Sea-Flower

by Soledad

 Author’s notes: The idea of the Well of Ulmo has been borrowed from a role-playing site. Its description, though, is entirely mine.The ballad is actually a Tolkien poem titled "The Last Ship" - or rather a few selected verses of it.

To understand who Lirillo truly was, you should read “The Vault of the Dead”.

Chapter 04 – Ulmo’s Well

The Well of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, the second most sacred place in Gondor, stood in the oldest part of Pelargir: the very one built back in the Second Age. In fact, it had already been there when the first Númenórean ships landed on the southern shores of Middle-earth – and presumably a long time before. The first settlement had been built around the Well, and it had been a place of wassail and meditation ever since.

Originally a natural well of immeasurable depths – and people had tried to measure those depths and failed, again and again – its surroundings had gone through a number of changes as time had gone by. The current fountain – a truly amazing group of marble fish, seahorses and other maritime creatures surrounding a round basin, in the middle of which one of the long-tressed Wingildi, the female spirits of the Sea and the foam of the ocean, was pouring water from a large, twisted seashell back into the basin – had been built during the reign of King Tarannon Falastur, and miraculously remained in perfect shape, save for a bit of moss near the stone-paved ground.

In a distance of roughly twenty feet, a circle of large white standing stones surrounded the well – a memorial of all the Kings, Queens and Princes who had visited Ulmo’s sanctum during the recent Age. Other than that, the Well stood open for any visitors who wanted to pay their respects to the Lord of the Waters.

Princess Ivriniel let her guards behind, outside the circle of standing stones, and they did not argue with her, firmly believing – like just everyone in Pelargir – that Lord Ulmo would protect those who visited his Well. A late daughter of Imrazôr the Númenórean even more so than anyone else, for had not been the Princes of Dol Amroth under his special protection since the very birth of their House?

She walked through between the standing stones from the western direction, wishing nought but to be left alone. She was bitter and resentful; first and foremost at Denethor, who dared to dismiss her blithely, as if she’d been a mere tool rather than a person. But also at the Steward, who had allowed it to happen, and at her own parents, who would willingly sacrifice her destiny in order to save the alliance between the two Houses.

To her utter shame, she even felt anger and resentment towards her own sister, albeit Finduilas was truly innocent in the unfortunate turn of events. It was not her fault that she had caught Denethor's eye. And still, being dismissed because of her little sister stung.

But that was the truly distasteful part of the whole disaster, was it not? That women, even the daughters of a princely House, were not important. That they could be exchanged for each other, regardless of their talents, strengths and dreams.

That they were denied the very chance for greatness.

Ivriniel went to the basin and sat down perched upon its rim, bathing her hand in the cool water. She was not entirely certain why she had come. The Well was not an oracle to give her visions of the future or to answer her questions in any other way. Still, ‘twas said that Lord Ulmo would hear everything that was said near any source of water, and she needed to speak to someone.

Why not to the patron of her House, then?

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked quietly, playing with the tiny waves caused by the water splashing into the basin. “They took me my very purpose. What should I do with my life now?”

“’Tis entirely up to you, daughter of Adrahil,” a voice, soft and musical like falling and flowing waters, answered.

Startled, she looked up, and her gaze fell upon a stall, slender figure standing nearby. At first she thought him to be a male Elf, as he had a pale, fair face, framed by long, unbraided silver hair and dominated by a pair of large, sea-green eyes. Lord Gildor’s people did sail up from Edhellond to Pelargir sometimes, although they usually did not reveal themselves. His clothes – a flowing turquoise robe worn over a tunic of silver-grey, watered silk – would also match the fashion sense of a Sindarin Elf with strong Teleri roots.

But as she looked into those bottomless eyes, she got the impression that he was older than even the oldest Elf in Middle-earth. Much, much older.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And why are you spying on me?”

“I am not,” he replied calmly. “Although I have come a long way from the White Mountains to speak to you, Princess Ivriniel.”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded. “And why would you want to speak to me?”

“I might have become a lot less than I once used to be, but I can still recognize the progeny of Mithrellas,” he replied with a faint smile. “And I am here to offer you a choice.”

