The Findaráto Diaries by Fiondil

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Chapter 34: Summons

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34: Summons

Although I did not achieve my goal, I returned to Tirion with a lighter heart. The time spent with Eärnur on the seashore was perhaps more therapeutic than all the days spent in Lórien. I still longed for my gwador, but now it was with greater hope and less impatience. Thus, it came as a shock when I received a certain summons....

****

Lord Irmo provided Finrod with a suitable escort comprised of one Maia (Ingil) and several Lóriennildi who were returning to their families for the upcoming winter solstice celebration. Finrod did not know any of them, though they all seemed to know him or know of him. He was somewhat shy and diffident around them, though always polite, and during the evenings as they sat around the fire he would play his harp and sing ballads popular in Beleriand when he lived there. He would translate them into Quenya, speaking the words, but then sing them in Sindarin.

"An odd sounding language," one of the other ellyn commented on the first night when Finrod finished singing. "Rather... heavy... is the only word I can think of to describe it."

"Yet it is quite beautiful and full of subtleties that Quenya sometimes lacks," Finrod said in defense of his adopted language. "The Sindar found Quenya rather difficult to master and few even bothered to learn it, thus it was necessary for us to learn their language." He refrained from mentioning Elu Thingol’s Ban as another reason for the Noldor to learn Sindarin.

"I don’t quite understand how you keep all these mutations straight, though," one of the ellith said. "I found it confusing listening to your song, for I could hear the same words being sung differently."

Finrod shrugged. "After a while it becomes second nature," he replied. "Of course, when we were first acquainting ourselves with the language we had an imperfect sense of how these mutations worked and some of our adopted names actually have no real meaning in the language, but by the time we came to that realization it was too late and the names we chose stuck."

"What do you mean?" someone asked.

"Well, take my cousin Turucáno’s name, for instance," Finrod said. "He Sindarized it to ‘Turgon’, though it’s not a true Sindarin name. It should have been ‘Turugond’."

"Turgon, Turugond, it still sounds strange and uncouth," the first ellon said with a snort.

Finrod just shook his head. "I think it is quite beautiful and I prefer it over Quenya."

"So, did you... er... Exiles stop speaking Quenya altogether?" another asked. "I’ve noticed that many of the Noldor who are Reborn speak it with some reluctance, though I do not understand why."

Finrod thought about it for a moment before answering. "I think it has to do with self-identity. It is, I think, similar to our custom of essecilmë." Some of his listeners nodded in understanding and he continued. "When we... left, many of us found ourselves thrust into positions not of our choosing. I, for instance, found myself the leader of those who had originally followed my atar before he turned back. It was not something I had expected to happen. Others rose to positions of leadership out of necessity because some had died along the way and there were few willing or able to assume command. Many who left were not warriors but craftsmen and artisans, yet not a few of them found themselves wielding sword or spear because we needed them to help defend our kingdoms. When we reached Beleriand, we forged new identities for ourselves, sometimes reluctantly, but always within the context of the surrounding Sindarin society, for they were more numerous than we." He paused for a moment to take a sip of spiced wine. The others sat in silence, unwilling to break the spell his words were weaving.

"We knew that Aman was forever closed to us, or so we thought," Finrod continued, speaking slowly, almost hesitantly. "We were no longer Amanyar, but Hecili, and so we turned away from our former lives and forged new ones to go with our new identities and that included speaking a language other than Quenya. But to answer your question, no. We did not abandon Quenya entirely; it was still spoken among the older Noldor but it became a learned language for the younger generations whose first language was Sindarin."

There was silence among them for some time before one of the healers nodded. "You have given us much to think on, prince," he said. "Thank you."

Finrod bowed his head in acknowledgment and then he happened to catch Ingil’s eye as the Maia stood to one side watching over them. Ingil gave him a smile and a nod of approbation that warmed Finrod to the very core of his fëa.

****

They arrived in Tirion four days later. Ingil left them at the western gate where an escort of guards led by Amandur met the travelers and Finrod bade the healers farewell. At the front portico of the palace he was met by his parents. Eärwen gave him a motherly kiss, but Arafinwë was less effusive in his greetings, giving him a searching look.

"And how is Eärnur?" he asked.

"He is well," Finrod said with a smile. "Lord Irmo gave us permission to leave Lórien during my final week there and we spent it camping out in a cove by the Sea. It was quite fun."

Arafinwë continued staring at him and Finrod forced himself to meet his atar’s gaze with equanimity. He had the feeling his atar knew more about why he went to Lórien than he was letting on. Finally, though, Arafinwë nodded. "Then I am pleased that your visit turned out so well. Welcome home, yonya."

