69: In Search of a Lost Soul

They made their way as quickly as they could to the Blue Dolphin, with Laurendil, Haldir and Gilvagor in the lead, forcing their way through the crowd while Pelendur, Mithlas, and Elennen took the rear. Lindarion and Ingwion walked just behind the vanguard while the two kings walked just before the rearguard, leaving Finrod and Glorfindel still half-carrying, half-supporting Edrahil in the center. Beleg, Sador, Celepharn, Calandil, along with Eredhel and Dúnamdir, flanked the group on both sides, effectively screening those in the center. Passers-by stopped to stare at the small, fast moving group but none attempted to hail them or intervene, though there were many whispered conversations that followed in their wake.

Reaching the Blue Dolphin, they were glad to see that it was mostly empty of patrons, for the noon hour had come and gone. At their entrance, Margil and Belegorn looked up from where they had been sitting, going through the accounts, expressions of surprise on their faces.

“Which room?” Gilvagor asked shortly and Margil scrambled to his feet and led the way down the hall where the private eating rooms were located, leading them into the largest of them.

“I need hot water and bandages,” Arafinwë said quietly to Belegorn as he passed him and the ellon nodded, moving towards the kitchen to effect the king’s order.

The room in which they found themselves could comfortably seat a dozen people. Laurendil and Gilvagor, with Margil’s help, shoved chairs out of the way, allowing Finrod and Glorfindel to place Edrahil on the table.

“I’ll find a pillow and blanket,” Margil suggested and with a nod of thanks from Finrod left the room.

“How is he?” Olwë asked as they got Edrahil settled, Sador removing his boots while Glorfindel undid his sword belt. The others ranged around the room, staying out of their way.

“I don’t know yet,” Finrod said distractedly as he checked Edrahil’s pulse and looked into his eyes. “He seems to have fled deep inside himself.”

“We should look at that cut, Findaráto,” Arafinwë said standing next to his son, but Finrod waved him away.

“It’s a scratch and the bleeding has already stopped,” he said. “I’ll tend to it once we know that Edrahil is well.”

“Is he trying to fade?” Sador asked Finrod but it was Ingwion who answered.

“No, it’s more like when Glorfindel fled,” he said. “At least it has that same feeling.”

Finrod gave his cousin a considering look, then turned to Glorfindel. “Can you describe what you did when you... er... slipped your leash?”

Glorfindel grimaced. “I wish Lord Námo had come up with a better description,” he muttered. “Makes me sound like one of Turgon’s wolfhounds running loose.”

The others smiled grimly and Glorfindel sighed. “I can’t really describe what I did or how. I vaguely remember feeling fear, that I needed to keep running because if I were caught something terrible would happen.” He gave them a shake of his golden head and a rueful look. “Truth to tell, I have very little memory of any of it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Arafinwë said sympathetically. “Ingwë told Olwë and me about his own experience and even he could tell us little, except for the overwhelming sense of fear. He did say though that even in his fear he had a specific goal in mind as he fled, though he did not consciously know what that goal was, only that when he came to Cuiviénen he knew he had arrived even if he didn’t know where he was.”

Glorfindel nodded. “I had that same sense of needing to be somewhere even though I wasn’t sure where I was going, only that I would recognize it once I arrived, which I did.”

“Both you and Ingwë fled to a specific place,” Arafinwë said musingly, “a place with great meaning for each of you.” He gave Finrod a considering look. “Where would Edrahil flee where he would feel safe?”

“Nargothrond,” Finrod said without hesitation.

“But only in his mind surely,” Lindarion said, entering the conversation. “He cannot go their physically.”

Glorfindel shook his head. “Lord Námo said that I and Ingwë and a few others were able to flee into the Past and the way he said it leads me to suspect that he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.”

There was a knock on the door and Celepharn, standing beside it, opened it to admit Belegorn who was carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming water and several strips of cloth. Margil was right behind with a pillow and blanket. Olwë thanked them and asked that they not be disturbed.

“Unless one of the Valar or their Maiar show up,” Glorfindel said, “though I suspect if any of them do, they won’t bother to come through the door or even knock.”

Belegorn wasn’t sure how to take that, but bowed to Olwë and Arafinwë, assuring them that no one would disturb them and if they needed anything else, they need only ask. Then, he ushered Margil and the servers out the door, leaving them alone.

“Try calling to him, aranya,” Laurendil suggested. “Call him back the way you called back Lindorillë.”

Finrod nodded and placed one hand on Edrahil’s forehead, stroking it gently. “Edrahil, sadron nîn, come back to us... to me. Come back, mellon nîn, for I would fain not lose you a second time.” He spoke softly yet with a tone of command that would not be denied, yet Edrahil did not stir. Finrod closed his eyes and reached out with his fëa. If Edrahil had indeed fled to Nargothrond, even in seeming, he decided, then perhaps he could call upon his own memories of the hidden kingdom to aid him in his search for Edrahil’s fëa. He called up images of Nargothrond, remembering with as much detail as he could, hoping to latch on to an image that coincided with wherever in Nargothrond Edrahil had fled and a connection could be made, but after several minutes of calling and searching, he felt nothing.

