53: A Conspiracy Suspected

Valandur closed the door to his office and locked it, grimacing at the necessity. He turned and went to his desk and sat heavily in the chair, lighting an additional candle. In spite of having been born by the shores of Cuiviénen under the light of the stars, in spite of having spent nearly thirty years traversing the wilds of Endórë under those same stars during the Great Migration, he had been too long in the Light of the Trees and now the ever present darkness which enshrouded them weighed heavily upon his fëa. Not for the first time did he silently curse Melkor. He stared morosely at the candle flame, wondering if he was just imagining things or if there was a real and present danger of Ingoldo usurping Ingwë’s throne.

He snarled another curse, directed at himself and his own ineptitude. The shock of the loss of the Light, coupled with the uncertainty of the Valar’s actions and Ingwë’s absence had clouded his mind, for he had to admit to himself, however much he wished to deny it, that he was still grieving for all that had been lost, perhaps forever. He felt numb, unable to think clearly and unwilling to do anything except sit here in the dark. It was only a chance remark by Ingalaurë that had brought him out of his lethargy.

"Uncle Ingoldo looks rather pleased with himself," the prince had said off-handedly as he sat in Valandur’s office idly sipping on some red wine from Valandur’s private stock. The ellon had come to see how he was faring and Valandur had stirred himself enough to light a couple of candles and offer the prince some wine.

"What do you mean?" Valandur asked, startled. He silently chided himself for being so wrapped up in his own misery that he had not paid attention to anyone else, especially Ingoldo.

Ingalaurë shrugged. "I don’t know, but I noticed that he is the only person around here who isn’t weeping or sighing or sitting morosely in a corner." Ingalaurë cast him a shrewd look.

"Including you?" Valandur enquired, refusing to take the bait.

"And you," Ingalaurë came back with a defiant grin.

Valandur nodded. "Too true," he admitted with a rueful smile. "So, tell me what struck you about your uncle."

"Oh, you know, everyone else is sitting around doing much of nothing. Ammë can barely stir herself from her... um... I don’t even have a word for what she and others are doing," he ended with a snort of frustration.

"Neirê."

"What?"

"Neirê," Valandur repeated. "Or, at least, that is the word we had to describe the feeling of loss when someone disappeared into the darkness, taken by the Great Rider and never seen again."

"Neirê," Ingalaurë said, trying the word out. "It sounds a bit strange, not really Quenya."

Valandur nodded. "It is a word from the Before Time."

"Before Time? I’ve never heard of that."

"Oh well, few speak of it these days," Valandur explained. "Whenever you hear an Elf speak of the Before Time they usually mean before Lord Oromë found us, when we were still innocent of the wide world and we had not yet left Cuiviénen. Our language has evolved over the yéni since those days. Neirê is Common Eldarin, the language we spoke before the Great Migration. I’ve not heard that word spoken in all the time we’ve lived in Aman. I’m surprised I even remember it."

"Still sounds a bit strange, though," Ingalaurë said again, though he was smiling when he said it.

Valandur snorted. "If you want to render it into a more modern mode, I suppose nyérë would do."

Ingalaurë nodded. "Anyway, what I was going to say, is that Uncle Ingoldo seems to be less affected by... by grief than the rest of us. He seems almost... happy."

Valandur felt something cold steal over him at the ellon’s words. Ingoldo happy was not necessarily a good thing. Ingoldo in a towering rage or simply frustrated was much easier to handle. "Do you know the cause of his happiness?" he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

The younger son of Ingwë shrugged.

Valandur spent a couple of minutes contemplating the ellon’s words, trying to remember if he’d even seen Ingoldo since the Vanyar had returned home. In truth, he could not honestly say that he had and that disturbed him almost as much as Ingalaurë’s words did. He had obviously been neglecting his duties to Ingwë while the High King was away. He resisted a sigh, wondering when Ingwë would be returning. They had heard nothing from him and the Loremaster wondered if he and Ingwion were still in Valmar consulting with the Valar over this present calamity.

"Well, it is probably nothing," Valandur said, keeping his inner turmoil to himself. He forced himself to give the younger ellon a warm smile, "but I thank you for pointing it out to me. How are you handling all of this?"

Ingalaurë sighed. "I wish Atto were here, and Ingwion. I would feel a whole lot safer." Before Valandur could comment on that, Ingalaurë drained his cup and rose. "I had best see how Ammë and Indis are doing. I’m glad Findis is with them. She’s been a great comfort." Valandur nodded as he stood to see the ellon to the door.