"Thank you. It’s good to be home," Finrod responded and surprised himself with the realization that he actually meant it.

****

Preparations were advancing for the upcoming winter solstice celebration and Finrod was busy helping his parents with their plans. "I don’t know why you actually need me, though," Finrod said at one point as he and his atar were sitting in the king’s study going over final details of the ceremony. "I have no specific role to play, for which I am frankly thankful. Court ceremonies are tedious at the best of times."

"Yet, it is not something that you can escape," Arafinwë said with a knowing smile. "I am sure your own Master of Ceremonies was a constant thorn in your side."

Finrod couldn’t help but laugh. "Indeed. Though I think Lord Axantur takes it to the extreme at times. I vaguely recall threatening poor Guilin with banishment when he became a little too insistent that I follow the traditions set down here in Aman rather than adopt those of the Sindar which were not so encumbered with high solemnity."

Arafinwë actually chuckled. "Would that I could do the same with Axantur at times."

A knock on the door interrupted them and when Arafinwë called out it opened to reveal one of the court pages carrying a tray on which sat a piece of vellum. The page bowed before entering and went directly to Finrod, which surprised him.

"This came for you, Highness," the page said, holding out the tray.

Finrod took it and thanked the ellon who gave them another bow and left. Finrod stared at the folded piece of vellum for a moment. The seal he saw had the image of an eight-pointed star. He gave his atar a puzzled look. "Why would I be receiving a missive from Lady Varda?" he asked.

"There’s only one way to find out," Arafinwë replied as he handed his son a thin-bladed knife used to break the seal on missives.

Finrod unfolded the page and began reading it, the blood draining from his face. Arafinwë reacted swiftly, leaping from his chair to pour more wine into his son’s goblet before bidding him to drink. It took a moment for Finrod to comply, for the shock was too great.

"What is it, Finda?" Arafinwë asked gently as he retook his seat. "What has upset you so?"

For an answer Finrod handed him the missive which he glanced at quickly. "You’ve been summoned to Lórien to speak with Lord Námo," he said, his eyes widening.

"But why?" Finrod demanded. "I’ve just come from there. Why am I being summoned back?" There was a faint hope within him that he was careful to keep to himself that this was the message he’d been waiting for, informing him of Glorfindel’s release from Mandos, but the tone of the letter and the fact that it came from Lady Varda made him think otherwise. He gave his atar a fearful look as another thought crossed his mind.

"D-do you think Lord Námo is... displeased with me and means for me to... to be... unhoused?" This last was said in a barely audible whisper and he felt sick and faint at the thought.

Arafinwë put the missive down and went to his son, pulling him out of his chair and embracing him, cradling him. "No, child, I do not," he said gently. "I do not know why Lord Námo wishes to speak with you, only that he does and he wants to see you immediately, or as immediately as you can get yourself there. I will have an escort ready for you in the morning. I suggest that you ride as swiftly as you can and take as little rest as possible. It isn’t wise to keep a Vala waiting, especially this one."

"But I just came from there," Finrod said tonelessly, still feeling shocked and not knowing how else to handle it.

"I know," Arafinwë replied. "Go to your ammë," he ordered. "Go and tell her and let her comfort you while I make the necessary arrangements. If you do as I have suggested, you should reach Lórien in half the time it normally takes."

Finrod could only nod as his atar led him to the door. "Calandil," he called to his personal guard, "please escort my son to the queen. See to it that none importune him along the way."

Calandil gave his king a bow and Finrod was grateful that the guard asked no questions but walked by Finrod’s side, motioning others away until they reached the solar where Eärwen and her ladies were embroidering. Eärwen took one look at her son and dismissed everyone, motioning Finrod to come sit beside her.

When they were at last alone, she gave him a searching look. "Tell me, my beloved. Tell me what is wrong."

But Finrod suddenly burst into tears and it was some time before she could get anything out of him.

****

The ride to Lórien was a nightmare for Finrod and he kept to himself as much as possible, saying little and allowing Amandur to dictate to the other guards and to him when necessary. It took them nearly three days instead of Arafinwë’s projected two, arriving around noon on the third day. Lord Irmo was at the gate waiting for them. They were all tired and sore from the long ride with few rest stops and the Lord of Lórien bade the guards to follow one of his Maiar to where they could find rest and food.

"I will take care of Prince Findaráto," he told Amandur when the ellon started to protest. "Go and rest. You all deserve it for your faithfulness in fulfilling your lord’s orders to see the prince safely to Lórien."

