The city was not yet full
grown. A battered, displaced people,
long living fugitive or captive, could not immediately make an untouched land
their own and the Edain had never been builders of cities. They had needed to master tilling the land
first, to make villages before they could make towns. The land was kind, but they had been slow to
trust it, or to feel confidence that no enemy would come.
The planning of the city
had reflected that doubt. Menelos had
stone-built walls, and a high watchtower raised within its centre. It was a place designed to resist attack, but
the walls were maintained now for show more than fear. Fair, white houses had risen with their
circle, and broad gardens had been made around them. Although the people of the city were not very
numerous it was likely they would soon begin to spread outside the circle of
walls.
Vardamir turned from the
window. He was born early enough to
remember the hard times, and to feel the greater joy at the blossoming of the
Land of Gift. He must write of it, he
had decided, he should make record of those early days before their memory was
lost. His father had told him often he
should think more of what passed in his own life, and not lose himself altogether
in the lore of earlier times. It seemed
that only when his own lifetime was becoming history could he heed the advice.
Evening was drawing in as
he descended the stairs. Vardamir liked
high rooms, for the clearer light and the greater quiet, and his tendency to
lose himself in scrolls and books for hours had only grown with years, although
it was now somewhat less easy for him to sit up far into the night.
Downstairs he noted a
certain bustle, and quickened his step, turning to open the door which lead
into a chamber, not vast but spacious, with a large lattice window that looked
outwards over the country . The house of the king had been built upon a spur of
rock and the view was a clear one.
The room was not empty,
and Vardamir smiled.
“Father.”
Elros crossed the room
with a quick step and embraced his eldest son.
His vigour was undiminished and Vardamir was conscious, without
bitterness, that a stranger who noted the resemblance between the two would
take him for the parent. Vardamir’s hair
was growing silvered and his face showed he was in the autumn of life, although
by no means dotard, whereas the hair of Elros Peredhel was still wholly dark
and he bore no more than the lightest lines of maturing. Only his eyes were not young. The look in them was not that look Vardamir
had seen in Elven guests, it was a thing of its own, the weight of experience
and the eagerness of lingering youth in one.
Of late another look had come, both wearied and restless, and
increasingly resolved, and Vardamir was saddened by it.
“Did you find the island
fair?”
“Fair and flourishing, and
it did me good to see it.” Elros
smiled. “I will say also that I believe
folk welcomed me, and that is a pleasant thing.”
“Yet not enough to change
your mind?” Vardamir could not hold back
a faint glimmer of hope, but it was indeed faint. Elros’s reply was firm.
“It is time. Five hundred years is more than long enough
for any Man to look upon the world, and it may be that you have been kept in my
shadow for altogether too long, my son.”
“Not so,” Vardamir said
swiftly. “I desire no rulership, no
authority. That would only leave me the
less time for the things I truly love.
Amandil will make a far better king.”
“Not better I think, but
happier I believe,” Elros said. “And the
Edain will have kings it seems.” He had
been slow to accept the title the people gave him and even now would wear no
crown, although he had begun carrying a rod of white wood, echoing the rods or
staffs that some of the leaders of the Edain had borne in former days. Elros had little patience for ceremony, he
wished always to be active and there was no part of Númenor that he did not
know well.
“They love you, Father,”
Vardamir said. “They will mourn. We will mourn”
“It would be idle to tell
you not to grieve,” said Elros, and his tone now was sad, “But do not grieve
for my sake, Nólimon. Indeed it is a
gift and not a doom. Arda is a great
place, but this land is small, and although I love it I feel staled. I do not see an end before me, but a great
new venture. And Lindis must feel that I
have tarried long.” The last words were
spoken softly, it was only of late years that Elros had begun to talk again of
his wife.
“You have no regrets
then,” Vardamir said. He had wondered at
times. How could one not wonder if there
was any regret for the sacrifice of immortality?
“For my choice, you mean?”
said Elros. “None, at least not in the
sense that there is any temptation to wish I had chosen differently. I do feel sorrow.”
“Sorrow, Father?”
“For the loss of my
brother, whom I shall not see again within the circles of the world.” His eyes looked past his son. “That was a hard parting. Yet neither of us could chose other than we
did. And there were others of elven kind
I loved. It seems strange to me still,
that the two Kindreds should be so sundered.
But, no, I do not regret my choice.
