Prologue: Homecoming

You are a handmaiden of Lórien, Melian reminded herself as she stepped into the throne room of Manwë. Once you were Queen of Doriath, but what is that compared to the glory of being a Maia of Valinor, one who had danced before the throne of Ilúvatar, himself? Such a small thing, a queen, and yet...

Melian faltered, the pain of memory lancing through her fëa almost like a physical blow. Around her Manwë’s court, a mixture of Maiar and Eldar, waited silently, watching, neither helping nor hindering her as she forced herself to keep moving. There was no warmth of greeting in their eyes, nor did any bow to her in respect for who she was, or rather, she amended wryly to herself, who she once had been. She had foolishly thought to hide in Lórien upon her return, shunning all who might have a claim on her, but in her heart she knew that would not happen. There was a reckoning to be made first.

At least, she thought grimly, I have not been summoned to appear within Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, as had Melkor long ages past. One had to find one’s blessings where one could, she supposed. Taking a deep centering breath, Melian continued forward, somehow managing the curtsey due to the Elder King and his Consort upon reaching the foot of their thrones. She forced herself to look up and almost quailed for she realized that all the Valar, even Ulmo, sat before her on their respective thrones. Worse still, she noticed that Manwë himself wore the Crown of Arda, an intricately wrought crown of mithril with a single large diamond set in the center, glittering with sapphirine brilliance in Arien’s light that streamed through the high windows on the east side of the great reception hall.

Rarely did the Elder King wear this particular crown of state, preferring instead a simple coronet of silver on most occasions, even the most solemn ones. That he wore this particular crown did not bode well for her she deemed.

Varda, on the other hand, wore her usual crown of stars, having never bothered with a crown of state, although Aulë had fashioned one for her that matched Manwë’s crown. Each of the other Valar, though, wore simple coronets, if they bothered to wear any crown at all. None looked particularly happy to see her, especially Mandos.

Melian kept her eyes on Manwë, waiting for him to greet her. For an interminable moment the Elder King looked gravely upon her, the two Eagles gracing the back of his throne cocking their heads to stare at her, measuring her in their own fashion. Then, Manwë smiled, ever so slightly.

“Na mai tulë, tári Melyanna. Na mai tulë mardelyanna, nettenya.”

Melian struggled to keep the shock she felt from her expression. Ever since Elu had forbidden the language of the Noldor princes to be spoken within his realm she had studiously forgotten it. It took her a brief moment to realize that Manwë had spoken Quenya for the benefit of the Eldar who were attending the court, not as an insult to her. None of the Elves there, she now noticed, were Sindar or even Silvan. None would have any reason to know the language of Doriath.

“I am a queen no longer, sire,” she said in the same language. “And as for Valinor being home…”

Images of Menegroth flashed through her mind and she wondered if she would ever call any place “home” again.

“You have returned to us, my sister,” Manwë said compassionately, “and we rejoice that it is so, though the circumstances of your return be direful.”

She nodded, acknowledging the Elder King’s concern. She turned her gaze to Mandos, sitting sternly on Manwë’s right.

“Elu—“

“Remains with me for a time,” Mandos said.

She nodded, expecting no less. “May I speak—“

Mandos shook his head. “You will not be able to speak with Elu Thingol until the time of his reimbodiment.”

She had thought as much but hearing it from Mandos’ lips was like experiencing her husband’s death all over again. Mandos’ stern features seemed to soften somewhat.

“You both need time apart to reflect on things, I deem, Queen of Doriath. Allow Elu this time alone. When he is ready, he will come to you.”

“In the meantime, my dear,” Varda spoke for the first time, “what are your plans? Where do you go? Will you return to Lórien to dance upon the green as you once did? Will you be once more a handmaiden to my brother Irmo or will you go to Tol Eressëa to live amongst your husband’s kin as their queen?”

Melian shook her head. “I am queen of no realm now, Lady, nor anyone’s handmaiden. I am—”

But what she was she did not know and the thought of it nearly undid her and she found she could not continue. Tears, tears she had never shed even when Elu lay dying in her arms, began to flow and to her embarrassment she found she could not stop.

It was Nienna who came to her rescue, rising from her throne and coming to place a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“You need time to grieve, Melian,” the Vala said softly, nearly weeping herself. “Come with me. There will be time for dancing later.”

Melian looked up at the Vala, still weeping. “I will go with you, my lady, but I fear I will never dance again.”

Now Manwë came down from his seat to stand before her, bending down to give her a kinsman’s kiss and wiping away her tears with his fingers. “Forever is a very long time even for us, muinthel nîn,” he whispered to her. Then he stepped back and in a louder voice said, “Go now with Nienna and find what comfort you may.”

Melian curtsied again and allowed Nienna to lead her away. She was no longer weeping but in her misery she barely looked up, so she did not notice the Maiar and Eldar bowing as she passed them.

****

Na mai tulë, tári Melyanna. Na mai tulë mardelyanna, nettenya: (Quenya) Be well come, Queen Melian. Be well come to your home, my sister.

muinthel nîn: (Sindarin) my sister.