Olwë's Home for Wayward Elves by Morcondil

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Chapter Five

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CHAPTER FIVE.

We rode in one of the royal carriages down to the quay. The original plan had been to walk—the swan-ships sat at anchor just a few hundred yards from Olwë’s palace—but when Írissë and Costamo came down to the front porch with what seemed like enough luggage for all seven Fëanorions, that idea was quickly put aside.

“We’re taking a trip across the bay, not voyaging into the hinterlands,” sniped Nécandil as the four of us clambered into the carriage (summoned by one of the king’s heralds).

“Have I taught you nothing? You never know what occasions you might be required to dress for,” said Írissë, settling herself onto a cushioned seat. She shook her head in mock despair.

“Better to be over-prepared than under,” added Costamo, sitting next to me, across from my cousin.

Nécandil sank onto the bench seat next to Írissë and met my gaze. Our eyes rolled simultaneously, and we laughed. Outside, the driver whistled at the liveried horses, and we set off. The wheels rumbled as they rolled over the cobbled streets.

In less than five minutes, we arrived at the quay.

“See how efficient that was?” asked Írissë.

We exited the carriage to the bustling dock. Fisherfolk were coming in with the morning’s catch, and they called out from their dinghies to the waiting wholesale vendors on the quay. Merchant ships were loaded with the finest artisanal goods from Noldorin crafters to be taken across the bay to Telerin villages on Eressëa. Some noblewomen were boarding a smaller swan-ship to set off on a pleasure cruise. Treelight gleamed warmly upon the water.

At the end of the pier was Olwë’s swan-ship, nearly as tall as a building. Its prow was fresh-painted white, rising out of the harbor like a magnificent plumed bird. The shiphands were busy on deck under the strict supervision of Alarciel, the captain. A young Teler in a jaunty cap escorted us aboard.

“If you’ll just sit here on the quarterdeck, your excellencies, I think we shall be underway within the hour.” The sailor conducted us to a canopied deck toward the rear of the ship, where a divan and various cushions had been laid out. An attendant was there, ready to ply us with cool drinks and powdered-sugar confections. I looked around, impressed. King Finwë rarely left Tirion, and when he did, he traveled in a gold litter borne by white horses gifted to him by Oromë. But Olwë’s swan-ship surpassed the Noldorin king’s conveyance in terms of grandeur and luxury.

My cousin must have been coming to similar conclusions, for Írissë plopped herself face-down onto a pile of silk-tasselled pillows. “I could spend the rest of my life here in this spot,” she declared. Her voice was muffled amid the pillows.

Nécandil and Costamo seemed less impressed by the opulent vessel, but they were Lindar and might even have traveled via swan-ship before. They strolled to the railing in order to observe the sailors on the dock releasing the ropes. The anchor was lifted. The deckhands began to sing a merry song as the pilot navigated out of the marina, then turned south toward the Bay of Eldamar.

I had never been on board a ship, and I watched with fascination the efficient comings and goings of the crew, and the firm directions of the bosun and Captain Alarciel. I remembered my conversation in the Tower with Olwë. Would I find life more pleasant as a sailor than a royal statesman’s daughter? I pictured myself voyaging up and down the coasts of Aman in dim waters lit by distant Trees. My friends would be the stars, and my companions the creatures of Ossë’s realm. It was a pleasant image, but I knew as soon as it entered my mind that it could never be. Even my uncle Fëanáro, eccentric and distant as he was, would never manage to so thoroughly shake off the life into which he had been born.

And if I were to be honest with myself, a life on the sea sounded appealing only in theory. With time, I would find the decks of a swan-ship just as stifling as my well-ordered existence in Tirion.

I stood a little apart from Írissë, Costamo, and Nécandil, gazing across the stern of the ship to Alqualondë: a rapidly diminishing pearl in the distance. Olwë’s Tower spiraled into an unblemished sky above the city walls. I wondered if my grandfather was sitting in his chair (perhaps with another basket of carrots), watching our swan-ship depart.

