34: Lost and Found

The light shifted slowly as Laurelin began to fade toward First Mingling. Valandur wondered idly if anyone was looking for him as he huddled against the cool stone wall. He looked down at himself and futilely tried to keep from weeping. His knuckles were bloody from pounding on the wall, but the greatest pain was from seeing the torn and filthy state of his loremaster’s robe. He’d been so proud when they had accorded him the right to wear it. It was a vindication of all his struggles, the disbelief and sometimes downright ridicule from family and so-called friends as he sought after this one burning goal: to become a lambengolmo, a loremaster of language.

He plucked at the robe, trying to brush away the dirt clinging to it, mourning the rips in the fabric. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he thought he might have gone insane at some point. He had little memory of the past several hours, only becoming aware of himself and his surroundings as he lay huddled against the wall, his arms around his knees, rocking against the wall, as if that action would eventually bring it down and open a way for him to escape.

He began weeping again out of despair, huddling further into his robe as exhaustion overtook him and he fell asleep…

“Valandur, wake up, child.”

Valandur blinked, trying to focus his sight, feeling wooly-headed and stiff and, he realized with dawning chagrin, needing to empty his bladder. He looked about, seeking the owner of the voice, but there was no one there. He must have only imagined it, and that thought plunged him into deeper despair as he struggled into a seated position, orienting himself. A negligent glance at the sky told him it was just past First Mingling and Telperion would be in full bloom in a matter of hours. He licked dry lips, wishing there were a fountain in this garden, but there wasn’t and his mouth was parched, his stomach feeling pinched, for it had been hours since his last meal.

He struggled to his feet. He really needed a privy but there was none at hand and the thought that he might have to use part of the garden as one embarrassed him, but he knew he could not hold it for too much longer; it was already becoming painful. With a snarled oath, he stumbled away from the wall and made his way to the opposite side of the garden, facing the wall there as he undid the laces of his breeches, feeling embarrassed but too desperate to care anymore, closing his eyes and sighing with relief as his bladder emptied.

Finished, he laced up and was straightening his tunic as he turned around and yelped in surprise, his heart in his throat, as he saw someone standing there, smiling at him. His first thought was that somehow the archway had reappeared and he looked for it but when he saw nothing but blank walls, he found himself backing away, every instinct within him screaming for him to run, but there was nowhere to go; he was trapped here in the garden with this… person. And while the stranger appeared to be an Elf, there was something subtly wrong with that initial assessment on his part, only he could not decide what that wrongness was or what it meant and that terrified him.

The stranger frowned slightly. “No, child, there is naught to fear,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s all right. You’re safe, I promise.”

“No,” Valandur whispered, still backing away, stumbling into a rose bush, the thorns making more rips in his robe as he tried to disentangle himself and in his fright he started weeping again. He felt more than he saw the stranger approach and his terror grew as he attempted to flee but then strong arms wrapped themselves around him, gently pulling him away from the roses. Blind terror took him then and he screamed, though his voice was already ragged and his throat hurt.

“Shh… shh…” he heard the stranger say, and then even in his terror, Valandur felt a frisson of awe as the stranger began singing a lullaby of all things. His voice was beyond beautiful and the lilting cadence of the song began to sooth him, blanketing him with a sense of well-being and love, much as he imagined he must have felt as an infant and his ammë had sung to him as she held him in her arms. Slowly, the song performed its magic on him and his struggles slowed and he was almost snuggling further into the stranger’s arms, sighing in contentment as the sense of being loved flowed into him, flooding every corner of his fëa.

And then the song came to an end.

Slowly, almost as if awakening from a dream, he lifted his head to see the stranger smiling at him, gently brushing a hand through his hair. “You see, there is naught to fear,” the stranger said, as he released him from his embrace. “Here, have some water.”

From somewhere, Valandur couldn’t properly see where, the stranger brought out a waterskin bulging with the liquid and Valandur practically grabbed it out of the stranger’s hands, uncorking it and tipping it up, not caring if most of it ended up missing his mouth and dousing him. It felt so good and the very pleasure of it elicited gurgles of relief as he gulped as much of the cool liquid as he could, for a moment ignoring the fact that he was not alone. Eventually he had his fill and he lowered the skin to look at the stranger who had simply stood there with an indulgent smile.

