10. Preparations

In which we have a glimpse of Oropher’s family life, Finarfin receives a gift and Ereinion calls a proper council.

Three weeks after Midyear’s festival

Sîriel frowned, seeing the state of disarray in their flet.

She had left early in the morning to join her hunting patrol, leaving her husband and son still fast asleep. Now, they were nowhere in sight and their daily chores showed signs of having been taken care of in a less than meticulous way, she observed ruefully, straightening a rug and folding up some discarded blankets and a spare tunic.

She placed her hunt –three young rabbits- on the makeshift table and put away the honey pot with an indulgent shake of her head.

Beside the pot she would use to prepare their meal she found a small army of roots, herbs and their daily fill of vegetables, ordered by size and colour, as it was her husband’s wont.

It was his wont, too, to forget that those little things had to be carefully washed -to put away the remnants of soil- before being cooked. She shook her head in exasperated disbelief. No matter how many years would pass, there were things Oropher simply refused to remember.

He would never forget, though, to pick up some flowers and place them in the hollowed branch filled with water that she kept on her precarious nightstand, she had to admit with a fond smile, reading the love in his actions as clearly as she read it in his deep eyes.

Once she had washed and got rid of the hunt’s grime she cooked the rabbits with the precious herbs and checked their water supplies. Then, she picked one of the flowers, fastened it to her dark hair and went to meet her husband and son in the training area, where they usually engaged in some sparring after their day’s work with the edain’s foresters was finished.

She smiled as she approached the place, seeing many elves sitting upon the fence, watching in amusement as Oropher taught their son, an already accomplished archer, the foreign art of sword fighting, something most wood elves saw as another of the Sindarin Lord’s eccentricities.

True as he was in his deep love of the ways of the wood-elves, and firmly convinced that a forest granted the most natural and free environment for elves to lead their life as Eru had intended for them, Oropher was, and would remain, above all, a true Sindarin lord to the very bone, his wife thought with fondness, watching father and son dance in the arena.

As such, he could not get rid of his organizational and fighting skills, his authoritarian streak, developed as one of Elu’s ranking counsellors, and his passionate defence of his people and those he considered under his protection, something that, most often than not, led him to argue fiercely against anyone he considered that was posing a threat to their well being.

She waved to friends and relatives as she sat upon the fence, enjoying the sight of the two golden elves indulging with plain joy in the last bouts of sparring. Their movements were elegant and coordinate, as they drew precise sweeps with their blades, eliciting steely songs from them.

Engrossed in the contemplation of that new form of dance, she almost missed a lone, dark-haired elf, standing apart from the rest, leaning upon the fence and following the lesson with an unmistakable air of longing upon his stern face.

Launching a sudden and striking series of thrusts, Oropher forced their son to retreat towards the fence. With a final swept, no doubt aimed at impressing someone, he finally disarmed the youngster and patted him with a fond smile.

“You’re improving each day, my son!” he proclaimed loudly, and then walked with proud strides toward the bucket of water to refresh himself, while their son picked up his sword and greeted briefly the lonesome elf standing by the fence right in front of them.

The king of the exiles! She suddenly recognized the dark plaits and fine features, and, above all, understood the reason for her husband’s haughty behaviour, as he stripped from his tunic and poured water over his head, letting the droplets roll down his powerful chest. She sighed mentally at that display of male warning signs, and readied to intervene when the scene about to unfold became too tense.

For now, Lord Ereinion was holding the sword Oropher had offered to their son some weeks ago with a deft hand and an appreciative look upon his face, while the youngster beamed proudly. Oropher joined them then, walking in deliberately slow strides and crossing his arms across his bare chest, looking at the Noldo with what Sîriel playfully dubbed as his “Sindarin” look.

When their body language began to change subtly, she descended from the fence and started walking towards them at the same time their son, in an unexpected display of diplomatic skill, left the arguing elves’ company and walked towards the water bucket where he waited for her to join him.

