Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

| | |

8. In Memory Untarnished

Finrod had felt the cold creep over him at his brother’s words. It was come, then, as he knew it would from the moment he saw Aikanáro’s eyes across the great hall at Ladros, struck through in a single moment with the shock, the gulf, the sudden rush of illumination and despair.

Aegnor comes to Tol Sirion seeking his brother’s advice as he navigates the complexities of his love for Andreth.


384th YEAR OF THE SUN, SUMMER
The Tower of Minas Tirith, Tol Sirion

Finrod stood motionless before the window in his chambers, letting the warm breeze wash over his face as he waited for his brother to join him. Aikanáro had arrived in the mid-afternoon, striding in with his traveling cloak wrapped about him, the mud speckled upon its hem in a stark contrast to the formality of the other gathered lords.

Hanno, I have need of thy counsel.

Finrod had felt the cold creep over him at his brother’s words. It was come, then, as he knew it would from the moment he saw Aikanáro’s eyes across the great hall at Ladros, struck through in a single moment with the shock, the gulf, the sudden rush of illumination and despair. It had been months now, but his brother’s face was as vivid before him yet as in the moment. Finrod’s heart had lurched at the sight as his body recalled the revelation within his own veins and he felt the bond between hröa and fëa shudder, falter. Oh Aikanáro…little Sátinwë, no… With trepidation, he followed his brother’s gaze across the room to rest on Andreth where she stood beside Bregor, her hair falling loose from the braid that swung at her back. She had just released his brother after teaching him one of their dances, leading him careening through the lines with Beril and Bregor close behind, and now stood laughing with the fire’s glow full upon her face.

He remembered when Bëor taught him that dance, and he too laughed watching Finrod’s careful adherence to the whirl of steps and clapping. “Too precise!” he had called as they came up at the end of the lines. “It’s not meant to be beautiful, Nóm, it’s meant to be loud.”

Andreth’s eyes held that same mirth as she looked back at his brother, the same amused affection that noted all his ritual etiquette and laughed it away in a glance. “Leave thy marching for the siege lines, Náro, this is dancing not soldiering.”

Finrod’s breath caught in his throat. He watched Aikanáro step forward and take Andreth’s outstretched hands, his brother’s face as one caught between dream and waking. “Again!” she called and they leapt back into the mayhem, Aegnor’s cropped hair hovering about his head, gilded like the sun by the room’s firelight; hers unraveling from the braid into a rush of night, wrapping about him as they spun. It will snuff him out, Finrod thought wildly, airë Valaron, he will be lost. The room wavered before him and he swayed, stepped back.

“Come outside, Nóm.” 

Belen’s voice. Cracked and roughened with age, but Belen’s voice nonetheless. 

“Thou and I both could do with the balm of night air in our lungs.”

Finrod nodded wordlessly and took the back of his chair, wheeling him out toward the open door. He was steadied by the press of solid wood against his palms and the rhythmic creaking of the wheels. It had been a gift from Gildor, a decade or more past, when Belen’s old injury began to show its toll. The two had become fast friends during Belen’s time in Nargothrond and Gildor took it upon himself to design and craft the chair when he saw his friend’s persistent suffering. Belen was delighted by the gift, at first using it only when the pain grew dire, then within a few years he came to rely on it fully. “It needs only Váya to draw it,” he teased Finrod when Gildor first pushed him across the village square, “and we’ll have me back to the cart I arrived in.” 

Finrod blinked back tears as he wheeled his friend out into the night air. How was that bright, daydreaming boy the man before him now, already old and grey as his father and brother before him? He had grown increasingly feeble of late and Finrod saw the little glances of farewell when Belen took in the world about him. He had not known it for what it was when Bëor’s eyes began that pattern, but he recognized it now as the herald he feared. It would not be long. Finrod brought the chair to rest at the edge of a low wall and moved to sit upon the stone at Belen’s side.

“You saw, then.” Finrod fell back into Taliska without a thought, the rush of memories carrying his tongue along with them.

“Aye.” Belen watched him quietly and there was sympathy in the dark wells of his eyes, so like his father’s. “You must have known you would never be the only ones to face it.”

“I should have, I grant you.” Finrod passed his hands over his face and his voice was tired. “But then, there are many things I should have known.”

