Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

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26. Such Barters

How different this was to that first embrace beneath Rivil’s crags, when all was desperation and relief, the ache of his wounds inseparable from the press of the other’s lips. It was almost strange now to know the caress as joy only and not interwoven with pain. And how different too was Nóm’s heart unbarred; reticence gone, desire unshrouded, all the cold and guarded distance now warm and yielding within his arms. 

Balan wakes to a new and unexpected life.


312th YEAR OF THE SUN, AUTUMN
Nargothrond

He woke slowly, a hollow ache rising through his gut as it did any morning that followed such dreams. Gods all, there was even the sensation of the other’s arm draped over him as he imagined it before waking, firm and comforting against his ribs. It was oddly specific that a slight itch remained where sweat would have gathered had skin truly rested long against skin, and it angered him to find it lingering so persistently. Needless taunting. Was the dream itself not goading enough?

Balan reached up in annoyance to scratch his chest and end the illusion, then lurched aside in shock when his fingers met another’s flesh instead. Laughter drifted over him and he turned in disbelief to find Nóm watching him, hair strewn like light across the pillow and an impish smile playing at his lips.

“I am sorry,” the vision said after a moment, a hint of penitence in his voice as he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from Balan’s eyes, “should I have left thee? Thou wert asleep ere I thought to ask and I could not bring myself to wake thee.”

“That wasn’t a dream.” He had intended it as a statement, but his voice lifted in question as he stared at the other agape.

“No, not a dream. Though I confess myself flattered thou might’st mistake it for one.” 

Balan looked around the room in disbelief, attempting to orient himself. It was morning—late morning judging by the hue of light spilling in from the garden. His two bags remained propped against the opposite wall, half-filled with only those things he had brought out from Estolad. The formal tunics, the writing paper and quills, the arm bands and hilt rings and all other gifts the king had continually pressed on him, these he had left where they lay for Nóm to do with as he would when Balan was gone. 

When he was gone. He had meant to leave ere the dawn; he had been quite adamant about it.

Memory flooded in like a tide; jealousy, their argument and bitter break, the hopelessness of the subsequent hours, the heat of Nóm’s lips against his own in the late watches of the night, the other’s skin like silk beneath his palms. A trail of clothing caught his eye, scattered haphazardly about the hearth, and another item joined the growing tally of evidence. He was, he realized with a start and a fresh rush of warmth along his ears, entirely naked beneath the bedlinen. 

Finrod’s laugh rippled out again as Balan’s gaze drifted back to him, wide-eyed and cautious as though still half-convinced he had not truly wakened. “You look at me as though I am a phantom,” he quipped, shifting to Taliska and arching a brow in feigned complaint.

“Aye, so you are—phantom, spirit, apparition…” Balan regained his voice at last, a strange giddiness rising through him with the torrent of joy, and he pushed up onto one elbow, prodding the other doubtfully in the chest. “You seem solid enough.”

“Naught but flesh and blood, my love.” Finrod grinned up at him from the rumpled nest of pillows. “The fact of which I should be glad to remind you, have you forgotten it already.”

It was Balan who laughed now and slipped his hand beneath the other’s neck, turning so that he rested against him and looked down into his face; and as suspected he found the king attired in the same manner as he. A blaze of fire joined the giddiness in his veins and he leaned down to brush a kiss against the waiting lips.

He had meant to follow it with a jest, some wry responding quip about feigning inattention that he might be granted the lesson, but all such thoughts fled at the touch of the other’s skin. There had been a boundary before, defined edges where Balan ceased and Nóm began—disregarded of course and more often crossed than preserved, but the demarcation had nonetheless existed. Now it was like plunging beneath a river where any movement was wrapped within the current, or where two halves of clay were smoothed till the seams became indistinguishable amidst the whole. He had been overwhelmed by it, he recalled, shaking and dizzy in the small hours of the night when each touch had carried with it the harmony of the other’s senses, every joy had rung out with his lover’s jubilance, echoing one to the other and compounding like voices through a canyon till he had lost all bearing save the grasp of the other’s arms. 

They encircled him again now and, as in that first discovery, his heart pounded as though it would burst. Dizzy, he wrapped himself around the anchor of Nóm’s body; and dizzy, he kissed the parted lips, the brow, the lids of his eyes and the sharp line of his cheekbone, sun-painted with the lattice’s pattern in the morning light.

“Or thou canst do the reminding.“ Nóm’s voice slipped out as Balan’s hands found his wrists and drew them up onto the pillows beside his head. “I’ll not object.”

Balan shifted over him with a chuckle. “Well do I know it,” he replied, his trove of recollections now unquestioned, and bent to claim another kiss; long and deep this time, unabashed. How different this was to that first embrace beneath Rivil’s crags, when all was desperation and relief, the ache of his wounds inseparable from the press of the other’s lips. It was almost strange now to know the caress as joy only and not interwoven with pain.

And how different too was Nóm’s heart unbarred; reticence gone, desire unshrouded, all the cold and guarded distance now warm and yielding within his arms. 

He brushed his lips against the king’s palm, letting the kiss trail down and cross the pinioned arm. “It needs but a word from thee,” he murmured in teasing, but complied even before the hoarse please brushed his ear, for he had felt its harmony thrum already through every touch of the other’s skin, heard it in every murmur, in the gasp as he drew his mouth along his collarbone, traced the ribs’ cleft with the tip of his tongue.

When Nóm had once attempted to explain this affinity of souls, Balan presumed it was simply that one moved through life with two sets of senses, those innate to the self and those innate to the other they joined. But the actuality of it was something quite different from his anticipation. He did not perceive in double, at least not in the way he conceived of it. This was a chord, not a duet. An added note to the existing senses, a deeper resonance within his own. It was the silk of Nóm’s skin that Balan felt as his lips traveled past the other’s hips, but there was an elation singing within it, a shivering brightness that arose, he knew somewhere within himself, from the tickle of his beard against that selfsame flesh. And he knew too that it was as much the warmth of his own hunger for this as it was the other’s thrill at the touch of his mouth that called up the sharp gasp, or caused the Nómin's strange, half-holy swears to slip in ragged whispers from the king’s lips. 

Is this how it’s meant to be? He had loosed the question at some point in the night, Nóm’s head pillowed upon his shoulder with one hand casually tracing the tattooed patterns on Balan’s chest. The half-felt sense of the other’s perception hummed within him as Nóm’s fingers trailed through the coarse hair and Balan nudged that feeling toward the other’s mind. Or would it be more distinct wert thou joined with one of thine own kind?