The guards left and Finrod was now alone with Irmo who gazed at him serenely. "You, too, are weary from the journey and from more than that," he said shrewdly. "It is not what you fear, child. Put your mind at ease."

"But why?" Finrod asked hoarsely. "I just came from here."

Irmo gave him a sympathetic smile as he put an arm around the ellon’s shoulders and led him to a small grove where a single-bed pavilion stood. "My brother will explain all in the morning. For now, I want you to rest." He helped an unprotesting Finrod doff his cloak and boots and outer tunic and saw him nestled in his cot. Laying a hand on the ellon’s forehead he willed Finrod towards healing sleep.

"That’s it, my son," he said soothingly. "Put aside all fears and rest in body and spirit."

Finrod found he was too weary to make much protest and in minutes he was falling into a dreamless sleep.

****

Irmo let Findaráto and his guards sleep through the night, sending the guards back to Tirion the next morning without Findaráto’s knowledge, assuring them that he would see their prince returned safely. In the meantime, he had Ingil keep the prince company until the appointed hour of Findaráto’s meeting with Námo. Eärnur hekept away in another part of Lórien, not wanting the two to meet. Ingil took Findaráto to attend some of the classes for the Reborn to keep him occupied.

"Remedial training," he said to his lord with a sly smile and wink and Irmo laughed in agreement, though Findaráto did not look amused.

Now it was late afternoon. Ingil brought Findaráto to one of the smaller gardens where he left him with the Lord of Mandos. Námo gazed at Findaráto standing nervously before him. He had purposely scheduled their meeting for this hour, not out of maliciousness, knowing that the summons had frightened the Child, but because he was still not sanguine about summoning the Elf-prince at all, for it was his policy not to become too involved with his former charges once they left his demesne unless absolutely necessary. He felt it too dangerous otherwise, both for them and for him. It was best that the Reborn muddle through on their own instead of using the Valar as a crutch to solve all their problems. Yet, at the same time, he understood that Findaráto was a special case, as were some others, and it behooved the Vala to take a more direct role in seeing that the ellon progress in the way that he must go. Findaráto had an important role to play in the history of Arda, more important than being just Arafinwë’s heir, but for the moment, being the Noldóran’s heir was the role that he must play; it was not yet time for him to take up other roles and duties.

Námo noticed how pale Findaráto was and could guess why. He allowed a small smile to crease his face. "There is nothing to fear, yonya. Come and sit by me."

He motioned to a bench under an arbor and sat himself. Findaráto hesitated for a moment or two before complying, sitting stiffly and staring out into the garden where roses and honeysuckle still bloomed though it was already the month of Ringarë according to the Eldarin calendar. Butterflies flitted about in silent glory and birds sang quietly as if reluctant to disturb the peace of the place overmuch.

Námo placed a hand on Finrod’s back and began to unobtrusively rub it in an attempt to calm him. Slowly the peace of the garden and Námo’s ministrations brought the ellon to a more relaxed state and he visibly sighed as tension left his body.

"That’s better," Námo said with a smile and Findaráto returned it with a sheepish smile of his own.

"You are concerned for your friend, aren’t you?" Námo asked gently. He had decided to get right to the point, though it was not the point that he wished to make. Findaráto needed to be brought to certain realizations about reality, but it was best to bring him to that realization slowly.

Findaráto looked at the Vala in surprise, then nodded. "You must not fear for Glorfindel," Námo said. "He is well and happy. He misses you, too, but he has made new friends and has begun to take on new responsibilities. As must you, son of Arafinwë. It is why you were released from my care. Do not make me regret that decision by your neglect of those duties."

He had purposely darkened his tone at the end and watched as the ellon cringed, almost wilting under his regard.

"I’m sorry," Findaráto whispered, looking lost and forlorn and Námo could see him struggling not to cry though tears dripped from his eyes.

Námo gave him a sympathetic smile and wiped the tears from Findaráto’s face with a gentle finger. "Now, no tears, child. You will see your friend soon. You and he will have many years together, just like before."

"Pr-promise?" the ellon blurted out unthinkingly and Námo watched in amusement as the Elf-prince blushed in embarrassment at sounding more like an elfling of twenty than the King of Nargothrond that he had once been, commanding whole armies in the war against Melkor.

Námo merely laughed, gathering this beloved Child in his arms and kissing him on the brow. "Promise. But now, we must speak of other things," he continued, giving Findaráto a stern look. The ellon visibly paled and Námo wondered dispassionately if he would be sick.

*If he is,* he heard Irmo bespeak him, *you’re cleaning it up.*

Námo hid a smile and mentally stuck his tongue out at his younger brother in the Thought of Atar. He could hear Irmo’s laughter echoing through the Gardens.

