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Chapter 5 – The Silver Tree Prince is given an important mission

Círdan held his breath.  Hoping yet half-dreading that within the sea chest would be a gift sent by the Powers.  His nervous fingers tightened, and small flakes broke off from the brittle edge of the detached tree-figured seal he held.

The weathered lid resisted and squeaked like an old door as Orongil forced it to open.

And there inside was –

... mundane things.  Although brimming with a tightly packed array of different sized boxes and wrappered shapes, he sensed there was no numinous object within, hidden or otherwise disguised.  His pent breath let out in a silent sigh of disappointment instead of whispered awe.  The brilliant flying ship would remain no more than a haunting vision.  The promise of reunion with people long departed would remain unfulfilled.

Then he saw, made fast in the curved lid of the chest, a thick pad of folded parchments.  The top sheet bore an indicative drawing.  Ship plans?!   He was shocked that any responsible shipwright charged with keeping such precious pages safe would allow them out his guardianship to suffer probable destruction.  A sudden, unbidden smile came to his face.  This was what Isil had meant when he said everything needed was inside!  What other prizes have you persuaded away from their keepers, my genius nephew?  This collection could turn out to be as astounding as the daring crossing of the Great Sea!

As if in an answer to his thought, Telpë stepped up and chose in particular a small oblong box from out of the rest.  He brought it to him, respectfully holding it out on the palms of two flat hands for him to take.  The young ellon looked confident that he would be pleased with the offering.  He gave Telpë the weathered seal in exchange for the box.

Therein was a metal canister, bearing embossed figures of fish playfully swimming through shiny etched waves.  Inside of that, several thin cylinders sat nestled within each other, small to large.  His eyes captured by its simple mystery, he blindly tossed the empty box to his nephew, who deftly caught it with one hand.  Clear plugs of glass closed off the openings at each end of the object.  A spyglass?  But, it was too short in length to be very effective.  The instrument was obviously contrived to expand.

“It is called a telescope,” a now grinning Telpë told him.

A name rooted in the ancient tongue.  So, a spyglass indeed.  He fleetingly wondered if Telpë had told its name to him because he thought his ancient Uncle could more easily ken the thing by knowing its name or out of simple condescendence.  As if such technology had to be unknown to the unfortunate Eglath.

He gently pulled the ends away for each other, expecting a wobbly tube to result.  However, each segment was firmly saddled within the next.  Cleverly done...  With anticipation, he held the smaller opening to one eye and looked out, through the wide window, over the harbor to the farthest watchtower.  So clear!  So far!  The magnification was startling compared to the best spyglass that he possessed.  He handed it to Orongil, urging him with an enthusiastic gesture to try it.

The chieftain inelegantly swore when he looked through it.  He returned it, and Círdan passed it to Glinnor, who exclaimed his amazement with more decorum than had his fellow councilor, but with the same degree of wonder.  Lowering the telescope, the steward looked expectantly to his Lord.

In fact, they all were looking to him.  Expecting the Shipwright to speak wisely.  Expecting the Lord to decide what would happen next.  For a long moment, he silently returned their stares.  And in that moment, it struck him that the brother princes’ intention to sail west with passengers had been thwarted as thoroughly as had his own attempt to do the same.  Although, before he himself had suffered devastating shipwreck.  He held out his hand, and Glinnor returned the remarkable spyglass.  He carefully collapsed the instrument and handed it to Telpë to replace in its box then to its spot in the chest.

“I wonder,” he pondered aloud, “whether even one of you would have survived, if Ossë had known of this treasure trove.”  He directly asked of Isil, “What will you do if I can build you your ship?”  And received no different an answer than before.

“Go back,” the prince replied with conviction.  He walked over and placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder and stretched out the other hand to rest upon their comrade Maica’s shoulder.  “And take as many others of family and kin as will fit.  That was and is our quest.”

Next to him, Círdan could feel Orongil’s relief.  This came not, he knew, from hearing confirmation that what the brothers had already said about wishing to return to their own land they had truly meant.  His relief was solely because they were Galadhon’s sons.  Any other kinsmen the clan-lord would have been eager to have linger longer with him, happy to have the chance to recruit them as allies to his faction ere they returned south.  He looked over at his good friend.  Seeing Orongil’s face, more was revealed to him.

