15: The Healing Hands of the Harpist

The question of where I would go and what I would do continued to haunt me, yet, such is the air in Lórien that I found I could not remain morose for very long and there were other things that occupied my mind at times. I decided to put aside such troubling thoughts and concentrate on learning all I could in preparation for my eventual departure from Lórien. The history lectures were, to me, next to useless, for they told me little that I didn’t already know or did not care about. Beyond the general remarks about events during the Darkening, very little seemed to have happened in Aman once Isil and Anar were created until Eärendil came to these shores and the War of Wrath was begun. After that, Aman seemed to have slipped back into a state of somnolence once again. The Returnees on Tol Eressëa were apparently left to their own devices, safely ignored by the Amaneldi. The only real incident of note was that shortly after the Host of the West returned from Beleriand, the Valar began releasing the Reborn, beginning with the Teleri victims of the Kinslaying.

Of greater interest to me was continuing with my work at the forge (the day I shoed my first horse was the day I was finally allowed to ride) and even with weaving more elaborate baskets which I gave as farewell gifts to those Reborn whom I had befriended and were being released. And most important of all, the relearning of an old skill....

****

Not long after Finrod completed the blood knife, he found himself sitting beside a fire, trading stories and songs with several other Reborn. Brethorn and Saelmir were there, as were Gilgaran, Nestadôr, Alpheldis and Hithrían. In fact, they were all gathered in the grove which the two ellith shared, passing around a flagon of wine that Gilgaran had pilfered from the kitchens.

"So, when do you think we’ll be released from here?" Gilgaran asked at one point, after Alpheldis had regaled them with a story of the founding of Eglarest by Lord Círdan and Finrod had added some details about his first meeting with that particular Elf-lord.

There were many shrugs and no one had an answer.

"The real question is, where do any of us intend to go and what will we do there?" Finrod asked.

"Lady Estë told me that I have kin in Alqualondë," Alpheldis replied with a frown. "She said they are shipbuilders." She gave them an apologetic smile. "It’s what I was before I died. I can’t imagine doing anything else."

The others all nodded. "I understand there are shipbuilders on Tol Eressëa," Saelmir pointed out. "Do you think you might go there instead?"

"I really don’t know," the elleth replied with a sigh. "Something one of the Maiar said to me once makes me think that Lord Irmo makes the decision for us."

"How do you mean?" Finrod asked.

"I think that when we are ready to leave, Lord Irmo sends a message to whoever is to meet us and we go home with that person, be they kin or not."

"So we have no real say in the matter?" Brethorn demanded with a frown. "Seems rather unfair. It’s our lives after all."

There were nods all around. "Perhaps Lord Irmo takes into account our own desires and chooses the best person for us, knowing that person will have to take responsibility for us," Hithrían offered somewhat hesitantly, as if she were unsure her solution held any merit.

"Possibly," Finrod said musingly, "though the thought that someone has to take responsibility for us once we leave rankles. Are we truly elflings in their eyes? Do our experiences before our deaths count for nothing?" He shook his head in dismay and silence fell amongst them as they stared into the fire and contemplated his words.

"I served Prince Fingon faithfully," Brethorn said after some minutes. "I died in his service, protecting him at the Dagor Bragollach. Even before the Noldor came I fought against orcs and other fell creatures under the dark of the stars. But that doesn’t seem to count for anything here." He scowled in disgust and there were sympathetic murmurs among the others.

"I have been told that I have kin among the Teleri," Hithrían said, "but I think I will go to Tol Eressëa even though none of my family is there. Either they have not yet sailed or they are still in Mandos. Nevertheless, the thought of living with strangers who do not know me...." She shivered slightly and Gilgaran, who was sitting next to her, put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her.

"I think if they do send me to Alqualondë, I will run away to Tol Eressëa," Alpheldis declared.

"Good luck!" Saelmir said with a snicker. "With Maiar running about unclad, you might not get too far."

"We’ll see," Alpheldis rejoined with a sniff and the others chuckled.

"My situation is more complicated," Nestadôr said, speaking for the first time. "I was once of Tirion and even while I was in Beleriand my thoughts often strayed toward the city of my birth, wondering what was happening to my family that I had left behind. I never thought I would see them again. Yet, now that the time has come, I am of two minds. So much has happened to me that they will never understand, including dying. I fear they will be expecting the person I was before I left and will not recognize the person I am now as their son or their brother."

