Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Pengolodh the Wise, as well as Rúmil the Sage, belong to the older mythology. Laerwen (=song-maiden) is an original character of mine, who has sporadic cameos in my Mirkwood-related stories, together with Thranduil’s other children.

Pengolodh’s alternate history is based on his comment in “The Lost Road”, p. 125. I took here some creative licence about the matter. The Yénonótië (=“Counting of Years”) is an obscure text by the elusive Noldorin scholar Quennar i Onótimo, about the reckoning of time in Valian Years. See: “Morgoth’s Ring, The Annals of Arda.” He is not canonically related to Pengolodh, of course.

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

29. The Tower of Tavrobel

In the next morning she was pleasantly surprised when she came down from her chambers and found Galenbrethil waiting for her at the courtyard.

“Lindefal told us about your arrival,” explained the former healer of Imladris. “As he has no family of his own – not yet anyway,” she added, glancing at Tirannë’s direction with a knowing grin, “he has dwelt with us since the beginning. So, what are your plans for the day? I hope you can find the time to visit us during your stay in Tavrobel.”

“I am most certainly planning to,” answered Celebrían with feeling; these three had been Elrond’s closest friends, longer than she had been his wife, thus being with them was the closest thing to being at home again, “but not today, I fear. I have promised Master Ivárë and Mistress Elemmírë to visit the Tower of the Sages with them, and I know not how long that will take.”

“All day, I suppose, unless you choose to return to the in for noon meal,” said Galenbrethil knowingly. “But that is well; with the Noldóran visiting the town, Findalor will be caught up at the Council Hall all the time, and he wants to meet you as much as the rest of us. We have made our home here, but it does not mean that we would not miss Imladris. We always will.”

“So do I,” Celebrían sighed and embraced her old friend. “’Tis so good to have you here, Galenbrethil. It makes being here feeling less like exile.”

“In a way, it will always feel like exile,” answered the healer solemnly, “as neither of us left Middle-earth because we would have wanted to do so. But whatever the circumstances might have been, this is our home now, and we must make the best of it. Having others from our old home with us helps.”

“Yes, it does,” agreed Celebrían; then she added regretfully. “I have to go now. But I shall send word with Lindefal as soon as I know what other visits are expected from me. Being the Noldóran’s granddaughter means certain expectations towards me, I fear.”

“Not so much here,” said Galenbrethil. “We all respect King Arafinwë and his lady wife, of course, but we are not even nominally their subjects; nor those of any other King that rules in Aman. You will be able to breathe more freely here.”

“Until they learn that I am married to the son of Eärendil,” replied Celebrían with a scowl, remembering her grandsire’s prediction, “after which I will have no privacy at all.”

Galenbrethil, however, shook her head, unconcerned.

“I would not worry about that, if I were you,” she said. “Certainly, for a short time there will be great excitement. But as far as most inhabitants of Tol Eressëa are concerned, the true heroes of Beleriand are Fingolfin and Fingon, Finrod or even Turgon. They know Eärendil saved us all, but he is merely a legend for them a distant star; they respect him and love him for what he did, but otherwise have little interest in him. As for privacy, Lady Meril has long taught the people of the island the meaning of that.”

“She is practically the Queen of Tol Eressëa, is she not?” asked Celebrían, thinking of all that had been said about that particular topic.

Galenbrethil nodded. “That she is. Certainly, the towns govern themselves well enough; and I have no doubt that once the Kings of Beleriand are released, there will be requests towards them to become lords over this town or that. But when it comes to matters that concern the entire island, everyone will follow Lady Meril’s lead.”

Celebrían smiled. “Including you?”

“Including me, yea,” replied Galenbrethil emphatically. “She has been here from the very beginning. She helped all those coming from Middle-earth to rebuild their lives; and she has always led us well. Everyone knows her and trusts her; should any King, fresh out of Mandos, try to lord it over us, they would be greatly surprised, I think.”

This was obviously a topic close to her heart, for she would have gone on about it, were she not interrupted by Lindefal who came out to look for Celebrían, and was now grinning at her.

“No such danger is looming on the horizon just yet,” he said. “You can sheath your sword,” then, turning to Celebrían, he added. “You should get some breakfast before leaving for the Tower of the Sages. All that wisdom one is confronted there can be too much on an empty stomach.”