The chieftain was not even considering that his and his cousins’ paternal grandfather might return with them.  And he realized that neither would it occur to Thingol that his ever-faithful brother would leave Beleriand for Eldamar.  Especially not now...  Elmo was well along the path to becoming an aran in his own right.  Whether or not that is what is wanted.  He drew a troubled breath.  Oioloth...  Elmo’s wise wife, not the Prince himself, would be the one to decide their communal fate.  For she still held to heart her husband’s likely long-forgotten promise made ere they were wed.  But, now was not the right time to advise anyone that their assumptions could not be counted on.

“We should inform Brithombar and Menegroth,” Glinnor abruptly counseled; precisely because his Lord was not, as desired, forthcoming with instructions.

“I am not so sure... ”  His uncertainty was unsettling to everyone, but he was hesitant for Isil and Telpë’s sakes.  Despite their encounter with Ossë, they seemed unaware of a threat to anyone meaning to sail west.  Whatever the outcome, as before, those left behind would be greatly affected.  He looked at his two most trusted councilors, from one to the other.  “What do you think would happen if – despite this bank of knowledge – we once again cannot build a ship sturdy enough to cross?”

“Heartbreak over those lost in the attempt,” said Glinnor.  “And for those that had hoped to go next.  Anger over once more unfulfilled promises.  Loss of trust in we who proposed this feat. ”

“Disruption,” added Orongil.  “Disorder.”  His face became drawn.  “Just when things have been put on a steadier course.”

Círdan understood what Orongil meant.  As did Glinnor.  It was something they would not say aloud, least call it back into existence.  Bloodshed...  The unprecedented outbreak of deadly violence in the new settlements had been brought under control at great cost to the Elmoi.  No one, but especially anyone of that nothrim, wanted for it to return.

Through every previous upheaval – the disappearance of their King, being left behind in Ennor, meeting the new race of the Dwarves, the climatic return of Elwë with Melian, the invasion of menacing fell creatures, the unexpected arrival of the Nandor – it was Thingol’s youngest brother who had carried on imposing order and bringing justice.  However, Elmo could accomplish this only with the help of his numerous kin: children, cousins and in-laws, ellon and elleth alike.  The King was dependent upon their loyal governance in his name.

In most places, as in the Falas, the Elmoi was welcome.  The nothrim held their leaders and members to a strict code of fairness, if not exactly honor.  Yet, not all were glad to have the clan lord over them.  Rival families wanted their influence and power for themselves.  Worse, as Elmo’s Nos increased, within itself there arose sharp rivalries between individuals and cadet households.  The clan’s solidarity was being constantly undermined even as the Prince sought to insure Thingol’s rule.

It was however the new wave of outward expansion, begun when it was made safer than ever before to travel in the wilderness, that had become Elmo’s worst trial.  Rapid dispersion began to outpace the appointment of fit leaders, and the bonds of fealty grew slack.  The ambitions of the ignoble were fired up along with those of the noble.  Would-be-princes began to take rule by force instead of acclaim.  Not many cared to follow Elmo’s example of a measured pace of ascendance.  Thus, chaos and fighting broke out throughout the frontier lands.  Quendi began killing quendi to gain power.

For a short time, the new settlements became a battleground in a struggle over sovereignty.  It was only after the Prince had ruthlessly settled his clan’s internal differences that they were able to depose the illegitimate lords – some of which were from among themselves – and bring a semblance of peace and order to those dwelling outside the three established realms.  But, it was only a semblance.  The struggle to maintain unity under one King went on.  Were another royal prince to arise to take away, without consent or for that matter be given it as his due, any of the holdings of his kin who had invested themselves and their families’ fortunes into the new balance of power... It would once again factionalize nothrim loyalties.  Rule in all the realms – new, old, and to come – could be destabilized.  Without the Elmoi as peacemakers, the killing would come back.

“You think we should keep this secret?” asked Glinnor, not hiding a sensibility about the repercussions if word did leak out after making that choice.

