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Chapter 2 – Two princes of the Sea-elves land on hither shores

He hurt!  He hurt!  He hurt so much!

Bear it, his mind told him.

Somehow, his mind was complacently detached from the horrible pain.

Pain, his mind pointed out, meant he was alive.  Seeing as there was no pain in Mandos.  Or so people said.  Although of course, that fact was suspect, since no one had as yet come out of the Halls of Waiting to verify that it was so.

The Halls of Waiting was where he would rather be then suffer this torment!  He hurt!  He hurt!

His mind dismissed the notion that death was better than life under any circumstances.  The person sitting close-by was of more relevance.

That person leaned over him.  A flat hand pressed down upon his chest, just below the tip of the breastbone.  There was a sharp spike of even greater agony.  He might have cried out.

But in the moments that followed the initial shock, a concentrated flow of blessed relief poured into his body, utterly overwhelming him.  When he came back to himself, he found the wailing pain had been lulled to sleep, reduced from excruciating to merely aching, by a radiant song of well-being heard from deep within his fëa.

Gradually, the tonic chorus of healing quieted.  Its notes drifted away into the ether of his breathing; leaving him feeling hollow, nonetheless free of pain.  Only after the last echo of the spell-song had completely faded did the hand lift from him and the silent singer lean back.

“He is waking now,” announced a gruff, male voice.  “I can do no more anyway.”  The voice carried a subtle note of weariness, but not disappointment.

The healer, who smelled of herbs and salt and vinegar, heaved a self-satisfied sigh and went away.  His place was immediately taken up by another, who smelled strongly of smoke, wool, and fish scales.

“Do you hear me?” called a maiden’s voice; much louder than necessary and wincingly sharp to Isil’s ears.  He did not recognize this voice either.

Who were these people?  Where was he?  What had happened?  What kind of sorcery had just been done to him?

Not any sort, adjudged his mind.  Naught but the purest healing.

Perhaps he was in gardens of Lórien...  

“You be wakeful, poor one?” the maiden asked in a more modulated voice

Her peculiar Telerin dialect piqued his mind’s curiosity, and it prodded him to open his eyes.  But when he did, there was no nís peering down at him.  The trill creature bore only a semblance of a face!  His mind petulantly informed him that she was not some amorphous fana.  His eyes were merely out of focus.  He squeezed them shut and opened them again, but to no improvement.  He could not see right.

“Oh dear me, your eyes be clouded?” she cooed with an Islander lilt.

Which made him think that perhaps he was nearer to his own house than to Irmo’s.  He let his useless eyes close of their own accord.

“The blow to his head.  His sight will likely return,” explained the healer, without a fleck of sympathy.

Perhaps his eyes were useless, his mind grumped, but most assuredly not his nose.  There were more than enough informative odors in the air – whale oil and dried fish, old rope, wet rags, a salty tang.  A sick-room scent also swirled in the churning soup of smells.  And there were sounds – the thumping tread of the healer’s footsteps on a plank floor, rain sheeting on a shingled roof overhead, wind whistling through tiny crannies.  It was not difficult to conclude he was in a wooden storehouse by the sea.  His mind wondered why coast-dwellers, however remote, would not shelter their goods as they would themselves, in weather-tight stone buildings.  However, a better mystery was that these people had a healer that could reside in a royal court to care for them instead of a physician possessing mostly medical skill and a normal modicum of power.

“I am having to go now, Halfig,” said the healer.  “Just water and broth for him until I say otherwise.  You fetch me, if need be.  But, you should have no need.”  This last was said in a wry tone that cautioned against disturbing him for anything less than an emergency.

Do not let him leave, demanded his mind.  Questions must be answered.

A parched rasp was all the speech Isil could manage.  He tried to raise his head, and the room spun.  Instinctively, he grabbed at the edges of the bed to steady himself, discovering that his hands were bandaged; his limbs and body likewise wrapped up.

“There-there,” soothed the maiden.  She gently patted his trembling hand from atop the tucked blanket.  “Halfmerillen be here to look after you.  Do you thirst?” 

The healer’s footsteps traveled a short distance ere there was the clatter of a latch.  A bit of the outside weather blustered inside before the door was adamantly shut.