While I stood solitary, Írissë joined our Telerin companions at a game of dice. From the sound of it, she was thoroughly trouncing them. (This was why almost everyone refused to gamble with her.) After a particularly lucky throw from my cousin, Nécandil threw up his hands and swore even more vulgarly than me at my worst. Írissë doubled over, laughing.

“Impossible!” exclaimed Nécandil. “It defies all the laws of probability and fairness that you should win five times in a row. I am sure you’re cheating.”

“Oh, stop being a child and accept defeat,” retorted Írissë. She gathered the pile of wood chips (which most casual dice-players used instead of coin) toward her. “And if you’re not going to be a good sport, you might as well not play. Artanis, come and take this whinging infant’s place. Artanis, do you hear me?”

I came and knelt on the deck between Costamo and Írissë. Nécandil retreated snack on the refreshments and grumble about “Noldorin trickery.” I was a skilled gambler myself, and for a while Írissë and I battled, until finally she won the last of my chips and I too was forced to admit her superiority.

The game over, the four of us settled back into the cushions and raised our eyes beyond the deck to the sea. It had been less than three hours since Captain Alarciel had put out of the harbor, but already Tol Eressëa loomed large on the horizon. I saw verdant green hills rolling gently back from a small port town. The ocean glittered fiercely, shimmering with Treelight and reflections of the isle’s lush foliage.

Next to me, Nécandil devoured glazed buns with restless energy. His body was tense, his eyes alert. I wondered if he was excited to see his family again, or if matters were more complicated. In his place, I would have looked upon such a reunion with mixed feelings. (Yet in the back of my mind, I longed to see Arafinwë’s grave face.)

“You grew up here,” I prompted my friend. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to know his state of mind.

The Teler inclined his head. He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate; I prodded, gently: “Did you like it?”

He chuckled. “Of course! Who could be unhappy with eccentric arborists for parents and a gaggle of adoring sisters cooing and sighing over your smallest achievement? Not to mention having the run of the orchards, where everyone in the village knew the number of freckles on your left knee and what you ate for dinner. It was...cozy.”

It sounded idyllic, I thought. Idyllic and boring, but nice. I told Nécandil as much. “I’ve spent most of my life trapped in schoolrooms, cramming my head with as much lore as I could,” I added.

He squinted at me. “Your parents forced you to?”

“No.” I shook my head slowly. No—Arafinwë and Eärwen would never have done anything of the sort. My drive for knowledge came from within, and they respected and aided in it whenever they could. “I think the lady Eärwen might have preferred I spend a little more time doing womanly things like entertaining and balancing the household accounts, but she never complained when I abandoned those tasks in favor of haunting the forges and metalsmiths’ workshops. Sometimes, she would sit with while I was with my tutors so she could help me with difficult computations later.”

“She sounds lovely,” said Nécandil. The short tufts of his close-cropped hair bristled on a sea breeze. “I would wager she is happy to have so talented a daughter.”

An instant denial rose to my lips, hot and swift. I checked myself.

Was the lady Eärwen happy with me? It never felt that she was. Then I thought of her hovering over my shoulder late in the night as I scratched out my geometry proofs. I remembered how, when my hands grew too sore to keep writing, my mother took the pen from me and scribbled while I dictated. In the morning, we were both bleary-eyed and sore, but the work was complete.

What could I call that, except the devotion of a proud parent?

Not for the first time that summer, I felt like crying. Yet I could not have explained why.

Wise as ever, Nécandil seemed to understand me without words. He patted my clenched hand, then strode to join Írissë and Costamo, who were hanging over the railing as the king’s swan-shop glided into port.

#

After we disembarked and said farewell to Captain Alarciel and the crew, we set off eastwards, toward the center of Tol Eressëa. Nécandil assured the three of us it was no great distance to his parents’ orchards, so we elected to walk—though we did have to rent a cart and driver to deliver the massive tower of Írissë and Costamo’s luggage. Nécandil and I teased them, but my cousin primly paid the driver and refused to engage. Costamo simply shrugged without apology.

