Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

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9. Vassal

“I would give everything to thee, but not as a stray once smiled upon who ever after limps hopefully at thy heels; to be some brittle leaf, wind-tossed and in its delusion of flight thinking it might reach the sun. Nay, there is no choosing for me, Nóm, thou knowest my choice already—writ as plain upon my face as in the thoughts I know thou hast seen. I do not ask thee to make my choice, I ask thee to make thine own.”

But when a year had passed Felagund wished to return to his own country, Bëor begged leave to come with him

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311th YEAR OF THE SUN, LATE SPRING
Estolad

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The scent of fresh timber rose sharp and warm through the breeze. Balan shifted the wedge further down the trunk and swung the heavy mallet against it, watching in satisfaction as the crack cascaded along the length of the wood. It eased him to send his anger shivering through the log’s veins, splitting it open instead of tracing the growing fissure within himself. He shifted the wedge again, lifted the mallet, swung.

The others had left off the task hours ago and he was quickly losing light as well. But it was a relief to work alone. With none about, it mattered little if he let his mind lie blank, filled only with the rhythm of splitting and shaping wood. It dulled the helpless despair that had clutched at him this past fortnight, ever since Nóm announced his imminent departure. Besides, working alone meant any task he completed lay free from that tangle of memories, gathered now like thorns about the whole of Estolad. How was he to live on here in peace when every hut, every clod of earth, every lintel and hearth stone bore the memory of Nóm’s presence? When every pillar of the growing hall pulsed still with his touch?

Here was the sheep pen he built with Baran, the hazel branches curved between the posts where he wove them in supple patterns. There was the boulder beside the well, shaped in the image of Eimet’s hound. Hathus joked that it had a similar profile when the hound rested beside it one day and Nóm had carved it into the likeness, mouth hanging open in a canine smile and the tongue lolling out toward the water trough, much to the amusement of the children who now quibbled for turns riding upon the stone back. Even the shirt he wore now bore its own hoard of memories. It was overlarge and thus had been passed to Nóm after the Orc skirmish, until his could be mended or replaced. This same cloth that rasped Balan’s skin had pulled taught across the other’s shoulders; the embroidered hems, gold and red against the fading blue, had felt the soft touch of his fingers as he explored their intricate motifs. Now it hung loose over Balan’s frame, the patterns rolled up above his elbows, the only touch his clinging sweat.

The blows fell with increased furor as he tried again to drown out the riot of thought. But the weariness of the day had grown heavy and his stroke fell akilter, knocking the wedge loose to strike against his shin. He swore and dropped the mallet, reaching down to rub the bruise as he murmured imprecations at log and tools alike.

“Vatta.” Baran had approached quietly and now stood just across from him in the shadow of the rising Hall. He had scrubbed himself of the day’s labor and appeared irritatingly fresh and cool in his clean tunic and britches. “Come away, you’ve worked long enough.”

“Nay, I’ll finish this last.”

“Vatta.” His son reached out and grasped the haft of the mallet as Balan moved to lift it again. “It’s enough. Let it lie for the night.”

“I said I’ll finish it.”

It needed only a light tug for Baran to pull it free of his father’s grip. “If you were any other, I’d have ordered you off the work entirely. You’ve driven yourself past exhaustion in pursuit of it—and for what? There is no urgency to raising the Hall, and it would bring only hardship upon our people were you needlessly injured, or worse.”

Balan glowered at his son, wiping away the sweat that dripped into his eyes. “I’m in no danger.”

“You sleep poorly, you eat less. Then you spend every hour driving yourself to the brink here in order to begin it over again the next morn.” Baran set the mallet aside with the other tools, then turned back toward his father. His voice lost its air of authority and became quiet, almost boyish. “You think we don’t notice, but we’re all keenly aware. We’re worried for you, Bel and I—and madja too.”

Balan looked up as though seeing him for the first time in their conversation, and was chastened to note the lines of concern running through his features. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, stepping back from the half-split timber. “I’ll leave off. I’ve no wish to cause you grief.” 

