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5.  Acceptance

As he looked through the open window down to the beach, Rostaro yearned to join his three companions.  They were having stupendous fun playing some crazed game where the rules got whimsically complicated by whoever was holding the ball.  Sometimes the melon-size prize would be tossed to the next player and sometimes snatched away.  The raucous trio chased each other up and down the small, sunny cove they were restricted to, kicking up sand and water, tumbling over each other, alternately getting soaked in glistening water then coated in shimmering sand.  He had to admit, if he were in the game, somehow things would get too serious to be fun for anyone anymore.  It was just as well he must work inside.

For the short time they had been together, their little company had become closer than the loremaster ever expected.  Having to keep their secret certainly contributed to that, but Feren himself had the most to do with it.  The Silvan warrior knew how to lead and unite those around him by the most unsuspecting means.  Under any other circumstances, Rostaro would have insisted that Feren be in command and himself follow.  Reluctantly, he turned away to nervously scan the parlor once more and assure himself that everything was in place for the impending visitors.

The secluded cottage provided by the Aratar of Alqualondë was comfortable besides being private.  Situated on an ancient estate, it was not very far by road or wave from the city.  There was room enough for a small family with a big kitchen, stable and boathouse, a wide portico facing the sea, and a soft sand-filled beach.  A perfect place for keeping Feren out of sight and yet permit frequent trips to the palace.  However despite the comforts, having to stay inside, the loremaster could sympathize with Feren’s complaint about always being left behind, with the circumspect Barancevion as his ‘babysitter’, and not being included along with Venyel and Ilcanu when Rostaro went to his appointments.  On the other hand, the two younger members of their quest were having the time of their lives.  He smiled at the thought.  Whatever happened next, at least there was that.

The door-bell gently rang, struck twice to announce the visitors he was expecting and that the others knew nothing about.  These visitors were the reason he had sent the sister, helper, and reborn out to play.  He took a deep breath and held it, slowing letting it go.  All morning in anticipation, he had been preparing himself to answer for his unconscionable act of bringing Feren out of a guest house without his memory completely restored.  The irate Aratar would not even see him when upon arrival Rostaro came seeking his aid.  Accommodations were left in the hands of an also disapproving assistant.  When asked, Rostaro had made a point of taking the blame from Ulbanís saying it was his decision.  Which it was.  However, the assistant had condescendingly stated that he was unimpressed by self-sacrificing pride.  The Aramillë would eventually have to answer for herself.  The last important accommodation made was for a very discreet servant to look after them.  And of course, to spy on them.

Barancevion answered the door.  With a well-mannered wave, he invited the two lords inside, bowing his head respectfully.  After taking their cloaks, he showed them into the parlor to be welcomed by the loremaster, then left to fetch the refreshments.

They had come alone as requested which was a relief to Rostaro.  In finagling an audience with Cirdan, he had been forced to reveal that Feren was likely nobility.  That said, Cirdan’s secretary became even more concerned and went immediately to his master just as Rostaro had hoped.  The Shipwright had sent him away that day without a final answer.  Unbeknownst to him, the price of the petitioned pass had steepened.  When summoned back, it was not to give him the pass.  He was told that Lord Cirdan was going to come to the house to see Feren.  No one would be allowed to leave until he did. 

Rostaro was at first alarmed, thinking they may have to flee Alqualondë.  But after putting himself in Cirdan’s place and understanding the lord’s reasons, he agreed.  He had managed well enough so far, he had thought at the time.  Cirdan could be trusted.  He would somehow use this ‘viewing’ to the mission’s advantage.  He was told later on there would be a second person coming and he had worried that two would not be the final tally.

“Master Rostaro, Captain Draugryn,” was Cirdan’s austere introduction.

