23: A Prince in Flight

In spite of Lord Námo’s reassurances and words of comfort, I was despondent and felt more a stranger in my own home than before. I despaired of ever fitting in again. Too much time, too much history had passed since I had last lived in Tirion. It wasn’t really my home anymore, just the place in which I happened to be living at the moment. I thought of my friends from Lórien and wondered if they were as miserable as I....

****

Finrod returned to the palace still angry, shaken by Nambarauto’s words and the reactions of Selmacas and the two ellith. He was in no mood to be cheerful or polite to anyone. Unfortunately, the first person he encountered on his way to his rooms was Amarië.

“Oh, there you are, Findaráto,” the elleth exclaimed as she met him in the hall leading to the royal apartments. “Where have you been?” Then she frowned, giving him a shrewd look. “Have you been crying?”

Finrod hastily wiped the last of the tear tracks from his cheeks, reddening slightly. “I was remembering....”

“Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “You’re always remembering something from that other place, but you never seem to remember anything about us or our lives here in Tirion. That other place doesn’t even exist any....”

“As long as I live, it exists,” Finrod hissed angrily, “in here, if nowhere else.” He stabbed at his chest, giving her a fierce scowl and made to move away but Amarië stood in his path.

“No, Finda,” she said, getting angry herself.

“Don’t call me that!” he shouted. “You don’t have the right.”

“I used to call you that all the time... before,” she shouted right back.

“That was before, this is now,” Finrod retorted. “Atto told me you refused to return to Vanyamar after I left, insisting on staying here in Tirion to wait for me. That was foolish and a waste of your life.”

“I had a life, with you,” Amarië nearly screamed, tears streaming down her face, “but you threw it away on a whim and all it got you in the end was death. If anyone was the fool, it was you.”

The words, so similar to Nambarauto’s, stung. “Go home, Amarië,” he whispered, his fury barely contained. “Go back to Vanyamar where you belong. Give up this hopeless dream of us ever being together. It will never happen.”

He did not wait for her reply; indeed, he did not want to hear it. Instead, he turned on his heels and strode away, reaching his rooms by way of another hall, flinging both book and apple at a table. The book missed and landed on the floor while the apple bounced, then rolled to a stop as it brushed up against a miniature statue, only a foot high, depicting the Elentári with her arms raised above her. A small yet perfect diamond floated between her hands. It was a copy of the statute of Varda that graced the front courtyard of Ilmarin and had been a gift from the Queen of Stars herself long ago. He stood in the middle of the room, his heart racing and his breathing rapid as he allowed anger and despair to take hold of him. He wanted to destroy something, anything, but the lesson of the ruined garden still held him in check and in the end, the impotent rage building up inside of him forced him to his knees and he started screaming.

There was the sound of running feet and voices shouting but they did not truly register. When arms grabbed him he resisted, fighting whoever was trying to hold him as if all the demons of Morgoth were upon him. He continued screaming and fighting, unwilling to hear what the voices were saying to him. He simply fought, wishing he had a sword. He felt more hands on him and then he was being held against the floor by several bodies. By now the rage that had filled him was dissipating and he felt a wave of dizziness sweep through him, forcing a moan from his lips as he nearly blacked out. His thrashings ceased and he simply lay there, his eyes closed, breathing harshly for a time while the bodies pressed against him, keeping him in place.

“Let’s get him up and into bed,” he heard someone say and it took him a few seconds to identify the voice as belonging to his atar.

Now the bodies shifted and he was being lifted into someone’s arms and brought to his bed where they competently stripped him of his outer tunic and boots. Someone covered him with a blanket and then there was the soft shuffling of feet as people left. He heard the door click shut and gave a sigh, too weak to do anything but lie there. Then, someone sat on the edge of the bed and a cool hand began stroking his hair, sending waves of comfort through him. He cracked open his eyes to see his ammë, smiling down at him, though her eyes were dark with concern.

“Are you feeling better, Finda?” she asked gently.

Finrod did not answer, simply sighing and closing his eyes again, letting his ammë’s touch soothe him into a dreamless sleep.

****

Finrod woke to find that it was now early evening, so he probably had slept only for a couple of hours. He felt drained of emotion and heartsick. It had started out to be such a lovely day. He had felt content, sitting beside his atar in his court, and then, afterwards, sitting in the oak tree with his book. If only he had not given into the temptation of swinging from the tree branch, the day would have continued fine, but now it was all ruined. First Nambarauto and then Amarië. It was just unfair. He was trying to fit in, to be accepted for himself, not for what he used to be. That person died, and in more ways than one. He couldn’t go back to being that person no matter how much he or others might wish.

