Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Eärwen’s family background is partially my doing, especially her brother and her being born on Tol Eressëa.

Ciryatan is, of course, Círdan, whom Eärwen only knows from hearsay. The Oarni and the Falmaríni are lesser spirits of the ocean in Ossë’s service. The Oaritsi and the Wingildi are apparently mermaids of some sort.

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

27 – Elulindo

Even with Celebrían and Aracáno joining them, it was a small party that accompanied the Noldóran and his Queen when they left the korin of Meril’s house in the next morning. Small yet a delight to look at, with all the wondrous horses that could count back their ancestors to Lord Oromë’s steeds, ridden by Arafinwë, Eärwen and their company, all decked out in royal splendour. Even the chain mail of their guards was washed with gold, and one of them rode a few paces before the rest of the party, bearing the Noldóran’s standard with his personal device of a winged Sun upon a white background, the eight straight fire-rays of which, radiating from a pale blue disk, touched the rim of the shield.

Arafinwë wore a knee-length, midnight blue brocade tunic with wide sleeves and with breeches and shirt of pale blue underneath. Along the hem, neck and cuffs was an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves embroidered in gold thread. A circlet of gold with a single blue sapphire sat in the middle of his brow.

Eärwen wore no diadem or coronet, but her silver hair was bound in a glittering net of pearls and blue opals. She wore a gown of silver mist shot with azure, and over that a sleeveless robe in turquoise, embroidered with silver thread in a wavy pattern. She used a side saddle, as an allowance to her rank, the silky skirt of her gown flowing down the side of her horse like a waterfall.

Celebrían was riding her beautiful white palfrey, Roheryn, the gift from her grandsire, and she, too, had been asked to use a side saddle. At least she was allowed to wear sensible travelling clothes instead of some pretty yet impractical gown, and for that she was thankful. She told it her granddam frankly, and Eärwen laughed.

“Oh, believe me, I would prefer to ride in male fashion, too,” the Noldotári confessed. “Unfortunately, there are certain things that are simply expected from us because of who we are – and ‘tis not something we can change, no matter how much we would like.”

Celebrían sighed. “Life in Imladris was so much easier,” she said mournfully. “We never stood on ceremony – Elrond hated it as much as I do.”

“I cannot blame you for that, either of you,” Arafinwë gave her a sympathetic look over his shoulder. “I fear, though, ‘tis a luxury you no longer can afford. You will probably be treated with more reverence in Aman than you ever were in Endórë.”

“Why?” Aracáno, riding on the right of his uncle and clad in a similar fashion, only in silver and royal blue, as those were the colours of his father’s House, asked in confusion. “Because she is your granddaughter? Aman always had Kings and Queens and Princes and Princesses aplenty; I am sure it still does.”

“True,” said Arafinwë with a wry grin,” but neither of them is married to the son of Eärendil.”

“And that makes her more special than the rest of us?” Aracáno was still not quite getting it. Perhaps he was even a little jealous, although he was hiding it well.

The Noldóran glanced at his granddaughter in compassion. In the short time since they had known each other, he had come to understand just how different she was from her mother.

“You cannot even begin to understand how special that makes her,” he told his nephew. “One day you will.”

“In the eyes of the Amanians perhaps,” said Celebrían coldly. “Not in mine – or in Elrond’s. Eärendil may have been my husband’s sire; a father he never was. Not even before he would set off to save the world.”

“Now, that is a bit harsh is it not?” replied Arafinwë, mildly shocked. “Without him, all of Endórë would be Morgoth’s realm now, and probably not even Aman would be safe.”

“Maybe so,” allowed Celebrían with a shrug. “I do not question his unique role in the great order of things. I know he saved us all, slew a dragon and brought what was left of the Light of the Trees to safety. But I also know how often my beloved would spend half the night on the one or other balcony, watching the flight of Vingilot across the sky, yearning for the father that he never had. Wondering if that hallowed jewel was truly so important that his mother needed to leave him and his brother behind, to the questionable mercy of the Kinslayers.”

