85: Rebellion

When they returned to the throne room Manwë greeted Arafinwë in his usual manner, then asked, "Are you happy, Pityahúnya?"

Arafinwë smiled at Manwë and nodded. "Yes, Master," he said and then before Manwë could say another word he added, "I love you Master."

Manwë said nothing to that, but simply nodded.

When the next rest period came and all but the Elder King had left the throne room, Manwë stood up and casually removed the chain from the armrest and allowed it to drop, then walked away without saying a word. Arafinwë sat there for the longest time, alone in the darkened chamber, before clambering to his feet, the chain in his hand. He stared at it for a moment then tentatively began walking around the chamber. There was only the one main entrance and a few smaller ones leading to antechambers but when he tried the doors he was not surprised to find they did not open. He walked out to the balcony that was behind the thrones and stared up into the night sky and watched the stars in their slow dance.

He did not know what he was feeling just then, could not put any words to it. He breathed the cold mountain air and stood there throughout the rest of the sleep period deep in thought. When Manwë returned and found Arafinwë standing on the balcony he called him back inside. The Elf came at once and stood before the Elder King, his face troubled.

"Tell me, Little Hound. Tell me," Manwë said encouragingly.

"What has happened to my people, Master? Who leads them?"

For a long moment Manwë did not speak and when he did it was with a question of his own. "Why should you care, Little Hound? You’re naught but a thrall. Such matters are beyond your ken. Go back to your place like a good Pityahuan."

"Yes, Master," he said dejectedly. He then returned to his fur rug, sat down and put the end of the chain on the armrest without being told to do so. His Master was right. He should not care. He had given up the right to care when he had agreed to his enthrallment. Nevertheless, the questions would not leave him and he sat wondering what had happened to the Noldor. To Eärwen. To his children.

The next rest period, Manwë again released the chain from the throne and again Arafinwë made his way to the balcony, taking his thin blanket with him this time. Sleep came readily to him, but he was plagued with nightmares. Jumbled images of the northern trek of the Exiles, Alqualondë and Eärwen weeping came and went in a confusion of sound and images.

He whimpered and writhed in his dreams as he lay on the balcony but it was the image of the Doomsman of Arda on the headland pointing at him accusingly, calling him a coward and worse that set him screaming.

He woke to find dream and reality to be one and the same, for there was Námo kneeling over him. He could not get the image from his nightmare out of his mind and he tried to move away as he screamed but the Lord of Mandos took hold of him and pulled him into his arms and held him until the screams slithered away to moans and he finally collapsed into the Vala’s embrace.

"I’m a coward. I’m a coward," he said over and over again and Námo tsked and held the Elf tightly.

"No, Arafinwë. You are not a coward. You have never been a coward."

"Yes. Yes, I am. I could have turned back... the second time... you almost begged me to, but I was...I thought I was a coward before... for turning back when you uttered your Doom against us. I couldn’t do it... the second time... I couldn’t be a coward again... My children..."

"Your children found a different kind of courage than what you had, but you were no less courageous for turning back than they were for going on. The greater courage would have been if you had returned to Tirion as we bade, to take up the kingship of your people without benefit of expiation for imagined sins. You turned back Arafinwë. There was no shame in that, whatever you may think."

"Wh-when you and L-lord Manwë... I failed then, didn’t I? I failed in courage and now..." Arafinwë gasped and burrowed further into Námo’s arms and wept. "I’m sorry Master, I don’t want to be a thrall anymore...I know I can’t be anything else but I don’t...please don’t hurt me...I promise..." but what he could promise he was unsure and so he wept, desolate at the thought of all he had thrown away because of misplaced pride and self-pity, doomed to eternal thralldom, a captive hound, the Valar’s pet.

"Ah, Arafinwë, Pityahúnya, whatever are we to do with you?" Námo said and with a single word sent the Elf into a deep sleep.

When he woke again, he found himself back on his fur bed, the light blanket now replaced with a warm quilt.

