I own nothing.
Taniquetil is locked in a flurry of activity, and has been for months. The call has gone out; the Valar call the Calaquendi to come to the aid of their beleaguered kin on the other side of the sea, and to throw down the Enemy. Herself, Amarië can not help but notice that the Valar certainly have changed their tune, from the silence and later condemnation of the Exiles' flight that they expressed more than five hundred years ago. She notices the bitterness in her thoughts as well, and is surprised at and a little ashamed of herself, but she can not deny it. She can only do what her heart tells her to do.
No one is to be conscripted; no one is to be forced to go over the sea and join the fight against the Enemy. Ingwë himself has reportedly refused to leave his city, and Amarië knows this rumor to be true—he confided as much to his sister, while Amarië herself was present. But all the same, Taniquetil is readying itself to be nigh-emptied of its inhabitants, and from what Amarië understands, so too is Tirion. More so than Tirion was already emptied, that is.
Swords and spears are being constructed even as Amarië breathes the spring air, more so even than the Noldor made during the days of their unrest when it seemed that they might turn upon each other. Grain, cured fruits and vegetables, cured meat as they have it is being set aside as rations. The cobblers are having a field day as well, as the demand for stiff, sturdy boots skyrockets.
The bells no longer ring; for all that Taniquetil is convinced of the righteousness of their cause, a somber silence has fallen over the city on the mountainside. The Vanyar are reflecting, you see, pondering their futures, their choices, the idea of going over the sea, one last time.
Amarië has reflected. She has pondered. She has already decided.
"I will not try to stop you."
That this is the first thing Indis says when Amarië informs her of her decision is, Amarië will admit, reassuring, though the look on her mistress's face is anything but. Indis's face is creased in worry, starting to grow pale. "But Amarië, have you really considered what you are doing?"
Sitting across the sitting room table from her, Amarië nods firmly. "Yes, Highness, I have. I will not fight; I do not think I have the strength, nor any talent for it. As you know, I have some skill with herb lore, and I have attached myself to the healer Fimbalda and the apothecary Finië. We will give succor to the wounded." Amarië does not say that the idea of having blood on her hands, either the blood of Orcs or that of Quendi or Atani corrupted to the Enemy's service makes her skin crawl.
Indis squeezes her eyes shut and draws a deep breath. "Well, I am glad that you will at least not be in as much danger of being killed as the soldiers. Have you considered what you are doing in going across the sea with the Host?"
Again, Amarië gives a prompt response. "Yes, Highness. Many in my family are leaving as well. All of my sisters' husbands; Thorondis as well. Most of my sisters' children are making preparations, as are my uncle, my aunts, and many of my cousins, and so is my mother's father."
At this, Indis stares at her sharply. "Niron is leaving?"
"Yes, Highness."
"That's…" Indis shakes her head and stares out the window. "I didn't expect that," she mutters to herself. "I know your grandfather. I would not have thought that Niron would wish to return to Endóre for any reason, let alone to do battle."
Amarië had not been expecting it either. Though she knows that her grandfather for who he is, though she knows that Niron bore arms in Endóre, by the shores of Cuiviénen and on the perilous journey to Aman, she had not been expecting him to volunteer to join the host of the Valar. The sword in his bedchamber has sat idle for untold centuries, and Amarië can not imagine him wielding it. Indeed, he will not be wielding it; it has been deemed too crude compared to what sword-smiths can devise today, and he has been given a new sword, bright and steely and, in Niron's words, "utterly soulless."
"Are you aware of the danger that you will face, even away from the battlefield?" Indis asks, effectively drawing Amarië away from her contemplations. "Let me tell you, from experience, that Endóre is fraught with danger." She grimaces, an odd, bitter expression coming over her face. "If you go to Endóre, before you return, you will see death reflected back in the eyes of your fellows. You will stare death in the face. Are you prepared for that?"
She nods wordlessly. All of a sudden, the smell of the incense burning in the room makes Amarië feel a touch light-headed.
In truth, Amarië is not so sure that she is indeed ready for that. She has never looked death in the face, here in Aman. She has only heard of it. Heard of the deaths of many whom she knew and cared for, some whom she loved, a few whom she loved dearly. Amarië has lived a life insulated from death. The closest she has ever come to looking upon death is hearing the reports of the massacre at Alqualondë, and looking into Indis's face just after she returned from Finwë's funeral. Then, Amarië could see death stamped on her face, the reflection of Finwë's passing, and it unnerved her, drove her to silence. But she has made up her mind, and Amarië tells herself that if and when she must face death, she will be able to do so without breaking down.
"Why do you wish to make the journey across the sea?"
Amarië stares at her, startled. Indis sits, tall and straight, in her cushioned chair, fixing Amarië in an almost grim stare. In her plain white dress, the afternoon light gleaming on the gold jewelry at her neck and wrists, she looks for one moment every inch the Queen of the Noldor, in a way she never did when Finwë was alive. Amarië wonders—if she had been able to look like this when she lived still in Tirion, as the High King of the Noldor's wife, would things have gone differently?
"Why does it matter, Highness?" Amarië asks quietly.
Still fixing Amarië in that remarkably piercing stare, Indis replies, "It does matter, Amarië." She smiles weakly, and the illusion of a queenly manner is broken. "It would give me some comfort to know that you have not decided to cross the sea without a strong desire motivating your decision."