"If you notice anything else concerning Ingoldo, please let me know," he said to the prince and Ingalaurë nodded, thanking him for the wine before heading away.

And now here he sat, going over the conversation with Ingalaurë, wondering what he should do, if anything. He hadn’t really been as attentive as he should have been. That last remark of Ingalaurë’s about Findis being a comfort to the queen reminded him that he had not seen his wife for some time now and, indeed, had not given her much thought as he struggled to come to terms with all that had happened of late. Some husband he was! He sighed, shaking his head. He would have to make an effort to seek her out, but first...

"Olórin," he said just above a whisper.

The scent of asëa aranion and rosemary filled the room and the Maia appeared before him, his expression graver than Valandur had ever seen it.

"This is not a good time, my friend," Olórin said before Valandur could properly greet him.

"No, it is not," Valandur said with a stiff nod, "but I am sitting here in the dark, and I need answers."

Olórin raised an eyebrow. "It doesn’t look too dark here, Valandur," he said nodding towards the various candles lighting the room.

"There is more than one kind of darkness," Valandur retorted, not in the mood for the Maia’s brand of levity. "Where is Ingwë? Why hasn’t he returned to Vanyamar where he belongs? I can appreciate him wanting to be with the Valar at this time but we need him here and we need him now."

"Peace, Valandur," Olórin said calmly. "Ingwë and Ingwion have gone to Tirion."

"Why, by all that’s holy, are they in Tirion!?" Valandur demanded angrily, throwing up his hands in disbelief. "He has a duty to his own people. Let the Noldor fend for themselves."

"Fëanáro has left Formenos and means to claim his atar’s crown," the Maia explained. "Ingwë went to Tirion to convince him to return to Formenos instead."

"Oh, this just gets better and better," the Loremaster exclaimed in disgust. "Ingwë is a fool if he thinks Fëanáro is going to listen to him."

"Perhaps," Olórin averred, "but apparently as High King he felt he had to try."

"And in the meantime, his own people suffer from lack of direction," Valandur snorted. "Elindis is in mourning and Ingoldo is up to something. This cannot go on. Are the Valar doing anything or are they still sitting there in the Máhanaxar wringing their hands?"

Olórin’s mild expression never changed, but something in his eyes warned Valandur that he might have stepped over the line, taking liberties where he oughtn’t. "My Masters are doing what they must," the Maia answered gravely. "More is at stake here than any of you Children realize."

Valandur scowled, not at all pleased by the reprimand.

"Is that all, Valandur?" Olórin asked. "I have duties of my own to fulfill."

"I apologize for monopolizing your time...." Valandur said stiffly.

"Peace, Valandur," Olórin said, raising a hand in admonishment. "We are all reeling from the shock of what has happened. The Valar are doing what they can, but in some matters their hands are tied, as are mine."

"I’m sorry," Valandur replied with a sigh. "I guess I’ve taken advantage of our friendship...."

"No, Child. You have nothing to apologize for," Olórin said in a more kindly voice. "Now, I must go. It has fallen to me to keep watch over the doings of the Noldor."

"Well, if you happen to see Ingwë, tell him from me that he’s needed here," Valandur said with a grim smile. "Let the Noldor deal with Fëanáro or not as they will. I doubt if they will appreciate Ingwë’s interference anyway."

"He is there on behalf of the Valar," Olórin pointed out.

"Then he’s wasting his time," Valandur retorted, "for I doubt not that Fëanáro cares nothing for what the Valar want. If he’s willing to defy the Valar he certainly is not going to listen to the High King."

Olórin bowed. "I must go," he said and then without another word he faded from Valandur’s view, the scent of asëa aranion and rosemary lingering in the air long after the Maia had gone. Valandur remained seated, staring at nothing in particular, still angry and frustrated, wondering if lighting a few more candles would dispel the darkness slowly smothering his fëa.

****

Ingalaurë had nearly reached the family sitting room where he knew his amillë, Findis and Indil were when Ingoldo came around the corner. Ingalaurë cursed his bad luck, knowing he would be unable to avoid his uncle.

"Ah, Nephew," Ingoldo said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Just the person I wanted to see."

"Uncle," Ingalaurë said, trying to keep the distaste and fear he was feeling from showing. "I was on my way to see Ammë and...."