“What do you know about wisdom?” shot back Celebrían, smiling. “If memory serves me well, Elrond was close to despair by your blatant disinterest in lore half the time.”

“True; but I took care of his correspondence and the inventory lists like no-one else,” replied Lindefal. “You must tell us about the chaos that rules over Imladris, now that I am no longer there.”

“Later,” replied Celebrían, heading for the dining hall. “Breakfast first. I intend to face a lot of wisdom today, after all.”

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

Breakfast turned out to be a blessedly simple affair. The food was laid onto one of the lesser tables, and everyone simply went there, filled their plates with choice bits and returned to their seats with it. Celebrían chose leaf cakes filled with a dollop of jam – and old favourite probably brought to Tol Eressëa by Lindefal, as it was regularly served in Imladris – and some herbal tea. By the time she finished eating, she had the strange feeling of being home, and decided that she was going to like the town of Tavrobel.

Ivárë and Elemmírë were already waiting for her in the courtyard, ready to go. They both wore simple grey robes today, which, as they explained was the customary garb of the Sages of the Tower.

“It would not do to pay them a visit glittering like peacocks, even though some Amanian lore-masters consider their custom a rustic one,” explained Ivárë, giving his wife an amused look.

Elemmírë’s only answer was an arched eyebrow. A most superior one.

They left the Rowan Tree Inn and strolled along the paved streets toward the northern side of the town, as the Tower stood near the ancient Bridge of Tavrobel, that spanned two rivers, right before the town walls. Some of the inhabitants recognized Ivárë, despite his simple garb, and greeted him with visible respect. No-one seemed to notice Celebrían, for which she was grateful. She preferred to remain unknown as long as possible.

She absently followed the two Vanyar around a street corner into an intersecting road, also paved with white stone. Some distance ahead was an open archway in the town wall. Two ring-mailed guards stood, relaxed but attentive, to either side of the graceful portal that was shaped like the outline of a great seashell. They gave the Vanyar a passing glance and a respectful nod but did not speak.

Celebrían followed her guides through the archway. Their destination was only a short distance outside the town wall. The Tower of Tavrobel, although the most renowned scholarly enclave of the isle, was but a two-storey house, built of white stone that had become grey and withered during the yéni that had assed by since it had been raised, around the end of the First Age, when the first exiled Noldor had returned and taken up residence on Tol Eressëa. Its tiled roof had lost some of its once vivid colours, but its original pattern could still be recognized – it was a pretty sight, despite its age.

The oldest part of the building was the Tower itself, the one the whole enclave was named after. It was short and squat, rising on the north-eastern corner of the complex, with a flat top, from which the Sages would watch the stars, or so it was said.

Ivárë knocked on the front door, using the twirled bronze ring hanging from the maw of a copper dragon’s head, and the heavy oak winds swung open noiselessly. They were greeted by one of the apprentices, a young Silvan girl of slender build and a freckled face. Her thick auburn hair hung in a neat braid down her back and her eyes were brown and bright like polished chestnuts. She was wearing the usual sleeveless grey robe of the Sages over a simple gown of deep, forest green wool that was embroidered with leaves in brown and dark red on the hem, the round neckline and the cuffs.

She led them down the narrow central passage of the house that led to the library. Apprentices and hired scribes trundled up and down the stairs, carefully balancing armfuls of scrolls, sheaves, tablets, books and some items Celebrían could not identify. A few nodded in greeting as they passed. Most of them seemed to be Noldor, but there were quite a few Sindar and even a Vanya, all wearing grey robes over the clothes of their personal choice.

The library took up the entire western wing of the building. In its centre, surrounded by the tall, floor-to-ceiling shelves, was the study area with tables, chairs, scribe desks and shelves. Around the room were a few curious crystal lamps, filled with a glowing blue light that never flickered.

A number of lore-masters, looking like a flock of crows in their grey robes, were sitting at the tables, reading, or standing at the writing desks, dictating to the scribes. Most of them were Noldor, but quite a few Sindar could be seen there, too (mostly among the scribes), and even a Vanya or two. The Silvan girl escorted the visitors to one of the isolated corners, where a rather slender, dark-haired Noldo was sitting behind a small table, immersed in some heavy, leather-bound tome.

