Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

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21. Blade's Peril

"I’ve missed this life more than I’ve dared tell you, and I’ve come back and found it gone. It will not have me back. He will not have me back—and no wonder. Where am I meant to put this hunger?"

Finrod arrives in Estolad and does his best to dispel the conflict between Balan and his eldest son. The Atani teach him a drinking game as they celebrate the eve of Baran's wedding.

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312th YEAR OF THE SUN, SUMMER
Estolad

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Nóm had arrived with all the speed of a gale, galloping ahead of the Guard like an arrow loosed from their bows, and did not slow till Váya was within twenty paces of the palisade. He leapt from her back at once then and darted forward on his own feet to greet them—for it was the children who had rushed out first at his approach, a little pack led by Avina and Fina that swarmed him as soon as he reached the ground. He caught them each in a warm embrace, then with a yelp he let them topple him, laughing and bewildered at how they had grown in his absence.

When Balan had first glimpsed him, he was nearly to the green, three children perched atop Váya and another hoisted upon his own shoulders, grinning as Avina and the others ran ahead to ensure the whole village knew he had come. It had set the old ache prickling through Balan’s stomach to see him among them again, to linger within the shadows and watch him move seamlessly into the easy familiarity of Thalos or those early days here beside the Celon—and with the memory, his intoxication had risen anew and left him awash with all the heady devotion of new love. Dizzy and burning, breathless and awed.

And so he was now as well, standing to the side as Sídhon and Gelmir carried in the king’s pack and saddlebags, resting them at the foot of the bed and drawing out their contents. His own few items were carefully shifted aside, tucked within his bag or placed in neat piles on the table beside it, for Belen’s room was now to house the king. That had been an unexpected wrangle. Baran had met them halfway along the green and Nóm strode forward without hesitation, arms flung open and meeting him with a warm embrace—and Balan had felt the sting of it at once; the gesture was simple and commonplace when he watched another enact it, why had he held back in his own greeting? At least, he mused in hindsight, deference had kept Baran’s anger from extending to the king.

But custom and cordiality had found themselves at odds once they passed into the Hall. Baran had insisted straightaway that his own rooms would be given over for the king’s stay, as the principles of his people’s hospitality demanded. The king had been aghast at this—he could not in good conscience rob their chieftain of his chamber on the eve of his wedding. Besides, he had added with a grin, he had been happy enough to make shift on grass or bedroll when he dwelt with them before, why should Baran think he required anything other upon his return? The silence had been uncomfortable then, offense lingering in the wake of each’s words, until Balan had chuckled from the edge of the group and leaned back against the head table. 

“It’s custom, Nóm,” he had interjected at last. “You found us while we were about our journeying, when all sheltered alike. But here we are settled. Baran can no more set you to lodge in a hut than he could turn you from the gate and still hold his honor—he’d be shamed for setting himself above a guest and stashing a king in a hovel while he sleeps abed in comfort. Our traditions demand it.”

“And my duty as your lord demands that I take not unduly from your own holdings, nor prosper myself through your loss.” Finrod had turned back to Baran and smiled, holding his hands outstretched before him. “It is your wedding feast, my friend; allow your lord the indulgence of offering his due in gift.”

“It is in my people’s estimation, Nóm, not by my own reckoning, that the judgment is rendered.”

“And they’ll know it not so long as he is granted lodging in the Hall.” Balan pushed away from the table and moved to join them. “They’ll have no opposition to my old bones sleeping in a hovel. Give me my own hut back—Bel said yestereve it’s empty still—and Nóm shall have the room you gave me.” He glanced at his son with a sidelong grin. “We’ll pacify hospitality and he’ll not spend the week in distress at having robbed you of your marriage bed.”

He had the satisfaction then of seeing Baran’s careful poise slip for an instant before his son nodded and returned Finrod’s smile, conceding the arrangement.

Balan shifted aside as Sídhon emptied the second saddle bag and crossed to the little table beside the hearth, having somewhere appropriated a cloth with which he began sweeping the wood shavings to one side.

“Nay, I’ll see to it.” Finrod rested one hand lightly against Sídhon’s arm and shifted him back. “Go and seek thine own accommodations, thou hadst as long a ride as I—the both of you.”

“As you will, lord.” He folded the cloth in a quick motion and set it neatly beside the mound of shavings, then dipped his head in salute and passed back into the corridor, Gelmir following in his wake. 

“I should have cleared it myself.” Balan brushed the parings into his palm and scattered them over the dull coals. “Poor Bel kept it neat as a wren’s nest and here I’ve muddled it after a single night. I’ll owe him a—” He broke off then, for Nóm’s arms had found him at once, crossing as soon as the door was drawn to, and for a moment his breath was lost in the close crush of the other’s embrace. “Gods all, m’lord,” he managed after a moment, chuckling, “I was only three days from your side.” But his own arms had twined about him in return, the scent of him coursing like wine through Balan’s senses, and when the familiar nudge brushed against his thought, he welcomed it in relief. 

“Short were the days,” Nóm murmured, slipping into his own tongue as he buried his face within the other’s hair, “but keen thine absence. I rode the moment courtesy allowed.”

“Mm. That same courtesy which guided thine arrival.”

“Gaitch.” Finrod brushed his lips affectionately against Balan’s scalp. “Shall I amuse thee and confess my sister dislodged me ere my full anger held sway?”

“Good.” 

“Led away like an errant pup caught by the nape of its neck.”

“Twas no more than was good for thee—though my grievance with the lord of the wood is the greater for having robbed me of the sight.” Balan drew back with a grin, then looked up to meet the other’s eye in curiosity. “Was thine own grievance answered?”

“It was.” Finrod turned to a small bag resting across the chair beside him and flipped the clasp. “Answered but not appeased.”

There was a long silence and Balan watched while the other lifted each item from the pack and placed them in neat lines along the table. “Nor to be shared?”

“Hm? Ah forgive me, I was lost in thought.” Finrod withdrew the last item, smoothing the bag along its folds and setting it aside. “How shall I say it? He hearkens to rumors and has built edicts on the murmurs of messengers. And having thus deemed you more easily swayed to the Foe’s will, he fences the Girdle against you.” Finrod crossed to the bed and sat, the lines of his face tight with indignation. “Hearsay and contempt. It is unjust.”

“What rumors?”

“Tales from the east. They tell him there is a darkness that hangs about your people and a shadow hounding your steps.”

“Little to surprise thee in that.” Balan turned to the chair beside him, then finding both it and its companion occupied by the other’s possessions, he shifted instead to sit on the table. “It’s near enough what I’ve told thee myself.”

“And in this he believes me perilously credulous for not questioning thy word upon it.”

Balan laughed. “Thou? Not questioning me?” He laughed again and rested his palms against the table’s edge with a grin. “He knows thee little, then, for I’ve never yet met a hound so eager on its trail. What does he suspect me of concealing from thee?”

For a long moment Finrod remained silent, his arms resting on his knees and the tips of his fingers placed carefully together. “Missives of warning have reached him from his own kin in the east, that the second Children have come indeed, but that they are bound in worship to that evil we have sworn to destroy.”

It was Balan now who fell quiet, his grin faltering as his grip wrapped harder about the wood and he held the other’s gaze with effort. “Aye,” he said at last, “there are those who serve the Nameless—many in the lands we have forsaken. But not I, Nóm, and never my people.” 

