146: An Oath Received

As Glorfindel, Finrod and Eärendil passed through the gate and into the courtyard, they saw Eönwë approach, offering them a smile. “Lord Manwë is expecting you. Please follow me.”

He led them along a colonnade and up a flight of stairs that wound along the outside of the building and then through an upper terraced garden. From there they made their way into the mansion, passing along marbled corridors. Glorfindel glanced around with unfeigned interest, for he had never been inside Ilmarin before. Finrod and Eärendil exchanged puzzled looks, for they had both assumed Eönwë would lead them to one of the audience chambers, but this route took them further up into the mountain as the Maia led them along a winding stairway, until finally they came to a door made of blue quartz and mithril. It opened of its own accord and when they passed through the portal the elves found themselves inside a large conservatory made of clear quartz set within a mithril frame.

Eönwë did not pause so they had little leisure to look about them. He led them along a gravel path bordered with bright flowers. As they continued deeper into the park-like setting, they heard music. It was someone singing and the voice was like nothing any of them had ever heard: strong and deep, yet light and gay, at the same time. Then they came around a bend to find themselves facing a fountain beside which sat the Elder King and his Queen. It was Manwë who was singing, while Varda played a lute.

The three elves stood there, mesmerized by the scene. Finrod furrowed his brow. The song that Lord Manwë was singing was hauntingly familiar to him, and yet, he could not recall where he had heard it before. Something struck a chord of memory that was too deep to retrieve without going off and contemplating the music by himself. For now, he would just enjoy the song and the one singing it.

Only when the song came to an end and the final note of the lute strings died away did Eönwë announce their presence, the elves giving the Valar their obeisance. Manwë smiled and beckoned them forward to sit in the chairs that were already there.

“We thought this would be a less stressful place for our meeting,” Manwë said without preamble as the elves sat, speaking Sindarin rather than Quenya. Eönwë remained standing where he was, facing his lord.

“Young Sador is settling in?” Varda asked politely, also speaking Sindarin.

Finrod nodded. “Yes, he is. Having his daernana there with him will help.”

The two Valar nodded. “Oromë will look in on him from time to time for us,” Manwë said. “He has a particular fondness for the child.”

“Sador told us that Lord Oromë said that he was his apprentice,” Glorfindel stated, giving the Valar an enquiring look. “When did that happen?”

Manwë and Varda smiled. “About the same time as you became mine,” Manwë replied with a chuckle.

“What!?” Glorfindel exclaimed, rising from his chair in shock.

The Valar had amused expressions on their faces and there was a suspicious snicker from behind, but when the elves looked, Eönwë’s expression was blank of emotion. Even his eyes gave nothing away.

Glorfindel turned back to the Valar, his expression now mutating from shock to puzzlement. “Why am I your apprentice?” he demanded. “When were you going to inform me?”

“I just did,” Manwë replied equably. “Sit down, Glorfindel. You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

Glorfindel turned red and sat, glaring at the ground.

Manwë and Varda exchanged amused smiles. The Elder King turned to Finrod. “You don’t seem surprised, my son.”

Finrod shrugged, giving Glorfindel a sympathetic smile. “I figured he had to be someone’s apprentice the way the Valar have been treating him. I rather thought Lord Tulkas....”

“Oh, Tulkas would like to have taken Glorfindel on as his apprentice, but I beat him in arm-wrestling for the privilege.” Manwë’s expression was deadpan.

All three elves stared at the Elder King in disbelief. Varda laughed, the sound of it cold and clear and crystalline in its purity. “Did you think my husband is the Elder King solely because he was the first of us in the Thought of Ilúvatar?” she said. “Nay. Manwë is a puissant warrior who led us in all the battles against our Fallen Brother.”

The three elves blinked several times as they attempted to understand what Varda told them, and it was clear to the Valar and the Maia that they were struggling with certain images of the Elder King that were foreign to the usual way in which they saw him.

