75: A Fateful Encounter in Avallónë

Avallónë proved to be a larger and busier port than Tavrobel. The amount of traffic coming in and out of the harbor even this early in the morning fascinated the Amanians as they lined the rails of their ships to watch. There was an air of excitement all about and the bustling activity on the quays made Tavrobel seem like a sleepy little fishing village by comparison. Several ships were seen heading out as they were arriving, even as one lone grey ship appeared out of the glare of the rising sun.

“Look!” Mithlas cried, pointing. “A ship from Lindon.”

“Where are those other ships heading?” Finrod asked Gilvagor, who was standing next to him. “They don’t appear to be fishing ships.”

“They’re heading for Númenor,” Gilvagor told him, pointing to the horizon where they could just make out a greyish-green smudge of land. “Many elves sail there to bring gifts to the Mortals.”

“Have you ever been there?” Finrod asked curiously.

Gilvagor shook his head. “My life is here now,” he answered. He gave Finrod a shrewd look. “You could go there if you wish. None would gainsay you.”

Finrod gazed out onto the sea and the ships and slowly shook his head. “No. As with you, my life is here now. I will go no further east than Tol Eressëa while Arda lasts.”

They continued to watch as smaller boats, obviously fishing boats, headed out into the wider ocean. They could hear the sailors singing a sea chanty. Then, they were passing the harbor bar and got their first real glimpse of Avallónë. There were gasps of surprise all around at the sight. Where Tavrobel was built mostly of wood, Avallónë was constructed of white stones that gleamed in the morning light. There were soaring towers upon which colorful pennants flew, the sound of them snapping in the sea breeze audible even from the ships. The city rose from the harbor, surrounded by a wall, but they could see beautiful villas dotting the headlands surrounded by flourishing gardens.

“They modeled the city after those of the Falasseldi,” Gilvagor told Finrod as they stood gazing at the port.

Finrod nodded. “I was at Brithombar once, where I met Lord Círdan. My uncle sent a delegation of the Noldor to him shortly after we arrived in Beleriand and asked me to lead it.”

“I remember Fingolfin sending the delegation,” Gilvagor said, now speaking softly in Sindarin. “I was unaware that you were leading it.”

Finrod gave him a wry smile. “Actually, Fingon was leading it,” he answered, speaking Sindarin as well, “at least, that is what everyone thought. My uncle gave me certain instructions.”

Gilvagor gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t understand. Why would Fingon be given the leadership of the delegation only in seeming?”

“It was a ruse to get him out of the way,” Finrod said. “He was still mourning the loss of Maedhros. This was before he went alone in search of his cousin and best friend, you understand.”

Gilvagor nodded. “I remember how upset Fingolfin was when his eldest son and heir disappeared one day shortly after the delegation to Círdan returned.”

Finrod barked a laugh. “Upset is not the word I would have used. My uncle was beyond furious. At any rate, I think Fingon made the decision to go in search of Maedhros while we were returning from Brithombar.”

“Did he know he was not the actual head of the delegation?” Gilvagor asked, intrigued.

“He was despondent, Gilvagor, not stupid,” Finrod answered with a wide grin. “At any rate, he acknowledged the fact that in his present state of mind he was in no mood to be polite to anyone, least of all to some — how did he put it? — ‘Telerin fishmonger with pretensions to lordship’.”

Gilvagor raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “He actually called Lord Círdan that?”

“Well, not to his face,” Finrod said slyly and Gilvagor couldn’t help but laugh.

By now, they were reaching the quays and there were glad greetings between the sailors and the dockworkers. Soon, the two ships bearing the royal standards of the kings of Aman were docked and all disembarked. Unlike at Tavrobel, there was an actual delegation of elves awaiting them further along the wharf, or so they thought. A large group of people stood together, yet Finrod noticed that their attention was not on them and the expressions on the faces of most in the group were more anxious than welcoming, their eyes gazing outward. He followed their gaze and saw that the grey ship that had appeared out of the east was now gliding effortlessly into the harbor, docking at a nearby quay.

The Amanians stood and watched as the group of elves surged forward toward the grey ship where people were slowly beginning to disembark. Finrod could see that some of them needed help in leaving the ship. When one ellon nearly collapsed as he was being led down the gangplank, Finrod acted without conscious thought.

“Glorendil, Eärnur, godolo lim nin!” he commanded and before anyone could utter a protest, he was running down the quay, dodging laborers, with Laurendil and Eärnur right behind, making his way to the other dock.

Lindarion stared after his nephew in consternation, then turned to Arafinwë. “I don’t remember him being so... forceful.”

