Stones of Seeing 1. Vardamir Nólimon by clotho123

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Chapter 1

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The city was not yet full grown.  A battered, displaced people, long living fugitive or captive, could not immediately make an untouched land their own and the Edain had never been builders of cities.  They had needed to master tilling the land first, to make villages before they could make towns.  The land was kind, but they had been slow to trust it, or to feel confidence that no enemy would come.

 

The planning of the city had reflected that doubt.  Menelos had stone-built walls, and a high watchtower raised within its centre.  It was a place designed to resist attack, but the walls were maintained now for show more than fear.  Fair, white houses had risen with their circle, and broad gardens had been made around them.  Although the people of the city were not very numerous it was likely they would soon begin to spread outside the circle of walls. 

 

Vardamir turned from the window.  He was born early enough to remember the hard times, and to feel the greater joy at the blossoming of the Land of Gift.  He must write of it, he had decided, he should make record of those early days before their memory was lost.  His father had told him often he should think more of what passed in his own life, and not lose himself altogether in the lore of earlier times.  It seemed that only when his own lifetime was becoming history could he heed the advice.

 

Evening was drawing in as he descended the stairs.  Vardamir liked high rooms, for the clearer light and the greater quiet, and his tendency to lose himself in scrolls and books for hours had only grown with years, although it was now somewhat less easy for him to sit up far into the night.

 

Downstairs he noted a certain bustle, and quickened his step, turning to open the door which lead into a chamber, not vast but spacious, with a large lattice window that looked outwards over the country. The house of the king had been built upon a spur of rock and the view was a clear one.

 

The room was not empty, and Vardamir smiled.

 

“Father.” 

 

Elros crossed the room with a quick step and embraced his eldest son.  His vigour was undiminished and Vardamir was conscious, without bitterness, that a stranger who noted the resemblance between the two would take him for the parent.  Vardamir’s hair was growing silvered and his face showed he was in the autumn of life, although by no means dotard, whereas the hair of Elros Peredhel was still wholly dark and he bore no more than the lightest lines of maturing.  Only his eyes were not young.  The look in them was not that look Vardamir had seen in Elven guests, it was a thing of its own, the weight of experience and the eagerness of lingering youth in one.  Of late another look had come, both wearied and restless, and increasingly resolved, and Vardamir was saddened by it.

 

“Did you find the island fair?”

 

“Fair and flourishing, and it did me good to see it.”  Elros smiled.  “I will say also that I believe folk welcomed me, and that is a pleasant thing.”

 

“Yet not enough to change your mind?”  Vardamir could not hold back a faint glimmer of hope, but it was indeed faint.  Elros’s reply was firm.

 

“It is time.  Five hundred years is more than long enough for any Man to look upon the world, and it may be that you have been kept in my shadow for altogether too long, my son.”

 

“Not so,” Vardamir said swiftly.  “I desire no rulership, no authority.  That would only leave me the less time for the things I truly love.  Amandil will make a far better king.”

 

“Not better I think, but happier I believe,” Elros said.  “And the Edain will have kings it seems.”  He had been slow to accept the title the people gave him and even now would wear no crown, although he had begun carrying a rod of white wood, echoing the rods or staffs that some of the leaders of the Edain had borne in former days.  Elros had little patience for ceremony, he wished always to be active and there was no part of Númenor that he did not know well.

 

“They love you, Father,” Vardamir said.  “They will mourn.  We will mourn”

 

“It would be idle to tell you not to grieve,” said Elros, and his tone now was sad, “But do not grieve for my sake, Nólimon.  Indeed it is a gift and not a doom.  Arda is a great place, but this land is small, and although I love it I feel staled.  I do not see an end before me, but a great new venture.  And Lindis must feel that I have tarried long.”  The last words were spoken softly, it was only of late years that Elros had begun to talk again of his wife.

 

“You have no regrets then,” Vardamir said.  He had wondered at times.  How could one not wonder if there was any regret for the sacrifice of immortality?

 

“For my choice, you mean?” said Elros.  “None, at least not in the sense that there is any temptation to wish I had chosen differently.  I do feel sorrow.”

 

“Sorrow, Father?”

 

“For the loss of my brother, whom I shall not see again within the circles of the world.”  His eyes looked past his son.  “That was a hard parting.  Yet neither of us could chose other than we did.  And there were others of elven kind I loved.  It seems strange to me still, that the two Kindreds should be so sundered.  But, no, I do not regret my choice.  Do you?” 