“What kind of choice?” she asked warily.

He made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the standing stones.

“You have two choices when you leave this place,” he said. “Go back to the western gate, through which you have come, and you will return to the safety of your home. To a slow, uneventful life at your father’s court. Leave through the eastern gate, and you will be heading towards adventure and mortal danger. That way can lead you to untimely death; but it can also lead you to a new destiny. To a chance to turn the fate of Gondor like few women could before.”

“How do I know where that way would truly lead me?” she asked.

“You do not,” he replied simply. “The future is not yet set ins tone. All it can promise you are possibilities. ‘Tis up to you how you use them. All ways can turn good or evil.”

“What possibilities would await me when I choose the eastern way?”

She did not need to ask about the other one. She knew – and despised – those chances all too well. Spending her life as an embittered spinster in suffocating irrelevance at her father’s court; or being married off to a man below her own status who would resent her for standing above him.

Neither was an appealing choice.

“The choice to become what you were born and bred for,” he replied. “But like all great destinies, ‘tis marked by peril. Your rising would mean the fall of others, and they shall not take it kindly. If you leave to the East, you will go to war: to your very own, private war; and there is a chance that you would fight your battles alone.”

“Have I not done so all my life,” she dismissed his warning.

“Nay,” he said gravely. “If you choose the eastern way, you will learn what it means to be truly alone.”

She gave him a wary look. “How would you know that? And who are you anyway? You still have not told me your name.”

“I had many names in my long life,” he answered, “none of which would say you much. But you can call me Lirillo, if you want; fort hat is a name I often used in the past.”

“A strange name that rings like the spring rain on the surface of a still lake,” she said. “Yet one I never heard before, although I know more of the great tales and songs of the past than most. Are you an Elf?”

“Nay,” he answered, smiling, “though I have lived among then longer than Gondor has existed. You cannot have heard of me, lady, for my name has been wiped from the Song of Arda, and now ‘tis nought else but a faint echo, barely perceived throughout the long Ages of the world.”

“Who are you then?” she insisted. “Or rather what are you?”

“Once, when the world was still young, my siblings and I were an entwined melody within the Great Music,” he answered. “Now our theme has faded and we have become less than a memory. You, however, must decide, and soon,” he said, ere Ivriniel could have asked him more. “A little more time and your guards will become restless and come to look for you.”

“But if I choose the eastern way, how shall I know where to go?” she asked.

Lirillo looked at her with those large, strangely luminous grey-green eyes as if he could see directly into her heart.

‘Once you pass the eastern gate, you shall receive a sign,” he replied. “Follow the music and it will lead you to your destiny.”

“Will I ever see you again?” she asked.

Lirillo shook his head.

“I believe not. I have already tarried here too long; I am needed back home. You, though, must leave now, one direction or the other, as long as you still have the choice.”

Ivriniel hesitated for a moment. “Will I ever come back?”

“That is a question I cannot answer,” admitted Lirillo. “I do not see what will come. All I know is that this is your last chance to take your fate into your own hand… and you do not have the time to waste.”

Ivriniel’s heart was torn in two, between the fear of an uncertain future and the burning desire to become the mistress of her own fate. After a short yet vicious inner struggle, the desire for greatness and adventure won, as Lirillo had thought it would. For she had been made for greatness; and to play a crucial role in the history of Gondor.

“I choose to forge my own destiny then,” she announced with quiet pride and, no longer hesitating, left the sacred Well with long, steady strides – through the eastern entrance.

Lirillo looked after her thoughtfully.

“May the Lord of the Waters and the Lady of the Seas protect and guide you on your chosen path,” he murmured, ere fading away in the last moment. Projecting his own image across such a great distance had taken its toll.

When the worried guards finally came to look for their princess, the circle of the Well was quiet and empty.

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

The eastern gate of Ulmo’s sacred place opened to one of the many roads leading to the harbour. This one led directly to the ancient haven, which had once housed the Royal Fleet. Now it was simply one of the places where the merchant ships from the South moored, and Ivriniel wondered how she was supposed to find her destiny here, of all places.

