28: Invitation to a Wedding

My friendship with Herendil grew deeper. It did not, as my parents had hoped, lead to further friendships among the other courtiers. They were unfailingly polite but their demeanor held no warmth. I was not particularly concerned, content as I was with this one friend. I knew that even before I left Aman I had had few friends among those of my anatar’s court. I had even fewer friends in my own. So, for the time being, I was satisfied to have this one person as a friend, though he was not the friend I most wished to have beside me. It was not Herendil’s fault that he was not Glorfindel....

****

Several weeks after Finrod and Herendil went hunting that first time, a page came to Finrod as he was breakfasting with his parents and presented him with a letter. Finrod stared at it stupidly for a moment, surprised into immobility, for he could not imagine who could be writing to him. It was not from Amarië, he knew, for her letters would have been brought by a courier from Vanyamar. This was plainly from someone who lived in the palace or perhaps in Tirion.

“Well, will you take it,” Arafinwë asked with amusement, seeing the confusion in his son’s eyes, “or will poor Vëandur be celebrating his coming of age day still standing here?”

Finrod started and gave the ellon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, vinyamo. Thank you.” He took the letter as Vëandur bowed, giving him a cheeky grin in return before departing.

“You’re lisping again, dear,” Eärwen said gently.

Finrod gave his ammë a blank stare, not sure what she meant.

“The word is ‘winyamo’,” she explained with a smile, “not ‘vinyamo’.”

Finrod blushed. “Sorry,” he said. He wondered how many times in the day he was forced to use that word. It seemed he could not get through an hour without apologizing to someone about something. “In Beleriand some words with the initial sound of ‘wilya’ came to be pronounced with the sound ‘vala’, though we still wrote them using the ‘wilya’ tengwa. I’m sure Uncle Fëanáro would not have approved, but as he wasn’t around to complain....” He shrugged and gave them a lopsided grin.

Arafinwë snorted in good humor and gestured at the letter in his son’s hand. “Will you read the letter here or in private?”

Finrod blinked a couple of times and then took hold of a knife to remove the seal. It was a plain seal showing the ‘hyarmen’ tengwa between two stars within a circle. Opening the letter he scanned the short missive, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s from Lord Herendil,” he said. “He is inviting me to his son’s wedding.”

Arafinwë nodded. “We would attend as a matter of course since both Herendil and Selmacas are members of my court, but it was kind of him to send you a personal invitation.”

Finrod nodded, reading through the words a second time before folding the letter and stuffing it inside his tunic. “I will have to think of a wedding gift, then,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about it. I only met Aldundil the one time and I am afraid I have little liking for Lady Calalindalë. I have no idea what I should give them.”

“You need not bother,” Eärwen said. “We already have a gift for them which will come from all of us as a family. You need not worry about giving them a separate gift. Neither they nor Herendil would be expecting it.”

“I suppose,” Finrod said somewhat reluctantly. Then he stood up and excused himself.

“Where are you going, dear?” Eärwen asked. “You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“As Herendil was kind enough to send me a personal invitation to his son’s wedding, even though he must have known I would be attending anyway, it is only meet that I send him a note thanking him.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, hinya,” Eärwen said, “and I am sure Herendil will appreciate it, but you may write the note later. Now, sit and finish your breakfast.”

“Yes, Ammë,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. He was once the King of Nargothrond whose every word was obeyed, but he was still an elfling of fifteen in his ammë’s eyes and he suspected he always would be. He happened to catch his atar’s eye just then. Arafinwë grinned and gave him a conspiratorial wink, which made him feel a little better.

****

“But why do I need new clothes just for a wedding?” Finrod complained. He was again sitting with his parents as they enjoyed breakfast a few days later. His ammë had informed him as he sat down to make himself available to the palace seamstresses to be outfitted with new garb for the upcoming wedding. “I’m sure no one will care if I wear the same court garb I’ve worn on other occasions. It’s not as if I were a member of the wedding party itself.”

“But you are a member of the royal family,” Eärwen said firmly, “and as such, it behooves us to dress accordingly. Your atar and I feel that you need new clothes anyway. Except for the tunics you brought with you from Lórien, all your other clothes are from when you were living here before, at least, the ones you didn’t bother to take with you.”

Finrod flinched slightly, feeling suddenly guilty, though he was not sure why since his ammë’s tone had not been disapproving, merely stating facts.

“As it is, they are woefully out of fashion, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she continued.

