30: The New Year Ball

Herendil and Vandacalimë were not my only friends in Tirion, of course. Rúmilion, Serindë and Mardillë were now a part of a very exclusive group. Their easy acceptance of me made life a little easier. In many ways they were closer to my age, as a Reborn, than Herendil who, chronologically was still younger than I, yet was more adult. Rúmilion was not above joining me in swinging from trees, though his cousins adamantly refused, laughing at our antics. In that respect, I felt closer to them than anyone else and we spent much time together. They were nonjudgmental and made allowances for my lapses of memory or lapses of conduct. But there was a chasm of history between us that could not be bridged and every once in a while it was brought home to them — and to others — that I was not as young as I sometimes acted....

****

Once the acclaim died down, Arafinwë then spoke again. “We promised Lord Herendil that We would reward him for his services to Us and to Our son. It is meet that, as we begin a new year, We have in mind to form a new Order of Chivalry within Our realm. This Order will be headed by Our son, and it will be for him to decide who will be admitted. However, We reserve the right at this time to appoint the first Companion.”

Finrod gave his atar a surprised look, for this was news to him. He wondered why his atar had not consulted him about it before this. “Wh-what sort of Order, Atar?” he asked.

Arafinwë smiled at him and clasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It is to be called the Order of the Prince's Courtesy and We think the first person to be admitted into the Order should be Lord Herendil.”

There was much muttering among the courtiers and Finrod frowned, but Herendil spoke before he could voice a protest. “I am not sure I see the reason for such an Order, Sire, for are we not all enjoined to act courteously by virtue of our nobility?”

Arafinwë nodded. “True,” he said, “but those who are chosen to become Companions of the Order must demonstrate to my son and the other members their innate courtesy and compassion to all. They must exhibit those qualities that we tend to associate with the Valar in their dealings with us: deep respect for the person regardless of who they are, and a genuine interest in the person as a person and not as a means to an end. The purpose of the Order is to recognize those among us who exhibit these and other chivalrous qualities to an exceptional degree beyond that which is normally expected by all.”

“Who would want to belong to an Order headed by an elfling Reborn anyway?” Finrod heard Nambarauto whisper to Selmacas, who smirked. The two were standing near the dais as senior courtiers, and Finrod was sure he was meant to overhear the words. He found himself reddening in embarrassment. He felt the same way. Why would his atar do something like this? It would only make things worse for him, not better. He suddenly remembered how he and his cousins had once formed an ‘Order of Chivalry’ when they were elflings, the exclusive purpose of which was to keep out the ellith from their games. This felt very much the same. He suspected that this was his atar’s way of helping him find more friends among the nobles, but he had a sinking feeling that in the end the Order would become moribund when he was unable to find anyone to join it.

It was obvious from the set expression on Arafinwë’s face that he, too, overheard the remark but before he could reprimand the noble, Herendil stepped forward and directly addressed Nambarauto. “An elfling Reborn?” he asked, his expression cool. “Perhaps. Yet, he is also a prince of the realm and the Noldóran’s heir. If for no other reason does he deserve your respect, Nambarauto.” Then he turned to face Arafinwë and Finrod, giving them a deep bow. “Sire, I thank thee for thinking me worthy of so great an honor as to be inducted into this new Order. I have ever striven to treat all with the same respect due to your Majesties and the Valar. I, for one, think that such an Order as this is long overdue. Too many of our people I have noticed of late have forgotten even the most common courtesies in their dealings with one another. I hope that through the example of those belonging to this Order we will become a more courteous people.”

“It is my hope as well, Lord Herendil,” Arafinwë replied. Then he glanced at his son who stood there still looking embarrassed and irresolute. He leaned down to whisper softly into his ear. “Trust me.”

Finrod turned to face his atar and nodded, though his heart wasn’t in it. Arafinwë then motioned to a page standing nearby to come forward, which the ellon did. He held a blue velvet pillow on which were two pendants. “I have had these made,” he said, “for those inducted into the Order.” He reached down and picked up one of the pendants.

Finrod saw a simple gold chain on which depended a roundel of gold in which had been embossed a harp, Finrod’s own emblem, with the name of the Order encircling it. Arafinwë placed the pendant around his neck and then handed the second pendant to him. “It is for you to give this to Lord Herendil,” he said softly.