And yet she felt the strong urge to follow that particular road, and she did so, still asking herself what she was doing here.

Until she heard the music, that is. It came from one of the small marketplaces along the road, within earshot of Ulmo’s Well, where only a few spice merchants sold incense for the worshippers. It also served as the meeting place of wandering minstrels, where they could share their songs.

She recognised the melody at once. It was an old, romantic ballad, very popular among young Gondorian ladies¿ the one describing the encounter of Princess Fíriel, daughter and only surviving child of Kind Ondoher, with a shipful of Elves on their way to the Blessed Land.

A sudden music to her came,

as she stood there gleaming

with free hair in the morning’s flame

on her shoulders streaming.

Flutes there were, harps were wrung,

And there was sound of singing,

Like wind-like voices keen and young

And far bells ringing.

Thus the minstrel sang, already at the fourth verse of the long ballad. This was a verse Ivriniel always liked very much. Being one of the very few people in these days who ever set foot in Edhellond, the only Elf-haven remaining in the South of Gondor, she happened to know that the description of singing Elves in the ballad was quite accurate.

Could this be the sign Lirillo was talking about? Wondered Ivriniel. A ballad about Elves asking a mortal princess to go with them to the Undying Lands?

She knew, of course, that it was all poetic nonsense. Even if some Elves did choose to bind themselves to a mortal, it was an extremely rare thing, and it never ended well. Her own ancestress had left her mortal family after a while and returned to her kind.

And even if she had not, if she had chosen to Sail, she could never have taken her mortal husband or her children with her. The Olórë Mallë was closed for mortals; and besides, even the desire to walk on that path would have been perilous. After all, had not such desire led to the Downfall of Númenor?

A ship with golden beak and oar

and timbers white came gliding;

swans went sailing on before,

her tall prow guiding.

Fair folk out of Elvenland

In silver-grey were rowing,

and three with crown, she saw there stand

with bright hair flowing.

The minstrel’s voice became more distant, as if he had been walking away while singing. Ivriniel quickened her stride involuntarily; she was drawn to that voice, and she wanted to hear the rest of the ballad, quite certain now that it was some sort of sign for her.

With harp in hand they sang their song

to the slow oars swinging;

‘Green is the land, the leaves are long,

and the birds are singing.

Many a day with dawn of gold

this earth will lighten,

many a flower will yet unfold,

ere the cornfields whiten.”

The singing came from a shorter distance now: she was catching up with the minstrel. Without truly considering what she was doing, Ivriniel sang with him the next one, Fíriel’s question to the Elves.

‘Then whiter go ye, boatmen fair

down the river gliding?

To twilight and to secret lair

in the great forest hiding?

The Northern isles and shores of stone

on strong swans flying

by cold waves to dwell alone

with the white gulls crying?’

And as if he had expected her to join the singing, the minstrel answered for the Elven boatmen:

‘Nay!’ they answered. ‘Far away

on the last road faring,

leaving western havens grey,

the seas of shadow daring,

we go back to Elvenhome,

where the White Tree is growing,

and the Star shines upon the foam

on the last shore flowing.’

Barely had he finished the verse when Ivriniel caught up with him on another small square with a fountain in the middle, wrought like a fish standing on its head. She was not truly surprised when she recognised him.

“Princess Ivriniel,” Belzagar of Umbar handed the harp to his young slave and bowed deeply in Southron fashion. “So we meet again.”

“You do not appear surprised, Master Belzagar,” she replied, and he bowed deeply again.

“Indeed, I am not, fair Princess. But neither are you, if I may be so bold.

She gave him a thin smile. “I was promised a sign. What is your excuse?”

“I was sent to find you,” he replied, and she raised a fine eyebrow.

“And you clearly succeeded. What now?”

“Now you are going to a long journey, my lady,” he answered, taking her hand to kiss it.

She never noticed the thin needle hidden in his ring prickle. She just swayed into his arm, deeply asleep.

“Quickly!” hissed the minstrel to the two men clad like simple Haradri merchants who came forth from the shadow of the fountain in a great hurry. “Roll her into that rug and off with you to the ship. We must leave as soon as possible, or we can all give up on our lives!”

