The Coimas War by Russandol

The Coimas War

Arafinwë stormed out of Olwë’s study. His mien foretold a painful fate to anyone foolish enough to dare cross his path.

Fortunately it was his wife who, calmly, confronted him. She had been engaged in pleasant conversation with her mother while waiting for her husband to complete his business with the King of the Teleri. Clearly the outcome had not been to his satisfaction.

‘Well?’ Eärwen asked.

Arafinwë bowed stiffly to his mother-in-law and growled a hasty farewell. His wife raised a meaningful eyebrow, kissed her goodbye and followed her husband outside the palace by the shores of the Great Sea, once her childhood home.

Their horses were brought by a couple of stable hands. Their escort awaited the king’s orders, and Arafinwë barked a command to leave without delay. Soon they were riding away, but only when they were outside Alqualondë did Eärwen get her answer.

‘Your father is as stubborn as a mule!’ exclaimed the Noldóran. His feisty mount was unsympathetic to his bad temper, and Eärwen watched in silent amusement as they annoyed each other. After a lengthy battle of wills Arafinwë persuaded his horse to stop kicking and rearing and he was finally able to resume his ranting.

‘I was once forced to beg his forgiveness, and everyone else’s, for my brother’s sorry deeds. Now, an age later, no matter what I do, he keeps reopening the wounds and rubbing salt on them. I have had enough of stooping to him! Let him eat his pearls!’

When Arafinwë’s wrath subsided to a level that allowed him to engage in coherent conversation Eärwen finally heard the whole account of the kings’ meeting.

After the Kinslaying it had taken over a yén of patient diplomacy to forge anew the ties of trust between the Teleri and the Noldor that had remained in Valinor after the Darkening. A recent proof of the restored Telerin goodwill had been the lending of the ships that had carried the hosts of the West to Beleriand and back.

The relationship between both Elvish peoples would have been perfect after the War had it not been for the ban against the returned Noldorin exiles to step upon Telerin lands. This matter had been a bone of contention since they settled in Tol Eressëa, a good twenty years in the past.

During the last few months it had almost become a full-blown dispute between the realms. Three Noldorin exiles had been discovered and arrested by Teleri guards after barely surviving the crossing from the island in a flimsy rowing boat. They had wished to visit kin in Alqualondë in defiance of the prohibition. Olwë had them languish in prison for a fortnight until the trial took place, despite numerous pleas from their Noldorin family and friends. Then he publicly banished them under dire threats if they were ever found within Telerin boundaries again.

To make matters worse, he posted a permanent guard along his Southern border, between the impassable Pélori and the Sea, with orders to reject entry to anyone without a valid permit. Those of his captains mooring in Tol Eressëa received strict commands not to ferry anyone to Alqualondë unless they were in possession of written authorisation, signed by himself or one of his counsellors.

This time, after reaching agreement over other less thorny matters Arafinwë had breached this delicate subject once more. As in previous occasions the King of the Teleri had listened sympathetically to the Noldóran’s objections at these rigorous rules but had firmly stood his ground. His people, he said, had no desire to reawaken painful memories at the sight of the kinslayers and their followers back on the docks of Alqualondë.

Before the meeting Arafinwë had been optimistic about swaying his father-in-law; to the negotiating table he had brought concessions on long sought demands for higher tax on Noldorin imports and the agreement to accept the outrageous price of pearls demanded by the Teleri. But Olwë had, in his view, unreasonably rejected these generous offers, claiming that the matter of the ban was not for bartering but one of principle.

In retaliation, as soon as Arafinwë arrived at Tirion he suspended all trade contracts with Telerin merchants and with immediate effect banned all unauthorised Teleri from entering the region under Noldorin authority.

The undesirable consequence of these measures was a growing hostility between both peoples over the following weeks, fed by the long memories of those who had lived through the times of the Darkening. 

Eärwen repeatedly mediated between both kings, using every available argument to her, but they remained entrenched in their inflexible positions. She had begun to despair at the apparent impossibility to resolve the conflict when a completely unrelated event fortuitously triggered a most unexpected plan of action. 

Two months had passed since the fruitless visit to Alqualondë when an anonymous informer accused one of Eärwen’s maids of “engaging in acts of an indecent nature with her betrothed while performing the sacred ritual of baking coimas^[1]”. The couple concerned was summoned to the King’s court and, after some questioning, they admitted having indeed been engaged in mutually pleasurable activities while the aforementioned coimas dough was in the oven under her supervision.