“Who are you?” he whispered, a tendril of fear creeping back into his fëa at the uncanniness of the situation.

“My name is Manwë.”

And that was it. No titles, no honorifics, no trumpets blaring. Valandur wasn’t quite sure how to take that simple statement. A part of him was telling him that he should be on his knees, but another part was too weary to bother and his only response was, “Oh.”

Manwë’s smile broadened. “I’m sorry I did not come sooner, but I was… um… caught up with affairs of state, you might say. But I am here now and we should leave. I have three high kings tearing this palace apart looking for you.”

“But how?” Valandur asked. “The archway is not there.”

“Oh, but it is,” Manwë assured him. “But come. Let us get you from here.” The Elder King gestured for Valandur to join him, but now Valandur felt a reluctance to move. Looking down at himself, noticing the rips and the dirt covering his robe, he started sniffling, a sense of despair flowing through him.

“Child, whatever is wrong?” Manwë asked solicitously.

“I can’t go looking like this,” Valandur explained through his tears. “Look! It’s ruined.”

“Tush now. It’s just a bit of cloth, easily mended and cleaned.”

“But it’s who I am!” Valandur protested.

“What? Cloth?”

“No! The robe,” Valandur exclaimed in exasperation. “People see it and they know who and what I am, but now it’s ruined and I’m… I’m nothing again.” He crouched on his heels, wrapping his arms around his legs and hiding his face in his lap. Everything was all wrong. He was all wrong.

“Valandur, look at me,” he heard Manwë say with grave gentleness.

Valandur looked up through his tears at the Elder King who spread his arms out. “Is there anything about me that says, ‘I am the Elder King, the vice-gerent of Eru in Arda’? Hmm? Were you able to tell who I was simply by looking at me?”

Valandur shook his head, seeing the truth of the Vala’s words. Manwë wore a knee-length tunic of deep azure silk with silver knotwork embroidery under a sleeveless overrobe of white brocade with hints of blue, green and rose mixed in. His dark mahogany hair hung loose rather than in a braid and on his head was a fillet of gold, similar to what many ellyn wore whatever their social status. Indeed, Valandur realized, if Manwë had strolled down any street in Tirion, Alqualondë or Vanyamar, he would have elicited no more notice or excitement than the next Elf.

And yet, there was no mistaking the sense of authority that seemed to imbue him. Manwë was the Elder King by virtue of an intrinsic quality that Valandur had recognized in a dim, inchoate manner whenever he had been in Ingwë’s presence, and to a lesser extent, in the presence of the other two kings.

“You see?” Manwë said with a smile. “What I wear does not make me the Elder King any more than that robe makes you a loremaster. Yes, I know. It is an important symbol for you, a vindication of all that you’ve struggled through to achieve it and there’s nothing wrong with that. But, Valandur, if your people had never devised these robes as symbols of your authority as a loremaster, if they had devised no symbol at all, would you be this upset over the state of your clothes? I promise you that we’ll see the robe mended and cleaned, but right now, I think we should get you out of here.” He bent down and took Valandur by the elbows and lifted him up, giving him a one-arm hug before leading him back to where the archway should be but wasn’t.

“Close your eyes,” Manwë commanded and Valandur complied. Then he felt himself being led forward. “No. Keep your eyes closed,” he heard Manwë say. They took a few dozen steps. “Now you may open them.”

Valandur opened his eyes and found himself back in the corridor. He gasped as he looked around and saw the archway and the garden beyond. He looked at Manwë in bewilderment. The Elder King smiled. “The archway has always been there,” he said, “only you could not see it from the other side. From the garden side all you see is a blank wall and since your eyes told you that it was solid, it felt solid when you beat against it. That’s why I had you close your eyes. Since you couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist for you and you were able to pass through.”

“But why? What purpose does that serve?”

“Ah, well, that would be telling, now, wouldn’t it?” Manwë replied. “Suffice to say that the garden proves handy every once in a while. But let us put that aside. Come. Ingwë is ready to declare war.”

