The Findaráto Diaries by Fiondil

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Chapter 7: Departure and Arrival

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7: Departure and Arrival

The days and weeks passed. There were good days and bad but nothing like what I had experienced earlier. Sometimes I despaired, for the memories were slow in coming though I made quick progress in bringing fëa and hröa together. At such times, though, when everything seemed hopeless, I would hide in one of the trees dotting the garden, refusing to come down until either hunger or other needs forced me to. These times were rare and became rarer still, for eventually, the pain of living was replaced by something else, something more insidious and more subtle. I did not recognize what it was I was feeling and I hesitated to ask the Maiar. If I had, they would have been able to name the emotion for me. But I did not, and I would have to leave the Gardens of the Reborn and journey on to Lórien before I would learn its name: joy....

****

"It is time for you to leave, Findaráto," Olórin said one day as the two of them were strolling through the garden, enjoying the day.

The ellon gave the Maia a surprised look. "Leave? Why should I want to leave? Where would I go?"

Olórin gave a small chuckle at the barrage of questions. "You cannot remain here forever, child," he said. "Eventually you need to leave, to experience life again at its fullest. You will never do that if you stay within this small garden. As to where you will go, you will go to Lórien."

"Lórien," Findaráto echoed, mulling the word in his mind. "The realm of Lord Irmo and Lady Estë."

"Very good," the Maia said with a pleased smile. "I am glad you remember them."

"I’m surprised that I do," Findaráto said with a light laugh, "considering all the things I don’t remember."

Olórin joined him in laughter. "At any rate," he said, "you will go there soon. You have spent these many weeks learning to live in hröa again, but you have been alone all this time."

"I’ve had you and Tindomerel," Findaráto protested.

"But not other Elves, and you need to learn to interact with your own kind again," the Maia pointed out. Findaráto looked troubled by that thought, but said nothing more.

Two days later, he received a visitor, another Maia wearing the white tabard with the rainbow emblem of the Lord of Lórien. The Maia smiled at him benignly as Olórin introduced him.

"This is Ingil of the People of Irmo," Olórin said. "He’s also a good friend of mine and he will take good care of you."

Findaráto turned troubled eyes on Olórin and Tindomerel, who was also there. "Will I ever see you again?" he asked.

Both Maiar nodded. "Of that, I have no doubt," Olórin answered for them both. "Be well, child," he then said, planting a kiss of benediction on the ellon’s forehead. Tindomerel followed suit.

"Be happy," she said softly with a smile. "Know that you have been given this second chance at Life. Use this knowledge wisely." She handed him a haversack.

Findaráto put the pack on his back, nodding, though he was unsure what the Maia meant. Nonetheless, he was grateful for all that she and Olórin had done for him. "Thank you," he said simply and though he wanted to say more, he could not find the words. It seemed to be enough, however, for both Maiar smiled and bade him a fair journey as Ingil led him out of the garden by a gate that he did not know had existed until then. Findaráto had to almost run to keep up with the purposeful strides of the Maia as they headed northward. When he chanced to look back towards the garden he was surprised not to see it. He stopped in amazement and dread. Ingil turned and gave him a fond smile.

"It’s still there," he said, "but as you no longer have need of it, it is no longer visible to you. Come now. We still have a way to go."

Findaráto nodded and together they resumed their walk, Ingil shortening his strides so the Elf could keep up. The day was brilliant with sunlight and a warm southwestern breeze floated around them. There was the subtle scent of brine on the air and Findaráto wondered if they were near the sea and asked.

Ingil nodded. "A day’s ride from here," he said.

"I... I remember the sea," Findaráto told him, sounding somewhat hesitant, as if he was unsure of the memory.

The Maia nodded. "Once seen it is hard to forget."

Their path led through open meadowland and thick copses of wood. Findaráto was fascinated by the sights and smells and sounds that permeated his senses. There was a vibrancy to the landscape that he had not felt in the garden. He often found himself standing, just staring at a wildflower or butterflies floating on the breeze. Once he spied deer running along the edge of a small copse before disappearing into the gloom of the woods. He gasped in delight, utterly captivated by the sight. If Ingil felt any impatience at Findaráto’s dawdling, he gave no sign. In fact, he often smiled, enjoying the delight that the Reborn ellon was experiencing as they made their way northward.

As the day deepened towards twilight, Ingil indicated that they should stop for the night as they reached a small rise of land. A small spring-fed pool nestled in a dell to their right. It appeared to be a watering hole for the animals that lived in the area. They could see a family of racoons and a small herd of red deer already there, ignoring the Maia and Elf. "We will set up camp here and resume our journey in the morning," the Maia told the ellon. "We should reach the outskirts of Lórien by noon."