We walked single-file, for the roads on Eressëa were not wide. There was a clamor and din in the town square, but did not stop to enquire. Nécandil told us it was market day: an event that happened infrequently enough that it was treated as something of a holiday by the residents of the sea-town and nearby farms. Once we left the settlement behind, the air grew quiet and soft. The stillness was broken only by the crunch of pebbles beneath our feet and the whistle of birds in the hedges. At times we passed by prosperous fields tended by sun-browned Lindar in floppy straw hats. More often, the untouched countryside spread limitlessly in every direction. The wavering grass in the meadows had the appearance of sea kelp, cast in a murky light because we were so far from the Trees.

The journey was pleasant. After several weeks spent swimming in the churning waves, the four of us were fit and full of energy. Nécandil led us down a narrow track that wound off the main road, then over a gentle hill until we found ourselves in a quaint hollow. Before us stood a large wood-framed house and various stone outbuildings. Rows of orderly fruit trees ranged to the back and sides of the house; a dog barked in the distance. I saw quaint statutes carved of shale, and seashells arranged in curious designs in the front garden.

And I saw, with a funny twist in my stomach, that two smiling Teler stood in the doorway, waving at our approach.

Nécandil waved in turn and bounded towards the house. He engulfed his parents in a wide-armed hug, both at once. They embraced each other while Írissë, Costamo, and I approached at a slower pace. The pale-haired woman had tears in her bright green eyes.

Our friend disentangled himself from his parents and made the introductions. Nécandil’s mother, Lavarië, gave us each a bruising hug and sloppy kiss, while his father, Hóndur, settled for a peck on the cheek and a grin. Even the lax atmosphere of Olwë’s court had not prepared me for such easy affection; I was nonplussed. From my cousin’s posture, I knew Írissë felt the same. Yet I returned the hug and the kisses with composure. (Not all of Eärwen’s lessons had been for naught.)

When the greetings were finished, we were welcomed into the wide house, where dinner and a few of Nécandil’s sisters waited. Amid all the laughing and back-slapping, I locked eyes with Costamo, who stood a little apart from the crowd in the main hall. Something struck me as odd about his appearance, but I could not place it. The matter fell from my mind as I was plied with hearty stew and excellent Lindarin wine.

Some time later, however, I realized what it was that had bothered me about Costamo: he had been smiling. His mouth had stretched wide enough to show large teeth and tiny, lopsided dimples. His eyes sparkled with mirth.

I had never seen him smile before.

#

Nécandil, Costamo, Írissë, and I passed a jolly evening at the orchard house. Lavarië and Hóndur were attentive hosts; their daughters were witty and intelligent. The great hall seemed warmed by joy itself. The simple wooden furniture and handwoven rugs would never have been seen in the elegant villas of Tirion, yet I found nothing wanting, either at the table or in the company. All was as it should be. More: it was not difficult to see that Nécandil was loved and protected in a way that few are ever lucky enough to experience.

I thought that perhaps I would like such a family of my own, if I could find a partner worth my time. I caught Costamo’s eye across the table and knew his thoughts were similar. (I would never deny that Arafinwë and Eärwen loved me, but their emotions had never been so exuberant—I wanted something less restrained for my own future.)

Even the best of parties must end, and so did this one—shortly after Írissë and Hóndur started a drinking contest that terminated with both spewing apple liquor across the floor as they laughed uncontrollably. Then Lavarië declared herself exhausted with the thought of picking up after such uncouth creatures and—apparently—fell fast asleep where she sat.

“Do not worry,” said Hóndur as he carried his sleeping wife to their chambers, “she’ll take us all to task in the morning, sure as Elentári’s stars.”

The rest of us tramped to our sleeping quarters in high spirits, but not before thoroughly cleaning the main hall.

A long room with a low-hanging ceiling had been set aside for us. Mountains of blankets and down pillows covered the floor; on low tables sat soap and water in delicate ewers. My companions soon threw themselves onto the cloudlike mattresses and slept without dreams. Írissë’s snores were surprisingly loud.

But I could not sleep. I stared at the sky through the window at the foot of my bed and counted Varda’s stars. Sleep did not come. I rose and slipped out of the sleeping chamber, through the front hall, and out into the night.

