The Findaráto Diaries by Fiondil

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Chapter 14: Man Sad Dorthathon?

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14: Man Sad Dorthathon?

The revelation by Ingil that my fate once I left Lórien was still being decided unnerved me and sent me into a state bordering on panic and despair. Where would I go? Did my family not want me? Had I so disappointed them, especially my atar, by defying the Valar as I had? If they did not want me, would I be welcome in Tol Eressëa? And if not, where else could I go? What truly were my options? These questions roiled in my heart night and day and always in the back of my mind was the wish that Glorfindel were there with me, comforting me....

****

"You’ve been moping lately," Eärnur said to Finrod a few days after the incident with the history lecture. They were strolling through the Gardens, taking in the soft summer evening. "What’s wrong?"

Finrod shrugged. "Something Ingil said to me got me thinking, I guess."

"And what exactly did he say?" Eärnur asked.

"It wasn’t what he said, so much as what he implied," Finrod answered.

"And that would be what?" Eärnur enquired, trying not to sound impatient at Finrod’s reluctance to offer details.

Finrod sighed. "The other day with Master Calamírë, Ingil assured the other students that they would find a welcome on Tol Eressëa. When I asked if I would go to Tol Eressëa as well, he said that it hadn’t been decided yet."

"And what implication do you see in his statement?" Eärnur asked.

Finrod stopped and stared at the Teler in surprise. "What do you mean? It is clear that I may not be welcome there or anywhere."

"No, it is not clear," Eärnur retorted firmly. "Ingil merely said that where you go has not been decided, but the question is, who is making the decision?"

Now Finrod looked perplexed. "I don’t understand."

Eärnur gave him a sympathetic look and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "One of the purposes of the Reborn coming to Lórien before returning to Aman or Tol Eressëa is to... hmm... I guess you can say, retrain you in making your own decisions." He held up a hand to forestall whatever Finrod was about to say. "In the Gardens of the Reborn outside Mandos much of your life was circumscribed by what your Maiar attendants told you to do, is that not so?"

Finrod nodded.

"And rightly so," Eärnur said, "for you were new-come to Life again, much like an elfling, and had to relearn many things that you had forgotten from your previous life. But now you are in Lórien, learning to interact with others and to integrate yourself back into elven society. Part of that integration process requires that you begin making your own decisions about your life."

"I guess," Finrod averred somewhat reluctantly, still trying to understand where Eärnur was going with all this.

The Teler smiled. "One of those decisions has to be what you want to do when you leave here," he said. "I’m not talking just about where you will go but also what work you will do. That is the purpose of all these classes. In some cases, a Reborn will simply relearn whatever craft they may have been engaged in before their death, in other cases, especially if they were warriors in their previous life, the Reborn will be retrained in some other craft so they can support themselves."

"And what I decide to do with my life determines where I will go?" Finrod asked, his expression still one of confusion.

"In a way," Eärnur replied. "The Sindar who were in that class have fewer options than you. They may or may not have kinfolk among the Teleri in Alqualondë, but they certainly have family or at least friends among those residing on Tol Eressëa. It is a logical assumption that they will go there rather than anywhere else in Aman. In your case, however, you have other options."

"And they are?"

"You could go to Tol Eressëa if you so choose, or you could return to your family in Tirion."

"Assuming they even want me," Finrod retorted.

Eärnur gave him a surprised look. "And why would they not?"

Finrod shrugged, now feeling unsure. "They may not want me around as a... a reminder of my... rebellion."

Silence filled the space between them, but finally Eärnur sighed. "I do not believe that myself, and neither should you. Your family loves you, I have no doubt, and most likely grieved when told you had died...."

Finrod raised an eyebrow. "Told? They were told?"

Eärnur nodded. "So I understand. Whenever anyone dies, if they have family here in Aman, one of Lord Námo’s Maiar goes to them and informs them that their loved one now resides in Mandos. I have been told by some who have come to Lórien to reclaim their lost kin that the knowledge that one of their family was dead, while heartbreaking, was also hopeful, knowing that eventually that person would be returned to Life. I have no doubt that when you died, a Maia was sent to your atar and amillë with the news. They have had to wait well over five hundred years for your release."

Finrod contemplated this bit of information for a time as they resumed their perambulation. "Yet, what if, in the end, they don’t want me?" he asked plaintively after several minutes of thoughtful silence.