Baran nodded and dug the toe of his shoe into the loose dirt, turning over little furrows in distraction. “Whatever it is that’s gone awry,” he added after a long hesitation, not meeting the other’s eye, “resolve it ere he’s gone. We need more than the ghost of you.” 

His father’s brows drew together in surprise, but Baran had turned and made his way back toward the village before Balan knew what to reply. 

Others could see it too, then. He looked down at the little pattern of lines his son had left in the soil and admitted there was some comfort in knowing the distance was not merely the invention of his own private worry. Yet that comfort came at the cost of confirming that his fear was grounded. Something had gone awry. 

He reached the well and dragged the cover from its mouth, lifted the bucket from the hook beneath the thatch, let it fall into the dark. 

A pause. 

The distorted splash, echoing up to wash through his ears.

Every action was slow and deadened, as though he sat outside himself, observing his body in its accustomed patterns. It seemed to move apart from his own thought in a way that both mesmerized and disturbed him. He watched as his hands grasped the rope, passing one over the other in a lethargic ritual, until the bucket reached the top and he grasped its handle, pulling it to rest on the stone ledge. His eyes fixed on the water rippling within its bounds and it took a conscious act of will to move forward and dip his hands under the surface. This was what awaited. A life with his soul broken out from his body, his body a muscle memory of what once impelled it. He was fractured already, he realized. From the moment his spirit leapt out toward Nóm’s, it had never fully returned to him. Some burning, vital part of himself was caught within the other’s breast, and he had little heeded the absence while some bit of Nóm’s spirit had lodged too within his own, making up the difference. But the loss of him brought the loss of that as well and Balan felt a crack opening in his very being. 

He plunged his face into the bucket to clear the haze, splashing water over his neck and running the drenched fingers back through his hair. He was a coward. For nearly a year he had burned with this certainty of devotion, the settled tranquility of love, but never a word of it had crossed his lips. And now he stood silent still while his heart’s desire had closed him out, and would within a few short days be gone beyond any hope of retrieval. 

“Fool,” Balan spat at his reflection. “Spineless sheep.”

The mirror image looked back at him, rippled and distorted, the haggard features mocking his passion. The very thought was laughable. Vigorously, he scrubbed his arms in the water to break apart the likeness. What would a confession have gained but to turn Nóm from him even sooner at the shock such a ludicrous notion? He could not bear to see the disappointment wash over the other’s face, as surely it would, a blended pity and offense as he took in the presumption. Then Balan felt his gut go cold. Of course, that was precisely what had already occurred. The mingled thought, Balan’s increasingly transparent affection, his unguarded flirtation amid the snowdrop blossoms…how had he imagined there was anything left to confess? Nóm had seen it all and had closed him off in disgust. Here was the fault line of their rupture, and it was all of his own doing.

The mortification bore down upon him and he wished in panic that the other’s departure was at once rather than several days hence, that he might never have need to face him with this knowledge burning shame through every fiber. 

But no, Baran was right. To let Nóm depart with this unresolved would leave an open wound till his last years were spent. He must know the truth of what caused their breach or he would ever wonder if it had been naught but his imagination.

He drew the cover back over the well and set off for the woods, knowing without question where the other would be found. When Nóm began avoiding their afternoons along the riverside, Balan had at first joined him on the little bluff overlooking the flax fields. But the distance had grown palpable, their silence no longer held companionship, and Balan found it a greater pain to trace that rift together than to avoid those times alone entirely. Which, in turn, had led to the furious productivity that now filled his days. 

He saw the clearing through the trees ahead and drew a breath to steady himself. The dizzy fire still ran through his veins whenever he neared the other, and approaching now with his intent in mind set it burning through his gut as well—sharp, tickling adrenaline that brushed nausea along the base of his stomach. He neglected the customary nudge of thought as he crossed into the fading twilight. Nóm too had eschewed the practice these past weeks, instead making his approach deliberately audible so as to render it unnecessary. The absence of this was the final blow that convinced Balan his fears were grounded and there had indeed been some rupture between them. Never since Nóm’s arrival had he been without that steady presence at the edge of his mind, dipping in and out with a familiar intimacy that Balan coveted. And then when it had gone, he felt the world crumbling in upon him, the blank despair of a life stretching ahead without any remission to the solitude.

