118: Breakfast at the Encampment

Glorfindel, Finrod and Amarië reached the encampment to find everyone sitting in the pavilion, that is, everyone except the three kings. There were quiet greetings when they arrived and everyone was subdued.

“Where’s Ingwë?” Glorfindel asked as he took a seat but declined the wine that was offered.

“Not to mention my atar and anatar,” Finrod added, as he saw Amarië seated before taking his own chair and accepting a goblet of hot spiced wine.

“And why are you all sitting around as if at a funeral?” Glorfindel continued the questioning.

“Do you know what has happened?” Celeborn asked. “We have tried to get answers but none of the Maiar will deign to show themselves and explain, and the kings are sleeping, or so I hope.”

“Oh?” Finrod said. “Something you would like to tell us?”

“Ingwë broke down,” Vorondur said quietly. “It was inevitable. Apparently the sight of Daeron dying reminded him of his own son. Olwë and Arafinwë went with him to talk things over between them as fathers who have lost children. I went to check on them a while ago and the guard in front of Arafinwë’s tent refused to let me in, but I could hear soft breathing, so I have to assume they are sleeping.”

“Hmph,” Glorfindel muttered. “Well, luckily, we can tell you everything that’s happened as we just finished speaking with Liam and he was involved with the incident here on campus.”

“So what did happen?” Tristan ap Hywel demanded. “Is it always this exciting around you people? I don’t recall it being so exciting when our families were here.”

“Yes, the Mortals back then were far more respectful of us,” Iseult said with a sniff. “They knew their place. These people apparently don’t.”

 “Mam’s on her high horse again,” Gwyn muttered to his brother, who nodded but did not comment.

“I’m just saying—” Iseult started to say but Glorfindel interrupted her.

“Well we can certainly have a nice discussion about where Mortals belong in the grand scheme of things, or I can tell you what happened…Your choice.” And there was no levity in his tone.

“You tell them, Loren,” Amroth said with a laugh. “Now stop acting so lordly and tell us what’s been going on. We know about Edhellond and we’re glad to hear that Daeron is out of danger, but we would like to know what the ruckus was on campus. I do not know why the Maiar are so reluctant to tell us.”

“As to that, I cannot say,” Glorfindel admitted, “but the long and the short of it is, Elf Academy was a target. Some people attempted to blow it up. They failed and are now under arrest. It appears that the attacks on Edhellond and on Elf Academy were coordinated attempts. Ultimately, had they succeeded, they would have attacked here with the intention of killing anyone they found. Of course, being the idiots that they are, they did not take into account the Maiar, or if they did, they did not understand their role in all this, which is to protect us.”

There was a long silence as everyone contemplated Glorfindel’s words. “And yet, one must ask: protect us for how long?” Vorondur commented. “They are here primarily because of the kings. Up to now, we’ve only known of two who have been keeping watch over Wiseman as a whole, Fionwë and Olórin. Once you of Valinor leave, I am assuming the Maiar will leave as well.”

“Which brings up another concern,” Finrod said, joining the conversation. “What happens when we are attacked again? And let us be brutally honest here: we will be attacked again. What happens then? Will any of the Maiar show up to save us? What happens when one of us is shot or otherwise injured unto death? Will Lord Námo or any of the other Valar heal us as Daeron was healed tonight?”

“You were the one to use a Song of Power, Finrod,” Glorfindel pointed out. “Lord Námo merely lent his strength.”

“And that’s my point,” Finrod retorted. “He did so at the behest of the One, but what about next time? I do not like the implications of what is happening. You are right, Vorondur, tonight sets a dangerous precedent for us all.”

“So, you’re saying, Daeron should have died?” Elrohir asked in disbelief.

“No, I am saying that it is likely that without Lord Námo backing up my power, I may not have succeeded in saving Daeron. If that had happened, it would have been tragic, but I would have known that I did my very best to save him and everyone else would have recognized that. That I failed would be sad but every healer loses a patient now and again. It is inevitable and nothing for which one has to be ashamed. But the next time something like this happens, I cannot expect such help from the Valar, indeed I do not want to depend on it. Vorondur is correct in wondering to what extent the Maiar working tonight as they did damages our own reputations in the eyes of the Mortals who are our friends. Will they expect divine help in all things now? And when it does not manifest itself, will they abandon us?”

