Summoning the Blue Wizards

Not a wind blows across the face of Middle Earth that does not flow through the halls of Mighty Manwe, Lord of the West, Greatest of all the Valar. And with each breeze is carried a million sighs, a million cries, a million laughs, a million hopes and prayers. Eonwe breathes in, though the action is more reflex than need, and the smoke of a fire in a place called the Shire fills his nostrils with the aroma of seasoned tobacco and half green wood. He turns his head as his boot strikes the ancient marble, leaving not a sound, and instead his ears can pick out the gentle notes of an elven love song, far, far to the east, the words tender, aching.  He casts his gaze ahead of up and then up, and for a moment, his eyes watch the twinkling of all the lanterns spread like jewels across the twilight sky, and an idle thought strikes him: where is Ilmare? Which star has drawn her fancy? Then he lowers his gaze from the canopy of the heavens, and instead his thoughts fill of  the one he serves, who has summoned him to this his Hall. 

The sweet scent of the incense as he enters...

 

The sweet scent of the incense as he enters, choosing by custom the right curving hallway, has the effect of filling the Maiar's heart with a sense of peace.  Before he has reached the hall's end, his blue eyes scan the open, spacious room for the figure of the Lord of the West, and his greeting is already upon his lips as he crosses quickly to his Lord's side and drops to a knee. "My Lord Manwe, " He says, his voice rich and full. "I am here at your call.  Tell me how I shall serve."

Eonwe...drops to a knee. "My Lord Manwe..."

"My Herald." Manwe beckons to Eonwe. Manwe rises and steps down to his herald Maia. His thoughts go back to when Eonwe was sent from his side, to be cleansed of the foul black magic of the Chambers below Mandos. That incident nearly cost Manwe his Herald, he whom had been loyal for many ages of Ea, all that is. The Eonwe that is here now is not clouded by the decay of Melkor.  He is whole and dependable and loyal. "Rise," Manwe says and extends his hand. "There is a matter that needs tending to in the mortal world. Something, I know you will do without error."

"There is a matter that needs tending..."

 

The Herald of the Lord of the West lifts his gaze to the hand extended to him, and at the gentle words spoken, his heart gives a leap. Created he was, for when the world was formless, to serve and be ever near the Breath of Arda, and in his heart burns a love deep and abiding, different than any mortal being could encompass. His own hand reaches up and clasps that of his Lord as he rises to his feet, his  eyes resting upon the face of the Lord of the West. "I shall endeavor to serve  My Lord, such as befits him," he responds, the winds of the world swirling about them: sounds, smells upon each tendril.  "What is this matter, My Lord Manwe?"

...his mind drifts back....

Manwe straightens up and his mind drifts back, many years ago to a distant point in time. To the day when five of the greatest Maiar stood in this very hall. The Maiar that shed back their power, diminished their might and knowledge and brought upon them flesh. Those that would then feel fear, care, and weariness. They were the emissaries; the Istari they would come to be called. One clothed himself in grey; Olorin, called by the free folk, Gandalf. His task completed, he returned with the ring-bearer, Frodo, and the Noldor queen, Galadriel. One clothed in white. Curumo, Saruman the fallen, he who deceived and traitored the free peoples and fought for power, cast out of the order, and his spirit departed from Ea. Radagast Awendil the Brown, the friend of birds and animals. He keeps watch over the lands and wanders throughout them. Two others came to his call. They both clothed in Blue colour: Pallando and Alatar. "My herald, do you remember the day when the five emissaries were gathered here, clothed in grey, white, brown  and blue? They that went to Middle-earth to unite the free people against the darkness that rose in the East? The servant of Melkor, Sauron?"

"My herald, do you remember the day....?"

 

Eonwe watches as his Lord's face grows thoughtful for a time, silently waiting his Lord's silence.  Then, the Lord of the West speaks.  Listening, Eonwe nods in answer. "Well, I remember, my Lord.  For Olorin is again amongst my brethren, though Awendil, Pallendro, and Alatar dwell yet in Middle Earth. As for Sauron." Eonwe pauses, and his gaze grows cold at remembrance of the traitor, "Better his name be wiped from all memory for his monstrous acts." He pauses again, and his voice is one more rich and warm as he looks toward his Lord. "I remember the day they all went forth, my Lord, well."

