32: Cilmë

Vorondil ran back up the trail and into the valley, tears blinding him. He stumbled over a low-lying boulder and fell to his knees. The mist gathered about him and the roar of the waterfall was felt more than it was heard, a deep thrumming that shattered against his fëa, leaving him feeling weak and disoriented.

He clambered to his feet, his knees bloody, his palms scraped raw and throwing his head back he screamed. “You can’t have him! You can’t have my atto! I’m the one you want. I’m the one who should be dead. Take me! Take me!” With that last he fell to his knees again and his weeping was inconsolable.

The noise of the water drowned out his words and he never knew if anyone even heard but then he felt someone take him by the shoulders and lift him up. He opened his eyes to see a stranger standing before him. The elf was somewhat taller than he, his hair the dark locks of a Noldo, his eyes a greenish-grey. Vorondil vaguely noticed that the stranger’s locks were braided in the front the way his Master’s were, though in a pattern and with gemstones different from any he had seen before. This, then, was a warrior.

The stranger smiled, using the palms of his hands to wipe away Vorondil’s tears. He pursed his lips and frowned when he saw the state of the ellon’s hands and knees. He took Vorondil by the elbow and led him to a pool some distance from the waterfall. Only when the elf spoke did Vorondil notice that the roar of the falls was much less.

“You are quite precipitous, child,” the stranger said not unkindly as he pushed Vorondil down to a sitting position on a large flat stone. He then took a piece of linen from somewhere and dipped it into the water, laving Vorondil’s bloodied knees.

The ellon gave a hiss of pain but then the hurt was gone. He stared down in surprise at his ripped and bloody leggings as if noticing them for the first time. “Atto’s going to be angry,” he said in a strangled voice.

The stranger chuckled. “I think he will be more relieved than angry,” he said as he turned Vorondil’s hands palm up so he could lave them as well. Again there was a sting of pain that instantly went away. Already the scrapes and scratches on hands and knees were beginning to close.

“Who are you?” Vorondil finally asked.

The stranger gave the ellon a measuring look. “Rather rude, aren’t we?” he replied. “I would think a thank you was in order.”

Vorondil blushed, knowing he had been in the wrong. “I’m sorry and I am grateful, but... I have to find Atto. He’s in danger.”

The other elf stared at the younger ellon. “In what way is Aldundil in danger?”

Vorondil was too upset to wonder how the stranger would know his atar’s name. “He said he was going to die. I can’t let him die. I’m the one who should die. I’m the one who’s bad. Atto isn’t bad. He shouldn’t die because of me.”

“Whoa, youngster!” The stranger raised a hand to still Vorondil’s words as he shifted his position to sit next to the ellon on the stone. “One thing at a time. Why should you be the one to die?”

Vorondil hesitated, unsure if he should tell this stranger anything, but there was something about him that made Vorondil trust him in a way he had never trusted anyone, not even his atar or Master. He looked down at his hands lying on his knees. “I should never have been born,” he whispered forlornly. “I’m not supposed to be here. My atto and ammë weren’t supposed to marry. Ammë was supposed to have... other children, but not me.”

For some time silence stretched between them and when it continued for longer than was comfortable for him, Vorondil looked up to see the other elf staring at him with deep sympathy. He reached over and began caressing Vorondil’s hair. “Child, no one is born who is not meant to be. Do not think that just because other plans had been made that what happened in truth was not anticipated. It is true that had others made other choices you would not be here, but they did not and so you are here. Never doubt that Eru is just as pleased by you being born as he would have been had other children been born instead.”

“But I’m... I’m bad and the other children who should have been born,” Vorondil wailed, “they were suppose to do something important. They were... but not me.” He ended on a more forlorn note. Much of what the stranger had said had not made much sense.

“How do you know you won’t do something important? Did someone say that?”

Vorondil shook his head. “Not really, but....”

“But nothing,” the stranger said emphatically. “Choices were made. Choices are still being made, even by you. Whether you do something important or not is really up to you. Whatever these hypothetical children might have done will be done by others, perhaps even by you. Did you ever think about that?”

Again Vorondil shook his head. “I was born bad,” he reiterated. “No one is going to let me do anything important.”

The stranger sighed. “No one is born bad, Vorondil,” he said quietly, “not even Melkor. People choose badness over goodness but that’s not the same thing.”

“I always do everything wrong,” Vorondil said somewhat despondently.

The stranger smiled gently, putting an arm around Vorondil’s shoulders. “Not everything,” he said. “You were willing to sacrifice yourself for your atar. That’s not wrong. It’s quite brave. Something that a warrior would do.”