Isil jerked at the boom of the door slamming closed.  The wet gust that had come in blew dank against his face, and his body shuddered – not with cold but alarm.  His mind indifferently assured him that he was inside safe from the storm, but his racing heart paid no heed.  He was bound and captive!  Nonsense, his mind admonished.  Just bandages and bedcovers.

No!  Bound!  Captive!  Whereupon, rational thought was summarily cast out; its place usurped by uncontrollable fear.  An unbidden whimper rose from his contracted throat as he was overcome by panic.

“Isil?” queried a hoarse and uncertain voice.

His brother!  His little brother!  Suddenly, a terrible memory vividly replayed.

A brutalized Telpë was thrown down at his feet; choking and bleeding and broken.  What had been the welcomed light of a lamp revealed the awful damage done.  He could only stand staring in shock.  Before the guards backed out of the cell, one of them, his face distorted by a blackened eye and split lip, spat on his prone brother.  The iron-strapped door slammed closed and was locked; the finality of those sounds punching down his doughy courage.  The fearsome darkness that he had suffered alone over uncountable hours encased them both.  In the blackness, he dropped down to sit on the dank floor, and urgently pulled Telpë off the icy stone onto his warmer lap, hugging him to his heart.  His little brother swooned away, listless in his arms, and his guts knotted in anguish.  He cursed the guards for their cruelty.  He riled at Telpë for being so stupid as to fight arrest and for just getting caught.  He sobbed his brother’s name over and over as he rocked him.

“Shush now.  Let the others sleep.  All be well.”

A pair of strong hands was pinning him down.  One hand lifted and went to his brow, immobilizing his head.

“Lie back and be still.  Lest you start bleeding inside again.”

They were back!  Back in that rotting cellar!  They had been recaptured!  He flailed helplessly against the grip of the guard.  He yelled.  He kicked.  Something was hobbling his feet.  Shackles!  Muddy thick water!  Rising water!  They had to get out!  They would drown!  Elentari save us!!

“Telpë!”  His call was as dry and hoarse as his brother’s, but flooded with fear.  “Telpë!”

“Be calm!  Be calm!  There be no harm here!  No no no, not you too!  Get back into your bed!  Or I shall come put you there!”

It was all happening again!  The guards were hauling his brother away to a separate cell!  Stop!  No!  Do not resist!  Stop making them hurt you!  His stomach lurched at the smell of moldering trash that wafting out from the black maw of that chamber’s entrance.  He cringed at the sight of Telpë being shoved through the narrow doorway, and squeezed shut his eyes against it.  Chains clanked and rattled as they manacled his brother to the wall.  No!  No!  You can not do this!  This is torture!  This is evil!  I told the truth!  There is no conspiracy!  Only a quest!  You promised to let us go, if I told the truth!  But, you do not want the truth!  You want me to lie!

“I am here, Isil!”  Of a sudden, the guard was gone.  His brother’s arms held him, and he let go a sob of relief.  But how?  How had Telpë gotten free?  “I am here!  You are not alone!” were the comforting words spoken next to his ear.  “Fear not!”  His brother’s cheek pressed against his.  “Easy, Isil, easy...”  Weak and wrung out, he let Telpë console him, when it should have been him consoling his little brother.  “We are on shore, and we are safe.”

“On shore?” he croaked.  They were safe on shore?  He was bewildered.  How did they get down to the shore?  No, they were beneath the palace!  They were Uncle Olattavó’s prisoners!

“That is right, on shore.  Some brave people saved us.”  Telpë drew back, away but still near.   His hands remained resting reassuringly upon Isil’s shoulder and on his chest, over his heart. 

Yes, that was right!  Some brave people had saved them!

He remembered now.  Brave friends had saved them.  Freeing them before they were drowned in rising muck fed by heavy monsoon rains.  They had gotten out, avoided being seized again, and had sailed away... sailed away east and kept on going.  Heading out on their quest else miss what was possibly their one chance to go.

He remembered... the sea-serpent, the whales, the hunger and thirst, the cold, Ossë’s baneful assistance... the wreck of the Fairëressë...  

He remembered dying.  So then, why was he not dead?  Oh, that was right... some brave people had saved them.

“Please, my only brother!” Telpë softly begged.  “Please, open your eyes, and let me know you are alright!”

They had survived.  They were alive.  Some brave people had saved them.  Saved them from downing – not once, but twice.  He let go of fear and dismay, instead savoring their unfathomable good fortune.  They were safe.  His little brother was safe.  He could relax.