Finrod opened his eyes, now full of despair at his failure. “I can’t find him,” he said with a sigh. “I’m not even sure I’m doing this correctly. I do not know how to follow him.”

“Does he have a Life Oath with you?” Beleg asked softly. Finrod nodded. "When we were hunting you and Glorfindel,” the former Marchwarden of Doriath continued, “Lord Oromë had us use the bonds that were growing between us as the anchor by which we searched for you. Would not such a bond be present between the two of you? Perhaps you can use that to bring him back.”

Finrod shrugged. “I have not yet felt it,” he said. “I think for Edrahil it may be too soon. I did not even remember anything about the Life Oath until Laurendil and I met again and he invoked the Oath between us.”

“He’s a Reborn,” Olwë said, his expression contemplative. “Where would a Reborn go to feel safe?”

“Besides up a tree?” Haldir asked with a wry chuckle and there were a few smiles from among them. Pelendur’s eyebrows went up at his son’s words, which Haldir ignored. “Lórien?” he suggested more soberly. “He’s only just been released from there, after all.”

“That makes sense,” Finrod said. “I’ll try there.”

“And if you don’t find him there,” Glorfindel said, “there is still one last place he would go.”

For a moment there was silence and a few of them had puzzled looks on their faces, but then Sador nodded, his expression turning slightly grim. “Mandos,” he said in a whisper, staring at the comatose Edrahil, his expression becoming more sad.

“Let me try Lórien first,” Finrod said quietly and the others nodded.

Again he placed his hand on the ellon’s brow and closed his eyes, calling to his mind every image of Lórien, especially those places reserved for the Reborn, that he could. He roamed through the groves and down the swards, skirting Lórellin where Lord Irmo’s colorful pavilion sat on the shore, calling Edrahil’s name over and over, hoping to find a spark of a connection between them, but after a time he realized the ellon was not there. Taking a mental breath, he steeled himself for what he needed to do next. The Gardens of Lórien faded from his mind and in their place he called up the somber gates of Mandos.....

****

Edrahil was running, but to where or from what he wasn’t sure. He only knew that he could not be caught, that something terrible would happen to him if he was. Somewhere a voice that he thought he knew called to him, but he refused to respond to it, afraid of what it might mean. He had no clear memory of anything after he and the others had left the garth and were heading back through the town. There was a confusion of images, but the one that made him quail was seeing his own hand around his lord’s throat. He gave out a strangled sob, shying away from that particular memory, and continued to run.

Eventually though he stopped when he found himself before a large gate of wrought mithril, shining with an inner light. It was closed and beyond he could see a building, beautiful in its alienness, for the architecture was just different enough from what one would expect to see in an Elf-wrought building to indicate that no elf’s hand had ever touched these stones. He stood there in awe, his hands clutching the gate, a deep hunger in his eyes and a longing in his fëa that he had not realized was there. He found himself reaching out, frustrated that he could not breach the gate.

“Edrahil, what are you doing here, child?”

Edrahil stopped, his fëa shivering with mingled delight and dread at the sound of the voice behind him. It was dark and melodious and he recognized it. Turning slowly he found himself gazing into the amaranthine eyes of the Lord of Mandos, the Vala’s expression not exactly warm, but neither was it forbidding. He was dressed in a floor-length tunic of deep burgundy velvet, with wide sleeves, the sides of the tunic split to the hips. Underneath he wore a shirt of pale rose figured silk and leggings of fine white wool tucked into calf-high black suede boots. The edges of the tunic sleeves were trimmed with a wide band of black velvet, as were the hem and the side slits. Sewn onto the trim were evenly spaced pearls. Upon his head he wore a wreath of morihelinyetilli intertwined with nieninqui and around his neck hung a mithril and gold pendant of the Sun-in-Eclipse.

“I... I want to go home,” the elf whispered, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the building behind the gate.

“But that is not your home, child,” Námo said gently, “not any more. You have to go back.”

Edrahil turned his attention reluctantly away from Mandos to look at the Vala, his eyes beseeching. “No, please. Don’t send me back. I... I did something... terrible. I can’t go back... please....”

“What did you do, Edrahil?” Námo asked gently.

But Edrahil could only shake his head in dismay, unable or unwilling to confess his crime. For a moment that might have been eternal there was absolute silence between them, then Námo gestured. “Come here, Edrahil,” and the elf came willingly enough, for he had been under the care of the Lord of Mandos for too long not to obey him. Námo took his arm and led him to one side of the gate where there was a stone-carved bench under an arbor upon which helilohti climbed. The two sat, the Vala giving him a considering look while Edrahil merely stared forlornly to his right where the gate stood.

“Tell me what you did,” Námo said again. When Edrahil started to weep, Námo took him in his embrace. “Tell me,” he said.

