Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: We don’t actually know anything about Celebrimbor’s mother. In my unfinished story “The Sins of the Father” I made her a Vanya because… well, because I could, frankly. I also gave her a daughter, who would be younger than Celebrimbor.

Eldamas, the place where the Elves serving the Valar live belongs to Fiondil. I accidentally borrowed it, believing that it was a canon name. *g*

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

32. Once Again in the House of the Hundred Chimneys

The next couple of days were marked by unmistakable tension from the Noldóran’s side, and Eärwen, too, seemed troubled – even a little unhappy. That appeared to make Aracáno uncertain beyond the level Reborn usually were; perhaps a bit frightened, too. So Celebrían took him under her wings.

Fortunately, Galenbrethil and Findalor had taken a liking to the young Prince and gone out of their way to make him feel welcome. Thus he and Celebrían spent most of the day in their house, watching them during work and talking about whatever happened to come to their mind.

Celebrían, who had picked up some basic skills during her marriage with Elrond – who was, after all, the most skilled healer east of the Sea – even helped Galenbrethil and young Ilvar (who turned out to be not only Galenbrethil’s apprentice but also her son) making simple medicines. Her skilled fingers proved very useful at rolling pills, and the smell of the herbs in the workshop made her feel like at home. She kept expecting Elrond to come through the door and check on their work.

Aracáno was fascinated by the art of glass blowing. He even gave it a try, but all his efforts earned him were several minor yet painful burns. Apparently, he was clumsy with such delicate skills indeed. Galenbrethil dressed his burns and tsk-tsked over them, reproving her husband for letting the Prince injure himself. Aracáno, of course, felt honour-bound to defend Findalor, pointing out that it was his own fault, but Galenbrethil was not so easy to persuade about that.

All in all, he had a good time, and after the third day, they agreed to drop the titles and call him simply by his name. He even asked what it would sound like in Sindarin, since that was the language they all spoke; even though they understood Quenya and Celebrían even spoke it with some efficiency. He decided, though, that Argon was not the name by which he would like to be known, declaring that it sounded stupid.

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

Time seemed to go by swiftly in such delightful company, and they were both surprised when one day Lindefal told them that the festival in the northern settlement had ended and Lord Gilfanon and his household had returned to the House of the Hundred Chimneys.

“Lady Vainóni sent word that you are welcome to visit any evening you want,” he said; then, turning to the Noldóran, he added. “And Lord Gilfanon expressed his hope that he would be able to see you in his house ere you would leave for Aman again, your Majesty. You have not paid them a visit for several yéni.”

“He is right, beloved,” commented Eärwen softly. “If there has ever been a long-overdue visit, this is it. Lord Gilfanon has always been a good friend of your House; you owe him a little courtesy, even if you are the King.”

“He was a friend of Atar’s, not mine,” muttered Arafinwë.

Eärwen sighed and kissed him on the cheek. “And seeing him always brings back painful memories, I know, but that is not his fault. You cannot keep ignoring him because you are still hurt; it is rude, and it is not right.”

Arafinwë sighed in defeat, knowing that his wife was right.

“What would I ever do without you?” he asked, only in half-jest, for Eärwen had been his rock in the storm for three Ages of the Sun – and even before, when the Trees had still been alive and he had to act as a mediator between his father and his two strong-willed, temperamental brothers.

“Why, you would be completely lost, of course,” replied Eärwen with a straight face, and everyone burst out in laughter.

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

And so the time of a royal visit in the House of Hundred Chimneys was negotiated with the help of the ever-efficient Lindefal, and two days later Arafinwë, Eärwen, Elulindo, Celebrían and Aracáno were ready to go. It had been decided that they would ride; the House was but a few miles outside the town itself, on the other side of the Bridge, but they did not want to arrive dishevelled and covered with the dust of the road.

Besides, being royalty meant certain expectations towards their persons, as Eärwen pointed out, giving her brother – who had been against a trip on horseback – a quelling look.