Though coimas as a nourishing food was no longer a necessity, its making had become a hallowed tradition amongst all the Elves of Aman, a solemn ritual to honour Yavanna in gratitude for her gift: the bread that restored their strength during their Long March through Endórë.

Arafinwë sighed in despair. All the Elven realms were ordered by written laws and customs that instructed their people on what was deemed as appropriate conduct within their society and towards the Valar. This disparate collection of ancient rules and lore included all matters concerning betrothal, marriage, childbearing, and the antiquated, highly controversial and by many ignored or ridiculed norms regarding intimate relationships.

The King was convinced that this was not the first time, nor would it be the last, in which ardent passion had led to neglecting propriety to Yavanna, and he was certain that the beloved Valië would have watched with indulgence over the couple of young lovers, but he could not condone their disrespectful, irresponsible behaviour.

Therefore he banished the couple to Tol Eressëa for twelve years of the sun, after a stern admonition and a warning that he would not tolerate further infringements and would hear no appeals. He thought no more of it after the next session started, a complicated land dispute that demanded all of his attention.

When he removed his ceremonial robes at noon and walked into his private chambers he was not expecting the thorny reception he received from his wife.

‘Are you out of your mind, Arafinwë?’ she tore at him furiously. ‘After humiliating them in front of the whole of Tirion did you have to ruin their lives?’

‘Hardly, my love,’ he tried to placate her. ‘Twelve years will be over in no time. Tol Eressëa is an exciting place compared to Aman and they will enjoy their stay. I was as lenient as I could.’ He truly believed so but her frown spoke of the inaccuracy of his assessment.

‘He was about to start an apprenticeship with Aulë. His place will be taken by another. Aulë only takes apprentices every two yéni.’ Her voice was colder than the breezes of Taniquetil.

Arafinwë disappeared discreetly into his changing room. But he was mistaken if he thought that would be the last he had heard on the matter.

‘Lamb chops again?’ he complained, most imprudently, when lunch was served to them. So far the Queen had remained silent every time she had missed the presence of fresh fish on her table, but her patience had endured enough.

‘And who would you hold to blame for this inconvenience, oh wise King?’ Eärwen retorted in a tone that made her husband flinch. ‘All imports of decent fish are suspended due to your pig-headed argument with my father.’

The insult was too serious to be completely ignored but he proceeded with caution, nevertheless.

‘Be careful, wife,’ he jested.

‘Or what?’ she cried. ‘You will banish me for twelve years on charges of treason, Your Highness?’

Despite the blatant provocation of her mocking tone he tried to appease her with some conciliatory endearments.

‘Eärwen, my love, calm down. I had no choice, my flower…’

‘Námo’s balls, Arafinwë!’ He froze at the most unexpected and outrageous profanity coming from his wife’s lips.

‘Just revoke that load of idiotic regulations that pretend to dictate how heartless, passionless people should live their lives in awe of the Valar. Why, you and I would be sentenced straight to the Void, were you to add together all our transgressions of that Laws and Customs nonsense.’ Her fair face was flushed with anger.

Arafinwë’s fingers twirled the stem of his glass goblet while he remembered several recent occasions during which they had, indeed, deliberately broken a considerable number of rules. His lips curved into a smile and he placed his hand tentatively on hers, but she just slapped it away.

‘You know it is seldom enforced,’ he protested in his most placating tone. ‘This case was unfortunate, in that a spurned lover brought it to the attention of my counsellors and demanded justice…’

‘But it just makes no sense!’ Eärwen argued. ‘Where is the logic, if what we seek with honouring Yavanna is to bring our people prosperity and plentiful crops? We should actually be promoting an orgy, not abstaining from acts of pleasure that tend to lead to procreation. And if these laws are seldom enforced why did you not dismiss the case?’

Arafinwë courageously but foolishly defended his corner, unaware of how he was digging himself into a deeper hole.

‘It was my duty as Noldóran to give judgement. I can’t be seen to take sides with your maid and his lover.’

‘You took sides with intolerance and bigotry against your own people.’ Neither would Eärwen back down.

‘Are you opposing me?’ Arafinwë’s patience was beginning to thin out. His knife clattered on the plate, next to the lamb chops that lay cold and forgotten.