All tension left his body, and he went agreeably limp.

“Isil!  Halfig, water!”

Something moist touched his lips – a straw.  His mouth latched on like a babe’s and sucked greedily, taking no pause to breath.  Abruptly, before he was satisfied, it was pulled away.

More...  His thirst was not nearly quenched.

“Calasilmo!  Open your eyes and look at me!” hissed his brother.

Oh, shall I now?  He was the eldest; Telpë the youngest!

Disrespect was not something his brother had been taught at home.  Isil knew himself to be a rather absent-minded scholar, enamored with the abstracts of mathematics, admittedly not always tactful.  But, Telpë could lope right past being straightforward to downright rude.  His brother had lived on the road and outside cultured society for too long.  Just as their father had said.  Nothing good had come from his brother practicing violence as a sport.  He had let the rabble make him into a mockery of the true prince he was.

That was not entirely accurate.  Some good had come of it.  The costly Fairëressë, and its unfinished siblings, could not have been built without Telpë’s hard-won prizes.  His brother’s championship had raised respect for the Teleri, when many Noldor disdained their kindred as lacking ambition or even courage.

Irritated, Isil did open his eyes.  A pale facsimile of a familiar face floated before him.  Above hung a dim globe of light, casting soft, indistinct shadows all around.  He could not distinguish any detail of what surrounded him.  There were only blobs of color that barely represented real things.  He had to stop looking.  It made him dizzy.

“Thank goodness.”  The relief in Telpë’s voice, evidence of his genuine concern, saved him from getting a scolding for his impertinent order.

“Where are we, Teleporno?”  For some reason, his brother had come to prefer his Quenya – or even his cotyalo name – to his proper given name.  So, it was satisfying to poke him with it now and again.  Especially when he needed reminding of who he really was.

“In a warehouse close to the beach.  We must keep our voices low, the others are asleep.”  Something swept past his eyes – Telpë testing his sight.

“Everything is but a blur.  My memory too.”  Although, lucid thought looked to be coming back.  After clearing his throat, he asked, “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Only four arya.  Or as they would say here, two turns ’round.”  Despite speaking with a breezy ease, his brother’s words sounded sad.  “I have been in and out of it myself.”

“Why are we not dead?” he both asked and pondered anew.

“Because Nestor Tirnadab is a singularly remarkable healer.  He applied his medicine, but where that failed, he turned to his healing powers.  Isil, I have never before seen anyone do what he has done.  Not even one of Estë’s lady healers.  Nor do I understand how he does it.  For one would get the impression that he is scornful of life instead of its guardian.  But, he never gave up on you.”

“And how are you?”  Despite how many times he had cared for Telpë through injury and seen him recover fully, he was apprehensive about the answer.

“Better than you.  Battered, but nothing broken or missing.  Maybe next time.”

“Who else?”  He dreaded asking the question.  Nonetheless, he had to know.

“Calindor, Ma’ramaica, and Vanue.”  He waited for more names, but none were said.

Three?  Only three?  Out of twenty-eight?!  The names of Telpë’s two closest friends were not said.  Hwesta and Khelco... who along with Nerwen had rescued them from their imprisonment.  They were dead?  Tears came to his eyes, and a sorrowful sigh caught in his chest.  He mourned them; both good fellows and good friends.  He mourned for all their valiant lost comrades.

“But then, Vanue is as good as dead.  Our miracle-worker could help him no more than to ease his passing.  And as usual, the mangy dog is taking his own sweet time about it.”  His brother’s misery was hardly hidden by his offhandedness.

“I am so sorry.”  He was indeed.  Not only for the deaths of their friends and crew, but because this disaster was his fault.  A tear spilled over and streamed down his temple to his ear.

“Yes... well... “  For a moment, he thought Telpë might outright forgive him; allowing that circumstances had lead him into making a mistake.  Only to be reassured that his brother’s heart had been further hardened, not broken, by yet another round of hard blows.  “The chest has come through it better than any of us.  No leaks that I could find.”

“The chest?”  He was confused.  How did that object figure into commiserating over a tragedy?  Then, he realized that Telpë literally meant what he had said.  The chest had been saved too.  How in all Arda had it not gone down with the ship?

