisted a sigh and turned to see Herendil and Nambarauto walking towards him. Nambarauto’s expression was neutral; Herendil’s was openly friendly.

Herendil nodded. “I am glad then to see that you are fully recovered from your... ordeal,” he said sincerely.

Nambarauto gave a small snort. Herendil shot him a disapproving look, which the other ellon ignored. Finrod nodded. “Thank you,” he said and started to turn away, wanting to get as far from these two as possible. He did not like Nambarauto and he felt guilty about Herendil and his son even though he had naught to do with the ellon’s death.

Herendil held up a hand to stay him. “I was wondering, Highness, if you would be attending tomorrow’s court.”

Finrod gave him a puzzled look, not sure what the ellon was getting at. “I suppose I will,” he said hesitantly. In truth, he had not thought about it, but assumed his atar would want him to be present.

“Good, good,” Herendil said, giving him a smile. “I look forward to seeing you there.” He gave Finrod a respectful bow, nudging Nambarauto who had remained silent throughout the exchange. The ellon gave Finrod a short bow that bordered on the insolent but Finrod let it go. The two lords then turned to go back the way they had come, leaving Finrod standing there feeling puzzled and unsure of Herendil’s motives.

Court the next morning was proving to be as tedious as every other court Finrod had ever attended and he was reminded of the ones he had held in Nargothrond. “Why did I ever think being king would be fun?” he groused to himself at one point when there was a lull in the ceremony. He was sitting on his atar’s right, dressed in his stiffly embroidered court garb. His atar shot him an amused look but did not speak. Eärwen, sitting on Arafinwë’s left, leaned across her husband to give her son a pat on the arm. Finrod looked up and saw her smile in understanding. He smiled back and felt himself relax.

Today’s court was dedicated primarily to petitions presented by various nobles for one reason or another. Most seemed to be asking for some favor of the Noldóran, which Arafinwë either granted or dismissed. Finrod noticed that his atar seemed to grant the requests of those nobles who were asking favors for others, especially for commoners attached to their households, while petitions asking favors for the lord or lady or for someone in their family were usually denied. Yet, it was not entirely a cut-and-dried thing.

Lady Laurelindalë, for instance, had requested that her nephew Laiqualaurë be admitted to join Arafinwë’s court as a junior courtier. When the ellon was presented to the king, Finrod was surprised to learn that he was still an elfling of forty-five. Arafinwë spent a few minutes asking the ellon about his interests and aptitudes, to which he was given shy answers. At the end of the interview, the Noldóran gave Laiqualaurë a warm smile. “I think you will do well in our court, hinya. Welcome.” Lady Laurelindalë looked immensely pleased while Laiqualaurë simply looked stunned, as if he could not believe his good fortune. The ellon’s family were beside themselves with joy and Finrod realized that his atar did not always accept people to his court simply because they were nobles.

On the other hand, Lord Artamir’s request that a certain group of farmers from the Southern Fiefdoms be granted additional lands which apparently were adjacent to their own fields and had lain vacant for centuries was denied. “Those fields belong to the Crown,” Arafinwë said, “in trust to the original owners who will someday reclaim them.”

“The owners are either dead or have yet to return from Heceldamar,” Lord Artamir exclaimed. “Why should such good land go fallow for so long?”

“If the owners are dead,” Arafinwë said, giving Finrod a quick glance, “they will someday be released from Mandos. When that day comes I will present them with their lands. What they do with them afterwards is their affair. If they still live but have not yet returned, then we will wait.”

“Wait for what, your Majesty, and for how long?” Artamir asked, clearly frustrated.

Finrod narrowed his eyes, staring at the lord. “These farmers,” he said suddenly, “would they be beholden to you?”

Arafinwë gave him an approving look. Artamir’s expression became guarded. “They have my patronage,” he said.

“And no doubt they tithe a portion of their produce to you,” Finrod replied with a nod. “So, if they were granted these lands which have been vacant since the time of the Darkening, your share of the income would increase, wouldn’t it?”

“The income is unimportant,” Artamir protested. “Good land should not be allowed to lie fallow for so many yéni.”

Finrod turned to his atar. “Is that true? Have these fields been allowed to revert to the wild?”

Arafinwë shook his head. “On the contrary. When I became king, I appointed stewards to oversee any farmland that had been deserted by those who went into Exile. They have been charged with seeing that the lands continue to flourish and be productive, though on a lesser scale than if their original owners were working the land. The produce is sold and the monies placed in trust. When the original owners return, and some of them will, then they will find a handsome sum of money and arable lands waiting for them. Whether they choose to sell the lands or not is up to them. I am merely the caretaker of their interests. I have done the same for other families whose properties were left behind and there are no kin to oversee them and ensure that they are intact for when their owners return.”

Finrod nodded, looking pleased. “Then, obviously, this petition is designed to fatten the purses of these farmers, not to mention that of Lord Artamir, at the expense of others.”

“Others who deserted the lands,” Artamir exclaimed, looking affronted. “Why should they be rewarded for leaving while those who remained behind are denied any reward for their loyalty?”

Before Arafinwë could respond to Artamir’s complaint, Finrod suddenly stood up, his eyes blazing. He stepped down from the dais to stand before the lord, who took a step back in surprise. Finrod removed the coronet from his head and held it out to Artamir, whose expression was one of bemusement.

“You are correct,” Finrod said quietly. “Why should any of us who deserted Aman be rewarded for our rebellion? Here.” He reached up and placed the coronet on Artamir’s head, ignoring the gasps from the court. “You deserve this more than I, for you never left while I not only left but left gladly and if I had had my way I would never have returned.” Then he turned and gave his parents a low bow before heading for the doors leading out of the throne room. The silence was absolute.

Finrod sighed and did as he was bid, though he only came as far as the dais, standing next to a still stunned looking Artamir. His ammë’s expression was carefully blank though Finrod sensed that his words had saddened her and he regretted them for her sake even if they were true. His atar stared at him with what could only be described as fatherly exasperation.

“Take back your coronet and come sit beside me,” Arafinwë said, still speaking gently.

Finrod glanced at Artamir who took the coronet from his head and handed it to Finrod. He did not place it on his own head. Instead, he climbed the steps of the dais and sat in his chair, his eyes on the coronet that he held in his lap.

“My son, impetuous though he may be, is correct in one thing,” Arafinwë stated to his court. “No one deserves to be rewarded, not those who left nor those who remained behind. Reward is not the issue here. Fairness and justice are. There are many reasons why those of us who initially left did so, just as there are many reasons why some of us returned while others went on. These lands, you say, were deserted. Fair enough. But it does not necessarily follow that you who remained behind or returned with me should automatically profit from what others gave up, some more reluctantly than others, I have no doubt. These lands are held in trust and will remain with the Crown until their original owners come and claim them and if that means they remain with the Crown until the end of Arda, so be it. Your petition, Lord Artamir, is denied.”

Lord Artamir gave the Noldóran a stiff bow and retreated, his expression stony. Arafinwë turned to Finrod and reached over to take the coronet from him, placing it on his son’s head, then bending down and planting a kiss on Finrod’s left temple. “The next time you decide to take over my court, yonya,” he whispered in his ear, “ask first.”

Arafinwë patted him on the arm and turned his attention to the next petitioner. It was only when the chamberlain announced Lord Herendil’s name that Finrod looked up and saw that not only was Lord Herendil approaching, but Lords Nambarauto and Selmacas, as well as Selmacas’ wife and daughter. Finrod held his breath, wondering what this might mean, remembering Herendil’s question of the day before.

The four gave the Noldóran and his queen their obeisance. Arafinwë nodded graciously. “Lord Herendil. You and your fellow nobles wish to present us with a petition?”

“Actually, your Majesty, we wish to address his Highness, Prince Findaráto,” Herendil said.

Arafinwë gave the five nobles standing before him a considering look, then turned to Finrod. “Wouldst thou hear what Lord Herendil hath to say to thee, yonya?” he asked formally.

Finrod stared at his atar and realized that if he said no then Arafinwë would dismiss Herendil and the others summarily and that would be the end. He was almost tempted to give a negative answer, but curiosity and Eärnur’s parting words won out and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Arafinwë then turned to Herendil. “Speak then, my lord, to my son,” he commanded and Herendil gave a respectful bow before turning his attention to Finrod who sat there with a wary expression on his face.

“Your Highness,” Herendil said, “some months ago an incident occurred which, I believe, led to you leaving Tirion with unfortunate results.”

Finrod sat there tight-lipped, wondering what the ellon was getting at. He knew that everyone there understood what was being said and he mentally cringed at the imagined titters and sly smiles that were hidden behind bland expressions.

“I formally wish to apologize for anything I may have said or done which caused you any pain,” Herendil continued and Finrod now looked at him with surprise.

“You did nothing, my lord, that caused offense and for which you need apologize,” Finrod said, “though I cannot say the same for others,” he could not help adding, casting a cool glare upon the four other nobles standing before him.

“Which is why we are all here, Highness,” Herendil said smoothly. “My companions have something they wish to say, if you will allow it.”

Finrod nodded reluctantly. Then Herendil gave Nambarauto a slight nudge. The ellon glared at him before turning his attention to Finrod. “I also wish to tender my sincerest apologies for anything I may have said that caused you any pain, your Highness.” The words were stiffly spoken and Finrod was not sure if he believed a word the ellon had uttered.

But then, Herendil turned to Selmacas, giving him a meaningful stare, and when the ellon began uttering a similar apology, Finrod realized that Herendil had somehow forced these four nobles into making formal and public apologies for their harsh and careless words. He wondered what hold Herendil might have over these four to get them to do his bidding and the very thought intrigued him, for he had not thought Herendil to be that powerful. Then, the two ladies also gave him their apologies.

At first, he wasn’t sure what he should do, but memories of his life as a king came to the fore and he straightened his spine and gave the five nobles a gracious nod. “I thank you for your apologies, my lords and ladies,” he said as regally as he knew how, “and I wish to also apologize for any offense I may have committed against you in the heat of mine anger. I fear that mine emotional responses are somewhat suspect and will be for some time. I have been told that it may be nearly a century before I reach the level of emotional maturity that I enjoyed at the time of my death.”

“Which, if memory serves, is not saying much,” Arafinwë said with a gently teasing smile.

Finrod gave him a disbelieving look. “Atto, please!” he nearly wailed, turning red with embarrassment, causing the rest of the court to start laughing. Even Nambarauto had a sour grin on his face and Lady Tarwen’s expression was actually sympathetic. Arafinwë merely threw an arm around his son’s shoulder and gave him a hug and a kiss on the brow.

When the laughter had quieted, Herendil gave Finrod a bow. “Thank you, your Highness, for accepting our apologies.”

Finrod nodded. “If you will accept mine,” he said and then, making a quick decision, he added, “and perhaps, my lord, you would favor me by joining me for dinner this evening that we may get to know one another better.”

Herendil looked pleasantly surprised and gave Finrod another bow. “It would be my honor, Highness.”

With that, the audience came to an end. Herendil and the other four nobles gave the royal family their obeisance and retreated even as the chamberlain announced that court was over. Arafinwë stood, offering his arm to Eärwen, and together they processed out with Finrod trailing behind.

Heceldamar: Beleriand, literally, ‘Land of Forsaken Elves’; a word used by the loremasters of Aman.

Forming friendships with the nobles of Atar’s court was perhaps the hardest thing for me to do as a Reborn. The older ones, of course, remembered me from before, and they were less eager to curry favor with me, being already established within the power structure of my atar’s court. The younger courtiers, on the other hand, were a different breed. None of them were old enough to remember the Light of the Trees. The tale of the Darkening and the events that followed were but rumors to them, bedtime tales told to them as elflings by parents who were still reeling from the shock of those times. And then, there was the cold reality of the War of Wrath and the many ellyn who did not return.

Herendil was one of the younger nobles, born in the final year of the Trees, growing up under starlight. His oldest son had been born around the time that I was hurrying northward from Nargothrond to help my brothers when the Dagor Bragollach fell upon us. It was in vain, of course, for both died and Dorthonion and Ladros were forever lost to us. And but for Barahir and his valiant Men, I, too, would have been lost. Yet no rumor of any of this reached the shores of Valinor. The people of Aman, or at least the Eldar, remained ignorant of those events and all that followed.

Befriending Herendil was the first step towards taking control of my life as a prince of Eldamar. With his friendship I began the slow process of creating my own power base within my atar’s court, though I did not see it that way at the time. And when I met his surviving son, Aldundil, little did any of us realize how intertwined our lives would someday become....

Finrod felt unaccountably nervous as he fiddled with the tableware, waiting for Herendil’s arrival. He was not sure why he was feeling nervous. After all, he could well remember when he held similar dinners either in Nargothrond or when he was still living in Aman. Inviting one of the courtiers to dine with him was nothing new, yet, this seemed different somehow and he was at a loss to figure out why. He forced himself to stop rearranging the flowers gracing the middle of the table and was relieved when there was a knock on the door and Amandur, acting as his guard, admitted Herendil into his sitting room. He was surprised to see that the lord was not alone.

“Forgive me, Highness, for the imposition,” Herendil said with a bow, “but I wished to make you known to my son, Aldundil, and I thought perhaps....”

Finrod looked at the young ellon standing by his atar. He had the dark brown hair typical of the Noldor, though there were golden highlights that bespoke of Vanyarin ancestry. His eyes were greenish-blue and Finrod could sense the depth of sorrow and even guilt that lay behind the clear gaze which the ellon gave him. Aldundil held himself as a warrior and Finrod remembered that both he and his brother had fought in the War of Wrath. In spite of the sadness that seemed to emanate from the ellon, Finrod liked what he saw.

“Amandur,” he said, turning to the guard, “please have another setting brought. I think there is enough food for the three of us.” He gave Herendil and Aldundil a sardonic grin as Amandur bowed and closed the door. “The cooks think I don’t eat enough and made sure that there was enough to feed half of Tirion.”

Herendil chuckled and Aldundil smiled. Finrod stood there feeling a bit uncertain. “Ah... we need another chair, don’t we?”

“Allow me, Highness,” Aldundil said and at Finrod’s nod, he went and brought a chair to the table while Finrod and Herendil shifted the plates about to make room for him.

“I do apologize, Highness,” Herendil said. “I know I should have consulted with you first or waited....”

“It’s all right, my Lord Herendil,” Finrod said graciously, “I do not mind, truly, though now I feel decidedly outnumbered.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, Highness,” Aldundil said sincerely, “I will leave and perhaps on another occasion....”

“No, no,” Finrod protested, waving a hand in dismissal. “I am fine. Please, sit and have some wine while we wait for Amandur to return. Then we’ll eat.” He proceeded to pour wine into cut crystal glasses for them all. Luckily, he had a set of six glasses along with a matching carafe that sat on a sideboard, though this was the first time he had used any of them. Father and son sipped on the wine and Herendil nodded, smiling in appreciation.

“A fine vintage,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, this must be Yavannalimpë from Lord Nolondur’s vineyards.”

“Nor would you,” Herendil said, “unless he happens to come to Tirion. Nolondur is a Vanyarin lord attached to Ingwë’s court. He is also an excellent vintner and his wines are some of the best.”

“Nolondur....” Finrod muttered, his brow furrowed as he tried to capture an elusive memory, for Herendil’s description of the lord sparked an image in his mind of an older ellon with the fair hair of the Vanyar. “He... he has a daughter....”

“Yes,” Herendil said, giving him a shrewd look. “Lirulin is her name. She is the wife of your cousin, Intarion.”

“Intarion,” Finrod said, feeling out the name, but there was nothing there, no image to recall, and he shook his head. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, “sometimes the memories just don’t come when you want them to.”

Finrod shrugged. “It goes with the territory,” he replied. “Lord Irmo warned me that not every memory will return and there is no rhyme or reason as to when they do.”

“My son, Vorondil....” Herendil started to say and then stopped, shaking his head. “Forgive me,” he said, “I promised myself I would not ask the questions that haunt me about my son’s fate.”

Finrod stared at his wine glass, biting his lips. “Even if you were to ask, I could not answer,” he said. “My memories of my time in Mandos are scattered and in disarray. I can tell you little of what it is like, save that I know I was happy and content and felt neither pain nor sorrow. You must take comfort in the knowledge that Vorondil is happy and is being well looked after by Lord Námo’s Maiar.”

“I suppose I just wonder if he misses us as much as we miss him,” Herendil said with a sigh. “Were you impatient to be released so you could join your family once again?”

Finrod shook his head, smiling. “The Dead have no memory of their former lives while in Mandos. Vorondil neither waits for release nor feels any impatience. For him, Mandos is all he knows and all he has ever known.”

Both father and son sat there in shock. “But... but... why?” Aldundil stuttered.

Finrod gave them a sympathetic look. “It is a gift from Lord Námo that we remember nothing except our names. The burden of our memories is lifted from us for a time so we may heal in fëa. Only when our fëar are healed are we re-embodied and our memories returned to us, although not all at once, as I said.”

Silence stretched between them for a time as the two nobles pondered what Finrod was telling them. A knock on the door broke their reverie as Amandur entered, bearing a tray with additional crockery and utensils. Finrod thanked him as he laid out the tableware in front of Aldundil and the guard bowed and retreated from the room with the empty tray. Then Finrod rose to go to the sideboard where covered dishes sat on racks under which were small candles meant to keep the food warm.

“Allow me, Highness,” Aldundil said, rising quickly and Finrod nodded, retaking his seat while Aldundil went to the sideboard, removing the cover from one of the dishes and bringing it to the table, acting as a server. When all the dishes were presented and their selections made, Aldundil returned to his seat and the three began to eat.

Trying to come up with a safe topic of conversation, Finrod remembered something that Herendil had said that day in the garden, and turned to Aldundil. “I understand that you have recently become betrothed,” he said.

Finrod was surprised, for, in his experience, people who were betrothed were generally more enthusiastic about it.

“He is betrothed to Lady Calalindalë, whom you met,” Herendil said, filling in the silence. “The wedding will be in a few months.”

“Oh, yes,” Finrod replied. He gave Aldundil a shrewd look. “You don’t seem particularly happy about it.”

Aldundil gave a start. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed. “It’s just that... I... I wish my brother were here to share in... in my happiness.”

Yet Finrod detected regret and guilt underlying the ellon’s words and thought perhaps Aldundil blamed himself for his brother’s death. He could understand that, for he had vague memories of feeling equally guilty that he had not reached his own brothers in time to save them. He glanced at Herendil who gave him a shake of his head. Leaning back in his chair, Finrod picked up his wine glass and took a sip before speaking, choosing his words carefully. “Since my re-embodiment, I have learned that I am not as important as I once thought myself.” He paused and held up his hand, giving the two ellyn a wry smile when they both started to deny his words. “We think we are indispensable and without us nothing of importance can ever happen in Arda again. But, of course, that isn’t true. For over five hundred years, Life went on without me. People fell in love and married, quarreled and reconciled, children were born, wars were fought and won or lost, all without my guiding hand. When Vorondil is released from Mandos, he will learn this lesson as well. He may resent missing out on such things as your wedding or the birth of your children, but, in time, he will accept it as part of the price he paid in dying, even as I have.”

“Nothing will be as he remembers, though,” Aldundil protested, “and that distresses me the most, that he will return to a... a world he will not recognize.”

“So it was with me,” Finrod said with a nod, “yet I am slowly learning to accept what is rather than mourn for what is not. Life cannot stop for the Living, even if it has for the Dead, at least for a time. So live your life, Aldundil. Marry and find joy in your wife and any children that may be born to you and store up memories to share with your brother. When he is released, he will need all your love and support to help him make the necessary adjustments.”

Aldundil nodded, though he did not appear convinced. Herendil leaned over and put a hand on his son’s arm, giving him a warm smile. “Prince Findaráto is correct, yonya,” he said. “I do not think Vorondil would want you to stop living just because he is not here.”

Aldundil sighed and gave Finrod an apologetic look. “Forgive me, Highness. I did not mean to dampen the mood.”

“Do not concern yourself, Aldundil,” Finrod said with a smile. “Perhaps we should change the subject to something less... um... fraught with emotions.”

For a moment, Finrod sat thinking furiously, trying to come up with a safe topic. He would have been happy to share war stories with Aldundil but thought it would not be politic given the circumstances. He shrugged, and asked the first thing that came to mind. “Do either of you hunt?”

As it turned out, Herendil was an avid falconer, though Aldundil was less enthusiastic. “I’m afraid I lost my taste for such things during the war,” he explained.

Finrod nodded. “I can understand that,” he said sympathetically. “After the Battle of Sudden Flame, I no longer hunted with my cousins. Of course, traveling across the breadth of Beleriand to visit Nelyafinwë or Macalaurë was too dangerous after Melkor broke the Leaguer and took much of the north. On the few occasions when I would visit Doriath, where my sister resided, I would hunt with Elu Thingol and Celeborn, but otherwise, I didn’t bother.”

“Well, now it’s different,” Finrod said. “Of course, I’ve only gone hunting once with my atar, and, when I was living in the mountains, I had no choice but to hunt. I have not yet hunted with falcons, though I recall owning several when I resided in Beleriand.”

“Perhaps we can arrange a hunting trip,” Herendil suggested. “I can invite some of the other nobles to join us.”

Herendil gave him a knowing smile. “I will not invite Nambarauto or Selmacas,” he said, “if you do not want me to.”

Finrod sighed. “It’s not that, exactly,” he said. “It’s just that I still feel uncomfortable in a crowd. I’m always afraid I’ll do or say something... er... elflingish and embarrass myself and my atar.”

“Why don’t just the two of you go, then?” Aldundil suggested. “Forget everyone else. There is nothing that says you need to take an entire party of people on a hunt.”

“I’ll need to take at least one guard,” Finrod said. “Atar won’t allow me beyond the palace walls without one.”

Herendil nodded. “I can bring my chief falconer, if you will, so as to make the party even.”

Finrod nodded. “You know, I don’t remember if Atar has a chief falconer or if there is even a royal mews.”

Both Herendil and Aldundil chuckled. “Indeed there is,” Herendil said, “and if you’d like, I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

“That would be fine,” Finrod said and arrangements were made to meet after breakfast as there was no court scheduled and Finrod was actually free until after lunch. “I will ask Atar when would be a good time for us to hunt,” Finrod added. “I think I will need his permission to leave the city, anyway.” He gave them a grimace and both Herendil and Aldundil looked sympathetic.

“I am sure your atar will be delighted to give his permission for the hunt,” Herendil said. “And if not, well... we will think of something else to do.”

As it happened, Arafinwë was not only delighted, but overjoyed when Finrod approached him at breakfast the next morning about the hunt. “I think I will accompany you to the mews,” he said. “I have not been there in quite some time myself.”

Arafinwë shook his head. “No. I think you and Herendil should go alone as planned. You do not need me around as a chaperone.”

“You’ll need someone to help with the birds,” Eärwen pointed out gently. “If you think of Amandur as just another hunting companion rather than a guard I think you’ll enjoy yourself more.”

Finrod nodded. “So, where’s a good place for hunting with falcons and when can we go?” he asked.

“If Herendil is amenable, you could go this morning,” Arafinwë said. “As to where to hunt... Most people generally take their hunting birds to the park that you went through on your way to the mountains, though others prefer to go further afield. I think it would be best if you stick to the park for now.” He gave Finrod a meaningful look and the prince nodded, giving a resigned sigh.

Afterwards, Finrod and Arafinwë met Herendil on the way to the mews. He was accompanied by his chief falconer, Sorondur. He appeared to be a competent ellon, wearing a dark green leather vest over trews and shirt. Over the left breast of the vest was stitched an emblem of an eagle in flight, which Finrod knew meant that Sorondur was a Manwendur, serving Lord Manwë as much as he served Lord Herendil. He was, surprisingly enough, a Vanya.

“My wife is a Noldo, attached to Lord Herendil’s household,” Sorondur explained when he surmised the prince’s surprise at seeing him.

“When Ingwë led his people to Vanyamar,” Herendil added, “my anatar was able to convince Sorondur to remain here with us.”

“Melulissë did not wish to leave Tirion,” Sorondur said, “and I loved her too much to depart from her. Lord Manwë gave me his blessing to remain in service to Lord Herendil's family.”

“I told Findaráto that I would prefer that you hunt in the Tarwa Finweva,” Arafinwë told Herendil.

The noble nodded in understanding. “I figured you would not wish for your son to... er... wander too far,” he said with a smile and Arafinwë returned it with his own smile.

“Atar says we can go hunting this morning,” Finrod said, immediately amending his words, cringing mentally at how elflingish he’d sounded just then, “that is, if you have no other plans, my lord.”

“None, Highness,” Herendil said with a smile. “I think it is a fine morning for a hunt.”

Sorondur nodded. “Indeed, my lord anticipated you and had me bring our falcons in the hopes that you might be amenable to hunting this morning.”

Arafinwë chuckled. “Let us go to the mews then and find a bird for Findaráto,” he said. “You will need to return by noon as I have a council meeting scheduled for this afternoon and I wish Findaráto to attend.”

As they went, Sorondur took the opportunity to ask Finrod about his experiences with hunting with falcons. “I hunted with them in Beleriand,” the prince replied, “and I recall how to handle them, so you needn’t worry on my account.”

Thus, it was not long before Finrod was making his acquaintance with a peregrine falcon named Veryahonda who accepted his overtures willingly. Soon after, he, Herendil, and Sorondur were riding through the city with their birds while Amandur followed, his eyes ever vigilant. They made their way into the park and Finrod found himself actually enjoying being with Herendil and Sorondur as they wandered through the enclosure, letting their birds hunt. Herendil kept their conversation light, regaling Finrod with tales of hunting misadventures among the nobles of the court, bringing much hilarity to their group. Sorondur spoke about some of the birds he had raised and trained and his service to Lord Manwë. Finrod told them of hunting with his cousins in Beleriand during the Long Peace and his finding Bëor and his people.

“Aldundil spoke of them when he returned from the war,” Herendil said, “as did Nambarauto. My son had nothing but praise for them, especially for their loyalty and bravery. Nambarauto, though, was not too impressed.” He gave Finrod a sardonic grin.

“They are a marvel,” Finrod said fervently. “Like yet unlike the Eldar and true Eruhíni, no less than we.”

“I was present when Eärendil was brought before the Valar,” Herendil said. “He was quite eloquent in his pleas for aid on behalf of the Elves and Atani.”

“So I have been told,” Finrod said. “Oh, look! I think Veryahonda found something.”

They continued hunting until nearly noon and then returned to the city. Finrod bade Herendil and Sorondur farewell at the mews with promises to go hunting again soon. “I will see you at court tomorrow, Highness,” Herendil said with a bow.

“I look forward to seeing you there, my lord,” Finrod replied and was pleasantly surprised when he realized that he meant it.

As he and Amandur made their way back to the palace, the young guard ventured to speak. “I believe you enjoyed yourself today, my prince.”