 

His gaze grows cold at remembrance of the traitor.

 

"I had commanded Pallando and Alatar into the East of Middle-earth. I did this as I foresaw a time they will be needed. After the War, there would be remnants of the dark forces remaining in the mortal world. These forces would seek to destroy the elves for their part in the War. Already, the elves are in danger, I fear. It is time for the Blue Wizards to begin their task. It is my request of you, my Herald, to go to these wizards with my command to act. Through the language of the winds, I know the Teleri King, Olwe is sailing now with his companion for the coast of old Cardolan. There along the rocky coast lays the forest of Moire Taure, a remnant of the vast primeval forest that once covered Middle-earth. I fear they will be in great danger."

Manwe pauses a moment in thought before continuing. "Pallando and Alatar must continue to honour the stipulation by which they accepted their task. They must not directly interfere with Olwe or Nole's tasks and can not directly interact with them. They are to protect them and render assistance. They must not," he remembers the downfall of the Maia Curumo, "dominate them or subject them to their power." Looking up at Eonwe, he says, "I know you can find Alatar and Pallando and hasten them to the Moire Taure with all speed."

"I know you can find Alatar and Pallando..."

Eonwe bows his head and says, "Some among the Maiar, who know not the mind of my Lord or the Will of Eru in this mock Pallando and Alatar, saying they failed you and the Vala the Lord Oroome. That they allowed the evil that fell across Middle Earth to flourish and grow." He lifts his head, and glances at Lord Manwe.  "Yet obedient they have remained," he add softly before he adds. "Yes, My Lord, I can speedily deliver your command to them. Shall I, too, assist them to Moire Taure, as well?"

"Eonwe, I can trust your decision on the matter. If you feel their need of assistance, help them as you can. It is imperative they arrive there ahead of Olwe. As I said, I fear dark forces at work in the Moire Taure." Manwe bows his head in thought and then nods. "Yes, that is all."

Eonwe kneels before the Lord of the West.... 

Eonwe kneels before the Lord of the West, and bows his head.  "As my Lord wishes, so it shall be. The Will of the Valar be done." He rises to his feet and takes a step back from his Lord. "I shall ensure the two are there in Moire Taure, my Lord, before the Hope of the Valar and his boon companion arrive. And I shall be speedily, for," he pauses for a moment, and the love and reverence for his Lord enfuses his face and gives his words a deep warmth they never had before he entered the dread chambers of Melkor's bespelled prison below the Halls of Mandos, "For, my Lord, I crave nothing so much as to be at your side, serving you." Then, like the winds surrounding  them, he is gone, quick as thought.

The Straight Road

The sound of the water slapping against the wooden hull of the ship sounds strangely muted  here, on the Straight Road. The wind pushes against the sails in with a wisp of a disembodied whisper, and gazing upon a sky that bears no blanket of stars, they have only Nole's sure hand on the wheel to guide them through this veil between the West and Middle Earth.

It is the Straight Road, following the old trail across Belegaer, kept open to the Firstborn by the grace of the Valar.  Long ago the world was flat and the way was open. That was before  Númenor's downfall.   Now, only the elves and only a few others, like the hobbits Bilbo and Frodo, like the dwarf Gimli, are allowed to navigate these waters and find their way to Aman. 

Only they were heading East, to Middle Earth.  To Middle Earth where Alqualonde lay like a jewel in the crown of the world's seas.  To Middle Earth where Olwe's quest takes them to shores forgotten, shores unknown, and shores best left forgotten.   

The blue eyes of the Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, the king of the Teleri elves stares out over the waters, a muddle of blue and gray, and heaves a sigh.  Turning he lifts his gaze and sees his friend and sole companion, Nole, the sea merchant, now confidante of the king and co-adventurer on the voyage.  With sure strides, Olwe climbs the steps and crosses over to Nole's side.  He nods at the younger elf, his gaze resting on the horizon ahead. "How much longer before we are through and in Middle Earth?" he asks softly.



"How much longer...?"



Nole smiles a little as his king approaches. The passage of time has little meaning on the Straight Road, and Nole does not recall just how long it takes to sail from the Blessed Lands to the mortal world.

 

"Hmmm," he says thoughtfully, "perhaps by sunrise we will reach the mortal seas of Belegaer. After that we will need to decide which coastal region to approach."

