37: Arrival

They continued sailing straight west, having no idea where they would eventually end up.

“There is supposed to be the Shadowy Seas and the Enchanted Islands to trap the unwary,” Maglor said to the others as they gazed out into the star-spangled ocean, “but I do not know their extent, only what was told to me by those who came with Lord Eönwë and the Host of the West during the War of Wrath.”

“Well, it hardly matters,” Arthalion said. “We found the Straight Road and it opened to us and that means we are expected. I’m sure the Belain are even now arranging for a welcoming party.”

“Do you think they’ll have tea?” Ivorwen asked and everyone laughed at what had become a longstanding joke among them.

“What sort of reception do you think we’ll find, though?” Arthalion asked, looking more somber.

“I am sure all of you will be welcomed with open arms,” Maglor said with a smile, “and perhaps your loved ones who went before will even be waiting for you on the quay.”

Arthalion gave Maglor a shrewd look. “You do not include yourself.”

“No I do not. No, do not worry for me, my loves,” he said consolingly when his wife and children looked to protest, “whatever happens, I want you to know that I do not regret a single moment of our lives together. You have been my joy and I love you all dearly, but understand this: I am guilty of kinslaying and more and the Belain cannot ignore that. There will be judgment, of that I have no doubt. What is in doubt is the outcome of that judgment.”

“They won’t demand your death, though, otherwise, they would have left you to kill yourself the first time you tried,” Arthalion pointed out.

“No, they won’t demand my death, though others might,” Maglor said. “The worst they will do is exile me away from Eldamar, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. Valinor is a large continent and my brothers and I never saw all of it. There may be places untouched by elven hands where they may bid me to go.”

“Well, if they do, we will go with you,” Arthalion said, gesturing to include all who stood with them at the rail and there were many nods.

Maglor shrugged. “That is your decision, of course, but all this is theoretical until and unless the Belain actually do sentence me to exile. Let us not spoil the moment with what may never be, but rejoice in the fact that we have found the Straight Road and are going home at last. That is what is important, not what may or may not happen to any of us when we arrive.”

“Well said.”

There were gasps of surprise and shock and everyone turned to see a stranger standing on the deck smiling at them. He was wearing a white ankle-length tunic over which was a sleeveless surcoat that appeared to have a fountain of a woman weeping embroidered on it. Maglor started at the sight of the warrior braids the stranger sported, for they were of the same pattern as he had worn so long ago. Several of the ellyn went for their swords and the stranger raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Peace, my children. There is no need for panic. I am Nyéreser of the People of Nienna bid to greet you in the Elder King’s name. Your coming has been long anticipated.”

“You… you’re a Maia, aren’t you?” Ivorwen asked timidly.

“Yes, child, I am,” Nyéreser said with a warm smile. “Now, the waters you are sailing into are a bit treacherous with shoals. You’re further north than you need to be, so my brother and I will lead you into safer waters.”

Suddenly, shouts of shock and fear came from the other ship and they all ran to starboard to see what was happening. Nyéreser laughed. “Fear not!” he called out. “Your comrades are safe enough. I believe Salmar is introducing himself to Denethor and the others. Now where’s Míriel? Ah, good. There you are. If you will permit me, my dear, I will take over command of your ship for the duration.”

Maglor was pleased to see that his daughter was not intimidated by the Maia’s presence as she graciously nodded her head. “You have the helm, my lord.”

“Thank you,” the Maia replied gravely, all levity aside. “Saelmir, turn the wheel three degrees to port.”

“Three degrees, my lord,” the Sinda replied, deftly turning the wheel.

“Steady, now. Another quarter turn. That’s it. Maintain this heading.”

Maglor watched as the Maia scanned the heavens, as if in search of something. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to have found it, for he nodded to himself and there was a look of satisfaction on his face. “Yes, we’re on course,” Nyéreser said, more to himself than to the Elves standing around.

Then the Maia looked about him, his eyes settling on Maglor. Maglor felt himself stiffen, as if bracing for a blow, as the Maia approached him. He was grateful for Glóredhel standing beside him, lending him her strength, for he felt suddenly weak around the knees. Nyéreser stopped a couple of feet from him, his gaze intense, the light of love in his eyes so bright as to be almost blinding yet Maglor found he could not look away however much he wished to.

