Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: It is postulated in the “Coronar” series that Galenbrethil, Lindefal and Findalor had known Elrond from Gil-galad’s court in Lindon. I’ve kept that aspect, but they are fairly different characters here – still with compliments to The Tired Scribe, who had first come up with them.

The curious details about Wood-Elves are not canon; I came up with them a decade or so ago and have been using consequently every time I have to write Wood-Elves.

Elrond and Celebrían’s first “meeting” is described in my other story, “Twisted Paths of Fate”, which can be read on FF.Net.

Warning: disturbing images of fighting. (Nothing worse than what is in the Silmarillion, but still.)

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

31. Remembrance Of A Radiant Star

Needless to say that Aracáno was not satisfied by that answer, but he could do nothing about it right then. So he practiced himself in the unique Elven valour of patience and sat through the meeting between his uncle and aunt and the Town Council, respectively. A meeting that was rather long and dreary indeed. He opted to ask Celebrían afterwards, hoping that she would be more forthcoming.

Unfortunately for him, Celebrían had no further knowledge to share. She did, however, share with him her fond memories of the House of Hundred Chimneys and its Master and Mistress, and thus Aracáno decided to accept Lady Vainóni’s invitation, asking Celebrían to accompany him on his visit.

Celebrían was more than willing to do so; however, it turned out that the House would be almost empty for the next few days, most of its dwellers going to one of the northern settlements for some local feast. Aracáno was terribly disappointed, of course; so much, that Celebrían had mercy with him.

“I am going to visit some old friends in town tomorrow,” she said. “You can come with me if you want. I doubt that they would know any ancient legends, but I am certain that they have many tales from the Second Age to tell. Or are you not interested in what happened in Middle-earth after the fall of the Noldorin realms?”

“Oh, I am,” said Aracáno, “but I do not wish to become a nuisance.”

He sounded exactly like her sons when they had been very young, and Celebrían patted his arm encouragingly. “Worry not about that. I am certain that they will like you.”

Aracáno did not feel entirely certain about that – in truth, he had felt increasingly unimportant lately – but he was interested in Celebrían’s old friends as well as the tales they might be telling, and so he accepted the invitation. They left the Rowan Tree Inn right after the opulent breakfast, so that they would have enough time to spend in friendly company.

To Aracáno’s surprise, Lindefal, who, as he understood, ran the establishment for the actual proprietor, came to lead them to their destination.

“I have taken the day free,” Lindefal explained. “I have trained the others working in the inn well enough to manage without me for a short while, and we all want to spend this day with our lady.”

Aracáno, used to overlook personnel like most nobles, took a conscious look at him for the first time. Tall and slender, Lindefal had the sharp features of the Noldo, but with the more lithe build of a Sinda – and auburn hair and slightly slanted, cat-like green eyes, the likes of which Aracáno had never seen before. Lindefal caught his pondering look and smiled.

“My grandsire marched with the host of Maglor, as his personal scribe and aide,” he explained. “He married a Sinda from Hithlum. My mother was a Silvan Elf, whom Lord Maglor’s people freed from captivity. I am told I bear the mark of all my ancestors.”

“Only that your hair does not change its colour,” added Celebrían, smiling.

Lindefal gave her a look of mock affront. “You just had to rub it in my face, did you not?”

Aracáno looked from one to the other in confusion. “Change its colour?” he repeated blankly.

“Silvan Elves have a unique bond with the lands of their birth,” explained Celebrían. “They change with the changes of nature: their hair is light brown during the stirring season and spring; turn almost blond in summertime; darkens to auburn, almost read in autumn and dark brown, near black like the frozen soil in winter. However, their children of mixed origins not always inherit this trait.”

“Only those who have also inherited the ability to wield earth magic,” added Lindefal with a shrug, “which I have not.”

“Do you mind not having it?” asked Aracáno. Lindefal shrugged again.

“Not truly. I have always felt and lived as a Noldo. Besides, what good would it have done in my line of work?”

“Lindefal was born in Lindon, shortly after the War of Wrath and was trained as a scribe and a warrior at Gil-galad’s court,” supplied Celebrían. “His parents never had any part in the kinslayings and were thus readily accepted by the High King. Alas, they were both slain in our war against Sauron.”

Aracáno did not know who this Sauron might have been but found it better not to ask right now. “I am sorry,” he offered instead, and Lindefal shrugged again.