In truth, I know not. Nóm had drawn one finger along his breastbone with a smile, up over his neck, hovered at the summit of the chin. I’ve never wedded another. He had walked his fingers to Balan’s mouth and traced the bottom lip from end to end, and Balan had shivered with the mingled sensation. But I am happy, I am content. Art thou not?

He was, he thought as Finrod’s grasp tangled urgently in his hair, and felt every fiber of himself ringing with the other’s exultation. Happy beyond all hope. Content beyond any expectation. Home. His own joy washed over them in chorus and he gave himself up to its oblivion, letting his mind drift rudderless through the torrent.

It was not until some while later, drawn back sated and breathless to rest upon the other’s chest, that time began to assert its presence once more. “Nóm,” he murmured at last, “how much of the morning is gone?” 

“Somewhat more than a moment and rather less than a day.”

“Gaitch,” he snorted with a grin, “I’m in earnest. Surely thou wilt be missed?”

“Nay, I have no obligations till the common court—and that is not held till the noon meal is passed.”

“That’s nigh enough.” Balan once again took in the hue of light and gauged the hour well past midmorning. “And how if Edrahil or one of the Guard finds thy chambers empty ere then?”

Finrod laughed and brushed his lips against the other’s forehead before gently extracting himself from the bed. “Then they will go about their morning little surprised. I fear I am rather known for wandering—scroll to scroll, cavern to cavern, realm to realm…”

“First to Secondborn…”

“Even so.” He leaned down with a smile and his kiss lingered long on Balan’s lips. Then he straightened and rounded the foot of the bed. “But for the moment there is no need for thee to worry, my wandering leads merely to the bath.”

Balan chuckled and watched affectionately as the other crossed the chamber, then he too untangled himself from the linen and meandered after him to the adjoining room. It was perhaps a quarter the size of the main chamber, two steps down and slanted so that any overflow remained corralled within its walls. The majority of the space was occupied by the bath itself. Its sides stood nearly level with Balan’s hips, each end slightly raised where the craftsmen had followed the natural curve of the trunk, and the wood was polished nearly to crystal’s sheen. One end was situated near the shaft to the hot spring, and a trough spanned from the pulleys’ outflow to a divot in the bath’s shoulder through which it could be easily filled or reheated. A low bench had been carved within reach of the hot well, beside which was a similarly formed shelf bearing an assortment of items: a large pot of coarse salt, a pile of herbs, several jars of scented oil, a sponge and a pair of combs, a lump of lye soap Balan had brought back with him from Estolad, a palm-sized stone adorned with a relief of twisted vines. On the perpendicular wall, a shoulder of rock curved out into a natural bowl, above which water spilled down from some unseen crevice to run along the mottled limestone, passing through the basin and flowing onward from there, down and around till it found an exit through a small slit at the base of the floor. 

He lingered in the doorway, letting his eyes follow as the king filled a pail from the hot spring and carried it back to the the stone basin. A handful of herbs was rubbed between his palms and added to the steaming water, a quantity of salt shaken into a bowl, a few more leaves crushed into this as well and oil poured over top, stirred together with his fingers. Like most of Nóm’s methodical habits, Balan found the ritual soothing to watch—each motion careful and deliberate, the hands sure, the sequence precise, the fresh scent of herbs lulling Balan’s senses as a smile curved along his lips. Bit by bit, Nóm portioned out the salt mixture, scrubbing it over his arms and torso, his legs, his back, then ladling hot water from the pail over his shoulders to clear the residue.

Balan pushed away from the door frame at last and crossed to join him beside the basin. “Thou art certain they’ll not mark thine absence?” he asked, plunging his arms into the chill water with far less ceremony and drawing up handfuls to douse his chest and abdomen.

“I said not so. Only that it would take a far longer absence than this to draw any true concern.” He reached for the vine-carved stone and rasped the porous underside along his back, then flashed a sidelong smile. “Besides, any curiosity will be assuaged soon enough when they learn I have wedded thee.”

Balan snorted but made no reply, turning instead to dip his head beneath the water. “I thought that was decoration till now,” he added when he reemerged, gesturing toward the stone in the other’s hand as he shook the water from his hair, and Finrod glanced at him in amusement.

“Truly? Hilyo told me he had explained it all to thee when thou wert first settled here.”

“Aye, he did well enough. But he could hardly, in good politeness, instruct me in the particulars without implying I’d no notion how to bathe myself.”

Finrod laughed. “A sound point. And one which suggests I have yet again been remiss in my own duties.” He turned to refill the bowl of salt mixture, then reached for the other’s arm and drew him nearer. “Come here,” he said, and spread the salt over Balan’s forearm, scrubbing gently until it began to dissolve, then moved on to his upper arm and shoulder, repeating the process on the other side. He had finished these and moved on to Balan’s back before he spoke again, and when he did there was a hint of timidity in his voice. “I thought perhaps…perhaps at Yestarë we might hold the feast.”

“Hm?”

“Traditionally there is meant to be a year’s wait between pledged intent and oaths, but as we’ve sworn the latter already I see little need to delay it on a pretense. If there are any complaints, we can simply say it was chosen as a meeting point between thy people’s customs and mine.” He drew a ladle of hot water and poured it slowly along Balan’s shoulders, smoothing away the remaining salt with his other hand, then set his lips briefly to the convergence of neck and spine. “I will tell the lords today, of course, and no doubt they will have opinions on the matter.”

“Nóm…”

“I’ve wedded thee already so they cannot sway me on the primary point. But it may be that I will need to surrender some lesser concessions to quiet any difficulties.”

“Nóm.”

“It could be sooner if that is thy preference—Baran and Belen will have the sowing to take into account, and I would not have them excluded. No, Yestarë is a poor choice after all. Perhaps—“

“Ingoldo.” 

This at last cut through the torrent of words and Finrod looked at him in surprise as Balan turned to meet his eye.

“It should not be made known.” The stunned silence that followed spread like a wound through Balan’s heart, and it was with an effort that he forced himself to continue. “Don’t tell the lords, do not hold a feast.” Finrod’s lips parted in query, but no sound followed through them. “There is no need to show any change between us.”

The king continued to stare at him in confusion, then at last he shook his head. “Have I angered thee, Balan?”

“No.” Balan clasped the other’s hands quickly and drew them to his chest with a fleeting smile. “Do not think it.”

“Then I understand thee not.”

“Aye, in the king’s mind of thee thou dost.” He reached out to trace a caress down the other’s cheek. “Think on it dispassionately. There are long years still to rule when I am gone, and this will do naught but estrange those who would otherwise be thine allies.”

“I have thought on it already and I disagree. If their friendship is so easily swayed, then it will be broken by some other strain as readily as this.”

