The Walls, They Cling by cytryne  

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The Walls, They Cling

I really hope this is the most up to date version of this fic, I will check later.

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Tyelperinquar closed his book with a sigh as a rap sounded at the door. It was not his favorite topic—a thesis on the use of starlight in Atani locking methods, written in Sindarin—but it was interesting to read a very different take on scholarship. If nothing else, it helped him practice his more specific Sindarin vocabulary. He'd had few opportunities to do that with anyone educated on the actual scholarship rather than desperately guessing recently. It could improve with the upcoming round of diplomatic visits to Barad Eithel, but he rather doubted it. Thingol was not famous for his smiths.

Not that any of them would want to talk to him if they came. Or him them. His already low interest in social interaction had plummeted over the last few years.

He would, because he was a responsible adult and was not going to give his family any worse of a reputation, but he would not enjoy it.

The rap sounded again. Tyelpe placed his book on the table next to him, glanced around for the pencil he'd been annotating it with, checked behind his ear when he could not find it, and finally straightened up to call at the door, "Come in!"

He put the pencil down on the table as the door opened. Findekano—though he supposed he was meant to call him Fingon now—smiled at him as he stepped through. He wore a cheery blue today rather than the occasional darker navy. It suited him, though Tyelperinquar was hardly the best person to ask about clothing shades and styles. It had taken multiple reminders to get him into something relatively not crumpled this morning.

"Crown Prince," he said. The phrase was not as stiff and cold as it had been when this whole farce started, though it still sat wrong on his tongue. It was near friendly now. He did still say it in Quenya, despite Nolofinwe's repeat orders-phrased-as-suggestions to try to adjust for better diplomatic relations, but he knew Findekano would not tell on him.

Findekano never told on him. It was why he got a smile in return.

"Lord Celebrimbor," the Crown Prince responded. He glanced over Tyelpe's red robe today, eyes lingering on an area of his face on the way back up. His smile widened slightly. "My father has requested your presence for lunch."

As he had every week. And, like clockwork every week, Findekano had come a half hour earlier than he strictly needed to walk across the castle in his stead.

"Of course," he said and stood from his chair in front of the fireplace. He smoothed down the wrinkles in his robes again as he walked past the large windows overlooking an inner courtyard, sun still not quite hitting this side of the castle, and tugged at the cuffs of his inner robe until it laid flat as well. He slipped two folded sheets of paper into an inner pocket and then stopped in front of Findekano. Dignity kept his head high even though he wanted nothing more than to lie down again.

Findekano bit his lip. He brought his hand up to cover it a second after, perhaps registering biting had nothing to hide the amused smile. "May I suggest checking your face one more time?"

Tyelpe did not curse. He did close his eyes to count to ten when a testing finger on his cheek came back streaked black with graphite, before subtly checking his robes again as he reached back into that inner pocket for a handkerchief. They were, well, not immaculate, but the spots were only truly obvious on his pale inner robes. The deep burgundy red of the outer robe, embroidered in a dark slate grey, was blessedly good at hiding stains.

He tugged at the collars again as he slid the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket, then nodded at Findekano. "Thank you, Your Highness."

"Of course." He gestured at the door. "If we may?"

Tyelperinquar inclined his head and followed his elder cousin into the hallway. Nolofinwe's guards followed close behind. It must have been a boring job, stuck waiting on a Noldo who rarely ever left one room. His trips out weren't much better, considering they were only to visit with the same three people or spend a few supervised hours in the irritatingly under-resourced forge space he had begun to adapt, but he was hardly going to apologize to them. They were probably Turukano's anyway.

They made absent small talk in Sindarin about his most recent books as they meandered slowly through the castle. Findekano led them through some side halls, rarely used, that twisted around the Eastern gallery towards the least popular staircases.

Tyelpe paused in front of the arrow slit windows. It was nowhere near as large as his own, restricted by the outer edge of the castle, but the view was gorgeous. The golden plains lay stretched out below them. The little River Sirion grew into a massive thing that snaked across the large expanse, its deep blue shimmering in the light. He could just barely see the sun as it rose above them in the sky. Beyond his vision, he knew, lay more mountains and deeper valleys, terrain hard to traverse that was now coated with little fortresses and grander castles to prevent the spread of orcs. The letters described them as bleak. He thought privately that was just the author's attitude towards everything right now, but it wasn't like he had much room to talk on that.