 

It has been a while since he has sailed the Straight Road. In the times before the disappearance of the Teleri he sailed this routinely. But that seems many ages ago. Alqualonde now lays in the mortal waters of Middle earth. It took him awhile to get used to the new homeward routes from the mainland coasts of Middle earth, but now, it feels to him the Straight Road, that was once so familiar, is now the strange uneasy route.

 

The wind tugs at the silver hair of both elves, and Olwe reaches up absently to push his hair back out of his sea blue eyes. Nodding at Nole's words, he peers, squinting a little, but even the keen and far sight of his race avails him little here, in the misty grey path between worlds.  Belegaer, the Sundering Seas, west of Middle Earth, east of  Tol Eressea.  He breathes in the air, but the familiar salt of the sea lies not upon the breeze.  He turns back and regards the younger elf.  "Tell me, friend Nole, of these suggestions the sailors made to you."

 

Steering the ship is not difficult on this path, for it was linear and smooth. Nole often wondered what lay beyond the gray mists on either side on previous trips on the Straight Road, but never had the nerve to steer into the deep mists.

 

 "They spoke of some marginal coastal areas that are either difficult to approach or have not heard from the inhabitants for a while. One lays quite near to the Grey Havens, to the south of the mouths of the Brandywine. This is a rugged coastal area of rocky shores and thick forests that reach down almost into the sea. This is the Moire Taure, or the Blackwood as it is known to some. Little is known about it except that it is a remnant of the primeval woods that covered ancient Middle earth. It seemed a likely area where our kin may be hidden from the mortal races. Another area they spoke of lay far to the south, in the Mumakeem Jungles south of Harad. That is a far and long journey even in our... Miro's ship" he finishes, with a tone of longing as he remembers the attractive shipwright.

 

The slight pause and the tone of Nole's voice catches the Teleri king's attention. He studies the sea merchant's face a moment as he turns his back to the horizon and sits upon the sturdy, polished railing.  Resting his hands upon his legs, he looks over at the younger elf and says softly, "You miss him." 

"You miss him."

 

 

"Yes," Nole says without thinking, but then regrets it. He tries not to let his feelings intrude on the matter at hand. "We will, one day go back there to the Grey Havens," he says and looks at his king. "Perhaps we should investigate the Moire Taure first?" he says fairly quickly, hoping to get back to what needed to be done. "We could always continue south if we do not find anything of interest there."

"Yes," Nole says, without thinking.

 

 

Olwe's gaze upon him is steady, his blue eyes intense, though for a few moments, the king is silent.  Then, not far from the ship, he hears a splash and turns in time to see a dolphin leap out of the water, spin and dive back in. "It looks like we are entering the mortal waters of Belegaer," he says, his voice gentle.  He rests each hand on either side of him on the railing and pushes off to stand again.  Nodding as much to himself as to his companion, he says, " Moire Taure, the Black Woods. I know not much of it."  He steps upon the raised disc and rests a hand on one of the crescent moons of the ship's wheel. "I think you are right, Nole, about that being a starting place. Whether our kin be there or no, it is a reasonable stopping place." He gives the other elf a soft smile and removes his hand, turning away to look again toward the seas, and the lightening skies. "It's not wrong to miss him, " Olwe says. "It's not wrong at all. Our hearts have their own will, Nole. Sometimes they are foolish in their whims. " He stops a moment, and then adds, "But sometimes...sometimes they are very wise, indeed."  Then he takes a step away from the younger Telerin. And when he speaks next, his voice is that of a king. "Let us make for Moire Taure, and see what the Black Woods hold."

 

 

 

 



"No matter what befalls..."

Heavy was the sky, heavy with clouds, heavy with mist, heavy as Olwë's heart.  He lifts a hand as his eyes, the blue of the sea, watch the mist ahead of the ship, and he gently lays his hand where but a few hours before his daughter's hand had rested.  It is but a fancy, he knows, but he can still feel the gentle pressure of her delicate hand as she walked beside him in his palace in the Lonely Isle, Tol Eressëa.  He looks ahead, but his mind flies with his thoughts back to that time this morning, his leave-taking of his daughter and her daughter.