Amarië hesitates.
One hundred years ago, fifty years ago, maybe even ten years ago, she would have said to Indis that it was on account of Findaráto that she was going to Endóre. Amarië can acknowledge that, and to be honest, the acknowledgement causes her some measure of shame. She feels as though that would be using Findaráto's ghost as a cloak, and that would not be fair to him. Not at all.
But this is not one hundred years ago, nor fifty, nor even ten. Amarië will admit that ten years ago, she had no desire to journey to Endóre, just as she had had no desire to leave home when Findaráto asked her to come with him during the Darkening. Ten years ago, Amarië saw Aman as the only place she ever needed, Taniquetil the only home she ever needed. She had no need to journey to Endóre, and frankly, the most charitable emotion she could dredge up towards the Exiles was that of ambivalence. Who were they to defy the will of the Valar? Who were they to break the peace of Aman? Who were they to reject paradise? Who were they to decide that the land they had left behind was now their home once again?
However, in the past ten or so years, Amarië has been doing some thinking. She's been doing a great deal of thinking. Who is she, exactly? Who is she to pass judgment on the actions of the Exiles? Yes, the Kinslaying at Alqualondë was nothing short of monstrous; Amarië doubts that she will find anyone in Aman willing to dispute that. But who is she to pass judgment on the Exiles' decision to leave Aman, and pass into Endóre?
When Fëanáro stood before the Noldor in the square of Tirion, when he pled his case before them, he made the argument that it was a mistake to leave behind their kin in Endóre, Tatyar and Nelyar alike. He argued that this was an act of abandonment, and that they should have stood with their kin, united. He said that their kin, left across the Sundering Sea, were in danger of the Enemy. How could they leave them to face the Enemy alone? Were they not a part of this world as well? Did they not have a duty to protect it, and their sundered kin?
Amarië wonders—when did she decide that she was not a part of this world? When did she decide that the state of affairs in Endóre did not concern her? Was it because she is a Vanya, and the Minyar left no full-blooded clan members behind in Endóre? Was that enough justification to turn her back on everyone suffering in Endóre under the Enemy's yoke?
Perhaps now, I have finally found the fire Fëanáro's words sparked in so many hearts. Is this folly, or have I come to term with my responsibilities to my kin?
I do not know. I can not say. I only know that I have made my decision, and that I must go. What I hope to find there, I can not say.
And perhaps she is at last a little curious about the lands she has never seen. Perhaps she wants to lay eyes on Endóre, for Elenwë, who never saw it, for Findaráto, who took his last breath looking upon it. She wants to see the land that her friend died trying to reach, the land whose mere mention sank hooks down into her beloved's heart. Does it measure to their expectations?
All of this Amarië relates to Indis, perhaps leaving a few things out—she doesn't mention Findaráto, for one. She speaks of what she views as her obligations, what she sees as something she must simply do.
Indis sits in silence for a long time, drawing deep breaths through her nose. Apart from the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, she looks as still as a statue, fit to turn to marble in the light. Finally, she opens her eyes and nods. "Alright," Indis says, her voice oddly brittle. "I can accept that. Now…" Her voice is injected with a false cheer that Amarië is all too familiar with, as Indis changes the subject. "You say that your niece is willing to replace you in my service while you are away?"
"Yes, Elvëandil's youngest, Morilindë, she has chosen to stay behind. She's quite young, about the age I was when I entered your service. She's quiet, and hard-working; I have impressed upon her what is required of her as your handmaiden."
"Oh, goodness," Indis sighs, the faint hint of a laugh in her voice. "I hope you haven't made me out to be a tyrant. I don't want the poor girl cowering whenever I speak to her."
Amarië laughs herself. "No, Highness. I have told Morilindë that you are kind-natured. It's just that I don't wish for her to embarrass herself." Or bring shame upon her position.
There is little doubt in Amarië's mind that Morilindë will carry out her duties as Indis's handmaiden with care, really. It's simply that the idea of her niece not fulfilling her duties properly, after the kindness (and frankly remarkable tolerance) Indis has shown Amarië, makes Amarië's heart drop in shame. Especially when she may not return at all.
As if Indis senses her thoughts, she reaches across the table and grasps Amarië's hand. "If you are truly intent on leaving, than I will pray for your safe return," she says earnestly. Her gaze is heavy as she stares at her handmaiden. "I will pray that you and I shall meet again."
Amarië nods. They will meet again, one way or another. But she knows, that when they do meet again, she will not be the same. For good or ill, she will not be the same.
Findaráto—Finrod
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Calaquendi—the Elves of Aman (singular: Calaquendë) (Quenya)
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)
Atani—Men (singular: Atan) (Quenya)
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Tatyar—the second clan of the Elves of Cuiviénen; the precursors of the Noldor, named for Tata and Tatië (the original Noldor)
Nelyar—the third clan of the Elves of Cuiviénen; the precursors of the Teleri (the Falmari/Lindar, the Sindar, the Nandor, the Silvan-folk and so on), named for Enel and Enelyë (the original Teleri)
Minyar—the first clan of the Elves of Cuiviénen; the precursors of the Vanyar, named for Imin and Iminyë (the original Vanyar)