“They were not the only ones; and we can hope to be reunited, sooner or later. Let us go now. Galenbrethil and Findalor must be getting impatient.”

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

He led them to a stately, three-storey house, built of white stone, on the edge of the merchant district of Tavrobel, inside the second ring wall. The house was surrounded by other, similar ones, all belonging to various merchants and craftspeople, and like the other ones, had the shop and workroom of the owner on the ground floor.

As Galenbrethil was a healer and an herbalist, the shop had long tables and shelves, laden with a great number of salves and tinctures, either in glass bottles or clay pots. Apparently, she also made perfumes, lotions for the care of skin and hair and scented soaps. Those were offered for purchase on a different table, in bottles or – in the case of soaps – in small boxes, made of tree bark and lined with dry leaves.

The working area was arranged in the other half of the room. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the beam above the working table, where Galenbrethil made her medicines. Smaller and larger stone mortars, to pound the ingredients to powder, were lined up on a shelf. A pair of scales, with tiny copper weights, stood on the corner of the table, next to a smooth marble slate, on which she rolled her pills and laid out her lozenges to dry. In the middle of the table, upon a small brazier, some sort of concoction was brewing, and next to it several flasks, made of smoky glass, were waiting to be filled.

Galenbrethil came forth from behind the working table to greet them. She was a dark-haired Sinda, probably with some Noldorin blood in her, too, Aracáno found; tall for one from the Third Clan, but as lithe and graceful as were most of the Sindar. Her dark hair was bound back in a cloth, so that it would not fall into her concoctions by accident, and she wore the long loose apron of a healer tied over her simple, forest green gown that laced up on the back. Her face was fair and gentle, with pale grey eyes and very long, very dark lashes.

“Here you are, at least!” she exclaimed, putting down the bowl in which she had been busily stirring something. Then she turned to her apprentice, an elfling of probably thirty or forty, and smiled. “Ilvar, you know what you have to do with this tincture we are brewing, right?” she asked, and the youth nodded eagerly.

“Yes, mistress,” he rattled down a long list of previous instructions, clearly expecting to be praised for his attentiveness, and he was not disappointed.

“Very good,” said Galenbrethil. “Do you think you can finish this poultice for me on your own? Captain Carnistir will send for it shortly; some of his guards have suffered minor bruised during the last training season.”

“Oh yes, Mistress!” young Ilvar positively beamed.

“Then I shall leave it – and the fate of our brave Town Guards – in your capable hands and will tend to my guests for the rest of the morning,” Galenbrethil gave the elfling an encouraging smile, loosened her apron and hung it on a peg. She removed the cloth from around her hair, too, and pulled it around to braid it quickly and loosely. Then she smiled at her guests. “I apologize for the delay. Come with me now, Findalor is eager to meet you.”

She led them to a back door, hidden behind a curtain, and they climbed a short wooden stairway there, leading to the second floor of the house where, as she explained, they all had their rooms. Including Lindefal, who lived with them – when he did not spend the night in the Rowan Tree Inn, working, which seemed to be a frequent occasion. On the upper level were the rooms of the apprentices.

Findalor, the master of the house, was waiting for them in the parlour. He was clearly a Noldo, dark-haired and grey-eyed, but rather broadly built for someone of the Second Clan, with the heavy shoulders and strong arms of a warrior. He wore black breeches and a short-sleeved, knee-length tunic of fine dark grey wool over a pale linen shirt, girdled with a simple leather belt. His voice was deep and pleasant, his joy upon seeing Celebrían obvious.

“My lady,” he said, kissing her hand, “’tis good to see you again. It has been a very long time…”

Since he had died, Aracáno realized; this ellon was clearly a Reborn, and one who had long found his place in the changed world and was comfortable in it.

“Too long,” Celebrían agreed. “We have missed you – all three of you. We all have, but Elrond more than most. After all, only Glorfindel has been longer with him.”

“And now he no longer has you, either,” murmured Findalor. Celebrían paled at that, but he raised a hand. “We doubt not that you had your reasons; neither do we ask what those reasons were. We hope that one day you may be ready to speak about it, but that has time. Until then, we are simply happy to have you with us again. By the way,” he added, looking at Aracáno with unveiled curiosity, “who is your companion? I do not remember having met him before.”

Celebrían turned to Lindefal with a frown. “You did not tell him?”

Lindefal shook his head, grinning at her like a loon. “Nay; I thought I would let you deliver the blow.”