When Finrod joined his parents for lunch, they were pleased to see their son looking so relaxed and they both hid smiles when they realized he was happily humming a merry tune as he sipped his soup.

Yavannalimpë: (Quenya) Yavanna-wine; cf. the attested Yavannamírë ‘Yavanna-jewel’ which is the name of a tree.

Manwendur: Servant of Manwë, particularly, one who was devoted to that Vala. It was applied especially to those persons, or families, among the Vanyar who actually entered Manwë’s service and in return received instruction from him; cf. the attested word Aulendur ‘Servant of Aulë’, given to those persons, or families, among the Noldor who entered Aulë’s service [See ‘The Shibboleth of Fëanor’, Note 61, Peoples of Middle-earth, HoME XII].

Tarwa Finweva: Finwë Park, literally, ‘the garden/enclosure belonging to Finwë’.

My friendship with Herendil grew deeper. It did not, as my parents had hoped, lead to further friendships among the other courtiers. They were unfailingly polite but their demeanor held no warmth. I was not particularly concerned, content as I was with this one friend. I knew that even before I left Aman I had had few friends among those of my anatar’s court. I had even fewer friends in my own. So, for the time being, I was satisfied to have this one person as a friend, though he was not the friend I most wished to have beside me. It was not Herendil’s fault that he was not Glorfindel....

Several weeks after Finrod and Herendil went hunting that first time, a page came to Finrod as he was breakfasting with his parents and presented him with a letter. Finrod stared at it stupidly for a moment, surprised into immobility, for he could not imagine who could be writing to him. It was not from Amarië, he knew, for her letters would have been brought by a courier from Vanyamar. This was plainly from someone who lived in the palace or perhaps in Tirion.

“Well, will you take it,” Arafinwë asked with amusement, seeing the confusion in his son’s eyes, “or will poor Vëandur be celebrating his coming of age day still standing here?”

Finrod started and gave the ellon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, vinyamo. Thank you.” He took the letter as Vëandur bowed, giving him a cheeky grin in return before departing.

“The word is ‘winyamo’,” she explained with a smile, “not ‘vinyamo’.”

Finrod blushed. “Sorry,” he said. He wondered how many times in the day he was forced to use that word. It seemed he could not get through an hour without apologizing to someone about something. “In Beleriand some words with the initial sound of ‘wilya’ came to be pronounced with the sound ‘vala’, though we still wrote them using the ‘wilya’ tengwa. I’m sure Uncle Fëanáro would not have approved, but as he wasn’t around to complain....” He shrugged and gave them a lopsided grin.

Arafinwë snorted in good humor and gestured at the letter in his son’s hand. “Will you read the letter here or in private?”

Finrod blinked a couple of times and then took hold of a knife to remove the seal. It was a plain seal showing the ‘hyarmen’ tengwa between two stars within a circle. Opening the letter he scanned the short missive, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s from Lord Herendil,” he said. “He is inviting me to his son’s wedding.”

Arafinwë nodded. “We would attend as a matter of course since both Herendil and Selmacas are members of my court, but it was kind of him to send you a personal invitation.”

Finrod nodded, reading through the words a second time before folding the letter and stuffing it inside his tunic. “I will have to think of a wedding gift, then,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about it. I only met Aldundil the one time and I am afraid I have little liking for Lady Calalindalë. I have no idea what I should give them.”

“You need not bother,” Eärwen said. “We already have a gift for them which will come from all of us as a family. You need not worry about giving them a separate gift. Neither they nor Herendil would be expecting it.”

“I suppose,” Finrod said somewhat reluctantly. Then he stood up and excused himself.

“Where are you going, dear?” Eärwen asked. “You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“As Herendil was kind enough to send me a personal invitation to his son’s wedding, even though he must have known I would be attending anyway, it is only meet that I send him a note thanking him.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, hinya,” Eärwen said, “and I am sure Herendil will appreciate it, but you may write the note later. Now, sit and finish your breakfast.”

“Yes, Ammë,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. He was once the King of Nargothrond whose every word was obeyed, but he was still an elfling of fifteen in his ammë’s eyes and he suspected he always would be. He happened to catch his atar’s eye just then. Arafinwë grinned and gave him a conspiratorial wink, which made him feel a little better.

“But why do I need new clothes just for a wedding?” Finrod complained. He was again sitting with his parents as they enjoyed breakfast a few days later. His ammë had informed him as he sat down to make himself available to the palace seamstresses to be outfitted with new garb for the upcoming wedding. “I’m sure no one will care if I wear the same court garb I’ve worn on other occasions. It’s not as if I were a member of the wedding party itself.”

“But you are a member of the royal family,” Eärwen said firmly, “and as such, it behooves us to dress accordingly. Your atar and I feel that you need new clothes anyway. Except for the tunics you brought with you from Lórien, all your other clothes are from when you were living here before, at least, the ones you didn’t bother to take with you.”

Finrod flinched slightly, feeling suddenly guilty, though he was not sure why since his ammë’s tone had not been disapproving, merely stating facts.

“As it is, they are woefully out of fashion, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she continued.

He hadn’t, actually, and didn’t care. Court garb was made to be endured. He certainly remembered the times when he had been forced to wear it. It came with the territory and he recalled his brothers smirking at him as his body servants hovered over him, making sure every fold was correct. He recalled a particular time when Aegnor had commented that he was heartily glad he didn’t have to dress up in such ridiculous garb just to greet some Sindarin dignitary. Angrod had laughed in agreement. Of course, that dignitary had been no less a personage than Prince Celeborn of Doriath. He smiled at the memory, for he had gotten his revenge on his brothers by insisting that they join him in greeting the Sindarin delegation come to pay their respects to the King of Nargothrond. Angrod had taken it in good humor, though Aegnor had scowled throughout the whole feast, softly swearing in Quenya every time he had to push the long silk sleeves of his undertunic out of the way to keep them from ending up in the gravy.

“Your ammë is correct, yonya,” Arafinwë said, giving him a sympathetic look. “It is time you were dressed more appropriately. This will be the first formal occasion in which you will be seen in public outside of attending court every once in a while.”

“The wedding will not be held here, but at Lord Herendil’s estate,” Arafinwë explained. “Not only will other nobles who are not part of my court be attending, but Lord Herendil’s own people will be there.”

“Oh,” Finrod said softly, feeling a little distressed. He had gotten used to being around his atar’s courtiers and the palace servants had finally stopped gawking at him every time he walked by, but he had had little contact with those outside the palace. He sighed and closed his eyes, suddenly wishing he were back in Lórien. Even attending a stupid painting class seemed preferable to going out in public.

Eärwen leaned over and planted a loving kiss on his cheek. He opened his eyes to see her smiling at him warmly. “It will not be as terrible as you imagine, dear.”

“And as guests at the wedding,” Arafinwë added, “we will simply be ourselves and not the royal family. There will be no formality where we are concerned.”

“Because everyone will be expecting it,” Eärwen replied. “We may just be guests, but we will be royal guests and that, I am afraid, makes all the difference.”

Finrod sighed again. “And I can’t even feign a sudden illness the way some of the Atani lords used to in order to get out of having to attend a tedious function.”

It turned out that the seamstresses had been ordered to replace all his old tunics with new ones. He entered his bedroom to find several servants going through his wardrobe and clothespress and pulling out tunic after tunic and shirt after shirt. Even some of his breeches were apparently to be replaced. When one of the servants pulled out the blue wool tunic with its simple embroidery of leaves and flowers that Morwen had made for him, he grabbed it out of the ellon’s hands.

“I do not care what the queen ordered,” Finrod said with a snarl. “All of you, out! Out!” The last was shouted and, seeing the genuine anger in his eyes, they gave him hasty bows and departed. He sat on the edge of his bed with Morwen’s tunic still in his hands, gently smoothing out the wrinkles. He wondered idly if she had been released from Lórien yet. Most likely she had been and was now living on Tol Eressëa. The thought came to him that perhaps he could go there and ask her to make his clothes for him, but he dismissed it almost at once. He had no doubt his parents would frown at the idea.

Eärwen came a few minutes after the servants had left. He did not look up at her entrance, merely stroking the tunic on his lap. “They were going to throw out Morwen’s gift,” he said by way of explanation. “She’s my friend. They had no right.”

“I am sorry, dear,” Eärwen said with a sigh as she sat down beside him on the bed. “I had completely forgotten about it. You only wore it the one time.”

“It’s my best tunic,” he replied. “I was... I was saving it to wear on a special occasion like... like a wedding.” He looked up at his ammë. “Why can’t I wear this?”

Eärwen put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him, giving him a kiss on his temple. “It wouldn’t be suitable, Finda, as lovely as it is.”

“They were going to throw everything out!” he protested, deciding not to argue with his ammë about the tunic. “What did they expect me to wear in the meantime while the seamstresses worked on my clothes, my night shirt?”

Eärwen laughed. “They were not going to throw everything out, hinya,” she said with an amused look. “They were merely going to sort through your clothes and see what should be thrown out.”

“I don’t like them pawing at my clothes, though,” he said with a frown. “I only allowed my personal valet, Belamdir, to ever go through my wardrobe.” He paused and then sighed sadly. “I wonder what happened to him? I suppose he died when Nargothrond fell.”

Eärwen gave her son another hug. “Why don’t you and I go through your wardrobe together and sort out what you no longer need? The seamstresses will be here shortly.”

“Fine,” Finrod said shortly, standing up, “but let’s just get rid of the court garb. I don’t think it matters what I wear when I just want to relax or I’m out hawking with Lord Herendil.”

Eärwen nodded and rose as well. “Then why don’t you put Morwen’s tunic back where it belongs and then come help me sort out the rest.”

Finrod gave his ammë a brief smile and did as she had bid. By the time the seamstresses arrived they had gone through the entire wardrobe while Eärwen quizzed him about what he wore when he was living in Nargothrond.

Thankfully, Finrod only had to endure a couple of fittings, for his new hröa was an exact copy of his first and he had not changed all that much in the centuries after he had left Tirion. The seamstresses, in fact, already had his measurements, but, as one of them pointed out, it was always wise to double-check.

“We want you to feel comfortable, Highness,” the elleth said as she pinned the cloth to his frame.

Finrod snorted. “In that case, I’ll just wear my old hunting tunic. It’s the most comfortable one I own.”

The elleth just shook her head and went on with her pinning. Eärwen, who was supervising, rolled her eyes when Finrod gave her a wink, showing that he was only jesting.

Finally, the day came when his new clothes, or at least those for the wedding, were ready. The rest were still being made. Finrod eyed the outfit with resignation as it was laid out upon his bed. It wasn’t any less fine than his other court garb from before, but somehow it just seemed different. Perhaps because it had been made especially for the wedding. Still, he had to admit that the seamstresses had done an excellent job. Every stitch was perfect and the embroidery was exquisite. He compared it with the simple tunic Morwen had made for him. All in all he would prefer wearing the tunic. He thought about wearing it anyway but knew he would not get away with it. His ammë would just make him take it off and put on the tunic especially made for the occasion.

He gave the wedding clothes a closer look. The shirt was a pale yellow-gold figured silk with tight sleeves and a high neck. The knee-length tunic was a dark teal blue satin. Its sleeves were slit and lined with a light green silk. Over this would be worn a sleeveless ankle-length coat of the same dark teal blue satin as the tunic. It was open in the front and lined with the same gold silk as the shirt.

One of his body servants came in just then to help him dress, but Finrod insisted that he would prefer to dress alone. “If I need any help, I’ll call,” he told the ellon and then shooed him out the door. A glimmer of an idea had come to him as he was looking over the outfit and he did not want anyone interfering. Quickly, he doffed the houserobe he had been wearing after bathing and began to dress. Luckily, these clothes were not so elaborate that he could not get into them without help. When the expected knock on the door came, he was ready.

He went to the door and opened it. “Yes, Atto,” he said. “I am all ready.”

Arafinwë took a quick look at his son and sighed inwardly. The ellon had apparently compromised on his garb. He wore the yellow-gold shirt and the coat that had been made but instead of the matching tunic, he was wearing the tunic that his friend had made for him. It was only luck that the blues of the tunic and coat did not clash. He noticed a glint of defiance in his son’s eyes and knew that there would be a battle if he were made to change his clothes now. As it was, they would be late for the wedding.

“Come on,” he said. “Your ammë is waiting for us.” He ignored the look of triumph that flashed across Findaráto’s face as they went to find Eärwen but he couldn’t help smiling when he saw the resigned look on his wife’s face when she saw them. He gave her a shrug.

“I suppose it will have to do,” Eärwen said with a sigh. “At least you aren’t wearing those strange front braids.”

Finrod shrugged. “I know better than that,” he said, though in truth, he had contemplated wearing them, but knew that he would be pushing his luck.

“Come,” Arafinwë said. “It will take us some time to reach Herendil’s estate and we do not want to be late.”

They set off, riding in the same carriage that had brought Finrod to Tirion, passing out of the western gate to the salute of the guards. They traveled for a brief time until they came to a crossroad and turned north through a pleasant orchard. The road debouched upon the estate of Lord Herendil. It was not overly large or opulent but it was lovely nonetheless. The royal family climbed down from the carriage and were greeted by Lord Herendil and his wife, Lady Vandacalimë. Of Lord Selmacas and his wife, Lady Tarwen, there was no sign.

“Welcome, Your Majesties, Prince Findaráto,” Herendil said. “I am glad that you have deigned to honor us with your presence.”

“We are honored to be here for this joyous occasion, Herendil,” Arafinwë replied.

“The wedding feast will begin soon,” Vandacalimë said. “In the meantime, we are all gathered in the upper garden. One of my ladies will escort you while we continue to greet our other guests.”

Arafinwë nodded and the three followed the elleth along a terraced path to a garden where many others were already gathered. As the royal family approached, all conversations ceased and the people began to give them their obeisance, but Arafinwë raised a hand to forestall them.

“Today, we are but three more guests attending the wedding. We will not insist on ceremony. Please continue as you were.” Then he and Eärwen stepped forward to greet some nobles whom Findaráto did not know, introducing him to them and the other guests returned to their own conversations.

For the next several minutes, Finrod found himself being introduced to one person or another or greeting those from the court whom he already knew. They all addressed him politely, one or two glancing at his attire with studied disinterest, so he knew they had noticed the plainness of his tunic underneath the coat and most likely did not approve, though their facial expressions never changed. It did not matter. His parents pretended they did not notice the stares that followed him and he did as well. He, at least, was used to being stared at and had learned to ignore it.

Then they were called to attend the wedding feast and Finrod wondered if they would end up sitting at the high table because of their rank, but surprisingly he and his parents were seated at a table just below the high table. His atar must have noticed his look of relief mixed with puzzlement, for he leaned over and whispered, “I told Herendil earlier that if he seated us at the high table I would send him into permanent exile to the Southern Fiefdoms where he would spend his days tending sheep.”

Finrod snickered at that as he sat down. He found himself seated next to and across from some people whom he did not know. Serindë, and Mardillë were sisters and seated next to him was their cousin, Rúmilion. They and their parents worked in various government departments. Mardillë worked in the Exchequer.

“I’ll be working beside Aldundil,” she said. “He’s agreed to enter government service. Lord Selmacas is in the part of the Exchequer that handles the privy purse and he was able to get Aldundil the appointment.”

Serindë turned out to be in the diplomatic corps. “Though so far the only diplomacy I’ve practiced is pretending I actually like my cousin here.” She gave him an impudent grin and he stuck his tongue out at her while Mardillë giggled.

“And what do you do?” Finrod asked Rúmilion, smiling at the cousinly banter. He remembered similar banter between him and his own cousins a long time ago.

“I am finishing my studies in law and hope to receive an appointment to the magistracy.”

Finrod nodded. “I wish you every success,” he said sincerely and the younger ellon thanked him.

Then the conversation between them lagged somewhat until Mardillë shyly asked him about what Beleriand was like and he spent some time regaling them with stories of life in Endórë as he remembered it.

Later, as he was returning from the privy between removes, he overheard some people who were around a corner of the hallway speaking. He slowed his steps when he heard his own name being mentioned by an elleth whose voice he did not recognize.

“Did you see what the prince was wearing?” she asked her companions with a snigger. “How uncouth can you get?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he heard an ellon say, and recognized Rúmilion’s voice. “It looked rather comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than what I’m wearing,” he said with a laugh.

Then another elleth was speaking. “I am surprised that their Majesties allowed him to attend the wedding in such a plain tunic. Even with the coat covering most of it, it still looks a bit shabby. Why even the servants are better dressed.”

“Don’t be silly,” Rúmilion said sharply. “I think Prince Findaráto looks just fine.”

“You’re an ellon, you would say something stupid like that,” the first elleth said with a sneer.

“Perhaps,” Rúmilion said somewhat coldly, “it’s because it’s the truth. Besides, his Highness is not an elfling needing his ammë’s help to dress.”

“He’s only just been reborn....” the elleth began to say but Rúmilion cut her off.

“He is older than we are,” he retorted. “He lived a whole life before his death. He was leading armies against Melkor and ruling an entire kingdom while the rest of us were either still in swaddling clothes or not even born yet. I am sure he is not wearing that tunic to snub Aldundil and Calalindalë.”

“I hope Aldundil and Calalindalë know that,” the second elleth said archly.

“Bah!” Rúmilion exclaimed. “You are hopeless. If you will both excuse me, I see the next remove is about to be served and my cousins will no doubt take my share of it if I am not there to protect my interest.”

There was a pause and then he heard someone move away and assumed it was Rúmilion. The two ellith, however, did not appear to be in any hurry to return to their own seats and he wondered what he should do. He couldn’t stand out in the hallway forever. Finally, with a shrug, he stepped around the corner, giving the startled ellith a polite smile and a nod of his head as he went past them into the feasting hall. As he took his seat next to Rúmilion he leaned over and whispered into his ear.

“If I might ask, Highness,” the ellon said, speaking in a low tone, “why did you wear this particular tunic?”

“It was a gift from a friend,” Finrod answered readily enough. “I know it’s not very fancy and it really does not go with the coat, but....” He paused and gave Rúmilion a shrug. “The seamstresses did a very fine job of making the tunic that goes with this outfit. Their sewing is perfect and the embroidery is exquisite as you can see from the coat, but every stitch of this tunic, every piece of embroidery, however plain and simple it might be, was sewn with love. By wearing this, a gift of friendship that I will always treasure, am I not honoring the bridal couple more than by wearing something that was made by order of my amillë?”

Rúmillion smiled and nodded. “You needn’t convince me, Highness,” he said. “I think you look fine just as you are, but then, I’m just an ellon, so what do I know?” He gave him a sly wink and Finrod laughed.

“Indeed,” was his only reply and then he turned his attention to his trencher. The rest of the feast passed pleasantly enough and then it was time for the actual wedding. Finrod watched with interest as the betrothal contract was read aloud and approved. Vows and rings were then exchanged, the language almost archaic, and he had some difficulty understanding it. This was followed by the amending of the betrothal contract to reflect that the marriage had taken place. The document was then signed by all interested parties. The whole ceremony was stilted and formal and Finrod was glad when it was over. He turned to his atar as they rose to stand in line to greet the happy couple and their families.

“I think I like the Sindarin form better,” he confided to Arafinwë. “It’s certainly much shorter and not so elaborate.”

“They don’t go on forever about marriage rights and dowries and such,” Finrod said with a snort. “If the couple have decided between themselves that they wish to wed, then they simply... well... you know... they make love and then announce to everyone afterwards that they have wed. A feast to celebrate usually follows.”

Finrod shook his head and gave his atar a reassuring smile. “She insisted on a proper wedding, as she put it,” he replied. “In fact, Celeborn even came to me to ask for my permission to wed her. I thought it very brave of him, all things considered. The Sindar were a bit bemused by all the fuss, but they accepted it as just one more odd thing that we Noldor did.”

Arafinwë nodded, but Finrod had a sense that his atar was feeling relieved to know that his daughter had wed properly. Then it was their turn to greet the couple and their parents and Finrod concentrated on remembering the polite phrases that were expected from him.

“A lovely wedding, Herendil,” he said to the groom’s atar. “I know you’re very proud of Aldundil, as well you should be.”

“He’s my son,” Herendil said with a smile. “I have no reason not to be proud of him. Thank you for coming, Highness.”

“I don’t think I had a choice,” Finrod responded with a grin, “but I do thank you again for sending me the invitation.”

“It was my pleasure, Highness,” Herendil said with a bow. “Shall we go hawking sometime soon? Next week perhaps?”

Finrod nodded. “I would like that, thank you. Perhaps I can convince Atar to join us this time.”

Herendil nodded and then turned to greet the next person in line as Finrod went to give the groom’s amillë his congratulations. By the time they were through the line, though, he was feeling suddenly fatigued and told Arafinwë so. His atar recognized the signs and ordered their carriage to be readied while he and Eärwen made their excuses to Herendil and Selmacas.

Finrod made his own farewells to Rúmilion and his cousins. As he was bending to give Serindë a chaste kiss on her hand she stayed him and bent to whisper in his ear. “Don’t pay any heed to the fools who think they know everything. I think it’s a lovely tunic. It matches your eyes perfectly.”

He gave her a startled look and when she winked conspiratorially, he realized that Rúmilion must have told her about the conversation. He smiled shyly at her and then, without thinking about it, invited all three to come hawking with him and Herendil. They readily agreed and then the carriage was there to take the royal family back to Tirion.

Finrod climbed in, sitting beside his atar. As the carriage drove off Arafinwë gave him a fond smile, wrapping an arm around him and giving him a hug. “Not as bad as you thought it would be, was it?” Finrod shook his head, then leaned against his atar’s shoulder with a sigh, closing his eyes. He was fast asleep before they even left the estate grounds.

Note: wilya (w/v) is the name of tengwa #24, vala (v) is #22 and hyarmen (h) is #33.

Life in the palace continued as it had before. I attended Court with my atar and went hawking with Herendil, now joined by Rúmilion and his cousins. The four of us became quite close. There was little in the way of ceremony in my life, for which I was grateful. Ceremony does have its place in our lives, but it should not dictate them. Sometimes I could excuse myself from a function by pleading fatigue or uneasiness around crowds — not strictly true but neither were these excuses strictly false and I made a point not to overdo it — but some ceremonies I could not get out of, however much I would have liked to....

“So who will you be escorting to the New Year Ball?” Rúmilion asked Finrod one evening in early Súlimë. The snows of winter had passed to be replaced by rain. The two were sitting comfortably in Finrod’s sitting room beside the fire sipping on wine. They had been spending the time discussing law with Finrod quizzing his friend, for Rúmilion would soon be sitting for the examination that, if he passed, would permit him to act as an advocate. It was the first step towards his ultimate goal of someday sitting on the high bench.

Now, though, they were taking their ease and Rúmilion’s question came unexpectedly.

“I don’t think I’ll be permitted to escort anyone,” Finrod said with a quirk of his lips. “That would cause a lot of political trouble if I choose one noble’s daughter over another.”

“Who are you escorting?” Finrod asked in curiosity. In truth, he hadn’t thought about the upcoming ball that much. Most of the ellith of the court seemed to be all in a twitter, but he suspected that was normal for ellith when faced with the ultimate question, the answer to which apparently would spell either doom or glory for the rest of Arda: Which gown to wear? His ammë, however, did not appear to be one of them, for which he was grateful.

Rúmilion smiled. “My cousins, of course,” he said. “If I were to escort anyone else my life wouldn’t be worth living.”

Finrod chuckled. The cousins were very devoted to one another, but the sisters were rather proprietary where Rúmilion was concerned. “Someday though you’ll be escorting your betrothed to such affairs and then what?”

“Assuming I am ever betrothed,” Rúmilion said with a shake of his head. “And speaking of betrotheds, what of Lady Amarië? Will she be returning in time for the ball?”

“I hope not,” Finrod said fervently without thinking and then blushed when he saw Rúmilion raise an eyebrow. “She’s not really my betrothed anymore,” he tried to explain. “Or rather, she continues to believe we are betrothed, but I....” He gave him a helpless shrug.

“No,” Finrod said baldly. “I have no real memory of her or us before I left. I only know what I’ve been told. I cannot believe she waited all these yéni for me. For all intents and purposes, I was never coming back. Pure foolishness.”

“Or desperation,” Rúmilion suggested. “Perhaps clinging to the belief that one day you would return to her was what kept her sane during those dark times. I was born long afterwards but I have heard my parents speak of those times and the grief that they experienced. My atar’s two brothers joined in the exodus. They’ve never returned.”

“I’m sorry,” Finrod said sincerely. “I know it was difficult for us all, but much of those times are lost to me. I have no actual memory of them save what I’ve been told. And what little I do remember, well, there is no emotional connection to those memories. It’s as if I am looking at someone else’s life, not my own.”

“I cannot imagine what that must be like,” Rúmilion said with a sigh. He took another sip of his wine and the conversation lagged between them. Then Rúmilion gave Finrod a questioning look. “So, if you could choose, who would you like to escort to the ball?”

“Other than my ammë?” Finrod replied with a laugh and Rúmilion joined him. “Well, the truth of the matter is that I don’t really know any of the ellith of the court all that well, other than your cousins. I am more tempted to go out onto the streets of Tirion and choose some young elleth and escort her to the ball just to see how the rest of the court would react.”

“But that would be so unfair to the poor elleth, who won’t know how to act among all the nobles,” Rúmilion pointed out.

“Oh, I know,” Finrod said. “Frankly, I’d like to skip the whole thing altogether and go out into the city and mingle with the people and celebrate with them. I’m sure they will have far more fun than I will.”

Now Finrod laughed. “Are you insane? I know for a fact that my atar has assigned not just one but four guards for me. He’s taking no chances. I will not be allowed to be alone for a single minute.”

Finrod gave him a shrug. “Of course I’m upset, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Atar is concerned that I might bolt or cause trouble in some way. The guards are there as much to protect me from others as to protect others from me.”

“And a very good one at that,” Finrod said with a smile, “but very impractical and it most likely wouldn’t work anyway.”

The weeks leading up to the New Year Ball were frenetic and Finrod did his best to keep out of everyone’s way. He spent much of the time in the library reading. His atar had mentioned the fact that he had been studying crystallography and mineralogy before the Darkening and he decided he would take up these subjects again. As he pursued his studies he discovered that his knowledge of the subjects was nearly intact. There was very little for him to recall, for it was all there. He came to the conclusion that it was personal experiences, those that informed his sense of self, that had been suppressed during his time in Mandos, while knowledge which had been taught to him as an elfling — such as how to read or do sums — or that he had gained through his own studies as a loremaster was not. It explained why from the very beginning of his re-embodiment he had had no trouble understanding speech or recognizing the objects that comprised his environment. Nothing actually had to be taught him as if he were indeed a newborn, though of some things he had to be reminded as he readapted himself to the physical world once again.