The two Umbari boatmen, disguised as Haradri merchants, acted quickly and with great skill. Moments later the square was empty again, and Captain Atanalcar’s ship ready to set sail for home.

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

The news that Princess Ivriniel had vanished from Ulmo’s sanctum caused great uproar in the King’s House, of course. Lady Olwen was beside herself, alternately crying her heart out and accusing everyone for the loss of her daughter, beginning with her own husband through the Steward himself to Lord Lorindol, his wife, Lady Eledhwen and, first and foremost, Denethor. After much fuss, she firmly settled on the thought that Ivriniel had sought death over her bitter disappointment.

“Nay, Mother, you are wrong,” said Finduilas equally firmly. “Ivriniel is stronger than that. She would never throw her life away; she would find something else to live for, even if it were hard. She never backed off from a task, no matter how burdensome.”

“What do you think might have happened to her?” asked Prince Adrahil in concern.

Finduilas shrugged. “I believe she has been taken. For ransom, most likely; everyone knows that you are the wealthiest Lord of Gondor, Father. Albeit there could be other reasons, too.”

“But how could she have been taken from Ulmo’s Well, of all places, without anyone noticing it?” asked Lady Faelivrin. “The place is much frequented by worshippers, and her guards were nearby.”

“Nearby; but not with her,” reminded her Finduilas. “Everyone can be taken without much noise, if the ones doing the taking are fast and skilled. “Tis not always somebody grabbing a screaming, flailing woman and putting her in a sack. There are other methods; and I am fairly certain that the spies of Umbar, who are numerous in this city as we all know – or those of any of the Haradric realms – are familiar with such methods.”

“You believe it was pre-meditated, then?” asked the Steward, and Finduilas nodded.

“Yea, my Lord Steward, I do. Our visit here was long planned; many people knew about it and expected it. Including the spies of the hostile realms, I deem.”

“There is a wealth of truth in your words, Princess Finduilas,” said Lord Lorindol thoughtfully. “I fear, however, that if Umbar is truly behind the abduction of your sister. Then we may already be too late to look for her.”

“Can you not decree the closing down of the harbour?” demanded Lady Olwen.

“I can,” replied the Ciryatur. “In fact, I already have. But by the time my orders reached the harbour master, quite a few ships have already left. Merchant barges, all of them – at least for the naked eye. By some of them, however, it could have been a mere disguise.”

“Is there no way to learn more about those ships?” asked Prince Adrahil.

The Ciryatur shrugged. “We can always question Master Falassion, like we always do. Everyone knows that he is the master of all Umbari spies here in Pelargir; we just never could prove anything.”

“That must be upsetting,” said Denethor. His brother-in-law shrugged again.

“Nay; in truth, ‘tis rather convenient. By keeping an eye on him and his house, we can quite well watch the activity of all Umbari spies in the city. According to the latest reports, he was hosting the captain of a Haradri merchant ship in the last couple of days.”

“And that merchant ship just happens to be one of those that left ere the harbour would be closed down,” said Denethor.

It was not a question, but the Ciryatur nodded nevertheless.

“Conveniently, yea. And Master Falassion also happened to be hosting a certain Umbari minstrel during the same couple of days. A minstrel with the impressive knowledge of a lore-master. A minstrel who was last seen near to Ulmo’s Well, at about the same time as Princess Ivriniel went missing.”

“Coincidence?” the Steward asked, doubt clearly written in his noble features.

Lord Lorindol shook his head.

“Unlikely. All the pieces fit together too well. Nay, this was a carefully planned and well-executed action, and I fear we may never find out what truly happened. Master Falassion is too good at that which he is doing under the disguise of a rich merchant.”

“We may not figure out the how,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth, “yet what about the reason? What can Umbar possibly hope from abducting my daughter? Trying to force an alliance? They must know that neither my father nor I would break our oath of fealty, not even to save a beloved child.”

“They most certainly know that,” said the Steward. “And yet Dol Amroth is the only fiefdom they could consider a potential ally. Your father is an independent monarch; the only Lord of Gondor who is not my subject but my liegeman by choice. They must be desperate if they seek such ways to forge an alliance.”