"I am rather disappointed in you, Child," he said aloud. "I understand even after all these years you still refuse to hold your own court as your atar desires. You know as haryon you have certain duties to your people. One of them is sitting in judgment when needed."

"I know," Findaráto said with a sigh, "but the thought of doing so...." He shook his head, giving the Vala a pleading look. "What is the point? I sit beside Atto when he holds court and most of the time everyone ignores me. Atto will sometimes ask for my opinion on a matter but not always."

"What have you learned, sitting beside your atar?" Námo asked.

Findaráto wrinkled his brow. "Learned? What should I have learned? I ruled my own kingdom for nearly four hundred years."

"And Arafinwë has ruled for a millennium," Námo pointed out. "His task was not an easy one, either. He had not only to learn the art of ruling wisely and well, but he had to regain the trust of the other Eldarin kingdoms and help the Noldor regain their self-respect. Can you truly say that he has nothing to teach you?"

Findaráto shook his head, then sighed, giving Námo a sour look. "Still...."

"No, child," Námo retorted, giving him a measuring look. "Why are you so reluctant to take up your duties as haryon?"

"That’s just it, lord," Findaráto said in exasperation. "Haryon, not king." He sighed again and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "And in the end my wisdom failed me," he added sorrowfully.

Ah, so that was it. Námo nodded to himself, now understanding what the ellon was afraid of. "You think that you have lost all wisdom and fear to make an error of judgment," he said. "You fear to have that kind of power over others once again."

Findaráto nodded but did not otherwise speak, staring out into the garden. Námo allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "Findaráto," he said gently and waited for the ellon to look at him before continuing. "Do you think your atar does not have the same fear every time he sits in court to listen to the complaints of his people and having to make a judgment for or against them?"

The Elf’s eyes widened in surprise and Námo nodded. "It is a fear all good rulers have, a fear that I suspect you had as king, though memory of it has not yet surfaced. Yet I assure you that even the Elder King has that same fear, for it is a weighty and solemn thing to sit in judgment over others. Still, that is the way of kingship. It is a necessary aspect of being a ruler... or the son of a ruler."

He gave him a significant look and Findaráto nodded, though reluctantly, as if he was not willing to accept all that Námo had said. Still, the Vala could see that the ellon was rethinking certain truths about himself.

"Go back to Tirion, child, and be the haryon your atar needs," Námo commanded gently. "Be the haryon the Noldor need. Take up your duties and I think you will find that you have not lost all wisdom. You have the memories of two lifetimes at your beck and call. Use what you learned in your first life to guide you in this one. Use the lessons of your death as well."

"I... I will try," Findaráto said softly.

"And that is all we are ever asked to do," Námo rejoined. Then he gathered him in his arms again and gave him another kiss.

Findaráto sighed contentedly as he allowed Námo to hold him. Námo started singing softly an ancient lullaby and soon the ellon was fast asleep. Irmo appeared then, smiling gently at the somnolent Child.

"Shall I see him home?" he asked his older brother.

Námo shook his head, giving his younger brother a wry smile. "Thank you, but I am quite capable of doing something as simple as seeing Findaráto back home."

"Just thought I’d offer," Irmo replied equably.

Before Námo could respond, they both heard a silent yell from Námo’s chief Maia, Maranwë. The two Valar looked at one another in amused surprise.

"You go see what has Maranwë all in a fury," Irmo said as he leaned down to take the sleeping ellon in his arms, "and I’ll see this one safely home."

Námo nodded and soon he was alone in the garden. He allowed himself a sigh of exasperation. Now what was Glorfindel up to? Honestly, he couldn’t leave Mandos for five minutes without that impossible ellon wreaking havoc. When he heard Maranwë start swearing in Valarin, he chuckled and thought himself back to his own demesne, leaving the garden to the butterflies.

****

Words are Quenya.

Essecilme: Name-choosing, an Eldarin ceremony in which a person chooses a name for him- or herself according to personal lámatyávë or ‘sound-taste’.

Amanyar: Those of Aman.

Hecili: Plural of hecil: One lost or forsaken, an outcast. Gender-specific forms are hecilo (masc) and hecilë (fem).

Ringarë: November/December of the Gregorian calendar.

Notes:

1. The discussion about Turgon’s name is derived from notes by Tolkien which have been published in Parma Eldalamberon 17:112-113.

2. The conversation between Námo and Finrod is an expanded version of the conversation reported in Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux, Chapter 4 ‘Progress Reports’.