“You have naught to fear, Macalaurë,” the Maia said gently, speaking in Quenya. “The Valar are not out for your blood.”

“Perhaps not, but I doubt if the same could be said for others,” Maglor replied in the same language.

“But their judgment is not important,” Nyéreser countered, “and most forgave you long ago.”

“You wear warrior braids,” Maglor said, deciding to change the subject, “in the very pattern that I designed for my people.”

“And you do not,” Nyéreser responded.

“I stopped wearing them a long time ago.”

“And I never stopped wearing them. You do not remember me, but I fought beside you in the War of Wrath, adopting these braids. I have worn them ever since in honor of you and as a sign of hope that someday you would return to Aman and be reconciled to the Valar.”

“Can that even be possible after all that I’ve done?” Maglor asked, looking skeptical. “At least my brothers had the chance to be reconciled through death. I do not have that option.”

“You do not understand,” Nyéreser said. “The moment you renounced your Oath and willingly gave the Silmaril back to Lord Ulmo, you were reconciled to the Valar and Ilúvatar.”

“Yet, I suspect there will still be judgment,” Maglor retorted, though there was no bitterness in his tone, only resignation.

“The judgment is for your benefit and for the benefit of the Elves of Aman who will need to see in a public manner that you and the Valar are indeed reconciled,” the Maia said. “Now, worry not. The day of judgment is nigh but it is not now. We still have a way to go before we reach Eldamar and there is naught that you or anyone else can do either for or against that day.”

All the while, the others stood listening to the conversation. Neither Arthalion nor Voronwë bothered to translate since everyone understood and spoke Quenya, for the four Noldor had made the effort to teach the others the language while they waited out the age.

“We will not be landing in Avallónë, as is customary for any ship that comes from Endórë,” Nyéreser told them. “I have been commanded to bring the ship to harbor in Alqualondë.”

Maglor felt the blood drain from him and he was grateful that Glóredhel was there to steady him, encouraging him to sit on a nearby bench. Nyéreser gave him a sympathetic look. “You are already reconciled to the Valar, but there are others with whom you must be reconciled before the Past can be safely put where it belongs, in the past.” He glanced negligently at the stars. “Saelmir, another turn of the wheel to port then keep the heading.” This last was spoken in Sindarin.

“My lord,” the Elf said in acknowledgment as he did as the Maia bid.

“We will reach Alqualondë at dawn,” Nyéreser informed them. “Until then, be at peace.” And he moved away from them and stood beside Saelmir, quietly speaking to him, ignoring everyone else. Míriel also joined them, standing on Saelmir’s other side.

“Here, give him some water,” Maglor heard Arthalion say and someone thrust a skin into his hands and he drank.

Alqualondë!

Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought to see that place again, the site of his first and most terrible sinning. Always, he had imagined sailing into the port of Avallónë, though he did not know what it looked like and only knew of it through rumors from Elves who had been there, for there had been a time when ships did return from Tol Eressëa with news of kith and kin for those who remained in Ennorath. Only when Númenor had been destroyed had there been a cessation of travel between the two lands and all journeys to Tol Eressëa had been one-way. He had imagined coming to the Lonely Isle and then perhaps moving on to Tirion. He had no doubt that he would have been summoned to Valmar to face the Valar, but it had never occurred to him that he would do so through Alqualondë. It was the last place he wished to be.

Glóredhel brushed a hand through his hair. “It will be well, love,” she whispered to him. “You will not be alone in this. We will face what is to come together.”

“I… I am not sure I can….” To his utter shame he started weeping and Glóredhel wrapped her arms around him and gently rocked him.

“It will be well, Maglor… Hush, my love,” she whispered and then he heard her speaking to the others who were standing around them and her tone was one of anger. “This was supposed to be a joyous occasion and now, thanks to that Maia, it’s ruined and my lord is distraught. I would think he’s suffered enough.”

Maglor struggled to compose himself, to assure her and the others that it was well, but he felt suddenly weary as he had not felt for so long, not since before Denethor and his people had found him in the ruins of Imladris and convinced him to join them in their quest for the Straight Road. He wished it would all go away. Someone approached and then he was being pulled to his feet.