The only thing that he was required to do with respect to the upcoming ball was to be fitted for a new outfit. This time, he did not balk at the idea, but instead, asked if he could choose the fabric and style for himself. His ammë was surprised at the request, but acquiesced at once, pleased that her son was ‘growing up’. Thus, he spent some of the time looking over the stock of cloth and making his choices, explaining to the seamstress in charge of creating his garb just how he wanted it to look. In this, he seemed more like the king that he once was rather than the elfling everyone thought him to be.

He refused to let his parents see the garb while it was being made and swore the seamstresses to secrecy. They were happy enough to oblige, for it was not that unusual a request. Thus, it was only on the night of the ball itself that Arafinwë and Eärwen got their first look at their son’s New Year garb. Both of them had wondered what it would look like.

“If it’s a fancier version of the tunic he wore to the wedding,” Arafinwë said to Eärwen as they waited in their sitting room for the ‘unveiling’, as Eärwen had put it, “I’ll make him attend the ball naked.”

Eärwen laughed at that, knowing full well her husband was only joking. Then the door opened and both of them fell silent, staring at their son standing in the doorway, trying not to look nervous and only half succeeding. He was attired all in white and icy blue. The garb was actually modeled on one he had worn in Nargothrond. Over a blue figured silk shirt with full sleeves, he wore a knee length surcoat of heavy brocaded white silk in a diaper pattern consisting of stars and clamshells. The hem and neck were banded in white velvet on which was embroidered green ivy leaves intertwined with niphredil. In the center of each flower was sewn a pearl. Over this he wore a robe of white velvet open from the throat to the mid-calf hem and lined in the same blue figured silk as the shirt. The hem, front and neck were trimmed with ermine. The sleeves were slit from wrist to shoulder and there were pearl buttons at the wrist, mid-forearm, elbow, and mid-upper arm. Only the mid-upper arm button was closed, leaving the rest of the sleeve hanging, showing off the shirt underneath. The sleeves were lined with the brocade. His breeches were of fine wool dyed a dark blue and he wore white suede leather ankle boots trimmed at the top with ermine. His belt was also leather dyed blue with a mithril buckle in the shape of a harp. Upon his head he wore a circlet of mithril with a single blue sapphire. His only piece of jewelry was a silver linked pendant shaped like an eight-pointed star in which a sapphire was set in the center of the rays.

Arafinwë raised an eyebrow. “All right. Who are you and what have you done with our son?”

“Atto!” Finrod exclaimed in exasperation and Arafinwë laughed and stepped forward to give him a hug.

“You look splendid, yonya,” he said. “You’ll be the envy of all the young ellyn.”

“Yes, you will,” Eärwen echoed with a smile as she gave her son a motherly kiss.

“Shall we go?” Arafinwë asked, holding out his arm to his wife, who took it.

Finrod stepped away from the doorway to allow them passage and then he joined them on Eärwen’s other side while the ubiquitous guards followed. They made their way towards the ballroom which was on the same level as the royal apartments but in another wing of the palace. There, Arafinwë would hold Last and First Court before the ball officially began.

During Last Court any old business from the past year would be addressed, then there would be a short recess followed by the First Court of the New Year where new business would be presented to their Majesties. In practice, the two courts were very short and essentially symbolic. Lord Anaxtur, the Master of Ceremonies, would choose one or two matters to be brought to the attention of their Majesties for each Court. There might be someone deserving of recognition by the Crown for services rendered during the past year, or there might be a Presentation of an Heir for the First Court of the New Year. The entire affair would last less than an hour and then the festivities would begin.

The royal family reached the ballroom and Anaxtur announced their arrival. They made their way down the aisle created by the people attending the ball who gave them their obeisance as they passed. Before them was a two-step dais on which stood two thrones under canopies. An ornately carved chair was placed below the dais to the right of the Noldóran’s throne where Finrod as Haryon would sit.

When they reached the dais, they stopped and Finrod kissed his ammë’s hand in homage and then gave his atar a respectful bow before his parents stepped up to their thrones while he moved to his own chair. He was feeling somewhat nervous tonight, though he made an effort not to show it. It had been decided that the only ‘new’ business of the First Court would be the Noldóran formally welcoming Finrod back to Eldamar and recognizing him as his heir. Lord Axantur had spent some time rehearsing Finrod and Arafinwë in what they would do and say.

“We do not wish for any... er... upsets, your Highness,” the Master of Ceremonies had said when Finrod had started to complain after rehearsing his lines for the twelfth time. “I want this to become ingrained in your memory so everything will run smoothly.”

“Axantur,” Finrod had said with a sardonic smile, “I used to do this sort of thing for a living, except I would have had Atto’s role.”

Arafinwë had chuckled at that and declared that both he and his son were sufficiently rehearsed and sent Finrod off ‘to play’, as he put it laughingly. Finrod had not been amused by the reference but gave no arguments, since he truly did wish to go and play... his harp.

And now they were there in the ballroom. Axantur stood at the foot of the dais. “Hear ye. The Last Court of their Majesties, Arafinwë Noldóran and Eärwen Noldotári, commences. Let all attend with reverence.” He paused for a few seconds before continuing. “Will Lord Herendil come before the thrones?”

There was a slight stir among the courtiers as Herendil stepped forward, giving Arafinwë and Eärwen his obeisance. He had a puzzled look on his face and when he happened to glance at Finrod, the ellon gave him a slight shrug, for he had no idea why his friend had been called.

Then Arafinwë spoke. “Lord Herendil, We have watched thee this past year as thou didst interact with Our son, Findaráto, welcoming him as a friend when he hath most need of one and We are pleased with thee on his account. Therefore, We wish to formally thank thee and reward thee for the kindness that thou hast shown to Findaráto since his return to Us.”

Both Finrod and Herendil looked startled and Finrod glanced at his atar in confusion, but Herendil spoke before he could say anything himself. “Truly, your Majesty, I need no reward for doing my duty to thee and thy family, though I thank thee. Prince Findaráto’s friendship is reward enough and I am honored that he hath given it to me.”

“It is I who am honored, Lord Herendil,” Finrod said. “Thy friendship I will always treasure.”

“Indeed,” Arafinwë said. “However, We still wish to reward thee for this and other services rendered to the Crown. However, We must beg thine indulgence for a little while before we do so, as other business must be attended to first.”

“I am your Majesties’ to command in all things,” Herendil said with a deep reverence.

Arafinwë smiled and then turned to Axantur with a nod. The Master of Ceremonies then announced, “The Last Court of their Majesties is concluded. The First Court will commence in fifteen minutes.”

Then Arafinwë and Eärwen stepped down from their thrones. “Please come with us, Herendil,” the king said softly to the lord and Herendil followed alongside Finrod who gave him a smile as the four made their way to a side door where they found themselves in a small antechamber. Servants were bustling about a table where wine and fruit punches sat in cut-crystal bowls. They bowed to them and Arafinwë asked for some wine for them all, then dismissed the servants with his thanks before turning to a bemused Herendil and an equally bemused Finrod.

“My lord, if I may speak?” Herendil asked after the last servant had closed the door behind her. Arafinwë nodded. “Truly,” the ellon said, “no reward is necessary for my friendship with his Highness. It is my honor as a member of thy court....”

“Herendil,” Arafinwë interjected. “Your friendship with our son is only a part of it, though it is a large part. We wish to honor you and others in a special way. I promise, all will be made clear soon. In the meantime, I would ask a favor of you.”

“It is thine, my lord,” Herendil said swiftly. “Thou hast no need to ask.”

“Yet, I do,” Arafinwë answered, “and thus, I am giving you the right to refuse.”

“What favor wouldst thou ask of me, then, my lord?” Herendil replied with a bow.

“Only this. At the First Court, there will be a Presentation of the Heir. My lady wife and I would ask you to present the heir to us.”

Herendil looked confused, as well he might. “Should not the parents of the child do this, lord?”

Both Arafinwë and Eärwen smiled and Finrod giggled. “Normally, that would be the case, but as we are the parents in question, it is hardly possible for us to present our heir to ourselves, is it?” Arafinwë explained.

Now Herendil understood and gave Finrod an appraising look, to which Finrod responded with a nod. “I would like you to be the one to do so,” he said, “for you were my first friend in Tirion and you and your lady wife have ever treated me as if I were a son of the family.”

“I would be honored to sponsor thee, Highness,” Herendil said. Then he turned to Arafinwë. “It is the custom that both parents....”

“We are aware of this, and would ask your wife to join you in the presentation,” Arafinwë said and then he called for one of the guards standing at the door to bring Lady Vandacalimë to them. In a matter of minutes the lady came and was apprised of what was desired of her and she readily agreed. Then it was time to return to the Court.

When all were settled in their places (Herendil and Vandacalimë stood to the right of Finrod’s chair), Axantur called for all to attend upon the First Court of their Majesties. Then, Arafinwë spoke.

“It is Our understanding that there is an heir who is to be presented to us,” he declared and then he gave Herendil and Vandacalimë a nod.

They stepped forward and bowed to Finrod who then stood and allowed them to take his arms and lead him before the thrones where they all gave the king and queen their obeisance.

“Your Majesties,” Herendil said in a loud voice, “allow us to present Prince Findaráto, your firstborn son and heir, both of your hröar and your fëar.”

“He is your hearts’ desire and your joy,” Vandacalimë said, giving Finrod a motherly kiss on his brow, which caused him to blush.

Except for the change in pronoun, the words spoken were those traditionally used in the ceremony of presentation. They had been spoken to Lord Manwë by Finrod’s own parents when he had been presented to the Valar as their heir.

“We thank ye, Lord Herendil and Lady Vandacalimë, for presenting Us Our son,” Arafinwë replied and the two bowed and stepped back, their part in the ceremony finished. Arafinwë and Eärwen then stood and his atar opened his arms. Finrod climbed the steps and Arafinwë embraced him and gave him a kiss. “May Eru bless thee, my child, and mayest thou be a joy and delight to thy parents.”

Then it was Eärwen’s turn to hug him and give him a kiss. “Be welcome, my child, to thy family, and to the community in which thou hast been born.”

Again, they were the traditional words used whenever an heir was presented. Then Finrod stepped back and took a deep breath, knowing that this next part would be different. Arafinwë gave him an encouraging smile before addressing the Court.

“Here is Our most beloved son, Findaráto, who hath returned to Us. Let all know that We acknowledge him as Haryon Noldórano. My son, wouldst thou give Us thy fealty?”

“I would,” Finrod said and knelt before his atar, holding his clasped hands before him which Arafinwë covered with his own. “Here do I swear fealty and service to the realm of the Noldor and to thee, my king, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or Arda end. So say I, Findaráto Arafinwion, Prince of the Noldor. Valar valuvar.”

It was not strictly the traditional words, at least not those used in Aman. No one would ever think to speak of war or dying here, though reference to the end of Arda was usually a part of such oaths. He could see Axantur standing on the side, frowning at him, for he had made the change in the wording without consulting anyone, not even his atar, who looked down at him with an unreadable expression.

“And this do I hear, Arafinwë Finwion, Noldóran, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oathbreaking with vengeance. Á vala Manwë.”

Then he lifted Finrod up and kissed him on either cheek before releasing him to his ammë who smiled gently at him and gave him her own kisses. Then, Arafinwë turned him around to face the court. “Here is Our beloved son and heir, Findaráto Arafinwion, returned to Us this day in peace. Let it be known to all that We welcome him back to Tirion and Eldamar.”

Then Herendil shouted, “Valar nar laitainë!” and the acclamation was taken up by others in the court. Finrod stood there with his parents and gave his atar a relieved smile as the acclamations continued. Now all he had to do was to survive the New Year Ball, hopefully without mishap.

Herendil and Vandacalimë were not my only friends in Tirion, of course. Rúmilion, Serindë and Mardillë were now a part of a very exclusive group. Their easy acceptance of me made life a little easier. In many ways they were closer to my age, as a Reborn, than Herendil who, chronologically was still younger than I, yet was more adult. Rúmilion was not above joining me in swinging from trees, though his cousins adamantly refused, laughing at our antics. In that respect, I felt closer to them than anyone else and we spent much time together. They were nonjudgmental and made allowances for my lapses of memory or lapses of conduct. But there was a chasm of history between us that could not be bridged and every once in a while it was brought home to them — and to others — that I was not as young as I sometimes acted....

Once the acclaim died down, Arafinwë then spoke again. “We promised Lord Herendil that We would reward him for his services to Us and to Our son. It is meet that, as we begin a new year, We have in mind to form a new Order of Chivalry within Our realm. This Order will be headed by Our son, and it will be for him to decide who will be admitted. However, We reserve the right at this time to appoint the first Companion.”

Finrod gave his atar a surprised look, for this was news to him. He wondered why his atar had not consulted him about it before this. “Wh-what sort of Order, Atar?” he asked.

Arafinwë smiled at him and clasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It is to be called the Order of the Prince's Courtesy and We think the first person to be admitted into the Order should be Lord Herendil.”

There was much muttering among the courtiers and Finrod frowned, but Herendil spoke before he could voice a protest. “I am not sure I see the reason for such an Order, Sire, for are we not all enjoined to act courteously by virtue of our nobility?”

Arafinwë nodded. “True,” he said, “but those who are chosen to become Companions of the Order must demonstrate to my son and the other members their innate courtesy and compassion to all. They must exhibit those qualities that we tend to associate with the Valar in their dealings with us: deep respect for the person regardless of who they are, and a genuine interest in the person as a person and not as a means to an end. The purpose of the Order is to recognize those among us who exhibit these and other chivalrous qualities to an exceptional degree beyond that which is normally expected by all.”

“Who would want to belong to an Order headed by an elfling Reborn anyway?” Finrod heard Nambarauto whisper to Selmacas, who smirked. The two were standing near the dais as senior courtiers, and Finrod was sure he was meant to overhear the words. He found himself reddening in embarrassment. He felt the same way. Why would his atar do something like this? It would only make things worse for him, not better. He suddenly remembered how he and his cousins had once formed an ‘Order of Chivalry’ when they were elflings, the exclusive purpose of which was to keep out the ellith from their games. This felt very much the same. He suspected that this was his atar’s way of helping him find more friends among the nobles, but he had a sinking feeling that in the end the Order would become moribund when he was unable to find anyone to join it.

It was obvious from the set expression on Arafinwë’s face that he, too, overheard the remark but before he could reprimand the noble, Herendil stepped forward and directly addressed Nambarauto. “An elfling Reborn?” he asked, his expression cool. “Perhaps. Yet, he is also a prince of the realm and the Noldóran’s heir. If for no other reason does he deserve your respect, Nambarauto.” Then he turned to face Arafinwë and Finrod, giving them a deep bow. “Sire, I thank thee for thinking me worthy of so great an honor as to be inducted into this new Order. I have ever striven to treat all with the same respect due to your Majesties and the Valar. I, for one, think that such an Order as this is long overdue. Too many of our people I have noticed of late have forgotten even the most common courtesies in their dealings with one another. I hope that through the example of those belonging to this Order we will become a more courteous people.”

“It is my hope as well, Lord Herendil,” Arafinwë replied. Then he glanced at his son who stood there still looking embarrassed and irresolute. He leaned down to whisper softly into his ear. “Trust me.”

Finrod turned to face his atar and nodded, though his heart wasn’t in it. Arafinwë then motioned to a page standing nearby to come forward, which the ellon did. He held a blue velvet pillow on which were two pendants. “I have had these made,” he said, “for those inducted into the Order.” He reached down and picked up one of the pendants.

Finrod saw a simple gold chain on which depended a roundel of gold in which had been embossed a harp, Finrod’s own emblem, with the name of the Order encircling it. Arafinwë placed the pendant around his neck and then handed the second pendant to him. “It is for you to give this to Lord Herendil,” he said softly.

Finrod resisted a sigh and took the pendant. Herendil gave him a knowing smile as he bent his head to accept it from him. As Herendil straightened, Finrod took him by the shoulders and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “I’m sorry about this. I had no idea Atto was going to do something so stupid.”

When Finrod stepped back to give him a hard stare, Herendil nodded, and Finrod had no choice but to acknowledge the ellon’s sincerity. He knew he was expected to say something at this point, something eloquent, but all he could think to say as he gave Herendil a wry look was, “Welcome to the club.”

Herendil laughed even as Arafinwë and Eärwen rolled there eyes and many in the court snickered. It did not escape Finrod’s notice, however, that not a few there smirked disdainfully at his words, Nambarauto and Selmacas especially.

Arafinwë then nodded to Axantur, who stepped forward. “For Lord Herendil who has been newly made a Companion of the Prince’s Courtesy.” There was the obligatory applause and acclamations. Finrod wasn’t sure how sincere it was, though he noticed Rúmilion, Serindë and Mardillë applauding enthusiastically. They, apparently, thought the creation of the Order a good thing and that Herendil deserved to be inducted.

Once the acclamations died down, Axantur looked to Arafinwë who gave him another nod. The Master of Ceremonies turned to the audience and announced, “The First Court of their Majesties is concluded. Let the festivities begin.”

With that, Arafinwë and Eärwen stepped down from the dais and made their way to the center of the room while couples gathered behind them for the first pavane. Those who would not be dancing stepped back to make room, standing in small conversational groups while servants went about offering them wine. The musicians struck the first chord and the dance began. Finrod stood by his chair beginning to feel angry at his atar for embarrassing him in such a manner.

“Order of the Prince’s Courtesy, indeed,” he muttered to himself. “What nonsense.”

By this time Rúmilion and his cousins were approaching, giving Herendil their congratulations. Herendil, having overheard Finrod’s comment, turned to give the prince a hard stare.

“But other than you and these three, who would wish to belong to such an Order?” Finrod protested. “I doubt anyone in the court will be falling over themselves trying to exhibit exceptional courtesy just to join the club.”

“It is not a club,” Herendil replied sternly, speaking more to Finrod as if he were his own child rather than a prince of the realm. “It is a chivalrous Order and one that will become important in the years to come.”

“Because you will make it so, Highness,” Herendil said equably. “Your own sense of chivalry will not allow you to do otherwise. However much you think you hate the idea of the Order, I deem that in time you will see its potential and make it work. It’s just a matter of time.”

“And who says only those who are of the court should belong anyway?” Rúmilion enquired.

Finrod stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what the ellon was driving at, but then, a glimmer of an idea came to him. It was inchoate and he had no details but his friend’s words opened a door of possibilities he had not considered before. “I’ll have to think about it,” was all he said.

Herendil gave him a warm smile. “It truly is an honor, Highness. Believe this.”

Finrod nodded again and then looked about to see what was going on. His parents were returning to the dais, the first pavane having finished. Another dance line was forming and Finrod felt obliged to ask Mardillë to partner him while Rúmilion was already escorting Serindë to the floor. Herendil and Vandacalimë followed. Once the set was done, Finrod excused himself to join his parents at the dais. They gave him fond smiles and Arafinwë gestured for him to approach. Finrod bent down to hear what his atar had to say.

“I know you think I did this to embarrass you,” Arafinwë said softly, “but that was not my intent.”

“What was it then, Atto?” Finrod asked in frustration. “Do you think anyone is going to take this new Order seriously? I certainly don’t.”

Arafinwë sighed. “I hope in time you will,” he said. “Much depends on it.”

Finrod gave him a searching look, confused by what his atar had said. “What do you mean?” he asked but Arafinwë shook his head.

“This is not the time nor the place, yonya. Let us put it aside until later. Tonight we should just concentrate on celebrating the New Year and new lives.” He gave his son a significant look and Finrod took the hint, giving him a nod.

“I will go and see what mischief I can get into with Rúmilion and the ellith,” he said with a sly smile and both his parents chuckled as he gave them his obeisance before going in search of his friends. They were not in the main ballroom but had adjourned to the balcony that spanned one side of the wing overlooking a garden. Fountains played in the night and the air was redolent with night-blooming jasmine. He found them standing along one side speaking softly.

When he joined them they gave him warm smiles and Serindë made room for him. “What are you discussing?” he asked them.

“We were discussing the new Order,” Rúmilion answered. “We were talking about what criteria would be used to determine who could be inducted and how do we judge the actions of others in that regard.”

“Of course,” Finrod said with a smile, though he had a suspicion that all three of his friends were hoping to be named Companions of the Order and had been trying to determine if they met criteria which had not yet been formulated.

“I have no idea,” Finrod said truthfully. “I’m still trying to get used to the idea. I wish Atto had consulted me before he announced it. I might have been able to persuade him to reward Lord Herendil in some other fashion.”

The festivities continued as the night progressed. Finrod and his friends moved back into the ballroom in search of food and drink. They were standing along one side of the room where tables had been set up with a variety of delicacies and sweets and drinks, both wine and miruvórë. Finrod was filling his plate with food when he happened to look around to watch the dancers, smiling when he spied Herendil dancing with his ammë while Vandacalimë was partnered with his atar. Snatches of conversation floated around him and he was not paying much attention to them as he bit into a tart, but then one snippet of dialogue caught his attention.

The words echoed through his mind and then somehow he was no longer in the ballroom of the palace in Tirion, but in the grand audience chamber of Nargothrond. The throng of people were not merry Elves dancing in the New Year but somber subjects listening to the poisonous words of his cousins, Celegorm and Curufin, and ever did he rue the day that he had allowed them admittance to his kingdom.

He saw not the smiling faces of his atar’s courtiers as they passed by in dance nor did he respond to the courteous nods of other onlookers standing near him. Neither did he hear his three friends laughing at some jest of Rúmilion. He saw only his detestable cousins smirking with dark glee as they watched his people turn away from him. Curufin, especially, had a triumphant look on his face. Beren, standing beside him, was pale with suppressed fury, a defeated look in his eyes, believing that Finrod would forsake his oath to Barahir to protect his crown from his cousins.

“Thou dost speak of war and the ruin of Nargothrond, good Cousin,” he said, glaring at Curufin, “if any doth follow me and this child of Men to wrest from Morgoth one of the Silmarils for Elu Thingol’s brideprice, and thou, Celegorm, thou dost dare speak that vile oath here which thine adar uttered in the high court of Tirion, an oath that none should ever take to their ultimate doom. I know your hearts, Cousins. I know them well. Ye desire to send me forth alone to my death that ye may rule in Nargothrond after me. So be it.”

He reached up to take his crown from his head, unaware that in doing so his plate of food went smashing to the floor, and threw it at his feet, though in truth it was not the crown of Nargothrond that skittered across the dance floor. He did not see the startled looks of the Elves of Tirion watching in silence as their prince spoke in a strange tongue and cast his circlet to the ground. He did not see his atar and ammë making their way to his side, concerned looks on their faces. He did not see his friends or Herendil. He saw only his cousins and his fearful subjects, and though he sorrowed for their faithlessness, yet did he pity them and in a flash of foresight he saw them falling from the valor and freedom of their former glory as they skulked in stealth and ambush, using wizardry and venomed darts to pursue all strangers, forgetting the bonds of kinship. All because they had hearkened to his cousins’ soft yet powerful words.

“Your oaths of faith to me you may break,” he said to his people, unaware that he was actually speaking to his atar’s courtiers, “but I must hold my bond. Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence a beggar that is thrust from the gates.” He glanced to where Beren stood, giving him an encouraging smile, but Beren did not return it. Instead, he frowned and began backing away.

But that’s not what happened, a part of his mind told him. Beren had stood firm beside him, returning his smile with one of his own, a grim resolve settling upon them both. And then another thought struck him even more forcibly: Why hasn’t Edrahil picked up my crown asking that I choose a steward? He glanced about in search of his faithful subject and the other nine who would go with them, but nowhere could he see Edrahil’s face or any others that were familiar to him. Where is Edrahil? his mind screamed in sudden terror, feeling something was horrendously wrong but not knowing what. Why is Beren not standing beside me? What is happening....?

He heard a voice cry out as from a far distance, barely perceptible to his ears, and unrecognizable. Someone had called him that a very long time ago. He felt strong arms around him shaking him and he blinked as realities shifted. He felt suddenly dizzy and disoriented. The rock-hewn audience chamber of Nargothrond with its graceful tree-like pillars from which lanterns hung made way for the marble of the ballroom with its silver candelabra.

He blinked again several times, trying to understand what was happening. “A...ada?” he whispered in a strangled voice full of uncertainty and fear. “What is happening?”

“Quenya, yonya,” Arafinwë said, holding him close and rocking him gently. “You must speak Quenya.”

Finrod struggled to understand the words and then sighed, closing his eyes in defeat as their import was made known to him. “What happened?” he asked again in Quenya.

“I do not know,” Arafinwë replied. “Suddenly you started speaking in Sindarin, but to whom, I do not know. You flung your circlet at your feet.”

Finrod moaned in embarrassment, recalling the memory that had so overwhelmed him it was as if he were there. It had happened a couple of other times while he was in Lórien. At least in Lórien they understood but here....

“It was the day the Mortal Beren son of Barahir came to Nargothrond to redeem the oath I had given his atar,” Finrod said emotionlessly. “It was the day I gave up my crown to honor my oath to Barahir, for it meant more to me than all the crowns of Arda. It was the day I left Nargothrond, stepping upon the road that would ultimately lead to my death within the very tower I had had built on Tol Sirion and was now in the hands of Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron.”

Arafinwë gently pushed him out of his embrace to give him an enquiring look. “I am not sure I understand,” he said.

“It was a memory,” Finrod explained with a sigh. “I... I overheard something someone was saying and it... it triggered the memory. Suddenly, I was no longer here but there and the memory was so overpowering I could not divorce it from the reality around me. I was back in Nargothrond watching my cousins destroy my people’s faith in me and in themselves.” He stopped and shook his head, feeling suddenly fatigued. “I’m sorry, Atto. I did not mean to....”

“It’s all right, yonya,” Arafinwë said. “All is well now. Come, why don’t you sit with your ammë for a while until you’re feeling better. Herendil, would you get Findaráto some more wine? Ah, thank you, my dear.” He smiled at Mardillë who had retrieved Finrod’s circlet and handed it to the king who in turn placed it on Finrod’s head. Then he turned to the crowd still standing there in silence and addressed them. “Let us continue with our celebration,” he said, nodding towards the musicians who resumed their playing. People reluctantly continued with the interrupted dance and conversations were begun again among the onlookers, though now the topic of conversation on all their lips concerned their prince and his odd behavior.

And then, his ammë was there, giving him a motherly smile and taking him in hand. “Come and sit with me, dear,” she said gently and he allowed himself to be led to a small antechamber where, at Arafinwë’s insistence, Herendil, Vandacalimë, Rúmilion and his cousins joined them, quietly speaking of inconsequential matters among themselves while Finrod sat in embarrassed silence wishing he were anywhere but where he was. They left him alone, not forcing him to join in their conversation, but he could not help noticing the occasional uneasy glances that his young friends sent his way. He had obviously frightened them and he regretted it, but could do nothing about it. He wondered despairingly if they would even want to be his friends after this.

