86: Angobel

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here and rest?” Olwë asked Arafinwë as they rode down the street leading to the road that would take them to Angobel. He gave his son-in-law a worried look.

Arafinwë gave him a slight smile. “Do not worry for me, Atar,” he said. “I am fine.” He looked down at his torn and bloodstained tunic and shirt. “I don’t think I’m going to make a very good first impression though,” he said ruefully.

“If you will permit me,” Manveru said, “I can fix that.”

Arafinwë nodded and they all stopped to see what the Maia would do. “I have not the skill that Lady Vairë or her handmaids have in the art of weaving, but I think I can handle a small tear or two,” Manveru said with a smile as he held his hand above the torn fabric.

Those closest watched with great interest as slowly, almost imperceptibly, the threads of the shirt began weaving themselves together. Soon both shirt and tunic were repaired and the elves were hard-pressed to see where the tear in the tunic had been. Even the bloodstains were gone.

“Thank you,” Arafinwë said and Manveru just smiled as they continued on their way.

“What do you suppose will happen to Lord Morcocáno?” Sador asked after a while. “Will he be punished?”

“Not by us,” Olwë said, “even though his offense was against us, or rather the people of Angobel.”

“Nor will the Valar punish him,” Manveru said, “for though he sought to break the Sérë Valaron, he was stopped before he did too much damage.”

“Alassiel could have died,” Sador said angrily. “Does that not count for anything?”

Manveru gave the ellon a sympathetic look. “It counts for much,” he replied. “The arrows that struck Lady Alassiel and the Noldóran were accidents. No one was supposed to be hurt.”

“That was my sense,” Ingwion said. “Even the most incompetent elf should have had no trouble hitting us. The distance was not that great, yet the arrows were generally wide of the mark. We were meant to be kept pinned down until Morcocáno could arrive with his troops.”

“I suspect that Morcocáno will most likely lose his seat on the city’s council,” Arafinwë suggested. “He has lost face, but more than that, he has incurred the anger of the Valar and the people of Avallónë will be treading carefully for some time to come.”

Manveru nodded. “That was the general idea of why we did as we did. The Elder King was very specific as to what was to be accomplished and I am glad that we were able to bring about the desired result.”

“You’ve been rather quiet, Marthchall,” Finrod said then, addressing the ellon who was walking beside him. “What have you to say about all this?”

Marthchall sighed. “We just wanted to be left in peace,” he replied quietly.

Erunáro gave him a sardonic grin. “Well, kidnapping people really is not the way to achieve it, my friend.”

“So I’m beginning to learn,” the ellon said ruefully.

“Marthchall and I are going to Lórien,” Gurthalion chimed in shyly to the Maiar. “Laurendil says they can stop the nightmares.”

All three Maiar gave him warm smiles. “Lórien is a lovely place,” Fionwë said gently. “You will like it there very much, and the healers will be very helpful to you.”

“That’s what Laurendil says,” Gurthalion replied.

“And if Laurendil says it, it must be true,” Finrod couldn’t help saying, giving his friend and liegeman a smile and a wink.

“Aranya, please!” Laurendil pleaded, rolling his eyes, and everyone laughed.

****

The attack in the main square had not delayed them too long, but it was still a couple of hours past noon before they came to the mining town. It was situated in a valley between two large hills, the houses nestled against the hills themselves.

“Some of the houses are built into the hills,” Marthchall explained. “We mine on the other side of that ridge to the west.” He pointed to a high ridge that swept north to south in a shallow arc encompassing the village.

As they were making their way downhill into the valley, the Maiar took their leave. “We will set a watch on your village,” Manveru said to Marthchall, “for as long as you are away.”

“Thank you,” the ellon said simply. “Never in all my days did I imagine that the Valar would look kindly on us... on me.”

Manveru smiled. “The Valar are just full of surprises, aren’t they?” He winked at Marthchall while his brother and Fionwë started laughing as all three Maiar faded from view. The elves stared in bemusement at the places where they had been for a moment or two and then Olwë suggested they go on.

Now Marthchall took the lead with Gurthalion and Morfinnnel beside him, walking just before Olwë and Arafinwë. The Amanians looked about them with interest. The village was not large, perhaps a hundred or so houses spread out along the one road and throughout the small valley. Gardens surrounded the houses which were made primarily of grey fieldstone with doors and windows painted a variety of bright colors. The roofs were of slate. The village appeared empty.