“Thy ties with Thingol weathered even the revelation of bloodshed ere being nigh breached in defense of me. And what of thy nearer kin?” he pressed on as the king opened his mouth to object. “I recall they made their opinions on such a union unmistakably clear.”

“They have tolerated other matches they deemed unpalatable ere now. I will not hide thee away as though in shame.”

“Nóm—”

“In thine own example Elu conceded my doors were mine to keep as I saw fit; and I intend to keep my bed in the same manner.

Balan grinned despite himself. “So thou shalt,” he murmured with a brush of his lips against the others, “provided I am the one kept.” Then he recalled himself to the conversation at hand and sobered again, passing one hand along his face. “But gossip recks little of intent.”

“And I reck little of gossip. I will not reorder my convictions from fear of a scandalmonger’s tongue. Let them talk if it amuses them. It costs me naught but annoyance.”

“More than that, I think. But it is my sons who would bear the heavier price.” Balan turned away to hide the spasm of pain that crossed his face. “Please, Nóm. I’ve left them a hard enough path as it is. Let me at least not rob Baran of ruling on his own merit.”

For a time Finrod was quiet and Balan could feel the tension as the other’s thought raced unwillingly over the possible outcomes, and when at last he spoke again the resignation was heavy in his voice. “It needn’t compromise him if we are forthright.”

“It needn’t, but it would.” Balan did not look back at him, busying himself instead by retrieving the lump of lye soap and lathering it over the remainder of his body. “Any aid, any friendship or care beyond a lord’s given duty would add to the whispers—indulged and favored only because his father shares the king’s bed.”

“No one who has seen him at the head of your people could doubt his merit.”

“Few of these would bear witness to it.”

“And the majority, thou wilt say, would glean their knowledge from hearsay.” Finrod hugged his arms about his chest and watched disconsolately as Balan rinsed away the soap before turning at last to meet his eye. 

“Thou knowest I am right.”

“I do, but I have not the heart to concede it.”

“I know.” Balan crossed to him again and and attempted a smile as he reached out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind the other’s ear. “I will be thine in quiet, love, but no less truly.”

“The king’s vaen-hlaiba?”1 Finrod asked in a dull voice.

”Aye, I suppose. But thou and I will know the truth of it.” He cupped Finrod’s face within his palms and rested his forehead against the other’s. “Oiastaro,” he breathed, “I am thine. Utterly. Whether any other knows of it makes no difference to that.”

“I know it.” Finrod reached up to rest his hands atop the other’s and pressed them tightly to his cheeks. “I do know it. But oh my heart, I would claim thee before all—let me grieve the loss of it.”

“Dost thou imagine I do not long to take thee before my own people and draw the clay about thine hands? To dance the Woven Way on the open green instead of in the river with night’s shroud about us?” For a moment Balan allowed himself to linger within the vision and felt the chord of the other’s thought rise in harmony with his own. The night sky was clear. The luvan tagl2 sang through the breeze that ruffled the other’s hair and the drums matched his pulse, both steadier than the current pounding in his chest. Belen was grinning at the edge of the crowd with Gildor and Sídhon beside him; and Baran was there as well, his brow creased but the animosity gone from his eyes. Estreth was smug—this he traced to Nóm’s thought in confusion before being drawn back to the imagined dance, hand in hand, arm in arm, the clay rough against his palm as they turned, and turned, and—

He drew a shuddering breath and crumpled in against the king’s chest. His own grief had grown suddenly insistent, a choking thing tangling within his throat, and he clutched at the other helplessly. “Ruthless gods,” he rasped out at last, “what cruel fate was it I found thee not till half my life was spent?”

For a moment the hands tightened their grip, then little by little they shifted until he found himself gathered in the other’s arms, his head tilted back as Nóm’s lips sought his own. It was a careful kiss at first, tentative still and uncertain of this new ground, but Balan’s hands slid swiftly to weave through his hair and drew him back against the wall till they clung to each other with all the desperate fervor of that first embrace against Dorthonion’s blood-soaked stone. And here too Balan welcomed the rock pressing into his back, the dull pain that grounded him and held him anchored in the truth of his senses.

“Nay, what grace,” the words washed over him with the caress, murmured into his mouth as he twined his arms about Nóm’s shoulders, “what grace that led me to thee while there were years yet to have.”

“Beloved…”

“Please. Do not run always ahead, I beg of thee. Stay with me, do not live half-present in the end ere it has overtaken us; look not to it, Balan, look at me.” Finrod cupped the other’s face within his hands, brushing away tears Balan had no recollection of weeping, and when he smiled there was no shadow of grief in his eyes. “We have chosen our way, Anarinya,” he said, and kissed him again. “We will have our joy.”

❈ ❈ ❈

The lamplight scuttered over the wine’s surface, golden fireflies darting from the polished silver to the ripples and back again, as though dancing to the sound of the king’s voice. In truth, Balan reflected as he tried to keep a smile from lingering too persistently on his lips, everything about this meal was a dance. They had wound their way through each course, the polite conversation, the careful adherence to their previous demeanor, cheerful without being exuberant, restrained without appearing secretive. It was simpler for the king, of course. Any giddiness could pass as little other than his usual gaiety; whereas for Balan, though a mostly amiable presence at earlier dinners of the king’s household, such joviality would be far beyond the expected. 

And so he had picked his path carefully through the hours, focusing his mind on the flavor of the meat, what spices were rubbed into the roasted radishes, the carvings upon the wall, the dancing light flitting through his wine; and trying in vain not to hearken too closely to the music of Nóm’s voice, nor to find his eyes drawn to the bright smile, to the promise of his lips, to the hearth’s light playing across his fingers as he lifted his cup toward the high king’s emissary—oh how the firelight had touched his skin even so when every inch of it lay bare before Balan’s own hearth and he could trace the wavering glow with his kiss, over breastbone and neck, rib and shoulder...

Balan lifted the wine hastily to his lips and drank deeply. He was glad there were few of them this evening—only eight come together in the Swan Chamber to join Balan and the king at his board. It helped his composure little that the brightness of the other’s joy rested against him like a hand to the small of his back. It was contagious; sharp and brilliant, dazzling as light on clear water, and Balan found himself struggling to hold the conversation’s thread.

“What flavor do I taste in this?” Írui asked as he sampled a decorative loaf, brought to the table alongside the sweet course. “I am unfamiliar with it, but it fares pleasantly on the tongue.”

“Falléfraiw,” the king replied, “or so I have heard it called—‘heart-seed’.” 

“How then?” Balan’s attention snapped back to their exchange and Finrod laughed as he caught up a piece of the bread and sniffed it suspiciously. 