“…Your people?” she heard the Noldo say with barely contained amusement. “You mean those who gather around you in the house of words and let you rant endlessly, and then go back to work and help settling down while you sit here, sulking and doing nothing?”

She didn’t hear Oropher’s answer, though, for she had turned her attention to her son, who was rolling his eyes, too, at the only too foreseeable outcome of that conversation.

“How was your day?” she asked him, as he drank greedily and refreshed himself as his father had done, except that he kept his tunic on, she noticed, amused by her child’s modesty, or her husband’s lack of.

“Not bad. Some of the edain are truly interested in forestry. I believe they could learn... if only they had time...” he shrugged a bit contemptuously.

“It is not their fault, son, just make sure they learn the importance of caring for the trees, and they shall take advantage of it...” she admonished. “Come, let’s put an end to that conversation before your Adar hurts the king’s pride…or does something worse,“ she smiled, noticing with regret that she could no longer put a protective arm across her tall son’s shoulders.

“I have repeatedly dismissed your messengers and your cursed parchments. I’m not interested in your city-building games or in your councils. And be warned that I won’t allow my people to be bereft once again, you Noldolordling…” Oropher’s voice was low and menacing as they approached.

Sîriel sighed, searching for the wisest course of action.

“And you are so sure that I shall be the one who will despoil them…?” The Noldo’s voice held a tinge of exasperation and incredulity. “Look around you, Oropher. There’s not a single elf in this camp that has not lost a home, a family, a loved one. We’re all bereft, we’re all survivors, and we’re all Quendi. I’ll be the happiest elf in camp when I see you move eastwards, but while you remain here, I was counting that you would care for the fates of those who share your plights, as it is said that you used to do when you were in Thingol’s court…” he added evenly.

They locked eyes for a moment, and then Oropher extended his long hand and took the parchments Ereinion held before him with a brisk movement.

“Lord Ereinion!” Sîriel took advantage of the momentary respite to chime in and put an end to the conversation. “It is a pleasure to see you in our side of the camp, “ she smiled.

“My lady,” the courteous Noldo bowed to her and returned her sincere welcome smile.

“We were about to have our meal, Lord Ereinion, would you care to join us?” she asked playfully, enjoying the outraged look upon her husband’s face. “We, too, keep the poisoned meals in separate bowls,“ she prodded with a mischievous grin.

It seemed as if the Noldo considered accepting for a brief moment, but he finally declined with a bashful smile. “I’m most grateful, lady Sîriel, but I fear I still have some errands to fulfil before the day is done…please accept my apologies for taking advantage of your spare time and forcing…political issues upon…you…” he added vaguely, nodding towards their son.

“A father has nothing to hide from his son.” Oropher chimed in. “But then, how would you know,“ he added brutally.

There was an awkward silence as the king swallowed the insult, and Sîriel suddenly remembered having heard that the Noldo had been raised by Círdan.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the council, then,” Ereinion said in a steady voice, fixing Oropher in his grey gaze.

“You may yet rue it...” Oropher warned him.

“I’ll take the risk,” the king retorted with a forced smile, bowing briefly towards them and taking his leave.

“That was uncalled-for cruelty,” Sîriel softly reprimanded her husband, looking pointedly towards their son.

Oropher drew in a deep breath and finally nodded. “You may be right, my lady. I shall apologize conveniently and undertake whatever punishment you see fit to deliver,” he ended with a mischievous smile, putting one of his strong arms across her shoulders and steering his family towards their flet.

****

To the casual observer, the three elves standing at the easternmost end of the fishers’ quay offered a glorious sight. Tall and straight, they stood still looking west, as the last rays of Arien gilded their golden and silvery heads. They were the children of the three kings of the elves of Aman, powerful and blessed among the firstborn and beloved by the Valar.

To the three irreverent young Telerin elves spying them from behind one of the warehouses that served the unloading, though, they looked like irresistible targets for some mischief.

“What do you think they’re talking about? Valinor?” one asked.

“Most probably, they’re counting the days until they leave these forsaken shores and return to their blessed lands...”