“I am sure that you can still handle the horrors of a saddle, háno,” she said drily. “’Tis not something one would easily forget.”

Elulindo grinned. It was not so that he could not handle a horse – he was an Elf, after all, and an ancient one with awesome powers at that – he simply preferred to walk. And as he rarely had to act in his capacity as haryon to the Lindaran, for their brother Vailimo usually stood in for him, he did not have much hang to ceremony and pomp, either.

“Besides,” Arafinwë intervened smoothly to prevent an endless banter promised by the twinkling eyes of the siblings, which, according to previous experience, would have delayed them beyond help, “Aracáno needs to practice his riding skills. After several Ages in Mandos, I am sure it is necessary.”

They all laughed, and so the horses were brought forth and the royal party mounted, accompanied by only two guards, more as a symbol of their position than out of true necessity. The Noldóran, his Queen and Aracáno were all dressed formally, in tunics and robes of heavy, royal blue silk or velvet, embroidered and girdled with gold. Elulindo wore white, in Telerin fashion, also richly embroidered with silver and pearls.

Celebrían, however, was clad in the fashion of Lothlórien. Her soft grey raiment had no other ornament but a girdle of interlinked leaves, wrought in silver. Her hair, plaited and coiled on the nape of her neck, was bound in a cap of silver lace, netted with small, glittering white gems, shaped like tiny stars.

“I am a Sinda,” she replied with a shrug when Eärwen gently criticized the plainness of her clothing. “We do not have the hang to pomp.”

“You are the daughter of a Noldorin princess, though, and if memory serves me well, your mother was quite good at keeping up appearances,” said Eärwen.

Celebrían shrugged again. “That might have been so in Aman. But back home, neither of us counted as royalty, and ‘tis good so, as far as I am concerned. I take after my father, both in looks and tastes. If that embarrasses you, Daernana, I am truly sorry, but this is who I am, and I do not intend to change into someone else – someone Elrond may not even recognize when he follows me one day.”

If Eärwen was hurt by the rejection – and she might have been, as she had been already planning to completely renew her granddaughter’s wardrobe – she gave no sign of it. She could not force Celebrían to change her fashion sense, after all. She might be her granddaughter, but she was by no means a child, having been the mistress of her own house and the Lady of Imladris for nearly three millennia.

Arafinwë gave his wife a sympathetic smile. It was not an easy thing to deal with previously unknown grandchildren who came with a life of their own and three thousand years of experience, instead of as small elflings. Eärwen had always liked to fuss over their offspring, and now that they were all grown – and most of them gone – she very obviously missed it.

Well, perhaps Aracáno would not mean being fussed over a little, the Noldóran thought. He looked like someone in serious need of reassurance.

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

They crossed the Bridge of Tavrobel more than an hour before sunset, and then turned away from the main road to take a lane on the right. It had deep banks and great overhanging hedges, and under those they rode for a while, listening to the perpetual whisper that seemed to live among the tall trees beyond the hedges. ‘Twas a conversation between the leaves and the wind, and the unseen birds in the tree-branches; but the soundless laughter of the Súruli that had fascinated Celebrían so much during her first visit was now absent.

After a mile or two, the lane led them up to the now-familiar great gate cut into the high hedge of withered grey stone. And before the gate, Lindo and his Silvan wife, Vairë, were waiting for them, now clad in the usual sombre colours preferred by the Tol Eressëans save for festivals.

Seeing the approach of the royal party, they both bowed deeply, but again it was Vairë who spoke the words of welcome, speaking in Quenya as a courtesy to the Amanians, in her soft, pleasant voice:

“Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo, Your Majesties; Lady Celebrían. Welcome to the House of Hundred Chimneys. Enter and be merry.”