Arafinwë cast a look at his Queen, whose face became hard and bleak at once. Often had they argued about this very same question, and always had Eärwen’s answer been a clear and resolute no. She was not a Noldo and did not share what she called their unhealthy obsession with magic baubles. In her eyes nothing could excuse what Elwing had done, and – unlike her father – she denied any kinship with her.

The Noldóran had the uncomfortable feeling that his beloved wife had just found a staunch supporter in their granddaughter. To be perfectly honest, he dreaded the future consequences of such an alliance.

“Perhaps one day you can get the chance to ask Elwing yourself,” he said tentatively, trying to smooth the waves in advance.

“I hope not,” answered Celebrían. “That would not be a pleasant conversation; and the last thing I need is to make an enemy of someone who is clearly so important for the Amanians. For good or worse, I have to live out the rest of my life here. I would rather do it in peace.”

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

Her answer successfully killed the conversation, and for quite some time they rode on in silence. They ate their midday meal in one of the roadside inns, where they were given a private parlour, as Meril had sent word to announce their arrival.

The Noldóran and his Queen got recognized by many of the patrons – most of them Noldor, by their looks, likely former Exiles or their children or grandchildren – and people gave them their obeisance. Tol Eressëa might have been more or less independent from the rest of the Undying Lands, but royalty was royalty, no matter in which shape their presence graced the place. ‘Twas better to be polite.

Celebrían, to her utmost relief, was ignored for the time being, presumably mistaken for one of Eärwen’s ladies-in-waiting. It surprised her, though, that no-one seemed to recognize Aracáno.

“Why should they?” commented the young prince with a self-deprecating grimace. “Most people here were born in Beleriand, probably after I died. And even before, hardly anyone seemed to notice me. I was always the youngest, the last important of us. Findecáno was valiant, and he was Atar’s heir, Turucáno was the wise one, Írisse was an elleth and beautiful anyway, but me… I was just an afterthought.”

“For which you should be grateful ‘til the Remaking of Arda,” said Arafinwë wistfully. “I never realized what a happy life I used to have as the youngest, least important son – until my brothers were gone and I had to clean up the mess they left behind.”

There was a bitter edge in his voice, and Aracáno gave him an uncomfortable glance.

“Were you angry with my Atar, Uncle Arfin?”

“Angry does not even begin to describe my feelings,” replied the Noldóran dryly. “You cannot imagine the mess I found when I finally came to my senses and turned back. Nine-tenth of our people were gone, to the greater part ellyn, and I was left with the grieving, the broken, the panicking and the furious, mostly ellith who had no idea how to go on with their lives.”

“It must have been a terrible shock for those left behind,” said Celebrían, her heart going out to those poor ellith, and her grandsire nodded grimly.

“Our society almost broke apart,” he said. “Farmlands and workshops were abandoned, without farmers or craftspeople to work them. All of a sudden, wives and sisters and mothers had to take over the work of their husbands, brothers or sons – work many of them had never done before. Younger brothers or barely-of-age sons had to take over the leading of what was left from their families, and let me tell you, we were not prepared for that.”

“Not even you?” Aracáno stared at his uncle in shock. He had a hard time to imagine that, having looked up to Arafinwë from his early yéni on.

The Noldóran laughed mirthlessly.

“Me? I was the least prepared. Our Atar never saw it necessary to train any of us, younger siblings, in the duties of leadership. Quite frankly, sometimes I even wonder if he cared for any of us, save Fëanáro. The only thing he ever expected from me was to act as a trouble-shooter between my older brothers, and we both know how much good that did, for any parties involved.”

“You should not blame yourself, dear,” Eärwen intervened, seeing that her husband was getting seriously upset about the whole thing even now, two Ages later. “It was truly not your fault that Morgoth sowed enmity between your brothers; or that Fëanáro was arrogant enough to listen to him.”

“No,” agreed the Noldóran with a sour grin. “I just had to deal with the aftermath.”

“And you dealt with it well enough,” pointed out Celebrían. “You rebuilt the realm of the Noldor in Aman, and even brought your warriors back to Middle-earth, to help defeat Morgoth for good. Elrond saw you in battle – he says you were terrible in your wrath.”