“Most of them are probably still at the mines,” Marthchall explained when Arafinwë asked. “Though I am surprised, since it is already past noon and we do not generally work the mines this late in the day.”

“You only work them in the mornings then?” Finrod asked.

Marthchall nodded, looking back to address the prince. “We were forced to toil in Morgoth’s mines night and day with only a minimum of rest. When we founded Angobel we made a conscious decision to only work in the mines between sunrise and noon. We devote the rest of the day to other pursuits. Gardening is a favorite as you can see.” He pointed to all the gardens flourishing around the houses. Further out where the valley was more flat, they could see larger tracts set aside for the growing of vegetables and there was also a small apple orchard.

“Does everyone work in the mines?” Sador asked.

It was Gurthalion who answered, shaking his head. “I don’t,” he said, giving them a shy, almost embarrassed look. “I help mind the elflings.” He ducked his head and Marthchall put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him.

“Gurthalion is very good with the little ones,” he said. “But to answer your question more fully, most of the adults do, though we have a number of younger people who were born here who pursue other occupations, such as teaching the elflings, carpentry and blacksmithing and the like. They follow the same routine as the miners, not working after the noon meal, but pursuing leisure activities.”

“Such as?” Arafinwë asked.

“Composing music or poetry, and gardening are the most popular,” Morfinnel answered. “Many of the ellith will gather together and weave or do embroidery. Marthchall often spends hours carving toys for the elflings.”

“He makes great toys,” Gurthalion chimed in and the others were amused to see the leader of the miners blush.

“It’s just a hobby,” he muttered, casting a glare at Morfinnel who smiled back unrepentant.

By now they had reached the outskirts of the village and Marthchall signaled a halt, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene before him. “Where is everyone?” he asked rhetorically, for it was obvious to all that the place was deserted.

“Is there a place they might go if they felt threatened?” Glorfindel asked.

Marthchall gave the ellon a considering look and then nodded. “There is one place....” He turned his attention to the kings. “If you will permit me, lords, I will see if they are hiding in the Old Ones’ Mine.”

Olwë and Arafinwë gave him measuring looks. “By the way you say that, Marthchall,” Olwë said, “I take it that is the name of the mine?”

Marthchall nodded. “One reason we chose this place for ourselves is that we found evidence of earlier mining, but by whom, we did not know. We refer to them as the Old Ones. One of the larger of these earlier mines we turned into a defensive stronghold.”

Olwë nodded. “Go then and see,” he commanded. “We will wait here for your return.”

Marthchall gave him a bow and headed away with Gurthalion and Morfinnel going with him. The other miners milled about in uncertainty, concern and even fear for their loved ones evident. “Why would they hide in the Old Ones’ Mine?” one of them said to another. “What threat came to them while we were gone?”

“Perhaps they decided to hide there as a precaution in case your plan failed,” Gilvagor suggested.

“It did fail,” the miner stated with a scowl.

“Only from a certain perspective,” Glorfindel replied with a smile. “In other ways it succeeded.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you wanted us to be here, and so we are,” Glorfindel pointed out, “just not as your prisoners, but as your allies.”

The miner gave him a thoughtful look.

In the meantime, Olwë dismounted and the others followed suit. “We might as well be comfortable while we’re waiting,” he said. “Why don’t we set up a camp over here?” He pointed to the right where there was an open field. One of the miners assured him that it would be all right to set up their camp there.

“We usually use it for playing games and dancing,” he explained. “In fact, there’s a large firepit just over here that you can use.”

The horses were divested of haversacks filled with food and a fire was started in the firepit. Some of the miners ran to their houses and brought out kettles and such and it was not long before the air was redolent with the smell of a hearty venison stew bubbling away. The field took on a festive air and someone began singing a ballad that had been popular among the elves of Hithlim, which was where most of the miners once lived.

Arafinwë and Olwë sat together in camp chairs nursing some wine, watching the activity around them. Arafinwë gave his atar-in-law an enquiring look. “Old Ones’ Mine, hmm? Did you by any chance have anything to do with it?”

Olwë gave him a knowing smile. “No, not personally, but I believe that during our sojourn on the island, some of the more enterprising of my people did open a mine or two, for we needed the ores for tools and kettles” — he nodded at the large kettle hanging from a tripod over the fire — “as well as for weapons used in hunting and the like. I’d forgotten all about it actually. The land has changed somewhat since I last stood here and I did not see all of the island. Most of us set up our homes to the west so we might see the shores of Valinor.”