‘I am, when your decisions are unjust or unreasonable.’ Eärwen raised her chin in defiance in the way that her husband knew well as preceding a battle of wills. ‘Like your childish games of war against my father.’

‘War?’ cried Arafinwë. ‘And what would you know of war, woman?’

As soon as the words left his mouth the Noldóran knew he had spoken unwisely. There was nothing that irked his wife more than being patronised.

‘I mean, war is the province of men.’ He made a valiant attempt at repairing the chasm that had opened between them. But the damage was irreparable.

‘I know enough of war!’ huffed the Queen. ‘We women,’ she gave heavy emphasis to the word, ‘may be left to wait for you beyond the battlefields, but our suffering is no less than yours. We live in fear during your absence, then we have to cope with your sulking mood and night terrors on your return. If you return.’ Eärwen corrected herself coldly and then slammed her hand on the table. ‘You ask what I know of war? You are about to find out.’ Without waiting for his reply she walked out of the room.

Later the Noldóran found out that she had summoned Nerdanel and both women had been closeted in the Queen’s chambers for the rest of the day. Eärwen did not share his bed that night.

She also avoided him during the following day. Again Arafinwë espied Nerdanel and his wife chatting animatedly under a tree in the garden, near the gurgling fountains, which masked their words. After the wife of his brother left, her arms filled with scrolls bearing the Queen’s seal, Arafinwë dared approach Eärwen, in a noble attempt to promote their reconciliation.

‘Why is Nerdanel here so often of late?’ he blurted, after some small meaningless chatter about the weather.

‘It is none of your business,’ replied his wife smoothly, ‘but I will tell you, anyway. She is my strategy advisor.’

‘Strategy advisor?’ wondered her husband aloud. ‘For what strategy?’

‘For war, of course. Or have you forgotten already?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ He chuckled. His wife smiled sweetly and joined in his merriment.

This was Arafinwë’s second serious error, and one that would have guaranteed the immediate dismissal of any of his captains, had they been unwary enough to underestimate their enemy.

Had he paid more heed, he would have noticed the paragraph on his daily guard’s report about the unusually high number of women hurrying along the streets of Tirion that afternoon and early evening, and about the riders, also women, who had traversed the city gates in haste. Unfortunately he was too busy with important matters of estate to dwell on the serious threat this apparently insignificant anomaly might portend.

The signal had been sent and the Queen’s Pledge was made and acknowledged, even beyond the boundaries of Arafinwë’s realm. All was ready for war.

Chapter End Notes

 [1] Coimas (Quenya) Life-bread of the Elves, equivalent of lembas (Sindarin).

‘Wake up, my lord! Wake up!’

It took the King of the Noldor a few heartbeats to realise that someone was shaking him rather vigorously, and that the tone of the caller was anxious, almost hysterical. The movement and the screeching voice made his head rattle, as if pounded into powder by trolls’ maces, and when he opened his eyes he had to rub them several times to confirm that they were not being pierced by red hot needles, but merely caressed by the first rays of the morning sun.

With a groan Arafinwë remembered the excessive amount of miruvor he had consumed the previous evening, after a pleasant dinner of oysters and saffron rice in their balcony arranged by Eärwen, no doubt, to promote their reconciliation. Where had his resourceful wife found oysters, scarcer than emeralds these days?

A warm tingle flowed through his veins at the thought of Eärwen’s loveliness, all but seducing him as enticingly as in the initial years of their courtship and marriage. He was happy that their silly quarrel had been fortunately forgotten. Sadly, she had been called to an urgent errand by one of her ladies in waiting and had not returned to consummate their passion before he fell asleep, but surely something could be arranged before he had to attend his council meeting. He wondered where she was now…

‘You need to get dressed at once, my lord!’ His aide all but shouted in his ear. Arafinwë briefly considered sacking him, though he had served him since the Darkening. The man was far too persistent in his duties, which sometimes was downright annoying. In the end he obeyed the urgent call, dragged himself out of bed and threw some clothes on his body. Why did he have to be the Noldóran, bound by duty, never free to do as he wished and instead being ordered about by his servants?

Outside the gates of his house he joined a sizeable crowd. They watched the beginning of the first harvest procession of the Yavannildi, the women who would gather the blessed corn of Yavanna to make it into coimas, the life-bread.