“Mmm, they say at least one of them is remaining, and Olwë’s son is too engaged now with the Edain’s shipbuilding to be thinking about departing...”

“Well, at least the tall one gave up with that unbearable music of his...it is no wonder that they packed him to this side of the Waters, if he was bothering the Valar with such din…”

“That was their rendition of how Middle Earth sounded to their faer,” a fourth one, a dark haired Noldo, explained tiredly, “Not their current music. Didn’t you hear them on midyear’s festival? Ulmo himself came to greet them!”

“Or tell them to shut up? Maybe they expect the Lord of Waters to show up again?” one of his Telerin friends suggested, while the two others chuckled unrestrainedly.

“We cannot disappoint them,“ another offered, pointing at a nearby warehouse. “I think that roof would suit our purpose perfectly, what do you say, “Eglanion”? (1) Are you in?” the Telerin elf addressed the young king by the name they had used to provoke him as a child and that had later become just a familiar joke among his closest friends.

After a long, annoying day full of unpleasant meetings and petty chores, Ereinion needed some well-earned distraction. He had looked for Círdan or Erestor to share his evening meal, but any of them had been available. Strolling along the quay he had run into this carefree lot of childhood friends and had ended up stalking his allies and his own High King like a mischievous elfling.

“I’m in,” he said resolutely, “just be careful not to let them know that I’m with you. It would be most… unbecoming…” he added warningly.

“Of course, my lord!” his friends bowed with undisguised mirth, and the four elves walked with all stealth to the warehouse that stood closest to the water and to the left of the unsuspecting royals.

***

“You cannot be speaking seriously, Olvárin!” Finarfin almost whined, looking pleadingly at his brother-in-law. “Your place is in Aman, with your father and your people!”

“I’m not sure, brother,” Olvárin answered seriously, with a pained look upon his blue eyes. ”I’m beginning to think that I am of more use here. The edain are fast learners but they need much instruction and I cannot abandon them now, Arafinwë, I was Valar-sent aid for them! “

“For Eru’s sake!” Finarfin was close to despair, “Olvárin, think of what your father would say! And your wife?”

“You shall let me know, brother,” Olvárin answered, holding back an amused grin, “I wouldn’t be in your place for anything, though,“ he added thoughtfully.

“Olvárin,“ Finarfin tried another tactic, “I cannot go back with your ships, just guess what your people would think, were I to disembark in Alqualondë with no Teleri prince or crew on board!”

“I shall appoint some mariners to sail you home, my brother, and I shall write a message to my…your father-in-law, explaining my delay...and your taking command over my fleet,” he added seriously, ignoring Finarfin dismayed look.

“Olvárin…”

“It is my decision, Arafinwë, stop harassing me, I don’t see you pestering Ingil for remaining, and I would rather fear High King Ingwë’s wrath if I were you…

Finarfin breathed in deeply and looked seriously from his brother-in-law to his cousin. “Please, my friends, reconsider your choices. It is your duty to return to your people and to your families. Think of the grief you would be causing to those who are awaiting your return,“ he added softly. He looked at their set faces searchingly and then threw his hands up in surrender and walked away.

“He’s close to despair,” Ingil observed softly, after Finarfin left.

“Yes he is, isn’t he?” Olvárin answered gleefully.

“Don’t you think this is going too far, though?” Ingil asked his friend thoughtfully.

“Not yet! I enjoy seeing him so vexed. He is great fun to watch when he frets!”

“I don’t think the Valar would approve, Olvárin, “

“You’re angered because Ulmo made you stop that horrible din!”

“That’s not true!

“Isn’t it? Then why haven’t you played that atrocious tune since midyear’s dawn?” What did Ulmo tell you?”

“That’s none of your business.” Suddenly, Ingil seemed to be fretting, too. “I insist that we should tell Finarfin the truth...”

****

Ereinion realized that he had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, like the most innocent novice, a moment before he found himself flying down to the cold waters of the harbour and too late to stop himself, while his friends doubled up in laughter from the safety of the warehouse’s roof.

