The Mirror Crack'd by AdmirableMonster  

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The Council of Helevorn

LAST TIME on The Mirror Crack'd: Anni and Mae went on a date to chat with a dragon

THIS TIME on The Mirror Crack'd: Anni and Mae speak with the villagers about the dragon.

chapter rated T

only warnings are for Brief Disturbing Imagery and Anni's stellar sense of self-worth

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Although it was surely daylight outside, the light in the caves did not change.  The dark and warmth kept wanting to remind Anniavas of something, but it was something he could not approach without the freezing chill from his back overwhelming everything else.  After returning from visiting the dragon, they’d slept. After sleeping, Maedhros had gone to speak with the village leaders of the Elves, Dwarves, and Men.  Apparently he had been convincing enough that they were willing to at least listen to Anniavas’s recommendations.

The counsel chambers of the Dwarvish village, such as they were, were formed by a natural depression surrounding a small waterfall.  Over many years, the water had worn away this dip, while mineral-rich condensation in the air had smoothed it over.  It was now like a little bowl surrounding the central falls, which vanished into darkness below.  The Dwarvish elders had carved benches of stone from one side of it, but Anniavas’s heart sank when Maedhros told him that he was expected to stand in front of all of them, in the center, with them all looking down on him.

I can’t, he’d wanted to say.  Something about the thought made his heart race and his breath grow short.  But he had no explanation; that, too, was hidden and lost in his past.  All that remained of whatever he had been before was a series of hazardous reactions to navigate at the least opportune times.

He couldn’t tell Maedhros no.  Not when it might save the dragon.

They came in sight of the place, all lit by torchlight, glittering against the ceaseless motion of the waterfall.  Malhof paced at the cusp of the depression, restless, guarding.  The feeling of knowing him had dissipated, somehow; all Anniavas felt was a chilly wariness.  If the villagers did not like him, he and Malhof might be enemies, and Malhof had certainly recovered from his injuries with more power than Anniavas had.

Maedhros laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Anniavas startled, but did not pull away.  He let Maedhros carefully maneuver him down the slippery entryway to the depression, so busy focusing on the almost embarrassingly intense sensation that it took him longer than it should have to wonder why Maedhros was doing it.  He was scrupulously careful with touch, and he knew Anniavas was often uneasy with it. The question asked, his mind produced an answer almost immediately: he was showing that Anniavas was under his protection, even though, strictly speaking, he was not.  But no one would think to ask about oaths or fealty if they assumed they already understood from the Lord of Himring’s body language.  

Down they went, in front of that merciless cascade, and stopped, with all eyes on them.  Anniavas wanted to hide or disappear, while an angry, vicious voice inside him wanted to curse every one of them.  It occurred to him again that Celegorm’s response to him had not been unwarranted, and a little sliver of doubt wormed its way up—what if he was wrong about the dragon?

He shut his eye, trying to breathe.  He couldn’t doubt himself now, not about this, not when he could still see those young, trusting, golden eyes watching him.  The obvious pain in the creature’s movements.  It was a child—a child which had been born in Angband.  It needed someone, and Anniavas could be someone, couldn’t he?

“Lord Maedhros tells us you know of dragons,” said a voice.  Anniavas opened his eye, which was watering, and blinked, trying to clear it.  All he could see was a silver-haired Elf in an intricately-woven green-and-brown robe.  Around the neck and wrists, small scraps of almond-shaped cloth had been sewn on to mimic leaves.

“I know—something of dragons,” Anniavas agreed thinly, fists clenching.  Keep your head down.  Don’t look them in the eye, said his mind, but this was warring with, Chin up. Don’t show fear.  Damn.  His back was cold.  He did not know what to do.

“Tell us what you know of dragons.”

Anniavas choked on a laugh.  The ragged scraps of knowledge he had clawed out of the sand of his mind mocked him.  He knew far more lurked beneath the surface, but even this much, he could certainly talk about for some time, aimlessly, disconnectedly.  He knew that the speaker meant, Tell us what you know of dragons that is relevant to us, but that could easily become, what we wish to hear.

