carnimánta by Elrond's Library  

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carnimánta

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Finrod’s least favorite part about being Crown Prince was Dye Day.

The official name for it was, as usual with government sponsored events, long and clunky and overly specific. The Day of Truths, Reconciliations, and Remembrances.

It was uncomfortable to watch and listen to the newly arrived, from both Mandos’ care and Cirdan’s ships, stumble through the rote words, list their incriminating deeds and their best estimate for the amount of Elven blood they had shed.

The dye would fade, but not before everyone knew. Not before everyone had seen. Not before the rumors flew, before you could not escape the shackle of social scrutiny and isolation.

It certainly was effective, Finrod mused as the first of the supplicants shuffled down the grand hall, eyes downcast as if they could escape the watchful eyes of the populace the thronged to watch. The carnimánta, the red handed ones, tended to loosely congregate together, a social class of their own that stuck together. They had their own quarter, just outside Tirion. Their own markets. Their own representatives in the Common Council, even!

Finrod could never be sure if that separation was intentional on his father’s part.

He shifted on the dais mindlessly, adjusting the weight of the very fat and happy snake curled around his shoulders. Wenya was an easy companion, but unsettling for strangers who did not know her well. It kept people who could be bothersome away.

As another supplicant, a reembodied ellon who had killed at Alqualondë and had died during the Bragollach, went through the motions, declaring his remorse and renewing his fealty to the Crown, a whisper came from the back of the grand hall.

Finrod kept his eyes on the Kinslayer, nodding along as the ellon hesitated.

“Kneel then, and bathe in the blood of your remorse,” his father intoned beside him, ignoring the whispers that were becoming more distinct. The ellon knelt and dipped his hands up to the wrist in the buckets of bright red dye. “Rise, and be at peace.”

The Kinslayer let his hands drip into the bucket, before accepting the towel his sponsor, a brother, gave him. His hands were bright red, brighter than real blood ever was.

Only once the supplicant had bowed and moved on, only then did Finrod raise his eyes to see what the commotion had been all about.

Oh.

Well, yeah, that would do it.

He admitted to himself that he did not ever expect to see his niece’s husband, nor one of the famed Lords of Gondolin walking down the halls on Dye Day. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or any other day but today. A stranger accompanied them, his midnight black robes flapping as he stalked after the others.

The trio marched down the hall, eyes raised, proud, defiant, so unlike any other of the supplicants that Finrod could only stare.

His father rose to meet them, which only set the whispers off more. Lord Elrond Peredhel of Imladris had enough titles and family connections to multiple family lines of Finwë and Houses of Men that protocol and decorum could surely be bent for this group.

Were they even supplicants, Finrod wondered.

They spoke for a long time, and Finrod could tell from the tension in his father’s stance that he was not happy with what the trio had to say. There was a lot of gesturing on Glorfindel’s part, though they were quiet as they argued.

He spied Celebrían in the crowd, looking pensive. Their eyes met, and she shot him a bright smile, like this was any other day. If anything, that made Finrod more nervous about what was to come.

Finarfin returned to the dais, his face grave. He shot a warning look at Finrod, and whispered at the edges of his mind in ósanwe, they insist, and damn the consequences.

Finrod raised one eyebrow as his father sat.

Glorfindel approached, his shoulders back, staring proud and defiant at the pair on the dais.

“You stand before the Crown, acting as representatives of the Valar, today on the Day of Truths, Reconciliations, and Remembrances,” Finarfin spoke, projecting his voice louder than was usual, quieting the crowds. “Be welcome, and declare for all to hear your name and your misdeeds.”

Glorfindel bowed low, his golden hair flowing around his bare shoulders as he straightened again. He spoke loud, his Quenya accented with disuse. “High King Arafinwë Finwion, Crown Prince Findaráto Arafinwion, I stand before you today Laurefindelë, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin in the days of old. I am called Glorfindel in the Sindarin tongue. I was the Valar’s emissary to Middle-earth for over four thousand years. I am the Captain of the Guard of Imladris, under the command of Lord Elerondo Perelda and Lord Erestor Morifinwion, who stand with me today as witness.”

