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Elf Academy 3: The Enemy Within  by Fiondil

94: Family Ties

It took them several minutes to revive Tristan as well as to clear up the mess on the floor, for when Tristan fainted, he took his own mug of tea and plate of soda bread with him. Námo stood by and watched as Gwyn, Glorfindel and Daeron dealt with Tristan while Helyanwë and Melyanna went to Iseult to see how she was doing. Finrod, like Námo, just stood by, watching. Gareth set about trying to get the stains out of the carpet using a wet towel.

“Leave it,” Námo told the younger ap Hywel brother. “One of Vairë’s handmaids can deal with it. Let’s see to your parents.”

“Did you do that on purpose, Lord?” Finrod couldn’t help asking.

Námo smiled. “I do everything on purpose, Findaráto. You should know that by now.”

Before Finrod could offer a retort, Tristan gave out a soft moan as he came back to consciousness.

“Easy now,” Glorfindel said solicitously. “Take it slow. Everything’s all right.”

“Da, are you okay?” Gwyn asked anxiously, helping his father to sit up more comfortably.

Tristan didn’t answer, merely blinking owlishly at them for a minute before his gaze shifted to where Námo still stood, watching them all with amused benevolence. Tristan struggled out of the couch, the others standing back to give him room, then he stepped over toward Námo, tentatively stretching out a hand and touching the Vala on the chest with a single digit, pushing slightly.

“You… you’re real,” he said in a near-frightened whisper.

“Da, if you faint again, I swear I’ll leave you on the floor,” Gwyn exclaimed in disgust.

“Now, Gwyn, don’t dis your dad,” Námo said mildly, speaking English rather than Sindarin.

“Nice alliteration,” Glorfindel couldn’t help saying, giving the Vala a cheeky grin.

Námo returned his smile with one of his own.

“But how can you be real?” Tristan exclaimed, sounding both confused and affronted.

Námo gave the ellon a sympathetic look. “You’ve bought in on some of the views of your Mortal colleagues who believe that all that you see around you was brought forth by a series of random and blind accidents, rather than from the mind of a Creator, Glambîn.”

“Who?” just about everyone exclaimed.

Námo smiled. “Well, that is your name, isn’t it? Tristan means ‘little tumult’. I just gave it in Sindarin.”

“I think I like Tristan better,” Finrod said with a faint smile, “even if it isn’t Elvish.”

“That isn’t really your name, though, is it Da?” Gareth asked, sounding almost shocked.

Tristan gave his youngest son a disgusted look. “Of course not! Why would you think my parents would ever give me such an ugly name?”

“You’ve never told us what your Elvish name was,” Gwyn pointed out, “neither you nor Mam, so how would we know?”

“Who are you, Da?” Gareth demanded. “Who are you really, you and Mam? Why this reluctance to tell us?”

Now Tristan’s expression turned more solemn. Iseult remained seated where she was, refusing to speak. “You have to realize something, the both of you,” Tristan finally said. “Your mother and I have had so many names down the ages as we drifted from one mortal society to another, sometimes having to hide our true identities, sometimes not. It depended on the society in which we found ourselves. When we finally reached Britain and made our way into what is now present-day Wales, we decided, for better or for worse, that we would remain there. We wished to have a family, but until we decided to settle permanently in one place, we thought it was unfair to have any children added to our house.”

“It was only after we had been living in Wales for about fifty years or so that we decided to start a family,” Iseult interjected. “By then we had decided on our own names. The story of Tristan and Iseult was newly minted, based on older legends, and we decided to adopt their names for ourselves.”

“And I chose ap Hywel as our patronymic because I had befriended a Mortal, Hywel ap Daffyd, an old man, a widower actually, who had lost his only child, a son, some years before. Hywel pretty much adopted your mother and me when we found ourselves in straiten conditions and when he died a few years later, he left us his cottage and land, the very cottage you two were born in.”