Arafinwë shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I had to work out my anger on someone. But the truth is, I can call myself fortunate that Olwë had been wiser than my Atar and saw that all his children were taught and trained to rule his people, if necessary,” he gave his Queen a fond smile. “Without Eärwen, I would have been hopelessly lost. For quite some time, she practically ruled Tirion from behind the throne, while I was trying to wrap my mind around my new duties and all that had happened.”

Eärwen smiled and reached over to pat his arm encouragingly. “You did well enough, once you stopped panicking, my dear. Now, can we stop this unpleasant topic and eat our meal ere it grows cold? ‘Twould be a shame; moreso as I happen to know hat this particular inn has exquisite cuisine; not to mention a cook truly devoted to his art.”

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

The others agreed, and thus they ate the simple yet excellent meal and rested a little before they would continue their journey. Arafinwë intended to spend the night in another inn at two-third of their way, as their party was too small for camping out, and to reach Tavrobel somewhen around noon on the next day.

“You have only seen Lord Gilfanon’s house and the forests beyond it, I am told,” he said to Celebrían. “Which means, you cannot truly make a picture about how large the town actually is. We shall ride around the encircling forests on the eastern side and enter it from the harbour; it will be a most impressive sight.”

“I did not find the harbour of Tavrobel very impressive,” said Aracáno with a frown.

“That is because we moored outside the main port upon our arrival,” explained Eärwen. “We were afraid that the sight would bring back memories of Alqualondë; memories that would be painful for Elenwë and you.”

“Why are we taking that way now then?” asked Celebrían.

Eärwen sighed. “Because we are late, and if my brother cannot see with his own eyes that we are both safe and hale, he might feel inclined to ride over to Kortirion and take the town apart with his bare hands, stone by stone, in search for us.”

Aracáno frowned again; he seemed to do that a great deal lately.

“Your brother?” he asked. “I do not seem to remember…”

“’Tis unlikely that you would have met him, or indeed even heard of him,” said Eärwen. “You were too young, back before you left, and Elulindo rarely came to any of our cities. He always preferred the Sea.”

“Oh!” Aracáno’s eyes brightened in recognition. “I do remember now. I heard Anatar’s courtiers in Tirion talk about him. They called him the Lady Uinen’s champion… though I do not think they meant it in a nice way,” he added, a little confused.

“He certainly spent more time with the Lady of the Sea than with his own family, much to our Atar’s chagrin,” replied Eärwen dryly. “But you must understand that he is much older than I and has seen different things than any of us were granted to see. He was born during the Great Journey, when our people were dwelling at the Mouths of Sirion, and grew up playing at the feet of Lord Ulmo and his vassals. He learned to swim ere he would learn to walk; we, younger siblings, always teased him that he was part fish.”

“And he never wedded?” inquired Celebrían in surprise, for even the heir of an Elven king was supposed to continue the bloodline.

Eärwen’s eyes darkened in sorrow.

“One cannot spend one’s whole life in the company of Valar, Maiar and lesser spirits and remain unchanged,” she replied. “Like Ciryatan in his time, my brother became spoiled for any other company; and which one of us, mere ellith, can compare herself with the Lady of the Seas?”

“Your family tends to cast their eyes high,” commented Aracáno; it was a mere statement, without sounding judgemental, and Eärwen nodded.

“Some of us do indeed. Yet, unlike Melian, the Lady Uinen would be beyond any ellon’s reach, even if she were not espoused. My brother was wise enough to understand that and spare himself much grief and heartbreak. He is content to serve his Lady as any knight from those Mannish lays do; only that he rides a ship, not a horse on his adventures. But his heart remained closed, untouched by any love as the rest of us would understand it.”

“How sad that he would have to remain alone, till the end of Arda and beyond, because of his devotion,” whispered Celebrían, but Eärwen looked at her in honest surprise.

“Alone?” she echoed, shaking her head. “Nay, he is not alone, far from it! He keeps company with the Oarni and the Falmaríni, the spirits of the surf and the foam of ocean, dancing in the spray with the Oaritsi and the long-tressed Wingildi, visiting them in their underwater caves. He sees wonders none of us can even dream of and rides the waves when no other ship would dare to leave the harbour. He goes on journeys with Lord Ossë, amazing and frightening journeys as if from the oldest tales, and he is happy on his wild adventures… which is great comfort for us, as we miss him very much when he is away for yéni in one turn.”

