Atandil by Eilinel's Ghost  

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10. A Shifting Mirage

“I have felt this role devour me, each year it has claimed; and as I watch you now I see its echo—the years it is kept from you devouring you in the same way. Why should I hold from you, my son, that which destroys me and would prosper you?”

Finrod and Balan say farewell to Estolad and begin the long road to Nargothrond.

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311^th YEAR OF THE SUN, LATE SPRING
Estolad

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“What does this mean?” Baran held the chieftain’s torque resting across his palms where his father laid it. His brows furrowed as he considered the twisted bronze and his voice was perplexed, laced with a vague unease.

“Nóm departs for his lands the morrow after next.” Balan kept his tone measured, but in the hushed mist amid the Hall’s framework it seemed to reverberate at twice its accustomed volume. “I intend to set forth with him.”

A tangle of expressions crowded over Baran’s face and for a long moment he stared at his father in silence. Then he gripped the torque in a fist and held it back toward him. “No,” he said at last. “I am not ready.”

“You’ve held more than half my duties since well before we walked the mountain passes—and all of them this past fortnight or more.” Balan set his hands behind his back, refusing the returned circlet. “You have long been ready, my son, and will make a far better chieftain than I.”

“The morrow after next…” 

“It was decided over-late, I know.”

“I asked you to find resolution so that we might have you whole, not that we might lose you utterly.”

“It is not utterly, Baran. We will have need of an emissary among them as we settle, as Marach’s people and the Haladin make their way over the mountains; and I have his trust, I speak their tongue more than do any of our folk—save Belen perhaps, but I’ll not send him away so young. Please hear me when I tell you I choose this path because of my duty, not so I might shirk it.”

“You choose this path because you cannot lace your own boots without him there to smile upon it.”

Balan fell silent, stung by his son’s unexpected vehemence. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and looked about at the skeleton beams of the Hall. They were unearthly in the morning mist, rising in sharp reprimand as though fingers of his ancestors had reached from the ground to point in accusation. It was a morbid thought and he shivered in its wake, shaking off the creeping unease that nested between his shoulder blades. “I know what it is to receive this without warning,” he said at last, his voice subdued. “I too was given headship of the clan long ere I expected it, and with as little warning as you. And for that I do beg your forgiveness. The suddenness of this shall ever be my regret. But I have felt this role devour me, each year it has claimed; and as I watch you now I see its echo—the years it is kept from you devouring you in the same way. Why should I hold from you, my son, that which destroys me and would prosper you?”

Baran made no reply. His jaw clenched against the warring emotions and his father watched as the face gradually hardened to steel, and felt his heart sink. It was the same expression he recalled from Baran’s childhood, shoring his tiny strength against the loss of his mother and taking up far more than his six years should bear. Balan felt his own determination waver at the thought of leaving him once more to navigate a new wash of responsibilities, billowing out from another parent’s loss. Was this after all a selfish indulgence?

But then he remembered Esrid’s voice as she held their son, rocking him gently while he slept against her shoulder, a boy of three summers worn out from a tempest of will. She had smiled up at Balan when he entered and murmured, weary and amused, “A will of iron, this one. He will be a good heir for your people, though I fear he must chafe at the waiting.”

She had seen it even then, and Balan could not deny the truth of her foresight. If he remained now, weary and burdened as he was, they would grow at odds as the years drew on. Baran had a clear vision for their people’s future in this land, and vision should be paired with action in one hand rather than divided between the two; with one dragging the other forward by reluctant degrees. Their people would flourish under his leadership, this Balan knew without a doubt, and a clean transition here at the start would give him the best foundation to bring that about.

“I know you’ve little wish to hear my reasoning in this moment,” he said gently, and reached out to lay his hand along Baran’s cheek, “but know that I do not choose this on a whim. I feel the conviction in my very soul: this is the path laid before me. I would follow it for our people, Baran, and serve them in the best way I might, that they too may have the chance to prosper—and you with them.”

“Cannot Nóm advocate for us himself? He has knowledge enough.”

“He will. But there is much yet for him to learn, customs and needs he would never think to consider. Our ways are as strange yet to them as theirs to us, and I could not abide our people falling at odds through misunderstanding if it lay within my power to dispel it.” Balan’s heart ached as he looked upon his son’s profile, outlined against the dissipating mist. In so many ways the face was his own, recalled from the water’s reflection of his youth, yet the mouth was Esrid’s, the eyes as well, and both were set now in a mirror of her resolve that he had never dared to cross. Yet he too bore stubbornness in his blood and his own certainty here was unshakable. He drew his hand back from the caress and held it extended toward his son. “I am determined in this, Baran, and I shall go, both for your sake and for the sake of our people. Only, if I may, I would go with your blessing.”

