Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s Notes: The members of the House of the Tree in Gondolin are said to have worn green. And while the leader of the House was Galdor, I assume that Legolas, being of the blood of Lenwë, King of the Nandor Elves, would have been a respected and influential member of that House. This is not a canon fact, however, just my interpretation.

To the lore-masters among us: I know that Tolkien eventually changed his mind about Gil-galad’s parentage. However, in this point I stuck with the Silmarillion – it simply makes more sense to me.

Meril’s attire has been inspired by the various outfits of Morgan in the Camelot series.

18. The Secrets of the Queen

The anticipation was palpable all morning on the next day, for, as Celebrían learned from Ilverin, never before had the Lady Meril participated in the storytelling on any of the feasts celebrated on the island. No-one had ever heard about her time in Beleriand, save those who had been her subjects, and those were oath-bound to silence. Therefore a great deal of excited chatter and guesswork was going on, and everybody was looking forward eagerly to her tale.

Even though they knew it would be a grim one, as the basic events were known to all.

Once again, Celebrían spent her time with Ilverin, who showed her the little known, quiet little glades in the forest and entertained her with hair-raising tales about his adventures aboard Eärendil’s ship. Celebrían was almost certain that not even half of those tales were actually true. Yet even if they were made up by the child-like Gong-warden, they were harmless and amusing, and they made her laugh.

She only wished Elrond could be here. He knew so very little about his sire and had always yearned to learn more. Often she had caught him alone on  one of the balconies, gazing up to the evening star with great longing, trying to fathom what his remote sire could be like and what he might be doing.

That was what he always called the Mariner. Never his father. Father, that was someone else for Elrond Eärendilion; someone whom he rarely mentioned. And though she knew that all Elves and Men owed Eärendil their gratitude for pleading their case before the Valar, on a personal level Celebrían could never forgive him – or Elwing, for that matter – for abandoning their sons.

How strange it was that the greatest hero of the War of Wrath, emissary of all peoples of Middle-earth and slayer of Ancalagon the Black had failed so spectacularly at the simple task of being a father. While Maglor, son of Fëanor, thrice a Kinslayer and slave of their terrible Oath, would take in the abandoned sons of his greatest adversary and raise them as his own.

And he had done well with them, whatever else his sins might have been. One of them had become a great warrior and counsellor of the High King of Elves in Middle-earth; and after that the greatest healer and lore-master of the Hither Shores... not to mention a wonderful husband and father. The other one had become a great King of Men, the father of a whole line of Kings that had survived two entire Ages, raised empires and fought Sauron’s evil successfully.

She imagined Elrond standing upon the balcony, his beautiful face full of longing and anguish, and her heart nearly broke. Was he now gazing towards the West the same way, missing her as much as he had missed his sire in all those yéni?

“Forgive me, Beloved,” she whispered. “I would never abandon you, but I had to leave – either by ship, or by death. I had no other choice.”

“He knows it,” Ilverin, whose presence she had completely forgotten, smiled at her with great compassion. “He is a healer. He understands.”

“I had no choice,” she repeated, sorrow fighting guilt in her heart. “Seeing me fade away would have hurt him as much as my leaving did. No matter what I chose, I hurt him.”

“When we allow ourselves to love, we always risk being hurt,” answered the Gong-warden gently. “But your beloved has seen all three Ages of Arda. He has been hurt before; and survived.”

“I never wanted to hurt him,” she whispered forlornly as her tears started to fall. “All I wanted was to make him happy.”

“And you have, if one can believe all that gossip that has found its way across the Sea in the recent Age,” Ilverin grinned at her mischievously and handed her a handkerchief. “Here, dry those tears and come with me. The storytelling is about to start; or do you wish to miss Lady Meril’s grand entrée?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Hall of Tales was full to the bursting point well before the appointed time. Fortunately, a few seats had been reserved for the guests of Gilfanon, Legolas and the Lady Meril herself, and thus Celebrían and Ilverin managed to find a good place, despite arriving fairly late.

