Olwë's Home for Wayward Elves by Morcondil

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Chapter Four

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CHAPTER FOUR.

Life in Alqualondë fell into a comfortable rhythm. The Falmari were not an ambitious folk, but their days were full nonetheless. The members of Olwë’s household led a busy schedule of singing, dancing, sea-bathing, and sailing in and out of the gated harbor. (Not to mention eating.) One could never be discontented in such a place. The king himself spent most of his days at play with his visiting grandchildren, and Queen Ilcamë trailed in the wake of their merry destruction, accompanied always by her knitting and a bevy of handmaidens.

The four of us—Írissë, Nécandil, Costamo, and I—were the eldest of Olwë’s summer visitors, and for the most part we kept to ourselves. Nécandil was familiar with the city, and he acted as our guide whenever we ventured beyond the front garden. But those occasions were rare. Within the house, Írissë had taken it upon herself to teach us how to be beautiful (as she flippantly put it). What my cousin’s lessons lacked in rigor, they more than made up in hilarity. One attempt to teach me how to dance a complicated Vanyarin minuet ended when I tripped on the long train of my skirt, knocked a priceless vase from its pedestal, and kicked Nécandil in his privates. At first we all stood frozen in shock, but then Costamo (enlisted by Írissë to accompany the lesson on the viol) began to snicker. Soon the rest of us were helpless with mirth as well.

“If anyone ever asks you to dance, Artanis, just tell them you have indigestion,” gasped Írissë through her giggles.

“And if they make a fuss, refer them directly to me and my injured manhood,” added a groaning Nécandil.

My cousin’s lessons continued, but I did not dance again.

Between Costamo and I there was an unspoken, tentative accord. After Olwë’s uncomfortably prescient comment over breakfast, a watchful peace developed. I didn’t quite trust him, and he didn’t quite like me, but we did not quarrel openly again. Sometimes, while Írissë and Nécandil were lost in a debate over the application of cosmetics and whether indigo was an appropriate color for lips (Nécandil said yes; Írissë said not), we would talk. Costamo had a quick mind and an interest in the history and the lore of Eldalië, as did I. We conversed in a respectful, scholarly manner, with an ease that might have surprised me had I been more self-reflective.

Indeed, after a rough beginning, my banishment to Alqualondë was proving to be one of the finest summers I could remember. I woke each day with an appreciation for the simple enjoyment of a life well-lived. Sea-salt wove itself into my errant hair, but there was no one to chastise me. I was free to laugh loudly, and often. At times, Nécandil and I returned to our earlier plan to travel south to Eressëa, but our companions seemed only tepidly enthusiastic of such an undertaking. Comfortable as we were, none of us could truly rouse the energy to make a definite plan.

The days passed. I began to think only seldom about the scandals I had left behind in Tirion; my damaged reputation seemed less and less important within the pearly walls of Olwë’s house. In the back of my mind, I began to understand that my parents, with their sighs and head-shaking, sought only to help me reach success, not to whip my very fëa into submission. (I did not begrudge them their worries.) My three-step plan for my own rehabilitation was forgotten. Even so, I became more circumspect in my actions. When Costamo and I disagreed over a point of linguistics, I curbed my first impulse to shout and stomp off; when I grew restless indoors, I went for a swim in the ocean until exhaustion stilled my twitching limbs; when the impulse to shock and dismay came upon me, I banished it with vigor. And all the while, Írissë was there to tease me, and Nécandil to nudge my shoulder in companionship—even Costamo would sit on the shore while I swam for hours: “In case a riptide should try and claim you,” he said gruffly by way of explanation.

I was growing up. I had fought against it, but adulthood came anyway. It was not as painful a transition as I had once thought.

