Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Just a little reminder: Morwinyon is an OC. His mother, however, is not, even though the Professor never cared to tell us her name.

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36. Morwinyon & the Sins of the Fathers

Celebrían half-expected to be fatigued after such a long night; she still tired easily, not having completely recovered from her ordeal yet. To her surprise, though, she fell invigorated in the morning, more so than she ever had since her captivity.

“’Tis the healing power of limpë,” said Lady Helyanwë, with whom she found herself sitting at the breakfast table, smiling “It not only opens your heart for song and music; it also rejuvenates your fëa. Alas that its effect fades with time,” she added with a sigh.

“But surely you need no such draughts in Aman,” said Celebrían. “Hallowed by the presence of the Powers, merely dwelling there has always given our people great strength.”

“That might have been so for the older generations,” replied Lady Helyanwë with a shrug, “but it has been my experience that we – the ones of my own age – do not differ all that much from our cousins in Endórë; no matter what certain Vanyar would like to make you believe.”

Celebrían found that statement fairly stunning. “I was told that those who dwell in the Blessed Realm do not weary of Arda the way the ones remaining behind in Middle-earth inevitably do after a long while.”

“That may be so; and many of those who were born before the Darkening can indeed resist the pull of fading, even if they had lived since the Awakening,” answered Helyanwë. “However, those who lived in the twilight of Endórë, before the rising of the Sun and the Moon, have grown strong on their own, without the help and the protection of the Valar; and that is a strength that will never betray you.”

“Have the Valar ever betrayed you?” asked Celebrían quietly. For her, the idea did not sound quite as blasphemous as it would for an Amanian Elf.

“In a matter, they have,” replied Helyanwë. “They have summoned our people to Aman with the promise of safety. Safety from Melkor and all his fell creatures. A safety that they failed to deliver. Or do you believe that nine out of ten Noldor followed Fëanáro because they would care for his Silmarils? Nay; they followed them because they understood how dependant from the Valar they had become, and that it had not, could not keep them safe, in the end.”

Celebrían fell silent while sipping her tea, for there was undeniable truth in Helyanwë’s words. She thought of her mother, the formidable, beautiful, strong-willed and yet oh so bitter warrior princess of the Noldor; and then of her father, the Lord of the Trees, calm, soft-spoken and yet powerful in a way Galadriel could never be. Because his strength came from his unique bond with the lands of his birth; from the spirit of the trees and the blessing of the waters.

Celeborn was at home in Middle-earth, which was why he never lost hope, regardless what else he had already lost: everything and everyone he had known in his youth. Galadriel, however, no matter what strength and knowledge she might have brought with her from Aman, would always remain a guest.

Just as like the mellyrn of the Golden Wood would cease to grow and blossom without the power of her Ring. For like her, they were not of Middle-earth and will always be alien to those lands.

“Where comes your strength, lady?” she then asked. “What gave you the strength to endure the shunning of your own kin? What little you told us was enough to understand that those could not have been easy times for you, after your husband and his brothers had left.”

“Please, there is no need for honorifics between us,” Maglor’s wife smiled gently. “Helyanwë will do just fine; we are family, after all – are we not?”

“In more ways than you might believe,” Celebrían returned her smile. “Very well, then. What gave you the strength to hold out after his departure, Helyanwë?”

“The hope that one day he will return,” answered Helyanwë simply. “That is a hope to which I am still holding on.”

“You are willing to take him back, even after those Ages, despite that he has left you behind?” asked Celebrían, remembering Meril’s bitter jibes against Fingon.

Helyanwë nodded. “Oh, he begged me to go with him; and I was tempted. But I did not have the courage of Merilindë and Elenwë. I did not want to drag my only child, young and precious to my heart as he was, into unknown dangers.”

“And he did not insist to take his son?” Celebrían’s respect for Maglor went up another notch. “I know that Curufin all but abducted Celebrimbor, despite the protests and the tears of his wife.”

