38: Alqualondë

Whatever Maglor had thought would be his reception in Alqualondë, this was not it.

Once inside, Olwë began issuing orders and before they knew what was happening, servants were ushering them to where they could freshen themselves, though it took a while for them to actually reach the washing chambers for everyone, even Maglor, kept stopping to stare at a tapestry or an intricately carved pillar or even the marble tiles on the floor, gaping at the richness of elven architecture, which had only been hinted at in the ruins of Mithlond.

What the Telerin servants thought was anyone’s guess, for they kept their expressions neutral. When they finally reached the chambers, with the ellyn going into one and the ellith into another, Maglor hid a grin at the nonplused looks on his sons’ faces, and those of the other younger ellyn, when they were confronted with faucets. Maglor turned them on and Russandol actually jumped back in surprise. The ellyn were further shocked to find the water was actually warm. The older ellyn just grinned.

And that was not the only disconcerting thing they encountered. Even Maglor, long used to the primitive conditions that had been endured in Middle-earth, had to re-remember what it was like to live with such luxuries as running water or to eat with a fork.

And the food!

After so long a restricted diet of venison, goat and fish, supplemented with succulents and later with roughly cultivated grains that had begun to appear once the climate warmed considerably, the foods that were presented to the Harthadrim were almost too much, and Maglor was not the only one to sternly warn the younger Elves to take only small quantities.

“These foods are common here in Aman, but your bodies are unused to such richness and you can easily get sick and thereby ruin your experience of them,” Maglor said.

“And that goes for the rest of us, as well,” Denethor chimed in. “I’ve forgotten what fruit tastes like.”

“You had no fruit?” Olwë asked and he was not the only one to raise an eyebrow in surprise at that.

“Not in the north,” Denethor replied. “In the south, of course, the climate was more temperate, though drought conditions persisted. Still, fruit trees were plentiful.” He gave them a rueful look as he selected an orange from a bowl. “I stopped dreaming of them after the first hundred years or so.”

The Teleri had thoughtful looks on their faces as they took their seats and the meal began.

Now, sitting back after eating a sumptuous meal and sipping some small beer, Maglor watched Olwë interact with the Harthadrim, who, for their part, seemed unsure how to respond to the Telerin king or those whom he introduced: his queen, Lirillë, his heir, Lindarion, and especially, his brother, Elu Thingol. Maglor had recognized the former king of Doriath and so had many (though not all) of the older members of the Harthadrim and all were shocked when he addressed them in Quenya. He gave them a sardonic smile.

“In Mandos, all pretense and arrogance is shorn from your fëa, and you are left naked,” he told them. “When I was re-embodied, I had no real memory of myself as King of Doriath nor did I remember any of my decrees. By the time I did, it was too late, for I was speaking Quenya as fluently as I spoke Sindarin and it no longer mattered.”

For their part, the Harthadrim had become suddenly shy, especially the younger ones, and Maglor could tell that not a few were even embarrassed in the presence of the Teleri with their fine silks and velvets and glittering jewels. The Telerin courtiers and palace servants and functionaries gawked at them in their uncouth attire, for the Harthadrim wore deerskin tunics and leggings, even the ellith, though their tunics fell below the knees. The tunics were dyed in a variety of colors and, in lieu of gemstones, small beads were sewn on them in different geometric patterns. Most of the ellyn wore warrior braids, though Maglor did not.

Maglor, for his part, fell back on his earlier upbringing in his grandfather’s court and ignored the stares and concentrated on Olwë, trying to gauge the king’s intent from his words and actions. The king and his family seemed genuinely pleased to have them there, asking about their kin and insisting that every effort would be made to find them.

“Many have left Tol Eressëa and now dwell in Hyaraman,” Olwë told them.

“Hyaraman?” Denethor asked.

“It is the lands to the south of the Pelóri mountains,” the king explained. “There are a number of small enclaves, colonies, kingdoms, whatever you wish to call them. The largest city is Vinyalondë.” He looked at Maglor, giving him a smile. “Your cousin Findaráto’s son, Lórindol, rules there.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow but when he did not comment, Olwë shrugged and turned back to the others and began describing the lands in which the Elves dwelt. “There is also Aewellond to the north where Eärendil and Elwing rule. We have a road that connects their enclave with Alqualondë, though it is still faster to travel by ship. The road now extends southward to Vinyalondë, though again, it is faster to go by ship.”

“Then why the road?” Denethor asked.

“Because it is a physical link between the various kingdoms,” Olwë said. “The Sea Road, as we call it, meets with the road to Tirion, which in turn connects to the road that leads to Valmar and beyond. And there are many who prefer to travel by road rather than by ship.” Olwë glanced at Maglor as he lifted his goblet to drink. Maglor had not missed the emphasis on ‘road’ and smiled back, knowing what the king was really saying, but before he could offer a comment, Olwë spoke again. “Now, I know Macalaurë is anxious to know why he is sitting here breaking his fast with us.”

