12. City of Light

A waist-high fence with a signpost was all that separated Elrond's domain from the next one, odd as it might have seemed… and with it, the Ñoldor realm from the lands of Sindar. There was nothing one might have expected to find on the border between the two Elven nations that once had a fraught, to put it mildly, mutual history: no customs house, no border outpost, let alone the things usually encountered along the similar frontiers on Earth – like twelve-foot walls, minefields and hedges of razor wire.

That would explain, in a roundabout way, the reason why I was not missing my time among the Edain even after my feelings had had a chance to be distilled and settled following my return and the chaos of accommodation. One might have thought that after millennia of evolution – and with all the wonderful things the technical and societal progress has given them – humankind would finally stop looking for ways to splinter and, worse still, exterminate itself… but no, instead of finding the path to peace and harmony, our younger brethren were still barely holding from wiping themselves out. It could be argued that with their short lifespan, they were bound to repeat the past mistakes every however many generations, as old hatreds somehow survived in the collective psyche better than lessons. I did not really care anymore, not with being no longer forced to share the planet with them (and to be ever wary of their intentions).

Among the Elvendom, there were many who still remembered the horrors of the three Kinslayings. While that still carried the potential for animosity, at least it would have been their own, not passed down to them as dogma with the basis they would never understand… nor question. I would take Thingol over a religious zealot or a rabid nationalist the likes of which were all too common in the place I left behind, any day. And if you would've thought that all the progress has reduced their number… I'd have an unpleasant surprise for you. Some people – a lot more than I would have liked – remained mentally in ages past, except they were using Facebook to disseminate their ideas and slick assault rifles (instead of stones or even scimitars) to kill those who did not fit their worldview. Would the rising pandemic I have opportunely left behind do anything to mend the fractures and lead towards unity, not more division? Call me cynical but I was pretty sure the answer would be negative.

That the history of Aman after the exodus has been patently uneventful in comparison to the turbulent times of Earth was, in my book, a definite boon. Call me boring, but I wanted some measure of respite after millennia of "interesting" life. Besides, I still had my music to keep me "entertained"... and it would stay with me forevermore. No reason to believe I would ever fall into stagnation, personally.

Pardon my propensity for explaining my own motivations and thought patterns all the time. But as a person with a unique history – false modesty aside – I realised that I might have been rather difficult to understand, let alone predict, for most anyone in Aman. Elrond and his family were the ones who had the best shot at this, owing in part to Peredhil's own remarkable life story, and in part to our unique relationship of yore. I could only praise the Valar's wisdom and kindness in sending me to dwell in New Imladris as opposed to casting me smack in the middle of Tirion's society… or worse. Yet not even Elrond had lived through as much as I have… whether my survival was the result of toughness and acumen, dumb luck or indeed some kind of divine oversight.

Still, Tirion was to become the destination of my first major trip outside the confines of my life under probation, once the latter had expired. While waiting for responses from my wife and mother – and these were taking a little longer than I would have anticipated – I absolutely had to find and contact Telperinquar. Not only was he my closest surviving relative otherwise (among those not incarcerated in Mandos; that issue merited investigation as well, but I absolutely could not, and would not, rush it), but I had a few other ideas concerning him to consider and try out. Elrond informed me that after being reincarnated (the whole premise has long been evoking curiosity in me, but it was not even near the top of the mountain of things I had to learn in my new life) he got back into the artisanship, sometimes cooperating – and definitely keeping in touch – with Nerdanel. With the uncertainty regarding my mother's stance regarding my humble person – and all that I had done in the intervening time – I could definitely use one more avenue for contact.

I wrote him a letter, and that one did not take long to be answered. Telperinquar wanted me to come to his abode as soon as I was able and ready. That, in turn, spurred me on to take to the road almost at the moment's notice.

Again, did I miss travelling aboard a high-speed train, reclining in an anatomically shaped seat while reading news on a tablet amid the air-conditioned atmosphere… instead of using a horse-drawn carriage as I had at the moment? Maybe a little. Then again, I was understanding quite well that coming home – and as a willing penitent, not a criminal in chains – was worth everything. Especially since I was also able – or plainly given a chance – to start picking up the pieces of my life.

That, and I really did take my tablet along, an incongruity that was not lost on me.

Maybe I would live to see Aman develop to the point where rail would become a thing, I thought – that is, if it ever would see the need to evolve that way. At any rate, the realm – and myself with it – was on no other timetable than its own. Knowing that was a balm spread upon my soul.

It was a kind of a blessing, even, that my first proper journey across Valinor was to be taken slowly. I've heard people complain about air travel being way too quick – bang, now you're in one place, now you're half the world away, with very little chance to see the lands in between. Trains were a lot better in this regard, and cars, even more convenient yet for one so inclined, because you could stop and take a look whenever something might capture your attention. And since I was accompanied by Lindir, who has volunteered to be my coach driver, guide and guardian, the trip was bound to become interesting in any case.