****

After that Arafinwë was more subdued, though Manwë affected not to notice, treating him as was his wont. The Elf sat by the throne as always but even when Manwë released the chain from the throne during the rest period, he remained where he was. He was sleeping on his fur rug during one such period when Námo and Olórin came into the throne room.

"How long will we continue with this, my lord?" Olórin asked as he watched the sleeping form huddled under the quilt.

"For as long as necessary, Olórin, you know this. Arafinwë must come to himself before we can put an end to all this. He must know himself as the rightful Noldóran."

The Maia nodded, looking none too happy. "And if he never does?"

Námo looked serenely at the sleeping Elf then turned to the Maia. "Then he will remain our Little Hound for all the Ages of Arda and we will love him and care for him as he sits at my brother’s feet. But I do not think it will come to that, nor does Manwë. Do you doubt my brother’s wisdom, Olórin?"

"Nay, lord," Olórin said, shaking his head. "Only... I am beginning to doubt my own."

Námo smiled warmly."Then hold fast to my brother’s wisdom and to Atar’s love for us all until your doubts fade."

As they were speaking, Manwë entered and shook his head. Námo gave him a brief smile. "I thought you were going to find an excuse to get Ararfinwë out of here and back where he belongs. Ingwion and the others can use his help."

"I’ve changed my mind," Manwë said.

Námo raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Manwë gave him an arch look. "Don’t look at me like that, Little Brother," he admonished the younger Vala. "I’ve decided to send him to your sister, instead."

"Nienna!" Námo exclaimed, nonplused, and Olórin’s expression was equally baffled. "But why Nienna?" Námo asked.

"I was encouraged by his desire to learn statecraft from us even though in his mind he thinks he will never have a need for knowing how to rule well, but what I find discouraging is his apathy. He is too accepting of his condition."

"Perhaps we shouldn’t have given him the furs and blanket," Námo said with a quirk of his lips.

Manwë gave him a slight smile. "Too soft?"

"Far be it from me to tell you how to treat your thralls, Manwë," Námo retorted with a self-righteous sniff.

Olórin smiled at that. Manwë seemed suddenly to realize he was there, for he turned to the Maia, giving him a knowing look. "Have you no duties of your own, my son?" he enquired.

"Of course, my lord," the Maia said with a bow, "but perhaps I might offer a suggestion?" When Manwë nodded, he continued. "Perhaps keeping Arafinwë chained to your throne all the time is not the best use of him. Put him to work. Have him perform the most menial and mindless of tasks. Keep him working all hours with perhaps only the briefest of rest periods, just long enough for him to eat and attend to personal needs."

"And what will that accomplish, other than making him so tired he won’t be able to stand up?" Námo asked.

"The tasks should be meaningless, with no real purpose other than for him to be doing something. If we do it right, we should inspire him towards rebellion at the senselessness of what we order him to do. And that is what you wish, is it not, my lord? For him to rebel against his condition so that you have the excuse you need to send him to Lady Nienna?"

"Exactly," Manwë answered with a smile. "Therefore, since it was your idea, Olórin, you may come up with the tasks for him to accomplish."

"Hmm.... May I borrow some help from my brethren?" the Maia asked.

"Borrow anyone you please," Manwë replied. "My intent to send our Little Hound to Nienna is for her to teach him some wisdom."

"Wisdom cannot be taught, Manwë," Námo said. "It can only be gotten through lived experience."

"Of course," Manwë agreed, "but what your sister can do is give him the tools he needs to find wisdom."

"I still don’t see how this gets him and Ingwion together, though," Námo said.

"Ah well, I haven’t figured that part out, either," the Elder King admitted, giving them a rueful look.

Námo just snorted. Olórin kept his expression carefully neutral.

"Well, no time like the present," Námo said briskly after a moment. "Why don’t we let Olórin get on with it? How long do you think it will take him to bring Arafinwë to the point of rebelling against us?"

"Hmm.... hopefully not too long," Manwë said. "We really need to get him and Ingwion together before it’s too late."

"Where is Ingwion, anyway?" Námo asked. "I confess I haven’t been keeping tabs on the... er... living lately. I’ve been far too busy with all the Elves coming to me of late. Fëanáro is due soon, I fear."