 

“I?”  Vardamir asked, surprised.

 

“I have wondered it at times of all my children, but most of you.  For you are not like me, Vardamir.  I might almost think you my brother’s son, you remind me so of him.  Your love is for lore, for old tales and records and the preserving of the past, where I looked ever forward.  I have feared you might have wished, like my brother, to be immortal and see ages of the world unfold.”

 

“No,” Vardamir said, “No, I would not.  You are right, Father, that I love the records of the past.  But I do think on time to come, although I do not hanker to see those days.  Instead I take joy in thinking of the future of my line.  Generation upon generation, growing and building, perhaps until the end of Arda.  Who knows how many things they may achieve?  No, I do not envy the Eldar.”

 

Elros smiled.  “I am glad to hear you say it.  Do not mourn too much, my son.  What we have made here will last long, and our line longer, perhaps longer than your histories, even.” 

 

“I do not like to think of our beginnings being forgotten,” Vardamir told his father seriously.  He looked out of the great window, to where the Star of Eärendil shone bright against the dusk.  “I would not wish them ever to forget the meaning of that Star, or anything else of their origin.  I would hope they always remember of what high and valiant stock they come.”  Even as he spoke he wondered if Elros truly agreed.  It was not his father who had told to him the story of Eärendil, nor any other story of the old days.  Yet Elros had named his eldest child Vardamir, and what was a jewel of Varda but a star?

 

“I am sure that you will do your best to see our history is not forgotten.” It was an easy answer, meant to console.  “Well, Vardamir, is there anything of import I should hear?”

 

“To my knowledge the days have passed uneventfully, although no doubt Amandil will tell you anything that I have overlooked.”

 

A knock sounded at the door, and both men turned.  It was Elendil, Vardamir’s eldest grandson and eager student.

 

“Forgive the interruption,” he said,  “but there is an elven-lady who wishes to speak with the Lord of the Dúnedain.”

 

“Then by all means show her in,” said Elros at once.  It was rare for any of the elves who sailed at times to Númenor from the west to come so far inland as Menelos, if one had done so there was surely a good reason.  “And bring some more light.”  They had been talking by only a single lamp and it had grown dark outside.

 

The woman who entered was tall and strong built, she wore a simple seeming dress of brown stuff with no ornament save a belt made in the likeness of bronze leaves.  Her eyes held the light which belonged only to those who had lived in the Blessed Land in the days of the Trees and her hair was a shade Vardamir had not seen on an elf before, a russet colour which glinted copper in the lamp light.  Unlike almost every other elf he had met she wore it bound up, like a crown.

 

Elros looked on her face with what seemed wonder, he waited in silence while Elendil and his brother Eärendur set down the lamps they had brought in and left the room.  Then, to the amazement of Vardamir, he bowed.

 

“You do me honour, Lady.”

 

“You know me, then.”

 

“I think so.  Lady Nerdanel.”

 

“The hair, no doubt,” the lady said.

 

“The hair,” Elros agreed.  “Yet I am surprised.  I thought only those who have voyaged west to Tol Eressëa since the War of Wrath sailed to these lands.”

 

“Few others desire to do so.  There is nothing to forbid them.”

 

“You desired it, then.”

 

“For this one time I did.  Think you I have not learned all that I could gather of the fates of my sons in the far lands?  I wished to look upon the child my son raised before he departs the circles of the world forever.  There will be no other chance.”  Nerdanel paused.  “But perhaps you do not wish to recall your rearing, King of Men?”

 

“I would like nothing more.” Elros’s voice was low now, almost unsteady.  “My heart has never rejected my raising.  To speak once more of my foster father with one who remembers him with love is more than I expected to have before I die.  Will you not sit?”

 

Vardamir bowed to both of them and left the room quietly, certain he could have no place in this conversation.  He walked out, into one of the small open courtyards within the house, pondering on what he had heard.

 

The Lady Nerdanel, wife of Fëanor.  He knew the name from his histories and if he had ever thought much on it would have known she must still be living in Valinor.  He had known too the circumstances of his father’s raising, yet had been unprepared entirely for what he had heard in the voice of Elros.  He had never penetrated his father’s emotions towards his own lost parents, to Eärendil and Elwing the White.  That he might still cherish feeling for Maglor son of Fëanor, whose house had done such harm to his, had been something Vardamir had not imagined.