One morning, the four of us decided to visit a local tavern that was famous for its ale and honey-cakes. (Vanyarin farmers had recently learned the cultivation of bees from Yavanna, and a craze for the golden syrup had swept across Aman.) Nécandil and I had never had honey, and we were eager to taste it. The tavern was just outside the city walls, so we directe the palace grooms to saddle our mounts. We met in the open courtyard where Telperion’s Light shone brightly.

While we waited for the horses the be brought around, Írissë and Costamo began to bicker over who could drink the most ale. (My guess was Írissë—not for nothing was she dear friends with the sons of Fëanáro.)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” put in Nécandil, “for we all know that the doughtiest drinkers come from Eressëa!” He flexed his thin arms; combined with his ruffled pink blouse (stolen from my closet), the gesture made him look like a flamingo.

I opened my mouth to say as much, but a soft tug at my elbow pulled my attention away. One of King Olwë’s heralds stood close, a solemn expression on her broad features.

“If it please you, my lady, your grandfather the king wishes to speak with you,” said the herald.

That was surprising. Aside from the day of my arrival, I had not interacted much with Olwë. I had seen him here and there around the palace, but never for long. He had certainly never requested my presence so formally before. Perhaps he wished me to join in with the children’s games? At any other time I wouldn't have minded, for my Telerin cousins were sweet and only a little naughty.

“I am about to go riding with my friends,” I said. “Couldn’t this wait?”

The herald frowned. “My lady, the king is in his Tower, and he awaits your presence especially.”

Another surprise. Olwë’s Tower was annexed to the palace in the east, accessible via an underground passage. From the top, one could see west to the Corollairë and south-east to the Bay of Eldamar and Tol Eressëa. At least, that was what the rumors said; people were rarely invited to the Tower, and Olwë carried the only key.

I wanted to voice my refusal a second time, but years of protocol learned at Eärwen’s knee took effect. I swept the herald as gracious a curtsey as I could muster. (I had been looking forward to the honey-cakes.) “Of course,” I said the the woman. “Let me just tell my friends to ride on without me.”

I did so, explaining the situation as succinctly as I could. Írissë and Costamo were disappointed yet unconcerned, but Nécandil was clearly shocked. “If only I could come with you and get just one look—they say you can see all of Tol Eressëa from the turret. Maybe I could see my family at work in their orchard!” He shook his head regretfully.

I promised to look for his parents’ home, then turned to follow the herald back inside. She led me through echoing white hallways and down a wide flight of stone steps. The underground passage was short and lit with torches. An intricately woven green-and-yellow carpet ran from the stairs to a far door, where two steel-mailed sentries stood. Our footsteps did not echo.

The herald gestured, and the right-hand sentry opened the door to reveal a circular chamber and another flight of stairs, winding upwards. “I will leave you here, my lady,” the herald said to me. “The king waits for you in the highest turret.” She left, the folds of her livery whispering as she walked.

I looked between the two smooth-faced sentries. Their expressions were carefully neutral. There was nothing left but to go forward, and so I did. I stepped into the wide, circular chamber. The door swung closed behind me. A stair of pale gray stone began on the far wall, winding up up up. I thought ruefully of the lifting mechanism Noldorin engineers had recently installed in the Mindon Eldaliéva.

I began to climb.

The spiral stair was lighted both by gilt-silver lanterns and rectangular windows cut into the wall of the tower itself. Fresh sea air toyed with my hair and robe as I climbed. The scent of brine grew strong as I went on. Finally, the stair ended on a wide platform. A golden ladder came through a square hole in the ceiling. I put my hands on the rungs and ascended, slightly out of breath from the countless stairs. My head emerged into a clear day of glowing Treelight. I blinked against the sudden bright.

A domed roof sat on top of the tower, supported by wide pillars. Gauzy curtains swayed in the gaps left between the columns. King Olwë sat before me, in a pink-marble chair inlaid with pearls and blue shells. His back was to me, for the throne faced across the sea to the eastern horizon. A long seeing-scope on a tripod stood next to him. The rest of the open turret was bare.

