19: Confronting the Past

The first days of my return to Tirion were unsettling and frustrating. As I wandered the hallways of the palace, servants and courtiers would stop and bow or curtsey but I could feel their stares and hear the whisperings that followed me as I passed them. Most I had no memory of; they were complete strangers to me. The palace itself proved frustrating, for, at first, I could not call up a mental map of the place. Always, memories of Nargothrond rose instead and I yearned for my lost kingdom more and more. It did not help any that Amarië took it upon herself to reintroduce me to my new home and the people who lived there....

****

“...and this is the upper rose garden where you recited that lovely poem you wrote for me about the Trees,” Amarië said.

Finrod resisted a sigh. “I don’t remember,” he said softly for about the tenth time that morning, wishing he could find a polite (or perhaps not so polite) way of excusing himself from the elleth’s presence. It appeared that no matter where they went in the palace or its surrounding gardens she always managed to make some reference to their time together before he left. It seemed to him that about the only place that held no such memory was the privy, and he wasn’t entirely sure about that either.

“What?” Amarië asked. “The garden or the poem?”

“Both,” he answered shortly, and before she could comment he continued. “I appreciate you taking the time to show me around, Amarië, but I’m feeling weary again. I think I will go and rest for a while.”

“You’re always feeling weary,” Amarië said with a pout. “I think you simply use that as an excuse to get away from the rest of us.”

Finrod was tempted to correct her and tell her that it was she he needed to get away from, but he refrained. Instead, he simply shrugged. “I was warned that I would feel this way at first,” he said, and now that he had mentioned it, he was feeling tired again even though it was not yet noon.

“Very well,” Amarië said, sighing in exasperation. “I suppose we can continue the tour at a later time. I’ll see you to your rooms....”

“That won’t be necessary,” Finrod said somewhat hastily. “I remember the way.” Before she could make any other suggestion, he gave her what he hoped was a polite enough bow and strode away, just wanting to get as far from her as quickly as possible without actually running. Soon, he was back in the wing reserved for the royal family, his pace slowing as he idly glanced at the tapestries on the walls. He was staring at one in particular that showed the Two Trees when a strange voice behind him startled him out of his reverie.

“So, the prince returns.”

He turned to find himself facing an ellon whose features appeared familiar but he couldn’t quite place them. The ellon gave him a short bow, though his expression was somewhat mocking.

“I’m sorry,” Finrod said. “I don’t remember....”

“I am Lord Rialcar, your Highness,” the ellon said. “I serve on your atar’s Privy Council.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Finrod replied, feeling relieved. He gave the lord a slight smile. “I’m afraid my memories are not all there, yet. I often....”

“Do you remember my son?” Rialcar asked suddenly.

Finrod blinked a couple of times, feeling nonplused at the unexpected question. “Son? Did I meet him earlier? I’m sorry, I don’t....”

“He followed you,” Rialcar said, his expression turning dark and Finrod took a step back, automatically reaching for a sword that no longer hung on his hip. The lord did not seem to notice as he continued speaking. “His name is Laurendil. Does that ring any bells?”

Finrod could only shake his head, feeling dismayed. “There were many who followed me, Lord Rialcar. I couldn’t expect to remember all....”

“He worshiped you,” Rialcar continued as if he hadn’t heard Finrod’s words. “He could speak of naught but you in those dark days before you stole him away....”

“I didn’t....”

“Did you not?” Rialcar sneered. “Even before the Darkening he would often come home speaking highly of you and your words. He even spoke of seeking a position in your household, stating he would gladly accept the lowest of positions just to be near you.” He shook his head, his fury barely contained. “When you declared that you would follow your fool of an uncle to the Outer Lands, my son couldn’t pack fast enough and could not be persuaded either by me or his amillë to remain. When your atar returned, I’d hoped my son would have seen reason as well and returned with him, but no, he did not, and I think he will never return to us save through Mandos.”

Finrod was not sure how to respond to Rialcar’s diatribe. He truly did not recognize the name of the lord’s son and suspected that if he did know him it was by another name entirely, for many of the Noldor had either adopted Sindarin names or altered their own names to sound Sindarin. He was saved from trying to explain this by the appearance of his atar surrounded by some of his courtiers. Finrod felt weak with relief at the sight of the Noldóran and had to force himself not to run to him.