“Yes and no.  As a beginning, we should assess the provided plans and tools.  Compile a list of the materials needed and their availability.  When we are confident of our capability to build, we shall speak to those who will commence the work.  Telling them honestly that I aspire to make a ship greater than any made before.  And leave its ultimate use to reveal itself.  Which in time, it will.”  Then who knows but that another forewarning may come…

“Keeping a project of this significance hidden behind a façade of normality for that long will not be easy,” declared Orongil.  He looked sharply at his cousin Isil, intentionally prompting a further statement of commitment from him, and Isil obliged.

“You better than any know that we do not share what no one needs to know.  We have always been circumspect about our quest.”  A troubling shadow like that of a swift cloud crossing a bright sky passed over his face, although his expression remained determined.  “But now, our success rests on the gift intended to be left behind.  Perforce, we must confide our need and beseech your help.  Our fate is in your hands... ”  He indicated all three elders with a sweep of his hand.  Dropping both hands to his sides, he turned fully to Círdan.  “...and our faith is in you.”  He bowed his head.  “We shall do as you command, my lord.”

Círdan gave him a slow nod in solemn acceptance of his trust.  He looked at Telpë, concerned that he might oppose his elder brother’s pledge of obedience.  Instead, the younger prince beamed with satisfaction.  Which strangely felt more worrisome than his showing indications of rebellion.

“Still, Thingol and Elmo must be informed,” reiterated Orongil.  “They must prepare for what may come of our efforts, whether we succeed or we fail.  When shall they be told if not now?”

“Verily,” agreed Glinnor.  “And we need to be as careful in the choosing of the messenger as much as the wording of the message,” he advised.  “It should be one of us here, my Lord.  Someone who will not give up our true plans under duress or otherwise.  Someone who understands the consequences and will feel them personally.”  The steward looked to his son, but Calindor did not appear all that eager to volunteer.

“Please you, my lord Uncle!  Make me be your messenger!” almost demanded Telpë, very keen to do it.

“Telpë!” scolded Orongil, exasperated with his much younger cousin.  When the young ellon turned to him unabashed, querulous of the reprimand, it prompted further schooling.  “You are less qualified then even Calindor!  Too young, limited experience, and impolite!  Hardly capable of appreciating the enormity of what is involved.”

“Indeed!” Telpë objected sharply.  He squared off towards Orongil, unmistakably confrontational.

“You prove my point!” declared Orongil.  He appealed to his Lord.  “They are unmistakable foreigners.  Neither is fit to deal with the public, the politics, or with Thingol!”

“You think our departure from Aman was a blithe undertaking?” asked an affronted Telpë.  “That there were no barriers to our quest?  No political consequences to face?  Nor price to pay for opposing the will of the Valar?”

Círdan was about to speak his own anger at their heated words when Isil lightly touched his brother on the back of the arm.  Surprisingly, the mild gesture restrained Telpë, where plenty of stern words previously could not.  His accusative questions instantly halted; his taut posture loosened.

”Never underestimate my brother,” warned Isil.  “He is more capable than you know.”

“However much you believe in him, he understands nothing of our concerns,” stated Orongil.

“Whether by our you mean Elmoi or Úmanyar concerns, I admit ignorance,” said a Telpë hitherto unseen.  He was subdued, almost icy.  “But, I will learn whilst Isil and Uncle do their assessment.  By the time they know where they stand, I assure you I shall be ready to carry their report to Menegroth.”  He turned to Círdan, who could only think of how he foolishly preferred the exuberant youth over this coolly-reasonable adult.  “I will act according to your orders, my lord.  Your message shall be delivered exactly as dictated.  And no one shall hear of our origin or ultimate goal, save the King and the Prince.”

Isil, wearing a self-deprecating frown upon his face, silently nodded his endorsement of his brother’s promises.

“A whole turn would not be long enough for you to learn what you lack,” claimed a still angry Orongil.  “Five minutes out there on your own and anyone will see that you are not Falathrim – let alone one of us!”

Círdan now saw it was Orongil’s pride, as an accomplished grandson of Elmo, that was the true cause of his objections to Telpë.  It was rather surprising to him that his friend was being so judgmental of the youth, since Telpë was very like their grandfather.  In many ways, more then was Orongil.  Despite their difference in age.  And maybe that is the reason...  However, he again did not have to intercede.

