Chapter the Thirtieth-First:

In Which the Valar Make an Appearance and There is Yet Another Trial

Arafinwë was just finishing telling Nolofinwë and the others about Isildil and his role in all this when he was interrupted by the sounds of shouting and angry voices just outside the pavilion. Grimacing slightly he went to see what was going on when there was a sudden rush of bodies pushing the guards out of the way and it seemed as if half of Tirion was attempting to enter. Even before the first person crossed the threshold, Glorfindel was already there, standing before the King, a knife slipping into his hand from where it had lain hidden under his sleeve. Arafinwë raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing, for now the pavilion was crowding with an angry mob and there in the midst of it, looking a little worse for wear, was Isildil. Estelindo and the other two apprentices weren’t looking much better, for in their attempts to shield Isildil, they had suffered the brunt of the mob’s wrath.

"SILENCE!" the Noldóran cried, but the people were too incensed to listen and, in their anger at Isildil and their attempts to get to him, they were heedless of the King’s words or his presence.

Glorfindel, in fact, had unceremoniously pushed Arafinwë back towards the others and then launched himself at some hapless ellon trying to land a punch on Isildil, forcing him and a few others to the floor.

"Glorfindel! No!" Finrod shouted.

Then, out of the blue, Findecáno started screaming, "Men gweriennin! Men gweriennin! Gurth an gwerth!" And before anyone could comprehend what the ellon was shouting, Findecáno ran to Vorondil, still acting as Finrod’s squire, still holding onto Finrod’s sword, and grabbed the sword out of the ellon’s hands, unsheathing it, the fire of battle in his eyes as he gave a wordless cry and jumped atop one of the tables before leaping into the fray.

"Valar! Someone stop him!"

And then even as Findecáno was about to swing his sword, there was a flash of multi-hued lights that temporarily blinded them all and when they were able to see again, the pavilion was even more crowded with all fourteen of the Valar and twice as many Maiar. Eönwë in fact was holding Findecáno by the scruff of his tunic, calmly taking the sword from the ellon’s hand. Olórin and Manveru were untangling the huddle of Elves on the floor where they found Glorfindel near the bottom. Some others were calmly separating Isildil and the three apprentices from the rest of the crowd and herding them to one of the tables where they were made to sit. Cold compresses appeared from nowhere and were applied to their bruises. Still others were seeing to the poor guards who had been pushed aside by the mob and then the rest of them, all of them with swords of light out, were herding the others who were involved in the fracas to one side.

Those who happened to still be outside the pavilion (for the size of the mob had made it impossible for them all to enter) made good their escape, or at least they thought they did, for they were unaware of the other two hundred unclad Maiar taking note of everyone who had been a part of the mob. Later, the list would be given to the Noldóran to do with as he pleased.

And as the Maiar went about their business, the Elves inside the pavilion stood in absolute shocked silence while the Valar watched with clinical disinterest. "Anyone seriously injured?" Manwë asked at last, breaking the silence once it appeared that all was in order. "No? Then, Morimando, they’re all yours."

And then their shock deepened even more when Námo, who’d been somewhat hidden by the other Valar stepped between Aulë and Nessa and they stood there blinking, not sure what they were seeing, for the dread Lord of Mandos was not wearing his usual black or even one of the dark shades of blue or burgundy that he was sometimes seen to wear, not even the forest green that he was wont to sport at the yearly tournaments. No. The dread Doomsman of Arda was wearing royal blue robes of silk velvet trimmed with silver-thread embroidery. An azure blue silk shirt peeked out from beneath the robe’s sleeves. And like all the wedded Valar, his head was wreathed in linden flowers and leaves.

Námo gave them a sardonic smile. "What? This is a wedding, not a funeral." And then his mien darkened somewhat and the Elves quailed. "Yet," he amended coldly. He raked his amaranthine gaze over them all, landing on Findecáno still in Eönwë’s grasp blinking somewhat owlishly, as if not sure what was happening. Námo nodded to the Maia who put the ellon down and then the Vala took Findecáno into his embrace and whispered something that none could hear. When he released the Reborn, Findecáno’s expression was more embarrassed than anything. Námo gave him a sympathetic smile and then shooed him towards Anairë who gave her first-born a hug and soft words.

In the meantime, Námo’s attention had shifted. "We’re missing someone," he said. "Where’s Marilliën?"

"Overseeing the kitchens," Olórin answered. "She said she would be here as soon as she was sure the kitchens were secure. Ah, here she comes now."

Everyone turned to see Mistress Marilla enter the pavilion, giving the Valar her obeisance. "Sorry I missed the show, but duty called."

