Gentle yearning of the heart by firstamazon

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Gentle yearning of the heart

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The sun heated the little white room where they sat companionably. It was always hotter in the South, especially at this afternoon hour when torpor hit them the hardest. The yellow light fell lazily upon the wooden shelf and on crystal jars filled with dried leaves and flowers and other few, simple decorative items – none of them a family heirloom. Beside him, on a sturdy armchair, Tuor read a book with one hand, while the other idly twisted the gold band on Idril’s elegant finger. Her golden locks sprawled beneath her on the backrest of a rocking chair, and she smiled faintly. 

 

That bucolic sight never failed to bring a smile to Voronwë’s lips. Over the years, he had grown to love the last royal family of the Noldor as his own, who were now lost to time and grief. Since he was a babe, Eärendil had called him uncle, for Tuor and Voronwë shared anecdotes and remarks as two long lost-and-found brothers. He cherished his time in his friends’ home as some of the most precious hours of his day. Seeing them thus, free of the ever-growing shadow of the North, was indeed more than he could hope for – even if he knew that it was a flimsy hope that they could escape its dark tendrils that spread fast, and irrevocably. 

 

Voronwë shook those thoughts away and stretched his long legs as the smell of sea air gushed through the open windows and stirred the white drapes. Tuor raised his eyes from the book and stared into the distance, unfocused with memory and longing – a longing that Voronwë had never seen in a child of Men before, but there it was. Every day the same look on Tuor’s handsome sun-tanned face. In his heart, Voronwë secretly wondered how long would it take for him to set sail and leave these shores. It was a fear he had never once voiced, not even to the murmur of the waters. What would Idril do? Would she sail with him? What of Eärendil? Would they leave him or take him with them? 

 

He was then filled with distressing foresight; images flooded his mind of a boat lost in the ocean, tossed around in the waves like a fickle little thing, a needle in a haystack. No. No, that was not foresight but memories of his own past that still provoked the strangest of sensations. An ominous feeling that terrible things were still about to happen, lurking in the darkest corners and waiting to catch them unguarded. Voronwë shook his head slightly and chuckled at his own foolishness. He scratched the scars on his face, – they had begun itching again, another reminder of his toils as a mariner. When a ray of light pierced through the drapes and illuminated the light wooden floor, he rose.

 

“Are you going already, my friend?” Tuor whispered and turned his gaze to him. 

 

“It’s past time I took my leave from your hospitality,” he answered softly. “I will-”

 

“Take a walk near the shore, yes, yes…” Idril opened her eyes a fraction and smirked, but her tone was kind. Voronwë gave a little smile. She rose and came to take his hands in hers.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer? You could sup with us for a change!”

 

“I am. My thanks again.”

 

“If you see Eärendil, will you please warn him that if he arrives late again, he will go to bed with an empty stomach?” Tuor asked with a wry tone.

 

Voronwë laughed through his nose and nodded.

 

“We’ll see you tomorrow?” Idril asked, walking with him to the door.

 

“I wouldn’t miss your lunches for anything!”

 

“Well, tomorrow is Tuor’s turn, but I hope that won’t dissuade you.” They both heard Tuor’s indignant groan and laughed.

 

“If there’s something I can’t blame him for, it’s trying,” Voronwë said lightly, but Idril’s smiled faltered, and she lowered her gaze.

 

“Idril, I…”

 

“No, it’s quite alright,” she waved her hand dismissively and smiled brightly. “We don’t have to pretend that we don’t suffer here things that were completely unknown to us before. We don’t starve, dear, there’s no need to make that face.”

 

Voronwë had been grimacing. He sighed and gave her a taut smile, the best he could summon. Of course, this was no Gondolin, and the Gondolidhrim refugees that arrived at Sirion had only increased the problem of food shortages when they joined with the elves from Doriath. There was nothing to be said. He kissed her cheek lightly and left. As he crossed the threshold, he pressed a kiss to his fingers and ran them along the white walls of adobe, as a way of blessing. The house stood on a sandy hill and had a privileged view of the cliff. Even though it was modest, few could claim they had better lodgings – perhaps only the Sinda princess had one as good as this. And Idril and Tuor were, by the laws of their country, King and Queen of their people. 

 

The heaviness in his chest was nearly unbearable, and seeing their domestic lives only added salt to his injuries. He loved them, but he missed those had perished, too many of them. Renowned warriors, famous bards and his dearest friends… all gone. Those thoughts were particularly weighing on him, and he shook his head again to get rid of the insistent sadness that threatened to undo him every day. Voronwë’s feet took him to the edge of the cliff, where the wind blew stronger and lifted his light gray hair from his loose ponytail. The sight and sounds of the sea always calmed his anxious heart and often gave him the daily solace he needed to cover the wounds that felt like they would never heal.

 

On the rocks below, Voronwë spotted children playing in the shallow, hot pools splashing water, discovering new sea animals and screaming with joy. There was Eärendil, sun-bright hair flowing in waves over his shoulders. And that dark-haired girl by his side was, no doubt, princess Elwing, graceful and as mischievous as his little prince. He smiled. The scions of these two great houses of the Quendi were predestined to intertwine. 

 

Voronwë climbed down the cliff with the agility of a cat and landed lightly, making the seagulls and albatrosses flap their wings in greeting. He walked down the shore with his hands in his pockets, sighing profoundly and feeling the melancholy settling in his bones. The sun kissed his skin, and high up in the sky, seabirds of various species cried and called him home. But I am home, he thought wistfully. Nonetheless, his heart was sick with a nameless longing. He stared at the ocean and its suave to and fro. It was right there, in front of him, licking his feet. What, then, was he yearning for? Not Valinor, surely? That road was long abandoned, even if not forgotten.