“What?!”

Manwë chuckled. “He really is not very happy. Let us relieve him of his unhappiness.”

With that, Manwë placed a hand on Valandur’s back to propel him forward and he had no choice but to comply. Together, they traversed the corridor, passing the junction where Valandur had come the first time and continuing straight on for a bit before turning a corner, finding another, wider corridor and it was obvious that they had come to a more public part of the palace for the walls were covered with large arrases and statues and oversize vases full of flowers were all about. There were even people, servants hurrying about on business of their own and guards standing at strategic places keeping watch. Manwë ignored them all, though Valandur felt self-conscious as people stared at them in wonder.

“Is Ingwë still rampaging through the palace?” Manwë asked and Valandur could not be sure to whom the question had been addressed, but then he saw the Vala nod. “Well, keep him there for me, will you? We’ll be there presently.”

Valandur felt his heart lurch as he realized that the Elder King was bespeaking to someone — another Vala or Maia? — who wasn’t there. Manwë gave him a bright smile, warm and encouraging, and Valandur felt himself relax as they continued through the palace, climbing a set of stairs to the next floor and then coming into a part of the palace that was familiar to Valandur: they were now in the north wing.

The Elder King brought him to the upper sitting room where Valandur had helped Aldamir with transcribing the notes of the negotiations. The room was crowded and the atmosphere was charged with such emotion that Valandur actually flinched as Manwë ushered him in. Valandur saw the three kings, along with Ingoldo, Intarion and Fëanáro, as well as the other members of the Vanyarin delegation. Calandil and Morion were also there… and one other. When that one turned his amaranthine eyes upon him, Valandur felt faint. It didn’t help that everyone else was staring at him in dumbfounded surprise. Manwë kept his hand on Valandur’s back, giving him support.

The Elder King beamed. “Good. We’re all here. Námo, ask your lovely wife to attend us, will you?”

Námo raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing and then they were all blinded by multi-colored lights. When Valandur could see again, he found himself staring into the unfathomable eyes of a Valië. Lady Vairë smiled at him. “Let me see your robe, child,” she said, her voice a pleasing contralto, and Valandur doffed it and handed it to her. “Tsk, tsk. Well, it shouldn’t take long to repair. Cleaning it will take a bit longer. I’ll be back shortly.” She cast a loving look at Námo and Valandur thought he detected a smile on the lips of the Lord of Mandos and then she was gone and the Elves were all blinking away the pain again as the blinding lights faded.

“Good. While Vairë is repairing your robe, why don’t we all sit and relax?” Manwë suggested.

“But, yonya,” Ingwë exclaimed, coming to Valandur and grabbing him by the shoulders. “Where have you been? What happened to you?”

“He was in the Garden of the Lost,” Manwë said before Valandur could answer.

Valandur thought it interesting that both Ingwë and Finwë blanched, while everyone else just looked bemused. Ingwë turned to Manwë, his expression one of anger. “Why do you have that garden?” he demanded. “Why did you insist we build it? It’s an accursed place. And why did you not have me build a similar garden in Vanyamar?”

“Because you are only an hour’s walk from Ilmarin, Ingwë,” Manwë replied equably. “Finwë is much further away.”

“But there is no such garden in Alqualondë, is there?” Ingwë asked, looking at Olwë, who shook his head.

“That’s because Alqualondë is not situated in the right spot,” Manwë said. “If Olwë had listened to Ulmo, his city would’ve been built south of the Calacirya and we would’ve had a similar garden built, but he apparently fell in love with the cove and decided to build his city of swans there.” The Elder King smiled gently at the Lindaran, whose expression was one of chagrin.

“I’m sorry,” Olwë muttered, not looking at anyone in particular. “I just liked the way it looked.”

 “Now, there’s no need for that,” Manwë admonished him. “What’s done is done and no one begrudges you following your heart, Olwë, least of all me.”

“You never really explained why the garden exists in the first place,” Finwë then said.