They bowed, eyeing each other closely.  Warriors and scholars clash on principle Rostaro reminded himself, Draugryn’s glare was nothing personal.  According to Rostaro’s friend in Cirdan’s household, the Captain of the Guard had told his lord that he was coming along on his next excursion.  Now that he had met him, Rostaro could understand how it was that this reputed most-loyal servant could threaten the Shipwright so unashamedly.  And he was more than a bodyguard.

Draugryn did not appear to be Teleri.  His profile resembled Feren’s which meant he was probably born of the star quendi.  Like the reborn Silvan, Draugryn must have emigrated – except to the havens instead of the great forest.  For a moment, Rostaro considered having the two Sindar meet face-to-face.  He had thought Ulbanís wise about a fellow warrior being an answer to Feren’s blocked memories.  However at this point, Feren was no longer in such dire need.  So, at second thought, Rostaro decided a meeting was not warranted.

“I want to see him,” said Draugryn, adamant.  Cirdan sighed and looked askance at Rostaro.”

“I have explained the rules to him,” said the Shipwright.

“Then of course,” replied the loremaster, happy to appease the captain’s obviously quick temper – another characteristic he shared with Feren.  Besides there was little time before the others would be heading back inside for supper.  He led them over to the windows facing the beach.  “Please do not let him see you.”

Cirdan and Draugryn stood between the two windows back to back, each stealthily looking out from behind sheer curtains.  Rostaro stood opposite the captain at the same window warily watching him.  He could see that Draugryn instantly recognized Feren and was greatly affected; tears welled up in his eyes.  Rostaro judged that the captain had not thought to ever see the Silvan again.  No doubt he believed that Feren had faded into Arda with other forever-departed kin.  That had been Feren’s intention, after all.  When the captain looked like he was going to call out, Rostaro moved to prevent him.  However at that moment, Cirdan quickly turned around, putting a heavy hand on his minion’s shoulder.

“No.  You must not say anything,” he severely warned in a deceptively mild voice.  “It is for the best that he goes west.”  His lord pulled Draugryn away from the window and into the center of the room.

“Why?” asked the pained warrior, striving to keep his voice steady.  “We can accommodate his handicap and protect him.  Hwestwën and I will give him a safe home.”

Rostaro had to admire the restraint Cirdan maintained for he too was struggling with strong emotions.  Both néri obviously cared deeply for Feren.  As did he.  Perhaps his friend would be safer here, better off then in the wilderness.  He and their companions could stay on and continue to help him however long complete recovery might take.  Being a sea quende, Daugryn might be the only living kin Feren had left.

“The forest would be better even if he were alone,” Cirdan firmly declared.  “But, he has kin in the new realms that will welcome him.”  This was obviously said, not just for Draugryn, but for Rostaro too.  The lord and warrior stood silent and implacable, looking one to the other, each hoping for the other’s capitulation.

Barancevion came in with the wine and they broke off their mutual stare.  He poured at Rostaro’s permission and left.

They drank in silence.  Cirdan and Rostaro sipped.  Draugryn tossed his back in one swallow and afterwards heaved a resolute sigh – his surrender.  Rostaro could feel the captain’s deep regret.  There was no reason to think Feren would ever return once gone beyond the Pelori.  To be given back someone so dear, only to have him leave again without ever knowing you cared.  Without speaking to him once more, giving up the chance to say what had been kept in your heart for ages.  They set down their glasses, finally ready to continue the business at hand.  Rostaro steeled himself for their castigation and whatever new demands they would think of now that they knew who Feren was.

Lord Cirdan pulled out a small pouch from his surcoat.  From it, he produced a palm-sized medallion of scintillating mithril attached by an elaborate knot to a strong, blue cord.  He held it out to Rostaro who took it and examined the embossment – a white ship in full sail with a single shining star above the first mast.  The well-known sigil and tengwar glyph of the Teleri lord engraved on the other side.  With this, the loremaster and his friends would not be detained by any Umanyar for any reason.  Most would even offer their aid, hospitality and protection.  The company would be directly presented to any ruler whose jurisdiction they crossed and not be driven away.  A safe passage throughout the western wilderness was theirs.  The only thing they had to fear now were the bears.  And they had Feren along to take care of them.