“It is a spice used among Bëor’s people,” he added in clarification.

“And by what sorcery didst thou come by it?” Balan exclaimed, amusement woven through his voice as he set the portion onto his plate. “I badgered Liuvar for a vial of it all throughout those weeks and he laughed me out of his hut.”

“Twas naught underhanded. I expressed a liking for it and was presented with a small quantity in gift at our departure.”

“A small quantity?”

“A box—nay, regard me not with such betrayal! Tis no larger than the length of my thumb.”

“Aye, only such—as thy coronal is made merely of gold.” Balan took a second piece, laughing, and shook his head. “High indeed art thou risen in their esteem.”

“I know it,” Finrod replied quietly as warmth tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And high indeed are they in mine.” 

Again Balan felt the giddiness pressing at his lips and threatening to spill over in laughter as his gaze lingered upon the other. He was dressed with more formality than was his custom at these intimate meals of his household, a blue undertunic clinging close about his forearms, a loose robe which was woven whole of golden thread and summoned the light to him—as though he was the brilliance and the hearth’s glow the swarm drawn irresistibly to hover about his shoulders, his hair, and bathe him in its sheen. Atop the rest, a blood-red sash draped a casual embrace across one shoulder and Balan found his eyes tracing its movement with longing.

“I know this from midsummer, do I not?” Gildor’s voice lifted at his side and saved him from the reverie. “In Baran’s wedding loaf?”

“Aye. It is brought out to mark those times when dust and divine meet—birth, death, a union.”

“And for those rites we marked yestereve?” Meril asked, an unreadable query in her gaze as she turned toward him.

“Those are of your own folk’s devising and not among our traditions; but yes I would think of them as such. As would my lord, it seems,” he added, glancing at Finrod with one brow cocked, “for no doubt that is the reason he’s set it before us tonight.”

Finrod met his glance with a smile and an impish flicker lit his eyes. “I thought it was fitting to mark the day.”

“So it is.” Balan raised his cup toward the other and let the grin dance loose across his lips once more. “Melishkan mathár.”3

“Melishkan mathár,” the king returned with an answering salute, and drank.

“I take it the spice is dear to come by?” Írui slipped another morsel into his mouth and looked at the king in curiosity, sensing that some jest lay beneath their words but unable to trace its thread.

“In this I must commend thee to Bëor’s knowledge. I know little of its origins.”

“Which is meant to absolve thy generosity, I suppose.” Balan turned to Írui, smoothing his grin into a polite smile. “It is rare, aye. We do not cultivate it ourselves, but bartered for it with caravans that crossed our way. It grows only to the south and, as far as I can tell, east of those mountains which brought us here, for my lord knows it not and neither, my son tells me, has it been found among those traders who come up the Gelion from beyond the Silent Woods.”

“Then I count myself privileged in the partaking. How came it to hold such status in your rites if it was not native to your people?”

“It was, once.” Balan paused to sip from his wine before continuing. “My lord has told me often of how your people first came to be. In the tales passed down by our wise and bards, it’s said that the place of our own awakening lay also to the east—but east and south, in warmer lands where the sun holds reign. There the fruit trees that bear the falléfraiw grow unhindered; and they say it was there that our earliest traditions took root.”

“So it is a remembrance, then?” Sídhon asked. “A practice which ties your present to your beginnings?”

“It is many things—that amongst them.”

“Your tales say they were the first trees drawn from the earth,” Finrod added as he lifted a slice onto his own plate, “do they not?”

“Some hold it so. Others say they sprouted where Fon’s sparks fell upon the soil when he danced about our first forefathers, and that is why the groves were ever after dear to him.”

“I thought this was the fruit he set within the clay figures’ lips?”

“To bestow the warmth of flesh—that is the variation I told thee, aye.” Balan turned back to Írui with a chuckle. “You’ll find we’ve as many forms of it as we have tellers of the tale. To his credit, my lord has managed to hold all the elements within his memory, though I fear even he struggles to keep the kernels of each sorted within their baskets.”

“Then I confess little hope of my own success in it.” Írui smiled and the glance cast toward the king was both warm and penitent. “Ingoldo is the loremaster among us, and his the insight against which our own must be measured—and found wanting.”

“I beg of you,” Gildor interjected with a grin, “flatter him not. He is far too certain of his skill already.”

“Is he indeed?”

“A merited pride, to be sure, but insufferable nonetheless.”

“Why then he must be put to the test at once, that we might sift talent from vanity—for his own betterment, and poor Gildor’s relief. Ingoldo!” he charged, turning to the king at his side, “we shall have a tale of thee; a full basket of kernels rightly sorted. Bëor shall name the one but thine will be the telling, while we listeners keep a count of how oft he must correct thee.”

Finrod laughed and inclined his head in acquiescence, even as he felt Balan bristle at the familiar naming. “As thou wilt,” he said, letting amusement ripple back into the thought threaded through his own, “only tell me first how the tally shall be reckoned so that my stumbles are in truth only and not by mischance.”

“That depends on the nature of thy bondsman’s corrections, of course. We are relying on you, friend,” Írui added in an aside to Balan. “Choose whichever one he knows least.”

“As bondsman, surely I must be loathe to lay a pitfall before my lord’s feet.”

“And yet think on what a merry snare it would be.”

“What of the Theft of Fon’s Groves?” Gildor suggested, refilling his chalice as he turned toward Balan in query. “I knew it not till Belen told me, so I would hazard it lies outside his favored hoard.” He glanced back at Írui with a grin. “My loyalty, you see, is of lesser mettle than my neighbor’s.”

“Hear, hear!” Írui laughed and raised his chalice in salute. “And so are we all appeased: Bëor in his fealty, thou in thy cleverness, and I in my needless whim. Thou shouldst be the emissary, Gildor, and not I, thy nature tends far more to the conciliatory." He reached for the decanter and filled Finrod’s cup with a wink. “Come then, Ingo—the Theft of Fon’s Groves for our edification and thy trial. Bëor’s fealty will, I trust, bend enough to be our jurist?”

“Aye, I’ll set him aright. I was sworn to our Wise long ere ever I was his vassal.”

“An allegiance torn between Wisdom and the Wise…there is a sore trial for any man.” Írui chuckled and settled back in his chair, shifting to one side so that he had a full view of the king. “I fear thy fate is sealed, Ingoldo, and his loyalty will not save thee.”