Baran’s face softened at this, but still he did not meet his father’s eye.“My love remains, as you are my father; and my duty you have, as I am your son. I give you my permission also, for I see you are set on this road and I do hear the reason in what you propose, much as my heart quails to think on it. But blessing sticks in my throat, vatta. Forgive me, but I cannot give it.”

His father kept his poise with an effort and the outstretched hand fell back at his side. “That is a fair concession,” he said heavily. “More indeed than I had hoped. And both love and permission shall I treasure through every step hence.” But his voice caught as he turned and his steps were slow to bear him back toward the village.

“It will break Belen, I fear.” Baran’s voice slipped after him, a quiet lash as he reached the Hall’s perimeter, and it dogged him through the remaining days.

His fear was grounded, Balan reflected as he stood watching them, his few chosen possessions stowed in the pack and saddle bags, and Elmorë lingering with Váya at the ready. Baran stood sullen and quiet, his shoulders set and the torque polished now and gleaming about his neck, while Belen hovered beside him, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. The past two days had been a whirl of preparations and discussions, and then the long draw of pointed silence as the specter of absence edged near. Balan’s resolve had nearly failed in the face of the parting, but he pressed down the growing dread and held steady; until at last he stood before them, lingering on the threshold of departure and unsure what farewell might be welcome.

Belen had not begged him to stay his departure, and that was perhaps the hardest to bear. If he had, Balan knew he could not have held his course. But Belen had been quiet when his father confessed his intent, nearly frozen—a fawn who felt the lion’s eye. “I understand,” were his only words, and then he left the hut to wander through the meadows, keeping company with the bay mare he had chosen from the herd.

“Carry this for luck.” Bel stepped forward from Baran’s side and pressed a pebble into his father’s hand. “For safety, rather,” he added, and Balan looked down at the stone upon his palm. It was shaped as the talismans of Esrid’s people and bore a thin line of characters carved about its circumference. He remembered finding a nearly identical charm tucked into the folds of Geberic’s tunic; placed there by Esrid’s fingers in the dawn light, only to be retrieved by Balan’s when evening came and he carried her husband’s body back from the field of battle. He felt his heart contract as Esrid’s son bestowed a twin talisman now at his own venturing forth and he reached out impulsively to gather Belen in his arms.

“You will let me follow, won’t you?” Belen’s voice was muffled against his father’s shoulder and his embrace clung tight. “One day you will send for me?”

“I would bring you with me now if I knew aught of where I was going,” Balan whispered against the thick nest of hair. “But your brother will have need of you, wise heart. And so too shall our people. But yes, my dear one,” he added as he held him close, “I will send for you when I may.” He cupped Belen’s face within his hands and drew it up till he could set his lips in blessing between his son’s eyes. “May goodness keep you, Belen, and mercy preserve you.”

Then he stepped back and turned toward his elder son, crossing hands over chest and dipping his head in salute as he stood before him. “May goodness keep you, Dar Baran, and mercy preserve you.”

“And the gods’ favor grant you sure steps and a swift homecoming.”

Finrod waited beside the horses, watching as Balan moved through the formalities of departure. First his sons, then Hathus, and on to the others who stood as elders among the clan. It held an air of unreality as he observed each rite and farewell. He saw the motions, he heard their words, but he could not yet envision Balan lifted out from among them and grafted instead at his side. It was a dream, surely; and he shuddered to think what waking would hold.

“So then, you will snare him from his people after all?” Estreth’s voice rose up in accusation beside him, quiet and fell.

“It is his wish.”

“And what is his duty?”

Finrod hesitated, then shook his head. “That is for Balan to discern.”

“Has he not sworn us to you? Are you not our lord to command him in his duty?”

“In some things, yes. But not in the rule of his people, nor yet in when he chooses to lay it by.”

“It is a poor king who holds not his vassals to their bonds.” She turned away. “Look to your own duty, Felagund.”

The unexpectedness of the epessë struck any rebuttal from his tongue and he watched with consternation as she strode back to her hut and closed the door. He knew he should not be surprised at her vitriol—of all the Atani her trust had been the hardest to win—but the bitterness of such a farewell left him heartsick. He thought back to the winter’s laughter, the five of them huddled together around Balan’s fire to thwart chill with company, and trading stories over the cracking embers. He had recounted many tales from his childhood as they passed the endless hours and spoke often of his own sister whom, he added with a grin, Estreth’s bright stubbornness brought ever to his mind. Fitting, she retorted, since his tediousness recalled Balan without fail in her own. It was friendship at last, however grudgingly. 

A bitter farewell indeed.

“Her anger is with me, Nóm,” Balan had crossed to join him as he stood lost in thought. “It may strike at thee, but I am the offender. Let not that blame weigh upon thy departure.”

“It lies with me as well, and rightly so. I could command thee to stay.”

