Journeying

When Irmo and Estë departed, the three Elves looked at one another. Linwë's face was set in a rather grim expression, as though he held anger at bay. Oloriel looked concerned, but there was a hint of brightness in her eyes, as though a part of her still saw the light. Veryandil's expression was one of misery; there were no tears, but it would not take much to bring them.

Oloriel reached out and put an arm about her son's waist. To her distress, he tensed. She sighed, kissed the top of his head and released him: I think we should eat, yonya.

Veryandil said, very low: I am not hungry, nana.

Oloriel: I know, but if we are to go on this journey, you must eat.

Linwë muttered something under his breath, and Oloriel looked at him. He met her gaze, but turned away at once, the door of his sáma fast closed. Finally, he said brusquely: Come then.

When they had returned to the glade where they had left the hamper of food, Linwë and Oloriel set out the meal. The two adults ate, but without relish, but after a few halfhearted mouthfuls, Veryandil laid down the piece of bread he was eating and stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched to keep from crying. After a moment, he got up and ran off into the trees. Linwë started to stand, but Oloriel caught his sleeve: Let him go, love. He must grieve. We will know if he needs our help.

Linwë said tightly: Should not his parents be the ones to comfort him?

Oloriel: Linwë, he--.

Seeing his closed face, she stopped, then continued to eat in silence.

*****

Veryandil ran to the pavilion where his friend had stayed. There, he halted before the opened curtains. Nyello was nowhere in sight. Despite the words of the Lord and Lady, he did not understand what had happened to him. How could a person flow away like mist? He went inside and sat on the rumpled bed, then lay down, buried his face in the blankets, and wept. When he was spent, he lay on his back, staring up at the softly shimmering fabric of the ceiling. His nana said that a person's life was the light of the fëa, and that it was the fëa which walked the Path of Dreams in rest. Maybe if he went on the Path, he could find his friend, since Nyello was now like an un-housed one. He entered, and immediately found himself in a forest of towering oaks, elms and beeches. Ahead of him, his coat shining in the green twilight, was the stag he had followed in his game with his friend. With a shout of delight, he raced toward the creature, who stood with his great antlered head raised, eyes flashing with fierce fire. Suddenly, the stag turned and seemed to float away over the ground. Veryandil called: Nyello! Nyello! It is Veryandil!

The stag only moved faster, and soon, he was out of sight.

Veryandil stood still, puzzled and hurt. Why would his friend flee from him? He looked down at the forest floor, hoping to see tracks, but there was nothing but moss and his own light footprints. He leaned against an oak which seemed as solid as any in the outer world and tried to sense his friend, but there was only the faintest taste of his presence on the Paths and no way to follow.

Veryandil left the Path and sat up on the bed. He looked despondently around the pavilion—and saw Nyello's harp in its leather case. For a moment, Veryandil gazed at it. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him, and rising, he went to the harp. Carefully, he undid the thongs which held the case closed and folded back the sides. The instrument was too heavy for him to lift, so he simply sat down by it, and reaching in, he softly plucked out the melody of the song he had played the day before. As he played, he opened the door of his sáma in the way his nana had taught him and reached out to his friend. Except for the quiet song of the Gardens themselves and the deeper songs of the lord and lady, there was nothing—not the slightest flicker of Nyello. He remembered that his friend had left Lórien, but he had not yet learned how to search outside a small area, so he continued to play and sing until he felt his mother's gently inquiring mind-touch, followed by his father's, which was almost unfamiliar in its abruptness. His mother sent: How is it with you, yonya?

Veryandil: I can not find him, nana! He does not even come to the sound of his harp!

Oloriel: I am sorry, little one.

Linwë: Come back now, yonya.

Veryandil: I—I am coming, atto.

*****

In the early morning, servants of Irmo and Estë brought packs containing clothing and a little food. There were guesthouses at regular intervals along the roads, and water was abundant, but this was to be a long journey. For this reason, three horses had consented to accompany and bear them—a brown for Linwë, a gray for Oloriel, and a cream-colored pony for Veryandil. Though he loved horses and would fearlessly approach even the largest, the child showed little interest in his mount, who nuzzled his hair and blew softly into it, trying to cheer him. He patted the pony's neck absently, but gave no other sign of attention.

