Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: The circumstances of Aracáno’s death are my doing. For the Quenya version of Gildor’s name I owe my thanks to Finch.

Brownie points to those who spot the Star Trek reference. *g*

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20. Interlude in Tirion

In the ancient town of Tirion, the Feast of Double Mirth was an event celebrated much more festively than on Tol Eressëa. The city was practically empty during the seven days of the Feast, as the court and all nobles went to the Taniquetil, as tradition demanded, and the rest of the people living there simply followed them.

Therefore it was not surprising that King Arafinwë – also known as Finarfin among the returned Exiles and basically all Sindar who had chosen to sail to the West since the War of Wrath; a handsome number in the recent two Ages – had not learned about a new family member arriving form Endórë. Not ‘til the court and basically the entire population returned to Tirion after the Feast.

The King of the Noldor – in Aman at least, for many Returnees who had taken up residence on Tol Eressëa still refused to accept his authority over their own lords, one of whom had been his firstborn son, who still resided in Mandos – got up early in the morning after the Feast. Such events, while admittedly good for morale, also meant that he would spend the next few days in his study, reading the reports that had piled up on his desk in his absence, dealing with the equally high pile of correspondence and holding court in cases that had been delayed because of the Feast.

At least he had Eärwen to help him with his administrative duties. The daughter of a King herself, the Swan Lady of Alqualondë had been trained in royal duties since her early childhood. Fortunately, the Lady Amarië, acknowledged (although not publicly wedded) wife of the haryon to the Noldóran, had long since taken over the running of the royal household.

She and then-Prince Findaráto might have married in haste and in privacy before the latter would have left, but that did not make their bond any less binding. She had accepted her task in the household, and so had her only son, Prince Ingalaurë, who had picked up the habit to call himself Inglor, in Sindarin fashion, after his extended stay in Endórë after the War of Wrath[1] – much to the chagrin of the Vanyarin kinfolk of his wife.

Arafinwë found that the time his only grandson – his only living grandson, he reminded himself ruefully; thinking of Angaráto’s son Rodnor, who had been born, lived and died without ever having met his Amanian kin, was always painful – had spent in Endórë had been time spent well. Ingalaurë had learned a great deal in Ereinion’s court and took over the same duties at his grandsire’s side without complaining. He was the best seneschal the Noldóran could have wished for; especially due to his experiences outside of Aman, which had widened his horizon considerably.

Besides, he was the spitting image of Findaráto, and that fact made the royal couple of Tirion miss their firstborn just a little less.

When Arafinwë entered his study in this morning, followed by his Queen, they found Ingalaurë already there, going through the messages that did not bear the mark that they would be meant for the Noldóran’s eyes only. One of such message – a letter bearing the seal of Nolofinwë’s House – was set aside for the King to open it.

“A message from Lady Meril,” explained Ingalaurë, picking up the carefully folded piece of parchment and handing it to his grandsire.

Arafinwë broke the seal, read through the letter quickly… then he blanched and handed it to his Queen who, too, went stark white.

“Celebrían has left Endórë,” said the Noldóran, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Ingalaurë looked up from his work with interest. “Artanis’ daughter?”

“You know her?” asked back Arafinwë.

His grandson shrugged. “If you can call it that; I’ve met her only once, and she wasn’t even born back then. Artanis was visiting the Sea Palace of Círdan… of Lord Nówë,” he corrected himself hurriedly, knowing that his grandparents considered it disrespectful if one called the Lord of the Falathrim simply the shipwright, even though the ancient Elf had gone by that name for the last three Ages. “She was heavily pregnant with Celebrían at that time, and kept complaining that she felt like Círdan’s biggest ship; and that she hated being with child.”

Arafinwë smiled ruefully. “That sounds like Artanis all right. She never liked being hampered by anything. Not even by her unborn daughter. I am looking forward to meet her daughter, though. I wonder whom does she come after.”

“Strange, though, that she would come alone, without Elrond and their children,” commented Eärwen thoughtfully. “All reports we received from Endórë spoke of great love between them. Could she be suffering from the Sea-longing? She had enough Telerin and Sindarin blood in her to be affected.”

“It would surprise me if it were so,” said Ingalaurë. “As far as I know, no-one of Celeborn’s family had ever been hit by the Longing… and none from ours, either.”

