39: Tirion-on-Túna

They left the next day with the morning tide, taking the royal ship. Míriel had been a bit upset at the thought of having to leave behind their own ships, but Falmaron assured her that they would be safe enough.

“I sent word to Círdan and he will come while we’re away. I have no doubt that he will wish to meet with you.”

“Does he live on Tol Eressëa?” Maglor asked as they boarded Olwë’s ship.

“No. He and his people have long removed themselves to the south and they reside in their own place north of Vinyalondë which they call Mithlond ’Wain, though most people in Eldamar proper refer to it as Hópa Ciryatano.”

Olwë’s standard of a swan was raised along with the sails and they left the harbor, swinging first west and then south once they passed the arch leading out into the open seas. The day was fair and the wind warm as it filled the sails. Maglor found himself standing at the prow enjoying the view, watching the coast for any landmarks that he vaguely recalled on the way north, but in daylight, nothing looked familiar and in truth he had not really bothered to pay much attention to the landscape at the time except to see where to put his feet.

“There’s Tol Eressëa.”

Maglor turned to see Olwë standing beside him pointing away from the coast. Maglor looked and saw a dark smudge of grey-green on the southern horizon stretching eastward. Along the western side he could see pinpoints of white and realized that he was seeing ships plying the waters between the island and the mainland.

“It was just a dark, empty rock when I left,” Maglor commented. “And now I am told there are many thriving communities on it.”

“Gil-galad rules there,” Olwë said, “though there was a time when there was no king and each of the three main cities governed themselves, but that caused some problems and we eventually persuaded them to form an Assembly with a cáno heading it. That seemed to work but when Gil-galad was released from Mandos, many on the island, including the cáno, wished for him to take up his crown once again.”

The king gave Maglor a wry look. “Of course, they had to wait almost another yén before he was sufficiently mature enough to do so and for some time he was more interested in illuminating manuscripts, a skill that had been taught him in Lórien, than in ruling anyone or anything.”

“We have something of his,” Maglor said.

“Oh?”

“Arthalion found it. It’s all that survived the destruction of Mithlond when the ice covered all. Círdan did not see fit to bring anything belonging to Gil-galad when he finally sailed. Arthalion found Gil-galad’s rooms untouched when he and his brother were living there. They had come too late, you see, and remained behind.”

Olwë shook his head. “I think there is more than one tale amongst you and I hope to hear them all someday.”

Maglor just nodded as he looked out upon the waters. By now, Tol Eressëa and the ships that dotted the Bay of Eldamar were clearly visible. Within an hour or so, they were approaching the mainland harbor and Maglor raised an eyebrow at the activity onshore.

“There was nothing here when we came north,” he commented to Glóredhel and his children and others who joined him at the rail. “This was an empty strand.”

“Empty no more,” Denethor couldn’t help saying with a laugh. “Well, why would you expect all time to stop even here, my Lord Maglor?”

“I shouldn’t, but I guess in my mind, Eldamar was… not as fully developed, and you can drop the ‘lord’ bit Denethor. I told you before, I gave all that up a long time ago.”

“But that was in Ennorath,” Denethor pointed out in a reasonable tone. “Here, it may be different.”

“Do you think your family will be waiting for you?” Glóredhel asked, apparently wishing to divert her husband, for Maglor, who had been about to offer a retort to Denethor, clamped his mouth shut and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “I have been afraid to ask Olwë about them.”

Glóredhel hugged him and Denethor and the others gave him sympathetic looks. Arthalion sighed. “I’ve been afraid to ask about Arthad as well. Do you think he or my parents even knows I’m here?”

“I’m sure if they have been released from Mandos, the Valar would have told them,” Maglor assured his friend. “They may even be waiting for you here at the harbor.”

“If our kin are scattered about, though, it may be some time before any of us are reunited,” Denethor pointed out. “Arthad and your parents could well be living in Vinyalondë or some other place.”

Arthalion nodded. “Yes, when I heard about all the various elvish enclaves, I realized that I could not expect Arthad or my parents to have simply sat on the beach waiting for my arrival. They would have been encouraged to go on with their own lives, at least, I would hope so.”

“And that holds true for all of us,” Denethor said. “Once we’ve had our appointment with the Valar, we can concentrate on finding our kith and kin.”

“You mean, once I’ve had my appointment,” Maglor said. “I’m the only one who’s been summoned. The rest of you could simply go your own way.”