While the Noldóran returned the greetings with the proper words, Aracáno watched in amazement as Lindo opened the gate with a light touch. Behind it, the House came in sight, low and huge, spreading over the whole hilltop like a small colony of its own. The once white stone, of which it had been built, was now grey and weather-worn from its extremely high age, yet still fair and venerable. Aracáno stared in open-mouthed awe at its seven high gables, high, red-tiled roof, and small balconies. He could see that the trees that grew around it inside the hedge – beeches and oaks, and even the odd holly tree – were high and strong and very old, too.

“’Tis huge!” he finally exclaimed. “And so very different from the many-spired palaces of Tirion! Well, as far as I can remember,” he added with a grimace.

Arafinwë nodded. “Different indeed; for it serves a different purpose. I have never seen another house quite like this, either.”

“But I have,” said Celebrían with a wistful smile. “This is what the Last Homely House east of the Sea, our home in Imladris, used to look like in the Second Age, a few yéni after it had been built. ‘Tis quite different now, of course; Imladris is no longer a fortress, and tastes have changed a lot in the recent Age, but it does bring back memories.”

“Good ones?” asked Aracáno softly, and Celebrían nodded.

“Oh, yes, very good ones. ‘Twas my home, after all; and I was very happy there.”

“Why did you leave it then?” asked Aracáno innocently.

Eärwen shot him a quelling look, but he just stared back at her in confusion. Only when Celebrían went stark white, the impact of her loss hitting again full force, did he realize hat he had asked something that should better have been left alone, and his face crumpled in misery.

“I am sorry,” he whimpered, tears of distress swimming in his eyes. “I was rude, and now you will hate me! Please, I did not mean to hurt you, honestly!”

Celebrían’s heart went out to him. It was not his fault, and how could she be angry with an innocent child in a grown ellon’s hröa? With a conscious act of will, she overcame her terror of being touched by a male and took him into a motherly embrace.

“Sssh, do not cry,” she murmured gently. “I do not hate you; why ever should I? You cannot know what happened, and I shall not tell you, not yet. ‘Tis enough for you to know that I came here in a great need of healing that I could not find anywhere else. Now, dry those tears and calm down.”

Aracáno wiped his eyes and his nose with the piece of fine linen Eärwen gave him with a stern expression, and then he looked at Celebrían helpfully.

“Are we still friends?”

“Of course we are,” replied Celebrían, relieved to be able to let go of him; holding him took a great effort, and she was not sure how long she could have endured it. “One does not break a friendship for an honest mistake.”

“One does not?” Aracáno was still not entirely sure that he had been forgiven.

“Of course not,” answered Celebrían reassuringly. “Come now; we should not make the Master of the House wait.”

“Nay indeed,” said Vairë. “We have just finished the evening meal, and the singing and storytelling is about to begin. Your arrival was well-timed.”

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

She and Lindo led the guests on the stone-paved path under the trees to the House, going straight to the Great Hall that Celebrían had first visited shortly upon her arrival to Tol Eressëa. The wide room, with its high ceiling and the three great fires burning upon low hearths made of smoky stone – one at the far end and one on either side of the middle of the hall – was as she remembered it: warm and welcoming.

But the trestle tables had already been dismantled and the seats rearranged, so that members of the household and guests were sitting in two great half-circles, consisting of several rows, facing the empty place between the two hearths in the middle, which was clearly the stage where the minstrels would perform. No candles were burning this time, save for those in the sticks fastened to the wall, on either side of the main door, and all was in a warm gloom. The colourful jewels worn in the hair and upon the breasts of everyone were glittering in the firelight like Lady Varda’s stars.

Opposite the main door, near the central fires, a number of seats had been arranged for the Master of the House and his most respected guests. Some of those were empty, clearly meant for the Noldóran and his family, others were already occupied. Among the guests Celebrían could find many familiar faces, notably Ivárë and Elemmírë, Master Pengolodh, Aranwë and Legolas, who gave her a broad smile.