“At any rate,” Manwë said after a moment of silence, “Glorfindel has always been my apprentice even before his death. Why do you think I sent Thorondor to retrieve your body?”

“I... I just thought... I’m not sure what I thought....” Glorfindel stuttered. “I wasn’t there at the time.” He paled at the memory of just where he had been when the King of Eagles was lifting his burned body out of the chasm where he had fallen to his death after slaying the balrog. Finrod leaned over and placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it in an attempt to comfort him. Glorfindel gave him a small smile in thanks.

“Is that why you asked Glorfindel to come here, my lord, to tell him that he is your apprentice?” Finrod asked Manwë politely.

“Partly,” Manwë said, “but primarily to speak of the future. Glorfindel’s future, to be precise.”

Glorfindel looked up, suddenly apprehensive. “What do you mean?”

Manwë and Varda smiled at him warmly. “It’s not what you think, Glorfindel,” Varda replied. “We have a proposition for you.”

“One that you are free to decline, if you wish,” Manwë hastened to assure him. “There are no strings attached to this proposition. You will not be penalized in any way if you decline our offer. This is something we hope you will assent to.”

“What is it you want me to do?” Glorfindel asked, looking both troubled and suspicious.

For an answer, Manwë gestured and suddenly before them they saw a map suspended in mid-air. Such was its properties that somehow, regardless of where they were sitting in relation to the map, they could all see it as if they alone were looking at it. Glorfindel and Finrod gasped in surprise. Eärendil merely raised an eyebrow at the sight, as if he were used to such things happening.

“Wh-what is this?” Finrod asked.

“Ennorath,” Manwë answered.

“It doesn’t look like any place in Ennorath with which I am familiar,” Finrod retorted.

“That’s because you are seeing it as it is now, not as you remember it,” Varda explained. She pointed to a particular spot and the map suddenly zoomed until they were staring at one place, a long gulf in the northwest of the land. “This is all that remains of Beleriand,” she continued. “Here is Lindon where Gil-galad rules and up here is Mithlond where Círdan builds his grey ships.”

Glorfindel and Finrod stared avidly at the map, drinking in all the details, for amazingly, wherever they looked they could see actual buildings and ships sailing the gulf. Indeed, when they leaned forward for a closer look, they both sat back with a gasp, for they could see people walking the streets of the city of the king where lamps lit the way, and they saw sailors on the ships, working the sails as they made their way back to harbor.

“You are seeing this in real time,” Manwë said. “This is Ennorath at this very hour. It is night for them now, for Anor has already set for them.”

“So why are you showing this to us?” Glorfindel asked, still staring in awe at the details of the ‘map’. He couldn’t really call it that, but what this was, he could put no name to, so ‘map’ would have to do.

“We are thinking of sending you back there,” Manwë said softly, gazing at the ellon to gauge his reaction.

But it was not Glorfindel who reacted first; it was Finrod.

“No!” he shouted, rising to his feet, his expression a mingling of surprise and outrage and even fear. “We’re supposed to be together. He’s my gwador and I am his and we’re never to be separated from one another. You promised!”

“We did no such thing, child,” Manwë said, his expression darkening. “That is what you promised yourself.”

“But why?” Finrod demanded. “Why are you sending him away?”

“We haven’t sent him anywhere, yet, Finrod,” Varda said with some exasperation. “Now sit down.”

Finrod sat, glaring at the two Valar, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his hands clenched.

Manwë ignored him and turned to Glorfindel who just sat there looking stunned. “We want you to be our emissary to Gil-galad,” he said softly. “The High King will soon be in need of encouragement against the Darkness that we foresee is coming. We cannot, will not, intervene directly in the affairs of the elves who still reside there, but we wish to offer them a sign of hope, a sign that we still care. That sign will be you, Glorfindel, if you agree to this.”

“But why me?” Glorfindel asked. “Why not Finrod or someone else?”

