I own nothing.
She gets on the latest ship heading east out of Tol Eressëa. Seeing Númenor has taken hold of most of the Eldar as a thing that must be done at least once, and Nerdanel finds the ship quite full, not just with Falmari, but with Noldor and Vanyar and even some of the Sindar as well. I suppose I had best get used to sleeping in close quarters for the next couple of weeks, she thinks resignedly. And I was so looking forward to a quiet trip too.
Telpalma and Ilmanis would not accompany her. Telpalma says that she has too much work to do, a sentiment Nerdanel can sympathize with—it took her weeks to arrange her own work schedule so that she could make a long voyage over the sea and not come back to find everything in shambles. Ilmanis did not give her reasoning for staying in Tirion, but if Nerdanel had to guess, she might guess that Ilmanis had quite enough of foreign lands during the First Age. It could always be something else, though; it's not as though Ilmanis confides in many.
As for herself…
Nerdanel is curious.
She lies awake on her bunk, listening to the push and pull of the ocean outside, listening to the rise and fall of the breathing of many sleeping Eldar in the ship. Isil has waxed to rotundity and casts its rays through the portholes; a silver band of light falls across Nerdanel's midsection. She lies awake, thinking of distant lands.
That had been the chief yearning of her childhood, to see distant lands. As a girl, Nerdanel had journeyed for and wide across the plains, forests, and mountains of the Undying Lands, alone or with Fëanáro. She had seen it all, the golden pastures of Yavanna, the mighty southern mountain Hyamentir, Alqualondë, Taniquetil, the spider-haunted shores of Avathar. In her unquenchable curiosity, Nerdanel had seen it all.
But what I did not realize at the time was how much smaller, how much more mundane and ordinary the world would seem, once I had seen all of it. Nerdanel bites back a sigh. I did not realize how easy it was to lose all sense of wonder. If I had, would I have been so eager to see everything that Aman had to offer?
And when I was offered the chance to see more, to go across the Sea and look upon the wide, unknown lands of the east, I balked.
The night reminds her of him.
What did you say to me, Fëanáro, before you left? I came to you and found you fell and fey, but with a sliver of your old self hidden in within all of that. It always hurt me to see traces of the way you used to be.
I remember. You said: "Have you not always longed to lay eyes on lands you have never seen? You would stay here, under the Valar's thumbs? You are not the person I knew if you would consent to that!"
Yes, the night reminds her of Fëanáro. That was the last time she saw him, in unnatural blighted darkness, the shadows falling all around his face and seeping under his skin. This was the last poison, the thing that finally poisoned him for good in mind and heart and tongue.
But Nerdanel is not doing this for Fëanáro. Fëanáro has been dead for well over a thousand years, and it is beyond even his power to berate her now. Nerdanel does this for herself. She is curious to see Númenor, the Land of Gift that the Valar raised out of the wide sea, a place for the faithful among the Atani to live now that Beleriand has sank. Now that the Valar have set it to crumble and drown, along with all those who were still there, without regard for whether they were the servants of Moringotto or the innocent Quendi and Atani of that land. Nerdanel can't pretend that that doesn't bother her.
Nerdanel has heard the stories of those who have gone to Númenor. They marvel at a wondrous land, a land so akin to Aman, and yet so strange. They marvel at the people, the Atani who are so akin to the Eldar, and yet so strange. It is a beautiful place, filled with music and wisdom. It is worth seeing, even if only once.
So she will see it too, curious to see if Númenor lives up to its reputation, to see if it is truly as wondrous a place as the Eldar consider it.
-0-0-0-
They make port in the Bay of Eldanna, at the Haven of Eldalondë, and the first thing Nerdanel notices when her feet are on dry land again is the fragrance of the air.
For weeks now, Nerdanel has become accustomed, perhaps too accustomed, to the smells of the Sea. Fish and hot sunlight, and of course, the ubiquitous salt. The odor of brine was inescapable, no matter where you went on the ship, above or below the deck. And indeed, it is strong here as well, but there are other smells that overlay it, nearly drowning it out as she moves away from the quays.