“That’s because you never saw him when he was King of Nargothrond,” Edrahil answered with a knowing grin before Arafinwë could speak.

Lindarion merely raised an eyebrow. Arafinwë exchanged an amused look with Olwë, then turned to the others. “Shall we go see if we can help?” he asked and there were nods all around as they made their way along the quay.

Finrod, meanwhile, had reached the other ship, politely, but insistently pushing his way past the people gathered at the wharf. Laurendil took the initiative, shouting, “Make way! Healers!” and the crowd opened up, allowing the three to pass through. The ellon who had nearly collapsed as he was being led from the ship was lying beside the gangplank surrounded by several people, presumably family or friends. Again, Laurendil shouted, “Healers! Make way!” and a few of those around the fallen ellon stepped aside, giving them room.

Finrod knelt beside the ellon, a Noldo, who appeared pale and almost unconscious. The prince stared at him for a moment, his eyes full of concern. He brushed the ellon’s hair in a gentle manner. “Water,” he demanded without even looking up, holding a hand out. Someone rushed to where a water barrel stood nearby and, grabbing a metal pan, scooped some water into it before returning to Finrod. Laurendil took the pan with a smile of thanks and knelt beside Finrod.

“Here, aranya,” he said quietly, “if you hold him up I’ll give him the water.”

Finrod nodded, shifting his position slightly. “He looks so pale and faded,” Finrod whispered. “I hardly recognized him.”

“You know him?” Eärnur asked in surprise where he was kneeling on the other side of the ellon, competently checking his vitals.

“We both do,” Finrod replied. Then, he bent down slightly, brushing the ellon’s hair out of his eyes, and kissed him gently on the brow. “Lasgalad,” he whispered in Sindarin. “Stay with us, mellon nîn. Heed not Lord Námo’s call.”

“Come, Lasgalad,” Laurendil then said, also speaking Sindarin. “Is this any way for one of my rangers to act? Eregil would be most displeased.”

Lasgalad fluttered opened his eyes. “Eregil is dead,” he whispered in a rasping voice.

“Hah! That’s what you think, you orc-brained fool.”

They all turned at the sound of the voice coming towards them. It was Eregil, who had rushed ahead when he, too, recognized the ellon. His expression of dismay and concern belied the light tone of his voice. He knelt beside Laurendil. “Ah, Lasgalad,” he said sadly. “You were always the most stubborn of us. Why did you wait so long before coming?”

But Lasgalad had slipped into unconsciousness by then and gave no answer. Finrod took command. “Let’s get him somewhere more comfortable,” he said.

“Here, lord, let me help.” It was the ellon who had been bringing Lasgalad off the ship. “My name is Iorlas. I am a friend of Lasgalad.”

“Thank you,” Finrod said graciously as he stood, glancing around. “Gilvagor, let’s get everyone to wherever you were planning on lodging us. We’ll bring Lasgalad and Iorlas with us and let the rest of these good people depart with their loved ones.” He nodded towards the group of people that had originally come to meet the ship and its passengers, ignoring the whispers and stares as they and those from the ship slowly came to the realization of who he was.

Gilvagor nodded. “As you wish, Finrod,” he said, deliberately using the prince’s name without any honorific, thereby causing several eyebrows to lift among the bystanders at the unexpected familiarity. Finrod didn’t even blink. “I arranged for one of the villas just outside the city to be given over for our use while we are here.”

By now the others in their group had reached the ship. Arafinwë gave his son a considering look. “Another of yours?” he asked as Laurendil and Eärnur continued checking Lasgalad’s condition, speaking softly to Iorlas, who was telling them something of his history and his friendship with the unconscious Noldo.

Finrod nodded. “Yes, Atar, another of mine. His name is Lasgalad, though I think he was known in Tirion as Calilassë, and that’s a friend of his, Iorlas. I think it best if we bring them along. Gilvagor has secured for us one of the villas.”

“Then, let us hence,” Arafinwë said, and without further ado he bent down and lifted the unconscious ellon into his arms, much to the amazement of those watching from the sidelines. “Celepharn, help Iorlas with any baggage they might have. We’ll wait for you at the end of the wharf. Gilvagor, how far is this villa?”

Gilvagor pointed to the north where they could see several villas overlooking the city. “It’s just there, lord,” he replied. “The road goes that way. I would guess it is a ten or fifteen minute walk from here, no more.”