Vorondil blushed. “I’m not a warrior,” he whispered, not looking at the other ellon. “I’ll never be a warrior.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the other ellon said encouragingly, then he gave him a brief kiss on the brow and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now come. A choice is before you and you must decide.”

Vorondil gave him a quizzical look. “What choice?”

“Life or death, of course,” the other replied. “Those are the only choices ever left open to us: do we choose to live regardless of the pain and disappointments that come or do we give up and die, fade away, until we are not even a memory to those remaining behind? You want to save Aldundil, but I tell you that he is not for you to save.” Then the elf’s demeanor changed and he became more grave. “So, Vorondil Aldundilion, what sayest thou?” he asked formally. “Wilt thou embrace Life and allow that thou art as beloved of Eru as any Child of his Thoughts, accepting thy destiny whatsoe’er it may be or wilt thou take the coward’s way and forsake thy destiny altogether?”

Vorondil felt a frisson of fear course through his fëa as he stared at the stranger who suddenly seemed more than he appeared. He wasn’t sure how he should answer and so he thought about it for some time. The other elf sat still and silent, patiently waiting for the ellon’s answer....

****

“Vorondil!” Aldundil cried, peering through the mists to see if he could find his son but it was hopeless. He had not seen in which direction Vorondil had gone once he entered the vale and the mist made it difficult to even search the ground for signs that the ellon had come this way. He started wandering aimlessly, calling frequently, hoping his voice traveled above the roar of the falls.

Nothing.

He stopped in defeat. The one good thing he had ever done was lost in this damnable mist and he feared for his beloved child. Collapsing upon a flat rock near a pool he felt tears begin to well. “Oh, Eru,” he whispered. “What have I done?” It was too much and despair overwhelmed him as he began to weep in earnest. The noise of the falls drowned out all other sounds so he was taken by surprise when he felt someone grab him, hauling him up so he was facing a strange elf.

The ellon was somewhat taller than he, his hair dark like his with eyes a greenish-grey. Aldundil saw that he wore warrior braids. The pattern was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it. He thought perhaps it had been a pattern used by the warriors under Maglor’s command. His expression, while kind was also rather stern and Aldundil was reminded of Lord Eönwë and the other Maiar who led the army of the West during the War.

“And what exactly have you done?” the stranger asked in a curious tone.

Aldundil, however, was not interested in answering. Instead, he tried to move out of the other elf’s grasp. “My son. Have you seen him? I must find him.”

“Ah... well, as to that,” the other ellon said, refusing to let him go, “your child is safe enough for the moment. Let’s deal with you. You haven’t answered my question.”

Aldundil was in no mood for any of this. He wrenched himself from the stranger’s hold, reaching for the hunting knife at his side. “Who are you?” he hissed angrily. “What have you done with Vorondil? If you’ve harmed him....”

“Peace,” the stranger said, holding up his hands. “Your son is safe. No harm has come to him, but we need to talk, you and I.”

Now Aldundil felt confused and a frisson of something bordering on fear began to creep up his spine. This whole thing was too uncanny. He was suddenly reminded of the tales some of the Atani warriors used to tell around their campfires, something they called a ‘ghost story’. He had scoffed at them, considered the Mortals rather credulous and easily frightened of their own shadows, but now....

The stranger smiled, as if he knew what Aldundil was thinking, and gestured at the rock next to them. “Shall we sit?”

Aldundil nodded dumbly and resumed his seat. The other waited until he was settled before seating himself. For a moment neither spoke and Aldundil suddenly realized that the noise of the waterfall had lessened so he could actually hear birds singing in the nearby trees.

“I’m still waiting for an answer.”

Aldundil started at the sound of the stranger’s voice and he could only stare stupidly at him, not sure what answer he was supposed to give. The stranger smiled. “You were going to tell me what it is you’ve done.”

Aldundil nodded. “I’m an oathbreaker,” he said baldly.

“And?” the other ellon prompted.

“Isn’t that enough?” Aldundil cried. “I’ve been proven faithless to my vows and because of it my son suffers.”

The stranger looked at him shrewdly. “Does Vorondil suffer because you broke a vow or are you the one suffering... guilt, perhaps?”

“He’s the product of my oathbreaking,” Aldundil offered, groping for a way to explain what he knew to be true.

“The product but not the cause,” the other ellon retorted.

“He still suffers.”

“Has he suffered from the very beginning of his life or only since he learned the truth of his begetting?”

Aldundil had to think about that for a moment. Vorondil had been unaware of the truth of his begetting until just recently. Until then....