Vardarianna and lairelossë and yavannamírë and likely other trees besides. All around Nerdanel is the perfume of the fragrant trees of Aman. All around her are those very trees, planted in courtyards or parks or in front of public buildings.
"Do these trees grow everywhere?" she asks an Atan passing by her in the street.
"No, Lady," he responds with a respectful bow. Nerdanel does not know if the Atani respond in such a way to all the Eldar, or if something about her, her sheer height or stature has triggered such a response. "They grow only in the Nísimaldar of Andustar."
Interesting. It does indeed seem as though Nerdanel has exploring to do.
-0-0-0-
And she does travel, all across the land of Númenor. Across the Andustar, through the fragrant woods of the Nísimaldar. The beauty of the land is truly remarkable—Nerdanel does not think that she has ever seen so many malinorni in once place. Many of the visiting Eldar delight in this region of the island. Even more of those who have chosen to stay in Númenor for good choose to dwell under the trees of Aman. That amazes Nerdanel, the mixing between the Eldar and the Atani in this land.
The Atani (or Edain, as they prefer to be called, and so Nerdanel calls them; she knows all too well what can arise from not respecting one's chose of name) are a strange lot to her eyes. Or perhaps they are so strange to her because they are so new a sight to her, but either way they seem to her as though a sculpture left unfinished without the finishing touches. You can not quite tell what's been left out, but there is a subtle sense of wrongness about them.
The Edain are indeed very similar to the Eldar in many ways. With their tall stature, predominantly dark hair and gray or bluish eyes, Nerdanel looks at them and is put into mind of her own kin, the Noldor. Their first King, Elros Tar-Minyatur, was supposed to be the son of a Noldo (And the foster-son of her second-born, her still-lost singer son, but Nerdanel tries not to think of that). In their habits, they are rather like the Noldor as well. They possess a great love of lore and knowledge and craftsmanship. However, with the proliferation of ship-building and the Edain's love of the stars, Nerdanel is reminded of the Falmari and the Vanyar as well. She tries to ignore the presence of swords and spears and knives.
But they still seem 'off.' Nerdanel still can not put her finger on what it is that is so different, but no matter how much an Adan might look like an Elda, all she has to do is look at that Adan to tell that they are not one. Perhaps it is the undying air of youth about them. These people are so young, without the cares, grief and grudges of immortality. No Elda escapes the burden of ever-lasting life, except by an early death. That is the only way.
They are so young, their lives so fleeting, and yet so many of Nerdanel's people have chosen to mix with them.
Everywhere she went, it seemed, in Eldalondë and Andúnië, little half-Elven (or Peredhil, as they are called here, a word from the Sindarin tongue) children were playing in the streets, in the company of Edain or Eldarin children. Twin births seems to be quite common among Peredhil, more common than it is among Edain or Eldar, and it hurt her, hurt more than Nerdanel expected it would, to see little twins playing in the streets.
It seems strange to her that her people would marry those of the Edain, and have children with them. "But do you not fear the grief that would come, when your wife would die? Do you not fear that perhaps your children will choose to be counted as Edain and not Eldar, and that you will lose them as well?" she had asked one.
"We do not dwell on grief here," he replied. "We set our minds to the present."
Nerdanel sets out north out of Andustar after a week. There are many reasons for her leaving—it is too familiar to Aman, and not enough to satisfy her curiosity; the sight of little half-Elven twins playing in the streets reminds her too much of Aman, and hurts like a splinter driven beneath her fingernails. She can travel here unnoticed, unremarked-upon. In Aman, her copper-red hair is a dead giveaway as to her identity; it is only certain members of the line of Mahtan, after all, who possess it. Here, however, while red hair is not common among the Edain, it is not unheard of either, and no one ever looks at a red-haired nís wandering the countryside and puts two and two together. It is a relief, in a way.