Arafinwë nodded. “Lead the way then,” he said and in short order the Amanians were making their way off the quay and onto the road leading north towards the villas. Pedestrians stopped and stared, moving quickly out of the way as Gilvagor, along with Edrahil, Glorfindel and Beleg, acted as the vanguard. The two Lóriennildi walked on either side of Arafinwë, keeping clinical watch on their patient. Finrod strode behind them with Iorlas, who looked somewhat out of his depth.

“Do you have family here, Iorlas?” Finrod asked quietly as they moved along the street which now was winding up through the hills surrounding the city.

“No, lord,” Iorlas said. “All my kin are still living in Lindon. I came with Lasgalad out of friendship, for I did not wish for him to sail alone without anyone who knew him, especially in his condition.”

“He left it rather late,” Laurendil said, having heard the conversation between Finrod and Iorlas.

“It is not the Sea-longing, though,” Eärnur stated, having divined something of what was being said, for the three were speaking in Sindarin. “The symptoms are similar but there is something else.”

Finrod translated for Iorlas, who nodded. “He was poisoned by an orc arrow,” he explained. Now Manwen, walking beside her husband, acted as translator for the rest of the group.

“Orcs!” Mithlas exclaimed from where he was walking, acting as one of the perimeter guards. “There cannot be any orcs in the vicinity of Lindon, surely?”

Iorlas shook his head. “No, but there were rumors that orcs were multiplying again east of the Ered Luin,” he said. “Dwarves from Belegost sent word to Gil-galad and he sent out patrols. Lasgalad and I were in one such patrol and there was indeed a small band of orcs hiding out in the northern reaches of the mountains. We were fighting side-by-side when suddenly Lasgalad shouted and pushed me to the ground, taking the arrow meant for me. Luckily, it did not strike a vital spot but the poison on the arrowhead was quick and he collapsed almost immediately. It took us days to reach Lindon where he could get adequate treatment. None of us in the patrol had any real knowledge of healing or poisons. I saved the arrowhead and gave it to Lord Elrond, Gil-galad’s chief healer. He was able to counteract the poison, but only to a point and told us that if Lasgalad did not sail he would surely die.”

He paused, giving a sigh. “He had no family that I knew of still in Lindon and so I said I would accompany him even though I had no real desire to leave my home.”

“Your sacrifice will not be in vain, Iorlas,” Finrod said quietly, laying a hand on the ellon’s shoulder to give him some comfort.

“I felt... responsible for his being struck down,” Iorlas tried to explain. “The arrow was meant for me....”

“That is foolish thinking, hinya,” Olwë said suddenly from where he was walking with Lindarion, Amarië and Alassiel. “You are not responsible for the decisions made by others. Would you have done the same if the situation had been reversed?” Iorlas nodded but said nothing. “Then do not dishonor your friend’s sacrifice with such foolishness. Accept that you came with him out of love for him as a friend, not wishing him to be alone among strangers.”

“But I did not truly wish to leave,” Iorlas said forlornly. “I... I was going to ask Ivorwen to...to....” But he could not finish his words and Finrod wrapped an arm around the ellon’s shoulders and held him as they continued climbing the road. The others gave Iorlas sympathetic looks as they realized what he had given up by accompanying his friend to Tol Eressëa.

By then, they had come into the hills and Gilvagor led them along a pleasant lane that headed northwest until they reached a gated wall. The gate stood open and they filed through. “The villa belongs to a friend of mine,” Gilvagor explained as they made their way up the path. “He was on one of those ships that we saw heading for Númenor and will not return until late autumn before the winter seas make travel difficult.”

When they reached the villa they found several people waiting for them. One, an elleth, stepped forward and curtsied. “I am Faelivrin, Lord Ithildor’s chatelaine. Be welcome, my lords and ladies. Lord Gilvagor, my lord Ithildor sends you his greetings and good wishes for a successful Progress.”

“Thank you, Mistress Faelivrin,” Gilvagor said for them all. “We have a companion who arrived on the ship from Lindon and is gravely ill....”

“Speak no further, lord,” the chatelaine said. “I was going to introduce you to the rest of the staff, but that can wait. If you will follow me, I will show you where you can bring your friend.”

With that, she turned and began issuing orders to the other members of Lord Ithildor’s household and there was a flurry of activity as the servants began helping with baggage and supplies while Faelivrin led the others into the villa. “Here,” she said, opening a door leading into a dayroom. “This room is close to both the kitchen and Lord Ithildor’s herb garden. He has many medicinal plants growing there. I can send for a healer....”

“No need,” Arafinwë said as he laid the still unconscious Lasgalad on a sofa. “We have three healers with us.”