Eärnur only shook his head, not knowing how to answer him. The only thing he could think to do was to put an arm around the ellon’s shoulders in an attempt to give him some comfort.

****

The next morning Eärnur found Finrod at the forge, pounding away at a twisted piece of metal that he recognized as mithril. From the size and shape of it, he didn’t think it was intended to become a horseshoe or even nails, two items that Finrod had mastered in making.

"What are you doing?" he shouted over the din of the hammer striking the heated metal.

"Making a knife," Finrod answered without looking up.

"Lord Aulë’s People are teaching you to make knives now?" Eärnur asked in surprise.

Finrod stopped his pounding to go to the bellows and stoke up the fire, then plunge the metal into it, watching as it heated into incandescence. "No. This is something for me."

"Oh?" Eärnur said. "What do you need a knife for?"

"This is no ordinary knife," Finrod said as he removed the piece of mithril from the fire and returned it to the anvil. "It’s more... ceremonial. I’m not even sure why I’m making it, but I woke early this morning with this sudden need to do so. I didn’t even break my fast but came directly to the forge."

Eärnur nodded. "So Brethorn and Saelmir told me when I checked in on you and found you gone. What kind of ceremony involves a knife?"

Finrod shook his head. "It’s not anything I can easily explain, but it’s something that was important to me from when I was King of Nargothrond."

For a moment Eärnur stood there, watching the ellon ply the hammer with consummate skill and confidence. It was a far cry from when Finrod first came to the forge, barely able to lift even the lightest hammer and use it with any semblance of skill. Now, he was wielding hammers twice as heavy and his strokes were sure.

"Want some help?" he asked suddenly, not sure why he was bothering.

Finrod grinned. "Remove your tabard and outer tunic and put one of the aprons on and you can work the bellows and keep the heat high."

Eärnur quickly doffed his tabard and tunic and was soon seated before the forge, pushing down on the bellows as Finrod had shown him. For several minutes the only sound was the ringing of the hammer on metal. Then, without looking up from his work, Finrod asked a question.

"Did you always want to be a Lóriennildo?"

The unexpectedness of the question elicited a short laugh from the Teler. "Not at all," he said. "Furthest thing from my mind."

"So how did you become one?" Finrod asked as he went back to the forge to reheat the metal that was now beginning to take on a triangular flat shape.

Eärnur shrugged. "By accident, I suppose. It was about a dozen years ago. My family, like many of the Teleri, are fisherfolk, though not a few have skill in shipbuilding. My atar’s atar is a friend of King Olwë from when they journeyed together during the Great Migration." Finrod nodded, letting him know that he was listening. "Anyway, Atar’s brother, my Uncle Ossendur...."

Finrod stopped hammering to stare at Eärnur in surprise. "Your uncle was named after Lord Ossë!?"

Eärnur couldn’t help laughing. "I understand Anamillë was furious when Anatar gave him that name, but in retrospect he certainly has the same streak of wildness in him as Lord Ossë, so I suppose the name fits."

Finrod nodded, returning to his task. "Please continue and don’t forget to keep the bellows going."

"Yes, of course," Eärnur said, pumping the bellows more diligently. "So, anyway, I’ve been helping with the family’s fishing and all since I was old enough to walk a rolling deck. This one time I ended up sailing with Uncle Ossendur who is something of an adventurer. He’s even sailed to Númenor a couple of times...."

"Where?" Finrod interrupted.

"Oh, perhaps you don’t know," Eärnur replied. "After the War of Wrath, the Valar raised an island just east of Tol Eressëa for the benefit of the... um... atani who fought against Melkor. It was a reward for their sacrifices and their loyalty to the Elves and the Valar. Some of the Elves of Tol Eressëa sail to Númenor on occasion. Uncle Ossendur has sailed with them a time or two."

Finrod raised an eyebrow but made no comment, merely nodding for Eärnur to continue, which he did.

"Uncle Ossendur tends to fish beyond the calmer waters around Alqualondë, and this time he took us northeast into the deeper ocean. What we did not know and no one thought to enquire, was that further south a fierce ocean storm was brewing. It was traveling northwest, skirting Númenor to the east, and we were right in its path. We later learned that it made landfall in northern Valinor where none live."

"Sounds frightening," Finrod commented as he stopped hammering to inspect his work more closely.