Finrod resisted a sigh and took the pendant. Herendil gave him a knowing smile as he bent his head to accept it from him. As Herendil straightened, Finrod took him by the shoulders and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “I’m sorry about this. I had no idea Atto was going to do something so stupid.”

Herendil whispered back, “I am not, Highness. I am deeply honored.”

When Finrod stepped back to give him a hard stare, Herendil nodded, and Finrod had no choice but to acknowledge the ellon’s sincerity. He knew he was expected to say something at this point, something eloquent, but all he could think to say as he gave Herendil a wry look was, “Welcome to the club.”

Herendil laughed even as Arafinwë and Eärwen rolled there eyes and many in the court snickered. It did not escape Finrod’s notice, however, that not a few there smirked disdainfully at his words, Nambarauto and Selmacas especially.

Arafinwë then nodded to Axantur, who stepped forward. “For Lord Herendil who has been newly made a Companion of the Prince’s Courtesy.” There was the obligatory applause and acclamations. Finrod wasn’t sure how sincere it was, though he noticed Rúmilion, Serindë and Mardillë applauding enthusiastically. They, apparently, thought the creation of the Order a good thing and that Herendil deserved to be inducted.

Once the acclamations died down, Axantur looked to Arafinwë who gave him another nod. The Master of Ceremonies turned to the audience and announced, “The First Court of their Majesties is concluded. Let the festivities begin.”

With that, Arafinwë and Eärwen stepped down from the dais and made their way to the center of the room while couples gathered behind them for the first pavane. Those who would not be dancing stepped back to make room, standing in small conversational groups while servants went about offering them wine. The musicians struck the first chord and the dance began. Finrod stood by his chair beginning to feel angry at his atar for embarrassing him in such a manner.

“Order of the Prince’s Courtesy, indeed,” he muttered to himself. “What nonsense.”

By this time Rúmilion and his cousins were approaching, giving Herendil their congratulations. Herendil, having overheard Finrod’s comment, turned to give the prince a hard stare.

“It is not nonsense, Highness,” he said. “It is a very great honor.”

“But other than you and these three, who would wish to belong to such an Order?” Finrod protested. “I doubt anyone in the court will be falling over themselves trying to exhibit exceptional courtesy just to join the club.”

“It is not a club,” Herendil replied sternly, speaking more to Finrod as if he were his own child rather than a prince of the realm. “It is a chivalrous Order and one that will become important in the years to come.”

“How do you know?” Finrod exclaimed.

“Because you will make it so, Highness,” Herendil said equably. “Your own sense of chivalry will not allow you to do otherwise. However much you think you hate the idea of the Order, I deem that in time you will see its potential and make it work. It’s just a matter of time.”

“And who says only those who are of the court should belong anyway?” Rúmilion enquired.

Finrod stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what the ellon was driving at, but then, a glimmer of an idea came to him. It was inchoate and he had no details but his friend’s words opened a door of possibilities he had not considered before. “I’ll have to think about it,” was all he said.

Herendil gave him a warm smile. “It truly is an honor, Highness. Believe this.”

Finrod nodded again and then looked about to see what was going on. His parents were returning to the dais, the first pavane having finished. Another dance line was forming and Finrod felt obliged to ask Mardillë to partner him while Rúmilion was already escorting Serindë to the floor. Herendil and Vandacalimë followed. Once the set was done, Finrod excused himself to join his parents at the dais. They gave him fond smiles and Arafinwë gestured for him to approach. Finrod bent down to hear what his atar had to say.

“I know you think I did this to embarrass you,” Arafinwë said softly, “but that was not my intent.”

“What was it then, Atto?” Finrod asked in frustration. “Do you think anyone is going to take this new Order seriously? I certainly don’t.”

Arafinwë sighed. “I hope in time you will,” he said. “Much depends on it.”

Finrod gave him a searching look, confused by what his atar had said. “What do you mean?” he asked but Arafinwë shook his head.

“This is not the time nor the place, yonya. Let us put it aside until later. Tonight we should just concentrate on celebrating the New Year and new lives.” He gave his son a significant look and Finrod took the hint, giving him a nod.

“I will go and see what mischief I can get into with Rúmilion and the ellith,” he said with a sly smile and both his parents chuckled as he gave them his obeisance before going in search of his friends. They were not in the main ballroom but had adjourned to the balcony that spanned one side of the wing overlooking a garden. Fountains played in the night and the air was redolent with night-blooming jasmine. He found them standing along one side speaking softly.