Balan cast a glance over his shoulder as he lifted a last bag onto Elmorë’s back, part challenge and part defiance. 

A smile escaped Finrod’s lips despite himself. “No indeed, I would not have dared.” He watched as Balan secured the bag to the saddle bow, then stepped forward and unfastened Elmorë’s reins from the halter, looping them into a coil and passing them to Balan. “We will walk to start, I think. An easy pace and a chance also to bid farewell to the land.”

“Aye,” Balan said and stored the coil amongst the other baggage, little hiding the relief that passed over his features. “As thou wilt.” 

“Thou art ready?” The question was soft, the voice brushing through him as the other’s hand rested upon his shoulder.

“No.” Balan shook his head, his expression resolute. “But if I linger any longer my feet will never find the road.”

Finrod nodded and gripped his shoulder. “Then come, Anarinya,” he said, releasing him and stepping forward, “for I would have thee at my side.”

“For all my days,” came the answer, then he followed as Finrod led them out through the opened palisade, not daring to look back lest his resolve falter at the last.

❈❈❈

“At some point I will need to teach thee.”

They sat at ease on the banks of the Celon, eating fresh bread and goat’s cheese while the horses grazed nearby. Meyla had set the parcel in Finrod’s hands that morning with a murmured blessing, then turned away before her tears could show. When, come midday, he opened it at the riverside, he felt his own heart twinge at the contents. The cheese was carefully wrapped within a square of beeswaxed cloth, tied with braided switchgrass, and drizzled inside with honey and herbs. It had been one of his favorites during the many meals he helped her prepare and the gift was bittersweet. He smeared another portion over the bread in his hand and glanced at Balan, who sat eying Elmorë’s height with wary appraisal.

“Sooner rather than later,” Finrod added, an amused glint in his eyes, “if we’re not to walk all the leagues of Beleriand.”

“Aye, fair enough.”

This time Finrod laughed outright at his look of apprehension. “He is a good-hearted creature, Balan, he’ll do thee no harm.”

Balan made a noncommittal sound and slipped the last chunk of bread into his mouth to avoid further comment.

“Hast thou truly never ridden? Even in thy time with Estreth’s people?”

“A donkey now and then, when I was a lad,” Balan mumbled around the mouthful, then paused till he had swallowed and washed it down with a draught of mead. “But never anything so imposing. I recall Esrid teaching Geberic before they were wed, but we were long gone from her people and their herds ere she and I had friendship enough for the learning.”

“By that measure I should have taught thee months ago upon Váya.” Finrod wrapped the cheese within its cloth and tied it once more with the braided grass. “I have been remiss.”

“By which measure is that, lord?” Balan’s voice was innocent, but the lines about his eyes crinkled in mischief as he finished the last of the mead and brushed breadcrumbs from his lap. From the corner of his eye, he was amused to note the color rise in the other’s cheeks and a grin escaped his own lips at the sight. He had understood nearly at once that Nóm’s yes was one of fellowship accepted, admitting nothing further; but the desperate grief of their quarrel had been confession enough to rekindle his hope, and Balan found it left him strangely emboldened. Whereas before he would have doubted these accidental slips, now he accentuated them. Where once he feared the affectionate banter would unmask his ardor, now he savored the possibility of exposure. What had he to fear from truth? Confessed or not, they belonged to each other, Nóm and he. They were formed of the same clay, he would have said had the other been of his own people’s tradition, and all their lives till now but one long endeavor to return each to the other.

Balan stood and broke the other’s hesitation with a smile, beaming down with the noonday sun. He held out a hand. “Teach me now, ere I lose the nerve?”

Finrod laughed as he let Balan pull him to his feet. “I knew not that it had been found.”

“Gaitch.” 

His fingers lingered a moment beyond decorum, held lightly within Balan’s. The palm was warm, pleasantly calloused, slightly sticky from the mead’s residue and the honeyed cheese. Lightly, it pressed against his own in return as he tarried, then slipped from him as Balan moved aside to kneel at the riverbank and clean his hands. 

They had not sat together beside the Celon since their afternoon amid the snowdrop blossoms and Finrod felt his heartbeat rise to see him beside the water once more. What madness had taken him, he wondered as he watched the ripples shift Balan’s skin to a mirage. All his reason had told him go, fly from the beckoning edge, pull back ere the precipice claimed him, and yet in his very flight he had clasped danger to his breast. He edged nearer the sheer drop, not back from it, and with each step tested his balance, poised as he was on the cusp of the fall. Where now was the defense in quitting Estolad when what he purposed to flee walked yet at his side, imbued since their outburst with an equanimity he had not born hitherto? Balan moved with the easy confidence of one who saw and knew his belonging beyond a doubt; quiet, assured, and his boldness took Finrod’s breath away. It both frightened and intoxicated him to be thus claimed in secret. Knowledge gleamed beneath the surface—affection, devotion, desire too, and it hovered warm and constant between them, the ever-possibility, never named and always known. A shifting mirage undergirding every movement, even as Balan’s skin beneath the dancing eddies.