“And yet thou didst keep it from me.”

“Would thine actions towards us have been otherwise had I told thee sooner?”

“No. Full well dost thou know it.”

“Then what does it matter? We flee it—is that not enough?”

The corners of Finrod’s lips eased, and after a moment he looked up to meet the other’s eye with a faint smile. “It is,” he said, the same warmth moving through his voice. “Of course it is. And so I told the lord of Doriath.”

“Who, I take it, was not persuaded.”

“I may keep my own doors as I see fit, he tells me, but a knave’s word will not set the rule of his.” Finrod snorted. “He believes I settled you beside the Celon deliberately, so that you might glean unsanctioned from the Girdle’s protection.”

“And didst thou?”

“Certainly. But if he grumbled not when my cousins’ people reaped that harvest, then it is two-faced of him to protest it now.”

For a moment Balan watched him with amusement, then slid from the table and retrieved his bag. “And rich of thee to act wronged when an undisguised scheme is perceived.” He crossed to a tall trunk that spanned the wall beside the door and chuckled at the other’s sharp glance. “A knave’s japes are cheap,” he added with a sidelong grin, “mind me not.” He lifted a shirt from the pile atop the trunk, heaped haphazardly where he had emptied his bags the night before, and rolled it loosely before returning it to his pack. The spare breeches followed, then a pouch and two small palm-sized boxes, one of his old tunics next. This he folded with more care, turning in the edges and sleeves and spreading it along the trunk before rolling it in turn. “My mother always held that our wandering was folly. We bore death’s mark in our souls, she said—from father unto son, mother unto daughter; did we think we could evade him so easily? One more hill, one more league to the west…” He placed the rolled tunic within the bag, then lifted his knife from the wood beside it. “My father was determined though. It was not his to ask why we journeyed, but simply to hold the duty he received from his own father, from his father’s father. Flee the Darkness. Hang the aithan-hropit. Remember the promise. Follow the sun into the west.” He turned the knife over in his hand and traced a finger along the well-worn hilt. “And the path of penitence will set your wandering aright.”

“Had you ever any knowledge of what it was you fled?”

“Death. The dark. The Nameless one.” Balan gestured vaguely. “They are all one, are they not?”

“Perhaps,” said Finrod quietly, but Balan’s attention had returned to his father’s knife.

“I was my mother’s child in that debate. My father had taught me a chieftain’s skills—to manage a people’s rations, to arbitrate and discern, to judge a path over hill or wilderness—but it was at my mother’s side that I learned our songs and tales, the long thread of our people that I loved. And my heart was drawn ever to her way in this as well; to settle and stay, to find roots in the earth. It was for us, I think, that he held back the march for a time—nigh ten years it was.” He trailed off and stood unmoving for a long moment, his eyes resting on the bards’ marks tattooed along the backs of his fingers. Then he shook himself and dropped the knife abruptly into the bag, turning once more to roll the remaining clothing. “I went back to our wanderings once they were gone, from some half-held sense of duty, and after that we never lingered more than two harvests in a place.” The last item was returned to the pack and Balan shifted to lean his back against the trunk. “No, that is not quite right. I would have had us stay by the shores of Andanahti-marei if my people had agreed to it. I was tired of running from our own shadows, and the water was cool and wide. There was peace in the hills.”

“Yes, I have heard Belen speak oft of it.”

“We remained three winters before the others grew restless and pressed me to move onward again. They had heard tales from the lake people of another range west of the bordering hills, and of travelers who had come through their passes. If we too could cross those peaks and leave this land of our wandering behind us…In the end I promised I would lead them over the mountains, but no further.” A small smile eased the weariness in his eyes and he looked up to meet the other’s gaze. “And so thy song found us.”

The king’s mind was warm against his own and Balan let him linger, drawing him alongside through the rolling memories; the trees with their twisted roots wading out into the water, the green hills woven with heather and grasses and swaths of airna-akran berries, the lake-scent riding on the wind and reaching like hope into his lungs, his boys’ laughter in the two-roomed hut beside the shore. It had been Baran’s first endeavor, outlined in the coarse sand while they watched the sun fall to slumber, then again on the blocks of thick clay he drew up from the lakebed and hardened in the sun. They had built it in the long days of late summer and it was home, as no place had been since he watched the old village burn in the night. 

“Do you regret it?” Nóm’s voice was gentle, no plea or accusation in its cadence, and he had returned to Taliska in harmony with the other’s thought.

A faint spasm crossed Balan’s face and for a moment he pressed his lips between his teeth to still the surge of homesickness. “Sometimes,” he whispered at last. Then memory shifted and Nóm’s voice wove a song through his sleep, his heart pounded as Nóm’s eyes fell upon him in the dark, and he shook his head. “No.” His voice broke and he drew a hand over his face. “May they forgive me for it.”

Finrod stood without a word and crossed to take him in his arms, smoothing the hair back from his face as Balan leaned into the touch.

“Elenya…”

“Beloved.” Finrod cupped Balan’s face within his palms and tipped it up to look into his own. “Have the days been very trying?” he asked, then flinched as Balan laughed aloud, a wry snort somewhere between mirth and pain. 

“Has it been trying? Gods all, Nóm, the way you choose your phrases.”

“Forgive me, I meant no offense.”

“It’s every breath I utter, it seems. I’m a creature of corners, sharp and awkward because I’ve disjointed all the places I should fit.”

“Nay, Balan, you are too harsh.”

“I’m too mild. I’ve missed this life more than I’ve dared tell you, and I’ve come back and found it gone. It will not have me back. He will not have me back—and no wonder. Where am I meant to put this hunger?” His voice faltered as the king’s thumb traced a line along his cheekbone, and despite himself the tangle within him began to ease. He turned his face in against the other’s palm and another laugh escaped him, mirthless now and bitter. “Has it been trying…”

Finrod drew him in again, cradling the dark head against his shoulder, and passing his hand over and back along the path of his spine. “How long since you have slept?”

Balan snorted. “You find the old man tired and ill-tempered?”

“Balan.”

The shiver was involuntary, but with it he gave up any remaining pretense and let himself lean wearily into the other’s embrace. “Barring the hour or so before dawn…the night ere last, I suppose. By the rivers’ meeting.”

Finrod’s arms tightened about him. “Ai Anarinya,” he said, slipping into his own tongue and turning his face into the other’s hair. “I should have been by thee.”

“Nay, thy path was in the right—and mine too, I deem. This was the fruit of my choice, thou shouldst not reap it for me.”

There was a long silence then, and the king’s fingers reached up to trail through the other’s hair as they stood unmoving, the beat of each’s heart falling in time with the other. “Come,” he said at last, “I’ve no need of the room till the day is done. Rest here awhile and I will wake thee before the noon meal is set.”

“And desert thee the moment thou art arrived?” Balan protested, but he suffered himself to be led back to the bed and sat obediently when the other directed. “There are duties I must see to, surely.”

“Nay, tis no desertion. I’ve matters to discuss with Baran and I can turn to those straightaway. Take thy rest, lest the evening’s celebrations be a burden to thee.”

“I see.” A hollow feeling settled in Balan’s gut as he slipped the boots from his feet and lay back, allowing Nóm to sit at his side and draw the blanket up over his chest. The wool felt rough after the cloth of Nargothrond, the rustling straw that once set his body at ease now seemed to crackle in protest as he shifted on the mattress.

