Artanis to Alatiriel: Earweniel's Homecoming by Kaylee Arafinwiel

"Tani?" The child gasped as her elder cousin dropped down beside
her. "Oh, Tani, I'm scared." The only daughter of Arafinwë and
Túrucáno’s daughter huddled together in the darkness, Artanis rocking
her younger cousin as she cried.

"Hope so, Tani. Tani? I want Atto and Ammë." Itarildë wrapped her
arms around Artanis' neck, and her elder cousin carried her
through the still night resolutely, rocking the little one to calm
her…

She had lost her ammë not long after that, Idril reflected, as she walked the gem-strewn shore of Alqualonde. Her gown’s hem soaked in the ocean as it lapped at her, but she heeded it not, merely pacing and pondering. She barely remembered the Darkening, or the Two Trees at all – clinging to Artanis, Galadriel, was one of her earliest memories.

And now she was back, walking the same shores her atto’s cousins had bloodstained all those long-years ago, free to look East for the first time. Her son and his wife, she had been told, had been made free of Valinor (when they chose to travel), while she and Tuor were sequestered at the Ekkaia, looking West and wondering.
They had not been prisoners, exactly, and nor were they Nienna’s thralls, for she did not hold with thraldom. She simply did not wish Tuor to be…a curiosity, it seemed. Nienna’s realm was comfortable, if confining, but Tuor did not age there, and Idril found herself, today, free to walk, and think. Why today?

She got her answer when a ship out of the East was hailed.

Speeding for the quay with as much dignity as sea-soaked skirts allowed, she found herself breathlessly waiting to the newcomers - and Tuor was there! Would wonders never cease, along with Earendil, and Elwing…

Her heart leapt. Could it be, at last?

Three Elves proceeded first from the ship to the quay, with some few others in their train. But these ellyn and the elleth accompanying them were lords of the Eldar, with stars of long memory in their eyes. The elleth, golden-haired as she was, drew near. Idril saw the glimmer of silver in her tresses, and she knew.

“Oh, ‘Tani!”

Clasping Galadriel in her arms as Tuor greeted their grandson, Idril wept.

The women entering The Leaping Dolphin in Alqualondë garnered no few stares from the silver-haired Lindar. Two golden-haired, one dark, one silver-haired as they, the quartet asking for a private parlour were richly dressed; clearly nobles. And yet. Though none of them were Lindar born, they spoke Quenya in the Lindarin manner, only one of the dark-haired ellith clearly finding the language stilted and uncomfortable, while the others encouraged her. Was she, perhaps, from the Southern Fiefdoms? But she didn’t seem at all like one of their country cousins.

As the nissi passed, though, and the Lindar caught sight of the eldest among them, they understood. Rising to their feet, the Lindar hailed the daughter of their Swan Princess with gladness. Cries of “Lady Eärwen’s daughter is home!” and "Welcome, Eärweniel!" greeted her from every side. She returned the Lindar's greetings as best she could, still dazed by their warmth. It was not at all what she had expected.

“Welcome home to Alqualondë, Princess Alatáriel!” This made Galadriel halt, eyes widening. Alatáriel? It was the Telerin form of her name, to be sure. But should she not expect Artanis or even Nerwen from her mother’s people? Who had called her Alatáriel?

She turned, and laughed to see her uncle, Captain Falmaron seated at the table with his brother Salmar, and Uncle Salmar’s wife Aunt Faniel, her atar’s sister. “You name me Alatáriel, uncle?” she asked.

“It is your name, my dear, is it not?” He smiled back. “Your brother made very sure we would remember it.” The only Reborn amongst her uncles, he alone could empathise with what her brothers had been through. “But I heard you were arranging a private parlour. Do you mind if we neri join you?”

“You neri and Aunt Faniel are welcome to join us,” Galadriel replied teasingly, feeling her heart lighten. She laughed as Faniel batted Falmaron’s shoulder playfully. Salmar smirked.

“You see brother, this is why you aren’t wed. I would never make that mistake. And – ah, Lindarion!” He hailed their eldest brother as he returned with a bottle of wine. “We’re just joining the lovely nissi in their parlour – including my own lovely nis, of course.”

Faniel smiled, and Lindarion grinned. Then he caught sight of the women in question, and suddenly had to set the bottle down. “Galadriel?”

Now she really was stunned. Her uncle was addressing her in Sindarin? “Uncle?”

Lindarion took his niece in his arms, kissing her on both cheeks. “We are so glad to have you home, child,” he continued in the same language. “Adar will be so pleased. And Finrod will be glad to know his lessons have paid off.” His eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. “Now come and let us go to the royal parlour, then you can make your introductions. Lady Elwing, at least, is known to us already.” He nodded to the dark-haired Peredhel, who gave him a graceful nod.