“I beg to disagree with your evaluation,” Glinnor politely opined.  “As has been pointed out, they have remained in your care for some time without widespread gossip.  There were no rumours of strangers with strange customs roaming about ere their coming to you or to the palace.  Like you, other people will not see what our Lord can easily perceive.  And royal court is royal court.  In that regard, the heron likely has more experience than I do.”

“You posses more than a modicum of maturity and wisdom to temper inexperience.”

“Which is why he will be taking lessons from Tarlancor.  If he does not come up to scratch, he does not go.  As simple as that.”  Tarlancor was one of Glinnor’s advisors: a fiercely stern scholar, who possessed little sentiment and notoriously lacked any ability to compromise his standards.  “That is your way, is it not?”  Amongst the Elmoi, one was required to prove themselves qualified for an appointment before assuming its authority, and it mattered not if the position was hereditary or bestowed.  Glinnor looked to their Lord for approval of his suggested solution.

“I wholeheartedly agree,“ Círdan said, silencing any further discussion with an upraised hand.  “Obviously, you both have realized that Thingol and Elmo will need living proof to believe what has come to pass.  Just as I did.  Any mention from Melian of a departure from distant shores not withstanding.  Isil must assist me, so Telpë must go.  However... “  He fixed said nephew with a look that wilted the young ellon’s blossoming smile, before turning back to his counselors.  “... as he is Elmoi, it will be done in accordance with Orongil’s requirements.  If not deemed ready to be on his own, if he cannot fulfill his duty wisely, and especially if it is not safe for him to go, then he will not.”  Despite the stated conditions, Telpë was elated; clearly confident he would be journeying to Eglador.

“Even if he loses the accent and gains some manners,” Orongil complained in sardonic tones.  “What can he plausibly tell people about himself other than what we do not want them to hear?”

Círdan looked closely at both princes.  They did speak differently, but there were various dialects spoken in Beleriand.  His own ears heard clear echoes from a distant time past.  The Light in their eyes was less noticeable when they were side-by-side.  But, disguising Telpë’s appearance would only emphasize the brightness, especially if standing alone.  It would be better to continue letting it appear that it came from his eledhwaith breeding.

“Indeed, how shall he be introduced?” rejoined Glinnor.  “What official credentials can he bear without arousing too much suspicion?”

“Allow me, my lords!”  Unaffected by the elders’ annoyed expressions at his discourteous interjection, the glad Telpë went and fetched a large satchel where it had been left on the table by the door.  From it, he pulled out a tall scroll, which he unfurled against his chest to hold up to their view.

Círdan immediately recognized the part of the coast depicted there.  He took the map into his own hands for a closer look.  It was well done.

“You made this yourself?” he asked, hoping the answer would be just that.

“Yes, my lord,” was the modest reply.  “With Calindor’s help.”

“I just applied the colors,” said Calindor.  “Telpë drafted it out and told me what to paint what.”

He was pleased to see that Isil’s defense of his brother was not merely fraternal.  Here was a genuine skill and more intelligence than exhibited thus far.  It was heartening.  He glanced up, his gaze falling on the silent Maica.  The princes’ comrade was holding back laughter.  Looking at Calindor’s smiling face, he could see – that to his friends great amusement – most people misjudged Telpë.  And apparently end up suffering for it.

“See?” said his younger cousin to Orongil, with an open hand extended towards the map.  “A truth to tell in place of a secret.  Set me to mapping the lands between here and Menegroth as a gift to the King to deliver in person.”

“Unless that has been done already,” pointed out Isil.

“Very few parts of Beleriand have been mapped with any detail,” Círdan admitted.  “And not with any precision.  An experienced guide is more reliable when one chooses to journey overland.  Nonetheless, your mapping skill will easily suffice as a reason for going to Menegroth.”

He rolled up the scroll, feeling a bit guilty over his decision.  There were those out there along the way who would happily make a capable draftsman their ‘permanent guest’, whether or not he was in the service of an Aran.  And if they ever discovered they had a royal prince to match to a daughter, even happier.  But as he had said already, if the journey could not be made safely, Telpë would not go.  He looked to Orongil and Glinnor for further comment, of which they made none, and accepted their nod of agreement that one dangerous truth was a cunning shield for another.

“Menegroth... “ repeated Telpë with a sense of wonder and portent in his voice.  “I cannot wait to see how true is all that I have heard.”