“Who were your parents?” Glorfindel asked after a moment. “Will you not tell us? We know you came from the Zagros Mountains and we have some who also resided there. They may even know you or at least know of you.”

Tristan and Iseult exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them, but in the end, Iseult shook her head and Tristan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I think we will not speak of it yet,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Finrod replied. “When you are ready, you will tell us. In the meantime, perhaps we can concentrate on other matters.” He turned to Námo, giving him a slight bow. “My Lord Námo, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Námo gave him a sardonic look. “Studiously polite as always, Findaráto, when what you are actually thinking, to put it in the vernacular of the Mortals of this day, is ‘What the hell does he want now?’”

Glorfindel and Daeron actually burst out laughing, while the two ellith attempted to hide their giggles behind their hands. After a shocked moment, Finrod allowed himself a smile. The ap Hywels just goggled at them all in disbelief.

“He’s got you there, Finrod,” Glorfindel said when he had calmed down a bit, “because I’m thinking the same thing.”

The Lord of Mandos actually smirked and then much to the amazement of the ap Hywels and Daeron — the other Elves didn’t even blink — a richly carved cherry wood chair, that stopped just shy of being a throne, appeared and Námo sat in it. Glorfindel’s amused expression turned into a scowl.

“So, are we on trial here?” he demanded.

Námo raised an eyebrow. “Trial? No. No one’s on trial. I just prefer to sit and have a little… chat, as among friends.”

“Do you even have any?” Finrod asked with a quirk of his lips.

Even Glorfindel looked shocked at the question and a couple of the others took a step or two back as if hoping not to be in the line of fire when the dread Doomsman of Aman incinerated the prince. Námo, for his part, sat back in his chair and gave them a thin smile.

“Well, I admit I don’t have too many, but some of us aren’t as… um… outgoing as others. Now enough about me. Sit and make yourselves comfortable.” For a moment, none of them moved, but then Finrod nodded and retook his seat and the others followed. “Good. Now let’s talk about the reason for my being here, specifically, to address Tristan’s and Iseult’s reluctance to believe that you are who you say you are.” He nodded toward Finrod, Glorfindel and Daeron. “Oh, before I forget, I have something for you, Glorfindel.”

He held out a hand and a piece of parchment rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon appeared. He handed it to a bemused Glorfindel who unrolled the parchment and began reading, suddenly breaking out in laughter as he handed the parchment to Finrod to read. Finrod glanced at what was written and chuckled.

“What’s it say?” Gareth couldn’t help asking, sounding both curious and impatient at the same time. “What’s so funny?”

“Let your father read it,” Glorfindel said and Finrod dutifully handed the parchment to Tristan, who took it somewhat gingerly, as if afraid that it would bite him. He read silently, first frowning, then they saw his eyes widen.

“So what does it say, Da?” Gwyn asked.

Tristan sighed, giving them a rueful look before reading out loud. “‘To Whom It May Concern: The bearer of this missive is indeed Glorfindel Balrog-Slayer, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, and my vice-gerent in Ennorath. Signed, Manwë, Elder King of Arda and Eru Ilúvatar’s vice-gerent in Eä.’” He passed the parchment to Iseult to read. “I guess we stand corrected.”

Iseult glanced at the parchment and then showed it to Gwyn and Gareth, neither of whom could really read the tengwar but they admired the illuminated ‘númen’ tengwa inside which was depicted a tree under which were two figures, one of them clearly Glorfindel kneeling before the other figure whom they assumed had to be Lord Manwë, with his hands in Manwë’s, so it was clear that the illumination depicted the ellon giving an oath of fealty to the Elder King.

“So why does Loren get a letter of introduction and the rest of us don’t?” Daeron asked, looking miffed.

“You don’t need one, Darren,” Glorfindel said before Námo could reply. “All they have to do is listen to you sing. And Finrod doesn’t need one because he’s Finrod and only a fool would fail to recognize it. I, on the other hand, have no particular talent, other than getting into trouble, and my lineage isn’t nearly as exalted as Finrod’s.”