“Yea, this brave one here did haul it up by himself!” chirped Halfmerillen, a bit too loudly.  “After he plunked you down at my Papa’s feet!”  Anyone listening could tell she was taken with his brother and thrilled by his foolhardy feat.  She was gushing – just like one of Telpë’s mindless fight-frantic followers, who thought their Telparyon unmatched.  Isil however was shocked once again by his brother’s incredible recklessness.  He switched the conversation from Telerin to Quenya so that Halfig would not understand any of what more was said.

“You idiot!” he proclaimed him.  “You went back for it?!”

“Without it, there would be little chance for our quest to be fulfilled.  Particularly, if you died.”

“It was a stupid thing to do!”

“Now how would I know that?  You are the genius.  Yet, you do not see that I and any survivors would have been stranded had I not gotten it ere it was smashed?”

“It was not worth risking your life!”

“Isil, our lives are precisely what we chose to risk,” was his brother’s sharp reply.  He was not going to accept a reprimand.  “The contents mean success whether any of us lives or dies.  So please!”  His tone turned cold, as it often would when he was angry and determined to have things his own way; right or wrong, cruel or kind.  “Do not call me an idiot for fetching the chest, and I will do the same for you about fetching the barrel.”

It was a cruel thing to say.  Nonetheless, the truth.  The cask of their sister’s astonishing mead had been stowed aboard for the precise purpose, if the need arose, of buying Ossë’s cooperation.  Except, he had carelessly bargained away the entire barrel, all at once, instead of one flagon at a time.  Causing what should not have been an unanticipated result.

“Hold the chest as the more valuable than our lives then,” he said; his concession an oblique apology.  “Even so, it still needs to be put into the hands of our kinsman.”

That was a part of the overall plan the three siblings had agreed upon from the start.  They would need a patron, someone to act as a protector and ally.  To that end, they had gathered a collection of artifacts – illustrations and diagrams of seaworthy ships, smaller versions of tools and instruments, and a star chart – as both a gift and a bribe.  All thoughtfully rendered in depictions that illiterate or simple people could understand.  Just in case that was the case.

Based on information they had gleaned from their elders and previously from Ossë, they had chosen Nowë as the one to receive this boon.  He was the eldest lord in Endórë, as well as the eldest kinsman of their grandfather and his brothers.  In addition, he conveniently lived on the coast.  Nowë would be wise enough in age and great enough in honor to do what was right.  This knowledge they brought was meant for the rescue of all the Forsaken.  Someone else might just keep it for himself, intending to wield power over any who would sail to Aman.

With their own ship lost, those who would need a seaworthy vessel built for their passage now included themselves.

“Telpë, you must bring the head of the village to me.  I must thank him on our behalf.  But more importantly, I must get us a boat, so we may continue to seek out Nowë.”  His guilt lay heavy on him.  He wanted to do something that made the deaths of the crew matter.  As well, he did not care to lay in bed, helpless and ineffectual.

“Tsk, my only brother, your head has become quite swollen.  A malady you have suffered from before, although not particularly from a concussion.”  His brother adjusted himself in his seat.  “Fisher-folk depend upon their boats for their livelihood.  They will be more than reluctant to simply give one away, even if we were to tell them the truth or as nobility claim to be deserving.  And who knows, we may be nearer to Eldar than these rustic inhabitants might lead one to think.  So for now, trust me to handle the business of finding Nowë.  That is, if you can.”

He paused to allow Isil a moment to mull over his unjust indictment that his brother lacked common sense.

“For you are not going anywhere soon.  Neither am I.  Nor what friends are left us.”  He took a deep breath as if readying to start a race.  “First, we honor our dead.  Second, we heal.  There is nothing more useful to be accomplished in this hour or the next arya.  When we are well and wiser, we shall discuss what is best to do.”  He shifted in his seat again.  “When we are fit, we will proceed – and not before.”

Isil had to hold back an approving smile.  More than one person had pointed out in the past that the younger Galadhonion oft had matters firmly in hand before his supposedly wiser brother had grasped the situation, and Isil should learn to appreciate it.  Well, he had, and he was very proud of the disgraceful brother upon whom he could always depend.  But, he could not ever let him know that.  Because, directing the company and their quest was his responsibility, whether they numbered forty or four or only two.

“Since when are you in charge, little brother?”

