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.