Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

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16. No Gentler Pain

In the aftermath of their conversation at Ivrin, Finrod and Balan stumble through the new distance between them. Memory, jealousy, and the ghosts of each follow them throughout.

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312th YEAR OF THE SUN, SPRING
Tol Sirion

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She was there when he looked out over the river. His eyes traced the line of the highlands, but it was Esrid’s form hovering before him. In his mind, she sat as she would each night, one leg curled under her, the other drawn up with her arm propped upon the knee, half-resting as she prodded the fire or ran a ladle through the hanging pot. Her long braid draped over one shoulder, stray strands of hair hanging loose after the day's work. 

When they were first wed, he would steal glances while she sat engrossed in a task or lulled by the fire’s dance. Balan had been wary then that his affection would be a trespass, an intruder where Geberic’s ardor should lie, and so his gaze was furtive, his own passion carefully veiled.

In the end, it had fallen from his lips unthinking. I love you—a hoarse gasp as her legs wrapped about him and drew him in, pinned between her thighs. He had frozen at the admission, apprehension clouding his face, but Esrid laughed and reached up to run her fingers through his hair. My dear one. He could still feel the weight of her palm as she pushed him onto his back and shifted over him, her eyes warm and looking down with amusement into his own. I know. When Baran was an infant, she had said it in turn, handed back to him haphazardly as his own confession had been. He had bound the child in a sling across his chest to walk through the morning haze—the boy would sleep then, lulled by the movement, and Esrid too could rest in the reprieve. The murmur of her voice had trailed after him through the door. You do know I love you, Bal? He had nodded and smiled as he tucked the infant closer, but in truth the words rang through him in wonder. Till then it was enough to be named dear, to hear her laugh echo each night through his own hut—through their hut—and know that he had drawn it out, to feel her arms slip about him, her hands find him in the dark, to know the sound of her sharp breath in his ear—

His own breath drew in with a hiss and he dashed the tears from his face. Gods all, why could he not shake this? She was twenty years gone and he had mourned these moments long since. They had no right to appear as fresh phantoms now. But he could feel her lips still, the touch fresh and warm upon his own as though she lay yet within his arms, not beneath a hillside he no longer recalled. He could taste her kiss, the sweat upon her skin. 

Balan passed a hand over his eyes once more and shuddered. If he continued on like this he would never be fit to rejoin the others and there was only so long he could hide away here on the rocks before his absence was marked. No, it was not hiding, he corrected himself in irritation. It was a respite, a chance for his thoughts to clear. All the road from Ivrin had been passed in constant company, and all the hours since their arrival were a flurry of activity. Even the night held naught but oblivion, for he fell into the bed still half-dressed from travel and knew nothing more till the dawn. He could not recall when he had last been so weary. 

And so he slipped out after the ceremony of the Guard and scrambled down to a ledge on the eastern face of the isle, where he sat tucked behind an outcropping and safely out of the tower’s view. 

Solitude was an immediate relief. Yet perched alone on the head of the island he was isolated too from those distractions which had held his thoughts at bay, and at once the heartache of Ivrin reared up like a wave crashing through the pass. But it was the memory of Esrid that broke over him and left him gasping, breathless in its wake. It was the touch of her hands, not Nóm’s, that lingered upon his cheeks; the ghost of her lips he felt upon his own, not the fleeting brush of the king’s. Tears were running loose once more and he pressed his palm over his mouth, stifling the sobs as his shoulders shook helplessly, grief pouring from him like the river that swept each side of the isle.

There was tall grass on the hillside. That at least he could recall. It had billowed under the breeze like water’s motion and left him dizzy in its midst, for the ground seemed already to buckle beneath his feet as he carried the bier up the slope. He held one end of a pole, Estreth the other, Masci and Weiv supported the remaining. Baran gripped the branch just behind his father, insisting with all the stubbornness of his six years that he too should be among the bearers, and Balan had choked back a sob each time he felt the little arms drawing weight from his own hands. But at last they reached the grave and she was laid out upon the grass. 

He had traced the clay along her palms, from forehead to chin, set seeds within her mouth and cradled the infant’s tiny body within the curve of her arm. Estreth knelt and cut two of the thin, dark braids from her sister’s hair. Later, she would weave these into kessela, the mourning strands her people wore in remembrance of the dead—one for herself, one each for Balan and his sons. He had watched her trim the strands and felt somewhere in his heart it should sting to see them severed, but all that rose was a keening ache that he had claimed no such token ere his parents were laid beneath the earth. But what relic could he have salvaged, he reflected bitterly while he laid his wife within the hillside, the raiders had thrown torches as they departed and the village and slain were burned alike in its ravaging. Of his father they found only charred bones. His mother’s body they knew from the jewelry, the earrings fallen beside her upon the flagstone path.

It was ever so, Balan thought as he drew a ragged breath from Sirion’s wind, at each loss it was the prior grief he mourned. After Esrid’s death, he had paced each night with Belen in his arms, the boy pushing away as he wailed wilwa aifa, wilwa aifa! and Balan had rocked him and walked, weeping too as he tried to console him. But it had been the memory of his own mother that drew his tears, there amidst the strangling grief. He would pat the tiny back and sing choked melodies and long, like Belen, to cry out for his mother and find her there when he turned, for her to take his hands and kiss his palms and murmur, presence, Balan, is the greatest solace.

And now he sat on the jagged edge of the isle, fresh from the grief of Nóm’s refusal kissed upon his brow, and it was the memory of Esrid’s mouth that haunted him, the little twisting line that ran across the tip of her chin. She had fallen from a horse as a child and split the skin against a rock, and the resulting scar splayed out in tendrils fine as milkweed floss. Balan had found it oddly bewitching and would pause as he ran his lips down the line of her jaw to linger over its mark, his tongue brushing the divot it left. Esrid laughed each time and teased him for the fascination—a strange obeisance to keep with such piety. 

Often in those moments he would find himself wondering whether Geberic had loved these same features, the milkweed scar, the hairs straying from their braid, the soft folds of her belly against his palms. Had he too known the sidelong glances over the fire and the crinkle between her brows where laughter began? Had these been his worship as well? Or was this yet another difference between them—one chosen, one a necessity; one beloved, one whose love was learned; one dead, the other who led him to it. He had known him little ere he was cut down, the husband of her choosing, for they had been acquaintances and not friends. But later, when Geberic’s widow was his wife, he would wish in morbid reflection that they had been close, that he might know where to trace the line of jealousy.

Balan shook his head and drew his thoughts back to the present. Comparison gained nothing—not when Esrid lived and not now amid these new-festering wounds. It was the same thread, he reasoned bitterly, fond but never chosen. 

He had thought to leave after Ivrin. They had ridden till well after dark that day and all the while he brooded over how to bid the most searing farewell. They would reach Teiglin on the morrow and, from Finrod’s explanations of various maps, he knew he could find his way alone from those shores. Follow the river till it reached the forest, then on along the tree-line until you found the fen crossings, bargain with the marchwardens to let you cross. And from there Aros and Celon would lead him home. But that would mean abandoning his possessions in Nargothrond, and Baran’s otter was there, as were his mother’s earrings, his father’s old dice. Esrid’s necklace too, and Bel’s carved stone…he had balked at the thought of losing those, so he hesitated and rode on still through the next day. They crossed the Glithui. They crossed the Malduin and his eyes strayed ever to the southeast. There was the great road yet, from Tol Sirion down across the Talath Dirnen, and if he took his leave when they reached the Lithir, he would have lost only a few days by following its course instead of Teiglin’s. They would camp on the southern shore that night, then he would break from them with the dawn. 