Oh, Glorfi! he called silently in pain to his gwador even as he pretended to be listening to Mardillë describe a recent trip to Eldamas. Why aren’t you here with me?

1. The word club meaning ‘an association’ may seem anachronistic, but this particular sense is first attested in 1670, apparently for “form a mass like the thick end of a club”.

2. The words which triggered Finrod’s memory were spoken by his subjects as reported in the Silmarillion: ‘And now they murmured that Finarfin’s son was not as a Vala to command them, and they turned their faces from him’ (Chapter 19, ‘Of Beren and Lúthien).

That first New Year’s Ball was clearly a disaster for me, but as with all things, I recovered from my embarrassment and moved on. Life continues, whether we wish it to or not. Rúmilion, Mardillë and Serindë remained my friends and indeed were inducted into the Order of the Prince’s Courtesy, as was Herendil’s wife, Vandacalimë. In spite of my prediction, the Order did not become moribund, but thrived in its own way and gained respectability in the eyes of the nobles. The number of Companions always remained small, and those who were inducted were genuinely surprised and honored by the invitation to join. When, with my atar’s approval and the approval of the Companions, I inducted one of the palace servants, a groom who was unfailingly polite and helpful to all and sundry, people began to take note and began to take the Order seriously for what it meant.

That a palace groom could be an exemplar to the nobility did not sit well with many, but for others it made them think of their own attitudes and behavior. Slowly, almost unconsciously, the people of the court became more courteous to one another and to those of lower stations. Atar was pleased with the result and I suspect it was half the reason for his creating the Order in the first place.

Thus, time passed: days, weeks, months, even years. Life continued to unfold itself for me with its peaks and valleys. Most days I managed to get through without too much mishap and what had once seemed strange to me became routine, though there were still occasions when I would become despondent or simply regress emotionally. Such occasions were getting rarer and usually followed upon a dark memory that would surface in which emotional connections were made. My parents and my friends learned not to press me for details but would let me speak (if I desired to do so) in my own time.

As I progressed emotionally, restrictions which had been placed on me by my parents were lifted. Eventually, I was allowed as much freedom of movement as I desired, to come and go as I pleased. With greater maturity, of course, came greater responsibilities, though for some reason I was reluctant to take them up. I am not sure why. Perhaps having once been a king in my own right, I felt diminished in my new role as a prince, and saw no point to it.

More than anything, I wanted Glorfindel with me and yearned for him as a thirsty man yearns for water. It was an unquenchable desire that no amount of responsibilities, court functions, or social engagements could satisfy. Always I would look vainly for one whom I loved as a brother, but amid the crowds of dark-haired Noldor no golden-haired ellon stood out....

“I would like to leave Tirion for a time, if I may,” Finrod said to his atar one early evening as they were strolling together through one of the palace gardens, taking their ease and enjoying one another’s company. Eärendil was shining brightly in the western sky and Finrod smiled faintly at it, still thinking of it as ‘his star’.

“Where would you go?” Arafinwë asked. “Do you wish to visit with your anontaru in Alqualondë? You’ve never asked after them in all these years.”

Finrod shrugged. “I am afraid that for the longest time I did not even remember them, and then when I did, the memories centered around... around the Kinslaying.”

Arafinwë put an arm around his shoulders to comfort him. “I wish you had told me,” he said softly.

“I didn’t want to burden you with yet another stupid memory,” Finrod replied with a snort of disgust.

“Child, it is not a burden,” Arafinwë rejoined. “I am your atar. It’s my duty and my privilege to help ease my children’s hurts. You should never have to carry such burdens of memory by yourself.”

Finrod nodded. “I know. Sometimes, though, the very thought of speaking about such memories to others tires me.”

Finrod grinned. “I suppose, but it’s true nonetheless. The thought of sharing my darker memories with others when they surfaced... I just could not find the strength within me to do so.”

Arafinwë nodded in understanding. “Yet, if ever such memories surface in the future, I hope you will come to me or your ammë. Do not think you need to go through this alone. We have not pressed too much and have allowed you to work through things on your own as much as possible, but even I am sometimes overwhelmed by my own dark memories and need the loving support of Eärwen. It is neither a sign of weakness nor immaturity to seek such comfort from others.”

“So, do you wish to see your anontaru?” Arafinwë asked, getting back to the original topic of discussion.

“Why have they never come here to see me?” Finrod asked, suddenly wondering.

“Not because I did not wish for them to come,” Arafinwë assured him, “but I thought it best to have them wait until you were feeling more certain of your surroundings. Your ammë and I did not want to overwhelm you with too much too soon. Your anontaru understood this and agreed to wait until you were ready. In fact, your anatar suggested that you might wish to spend some time with them in Alqualondë.”

Finrod pondered that for a moment or two, then shook his head. “I think I need more time,” he said apologetically.

Arafinwë nodded. “Then where is it you wish to go? Certainly not to Vanyamar?”

“Vanyamar? No. Not there,” Finrod replied. “I was thinking of returning to Lórien for a time.”

Now Arafinwë looked nonplused. “Lórien? Why would you want to return there?”

Finrod shrugged. “I... I just do,” he said. In truth, he had not thought about giving an explanation for his decision. He did not think his parents would approve, but hoped that they would allow him to go without explanation.

“I really hadn’t thought about it,” Finrod said. “I know I cannot remain away for very long but....”

Finrod gave him a grimace. “Responsibilities I do not wish to take up,” he said with some heat, “for there is no point to them.”

“You are a prince of Eldamar, my son and my heir,” Arafinwë protested. “I do not think that makes you nothing.”

“It makes me less than what I was,” Finrod retorted. “Well, at least the prince part,” he amended hastily, realizing from the hurt expression on his atar’s face that he may have offended him. “My kingdom was extensive and while I ruled, I ruled wisely and well. That much, at least, I remember. Here, no one cares that I was ever a king. Many do not even believe me when I speak of Nargothrond, claiming that I’ve made it up as a way of aggrandizing my status beyond what they think it should be.” This last was said with disdain and anger and hurt, for such accusations were contrary to his very character and it pained him that others would so besmirch his honor and belittle the accomplishments of his former life.

Arafinwë sighed. “I know you were once a king, yonya,” he said. “When I went to Beleriand, I saw the ruins of Nargothrond and marveled that you had built it. Everywhere I went, your name was on the lips of the people. They honored me simply because of you.” He paused and gave his son a wistful smile. “I confess that at times I felt almost jealous.”

“But, that is the past,” Arafinwë continued firmly, “and this is the present and in the here and now your status as a king of Beleriand has no sway in Aman. You need to accept that. I have waited a long time for you to return and help me to rule the Noldor, you know.”

“Why?” Finrod asked in honest confusion. “You seemed to have done well without me, without any of us. You certainly do not need me for that.”

“But I do,” Arafinwë replied. “I always have. You will never know how alone I felt without you and your siblings beside me, supporting me. All I had was your ammë and I fear that sometimes that wasn’t always enough.”

“You couldn’t, nor do I blame you,” his atar said gently. “Yet, now that you are returned to us... well, it has always been my fondest dream that you would be by my side, helping me rule.”

“I have often wondered why, of all of us who died, I was the first to be re-embodied,” Finrod said with a sigh. “Uncle Ñolofinwë should have been reborn before me, having died first.”

“I do not know, yonya,” Arafinwë said. “I would have welcomed your uncle as gladly as I welcomed you and for the same reasons, but I am glad that you were reborn first. Perhaps, because I hold the crown as Noldóran, the Valar felt releasing Ñolofinwë, who, as the elder brother, by rights should thus be king, would cause too much conflict at this time. As you are my natural heir, you are less controversial in that respect.”

Finrod nodded. “I suppose,” he averred. “At any rate, do I have your permission to return to Lórien, Atto?”

“Do I need a reason, other than that I wish to go?” Finrod demanded. “How long will it be before I can simply state my desires without being harangued as to my motives?”

“Harangued?” Arafinwë echoed, giving him a frown. “I do not see asking a simple question as haranguing.”

“Well I do,” Finrod said forcefully, then sighed. “Very well. I wish to go to Lórien to visit my friend, Eärnur. Is that reason enough for you?” His tone was full of anger and frustration.

“No, I do not,” Finrod retorted and stalked away, ignoring his atar’s calls. It was such a simple request and he could not see why he had to explain his every move to others. He felt sure that if he weren’t a Reborn, he could have simply stated his intention to travel to Lórien and no one would have batted an eye. But because he was a Reborn, no one, not even his atar, looked upon him as an adult who is able to make his own decisions without interference from others. At least he had asked for permission instead of just leaving. That should have counted for something.

He slowed his steps and leaned against a linden tree, staring morosely into the dark. Of course, the reason he had given was not strictly true and he hated the idea that he had lied to his atar. His real reason for going was to stand by the Gates of Return and wait for his gwador’s release, however long it might take. It was, of course, a foolish idea; he knew that. Yet, it had a certain appeal and it was better than moping around here waiting and wondering and counting down the days. He had hoped that Glorfindel would be released by now and felt nothing but frustration that it was not so.

Perhaps he could just go to Lórien and damn the consequences. He was an adult, after all, not an elfling. He had given up swinging in the trees and other such elflingish activities some time before. He felt a little guilty about it, knowing how the trees missed him playing in them, but still....

Closing his eyes, he sighed, wondering what he should do. Apologize to his atar, of course, though it rankled somewhat that he would have to. Still, it would show that he was mature enough to recognize when he was in the wrong. He realized now that he should have thought out a plausible reason for his wanting to go before asking, but it hadn’t occurred to him that his atar would question his motives. He had simply assumed that others would think it natural for a Reborn to want to return to Lórien to visit.

There was a slight crunching noise, barely heard, that alerted Finrod to the presence of another and he opened his eyes to see his atar standing there. They stared at one another across a chasm that had nothing to do with the physical distance between them, each unsure how to bridge it, or even if they wanted to. Finally, Finrod drew himself up.

“I am sorry for my words,” he said quietly, knowing that he was expected to apologize.

“Apology accepted,” his atar said, equally softly. “I will speak to your ammë and let you know what we decide.”

Finrod nodded, accepting the decision, little though he liked it. “Good night, sir,” he said formally, giving Arafinwë a stiff bow. Then he walked away, ignoring the hurt look in his atar’s eyes at his lack of filial warmth.

Finrod did not receive his answer to his request immediately. During the time of waiting he remained studiously cool towards his parents, especially his atar. Something of the trust that they had built up between them over the years since his return had been damaged, if not entirely broken. He knew that it was mostly his own fault but he couldn’t help feeling betrayed in some inchoate manner. It had been such a simple request. He couldn’t see why his atar was fussing over it.

Thus it was over a week before Arafinwë gave him his decision. Finrod was called to his study where he found not only his atar but his ammë as well, sitting together on a settee that sat before the fireplace. Neither of them spoke as he entered; Arafinwë merely gestured for him to close the door and take the chair that was across from them. Only when Finrod was settled did Arafinwë speak.

“Your ammë and I have talked it over,” he said without preamble, “and we have decided to let you go to Lórien, though I am not entirely sanguine about it.”

“Why?” Finrod asked. “Have I not matured enough to be let off ammë’s apron strings or is it you just don’t trust me to return?”

The silence between them stretched to an uncomfortable point before Arafinwë answered his son. “It has nothing to do with trust, Findaráto, and everything to do with your reason for going.”

“Can I not visit a dear friend, one whom I have not seen in some time?” That he was thinking more of Glorfindel than of Eärnur was beside the point, as far as he was concerned. And though he did hope to see his Telerin friend as well, that was a secondary purpose for the trip.

Finrod sighed. “I suppose I thought you would think me too... young before this.” He grimaced as he said the words, but knew that on one level they were true, or had been.

Silence again settled between the three Elves and Finrod sat with studied patience waiting for his parents to speak. Finally, Arafinwë gave a sigh. “As it happens, Lord Herendil will be leaving for Vanyamar next week. He will be taking some of the younger courtiers to Ingwë for fostering.”

Finrod nodded, aware of the practice. It was not something that had been done before the Darkening but was a post-Darkening innovation of the kings in which junior courtiers were fostered at the courts of the other kings for a time as a way of encouraging better understanding among the three clans and also to teach them how the other kings handled their courts. They alternated as to which court they would send their own people. This year the Noldorin courtiers were going to Vanyamar while Ingwë was sending his to Alqualondë. Olwë’s courtiers would be spending the winter months until the New Year in Tirion.

“You may accompany him as far as Valmar,” Arafinwë continued. “I’ve contacted Lord Irmo who will send an escort to meet you there.”

“As Eärnur spent a month here with you,” Arafinwë added, “I think it fair that you be allowed to spend a month with him, but at any rate, I wish you to return no later than the solstice. You know that the Winter Court begins then and your presence will be needed.”

Finrod thanked his atar again, quite aware that as a prince of the realm it was expected that he attend the Winter Court and Solstice Ball whether he cared for it or not. “I will be home before then, Atto, I promise.”

For the first time in over a week, Arafinwë smiled. “I will hold you to that promise, yonya.”

Then his parents rose and he did too, allowing them to embrace him, his ammë giving him a kiss on the cheek. The solstice was not that far away. He only hoped that Glorfindel would be released from Lórien before then. Surely he was long overdue to be reborn, wasn’t he? He sent a silent prayer to Lord Námo that it would be so, but had no faith that the Lord of Mandos would even hear him, or if he did, would honor his request.

The next week flew by quickly enough and then Finrod was joining Lord Herendil and the others on their way to Valmar and beyond. In spite of himself, Finrod had to smile. Some of the junior courtiers had never been away from home before and none of them were yet of age, most being about forty-six or forty-seven. He felt somewhat superior to them in that regard but when one of the elleth kept looking back towards Tirion with a miserable expression on her face, his smugness turned to sympathy for the child’s distress. He urged Mithrod to her side, giving her a warm understanding smile. She, in turn, looked startled at the thought of the crown prince speaking to her.

“It won’t be as bad as you fear,” he said. “My Uncle Ingwë is very nice from what I remember and everyone loves Aunt Elindis.”

The elleth gave him a shy smile and thanked him for his kind words. He nodded graciously to her and seeing that she was feeling less despondent, moved to ride beside Lord Herendil, who was the only person in the entire cavalcade that he knew.

Finrod shrugged. “I remember the first time I left home. It was very scary and exhilarating at the same time. I was sure I was going to be sick all the way there.”

Finrod laughed. “No. To Alqualondë. I was taken there by my parents when I was quite young to be formally presented to my anontaru.”

When they reached Valmar, Herendil and the others going on to Vanyamar made their way into Eldamas where they would stay the night before continuing their journey. Finrod had been all set to join them but just as they reached the east gate of Valmar they were hailed by three Maiar. Two of them were wearing the white surcoat with the rainbow emblem indicating their allegiance to Lord Irmo while one wore the purple surcoat with the harp emblem of Lady Estë.

“We’ve come to escort you, Prince Findaráto,” Ingil said as he greeted him. He was accompanied by Cucuandur and Ninwanyellë. “You will be staying the night at our Lord and Lady’s mansion before continuing on to Lórien.”

Ingil shook his head. “I am sorry, but we were given specific orders by Lord Irmo. Come. It won’t be too terribly boring I assure you.”

Finrod sighed and gave Herendil a wry look. “You are so lucky not to be a Reborn,” he muttered.

Herendil smiled. “I wish you a fair journey, your Highness,” he said, “and I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

“As do I,” Finrod said, holding out his hand and giving Herendil a warrior’s clasp, which surprised the ellon though Finrod could see that he was also pleased by the honor accorded him. Then Finrod made his farewells to the younger courtiers, wishing them a pleasant stay in Vanyamar, before following the three Maiar down the Landamallë Valion to the mansion of Lord Irmo and Lady Estë. Just to the right of the mansion Finrod could see another with a gate made from carnelian. Ninwanyellë, who happened to be striding next to him, nodded towards the gate and the mansion beyond.

Finrod only nodded, his expression blank of any emotion as he followed Ingil and Cucuandor into the courtyard fronting Lord Irmo’s mansion. Soon his horse was being led away by another Maia as he climbed the steps leading into the mansion. As he stepped across the threshold, the mithril and silver doors closed behind him with a sense of finality. He resisted giving a sigh as he was led down a long corridor and shown to a suite of rooms consisting of a sitting room where a fire burning in the fireplace cheerfully greeted him, a bedroom, bathing room and privy. Ingil assured him that dinner would be ready in an hour.

“You may eat here in the sitting room,” the Maia said. “It will be more comfortable for you, I think.”

Finrod thanked him and soon he was left alone, though he had no doubt that if he tried to leave his suite someone would stop him. He refused to check to see if the door leading to the outside corridor was locked. After freshening up, he sat beside the fire, waiting for dinner, and wondered if any of this was worth it. Perhaps he should have just stayed in Tirion.

When dinner arrived, he dutifully ate under the watchful eyes of the Maiar, for Ingil and Ninwanyellë kept him company, telling him about what had been happening in Lórien of late and who among the recently released Reborn he might remember from his previous life. Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed listening to their stories, but not then. Once dinner was over he pleaded fatigue and bade the two Maiar a good night, but it was a long time before he finally succumbed to sleep.

Anontaru: (Quenya) Grandparents (dual form indicating a natural pair of grandparents).

The Gates of Return. A symbol of a new life and a new beginning. Yet, they also symbolize an ending — the ending of death, for death comes in stages, at least for the Eldar. There is the physical death of the hröa, however that might come about. That is the first and shortest stage of the process. This is followed by death of self-delusions as we undergo Judgment and our sins are laid out before us, our self-lies and self-cheats and just plain selfishness all uncovered and revealed in the cold light of the Valar’s will... and Eru’s. This, in many ways, is the more excruciating form of death than whatever physical death we might have suffered. Yet, it is over with at last and then comes the longest phase of death: death of memory as we are put to sleep for a time and all that remains is our self-identity, and not even that, but just our names with no history attached to them.

How long this phase of death lasts is anyone’s guess and no two Elves remain in this state of amnesia for the same length of time. Some stay in it longer than others, unaware and uncaring of anything but Now, for time as the mirroanwi know it is meaningless to the inhabitants of Mandos. Yet, this is not the last phase of death. There is one more... the death of our former lives.

And that is what the Gates of Return symbolize. When we walk through them to meet our family and friends we put an end to our deaths and all that went before it. It is not an easy ending, for we cling to what is known and fear what is unknown. Even death itself is a safer haven than what lies before us on the other side of the Gates....

The next morning, the Maiar escorted Finrod to the south gate of Valmar, rather than to the expected west gate. “We have our reasons,” Ingil said quietly and such was his tone that Finrod knew that any further questioning on his part would elicit even vaguer and less helpful answers, so he let the matter drop. Once beyond the gate, they continued along the southern road for a time and then moved off the road to head northwest where they eventually met up with the western road leading to Lórien. The entire trip was done in virtual silence save for when Ingil or one of the other Maiar would signal a halt for the day. Finrod’s mood remained pensive, almost passive, doing whatever he was told by the Maiar without protest or any real show of emotion. He ignored the looks of concern on the Maiar’s faces as he went about the task of gathering firewood or water or whatever. He spoke in monosyllables when he spoke at all and only when directly addressed by the Maiar.

Thus, they reached Lórien early in the evening three days after leaving Valmar. Lord Irmo met them at the gates, thanking his Maiar escort and dismissing them, leaving Finrod alone with the Lord of Lórien who looked at him with dispassion.

“Your atar informed me that you wished to visit with your friend, Eärnur,” Irmo finally said, speaking softly.

“We both know better, don’t we?” Irmo retorted, giving him a knowing look and Finrod blushed.

“Knows nothing of the real reason for your coming here,” Irmo stated. “In fact, he is unaware that you are even here. It will be a surprise for him.” He gave Finrod a meaningful look and the ellon nodded, well aware of what the Vala was saying, or rather, not saying. “Good,” Irmo continued. “I will inform him in the morning of your arrival. In the meantime, your atar has given you a month. Use that time wisely.”

Then, Ingil reappeared and Irmo indicated that Finrod should follow the Maia to where he would be lodging. “By the way,” Irmo said as Finrod was giving him his obeisance, “you should be aware of the fact that I have extended Eärnur’s apprenticeship.”

Finrod gave him a bemused look. “Why?” he asked. “I thought he was doing well.”

“And he is,” Irmo assured him. “However, while most apprenticeships last the usual twenty-four years, at the discretion of the master, an apprenticeship might be shortened or lengthened. In this case, I felt Eärnur needed a little more time before being promoted to journeyman status. There’s no shame in the delay,” he added. “In fact, some of my most successful healers had their own apprenticeships lengthened. I merely tell you this, so you do not inadvertently say something to embarrass your friend. Eärnur has accepted my decision and so should you.”

Finrod gave him a doubtful look. “He’s not being punished then?” he asked.

Irmo gave him a startled look. “Punished? No, child. Not at all. Becoming a healer, and a good one, takes time, and it’s not something that happens overnight, not like becoming a king, for instance.” The Vala flashed him a knowing grin and Finrod could only snort in amusement. “I have every confidence that Eärnur will make an excellent master healer in due time. Now, off with you. You may see your friend in the morning.”

So Finrod went with Ingil who showed him to a small grove with a single bed pavilion. A light meal had been provided for he had arrived after the dinner hour. As he sat there eating, he wondered again at the wisdom of coming there. Lord Irmo obviously knew the real reason for his coming to Lórien, yet he had not forbidden him from doing what he had planned to do once he arrived. That confused him, for it seemed to him that the Vala should have simply forbidden him from pursuing his plans and visit with Eärnur in truth, or sent him home forthwith. Not that he had no intention of visiting with his Telerin friend. He truly did want to see how Eärnur was doing, now more than ever with the news Lord Irmo had given him about extending the ellon’s apprenticeship.

Well, there was not much he could do about any of it at the moment, so he finished his repast and made ready to retire for the night, making sure that one of the fat candles he had shoved into his haversack was sitting on the night table and lit before he snuggled into bed.

Eärnur greeted Finrod the next morning joyfully and with obvious surprise. “I couldn’t believe it when Lord Irmo told me you were here,” he said as he and Finrod made their way down the sward towards the dining pavilion where they would break their fast together. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“There was no time,” Finrod lied, feeling guilty for doing so, but mindful of Lord Irmo’s instructions. “I expressed a desire to see you and as Lord Herendil was setting out with the fosterlings for Vanyamar it seemed prudent for me to join him, at least as far as Valmar. A few of Lord Irmo’s Maiar met us there and escorted me. We only arrived last night.”

“That’s not long,” the Teler replied, “but long enough.” He gave his friend a brilliant smile. “I am so glad you are here, Findaráto. I am glad to see you are doing well.”

“And you,” Finrod said. “Lord Irmo told me about your apprenticeship being extended. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Eärnur replied, looking unconcerned. “The closer the time came for me to be promoted to journeyman status the more upset I became. I really did not think I was ready and I was feeling panicky. Lord Irmo sent for me and we talked and in the end he said he would not promote me as planned. I was so relieved, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Oh, not too long, I don’t think,” Eärnur answered. “Maybe another five or ten years. Lord Irmo assured me that he would only promote me when we both felt I was ready for it. There’s a lot of responsibility in becoming a journeyman healer, you know. That’s why most don’t achieve mastership for nearly a century once they become journeymen. There’s no hurry, after all. I’ll get there.”

“I know you will,” Finrod said fervently, “and you’ll be the best master healer Lórien has ever seen, I have no doubt.”

Eärnur laughed. “Come. Let us have our breakfast and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to.”

Finrod was willing to follow Eärnur around for a few days, watching him at his work when the Teler suggested the idea. He tried not to feel too impatient, for what he truly wished to do was to find the way to the Gates of Return and wait for his gwador. He was not sure where they were located in relation to the rest of Lórien. He only knew how to get to them from this side of Lórien, but did not think he would be allowed that way. He tried to ask as surreptitiously as possible, without giving himself away, as to how one reached the Gates from the outside. He was careful not to ask Eärnur. Unfortunately those he did ask — Maiar and Lóriennildi alike — had no ready answer for him.

Thus, a week went by and Finrod was no closer to finding the Gates than when he first arrived and was feeling panicky. He only had so much time left and then he would be forced to leave. The thought of doing so without his beloved gwador made him feel sick and he lost his appetite. Eärnur, of course, noticed and asked him what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Finrod exclaimed with frustration. “Everything is just fine.”

Eärnur gave him a measuring look. “You didn’t come to visit me, did you?” he asked quietly.

Finrod stammered a denial, his face red, but Eärnur held up a hand to forstall him. “Don’t lie, Findaráto, not to me, please.”

Finrod stuttered to a halt and refused to look at his friend. “It’s not that I didn’t want to see you,” he said softly, “but....”

“You came hoping to see someone else,” Eärnur said, giving him a sad smile. “And would that someone be a certain Glorfindel?”

Finrod looked up, an expression of hope on his face. “Is he here?” he demanded. “Can I see him?”

Eärnur took him by the shoulders. “No, meldonya,” he said softly. “He is not here. He has not yet been re-embodied as far as I know.”

Finrod sagged, feeling defeated. “I keep hoping if I am at the Gates he’ll be there waiting for me.” He looked up at the apprentice healer, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I miss him so. I just want him to be with me.”

“I know,” Eärnur said, “or at least I think I know. Waiting is very hard. Your parents waited a long time for your release, you know. I’m sure they were very anxious and wondered why it was taking so long.”

Eärnur frowned. “Is it not? They lost three of their children to death and a fourth remains in exile. They had no way of knowing when or even if you would ever be released from Mandos. Do you think they did not suffer as you suffer, waiting for your friend, a friend you tell me you only met after you died? How can you be so arrogant?”

Finrod wanted to shout at Eärnur, claiming that he just did not understand, but in all honesty, he could not, for what his friend said was true. He was no one special when it came to waiting for a loved one to be released from Mandos. He recalled the looks of relief mingled with concern and love on his parents’ faces when he was first reunited with them and realized that what Eärnur had said was true. They had suffered and for far longer than he. He, in fact, had suffered not at all, being completely unaware of their existence. He suddenly realized that perhaps Glorfindel no longer remembered him, that in the timelessness of Mandos, his memory of him had slipped away and his gwador was happily making friends with others, just as he had made friends with him. It hurt to think it, but he knew that it might be true nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, giving a sigh. “I guess I was just thinking about myself and no one else.”

“Happens to us all,” Eärnur said with a dismissive smile. “But come. I will take you to the Gates and you will sit beside them and wait and see the futility of it for yourself.”

Without another word, he took Finrod’s arm and pulled him along, taking him outside the main entrance to Lórien. They headed for a place along the northeastern border. The area looked vaguely familiar to Finrod and then when he saw the Gates, he recognized the place as where he had been met by his parents. There was no one there. Eärnur led him right up to the Gates.