“His amillë distorted his fëa, or so the Valar have told me,” Aldundil finally said. “In that, I was partly at fault for not taking a firmer hand in his upbringing. I had no idea Calalindalë bore such hatred for the Reborn, for my brother.”

“Well as to that, Calalindalë’s hatred is not germane to this conversation. We’re talking about you and your culpability in all this.”

“I should be dead,” Aldundil offered, his expression blank of any emotion. “This vale....” he swept a hand to encompass all that was about them. “It’s like the one where my brother died, where I should have died.”

“But you didn’t,” the stranger said softly. “You lived and that must count for something.”

Aldundil shook his head. “I forswore my oath to my brother and because of that I robbed him of his future.”

The other ellon shook his head. “No. You may have robbed him of a future but that’s not the same thing. When your brother is released from Mandos he will find many things have changed and he will have to learn to live with it and find for himself a different destiny than the one he had planned on before his death. But that is his problem. The question before you is this: Will you be there to help your brother find a future or will you be so wrapped up in your own sense of guilt that you prove useless to him and to your son?”

“What of my son?” Aldundil asked. “What will become of him? Everyone despises him.”

“Indeed?” came the incredulous reply. “Well that’s news to me. I doubt you could get Findaráto or Ingwion or even Glorfindel to agree with you. Let’s not get lost in hyperbole. Your son will do well enough if you let go of your guilt. Have you not said that he is the best thing that’s ever happened to you? Then that is all he needs to know at this time, that you love him.” He gave Aldundil a moment to digest his words and then stood, gazing gravely down at the ellon. “So now,  Aldundil Herendilion, you must decide: wilt thou let go of thy sense of guilt and live for both thy son and thy brother, or wilt thou not? Choose carefully, for howsoever thou choosest, thou wilt indeed die.”

For a long moment Aldundil stared at the other ellon in dismay, wondering how either choice could lead to his death. Then, in a moment of clarity he realized what was truly being said and with a nod of his head he chose....

****

Ingwion came into the vale, as mist-shrouded as before, calling for both Vorondil and Aldundil with little success. “‘You’ll get out of it what you put into it’ she said,” he muttered darkly, recalling Lady Nienna’s words to him. “Well, what I’m getting at the moment is a bloody headache and when I finally catch up with those two, a headache will be the least of their worries.”

He was about to call out again, when suddenly a shape came towards him out of the mist and he waited to see which of his companions it was. When the shape resolved itself into a stranger, Ingwion unconsciously reached for his hunting knife and began backing up.

The strange elf stopped and raised his hands in conciliation. “Peace, meldonya. I mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?” Ingwion demanded, not at all convinced. “Where are my companions? What are you doing here?”

The other elf’s greyish-green eyes brightened. “Ah... the first intelligent question anyone’s asked me today.”

“Speak plainly!” Ingwion snarled. “I have neither the time nor patience...”

“Then perhaps you should find some of both,” the other ellon retorted coldly, his demeanor darkening.

Ingwion was suddenly reminded of Lord Námo and shivered. “Forgive me,” he said sincerely. “I fear the uncanniness of all this has left me feeling a bit on edge.”

The stranger smiled. “Forgiven. Now have no fear for your friends. They are both well. Come, let us find a place to sit and talk while we wait for them to join us.”

He gestured towards his left where Ingwion could dimly make out a pool and he reluctantly joined the ellon on a large flat rock that served well enough for their purpose. The strange elf stared at Ingwion for some time, as if measuring his worth and perhaps finding it wanting. Ingwion found he did not like the sensation and did his best to glare back. A slow amused smile spread across the other elf’s face and he nodded. “Good. Good.”

“You haven’t answered my questions,” Ingwion reminded him.

“I’ll answer yours if you answer one for me,” the ellon returned and after a second’s hesitation, Ingwion nodded.

“What question would you ask me?”

“Did you seriously think Lord Námo would have done as you had demanded of him during Vorondil’s trial?”

Of all the questions Ingwion thought he might be asked, this was not one of them and he sat there with his mouth gaping in surprise. “Wh-what?”

“Did you seriously think the Lord of Mandos would release anyone just because you wanted him to?”

Now Ingwion felt himself grow warm with something akin to shame. It was true, at the time all he could think of was his pain and his need. He never stopped to think what an absurd demand it was. Indeed, had he not made a similar demand eight yéni earlier to no avail? It had taken a long time for him to accept what could not be changed, or... he thought he had. He shook his head in dismay. Perhaps he had only been fooling himself, trying to convince himself that it was all right, that what happened was indeed for the best. Perhaps...