We rolled off one summer morning, before the sun would get too high. I was eyeing the surroundings with curiosity, for while I used to know most of these lands, most of my information was eleven thousand years out of date (can I say that aloud with a totally straight face?) Even the terrain is bound to change in this kind of time stretch, let alone the habitation and other marks of civilization. And even the Elvendom was not exempt.

The road was paved with something that resembled the usual asphalt of Earth's thoroughfares, I have noticed. As Elrond has explained to me once, the idea was similar: finely crushed stone was mixed with a viscous material, only here, the sap of a special kind of trees from Yavanna's vast gardens (or should we say, plantations) was used. Of course, since Aman knew no oil drilling (and it was for the best, I thought, as this resource was the source of more than one conflict in Earth's history, covert or overt), while Kementari could theoretically infuse her saplings with any kind of property that the Eldar might require, and ask her for. Since the trees were a very much finite resource, all of the roads could not be paved this way, so the smooth cover was reserved for the interstate highways, so to speak, while inside the settlements, stone slabs were used instead – but these were, again, a far cry from the bumpy cobblestones of Earth's mediaeval towns, or even the woeful asphalt found in some of the less advanced regions.

Besides, as I have found with no small measure of surprise, Aman had developed concrete, seemingly independently from Earth. Since it was a pretty recent invention (at least as far as the pace of life in the Blessed Land was concerned), the structures made of it were not ubiquitous; that was a relief, in a sense, for I did not relish the idea of finding the cities replete with the same kind of blocky housing structures that had been offending my aesthetic sensibilities for the last few decades back in the world I left behind. With the population not booming in nearly the same measure as the human one had in that period, there was no pressing need for such development, either. Besides, with the power of the word being often used to make items – and structures as well – last longer, the necessity to periodically repair, let alone replace, the existing objects was far less prominent than on Earth. In a sense, Valinor was the anti-consumerist limbo, the antithesis of the Endor that I left behind, and inasmuch the ageing and wear of anything, from tableware to great halls, was driving change and progress in the realm of Men, it was not a surprise that Aman was avoiding the same path altogether.

Indeed, with Telperinquar's skills of crafting and invention put to good use over the years, and well honed even in comparison to his fabled abilities of yore, I really needed my nephew's aid in many, many endeavours. I decided to avoid jumping the gun, however, because nothing was certain yet, although Elrond had given us the directions we needed to find his residence in Tirion.

The capital of Ñoldor realm has become more imposing during my absence (why would it not?) For one thing, it has grown much, much larger, the old city I remembered remaining only as a core around which the new strata of habitation have formed. Wholly unfamiliar streets and neighbourhoods – wider, straighter and clearly more meticulously planned than the ancient districts – sprang up, their function and atmosphere completely unknown to me. It appeared that while Lindir was not a virtual stranger to this place in the way I was, he was not a frequent guest here either, for he, too, was spinning his head around and nodding to himself, evidently marking the changes since his previous visit.

Again, the exterior of the city evoked memories of the nineteenth century, except everything was far cleaner and constructed more graciously than I ever remembered of the human settlements in that timeframe – even the best of them like London, Paris or Saint Petersburg. While evidently bustling with activity, it was not nearly as chaotic or noisy: no shills, no beggars, no suspicious individuals who would best be faced only face to face, and from ten feet away... Not even the newspaper vendors with their ever popular offers! The people – I had to remind myself all the time that these were not the Edain, but my kinfolk, the Eldar – were moving, more often than not, with both purpose and dignity, and little signs I saw around spoke of the level of mutual trust and openness not often seen among humankind even in the twenty-first century, when the communal mores have become way more benign. Back on Earth, who, in good conscience, would have left the carriage full of groceries on the street unattended – and even the horse untethered, evidently compelled to remain in place with a subtle word of power – while entering the marketplace for a lengthy shopping trip? Half of the wares would have been stolen in the first five minutes if it had been the old times among humankind.

I do not intend to demean the people among whom I have spent the majority of my life. Hats off to them for their technical ingenuity and the creative spirit which gave them so many artists, poets – and, of course, musicians – that I would wholeheartedly name almost equal to the best creative minds of the Eldar. And I would only add that treacherous "almost" because very few of these geniuses have had the chance to flourish unfettered and give their best works to the world, their time cut short – and creativity stifled – by sickness, poverty, hard labour... and ultimately by the Doom of Men. And, of course, the always pertinent danger. What use would a poet's thoughts and images have when he was dying to mustard gas and machine gun fire on the Somme? What of the priceless paintings and sculptures that would end up crushed under the rubble of a museum destroyed by carpet bombing? How many geniuses never ever had the chance to spread their wings because they were cut down by the Mongol sabres, burned on the Inquisition's pyres, gassed at Auschwitz?..

A fine time to ponder on the injustices of the human world I have, personally, barely gotten through, I frowned. Let alone the fact that we, the Eldar, could have also written a book on treachery and violence (and my own house was best suited for the dubious honour), though even at our vilest we had never quite sunk as low. Lindir eyed me with surprise, not sure of the reason for my sudden moodiness. I smiled back at him, however halfheartedly, and my sight returned to the outside.