 

It was still mid-afternoon, and the gentle whisper of the tide rushing through the sand soothed him like the purest of balms. Since his childhood, he had always heard and saw more things than most of his people, and the sea had been a steadfast messenger for as long as he could remember. He laid back on a shoal and closed his eyes as he let the sounds and smells of the ocean fill his senses. He drifted off until the sound of shrieking children came to his ears.

 

“This way! I have found another one!” Came the voice from his dream. A voice he knew. Two boys played on the rocks, and a peel of crystal-clear laughter drifted back to him. Voronwë, it called. Voronwë, Voronwë. Wake up, Voronwë!

 

He opened his eyes and found a mass of tangled blond hair cascading down a fair, round face and two deep blue eyes staring at him expectantly – the eyes so characteristic of the House of Nolofinwë that both his mother and grandfather possessed.

 

“You are awake!” Eärendil beamed.

 

“Well, you wouldn’t rest until I was, would you?”

 

“Nope!” The boy brushed the hair out of his face and sat beside him, staring at the sea.

 

“What is the matter? Tired of playing already?” He sat up and looked at the prince’s flushed face.

 

“No, but I saw you here and…” he hesitated a little. “Are you sad again?”

 

Voronwë brushed strands of loose hair off Eärendil’s mouth and stared at the vastness in front of them. Every day the boy would manage to ask him that same question, and he couldn’t help but tell the truth. After all they’ve gone through, Eärendil was not like other children who grew up in safety despite the war, like he himself had.

 

“It is calling me…” He muttered and closed his eyes, hearing the soft crash of the waves and the creaking of the sand beneath them.

 

He couldn’t enjoy his reverie for long, for the boy by his side wouldn’t sit still. He squinted his eyes, and, surely, Eärendil was digging a hole and stomping his feet, scattering sand all over. Voronwë looked at him fully, and the boy immediately returned the gaze.

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Eärendil said, no longer hiding his true intentions.

 

Voronwë smiled. He loved the child as he loved the father. As if Eärendil was his own son. In many ways, during their difficult and perilous journey, he had been second father, older brother, uncle, and, more often than he would ever admit, a nanny.

 

“And what do you want to talk about?”

 

“My friend told me he knew you when you were my age. But I said that was impossible! You’re old!”

 

Voronwë laughed out loud. “I am indeed. Who is your friend?”

 

Eärendil turned to the rocks where he had been playing, and both of them saw a silver-haired boy whose turquoise eyes shone like two precious gems. Voronwë’s breath caught in his lungs. From afar, the boy smiled in what looked to be benevolence, in a too adult way, and waved at him. Voronwë licked his lips and swallowed. It had been many, many years since he had last seen the familiar face of his nameless messenger. He wondered what secrets and perils the sea would bring him this time. 

 

“Uncle?” The soft whisper brought his eyes back to Eärendil’s concerned expression.

 

He exhaled noisily. “It is true, little jack. I once knew him – or rather, he knew me,” he smiled softly as the wave of memories flooded him. “It seems he has known me since before I was born…” Voronwë said with confidence. Of that, he was certain. “My father used to tell me about that day…” 

 

***

 

F. A. 100

 

“My lord! My lord, come quickly!” A beautiful silver-haired boy rushed into his office. Aranwë raised his eyes from the letter Círdan had written him and frowned. Aranwë first noticed that the boy had unique turquoise-green eyes. Then, the reason for haste came to him. He stood up hurriedly, the letter fell from his hands, forgotten, the chair screeching on the stone floor noisily. The boy took his hand – why, Aranwë couldn’t say, and he was in no state of mind to ask – and together they rushed to his house, from where the screams could be heard across the square. Servant women rushed in with buckets of fresh water, and out, with others filled with blood.

 

Aranwë widened his eyes and sucked in a breath. Nobody had prepared the father for what he should do when his first child came into the world. He wanted to ask one of the maids what was happening if everything was alright – but no one paid him any mind. The boy squeezed his hand, and he looked down into those unusual eyes.

 

“Don’t worry, my lord. Everything will be alright,” he smiled enigmatically.

 

Coming from anyone else, Aranwë would have dismissed it as a failure at reassurance. But there was something about this boy that made Aranwë feel soothed indeed. The fathomless turquoise eyes reflected the light of the sun, and, for a moment, Aranwë thought he was being pulled toward a calm, wave-less beach.

 

“My lord,” a servant called with a smile. “The lady is asking for you. Congratulations, my lord,” she said when he passed. “It is a beautiful boy!”

 

He came into the room and saw his poor wife, exhausted and pale. She was crying and laughing at the same time. She lifted her adoring gaze to him and beckoned with her hand. Aranwë went to her side, without realizing the strange boy had followed him inside. The babe was the most precious thing he had ever looked upon.

 

“He has your nose,” Elenriel said faintly.

 

The newborn half-opened delicate lids and Aranwë saw that he had sea-gray eyes that reminded him of the foam of the waves as under a storm. Aranwë shuddered with the ill-boding that represented, but said nothing to his beaming wife. He kissed her temple and his rosy cheeks. When he looked up again, the strange silver-haired boy stared at the scene with a mysterious expression, head cocked in curiosity. Aranwë opened his mouth to ask what he was still doing there, but he couldn’t.

 

Those eyes shone from the depths of the world, deeper than the most profound parts of the ocean, and Aranwë felt an unmistakable wave of calm rush over him. He breathed out noisily without breaking eye contact, and the boy gave him the same enigmatic smile, bowed curtly, and disappeared.