“They are, they are intelligent creatures,” Anniavas said, floundering for a place to start.  “They are no more evil than a hawk or other bird of prey.  This one—” They had not asked about this dragon, but it was this dragon that he cared about, this dragon they wanted gone and he wanted healed.  “This one is a juvenile.  Hurt.  They do not need to eat much flesh unless they are injured, and, and if they are given the choice, they will claim a territory as their own to protect and defend.”

“This is not the dragon’s territory,” said another voice, from somewhere on Anniavas’s blind side.  He twisted his head around, too quickly.  A Dwarf—solid, silver-haired as well, with their hair and beard twined through with jewels and beads that clicked and tinkled as they talked.  “This is our territory.”

“The woods are their own,” protested the Elf.

“And lest you forget,” put in a grim Man, clad in leather with a sword and dagger belted at his side and a bow upon his back, “my folk live here as well.”

“That’s not,” Anniavas tried, but his voice broke, and he knew it was too quiet to hear.  Why do you fear these fools? He drew his head up and forced himself to stand straight.  “You—” fools “—don’t understand.”  This time his voice came out loud, defiant, perhaps too defiant.  “A dragon’s territory is where it lives and hunts.  It is not property, of the kind that Dwarves and Men might claim.  Have you no understanding of the predators that live in the forests?”

“We drive them out swiftly if they threaten our flocks,” retorted the Man.

“A dragon is smart enough not to threaten your flocks,” Anniavas said.  He knew what the response was going to be, and he did not want to listen to, so he just kept talking as the Man started to object about the flock of sheep that had been lost in the dragon’s initial attack.  His voice was getting higher and faster.  “This dragon is very young.  It does not know better.  It can learn.  You can tell it, you can help it—if you offer it a few sheep it will defend you, do you understand what that means?” 

It was no use.  He knew it was no use.  Their minds were made up already.

“We do not need another defender,” said the Elf.  “We have Malhof. Besides, from what you have said, the dragon will not settle down while Malhof is here.”

Anniavas opened his mouth to protest this as well, but Maedhros spoke before him this time.  “Malhof cannot remain here.”  His words were granite stones dropped on the surging cloth of the conversation.  There was an uncomfortable silence.

“What do you mean by that?” asked one of the Dwarves, who had remained quiet until now.

“Malhof is not a wolf,” Maedhros said steadily.  “She is an Elf, trapped in another body by black sorcery.”

Why had Maedhros said this?  But in an instant, Anniavas understood.  If the claim about Malhof came from Maedhros, it would focus less attention on Anniavas, who was more vulnerable.  But it was Anniavas who had made the observation about Malhof at first, and he had only told Maedhros.  How was Maedhros planning to—

“How do you know this?” asked the silver-haired Elf, leaning forward.

“At Himring we are rather well-accustomed to such dark things,” Maedhros said, his voice dry and bland.

A murmur ran through the seated council, then another.

“You’re certain?” asked the Man.

Maedhros inclined his head in a single stiff nod.  The murmur grew louder.  Someone started to say something, but the Dwarf raised a hand and cut them off.  “I am at least the nominal head of this council,” they said.  “Lord Maedhros, the peoples of Lake Helevorn greatly appreciate your aid—indeed, that you have not only sent us warriors but come yourself to offer your own support.  We know indeed that you are intimately acquainted with the ways of Angband.  But we must discuss this amongst ourselves.  The situation is complicated and the matter is grave.”

Anniavas opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it.  He would only make the situation worse.  Stars, he should never have agreed to speak.  What if he had made everything worse for the poor dragon?  He ought to have sympathy for the folk of Helevorn, he supposed, but he could not really find it in himself to dredge it up.  Eirien would have been disappointed in him.