“And many you could not till our peoples learned the way of each other. Wise you may be, Nóm,” he added with a creased smile that still carried the roguish mirth of his youth, “but you are not clairvoyant.” They sat in silence until Belen reached out and rested a hand on Finrod’s shoulder. “There were none to tell you the map of grief when you found him. Your brother needn’t walk blind as you did.”

Finrod could still feel the weight of his hand as he stood in his chambers before the open window, and he dashed the tears from his cheeks. Belen was gone. He answered the summons only a few weeks after that final conversation, the last remnant of Thalos, and the grief of it had settled upon Finrod like a winter’s mantle. 

“Ingoldo?”

The air in the room shifted as his brother entered and Finrod pressed aside his grief. He could not allow it to guide his tongue. Any admission of his own weakness in this would mark a precedent, and that would serve only to set his brother on the same path to anguish. Silence would be the cost of his former cowardice.

“Aikanáro.” Finrod walked toward him, arms outstretched, and managed a welcoming smile. “Hanno. I am glad to see thee.”

“And I thee,” Aegnor replied as he embraced him. He lingered as he had in childhood, when he would fly to the safety his brother’s arms and nestle against the strong neck, the willowy shoulders, and feel his pain dissipate against the steady heartbeat. Empty comfort now, he thought bitterly. What were the griefs of Valinor—a scraped knee, a cousin’s insult…

“Sátinwë.” Finrod too had been reminded of the impetuous child he once held and he called him by his old nickname, taking him gently by the shoulders as his face softened in compassion. “Come,” he said and led him toward the hearth. “Sit and we will speak till thy burden is eased.”

Aikanáro lowered himself into one of the chairs and watched as Finrod crossed to a small cabinet and retrieved a decanter and two glasses, which he set on the table before the fire. The wine shone like ruby against the flames, the tint dancing over Finrod’s hands as it was poured. As our blood that holds me tied, came the maudlin thought at once, then he reached out and took the cup Finrod offered.

“Now then,” Finrod said and settled into his chair, attempting to minimize the anxious set of his shoulders within its folds. “Tell me what troubles thee.”

Aikanáro sipped from the wine and fixed his eyes on the fire. He had ridden like a gale from the eastern marches of Dorthonion, overcome with the conviction that this tempest within him would ease, if only he could bare it to his brother. Each night the conflict raged as he lay in the dark, each morning the decision remained postponed. He was in two minds at all hours, neither having mastery of the other, until the ground itself felt as rolling waves beneath his feet, and ever his anger grew at his own indecision. Bitterly, he recalled Findekáno’s laugh as Maitimo retorted ask Atandil to his cousin’s crude jest. The three of them had been deep in wine then, relating half-muddled rumors of what their people imagined were the anatomical differences between First and Secondborn. He burned with shame to think of it now—how childish it seemed in retrospect. But “ask Atandil” had lodged in his thought and he lit upon it as his salvation. If any would hear him without laughter, it would be he. And if any would counsel from understanding and not prejudice, surely it would be Ingo, who already had loved and lost and must know the tearing indecision that wracked his heart.

But Aegnor had seen the brief flash of terror in his brother’s eyes when he arrived and declared his need for counsel, the deepening lines that lingered on Ingoldo’s face even after the eyes regained their merry welcome, and he hesitated now with the moment upon him. He had not considered in his mad rush what pain he would delve in the other by his plea. His brother’s eyes were upon him again and he felt the concern growing with each moment the silence drew on. He focused on the dancing fire and carefully, tentatively let the question slip out.

“If…love was to arise between one of the Quendi and one of the Atani, what should be done?”

It was Finrod now who hesitated, mirroring his brother’s earlier motion and sipping from his cup to gain a moment. The question was at once more direct and more distanced than he had expected, and he met it on its own grounds. “By the pair in question or by the lord whose permission they sought?”

“I would find interest in the answers to both,” came the reply, Aegnor still not meeting the other’s eye.

“Then I shall give thee one which serves the twain.” Finrod breathed a silent plea to Manwë, to Nienna, to any Vala who would hearken that they might lend him what strength he had not possessed in his own time of trial, that his brother would not follow after him from the same waiting precipice. “They should part, as soon as may be, ere a bond is knit that cannot be unknit. Naught but doubled grief lies in crossing such a gulf and less pain should there be for both in a swift ending, voluntary and not sundered by what is beyond our power to alter.” The old wound ached anew as he felt the pain seep out from his brother. “Is it a love confessed or merely suspected?”

