A/N: Two years later and here I am, finally with an epilogue of sorts. I actually wrote this two years ago, but I wasn't really satisfied with it and this chapter has been sitting in my pc during all this time. Now I feel slightly more comfortable with it and I hope - if there is someone still reading after my prolonged silence - that it will be an enjoyable reading, at least! :)
Later they dried their feet and sat in quiet contemplation on a dune of sand and weeds.
The stranger looked at him and smiled: "So, do you like the Sea?"
Lómion looked around, taking in the landscape.
"It is beautiful. Strange", he paused. "No, not strange. It is unlike anything I've seen", he said after a while. "Where… where does it end?"
"End?" the Elda frowned "It does not end as does a lake, I suppose."
"You…don't actually know?"
The Elda sighed and looked at the horizon. He seemed to be searching for something.
"A long time ago" he gestured to the sea "to the other side laid the lands of Endórë and of the rest of Arda. But then, the lands of Valinor were removed from Arda."
Lómion gulped. "How? And when? And where are we now, if not in Arda?"
"So many questions. I do not know, my friend, not for certain."
"But you have a theory?"
"Perhaps."
It was clear that the Elda did not want to discuss it with Lómion. He felt betrayed but he suppressed the feeling. He still did not know the stranger's name. Surely there were things they both wouldn't want to share.
Lómion saw something then, further south on the shore. He pointed it at his companion. "What is that?"
Again, yearning was in the eyes of the Elda.
"Ah, that is Alqualondë"
"Alqua…" Lómion's eyes widened, "Oh. It seems… a nice place."
"It is. A beautiful city."
Lómion suspected that his companion had been in the city before and not as a mere visitor. He had the same look his uncle Turgon had had when he talked about his Tirion upon Túna and the light of the two Trees. His mother had had that look too.
He is one of the Exiled!
He must be. What did he say, the first day they travelled?
"You do not know me, but I know your mother well. She is my cousin"
Cousin! If only he remembered the whole family tree!
He studied the Elda. If he stopped at the colour of his hair, he might have been kin to one like lord Glorfindel – A Vanya? – But he had seen his hair glinting as silver in the moonlight during their travel. At night, he could have been mistaken for a Sinda, kin of Thingol. The hair of Glorfindel had never had a silvery hue.
That proud chin Lómion knew very well. He had seen it raised in defiance when his mother had argued, he had seen it raised in sternness when his uncle had to make a decision as a king. Lómion knew he too had inherited it. He and the stranger seemed to have in common also the strong shape of the shoulders, large and well built. His mother had them too – and when Lómion was younger, he had been amazed that his mother's shoulders were larger than those of his father.
Perhaps I should ask for his name and be done with it. How to ask, though?
The Elda glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.
Lómion blushed and looked away.
"I don't mind you staring, Lómion."
Lómion stubbornly looked ahead at the rolling waves. The sky was turning grey; the clouds had finally reached the shore.
"You have questions."
"I do", he sighed, "I have many."
The Elda looked at the sky, "It won't do to remain here. Come, let us find a sheltered place and then you can ask me all the questions you want."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere warmer! Come, we must hurry!"
Their destination was a small hunting lodge in the pine grove near the shore. The place was furnished with closets full of blankets, a hearth, some beds, and everything that is needed by travellers.
They arrived in time before the rain.
The Elda shook his head. "One month without rain and the only day we go to the sea, it pours!"
"Who owns this place?", Lómion was looking around with curiosity. It was a cosy place, well decorated and, judging by its interior, frequented often.
"My father", said the Elda, "Come, this way."
He led Lómion to another side of the lodge. It looked almost separated from the main room, for it seemed a small house. It had a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom and even a living room with a shelf full of books, another hearth – and a writing desk near the window.
They took out the supplies from their bags and started the fire.
"The original building had only one room," said the Elda, "it was just a shelter in case of emergency. But I liked the position, close to the sea and among the pines – they smell wonderfully during summer – so I built this comfortable home. It still functions as a lodge for travellers, though. Sometimes I am its keeper."