As if in answer to the other’s musings, Balan stood and shook the water from his hands. He dried them on the edge of his tunic as he walked back and chuckled at Finrod’s expression of solemn introspection. “What is it I’ve done now to set thee pondering some new riddle?”

“Naught.” The laugh mirrored out from Finrod’s lips as well. “Only thou art as thou art, and I am very glad of thy company.” He reached out and took Balan’s hand within his own, walking beside him toward Váya and Elmorë where they grazed in the open grass. He could flout the line of friendship as well as the other, he thought with his own spark of mischief, his veins afire as their fingers twined together. Here through the long leagues they could tease fate, knowing the foretaste if never the consummation, beautiful and perfect in its unbroken potential.

Finrod released him as they reached the horses and stowed the remaining food in Váya’s saddlebags alongside the bundle of tokens he carried out from Estolad. There was the food Meyla had given, a set of carved bone skates from Baran, a warrior’s arm ring presented by Hathus. Eimet had given him a hollow wooden block, marked with various designs across its surface, and played with three carved finger-caps that drummed out rhythms upon the outlined notes. Belen had bestowed a similar pebble to that which he gave his father, only when he set it in Nóm’s hand he tried to explain it dispassionately as an artifact of curiosity, a tangible sampling of lore to carry along with him. This Finrod carried in the pouch at his side, cherished near his person even as Belen’s father kept his own. There was also the garland of braided clover blossoms that Avina had set about his neck, and he wore it still, the white petals nestled in sharp contrast against the deep blue of his tunic.

Both tunic and garland fluttered in the breeze as he retrieved the reins and fastened a pair once more to each horse’s halter, beginning an explanation as he went. “We do not use a bit, as I’ve heard Estreth describe it. These are for converse between you, not for domination or control, and they may be set aside entirely at need. It is trust between creatures, a bond of mutual dependence and respect, that must ever lie at the heart of horse and rider.”

“And how is that achieved?” Balan asked, reaching out tentatively as he approached.

“Thou hast his affection already,” Finrod replied as Elmorë stepped toward Balan’s outstretched hand. “He has followed thee without question all through the morning, despite thine avoidance this past fortnight. The rest will come with time.”

“That was not spite, night sky,” Balan murmured, falling gently into Taliska as his palm met the warm velvet of Elmorë’s nose. “You were the arrival of his departure, do you see? It is hard to befriend the herald of loss.” He ran his hand along the gleaming coat, scratching beneath the jawbones as Elmorë nickered and nudged his head in against his chest. Balan laughed and ran his other hand down along the neck, a gentle caress. “Forgiven, then?”

Finrod smiled as Balan murmured to the creature before him. He was reminded of watching Hathus hold his newborn daughter in their camp along the Thalos. Hathus, ever gruff and solid with his blacksmith’s arms and warrior’s gait, would soften in an instant whenever the tiny bundle nestled in his arms. The broad shoulders curved in protectively, his voice shifted to a soothing rumble, and his hands with their iron grip traced lines down the tiny nose, across the rosy cheeks. So too Balan’s movements were modulated as he drew his hands along Elmorë’s neck, scratched beneath the forelock; his voice low and quiet. Finrod felt his own ear twitch as Balan’s hands passed over Elmorë’s and, not for the last time, he found himself wishing he could spend an hour in the horse’s place, receiving that tenderness with no thought of fate or propriety, doom or duty.

Balan, uncanny creature, seemed to sense his mood and reached out to brush his hand affectionately over Finrod’s forearm where it rested upon Elmorë’s saddle. “Well?” he said, moving to stand beside him and taking the reins from the other’s hand. “Tell me how I manage this.”

Finrod laughed. “By trusting Elmorë to manage it for thee. But here,” he said, stepping aside so Balan had a path to the saddle, “keep the reins loose in that hand, then one foot here in the stirrup and on up as thou hast seen me do. Settle thy balance with the saddle if thou hast the need, but hold to it lightly and do not haul thyself up. Push rather, for it is the duty of legs, not arms, to seat thee.”

Balan nodded and steadied himself with a breath, then swung up into the saddle. Elmorë took a step forward as he settled into the new burden and Balan clutched at his mane in reflex. Balanced atop the shifting creature, he was even more grateful that Nóm had seen his earlier unease and spared him the ordeal of riding out from Estolad with all his gathered kindred looking on.

“Do not pinch with thy knees.” Finrod’s voice cut through the apprehension and he tapped his palm gently against Balan’s shin as he shortened the stirrup length, then ducked beneath Elmorë’s neck to adjust the other. “Relax into his movement rather than fighting to avoid it. If he consents to bear thee, he will not let thee fall.”

