Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

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18. The Warning Sounds Too Late

“Blessed was the joining of your forbearers’ souls, and blessed are we by the fruit of their labor.” Eldalótë stood at one corner of the table with a slim chalice raised in salute, first to the king at her left, then to her husband at the foot of the table. “May joy be upon what joy hath wrought!” 

Shortly after Finrod and Balan's encounter with the Orc ambush, members of the family have gathered in Dorthonion to celebrate the begetting days of both Finrod and Angrod.

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312th YEAR OF THE SUN, SPRING
The North Marches of Dorthonion; Barad Belaith, the Tower of Angrod

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“Blessed was the joining of your forbearers’ souls, and blessed are we by the fruit of their labor.” Eldalótë stood at one corner of the table with a slim chalice raised in salute, first to the king at her left, then to her husband at the foot of the table. “May joy be upon what joy hath wrought!” 

“And may Elbereth make light to shine upon you!” came the echo along the length of the table, the clinking of glasses, the laughter rippling like a brook.

Balan sipped from his cup and let his eyes drift over the little assembly. They were strange, these feasting customs of the Nómin—the ritual washing each of another’s hands, the bread broken and passed to the guest at one’s side, the form of the toasts, indeed the gathering itself.

“Do you celebrate birth’s remembrance among your kind?” he had asked once in Estolad, curiosity piqued as Nóm watched the merriment of Belen’s feast with rapt fascination. “Or does the counting become too cumbersome?”

“Nay,” Nóm had flashed a sidelong grin, “tis the day of begetting that we celebrate.”

And Balan had laughed, thinking him in jest, till the king’s look of earnest confusion told him otherwise, and then he laughed still more in bemusement. It was the crude term Nóm had used in his assertion—the trouble, Balan teased him later, that came of learning a language through prodding about in another’s head. The vocabulary thus gleaned was only as respectable as the mind he plumbed. 

His lips twitched in the attempt to suppress a chuckle and he glanced again toward the head of the table. Nóm reclined in the foremost chair, laughter spilling out like music while the golden light of the courtyard draped about him, his cropped hair hovering about his jawline. 

Finduilas had been gleeful when she met them at the gate that afternoon. “Adatheg!” She had grinned up at the king as Váya slowed to a halt beside the green, and the light in her eyes was mischievous as she took in his hair. “How then! Hast thou gone a’thieving as well?”

Their similarity was even more pronounced with the shorn gold mirrored between them and the same impish mirth had danced along Nóm’s features. “Aye,” he replied as he slid stiffly from the saddle, “a’wandering and a’thieving over hill and dale.”

“And what spoils hast thou brought me?”

“Ornon,” he retorted, teasing in return, and had laughed at the perplexed furrow of her brow. Then he moved near enough for her to leap into his arms in greeting, and his breath had caught in a hiss as she collided with his shoulder. “Gently, little fiend! I am not unscathed.”

Finduilas sat nearly adjacent to Balan now, nestled between Gildor and Eldalótë, and was taking in all that passed, her brown eyes sharp and canny. She had interrogated him at length following Nóm’s admission and insisted on hearing the tale thrice over ere she would accept he had not neglected any details of note. Then she had set upon the king in turn, he believed, having heard Sídhon shoo her along the passage after they dispersed to wash and dress for the meal. But when they reconvened in the courtyard that evening, Balan noted with amusement that the attendant’s efforts must not have been entirely effective, for the same pattern of braided pearls had been woven through both Nóm’s hair and hers—Sídhon’s work—and she had arrived at the king’s side, arm in arm and laughing together at some shared jest. 

“May Elbereth make light to shine upon you!” The acclamation echoed again as Tuilann finished the next toast, tipping a dash of her wine into Orodreth’s chalice; who in turn passed a portion of his to Balan, and on around the table as before—the praise shared among the assembly so that each drank together of the same blessing.

“As Yavanna’s orchard was the tree of your parents’ union.” Orodreth stood, lifting his cup in benediction first to his father, then again toward the king. “Blessed the branch which grew from it, and blessed be the fruit born therefrom.”