Suddenly, he needed nothing more than to be gone.  He let Maedhros put that gentle hand on his shoulder and steer him back out of the bowl, back towards the encampment, but then he shook off the hand and kept walking.  A part of him tried to tell himself that this was dangerous, but he knew it wasn’t.  How many times had Maedhros foolishly let him go, let him limp off to lick his wounds, no matter what he might be plotting behind his back?  Idiot.  

Anniavas saw him, stretched out, all four limbs splayed—the shine of a knife in the smoky red glow of the torchlight—he will break, he will break, everyone breaks here—

He navigated the dark close corridors on the way out by feel, the mountain pressing in upon him.  It no longer felt exciting, like a raw and beautiful source of Song.  It felt oppressive, an enemy with its jaws all about him, ready to snap shut.  By the time he reached the light of day—dull and grey, a steady curtain of rain descending from the blank clouds—Anniavas was sweating and breathing hard, but not from exertion.  

He sank down into a crouch in the open-topped cleft leading into the mountain, pressing his back against the tumbled rock wall, and tried to breathe.  It was harder than it should have been.  He pressed his face into his hands.  He wanted to rage, wanted to scream, wanted to break something, but he kept the feeling locked up in his chest, swallowing and swallowing until it was a point of pain buried deep inside him.  Do not shame Maedhros.  Do not shame Himring.  Do not—

A cold nose pushed its way into his hair.  For a moment, he forgot that the was not in Himring, that it could not be Limral, and he turned his face into tangled, wet fur with one sudden, quiet sob.  When he realized, when he jerked away so hard that he fell, skinning the palms of his hands on the rough gravel and landing painfully on his backside, Malhof merely made a snuffling noise and put his head on one side.

“What are you doing here?” Anniavas hissed, enraged all over again.  Malhof whined uneasily, then lowered his great bulk down in a short bow.  Not quite a play bow, not quite a display of submission, Anniavas was not entirely sure he understood what it portended.

Damn.  He didn’t understand Anniavas’s words, not truly, not like this.  Like any wolf, he understood the tones of voice, the minute movements telling him of the emotions swirling beneath an incarnate’s breast when they were insufficiently careful, but he did not understand the words.  He could not be manipulated, or reasoned with.

Anniavas sank forward, covering his face with his hands, and then running his hands through his hair.  “Why are you still a wolf?” he asked wearily.  Of course, Malhof could not answer him, or even understand the question.  And Anniavas would not be able to answer it himself, soon, for the people of Helevorn wanted Malhof to remain and the dragon to leave, so that was what would happen.

If he wanted to solve this, he would have to solve it now.

The thought of a solid problem he could focus on settled the loud screaming restlessness of his mind a little, soothed the sharp points of pain deep in his chest.  He thought of Celegorm, who always gentled his body language when he was in the kennels, and he raised his head gently, forbearing to look Malhof directly in the eyes. 

Malhof did allow him a careful physical examination.  He had done so once already, of course, but Anniavas had not had the time to be thorough.  Perhaps the results of his initial investigation had been incorrect, and he would find the answer to what was holding Malhof in this shape.

He did not.  There was nothing on the wolf’s tremendous body—just layer upon layer of thick fur over muscle.  He was well-built and well-fed, though Anniavas found many indications of prior injuries—extensive scarring on the throat and chest, less extensive scarring on the forelegs.  He also thought, though he could not be certain, that Malhof’s right front leg had been broken and healed.

There was no artifact on him externally, but that did not mean that something had not been fed to him—though Anniavas found this very unlikely, as in most cases such an item would already have killed the host or been excreted by now—or perhaps a subtle enchantment had been laid across the very pattern of his being, his Song.

It made him uneasy to contemplate investigating this last.  The healers often worked with Song, and casual conversations with Eirien had led to a few informal lessons, so Anniavas had some idea how he might go about checking Malhof’s.  But the way the sands of his mind lay, glass-still and waiting, made him think he might well risk awakening the artifact in his spine.  But if he would have no other chance—

He began to hum.  Malhof gave a single short yelp and leaped backwards as if Anniavas had struck him. 