Swallowing thickly, I approached my grandfather; he did not appear to have recognized my arrival. I kept my eyes on the smooth, empty floor as I walked. I was not afraid of heights as a rule, but I had never been so far from the earth before. (Arafinwë had promised to take me to the top of the Mindon in Tirion, but his diplomatic duties filled his schedule.)

I shuffled closer to Olwë. When I drew close enough to see over the tall back of his chair, I noticed a small basket in his lap. It was the kind Arafinwë’s cook used to store fruits and vegetables in the larders. The king’s basket had a least a dozen of the most enormous carrots I’d ever seen, and he was eating them with the relish of a particularly avid rabbit. I nearly laughed. Even here, at the top of the world, Olwë defied convention.

“I am here, my lord,” I said by way of greeting.

He mumbled an acknowledgement through a full mouth. I studied the horizon as he finished chewing. It was a clear, silvery day (as were all days in Aman). No clouds or trees marred the view. I felt that I could see into eternity, and beyond. My nervousness of heights lessened.

“So, granddaughter, you are not happy in Tirion.”

I was taken aback by Olwë’s bluntness and didn’t think to lie. “No,” I said. I was not happy—had not been for a long time.

He nodded and selected a new carrot from the basket. The crunch when he bit off the tip was obscenely loud. “But drinking and gambling and wearing trousers—do those things make you happy?”

I blinked. No one had ever asked that question, and perhaps they should have. Yes, I wanted to say: Yes, I love riding hell-for-leather through the streets at midnight; Yes, I love fighting in alleys; Yes, I love scandalizing society and dismaying my parents. But, of course, that was not the truth.

I did not behave as I did because I enjoyed doing so. It might be that I believed such actions gave me pleasure; but now, standing at my grandfather’s side while his blue eyes probed my face, I saw myself truly.

“It does not make happy, my lord,” I whispered. The admission felt like a loss. I was unmoored and set adrift on a tide, and I had no navigation chart.

Olwë nodded again and hummed a little. He rested his cheek against his palm and stared out across the ocean, into the east. I followed his line of sight and saw only a blue sky and a blue sea—and a fuzzy line where the two met.

“I had brothers,” said the king. He took another bite of carrot.

My mind reeled again: this conversation was proving difficult to follow. Of course, I knew of his brothers; we all did. It was fact that Olwë had not been Chief of the Lindar from the time of the Awakening. That title had fallen upon Elwë, who had strayed into the woods of Endórë and never come out. Some thought Elwë had perished there, but perhaps he lived on, still in that Lightless forest with Elmo his brother and those of the Lindar who had forsaken the road to Aman.

The king kept speaking: “I left him there, though I looked long amid the trees and the shadows. But in time I grew weary of the hunt, and of the dark. I heeded the call of the Valar at last. Perhaps I did right in this, but perhaps I did not. It may be that my brother Elwë look for me still, alone and abandoned.”

“Grandfather,” I whispered, softly. I stepped closer to his chair so that I might rest my hand on his shoulder. His frame trembled beneath my touch. I had known Olwë all my life, but I had never seen him thus. A wise king, he was considered to be, and a merry one. Yet was his joy merely a mask, and did he climb his Tower in solitude, so that he might be free in his regret and his doubt? I did not know what to say to him—indeed, there was nothing to be said.

How can one comfort the bereaved in a land without grief?

After a time, Olwë’s silent sobs lessened. He returned to eating his carrots. He chewed them meditatively now, rather than with hunger. He reached with his free hand to pat mine, resting there on his solid, kingly shoulder.

“I think you would have liked it there, Artanis,” he said. His voice was light once again. “Endórë is not like Tirion—not like Aman at all. It is bigger, wilder. You might have carved your own place there more easily, without all this fuss and bother.”

“But I cannot leave Aman,” I said. The very thought was absurd. And yet...and yet, I could not deny that some part of my fëa roused at the idea. Strange ambitions sang sweetly in my veins, sweeter than breaking curfew or playing pranks on my schoolmasters.

