Through a Mirror Darkly by HannaGoldworthy

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Chapter 4

This chapter begins to incorporate Lindo and Vaire from Unfinished Tales, for Hidden Figures.  Since they are non-canon, I've tried to play with them a little bit to make them fit in with canon a bit more.

And, yet another OC, though she's tangential to this plot.  Sarenda has existed in my mind before I got Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero" as a prompt for Singers and Songstresses, but that song works fairly well as a leitmotif for her nonetheless.  "We are the children, The last generation, We are the ones they left behind..."

Arrival in Alqualondë showed the port abuzz with activity – not necessarily festive activity, for the Teleri did not celebrate Sovallë, but the city’s major export was fish, so the holy weeks could not be entirely avoided.  The markets were filled with the sort of frenetic energy Celebrían had learned to associate with the cities of Men; it was an odd, wistful feeling that washed over her, seeing cities of her people awash with light and life rather than lingering in darkness and regret.  However, that feeling soon subsided when she realized just how much there was to see here, even if she was only passing through for a time.

 

Amarthan kept his hood over his head, for reasons she could understand; Opolintë did likewise, for reasons at which she could only guess.  But Celebrían kept her head up and hair uncovered, feeling as if she had returned to her youth for a day, when Lindon had been new and she a welcomed traveler.

 

There were many children playing in the streets here, of a number which had not been seen in elfkind in Arda for an Age.  They paused only to allow the cart through the streets, staring unguardedly in that way which all children have, but without even a trace of fear of the strangers in their midst.  Celebrían smiled as they passed, and one little girl hazarded a wave of the hand, which was politely returned.  The game began again after they had passed, and it seemed to be a sort of tag, wherein the “tagged” children lingered in “Mandos” until the final child won and became “Námo.”  An odd game to play, for children who would not know Death; likely it had found its way here from Númenor, a very long time ago indeed.

 

The docks swarmed with fisher elves of all ages, some dragging their catch in for the day, some singing as they mended their nets.  Celebrían noticed her cousin’s attention pulled toward the nets themselves, which were of fine, white rope and as decorative as they were functional, colorful beads strategically threaded into a number of patterns.  “The art of macramé,” Amarthan murmured, when he saw her focus had been drawn there as well.  “Uinen taught it to them to make nets, but often they adorn their homes with it as well.  I’ve seen pieces that could outshine Ñoldor tapestries, and even Vairë likes to incorporate it into her work.”

 

There were a number of boats still out upon the water, and they too were singing, though the tunes were loud and rather more ribald than the songs sung on the shore.  Opolintë, uncomfortable with Teleri, asked for a translation; when she received one, she blushed red to her very ears, and Celebrían doubled over with laughter.

 

“Not really Sovallë fare, is it?”

 

“No,” Opolintë muttered, shrugging into her cloak even further in a gesture that was hopelessly Ñoldo.  “Not really Sovallë-worthy at all.  Though I’m positive I’ve heard it in a few taverns.”

 

The activity culminated in a large construction project, near the edge of town where the shoals were too great to withstand boats.  A great stone bridge had been erected to allow for passage between Alqualondë and Tol Eressëa, and it was beautiful, white and strong and gleaming.  Though the bridge was functionally complete, and indeed carried quite a bit of traffic on this day, artisans of all three elven kindred hung from its sides, carving reliefs depicting Ulmo, Uinen, and Ossë, as well as scenes from history.  Celebrían squinted to study the scenes, and then laid a hand on Amarthan’s shoulder.

 

“Do you think the artists would allow me to look at the bridge more closely?  I think I see my mother’s face in there.”

 

He tilted his head in thought.  “I’d been meaning to speak with someone before we crossed to the Tol.  Perhaps it could be arranged.”

 

About halfway across the bridge, Amarthan’s hands pulled gently on the reins, bringing his little mules to a slow stop, just in front of a Ñoldo artisan who had been examining her tools.  The woman made an irregular picture, all wiry muscle displayed in a sleeveless undershirt and no-nonsense leather breeches, with her stone-powdered hair cropped so short that its longest strands reached only to her ears.  When she saw who had stopped beside her, she glared banefully, rising to her booted feet with the grace of a threatened woodland cat.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed, appropriately for Celebrían’s metaphor.  Celebrían recoiled instinctively before she realized the challenge was not directed at her, but at Amarthan, who sighed sadly.

 

“I have business on the Tol.  Should I not at least greet her as I pass through?”

 

“She’s busy.  I should think she has better things to do than to talk with some…”

 

“Sarenda!  Enough!”

 

Another artisan clambered over the edge of the bridge, gracefully as a monkey from the rainforests in the Utter East.  She, too, was completely dusted with white, powdered stone, and wore an outfit similar to her companion’s; the exception being that her hair was fashionably long, but braided and tied to the top of her head to be out of her way.  Futilely she attempted to brush the dust from her arms as she hurried toward the cart, but Amarthan disembarked quickly, and swept her into a tight embrace without caring for the dust.

 

Celebrían had wondered where Nerdanel had been these past few weeks, when the first of her boys had returned home.  Now, she supposed she had her answer.

 

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay long,” Amarthan said, pulling back from his mother’s embrace.  “Will you still be here by evening?  I’ll be passing this way again.”

