Dust of Snow by ArizonaPoppy

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Chapter 1

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The lantern’s light made a sphere of orange glow; the air was thick with moisture. Caranthir looked hopefully up to the sky, as if checking it again would improve the weather. It was still and dull as carded wool laid over the heavens. In one area the sky seemed brighter than the rest. He assumed that must be where the moon shone, if the clouds had not been there. Dragging his scarf around him again, he urged his horse Urust forward. No-one had been down this path yet today; the ground ahead of him was unbroken between the hemlocks lining the path. The horse picked his way steadily though, halter bells jingling quietly. 

Overhead a branch creaked. Caranthir looked up just in time to see a startled crow take flight. The bird’s sudden movement shook free a pile of snow. Some hit Caranthir in the face, while the rest trickled inside his hood and down his neck. The remainder landed on his horse. 

“Son of a Silmaril!” Caranathir tried to shake it out of his collar, but only worked it further down against his shoulders. 

Even though Urust was ordinarily stalwart and dependable, this was just too much. The horse bolted forward, away from the beating wings and sudden dousing of cold. Caranthir let him go; he leaned over Urust’s neck as he galloped headlong. Unwilling to tire his horse too much despite the time he had already lost in the morning, he finally reined the horse back in. 

“Steady, Urust,” he urged. “No sense outrunning our lantern.” 

Urust once again comfortably picked his way along the path, re-settled, but Caranthir still seethed at the indignity of the dusting of snow as a few small flakes flitted through the lantern light. They fell almost imperceptible at first, so that he wondered if he imagined them, but then more and more flakes began to fall around him. Highlighted against the dark wool of his cloak, they were accumulating undeniably faster. 

It was just Caranthir’s luck today. Delayed on his journey back to Thargelion and now with the imminent threat of snow. Who could have predicted the incident with the dwarves and the overturned rutabaga cart blocking the road? The dwarves shouting at each other (so uncouth), and the smell– oh the smell! – of the turnip tops. He shuddered thinking of the “healthful” stewed greens he had been forced to eat as a child. 

While he contemplated his mother waving spoons of greens around his face entreating her little frog to open his mouth to gobble up the insect, a sudden jolt interrupted his reverie. Urust’s front half went suddenly down, throwing Caranthir forward. He landed with a shock in bitingly cold water, the polar opposite to the warm pot likker of his childhood greens. This time Caranthir was too stunned to let fly another imprecation. Urust peered down concernedly at him. While he had been distracted from his surroundings, Urust had gone forelegs first through a shelf of undercut snow on a streambank. 

Next was the realization that his backside was very cold, verging on numb. He needed to move, now. Caranthir hoisted himself out of the frigid water onto the opposite streambank. Thankfully the lantern was still attached to Urust’s saddle and had not gone out, but Caranthir needed to warm up, fast. This was not the time to be in wet clothes. 

By the lantern’s dim light, Caranthir felt futilely for his saddlebag. It wasn’t there. 

Turning to look behind him, Caranthir spied his saddlebag in the stream, the cold waters dividing around it. At least it had cushioned his fall, but his spare clothes were soaked. 

This was a dangerous fettle he’d gotten into. Wrapping the thick wool of his cloak around him – at least wool stayed warm even when wet – he re-mounted Urust and urged him onward. As they traveled Caranthir prayed to Eru that he could find some shelter: a cliff overhang, a thicket of hemlock for a windbreak, before he took sick. 

Glancing around as the horse picked its way through the snow, Caranthir saw no cliffs that would make a place to camp, but praise Ilúvatar, a light shone through the winter night a short distance away. 

“Hurry, Urust,” he urged. Caranthir’s fingers were already feeling thick and unwieldy around the reins. They followed the point of light as it became larger and larger through the trees. Caranthir had just enough wits to recognize a small clearing with a cabin and a firelight in a window when his numb legs could not hold him in the saddle anymore. He fell senseless into a snowbank, hearing a loud clatter and a large shape rush toward him as his vision grew fuzzy and dark.   

 

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The first thing Caranthir thought was that he hadn’t been this warm and comfortable since his childhood nights sleeping with his wolfhound Frizzy snuck under his covers. There was something scratchy against his skin, but it didn’t smell quite like Frizzy. He decided not to worry about it. 

Pop! A sharp noise jarred his ear an unknown time later. He forced his eyes open. He was next to a roaring fire. His fingers touched a cold flagstone and then, in turn, a scratchy wool blanket. His second thought was that the blanket was sadly not Frizzy. Caranthir closed his eyes again and sighed deeply.  