You remain my king, Felagund, in bond and in love, but I’ll be the stray at your heels no longer. He would declare it in his own tongue. He would name him with the epessë he had never spoken, and in the utterance an ending would be marked—formal and final. He would turn to the east and he would not look back.

But he had woken often through the night, and on each occasion saw Nóm standing beside the water, a quiet sentinel with his back propped against a beech tree, his eyes fixed on the current. Not a muscle stirred between the glimpses, but Balan had felt the other’s thought ripple at each waking, instantly alert and, to his surprise, tensed with fear. 

They had hardly spoken since Edrahil found them beside the holy well, but traveled instead in uncharacteristic silence, Finrod at the front of the company and Balan trailing near the rear. He had fenced his mind in fury as well, bristling as he rode in a cloud of gloom—let Nóm be met with ice if he chose to scorn the fire. But all the while he felt the other’s thought hovering beside him, never pressing but ever present, waiting. He had bristled all the more at this and glowered at the passing trees until Sídhon shifted to ride beside him and distracted his ire with linguistics. He was no fool, that one. A wry chuckle escaped him now as he recalled the hours passed in conversation with the king’s attendant. Sídhon’s words were carefully light, steering them from vocabulary and grammar to the history of Balan’s language, and thence to word play and jests. By evening, Balan had laughed despite his brooding and parried quip for quip as the sun retreated behind the Ered Wethrin.

But to the king his words remained cold, short and expedient, not a syllable more than need required. His mind too offered only sharp edges toward the brush of the other’s thought, tentative though it was. It was clear Nóm knew what it was he intended, and in truth Balan was not surprised. Who else had so known the intricacies of his spirit or lived, as they had these past years, with minds ever half within the other’s? Nóm slipped within his heart as limbs into a garment; and like those limbs, he knew the tenor of its motion even when he wore it not. Little wonder, then, that the king had gleaned his purpose and discerned without apprisal the bent of his heart. 

And yet Balan knew with equal certainty that Finrod would do naught to hinder him, and in the end it was this resignation that broke his resolve. He had risen with the dawn, gathered each possession with methodical care, folded the fur-lined cloak and carried it to stand before him at the river’s edge. “I thank you for the use of it.” His voice was rough as he held out the bundle. “But I no longer bear the touch of those waters and so I need it not.”

The lines of Finrod’s face had been drawn with apprehension, but he shook his head and summoned a smile. “Twas a willing forfeit and no loan,” he said, shifting his arms behind his back. “Thine ever, if thou wilt.”

“Nevertheless—” Balan’s voice faltered. The practiced words choked in his throat and he dug his fingers deeper into the cloth, frustration seething through every fiber. You remain my king, Felagund…to what end had he recited them all the long hours of the night if their utterance was to fail here at the crisis? But Nóm’s eyes had been laced with pain and his spirit’s dread hung heavy in the air between them. Not my beacon, but my anchor. The other’s voice pounded through Balan’s memory like a heartbeat and the heady devotion rushed once more through his blood—thy soul the still point that moors me amid the foundering. 

His feet could never willingly bear him from Nóm’s side. The knowledge came upon him with a settled certainty and this easy breach of resolve set his pride writhing. A dozen words, he thought with humiliation, a dozen words from the other’s tongue and his purpose collapsed about him like ash. He drew the bundle back under his arm. “As you wish, then,” he had replied, his tone just shy of a growl. “I’ll carry it yet if you’ll not claim it.”

“I am glad of it.” Once again, Finrod’s smile flickered mask-like along his features, then his eyes drifted toward Balan’s pack and his breath grew shallow, uneven. “I see thou art readied, then?”

“Aye.” Balan’s demeanor had turned sullen in self-reproach and he shifted from one leg to the other, his own gaze fixed pointedly on the river bank. “I saw no reason to wait,” he said and felt trepidation shudder along the other’s presence. For a moment he took a bitter satisfaction from it—Nóm too should know the sting of denial—but his ire relented the moment it rose and he glanced up in a ghost of penitence. “We will reach your isle by sundown?”

“By midday,” Finrod replied, and the force of his relief had been a torrent, nearly drowning the other in its wild rush. 

Balan hunched back against the rock as he remembered it. He was weary to his bones. The reeling thoughts would not be quieted, each careening into the other and racing out in every direction, tangling behind his eyes till his temples ached. He half-longed to plunge into the current below, that the chill might break this endless pattern and cleanse his mind while he cut a path through the waves. He peered over the edge. No. He would hold his mind here. He would think of Nóm and he would grieve, so that he could carry a conversation and stay at his side, so that he could manage through the dinner that yet awaited. Oh gods all, a full dinner. Conversation and pleasantries, the expected smiles, the merriment…

Gravel struck the rock beside him and he turned sharply as a rain of dirt followed, then a quick scrabbling, a flash of gold, a tumble of limbs. The tiny figure righted itself at once and stood poised at the far end of the ledge—startled, but looking over him in cool evaluation. Balan returned the stare in kind, his own surprise more pronounced as he took in the apparition before him: an elf-child, standing no higher than his ribs, a cloth bundle clutched in one hand and a pastry held between her teeth. An incongruous sight. She wore a formal robe from the afternoon’s ceremonies but the skirt had been bound up about her waist, uncovering a pair of hose, and the front of both hose and robe were now clouded with limestone dust. Her free hand retrieved the pastry and she drew herself up, chin lifted in command. 

It was Nóm’s chin, as were the cheekbones, the line of the mouth—almost an uncanny resemblance, Balan thought, and then recognition dawned on him. Her hair had been woven in patterned braids when he saw her last, the intricate strands reaching nearly to her hips and laced through with silver and gems. Now it was a shock of gold, cropped sometime in the last hour to hover unevenly about her jaws.

“My lady,” he said, dipping his head in deference.

The defensiveness in Finduilas’ bearing eased and she studied him curiously. “You are the Secondborn who follows my uncle.”

“So I am.” He barely held back a snort at her description and his features crinkled into a grin. “I am called Bëor.”

“Yes, I know.” She took a step or two closer and glanced up at the crest of the bluff, then back at the man before her. “Why are you here?”

“On the cliff-side where you’ve tumbled?” Balan chuckled, but found the jest slipped away from him as he met the solemn eyes. “Finding an hour to grieve,” he answered instead, and flinched at the blunt honesty. “What of yourself?”

“You’ve wept,” the child’s tone was matter-of-fact as she took in his reddened eyes and moved to sit beside him against the rock face. “Sometimes I come here for such. The tower has no view of it, you see, so father cannot worry—and the river’s music is a kind comforter.”

“Is it?” He tried to keep his voice light and free of the cynicism that flooded over him, but her quick glance was shrewd.

“You do not find it so?”

“I find the water holds many melodies.” Balan chose his words slowly and tried not to think of Ivrin’s chorus. “I am glad it sings to you of kindness.”

“Adatheg tells me sometimes of the aearlinnas, the Sea-songs. The mariners would chant them in Aman while children made boats of wood or paper and set them upon the waves. Ossë and Uinen would gather them, he says, and he would watch while the little boats danced through the water’s tresses and the lords of the Sea wove their song with ours.” A quick grin flashed out. “With theirs—I have never sung the aearlinnas, though my mother tells me her people have similar traditions. Only they do not sing them so far from the Sea and I have yet to see Belegaer the Great.”