Findaráto nodded and soon the two of them were settled beside a cheery fire as the sun set below a ridge of land and the stars began to peep out, hesitantly at first, as if unsure if the time was meet for their appearance, but then blazing forth in all their glory even as the sickle moon began to rise in the east. Findaráto sighed at the sight as Ingil handed him a bowl of broth thick with vegetables and hunks of meat.

"A beautiful sight, is it not?" the Maia said with a smile and the ellon nodded, taking an appreciative sip of the soup.

"What will I do in Lórien?" Findaráto asked, for it had been much on his mind as they were walking.

"That will depend on the Lord and Lady," Ingil answered. "You will be housed with other Reborn and learn how to interact with your fellow Elves again. You will be taught certain skills...."

"What skills?" the ellon demanded.

Ingil shrugged. "That I do not know. Each Reborn is taught skills that will prove useful in their new life, but since everyone is unique, the skills vary from person to person. Much depends on a person’s interest and what they did in their previous life."

Findaráto frowned. "I don’t remember all that I did... before, not really. I know I was a leader."

"Yes, you were a leader," Ingil said with a nod. "You are of the House of Finwë, a prince of Eldamar and in the Outer Lands, you were a king."

"Am I a king now?" the ellon asked.

Ingil shook his head. "The King of the Noldor is your atar. You are his firstborn and heir."

"My atar...." Findaráto’s expression went blank for a moment, and then he shook his head in dismay. "I can’t remember."

"You will, child," the Maia said sympathetically. "Do not force the memories to come. For now, just know that you have an atar and an amillë and they are anxiously waiting to see you again."

"They are?" Findaráto exclaimed in surprise. "I don’t know why."

Ingil gave him an enquiring look and the ellon sighed. "I did leave them after all, refusing to return even when given the opportunity to do so. I remember that, at least."

"Well, I’m sure it will work out in the end," Ingil said with a smile. "Why don’t you sleep now? Tomorrow will come soon enough and a new phase of your life will begin."

Findaráto sighed, settling into his bedroll, but he lay for a long time staring up into the star-strewn heavens, deep in thought, while Ingil kept a silent vigil.

****

They reached what Findaráto assumed was the outskirts of Lórien around noon. Ingil led him to a tree-shadowed gate, large willows, whose graceful limbs formed a roof, over it shading them from the noontide sun, which burned brightly on this particular early summer day. The Maia turned to him with a wistful smile.

"Here is where we must part," he said. "This gate is for you and you alone. When you pass through, choose whichever path you fancy."

"Where should I go, then? Will there be no one to greet me?" Findaráto asked, feeling somewhat confused. He could not understand what the Maia meant.

Ingil nodded. "Yes, but you must find them first." He raised a hand to still the ellon’s next words. "Choose whichever path you will, Findaráto, and find your new life within." Then, he turned and walked away toward the northeast, fading into the landscape, leaving Findaráto alone.

The Reborn sighed, shifted his haversack on his back to a more comfortable position and examined the gate. It was an iron gate in which the images of two trees were wrought. On the left, the tree was brightened with gold leaf while the tree on the right was painted with silver. Findaráto pulled back the bar holding the two parts of the gate together and the right side swung silently open. He slipped through, instinctively closing the gate before looking about. He could see four paths winding in different directions through a stand of ancient oaks and beeches. There was a silence that hung heavily in the air; not even a breeze stirred the leaves.

Findaráto sighed and wondered which of the paths he should take. They all looked equally inviting and just as equally uninviting. As he stood there in indecision, though, a memory crept forth and he saw in his mind a group of elflings in a courtyard playing a counting game. Unconsciously, he began to echo them, pointing to the different paths as he did:

"Balrogs, orcs, and goblin-kind, let them us never find, but if they do, we will fight and they shall learn of elven might."

With the last word he found himself pointing at the path that was to the far right, moving almost directly east before disappearing through the trees. He shrugged and set off. He brushed a hand on the trunks of the trees as he passed them, silently greeting them. The oaks were somewhat reticent with their own greetings, barely acknowledging his presence, but the beeches seemed friendlier, welcoming him with soft murmurs as leaves rustled in the windless air. The silence that had hung about the gate seemed heavier here under the trees and he realized he could hear no sound of birds trilling or squirrels chattering and he began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Still, he continued on.

The path wound its way through the woods so that within a few feet he had lost sight of the gate. Then suddenly he came to a fork and he paused to consider his options. The right-hand path seemed somewhat overgrown, as if it did not see many travelers. The left-hand path looked more traveled. He was tempted to follow the left path, yet even as he stepped forward, his gaze wandered to the right and he wondered what might lie that way and why it was not trod upon as often as the left path. The mystery intrigued him and he decided to chance it, figuring he could always come back to the fork if the way proved too choked with weeds to bother with.