“I think it best that I speak with him alone,” the king said softly, answering the other’s sinking thought rather than his words; though his voice was half-lifted in query.

“Aye, doubtless.”

“He is young and still new in his charge.” Finrod brushed the stray hairs from Balan’s forehead and sympathy spread like warmth along the lines of his face. “And no doubt anxious to learn whether his position holds in more than name when thou and I art come among them once more.” He rested his palm against the other’s cheek. “Let me show that I count him the unquestioned head of your people and perhaps some of these tensions may ease.”

“As thou wilt.” Balan felt his eyelids growing heavier and exhaustion was once more pressing in at his temples. “Like as not thou hast the right of it, but I’ve little hope of any change.”

“Sleep, then. For oft in dreaming’s embrace we find that hope which waking eludes us.”

Balan chuckled, but found he was too weary to summon the usual wry parry and instead let his eyes fall shut beneath the other’s touch, his mind ease as the quiet melody drifted over him and sent him gently into oblivion at last.

❈❈❈

It was unexpectedly quiet when Finrod slipped out through the door of the residential quarter and reentered the hall. The tables were bare and scrubbed, a small crock of white flowers placed at the center of each catching the sun where it fell from the windows. Those beams reached down through the haze of lingering smoke and seemed almost to form a second set of buttresses along the walls, hewn of light instead of timber. Finrod’s gaze was captivated by the illusion and he drew up short, lips slightly parted and lost in contemplation, so that long minutes stretched before he noticed he was not alone.

“Is sunlight so rare in your burrows, then?” A low voice cut through the stillness and Finrod turned with a start. Baran sat not twelve paces from him, an assortment of painted stones spread across the table before him and the hint of a smile played at his lips as he watched the king.

“Oft-seen is no less beautiful,” Finrod retorted with an answering grin, then crossed to the table and looked in curiosity at the bowls of pebbles. “What is it you do here?”

“I’m making a tally of the herds’ increase. Have you never seen vatta use these?” Finrod shook his head and Baran lifted a small pouch, emptying its contents onto the table. “Here, it’s quite simple. Each color represents a quantity, which allows you to consolidate as the tally increases. So this,” he quickly sorted the new pebbles into groups and pointed at each in turn as he listed them, “tells us the herdsman has a flock of thirty seven sheep. The plain stones are each counted as one, the whitewashed are five, the black ten. Now I add them into my own tally. The plain pebbles join the others in the first bowl. These three black stones add to the four I have already and that changes for one yellow instead, which is fifty. I add that to the next bowl and leave the remaining two black stones where they are. We have two yellow now, so that changes for one red—and so on. Simplistic, no doubt,” he added with a grin, “but far better than trying to carry the number about in your head. Each herdsman provides a count at midsummer, after the harvest, and at winter’s end; and in that way we can learn our losses and gains and form our plan from those.”

“I see.” Finrod sorted the new cluster of pebbles that Baran poured from the next purse. “A clever method. Such knowledge would surely have been a great help amid your travels.”

“Aye, no doubt.” There was a brief twitch at the corner of Baran’s lips as he dispersed the stones within the bowls. “Though in those days we did not hold the count.”

“Ah," Finrod looked over at him with a smile, "so it is of your making. May I?” He rested his hand on a chair with a glance in query, then drew it out and sat when the other nodded. “It was wisely done and will serve you well, I deem.”

“So I hope. Though thus far I’ve done little but grant myself a tedious task.”

The king chuckled and leaned back in his chair, watching as Baran emptied and counted several more pouches. “I was hoping to find you,” he said after a time. “I know not how much your father disclosed upon his arrival as to the cause for my delay…”

“He said you were detained in Menegroth upon matters of governance.” Baran’s brow lifted in a sardonic arc. “I assume that was to avoid confessing he found himself turned away.”

“You knew it?”

“Aye, I’m no fool,” he chuckled. “We had sent envoys before the harvest, offering tokens of peace and friendship—I went with them myself ere winter came—but each time we were stopped at the borders and told the same: the Lord of Beleriand would suffer no Man to enter the heart of his realm, nor would he treat with them in friendship.”

Finrod nodded and a flicker of anger passed over his face. “I learned of it when they denied your father’s passage. I would have gone to Menegroth far sooner had I known it was so.”

“Which is why I did not send word.” A quick sidelong smile flashed across the table. “Call it pride if you will, but I wanted to make the attempt first, to see whether we might not be accepted on our own merit.” He pushed the remainder of the pile aside and stretched his back, then settled into the chair and looked to the king. “Have I done ill?”

“Nay, not in the least. They were fine gestures of good will and any ill-doing is on my kinsman’s part. To speak frankly, you have shown yourself a far more gracious lord than he in this.”

“Will he bend, do you think?”

“Not in your lifetime, I deem; but do not hear that in blame, Baran, it is no reflection upon you. He has conceded some small matters—he will open the river crossings to the west so that your messengers may pass between us without requiring my people in escort—but he will not loosen the Girdle, nor will he allow trade between your folk and the Iathrim.”

“It is some progress, at least. Though I still fear to be driven out, should his disaffection turn to aggression.”

“That fear you may put to rest. The lord of Doriath is ill pleased, to be certain, but he will never assault without provocation. And even then it would require sore provocation indeed for him to risk open war with Nargothrond. Which he now knows would be at stake.”

“I thank you for that.” Baran fell quiet for a long moment and fiddled absently with one of the spare stones. “What would provoke him, Nóm? We stay peaceably enough here where you’ve planted us, but one man’s calm may easily enough be another’s offense. And I don’t doubt we could cause a grave affront before ever knowing it was a trespass. How do we keep from galling him further?”

“Short of gathering your herds and children and turning back to the mountain passes?” Finrod laughed despite himself, then shook his head. “His accusations were rumors and fears, there were no solid complaints. Go on as you are now. You are a wise leader and already the Marchwardens think well of you and of your people.”

Baran snorted and sat back in his chair. “A pity that couldn’t be the merchants.”

“Yes, I have heard all is not well there.”

“They’ve shifted their routes to the south or east now; or if they do venture near, they ask thrice the worth others pay—and offer a pittance for our own goods. At his guidance, no doubt. We have seen many pass the eaves without hindrance.”

“On that, at least, I may bring some small relief. There are trade accords I hold with many of those who cross the Sarn Athrad, and by right of your father’s oath your people are entitled to the same. They have not honored these so far in their dealings with you, but I made it clear to those I met in Doriath’s court that it is not theirs but mine to determine who is counted among my people.” He reached into the wallet at his side and drew out what appeared to be a silver bluebell flower, half the length of his thumb, and held it out to Baran. “For all the others, this should be sufficient.”

Baran took it and turned it over on his palm. Each petal was meticulous in its detail, curving outward in gentle arcs, and beneath these was a flat seal, imprinted with the mark of the king’s house and embellished with a small sun above the top point.

“Many of my lords carry a similar token,” the king added with a smile when he saw the surprise on the other’s face.

“Aye, but—” He caught himself as his voice slipped back to its old jesting, then closed his hand solemnly about the signet. “It is an honor, lord, and a gift I do not hold lightly.” 

“Nor I the bestowing.” 

Baran was silent then, setting the silver blossom beside the bowls of pebbles and turning it round and about as though studying each carefully wrought vein. “It was simpler when it was the messengers, you know,” he said at last, a curious smile passing over his features. “You remained Nóm and my lord Felagund was a voice without a presence—a kindly one, but one I only knew through other’s words.”