He hadn’t, actually, and didn’t care. Court garb was made to be endured. He certainly remembered the times when he had been forced to wear it. It came with the territory and he recalled his brothers smirking at him as his body servants hovered over him, making sure every fold was correct. He recalled a particular time when Aegnor had commented that he was heartily glad he didn’t have to dress up in such ridiculous garb just to greet some Sindarin dignitary. Angrod had laughed in agreement. Of course, that dignitary had been no less a personage than Prince Celeborn of Doriath. He smiled at the memory, for he had gotten his revenge on his brothers by insisting that they join him in greeting the Sindarin delegation come to pay their respects to the King of Nargothrond. Angrod had taken it in good humor, though Aegnor had scowled throughout the whole feast, softly swearing in Quenya every time he had to push the long silk sleeves of his undertunic out of the way to keep them from ending up in the gravy.

“Your ammë is correct, yonya,” Arafinwë said, giving him a sympathetic look. “It is time you were dressed more appropriately. This will be the first formal occasion in which you will be seen in public outside of attending court every once in a while.”

Finrod frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“The wedding will not be held here, but at Lord Herendil’s estate,” Arafinwë explained. “Not only will other nobles who are not part of my court be attending, but Lord Herendil’s own people will be there.”

“Oh,” Finrod said softly, feeling a little distressed. He had gotten used to being around his atar’s courtiers and the palace servants had finally stopped gawking at him every time he walked by, but he had had little contact with those outside the palace. He sighed and closed his eyes, suddenly wishing he were back in Lórien. Even attending a stupid painting class seemed preferable to going out in public.

Eärwen leaned over and planted a loving kiss on his cheek. He opened his eyes to see her smiling at him warmly. “It will not be as terrible as you imagine, dear.”

“And as guests at the wedding,” Arafinwë added, “we will simply be ourselves and not the royal family. There will be no formality where we are concerned.”

“So why do I need new garb?” Finrod demanded.

“Because everyone will be expecting it,” Eärwen replied. “We may just be guests, but we will be royal guests and that, I am afraid, makes all the difference.”

Finrod sighed again. “And I can’t even feign a sudden illness the way some of the Atani lords used to in order to get out of having to attend a tedious function.”

Arafinwë laughed at that and Eärwen gave her son a knowing smile.

****

It turned out that the seamstresses had been ordered to replace all his old tunics with new ones. He entered his bedroom to find several servants going through his wardrobe and clothespress and pulling out tunic after tunic and shirt after shirt. Even some of his breeches were apparently to be replaced. When one of the servants pulled out the blue wool tunic with its simple embroidery of leaves and flowers that Morwen had made for him, he grabbed it out of the ellon’s hands.

“No! This stays,” he said hotly.

“The queen ordered...”

“I do not care what the queen ordered,” Finrod said with a snarl. “All of you, out! Out!” The last was shouted and, seeing the genuine anger in his eyes, they gave him hasty bows and departed. He sat on the edge of his bed with Morwen’s tunic still in his hands, gently smoothing out the wrinkles. He wondered idly if she had been released from Lórien yet. Most likely she had been and was now living on Tol Eressëa. The thought came to him that perhaps he could go there and ask her to make his clothes for him, but he dismissed it almost at once. He had no doubt his parents would frown at the idea.

Eärwen came a few minutes after the servants had left. He did not look up at her entrance, merely stroking the tunic on his lap. “They were going to throw out Morwen’s gift,” he said by way of explanation. “She’s my friend. They had no right.”

“I am sorry, dear,” Eärwen said with a sigh as she sat down beside him on the bed. “I had completely forgotten about it. You only wore it the one time.”

“It’s my best tunic,” he replied. “I was... I was saving it to wear on a special occasion like... like a wedding.” He looked up at his ammë. “Why can’t I wear this?”

Eärwen put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him, giving him a kiss on his temple. “It wouldn’t be suitable, Finda, as lovely as it is.”

“They were going to throw everything out!” he protested, deciding not to argue with his ammë about the tunic. “What did they expect me to wear in the meantime while the seamstresses worked on my clothes, my night shirt?”

Eärwen laughed. “They were not going to throw everything out, hinya,” she said with an amused look. “They were merely going to sort through your clothes and see what should be thrown out.”

“I don’t like them pawing at my clothes, though,” he said with a frown. “I only allowed my personal valet, Belamdir, to ever go through my wardrobe.” He paused and then sighed sadly. “I wonder what happened to him? I suppose he died when Nargothrond fell.”