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Caranthir cocked one eye open. A sturdy fist grasping a piece of firewood filled his view. The wood moved over his prone form, and landed in the fire. The logs on the fire shifted, but they were held neatly with ironwork. The sparks flew upward instead of rolling onto the hearth. 

Caranthir forced both eyes open, despite his great fatigue that lured him back with promises of delicate snuffles from Frizzy. The figure that had previously been stoking the fire had taken a few steps back. Caranthir’s vision resolved itself in the dim firelight. 

His roommate was none other than Angrod. Caranthir fought the urge to pull the blanket back over his head. After speaking so harshly to Angrod, now they were here together, wherever here was. “I,” Caranthir began. After a moment he changed his start to “Where….”

Angrod waved his hands around the room. “We’re in a hunter’s cabin in the mountain passes. Somewhere between your lands and mine. I was traveling home, and fortunately found this cabin when the storm began. I had decided to ride it out here, and was under the lean-to chopping wood when you fell off your horse in the yard.”

Caranthir looked under the blanket. He was in his smallclothes. 

“I had to take your wet clothes off; you would have frozen to death otherwise.” Angrod rubbed his elbow. “You nearly did anyhow” Perking up, he continued. “But your clothes are close to being dry.” 

At least he was warm now, Caranthir thought, as he contemplated the edge of his tunic, visible draped over a chair back. “I am in your debt then,” he said finally. 

“But you wish you weren’t?” Angrod asked, one corner of his mouth tipped up. 

Angrod had a point. Caranthir stared sullenly into the fire and would not deign to answer.

After a few moments Angrod went back to stacking the armload of kindling and firewood in the box next to the fireplace. He spoke not further. The only noises in the room were the clinks of the pieces of wood. 

Not wishing to look like a gadabout, Caranthir struggled to a sitting position, the blanket still clutched around him. He stretched one foot tentatively toward the hearth, wiggling it in the heat. It felt nice. He gasped. “My horse! I should tend to him.”

Holding up one hand, Angrod reassured him. “Brushed down in the lean-to, enjoying a manger of hay alongside my horse.” 

Carnathir sighed in relief. 

“There’s enough for a day or two for us to ride out the storm. It may be uncomfortable cooped up here together, but we’ll get by until we can go our separate ways.” 

Caranthir looked overhead. The cabin was well sealed against the winter snows- the sturdy beams supported thick thatch overhead. A clump of onions and other dried herbs hung in the rafters caught his notice. “Jerky,” he finally said. 

“Pardon?”

“I have some dried meat in my saddlebags,” Caranthir clarified. He gestured with his shoulder at the ceiling. “We could make a stew with the vegetables.” 

Angrod hummed. “A good plan. Thankfully the huntsman was well-stocked; I suppose he must come up here frequently. I must send someone back with replacements when I get home.”

In spite of himself, Caranthir yawned. 

“It’s going to be a long time cooped up together if you are bored of my company already.” 

Caranthir’s face flushed. “I… I…” he sputtered. 

Angrod guffawed. “To see the mighty Caranthir thus discomposed!”

Caranthir rolled his eyes and returned to intently studying the sewn edge of his blanket.

“But on that note, it is quite late.” Waving his arm, he indicated the simple bedstead behind him. “I’m going to turn in. There’s only the one bed. I’d offer to share it with you….” His voice drifted off.

Caranthir grunted. “I wouldn’t share it with you. Given our history, who’s to say we won’t strangle each other?” He shook his head. “No, just give me one of the pillows and I’ll be happy by the fire.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Angrod selected the fluffiest pillow off the bed and handed it to him. “Sleep well.”  He blew out the candle and climbed into bed. 

The bed ropes creaked behind Caranthir as he stared pensively into the glow of the fire. Finally he carefully folded the edges of his several blankets interlaced with each other so that no cold would be admitted, then joined Angrod in attempting to sleep. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were of the conundrum posed by Angrod’s generosity despite their history. 

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A thin grey light permeated the cabin when Caranthir awoke. The residual heat of the flagstones had dissipated. The coals of the fire glowed pinkly among the gray ash, well-banked the night before. Reluctantly reaching his hand out of his cocoon of blankets, Caranthir felt the air around him. It was chilly. A glance over to the bedstead showed his erstwhile roommate to be still asleep. Caranthir wriggled out of the blankets, inhaling sharply when the full force of the morning chill hit. He clambered quickly into his clothes, which were now fully dry. 