“No, no,” laughed Olwë. “Indeed you cannot leave! I meant nothing, Artanis, it was merely the observations of a silly old king, grown too wise for his own good. Think not of it.” He waved at the air, as if to banish our conversation.

I allowed the moment to pass.

“I suppose I should do as my mother says, when I return to Tirion in the autumn,” I said. “She believes that Ilsaner the Loremaster would take me as a pupil, and that after I complete my studies, I should take one of my father’s aides as a husband.”

“Do as you wish, granddaughter,” said the king, “but know that my daughter Eärwen will not lead you astray, whatever her counsel may be.”

“She is a good mother,” I said, more to myself than to the king. I realized I had never told Eärwen as much.

Olwë smiled at me. He reached into the basket on his lap and pulled out the largest, orangest carrot of the bunch. He offered it to me with a courtly flourish. I hated all root vegetables, but I accepted this one with a half-laugh. The snap when the carrot broke between my teeth was supremely satisfying. We munched happily, the king and I, and observed the view from our perch at the top of the world. We were taller even than the wheeling gulls—they looked like children’s toys from where I stood.

“I believe I heard something about a trip to Tol Eressëa?” prompted my grandfather at length.

I was sure none of us had mentioned it to Olwë, but servants would gossip, even in Alqualondë. “Nécandil’s family has an orchard on the isle,” I said, “and we—Nécandil, Írissë, Costamo, and I—thought we might visit sometime this summer. If you approve, of course.”

“An excellent idea,” said Olwë. “The four of you have become fast friends, have you not?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped. Before my banishment, I had never been close with anyone my age except my brothers. I had never had a friend before, and now I had two—plus my cousin. Day by day, I found Írissë less annoying than I had before. She was vain, but not stupid. I thought back to all of the girls in Tirion I had thought so insipid, and I wondered if I had misjudged them as well. It had become clear that heretofore I’d been a dismal judge of character. (Even Costamo had turned out to have some redeeming qualities.)

“Yes,” I said. “We are friends.”

“Then I am pleased, Artanis,” said the king. “To be lonely is to suffer a great evil.” He rose from his chair and embraced me. I smelled sea-salt and driftwood. “You are a good girl, and you’ll grow to become a better woman.”

I wanted to burst into tears, but I didn’t know why. I buried my face in his warm chest and fought for composure. After I gathered my emotions together, I managed a misty “thank you.” Olwë released me and clapped his hands. Then he capered about, performing a little jig for my amusement.

“I think such a momentous undertaking should begin on the right note, don’t you agree?” His blue eyes twinkled down at me.

It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to the proposed trip to Eressëa. “Oh,” I said, “I suppose?”

“Quite right, quite right! I shall inform the captain of my Royal Swan-ship that you and your friends will be departing from Alqualondë—she will conduct you across the bay herself. I trust two days will be sufficient time to pack...and gorge yourself on honey-cakes?”

I blushed. By now I knew better than to question how my grandfather knew of the outing I’d planned for that morning—Olwë was cannier than he looked. “Um,” I stammered, “I am sure we can all be ready by then.”

The king bounded toward the hole in the turret’s floor and gestured down the golden ladder. “Then away with you, my child! Tell your new friends of this good fortune, and remember to pack a crown!”

I did as he bid, laughing. I swung down the ladder with ease. The king waved at me once, then resumed his seat on the marble throne. I climbed down into the Tower’s interior with a glad heart. But as I descended the ladder-rungs, I looked again at the wide blue sky and and the vast sea—and at the lonely figure sitting on the platform, gazing relentlessly into the east.

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Chapter End Notes

Name Guide
— Artanis/Nerwen = Galadriel
— Elwë = Elu Thingol
— Fëanáro = Fëanor
— Írissë = Aredhel