“That makes it unlikely yet not impossible,” said Arafinwë. “I wish Meril had been a bit more forthcoming with details; alas it has never been her wont. We shall have to wait ‘til Celebrían’s arrival and ask her straightforward.”

“If she is planning to come at all,” replied Eärwen. “Meril writes nothing about that; she would do so if Celebrían had any plans to board a ship to Aman.”

“She will not come; not now and not yet for a long while,” a deep, musical voice said; there was a brief shimmering of colours, and a Maia, wearing the emblem of the Elder King upon his breast, appeared in their midst, out of thin air.

“And a pleasant day to you as well, Fionwë Úrion,” answered the Noldóran patiently. “I assume that after three ages we should finally give up on the hope that your people would ever learn the meaning of privacy – not to mention the usefulness of doors and such.”

Fiönwë, serving as the herald of the Elder King in his brother Eönwë’s stead, who seemed to have gone mysteriously missing shortly after his return from the War of Wrath, laughed. There was a marked similarity between the two of them, Arafinwë noticed absently, not for the first time.

Fionwë, clad in a form remarkably similar to the one his brother had worn in the War of Wrath, was tall and powerfully built, wearing dull golden armour and mail over an ankle-length tunic of heavy, midnight blue silk that was slit to the hips so that it would not hamper his movements, and a long, sapphire blue cloak upon his wide shoulders. The same luminous blue gleamed from his eyes. His golden hair fell to his waist, knotted in places at the sides and back in small, intricate traits. Leaf-shaped ears, like those of the elves, peeked out from under those plaits. Truly, the only difference between him and Eönwë was their colouring.

“Why bother with doors if we can deliver ourselves to any place we want by sheer willpower?” he asked, clearly amused. “I do apologise for my intrusion, though, even if it was necessary. I bring you a message from the Elder King.”

The three Elves became pale and silent at that announcement. The last time Lord Manwë had felt it necessary to send a message to the Noldóran by one of his People in such a formal manner had been to give him a report about the outcome of the Last Alliance and the death of Gil-galad. Arafinwë and his family did pay semi-regular visits to Ilmaren, like the other royal families, thus interacting with the Powers was nothing unknown to them; but being visited by a messenger of the Valar – any of them – rarely meant good news.

“What happened?” asked the Noldóran, mentally stealing himself for the blow to come.

Fionwë gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Nothing happened,” he replied. “Not yet, in any case. However, Lord Manwë found it prudent to warn you that your nephew, Aracáno, has been recently re-housed and will be released from Lord Irmo’s care, soon.”

“How soon?” asked Ingalaurë slyly. “Soon as we see it or soon as you see it – which can be anytime in the next ten Ages.”

Fionwë grinned at him. “You are an insolent pup, young one. I see why my brother was so fond of you. But no, it is a soon of your measure. Aracáno will be released as soon as you can go to Lórien and pick him up at the Gates of Return.”

“Why me?” Arafinwë frowned. “Should not Anairë be there? She is his mother, after all.”

Fionwë nodded in agreement.

“She, too, is being informed as we speak. But Aracáno is not yet ready to face life in Aman again. So it has been decided to send him to Tol Eressëa, to Merilindë – him and Elenwë, both.”

“Elenwë has also been released?” cried out Eärwen happily. She had been good friends with Elenwë’s mother and was still mourning her loss.

Fionwë nodded again. “Yea; Lords Irmo and Námo thought that they would be of great support for each other, as they died at about the same time and under similar circumstances. In fact, Aracáno died by trying to save Elenwë.”

“He did?” Arafinwë was greatly surprised. “That was never told…”

“Well, as most of those who could have told you are still residing in Mandos, that is not surprising,” answered the Maia. “In any case, their last memories of life are the horrors of the Grinding Ice, and so they need to stay with someone who knows what they had suffered there, having faced the Ice herself.”

“Anairë will not like it,” prophesied Eärwen thoughtfully. “Like us, she had waited for her family to be released for two whole Ages – she will not take it kindly that they would be sent away To Tol Eressëa; and to Merilindë, of all people. There had been little love between the two of them in the first place, and things have not improved much since Merilindë became the Queen of Tol Eressëa… in all but title.”