He offered him a cup of wine – where did that come from? – and they sat in the living room. A companionable silence settled between them, the fire crackling and the rain tapping on the windows and the roof.
Softly, the Elda started to sing. Lómion was taken back in time, in a city on the shore bathed in golden light unlike the Sun. Children were running in its streets, laughing, calling each other. The roar of the sea accompanied their voices. Abruptly the song ended.
"That was Alqualondë."
"Were you born there?"
The Elda shook his head. "No, I was born in Tirion. But I grew up between Tirion and Alqualondë. It is dear to me beyond measure."
"Why Alqualondë?"
"My mother is from there."
"Oh. I see."
The explained the strange hair, at least. Still, Lómion couldn't place together all the pieces. Curious.
"And your father?"
"He was from Tirion, of course!"
"Of course", he muttered. He frowned, studying the stranger once more. "You know my name. You said you know my mother. Yet, I don't know your name. It's not a fair exchange."
The Elda smiled: "You already know much about me."
"But not the name."
"Very well. I am Findarato, son of Earwen and Arafinwe. Finrod if you prefer." He inclined his head, placing a hand on his heart as if he were greeting a lord. Nothing in his posture was formal tough; his gentle smile – if slightly teasing – was still in place as he looked at him.
In a past life, Lómion had taken pride in his impassive composure. He had mastered the art of repressing and concealing, offering only an unmoving mask to his interlocutor.
(Something in his eyes must have had betrayed him from time to time, for there had been one person in all of Gondolin that could strip him of his concealment with one glance and leave him naked, torn between resentment and desire.
And over the years, his grip on his mask became more and more slippery, until it fell and shattered.)
He felt, in that moment, the muscles of his face engage in a senseless fight, spasm and contort. He struggled to hide his shock, as a wave of shivers, burning hot and impossibly cold, overtook his body. He was sweating and could only gasp, a strangled sound breaking the comfortable silence of before.
Findarato's benign gaze never wavered, though it quickly morphed into alarm.
"The wine! How stupid of me, I should not have given you wine so soon after your return. And on an empty stomach too!"
His worried voice did nothing to reassure Lómion, who was suddenly feeling very nauseous and light-headed. He closed his hands into fists and tried to calm his erratic heartbeat by taking large breaths, though he only gulped and his efforts ended in a coughing fit.
"Oh dear, let me get you some water! Stay there, please!"
Where else would I go? Strangely enough, that seemed to be his only coherent thought, laced with annoyance.
When Findarato returned with a cup of fresh water, Lómion had considerably calmed down, although his hands were now cold and shaking. The golden Elda sat on the couch beside him, as he carefully drank, grateful for not having to either speak or look at Findarato.
Stars above, what do I do now?
"Better?" asked the Elda, when he finished.
Lómion nodded, but kept his head low.
"I am so sorry", sighed Findarato, "I did not mean to scare you like that. Nor did I want to poison you with that wine. I forget, sometimes, how it is. I could not stomach anything alcoholic for a couple of months, after I returned from the Halls. And you came out barely a month ago. I should have remembered, though! Again, my apologies."
Lómion tried to roll his eyes – he dearly wished he could stop rambling – but the action only worsened his nausea. He held his head in his hands, slightly pulling his hair, a nervous gesture that did not bring him any relief, though the mild pain grounded him.
After a while he felt a warm hand settle between his shoulder blades. He was tempted to shrug it away, but the weight was comforting, light and steady. Findarato spoke again, his voice slow and calm.
"I found this place by chance, a long time ago. I say 'chance', though I doubt it was only that. My father knew of this small lodge, secluded, sheltered. He purchased it when he was already king, so… Well, this he told me only after I discovered this place. I was running away, I suppose, though at the time I did not know what from."
A pause.