Only a brief glance did Finrod permit himself to meet Balan’s eye across the table, but his thought passed along the other’s with all the warmth of a caress and he was relieved to feel amusement returned along the mingled threads. “Would it be loyalty to allow my lingering in error?” he asked, smiling, then took a breath and began in a quiet voice, low and melodic, echoing the Atani chants,

“The elm and the beech         lie broken, ash-feathered
Cracked and crumpled          the clay of the gods
where weary wanders           the wailing grief
Fire-ravaged                             Now fog shrouding
the bodies and home-husks Broken the vow

A mother in mourning          makes of grief fashioned
a stow tall of earth-bones      a stone altar raised
to Luftu breath-giver              Gwelwen’s4 great master
the wind and the weaver      wakeful and fleet
in the mist-shorn morning    where the ash over Melishk lies heavy…”

He broke off with a grimace and shook his head. “Nay, I’ve mislaid the meter. Where ash and...where in ash the…”

“Where Melishk ash-shrouded,” Balan prompted and Írui grinned.

“Mark one tally down in our favor, Gildor.”

Finrod cast him a look of feigned aggravation, then pressed on, 

                                                      “…where Melishk ash-shrouded
shows wounds in the light   Woe! On the altar
behold the small body           unburned, undamaged
breath stilled, life lacking      the little one cold
Hear the wails and weeping            whispers of…the whispered…in whispers the pleas
Gathered as…clinging like dew                  on cloth of….of…

Again he trailed off and this time spread his hands wide in resignation. “I fear I’ve not the talent to render it properly without longer practice. I concede my defeat.”

“Rot.” Balan watched him in amusement from across the table. “Leave off the verse form and thou wilt have it right enough.”

“In verse was it told to me.”

“And they test thy memory for a tale, not thy swiftness in translating to meter.”

Írui laughed at this and set his hand lightly to the king’s arm. “Leave off the game itself, Ammalincë,5 I am as much in foolery as thou art in earnest.” He leaned forward to refill Finrod’s chalice. “I find myself far more interested to hear it through than to triumph in a whim. Tell the tale however it pleases thee.”

“Mark one tally in my own column, Gildor,” Finrod quipped, shifting his arm unobtrusively from the other’s touch. “We’ll hold it a draw.”

“Not a forfeit?”

“Neither yet.” Balan settled back in his chair with a rogueish grin. “You’ve appointed me as judge, my lords, and a judge cannot rule till the tale is told.”

Finrod chuckled. “Unassailable logic,” he said, then leaned in to rest his elbows atop the table and, after a moment, propped his chin against his folded hands. “The story, as I understood it, proceeds roughly thus: Once there was a child who died in a village fire and her mother brought her to the altar of Luftu, the goddess of wind. Since she appeared unblemished, having been taken by smoke and not touched by the flames, her mother begged the goddess to restore the breath of life in her. To this request Luftu agreed, for she too was angered with Fon, the fire’s god, because he had chased her through her favored groves and in so doing burned the oaks and willows to the ground. If the mother would travel to Fon’s own valley where he kept his sacred orchard, if she would fell the beast that kept guard at the gate and bring back a fruit in token that the task was done, then Luftu would restore the child’s breath. 

“To this the mother agreed and journeyed long through six days and six nights till she reached her goal. She hafted her arrow with a thorn hallowed by Luftu’s breath, for only by such a weapon could the beast’s flesh be pierced. But even as she nocked her bow and readied her shot, lo! Fon appeared before her and laughed. He told her that Luftu sought only her own vengeance—a grove for a grove—and had tricked the mother into doing her will, for it was not possible to both kill the beast and retrieve the fruit. The same enchantment which bound the creature to the orchard also caused all within the walls to rot and wither if his heart was stilled. But Fon agreed to give her one fruit from the orchard, if in return she would leave the beast alive. The mother would have the falléfraiw fruit to uphold her bargain, Fon could keep his monstrous companion, and Luftu would be cheated by her own trick. 

“The mother thought for a time, knowing that Fon was crafty as a fox, until at length she agreed to what he proposed. She took the fruit and turned away with her arrow still unshot, then fled with all speed until she reached the river’s ford and stood within the water, Guënid’s protection swirling about her ankles. And just as she supposed, the beast was close at her heels. As the god of fire had known, the enchantment bound it not to the orchard but to the fruit itself, and so it was free from the orchard wall when the falléfraiw was carried in her hand. As she had counted on, it faltered at the water’s edge, afraid like its master of Guënid’s power, and in that moment the mother loosed her arrow to lodge within its heart. Fon howled in fury, but his orchard swayed unwithered in accusation behind him: the goddess of wind had not been false. 

“And so the woman returned, journeying back through six days and six nights, and carried the fruit to where the goddess preserved her daughter’s body upon the altar, pristine as the dawn she was borne out from the ash. And Luftu breathed breath into her lungs.”

There was silence then, as was customary at the completion of a tale, until at last the king reached for his chalice and took a sip from the wine. “Well?” he asked, meeting Balan’s eye above the rim as a smile played at his lips.

“Well, it’s a foreshortened telling to be sure—and Guënid’s role neglected till nigh the end—but I’ll not hold thee in err for it. All the main bits were accounted for.”

Finrod laughed, and felt the brightness of that mirth cascade down Balan’s spine like water. “Hearest thou what glowing obeisance I reap from his fealty? Thou need’st have had no worry on that count, Íryo: his loyalty is ever to hold me grounded.”

“My lord would not have it otherwise,” Balan countered with a grin and the king laughed again.

“Indeed he would not. May all who presume to rulership be granted such an anchor amongst their courtiers as thee.” He lifted the chalice to his lips once more and for a moment let himself linger in the warmth of the other’s smile, where the intoxication of memory coursed more potently than the wine on his tongue. Balan had been an anchor then too, in the heady hours of the night; steady and sure against his uncertainty, confident where Finrod was uncharacteristically timid, and the calloused palm had quieted him as it turned in slow patterns around his ribs, along his chest. He laughed when the touch crossed his neck in turn and murmured in giddy confession that he had once watched Balan draw his hand even so beneath Elmorë’s jaw and never till that moment had he known one could harbor such jealousy toward a horse. Balan’s grin had widened, wry and mischievous. The one rival I never thought to suspect…he had murmured, his brow arching as he traced a deliberate path down from the collarbone. Not to worry, my lord, I’ve a fair bit more in mind for thee. 

Finrod drew himself back to the present with an effort. Discipline, he chastised himself as he laughed at a jest of Írui’s and sipped once more from his wine. This duality would need far more practice if he was ever to cleave to Balan’s wish in it—his mind was drifting toward the other with all the insistence of a tide. Balan’s own gaze, meanwhile, was carefully set on Írui and Faelon to the king’s left, while a curve in the line of his lips left Finrod certain that every current of his thought had been followed and known. He felt the color rise in his cheeks and was glad to find the discourse shifting now to a riposte between Sídhon and Gildor. 

