Clameur de Haro by Kingsdaughter613  

---

Aria

---

The day had dawned cold and grey when the Herald was seen on the road to Menegroth. The Marchwardens of the Iathrim let him pass unmolested, despite his banner and his name, for none but the most vile would strike a herald while he bore the white rod of his office, no matter the Star on its head. But word they sent on ahead, and the Herald arrived to find the gates barred.

The gate guards, the greater number young and untried, watched warily as the Herald stilled. In one smooth motions he dismounted, the red skirts of his surcoat swirling about him. He strode up to the gate, fine features dark with fury, and the guards quailed before the fire in his eyes.

He was an intimidating figure, the Herald, tall as many of the Noldor are tall, but broad as few of the Eldar ever are, muscle heavy across his shoulders, and chest like a bellows, all tension and coiled power. But powerful though his hröa was, greater still was his voice, golden as Arien’s light, mighty as the Belegaer, resounding like a great bell over land and sea.

“What ist?” He demanded, left hand clenched upon the hilt of his sword, the right thrusting his stave toward the gate in accusation. “I have come as Herald of Maedros Noldoran, that the debt betwixt our peoples be settled and our feud ended. Surely your king will not deny me audience! For all Valariandë knoweþ, to refuse audience with a herald is to declare war.”

The guard captain stepped forward, look up to meet the Herald’s glowing eyes, glad of the gate between them. “These are the words of my king, as I was ordered to speak them.

“No kinslayer shall be welcome in the Caves of Menegroth, and no welcome will we give the treacherous Sons of Fëanor. They shall not step through the gates, no matter that they come as messengers; e’en though they carry the staff of a herald.

“Doriath recognizes no debt to the Sons and will treat with them not. To them we will give no answer but silence.”

For a moment, the world seemed to still, no sound but the chill wind through the barren branches.

Then the Herald sighed, and for the slightest moment a terrible grief seemed to shine in his silver eyes, so swift that ever after the Captain wondered if it had truly been. “So be it,” the Herald said, and soft though he spoke the trees trembled at the sound.

The Herald stepped back and raised his head high, face cold and eyes burning with a fell flame. He took a single breath, full and deep. When next he spoke it was loud and carrying, and the people of Doriath felt the sound in the stones and in their bones, and felt the shadow of Doom fall upon them.

“Hark!” proclaimed the Herald, and there were none who heard who could not heed. “Harken unto my words, people of Doriath, children of Menegroth, cravens cowering ‘neath stones and Girdle! Harken to me and heed my words, for I am Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion, Herald to Maedros Noldoran, and I speak in the name of my king.

“Just grievance we have against the King of Doriath. And that all may know our cause just and our griefs justified, I will speak them now, in all the tongues of this land that are known to me.

“All know Elwë Þindicollo claimed kingship over these lands of Valariandë. To the Noldor he granted lands to steward and to him we gave Oaths of fealty. He named us his vassals and we named him our liege.

“Our tongue he banned and this we obeyed, though it grieved us greatly. His borders and roads we guarded, and to his people we gave protection. By these deeds, and others too numerous to name, you may see we were true.

“But false was Þindicollo! For Eöl his kinsman stole Aredhel, daughter of Nolofinwë Noldoran. Forcibly he took her to wife, and begot on her a child. This he did though Aredhel had been long betrothed to Tyelcormo, nephew to Nolofinwë Noldoran and brother to Maedros Noldoran. An’ when this matter was made known to Þindicollo, he stood silent. Justice he denied us! Our grievance he would not even allow to be brought afore him! He would not, by deed or word, raise hand against Eöl his kinsman, that the Princess of the Noldor might be returned to her kin.

“Let it also be known that, in days after, the lady Aredhel sought to flee her captor, but Eöl kinsman of Þindicollo pursued her, and by poison slew her.

“This is the first grievance.”

The Herald paused a moment. But seeing the gate still shut, he continued.

“A second time was Þindicollo false. For a liegelord hath many duties, but chief among them is this: to his people he oweþ protection; to them he must give sanctuary.