To Celebrían’s surprise, the great Gong had been brought there, either in the morning or during the night, and now stood opposite the Storyteller’s Chair, next to the entrance of the Hall. Ilverin, too, seemed surprised; mayhap even a little shocked when he spotted the Gong, his weatherworn face going stark white.

“What is wrong?” asked Celebrían; his reaction frightened her a little

“Nothing,” he replied. “’Tis just… unexpected. It seems that Lady Meril has decided to reveal herself to everybody who might be present today.”

“Reveal herself?” she repeated in confusion. But Ilverin shook his head.

“’Tis not my place to speak about it. You shall understand, soon.”

He escorted her to her reserved place but did not sit down himself, not yet. Instead, he went to the Gong, grabbed the hammer Evromord handed to him and, swinging it with all his might, he brought it down onto the very middle of the great bronze disc. The sound thusly generated was low, melodious and powerful; Celebrían could well imagine that it would indeed carry to the depths of the Shadowy Seas.

The sound was still reverberating in the air when Meril-i-Turinqi, Queen of Tol Eressëa in all but name, finally made her appearance; an appearance that had everyone in wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe. For now all could see that she was a Queen indeed, even if she might no longer bear the title.

She came accompanied by her handmaidens, chosen for all three Clans in equal measure, but she was half a head taller than any of them, laid out splendidly in pale gold and silver and royal blue, the colours of Fingolfin’s House (Celebrían still could not make herself call her husband’s great-uncle Fingolma, as everyone else on Tol Eressëa seemed to do).

Over a floor-length undergown of heavy, honey-gold silk, Meril wore a bliaut of dark blue brocade, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread and pearls on the hem, around the widely-cut neckline and along the trailing sleeves that swept the grass as she walked, revealing the long, tight sleeves of the undergown. Her glossy black hair had been braided with pear strings, the numerous braids woven together and coiled on the back of her head like a coronet. A gilded net, attached to a wide golden circlet, studded with small white gemstones, held the braids together.

Her golden necklace was made of large, flat links, wrought in the likeness of the eight-pointed sun of Fingolfin’s House, their rays made alternately of gold and mithril. Of similar device were her elaborate earrings that dangled low, almost touching her shoulder and casting trembling spots of light upon her long, graceful neck as they reflected the radiance of the midday sun. But even more radiant were her eyes, in which a reflection of the light of the Trees could be seen.

Her handmaidens all wore the silver and blue of Fingolfin’s House, his device emblazoned upon their blue surcoats that were scattered with tiny silver stars. They followed her in pairs, in a distance of a few paces.

At her arrival, all rose from their places, without having been told to do so, for the majesty of her appearance and the long-hidden power radiating from her every gesture demanded respect. Celebrían followed suit without even thinking.

It was the due of Legolas, the host of the feast to welcome their Queen, and he did so with obvious respect. Celebrían saw in surprise that he Lord of Eglavain had discarded his festive white garb in favour of a surcoat of deep, forest green velvet, embroidered with gold vines and leaves around the neck, on the hem and the sleeves, and emblazoned with the device of the House of the Tree, as he once must have worn it in Gondolin. His ash-blond hair, too, was elaborately braided in warrior fashion, with ribbons in the colour of his House, the individual plaits weaved together into a single braid on the back of his head and gleaming like ripe wheat.

He bowed before Meril deeply, kissing her hand as it was a Queen’s due from her vassal, and welcoming her as a powerful lord would welcome his liege. The Sindarin he spoke was old-fashioned; presumably the dialect once spoken in Beleriand and full of archaic expressions, yet not entirely beyond anyone’s – even Celebrían’s – understanding-

“I welcome you who you once were called High Queen of Beleriand, Merilindë from the blood of the Ingaran,” he said. “Honoured we are that you chose to reveal yourself and unlock your secrets, after all those Ages.”

“There is an appointed time for everything, Laiqualassë of the Hidden City,” she replied, “and thus your long wait has finally come to an end. Yet the tale I have to share is a dark one; are you all certain that you wish to hear it, and on the Feast of Double Mirth, of all times?”