“Will you convene again in council on the morrow?” Írui’s voice was unexpectedly quiet beside him and Finrod glanced toward him in query. “There was more beyond the thrall’s release that I was charged to convey to thee. I thought to raise it when I joined you today, but time ran short.”

“I can summon them again, certainly.” The king replaced the chalice on the table and turned to his neighbor with a smile. “But fortune is in thy favor, it seems—thou hast found us convened here already, and so art spared the tedium of another council.”

“A benevolent serendipity indeed,” Írui rejoined, then bent nearer the other’s ear. “But this, I deem, is an inquiry best plumbed in more limited company.” His eyes darted meaningfully across the table and Finrod’s expression darkened.

“If thy meaning is to say when Bëor is not among our number, then I protest the distinction. Anything thou wouldst say to the gathered council may be said in his presence. He has my full trust.”

“I am glad to know it. Nevertheless, given the matter in question…”

“A matter touching on the Atani it would seem.”

There was an awkward pause as others began to attend to their words and Írui offered up a placatory smile. “I have raised the question prematurely. I beg thy pardon, Ingo—and thine as well,” he added with a nod toward Balan. “I should hold my words till another hour.”

“Rather a two-faced precept, Iryo,” Finrod said with an answering smile, and though his tone was light and teasing, there was an irritable glint in his eye. “Thou didst speak openly of the trade disputes with Faelon here beside thee, and that less than an hour gone.”

“No doubt the restriction is not of his making, Nóm,” Balan interjected, adding a jab against the other’s thought that reminded Finrod sharply of his reprimand during the midsummer games. “I fear in thy fondness thou hast overlooked that he is among us as emissary and not thy friend.” 

“As both, I hope.” Írui cast a grateful glance across the table. “Though I pray I am found to have more skill in the latter than I have evidenced in the former.”

Finrod chuckled as he reached out to refill the other’s chalice and the tension seemed to ease. “A sore trial indeed for thy disposition, my friend. Thou art far too open-hearted for diplomacy.”

“Whereas we find thine own skill on full display,” Írui countered, laughing. “Never with milder words have any reminded me that my propensities bend rather to gossip than the dance politic. But Bëor here has lit upon the truth of it, I confess, and I am bound to discretion whether I would or no.”

“Then so are we all held.” The king refilled his own cup as well and leaned back in the chair, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “For ‘twould be a two-faced precept of my own to expect discretion from my messengers while demanding candor of others. I relent. Stay on when the meal is done and thou canst bend my ear with no threat to my uncle’s command.” 

“Nay, speak on as you will. I shall not keep an emissary from his duty.” Balan drained his cup and rose. “I have long since felt weariness calling me and, though my curiosity chafes at it, it is past time I sought my bed.” He dipped a brief bow to the table, then again with more formality to the king. “By your leave, lord?”

“Granted. But assuage thy curiosity, for, as in fair truth I should also warn my lord’s ambassador, thou art my advisor in all things regarding thy people and so my ear shall doubtless prove but a conduit to thine.”

“At which admission thy lord’s ambassador should certainly voice an objection,” Írui added with a grin. “However, I regret to inform thee he is a lax sort and cares little what is done with the words once freed from his lips—provided his own duty has been discharged as ordered.”

“There, Íryo, it seems thy nature is proved as conciliatory as Gildor’s after all. Perhaps thy constitution lends itself more readily to thy current work than we might expect.”

“Valar forbid it!” He threw up his hands in mock horror. “Not a word of that to thine uncle lest he see fit to shackle me to it in earnest. I should be forced to conjure a truly portentous scandal to be freed from it.”

“A burden which I doubt not thou wouldst weather with admirable fortitude,” Sídhon murmured.

“Fie! I marvel at thee, Felagund, to allow such slander at thy board.”

“And I that thou wouldst count it slander,” Finrod retorted, laughing. “But the secret of thy skill rests in safety—naught will he hear of it from me—and so thou must seek thine entertainment by another means.”

❈ ❈ ❈

He could feel Meril’s eyes on him as the quiet of the room deepened. She had stayed on when the others dispersed and sat motionless in the chair at his right, watching while he fiddled restlessly with the twined serpents about his finger. Neither had spoken a word, and the silence bore down like a weight against his shoulders. 

“Findaráto.”

Quiet as it was, he flinched as the sound cut through the stillness. Then, a long moment later, he turned in resignation to meet her eye. “It can be seen, then?”

“Didst thou expect it to be otherwise?” Her voice was uncharacteristically cold and his gaze fell away again as she continued. “It is faint, but present. I doubt any would notice were they not seeking its signs.”

“And you were?”

“To reassure myself there was no cause for concern.”

“There is not.”

She snorted mirthlessly. “I knew thou wert taken with him, but I did not think thee a fool.” His glance toward her was sharp, but the censure in her own eye did not falter. “Thou hast a duty to thy people, a duty of life and service thou didst swear to them when they took thee as king.”

“I have not shirked it.”

“Thou hast risked its very foundation.”

“Prithee, how—by consorting with the Secondborn?” He pressed back his rising anger with an effort. “Have I lived to hear the prejudice of Tirion from even your lips?”

“Not from mine. But this will loose again what scarce was dammed by his fealty. What becomes of that oath now, supplanted as it must be by this? Wilt thou feign it still and hope that none see past its illusion? Or carve a second seat beside thee and set him there as consort and prince above the lords of thy realm?”

“I would.”

“And yet thou canst say to me that—”

“I would, but he will not allow it.” 

Her expression did not change, save for a slight lifting of one brow. “Eru, in his mercy, granted one of you prudence.” 

Finrod rose abruptly and paced away from the table, drawing up with his palms against the mantle. “Surely it is cowardice, not prudence, that would lead your counsel to place the higher value on others’ prejudice.”

“Only my counsel and not his?”

“His is given for the sake of his sons.”

“And mine for the sake of thy subjects. Thou art well versed, Ingoldo Arafinwion, in what freedoms thou didst forfeit when thine head bent to a crown. Thy duty is to thy realm, not to thine heart.”

“I do not see that they are in opposition.”

“Then thou art willfully naive. Think on it: not only an abonnen,6 but one who was wedded already and who retains children from that union. A dead wife and a living son—sons in this case—and loyalties torn between these and any new bond.”

“Do not raise that specter here, I am not he.”