“Yet when the Morikotto broke the Leaguer, and set upon us with great force; with dragons and valaraukar; urqui and umaiar; wargs and werewolves; and Þauron, Goþmog, and Glaurung at their head, these gates of Menegroth were shut and the Girdle raised high against us. Neither aid nor sanctuary did Doriath give. By this deed did Þindicollo break all vows and oaths, for many of our people were lost who might have lived. Many there were who fell beside the Girdle, or perished within. And, by want of Þindicollo’s aid, our lands fell and were lost.”

For a moment the Herald hesitated. His eyes shut, and a terrible grief marked his face. Tears trickled down his cheek, running through the grooves the Valarauka’s whip had left upon his face. But his eyes, when they opened, were fire and his voice, when he spoke, was clear and true.

“And among the fallen was Angarato, nephew to Nolofinwë Noldoran, cousin to Maedros Noldoran. Slain, too, was his brother Aicanaro and slain was his wife Eldalotë, who might yet live did Doriath but march to their aid. Slain also was Rhovaloth, Lady of the Mithrim, granddaughter to Denethor, kinswoman of Cirdan, wife to Canafinwë Macalaurë, niece to Nolofinwë Noldoran and sister to Maedros Noldoran. Her son Lindincë, a child still, perished upon the border of the Girdle, for it was barred to him. Into the Girdle, her daughter Kampilossë fled, and therein was lost, and perished. Slain also was Ithilambaron, her son, on the field, where the aid of Þindicollo might have spared him.

“And when these tidings came before Nolofinwë Noldoran, and he learned of all that was lost, and those who were slain, despair and grief fell upon him. Then did he demand his horse, and riding rode to the Iron Gate. The Morikotto himself he challenged, and seven wounds he gave the Enemy, till the Morikotto raised Grond high, and striking slew the most noble of kings.

“This is the second grievance.”

The Herald paused, dashing his hand across his eyes, wiping away his tears. He took one breath, then another, chest heaving as he wept. He made no attempt to hide his grief, for the Noldor are a passionate people and tears are no shame to them. But a Herald speaks with the voice of his king, and his voice must be clear.

Some moments passed, until the Herald had control of his grief once more. Only then did he raise up his voice, hard as mithril, clear as ice, and continue.

“Another grievance we have. For all know of the Silmarilli, Holy Jewels forged of our father’s fëa, and our Oath to reclaim them, and that they be treasures of our House.

“These Jewels Þindicollo named as bride price, in contravenance of all Laws of the Free Peoples of Valariandë. For it was not Beren’s to claim, nor his to give. And this stolen Jewel of our House remaineþ yet in Doriath and haþ not been returned.”

The guards scowled at these words, knuckles whitening upon the hands that held their spears. The other grievances they might grind their teeth and in silence hear, if not heed. But this one struck them dear. As an insult they took it, that their great King, beloved of an Ainu, might be named both thief and fence.

“Do you speak grievances or insults,” the Captain demanded, emboldened now, for it was become clear to him that the Kinslayer would not attack, but only sought to speak his piece.

The Kinslayer smiled, a sharp, cruel, thing that promised death. “Grievances,” he answered, voice as cool and placid as the treacherous sea, “for all they may seem as insults to you.” He adjusted his staff of office, starred head resting upon his shoulder, proof of his right to stand and to speak unmolested before the gates.

“For all these we have sought recompense. And this, too, we account against you, for twice did we come to Þindicollo and once to Dior, but no redress did we receive.

“For the loss of Himlad and Dorthonion; Thargelion and Igbe Macalaurëo; and also for the theft of Aredhel his betrothed, Tyelcormo, Lord of Himlad lost, nephew to Nolofinwë Noldoran,  brother to Maedros Noldoran, requested the hand of Luthien, daughter of Þindicollo. In this he sought the surety of blood, and the end of feud, for Þindicollo had abrogated all duty of protection.

“But this Þindicollo refused.”