As she walks further north, the summer ripens and the rains come, leaving Nerdanel often seeking shelter beneath the trees or in caves or the home of some farmer, over-awed by the sight of this tall Elda standing outside their door, even soaked to the skin as she is. They ask her much of Aman, the farmers of the Andustar. Nerdanel would be lying if she said that she was not somewhat succinct in her answers, for truth be told she does not wish for someone to realize her identity and start to ask her questions about her more notable relations. But as much as she tries to hide it…
"Nerdanel?" the tiny girl asks. "You are Fëanor's wife!" she exclaims, overly excited.
Nerdanel's face goes taut and the girl's mother hisses, "Hush, Linit."
Further north, and the land is not so fertile anymore, but instead rocky and more populated with fir trees than with people, until finally, Nerdanel reaches the boundaries of the Forostar.
The Forostar is a land of moors and cliffs, dotted sparsely with firs and larches, haunted by eagles. Apart from Ondosto near the stone-quarries, the only town of any real size is the town at the base of Sorontil, one of the mountains of Númenor, and that town, Nerdanel gets the impression, exists only because of the tower the Crown Prince has built to observe the motions of the stars across the heavens. The weather grows cold quickly, more quickly than it usually would, the locals tell her. But Nerdanel resolves that she will not stop until the first snows fall, and she moves on.
Nerdanel finds the farmlands of the Orrostar quiet with little to recommend them beyond the fact that the people are polite and friendly. She walks the coastlines, winces at the bitter autumn winds, and though there is little in the way of snow she eventually surrenders to the need for warmth and winters in the eastern port of Rómenna, in what is known as the Arandor, the King's Land. Here Nerdanel plies her trade in order to earn money to sustain her for the eventual journey back to Eldalondë.
Rómenna is a different sort of place than Eldalondë or Andúnië. It is a new, burgeoning port and shipyard, for one, not the well-established city that Eldalondë or Andúnië both are. There are some of the Eldar here, but significantly less than on the western coast of Númenor, and they seem to be treated more as creatures of legend than as flesh and blood people. Nerdanel learns to dislike it. She learns to dislike being looked at as though the Edain here expect her to start performing magic at any moment. She learns to dislike the way crowds part when she steps into the street.
Most of all, Nerdanel learns to dislike the way some of the Edain look at her, look at her face, and express disbelief, either with their tongues or with their eyes, that she could really be an Elda. She feels as though she is a young girl, all too aware that she is not as pretty as the other girls of Tirion, all too aware of her long, bony limbs, her large hands, her sharp face and ruddy cheeks. Long has it been since she agonized over her looks, over her plain face and ungainly body, but the looks she gets here put her back to her childhood, back to those anxious days. She's happy when the weather warms and she can keep on her wandering, away from Rómenna.
Nerdanel travels inland first instead of heading down around the coast. Armenelos the capital she skirts around; she sees it from afar and has a sense of foreboding, of the same sort of thing happening there as did in Rómenna. The Meneltarma she skirts around as well. Nerdanel has heard tell of the mountain, of its sacred nature, but she knows very well that if one wishes to seek the spirit of Ilúvatar, your location will not make a difference.
She wanders the plantations and white beaches of the Hyarrostar, running her fingers over the blossoms of the laurinquë. The mountains, marshes and lush vineyards of the Hyarnustar. The shepherd's pastures in the Emerië.
And then in late spring, she is back in the Nísimaldar in the Andustar, grappling with a strange sadness that has been overtaking her for well nigh a year.
-0-0-0-
It is evening, the sky purpling about the western horizon, like a wine stain on blue cloth. The yavannamírë is in full bloom, its pale pink blossoms glistening against the light of the setting Sun. In a month or two, those blossoms will give way to scarlet globed fruit, very tart, and yet very sweet as well—one of Nerdanel's favorite snacks from her childhood.
Nerdanel leans back against the massive trunk of a malinornë, twists a spring of iridescent golden blossoms in her hand, and sighs heavily.
