Idril in Mandos, by Kaylee Arafinwiel
Mar. 1st, 2018 11:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Prompt and Category:"I have passed through fire and deep water, since we parted." (The Two Towers, "The White Rider"), The wind began to blow steadily out of the West and pour the water of the distant seas on the dark heads of the hills in fine drenching rain. (Fellowship of the Ring, “Flight to the Ford”)
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Family, drama (I think)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character deaths, reference to corporal punishment of children
Characters:Ar-Adunakhôr, Idril, Tuor, Námo, Eöl, Aredhel, Maeglin, Tar-Calmacil’s wife
Pairings: Tuor/Idril
Creator’s Notes (optional): Thank you SWG random generator for providing me with characters.
Summary: The Princess meets her descendant…
“You called for me, my Lord?” The Lady Idril, once Princess of Gondolin, eyed her keeper’s younger brother with frank curiosity. “Or perhaps for us?” She glanced back over her shoulder. Tuor stood by the western wall, looking out over the Ekkaia and doing his best not to tremble.
Námo, Lord of Mandos, smiled serenely back at the Elven woman, causing her to shiver. “Indeed, daughter, I did. I would ask you to walk in my Halls with me – in the Halls of the Firiath, for there is one of your grandsons who refuses to take his leave.”
“One of my—surely not Elros,” Idril replied.
The Vala shook his head. “Nay, Elros has long departed to meet the Source of his existence. This one is a long-son of his, and a more stubborn Child I have not seen in quite some time. He demands to see you.”
“He sounds like an elfling denied his favourite sweet,” Idril replied dryly, as Tuor stared stubbornly at the rain-washed sea. Námo laughed, but there was no humour in it, and the thunderclouds rolled. Lightning forked into the waters, making them boil, and Tuor hastily backed away.
“Elflings are one thing. Blasphemers are quite another,” Námo replied. Idril paled.
“Blasphemers! What do you say of this grandson of mine?” she demanded, a tremor in her voice. “Do you accuse my Eärendil’s sons of being less than faithful, my lord? He has ever served the Lords of the West, as have we—”
“Ah, but therein lies the trouble, Daughter,” Námo said gravely, “for this grandson of yours names himself Lord of the West.”
Idril gasped, bile rising in her throat. Her breathing quickened, and the world seemed to reel around her. Tuor gave a shout of denial, rushing to catch her as she fell, but when she collapsed in his arms, limp, he knew she was not there. Her fëa had fled.
***
Idril found herself in a small chamber, perhaps twenty paces square. The stone walls were a soft grey and the floor was tiled in a pleasing pattern of diamonds, white and blue. The only ornamentation was a resting couch upon which the fëa of a Man lay sullenly, his arms folded across his chest. His companion, a Maia, gazed at him dispassionately; Idril knew the Maiar loved the Children, both Firstborn and Secondborn, but she had a feeling even Maiar could be at the end of their patience. Erring on the side of caution, she offered the Maia a curtsey. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Child,” came the calm reply. The Man sat bolt upright, glowering, and Idril was forced to take a step back. She knew those dark eyes, flashing angrily at her. Maeglin!
Nay, child! The Maia’s hand on her back calmed her. This is not Maeglin the traitor, but the grandson you have been called to see.
He looks like…
I know. Be still, Child, he will not cause you harm.
“So, you are Lady Idril,” the Man drawled. “I have to say, I thought you would be…different. Braver, perhaps.”
“What do you mean by that, little boy?” Idril challenged. He is your grandson, Idril, remind him of his place.
“I saw how frightened you were at the sight of me,” he sneered. “Bow before me, woman, for I am the Lord of the West. I, not these benighted fools!”
Idril stared in disbelief and laughed. “I will never bow before you, shame of my flesh, disgrace of my blood. My Eärendil would be ashamed to call you his own.”
“Bah! What care I for the so-called Star of Hope, the Elves’ fancy, who abandoned his sons even as you did? It seems to be a family tradition,” her grandson drawled.
“You sound like a petulant elfling,” Idril replied, shaking her head in disbelief. “I thought you were meant to be a Man full-grown and wise. What is this nonsense, Child of mine?”
“I am no child.”
“No? You look like one,” Idril retorted, for the Maia had been obliging Adunakhôr’s petulance by causing his age to fade away. He was, Idril thought, perhaps now a boy of about seven summers – the same age Eärendil had been when Gondolin…no. Anyway, he looked nothing like her son, more like she imagined her cousin had looked at that age. She tried to shake that thought off, not wanting to recall her uncle’s enraged advance, her aunt’s bloody death, but the more she tried not to think of it, the more she thought.
“Is there a problem, Grandmother?” Adunakhôr sneered. He was speaking Adûnaic, she realised – a language Idril did not speak, but she found herself able to understand. The power of Mandos was impressive.