"It’s probably just a dead end anyway," he said out loud, just to hear himself speak, "which is why it’s so overgrown."

And his words proved nearly prophetic. At first the way was not too onerous, for the path was not overly clogged with underbrush, but the further along he went the denser the underbrush became. The path was still discernible but the going was harder. At least twice his haversack got caught in the brambles that he had to carefully negotiate and thorns and burrs caught in his clothes and hair. He was tempted to just turn around and go back to the other path but something inside him refused to give up, determined to see where the path would end.

"If the path disappears, then I will turn back," he promised himself, again speaking out loud to hear his own voice. The silence around him was weighing his spirit down and he began muttering imprecations at himself of which ‘orc-brained fool’ was the mildest epithet in his litany of name-calling as he struggled through a particularly difficult patch of brambles that seemed bent on keeping him in place. With a vicious oath and a sudden lunge, he threw himself out of the patch and landed face down on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. It took him a moment to clear his head and when he looked up he gasped.

Gone were the trees, the brambles, indeed, the very path itself. He looked frantically about and saw only an open field of meadow grass and wildflowers. He could be back outside the gate except there was no sign of the woods at all. He put his head down in the crook of his arm and sighed. Had it all been for naught? What was he to do now? Gathering his resolve, he pushed himself up and stood, looking about.

Nothing.

No trees, no path, nothing to indicate where he was or which way he should go, merely a series of gently undulating downs as far as he could see. He glanced up at the sky to gauge the sun’s position and noticed that it was still high above him as if no time had passed since he went through the gate. He frowned, then shook his head. Too many mysteries and now he realized he was feeling thirsty. His waterskin was only a third full. Unless he found habitation or at least some body of water, he would have to be careful with it.

"Well, Finrod," he said out loud after taking a small swig of water to ease the dryness of his throat. "Next time, don’t be an idiot and take the more traveled path."

With that, he set off in a random direction, deciding that it was ‘north’ since that was the direction he and Ingil had taken to reach Lórien from Mandos. Hours seemed to pass though the sun never moved and he was hot and exhausted, his waterskin nearly empty. There seemed no end to the steppes and he despaired of ever finding Lórien or any other habitation.

Then, reaching the top of a rise, he stopped in amazement. Below him was a flagged terrace of white marble, perhaps ten feet square. Eight fluted pillars, also of white marble, were evenly spaced around the perimeter but there was no roof. In the center of the terrace was a fountain, its waters splashing merrily. The terrace’s presence was incongruous, for there were no other buildings, no other indication of civilization whatsoever. It was simply there.

The ellon made his way down to the terrace, a sense of unreality steeling over him. Nothing about this made any sense, but he needed the water and was grateful for it. He dropped his haversack by one of the pillars and moved towards the fountain. Up close, he saw that it was made of alabaster, white and translucent in the sun. The basin stood on a pedestal so that it was about chest high to him. The bowl was shallow but large, perhaps two feet across. Along its rim were two intertwined serpents, so realistically carved that he could count every scale. Four fluted columns upheld a stone canopy so that the entire structure was nearly eight feet tall. In the middle of the bowl were four life-like fish, standing upright back-to-back with their tails entwined. Water gushed from their opened mouths, falling back into the bowl. Wrapped around one of the columns was a mithril chain to which was attached a mithril cup, hanging down one side of the bowl. Obviously one was meant to drink from it, Findaráto surmised, and he lifted the cup with the intention of dipping it into the fountain. Words were inscribed along the rim of the cup, words that, when he read them, sent a frisson of fear through him: Qui sucil, fíruval — Qui ú-sucil, fíruval.

He stared at the words in consternation, trying to decipher their meaning, but he was at a loss. Was the water poisoned, then? Obviously, given how little water he had left in his waterskin, if he did not find another water source he could well die of thirst, assuming he did not find some outpost of civilization first. He had no idea where in Arda he was but had to assume that he was still somewhere in Aman. He licked dry lips, the heat of the sun beating down on him. The total absurdity of his situation struck him and he flung the cup away in disgust. It clanged against the fountain, sending a dull vibration through the air.

Leaning into the bowl he let the water flow over his head, giving him some relief from the sun’s heat, but he refrained from drinking. Shaking the water out of his golden locks, he went over to his haversack and shouldered it, moving across the terrace to the other side, intending to continue his trek, though he had no idea where he was going or even if he was headed in the right direction. He refused to look back.