“And now he has donned my face and arrived at your door?”

“Aye—and I’m still accustomed to treat you as kin.”

“And I you,” Finrod assented with a laugh. “But why should that be otherwise now? Your father gave his oath by the feet of the mountains, I was your lord through all those months we dwelt here beside the Celon.”

“I was only his son then.”

Finrod lifted one brow in teasing. “You were half chieftain since long ere I met your people.”

“Is that what he’s told you?”

“Yes, and with great pride in it.”

“He exaggerates.” Baran snorted, but a pleased flicker softened the set of his lips. “And that is different from standing as the voice of my people. Besides, you were living as one of us then, not a visiting lord.”

“I would do so now as well, would your custom allow for it.”

“Aye, fair enough.” 

The quick smile again. It was his father’s smile, boyish and bright, the right corner lifted a hair’s breadth higher than the left, and Finrod felt his heart contract to see the same strain drawn within its lines. His spirit still pulsed warm with Balan’s memories of the hut beside the shore, and the sharp ache of the other’s longing lingered like the tang of copper within his mouth. What must Baran think of him, in truth? For it was undeniable that the blame for their rift had its root at his own feet. He who had blinded himself to the signs of danger, whose resolve had broken at the first trial. He who had crept into their camp like Estreth’s ghomennin and drawn the unwary wanderer from his people. This distance was his doing, he reflected, and the self-reproach was bitter.

“On the subject of your father,” he managed at last, his fingers tracing restlessly along the table’s patterns, “I have not yet thanked you for conceding him to my service. I am deep in your debt, for his counsel has been invaluable as I’ve sought to build peace between your kin and mine, and I know you have borne the primary burden of this absence.”

“Nay, lord,” Baran’s tone was once more measured and cool, and the line of his shoulders tensed, “my father was clear that following you was the duty he owed our people. This is merely my own duty to the same. You owe me no thanks.”

“Sacrifice is of no less weight for having been born of duty. Nor is gratitude the lesser for bending toward it.” Finrod watched as Baran’s grip tightened against the edge of the table and felt his own old sorrow twinge in harmony. “He is more proud of you than he knows how to say, Baran,” he added after a long hesitation. “And keenly does he feel the parting. I have watched its toll on him.”

Baran’s sharp laugh broke through the air. “The toll on him!” He shook his head and turned to meet Finrod’s eye once more. “I do not hold you to blame in this, Nóm, but forgive me if I find little sympathy with his woe. He may rename duty to fit desire if he so pleases, but it serves only to fool himself that he’s done aught but shrug it onto another’s shoulders.”

“Forgive me, I have spoken out of turn.”

“He’s lived with an intimate knowledge of what it does to a man to inherit like this, and yet he chose it for me still. He was younger than Belen when he took it up, has he told you that?”

“And if it was Belen who was left with the charge, he would not have gone. Nay!” Finrod held up his hand as Baran’s eyes flashed. “Not from preference—I’ve said it poorly. Your brother is strong and great of heart and wise beyond his years, but he would be crushed beneath the weight of what you bear with skill. Belen is as like to your father in spirit as you are to him in face.”

“And so he believes I would not feel it as he did.”

“Yes.”

“Because he knows I’ve wanted it since I could understand I was the chieftain’s son…But that doesn’t mean I—“ Baran’s voice broke and for a long moment he sat in silence, his eyes fixed absently on a knotted board a few paces from the center of the Hall. “I thank you for your concern, Nóm, and I know you mean well in this. But you do not understand the hurt.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the king’s lips and he kept his gaze on the table. “How is it you imagine I found myself the head of my people?”

Baran looked up sharply and his lips parted in surprise; but before he could summon a reply, there were footsteps from the far room and Sabil passed through the partition door.

“I’ve told Hathus to put the casks along the southeastern wall. Will that suit or do you want them within?” She saw the king then and drew up with a smile. “Haelis, Nóm! Forgive the interruption. Belen said you’d gone to rest.”

“Haelis, my lady, and well met.” Finrod rose, her smile mirroring onto his face, and crossed his arms in the Atani greeting. “Your company is no disruption.”

“We were on about family and governance,” Baran added with a grin, his eyes warm as she reached out to rest a hand along his shoulders. 

“And so any interruption is counted a boon?”

“Aye. Though I should not like my lord to hear me say it,” he added with a teasing glance at the king.

Finrod laughed. “Then your lord shall provide an interruption of his own and spare us all the task.” Reaching into the wallet at his belt, he drew out a small bundle, twisted in silk and bound with a thin, silver cord. He slipped a finger beneath this and eased it loose till the wrapping fell away to reveal a sapphire, large as a quail’s egg and polished in flawless curves that caught the light and turned it back in a brilliant sheen. It was held within a setting of winding golden flowers, each of which clasped a tiny diamond at their center, and strung from a chain of plaited gold. He lifted it gently from the silk and spread it upon his palm. “The stone is what we call lúilë, blue as the heart of the Sea, and was brought out from the veins of the Pelóri ere the Darkening of Aman. In our custom, we hold it as a symbol of steadfast truth, of strength and loyalty and of the wisdom of its bearer.” He held it out toward Sabil and the lines of his smile bent into sheepish joy. “I had it placed in a new setting when I heard of your coming marriage and have brought it with me now as a token of blessing for your union…” He trailed off, for recognition had sunk in at the sight of the gem resting upon his palm, the fine chain draped around his fingers. His father had offered Eldalótë’s gift even so when the families gathered in the days approaching Angrod’s wedding. Finrod’s mouth was suddenly dry as dust, and heat burned along the edges of his ears as he looked down and found his hand a near mirror of Arafinwë’s, the jewel a sapphire now instead of a faceted diamond but the gesture itself indistinguishable. It was the place of Baran’s father to bestow such a gift. It was a brash impertinence of him to do so, and he felt his color rise as he silently thanked the Valar that none of his own companions had been near to recognize it as he had. 

Sabil too was staring at the outstretched hand, her eyes wide with confusion and surprise. “Nóm,  I—my lord, rather—I don’t…” 

Finrod flinched in a self-deprecating grimace as she stammered into silence. “You needn’t accept it if the gesture is in excess.” He glanced at Baran with an apologetic smile. “Your father tells me I am a poor judge in that regard.” 

“A poor judge?” Baran laughed incredulously. “No judge at all, I’d say.” But his voice was warm and he smiled as Sabil reached out to take it from the king’s hand. “Yet if I was to begin making a principle of excess, I’d be obliged to hand half the stuff of my village back to your keeping.”

“It is a great kindness, Nóm,” Sabil added, tracing a finger along the winding flowers, and her voice was quiet as she returned to the familiar address, “and we will treasure it—both gift and blessing.”

“As will I the friendship between our peoples, and the love your kin have shown me since I was a stranger come among you.” He stepped back with a smile. “And now, with your pardon, I will take my leave, for I see Hathus lingering by the entry with the look of one holding back a pressing query—and furthermore I have been lax and not yet greeted my friends among the herd. Honeg will be ill pleased with me for the neglect.”

Baran laughed. “You’ll find their pasture in the northwest corner now.” Then he grinned and added, “There’s a barrel of early apples just beyond the partition wall.”

“Only one?” Finrod raised a brow in mock-disappointment.

