Valinor, 3 Fourth Age
Rúmil of Lórien took pride in a job well-done. Thus, despite the fact that everyday that he passed in the so-called Blessed Lands he felt more miserable, he never complained. He kept on performing his role of protector, messenger and general aide of the Lady Galadriel. In his heart he wished that he had never sailed West. He did not know the language, was not used to the food, abhorred the ceremonious ways of the people, and heavily resented being trapped in an all Noldo enclave. He had imagined Aman to be different, to be a rich mixture of the successive waves of Middle-earth refugees who arrived there for more than three ages. But no, each procured their own people and with few exceptions, remained enclosed in their little neighbourhoods.
He often wished to himself that Lord Celeborn had not been so generous with him. He had been a mere Marchwarden in Lórien, but his heroic services in the north-eastern border during the final attacks of Dor Guldur had earned him a reward that felt more like a punishment. He had been chosen for the personal escort of Lady Galadriel. Though he realized it was an honour envied by many, he doubted that anyone could have foreseen the outcome. He was a warrior used to an active life in the wilderness; sitting around all day long waiting to chaperone the Lady Galadriel or carry her messages was all but pleasurable, useful or meaningful. This way of life was dragging on, almost for years.
His musings were interrupted by a soft call. He followed it into Galadriel's study.
"You called, my lady?"
"Yes, Rúmil, darling. I need you to take a message to my uncle Fingolfin."
"Right away, ma'am," he replied.
"This needs to be delivered in hand, though. I suspect that some of my uncle's aides take pleasure in reading his personal messages and occasionally making them disappear. I'm sure you realize as well as I do, that we newcomers are not well-esteemed... especially in my case, who had the arrogance of leaving in the first place."
Rúmil nodded sullenly. He had indeed noticed demeanours changing to less pleasant forms when he identified himself as being from Galadriel's house.
"I will deliver it in his hands, rest assured, my lady."
She handed him a letter with no visible exterior identification. "Thank you. I hope you have a safe journey. You might have to wait for the answer..."
As Rúmil expected, Fingolfin's people were less than warm upon hearing his request. In almost four years of frequent visits to the palace as an escort or a messenger, Rúmil had never even seen Fingolfin up close. Noldo royalty just was not supposed to mingle with lowly Silvan aide. Fingolfin's palace was located a few miles to the south of Valinor and when Rúmil arrived it was high noon. The servants simply indicated him the way to a vast rose garden and told him to look for Fingolfin there, not even offering him the refreshments normally offered to couriers.
Rúmil wandered through the tall, blooming bushes, semi-lost. The garden had a labyrinthine structure and the summer sun was high. No sound could be heard. Eventually he came to an ascending path. Hoping to better see the gardens and find his mark, he climbed it. Sitting on a simple stone bench was Fingolfin, golden hair gleaming under the sun. He did not seem startled upon Rúmil's intrusion into his private space. He simply nodded in acknowledgement and inched towards the farther edge of the bench, creating space for two.
To Rúmil's surprise, Fingolfin broke the protocol and spoke first. "Have a seat."
Rúmil was dumbfounded. Ignoring Fingolfin's extraordinary invitation, he bowed and said, "I bring you a message from the Lady Galadriel." He reached inside his bag and extracted the neatly folded letter.
Fingolfin slowly extended his hand, as if he was reluctant to accept it. He broke the seal and glanced at the first lines. Then he looked up to Rúmil. "If you follow this path, you'll find a fountain a few paces away. You look like you need some refreshment."
Rúmil bowed. "Thank you."
He followed the path and indeed, as promised, a fountain of clear, cool water awaited him. He washed the dust and sweat off his face and hands and had a drink. He wished to take off his tunic and let the cool water abate the scorching summer heat from his torso, but that would be inappropriate. He returned to Fingolfin as soon as he thought a decent interval had passed and the lord had had an opportunity to read the letter.
Fingolfin rose, extending his hand for Rúmil to approach. "Magnificent, isn't it?" he asked regarding the acres of roses ahead. "This has been the task of my second chance at life. What do you make of it?"
Rúmil bit his lip. "It is indeed impressive."
Fingolfin smiled. "And yet, like my niece, you think it's a waste of time and energy, don't you."
Rúmil averted his eyes to his buttons. "I wouldn't know, sir. I am but a humble courier."