“Maglor, look at me,” he heard Nyéreser say and such was the power of his command that Maglor had no choice but to obey. He stared into the Maia’s eyes and felt himself falling into them, as in a pool of warm water and all the tension and weariness in his body seemed to float away, leaving him feeling fresh and alert. Nyéreser nodded, letting him go.

“I told you that you have naught to fear. You and those with you are under the Elder King’s protection and all know this. None will raise sword against you.”

“I doubt it is that simple,” Maglor retorted.

The Maia shrugged, giving him a faint smile. “Only you Children like to over-complicate things.” He paused and looked about, as if gauging how alone the two were and Maglor was surprised to see a conspiratorial gleam in the Maia’s eyes as he bent down to whisper into his ear, though he had no doubt everyone nearby could hear every word. “Do you know how many have importuned the Belain down the Ages on your behalf, begging my masters to forgive you your crimes and allow you to return?”

Maglor stepped back, giving Nyéreser an amused look. “Is that a trick question, my lord?”

The Maia laughed. “Nay, child, it is not. The answer is: more than you might believe and you would no doubt be shocked by who has done the pleading. I promise you, all will be well with you and yours. Judgment must be rendered, but more for the sake of propriety and for the record than for any real need for vengeance or retribution. As your lovely wife says, you’ve suffered enough down the Ages, and most of that suffering was self-inflicted. We are often our own worst judges. Now, it is still some hours before dawn. I suggest you rest. You have a busy schedule ahead of you, you all do.”

“That is what I don’t understand,” Glóredhel said. “I always had the impression that the distance was great enough that it would take some days to traverse the waters before reaching land, yet you say we will make landfall at dawn and we’ve only been on these waters a few short hours.”

“Ah… well, what you say is true and in the past we have simply allowed your ships to come through the Gate and then continue sailing.”

“The Gate?” Arthalion asked.

“The boundary between Ennorath and here,” Nyéreser answered. “I am afraid I can’t explain it better than that. The Straight Road crosses the boundaries and where the Mortal world meets with this one, there is a Gate. Suffice to say, that, in your case, my Lord Ulmo caused the physical space to contract somewhat so that you would be only a day out from Alqualondë instead of the nearly five days that it normally would take to reach it.” He gave them a merry look. “My masters are very anxious to meet with you all and chafe at the delay.”

He returned to stand by Saelmir, giving him some instructions, leaving Maglor and the others to fend for themselves as the hours progressed and the eastern sky began to lighten. They all gathered at the prow to catch their first glimpse of Alqualondë, Olwë’s Swan Haven. The stars faded as the Sun rose behind them, sending shafts of golden light before them, brightening both sea and sky.

“Look!” someone shouted. “I think that must be land.”

And it was. In the growing light of the Sun, they saw a dark smudge of greenish-grey on the horizon and there were glints of white that reflected back the Sun’s light.

“What is that?” Russandol asked, shading his eyes against the glare, and pointing southwest.

“You are seeing the Pelóri Mountains,” Maglor answered. “Or rather, I believe you are seeing the uttermost peak of Taniquetil where Lord Manwë dwells with Elbereth.”

The others gazed in stunned wonder at the sight and Maglor was suddenly reminded of the last time he had been to Ilmarin, before the exile to Formenos. He glanced across the waters to where the Aearloth was and saw the other Maia pointing at something and speaking to Neldorion who was at the wheel. He saw the Noldo nod and swing the wheel to the left and realized that their own ship was also angling slightly to port and then Nyéreser was issuing orders to ready the ship for entering the Havens and all the while they came closer to land and soon they were seeing the arch of living sea rock that marked the entrance into Alqualondë.

Maglor watched their approach with interest. He vaguely remembered seeing the arch as the ship he had helped commandeer had sailed under it, but at the time he was too busy trying to figure out how to get the ship beyond the bar. None of the makeshift crew actually knew what they were doing, not being sailors, but somehow they had managed to bring the ship out of the harbor and into deeper waters. His ship had survived the sea storm that had beset them almost as soon as they left the Haven, but it had been a near thing.

He shuddered slightly at that memory, so dark, so full of blood and madness.