“Do not think that we did not consider others for this task, including Finrod,” Manwë replied, casting a sympathetic smile at the once King of Nargothrond. “In the end, though, we decided for many reasons which I will not go into at this time, that you were the best qualified for what we wish for you to do. It is why you have been trained by our Maiar so assiduously. The skills you are acquiring will be needed there.”

“When... when would I have to leave?” Glorfindel asked and Finrod closed his eyes in despair.

“Oh, not for some time,” Manwë assured him. “You still have much to do yet. You need to mature a bit more and there are things that our Maiar have not taught you yet, things that you will need to know if you are to do what we need you to do.”

“You’ll have your gwador with you for a good long while, yet, Finrod,” Varda said with a sympathetic smile at the ellon who opened his eyes at the sound of his name. “There is no need to despair.”

“But we were supposed to be together and never be parted,” Finrod replied, shaking his head and sighing.

“That is a rather unrealistic view of things, Finrod,” Eärendil said, entering the conversation for the first time. “Even now, you and Glorfindel are not together. You are in Lórien and he will be returning to Aewellond with me.”

“But at least we don’t have an ocean separating us,” Finrod retorted hotly. “If Glorfindel returns to Ennorath, we’ll probably never see one another again except possibly at the Remaking.”

Glorfindel gave Manwë a worried look. “Is that true? Will I have to remain in Ennorath for all the Ages of Arda?”

“No, son,” Manwë assured him. “You may return whenever you feel your duty to Gil-galad and to others is done.”

“Others? What others?”

Manwë and Varda smiled. “That is the other part of why we asked you here,” Varda said. “We know how seriously you take your Life Oath to Turgon, how much you want to fulfill it, frustrated that you cannot do so completely while he remains in Mandos.”

“There is a way, though, for you to fulfill your oaths to Turgon,” Manwë said.

“How? By going to Ennorath?”

“By going to Ennorath and looking after my son,” Eärendil said. Glorfindel and Finrod stared at him in surprise.

“Your son?” Glorfindel asked.

“Elrond,” Eärendil replied steadily. “He resides in Lindon, acting as Gil-galad’s chief healer and herald. He is alone now, for his brother... my Elros, having chosen to cleave to the Edain, has since left the Circles of Arda.”

“I’m sorry,” Glorfindel said softly, his eyes bleak with pain.

Eärendil shrugged. “Elwing and I came to accept his choice a long time ago. Wherever Elros is now, he is safe and no harm can ever visit him again. The same cannot be said for Elrond. He is Turgon’s heir in Ennorath. Indeed, were Gil-galad to die or otherwise leave Ennorath, Elrond would be the next High King of the Noldor in Exile.” He paused, licking his lips, casting a glance at the Elder King, who nodded in encouragement, before continuing.

“As I said, my son is alone now, or he thinks he is. Gil-galad he sees as his king rather than kin, and Galadriel and Celeborn are rarely in Lindon these days, residing primarily in another city when they are not acting as Gil-galad’s emissaries. My son needs a friend.”

“Surely he has those,” Glorfindel protested.

“Oh, yes. He has friends, of a sort, but what he needs is you, Glorfindel. You are a link to his past. You lived in Gondolin. You knew me there, and Turgon. You desire to fulfill your Life Oath to Turgon as well as the oath you made to yourself when you sought to see me and my parents to safety, dying in the attempt. You can continue serving my family, and my daeradar, but not by remaining here in Aman. You can serve me best by being there for Elrond, protecting him when I cannot.”

“I doubt he needs too much protection, Eärendil,” Glorfindel retorted. “He’s no longer an elfling.”

“No, but he is my son,” Eärendil replied. “I was never there for him, or for his brother. I cannot be there for him now. That is why I want to send you to him, to be the friend and companion that he needs, to be the... the father-figure he craves, though he is unaware of this.”

“How do you know all this?” Glorfindel asked.

