The Family We Choose by Ilye

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Chapter 3

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Over two years passed before Anairë felt ready to hear first-hand of what she had heard called the greatest tragedy of the Ñoldor.

From time to time she had been tempted to ask, when she noticed that Alcarillë's thoughts would follow a certain path into a careful silence before she spoke next, deliberately arranging her phrasing so as to avoid mentioning the son that Anairë missed like a dancer misses the rhythm.

She met Alcarillë as usual beneath the shade of the eagle. By now she had heard the tales, of course, and the songs, and so she knew of how Sorontar had been kind to her family across the sea. The more optimistic of the Ñoldor reckoned the eagle’s favour demonstrated that Manwë had not forsaken the house of Ñolofinwë, for all their deeds in Alqualondë and beyond. Anairë smiled politely as she let them babble on, and remained agnostic.

Alcarillë was gazing up at the eagle’s face, her hands clasped in front of her. She was lost in thought, her eyes seeing through time to a distant country, and Anairë knew in that instant, without preparation, that she was ready.

“Tell me the story of you and Findekáno,” she said, without greeting, before she could change her mind.

There was heartbeat’s pause; then the gasp of a held breath released, and a surprising sweetness crept into Alcarillë’s smile.

“My dear, darling Findekáno,” she said, her voice so full of joy at her memories of him that Anairë wanted to weep because yes, that was the love that he had always inspired in others. How could she have forgotten?

Alcarillë turned away from the eagle and towards Anairë. “You are sure you’re ready?”