As usual, the Queen, the Bread-giver amongst the Noldor, led the procession on a white horse, its reins covered in green vines. As usual, the maids and women that followed wore, like her, garlands of pale niphredil around their necks, the symbol of their pledge to Yavanna, and carried no tools, for the corn would be harvested with their own hands. As usual, they left for the fields at dawn on the first day of the month of Yavannië, and would work for a whole cycle of the moon.

What was not usual, however, was that instead of the customary two or three dozen women, four at most in exceptional years, the whole female population of Tirion seemed to have joined the parade.

Also most unusual and the reason that made most of all present males drop their jaws open was the attire of the women, or lack of. A few of them wore the most diaphanous gowns Arafinwë had ever seen, that left very little to the imagination. But the majority of them were even bolder, clad in nothing but their long tresses, which usually reached their knees. As abundant as their beautiful hair was, it did not suffice to cover their marble-like skin in its entirety. The Queen belonged to this latter group.

In fact, when he managed to recover from his first shocked impression, he was completely convinced that he could see his wife’s nipples peeking most enticingly through her hair, despite the thick garland of niphredil that hang from her neck.

And if he could, so could others. He blushed when, from the intent stares around him, he realised he was right in his assumption. Mercifully she was sat atop a horse and other alluring parts of her anatomy were not revealed, except for the cleft of her perfect buttocks when she rode past.

All men watched in incredulous fascination and utter silence, only broken by the soft clip-clop of hooves and the whisper of bare feet on the ground. All of them who had a wife or betrothed would find her in the parade and any smugness they might have displayed before their comrades and friends would die in shocked embarrassment.

‘What in Mandos is this mockery?’ Arafinwë called out, only to be completely ignored by the women.

When he tried to approach Eärwen’s mare, usually a well behaved beast, she nearly bit his hand off. He stepped back hastily while his nostrils were treated to the sweet scent of jasmine, the perfume his wife used in her bath. He was hit by the nasty realisation that he was not only being ignored, but snubbed. To aggravate him further, his unfulfilled morning arousal had soared to an uncomfortable level due to the excessive display of tempting flesh.

He loved his wife, but of course he could not be impartial to the charms of so much beauty paraded before his eyes. Some maidens blushed, others even dared wink at him when he was found staring at… well, at their naked shapes.

Finally the last group of women walked past leading the empty cart that would be full of golden ears by nightfall. Arafinwë snapped out of his trance-like stillness and gruffly asked Carmiswë, the captain of his guard, to disperse the crowd of dumbstruck men. Then he went up to his study to consider this development. Did his wife truly believe she would be able to claim any sort of victory with such a crude trick? Well, she would soon find out her mistake.

At the sudden twitch in his groin at the memory of her nudity, he suddenly realised what Eärwen’s pledge to Yavanna would mean to him personally. Every year since she had become Queen, she had only joined the Yavannildi on the first and the last day of their sacred task. During those days she had had to abide the rule of “abstinence from pleasure of the hröa in the arms of a man” as the law and customs duly prescribed.

After her behaviour towards him during the procession he was convinced she would have no qualms about abstaining for longer than a day, and thus deprive him of his share of marital pleasure.

A number of epithets came to the king’s lips, all of them unspeakable in polite company. He was alone, so he almost shouted them. Then he laughed ominously. Well, if his wife thought he would fall for such a pathetic ploy, he would wait for her to return to him, desperate for pardon and unsatisfied lust. Then she would find out who was King. Had he not defeated Moringotto? A gang of impudent ladies would prove to be a far easier foe in comparison.

His confidence wavered slightly when he watched the parade march back into Tirion that night. The orange flame of torches and candles made his wife’s bare skin glow like gold, shadows danced over her body, and her flowing hair caressed her in ways his fingers could not, titillating his every nerve. But he resolutely stood still and did not approach her. When his gaze met hers, she looked at him in utter contempt, equal in his opinion to that she would bestow on a slimy slug found on her plate.   

She never went to her rooms, adjacent to his own. Instead she fortified herself with Nerdanel in a set of guest chambers in a different wing, and her personal Telerin guard protected her door. Was she hoping he would demand or, Eru forbid, beg to be admitted? He had endured years in Beleriand without her to warm his bed. This would, in comparison, be children’s play. She would be the one to yield and plead for his favours. 

Three days later he began to get irritated at the farce. To add insult to injury, the King was bound by law to provide supplies to the Yavannildi, so that every day a long line of laden carts would roll down the streets towards the hallowed coimas grounds, and the Noldóran’s gold reserve dwindled from feeding half the population of the realm.