“Here I will leave you,” he said, releasing his hold on Finrod. “If ever you tire of standing here waiting for what will not be, just return to Lórien. Remember, you have only three weeks left of your visit. Use the time wisely.”

He turned around and headed back the way they had come. Finrod watched him go. He had been surprised at the ellon’s final words, an echo of the ones Lord Irmo had spoken to him. Then he turned back to look at the Gates and, not for the first time, wondered what he was really doing there. Yet, the thought of returning to Lórien did not sit well with him, even less the thought of returning to Tirion without Glorfindel. And so, he stood before the Gates.

The hours passed and he grew hungry and thirsty, but he refused to leave the Gates in search of food and drink. The sun set and the stars peeped out and he stayed where he was, though he had shifted his position so that he was sitting on the ground. He had no means with which to build a fire, but he was not cold and ignored the slight chill in the air as inconsequential. All night long he stared at the Gates, and when the sun rose the next morning, he was still there, staring at them. They remained closed for that day and for three days after. Finrod still refused to leave, though late on the second day it began to rain and he was soaked through. He left the vicinity of the Gates only to attend to personal needs but he did not venture too far, grabbing a handful of blackberries that he happened to find to assuage his hunger.

Sometime past noon, five days after Eärnur had left him at the Gates, a small party arrived. Finrod stood and moved away from the Gates and watched. They were a Noldorin family consisting of an elleth with two who were her children grown. There were others whose relationship to the mother and her children was unclear to Finrod.

They were excited and nervous and even fearful, he could see, as they stood before the Gates. Then, slowly, they opened and Finrod was not surprised to see that a thick fog hid what lay beyond. A dim figure came through after a moment or two and then the elleth gave a glad cry and ran to greet the ellon who emerged. Finrod could see the look of confusion on the ellon’s face and sympathized. He remembered feeling the same way. The others in the party converged on the ellon and his confused expression became less guarded as those who obviously were his family greeted him warmly. Soon, they were heading away, the ellon in their midst and Finrod was left alone.

Finrod gave a start and turned to see Lord Irmo standing beside him. The Vala was not looking at him, however, but at the retreating figures of the little family now reunited once again.

“Glorfi died earlier than that,” Finrod said boldly. “Why was that one released before my gwador? Why does Lord Námo keep him from me?”

Lord Irmo turned his gaze upon Finrod, his expression unreadable to the Elf. “Keep him from you?” he repeated. “He keeps nothing from you, Findaráto. Glorfindel is not yours to keep. There are others who have equal claim to him, if not more so.”

Finrod blushed at the reprimand and sighed. “I miss him so much,” he complained. “Why do I miss him when I don’t even miss my own brothers?”

Irmo gave him a sympathetic smile and put an arm around Finrod’s shoulders. “He is your other half,” he explained. “Neither of you will be completely whole until you are together again.”

“Because Glorfindel is not yet ready to be released,” Irmo said, “and though I think he’ll be released sooner than he should be, he certainly will not be released immediately. He still needs more time for healing.”

Finrod sighed again, still doubtful of the Vala’s words. Irmo gave him a brief hug. “You cannot stay here forever, child. It simply will not do. Come back to Lórien with me,” he pleaded. “Your gwador will not come. Not now. Not yet.”

Finrod grimaced but realized the truth of the Lord of Lórien’s words, little though he liked them. In truth, he was feeling filthy and ragged and starved. The thought of a hot bath nearly undid him and he had to force his knees not to buckle, though a faint moan escaped his lips before he could stop it. Irmo seemed to understand what he was feeling and gently led him away from the Gates.

“A hot bath followed by a light meal, and then bed,” he said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Finrod could not argue with him and soon he was being greeted by Eärnur who met them at the entrance to Finrod’s grove and in a short while he was helping the prince divest himself of his filthy clothes and into a hot bath. Eärnur stayed with him while he ate a bowl of porridge and then practically tucked him into bed, lighting the candle on the table though it was only late afternoon. He then settled into a chair and began quietly to play on a harp. All this time, the Lóriennildo never spoke a word of reprimand, for which Finrod was grateful. As he began to drift into sleep, he forced his eyes open. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were right.”

Eärnur just smiled and continued playing softly. “Go to sleep, Findaráto,” he said gently and Finrod gave himself over to sleep, slipping effortlessly onto the Path of Dreams where he and Glorfindel played in a garden of stone under the watchful eyes of their Maiar caregivers.

I spent the next few days wandering through Lórien like a ghost who had lost his way. Eärnur did not press me or insist that I follow him on his rounds, though I did, even sitting in on some of the lectures that the apprentices and journeymen were required to attend on all manner of subjects relating to the healing arts. Yet, such is the air in Lórien that by the end of the third week my mood had improved and my outlook had brightened. I no longer felt lost, though I still felt bereft. Eärnur understood, perhaps far more than I gave him credit for at the time. He was my first real friend in my new life but he did not begrudge the friendship I had with one who was technically dead and therefore out of reach. I made a concerted effort during that last week of my stay to be Eärnur’s friend. I think he appreciated that....

“Lord Irmo has told me that I am to take this week off from my studies and duties,” Eärnur said to Finrod when they met for breakfast on the first day of the last week of Finrod’s stay.

Eärnur shook his head. “I’ve never heard of anyone being told to take time off away from their studies and duties, certainly not apprentices. We are allowed to return to our families at the New Year to celebrate if we wish, but otherwise, no. Even then, not everyone leaves. There’s a rotation schedule mostly involving the masters and journeymen who take turns remaining here during the holidays, so they might visit their families at the summer or winter solstice instead.”

Finrod nodded, vaguely recalling that at times there seemed to be fewer Lóriennildi about, but not paying much heed, for the seasons and times of holiday did not impinge on the senses of the Reborn all that much.

“So, what do you plan to do with your time then?” Finrod asked. “I was just getting used to following you around like a lovesick puppy.” He gave his friend a lopsided grin and Eärnur laughed.

“I was thinking of leaving Lórien for a few days and camping out under the stars,” the Teler replied. “I haven’t done that in some time. Have you ever seen the Sea?”

Finrod gave his friend a surprised look. “Yes, I did. I stood beside my uncle and my cousins and my siblings and gazed across the ice-dark waters and watched the smoke rising from the ships that my Uncle Fëanáro had set afire, stranding us on this side, for he had stolen away on them with his own people, leaving us to either slink back to Aman or brave the Helcaraxë.” He paused, giving Eärnur a wry look as the other ellon stared at him shocked. “I don’t have any pleasant memories of the Sea, I’m afraid.”

“Pe-perhaps it’s time that you did,” Eärnur stammered, pulling himself together. “We’re only a day’s ride from the Ekkaia, you know. There’s a particular cove that I’ve been to a number of times. I was wondering....” He trailed off in uncertainty, not sure now if Finrod would want to join him.

Finrod nodded, understanding his friend’s reluctance. “When do we leave?” he said as brightly as he knew how, hoping to allay any misgivings on Eärnur’s part.

Finrod nodded. “I think I need to get away from Lórien as well, but I have no desire to return to Tirion until I absolutely must.”

Eärnur grinned. “If we leave within the next hour we can be there before sunset. That will give us plenty of time to set up camp.”

“Then, let’s finish eating and I’ll go pack,” Finrod said, “though I don’t think I brought anything suitable for camping.”

“That’s not a problem,” Eärnur said. “We can find you something. You can borrow a couple of my old tunics and I have all the necessary gear.”

“Then, let’s go,” Finrod said, suddenly feeling excited about the venture, though he wasn’t sure why.

An hour later, the two were riding out of the main gates of Lórien, picking up the road that would eventually lead to Lady Nienna’s demesne.

“We’ll only be on this road for a short time,” Eärnur told him. “We will leave it and head southwest.”

“I didn’t,” Eärnur answered. “Lord Irmo showed it to me, or rather, he had one of his Maiar do it. You see, new apprentices are not allowed to leave Lórien for the first three years, for those first three years of studies are very intensive. It’s only in the fourth year that we even begin following journeymen around on a regular basis. You can imagine that most of us were feeling rather homesick at first.” Finrod nodded and Eärnur continued. “For me, though, it was the first time in my life that I was nowhere near the Sea. I found myself homesick, not so much for my family, but for the smell of salt and drying seaweed, the sound of the gulls and the feel of a ship’s deck rolling under my feet.” He flashed Finrod a wide smile. “I was miserable.”

“Oh, but I was,” Eärnur insisted. “I lost all interest in eating and I couldn’t concentrate on my lessons. All I wanted to do was sleep.”

Eärnur shook his head. “No. I knew it was forbidden to do so without leave of the Lord and Lady, so I did not even try. I kept thinking that eventually I would recover. I had seen others in my class do so, but for some reason I could not. And I was feeling guilty.”

“Because I felt that I should be homesick for my family and friends, and not for something so impersonal as salt water.” He gave a shrug. “Finally, though, Lady Estë came to me and I told her how I was feeling. The next day I was being escorted by one of the Maiar to the cove. I was told to stay there as long as I needed to and when I was ready to return to Lórien, I would be welcomed back.”

“You never thought to return to your family and your previous life?” Finrod asked.

“Oddly enough, no,” Eärnur admitted readily enough. “The thought actually never crossed my mind. I was an apprentice Lóriennildo and I didn’t want to be anything else. That first time, I stayed at the cove for almost two weeks and then I knew I was ready to return to Lórien and my new life. I’ve gone back every once in a while when I’ve felt the need to feel the salt water drying on my skin. This is the first time I’ve ever brought another with me.”

Finrod gave him a surprised look. “Then I am honored that you have invited me,” he said with grave sincerity.

“And I am happy that you accepted,” Eärnur said. “Come. We leave the road here.”

Finrod looked about and noticed a faint track on their left heading in a southwesterly direction. “I’m surprised you were ever able to find this,” he said.

Eärnur laughed. “I never could, actually. I kept having to ask for a loan of one of the Maiar to bring me to the cove. Finally, Lord Irmo decided enough was enough. ‘Am I to provide you with an escort for all the ages of Arda, young Eärnur?’ he asked me.” Eärnur pointed to his right. “See that rock?”

Finrod looked and saw a boulder that was twice the height of the average Elf. It was pockmarked and irregular in shape.

“Lord Irmo caused that rock to be there,” Eärnur explained. “It’s my landmark. When I see it, I know where to turn off the road. This path was created by one of the Maiar. It’s rather odd. Sometimes I don’t come this way for months, even years, and yet it’s always here. You would think it would be overgrown but it never is, not entirely.”

Eärnur nodded and they continued on their way, stopping briefly an hour past noon to rest and have a bite to eat before continuing. As predicted, they came in sight of the Ekkaia about an hour before sunset. Already the sun was climbing down the western sky, her light glinting off the waves. They dismounted some distance from the edge of the headland, removing their gear from their horses and letting them go to fend for themselves. Then Eärnur led the way, moving north for a bit where the land lowered towards the Sea, making an easy path down to the cove. It was high tide but the cove was wide and deep and they had plenty of room for setting up the camp. By the time the sun was slipping behind the horizon they were set up, a cheerful fire burning and a fish stew bubbling over it, for Eärnur had brought fishing spears and had caught several while Finrod got the fire going. They ate in companionable silence as they watched the first stars peep out, greeting them with their cold and distant song.

“Sorry,” Eärnur said, wrinkling his nose in confusion. “You want to explain that?”

Finrod laughed. “The first time I was very young. My parents took me to Alqualondë to visit my grandparents. I was fascinated by the stars and frightened by them as well, for they were so alien to what I was used to, having known nothing but the Light of the Two Trees.”

Eärnur nodded in understanding. “I was born long afterwards, of course,” he said. “I have ever known only the light of Anar and Isil and the stars. To me, the idea of living only by the light of the stars as my own grandparents did or by the Light of the Trees is quite alien. I cannot even imagine it. And though I love the look of the Sea under a moonless night lit only by Lady Varda’s stars the best, yet do I welcome the light of Anar as she rises above the horizon.”

“It took some getting used to,” Finrod said. “When Isil rose the first time....” He stopped, his eyes becoming distant with memory. “Many of us did not know how to react to the Great Lights, as we called them. If anything, they were a poignant reminder of all that we had lost, all that we had thrown away in our arrogance, not the least, the good will of the Valar.” He sighed and shook his head, returning to the present.

“I listen to the tales,” Eärnur said quietly, staring out to a sea now dark under starlight. “I hear the Reborn speak of those times and I can scarce imagine what it was like.”

Finrod gave him a searching look. “Did... did you lose...” he started to say but found he could not continue for the lump in his throat.

Eärnur turned his gaze upon him. “Did I lose family to the Kinslaying?” he asked and Finrod nodded, now wishing he had kept silent. “Yes, I did.” the Teler answered. “We all did to one degree or another. Most have returned to us, I think, though not all. My Uncle Eärnur has yet to be released.”

The other ellon nodded. “I was named after him,” he explained. “I’m not sure why he has not been released yet when most of the Teleri who died in the Kinslaying have been, but Lord Irmo assured me that he would be released at the proper time and I just had to have faith. He told me that when that time came, I would be given the honor of being his primary counselor.” He gave Finrod a wry grin. “Having known other Reborn, I’m not sure just how much of an honor that actually is.”

Finrod stuck his tongue out at him, making a rude noise and then the two were laughing. When they calmed down, Eärnur asked him what he had meant about seeing the stars for the first time twice. Finrod chuckled.

"I only meant that when I was re-embodied and saw the stars again, it was as if I were seeing them for the first time. In the Halls of Mandos all memory of the outside world is taken from us. I had no memory of sun or moon or stars, wind or rain or snow. So, you can imagine how I must have felt when I saw the stars again. I think I understand a little how the oldest of us must have felt when they awoke by the shores of Cuiviénen and beheld the stars for the first time."

"It must have been both a terror and a joy to behold such beauty," Eärnur opined.

The next week was spent in idle pleasures. During low tide the two ellyn wandered along the beach and out to the sandbars, exploring the sea life. Eärnur taught him the names of the different fish and other sea animals that they saw, as well as the different kinds of seaweed and other sea plants and their uses both culinary and medicinal. He showed him how to use a fishing spear and while he never got proficient in its use, he managed to spear a fish or three for their meals and glowed under Eärnur’s praises.

At high tide, they would spend the time sitting before their fire and talking, usually of inconsequential matters, but often enough, speaking of their hopes and dreams for themselves, as well as telling stories of their lives. Finrod was fascinated by Eärnur’s tales of adventures on the Sea and preferred to listen to the Teler speak rather than to tell his own darker tales of death and destruction and the Leaguer of the Elves against Melkor. Eärnur, however, would insist on hearing something about them.

“If for no other reason than to understand those Reborn to whom I minister,” he explained and Finrod would give a mostly expurgated version of what life was like, leaving out the darker aspects.

Still, in the end, the two came to a better understanding of each other and Finrod even found himself thinking more and more about Tirion, wondering what his parents were doing and if they missed him. He was surprised to find that he missed them and his few friends. Thus, when it was time to leave the cove and return to Lórien, he was not as sad as he thought he might be. They quickly broke camp, retrieved their horses and set off, arriving just in time for the evening meal. Lord Irmo was there to greet them when they came to the gates. He gave Finrod a searching look and nodded in satisfaction.

Although I did not achieve my goal, I returned to Tirion with a lighter heart. The time spent with Eärnur on the seashore was perhaps more therapeutic than all the days spent in Lórien. I still longed for my gwador, but now it was with greater hope and less impatience. Thus, it came as a shock when I received a certain summons....

Lord Irmo provided Finrod with a suitable escort comprised of one Maia (Ingil) and several Lóriennildi who were returning to their families for the upcoming winter solstice celebration. Finrod did not know any of them, though they all seemed to know him or know of him. He was somewhat shy and diffident around them, though always polite, and during the evenings as they sat around the fire he would play his harp and sing ballads popular in Beleriand when he lived there. He would translate them into Quenya, speaking the words, but then sing them in Sindarin.

“An odd sounding language,” one of the other ellyn commented on the first night when Finrod finished singing. “Rather... heavy... is the only word I can think of to describe it.”

“Yet it is quite beautiful and full of subtleties that Quenya sometimes lacks,” Finrod said in defense of his adopted language. “The Sindar found Quenya rather difficult to master and few even bothered to learn it, thus it was necessary for us to learn their language.” He refrained from mentioning Elu Thingol’s Ban as another reason for the Noldor to learn Sindarin.

“I don’t quite understand how you keep all these mutations straight, though,” one of the ellith said. “I found it confusing listening to your song, for I could hear the same words being sung differently.”

Finrod shrugged. “After a while it becomes second nature,” he replied. “Of course, when we were first acquainting ourselves with the language we had an imperfect sense of how these mutations worked and some of our adopted names actually have no real meaning in the language, but by the time we came to that realization it was too late and the names we chose stuck.”

“Well, take my cousin Turucáno’s name, for instance,” Finrod said. “He Sindarized it to ‘Turgon’, though it’s not a true Sindarin name. It should have been ‘Turugon’.”

“Turgon, Turugon, it still sounds strange and uncouth,” the first ellon said with a snort.

Finrod just shook his head. “I think it is quite beautiful and I prefer it over Quenya.”

“So, did you... er... Exiles stop speaking Quenya altogether?” another asked. “I’ve noticed that many of the Noldor who are Reborn speak it with some reluctance, though I do not understand why.”

Finrod thought about it for a moment before answering. “I think it has to do with self-identity. It is, I think, similar to our custom of essecilmë.” Some of his listeners nodded in understanding and he continued. “When we... left, many of us found ourselves thrust into positions not of our choosing. I, for instance, found myself the leader of those who had originally followed my atar before he turned back. It was not something I had expected to happen. Others rose to positions of leadership out of necessity because some had died along the way and there were few willing or able to assume command. Many who left were not warriors but craftsmen and artisans, yet not a few of them found themselves wielding sword or spear because we needed them to help defend our kingdoms. When we reached Beleriand, we forged new identities for ourselves, sometimes reluctantly, but always within the context of the surrounding Sindarin society, for they were more numerous than we.” He paused for a moment to take a sip of spiced wine. The others sat in silence, unwilling to break the spell his words were weaving.

“We knew that Aman was forever closed to us, or so we thought,” Finrod continued, speaking slowly, almost hesitantly. “We were no longer Amanyar, but Hecili, and so we turned away from our former lives and forged new ones to go with our new identities and that included speaking a language other than Quenya. But to answer your question, no. We did not abandon Quenya entirely; it was still spoken among the older Noldor but it became a learned language for the younger generations whose first language was Sindarin.”

There was silence among them for some time before one of the healers nodded. “You have given us much to think on, prince,” he said. “Thank you.”

Finrod bowed his head in acknowledgment and then he happened to catch Ingil’s eye as the Maia stood to one side watching over them. Ingil gave him a smile and a nod of approbation that warmed Finrod to the very core of his fëa.

They arrived in Tirion a week later. Ingil left them at the western gate where an escort of guards led by Amandur met the travelers and Finrod bade the healers farewell. At the front portico of the palace he was met by his parents. Eärwen gave him a motherly kiss, but Arafinwë was less effusive in his greetings, giving him a searching look.

“He is well,” Finrod said with a smile. “Lord Irmo gave us permission to leave Lórien during my final week there and we spent it camping out in a cove by the Sea. It was quite fun.”

Arafinwë continued staring at him and Finrod forced himself to meet his atar’s gaze with equanimity. He had the feeling his atar knew more about why he went to Lórien than he was letting on. Finally, though, Arafinwë nodded. “Then I am pleased that your visit turned out so well. Welcome home, yonya.”

“Thank you. It’s good to be home,” Finrod responded and surprised himself with the realization that he actually meant it.

Preparations were advancing for the upcoming winter solstice celebration and Finrod was busy helping his parents with their plans. “I don’t know why you actually need me, though,” Finrod said at one point as he and his atar were sitting in the king’s study going over final details of the ceremony. “I have no specific role to play, for which I am frankly thankful. Court ceremonies are tedious at the best of times.”

“Yet, it is not something that you can escape,” Arafinwë said with a knowing smile. “I am sure your own Master of Ceremonies was a constant thorn in your side.”

Finrod couldn’t help but laugh. “Indeed. Though I think Lord Axantur takes it to the extreme at times. I vaguely recall threatening poor Guilin with banishment when he became a little too insistent that I follow the traditions set down here in Aman rather than adopt those of the Sindar which were not so encumbered with high solemnity.”

Arafinwë actually chuckled. “Would that I could do the same with Axantur at times.”

A knock on the door interrupted them and when Arafinwë called out it opened to reveal one of the court pages carrying a tray on which sat a piece of vellum. The page bowed before entering and went directly to Finrod, which surprised him.

Finrod took it and thanked the ellon who gave them another bow and left. Finrod stared at the folded piece of vellum for a moment. The seal he saw had the image of an eight-pointed star. He gave his atar a puzzled look. “Why would I be receiving a missive from Lady Varda?” he asked.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Arafinwë replied as he handed his son a thin-bladed knife used to break the seal on missives.

Finrod unfolded the page and began reading it, the blood draining from his face. Arafinwë reacted swiftly, leaping from his chair to pour more wine into his son’s goblet before bidding him to drink. It took a moment for Finrod to comply, for the shock was too great.

“What is it, Finda?” Arafinwë asked gently as he retook his seat. “What has upset you so?”

For an answer Finrod handed him the missive which he glanced at quickly. “You’ve been summoned to Lórien to speak with Lord Námo,” he said, his eyes widening.

“But why?” Finrod demanded. “I’ve just come from there. Why am I being summoned back?” There was a faint hope within him that he was careful to keep to himself that this was the message he’d been waiting for, informing him of Glorfindel’s release from Mandos, but the tone of the letter and the fact that it came from Lady Varda made him think otherwise. He gave his atar a fearful look as another thought crossed his mind.

“D-do you think Lord Námo is... displeased with me and means for me to... to be... unhoused?” This last was said in a barely audible whisper and he felt sick and faint at the thought.

Arafinwë put the missive down and went to his son, pulling him out of his chair and embracing him, cradling him. “No, child, I do not,” he said gently. “I do not know why Lord Námo wishes to speak with you, only that he does and he wants to see you immediately, or as immediately as you can get yourself there. I will have an escort ready for you in the morning. I suggest that you ride as swiftly as you can and take as little rest as possible. It isn’t wise to keep a Vala waiting, especially this one.”

“But I just came from there,” Finrod said tonelessly, still feeling shocked and not knowing how else to handle it.

“I know,” Arafinwë replied. “Go to your ammë,” he ordered. “Go and tell her and let her comfort you while I make the necessary arrangements. If you do as I have suggested, you should reach Lórien in half the time it normally takes.”

Finrod could only nod as his atar led him to the door. “Calandil,” he called to his personal guard, “please escort my son to the queen. See to it that none importune him along the way.”

Calandil gave his king a bow and Finrod was grateful that the guard asked no questions but walked by Finrod’s side, motioning others away until they reached the solar where Eärwen and her ladies were embroidering. Eärwen took one look at her son and dismissed everyone, motioning Finrod to come sit beside her.

When they were at last alone, she gave him a searching look. “Tell me, my beloved. Tell me what is wrong.”

But Finrod suddenly burst into tears and it was some time before she could get anything out of him.

The ride to Lórien was a nightmare for Finrod and he kept to himself as much as possible, saying little and allowing Amandur to dictate to the other guards and to him when necessary. They did not bother to stop at Valmar as was usual but kept on, so it took them five days instead of the normal seven, arriving around noon. Lord Irmo was at the gate waiting for them. They were all tired and sore from the long ride with few rest stops and the Lord of Lórien bade the guards to follow one of his Maiar to where they could find rest and food.

“I will take care of Prince Findaráto,” he told Amandur when the ellon started to protest. “Go and rest. You all deserve it for your faithfulness in fulfilling your lord’s orders to see the prince safely to Lórien.”

The guards left and Finrod was now alone with Irmo who gazed at him serenely. “You, too, are weary from the journey and from more than that,” he said shrewdly. “It is not what you fear, child. Put your mind at ease.”

Irmo gave him a sympathetic smile as he put an arm around the ellon’s shoulders and led him to a small grove where a single-bed pavilion stood. “My brother will explain all in the morning. For now, I want you to rest.” He helped an unprotesting Finrod doff his cloak and boots and outer tunic and saw him nestled in his cot. Laying a hand on the ellon’s forehead he willed Finrod towards healing sleep.

“That’s it, my son,” he said soothingly. “Put aside all fears and rest in body and spirit.”

Finrod found he was too weary to make much protest and in minutes he was falling into a dreamless sleep.

Irmo let Findaráto and his guards sleep through the night, sending the guards back to Tirion the next morning without Findaráto’s knowledge, assuring them that he would see their prince returned safely. In the meantime, he had Ingil keep the prince company until the appointed hour of Findaráto’s meeting with Námo. Eärnur he kept away in another part of Lórien, not wanting the two to meet. Ingil took Findaráto to attend some of the classes for the Reborn to keep him occupied.

“Remedial training,” he said to his lord with a sly smile and wink and Irmo laughed in agreement, though Findaráto did not look amused.

Now it was late afternoon. Ingil brought Findaráto to one of the smaller gardens where he left him with the Lord of Mandos. Námo gazed at Findaráto standing nervously before him. He had purposely scheduled their meeting for this hour, not out of maliciousness, knowing that the summons had frightened the Child, but because he was still not sanguine about summoning the Elf-prince at all, for it was his policy not to become too involved with his former charges once they left his demesne unless absolutely necessary. He felt it too dangerous otherwise, both for them and for him. It was best that the Reborn muddle through on their own instead of using the Valar as a crutch to solve all their problems. Yet, at the same time, he understood that Findaráto was a special case, as were some others, and it behooved the Vala to take a more direct role in seeing that the ellon progress in the way that he must go. Findaráto had an important role to play in the history of Arda, more important than being just Arafinwë’s heir, but for the moment, being the Noldóran’s heir was the role that he must play; it was not yet time for him to take up other roles and duties.

Námo noticed how pale Findaráto was and could guess why. He allowed a small smile to crease his face. “There is nothing to fear, yonya. Come and sit by me.”

He motioned to a bench under an arbor and sat himself. Findaráto hesitated for a moment or two before complying, sitting stiffly and staring out into the garden where roses and honeysuckle still bloomed though it was already the month of Ringarë according to the Eldarin calendar. Butterflies flitted about in silent glory and birds sang quietly as if reluctant to disturb the peace of the place overmuch.

Námo placed a hand on Finrod’s back and began to unobtrusively rub it in an attempt to calm him. Slowly the peace of the garden and Námo’s ministrations brought the ellon to a more relaxed state and he visibly sighed as tension left his body.

“That’s better,” Námo said with a smile and Findaráto returned it with a sheepish smile of his own.