Finrod blinked. Son of Caranthir. The Fëanorion bastard had not spoken of this during their first lives.

Glorfindel continued. “I am here to declare, rather belatedly, that I have spilt Eldarin blood.” Which is what everyone was here for, Finrod though sardonically. “I crossed the Helcaraxë, following the lead of High King Ñolofinwë and his son King Turukáno, and I have consumed Eldarin flesh to survive those frozen wastes.” Finrod flinched, as did many returned Noldor in the room.

“Many have,” Finrod interrupts. He rarely speaks on Dye Days, but he still did not trust his father to handle this particular hardship with grace. “And unless I am mistaken, you yourself did not kill those whom you consumed. The Ice did.”

Glorfindel bowed again, this time in acknowledgement. “Blood was still spilt upon the Ice in the doing.”

Well, yes. Butchery was inherently a bloody business, regardless of the source of flesh. Finrod nodded, and gestured for him to continue.

“I was part of the party that killed the Elf Eöl in the First Age, under orders of King Turgon of Gondolin. He was Sindar, under King Elu Thingol’s jurisdiction, but he had killed Princess Aredhel, and we considered his death justified.”

Finrod had heard about this from Turgon, recently returned from Mandos. Turgon had not attended a Dye Day as a supplicant, and this admission from one of his Lords would cause problems. Problems for later.

“After I was returned to life by the grace and mercy of the Valar,” Glorfindel continued, “I joined with High King Gil-galad’s forces against the Enemy. In my time as their Emissary, I have killed thousands of Men and Orcs, and three lives of the Eldar I sent to Mandos. All I hold, a weight on my spirit.”

Finarfin let the silence hold for a beat longer than was necessary, like he wasn’t sure if Glorfindel was finished. “Kneel then, and bathe in the blood of your remorse,” he finally said.

Glorfindel knelt with a crooked half-smile. He plunged his arms into the buckets of dye, all the way to the elbow.

Finrod blinked, stunned. Nothing about this was usual.

“Rise, and be at peace,” Finarfin stated, the rote words falling mechanically off his lips. Finrod could feel his father’s unease radiating off him.

Glorfindel rose and stood to the side, letting the bright crimson dye drip into one of the two buckets at his feet. Erestor held out a towel for him without saying anything. Finrod looked past the trio, to see who the next group would be, when Elrond spoke.

“I, too, have blood on my hands that need to be addressed, High King.”

Finrod’s eyes snapped back to his niece’s husband. He cursed internally. They would be dealing with the political fall-out of this for the next thousand years or more. Please, not him too.

His father just looked resigned. “Be welcome, and declare for all to hear your name and your misdeeds.”

Elrond bowed, not as deeply as Glorfindel had, as befits a king to another, and continued in Sindarin. “High King Finarfin Finwion, Crown Prince Finrod Felagund, I stand before you today Lord Elrond Peredhel of Rivendell. I am the son of Elwing Dioriel of the House of Thingol and Eärendil Tuorion of the House of Hador, Haleth, and Bëor. I am the adopted son of both Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion, of the House of Finwë. I am the brother of Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first King of Numenor. I am husband to Celebrían Celeborniel, of the House of Finwë and Thingol. I was Herald and Vice-regent to the High King Gil-galad for nearly the entirety of his reign, and Lord of Rivendell for nearly five thousand years” He paused, smiled, and shrugged, almost ruefully. “As you can see, I carry many legacies, my Lords.”

The halls erupted in laughter, and even Finrod had to snort, covering his mouth with his hand to hide a smile.

Elrond waited, his face a fixed smile as the noise died down.

“With legacies and lineages such as that,” he finally continued, “and having fought or been party to the planning of every major war that has occurred in my lifetime, I submit to your judgement that my hands have been dripping with blood since I was old enough to hold a blade.”

Finrod felt his horror mounting the longer Elrond spoke.

“For my part in the War of Wrath, two hundred and seventy-six Eldar died under my care as their healer. For my part in the War of the Last Alliance, as commander I take responsibility for the lives of the over twenty thousand Eldar I led to their deaths over the course of that siege.”