“Mortals are not that fickle, Finrod,” Vorondur said, “and most will recognize that tonight is a special case with the election and all. Perhaps, with the Maiar involved as they were, word will get around to certain circles that divine help is there for us. It does not actually have to exist; it merely has to be seen as a possibility, in which case, people who are prone toward violence may rethink their policies and back down on their campaign of hate, not wanting to be on the wrong end of the Maiar’s wrath.”

“We can only hope,” Amroth said with a sigh. “But I agree with what you are saying, Finrod. Once the kings are gone and the Maiar with them, we may be in a worse situation than we were before.”

“Or you may be in a better one.”

They all looked around to see Olórin in his “Oliver” disguise, standing at the pavilion’s entrance, hands in his cardigan sweater, smiling at them fondly.

“Something you wish to share with us, Ollie?” Glorfindel asked.

“It’s Oliver, Laurefindil, not Ollie,” Olórin shot back, though he appeared more amused than angry as he came all the way in.

“Oh ho, he’s got you there, Brother,” Finrod said with a grin.

“Sorry,” Glorfindel said. “It’s been a bad night.”

“For many,” Olórin said with a nod. “Even now, Dave Michaelson is tearing his hair out wondering where to put nearly sixty people in a jail that is built for only a handful. Even if he sends some over to the sheriff’s station, they’ll still be overcrowded.”

“He’s arrested all of them?” Vorondur asked.

“Well, he’s arrested the men. He’s allowed the women to go home, at least those with children, but they’ve been warned not to attempt to flee. And while there is no truth to his statement, he intimated that we Maiar are on the watch and will stop anyone who does try to run away.”

“He’s put the fear of God in them, and they all believe him because they all were witnesses to the power of the Maiar,” Vorondur stated.

“Exactly,” Olórin allowed, looking not a little smug, taking the chair that Olwë generally sat in. “Even now, the rumors are flying and questions are being asked. There will be a newscast about what happened in a short bit.”

“But there were no outside witnesses, were there?” Tristan asked. “I mean, you didn’t have the newsies hanging about filming the action, so whatever those who were involved have to say about it is circumstantial.”

“True, but that does not mean that there weren’t outside witnesses,” the Maia stated, “only that those involved were unaware of them. In both situations, the action was filmed and the film has found its way to the good people at KWTV who will be very happy to air it. The people of Wiseman will awaken with a whole new understanding of who and what we Maiar are.”

“Yet, the question remains,” Glorfindel said. “What happens when most of you are gone back to Valinor? What happens the next time we’re attacked or one of us is gravely injured, or, even worse, when one of our Mortal friends is killed and everyone starts asking why that person wasn’t saved the way Daeron was? What happens then when our allies abandon us because they think that, as far as the Powers That Be are concerned, the only ones worth saving are us Elves and the Mortals can bloody well look after themselves?”

Silence, deep and thick, followed as the Elves waited for the Maia’s response. Olórin, for his part, did not look overly upset by Glorfindel’s questions. Instead, he fished about the pockets of his cardigan, pulling out a long-stemmed pipe from one of them and everyone watching wondered where he had put it. The Maia snapped his fingers and flames sprouted from their tips as he puffed on the pipe and sweet-smelling smoke rose in the air. “Ah, that’s better,” he said with a look of satisfaction as he leaned back in the chair.

“You’ll rot your lungs,” Glorfindel said with a smile.

“I doubt it,” Olórin shot back. “Now, to answer your question: Nothing.”

“Excuse me?” Glorfindel gave him a nonplused look.

“You wondered what would happen the next time and the answer is: Nothing. Nothing will happen, or rather, it will happen but not necessarily in the way you or anyone else expects.”

“Well, that clears it up,” Finrod said in a tone that meant just the opposite.

Olórin laughed, then took a puff or two on his pipe before speaking again. “What I mean is, that, whether there are a hundred Maiar hanging about or just one, the end result will be the same.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me,” Glorfindel admitted.

“You’re not the only one,” Vorondur said and there were nods all around.

Olórin sighed a little. “Children, children, you are not paying attention. What happened tonight was a show of force for the benefit of the Secondborn, but any one of the Maiar could have handled either situation on his or her own. You do not truly comprehend the fullness of our powers because we have been very careful not to show them to you. I can, if I wish, destroy all of Wiseman with a single thought or single out a particular part of the population upon which to wreak destruction. That is true with any of the Maiar, we who fought against Melkor and his minions between the stars before Arda was ever created. Did you think that the stories about a single angel destroying an entire army were merely fanciful tales told by credulous Mortals?”

Without another word, he stood and walked out of the pavilion, fading into the brightening day, leaving the Elves sitting there stunned. It was several minutes before anyone ventured to speak.

