In Darkness Bound by Fiondil

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Chapter 91: Noldóran

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91: Noldóran

Arafinwë woke with a start, wondering what had brought him out of a sound sleep. He blinked groggily for a moment, trying to remember what he might have been dreaming. Even as he struggled to a sitting position, there was a knock on the front door and he realized that is what he’d heard before — someone knocking. He rose and went to open the door, figuring it would be Tiutalion or one of the other Maiar in Lady Nienna’s service, but when he saw who was standing before he him backed up in shock, stopping only when he banged into the table.

"May we come in, Pityahuan?" Manwë asked with a smile.

Arafinwë just nodded as Manwë and Námo crossed the threshold. Both Valar glanced toward the kitchen area before returning their attention to the ellon before them. Manwë nodded approvingly.

"It seems your time here was put to good use," he said, "but I think it time you returned."

"Return?" Arafinwë whispered in dread.

"To Ilmarin," Manwë said equably. "To take up your duties there as my thrall. It’s really why you were sent here, to teach you the things you would need to know in order to fulfill your role as a thrall. So, gather your things. We have a horse waiting...."

"No."

The Valar exchanged glances.

"I’m not sure I heard you correctly, Pityahuan," Manwë said.

Arafinwë licked lips gone suddenly dry, but he did not back down. "I said no. I am not returning to Ilmarin." He felt a sick roiling in the pit of his stomach as he spoke the words, but he would not back down. He would not return to walking about Ilmarin wearing nothing but a loincloth. He had gotten used to wearing clothes again. Even his hair had grown out and was nearly as long as it had been originally, though he had been careful not to braid it. Thralls did not wear the housebraids of freemen, though he no longer considered himself a thrall. He wasn’t sure what he was yet, but he knew he was no longer a thrall.

Manwë and Námo exchanged glances again and Arafinwë steeled himself for the consequences of his defiance. This time it was Námo who spoke, pointing to the collar.

"As long as you wear that collar, you will be Pityahuan and not Arafinwë, and we will not remove it from you."

Arafinwë nodded. "I will find a way to remove it myself," he said. "I will find a way and when I do, I will return to Eärwen and beg her forgiveness."

"A noble sentiment," Námo practically sneered, "but while you are looking for ways to remove the collar, what do you intend to do? Nienna will not allow you to stay here, and we’re not about to let you go wandering around Aman. You practically begged us to take you as our thrall and now you’ve changed your mind? That is not how it works, Pityahuan."

"Námo is correct," Manwë said sternly. "Enough of this. Gather your things and let us be on our way."

Arafinwë shook his head, still defiant. As circumscribed as his life had been here at Lady Nienna’s, it had still been more free than what he knew would be his life in Ilmarin. He could not go back to that. He wouldn’t. Yet, in truth, how could he hope to win his freedom? He had already tried to escape once and it hadn’t worked. He stared at the two Valar, their expressions implacable. He would have thought that they would be happy to see him wanting to be Arafinwë again. Instead, they almost seemed eager to get him back to Ilmarin. He suddenly thought it odd that the Elder King himself had come to fetch him rather than sending one of his Maiar.

"There’s nowhere you can run where we cannot find you," Manwë said softly, "not even if you fled to the Outer Lands. Come, child. Your time here is over." He then reached out for the chain. Arafinwë tried to move away but he was too late and before he knew it, he was being dragged outside and then Námo was lifting him up onto a horse, the same gelding he’d ridden on his way to Nienna’s. He closed his eyes, leaning forward until his head was resting on the horse’s neck, feeling lost and defeated. There was some activity going on around him, but he ignored it. Even when the horse started up, he did not straighten, but stayed as he was, tears streaming down his face.

The journey was interminable. At some point the horse stopped and he was lifted down. He merely stood there in dejection as the Maiar bustled about, setting up a camp for him. He noticed that neither Manwë nor Námo were there, just the Maiar, ones he did not know. They spoke to him in soft tones, encouraging him to sit by the fire and sup, but he shook his head, refusing to cooperate. He would stand where he was until they were ready to leave. He would take nothing from them.