“You are selling yourself way too short, my brother,” Finrod said.

Glorfindel just shrugged. “Please thank Lord Manwë for me,” he said to Námo politely. “When I get home, I will have it suitably framed and hung where all can see.”

Námo merely nodded.

“So, you really are Glorfindel, the one who slew the balrog?” Tristan asked. “And you really are Aran Finrod of Nargothrond who went on the Quest of the Silmaril with Beren? And you truly are Daeron of Doriath?”

The three ellyn all nodded.

“You have to understand,” Iseult said apologetically. “You’re all just stories to us. It’s like having someone claiming to be, I don’t know, King Arthur returned or something. It’s just too fantastical.”

“It doesn’t make it any less true, though,” Námo said. “You two have spent a lot of effort forgetting you are Elves. Tristan, you have spent the last hundred years convincing yourself that you are just another geek scientist and acting accordingly, while Iseult has been teaching comparative mythology for so long that she has forgotten one simple truth: that all mythologies are based on reality, even the mythology of the Eldar, which she has refused to consider as a legitimate area of study even in private.”

“What would have been the point?” Iseult asked.

“Perhaps none,” Námo allowed. “My point is that you two have refused to give your sons the heritage that is theirs as Elves. Tristan, your great-grandfather Tulcafindil is an honorable ellon with a distinguished career in government service. You have nothing to be ashamed of where he is concerned. The same is true of your family, Iseult. I know that some hurtful things were said between you and we Valar are sorry that you and they parted on such a bitter note, but that does not excuse you denying your own sons a part of their heritage.”

“We were never going to Sail, though,” Tristan said, “so we didn’t see the point of telling them anything about a family they would never meet.”

“Never is a very long time, child,” Námo retorted mildly, “even for us who exist outside Time. Tristan, no one is blaming you and Iseult for your decisions, least of all me. You did what you did to protect yourselves and your sons, and that, indeed, has been the saving of you all, though you little realize it. But the time for secrecy and a refusal to speak about the past is gone. You are about to meet other Elves, some of whom may know you or at least remember your families. You need to start thinking in those terms and you can begin by telling your sons and these others about yourselves.”

Tristan and Iseult looked to each other, silently communicating between them, everyone else waiting respectfully. Finally, Tristan sighed, turning back to Námo. “Where do we even begin?”

“The beginning is a good place to start,” Námo said gently. “Why don’t you begin by introducing yourselves to your sons?”

Tristan nodded, then stood, holding his hand out to Iseult to take, helping her up. Then they faced their sons who were already standing shoulder to shoulder, their expressions almost wary. “Gwyn, Gareth, allow us to introduce ourselves. I am, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was once Merilin Ardamirion, and this is my beloved, Ivorwen Halmiriel.

Gwyn was the first to speak, giving the two a short bow. “I am pleased to meet you, sir, my lady.”

“As am I,” Gareth said, copying his brother.

“Now you see, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Námo said, giving them a benevolent look.

“It was harder than you will ever know, sir,” Tristan said solemnly.

Námo nodded. “Perhaps, but the hard part is over with, is it not? Now, I will leave you.” Námo stood, the chair he had been sitting in disappearing. “You are stepping into a different world, my children, whether you realize it or not. The winds of change are blowing and much that had once been hidden or lost is now coming to light. Do not fear the change, though it may seem terrifying to you, for remember that all is in Eru’s hands and we must trust that He knows what He is about.” He paused for a second, then, turned his amaranthine eyes to Gareth, glinting with a trace of mischief. “And I understand congratulations are in order. Nell is quite the catch.”

And with that he was gone.

Iseult turned to her youngest son, her expression calculating. “What did he mean by that? Who’s Nell? Gareth ap Hywel, is there something you haven’t told us?”

“Well… um… er… a.. ah… funny thing happened while I was… ahem… visiting Wiseman,” Gareth stammered, swallowing and looking both embarrassed and frightened. He gave Finrod and the others a helpless look.