“It is she to whom they will compare thee. The children of Indis bearing forward in their turn that selfsame fruit.” Meril held up her hand as his mouth opened in outrage. “I was a friend to thy father and foremother both. I do not chastise thee lightly.” 

“I marvel that you would dignify the thought with words.”

“And I that thou wouldst choose with such selfish disregard for thine obligations. Is it thy wish to incite a new schism between the princes of the Noldor? For truly I cannot fathom what other end thou couldst achieve by this road.”

“Perhaps I do not seek an end, but merely the bond itself.”

“Fie! Thou hast not the luxury to reason as a child. Thy kingdom is held by thy conduct and thou wilt risk estranging even thy staunchest allies should this become known. The goodwill of Doriath has been jeopardized already by thy stubbornness before the Marchwardens—and what greater follies am I to anticipate now thou art bound in earnest?”

“A poor example, for that principle I should have upheld for any one of his people, down to the smallest child.”

“And yet thou hast set them in the path of thine own peril. Canst thou see it not? Elu is unlikely to strike at thee directly in his ire, but they have no such security.”

“They are my sworn subjects and bear the same rights and protections as any in my realm.”

“Not if he does not acknowledge it.” Meril’s eyes were alight with indignation and a streak of red had risen along each cheek. 

Finrod looked away. He found this uncharacteristic vehemence far more unsettling than any of the accusations themselves. Her level, steady presence had been ever-constant in his life since his first memories, and never till now had he witnessed its breaking. How had he overlooked it? Had he been so wrapped in the joy of the moment that he could laugh on, oblivious, while beside him it smoldered ever more dangerously as the hours drew on?

“Dost thou imagine it will go otherwise with Fëanor’s sons when they learn an Aftercomer wields such influence over thy throne?” She held her hands clasped together in her lap, the grip so fierce that the fingers had begun to whiten. “They will not sit quietly by with the largest realm of Beleriand now subservient to a Man.”

“Then they would do well to learn the difference between husband and servitor.”

“A distinction diligently maintained in thine own affairs. Surely it cannot have escaped thee that this jeopardizes Bëor’s standing as well. If the marriage is known, it will call into question not only the legitimacy of his role as ambassador, but any aspects of our alliance he has negotiated on their behalf. Indeed, his continued occupation of the role itself is a grave breach of integrity.”

“And to shift him from that employ would be to raise the very questions you seek to avoid. I remind you that this marriage is not common knowledge, nor shall it be, and furthermore is known to you only because you felt entitled to excavate my private concerns.”

“A king does not have private concerns. But I know from thine own lips that this policy is upheld only by his insistence—and a fragile course it is if thine attempt at impartiality before Írimo was any evidence of its practice. Twas only by fortune that he is untried as a king’s emissary and marked it not. Beleriand’s unity is a web of gossamer, and what strands of it will hold if thou art toppled?”

“Many, I should think.”

“Few.” She rose at last and crossed to stand before him, and the firelight seemed to him a spirit of wrath upon her face. “This is no time for false humility, Findaráto, thou art the keystone of this brittle peace.”

Finrod turned back toward the hearth, his hands clenched till the nails bit into his palms, and felt the tempest of her anger roiling ever more fiercely at his side. “I know not what it is you would—“

“What shall remain of thee when he is dead?” Her voice cut through his with a hiss and all the pent up rage seemed gathered together in the words. “When thy spirit buckles beneath the weight of absence, what road will be thine?”

“Do not—“

“Death will call for thee then, it will sing in thine ears of oblivion’s balm and every moment that passes will press on thee the promise of that release. What will thy people do in such an hour?”

“They will hold claim of me as they ever have. Can you think so poorly of my integrity as to believe I would choose this path had I not chosen too to steel my will against such temptation? I know my duty, Massánië.”7

“But not the cost, I think. Hearken to me! I know what it is to be bound to one who is gone beyond reach.”

Finrod spun back toward her and his eyes flashed with outrage. “That is not the same.”

“It is a parting of souls till the end of all things; that is similarity enough.”

“It is utterly different, and you know it full well.”

Her voice lowered dangerously. “Why? Because thy Bëor will die in a form thou canst recognize?”

“Because he is as he was created! And when he parts from me it will be at the One’s summoning, not as a corruption of—” He bit back his outburst as an image of Meril rose vividly in his mind, her silhouette stark atop the cliffs of Alqualondë and the bitter melancholy of her song spooling outward across the waves. East, ever East. She had been an reluctant traveler when the Valar summoned them from Cuivienen to Aman, and had joined his mother’s people only when they heard the rumor of those dead who were rehoused and walked among them again. But alone she had retraced that journey, and alone she had crumpled to her knees in Lammoth when the Orcs first set upon them, her lips forming the soundless name over and again as the truth at last settled over her. The stark horror of it would ever be seared in his memory. 

Here, then, must lie the root of this inexplicable fury. If she truly believed the comparison, then what an affront to find one she loved choosing willingly that agony she had been unable to escape.

“Breaking is breaking.” Her voice was harsh as it wrenched him back to the present. “I do not warn thee from prejudice. I speak of what I have lived—and of what I fear thou canst not now be spared.”

“It is nothing alike.” Finrod fought to keep his words under control, for her pain was now a tangible blade in the air between them and even in his fury he could not bear to drive it deeper. “He is a mortal; a mystery of the One, not the Foe’s vile mockery for our torment.”

“He is finite. He will die, and it will be an utter ending. And do not think the pain will spare thee because thy loss comes to thee in more palatable trappings.”

“I do not seek to be spared.”

“Easily spake the heart ere the day has come.”

“Valar’s mercy! What is it you would have of me? It is done, and cannot now be undone—nor would I recant it were it within my power. I am his, as surely as the tree knows its roots or the river the path of its bed.” 

“No,” she met his eyes with a gaze of steel, “thou art a king. What honor canst thou claim in it now to have chosen this full-knowing?”

All warmth seemed to rush from the chamber and even the fire’s light cowered within the hearth as he glared back at her with blazing eyes, towering suddenly beyond his own height. "You think me sullied? Fine! Have it so." His voice resonated from every crevice of the room, a furious whisper and a rumble both. "But if you have no other purpose to this converse save to upbraid me for a path already chosen, then I will not hear another word of it.” He turned on his heel and strode for the door, then drew up with his hand on the stile and cast a furious glance over his shoulder. “Bring a motion before the lords if you consider me so unworthy to rule,” he hissed, then swept into the passage without waiting for a reply.