“And may Elbereth make light to shine upon you!” The clink of glass, the wine passed again, the blessing drunk. 

Finduilas’ eyes sparkled as her father returned to his seat. “I fear the fruit must be overripe that drinks to its own praise, ada,” she said, mischief dancing through her voice, and her lips twitched into a grin when Orodreth glanced up at her in surprise. But he laughed at once and held out his palms in a show of penitence. 

“Sharp-tongued little fox.” Gildor bumped her shoulder affectionately. “We’ll none of us dare to formality in thy presence.”

“Nay, Elinkë,” Finrod glanced at his foster-son with amusement, “thou hast forgotten: the fox it is who defends the fruit of the orchard, not the one who mocks it.”

“Well shouldst thou know it.” Aegnor chuckled from the far side of the table and laughter scattered back through the group.

Fingon lifted his glass toward the king with a grin. “Blessed indeed was the fruit borne therefrom.”

“And sharp too the fox,” Finrod retorted.

“What, a grudge still?” Mischief spread along his features and he leaned forward to catch Balan’s eye. “Bëor, fortune has set you in ignorance of our familial strife—come, you shall be our arbiter. Let us suppose you had a brother, a younger brother, who had a particular fondness for apples. Now let us further suppose that in your youth, you had a cousin who knew a way to obtain the choicest apples there were, and in his benevolence he shared this knowledge with your brother—”

“He baited your brother with a dare—”

Fingon held up a hand and cut in over his cousin’s words, “—and when your brother set out to retrieve those delicacies and your cousin warned him of the foxes guarding these orchards—”

“Shouted it in afterthought,” Angrod interjected in turn, “when I was already over the wall—”

“—you then chose to launch yourself after him into the forbidden groves.” Fingon concluded, then spread his hands in innocent appeal. “Now, if you were bitten on your, er, flank as a result of your own reckless pursuit, would the fault lie with your cousin for being free with his knowledge or with yourself for choosing to leap forewarned into the path of the foxes’ teeth?”

Balan hesitated, his hand resting upon the base of his own cup and turning it by degrees. “I fear my lord forgets that I am the father of two sons,” he replied at last, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I have set more than one broken bone gotten by the benevolence of shared knowledge.”

Finrod’s grin was triumphant as he raised a chalice toward his cousin, but Fingon’s gaze remained on Balan, one brow cocked, teasing and curious. “Then you would rest blame at the feet of knowledge?”

“I would rest blame at the feet of he who set the foxes.”

“She who set the foxes.” Maedhros spoke for the first time, his voice low and amused. “Twas Yavanna’s orchard they plundered.”

“Was it truly?” Balan chuckled and broke off a piece of bread from his plate. “Then as a loyal bondsman, I shall add the foxes to my tally of grievances.”

For a moment the silence was sharp, but it was broken at once by the rough sound of Maedhros’ mirth. “Would you say then, adan, that the Valar err in keeping their sacred groves?”

Balan refilled his cup and paused to watch the ripples settle before answering. “I would say—forgive me, lord—” He glanced at Finrod with faint contrition. “I would say do not invite a guest and then take offense when he eats from your board.”

Maedhros’ laugh broke out in full at this, gravelly and half-abrasive in the quiet of the courtyard. “Almien,” he murmured, touching his cup briefly to the other’s and taking a quick sip. “Spoken indeed as a pupil of exiles.”

“Almien.” Balan returned the salute and drank from his own. “But my lord would tell me such words are perilous folly, and so in honor of his celebration I recant.” His eyes drifted back to meet the king’s, and a smile eased his features as he found the brush of Nóm’s thought warm despite the twinge of concern. “All of which recalls to me,” he added as he rose, “that I alone tarry yet with a benediction ungiven. I am poorly versed in the customs of your people, but I will speak blessing as we do among my own folk, if it is permitted.” The king dipped his head in acquiescence and Balan held out his hands before him, pressed palm to palm. “Earth rejoiced in your making and water poured blessing on the hour of your birth. Fire leapt with gladness when your soul felt its kindling and wind soared triumphant as your breath joined with hers. The burning sun smiled when light touched your visage and song broke loose at the sound of your name. May Melishk set your dwelling firm beneath you, may Guënid’s water mark your path. May Fon’s heart warm and keep and guide you, may Luftu’s breath sustain your own. May Iuathap ever walk before you, and Satheweis bring joy to dwell within your house.” He laid his arms over his chest and bowed, first to Angrod at one end of the table, then to the king who sat with hands stretched palm-upward before him. 