His heart ached as he neared and saw the other silhouetted against the sky. Nóm sat upon a broken crag, his knees drawn up before him and arms wrapped loosely about them. He was still as a carved image looking out over the valley below, the occasional ripple of wind through his hair the only sign of movement. Balan was breathless at the beauty of him; breathless too at the helpless dread that he would never again come upon him like this, vulnerable in the intimacy of this year’s camaraderie, and his eyes traced over the other’s form, gleaning every detail for the winter’s famine. Only he gathered now with no hope of spring. 

Nóm turned as the gaze passed over him and, despite Balan’s fear, there was warmth in his weary smile. “Glad am I to see thee, meldonya,” he said, then his brows drew together in concern. “What is it, Balan? Thy face is a portent of woe.”

“Tis plain enough, I’ll grant thee, but surely not so ill-featured as that,” Balan retorted, unable to hold back the wry quip.

“Aye, and thy tongue a blithe fiend ever parrying my concern.” A wash of mirth eased Finrod’s features, but the disquiet did not leave his eyes. “I’ll not be diverted. What weighs upon thee?”

Balan hesitated. The momentary relief of their easy exchange had dulled his anxiety and he wondered again if it was not all of his own imagining. Then he recalled his son’s words and forced himself to meet the other’s eye. “Lord,” he said quietly, “have I offended you in some way?”

Finrod’s face fell, stung by the formal address. “Offended me? Nay never, Balan. Not in word or in deed.”

“I am eased to hear it." Balan traced the toe of his shoe through the loose soil in an echo of Baran’s earlier gesture. “Nevertheless, I cannot but fear something has gone amiss between us. You were my dearest friend, closer than any other I have known. You knew my heart ere I uttered it, understood it ere I laid it bare. You see me with a clarity I could scarce imagine and by such have drawn me out into the fullness of myself, whole beyond hope, joyful beyond measure.” The pointed formality failed him and he fell back into the intimate address. “Yet now thou hast fenced me out. We speak in trivialities, as acquaintances meeting in the day’s tasks, passing naught of consequence between us. I see thee shy away from our earlier points of friendship, I enter and thou soon wilt find cause to depart, I speak to thee and I feel the doors tighten. What wrong have I done thee, lord? Tell me—where is the hurt or what have I broken? Name it, I beg thee, so that in knowing I might see some road to mending it ere thou art gone from me.”

Finrod had grown increasingly distressed as he listened. “Ai, Balan, this is my doing,” he broke in as the other finished, his voice wrung with regret. “There is no hurt, my dearest friend—at least none of thy causing. Naught hast thou broken; indeed, if any have done so, it is I. I too have treasured thy companionship above all others, for as thou hast named, so too thou hast done: in thine eyes I am seen with a discernment that brings me near to healing. Bless thee for it, Balan, never have I felt such till in thy company. And forgive me—I thought to lessen the pain and instead I have furthered it.”

”To lessen it?” Balan’s voice was incredulous. “By what conjurings didst thou imagine distance should cause aught but heartache?”

“By a gradual tapering…it was a selfish assessment.” Finrod looked down at his hands as he spoke. He had been turning a twig about in his fingers and he fixed his gaze on its smooth surface, his voice quiet. “Keenly shall I feel the loss of thee—and coward that I am, I sought to ease the parting by degrees, not thinking how that might seem to thee. I have hurt thee, whom above all I would spare from grief, and I am sorry for it.” His voice faltered and he squeezed the twig hard within his fist until the wood bit the flesh. “More sorry than I can say, to have thus squandered our remaining hours.” 