Crouching in front of the fire, he gently fed the coals some fat wood to bring them back to life. Satisfied, he added a few pieces of larger kindling, and smiled as the tongues of flame licked at them. Caranthir stood up and took inventory of the huntsman’s cookware. A small kettle would meet his first need for tea. Snow had banked against the cabin door, which he used to the fill the kettle to melt and warm up while he tended to the animals. 

Fastening his cloak, he followed a depression in the snow, which he assumed was Angrod’s broken path to the lean to. The lean-to was clean and warm. Caranthir spent some time making sure that Urust and Angrod’s horse had all they needed. Angrod’s horse was an equally well-cared for animal, both horses proud like their owners. Urust nudged his shoulder. “Yes, I’m sorry,” he replied. “This is not what I had planned, either. But rest for a day.”

Back in the cabin, Caranthir rummaged in various tins until he found some tea. Poking his little finger into the kettle of water, it was still not boiling. He fed the fire with another few small pieces, then set himself toward the task of preparing their luncheon stew. 

The water was just boiling when the whistle of the kettle caused Angrod to stir. Caranthir turned to the source of the rustling. Angrod’s blonde hair was mussed, pieces floating in the static of the cold dry air. So undignified. Caranthir had carefully retied his queue in the water of the bucket outside as one of the first things. 

“The tea’s almost ready,” he grunted, then turned back to breaking the jerky into small pieces at the table. The cabin was usefully, if modestly, stocked. Caranthir had found the cutting board tipped against the back of the sideboard. 

Angrod rubbed his hand over his forehead. With a sigh he shuffled into his boots and slipped outside to the necessary. 

When Angrod came back, stomping his feet to remove the snow, Caranthir wordlessly handed him a mug of tea. 

“Thank you.” Angrod wrapped his hands around it, cupping it to his face for the warmth. His hands nearly engulfed the sturdy earthenware as the steam escaped into the chilled air. 

Caranthir was loathe to speak more than he had to Angrod. Surely Angrod must bear ill-will to him, after, well. He turned back to chopping the onions. His face flushed with embarrassment; should he have replied with an “you’re welcome?” He chopped the onions a little more fiercely than was necessary.   

Angrod rummaged in a saddlebag and pulled out a small leather bag. “I have some oats. We could make porridge for breakfast.” He held it out to Caranthir. 

At that moment Caranthir’s stomach chose to gurgle. Apparently it was not content to wait for mid-day. “And now I will thank you,” he said finally, tapping the bag. 

Angrod busied himself with preparing the porridge in another pot. While it simmered, he settled in a chair to stare into the space, nursing his mug of tea longer than it could have possibly been still warm. When the porridge was ready, he scooped it into two wooden bowls. “I suppose I should I should also melt some snow for washing up,” Angrod mused. 

While hot, the porridge burned Caranthir’s mouth more with the sting of once again being forced to accept hospitality from Angrod. Yes, the Valar demanded that the laws and customs of hospitality be followed, but even among enemies? For surely after his rash speech, Angrod must be equally uncomfortable, shouldn’t he? If Caranthir could not reclaim his words, no matter how he regretted it afterward, surely Angrod could not forget them. 

The morning continued in deafening silence as Caranthir’s conscience twisted his stomach in knots. The only sounds were the soft hiss of snow falling outside, crackles from the fireplace, and the occasional creak of a chair. Caranthir tried to focus on his reading that he had brought along, but kept looking up as his attention drifted. Angrod quietly whittled on a piece of wood he had found in the kindling box. 

Finally after the noon meal was cleared away, Angrod broke the silence. “Come, I have a traveler’s chess board. Would you care for a game?” He smiled amiably.

Caranthir was reminded of a friendly dog that lived in the gatehouse when he was a child. Instead of being a fierce watchdog, it had greeted all and sundry with happy noises. It never became angry, no matter how many times young Caranthir had tried to catch the fringe of his long golden tail as it swished. 

The dog was patient. 

“Caranthir?”

Caranthir shook his head, dislodging his tongue from where it had been firmly planted on his top tooth, lost in thought. “Yes, we’ll need to pass our time or else go mad here together.”

Angrod nodded as he unfolded the little board. The squares were hand-colored with ink. Caranthir watched as his erstwhile roommate placed the pieces on the board. They were delicate but slight unevenness here and there demonstrated their simple origins. Had Angrod carved them as well? How much time and care had gone into them? 

“The snow’s stopped and the wind seems to have shifted direction,” Angrod observed. “Surely we will be able to resume our journeys tomorrow.” 