“How chivalrous of you!” Celebrían turned back to Findalor. “Well, then, my friend; meet Prince Aracáno Nolofinwion – the uncle of your King.”

If Findalor was shaken by that announcement – as Lindefal had clearly expected him to be – he gave no such sign. Instead, he gave the embarrassed young Prince a good, hard look… and smiled.

“You look a lot like him,” he judged, “both in features and in colouring. Only that you are taller; and you have grey eyes.”

Aracáno nodded, feeling slightly less uncomfortable.

“I was always the tallest in the family; even Atar was an inch or two shorter. And we brothers looked much alike, favouring our Ammë in looks – but our Atar in temper. At least Findecáno and Turucáno did,” he corrected himself with a crooked smile. “Whenever I tried to throw a tantrum they told me I was too young to have a temper yet. And Írissë was just as bad as them sometimes.”

Celebrían and her three friends exchanged knowing looks – and burst out in laughter as one. Aracáno stared at them, bewildered.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Findalor, mindful of the insecurities of a fellow Reborn – and one so recently rehoused at that – became serious at once again.

“Oh no, my Prince,” he reassured, “worry not about that. ‘Tis just so that, after an Age and a half, we finally understand where the tempers of our King had come from.”

“It seems he came to them honestly,” added Galenbrethil, giggling.

Aracáno felt his tension easing. “I assume my nephew was not the meekest person either, then,” he said in a questioning tone.

That led to another bout of giggles. Apparently, the others had some very vivid memories of the Scion of Kings in that area.

“Nay, he was not,” Celebrían finally replied with a smile. “He had a temper like a sea storm; awesome and vicious when raised. ‘Twas his only shortcoming in a sea of impressive traits.”

“Aran Gil-galad was a wise ruler and a great warlord, who led our people during a difficult time,” added Findalor, the respect in his voice evident. “But he could not deal well with people leaving him; understandable, I suppose, knowing his history.”

“What do you mean?” asked Aracáno with a frown.

That earned him a surprised look. Findalor furrowed his brow.

“You know nothing of this?” Suddenly, Aracáno felt ashamed by his own ignorance. It was family history, and obviously people expected him to know it.

“He died on the Grinding Ice before our ancestors would reach Middle-earth,” Celebrían came to his aid, “and the Lady Meril was not very forthcoming with details.” She turned to Aracáno. “After Aran Fingolfin had challenged Morgoth to single combat – and lost – your brother sent his wife and his son, who was still just an elfling, to Lord Círdan in the Falas, for their own safety. It was a wise move, but I doubt that a young child would have understood it.”

But Aracáno barely heard the end of the explanation.

“My Atar did what?” he exclaimed in absolute shock.

Now it was Celebrían’s turn to be surprised.

“How could they not tell him even that much?” she demanded from Findalor. “How could they release him from Lórien without telling him a thing about his family?”

Findalor shrugged. “Lord Irmo prefers his charges to learn such things from the family itself, instead of from third parties,” he turned to Aracáno, who was still stark white with shock. “Yes, my Prince, that was what your father, the High King of all Noldor in Aman, did. After the Dagor Bragollach, when the Siege of Angband was broken and his troops utterly defeated, Aran Fingolfin thought all his nephews dead, and hope fled his heart. Instead, he was filled with cold rage; such terrible rage, the legend says, that even his closest, most trusted warriors feared to look at him. In his rage, he rode out from Eithel Sirion and smote a blow on the gates of Angband, calling Morgoth forth to do battle with him and him alone.”

“He must have been insane with wrath,” whispered Aracáno. “Did Morgoth come out?”

“Oh yea, he did,” answered Findalor grimly. “He had reassumed his old fana permanently upon returning to Middle-earth: a shape of majesty and terror, dark and huge. It was a great battle, they say; your Adar fought like never before, and he appeared as far and terrible as any of the Valar. But Morgoth... Morgoth had brought forth Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld. Thrice he smote the King’s shield, and thrice did the King rise and lift up his sword again, giving the Dark Lord seven great wounds in their bitter struggle. And ever afterwards did Morgoth fear the House of Fingolfin, remembering those wounds that pained him for a long time to come.”

He paused, awed himself by that incredible feat no other Elf had ever been able to repeat, and Aracáno listened to him, wide-eyed and awestruck. He always knew his father was one of the greatest among the Eldar, but he had never dreamed of him performing such an amazing deed.