“But now he is at home again?” asked Celebrían.

“He had returned to Alqualondë shortly before we would come here,” explained Eärwen. “He offered to sail with us to Tol Eressëa, as he has some old friends here who never moved on to Aman and have dwelt on the Falassë Númea since the Great Journey.”

“And he does not trust you to be able to take care of yourselves, despite all the guards and the fact that Uncle Arfin fought in the War of Wrath?” Aracáno laughed.

“Elder brothers tend to be over-protective,” answered Eärwen with a shrug and a smile. “You should know that better than anyone else; you once had two of the worst sort yourself.”

The others laughed, too, and they continued their journey in high spirits.

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

As Arafinwë had planned, they spent the night in another inn and set off for the last leg of their journey with the first light of the next day. They rode slowly yet steadily, with short breaks, and reached the outskirts of the forests around Tavrobel by noontime, without meeting anyone on the road.

There they turned to the west, following a minor road, rode around the woods, down to the shore, and approached the town from the bay. The sight that opened up before their eyes was, as the Noldóran had promised, impressive. Celebrían, who had indeed never come further that the House of the Hundred Chimneys, which lay several miles eastwards from the town itself, stared at the three-tiered settlement in open-mouthed awe,

The calm waters glittered deep blue in the Bay of Tavrobel, north of the Falassë Númea, where the River Afros reached the Sea. Vessels dotted the water at the port ahead – some white, shaped like majestic swans, clearly coming from the mainland, the others smaller, more slender and quick, zigzagging on the surface of the water like dragonflies: the ones built and used on Tol Eressëa itself. The land at the bay’s back was a massive, rising slope that extended all along the shore. Tavrobel, ringed by its three protective walls, stood at its centre, shimmering white like a great pearl.

“Behold the first town of the Lindar,” said Eärwen softly. “This was once the dwelling place of our Clan, ere we would move on to the mainland and build our Swanhaven.”

“I assume it was not quite this impressive at the time,” Arafinwë smiled at his Queen. Eärwen smiled back at him, but her smile was wistful.

“Oh no, it was not. Back then, as its name still reveals, ‘twas but a small, walled village, built of timber, settled at the slope’s crest. ‘Twas only at the end of the First Age, when a great number of Elves chose to accept the pardon of the Valar and moved to Tol Eressëa, that the long-abandoned settlement got repopulated and began to grow. It has changed so much in the following Ages,” she added with a sigh; “there is not a single corner that I would still recognize from my childhood.”

“The Sindar who settled here worked hard on it,” Arafinwë nodded in agreement, “as they considered it the old home of their kin. In time, the erstwhile wooden huts were replaced by neatly ordered houses, built of white stone; stone that had been shipped around the island from the mines of Avallónë. The Council Hall was built in the place where Olwë’s modest timber halls had once stood. New structures sprang up around it, and the settlement, by then a town of considerable size, sprawled farther along down the slope.”

“That was when the second wall was raised around this new, larger town,” supplied Eärwen. “As quite a few exilic Noldor moved here from the other settlements, the town already showed a delightful mixture of styles, Sindarin and Noldorin alike. However, at the end of the Second Age, there was another, massive wave of migration from Endórë, and the town once again proved too small for its rapidly growing population, and a third ring of walls had to be erected.”

She gestured at said walls with their regularly spaced towers; a ring that reached almost down to the shore and the expansive docks that supported moorage for scores of ships. The harbour district was a particularly lively part of the town, with its many buildings of every known style, size and colour ever preferred by the Elven folk mashed together within the outermost walls, their rows pierced by vertical roads, paved with white stone, running outward like the spokes of a great wheel from the town centre.

At each point where such a road passed through the third wall, it did so under towering, fortified gatehouse with raised iron portcullis, and guards in light mail shirts, armed with bows and swords, watched the gates.

“Strange,” said Aracáno, furrowing his brow. “Why would they need guards in the Blessed Realm? Surely the days when we draw steel against our own kin are long gone – are they not?”

He appeared truly upset by that possibility, and Arafinwë hurried to reassure him.