“Not for me. Now tell me, grandson, by what name did your mother call you?”
“Adunakhôr.”
“Surely not.” Idril raised an eyebrow.
Little Adunakhôr scowled. “Avalôbên,” he amended.
Valandur, Idril translated mentally. “Servant of the Valar,” she said aloud. “Do you not think, little one, that taking a name which blasphemes them is…”
“Why should they care? The Avalôi care not! The Nimir care not!” he said sullenly.
“This Elf cares very much,” Idril replied dryly. “And Lord Námo cares as well, as do his brethren. You will not go to face the Source of your existence without facing the consequences for such blasphemy, grandson mine.”
“What do you plan to do about it?” Adunakhôr demanded.
“What did your parents do when you misbehaved, child?” Idril replied.
“Nothing.”
“You had a nursemaid, I take it?”
A reluctant nod. “She made me stand in the corner, or took away my sweets, and if I was very bad, she whipped Zadnazîr with the birch.”
“And who was this Zadnazîr?”
“My friend,” Adunakhôr admitted after a long pause.
“Well then. Zadnazîr is not here, and I think it is time and past time you began paying for your own mistakes, inyonya,” Idril replied. “Eärendil never passed his punishments on to anyone else. So come, Valandur. Let us see this done.”
Valandur - she refused to call him Adunakhôr - obeyed reluctantly, and Idril handled the small boy's punishment as quickly and thoroughly as his nurse had managed Zadnazîr's long ago. She allowed for the fact Valandur was not used to it, but had still brought him to penitent tears.
“S-sorry, Anammë, sorry,” he whimpered once he was able to speak again.
“Shh. Catch your breath, inyonya, I have you safe. Breathe in and out, slowly now, deeply, that’s right.” Idril spoke soothingly to little Valandur, feeling he truly was Valandur again and Adunakhôr no longer. When his tears and sniffles had reduced to a manageable level, she rocked the boy gently in her arms. “Anammë is here, Valandur. There now, you will be well. Sore, undoubtedly, but well.”
“S-sorry I was so bad,” Valandur whispered. “Do they hate me?”
“The Valar?” Idril asked. “No, never, child. They love you; that is why they sent me here, to help you learn the error of your ways.”
“My people,” Valandur said quietly.
“Ah…I could not say. But I hope not, inyonya,” she replied. “No Child of Ilúvatar should hate another.” She kissed his dark hair tenderly. “Are you ready to go now?”
“Will it hurt?” Valandur whispered.
Idril shook her head. “I doubt it, little one. I doubt it very much. Lord Namo wouldn’t send you to a place where you would be hurt.”
“I hurt now,” Valandur contradicted, and Idril gave him a hug. “It won’t last, best beloved. You are going to a place where you can be happy. No fear now, inyonya. Anammë loves you.” The depth of feeling behind the words was astounding, Idril thought, but it was true for all that. She had come to love this grandson of hers in such a short time.
Valandur nodded slowly. “I…I can go.”
Idril nodded, carrying the boy in her arms. The Maia led her to a dark river, where a swan-shaped boat floated, tied in place and waiting. Standing next to the boat was another woman, one Idril didn’t recognise. But Valandur obviously did.
“Anammë!”
The white-haired woman smiled and reached out to take him from Idril. She was loath to give Valandur up, but at last she did.
“Greetings, Lady. I am Queen Nilûphêl – Isilwen if you like,” the woman said. “Thank you for taking care of my grandson.”
“Our grandson,” Idril replied with a faint smile. “It was my pleasure – eventually. I take it you will see Valandur on his journey?”
“We shall go together,” Queen Isilwen replied. “Fare you well, Lady Idril.”
“Fare you well, my grandchildren, wherever this road may lead you, and may you be happy,” Idril replied. She watched as the two Mortals boarded the boat, then watched it out of sight. Only then did she begin to weep.
***
“Oh, thank the Belain,” Tuor whispered, as Idril stirred in his arms, eyes wet with tears. He hugged her close. “What happened?”
Idril flung her arms around Tuor and hugged him. “Our grandson happened.”
He half-led, half-carried Idril away from the walls of the World toward their home in Nienna’s demesne. “I have a feeling this story will take a while…” Tuor muttered. “Wine is called for.”
“It most certainly is,” Idril murmured, thinking where on Arda – or off it, perhaps – she might begin.
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Date: 2018-03-02 01:49 am (UTC)I like how you made the connection work. This is a clever story!
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Date: 2018-03-02 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-02 03:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-02 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 05:19 pm (UTC)Kudos for taking the plunge and creating an intriguing tale.
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Date: 2018-03-03 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 11:11 pm (UTC)Shall be looking forward to reading that story. :D
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Date: 2018-03-03 11:14 pm (UTC)