“But why?“ wondered Prince Adrahil. “Do we know about any major shift of power in Umbar lately?”

The Ciryatur shook his head.

“Leadership still seems to be in the same hands it has been for decades. Whatever might have changed, it must be something subtle. Unfortunately, we never succeeded in infiltrating the First Consul’s household. Our best people tried – and were never heard of again. His servants are either loyal to a fault or frightened beyond measure – or both.”

“What shall we do about my daughter, then?” asked Lady Olwen in bitter tears. “I have not heard of a plan yet to get her back.”

“There is little we can do, my lady, save for waiting for a ransom letter,” said the Ciryatur grimly.

“And what if there shan’t be one?” demanded Lady Olwen.

“Then, I fear, you must consider your daughter lost,” answered Lord Lorindol. “Oh, we shall search all the ships still in the harbour. We shall search all the streets leading from and to Ulmo’s Well. We shall even question Master Falassion, as always. But my heart tells me that it will be in vain. If the Umbari were the ones who took Princess Ivriniel, then she is already beyond our reach.”

There was heavy silence in the room as everyone – especially the Prince of Dol Amroth and his family – tried to accept the inevitable. After an endless moment, Finduilas turned to Denethor and said bitterly:

“This is all your fault!”

“Why would it be?” protested Denethor. “Your sister always visits the Well if in Pelargir; everyone knows that!”

“True,” she answered coldly. “But if not for you, she would not have gone alone.”

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

On the same day – and in the following days – the Ciryatur indeed had alls hips in the harbour searched. As expected, his men found nothing. The servants of Prince Adrahil went through the streets leading from and to Ulmo’s Well with the fine-toothed comb, looking for any sign for the princess; especially the one leading to the harbour.

There, at least, they found something: one of Princess Ivriniel’s handkerchiefs,- a pale green piece of finest Khandian silk, with her initials stitched in one corner with silver thread – on a small square, near a fish-shaped fountain.

“At least we know she came this far,” said one of them grimly.

But the other one just shrugged. “Unless the kerchief was stolen and the thief lost it during his flight.”

“Unlikely,” the third one argued. “Why steal a kerchief when the princess was wearing enough jewellery to make any thief rich? Nay; mark my words: our lady was here. Mayhap this is the very place where they grabbed her, ere taking her to a ship.”

“There is no sign for a struggle, though,” said the first one. “She must have been caught by surprise.”

“Unless she went with them – whoever they were – quite willingly,” replied the second one grimly.

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

“Impossible,” said Prince Adrahil promptly when his servants returned to the King’s House to report what they had found. “My daughter would never go willingly with those who intend to take her; why would she do such thing? It makes no sense.”

“I shan’t be so certain about that, Ada,” said Finduilas. “I believe she would go, if doing so promised her a higher purpose; one she no longer has here. However, I do not think that is what happened.”

“Why not?” asked the Steward, realising that the princess knew her sister much better than anyone else. Even their parents.

‘Twas not truly surprising, of course. They were close age-wise; and apparently close in every other way.

“My sister would not do so without weighing all arguments for and against going carefully first,” explained Finduilas. “Clearly, there was no time for that; therefore she did not go willingly. She was taught – we both were taught – not to act at a whim of the heart. Which means, unless one of the Powers appeared to her at the Well and told her to go, she was taken against her will.”

“And we all know how likely that would be,” added the Steward dryly.

They knew indeed. The Powers had not meddled directly with the affairs of Middle-earth since the Downfall of Númenor. Finduilas nodded.

“That is, sadly true,” she agreed; then she turned to Denethor. “And thus I give you the chance to redeem yourself, my lord. You want me to become your wife? Very well, I will; on one condition.”

“Name it,” said Denethor eagerly.

“Bring me my sister back,” replied Finduilas, “and I shall wed you on that very day.”

And while the Steward’s heir was still muted by shock, thirteen-year-old Imrahil chimed in.

“Worry not, sister mine. If he cannot, I certainly will.”

~TBC~