The Maiar left him to himself. Only once did he move, making his way towards a stand of trees to relieve himself, and then he returned to the spot where he’d been standing, silent and defiant. When one of the Maiar finally put out the fire and indicated that Arafinwë should remount, he refused to move and they had to put him on the horse themselves. This was the routine all the way to Valmar. He would not eat, he would not sleep. His only concession was when the Maiar offered him water, but other sustenance he refused to touch. He would just stand wherever they set him until it was time to move on and he refused to mount the horse voluntarily. He wasn’t sure what he was accomplishing by his defiance. The Maiar never appeared upset or angry or even frustrated by his lack of cooperation. They spoke in soft tones and treated him with a modicum of respect, allowing him the freedom of his own misery.

Yet, it cost him. Oh, how it cost him. By the time they reached the western gate of Valmar, he was feeling feverish from lack of food and true sleep, and in fact, had slipped into a waking dream where nothing seemed real, including himself. He did not even realize that they had reached Valmar until he was lifted off the horse and instead of feeling soft earth beneath his feet, there was the sound of his boot heels hitting flagstone. It brought him out of his stupor enough to see that he was standing before Lord Manwë’s mansion. One of the Maiar took his chain and gently pulled him towards the doors where Mántamir was there waiting for them. The nameless Maia handed him off to his fellow, who nodded and then pulled Arafinwë over the threshold. Arafinwë did not resist. Indeed, he was finding it difficult to remain upright, reeling with fatigue and hunger. Mánatamir had to stop and take his arm and help him along, assuring the ellon that they did not have far to go.

He brought the Elf to a small cell-like room. There was a cot and a table and chair and a clothespress. A colorfully woven rug covered much of the floor, but the walls were bare. There was a single narrow window. The Maia led Arafinwë to the cot and made him lie down, removing his boots for him.

"You are a stubborn ellon, Pityahuan," Mánatamir said with mild exasperation. "I’ll have something brought for you to eat, and you will eat if I have to have you held down and spoon-fed."

Arafinwë offered no protest, too soul weary to care. He must have fallen into a doze, for sometime later, Mánatamir was shaking him awake and urging him to come and sit at the table where he sipped on some broth and chewed on fresh white bread and new cheese, washing it down with water. The Maia stood over him, making sure he finished every bite.

"I’m sorry," Arafinwë said suddenly between one bite and the next.

"Sorry about what?" the Maia asked.

"For attacking you," Arafinwë replied, not looking up from his bowl.

"Thank you," Mánatamir said softly. "I forgive you."

Arafinwë looked up with a puzzled look. "You don’t hate me?"

Mánatamir raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Hate you? Why would I hate you?"

"I hurt you," Arafinwë replied simply.

"Well, yes you did, but do you hate everyone who comes along and says an unkind word to you or looks at you cross-eyed?"

In spite of himself, Arafinwë smiled and shook his head. "Well, why should I?" Mánatamir continued. "You did something hurtful, but you were hurting as well, so in one sense your attack is excusable. You’ve apologized and I’ve forgiven you. The matter is settled between us as far as I’m concerned. Do you not agree?"

Arafinwë nodded, looking relieved.

"Now, are you finished?" the Maia asked. "Good. Why don’t you lie down and get some rest."

Arafinwë complied, removing his clothes. Soon he was stretched out on the cot, an arm under his head while Mánatamir gathered up the dinner dishes onto a tray.

"How long will I stay here?" Arafinwë asked as Mánatamir made ready to leave.

"That hasn’t been determined yet," Mánatamir answered. "Lord Manwë has decided that you should stay in Valmar for the time being."

Arafinwë gave him a frown. "Why?"

The Maia shrugged. "I only know what I’ve been told," he replied. "I’m also to let you know that you have free access to all of Valmar but you may not go past any of the gates, so Eldamas is off-limits."

"Like Melkor after his release from Mandos," Arafinwë muttered with a grimace, hating the thought that he had anything in common with that particular Vala.

Mánatamir gave him a sympathetic look but did not otherwise comment, except to wish the ellon a pleasant rest.

Yet, once the Maia was gone, Arafinwë did not fall asleep. Instead, he lay there contemplating his options. He was in Valmar where Lord Aulë’s forge was located. He did not know how long he would be here, but it was too good an opportunity to waste. Yet, could he reach the forge undetected? He doubted it, but better to try and be caught than to let the opportunity pass and always wonder.