“I doubt it is that simple, Maglor,” Ragnor said with a grin. “For one thing, none of us have a clue as to where we should live.”

“I still think we should just find our own island and forget about the rest of Aman,” Estel said with a glower. “We don’t need them anyway.”

“Hush,” Maglor admonished him. “Don’t speak nonsense, child. This is your home now and you need to acknowledge that. The Elves of Aman are like anyone else with their mix of faults and virtues. If you treat them with respect, chances are they will reciprocate. Do not shame me and your nana with your surliness.”

“Yes, Ada,” Estel replied, looking chastened.

By now, the ship was gliding into port and Maglor could see several people on the wharf grabbing the lines that were being thrown to them and soon the ship was secured and the gangplank put down. Olwë motioned for Maglor and Denethor to join him and Lirillë and together they descended onto the quay where they met with an ellon who introduced himself as the Noldóran’s herald.

“His Majesty thought it best that you not be overwhelmed by too many curiosity-seekers and has kept everyone away,” the ellon explained. “I have been commanded to bring you to the city where the Noldóran will greet you properly.”

Olwë nodded. “I see my son-in-law is as wise as ever. And someone’s told him our numbers, for I see there are plenty of horses for us all.”

“But none of the children know how to ride,” Glóredhel said, “and it’s been so long since I’ve ridden, I’m not sure I remember how.”

Maglor gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know. I feel the same way.”

The herald bowed. “Do not concern yourselves. These horses were specially bred by Lord Oromë. They will bear you well and will not allow you to fall.”

Olwë nodded in agreement and then there were a few confusing moments as the younger Elves were introduced to the horses, most of them needing help in actually mounting them. Maglor noticed that those particular horses wore saddles. His own horse, a blue roan, was saddleless and in fact it took little effort for him to mount and settle himself. The younger Elves all had looks of trepidation which they tried to hide, though Ivorwen gave a slight yelp when her horse started moving and clung to the headstall with a look of fear on her face. He was glad that none of the Amanians who escorted them smiled or sniggered at the awkwardness of the children. But then, he reflected, these were guards, no doubt handpicked by his uncle, and they were professionals.

The herald rode beside Olwë and led the way up the Calacirya while Maglor rode behind with his family, keeping an eye on his own children. After a few tense minutes, he saw them begin to relax and Estel was even looking about with interest.

“What are those towers?” he asked, pointing, and Maglor turned his attention to the landscape and saw round towers bordering the Calacirya on both sides, evenly spaced. They appeared to have no entrances and on the top of each tower stood what he recognized were Maiar in full armor.

“I have no idea,” he said faintly. “They did not exist before.”

Olwë’s heir, Lindarion, who happened to be riding nearby answered, “They were built by the Valar after the Noldor left.”

Maglor nodded, understanding the implications of what the ellon was saying and studiously kept his eyes to the fore, ignoring, or trying to ignore the cold regard of the Maiar as they passed each tower. He concentrated his attention on the road they were on, commenting that the last time he’d been this way there had been nothing but grass.

“And it remained so well into the Second Age,” Lindarion explained, “but eventually, when the Sea Road was extended southward it was decided to build a road linking it to Tirion.”

As their pace was not fast, it took them a few hours to traverse the Calacirya, stopping once where pavilions had been set up beforehand where they were able to rest the horses and people could stretch and refresh themselves before moving on. Maglor was not the only one to complain about feeling stiff and sore as they dismounted but when Damrod exclaimed that he, Maglor, must be getting old if riding a horse for a few hours made him feel like a mortal weakling, there was a great deal of laughter and ribald humor at Maglor’s expense. Olwë and the other Amanians in their party looked on with amusement as Maglor shot back with a biting remark that had them all in stitches.

Thus, it was mid-afternoon and the sun was well down the western sky before the white towers of Tirion came into view. Maglor brought his horse to a sudden halt as he spied the Mindon rising above the city of his birth and to his horror he found himself weeping and could not stop however hard he tried. There were exclamations of concern and he thought he heard Olwë giving orders but he was too lost in his own feelings to pay much attention, so it was with some surprise that he found himself being pulled off his horse and into Olwë’s embrace, the king rocking him gently as if he were an elfling in need of comfort. He now felt embarrassed, but the tears continued to fall.