“But in the end, even the King grew tired and stumbled backwards; and Morgoth put his foot on the King’s neck, pinning him down with the weight of a falling hill,” Findalor finally continued. “Yet even then, the King did not give up. He raised his sword Ringil one last time, burying it in the heavy foot that was pinning him down; and the black blood of the Dark Lord gushed forth, filling the rifts torn by Grond during the combat.”

“It still could not save Atar, though, could it?” whispered Aracáno, tears of pride and grief trickling down his face.

Findalor shook his head. “Nay, it could not. But when Morgoth finally broke his body and tried to throw it to his wolves, Thorndor, Lord of the Eagles came, attacked him and wounded him in the face; then the Eagle took your father’s body and carried it to Gondolin, to Aran Turgon, who buried it with great honour. No evil creature ever dared to come near to that grave.”

“I still cannot imagine how Atar was able to wound Morgoth,” murmured Aracáno, drying his tears. “He was a Vala, after all!”

“True; but one who had taken on a permanent hröa, which made him vulnerable to weapons, like other incarnates,” explained Celebrían, remembering how she had once asked the same question. “Unfortunately, your father’s heroic deed only slowed down the coming of the inevitable end, and Fingon, who became High King after him, was slain in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, only a few decades later – without ever seeing his wife or his son again.”

“I am not sure Aran Gil-galad ever forgave his father that,” added Lindefal grimly, and Celebrían nodded.

“Lady Meril certainly did not,” she said. Galenbrethil shrugged.

“I cannot blame her, to be honest,” she glanced at Findalor with a wry smile. “At least you had the decency to say proper farewells before riding into a battle from which you knew you might not return.”

“And I did not return indeed,” replied Findalor soberly.

There was heavy silence lying between them for a while – then Lindefal suddenly broke into a wide grin.

“Well, at least it explains Aran Gil-galad’s fit of temper when Elrond decided to leave the court of Lindon and build his own, hidden settlement in the Misty Mountains.”

“Gil-galad was against the founding of Imladris?” asked Celebrían in surprise. “Elrond never said me anything about that.”

“Not surprising,” replied Findalor softly. “The High King was Elrond’s mentor, his lord and his friend; he would never speak ill about him. But yea, tempers were flying high in those days. It was after the destruction of Ost-in-Edhil and the horrible death of Lord Celebrimbor at Sauron’s hand…

“Wait, wait!” Aracáno interrupted him. “I know not what you are speaking of. Where was this Ost-in-Edhil, and who is Celebrimbor?”

“You would know him as Tyelperinquar, I assume,” answered Celebrían quietly. “Ost-in-Edhil was the chief city of Eregion, where he had settled with his followers.”

“What?” Aracáno became stark white again. “Tyelpe is dead? But he was barely out of childhood when we left!”

“Well, yea, he could call two millennia his own when he died,” reminded him Findalor. “Time stood not still while you were tarrying in Mandos, my Prince. Eregion, the Land of Hollies, was a beautiful place east of the Misty Mountains, near the great Dwarven city and the mines of Moria; and Ost-in-Edhil was said to have been a city of great beauty that rivalled the port towns of Lindon; although I never got to see it myself.”

“It was indeed,” said Celebrían. “I lived there with my parents for a while when I was very young. Master Aranwë was one of its metalsmiths, and Master Pengolodh, too lived there from time to time. Celebrimbor was a good lord of the city; it flourished under his leadership... ere he would make the fatal mistake of taking Annatar in.”

Findalor nodded. “So I heard. When we arrived there with troops sent by the High King to relieve the embattled city, under Elrond’s command, it was already burning, though. Our forces were too weak, and we were beaten back. Were it not for your father coming with more troops, my lady, we would have been slain, too, to the last Elf. With joint efforts, we could drive out the rearguard of Sauron’s already retreating army, but for Ost-in-Edhil – or for Celebrimbor himself – it was already too late.

“What we found among the ruins was too terrible to describe,” added Galenbrethil, her face pale and her eyes haunted by the memories. “I was a young healer, for the first time joining the troops in a battle. It has been so long ago, and I have seen so much more since then, but that is what I still see in my dreams sometimes.”

“At least you managed to get out Erestor; well, Elrond did,” said Lindefal with false brightness. “Imladris would not be the same without him.”

“Did you all live in Lindon originally?” asked Aracáno.