"No, that is not right. I knew perfectly well from what. I did not have the strength nor the courage to admit it aloud or to myself. The sea, the coast have always been my home. But I could not – I could not return there. To the places of my childhood. My family thought I was ready. I thought I was ready. Instead, I ran. I stumbled here, famished, cold and probably too drunk for a prince of the Noldor – I had enough presence of mind to steal a bottle, apparently. I passed out from exhaustion on the floor – back then, the lodge consisted only of that first room you saw, and there was no proper bed."
He hummed. If Lómion had raised his head, he would have seen the fair Elda grimace at the memory.
"My grandfather found me," he continued. "To this day, it still baffles me. How he took time to look for me. He had food, a change of clothes and made tea while I came to my senses. My mother had warned him, apparently, of my silly escape. 'Foolish boy', he told me when I was conscious enough, 'You did not take that rashness from my side of the family'. I felt mortified, scolded as if I were again a child. Here I was, in front of the one person I dreaded most to meet, and I was covered in dirt and, well, and vomit." He shuddered at the memory, and Lómion felt the movement on his back. Findarato's hand was still a light, comforting weight. Lómion almost leaned into the touch. He hoped Findarato wouldn't notice.
"That meeting was everything I feared it would be, and yet not. My grandfather and I, we did not solve all the issues we had – we are still working on that. But this place helped. Here I could think clearly for the first time, after I came back to life. I felt safe, even while confronting my own fears and doubts. I stayed here for a while, after my grandfather returned to his city. I was alone, but never lonely. It is a place for contemplation and rest, as well as for healing. Sometimes a fisherman passes by. Sometimes my father. Other times a lone wanderer in search for an answer stops here. I always make sure that a place by the hearth is ready for them."
Lómion shook his head and Findarato stopped talking, looking curiously at his relative. He seemed so frail and lonely, curled in himself as if in pain.
"What can I do for you, Lómion?" he asked gently.
Lómion pulled at his hair with more strength. "For – for me?"
Findarato hummed. The hand on Lómion's back travelled to his nape and settled over his hands, warm, reassuring. Lómion unconsciously eased his hold, as Findarato kneeled in front of him.
"Yes, for you."
"I – I don't know. I don't." he shuddered.
"Can you look at me, Lómion?"
"I…", his whole body was shaking as he began to cry. "You…", his eyes found those of Findarato. "Hold me?" he whispered.
"Of course", was Findarato's reply, as he settled again on the couch, cradling Lómion to his chest.
The tears subsided, after a while. Lómion felt exhausted and confused still, but the fear he had felt when Findarato had revealed himself had left space for his curiosity to appear again.
Gathering his courage, he asked "Why are you with me?"
He dreaded the answer, yet at the same time he craved it. He needed to know, to make sense of what was happening to him and of the strange new world in which he walked again.
He was met with silence.
Lómion got out of the embrace and turned, his brow furrowed, and looked at Findarato, searching for an answer. He caught a glimpse of uncertainty or worry, before the Elda's expression became carefully blank. His frown deepened. A bitter taste left his mouth dry and his jaw seemed to weight too much for speaking.
Where is your eloquence now?
"So, this is how it is." And it is no surprise. Who would meet a traitor outside the Halls? Kinslayers my father called the Noldor. Is that word enough for me?
Findarato widened his eyes at that. Lómion thought he looked almost vulnerable. Almost.
"No, Lómion, it is not" he said softly. He sighed, and suddenly he appeared much older and burdened.
An irrational desire to lash out, to strike and to wound seized Lómion. He wanted to grab the Elda by the shoulders and shake him, violently, until he spoke plainly and revealed all his secrets. He stood up in a rush, his hands balled in fists. He took maybe two steps, before he felt the blood rushing in his veins and his head started spinning. He took a deep breath, his back hunched, nails digging into his palms. "How – " he croaked once he calmed down, "How is it then? Why you? Why not – Why anyone at all?"
"You need someone to guide you once outside the Halls. I volunteered."
"Volunteered?" spat Lómion, spinning on his heels to stare at the other Elda.
"Yes." Findarato spoke with finality, his voice now louder and firmer, though it never became harsh, "I am far more experienced than many in our family in this. I welcomed back every one of them, after all."
