Along Came an Elf by dalliansss

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A Funeral and Exile

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Nórimion made his way through the city of Alqualondë just as Telperion’s silver light blazed its zenith. Upon his cloak he sported the Fëanorian star in gold-thread embroidery. He had journeyed tirelessly from Tirion-upon-Túna, ordered by Prince Maitimo to inform his brothers Princes Makalaurë and Carnistir about their brother Tyelkormo’s demise, and to relay upon them the message that they were needed in Tirion at the soonest possible time. 

 

He reached the humble, seaside villa of Prince Makalaurë first. Standing just outside the front door, Nórimion allowed himself to take a deep breath before he reached for the heavy brass knocker installed there, finely-crafted with the detailing of seahorses – and used it to knock thrice upon the door, the banging sound echoing louder than it should have in the silence of that street. Nórimion gave it a full minute when nobody answered the door before he took up the knocker again, this time making sure his blows carried urgency. He stepped back just as he saw light flicker to life from one of the windows on the second floor, and he could soon hear muffled footsteps from the depths of the house.

 

Half a second later, the door creaked open and Prince Makalaurë, dark hair hastily smoothed down and a thick brown robe over his person, peeked out at him, squinting. Nórimion raised his lighted lamp higher.

 

“Are you mad, man?” Makalaurë demanded of him. “Why are you making such a racket at this hour?”

“Apologies, Highness,” said Nórimion. “Your father Prince Fëanáro sent an urgent message for you to leave this instance for Tirion.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your Highness, this concerns your brother, Prince Tyelkormo.”

 

Makalaurë seemed to wake a bit more at that. “What? Why? What happened to Turko?” He demanded warily, stepping out completely and closing the door behind him. He studied Nórimion with wariness.

 

“Your Highness, your father and mother received word that your brother was killed in his latest Hunt, and therefore Prince Fëanáro requires all of you his sons to attend to him and Princess Nerdanel in Tirion. In all haste, my lord.”

 

Makalaurë stared in baffled incomprehension at Nórimion. But the messenger bowed and was already turning heel, intent now on to Prince Carnistir’s home, which was about five streets away.

 

Behind Makalaurë, the door creaked open once more and his Vanya wife, Princess Silrièn, stepped out to stand beside him. “Melda? What is it, what did they need? Káno?”

 

It was as if she doused him with cold water. Makalaurë turned to his wife, his face as white as paper. “Silrièn…wake the girls. Wake–wake them. Pack only what you need, I…we…we leave for Tirion.”

 

“What happened?” Silrièn asked, her hands finding her husband’s right arm. “Káno?”

 

“Turko…” Makalaurë turned to her, still confused, still stunned. Mind refusing to wrap around the news he had just received. “Turko…perished.”

 

Silrièn could only clap her hands over her mouth. Then she was already turning, flinging the door open, already calling for their eldest daughters.

 

==

 

Nórimion had just rounded the street, and he already found Carnistir standing by his own doorway, a navy-blue robe over his person. The ellon reached his liege-lord’s son, and bowed. 

 

“Prince Carnistir, your father and mother need you in Tirion in all haste,” was all Nórimion needed to say, for Carnistir’s abilities with ósanwe were famed in Aman alongside that of his cousin Princess Artanis. 

 

“Did they find a body?” was Carnistir’s query. Behind him, his household was already moving around in all haste – the windows were lit from the inside, and Nórimion could hear Carnistir’s wife Princess Tirnelwen giving quick orders to their son and daughter. 

 

“No, my lord,” Nórimion replied.

“Come, Nórimion,” said Carnistir after a long, thoughtful silence, stepping back and gesturing to his house. “Come inside. Eat, rest and have a drink. My family and I will need two hours before we can be ready, and you better take that chance to rest.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

 

Nórmion followed the fourth son of Fëanáro inside his own house. Princess Tirnelwen made him sit, plying him with a hot meal and a drink. Around them, Carnistir and his two children were moving around with purpose, readying small satchels of belongings to take with them to Tirion. 

 

“Would you risk a nap?” Tirnelwen asked him, her words made lively by her Telerin accent.

“No, Highness, it will just give me a headache. I shall be alright. Please,” Nórimion replied. 

 

Vorindo, Carnistir’s son, exited the house to ready the wagon. 