Lindefal nodded. “We did, but only Galenbrethil knew Elrond previously; they were trained together in the healing arts.”

“You were?” he could not tell why, but Aracáno was surprised by that. Perhaps because Galenbrethil was just a commoner, and a Sinda at that, while Elrond was of royal blood.

“We were,” she answered. “I showed the ability to channel the hröa’s own healing energies at a very youthful age, and as this is a rare ability, I was sent to the royal court to be trained by the Master Healers there.”

“She can do much more than just that,” added Findalor with almost proprietary pride. “She may appear fragile to you, but you should have seen her when she was a battle healer, setting broken bones with ease and suturing horrible wounds on many battlefields; moving among the wounded and dying to give comfort and hope in uncounted sleepless nights and long days.”

Galenbrethil blushed at the lavish praise. “You are biased, husband mine.”

“As I should be,” replied Findalor seriously. “I would have gone to Mandos a millennium earlier than I actually did without you. You saved my life after that battle, never forget it. I know I won’t.”

“It would have been a waste to let such a staunch warrior die, after all our terrible losses,” returned Galenbrethil.

“Enough of the mutual admiration, you two,” Lindefal interrupted. “We were telling Prince Aracáno about the founding of Imladris, remember?”

“And me,” said Celebrían, “as Elrond never spoke of the beginnings, and I was not yet his wife at that time.”

“One day you will have to tell us how you and Elrond first met,” said Galenbrethil. “That is one tale I have wanted to hear since your wedding; it would be a very moving one, I am fairly certain.”

Unexpectedly for all, Celebrían began to giggle. “I am not the right person to ask,” she said. “You will have to pester Elrond about it. For, you see, when we first met, I was not even born yet.”

The others gave her identical blank looks, which made her giggle some more.

“It happened during a Sea Festival in the Grey Havens, or so I am told,” she then explained, “at a time when my mother was rather heavily pregnant with me. The first time I actually remember having met Elrond was well after the Fall of Eregion.”

“Which was a terrible blow for us all,” Findalor picked up the original tale again. “Lindon remained the only strong Elven realm west of the Misty Mountains, and more survivors and refugees came into the seaside ports every day, weary and afraid and bereft of all hope. That was when Elrond came up with the idea of a new settlement; a safe haven where these people, who had lost everything, could begin their lives anew, far from the smouldering ruins that had once been their homes as well as from the ports that were even then threatened by Sauron’s increasing power.”

Aracáno nodded. It made sense to him. “And my nephew did not like it?” he asked.

Findalor glanced at Lindefal. “I think you can tell it best. You were one of the King’s scribes in those days.”

“I was,” agreed Lindefal, “and thus unwillingly the witness of their arguments. And some arguments those were! Each point Elrond made – and those points were more than justified, let me tell you – was countered by the King in steadily growing anger. Unforgivable things were said during those discussions, I am afraid.”

“But why?” Aracáno was flabbergasted. “It was a reasonable suggestion.”

“Yea, but you must understand what lay behind it,” said Lindefal. “Elrond was no longer content to live in the shadow of the High King, despite the fact that he had been named as Gil-galad’s heir…”

“… much to Gildor Inglorion’s dismay,” added Findalor with a grin.

Lindefal shook his head. “High Kingship has always been held by Fingolfin’s House. Through Turgon and Idril and Eärendil, Elrond does come from that House, despite his mixed origins. Gildor, while the grandson of Finrod does not; therefore, had there been any kingdom left after the Last Alliance, it would have gone to Elrond. That was how Aran Gil-galad had decreed; only that Elrond wanted to leave Lindon and seek out his own path, and the King did not like it.”

“But he did finally receive permission to depart and found a new city, did he not?” asked Celebrían.

Lindefal nodded. “He did; but the trust and unique closeness between him and the King was broken and would not be repaired ‘til the Last Alliance.”

“During which Gil-galad and Elendil came with their huge armies of Elves and Men to Imladris, to train and prepare there for the war,” added Findalor. “It lasted ten years, and the valley needed almost as many years to recover from it. Imladris was founded as a home, not as a military encampment.”

“I know of that part,” said Celebrían. “I was there, accompanying my Adar who went to war with King Amdír of Lothlórien and his people. He left me in Imladris for my own safety, so yea, I remember those days well. Tell me more about the beginnings though. I want to know everything about how it all started.”