Hot tears started trickling down his cheeks and then he was weeping in earnest, great wracking sobs that tore through his hröa as well as his fëa. He barely registered the fact that the other elf reached over and gathered him into his arms and held him silently through it all. He had no idea how long it lasted but when the tears began to abate he felt... empty, empty of everything except the deep-rooted pain that was as a void in the center of his being.

“Your pain is what you need to release, child,” the other elf said quietly. “Lord Námo has waited patiently all these yéni for you to do so, for until you do, he cannot do what you wish of him.”

“What about atar and ammë?” Ingwion rasped, his throat thick with weeping. “Is their pain any less than mine?”

“No, it isn’t, but neither have they clung to it as you have clung to yours. They have learned to let it go; you have not.”

“And if I do not, then what?” Ingwion demanded, moving out of the elf’s embrace far enough to face him.

“Then you will die,” came the calm reply. “You are very close to dying, you know. It’s one reason why Lord Námo took you on as his apprentice, hoping to prevent your demise.”

Ingwion gave the ellon a dumbfounded look. “I’m not dying!” he insisted.

“Are you not?” the ellon retorted. “Have you truly lived all these yéni? You go through the motions but you are not really living, are you? Your cousin Findaráto’s return from Mandos... you hate him for that, don’t you?”

“What!?” Ingwion cried, standing up to glare down at the other elf. “How dare you...”

“Because deep down inside where you won’t admit it to yourself, you do,” the stranger said calmly. “You resent him being released from Mandos when....”

Ingwion was not ready to hear this and with an oath he strode away, fury rising within him. Of all the insufferable.... His thoughts skittered to a stop when he suddenly slammed into a boulder he had not seen in the dense mist and fell on his back, the breath knocked out of him. For a long moment he just lay there, stunned. Somehow, he wasn’t at all surprised when the strange elf found him still lying on the ground. The ellon said nothing, merely offering him a hand and helping him up. They stood there, staring at one another for the longest time, and Ingwion was the first to look away.

Without saying a word, the other elf took him by the arm and led him back to the rock where they had been sitting, pushing Ingwion down and standing over him. The ellon’s expression was unreadable and Ingwion could not tell if he was angry or insulted or....

“I am not,” the ellon said, breaking the silence between them. Then his demeanor hardened somewhat with his next words and Ingwion felt doom settling upon him. “Ingwion Ingaranion, thou hast a choice before thee: whether to let go of thy pain and accept what cannot be changed, placing thy hope in Ilúvatar’s hands where only there can it flourish, or cling to thine anguish and in doing so, die to all hope. What sayest thou?”

Ingwion lowered his gaze and pondered the elf’s words and remembered what had been said between him and young Sador at Vorondil’s trail. Then he raised his eyes once more, stared into those grey-green eyes and nodded....

****

Nienna looked up from her worktable to see a Maia standing there, his greyish-green eyes lit with humor.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Well enough, my lady,” he answered with a short bow. “I think the three of them are on the right road towards healing again.”

Nienna nodded. “Good. As I had hoped.” She gave her servant a wry look. “Which of them did you find the most difficult to convince?”

The Maia laughed. “All of them, of course.”

Nienna smiled and nodded. “As I suspected. You did well, Nyéreser,” she said to the Maia. “I’ve decided you and Nasarindil will have charge of Lisselindë for the time being. She’s in need of your... special touch.”

Nyéreser gave his mistress a sly grin. “Is this your way of getting rid of me, lady?”

Nienna laughed. “You know it will not do for those three Children to see you here. It’ll ruin everything.”

“Indeed, lady,” the Maia replied with a grin, but then his demeanor became more troubled. “Lisselindë will not be an easy charge,” he commented, sighing at the thought of his fellow Maia’s fall from grace.

“Yes, but you and Nasarindil are capable and the fact that the two of you are also her close friends should help.”

“Then I will endeavor to help restore our sister to her former glory,” the Maia said with a bow.

Nienna nodded. “Thank you, Nyéreser... for everything.”

“I live to serve, lady,” the Maia said with all sincerity as he bowed to the Valië again before leaving to take up his new duties.

“As do we all,” Nienna said softly to herself, her expression distant. Then she gave herself a slight shake of her head and returned to her work.

****

All words are Quenya:

Cilmë: ‘Choosing’.

Ingaranion: Son of the High King.

Nasarindil: ‘Red Lily’. The name is Vanyarin, adopted and adapted from Valarin.

Nyéreser: ‘Sorrow’s Friend’ [-ser is an attested final element in compounds. -ndil can mean either ‘friend’ or ‘lover’ while -ser just means ‘friend’].