"I feel the same way," Finrod said quietly. "Yet, I fear I will not find a welcome on Tol Eressëa."

"Why do you say that?" Brethorn asked in surprise.

Finrod frowned, trying to marshal his thoughts. "I was once a king," he explained. "To the people of Tol Eressëa I’m a legend, I think."

"Well only to those who did not know you," Nestadôr pointed out with a smile. "I’m sure there are many there who would welcome you as their lord once again."

"Exactly," Finrod replied. "Yet I don’t think I am their lord anymore. My death severed such ties and there will be those on Tol Eressëa who will not acknowledge me as their lord and rightly so. No. I fear my presence there might inflame old conflicts of loyalty best left alone."

"So you will go to Tirion, instead?" Alpheldis asked.

"That has not been decided," Finrod replied with a quirk of his mouth. Gilgaran and Hithrían sniggered, recognizing the quote. "At any rate," he continued, looking at Brethorn, "what will you do now that you are no longer a warrior?"

"They’ve been training me as a woodcarver," he answered.

"Is that what you want to be?" Finrod pressed.

Brethorn shrugged. "It’s as good a craft as any. Often when I was out on patrol, I would while away the time making woodcarvings. I would have no problem fashioning furniture and doing small carvings for others. Already I have found trees here that we did not have in Beleriand and my fingers itch to carve something from them."

They smiled at that and then their talk turned to comparing the plant life between Beleriand and Aman and the matter of where any of them would go and what they would do was dropped.

****

Finrod, however, continued to think about it, especially when he learned some days after that Alpheldis had left Lórien, much to Hithrían’s dismay.

"We were friends, and now she’s gone and I may never see her again," she practically wailed to Finrod who had come upon her huddled against the bole of a nessamelda tree weeping.

"You are still friends," he said soothingly, crouching down to stroke her hair and comfort her. "And I have no doubt you will see one another soon."

"But I don’t know where she went," the elleth cried. "What if she went to Alqualondë and I end up on Tol Eressëa?"

"What of it?" Finrod asked in surprise. "Think you that you cannot go and visit her, or she you? And remember, she said she would run away to Tol Eressëa if sent to Alqualondë. You could help hide her," he suggested with a grin.

That thought seemed to intrigue the elleth, who stopped crying, her expression becoming first thoughtful and then almost gleeful at the notion of helping her friend hide from her Telerin kin. "I hope I’m released soon, though, so I can be there if she needs me."

"I hope so, too," Finrod said and then stood. "I have to go now. Will you be all right?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied, standing as well and brushing leaves and dirt off her skirts. "I should be going, as well. Ninwanyellë," naming one of the Maiar who regularly tended the Reborn, "is going to teach me how to bind books and repair old tomes. She thinks it will prove a useful skill."

Finrod nodded. "Indeed. I hope that those living on Tol Eressëa will begin chronicling the history of Beleriand for future generations. Your craft would serve them well."

"Hmm.... I hadn’t thought of that," she said musingly. "Do you think a history of Beleriand will be read by the Amaneldi?"

"Perhaps by some," Finrod averred, "but I think it would benefit the Tol Eressëans more, especially if various people provide their own stories. Beleriand may be no more, but its people thrive and their history should be honored, by them, if no one else."

Hithrían nodded. "What you say makes sense. Well, thank you for... you know." She gave him a shy look.

Finrod smiled. "It was my pleasure. I am glad I was able to help and if I ever write my own memoirs you will be the first I will go to to have them bound."

She smiled, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and then she went on her way while Finrod watched her go for a moment before turning to continue on his way, only to yelp in startlement when he found himself staring into the amused face of Ingil standing there.

"Were you there all the time?" Finrod demanded, feeling suddenly angry at the thought that he and Hithrían had been spied upon.

If anything, Ingil’s eyes brightened even more with amusement. "Please come with me," was all he said.

Finrod was tempted to refuse, still feeling unsettled, but he had been in Lórien long enough to know that refusing a request by any of the Maiar was an exercise in futility. He sighed and trudged after the Maia who had walked away as if sure that Finrod would follow. The arrogance of that assumption rankled and Finrod could feel himself getting angrier by the minute as he followed Ingil down the sward toward Lórellin. But his anger faded away when they apparently reached their destination and he stood in amazement at the sight that lay before him.