“Since I am the only brother fit enough to take charge.  Sort of.”  He abruptly switched back to Telerin.  “Halfig, the bucket please?”  The second it was in his hands, he noisily wretched.  Then, swayed and fell off the low stool he was sitting on.

“Ai! Now truly ‘tis back to bed for you!” declared their nurse.  “I cannot say which of you has worse to bear – water on the brain or water in the ears.”

“Do not worry, Isil,” Telpë told him, switching once more to Quenya.  “From here on, everything shall go as planned – we will find Grandfather and bring him with our kin home to Eldamar.  And aid whoever else longs to see the Light of the Trees.”

“Of course.  If only because you say it shall be so.”  Isil pointedly sighed.  “A sure bet.” 

Wagering on his brother to win a bout just because he said he was going to win was an old joke between them.  Early on, Telpë had lost often enough, despite his determination, which had on occasion cost them a hefty wager.  However, for a long time now, he had remained undefeated; making up for their losses and increasing their gains.  He had become a sure bet.  Still, after a nasty run-in with some unsavory racketeers, his brother had learned not say he was certain to win, even when he was.  One would think that such incidents would have deterred Telpë from fighting for profit.

Dancing as an occupation would have been less risky by far.  However, the fine arts were not nearly as lucrative as the martial.  As their sister constantly attested to.  Certainly, the family would much rather had their youngest slog along in the troupe.  He would have excelled there too, and saved himself from becoming known as a black-sheep; kept out of sight and disregarded by their aristocratic peers as a do-nothing.  For in the arena, he had cloaked his identity – in a blatant way that defied understanding as to how no one realized whose son he was – to shield their peace-loving father’s sense of honor.  Besides, Telpë would say, when they returned from their quest, he could re-enter society a lamb made chaste by redeeming deeds, as well as free from the threat of challenges to his past prowess made by fools keen to prove something.  A doubly-sensible strategy perhaps, but retirement would not unmake his brother a fool for seeking the hand of a recalcitrant princess on the opposite side of a patrilinear feud.

Isil closed his eyes to the light above him.  Slipping into a gentler current of thought, he began drifting in the general direction of slumber.

“Indeed, we shall voyage home,” he airily went on, “and in an even grander ship.  Crafted from the dark woods of these hither shores.  A starlit black swan shall rise to soar.  O’er the glistening, white-wave peaks of the wide Great Sea.  Swooping down into its new Haven, in awe shall they be.  Perfection, captained by a shining young hero.  The star-blessed son of Singers: Teleporno! ”

“Well said,” endorsed his unfazed brother as he was nestled into his own bed by Halfig.  “As usually, the poet in you, not the mathematician, is the more accurate.”

“Ah but, the poet in me does wonder what has inspired such uncharacteristic cheerfulness in my usually sullen muse.”  Halfmerillen’s silly fussing over his brother’s comfort entertained, but all the same, having the last word was his due.  “Might it be that having dismissed any honorable endeavor for anon, you have naught to occupy you, save blissfully lolling about this quaint barn in the arms of an earthy, eager maiden?”

This was, of course, complete nonsense.  To persuade the sort of lady Telpë had left on the dock to wait for him precluded philandering in any variation.  Not a tendency easy to suppress for someone who enjoyed flirting.  However, his brother had reformed, of that Isil was sure, else he would not tease him about it.  Perhaps by the time they returned home triumphant, Nerwen will have succeeded in breaking down the walls of conflict erected by his father’s foster-siblings.  Then maybe – maybe – Telpë and she could wed.

“Jealousy does not become anyone, especially you, Isil.”  Telpë was taking what he had said with as little seriousness.  “I do have one small worry concerning this generous and accommodating lass, though.  She has never heard of anyone called Nowë.”

What?  He was jerked away from beckoning sleep.  Now, his brother tells him this problem?  How far from the remnant island have they been tossed?  Which was a better direction to search from here, north or south?  But then he heard a soft snicker and could sense Telpë grinning.

“She knows only of an ancient lord called Cirdan.”