We left the main streets, and the carriage was picking its way through the verdant, narrow side alleys. I could not understand which part of the city we were even in. Yet, it all seemed unbelievably comfortable, well laid out and built to last – a stark contrast to the often ponderous, ostentatious… and ultimately impractical… edifices of Men. Greenery was everywhere – trees, from those looking like bonsai to huge, sprawling and replete with the welcome shade, dotted the lawns, sometimes arranged in intricate patterns; flowers of every colour adorned the grassy beds; vines were climbing the trellises and stone walls, yet, I could've sworn, never blocking the light or smothering one another. Scooters were parked neatly in racks at every porch (seeing my brethren use this kind of transportation for the first time almost sent me into a laughing fit, but I quickly understood that with no cars or motorcycles available, and too little space and amenities for everyone to have horses and carriages of their own, the little two-wheelers were actually a deviously apt choice). The houses, while seldom really palatial, were obviously comfortable and spacious enough – two floors in most of them, rarely three. There were tiny, heartwarming details all around, like wreaths hung on the doors – signifying the nuptials or even births in the family dwelling within, Lindir explained to me – or the little, yet elaborate mosaic pictures telling of the house's story or its resident's vocation.

It was all so charming, and above all, so proportionate, from the landscape to these tiny details, that my heart couldn't help spasming in sweet longing, and resonating with the first tentative chords and notes of yet another composition. Yet along the way, I was also dividing my time between shaping (and memorising) this nascent piece, and a different "creative pursuit". Halfway through our journey through the streets of Tirion, I could no longer hold myself from taking out the camera and starting to surreptitiously photograph the surroundings from waist level, though trying to attract as little attention as possible. That was what I had left behind out of my own (well, almost) volition, and that was what I was coming back to. Maybe one day I would find a home of my own like one of those that were floating by. Maybe some time later I would be able to hang a wreath like this on the door, thousands of years after it should have been done (although I did not remember the tradition being extant in my time before the Darkening; that must have been something adopted from the returning Sindar of Middle-Earth, or even Men).

Our journey has taken us almost back to the edge of the city, I noticed. The houses were becoming ever so slightly smaller and less ornate, and then, we saw the blocks that would have been comparable only to an industrial zone back on Earth – here, it was probably called an artisanal quarter. No wonders, given Telperinquar's pursuits as a metalworker and jeweller, I thought; he apparently decided not to split his time between a home in one part of the city and a workshop in another, building both of them together. My unruly heart skipped a beat when I saw the coat of arms of my house – our house – adorning the gable; the eight-pointed silver star I have not seen propped up high for untold aeons! It was followed by my nephew's own blazon, the shining hammer striking an anvil and casting around the sparks that turned into stars, hung below.

Our present journey was over, and we exited the carriage. I glanced around and breathed in deep; how far removed was even this remote district of Tirion from its posited earthly equivalent! While there was a very slight hint of furnace smoke in the air, it was not acrid or choking as it always felt to me when coming from the human smithies and foundries. It was not blotting out the sky, either, just barely visible in the distance before dissipating in the sky that looked no less majestic.

"E'en the smoke of home is sweet and darling to us", a line from an old poem sprung to my mind. Oh indeed.

I halted on the curb (the railings were wrought iron, I noticed; unbelievably ornate – unbelievably for anyone who knew too little of my nephew's excellence at his craft), enough to have Lindir walk on ahead of me, then pause and turn back to me – then raise an eyebrow in surprise. I laughed and shook my head, then stepped forward resolutely and grabbed the door knocker. Instead of a muffled impact noise I expected, it caused a pleasant, high sound, melodic and – I could've sworn – rich in overtones that no simple, utilitarian bell would have. Oh, my brother's son did have not only the artisan's skill running in him, but also the musical sensibility, I thought, and at this moment my mind was taken on quite an unexpected course. What if I could enlist Telperinquar not only to make the missing instruments for my future ensemble, but also to play with me in whatever quality if -

This idea did not have enough time to evolve, because it took barely fifteen seconds for the door to open, and for Curufin's scion to appear in the way. His eyes – the familiar grey, tinted almost imperceptibly by the veil of deep-lodged sorrow and tribulations of days gone by – became wide as saucers when he saw me, even though he surely knew I would be coming. For a good thirty seconds, he was staring at me, and I was likewise looking at him. It was the same old Tyelpe, all right, yet the time he had lived and the horrors he had gone through – including, unfathomably enough for me, the death at the hands of Sauron and resurrection – have left indelible marks on him. However, none of that has managed to make him a sad and broken shell of an Eldar I had feared to encounter, even despite the energetic and heartfelt tone of the words I've read in his response letter. Written words could fool even me; looking at his face was like perusing an open book.

All of that thought and analysis was smitten aside as my nephew literally rushed through the door and clasped me in a bear hug – working in the smithing shop has made him a real muscle man, I thought as the breath was squeezed out of me – then laughed heartily and dragged me inside, barely giving Lindir the opportunity to filter in.

The House of Fëanor was, after oh so many millennia, assembled. All of its members presently surviving in the flesh, anyway.

Note: the chapter name is from a song by Theatre of Tragedy (from Musique album, 2000)