Anairë lifted her chin in a nod, not trusting her voice. Alcarillë held out her arm. “Then let’s walk, for I would love to tell you of him.”

~~~

Middle-earth, Anairë was surprised to learn, did not consist entirely of battle, death and heartache. Findekáno and Alcarillë had befriended each other on the Helcaraxë, she learned, and his unerring warmth and good humour had been like a lantern even in the bleakest, grimmest hours. Anairë shivered at the thought of them huddled together when they stopped for the night, and the memory of his sweet voice made her eyelids sting as Alcarillë told of the tunes he used to sing to keep their spirits up as they struggled through the snow and over the ice.

Anairë had heard of Findekáno’s journey to Thangorodrim before. But the songs and rhymes, Alcarillë assured her, did no justice to the terror they all felt at his disappearance, or the political storm he stirred when the Fëanárians learned of their half-dead king’s retention in his ostensible enemy’s camp.

Anairë shook her head. “None of that would have mattered to him,” she said, “even had it occurred to him before he left. He always did follow his heart first of all.”

“That is true,” Alcarillë agreed, “although that rescue healed the rift between the houses more than any possible overture from Fëanáro’s sons. It made your husband into the good and worthy king that he was, and I would be lying if I said I thought his scions weren’t also good and worthy kings after his death.”

The tragedy of that was understated – perhaps because to Alcarillë it was more fact than fantasy. But Anairë wanted to scream and sob and lament that Ereinion Gil-galad had come to the throne only after the deaths of four kings and the abdication of a fifth.

“The crown should never have been Findekáno's fate," she said, "no matter how good and worthy he was. I wonder if he would have survived that battle, had I raised him differently – if I had taught him to be an heir instead of allowing him to go chasing off through the wilds as a youngster.”

"Those wild-chasing skills came in handy; do not berate yourself for that," Alcarillë replied. Her smile’s ghost remained, but her good humour was fading as the story twisted towards its dark and tragic end. “We raised Ereinion as the throne's heir because the likelihood was increasingly high that he would succeed his father. There is nothing so terrifying as raising a child to be a king, let me tell you. But you had no need for that with Findekáno – you could not have foreseen all that happened, and I am glad you were able to enjoy his childhood without that shadow swamping you both."

She pressed her lips together and Anairë thought she had no more to say, but then she finished with characteristic understatement,

"It is a great pity that heirs became a necessity to immortals."

Anairë tightened her grip on Alcarillë's arm. “Let us hope Ereinion needs no heir now that Morgoth has been vanquished.”

As quickly as the cloud had descended, it lifted again. Alcarillë's lips curved in a small, private smile.

"Hope we must," she said, and shook her head in mock despair, "for I think he will beget none. He is too much like his father in that regard, and – what's worse! – thrice as stubborn."

That caught Anairë unawares. She bit her tongue and slanted a glance at Alcarillë, who met her eye with a knowing look and an eyebrow quirked in invitation.

Anairë cleared her throat. She had long wondered about the circumstances of Ereinion's birth – and now, with the information offered in outstretched palm...

“Hmm, I have always been curious,” she ventured, “how you and Findekáno came to marry.”

Alcarillë eyed her shrewdly. “You mean because of his… ah, reputation?”

"I mean because of Maitimo." Anairë’s own bluntness surprised her, but she felt a sudden surge of protectiveness towards Alcarillë, almost as she would have felt if she suspected someone of toying with her Irissë’s heart. But then she caught herself, not only for the unexpected warmth she felt towards a girl she had known barely two years, but also because this was Findekáno, who was ever generous with his own huge heart, and incapable of playing with another's emotions for his own amusement.

Alcarillë did not seem the slightest bit fazed by the conversation’s turn. Instead she sucked her breath over her teeth, reminding Anairë of her iron self-control.

"We do not call him Maitimo any longer," she chided, "for he insisted to us that he was no longer so, after his torment."

“I will not call him Nelyafinwë.” The very thought made Anairë bristle – even now, after all this time, the fact that Fëanáro had dared –

“We called him Russandol,” Alcarillë replied blithely, though the way she smoothed her free hand over Anairë's wrist said that her umbrage had not gone unnoticed. "Later he was also known as Maedhros – some Sindarin nonsense, but it seemed to suit him well enough.”

We. Telling, that; so clearly there had been some kind of arrangement. Anairë did not realise she was frowning until Alcarillë stopped walking and touched her fingertips to the furrow between Anairë’s eyebrows.

“You worry,” she said gently, “though whether for me or Findekáno or something else entirely, I am not sure.”

Anairë looked into Alcarillë's calm face for a moment, then admitted,

"I suppose I am concerned for all hearts involved." And that, she was surprised to realise, was the truth. It was not just Findekáno's open heart she feared for in this particular saga -- for she knew long ago that it belonged to his cousin. It was that she still needed reassurance that Alcarillë had not found herself duped, and even that Russandol, for all his sins, had not been elbowed out of the triangle as the topping to his torment.

“Then let me tell you there was no trickery; no deceit." Alcarillë squeezed Anairë's fingers, and Anairë believed her. "It was an arrangement transparent to all hearts involved. Love worked differently in Middle-earth. It had to. We did not have the luxury of peace or time. And I am certain that Morgoth's filthy workings twisted emotions as well as events – I know you have heard the ugly stories of violence against cousins and siblings and children."

Anairë's stomach lurched; of course she had heard those stories. They included her children, her grandchildren, her nieces and nephews... She closed her eyes, but opened them again as Alcarillë quickly added,

"Conflict changes people, but you know, it is often for the better instead of the worse. One finds a different kind of closeness because of it. Tell me, Anairë,” she said, taking Anairë’s hands within both of her own, “have you ever had a friendship so deep that your love transcends all known obstacles?”

Anairë thought of Eärwen, for whom she had forsaken her own family, and nodded.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “but she is tied to another.”

Alcarillë squeezed her fingers. “And that was the way with us. Findekáno walked alone into hell for Russandol and saved him with nothing more than a song, a wing and a prayer. There was no coming between them and I always knew it. Yet Ñolofinwë, in his infinite wisdom, pressed for an heir, and I could give Findekáno something Russandol never could.” She paused and her face split into a smile. “I loved him enough to do that for him. So I proposed. And he gave me our darling Ereinion.”

Though reassuring, Alcarillë’s happiness was less than infectious this time.

“Then they must have known that their deaths were coming,” Anairë said, unable to shake the foreboding that had darkened her heart. “Both Ñolofinwë and Findekáno.”

Alcarillë’s smile dissipated into a sigh. With Anairë’s hands still in hers, she led them a few steps along the maze until Anairë realised they had come full-circle and sat beneath the eagle again.

"I doubt that Findekáno really knew, although I couldn't say for certain. The Doom of the Ñoldor was heavy upon him, for sure, but he was always too optimistic to let others’ worries keep him down. Besides, he was still Crown Prince when Ereinion was born; there was less reason to believe it so. Perhaps Ñolofinwë saw further than your son. But Sight would have made no difference in the end; we were betrayed, and that was the fact of it. The only decision Findekáno could have made differently was not to fight at all. We were as near as damned to winning, and then –” Her voice cracked and she tailed off.

There was an unsteady hesitation, broken only by Alcarillë’s intake of breath. Anairë wavered, for now her curiosity was blunted, but then Alcarillë spoke again, suddenly full of an icy anger that froze her expression into glacial severity.

“I should have been there, you know. I was his captain; I should have been fighting at his side. I should have covered his back.”

Anairë wondered what good that would have done. “Why were you not?” she asked instead, soothingly as she might have done with Irissë in the heat of her temper. To her surprise, Alcarillë’s anger melted instantly, like a delicate Autumn frost dissolves in a grey morning rain.

“They were supposed to have managed without me,” she sighed, “and the battle was planned down to the last – it couldn’t have failed.” She sounded surprised, as though it was still beyond her how they could have lost, and her eyes were fixed on somewhere very far away. “I stayed behind as Regent at Barad Eithel. I was pregnant.”

Anairë caught her breath. “Then you mean – Findekáno never knew his son?”

“Oh, he knew our Ereinion,” Alcarillë replied. "He was Findekáno's bright star; he adored him beyond measure." She smiled, a broken thing bereft of happiness or humour, at Anairë. “Neither of us knew this second child, who was too fragile to withstand the sorrow after that battle.”

The brunt of that revelation caught Anairë squarely in the gut. She gaped for the barest moment and then, without thinking, caught Alcarillë tightly to her. Alcarillë gasped, a sobbing sound released on shuddering breath, and sagged into Anairë’s embrace.

“I am so sorry,” Anairë murmured, her lips against Alcarillë’s soft, dark hair. “My dear, I’m so sorry. How you must miss him – how you must miss all of them.”

There was a puff of breath against Anairë’s neck, which she realised must have been half a chuckle when Alcarillë lifted her head again. Even now she was calm and smiling, and Anairë wondered whether she had always been thus or whether Findekáno’s good humour had infected her too.

“Oh my goodness…” Alcarillë paused to gather herself and brushed her hair out of her face. “To coin one of his own phrases, I miss him like an idiot misses the point. But where was the point in his warmth and joy if we are only to be miserable now he is gone? It would be such a waste, don't you think?”

It would, Anairë thought, and said as much. Alcarillë sat up straight, but did not move away from the maternal arm that Anairë had laid around her shoulder and instead leaned their heads together.

“Do you wonder,” Anairë said after a few moments of contemplative silence, “if either of us will ever see our sons again?”

Alcarillë glanced up through her lashes at Anairë. “He will come back,” she replied. “You will see your family again.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” It was the first time that Anairë had voiced that fear: so far, none who had died in Middle-earth had been reborn. None were sure if it were possible.

“I have to be sure. I have to believe that Findekáno will come back, and so will everyone else. He will come back because, like his father, he was a good man.” Alcarillë looked up to the sky again and added,

“And because the Valar don’t seem to value cunning as highly as valour.”

Anairë glanced at her, ready to take umbrage, but Alcarillë wore a look of fond exasperation so familiar that before she knew it, Anairë found herself laughing aloud. Alcarillë glanced at her and then broke into laughter of her own, and together they took joy from their memories of Findekáno, even beyond his death.