When he joined them they gave him warm smiles and Serindë made room for him. “What are you discussing?” he asked them.

“We were discussing the new Order,” Rúmilion answered. “We were talking about what criteria would be used to determine who could be inducted and how do we judge the actions of others in that regard.”

“We?” Finrod couldn’t help asking, giving them a grin.

“Hypothetically,” Rúmilion replied with a negligent wave of a hand.

“Of course,” Finrod said with a smile, though he had a suspicion that all three of his friends were hoping to be named Companions of the Order and had been trying to determine if they met criteria which had not yet been formulated.

“So, what criteria would you consider?” Mardillë asked off-handedly.

“I have no idea,” Finrod said truthfully. “I’m still trying to get used to the idea. I wish Atto had consulted me before he announced it. I might have been able to persuade him to reward Lord Herendil in some other fashion.”

The festivities continued as the night progressed. Finrod and his friends moved back into the ballroom in search of food and drink. They were standing along one side of the room where tables had been set up with a variety of delicacies and sweets and drinks, both wine and miruvórë. Finrod was filling his plate with food when he happened to look around to watch the dancers, smiling when he spied Herendil dancing with his ammë while Vandacalimë was partnered with his atar. Snatches of conversation floated around him and he was not paying much attention to them as he bit into a tart, but then one snippet of dialogue caught his attention.

“....thinks he’s a Vala to order us about and....”

A Vala... a Vala... a Vala....

The words echoed through his mind and then somehow he was no longer in the ballroom of the palace in Tirion, but in the grand audience chamber of Nargothrond. The throng of people were not merry Elves dancing in the New Year but somber subjects listening to the poisonous words of his cousins, Celegorm and Curufin, and ever did he rue the day that he had allowed them admittance to his kingdom.

A Vala... a Vala... a Vala....

He saw not the smiling faces of his atar’s courtiers as they passed by in dance nor did he respond to the courteous nods of other onlookers standing near him. Neither did he hear his three friends laughing at some jest of Rúmilion. He saw only his detestable cousins smirking with dark glee as they watched his people turn away from him. Curufin, especially, had a triumphant look on his face. Beren, standing beside him, was pale with suppressed fury, a defeated look in his eyes, believing that Finrod would forsake his oath to Barahir to protect his crown from his cousins.

A Vala... a Vala... a Vala....

“Thou dost speak of war and the ruin of Nargothrond, good Cousin,” he said, glaring at Curufin, “if any doth follow me and this child of Men to wrest from Morgoth one of the Silmarils for Elu Thingol’s brideprice, and thou, Celegorm, thou dost dare speak that vile oath here which thine adar uttered in the high court of Tirion, an oath that none should ever take to their ultimate doom. I know your hearts, Cousins. I know them well. Ye desire to send me forth alone to my death that ye may rule in Nargothrond after me. So be it.”

He reached up to take his crown from his head, unaware that in doing so his plate of food went smashing to the floor, and threw it at his feet, though in truth it was not the crown of Nargothrond that skittered across the dance floor. He did not see the startled looks of the Elves of Tirion watching in silence as their prince spoke in a strange tongue and cast his circlet to the ground. He did not see his atar and ammë making their way to his side, concerned looks on their faces. He did not see his friends or Herendil. He saw only his cousins and his fearful subjects, and though he sorrowed for their faithlessness, yet did he pity them and in a flash of foresight he saw them falling from the valor and freedom of their former glory as they skulked in stealth and ambush, using wizardry and venomed darts to pursue all strangers, forgetting the bonds of kinship. All because they had hearkened to his cousins’ soft yet powerful words.

“Your oaths of faith to me you may break,” he said to his people, unaware that he was actually speaking to his atar’s courtiers, “but I must hold my bond. Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence a beggar that is thrust from the gates.” He glanced to where Beren stood, giving him an encouraging smile, but Beren did not return it. Instead, he frowned and began backing away.