 

==

 

Laurelin had barely begun to brighten and the two princes and their families were already on the road from Alqualondë to Tirion. Their wives and children were in the wagons, and the princes on their horses alongside Nórimion. Nórimion told them what he knew so far – that a hunter of Oromë left a note; that Fëanáro had ridden all the way to Oromë’s Woods when he received news and there confirmed the terrible affair. The entire royal family had converged around the House of Fëanáro with this new tragedy, the princes setting aside their grievances and difficulties with one another. Tirion-upon-Túna had been in a somber state of things since then. 

 

Carnistir did not join the discussion much. As they journeyed toward Tirion he unfurled his mind, trying to reach Turko, simply because for someone with his skill and ability, he needed to be able to confirm the fact of death first. 

 

Death felt strange to those gifted with ósanwe. It was the definite sensation of an abandoned place; coupled with the knowledge that that place had been previously occupied. He visualized it as a drawer or a small room: if someone was alive then that drawer or room was filled with their life and presence – sensations that the person was around. With Nelyo it was the sensation of books and scrolls, a library well-organized and mildly cluttered. With Káno it was a room always with the aftertaste of music in the air, a chamber with recently-abandoned musical instruments. Turko’s presence was the familiar clutter of a kitchen after he had cooked his best dish, his crockpot hunter’s stew – with hunting knives left on the table, and a bow and a quiver of arrows left on an empty bench. The dead did not have such a presence; there was only empty space, free of any individuality and presence, just the gaping void where there was once a life. Time did not dull the edges of that void, nor fill it – it existed always, palpable pockets of shadow that nothing could fill. Carnistir knew it. He was familiar with it, because in Fëanáro’s mind, one such gap existed, as raw as the first day Míriel’s presence left it vacant.

 

While death to the Eldar was temporary, it did not blunt the pain or shock of the loss. Carnistir knew this so well; he was among the few who had to shield their minds every day against the emotions and thoughts of those around them. 

 

So he reached.
Reached for Turko, straining himself. 

 

What he found was the same empty void akin to the one Fëanáro had been nursing for a long while now, Turko’s presence gone, with only the lingering sensation there of the fact that he had been there. Carnistir strained some more – determined to find something wrong with this newfound vacancy in his perception, determined to–

 

His concentration was broken by Makalaurë’s hand closing in on his left arm. 

 

“Carnistir!”

 

He gave a start. He had been tipping dangerously forward on his horse, almost fallen. Ai! A grown elf tipping off his own horse!

 

“I’m alright, Káno,” Carnistir muttered, straightening up on his saddle.
“Will you get a grip!” Makalaurë scolded him. “The last thing we all need is another unfortunate–!” He let the sentence trail into an embittered silence.

 

==

 

When they reached Tirion, they found the city gates opened, and a great procession of people flying the standard of Fëanáro’s house – their house – milling out of the city. Makalaurë and Carnistir urged their horses forward, and Nórimion too, pushing past the great number of Noldor now leaving the city – many on horseback, many with wagons. 

 

“What is going on?!” Makalaurë shouted to his brother. “Why–?!”

 

Carnistir unfurled his mental barriers a little. He plucked invisibly at the thoughts of the elves milling past them – and he was able to stitch the beginnings of a picture that spurred on this massive exodus from Tirion: Fëanáro had spoken at the court of Mindon Eldaliéva, about how his son Tyelkormo, long a friend of the Valar, had been forsaken by them when he had been out and about on an errand at the behest of Oromë. He had spoken too of the Great Hunt, where the Maiar of Oromë and very few Eldar were deemed valiant and skilled enough to join, and how this group was used to hunt down the fell beasts that lurked in the shadows of Aman, where the Light of the Two Trees could not reach. How Tyelkormo fell under such an errand, and Oromë did not even bother to bring back Tyelkormo’s hröa, or made an effort to. 

 

More thoughts surfaced for Carnistir to read, and read he did.

 

A week earlier, Finwë had already removed himself to the northern fortress city of Formenos, a protest against the actions of the Valar. Somehow Námo was also mixed in, though very few knew the details of why that should be so, and therefore Carnistir could not follow on those thoughts, and thus the knowledge they offered was incomplete and left hanging. Whatever it was, it was not just Oromë; Námo was certainly involved now was well, as well as Manwë, and something else transpired that was probably known only to the Royal Family, and this enraged Fëanáro enough to speak impassioned words by the court of Mindon. And, whatever else was said there, many Noldor now rallied under Fëanáro’s cause – bannermen and houses under Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë’s lead, even. 