Eärwen gave her son another hug. “Why don’t you and I go through your wardrobe together and sort out what you no longer need? The seamstresses will be here shortly.”

“Fine,” Finrod said shortly, standing up, “but let’s just get rid of the court garb. I don’t think it matters what I wear when I just want to relax or I’m out hawking with Lord Herendil.”

Eärwen nodded and rose as well. “Then why don’t you put Morwen’s tunic back where it belongs and then come help me sort out the rest.”

Finrod gave his ammë a brief smile and did as she had bid. By the time the seamstresses arrived they had gone through the entire wardrobe while Eärwen quizzed him about what he wore when he was living in Nargothrond.

****

Thankfully, Finrod only had to endure a couple of fittings, for his new hröa was an exact copy of his first and he had not changed all that much in the centuries after he had left Tirion. The seamstresses, in fact, already had his measurements, but, as one of them pointed out, it was always wise to double-check.

“We want you to feel comfortable, Highness,” the elleth said as she pinned the cloth to his frame.

Finrod snorted. “In that case, I’ll just wear my old hunting tunic. It’s the most comfortable one I own.”

The elleth just shook her head and went on with her pinning. Eärwen, who was supervising, rolled her eyes when Finrod gave her a wink, showing that he was only jesting.

****

Finally, the day came when his new clothes, or at least those for the wedding, were ready. The rest were still being made. Finrod eyed the outfit with resignation as it was laid out upon his bed. It wasn’t any less fine than his other court garb from before, but somehow it just seemed different. Perhaps because it had been made especially for the wedding. Still, he had to admit that the seamstresses had done an excellent job. Every stitch was perfect and the embroidery was exquisite. He compared it with the simple tunic Morwen had made for him. All in all he would prefer wearing the tunic. He thought about wearing it anyway but knew he would not get away with it. His ammë would just make him take it off and put on the tunic especially made for the occasion.

He gave the wedding clothes a closer look. The shirt was a pale yellow-gold figured silk with tight sleeves and a high neck. The knee-length tunic was a dark teal blue satin. Its sleeves were slit and lined with a light green silk. Over this would be worn a sleeveless ankle-length coat of the same dark teal blue satin as the tunic. It was open in the front and lined with the same gold silk as the shirt.

One of his body servants came in just then to help him dress, but Finrod insisted that he would prefer to dress alone. “If I need any help, I’ll call,” he told the ellon and then shooed him out the door. A glimmer of an idea had come to him as he was looking over the outfit and he did not want anyone interfering. Quickly, he doffed the houserobe he had been wearing after bathing and began to dress. Luckily, these clothes were not so elaborate that he could not get into them without help. When the expected knock on the door came, he was ready.

“Findaráto,” he heard his atar say, “are you all right, hinya?”

He went to the door and opened it. “Yes, Atto,” he said. “I am all ready.”

Arafinwë took a quick look at his son and sighed inwardly. The ellon had apparently compromised on his garb. He wore the yellow-gold shirt and the coat that had been made but instead of the matching tunic, he was wearing the tunic that his friend had made for him. It was only luck that the blues of the tunic and coat did not clash. He noticed a glint of defiance in his son’s eyes and knew that there would be a battle if he were made to change his clothes now. As it was, they would be late for the wedding.

“Come on,” he said. “Your ammë is waiting for us.” He ignored the look of triumph that flashed across Findaráto’s face as they went to find Eärwen but he couldn’t help smiling when he saw the resigned look on his wife’s face when she saw them. He gave her a shrug.

“I suppose it will have to do,” Eärwen said with a sigh. “At least you aren’t wearing those strange front braids.”

Finrod shrugged. “I know better than that,” he said, though in truth, he had contemplated wearing them, but knew that he would be pushing his luck.

“Come,” Arafinwë said. “It will take us some time to reach Herendil’s estate and we do not want to be late.”

They set off, riding in the same carriage that had brought Finrod to Tirion, passing out of the western gate to the salute of the guards. They traveled for a brief time until they came to a crossroad and turned north through a pleasant orchard. The road debouched upon the estate of Lord Herendil. It was not overly large or opulent but it was lovely nonetheless. The royal family climbed down from the carriage and were greeted by Lord Herendil and his wife, Lady Vandacalimë. Of Lord Selmacas and his wife, Lady Tarwen, there was no sign.

“Welcome, Your Majesties, Prince Findaráto,” Herendil said. “I am glad that you have deigned to honor us with your presence.”

“We are honored to be here for this joyous occasion, Herendil,” Arafinwë replied.