 

He remained in the courtyard, breathing in the cool night air, until Elendil came to find him once again.  Passing back into the house he noted other elves, standing still and quiet.  Plainly Nerdanel had not come to Menelos alone.

 

There had been elves voyaging to Númenor all the life of Vardamir, and the Edain had learned much of them, especially arts of building and of craft.  Vardamir for his part had been eager for tales and histories, in later years some had brought him books of Elven lore.  At first it had been mainly Sindar settled in Eressëa who came, but in time some returned exiles of the Noldor had mastered sufficient seafaring to voyage eastwards.  It seemed to Vardamir that those who came did so not only from a desire to help the Edain, but from a wish to look back to Beleriand and Middle-earth.  The elves of his earliest memories had carried still the remnants of their long, and at the end hard and sorrowful, sojourn in the lands that now lay drowned.  They too were only beginning to build again, and it was little beside knowledge that they had to bring in those times.  Matters were different now, and there were always fair songs at their coming, but Vardamir wondered whether those who came with the Lady Nerdanel had sung.

 

Within the inner chamber he found not only his father and Nerdanel but also his eldest son, a man in the full prime of life.  On a table was a casket of sweet-smelling wood lined with velvet and within it an object like nothing Vardamir had ever seen, a smooth sphere of black stone or glass, or so it seemed, yet the object held a strange promise of fascination that he could not account for.

 

“I have asked you both to come,” said Elros, “Because the gift of the Lady which will concern you more than me.”

 

“Seven stones I have brought to you,” Nerdanel said.  “They were the work of my husband in days of old, the palantíri or Stones of Seeing.”

 

“How do they work?” Amandil asked.

 

“I know little, for these works did not interest me and there is small need for such things in Valinor, so it will be necessary for you to learn the means to use then for yourselves.  I can say, though, that one who used a stone could see things that took place far off, and if two used stones at one time they could speak together.  That there will be much use for them within this island I doubt, yet who can tell what needs time will bring forth for your people.  They have lain unused since the greater part of the Noldor marched away. ”

 

Amandil was gazing at the stone in cautious wonder.  “It surprises me that Fëanor did not bear them with him to Middle-earth.  They would have been of great value in the war against Morgoth”

 

“He left in haste and took but little,” Nerdanel told him.  “Perhaps he could have made more such if he had lived longer, but I do not think he gave the secret of their making even to our sons.  Use them well, for no more of their kind will ever be wrought.”

 

“It is a great gift,” said Elros, “and I thank you.”

 

“Better they should be used than not,” said Nerdanel.  “And you, who were raised in Fëanor’s house, have as great a right to them as any.  To you and your heirs forever I give their use, for as long as you shall hold them.”  The words were said with measured formality, Vardamir had the strange impression they were spoken to the stone as much as to the mortal listeners.

 

“Will you and those that came with you eat in our house and lodge here, at least tonight?”  Elros asked Nerdanel.

 

“I will,” she said, “For it is a pleasure unlooked for to share the company of one raised in my House.”

 

Vardamir looked on her then, and saw the deep sorrow of pain and loss within, a loss of an age and length beyond the understanding of a Man, even a child of Elros Peredhel.  But he saw also the patience and endurance of her spirit and he bowed.

 

“We are greatly honoured, Lady.”