“It is known,” Aikanáro said; a short, sharp whisper, his heart in free-fall. “Though not yet spoken.”

“That is some mercy, then.”

“It is merciful to abandon? Thou spoke otherwise in Araman.”

Another glimpse of childhood, the tiny fists lashing against him while he soothed the tears, falling hot and angry upon his tunic. Finrod took the blow in silence, even as he had then. “Mercy seeks to spare the other pain—mercy and love,” he said after a long pause. “Is there not as much love, more perhaps, in choosing for the other’s good, though it means a loss for thine own desire?”

Aegnor’s glance was sharp, questioning as he met his brother’s eye at last and saw there only sorrow and compassion.

“Didst thou think it hidden?” Finrod asked gently. “Nay, dear one, I too was there amid the dancing of Bregor’s wedding feast. I saw thee then with the doom writ upon thy face, and I saw her too—bright and eager and the firelight upon her hair. I have known, Aikanáro. I have grieved for thee.”

“Is it certain to be grief, then?”

“What else should come of a union between those whose fates are thus sundered?”

“Surely some joy could be salvaged in what years there would be. She is young yet, even by the measure of her kind.”

“As thou art by thine.” A wave of jealousy rose with the calculation—nearly twice the years they might have to what Balan had lived at his side. He tasted the bitterness like copper on his tongue, fouling the pity it spoke only a moment before, then he shook the feeling away. What would those years have brought save a greater rending at the loss? “There would be joy,” he continued at last. “For a day, an hour…and what then, hanno? Their years are swift as the meadow’s blossoms, passing as quickly as they appeared, and thou left widowed for all the ages of Arda.”

“And yet we do not love flowers the less for their brevity, nor scorn to hold their memory sacred through the months that follow.”

“For we know they will grow anew when the seasons turn.” A spasm of pain crossed his features as his mind leapt to the image of snowdrops in a golden meadow. “There is no returning springtime when they have passed, no thaw to the frost that would settle over thee. It would be loss irreconcilable, beyond even the ending of the world. I cannot wish it upon thee.”

Aikanáro fell silent, turning the wine glass in his hand, and he felt his anger growing as the conversation drew on. This was no different than his own nightly wrestling. Why did his brother say it not? Surely he must realize that others had known. How could they speak till his burden was eased if the very place where their burdens met remained unacknowledged? “What is it like,” he asked at last, turning his eyes intently upon the other, “that sundering?”

Finrod’s knuckles whitened against the cup he held. He shook his head, his face a mask of composure. “I cannot tell thee how it would be.”

“Canst thou not? I thought if any, thou wouldst know.”

“I?”

“Hast thou not taken them as thine own? Did not Bëor dwell long years with thee in close friendship—in thine own household even? If any could tell me…”

“I know not. Long years indeed there must be ere the toll of that cost would be known. How can any of us say?”

Aegnor saw again the flash of anguish in his brother’s eyes, the weary grief of one who contemplates an ever mounting pain, and he faltered in his attack. “Canst thou not guess?” he asked, and his voice eased into a plea.

“What fruit is there in guessing? We may reason this way or that, but it is a pain that cannot be known until it is upon thee. So I deem, at least.”

“That hurt I would bear gladly, that her life might be spent in joy.”

Finrod felt the echo of that heady devotion within him, the memory of its fervor reverberating through his bones, and he was drawn back in an instant. He saw the dark eyes looking up into his own, radiating delight as he pressed in against him, the contentment of the sturdy hand slipping into his, that same hand sprawled lazily across the linens of his bed while Finrod traced each finger with his lips, marking the lines of home, of peace. Indeed, there was no questioning then, only conviction and light and longing. There was only Balan beneath him, Balan tangled in his arms, the sharp gasp that set his own soul on fire, igniting a deep, burning need to give, to love, to offer up the world in nourishment for this strange heart beating within his own. Then, as with every memory now, the hand shriveled as he watched, fell limp, the linens drew up in a shroud. He shuddered and stood, crossing to stand before the fire. 