 

Carnistir, Makalaurë, Nórimion and the two wagons struggled against the milling crowd, but then they managed to reach Finwë’s palace anyway, where messengers and minor lords were harrying to and fro in great haste. As Makalaurë grabbed the nearest messenger to inquire from him, Carnistir had dismounted his horse and went into the palace, mind unfurling a little more.

 

His uncles and aunts were in the great councilroom, as well as their spouses. He could sense Findekáno and Findaráto as well as Aikanáro and Angaráto, and Turukáno. His brothers Maitimo and Atarinkë were there as well. 

 

The double doors of the council room gave way when Carnistir pushed against it with both hands. His father was the first person he saw, seated at the chair closest to the double doors. His siblings surrounded him: Aunts Findis and Írimë, Uncles Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë. Fëanáro was holding his head with both hands. 

 

The haze of grief and irrational rage hit Carnistir like walking right against an invisible wall. His father’s thoughts battered against his mental barriers, thus: receiving the note from Oromë’s hunter, riding through the night toward Oromë’s Woods – the horses dying, Oromë emerging to confirm the news. Fëanáro shouting the accusations; a blur of days afterward, then Námo Mandos summoned from his Halls by Manwë the Elder King. Námo saying Tyelkormo’s fëa had not entered the Halls. Yet Nerwen confirmed what Carnistir had just confirmed a few days ago: that Turko was definitely dead, and nowhere. Horror as Fëanáro dared to say that whatever killed Turko in the shadows of Aman, it had consumed his fëa as well. Anger, a wave of terrible  grief flowed from Fëanáro then, as accusations flew from him anew – that the Valar dared use the Eldar for such a task, and concealed such a consequence from them. That Aman was not the paradise the Valar had misrepresented it to be, if fell beasts from the Primal Void lurked ever in its shadows, and these beasts could inflict a final death that not even the fëa escaped. 

 

Carnistir staggered at the onslaught of emotion from his father. He felt sick, and his gut twisted inside him. Nausea attacked him from all sides, and he would have fallen, if not for his eldest brother Maitimo catching him. They looked at each other, and he saw grief too, and horror in Maitimo’s perfect silver-gray eyes. Carnistir reached for him, and they embraced. 

 

The Noldor had then decided to leave Tirion, and unbeknownst to them, by his house in Valmar, Melkor knew exactly what was going on, and the dark Vala thought that this had gone better than what he had originally planned.

 

~0~

 

Turko slowly found his way back to consciousness with a groan. He cracked open his blue eyes and the first thing he saw was the fair and beautiful face of an elleth so lovely for one wild moment he stared dumbfounded and confused, wondering what had merited him being brought to Ilmarin to be tended by Varda herself. But then his mind was quick to remind him about the past few days (or weeks? Months?) – that he was no longer in Aman, but in Endorë, having crossed the Helcaraxë in Ungoliant’s bag of Unlight, and that he had temporarily taken leave of his companion so he could learn the land, or at least the lands nearest to them at that time, and look for some food supplies of fruit or grain considering he was in no shape yet to hunt game, with his half-healed leg. 

 

But the elleth. 

Truly she was the most beautiful woman Turko had ever seen, and he stared at her stunned. She stared back – she had soft waves of black hair which seemed littered with miniature diamonds, and her face was small, her lips rosebud, her eyes fixed on him, a clear gray they were, and appeared to him to be lit from the inside by the light of the stars. He saw himself mirrored in her eyes. 

 

“Erm….could you move your face back?” Turko muttered, and he sank deep into the soft pillows beneath his head. He had spoken in Quenya, and his initial amazement at seeing the beautiful elleth had faded for discomfiture. He did not know her, and she was so close. 

 

Incomprehension dawned on her lovely face. She opened those pink lips and spoke words – and Turko couldn’t understand a thing. His frown deepened, although his Eldarin mind attuned to languages had started latching onto the syllables and sounds. Again the elleth inched closer, and Turko jumped back with alarm – and he toppled right off the bed with a stunned shout. He crashed onto the floor.

 

There were several voices that exclaimed in alarm. One, the beautiful elleth with miniature diamonds in her hair – then three others clad in the whites and golds of the robes of healers. An ellon with dark hair and clad in a tunic of deep greens also appeared, eyeing him warily – and behind him – was a Maia, clad in an elven feminine fana, with long waves of black hair that reached the floor. Turko’s eyes were drawn to the Maia – what was a Maia doing here, in Endorë, clad like a queen? – and at that moment he felt the Ainu lady gently brush against his mind.