“And right he was to!” a young Marchwarden cried, forgetting himself in his fury. “Your brother stole our princess-“

“Protective custody,” Macalaurë interjected smoothly. “Did not Þindicollo do the same?”

“He forced her to wed-“

“You mistake him for Eöl, I think,” came the sharp reply. “Luthien left his custody wholly intact. Had he intended to force her, opportunity was had and set aside unused.”

An older marchwarden stepped forth from the trees, laying a warning hand on the shoulder of the wrathful youth. His own face was pinched tight with rage. “And what of your cousin? What of Finrod? What excuse have you for his usurpation?”

To the surprise of all, Macalaurë laughed, a rich, warm, golden sound, cold as the Helcaraxë. The elder warden stiffened, utterly outraged. “You truly are monstrous! Your own near kin, near kin twice over, and you laugh?”

“Ah, but you are amusing,” the Kinslayer prince replied merrily. “But as for Findarato,” and the marchwarden flinched unwilling as the voice grew sharp and cruel, “he who doþ not wish to be usurped ought not to commit High Treason. My wise, innocent, golden cousin,” he chanted, irony so bitter with venom the trees withdrew their branches and pulled away, “declared his father Noldoran and himself viceroy, and so deserved all grief my brothers brought upon him.”

“Always an answer,” said the marchwarden.

“Not always,” answered the Herald, a strange light in his eyes. “But I think I shall continue now.

“A second time we came to Þindicollo. Maedros Noldoran demanded of him aid in the reclamation of our lands and the defeat of our Enemy. And though this be the least of requests, no more than any vassal may demand of his liege, still did Þindicollo refuse. In this we hold grievance twice, for this was not merely denial of recompense, but abrogation of the most base duty of a liege.

“This battle, that is now named Nirnaeth Arnoedad, haþ become to us the greatest of griefs. Slain there was Findecano, son of Nolofinwë Noldoran, cousin to Maedros Noldoran. Slain by his side was Mirëfinwë, son of Morifinwë Carnistir, nephew to Maedros Noldoran.

“Our people were routed and those lands that remained to us were lost and made barren. Song and story tell of our great fortresses, of Himring and Barad Eithel, and how they stood through flame! They are fallen now. And with Barad Eithel fell Tarmarië, wife of Findecano, daughter to Nolofinwë Noldoran. Beside her was slain her daughter, Erien, scarce more than a girl. And with Himring fell Ithtarniel, daughter of Morifinwë Carnistir, niece to Maedros Noldoran, that our people might flee.

“All of these griefs, and many more beside, we lay to the account of Þindicollo.

“One final grievance we have in this matter. For when our people were routed, and our armies broken, Doriath raised again high her gates and denied us due Sanctuary a second time.”

“Do you truly believe,” the elder March warden said softly, eyes distant, “that you might have won, if we marched with you?”

“I think,” the Prince said quietly, broad shoulders falling in sudden weariness, “that you were not there. We fought and we died, and fought and died again, and no aid came from he who named himself our liege.”

Macalaurë sighed, and met the Marchwarden’s hard gaze with his own, tired and hollow. “No, I do not believe your aid would have won us the day. I do not believe this is a war we may win. I do not know that I ever have.

“But what does it matter?” He turned away, gazing out over the woods, hand stroking the scars on his cheek. “Aid we were owed and aid we were refused. And sanctuary… Deny us, perchance, but of what sin were our children held guilty?” He turned back abruptly, rage lighting his eyes once more.

“Finrod, you named afore! Well do I know you gave sanctuary to the folk of Nargothrond. But my nephew you refused, though he set his lot with them.”

To that the Marchwarden had no reply. Seeing it, the Prince laughed, sharp and bitter. “Very well. Shall I continue?” He did not wait for a response, but raised his staff high and spoke once more.

“A last attempt we have made to seek redress. Of King Dior, we have asked only what is ours by right, the Holy Jewel of our father. Yet let him but give us this, and we will hold all debts forgiven.”

