'Nonetheless among the Eldar, even in Aman, the desire for marriage was not always fulfilled. Love was not always returned; and more than one might desire one other for spouse. Concerning this, the only cause by which sorrow entered the bliss of Aman, the Valar were in doubt. Some held that it came from the marring of Arda, and from the Shadow under which the Eldar awoke; for thence only (they said) comes grief or disorder. Some held that it came of love itself, and of the freedom of each fëa, and was a mystery of the nature of the Children of Eru.'
JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'
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1293
Ilmarien Ingwë's daughter had inherited from her mother a deep and sincere interest in clothes. On rising from her bed, she would dress with as much care as if arming herself for a battle, and she never travelled without some five trunks of gowns, so as to ensure a wide choice of weapons. Other people's costume fascinated her, to such an extent that it was easy to imagine, as Lalwen did, that she noticed nothing else about them. This was incorrect.
Lalwen's attitude towards her Vanyarin relatives was one of usually affectionate contempt. There was no real harm in them, but their way of life was too ethereal to be taken seriously. She did not much like Ilmarien, whose company she had shared as a child, together with Findis and Nolofinwë, during long summers on Taniquetil. Possibly the basis of this antipathy was the fact that Nolofinwë delighted in their cousin and had become the family apologist for her apparent shallowness, asserting that she had a warm heart.
Apart from her mania for fashion, many of Ilmarien's personal characteristics, such as her almost unbearable self-confidence and unstoppable volubility, seemed to be derived from her Aunt Ingië. Indeed, it was a private joke between Ingwë and Indis, which neither of them would ever have allowed to reach Ilmarien's ears, that he and his sister had somehow produced the wrong daughters. Perhaps, therefore, she ought to have annoyed Indis too, but in fact Indis was rather fond of her. When Ilmarien wrote of her wish to see Tirion, she did not hesitate to invite her to stay at the palace, subsequently eagerly organising a programme of sightseeing for her visit.
She had decided that Finwë's secretary, Calatindil, should act as Ilmarien's guide to the city. Calatindil was a much loved and trusted member of the household. Lalwen joked that he was practically part of the family, which was ironic, since he was known to be passionately in love with Findis and had been for many Years.
Indis was rather troubled by this relationship. Findis made no secret of the fact that she did not return his devotion; Indis could not honestly accuse her of leading him on, yet she suspected - knowing that Calatindil shared her suspicions - that she secretly enjoyed his attentions. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. Findis could not help the vanity that had always been a defining note of her character. So long as she did not give away this relish of his adoration by any outward sign, she was behaving impeccably. But it seemed a pity that Calatindil's life and youth should be wasted by such a vain love.
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Ilmarien liked Calatindil as soon as she set eyes on him at breakfast on the Day after her arrival in Tirion. He was a handsome and well-built Noldo, with a deep, expressive voice and a theatrical sense that served him well as a tour guide. He also had a rather large mouth, perfect for smiling and singing. Ilmarien could not imagine what had led him to become a secretary. Surely such a gallant temperament was wasted among dusty paper!
After the necessary pleasantries, he suggested that she should begin her exploration of the city with a tour of the palace, a plan to which Ilmarien gave her wholehearted approval:
"Oh, yes! I can't wait to get to know it a little better. I've been here before, of course, but not since I was a child. And to think that it was actually built by my own father! Did you know that?"
"Yes, Lady Ilmarien."
"Oh dear! Were you going to tell me that? Never mind!"
Finwë flinched. Ilmarien had, like Ingië, a very clear, very true, and astonishingly loud voice.
"Perhaps you two had better get on with it, then," he suggested.
"But I must finish eating first, Cousin Finwë!"
"You amaze me," murmured Findis, who appeared to be studying her reflection in the highly-polished breakfast table. "You have already consumed three eggs, three pieces of toast and two and a half rashers of bacon, which seems like quite enough for a slim young woman like yourself!"
"I'm only doing justice to the delicious food here," Ilmarien returned in the tone of bland optimism that had so often served her so well.
"The achievements of your people are indeed remarkable," Calatindil put in, resuming their interrupted conversation.
"Oh, do you really think so?"
"Certainly. However, I am fortunate enough to have some Vanyarin blood myself - my father's paternal grandfather was of the First Clan -, so my opinion may not be entirely unbiased."
"How marvellous! By the way, can you tell me something I've always wanted to know? Is it really true that there are 144 rooms in the palace?"
"Absolutely," he assured her, "though about fifty are occupied by servants. Others are little bigger than cupboards; it is the symbolism that matters, as the rooms represent the first Quendi. The largest room is the atrium, where most feasts are celebrated."
Ilmarien nodded. She had a way of visibly storing away information, as if it was something of great significance and a source of enormous delight to her, that was most attractive.
Calatindil could not stop himself from looking at her a little more often than was proper. He had often heard complaints about this 'impossible' cousin from Lalwen, but none of the family had ever mentioned that she was very beautiful. No-one had told him how tall she was, or how slender, or how her pale hair hung about her in a silvery cloud.
"The building is constructed around a central garden," he continued, rather quickly. "A popular style of architecture in Tirion."
Ilmarien nodded again. Her light grey eyes were watching him with an expression of rapt intensity.