“May blessing rest with thee as thou hast blessed,” Nóm answered in the Atani fashion, bringing his palms together to mirror Balan’s earlier gesture, then drew them up to his lips in a sign of acceptance. “Sama’nd sá.”

“Sama’nd sá.” Balan lifted his cup from the table and raised it as those before him had done, tipping a splash into Maedhros’ cup, then Orodreth’s as the toast moved once more around the table and the prayer to Elbereth echoed again.

Then a cheerful murmur arose, for Sídhon had passed through the surrounding peristyle bearing a round loaf on a polished, wooden platter before him. It was intricate, set with latticework from which sugared flowers sprang, as though each plait was a green and laden vine, and the scent of honey wafted through the courtyard as he placed it at the head of the table. Balan was surprised to see that it was quite small for such a gathering; the whole of the loaf was fitted snugly within a circlet of flowers no larger than the width of his head.

“We call it lumas,” explained Orodreth at his side, “for it too, like its cousin lembas, is waybread—the waybread of time, marking joy in each year’s flowering and sustaining us as we journey onward, bearing the ever-growing weight of memory’s burden.”

“Quite a festive despair, that sounds.”

He heard the king’s chuckle from along the table, but Orodreth’s brows furrowed in concern. “Nay, Bëor, it is the task and calling of the Eldar to persevere in memory, to hold it ever-sacred and ever-present as Arda wanes. Weariness there shall be, of course, but we do it gladly and do not treat with despair.”

“Do we not?” Maglor glanced at him in amusement, then waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “Nay, nay, be not offended. Thou art the righteous among us, Artaresto. Allow that we flippant twigs may tease the boughs for their steadfastness, being but envious creatures ourselves.”

“And so does the knife tease the sword for its sharpness,” Angrod added beside him with a grin. “Thou art no more apostate than I.”

Maglor opened his mouth in retort, but it was Eldalótë’s voice that rang out along the stone.

“Vána, blessed and ever-young,” she said, drawing a knife through the glistening crust, “cast your glance upon this gathering that these we celebrate might flourish as those flowers which spring in new life before your passage, that their souls might sing with the joy of your blessing.” She had divided it evenly into twelve pieces, each with a flower in its midst, and leaned forward now to set the whole in the center of the board.

“The will of the Valar shall be done.” Hands darted forward with the prayer, bumping together in their haste to claim the portion each had in mind, laughing and jostling till the platter lay empty, save for the circlet of flowers and a single slice of lumas. Balan reached out and claimed this last, shifting it to his own plate as they all began to break off bites and eat.

“There is a fig baked into the loaf,” Finrod explained, his eyes merry as he watched Balan’s confusion amidst the revelry. “The one who finds it in their portion is said to bear forth the blessing of Vána into the coming year, and thus we name them—”

“Lord of the feast!” Finduilas crowed, snatching the circlet from the platter and planting it firmly upon Gildor’s head. “He’s hidden it here behind a radish,” she added and grinned at him in triumph, his face reddening as he sought to evade the attention. “Thou shalt have thy good fortune, coz, agreeable or no.”

“Hail, the lord of the feast!” Finrod lifted a chalice and the sound of his laugh danced through the air as the others joined him, echoing the salute.

“Vána favors thy line, Elaráto,” Angrod quipped after they had all drunk his fortune. “Thy father too was crowned by nearly every lumas, if I remember aright.”

“He was indeed,” the king glanced at his foster-son with a quick smile, “and was as bashful as thou art at the honor. Do you remember Thadhril?” he asked then, turning toward Fingon and Angrod and shifting the conversation deftly from Gildor’s embarrassment. “She once ate the fig whole before any knew where it lodged. Though whether that was from shyness or a desire to wreak havoc upon the proceedings, I still could not say.”