“Hantale, héru-nya,” he said bowing, properly grateful.  Cirdan nodded once in acknowledgement.  Draugryn turned to Rostaro and scowled.

“If anything happens to him, I am coming after you,” was the captain’s fierce promise.

“Túro-nya, I share his fate, good and bad,” Rostaro sincerely replied.  “I have no advantage over him for I am no more informed of his true identity then he is.  I too can only guess who is family, friend, or foe.  His hurts are mine.  His recovery means freedom for us both.  I protect him with my honor and my life.”

This was a commitment the captain could understand and a small portion of Draugryn’s pain was visibly eased.

With a resigned air, Cirdan once more nodded, satisfied.  He gave the empty pouch to Rostaro and turned to leave; his aggrieved captain following after.  Taken by surprise, Rostaro stood where he was.  He had expected the worse from them and instead there was nothing.  Barancevion brought their cloaks and let them out.  Coming back to himself, Rostaro slipped the medallion into its cover and rushed to the door to see them off.  There were no farewells; no perfunctory waves.  They dourly mounted their horses and rode away leaving Feren’s welfare in Rostaro’s hands.

“Thank you, Barancevion,” he said to the attentive servant after shaking off his daze.

“My honor and pleasure,” replied the elda.  He smiled at the still bewildered loremaster.  “Someday I may be permitted to boast of this hour, but it matters not.  I have personally served both a high lord and a prince.  I am content.”  Wearing a self-satisfied mien, he went back to the kitchen.

Venyel, Ilcanu, and Feren burst in from outside deafeningly teasing one another and Rostaro hurriedly returned to the parlor.  They were wrapped in blankets and still soaking wet.  Apparently, Venyel had dumped buckets of clear – cold! – water over their heads to wash off the salt and sand.  Upon his entrance, Venyel rushed up to Rostaro, laughing and in high spirits.  Back in the valley, she would have thrown the blanket over her head and ducked out mortified to be seen by him in her bedraggled condition.

“Are you ready to eat for we certainly are!” she cheerfully exclaimed.

“Yes, thank you.  Perhaps you all should go help Barancevion if you are in such a hurry and quit dripping on the carpet,” he replied with a teasing, tolerant smile.  

She and Ilcanu immediately went off to the kitchen competitively comparing their famished conditions.

Feren stayed.  He patted himself dry and straightened his attire, conducting the process with what had become his usual nonchalance.  His friend’s abiding confidence in his good appearance even shoeless, in rumpled clothes and crowned with straying, sticky hair never failed to amuse.  But then, was not panache an aristocratic skill?  A disheveled scholar such as himself simply did not pay any mind to his appearance.  Feren gave him a significant look, his eyes sliding over to the wine tray with its used glasses.

“We have our pass,” Rostaro quietly told him.”

“You mean this?”  He had the medallion in his outstretched hand, releasing it to drop and swing loose at the end of its tether.

When he rushed out, Rostaro had not meant to leave it where anyone could find it.  He moved to take it away, but Feren kept it out of his reach; stepping away and leaving his wet blanket where he had dropped it.  Rostaro kicked it aside, but Feren easily evaded him and the loremaster gave up the short chase.

“Cirdan,” Feren said conclusively, examining the markings.  “Hmm, yes.  A much better choice than Olwë.  Good you figured on that.”

The loremaster quickly checked to see that no one else was listening.  Despite that precaution, he switched to speaking in Nandorin.

“I’m thinking of leaving the others behind,” he said meaning to provoke.  “Their work’s mostly done.”  He expected Feren to react and be distracted.  However, the Silvan’s gaze remained fixed on the pass he held.

“Was Draugryn still with him?” he asked, still not looking up.

