AelKennyr Rhiano
In the market area, behind him, a fishwife hisses at a cat, who hisses back at being denied an unsold fish. She waves a knife, from the sound of her threats, and her skirts swirl about her, like banners flapping in the breeze, as she chases off the animal to the laughter and hoots of fellow merchants. Sounds of shops closing – wooden crates being packed, delicate breakables being wrapped in straw, last desperate calls to sell perishable food at greatly reduced prices—they rise and fall, like the gentle rise and fall of the damaged swanship upon the ebbing and flowing tide. The wood of the hull rubs against the stone of the dock, and that sound blends in, too, with the sounds of a thriving city turning weary thoughts to home and hearth and a sleep well deserved.
Out past the mouth of the harbor a dolphin makes a joyous leap out of the ocean, turns and twists in midair and dives back into the dark blue water, with a distant, barely discernible splash, but one heard by the elven ears of the Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea. Blue eyes the color of the sea observe the playful antics as a brief smile curves his lips. Lifting his gaze he watches Arien’s vessel drop heavy in the sky, slipping ever closer to the horizon and to its final docking for the day. A bird calls in the distance, and the smell of suppers being cooked, and the soft calls and exchanges of farewells and good nights drift here and there in a port city still alive and well. A heavy indigo mantle drapes across the sky hard on the trail of the setting sun. The day is nearly spent, and even as the sun sets, the moon rises, guided by the Maia Tilion to makes its nightly journey across the sky.
Slowly, Olwe, King of the Teleri elves, drops his gaze, the soft swish of the tide like a lullaby to the Lord of the Swanhaven. Though the harbor is of stone and not moved by the kiss of the ocean, the dock beneath him seems to rock gently in response, an eternal dance between sea and shore played out. Soon he, Nole, the young shipwright Miro, and the Khazad survivors would be sailing upon the waters of the world, returning to silent Alqualonde, to quiet Alqualonde. The heat of the day, baked into the stone of the harbor, filters up and warms the bottom of his feet, penetrating his sturdy boots, but the breeze that whips up off the water bears the promise of a cool night. Windows will be left open, Olwe thinks, and by simply walking back the houses, hearing wives talk to husbands, mothers scold recalcitrant children to bed, lullabies being sung, dishes being washed, fires being banks, one can paint the picture of the ancient famed port city in a blanket of impressions.
It used to be so in Alqualonde. But those memories, that time seems like an age past. It has been three turns of the seasons here in middle earth, but in his ancient heart, it feels to Olwe that he has mourned the disappearance of his people for a lifetime.
What will the survivors of Blue Mountain think, these heartsore children of the Smith, when they reach his beloved Swanhaven, see the blackened, melted, twist slag of ruin that was once Tilion’s Tower, see the scarred and pockmarked palace, hear the silent whispers of a glittering and ancient elven city calling out for the return of her people? Will ghosts walk the empty streets, and populated the empty shops for them as well? Olwe draws a heavy breath and lifts his gaze back to the sea, slowly turning into a dark and deep reflection of the starry dusky sky. They will return, now, to Alqualonde come morning upon a different ship from the one in which they had sailed. Nole’s ship bears the marks of his pride, Olwe tells himself. He has cost his dear companion, the sweet-soiled Nole, his most treasured possession, his swanship. “I was vain and prideful, and full of my own need,” he whispers, walking further down the dock, to the end, and staring out over the mouth of the harbor. “I dared to defy the Lord of the Waters of the World because I wanted, I needed, I thought I had the right to demand to satisfy my own need.”
And, in the end, Lord Ulmo has been proven to act in Olwe’s benefit, sparing both the Lord of the eternal Swanhaven and his faithful friend, Nole, from exposure to the plague that was sweeping through Sylvhara. Comet, his beloved Cousin, was as safe as she could be, in this dark and uncertain time, and they met here, in the Grey Havens. It was a feckless act, and as reward, he surely earned the displeasure of the Valar and the disdain of the Maia Osse. “I am sorry,” he whispers. “I was prideful and stubborn, and I cared naught for any word that crossed its purpose to my will.” He has no idea if the Lord of Waters heard him or even cared enough to listen, but still he spoke, alone, on a different dock than the one where he spoke in such arrogance. “I ask forgiveness, Lord Ulmo. Forgive a wayward and frustrated child. For after all these ages, when my years are placed beside the eternity of the Vala, I am but a child learning to walk unaided. My memories blind me, at times. My memories of the peace that was my beloved home, of the joy that was my people, the love that was our air and our water, I feel my reason flee. I could not bear that I should lose another kin, especially not Comet. Not her.”
She has grown, his Comet, his cousin. Playful girl no more, nor has been for, lo, many, many turns of many, many years, yet his mind still sees her as she was when first he saw her. His mind reaches back, back, turning back the years like pages in a book. And there again, he sees her, her parents. When first he laid eyes upon her, he was a king without a queen, a father mothering a motherless child, his daughter Earwen. His queen was gone; she who sat beside him upon a glittering throne of her own, she who had come to his bed, stirred his heart and his passion such that together they brought into the world a daughter of exquisite beauty and constant curiosity, she who had sworn to him that she had looked into her very soul, her fëa, and there she saw his face, his name a bright flame deep inside her.
But her words were not true. She was not true. Distant and beautiful she had been, upon the docks of Alqualonde, that last time, her blue eyes distant, seeking another, unrepentantly wanting other than her lord and husband. She gave a toss of her head, and her silver hair flew about her in a tumble of waves and curls. Even at that moment, at that moment when her betrayal was clear and known to him, even then he had to curl his hands in to a fist to keep from reaching out and feeling the silken strands one last time. The words were few between them, that final time. The words were, in truth, pointless. Both of them knew she was leaving the Swanhaven, and him –especially him- for all time. Both of them knew she was leaving with a light heart, with no regrets, no guilt. Both of them knew his heart was leaden, cold, and full of doubt and pain. They turned their backs to each other as night fell, and parted, but he looked back, one last time to see her walking away.
The next day, Quildohtar found Olwe in his study and reported that the queen’s ladies could not find the queen anywhere in the palace. He had made a search of her, high and low, throughout Alqualonde but she was nowhere to be found. He had his king’s champion call off the search and ordered the ladies to now attend his daughter, the Princess of the Teleri.
“There is no Queen in Alqualonde,” he had said to his Champion, Quildohtar. “There will never be a queen by my side again.” And with that he ordered his Champion to leave him, and spent the day in his study.
In the distance, from the direction of the Green Leaf Inn, the sounds of raucous laughter, and snatches of an elven drinking song pull him back from memories of ancient times, ancient hurts, to the present moment. Night has settled its cloak upon the world, and Tilion’s vessel is beginning its traverse across the sky. For long moments, Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, watches the ship of the Maia, his heart full of memories and soft aches. Do you see me? he wonders as he watches the moon. Do you see me, Tilion? Beloved? Then he draws a deep breath and pushes down, down, ever down, the loneliness and emptiness inside him, turns, and with a determined stride and a gentle smile upon his face, he makes his way to the tavern.