He hardly had time to raise his fist towards them before hitting the water with a loud slosh and floundering right before the two princes with what he expected would be a remarkable effect.

****

 “…And I disagree. It was you who started all this, after all! You will not spoil my amusement, Ingil, I warn you!”

“It’s not my fault that you decided to stay aboard climbing masts for two sun-rounds,” there was unconcealed mockery in the Vanyarin prince’s voice now.

“At least I wasn’t scolded by Ulmo for being an awful musician… he did care enough to come all the way from Valinor to berate you publicly…”

“He didn’t...”

“Oh, yes he did…”

An unexpected surge of cold water washed over the two unsuspecting elves, following a loud splash in the deep waters below them and cutting Ingil’s retort.

Both friends looked at each other in incredulity, their heads and garments soaking wet, and then turned their heads up towards the roof of a nearby warehouse where three Telerin elves shrieked in merriment like seagulls commenting on a fellow’s missed catch.

“Er…good evening, my lords?” The dark head of the King of the Noldor in exile emerged from the waters. “Care to join me for a swim?” he added, uncertainty in his voice despite his winsome smile.

Exchanging a quick look, both princes stripped down to their leggings and jumped into the water with a cry of revenge.

***

“My lord? Lord Ereinion is here…”

Dawn was almost there, too, and Finarfin dragged himself from his state of contemplation. He had spent the night awake, trying to come to terms with the fact that he would have to face two outraged families, beside his own, because of those stubborn and spoilt princes’ sudden decision.

There wasn’t anything left for him to do there, he had admitted ruefully. There was no chance that he would make his stubborn daughter change her mind, his brother’s grandson was as good a king of the exiles as it could be expected under such circumstances, and he was sure that, with time and good counsel, most grudges would be set to rest, or, eventually, sent Eastwards.

His task was done, and he couldn’t be happier to forsake middle earth. He hated it there, he had to admit, for even used as he was to pain and longing, the feeling was so intense in those fast changing lands that he found it almost unbearable to remain there and be constantly reminded of how much they had lost.

“Show him in, and send word for some breakfast to be fetched, Calmarin,” the king ordered, standing up to meet his early visitor.

“My lord,” Ereinion bowed before the king, who motioned him to a vacant chair.

“Morning, yonya,(2)” he smiled affectionately, “I hope everything’s ready for the council?”

“It is, my lord.” If the younger elf had been surprised by the familiar address, he did not show it. “I truly appreciate that you agreed to attend…”

“I’ll do whatever it is within my power to support you, you have but to ask,” Finarfin added earnestly, wondering about the cause for Ereinion’s squirming and fidgeting. He was holding a bundle in his clutched hands, something heavy wrapped up on a worn out cloth, and was turning it distractedly in his hands.

One of the king’s aides came in with some food and drink, and placed it discreetly upon a side table.

“What can I do for you, Ereinion?” Finarfin smiled kindly, a bit amused by the other’s plain discomfort.

“I...Well,” he shifted uncomfortably before finally placing the bundle upon the table and pushing it towards Finarfin. “I should have done this before, but, honestly, I forgot.”

Finarfin extended his hands and unbounded the cloth, pulling apart its folded ends and uncovering a wooden box bearing a twelve-rayed star embossed on its lid, a seal he knew only too well.

He traced the relief with shaking fingers, feeling his breath catch in his throat.

“How…when…?” the High King managed after some time, his voice a choked gasp.

“My father sent it to Círdan for safekeeping, short before the…fifth battle.” Ereinion’s voice was soft but steady. “I suppose he did have some misgivings about the outcome,” he added with a bitter smile.

Finarfin looked up for a moment and shook his head. “He knew where to send the things that were important to him for safekeeping…” he said in a thin voice. He extended his long fingers and opened the box carefully, slowly, as if dreading what it was about to reveal.