They left the Gardens at sunrise, riding abreast, with Veryandil in the middle. Oloriel sang in her low clear voice, but neither Linwë nor Veryandil joined her. The sadness of her child and the simmering anger of her husband weighed on her spirit, yet she sang, to lessen the burden and break the leaden silence.

At midday, they stopped to eat, and Veryandil refused food. Oloriel coaxed him to eat, but he shook his head and said, almost petulantly: I am not hungry, nana!

Linwë: Do not speak so to your mother, hína.

At the sharp tone, Veryandil hung his head, murmuring an apology, and Oloriel gave her spouse a reproachful look, but he turned away, scowling.

At the guesthouse that evening, those who served there brought them to a bedchamber in which was one large bed for the parents and a smaller one for Veryandil. Again, the child refused to eat and went to bed at once. Oloriel looked down at him anxiously. His thoughts were still closed to her, and she saw, to her dismay, that he was actually asleep, something which only occurred with stress or grave wounding. Gently, she tried again to touch his thoughts, but without success. Sadly, she undressed and got into bed beside Linwë, who lay open-eyed but definitely not in dreams. Oloriel reached out to him, and he turned on his side with his back to her. She felt her own anger rise at that, and was about to speak when she noticed that his body was so tense that he trembled slightly. Sighing, she lay quiet for a moment, then turned onto her back, entered the Path of Dreams and went to seek Makalaurë. All night, she caught fleeting glimpses of him, pursued by the Maiar of Irmo, and she was almost as tired at dawn as she had been at nightfall.

Oloriel seated herself beside her husband. He pretended to write, but she could see by the unsmiling face that his thoughts were far from his verses. After a moment, she leaned toward him and gently kissed the tip of his left ear. He jerked his head away and turned toward her with a frown. She was not daunted, but, looking deep into his eyes, she sent: If we are at odds, my love, we can not support our child. He needs us both. Please, Linwë, let go this foolish jealousy.

Linwë sent, almost coldly: How can you take his part, Oloriel? That one has killed our own people. He is not fit company for Veryandil or anyone else!

Oloriel caught her breath, then let it out slowly and continued in ósanwë: He has done dreadful deeds, melda, it is true, but he rues them. He fled rather than hurt his friend—or me.

Linwë: How do you know this? Have you seen it?

Oloriel: A little, not much. I can not pass the barrier of unwill to touch his thoughts, but I felt what he felt when he released me.

Linwë: What?

Oloriel shuddered: Grief beyond anything I have ever known. Grief and self-loathing; but it is not of Makalaurë that I would speak. Our child does not eat, does not rest, and his dreams trouble him. He too will not let me in, Linwë. When I asked him this morning, he simply said that he dreamed of his friend.

Linwë's expression grew troubled: Why will he not let you in? Is that one preventing it?

Oloriel laughed suddenly, reached over and stroked her beloved's hair, sending: "That one" indeed! You will not even give him a name you are so angry. Come, let us go and see if we can sing our son into happier dreaming.

Linwë nodded, and though he did not smile, his expression softened.

They had not stopped at a guesthouse this night, for it was bright with the full light of Isil. They had set up their simple camp at the edge of a beech copse beside the road and had settled down to rest, or at least to silence. Linwë had attempted to write and Oloriel had sat midway between him and Veryandil, turning her gaze first to one and then the other. Veryandil lay curled on his left side, but the tenseness of his posture was reflected by his half-clenched hands.

Now Linwë and Oloriel came and sat on either side of their son and began to sing softly. The boy did not turn to them, and his eyes remained closed. Oloriel reached out and gently rubbed the child's back, and was shocked at its rigidity. She glanced at Linwë, holding tears back. Linwë continued to sing, but he felt anger rise again, for now the absent Kinslayer was upsetting his wife as well as his child.

Oloriel mastered her emotions and, lying down, gathered Veryandil into her arms. He did not resist, but neither did he respond. Oloriel spoke quietly into the nearest ear: Come back, yonya. Let us help you.

