Chapter Text
How Findaráto has grown since the last time Finwë visited Alqualondë!
Finwë cannot fault his youngest son for relocating to his wife’s home soon after their joyful wedding — not in Tirion, either, but upon the bright mound of Ezellohar. "If my eldest and youngest share anything," Finwë had written to Olwë, when Arafinwë first left Tirion for good, "it is the desire to distance themselves from their relations."
“Old friend,” Olwë had written back, “have you considered that your son chose the beaches of Alqualondë for their beauty? Or perhaps that he honours my daughter — my eldest child and heir, might I remind you — by choosing to dwell among her people?”
Finwë turns and smiles at Olwë who stands beside him now, watching their grandson gathering jewels on the shoreline.
“I thought the name Eärwen gave him strange, you know, at first," Olwë says contemplatively. "Merely passing on the name of the father to his son — a name you cannot deny is oddly-chosen for your mildest, golden-haired child." Finwë raises his palms to indicate he has no objection. Indis' choice of name is still mysterious to him, also. "But for all that he is Arafinwë's double in appearance," Olwë continunes, "I think this Ingoldo will prove far more suited to the name. He is not like your son. Nor is he like my daughter, for all he loves the song of the waters. He reminds me more of you, in our youth.” He turns to Finwë. "I foresee, and I suspect my daughter foresaw, that he will be great among your people: ambition, ingenuity, and curiosity tempered by the nobility of Ingwë’s folk, and the caution and quietude of my own.”
“Aye,” says Finwë, “let us hope he is tempered.”
“Grandfather Finwë!” Findaráto cries in that moment, catching sight of him. Setting his basket of gems down on the white sand, he begins to race towards them. The surf-polished pebbles higher up the beach crunch beneath his bare feet.
“I did not know you had arrived,” he says, throwing his arms around Finwë. His head already reaches Finwë’s shoulders, which Olwë notices with a glimmer of amusement.
“I arrived this morning,” he says. “Your grandfather said I would find you here, pilfering the shoreline of its jewels.”
A frown creases Findaráto’s brow. He looks more hurt than defiant when he looks at Olwë. “I am not pilfering.”
“Of course not!” Finwë laughs. “As I told Olwë, a Noldo must be allowed to collect jewels. It is in your nature.”
“No, I am not collection them to keep,” Findaráto protests mildly. “We are going use them to decorate the new beach pavilion.”
“We?” Finwë asks, and at the same time Olwë says, “What pavilion is this?”
“Oh!” Findaráto’s green eyes fly open. To Olwë he says, “Mother hasn’t told you?” and to Finwë, “Turukáno hasn’t said anything?”
“No,” Olwë says dubiously, “my daughter has said nothing of a pavilion.”
“Nor has Turno.” Olwë frowns, but Finwë is chuckling. “Come, friend,” he says to Olwë, “do not look so displeased. Do you not trust my grandchildren with a small building project? I who built this city for you!”
“Yes, with your own hands,” Olwë says drily.
“Some of it!” says Finwë.
“Which parts?” Findaráto asks with eager sincerity.
“Yes, which parts?” Olwë echoes less sincerely.
“Why, the Palace itself was my design.”
“Designing is not building,” Olwë says. “I do not recall any tools in your hands, Noldóran. Though it would reassure me to know you had reviewed the plans of these young princes before they go setting up pavilions for public use.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to offend the princes. I am sure they know what they are doing.”
Findaráto chews his lip. “Actually, Turukáno said he was going to ask you.”
“Did he?” Finwë cannot disguise amusement at this. Nolofinwë’s second son is a proud child. He has often thought it fortuitous that he and Findaráto came into the world in the very same year, like two complementary halves: Findaráto softening his cousin’s stubbornness, Turukáno a steadying influence on Findaráto’s mind that would otherwise never settle long enough for its wisdom to bear fruit. “Well, he will be here with your aunt Anairë before the Mingling tonight.” Findaráto’s face alights at this news. “Perhaps you can nudge him to ask again, hm? I would gladly look over your plans.”
“I will,” says Findaráto. “But you will be gentle, won’t you? You know how Turno dislikes being corrected.”
“I do,” says Finwë. “Which is why I will have you do any correcting on my behalf." Findaráto opens his mouth to protest, but Finwë gently nudges him to direct his attention to the shore. "Now, you had better go retrieve that basket before the waves drag it back out to sea.”
Seeing how the waves have grown since they began speaking and now climb up to encircle the basket with their foam, Findaráto whirls and races down. As he returns with the basket, he glances longingly at the water. Then with gleeful spontaneity he sets the basket down again, strips his tunic, and takes a running leap into the waves.
Finwë laughs in delight.