Do you?”
“I?” Vardamir asked, surprised.
“I have wondered it at
times of all my children, but most of you.
For you are not like me, Vardamir.
I might almost think you my brother’s son, you remind me so of him. Your love is for lore, for old tales and
records and the preserving of the past, where I looked ever forward. I have feared you might have wished, like my
brother, to be immortal and see ages of the world unfold.”
“No,” Vardamir said, “No,
I would not. You are right, Father, that
I love the records of the past. But I do
think on time to come, although I do not hanker to see those days. Instead I take joy in thinking of the future
of my line. Generation upon generation,
growing and building, perhaps until the end of Arda. Who knows how many things they may
achieve? No, I do not envy the Eldar.”
Elros smiled. “I am glad to hear you say it. Do not mourn too much, my son. What we have made here will last long, and
our line longer, perhaps longer than your histories, even.”
“I do not like to think of
our beginnings being forgotten,” Vardamir told his father seriously. He looked out of the great window, to where
the Star of Eärendil shone bright against the dusk. “I would not wish them ever to forget the
meaning of that Star, or anything else of their origin. I would hope they always remember of what
high and valiant stock they come.” Even
as he spoke he wondered if Elros truly agreed.
It was not his father who had told to him the story of Eärendil, nor any
other story of the old days. Yet Elros
had named his eldest child Vardamir, and what was a jewel of Varda but a star?
“I am sure that you will
do you best to see our history is not forgotten.” It was an easy answer, meant
to console. “Well, Vardamir, is there
anything of import I should hear?”
“To my knowledge the days
have passed uneventfully, although no doubt Amandil will tell you anything of
import I have overlooked.”
A knock sounded at the
door, and both men turned. It was
Elendil, Vardamir’s eldest grandson and eager student.
“Forgive the
interruption,” he said, “but there is an elven-lady who wishes to speak with
the Lord of the Dúnedain.”
“Then by all means show
her in,” said Elros at once. It was rare
for any of the elves who sailed at times to Númenor from the west to come so
far inland as Menelos, if one had done so there was surely a good reason. “And bring some more light.” They had been talking by only a single lamp
and it had grown dark outside.
The woman who entered was
tall and strong built, she wore a simple seeming dress of brown stuff with no
ornament save a belt made in the likeness of bronze leaves. Her eyes held the light which belonged only
to those who had lived in the Blessed Land in the days of the Trees and her
hair was a shade Vardamir had not seen on an elf before, a russet colour which
glinted copper in the lamp light. Unlike
almost every other elf he had met she wore it bound up, like a crown.
Elros looked on her face
with what seemed wonder, he waited in silence while Elendil and his brother
Eärendur set down the lamps they had brought in and left the room. Then, to the amazement of Vardamir, he bowed.
“You do me honour, Lady.”
“You know me, then.”
“I think so. Lady Nerdanel.”
“The hair, no doubt,” the
lady said.
“The hair,” Elros
agreed. “Yet I am surprised. I thought only those who have voyaged west to
Tol Eressëa since the War of Wrath sailed to these lands.”
“Few others desire to do
so. There is nothing to forbid them.”
“You desired it, then.”
“For this one time I
did. Think you I have not learned all
that I could gather of the fates of my sons in the far lands? I wished to look upon the child my son raised
before he departs the circles of the world forever. There will be no other chance.” Nerdanel paused. “But perhaps you do not wish to recall your
rearing, King of Men?”
“I would like nothing
more.” Elros’s voice was low now, almost unsteady. “My heart has never rejected my raising. To speak once more of my foster father with
one who remembers him with love is more than I expected to have before I
die. Will you not sit?”
Vardamir bowed to both of
them and left the room quietly, certain he could have no place in this
conversation. He walked out, into one of
the small open courtyards within the house, pondering on what he had heard.
The Lady Nerdanel, wife of
Fëanor. He knew the name from his
histories and if he had ever thought much on it would have known she must still
be living in Valinor. He had known too
the circumstances of his father’s raising, yet had been unprepared entirely for
what he had heard in the voice of Elros.
He had never penetrated his father’s emotions towards his own lost
parents, to Eärendil and Elwing the White.
That he might still cherish feeling for Maglor son of Fëanor, whose
house had done such harm to his, had been something Vardamir had not imagined.