When the elves were settled in the Lindarin royal family’s private parlour, Galadriel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Uncles, Aunt, may I make known to ye Itarildë, daughter of Turucáno, once of Ondolindë. Bearer of Hope, brightener of days.” The other golden-haired woman bowed her head to the Lindar, tears moistening her eyes as she whispered a plea for forgiveness, shock at her temerity in even approaching these great lords, especially Falmaron, all things considered.

“Be welcome in the Swan-haven, Idril of Gondolin, Turgon’s daughter,” Lindarion replied. “Thou wast but a child in those dark days, and there is no need for blame or forgiveness between us.” Falmaron rose, moved to Idril’s side and planted a kiss on her brow.

“I remember not my slayer, Idril of Gondolin,” he said smoothly, for his Sindarin was better than his siblings’. “But I know it was not thee. Thou’rt blameless of any wrongdoing. Live blessed, Bearer of Hope and be named friend to the Lindar forever.” Idril blushed to the roots of her golden hair, murmuring shocked thanks as Falmaron resumed his seat.

Galadriel lightly squeezed Idril’s hand, then motioned to the elven women across from them. “And then may I make known to you Ninquelotë of Lestanórë, daughter to my husband’s brother, and her daughter Elwing Perelda, Lady of Aewellond.”

“We have met Lady Elwing,” Lindarion said with a faint smile, “though her mother is less well known to us. Be welcome, Nimloth and Elwing, our kin from afar, and may we be well known to each other from now on.” They returned the greetings in kind, then turned their attention in silence for a time to their food and drink, before conversation began in earnest.

“None have called me Ninquelotë before, Aunt,” Nimloth said when Elwing was deep in discussion with Faniel. Galadriel’s eyes glinted with humour. “It is best you get used to it then, my dear. It is all too likely people will call you by the name they associate with their long-ago Silver Tree, for his white flowers.” Nimloth had also been given to the White Tree of Númenor, she thought, perhaps in no small part due to Elros’ wish to honour an absent daernaneth. As they conversed, the talk turned to Galadriel’s companions who had arrived with her in the West – some expected, some…not so much.

“Periain,” Elwing was insisting to Faniel. “Half-high to a Man, but twice as brave, I assure you, Aunt. It was they, not our folk, who were responsible for the downfall of…Gorthaur.” She shuddered.

“Mortals in the immortal lands,” Faniel sighed, half disbelieving, half wistful. “If any of Findaráto’s—“
“Finrod’s,” Galadriel corrected automatically, getting a look from her aunt.
“If any of Finrod’s tales are true, these Apanónar are full worthy to be here.”

“I should hope so,” Idril rejoined. Faniel looked at her young niece with some chagrin. “Yes, well, not only these Periain, but the promise of a Child of Aulë to come as well…”

“If he will,” Galadriel said softly, smiling at the memory. “I do hope so, Aunt.”

“You are quite taken with him,” Falmaron teased. “Should your Celeborn be worried?”

Galadriel laughed. “Oh no, Uncle, it is nothing of that sort. But Gimli is…special. One day, you will see. His fëa sang to mine, in perhaps ways only the Eldar can appreciate. I am not sure he intended to.”

“Perhaps you had better say, ‘only the Eldar tutored by the Maiar’,” Lindarion rejoined for his part.

“And of what did his spirit sing?” Salmar wished to know.

With all her uncles’ attention on her, Galadriel felt less the Lady of Light and more a nervous elfling about to recite a well-practiced lesson. Her aunt’s gentle smile warmed her, as only lone Noldo women amongst these Lindar could appreciate. Taking a breath, she calmed her fluttering heart and recalled Gimli’s Song inside her.

“His spirit sang of home and family, of days uncounted when his folk and ours worked in harmony and laboured for each other,” she said. “Tempted by Gorthaur’s Ring he was, but he was too steadfast to give in.” She closed her eyes, the gentle thrum of a song reverberating through her, The Song awakened perhaps, and with Faniel’s prompting, gave voice to it.

“The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.

On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun….”

She choked on the words, and opened her eyes, finding them moist with tears.
“Not so very old then,” Falmaron said sensibly, “we’re all older than that, even you. Well, not you two,” he nodded to Elwing and Nimloth. “Still.”

Galadriel gave him a tremulous smile. “I miss Gimli, Uncle. He was…true and pure of heart. Ask the Periain when you see them, they can tell you more.”

“I shall,” Falmaron agreed, taking Galadriel in his arms and kissing her brow. “I look forward to meeting this Son of Aulë who has stolen your heart. No more tears now, Alatáriel. You’ve come home.”

Yes, Galadriel rather thought she had.