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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!

aleglain – unforsaken (plural) – eglan forsaken (singular) which is both an adjective and a noun with eglath a collective noun

nestor – healer or doctor/physician

nér/nís – elf male/female Quenya

fana – raiment, the radiant physical figure of one of the Valar or Maiar Quenya ( fân Sindarin)

fëa – spirit Quenya  

cotyalo – an arena fighter like a boxer, wrestler, or martial arts competitor – cotya (hostile) + tyalië (a sport or game) Quenya

arya – 12 hours Quenya – In my tales, the 12 hour cycle of the Two Trees.  A word that later goes out of use, replaced by aurë.

loa – a year; a cycle of all the seasons Quenya – A word that refers to seasonal growth, so probably in use earlier than coranar

“turns ‘round” – turn-of-the-rim – echorin (echor+rhinn, outer-ring+circle) – appox. 24 hours.  With the North Star as the center/hub of a night sky/wheel, a star that touches the horizon will travel at a consistent rate in an imaginary circle/rim, completing the circuit in approximately 24 hours.  This is produced by the rotation of the Earth.  After the rising of the Moon and the Sun, a time-keeping star was no longer visible for a major part of its daily journey.  So, in my tales, echorin is a word that fell out of use to be replaced by aur.

“turns gone” – turn-of-the-stars – idhrin (în+rhinn, year+circle) – appox. a year. A complete cycle of seasonal changes in the night sky takes approximately 12 months.  This is produced by the tilt of the Earth.

Telparyon – Silver Prince – Celeborn’s professional epessë

Tirnadab – an OC, a healer with great skill and little compassion

Halfmerillen – an OC, a maiden, one of the fisher-folk

Hwesta – an OC, seasoned ship’s captain, past instructor, and close friend of Celeborn

Khelco – Helcalócë (Khel-ca-lueca) – an OC, champion cotyalo, past mentor, and close friend of Celeborn

Calindor, Máramaica [Maica], and Vanue – OC crewmen and survivors of the wreck

Olestavó and Olattavó – OC sons of Olwë, Eärwën is their younger sister.  I guess the boys’ parents were unimaginative when it came to names. ;)

Fairëressë – the brothers’ swan ship, ‘Lone Spirit’

Cirdan – his name literally means ‘shipwright’, implying he is learned in the craft of making boats

= Concerning the basic premise =

Círdan’s Name – According to CT, Pengolodh is the only one who tells of the “archaic form of Círdan’s name”, “a tradition among the Sindar of Doriath”.  The Professor implies that it was never used after the Shipwright achieved a reputation for his craft.

Conspiracy in Aman – During the Years of the Trees, the Valar had left government in the hands of the Eldar leaders.  Ingwë eventually followed the Powers’ example and removed the Vanyar to the Holy Mountain to become more or less a moral authority only.  The two other kings stayed friendly but did reside at a distance from one other.  The princes of the Noldor and the Teleri were not cozy between or within their kindreds.  Eärwën and Finarfin appear, to me, to be a bit of an exception.

More and more the younger Noldor lords were falling under Melkor’s shadowy manipulation.  He enflamed their jealousies and their desire for personal empowerment.  They began to vie with one another and even build up private militias in the event of revolt.

“Visions he [Melkor] would conjure in their hearts of the realms that they could have ruled at their own will, in power and freedom in the East... ”

“... but now the whisper went among the Elves that Manwë held them captive, so that Men might come and supplant them... many of the Noldor believed, or half believed, the evil words.”

“Thus ere the Valar were aware; the peace of Valinor was poisoned.”

“Then Melkor set new lies abroad in Eldamar, and whispers came to Fëanor that Fingolfin and his sons were plotting to usurp the leadership of Finwë and the elder line of Fëanor, and to supplant them by leave of the Valar; for the Valar were ill-pleased… [that the Simarils] were not committed to their keeping.”

“And when Melkor saw that these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons… “

“... and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords and axes and spears.  Shields also they made displaying the tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied one with another; and these only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not speak, for each believed that he alone had received the warning.”

  – Silmarillion – Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

“... to the Teleri he [Melkor] gave small heed, thinking them of little worth, tools too weak for his designs.”  – Silmarillion – Of Fëanor and the Chaining of Melkor

But, I think, the Teleri were as usual just taking their time getting to the same place and never really that far behind the Noldor.  The way I see it, Olwë’s sons would never quite understand why their foster-brother was the lord prince of Tol Eressëa instead of Olestavó.  Their sister would always resent being deprived of her best friend’s company by Galadhon, who stole the young lady away to be his wife and live far from Alqualondë.  One of his sons stealing away her only daughter also would not set well with Ëarwën.