It was well past the second Mingling, and Telperion’s Light was at its strongest. On Tol Eressëa, the silver glow slanted across the landscape at odd, fey angles. I truly felt that I walked beneath the sea, suffused in wavering beams cast from an unseen Light.

My feet bare, I walked without sound to the edge of the fruit orchard. The leaves rustled merrily, and the scent of fallen fruit clogged my nostrils. The air was hot, but not unbearably so. I studied the branches of a large cherry tree and wondered what my life would have been if I had been raised among the Teler rather than the Noldor.

A shuffle of footsteps interrupted my musings. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see Nécandil or Írissë. Instead it was Hóndur in a shapeless sleeping gown. He carried a wriggling bundle of cloth in his hands; when I stepped closer, I saw it was a tiny kitten no more than a few weeks old.

“I was awake to take care of this poor soul and thought I’d join you,” said Hóndur. He held up the kitten for me to see. “I found her mewling in the hedgerow yesterday, lost or abandoned by her mother. Poor mite.”

I smiled shyly and crept closer. The kitten was wrapped in fine cloth the same dark gray as its fur, and her eyes were just beginning to open. She made pitiful noises even as Hóndur sang a soothing lullaby under his breath. She was helpless—helpless and fearfully perfect.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. I stroked the kitten’s tiny head with one finger. “And soft!” I laughed, quietly so as not to disturb the animal.

“Aye, she is,” agreed Hóndur. He stared down at the little creature. “It puts me to mind of when my own children were small. It is strange that the Eldalië should be born so weak and helpless, with none but our parents to ensure our survival.”

As I was not a parent, I had no response. Nécandil’s father continued:

“Even when they grow strong, the fear something will happen to them never fades,” he murmured. “My wife and I are sometimes beset with dreams of our daughters falling into the sea, surrounded by pillars of fire…” His eyes grew cloudy and distant. After some moments, Hóndur came back to himself. He looked gently at me. “Never mind all that, Lady Artanis. You’ll understand it yourself when your own firstborn is placed in your arms.”

I was not at all sure I ever wanted to have children, but I nodded. I shifted on my feet; the grass rustled beneath my naked toes.

“If it wouldn’t be too presumptuous,” said Hóndur, “may I give you some advice?”

“All right,” I said. (Though I was still at the age where I was categorically opposed to any counsel from an adult, no matter how well-meant.)

“It isn’t necessary to understand your children, my lady,” he said. “You need only to see the truth of their fëar and do what you can to smooth the way.”

For the second time that day I felt a lump of emotion swell in my throat. I thought again of my mother helping me finish my geometry proofs.

Hóndur patted my cheek. “Lavarië and I will never truly know what it is to be Nécandil—no matter how much we wish it, we could never see the world as he does. But is it so difficult to sew your son a dress when he asks, or to shield him from gossip when it comes? Perhaps one day he will take a woman’s name and form of address; all I need do then is honor his choice and tell the world: ‘No, I was mistaken—I have five daughters, not four.’

“I do not understand what it is to have a man’s body yet feel other than a man,” he continued. “But do I need to?” Hóndur shook his head in answer to his own question, and cuddled the kitten close to his breast. “Of course, I am sure your own parents have done the same for you, my lady,” he said.

They had done the same for me. A single tear crept down my cheek. I remembered Arafinwë’s worried eyes that last day in his study; I remembered my mother’s desperate embrace before I left.

“I...I do not…” I faltered, unsure. The tears were sliding fast down my face, and I turned my head to hide from Hóndur. I felt all the shame of one who realizes, for the first time, the thankless good one’s parents have done for them.

He was unconcerned with my weeping. Resuming the lullaby, he patted my cheek once again. “There now, my lady,” he said. “You are going through a hard season—no longer a child, yet neither a woman grown. It will get easier.”

“I hope so, sir,” I snuffled into the quiet orchard. “I truly hope so.”

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Chapter End Notes

Name Guide
— Arafinwë = Finarfin
— Artanis/Nerwen = Galadriel
— Fëanáro = Fëanor
— Írissë = Aredhel