The Parchment of Secret Valian Tales by SonOfMandos

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The Strongest Laughter of Eä

Olwë goes on an unsollicited adventure to solve the issue of the mysterious laughing earthquake of Alqualondë.

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1. Alqualondë

The sailor wished his fellow sailors goodnight. They were back home after being gone for a full month. On land, the air was already warmer than it was in the middle of the sea. The sailor breathed with satisfaction. He couldn’t wait to be home, hold his wife in his arms, and play with his two children and his cat. A bit dizzy after time spent on a rocking ship, he wobbled to his apartment.

Suddenly, the ground shook. The sailor lost balance and tripped. Somebody stepped on his ankle and fell on him. A deep laughter echoed through the air.

“What in Ulmo’s name was that?” exclaimed the Teler above him, too stunned to get up.

“I don’t know,” the sailor replied, too stunned to tell the Teler to get off him.

“It’s the second time this week it has happened!” said the Teler.

“Ah?”

The Teler propped himself on his elbows to look at the sailor in the eyes. “What do you mean, ‘ah’? It was felt from here to the suburbs of the city!”

“I had no idea. I’m just a sailor, sir,” he explained. “I only came back tonight.”

The sailor wondered if it were an earthquake. He then wondered if earthquakes made a laughing noise when they occurred. Something was off with the logic of the world.

***

On his throne, Olwë looked bored. For the fifth time this month, somebody had come to him to complain about the meteorological disturbance.

“I hear you, madam,” he told his audience—a woman with a baby on her back that she had
wrapped in a sling carrier. The infant was oblivious to the atmosphere and slept soundly. The Teler king envied him.

“You must understand, your Highness, that we are scared!” she huffed. “You are the king: you must do something!”

Olwë nodded and raised his hand. Two guards approached the woman. It was time to leave. She bowed before Olwë and was escorted by the guards out of the throne room.

“What are you going to do?” asked Finarfin, who stood next to Olwë.

This last one rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s not as if I could control the weather, is it?”

Finarfin shrugged. “It may not be the weather at all. I’m sure it’s that laughter’s fault. We must find the culprit.”

He was right, conceded Olwë. Only, he was too lazy to audition the entire Alqualondë to find what moron laughed so hard it made the ground tremble. There were at least more than two Teleri in the city. There were thousands of them. He refused to spend too many hours on this silly task. Yet, duty called.

And to say he had planned to attend sewing classes this afternoon. Alas, this would wait.

***

2. Tirion

Forced to lead the detective mission to find out the source of the laughing earthquake, Olwë went with his guard to Tirion. Finarfin had refused to come. According to him, Eärwen’s advanced pregnancy required his presence in Alqualondë, even though Finrod was old enough to take good care of his mother, and Olwë’s wife never left her side. Finarfin judged it wise to ignore Eärwen’s suggestion to go to Tirion with his father-in-law. The truth behind his refusal to come was that Finarfin had lost a bet against his sister. Findis still demanded what was due. Finarfin, prideful, had refused to give it to her. Nobody else knew about it than the two concerned siblings. Finarfin was too proud to tell his wife. He predicted she’d mock him. His ego was already wounded, thank you very much.

From the edge of his carriage seat, Olwë sniffed like a hunting dog tracking its prey. His guard was too polite to say anything but gave him a wonderful side-eye. The coachman was too polite to say anything and give him a side-eye, too. Good for Olwë, he didn’t pay attention at all.

Olwë sniffed again. Tirion smelled like grilled beef. Alqualondë, in comparison, smelled like seaweed and fish. Noldor, with their love of cattle and rocks, had invented barbecue. Olwë was forever thankful for this culinary innovation.

The carriage turned right. The scent of beef was replaced by the scent of grass. Olwë sighed in relief. Grass, that, he knew what it was. He could cease to behave like a hunting dog. All this zealous sniffing had almost caused him to hyperventilate.

Unfortunately for Olwë and his bodyguard, Aistaro, the royal guards refused to let them enter the palace. The burden of proof fell on the shoulders of the Teler monarch who had brought nothing to prove his status. Yes, he was the king of the Teleri, and no, he did not wear his fanciest clothes with embroidered white pearls. It was in no way practical. Why couldn’t they believe him? Aistaro threatened to poke Finwë’s guards’ bums with his sword. It did nothing to improve the situation.

Many headaches and protests later, Olwë was admitted in. He was to meet the monarchs in their quarters.

He was served a tray of cold meat and cheese in Indis’ office. Finwë’s office was out of use, or so he was told. Aistaro enquired why. The maid was vague with her answer, but Olwë caught the words ‘Prince Fëanáro’.

Somebody came in, to Olwë’s relief. He had enough of inspecting the table he was sitting at to keep him busy while waiting.

Aistaro let out an appreciative ‘woah’. The person who entered was Vanyarin. Aistaro loved to repeat to everyone he could that Eru had favourites, and his favourites were the Vanyar. Especially the women. Olwë wished the floor swallowed him whole. He turned around to reprimand his guard. The shock caused by his guard’s conduct had for effect to erase his ability to speak in full sentences. Olwë managed a strangled ‘You! Mhh! Mrgh! I- You- Euargh!’