The marble, worked cunningly by elven craftsman, breathes coolness into the air. Close beside him, her long silver blue gown swirling about her like a gentle lap of the sea against shore, walks the Swan maiden, Eärwen Silverhair, daughter of Olwë,  the wife of Finarfin, and the mother of Nerwen, known in the mortal world as the Lady of the Golden Wood, Galadriel.  Nerwen, tall and regal, who but not so long ago returned to the Undying Lands, walks close beside.  A sea of fabric, the train of their gowns, flow over the marble floor with a soft swish in gentle rhythm to their graceful gait. 

 

Time has touched his daughter. Before she would lift her head in a defiant gesture, her eyes, so like her mother, a gemlike spark, fixing on his, and her voice, melodic even as it could be challenging, brooking no argument but seeking agreement even as she knows the point she seeks to win may be moot. But now the passage of time has settled patience in his daughter, though her eyes narrow and glitter like faceted jewels.  Her arm, heavy with disapproval, tucked into the crook of his arm, as she clears her voice and speaks.  "Papa,” she begins, her Telerin bearing the inflections of the Noldorin she speaks daily, now, her words sometimes sounding foreign and different.  "Papa," She pauses, and her face shows an internal struggle, the lips pursing, and the color rising to her ivory cheeks.

 

Beside them, Nerwen lifts her head, her bright eyes shifting from her mother to her grandfather.  Then she turns her gaze ahead of them and bows her head slightly, her hands clasped before her.  Resting his hand atop his daughter's, Olwë speaks in a quiet hush, shaking his head softly, "I must do this, my pearl. I must go. I have delayed and been delayed, and I feel the soft pat of the sand in the hourglass."  He pauses and glances over at his granddaughter.  "As do you,” He says. Startled she looks up and over at him, her eyes widening. 

 

"I do not know,” replies Eärwen, and her bottom lip trembles a little. "I do not know but that I must watch you leave these shores and travel but with one other for places I know not, to dangers I know not. And if something should happen..."

 

Olwë stopped and turned to his daughter, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.  "If something should happen, daughter, then it will be as the Valar wills, and still the Teleri will endure, for you are my heir, and their pearl. You, Swan maiden, you will endure.  Queen once already by marriage, will be Queen again, by blood."  His blue eyes look down, searching her face. "Why does this take you so hard, daughter?  You have watched your own children depart from your side, to their destinies." He pauses to flash a look to the still form of his granddaughter. "And you have had them return to your side.  Why is this so different, now?"

 

"You are no warrior, my lord grandfather,” Nerwen says softly, her voice filling the empty cool space of the vast hall.  "King, yes, kind and compassionate, much loved, much cherished. Can you not feel the heaviness that lies upon the heart of the Teleri in the Lonely Isle? Their kin is gone, silenced, from the Swanhaven.  And now their king, who, by some sweet grace of Eru was yet saved, goes from them into the mists, into the Middle Earth that is as foreign to them as the loss that settles heavy as a stone."

 

Olwë is silent a moment, his hand curved against the cheek of his daughter, his eyes meeting Nerwen's steady gaze. "Truly, no warrior am I. No feat of arms can I claim," he says, finally, slowly, his gaze unwavering. “But King I have been, and am still and I will go wherever it takes to find my people and bring them home.  I..." he stops, feeling a warm wetness on his palm resting against his daughter's cheek. Turning his gaze back to her, Olwë sees her eyes, filling with tears which trail down her cheeks unbidden.

 

"But Papa, “she says, "There is more than that, in this trek you take. There is more than a seeking for your lost people."

 

“Our,” corrects the Lord of Alqualondë, of Tol Eressëa. “ OUR people,” he repeats firmly, and his jaw tightens as his eyes bore into hers.

 

“Mother has long been among the people of my father, my lord,” interjects Nerwen.  Her voice is both stern and respectful, and her eyes fix upon her grandfather as she draws herself up to her full height.

 

Her grandfather turns his steady gaze upon her, his jaw clenching a moment. “As should she, both queen and wife, but daughter of mine she is, and Teleri is her blood. And should the world turn upon itself, and down be up, and right be left, still it is that blood which fills her veins,” he replies. “MY blood. The same blood that imparts to you a Telerin birthright as well Noldorin.”  He turns back to his daughter and his voice softens. “Do not forget the sea. Do not forget the swanships. Do not forget the voices of our people raised up in song at day’s end.  Remember you duty, yes, for you are my daughter. Remember it to your husband. Remember it to your father.  It is upon two shores you walk, but never, daughter, forget upon which shores you took your first steps and where your birthright lies.”