He sighed and climbed out of the bed, going into the bathing chamber to splash some water on his face and brush out his hair before returning to his bedroom to don his tunic and houseboots. He forwent belting the tunic and went out to his sitting room to find his atar seated in a chair on the balcony that overlooked one of the palace gardens, calmly reading. Arafinwë looked up from his book, closed it and gestured for his son to join him. Finrod did so, eyeing his atar somewhat warily, not sure what to expect, as he took a seat. A small, low table stood between them where a pitcher of hawthorn juice and a couple of glasses sat. Arafinwë placed the book on the table, then poured the juice into the glasses, handing one to Finrod who drank the nectar that had a faint strawberry taste to it.

“I heard from several people what happened in the garden,” Arafinwë said without preamble, “as well as your... er... conversation with Amarië.”

Finrod closed his eyes, feeling defeated. No doubt those other people, and he suspected two of them to be Nambarauto and Amarië, had painted him in the worst light possible. Anything he might say in his defense would surely be dismissed as the whinings of a Reborn elfling.

“You have nothing to say?” Arafinwë asked, his expression giving nothing away as to his own thoughts on the matter.

Finrod shook his head, opening his eyes. “Nothing I say will matter. You’ve already made up your mind about me.”

“Indeed?” Arafinwë retorted. “And what exactly have I decided about you, if I may be so bold?” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Finrod, but he ignored it, giving his atar a cool stare.

“Whatever version of the truth Nambarauto and Amarië gave you is what happened and that I am entirely at fault,” he replied, then continued on before Arafinwë could respond. “You all have made up your minds about me. You see me as I am and compare me with what I used to be, what you remember me being, and you find me now to be wanting. I’m a disgrace to you and all of Elvenkind, first for having left and then for having the temerity to get myself killed and Arda would be better off if I had stayed safely dead so you could continue with your fantasies about me as I was and not as I became.”

The silence that stretched between them became almost unbearable. Finrod longed to leave, but it seemed ludicrous to do so, considering that they were in his rooms, not his atar’s. Arafinwë sat there, eyeing his son, his expression still unreadable to the younger ellon. Finally, he spoke, his tone soft, almost emotionless.

“You are not a disgrace to me, yonya,” he said. “I never blamed you for not turning back. I knew that your brothers and Artanis were intent on going forward and I was glad that you were with them, to watch over them and protect them.”

“I couldn’t protect either Aicanáro or Angaráto,” Finrod replied sorrowfully. “They died before I could reach them. I don’t know what happened to Artanis.”

“She still resides in Endórë with her husband, Celeborn,” Arafinwë replied. “She alone of all the Noldor who still lived was not allowed to return to us. Not that she wanted to, mind you,” he added with a slight grin. “You know your sister, strong-willed and stubborn as they come.”

Finrod nodded, but said nothing. Arafinwë gave him a considering look. “I dismissed Nambarauto’s ranting along with Amarië’s,” he continued, returning to the original subject. “Herendil told me what really happened and one of the servants who happened to be nearby when you and Amarië met gave me an unvarnished version of your conversation.”

Finrod just shrugged, evincing an unconcerned attitude. “It matters not,” he said. “You made up your mind about me long before this, you and ammë both.”

“The only thing your ammë and I have decided about you, yonya,” Arafinwë replied, “is that we love you. We love you for who you were when you were our little Finda in truth and we love you for who you are now, our son returned to us when we thought we would never see you again before the ending of Arda. That you came back to us by way of the Halls of Mandos matters little to us, only that you came back. You being here has renewed our hope that someday we will be reunited with all our children and we will truly be a family once again.”

The utter sincerity of his atar’s words nearly unmanned Finrod, but he steeled himself, shaking his head. “Perhaps,” he said, “but that cannot be said for others. Nambarauto....”

“Nambarauto was as intolerant of the Sindar and the Atani when he was in Beleriand as he is of those Noldor who left Aman, especially the Reborn,” Arafinwë interjected and gave Finrod a wry grin. “I understand that one of the Atani actually attacked him for disparaging your memory.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “What happened to the Atan?” was all he could think to ask.

“Ereinion had to pull him off Nambarauto and throw him into a snowbank in the middle of a blizzard to cool him down, but other than that, not much else.” He gave Finrod a wide grin. “So, you see, even now after all this time and many generations of Men, you are still revered. Indeed, I actually heard at least three different ballads about your exploits when I was in Beleriand, two of them composed by the Atani. Lord Eönwë assured me that the description of your deeds as sung was more or less accurate.”