The halls were silent.

“I killed my cousin, Celebrimbor Curufinwion of the House of Finwë, as an act of mercy on the fields outside Eregion, where Sauron the Deceiver was parading him as a trophy, broken beyond hope, and because he begged. I killed my King, Ereinion Gil-galad, as an act of mercy on the slopes of Orodruin where Sauron had burnt him beyond hope, and because he begged, too, for release.”

The only noise was the decorative fountain in the gardens outside the hall. Nobody dared to breathe, it seemed.

“And, since I am not just Eldar, but Peredhel, Men I count as well in my tally.” Whispers started again. Finrod glanced at his father, who was keeping his eyes on Elrond.

“It is not strictly in the purview of this day to acknowledge the deaths of the Secondborn,” Finarfin stated.

“I am a Man just as much as I am an Elda,” Elrond stated simply. “I am a Numenorean, a Man of the Houses of Hador and Haleth and Bëor, just as I am of the Houses of Finwë and Elu Thingol. All are my kin. And are we not here, then, to judge the slayers of kin?”

Finarfin took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Wenya knocked her blocky head into Finarfin’s elbow, as if she, the fat and happy snake who had no idea what was happening, was impatient for Finarfin to let Elrond continue. Finrod tugged her gently back into his sphere.

Finarfin closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and nodded. “We acknowledge and accept the nature of the Peredhel, and will hear your misdeeds.”

Elrond nodded, hands clasped loosely in front of him, as if he was delivering a lecture, not a horrific number of deaths. “Eight hundred ninety-two Men of my Houses I failed to save in the War of Wrath.” Finrod noted a heraldic device on Elrond’s shoulder, pinning his overrobe shut, as he spoke, wings upraised above an eight-pointed star. He had seen that before, on missives received from Numenor in its early days. “For failing to intercept my brother’s descendants in time, I add at least five hundred thousand Numenorean souls to my count. All who perished in the Akallabêth.”

“The Reshaping of the World cannot lie on the shoulders of one who was not present on the Isle,” Finarfin interrupted, shaking his head. “You did not corrupt Ar-Pharazôn in those days, nor did you cause the Flood.”

“We had a chance to stop Sauron before he could corrupt my people,” Elrond stated, tears in his eyes. “My brother’s people. Our people. Had we been willing to risk the assault, we could have ended it a thousand years or more before Ar-Pharazôn had even been born.”

“They died because the Creator–”

“They died because I–”

“You had been banned from their shores just like the rest of us!” Finarfin roared. “They abandoned you long before their day of judgment came! Do you truly think you are the only one who mourns the line of Elros?”

Elrond shook, hands in tight fists, head bowed.

“He was like a son to me,” Finarfin whispered. “You both were, in those dark days.”

Elrond’s head snapped up, tears in his eyes. Finrod could only stare at his father, who had rarely spoken of Elros Tar-Minyatur until news of his death had reached them in Tirion.

“I refused to accept your accounting regarding the deaths of the inhabitants of Numenor. Do you have anyone else you would like to add to your day of Remembrances?"

Elrond shook his head mutely.

“Kneel then, and bathe in the blood of your remorse,” Finarfin said, the rote words dripping with pity.

Elrond knelt, and like Glorfindel, the dye went all the way up to his elbows. Finrod was sure that if the buckets were deeper, Elrond would bathe in it, head to toe. He seemed almost relieved, as he knelt there, under the eyes of hundreds, witnesses to the bloody legacy of leadership and loss that Elrond Peredhel embodied for all to see.

It was uncomfortable. Wenya twined around his shoulders, sensing his distress.

“Rise, and be at peace,” Finarfin whispered. Protocol dictated he could not interfere, but Finrod could tell he wanted to be down on the floor with Elrond, to wipe his cheeks, to comfort, to hold through the storm of grief. Like he had done with Finrod in the days of his youth.

Erestor wordlessly held out another pristine white towel for Elrond to take.

Finarfin nodded, turning his gaze to Erestor. “And you, Erestor Morifinwion?”

Erestor shook his head, a slight smile on his face. “I’ve caused only papercuts, Majesty.”