—he was falling, Anniavas was watching him fall, golden and perfect and beloved, everything that Anniavas would never have again—

“Anniavas?”

Maedhros was calling his name.  Anniavas was on the ground, one hand outstretched, while Malhof crouched a few feet away from him, ears and tail down, fear written in every line of his posture, and Anniavas did not know why. 

(Lord Celegorm does not trust your knowledge.)

(What are you?)

“I,” Anniavas croaked.  He was shaking, every muscle dancing and spasming.

“Ah,” Maedhros said, barely a noise at all.  “Anniavas, can I touch you?”

There was nothing Anniavas wanted more.  He knew he would shame himself, shame Maedhros too, but he had no strength left to resist.  He nodded.

Maedhros moved slowly, easily, letting himself down to Anniavas’s level, then sliding his arms around him and gathering him up.  He was solid, immovable, but his arms were gentle.  His hand rubbed slow, gentle circles across Anniavas’s back, holding him still, no matter how his muscles tried to jump and shudder.  Anniavas pressed his face into the soft hollow of Maedhros’s shoulder on the opposite side from where he had removed the deadly metal, and felt moisture soaking into the cloth of Maedhros’s robes.  That was not from the rain.

“Hush,” Maedhros murmured quietly.  The hand moved from Anniavas’s back to his wet hair, stroking him as if he were Limral, shying from thunder.

“I’m fine,” Anniavas said into Maedhros’s chest.  “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine…” It was a lie, it was obviously a lie, but perhaps if he said it often enough it would become true. A sob was swallowed by the sodden cloth in front of him.

After a little while, he heard Malhof whining again and decided he needed to pull himself together.  It was hardly fair to leave someone who could not understand in fear because he could not face whatever things he had done that he did not remember.  He peeled himself away from Maedhros—which was a little more difficult than he had expected, but the water almost seemed sticky—and turned back to Malhof.  At least the golden wolf was no longer half-prostrating himself, but trotting back and forth with a lowered tail—anxious movements but not the same sudden response of terrified submission.

“All right?” Maedhros asked quietly, voice a low comforting rumble.

“I think so,” Anniavas said.  “Malhof—”

“It looks like you two scared each other.”

“No, it was my fault.”

“Hm,” said Maedhros, but he did not object.  

Anniavas got to his knees and spread his palms out to Malhof.  “It’s all right,” he said, pitching his voice to a soft and welcoming drone.  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.  I won’t do it again, I promise.  You’re all right.”

A little questioning yelp, but Malhof padded over to him readily enough and snuffled at his hand, then up along his arm and to the junction of his shoulder with his neck.  It ought to have been intimidating, and perhaps would have been if Anniavas had not had such an instinctive understanding of dogs.  Instead it was comforting.  Malhof was reassuring himself that he knew Anniavas’s scent.  He snuffled around a little longer, sneezed, and sat down next to Anniavas with a conciliatory wag.  Anniavas breathed a sigh of relief and gently scratched his chin.  Whatever he had done, it had not been so fearful that he had made an enemy with it.

“Anyway, I came to tell you that the council has agreed to let Malhof leave with us, and they’re wondering if you have any other suggestions for befriending a dragon.”

At first, Anniavas didn’t understand the words.  Then, when his mind finished combing through them and extracting as much information as possible, he said, “What the fuck?” in the language of Angband, rather stupidly.

Maedhros raised a single eyebrow at him.  “I thought they would,” he said.  “Most of them are too kind to want to keep an enchanted Elf, and you made a good case for the dragon to be replacement protection.  Helevorn is too far from anywhere these days to be choosey when it comes to their defenders.”

“I didn’t think they’d believe me,” Anniavas said slowly.  “I seem to have been wrong.”

Despite the fact that his mind had absorbed and applied every piece of information about the situation, catalogued it, assessed and qualified it and brought it all together to form what ought to have been an inevitable conclusion, he had been wrong.  Maedhros had been right.

Anniavas did not think he had ever before been grateful to have miscalculated.