 

***

 

At this point, Eärendil sat straight and widened his eyes. “Wait, so… was it him?” He asked, looking back at his friend, who still played at collecting shells. “That’s impossible!” He turned astonished eyes to Voronwë once more.

 

“It should be, indeed. But the tale isn’t over yet.”

 

***

 

F. A. 116

 

The boy ran along with shells and starfish, lifting sand from his sandals and sprinkling water on the seabirds that cawed and ran away from him. He laughed merrily, silver hair loosening from his low ponytail as he pursued their flight until he reached the wreckage of a boat. There on the broken hull, the seagulls landed to peck on tiny mollusks. Usually, the boy would laugh, for the sight and the cry of those birds gladdened his little heart.

 

This time was different, for the wood was darkened with moisture and decay, and gave him an eerie feeling of something he could not yet put into words. Voronwë stared at the upturned boat, from which moss and seaweed clung sadly, and feared to approach it. One great seagull, white as foam, looked straight into his eyes and cocked its head. Bright laughter that came from the other side of the hull startled him, and he took two steps back, ready to run back to his mother. The head of a boy, silver-haired like him, peeked from where he had been hiding and smiled.

 

Voronwë stared at the boy, for he had most unusual, beautiful turquoise eyes that were the exact color of the sea.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” the boy said.

 

He was tall and lean, and there was something about him that wasn’t boyish at all. His eyes, Voronwë decided. It was those strange eyes that showed depth and wisdom beyond any elf he had ever encountered.

 

“Who are you?” Voronwë asked.

 

“I can be your friend if you let me. Come,” the boy waved a hand. “I have another friend here with me.”

 

He hesitated for one second, but he wouldn’t be cowed by dark boats or weird premonitions! He was kin to Círdan the Shipwright, master of the Falathrim, and from the High King’s household! He took a step forward and came around the hull only to find a girl sitting there – but it was not a common girl. He had played with them once, and none looked like that! Yet Voronwë couldn’t say what she was. For she had the head and shoulders and torso of a girl – a very pretty girl.

 

Her hair was silver-green, and her eyes of the brightest blues of the ocean. From the waist down, she had the most marvelous fishtail Voronwë had ever seen. A myriad of iridescent purple and pink and yellow scales glimmered blindingly with the sunlight as she flipped it on the sand and reflected on the shallow pool of water in which she sat.

 

***

 

Eärendil gasped loudly by his side. “You know them too?” He couldn’t hide his delight at this information. He knew his father’s best friend had many incredible stories to tell, but never that! He never could’ve guessed, from Voronwë’s calm demeanor, that he was friends with the wild folk of the sea. The boy touched with light fingers the shining silver coat that wets not, a gift from the Oarni that inhabited those shores.

 

Voronwë followed Eärendil’s movement over the delicate, inimitable material and smiled. “I did. Now, will you let me tell the story?”

 

“Yes!” Eärendil shouted at once, forgetting about the silver coat and staring excitedly at Voronwë again.

 

*** 

 

“My name is Uilien,” the fish-girl said. “What is yours?”

 

“V-Voronwë,” the boy said with wide sea-gray eyes as two silver platters.

 

“Well met, Voronwë,” she smiled. “Do you want to help us? We are building a castle in the sand!” She pointed to the mound before her that he had not yet noticed.

 

Voronwë looked down and, indeed, there was a fortress, big and built with many levels. There were even gates – seven of them! – and a high tower decorated with a minuscule white shell that glimmered pearly in the sunlight. It was so beautiful that Voronwë feared to touch it.

 

“Don’t be afraid, Voronwë. You won’t destroy it,” the boy said in turn.

 

And so Voronwë played with them, no longer caring for the strangeness of their eyes, or for the fishtail that shone preciously. They played until the sun started setting and tinged their sandy fortress with gold and reddish hues. But, alas, the tide was rising, and the waves were beginning to crumble the outer walls. When they realized it was futile to keep it from being destroyed, the silver-haired boy ran into the sea, and the waves crashed on his knees. He opened his arms, looked up, and laughed. They abandoned their play as both the strange children started playing with the water. Voronwë stood aside, toeing the sand and watching them.

 

“Do you want to swim with us?” Uilien asked him.

 

“I… I don’t know how to swim,” he replied and lowered his eyes.

 

“We can teach you if you want,” the other boy turned his turquoise eyes to him.

 

“Voronwë!” His mother’s voice came faintly from the other side of the beach. “It’s supper already!” He peeked from the hull and saw that Elenriel waved her hand, beckoning him. She didn’t seem to have noticed the other children.

 

“I have to go,” Voronwë said. And, as he turned to go to his mother, he stopped and whirled. “Will I see you again?”

 

“We are always here, by the sea,” Uilien said.

 

Voronwë smiled and ran toward his mother, who welcomed him with a hug and a kiss on his forehead.

 

“Where have you been the whole afternoon?” she asked.

 

“I was playing with them!” He cried and pointed to the place where the boy and the Oarni had been.

 

“Who, dear?” She said and covered her eyes from the sun. “There is no one there.”

 

Indeed, the two mysterious children had disappeared. Voronwë frowned. They were there just a second ago! He thought he’d seen the pearly glimmer of a fishtail in the water.

 

“There, emmë*, look!” He cried and pulled her until the waves reached their ankles. Voronwë darted his eyes, confused, looking for the tail. “They were here!”

 

“Who was here?”

 

“My friends!”