"Ingwion is presently haunting the outskirts of Vanyamar with Valandur and Eccaldamos. They’re still trying to figure out how to rescue Elindis and the others," Olórin told him, for he was still charged with watching over the ellon.

"Hmm.... Intarion and Lirulin are finally making their way back to Vanyamar," Námo said with a pensive look. "They should be meeting up with Ingwion soon enough."

"I was surprised that they did not accompany Arafinwë," Olórin ventured. "In fact, I was surprised that in all this time, neither Intarion nor Lirulin has attempted to contact any of their family."

"Until recently Intarion felt unable to face Amarië with his failure," Manwë said. "I’ve had someone watching over him and Lirulin, encouraging them to make their way to Vanyamar rather than go on to their home in the Southern Fiefdom."

"Will you open the gates of Valmar for them when they come?" Námo asked. "We closed the gates for a reason. Opening them for certain people and not for others will send the wrong message to the Elves living in Eldamas who fear they have lost our favor and our love."

Manwë nodded. "I am aware of that and I have every intention of having Valmar opened to the Eldar soon. At any rate, let us concentrate on our Little Hound and see what we can do to get him to defy us. Olórin, you may begin at any time."

Olórin bowed to the Elder King and strolled over to where Arafinwë was still sleeping, unaware of their presence. He bent down and roughly pulled the quilt off the Elf, which action brought Arafinwë out of a sound sleep, blinking confusedly up at the Maia.

"Wh-what’s wrong?" he asked.

"Your Master has ordered me to put you to work, Pityahuan," the Maia said.

"Work?" Arafinwë asked, not quite awake. "What work?"

"Come along and see," Olórin said and he reached down and dragged the ellon to his feet and pulled him along, taking him out of the throne room by way of one of the smaller anterooms. Arafinwë never saw Manwë and Námo standing there watching. Olórin brought him out into the hallway, producing a pail of water and a brush.

"Lady Varda hates dirty floors," Olórin said to the still blinking Elf. "She would like this hallway cleaned."

Arafinwë glanced about in confusion. The floor looked pristine to his eyes. There wasn’t so much as a dust mote floating in the air. He said as much and Olórin gave him a hard look. "It doesn’t matter what you think, Pityahuan. Thralls do not think, they do what they are told without question. Now I suggest you get to work. Through that arch there," he pointed halfway down the hall to his right, "you will find a courtyard with a well. You can get clean water there. Empty the dirty water into the flower bed lining the courtyard."

For a moment, Arafinwë just stared at the Maia in disbelief, wondering at the change in his condition. Was this a punishment and if so, why? He did not think he had done anything to displease his masters, but....

He wanted to ask Olórin but the Maia’s expression stopped him and he reluctantly took the pail and brush, got on his knees and began scrubbing the floor which obviously did not need cleaning.

****

It was back-breaking work and he was not used to it. It seemed as if each new pail of water was heavier than the last and he was sure the hallway was longer every time he looked up to see how much more floor he had to clean. He had no idea how long he was at it, though at some point Olórin showed up with food and told him to take a brief rest. It was all too brief as far as Arafinwë was concerned, but he dared not complain. He finished his meal in short order (eating porridge did not take that long) and got back to work. At last, he ran out of hallway and it was with great relief and no little satisfaction that he emptied the last pail of water. He was coming back from the well when he found himself face-to-face with Lady Varda, who was standing in the hall looking at the floor with a critical eye.

"Well, I’ve seen better," she said somewhat disapprovingly without looking at him, "but I suppose I should make allowances since you’re rather new at this and let it go this time."

Arafinwë wasn’t sure he liked the sound of ‘this time’, but wisely remained silent. Varda gave him a knowing glance and nodded before walking away. Not sure what he was supposed to do now, Arafinwë was hoping for a nice hot soak. He was grimy and his loincloth was wet and uncomfortable. However, no sooner had Lady Varda disappeared around a corner than Olórin showed up.