“The wedding feast will begin soon,” Vandacalimë said. “In the meantime, we are all gathered in the upper garden. One of my ladies will escort you while we continue to greet our other guests.”

Arafinwë nodded and the three followed the elleth along a terraced path to a garden where many others were already gathered. As the royal family approached, all conversations ceased and the people began to give them their obeisance, but Arafinwë raised a hand to forestall them.

“Today, we are but three more guests attending the wedding. We will not insist on ceremony. Please continue as you were.” Then he and Eärwen stepped forward to greet some nobles whom Findaráto did not know, introducing him to them and the other guests returned to their own conversations.

For the next several minutes, Finrod found himself being introduced to one person or another or greeting those from the court whom he already knew. They all addressed him politely, one or two glancing at his attire with studied disinterest, so he knew they had noticed the plainness of his tunic underneath the coat and most likely did not approve, though their facial expressions never changed. It did not matter. His parents pretended they did not notice the stares that followed him and he did as well. He, at least, was used to being stared at and had learned to ignore it.

Then they were called to attend the wedding feast and Finrod wondered if they would end up sitting at the high table because of their rank, but surprisingly he and his parents were seated at a table just below the high table. His atar must have noticed his look of relief mixed with puzzlement, for he leaned over and whispered, “I told Herendil earlier that if he seated us at the high table I would send him into permanent exile to the Southern Fiefdoms where he would spend his days tending sheep.”

Finrod snickered at that as he sat down. He found himself seated next to and across from some people whom he did not know. Serindë, and Mardillë were sisters and seated next to him was their cousin, Rúmilion. They and their parents worked in various government departments. Mardillë worked in the Exchequer.

“I’ll be working beside Aldundil,” she said. “He’s agreed to enter government service. Lord Selmacas is in the part of the Exchequer that handles the privy purse and he was able to get Aldundil the appointment.”

Serindë turned out to be in the diplomatic corps. “Though so far the only diplomacy I’ve practiced is pretending I actually like my cousin here.” She gave him an impudent grin and he stuck his tongue out at her while Mardillë giggled.

“And what do you do?” Finrod asked Rúmilion, smiling at the cousinly banter. He remembered similar banter between him and his own cousins a long time ago.

“I am finishing my studies in law and hope to receive an appointment to the magistracy.”

Finrod nodded. “I wish you every success,” he said sincerely and the younger ellon thanked him.

Then the conversation between them lagged somewhat until Mardillë shyly asked him about what Beleriand was like and he spent some time regaling them with stories of life in Endórë as he remembered it.

Later, as he was returning from the privy between removes, he overheard some people who were around a corner of the hallway speaking. He slowed his steps when he heard his own name being mentioned by an elleth whose voice he did not recognize.

“Did you see what the prince was wearing?” she asked her companions with a snigger. “How uncouth can you get?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he heard an ellon say, and recognized Rúmilion’s voice. “It looked rather comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than what I’m wearing,” he said with a laugh.

Then another elleth was speaking. “I am surprised that their Majesties allowed him to attend the wedding in such a plain tunic. Even with the coat covering most of it, it still looks a bit shabby. Why even the servants are better dressed.”

Finrod could feel himself blushing.

“Don’t be silly,” Rúmilion said sharply. “I think Prince Findaráto looks just fine.”

“You’re an ellon, you would say something stupid like that,” the first elleth said with a sneer.

“Perhaps,” Rúmilion said somewhat coldly, “it’s because it’s the truth. Besides, his Highness is not an elfling needing his ammë’s help to dress.”

“He’s only just been reborn....” the elleth began to say but Rúmilion cut her off.

“He is older than we are,” he retorted. “He lived a whole life before his death. He was leading armies against Melkor and ruling an entire kingdom while the rest of us were either still in swaddling clothes or not even born yet. I am sure he is not wearing that tunic to snub Aldundil and Calalindalë.”

“I hope Aldundil and Calalindalë know that,” the second elleth said archly.

“Bah!” Rúmilion exclaimed. “You are hopeless. If you will both excuse me, I see the next remove is about to be served and my cousins will no doubt take my share of it if I am not there to protect my interest.”

There was a pause and then he heard someone move away and assumed it was Rúmilion. The two ellith, however, did not appear to be in any hurry to return to their own seats and he wondered what he should do. He couldn’t stand out in the hallway forever. Finally, with a shrug, he stepped around the corner, giving the startled ellith a polite smile and a nod of his head as he went past them into the feasting hall. As he took his seat next to Rúmilion he leaned over and whispered into his ear.