“And how am I to know if he’s consented?”

Finrod glanced up at him, baffled but amused. “He would never have allowed thee upon his back otherwise. Rest down into the saddle,” he added as he moved to stand again at the side, placing one hand on the small of Balan’s back, “and do not clutch at the top like that. Thou and he should move as one creature together, not he a rushing wave with thou perched helpless atop the crest. Bring thy leg back,” he set the other hand upon Balan’s thigh and pressed lightly until it shifted down under his touch. “There. Thou shouldst hold a line from thy crown through to thy shoulder, thine hip, thine heel.” He touched his finger in illustration to each he named.

“Rest into the saddle thou sayest, then sit stiff as a pole. Thou art an ever constant paradox.”

“Nay, they are not in conflict.” Finrod grinned and rested his hand once more upon the other’s leg. “It is finding the balance in walking together as thou hast by nature upon thine own feet. Imagine for a moment that Elmorë vanished beneath thee. Thou shouldst fall on foot not flank, and find thy landing sure.”

“By which you mean don’t fall on my arse,” Balan retorted in his own tongue, then gripped tighter with his legs. “Is he likely to do that?”

Finrod chuckled at this, but did not dignify it with an answer.

“Scoff if thou wilt,” Balan retorted, “but I’ve known thee to disappear amid the trees ere my eye had left thee. How then should I guess but that all creatures of thy company might be fay as thou?”

“He is flesh and blood as I am flesh and blood,” Finrod replied with amusement, “as thou art flesh and blood. He will not vanish from under thee.” He stepped away and swung up onto Váya’s back in an easy motion. “Hold the reins so,” he raised his own hands in example and turned each where Balan could see. “Lightly—and do not use them as a rope to hold thee. Remember, they are for converse, not control. Hold with thy legs.”

“My legs, but not my knees; steer, but do not control…aye, aye, my paradox, and I suppose I shall fly next and yet have no wings to lift me.”

“Aye indeed,” Finrod said, flashing a merry smile over his shoulder, “as Estreth before thee. Padra,” he called to Elmorë and Balan’s heart leapt to feel the stallion step forward, like the earth shifting beneath him. And then they were moving together—he, Nóm, these marvelous creatures—a steady current through the waving grass.

❈❈❈

It was on the third night out from Estolad that the weight of the parting settled over Balan.

They were camped for the night beside the confluence of Celon and Aros, and Nóm had left him with the horses while he ventured into the woods to supplement their fare with foraging. Balan sat with his feet dangled into the current, listening to the chattering song as Aros danced through a course of rocks to merge with his brother’s path. They had ridden late into the evening, for Nóm wished to reach this mark before they ended the day’s travel, and night had fallen ere they stopped to rest. Balan stretched his legs as they bobbed in the water and a hissed grunt escaped him at the twinge through his muscles. The soreness had begun to ease as the first days passed, but he yearned for the dismount long hours before evening arrived, and every morning he woke anew to freshly stiffened limbs and a deep, incapacitating ache.

The first morning after their departure he had fallen back onto his bedroll as soon as he tried to rise, a sharp string of profanity drifting up from the rumpled blankets. Nóm had looked over at him first in concern, then in mild amusement as he identified the malady. 

“I did warn thee,” he had said with a sympathetic smile and crossed to sit beside him, “but thou wouldst ride the whole afternoon through despite it.”

“I did not wish thee to think me faint.”

Finrod laughed. “Little fool,” he murmured affectionately and eased him over onto his stomach. He pressed his palm firmly against the offending muscles, drawing it up in a slow path from lumbar to ribs; then along the opposite side and back once more, humming words in his own tongue that Balan could not quite decipher. The ache receded by degrees and he found after a short time that he could sit again in passable comfort.

These moments of impulsive tenderness left Balan flushed and light-headed. The last weeks’ distance had evaporated almost at once in the sound of Nóm’s yes echoing through the midnight air, and in its place appeared an easy intimacy, settled and fierce, as natural as drawing breath.

An owl called out through the twilight, mournful and curious. A fish leapt in the waters before him. He was reminded of a verse he chanted to Baran when his son was a boy of only a few summers. He would climb up to ride on Balan’s back as they walked and ask for it over and again until Balan could recite the lines with hardly a thought for what his lips formed. He found his tongue still remembered the pattern and the words hummed from his lips as he looked out over the water.

“Why do you swim, asked the boy of the fish of the riverbed? 

I swim for in water lies the way of my kind. Why do you ask?

I ask for in questioning lies the way of my kind.

Why do you leap, asked the fish of the fox of the field? 

I leap for agility is the way of my kind.

Why do you run, asked the fox of the deer of the wilderlands?

I run for in fleetness lies the way of my kind.

