Dreams of Far Lands by Elleth

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Dreams of Far Lands

“Ah, I think there she is,” Aredhel says, and grins at her aunt. Lalwen smiles back, with a soft, cautious laugh. A figure has crossed into view around a corner of the cliffs on the terrace below and begins making her way up toward the high ledge before the palace where Aredhel sits squinting at the summer sun on the sea below Vinyamar. Her aunt clears her throat.

“I told you to ignore my begetting day, I think,” she replies, and raises a shapely eyebrow at her niece, who climbs to her feet and clasps her hands behind her back like a young girl caught at mischief and trying her hardest to appear penitent. The difference, of course, is that the grin that still hasn’t left Aredhel’s face. “My favourite aunt, and the King’s seneschal! To ignore you today would have given me trouble with Father at the very least, when he returns,” she says. “Besides, I did not want to ignore it. Just wait. You will appreciate this; Mŷlluin's mother made it.”

She waves her arm high in the air, her white sleeve flying like a signal flag at their friend Mŷlluin, who is still climbing the steep path toward them, lithely making her way among the rocks with the swift movements of someone who was born in Nevrast and knows it to the bone, something that always serves her well as Lalwen and Aredhel’s hunting companion when they go up into the headland to track game in the marshes.

Mŷlluin waves back, and lifts a bundle wrapped in black cloth, long and narrow, that she carries tucked under her arm for them to see. It’s not long until she has reached them, brushes a strand of hair that’s come loose in the climb out of her round Telerin face and fixes it again with a hair-clasp wrought in the shape of a golden harp.

“A gift from Salgant,” she says and smiles; her dark eyes sparkle. Mŷlluin’s smile is wide and sincere, the kind that makes it hard not to return.

“I’m glad that you are so happy together,” Aredhel says. “And that we have such good friends in the Nevrastim. Without your folk and guidance I doubt that we would be doing so well here.” She pokes her stomach, which, though it doesn’t quite match Mŷlluin’s fuller figure, has notably filled since the ordeal on Helcaraxë - not quite long-ago enough to make light of it, but still present enough in her mind to appreciate the difference of warmth and abundant food.

Lalwen murmurs her agreement. “But when the time comes, you will of course come with us into the new city - in particular now that you intend to marry one of Turgon’s lords?”

“Of course.” Mŷlluin puffs out a breath, and leans on the bundle in a characteristic posture that both Lalwen and Aredhel have seen often when they made camp in the marshes of Nevrast after returning, on occasion, without game from their hunts. Perhaps Lalwen guessed it before and said nothing to not spoil the surprise, but now she laughs and reaches out.

Aredhel grins as Mŷlluin hands over the bundle, and Lalwen unties the golden cord that holds it closed. Her gasp speaks volumes, and it takes a moment before she lifts the spear to examine it more closely.

“A Nevrastim fishing spear, for you to dance with,” Aredhel says while Lalwen still admires the handiwork, trailing her fingers over darting fish in gold and silver inlays in the black-lacquered hilt that stand out like stars in the night sky. “It would be a change from your collection of blades, a new dance to learn.”

“And I would teach you,” Mŷlluin adds. “I heard Meleth already offered to teach you how to dance with her khopesh - but she is not the only one here with a culture to share,” she teases. “Beleriand is far wider and richer than you give it credit for.”

Aredhel looks up. “I do - or will, when I have travelled it to see for myself. Perhaps further - into Meleth’s Avarin southlands, or over the mountains in the east into the lands beyond or -”

“- even all the way east to Cuiviénen, the one good idea of Fëanor,” Lalwen finishes Aredhel’s enthusiastic account. It is not the first time Aredhel has dreamt aloud of far places, indeed that was a desire that harkens back to Aman, listening to her grandmothers’ songs of far lands, and it kindled in her heart anew when the Unrest of the Noldor began.

“You Noldor and your dreams of far lands,” Mŷlluin says, when she notices a flicker of wistfulness in Lalwen’s features, but she is speaking softly and with compassion. “Whether they lie across land or across the sea, I have heard enough from both of you that doubt you will ever be wholly content in any place.”

“It is not that,” Lalwen says, glancing out to the sea where a flock of seabirds on the wing are wheeling westward from the cliffs in which they nest. “I am wishing I could show your dances to Elemmírë - or indeed, show her Beleriand itself. She would be overwhelmed by its beauty, and her songs… I wonder if she can see me from Taniquetil, if the Valar permit,” she says. “With Meleth’s khopesh and this, I would have dances to show her that she has never dreamt, much less seen.”

“But the further we travel and the longer we stay, the more chances you will have to gather stories for her for when we sail back home,” Aredhel says. “Just think of all the things we will have to tell.”

“You can dance either way. And you may dream again together,” Mŷlluin says. “Take heart, and -" she hesitates, as though deliberating, then adds, "Yes."

“You have already given me a gift,” Lalwen objects, her fingers wrapped around the shaft of the spear. She is smiling again; Mŷlluin’s gracious offer has not left her untouched. "Thank you.”

Mŷlluin shakes her head. “This is Aredhel's gift, not mine. And the dancing will be my pleasure, too. There is another thing."

"Oh?"

"The Path of Dreams. Some of us have been learning to traverse it," she explains, now in a low voice. "It is said that when we learned we had been left behind seeking our King, some let their grief and longing for the West grew so great that they cast their thoughts across the very sea itself to speak with the friends and loved ones they had lost. Perhaps you can do it as well," she says to Lalwen. "All the more because it was your home."

"Mélamarilma," Lalwen murmurs and nods, looking west with an expression that could hold no more longing. "Our beloved home. I will try it. I cannot refuse the chance to try and speak with her, though the Valar may have fenced Valinor against all the world."

Mŷlluin smiles. "Then come, let us see if it is possible. I am certain it is, with all your longing. Take heart."

It seems Lalwen's spirits have risen with the chance. "It will be possible. It is not a question." She laughs, looking out to sea again, and turns to follow Mŷlluin.

Chapter End Notes

The khopesh is an Ancient Middle-eastern/Egyptian hooked sword; I borrowed the term here for Meleth's gift; in this fic she was imagined to be part of a tribe of southern Avari, and I like the thought of an Avarin culture resembling a great one like that.

The Path of Dreams that Mŷlluin talks about is loosely based on Tolkien's idea of the Olórë Mallë. Mélamarilma is a Quenya term used by the Exilic Noldor for Aman, meaning "Our [Beloved] Home" of emotional sense: place of one's birth or the familiar places from which one has been separated (Ardalambion).

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