Is anyone wondering what happened to Earendil's parents? That will be answered soon.
2. The Castaways
Lord Eonwe was herald of the King of the Valar and stern in his demeanour. He reminded Mornel of the High King Ingwe in a way. Mornel almost wished it had been her friend Olorin who had been assigned to take them to Earendil. Amarie had followed her husband to meet with the Maia, intending to volunteer her services to their guest's lady-wife. However, at a look from the imposing Eonwe, all she could manage was a stuttering apology before a hasty departure.
The Maia took the elves to a house on the outskirts of Valmar guarded by two Vanyar elves bearing spears. Recognizing Eonwe, the pair proudly saluted.
"Has our guest arisen?" Eonwe queried.
"Aye, he did not retire to his room after he supped," one of the guards replied warily. "My Lord, is he as dangerous as His Majesty Ingwe claims? He seems but a child in years…"
"Dangerous? Nay, not in the least," Eonwe gave a low chuckle. His stern demeanour slipped for a moment. "Indeed he is a mere child compared to us. Now announce our arrival to him."
The figure that rose from the chair by the fireplace on their entry into the parlour was like an elf in form and fairness. Yet there was something different about him. Half-elven, her uncle had described their guest. Then it struck her – the ears peeking out from his tangled golden mop of hair. Instead of pointed tips, they were rounded. Perhaps that was a sign of his Mannish heritage.
"They took away my dirk and refused to let me go to my crew!" Earendil shouted in Sindarin. "Why are we wasting time here when the Valar have already promised…" Their guest was pacing like a caged tiger – one of those striped beasts of southern Aman whose skins were treasured by certain Avari for the danger in hunting one. The guards were right. Despite his mature stature, he was young by Eldar standards. There were dark circles around his eyes and his fingers raked agitatedly through the tangled ends of his shoulder-length hair. The cares of his quest still weighed heavily on him. He had changed his travel-worn garments for clean ones provided by his Vanyar hosts but they did not fit him in the least. The tunic had been taken in at the waist with a belt. The sleeves had likewise been rolled up to his elbows.
"Curb your temper, lest we think you of Feanaro's line instead of Nolofinwe's," Eonwe chided in Quenya. Earendil scowled fiercely at the Maia. Mornel glanced about the sparsely-furnished room. Apart from the chair Earendil had been occupying, there were two wooden chairs and a small table on which a breakfast tray lay untouched. The dried sauce stain on the floor suggested Earendil had not enjoyed his supper as much as the guards would suggest.
"Mae govannen, Earendil," Finrod greeted him in Sindarin with one of his disarming smiles. "You have come a long way from Beleriand. Allow me to introduce ourselves… This stubborn mule here is Lord Eonwe, the esteemed herald of the mighty Lord Manwe. This is my cousin Lady Mornel… who is also your kinswoman through the House of Finwe. I am Prince Findarato Ingoldo of Tirion-on-Tuna, though you might know me better as Finrod Felagund…"
Lord Eonwe gave a scandalized look at being described as a mule and left the room in a huff. An awed look came over Earendil's face and he stopped his pacing. Mornel was reminded once more of an elfling. Finrod had explained in his journals that Mannish children matured far sooner physically than elflings even though elflings attain their intellectual maturity sooner.
"Finrod Felagund? The Finrod Felagund who partook in the Quest for the Silmaril?"
"Well, yes…" Finrod flushed crimson. He knew the tale of Beren and Luthien had been cemented as legend in Beleriand, along with his ill-fated part in the quest. Bards in Aman had latched onto the tale once he recorded it in the archives and honoured him with odes to his courage to his immense embarrassment. He would rather have Mornel's satiric ballad on him getting mobbed by a pack of Snowdrop's puppies over a constant reminder of how badly the quest went for him and his comrades.
"Rest now, Earendil. If not, eat," Mornel urged calmly. "There is much we need to discuss and prepare for before embarking on war against Morgoth. You will need your strength. Rest assured your crew will be cared for. Your wife will be joining you…"
"Elwing?" Earendil allowed Mornel to settle him into an armchair and rest the breakfast tray in his lap. "I do not know… have my parents not arrived yet in Valinor? They put to sea many years past…" He took the goblet of water Mornel had poured out and offered him. She then pulled up the remaining chairs beside the fireplace so that they might speak at length in comfort.
"Alas, it would seem I was the only one of the Exiles released from Mandos and the Valar have forbidden that any return across the sea from Beleriand," Finrod shook his head sadly. When Valinor was hidden, the Valar had sent mighty tempests to sink any vessel which dare venture westward. Those who survived the tempests were than entrapped by thick fog and enchanted isles on which they would fall into a lasting slumber and thus slip into Mandos. The elves of Tol Eressea spoke of the strange mist-shrouded isles to the east of their island to which they were forbidden to venture by Ulmo's decree.
On the sea off Tol Eressea…
"I stand corrected – it is a rotten idea letting you two aboard a ship so soon…" Olwe remarked as his two recently re-embodied sons leaned over the side losing their stomach contents. He had been reluctant but his sons had clamoured so much to be allowed to sail with them on this errand of Lord Ulmo's.
"It's the waves," Raumeldo protested. He had been the Master of Ships in his first life and his current bout of seasickness was a stinging blow to his pride. His elder brother Eareldo was too sick to reply.
"What waves, brother? There is nary a white-cap in sight. Shall I call Lord Osse over?" Earlindo called out from where he was steering.