“Macalaurë was nothing like his brother!” Helyanwë scowled a little at that. “He would never take our son from me. He understood that I feared his atar’s madness – I always had, long before the Darkening – and would not force such a decision upon me; to choose between him or the safety of our son was hard enough.”

“You loved him very much,” said Celebrían in understanding.

“I still do,” replied Helyanwë with a resigned smile that was full of very old pain. “How could I not? When I first looked in those luminous eyes of his, when I first heard his voice, low and sweet like that of a dove, I was lost forever.”

“Odd; Atar always said it was Uncle Fëanáro who wanted this marriage very much, because you were related to his ammë,” commented Aracáno, who had just joined them at the breakfast table to snatch some of the apple-filled leaf cakes – a delicacy Celebrían remembered fondly from her first visit – and grinned unrepentantly when Helyanwë rolled her eyes.

“You are related to Míriel Serindë?” asked Celebrían in surprise.

She could not remember anyone having ever mentioned the family of Fëanor’s first, ill-fated wife. Probably because everybody she personally knew descended from Indis, the second one. Everybody save Celebrimbor, that is, but he had died when she was still a very young elleth.

“Only very distantly,” replied Helyanwë, “although ‘tis true that it was Fëanáro who arranged for me an invitation to the court.”

“Why would he need to do that?” Celebrían was a little bewildered. Back in the Second Age, such formalities had not been needed in Gil-galad’s court. People had gone in and out as their business with the King or with any of his courtiers had demanded.

“Aracáno is right in that I was the only unattached elleth of Míriel’s family,” explained Helyanwë. “Ours is an old and respected clan, but one of no particular influence. Without Fëanáro’s arrangements, Macalaurë and I might never have crossed paths. For this one deed, I am grateful; for I cannot imagine living anyone else, even if our time together was painfully short.”

“And yet you did not follow Macalaurë to Formenos,” said Aracáno thoughtfully. “Nor did Curvo’s wife, although they already had children when Uncle Fëanáro was sent into exile.”

Helyanwë nodded, her eyes darkening beyond their natural colour in sorrow.

“Nay, we did not. We were both afraid of Fëanáro, to tell the truth. We were not as spellbound by him as his sons were and could feel the madness in him, long before it would have shown itself.”

“They say he became unbalanced when Nerdanel left him,” said Aracáno. “Not that I would blame her, the poor elleth.”

“Most likely,” Helyanwë agreed. “But I could never blame Nerdanel, either. Which wife would willingly take second place in her husband’s heart, behind some jewels? By that time, Fëanáro was already obsessed with the Silmarils beyond help.”

“He was not the only one,” said Celebrían darkly. “I cannot fathom what the loss of the Trees meant for Aman, of course, being just one of the lowly Moriquendi myself – and happy enough with that – so I would likely never understand why was everyone after those cursed baubles. As I see it, they have never brought anything but sorrow and harm.”

“Well, they were most astonishingly beautiful,” admitted Aracáno, “if one could judge by the short glimpses we were allowed to catch of them at the beginning. Before Uncle Fëanáro would fall under the spell of his creation completely and would jealously shot them away in the vaults of Formenos.”

“So they were beautiful,” returned Celebrían with a shrug. “And what good did their beauty bring us? The Revolt of the Noldor, the Fall of Doriath, three respective Kinslaying and a mother who left her small children to almost certain death to ‘save’ one of them. Without your husband,” she glanced at Helyanwë, “my Elrond would have been slain like many other elflings in Doriath or in the Havens of Sirion; and the line of the Sea-Kings of Men would never have existed.”

“I heard about that,” said Helyanwë slowly, “and I always wondered how it came to it.”

“How it came to what?” asked Morwinyon, joining them at the table, taking the empty seat on Aracáno’s other side. “Morning, Cousin Ara, Lady Celebrían.”

“That your father would take Eärendil’s twins into foster care,” explained his mother.

“Oh that!” Morwinyon helped himself to some leaf cakes. “That is a tale I would like to hear myself, seeing that I do not know my atar at all.”