Eärendil gave him a faint smile. “I have sometimes sailed over Lindon, observing my son, and Lord Manwë’s Eagles often bring me news of what is happening.”

“What Eärendil says is true,” Manwë said. “Elrond has a difficult path to tread in his life, and there will be much sorrow, but also joy. We feel that he can survive the harsh times that we foresee for him if there is one constant in his life — you.”

“So I am to be his minder?” Glorfindel insisted.

“No,” Manwë retorted with a shake of his head. “You are to be my emissary and Elrond’s friend. You are to advise Gil-galad and help defend the elves against what is coming.”

“And what is that?” Glorfindel asked.

“Sauron,” Varda answered and both Glorfindel and Finrod sucked in their breath at the sound of that hateful name. Varda nodded. “He is still out there, plotting and scheming. Rumors are slowly seeping out of the East of a Power rising there. It can only be Morgoth’s lieutenant.”

“Surely Gil-galad and the other elves will be wary of any overtures Sauron might make to them,” Finrod said, his expression troubled.

“Perhaps,” Manwë averred, “but Sauron is a Maia and he can disguise himself however he wishes and present to the world a pleasing mien. He is a beguiler, and he learned from his master. Of all the elves in Ennorath perhaps only your sister would truly recognize him for what he is, but there is much that is still left to chance. Glorfindel’s presence in Gil-galad’s court  might well be the saving of it, for he will recognize Sauron’s threat, which Gil-galad might not, for he is still young in the accounting of years among the Firstborn.”

“What of Círdan?” Finrod asked. “Surely he is wise enough to advise Gil-galad on such matters? Why would he need Glorfindel there?”

“Círdan is an estimable elf and indeed very wise,” Varda answered, “but for all that, he does not possess the powers that Glorfindel has, or rather, will have when we get through with him.” She gave the ellon a fond smile and Glorfindel ducked his head, looking for all the world like an elfling embarrassed by praise.

“And there is no other you can or will send?” Finrod demanded.

Manwë shook his head. “Not at this time. And no, you cannot go with him. Do not forget that you are a Fëanturnildo and you have the healing of Aman to accomplish, you and all the Reborn.”

“What do you mean?” Finrod asked.

“The days of atonement and reparation for what the Noldor did have passed,” Manwë explained. “Your adar was responsible for that, reconciling the Noldor with the Teleri and the Vanyar and the Valar. Your task, and that of the other Reborn, is to bring healing and peace to this land. This is what this past year has been about, culminating with the recent Council and Sador’s Investiture. That was the first step, but more must be done, not by us, for we have done what we can and what we dare. The rest is up to you, up to all the Reborn, leading by example with your willingness to forgive, to forgive yourselves and others. Willing to accept everyone, seeing not Noldor and Vanyar and Teleri and Sindar, but Eldar. That is the lesson you and the other Reborn learned in Mandos, and what you must teach the Once-born, even your own family.”

“So you see,” Varda then said, “you both have your own work to accomplish. Even if Glorfindel remained here in Aman, you would still not be together.”

“But at least we would be on the same continent,” Finrod protested, “not separated by miles and miles of ocean.”

“Well, I haven’t even agreed to this yet, gwador,” Glorfindel retorted with a glint of amusement in his eyes, “so your protestations may well be moot.” He then spoke to Manwë. “You said you were not planning to send me for some time yet, so why are we speaking of this now rather than later?”

“A fair enough question,” Manwë said. “Perhaps the best answer I can give you is that we are aware of your restlessness and we even understand its source, though you may not. You need a goal, Glorfindel, something on which to pin your hopes and expectations for yourself. You haven’t had that yet. Even training for the Dagor Dagorath is too nebulous a concept for you, for you do not know when that event will happen, none of us do, but you do know that someday I will call you back to Ilmarin for one last visit and then I will ask you once again if you will go to Ennorath as my emissary and for Eärendil and Elwing’s sake and you will give me your answer, yea or nay. That is a foreseeable event, one that you can deal with even if you do not know the exact time when you will receive my summons.”