“Yes.”  The question did not surprise Rostaro.  Feren had progressed a little each day they were here.  Every morning, he sat with Venyel discussing his dreams and thoughts.  Now, he had this token to remind him of more.  A promising smile spread across the reborn’s face and Rostaro decided to chance a little more information.  “Your remembering him would make him very glad.  He said there’s a home here for you with him and his lady.  ‘Least, I think that’s who he referred to.  He’s very concerned about you.”

“Ha!  Which means he threatened you,” smirked Feren, still intently studying the medallion, rubbing it methodically between his fingers.  “Hwestwën’s his wife all right.”  He sobered slightly.  “I put him in Cirdan’s service before I left Lindon.  I hope he doesn’t now wish to leave.  It’d mean he’s been unhappy with the Falathrim.”

“No,” said Rostaro.  Feren had placed the captain with Lord Cirdan?  If Daugryn had been Feren’s follower, not just his kinsman or comrade, then the Silvan was indeed a lord... or prince – just as Amillë had thought from the beginning.  “He wants you to stay.”

“Are you sayin’ I’ve a choice?” Feren asked, raising his head and looking troubled.

“Yes.” 

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”  He handed the medallion back to Rostaro.

“They were in the circle of dancers – Draugryn and Hwestwën – in that dream in the grove on the way here,” he calmly continued.  “All the dancers were survivors, those who had not died or stayed in Ennor.  If only she had been among them.”  So, Ulbanís was right again.

The one person Feren loved most was gone from him.  He had been released by Námo because there was no solace for him in Mandos.  But, he might find it with other family come to Aman.

“Do you wish to stay here?” Rostaro asked, as he was obliged to do.  “You’d be welcomed, cared for, and loved.”

“Varda’s Stars, no,” he replied.  “Did I not just say that?  A forest’s the only place I can happily dwell... for it is where we chose to dwell.”

“Will it not remind of your loss?” Rostaro sadly asked.

Feren smiled, fondly reminiscing, making Rostaro think there might not be a need for penance.  It seemed his grief had passed.  His guilt at not joining her at the last dispelled.  His anger spent.  He would always miss his beloved, but the sorrow would not destroy him.

“Her will always was greater than mine though it may not have seemed so,” he easily admitted.  “It’s just that, her sensibilities were too tender to exercise it much.  Unlike some I could name.”

“Can you?”  Rostaro was unsure he should do Venyel’s job without asking her, but a critical moment had clearly arrived and must not be wasted in hesitation.  Feren’s name might soon be his again and the reborn could fully rejoin the living.

“I know who awaits me in the west,” he said with a confident, almost smug, smile.

“The lord and lady and their son?” Rostaro suggested.  If Feren had identified these three, Venyel had not told him when she had every reason to.  Had Cirdan’s medallion done all this?

The Silvan’s countenance changed, brightening and becoming ennobled yet remaining quite untamed.  Rostaro instinctively knew he was seeing only the margins of Feren’s orë.  The hidden powers residing within those confines merely hinted at.  Fascinated, the loremaster hoped to be present if they were ever revealed, regardless of the danger.

“The lady is Galadriel,” the reborn lord said in a level voice.  “The lord is Celeborn.” 

A chill ran down the loremaster’s spine.  Feren was in both Cirdan’s and Celeborn’s circles?  Rostaro had thought him only a follower of Oropher.  He might have marched with Thingol or Denethor!

Rising emotion warmed the Silvan’s almost indifferent tone and demeanor. 

“The lad – though not a lad for ages to any other but forever to me – is my son, Thranduil.”

Rostaro gazed at him with renewed wonder.  Not a prince, but a king!

“And I am Oropher.”

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

orë – spirit (inner mind) one’s innate nature

amillë – mother Quenya (ammë is mom)

hantale – thanks Quenya

héru-nya – my lord (master) Quenya

túro-nya – my lord (warrior) Quenya