as I prune my feathers by arafinweanappreciation  

On the night after the coronation, the wind was cold. Fires still burned in the north; their light could be seen, flickering on the far reaches of the horizon, but they provided no warmth. A figure stood on the ramparts of the keep at Hithlum, where the ceremony had been held, more solemn than joyous. The wisdom of having so many of the rulers so near the great darkness to the north, given what had happened– what was happening– was questionable, at best. But their luck held. For now.

Another figure joined the first, both still clad in the finery demanded by such an event. This one wore a crown, heavier upon his shoulders than his head. He said nothing, only looked at his cousin out of the corner of his eye, the lesser king staring out into the distance, eyes glazed over as he sipped absent-mindedly from a goblet. If there had been rumors before that the king of Nargothrond was half-mad, then it must now be widely accepted as fact. They both stood like that for some time, an unasked question hanging between them. It was the king of Nargothrond, taller, lighter of hair and narrower of shoulder, who spoke first. “You know that I don’t know where he is. Nothing has changed that.”

“But you could find him,” the high king said. “If you looked.” It was not a question. It was not an order, either. Not yet.

“I have already buried two brothers, Findekáno,” the King of Nargothrond replied. “If Turukáno has found a way to evade our doom, then I will not be the one to bring it to his doorstep.”

The high king looked over at his younger cousin and found a steady gaze fixed on him, green eyes stained black and flickering orange by the lantern-lit night. A cut, still healing, followed the arch of his cheekbone. A souvenir from the Fens of Serech that he had not deigned to hide with cosmetics.

The high king looked away, fixing his gaze on the ground far below. “He is safe, then?”

“As far as my sight extends, though there are many things now in motion.”

The high king hesitated. “How far does your sight extend?” He had never entirely understood the visions. His family had not been particularly gifted in foresight, or in osanwë, the way that his cousin was. The music did not speak to him in that way, nor many of the Noldor. The Vanyar and the Lindar seemed to find it everywhere, humming in the air and the water around them, but neither the earth nor the flame sang so. They echoed the song, of course, as everything did, beautiful in their own way, distorted and bent, though not twisted. Some learned to listen to them. But not him.

“Not far, now, I think. Much of what I have seen has already come to pass.”

The high king’s mouth went dry. He found that he very much did not want to be left alone, here in the west.

The king of Nargothrond fidgeted with his cup. “I thought that pressing the attack would be what brought about the flames,” he said quietly. “I never thought…” he stopped, voice breaking before he regained his composure. “I should have listened to them.”

“You could not have known,” the high king said. He felt the absurdity of it as the words left his mouth. If there was one person in this world who would have had a chance of knowing, it would have been Ingoldo. The realization was intensified by the heavy-lidded glare that his cousin directed at him. “The sight is a blessing yet,” the high king insisted, attempting to recover the lost ground. “A sign of the favor of the Valar. You may be the last of our house who retains that still.”

This, too, was the wrong thing to say. The word was not spoken, but smoke suddenly hung heavy in the air between them. Findekáno could taste blood. He could feel it on his hands, thick and accusing. Silently, he cursed his thoughtlessness, and not just with his words.

The king of Nargothrond shifted away, almost imperceptibly. “What the Valar give is given for our benefit,” he said in a low voice, “But rarely does it bring comfort, and then only the coldest kind.” He drained the dregs of whatever was in the goblet, not meeting Findekáno’s gaze. “Blessing it may be, but curse it is, also.”

They stayed there for a long moment. In that moment, Findekáno had the distinct impression that Ingoldo knew exactly how he was going to die. Not when. Maybe not even why. But he had seen it. He wondered if, as far as Ingoldo was concerned, he was having a conversation with a ghost. He wondered if he had conversations with ghosts quite often.

Before he could ask, the king of Nargothrond turned away, towards the interior of the keep. His voice was cold as he departed.

“Good night, your majesty.”

Leave a Comment