"All done here?" he asked rhetorically. "Good. I have another task for you. Come along." Without even stopping, he continued down the hall. Arafinwë just stared at him. "Now, Pityahuan," the Maia called out without looking back and Arafinwë found himself running to keep up. Olórin led him to a stairway with a balustrade of gleaming copper and dark wood. He handed Arafinwë a couple of cleaning cloths and pointed to where two jars sat on the bottom step. One was clearly labeled for wood and the other for copper. "The balustrade needs polishing," was all he said and then walked away, leaving Arafinwë standing there feeling bemused.

For a moment he just stood there, then sighed and reached down and picked up the jar labeled for copper, unplugging it and placing some of the polish onto one of the cloths and began burnishing the copper fittings, though it was obvious to him that neither the copper nor the wood actually needed polishing.

There was a lot of polishing. He finished with the copper and then tackled the wood. How long he was at it, he did not know. He only knew that the stairs seemed longer than he originally thought. His back and legs ached from crouching on the risers as he polished the posts, but finally he reached the top and wearily replaced the stopper on the jar and sat down heavily, feeling wrung out and wanting nothing more than to bathe and sleep.

Even as he had that thought, Olórin appeared again, giving the balustrade a cursory look. "All done here?" he asked and then without giving the Elf a chance to respond, he crooked a finger. "Rest time is over with. Up you get. There’s more work to be done."

Arafinwë could only stare at the Maia in disbelief, his mouth agape. Olórin just reached down and grabbed the end of his chain and yanked him to his feet, nearly sending him sprawling as he stumbled to get his balance.

"Your masters feel you need more practice being a thrall," Olórin said conversationally as he pulled the hapless ellon along. "Sitting by Lord Manwë’s throne is all well and good, but most thralls I understand spend their days in toil. Lord Manwë gave you some time to acclimate yourself to your condition, and now feels you are ready to take up your proper duties."

"Scrubbing a floor that doesn’t need it?" Arafinwë couldn’t help saying. "Polishing a balustrade that probably has never been polished because it needs no polishing? It makes no sense!"

Olórin stopped and glared at the ellon. "It doesn’t have to make sense, Pityahuan. At least, not to you. It only has to make sense to your masters. If they want you to scrub a floor, then you will scrub a floor, whether you think it needs it or not. Thralls don’t think, they only do. Now, here’s your next task." He led Arafinwë into an inner courtyard that was completely empty, save for a ladder, a large bucket of whitewash and a small brush. There was also a tarp. "Lord Manwë has decided the walls here need some touching up. But you only need to paint up to that stone ledge there." He pointed to an overhang that went all the way around and was about twice as high as Arafinwë. "Try not to get any paint on the flagstones," he admonished as he left.

Arafinwë sighed. The courtyard was open to the sky but the stars did not offer him much illumination, though he realized that since the Light of the Trees had been extinguished he was able to see almost as well under starlight as he had when the Trees were shining. He crossed over to where the ladder and painting supplies were and began whitewashing the stonework, suspecting that it no more needed it than the floor had needed scrubbing or the balustrade polishing. As he dipped the brush into the bucket he wondered what he would be asked to do next once he had finished with this meaningless task.

****

Arafinwë wanted to scream or hit something or someone. As far as he could figure, except for perhaps two or three hours of complete rest, he had not stopped working for perhaps three — or was it five? — days of the Trees. And he had not even been able to rest his mind in Elvish dreams as he worked; he was just too bone-weary and he instinctively knew that if his masters caught him at it, he would be punished. Nor was he allowed to sleep on his bed of fur beside Lord Manwë’s throne, for any rest that he was granted was taken where he happened to be at the moment as he worked. Olórin would bring him a light blanket to let him know he could stop and rest and he would huddle where he could.

Nor had he been granted the privilege of bathing, merely allowed to splash tepid water on his face. And now he realized that it was indeed a privilege and not a right. In fact, he had no rights, only duty to his masters. And his duty apparently was to perform one mindless and meaningless task after another. He discovered that he actually missed sitting at Lord Manwë’s feet and listening to the Valar speak of the ways of governing and being allowed to ask questions. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he had been learning from them even in the midst of his own misery.