“Thank you for defending me.”

The ellon gave him a startled look and then blushed. “You heard.”

Finrod nodded but did not otherwise elaborate.

“If I might ask, Highness,” the ellon said, speaking in a low tone, “why did you wear this particular tunic?”

“It was a gift from a friend,” Finrod answered readily enough. “I know it’s not very fancy and it really does not go with the coat, but....” He paused and gave Rúmilion a shrug. “The seamstresses did a very fine job of making the tunic that goes with this outfit. Their sewing is perfect and the embroidery is exquisite as you can see from the coat, but every stitch of this tunic, every piece of embroidery, however plain and simple it might be, was sewn with love. By wearing this, a gift of friendship that I will always treasure, am I not honoring the bridal couple more than by wearing something that was made by order of my amillë?”

Rúmillion smiled and nodded. “You needn’t convince me, Highness,” he said. “I think you look fine just as you are, but then, I’m just an ellon, so what do I know?” He gave him a sly wink and Finrod laughed.

“Indeed,” was his only reply and then he turned his attention to his trencher. The rest of the feast passed pleasantly enough and then it was time for the actual wedding. Finrod watched with interest as the betrothal contract was read aloud and approved. Vows and rings were then exchanged, the language almost archaic, and he had some difficulty understanding it. This was followed by the amending of the betrothal contract to reflect that the marriage had taken place. The document was then signed by all interested parties. The whole ceremony was stilted and formal and Finrod was glad when it was over. He turned to his atar as they rose to stand in line to greet the happy couple and their families.

“I think I like the Sindarin form better,” he confided to Arafinwë. “It’s certainly much shorter and not so elaborate.”

“What do they do?” his atar asked curiously.

“They don’t go on forever about marriage rights and dowries and such,” Finrod said with a snort. “If the couple have decided between themselves that they wish to wed, then they simply... well... you know... they make love and then announce to everyone afterwards that they have wed. A feast to celebrate usually follows.”

Arafinwë gave him a considering look. “Did Artanis....”

Finrod shook his head and gave his atar a reassuring smile. “She insisted on a proper wedding, as she put it,” he replied. “In fact, Celeborn even came to me to ask for my permission to wed her. I thought it very brave of him, all things considered. The Sindar were a bit bemused by all the fuss, but they accepted it as just one more odd thing that we Noldor did.”

Arafinwë nodded, but Finrod had a sense that his atar was feeling relieved to know that his daughter had wed properly. Then it was their turn to greet the couple and their parents and Finrod concentrated on remembering the polite phrases that were expected from him.

“A lovely wedding, Herendil,” he said to the groom’s atar. “I know you’re very proud of Aldundil, as well you should be.”

“He’s my son,” Herendil said with a smile. “I have no reason not to be proud of him. Thank you for coming, Highness.”

“I don’t think I had a choice,” Finrod responded with a grin, “but I do thank you again for sending me the invitation.”

“It was my pleasure, Highness,” Herendil said with a bow. “Shall we go hawking sometime soon? Next week perhaps?”

Finrod nodded. “I would like that, thank you. Perhaps I can convince Atar to join us this time.”

Herendil nodded and then turned to greet the next person in line as Finrod went to give the groom’s amillë his congratulations. By the time they were through the line, though, he was feeling suddenly fatigued and told Arafinwë so. His atar recognized the signs and ordered their carriage to be readied while he and Eärwen made their excuses to Herendil and Selmacas.

Finrod made his own farewells to Rúmilion and his cousins. As he was bending to give Serindë a chaste kiss on her hand she stayed him and bent to whisper in his ear. “Don’t pay any heed to the fools who think they know everything. I think it’s a lovely tunic. It matches your eyes perfectly.”

He gave her a startled look and when she winked conspiratorially, he realized that Rúmilion must have told her about the conversation. He smiled shyly at her and then, without thinking about it, invited all three to come hawking with him and Herendil. They readily agreed and then the carriage was there to take the royal family back to Tirion.

Finrod climbed in, sitting beside his atar. As the carriage drove off Arafinwë gave him a fond smile, wrapping an arm around him and giving him a hug. “Not as bad as you thought it would be, was it?” Finrod shook his head, then leaned against his atar’s shoulder with a sigh, closing his eyes. He was fast asleep before they even left the estate grounds.

****

Vinyamo/Winyamo: Youngster.

Note: wilya (w/v) is the name of tengwa #24, vala (v) is #22 and hyarmen (h) is #33.