Her percipience should be unnerving, Balan reflected as he glanced at the figure beside him. She looked little older than Avina, six or seven at most, but her eyes were sharp and canny, their gravity disconcerting amidst the childish features. Instead, he found her presence oddly comforting. “I too have never known the Sea,” he said, and smiled down at her as he would his own sons, “though your uncle has told me of it often enough. And there were gulls too in the land of my birth.”

“Were you born far from here?”

“Aye, tis far. Away over those mountains where my lord met us, and on again over the leagues to other ranges, in a valley between the rivers.” He drifted into silence. His mother had sat beside the water and held him suspended in the dip of her skirt, the sound of gulls overhead mingling with his own giggling while she called him her little bird, curled in a nest. He must have been quite small to fit in the cloth between her knees, he realized as he turned the memory over in his mind. He was surprised he recalled it at all. 

Finduilas had shifted the parcel to rest on her own knees and Balan watched with curiosity as she balanced the pastry along its edge. 

“What do you carry in the bundle?”

She glanced up at him and her brows twitched in suspicion. “You’ll tell adatheg.”

“I will not.” Balan chuckled and felt the weight upon his chest loosen. He leaned in conspiratorially. “I too am hiding from him—and I am no talebearer.”

“Are you not?”

“Nay, not unless you’ve killed a man or made off with the king’s signet and silver—” he broke off with laughter as Finduilas shifted the cloth aside and an elegant chalice, adorned with etchings of seabirds and stars, lay revealed upon her lap. “Gods all, child, you have taken the silver. What use have you for the king’s goblet?”

“Teaching Gwindor not to brag. And besides,” she said, lifting it free of the wrapping, “the cup is my father’s, not the king’s.”

“And what, pray, has your father’s tableware to do with young Gwindor’s pride?”

“He thinks himself already half-trained for the Guard by naught more than following his brother’s lessons—going on about how he could pass the trials or slip through any corridor without drawing notice. I told him that was a rare skill and he should retrieve my father’s cup ere it was laid for the feast, that we might see how ’twas done.” She set the chalice on the ledge beside her where it glistened in the sun and her eyes gleamed too with a matching light, impish and pleased. “He means to come up through the cellars, I deem. I saw him slip into the upper caves and they meet the store rooms under the Hall.”

“And from thence to the larders and kitchens where I perceive there will no longer be a cup awaiting his prowess.” Balan shook his head with a grin. “And by what rare skill has it come into your possession, my lady?”

“Not skill,” she said, turning her attention to the purple clover growing between the rocks, “cleverness. He set off to slink through stores and shelves. I donned a page’s tunic and entered through the main passage.”

This, then, was the mystery of her new-cropped hair—a page’s garb was well and good, but any member of her father’s retinue would know her in an instant with the cascading gold draped about her. A quick moment with the shears and none would give her a second glance, passing in and out with the other attendants. “Cleverness indeed.” Balan was laughing aloud now and he leaned his head back against the rock. “Gods save me from ever falling foul of your ire.”

“Father will be displeased.” Her voice was half-regretful, half-bored, and she plucked petals from the blossoms, lifting them to her lips to chew them thoughtfully. “But like as not that will pass by the morrow. Why are you hiding from the king?"

Once again the childlike bluntness caught him off guard, paired as it was with her depth of bearing, and left him uncertain whether she was more child or peer. Nóm had said, had he not, that the girl was little younger than Belen? But for all that, she looked no older than Baran at Esrid’s passing and Balan found it hard to hold the twain in harmony. “My heart is weary,” he said at last, settling on the same honesty he had used with his sons, “and this grief I could not weather beside him without drawing his concern.”

Finduilas nodded and plucked another head of clover, then glanced at him with a quick smile. “Thou in flight from uncle’s concern, I from father’s worry—we make a fitting company. Yet I am sorry,” she added as guilt drew in upon her features, “to have broken thy solitude.”

“I mind it not.” Balan’s heart warmed at her shift to the informal and he smiled. “Quite the opposite—I find the weariness eased by thy presence.” His eyes drifted out over Sirion’s swift waters, lingering on the eddies swirling at the foot of the precipice where they passed through the island’s caves. “I had a daughter once,” he said after a long pause, and his voice was quiet. “Dark as thou art fair, frail as thou art full of life…truly in all ways thine opposite, but speaking here with thee has drawn her near once more in my heart. I thank thee for it.”

“Does she remain in Estolad with the others?”

“Nay. Nay, she followed the fate of my people. Long ago now, nearly—” He broke off with a wry chuckle. “Well not so long in thy people’s reckoning. She would have been of a similar age to thee.”

“Was she born in the land of the gulls?”

Balan shook his head. “Away west of there—west and north, though I cannot tell you where it lies, for we have wandered long years since then and much has been lost to time’s weathering.” He paused, captivated as a small bird perched beside them on the ledge and Finduilas held a hand out toward it as though in greeting. “Her name was Alémi,” he whispered as he watched it hop toward her, then flutter up to rest within her palm, “little sparrow.”

Finduilas stroked a finger along its feathers. “In our tongue it is aew,” she said and smiled as the bird settled in her hand. 

“Alémi was a name of her mother’s people. In my own, sparrow would be ötiokit. Like its call,” he added.

“Ötiokit,” she warbled to the sparrow, then raised her hand so the tiny black eye met her own. “Have you come on purpose then, little friend?” The bird tipped its head, trilling in reply, and Finduilas echoed its tune. Then her lips twitched up in a smile and she whispered under her breath. Her words held a rhythm too, a hint of the same melody, and the sparrow paused only for a moment before fluttering from her palm to perch instead atop Balan’s knee, where it sent out another trill, looking at him expectantly. The child took hold of his wrist and drew it upward. “Offer her thine hand.”

His glance was incredulous, but he turned his palm upward and let her guide it carefully toward his knee. Again the sparrow hesitated, but Finduilas reached out, running a calming finger along its back until it chirped once more and hopped from knee to outstretched palm. Balan caught his breath.

“Less than a twig’s weight thou art,” he breathed. The bird was tiny, not even the full width of his hand, and she shifted nervously when he cupped his fingers about her. “Gawarthi, gawarthi’nd sá.”

“Sparrows are shy creatures.” Finduilas’ voice was pleased. “It speaks well of thine heart that she judges thee kindly.”

“And of thine that she hearkens to thee.” He laughed as the sparrow’s feet wrapped around his finger and it cocked its head, peering up at him in curiosity. “Aye, little one, I’ll be but a branch. I mean thee no harm.” 

There was another series of chirruping notes and his face creased in a smile. 

“Ötiokit,” Balan answered in the same cadence and the bird hopped from his fingers to his wrist, ruffling her feathers and looking about. “Quite brave now, hm?”

She seemed to take this as a challenge and skipped along his arm till she neared his shoulder, then gave another trill and fluttered to perch on his head. Balan froze.

It was Finduilas who laughed now, her chin resting on her knees as she watched him. “And the word for tree in thy tongue?”

“Bamnds,” he said, grinning, then flinched as the sparrow’s claws pricked against his scalp. “Ach, sharp as a porcupine thou art, for all thy smallness. Tread gently.”

The sparrow paid this little heed and continued to root about in his hair, till suddenly she gave a trill of greeting and leapt into the air. Balan turned to watch her go and his own breath drew in with a hiss, for there on the crest of the bluff stood the familiar silhouette, tall and striking against the sky, his hair a stream of sunlight upon the wind, and the sparrow soared up to meet him. He held out his hand as she neared and she fluttered to rest within his palm.

“Tis thou harboring our fugitive, then.”