“Nor will I here,” Manwë replied. “Suffice to say that I have my reasons and leave it at that. Now, let us sit. We have much to discuss.” He steered Valandur to a chair, gesturing for him to sit, while he commandeered another chair. Others also found chairs and settees; only Námo remained standing, looking dark and ominous as he surveyed them all. Manwë flashed him a smile. “As long as you’re standing there, Námo, make yourself useful and pour us some wine.”

Námo’s only response was to flick his right hand and suddenly everyone had a goblet in their hands. More than one Elf jumped in surprise, sloshing some of the liquid about. Manwë made a harrumphing sound and Valandur thought he heard him mutter, “I could’ve done that,” before taking a sip, nodding in approval. Valandur glanced at the Lord of Mandos and was surprised to see something of a smug look on his face.

“Now then,” Manwë said, “I think we’re missing someone, or rather two someones, however, we will not bother with them at the moment. Let us address what has been going on here and elsewhere. Everyone has been wondering why we Valar did not immediately deal with the fire that ravaged half of the Southern Fiefdoms. Well, there is a reason for that. We were curious to see what you would do about it and we only stepped in when the fire threatened to engulf the entire region thanks to the fact that certain people refused to listen.”

Manwë did not look at anyone in particular but Valandur noticed both Fëanáro and Ingoldo blushing, though the Noldo appeared more angry than chagrined at Manwë’s words. Manwë appeared unaware or unconcerned as he continued speaking. “The only person who actually listened was Valandur.”

Valandur blinked, trying to assimilate what the Elder King was saying. “My idea of back burning,” he finally said.

Manwë nodded. “Yes, or rather, it was our idea and we gave it to you. We attempted to give it to others, but only you actually acted on the inspiration and by doing so proved to us something we had thought possible but were not sure about.”

“What?” Ingwë asked, looking more puzzled than anything. He gave Valandur a searching look and the loremaster found he had to look away, concentrating on what Manwë was saying.

“We now know that you Eldar are capable of receiving thoughts from us through ósanwë, similar to, though not exactly the same as, the manner in which we Valar bespeak one another. That is a talent that should be developed more fully amongst you. At the same time, the entire affair with the fire and its aftermath proved something else entirely.”

“And what was that?” Finwë asked.

Now Manwë’s expression became graver. “That even living in the light of our benevolence, you Eldar are capable of perfidy amongst yourselves.” Again, he did not look at anyone in particular, taking a sip of his wine.

“You mean the incident over the distribution of the food to the refugees,” Ingwë said.

“I mean a great many things,” Manwë retorted. “That incident is but one example. The way Intarion was treated is another, and then there is Valandur.”

“What about me?” Valandur asked meekly.

Manwë graced him with a look of such love and acceptance that he could barely stand it and had to look away for a moment and catch his breath. Manwë looked around the room, and his tone when he spoke was almost frigid. “It was bad enough that he was treated with contempt and disbelief when he returned here from Alqualondë to the point where I had to have one of my Maiar intervene, but this trial was a farce and you all know it.”

“But that Maia was there impersonating Calandil from the beginning,” Valandur protested.

Manwë gave him a smile. “Yes.”

And that simple affirmation left Valandur without anything more to say. The implications of what that one word meant left him feeling faint all over again and he hastily took a couple of deep sips of the wine to steady him.

“I exonerated him,” Ingwë protested at that point. “Between Olwë and me we proved Valandur was not guilty of anything.”

“And that’s my point,” Manwë said. “Do you think that we would have bothered informing either of you of what was happening, inspiring you to come here in time to prevent a miscarriage of justice?”

The expressions of confusion on the faces of the others mirrored the confusion Valandur felt, trying to decipher what the Elder King was actually saying.

“Lord Ulmo told me about the fire,” Olwë said, “but you’re saying that wasn’t the reason you wanted me to be here? Then the fire was just an excuse on your part?”

“No, Olwë, it wasn’t,” Manwë assured him. “However, we figured that Finwë would have sent messengers to you both to alert you to what was happening, only he didn’t, for whatever reason.”

“I would’ve sent messengers eventually,” Finwë insisted. “I wanted to wait until I had a full report so that they had all the information that I had and not rumors and innuendos.”