“He said there would be a newscast,” Tristan said. “Perhaps we should go back to Edhellond and check the telly.”

Glorfindel pulled out his phone and speed-dialed a number. “Gil, Loren. We’ve been told that KWTV has footage about what happened. Check the TV and tape the news for us, will you?... I have no idea… we’ll be along later. Thanks.” He closed down the phone, shoving it back into his pocket. “Gil’s going to tape it for us,” he said somewhat unnecessarily.

One of the servants entered the pavilion, announcing that, for any who wished, breakfast was being served. In minutes, those in the pavilion were sitting at picnic tables enjoying bacon and eggs. As they were eating, Ingwë, Arafinwë and Olwë joined them.

“How are you feeling, Uncle?” Finrod asked solicitously as servants went about filling plates for the kings.

“I am thinking of cutting our visit short,” Ingwë replied as he accepted a plate from a servant.

“Cut it short? Why?” Celeborn asked. “We’ve only just arrived and Eärendil is not expecting us for another eight days.”

“I am sure one of the Maiar could inform the Mariner of our wish to leave and see that he comes sooner,” Ingwë replied. “As it is, we would need to leave soon enough if we wish to be back at the lake on time.”

“We can get you there in about five hours, Ingwë,” Glorfindel said dismissively. “You won’t have to walk all the way there. We wouldn’t even need to leave until the day of your departure and still have you at the lake before Eärendil arrives, so time is not a factor. Why do you really want to leave? You were planning to hold a summit meeting with the Mortals to discuss the Dagor Dagorath. Why the sudden change in plans?”

Ingwë did not speak for a moment, concentrating on his breakfast. Neither Arafinwë nor Olwë commented, both looking stony-faced. Glorfindel exchanged a meaningful glance with Finrod, who nodded slightly.

“It’s because of Daeron, isn’t it?” Glorfindel said. “It’s because you’ve decided that because a handful of Mortals attacked us, then all Mortals are our enemies and you want nothing to do with them.”

“I don’t—”

“No, Ingwë. Don’t lie, least of all to me,” Glorfindel demanded, getting angry. “Sixty-odd people display remarkable stupidity in their hatred for us and you condemn the five thousand other residents of Wiseman because of it? You’ve been here for less than a week and you’re passing judgment on people you don’t even know?”

“I know our history with respect to Endórë,” Ingwë retorted. “I know about the betrayals wrought by the Secondborn.”

“And what of the betrayals of the Firstborn?”

They all turned around to see Alex standing there, giving them a cold look.

“Where did you come from?” Glorfindel asked, more in surprise than in anger.

“Heard the news,” Alex replied. “Called Edhellond to make sure everyone was okay and was told you were here. I have to proctor an exam in a couple of hours anyway, so I decided to come out early and check up on you. Overheard part of the conversation. So, if I understand you correctly, you-all want to hightail it back to Vala-la-land, as Derek likes to call it?”

Several eyebrows rose and Gareth was heard to snicker and whisper to his brother “Vala-la-land… I love it.” Gwyn just nodded, looking highly amused.

Glorfindel shook his head. “Not all of us, of course,” he said, suppressing a smile. “I certainly have no intention of leaving. What about you, Finrod?”

Finrod shook his head. “My life is here now, but if any wish to return to Aman that is their right.” He looked at Amarië as he said this, giving her an enquiring look.

She shook her head, giving him a smile. “I do not wish to leave thee, my husband. Whither thou goest, I will go.” Finrod smiled back and they kissed one another lightly on the lips.

“Well, that’s okay then,” Alex said.

“Have you had breakfast?” Glorfindel asked.

“Actually, no,” Alex admitted. “Barely grabbed a cup of coffee when I heard the news.”

“Well, why don’t you join us? You said you have to be on campus later?”

“Yeah, but not for a couple more hours, thanks.” With that he sidled onto a bench next to Finrod who moved over a bit to give him some room. Glorfindel gestured to one of the servants who went and filled another trencher and placed it before Alex along with a goblet of water, which he preferred over the wine that was offered. After a couple of bites, he looked up at Ingwë who sat across from him.

“You didn’t answer my question: what about the betrayals of the Firstborn? Do you think you’re so lily-white that you can throw stones at the rest of us?”

“I do not appreciate your tone,” the High King said somewhat haughtily.