“The latter, with certainty.” Fingon chuckled, refilling his wine.

“Which is Thadhril?” Maedhros glanced at him in query. 

“She apprenticed with Curvo in Aman,” he answered. “Middling height, dark, I believe she is one of his lieutenants still.”

“Friendly with the envoy from Belegost,” Maglor added with a quick smile at his brother.

“Ah. I know the one.”

“Unparalleled is thy skill in leaving the unsaid ringing louder than thy words.” Fingon leaned back in his chair and grinned as he set his eyes on Maglor. “Tell the tale.”

“Hearsay and gossip, Finno,” Maglor retorted, “and beneath thy dignity.” Then he laughed when the other did not relent and leaned back in his chair. “As thou wilt. There was a young envoy from the lord of Belegost, golden-bearded and jovial, and for the duration of his stay one did not find him without Thadhril’s company, nor Thadhril without his. And as thou hast said, twas not the eloquence of what we encountered that raised a tale, but the loudness of what we did not. All nonsense, of course,” he added as Fingon’s face shifted from amusement to concern. “Though he did petition to remain in permanent residence and I am told there was a heated conversation between the lieutenant and her lord after it was denied. Whatever the truth of it, there is a new envoy in place and Thadhril grants him scarce more than politeness.”

“Hearsay and gossip, as thou hast said.” Fingon drank deeply from his wine, then shook his head, perplexed. “Truly, I cannot imagine how there would be any appeal between naug and eledh.”

“Perhaps for the logistical challenge.” Aegnor mumbled into his chalice, earning a snort from Gildor at his left.

“It is an interesting question, certainly,” Orodreth mused, passing over his uncle’s quip. “How close should we understand the kinship between Eru’s Children and Aulë’s?”

“There is no distinction,” the king countered. “Did not the One adopt Aulë’s children as his own?”

“Thou wouldst hold such a pairing to be permissible, then?”

“I said not so.”

“And yet,” Fingon leaned forward, “if thou wilt say there is no distinction, then surely that position can be inferred?”

“I hold there is no distinction in the place of each as Children of the One. It is true that Aulë formed the cadhadrim, but it was Eru who breathed their spirit into being—as he did ours, as he did the Secondborn.”

“And being thus of the same breath, the Children could also be of one spirit...” Eldalótë finished the last of her lumas, and her brows furrowed in thought. “A possibility, of course.”

“But is not all of Eä sustained by the breath of the One? And we do not consider ourselves akin to the mice and mushrooms.”

“Come now, Finno,” Aegnor cut in, “we needn’t all predicate pairing upon kinship.”

Fingon flicked a cherry pit across the table and his cousin dodged it with a grin. “But we might upon a shred of commonality. There is as much difference between eledh and naug as between mouse and mushroom, surely.”

“Nay, that is more uncharitable than thy meaning,” Angrod protested. “One a breathing creature and one a fungus?”

“Gold and iron, then,” Fingon conceded. “Oil and water. Some set of elements that cannot mingle.”

“Thou wouldst set the measure to meet thy purpose,” Finrod said with a grin, “but gold and iron may weave together in beauty, as there within the bracelet on thy wrist.”

“They may be woven, true—braided in friendship and respect. But seek to make of them one metal and it is a brittle blade you hold.”

“That may be so. But as yet I’ve heard no reason from thee but prejudice.”

“Is it prejudice when a thing is mutually distasteful? Bëor,” Fingon leaned forward and appealed to him a second time, “surely you would agree were it your own people in question.”

Balan hesitated for a moment and lifted the cup to his lips before answering. “Being near to iron myself, lord, I fear I’ve not the objectivity to judge your own mettle.”

Fingon laughed and raised his own glass toward the other in concession. “A point deftly scored.” 

“All this quibbling brings to mind the jewel smith and the craftsman of Nogrod.” Maedhros glanced at Balan with an amused flicker in his eye. “Do you know the tale?”

“I do not.” Balan shook his head. “What craftsman is this?”

“Mercy, Bëor,” Aegnor snorted, his words half-obscured with mirth, “encourage him not.”

