12 Days of Christmas 11 - Return

[grundyscribbling]

Title: Return
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Summary: The longed for that cometh beyond hope...
Word Count: 1910

Anairë looked up in astonishment when the door burst open.

Her jaw dropped as she recognized the wild figure standing breathless in the doorway was Elwing, of all people.

Her great-grandson’s wife rarely visited Tirion. Anairë has always tried to be patient with Elwing’s unease in the city of the Noldor. She knew perfectly well what her nephews had inflicted on the girl, both as a young child and as an adult. But for the love of Varda, she had married a prince of the Noldor. Surely she hadn’t imagined she’d be able to ignore or avoid Eärendil’s kin forever…

Then again, Elwing might visit seldom but she had been to Tirion more often than she had visited Ondolindë, and it wasn’t as though Elenwë had even reached Beleriand to have anything to do with what had gone on there.

They’d invited her to come visit after Anairon’s birth, of course, but without any expectation of her accepting.

What had brought her here, with no prior announcement, and in such a state?

Anairë tried to suppress her fear. The last time Elwing had arrive so precipitously had been after the girls disappeared. That was a time none of them cared to think on.

It could not very well have happened again, Anairë told herself sternly, reaching reflexively for the reassuring warmth of Nolo’s spirit. She dared not upset him, not when he was with the baby, but she wanted his support all the same.

Instead, she forced herself to rise in concern to usher Elwing to a chair.

“They’re back!”

Anairë did not understand. Who was back? And why was that so wonderful? Now that she looked properly, Elwing was all but incandescent with joy.

“They’re back,” Elwing repeated earnestly. “Anariel and Celebrían. They’ve returned.”

It was fortunate Anairë was still near her own chair, as her legs gave out at the unexpected – and unfathomable – news. She felt Nolo’s alarm, and through him Ara and Eärwen’s concern. Any other time, she would have instantly reassured them all. That was not important just now.

“But… how?” she asked in bewilderment.

They had not been in Mandos. Their Amanyar kin knew that, had known it almost from the first.

By the time Arwen’s tearstained letter arrived a year later, the full dimension of the tragedy that had befallen the family of Elrond Peredhel was well known in Aman. If anything, they actually knew more than Elrond or his children of the matter, though that knowledge brought comfort to none. It was surely mercy that Elrond did not know the whole of it.

The Amanyar had learned, over the years, that if they saw the Star of Eärendil shine red, it was a sign of his grief or wrath. It had been blood red when Tyelperinquar had met his end, that same awful red when Numenor sank beneath the wave, and again when the Last Alliance – and his son with them – marched against Sauron.

So all had taken notice, when despite no fell tidings from Endorë, the Star of High Hope suddenly blazed a terrifying crimson. Those close enough had flocked anxiously to the dock where Vingilótë moored, waiting nervously for its return to hear the news.

Eärwen and Anairë were in Tirion, where all too many had known fear at the sight. They still had descendants on the Hither Shores. They clung to each other in their panic, feeling utter helplessness at not only not knowing, but being unable to render any aid to whoever it was whose danger or doom Ardamírë was signaling.

By the time the messenger arrived, the tense group at the Noldoran’s palace had only grown.  The vigil had initially been kept only by Eärwen, Anairë, and Nolofinwë. Arafinwë had arrived with his mother from Valmar mid-morning, having ridden out from Ingwë’s midsummer festival at once.

Nerdanel had come in the afternoon to give what comfort she might, and Makalaurë’s wife Lindelotë with her, torn between the desire to be of comfort and terror that it may be the foster son she has never laid eyes on who had met with tragedy. (Poor Tyelpesilmë had broken down at the sight, and was being looked after by Nerdanel’s parents until her own arrived from Alqualondë.)  Itarillë was too distraught to ride out from Ondolindë, but had sent Ecthelion in all haste to discover what fresh grief had befallen her family.

Many who once dwelt on the Hither Shores gathered at the gates of Finwë’s House, knowing that whatever the news, it would come to the royal family first.

It was the ominous murmurings from this crowd that warned the handful still left of the once-great house of Finwë that a messenger had arrived – and it was not reassuring that it was Elwing herself, her face haggard and her eyes wild, who dismounted in the courtyard and strode inside, leaving her horse to the shocked attendants without so much as a backwards glance.

The faces that greeted her were already braced for the worst. They already felt in their bones that it was news of death that brought her here – and surely it could only be Elrond or his children that could pry her away from her vigil on the eastern shore.

She spared no word on greeting.

“Who?” Eärwen asked, her voice unsteady.

“Celebrian and the baby,” Elwing answered, her throat all but stopped from holding back tears. “They were ridden down by orcs in the mountains.”

The chorus of horror came from all sides. Little Anariel was scarce two years old, adored and treasured by her kin on both sides of the sea.