He suddenly felt anxious, as if time were running out, and, on impulse, he rose to try the door, more than half expecting it to be locked, pleasantly (and suspiciously) surprised when he found that it was not. He peered out and, seeing no one, ventured out, wondering which way to go. Shrugging, he set off in the direction he thought he had come with Mánatamir and was pleasantly surprised when he found the front door after only one or two wrong turns. Soon he was peering out onto the Landamallë. It was strangely empty and he thought it odd. Surely there would be Elves and Maiar going about their business, unless this was a time of rest for everyone. He shrugged, not really caring, intent only on reaching Lord Aulë’s mansion and finding the forge. He glanced behind him, having the oddest sensation that he was being watched but there was no one. Then, squaring his shoulders he stepped onto the avenue and made his way to his right towards the mansion of Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna, again wondering at the absence of people.

When he reached the entrance to the mansion, though, he stopped, suddenly remembering his last visit and what had transpired there and shuddered, tugging at the collar in an unconscious manner. Well, he wasn’t going to get anywhere standing there. He glanced about him and still seeing himself alone, ventured past the gate, all the while expecting to be challenged, but he wasn’t. Releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding he made his way through Lady Yavanna’s gardens. Lord Aulë’s forge, he knew, was located at the northwest corner. Even as he wended his way towards the forge he could not let go the nagging feeling that something was not right. Why was there no one about? Why were there no Maiar keeping watch? Or were they? It would be difficult to detect any of the Maiar surrounded by the scent of flowers. How would he know if any Maia was standing about unclad?

Then he came to the forge and, pushing his unease aside, he stole inside. It was empty and he was unsurprised by this. Checking the furnace he knew it would need to be stoked so he quickly set about adding more wood and pumping the bellows. He didn’t know how much time he had before he would be caught so he worked as quickly as he could. It was almost like his dream now and he half wondered if that was what it was: a dream. Was he still back at Lady Nienna’s dreaming all this or was he lying on a cot in Lord Manwë’s mansion? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. A sort of frenzy took hold of him as he watched the fire grow hotter and hotter and he put all doubts aside, concentrating on only one thing: getting the hated collar off him before anyone found him.

As the heat rose he doffed, first his tunic, and then his shirt. He was almost tempted to remove his trews, for they were just as uncomfortable, but decided not to bother. Instead he found an apron and a pair of gloves and put them on for protection against errant sparks and the heat. He thrust a poker into the fire and watched as it turned red-hot, but there was no blue in the metal, so he knew it wasn’t hot enough. Quickly, he added more wood to the furnace and pushed on the bellows, wondering how much time he still had before someone found him and stopped him. He thrust the poker in again and waited. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the metal went from black to yellow to red and then... there!

He pulled the poker out and, bracing himself against a post, gingerly brought the end of the poker towards his neck, hissing at the heat that was already burning him. He turned his head slightly and almost had the poker where he wanted it, hoping it was still hot enough to melt the mithril, when someone grabbed his arm and pulled the poker away.

"Not this way, Pityahuan," came the growling voice of Lord Aulë.

Arafinwë bit off a sob, sagging against the post in defeat. He’d been so close... so close. He felt someone take him by the arm and lead him away, bringing him outside the forge where the cooler air bit into his flesh, reviving him and he saw that it was Lord Manwë who had him. The Elder King led him to a bench and had him sit, standing over him with a considering look.

"You truly want to remove that collar?" he asked.

Arafinwë nodded.

"Why?"

Why, indeed? A hundred reasons came to him, most having to do with wanting to be free, wanting to be the master of his own destiny, wanting the crown (which he didn’t), but in the end, there was only one reason that made any sense to him.

"I love Eärwen," he whispered.

Manwë considered him for the longest time. Then he motioned Arafinwë to move over and sat beside him. Aulë, by this time, had joined them, leaning casually against the wall, his arms and legs crossed.

Arafinwë stared at the chain hanging from the collar. He had been so close but now he would never be free and Eärwen.... What would become of his wife now? Did she know? Did she despise him for his cowardice? Was she glad he was a thrall? He felt Manwë stroke his head and he looked up at his Master.

"Do not be sad, Pityahúnya," Manwë said. "I will always love you, no matter who else does not. Is not my love enough for you?"

"And mine?" Námo said, suddenly standing before Arafinwë.