Why do you hunt, asked the deer of the wolf of the ravaging?

I hunt for to hunger is the way of my kind.

Why do you soar, asked the wolf of the hawk of the firmament?

I soar for in flight lies the way of my kind.

Why do you go, asked the hawk of the Man walking under him?

I go, said the Man, for in wandering lies ever the way of my kind.”

Balan’s voice broke at this last and he stood abruptly, the storm looming over the edge of his senses. Why do you go…Baran’s own words on the morning of his departure and he had not placed them until now. Balan stumbled blindly toward where he left the saddlebags, nestled under the protection of a willow tree, and rummaged through their folds until his fingers found what they sought. A lump of wood, smaller than the width of his palm, shaped into the likeness of a curled otter. He carved it for Baran when he was hardly past infancy and he could still remember the little hands grasping at it with fumbling fingers, the toothless smile gumming over the curved tail. But Baran had pressed it into his father’s hand at their parting and met his eyes with a gaze of steel. “Remember who you are,” Baran said to close their farewell, the otter’s feet marking dents in Balan’s palm as his son turned away.

He held the little figurine to his lips as the wave rushed over him. The days since his decision had been so filled with preparation and possibility that only now had the full barrage of grief struck him down. 

He had left them, his beautiful boys. 

He had set them fatherless as well as motherless and given them hardly a moment’s warning before he too was taken from them. The gods only knew when he might ever hold them again. He was weeping aloud now in great gasping sobs, supported against the tree with one palm pressed to the bark and the other clutching the little otter to his breast.

There was a flicker of concern, a warmth trickling through his thought, and it was no surprise when Nóm appeared behind him after a few minutes’ time. He took hold of Balan’s arm and eased him back from the tree, turning him gently until he rested instead against his chest, wrapping his arms about the trembling shoulders. Balan leaned into him, letting his grief run loose, and slowly, haltingly, he inched his arms forward to wrap around Nóm’s waist in return. 

Finrod passed his hand over Balan’s head, moving his fingers along the scalp in steady strokes—fingertips together at the forehead, spread wide across the crown, drawn together again at the nape of the neck, as his grandfather had comforted each child in turn in the twilit years beside the sea. “Dear heart,” he murmured into the shroud of hair, his heart rent by the other’s grief, rent too as he spoke what he feared would mend it. “We will go back. I will take thee to them. I judge thee not that thy path leads from me, now the parting has unmasked its toll.” His hand traced down Balan’s back, gently following the arc of his spine where it dipped between his shoulders. “I yield thee.”

“Nay,” Balan shook his head against the other’s chest, gradually regaining mastery of his voice. “It forms as our feet move upon it—the path before us. And mine shall never lead me from thee, not until it leads no further.” He felt the arms tighten about him at this last and leaned in against the warmth of him. “I do not regret the choice, Nóm. It is only that I have never been from them, not even for a night, and I parted from Baran in conflict. With hardly two day’s warning—and what is that but a mere handful of hours—I left him to hold all that I forsook, to be both father and brother in my absence. I dare not hope he will ever forgive me.”

“He may,” Finrod said, shifting to cup Balan’s face within his palms and drawing him back to meet his eye. “He will, I believe.”

“I have little confidence in it.”

“Then lean upon mine.” He brushed his lips briefly against the top of Balan’s head as he leaned once more against Finrod’s shoulder. “I know well the anger he carries, how it stings and seethes through heart and vein. And I know too the bitterness of yearning for authority, only to receive it in such a way that but cold comfort is found in the acquisition.”

 Balan was reminded then of the rush of memories passed through the dark on the Longest Night: the bitter desolation of the ice, the last glimpse of those who turned back—another father leaving his burden for a son to bear. “Does it ever ease?” he asked after a pause, setting his eyes on the carved figurine once more in fear of what answer he might read in the other’s gaze.

“It does. Though every feud is different.” Finrod’s hand drifted to the twined serpents about his finger, turning the ring absently as his eyes followed Balan’s to the toy resting upon his palm. After a moment, he slid the ring loose and set it upon his own outstretched hand. “I told thee once that I treasured this above all other possessions. But long I carried it in spite, donning it each day as a point of pride and private reprimand toward the one I wished bore it yet in my place. I was angry with my father for many years, Balan. My ire burned toward him for his actions, toward myself for my regret. We had never spoken so to each other until that moment, there in the frozen wastes with scourges and not tongues between our teeth—and those the final words that passed between us.” He paused, sliding the ring back onto his finger, then added. “Indeed the last that shall ever pass between us, unless Námo should relent and the Doom release us. If I may confess it, Balan, knowing thee now upon this road is a balm I knew not was wanting. I never saw my father’s grief at the parting, only his anger and the hostility of our break, but in thy mourning I can believe his. And through that I find the forgiveness I’ve admitted rings more easily now in my heart.” He reached out to set his hand alongside Balan’s neck, the thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Baran loves thee, Anarinya. And his love, I deem, bears a greater hold than his anger, long yet though that may burn. He will forgive thee in time.”