“Aye, I’ve hidden the others lest you indulge the little beasts with our whole store.”

“Thwarted ere a plot was full-formed! You are a pitiless master.”

“And you an overindulgent lord.” Baran retorted, then lifted his hand in parting as the king’s laughter drifted back from the doorway.

❈❈❈

“We call it Blade’s Peril.” Eimet drew out his knife and set it before him on the table. “It’s simple enough. There’s the ale horn here in the middle, a cup of your own, and enough hrögemetheilit to see us through. The knife spins to decide your fate,” he added with a grin, sending his own whirling with a flick of his wrist, “and if it stops with the blade to the right, you drink your own cup. Hilt toward you, the gods are kind and you pour yours into the ale horn. Blade toward you and you’re at their mercy and drink everything that’s collected in the horn.”

“And if the blade lies to the left?” Finrod sat beside him, one elbow propped upon the table, and his eyes evaluated the knife in curiosity.

“Ah. Well in that case, m’lord, your neighbors drink theirs.”

“Sán gahail,” Hathus chuckled and raised his cup toward the king with a nod. 

“Do they indeed.” Finrod reached for his own cup with an amused grimace at the offending blade, then returned Hathus’ salute and brought the drink to his lips. “Sán gahail,” he echoed. It was a mercy the cups were small, he reflected as the liquor burned along his throat. Blade’s Peril indeed. Even the scant splash these held would compound quickly in the common cup.

“I’m surprised we’ve not taught you sooner.” Hathus spun his knife in turn and watched as it came to rest hilt toward him. “It was a long winter you spent among us.”

“We’d only the held-over crocks then,” Balan reminded him. “You’d not begun the new lot till just ere we left.”

“True enough. Ay!” He clapped a hand over his cup as Eimet attempted to slip a pebble over the lip. “No.” 

“What are the stones?” Finrod asked as Hathus poured out his cup and refilled it from one of the clay bottles.

Eimet shook his head and grinned. “You’ll learn that as we go on.”

“You can’t set him loose without explaining it,” Belen protested, then turned to Finrod. “They’re each marked with a rune—n on yours, you see, be on mine, ei is Eimet’s, then ha, e, si, and so on. We give vatta the v so we don’t muddle him with Baran.”

Finrod rolled the pebble over on his palm. “And presumably the goal is to introduce them to a cup without the drinker’s notice?” 

“Aye. Then ask them any question you wish and they’ve the choice of answering or drinking an extra cup.” Belen grinned. “The more vulgar the better.”

“You’re a one to talk,” Estreth remarked as she spun her knife. “I don’t think I’ve heard you manage worse than a polite insinuation.” A look of triumph passed over her features as the knife came to rest hilt-nearest and she emptied her cup into the ale horn. “Though you’ll best Nóm in it, no doubt.”

“Don’t dismiss Nóm too easily,” Balan spun his knife and turned toward her with a grin. “I’ve heard him turn a bawdy joke.”

Estreth raised a brow. “One?” 

“It’s more than you expected,” Balan retorted, then took stock of the blade and drained his portion. But the drink had hardly passed his lips before he flinched and turned it to let the pebble roll out onto his palm. “Fairly caught,” he chuckled and saw a smile twitch the corners of Baran’s mouth. “I’m at your mercy.”

“That’s heartening.” Baran paused for a moment as a shaggy hound ambled over to rest its head upon his knee, and he reached down to scratch contemplatively behind its ears. Then a light of mischief flickered in his eyes and he leaned in to refill his father’s cup. “When we traveled alongside Marach’s people—”

Balan swore and dropped his face into his hands with grim resignation. “Melishk open the earth beneath me,” he muttered.

“Was it Emrach’s wife or sister they found you with in the thicket beyond the encampment?”

“Sister,” Balan replied hastily, and refilled his cup again. “And I’ll take the drink as well if we’re bringing that into the game before the first round is done.” He raised it to his lips at once and tried not to notice the uncomfortable flicker of surprise in the thought resting against his own. “It’s to you, Hfaskebel.”

“Back to you, rather.” Belen grinned as his knife came to rest leftward. “A bad start, vatta, that’s three in a row.”

“And decades of practice,” his father countered as he and Baran both drank. “Don’t think you’ll have me out so easily.”

“Gildor!” Belen called, beckoning him over as he saw him enter the Hall. “Come spare Nóm from being the only Elf among us. We’re teaching him uncouth ways in honor of Baran and he’s quite out of his depth.”

“Thank you.” Baran murmured in dry amusement.

“Be flattered.” Sichar whirled his knife in turn as Baran drained his cup, then gestured at the torque around his friend’s neck. “If you’re as coarse as the rest of us still, it means that’s not gone to your head.”

“What is the game?” Gildor crossed to stand beside Belen and watched in curiosity as Sichar emptied his drink into the ale horn. 

“A poor decision, I fear.” Finrod winced as his knife came to a stop with the point toward him and a clamor of cheers and laughter passed around the table. “Almien,” he added as he reached for the ale horn and raised it toward his foster-son with a grin.

“Mind you drink it in one,” Balan noted, a quick flash of devilry in his grin. “No sipping to ease it down.”

“Gaitch…” the king murmured, then set the horn to his lips and drank. “Blessed Varda,” he rasped as the last of it passed down his throat. “You may as well swallow an ember.”

“Be glad it was only three.” Belen grinned when the laughter subsided and he shifted to make room for Gildor on the bench. “Vatta once had a horn of seven.”

“We do not speak of that.” Balan leaned forward with a snort and took the vessel from Finrod’s hand, returning it to its place at the center of the table. 

“You spoke plenty at the time, though.” Eimet chuckled as he drank his turn and nodded across the table. “Mind yourself, Estreth.”

“Hm?” Estreth glanced down, then swore under her breath as she saw the pebble Balan had slipped in her cup when he reached across the table. She studied it for a long moment, then plucked it from the amber liquid and dropped it on the table before her neighbor. “Do your worst, then.”

“Shall I?” The corners of his eyes were already creasing with mirth as he watched the firelight play along the edges of his cup. “In that case, my own question back to you.” A bunched cloth struck him in the face and he broke off, ducking to the side with laughter as Estreth’s throwing arm lifted again. “Emlach’s wife or sister?” 

But she had reached for her cup this time and lifted it to her lips. “Eat rocks,” she said, then downed it in a single motion.

“If you expect us to believe that wasn’t a confession…” Hathus spun the blade and added his portion to the horn with a sidelong grin, then laughed as she turned her hand toward him in a crude gesture before whirling her own knife to rest leftward. 

“Sán gahail,” she retorted, and a smug smile played at her lips as Balan and Hathus both drank.

But Balan’s spin followed the same path and the smugness shifted to dance along his face. “The nectar of justice,” he murmured as she swore and reached for her cup, then he turned with a chuckle to watch Gildor try a hesitant sip. “Nay, you’ll never manage that way. Tip it quickly and don’t let it linger on the tongue.”

Gildor downed it with a shudder, then cast a pained smile toward his foster-father. “Miru na naur, you named it?”

The returning grin was both contrite and impish. “I did warn you.” 

“A few more and you’ll hardly feel it,” Balan added, then laughed as Gildor’s knife came to rest toward the right and he lifted the nearest crock to refill the other’s cup. “Gods save you, lad, I didn’t mean all at once.”