“Among other things,” Maglor muttered, though he knew they all heard him.

Olwë nodded. “I understand you were met when your ship docked.”

Maglor gave him a sardonic grin. “You mean those tongue-tied ellyn who just gawked at us as if we were some strange species of sea life they’d never seen before?”

“Nyéreser sure put them in their places,” Estel snickered.

“Lord Nyéreser,” Maglor corrected automatically, then shook his head and gave Olwë his full attention.

“Well, those tongue-tied ellyn were all Reborn, victims of the Kinslaying,” Olwë said, giving Maglor a significant look.

Maglor felt the blood drain from him and the goblet he had been about to raise to his lips fell from nerveless fingers, spilling beer on the floor. There were shouts of dismay but Maglor paid no mind to them, suddenly back upon that starlit strand as he struggled to reach the ships, his sword flashing red, the smell of blood and the screams of the dying filling the air.

Then the blood smell seemed to lessen as the air around him filled with the scent of lemons and he felt himself being lifted up.

“Maglor, look at me.”

Maglor blinked, trying to understand what was happening. The iron tang of blood and the fresh scent of lemon warred within him, the dark of the stars with the light of the sun, and he finally was able to pull himself out of the past to see Nyéreser staring at him with concern. Glóredhel was at his side, stroking his cheek and the other Harthadrim were gathered around, as if to shield him from the Teleri who stood about watching with interest. Maglor could see Olwë standing just beyond Ragnor and Saelmir, his expression unreadable. Elu Thingol actually looked sad, which surprised him.

“How are you, my love?” Glóredhel whispered anxiously.

“I’m not sure,” Maglor replied faintly, closing his eyes and sighing. “This was a mistake. I should have just stayed behind.”

“No,” Nyéreser said firmly. “Remaining behind was not an option. The Valar summoned you, though they were willing to wait until you could actually build a ship to sail in, but the summons was not idly given and it cannot be safely ignored. You were meant to return here, though I grant you that your welcome in certain circles will be less than warm, but you knew that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, I think if that’s the way people are going to treat Atto, we’ll just go back to Endórë where we at least know we belong,” Estel said angrily. “I don’t need all these people gawking at me and laughing at me behind my back because I have no idea what to do with this.” He lifted up a fork. “I don’t even know what it’s called!”

“It’s called a fork, my son, and there is no going back. The Straight Road is a one-way trip,” Maglor said, some of his humor restored at Estel’s frustrated tone.

“Then let’s find an island or somewhere away from these… these high-and-mighty people and to the Void with them all!” the younger ellon exclaimed and Maglor wasn’t at all surprised when most of the children echoed Estel’s sentiment.

He sighed, giving Nyéreser a rueful look. The Maia just smiled back, releasing his hold on him and fading from view, filling the air with the scent of lemons.

Olwë moved around and gently pushed people out of the way so he could face Maglor, giving a still fuming Estel a sympathetic smile. “When I first brought my people here, we were looked upon with disdain by the Vanyar and even the Noldor, who named us Teleri, though we call ourselves Lindar. We were considered uncouth and rough in comparison to the more sophisticated Noldor and Vanyar with their cities and fine civilization, which they adopted from the Valar. You have naught to be ashamed of, child. You and your family have achieved a remarkable feat, surviving the brutal conditions of Endórë and building ships that brought you here.”

“And fine ships they are.”

Everyone turned to see an ellon standing at the doorway smiling at them. Olwë raised an eyebrow. “I wondered where you were, my son. Were you with the other Reborn?”

“Only by chance, Atar,” the ellon said, joining them. “I was more interested in the ships. Ol’ Nyéreser was in fine fettle, the way he handled those ellyn. Salmar and I had a good laugh over it as he showed me over the ships.”

Olwë smiled and turned to Maglor. “Let me make you known to my son, Falmaron. He, too, is a Reborn and a victim of the Kinslaying.”

Maglor stared at Olwë’s son in horror, feeling suddenly sick at the thought that perhaps he had been instrumental in killing a member of the Telerin royal family. Falmaron must have divined his thoughts because he gave him a heartfelt hug. “Do not fret,” he said softly. “I forgave you all a long time ago and bear no animosity toward any of you.” He moved back and grinned. “Now, who designed those ships of yours?”

“My daughter, Míriel,” Maglor answered with not a little pride, gesturing for the elleth to approach.

Falmaron gave her a courtly bow. “My dear, I found your design to be quite interesting. I have no doubt that Lord Ulmo inspired you.”

“It was the fourth, or no, the fifth design,” Míriel said shyly. “I did not think I would ever get it right.”