 

~~~

 

Vardamir found his father on the roof.  Eärendil’s star had set, but a crescent moon showed thin.  One tale of the elves that had never moved him as much as it might was the tale of the Trees.  Fair and glorious they must have been, but Vardamir did not like the idea of a land without night.  Night had a beauty all its own, a beauty he would mourn if it were lost, and how could any learn to have no fear of the dark if darkness had been banished from the land?

 

“You are surprised.”  The voice of Elros was unusually quiet.

 

“Somewhat.  You never speak of your youth.”

 

“It was ever my nature to look forward,” Elros answered, “but beyond that… you do not recall the earliest days, and how much help we needed.  You do not recall that Eonwë of the Maia himself came among us, or how eagerly we looked for the ships of the Sindar from the West.  How readily do you suppose they would have heard tales of Fëanor’s line?

 

“The people looked to me and I had accepted the charge.  Their needs came before my own wishes, I could not do other.  And so I did not speak of my raising, nor encourage tales of Fëanor’s sons among my people.  Although I might have done so if I had chosen, none of them did ill to the Edain, save for Beren, and Beren came never back among his kindred afterwards.  But for the sake of those who looked to me, I was Eärendil’s son, and Elwing’s and not the son of Maglor Fëanorion.”  Vardamir could see just enough to tell his father had looked upwards at the sky.  “How does one call a star Father?  I do not remember Eärendil.”

 

“I did not know,” Vardamir said softly.

 

“That the King of the Land of Gift is still something of a Fëanorian at heart?  It would not do for it to be known.”  Elros laughed softly. “My brother would be amazed by such restraint.  I was ever the fiery one, the quick-tempered, he was the more peaceable and forgiving.”

 

“Your brother,” Vardamir repeated softly.  Elrond was only a name to him.

 

“I daresay it is no easier for him, with Gil-galad.  Ah, but I miss Elrond!  He was the only one who truly knew.   We were raised among those who slew our own kin, raised with care and teaching.  Where should our loyalties lie?  Kinslayers, rebels, accursed, all that they were indeed, but it was not all, it was not all!  If I have led the people well, then where do men suppose I learned it?”

 

Vardamir was silent, what answer could be made?

 

“And there is another doubt that comes on me at times.  You have read of the Doom of the Noldor.  You will know the words.  ‘On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all who follow them it shall be laid also.’  And I did follow, Vardamir.  Did I have right to lead the Edain after?”

 

“Surely the Doom is made void now!” Vardamir protested.  “The Exiles have been pardoned.  And can you look for a higher sign of the Valar’s favour than the Land of Gift?”

 

“That is true indeed,” said Elros.  “And I would wish to believe the Doom void.  It is only now and then a shadow of misgiving falls on me.   Perhaps it is my nature as a man to feel such doubt, or the echo of my rearing.

 

“For the rest, indeed we hold our land by the Valar’s gift.  And those who take gifts must honour the givers, both from gratitude and from prudence.”  Jewel of Varda, his son thought.  And Elros had called his second son Manwendil.  “The House of Fëanor wrought their own fate.  I know that, but it does not mean I cease to grieve, or to remember what was fine.

 

“Tell their story, Nólimon!  Write it in your books, make sure it is remembered.  Make it a warning to those who will come after.  Let them know the full price of defying the Valar’s word.”

 

“You cannot think our people would do such!”  Vardamir exclaimed in shock. 

 

“Think it – no.  But who foresaw the fall of the Noldor?  Tell the story.  At the end of my days I see purpose in the old tales you and my brother love so.  Let them be recalled, that others may learn.”

 

“Then will you tell me, Father?  Tell me as much as you know before you depart, that I may tell the tale aright?”

 

“I will tell you,” said Elros.  “It is late, but will you come down with me a moment?”

 

Back in the room where they had spoken earlier he lit a lamp, and picked up a sealed letter.

 

“One day,” he said, “our ships will sail west far enough to find the shores of Middle-earth again.  Not in your life perhaps, or your sons’, but one day; and then they will seek out the folk of Gil-galad, surely.  Let me give this to you, to be a charge to our heirs.  Let this letter be delivered one day.”

 

Vardamir took the letter from his father’s hand, and read the inscription on it.  A letter to his father’s brother, whom he had never known.  Strange indeed to think of such close kindred living on and on, immortal, while he and his son’s sons and the far heirs of his line died and were buried in earth.  Strange for him to think it, surely far more strange for Elros.

 

“I will keep it safe, Father, and pass on the charge when my time comes,” he promised.

 

“Good.  Be it so.  Who knows, one day our heirs may have need of that kinship.”

 

“Perhaps so,” Vardamir said.  “Let them not forget!”

  

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Chapter End Notes

:  I’ve chosen to assume that Elros’s Quenya name Tar-Minyatur (High First Ruler) was a title given by his descendants after his death, not one used in his lifetime.  I’ve also assumed that the prefix of ‘Ar-’ was given to the chief city of Armenelos (Royal Heaven Fortress) at a later date, so the name here is simply Menelos. 

 

The sceptre was the chief mark of royalty in Númenor.  Tolkien does not explain that, but a link with the staff of office born by Brandir in the story of Túrin seems plausible.