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.”