~~~

Irissë, to Anairë’s surprise, was the first to return.

Arafinwë brought the news, and he was smiling. Anairë’s heart leapt in her chest, not just for her own good news but because he looked a different nér from the fractured soul who had told her all those years ago that her family was dead. He held her hands as he told her that her daughter was to be reborn and, when she said nothing, Eärwen stepped past him to put her arms around Anairë’s shoulders.

“Are you well?” she said gently into Anairë’s ear. “This is good news! When our Ingoldo was returned to us –”

“I am well!” Anairë exclaimed, finding her voice at last. She laughed as she was embraced on both sides by Arafinwë and Eärwen, her joy bubbling up like a brook in spring, and they laughed with her.

“We shall come with you, if you like,” Arafinwë volunteered, and Eärwen nodded.

“Yes, of course – both, or either one of us.”

But Anairë looked at them together, hand-in-hand even as they embraced her, and shook her head.

“Thank you both for your kindness, but no. I think this is best shared between a mother and her daughter.”

Eärwen and Arafinwë threw each other a glance of confusion – but they understood, they said, and took their leave to make travel arrangements on Anairë’s behalf.

Anairë, meanwhile, made straight for the gardens. Alcarillë was in the usual place with her hands in the soil and got to her feet when she saw her approaching.

“What is it?” she asked, wiping off her hands on her apron so she could hold them out to Anairë. Anairë ignored the gesture and pulled her into a hug.

“Irissë!” she cried, laughing wildly. “My Irissë has been returned to me!”

Alcarillë made a high-pitched sound of delight and fiercely returned the embrace.

“That is wonderful news!” she replied, laughing along with Anairë. But then she sobered a touch and held Anairë back at arm’s length. “But why are you lingering here in the palace? You should be readying yourself – you should be halfway there by now!”

Anairë cocked her head. “Why, I thought that was obvious,” she said, reaching out to take the hands of this patient, loving lady who had led armies, who had proposed marriage to her headstrong eldest son, and who had chosen to make Anairë her family.

“I want you to come with me, for after so long with none, now I have two daughters.”

 

The end