“Tough,” Alex rejoined with a shrug as he speared some bacon on his fork. “I don’t appreciate you lumping all of us Secondborn in the same mudhole. I could do the same. Hey! Any race that can give the world people like Fëanor and his sons, or Maeglin or Eöl have to be pretty bad apples, wouldn’t you say? Can’t trust those pointy-eared little buggers for nothing. Why should we Mortals side with them in this war when we all know we’re just so much cannon fodder and no one’s going to cry over our mangled bodies?” He gave them a sneer. “You see, it works both ways.”

“You are wrong, though,” Finrod said quietly.

“Of course I’m wrong,” Alex retorted. “And so is he and you know it,” he pointed at Ingwë.

“It does not matter,” Ingwë said stiffly. “We would be leaving soon enough anyway. I have decided there is no purpose in speaking with any Mortal. Those of us who remain behind are capable of coordinating with them. Once back in Valinor we will have no further congress with any of you.”

“You think?” Alex shot back. “How do you others feel about that? Celeborn, Turgon? Do you plan to sit pretty in Aman making your little plans without a thought about those of us holding the fort here?”

“And do you see yourself that important, Alex Grant?” Turgon asked, his tone one of curiosity rather than belligerence.

“Important?” Alex shrugged. “Depends on your definition, Turgon. We are all important to the One, as you call Him. I know that as a matter of fact. Whether any of us are important to each other is a matter for debate. Ingwë obviously doesn’t think we Mortals are all that important. He claims to know the history of the relations between the Firstborn and Secondborn, but he is forgetting that we Secondborn have always put ourselves on the line for you people.”

He looked at Glorfindel. “How many of the Edain died in the Nirnaeth just so you Elves could escape to Gondolin?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned his attention to Celeborn and Galadriel. “How many died at the Mouths of Sirion because they were harboring Elwing and the Silmaril?” Then he looked at Finrod. “Why did Barahir and his men risk their lives to rescue you when you were surrounded? Where were your own people?”

“Barahir owed allegiance to me,” Finrod said softly.

“And the Elves of Nargothrond didn’t?” Alex retorted, unconvinced. “Let me ask you this: If it had been Barahir who was cut off from the army and surrounded, would you have gone to his rescue? Would any of you?” He glanced around the tables.

Surprisingly, both Gwyn and Gareth raised their hands. “Oh?” Alex said.

“Yes, oh,” Gwyn rejoined. “Gareth and I fought in the Crusades for over a hundred years. We often ended up rescuing our fellow warriors and they were indeed our fellow warriors, companions-in-arms. One or two we even considered our gwedyr.”

“Well, you’re not the only one to do something like that,” Vorondur said. “I’m sure any of us who have remained here can say the same.”

“Probably,” Alex admitted, “but what about back then, back in the First Age?” He looked at Arafinwë. “I understand you were in the War of Wrath, sir.”

The Noldóran gave him a surprised look but nodded.

“How many Men died for you?”

“That is an impertinent question, Alex,” Finrod stated, giving his atar a sympathetic look. “You do not have the right to ask such a question of any of us.”

“What about this question, then: How many Elves survived because Mortals were willing to give up their lives for them?”

“What exactly is your point, Alex?” Vorondur asked in a tone that was not confrontational, though there was an edge to it.

“My impression is that Elves do a sort of cost-benefit analysis when it comes to the Secondborn. They always seem to be asking themselves what is the risk worth in fighting with and for the Mortals. Is it really worth an immortal life?”

“I gave up my life for a Mortal,” Finrod said softly, his expression one of pain. Amarië wrapped her arms around him, giving him a hug.

“Yes, I know,” Alex said, his tone more gentle than it had been. “But frankly, Finrod, I think you’re somewhat unique among the Eldar. And here’s the thing: You people can’t really die.”

“Excuse me?” Glorfindel said, raising an eyebrow. “I beg to differ.” And all those there who were Reborn nodded in agreement.

“What I mean is, you die and then you’re alive again. Maybe it takes a few centuries or millennia but eventually you get your life back and you go on your merry way. We Mortals don’t have that. We die. Period. There’s no coming back for us. Our lives are not temporarily interrupted by Death; it’s a permanent state for us. You would think then that we Mortals would make sure we weren’t on the front lines in this coming war, but that’s not the case. Whether we fight or not, the end result is the same: we will die. At some point in time, we will die. That’s a given. The only thing we have control over is deciding what we will be doing when we do die. And most of us will decide that if we’re going to die anyway, we might as well do it for a good cause and make sure we take as many of the opposition with us when we go. So, you see, Ingwë, you have no right to dismiss us. We have a helluva lot more to lose in all of this than any of you immortals. But we’re willing to play the game. The question remains: are you?”