Fortunately for him, the object of the whistle, Indis, took no offence. “No harm done, King Olwë.” She batted her eyelashes and flashed a wide grin. “It’s rare I receive such reactions. Men are too scared of me to tell me in all earnest how beautiful I am. They are under the impression my husband would eviscerate them.”

They wouldn’t be wrong, Olwë thought to himself. Finwë had the guts to re-marry. He would have the guts to terminate someone for fawning over his wife.

“So,” said Indis once she was seated in front of Olwë, “what brought you here?”

Olwë wasted no time in detailing the past events that occurred at Alqualondë. Concerned, Indis listened intently.

“Wait for me,” she said. “I know who can help you.”

She promptly left the room. When she came back, she was accompanied by Finwë and Fëanor. Finwë cheered at the sight of his old friend. Fëanor didn’t pipe a word but gave Olwë and Aistaro a polite nod

“Woah,” Aistaro whispered. “That’s a real piece of a man.” He was staring at Fëanor.

Olwë groaned. Fëanor grumbled under his breath, “Why does everyone say I’m handsome? Why can’t I be praised for my intelligence?”

Finwë cleared his throat.

“Right,” said Fëanor. “The weather oddity. I’m afraid, King Olwë, that earthquakes do not laugh. I have reached the conclusion it was a particularly strong laughter that’s the source of your problem.”

Olwë scowled. “This is what Arafinwë told me. I was hoping he’d be wrong.”

“Arafinwë said that?” replied Fëanor, his surprise undisguised.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Not bad.”

Finwë put his hands on his hips. He was not known for his patience. He wanted to know the outcome of the problem as soon as possible. “Then, what?”

“We ought to find who laughs with such a force,” answered Indis. “And forbid them from laughing ever again.”

Fëanor didn’t miss a beat to accuse Fingolfin. The younger prince laughed too loudly. Finwë retorted he was being mean.

Seeing that father and son were about to debate Fingolfin’s laughter for hours, Indis motioned Olwë and Aistaro to follow her. With her wisdom, she knew Fingolfin did not have the strongest laughter of the Noldor; Findis did. So the three of them went to find Indis’ eldest daughter.

It turned out that while loud, Findis’ giggles were a string of high-pitched shrieks. Aistaro covered Olwë’s ears for safety. No earthquake was recorded. Indis carried a smug expression as she was proud of her little trick. She enjoyed tickling her daughter at the cost of the palace’s sense of hearing. Aistaro muttered under his breath that he had never met someone so ticklish.

Indis concluded that the earthquake could not have been caused by any of her children, including Fingolfin whose favourite activity was to carry heavy sandbags, drop them on the ground and punch them while making dubious noises. She doubted that Fingolfin’s strength was this destructive.

Olwë and Aistaro stayed at Tirion for three days. They left for Valmar on the fourth.

***

3. Valmar

Manwë was proud of himself. It was the second week of his training with Ingwë. He was training to become an Elf. Not that Manwë had a genuine interest in renouncing his title as King of the Valar. What he wished was to perfect his disguise and emulate the Elven kin.

He missed his dear wings, of course, but it was a little price to pay to live among the Elves incognito.

This price was not the sole price he paid: to live as an Elf implied to eat like one, and so it implied to use the loo thereafter. Manwë felt disgust at the mere thought of excretion. He felt sorry Eru had made Elves this way. He wondered what Eru’s problem was. Sometimes, Eru lacked judgement. Manwë had concluded that Eru may not be fit to be the Creator.

With nothing to do this morning than aimlessly roam around in the golden palace of Ingwë, Manwë headed to Ingwë’s quarters. Ingwë would know what to do.

When Manwë found Ingwë, he found someone who clutched a piece of paper that Manwë assumed was a letter.

“Ingwë, what-,” the king of the Valar opened his mouth, but was cut off by the Vanya.

“He is coming!” Ingwë’s tone was thick with apprehension.

Manwë wrinkled his nose. “Who’s ‘he’?”

He knew it was impossible ‘he’ was Melkor. Melkor and Aulë were busy working on the terrestrial crust and upper mantle of the world faraway in Middle Earth. Besides, Melkor never announced his presence with a letter, let alone personally wrote to an Elf. He came when he felt like it, and that was it.

“Olwë!” Ingwë cried.

Manwë snatched the letter from his hands. What in Taniquetil’s name was so terrific? The letter read as follows:

Dear Ingwë,

Something strange happened. It is on Indis’ council that I am coming to Valmar. You must know, I am sure, what the cause of my worries is.

Yours truly,

Olue

“’Something strange happened.’ What does he mean by that?” inquired Manwë.

“I don’t know!”

“Then, why fussing? Tell him you don’t understand what he’s talking about, and that nothing’s wrong,” advised Manwë. The matter, to him, was more than straightforward.

Ingwë stared at him and blinked like he had seen a Vala. Granted, Manwë was a Vala, but in Ingwë’s office, he appeared like any ordinary Vanya.

“You are right!” exclaimed Ingwë. “I’m so relieved! All is well that ends well.”

Manwë raised his eyebrows and nodded. Life with Elves was a genuine manifestation of simplicity.