 

His mother laughed and brushed his tangled hair. “You are making friends with the fish now, love?”

 

“It was a she-fish!”

 

“Really?” Elenriel took his hand, and they picked the sloped trail back to the city. “And what did she look like?”

 

“She had silver hair like mine, but with a greenish tone, and a huge tail! And her name was Uilien. And the boy, he…” Voronwë faltered and lowered his once excited eyes. “I don’t know his name.”

 

“To befriend the sea folk is a good sign. You were chosen by them, and you are very fortunate!” She smiled, and Voronwë smiled back, not quite sure of what this meant.

 

That evening, an urgent message came for his father: Prince Turukáno was moving to another settlement, away from Vinyamar and the sea, and the people that lived on the coast were to follow him. The time they had been waiting for had finally come. Voronwë helped his parents pack everything of value they had. After only a few days their house was emptied of furniture, paintings, and everything that had made Voronwë ever call it home. He wandered through the empty hallways and rooms, feeling the echoes of the white walls sighing back at him with the whisper of the sea. He was going to miss Vinyamar.

 

Everyone said it was but a fortress built among the rocks, its white towers shining in the distance with their golden domes and pointy peaks, almost too awkward for the Noldorin liking. To Voronwë, it was beautiful – or so he had told himself when he was older, for his memories were often bathed in the nostalgic light of childhood.

 

As he crossed one room to take another look at the city beneath and above their home, Voronwë saw a glimmer in one corner. He squatted and retrieved the head of a broken crystal swan. He remembered breaking that little statue by accident while pretending he was a swordsman. The figure that stood above a big dresser had shattered into a million pieces and they could never retrieve the head, even after moving the furniture back and forth. It had been a gift from Círdan to his mother, and Voronwë had never seen her so furious as she was that day. He had been grounded for one entire month, not able to leave his room except for meals.

 

Voronwë touched the crystal head, with perfectly sculpted beak and eyes and a slender and graceful neck. He vaguely wondered how they have never found it, being that big. But Voronwë didn’t know yet that that was the way of things returning to us when we least expect them. He carefully wrapped a traveling kerchief he wore around the head and tucked it into his saddlebag.

 

He stared once more at sea. With the uproar of packing, he hadn’t had the time to go to the beach and play. At that point, his mother came quietly and stood by his side.

 

“Are you ready, dear?” She asked softly.

 

Voronwë nodded and allowed the tears he had been holding to finally spill.

 

“Why are you crying? Aren’t you happy we are going to a better, safer place?”

 

“Yes…” he answered feebly. “But I wish we weren’t! I didn’t even say goodbye to my sea friends, and now I’ll never see them again!” He sobbed and as he was pulled against her breast, she whispered:

 

“Hush now, my love. This won’t be the last time you will see them.”

 

Voronwë looked up, and she was smiling. “How do you know?” He asked with renewed hope. It was a silly question because his parents always knew everything. But he asked nevertheless because he needed that comfort. He needed to be sure.

 

“Because once you befriend the sea folk, they will never abandon you,” she caressed his cheek.

 

“Even if we are attacked?” He asked with the blatant straightforwardness of children, but Elenriel didn’t flinch.

 

“No matter how grim and dark your path may be, they will always be close,” she fixed his ponytail, which was looser than usual.

 

“But… what about you? Will they not protect you and father too?”

 

His mother’s smile faltered for a second, but then she smiled all the brighter. “I don’t know what their reasons are, my love, but you need not worry!” She hugged him tightly. “We are under the protection of my cousin Círdan and Prince Turukáno, not to mention thousands of our finest warriors! We are going to a hidden place, and what wonders will we do there!”

 

Voronwë looked up, and his mother’s eyes beamed the excitement of a child. Adventure awaited them in their new home, and Voronwë felt it was contagious. He smiled and imagined what a great host they would be, killing orcs in their path and discovering places no one had ever seen before!

 

That night, they abandoned the shores of Nevrast never to return.

 

***

 

Voronwë sighed and swallowed the lump that had stuck in his throat. The journey from Vinyamar had none of the adventure they had expected and all the secrecy of fugitives. And still, after blissful years living under the shadow of the Crisaegrim, Voronwë forgot the hardships they had endured. Of course, he had gone through a lot worse, after.

 

He had lost both his parents during the Sack of Gondolin. His father, ever the noble one, stayed behind to fight the balrog’s host and had been slain alongside many other warriors. His mother was murdered in their own house before he could get to her. King Turukáno had ordered him to lead Princess Idril to safety, and so he had done. Now, Idril and Eärendil were safe, but his parents were gone… He closed his eyes and sent them a little prayer of comfort, as he always did, wishing that they had met again in Mandos.

 

“What happened?” Eärendil asked by his side.

 

“Well, you’ve heard this story a million times. With Ulmo’s help, King Turukáno found the path that led to the Vale of Tumladen, and there we built the most beautiful city in Arda,” he said wistfully.

 

Eärendil lowered his gaze and bit on his lower lip. The boy didn’t ask about Voronwë’s parents because he knew what had happened that fatidic Tarnin Austa. He was small then but, even if he didn’t understand what was happening, Eärendil watched as the city burned, his friends died before his eyes, and his parents nearly succumbed to the roaring fire that had engulfed their home. Eärendil remembered the fear and panic that had befallen them all, adult and child, woman and man, noble and servant – sometimes, in his nightmares he could still hear their screams and see the reddish gleam that gave their faces a haunted, terrifying look. His parents had looked like that as well. As did his uncle Maeglin, whose name nobody spoke ever again.