“There has not been another Kinslaying since the end of the First Age, when my benighted nephews last tried to lay their hands on the Silmarils,” he said. “But you must not forget that the inhabitants of Tol Eressëa are returnees or Reborn, respectively – many of them fairly recent ones at that. I deem they still remember the perils of Endórë vividly, and having their gates guarded makes them feel safer.”

Celebrían shuddered involuntarily, understanding better than the others the necessity to feel safe – even if it was, ultimately, just an illusion.

“Besides,” added Eärwen, smiling, “it helps those who have been warriors for uncounted yéni to adjust to a life in peace gradually. Not to mention it makes them feel useful, until they decide what they would like to do with the rest of their lives.”

Aracáno nodded his understanding, but his eyes were on the buzzing activity of the docks; on the warehouses that lined the shore, and the vessels sliding into the docks, and the people, who were simply everywhere.

Dockworkers and sailors clambered over the upper and lower levels of the piers, moving cargo to and fro between ships and warehouses, and handling mooring and rigging as required, and shouting to each other merrily over the general noise.

Fishermen were sailing back from the Sea, dragging their nets after the boats, singing the praise of Lord Ulmo’s generosity and thanking him for the good catch. Others had already moored and were now spreading their nets to dry further up on the northern side of the port. The fish they had caught was brought to an awning even further away, where it was gutted, cleaned and hung up to be smoked.

A constant breeze blew across the docks, and the air was tainted with a myriad of scents, from fish to oiled wood, from salt water to seaweed and brine. Celebrían wrinkled her nose and glanced around for the source of the strong salty smell. She did not remember it having been so strong either in Mithlond or in Avallónë.

She did not have to look very long. Down the southern side of the coast at, the town’s edge she soon spotted a large building – as big as two warehouses together. On its by, massive wooden sluices dribbled water into the bay, while on the other side huge wheels turned, carrying seawater up and into wide troughs running into the building. The smell was definitely coming from that direction, and seemed to intensify now that she had found the source.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A salt mill,” replied Eärwen. “The people of Tavrobel are harvesting salt from the Sea. This is the best place for it on the island, for the water down on the southern side is not very deep.”

“Have you never seen such a structure before?” asked the Noldóran.

Celebrían shook her head. “Nay; back home, we bought our salt from the Dwarves, who mined it under the western slopes of the Ered Luin.”

“This is an easier and more effective way,” said Eärwen, “though the smell can be truly bothersome. I understand that those who work in the mill must protect their mouths and noses with multiple layers of gauze; I certainly do not envy them for their work.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Celebrían; the salty smell was not too unpleasant in itself, but it was very strong and began to irritate her nose.

“Let us move on, then,” suggested Arafinwë. “I for my part would not like to make Elulindo unhappier than he already is.”

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

They rode on, down to one of the piers that was currently empty. Aracáno looked around in disappointment.

“Well, where is he?” he demanded. “I cannot see the ship that has brought us to the isle!”

“That is because you look for it in the wrong direction,” Eärwen laughed and pointed southward, from where a shimmer came into their field of vision, approaching them fast from the Falassë Númea.

Celebrían followed the line of her granddam’s outstretched hand, and now she could see it, too. At first she was not certain that it would be more than a glint on the water. It sparkled like mithril, but the light wavered, as if what reflected Anor’s golden rays would flutter in the wind or roll on the waves.

After further observation she could see that it was a vessel, riding smoothly, perchance even a bit high, as it skimmed across the top of the water. The shimmer came from its sails, iridescent as white satin. Celebrían squinted and shaded her eyes.

Long and sleek the shining boat was, shaped in the likeness of a swan, her prow curved like a swan’s head and gracefully bowed neck, carved and painted masterfully and set with glittering jewels. It was clearly a ship from Alqualondë; more so as it bore Olwë’s device on the flag fluttering from the highest mast: that of the winged Moon before a deep, almost indigo blue background. The hull gleamed pure, sun-tinted white one moment and shadow grey the next, and its lips appeared delicately curved like a holly leaf’s edge.

“There she is,” said Eärwen proudly. “The Tinwerîna; the only vessel left that was built with the help of Lord Ossë and practically by his People, when our folk still dwelt on these shores. The only ship that was not seized or destroyed at the Kinslaying, as my brother had taken her out to the Outer Ocean at that time.”