Stepping beyond the terrace he felt a wave of dizziness strike him and clung to the middle pillar as he passed it, fighting to keep conscious, but it was no use. Darkness descended upon him and his last conscious thought was wondering if dousing his head in the water had been such a good idea after all.

****

"Easy now."

Findaráto felt someone lift his head and press something against his lips. Cool liquid slid down his throat and his eyes fluttered open to find that he was staring up at Lord Námo who smiled down at him.

"Feeling better, best beloved?" the Vala asked as he helped the ellon to sit up.

"What happened?" he asked. Looking around he found that he was in a small glade surrounded by oaks and beeches. "Where am I? How did I get here?"

Námo chuckled. "So many questions. Come. Let us get more comfortable." He pulled Findaráto up, keeping a steady hand on his elbow until the elf could stand on his own. He then led him to a small pavilion that was set up along one side of the glade where a table and three chairs were set. On the table was a cut crystal decanter of wine and three matching goblets. In one of the chairs was a Personage whose features were similar enough to Lord Námo that Findaráto had to assume this was the Lord of Lórien, an assumption that was borne out when Námo made the introductions.

"My brother, Irmo," he said as he gestured for Findaráto to take a seat.

Lord Irmo smiled at him. "An interesting way to make a choice," he said, "using an elfling counting game."

Findaráto felt himself blush for no particular reason. "It seemed as good a way of choosing as any," he muttered.

Both Valar nodded. "It mattered not which path you chose, only that you did," Námo said.

"And the fork in the road?" the ellon countered. "I think I made the wrong choice there."

"No," Irmo replied. "You made a different choice from those made by others, but it was not necessarily wrong. It did prove difficult though, didn’t it?"

Findaráto nodded. "I should have turned back as soon as it got too overgrown. It was obvious no one had ever traveled that way, at least not for a very long time."

"Perhaps," Irmo said, his tone noncommittal, "but in the end, it only mattered that you made a choice and stuck to it regardless of the consequences."

"What about the fountain?" the elf asked. "Was that a choice as well?"

The Valar nodded. "The choosing between impossible choices, you might say," Námo explained. "Sometimes no choice is a good choice, and any choice you make leads to an undesirable end. You chose the harder route, knowing that dying of thirst would be a more terrible fate than dying quickly from poison."

"So the waters were poisoned," Findaráto said.

"Perhaps," Námo replied, his expression giving nothing away. "It matters little now. The point is you made a choice. Our question to you is why did you choose as you did?"

Findaráto thought about it for several minutes, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "As for the path, I can only say that it intrigued me. I wondered where it would go and why none before me had ever walked down it. Something within me rebelled against following the path that obviously has been trod by many feet."

The Valar nodded. "You are possessed of a spirit of adventure," Irmo said.

Findaráto shrugged, not entirely sure what the Vala meant. "As for the fountain," he continued, "assuming that the words on the cup were true, death would be certain if I drank from the fountain. While death could also have found me even if I did not drink, it was less certain and there was always the chance that I would find safe water to drink or, better yet, people to succor me."

The two brothers shared a look of satisfaction between them, then turned their attention back to Findaráto who sat there wondering what all this was about. As if reading his mind, or perhaps, simply reading the expression of confusion on his face, Námo spoke. "This was a test, to see how you handle making choices. Until now, all choices were made for you as you struggled to integrate your fëa to your new hröa." Findaráto nodded and the Vala continued. "But now you have reached a stage in your new life where you need to start making your own choices, good and bad. We wished to see how you handled certain types of choices. They are a reflection of your character."

"And of your previous life," Irmo added. "When you had the chance to do so, you refused to turn back from your course, even though it meant treading a difficult path into exile. When you were faced with an impossible choice, either to honor an oath which ultimately led to your death, or to renege on it and thereby bring you dishonor and a different kind of death, you chose the former, for there was always the slim chance that you would cheat fate and live. If you had chosen the latter, though you lived, death would have been preferable to the dishonor and ignominy that would have been yours forever after."

Findaráto mulled the words over, balancing their truth against what he knew of himself. He looked up at the Valar with a set expression. "I could do nothing else than what I did, either then or now."

"And that is as it should be, best beloved," Námo said with a smile.

Irmo reached over and poured some wine into the goblets. He handed one to Námo and one to Findaráto before lifting his own in a salute. "Welcome to Lórien, my son."

Findaráto joined them in drinking the wine. It was the best thing he had ever tasted in either life.

****

Atar: Father.

Amillë: Mother.

Qui sucil, fíruval — Qui ú-sucil, fíruval: ‘If you drink, you will die — If you don’t drink, you will die’.