"Wait!" Glorfindel exclaimed. "Marilliën? But you don’t look anything like her."

Marilla gave him a wide smile. "Well, if I’d walked into the royal kitchen as myself, that would’ve ruined everything now, wouldn’t it?" And even as she was speaking, her form shimmered and then before them stood a Maia wearing the emblem of a fountain on a grey surcoat, announcing her allegiance to Lady Nienna.

The Elves, especially Isildil and the apprentices, stared at the Maia in disbelief. Finrod, looking at his atar, noticed that the Noldóran seemed unfazed by what he was seeing. He narrowed his eyes in thought. "You knew," he said accusingly.

Arafinwë raised an eyebrow at his son’s tone of voice. "Of course I knew, yonya. I am Noldóran, after all. It’s my business to know these things."

"Yes, well, all that aside," Námo said with a small smile before Finrod could offer a retort, "we still have a trial to get through."

"Excuse me?" Now it was Arafinwë’s turn to look nonplused.

Námo, however, did not deign to answer, merely gesturing and then he was sitting upon a wood-carved throne while the other Valar stood around him with Manwë on Námo’s left. "Now normally, we Valar would ignore all your petty doings and let you handle them as you saw fit," Námo said in a conversational tone, "but we decided to intervene in this instance as it looked as if there was some danger of our Peace being disrupted and we don’t want that now, do we? We all remember the last time, don’t we?"

The Elves actually found themselves shaking their heads at the first question, and nodding quite vigorously at the second even though it was clear the questions were purely rhetorical. Námo gave them a brilliant smile which was not at all comforting.

"Good. Just so we understand each other." He glanced at the ones who’d been rioting, most of them looking suitably shame-faced, unable to meet the Vala’s eyes. "And just what did you think you were doing, my Children, attacking Isildil, rather than letting your King — you do remember you have one, don’t you? — handle him?"

Now there was a great deal of shuffling of feet and those looking on felt no sympathy for them. Námo gazed upon the crowd for a long moment before turning his attention to Glorfindel who paled somewhat under the Vala’s regard. "And you, best beloved? What’s your excuse?"

"None really," Glorfindel replied with studied nonchalance, "except I’ve been aching to punch someone for a long while now, and this seemed as good a time as any."

Manwë actually snorted in amusement and Tulkas boomed out a laugh. "He’s got you there, Brother," he said, giving Námo a wicked grin. Námo grinned back then gave Manwë a wry look. "I’m so glad he’s your apprentice and not mine."

Manwë’s smile merely deepened but he did not speak. Námo then turned his attention to Vorondil, who was standing by Finrod, looking shaken. Finrod had his arm around him. "And how are you faring, child?" he asked solicitously.

"He... he just took it and I couldn’t stop him," Vorondil replied, almost in tears. "I’m sorry... I..."

"It’s all right, Vorondil," Finrod said soothingly. "No one blames you. My cousin is very forceful and you had no warning. There is no reason for tears. Findecáno, I think you should apologize to Vorondil for your rudeness."

Findecáno gave them a rueful look. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I was... suddenly, I wasn’t here but...we... we were betrayed and..."

Glorfindel moved to take the ellon into his embrace. "Yes, we were betrayed, but that was then, not now. It’s all right. You were just having a flashback, and no one is angry at you. All is well now."

Findecáno did not look too convinced but he quieted down and after another moment Glorfindel released him, giving him a warm smile. Námo, apparently satisfied that all was well in that corner, turned his attention to Isildil and the three apprentices. "Estelindo, you and your companions are to be commended for braving the... um... ire of your fellow Elves in protecting Isildil. Please tell us why you did so."

Estelindo gave the Vala a puzzled look. "I don’t understand, lord. We didn’t do anything special. We were taking Isildil to the King, for only the King has any right to decide guilt or innocence."

"You obviously thought Isildil guilty, though, if you were taking him to the Noldóran," Manwë interjected mildly.

Estelindo actually stood up, giving the Elder King a cold look. "What I or anyone else thought of the matter was of no account. I knew his Majesty had ordered that Isildil be found and brought to him and that was what I was doing."

"And I appreciate you and your friends for doing so," Arafinwë said, stepping forward, "but next time, you might want to let my guards handle such matters. It’s what I pay them for, after all."

Estelindo and the other two ellyn gave sheepish apologies. Arafinwë gave Manwë and Námo a wry look and the Valar returned it with ones of their own before the King stepped back.

Námo turned his attention back to Estelindo. "I asked you to explain your motives so it is clear to everyone what has taken place. How is it that these others became involved?"

