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When Arafinwë received a summons from Lord Ulmo, delivered by one of the daughters of Uinen who was more used to walking on the land than most of her sisters, he knew there was no point in feigning to be too busy to heed it. Such a summons did not come idly from Ulmo, where those such as Aulë might send many invitations and accept polite refusals without issue.
“Your kinswoman, lost long at sea, shall arrive in Aman guided by the Lord of Waters,” said Uinen's daughter. “She will come into harbor at Tol Eressëa, and you must meet her.”
“And which kinswoman is this, my lady?” said Arafinwë. “I have few enough of them.”
The water-maiden tilted her head. “Why, Itarillë Rehtarë, the blessed and the favored. Who else would sail in the very palm of my lord? Make haste, High King, to Tol Eressëa.”
Arafinwë waited until she had gone to put his head in his hands. Stars!
Eärendil he had met, and though the young man was tight-lipped on the matter of his family, Arafinwë knew that his mother was Itarillë and that she had gone missing when sailing West. It would be inexcusable not to go and greet his great-niece, especially seeing as Eärendil might be in the heavens at the appointed time. With a weary sigh, he set to packing for the journey.
When the day came, as he watched the ship come in, he realized he had expected a battered ship sailed by a harried Itarillë alone, having finally found her way after a hundred years lost upon the waves. But Eärrámë shone in the morning light, and even with the sun behind the ship he could see more than one figure on the deck. Around the ship swam Uinen's daughters, laughing and singing as they guided it into harbor.
At the dock, as Arafinwë blinked dazzles from his eyes, Itarillë disembarked, for all the world as if she were coming home from a short jaunt, and she held the arm of a mortal Man. Arafinwë silently resolved to bring a healer with him every time he saw one of his kinfolk from now on, with the amount of headaches they brought.
“Good morning, Great-uncle,” said Itarillë, with the shallowest of bows. “I thank you for coming to meet us.”
“Gladly, Ityë. Who is your companion?” he asked.
“Ah, I forget my manners!” Idril turned to the Man and said, “My love, let me present to you my great-uncle Arafinwë. Uncle, this is my consort, Tuor Ulmondil.”
There was then an uncomfortable pause. Arafinwë was off-kilter -- Itarillë had introduced him to Tuor, who had not made a greeting, when it was proper to introduce the lower-ranked...
Ah.
He bowed, no deeper than Itarillë had, over Tuor's hand. “Well met,” he said, “and welcome, both of you, to Aman.”
“Thank you,” said Tuor, in very good Quenya though he was from Middle-Earth. “Is our Eärendil here? We were told he had found his way.”
“Not just now, but he does dwell on the mainland. May I ask how you came to arrive here at last?” he said, eager to steer the conversation away from Eärendil and not have to break it to them that their son was the Evening Star.
“We fell asleep in the Enchanted Isles, and we were found by a lady named Tínelinya when our ship drifted to her beach. She built a dwelling for us, and we woke a few days ago, after which Lord Ulmo led us here,” said Itarillë. “But, Great-uncle, while it is not my wish to bring up unhappy thoughts of politics, has Eärendil properly abdicated in your favor? For that matter, has Great-aunt Findis?”
And that was why she had treated him in the introduction as the lower, for as the eldest of the elder house on this shore she was by right High King, as had Eärendil been before Itarillë arrived. Her consort was, by this calculation, of greater rank than the head of a younger house.
“Findis removed herself from the succession ere you were born, and Eärendil has been occupied with other things,” said Arafinwë.
Itarillë eyed him as if looking for something in his face, and he felt a press upon his thoughts. “I see. And do not take that tone with me; it is not as if I want your throne, but it is mine as the heir of Finwë by our laws. I will gladly make this known, but you will first acknowledge me.”
“Why demand this when you intend to leave the crown with me?” said Arafinwë. “You could leave it alone.”
