Embodiment of Valor by My blue rose

Embodiment of Valor 1

Read Embodiment of Valor 1

Anairë could not find her husband.

Most of the population of Tirion and the outlying regions were gathered in the Great Square for the festival Arafinwë had thrown in honor of his brother’s re-embodiment. Even her granddaughter’s son, Eärendil, Silmaril shining on his brow, had come with his wife from their home on the coast. The breeze from the Calacirya was rich with the lingering scent of roasted meat and the heady aroma of the great bronze vats of wine strewn about the greensward for the enjoyment of the revelers. The night was full of music as hundreds of songs were played on a dozen different instruments while thousands lifted their voices in accompanying joy.

Nolofinwë was not sitting in the portico of Finwë’s House with Arafinwë, Findis and the other prestigious guests and family. Anairë looked through both the public gardens and private royal garden to see if her husband had perhaps desired to speak with someone in relative privacy, but he was not there. Nor was he in the kitchens or hall and bedchambers of Finwë’s House. She spent the next several hours searching though the throngs of merrymakers under the slivery light of the Mindon Eldaliéva to no avail. There was no need to worry, she told herself. What ill could possibly befall Nolofinwë here in Aman, amid tens of thousands who rejoiced at his return?

Still, she could not fathom why he would flee his own homecoming party.

In defeat, she returned to the front portico of the House of Finwë where Eärwen came and embraced her, speaking softly in her ear that she had seen Nolofinwë slip into the audience chamber. Relived, she thanked her friend and sister-by-marriage and, entering through the kitchens, passed though the living quarters of the House until she opened the door in the west end of the room. From the doorway, Anairë could see the backs of the golden thrones upon the dais in the center of the room, glittering in the dim light of the high-set windows. Across the hall were the great golden doors of the main entrance, flanked on either side by tiers of marble benches.

Siting hunched against the southern wall, on the lowest bench, was her husband.

She went to him and as she drew closer, she could see that he had been weeping. Dark wisps of hair had worked their way out of his braids and his golden circlet was slightly askew. He must have been running fingers through his hair. Nolofinwë had always done that whenever he was feeling distressed. His splendid indigo tunic, broidered with silver and studded with diamonds, was rumpled at the hem where he was wringing it. She reached out to him, both with her hand and with her mind and was hurt to find his thoughts shuttered against her as if she were a stranger or passing acquaintance rather than his wife. It was enough to almost bring her to tears.

He had never closed his mind to her before the Exile.

In the six weeks since Nolofinwë had returned from Mandos, Anairë had done her best to understand the Elf she had spent yéni married to and yet now kept his inner most thoughts hidden. Findaráto had counseled her, speaking of how it had not been safe to keep one’s mind unguarded in Endórë and that he needed time to adjust to embodiment. Thus, she buried her hurt for she dearly loved her husband. When he had died, the rending of her fëa had been so terrible she had wanted nothing more than to die also. Arafinwë and Eärwen would not let her. They had sent her to Lórien where Irmo’s servants sang hope into her until she recovered the will to live.

“I have been looking for you,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.

“I do not deserve this,” he said softly, not looking at her.

Anairë knew Nolofinwë had not wanted his brother to hold a festival but in truth there was little choice; either a formal celebration was held, or spontaneous ones would be breaking out all over the city.

“If you speak of the performance of lay of the Fall of Fingolfin, I am inclined to agree. It is too sorrowful a tale to sing at a celebration,” she replied, aiming for lightness and falling somewhat short.

“I mean I do not deserve any of this!” he gestured angrily, lifting blazing eyes.

Anairë flinched at his tone and his shoulders slumped.

“Forgive me, melda. I do not deserve you, either.”

She sank down on the bench beside him, slipping her hand into his.

“Perhaps it is good you are not getting what you believe you deserve.”

He gave a startled laugh. “You know Lord Námo said something similar. I do not recall most of my time in his halls, yet I remember him telling me it is truly fortunate we do not all get what we deserve.”