Others, though clearly people of some importance, were unknown to her. One in particular, a tall, willowy elleth, clearly a Noldo by her stunning features, was sitting on Lady Vainóni’s left. The two had more than a passing similarity, which could only mean that they were related somehow, with the marked difference that the wide eyes of the stranger were black like the night – not unheard of in some very old families among the Noldor, but not a frequent trait, either. Said eyes were framed by long, silky lashes and shadowed by elegant black eyebrows, thin as if painted with a fine brush on silk and arched like the wings of a bird.

The elleth’s face, framed by slightly wavy, ink-black hair that she wore unbraided, save for a few delicate plaits woven into a network with small gems, seemed almost red in the firelight, although it was, in truth, quite pale. She was wearing a deep burgundy gown of heavy, figured silk over a pale gold undertunic. The gown had a wide-cut, round neckline, seamed with the same meandering pattern in gold thread and small topazes as the seam and the long, trailing sleeves that were slit to the elbow, revealing the tight sleeves of the undertunic, and were held together above the elbow by a border of the same pattern again.

It was an unusual design that Celebrían had never seen before. Not in Aman and not back in Middle-earth, either, although it would have been greatly admired in Gil-galad’s court.  Perhaps the elleth was an artisan who designed her own clothes. The pendant of golden filigree and topazes that she wore around her neck was of very unique design, too.

On her left side a tall ellon sat, wearing a sleeveless robe over a knee-length tunic, both made of dark purple, almost black brocade, interwoven with the finest gold thread. His dark hair, arranged into an intricate pattern of braids, gleamed red in the firelight, and his features seemed vaguely familiar to Celebrían, although she was quite sure that she had never met him.

She understood the reason when she spotted the eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanor emblazoned upon the breast of his tunic; he had a vague similarity with Celebrimbor, even though his bearing clearly marked him as a seasoned warrior.

Aracáno was also staring at the ellon in open-mouthed shock. However, in his case, the shock was clearly born of recognition.

“Macalaurë!” he exclaimed. “When did you return?”

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

Celebrían was equally shocked by his outburst. This was Maglor, the greatest minstrel of the Eldar, save for Daeron of Doriath? The one who had defended the most vulnerable area of all Noldorin realms in exile, the one named Maglor’s Gap after him, until the Dagor Bragollach? The repentant son of Fëanor who had saved Elrond and Elros after the sack of the Havens of Sirion and fostered them, loving them as if they had been his own?

Elrond had often spoken of his foster father in fondness and sorrow. How, after the Great Battle, Maglor had tried to repudiate that terrible Oath of theirs. How Maedhros had persuaded him to steal the Silmarils nonetheless, slaying Eönwë’s Vanyarin guards in the process. How he had been burned by the hallowed Jewel, his deeds having made him unable to bear its touch. How he had thrown it into the Sea and wandered off, singing in pain and regret…

Speaking of which, was he not supposed to be still roaming Middle-earth, alone and unrecognized? And how could have the horrible events of his life marked him so little?

The ellon looked up in surprise at Aracáno’s outburst, and then he smiled ruefully.

“Nay, not truly,” he said. “I fear you have mistaken me for my father; many due at first sight.”

“Your father?” repeated Aracáno, frowning. The ellon nodded.

“I am Morwinyon Canafinwion, currently the head of the House of Fëanor – or what is left of it, which is not much,” he explained; then with a respectful nod towards the elleth on his right, he added. “This is my mother, the Lady Helyanwë – but I assume you know her already.”

Aracáno shook his head. “Only from hearsay; we never actually met. By the time your parents wed, our respective Houses were no longer exactly friendly to each other.”

“A fact that I deeply regret,” said Lady Helyanwë; her voice was deep and soft like that of a dove. “Tis my hope that we may redeem the mistakes of the past one day.”

Watching her son with open curiosity, Celebrían now could see that it had not been the firelight only that gave Morwinyon’s hair a reddish gleam. He was a genuine redhead, although darker than most; which was not surprising, considering that his granddam and three of his uncles had red hair; and so had Celebrimbor, for that matter. The nickname fiery smith had not meant his gift at the forge or his tempers alone. But Celebrimbor had inherited the blue eyes of his Vanyarin mother, tinted with the more common grey of the Fëanorians, while Morwinyon’s eyes were black like those of the Lady Helyanwë.