He remained in the
courtyard, breathing in the cool night air, until Elendil came to find him once
again. Passing back into the house he
noted other elves, standing still and quiet.
Plainly Nerdanel had not come to Menelos alone.
There had been elves
voyaging to Númenor all the life of Vardamir, and the Edain had learned much of
them, especially arts of building and of craft.
Vardamir for his part had been eager for tales and histories, in later
years some had brought him books of Elven lore.
At first it had been mainly Sindar settled in Eressëa who came, but in
time some returned exiles of the Noldor had mastered sufficient seafaring to
voyage eastwards. It seemed to Vardamir
that those who came did so not only from a desire to help the Edain, but from a
wish to look back to Beleriand and Middle-earth. The elves of his earliest memories had carried
still the remnants of their long, and at the end hard and sorrowful, sojourn in
the lands that now lay drowned. They too
were only beginning to build again, and it was little beside knowledge that
they had to bring in those times.
Matters were different now, and there were always fair songs at their
coming, but Vardamir wondered whether those who came with the Lady Nerdanel had
sung.
Within the inner chamber
he found not only his father and Nerdanel but also his eldest son, a man in the
full prime of life. On a table was a
casket of sweet-smelling wood lined with velvet and within it an object like
nothing Vardamir had ever seen, a smooth sphere of black stone or glass, or so
it seemed, yet the object held a strange promise of fascination that he could
not account for.
“I have asked you both to
come,” said Elros, “Because the gift of the Lady which will concern you more
than me.”
“Seven stones I have
brought to you,” Nerdanel said. “They
were the work of my husband in days of old, the palantíri or Stones of
Seeing.”
“How do they work?”
Amandil asked.
“I know little, for these
works did not interest me and there is small need for such things in Valinor,
so it will be necessary for you to learn the means to use then for yourselves. I can say, though, that one who used a stone
could see things that took place far off, and if two used stones at one time
they could speak together. That there
will be much use for them within this island I doubt, yet who can tell what
needs time will bring forth for your people.
They have lain unused since the greater part of the Noldor marched away.
”
Amandil was gazing at the
stone in cautious wonder. “It surprises
me that Fëanor did not bear them with him to Middle-earth. They would have been of great value in the
war against Morgoth”
“He left in haste and took
but little,” Nerdanel told him. “Perhaps
he could have made more such if he had lived longer, but I do not think he gave
the secret of their making even to our sons.
Use them well, for no more of their kind will ever be wrought.”
“It is a great gift,” said
Elros, “and I thank you.”
“Better they should be
used than not,” said Nerdanel. “And you,
who were raised in Fëanor’s house, have as great a right to them as any. To you and your heirs forever I give their
use, for as long as you shall hold them.”
The words were said with measured formality, Vardamir had the strange
impression they were spoken to the stone as much as to the mortal listeners.
“Will you and those that
came with you eat in our house and lodge here, at least tonight?” Elros asked Nerdanel.
“I will,” she said, “For
it is a pleasure unlooked for to share the company of one raised in my House.”
Vardamir looked on her
then, and saw the deep sorrow of pain and loss within, a loss of an age and
length beyond the understanding of a Man, even a child of Elros Peredhel. But he saw also the patience and endurance of
her spirit and he bowed.
“We are greatly honoured,
Lady.”
~ ~ ~
Vardamir found his father
on the roof. Eärendil’s star had set,
but a crescent moon showed thin. One
tale of the elves that had never moved him as much as it might was the tale of
the Trees. Fair and glorious they must have
been, but Vardamir did not like the idea of a land without night. Night had a beauty all its own, a beauty he
would mourn if it were lost, and how could any learn to have no fear of the
dark if darkness had been banished from the land?
“You are surprised.” The voice of Elros was unusually quiet.
“Somewhat. You never speak of your youth.”
“It was ever my nature to
look forward,” Elros answered, “but beyond that… you do not recall the earliest
days, and how much help we needed. You
do not recall that Eonwë of the Maia himself came among us, or how eagerly we
looked for the ships of the Sindar from the West. How readily do you suppose they would have
heard tales of Fëanor’s line?
“The people looked to me
and I had accepted the charge. Their
needs came before my own wishes, I could not do other. And so I did not speak of my raising, nor
encourage tales of Fëanor’s sons among my people. Although I might have done so if I had
chosen, none of them did ill to the Edain, save for Beren, and Beren came never
back among his kindred afterwards. But
for the sake of those who looked to me, I was Eärendil’s son, and Elwing’s and
not the son of Maglor Fëanorion.”