A rather ironic thought, considering how not too long ago he thought sitting at the Elder King’s feet a most demeaning position for a prince of Eldamar. Now, however....

He grimaced as he stared at the pile of buttons on the table before him. They were all sizes and colors and material and apparently Lady Varda wanted them sorted. There were small glass jars, all neatly labeled — large red, small red, large yellow, small yellow, and so forth — for him to put the buttons in. He stared at the table in dismay. There had to be hundreds of the blasted things, maybe even thousands! And what did the Elentári need with buttons? Well, on the bright side, at least he could sit as he worked, or so he thought, but on careful examination of the room to which he’d been led by Olórin, there was nothing on which he could sit; he would have to work standing up.

With a sigh he got started, grabbing a handful of buttons and sorting them out, first by color and then by size, dropping them into the appropriately labeled jars. As he worked, he discovered that the table was just low enough that he was forced to bend over slightly. It wasn’t long before straightening became painful. He sincerely hoped that when he was done with this task that he’d be allowed to take a long hot soaking bath and then sit at Lord Manwë’s feet for a time.

How long it took him to sort the buttons, he could not have said. At one point, one of the numerous Maiar who populated the mansion came in to check on his progress and offer him some water, but no porridge. He had to stop and think when was the last time he had actually eaten anything. He couldn’t remember and with no sure way of telling the passing of time, he simply could not say if it had been only hours or days ago.

Finally he dropped the last button into a jar and sighed with relief, slowly straightening up with a groan. He was so tired and he stank and he suspected that his loincloth would have to be burned if his master ever deigned to let him have a fresh one. Olórin came in just then and surveyed his handiwork, giving a nod.

"Lord Manwë wishes to see you in the throne room," the Maia said and without a word, he exited the room and Arafinwë hastily followed him, hoping against hope that the Elder King would tell him how well he had been doing and reward him by letting him bathe.

When they came into the throne room it was to find that all the Valar were there. Arafinwë knelt before Lord Manwë’s throne, casting longing glances at the fur bed next to the Elder King’s throne. He couldn’t believe he actually missed sitting and sleeping there! His attention was diverted when Lord Manwë spoke.

"I have a great desire to drink from the waters of a mountain tarn," he said.

Arafinwë blinked a couple of times, not sure he was hearing correctly. "M-master?"

Manwë nodded. "The waters from this particular tarn are especially refreshing."

"If you’re sending your thrall to collect some of that water for yourself, my brother, he might as well do it for the rest of us, for we also desire to drink the water," Námo said.

"An excellent idea," Manwë said with a smile. "Olórin can supply you with a large enough container."

"Actually, my lord, if you recall, you have given me a different task. Perhaps Mánatamir could escort Pityahuan to the tarn. I believe he knows a short-cut."

"Let it be so," Manwë said solemnly and Mánatamir was suddenly there carrying a yoke with two large covered milk cans attached to it. He gestured for Arafinwë to rise and then placed the yoke over his shoulders. Arafinwë was still struggling to get his balance when the Maia picked up his chain and led him away.

****

If the trip to the tarn was a nightmare, the journey back was hell. If the route they took through a mountain pass was a short-cut, Arafinwë hated to think what the long-way round was like. By the time they reached this vaunted tarn — and frankly, Arafinwë couldn’t see what was so special about it — he was practically reeling. Mánatamir unhooked the pails from the yoke and Arafinwë crouched by the shore and started to fill them but Mánatamir told him to gather the water from further in, so he was standing in ice-cold water up to his waist filling the pails and then lugging them back to shore. Under normal conditions, he would not have felt the cold, but these were not normal conditions and he was shivering violently by the time he was finished.

"The walk back will warm you," Mánatamir said as he helped Arafinwë place the yoke on his shoulders.