“Yea!” the audience chorused as with one voice, and Meril nodded her consent.

“So be it then. Be seated, all of you, and I shall tell you what happened at Alqualuntë… or, at least, what I have seen with my own eyes – and what I have done with my own hands. Lord Oivárin here,” she glanced at the Telerin lord, “shall tell you the other half of the tale.”

Oivárin nodded. “So I shall, my lady.”

“Very well,” Meril allowed Legolas to escort her to the Storyteller’s Chair and sat, arranging her finery around herself carefully. “We shall begin then.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“As Gilfanon already told you yesterday, we left Tirion after Fëanáro had confronted the herald of Lord Manwë, and he led our host northwards,” Meril began, when all were seated and the excited whispers had died down.

“Why northwards?” someone asked in confusion.

Meril smiled, knowing that many of the younger Elves and the later arrivals from Middle-earth had never actually visited Aman and thus could not be familiar with its lay.

“Well, even though we were in a great hurry to leave, we could not do so without at least the barest preparation,” she explained. “We needed supplies to feed and transport such a large host, and most of us wanted to pack some personal items and speak our farewells to loved ones who would not come with us. For not many wives, daughters or mothers chose to go on that quest with their vengeful and adventurous husbands, fathers and sons.”

“Nerdanel certainly did not,” called someone else from the audience.

Meril nodded. “Nor did any of the wives of the Fëanorionnath choose to follow their husbands to the Outer Lands, even though they had followed them into exile to Formenos. In fact, the only ones from the royal Clan – save for Artanis, of course – were all from Fingolma’s House: Írissë, Elenwë, myself and Eldalótë from the family of Lady Anairë, who would later become Angaráto’s wife.”

“Not Anairë herself, though,” commented Vainóni.

“No,” Meril agreed. “Lady Anairë chose not to join what she called Fëanáro’s madness, and she generously agreed to take my daughters, who were, after all, barely of age at that time, into her own household. She had been appointed as Queen Regent in the absence of all Noldorin Princes; I could be certain that her granddaughters would be in good hands with her.”

“Her granddaughters?” dozens of shocked voices, among them Celebrían’s repeated. The younger generation clearly had no previous knowledge about Meril’s true identity, Celebrían realized; but she could also see that a few of the older Elves were not surprised at all. Most likely those who had once lived in Beleriand and either sailed or been reborn since then.

Meril nodded solemnly. “Her granddaughters indeed. For I was – well, in a manner I still am – married to Findecáno, firstborn son and heir to Nolofinwë Finwion, whom most of you know as Fingolma… or as Finarfin, those who had but recently arrived from the Outer Lands.”

A shocked silence filled the Hall of Tales. Generations upon generations had been born since the War of Wrath and the return of the exiled Noldor, most of whom had long since moved on to Aman. Only the handful of them who were still dwelling on Tol Eressëa and the Sindar of old who had settled there for good would still remember.

Celebrían was as shocked as everyone else – though for different reasons. Not by the fact that Meril had been – well, according the laws and customs of the Eldar she still was – the Queen of Fingon. She always knew, in theory, that he had to have a wife, even though the name of said wife had never been mentioned. What truly shocked her was the fact that the Lady of Tol Eressëa was apparently the mother of Gil-galad.

Well, of course she is! She berated herself. It had been apparent from the beginning that Meril would be roughly of the same age as her mother, Galadriel… or Nerwendë, as she was still called here. It was just so that Gil-galad had long become a legend in Middle-earth, and thinking of him as somebody’s little son was almost beyond imagination.

Celebrían had met the High King of Lindon a few times in her youth and found him forbidding, even somewhat intimidating. Imagining him as Meril’s son was hard for her, at least at the moment.

Meril must have guessed what she was feeling, for she smiled at her briefly and continued with her tale. “As I said, Fëanáro led our hosts northward, for his first purpose was to follow Morgoth, in pursue of his precious Jewels. It was a long march, and most of our followers only joined us along the way, having gathered supplies.”