There, lying in a bed of rich red clothing, Finwë’s crown glistened in all its glory, its green, blue and red stones shimmering brightly, reflecting the morning light that filtered through the floating flap. Finarfin traced its rayed wings delicately, remembering how many times he had admired it when it had shone upon his father’s wise brow, in a time when hatred and swords were still unknown in the blessed realm and Finwë’s children were still a family, despite how strained the relationship had always been.

“It is yours, now, Ereinion,” he said brusquely.

“It is not, my lord, “ Ereinion answered evenly, but with a compassionate look upon his eyes. He had felt the same when Círdan had shown him the crown, some years after it had been sent to the Havens for custody. He had remembered then his father, and his grandfather before him, wearing it on happier days. “It is the crown of the High King of the Noldor, and it is only fair that it is returned to he who holds that position now….”

“But...you…”

“Those I’ve sworn to protect and serve shall not bow to me because I wear that crown,“ he smiled offhandedly. ”I still have to earn their respect. Keep it my king, and wear it with pride, for you’re no less worth of it than those who wore it before you,“ he added in a choked voice, kneeling before the king.

“Come, yonya,” Finarfin said, motioning the young king up and pulling him into a tight embrace.” I’m so proud of you,” he added softly.

****

“If you behave well, we may allow you to ride out of sight from time to time.”

Círdan had found the young king where he had expected, sitting upon a trunk, watching east from the vantage point presented by the cliff where Ingil had asked to have his halls erected. The Vanyarin prince had graciously offered that place for the council and had engaged his warriors in building an elegant and graceful pavilion walled with a deep blue canvas whose source was a complete mystery to the Shipwright, since blue dyes weren’t exactly a commodity in camp.

“How well is “well”? the young king asked in a discouraged voice after a long silence.

Ereinion had had some busy weeks, managing the many little details that made up the delicate tracery of the apparently fluid life in such a huge encampment.

He had dealt with the architects, and had sent them exploring the surroundings, Elrond on tow to prevent them from getting lost or too enthralled in small details, and had discussed drafts and needs with them until very late every night, after spending long days touring the camp, listening to the needs and complaints of every group of elves and trying to establish a system that would allow their needs to be quickly known and attended without them having to queue and fight for the king’s attention, with the efficient, although at times exasperating, support of Erestor.

He had imparted justice on petty conflicts and minor quarrels, and had been routinely accused of favouring his Noldorin kin, the Telerin and the Fëanorian’s sides.

He was tired, bored, and a bit frightened by the prospect of a long, immortal life spent in trying to sort out the fancies, grudges and whims of his unruly and extremely independent people, being the target of everyone’s malcontent and the scapegoat for every frustration. He looked with deep longing to the mountains that towered to the west and southeast, and the rolling lands and forests stretching beyond sight in between, and wondered how it would feel to ride away and get lost, and forget about duties and petty quarrels and paralysing self-doubt and overwhelming responsibilities.

 “Mmm, let’s see…provoking an allied lord to a public sparring match, ruining an allied king’s dinner, picking on the king of the Edain, or verbal sparring with your cousin’s Sindarin husband won’t help your cause…” Círdan sat by the king’s side with his usual casualness.

 “Círdan, I...” Ereinion was blushing crimson.

“On the other hand,“ the Shipwright waved his foster son into silence, “dealing with Oropher’s provocations, reaching agreements with the dwarf-lord and the Hîrdawar, arranging a truce between Elros and Olvárin, helping the Edain learn to manage their forests, supporting your shunned kin even against my best judgement, supporting the Peredhil and help them feel that they belong here, taking care of each and every minor detail that required your attention, and of many that didn’t, and, above all, dismantling Erestor and Elrond’s less than proper game in such a cunning and understated way do qualify as good prospects for you, young one,“ he said with a wide smile that warmed the young king’s worried heart.

“Splashing unsuspecting princes, though, I’m not sure where to place it, but, all in all, I’m very proud of you, son, “Círdan added softly, patting Ereinion’s back.