“He’s right, Uncle, and you know it,” Arafinwë said. “Olwë and I both told you that dismissing the Secondborn from our calculations was a mistake.”

“I can understand you saying so, Arafinwë,” Ingwë rejoined, “but I am surprised you agree with him, Olwë. You have no more experience with the Secondborn than I.”

Olwë shrugged. “But I have spent time watching their television programs, listening to their music, trying to see the world through their eyes, and I have to tell you, Ingwë, that some of what I have seen and heard is appalling, but much of it has been fascinating and illuminating. I listened to the tales about life here from Eärendil, Elwing and Elu, as well as from others, especially those who had dealings with the Secondborn, and the Mortals of today are nothing like them, or perhaps they are like them, but they have gone their own way, found their own destinies without us leading the way. We do not have to agree with them, but we do have to respect the fact that they are worthy of our consideration, if only because, like us, they, too, are Eruhíni.”

For a long moment, no one spoke, all waiting for Ingwë’s response. The High King sat there staring at his lap, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment he looked up at Alex.

“You are a most annoying child,” he said.

“Child, is it?” Alex retorted mildly. “Ingwë no child has done the things I’ve done. I may not have your years or experience, but, as we say, I wasn’t born yesterday either. You need to see us as the responsible adults that we are and treat us accordingly or you’re going to find yourself without any allies or even friends. If people like Glorfindel and Finrod can respect us — hell! If the Valar and Maiar are willing to treat us with respect — how can you do any less?”

“In what way did the Maiar treat those who attempted to attack us with respect?” Ingwë asked.

“They didn’t incinerate the fools on the spot, but turned them over to the police, allowing mortal law precedence over divine judgment,” Glorfindel answered before Alex could respond.

Ingwë nodded and sighed. “Perhaps you are right, Alex Grant,” he said.

“As my students know by now, I am always right,” Alex said with a wide grin and some of the Elves sniggered at that, though Vorondur was seen rolling his eyes.

Ingwë snorted in amusement. “Thank you, my young friend. I think my expectations concerning you Secondborn were perhaps unrealistic.”

Alex nodded. “Theory rarely coincides with reality.”

“Yes, you are correct, there,” Ingwë allowed. “Very well. We will keep to our original schedule.” He looked over at Glorfindel. “Perhaps you could arrange for a meeting with whomever you think we should meet.”

“Not a problem,” Glorfindel said.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled,” Alex said, checking his phone for the time and rising. “Hate to leave the party, but I need to get going. Oh, Ron, I only found out last night that I have to proctor an exam Friday afternoon so I’m not going to be able to make it to our regular session.”

Vorondur nodded. “That’s fine. We’ll meet next week. If you need to see me before then, just call.”

“Okay, thanks. Oh, before I forget, my mom was wondering if you had an extra copy of the Sindarin primer. I’d give her mine, but I’m still using it for my own studies. She said she’d pay for it.”

 “That’s not a problem,” Glorfindel said. “I’ll see that she gets a copy before she leaves. How is she doing, anyway? She will be leaving on the weekend, right?”

“Yeah, Andy’s driving her down to Fairbanks on Friday as they’ll be catching planes around the same time on Saturday.” Alex paused, giving them a conspiratorial smile. “You didn’t hear it from me and I don’t think Derek realizes it, but I think my mom and Andy have… um… come to an understanding.”

“Oh?” Elrohir said with a grin as he put an arm around Serindë. “Well, we hope it works out for them.” Several of the others, most notably those Elves who had made Middle-earth their home, nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, me too,” Alex said. “Okay. See you all later. Thanks for the breakfast.” He gave them a wave as he headed off; everyone wishing him a good day.

For a time afterwards, the Elves sat in silence, waiting for Ingwë, who was deep in thought, to speak. Finally, he looked up. “A most remarkable young man.”

“You mean, arrogant, rude and totally clueless about propriety with respect to addressing royalty,” Glorfindel retorted.

“That, too,” Ingwë said.

“Sounds familiar,” Arafinwë said, giving Glorfindel a knowing smile. “Reminds me of you when you first came to live with us.”

“You should have seen him when he first came to my court,” Ingwë said with a chuckle. “I don’t know what was funnier, him glowering at me and being insulting, or my courtiers gaping at him in disbelief at his rudeness.”

“I wasn’t that rude,” Glorfindel insisted, giving them a disdainful sniff. “Just rude enough.”

And several of them, including Ingwë, started laughing.