“Yet that is what she was always meant to be,” said Fionwë; “the Queen of the Exiles and all the others who have Sailed, for whatever reasons they might have done so.”

“Does this mean that – once released – my brother or his firstborn are supposed to rule Tol Eressëa as their own realm?” Arafinwë frowned.

The possible ramifications of that were… unsettling, to say the least.

“Nay,” replied the Maia with a faint smile. “Merilindë is supposed to do that, as she has done for almost two Ages, ever since she accepted the forgiveness of the Valar and returned from Endórë. Think about it, Finwion: none of you, Kings of Aman, has ever ruled a realm with a population of all possible peoples of Elvenkind, most of whom experienced the brutal wars of the recent Ages. Most of them knew nothing else ‘til they decided to Sail. Would you, or Olwë, or even Ingwë, be able to perceive their needs? To give them the kind of guidance they crave most?”

Recognizing the truth in the Maia’s words, Arafinwë shook his head mutely.

“You fought in the War of Wrath yourself, thus you know more than your fellow rulers in Aman can imagine,” continued Fionwë. “But not even you can perceive what it was like to live – and to die – under the Shadow of Moringotto, year for year, yén for yén. Merilindë spent an Age under that shadow – and survived. She knew most of the realms of Beleriand from personal experience; and she is a symbol for the other survivors as well as for the re-housed. She was Findecáno’s Queen and Ereinion’s mother; the blood of Ingwë himself flows in her veins, and all look at her for advice and wisdom.”

“But what will happen when Nolofinwë and his other sons are re-housed?” asked the Noldóran. “They were named High Kings of the exiled Noldor, every single one of them, and they count as the greatest heroes of our folk, Findecáno before all. Would people not want one of them to take over leadership?”

The Maia shook his head. “Their kingdoms are gone and so is their lordship. Tol Eressëa has no need for warrior kings; it needs a Queen of peace, for its people to heal. Merilindë has been chosen, for she is the only one who can hold such a multitude of cultures together.”

“Dos she know this?” asked Eärwen softly.

Fionwë gave her a wicked grin. “Oh, yeas. She calls it her atonement.”

“Anairë will still not like it,” said Arafinwë, “and frankly, I cannot blame her for that. It is her family, after all, and she has waited for them long enough.”

“And yet she is not the one they need,” replied the Maia. “’Tis up to you to make her understand that.”

“Mine?” Arafinwë arched an elegant eyebrow. “Why mine?”

“You are her brother-in-law – and you are her King,” answered Fionwë bluntly. “You can always give her an order if she refuses to listen.”

With that, he vanished in a swirl of rainbow-coloured light, leaving behind a completely flabbergasted royal family.

“That will be going well,” muttered Arafinwë angrily. The thought of having to order the widow of his brother away from her re-housed family did not bode well with him.

Ingalaurë nodded sympathetically.

“I find it… interesting that Lord Námo would choose to release Aracáno and Elenwë at the same time as Artanis’ daughter has arrived at Tol Eressëa,” he said. “A strange coincidence, is it not?”

“If you believe in coincidences,” Arafinwë was decidedly not happy with the new turn of events. Ingalaurë shrugged.

“Oh, I do believe in coincidences, anatar. Coincidences happen all the time. I just do not trust them. Moreover if their timing is so suspiciously convenient.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed the Noldóran. “But we have not true choice in this matter, I fear,” he looked at his Queen. “Well, love, I have two reborn family members to pick up at the Gates of Return. Do you wish to come with me?”

“Not really,” admitted Eärwen in truth, the thought of welcoming her nephew and Elenwë while her own sons were still abiding in Mandos broke her heart. “But Anairë will need me… and you will need me, considering her likely reaction to the Valar’s decree. I know I would react badly in her stead. Very badly.”

“Then we shall both go,” decided Arafinwë. “Amarië and Ingalaurë will keep things up and running in our absence, I am fairly certain of that.”

“Why, of course, anatar!” exclaimed Ingalaurë, grinning from ear to ear. “After all, how often does a glorified secretary like myself get to play King?”

Arafinwë, somewhat mollified, gave his ‘glorified secretary’ – who, by the way, had fought on his side in the War of Wrath and spent half an Age as the seneschal of the High King of the Noldor-in-Exile – a brief hug.