 

“Little jack,” Voronwë called him, and when their eyes met there was care and love in those sea-gray eyes. “You still haven’t heard the full tale. Do you want me to stop?”

 

Eärendil lowered his eyes once more and shook his head.

 

“Are you sure? We can continue another day…”

 

“No,” he said more firmly.

 

Voronwë paused for a moment. “There is no shame in feeling sad or grieving for those who are gone,” he said gently, patting Eärendil’s small shoulders.

 

“I want to hear it. All of it.” Eärendil was glad his voice didn’t quaver.

 

“Very well, then,” Voronwë breathed out.

 

***

 

F. A. 489

 

Six years he had labored in the Great Sea. Six years enduring the spiteful hatred of Ossë, as he worked the Doom of the Valar against the Noldor. Six long years he had borne loneliness and madness, the terror of winds and tumult, dreadful silences, and shadows where all hope seemed to be lost, and all living shapes passed away. Against many shores evil and strange the Great Sea washes, and many islands of danger and fear infest it – he had seen enough of those, from North to South, but never to the West.

 

Very bright were the stars upon the margin of the world when, at times, the clouds about the West were drawn aside. Yet whether they saw only clouds still more remote, or glimpsed indeed, as some held, the Mountains of the Pelóri about the lost strands of their home, they knew not. Far, far away they stood, and none from mortal land could reach. Thus, they had never entered the Blessed Realm nor got near Tol Eressëa, where it was said some of his ancestors, his mother’s folk, still dwelt. Many had been the nights in which Voronwë’s mind played tricks on him, making him wish to sink into the dark abyss down below, and perish, instead of suffering the turmoil of that accursed voyage. It was on one of those nights where his thoughts took him to places he never thought possible for an elven mind to thread.

 

At the last, weary of all the world, the last mariners of the last voyage turned and fled from the Doom that so long had spared them, only to strike them more cruelly. For even as they descried a mountain from afar and Voronwë could recognize Mount Taras, the land of his birth, the wind awoke, and great clouds thunder-laden came up from the West. The waves hunted them like living things filled with malice, and lightning smote them; and when they were broken down to a helpless hull, the seas leaped upon them in fury.

 

Taken by black despair, he saw a wave rising, terrifying in its beauty and power, menacingly dark against the pale moonlight and the stars that shone brighter on the outer borders of the world. His crew froze for too many long seconds before orders started being shouted again. Voronwë didn’t move, however. There was no way of escaping that, no matter how hard they tried. They were the best mariners of Gondolin, and he was one of the best among his peers, but that… that he could not beat.

 

“Hold fast!” He cried, grabbing the rope nearest to his hand.

 

There was no point in tying himself for steadiness, only if he wished to sink alongside the vessel. Then, the irony of his wishes hit him with full force, and he closed his eyes, praying silently for Ulmo to spare the lives of his men. There was a moment of absolute stillness before the wave crashed down on them. The sea seemed to have stopped rolling under the ship, and they waited, with bated breath, as the ominous black-blue shadow rose way above the mainmast. It was, indeed, the silence before the storm.

 

A hopeless thought came to his mind as Voronwë remembered that the Noldor could not escape the wrath of the Valar, nor vanquish it. The Doom had finally caught up with them, and Ossë was furious! The next minute, salted water flooded his lungs with immense force; he felt his body being tossed on a wooden surface, hitting hard on the rigging. When Voronwë opened his eyes again, he was already sinking. He could see the broken hull of the ship and the wreckage around it. His vision started to blur as he watched the surface became fainter and farther from him. As he was about to drown, he was enveloped in something warm and gentle that engulfed him and took him away from the debris. His mind knew no more.

 

***

 

Voronwë drew a long breath. He had seen enough drowned people to understand that a single breath would make one cough up all the water trapped inside their lungs. But nothing of the sort happened. I must be in Mandos, he thought vaguely. Slowly, he opened his eyes and his brain throbbed in pain. At first, he didn’t know exactly where he was, but he knew this mustn’t be the Halls of Mandos. The air was constricted, but breathable, and he could see nothing but a faint glimmer of armor.

 

He blinked a few times and sat up, realizing he stood cradled between an enormous pair of hands, dark and green like the bottom of the sea! But there was something gentle and soothing about them, like the mild whisper of the tides. He lifted his head, and his eyes immediately fell on two others, luminous and piercing blue. They were proportional to the hands and watched him closely, fathomless wisdom set deep in those black pupils. He gasped in surprise.

 

“Do not fear, child,” a deep, resonant voice rumbled through his brain, and Voronwë clutched his head, fearing it would split in two. “I have been waiting for thee, Voronwë Aranwion.”

 

Voronwë staggered and fell to his knees, finally understanding.

 

“My lord Ulmo!” He breathed and bowed. “If not for your mercy, I surely would have drowned!”

 

“Yes,…” the voice resounded deeply. “I have saved thee, for thy fate is not to perish among the waves.”

 

Voronwë lifted his head in astonishment. “Then, my lord… what is my fate?”

 

 “Thou shalt learn it. In time.”

 

Voronwë bowed again, disappointed with the lack of answers, but he could never gainsay the lord of the Ocean, his savior. When he looked up again, Voronwë realized he was underwater, and that which held him was a bubble of air that allowed him to breathe. With the corner of his eye, Voronwë saw something flickering with hues of many colors. It seemed to have been a fishtail, but much larger than any fish he’d ever seen. As he turned, the fair head of a woman became visible. Her gray-green hair floated all around her.

 

Voronwë remembered Uilien, that little girl with whom he had played in the shores, and breathed: “You!”