"NO!" the older princes yelled before losing the rest of their breakfast over the side. Newly-returned elves were delicate. It had taken two cycles of the sun before Earlindo was able to get on a boat in harbour without turning green in the face. His older sons were barely a fortnight back from Lorien. Ah well, at least the fish would feed well. Olwe shrugged.
In the waves some distance from the craft, Osse frowned as he splashed about. He was sure they left them here… but with the enchanted islands, one could not be sure they remained where you last left one.
"Sure this is the correct one, dearest?" Uinen asked. Though the fog had lifted and the isles ceased their constant movement, it was hard to find what they sought. Twice they had landed on an island to find the rotten hull of a ship and the bleached bones of its occupants on the sand. Such was the fate of the few expeditions from Gondolin that survived Osse's storms. Only one elf had been spared by Lord Ulmo for a greater Doom. Voronwe Aranwion now boarded at the harbourmaster's house with his crewmates until alternative lodgings could be found for them.
The island rose from the waves like an emerald. King Olwe wondered if it had been the same island his law-son and daughter had been intentionally marooned on so long ago. The dried timbers of a ship littered the shore as they approached but there was something orderly about the way they were propped up. There was cry of joy and a blond figure emerged from behind the crude shelter waving her shawl. Barefoot, she ran to meet their rescuers.
Idril knew their tribulations were at an end when the white sail neared them. It seemed such a long time ago that she and her husband gave in to his sea-longing and sailed westwards, braving storms only to land on this isle and fall almost instantly into an enchanted slumber. When she awoke, she was aware that time had slipped past them by the sorry state of their once-proud vessel. She had feared for her spouse. In his fifty-third year, Tuor had been succumbing to the mortal fate of aging when they sailed. Yet Tuor was now seemingly untouched by the passing of time and Idril was thankful for it. One of her worst fears was awaking to her husband dead of old age beside her. Tuor had set off to explore the rocky shore and find some food and fresh water. He promptly slipped on some seaweed and broke his leg. It was a miracle Idril managed to help him back to their crude shelter. He now rested in the shade with a crude splint applied to his wounded leg.
"Itarille, how you have grown!" Olwe exclaimed as he embraced the nis he last saw as an elfling when she visited Alqualonde with her parents so many yeni past.
"Your Majesty, Prince Earlindo," she greeted her rescuers in halting Quenya. The language of the Sindar had all but replaced Quenya for daily use in Beleriand, even in hidden Gondolin. Quenya had slowly become a formal language used solely for courtly rites and ceremonies despite her father's efforts to keep their language intact. Few of those born and raised in Gondolin spoke fluent Quenya. Idril herself had little cause to use Quenya after Gondolin fell.
The Second-born? Earlindo watched their wounded passenger with undisguised curiosity. He had heard Finrod speak of the race of Man and their frailties. Their flame burned bright but briefly, barely a blink of an eye to the Eldar. Idril sat beside her husband, holding his hand and pointing out the white walls of Alqualonde as they approached. It was a blessing both his brothers were still seasick or they might have made some thoughtless comments about Tuor's already greying beard and rounded ear-tips. Well, mostly round. Tuor bore the scars of a warrior's life and one of his ears had been cropped at the top in a too-close encounter with a blade. The stricken princes lay some arms' length from Tuor's stretcher, moaning in their shared misery.
Little Itarille had blossomed despite the hardships she would had faced in Beleriand, including the tragic loss of her amil. Earlindo recalled seeing her as a cheerful elfling dancing barefoot on the sand by Laurelin's light. Now she was both a wife and mother. Tuor was young by Eldar standards but old by the reckoning of his race. It would be a sad time for Idril when her beloved husband finally succumbed to his mortal fate. The poor nis might even fade from her grief.
"It's too cruel a fate," Earlindo murmured as he watched his father speaking with Idril, informing her of her son's appeal to the Valar and their decision.
"What is cruel, my prince?" Uinen called from where she was leaping alongside the vessel like the dolphin whose form she had adopted.
"Itarille's husband is mortal and his life will soon burn out leaving her behind to mourn…"
"Oh my prince! Never you fret!" Uinen giggled. "Your kind heart commends you but I best leave dear Olorin to break the news." The Maia had declined to join them on their expedition in favour of a spicy pot of hot mussels on the quay.
"You fool, think you not that his bones would be bleaching on the sand by now if he had remained bound to the mortal fate?" Osse scoffed as he swam close to the vessel, causing it to rock alarmingly. Olwe shouted a warning and Earlindo hastened to steady the craft lest it capsized. The Maiar couple leapt into the air – Uinen gracefully and her spouse landing with a splash worthy of a breaching whale. The pair bade their goodbyes and swam off. They had reached the gateway to the harbour where Olorin stood waiting on the docks.
Author's Notes:
Mae govannen – well met (Sindarin greeting).
Finrod is using informal Sindarin to put Earendil more at ease. He also introduced Mornel as his kinswoman but did not mention her ties to the Feanorions at this point.
After the Ban on Quenya, Sindarin would have become the lingua franca of the Beleriand elves, even the Noldor Exiles. Earendil was a child when Gondolin fell and the refugees joined the survivors from Doriath at the Havens of Sirion. He would have been more at ease with Sindarin. Tuor was not offered a choice to be counted among the Elves or remain mortal. The Valar, or rather Eru, made the decision to have him counted among the Elves with the benefits of immortality, probably for Idril's sake.