The voice had regained its warmth and teasing hovered once more beneath its cadence. Here was the friend of foothills and fields, the companion of the long road from Estolad, and for the first time since Ivrin, Balan longed to be near him. The ice began to falter and he felt the other there waiting, penitent and chagrined, and his own heart nearly rushed headlong to bury itself within that comfort. His smile held as he met Nóm’s eye and raised a brow. “Fearsome fugitives we must be,” he said to Finduilas in a mock-whisper, “that the king himself comes in search of us.”

She glanced up at the ridge, unconcerned. “He’ll not climb down. Not in formal robes.”

Balan laughed and through the cracks in his defenses he felt Nóm’s spirit leap, for it was genuine mirth at last, such as he had not loosed since their lunch beside Ivrin’s mere. “Aye,” he said, his eye still holding the king’s, “but he may send the Guard against us. Shall we surrender?”

Her glance was an eloquent reprimand as she retrieved the sweet from the folded cloth. “Not till the spoils are hidden,” she said and broke it in two.

He chuckled and took the half she offered. “Awiluth,” he said with a dip of his head and bit from the delicacy. It was a variety he knew from Nargothrond’s feasts, the pastry golden-brown and shining, formed into delicate leaves along the top, and spread inside with spiced fruit.

“Awiluth?”

“A word of thanks. The full saying is sán wiluthid eil, or roughly ‘my gratitude is yours,’ but that we keep for formal use—or when our thanksgiving carries the greatest weight.”

“Sán wiluthid eil.” She repeated it several times. “Do I say it aright?”

“Aye, and with an accent as precise as thine uncle’s.” Once more he glanced toward the figure on the bluff’s edge. The child was right, he thought with amusement, the king was clothed still in the robes of state, draped about him in abundant swaths, with his forearm resting casually upon the sword at his side. It was an ornate thing, the hilt formed from gwilwileth vines and twined serpents, the pommel a cluster of flowers overlaid with gold. But unlike the crest, these serpents did not uphold the blossoms; rather each held their head back in readiness for the strike, their necks forming the cross-bar with fangs bared toward the blade. A ceremonial weapon, the steel’s bent to cleave vassals and not flesh, and it had glistened in the sun when Gelmir took his oaths with palm laid upon the flat of its blade. It hung still at the king’s side and, like the cascading robes, imbued him with a sense of awe—and the corners of Balan’s mouth twitched at the thought of him attempting the climb. 

Nóm’s lips returned the smile as their eyes met and the rush of elation was incongruous in Balan’s breast—for he should be ice yet, he should keep his pride and hold the distance. He should not long to fall in worship at his feet. He should wish to strike him rather. 

Gods all, he was lovely.

“Finduilas Orodrethiel,” Finrod said, shifting his gaze to rest on his niece; and though his tone was stern, amusement danced about its edges. “They found young Gwindor locked in the wine cellar.”

“The wine cellar?” She had winced at the formal address, but now craned her neck about and looked up at him with barely hidden laughter. “How came he there?”

“It seems that in climbing through the caves, he discovered one of the smaller passages opens upon the store’s ceiling. He dropped down through this only to learn that the door was kept locked and by then his own entry lay far out of reach.” The king’s tone grew pointed. “Though what purpose he had in such exploration he refuses to say.”

“Indeed, that is a curious thing.”

“It is. As was the concurrent disappearance of the warden’s daughter.”

“I have not disappeared. I have been here with Ornon.”

Finrod’s brows lifted and Balan laughed as the king’s gaze shifted back to him in query.

“Nay, I’ve given my word. You’ll learn no tales of me.” 

“Negligent vassal,” he replied with a chuckle, then turned back to Finduilas. “Much I can guess from the evidence around me, but conjecture is not confession—and Gwindor’s silence has not eased thy father’s worry.”

“Naught is there that should worry him.” Her eyes flickered as she looked up at him, shoulders set and defiant, and the stillness stretched into long minutes as neither stirred.

“Even so,” the king said at last, and Balan realized a full converse must have passed between them in the silence, “thy father is warden of this tower, and through that charge has granted hospitality to those who sojourn here. Gelmir is a guest of honor, for it is his oath-taking that we mark, and likewise his father and brother are held the same. It is a poor welcome for Guilin’s child to be shamed by the warden’s own—as innocent or understandable the cause—and a poor reflection too upon thy father’s governance.”

“Is boasting then a noble reflection upon the lord Guilin?”

Finrod’s lips twitched, but he held the smile at bay. “Indeed it is not. And no doubt young Gwindor is gaining a full knowledge of that truth as we speak. But thou wilt ever be held to a higher account for those things others do with impunity, and it is fitting that it should be so. For if we will set ourselves as wardens or stewards—“

“Or kings.”

“Or kings,” he added with a grin, “then we must set ourselves too as willing students of humility, lest responsibility shift to control or benevolence fester into vanity.”

“I am not a warden,” she retorted. “Nor am I a king. Gwindor’s was the vanity—let him be answerable for it.”

The king’s brow lifted in amusement while he held her eye, poised and motionless atop the bluff’s edge, and mirth played at the corners of his mouth. “Courage is of many kinds,” he said, and lifted his hand as the sparrow launched out over the river, “and the brash courage of our kin thou hast received in abundance. But there is a quiet courage too, Finduilas, of word and principle, and such thou hast as well. Laugh if thou wilt, but even in thy pride I can see it clearly—for is it courage to do a deed if thou wilt own it not? Thy principles will hold thee to confession, even where thy pique would let it lie.”

The obstinance held for another moment, then she glanced at Balan with a sigh of resignation. He had retrieved the chalice from the ledge and held it out to her with solemnity, though he winked as she met his gaze and the smile lingered still in the lines of his eyes. 

“Very well,” she said at last. “Shall we surrender?”

“As you see fit, my lady Aeweth.” He rose to stand beside her and chuckled at her puzzled expression. “If I am to be Ornon, then Aeweth thou shalt be.”

The bright grin flashed up at him once more as she took the cup from his hand, then turned and retraced her steps, leaping nimbly from stone to stone along the precipice. Perhaps a mountain lion rather than a bird, Balan mused as he watched her ascend—she scaled the bluff with hardly a pause and reached the crest within moments. 

“I shall best Gwindor in this as well,” Finduilas announced to her uncle when he drew her up over the edge, “for I will speak it unabashed, even if he will not.”

Finrod reached out and ruffled her hair, then chuckled as he saw the jagged edges. “Clever thy scheming may be, but thy skill in pruning remains wanting. Go first to Sídhon,” he added, turning the golden head one way and then the other. “He’ll set this aright ere thy father sees thee.”

“Twas thy council to own my deeds, was it not?”

“Imp.” He laughed and directed her toward the fortress with a gentle shove. “Go on—Sídhon thou wilt find in the tower, and Guilin and his son wait in the hall. I will tell thy father thou art found.”

She twitched her head free of his hand and crinkled her nose in objection, but turned nevertheless and made her way back toward the gatehouse. 

“Deftly managed.” Balan had clambered up the bank while they spoke and now stood beside the king, brushing dirt and stone residue from his attire. He was dressed simply in a variation of the Guard’s livery and Finrod watched him with affection.

“I confess ’twas was a wrench to hold her to account for it,” he said as Balan resigned himself to the streaks of dust and gave up the task. “It was cleverly done—and no doubt the boy was due a humbling of some form or another.” A quick grin as Balan met his eye, another brush of thought through the cracked barricade. “But already Guilin holds little trust in her father as warden of the Pass and this will do little to bolster his faith.”

“Do you? Believe him suited to the task, that is.” Balan held back for a moment, then added with an apologetic twist of his lips, “His disposition seems hardly warlike.”