Finrod sat there feeling slightly stunned and was not sure how to react. He no longer desired to be among the Mortals whom he had loved. He was glad that they had survived the final cataclysm of the War of Wrath and that many were now dwelling on the island of Númenor, flourishing as a nation in their own right. He would never go there, he knew, and that was fine. Yet, what his atar had just told him wasn’t enough to appease him. He was here, not there. It was here where he needed to find acceptance.

“I just wanted to swing in the tree,” he said quietly, not looking at his atar. “Why couldn’t they just leave me alone to enjoy myself? I wasn’t hurting anyone.”

Arafinwë leaned over and placed a hand on his knee, giving it a fatherly pat. “I know, and I have made it clear to Nambarauto and to others that you are not to be harassed in the future. As long as you are not committing mayhem, you are to be left alone to do as you please. Now, your ammë is in our sitting room. I think you should go and spend some time with her, reassure her that all is well with you. I’ve ordered dinner for just the three of us tonight. Amarië is dining elsewhere at my suggestion.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow, knowing that his atar’s ‘suggestion’ most likely had been a direct order, but he did not comment. Instead, he drained his cup and stood. “I’ll go see ammë now,” he said and exited his suite, leaving Arafinwë sitting there for some time contemplating certain things as the sky darkened to indigo and the first stars began to peep forth before rising to join his wife and son for the evening meal.

****

The following days were torment for Finrod. It was impossible to ignore the stares and sniggers of servants and courtiers alike as he roamed the halls of the palace, or to overhear snatches of conversations that included the words ‘tree swinging’, though these conversations ended abruptly whenever he approached. He kept a stoical mien wherever he went, pretending indifference or ignorance, but inside he felt hurt and shamed. He tended to stay out of everyone’s way as much as possible, even refusing to attend court with his atar, and he avoided the gardens completely. He spent much of his time in the library that was just off Arafinwë’s study. Not that he did any reading. He would find a nook and spend hours doing nothing but think.

It was just too much, he decided. He didn’t belong here and never would. Over the course of the week that followed the run-in with Nambarauto, Finrod came to the conclusion that he should run away. He recalled Lord Irmo’s admonishment that he should be running towards something and not just away from something. He knew that if he left, he needed a legitimate (at least to his mind) goal. So, he sat in the library with a map of Aman on his lap and thought out his options.

He eliminated both Lórien and Mandos immediately from his plans. The former was too obvious and it would be the first place anyone would look for him; the latter, he instinctively knew, was forbidden to him, assuming he could even find it, for he knew that Mandos was hidden from normal sight and only those who needed to be there ever found it. He glanced eastward on the map where Tol Eressëa was situated. His first impulse was to go there and be with his friends from Lòrien, but on further reflection he realized it would not work. For one thing, he would need to find a ship to take him there and he doubted any would accept him as a passenger. He thought about stealing a small boat and rowing across the bay but decided that option was plain ludicrous. He was no thief, and wasn’t about to have that sobriquet placed upon him.

He sighed and let his eyes wander until they found Alqualondë. Anatar Olwë and Anammë Lirillë lived there. He shook his head. No, that was no good. The last time he had been there was during the Kinslaying and even if he had taken no part in it, he rather doubted that he would be welcomed there. That left north or south. North lay Vanyamar, the city of his Great Uncle Ingwë, High King of all the Elves in Aman and his Queen Elindis and their children. He remembered that he had been rather close to his cousins at one time, before everything spiraled out of control.

Again he sighed, knowing that north was out as well. Ingwë would just send him back to Tirion under heavy escort and a lot of paternal admonitions against running away again. So, that left south. What was south, though? He gave the map a closer look, finding the road he had taken twice with his atar. There was the road to the royal granaries and here was the Royal Reserve. He felt a thrill run through his fëa as the memory of the Hunt came to the fore. He had hunted evil in Beleriand many times, but this time with Lord Oromë had been different somehow, though he could not have said why. Well, the Reserve was an option, but....

The Southern Fiefdoms. Hmm.... he recalled them in a vague sort of way. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been there before, for no real memories rose in his mind. Still, he knew that it was an area of rich farmland, the bread basket of Aman, where small villages clustered amidst the fields of grain and grape and orchards. Could he lose himself there? He doubted he would go unnoticed. His hair alone would stand out among all the dark-haired Noldor who lived there, and he certainly was no peasant. Yet, what other option did he have? He was determined to leave, but it seemed all directions were closed to him.

“Except up and down,” he said out loud, giving a snort of disgust, as he flung the map from him. Well, what about those directions? He knew there were mines somewhere in the mountains. Hmm... the mountains. Why not? He was quite capable of living off the land, having done so enough times in Beleriand. There were bound to be caves where he could live. You mean, hide out, a small inner voice said, but he thrust that thought away and contemplated the idea further, gathering up the map to see where he could go. The mountains were not that far away with Tirion set within the Calacirya. If he took the southern road a bit and then headed southeast....