Arafinwë took in the scene before him at a glance and frowned. “Rialcar, I wondered where you had wandered off to.”

Rialcar gave the king his obeisance. “I came upon your son and introduced myself,” he said smoothly.

“He wanted to know if I remembered his son, Laurendil,” Finrod said. “I told him I didn’t, at least, I don’t think I do. The name is unfamiliar. If I knew him at all it would have been under another name.”

Rialcar and the other courtiers gave him strange looks but Arafinwë merely nodded. “Most likely,” he said, giving his son a slight smile. “I remember when I was in Beleriand how frustrating it was to refer to someone by their Quenya name only to be given blank looks. It took me a while to remember to call your sister Galadriel rather than Artanis.”

Finrod smiled. “She made a point of refusing to respond to me or anyone else if we forgot and called her Artanis,” he said. “Celeborn thought it was amusing whenever Aegnor would sneak up on her and suddenly yell ‘Artanis!’ just to see if she would respond.”

“And would she?” Arafinwë asked, his own expression one of amusement.

Finrod nodded, giving them a light laugh. “Usually by slapping him. I finally had to order him to stop and threatened to have him sent to Caranthir in Thargelion for a year or three if he didn’t behave.”

There were several raised eyebrows among the listeners and most had looks of bemusement. “Who are these people you mention, Prince Findaráto?” one of the courtiers asked. “Such strange sounding names.”

It was Arafinwë, though, who answered. “Aegnor is my son Aicanáro and Caranthir is Morifinwë. Those are the names by which they are known in Heceldamar, which was called Beleriand by those who dwelt there.”

“And Celeborn?” the courtier asked. “Who is he?”

“My son-in-law,” Arafinwë said, then turned to Finrod, ignoring the looks of surprise on the faces of the courtiers. “Would you like to join me? I was about to tour the granaries to make sure there is enough to last through the coming winter.”

“Are winters harsh here?” Finrod asked as he stepped to his atar’s side, no longer feeling weary.

“Sometimes,” Arafinwë answered as he placed an arm around his son’s shoulders. “It seems that when the Valar created Anar and Isil, they allowed the seasons to progress as they will. We learned early on that there would no longer be a continuous growing season for our crops. Even during the Darkening the Valar somehow kept our crops from failing so we did not starve, but afterwards we were pretty much on our own.”

Finrod nodded. “The same with us,” he said as they walked down the hallway with the courtiers following. “Even without the Light of the Trees, Melian was able to cause crops to thrive within her Girdle, but once Anar rose she ceased to exert her power in that manner. We all had to learn how to plan for the winters that assailed us. It was hard but when the Atani came life became a little easier, for their nissi and the children helped with the farming while their neri joined the ranks of warriors helping us maintain the Leaguer against Melkor.”

“And Beleriand was further north than we are here,” Arafinwë said with a nod, “so your lands were not as arable and I suspect your growing season was much shorter than ours.”

“True,” Finrod said. “Indeed, much of our lands were untamed wilderness where none lived, save outlaws and orcs, but we managed as well as we could.”

“I think from what I was told by those whom I met in Beleriand, that you did very well indeed, yonya,” Arafinwë said, giving him an approving smile. “You were a very good ruler to your people. I’m very proud of you.”

Finrod blushed. “Thank you,” he said softly, “but in the end, I failed them.”

“No, child,” Arafinwë said. “From what I’ve learned, it is they who failed you. Your people allowed your cousins to sway them from their allegiance to you. In the end, though, their own perfidy betrayed them and Artaher cast them out of Nargothrond. I understand they met a sorry and, quite frankly, a richly deserved end.”

“No one deserves to die, Atto,” Finrod said quietly, not looking at anyone. “No one.”

Arafinwë stopped to stare at his son, the courtiers stopping as well. “And you, more than most, know of what you speak,” he finally said with a nod. “Forgive me, yonya. I stand corrected.”