And he had been named for the brightest star of the heavens, apparently. A strange name for a Fëanorian; as a rule, they all had Finwë as part of their names. But perhaps Morwinyon had chosen to use his mother-name – more so if Maglor had felt it necessary to burden his firstborn with his own name.

As Aracáno was still too shocked for coherent speech, it was Arafinwë who took it upon himself to explain things.

“Morwinyon was born while you were trudging across the Ice,” he said. “None of those who had left for the Outer Lands have learned of him, although he marched with us to the War of Wrath and fought valiantly to the end. With all other males of his House dead and his atar still missing, the responsibility of the House of Fëanor was laid upon his shoulders, even though all the House can count right now are four ellith and himself.”

“Four?” Aracáno frowned again. “There is Lady Nerdanel, and Lady Helyanwë… but who are the other two?”

“The mother of Tyelpë and his sister,” replied Morwinyon. “They were shunned by their Vanyarin kin, thus they came to live in Formenos with us.”

“Formenos?” exclaimed Aracáno. “Why would you wish to live in that dank hole where the first blood in Aman had been spilled?”

“For a long time we did not have any other choice,” said Lady Helyanwë drily. “We were blamed for the Revolt, even for the Kinslaying. At least in Formenos we were safe.”

“You were threatened by your own kin?” asked Aracáno in stunned disbelief.

“Our husbands and fathers had murdered their own kin at Alqualondë,” pointed out the lady grimly. “Those were terrible times, and people needed someone to blame.”

“More so as the Kinslayers themselves had fled, leaving it to the rest of us to pick up the pieces,” commented Ivárë acerbically; as one who had befriended the shoreline pipers early on, he tended to take their side in such debates.

Lady Helyanwë paled and stiffened in her chair, and Elemmírë elbowed her bondmate sharply in the ribs. Lady Vainóni rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Vanyar!

“As Lady Helyanwë said, those were hard times for everyone,” intervened the Noldóran in a no-nonsense manner. “Trying to point a finger at one person or another leads to nowhere – even less so after three whole Ages, when the one ultimately responsible is still out of reach and shall remain so for a very long time yet. These are not the kind of tales we were hoping to hear tonight.”

Ivárë stood and bowed. “Forgive me, your Majesty.”

“’Tis not I whom you should ask for forgiveness,” said Arafinwë coldly, but Lady Helyanwë waved off his concerns.

“Leave it, my Lord King. I am used to such comments; and while Master Ivárë may have been rude, he was not entirely in the wrong. My husband and his brothers are guilty of Kinslaying, several times over. The blood of the innocents they had slaughtered left a taint on our entire life. No matter how long a time has gone by since those events, we are still not welcome in many paces in Aman.”

“Would they reject me, too, because Fin had helped Maitimo and the others at Alqualondë?” asked Aracáno, clearly distraught by that possibility.

Eärwen patted his arm reassuringly. “Not if I have something to say about it,” she declared forcibly.

“Or I,” Elulindo added, while staring daggers at the Vanya minstrel.

“Can we stop this nonsense now?” asked Eärwen. “As my lord husband has rightly said, these are not the kind of tales we would wish to hear today.”

The Master of the House, who had been listening to the debate with detached patience, smiled at her. “What kind of tales would you like to hear then, my Lady Queen?”

“I believe we should leave the choice to my nephew,” replied Eärwen. “He has only recently been returned to us and had missed so much.”

“That would be only just,” Lord Gilfanon agreed. “Well, Prince Aracáno, the choice is yours. What would be your pleasure?”

Aracáno thought about that for a moment. There were so many things he would have liked to know, at first he could not even decide which one to ask for to begin with.

“I would like to hear how the Sun and the Moon came into being,” he then said. “I lived my first life in the Light of the Trees and died in darkness on the Ice. I want to know where the new lights have come from.”