 

Nerdanel’s eyes remained dry, though she did seem a little disappointed.  Celebrían looked belatedly away from the scene, suddenly feeling as though she were intruding; unfortunately, she looked in the direction of Sarenda, who eyed her coldly, as if calculating exactly where to hit her with a chisel in order to make her fall apart.

 

“Of course I will be,” Nerdanel replied, and Sarenda rolled her eyes and shook her head.  “Have you a place to stay for the night?  The road back to Tírion is a long way.”

 

“Especially for elegant ladies,” Sarenda growled, never taking her eyes away from Celebrían’s.

 

“Oh, you’ve noticed!” Opolintë exclaimed by Celebrían’s ear, her arm casually encircling her shoulders.  “We went to such effort to pick out the prettiest sackcloth, just for you!”

 

“Sarenda, I said enough,” Nerdanel’s voice could cut granite if it wanted.  “Talk to me when you return,” she said more softly, obviously turning back to Amarthan again.  “You’ll sleep in my house tonight.”

 

“I don’t want to impose…”

 

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

 

“Sarenda, take your break.  Now.”

 

The short-haired elf huffed, and stalked angrily toward Alqualondë; Celebrían’s eyes followed her, and it seemed Opolintë’s did as well, her hand squeezing Celebrían’s shoulder comfortingly.

 

“Never mind her,” Nerdanel continued, when Sarenda was out of earshot.  “She’ll either hold her tongue, or go drinking with her friends tonight.  When do you think you’ll be back this way?”

 

“Sunset, or thereabouts.  I have business with Lindo.”

 

“I’ll look for you.”

 

Celebrían risked a glance in Nerdanel’s direction again, just as the older elf placed a swift kiss on Amarthan’s cheek.  Then, she returned to the edge of the bridge, raised a hand in farewell, and rappelled down to continue her work.  Amarthan returned to his seat in the cart, clucked his tongue, and they were off again.

 

The whole thing struck Celebrían as remarkably brusque for such a long-delayed family reunion.  And when she judged that they were well out of Nerdanel’s hearing, she said so.

 

Amarthan only sighed.  “That was no reunion, cousin.  Mother has been visiting me for years; I’m the only one of her sons who will see her.”

 

Valinor just seemed to get more and more mundane, the more she heard of it.  “Mandos has visiting hours?”

 

“Nay,” said Opolintë, climbing back into her seat by Amarthan.  “But the Halls of Waiting do.  Nienna has her ways.”

 

As she said this, she wove a mottled hand into Amarthan’s, clasping it in quiet solidarity.  It was tenderer than Nerdanel’s hurried kiss had been.  That thought made Celebrían unreasonably angry.  Childishly, she felt the need to take it out on the nearest available culprit.

 

“I take it that Sarenda does not come with her when she visits?”

 

A snort came from behind Amarthan’s hood.  “Oh, she used to, when she was young and still had hope of seeing her own parents.  But her father refuses to return from exile, and her mother chose to die as Míriel had, rather than raise a child alone.”

 

Regret chilled Celebrían’s heart, and remorsefully she turned to look back at Alqualondë, hoping to see the thorny young stonemason again.  “It’s kind for Nerdanel to take her under her wing like that.”

 

“Kind?  Perhaps it is, but there is an obligation there as well.  Sarenda is Makalaurë’s daughter.”

 

And, like that, time seemed to freeze, the cold late-winter air kissing the tears that seemed to be the only answer Celebrían could manage for that information.

 

***

 

It was a somber mood with which they reached their destination, a small cottage on the west side of the Tol, looking out at the Sundering Sea.  It was rather out-of-the-way for what Celebrían had thought would be a merchant’s house, but perhaps it was an artifact from the time when Númenor had been in regular contact with the Isle.

 

The spot was certainly well-picked, with a view that took Celebrían’s breath away, despite the winter sea’s sullen gloominess. The cottage’s owner, a tall, dark-haired elf, seemed to be of the same mind as she, for he stood watching the gulls soar, far too distant to touch, a pensive melody whistling through his lips.

 

“Mel ar nilme

I amaurea indóme túl

Ilya mal i na-”

 

“Your grammar leaves much wanting, old man,” Amarthan drawled.

 

“OF COURSE IT DOES,” said a voice that sounded like the distant toll of a funeral bell.  “I LEARNED IT FROM YOU.”

 

Amarthan’s remark of the Valar taking natural form and living amongst their people flooded back into Celebrían’s mind.  Once again, her brain seemed to retreat from the present, and she watched with a sort of frightened awe as Amarthan strode confidently up to the stranger.  Lindo – which was not his real name, she was sure – bore little resemblance to any elf of any kindred, though he opted to keep the dark hair of the Ñoldor.  His eyes, however, were a deep, glowing purple, deeply unsettling even at this distance in much the same way Amarthan’s were.

 

And yet, there was tenderness there, a deliberate crinkle in the Ainu’s eye, as without hesitation Amarthan embraced him as closely as he had embraced his mother.

 

“MY BOY,” murmured the Valar of the Dead, rocking her cousin’s body with all the natural affection of any father.  “I'VE MISSED YOU SO VERY MUCH.”

Chapter End Notes

Namo was supposed to talk in Small Caps, because I'm a Pratchett Nerd and I think it's funny.  However, I could not get the formatting to transfer from my computer, so he talks in All Caps at 10 pt.  And yes, that is a quick (and probably massively erroneous) translation of one verse of "We Don't Need Another Hero" that he sings.

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