He seemed vaguely familiar to Celebrían, although she could not quite figure out why. Not yet anyway; she had the feeling that she would come behind it soon enough.

“Here, look at this!” he was saying to the venerable-looking Vanya – the only one in the room wearing a robe of brilliant blue instead of grey – who was standing behind him and looking at the text written in Sarati: the first version of Tengwar, invented by Rúmil the Sage himself, over his shoulder. “This is where your mentor got it wrong. He finished this section of the Annals with the enchantment of Elwë by Melian and the departure of the Teleri from the Mouths of Sirion.”

“Of course,” replied the Vanya scholar a little impatiently. “This is what was told him by the Lindaran himself, and why should he question a King’s authority in the matter? Olwë was there, after all, while my mentor had already departed.”

“True; but there were events not even the Lindaran was aware of; things I learned from our kin in Beleriand, much later,” answered the Noldo. “I was told that a company of the Noldor, whose leader was Danuin, forsook the host of Finwë, lord of the Second Clan, early upon the westward march, and turned south. But they found the lands barren and dark, thus they turned against north and marched west once more with much wandering and grief. Of these some, under Danilos son of Danuin, came at last, about the year of the Valar 2700, over the Ered Lindon and dwelt in Ossiriand, where they became allies of Lenwë, chieftain of the Green-Elves, and Thingol of Doriath.”

“No, you got it wrong!” declared the Vanya imperiously. “Danuin is but a different name for Lenwë; every apprentice in their first yén knows that!”

The Noldo shook his head. “Not according to Legolas, the lord of Eglavain; and he ought to know. After all, Lenwë was his great-grandfather.”

The Vanya snorted at that, in a rather undignified manner.

“If those are your reliable sources, then perhaps you should stop calling yourself a lore-master. Listening to the tall tales of some rustic warriors is not the proper method to gather knowledge.”

“Pah!” the Noldo was clearly offended. “And sitting in some isolate tower in Valinor, waiting for much less reliable rumours to come your way perhaps is? I work with eye-witnesses; I record the events of the past as correctly as possible, instead of creating pretty legends of my own. Perhaps you should give the method a try, too. It would make your work less of a nursery tale and more of actual history science.”

Celebrían was fairly shocked by the bickering of two obviously respected lore-masters, and Elemmírë’s beautiful face mirrored mild disapproval as well. Ivárë, however, simply listened to them with an indulgent smile, and the Silvan girl politely cleared her throat to catch their attention.

The Noldorin sage looked up from his book with a frown. “Yes, Laerwen, what is it? Can you not see that we are in the middle of an important discussion?”

“Are they not always?” murmured Ivárë in a low voice, but his eyes twinkled in amusement.

“Forgive me, Master Pengolodh,” the girl, whose name was apparently Laerwen, said apologetically, “but there are visitors for you.”

Of course! Celebrían felt as if a veil would have been drawn from before her eyes. She had met Pengolodh the Wise in Ost-in-Edhil, too, just like Aranwë. But while Aranwë had taken her until his wings, showing her his workshop and inviting her to the table of the Mírdain, the lore-master had no time nor patience for overly curious elflings.

Still, his was a familiar face, one of the many she had met lately, and that was a good feeling.

The most renowned chronicler of Elven history in Middle-earth, meanwhile, did not miss a beat upon recognizing at least one of his visitors.

“Ah, Ivárë, good!” he exclaimed, ignoring the two ellith for the time being. “Would you kindly tell young Indorildo here not to stick his nose into things of which he clearly has no understanding?”

The elegant face of the Vanyarin scholar turned deep red with fury at that.

“Whom are you calling a youngling, half-bred?” he scowled. “I was studying at the feet of Rúmil the Sage already when you were still in your diapers, chasing frogs in the stinking marshes of Nevrast!”

Celebrían blanched at the insult – Elves of mixed origins often reacted badly when called names about their parentage – but Pengolodh remained completely unfazed. In fact, he seemed to enjoy making his high-nosed colleague boil with rage.