Balan shook his head with a scoff, his voice unsteady once again. “We are both stubborn, he and I. I dare not hold such certainty.”

“Then I shall hold it for thee.” Finrod drew him once more into an embrace and Balan breathed deep, calmed by the scent of him, comforted by his warmth, steadied by the solidity of the arms woven about him. In his palm he felt still the bite of the otter’s paws where his grief pressed them into bruises, and he held that soreness fast, an anchor binding him when all else shifted illusive. Remember who you are.

❈❈❈

In retrospect, Balan recalled these weeks as a long progression of heady contentment—each day spent in laughter or music, tale or silence; each evening passed to the sound of Nóm’s song, silver and bright as the star sheen; each night lulled into slumber by the sighing of willow boughs and the solace of the other’s arms draped lightly about him. In the aftermath of his belated grief, Balan found sleep an elusive quarry and he lay restless beside the water, fighting down the tears that threatened to overwhelm him once again. He had felt Nóm’s gaze for nearly an hour before there was a rustle in the grass beside him, a questioning nudge against his thought, an arm eased about him and the warmth of the other’s body along his back. Sleep came quickly after that, and so every night since they followed the same pattern and Nóm would lie the night at his side, an arm draped over him, the pain of loss eased by degrees as the other’s presence steadied the tempest.

They followed the path of Aros until he ended in the Fens of Sirion, riding through meadow and thicket, hill and flatland; the days passing with a dreamlike fluidity in their cascade of images. The lands rolled out before them, bright and wide, and Balan saw each plant and creature anew with the clarity of the other’s vision. Everything around him grew fiercely, pulsingly alive and he was reminded once more of the night beneath Menelmacar in the hills of Ossiriand, when the other’s voice flowed through him and brought every living thing into his awareness—overwhelming and utterly beautiful. 

Tall birch trees danced in the wind, silver leaves and silver arms raised through the sunlight, their dusting of color forming waves across the thickets. 

Water laughed beside them as it raced between tight corridors or eased out in wide, lazy pools meandering through the meadows. 

The chirping trills of frogs swelled through the wetlands as they neared the marshes, their call passing between them in a ceaseless chorus, filling the night.

A white heron, wings tipped with gold by the evening sun, it’s throaty call echoing amid the grasses as it passed through the willow trees. The willows themselves, with hair billowing loose, creating a labyrinth of secret rooms draped about with walls of fine lace. 

Balan watched Nóm move through them, the fronds trailing across his shoulders as he passed, and he recalled the beaded doorways of Esrid’s people. They would hang these as partitions between their rooms and Balan could still hear the rustle of their movement, wooden beads shifting together like the whisper of dried leaves in wind. Esrid threaded one for their hut after Baran’s birth and she had strung little bells amid several of the strands. He remembered the tinkle of the beads moving aside, his wife materializing from the far room in portions, an illusion solidifying into flesh before him.

Nóm glanced back as he passed through the willow’s lace, smiling, the uncanny light drifting out from his eyes.

He was an illusion that did not solidify, Balan reflected, but moved ever as the wind or water, shimmering and shifting, beckoning and elusive. He followed him through the fronds and felt himself dissolve as well, spread out among the trills of the frogs, the whispers of leaves, the glimmer of Nóm’s hair through the draping willow wands.

This was Aelin Uial, he told Balan as night drew on and they lay to sleep beside the shimmering meres, a land woven through with enchantment and the memory of the first Song. “I have slept here once before,” he said, and his voice drifted like a prayer amid the reeds, “and ever after has its memory driven me…on toward some dread fate I cannot see. I fear it, Balan,” he added after a long hesitation, “though it drew me to thee as well; the same voice beckoning me through the wash of Gelion, the laughter of Thalos’ eddies. Heavy here lies the will of the Lord of Waters.”

They crossed the fens before dawn. A pair of ferries shunted them through the clinging mists, soundless and smooth across the water’s mirror. These were maneuvered by three Elves stationed upon each—one at the stern and one at the prow, one last guiding the quant pole from fore to aft. Balan had greeted them in their own language when they appeared from the mist, materializing with eerie speed in response to Nóm’s whistle, and they had answered him, brief and polite. But aside from that greeting they replied little to any of his conversation and at last he lapsed into silence as they glided forward through the fog.

Balan stood with one hand resting atop Elmorë’s shoulder, his fingers scratching lightly over the withers, and watched the foremost in curiosity. He stood a head taller than the others and his hair, waist-long and plaited in an intricate web, gleamed silver in the growing light. Nóm had been surprised at his presence when they reached the ferries and greeted him with cheer, jesting that he must have fallen foul of court to be so relegated to minding the crossing.