Estelindo shrugged. "We were attempting to take Isildil to the King and he was objecting rather loudly. Some elleth coming along asked what was going on and I told her and then the next thing I know she’s hitting Isildil and calling to her friends and then... well, you know."

"Yes, we do," Námo said with a nod. "Thank you." Estelindo hesitated for a moment and then resumed his seat. "And so, we come to you, Isildil. Anything you wish to say in your defense?"

"Wait," Finrod exclaimed. "How do we even know he’s guilty? We don’t even know how the cake got ruined."

"Salt," Marilliën said, looking disapprovingly at Isildil who all this while had been sitting there with a dazed expression on his face as if he wasn’t quite sure what was happening. One of the Maiar wearing the harp-emblem of Lady Estë was easing the pain from the blow on the head he’d received. "He threw a couple handfuls of salt on the cake as it passed the Hart and Hound where he was watching from the balcony fronting the street."

"And you know this for sure?" Finrod asked, narrowing his eyes.

Marilliën nodded. "Of course, dear. Where do you think I was while you were processing down the street? I knew Isildil was up to no good."

"And you didn’t think to stop him?" Finrod demanded in disbelief.

"But where’s the fun in that?" the Maia shot back, giving him a convincingly innocent look that didn’t fool any of them.

Finrod just stared at her for a moment then turned his attention to Manwë. "And were you aware of all that was happening?"

"Yes, we were," the Elder King replied.

"And you just let it go on," Finrod said with a look of disgust on his face. "I hope we gave you good entertainment. I would hate to find that our performance was lacking in amusement."

"Now you sound like me," Glorfindel said.

There was a sigh that came from nowhere and everywhere. Manwë was seen shaking his head and muttering something that none of the Elves could hear, though the other Valar did and they were hard-pressed not to start laughing out loud. Finally, Manwë looked at Finrod. "While there were some entertaining moments, I assure you we were not amusing ourselves at your expense. We simply allowed certain events to go on and made sure other events didn’t arise. Why do you think we sent you to Lórien when we did?"

Finrod stole a glance at his uncle and cousins standing nearby and then looked at Glorfindel, giving him a significant look. Glorfindel was not slow in catching on for he could see that the three newly released Reborn were fidgeting and there was a glazed look in their eyes that said that they were fast becoming bored with all of this and mischief was on their minds. He nodded to Finrod and turned to the Valar.

"All very interesting, but we’re supposed to be having a feast," he said with a supercilious sniff. "Do you think you could hurry along with whatever you’re doing so we can all sit down? The children are getting restless."

The children, consisting of Finrod’s five elflings and a handful of others belonging to the youngest generation of royals, all looked affronted.

Manwë sighed and Námo smirked, but before either could speak, Carnamir, who’d remained silent all this time suddenly moved to stand before Isildil, his expression one of dismay and confusion. "Why?" he demanded. "We worked so hard on it and it was so beautiful? Why did you do it?"

Isildil, in spite of the bruises purpling his face, sneered. "I don’t have to answer to you, seldo."

"But you do have to answer to me," Arafinwë said coldly, "and to Master Huorë, who should be here but I understand he volunteered to help at one of the kitchens." He looked at Marilliën for confirmation and the Maia nodded.

"He seemed quite delighted to be put to work and was singing a merry song as he was scrubbing a pot when I left him," Marilliën said.

"Well, we know why Isildil did what he did, wishing to revenge himself on Findaráto for his supposed humiliation," Námo said. "The question remains what to do with you."

"He’s not returning to the royal kitchen," Arafinwë said, addressing the Vala. "I won’t have him there any longer. What the guild does with him is their business and I leave them to it." He gave the former head cook a disgusted look. "We were willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself, Isildil, but you were too full of your own arrogance to see these past weeks as an opportunity and not a punishment."

"I’m a Master Cook," Isildil snarled. "I shouldn’t be scrubbing pots and pans. It’s beneath me."

"Indeed?" Arafinwë replied with a lift of an eyebrow. "How strange, considering that I’ve done everything from scrubbing floors to whitewashing walls and I’m Noldóran. If such menial tasks are not beneath me, Isildil, they are certainly not beneath you."

Most of the onlookers, including Isildil, just gawked at the King calmly standing there giving them all an imperious look, while the Valar forced themselves not to laugh at their nonplused expressions.

"What does Master Huorë have to say about this?" Námo asked Marilliën. "I’m sure the two of you have had a word or two between you about Isildil."