With a shuddering sigh, Veryandil opened his eyes and looked at his mother: I can not find him, nana. He has gone so far away!

Oloriel: Let Irmo's people do the finding, hínya. They know how to track him; we do not.

Veryandil: What will they do when they capture him?

Oloriel: They will not hurt him, Veryandil. I think they will just keep him safe for a while.

Veryandil: In the Halls?

Oloriel: He is not un-housed, but I think they will try to persuade him to come to Valimar, where we are going. Heru Irmo told me before your atto and you and I left Lorien that Manwë wants to hear what you and your friend have to say. It might go some way to healing him. So, love, you must rest and you must eat so that you can do as you have promised.

Veryandil's hand crept out and touched her hair; then he lifted his head and saw his father's tight-lipped face. He said: Atto?

Linwë: I am here, yonya.

Veryandil: Are you angry with me, atto?

Linwë: I am not; I am—angry with your friend—for hurting you.

Veryandil: He has not hurt me, atto. I am just sad.

Linwë: Because of him; because he has left you. That is a kind of hurt.

Veryandil: If we find him—or if Heru Irmo's folk do, then I will not be sad. Nana, if I am lost on the Paths of Dreams tonight, will you come and find me?

Oloriel: Gladly, little one. Thank you for allowing it. Now rest.

Veryandil laid his head on her shoulder. Linwë turned his back so that his son could reach his hair, and Veryandil gave a contented sigh and grasped the long dark braid. When they were sure he rested, Oloriel and Linwë began to send.

Linwë: What did you see when that—when Makalaurë took hold of you, Oloriel?

Oloriel: At first, there was light, beloved, a bloom of gold and silver shining, like Anar and Isil together. And then the light dimmed and drew together, and I saw his left hand, the scarred one. In the center of the palm, just as Veryandil said, was a—point of brightness, not like a star but like a shimmering seed. I do not know what this means; I do not know if it was real or a kind of token. I think the King or his spouse may know. Now, let us rest also.

****

Near dawn, Oloriel felt a change in her child, a lessening and faltering. She tried to touch his thoughts, and was instantly fully aware. She could not find them; there was nothing. With a cry, she sat up, clutching the boy to her. His body, which should have been warm, was cool. Linwë turned at her distressed cry of: Veryandil! He stared at her with an expression, first of shock and then of rage. He sprang to his feet and shouted: Kinslayer! Would you add another to your tally?

Oloriel too stood up, looking down into her child's pale face. She said: He is not dead, Linwë, but he is very far away. I do not know what this means.

Linwë: We must return to Lórien.

Oloriel: I do not think so. Husband, kindle a fire. We must keep him warm. I do not think we should leave this spot, lest he not be able to find his way back.

Linwë: You can not touch his sáma at all?

Oloriel: I can not.

When the fire was alight, his parents wrapped Veryandil in their summer mantles, and, lying down, pressed their bodies against his, hoping to give him warmth. Again and again, Oloriel sent to the child, but could find no contact. His eyes were fully closed. They could hear his heartbeat, but it was faint, and he barely breathed.

*****

It was not like the Path of Dreams at all. There, he could see things clearly, though sometimes they changed suddenly, unless he held them still in his thoughts; here, everything was shadow and half-light. It was not dark. It was not cold. He had seen fog once—in the mountains, when he and his parents had gone to visit friends. This was like that—a thick whiteness that covered everything. He could not feel anything either. For a while, it was interesting this foggy place, but slowly, he began to be afraid. The fear was not exactly of being hurt; it was of being—outside. He should be inside—not out here in this fog. He tried to call to his nana and atto, but his voices—both outer and inner—seemed silenced. His fear grew and grew—until he saw part of the fog swirl and brighten, becoming a cascade of soft fire to his left. The fire said in thought: Veryandil, why are you here? Do you wish to come to the Halls?

Veryandil: I do not think so. I was looking for my friend. Do you know where he is?

The fire answered: He is there—in the beech grove. Shall I clear you a path to him?

Veryandil: I would be glad of it; who are you?