“Well, given what you had to work with from what Salmar told me, I am amazed at how well you did,” Falmaron said. “I’m not sure I could have done half as well. I must have Círdan come and see the ships. He’ll be astounded.”

“Well, there will be plenty of time for that later,” Olwë said, giving Falmaron a fond look. “Right now, we have other things to consider. Macalaurë, I promise you that your coming to Alqualondë was not meant to be a punishment, but I think you know that some things needed to be said between us so that we can both move forward.”

Maglor nodded. “A long time ago, I began what I called my litany of forgiveness, calling up in my mind each and every person I had ever encountered, asking them to forgive me for what I had done to them, or even what I had failed to do. It was a long list, and I never finished it, for as the years went by and we continued to thrive there seemed no need. I had begun the litany as a way to prepare myself for death, but the Harthadrim saved me in more ways than one and now….” He shrugged, not sure what else to say.

“It took all of the rest of the First Age and a good part of the Second for me to come to forgiveness for what was done,” Olwë said, “and I never blamed you or your brothers, only your atar, who, in his arrogance and madness, was beyond saving, I fear. Most of my people have also found their way to forgiving the Noldor and the Reborn among us led the way, for in sojourning in Mandos for a time they were stripped of any need for revenge or retaliation.”

Maglor looked at Falmaron who nodded. “I even ran away from home when I found my own family still hadn’t forgiven the ones who killed me.” He grinned. “It took Lord Eärendil and a certain golden-haired balrog-slayer to teach them the error of their ways so that we could finally be reconciled to one another.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to tell us the story someday.”

“In the meantime,” Olwë said, “I think a public ceremony where you formally apologize for your part in the Kinslaying is in order, but otherwise, no other demands will be made on you. I understand that the Valar are expecting you in Valmar in two weeks’ time. My family and I will take you to Rómenhopa, which is the mainland harbor across from Tol Eressëa. We will be accompanying you to Valmar. And Arafinwë is already expecting you in Tirion.”

Maglor sighed, feeling suddenly weary. Olwë gave him a sympathetic look. “I know this is not easy for you, child, but it needs to be done for all our sakes. Now, why don’t we see you to your rooms where you can bathe and rest. You and I will meet again at the fourth bell to discuss the ceremony. I will have my steward come and escort you.”

It was obviously a dismissal and Maglor nodded, thanking Olwë for his hospitality. Denethor also thanked him, asking if it would be permissible for him to join them in the discussion. “Macalaurë is, after all, one of us and what happens to him affects us as well,” he said and Olwë agreed. Then they were being escorted to a wing in the palace and shown to their rooms.

****

The ceremony, as designed by Olwë, Maglor and Denethor, was simplicity itself and was to be held in the plaza fronting the palace at sunset, before the evening feast. In preparation for it, Olwë provided the Harthadrim with new clothes. Maglor, joining his wife and children in their private suite, had accepted the king’s gift with actual relief, but Russandol, upon seeing the clothes laid out for him, burst into tears and when Maglor and Glóredhel sought to ascertain the reason for them, he exclaimed that he wished to go home and refused to change.

Maglor held his youngest and tried to reason with him, explaining that the clothes were a gift from the king and to refuse to wear them would be an insult but the youngster — and indeed he was a youngster, barely fifty years old — could not be comforted and continued crying. Maglor realized that his son was simply overwhelmed by the newness and strangeness of their situation and just wanted to hold onto something familiar even if it was only by wearing deerskin tunics and leggings that had seen better days.

Somehow, Olwë learned of the minor crisis and appeared at the doorway of their suite, much to everyone’s surprise, and gathered Russandol into his embrace. “Hush now, hên nín,” he crooned, speaking in Sindarin, rather than Quenya. “Would you like to wear your own clothes for now?”

Russandol just nodded, sniffing a bit.

“Then that is what you will do, and that goes for anyone else. Do not feel you have to give up everything that has meaning for you simply because you are now in Aman and not Ennorath. I offered these clothes not out of disdain for your own attire, which, frankly, looks far more comfortable than what I’ll be forced to wear,” — he grinned as Maglor chuckled, well remembering the wearing of court garb — “but to show you my respect for you as my guests.”

“And we appreciate the gesture, your Majesty,” Maglor said, “or, at least, I do. I have forgotten what even muslin, let alone silk, feels like against my skin, it’s been so long. But I think that if some wish to wear our own garb, then all of us should, at least for this ceremony. Afterwards, we’ll see.”

“I have no objections,” Olwë said, “and indeed, I think it wise that you do continue wearing your own clothes, to remind everyone, and I mean everyone, in Aman just where you’ve come from and what you’ve endured.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, then turned to Russandol, who was still looking a bit glum. “Hear you, Russandol? We will put his Majesty’s gifts aside and take them with us. Eventually, we will need to wear them, but we need not do so now. Does that meet with your approval.”