Gildor swore under his breath and drank, then a moment later set his face in his hands and laughed aloud when Belen’s spin fell to his neighbors. The cup was filled a third time and he raised it to meet Baran’s salute with grim determination, then drained it in a quick motion. “Ossë’s eye,” he coughed, still laughing, and shook his head as he glanced toward Balan, incredulous. “Hardly feel it?”

“A few more before that yet, I fear.” Baran’s knife rumbled through its spin and he lifted his cup as it slowed, then saw the rune resting beneath the amber liquid. “I make one lapse…” he mumbled, drinking around it then turning it out onto the table in front of Sichar. “I should know better than to let you from my line of sight. Out with it.”

Sichar chuckled. “The gods are fickle—I only catch you when I’ve not thought up a question.” He stared at the far wall for a long moment, then shook his head. “Worst fear?”

Baran’s cup was refilled and once more raised to his lips before he paused and seemed to reconsider. “In earnestness?” he said, returning it to the table with a resigned snort. “Isolation.”

“Fon’s ashes, Baran, I thought you’d say rats or some such.” Sichar shook his head at the other’s solemn tone. “I should have asked you about Sabil’s nethers rather.”

The dry smile flashed out again and Baran’s gravity dissipated as swiftly as it had come. “No business of yours.”

“Or of yours till the morrow.” His father glanced down the table with an arched brow and a grin.

“Rest easy, grandfather, I’ve not trod a step beyond any virtue you’ve shown me.”

It was a momentary lapse, their old banter surfacing by reflex despite the estrangement, but Finrod could feel warmth coursing through Balan’s heart at the ease of it. How different this was to the wearied spirit that leaned in against his own that morning! He drained his cup when Sichar’s turn fell and found to his surprise that the sting of the hrögemetheilit had grown nearly pleasant as the game went on. This too must have been colored by the warmth of Balan’s joy, he reasoned, for it was a comfort to see them jesting again, a balm to find a thread of that wry affection still lingering. He caught Balan’s eye across the table and smiled.

“There’s only one lurking in the horn, Nóm, you needn’t fear.” Baran’s voice cut through his musings with a chuckle. “Or have you reached your fill already?”

“Hm?” Finrod turned back toward him, puzzled, then laughed as it became clear the others were waiting on him. “Nay, nay, my attention may be flagging but my constitution remains strong.” He spun the knife and poured his portion into the common cup with relief. “I am not vanquished.”

“Yet,” Eimet added as his knife spun to his neighbors, then he frowned. “Can your kind be cup-shot?” 

There was only a sidelong grin in answer as the king refilled his portion and downed it without a pause.

“Aye,” Balan replied in his stead, glancing toward Eimet in amusement.

“There’ll be a fine tale there, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Nay, nothing worse than—ai!” Finrod broke off with a sharp exclamation and his hand darted forward to catch Balan’s wrist. “Traitor,” he laughed, prying the stone from the other’s fingers before he could drop it into the cup. But at once he heard a quiet plip behind his arm and turned sharply to find Eimet beaming at his elbow and a little stone resting in the center of his cup. He looked back at Balan in mock betrayal. “You did that deliberately.”

“As one of us you said, lord.” Balan drew his arm back with a grin. “Or have you reconsidered?”

Finrod held his eye for a long moment, then chuckled and plucked the stone from his drink, setting it deliberately upon the table. “As you will, then.”

“This calls for thought,” Eimet murmured, studying him intently. “Like as not it’s the only time we’ll catch him.”

“Age?” Belen looked up in curiosity. “I’ve never yet gotten him to answer.”

“No, no,” his brother objected, “don’t waste it on a triviality. What does that matter if he’s deathless?” 

“The worst lie he’s told,” suggested Sichar.

“You plague me with Emlach’s wife and let him off with untruths?” Estreth snorted. “Useless, the lot of you.” Then a glint of mischief flickered in her eyes and she leaned in to rest her forearms against the table. “I’d think one could manage a startling number of lovers if death was not holding you back,” she added as Balan shifted uncomfortably beside her.

“How many do you wager?” Baran grinned at her and balanced the hunting knife on the back of his fingers. “He’s had all the years of the sun at least, and that could make for quite a collection.”

“Seems a moderate sort,” Hathus mused. “One per decade? One per century?”

“Three is hardly impressive.”

“I’d say a dozen.”

“Two-score at least.”

“Are we near, Nóm?” Sichar laughed at the bemused glance that met his query. “No? How many, then?”

“None by your measure.”

“What was that?”

“None.”

“That does not count as my question!” Eimet cried in protest.

Estreth’s brow lifted. “How many by his own measure?”

“And does he like fair haired or dark?” Hathus added.

“Merry or solemn?”

“Men or women?” Baran leaned back in his chair, pointedly ignoring the sharp glance this earned from his father.

“Or perhaps,” Eimet interjected with a grin, “we can at last put to rest the anatomical debate that has plagued the—”

“Sán gahail,” Finrod muttered quickly and emptied his cup to a roar of laughter.

Eimet threw up his hands in feigned offense. “Your scheming’s cost me my question, woman!”

“Gaitch.” Estreth snorted as Hathus spun his blade. “Mine was answered. Any loss was your own doing.”

“True enough, true enough,” Eimet muttered as the knife came to rest toward the left, then lifted his cup to Estreth with a wink. “I drink from contrition.”

“You drink from ill luck.” Hathus said as Estreth poured her portion into the ale horn. “Fon smiles where he will—I, you see, have never yet drunk by my own roll.”

“His smiles are all of amusement then,” Eimet retorted. “You’ve had more from your neighbors’ blades than I from any.”

“A plague upon neighbors’ blades,” Gildor muttered as Balan’s turn fell to him, but his eyes were merry and he lifted the cup to his lips. “And upon this fell menace you call a game.” Then he whirled his own knife and watched in dismay as it slowed to rest with the point toward him. 

“Give it here, Elinkë,” Finrod laughed as the group erupted in raucous drumming along the table, and he reached for the ale horn, “I’ll take your lot. You’ve had more than is wise already.”

“And you’ve not?” Gildor retorted as he drew it quickly out of the king’s reach, then scrunched his face into something between a grimace and a grin and raised the horn in salute. “To my lord’s health,” he said and drank.

The drumming turned to cheers at this and Belen clapped him on the back. “Let no one doubt your fortitude!” he cried, laughing. “Nóm has the benefit of trying our brew before—you’ve come in untested and matched him drink for drink.”

Gildor’s eyes watered as he returned the ale horn to its place, but managed to hold back a cough as he laughed in turn. “The more fool I.”

“Aye perhaps, but a courageous fool.”

“Which is a fine compliment,” Baran interjected with a grin, “until you learn that Bel here has no need of courage in this Peril. I’ve never yet seen him drink more than thrice in a game.”

“We’ve made him play with other knives just to be sure it wasn’t a cheat,” Sichar added, “but he does the same every time.”

Baran swore as his brother’s spin landed toward him and raised his glass with a laugh. “To the gods’ favorite little hedgehog.”

❈❈❈

It was not until the small hours of the night that Balan found himself stumbling back across the green. He had managed well enough before the last two rounds, but the year’s absence had left him out of practice and now the shadows swam about him as he passed beneath a cluster of trees. The night bugs’ hum grew deafening, their chorus swept down from the boughs and dizzied his senses. 

He tripped on a tree root. 

He swore.