“If you could have someone on the staff help with fetching supplies for us,” Laurendil said, “that would be a great help.”

“Of course,” Faelivrin said. “I’ll send Berethrandir to help. He is the most knowledgeable about Lord Ithildor’s herb garden, for he often works in it at my lord’s side.”

With that, she gave them a curtsey and left. Iorlas was helping Laurendil and Eärnur remove Lasgalad’s outer tunic so the healers could examine the arrow wound and determine the course of treatment. Iorlas was explaining to them what sort of poison was found on the arrowhead and what Lord Elrond had done to treat the ellon.

“Here,” he fumbled at a pouch on his belt. “Lord Elrond wrote out a description of all that he did in treating Lasgalad.” He fished out a sheaf of paper and thrust them at Eärnur, who took a quick glance at them, ready to hand them to Laurendil, for he assumed that the healer’s report would be written in Sindarin. To his surprise, though, he saw that the report was written in Quenya. He did not stop to question Iorlas about it, but quickly read what was written, nodding to himself. Whoever this Lord Elrond was, he was obviously a very competent healer, very much a master of his craft.

The door to the dayroom opened and an elfling of about forty entered, giving them a bow. “Faelivrin said you would need my help,” he said in Sindarin, gazing in wonder at the sight of them all. “My name is Berethrandir.”

“Mistress Faelivrin said you were the one who knew Lord Ithildor’s herb garden the best,” Laurendil said in the same language and when the ellon nodded, he continued. “Good. Do you speak any Quenya?”

“Oh yes,” the ellon replied switching languages. “Lord Ithildor insists that all who are of his household be fluent in it.”

“That makes it easier for us all, then,” Eärnur said. “I am Eärnur, a journeyman Lóriennildo and at the moment, the chief healer, although I think Laurendil and Manwen, who are also healers, though still apprentices, will have a better idea of the proper treatment for this kind of poison. I am unfamiliar with it, but Lord Elrond’s notes are very thorough. Here, Laurendil, take a look at this and see if you agree.”

“Lord Elrond is well respected for his healing abilities,” Laurendil said as he perused the notes, nodding to himself. Then he passed them on to Manwen. “Based on the nature of the poison and the state of the wound, I would think a concoction of the following might be effective.” He then proceeded to name several herbs and Eärnur nodded in agreement. Manwen suggested a substitution for one of the herbs Laurendil had mentioned and the other two healers agreed that that would work better. Eärnur then turned to Berethrandir.

“Does your lord have all these herbs available?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Berethrandir replied. “Both fresh and dried. There is a small workroom off one side of the garden where you will find everything you need to make the potion. I can show you where all the herbs are planted.”

“Good,” Eärnur said. “Manwen, will you go with Berethrandir and gather the herbs we need? I’ll meet you in the workroom and we’ll put together the potion while Laurendil continues monitoring Lasgalad.” Manwen nodded and Berethrandir took her through another doorway leading out into the gardens.

“And what do the rest of us do in the meantime?” Finrod asked with a faint smile.

Eärnur raised an eyebrow and in a most imperious tone said, “The rest of you can clear out and let us do our job. Iorlas, you should stay in case Lasgalad comes to and asks for you. He will want to know that you are there, but I suggest everyone else find something else to do in the meantime.”

“You sound just like Master Meneldil,” Finrod said accusingly.

“Or Lord Irmo,” Sador retorted with an amused snort.

“Regardless, Eärnur is correct,” Olwë said with a nod. “Come. Let us leave them to care for Lasgalad. Gilvagor, perhaps we can be shown to our rooms so we may freshen up and then a tour of the grounds might be in order while we discuss what we plan to do while we are here. I imagine the leaders of the city will want to meet with us and....”

Olwë and Gilvagor led the way out and the rest followed, though Finrod lingered at the door, staring at the ill ellon. “Take good care of him,” he said.

“We will, Findaráto,” Eärnur replied gently. “As soon as we have anything to report, we will let you know.”

Finrod nodded, then paused, a reflective look on his face. “It cannot be coincidence that Lasgalad arrives in Avallónë on the same day as we do, can it?”

Laurendil shrugged. “If you believe in coincidences.”

Finrod gave him a searching look, then nodded, exiting the room without another word.

****

Falasseldi: (Quenya) Plural of Falasselda: Falas-Elf, a name of the Teleri under the lordship of Círdan. In Sindarin they were called the Falathrim ‘People of the Falas’. Cf. the attested name Amaneldi.

Godolo lim nin!: (Sindarin) ‘Come swiftly with me!’.