“I don’t think they’re happy to see us,” he suddenly heard Arthalion drawl and pulled himself out of the past to see that they had entered the Haven and Nyéreser was directing Saelmir toward a particular quay where several people were congregated, waiting for them in silence.

“I suspect they are not happy to see me,” he said with a sigh. “Most of the rest of you can probably claim kinship with them.”

“Well, I can’t,” Arthalion retorted with a sniff, “nor can Neldorion or Voronwë.”

Maglor cast him a grin. “There are always exceptions to the rules.”

They fell silent as the ship made its way slowly across the bay, weaving between the various swan ships until it reached the quay. Maglor heard some of the younger Elves exclaim over the grace and beauty of the Telerin ships, comparing them to their own ships, which were rather clumsy and unlovely to look at.

“Looking at these ships, I’m surprised ours even floated,” Ivorwen whispered in dismay.

“Míriel did a great job designing our ships,” Russandol retorted, defending his sister.

Maglor hid a smile. “Yes, she did and we have nothing to be ashamed of. We came by these ships honestly through the sweat of our labors and they’ve served us well.” The others appeared to be somewhat mollified by his words as they turned their attention to the quay.

Nyéreser began issuing orders and Maglor joined the others in casting the lines which were neatly caught by some of those waiting for them. He saw the other ship coming to berth on the other side and waved when he saw Denethor and Ragnor, who waved back. No one on the quay shouted any greetings to them, and the only sound was the screeching of the seagulls above them. Maglor felt, rather than saw, the Maia come to stand beside him.

“There are some people who wish to meet you,” Nyéreser said softly.

Maglor nodded and looked at Glóredhel, holding out a hand to her. She smiled and took it. “Come along, children,” she said. “It’s time to depart.”

Estel and Russandol were immediately beside their parents. Míriel hesitated, looking to Nyéreser, who seemed to divine the reason for her reluctance. “Fear not! Your ships are safe enough. Salmar will see to them. So, shall we go?” He directed this last toward Maglor, who squared his shoulders and nodded. The gangplank was extended and made fast and Maglor took the lead, escorting Glóredhel with their children right behind them, followed by the others. Out of the corner of his eye, Maglor could see those on the other ship also disembarking and soon all of the Harthadrim were standing in a knot facing the Teleri who still had offered no greeting, merely watching in silence.

Nyéreser was the last to leave the ship and wended his way through them to stand by Maglor who had simply stopped and stared at the Teleri waiting for one of them to make the first move.

“What?” the Maia exclaimed in disgust, glaring at the Teleri. “Are you waiting for proper introductions? Very well. These good people are the Harthadrim and this is Denethor son of Mablung, their leader. Denethor, some of the good people of Alqualondë. And now that that bit of nonsense is out of the way, we have business elsewhere.”

“We came to see him,” one of the Telerin ellyn said, pointing at Maglor.

“Well, you’ve seen him,” the Maia retorted, then turned to Denethor. “Shall we go?”

The Teler gave a huff of annoyance and some of his companions began to mutter. “I meant, we wished to speak to him.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Nyéreser said with feigned politeness. When no one ventured to move or speak he threw up his hands. “Atar save me from fools! We do not have all day, my children. Either say something or go away. Olwë is no doubt wondering if we got lost along the way.”

“Why is he not here to greet us, then?” Estel demanded, looking belligerent.

“Hush, Estel,” Maglor admonished him softly, never taking his eyes off the Teleri ranged before them, trying to gauge their mood. “Kings do not come to you, you come to them.”

“Yes, Atto,” the ellon said, blushing slightly at the mild reprimand.

“Atto?” asked the Teler who had spoken before.

Maglor smiled and nodded. “Estel is my son, as is Russandol,” he nodded toward the younger ellon, “and Míriel, who designed our ships, is my daughter, and this is my beloved, Glóredhel.”

The Teleri began muttering amongst themselves and the one who appeared to be their spokesman grimaced, pointing at Denethor. “The Maia says this one is your leader.”

“Yes, he is,” Maglor replied, glaring at the ellon even as he reached out and grasped Denethor’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, for Denethor had looked mortified at the Teler’s obvious dismissal of him.

“Why are you not the leader?”

“Why should I be?” Maglor retorted mildly.