“Gladly thou thinkest now,” his voice was little more than a whisper as he watched the dancing flames, “but thou hast not yet felt her slip each hour from thy grasp, nor watched as new creases appeared upon her face, new lines across her hands, marking every year that draws her relentlessly from thee. Thou hast not yet known her eyes dimmed or her voice cracked and roughened, nor yet felt the steady hands quaver, frail within thine own. Nor hast thou wrapped her in ever thicker blankets because the chill of age would not relent.” Finrod’s voice broke and he gripped the mantle’s edge before him. He was treading too near. “I have seen it in all those first friends I loved, each one gone now beyond the bounds of Arda, and naught I do can ease the loss of them. But still thou wilt say this pain thou wouldst bear willingly, and I confess I too see the draw of such reasoning. But know that she would bear it as well. Men were not made to dwell so, with their fate set thus starkly alongside our own so that it must appear only an ill in the comparison. What trials would weigh upon her should she live at thy side and see only herself slipping away, while all eyes were upon her marking the speed of her years? She is proud and self-reliant, Aikanáro, as are all the line of Bëor. Would she not suffer to find herself an object of our judgment and pity?”

“We could flee.” The light in Aegnor’s eyes had taken on a fevered intensity. “South, east…there are wide lands yet beyond the scope of our leaguer.”

“And return to that which her people fled? Where death’s shadow lies yet more heavily? It would but lessen her years at thy side, to say nothing of those you would leave behind in your flight. And being bound so, dost thou imagine thine own grief could be concealed? She would know it each day thou marked a change in her and would feel every instance a new wound in her heart.” Finrod’s face grew brittle as he spoke. “And when she is gone, memory would make a mockery of thy joy, each moment bound ever in the knowledge of its ending.”

“She would not be memory only.” Aegnor spoke softly, hesitant now to tear at the unacknowledged wound. “She would be carried too in the eyes of any children. Surely that is a balm worth the cost.”

“I know not,” Finrod said and he was reminded again of that last conversation with Belen, loss compounding loss. “We’ve no certainty yet whether a child would be possible from such a union. And were it so—“

“Ingo!”

“And were it so,” he pressed forward, holding up his hand to quiet his brother, “which I do believe to be the case, remember where thou art. Wouldst thou bring a child, fragile and first of its kind, into the knife’s edge of war? The dam is ready to burst.” He gestured toward Aikanáro’s cropped hair. “Or is thy demeanor mere habit and no longer conviction?”

“Thy words are harsh.”

“War is harsh. The sundering is harsh.” Then his voice softened as he looked on his brother. “I would not have thee think otherwise.”

“Tell me, then,” Aegnor said, and his voice was tight, deadened, “what is thy edict?”

Finrod was silent. Then at length he crossed to kneel beside him and took his brother’s face gently within his palms, turning it to meet his eyes. Their faces shone together in the firelight, the kinship leaping across and grief mirroring each upon each. “There is no edict, Sátinwë,” he said at last, using again the childhood name of affection. “Thine is the choice before thee. But know this, dear one: love is not negated by sacrifice, nor is its beauty dimmed by restraint. There is pain before thee on either path, and upon both there lies a parting that will far too soon bare its teeth.” Tears pooled against his hands and Finrod wept as well to see his brother’s misery, its counterpoint throbbing yet within his own heart. “But thou hast asked my counsel, hanno, and it is this: take thy parting now while it is a choice thou canst make willingly. So may at least some of the pain be spared for you both, and you may hold memory untarnished, joy preserved rather than watching each as the gulf takes its wages while ye are powerless to hold time in check.” Finrod smoothed his brother’s hair back as the face crumpled before him and his own voice broke to a whisper. “If it was within our power to bridge that chasm, to knit together that gulf so that our fates were shared, we children of the One…dear kindred heart, I would have done so long hence.”

Aegnor’s last restraint broke at these words, the nearest admission he knew he would receive, and he slid from the chair as his brothers arms wrapped about him—and Sátinwë wept unhidden upon the safety of his shoulders. But there was no comfort now in the rolling heartbeat, only the steady sound of slipping time.

Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
Sátinwë: [Q] fire-spark, from sá and tinwë
Airë Valaron: holy Valar (pl)
Hanno: Quenya. “brother (diminutive)”
 

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment