The Line of Kings by Michiru

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Her Love a Shield

And indeed Melkor was false […] But the Vanyar would have no part with him.” Eldalôtë warns her betrothed not to seek the counsel of Melkor. Morgoth’s Ring, 94.

Valarin Year 1415

 

 

            At first, Angaráto had given no thought to Melkor’s release, other than to note that Grandfather’s eyes darkened whenever it came up. And, though he knew the restored Vala was in Valmar receiving audiences seeking his wisdom, it had not occurred to him that Melkor might have any knowledge he was searching for: the Teleri went to Melkor for some news of their loved ones in Endor; the Noldor asked after deep secrets of the earth and beyond.

 

            But Angaráto was a linguist, not a smith or a chemist or a philosopher, or even a historian, and he could see no reason why he would need to consult with the Vala, so Melkor’s release went unremarked for a time.

 

 

            “Angamaitë, will you be visiting Melkor when you return to Valmar?” Eldalôtë froze in the seat next to him, fork poised over her plate, eyes darting sharply from him to Ancáno, smirking faintly across the table.

 

            “I see no reason to,” he said. “What do I care for the secrets of gold and gemstones?”

 

            “Haven’t you heard?” Ancáno wondered. “Lindalëar sought him out last year for a more comprehensive understanding of the tongue of the Valar. Unlike his kin, Melkor does not refuse the teaching because he fears our ears will find the lesson unpalatable.” Eldalôtë deliberately set down her utensils and sat back in her chair. A ways down, Amarië seemed to have caught some of the conversation also; she was frowning at Ancáno, answering Ingoldo’s teasing flirtations distractedly. Angaráto shrugged, brushing his fingertips across the back of Eldalôtë’s wrist briefly.

 

            “I have no interest in the tongue of the Valar. If I need to speak with them, I can do so in Quenya.”

 

            “Yes,” Ancáno drawled, bored. “You would rather concern yourself with the much more useful theoretical language of the Avari in Endor.” The Noldo’s friends laughed, and Angaráto tightened his smile but didn’t say a word. Ancáno’s father was one of Grandfather’s chief advisors, so he could not afford to return the insult, or even press his status to demand respect.

 

            “But don’t you see?” Ancáno persisted when he got no rise, leaning forward.

 

            “See what?” Eldalôtë dropped her hands to her lap as he answered, fingers clenched in a twisting knot.

 

            “He was there,” Ancáno exhaled, as though completely overwhelmed with exasperation. “He met with your precious Avari; spoke with them! Surely, in the interest of academic accuracy, if nothing else, you should not ignore the wealth of information available to you.”

 

            “Information that would be limited to whatever abhorrent interactions Melkor had with our ancestors, and desperately out of date besides,” Angaráto countered, and Ancáno threw up his hands in defeat, turning to nettle someone else. But Eldalôtë did not touch her silverware again, and Angaráto poked listlessly at his meal for the duration of the banquet, for the seed had been planted and his mind would not rest. Ancáno’s question seemed to echo to the beat of his friends’ mockery. Limited or not, out of date or not, first-hand knowledge of the language of the moriquendi would revolutionize his field of study. How long before someone else—another linguist— had the same thought as Ancáno?

 

     

       “Melinnon,” Eldalôtë said abruptly, as they strolled together through Indis’ garden in the gentle light of Telperion after the banquet’s end.

 

            “Yes?” he asked heavily, drawn out of his thoughts.

 

            “There are those—” She stopped, seemingly at a loss for words, her hand suddenly trembling in his. He folded her in his arms without hesitation, increasingly concrete musings pushed aside.

 

            They stood there, silent, for time indeterminable, even her honor guard forgotten, and in the silence her mind touched his, wordless but comforting, and some of the tension, the residual irritation produced by Ancáno, faded. He breathed in the distinct smell of her hair, somehow Treelight and music all in one, and relaxed.

 

            “Ever have you been my greatest strength, Súlendë,” he whispered against her hair, ignoring the scrutiny he could feel as the guard shifted impatiently, suspiciously, in the background. “I should be a pale imitation of myself without you.” Eldalôtë laughed softly, the echoing strains of bells far off.

 

            “And do you think, having known you, that I should be the same without you?” she teased. “You will always be my great dreamer, Melinnon.” His lips quirked painfully, sweet souring in his throat.