 

She smiled broadly and swam away. Voronwë realized just then his bubble of air was surrounded by the sea folk. Men, women, and children swam back and forth, shimmering with all colors, long hair that seemed soft as silk and clear voices that laughed. They appeared excited by the great novelty, for he heard exclamations and many pointing fingers, surprised but not afraid or accusing.

 

“An Eruhíni! An Eruhíni is among us!”

 

Voronwë looked around his bubble, and he laughed without noticing, marveled at the sight of so many lovely faces looking eagerly at him.

 

“I have always wanted to know more of the sea folk,” he whispered to himself, eyes darting in wonder here and there, unable to focus on anyone in particular.

 

Hearing this, they broke into merry chatter, waving their hands and inviting him to go with them. Many of them had never seen an Eruhíni before, let alone one breathing underwater! Voronwë felt giddy with excitement, and he looked at Ulmo with beseeching eyes. He licked his lips nervously because what he was about to ask was heresy, absurd, and the most obnoxious request that could possibly exist!

 

“My lord…” he began. Very close to him low laughter rumbled in Ulmo’s chest. “I… I wish… that I could…”

 

“I know thy wish, Aranwion. But know this! Once thou are turned, thou must stay here for a year before returning to the surface. It was foretold that thou shalt meet thy fate only in the seventh year after leaving thy home. Thou shan’t remember thy time among the Oarni, but thy heart will always remember and yearn for thy return. Dost thou accept it?”

 

Voronwë thought for a while, the beaming faces around him nodding and urging him to accept.

 

“What happens if I refuse?”

 

“Thou shalt wait alone for a year on the shores before thy destiny unfolds.”

 

The Lord of the Water’s words were enigmatic, and, as much as Voronwë wanted to ask more, he felt he could not. There was an opportunity before him that would never present itself again, and Voronwë felt that, somehow, his whole life had led him to that moment. He looked back at Ulmo and nodded.

 

“I accept it.”

 

Without any warning, pain seared through his whole body. He was lifted from Ulmo’s hands by an invisible power; at the same time, he felt his skin being stretched and torn. It seemed a nest of needles and sharp knives made their way through his neck, rib cage, and legs, tearing him apart only to put him back anew. He arched his back and heard a terrible scream. From far away, he imagined that someone was being tortured. Then, with a vague sense of shock, he recognized it was his own voice. He screamed until he was hoarse, and the pain finally subdued. Feeling as thought and strength escaped him, Voronwë finally fainted.

 

He woke up much later with a jerk and a gasp – and he was immediately surprised, for the sound and movement had caused a spasm in both sides of his neck. He looked down and saw that his legs had been turned into a soft, yellow tail, starkly contrasting against his red shirt. More than that, though, Voronwë noted he was outside the bubble of air – and that he was breathing! He slowly raised his hand, and the tip of his fingers brushed what seemed like to be gills. His new tail wiggled in excitement, and laughter burst out of his throat.

 

Voronwë looked around and realized he was inside what looked like a cave. Its walls were of soft pink, and algae dangled from the ceiling, creating a beautiful effect. The sunlight pierced through and reflected in shells of all sizes and shapes adorning the place. It was undoubtedly a house, and Voronwë thought he might be a tiny fish amidst the most beautiful coral reef. Although the cave was small and fitted for one person, he had some room to practice his new tail, and he spent a very long time watching as the sun reflected all the hues of yellow – gold, pale, bright yolk, and almost white – and a little orange. It reminded him of a goldfish. Had it truly been Ulmo’s intent? He smiled with the comparison.

 

As he was about to shoot through the algae roof, a mellow voice came from the opening.

 

“I see you are familiar with your new body already.” Voronwë turned and saw the little mermaid – who was now a full-grown woman – smiling at him. “How does it feel?” Uilien asked.

 

“Fantastic!” Voronwë flipped around her, making her laugh.

 

“That’s the spirit! Now you will never say you can’t swim anymore, Voronwë.”

 

“You remember my name!” He exclaimed, delighted.

 

“Of course. We have expected you for a very long time. So… do you wish to know our city?”

 

He threw her a dazzling smile, filled with the promise of new adventures. She answered silently with a warm smile of her own and swam above the little cave. It made Voronwë forget why everyone seemed to have expected his coming. What was so special about him, anyway? Those thoughts fled his mind as Uilien kept talking.

 

“This is going to be your house for as long as you are with us,” she explained while they floated above the algae roof. “But you can come and go as you please. There are no strict rules among the Oarni. But I will give you a warning. Do not meddle near Ossë’s dwellings. He lives just beyond the reef,” she pointed to the end of the long coral line, so long it seemed it had no end. “He is unpredictable and explosive, and the only one who can deal with his terrible temper is Uinen, but she is not often by his side. So, whatever you do, do not go looking for trouble, for trouble it’s what you will find!”

 

She finished the sentence with eyes very wide open and a tone that offered no refusal. Voronwë nodded. He didn’t want to go near Ossë either. It was enough to know the Ainu hated the Noldor. What he would do if he ever suspected he had one dwelling among their own folk, Voronwë didn’t want to think about.

 

“But come!” She swam up, and he followed clumsily, shaking his tail imitating her fluid movements. “I don’t want to scare you on your first day! Ossë’s home is out of bounds, but you can go anywhere else in this vast, vast ocean! I can show you my favorite places!” She offered with visible excitement.