"It was," Eärnur answered, "but luckily we managed to escape without any loss of life. Unfortunately, the ship was damaged. We lost the main mast and there were several injuries. Uncle Ossendur was knocked out by a falling spar, and he wasn’t the only one. I was the youngest and least experienced of the crew so while everyone else struggled to save the ship, I was left tending those who were too injured to help." He paused, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, lost in memory. Finally, he continued. "I felt helpless and I had no idea what I was doing. I just went on instinct. We all had training in basic healing skills, for there is always the chance of injury during a fishing expedition, but this was more than a cut here or a sprain there. Yet, my heart leaped with joy when one of the crew whom I was tending opened her eyes and smiled at me, thanking me for caring for her."

"And that’s when you knew you wanted to be a Lóriennildo?" Finrod asked.

"Oh no!" Eärnur said with a laugh. "I continued doing what I could for the injured but I was never so glad as when Lord Ulmo appeared and gently guided our ship back to Alqualondë and once I had rested from my adventure, I was back on a ship helping with the fishing once again. I continued working with my family for two more years, seemingly content with my life, yet, I must confess that more and more often I found my gaze drifting towards the West and wondering. And that’s how I became a Lóriennildo."

"Huh?" Finrod asked, blinking a bit stupidly. "Did I miss something? What did staring westward have to do with you becoming a Lóriennildo?"

Now Eärnur looked embarrassed. "Well, as it happened, I was on one of my family’s ships helping with a catch and I couldn’t keep my mind on my work. My attention kept wandering towards where the Pelóri Mountains rose in the distance, for we were not too far from shore. Anyway, I wasn’t looking where I was going and somehow I ended up tripping over something, breaking a leg and knocking myself out. When I woke some days later it was to find myself here in Lórien with Lady Estë and Lord Irmo smiling down at me. I’ve been here ever since."

Finrod stared at his friend for a moment before he asked his next question. "Do you regret it?"

Eärnur’s eyes widened and he shook his head. "No. Not at all. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me." Then he looked over at the piece of metal that Finrod had been working on and frowned. "Doesn’t look like a knife to me."

Finrod stared down at his work and grinned. "Don’t worry. By the time we’re finished it will be. You need to add more wood to the fire."

Eärnur complied with Finrod’s directive and soon they were working again on the knife, keeping a companionable silence between them.

****

True to Finrod’s word, the knife slowly took shape and by the end of the day it was nearly finished. Eärnur admired its simple lines and the runes, which he could not read, that were gracefully etched along the blade. The hilt and the pommel were of wrought silver.

"Not very practical however beautiful," he commented.

Finrod grinned. "It’s not meant to be used in a battle, but afterwards." Eärnur gave him a puzzled look and Finrod continued. "In Sindarin it’s called a ‘sigil e-hereg’ which means ‘blood knife’."

The Teler’s eyes widened. "Why is it called that?"

Finrod shook his head. "It’s too complicated to explain," he said. "And frankly, I don’t know why I’ve made it, because here in Aman it will serve no purpose other than as a reminder of former days." He frowned as he gently ran a finger down the length of the knife.

"You said you woke with the need to make this," Eärnur said and Finrod nodded. "Perhaps it will serve a purpose you do not yet see."

"Perhaps," Finrod averred. Then he gave Eärnur a grin. "Let’s clean up and see what we can find for dinner. I’m starved."

Eärnur laughed. "Considering you haven’t eaten all day, I’m not surprised, and because of you, I’ve missed my own meals."

"In that case, I will treat," Finrod said with a sly wink.

Eärnur laughed again and soon they were cleaned up and on their way to the dining pavilion, though Finrod stopped at his pavilion long enough to put the knife in a safe place, carefully wrapped in velvet.

****

Eärnur’s story of how he became a Lóriennildo, along with their discussion of where Finrod might go and what work he might take up, haunted Finrod for some time. As the days progressed and he saw other Reborn leave to take up their new lives, he began to dread what the future might hold for him. About a week or so after the making of the blood knife he was wandering through Lórien, thinking over what Eärnur had said. So deep in thought was he that when he heard a soft moan he started and looked around in confusion, suddenly realizing he was in a part of the Gardens unfamiliar to him. The moan was repeated and he heard soft voices coming from a grove to his left. Feeling somewhat like an intruder, yet unable to quench his curiosity, he made his way to the grove’s entrance and peeked in.