“Shh… It’s all right, child,” he heard Olwë croon. “Take your time. It’s all suddenly becoming real to you, isn’t it?”

Maglor nodded, content to remain in the king’s embrace, vaguely remembering the feel of strong arms around him when he was young, his own atar holding him and comforting him. “I never thought I would ever see Tirion again,” he said faintly. “I had long given up any hope of….” But he could not continue, for the tears came again, though they ceased after another minute or so and he was able to pull himself together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to….”

“There is nothing to be sorry about, hinya,” Olwë said with a sympathetic smile. “I think you are all suffering from too many changes too soon. You have all been isolated from elven society for too long and the strangeness is merely catching up with you.”

“I think we did well enough, considering,” Maglor couldn’t help saying in defense of himself and the others.

“I didn’t say that,” Olwë replied. “I said that the strangeness of your situation, even for you, is catching up with you. Now, if you’re ready to go on, we should not keep Arafinwë waiting.”

Maglor nodded and with another word of apology, mounted his horse and they went on. His family and friends cast him concerned glances, but he ignored them, concentrating on the road, which actually wound to the south rather than continue straight west and Olwë told them that it met the road leading to the Southern Fiefdoms and they would be entering the city through the south gate.

They passed through orchards and fields and the occasional gate marking the entrance to one of the estates belonging to the Noldorin nobility, but they met no one on the road, which Maglor thought odd, but Olwë shrugged when Maglor commented on it. “I suspect Arafinwë has ordered all traffic on this road to cease until our arrival,” he said and Maglor left it at that.

Soon they came to the south gate, which stood open and for the first time they saw some of the inhabitants who lined the street. Guards saluted them and waved them through. Olwë gave them a gracious nod and led the way. The street was just wide enough that they could ride three abreast and Maglor was amused to see Arthalion and Denethor moving up to ride on either side of him, effectively placing him in the middle of their party, for the Telerin royal family rode with Arafinwë’s herald and the rest of the Harthadrim followed behind.

The crowd watched them pass, many murmuring comments to their neighbors. There was no sense of hostility, merely curiosity, and if any recognized him, they gave no indication in word or deed, but remained respectfully quiet. Of course, Maglor reflected wryly to himself, that may have been because of the guards that were stationed along the route keeping order. The road followed the curve of the hill, skirting the lower gardens of the palace grounds before meeting up with the main avenue fronting the palace. Maglor heard gasps of surprise from more than one throat among the Harthadrim, for as lovely as Olwë’s palace was, the palace of the Noldóran was even more elaborate and the plaza before it was probably three times as large as the one fronting the palace in Alqualondë.

“It’s so huge,” someone whispered in awe.

“It’s the largest edifice in the city,” Maglor said softly, trying to remember where his own rooms might have been, but then he recalled that his family’s suite was in the back overlooking the orangery.

“It seems rather big for just a few people to live in,” Estel commented disdainfully.

Maglor shook his head. “The bulk of the palace consists of administrative offices, guest suites for visitors and servants’ quarters and the like. My family lived in a back wing and my room was probably no bigger than the room you slept in in Mithlond.” He forbore to add that his ‘room’ also contained a sitting room, a library and a separate bathing room and privy.

The plaza was full of people, but a wide space had been marked out leading from the gate to the front portico and they traveled along that. Maglor saw Arafinwë and his family standing on the steps and smiled when he saw his cousin Finrod standing beside him. Grooms came forward to take the horses as everyone dismounted. Olwë and Lirillë went and greeted the Noldorin royal family with much hugging and kissing between them while Maglor and the Harthadrim held back. Even Maglor was unsure how to proceed. He was saved the trouble of having to decide when Finrod, after having greeted his Telerin kin, came bounding down the steps and, ignoring the awed looks on the faces of some of the Harthadrim who recognized him, gave Maglor a bear hug.

“It’s about time you showed up, you sorry excuse for an orcmeal,” Finrod exclaimed loudly in Sindarin. “What took you so long?”

Maglor laughed, giving him a sly smile. “Oh you know how it is when traveling with children: constantly stopping to look at this and that, needing to use the privy every five leagues, wanting to be fed on the hour every hour… the usual delays while traveling.”

Finrod laughed, giving him another hug. “Well, I’m sure your minders took that all into account.”

“Hey!” Maglor retorted, giving Finrod a punch in the arm.

“You have no idea, my lord,” Denethor said, giving Maglor a wink. Maglor made a rude noise and everyone laughed.