 

Hail and well met, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, her voice, akin to the singing of nightingales, echoed in his thoughts gently. I am Melian, Maia of Vána and Estë, and Queen of Doriath. You are in my husband’s realm in Menegroth, at the healing houses here, and you are safe here, if only you should calm down and heed my counsel, and answer some of my queries.

 

Turko inclined his head, his gaze never leaving Melian’s radiant face. I thank you, Lady Melian. Though I can say less for your scouts, though I understand their wariness, for who shall not be startled when a strange elf ends up by their borders? 

 

He relaxed. The elleth – who he now realizes resembles Melian, is by his side and helping him get up. Turko gently brushed aside her hands, and he stood up on his own. Another soft startlement hit him then; his leg was no longer smarting, and felt as it did before he had broken it. Gingerly, he put his weight upon it. There was no pain, indeed, and he felt now that he was truly well, and with renewed vigor. 

 

Again he turned to Melian. “Thank you, my lady, for aiding me.” He spoke thus in Quenya, and he was certain Melian would understand.

 

“You are most welcome, Tyelkormo,” she replied. “These are my healers,” she gestured to the Sindar. “And this is Daeron, the great minstrel of Doriath.” She indicated the dark-haired ellon, who was now making no  move to hide his displeasure of Turko. “And my daughter, Lúthien, Princess of Doriath.”

 

His gray eyes turned to the beautiful elleth with diamonds in her hair. She smiled at him, and indeed she was the fairest elf – probably even fairer than his cousin Findaráto, who was the fairest elf in Aman, even more than his brother Maitimo. 

 

Turko bowed awkwardly to the princess, then to Melian and her surly minstrel and her healers.

 

“If it pleases you, my lady,” he continued in Quenya. “How long have I been unconscious?” His thoughts strayed to Ungoliant. If it had been days, or weeks – or, Ilúvatar forbid, months, then he couldn't stay here in Menegroth any longer.

 

Melian regarded him, and Turko knew she was aware of his thoughts. “You have been under our care for a week. You have been malnourished for a time, and it is only because of your skill as a Great Hunter of Oromë that your leg didn’t suffer any further damage. Why, Tyelkormo, why such haste?”

 

He closed his mind, protected his thoughts as discreetly as he was able. He could not afford to be rude, not when the Sindar had aided him with his leg. “My…my companion will be looking for me. You would not want her to come knocking on the doors of Menegroth, my lady. If you could give me some provisions – and a map, a good horse or two, then I will best be out of Doriath and will trouble you and yours any longer.”

 

Melian parted her lips to answer, but at that moment, her husband Thingol arrived then, accompanied by Mablung and Cúthalion. Melian, Daeron, Lúthien and the healers turned to the king and bowed. Turko did no such thing, though he squared his shoulders and greeted the king of the Sindar as his host – a hand over his heart, then extended forth toward Thingol. Thingol regarded him with dark eyes, the irises of which glowed with Treelight. 

 

“I greet you, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo,” Thingol spoke in Quenya. “And welcome you to Menegroth in Doriath. My wife and queen informed me about your circumstances, and how my Marchwardens have found you. But a question remains to be asked – how is it that a Ñoldo has found his way onto the shores of Endorë?”

 

It was a good thing Turko managed to keep his mental barriers intact. But how was he supposed to answer? My friend put me in a bag and took me along while she and Melkor fled back onto these lands. How fast would that warrant Thingol’s wrath? Ten seconds? Probably.

 

“My friend and I were fleeing,” he says, a half-truth. Ungoliant, however terrifying she was, was his friend. “And…we had nowhere else to go but east. Back to these lands.”

 

An imperceptible thing passed through Thingol’s Treelit eyes. “And how did you flee here onto these shores, Tyelkormo?”

 

“I know not,” he says. “I was unconscious. When I regained mine consciousness, we were already here.”

 

Thingol started to pace, eyes on him. 

 

“Bauglir has also recently returned to these lands,” says the Doriathrim King. “And a fell darkness has settled beyond our northern borders, claiming the southern slopes of Dorthonion. Would you happen to know anything about these?”

 

A frown slowly surfaced on Turko’s features. It was an accusation, no matter how subtle. Rules of hospitality be damned, why the fuck was this pompous Teler accusing him of bringing Melkor back onto these–?