“Nay, be not deceived. Artaresto has no less courage than I. He is formidable, for all he would rather wander free among the mountains, or sit in peace before a scribe’s board—as would we all, I deem, should our lots allow for it.”

“Aye, true enough.” 

A hesitation then, an unsettled pause as the last days’ distance reasserted its claim, and Finrod’s eyes drifted out over Sirion, brushing the rapids, the fields bordering each bank, the sheer heights of the highlands, till they came at last to rest on the pass. There was a murk on the horizon beyond the valley’s head, a cloud hovering at the edge of sight, and Balan followed the other’s eyes with disquiet. He had not grasped how near the siege lines lay till Edrahil gestured toward that haze in the morning hours and named it for what it was—the reek of Thangorodrim, with Angband beyond. A shiver prickled again down the nape of his neck. Indeed, he thought, who would not prefer the respite of hill or library to this vista of lurking threat?

“All look to him to prove himself,” the king continued at last, his voice pensive, “while I, by mere virtue of birth, was never questioned in this charge, nor yet in that greater I now hold. He knew little of his place among our kin or of where to find his role in this labyrinth, and I saw him falter before that doubt as I in my own youth. In this, you see, I may grant him a place to stand and see that his heritage finds him well.” The king’s fingers began to play over the filigree serpents at his side. “But yes, to answer thy question…yes, I trust him.”

Balan nodded, his eyes caught by the restless fidgeting. A silver arm band, shaped as a swan’s neck, wound its way from the king’s forearm to wrist, its head resting across the back of his hand, beak tucked just above the thumb. He remembered well the feel of that arm beneath his own fingers in the dark of Thalos when he first traced along its length, and for a brief moment he imagined himself that intricate waterbird, draping about the pale skin that lay shining and exposed in the sunlight. How he would hold himself tight against that warmth, press his lips to the valley between thumb and forefinger…

Silence had settled over them once more, lying heavy upon their exchange as the gloom upon the horizon clouded the air. He would have wrestled forward in any previous quarrel, would have sought the lingering thread and from it drawn again that easy intimacy, as natural as thought or the drawing of breath. 

Instead, he turned away and moved to depart.

“Anarinya.” 

The hand that caught his own was trembling and fire leapt through his veins with the hoarse whisper. He froze.

“Anarinya,” Nóm breathed again, desperate and fervent. “Balan…”

He realized he had leaned into the caress by reflex and felt the other’s fingers tighten in response. In the days since Ivrin, the king had tread a careful dance through every interaction, composed and smiling, polite, yet all the while scrupulously avoiding even the slightest touch. They both had, if Balan was honest in his assessment, and the shift was jarring. For in the months preceding, they had grown increasingly careless in their affection—Balan’s palm upon Nóm’s back, the king catching his elbow as they passed through the crowd, a casual embrace, Nóm reclining against him in jest, the warm weight of his head upon his lap and the cascading gold a river running over him…he had nearly drowned in the sudden lack of it. And now the king’s thumb was once more tracing a line along his forearm, and Balan’s breath quickened.

“I have earned thine ire, I know, and deservedly so.” He did not meet Balan’s eye, but watched the path of his fingers as though the shifting cloth held all his attention—down over the radius, the sharp valleys of the wrist, back along the muscle and sinew. “But I know not how to bear it.”

“If I cannot see my way to bearing my own anguish, how am I to instruct you in yours?” The words were from him before he knew he had spoken and Balan felt the other flinch at the bitterness of his tone.

“Forgive me,” Finrod murmured and released him in chagrin. “I should not have spoken.”

The silence returned at once and Balan’s fury rose against it, hovering thick and oppressive between his own soul and Nóm’s. He had a sudden, childish urge to stamp his feet on the ground, to beat his fists against this unseen barrier, tear it loose with nails or teeth if he must, to clasp the other to him and turn his fists upon Nóm as well—whether to break through to acquiescence or in rage at the refusal, he knew not. Grief and pride tangled in his breast and for a moment he thought he must surely break before it as he had on the cliffside, but the other’s presence steadied him yet, and despite himself he felt the storm ease. 

He drew an unsteady breath, he took the other’s hand. “I will not be ever angry with thee,” he said at last, discarding formality for the first time since he pleaded beside Ulmo’s Well, and felt hope kindle where his thought brushed the other’s. “I am now, but it will not linger.”

Nóm was motionless as the fingers wrapped about his own, then he raised his other hand to join the first so that Balan’s hand lay pressed between his palms. 

“Sán wiluthid eil,” he said, then released him.

❈❈❈

Finrod reached across to fill Guilin’s chalice. It was the regret that surprised him, he mused as he watched ripples spread over the surface of the wine. Grief he had expected, for it was so with any desired path not taken, but he looked across the hall and a bitter jealousy rose through his breast. 

Bëor had risen as soon as the meal was finished and left his place near the king, moving instead to join a cluster of others gathered along the far wall. The sunset fell upon him through the line of arched windows, rose-red and golden, and he laughed at some quip of Sídhon’s, he sipped from the carved cup in his hand.

And Finrod was glad to see him merry—of course he was. It was childish to feel envy that his own words had not called it out, childish too to feel a reprimand in the lines of the other’s attire. For Balan had arrived to the celebration clad not in the woven sun or stars’ patterns, but in his own traditional tunic. The deep red was jarring beside the other fabrics in the hall, its hue blood-red rather than the rising sun of the king’s gift, and the vines and beasts of Belen’s embroidery danced across its length. His hand rested casually on the knife at his belt and that too was jarring, for it was the custom of the Nargothrondrim to bear no weapons in the halls of feasting, and to this Balan adhered in all the months he dwelt among them. But he had returned to the custom of his own people this night and carried Beldar’s knife folded ceremonially into his sash.

It was a deliberate choice. Sídhon would have laid out one of the usual garments—if not the sunrise, then the stars or the snowdrops or any other of the formal set—not this that Balan wore only rarely. And certainly not the accompanying braid with its intricate loops bound about the right hand. Finrod had known it at once when Balan took his place at the table and the woven hair glistened in the lamplight. Her hair. Obsidian black and shining, it had been threaded into a fine sequence of braids, each impossibly delicate and twisting together to form a spiral of lace-like intricacy. 

Finrod first saw it on Balan’s wrist during the Longest Night and marked it little then, for similar bands adorned the boys’ wrists and Estreth’s. But Balan had worn it again in the early spring and then it twined around each finger, it twisted along his palm and up over the small bones to bind again about the wrist, impeding the hand’s motion. It was to mark the day of her death, he learned later, a tradition Estreth carried over from her own people. She, Baran, and Belen each bore a kessela as well, but it was Balan’s role to bind it thus on the days of high mourning—for it was the part of a spouse to render one hand unusable, holding the dead in remembrance as a missing part of the self.

In the months following, Finrod had learned quickly which were the days of grief. He marked each in his memory that he might know them when the year turned its dance and drew them ‘round again, that he might approach those hours with ready comfort, with the tasks of the day set to anticipate the ritual. 

And so he knew that this night was not of their number.

The silken hair shimmered beneath the lamps. It wrapped possessively around Bëor’s hand, coiling between his fingers and guarding that palm which only days before had rested in the valley beneath his own ear, had cupped Finrod’s face within its warmth and drawn him near in invitation.

He could have walked down from the Falls with that hand clasped in his own and set Balan at his side before the gathered feast. He could have yielded beneath the warmth of those palms. But he had clasped his hands together throughout that silent descent, he had choked back grief and smiled in welcome when Balan returned to the seat of an honored vassal, hand in hand with the memory of another’s love. 