“I still cannot fathom why he wanted to go to the North,” said Legolas. “Did he truly hope to catch up with Morgoth? And did he have any plans for the unlikely case of that happening?”

“Most likely; he had a cunning mind, not just masterful skills,” replied Meril. “But the fact he was heading northwards had another reason, too. Túna beneath Taniquetil was set nigh to the girdle of Arda, where the Great Sea was immeasurably wide, whereas the more northward one would go, the narrower the Sundering Seas grew, as the wasteland of Araman and the coasts of Middle-earth drew together.”

Legolas nodded. “I see now. He hoped that it would be easier to cross the Sea at this narrow strait. That actually sounds reasonable.”

Several Elves in the audience nodded in agreement; by their looks, they were Teleri, although none of them had the silver hair of the royal Clan. Meril, however, shook her head sadly.

“For a small group of Elves mayhap, yet not for us; and our host had not gone far ere it came even to the fevered mind of Fëanáro that all those great companies, be they full-grown and war-high or simple kinfolk that was loath to be sundered from their families, not to mention the great store of goods we took with us, would never overcome the long leagues to the North, nor cross the Sea at the last, save with the aid of ships.”

“A wise insight, even if it came over late,” commented Oivárin. “Alas that we had to pay such a terrible price for his belated wisdom… both sides.”

“True,” Meril sighed. “For Fëanáro now resolved to persuade the Solosimpi of Alqualuntë, based on the long friendship of his late father to the Lindaran, to join with us.”

“As if we ever would!” said Oivárin with a snort.

“Fëanáro seemed to trust the power of his voice very much,” said Meril. “He also thought to diminish the wealth of Valinor yet further and to increase his own power of war. And he hoped he would get ships swiftly that way. For great time and toil would have been needed to build a fleet great enough to ferry us over the Sundering Seas at once. Even if we had skill and timber in plenty for such craft; which we, in truth, had not.”

“No,” said Gilfanon in agreement. “Never had the Noldoli tried their skills on the building of ships. With metal and stone we were the best of all Eldar, but not with timber; that had always been the gift of the Third Clan.”

“Which was why Fëanáro rode forth to Alqualuntë, to speak to the Solosimpi in the harbour as he had spoken in Tirion,” Meril finished. “What there happened, I was no witness to; therefore I shall ask Lord Oivárin to take over.”

She rose from the Storyteller’s Chair to make room for the Telerin lord, who bowed to her and accepted gracefully.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You must know that the death of the Trees and the Darkening of Valinor had a much lesser impact on us than on the rest of Aman,” began Oivárin. “For the Swanhaven, our white city of old, had been bold north of the Calcyria, so that only the faint reflection of the light of the Trees could be glimpsed from there.”

“Why?” asked a very young Elf from the audience. “Had you not all left the Outer Lands to see the light of the Trees?”

“To tell the truth, we only came reluctantly, for we had great love for the land of our birth; and only because Elwë urged us to come,” replied Oivárin. “And while we did come, at last, we still did not want to give up the starlight – the only light that we had previously known in the outer darkness. Therefore it took us longer than our kin in Tirion or Vanyamar to realize that something was wrong.”

He paused and looked around at his audience. “Has any of you ever been to Alqualuntë?”

Only a few hands were raised hesitatingly.

“Then I will have to go further back with my tale,” he said, “or else you would not understand it. As you all might know, the Solosimpi were the last to make their way to Aman. For long we had been searching for Elwë, our King, who had fallen under the spell of Melian, the Maia, under the dark trees on Nan Elmoth; and we found him not. Therefore we took Olwë, Elwë’s brother, to be our King, as Elmö would not abandon his people in the East for us.“

The blank looks of many young Elves warned him that these youngsters had probably never heard the name of Elmö before… which, considering the achievements and the bravery of the King of the First City of the Elves, was a shame.