A report from his spies pointed at the stirrings of serious trouble. Little work was being done in the city, with half of the realm dedicated to the laudable but ultimately redundant job of producing coimas and the other half distracted by growing physical urges. Men were muttering complains about the law forbidding their wives from sharing their hröar. No arguments or pleas could persuade the women to forgo their pledge to the Queen and remain faithful Yavannildi until she released them.

Besides, a considerable number of men from all walks of life were regularly found hiding behind the trees that surrounded the corn fields, to watch the naked harvesters as they performed their tasks. Some brawls had been ruthlessly broken up by the city guard when jealous husbands, fathers and brothers had suspected others from eyeing their respective wives, daughters or sisters with anything but utmost respect.

At dusk, after a harder than usual day at court and meetings, Arafinwë decided he needed to study the situation in person. He ordered his horse saddled and rode through the city gates to the fields, only a short canter away.

When he arrived the grounds were teeming with singing and dancing, and mostly bare, women. Guided by one of his agents he perched himself at the best vantage point to spot his quarry from outside the boundary.

Under a large open tent, well lit with oil lamps sat his wife with a group of laughing maids. As the spies had already advised, they were dressed in nothing but their long unbound hair and garlands of flowers. Most of them merrily danced, twirled and leaped, while some others played flutes and small drums. They drank wine and miruvor.

His wine. His miruvor. He gritted his teeth.

This scene may have just been about bearable. What happened next definitely was not. His wife took seat by another woman, who soon began to feed her sweetmeats out of her hand. Eärwen licked the offering fingers in a truly sensual, most shocking way, while sighing and giggling. Who was the impudent maid who dared behave towards his wife in such indecent manner? He recognised her features when her face turned to the light. It was no maid but Nerdanel, Fëanáro’s wife.

Arafinwë watched in fascination as the two women locked their bodies into a sinuous embrace. Then he blinked, doubting his eyes. No, there it was again. They were kissing each other. Hesitantly at first, then with more enthusiasm, as if they wished to sample their taste more deeply, unhampered by inhibition despite the numerous audience around them.

They proceeded to fondle each other’s breasts lovingly, their lips never breaking contact. Eärwen placed one of her hands between her legs; the motion and rhythm of her arm left her stunned husband no doubt as to its activity. She swayed, both to the music and to her own pleasure, then threw her head back in complete abandon when Nerdanel slowly began to ravish her naked body with demanding lips and firm fingers, as if modelling her curves in clay.

A large golden implement, of certain size and shape that made it impossible to confuse it with anything else suddenly appeared in Nerdanel’s hand. Actually, the size was excessive, in Arafinwë’s view.

‘Puhtat! Tiutarincë?^[1]’ cursed the outraged king loudly. ‘I will have them both thrown into prison for this shamelessness.’ Simultaneously he made a mental note about finding out the object’s origins. Could it be real gold? Had Fëanáro crafted such exquisite toys when not engaged in making sons or Silmarilli? He discarded these distracting musings and focused on the scene unfolding before him.

His eyes stayed glued to Eärwen, drinking in her every movement, including her minute shivers while Nerdanel traced her skin with the golden phallus, and his imagination recreated her every sigh and gasp. His treacherous groin had responded to the deluge of visual stimulation in the most ardent way but, unable to relieve his need, he was frustrated, furious and aroused as never before in his long life.

At that time it was no longer clear what was happening between the two women, by then lying naked and golden in a swaying tangle on the grass, but at length they parted reluctantly and rose to their feet. Eärwen put her arm around Nerdanel’s waist and together they walked out of his line of sight, behind the drapes of the pavilion. The other women smiled knowingly and clapped and cheered at their departure. The drumbeats echoed louder and faster, the dancing grew wilder.

That was it. Arafinwë would not put up with such an affront any longer. With a cursory downward look to check that his tunic covered any signs of his predicament, he stepped towards the tent. His determined strides were broken when a line of women blocked his advance.

‘You may not pass, my King,’ one of them said sweetly. ‘This is sacred ground, hallowed by Yavanna, and only to be entered by the Yavannildi.’ An undisguised smirk lit her features.

Arafinwë would have strangled her on the spot but with an effort he clenched his hands to his sides and walked away, seething.