“What?” exclaimed Aracáno. “You never met Macalaurë?”

“We conceived our son in the night before our parting as a token of our love and a future reunion,” said Helyanwë softly. “By the time he was actually born, his atar had already reached Endórë.”

“I know; you Uncle Arafinwë has already explained that he was born while we were crossing the Ice,” replied Aracáno a little impatiently. “But he went to Endórë with the Host of Valinor, did he not?” he turned to Morwinyon. “If you fought in the Great Battle, how comes that you did not meet your atar?”

“Oh, I did meet him briefly,” answered Morwinyon with a brittle smile. “Him and Uncle Nelyo, too; and his young fosterlings, whom I could not truly tell apart,” he added with an apologetic glance at Celebrían. “But that was at the last war council only, and they both were busy with Eönwë, Prince Ingilmo, Kings Arafinwë and Ereinion, Lord Círdan and other important people. We barely had the time to greet each other. Although,” he laughed briefly, “he certainly seemed shocked enough to see me – and Uncle Nelyo perchance even more so.”

“No wonder; you look very much like your atar,” Aracáno nodded. “A resemblance a third party would notice much faster. ‘Tis a shame, though, that the two of you did not get the chance to know each other.”

“Perhaps; perhaps ‘tis better so, considering what happened after the War was won,” replied Morwinyon darkly. “Growing up without him and yet being shunned for hid deeds in my entire youth had been bad enough, but I hoped he would repent and go back on that cursed Oath of his. Instead, he chose to become a Kinslayer a fourth time,” he glanced at Aracáno. “Did they tell you, what they had done, him and Uncle Nelyo? How they slaughtered Eönwë’s Vanyarin guards, to get those blasted jewels?”

Aracáno nodded glumly. He had heard all about the end of the War from Meril during his stay in Kortirion; it had been a dark tale.

“But you may not know that one of those guards happened to be Tyelpë’s uncle,” said Morwinyon, “who had joined the Host with the express intention to find his nephew and persuade him to return to Aman; to his mother and his sister.”

“He would have failed,” said Celebrían simply. “Celebrimbor would never have left Middle-earth, not voluntarily.”

“That does not change the fact that Ioringil never got the chance to give it a try, and that it was my atar’s fault,” replied Morwinyon. “Small wonder that Aunt Vanyanis refused to speak with us for the next yén or three.”

Helyanwë nodded sadly. “Those were hard times; perhaps the hardest since the host of Fëanáro had left. We knew, of course, that they had done deeds of great folly and of cruelty – the bitterness about what had happened at Alqualondë had lasted long – but that they would neither repent nor atone for them had shocked us all.”

“The more strange did I find that the young sons of Eärendil would introduce themselves as members of the House of Maglor,” said Morwinyon, frowning. “After all, my atar took them with him after he and my uncles had massacred Eärendil’s entire household.”

“I can tell you the tale as Elrond had told me,” replied Celebrían, “yet you must keep it in your mind that his memories were those of a small, frightened elfling, relived many yéni later and with much reluctance.”

“I would still wish to hear it,” said Morwinyon. “There has been so much rumour and so little of it that I could believe… I would like to know the truth as seen by one who was there.”

Celebrían nodded. “Very well then. Apparently, tidings came to Maedhros that Elwing had escaped from the sack of Doriath with the Silmarils and was dwelling by the Mouths of Sirion. For a while, Maedhros made no demands, for the memories of the deeds in Doriath were still plaguing him. Yet after a while their unfulfilled Oath began to torment him again, and he gathered his remaining brothers around him and sent messages to the Havens. They promised friendship – if the people of Sirion would yield the jewel.”

“Which they did not, I assume, or else it would not come to another massacre,” said Morwinyon grimly. Celebrían sighed.

“Nay, they did not. Elwing would not give up that which Beren had won and Lúthien had worn and for which Dior the fair had been slain. Although,” she added wryly, “if you ask me, I think she was simply obsessed with the Silmaril like everyone else.”