Ereinion sighed, comforted by the support but still worried. “I’m not sure that I’m fit for this, Círdan,” he confessed. “I don’t seem able to please anybody, and all my decisions are questioned and discussed as outrageous affronts to someone… what?”

Círdan was laughing heartily, a not so common occurrence, so Ereinion chose not to feel offended by the Shipwright’s merriment. “I’m glad to be able to provide amusement to you, though,” he said amiably, “would you care to explain?”

Círdan was wiping tears that ran freely along his cheeks and smiled “sorry, lad, let me tell you, you may not be able to please everybody, but, at least, you don’t try...”

“Is that good?” Used as he was to his lord’s more than strange views, this piece of advice was strangely unsettling for the young king

“Yes it is, believe me. You have one and the most important quality to become a good ruler, Ereinion...”

“And that would be...” the youngster looked very sceptic

“That you want to do it. You truly care for the people that surround you, and you do believe that it is your responsibility to care for their well-being. The rest can be learned, child, not even Ingil is free from mistakes, as Finarfin can tell us…”

Ereinion laughed in spite of himself and then sighed.

“It is very difficult, though.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that it would be easy, young one?”

“Did grandfather Finwë have to fill in such loads of paperwork before moving the Quendi to Valinor?” His father’s exasperated words in one of his long letters came to Ereinion’s mind. He sighed, remembering. “You’re neither a hostage, nor a ransom for my mistakes, child. Yet you are a son of the house of Finwë, born and raised to serve and protect your people, and that is your fate, as well as your duty, as sure as it has been mine, and my father’s before me…” “I know, I know” he admitted softly, “But yet… I never thought it...would become so…hard… It was easier in Balar…”

“It shall become easier with practice, child, do you remember when you first tried to sail your boat? You’re good with people, Ereinion; you have a talent for leadership and for joining people around you. You shall not fail…”

“I’m not that sure, but…at least I must try, mustn’t’ I?” he shrugged with an unconvinced smile.

“That’s the spirit, Gil-galad,“ Círdan smiled approvingly, using the anessë that had spread among the troops and many others in camp.

“Whatever it is that you shall become, my child, you are, above all, my star and my light.” Fingon had been warmly affectionate in his written exchanges with his exiled son. That was the reason why Ereinion secretly cherished the name that had spread among his troops, Gil-galad, because it somehow reminded him of the tall and kind elf he remembered mostly through a ream of carefully treasured parchments.

“You’re not mocking me, are you?” He gave Círdan a crooked, wary smile.

“Were I, I would have called you Brith-Galad…”

“Of course.” He sighed. “It is well thought, isn’t it?” he admitted with a tiny smile, “it’d even make me laugh, were it not for the contempt and scorn behind it….” he added softly.

“Take it as Oropher’s grudgingly manner of expressing admiration. He cannot honestly fault you for anything else…”

“If you say so...”

***

“My lords, welcome to this council. We have all been working restlessly for the last months, and I am only too grateful for the efforts and dedication that you all have put into helping our people make themselves comfortable in this new land. Many things have been lost, but we can now look to the future with some hope, as we step into a new beginning. All of you have expressed worries, and even complaints,“ he added evenly, casting a brief, if amused glance towards Oropher, “and I fear that not all shall be settled in this reunion, but at least I hope that we shall manage to establish the foundations for a stable council and an open and fluid relation.”

Ereinion paused then and searched the faces around him.

The council had begun, his council, and there was no turning back now.

TBC

A/N  RL caught up with me with a vengeance, and last chapter and Epilogue were drafted over a month ago, so I thought that maybe posting chp ten I would force myself to put an end to this quickly, yet I cannot promise, for I arrived yesterday and am departing tomorrow again, so please, bear with me… not that we don’t know how it ends, anyway….

Notes

(1) Círdan’s people called themselves “Eglan”, forsaken, and Círdan was the Lord of the Eglan. “Eglanion” could be read as “Son of the Eglan”, and it might have been used as mild insult to the fosterling…

(2) yonya: Quenya, my son.