Had he looked behind, he would have witnessed how his wife and Nerdanel peeked at his retreat from their refuge, tears of mirth on their faces.

‘Our strategy is working, my sisters,’ Eärwen laughed. ‘Let us celebrate!’

After the women returned to Tirion, late into the night, the balmy breeze brought to Arafinwë the sound of silver laughter and whispers in the dark. He had to invoke all his will power not to knock on his wife’s door demanding entrance. He resorted to his hands to relieve his throbbing lust, but this reprieve could not satisfy his hunger for warm, soft skin under his fingers and a pliant body dancing with his own. He went to sleep with images of Eärwen riding him with a flower garland gracing her neck and a smile on her lips.

His second visit, two days later, proved even more disturbing. Another outrageous scene of seduction and surrender was followed by the departure of all other women from the tent so that this time there was no music to mask the unequivocal moans of pleasure of someone lost in the throes of passion. Could he hear Eärwen’s voice that huskily urged for completion? His own desire was unbearably stoked by the scenes his imagination portrayed of the happenings behind the veils.

Once again he rode back to Tirion most uncomfortable with the pressure in his groin. A cold bath did not truly solve the matter. Images of his naked wife, writhing with pleasure in the arms of Nerdanel or other women kept flashing in his mind and would not be dispelled. He felt miserable, betrayed, and plagued by contradictory urges ranging from burning lust to cold schemes for exacting revenge.

He was adamant he would prevail over his wife’s war games. During the following days he ruthlessly curbed the rising protests of the men of the city, increasingly more prone to react in a belligerent manner to the slightest perceived provocation. He imprisoned several of them who had disturbed the peace with rowdy quarrels, no doubt caused by their raised spirits. As an additional precaution he established an armed guard around the perimeter of the coimas grounds to keep everyone away and therefore avoid more incidents. But he had to remove it when several soldiers were brought back in disgrace, accused of having taken themselves in hand while on duty.

Every evening, after he watched the women return, when Eärwen was so near and yet so far, he kept musing on riding behind her on the horse, her beautiful breasts warm under his hands, and wondered what would and would not be feasible on horseback.

Any temporary reprieve of his rampant desire only left him more unsatisfied, until it got to a point where her swaying form was constantly present in his mind, and he was finding it difficult to even attend the business of estate. His self discipline was all but flagging. Worst of all, deep within he knew he was defeated.

Chapter End Notes

^[1] Puhtat (Quenya) Second person (singular) of the imperative of puhta- copulate.

Tiutarincë (Quenya) Dildo (literally "little consoler"). Term coined by Darth Fingon for Pandemonium_213 in “The Elendimir”, used with his kind permission. 

It was early in the morning of the seventeenth day of his torment when the messenger from Olwë came to Tirion bearing an urgent missive from his lord.

‘Meet me at the Horseshoe Beach at noon today. Olwë.’

The beach was on the border between their two realms, at the western end of the Calacirya. Arafinwë did not even think of refusing the summons of his father-in-law, despite their grave disagreements. Maybe he could persuade him to act as a mediator, if only to save his daughter’s marriage.

He realised the depth of the chaos afflicting his administration during the past few weeks when he found out that his spies in Alqualondë had failed to report a most significant piece of intelligence. Olwë was also the victim of Eärwen’s plot, because she had cunningly gained the alliance of her mother and of all the Teleri women to her cause. Arafinwë reluctantly began to admire the deviousness of her plan.

The two kings engaged in a joint effort at describing the heartless devilry of their wives, and then compared the level of aggravation caused by their scheme in their respective realms, without venturing into their vexing personal urges, too embarrassing to even be mentioned. Finally they discussed possible methods for retribution, or at least, for a dignified, bloodless resolution to the conflict.

There were none.

However, there was a way out, one that the kings were adamant they would never invoke. Just before the sun set, they parted, having reaffirmed their vows not to yield to the women’s ignoble blackmail. The harvesting month would be over before long.

On his way back to the city Arafinwë shared some of his thoughts with Carmiswë, one of those fortunate individuals who had been mostly unaffected by the women’s unconventional protest, given that he shared his hearth with the sword master of the Noldor army.

All through this lengthy ordeal, the purposefully charged glances between the two warriors, their verbal sparring, dripping innuendo, and their gleeful smirks at their king’s misfortunes had irked Arafinwë, who had sworn to smash their teeth in if one more pun was directed at him. This time, however, Carmiswë threw a worthwhile idea at him.

