Open Up The Door by Tyelca

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Open Up The Door

Elwing hesitantly put the key in the keyhole. It turned, silently, easily, without squeaking. Everything was quiet around here; many of the houses lining the broad lane were uninhabited. The hour had already passed noon and the sun warmed her back. The sprawling house on the edge of the city looked cold and unwelcoming. Deep green leaves from tall, ancient sycamores stood guard around the fenced manor, protecting it against invaders.

 

A hand gently touched her shoulder and she leaned against it.

 

“You don’t have to do this, darling,” Eärendil said.

 

“I know,” she responded. “But I need to. I need to understand why.” Eärendil nodded. He understood her obsession, shared it even to some degree. She pushed the door open. Unlike the lock, it made the tiniest of noises, and that was somehow even worse.

 

They were here with the King’s permission; the King had personally handed them the key and refused to meet their eye. “I have not been there since the time I was still welcome, and that was long before Fëanáro ever conceived the idea of the Silmarils”, he told them. “I will not dishonor his wish now. But his house is not forbidden to enter.” Even while apologizing for his half-brother’s actions, both Elwing and Eärendil sensed a deep sorrow emanating from him. They thanked the fair-haired Noldorin King and left; and now they stood at the doorstep of his deceased mad brother’s home, a threshold into his brilliant mind and the life and he shared with his equally deranged children. All because she needed to know.

 

Stepping inside with her husband at her side felt almost like sacrilege, and Elwing felt distinctly uncomfortable. They emerged into a wide entrance hall; cloaks were thrown haphazardly over the decorative hooks in the wall and boots littered the ground, but left enough space for a large group to walk between. The boots appeared to be made out of good materials, but seemed well-worn; the cloaks on the other hand looked more ceremonial than anything. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

 

Their footsteps were clearly visible as imprints on the floor. Eärendil voiced her thoughts. “I don’t think anyone’s been inside since they left.” The words hung in the air, suspended in the silence, awaiting their final fate like this house had been doing for millenia.

 

Elwing took a deep breath and stepped forwards. Eärendil followed. When she came closer, she could see the individual details sown into the cloaks, and long-dried bits of mud still clung to the soles of some of the boots. She half expected someone to come and get them. She searched for Eärendil’s hand. “I feel like they can come in any time,” she whispered. “Me too,” he responded just as softly, “but they are either dead or on the other side of the ocean. We are safe here.”

 

He looked at her for a few moments and Elwing felt the pressure of his gaze. “Do you want to leave?” he asked her seriously. “We can come back another time, taking it one step at  time. I’m sure King Arafinwë won’t mind.”

 

“I’m sure he won’t,” she answered, “but I want to continue. If we do this now, I’ll never have to come back here again.”

 

“Alright,” was all Eärendil said.

 

Slowly they moved on, through an arched door that lead to a great room with many doors to the sides. It was clear this functioned as the center of the house: a grand table with nine chairs around it stood on one side, the other held a hearth with soft-looking sofas around it. Portraits hung on the wall and large windows looked out over the yard, that seamlessly went over into the woods that surrounded Tirion. Cupboards lined one wall and their surfaces were stacked with ornaments, files, bags; the kind of place where objects got dumped until they were needed again. She even spotted a set of ornate keys, various books still opened to a specific page, and a hand-crafted wooden flute finished with silver. It appeared delicate, but Elwing picked it up. She blew the layer of dust away and sneezed loudly. She turned her head away from the transverse flute and when she looked back, she was surprised at the shine of the polished wood. Eärendil observed her as she fitted the mouthpiece to her lips. She blew softly and an unstable, whining note vibrated in the air. She quickly put it down, but the sound lingered in her ears.

 

She pointedly turned around and walked up to the closest portrait to study it, all the while feeling Eärendil’s eyes follow her carefully, more interested in her mental state than in the ancestral home of the Kinslayers. She didn’t recognize the face in the portrait, had not seen it except in her nightmares. The features were sharp, angular almost, and the hair was dark. He was handsome though; the painter had captured the shine in his eyes and his mischievous grin perfectly. It was a happy rendition made in a happier time, Elwing realized, as she moved over to the next canvas. Another portrait of another Kinslayer, he looked very similar to his brother. But the eyes were darker and his laugh broader; a faint red hue covered his cheeks. The next one was sleeker, with sharp cheekbones and a knowing glint in his eye. He didn’t smile, but his lips twitched and a part of Elwing expected the painting to come to life any moment. She quickly moved on.

