The House that Fingon Built by Himring

Chapter 1

Fourth Age

‘It has turned out beautifully’, says Findarato. ‘I must say that I was a bit worried when you first began working on the plans. It can be a bit difficult, coming back, and I wondered whether you were ready..., whether you might not be spending too much time alone. But getting it built has clearly done you good. You seem more content now, I think? And it is beautiful; you have every reason to be satisfied with the results! Just look at the way the sunlight falls aslant through those windows and across the stairwell...’

He turns to me and looks me in the eye. I can see he has made up his mind to ask.

‘Only, Findekano, I could not help noticing...  All over the house, all the furnishings! The place is so clearly meant for two?’

I gaze unwaveringly back at him, but do not answer. He hesitates; then he asks me straight out:

‘She is not here?’

‘No.’

He waits for me to continue, but I decline to fill the silence. Sunlight falls decoratively across the stairwell. At last, I say:

‘You have not seen all the rooms yet.’

I guess I must have decided to give him his answer after all; otherwise I ought not to have taken him into the study. There is no portrait of you in the house—I need none—but for anyone who knows you, you are outlined against the wall of the study, not in paint, but in the selection of books on the shelves. Findarato recognizes it even more quickly than I expected. He picks out a title, looks puzzled, scans the back of the rest of the volumes and then stands quite motionless on the green carpet, next to the desk that is almost exactly like the one at which you used to put in long hours of work, only this one is made of a kind of wood that does not grow in Middle-Earth...

In his own behaviour, Findarato can be very conventional indeed. In our youth, his courtship of Amarie was a ninety-nine days’ wonder in Tirion, it was such a model of propriety. They followed even the rules all the Noldor had assumed were expressly designed for breaking—Amarie, of course, is a Vanya, so it was not her we were surprised at.  Findarato is a safe confidante for all kinds of outlandish and improper secrets nevertheless, for in him conventionality is constantly being overtaken by his ready sympathy. As he turns to me now, his eyes are full of compassion.

‘They are unlikely to let him out, you know that’, he says gently. There is no especial emphasis on the gender of the pronoun. However little he might have suspected it a moment ago, that is not what is troubling him now.

‘I know’, I tell him. ‘But they might. It is not impossible. They let me out sooner than I had any right to expect, after all. I drew sword at Alqualonde...’

Findarato’s silence tells me that he does not entirely share my definition of ‘soon’, but does not want to contradict me. No matter how much time has passed, it does not invalidate my argument: I am here, despite the Doom.  But our silent disagreement effectively kills our further attempts at conversation and, as Findarato takes his leave of me by the gate, his eyes are still filled with pity. I stand looking after him as he walks down the street, and wonder whether I am as pathetic as Findarato thinks I am.

***

When I first set foot in Tirion again, I was even more at a loss than Findarato recognized, I think.  To be sure, there was a certain nostalgic pleasure in breathing the air of Valinor again, but what was it I was actually supposed to be doing here? I was only one Noldorin king superfluous to requirements in a city that already seemed to contain more ex-rulers than you could shake a sceptre at. Findarato and Turukano must have had this problem in their turn, I supposed, but they seemed to have got over it long before I arrived. Of course, Findarato had Amarie, Turukano had Elenwe, who had returned before him, while I...

It was not that I envied Uncle Arafinwe the crown. He seemed to be supremely competent at his job, as far as I could tell, and, in any case, it had never been in Tirion that I wanted to rule.