"Every one?"
Findarato nodded, though Lómion caught a flash of pain in his expression.
"Of those who came back, yes."
He must have seen something in Lómion's eyes, a glimpse of his loneliness and dismay, for his next words were softer: "Your mother is well, Lómion."
"Is she?" Lómion did not know how to feel. Relieved, maybe. Disappointed that she did not come to him first. Unsurprised.
Findarato studied his face for a moment, before getting up from the couch and heading for his belongings. From a pouch he retrieved a bundle of what Lómion recognised as letters. The Elda undid the knot of the ribbon holding them together and picked the first folded paper, passing it to Lómion. He almost dropped it in surprise when he saw the name of the sender.
"She wrote this for you. She asked me to give it to you before that of everyone else. She was in Tol Eressëa when the news of your imminent return reached her. The journey from the island to the Halls was longer than that of mine. I do not doubt that she is on her way, however. But whether you want to meet with her or not, that is your choice. There is no rush, Lómion. Take as much time as you need."
Lómion hummed as he considered the letter in his hands. The paper was smooth and thick under his fingers. It seemed well made and expensive. It reminded him of the paper his uncle Turukano favoured – he kept stacks of it in all of his drawers in his study in Gondolin.
Yet, Lómion felt also the pattern left by a pen pressed with too much force, engraving the words. He could picture the scene. His mother had never had the patience for good calligraphy or for keeping a letter clean. Smudges of ink would stain her fingers and the paper, while she hastily penned too many words for the small amount of time she dedicated to writing them. She was never careless with them, though. She had always said exactly what she had meant, no more, no less.
It was fascinating, how much a handwritten letter revealed about the sender.
He smiled. "She would have smothered me." he muttered.
Findarato laughed – and, oh, was that sound brilliant and clear like sunshine breaking through the clouds. For one second, Lómion was back in Gondolin, the silver bells of its white towers ringing during the first day of spring. He chased away the memory, before it turned sour. He never liked bells, anyway.
"She probably would have overwhelmed you, that is true!"
"I think… I think I would like to see her", he said carefully. He took a deep breath. "Yes, I would like that very much."
He looked at Findarato and the other letters in his hands. "And those?"
"Are also for you."
"From whom?"
"Well, let me see", he pretended to leaf through the small pile, "One from your uncle Turukano, one form Findekano. Another from Nolofinwe. Then my father Arafinwe," he paused, humming softly, "Eärendil, and the last one from Laurefindel."
Oh. Oh.
"As I said, take as much time as you need, Lómion. You do not have to read them all at once, let alone to answer them."
Maybe I don't. But just knowing that these letters are here, for me, will haunt me. I won't rest until I know what they say. Yet, I am afraid. Terribly so. The Maiar of Mandos were right. This might the most difficult path I will face. What should I do? And how do I do it?
A gentle touch oh his elbow made him aware of Findarato in front of him, a serious yet kind expression on his face.
"It will be difficult, I will not deny this. But you have time and you are not alone. No one can carry this burden for you, yet you can find strength and encouragement along the way. Think about these people here, who wrote to you. They too are on their way towards healing. They too made some terrible mistakes. We all did. We are not infallible. Neither are we here to judge."
Lómion averted his eyes, unable to sustain the weight of the clear gaze of the other Elda. He felt again that golden presence that had startled him the first time he had encountered Findarato and had made him want to follow and believe in him.
"How can you say that?" he whispered, "My deeds are far worse than theirs, I…"
"Perhaps they are. And you paid for them, and were released."
"Yet, the Valar are not infallible."
"No, they are not. But the choice of releasing a soul from Mandos is not of the Valar alone. Trust in that, if anything."
Lómion stared at Findarato until realisation dawned on him. The Elda smiled and gestured at the letter still in Lómion's hands.
"How about you start by this one and see what your mother has to say to you? Then, we can figure out the next step together."
Lómion nodded. Together.
Suddenly, the path in front of him did not seem as daunting as before.