The Herald’s voice rose as he spoke, echoing through the Thousands Caves, vibrating through wall and stone, until it reached the Hall of the King, where Luthien’s son on the throne sat. Then King Dior raised a hand to his chest and the Jewel that lay upon it, and raised his voice in answer. No word he spoke, but a single note, sounded in perfect opposition. And where the voice of the Herald met that of the King, silence reigned.

The Herald inclined his head in acknowledgement. Silence, then, was to be the King’s answer.

“But that, too, haþ been refused. And so I, as the voice, and with the authority, of Maedros Noldoran, do here and now renounce all fealty, aid, and service to you. I cast back your protection as you have cast back our loyalty.”

There he paused, gazing at each member of his audience in turn. “I would not have you after claim you did not understand,” he mused. “I have spoken in the tongue of the Mithrim, that is also the tongue of Beren, father of Dior King, for they are my sworn vassals. Now I shall speak it in yours.”

The whole he repeated in Iathric, the tongue of Doriath. Then again in Taliska, and other tongues of Men; in the Khuzdul, secret tongue of the Khazad; in the Þindarin of the Fallas; and in the Quenya of the Exiles, disgust evident with every sa/si.

Then he stopped, lips twisting up in an arrogant smirk. “Your king is part Maia, is he not?” Not waiting for an answer, he began again, speaking strange words in a tongue not intended for elves or men, voice rising above and below what even elven ears might hear. The guards and marchwardens fell to their knees and covered their ears. The terrible, beautiful words drove all thought from their minds, and they had not the will even to stop the Herald in his speech.

Then it was done, and silence fell.

A cough broke the still air, bestirring the watchers. The guardsmen and marchwardens rose, trembling and shaking, as the Herald took a sip of wine from his flask. Macalaurë smiled at them, pride flaring in his eyes. Gently, his fingers massaged his throat. “Valarin is not the easiest of tongues,” he said mildly, as though he had not just given speech in the tongue of the Ainu themselves.

He gave himself and his audience a moment to recover. “My own now,” he said, “and let it be done.” One last time he spoke the whole, in the beloved Quenya of his father’s House, before raising his voice in the Mithric tongue once more.

“Henceforth we hold you as we hold all Peoples: Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.”

The Herald stepped up to the gate, his staff held high, one hand on either end. With one quick motion, he snapped the thick wood of the rod, and the pieces he cast down before the gates. White was the wood, yet for a moment the star at its head glistened red in the light of the setting sun.

Then the Prince fell to his knees before the gate. One last time he raised his voice, and the cry carried over land and sea, through bone and stone, heard by every ear in Doriath.

“Haro, Haro, Haro! Ai Eru, uxarë ná marnë nin! Uxarë ná marnë nossenyan! Uxarë ná marnë i Noldoranon! Þindicollo hehtanë lye, ar Dior avatanta lye failie! I canwa heruo na hehtaina; i Míre nosselva netya mardorissë. Mana i aran lá hanquetë?

“Failie vanwa! I rohta avatantaina! Edro i andor ar mapë i aran! Illi i tarar as þes, tarar i lumbessë ucarieryo!"

A second time he cried the Haro, this time in the Iathric tongue. “Haro, Haro, Haro! Ai Eru, I am wronged! My house is wronged! The Noldoran is wronged! Þindicollo abandoned us and Justice Dior denies us! The duties of liegelord stand forsaken; the Jewel of our House adorns his halls. Why does the king not answer?

“Justice is fled! The debt denied! Open the gates and seize the king! All who stand with him, stand in the shadow of his crime!”

Macalaurë rose and met the eyes of the Captain and Marchwarden in turn. “I know my voice and I know its reach. There is not an ear within the bounds of Doriath who haþ not heard my cry. If there be any innocent in these lands, they must be mere babes, for all others are now complicit and accompliced. When Just War we shall bring against you, do not after seek to claim yourselves unstained.”

So saying, the Herald mounted his horse and rode off into the darkening night.