It was a small grove with a single tent, not even a pavilion. The moaning was coming from the tent. Finrod took another step into the grove for a better look and could see an elleth lying on a cot, and from her features, she was a Noldo. Kneeling on one side of the cot was a Lóriennildë, with the white-striped tabard of a journeyman who had pledged herself to Lord Irmo. Like the elleth on the cot, she, too, was a Noldo. She was gently bathing the elleth, placing a wet cloth on her forehead and softly crooning. Finrod could see that the poor elleth was in a bad way, her skin a translucent sheen that signaled that she was fading. Finrod was surprised, for he could not imagine what would cause any Elf in Aman to fade.

A gentle tap on his shoulder startled him and, smothering a gasp so as not to disturb the two ellith, he turned to find himself staring into the amused eyes of a Maia wearing the white tabard with the rainbow emblem signifying that she was one of the People of Lord Irmo.

"What do you here, child?" she asked in a gentle whisper.

Finrod blushed. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was wandering by and heard a moan and...."

The Maia nodded, casting a glance behind him. He turned and watched as the Lóriennildë, seemingly oblivious to them, continued to minister to the elleth. Finrod turned to the Maia, his expression one of confusion. "Why is she fading?" he asked.

The Maia gave him a considering look. "She left it almost too late."

"I... I don’t understand."

"Martaniel suffers from Sea-longing," the Maia said.

Finrod shook his head. "I don’t know what that means."

"It is a malady that afflicts some Elves," the Maia explained. "A desire arises within them to sail West, yet it is something that they can ignore or resist for some time before it overwhelms them. If they do not sail, they are in danger of fading. Martaniel held out far longer than she should have."

Finrod glanced at the elleth still moaning. "I’ve never heard of such a thing," he said.

"It appears to be a recent phenomenon," the Maia said. "We think it is a consequence of the fact that the time of the Firstborn in Endórë is ending, for those lands are meant for the Secondborn. When it first manifested itself, we were quite surprised and it took us time to understand what it was and how to treat it."

Finrod gave the Maia a puzzled look. "We?"

The Maia nodded. "We, as in the Valar and Maiar," she replied. "We were not expecting it."

The ellon gave her a disbelieving look and she smiled. "Nay, child. The Valar did not create the malady as a means of forcing the reluctant to Aman. We think it is something that comes from Ilúvatar, some inherent aspect of the Firstborn that lay dormant until the need for it arose."

Finrod was about to comment when the Lóriennildë called out. "Olóremmárië, I think we are reaching the crisis point. I will need your help."

"I am coming, Telperiën," Olóremmárië said and gave Finrod a smile. "Please excuse me."

Finrod gave her a brief bow as she made her way to the tent and, standing at the head of the cot, bent over and placed her hands on Martaniel’s brow, softly singing words unknown to him, though he recognized them as being Valarin. Finrod stood there watching Telperiën continue to minister to the poor elleth, the compassion in her eyes evident. Not wishing to intrude any longer on Martaniel’s privacy, he slipped silently away, making his way back towards the region of Lórien reserved for the Reborn.

He could not get the image of Telperiën and Olóremmárië tending to the distressed Martaniel out of his mind. The compassion and, yes, even love, that the two showed for the poor elleth was nearly overwhelming and Finrod found he had to stop and sit under a spreading oak and think. He wrapped his arms around his knees and closed his eyes, seeing again the translucent body of the fading elleth and the other two fighting for her life. He opened his eyes and sighed.

"Oh Glorfi," he whispered to himself, "I wish you were here to help me with my decision. I don’t know what to do. I do not have any real desire to go to Tol Eressëa, for what would I do there? I don’t think I would be allowed to be a king again. And if my family doesn’t want me, where then should I go? I want to be able to serve my people somehow. It’s what I was born for, I think." He put his head down on his knees, hiding his face. "Perhaps I should consider asking Lord Irmo if he will take me as an apprentice," he said, again speaking out loud, as if in doing so he would come to a decision more clearly. "If I can’t be a king, then mayhap I can help with other Reborn or those, like poor Martaniel, who come to Aman in such distress."

He raised his head and sighed. "I dearly wish you were here with me, gwador nîn," he said, as he stared at nothing in particular. "I really could use your help." Giving another sigh, he rose and continued on his way, unaware that others had heard his plea.

****

Man sad dorthathon?: (Sindarin) ‘Where will I dwell?’

Anatar: (Quenya) Grandfather.

Anamillë: (Quenya) Grandmother.

Gwador nîn: (Sindarin) My sworn-brother.