He never afterwards remembered how he got back to Ilmarin. He remembered slipping and falling a few times. If it weren’t for the fact that the pails were tightly covered, he feared they would have been empty long before they returned to the mansion. By the time he staggered into the throne room he could not even see straight and Mánatamir had to actually take his elbow and lead him to stand before the Elder King’s throne. Arafinwë just dropped the yoke and stood there reeling, trying to focus his eyes. Mánatamir nudged him and told him to unhook one of the pails, producing a dipper.

"Ah, you’re finally back," Manwë said. "What took you so long?"

Arafinwë truly wanted to strangle the Vala right then and there. Instead, he uncovered one of the pails and scooped some of the water into the dipper before presenting it to his master, who shook his head. "I’ve changed my mind. I think I would rather have the water from our well instead. Go and fetch some for me, Pityahuan. You can take the pail and empty it and fill it with well water."

Arafinwë could only stare at the Vala. He went all the way to the blasted tarn, lugging the stupid water back, just to be told it wasn’t wanted and now he simply had to walk fifty paces down the hall to the well? It was too much. The indignity of it all was too much. A rising fury took him and without saying a word, he went back to the open pail, poured out the water from the dipper, picked up the pail and then stepped back up to the throne, glaring at Manwë with absolute hate in his eyes.

"You want water from the well, Manwë," he hissed, "then get it yourself." With that he tipped the pail over Manwë’s head, letting the water pour out, then threw the empty pail away, and stalked off, his only thought to get as far from these unreasonable and capricious beings as he could.

From the corner of his eye he saw Námo rising, his expression anything but amused. "Pityahuan...."

Arafinwë pivoted around. "My name is Arafinwë!" he screamed at them. "To the Void with all of you," he added.

Before he could continue his retreat, Námo was suddenly there before him and took him into his embrace. He started fighting the Vala, screaming imprecations, too incensed to care. Námo just held him until weariness took over and he collapsed into the Vala’s arms. Then Námo led him back to stand in front of Manwë’s throne. He noticed idly that the yoke and pails were gone and Manwë appeared as dry as ever. He vaguely wondered if he’d just imagined drenching the Elder King with the tarn water. He knew he should be frightened, but he was too soul-weary to care. Whatever punishment was meted out, he would accept, but he vowed silently to himself that he would never bow down to these miserable excuses for Valar again.

Manwë stared at Arafinwë standing before him, secretly amused by the rebellious look in the ellon’s eyes. "You will apologize," he said quietly.

Arafinwë shook his head. "When the Trees bloom again," he retorted, knowing it was a safe bet that they never would or the Valar would have healed them by now. He was prepared for any punishment given him, or at least, he thought he was.

"In that case," Manwë said solemnly, "I have no choice but to send you away."

Arafinwë’s heart leaped unexpectedly. Did that mean he was being released from his thralldom? Would he be able to return to Tirion? He had a sudden vision of Eärwen and wondered what she was doing at that very moment. His hopes of a reunion with his beloved wife were dashed, however, with Manwë’s next words.

"Yes, I think some time with Nienna is in order. Don’t you agree, Námo?"

"Definitely," Námo said. "I’m sure my sister is more than capable of handling recalcitrant thralls. She has unique ideas about punishing wayward Eldar." His tone was absolutely frigid and Arafinwë could not help shivering, feeling the blood run from his face at its implications.

Manwë gave him a considering look. "Yes. You have every cause to blanch, Pityahuan. You would have done better to obey me, but now it’s too late. Mánatamir, see our thrall properly fitted for the journey and go."

"Before you do that, though," Námo said, giving Manwë a look that Arafinwë could not interpret, "I think you should take our thrall to the Chapel and let him reflect on his actions."

"Yes, I agree," Manwë said, nodding to Mánatamir. "See to it." The Maia bowed.

"I’ll expect you in about a week," Nienna said from her throne. She gave Arafinwë a smile that did not bode well for him. "I am so looking forward to our time together, Pityahuan."

Arafinwë could only gape at her, unable to formulate any reply. Mánatamir grabbed his chain. "Come along, Pityahuan. Let’s get you on your way." And yanking on the ellon’s chain, he set off at a brisk pace, forcing Arafinwë to stumble after him, wondering what new depths of humiliation were in store for him.