“What about the people of the Havens?” asked Helyanwë. “Did they agree with her?”

“Apparently so,” answered Celebrían, shaking her head. “They seem to have believed that in the Silmaril lay the healing and the blessing that had come upon their houses and their ships, and they would not give it up; least of all while Eärendil, their lord, was out on the Sea. And thus it came to the last and cruellest of the Kinslayings; the third of the great wrongs achieved by that accursed Oath.”

“But how could atar and his brothers bring up enough warriors to destroy a settlement filled with the survivors of Gondolin and Doriath?” Morwinyon wondered. “Those were battle-hardened people who had faced dragons and Balrogs in their days.”

“That they had,” allowed Celebrían. “But they were still not very numerous. They had sent messages to Círdan and to the High King, asking for help, of course. But the ships of Círdan and the troops of Gil-galad arrived too late, despite their haste to the aid of the Elves of Sirion. Maedhros and Maglor had already won the day by then, though they alone remained of the Fëanorians, for both Amrod and Amras had been slain.”

“They say it was a horrible battle,” said Helyanwë, pale and gaunt-faced with guilt, even though she could hardly be blamed for the ill deeds of her husband. Perhaps she simply felt guilty for still loving him.

“They call it a battle, though in truth, it was none,” replied Celebrían. “It was slaughter. The sons of Fëanor – those who had still been alive – came down suddenly upon the refugees like a raging storm and destroyed them without mercy. ‘Tis said that some of their people stood aside in the fight; and that some few rebelled and were slain upon the other part for aiding Elwing against their own lord, for such was the sorrow and confusion in the hearts of the Noldor in those days. When Círdan and Gil-galad finally reached the Havens, all they found were smouldering ruins, full with the dead and the dying. Elwing was gone and so were her sons, and at first they thought that the boys, too, had been slain.”

“But they were not,” said Aracáno, already familiar with that part of the story. Celebrían nodded.

“True; they were not. They were captured, after their mother had chosen to save the Silmaril instead of her children; and Maglor took pity of them and cherished them and raised them as if they were his own. And love grew eventually between them, as little might be thought. Although I am told that Maedhros was not always happy to have them underfoot,” she added, laughing.

“Why not?” asked Morwinyon in surprise. “Had he not tried to save Elwing’s twin brothers after the sack of Doriath?”

“He had,” Celebrían agreed,” but he never succeeded and thus never had to deal with two sullen boys who would resent him and try their best to make his life miserable. Your atar had succeeded; and knowing the tempers of my own children and those mortal princes we had fostered since the fall of the North-kingdom of Men, who came from the very same stock, I imagine that Elrond and Elros must have been a handful.”

“Was atar…” Morwinyon hesitated. “Has he treated them well?”

Celebrían nodded. “Oh yes,” she said, smiling. “I imagine that – his heart being sick and weary with the burden of that dreadful Oath – Maglor was glad to atone for what he had done. Perhaps he was missing you, too: the son he had never known. I believe in a way they rescued each other mutually: he saved the boys from death and the boys saved him from going mad. In any case, Elrond has fond memories of him. He saw that they were properly taught in lore and healcraft, seeing that they had inherited some unique healing powers from their ancestor, Melian the Maia. And he had them trained in arms, too, knowing that they would need it one day.”

“They turned out well enough in the end, too,” Lindefal, who had chosen to spend the short hours of the remaining night in the House of the Hundred Chimneys, sauntered in and plopped down to the table across them; breakfast was an informal affair under Lord Gilfanon’s roof. “One of them became the greatest lore-master of Middle-earth and led armies against Sauron throughout the Second Age. The other one became King of the Edain and founded a dynasty the line of which is still unbroken now, two whole Ages later. I would say, your adar did a decent job with them.”

“Has anyone seen him since the end of the War of Wrath?” asked Helyanwë hopefully.