“I... I killed m-my lord,” the elf replied between his sobs.

“Are you so sure of that?” Námo asked, planting a kiss on the ellon’s head.

Edrahil nodded. “I had my... hand around his throat and I was... was choking him.”

“Did you see him die?” the Vala continued his interrogation, rubbing the ellon’s back to comfort him.

“N-not exactly,” Edrahil admitted somewhat reluctantly, “b-but I must have. I... can’t seem to remember what happened afterwards.” He looked up into the sympathetic gaze of the Lord of Mandos. “I killed him,” he said more firmly. “I don’t deserve to live anymore.”

“Odd, I don’t feel dead.”

Edrahil gasped and turned to see Finrod standing there, a wryly amused look on his face, and cringed, cowering deeper into Námo’s embrace, weeping even more. Námo tightened his hold on the ellon. “It took you long enough, Findaráto,” he heard the Vala say, his tone somewhat sardonic. “I was wondering if I was going to have to put up road signs for you to follow.”

“Forgive me, Master,” Finrod said, his voice still amused, “but I’ve never done this sort of thing before and frankly this was the last place I thought to look.”

“Understandable,” Námo said. “Well, you’re here now, so you can take him back.” Námo stood up and forced Edrahil to his feet as well.

“B-but I killed you!” the elf exclaimed.

“No, Edrahil, you did not,” Finrod replied, “though you were doing a good job of it. You were in a blood trance, do you not remember?”

Edrahil shook his head, though there was a dubious look on his face. “No. I... I see myself with my hand wrapped around your throat, but then nothing.”

Finrod nodded. “Well, we were able to bring you out of the trance before you did any real damage to me or anyone else. Come, we cannot linger here. Neither of us truly belongs here anymore.”

But Edrahil merely shook his head. “I tried to kill you....”

“No, sadron nîn,” Finrod said forcefully, grabbing Edrahil by the shoulders. “You were trying to kill what you thought was an orc. You know how the blood trance works, what it does to those who experience it.”

“But....”

“Do you remember when I suffered it?” Finrod suddenly asked. “Do you remember whom I attacked while in the depths of the trance?”

Edrahil stopped his protest to dredge up the memory of that incident. “Lord Celeborn,” he said.

Finrod nodded. “Not long after the Dagor Aglareb,” he said. “I was so embarrassed to have suffered it, not even knowing what I was suffering, for none of the Noldor had witnessed the blood trance before. When I realized I had attacked my own kinsman, nearly becoming a kin-slayer, I fell into a state of despair. Neither Celeborn nor any other of the elves with us that day held it against me, telling me that they knew it was not my kinsman whom I was attacking. When Elu Thingol learned of it, he merely held me and comforted me, assuring me that all was well, and that is what I am telling you now, Edrahil. All is well between us. Now come. We’ve lingered overlong here.”

Edrahil glanced uncertainly at the Lord of Mandos who nodded. “Findaráto is correct, child. Neither of you belong here any longer. Go back and know that none blame you for what happened, including me.” He leaned down and kissed the ellon on the top of his head and released him.

Finrod held out his hand to him and Edrahil took it. “I’m so sorry, aranya,” he said.

“I know you are,” Finrod said kindly, “but there is nothing to forgive.” Then he turned to the Vala, his expression somewhat wry. “I’m not really sure how to get us back.”

Námo smiled. “I’ll show you the way.” Then suddenly, Edrahil felt a wave of dizziness assault him and everything went black for a moment, but when he opened his eyes he found himself back in his hröa, looking up into the concerned eyes of Finrod and several others. He blinked a few times, trying to focus, and then sighed, a great weariness enveloping him and he slipped away into true sleep....

****

Finrod came to himself, blinking rapidly to clear his vision and saw Edrahil blink as well. The ellon gazed up at him and then sighed, closing his eyes and Finrod could feel him drifting into a natural sleep. A great weariness seemed to descend upon him and before he could utter any word he found himself slipping into unconsciousness, never aware of his atar and Glorfindel catching him before he tumbled to the floor.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Morihelinyetilli: Plural of morihelinyetillë: black pansy (Viola x wittrockiana ‘Black Prince’). In the language of flowers, it means ‘think of me’, from the French pensée ‘thought’, as well as ‘heart’s-ease’, the meaning Tolkien associates with this flower. In alchemical circles the viola family is associated with the planet Pluto and with transformation, doorways, death and rebirth.

Nieninqui: Plural of nieninquë: snowdrop, literally ‘white tear’; the Quenya equivalent of the Sindarin niphredil, which actually translates as ‘little pallor’. In the language of flowers, the snowdrop (Galanthus nivalis) means ‘consolation’, as well as ‘hope’.

Helilohti: Plural of helilohtë: wisteria, literally, ‘purple cluster’.

Dagor Aglareb: (Sindarin) The Glorious Battle which took place in the year 75 of the First Age.