Finrod gazed at his atar, not entirely sure how to respond to his words. His atar saved him the trouble by continuing their walk. Soon they were outside where several grooms were there with horses. Arafinwë asked one of them to fetch another horse for his son and soon the ellon was bringing along a fine grey stallion.

“His name is Mistaráto,” Arafinwë told Finrod as the ellon gladly greeted the horse.

“Mithrod,” Finrod whispered, automatically translating the name into Sindarin, as he carefully examined the steed, even going so far as to check the horseshoes, tsking over them.

Arafinwë gave him a questioning look. “Something wrong?”

Finrod looked up from his examination. “Sloppy work,” he said. “I can do better.”

Several eyebrows went up, including Arafinwë’s. “Oh?” he said.

“You know how to shoe a horse, prince?” a courtier whom Finrod remembered was named Pelendur asked.

“Yes, and how to make them,” Finrod replied, mounting the steed, patting him on the neck. He ignored the many disbelieving looks of those around him, keeping his eyes on his atar instead. “So where exactly are we going?” he asked, hoping to divert attention away from himself.

Arafinwë took the hint and pointed south. “The granaries are to the south of the city, on the road to the Southern Fiefdoms,” he explained as they set out.

Finrod nodded. “I remember now, thank you.”

They rode in silence as they went through the streets of the city. This was the first time since returning to Tirion that Finrod had been beyond the portico of the palace and he gazed about him with interest. He vaguely recalled how the city looked under the light of the Two Trees, and then under the dark of the stars, but he had never seen it really in daylight. It was as beautiful as he remembered, what he remembered of it. They passed the court of the White Tree and the Mindon Eldaliéva and then wound their way towards the southern gate. There were enough people riding with them that few pedestrians marked him at first, though they all gave their obeisance as they recognized Arafinwë in the cavalcade. Arafinwë nodded and smiled but otherwise did not address them. Soon they were beyond the city walls and making their way along a well-traveled road that wended its way into the south. About a half a mile down the road they turned off and headed now eastward until they came to an open area where large silos stood.

“We’ve had a good harvest this year,” Arafinwë told Finrod as they made their way along the road. “The granaries will be full for a change.”

“They have not been?” Finrod asked curiously.

Arafinwë shook his head. “The last several years have been somewhat lean. The rains came late when they came at all and the winter before was especially long and colder than normal. This year, however, there has been an overabundance as if to make up for the poor harvests of previous years.”

Finrod nodded. “We had similar problems at times,” he said. “Some of the others were wont to keep the better share of their stores for their own use during the lean years, leaving the Atani living among them to scrounge for themselves. I deplored such measures and always made sure that the Mortals under my rule got a fair share, sometimes even more, for they are weaker than we and cannot withstand hardship as well as we.”

Arafinwë frowned. “It grieves me to hear that someone like Ñolofinwë would ever...”

“Oh, not Uncle or Findecáno,” Finrod assured him. “Not even my cousins, at least not Nelyo or Macalaurë. There were rumors that Moryo and perhaps Turco acted thus, though I was never able to prove it. Still, the rumors persisted.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Arafinwë said with a sigh. “Well, they are all dead now and whatever their crimes they have been judged....”

“No,” Finrod said firmly. “They refused Judgment. Lord Námo told me when I asked.”

There was shocked silence among them. “Refused?” Arafinwë asked faintly.

“Yes, but could we not talk about it, Atto?” Finrod pleaded. “It’s too nice a day....”

“Of course, yonya,” his atar said quickly. “Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you any pain.”

“No pain, Atto,” Finrod assured him, “but I just don’t wish to discuss my late and unlamented cousins right now.”

“Then we will not,” Arafinwë said firmly. “Come. Let us take a look at the granaries and then we will ride a little further to see some of the surrounding farmland.”

They dismounted and made their way towards one of the silos where grain was being stored. The Elves who were working did not stop, but gave cheerful greetings to their group, which Arafinwë acknowledged with a warm greeting of his own.

“How does it go, Ilvanaráto?” he asked an ellon whom Finrod could see was not a worker, for he was richly dressed and he suspected that this one was a noble, for his manner was haughty and his expression lordly.