“Would you have agreed to it, lord?” 

“Hm?” Finrod was recalled to the conversation with a start. 

“Had it indeed been wrought to such a purpose, that is.” Aechenon’s smile was both amused and curious, and he looked toward the king in expectation. 

A quick surge of ósanwë from Orodreth. They spoke of Artanis—Artanis and Celeborn—apparently an ongoing debate on the isle whether it was a diplomatic arrangement or a match of affinity. Nonsense of course and best to set that gossip to rest at once. Or hold, Orodreth had disabused the notion already. His own part, then… 

“I?” Finrod laughed. “Artanis would little pause to consult my approval.” He paused to sip from his chalice, then smiled as he returned it to the table and met Aechenon’s eye once more. “But had I such jurisdiction? Nay, I would not offer my sister in surety for any cause, however expedient. Though truly ‘twould be of little advantage in this particular instance,” he added with a chuckle, “for the match binds us no nearer than blood holds us already.”

“Yet twice tied is double the strength,” Guilin interjected, “and thin is the cord that binds Menegroth’s allegiance. Every strand added is a boon.”

“That I’ll not deny. And in Celeborn we gain a sound and steady kinsman.”

“Even so.” Aechenon sought to mask his smirk with another draught of wine.

“You scoff,” the king said, “but it is both mast and mainstay that weather the gale. And a ship with no anchor is at the tide’s mercy.” His eyes drifted again to the figure beside the window. The evening sun had decorated the floor about him with patterns from the leaded glass and Finrod fought down the image of light dancing through alder leaves. “Such difference would sharpen a keen edge, I deem, not blunt it.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’ll find Aechenon little convinced by the Sea’s wisdom, uncle.” Orodreth’s wife was of Círdan’s people and she glanced across the table with a spark of teasing in her eye. “His love is all for the highlands and the mountain winds.”

Aechenon returned the smile. “But the Elder King and the Lord of Waters are ever allied, are they not? Their wisdom will not fall out of harmony.” He retrieved the decanter and filled first Tuilann’s cup and then his own. “And yet a swift steed may drag its picket, for all the anchor was driven deep.”

The musicians had finished tuning as they spoke and now snatches of melody tripped and tangled through the air. Balan was laughing again. He and Sídhon had shifted back towards the wall with the rest of the crowd, clearing the center of the hall, and lingered in conversation while the music rose around them. Sidhon stood a full head above him, the silver and green of his tunic dazzling, a tall poplar amid the murmuring throng. Finrod tried not to speculate—what business was it of his what they discussed?—but his eyes followed each gesture nonetheless, traced the movements of their speech. It was Taliska, he noted from the shape of Balan’s mouth, and spoken swiftly too. It had been thoughtful of Sídhon to take it on with such diligence. He was nearly fluent already and surely it was a comfort for Balan to have another learn his native tongue—till now there had been none but Finrod who could meet him in that place of familiarity. It was a good thing, a kind thing. Balan’s laugh rose once more over the viols and pipes and Finrod’s ears strained for a hint of their banter.

“They await thee, uncle.” Another nudge against his thought, sharper now. Orodreth was growing frustrated, he realized, and perplexed by the king’s ongoing distraction. 

“Yes, of course—forgive me.” Finrod raised his chalice to the chief minstrel with a nod, then cast a sheepish smile toward his nephew. “I fear it is my thought in need of an anchor. Come,” he said, rising, “let us join the revels.”

Gelmir had stepped forward as the king and his retinue dispersed into the crowd. It was for him to begin the celebrations, for the feast marked his ascension to the Guard and such was one of the attendant honors. He reached the center of the hall and for a moment he seemed to falter, then he squared his shoulders and strode forward as the music coalesced until he drew up facing Balan—nay facing Sídhon—and held out his hand. The ensuing pause was heavy with intention. But Sídhon held his eye, a smile playing at his lips, and he set his hand upon the waiting palm.

Balan had been right, then. Shame trickled through Finrod’s veins at his immediate relief, for it was uncharitable to have allowed any such misgiving from a mere exchange of laughter. Balan would never be so fickle, Sídhon never so presumptuous where it was clear his lord’s favor lay. His ears burned too at this admission. He had been unguarded, that was undeniable, but still had allowed himself the illusion that none but he held suspicion of the truth. Folly, of course. Indeed, the same folly that told him naught would change once the words had been spoken, that they could go on in the same contented stasis, ever unfinished and thus ever unended.

A twinge passed over Finrod’s face as he watched the pair move to the center of the hall, hand in hand, and stand poised while the music gathered speed—and he was glad for their joy. Truly. Of course it was not customary for the King’s Guard to marry, especially not with Gelmir only just sworn to their number. But neither, he mused, was it forbidden. After all, was it not the begetting of children that lay at the foundation of that wartime precept? Why then should these be denied their bliss when the only loss risked was each of each—and no gentler pain would that be for a bond deferred.

He would see it countenanced. Indeed, he would sanction it ere the day was done.

The music crested and the pair swung into the dance. It was a swift thing, half-martial and precise, with limbs weaving in and out of the other’s motion and every strike passing just shy of touch. 

And each movement was a claiming, reckless and bold with all the gathered hall looking on.

Jealousy needled down the length of his spine. How simple it was, this unhidden devotion. One hand set within the other, no subterfuge or fear where the only barrier was a provisional custom. He moved forward without thinking and found himself wending a path through the crowd, bearing ever toward the westward windows, the luster of the setting sun, for Balan stood yet within its glow, smiling as he watched the dance with his arms crossed before him and the lines of mirth once more springing across his face. 

They climbed the High Faroth the previous autumn and he had stood even thus, looking out toward the Falls of Sirion with the same half-smile playing at his lips and the same rays of joy folded into the corners of his eyes. Amid the crags and sighing pines, the king had longed to lean down and brush his lips against those creases, to trace the tip of his finger along their path. And so he yearned now, slipping through the gathered throng to emerge at the other’s side—for the crowd pressed him near, nearer than since they departed the holy spring, and Finrod felt the warmth of him kindle along his skin. 

Three days past he would have brushed against him in the approach, he would have leaned into that warmth and nudged Balan’s shoulder with a pretense of accident, and Balan would have glanced up as though he had not sensed the approach already, and alongside the feigned surprise there would be affection in the quick touch of his gaze. 

Instead, Finrod took his place with all the precision of the dance they watched, and like Sídhon’s arm or Gelmir’s darting leap he carefully evaded any touch. “Thy guess was in the right it seems,” he said in greeting, a smile playing at his lips despite the melancholy, and he glanced at the other in amusement. “Ever shrewdly do thine eyes perceive us.”

Balan chuckled. “Twas no clairvoyance in that,” he said, and Finrod’s heart leapt to have drawn out his mirth. “I saw them embrace in the woods ere we crossed the Narog.”

“Didst thou indeed.” Teasing rippled once more through Nóm’s voice, for there had been affection after all within the glance, warmth in the tenor of Balan’s words. “Careless of them where any might see.” 

At once he felt his color rise and the misstep burned across his cheeks. Had not Edrahil nearly discovered him in his own compromising embrace? Who was he to critique a tryst beneath the boughs? The king’s vaen-hlaiba is contentment enough for me. Finrod’s blood ran hot at the memory. Could he not have been wrong to assume the attempt was futile? If Balan’s people were not bound as his, then surely this was of nature and not merely a flouted custom—and if it was nature then this should be the key consideration, for the limits of one soul must ever determine the reach of the twain. Even now he could change course, he could brush his arm against the other’s, twine their fingers together within the folds of his own robes. He could lean in while all were distracted by the whirling figures and murmur acquiescence in his ear. Follow me when the dancing is done. Anarinya, my own, I would have thee yet. 