 

Taken aback at the rebuke, Eärwen bows her head. “As my lord father commands, “ she says, and all the hurt in her heart at his words shapes each syllable of each word  as she stiffens her body and pulls away from the hand still pressed to her cheek. 

 

The heat drains from his words, from his face, and his hand drops back to his side as he feels her start to pull her hand away from the cradle of his arm. “No, sweet, no, sweet,” He murmurs in Quenya, and steps forward to wrap his arms around his daughter and draw her to him. “Oh, my daughter, my daughter,” he whispers and kisses the top of her head, lips pressed against the soft silver tresses, so much like his own. “Please,” he continues, resting his cheek against her hair a moment. “I should not bear to take leave of you this way.  I am ancient, daughter, and sometimes too stern.”

 

Her arms snake around him. Once more the years roll back, and she is his child once more, pressing a hot cheek, glistening with tears against his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm and the smell  comforting. “No, no, no, father,” she whispers hotly. “No, neither ancient or stern.  But you are my father, my only parent, as no mother have I  known.” He closes his eyes at her words and pulls her closer.  “I do not think my heart can bear the sorrow if I should lose you,” she says, and presses closer.

 

A sigh escapes the Teleri King as he turns his face to breath in the sweet scent of his daughter’s hair. “Never can you lose me, Eärwen, nor I you. Never can we lose each other, or the ones we love.” He turns his head and lifts it, his gaze meeting his granddaughter’s. “Bound more than by blood, we are,” He speaks, as much for their benefit as for his own.  “Never  can we be torn from each other, so long as we are held in the other’s heart.” 

 

He watches as Nerwen gives him a smile, the lips curving as the eyes light with a mischievous glint. “Even if we chase the swans of your beloved haven because we seek a soft white feather for our own?” she asks, her voice merry with memory of a time, long ago, when, her long blonde hair flying out behind her, she became the terror of the swans of Alqualondë, while on a visit there.

 

“I forgave you long since,” answers Olwë, “though I warrant Maisy may bear some ill will.”  And the smile he gives is bright, warm. 

 

Gliding gracefully, Nerwen moves to his side, and as she nears, Olwë opens his arms and gathers her into his embrace, holding both daughter and granddaughter to him, and bowing his head to say softly. “All the lamps in the sky, the stars which burn, are but half as bright as you shine in my heart.  Hold me in  yours, I beseech, until we next see each the other with joyful eyes. Give to me now, your blessings. For with each moment I delay my departure, I delay my return.” 

 

Giving them one more squeeze, he slowly releases them.  Stepping back, with a fluid, swift motion, the Lord of the Teleri, Olwë of Alqualondë and of the Lonely Isle, kneels before them and bows his silver head.  For a moment, a stillness lay upon them all, and then slowly, Eärwen takes a step forward and rests her delicate hands upon his hair lightly, followed a moment later by Nerwen, who speaks first even as her mother draws herself up to speak.

 

“Fare well from these shores, and speed you on your way. You travel, gentle King as the Light of Eru against the darkness of a deep and dread Shadow.  Doubt not, great King, your compassion is your shield. Doubt not, Lord of Swanhaven and of Lonely Isle, your sword is your honor, and your true bond is your steed.  Doubt not, mine own grandfather, you are, indeed, the Hope of the Valar, and the echo of the One True Flame,” she intones, and her voice swells and lifts to the very ceiling, sounding heavy and far away. 

 

“And doubt not,” adds the Swan maiden, Eärwen, her voice steady, her bearing regal. “Doubt not, my father, but you shall return to us, and that until that day, we left here, shall keep you in our hearts.”

“No matter what befalls,” adds Nerwen.

 

Stirring himself, called back to this moment, and the roll and pitch of the sea,  the Hope of the Valar lifts his gaze to stare out upon the midst that gives ghostly forms to the lands of Middle Earth as faithfully and surely the ship lent  to Nole and to him by Miro takes them from the Blessed Realm. 

 

“No matter what befalls," he whispers. “No matter what befalls.” 