“Yea; what made you follow Elrond in the first place?” supplied Aracáno.

“I fought under him at Eregion,” replied Findalor simply. “I met him for the first time in battle and saw a leader whom I would follow everywhere. One who always saw fighting as a necessary evil to gain peace. Not a warlord who would seek battle to gain personal fame.”

Celebrían nodded. That was the Elrond she knew; the one she had fallen in love with during the Last Alliance, waiting in anxiety for his return in the very home he had given up to house armies in his valley.

“What about you?” she then asked, looking at Galenbrethil. “Why did you join him?”

Galenbrethil shrugged. “He was my friend, my fellow student; and those survivors needed more than just one healer who would be burdened by leadership at the same time. The Master Healers of the court would not have followed him. He needed my help, and I gave it gladly.”

“And here I thought you just could not bear the thought of being parted from me,” said Findalor in mock disappointment, while refilling their cups. Galenbrethil rolled her eyes but refrained from an answer.

“What about you?” asked Celebrían Lindefal. “You had a good position at court; one that many envied you for. Why did you leave?”

“My family had served Lord Maglor for two generations already,” answered Lindefal seriously. “Whatever else he might have been, he was a good master of those living in his household, and my parents and grandparents loved him dearly. He had no heirs in Middle-earth, so all who had loved him, turned to Elrond after his… vanishing. Going to Imladris was my way to keep up my forefathers’ oath; besides, I liked Elrond. He remembered my grandparents, whom I never knew – it felt like family.”

Findalor gave him a knowing look. “I imagine the High King did not like your decision, either.”

“Nay,” admitted Lindefal, “but I was just one of the scribes and a moderately able warrior if needs must be; not his personal protégée.”

“And so you came to Imladris; all three of you,” said Celebrían.

Lindefal nodded. “So we did; and in the early days life in the valley was anything but lavish. Only tents had stood along the river as we were studying the site for the new settlement, seeking for the best place to build the houses. Findalor and I had been sent there in advance, together with the stonemasons, carpenters and other craftspeople who declared themselves ready to help with the raising of the city. Even some of Lord Círdan’s shipwrights had come, although they did not intend to actually stay with us, as they could not imagine a life so far away from the Sea.”

“When did all this happen?” asked Aracáno, trying to get a grasp on the timeline – it was not easy.

“It was the autumn of 1967 of the Second Age when Elrond finally arrived in the valley, with a group of warriors and their families, as well as refugees and survivors who wanted to begin a new life,” answered Galenbrethil quietly.

“1967 of the Second Age,” murmured Aracáno. “By then, I had been dead for two millennia, sitting in Mandos without knowing what was going on in the outside world. ‘Tis strange to imagine how much I have missed.”

It was hard to say anything to that; the ellith and Lindefal exchanged uncomfortable glances and avoided to look directly at him. Findalor, however, who had walked in the same shoes himself, threw a comforting arm around the young Prince’s shoulders.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I only spent four hundred years of the Sun in Mandos myself, but even in that short time, things have changed a lot. And as I was born in Middle-earth, these lands were foreign country for me.”

“He hated it here, at first,” smiled Galenbrethil ruefully. “He kept trying to sneak onboard one of the ships from Mithlond and return with them, even if it would mean to leave me behind.”

“I felt like a fish out of water,” admitted Findalor. I wanted to go back; to the places and people and things I had known in my previous life. But it does not work like that. Once one of us has set foot in the Undying Lands, we cannot turn back. The least those of us who have come through Mandos.”

“At least you were born in Aman,” said Lindefal to Aracáno. You have come back to your home of old.”

Aracáno shook his head. “I was very young when I died; most people are not even aware of the fact that Atar had a third son. No-one but my Ammë had ever missed me; and not even she truly needs me – or it would have been her to greet me at the Gates of Return, not Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen.”

“I understand that it was a decision of the Valar,” said Celebrían.

“And they must have had their reasons,” replied Aracáno bitterly. “Just as they must have had their reasons to send me to Merilindë, instead of letting me go to my mother… or to stay with Uncle in Tirion.”

“I imagine they thought that courtly life would be too much both for you and for Elenwë,” argued Celebrían. “I know it would be too much for me. In Lady Meril’s house, the three of us will have the time to become familiar with each other – and with life here.”

“And then what?” asked Aracáno bluntly. “Elenwë can wait for the release of Turucáno. You can wait for your family to follow you. But what am I supposed to do? There is no need for younger princes in Aman anywhere. That is why I joined the revolt in the first place – for all the good that it did for me.”