“Oh? How funny?” Tristan asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Hysterical,” Gwyn answered with a sardonic smile. “You may want to be sitting when we tell you the news.”

“Rather pointless,” Glorfindel interjected with a grin, “because as soon as they hear it they’ll be on their feet again yelling at you, Gareth.”

“Who is this Nell?” Iseult demanded.

“My niece, actually,” Finrod answered. “She is Nielluin, the daughter of my sister, Galadriel, and her lord, Celeborn.”

“Oh,” was all Iseult could say, and even Tristan looked momentarily nonplused as the two exchanged glances.

“Well, I am glad you met someone at last, Gareth,” his father said after a moment. “Your mother and I feared that you and Gwyn would never find love while residing here in Middle-earth. There were times over the last few centuries when we seriously considered Sailing just so you and Gwyn could have the chance to meet other ellith and perhaps fall in love.” He paused, giving them all a considering look. “But the way… er… Lord Námo said it, it sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

“Much more,” Finrod said, sighing slightly. “Look at your son, Merilin Ardamirion. Look closely.”

Both Tristan and Iseult stared intently at Gareth while Gwyn put a comforting arm around his brother. Gareth refused to look at anyone. After a long moment, Iseult gasped and Tristan’s eyes widened.

“You’re kidding!” he exclaimed, turning to Finrod. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” Finrod assured them. “You sense it, do you not? The bond is incomplete, for they have yet to consummate their union, but it is there, nonetheless.”

“But how?” Iseult demanded. “How could you let this happen” This last was addressed to Gwyn who scowled at them.

“What do you mean, how could I let this happen? I wasn’t there. I was here, but even if I’d been there, there wouldn’t have been a blessed thing I could do about it. They looked into each other’s eyes and bang! It was done and over with before you could say ‘Mama mía’ from what Gareth has told me. Do. Not. Put. The blame on me, Mother.”

With that, he stormed out of the room, heading for the kitchen. A few seconds later, they heard the back door slam. An awkward silence ensued for a moment before Gareth spoke.

“You’re always blaming Gwyn for everything when most of the time I’m the one who’s caused trouble.”

“He’s the oldest. He should know better,” Tristan replied.

“Know better? Know better?” Gareth almost yelled in his father’s face. “Neither one of us is an elfling and we haven’t been for a very long time. It’s high time you acknowledged that. I certainly didn’t intend to become bonded to Nell, but that isn’t Gwyn’s fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Glorfindel said, stepping between the two ellyn. “You children need to calm down. Yelling at each other solves nothing.”

Both father and son stared at Glorfindel in surprise. Then Gareth said, “Well, I know I’m just a snot-nosed kid in comparison to the rest of you, but Da—”

“Your father is as much a child to me as you, Gareth,” Glorfindel said with a slight smile. “I remember the Two Trees. Now, I suggest you all take a literal step back and a deep breath and let’s talk about this calmly.” He motioned with his hands and Gareth and Tristan actually complied with his demand.

“That’s better. Tristan, Iseult, I realize this has come as a shock to you both. It was a shock to us as well, because that phenomenon hasn’t been seen among us in a very, very long time, but as someone pointed out, Eru will do as He pleases, and He obviously meant for Gareth and Nell to be bonded with one another. That is a given and there is precious little any of us can do about it at this point other than to accept it gracefully and to wish them both well. Now, nothing has been decided yet except that no marriage will take place for at least a year. We planned to draw up a betrothal contract once you got here and we can discuss it over the next couple of days. In the meantime, I think we’ll leave you to yourselves. You have some fence-mending ahead of you with Gwyn.” He gave Tristan and Iseult a significant look and they nodded.

“Good. Gareth, we’re planning to leave for Wiseman around seven tomorrow. Will you be ready?”

“Uh… yeah, no problem. You want to meet us here or—”

“Why don’t we plan to have breakfast at Denny’s?” Daeron suggested and they all agreed to that and a few minutes later, the Wiseman Elves were on their way.