 

Voronwë didn’t think he deserved to receive all that attention, but he guessed having such a person in their midst would inevitably draw a lot of eyes. Indeed, as they approached the other Oarni, Voronwë noted that they were as excited as Uilien, and many approached him with the same wide eyes and marveled smiles. He chuckled at their wonderment, for it was no less than the one he felt. It took him very little time to befriend the Oarni because, as they kept repeating, he had been expected. And even though he asked, Voronwë got no clear answer of why. They merely smiled and gave vague replies that he had been watched since he was a child. That Voronwë did remember and believe, and so, he let the subject lie.

 

As Ulmo had promised, Voronwë spent one full year among the Oarni. A blissful time, in which he had no worries, no disturbances except the current of the water and escaping bigger predators – there wild sea animals, bigger than ships, that might attack unguarded Oarni. They organized group hunts, explorations of dark caves which led to the naming of animals of the deeps that even the Oarni had never heard about. There was much laughter and joy, and Voronwë wondered how the people above the surface didn’t hear all their ruckus. How the animals did not flee in fear of the noise was beyond his understanding. He would only laugh to himself, and keep living life as the recollections of his previous elven existence, along with the horrifying memories of the last voyage, slowly faded.

 

He made real friends as well. The Oarni grew attached to him like they were his family, long lost brothers, and sisters. Voronwë never again thought he needed anything in his life, for it was now complete. Uilien was a constant companion in his mischievous adventures, swimming to farthest places in the Ocean, going on missions for treasure hunting, and even finding remaining parts of ships that once had belonged to his people. The more Voronwë spent in the sea, the more he forgot about his true nature. To his Oarni friends, this didn’t seem troublesome, but Ulmo watched him closely. Voronwë’s forgetfulness and attachment to the Oarni was not a good omen.

 

After one year had passed, Ulmo came to Voronwë again. “Dost thou remember thy purpose, child?”

 

“My… purpose?” Voronwë frowned, puzzled. His stormy eyes searched back into his past for a moment, trying to glimpse the memories that eluded him. He knew something was afoot, yet he could not tell what.

 

“I have brought thee to live among us with one condition. The year has passed, and thy time is up. Thou shalt return ashore and to thy people.”

 

Voronwë’s lips parted in surprise. His people? But… weren’t the Oarni his people? His heart started skipping faster, and he shook his head, not understanding the lord’s words.

 

“N-no… no! These are my people! Why should I leave them?” He stammered.

 

“Because it is thy fate,” Ulmo explained with a patient smile, and he touched Voronwë’s hair that fluttered around him. He had forgotten to tie it up in a loose ponytail like he used to. He had forgotten too much. “Do not fret the unknown, dear one.” For, indeed, Voronwë had become dearest to all of the sea folk, but to Ulmo even more. It was time to let him go, and let the Lord of the Waters’ will and intent be fulfilled at last.

 

Voronwë stared long into the Sea-lord’s eyes until, finally, some spark of who he was and what their bargain was – Ulmo had saved Voronwë’s life because he had a mission. He didn’t know, had never known, what the mission was, but that period with the Oarni – that had seemed an entire lifetime – was now a fleeting thing. He needed to go back. Ulmo smiled. Yes. He remembered. His mother and father. His people. His home. Gondolin! He needed to return to Gondolin! As comprehension hit him, Voronwë gasped and swam forward.

 

Without another word, Ulmo lifted Voronwë in a bubble of air and there the familiar yet agonizing pain. His tail was torn apart like someone cutting through him with a sharp blade, and his gills suddenly closed, making him gasp for breath. He felt he was drowning again. He shut his eyes and screamed. Through his haze of pain, under half-closed lids, Voronwë saw that Ulmo had taken him to the surface. A thunderous storm raged and tossed waves back and forth against each other, wreaking havoc as if the ocean was fighting itself – Ossë and Uinen, Voronwë thought faintly.

 

There came a wave, greater and yet calmer than all the others, and it took and lifted him above the sea, bearing him high upon its shoulders, and rolled to the land it cast him upon the turf, and then drained away, pouring back over the cliff in a magnificent waterfall. The Lord of the Waters had promised that Voronwë wouldn’t be able to remember his time with the Oarni. It would be no more than a yearning in his heart.

 

***

 

Voronwë had been staring at the silver-haired boy for far too long, and it started making Eärendil feel that something was going on in his friend’s mind. “Uncle?” He tried. “Voronwë?” The sea-gray eyes turned to him again, a bit feverish. Eärendil was waiting for the rest of the story. “So, there was a great storm, and then the ship sank. Then what happened?”

 

Voronwë opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He blinked several times and licked his lips before staring in full at Eärendil, filled with an awareness that wasn’t there before. Voronwë’s eyes shone with understanding and memory, a silver glint that was something akin to what he saw when he looked into his mother’s eyes, and a few of the Gondolidhrim survivors.

 

“And then you know what happened. There but one hour had I sat when Tuor came upon me, still dazed by the storm,” he spoke softly. “And long have I grieved and feared returning to the Sea. Not anymore,” he suddenly looked up, and his face lit up with a warm, bright smile.

 

Eärendil glanced over his shoulder, and the silver-haired boy was smiling back at Voronwë, waving his hand in salutation. He looked back at Voronwë, who still wore a smile like his second skin. “What is going on? What are you still smiling for?”

 

“A memory, little jack. A very fond one,” he said, waving back to the boy and stood up in a fluid motion. “Go back now. Your parents are waiting for you, and your father threatened you would not get any supper should you arrive late!”

 

Eärendil thought Voronwë’s excited tone was far too strange. He looked giddy with excitement like a child, something he had never seen in his friend before – or anyone but the other children, sometimes not even in them. Eärendil frowned and did not get up. He would not move without a fight! When he said that to Voronwë, the mariner merely laughed out loud and ruffled his already wind-tangled hair.