“At least I was doing something useful as a toddler already,” he returned sharply. “A skill that you still do not seem to have achieved. By the way, I would like you to know that frog legs were considered a rare delicacy in Beleriand; they were served deep-fried, with a spicy sallet, at the table of King Turgon himself.”

Indorildo rolled his eyes in exasperation. He also turned a little green by the idea of eating frog legs, with or without a spicy salad.

“You see, Mistress?” he aimed his complaint at Elemmírë, of whom he obviously hopped some support. “This is the kind of useless knowledge I am treated with whenever I visit this place.”

“Then you should perhaps stop visiting here,” replied Elemmírë without he slightest hint of sympathy. “If you are unable to show some respect towards the head of the Guild of Sagecraft, I see little gain in your being here.”

The poor Vanya was rendered speechless by this unfriendly answer and left in a hurry, fuming and thoroughly humiliated. Ivárë gave his wife a jaundiced look.

“Do you think you were a little harsh on him, beloved? He is a self-important peacock, ‘tis true, but he does work very hard on revising Quennar’s Yénonótië; and his corrections are actually sound.”

“Oh, for the love of the Valar!” Pengolodh snorted. “If my Adar knew in whose hands his older works have fallen, he would fade from grief – again! I am quite capable of finishing his Annals and revising his texts on my own, thank you very much. In fact, I am nearly done with both.”

“Still, you were not even born yet when many of those events occurred,” reminded him Ivárë. Pengolodh shrugged.

“It matters not. I have got all my Adar’s texts, I have got Rúmil’s work; indeed, I have got Rúmil himself to talk to if the need arises – and a great many older Elves I can ask for details, as they have lived through the entire history of Beleriand. Unlike other people, I am not too proud to ask about facts of which I cannot have first-hand knowledge.”

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

The three of them continued the hypothetical discussion about the proper way to write history for quite some time, and after a while Celebrían could feel her eyes glassing over. She had not had any particular expectations where her visit in the Tower of the Sages was concerned, but she empathically had not expected this.

Laerwen obviously noticed her discomfort, for she waved her to come over to one of the writing desks, where she was studying and repairing an old scroll. The scroll was, surprisingly enough, written in the dialect of the Doriathrim, with the Angerthas runes created by Daeron. Celebrían, familiar with that particular dialect due to her mother’s time spent in Thingol’s realm, recognized an early version of the Lay of Leithian and was grateful for the distraction.

“I should have gone to the Council Hall with Daeradar,” she muttered. “I am fairly certain that battling the Town Council about trade agreements would be more peaceful.”

Laerwen grinned. “Oh, they are not so bad, truly. Master Pengolodh can be a bit… temperamental at times, ‘tis true, but never like this. Not unless Master Indorildo lowers himself to pay us a visit anyway. That Vanya brings out the worst of everyone.”

“Is he always so… insulting?” asked Celebrían with a frown.

Laerwen’s grin grew from ear to ear. “Only with his betters, trying to prove himself right,” she answered. With the rest of us, he is simply condescending and patronizing – which we have just as much.”

“Why does he believe he has the right to behave like this, though?” asked Celebrían in honest confusion. “I have been married to a lore-master for an Age, so I am fairly certain that I have heard about every name-worthy Sage of Aman often enough in those yéni. I know who Master Pengolodh is, or Rúmil the Sage, or Master Ivárë or Mistress Elemmírë – or Macalaurë, for that matter, although I know his name is one rarely mentioned. The name Indorildo, however, never came up, despite the fact that he is supposed to be older than most. What makes hi thing he is something special, then?”

Laerwen shrugged. “He is a Vanya. In his eyes, that fact alone makes him stand above us, Moriquendi; especially above rustic Wood-Elves like myself.”

There was a certain bitterness in her voice, and Celebrían understood that she could not have had it easy among all the scholarly Noldor and the occasional high-nosed Vanya among the Sages. Which, of course, made Celebrían wonder what she was doing here in the first place.

“Forgive me the question,” she began slowly. “But how did you end up in a scholarly enclave, of all places? ‘Tis unusual enough that one of the Woodland Folk would forsake the forests to Sail – choosing scholarly activities is a rare thing among them, if my Adar’s people in Lothlórien are any indication.”