The ellon bowed to Arafinwë. “Well enough, sire,” he said. “If the weather holds as it has for one more month we will have all the silos filled.” He stared at Finrod, his expression one of puzzlement as if he could not place him. Finrod tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

Arafinwë put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You remember my son, Findaráto, don’t you Ilvanaráto?” He then turned to Finrod. “You might not remember Lord Ilvanaráto but he has been in charge of overseeing our granaries and farms.”

The name meant nothing to Finrod, but he gave the lord a smile and a bow. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Ilvanaráto. I fear I have no memory of you, but hopefully, such memories as I do have will soon surface.”

“Hmph,” Ilvanaráto said, clearly not impressed. “So, is it true, that you died for the sake of one of those Mortals? I heard rumors from those who returned from the war. I must say I can’t imagine why one of the Firstborn would do such a thing for any Aftercomer.”

Finrod felt the blood rush from his head and he was glad for his atar’s arm around his shoulders, steadying him. “I found them to be most admirable and no less Eruhíni than we,” he said quietly yet with great conviction. “I have been told that in sacrificing myself for Beren I opened up a future for our people and the Secondborn that might never have been possible otherwise.”

Ilvanaráto gave him a disbelieving look, and Finrod noticed that he was not the only one. “And who told you this, my prince?” the ellon asked. “I find it rather hard to believe that such is the case.”

“Lord Námo and Lady Yavanna,” Finrod answered and had the satisfaction of seeing the smirk on Ilvanaráto’s face fade.

“More to the point, Ilvanaráto,” Arafinwë said, “I, too, found the Aftercomers to be most admirable and deserving of our respect. They fought bravely and died, sometimes sacrificing themselves so that some of us Eldar would live to see another sunrise. Their lives are so short yet they gave them up willingly in the hope that through their sacrifices Melkor would be defeated, as indeed he was. I would not besmirch their memory or their sacrifices with thoughtless words if I were you.”

Ilvanaráto bowed to the Noldóran. “Forgive me, sire, if I offended you.”

“It is not I whom you have offended, Ilvanaráto,” Arafinwë said, looking pointedly at the lord.

Ilvanaráto grimaced and gave Finrod a bow. “Your pardon, prince,” he said.

Finrod wasn’t sure how sincere the apology was but decided to err on the side of magnanimity and nodded. “Accepted, Lord Ilvanaráto. I know it must be difficult for those who never had the pleasure of meeting any of the Atani to understand how marvelous they are. I dimly remember when I first encountered them.” He gave them a wry grin. “At first I thought they were a strange breed of orcs, except orcs don’t sing and they did.”

“You were the first to encounter them, I understand,” Arafinwë said.

Finrod nodded. “And I stayed with them for a year, teaching them about us and the Valar. They called me Lord Nóm.” He blushed a bit at the blank looks on his listeners’ faces. “It means ‘wisdom’ in their language.”

“Hmmm,” Arafinwë said teasingly. “I would never have figured you to be mistaken for one of the Wise.”

“Atto!” Finrod exclaimed and Arafinwë laughed, hugging him and giving him a kiss on his brow.

“At any rate,” the king said, turning back to Ilvanaráto, “we came here to discuss grain and corn. Perhaps you would show us around?”

Ilvanaráto gave him a deep bow. “As my lord commands.” He gestured for them to follow him and soon Finrod was staring into a nearby silo only half listening to Ilvanaráto talk about crops and harvest, his thoughts wandering to the forests of Ossiriand and a certain mountain valley below the springs of Thalos.

****

All words are Quenya.

Mistaráto: Grey Champion. Mithrod is the Sindarin form.

Nissi: Plural of nís: (Adult) woman of any species.

Neri: Plural of nér: (Adult) man of any species.

Note: Artaher, according to Tolkien, was the original Quenya name of Orodreth. See ‘The Shibboleth of Fëanor’, Note 3, Peoples of Middle-earth, HoME XII. Ñolofinwë is Fingolfin, and Findecáno is Fingon. Nelyo is a pet name for Nelyafinwë who is best known as Maedhros. Macalaurë is Maglor; Moryo and Turco are pet names for Morifinwë (Caranthir) and Turcafinwë (Celegorm), respectively.