Círdan smiled; charmed by his nephew’s his unambiguous enjoyment of the possibilities that lay before him.  Of a sudden, the uplifting feeling turned weighty and pressed down upon his heart.  Telpë’s destiny was not nearly as fixed as those standing around him.  You aim to be the author of your own doom...  The revelation was discomforting.  For sadly, if Telpë ever rightly came seeking guidance concerning his future, his Uncle would have little advice to give.  Because, he had never been in control of his own.

“You require another name,” he found himself saying.  “Orongil is right about the importance of being perceived as a born nostel.  Most of whom go by galadhren names.”

“And I have one!” was the cheerful reply.  “Celeborn!  It is not quite a literal translation of mine own.  But then, Celeborchal simply does not suit, does it.”

“He was given it by an admiring daughter of the fisher-folk that aided us,” Isil told them with a reminiscing smile.  “For her own convenience, she gave each of us a more amenable version of our names.  Fortunately, mine turned out not different than what it truly is.”  He sent his brother an arch glare.  “I for one would never discard the name my father gave me.”

“But, my only brother,” predictably argued Telpë, in the same sibling humour, “my Úmanyar name honors our father as well as yours always has.  You were named for the first scion of the Elder Tree, and now I am named for the second.  Appropriate since our father is the eldest ‘tree’ of the Eryn Elmoi.”

“Úmanyar?” queried Glinnor.  “That is twice now you have said that word.”

“Not of the Aman peoples, my father, as you suppose” explained his son with a pretense of seriousness.  “Although, there are those that do not consider Islanders, such as they are, Amanyar anyway.”

“What of your accent, then?” asked an unamused Orongil, cutting through the banter.  He clearly wanted a commitment from his cousin to reform his speech.

“Accent?  Just what do you mean by that, gwanur?” Telpë asked, acting offended – sounding exactly like his cousin.  “Glaeru!  Open your ears and listen better!”

Orongil’s mouth fell open.  Glinnor appreciatively guffawed.  Maica snorted, and Calindor’s serious face broke into a huge, open smile.  Isil rolled his eyes and threw up a hand.

“Why, my words are as lyrics,” the youngest prince went pleasantly on.  With imitative self-possessed wit, he donned a sparkling smile – grinning exactly like his cousin.  Pushing back his sleeves, he crossed his arms.  His head he tilted back, affecting a cocked eyebrow.  .  “For my speech is utterly musical!”

As hard as he tried, Círdan could not keep from laughing out loud along with the rest.  Telpë’s impersonation went beyond mockery, he was Orongil!

“Does he do that to just anyone?” the incredulous chieftain asked Isil, and received a chagrined nod in affirmation.  Flabbergasted and shaking his head, he asked, “However do you stand him?”

“I have no choice,” his cousin sighed with a pained squint.  “He is my little brother.  I am stuck with him.”

“And you are my only brother,” said Telpë, abruptly back to being himself.  “Whom I will always follow and always wish I were more alike.”  Although lightly spoken, his words were sincere.  He visibly switched personalities again.  This time affecting his brother’s countenance and cadence.  “Nevertheless, where the cook’s daughter is concerned... “  He drew his hands behind his back and looked sideways in Isil’s most thoughtful manner.  “… am you.”

Everyone burst into hearty uncontrolled laughter – even Isil.  Although, his expressive eyes promised retribution upon the one making jokes at his expense.

“Your wish shall change as you grow beyond your brother,” very quietly predicted a jolly Círdan, while the laughter was still going on.  Without his realizing he had said it aloud.  Or that Telpë had heard him.  For he was as distracted as the others, besides being quite pleased that argument had been turned into mirth.

“My Lord,” ventured Orongil, when he had recovered the ability to speak.  “Do you not think,” his amused smile turned speculative, “the perfect person to escort Celeborn would be Nimloss?”  Oddly though, the chieftain’s eyes were resting upon Isil and not Telpë.

“Indeed yes” he immediately agreed.  “No one better and no one else.”  He felt a profound certainty that Nimloss was who it had to be, if their messenger – whomever that actually ended up being – were to arrive safely to inform the King of their objectives.

“Nimloss is a guide?” asked Telpë; once more himself, his enthusiasm once more uncontained.