Arafinwë nodded but before he could comment there was a shout and everyone stopped to look to where they saw Marthchall coming towards them. Behind him were the people of Angobel. Olwë and Arafinwë rose from their seats and the other Amanians gathered around them with Finrod standing next to his atar and Lindarion next to Olwë with Beleg on his left. Ingwion stood beside Finrod with Glorfindel and Sador. The others were ranged around them.

“That must be the fair Meluiwen,” Glorfindel said, nodding to where an elleth with silvery-grey hair strode purposefully beside Marthchall.

The others chuckled and then schooled their expressions to one of polite disinterest as the villagers approached. They could see a number of elflings in the mix, staying close to the adults, staring at the Amanians with shy curiosity, a sharp contrast to the mixture of expressions from the adults that ranged from trepidation to outright hostility.

The miners who had followed Marthchall on their ill-fated attempt to kidnap the Amanians streamed forward, giving glad cries as they espied their loved ones. Expressions of anxiety mutated to ones of relief when they were all reunited. Marthchall stopped just before the assembly, giving the Amanians a brief bow.

“My lords, this is Meluiwen,” he said in Quenya, introducing the elleth beside him. She gave them a cool, almost haughty, stare and did not bother to curtsey, much to everyone’s amusement. “It is as I thought. She felt it prudent to have everyone gather in the Old Ones’ Mine for safety in case it went ill with us and there was retaliation.”

“The Lady Meluiwen showed great wisdom and I think she will lead your people well while you are gone, Marthchall,” Olwë said.

Meluiwen snorted contemptuously. “I am no lady,” she insisted, her Quenya not quite as fluent as Marthchall’s but understandable. “Never have been and never want to be. And just what do you mean about my leading these people while Marthchall is gone? Where do you mean to take him?”

“Feisty, isn’t she?” Finrod said in Sindarin, smiling. “Is she always this rude to strangers?”

“Actually, she’s rude to everyone,” Gurthalion answered before either Marthchall or Meluiwen could respond, giving them an ingenuous smile. “I bet she would be rude to the Powers if she ever met them.”

“Gurthalion,” Marthchall growled, “mind yourself.”

The ellon cringed, looking as if he feared he would be hit. Marthchall’s expression turned repentant and he took the ellon in his arms and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“And I am not rude to everyone,” Meluiwen exclaimed. “Well, not always,” she amended with a slight blush. Then she gave them a hard look. “Marthchall tells me that his plan failed, yet here you are, where we wanted you to be.”

“The difference is, we are not your prisoners,” Finrod said, acting as their spokesman, for Meluiwen continued speaking in Sindarin. Glorfindel was quietly translating for the Amanians who knew only Quenya.

“Oh?” Meluiwen looked at him skeptically. “But we could easily take you prisoners, seeing as how we outnumber you.”

Gurthalion groaned. “Not again,” he practically wailed and the Amanians and many of the miners started laughing, and then there was more laughter that came from nowhere and everywhere and that caused many to look about in fear, the elflings clinging to their parents.

Marthchall leaned over and whispered something into Meluiwen’s ear and they could see her eyes widening. She looked at him in disbelief. “You’re making that up,” she said accusingly. “Why would the Powers care about us?”

“Yet, they do,” Olwë said, “as do we. We came here in good faith to see for ourselves what is happening on this island and perhaps offer solutions to the myriad problems many face. We are particularly concerned that there is no person who has come forth as a leader to whom all can look for guidance.”

There was a moment or two of silence between them and then Meluiwen looked about. “Perhaps we should speak of this further over the meal I see you have prepared. Marthchall said something about taking Gurthalion to Lórien?”

“Let us eat first and then we will talk,” Finrod suggested. “I never cared for discussing weighty matters over a fine meal. I once had a pompous fool thrown out of Nargothrond for daring to discuss my uncle’s strategy in maintaining the Leaguer against Morgoth during a state dinner.”

“Oh?” Arafinwë asked, casting an amused smile at his son. “Anyone in particular?”

Finrod nodded, giving them a wicked grin. “He’s standing right over there,” he said, pointing at Laurendil who was blushing furiously and refusing to look at anyone.