“You are concerned for your friend, aren’t you?” Námo asked gently. He had decided to get right to the point, though it was not the point that he wished to make. Findaráto needed to be brought to certain realizations about reality, but it was best to bring him to that realization slowly.

Findaráto looked at the Vala in surprise, then nodded. “You must not fear for Glorfindel,” Námo said. “He is well and happy. He misses you, too, but he has made new friends and has begun to take on new responsibilities. As must you, son of Arafinwë. It is why you were released from my care. Do not make me regret that decision by your neglect of those duties.”

He had purposely darkened his tone at the end and watched as the ellon cringed, almost wilting under his regard.

“I’m sorry,” Findaráto whispered, looking lost and forlorn and Námo could see him struggling not to cry though tears dripped from his eyes.

Námo gave him a sympathetic smile and wiped the tears from Findaráto’s face with a gentle finger. “Now, no tears, child. You will see your friend soon. You and he will have many years together, just like before.”

“Pr-promise?” the ellon blurted out unthinkingly and Námo watched in amusement as the Elf-prince blushed in embarrassment at sounding more like an elfling of twenty than the King of Nargothrond that he had once been, commanding whole armies in the war against Melkor.

Námo merely laughed, gathering this beloved Child in his arms and kissing him on the brow. “Promise. But now, we must speak of other things,” he continued, giving Findaráto a stern look. The ellon visibly paled and Námo wondered dispassionately if he would be sick.

Námo hid a smile and mentally stuck his tongue out at his younger brother in the Thought of Atar. He could hear Irmo’s laughter echoing through the Gardens.

“I am rather disappointed in you, Child,” he said aloud. “I understand even after all these years you still refuse to hold your own court as your atar desires. You know as haryon you have certain duties to your people. One of them is sitting in judgment when needed.”

“I know,” Findaráto said with a sigh, “but the thought of doing so....” He shook his head, giving the Vala a pleading look. “What is the point? I sit beside Atto when he holds court and most of the time everyone ignores me. Atto will sometimes ask for my opinion on a matter but not always.”

Findaráto wrinkled his brow. “Learned? What should I have learned? I ruled my own kingdom for nearly four hundred years.”

“And Arafinwë has ruled for a millennium,” Námo pointed out. “His task was not an easy one, either. He had not only to learn the art of ruling wisely and well, but he had to regain the trust of the other Eldarin kingdoms and help the Noldor regain their self-respect. Can you truly say that he has nothing to teach you?”

Findaráto shook his head, then sighed, giving Námo a sour look. “Still....”

“No, child,” Námo retorted, giving him a measuring look. “Why are you so reluctant to take up your duties as haryon?”

“That’s just it, lord,” Findaráto said in exasperation. “Haryon, not king.” He sighed again and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “And in the end my wisdom failed me,” he added sorrowfully.

Ah, so that was it. Námo nodded to himself, now understanding what the ellon was afraid of. “You think that you have lost all wisdom and fear to make an error of judgment,” he said. “You fear to have that kind of power over others once again.”

Findaráto nodded but did not otherwise speak, staring out into the garden. Námo allowed a small smile to touch his lips. “Findaráto,” he said gently and waited for the ellon to look at him before continuing. “Do you think your atar does not have the same fear every time he sits in court to listen to the complaints of his people and having to make a judgment for or against them?”

The Elf’s eyes widened in surprise and Námo nodded. “It is a fear all good rulers have, a fear that I suspect you had as king, though memory of it has not yet surfaced. Yet I assure you that even the Elder King has that same fear, for it is a weighty and solemn thing to sit in judgment over others. Still, that is the way of kingship. It is a necessary aspect of being a ruler... or the son of a ruler.”

He gave him a significant look and Findaráto nodded, though reluctantly, as if he was not willing to accept all that Námo had said. Still, the Vala could see that the ellon was rethinking certain truths about himself.

“Go back to Tirion, child, and be the haryon your atar needs,” Námo commanded gently. “Be the haryon the Noldor need. Take up your duties and I think you will find that you have not lost all wisdom. You have the memories of two lifetimes at your beck and call. Use what you learned in your first life to guide you in this one. Use the lessons of your death as well.”

“And that is all we are ever asked to do,” Námo rejoined. Then he gathered him in his arms again and gave him another kiss.

Findaráto sighed contentedly as he allowed Námo to hold him. Námo started singing softly an ancient lullaby and soon the ellon was fast asleep. Irmo appeared then, smiling gently at the somnolent Child.

Námo shook his head, giving his younger brother a wry smile. “Thank you, but I am quite capable of doing something as simple as seeing Findaráto back home.”

Before Námo could respond, they both heard a silent yell from Námo’s chief Maia, Maranwë. The two Valar looked at one another in amused surprise.

“You go see what has Maranwë all in a fury,” Irmo said as he leaned down to take the sleeping ellon in his arms, “and I’ll see this one safely home.”

Námo nodded and soon he was alone in the garden. He allowed himself a sigh of exasperation. Now what was Glorfindel up to? Honestly, he couldn’t leave Mandos for five minutes without that impossible ellon wreaking havoc. When he heard Maranwë start swearing in Valarin, he chuckled and thought himself back to his own demesne, leaving the garden to the butterflies.

Essecilme: Name-choosing, an Eldarin ceremony in which a person chooses a name for him- or herself according to personal lámatyávë or ‘sound-taste’.

Hecili: Plural of hecil: One lost or forsaken, an outcast. Gender-specific forms are hecilo (masc) and hecilë (fem).

1. The discussion about Turgon’s name is derived from notes by Tolkien which have been published in Parma Eldalamberon 17:112-113.

2. The conversation between Námo and Finrod is an expanded version of the conversation reported in Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux, Chapter 4 ‘Progress Reports’.

I woke from my meeting with Lord Námo to find myself back in my own bed, cuddling a stuffed toy, much to my annoyance. I had not needed the comfort of a stuffed toy for a very long time. My thoughts were naturally confused at finding myself back in my own room and I decided that the entire episode with Lord Námo must have been a dream, a very vivid one, but a dream nonetheless. I was soon proven wrong....

Finrod blinked, focusing his eyes, and he could see that it was early morning. He frowned as he sat up in his bed, wondering how he had gotten there, for his last memory was being in Lórien sitting next to Lord Námo and it had been late afternoon, almost eventide. He shook his head as he gazed down at the stuffed toy he’d found nestled next to him on the bed.

“Must’ve been a dream,” he said out loud as he struggled from underneath the bedcovers to look for his houserobe. He wondered why his body servants had not come to rouse him, for he could tell that it was past the time that he normally awoke, but shrugged and went to see to his ablutions.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and making his way to the family dining room, the smell of breakfast wafting on the air, setting his stomach growling. He walked into the room and saw his parents sitting in their usual places with several courtiers seated around them, servants bustling about to see that all had what they needed.

“Fair morning, Atto, Ammë,” Finrod said in greeting as he started for the sideboard to make his selection.

One of the serving ellith gave a shriek and dropped the plate of scrambled eggs she was carrying and there was a stunned silence throughout the room. Finrod looked around in confusion, wondering if he’d done something wrong — again.

“Yonya,” he heard his atar say in a rather strained voice, “how did you get here?”

Now Finrod was really confused but he answered readily enough, pointing towards the door, ignoring the serving elleth on her knees in front of him trying to scoop up eggs and shards of porcelain into her apron. “I walked from my bedroom....”

“No, Finda,” Arafinwë said more forcibly. “How did you return from Lórien so quickly?”

Finrod went completely still, staring intently at his atar to assure himself that he was not jesting. “It... it wasn’t a dream then?” he asked tentatively, not sure if his atar would even understand.

He watched as Arafinwë looked at Eärwen, who gave an elegant shrug. Arafinwë sighed and rose from his seat to go to Finrod, taking him by the shoulders. Finrod’s emotions were still confused and he felt a hint of fear welling up from the depths of his fëa as he tried to understand what had happened to him and why everyone was so upset.

“No, yonya,” his atar said gently. “It was not a dream. You left seven days ago.”

“We arrived around noon on the fifth day and I met with Lord Námo the next afternoon,” Finrod offered faintly.

“That would have been yesterday then,” Arafinwë said, giving him a searching look.

Finrod shook his head. “My last memory was sitting in a garden with Lord Námo and he... he was singing to me.” Several eyebrows went up but Finrod ignored them. “Then I woke up to find myself in my own bed just a little while ago.” He eschewed telling them about the stuffed toy as a minor detail about which no one else needed to know.

Finrod shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said faintly. “Lord Irmo took me in hand when we arrived and I did not see them again.”

“Hmmm....” was all Arafinwë said, his expression becoming unreadable to the younger Elf. Then he seemed to come back to himself and he gave Finrod a wry look. “Well, you’re here now so you might as well join us for breakfast.”

Finrod nodded, though he was not feeling all that hungry. Out of habit he started to bend down to help the poor elleth still trying to scoop up the eggs and broken pottery but Arafinwë stopped him and nodded toward the sideboard. Finrod got the message and went to fill a plate before joining his parents at the table. Eärwen greeted him gently with a kiss. After a moment’s hesitation, the other Elves resumed their own breakfasts and conversations, but Finrod could not help noticing how every so often one of the nearby courtiers would steal a look at him. He kept his own eyes resolutely on his plate and ate with grim determination not to let anything or anyone upset him. He was not sure how he felt about Lord Námo presumably tucking him into his bed like an elfling, not even allowing him to return to Tirion under his own power and hoped his escort would not be too angry at him.

Thankfully, his parents let him alone and did not importune him with questions he was not willing to answer right then, but as they finished breakfast, Arafinwë dismissed the courtiers and the servants, leaving just the royal family still sitting at table. Eärwen went to the sideboard and refreshed the tea, bringing it back and pouring some into their cups. Finrod refused to look at either of his parents, waiting for one of them to speak first.

Only when Eärwen was seated again did Arafinwë speak. “Will you tell us what happened?” he asked Finrod, his tone gentle.

Finrod shrugged, still keeping his eyes on his plate. “We talked,” he replied.

Silence reigned between the three of them. Eärwen started rubbing his back to give him some comfort. “Will you tell us what was said?” she asked.

Finrod sighed. He was tempted to deny their request, but realized he was just being petulant. “Lord Námo reminded me that I am a prince of Eldamar and that I need to take up my duties as haryon. It was the reason I was re-embodied.”

“I know you’ve been reluctant to do so,” Arafinwë said slowly, “though I do not understand why when you certainly have had the experience of holding court when you ruled your own realm.”

“I... I have been afraid,” Finrod said, finally looking up at his atar, “afraid of... of making a mistake.”

Finrod shook his head. “But my mistake led to my death. In the end, my wisdom failed me and... and I died, but more than that, my error led to the deaths of ten others who were loyal to me. They... we died horribly....”

“Shush now, yonya,” Arafinwë said, gathering his son in his embrace and giving him a heartfelt hug. “There is no need to torture yourself this way. What happened has happened and there is naught you can do to change it. All you can do is learn from it and apply that lesson to future situations.” He pushed Finrod gently from him to give him a searching look. “Did Lord Námo agree with you?”

Finrod shook his head. “He... he said that all good rulers have the same fear of making an error of judgment and that I should take the experiences of my first life and use them to guide me in this one.”

Arafinwë nodded. “Lord Námo is correct on both counts,” he said. He paused for a moment before continuing. “So, will you take up your duties as my heir?”

His atar gave him a sympathetic smile. “We’ll start out slowly,” he offered. “I will give you cases that are relatively simple and....” He paused, a thought coming to him and he nodded as if to himself. “And if you would like, I will ask Lord Herendil to sit with you.”

Finrod gave him a surprised look. “He will not interfere with any decision you make,” Arafinwë went on to explain, “but if you desire counsel before making a judgment, he will offer his opinion. The ultimate rendering of the case will still be yours to make.”

Arafinwë nodded, giving him a pleased smile. “I will arrange for your first court for next Menelya,” he said, “and I think I will also have young Rúmilion join you as an observer. He shows great promise as a future member of the judiciary and I think he will benefit from watching how you conduct your court.”

Finrod grimaced slightly. “He may not learn too much,” he said and then a thought struck him and he gave his atar an enquiring look. “Just how much freedom do I have to adjudicate?”

“Do you mean, will I be looking over your shoulders and reviewing your decisions?” Arafinwë asked with a smile. When Finrod nodded, he shook his head. “Whatever decisions you make will stand, although if one of the parties thinks that your ruling was unfair or inappropriate, they have the right to appeal to me. However, unless the decision is grossly inequitable I will most likely uphold it. I meant what I said. This will be your court to conduct as you will.”

“And who besides the complainants will be attending?” Finrod asked, for it was customary for his atar’s courtiers to attend court as witnesses to the Noldóran’s rulings.

“We will have some of the junior courtiers attend,” Arafinwë replied, “those who are now in positions of authority themselves and who will benefit from seeing you in your role as haryon. Perhaps others will come to observe from time to time. It is my hope that people will see you more as my heir and less as an elfling underfoot.”

Finrod blushed at that, realizing that there was some truth to his atar’s statement. Even some of the younger courtiers still treated him as if he were an idiot in constant need of supervision. He knew that that was mostly his own fault. Perhaps it was time to disabuse people of that notion. Lord Námo was correct. It was time and past time for him to start acting in a responsible manner. He had once been a king; he could still act like one even if he no longer wore a king’s crown.

He gave his atar a rueful look. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot about all this,” he said.

Arafinwë shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, yonya. What is important is that you are willing to take up your responsibilities now. Perhaps you needed this time to mature a little more before you were ready.”

“I guess,” Finrod replied with a sigh. Then he gave his parents a lop-sided grin. “I think I had better go brush up on ‘Laws and Customs’. I imagine there have been a few changes and additions to it since the last time I looked.”

Finrod waited nervously in the anteroom of the audience chamber that he would be using as his court. It was one of the smaller audience chambers, used primarily for intimate gatherings of a less formal nature than the main throne room. For the time being, though, it was Finrod’s personal throne room. His atar had ordered certain changes to the room made to reflect this: the tapestry hanging on the wall behind the throne that depicted a scene from the time of the Two Trees had been replaced with one showing the First Rising of Anar in all her glory and the Noldóran’s standard was replaced with that for his haryon. Even the red velvet throne cushions and center aisle carpet had been replaced with others in a pleasing shade of midnight blue. Fresh paint had been applied to the walls as well, so that now there was little to associate the room with its earlier function.

“It will be well, Highness,” Herendil said soothingly, giving the ellon a smile. “Just take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

“You would think I’ve never done this before,” Finrod said with a grimace as he complied with Herendil’s suggestion.

“Well, in one sense you have not,” Herendil said. “You were not haryon to the Noldóran’s throne when you left Tirion for Endórë.”

Finrod nodded. “Still, it’s not as if I’ve never sat in judgment before,” he insisted.

Finrod nodded. The two were alone in the antechamber. Neither of his parents were there and for that he was grateful. “I have my own court to deal with,” his atar had told him the night before. “I am sure you will do much better without me breathing over your shoulders.”

Finrod was beginning to agree with that. He was about to make a further comment when the door opened and Amandur came in, giving the prince a friendly smile. “They are ready for you, my prince,” he said.

“I will announce you then,” Herendil said and exited the room while Amandur remained to act as Finrod’s guard. Then Herendil’s voice carried through the room.

Finrod took another deep breath and smoothed his tunic and robe before stepping out. He had agonized over his wardrobe during the previous week, wanting to make a good first impression. He’d been tempted to wear the blue tunic Morwen had made for him but common sense prevailed and he knew it was entirely inappropriate. In the end, he had settled for a blue and green brocade sleeveless surcoat with a scallop and stars diaper pattern. Underneath this was a green figured silk shirt. An ankle-length overrobe of blue samite shot with silver thread trimmed with ermine completed the picture. It had wide trailing sleeves so that the sleeves of his shirt showed underneath. His leggings were a dark green suede and he wore ankle boots of the same brocade as his tunic. On his head he wore a diadem of gold shaped like leaves with a single emerald in the center.

He had thought about it long and hard. It had been years since his abortive attempt to wear them and over that time he had even forgotten about them, but since his talk with Lord Námo, he had put aside his reluctance to be who he was rather than be who everyone else around him wanted or expected him to be, including his parents. He knew his atar might not approve, but he had been told that his court was his to conduct as he pleased and that included how he would conduct himself as well. That meant wearing warrior braids. They were as much a symbol of his authority as the crown that sat on his head and in one sense more so, though the Elves of Aman would doubtless disagree.

He strode into the audience chamber, keeping his eyes steadily upon the throne before him, feeling the comforting presence of Amandur at his back, ignoring the soft murmurs of the courtiers commenting on his appearance as he entered. Herendil stepped aside and bowed as he came to the two-step dais and ascended the throne, shifting his robe as he sat. Then Herendil, still acting as his herald, turned to the spectators.

“The court of his Royal Highness, Prince Findaráto, now commences. Let all approach the throne with reverence.”

Finrod gazed about him. Rúmilion was to his right with his two cousins, all three giving him smiles of encouragement. The ellon had a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm and would act as Finrod’s steward, calling each case before him and presenting the necessary details before the complainants were permitted to state their cases. There were others, mostly younger ellyn and ellith of his atar’s court, perhaps a score or so, which was not all that many, all things considered, but perhaps more than he had expected would show up. He noticed one or two of the older courtiers standing further back and wondered what tales they would tell his atar. He dismissed them from his mind, though, knowing that his atar would not listen to anything they had to say.

Rúmilion bowed and stepped forward even as Herendil stepped back to stand on Finrod’s right to act as his counselor. Amandur was standing on Finrod’s left, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, ready to defend his prince at need.

“The first case, Highness,” Rúmilion explained, glancing at his notes, “is a contracts dispute between Master Aldurilmon, a sculptor of the stonemason’s guild, and Master Silwindil of the carpenter’s guild. Master Silwindil contracted with Master Aldurilmon for a statue of his son, Mirilion, receiving the carpenter’s plane from Lord Oromë, signifying his son’s achievement in becoming a master of the guild.”

Finrod nodded and Rúmilion continued. “When Master Aldurilmon presented the statue to Master Silwindil, he did not approve of the statue and has refused to pay the stipulated price agreed upon or to take possession of the statue. Master Aldurilmon is suing for the cost of the commission and Master Silwindil is countersuing for a new statue of his liking.”

“Let the two masters approach,” Finrod said and nodded to the guard before the door that led to the outer hall where those wishing to have their cases heard were waiting. The guard called for the two masters to come in and Finrod watched with interest as the ellyn approached. A third ellon came behind them carrying a cloth-covered object that Finrod suspected was the disputed statue. He was very curious about what it might look like and why Master Silwindil did not like it.

As the three ellyn approached, Finrod could see one of the masters looking at him in surprise and perhaps even with some displeasure. The other’s expression was more polite while the one carrying the statue — and now Finrod could see that it was a younger ellon wearing a journeyman’s tabard with the stonemason’s adze embroidered on it — looked distressed and uncomfortable. He could sympathize with the young ellon.

“I thought we were having our case heard before the Noldóran,” protested the master who had been scowling as he walked up the center aisle. While the other two ellyn had effected bows, this one did not.

“His Majesty has decided that certain cases should be heard by his heir,” Herendil explained smoothly. “Yours is one of them.”

“If you do not wish to have your case heard by his Highness, Master Aldurilmon,” Rúmilion interjected, “that is certainly your right, but I should warn you that if you decline to have Prince Findaráto hear your case, you will not be permitted to make a later appeal to his Majesty.”

Aldurilmon muttered something unintelligible, his expression one of anger. The other ellon, whom Finrod had to assume was Master Silwindil, simply shrugged. “I have no objections myself,” he said.

“Fine,” Aldurilmon snarled, giving them all a haughty glare. “Let’s get on with it.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow at that. “Master Aldurilmon,” he said softly, “I believe you owe this court an apology for your rudeness.”

Aldurilmon looked at him in surprise, then seemed to realize where he was. With a muttered oath he gave Finrod a barely polite bow. “I apologize, your Highness, for any rudeness on my part. I was expecting to have my case heard before the king and was not informed beforehand that it would not be so.”

“I understand,” Finrod said equably, “but I assure you I am as capable as my atar to hear this or any other case.” He then smiled at the third ellon. “And who are you?” he asked.

“Ondoher,” the young journeyman said in a whisper. “M-my name is Ondoher... Highness.”

“Ah... an appropriate name for your profession,” Finrod said. “I am assuming that what you carry is the statue in question? Yes? Well, perhaps we can find a table to put it on. I imagine it’s rather heavy or at least awkward to handle.” He signaled to one of the guards by the door to the antechamber who nodded and went in search of a table. “In the meantime, perhaps Master Silwindil can tell us the particulars of the contract which he made with Master Aldurilmon.”

Silwindil looked rather surprised at the courtesy of Finrod’s apology. “As I was saying, my son achieved his mastership in the carpenters’ guild of which I too am a member. I wished to surprise him with a special gift in honor of his achievement, so I went to Master Aldurilmon who was recommended to me by another. I told him I wished to have a statue made of my son receiving the carpenter’s plane from the hands of Lord Oromë.”

“And why Lord Oromë?” Finrod asked. “I would think Lord Aulë would be more appropriate.”

Silwindil nodded. “While Lord Aulë is the Master Craftsman to whom all crafts look for guidance and instruction, we of the carpenters’ and woodworkers’ guilds also acknowledge Lord Oromë as Aldaron, for trees are naturally our stock in trade, just as stone is Master Aldurilmon’s.”

“Yes, well, I gave Master Aldurilmon sketches of my son in various poses. Master Aldurilmon showed me different types of marble and other stone and I made my selection and we agreed on a price.”

By now a table had been procured and the statue, still covered with the cloth was placed on it in front of Finrod. He gestured for the cloth to be removed and they all gazed on the statue. Finrod hid a smile when he noticed out of the corner of his eyes the courtiers craning their necks to get a better look. He examined the statue with interest. It stood on a low marble plinth and was perhaps two feet in height altogether. There were two figures, one kneeling with his hands stretched out to receive what appeared to be a carpenter’s plane from the other figure who was standing with a rather imperious, almost forbidding, expression on his face. Finrod had to assume that this was Lord Oromë, though it looked nothing like him; the kneeling figure would have to be Silwindil’s son. He glanced at Silwindil.

Silwindil pointed to the statue. “That is not Lord Oromë,” he pronounced, “and I resent the way my son is portrayed. He would never look so subservient even before one of the Valar. He has his pride and self-respect.”

Finrod took a closer look at the figure of Mirilion and now noticed that the statue’s facial expression was not one of a liegeman receiving a gift from his lord but more like a servant receiving a reprimand from his master. Finrod frowned, seeing what the ellon meant.

Now Silwindil looked a bit flustered. “Ah... actually I have not had the honor,” he replied somewhat stiffly.

“Then how do you know this is not a true representation of the Vala?” Finrod asked.

Now Silwindil seemed to be on surer ground. “Look at his expression, my lord,” he proclaimed. “It seems more appropriate for the Lord of Mandos than the Lord of Forests.”

Finrod resisted raising an eyebrow. He was not sure that Lord Námo would appreciate having his name taken in vain in this manner but decided that was neither here nor there.

“Master Aldurilmon, have you ever met Lord Oromë?” Finrod then asked the sculptor.

“And yet you went ahead and depicted Lord Oromë in this manner without bothering to find out what he actually looks like.” Finrod made it a statement and Aldurilmon just gave him a half-apologetic shrug.

Finrod gave the ellon a hard look. Something about all this seemed false to him yet he was not sure what it might be. He turned his attention back to Silwindil. “You object to the statue on the grounds that the expressions on the faces of the figures are not what you wished for. Yet, did you not approve Master Aldurilmon’s sketches which I am sure he must have made prior to actually creating the statue?”

Aldurilmon snorted. “I told him I would have preliminary sketches inside a week for him to look at but he said it wasn’t necessary. He was sure I would do an excellent job, for I had come highly recommended.”

Finrod narrowed his eyes and sat back on his throne. “Is this true, Master Silwindil?”

“Then I do not see the problem,” Finrod stated. “You declined to approve the sketches, and while I’m sure you were expecting something different, you gave Master Aldurilmon implicit freedom of choice in the manner in which he would execute the commission. In short, sir, you got what you asked for.”

“Not this,” Silwindil protested pointing to the statue. “I admit I was negligent in not checking the sketches first, but beyond that, I contracted with Master Aldurilmon, not with one of his apprentices. This statue is at best mediocre in craftsmanship, not the work of a highly recommended master.”

Finrod stood and stepped down to get a closer look at the statue. There was nothing explicitly wrong with it, yet the more he examined it in detail the more he realized that this piece could not have come from the hands of a master of his craft. He glanced up at Aldurilmon and in doing so noticed that Ondoher had gone very pale and was looking extremely embarrassed and even somewhat fearful.

“Master Aldurilmon, how much of this is your own work?” Finrod repeated and the tone of his voice sent shivers down more than one spine.

Something in the master’s attitude deflated and he shook his head. “Virtually none of it,” he answered sourly.

Finrod flicked a glance at Ondoher who was now looking ready to faint. “This is your work, isn’t it?” he asked gently.

Ondoher nodded and then gave Finrod a pleading look. “I’m not very good with figures of people,” he confessed. “I do better with animals and plants. Salmandillë offered to help, for she is very good at depicting people, but I knew our master would recognize her work so I had to refuse.”

Finrod suspected that Ondoher had feelings that went beyond friendship for the elleth but did not pursue the matter further. Instead, he turned to Aldurilmon. “You have more than one apprentice under you, Master?”

“I felt Ondoher needed more practice in depicting people,” the master replied shortly.

“And that is certainly an admirable objective for an apprentice, but I would think having him practice on soapstone would have been a better option. I am sure that foisting the work on young Ondoher and then claiming it to be your own is in violation of your guild ethics and I will so inform the guild about that. I have no doubt the guildmasters will exact their own penalties on you, Master Aldurilmon. In the meantime, we need to address the particulars of this contract.”

Finrod turned to resume his seat, catching Herendil’s eye as he did so. His friend gave him a faint smile and a nod of approval and Finrod grinned back, though his expression became more stern when he turned to face everyone else. “Master Silwindil, you admit that you were negligent in not checking the sketches which Master Aldurilmon produced and all things being equal I would say you were bound by the contract to pay the stipulated price and take possession of the statue whether you wished to or not. I am assuming that the statue is still a secret from your son.”

“Well, as I said, all things being equal you would be bound, but it appears that Master Aldurilmon is even more culpable than you in that he deceived you in pretending that the statue was of his own hand. Tell me, Master, why did you truly give this assignment to Ondoher?”

Aldurilmon hemmed and hawed but eventually admitted that shortly after receiving Silwindil’s commission Lord Nambarauto came to him with a commission and since Nambarauto was a noble and Silwindil was just a commoner....