“Yes, Ada,” the ellon said, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

Olwë exchanged knowing smiles with Maglor and Glóredhel. “Then I will leave you to prepare yourselves,” was all he said and left them to their own devices. Maglor asked Estel to go to the others and explain what Olwë had said about the clothes and then suggested that they take the opportunity to bathe before the ceremony. Even Russandol perked up at that, asking if the water would be as warm as that which had come out of the faucets and Maglor had assured him that it would.

Just before sunset, the Harthadrim, now bathed and dressed in fresh deerskin tunics, gathered in the portico with the Telerin royal family and Olwë’s nobles and minor courtiers. Maglor could not help feeling dull and uncouth in his deerskin tunic that had been dyed blue with yellow and red beads decorating it against the brighter Teleri in their court finery and resisted a sigh. He was feeling somewhat ambivalent about things. On one hand he felt a need to keep some identity of himself as one of the Harthadrim, but on the other, he just wanted to blend in with everyone else and disappear into the fabric of Amanian society, or disappear as much as possible. He feared, though, that that might not be possible, not immediately.

The plaza had been filling up with the citizens of Alqualondë for the last hour and as the sun began setting behind the forbidding peaks of the Pelóri, Olwë gestured for Maglor to join him, along with Olwë’s queen and their two sons, Lindarion and Falmaron, who were the only children of the royal couple who still called Alqualondë their home. Denethor also joined them, representing the Harthadrim. The others were crowded together to one side with Maglor’s family in the front.

Olwë looked out upon the crowd now gone silent and spoke. “First of all, We wish to formally welcome Lord Denethor and his people, who call themselves Harthadrim, to our city and to Aman, for they have long sojourned in the Outer Lands where we are told conditions are or were extremely hostile, even more so than at the time of the Great Journey, which some of us here remember. We hope that they will find their new home to their liking.” He gave Denethor a gracious bow, which the ellon echoed. Then Olwë looked at Maglor expectantly, and Maglor nodded.

“And so we come to the reason for this gathering,” Olwë continued. “Here is Lord Macalaurë Fëanárion, who has returned at the behest of the Valar to face Judgment for his deeds. We will accompany him and his family to Valmar to stand as witness to that Judgment. However, there is that which must be done ere we go. My Lord Macalaurë.”

Maglor took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, moving to stand before Olwë and kneeling. He kept in mind that his Uncle Arafinwë had done something similar, according to Olwë, when he turned back from the journey and if Arafinwë, who was innocent of any wrongdoing, could so humble himself, then he, Maglor, could do no less, for his sins were greater.

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, do hereby express my deepest apologies for all the pain I and my family have caused thee, Olwë Lindaran, and I humbly beg thy forgiveness. I have renounced mine Oath, so rashly made, and no longer lay claim to mine inheritance. I am but Macalaurë and am content.”

“And I, Olwë Lindaran, do accept thine apology, Macalaurë Fëanárion, on behalf of myself, my family, and my people. I declare that there is peace between thee and me, Valar valuvar.”

“Valar valuvar,” echoed Falmaron, smiling as Maglor stood. Maglor then exchanged kisses of peace with Olwë and with Falmaron, representing all victims of the Kinslaying, whether those who had died or those who had survived.

All the while, the crowd remained silent, yet it was not hostile, and as Olwë led Maglor back into the palace, someone in the crowd began spontaneously to sing and soon other voices joined him. Maglor paused to listen, recognizing it and gave Olwë a puzzled look.

“The Hantalë Valain?”

Olwë shrugged and gave him a grin. “It seems appropriate considering that today is Valanya, in case you were wondering.”

“What’s Valanya?” Russandol asked, seemingly confused.

Maglor rolled his eyes, suddenly realizing just how much the younger Elves did not know about their own culture and history, while Glóredhel quietly explained the concept of naming the days of the week, giving them the Sindarin versions as well, as they continued to the feast hall.

****

Hyaraman: (Quenya) South Aman.

Vinyalondë: (Quenya) New Haven.

Aewellond: Bird Haven.

Rómenhopa: (Quenya) East Harbor.

Hên nín: My child.

Lindaran: (Quenya) King of the Lindar, modeled after the attested Ingaran ‘High King’ and Noldóran ‘King of the Noldor’.

Valar valuvar: (Quenya) ‘The will of the Valar be done’, an attested phrase.

Hantalë Valain: (Quenya) ‘Thanksgiving to/for the Valar’, a popular hymn usually sung on Valanya, the ‘sabbath-day’ in Aman by the Elves before the mansion of Manwë and Varda in Valmar. The title of the hymn and its purpose is noncanonical.