“But you’re… you’re…”

“I’m what?” And he allowed his tone to go cold and his expression to darken. Several of the Teleri actually took a step back. Their spokesman visibly gulped but did not back down.

“You are of the House of Finwë,” the ellon pointed out. “I would think you would just naturally lead whatever group you were in.”

“Well, as you can see, I do not, and so if you have business with any of us, you’ll have to speak with Denethor first. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe Olwë is waiting for us.”

“Yes, let us hence, my husband,” Glóredhel said primly. “We do not wish to be late for tea with his Majesty.” The others among the Harthadrim started laughing, including Maglor, much to the consternation of the Teleri. Nyéreser, who had stayed out of the conversation, grinned and gave the Teleri a shooing motion, forcing them to back away and allow Maglor and the others to leave the quay.

“But we have not completed our business with him,” the Telerin ellon protested.

“You’ve had plenty of chances, my friend,” Nyéreser said, “but you squandered it with trivialities. You are free to follow us if you desire, but do not hinder us.” And as mildly as the Maia spoke, there was an element of threat to his tone and none of the Teleri importuned them. Nyéreser led the way, acting as a tour guide, pointing out certain architectural features of the city and giving them a little history of some important event or other that took place at certain spots along the way. Maglor had to admire the Maia treating the entire affair as if it were a Hobbit holiday. He grinned at the thought and for the first time since the Maia had appeared on their ship he began to relax a little and enjoy the experience.

All along the way, Teleri stopped and stared at their group as they passed. Even the boats on the various canals were halted by their pilots and those aboard watched in silence as the Harthadrim crossed over bridges. The silence was unnerving.

“I would feel better if they shouted at us and threw things at us,” Glóredhel whispered, echoing Maglor’s own thoughts.

“You mean shouted at me and threw things at me,” he said, giving her a knowing smile.

“If you are not welcomed, neither are we,” she shot back. “I would not remain among people who are so obviously rude, be they kin or no.”

Maglor would have commented, but by then they had reached a large plaza in the center of the city that fronted the royal residence and he saw Olwë standing in the portico leading up to the main entrance. Beside him was an elleth whom he assumed must be Olwë’s queen and on the other side was an ellon whom Maglor recognized though they had never met. There were others ranged behind these three.

Nyéreser stopped a few feet from Olwë and gave a nod of his head in greeting, gesturing toward Denethor. “Olwë, this is Denethor son of Mablung, who leads the Harthadrim, as they call themselves.”

For a moment Olwë did not speak, giving them a searching look. His eyes fell upon Maglor and Maglor forced himself not to look away. Olwë’s expression was unreadable and Maglor had no idea what the Telerin king thought or felt in seeing him. Olwë’s gaze shifted and he stepped forward, giving them a slight bow in greeting.

“Mae govannen, mellyn nîn,” he said in flawless Sindarin. “Dartho vi sidh govîn.”

Maglor was not the only one to gasp in surprise and Olwë gave them a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “What?” he exclaimed, still speaking Sindarin. “Did you think with all our Sindarin kin cluttering up the highways and byways of Aman, I wouldn’t have picked up a word or two of their language?” Those standing around him snickered, obviously amused.

“More than a word or two,” Maglor couldn’t help saying, speaking in Quenya. “And we are all quite conversant in the language of Aman, thank you very much, so you needn’t show off, Olwë. It’s unbecoming of a king.”

Olwë actually laughed. “Insolent as ever, Fëanárion,” he replied in Quenya. “But come. There is no need to stand out here while people gawk. Let us adjourn to table and break fast together. My Lord Denethor, I am very happy to meet you at last. You must introduce me to your people when we are seated.”

Before Denethor could protest, Olwë threw an arm familiarly around the ellon’s shoulders and led him away. Maglor and the others hesitated, but when the others in the delegation parted for the king, Nyéreser gestured for them to follow. “I will be around,” he said with a smile and faded from their view, leaving behind the fresh scent of lemon as Maglor took Glóredhel’s hand and they all followed Olwë and Denethor into the palace with the Telerin delegation bringing up the rear.

****

Mae govannen, mellyn nîn. Dartho vi sidh govîn: ‘Well met, my friends. Remain in peace (together) with us’.