There, under an awning of white sendal was a collection of harps, harps of every size and shape. Some were no larger than the palm of his hand and others were taller than he. The smaller harps were ranged on a table while the larger ones were placed before it and around it. He could see that they were made from various types of woods, beautifully carved. Some, to his delight, were even fashioned in modes employed by the Sindar and Nandor or were a pleasing blend of those with the styles preferred by the Exilic Noldor.

He looked at Ingil who stood there watching him. "What does it mean?" he asked.

"You used to play, did you not?" the Maia replied.

Finrod nodded. "Yes. I even had a harp that was given to me by Lord Manwë long ago. It was one of my greatest treasures. I took it with me to Beleriand." He paused and his brows furrowed at a sudden thought and then he sighed. "I imagine it was destroyed or simply lost when Nargothrond was sacked."

"As to that, I do not know," Ingil said. "My Lord Irmo asked me to bring you here. You may choose any of these for yourself."

Finrod gave him a surprised look. "Just one?"

"How many harps do you need?" the Maia retorted and Finrod chuckled.

He moved under the awning, carefully looking over the various harps, picking up the smaller ones to test their tone, his fingers clumsy and unsure on the strings. There was a stool and he sat and played the larger harps. He spent some time examining them all. They were all exquisitely made and none were flawed. He sighed as he laid one of the larger lap harps down.

"They’re all so beautiful, it’s hard to choose," he said.

Ingil nodded. "Step back beside me," he commanded and Finrod complied, moving so he was now facing the harps. "Now, close your eyes and clear your mind of everything you know of harps, clear your mind of all thought. When you are ready, just nod. Do not speak."

Finrod closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to settle into a calm pool, slipping one by one under the surface that reflected nothing, as he had been taught to do when wishing to calm his thoughts. His mind stilled and even his heart rate slowed and then he nodded once.

"Good. Now, just listen and when you hear the harp that speaks to you more deeply than any of the others, say so, for that will be the harp that belongs to you."

Finrod nodded again and then stilled himself as far as he could. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but slowly, just on the edge of hearing, he began to hear a harp singing. Its song was sweet and clear but it did not call to him. Finally, the sound faded, only to be replaced by yet another harp playing, this one deeper in tone, but still it did not seem to call to him. One after another harps played, their music fading only to be replaced by another. Then....

"That’s the one!" Finrod cried out and opened his eyes to see Ingil standing under the awning with a small lap harp made from malinornë wood nestled in his arm. Finrod moved toward him, his arms outstretched and Ingil handed it to him. Finrod cradled the harp in his arms, running a hand over its smooth wood and plucking idly on the strings, delighting in its tone. It reminded him of the harp Lord Manwë had gifted him so long ago when he was still innocent of evil. He looked up at the Maia, his expression becoming puzzled.

"Why?" he asked.

"You were always known for your harp playing, Findaráto," Ingil explained. "Lord Irmo felt it time for you to relearn how to play. Do you not agree?"

Finrod stared at the harp, still looking a bit dubious. "I... I don’t know if I remember...."

"Fear not!" Ingil said with a smile. "Your fingers will remember with a little practice. Would you like your first lesson now?" Finrod nodded eagerly. "Then sit you here," the Maia said, pointing to the stool, "and we will begin."

Finrod sat, unsurprised when the other harps and the table disappeared to be replaced by a chair in which Ingil sat. He leaned over and gently guided Finrod’s hands into the right positions. "Now, hold the harp like so and place your fingers this wise...."

****

Over the next few days, Finrod diligently practiced on the harp. As Ingil predicted, once he began playing it all came back to him. Soon, he was giving impromptu concerts for his friends and accidentally discovered a talent he did not know he had. He was sitting outside his pavilion, idly weaving a basket that he was planning to give to Nestadôr, who had told him that he would soon be leaving Lórien, when Brethorn and Saelmir came rushing in, their expressions one of fright.

"What is it?" Finrod demanded in surprise.

"Could you please come?" Brethorn asked. "And bring your harp. Something’s happened to Hithrían."

"What?" Finrod pressed even as he leapt up and ran into the pavilion to grab his harp.