“That is true,” agreed Laerwen. “I only Sailed because my betrothed was slain in the Battle upon Dagorlad, and I wanted to be there when he is released. And I chose to become a scholar for he was the heir to his father’s throne, and even though ‘tis unlikely that he would ever become a King, I wanted to be a proper Queen to him.”

Celebrían considered the possibilities. The only Elven Kings still alive in Middle-earth during the Last Alliance had been Gil-galad and Oropher of the Greenwood. Gil-galad had no heir as far as she knew, and the only son of Oropher had long been married with grown children by then. That left her with one possibility.

“You were meant to marry Dorothil Thranduilion, were you not?” she asked quietly.

She could vaguely remember Thranduil’s firstborn, said to have been the greatest archer since Beleg Cúthalion. She also knew that Prince Dorothil had been supposed to marry after the war from which he never returned. Just as his grandsire and two of his brothers had not.

Laerwen nodded, her bright eyes clouding with sorrow.

“And I will marry him, as soon as he gets out of Mandos,” she said firmly. “In the meantime, I will continue my studies here. Back in the Greenwood, no-one cared that their Sindarin prince would marry a simple Wood-Elf. After all, that was what his father had done, too. But here – even on Tol Eressëa – things are a little different. People will accept a scholar on the side of a prince, though, and that will spare us both a lot of grief.”

“That is probably true,” Celebrían allowed.

“Besides,” Laerwen added with a mischievous smile, “I actually enjoy learning. Just do not tell any other Wood-Elf you may meet, or my reputation will be ruined forever. Let them believe that this is a great sacrifice I am making for the sake of my betrothed: bending over musky old scrolls, instead of nancing under the trees of Eglavain.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” promised Celebrían, laughing; then she returned to Pengolodh’s desk, as Elemmírë was calling her.

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

It seemed that Pengolodh indeed had Sindarin translations of Elemmírë’s poems; several different versions of them, in fact. He did, however, flat our refuse to read or recite them – for artistic reasons.

“I may be a native Sindarin speaker… well, more or less,” he said, “but I lack the heart of a minstrel. Your beautiful words would sound hollow in my mouth. Let us go to the Hall of Music, though; there we shall find the right performer. Come with me!”

The Hall of Music was on the second floor, larger even than the library below, and of slightly different proportions. Which, as Pengolodh explained them, was for the sake of acoustics; the hall had been built so that it would provide the best possible sound, for voices and instruments alike.

“This is something we have actually learned from the Naugrim,” he added. “Well, Celebrimbor had. Before that, our minstrels rarely performed in closed rooms.”

“We, old-fashioned ones- still prefer to sing outdoors,” commented Ivárë with a smile. “But I agree that an indoor music hall does have its advantages. Some of the newer pieces have been composed with the harmonies created by the faint echoes of a closed room in mind. ‘Tis a different kind of music than ours, but not less beautiful. Well, where is your right performer, then?”

“Here am I!” a merry voice answered, and Celebrían smiled in pleasant surprise when she saw Ilverin enter the room. Despite all the new and amazing encounters of recent time, she had missed the little imp.

She also had to consciously remind herself that said little imp was an Age and a half older than she. With Ilverin, one easily forgot such things.

Ilverin gave her a grin and a wave, and then turned to Master Pengolodh, inquiring what exactly did they want him to perform. When the Sage explained him the case, he seemed a little doubtful.

“I am not sure I would be the right one for such a noble task,” he said modestly. “I am not even a proper minstrel, you see.”

But Ivárë was clearly unconcerned. “You will do just finely,” he declared. “We do not expect a festive performance like one on Samírien. My beloved simply wishes to hear the test in the Grey Tongue. We have found several inspired translations in the library…”

Ilverin waved off the rest of the sentence. “No need for that; I know the best Sindarin version of the Aldundénië by heart.”

“And which one would be considered the best?” asked Elemmírë. “I hope you do not intend to impose Macalaurë’s work upon me.”

“Nay; this one was actually made by Queen Melian herself and brought to the West by surviving Doriathrim after the War of Wrath,” replied Ilverin. “I actually learned it in Lórien, from some Reborn ellith who liked to sing it with various melodies, all composed by Daeron.”