“Elmö was the brother of Elwë and Olwë,” he explained briefly, “who chose to remain with the rest of the Third Clan east from the great mountain ranges of Middle-earth. Now, as I said, the rest of us dwelt on the western shores of Beleriand, and Lord Ulmo and his chief vassal, Lord Ossë, came to us and befriended us and taught us all manners of sea-lore and sea-music. Thus it came to be that we, who were from the beginning lovers of water and the fairest singers of Elvenfolk, became enamoured of the seas, and our songs were filled with the sound of the waves upon the shore ever after.”

“Fortunate we are that you chose not to begin your tale as far back as the First Music oft eh Ainur,” commented Gilfanon teasingly. “Or we would still be sitting here by next Samírien.”

“Patience, my friend,” replied Oivárin, taking no offence at all. A tale needs to be told properly, if we expect these young people to understand why truly happened – and why.”

“Depends on what you understand under proper storytelling,” muttered Gilfanon.

Oivárin just smiled tolerantly, ignoring the comments of his old friend.

“Many long years did we dwell on the shores of Beleriand,” he continued, “til Lord Ulmo finally hearkened to the pleas of Nólemë, who had mourned for his friends among us, and came again to Middle-earth, to bring Elwë and his people to Aman, if we would come. And most of us proved now willing indeed; and while Lord Ossë persuaded Nówë’s people to remain, Olwë would be gone, and at least Lord Ulmo took all who would embark upon this very island and drew us over the depths of the Sea. But Lord Ossë followed after us, and when we came night to the Bay of Eldamas, he called to us, and we knew his voice and begged Lord Ulmo to stay our voyage.”

“Why?” asked Legolas in surprise. “Why stopping then, when you had already come this far?”

“Because we still wished to abode under the stars of Lady Varda – and yet within sight of Aman and the deathless shore, where we could see from afar the light of the Trees as it passed through the Calcyria and touched the waves to silver and gold,” replied Oivárin. “Lord Ulmo granted this, and at his bidding, Lord Ossë made fast the island and rooted it in the foundation of the Sea. There we had dwelt for one hundred years as we now reckon time; then our hearts were changed.”

“Again?” Legolas gave him an amused look. “I always knew that you Sea-Elves were a capricious lot.”

“And what should we say about you, Green-Eves?” Oivárin retorted, smiling. “You certainly changed your hearts about the migration quite a few times yourself.”

“True enough,” Legolas laughed. “What had you made change your hearts then?”

“We were drawn towards the light that flowed out of Aman,” admitted Oivárin. “Lord Ossë had mercy with us and taught us the craft of shipbuilding, now that the isle could no longer be moved. And when our ships were made ready, he brought us, as his parting gift, many strong-winged swans. The swans then drew our ships over the windless Sea. Thus we finally came to Aman and the shores of Eldamar, where the Noldoli welcomed us with joy. And in the next year, with the aid of Nólemë and his best craftspeople, Olwë began the building of his city upon the coast of Eldamar, north of Calcyria; and in remembrance of Lord Ossë’s swans, he named it Alqualuntë, the Swanhaven.”

“This was why Fëanáro wanted to get your help!” Legolas realized in awe. “He thought you were in his debt; fort he aid you had received from his father a long time ago.”

“I cannot fathom what Fëanáro, in his madness, was thinking,” replied Oivárin thoughtfully. “I only know that he came to Alqualuntë and tried to persuade our people in the harbours to follow him to the Outer Lands. He spoke to the mariners and the shipwrights, but they remained unmoved. For as much as we were grieved at the going of our kin and long time friends, we would rather dissuade them than aid them. As for ourselves, we no longer desired any other home than the shores of Eldamar, and no other lord than Olwë Lindaran, King of Alqualuntë.”

Oivárin paused for a moment, as if trying to order his painful memories.

“Knowing this, to Olwë did Fëanáro go, seeing that he could find no sympathetic ears in the harbours,” he finally continued. “Olwë, however, had never lent ear to Morgoth, or welcomed him to his land, and he trusted still that Lord Ulmo and the other great ones among the Valar would redress the hurts of Morgoth, and that the night would pass yet to new dawn. And so no ship would he lend, nor help in building new ones, against the will of the Valar.”