Celebrían and Lindefal shook their heads in unison. It was Lindefal who answered, his memories of the Second Age being more extensive.

“Not that I would know; at least no-one who would recognize him,” he said. “Although Elrond had searched for him yén upon yén in the Second Age. After the Last Alliance, nearly all surviving Noldor chose to Sail; today, Elrond would probably the only one to recognize him.”

“You forgot my naneth,” Celebrían reminded him. Lindefal gave her a jaundiced look.

“I doubt that Lord Maglor would risk to be spotted by the Lady Galadriel, unless he had a death wish,” he countered. “And even if he had one, there are easier passages to Mandos than being intimidated to the Halls by your lady mother’s sheer willpower.”

Celebrían laughed. “You are ridiculous, Lindefal!”

“Perhaps,” admitted Elrond’s former aide virtuously. “But I am not wrong. Not in this, you know that. Your naneth would be the last person Lord Maglor would reveal himself to.”

“There may be some truth in that,” Aracáno laughed, too. “Artanis always had a fearsome temper. Even Moryo and Turco found it better to back off whenever she was in one of her fey moods – which was practically all the time.”

“She has softened a great deal through her marriage,” said Celebrían defensively. Yea, her mother was not always easy to get along with, but she did not like it when others were making fun of her.

Aracáno gave her a shrewd look. “Really? Now I would like to meet your atar even more than before.”

“Wait,” Lindefal interrupted. “Who are those people you were talking about?”

“My late and usually ill-tempered cousins, Morofinwë and Turcafinwë,” explained Aracáno. “You probably heard about them mentioned by their Sindarin names, but I am still mixing up those.”

“Yea, because all those names ending with –finwë are so easily kept apart,” muttered Lindefal.

“He meant Caranthir and Celegorm,” supplied Celebrían. “Naneth and Aracáno’s sister, Írissë, used to go hunting with them in their youth, back in Aman.”

“They were good friends,” said Aracáno a little sadly, “like I was with the twins. ‘Til Uncle Fëanáro decided to twist his sons into his personal army, that is.”

“I still cannot understand how he would manage to do that,” murmured Lindefal. “I mean, those sons of his, they all started off as good, decent Elves, did they not? I heard that Celegorm the Fair had once been the pupil of Lord Araw himself, back in Aman, learning much about animals from the Lord of Forests – how could he then turn around and slaughter the people of Doriath, who were much loved by his former mentor?”

“Like his brothers, he was too proud for his own good,” answered Helyanwë tiredly. “He, Moryo and Curvo were the worst of the seven; though – unlike the other two – he acted more by force than by deceit.”

“Well, he was a great warlord, you have to give him at least that much,” said Lindefal with some reluctance. “When Morgoth attacked Fëanor’s host upon their return to Middle-earth, Lord Celegorm and his people slaughtered the entire second Orc army in the Battle-beneath-the-Stars, near Eithel Sirion. It was the same battle in which Fëanor was slain by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, near Angband, and Lord Maedhros was captured and chained by his wrist to Thangorodrim,” he added as an afterthought, for any ignorant Amanian Elves present.

“You know much about the ancient battles,” commented Morwinyon, “yet you seem too young to have witnessed them yourself.”

Lindefal shrugged. “My grandsire was the aide and personal scribe of your adar,” he explained. “’Tis all family history for me.”

Lady Helyanwë looked at the auburn-haired Elf in surprise. “I know only one of the house clerks who had followed Macalaurë to the Outer Lands. You must be Fionaur’s grandson, then.”

Lindefal nodded. “That I am, my lady. And though I never personally met my grandparents, as they both perished in the Dagor Bragollach, when Maglor’s Gap was overrun and the great fortress of your husband broken, while I was born after the War of Wrath myself, my adar always spoke of Lord Maglor with the utmost respect. My family has always owed him their allegiance; a fealty that I gladly transferred to his foster son,” he added, with a smile in Celebrían’s direction.”