They sat in silence for a long moment before he spoke again.

“I thought I could endure this,” he whispered. “But when I met Eärendil…”

“He is rather strange,” she reluctantly admitted, unease twisting in her gut. “It is only to be expected with his Mortal heritage. Yet I shall swear that, whatever he said, no offence was meant. There is no unkindness in him.”

Nolofinwë smiled, chuckling. “He gave no offence. I quite liked him and hope to get to know him better.”

“Then why are you—,” she stopped midsentence, not wanting to accuse her husband of hiding, even if it was true.

“Have I told you that Eärendil’s grandfather’s grandfather was the first Man I ever befriended?”

“You have never mentioned any Men,” she said mildly, feeling relived. She had wondered if perhaps Nolofinwë had been one of those who scorned Mortals and worried what that might mean for their granddaughter’s son and his wife.

“His name was Hador. He was my vassal and I granted him and his folk lands within my own domain. Even more, he was my friend. I had not thought any deep affection could possibly grow with one whose years are so brief. How wrong I was! Eärendil looks so much like him, they could be brothers.”

Then he frowned, closing his eyes.

“I am responsible for Hador’s death. He had only seen sixty-five years and his people accounted him old,” he said bitterly.

“How did he die?” Anairë asked.

“It was during what they call the Battle of Sudden Flame. Hador and his people commanded the rearguard and covered our retreat. He was slain along with his youngest son.”

She squeezed his hand. “It seems to me that Moringotto was responsible for the Man’s death, not you.”

He continued speaking as if had not heard her. “That battle was the beginning of the end for us. We lost thousands, Men and Elves both, as well as two of Arafinwë’s sons. I smelled the stench of burning flesh for weeks afterwards. That was when I realized we had no hope of ever defeating Morgoth. How arrogant we were, seeking to bring war against one of the Valar.”

“Yet you alone of all those in Endórë had the courage to attempt to best him,” she protested.

Nolofinwë bowed his head, covering his face with the hand she was not holding.

“It was not courage nor anger at our losses that drove me to challenge the Enemy. It was despair. My thoughts were ensnared in darkness until I could see no way out save death. I could not bear to watch all my people slaughtered in an inexorable defeat. I sought my own death at his hands, believing it more honorable than perishing from grief. I never truly thought I might manage to slay Morgoth.”

He lifted his head to look at her, eyes full of anguish.

“That is why I do not deserve their adulation. They call me brave and wise when I was truly craven and foolish. When our people needed me most, I failed them as their king. I gave up hope and abandoned them while convinced of my own virtue.”

“You are not the only one to ever be convinced of your own virtue,” Anairë told him. “I was so angry at you for forsaking Aman, defying the Valar and abandoning me, all for the brother who hated you. I was so very righteous.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh.

“I came to miss you as much as I resented you,” she said. “I regret it, you know. Not coming with you.”

“I am very much glad you did not!” he said vehemently. “I could not have borne losing you. Many nights I consoled myself with the knowledge that you, at least, were safe.” 

Nolofinwë lifted a hand to cup her face.

“Arafinwë told me you almost did not survive my death. You were so much stronger and braver than I. In Mandos, I learned that it can take more courage to live than to die.”

Anairë embraced him, tangling a hand in his braids.

“Never leave me like that again,” she demanded, tears burning in her eyes.

“Never again, melda” he agreed, ducking forward to kiss her.

Glossary

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-Earth’. Cognate of the Sindarin: ‘Endor’.

Fëa (Quenya): the spirit or soul of an incarnate, normally housed in a body.

Melda (Quenya): ‘beloved’.

Moringotto (Quenya): ‘Black Foe’. Cognate of the Sindarin: ‘Morgoth’.

Quenya Name Translations:                                                                           

Arafinwë: Finarfin                                                                                                 

Nolofinwë:Fingolfin                                                                                                                         

Findaráto: Finrod