 

 

Nole Alone

The Teleri sea merchant Nole is alone. Having brought his beloved king to Tol Eressea he is left to answer his own lingering questions about trade routes to Middle Earth. Nole is the last of the Teleri sailors from Alqualonde remaining. All of the others have vanished.  As such, he needs more knowledge of trading and outpost locations across the sea in Middle Earth, so he thought to consult with the sailors of Tol to answer these questions of where he should take his king to search next.
In truth, though, he is doing this to distract his mind from Miro's decision to remain in Middle Earth rather than come to Tol Eressea.  Nole has felt a certain emptiness since they parted ways after bringing the dwarves to the Swanhaven. Nole has grown to have feelings for him and misses him terribly. It has been a long time since he has felt this way about someone, and now, now of all times, when he must sail into danger.

After finding some sailors among the Eressians, he narrows his search using charts and their advice. There are two stretches of coast unfamiliar to Nole and could be likely locations of trade outposts of other free peoples. "The coast of Enedwaith, between the mouths of the Rivers Baranduin, the river the hobbits call Brandywine, and the River Isen, is a wild region relatively uninteresting to the Edain. All of their settlements lie far from the coast. There are hidden outposts of our kin among the rocky, heavily forested cliffs," opined one sailor.

"Another region to search lies far south, in the wild jungle lined coasts south of Harondor. That land is little known even to us," said another.

  With polite appreciation, Nole leaves with information he can share with his king, in hopes of restricting their search for their lost kin.

The Lonely Isle

Tol Eressea. The Lonely Isle. Once more its lord pads soundlessly down the marble hallway of his palace there. In his hands he holds a bloom from the Lissuin tree, fragrant and delicate, but the sweet scent does not ease the heart of the King of the Teleri.  A gentle breeze caressed his cheek as it wound its way from one side of the vast open hall to the other, bringing with it the sweet scent of the  Lairelossë, and for a moment the Telerin King remembers how both tree and flower were once carried to  Númenor to enrich the land. Númenor,  the kingdom of the Dúnedain, located on an island in the Great Sea, between Middle-earth and Aman. The land was brought up from the sea as a gift to Men by the Valar.

It was not for the Númenóreans to sail unto the Undying Lands, and for that the Secondborn, the children of Men, were barred from sailing west past sight of their land.  But as often among the children of Men, resentment grew for being refused a thing, and the Ban of the Valar as it came to be known grew in their mind as a denial to them of rights to which they were entitled. They sought the gift of immortality, becoming  prideful and discontent, they fell from grace and rebelled, to their own demise.

Stepping out into the twilight, Olwë  draws in a deep breath and slowly lets it out, the breeze rising and falling in a delicate dance across the breadth of the land.  With the grace given to the Firstborn, the Lord of Tol crosses the plaza to where the waters of Ulmo's domain lap teasingly at the marble, each gentle slap of water against marble promising the lift and lilt of the sea. Squatting down over the elven made finger of water, he stretches out his hand and gently tilts it so that the blossom floats upon the wind and spirals down to land upon the water. Bobbing gently, the blossom twirls in lazy circles as Olwë stands once more.  Behind him, he hears the soft footfalls, deliberate, lest the person comes upon the king in his thoughts unawares, and slowly Olwë turns to find the Steward of Tol Eressea, Fárëon, before him.  Slowly the other elf bows from the waist, once, in deep respect, and as the other slowly straightens, he waits for his king to greet him.

Blue eyes intense, Olwë steps forward, all trace of the unease his thoughts had settled upon his heart masked; only the tight lines about his eyes giving mute testament to the weight that has settled in his dreams and upon his shoulders.  "Yes, my friend," he greets the steward, marking well the set of the shoulders, the ramrod straightness of the back, the steward's own tight lines about his mouth and on his brow.  "You find me enjoying the night.  But you came not for that." It was a statement, and clasping his hands behind his back, the Lord of the Lonely Isle, the Lord of the Swanhaven, steps forward.

Music rises from somewhere off in the distance, a drinking song with lyrics that bear a smattering of Telerin, Noldorin and Sindarin phrases. The elven voices, lifting in the pleasure of the moment, the enjoyment confined to the here and now, with no forethought of the morrow or consideration of the day before cleaves the silence, and fades before them. Somewhere a bird calls for its mate, and out on the water, a swan ruffles its feathers in displeasure at the advances of its mate and turns its back upon the unlucky lover to swim away, but for a moment before the rejected mate hurries to take up a position slightly behind.