The fire replied: I am one of Heru Namo's folk. Veryandil, you must not stay without. Your hróa can not bear your fëa's absence for long.

Veryandil: How do I go back?

The fire said: Ask your friend.

With a tendril of light, the fire opened a way through the fog, and Veryandil saw Nyello sitting on the ground beneath the beeches. With a glad cry, for now at least his mind-voice could speak, Veryandil rushed to his friend; but Nyello sprang up and fled. Veryandil pursued him, shouting: Stop, Nyello! Please stop!

Nyello looked over his shoulder, and stood still. Veryandil ran to him and flung his arms around his waist: I found you! Even before Heru Irmo's people! Come, let us go.

Maglor: Veryandil, how have you—are you--?

Veryandil: I do not know, Nyello. I went on the Path, and then I was here. I do not like it here. I should be—where I was before.

Maglor: You should indeed, child.

Veryandil: The fire said you could show me how to get back. Then you can come with us.

Maglor: I do not know how to re—to help you get back.

Veryandil: Let us go to where my hróa is. Then maybe you will know.

Maglor: I can not—come with you to Valimar. It is—I can not.

Veryandil: Are you afraid, Nyello? It is all right to be afraid. I am sometimes.

Maglor: I—I am, but more than that, I do not think I can be free of the—of what I have done.

Veryandil: What have you done, Nyello?

His friend did not answer, and even here, where all speaking was ósanwë, one could be silent.

Veryandil: I am afraid now, Nyello; and the fire said I can not stay here long. Please come and help me get inside again.

Maglor answered as if to himself: If I can not, another child will…

Then to Veryandil: All right, Veryandil, I will come to where your hróa is, but I do not know if I will come with you and your parents. I have faced the High King once already. I do not wish to do so again.

Veryandil: Was he angry with you?

Maglor: He was not; but I had to hear things said which were hard to hear. Come.

They went to the edge of the trees. A small fire burned in the ring of stones which atto had built for cooking the night before. Beside it, Veryandil saw his parents, and, with an odd twisting feeling, he saw—his hróa, or at least his face, which was all that was visible. The rest of it was cloaked. He stared in rising panic, for he knew that he must go back into it or—elsewhere. He turned to his friend: What do we do, then?

Maglor: I do not know, child. I have never heard of any of our folk parting from their bodies in this way.

Veryandil: You healed me with the light before. Maybe you can again.

Maglor: The light?

Veryandil: In your hand.

Maglor stared at his left hand for several minutes. Finally, he said: To do this, I will have to resume a form. Every time I relinquish one, it grows harder to take one up again. I am no Ainu, child. My fëa can remember what it is like to be housed in a body; that is all. I shall try.

*****

They had moved as near to the fire as they dared. Oloriel held Veryandil on her lap. Linwë sat behind her, sending her as much strength as he could. Occasionally, they exchanged places. All through the day, they continued to hold their son, singing to him—songs of joy and play, songs of peace and quietness, but nothing changed. His breaths came in slow shallow gasps. His heart hardly seemed to beat.

The sunset came, and the clear sky filled with stars and the moon one night past full. Linwë built up the fire. Just before the middle night, it was Oloriel's turn to hold Veryandil. Linwë was sending to her, when his attention was caught by something at the edge of the trees, a shadow among shadows. As he looked, Maglor stepped out into the firelight. Linwë was up and across the distance between them in an instant. He drew back his right arm and struck the other Elf on the side of the face with a fist, and it was as if he had plunged his arm into icy water. A tingling shock flashed up to his shoulder, and he staggered back. Maglor did not retaliate, and his expression was oddly remote. After a moment he said, low and intense: Your son is with me. He thinks I can help him re-enter his hróa. I do not know, but for his sake, I will attempt it. I do not wish his death, Linwë—nor yours.

Linwë: And I should trust you, Kinslayer! I do not think so! Leave us alone!

Maglor: And your son?

Linwë was about to answer when Oloriel said: He speaks the truth, beloved. Veryandil stands beside him. Husband, our child must go back into his body now, or Namo's folk will come to guide him to Mandos. Please, let him help our son!