Vardamir could see just enough to tell his father had looked upwards at
the sky. “How does one call a star
Father? I do not remember Eärendil.”
“I did not know,” Vardamir
said softly.
“That the King of the Land
of Gift is still something of a Fëanorian at heart? It would not do for it to be known.” Elros laughed softly. “My brother would be
amazed by such restraint. I was ever the
fiery one, the quick-tempered, he was the more peaceable and forgiving.”
“Your brother,” Vardamir
repeated softly. Elrond was only a name
to him.
“I daresay it is no easier
for him, with Gil-galad. Ah, but I miss
Elrond! He was the only one who truly
knew. We were raised among those who
slew our own kin, raised with care and teaching. Where should our loyalties lie? Kinslayers, rebels, accursed, all that they
were indeed, but it was not all, it was not all! If I have led the people well, then where do
men suppose I learned it?”
Vardamir was silent, what
answer could be made?
“And there is another
doubt that comes on me at times. You
have read of the Doom of the Noldor. You
will know the words. ‘On the House of
Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and
upon all who follow them it shall be laid also.’ And I did follow, Vardamir. Did I have right to lead the Edain after?”
“Surely the Doom is made
void now!” Vardamir protested. “The
Exiles have been pardoned. And can you
look for a higher sign of the Valar’s favour than the Land of Gift?”
“That is true indeed,”
said Elros. “And I would wish to believe
the Doom void. It is only now and then a
shadow of misgiving falls on me.
Perhaps it is my nature as a man to feel such doubt, or the echo of my
rearing.
“For the rest, indeed we
hold our land by the Valar’s gift. And
those who take gifts must honour the givers, both from gratitude and from
prudence.” Jewel of Varda, his son thought. And Elros had called his second son
Manwendil. “The House of Fëanor wrought
their own fate. I know that, but it does
not mean I cease to grieve, or to remember what was fine.
“Tell their story,
Nólimon! Write it in your books, make
sure it is remembered. Make it a warning
to those who will come after. Let them
know the full price of defying the Valar’s word.”
“You cannot think our
people would do such!” Vardamir
exclaimed in shock.
“Think it – no. But who foresaw the fall of the Noldor? Tell the story. At the end of my days I see purpose in the
old tales you and my brother love so.
Let them be recalled, that others may learn.”
“Then will you tell me,
Father? Tell me as much as you know
before you depart, that I may tell the tale aright?”
“I will tell you,” said
Elros. “It is late, but will you come
down with me a moment?”
Back in the room where
they had spoken earlier he lit a lamp, and picked up a sealed letter.
“One day,” he said, “our
ships will sail west far enough to find the shores of Middle-earth again. Not in your life perhaps, or your sons’, but
one day; and then they will seek out the folk of Gil-galad, surely. Let me give this to you, to be a charge to
our heirs. Let this letter be delivered
one day.”
Vardamir took the letter
from his father’s hand, and read the inscription on it. A letter to his father’s brother, whom he had
never known. Strange indeed to think of
such close kindred living on and on, immortal, while he and his son’s sons and
the far heirs of his line died and were buried in earth. Strange for him to think it, surely far more
strange for Elros.
“I will keep it safe,
Father, and pass on the charge when my time comes,” he promised.
“Good. Be it so.
Who knows, one day our heirs may have need of that kinship.”
“Perhaps so,” Vardamir
said. “Let them not forget!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Endnotes:
I’ve chosen to assume here that Elros’s Quenya name Tar-Minyatur (High
First Ruler) was a title given by his descendants after his death, not one used
in his lifetime. I’ve also assumed that
the prefix of ‘Ar-’ was given to the chief city of Armenelos (Royal Heaven
Fortress) at a later date, so the name here is simply Menelos.
This story ignores what is
said about the origins of the palantíri in ‘Of the Rings of Power and
the Third Age’, which since it doesn’t fit well with Tolkien’s other writings
about Númenor and the Stones I don’t consider hard and fast canon (not that I
object to writing AU).
The sceptre was the chief
mark of royalty in Númenor. Tolkien does
not explain that, but a link with the staff of office born by Brandir in the
story of Túrin seems plausible.