‘Speak to the Valar, my lord,’ he proposed, sympathetic for once.

The following day the Noldóran rode to Valmar as fast as his horse would take him, and from there he was granted leave to climb to Ilmarin and see Manwë himself. His petition was heard with the solemnity due to any news of grave matters, but both the reaction and reply of the Lord of Arda were utterly disappointing.

‘Arafinwë’, spoke Manwë, ‘even if I had not already learnt my lesson about the peril of interfering with the affairs of you Children, I have yet more powerful reasons to remain an impartial observer in your plight.’ He looked meaningfully to his right, where Varda sat with a beatific smile on her face.

‘My dear Arafinwë,’ she purred. ‘I hope you appreciate that it would be most improper for my lord husband to take sides in your quarrel.’

‘Naturally I understand, my lady.’ He bowed respectfully in farewell, wondering if his carefully disguised fury would be apparent to the mighty eyes of the Valië.

‘Both my sister Yavanna and her spouse have asked me to convey messages to you,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Aulë has agreed to wait for his banished apprentice.’ Arafinwë was glad at this news, though it arrived too late to resolve matters with his wife. ‘And Yavanna says…’ Varda Elentári’s fair visage turned even more radiant, lit by a kind smile.

The King of the Noldor held his breath in anticipation at the words the Star-kindler would speak. Could he hope for a miraculous intervention by Yavanna, outraged at the despicable way her ritual had been twisted into a manipulative tool?

‘The corn has been doubly blessed this season and it is already half regrown. Yavanna has decided that the second harvest should be gathered, given there is no lack of helpers. The baking will be delayed until all the corn has been ground. She is confident that her loyal Yavannildi will complete such delicate tasks in time for the winter solstice.’

Arafinwë blanched in dismay. Two more months of coimas making, of absolute misery? So, not only did he lack the support of the Valar, but Yavanna and Varda were actually in league with his enemy. He could no longer call his wife and her allies anything else.

Wrathful but powerless, Arafinwë returned to Tirion. A stream of frustrated men requested urgent audiences but he dismissed them all with a snarl and asked his guard to allow no one into his study.

His decision was made. Riders were hastily dispatched bearing ciphered messages penned in utmost secrecy. They returned confirming the arrangements had all been made.

Orders were hastily issued and the Noldorin army was made ready. Armours were polished, harnesses cleaned, weapons oiled. Town criers walked the streets of Tirion tirelessly proclaiming the muster of the King.

The women stayed in the safety of the hallowed grounds that night.

~o~  

Early the following day Arafinwë swelled with pride at the sight that met his eyes outside the city walls. The army awaited his command and behind them, arrayed in orderly lines, stood the rest of the men of Tirion. As for himself, he had donned the silver coat of mail that had seen him to victory in Beleriand, and girt the sword that had battled the hordes of Angband. His horse had been curried until his black coat shone like jet.

He gave the order to depart, and all the men orderly marched behind him. At the appointed place a few miles away from Tirion they met Olwë’s host. The company of the Telerin king was not as magnificent, nor truly geared up for war. Nonetheless they had come prepared, bearing the pennants of Olwë’s house, and shields, bows and quivers full of arrows fletched in blue and white.

They all marched together, Noldor and Teleri, and it was around noon when they sighted the sacred grounds of Yavanna. A large crowd of women advanced towards the hedge that marked their boundary, led by two ladies riding white horses: the Queens of the Noldor and that of the Teleri, mother and daughter, both clad only in garlands and wearing wreaths of flowers on their heads.

Arafinwë and Olwë looked at each other, as if to seek counsel. The lovely sight before their eyes strengthened their resolve to carry out their decision, however painful it turned out to be.

They dismounted from their own horses and approached the hedge on foot, followed at a prudent distance by their guards. The silence was absolute.

‘What is your business, my lords?’ cried Olwë’s wife.

‘Parley, my ladies!’ answered her husband.

‘We will only listen to your unconditional surrender in front of all our peoples,’ replied Eärwen, in a voice that would carry to the man-at-arms mustered behind their lords. ‘Otherwise we will return to our duties and your burdens will not be relieved this day.’

A collective groan was heard from the ranks of soldiers and beyond. Someone was heard shouting: ‘Yield, my lords, for Eru’s sake!’ and a heartfelt chorus of agreement followed.