“And that is commendable on your part, Finwë,” Manwë stated, “but we… um… saw what was going to happen afterwards, or rather, Námo did.”

Valandur was not the only one to glance up at the Lord of Mandos standing silently, listening to the conversation. The Vala had a faintly amused look on his face and his slate grey eyes sparkled with humor, which surprised Valandur.

“You Children do not fully comprehend Námo’s role among us,” Manwë said. “He is more than the Lord of Mandos, and even there you do not understand what that truly means. Perhaps you should explain.” He addressed this to his fellow Vala.

For a moment Námo did not speak, and when he did, his dark, melodious voice sent shards of ice through Valandur’s fëa and fire through his veins and he had to stop himself from gasping.

“I see further into the history of this world than most, save perhaps Manwë,” the Vala said. “I told the Elder King that you, Ingwë, and you, Olwë, needed to be in Tirion soon to prevent a wrong against innocents.”

“Before it happened,” Ingwë said, looking doubtful. Valandur knew the feeling.

“You have to understand something,” Manwë explained. “We Valar, because we existed before Time, are not entirely bound to it, and so we can see somewhat into the future and we saw what would occur with Valandur or rather that there was a strong possibility it would occur.”

“But only a strong possibility, not a certainty,” Finwë stated.

“The future is constantly in flux,” Námo said. “Free will rules all and because we had nothing to do with your coming into being, we have little control over you and your actions. Yet, in every… um… scenario, you might say, I saw Valandur and Intarion being tried before your court, Finwë, on charges stemming from hatred toward the Vanyar rather than from any actual evidence of wrongdoing on their part.” Námo glanced at Fëanáro who blanched and started to give an angry retort, perhaps of denial, perhaps of something else, but Finwë stopped him with a look and the prince subsided, silently seething.

“And I admit that I allowed my own prejudices to rule me in this,” Finwë said.

“And recognizing your prejudice and admitting to it is also commendable on your part, Finwë,” Manwë said, “but you are still reluctant to admit that your daughter loves Valandur and he loves her. There is no reason to deny the match that we can see.”

“Except that Findis is nobly born and Valandur, while an estimable ellon in many ways, is not. He’s a loremaster.”

Fëanáro snorted in derision at that and sneered but otherwise kept silent. Valandur noticed Ingwë and Olwë both frowning. The other Elves seemed equally divided in their opinions based on their reactions. Calandil actually bristled at the implied insult and even Intarion looked pained, but they wisely remained silent.

“Yes, he is,” Manwë responded, “and a very good one in spite of other people’s opinions. In fact, I have every intention of naming him a Manwendur, though not immediately; he still has some growing up to do before I admit him into my service.”

Valandur blinked, staring at the Elder King in stupefaction, unable to believe his ears. He, a Manwendur? It had never crossed his mind to think he could ascend to such a lofty position. He had thought just becoming a loremaster achievement enough. He noticed that only Ingwë, Olwë, Intarion, Calandil and Morion actually appeared pleased by the news, the two kings having almost identical proud looks on their faces, much like his parents had whenever he or his sisters did something praiseworthy. The reactions of the others ranged from varying degrees of disbelief (Fëanáro, Finwë, Ingoldo and Tinwetariel) to grudging respect (the younger Vanyar).

“How does his entering your service make him any more acceptable to me as a husband to Findis, though?” Finwë demanded. “He will still be baseborn.” Fëanáro nodded in agreement, casting a look of disgust mingled with triumph at Valandur, who studiously ignored the prince.

Ingwë’s and Olwë’s expressions mutated to ones of exasperation and disgust at the obstinacy of their fellow ruler. Námo raised an eyebrow, while Manwë frowned as he responded to Finwë’s words. “Baseborn, you say? And who decided that? Certainly not Ilúvatar, or any of the Valar. You are all of equal status in our eyes. The very least of you is no less precious to us than you are Finwë and we accord the same respect to the child born yesterday that we give to the eldest of you.” He nodded at Ingwë. “While we recognize your need for rulers, we do not necessarily see you as any better or worse than the next Elda. Your argument is rather specious to my mind.”