“That is certainly a tale worth telling,” nodded the Master of the House in agreement. “But where are we to find the right one to tell it, I wonder?”

“Perhaps…” began Aracáno hesitantly, “perhaps Lord Morwinyon would do the honours. After all, is he not Macalaurë’s son?”

To his surprise, Morwinyon began to laugh so hard that he nearly fell out of his seat.

“Oh, trust me, you would not wish to be subjected to my singing,” he said. “I have a voice like a frog and could not carry a tune in a basked before me if my life depended on it.”

Celebrían shook her head in disbelief.

“I seriously doubt that that would be true for any Elf I have ever met,” she said. “I can imagine it even less about you.”

“Why?” asked Morwinyon. “Just because my atar was a minstrel? I assume you, Lady Celebrían, that for an Elf, I am a terrible singer. Even some of the mortals fighting with us in the War of Wrath put their fingers in their ears when I joined my battalion’s battle song. Some even said that I could defeat Morgoth with my singing alone.”

“What do you do then when there is no war to fight?” asked Celebrían.

Morwinyon shrugged. “I am a metalsmith. Sure, I cannot compare myself with Anatar or with Uncle Curufinwë, but I was taught by Mahtan himself, and by his son Tulkastor, and they say I am a decent enough craftsman. So, if you need a piece of jewellery that does not do anything beyond looking pretty, I am your Elf.”

“He does nice work,” said Lady Helyanwë, touching her beautiful pendant. “He made this for me when he won his master’s title.”

Celebrían nodded, impressed. If the pendant was any indication, Morwinyon was much more than just decent in his craft. Not as gifted as Celebrimbor, perhaps, but that was probably better so. That way he was in no danger to become overwhelmed by his own creation one day.

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

Aracáno, in the meantime, was despairing of his chance to hear the tale of the Sun and the Moon, for it seemed that there was no minstrel present who could have told it correctly. Seeing his dejected expression, Lord Gilfanon had mercy with him and bade the others to take their seats and fall silent.

“For while we do not have minstrels among us tonight, save for Ivárë, who is not fond of this particular lay, his heart mourning the loss of the Trees even after all those Ages, we do have here someone who had learned the tale directly from Lady Varda’s handmaids,” he said. “Let therefore Lindo raise up his voice and tell us yet more of the splendour of the Valar and their work – a theme that never wearies him.”

Celebrían, Aracáno, and indeed a great many other guests who had not known him of old, looked at the doorward of the House of the Hundred Chimneys in surprise and amazement. For Lindo was a very modest Elf, blending with his surroundings so well that most forgot about his presence in no time. Not many knew that during the entire First Age he had lived in Eldamas, serving Lady Varda.

Now, however, he rose from his place, where he had been sitting on a low bench among the other members of Lord Gilfanon’s household, and walked to the centre of the hall. There stood a deep chair with craven arms and feet: the Storyteller’s Chair, the same one that had been used during the Feast of Double Mirth in Legolas’ open Hall of Tales.

Lindo now made himself comfortable in the Chair and looked around with a smile.

“I shall then tell the tale of the Sun and Moon and of the Stars, so that young Prince Aracáno may hearken to his desire,” he said. “A tale of the time after the flight of the Noldoli, when they were but newly fled, and when there was still darkness and confusion in Aman.”

In that very moment the Great Gong could be heard to sound far off in the House with a deep, rolling noise, signalling the beginning of the night. Soon thereafter Ilverin came in, grinning merrily, and took his place among the others. The Master of the House turned to his doorward with an indulgent smile.

“Speak on, my Lindo,” he said, “yet lengthen not the tale for ever.”

“Oh, but I would not mind to hearken to Master Lindo’s tale, however long it may take,” said Aracáno eagerly.

Lord Gilfanon laughed. “That may be so, my Prince, but we only have this one night for it.”

The others laughed, too, and made themselves comfortable. Everyone knew that while Lindo’s tales tended to last, they were well worth the waiting-

~TBC~