“You can always learn a trade and go into business,” said Findalor, grinning. “That is what I have done, shortly after my release.”

“I thought you were a member of the Town Council,” said Celebrían.

Findalor nodded. “That I am. But you cannot live from that, and while I am in charge of the town’s defences, Tavrobel does not truly need a warlord or anything like that. So I had to give up being a warrior and had to learn an honest trade.”

“Let me guess,” Aracáno gave the heavy shoulders, strong arms and broad chest of their host a calculating look. “You are a smith or a stonemason.”

Findalor laughed. “Nay, I am not. Actually, I am a glass blower. I make all the flasks for my wife’s medicines, and simple drinking vessels for the people in town. They do not have the beautiful and fragile shapes the master craftsmen of Imladris produced,” he added with twinkling eyes, and Celebrían had to laugh, too, for it was hard to imagine him doing such delicate work indeed, “but my wares are solid enough, and the townspeople seem to like them.”

Aracáno shook his head. “I cannot imagine myself as a craftsman; I do not have the skills. Turucáno was a truly gifted metalsmith, and Findaráto could carve stone like few others, but Fin and me, we always were useless when it came to such things. That is why we were trained as warriors. We were good at that – not that it would help me on the Ice.”

“Well, ‘tis too early for you to decide what you want to do with your new life just yet,” said Findalor. “You have barely left Lórien. Give it time; you will find your way, never fear.”

Aracáno was not so sure about that, but the reassurance of the older, more experienced Reborn calmed him down a little. He decided that he liked Celebrían’s friends. They were understanding, they did not expect him to behave as he had earlier, since they had not known him in his first life, and they were a lot of fun.

If he thought about it, he liked Celebrían a great deal, too. She might be Artanis’ daughter, but she refreshingly lacked the haughtiness of her mother. She was… nice, and she clearly missed her family. That was something Aracáno could understand all too well.

“Tell me more about Imladris,” he said. “And about the Last Alliance. Was it then that you fell in love with Elrond?”

“Nay,” replied Celebrían, surprised by the ease with which she could actually speak about those days. “It happened ten years later; when he returned from the war and began to rebuild his ravaged home. He was grieving and bereft, and yet he did not give in to despair; nor did he flee to the West as so many others would. He returned home and began everything anew, and I knew then that I wanted to help him with that. And I wanted to help him heal.”

“Of course, Elrond had already been in love with her for yéni,” added Galenbrethil, grinning, ”but he had been too shy to speak of his feelings. Celebrían had to corner him and practically force him to confess his love.”

“With Artanis as his future mother-in-law?” Aracáno wiggled his eyebrows. “I am not surprised. She could make warrior Maiar quake in their boots; and I cannot imagine her to be happy about Elrond’s mortal blood.”

“She was not,” admitted Celebrían, “but my Adar led armies with Elrond and valued him greatly, and so I had, at least, his support. It was not the deciding factor, though. I would have stowed away with Elrond if I had to, even if it meant that my parents would never speak with me again. It was my choice, not theirs.”

For a moment, there was a steely glint in her eyes that reminded Aracáno eerily of her mother. She might be of a much gentler nature than Artanis, but she was by no means weak.

“In the end, it was their love for each other that won even the Lady Galadriel over,” said Galenbrethil, who had been witness of their courtship, smiling. “All could see how devoted they were to each other; soul-bound, even before they would consummate their bond. And for the first time since I had known him, Elrond was finally truly happy.

“And we were happy for him,” added Lindefal. “He had a harsh enough life in his youth; he deserved happiness.”

“If anyone did, it was him,” agreed Findalor; then he rose from his seat. “Well, we have pondered over the past long enough. Do you want to see the rest of the house now? We have put much work into it and like to show off the results.”

The guests laughed and agreed to the tour, while Galenbrethil went back to her workshop to look after things and Lindefal retreated to the kitchens to prepare the noon meal. He was the best cook of the three of them, and they wanted to treat their guests properly.

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

In the meantime Arafinwë and his Queen had finished their second day of negotiations with the Town Council and were returning to the Rowan Tree Inn. This time it had been about disputed fishing rights in the Bay of Eldamar, thus Elulindo had also participated, since Eärwen, being the Noldotári, could no longer speak for her father. Thanks to his long friendship with many in the Town Council, matters had been settled to everyone’s satisfaction, and now he was returning to the inn with them.