Simplicity, however, left as soon as Olwë entered the palace. The situation was bizarre enough that Ingwë requested Manwë’s presence for his private interview with his fellow king. Olwë narrowed his eyes at the sight of Manwë-not-Manwë. Ingwë reassured him that he was a councilor in training, not a stray yahoo that was picked up from the shady parts of Valmar.

“What do you think you can do about it?” said Olwë after he finished his little story.

“I could…,” started Ingwë. His eyes went in Manwë’s direction. The Ainu looked back at him, waiting. “I could summon Eönwë. Have you tried to summon Ulmo?”

“No,” admitted Olwë. “But what does Ulmo know about earthquakes?”

Pensive, Ingwë scratched his chin. “I doubt the Vala of water is versed in the domain of geology. You’re right: it would be useless to request his presence.”

On his chair, Manwë squirmed, offended. Ulmo was not stupid. He knew more than a thing or two about other elements! He did agree with Ingwë that summoning Ulmo was useless for another reason. The Lord of the Seas never came to important Valarin meetings.

The two Elven kings agreed to speak with Eönwë. After their decision was made, Ingwë invited Olwë to explore his gardens. Ingwë valued his plants and flowers greatly.

They bumped into Aistaro and Massadil, Ingwë’s guard, in the corridors. Aistaro didn’t miss a beat to compliment Ingwë’s ‘kingly king-like kingness’. In Aistarian speech, it meant he was impressed.

“What about me?” pouted Manwë. He longed for more interactions with Elves. That was the point of his training, after all. He was tired of being ignored.

Aistaro scanned him from head to toe.

“Your hair is interesting. More brown than is common for Vanyar.”

“But?” said Olwë who sensed there was more beneath the ice that waited to be expressed.

“But,” sighed Aistaro, “I’m sorry, my good man, other than your hair, you are the most average Elf I’ve ever seen! Not even imperfect asymmetrical lips or a bumpy nose that would add character to your face, or a remarkable build to stand out in a crowd. No! All is average.”

Olwë inhaled deeply. What was wrong with the man and his undying frankness? He had no tact.

Manwë pulled a ‘not bad’ face. “I see. I thank you for your honesty.”

When Olwë and Aistaro weren’t paying attention, Manwë turned toward Ingwë and flashed him a victorious smirk. He had succeeded in his Elf training. The most average Elf he was, by Taniquetil!

Ingwë rolled his eyes.

***

4. Middle Earth

“I’m surprised you have four wings,” commented Ingwë.

“Is that so,” mumbled Manwë, who was brushing bread crumbs off his thighs.

“Yes,” added Ingwë. “I thought you’d wear ten wings.”

“Four or six are my lucky numbers,” said the Vala.

He got up from his chair. He had abandoned his Elvish disguise and had opted for something that represented him more. He wore a simple but long white skirt that was adorned with subtle, shining stars. His wavy hair—blue, grey, and white; a reflection of clouds—veiled his naked chest and back.

From his place, while he dipped his bread in his bowl of broccoli soup, Ingwë admired the view. Manwë had the decency not to wear a dramatic and frightening appearance. After all, he did wish to dine with Ingwë before he flew to Middle Earth to find the source of the laughing earthquake. His miniature-Elvish-sized-yet-Valarin-looking-self was a sight to behold.

“Well!” groaned Manwë. “I must go.”

He scowled. The recent event put him in a sour mood. Whoever dared trouble his training! Why couldn’t other Valar behave properly? Idiots shouldn’t be Valar, he thought.

He opened the window and tried to fit into the frame. Stuck, he grunted; his wings took too much room. Ingwë helped by pushing Manwë’s bottom. The Vanya hoped Varda wouldn’t mind. With sufficient strength and willpower, Manwë finally got outside, opened his wings and flew in the sky at a speed faster than the wind. Ingwë found it was as witnessing one’s child come of age and take the reins of independence. It made him strangely sentimental.

Manwë flew as fast as he could. He had to find Aulë.

He first found, in some far away lands, a furious Yavanna yelling at Oromë. He landed between the two, hands on his hips. Between a feast of screams, Manwë gathered that Oromë came to shoo Melkor away. Melkor, Aulë, and Yavanna were working on the heat beneath the surface to ensure a healthy world. And so Yavanna, annoyed by Oromë’s noise (she despised the sound of his), came from the underworld to tell Oromë to tune it down or she’d kick him in the groin. Oromë defended himself by yelling at her. Yavanna yelled back. None of them would let go. Manwë cut it short and ordered them to take the example of Nahar who was peacefully eating grass.

Manwë then found Aulë and Melkor. Melkor was vexed that Manwë believed he could cause an earthquake by chuckling. Aulë said Elves fostered a vivid imagination and must be taken with a grain of salt.

Sheepish, Manwë returned to Valinor. Perched on a tall tree, he sulked. His time had been wasted. That was just great.

Suddenly, the tree shook. The soil trembled. Laughter erupted from the sky. These darn Elves were not lying! A figure sprang high in the air. A second followed it. As they disappeared on the horizon, the trembling ceased.

It was Tulkas and Nessa.