“Thank you, inyo. I know not what I would do without you.”

“Oh, I am quite sure you would manage,” replied Ingalaurë with a nonchalant shrug. “After all, you reign over meek Amanian elves. They are no challenge at all compared with the lot from Endórë.”

“Thank you for the voice of confidence,” replied Arafinwë dryly, then he looked at his Queen. “Shall we go and pack for the trip to Lórien, my Swan Princess?”

Eärwen laughed. “As if you ever cared for such things! Stay here and go over the kingly stuff with Ingalaurë while I organize the practical side of our journey.”

She turned to leave, ignoring Ingalaurë’s protest thrown after her, more out of custom by now than out of hope to change things, ever.

“My name is Inglor, anammë, can’t you get used to it? ‘Tis bad enough that Lintári’s family refuses to accept my personal choice…”

“So does your ammë,” Arafinwë pointed out reasonably, as Amarië had told in no uncertain terms – not to mention uncounted times – that no son of hers would ever be addressed by such an uncouth name. She generally disliked Sindarin, which she found a harsh and barbaric language, lacking – in her opinion – the innate musical qualities of Quenya, her mother tongue.

“Well, she is a Vanya,” Ingalaurë replied with a shrug. “They are a bit… er… high-nosed, as you well know.”

“Which makes you – what exactly?” inquired Arafinwë, clearly amused.

“My father’s son,” replied Ingalaurë flatly. “I might never have met him, but I learned much about him in Middle-earth. Enough to know that he, who had embraced our sundered kin as well as the Mortals and even the Dwarves, would respect my choice. More so as I have made it in his honour. He most certainly was not a snob, and I do not intend to become one, either.”

“You did not make it easy for yourself, by marrying a Vanya,” Arafinwë teased. For while Lady Lintári accepted – and even followed to a certain degree – the liberal ways of her spouse, her family was one of the most stubbornly old-fashioned ones in Aman.

Ingalaurë sighed. “Well, she did have a reason to run off with me to Endórë, in the middle of the War,” he said. “Sometimes I believe she married me purely out of self-preservation. We both liked to live in Lindon,” he added with a nostalgic smile. “You cannot begin to imagine how new, how full of life, how... how young everything was at Gil-galad’s court! I kept thinking this must have been like when my father and his cousins had first established their realms in Beleriand.”

“And yet you came back,” said Arafinwë quietly.

Ingalaurë nodded.

“As much as we both lived the life there, Lintári grew more and more uncomfortable with the encroaching darkness as Sauron gained more strength with every passing yén. We did not want to force our children to leave the only home they knew, but once they were grown, I could not watch my wife’s unhappiness any longer. So yea, we came back.”

“And glad I am that you did!” said Arafinwë fervently. “You have been a great help for me, ever since your arrival – in more ways than you can probably imagine.”

“Oh, I think I can imagine well enough,” replied Ingalaurë seriously. “Do not forget that I have a child in Mandos, too… and my only son still dwells on the other side of the Sea.”

“Do you think Nindórë will ever Sail?” asked the Noldóran.

“Gildor,” said Ingalaurë firmly. “Gildor Inglorion is the only name he has ever accepted; and yea, I am fairly certain that he will come one day. Not ere Sauron is defeated for good, though. He swore an oath on that, and he will stick to it. For all that he has so little Noldorin blood in him, he inherited the pride of the Finwëans in spades.”

“Pride… or arrogance?” inquired Arafinwë.

“Grief and vengeance, actually,” replied Ingalaurë with a sigh. “Cold bedfellows they are, but if you have lost the one who meant everything to you, there is preciously little to go on with. You cling to what can keep you alive when all hope is lost.”

“That is a bleak existence,” said Arafinwë, his heart going out to the great-grandson he had never met. “And one with very little hope for healing.”

“We all grieve on our own way,” Ingalaurë shrugged. “He will come – by ship or through Mandos, he will come, for he cannot remain sundered from the other half of his fëa forever. Right now, though, we have other returnees to care for.”

Arafinwë nodded. “Right. I should go,” he said unnecessarily.

“You should,” his grandson agreed, “or have you forgotten how unwise it is to make anammë wait? Go; your kingdom will still be waiting for you, safe and sound, upon your return. I promise.”

~TBC~