“Where are our younglings today?” he asked, when they reached their chambers and found no sign of Celebrían and Aracáno.

“Visiting Celebrían’s old friends in town,” replied Eärwen. “If I have understood correctly, they had lived in her household for many yéni but have Sailed a long time ago. She seemed glad to meet them again.”

“She is coming around nicely,” said Arafinwë. “Better than we expected, in fact. And Lord Irmo seems to believe that she and Elenwë will be good for each other. I hope he is right. Elenwë will be under a lot of pressure as Turucáno’s Queen, I fear. It may become too much for her.”

“She is stronger than you give her credit for,” said Eärwen. “I am more concerned about Aracáno, to be honest. At least Elenwë has a purpose; ands he has some of her descendants within reach, too. Aracáno is more or less alone. I find it strange that Lord Irmo would not tell Anairë of his return. Poor dear has been grieving for her loved ones since the Darkening…”

“That is the very core of the problem with Anairë,” a familiar voice said, and Nornorë shimmered into corporeal existence near them. “She has grown too comfortable in her grief. She has found her identity as the dowager Queen of the Exiles and the mother of dead heroes, and she enjoys the role, whether she is willing to admit or not. Aracáno has no place in those settings; being dismissed as unimportant by his own mother would negate the very reason of his rebirth.”

“And what reason, pray tell, would that be?” asked Elulindo with marked sarcasm.

“To begin a new life, one not lived under the shadow of his brothers,” answered the Maia. “Lord Námo’s foresight revealed that it would be a life on Tol Eressëa, but not even he can tell what kind of life it might be. Therefore the best thing we can do is to keep him here, separated from Anairë.”

“’Tis a dangerous game your Masters are playing,” warned Arafinwë. “We cannot keep them apart forever; he has already asked for his mother, several times.”

“And yet this is what we must do, at least for the time being,” replied Nornorë. “’Tis fortunate that Aracáno was so young when he died; he is more inclined to listen to you than his brothers, who had been Kings in their own right, would do.”

“I do not like manipulating him, no matter how noble the reason may be,” said the Noldóran with an unhappy scowl.

“We are not manipulating him,” said the Maia patiently. “We are protecting him from being hurt at a time when he is still emotionally vulnerable.”

“That is one way to put it,” Muttered Arafinwë, unconvinced.

Nornorë gave him a sharp look. “You no longer trust our Master, child?”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as the King’s fair face darkened in fury.

“Stop calling me that!” he hissed. “I have worked for three Ages of the Sun to heal the wound caused by Fëanáro’s madness; do you think you could be a little less condescending towards me by you, all of you? That I would deserve some straight answers, at the least, when Lord Námo still refuses to give me back my own sons?”

Eärwen, shocked by her husband’s violent reaction, laid a soothing hand upon his arm. “Ara, calm down. I am sure Lord Námo has his reasons.”

“Then perhaps he should consider the courtesy of sharing them with me,” Arafinwë shook off her hand and stormed out of the room.

Elulindo gave the Maia a wry look. “He does have a point, you know. If you, Powers, were just a little more forthcoming with answers, much grief could have been prevented in the past – or would be prevented in the future.”

“’Tis not that simple,” replied the Maia. “You of all people should know that we often do not have the answers you often expect to hear.”

“Then you should be honest about that, at the very least,” said Elulindo sharply. “Right now, Arafinwë cannot understand why he must still be bereft of all his children. He may have resigned to their loss Ages ago, but the arrival of Artanis’ daughter has torn the old wounds open again. And now Elenwë and Aracáno are reborn, but none of his own sons have been released – he is understandably hurt and disappointed. More so if one considers Findaráto’s deeds and sacrifices. If any, he would have deserved to be released by now.”

“The time of one’s rehousing has little to do with their previous deeds, and you know that,” returned the Maia. “They must heal ere they can be released; and they must be willing to return to Life. It takes as long as it takes. No-one can be rehoused ere they would be ready.”

“And as always, that is the only answer you would give us,” answered Elulindo coldly. “I think you should go now and leave it to us and our limited understanding to comfort our own. Leave us. Now.”

After a moment of hesitation Nornorë faded away, thinking himself back to Kortirion to consult Erunyauvë. It seemed that Merilindë was not the only one still in need of a great deal of healing.

~TBC~