Balan felt the barriers crack, a brush of warmth, the familiar touch behind his eyes. The other’s remorse rippled over him, and with that intimacy he felt his own heartbeat return. The world about him lived and breathed and had form once again through the rewoven thought. Beyond Nóm’s head he saw the stars glimmer through the oncoming twilight: Anarríma, Soronúmë, Telumendil, Wilwarin, the Valacirca…his heart faltered. Their hope was cold, their comfort lost. What was it Nóm had said upon that other hilltop, all those months and leagues ago? The Seven Stars triumphant in the north, proclaiming we are not abandoned. How then could he—the only semblance of a messenger the Valar deigned to send them—sit here now, bright against the evening sky, his head crowned with that same silver sickle, and speak level words of his own coming desertion? 

It was not desertion. Balan forced himself back from his own passion to reason once again as a chieftain. For Nóm to remain with them would be the true act of abandonment, choosing leisure and joy when his obligation lay bound to his people. They were neither of them free, and thus there was no avoiding a break. The only choosing was where it should fracture.

Finrod shifted aside to make room upon the outcropping, a tentative smile offered in contrition. “Wilt thou join me now, late as is my asking? Or is it thy preference to remain the brooding presence at my back?” 

His voice drifted through the other’s musings and Balan heard the smile within it. His heart kindled his resolve and any hesitation burned away.

“I will join thee,” he said and walked forward to stand before the king. “If thou wilt grant me leave. Let me return with thee.”

“To Nargothrond?”

“Yes.” Balan’s courage melted away at the stunned tone. His mouth turned dry and he felt the carefully practiced words cleave to his tongue. “Let me be sworn to thee,” he managed hoarsely and held out his hands, pressed palm to palm, as he knelt. “As whatever thou wilt—servant, soldier, stable keep…”

“Stable keep!” Finrod hesitated for a moment, then reached out and moved Balan’s hands apart, holding them open upon his own. “Balan, I would have thee as a friend, not a servant.”

“I would follow thee as either, lord, only send me not from thy side.”

“Loth indeed am I to do so. But how can I accept any further troth? It is owed to thy people, and tis not mine to claim what is theirs by right. Should sheep be robbed of their shepherd just as they are set within a new pasture?”

“Baran will lead them.”

There was a long silence as Finrod considered. His heart had leapt into fire at the thought that the parting might yet be forestalled, that there could be years more in the solace of his company, in the warmth, the— He shook his head to clear it and focused on the other’s words. Baran had hardly crossed into manhood, this was a daydream not a solution. “He is young for that yet, is he not?”

“Not for our folk.” Balan shifted uncomfortably at the half truth, then shrugged. “Well, perhaps more than is usual. But he is older than I when I took it up, and already the better leader. I promised to bring my people through the passes, to find for them a land where they might prosper, and I have fulfilled that bond. Why should I now keep my son from flourishing only because I refused to relinquish what never suited me from the start?”

“Balan…”

“I am made to follow, Nóm. I understand this of myself as truly as I know the sun brings warmth and water may both quench and suffocate. All these years I’ve led not from my own nature but from necessity, and now that I may, I would set it aside. Baran is ready.”

“And so thou wouldst follow me.”

“I would.”

“To dwell among my people.”

“Aye.” Then he added, as though in justification,“Thou hast dwelt among mine.”

Finrod nodded, his eyes darting over the hilltop as he sorted the racing thoughts. “It is very different from this.”

“So I’d surmised.” Then a sinking thought crossed Balan’s mind and his face clouded. “Or is it my difference that concerns thee? That thy people wouldst think thee shamed by uncouth company?”

“No!” The lines of his face stood out in sharp disapproval. “Thou hast heeded overmuch the discourtesies of my cousins’ folk. Thy company is ever a balm, ever my joy—indeed the greatest I have known.” He reached out to cup his hand against Balan’s cheek, and the prickle of beard against palm sent lightening dancing down Finrod’s spine. “But I fear to draw thee away from thy folk, or to set thee isolated in a strange kingdom, caught beneath the hills like the ghomennin’s prey.” A wan smile split his lips at this last and he withdrew his hand, moving it back to rest against the crag once more.

“Thou hast my soul already, ghomenno,” Balan murmured, halfway between jest and confession. “What more is there to take?”