Fárëon clears his throat softly. "My lord," he begins, then stops and starts again, his face showing his nervousness in equal parts with his determination to speak. "My son is a young elf..." he starts.

Olwë nods for him to continue and softens his expression.  "Go on," he urges.

"My son is a young elf, unconventional in his ideas, his beliefs, sometimes stubborn."

Olwë cuts him off with a nod. "Yet, you yourself attested to me that he is an industrious young elf, serious, thoughtful, deliberate, polite in manner, loyal, kind, and trustworthy. "

"But, my lord, but...steward of Alqualondë? This is a grave responsibility, and in your absence. There is also, my lord, the presence of the Khazad to consider, and the disappearance of the Te--"

"I know, " interrupts Olwë, firmly, his voice even in tone, but brooking no argument. "I know well, my steward of Tol Eressea, the situation in my Alqualondë. " He stops, seeing the other's face drain of color, and says more gently.   "I know the concerns a father must have, and I know what I ask." He takes another step forward and unclasps his hands to reach out and cup the steward's elbow with his right hand. "I know your Ael is young. I know, too, that the.....unusualness of his marriage has caused no little talk among our elven kin.  I have met Belenos and Rhun, and I see great love between all three.  I am content that all three will serve as caretakers of the Swanhaven in my absence, and so I hold each one steward, equal one to the other in my eyes."

The Steward of Tol dropped his gaze for a moment, his eyes resting upon the hand which grasps his elbow. "My Lord is gracious," he murmurs softly.

Olwë shakes his head. "No, Fárëon, I see that the son is worthy of his father's name, and that he has blessed it with a family forged in love and held with honor. I see the value of his service to me as I have always seen yours."

"And yet," continues Fárëon, stubbornly, his voice soft, yet determined, "And yet, you send my son into the world of men, the mortal world, where treachery and danger and death awaits. Where there is evil."  He lifts his gaze up to meet the blue eyes of the Teleri King. "How can a father see his son go and realize it may be the last time he sets eyes upon his living seed? Remember Númenór, my lord."
The King of the Teleri ducks his head, the very words chilling him. Remember Númenór, yes, by Eru, he has, he had, just  moments before, but even as he feels a shiver run through his body, he responds, "Remember Gondor. Remember the deeds of men but lately done, and remember, too, how it came to pass the destruction of the one ring. Can we continue to judge all Atani by the distant past?" He lifts his gaze, blue eyes bright, his words as much for himself as for the Steward before him. "You hear the tales as they come to us from  the lands beyond.  Yes, he goes into danger, and risk, but he will also be in the Swanhaven, under the protection of Lord Ulmo himself.  In this world or that one," he pauses, and draws in a breath before continuing, " There is no longer surety of safety. " 
He releases the steward's arm and steps back. "I once fostered your son at my court. I find in him those qualities that make him fit for this high task." He pauses as somewhere in the distance again, someone is calling out a good night to a companion. Then he turns back to the steward. "In the morn, as you give your son and his family your blessing, I will be asking the same of my daughter, Earwen, and my granddaughter, Nerwen.  I do not know if I shall behold them with these eyes again, just as you know not your son's destiny. As you give your blessing, let your eyes rest upon him with favor and love. Let your hands be steady, and your voice even and firm. Let him carry with him upon uncertain shores, his father's love, and pride as well. Let him sail forth upon these waters the certainty only youth and a father's favor can grant him. So that, when the days are dark,  you are a light unto his soul, and a fire consuming all fear."

The steward bows his head at his king's words and closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. As his king continues softly, "As I shall hope to carry the words of my daughter and only heir in mind, and those of her daughter, she who is called Lady of the Galadhrim in the world beyond the Undying Lands, must be a flame burning in my heart and in my soul. For if we let these flames die...
.....so will die all the worlds, all the creation of Blessed Eru."

With no more words to speak, Olwë, Lord of Alqualondë, and of Tol Eressea, King of the Teleri, Hope of the Valar, turns and with head held high, leaves the steward of the lonely isle to ponder the words of the king.