“It may be worse,” Elwing continued, swaying on her feet, exhausted by fear and grief.

“Worse than killed by orcs?” Nerdanel asked shrilly, knowing only too well what ‘worse’ could mean.

She spoke for all, for she could see that neither of her law-sisters was able.

“Grievous though news of their deaths would be, we fear worse, for there were no bodies,” Elwing replied grimly. “They simply vanished, before my husband’s very eyes.”

“How could such a thing be possible?” Ecthelion demanded, the only one among them to keep his head and manage to speak. “We have been told Sauron has not even power enough to take shape or form, he could not be equal to it.”

Elwing’s eyes blazed.

“I know not,” she replied. “And at the moment, I care not! We fear for the baby most of all. I ride to Mandos to enquire as to her fate.”

Another collective shudder ran around the room at the thought of a child so young put to the Choice of the Peredhil. She would not even properly understand what it was she was being asked to choose, but she would have to choose all the same.

“Not alone, child,” Arafinwë said gently. “If your husband could not make the journey with you, let some here go in his stead.”

For once, the proud queen of the Sindar did not dispute the right of the Noldaran. Perhaps on this of all days, she understood that his words were motivated by concern – for their shared descendant, at least, if she would not believe that he would show any for her.

“Any who wish may ride with me,” she said quietly. “I ask only that they make haste. I cannot bear the not knowing.”

In the end, it was only women who rode forth – Eärwen, Anairë, and Elwing. The journey seemed interminable, every minute an hour.

When at long last, they arrived at the gates of Mandos to beg an audience with the Doomsman, it was instead Nienna who came forth to meet them.

“Those you seek are not within these walls,” she whispered to them, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Not even my brother can say if they will ever be seen again.”

Elwing collapsed with a sob, unable to face another such loss. Anairë held her, though she had gone pale as the moon, struck dumb at the Grey Lady’s words.

It was Eärwen whose scream of loss and rage echoed off the walls.

“How? How is this even possible? Is not my granddaughter one of the Eldar, her fëa bound to Arda until the breaking of the world?” she demanded. “How could anything have taken her beyond the sight of the Valar?”

Nienna laid a single hand on her cheek, and in that touch was such feeling that Eärwen’s anger died as swiftly as it had been born. Her grief was known and deeply shared, the loss of two Children mourned as intensely as the loss of the Trees themselves.

“You will endure, child,” Nienna said gently. “You must. All of you.”

Anairë shook off the memory with difficulty.

“How?” she repeated in bewilderment.

“I don’t know,” Elwing all but laughed. “Does it matter? They’ve returned! And I’ve a new granddaughter!”

Anairë leapt up to dance Elwing gleefully around the room just as Eärwen burst in, Ara not far behind her. Nolo couldn’t come, of course he couldn’t. The baby couldn’t be subjected to such an emotional storm.

“Ana, dearest, what under the stars?” Eärwen demanded, looking at the scene in front of her in complete incomprehension.

“They’re back,” Elwing repeated in something like a normal tone. She was unable to hold her composure any further. “Celebrían and Anariel, they’re alive! They’re in Imladris now. And little Anairon will have a companion his own age, if they will but sail soon – Tindomiel!”

Eärwen blinked as if Elwing had spoken some dialect unknown in Aman.

“Back?” she whispered.

Beloved, am I waking or dreaming? Anairë heard Eärwen demand of Ara.

“Waking!” Arafinwë assured her quietly, embracing her from behind as though he weren’t quite sure whether she needed to be hugged or held upright. “Or if you dream, it is one we all share, and a remarkably good one at that.”

“They live,” Anairë whispered, silently thanking any Vala that had had a hand in it. “They live.”

Nolo, heart of my heart, come at once! Entrust the baby to someone else if you must, but come hear the news!

Somewhere far away and unimportant, she heard bells begin to ring out, peal after joyous peal. How could they have known so quickly? Oh, of course, Ara must have told Ingo.

Well, let them ring for joy. The news from the far side of the Sea has been dark enough of late that all Tirion will be nearly as ecstatic as Elrond and Celebrían’s kin for this flash of hope.

Elwing finally sank down on a chair, whatever wild energy had sustained her finally burning itself out now that she had shared the unlooked for tidings.

“Do you think,” she whispered quietly, “they will sail soon? At least the girls?”

Anairë cannot possibly answer that, much less the yearning she can see in the girl’s eyes, but she takes her granddaughter’s hands in hers.

“In a world where the missing have returned, we dare hope for anything,” she told her firmly.

Elwing nodded, heartened by the certainty in her tone. Then she curled up happily to witness the growing joy as first Nolo, then Ingo and his children arrived. More of their kin would surely come as the news spreads – Ingo is no fool, riders must even now be speeding toward Valimar, Ondolindë, and Neldoreth.

It promises to be the happiest gathering of the princes of the Noldor Tirion has seen in many a long year.