Flights of Fancy by Ithilwen

Chapter 1

Flights of Fancy

Malenbrethil was young in the manner of his kind, and before sailing West had dwelt as one of the common folk in Oropher's realm. Normally he wouldn't have dreamed of speaking to someone as far removed from his own life as one of the scions of Finwë, but what other choice was left to him? All his own studies to date had come to nothing; clearly he needed the guidance of one with much more experience in these matters if he was ever to understand the mystery he'd so unwittingly discovered. And who better could he ask than the Elf so often called "Friend of Man"? Firming up his resolve, Malenbrethil stepped up and knocked sharply on the door. "I don't mean to intrude but I… if I may, I'd like to speak to Lord Finrod," he stammered to the answering house-carl. "It's – I have a question of scholarship for him. A very vexing question. Concerning Mortals, that is. And I thought, with your master's reputation in this area of study –"

"Ah, of course. My Lord Finrod has always been most fascinated by the Aftercomers; it irritates him greatly that the Valar will not permit any of the ReHoused to visit the mortal lands. I am quite sure he'll be pleased to assist you. Let me take you to his study."

Malenbrethil wasn't sure exactly what he was expecting the study of a famed Loremaster of the Noldor to look like, but he certainly wasn't expecting this. Half-opened scrolls, books both large and small, and piles of paper randomly strewn all about, seashells and colorful rocks sitting on shelves, pressed flowers carefully mounted behind glass hanging on the walls, and curious instruments everywhere… It was a moment before his eyes spotted the tall blond figure in the heart of the room. Finrod, for his part, was equally oblivious; the mighty former king of Nargothrond was kneeling on the floor, his attention completely focused on a set of white tubes, one long and fat and the other much slenderer and shorter, precariously balanced on a spiderlike (thought Malenbrethil, repressing a shudder) set of wooden legs. The house-carl loudly cleared his throat.

"Just one more moment… I've almost finished realigning the finderscope… There!" Finrod rose to his feet. "Telescopes are such fiddly things… Malenbrethil, is it? Welcome to my home." He hastily shoved a stack of papers off a chair and onto the floor, and gestured for his guest to have a seat. "I'm told you have some questions about the Younger Children and you wish my aid? Although I have spent more of my time with them than most of our people," Finrod continued as he pushed a large rock aside and took a seat on the edge of his writing desk, "my knowledge of the Followers is still sadly limited. I do not know if I can help you in your studies, but I will try." He sat patiently, waiting for his guest to speak.

"I'm not quite sure how to begin…"

"At the beginning, of course."

"Well… I was born in the early Third Age, and I never traveled much in Middle earth before coming here. Until recently I never thought about Mortal Men at all; there really didn't seem to be much our people could learn from such short-lived folk…"

"There you are wrong," Finrod interrupted softly. "But never mind… Continue with your story."

"But then I heard about the new island, Númenor, and those few of our people who had ventured there spoke highly of its beauty, and so well of its people… Well, their words sparked a curiosity in me, and so after much consideration I decided I should see the place for myself. So when the king of Númenor's cousin announced his betrothal and my liege lord decided to send an embassy with gifts to bless the happy event, I petitioned him for permission to go.

"We spent a month in their port city, Rómenna. During my stay there, I became close in friendship with a young woman –"

Finrod groaned. "Malenbrethil, it is really not right for our people to take sexual liberties with our younger siblings. Just because they cannot form a lasting marital bond as we do is no reason to –"

Malenbrethil flushed scarlet. "No, not that type of 'friendship'! I meant friendship friendship. We talked, that is all!"

"In that case, I apologize for interrupting you. Go on."

"Well, we didn't just talk. She also took me to see some of their Mannish entertainments. I'm not sure what I was expecting – crude songs, primitive dancing, bad poetry perhaps – but it was not like that at all. It was marvelous! They don't simply tell their lays, they put on costumes and actually act them out!"

Had Malenbrethil looked up then, he might have spotted an expression of great pain flash across the older Elf's face. "I think I know now where you are going with this… Please continue."

"One night she took me to one of these lays – a story about a young prince who has just discovered that his wicked uncle (who in a disgusting display of incest has married the young prince's grieving mother) was the secret murderer of his father the King. He sets out to revenge his slain father, only to die in the process, along with just about everyone else in the palace. I did not remember any such tragic event recorded in our annals of the history of the Edain, but thought I might have simply not heard about it – as I said, I had not before paid much attention to Mannish matters. I asked my new friend when and where this terrible episode took place.