Arafinwë could only nod as he looked at the two Valar, tears running down his cheeks. He was their Little Hound and they loved him. It was enough. It had to be. He gazed at the three Valar, their expressions ones of grave sympathy and understanding. He was loved, and always had been, in spite of his failings and his stupidity. They loved him for who he had been, when he had been a prince of the Noldor and for a brief time their king. They loved him for who he had become — their Pityahuan, their thrall. They loved him and he loved them for loving him, and it was indeed enough.

"Are you happy, my Little Hound?" Námo whispered, bending over and brushing a hand through the ellon’s hair.

Arafinwë nodded to the Lord of Mandos, then stood up and sought Námo’s embrace. "Yes. I am happy, Master, and I will be your good Pityahuan always." Námo gave the Elf a deep hug and Arafinwë sighed, contented. Then he turned in the Vala’s arms and leaned against him as Námo held him and he looked at Manwë. "But I think I would have been happier if I had remained Arafinwë and I think you might have loved me better had I walked away when I should have."

Manwë stood up and took him into his arms, kissing him on the brow. "Nay, child. That is not how it works. I could not love you more than I already do, nor could I love you less. I can only love you. You made a mistake, and you have learned to live with it, to carve some kind of life and happiness for yourself out of it, however limited in scope that life and happiness may be. I’m very proud of you." He gave the Elf another hug and kissed him again, then stepped back. "Tell me what you would have done differently."

"That’s just it, Master. I wouldn’t have. I’m afraid I would have done exactly as I did. That’s why I know that I could be nothing more than your thrall, your Pityahuan."

Manwë looked at the ellon standing before him. "When you first became a thrall you wept every time I patted you on the head and called you my good Little Hound, do you remember?" Arafinwë nodded. "Then one day, I did as I have always done but you did not weep. Why is that?"

Arafinwë thought about it for a moment. "I...I think I realized that you were not doing it to humiliate me but... to show me that you loved me whatever I was, whether thrall or king."

"Yet, nothing actually changed between us. You were still enchained and I still patted you on the head. Yet, everything changed because your perspective changed. Reality is a matter of perspective. You believe yourself a thrall and so you are, but believe yourself a king and you can be that as well."

"How?" Arafinwë asked, clearly puzzled.

Námo turned him so Arafinwë was facing him. "By recognizing that there are different kinds of thralldom. When you look at Lord Manwë, what do you see?"

"My Master," came the quick reply.

Námo smiled and gave Manwë a wry look. "Perhaps I should rephrase the question: When others look upon my brother, what do they see?"

"The Elder King of Arda."

"And they would be correct," Manwë said, "but they would also be wrong."

"I don’t understand."

"Nor should you," Manwë nodded, "for you are a thrall after all, are you not? But then, so am I."

Now Arafinwë felt very confused. He looked up at Námo, who nodded, and then back at Manwë, who waited. He thought of what both Valar had told him. He remembered the words Námo had spoken: In thralldom there is no freedom, either in hröa or in fëa. Your will is not your own and you live on the sufferance of others. And if you ever seek to escape your thralldom you will be hunted down mercilessly and brought back to even greater shame and ignominy.

He looked at the Lord of Mandos again. "You were speaking of kingship weren’t you?"

Námo nodded, pleased that Arafinwë had finally seen what he needed to see. "Kingship is a special kind of thralldom, but thralldom nonetheless. You are at the mercy of your subjects, their whims and desires. You can never escape your office, not completely, for your subjects will not allow it. They will either love you or hate you but they will never let you go, never set you free. Ingwë knows this, and Olwë. Finwë knew it, though he forgot it. Your brother Ñolofinwë has learned it. Your sons and daughter will learn it in due course as well."

"And I? Have I learned it?"

"Only you can answer that question, child," Manwë said. "Only you can choose the Reality you wish to embrace. Are you a thrall, or are you a king, or are you both?"

For a long moment Arafinwë remained silent and the Valar did not move, patiently waiting for his answer. Arafinwë gave a sigh and leaned against Námo. "I’m afraid I will always be Pityahuan, but I want to try to be Arafinwë again, too."

Námo wrapped his arms around the Elf and hugged him. "Then that is what you shall be."

Aulë stepped forward then, giving the ellon a hard look, taking up the chain and tugging on it gently. "A perfect waste of good mithril," he growled. "I think we can make better use of it, don’t you?"

Arafinwë gave him a considering look and then nodded. "Fëanáro took the crown with him," he said, giving the Vala a shy look. "If I’m going to be Noldóran, I’ll need my own crown."