But that’s not what happened, a part of his mind told him. Beren had stood firm beside him, returning his smile with one of his own, a grim resolve settling upon them both. And then another thought struck him even more forcibly: Why hasn’t Edrahil picked up my crown asking that I choose a steward? He glanced about in search of his faithful subject and the other nine who would go with them, but nowhere could he see Edrahil’s face or any others that were familiar to him. Where is Edrahil? his mind screamed in sudden terror, feeling something was horrendously wrong but not knowing what. Why is Beren not standing beside me? What is happening....?

“Finda! Finda!”

He heard a voice cry out as from a far distance, barely perceptible to his ears, and unrecognizable. Someone had called him that a very long time ago. He felt strong arms around him shaking him and he blinked as realities shifted. He felt suddenly dizzy and disoriented. The rock-hewn audience chamber of Nargothrond with its graceful tree-like pillars from which lanterns hung made way for the marble of the ballroom with its silver candelabra.

“Finda!” he heard his atar cry again, now recognizing the voice.

He blinked again several times, trying to understand what was happening. “A...ada?” he whispered in a strangled voice full of uncertainty and fear. “What is happening?”

“Quenya, yonya,” Arafinwë said, holding him close and rocking him gently. “You must speak Quenya.”

Finrod struggled to understand the words and then sighed, closing his eyes in defeat as their import was made known to him. “What happened?” he asked again in Quenya.

“I do not know,” Arafinwë replied. “Suddenly you started speaking in Sindarin, but to whom, I do not know. You flung your circlet at your feet.”

Finrod moaned in embarrassment, recalling the memory that had so overwhelmed him it was as if he were there. It had happened a couple of other times while he was in Lórien. At least in Lórien they understood but here....

“Do you know why you were spouting Sindarin?” Arafinwë asked.

“It was the day the Mortal Beren son of Barahir came to Nargothrond to redeem the oath I had given his atar,” Finrod said emotionlessly. “It was the day I gave up my crown to honor my oath to Barahir, for it meant more to me than all the crowns of Arda. It was the day I left Nargothrond, stepping upon the road that would ultimately lead to my death within the very tower I had had built on Tol Sirion and was now in the hands of Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron.”

Arafinwë gently pushed him out of his embrace to give him an enquiring look. “I am not sure I understand,” he said.

“It was a memory,” Finrod explained with a sigh. “I... I overheard something someone was saying and it... it triggered the memory. Suddenly, I was no longer here but there and the memory was so overpowering I could not divorce it from the reality around me. I was back in Nargothrond watching my cousins destroy my people’s faith in me and in themselves.” He stopped and shook his head, feeling suddenly fatigued. “I’m sorry, Atto. I did not mean to....”

“It’s all right, yonya,” Arafinwë said. “All is well now. Come, why don’t you sit with your ammë for a while until you’re feeling better. Herendil, would you get Findaráto some more wine? Ah, thank you, my dear.” He smiled at Mardillë who had retrieved Finrod’s circlet and handed it to the king who in turn placed it on Finrod’s head. Then he turned to the crowd still standing there in silence and addressed them. “Let us continue with our celebration,” he said, nodding towards the musicians who resumed their playing. People reluctantly continued with the interrupted dance and conversations were begun again among the onlookers, though now the topic of conversation on all their lips concerned their prince and his odd behavior.

And then, his ammë was there, giving him a motherly smile and taking him in hand. “Come and sit with me, dear,” she said gently and he allowed himself to be led to a small antechamber where, at Arafinwë’s insistence, Herendil, Vandacalimë, Rúmilion and his cousins joined them, quietly speaking of inconsequential matters among themselves while Finrod sat in embarrassed silence wishing he were anywhere but where he was. They left him alone, not forcing him to join in their conversation, but he could not help noticing the occasional uneasy glances that his young friends sent his way. He had obviously frightened them and he regretted it, but could do nothing about it. He wondered despairingly if they would even want to be his friends after this.

Oh, Glorfi! he called silently in pain to his gwador even as he pretended to be listening to Mardillë describe a recent trip to Eldamas. Why aren’t you here with me?

There was, of course, no answer.

****

Notes:

1. The word club meaning ‘an association’ may seem anachronistic, but this particular sense is first attested in 1670, apparently for “form a mass like the thick end of a club”.

2. The words which triggered Finrod’s memory were spoken by his subjects as reported in the Silmarillion: ‘And now they murmured that Finarfin’s son was not as a Vala to command them, and they turned their faces from him’ (Chapter 19, ‘Of Beren and Lúthien).