“Whew!” Daeron exclaimed as Glorfindel pulled out of the drive and headed toward the city. “Some rather high emotions there.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel said somewhat distractedly. “So, Finrod, what was that crack you made about Lord Námo not having any friends? That was pretty mean.”

“Hmm? Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know,” Finrod replied, looking somewhat abashed.

“Know what?”

“It is something of an inside joke, as I believe you would say,” Finrod answered. “I was visiting with the Valar in Ilmarin one time and Lord Námo said something in the course of the conversation about enjoying the company of friends. He was referring to me and Ingwion and a few others who were there. Lord Oromë then said, ‘Do you even have any?’ The way he said it and the way he looked at Lord Námo we knew he was jesting, but Lord Irmo pretended to take the question seriously and began counting on his fingers, shaking his head and muttering things like, ‘No, that one doesn’t count’ and ‘Hmm… haven’t seen that one around lately’.” Finrod chuckled as he recalled the scene he was describing and the others grinned.

“That’s when I stepped in and said, ‘I will be your friend if no one else will, my lord,’ and then I stuck my tongue out at Lord Oromë, making a rather rude noise, at which point, everyone started laughing.” He shrugged, giving them an apologetic look.

“Well that clears that up,” Daeron said, then changed the subject. “How do you think things will go with the ap Hywels?”

Glorfindel shrugged as he came to a stoplight and waited for the light to turn. “Neither Tristan nor Iseult is stupid and they obviously love their sons very much. I’m sure they’ll make up with the boys and I’m sure that once we’re in Wiseman, they will meet people they know or who know of them or their families.”

“Valandur will,” Finrod said. “He knows Tulcafindil quite well.”

“You recognized the name,” Glorfindel said, making it more a statement than a question.

Finrod nodded. “Tulcafindil resided in Tirion for a time when he was a member of my cousin Ingwion’s embassy. This was before the Darkening.”

“Oh, yes, I remember when Prince Ingwion came,” Glorfindel said with a nod. “So chances are some of the others, especially the Vanyar among us, will know of Tulcafindil as well. That’s good. That may make it easier for Tristan and Iseult to tell us their stories.”

“Should we not call them by their real names?” Helyanwë asked. “Should we not refer to them as Merilin and Ivorwen?”

“Don’t see why we should bother,” Glorfindel replied with a shrug, pulling into the parking lot for the B & B and bringing the van to a halt. “They think of themselves as Tristan and Iseult. I think we’ll let them decide how they want us to call them. So, we still have a few hours before dinner. What would you like to do?”

“Why don’t we take a walk and enjoy the afternoon?” Daeron suggested.

“Fine by me,” Glorfindel said as they climbed out of the van. “And then where should we have dinner?”

“Let’s play that one by ear,” Daeron replied. “Perhaps we’ll find something along the way.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Glorfindel said, holding out his hand to Helyanwë, giving her a smile. “So, Finrod, pick a direction, any direction.”

Finrod chuckled and without looking pointed with his right hand.

“East it is,” Glorfindel said and they set off to enjoy the city and the afternoon.

****

Names are Sindarin unless otherwise noted:

Glambîn = glam ‘tumult’ + lenited form of pîn ‘little’. Tristan is a variant of Drustan, which is a diminutive of Drust, the name of several Pictish kings.

Merilin: Nightingale; one of several names for this bird.

Ardamirion: (Quenya): Jewel of Arda; -ion: ‘son of’.

Ivorwen: Crystal-maid.

Halmiriel: High or Exalted Jewel; -iel: ‘daughter of’. Could also mean ‘Hidden Jewel’.

Note:

1. Manwë’s illuminated missive begins with the númen tengwa because the first word is _na_ ‘to’.

2. Tulcafindil was a member of Ingwion’s staff in Tirion before the Time of the Darkening. See In Darkness Bound. He would later join the Host of the West to fight in the War of Wrath, remaining for a time in Middle-earth and marrying a Sinda before returning to Aman.





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