“I never made that mistake again,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Glorfindel barked a laugh. “I never took you for a pompous fool, Laurendil.”

Laurendil shrugged, looking even more sheepish. “I’ve had my moments.”

That set everyone laughing and the tension between the two groups eased. Many of the villagers scattered to their homes and were soon returning with trenchers, utensils and goblets as well as additional food to supplement the stew. Soon they were seated around the field and for a time there was little talk as everyone ate. When the meal was more or less over, Marthchall told the villagers all that had happened to them. There were many cries of amazement and dismay as he regaled them with the tale, ending with the ambush in the city. The description of the Maiar appearing and what followed left all of them with expressions of amazement and wonder on their faces. Then Finrod spoke about the Progress and all that had been learned.

“We still have to visit Kortirion,” he said at the end, “and then we will return to Aman.”

“And then what?” Marthchall asked.

Finrod shrugged. “I do not know for sure. This Progress was Adar’s idea, not mine.”

“I think a time of reflection will be in order,” Arafinwë said once his son’s words were translated. “We have been talking about calling a council with the leaders of the various communities and factions coming together on neutral ground where we can discuss our findings and offer the Tol Eressëans some ideas as to how to deal with their problems. The ultimate decision of what type of government will work best is yours, not ours. We will not dictate to you, but we will help in any way that we can. It is to everyone’s benefit that there exist a stable government here.”

“And what of us?” Meluiwen demanded. “Will we be allowed to participate in this council? Will any of the others there accept us?”

“We will accept you,” Olwë said firmly, “as will the High King.”

Ingwion nodded. “I plan to ask Atar if he would be willing to preside over the council.”

“And if he is unable, perhaps you can do so as his heir,” Arafinwë suggested.

“I will discuss it with him when I return to Vanyamar,” Ingwion replied.

“In the meantime, we must be on our way soon,” Olwë said with a sigh, casting a knowing look at the sky. “It will be full dark before we return to Avallónë and some of us will be leaving for the mainland on the morning tide.”

“Will we remain in Avallónë another day as planned?” Finrod asked as people started to clean up from the meal, setting up several washing stations since there were so many people. The villagers gawked at the sight of the once king of Nargothrond calmly washing dishes while Arafinwë and Olwë dried.

“Frankly, I would prefer to move on to Kortirion,” Olwë said as he passed a towel over a trencher. “Avallónë has left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“I agree,” Arafinwë said. “We were supposed to start setting up trade agreements and meet some of the people, but perhaps leaving tomorrow ahead of schedule will signal to the Avallóneans our displeasure at what happened there today.”

Meluiwen turned to Marthchall, the two of them helping to bring additional hot water for the washing up. “Are you sure you want to go with them?” she asked anxiously.

“For Gurthalion’s sake, I must,” he answered.

“He deserves to find healing,” she said, nodding. “Go then. I will guard our people and keep them safe until you return.”

“The Valar have set some of their Maiar to watch over you as well,” Finrod said. Meluiwen’s eyes widened at that. “Have no fear for yourselves in that regard.”

“How long will you be gone?” Meluiwen asked Marthchall.

“I do not know,” Marthchall answered truthfully.

“I do not think you will be away for very long,” Laurendil said, having overheard the exchange. “From what I’ve observed, Gurthalion has a very strong will, else he would have died or faded long before, given what happened to him. That is in his favor. Perhaps a few weeks only, certainly not more than a couple of months. Look for their return by the winter solstice.”

Once the washing up was done and all the paraphernalia stowed away into haversacks, the Amanians bade farewell to the people of Angobel, thanking them for the visit.

“It is we who thank you, lord,” Meluiwen said with all sincerity. “You have returned our ellyn to us and have given us hope that we and our children will see a brighter future.”

“Farewell, Meluiwen,” Gurthalion said with a wave from the back of Laurendil’s horse, for neither he nor Marthchall had their own horses. Marthchall, in fact, was riding with Glorfindel. “I told Marthchall he’ll have to marry you for sure if he wants to be our leader again when we get back.”

“Gurthalion!” Marthchall groaned, rolling his eyes. Meluiwen gave him a calculating look as the Amanians and many of the villagers laughed. Gurthalion, unrepentant, gave them an innocent smile that fooled no one.

“Come,” Olwë said once the laughter died down, “We have a long ride ahead of us.”