“Nay, thy sister bade me come and see thee well.” His face had remained stoic, but the edge of his lips twitched in amusement. 

He stood now at the head of the ferry, only a few feet away, and Balan found his gaze returning continuously to that silhouette, the broad, martial stance holding vigil at the prow. Often he felt the dizziness of age when Nóm spoke of his own life, but never had the sheer weight of years born down upon him as it did here in the presence of this stranger. Beside him, Nóm seemed almost a child, merry and young as the sunrise, and Balan was awed at the shift. 

“You are of the eboennin?” The voice drifted over the space between them, low and resonant.

“Yes.” Balan found his own voice thin by contrast. “I am Balan son of Beldar, until late the chieftain of my kindred. Though many other kindreds there are as well.”

“So I have heard tell. Angolodh sent word of much concerning your kind. I know of your name, Balan son of Beldar, I know the number of your people and the land of your dwelling. And much beside.” He looked over with the hint of a smile. “Yet I have been curious to make the acquaintance for myself.”

“Angolodh?”

“Ingoldo. Felagund. What name has he used among your people?”

“Nóm—for such we gave him. Its meaning is wisdom in our tongue.”

The other chuckled quietly. ”Then you have but named him as his mother did before you. Angolodh too is wisdom, and Ingoldo the same. Let us hope both, you and I, that it is a name proven in truth, for my lord is little pleased to find yet new strangers planted along his borders.”

The ferry drew up to the far bank and he stepped from prow to shore in a light motion, drawing the rope taught about the mooring post with hardly a pause. “I am Beleg,” he said as Balan led Elmorë out from the boat, “Marchwarden of Elu Thingol, lord of Beleriand. I count it an honor to greet you on behalf of my people, abonnen.”

“And I to greet you as herald of mine.” Balan crossed his hands and dipped his head in salute. “May goodness dwell in your household, Beleg, thane of the king.”

“And Elbereth’s light guide your coming and going,” Beleg replied, then stepped aside to bind the second ferry as it glided to rest against the moorings.

❈❈❈

It was past midday before they found themselves clear of the wetlands. The mists had clung heavily through the morning and their progress was slow till the sun climbed and cleared the air about them. They sat atop a low swell to eat their noontide meal—a collection of tart blackberries, a piece of salt pork divided between them, a few handfuls of nuts, the last of the mead they carried out from Estolad. It was a lazy hour spent stretched amid the sun and clover, and Balan felt the fog’s chill dissipate at last from his joints. It was glorious to lie here at ease under the weight of Anar’s heat, tucked down about him like a blanket after the morning’s eerie start. He half wished they could forego the remainder of the day’s leagues and lie here as they had in the meadows beside the Celon, counting little of journeys or plans and reckoning only these hours together at rest. 

“Anarinya,” Finrod’s voice drifted into his ears, “sit a moment and look.”

Balan stretched his arms with a groan, then pushed up on his elbows to look where the other was pointing. The rainclouds had dwindled as the day drew on and the plain before them lay revealed under the brilliant sun. 

“Look,” Nóm said as he traced his finger along the horizon, “canst thou see it now that the clouds are lifted?”

“See what? Thy sight is twice mine.”

“Nay, tis not so far. The highlands there, beyond the plain.”

“Aye,” Balan pulled himself up to sit beside him and followed where he pointed, shielding his eyes from the glare. “It holds the haze yet, but I can make out hills…bare-topped but wooded about their shoulders. Why?”

Finrod merely smiled in reply and returned his attention to eating the clover petals in his hand.

“Thine hills, ghomenno?”

He laughed as he finished the clover. “My hills,” he replied, then stood and looked out over the rolling lands before them. “This is Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain: all that lies between the arms of Narog and Teiglin. And beyond it the highlands, the Hills of the Hunters. Taur-en-Faroth. These are my lands, Balan.” His voice trailed off and a shadoESFEw of reticence passed over his features. For all those final weeks in Estolad he had dreaded reaching this view, facing out across the expanse that named him king. Duty, crown, the ever-looming siege…every trapping staring back in mockery as he would return alone with half his soul abandoned beside the riverbank. His spirit soared to see it spread before him now.

Finrod turned back with his heart pounding and looked on Balan at his side, draped in the golden light and smiling up at him, and he held out his hand. “Come, Anarinya,” he said at last. “Let us go home.”

---

Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin T = Telerin
padra: [S] walk
anarinya: [Q] my sun
eboennin/abonnen: [S] After-born

TALISKA INVENTIONS
For the most part, all faux-Taliska is loosely inspired by or modeled on Germanic-Gothic
- vatta: father
- Dar: lord, master
- gaitch: swine

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