 

            “Only ever a dreamer, I’m afraid,” he murmured, trying to cast the phrase jokingly with the derision of Grandfather’s court still ringing in his ears. Eldalôtë sighed, stepping back and tugging him to a bench overhung with lilac.

 

            “What, precisely, is your grievance with dreams?” she probed, resting her head on his shoulder, fingers tracing up and down his sleeve in slow, elongated circles.

 

            “Nothing, so long as they give results.”

 

            “Those words are not your own,” she noted, something like sorrow whispering at his mind.

 

            “But they are true,” he sighed. “Princes of the Noldor aren’t expected to dream, but to do. Look at my cousins, at my siblings—I doubt I could list all their accomplishments had I an Age undisturbed to record them.”

 

            “And you think Melkor’s counsel could help you to do as they have done,” she stated, flatly enough for him to wince at the unvoiced disappointment.

 

            “A first-hand account of the evolutionary path of Primitive Quenya would do much to resolve certain conflicts among scholars,” he defended weakly. Eldalôtë was quiet for a time afterwards, but the stilling of her hand on his arm was answer enough.

 

            “In Valmar we keep Melkor out of love for Manwë,” she said at last, voice low, “but we like him not. There is something… creeping about him that leaves bile in the air, and his advice sullies more than it illuminates. Always there are layers to his speech, and secrets folded in secrets.” She shuddered, though Tirion in mid-summer could approach unbearable heat, and Angaráto wrapped his arm around her, resting his cheek on the crown of her head.

 

            Her eyes started up at him, through the curtain of their hair entwined, blue glowing faintly, more of Laurelin’s gold than Telperion’s silver reflecting at him.

 

            “I should rather keep Angaráto the dreamer, unblemished by strange counsel, than to boast of my sick friend’s accomplishments,” she murmured. “Think not that I care for what others say a prince of the Noldor should do or achieve. I would love you if you were the son of a poor baker on the street, or one of the Valar themselves. It is you I love, not your titles or your status.

 

            “If you must consult the Valar, seek out Oromë; he had dealings with the Quendi before we were sundered. Or Ossë, who was friend to those who remained behind when our peoples sailed to Aman. But do not deal with Melkor.”

Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes:

 

1.      Ancáno was supposed to be Angaráto’s friend when I started writing this… not sure what happened there.

 

2.      For anyone waiting to cry, “But Eldalôtë was Noldorin!!(1)!”, let me say that the idea of her as Vanyarin evolved when I found Tolkien’s claim that all the descendents of Arafinwë had blond hair was ridiculous, given that they would be getting that blond hair from the progressively distant blood of Indis. Since Angaráto is the only one of Arafinwë’s children to have children […that I care about…], I made his wife Vanyarin, just to make sure that Artaher/Orodreth could get the blond hair that was so freaking important to the professor.

 

a.       In case anyone wants a diagram of why I found this claim ridiculous…

 

            Arafinwë: ½ Vanyarin, ½ Noldorin

 

            Angaráto: ¼ Vanyarin, ¼ Noldorin, ½ Telerin

 

            Artaher with Noldorin mother: 1/8 Vanyarin, 5/8 Noldorin, ¼(2/8) Telerin

 

And the problem here is that the Noldor and Teleri tend to have dark hair, and they make up 7/8 of Artaher’s genetic pool if I’ve done my math right and you assume his mother was Noldorin. However—

 

            Artaher with Vanyarin mother: 5/8 Vanyarin, 1/8 Noldorin, ¼(2/8) Telerin

 

Thus, he has a great probability of turning out blond, and producing some blond kids of his own when his mother is Vanyarin.

 

            Standard disclaimer: Michiru is in no way a geneticist, and freely admits that she came up with this graph by way of tiny pie charts that were shaded differently. She also admits that it is entirely possible for random hair colors to pop out of nowhere in families and that, as a subscriber to the “Tyelcormo was a blond and that’s why he was called the Fair” group she should not be so pedantic about Eldalôtë needing to be Vanyarin to justify Orodreth’s and Finduilas’ blond hair.

 

3.      Melinnon: translates from Quenya to English as “dear heart”. I’m not sure whether to classify it as an epessë or as a pet name. Súlendë is not so easy to translate and is more abstract; it means “center breath” (actually, “breath center”) and (is meant to) implies a wellspring of life, though not in the sense that, as a woman, Eldalôtë is able to give birth. Life here is intended in a more abstract sense. Many thanks to Elf Fetish’s Quenya Name Frame, which is where I run when I need names, particularly when they need to mean something.

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