It had been a balm to feel himself home at last, to toss the well-known jibes about the table, to hear the sound of Baran’s laugh unhindered. Damn the drink—and damn his own weakness. Why had he not let it lie?

You will stand as witness?

He had turned back to retrieve his knife from the table when Baran’s question cut through the air, quiet and carefully detached. 

“I’ll have Nóm if deference calls for it, but I’d sooner it was family.”

Balan had gaped for a long moment before finding his voice, and the hesitance wove through it in a stark contrast to his son’s. “Nay, he’d reck little of deference in this—I’m certain of it. He would have it as you choose.”

“And you?”

“I would have thought you’d prefer Belen.”

“You might allow that I am the better judge of what I wish.”

Balan had flinched at the sudden sharpness in his son’s tone. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, only that I’d not be offended if—I mean I’d have understood it if you wished to have…” The words trailed off and he had dragged his fingers through his hair. “Gods all, Baran,” he burst out at last, “I cannot say a word but it goes awry.”

“What is it you mean, then?”

“That losing you is more than I can bear.”

Baran had snorted and turned away.

“It is my own doing, I know it.”

“Aye.”

“And I cannot change what has gone before. But neither can I change that I love you, I am proud of you. I miss you with all my being.”

Balan stumbled on another root and caught himself by the trunk, cursing the bark as it left a raw stripe across the back of his knuckles. Those words too had all gone awry, of course, each attempt to clarify his meaning seeming only to widen the rift. He had tried to tell him of the otter toy then, of being reminded of the childhood rhyme while he sat beside the river and weeping against the willow when the meaning of Baran’s farewell at last found its mark.

“I nearly turned back then,” he had confessed in a near-whisper, “and in some ways I wish that I had. But that would have have been to rob you of this—of all you’ve built here, and this vision of yours would be tethered still to my doubt and delay. It’s a marvel what you’ve done, Baran.”

His son had not looked at him, but sat scratching the ears of his wolfhound with an air of boredom. “Are you quite finished?”

“Don’t be a child. I’m trying to apologize.”

“Typically that includes some hint of remorse.”

“Which you might have heard if you’d listened to a word of it rather than making a show of your grievance. There is nothing I regret more than our parting, yet I cannot count it all an ill. Few fathers have the chance to know the fruits of their sons’ labors.”

“And that justifies it?”

“You have brought a far greater good to our people than my leadership could give.”

“Not a hard measure to surpass.”

Balan had laughed then, sharp and hollow, and turned a bitter smile upon his son. “Well,” he said at last, turning toward the door, “it seems six rounds marks the limit of your charity.”

“And twelve horses the price of your virtue.”

“Virtue!” He had spun back around and the gaze set on his son was fire. “What is it you suppose my position to be?”

“I would imagine that is determined at the pleasure of the king.”

“If you mean to say it, say it plainly.”

“Have I not?”

Balan drew up at last before his old hut and leaned with a palm against the lintel, pressing the remainder of the conversation from his mind. How could he have been such a fool? There had at last been a flicker of ease between them and instead of clasping that hope and withdrawing from the game with it intact, he had gone round after round in some half-thought attempt to prove he was no different than the man they knew before. And who was that meant to convince? Baran? Himself? A failure on either count, clearly.

He fumbled with the door, setting his shoulder to it in reflex, then remembering when it did not budge that it was his apartments in Nargothrond that turned inwards. Their own huts had ever opened to the outside, conserving the scant space within. This lapse of memory too struck in accusation and he swore as he dragged the door open and shuffled over the threshold. Why had he come back? All he had accomplished by it was to provoke his son still further—and to prove beyond a doubt that he was no longer of use to his people. 

He stood blinking for a moment in a wash of unexpected light: the hearth had been lit in his absence and filled the low structure with a quiet glow, dim in truth, but his eyes smarted after the moonless night. Had he lit it himself before departing and forgotten? Nay, it had been hours since he left for the Hall. That would have burned out long since. It was Belen’s work most likely, pausing for a quick kindness on the walk back to Estreth’s hut where he had lodged since the day before. Here was a bitter trick of conscience, Balan reflected as he pulled the door back to its latch, that he should feel as guilty to find one son’s love constant as he did to find a break in the other’s. He drew his hands over his face and pressed his fingers to his eyes, then let out a jagged breath and shifted away from the threshold.

It was only then that he noticed the figure seated behind the fire and he jumped with a gasp, swearing and stumbling back against the wall. “Gods all, Nóm!” He shook himself free of the surprise and turned toward the other in exasperation as the sound of laughter filled the hut. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Finrod managed through his mirth as he rose and crossed unsteadily to meet him. Then he reached out with a grin and traced a finger along the pattern of Balan’s shirt. He had changed to one of his own old tunics before emerging for the noon meal, and a bright trail of embroidered leaves danced along the line of the collar. “Though if I recall, there is a thicket beyond the west pasture if that is more to your—”

“Don’t be an ass.” Balan pushed him away, half in affection, half in annoyance, and crossed to the clay washbasin.

It was Finrod who caught himself by the wall this time, laughing again, then he winced and leaned back with his head tipped toward the ceiling. “Ai…” The exclamation trailed off into an inarticulate sound and he passed his hands over his face. “I had forgotten how it burns in the veins. Fire itself would course more kindly.” He shifted to lean against one shoulder, his head now propped sideways against the flaking daub, and watched with unhidden devotion as Balan poured water into the bowl and drew handfuls to douse his face. He found himself strangely moved to see him here once more, here in the home they had shared throughout the long months of that first winter—he, Balan, the boys—where they had dwelt with all the intimacy of a family. It was only now when confronted with its distance that he learned how dearly he held it. What was it Balan had said of Andanahti-marei and their settlement beside the shores? I was tired of running from our own shadows…and there was peace in the hills. It was home, as no place had been home since the walls of childhood crumbled; the burning village, or the pearl quays painted in blood.

And like all he had seen of the village so far, this too had shifted from how he remembered it. A permanent bed had taken the place of the old bedrolls, only two of the old benches remained beside the center hearth, the walls were in dire need of a new layer of daub and limewash. But Balan’s movements held the same familiar patterns, the warmth of his skin shone with the same richness in the fire’s light, and Finrod was nearly overwhelmed by his own longing. He turned to the shelf beside him in search of distraction and lifted a small figurine in his hand. It was roughly carved, the rays uneven about its head and the hands three-fingered, but there was something pleasant about her as she looked up from his palm. “What is this?”

Balan glanced back, water dripping from his beard. “Iuthap,” he replied shortly, then turned back to the basin and the line of his shoulders stiffened. “And if you’re next in line to berate me,” he growled after a moment, shaking the water from his face and moving his hands to grip the sides of the table, “then have it out and let’s be done with it.”

“Berate you?” Finrod’s grin faltered and he stared at the other in confusion. “Whatever for?”

Balan shook his head sullenly and his knuckles whitened against the wood.

“You are unwell.”

“Leave it, Nóm, I’m only tired.” 

The silence grew pointed and Balan felt the king’s presence like a weight against his thought. “I do know when you lie to me.”

Balan swore, then turned away in resignation. “I argued with Baran.”

“You seemed in fair harmony when I took my leave. What came between you?”

“It matters not.” He waved a hand dismissively as he slipped off his boots and kicked them to the side. “The price of horses.” But the drink had left his thought unguarded and the memory seeped through before he could hold it back.