 

The next two were identical; although they wore different clothes and were painted at different angles, she could discern not a single mark that set them apart. She had heard of these twins; about how impossible it was to distinguish between them. She had scoffed at the idea, being the mother of twin boys herself, and there had been many little things that enabled people to tell Elros and Elrond apart. Here she found none. She purposefully ignored the thoughts about her children, as she had done ever since she arrived in Valinor. She could not bear thinking about their fate, and her role in abandoning them to bloodlust of the Kinslayers. It was part of the reason she needed to come here.

 

She turned around, and her eye fell on a hitherto unseen portrait. Not because it was hidden, but because it was positioned just besides the door through which they’d entered. Eärendil gently put an arm around her as they silently studied the painting together.

 

It was a full-length work, and differed in style from the others. Depicted where two Elves whom she could only assume were Fëanor and his wife. Their children shared their features, she could see. She felt Eärendil’s hand pull her closer. “They look happy,” he remarked softly. “They don’t look like murderers at all, do they?”

 

“She wasn’t a murderer,” Elwing said absentmindedly. She studied the woman on the portrait. Copper hair, the same color as the twins on the other portraits, was bound in a messy braid that hung over her shoulder. Freckles that she’d only ever seen on Humans sprinkled her upturned nose and clay covered her hands. She wore dark brown leather pants and high boots, as well as a leather apron over a pale blue shirt. Fëanor looked no better, in an outfit similar to his wife and his black hair tied back from his face. He did not look mad or angry or jealous. They smiled at each other, and it was painfully obvious how much in love they were. It was by no means an official portrait, but perhaps that was why it was hung in their living room.

 

“It is difficult to be angry with people I’ve never met when all I have are stories and family portraits.” Elwing sagged against Eärendil’s chest. She wished they’d had the time and the peace to commission such portraits, something that showed their bond. “I cannot reconcile these pictures with what I know the Kinslayers have done.”

 

“Neither can I,” Eärendil responded.

 

Even after all the years of abandonment, the house still stood as proud and tall as a monument to people she couldn’t even begin to comprehend or know. It felt wrong to be here, to touch these obviously personal spaces. King Arafinwë had hinted that his half-brother preferred not to receive visitors in his house; he always used the palace to meet with guests. She could understand why now; this place was a family home and appeared untouched by the horrors of its inhabitants.

 

“It feels like a mausoleum,” she whispered, “if only I close my eyes, I can see children running around here, wreaking havoc and playing games.”

 

“Do you want to leave?” Eärendil asked her again. Concern colored his voice. Elwing thought for a few moments. “No, not yet. I need to see this through.” She turned towards him. “Do you want to leave, though?” Eärendil shook his head.

 

“I wish to stay and see what else we can glean from this house. But only if you feel you can.” She kissed him then, on his cheek. She felt the muscles tense under her lips as he smiled. “Later, darling,” he told her. She nodded. This was neither the time nor the place.

 

“Come on,” he said. The went through the nearest door and entered a spacious kitchen. The smell of dried herbs still lingered; Elwing inhaled thyme and lavender. Large windows allowed the sun inside, and a set of double doors led to a sprawling terrace. This was all at the back of the house; from the road they’d only seen a few, small panes of glass.

 

Elwing imagined what it must have been like, living here. Being of Finwë’s line, still honored here in Tirion, she had to acknowledge that it must have been difficult to achieve privacy in the city. The kitchen was warm from the light that fell through the glass. Another table, less formal in design dominated the space. Against the inner wall kitchen counters and an oven were placed, though it did not seem to be a room for servants.

 

She let her fingers trail over the table, surprised at the many dents and irregularities in the table top. Impressions of knifes, some dark circles of spilled water, a few foodstains that were never completely removed… children had eaten here. Elwing surveyed the kitchen from a whole new perspective. The drawers were just high enough that wandering toddler fingers couldn’t reach, and the oven was protected by a thin wooden screen.

 

She pulled a drawer open at random. Shining layers of silver cutlery, all artfully engraved with the name Fëanáro, met her gaze. They were not as dusty as the rest of the house; the drawer must have protected them. She looked at the inscription for a few moments, picking up a spoon and holding it to her eyes. The name was elegant but not boastful; the entire set was simple and clearly meant to be used, not admired.

 

It was something Elwing had noticed earlier already: this house was not meant to be showcased. She put the spoon back and closed the drawer. Eärendil had opened the double doors to the terrace and a gentle wind diluted the thyme and lavender scent. She followed him outside. There was a firepit in the middle of the terrace, and around it assembled an assortment of low chairs. Eärendil lowered himself into one, while Elwing looked out over the yard. Flowerbeds and an extensive kitchen garden, now hopelessly overgrown. Beyond that a small stream and a variety of trees, planted with care that eventually faded into natural woods. She spotted a small stable to the side, but didn’t look inside.