“I thought no ships were allowed to travel on the Outer Ocean,” said Celebrían in surprise.

“Not on their own, that is true,” agreed Eärwen. “But my brother always went on such adventures with Lord Ossë himself, or with the lesser sea spirits.”

“And now, there he comes,” said Arafinwë, smiling.

By then, the magnificent ship had reached the port and turned to move in, skimming the water, its iridescent sails reflecting the light of the midday sun. Sails began to fold, and it slowed well away from the harbour to slip as close to the shore as the bay’s depth would allow. Despite its light draw, it was a seafaring ship, first and foremost, and her captain clearly did not want to risk her running ashore by accident.

However, her grey-clad sailors were apparently highly skilled, even by Telerin measure, for she slowly glided along the pier and settled to a stop. Grey ropes were thrown out, which the dockworkers caught with practiced ease and secured the lines. The gangplank was lowered then, and a lonely figure stepped down to make his way where they were waiting.

He was tall, this newcomer, even for an Elf of an early generation; tall and slender, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, with his fine, silver hair flowing down his back to this waist like a curtain of glimmering spring rain. His weather-worn face had the same elegant features as Eärwen’s beneath the tan acquired by spending literally Ages fighting winds and water, with high cheekbones and wide, dark blue eyes that revealed his true age, as they reflected the light of the Two Trees he once had seen.

Just like his sister, he was stunningly beautiful, even by Elven measures, but with a hard glint in those deep eyes that was not tempered by Eärwen’s gentle nature. This was a warrior if there ever had been one; Celebrían had seen enough warriors in her life to recognize one if she saw one.

Like the sailors of his ship, he was clad in shadowy grey, although his clothes were richly adorned with silver embroidery and white pearls. His hair was unbraided, save for two delicate plaits above his ears and held together by a silver clasp, set with pearls, on the back of his head. A pearl-studded, fine silver circle adorned his brow, giving him a regal appearance.

Coming ashore, he gave his sister and the King of the Noldor a mild scowl.

“You certainly took your time,” he said without preamble. “I was considering going to Kortirion myself and hunting you down, should you dawdle another week or two.”

“Which Merilindë would certainly have appreciated… as much as an Orc attack at her back yard,” replied Arafinwë dryly. “Just because you are a few yéni older than the rest of us, you do not have to act as if you were our minder, you know.”

“A few yéni?” Elulindo rolled his eyes. “Elfling, compared with the two of you I am positively ancient; and crowns and titles do not impress me, you know that.”

“Don’t we all… including Atto?” replied Eärwen sweetly. “Now, brother, try to remember your manners… you still know what those are, right? I want to introduce you to some new family members.”

Elulindo gave Aracáno a wicked grin that shocked everyone, save his sister.

“So, you finally told the stripling whose ship he had boarded? I suppose he did not even know I ever existed… until now.”

“How could he?” replied Eärwen. “If memory serves me well, you were roaming the Outer Oceans with Lord Ossë’s People during his entire life. But I did not mean Aracáno; you already know him, even if he does not know you. I want you to meet the daughter of Nerwendë,” she gestured towards Celebrían, who suddenly felt very shy. “This is Celebrían, from her father’s side a descendant of our Uncle Elmö.”

The haryon of the Lindaran gave Celebrían a piercing look – and smiled.

“I am pleased to meet you, child,” he said with genuine warmth that surprised her very much; then he turned back to his sister. “Well, if you are done with the introductions, we should move on. I took the liberty to secure us rooms in the Rowan Tree Inn.”

The name said nothing to Celebrían or Aracáno, but it clearly did to the Noldóran, because he whistled.

“The Rowan Tree Inn, huh?” he asked. “You are gaining an expensive taste at your old age, brother.”

Elulindo shrugged. “How often do I get to travel with royalty?” he grinned.

“I thought that would be all the time, in your entire life,” replied Arafinwë. “After all, you have your own company, wherever you go.”

“Oh, no,” the firstborn of the King of Alqualondë said, suddenly very serious. “You have no idea how far beyond such things I have gone.”

~TBC~