 

“You sound like a true Noldorin prince, little one! But I will hear none of it. Go on! I will watch from here if you get home safe or if I shall have to scold you and then rat you out!”

 

Voronwë’s eyes blazed wildly, and it was that – more than the explicit threat – that made Eärendil stand up quickly and run home. He would tell his mother and father what was happening, and they would know what to do!

 

As soon as the boy was gone, Voronwë turned to face those unique turquoise eyes, chest heaving, and heart pounding like the core of Arda itself. 

 

“We have waited for you,” the boy said with a mellifluous tone that betrayed his age and origin. 

 

“My apologies for the delay,” Voronwë’s smile broadened. “You were the missing link.”

 

“Are you ready?” The boy reached out his hand.

 

Voronwë didn’t have to answer that: his smile, broader than ever, spoke for him, and he took the small hand in his. They intertwined their fingers and stared at the ocean for a while.

 

Meanwhile, Eärendil burst inside the living room like a typhoon. “Ada! Nana! Come quick!”

 

“What, what happened?” Tuor, who had been in their bedchamber, ran to him with the sword in hand. Idril came running from the garden.

 

“It’s Voronwë! Come, hurry!” Eärendil took his father’s hand and tugged. 

 

Idril and Tuor shared one knowing look, and they all ran from the house. Eärendil was fast, but his legs couldn’t match his father’s long strides. Soon, he was left behind. They knew where Voronwë would be, for it was the place he always spent his afternoons, sighing by the seashore. When they got there, however, the beach was empty. There was no sign of Voronwë, and even the birds had taken flight as dusk crept in.

 

“He was here! I was talking to him here! Where is he?” Eärendil panted and looked around anxiously when he finally caught up with them. 

 

His parents had stopped and crouched over something in the sand. When Eärendil approached, he saw that it was the brown leather band that Voronwë used to strap his hair – an item he only took off to wash and would immediately tie it back in its loose ponytail again. They stood with sad, wistful looks on their faces, and stared long into the sea as night fell upon the land, and enclosed it under its warm, dark blanket.

 

***

 

At the time, Eärendil didn’t understand what had happened. Voronwë disappeared, and his parents didn’t tell him what might have happened to him. It was much later, when Eärendil was older and many terrible things had befallen his home by the sea that he finally understood. He had been sailing Vingilot for days on end, alone and edging madness, facing the unrelenting Great Sea and remembering Voronwë’s tale of Ossë’s fury. It seemed he, too, couldn’t escape it.

 

His vessel was tossed back and forth, and Eärendil couldn’t help but despair. He had nothing to hold on to. He had left behind wife and children in the foolish intent that, this time, the Valar would listen. They had to! There was nothing left to any of them but a fool’s hope, and Eärendil had started to regret his own rashness. He wished nothing more than to return to Elwing’s safe embrace and hold his boys once more. Bitter and in despair, Eärendil prayed and cursed with the same ferocity. As swiftly as it came, the storm subsided, Eärendil faced days of agonizing stillness. No wind stirred his sail, and the horizon died before his eyes. 

 

When, with hope beyond any hope, Elwing came flying in and landed on the deck of Vingilot with a heavy thud – and with the Silmaril hanging on her neck – his luck began to change. The next morning, they both saw with astonishment a flicker of fishtail shimmering in the waves. As they looked closer, Eärendil remembered the sea folk of his childhood, the mail they had gifted him and the silver-haired boy with turquoise eyes. Now, as he blinked and looked again a few fair faces emerged from the ocean and waved at him in the distance. Elwing was frightened, for the Oarni had never come to her. 

 

There, amidst those faces, he saw a familiar one who waved and smiled brightly at him. The water had darkened his light-gray hair, and his sea-gray eyes shone in the distance. Unmistakably, that was the friendly, dear face of his father’s friend, his uncle, whom all thought had been lost to the sea. It was then that Eärendil understood. From the lore of his people, he had learned that the elves yearned for what lay beyond the water, but Voronwë had always yearned for the water itself. 

 

Eärendil ran to the edges of the prow and propped his body out of the ship. Elwing screamed, afraid he would leave her, but Eäredil merely laughed and pointed to the figure that swam in their direction like a dolphin. He sat down and let his legs dangle; Elwing sat beside him like a swan. The sea was unusually calm as if it had been waiting for their reunion. As Voronwë approached, they heard merry laughter like foam, and Eärendil wondered if he, too, would like to live as one of the Oarni.

 

Eärendil and Voronwë shared muted smiles that said more than words. And thrice blessed was Eärendil, for this time Voronwë hadn’t forgotten his previous life. Their eyes spoke of mutual love and the future. When Voronwë flashed him a roguish grin and dove, Eärendil took it as an invitation, pulling Elwing with him to the water. As Eärendil rejoiced at their encounter, splashing water like children and meeting some of Voronwë’s new folk, the old mariner decided it was time. He guided Eärendil to Valinor as he once had guided Tuor to Gondolin. 

 

Vingilot and the Silmaril were elevated as a constellation, and Voronwë vowed never to leave Eärendil’s side again. When night came, he crossed the Door of Night with their new star and dived, as an Oarni, as soon as Dawn approached. Thus, Voronwë became the only one of his two people, the Noldor and the Oarni, to live in-between worlds.

---

Chapter End Notes

*emmë - Telerin for "mother", according to Parf Edhelen.

The dates are as referred in this timeline

Thank you for reading! :D