“I imagine that did not make Fëanáro happy,” commented Legolas dryly.

“Nay,” said Oivárin, “for he still feared delay; and as his wrath grew, he spoke hotly to our King. ‘You renounce your friendship, even in the hour of our need,’ he said. ‘But when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers and all but empty-handed, you did welcome our aid, did you not? You would still live in huts on the beaches, had the Noldoli not carved out your haven and toiled on your walls,’ were the exact words he uttered in Olwë’s hall.”

“By the Valar, that was rude,” winced Gilfanon, who, naturally, had not been present at that conversation, having gone with Fingolfin’s host. Oivárin, one of Olwë’s counsellors, on the other hand, had.

“But not entirely untrue,” he admitted. “Stonework was never our strength; we excelled in building ships, not entire cities.”

“Still, I cannot well imagine Olwë suffering such slander kindly,” said the Master of Tavrobel. “He is a King, after all; and he does have his pride. Even if it cannot be compared with what my friend Glorfindel called the customary arrogance of the Finwëans.”

“He showed impressive self-restraint on that day,” said Oivárin. “Certainly more than I would have. For I was close to come to blows with that arrogant spawn of Nólemë. What our King did say, in the end, was this: ‘Nay, we renounce no friendship. But it may be the hard part of friendship to rebuke a friend’s folly. And while we welcomed your aid upon our arrival indeed and were grateful for it – our white ships you gave us not. That craft we learned not from the Noldoli but from the Lords of the Sea; the white timbers we wrought with our own hands and the white sails were woven by our fair wives and maidens. Therefore we shall neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship. For they are to us as your Jewels are to you: the work of our hands, the like of which we shall not make again.’”

“What had Fëanáro answer to that?” asked Legolas. “I never met him, for which I probably should be grateful; but he does not strike me as one who would take refusal kindly.”

“Nay; he was not that sort,” agreed Oivárin. “However, he did not give Olwë any answer; not right away. Instead, he left the royal townhouse in a cloud of black anger, and we saw him sitting beyond the walls, brooding darkly, ‘til his host was assembled,” he looked at Meril. “Here I should give back the telling of the tale to you, my lady,” he said, “as you are the one who can reveal us what was going on among the Noldoli.”

“Soon; but not right now,” said Meril. “For when we arrived at the Swanhaven, the fighting was already going on. I ask you to keep the Chair for a little while yet; but let us adjourn for the short time and have some refreshments first. For the telling of tales is thirsty work, and we shall all need to strengthen ourselves ere we would face one of the darkest hours of our history.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. “That would be helpful, I deem,” he said. “Let us do as our Queen says. Food and wine for everyone has already been prepared and can be found in the green pavilion that you can see over there. Let is meet again in one hour’s time.”

The suggestion met general agreement, and thus the audience dispersed in search for refreshments. Celebrían, however, remained in the Hall of Tales, pondering over the one question that occupied her mind most.

In the end, she could not hold back and asked Meril straightforward.

“Why now?” she asked. “After nigh two Ages, why did you choose to reveal your secrets now?”

The Queen had not gone to the green pavilion, of course. There was no need for that. Her handmaidens had already provides her with refreshments, and she was now watching Celebrían thoughtfully over the rim of her crystal goblet.

“For you,” she finally said. “There are things that you need to know; that you should have learned a long time ago. Why Artanis chose never to tell you, I might understand; though I cannot condone it. We all must know who we are and where we have come from. Without knowing our heritage, we cannot understand what moves us. And if we do not understand ourselves, we will be lost, sooner or later.”

As this was clearly a dismissal, Celebrían obediently scurried away. She might have been able to stand up to the Lady of Tol Eressëa, demanding answers there and then; but she would not dream of disobeying Gil-galad’s mother, whose son had been the liege lord of her husband for an Age and a half.

And again, her thoughts went back to Elrond and their children, across the Sundering Seas, her tears falling silently in the painful knowledge how long it might take ‘til she would finally be reunited with them – if ever.

~TBC~

Nówë was the true name of Círdan the Shipwright.