 

She sank down next to her husband. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How could these people one day just turn around and slaughter an entire city?”

 

“I don’t know,” Eärendil sighed. The fresh air did them both good after the stuffed and dusty atmosphere inside. “People change. They say that Morgoth had a hand in it, as well.”

 

She nodded. “They also say Fëanor was the only one who sent him away, when the Dark Foe came to his door.”

 

He had nothing to say to that. They sat together for a few minutes in silence before Eärendil rose again. He held his hand out to Elwing to help her up. They entered the kitchen again via the double doors and closed them behind them. They went back to the living room and opened another door; it led to a small room absolutely stuffed with sculptures. Most were finished, but some were clearly still in progress and seemingly abandoned. They were more than life-like, even in their white plaster state, and Elwing quickly closed the door again; she wasn’t sure they wouldn’t come after her.

 

Another door revealed a long corridor, with rooms on one side; lacquered nameplates designated each room to an owner. Eärendil opened the first one, leading to a spacious suite with its own private balcony. A sitting area to her left and deeper into the chamber there was a low, wide bed. It was half-unmade. It was almost painful to see how much personality a simple space could contain. A large desk was filled with papers, sketches, that made no sense to Elwing or Eärendil, but must have held great meaning to their maker. A large pianowing took up most of the space, and though it was dusty and out of tune when Elwing put her finger to a key, she could see it had been lovingly and with great care maintained. A harp was positioned next to the piano, but the strings had sagged and she could not get a sound out of them. Perhaps that was for the best.

 

They glanced inside the other bedrooms, and despite the similar architecture, each one was distinctly different than the others.

 

They looked into a small, but fully equipped forge to the side of the house, situated next to a studio with more sculptures. The studio itself was bare; clay was neatly put aside and the ground was swept clean. No personal touches. The forge was different. Though everything was put away in its proper place, an ancient heap of coals lay in the corner next to the fire and the anvil was blackened with old soot.

 

A worn leather apron, perhaps the same one as on the painting they saw earlier, hung on a hook. Elwing touched it, pulled on the material. The leather was soft and brittle under her fingers, and as she tugged slightly harder the straps snipped and the apron fell to the ground. She took a startled step back, but the damage was already done. Eärendil said nothing, but she could sense his disquiet. She quickly turned around and left the forge.

 

Next they entered a study of some sort, with heavy bookcases almost overflowing with tomes and scrolls. Parchment was spread out over the desk and a scrawled tengwar covered the page. Elwing did not read it; she wanted to, but Eärendil held her back. “Are you certain that is a good idea?” he asked her.

 

“No,” she responded, knowing what he’d truly asked. Is this necessary? Do you think reading it will help you? She left it alone after that. The study was a pleasant room, not too large and not too small. The chair behind the desk looked comfortable and sturdy. Between the bookcases another portrait was hung on the wall, and this one depicted the Kinslayers as children, as innocent boys not very dissimilar to Elros and Elrond. All were very close in age; she couldn’t imagine how harsh that must have been for the mother. Elros and Elrond were already a handful.

 

But it was a happy painting, and though the children were arranged in an obviously orchestrated half-circle and wore stiff clothing fitting to their princely status, she could feel the life in it. She could see how the boy on the right had been tugging at his collar, and the incongruent colors showed the little twins had changed places at least once during the painting process.

 

She noticed that the painting was positioned in such a manner that it could be easily seen from behind the desk, and for some reason that brought a small smile to her face.

 

Elwing had seen enough; she didn’t believe this house could offer any more insights than it had already given her. Without needing to speak she knew Eärendil understood her and together they left the study and then the manor. Outside she closed the door and locked it with the key, and felt a weight lifting off her shoulders.

 

The air was fresh and warm, with the promise of a clear evening. The sun was low and the shadows lengthened, but she had done it. She had gone in and had come out again, and though she still couldn’t understand how or why people could turn from a normal family to ruthless killers, she now at least knew there had been a normal family once.

 

And perhaps, she thought, she was not the only one who couldn’t correspond the Kinslayers with the children in the painting, and perhaps that was alright. Perhaps now, here in Valinor, they were not her responsibility anymore.

 

The manor did not look as uninviting as it had when they first came anymore; it had given away its secrets. To Elwing, it now only looked sad, like a loyal dog waiting for its master to come home, not knowing that was never going to happen.

 

They returned the keys to King Arafinwë, and he did not ask about the house. He accepted the keys with a graceful nod and attached them to his belt, where they clinked against many other keys.

 

Elwing and Eärendil had done their duty, they had risked their lives for Beleriand. They deserved their peace together.

Chapter End Notes

Arafinwë is Finarfin.

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