"And that is what I wished to speak to you about," Ingoldo said. "Shall we?" He gestured towards a door that Ingalaurë knew led to a private audience chamber used by his parents for intimate gatherings with their nobles. He resisted a sigh as he nodded, allowing Ingoldo to take the lead.

Inside, all was dark, and Ingoldo took a moment to fish out a candle from a pouch and going back out into the corridor he lit it from one of the torches in a nearby sconce. Elindis had ordered torches lit throughout the palace and the sconces had been hastily put up. Ingalaurë was still unused to the flickering, uncertain light which the torches cast.

"I’ve gotten in the habit of carrying candle stubs around," the older ellon said as he returned, shielding his light as he went to the sideboard where a candelabrum sat. "Saves from having to deal with flint and tinder all the time."

While there had been continuous light from the Trees, during the times of Mingling, when the light was softer, it had become customary to light candles for greater illumination. Elindis had made sure that the palace was well stocked with them. "And a good thing, too," she had commented when they had returned to a dark city. The queen had instructed the guards to go house-to-house with supplies of candles in case someone was without. Ingalaurë was still not used to looking out onto the city and seeing pinpricks of light from windows, like so many stars fallen to earth.

"I’ll have to do the same," Ingalaurë said, grudgingly admiring his uncle’s initiative. "So what do you wish to discuss?"

Ingoldo turned and gave his nephew a sardonic look. "What do you think? The Vanyar are leaderless at a time when our people need a strong leader."

"Atar is a strong leader," Ingalaurë protested.

"The queen sits with her ladies and does nothing," Ingoldo went on as if he’d not heard his nephew’s words, " and the High King and his heir are missing...."

"I’m Atar’s heir as much as Ingwion," Ingalaurë exclaimed, becoming angry.

"I misspoke," Ingoldo said with a wave of his hand, dismissing Ingalaurë’s objections. "The High King and one of his heirs is missing and we have no idea when, if ever, they will return."

"What do you mean, if ever?" Ingalaurë whispered.

Ingoldo’s expression became calculating. "Rumor has it that Ingwë and Ingwion have gone to Tirion."

"Tirion? Why would they go there?" Ingalaurë tried to come up with plausible explanations in his own mind, but could not. Why would Atar go to Tirion? Surely the Noldor did not need him. Ñolofinwë could deal with whatever problems might arise. Atar was needed here in Vanyamar. In that much he and Ingoldo were in agreement.

Ingoldo shrugged. "Who knows?" he said ingenuously. "Yet, ever since this entire affair with Fëanáro it seems my brother is more interested in the well-being of the Noldor than of his own people."

"I don’t think that’s true," Ingalaurë retorted in defense of his atar, though there was a niggling doubt that perhaps it was. Ingwion had been living among the Noldor for some time. He had seen how much his twin had enjoyed the company of their cousins, especially Findaráto, and how well received he was by the Noldor in general. As far as he knew, Ingwion was still their atar’s ambassador to the court of Tirion. Perhaps Atar had gone to Tirion to make sure Ingwion was safe. He said as much to Ingoldo who scoffed at the idea.

"Your brother is no longer ambassador," he said. "The situation in Tirion has changed dramatically. I have it on good authority that Fëanáro has deserted Formenos and is heading for Tirion to claim Finwë’s crown before Ñolofinwë can. But now I’m thinking that Ingwë would like nothing more than to claim the crown of the Noldor for himself."

Ingalaurë stared at his uncle in shock. "Whyever would he do that?" he demanded. "Atar would never do that. Oh, I have no doubt that he would dearly love to keep Fëanáro from taking the crown, for he deserves it not, but he would simply hand it over to Ñolofinwë as the next in line for the throne." That, he realized with growing confidence, made more sense than Ingoldo’s suggestion.

His uncle shrugged, obviously not willing to agree. "The fact remains, Nephew, that we of Vanyamar are without a king, for our king," and the way he said the word made it sound like an insult to Ingalaurë’s ears, "is far less interested in succoring his own people and more interested in playing king-maker among the Noldor. This is the second time the king has deserted...."

"Atar never deserted us!" Ingalaurë proclaimed, growing more angry by the minute. "He returned then and he’ll return now. In the meantime, I think you should spend less time complaining and more time helping. I overheard Atar warn you not to cause trouble, Uncle. You had best heed that warning."

"I have no intention of causing trouble," Ingoldo replied, scowling darkly at the younger ellon. "My point is this: who will lead us until Ingwë returns?"