Aulë nodded, smiling, his eyes twinkling. "I think we can do something with that. So, why don’t you take the collar off and I’ll get started."

Arafinwë gave the Valar a startled look. "But I can’t take it off," he protested. "Lord Námo said only another can remove it."

"And that was certainly true then, but no longer true now," Manwë said. "This time, only you can remove the collar, if that is what you truly wish."

Arafinwë could only nod, hope rising within him. He reached up and grasped the collar that he had worn for so long and pulled. With an audible click, it opened and he let it fall to the ground. He felt oddly naked now. He stared at the collar lying at his feet, not sure what he should do now, but before he could formulate any coherent thought about his future, there were several flashes of incandescent light and he found himself surrounded by all the Valar who were applauding him even as they formed their fanar, their expressions glad.

Manwë leaned over and whispered into the ellon’s ear. "Welcome, Arafinwë Noldóran. Welcome to your new life."

The applause continued, growing louder and louder and then....

****

Arafinwë jerked awake, finding himself lying on the sofa in the cottage, barely registering the fact that several of the Valar were standing there watching him. He touched his neck, and finding the collar still there, closed his eyes and groaned in despair. Had it only been a dream, a fantasy of his desire to be free? He felt tears brimming and bit back a sob.

"It was just a dream, wasn’t it?" he whispered, keeping his eyes closed. "It never happened."

"Not so," Irmo said firmly. "I gave you a true dream."

Arafinwë opened his eyes, staring up at the Vala in puzzlement. "I don’t understand."

"Nor would I expect you to," Irmo replied with a smile. He stood up and motioned for Arafinwë to sit up so the Vala could join him on the couch. As Arafinwë complied, he registered the fact that, not only Lord Námo and Lady Nienna were there, but Lord Manwë as well. Those three remained standing. "I gave you a reality and you acted accordingly. You did precisely as you would have had you truly been awake. The difference is that what seemed for you three or four days as you traveled from here to Valmar only took about an hour in reality."

"But why?" Arafinwë asked, clearly confused.

"It was a test, you might say," Manwë explained, "to see if you truly desired to be Arafinwë."

"So you wanted me to rebel against you?" Arafinwë asked, frowning slightly.

"We wanted you to reclaim yourself," Námo replied. "We never wanted you as our thrall. That was your decision. In all this time we have ever striven to bring you to a place where you would recognize this."

"Hence this dream," Manwë said. "You demonstrated your desire not to be a thrall, but to accept your destiny as Noldóran."

"But I’m still a thrall, still Pityahuan," Arafinwë said with a sigh, resting his chin in his hands, his eyes closed in despair. "I still wear the collar."

"No, child," he heard Lord Námo say. "Thou’rt no longer Pityahuan, or rather, thou’rt no longer just Pityahuan. Search thy heart. Who art thou?"

Arafinwë opened his eyes again, the Valar gazing at him with grave intent. He had the feeling that how he answered Lord Námo’s question would determine his fate for all the ages of Arda. He pulled himself up off the sofa, Lord Irmo moving away to give him some room. Arafinwë stood and faced the expectant Valar. "I think I will always be your Pityahuan," he said slowly, "but I am Arafinwë as well."

"And who is Arafinwë?" Manwë asked.

The Noldo licked his lips and straightened his spine. "He is the Noldóran and... and with your help he will redeem his people in the eyes of all."

"He already has, child," Manwë said with a glad smile. "He already has." He paused for a second or two and then asked in a more somber tone, "Who am I, Arafinwë?"

Arafinwë gave the Elder King an unforced smile. "You are my Master."

Manwë nodded. "Yes, I am, but you are not my thrall. Rather, you are my apprentice. Does that please you, Pityahúnya?"

Arafinwë took in a sharp breath and then nodded. "Yes, it does. It pleases me very much."

"Then, welcome, Arafinwë Noldóran," Manwë said gravely. "Welcome to your new life."

And then, to Arafinwë’s everlasting surprise, the Elder King of Arda bowed deeply to him and the others joined him. Now the tears that fell heedlessly from his eyes were tears of joy and relief and he wept unashamedly as the Valar took turns embracing him and giving him their blessing. He only realized later that at some point all the Valar managed to be present to give him their blessing in spite of the fact that the cottage could not possibly have held them all.