Finrod looked up at him and for a moment he wavered. All, all, all, he longed to whisper into the tangled midnight of his hair, to gasp across the curve of his lips, every remaining day of thee; soul, body, heart... It was only by an iron clamp of will that he held back from falling to his knees before the other, that he might set his cheek once more in the valley above his hip and feel the arms twined again, tight vines about his shoulders—only this time he would beg never to be released.

Instead he gripped the rock beneath him and sought strength from its rigor, cold against his palms. There was only anguish upon the road he desired. An hour’s joy, a moment’s ecstasy, and then the long march of grief in its wake. Any love would surely be drowned in those bitter waters. Nay, it was better to be as this bedrock, solid and immovable, a sure foundation over which the years passed as wind through the meadow. Let the will be stone and not fire, for stone could yet be carved into beauty, a lasting remembrance of untasted love.

“Thy joy,” Finrod answered at last, “thy peace and contentment would be taken. Dearest Balan, I fear thou wouldst but resent me in the end, should I yield to my own wish—and thine, and grant thee leave to ride at my side. Thy place is here, thy peace is here.”

“My peace? What peace should I have save at thy side? Anarinya thou didst name me, there in the deeps of winter. And elenya thou art to me, the light that binds me to hope, which holds my eyes in the night, which steadies me in the darkness. Do not take that hope from me.” His eyes were bright, pleading, and he knelt again on the crumbling limestone. “I would not be parted from thee.”

“Nor I from thee.”

“Then lord,” Balan held out the clasped hands again, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice, “wilt thou not accept my service?”

Finrod hesitated as the hands hovered before him and grew dizzy with his own vacillation. After all, could he not maintain their current stasis in Nargothrond as well as here? Let him be sworn as a servant and lean on that boundary where resolve alone might fail. There would be grief still, of course, but surely…Finrod reached out and took Balan’s hands within his own. They pulsed warm against his palms, the honeyed brown vibrant within his own pale fingers, and he knew himself close to acquiescence. Then a shadow passed over his face and he moved them back toward the other and released his hold. “I dare not.”

Balan crumpled before him. “Then tell me!” he cried. “Tell me what thou wouldst have me do.”

“How can I? Counsel I may give thee, yes, but to judge for thee? No creature may do that for another without compromising the integrity of both.”

“Counsel? Thy counsel is to speak yea from one side of thy mouth and nay from the other. Be not parted, but remain not too near. Go forth, but remain ever in my place. How is this counsel?” Balan had risen to his feet as he spoke and flung out his arms in resignation. “Tell me. What is it thou wouldst have of me?”

“Ask me not!” Finrod did not meet his eye. “I know not, even for myself.”

Balan’s laugh rang out, bitter and unnaturally bright. He turned away.

“It is no lie. All my thoughts are in confusion, my senses run scattered when I would lay hand to them. I know not how to discern my own wish, much less distinguish upon which road lies the wiser path.” Finrod's eyes darted over the grass and his hands rested clenched upon his knees. “My heart tells me this truly, at least: I want thy friendship.”

Balan’s shoulders stiffened as he remained looking out over the precipice.

“Nay, Balan, hear it not coldly in the crossed understanding of tongues. Companionship lies nearer, I deem.”

“But ever from afar.”

“I would not have it so.”

“Wouldst thou not?” Balan turned back at last, his face wrung with feeling. “Then bid me stay by thee. I would follow thee anywhere, dost thou understand me? I would give up everything, leave all of this if only to walk beside thee for one day—yea, for one hour longer. But I cannot choose it if thou wilt not accept it.” He passed a hand over his face and his voice caught as he continued. “I would give everything to thee, but not as a stray once smiled upon who ever after limps hopefully at thine heels; to be some brittle leaf, wind-tossed and in its delusion of flight thinking it might reach the sun. Nay, there is no choosing for me, Nóm, thou knowest my choice already—writ as plain upon my face as in the thoughts thou hast so lately scorned. I do not ask thee to make my choice, I ask thee to make thine own.”