“In case I need the weight of the title later,” said Itarillë. “It will not be by the demand of ‘Itarillë the former young princess of the third house’ that the Powers allow my consort to live deathless in Valinórë, for that may be done only by Itarillë the rightful High King.”
“You have changed, niece,” said Arafinwë.
“You last saw me as a young child. I should hope I have changed.”
Tuor broke in. “Good sir, we have been at sea for too long. Is there anywhere we may go to sit and eat, and to wash ourselves of clinging salt? And if word may be sent to Itarillë's kin, that would be a blessing.”
“And to Annael, who raised Tuor, if any of those he knew in childhood have sailed,” said Itarillë. “But -- yes, food and drink first, and true rest; the long sleep we took was not enough. My love, let us leave Eärrámë here and sail it to the mainland in a few days, for we are in no rush.”
Resigning himself to Itarillë's temporary usurpation of his throne, Arafinwë led them to an inn.
The next morning, after enough sleep to clear his headache, Arafinwë came to breakfast at the inn's kitchen to find someone waiting for him.
“Good morning, my lord,” said the stranger, a brown-haired elf who had the look of one of the few Returned, speaking in Sindarin. “Is her majesty Idril here? I heard she would be arriving soon, and I must speak with her.”
“Who asks for her?” said Arafinwë, who had not thought he would be bothered by Itarillë’s insistence that she was the heir of Finwë but found himself bothered nonetheless.
“Cíwedol, formerly of Gondolin,” said the elf. “Those of us who have been reborn, and those sailed, wish to swear ourselves to her anew, if she will let us. And I, at least, would like to avoid a scene in public at court should she refuse, so I seek her out now instead.”
“Itarillë is here, but sleeping,” said Arafinwë. “She and her consort are wearied from their journey.”
“No longer so,” said Itarillë, coming down the stairs with Tuor beside her. “Who are you telling about -- Cíwedol?”
“Your majesty,” said Cíwedol, and bowed to her.
“You have no right to call me that,” Itarillë hissed. Arafinwë glanced between them, and wisely backed out of the way. “What would bring you to me, after everything?”
Cíwedol said, “Not all of us -- in fact, most of us -- did not aid our liege lord in his treason. Nonetheless, we do love him, and as he decreed in the event of his death, those who find themselves loyal shall now follow you.”
“You would obey him still?” said Tuor, with a strange longing in his tone. “Have you seen him, or are these commands from before he bowed to Morgoth?”
“Both, at least for those who have died. And even had we not, it would only be proper to offer our service to the betrotheds of our lord, and to our High King,” said Cíwedol.
Arafinwë, having hoped until now to avoid notice and eat his breakfast, had a coughing fit. “Betrotheds?” he gasped out, strangled.
“This does not concern you, sir,” said Tuor, and turned back to Cíwedol. “Does he still consider us so?”
Cíwedol made a gesture of dismissal. “None of you gave the rings back. We of his followers have no cause to seek out a liege who is not one of you, and no desire to, either. If you will not have us, we will await Queen Aredhel or find our own way.”
“I do not intend to take up the throne, nor any other power, not for at least a yén. But if you wish to be in our service in name alone, you may,” said Itarillë. “I will not stop you, and I shall not refuse your lending weight to my words, but Tuor and I will not lead you. We wish to be left in peace.”
Cíwedol glanced at Arafinwë, then back to Itarillë. “We will swear ourselves to you before you give up the throne. Let none think you friendless on these shores -- there are many of the Gondolindrim and those from Sirion who would follow you, but fewer who were charged to.”
“We will not be thanking him,” Itarillë warned.
“Cíwedol, if you would tell the others of this plan?” said Tuor. “It will take time; we have only just arrived.”
“We will take care of everything, my lord,” said Cíwedol, now smiling a wicked grin. “Trust us to know your ways, and our lord's, in manipulating a court! Only tell us where in Tirion we may find you.”
Arafinwë found himself grateful that this treasonous betrothed was still in Mandos. What could Itarillë do with yet another too-clever person on her side?