“Ai…melmenya…” Finrod fell back into his own tongue as the other’s hurt wove within him. It was growing difficult to hold the senses apart; the world had gone soft about him, rippling in quiet waves, silken and fluid. It was the hrögemetheilit’s doing. The hum had risen as their game drew on—nay, not a hum, but rather the impression of a hum, every movement slow and smooth—and ever since Belen’s victory he had felt wrapped in its warmth, like summer’s sunlight resting heavy upon his skin. Gradually he grew aware that he had begun slipping between his own mind and the other’s with the same fluidity, watching as Balan drew the knife from his sash and stowed it on the old rope and board shelves above the bed, feeling the clenched anger in the other’s gut and tasting Balan’s bitterness upon his own tongue—of being assumed the king’s lover and reaping all the ramifications that followed from it, while in truth holding nothing but his own longing and lack. 

Balan’s sons had seen it, Finrod acknowledged with a pang of mortification, Balan’s people had seen it. They had all known the truth of his devotion sooner than his own soul had discerned it. Standing here in the familiar hut with the taste of hrögemetheilit lingering upon his breath, it seemed impossible that his oblivion could have outlived that mirrored night in midwinter. Their hands clasped beside this same fire, tears and thoughts mingled alike, the vision of Balan’s face caught within the web of blood and ice—how had he seen that image in his soul and not known?

He shifted forward without thought, and each motion was like passing through waves, weightless as he had hovered beneath Ivrin’s waters, or caught amid the Celon where every moment had slowed now to long hours in hallowed memory. 

Balan turned as he approached and Finrod took the other’s hands within his own, he drew them gently to his mouth. “One for comfort,” he whispered with his mind still half within the Longest Night, and he kissed the first palm, lips burning with the touch, the slight taste of the other’s skin. “And one for company.” The second palm as the first, then traveling down to the wrist, the inside of the forearm. Oh Valar, he could still feel Balan’s lips tracing this same path along his own wrist, his own arm pinned in the sighing grasses where the airna’akran trickled like blood along his skin, pulse pounding as Balan’s pulse did now beneath his touch. As his own drummed again at the prickle of the other’s beard against his fingers, at the little hiss of intaken breath. As though in a trance, he watched his fingers trace slowly over Balan’s neck, then down across the collar bone and the top of his chest, along the honey-brown skin burnished bronze in the firelight. He was drunk on this as well, he found—on the nearness of him, on the warmth of him—and in that dizzy intoxication he let desire course unchecked, racing with the hrögemetheilit’s fire in his veins.

His hands had strayed again and were passing now along the woven sash, were finding the knot, working it loose. He was letting it fall to the floor and gathering Balan’s shirt within his grasp, drawing it away—

But Balan’s hands closed like a vice about his wrists and shoved him aside with unexpected vehemence. “No,” he hissed. “Keep your pity.”

Finrod staggered back from the force of the rebuff, staring in stunned silence till at last he shook his head and held out his arms, bewildered. “Balan?”

“After all that has gone between us, you come here now and offer me crumbs?”

“It is not pity, I—Balan!” He caught his hand as the other stepped away. “Please…”

“What is it you want of me, Nóm? I cannot understand you.”

Finrod reached out to cradle the other’s cheek within his palm. “Beloved,” he whispered at last, his voice hoarse and shaking, “There are things that…things that I have always understood to be true, or rather that I have never thought to question, that I…” He trailed off helplessly. The amusement in Maedhros’ eyes lingered vividly in his memory. The chuckle, the half-affectionate condescension. Mortification was already trickling up his throat, embarrassment washed hot upon his cheeks and he shrank from the thought of confession. Ever thy father’s son thou art—and ever the Vanya he. That amused pity would weave through Balan’s eyes, through Balan’s laugh when he knew the truth, and any trust would surely be shattered.

But the other’s spirit had begun drawing in about his own, comforting and heavy, and he realized with a start that the edges of his mind still lay loose and unguarded within the haze. That Balan had reached into his own thought with as much ease as Finrod had slipped in and out of the other’s. He froze. 

The wry chuckle washed over him, but this mirth was tender and not sardonic; the gaze compassionate, not patronizing, and the only condemnation was a mild reproof for his weeks of silence.

“Balan,” he breathed at last, and laid the whole of the memory open, “it is not pity.” 

“No,” Balan reached out with a wan smile to cup the other’s cheek within his palm, “it’s the damned hrögemetheilit. Thou wouldst only rue it on the morrow, and then where would I be left?”

Finrod raised his hand to rest over the other’s. “I mightn’t,” he whispered.

But Balan took Finrod’s hands within his own. “I know thee,” he said, bringing them up and returning the kiss to each palm. “Given a choice, I would remain thy desire sooner than become thy regret. I am content to have thine heart.”

“Liar.”

“Aye.” A grin spread over Balan’s face at last and he ran his hand affectionately through the golden hair. “But I’ve grown accustomed to what I have. And I would not risk its loss.”

Finrod caught hold of the other’s hand and moved it to rest over his face, hid his eyes behind it, his lips to the palm and a smile playing at the edges of them. “I am a fool.”

“Yes, lord.” Balan laughed quietly and squeezed the face in his hand so it distorted and the other laughed. “Thine own droll court clown.” He slid his hand to rest along the jaw in a caress. “Elenya,” he murmured fondly and drew him down till he could touch his lips to Finrod’s forehead. 

“Beloved…”

“No.” Balan shoved him lightly. “Now go sleep, or whatever it is your kind does when you’ve had more than you hold.”

“Mmph.” Finrod clasped Balan’s hand for a moment longer, then he seemed to shrug the heaviness aside and sprang onto the nearest bench, backing nimbly along its edge and beginning the same drinking melody Balan had loosed upon that first winter’s ice,

“O come! Be merry, my lad, 
there’s drink to be had, 
there’s mead and ale in good measure…“

Balan watched with amusement as he hopped to the second bench without so much as a glance behind him. 

“Aye there, lass, fetch us some!
And when you’ve so done—“

“Have a care, you fool, or you’ll find yourself in the fire. What are you doing?”

“Why, naught but your own instructions.” Finrod leapt to the floor as he reached the end of the bench and glanced back at Balan with a smile. “I go to lie besotted amongst the heather blossoms and sing your people’s melodies unto the dancing stars.” 

“And good riddance to you,” Balan retorted, laughing as the king swung the door open and turned back to dip a formal bow.

Then he slipped like a shade over the threshold and was gone.

---

Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
lúilë: [Q] sapphire
almien: [Q] cheers, (lit.) to good fortune
miru na naur: [S] wine of fire, see Here in Our Frailty
Elinkë: [Q] “little star,” a nickname drawn from Elárato, the approximated Telerin form of Gildor
melmenya: [Q] my love

TALISKA INVENTIONS
For the most part, all faux-Taliska is loosely inspired by or modeled on Germanic-Gothic
gaitch: swine
Andanahti-marei: evening/twilight-lake
vatta: father
haelis: hello, greetings
sán gahail: (to) your health
Hfaskebel: hedgehog (needle-mouse)

MISC NOTES
- Regarding the gift of a pendant stone, see the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar in which it is stated that “[a]mong the Noldor also it was a custom that the bride's mother should give to the bridegroom a jewel upon a chain or collar; and the bridegroom's father should give a like gift to the bride.”
- “cup-shot”: an archaic term for intoxication