“One of the best,” confirmed Glinnor, who now wore a smile similar to Orongil’s.  “A wise veteran of many travels from whom you could learn a great many things about life in Beleriand.  And in general.”

“Uncle, might you invite him to come here prior our departure and instruct me?  I would like to get to know him as a friend as well as a guide.”

“We shall see,” he replied, not holding back a disapproving frown for both his councilors’ smirking grins.  “And she is Hiril Nimloss to you, young master mapmaker.”

TBC

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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!

ellon/elleth – elf, m/f

ellyn/ellith – elves, m/f

hir/hiril – sir or lord/ dame or lady

heron/heryn – lord or prince/lady or princess

aran – king (also translates as ‘Lord’ for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

nos – House or household

nothrim – household or clan members (collective form of nos)

nostel – an individual member of a household

gwanur – kin

galadhren – tree-like

eledhwaith – star-folk These were Elwë’s people within the Lindar.

nenwaith – lake-folk These were Nowë’s people within the Lindar.

tawarwaith – forest-folk These were Lenwë’s people within the Lindar.

Eglath – the Forsaken – the name those left behind in Beleriand called themselves

Elmoi – the kindred and clan of Elmo – Elmo and Oioloth had other children, after Galadhon, who in turn had children of their own.

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru’s Lay!

= Concerning the basic premise =

Menegroth and Doriath – Menegroth was founded after Thingol and Melian’s emergence from Nan Elmoth.  The Queen warned the King that the peace they enjoyed then would not last.  So, he sought to build a stronghold that would stand “if evil were to awaken again”.  They did mean something or someone like Melkor.

After Menegroth’s construction, a plague of fell beasts, the reproducing remnants of Melkor’s ruinous works in the north, seeped across Ennor.  With the further help from the Dwarves, the Sindar armed themselves with better weapons and drove off “all creatures of evil”.  Thereafter, the armories of Thingol’s fortress were kept well-stocked, the weapons within well maintained.

Doriath was yet to be.

Denethor, the son of Lenwë, and his following (Nandor which had scattered west from his father’s realm of Lórinand) were also being harassed by the evil creatures roaming out from the north.  Having heard word of a strong lord who had won against such evil creatures, he took a gathered host into Beleriand.  There, he was welcomed as “kin long lost” by Thingol.  Their new homeland was called Ossiriand.  “... and all the Elves of Beleriand, from the mariners of Círdan to the wandering hunters of the Blue Mountains beyond the River Gelion, owned Elwë as their lord... ”

After the bane of fell creatures was mitigated, people again began to scatter and build new settlements.  Potential new realms, around the lakes of Neverast and Mithrim and in the river valley of the Narog, were taking shape.  “Now in his [Thingol’s] wide realm, many Elves roamed free in the wild, or dwelt at peace in small kindreds far sundered... “  It is notable that other than Denethor there is no mention of another prominent lord dwelling outside of the heavily populated coast or central forests.

The gradual process of inhabitation in the western regions was interrupted by the return of Melkor himself.  He rebuilt his fortress of Angband and amassed a new army.  When ready, he sent his army out to go swiftly down the two great passes on either side of the forests of Region and Neldoreth, where lay Menegroth.  Thus, the first battle under the stars, the first battle of the Wars in Beleriand, was fought on two fronts.

The northern Sindar in Mithrim were at first by-passed, just as were the Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod.  Melkor’s intention was to quickly finish off his real enemies.  Therefore, there was little warning, and the three Arans had to hastily gather armed hosts and go against the two-pronged assault, not really knowing the size of the forces they opposed.  In the northwest, Cirdan’s host was beaten and driven back, pursued even to their walled cities.  In the southeast, Thingol’s host, after being cut-off from Círdan, pushed to join Denethor.  By the time they arrived, the Laegrim were already engaged and outnumbered.  In that battle, the Orc army was defeated and driven off to be mopped up by the Dwarves.  But, Denethor and all his nearest kin were slain.

Returning to Menegroth with what was left of the Sindar and Nandor hosts and learning of Círdan’s defeat, Thingol called for all who could to come within his and his queen’s dominion.  Melian then threw up a protective wall of enchantment.  “And this inner land, which was long named Eglador, was after called Doriath…”

A short time after these events, Fëanor landed at Losgar.