"She gave me the funniest look, then broke out into peals of laughter. 'Malenbrethil,' she told me, 'Hamlet is just a story. It isn't real! Prince Hamlet and the other people in that play never actually existed.'

"What do you mean, 'isn't real'? I replied. 'How can you tell stories about people who don't exist?'

"She looked at me then with pity in her eyes. 'Most of our stories are like that, Malenbrethil. We tell many even stranger ones. Don't your own people do likewise? I've always heard your arts far exceed anything of our own.'

"'We sing of the beauty of the world, and tell of valorous deeds long past. We certainly don't waste our time on such nonsense,' I replied rather haughtily. In truth, I was a bit stung by her insinuation that our own entertainments are somehow deficient. 'What's the point of it?'

"'The point of it, oh-so-high-and-mighty Elda, is just to have fun,' she replied in a rather frosty tone. I realized I had offended her, and apologized, and told her I had liked the tale of Hamlet very much, and would she show me more such stories? And the next day she took me to their library.

"Oh, Lord Finrod, I do not think I can describe the strangeness of what I discovered there! They have books which tell of a boy who climbs a giant beanstalk into the sky, where he slays a giant. Stories of people living on Ithil, and at the bottom of the sea, and sailing between the stars in giant ships of iron. Tales about frogs who turn into princes when kissed (without even the help of a Vala!), and a king who turns everything he touches into gold, and people who travel backward in time to change history. And more seemingly normal stories as well, about great loves and great adventures and great deeds – but none of them involving anyone who has drawn or ever will draw breath. I bought some of the crazier ones from one of their booksellers, thinking to show them to the scholars here. Lord Finrod, how can such things be? Ever since returning from that island, I have attempted to create such tales myself, but in vain. No such unreal thoughts will flow into my head, however hard I try. And I can find no such Elvish tales anywhere in our own people's scrolls, though I have searched many long hours for them. How do the Aftercomers do it, my lord? And why?"

Finrod sighed a heavy sigh. "I, too, have read a few Mortal tales such as you describe. You touch on one of the mysteries of Arda, Malenbrethil, the great gulf that separates our two kindreds, who are so similar in all other ways.

"Once, long ago, I had a long conversation with a Mortal friend. She told me her people thought it strange how we Eldar can look at the same scene – a tree, a fountain, a flower – a hundred times over, and find the hundredth view as involving as the first. I in turn told her how odd we Quendi find it that they, who spend so little time here in Arda as it is, can so quickly grow bored with the beauty of this world. I think this strangeness you have observed is somehow related to the fact that the Followers' spirits are less tethered to the earth than our own. Each of them must eventually fly beyond the Circles of the World, there to wait until the day arrives when Arda Marred comes to its end and it is at last time for them to take part in the second great Chorus which will put the Song aright. Because they are not bound to Arda as we are, their minds have wings we lack."

"I am told the Valar have said Men possess strange gifts… Your words make me glad I am one of the Firstborn. I am content with what is; I do not wish to be troubled by what will never be. I do not think I will return to Númenor again," Malenbrethil, said as he rose from his seat. "Thank you for your time, Lord Finrod."

"A wise decision, Malenbrethil," Finrod replied as he walked his guest back to the door. "Our kindreds have separate destinies; we commingle our lives only at the cost of great pain for each side. It is best to be content with our own gifts." He paused before opening the door. "Those books you mentioned you purchased; might I see them some time?"

Malenbrethil pulled several slender tomes out of his pack and handed them over to Finrod. "You may keep them if you wish. I have no further use for them. From now on, I plan to stick to our own poetry and spare myself unnecessary headaches."

"Thank you," Finrod answered. "I appreciate the gift."

After his guest had left, Finrod quietly walked back to his study. After carefully closing and locking the door, he settled down into the largest and most comfortable chair, then picked out at random one small book from the stack Malenbrethil had handed him. On the cover was a crude drawing of a man in a cape, who seemed to be flying through the air. Finrod carefully studied the Adûnaic script below the sketch, delighting in every word the way a man thirsting after a long trip through the desert might savor a drink of cold water. "The Adventures of Superman," he whispered.

He turned to the first page and eagerly began to read.