“Well, come and say hello to the family,” Finrod said, pulling Maglor along. Maglor tried to protest but Finrod ignored him. “Atto, look who’s finally shown up and he’s brought friends.”

“Really, Findaráto, show a little decorum.”

That was Galadriel, who was standing to one side with Celeborn. The once Lady of the Golden Wood gave Maglor an imperious look; Celeborn simply looked amused. Finrod gave his sister a grimace.

“Careful, Brother,” Galadriel said, “or your face may freeze that way.”

“You wish,” Finrod said with a disdainful sniff.

“All right you two, enough,” came the mild retort from Arafinwë. “Artanis, stop annoying your brother. You should know by now that the Reborn have little patience with protocol. Findaráto, come here and bring Macalaurë with you.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow at the tone and gave Finrod a puzzled look. “He treats you as if you’re an elfling of twenty.”

“Camouflage,” Finrod replied with a wink.

Maglor had no time to respond to that for suddenly he found himself in another warm hug as Arafinwë took him into his embrace. “Welcome home, Nephew,” he whispered into his ear. “We have long waited for this day.” Then Arafinwë released him. “Now why don’t you introduce us to your family and then Findaráto will show you to your rooms. We’ll have a feast tonight and go on to Valmar tomorrow.”

Maglor just nodded and for the next several minutes he was busy introducing his wife and children and the Harthadrim to the Noldorin royal family. Some of the older Elves renewed their acquaintance with Celeborn and Galadriel, both of whom welcomed them warmly, though they were somewhat cooler toward Maglor, which did not surprise him. Still, there was no outright hostility between them. Eventually, when all the introductions were made, Arafinwë gestured for them to enter the palace.

“I’ve had your old rooms aired out,” he said to Maglor as they traversed the main hallways leading to the private apartments of the royal family, “and the rest of your people are housed in the same wing.”

“It’s been unused all this time?” Maglor asked in disbelief.

“No, but they haven’t been used in some time,” came the answer. “You won’t recognize them as they’ve been repainted and refurnished and most of your personal belongings were put into storage. When you’re settled, we can have them sent to you if you end up not living here.”

“And would I and my family be welcomed here?” Maglor asked.

“Certainly by me,” Arafinwë answered. He came to a halt, forcing everyone else to stop as well. The king gave Maglor a searching look, and Maglor refused to look away. “It took me a long time to forgive you and your brother for what you did at the end, turning our victory into bitter ashes, making all that we fought for pointless, or so it seemed at the time.”

Maglor was not sure how to respond to that and remained silent. Arafinwë sighed, giving him a rueful look. “It took a certain ellon of dubious lineage who came into my life to remind me that it was never about the Silmarils, but about the people. We went to rescue the people, not your atar’s jewels.”

“When the sea level fell, the Silmaril I had thrown into it was exposed,” Maglor said softly. “It came to me again. I half thought to simply bring it with us when we eventually Sailed, but in the end I gave it back to the sea, or at least, back to Lord Ulmo, and renounced my Oath.”

“The wisest thing you’ve ever done,” Arafinwë said. “I think had you kept the Silmaril and brought it with you your welcome here would have been, shall we say, less assured.”

“So, who was this ellon of dubious lineage of whom you spoke?” Maglor asked.

Finrod waved his hand, grinning. “That would be me.”

“And why would your lineage be in doubt?” Maglor enquired, giving them a confused look.

“Because I kept asking him, ‘Who are you and what have you done with Findaráto?’” Arafinwë replied with a chuckle. “The Findaráto I remembered from before was not the one who came forth from Mandos. It took a while to reconcile myself to the changes. At any rate, I learned how to forgive from his own example. Now, Findaráto will show you to your rooms. We will meet again tonight at the feast.”

He nodded to his firstborn and, with a gesture to Olwë, the two kings and their families continued down a different hall.

“Come,” Finrod said, “let’s get you all settled and you can tell me what you’ve been up to all this time.”

Maglor nodded and he and the other Harthadrim followed the haryon to the Noldóran to their rooms.

****

Mithlond ’Wain: New Mithlond.

Hópa Ciryatano: (Quenya) Círdan’s Harbor, or more literally “The Shipwright's Habor”.

Hinya: (Quenya): My child.

Haryon: (Quenya) Throne-prince, heir to a throne.