The kessela glared in accusation from the other’s hand. Balan was not a loophole, nor his love some strategy to slip past custom. If he was to yield, Finrod knew he would kindle like dried grass before the wildfire, and any intention to make trial of an affair would burn away at once in the press of the other’s skin, the taste of his lips. Oh Valar, how was he to hold when all his desire was to be consumed in the blaze?

“I am glad for them.” Balan’s voice was quiet, but it shivered through Nóm’s flesh.

“And I. Long years has Sídhon dwelt in solitude and my heart rejoices to see him so at peace.” Finrod clasped his hands against the previous impulse and focused on the intricate patterns of the dance, that he might not dwell on the warmth of the other’s eyes, the scent of cedarwood oil that hung about him. “You look well,” he allowed himself at last, shifting to the other’s tongue.

“Do I?” The resulting laugh was mirthless and there was a brief flash of fury as Balan’s glance met his own. “Then I’ve more guile than I’ve been told.”

Finrod flinched. It was no less than he deserved, surely, but each retort stung like a lash across his spirit and left an ugly weal throbbing in its wake. He had taken their ease as a matter of course, a natural thing arriving hand in hand with the first glimpse across the embers, and there had never been a moment since Thalos in which he had not staid himself by the other’s presence. The rift left him reeling. He could feel it deepen with each word that faltered between them and the more frantically he grasped, the further Balan slipped from his reach. The distance gaped from every movement, it taunted him from every fold and stitch of the tunic, scorned him from each knot of the kessela, the intricate artistry of Estreth’s people adorning the gulf that held them asunder.

Estreth’s people. So he ever spoke of them, but it was Esrid’s remembrance, Esrid’s locks forming the fine sequence of braids—and still his thought balked at naming her even in description. It had not always been so, surely. Elbereth, what a vile jealousy to arise thus at the marks of bereavement! And how dared his heart presume to envy when of his own choice he had spurned the remedy? Guilt’s condemnation was swift.

Sídhon turned as Gelmir’s arm passed above him, his own arm swinging round into the same motion, then catching the other by the waist as together they turned in sequence with the melody. It was mesmerizing—Sídhon in particular, he was ever beautiful to watch. Each step was an art, every movement fluid and precise, each pass of his arm the whisper of another skill. Well did Finrod recall his awe at first witnessing him in combat, hunting those beasts of the Dark which lingered on the Ice, then in earnest amid the ambush at Lammoth. It was unfamiliar then, the practice of battle, and yet Sídhon’s every motion was swift, exacting, deadly. And so too here, for the dance was a mirror image of combat, as were most in these days of Exile, and as much an exhibition of prowess as a mark of celebration. For a brief moment the melody tapered as the pair slowed in the center of the hall, then it rushed once more in a crescendo as others streamed out to join the dance. He should be among them, he knew. He should lead the revels and honor the new guardsman, he should be the king merry amongst his people. But he could not will himself from the other’s side.

“I love you. I’ll not recant it.” 

Finrod’s breath caught with a hiss as the words broke through his reverie. Balan’s voice was low, holding still to the tongue of his own people, and his eyes followed the wheeling fray.

“I have tried to turn it to fury, but I cannot; to bury it in disdain, but it will not hold. I am yours, Elenya, whether you will have me or no—whether I will it or no.” 

“Beloved…”

“If I am to remain, know that I stay for love of you. Not for duty, not friendship, but because I do not know myself when you are from me.”

“Nor I my own self without yours to call it forth.” A choked sound escaped him and he shifted nearer despite himself, arms touching at last, and clasped the other’s hand within the shroud of his sleeve. “I cannot bear to have you half a stranger.”

There was a brief hesitation. Then Balan’s fingers closed over his—and Finrod’s heart sang at the touch, for this too was a claiming, reckless and fervent, daring the gathered crowd to see. And with that grasp he felt the final barriers crumble, and Balan’s thought lay once more bare before his own. Ai Valar, these bruises were of his making, these jagged rents…they had not been there when last he rested here, and how well he knew the shape. He traced their echo within his own spirit and gripped the other’s hand all the more tightly. 

“Ornon!” 

Finrod released him at once. Finduilas was bounding toward them through the crowd and the king turned, clasping his hands behind him as he smiled down at her in strict composure.

But she ignored him and fixed Balan with a frown of accusation. “You are not dancing.”

Balan managed a grin. The fervent press of Nóm’s hand was gone, but his thought held all the closer for that absence; and despite his anger, Balan found himself comforted by the familiar touch. He dipped his head in greeting. “I am ill equipped, my lady. I fear it lies far beyond my skill.”

“There is no dancing among your people?”

“Aye, we manage well enough amongst ourselves.” A laugh slipped out as he looked at the earnest set of her features. “But this is of another sort altogether—I’d be toppled at once in the attempt.”

“Dátheg!” Her reprimand was turned now upon the king. “A full year.”

Finrod laughed. “Have I been negligent in his instruction?”

“Nay,” Balan cut in with a chuckle as Finduilas began a retort, “there are more pressing duties for a king than teaching his vassals to caper.”

“Yet few so pleasant.” The king’s tone was light in response, but the lingering thought had trembled, pressed closer to Balan’s own. “I have been remiss.”

Balan was suddenly aware of the frailty of the other’s balance. He could have him over in an instant, he realized, sent careening from the edge with hardly a push. If he called to him now, if he trailed after him when the feasting was done, caught hold of him in the hushed dark of the island’s corridors…If he kissed him now, all Ivrin’s objection would crumple into his arms.

“No matter.” Once again Finduilas’ voice drew him back to the present with a start. “I wished to dance with Ornon, but since thou art to blame, I shall make do with thee instead.” She glanced up at her uncle with a puckish grin, then seized him by the wrist and pulled him after her into the center of the hall.

Why had he been allowed to see it? Each facet of the other’s thought was curated, chosen with care ere Balan touched it. Why had Nóm shown him that glimpse of frailty? Did he wish to fall? 

Or no, it was trust rather—that Balan would never trespass, would never wield his weakness in coercion. His heart sank.

“I hope my daughter’s exuberance does not offend you.” Orodreth had moved to join them in Finduilas’ wake and now drew up beside Balan with an apologetic smile. 

“Quite the contrary. It puts me in mind of my own sons when they were boys—a welcome reminder, for I miss them dearly.” Balan tamped down his racing thoughts and returned the smile. “Though I believe your daughter is nearly the age of my youngest.”

“And he is no longer a boy?”

“By my people’s reckoning, he came of age more than a year past.” Balan’s smile had grown brittle and he shifted his eyes back to the celebrations. Finduilas and the king whirled through the midst of the dancers, their motions clearly half-improvised and laughter rolling out from them as they spun, and Balan felt his bitterness ease at the sight. “Truly, I am grateful for her friendship. Though,” he added with a chuckle, “I confess myself bewildered that she’s taken to me.”

Orodreth smiled. “I find little surprise in that. She has ever been fond of a curiosity.”

A snort of laughter escaped before Balan could suppress it. “Much like the king?” he asked with a wry grin.

Chagrin washed over the warden’s face as he realized the gaffe. “I expressed that poorly, I beg pardon.”