Linwë stared at the impassive face before him, then at the face of his wife, the eyes dry, but the expression like brittle glass. Finally, he nodded once, returned to sit behind Oloriel and said: What do we do?

Maglor: I am bringing Veryandil to his hróa now. I—think that the—light I—bear will make a path which he can follow.

He walked to them, and, standing with his back to the fire, he held his left hand near Veryandil's forehead, but not touching it. For a time, nothing happened. Then, very slowly, like a tiny flame catching in dry wood, light began to blossom in his hand, brightening moment by moment until it was a blaze of gold and silver, shot through with other subtler colors. Both Linwë and Oloriel, who could gaze into the sun without blinking, had to close their eyes against the brightness.

Veryandil saw the path, like a glad stream rushing toward the door of a house. With a laugh of pure joy, he leaped into the singing brightness and let it carry him in.

The light gently died away. A slight shudder flowed through Veryandil's body, and he drew a deep breath, sighed, and lay back against his mother in healing sleep.

Oloriel opened her eyes and smiled into Maglor's face. She reached up and took the hand of her son's healer: Blessings to you, Makalaurë.

For a moment, the other did not move or speak. Finally, he softly closed his hand around Oloriel's and said: It is not my doing, Lady. I do not know how to speak of it.

He looked at Linwë, who was gazing at him with wonder and confusion. Maglor said: I do not know what this means any more than you. Your son begs me to come with you to the King. I do not know if I can, Linwë, but if I can, I will join you in Valimar. In the meantime, I will leave you for now.

Releasing Oloriel's hand, he turned and walked away, and there was something more at ease in his stride than had been present before.

When Maglor had gone, Veryandil's parents laid him on the grass beside the dying fire. He was relaxed and at rest now, and the color, as far as they could tell in the dimness, had returned to his face. As they pillowed his head and touched him gently, he smiled. They went a little way from him, but not out of earshot, and lay down beneath the sky. There was no wind, not even a breeze, and the scent of grass and moist earth was sweet in the warm air.

As Linwë gazed up into the deep blueness, he heard a slight sound beside him, just a catch in Oloriel's breathing. He turned to her at once, and saw a thing he had never seen—tears on her face. A little hesitantly, he reached out and gently cupped her cheek with his hand. For a moment, she did not respond, and then she turned her head and kissed the hand. He drew her into his arms and held her close, and she wept, quietly but deeply. He rubbed her shoulders, keeping silent in thought and voice, but sending her calm. When she was still again, he said low: I am sorry, best beloved. I have held you at arm's length in the past few days. I am sorry.

Oloriel: You have, Linwë, but I know why. You feared him; you could not see why I did not. It angered you.

Linwë: I still do not understand why you trust him.

Oloriel: I know. I claim no secret knowledge, melda but it is part of my gift to see the colors of the fëa.

Linwë laughed softly: I am afraid that explanation goes over the head of this simple scholar.

Oloriel: Each fëa burns like different kinds of wood, so my teacher tells me. Each one emits colors that are different from those of any other, some brighter, some dimmer. I have never seen one who is evil, not here, though, in his teaching dreams, Heru Irmo has shown me memories of those who were, both those of us who were darkened by the Shadow and those among the other Speaking Peoples who were enthralled by it. The colors of those fëar are—like the Unlight it is said Ungoliantë poured forth—not dark; twisted light. The colors I have seen in Makalaurë are not evil. They reflect his pain and his guilt, for he has done terrible things, love; but whenever he is near our son, his fëa's colors shine with such clarity that it uplifts my heart. Tonight, when he allowed the light to flow through him, a little more of the wounding in him was healed.

Linwë: What is it? I remember you said the light is not his own.

Oloriel: I do not know; it is like what I have heard of the light of the Trees—of the Silmarili, but I think there is more to it, which I do not understand.

They were silent for some time, simply holding one another in growing content. At last, Oloriel said quietly: When we reach the next guesthouse, I want a bath; and then I want to spend some time with my husband. I miss him.

Linwë: Well, we shall just have to arrange it, shall we not?

Oloriel kissed him, gently but thoroughly. They returned to where Veryandil lay peacefully and entered into rest themselves.