Glancing at the window, the clouds that had earlier hung leaden and gray were now lifted, scudding quickly across the sky. Caranthir focused his attention back on the table before them. 

Angrod held out two fists. Caranthir tapped the left, at which Angrod revealed the white queen. 

“White. You go first.” 

Caranthir nodded solemnly, and rotated the board to his side. He opened swiftly with a Lammoth Gambit, moving his pawns in a wave to E4, D4, C3. 

Angrod raised an eyebrow at Caranthir’s opening, but said nothing, moving his pieces judiciously. After the initial clearing, they settled into a long campaign.  

Over the board they exchanged pleasantries like considerations of horse lines and the estates’ winter provisions. Caranthir wondered at Angrod’s satisfaction in his storehouses- did it verge on smug? And yet throughout Angrod was not bitter or phlegmatic. He magnanimously offered to share in case of shortages. He did not criticize or give unsolicited advice. 

Caranthir could not forget his own harsh words at their last meeting; they replayed in his head when he least wanted them to, forever pricking his conscience. He wished he could carve them out like a bit of infected wood on a fruit tree. 

Finally Angrod ended the game, placing Caranthir’s pieces in a final checkmate from which he could not escape. He reached across the board to shake Caranthir’s hand. “Well played, my friend!”

Something broke inside Caranthir. “Hold,” he cried out, pushing his palms toward Angrod.  “How can you say it was well-played? You saw as well as I did that I scornfully played the Lammoth Gambit! And yet you took it all in stride, ignoring the insult that I gave you. How can we be friends after our history? Why do you always return honey for my vitriol?” 

Angrod paused. His hand stilled over the mouth of the little bag that had held the chess pieces. He gently but resolutely set the bag down, the pieces softly plinking together. “Caranthir, I long ago forgave you. Can you not forgive yourself?” 

Words failed Caranthir. He traced the edge of the board around and around with his eye in the silence. There was a slight deviation in the inked border where the ink brush had slipped. He had to say something. Feeling a tickle behind his eyes he rushed to stand up and stare through the window. Outside, small amounts of blue sky peeked through the clouds. 

Angrod had the grace to keep silent. 

When Caranthir had once again mastered his emotions, he returned to the table. Falling into a chair with a sigh, he finally spoke. “I cannot forget the past. My actions and those of others torment me in my quiet hours, even when I am seeking to lose myself in sleep. How can you wipe everything clean as the snow?” 

Smiling sadly, Angrod met Caranthir’s eyes. He gestured at the thatched rafters above. “Too much snow on a house’s roof is an unbearable burden. Eventually, we must clear it away lest it collapse.”

“Even to the point of excusing the inexcusable?”

“Even such as that.” Angrod sighed. “I readily admit that I was angry when I left the Council at Mithrim. But I have a loyalty and duty to my kinsfolk. We’ve all lost so much. Can’t we set an example for our peoples by working toward peace and reconciliation?” He held out his hands, open as if in supplication. 

Caranthir worried his lips between his teeth. Could the Sons of Finarfin and Fëanor coexist? If Angrod was demonstrating an openness, couldn’t he at least attempt to match Angrod’s overtures? Taming his runaway mind was beyond a snow-day’s work, but perhaps their enforced close quarters were an opportunity to improve the relations a bit. He gestured to the eaves: “Are you familiar with the warm winds that blow down from the mountaintops at winter’s end?” 

Angrod nodded. “I am.”

“As a thaw in our frosty relationship, I will pledge to work with you. Can our meeting here be considered as the harbinger winds of spring?” 

Angrod agreed. “That I can agree to. We’ll of course need to speak further to fill in the details. We don’t want the thawing winds to take on their more destructive forms.”

“It’s a deal,” Caranthir replied. 

The rest of the day passed simply. Angrod continued his whittling, and Caranthir his review of his paperwork. Finishing the last of the stew between them, they occupied themselves with tidying the cabin to as close to its original state as possible. 

The sky was a clear blue when they awoke. As they departed the clearing in different directions, Caranthir looked back over his shoulder. Angrod watched him from the other side. Caranthir raised his hand and waved farewell with a solemn smile.  

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Chapter End Notes

Thank you to Gellalaer, Heilith, Evilmouse, and the Ghost Fam and SWG servers for their encouragement along the way. The chess problem was provided by my husband. Caranthir is playing a Danish Gambit- a flashy and aggressive opening. This story was cross-posted to AO3.