Balan dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Nay, nay, I took no offense. They are kindred spirits in this—finding fascination in the unknown and not mistrust. I am grateful for it in the both of them.” The pair spun past as they spoke and he stepped back with a laugh, narrowly avoiding a collision with the younger, who called a merry apology over her shoulder. “My lord has spoken often of her in the time I’ve known him,” he said, feeling the ripples of joy brush against him from Nóm’s thought. “He is very fond of her, I think.”

“Yes, and she of him.” Orodreth’s voice grew quiet as he watched his daughter lifted in an arc through the dance. “I am glad of it. The solitude wears on him, for all he leads our merriment and pours the festal wine, and she and young Gildor are a balm. Gildor especially. He has been a son to him these years and that is a mercy, for great delight would he have taken from fatherhood—more is the pity.”

“Might he not still?” Embarrassment burned hot along Balan’s neck. Was he being warned away? Surely Nóm would not have told when the only fruit of such knowledge was Balan’s pride laid in sacrifice.

But Orodreth shook his head and his voice remained friendly. “My people do not wed in times of war, nor do we bear any child while there is such risk. Or rather,” he glanced toward Balan with a self-deprecating smile, “we are not meant to do so. My uncle was adamant against my own disregard for the custom, fond as he is of Finduilas now, for this peace is a passing thing and he trusts it not. He would never make such a compromise for himself, of that I am certain.” 

“No, he is not one to break with a principle.” It was with an effort that Balan kept the bitterness from his voice.

“Indeed. Of course, I do not mean to say that Gildor’s bereavement was a mercy, only that they have been a blessing, each to the other—Gildor orphaned by the sundering and adatheg childless by it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mm? Ah, forgive me, I forgot to whom I spoke and have been spinning riddles unwittingly. His betrothed chose otherwise when we left Aman, and thus for her sake he does not wed—or so my father says. Loyalty or heartbreak, or some fool’s hope that the Valar may yet relent.”

Ice ran in tendrils from Balan’s gut. Two years of intimacy, of thoughts interwoven, hearts inseparable, and never a single word or hint? For her sake he does not wed…The music had dulled, as though filtered through wool, and dizziness began to overtake him. His betrothed. “What was she like?” he heard himself ask, his voice carefully measured, though it too sounded muffled in his own ears. “Did you know her?”

“I did. Not well, for I was quite young then, but she was always kind to me and brought scrolls from the great libraries whenever she visited. She and dátheg were both students of philosophy and she knew I took an interest in it as well. But mostly I remember them dancing—at the lord Turgon’s marriage or at the high feasts atop Ezellohar. Gold and gold they were, tripping like light itself beneath Laurelin’s boughs, and brimming over with gladness. All was whole then, when we still knew not the Dark.” His face was inscrutable as he watched his uncle and daughter whirl through the dance’s conclusion, their own laughter and light spilling out through the hall. “What was Amarië like? She was the beauty of Valinor incarnate, light and wisdom, innocence and joy. But so are they all in my memory, those we abandoned. Each of them the Light that is gone.”

“I see.” His mouth had turned to sand and it was an increasing strugle to keep the threat of nausea at bay. Fool. Fool! “It is ever so, is it not, with those we have lost?” His nails dug into his palm and he focused his thought upon that sensation, centered his balance by its sting. Where had they gone? The crowd had drifted about them as the music ended and he had lost them amid his own confusion. Nay, there was Finduilas darting in again from the far edge, Gildor now in tow. His eyes scanned each group for the telltale gold.

“A grave accusation was leveled against me.”

“Gods all!” Balan spun round with a start as Finrod’s voice drifted over his shoulder, and only then did he notice the nudge of thought that should have alerted him to the other’s presence.

“Wary as a rabbit, thou art,” the king laughed, his eyes bright with amusement. “I am only a penitent, come before thee in contrition.”

“In contrition, forsooth?”

“Even so. Am I doubted? I have been accused of negligence, Bëor, and I will see it right.” The familiar smile played at his lips and he held out his hand toward the other. “Come! It is overlate, but I will teach thee now in recompense.”

Balan set his hand upon the outstretched palm, pressing his agitation into a skeptical frown. “I’ll grant thee trial of it, but thou art no more likely to have success in it than I am to grow wings by thy command.”

“Canst thou not? I was certain such lay within my purview.” He clasped Balan’s hand with a grin and led him out from the crowd. His smile turned giddy as they reached the open floor, and in his thought Balan could feel the mirth and longing tangled, exultant. Finrod pressed the other’s hand fervently within his own. “I would have given half my kingdom to dance with thee,” he murmured as he drew him into position.

“Only half?”

For a moment Finrod feared the acerbity had returned, but there was amusement glinting in the other’s eyes when he glanced down, and he laughed in relief. “Aye,” he said, shifting back to Taliska as he guided Balan forward in the dance’s motion. “The whole I would give could Fate be purchased.”

Then his thought slipped full within the other’s and laid each step before Balan’s feet. They turned, and turned again through the fluid motions as the minstrels sent a new chord echoing from the stones. It was less urgent than the first, a simple melody, but it filled Balan’s heart with yearning and he was amazed to feel the ease with which the other matched him to his own motion. Formed of the same clay, he found himself thinking once again, surely they had been bound since the making; there was no break between Nóm’s motion and his, no break between that spirit and his. 

Gold and gold, Orodreth had said, whirling light. What a contrast there must be in this. It was gold and dun wheeling before him now, the grey of winter marring the flow of light. 

And was this how he had danced with her? Did his hand rest even so, firm against the palm, light as it brushed his shoulder, turned him beneath his arm? Nay, she would have needed no such guidance. She was a creature of that same light, nimble and sure—as she was wisdom, as she was joy. An equal match.

Her image rose in vivid detail before his imagination, radiant, pristine; and despite the madness of his envy, he was drawn irresistibly to the warmth of her eyes. For there was kinship in their depths. She too had known the sharp edge of those principles, they had each fallen second when faced with his choice. Surely they should be yokefellows and not adversaries. 

What was it Nóm had said beside the Celon when he sang of Niéle and traced a snowdrop along the ridge of Balan’s nose…I’ve long since lost what beacon might have called me back. 

Were they each of these to him, then? Amarië the beacon, Balan the anchor, Nóm the ship at the Sea’s mercy between?

The king’s hand brushed against the kessela as he guided him through the steps, and with that touch a stab of conviction pierced Balan’s heart. He had hidden away on a cliff-ledge and wept like a boy for his own first love—a wife, indeed, and no mere betrothal—and yet he could harbor this vicious envy within a few short hours? Even now the memory of her lingered at his side, keeping step with them through every turn. 

What of it if Nóm too had loved before? Balan’s own devotion was no less now for having been another’s first. Who was he to spurn another’s ghost?

Balan caught the other’s hand as they crossed in the dance, he let the arm pass about him, turned and ducked and stepped in time. He brushed against Nóm as though by accident and met his eye in quick affection, he felt the warmth rush through him from the other’s thought. 

Crumbs, after all, were better than starvation.

---

Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
epessë: [Q] after-name or nickname
adatheg: [S] father-brother, an approximation for uncle (used loosely in this case)
Orodrethiel: [S] daughter of Orodreth
Ornon [S] tree + masculine suffix
gwilwileth: [S] butterfly
Aeweth: [S] little bird + feminine suffix
dátheg: [S] uncle, diminutive

TALISKA INVENTIONS
For the most part, all faux-Taliska is loosely inspired by or modeled on Germanic-Gothic
wilwa aifa (toddler’s attempt to say wiljan aitha): I want mama
gawarthi’nd sá: peace unto you
vaen-hlaiba: paramour, slang (lit.) bed-companion. See In These Holy Waters