“So you made the sketches, no doubt hurriedly and without any real thought behind them, gave them to Ondoher to work on while you catered to Lord Nambarauto’s wishes,” Finrod summarized and the master sculptor nodded, looking glum. Finrod turned to Ondoher, the ellon’s expression bleak, and as gently as he could he asked, “Were you aware that this statue was a commissioned piece, Ondoher?”

The ellon shook his head. “Master brought me the sketches and told me that he wanted me to have more practice with carving figures of people,” he said. “He told me which block of stone I was to use and said I needed to finish by a certain date. I thought that this was just a... a test of my skill.” He sighed, closing his eyes briefly before continuing. “Master knows I’m not good with figures of people. He should have given the assignment to Salmandillë. She’s almost ready for her mastership and she would have done much better than I.”

“You followed the sketches faithfully?” Finrod enquired. “You did not... um... add your own interpretation?” He flicked a glance at the expressions on the two figures’ faces.

Ondoher shook his head. “Salmandillë thought the expressions were wrong, and I did as well, but I did not dare change anything from the sketches given to me.”

Finrod sat for a long moment digesting all that he had heard. Certainly Silwindil was negligent in not checking the sketches and approving them, but Aldurilmon was absolutely criminal in his actions, not only in cheating Silwindil but in ignoring the talents and needs of his apprentices. He glanced at Herendil who merely raised an eyebrow. Finrod turned back to the two masters, his expression solemn.

“Here then is my judgment: Master Aldurilmon will make new sketches of the statue and Master Silwindil will have final approval of them. Since Master Aldurilmon could not see fit to find out what Lord Oromë looks like, I will provide you with the necessary sketches.”

Finrod nodded, smiling. “I have hunted with Lord Oromë and am well acquainted with him.” There were quiet murmurs and considering looks among the young courtiers at that. Finrod ignored them. “Once the sketches are approved,” he went on to say, “Master Aldurilmon will then do all of the carving himself. He will not assign any part of it to his apprentices, though I am aware that that is a common practice among the crafts. He will also not take on any other commissions until the statue is finished and I will speak to your guildmaster about that.” He paused, knowing that what he said next would not be welcomed by the sculptor. “And you will do it free of charge.”

Finrod nodded, casting a disapproving glance at the smug look of satisfaction on Silwindil’s face. “You are not getting off quite as easily as you think, Silwindil,” he said coldly. “What was the stipulated price of the contract?”

Silwindil muttered a figure. Finrod nodded again. “You will pay half that amount to young Ondoher, for he was the one who did this statue meant for you.”

“That’s absurd,” Aldurilmon protested before Silwindil could respond. “The money would go to me regardless.”

“No, Aldurilmon,” Finrod said forcibly. “The money will be credited to Ondoher’s guild account and I will see to that as well. I will also recommend that your guild evaluate your apprentices and determine if they are receiving the proper instructions from you. We all have our talents and unfortunately Ondoher’s does not lie with carving figures of people. Yet, you apparently will not encourage his talents in carving animals and plants. At any rate, Silwindil, the other half of the money owed will be deposited to the royal treasury as payment for wasting my time when all this could have been avoided save for your initial negligence. Master Aldurilmon, you will also pay the royal treasury the same amount. I have not appreciated your attitude during all this. Perhaps next time you will act in a manner befitting a master of your craft. This case is closed.”

Finrod gave a wave of his hand in dismissal and Herendil stepped down from the dais and gestured the two masters and Ondoher towards a side door. The masters both looked astounded at the judgment, Aldurilmon sputtering that he would appeal to the Noldóran even as he was herded from the room. Ondoher hesitated.

“Since you were the one who carved it, you may do with it as you wish,” Finrod answered.

“What I wish is to take a sledgehammer to it,” the ellon replied with a grin.

Ondoher bowed and took the statue and followed the two masters out. Finrod turned to Rúmilion, giving him a smile. “Call the next case.”

Rúmilion smiled back and then looked at his notes. “The next case involves a land dispute….”

Finrod gazed around the room as Rúmilion gave them the details. Among the courtiers there were considering looks. For some, he hoped, their estimation of him had taken a positive turn.

Herendil, who in the meantime had returned to Finrod’s side, bent down to whisper in his ear. “Well done, Highness.”

The success of that first court not only boosted my morale and sense of self-worth, but also improved my standing among my atar’s courtiers, especially the younger ones. I was seen less as ‘that Reborn ellon’ and more as ‘the Noldóran’s haryon’ by most of them. Of course, not everyone was impressed....

Finrod finished his first court with a sigh of relief. He felt suddenly drained and yearned to go to his rooms and rest, but it was only just going on noon and his parents would be expecting him to lunch with them. He gave Herendil and Rúmilion a wan smile as the three congregated in the antechamber.

“So am I,” Rúmilion replied with his own look of relief. “I was so nervous, I was sure I would mix up the cases and embarrass myself and you.”

“You both did very well,” Herendil said, acting as their elder, though technically speaking, Findaráto was the oldest among them. “I know that his Majesty will be very pleased by the outcome of the cases.”

Herendil shrugged. “Even if he does, I doubt your atar will overturn your decision. As simple as that case seemed on the surface, you were able to see the deeper ramifications of the negligence of those two masters. Silwindil certainly is an idiot but Aldurilmon was simply criminal in his actions.”

“So I thought as well,” Finrod said. “Well, it is almost noon. I must change before I meet my parents for lunch. My lords.” He gave the two ellyn a bow which they returned before exiting the room with Amandur following behind him.

When he reached his rooms, he quickly changed, undoing his braids and brushing out his hair. He did not want to get into an argument with his atar over them, for he had not braided his hair until just before leaving for court, so neither of his parents knew about them. Or so he hoped.

“I heard some interesting things about your first court,” Arafinwë said as the royal family sat together in the sitting room enjoying their noon meal.

Finrod nearly choked on his cream of asparagus soup. “Already?” he exclaimed after taking a sip of water. “They didn’t waste any time, did they?”

“The ones who are only too eager to tell tales on me,” Finrod retorted with a scowl. “So what exactly did you hear?”

For an answer, Arafinwë reached over and lifted one of Finrod’s golden locks, giving him a meaningful look. Finrod sighed. “You said I could conduct my court as I pleased,” he said, glaring almost defiantly at his atar, this time determined not to give in. “That includes how I conduct myself as well. I know you don’t approve of them, but those braids are as much a symbol of my authority as the circlet I wore today, perhaps even more so, at least for me. I will not stop wearing them though I will refrain from doing so outside of court.”

“Fair enough,” Arafinwë said with a nod. “At any rate, you have matured enough I deem that your ammë and I will no longer dictate to you what you may or may not do, save where it concerns the Crown and you are bound as my vassal to obey.”

Arafinwë and Eärwen exchanged parental looks over their son’s head and silence reigned between them for a time. Only when the soup course was finished and the fish course — lightly seasoned fresh water trout — was brought in, did Finrod venture to ask a question, trying to sound diffident, but his parents could hear the underlying anxiety in his voice. “So, did they have anything else bad to say about me or how I adjudicated the cases?”

“Actually, what I heard was quite favorable,” his atar said as he pulled apart a roll and slathered honey butter on it. “The first case especially impressed them. When I assigned it to you I thought it was a simple contracts dispute and that it would be easily adjudicated.”

Finrod shrugged, feeling slightly mollified. “It was a simple case really. I’ve had to deal with ones that were far more complex and devious. I think Master Aldurilmon will most likely appeal the decision, though.”

“If and when he does, I will examine the particulars of the case most carefully,” Arafinwë assured him. “From what I’ve heard, though, I doubt I will overturn your decision.”

“As do I,” Finrod averred, “which is why I plan to contact the guildmasters and ask them to check on Aldurilmon’s apprentices and journeymen, to see that they are being given proper instruction and encouragement to develop their special talents to the fullest.”

“So, if you are feeling a little more confident, how would you like to have some more complex cases?” Arafinwë asked.

Finrod nodded. “But not too many at once,” he pleaded. “I’m just getting used to this all over again.”

“We’ll take it slow,” his atar assured him. “Most of the cases will be relatively simple ones, but I will throw in the occasional harder case and see what you do with them. Was Herendil helpful?”

“Yes, he was,” Finrod replied. “I didn’t have to consult him all that much but having him beside me made everything easier for me.”

“Then I will ask him to continue acting as your aide for as long as you need him.”

Finrod gave his atar a grateful smile and the conversation then drifted to other topics of interest.

Some days later, when Finrod joined his parents for breakfast, Arafinwë gave him a considering look. “I have received word that Master Aldurilmon has appealed your decision.”

Finrod grimaced as he slathered strawberry jam onto a roll. “What about the other master, Silwindil? Is he contesting the ruling as well?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Arafinwë replied, “but if Aldurilmon has appealed, he might also.”

Finrod nodded but did not speak, not knowing what to say. His atar seemed to understand and gave him a brief smile. “I promise that, if for any reason I decide to overturn your decision, we will sit down together and I will explain my reasons for doing so. You will then have the opportunity to convince me otherwise before I make a final decree. Is that fair enough?”

“Thank you, Atto,” Finrod said quietly, feeling somewhat appeased. He hoped that the other cases he had already adjudicated would not end up being appealed and his rulings overturned. It would mean that he wasn’t fit to be haryon of anything and that thought depressed him.

As it happened, not only did his atar uphold his original decision, but he ordered Aldurilmon to pay triple the amount into the royal treasury that was originally stipulated in Finrod’s decree. Silwindil, since he did not appeal the decision, only had to pay what had originally been ordered, much to that ellon’s relief.

“Aldurilmon is a fool and worse than a fool,” Arafinwë told Finrod and Eärwen later that evening during dinner as he discussed the case with them. “I could not believe the duplicity of the ellon. You made the right decision, yonya,” he said to Finrod with a warm smile. “If anything, you were too lenient, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“You didn’t, and I am very proud of you. Your solution was excellent and very similar to what I would have ruled had I taken the case myself.”

Arafinwë’s words warmed Finrod to the very marrow of his being and he practically glowed with gratitude for his atar’s trust in him.

That good feeling lasted for some time and as he was presented with more and more complex cases, successfully adjudicating them, he became more and more confident and everyone remarked on how mature he was compared to how he had been when he had first returned to Tirion. Only one of his cases which was appealed was overturned. When his atar explained why Finrod had to agree that he had made an error.

“I guess I was thinking of how I would have ruled had the case been presented to me when I was King of Nargothrond,” he said with a sigh after Arafinwë had given his explanation. “I forgot that things are done a little differently here in Eldamar.”

“That’s all right, yonya,” Arafinwë said, giving him a hug. “No real harm was done. And I have overturned your decision on a technicality about which you were unaware. I am surprised, though, that Herendil did not say anything to you about it. He would have known about this.”

“Herendil wasn’t there that day,” Finrod said. “Don’t you remember? His son’s wife was about to give birth.”

“Ah yes. I’d forgotten about that,” Arafinwë replied. “A son, I understand, named Vorondil after his uncle who died during the war. I’ve heard rumors that neither Selmacas nor his daughter were happy with Aldundil’s decision to name him thus.”

Finrod shrugged. Nothing to do with him and he didn’t really care. His ammë had seen to it that an appropriate gift had been sent and he supposed he would have to attend the naming ceremony for Herendil’s sake, but he doubted he would ever have anything to do with the elfling after that.

Several months later, as the two were sitting in the king’s study going over some court cases, Arafinwë informed Finrod that Amarië was returning to Tirion. Finrod scowled. “Why now after all this time? I was just getting used to not having her around and spoiling things for me.”

Arafinwë couldn’t help but laugh at the put-upon expression on his son’s face. “Yonya, Amarië has been away for years. I have delayed allowing her to return until I felt that you had matured enough emotionally to be able to handle anything she might do or say without getting into a screaming match.”

Finrod found himself blushing. “Sorry, Atto,” he said, staring at the floor.

Finrod sighed and looked up. Arafinwë leaned over and brushed a hand over his son’s hair. “Amarië loves you, and once you loved her. She was very angry when she was forbidden to join you in exile. When Ingwë returned to Vanyamar after failing to convince Ñolofinwë and me not to join with Fëanáro, he took Amarië with him, though she pleaded to stay.”

Arafinwë nodded, leaning back in his chair, “But I did leave, even though, in the end, I turned back. At any rate, Amarië returned to Tirion to help your ammë when I... well, when I was elsewhere.”

Finrod gave his atar a puzzled look, having noticed the slight hesitation in Arafinwë’s voice, but decided not to pursue it. “You know, it’s strange,” he said musingly. “Soon after my re-embodiment I began remembering much of my life when I was an elfling.” He shrugged at his atar’s enquiring expression. “I suppose those memories were needed to help me relearn things like walking, talking, feeding myself, all the things elflings must learn to function in society.”

Arafinwë nodded in understanding and Finrod continued. “Then memories of my life in Beleriand became predominant. Very little of my life as an adult here in Aman surfaced for a very long time. Even now there are blank spots and most seem to have to do with Amarië.”

Finrod gave him a startled look. “On purpose? Why would I do that?” he protested. “Do you know how much of a struggle it’s been just to remember the smallest detail of my previous life, something as inconsequential as my favorite color or what style of cloak I prefer to wear? Do you know how I cringe at the thought of a memory suddenly showing up out of nowhere at the most inconvenient moment, causing me embarrassment? Why would I purposely suppress any memory?”

“I don’t know,” Arafinwë replied quietly, “but I find it odd that it’s memories of you and Amarië together that you lack. It’s almost as if you’re afraid to acknowledge them for fear that you would have to go beyond simply remembering and act on those memories.”

Finrod shook his head. “When I died, whatever relationship we had or could have had died with me. We were not bonded. She was free to seek another.”

“But she didn’t,” his atar rejoined. “She remained true to your love for one another no less than if you were bonded in truth. You were very close to marrying, you know,” he added with a faint smile.

Arafinwë chuckled. “Close enough that the invitations had already been sent,” he replied. “Then the Trees died and nothing was as it was before. I remember Amarië saying that the wedding should go on regardless, but you were too busy preparing for our exodus and her parents, or rather, Amáriel tore up the betrothal contract, declaring it null and void and ordered Amarië to return to Vanyamar. When you offered no protest, I know Amarië was very hurt by your lack of concern. Since you were quite old enough to make your own decisions, your ammë and I decided not to intervene.” He sighed, running a hand through his own golden locks. “Perhaps we should have; things might have turned out differently.”

Finrod shook his head. “It is well that you didn’t or that she did not follow me to Beleriand,” he said, his expression grim. “I do not think she would have survived the Helcaraxë, but even if she had, in the end, she would have either died or been enslaved. Few escaped from the destruction of Nargothrond from what I’ve been told.”

“Do you think you would have gone with Beren had Amarië been there?” Arafinwë asked.

“And is not the marriage vow equally sacred?” his atar retorted, though there was no condemnation in his voice.

“Of course, but....” Finrod closed his eyes and sighed. “Artanis once asked me why I did not seek to marry. For all intents and purposes, there was no returning to Eldamar and so there would never be an opportunity for me to marry Amarië. I might as well seek a spouse among the Exiles or the Sindar even as she had found one in Celeborn. Or so her argument went. Yet, I knew that that would not be my fate. I knew that my death lay somewhere before me. I did not know what fashion it would take but I knew that I must remain solitary and unencumbered by any conflicting oaths and loyalties, such as would have occurred had I a wife and children. Their grief at my death would have been too great and, as I said, their own fates would have been equally dark.”

Silence stretched between the two ellyn for a time as Arafinwë contemplated his son’s words and Finrod lost himself in memories of his life in Beleriand. Finally, Arafinwë stirred and placed a hand on Finrod’s arm to get his attention. Finrod opened his eyes. “At any rate, Amarië will be returning soon. Try to be polite.”

The drollness of his atar’s tone caused him to smile. “Aren’t I always?” he couldn’t help retorting, giving him as innocent a look as he could manage.

The royal family was on hand to greet Amarië upon her arrival. Finrod watched with a pang as his parents embraced the elleth warmly and he realized that they loved her as their own daughter. His atar sending her away had to have been very hard on them both and he began to re-evaluate his own feelings towards her.

“Welcome back to Tirion, Amarië,” he said, greeting her with a polite kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you,” the elleth responded, returning his kiss with one equally polite. She gave him a measuring look as the two of them followed Arafinwë and Eärwen back inside the palace. “You seem different somehow.”

He laughed somewhat mirthlessly. “I would hope so. I’ve had decades to grow up, as it were.”

Finrod shook his head, not entirely surprised that she would latch onto that one particular image. “Not for a very long time,” he answered readily enough. “I outgrew the need eventually. So you see, I’m no longer the elfling you remember. I’ve even been taking up my duties as haryon, holding my own court and helping Atto with the running of the kingdom.”

Finrod now stopped in surprise, wondering why she was bringing that up. Was she trying to upset him? “No, no tree swinging,” he replied slowly. “Too busy helping Atto for such elflingish activities.”

“I see,” she repeated as they continued down the hall towards the royal apartments.

“See what?” Finrod asked, becoming somewhat annoyed but determined not to let her rile him.

Amarië just shrugged. “Nothing. It’s not important,” she said, then changed the subject. “Everyone in Vanyamar asked after you, wanting to know how you were.”

“I suppose I will eventually have to travel to Vanyamar and renew my relationships with my uncle and his family,” he said with a shrug. “Atto was talking the other day about sending me there to sit beside Ingwë and see how he handles his court, but there’s been no set plans.”

“Do you remember them?” Amarië asked as they entered the family sitting room, doffing her cloak, which Finrod took from her, handing it to one of the servants.

“Oh yes,” he answered, “though for the most part there are no emotions attached to the memories. They’re just there. I may have to actually be in their presence for whatever feelings I had for them to surface. I really don’t know.”

“Findaráto’s memories of his life here before are only just emerging,” Arafinwë explained to Amarië as he handed her a glass of wine, gesturing for her to sit between him and Eärwen on the settee while Finrod took a seat opposite them. “Most of them don’t seem to hold any emotional content for him, at least not yet.”

Finrod nodded when Amarië gave him a puzzled look. “It is as if I am seeing someone else’s life. There’s no emotional connection attached to the memory, at least not initially. Sometimes there is and it can be very overwhelming even if the memory itself is somewhat innocuous. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for why one memory surfaces but not another.” He gave her a rueful look. “It can be rather frustrating.”

Amarië nodded, “I see,” was all she said, though Finrod wasn’t sure she was entirely convinced. She did not ask any more questions about him, though, turning instead to fill his parents in on all the news from Ingwë’s court. He listened politely as she described some trifling incident or other involving people who were only names to him, all the while wishing she had remained in Vanyamar so he wouldn’t have to deal with her.

“Would you like to attend court with me?” Finrod asked Amarië a few days later as the two were strolling through one of the gardens. It had been Finrod’s idea to do so, which surprised Amarië but she had agreed readily enough. “I will be presiding over some cases tomorrow.”

“Nothing too complex,” he answered. “Rather simple ones actually. They should present no real problems and I will probably wrap things up in an hour or so. It will be rather boring, I’m afraid, but I thought you might be interested in attending nonetheless.”

“I’ll have Lord Herendil come and escort you, then,” he said and Amarië nodded.

As usual, Finrod appeared in court wearing warrior braids. By now everyone was used to seeing the prince sporting them and no one bothered to comment on them. Amarië, however, was not expecting to see him so attired and stifled a gasp when she saw him as he entered the audience chamber. Her expression became unreadable when those around her glanced her way, having noticed her reaction. She glanced about her as surreptitiously as she could to gauge the reactions of the others in the room. She noticed that most of the courtiers were of the younger generation, yet there were a number of older elves also in attendance. All of them had respectful looks as they listened to Rúmilion give the particulars of the first case. She gazed at Findaráto sitting with imperious ease upon his throne, nodding as Rúmilion finished his recitation.

As Findaráto had predicted, most of the cases were uncomplicated and the proceedings were actually rather dry and boring for the most part. Amarië stifled a yawn. She was surprised to see that the other courtiers were not looking at all bored. In fact, there seemed to be an air of anticipation about them that defied understanding. It was as if they knew something she did not and she resented it somewhat. She watched Findaráto as he listened to the complainants and passed judgment on them. For the most part, he seemed to be handling the cases quite well, consulting with Lord Herendil a time or two about a particular point of law, and asking the complainant pointed questions that seemed to get to the heart of the matter. His judgments appeared to be fair and she could detect nothing of the elfling she remembered him being as he sat there, reminding her more of Arafinwë in his demeanor. She had difficulty reconciling her memories of him with what she saw before her.

Finally, the last case was being presented, much to her relief. Amarië listened to Rúmilion giving the particulars.

“This final case, Highness,” Rúmilion said, looking at his notes, “involves a dispute concerning a horse.”

“It seems that a Lord Ornendil contracted with Lord Pelendur for one of the lord’s mare’s next foal. The mare in question is named Anarliltarë. According to Lord Ornendil, Lord Pelendur mentioned a lord of his acquaintance who had a stallion that he thought would suit.”

Findaráto’s expression became unreadable. “I see,” was all he said. “Please continue.”

Rúmilion nodded, glancing at his notes again. “Arrangements were made and Lord Ornendil paid the stud fee as agreed. However, before Lord Nambarauto could deliver his stallion to Lord Pelendur, another stallion, owned by one Caliondo, got to the mare first.”

“Ah....” Findaráto said, nodding. “Lord Pelendur, of course, is known to me, as is Lord Nambarauto, for they are both members of my atar’s court. I am surprised, though, that his Majesty assigned me this particular case. I would think Lord Nambarauto especially would have preferred the case to be heard by the king.”

“In fact, Highness,” Rúmilion said, “according to this petition, Lord Pelendur insisted that no favoritism be shown and that he would accept as judge whoever was assigned to the case. The others, apparently, had no objections.”

Amarië saw Findaráto narrow his eyes. “Hmm... Curious.” He turned to give Herendil a significant look and the ellon merely shrugged. “Very well, Rúmilion,” he said, turning back to the younger ellon, “let us have the parties come forth.”

Amarië watched with interest as four ellyn entered the audience chamber. She saw Pelendur and Nambarauto, whom she knew, but the other two were unknown to her. It was obvious which one had to be Caliondo, though, for he was dressed more simply than the others. She remembered that Rúmilion had not prefaced Caliondo's name with an honorific and had to assume that he was not of the nobility. Of the four ellyn, he looked the most ill at ease, bowing somewhat clumsily compared to the easy grace with which the three lords made their obeisance to Findaráto.

“Lord Pelendur, Lord Nambarauto,” Findaráto said in greeting. “And this must be Lord Ornendil and....”

“Caliondo, Highness,” Rúmilion supplied when Findaráto hesitated. “His farm abuts Lord Pelendur’s estate.”

“Straw and hay mostly, your Highness,” the ellon answered. “I sell the bales to the estates.”

Findaráto turned his attention to Lord Ornendil. “I understand you contracted with Lord Pelendur for a foal.”

“Yes, Highness,” the lord answered. “I have long admired Lord Pelendur’s breeding stock and wished to have one of the foals from his mare, Anarliltarë.”

Lord Ornendil shook his head. “I was undecided. Lord Pelendur suggested Lord Nambarauto’s stallion, Lossenáro.”

“Ah, yes,” Findaráto said with a smile, looking at Nambarauto, whose expression was impassive, his posture stiff. “A fine stallion. I have at times thought to ask you for the loan of your steed myself. I think Lossenáro together with my mare, Ringanárë, would make for a good pairing.”

Nambarauto’s demeanor loosened somewhat at Findaráto’s praise. “Perhaps something could be arranged,” he muttered.

“Perhaps,” Findaráto said with a nod. “At any rate, we were discussing Lord Ornendil’s desire for a foal out of Lord Pelendur’s mare. How far did the arrangements go?”

“I spoke with Lord Nambarauto,” Pelendur said, “and he agreed and Lord Ornendil paid the stipulated stud fee.”

Findaráto nodded. “But something happened before you could get the two horses together.” He turned his attention to Caliondo. “Tell me, Master Caliondo. How is it that your horse....”

“But aptly named, Highness,” Pelendur said with a scowl at Caliondo. “That horse is indeed impulsive, always managing to slip through fences and wreaking havoc. He’s somewhat uncontrollable in my opinion and should have been gelded.”

“I was hoping to breed him,” Caliondo said. “He has a good bloodline....”

“Bah!” Nambarauto exclaimed in disgust. “That horse is pure olompo, not a rocco at all.”

“A pity we can’t bring the horses into court so we can judge for ourselves,” Findaráto said with a faint smile as he leaned back in his seat. There were chuckles from the onlookers.

“Actually, Highness,” Pelendur said with a smile, “I took the liberty of having one of our court illuminators draw pictures of the horses in question.” He gestured to an elleth standing nearby who carried a satchel. She stepped forward, giving Findaráto a curtsey. “This is Arinyalcarë.”

“Mistress,” Findaráto said, gesturing for the elleth to approach. She handed over the satchel and stepped back. Findaráto opened it and drew out several stiff pieces of parchment, examining them carefully. Amarië wished she could see the pictures herself. She knew Nambarauto’s stallion but was unfamiliar with Pelendur’s mare or Caliondo’s horse. She noticed that several others around her also had expressions of curiosity on their faces. She saw Herendil lean over Findaráto’s shoulders to look at the drawings and the two held a whispered conversation for a moment before Findaráto turned his attention to the ellyn before him.

“I recognized Lossenáro, of course,” he said. “Mistress Arinyalcarë has done an excellent job of depicting him so I must assume that these other drawings are also accurate in detail?”

Findaráto looked pointedly at Caliondo who also nodded, though somewhat reluctantly, looking rather unhappy about the whole affair.

“I can see why you would refer to Master Caliondo’s stallion as an olompo, Lord Nambarauto,” Findaráto said as he glanced at the drawings. “He appears to be of common breeding, quite inferior to your own Lossenáro.” He looked up at Caliondo. “Tell me, sir, how it is that your horse managed to find his way to Lord Pelendur’s estate.”

Before the ellon could reply, Pelendur interjected. “The same way he always does, Highness. Hórëa is known among the other farmers and breeders for his propensity for crashing through hedgerows or finding the smallest gap in the fencing and taking advantage of it. I’ve found him wandering around my fields at least twice in the last six months and I have asked Master Caliondo to keep a tighter hold on the horse.”

“Are these fences and hedgerows common to the properties?” Findaráto asked.

“Only one hedgerow is common to both properties,” Pelendur stated. “I have made it a point to reinforce it with a stout fence.”

“Frankly, Highness, I have no idea,” Pelendur said in disgust. “Neither the hedgerow nor the fence has any weak spots that I and my people could detect, yet somehow the blasted animal found its way into my fields and covered my mare.” He glared at Caliondo as he said this; the ellon kept his eyes lowered.