"We’re not sure," Saelmir answered as the ellyn ran out of the grove. The two Sindar headed down the sward, veering to the left along another tree-lined avenue. "She was fine one minute and then all of a sudden she started screaming. Nestadôr is with her."

"Why did you want me to bring my harp?" he asked the ellyn.

It was Brethorn who answered. "She’s always enjoyed your playing and I think it will help calm her."

By now, of course, Finrod could hear the elleth’s screams coming from a grove further along the avenue. The ellyn ran as quickly as they could and Finrod was right behind Brethorn when they entered the grove to find Hithrían struggling in Nestadôr’s arms as the ellon attempted to calm her. There was no sign of either Maiar or Lóriennildi, which puzzled Finrod, but he had no time to think about it. Instead, he brought his harp up and began playing softly, playing a tune without conscious thought. It was the same lullaby that all of them had heard over and over in Mandos. Even as Finrod played, he and the other ellyn began crooning the words and after a moment or two Hithrían’s thrashing slowed and she finally slumped into Nestadôr’s arms, her eyes closed. Finrod continued playing for several minutes more until he was sure that she was truly asleep. The other ellyn breathed sighs of relief.

It was only then that the air shimmered with lights to coalesce into the fanar of Lord Irmo and two of his Maiar, Ingil and Olóremmárië. The Vala smiled serenely on them all even as Olóremmárië went to the quiescent elleth and gently lifted her into her arms, taking her away to her own grove.

"Well played," Irmo said. "I see your lessons have not been in vain."

"Did you arrange this?" Finrod asked, feeling suddenly suspicious that he had been set up.

Irmo raised an eyebrow and Ingil rolled his eyes and snorted in disbelief while the three ellyn sucked in their breaths in surprise at the audacity of Finrod’s question. "No. I did not," Irmo said solemnly. "I did, however, inspire your friends to go find you and have you bring your harp. I’ve long suspected, based on what I know of your history even before you left Aman, that you had a healing gift that manifests itself through your harp playing, even more so than your singing, though the two are complementary."

Now Finrod gasped in amazement. "I’m a healer, like... like Eärnur?" was all he could think to say.

Irmo chuckled. "Not in the sense you mean, but...." Whatever else he was planning to say was never spoken, the Vala merely shaking his head. "We will discuss this at another time. Continue with your lessons. I am very pleased with the way you are coming along, child. I think we will be releasing you from our care soon."

"What do you mean by ‘soon’, lord?" Finrod asked politely, swallowing a little nervously at the thought of having to leave Lórien. Now that it was coming to that he felt a great reluctance at the idea.

"All times are soon for me, child," Irmo said with a smile, "but in your case... let us say within the month." Then he and Ingil faded away, leaving the four ellyn standing about, looking uncertain.

"A month!" Brethorn exclaimed. "That’s not very long."

"We’ll miss you," Saelmir said.

"But we’ll see one another again someday, won’t we?" Brethorn asked.

Finrod nodded. "Of that I have no doubt." He stared thoughtfully at the harp in his hands, recalling Lord Irmo’s words. "In the meantime, I think I should keep practicing." He left them then, heading back to his pavilion, deep in thought. Was this the answer? he wondered. Should he ask Lord Irmo to take him as an apprentice now that this healing talent had been revealed to him? If Lord Irmo had suspected such a talent lay within him even before he left Aman, did that mean he had meant for him to be a Lóriennildo all along, but his rebellion against the Valar put the Vala’s plans to recruit him on hold until such time as he returned? The thought was both liberating and frightening and he wasn’t sure what he should feel.

And then another thought struck him. What if Lord Irmo sent him from Lórien, sent him to live with his family? What purpose would this new-found talent have then if he was not allowed to be a healer? None of this made any sense and he despaired of understanding what the Valar wanted from him. He had a sudden desire to be back in Mandos with Glorfindel. Everything was so much simpler there. As he entered his grove and went to replace his harp he sighed. "Oh gwador," he whispered, "I really wish you were here to help me."

He resumed his seat where he had been working on the basket but the thought of continuing with it did not appeal to him, yet, he knew Nestadôr would be leaving soon and he was almost finished. With another sigh he picked up a weaver and began the next row of the basket, all the while wondering what the future held in store for him.

****

Malinornë: Quenya equivalent of the Sindarin mallorn.