"Master Huorë agrees with me that Isildil is, in his own way, very good at what he does, but he is concerned that his appointment as the royal head cook made him arrogant to the point that he forgot that the appointment was a privilege and not a right. His petty attempts to embarrass Prince Findaráto especially have not gone unnoticed and we of the guild feel that he needs a bit of... um... retraining."

"Which means Isildil will be coming to me and spending some time in my kitchen," Nienna said with a grim smile. "I’m sure we can... ah... rehabilitate him."

Isildil paled at the look the Valië gave him and one of the Maiar put a solicitous hand on his shoulder, giving it a pat.

Námo nodded. "And we have every confidence that you will be able to do so, Sister. Therefore, Isildil, you are remanded into the custody of the Lady Nienna until such time as she deems you are able to rejoin your fellow Elves. Tiutalion will escort you to your apartments so you may pack. You may leave as soon as you have."

Tiutalion gave the Valar a bow and then gently, but firmly, pulled the hapless ellon up and shooed him out of the pavilion before he could utter much of a protest. Once he was gone, Námo gave Arafinwë a sly grin. "You can deal with your other subjects, I’m sure."

"But you are having so much fun, my lord," Arafinwë replied with a smile, "and I am enjoying watching you deal with these people who seemed to have forgotten that this is a day of celebration." He cast them a cold look that was almost, though not quite, as intimidating as the one Lord Námo gave them.

"So do you wish for me to pronounce judgment on these people as well?" Námo asked and not a few of the people under his regard moaned in distress.

"No, actually I...."

But whatever he was going to say, he never got to say it, for at that moment, a soggy lump of cake went sailing by, hitting Námo smack in the face. There was a collective gasp as everyone stared in shock at the Lord of Mandos and then they heard a tittering of laughter coming from Aracáno and Findecáno. They all looked to see the two of them, their expressions gleeful, eagerly accepting hunks of cake from Nolofinwë, ready to lob them at their next victims.

"No! No! No!" Anairë nearly screamed in mortification, knocking the cake out of her sons’ hands and giving her husband a stern look. "You three behave yourselves or you’ll be on bread and water for the next yén."

The three Reborn stared at her in surprise, then gave each other sheepish looks before muttering (even Nolofinwë), "Yes, Ammë. Sorry, Ammë."

Anairë gave them a frustrated look, rolling her eyes. "And apologize to Lord Námo. Now."

Lord Námo meantime was wiping cake off himself, using a towel that Vairë had called up while she hovered over him, tsking in dismay, muttering about getting the stains out of the velvet. Yet, with a single thought, the velvet was pristine again and there was no sign of the cake. Námo motioned for the three Reborn to approach him, which they did with understandable reluctance.

"Sorry," they muttered, looking suitably chastened.

Námo just nodded, then gave them a slight smile. "Next time, go for Lord Manwë. He’s more used to elfllings pulling stunts like that on him than I."

"Please don’t encourage them, Námo," Manwë said with a pained look. Námo just smirked and the other Valar smiled.

"Are we done?" Glorfindel asked plaintively. "All that good food is going cold while we’re standing around."

Arafinwë glanced at Lord Manwë, who nodded. Then the King looked at those involved in the rioting. "Given that this is a joyous occasion, We are willing to turn a blind eye to what has happened. Go and enjoy yourselves."

The people bowed and curtsied and made to leave as quickly as possible until finally only the wedding party and the Valar remained, the Maiar having been dismissed by Manwë.

"We missed you at the wedding," Arafinwë said conversationally to Manwë and Varda as people began finding seats so the servants could come in and serve the feast, "but I appreciate that you did not show."

"Oh, we were there, never fear," Manwë replied. "It was quite a lovely ceremony."

"We just didn’t want to overshadow the lovely bride and her handsome husband with our presence. It’s their day, after all," Varda added with a smile for the said bride and groom, both of whom flushed with pleasure at her words.

"So I figured," Arafinwë said. "I kept wondering, though, given everything else that’s happened of late, if something would happen to spoil it, other than this business with Isildil."

"Such as what?" Varda asked.

Arafinwë shrugged. "Oh, I don’t know. A blizzard, maybe." He cast them a wry look and they all laughed, but the laughter died when an ominous rumble filled the air.

"What was that?" Amarië asked with some trepidation in the silence that followed.

And that’s when they all noticed the light beyond the pavilion darkening.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted:

Men gweriennin!: (Sindarin) ‘We are betrayed!’

Gurth an gwerth!: (Sindarin) ‘Death to the betrayers!’

Morimando: ‘Dark Mandos’, Námo’s title when sitting in Judgment.

Seldo: Boy; used pejoratively.