She's leaving in the morning, having booked passage on a ship that will take her back to Tol Eressëa whence she came. Nerdanel imagines that her daughters-in-law will be relieved to see her, considering she's been gone for far longer than she had told them she would be. But they are grown nissi, the both of them, and can look after themselves, can look after each other, have had to for a very long time. Telpalma and Ilmanis will have been fine; Nerdanel is sure of that. In truth, they are not really what is on her mind.
What a strange place this is. Like home, and then not. I can wander this forest for hours and feel as though I am home, but the moment I encounter a stranger, I know that I am not. The people are not as they are in Aman. The Edain are not Eldar, and there are plenty here trapped between both worlds, doomed to watch loved ones die, or die themselves.
What a strange place this is.
What a strange and fascinating place Endóre must be.
Nerdanel knows the law that the Valar have set forth. The Eldar of Aman may travel to Númenor, back and forth freely as they will. They may not, however, sail east beyond the land of Númenor, into the strange lands of Endóre. They may not do that, no matter what the reasoning as to why they should. To ignore the decree of the Valar is to be no better than Fëanáro, who deliberately defied the will of the Valar. Nerdanel may not see Endóre.
But she wants to. She want to see those lands beyond. There are places to see, certain people to look for, so much to learn. Númenor is only the tip of the iceberg of all that she has never seen. For better or worse, coming here has re-awoken in Nerdanel all her old desire to travel and lay eyes on all the regions of the world. But before, her world was confined to Aman, and was no larger than that. Now, she has had a taste of the wider world, and understands at last the desires of her husband, her brother and sister by marriage, her children, nieces and nephews.
She wants to. And knows she can not.
It does not matter what Fëanáro believed of her in the end. Nerdanel has never been the blindly obedient servant of the Valar. But she knows what happened to the last who traveled to Endóre in defiance of the Valar. Nerdanel is no fool. She will not bring that fate down upon herself. She has seen where it leads. So she will leave tomorrow morning. And for tonight, Nerdanel sits beneath the malinorni, and wonders about those places she will never see.
From a great distance, perhaps so far as the shores of the Andustar, there comes a faint strain of song on the night wind. Nerdanel turns her gaze westward and listens. The voice is faintly familiar, may have been one of the singers she heard the last time she was here, for there are many. The singer is too far off to really make out the quality of his voice, but Nerdanel knows the song he sings. She knows it all too well, has heard it and others like it sung often in Númenor.
Nerdanel is no great singer. She can hold a tune, but there is no one who would call her voice beautiful. All the same, she lifts her voice up in song with the singer's, and lets the words remind her of all the reasons she can't stay.
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Moringotto—Morgoth
Falmari—those among the Teleri who completed the journey to Aman; the name is derived from the Quenya falma, '[crested] wave.'
Eldar—the Elves of the three Kindreds, Noldor, Vanyar and Teleri (Sindar are included, under the Teleri).
Isil—the Moon (Quenya)
Atani—Men (singular: Atan) (Quenya)
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)
Vardarianna—one of the fragrant evergreen trees brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa
Lairelossë—'summer-snow-white'; one of the fragrant evergreen trees brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa
Yavannamírë—'Jewel of Yavanna', a fragrant evergreen tree with scarlet fruit, brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa
Nísimaldar—'Fragrant Trees'; a region of Númenor in Andustar, near Eldalondë, where many fragrant trees grow
Andustar—The western promontory of Númenor
Malinorni—the Quenya form of mellyrn (singular: malinornë)
Edain—Men, especially those men who fought on the side of the Valar in the War of Wrath (singular: Adan) (Sindarin)
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)
Forostar—The northern promontory of Númenor
Orrostar—The eastern promontory of Númenor
Arandor—'The King's Land'; a region of the Mittalmar (the inland) in Númenor, almost landlocked except for the place where it meets the sea at Rómenna
Hyarrostar—The southeast promontory of Númenor
Hyarnustar—The southwest promontory of Númenor
Emerië—a region in the Mittalmar devoted mainly to sheep-herding.
Laurinquë—a tree with golden flowers that grow in long-hanging clusters; erroneously believed to be a descendant of Laurelin
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)