Arafinwë and Olwë sternly signalled their captains to regain control of their unruly mobs.

Then, with a resigned sigh the Noldóran slowly unsheathed his sword. He gripped its hilt tightly, nearly in anger. Olwë took an arrow from his quiver.

The men sank to both knees and presented their weapons to the women. Nerdanel and a Telerin maid took them from their hands and passed them to their respective ladies.

‘We yield,’ chorused the kings. They waited with arms crossed across their chests.

‘Is that the best you can do, Olwë?’ cried Eärwen’s mother. ‘We expect more humility from a vanquished foe pleading for mercy. And stop staring!’

Arafinwë grasped the wrist of his father by marriage to prevent him from standing up in a rage. An upwards glance at the yet unattainable allure before him reminded him of what was at stake. Both men ground their teeth in embarrassment and frustration and lowered their heads in unwilling supplication.

‘We admit our utter defeat, my ladies; we yield to your superior strategy and submit to the conditions you have imposed on us,’ spat Olwë, as if each word stuck in his throat.  

‘The irrevocable treaty between our realms dealing with the Exiles has been finalised and signed.’ At the command of the King of the Teleri an aide brought him a scroll. He passed it to his companion in misfortune, who raised his arms up to his wife. Eärwen took it from him. He trembled at the touch of her fingers.

The two queens studied the text, the signatures and the seals.

‘We deem it adequate,’ spoke Eärwen solemnly. ‘Anything else?’

Another scroll was produced by the kings and inspected thoroughly by their wives.

‘We accept that this decree revokes the clauses in the Law of our realms that until now attempted to govern their people in matters in which their rulers have no business,’ voiced the Queen of the Noldor.

But still neither woman moved her mount forward. Arafinwë felt Olwë’s elbow dig sharply into his ribs.

‘I seek your forgiveness, my Queen,’ his words were almost whispered, meant for Eärwen only. ‘You have proved to be the better warrior, wielding no sword, and have forced me to realise that pride is a poor advisor.’

Eärwen nodded briefly.

‘Our conditions have been fully met. Your surrender is accepted, my lords,’ she cried so that her words were heard by all. ‘You may rise.’ Arafinwë jumped up to his feet as fast as he could, caring little about his undignified haste. There was only one idea filling his mind now that the ordeal had passed.

‘My sisters, you were faithful to your pledge and victory is ours!’ Eärwen was beautiful in her triumph, clad in sunlight and crowned with flowers.

A deafening roar of triumph rose from the host of women. When it finally died out, the Queen of the Noldor exclaimed: ‘May reconciliation be sweet!’

At these words, the men cheered even more loudly and many began to break out from their ranks.

Eärwen slid from her horse to fall into her husband’s arms, and all the women left the sacred grounds to find their partners. Those who waited for none were laughing at some of the heated reunions, though others like Nerdanel, who pined for their men, gone or dead, could not avoid wistful looks. Yavanna appeared in their midst with several of her Maiar and gently led them away.

Eärwen and Arafinwë kissed with the fire stoked by nearly three weeks of separation. Unsated, searing desire shone fiercely in their eyes; had it not been for the presence of a few thousand others they would have devoured each other on the spot.

‘You see, dear husband, our kindred does not lose their thirst for gratification of this kind after bearing children. Are you not happy you agreed to our terms and got rid of those old-fashioned laws? Otherwise, at this precise moment you would be inciting your wife into unlawful behaviour.’

’I am, my beloved. But you still have to explain yourself about Nerdanel,’ growled Arafinwë.

‘I shall, my husband. Down to the most minute detail. I suggest we remove to our chambers for the full description of my misdeeds so that you can deal the appropriate penalties,’ whispered Eärwen in his ear, while she nibbled it in the way she knew would make her husband’s knees tremble in ecstasy.

Arafinwë moaned, certain to have already endured far beyond any limits Ilúvatar may have ever set when he devised his Children.

He looked around him. Discarded armour lay on the ground everywhere, entangled in hastily removed clothing. Everyone was busy attending their own business and he was pleased to see that reconciliation was indeed being achieved in all fronts, except his own. He quickly averted his eyes from the disturbing sight of his parents by marriage enthusiastically smoothing out their differences.

‘I don’t think we truly need to…, do we?’ ventured the Noldóran.

Eärwen’s hand snaked under his mail coat to undo his laces and thus provided the answer he had prayed for.