Yet, how to get away without anyone knowing? His personal guard, Amandur, always accompanied him whenever he left the palace grounds and if he attempted to take his horse out of the stables, someone would alert him... and his atar. He scrunched his face in furious thought, trying to remember if there was a way....

Wait! A memory, slow and grudging to come to the fore, surfaced. It was a memory of him and his younger brothers and sister, sneaking out of the palace with none the wiser. Of course! The arbor that led down to the park. He remembered now. While the bulk of the palace grounds stood at the pinnacle of Túna, there was an arbor, actually a tree enclosed tunnel that led down to a park that lay just outside the eastern section of the wall, south of the gate itself. The arbor had been constructed primarily to allow the royal family privacy while visiting the park. It wended its way south, then east, following the contours of the hill and there were only two entrances, one at either end. The postern gate at the wall was wide enough and tall enough to get a horse through. If he waited until around midnight or so it would be unlikely that anyone would be at the stables and from there it was an easy walk through a small section of the gardens devoted to the trees of the culuma fruit.

Satisfied that he could escape without being caught, Finrod evinced a more cheerful mien over the next few days to allay suspicions as he surreptitiously gathered his supplies, wheedling food from the kitchens with his best elfling act. He was polite to Amarië and even rejoined his atar at court. He felt a pang of remorse and guilt at the genuine look of pleasure on his atar’s face when he appeared unannounced for a morning court session, taking his usual seat beside Arafinwë, but it was too late to change his mind. He needed to leave. He had no real life in Tirion and, except for his atar and ammë, no one else really wanted him there. It would be better for all concerned if he just left.

And so, he timed his leaving for a night when Isil would not rise until nearly dawn. He retired at his usual time, assuring Arafinwë that he would be present at court the next morning, kissed his ammë and wished everyone a good night. Once in his rooms, he changed quickly into the same nondescript tunic he had worn at the Hunt, gathered his supplies which were in two haversacks and waited.

The lights in the palace dimmed and the second watch relieved the first. Then, he snuck out of his rooms, going quietly down the hall, taking the stairs that led to the gardens. The stables were on the other side and he made his way silently with only the light of the stars to show him the way. He stood for a moment or two to make sure no one was around before going into the stables. It was always possible that a stablehand was up tending to one of the horses for some reason or another, but his luck held and all was dark and quiet. It was only a matter of minutes before he found Mithrod’s stall (he preferred to call him by his Sindarin name) and then he was leading the horse out, cautioning him to be as quiet as possible. Then, he made his way to another section of the palace grounds where the tunnel began.

So far, so good. He breathed a sigh of relief once they entered the tunnel. If no one had spotted them before, they would never know they were in the tunnel. He took the path slowly, for without the light of the stars, it was truly pitch black and he had only his fractured memories to guide him. He had decided against bringing a lantern, for there was always the possibility that the light would be noticed from the outside. Luckily, the way was smooth and keeping his left hand out, he let it brush against the trunks of the trees that created the tunnel to guide him.

Finally, the tunnel ended. He had to search for several minutes before he found the latch to open the door and then they were outside, the stars greeting them, seeming almost merry in their twinkling. He mounted Mithrod, got his bearings and headed due east along a path that would lead out of the park, passing trees that gave him a sleepy greeting which he returned with a quiet word.

Once they were free of the park he bent down and whispered into Mithrod’s ear. “Bedim, mellon nîn, nan eryd.”

Mithrod gave a whinny and set off. Humming a sprightly tune, Finrod congratulated himself for having escaped Tirion undetected. But, in fact, his going was noted. So intent was he on reaching the mountains, that Finrod never saw the dark watchtower that rose to his left some few leagues away. Had he looked in that direction, he would have seen it and wondered, for it had not existed when he had lived in Tirion before. However, he kept his attention resolutely to the southeast where the dark bulk of the northern spur of the southern Pelóri rose to precipitous heights.

Standing sentinel on the watchtower, Ravenni of the People of Tulkas watched as Finrod stole away. Even from that distance and with naught but the stars by which to see, she recognized the Reborn prince and relayed the information to her lord, who thanked her. Then, she dismissed the Noldo from her mind and resumed her eternal vigilance upon the Leaguer of Aman.

****

Culuma: (Quenya) Orange fruit (not the color, which is culuina).

Bedim, mellon nîn, nan eryd: (Sindarin) ‘We go, my friend, to the mountains’.

Note: The full tale of Nambarauto being attacked by a Mortal for disparaging Finrod’s memory is told in my story ‘Once Upon a Blizzard’.