Elemmírë rolled her eyes. “The Lament for the Trees as interpreted by a Dark Elf who never saw them. Can things become even more ridiculous?”

“Well, singing The End of Starlight in High Quenya would probably count as far more weird,” replied Ilverin, mischief glittering in his eyes.

The two Vanyar gave him identical blank looks.

“I never heard of an opus by that title,” confessed Ivárë with a frown.

“Which is not surprising, as it is a lament of the Avari, composed in the ancient tongue of our people, about the first rising of Anor,” answered Ilverin.

“A lament?” repeated Ivárë in shock. “The return of light was the greatest wonder imaginable after the death of the Trees!”

“Not for those who had known but the soft shimmering of Elbereth’s… I mean Lady Varda’s stars,” Celebrían corrected herself. “I remember my adar telling me of the terror his people felt when the harsh light of Anor first illuminated their dark forests. Bráglorin they called the new light, the Blazing Vessel; and Gairá, the Fearful, and mourn they did truly, for life as they had known before was changed forever.”

Pengolodh nodded thoughtfully. “I heard of some reclusive clans of the Avari who refuse to even leave their houses by daylight to the present day.”

“Well, they are Avari, after all,” said Elemmírë dismissively. “What can you expect from their lot? They refused the summons of the Valar, after all, choosing to live in the darkness of Endórë instead of the Light of Valinor!”

“They see it differently,” said Celebrían, remembering her discussions with Nimrodel’s people and with Thranduil’s Queen, Lálisin. “They consider themselves the only faithful ones who have kept the old ways. And they are wary of the rest of us, particularly of those who forsook the lands of their birth and went to the West.”

“Faithful they are supposed to be?” asked Elemmírë incredulously. “They, who were the first to disobey the Guardians of Arda?”

Celebrían found her attitude more than a little insulting, but before she could give an answer – which probably would have been a fairly unfriendly one – there was a brief shimmer in the Hall of Music, and a Maia appeared in their midst. She was tall and fair-haired, clad entirely in iridescent white silk: long-sleeved undergown and sleeveless gown, both of which seemed to change colour as the light falling upon the fabric shifted. Her heavy mass of golden curls was unbraided and cascaded down her back freely.

“Actually, there was quite a debate among the Valar about bringing the Elves to Aman,” she said; her voice was clear like the sound of silver bells. “And at least Lord Ulmo heartily disapproved of the final decision, though he did obey the Elder King’s decree in the end.”

Everyone but Elemmírë stared at her in awe, for she seemed to surpass any of her brethren and sisters they had ever met, both in power and beauty. Elemmírë, however, bowed to her lightly.

“Ilmarë,” she said by way of greeting. “Your presence honours us. How can we be of service?”

The handmaid of the Elentári grinned at them, which was, frankly, a somewhat shocking expression of a face of such stunning light and beauty as hers.

“Why, I have come to hear Melyanna’s version of the Aldundénië, of course,” she answered. “Lord Manwë is not the only one upon Taniquetil who likes poetry, you know. And the Grey Tongue is full of subtle nuances that I never grow tired of.”

Elemmírë seemed greatly surprised by that statement.

“Why would anyone from the Elder King’s household have an interest in the tongue of the Moriquendi?” she asked. While she was interested in it herself, out of professional interest, she could not understand why any of the Valar or Maiar would do so.

“How could we not?” asked Ilmarë back, suddenly very serious. “Are they not the Children of the Stars, who forsook even the Light of Valinor out of love for the Elentári’s handiwork? Never doubt that those who remained in Endórë have always been beloved by the Valar, every bit as much as those who followed their summons.”

The reprimand in her voice was clear, and Elemmírë seemed properly contrite. Ilmarë nodded in satisfaction; then she turned to Ilverin, the only one present who smiled up to her without being over-awed.

“Well, Littleheart,” she continued briskly, “are you going to sing the Aldundénië to us now, or are we supposed to wait ‘til the End of Arda?”

Ilverin grinned at her, unperturbed. “For an eternal spirit you are fairly impatient,” he countered.

But then he picked up one of the handheld harps and began to sing, and everyone, even Ivárë, listened to his voice spellbound, not even noticing when their tears began to fall.

~TBC~