“So, Master Caliondo, do you have an explanation for how your horse found his way onto Lord Pelendur’s estate?”

“None, Highness,” Caliondo said. “I have made it a point to pasture him in a different part of the farm away from Lord Pelendur’s estate. I thought it was well fenced, but somehow....” He gave them a shrug.

Findaráto’s brow furrowed. “And there is no doubt that it was Master Caliondo’s stallion who mated with your mare, Lord Pelendur?”

“None, Highness,” the lord said firmly. “One of my stablehands found him in the... er... act.” He looked suddenly embarrassed and there was some mild tittering among the courtiers. Amarië saw Findaráto smile.

Ornendil answered first. “When I learned about what happened I asked Lord Nambarauto for the return of the stud fee, since he obviously is unable to deliver his part of the bargain.”

“That seems only fair,” Findaráto said with a nod. “Yet, that cannot be the whole of it.”

“No, Highness,” Pelendur answered. “Lord Ornendil is demanding return of the fee for the foal, yet the agreement was that he would take possession of Anarliltarë’s next foal.”

“It is not the foal I desired, though,” Ornendil protested. “I wanted one whose bloodlines are superior to none. This foal when it is born will be of common stock, not worth much at all.”

“Yet, you clearly stated that you wanted Anarliltarë’s next foal,” Pelendur retorted. “It’s unfortunate that the foal will not have the bloodline you desired, but that is not my fault.”

Before Ornendil could respond, Findaráto raised a hand. “Lord Nambarauto, I think you agree that you should return to Lord Ornendil the stud fee.”

Nambarauto nodded. “I have no dispute about that,” he said. “I am here only because Lord Pelendur insisted since I am a party to the transactions.”

“Of course,” Findaráto said as he turned to Ornendil. “Is there a written contract between you and Lord Pelendur?”

“Did this oral agreement specify who would be the sire and was there any other witness to the making of the agreement?”

Now both Pelendur and Ornendil looked slightly abashed. “Actually, we did not think to have a witness,” Pelendur confessed. “I have known Ornendil for a long time and I know him to be an honorable ellon.”

“And I can say the same for Lord Pelendur,” Ornendil said. “As for our agreement... I have to confess I do not recall specifying that the sire was to be a specific stallion.”

“Then the agreement was just for you to take possession of the next foal Anarliltarë produced,” Findaráto said and both lords nodded. “Then, I am afraid, Lord Ornendil, that you are bound by your oral agreement with Lord Pelendur to take possession of the foal when it is old enough to be separated from its mother whether it is a common olompo or a true rocco.”

Amarië could see that Ornendil was not happy with the decision and could not blame him.

“However,” Findaráto continued, “I do not think you need pay the fee that you and Lord Pelendur agreed upon.”

“But....” Pelendur started to protest, but Findaráto held up a hand to still him. “That honor goes to Master Caliondo.”

“And you will not be able to claim the stud fee from Lord Ornendil,” Findaráto went on. “Indeed, you will also pay Lord Nambarauto half the stud fee agreed upon between him and Lord Ornendil. The other half will go to the royal treasury.”

Amarië noticed Nambarauto’s expression of surprise, an expression that mutated into something that could be called respect and there was a satisfied smile on the ellon’s lips.

“But, it’s not my fault!” Caliondo protested. “I did everything I could....”

“I was going to,” Caliondo averred, “just as soon as the harvest ended.”

“Which, as I recall, was two months ago,” Findaráto said in a mild tone. “No, Master Caliondo. I’m afraid it won’t do. You will pay to Lord Pelendur the price of the foal and to Nambarauto half the stud fee as I said, as well as paying all court fees for the other parties. You will also have Hórëa gelded as you promised. Let’s see if he is still impulsive in his manner after that.”

“The court of his Highness, Prince Findaráto, is now concluded. Let all depart in peace,” Rúmilion announced as Findaráto stepped down and made his way, not to the antechamber, but to where Amarië was standing, giving her a smile.

As they entered the antechamber with Herendil and Rúmilion following, Findaráto cast her an anxious look. “What did you think?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated slightly before answering. She was not sure in her own mind how to reconcile this proper prince standing before her with the overgrown elfling she had expected him to be. It had never occurred to her that he would actually mature as he had. Somehow the thought was unsettling and she ended up asking a question of her own. “Why the braids? They look quite barbaric.”

Findaráto lifted one of the braids. “These are Sindarin warrior braids, and they are as much a symbol of my authority as this circlet on my head. More so, actually, for when I left Tirion I did so as the elder son of a younger prince of the House of Finwë, not as haryon to the Noldóran. But you haven’t answered my question.”

She hesitated again before speaking, her tone carefully neutral. “I think you did well, all things considered.”

“Well, you’re still a Reborn. That hasn’t changed, has it?” Amarië replied.

For a moment, Findaráto just stared at her and she had trouble meeting his gaze for some reason. She realized that perhaps he had truly hoped for her praise and was about to amend her words when he spoke, his tone emotionless.

“No, that hasn’t changed,” he said. Then he gave her a stiff bow and without another word left the room. Herendil gave her a disgusted look as he followed the prince out, leaving Amarië alone with Rúmilion, who scowled at her.

“You could have been nicer, you know,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to be treated so coldly.”

“Maybe not,” the ellon averred, “but I still think you could have been nicer.” He headed for the door, then stopped and gave her a jaundiced look. “You know, I can see why Findaráto is reluctant to marry you. He deserves better.”

Anarliltarë: Sundancer [anar ‘sun’ + lilta- ‘dance’ + -rë ‘feminine agental suffix’].

Olompo: Horse in general terms. The word is actually given as olombo in the Etymologies, derived from a base LOB- which Tolkien subsequently changed to LOP-, OLOP- [see ‘Addenda and Corrigenda to the Etymologies, Part One’, Vinyar Tengwar 45:28]. Note that the Quenya form olombo, although left unchanged, could not derive from the base LOP-.

Rocco: Horse, specifically defined as ‘a swift horse for riding’ [see Letters: 382, and Vinyar Tengwar 46:12].

Author’s Note: My thanks to Nina for helping me with the details of the case presented here. Finrod's ruling is consistent with real-world decisions in similar cases, i.e. the owner of the stallion who gets loose and co-opts another's mare pays for everything.

To say that Amarië’s taunt about being a Reborn hurt is to put it mildly. I was furious. I had gone out of my way to include her in an important part of my life, to show her that I was no longer the insecure, elflingish ellon she had known before. In the end, though, I let it go. It wasn’t worth getting all riled up over. I remained unfailingly polite to her for my parents’ sake, though I have no doubt they both realized it was merely an act on my part. Yet I did nothing that they could fault me for, so they kept quiet. As the years and decades rolled on, the only thing that kept me sane, having to deal with Amarië on a daily basis, was the thought that someday my gwador, my heart-brother, would finally be released from Mandos and we would be together again. That day couldn’t come too soon....

“I am sorry Amarië did not appreciate your performance in court,” Arafinwë said to Finrod later that evening. “I do not know what is wrong with the elleth.” The two were in Arafinwë’s study sipping on some wine and discussing the cases that they had adjudicated that day.

“She has decided that as a Reborn I have no chance of ever achieving the level of maturity that she expects from me,” Finrod retorted, downing his wine in two gulps, too angry to really appreciate it.

Arafinwë frowned, but whether at his words or for gulping his wine, Finrod could not say and at that point did not care. He poured himself some more wine and sighed. “I know the cases today were rather ordinary and uninteresting for the most part, although that last case was rather fun, but I was hoping she would see me as others are beginning to see me.”

“She may just need time,” Arafinwë said soothingly. “You have to admit that in the last memory she has of you, you were not at your best.” He gave his son a sardonic look.

“I appreciate your efforts to be civil to her and to invite her into your life,” Arafinwë said. “I know it was not easy for you and I am sorry she could not be bothered to at least meet you half way.”

Finrod shrugged. “I refuse to be what I am not, even for her. She will have to learn to accept me, all of me, as I am and not as she would like me to be. I am not the same ellon who left her standing on the front portico of the palace, presumably forever. That person died in more ways than one.”

“I know,” his atar said. “Your ammë and I have had to learn that lesson the hard way as well.”

“Sorry,” Finrod said sincerely. “I know what a trial I’ve been to you both.”

“A trial?” Arafinwë repeated, looking surprised. Then he shook his head as he stood up and drew Finrod into an embrace. “Yonya, you have never been a trial but a joy. You are our child, our first-born, a gift from Eru for which we never cease to thank Him.” He smiled at his son and planted a loving kiss on his forehead. “Now your sister is another matter,” he added, giving him a wink and Finrod burst out laughing, knowing just what his atar meant.

“So, were Pelendur and Nambarauto satisfied with the outcome of the case?” Arafinwë asked as he released Finrod and resumed his seat, pouring some more wine into both their goblets.

“I was surprised that Pelendur insisted that I act as judge,” Finrod replied.

Arafinwë nodded. “Normally, such a dispute between nobles would have come to my attention but Pelendur told me that he did not want any favoritism and he would accept whoever was assigned to judge the case, even one of the city magistrates. Which is why I gave it to you. I was curious as to how he and Nambarauto would conduct themselves before you.”

“In the end, I think even Nambarauto was impressed by how I handled the case,” Finrod said, “especially when I ordered Caliondo to pay him half the stud fee that he had to give back to Lord Ornendil. He wasn’t expecting that.”

“A wise move and not absolutely necessary,” Arafinwë commented. “Nambarauto is not hurting and that stallion of his is often called upon to act as a stud.”

“I told him that I was thinking of mating Ringanárë with him,” Finrod said with a sly smile. “That really surprised him.”

Finrod nodded. “I will speak to him in the next week or so and see what agreement we can make. I don’t like the ellon all that much, but I do like his horse.” He gave his atar an innocent look.

Amarië watched as Findaráto went about his duties as haryon, noticing the respect with which others treated him. She had come to the conclusion that she had been in error in treating him as she had when she first returned to Tirion and set out to amend her ways. She still loved him, or at least she thought she did, and she wanted him to love her.

When the missive from Atto Arafinwë had come letting her know that she was welcome to return to Tirion, she had been of two minds about it. During the long years of what she deemed her exile, she had often wondered how Findaráto was faring and if he was still acting the elfling. He had written to her on occasion as duty demanded, but his letters had been devoid of any real emotion that could be called ‘love’. Still, her curiosity decided her and she made plans to return to what she had long considered her true home.

Her ammë had been less than supportive of her plans to regain the ellon’s love.

Her atto had merely kissed her, saying, “Follow your heart, child, and do what you think best.”

Thus, when she left Vanyamar she did so with her atto’s blessing if not her ammë’s. Now she was determined to win Findaráto back.

She waited a few days before approaching him, finding the ellon sitting in an arbor reading. He looked up from his book when he saw her coming, his expression neutral, neither forbidding nor welcoming her presence.

“I want to apologize for the other day,” she said. “It was rude of me. I guess I was still remembering the way you were before I left and I was finding it difficult to reconcile that image with what I saw in court. I think you handled those cases very well, especially the last one.”

“Thank you,” Findaráto said, though his expression was still impassive. He did shift his position on the bench, tacitly inviting her to sit, which she did. “It’s been many years since you last saw me. Did you think I would remain the same forever?”

“No, of course not, but....” She gave him a shrug. “I guess I was too wrapped up in my memories of how you were when you first returned to notice the changes.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” he said with a sigh. “It’s still not to some extent. Sometimes it seems a case of one step forward and two steps back, but Atto and Ammë both insist that I have matured dramatically over the last few years, especially since taking up my duties as haryon, something I had been reluctant to do.”

“Why?” Amarië asked, looking puzzled. “Your atar is Noldóran, you are his first-born and heir. It’s only logical that you would take on those duties traditionally assigned to the haryon, rather than to any of the younger princes.”

“But you see,” Findaráto said with a sardonic twist of his lips, “acting as haryon is a step down for me.” When she shook her head, clearly not understanding what he meant, he continued. “When I left Tirion, it was as the elder son of the youngest son of the Noldóran, one of those younger princes you mentioned. I had little to do with my anatar’s court, though when Ñolofinwë became regent after anatar removed to Formenos, my duties necessarily changed.” He paused, giving a chuckle. “I recall that I asked my uncle to let me head the department in charge of overseeing the butteries.”

Amarië giggled. “I remember that. When you came to Vanyamar to help out Ingwion while the High King was in Tirion giving Ñolofinwë his support, I recall you telling everyone that you would stay as long as they fed you.”

Findaráto grinned. “It worked too. Ingwion later told me his first reaction was to wonder if they had enough provender to last until the Remaking.”

Now they were both laughing. When they had calmed a bit, silence fell between them as they both dwelt on distant memories. It was not an awkward silence, but neither was it truly comfortable. Finally, Findaráto stirred. “When I came to Beleriand,” he said quietly, resuming his narrative, “it was as the leader of those who had followed Atto but now gave their allegiance to me. I was their king, though I acknowledged Uncle Ñolofinwë as High King, as did we all, even Nelyo, who abdicated the title in favor of Uncle as the eldest of our House. I was a king for nearly four hundred years of the Sun.”

Findaráto nodded. “Yes, but, don’t you see? I died a king, though I had given up my crown, leaving Artaher as my regent.” He gave her a pleading look, which surprised her. “Do you understand? I died a king, and now I am naught but the heir to another king. I... I have been... demoted in a way and it has taken me a long time to reconcile myself to it.”

“Someday your atar will step down and you will be a king again,” Amarië offered.

“Someday, perhaps,” Findaráto averred, sighing, “but not today or any time soon.”

Amarië stared out into the garden, not sure what to say. She decided not to pursue the subject of kingship further or to ask about his life in Endórë, a life she was not allowed to share. Instead, she said, “Of all those who left us, besides yourself, I missed Artanis the most. I always admired her bravery and in the years that followed I often wished I had had the courage to defy my parents and come with you.”

“I am glad that you did not,” Findaráto said with all sincerity. She gave him a surprised look. “Not because I did not wish you beside me, I do remember that I had such feelings for you back then, but because I do not think you would have enjoyed it. Our lives were harsh and fraught with danger and in the end Nargothrond fell. It is most likely you would either have died or been taken as a slave. That is a fate I would not have wished on you, or anyone, for that matter.”

“I suppose,” she replied. “Tell me about Artanis. What was it like for her? Did she reside in Nar...nargo... wherever with you?”

Findaráto smiled. “Nargothrond,” he corrected her, then shook his head. “Nay, she did not, but dwelt in Lestanórë with our kin, Elu Thingol, who is my Anatar Olwë’s brother, and his queen, Melian, who is a Maia. Artanis eventually married a distant cousin of ours, Celeborn. Atto says he met them when he was there during the war. I am glad they both survived, though it grieves me that she was not allowed to return with the others. Atto has assured me that someday the ban will be lifted and she will return. I hope so. I miss her, too.”

Amarië nodded, then gave him a small smile. “Do you remember the time she insisted on arm-wrestling Turcafinwë?”

Findaráto started laughing. “And all our other cousins insisted on arm-wrestling her when she defeated him. She won every match, much to their disgust and Ammë’s disapproval.”

When, sometime later, strolling through the gardens, Arafinwë and Eärwen saw Finrod and Amarië together, they were surprised to see the two speaking animatedly with one another, laughing over something one of them had said. They gave one another pleased smiles and continued on, deciding not to disturb the young couple, hoping that this was the beginning of a new phase in their son’s life and that he and the one whom they thought of as their daughter would eventually come to an understanding.

Arafinwë glanced at his wife in amusement as he heard her softly humming the traditional wedding song that was sung as the bride was escorted by her family to where the bridegroom awaited her.

He laughed lightly and gave her a loving kiss on the lips, which she returned. It was some time before they continued their walk.

And so, life went on. Amarië did her best not to harp too much on her and Finrod’s past relationship and Finrod did his best to at least be friends. His feelings towards her were still ambivalent. He had begun remembering the times they had had together but the emotional connection was still missing for the most part. He was not sure if it would ever come and he was feeling frustrated.

When he mentioned it to his ammë, she gave him a gentle smile. “Perhaps you should concentrate less on finding an emotional connection to the past and look for one in the present,” she advised him. “Forget what you thought you had in the past. If you truly wish for your relationship with Amarië to progress beyond mere friendship, then let it. Do not wait around for a connection that might never come. Forge new connections and see what happens.”

He considered her advice carefully and in the end decided to follow it. He did not think their relationship would go beyond being good friends, but at least he was no longer trying to make an emotional connection with her, but allowing it to happen naturally.

Amarië, when she realized what he was doing, was not happy but saw that she had little choice in the matter and did what she could to bring them closer. Arafinwë and Eärwen watched as the two youngsters engaged in a mating ritual as old as time and hoped for the best.

The Valar watched as well and there were comments among them about Finrod and Amarië.

“Do you think there will ever be a marriage between them?” Vairë asked her spouse one day as they were sitting together in her workshop. He had come to see how her latest tapestry was progressing. It was a depiction of Elros Minyatur addressing his people for the last time before returning the Gift of Life to Ilúvatar. Elros had died only about sixty years earlier.

“Eventually,” he answered as he admired the tapestry, which was nearly done, “if Amarië does not ruin it. Lately, she has been pressing him for a decision more than usual.”

Vairë nodded. “So I noticed. Well it should be interesting to see what happens when Glorfindel is brought into the mix.”

Námo gave her a sardonic smile. “That impossible ellon will certainly enliven things a bit, won’t he? And young Sador, as well.”

“I told him I would send Findaráto the message,” he replied, giving her a wink.

Finrod was sitting in his court, listening to a minor dispute between two farmers. He had already decided on how he would rule but was waiting for one of the complainants to finish his defense before passing judgment. As the farmer ended his speech, Finrod began speaking but was interrupted when the door of the audience chamber opened and he saw Calandil enter. That surprised him, for he was one of his atar’s personal guards and at this hour he should have been in attendance to his lord.

“Yes, Calandil, what is it?” he asked as the guard stopped before the dais and gave him a bow.

“My lord, this message has just arrived for you,” Calandil said and handed Finrod a piece of parchment. “I was told that no answer would be required.”

Finrod thanked him and Calandil bowed again before exiting. “Please excuse me for a moment,” the prince said to the rest of the court as he stared at the missive. It was a single sheet of parchment folded over once with a seal of the Sun-in-Eclipse embedded in black wax. He felt himself trembling at the sight of the symbol, which was so well known to him. He gave Herendil, standing next to him, a glance and the ellon handed him his belt knife. He carefully broke the seal and began to read, unaware that he stood, his face going white. On the plain parchment, written in elegant Sindarin tengwar were two short sentences:

Finrod opened his eyes, unaware that his Light of Being shone so brightly through them that many there could not look at him directly. “Nay,” Finrod said, attempting to sound calm. “There is naught amiss. I fear I must leave now. Please forgive me.”

Finrod shook his head impatiently, only wanting to get away. “I will have Lord Herendil reschedule you to return at the next court and will give you my decision then. Now, I really must leave.”

He stepped down from the dais and walked decorously towards the door of the antechamber, ignoring the looks of surprise and the hasty bows of those he passed. Amandur automatically went to follow but Finrod gave him an imperious gesture to remain behind. The guard was familiar enough with his charge’s moods to recognize when the prince wished to be alone and remained where he was, giving a rueful sigh as Finrod left. Herendil gave him a sympathetic smile as he went to speak to the two farmers, both looking nonplused at the sudden ending of their audience with the prince.

Finrod, meanwhile, took a moment to collect himself once he was alone, taking deep breaths and reading the missive over and over again.

“I’m coming Glorfi. I’m coming,” he whispered to himself as he opened the door to the outside corridor, and then, heedless of what others might think, he began to run, making his way towards the family apartments where he knew his atar was in his study meeting with his advisors, shouting with gleeful abandonment:

Tolo hi. Mellon gîn anglenna in Ennyn Aderthad: (Sindarin) ‘Come now. Your friend approaches the Gates of Reunion’.

Note: The number in parentheses refers to the chapter where a character first appears or is mentioned. An asterisk (*) before a name indicates that the person is deceased (if Mortal) or presently residing in Mandos.

Aearill (OFC) — Reborn Sinda who leaves Lórien at the same time as Finrod (16)

*Aicanáro — (mentioned) Noldo, Finrod’s brother, also called Aegnor (18)

Aldamir (OMC) — (mentioned) Noldo, Reborn, died crossing the Helcaraxë, was Brethorn and Saelmir’s roommate in Lórien before Finrod (13)

Aldurilmon (OMC) — Noldo, a master sculptor of the stonemason’s guild (35)

Amandur (OMC) — Noldo, a guard in Arafinwë’s palace assigned to Finrod (21)

*Angaráto — (mentioned) Noldo, Finrod’s brother, also called Angrod (18)

Arafinwë — Noldóran, father of Finrod and husband of Eärwen (mentioned in chapter 5, makes first appearance in chapter 16)

Artanis — (mentioned) Noldo, Finrod’s sister, wife of Celeborn, also called Galadriel (19)

*Artaher — (mentioned) Noldo, Finrod’s nephew, son of Angaráto, known as Orodreth in Beleriand (19)

Axantur (OMC) — (mentioned) Master of Ceremonies of Arafinwë’s court (29)

*Beren — (mentioned) Adan, son of Barahir, husband of Lúthien, friend of Finrod (19)

Brethorn (OMC) — Sinda, one of Finrod’s roommates in Lórien, previously a warrior under Fingon (8)

*Caranthir — (mentioned) Noldo, fifth son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, also called Morifinwë and Moryo (19)

Celeborn — (mentioned) Sinda, Prince of Doriath, husband of Galadriel (19)

*Eärnur (OMC) — (mentioned) Teler, Eärnur's uncle who died in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë (33)

Eärwen — Noldotári, mother of Finrod and wife of Arafinwë (mentioned in chapter 5, makes first appearance in chapter 16)

*Edrahil — One of Finrod’s Companions in the Quest of the Silmaril. Finrod confuses him with Calandil while out hunting (21)

Elindis (OFC)— (mentioned) Vanya, wife of Ingwë of Vanyamar, Finrod’s great aunt (23)

Finrod — Noldo, also called Findaráto, once King of Nargothrond, son of Arafinwë and Eärwen (1)

*Fingon — (mentioned) Noldo, son of Fingolfin (Ñolofinwë), also called Findecáno (8)

Gilgaran (OMC) — Sinda, Reborn, previously from Gondolin, a member of the House of the Tower of Snow (13)

*Glorfindel — (mentioned) Noldo, once of Gondolin, Finrod’s friend in Mandos (13)

Herendil (OMC) — Noldo, a member of Arafinwë’s court, father of Vorondil and Aldundil (22)

Hithrían (OFC) — Sinda, Reborn, previously from Himring, Maedhros’ stronghold (13)

Idril — (mentioned) Noldo, Daughter of Turgon, wife of Tuor, mother of Eärendil, present fate unknown, also called Itarildë (3)

Ingwë — (mentioned) Vanya, King of Vanyamar and High King of All the Elves in Aman, Finrod’s great uncle (23)

Laiqualaurë (OMC) — An elfling admitted into Arafinwë’s court as a junior courtier, nephew to Lady Laurelindalë (26)

Lirillë (OFC) — (mentioned) Teler, wife of Olwë of Alqualondë, Finrod’s grandmother (23)

Maglor — (mentioned) Noldo, second son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, also called Macalaurë (8)

Mardillë (OFC) — Noldo, a guest at the wedding of Aldundil and Calalindalë, a junior member of the diplomatic corps, sister of Serindë and cousin of Rúmilion (28)

Míriel (OFC) — Noldo, one of the Lóriennildi charged with tending the Reborn (9)

Mirilion (OMC) — Noldo, son of Silwindil who has recently become a master of the carpenter’s guild (35)

Morwen (OFC) — Sinda, Reborn, previously from Gondolin and belonging to the House of the Fountain (13)

*Nelyafinwë — (mentioned) Firstborn son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, also called Nelyo and Maedhros (19)

Nestadôr (OMC) — Noldo, Reborn, previously a healer in Maglor’s household (8)

*Ñolofinwë — (mentioned) Noldo, son of Finwë and Indis, brother of Arafinwë, also called Fingolfin (19)

Olwë — (mentioned) Teler, King of Alqualondë, Finrod’s grandfather (23)

Ondoher (OMC) — Noldo, a journeyman in the stonemason’s guild under the tutelage of Master Aldurilmon (35)

Ornendil (OMC) — Noldorin lord who is involved in a court case adjudicated by Finrod (36)

Pelendur (OMC) — Noldo, a member of Arafinwë’s court, owner of a mare named Anarliltarë (19, 36)

Rialcar (OMC) — Noldo, a member of Arafinwë’s Privy Council, father of Laurendil (19)

Rúmilion (OMC) — Noldo, a guest at the wedding of Aldundil and Calalindalë who is studying law, cousin of Mardillë and Serindë (28)

Saelmir (OMC) — Sinda, one of Finrod’s roommates in Lórien, previously from Gondolin, a member of the House of the Hammer of Wrath (8)

Selmacas (OMC) — Noldo, a member of Arafinwë’s court, husband of Tarwen and father of Calalindalë (22)

Salmandillë (OFC) — (mentioned) Noldo, a journeyman of the stonemason’s guild under the tutelage of Master Aldurilmon, Ondoher’s friend (35)

Serindë (OFC) — Noldo, a guest at the wedding of Aldundil and Calalindalë, works in the Royal Exchequer, sister of Mardillë and cousin of Rúmilion (28)

Telemaitë (OMC) — Noldorin lord who owns a stallion named Lossenáro (36)

Telperiën (OFC) — Noldo, Lóriennildë ministering to those suffering from Sea-longing (14)

Tuor son of Huor — (mentioned) Adan of the House of Hador, husband of Idril, father of Eärendil, present fate unknown (3)

*Turcafinwë — (mentioned) Noldo, third son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, also called Turco and Celegorm (19)

*Turgon — (mentioned) Noldo, King of Gondolin, father of Idril, son of Fingolfin, also called Turucáno (3)

Vardamíriel (OFC) — Reborn Noldo who leaves Lórien at the same time as Finrod (16)

*Vorondil (OMC) — (mentioned) Noldo, firstborn son of Herendil, died in the War of Wrath (22)

Aulë — Vala, Smith of Arda, spouse of Yavanna, appears to Finrod in disguise, calling himself Malantur (9)

Lótessë (OFC) — Maia of the People of Vána, teaches Finrod the art of basket weaving (11)

Morgoth — (mentioned) Vala, also called Melkor and Moringotto, The Fallen, now residing in the Void (3)

Olórin — (mentioned) Maia of the People of Manwë, often helps with the Reborn (1)

Ravenni (OFC) — Maia of the People of Tulkas, one of the sentinels along the Calacirya (23)

The Findaráto Diaries by Fiondil