The air was thick with the responding silence. Finrod sat motionless, his eyes fixed on Balan’s, his lips parted in anticipation of speech that would not come.

“I see.”

“Balan…”

“Yes is a simple enough word.” Balan’s face was etched with the fury of his grief. “Athon. Sá. Nai, even. But I see thee instead pondering how to explain without wounding me. No matter. It is the blow struck in silence that fells the swiftest. I take my leave.” He turned abruptly and walked back toward the village. 

“Balan, wait. Balan!” Finrod watched him fade into the trees, but sat frozen in place upon the stone. “Melmenya…” his voice cracked as he whispered the last, long after Balan was beyond earshot. And then his own despair crashed upon him.

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It was deep night by the time Finrod returned to the village. At first he could not, for the wave of misery left him weeping incoherently on the hilltop, his hands pressed to the grass and rock where Balan had knelt. Then he dared not, for he feared to face the other again in the aftermath of their quarrel. He would not meet forgiveness there, for he had seen Balan’s eyes and knew that cutting glance well enough to expect little quarter from its fury, and to cross him again in anger was equally unthinkable. So he lingered long hours on the unyielding rock until he knew all would long since have sought their beds. Then his feet led him by hesitant and winding paths back toward the sleeping village. 

It was peaceful in this little wood, beneath the blanket of night. The aroma of wet earth and burgeoning leaves washed through his senses and he let his mind run loose among the sounds of skittering creatures and the cries of night birds in the branches above. It reminded him of his former wanderings, the early days of their arrival in Beleriand when he meandered for leagues upon leagues, every leaf a new discovery, every call a song unheard, every light through the trees the possibility of revelation. His heart caught in his throat once again. Could he ever again wander light-hearted and free through Endorë’s forests, when each clearing held the memory of Atani fires?

As if in answer to his pondering, he reached the edge of the thicket and looked down into the village below. His judgement had been wrong—a fire burned yet upon the common green, marking that not all were abed, and a single figure sat hunched beside its coals. Finrod’s keen sight sought out the face. 

Balan, awake and waiting yet, keeping vigil with the embers.

A pang of tenderness stabbed through him at the sight and he caught his breath, reaching out to steady his hand against a nearby tree. It was even as he first saw him, peering through the trees, the fire’s glow sharpening each feature, the warmth of him radiating out through the night. How his heart had leapt at that first glimpse, and at the sound of Balan’s voice that drifted toward him in song, both music and features plain but pleasant and captivating him in an instant. Finrod had loved him even then, he realized as he watched him anew through the branches. 

“Holy Manwë,” he whispered into the midnight air, “have pity upon us. Guide me now, I beg of you. Grant me wisdom in my great need, ere my feet falter in this confusion and set all amiss.” But he was not Findekáno, and no eagle flew either to stay or to speed him. Only a sleepy sparrow, disturbed from slumber, flitted from her nest to his arm and chirped at him in drowsy confusion. Alémi, he recalled Balan’s words as he watched the bird hop along his arm and fly back to settle on the branch above, Little Sparrow I named her in her mother’s tongue.

Oh Balan, Anarinya, beloved…what a life of loss. And now he too would add one more to that ever-growing tally, compounding that grief which he longed only to comfort. Balan, Anarinya…

Finrod stepped forward from the trees, crossing the distance to the dying fire as though walking in a dream. Balan did not look up as he reached the light, nor even as he crossed to stand before him, to sit at his side with their arms touching lightly as they had in the golden afternoons beside the Celon. 

He did not look up until Nóm’s voice drifted through him, sound and caress, word and action.

“Yes.”

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Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
Anarinya: [Q] my sun
Elenya: [Q] my star
Athon: [S] yes, I will
Sá: [Q[ yes
Nai: [Q] perhaps

TALISKA INVENTIONS
For the most part, all faux-Taliska is loosely inspired by or modeled on Germanic-Gothic
- Vatta: father
- Madja: aunt (mother’s sister)

MISC NOTES
- For an explanation of the ghomennin, see chapter 2, Grief in All Her Guises.