“Come now, be gracious, coz.” Maedhros reached for the decanter and refilled his cup. “Twas thy brother in defense of such cultural exchange not a moment past, and thou disparaged him not.”

Aegnor confiscated the decanter with a laugh and gestured in resignation.

“So, then. There was once a young smith of our people who, as the story goes, grew enamored of one of the masters of Nogrod. Now this naug was a—”

“Cadhad,” Finrod corrected over the rim of his chalice.

“Cadhad, an thou wilt. This cadhad was a craftsman of great renown, a master of filigree and fine ornamentation, and rumor of him spread from the eastern wilds to the feet of the Ered Wethrin. Upon hearing tell of his prowess, the smith set out at once for the city of the Naugr—of the Cadhodrim, and indeed so gratifying did he find the craftsman’s work that he returned each season, till at last his steward exclaimed in frustration, ‘why, O lord, do you journey so often to the mountain forges?’ ‘Ah, tis quite simple,’ said our smith. ‘Anarimaitë i tanoron lamba.’“

Balan choked into his wine as he tried to hold back a snort. Luck had brought the chalice to his lips as the jest unfolded, for Maedhros had shifted the final phrase into Quenya to play the double meaning and it was a moment ere Balan noticed the change. The others were laughing around him; all except Tuilann, who understood nothing of the forbidden tongue, whether genuinely or on principle, and Finduilas who—gods all, he had made the mistake of meeting her eye. She too was attempting to feign ignorance of the wordplay and his own laughter nearly won out at the sight. She stuffed a bite of pheasant in her mouth and looked away at once, holding her composure with far greater skill than he. He hid his face behind another long draught of wine.

Maglor was grinning at the far corner of the table, parrying quips with Aegnor and Fingon. “Truly,” he exclaimed in feigned shock at Aegnor’s latest insinuation, “twould be an unexpected explanation for Curvo’s ties to the Smith’s Guild.”

“Nay, Káno, surely not unexpected.” The king broke into the conversation, sipping from his wine to hide the laughter already weaving through his voice. “Did he not tell thee Telchar was their finest member?”

“Valar save us!” Fingon’s laughter rolled along the table. “And from Arto even!”

Maglor threw up his hands in resignation, though his quick staccato mingled now with the others’ mirth and his eyes were bright with merriment. “Come, Bëor,” he said, turning toward him with palms spread in plea, “give us a tale of your people and draw us back to virtue.”

“Shall I, my lord?” There was an amused edge to Balan’s voice as he paused to refill his cup. “You’ve a flattering confidence our tales would serve for such.”

“Wallow with us in vulgarity, then. I mind it little—save that you set your tale in song, if you will. Ingoldo’s letters are illuminating specimens, but in this I find them lacking: How has the One tuned your voices? By what steps do they dance through the Song?”

“By many, lord; some fumbling, some sure. My own is a poor staff with which to judge the whole.”

“But a note sounding amongst them, surely.”

“Aye, as you say.” He sipped from the wine to gain a moment in thought, then his eyes grew mischievous and he set the cup aside. “In keeping with the conversation, lord, I will tell you a tale we sing at harvest—of the god of song whose love is given to a farmer’s son. We too mingle gold and iron, you see,” he added with a wry twitch of his lips. “Though when we tell it, our voices rise in praise of the defiance—for we ourselves are brittle blades unalloyed, and it is in such mingling that we see a way to strength.”

“Do you indeed? Sing on, then, I would hear your hymns defiant and learn whether their melody tends sweet or discordant—and we shall see then if my noble cousin sits corrected.” Maglor nodded toward Fingon with a grin.

“It is myth, not argument, lord,” Balan replied, laughing. “I beg you do not hold a threshing tune to such a measure.” 

“But is not myth itself a form of persuasion?” The king’s glance fell upon him, debate dancing merrily upon his tongue. “Or does the aithan-hropit hang as a tale only and not an exhortation?”

“My lord presses his advantage. He understands far more of our lore than do I of his philosophy.” Balan met Finrod’s gaze with a one brow lifted. “Of what wouldst thou be persuaded?”

“Of what wilt thou tell?”