"Ammë...."

"Hasn’t stirred from her rooms since we returned," Ingoldo pointed out. "Someone has to take over the reins of government or we will simply fall into further confusion and chaos."

"And I suppose that someone will be you?" Ingalaurë asked, lifting an eyebrow in defiance.

"No, actually, I think you should be the one to take over," Ingoldo retorted mildly, his eyes glittering darkly in the fitful candlelight with an emotion Ingalaurë could put no name to. "With my help of course," his uncle added and the words sent a frisson of fear and foreboding down Ingalaurë’s spine.

"I think you speak treason, Uncle," he said softly.

Ingoldo shook his head. "I speak practicalities. If Elindis refuses to rule or simply cannot do so, then it behooves the two of us to do so instead. Your atar will not thank you if he returns to find Vanyamar in shambles and you could have done something to prevent it but did not out of a false sense of scruples. These dark times call for harsh measures. The people will start to panic soon when the enormity of what has happened has finally hit them. Will you sit here by your ammë and do nothing when that happens?"

"Ammë won’t let it happen," Ingalaurë said coldly. "And I will indeed be by her side, helping her as befits a dutiful son and heir. Excuse me, I must go." He headed for the door, not even bothering to give Ingoldo a bow which propriety would normally demand.

"Mahalmacundo."

The sound of his amilessë on Ingoldo’s lips stopped Ingalaurë cold. He turned to face his uncle whose expression was unreadable.

"Why do you call me that?" Ingalaurë demanded.

"It is your name, is it not?" Ingoldo retorted. "But more important, it is also your destiny."

"Wh-what do you mean, my destiny?" Ingalaurë asked hesitantly. He told himself he should just leave, ignore whatever his uncle had to say, yet the dreams he had been having lately surfaced and the old doubts began to rise again.

"Your ammë named you ‘throne guardian’," Ingoldo replied. "Is this not a time when the throne should be guarded?"

"Guarded against what?"

"Guarded for whom, you mean," Ingoldo said. "I think it is your destiny to guard the High King’s throne by sitting in it yourself... until such time as Ingwë deigns to return to us... if he ever does."

A sick cold feeling settled in Ingalaurë’s stomach and he wondered if he would be violently ill. "Can you doubt that he will return... and Ingwion?"

"And then you will be just the spare heir all over again," Ingoldo rejoined, his expression bland. "I still think there was a mix up when you and your brother were born. No proof, of course, but still, I’ve always had my doubts."

Ingalaurë just stared at his uncle, feeling sick, the images of his dreams coming to the fore. Ruthlessly he mentally shoved them away, refusing to listen to anymore of Ingoldo’s lies. They had to be lies, he insisted to himself. Valandur would never lie to him. And yet....

"I have to go," he whispered, fumbling for the doorknob. He tried to make a dignified retreat, but he knew that in fact he was simply running away. From the truth? He couldn’t say. He only knew that he feared he was falling into a darkness that no amount of candlelight would expunge and that darkness had a name. He paused as he turned a corner, leaning against the wall, feeling drained and spent.

"Atto, please come home," he whispered. "Please. I need you and I’m afraid...."

He stopped, shaking his head. He had to cease this negativism. There was nothing to fear. Ingoldo was full of blather and nothing more. What he had to do was to convince his ammë to cease her mourning and be the queen that their people needed, that he needed. For if she would not take up her duties as queen, Ingalaurë feared that Ingoldo would try something.

"He may even so," he said aloud, feeling a sense of defeat. Mahalmacundo. Was he truly meant to guard the High King’s throne, keep it safe for when his atar returned? If so, then how? If he could not convince ammë....

Take the throne for himself, if only to keep Ingoldo from it?

That thought both scared and intrigued him as he considered its implications. He continued his way to the family sitting room, determined to confront his ammë and convince her to put aside grief for the well-being of their people. Only her willingness to do so, in his mind, would stand in the way of either forcing Ingoldo to act, or forcing him to, and either option, he believed, boded ill for them all.

****

Neirê: Common Elvish form which became nyérë in Quenya, meaning ‘grief, sorrow’, and by extension, ‘mourning’.

Note: According to Tolkien’s Timeline of the Silmarillion, the Great Migration of the Elves — or more specifically, of the Vanyar and Noldor — from Cuiviénen to Aman took twenty-seven Valian years or 258.66 solar years.