"Nonsense. You may speak freely, you know. I'm tired of being treated as this untouchable being. I hear that in my niece's realm things were different."
"Aye," Rúmil admitted. "It is the custom of the Silvan people to speak freely to their lords, and Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel honoured this time-proven tradition when they assumed our leadership."
"Interesting concept... it is refreshing. So tell me then, Rúmil, is it, what do you think of my garden?"
Rúmil was surprised that Fingolfin should know his name, but he did not commented it. Instead he started carefully. "I am not bound to please thee with my answers, should you require my utter frankness."
"Go on, worry not," Fingolfin encouraged him.
"Well, I would say that the garden is indeed beautiful, but it lacks purpose. As far as I can see it, all these acres are only used for your pleasure. That seems little to me. You were once a great ruler of the Noldor, they say, so it's rather baffling that you should chose to use your talents and power in this sole task. And for this garden to keep this vitality under this sun, I'm imagining that many gardeners and many gallons of water find their end here."
Fingolfin smirked, making Rúmil's blood run faster. The lord had insisted that he tell of his mind, but the words were harsh and far from pleasing, he imagined.
"Well, you are right," Fingolfin said to his surprise. "This garden is laid to waste if its beauty solely consoles my eyes, but I created it with another purpose, one that I do not know how to put in practice now that the garden is done."
"And what purpose would that be?" Rúmil asked tentatively, being that he had been given permission to speak freely.
Fingolfin snorted somewhat bitterly. "To atone for sins of the past."
"I thought that one did that in Mandos..." Rúmil formulated in a general fashion, being terribly uncomfortable with the topic.
"No, no..." Fingolfin laughed. "In Mandos, one is given time to reflect and devise ways to live a better life, and repay what was one was given the first time. I must say that I've not been doing too well so far."
"If I understand correctly, your life project, let's call it, is somewhat related to this garden..." Rúmil was baffled both by the notion and by the fact that a Noldo lord would make such personal confessions to a complete stranger of a much inferior social stratum.
Fingolfin seemed to pick up Rúmil's doubts. "You are certainly wondering why I am telling you all this..."
Rúmil nodded.
"My project was to create a space for the living akin to the gardens of Irmo. A place for recovery and fraternization where exiles would find peace and hope, and time to prepare for the second halves of their lives. This would serve the double purpose of welcoming newcomers and of mingling the Noldor with the Sindar and the Silvan. I feel I have made a great disservice to our race when I arrived at Hithlum, and I would like to close the breach between our peoples."
"Lord Elrond has achieved that which you propose in Imladris, and from what I hear he has carried on his work in New Imladris, in the north."
"Yes, yes, yes," Fingolfin agreed impatiently. "Elrond has certainly done that but his is still a closed community. The people arriving from the lost villages of Eriador do not mix with the elves from the Falas, or the Mirkwood exiles. The people of Gondolin who have been returned from Mandos keep as insular as ever, for which I have heavily criticized my son, though he won't listen. The few reborn Fëanorians hide south from here, refusing all contact with the exterior... I won't even mention the people from Doriath... Thingol was always a pompous ass, too full of himself." Fingolfin stopped and smirked. "I suppose that he says the same about me."
Rúmil smiled along; he appreciated the ancient Noldo's sense of humour. Not many elves were great enough to laugh at themselves.
"I understand what you say... but I am not sure why you are telling it to me."
"Well, have a seat," Fingolfin said, settling himself in one end of the stone bench. Rúmil sat.
He extracted Galadriel's letter from his pocket and handed it to Rúmil. "This letter is actually for you. It has not escaped my niece's keen eye that you are not happy with your current situation. Even I who have seen you not more than three or four times have seen how you wear a certain sadness as an albatross around your neck. My dear Artanis thought that an association between us two would be mutually beneficial but has left the issuing of the invitation up to me."
Rúmil raised an eyebrow, surprised, and started reading the letter, where Galadriel spoke of her anguish over the blatant insularity and cultural divisions, and acknowledged that Celeborn's recompense for his deeds might have not been the best. When he finished he looked up, surprise still stopping his tongue.
"So?" Fingolfin asked.
"Can I think about it?"
Fingolfin seemed somewhat disappointed, but he nodded in assent. "Yes, of course. Please be a guest in my house while you consider."
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Story notes: Beta: Many thanks to Patricia. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Notes: Written for Larian Elensar. Hope you like it. ;)