“Tässil and the god of Song.” Balan chuckled and held his eye in challenge. “It tells of how Satheweis was drawn in curiosity to the meter of his scythe and so came down from the air to learn what it might be. Love sprang out at once, each for each, but the gods may not mingle with the flesh they created and so in their embrace Tässil was consumed, burned up in light and his soul grafted into the divine. We left Estolad before the harvest, lord, else thou wouldst have heard it ere now. It is the story we tell of how our people were granted song—for ever after that, the music drifting through the world held a mortal soul within it; and each of ours, then, is held in kinship with the god of song.” His eyes had fallen away from the king’s as he spoke and now followed his finger as it traced the pattern of leaves around the stem of his chalice. “And so we sing it at every harvest, for we hold that cutting and threshing should ever be bound with music—the myth embodied and the marriage of mortal and divine.” 

As he spoke, he had shifted his hands to the table before him and began drumming a quiet rhythm upon the boards: two steady beats, a double-beat, another slow, as though echoing the sound of feet plodding behind the scythe. Then quietly his voice began to chant the melody.

“To sickle’s sound our tongues will sing
a threshing song, a cadence bring
to flail and scythe. We sound the drum
as fly the grains amid the hum
of voices hoarse.

Now beat the grain as tell the wise
of Tässil fair and Satheweis
who saw him there in golden fields
and there at once his heart did yield
to death’s fell course.

The god of Song, the Speech divine,
did founder then as though with wine
besotted. Swift he donned the shroud
of flesh as quiet Tässil plowed
through choking gorse.

He follows him. And in the gloaming
goes to him, the music roaming
through the grasses and the rye.
Bewildered, Tässil lifts his eye
and knows the source.”

As though in obedience to the melody, he felt Nóm’s gaze upon him, the drum of the king’s pulse in his ears more resonant than his own hands’ rhythm against the board. It was an impertinent choice of tale certainly, Balan admitted as fire pricked at his own blood and coursed with the wine through his veins; but it was an intoxication of its own to be able call up the other’s dizzy longing with such ease. Nóm had asked for persuasion, had he not? 

Balan let his mind drift to the pines and the embers while he sang, the silver light of a half-moon in the summer night, the waking dream beside the fire. Scattering memory to tempt the blaze. And the king, wandering still amid his thoughts, was caught at once by the sly teasing—the pulse quickened, the slender fingers suddenly restless upon the table—and it was with an effort that Balan kept a grin from tugging at his lips.

“In beauty there before him stands
bright Satheweis and by the hand
he takes him, draws him near,
and there in breath against his ear
the song grows hoarse.

Then Tässil burns as down the spine
desire ripples. Lips entwine,
and trammeled there in bitter fate
he feels the warning sound too late
to change his course.

The darkness breaks. Upon the wold
the air is shifting. Wind and gold,
now from them spilling, sharp and bright:
their flesh burnt up in holy light
above the gorse.

And now we chant through threshing long
to weave the sickle and the song
forever bound. With scythe and flail
we mark them still as o’er the vale
our music soars.”

Balan’s voice trailed off and for a time the rhythm alone continued in the quiet, echoing through the courtyard. Then it too fell silent and all that remained was the wind rustling through the ivy leaves. 

“Well, my lord,” he said after a moment, eyes lifting at last to glance toward the foot of the table, “what is thy judgement? Have I brought us nearer virtue or mired us firmly in our vulgarity?”

“Far be it from me to name song’s acquisition an unvirtuous act.” Maglor sipped from his cup with a smile. “But I am fascinated by the merging of soul and divine spirit; that your myth would posit the consuming—the consummation, if you will allow the inference—as merging and not destruction. If the tale sets forth the mingling of god and mortal as impossible, would not the soul too have been caught within the holy fire?”

“Our understanding of this is otherwise than among the Eldar, lord.”

“Is it indeed. And what meaning, then, do your people set upon it?”

“That death is not our master. He may claim our frail flesh, but we will defy him in that destruction, whether as soil from which the new life arises—as my lord has seen in our burial rites—or more directly as Tässil’s spirit weaving us within the divine. And so thou art proved in the right as well,” he said, turning to Finrod with a quick smile, “for after all, it is the same is it not? Tässil’s soul and the aithan-hropit?”