 

Melian subtly stepped between them, resting a fair hand onto her husband’s chest. The pair exchanged a look, and Thingol allowed himself to subside. Lúthien looked between her mother and father. Daeron, however, continued to frown darkly at Turko.

 

“There will be a time for further queries, o king,” said Melian. “Our guest has just regained consciousness. He will need to regain further bearings.”

 

“I need to leave,” Turko said. “Please just give me a horse, and provisions, and a map, and I had best be out of Menegroth, out of your kingdom. I need not stay here to inconvenience you all. I am a Hunter of Oromë, and I can fend for myself.”

 

Thingol gently brushed Melian aside. He looked at Turko now with a renewed perspective. “A Hunter of Oromë? Ah yes. I have seen your effects, and my wife indeed confirmed that your supplies were made in Valinor, and only the Maiar of Oromë would be capable of formulating many of your concoctions. This, at least, is the truth.”

 

A fresh surge of annoyance reared up inside Turko. How dare this pompous fish-elf go through my effects? But then– he told himself quickly. It made sense. There was no need to add to his own building temper to exacerbate the situation. He ducked in his head in answer. “Then this means, King, that I am not an enemy of Doriath. Ever have I ridden alongside my friend Oromë in Valinor.”

 

Thingol and Melian looked at each other, and Turko knew they were conversing in ósanwe, in the privacy of their marital bond. Then Thingol subsided completely, nodded at him, and swept out of the healing house, Mablung and Cúthalion at his heels. 

 

“I am afraid you will have to stay with us some more in Menegroth, Tyelkormo,” said Melian, returning to him. “It is only fair for us to ask you our questions, in exchange for the care of our healers and your shelter here. Lúthien will guide you toward your guest suites – the healing houses are a poor accommodation for a visitor.” That said, she left as well, no doubt trailing after her husband.

 

Shit, Turko thought. Heritúra will be looking for me if I take too long to come back. These Sindar won’t like it when she comes knocking. Damn it. Hope she can be patient for a bit more.

 

“Tyelkormo?” came a soft voice beside him.

 

He gave a small start and turned to Lúthien, who was now looking at him with her big, gray eyes. She made a gesture. Follow. Follow me. She seemed to say. Ah, damn it, language barrier. He gave a wary nod. She smiled beautifully at him and started leading the way, Daeron taking up his place behind Turko as the three of them left. 

 

==

 

Ungoliant, nestled in the ever-growing darkness by Ered Gorgoroth, clicked her chelicerae in thought. It had been some time since tittandil left. While she recognized that he was a hunter and very well capable of looking after himself, still, compared to her nature as a creature of the Primal Void, he was too fragile in her opinion. He didn’t have a satisfactory exoskeleton; could not weave webs of Unlight, and his weapons were flimsy and easily broke, and he had to continuously make new sticks to use them with. He did say she had to wait for him– that he was looking for food; food that didn’t need hunting, because of his damaged leg. 

 

She felt impatience gnawing at her. She wasn’t yet hungry because of her consumption of Laurelin and Telperion, but once the satiation faded, she would have to hunt again. She kept all her eight eyes turned toward the northern borders of Doriath, just across where she had established her new lair. From her vantage point she could see the glimmers of the Girdle of Melian, and Ungoliant knew that if tittandil did not emerge soon, she would cross the tiny patch of land that lay between her lair toward the forest, eat the light barrier and look for him there. 

 

It was only because Turko asked her to stay put that she did. In truth, she didn’t much trust this new land; she wouldn’t trust anywhere that Traitorous Thing lived, though right now he was very far away. But there was another one like him, living in those enchanted woods across from her, hiding behind the light barrier. A smaller one, but essentially the same in that it too was made of light…light that forever stoked Ungoliant’s unending hunger. 

 

What if this light thing has tittandil? Ungoliant wondered to herself. Nobody would withhold tittandil from her. She had claimed him as her own when he succeeded in winning her friendship. She would aid him in whatever need, and woe to those who would harm him, or withhold him from her care. If this Light Thing did restrain tittandil…well, the tiny things living in those enchanted woods better be ready for her. 

 

The gigantic Void Spider seemed to sigh. She could wait. She promised Turko she would wait, and she would be patient. A true hunter could wait however long it took for prey to come. Still, once her satiation started to ebb and he had not yet returned to her, then she would come looking for him.