“Then you do not require my answer today?” Glorfindel enquired.

“No. I only ask that you think about it, that you continue your training with whomever I send to you. Whether you ultimately decide to remain here, your abilities will still be needed, though not in the way they will be needed in Ennorath. I will not pressure you to decide now.”

For several minutes they all sat there in silence, each in his own thoughts. Eärendil sat calmly, as did the Valar, but Finrod’s expression was still troubled, while Glorfindel looked more pensive. Finally, though, he nodded and stood, going to kneel, not before Manwë, but before Eärendil, who gazed at him with an unfathomable expression.

“I will go for thee, Eärendil,” Glorfindel said. “I will do what I can for thy son, the grandson of my dearest friends, thy parents, the great-grandson of my beloved lord who hath my life in his keeping for all the Ages of Arda. And I will do this for love of thee. I will protect the House of Turgon to the best of mine abilities, till I am no longer needed, or death takes me, or the world ends. This, I, Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, swear unto thee.”

“And what of Lord Manwë’s desire to make you his emissary?” Eärendil asked.

Glorfindel turned to face the Elder King, though he remained kneeling. “I will go as thine emissary, lord, but I think my duty to thee will come second to my duty to Eärendil.”

“That is acceptable,” Manwë said, “and indeed, in fulfilling your duty to Eärendil you will be fulfilling your duty to me also. I am well pleased, my son.”

Glorfindel turned back to Eärendil and held up his hands in the position of supplication before one’s liege and Eärendil covered them with his own hands. “Then, I accept thy vow, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, and I thank thee.” He rose, pulling Glorfindel up with him and gave him a kiss as between liege and vassal. There was the sound of a book closing and the three elves turned in surprise to see Eönwë with a familiar blue book in his hand, smiling broadly.

“As lovely an oath as I have ever had the privilege to record,” the Maia said.

Finrod sighed and there was a look of defeat in his eyes. Varda stood and took him in her embrace. “Do not despair, child,” she said. “Your gwador is needed in Ennorath, just as you are needed here. In the meantime, rejoice in each other’s presence. Store up memories between you that will sustain you both when you are at last separated by an ocean.”

“Varda is correct, Finrod,” Manwë said. “Now, know that the time for leavetaking is many yéni in the future, so, spend this time wisely, both of you. Your duties will bring you together more often than you think.”

“I bet you and the other Valar will throw a big party the day I do leave,” Glorfindel said with a sly grin.

Manwë’s smile was beatific and the light of the living stars of Varda’s wreath brightened. “I believe Námo is already making the party favors,” Manwë said with a deadpan look.

Even Finrod could not help laughing at that.

“So what do I do in the meantime?” Glorfindel asked once they were calmer.

“Continue as you have been,” Manwë replied. “Return to Aewellond and train. Learn all that the Maiar will teach you. A time will come when I will summon you to sit at my feet and learn from me as well.”

“And me?” Finrod asked.

Manwë gave him a warm smile. “Return to Lórien, my son, and minister to the Reborn as you have been doing. I suspect that Irmo and Námo have their own plans for you as well. Believe me, you will be too busy to mope for long.”

“Come,” Eärendil said. “I think it is time for all of us to return to our own lives.”

“Indeed,” Manwë said, then he raised his hand in blessing. “Go with the knowledge that you are loved by Eru Ilúvatar and by us. Go in peace. Go and minister unto your people, each in thine own way, for in service to others do we find our deepest joy.”

Then Varda came among them and kissed them each on the brow. “You are very precious to us, all of you. You give us hope, the greatest gift one can ever give another. Thank you.”

None of the elves knew how to respond to this except to give the Valar their deepest obeisance before leaving with Eönwë to return to Vanyamar.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Daernana: Hypocoristic form of Daernaneth: Grandmother.

Daeradar: Grandfather.