His hands were shaking when he rounded the corner and he reached out for the wall to steady himself. Meril’s counsel had ever been his guidepost, she the adviser through whom all others’ wisdom was gauged. What was he to do if the rift held? To be so viscerally at odds with her set his world reeling. It was not, he granted as he pushed away from the stone and turned toward the royal quarter, that the concerns lacked merit; in truth, he could not find fault with them. Had he not wrestled these same misgivings? Had not Balan named them even this very morn? But what Finrod might concede to him in grudging admission seemed nothing but slander in another’s tongue. 

He turned through an archway and strode along the hall, the lamplight glinting from veins of quartz and mica lacing the walls, and once more the fury rose like bile in his throat. How could she have carried the reasoning so far? How dare she draw such a parallel? The very idea was obscene, to align the work of Ilúvatar’s hands with the Enemy’s slow arts of cruelty…He slowed as he neared Balan’s door and forced himself to press down the seething outrage lest it seep through to the other’s thought and raise suspicion that some new thing had gone amiss. He traced his fingers along the same frond of kelp that had welcomed him the night before, letting his anger dissipate into the curving tendrils and seabirds’ wings. The fallout from this conflict was a predicament for the morrow to hold. For tonight there was only the peace of the chamber beyond, the familiarity of Estolad permeating the room, the haven of Balan’s bed, the sleepy warmth of his lover resting heavy within his arms.

He eased the door open and slipped into the room, fastening it soundlessly behind him lest he risk disturbing the other’s slumber. But to his surprise, Balan was awake yet, curled comfortably on the floor and skimming herbs from a steaming cup on the hearthstones before him. It was ever so, Finrod thought fondly as he tarried at the threshold to savor the image. Balan had adapted quickly to the luxuries and conveniences of the city, but whenever left to his own rest he always returned to the old patterns: crouched before the fire with the familiar tools of his former life, quiet and content. The horn cup was one Finrod recalled from their earliest days together, a squat vessel roughly the size of his palm with a pattern of grazing animals carved around its base. This same aroma of steeping yarrow and mint had likewise filled the hut in Estolad most evenings—a libation to the memory of sleep, Balan had quipped on one particularly restless night. It was a comforting scent, earthen and fresh.

He crossed to the hearth and bent down to kiss the top of other’s head in greeting. “I thought to find thee abed.”

“Aye, I thought so myself.” Balan grinned up at him as he pulled away. “And yet here I sit.”

“I am glad of it.” Finrod shifted to lean against the stone shelves and watched the firelight ripple like water across the other’s skin. “I confess I have been jealous to be in sole possession of thy company since the morn.”

Balan shook the last leaves from the spoon and set it aside. “Greedy despot,” he murmured, letting his palm linger affectionately against the king’s chest as he rose, then crossed to the far shelf and retrieved a jar of honey. “How fared the ambassador’s assignment?”

“Well enough. Twas naught but to say that the Haladin have crossed into our lands and established settlements north of the Ascar, which we learned already from Baran at midsummer.”

“That was what could not be said in my presence?”

“He was charged to glean my untempered assessment of their integrity and whether their allegiance should be cultivated.” Finrod snorted. “Foolishness still—and so I told him—for I have never met a man of them, whereas thou hast spent full seasons by their side. He should have asked thee rather.”

Balan shook his head with amusement and drizzled a small quantity of honey into the cup. “And what did my Lord Pearl say to that?”

“What, not jealous still?” 

“A little, perhaps.”

Finrod chuckled, resting his head against the stone as he watched the other carefully swirl the cup till the honey dissolved. His own limbs felt leaden in the wake of spent fury, his spirit dulled and heavy, and he found it a continued effort keep the melancholy from seeping into their exchange. “When I’ve already given thee horses?” he teased, trying to force a lightness into his tone. “And what must be considered, I believe, a frankly damning quantity of gems.”

“Damning for whom?” 

Balan turned back toward him with a grin and a raised brow, but when their eyes met there was a canny sympathy in his that sent a jolt through Finrod’s chest. Of course he saw. It had been absurd to think he could veil his mood from the other’s notice. Balan had always seen him with a more incisive perception than most, and since the night before that skill had seemed to increase ten-fold. In truth, he found it almost a relief to have his dissembling brushed aside with such ease, much as he shrank still from the thought of baring the quarrel to the other’s sight. But the weight of Balan’s gaze was gentle, and he set the cup aside, crossing to him slowly and reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. A little sound of amusement slipped from Finrod’s lips, for he was reminded at once of watching his cousin calming a skittish colt—the careful, soothing movements, the quiet patience. He leaned his head in against Balan’s with a smile. 

“I never said it was a justified envy,” Balan murmured as he drew his fingers along the other’s jaw.

And with that touch, as his lover’s lips found his own, the anger boiled through him once more, for how dare she peddle accusations of schism and undue influence when here Balan stood, quietly reassuring him that he would never press beyond what the king was willing to share. Would such concerns have been raised, Finrod fumed to himself as one of Balan’s hands drifted suggestively down the path of his sash, had he wedded from the Sindar instead? The other’s mouth brushed along his earlobe and his breath caught in a hiss, the fire in his veins surging from ire to longing as Balan’s fingers began to loose him deftly from the formal robe. There were any number of lords who had bound themselves across those cultural lines, and they had been lauded as heralds of unity and healing. Why should it be only the Atani who were held suspect for daring to seek the same union? The hands had found their way beneath his tunic now. They were warm and calloused against his skin and he shivered as they traced along his waist, his hips. How dare she lecture him on his duty as though he had not sacrificed years already to its specter? He tangled his fingers abruptly in Balan’s hair as he drew him in and kissed him feverishly, spending his fury into passion while Meril’s words rankled in his heart. The largest realm of Beleriand now subservient to a Man…

“No.” He was surprised by his own hoarse gasp as Balan began to shift downward, and he caught him insistently by the arms, turning him to change places and pressing him deliberately back against the stone. “No,” he whispered again, fiercely this time as he sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving the other's. “This time you stay where you are.”

 

Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
4Gwelwen: [S] air (as space as opposed to substance)
5Ammalincë: [Q]: little yellow bird. See Mirröanwi
6Abonnen: “After-born,” a term for men given by the Elves

7Massánië: [Q] lady, breadgiver. This is Meril’s title in the king’s household as the keeper and distributor of lembas. She holds this role in the absence of a queen.

TALISKA INVENTIONS
For the most part, all faux-Taliska is loosely inspired by or modeled on Germanic-Gothic
1vaen-hlaiba: paramour, slang (lit.) bed-companion. See In These Holy Waters.
2luvan tagl: “singing hair” (lit: singing hair-strand)
3Melishkan mathár: Melishk bear witness

MISC NOTES
- Yestarë is the first day of the year in Elven calendars, also the first day of spring. See In These Holy Waters.

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