“It comforts me to know that he has kept enough of his true self to still command such respect and loyalty,” murmured Helyanwë. “Then all may not be lost for him, in spite of the terrible things he had done. Perchance one day he will find the courage in his heart to return; to face judgement and atone.”

“If that ever happens, you can call upon me, and I shall fulfil the obligations of my forefathers, aiding him in any way I can,” swore Lindefal. “He was a good lord and master to them, whatever else he might have been.”

“And should he need someone to speak for him while Elrond dwells in Middle-earth still, I shall do so on behalf of my husband,” promised Celebrían. “For he was as a father to Elrond and Elros, at a time when they needed one most; a good father, of whom my beloved always spoke with great fondness and gratitude.”

“Lady Galadriel would hardly approve of your defence of Lord Maglor,” warned her Lindefal.

Celebrían shrugged. “I rarely could do anything my naneth would ever approve of – including my marriage,” she replied. “It never stopped my from doing the right thing,”

“Yea, but would it be the right thing to do?” asked Morwinyon doubtfully.

“I believe so,” answered Celebrían. “I know you can hardly imagine it, as you cannot have memories of your adar; in that, I can help you.”

“What way?” Morwinyon clearly found that hard to believe. Celebrían smiled.

“Elrond and I have always shared a very strong bond, and I am privy to most of his childhood memories; good on bad ones alike. Many of those are centered around your adar. I can share some of them with you if you want to learn more about him.”

“I am not sure I can face such things just yet,” confessed Morwinyon. “I have grown too used to not knowing him during all those Ages. He was but a dark shadow, looming above me ominously, making others turn away from me in dismay. Had he cared to at least speak with me before the Great Battle, things might have turned out differently. HE might have become a real person for me. But once again, he chose the accursed Silmarils instead of the son he had left behind, unborn, without a second thought – I do not think I wish to see him lavishing all the love and attention he had denied me upon strangers he had chosen to become his sons.”

“I understand that,” said Celebrían gently. “Deep within you, there is still that little elfling who was abandoned by his ada before even being born. Such hurts accompany us our entire life. But sooner or later, you will have to forgive him – if not for his sake, than for your own.”

“I will,” replied Morwinyon coldly, “when he learns to ask for forgiveness.”

Celebrían rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“I truly hope Elrond will choose to Sail, soon,” she said. “Then the two of you can sit together in some dark corner and complain about your respective fathers endlessly. I am sure you will get along splendidly.”

“Well, at least his atar did not do anything people would shun him for, even after two entire Ages,” said Morwinyon darkly. “On the contrary: he saved us all.”

“But by doing so, Eärendil, too, left his family behind, unprotected,” countered Celebrían. And Elwing also chose the Silmaril over her children. You see, you have no reason to envy each other. Yes, your adar raised two strangers in your stand. But at least your naneth has always held to you, and for that, you should be grateful.”

Morwinyon still had a sullen expression, but Helyanwë gave Celebrían an amused smile.

“You are very wise for someone this young,” he said.

Celebrían grinned. “I have twin sons; can you imagine how jealous they sometimes could get when one of them believed the other one would get more attention?”

“That was nought compared with the fight about which one should be allowed to baby-sit their sister a couple of yéni later, though,” commanded Lindefal, also grinning like a loon. “They almost came to blows sometimes.”

“Oh, I remember Ammë telling me that Fin and Turucáno were not a tad better when Írissë was born,” laughed Aracáno. “Apparently, all big brothers are a little obsessive when it comes to their baby sisters.”

“Well, I would not know,” declared Celebrían with dignity. “I am an only child, as you know. We have at least that much in common,” she added for Morwinyon, who still looked a bit out of his depths, now that she had rattled him out of his comfortable self-pity.

Maglor’s son accepted the olive branch with the hint of a smile and a barely visible nod. In certain things ellyn apparently never grew up, Celebrían decided – not for the first time in her life – and ruthlessly suppressed the memory of her grown sons behave like elflings at the least appropriate times.

~TBC~