“By such breath a promise was laid,” Nóm recited, and where the tendrils of thought lay mingled, Balan felt the memory of the other’s hand clasped within his own, the cold of winter’s midnight within his lungs, the press of a carved cow’s bone lashed against his feet. “May we all be remembered so: beloved children here in the darkness.”

❈❈❈

Arien had settled below the horizon and Tilion was far upon the same road before they began to disperse at last, breaking off by twos or threes—Angrod and Aegnor engrossed in a game of chance with Fingon, Maedhros looming beside them or drifting beneath the shadowed cloister, Maglor teaching Finduilas to play a curious little instrument, somewhere between a pipe and a mouth harp, while the others sipped wine and laughed beneath the stars till the night had nearly slipped away. 

By the fourth watch, only a handful remained: the three still intent upon their game, Maedhros looking out over the dark highlands, the king walking the length of the courtyard to ease the stiffness in his leg. 

His pain had lessened in the week since the skirmish, but the dull ache was growing increasingly insistent as the night waned and he fell to limping before crossing half the distance. With a grimace, he shifted his steps and made instead for the southern edge of the terrace, only a stone’s throw away. It lay open beyond the peristyle, defended by a precipice that fell away before its feet, and was rimmed with a stone balustrade along its length. The expanse of Dorthonion spread out beyond this and it was here that Maedhros stood, arms propped against the stone and face unreadable as he gazed out into the night. 

Finrod shuddered despite himself. There was an eeriness in seeing his cousin outlined against the sheer drop, some scent of another’s memory, and a nameless dread pricked again at his gut. 

Scars trickled down the other’s jawline like ivy along the arch columns behind him and Finrod’s own jaw clenched against the thought of their origins. They were more pronounced here than they had been at the table, where candlelight played upon the tunic’s pattern and drew one’s eye away from the face and onto the ornate designs. Deliberate, of course. But those embellishments were dulled here in the starlight and Finrod let himself sit for a moment with the horror.

“If thou hast wish to join me, Arto,” Maedhros said without turning, “then join me. Do not hover like a gnat behind my sight.”

“I knew not if company would be welcomed.”

“Tis thy feast, is it not? I would not have come were I not braced for the possibility.” He glanced back then and there was a flash of mirth in his eyes. “Don’t be a fool. I mind thee not.”

Finrod smiled in return and moved to join him along the balustrade. “High praise indeed.”

There was a low sound, distantly akin to a laugh, then Maedhros turned back toward the highlands. “I’ve wheedled the tale from Edrahil,” he said after a long silence. “Nay, be not angered. Quite a fear thou didst set in him by thy folly.” 

“He is vexed with me still, I deem.”

“Yes. And no wonder.” The wind ruffled his hair, ruddy-brown and trimmed close about his ears, and he frowned into the night. “Their passage out from the fell above Rivil—twas sealed, was it not?”

“It will be done. I left orders with Arminas for it to be pulled down and blocked. One of the captains of the Cened Beraid,” he explained when Maedhros glanced at him in query. “He holds the tower nearest Rivil’s Well.”

“Do not be complacent merely because their number was small. They pour out from those cracks like rats when the need takes them.”

“I have seen it.”

“If there is one passage, there will be many.”

“I know. I have set a guard upon it and they are scouring the highlands anew.” Finrod shifted his weight and tried not to let irritation creep into his voice. “My captains are not unseasoned, Maitimo. Nor am I careless in my charge.”

“Twas great care indeed, leaping upon a practiced force with naught but a knife in hand.”

“Two knives,” Finrod corrected, the aching leg and night of wine leaving him more peevish than was usual, “and the terrain to my advantage.”

“And thy wits half-intoxicated with rage.” Maedhros straightened, removing his arms from the stone and reaching back with a grimace to reposition his shoulder. “I’ve seen thee battle before in such a fury and it is fearsome, undeniably. But thou art heedless, Arto, unreserved and reckless when it holds reign of thee. Do not trust to it.”