“Even if what you say is true, Findis is much too young to be marrying anyone,” Finwë countered and Valandur had to admire his courage (or stupidity) in contradicting the Elder King.

“Yet, not too young that you wanted her to marry one of my sons,” Olwë retorted.

Finwë turned to him with a scowl. “In due time. Why do you think I did not approach you before this? She’s too young to be thinking of marrying anyone. She has her studies to complete. I figured in another yén or three you and I would sit down and discuss it.”

“Findis may be over young to be considering marriage at this point, but that does not mean that she doesn’t know her own heart and if her heart is set on Valandur, all the negotiating in the world won’t do you a bit of good, Finwë,” Ingwë said, giving Valandur a smile.

“But in the end, he will still be just a loremaster,” Finwë insisted, “and she can do better than that.”

Valandur sighed and stood up. “I’m sure she could, Your Majesty. I love your daughter and I believe she loves me, but you are correct about one thing. Whatever Lord Manwë may say to the contrary, I am just a loremaster and a junior one at that. It will be many long years before I even acquire senior status among the masters. All I can give Findis is my love, but that is apparently not enough. So be it. I’m tired of all this… pettiness. Ingoldo thinks I was sent to spy on him for his brother, while Fëanáro thinks that only he is worthy of the title loremaster and you are so concerned about the honor of your House that you would see someone like Intarion be brought up on false charges just to get to me.” He turned to Ingwë whose expression was unreadable. “You will have my report when we return to Vanyamar, but from this moment on, I wash my hands of all of you.”

He turned to Manwë and gave him a bow, then, ignoring the rest of them, he made his way to the door and flung it open, only to be stopped by Lady Vairë who apparently had been in the process of knocking. He stepped back in surprise.

“Oh, here you are, dear, good as new,” she said with a smile, as she came inside and handed him his robe. There was no sign of any rips and it had obviously been cleaned.

“Ah, thank you,” he muttered, clutching the robe.

Vairë just nodded, her attention on Námo, and in spite of his own misery, Valandur couldn’t help noticing the looks of love the two exchanged and found himself feeling breathless at the sight.

“Are you done with my husband, Manwë?” Vairë asked, never taking her eyes off Námo who held up a hand toward her and she in turn raised hers, their palms barely touching.

“Yes, my dear,” Manwë answered with an indulgent smile. “You are both free to go.”

“We’ll be on Nasarphelun climbing Dáhanigwishtelgun if you need us,” Námo said, never taking his eyes off Vairë.

“Climbing?” Manwë asked with a raised eyebrow.

Námo gave him a glance, a rather knowing smile on his face. “We’re not in any hurry.” Vairë actually giggled.

“Ah,” was Manwë’s only comment and then there was a flash of multi-colored lights and when Valandur could see again, the Lord of Mandos and the Weaver of Arda were gone. Valandur stood there feeling bemused and the other Elves appeared to be feeling the same. Manwë chuckled and shook his head. “Newlyweds.”

“Excuse me?” Ingwë asked, fairly goggling at the Elder King.

“Hmm? Oh, Námo and Vairë, they’re still rather young, you see, only having been espoused rather recently,” Manwë explained.

“How recent?” Ingwë asked.

“Oh, a little more than seven yéni, I think. Yes, that sounds about right.” He stood and everyone else followed. “Well, I have nothing more to say to any of you. I have done what I could. The rest is up to you.” He turned to Valandur, giving him a warm smile. “We will talk later, you and I.” And then he was gone, leaving the Elves to themselves.

****

Manwendur: Servant of Manwë, a title given to individuals and families who take service with Manwë and are taught by him. Cf. the attested Aulendur, a title given to those in service with Aulë.

Nasarphelun: (Valarin) Mars (see Wars of the Valar).

Dáhanigwishtelgun: Apparently the Valarin name for Taniquetil, but in this instance, a reference to Olympus Mons on Mars.

Note: Seven yéni is equal to 1,008 solar years. The Elves awoke in Cuiviénen in YT 1050. Námo and Vairë were married in YT 1080 (based on my timeline established in Wars of the Valar), thus they have been married for almost 1,054 solar years.