“Should I have held back then? Let him be dragged into that darkness?” Finrod’s voice had grown low, and sharp about the edges. “Surely thou wouldst not counsel so.”

There was no change to the other’s face, only a sudden thickness in the air as though a gale moved upon the horizon. “Thou art fond of him, I know,” Maedhros said after a long silence, his words clipped and carefully measured. “But they take him and they have a toy. They take thee and all lies on the knife’s edge of thy fortitude. And believe me when I tell thee it is ever less than one hopes. It is thy responsibility as a prince of our people to place their wellbeing before personal grief.”

“He is my responsibility as well.” 

This was dismissed with a snort.

“They are sworn to me, his people, as much as I am to ours. He dwells with me as emissary on their behalf and I have given my word to his sons that no harm shall come to him in that charge.”

“Then twas a promise rashly given. It is the duty of a liegeman to fall in service of his lord—and so he is sworn, is he not?”

“He is nothing so utilitarian.”

“So I can see. But thy duty is to the whole, not the one—no matter what arrangement thou hast with the mortal.”

Finrod’s glance was sharp. “I do not take thy meaning.”

“No?” Maedhros’ gaze remained on the hills, but there was a wry twitch at the corner of his mouth as he saw his cousin’s hands move to grip the balustrade before him. “The vassal’s tongue is very skilled,” he murmured, amusement trickling back into his voice. “And not for naught, I think, hast thou trained it in the Exiles’ speech.”

“So thy jest was laid to trap him?” Ice laced through Finrod’s voice and his knuckles whitened against the stone. “There is no arrangement,” he insisted and felt his own words tangle as the other laughed, choked between anger at the teasing and despair at the truth in his own denial. “There is not. Do not mistake my objection to a prejudiced argument with an embrace of folly. Tis easy to parry in debate, but I am not such a fool as to believe one could wed across the chasm of fates.”

“I did not suspect thee of wedding him.”

“Then truly I understand thee not?”

“No? Ever thy father’s son thou art—and ever the Vanya he.” The twist of Maedhros’ lips was both amused and pitying. “Tis binding only if the oaths are taken alongside, Cullingwincë. Or hast thou thought Finno wed these long years?” He laughed again when the other was silent and turned toward him at last. “Ai, poor Arto, thou hast. Come then, look in my eye. Am I bound?”

Finrod’s grip tightened upon the balustrade as some remnant of childish fury rose within him at the nickname—little goldfish, small and helpless, ignorant and other. His cousins had taken it in turns then, tossing stones to determine whose lot it was to explain the particular manner or tradition, word or jest, and he felt the earnest mortification working again at his throat. He pressed his palms against the stone, holding his gaze stubbornly on the highlands. “There is no arrangement,” he repeated.

Maedhros studied him for a long moment, letting the silence grow heavy before he pushed away from the rail. “As thou wilt,” he said at last, turning back toward the others. “But mind thy steps, Satheweis. Thou art foundering.”

---

Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
adatheg: [S] uncle
Elinkë: [Q] “little star,” a nickname drawn from Elárato, the approximated Telerin form of Gildor
almien: [Q] cheers, (lit.) to good fortune
lumas: [S] time-bread
Elárato: [T] approximated Telerin form of Gildor
naug: [S] dwarf, stunted-one
cadhad: [S] Dwarf, from Khuzd
eledh: [S] Elf
Anarimaitë i tanoron lamba: [Q] “the craftsman’s hammer is very skilled” where Maedhros uses lamba (an alternate form of namba) for “hammer” so that it can mean either “the craftsman’s hammer” or “the craftsman’s tongue”

TALISKA INVENTIONS
For the most part, all faux-Taliska is loosely inspired by or modeled on Germanic-Gothic
- Sama’nd sá: good/abundant life be unto you (see Here in Our Frailty)
- aithan-hropit: “mother’s-cry,” holly (see Here in Our Frailty for the background myth

MISC NOTES
- See No Gentler Pain for the background on Finduilas’ commentary on Finrod’s short hair.
- Special thanks once again to the linguistics channel in the SWG discord for their help with constructing lumas!