He leaned into the slit as far as he could. A fresh breeze blew across his face and he fancied it was coming from the East, even though he knew the height made constant breezes inevitable. His rooms only ever faced West, an interior view of a locked courtyard that allowed for bigger windows without defensive concerns. This was better. It reminded him of the brief period when they had not yet been in a castle, when he had to go into the more exposed air for necessary daily activities, before everything became closed in and quiet.

If there were tears in his eyes when he pulled away, Findekano did not comment on it.

As they begun walking through the tight hallway again, the guards trailing further back than typical due to the space, Findekano offered him a slim cloth bound volume. It was in a pale blue green.

"Another offering for your lighthearted collection, if it appeals." He laughed. "I suspect I may never nail your taste in fiction."

Tyelpe hummed as he opened the book and flicked through it. He slipped one of the notes from his pocket—folded in a way that required two hands to open—into the first pages and slid the matching note—that did not require two hands to open—into the tight-laced sleeve in its place. He could already see the insides. It would be layers of finely inked Tengwar written in a painfully neat hand, first standard then mirrored, in one direction and then at a 90 degree angle. It took years of experience to understand easily, the sort of experience that only truly came from having known his father for his entire life.

This was why Findekano was his favorite—other than occasionally Irisse, who would still dare trips to visit his father and always bring him back something, but she was not there and had been heavily involved in that event, so Findekano still won. He would pass the missive along in his next letter to Maitimo. It would no doubt be read by every step of the way, first by Findekano and Maitimo, then Kano, then whichever mix of nosy uncles had to be involved in its movement, but it would get there unedited. It was better than the monthly stilted conversations with Maitimo over a Palantir with his great-uncle and cousin nearby.

"Nandor?" he asked, but did not wait for an answer before closing the volume again and offering it back. "I fear there are too many trees and not enough interesting stanza layouts. I would try Laegrim, if you can access it."

Findekano took it back with a light shrug. "It was worth a try. It came in our last communication with the South, I wondered if you would be able to place it. How did you identify it?"

"They have a certain tendency to re-use specific words across the same line in different segments of a piece. I find it slightly grating after a few poems," he admitted, fingers brushing against the missive in his sleeve as they headed down the dark stairs. They were not the only ones. "It is difficult to spot within an individual poem, but easy across the larger compilations."

"Ah, that explains it." Findekano opened the door at the bottom and Tyelperinquar nodded at him in thanks. They stepped into a small entrance hall, the door to the courtyard garden where he typically had lunch with his great-uncle already visible. "And the tell for Silvan poems?"

"Longer, contain extensive parallels to the local nature, and rarely set to music." Tyelpe stopped in front of that door and nodded politely to Findekano. "Thank you for accompanying me."

"It was no problem. I appreciate the chance to have a conversation with a fellow book lover." They bowed at each other again, and then Tyelperinquar turned and entered the courtyard garden. He liked this one better than the one he saw every day.

It was a pretty place. The stone along the outside shone white in the midday sun, blocks large yet precisely even in the way only the most gifted of Noldor miners could achieve. No one would be able to climb nor destroy them easily. The courtyard itself was largely empty. To his right sat a small copse of trees with a matching stone bench in their shade. He'd spent hours sitting there. If he kept his eyes angled right, the trees would block all hints of the towering walls around them.

In front of him, stretching all the way to the far wall, was a veritable sea of flowers. Most were local and dominated with wild pinks and purples. To his left was the one exception to the nature-dominated space: a small patio area with a table and set of chairs where his great-uncle preferred to take his meals if the weather allowed.

Nolofinwe sat in the far chair already. He had a pile of papers open before him, trusting enough that Tyelperinquar would not do something to undermine him in revenge. He was right. It still grated to have it acknowledged so openly.

His guards stayed at the door as he headed to the table. He stopped a few feet away and bowed deep.

"High King," he said in Sindarin. His accent—Feanorian Quenya—remained heavy. He had finished learning the language several years before Nolofinwe had even reached these shores, his precision as inherited from his grandfather's particularities about proper pronunciation as anything else.

He caught Nolofinwe's lip twitching, though he kept his mostly placid look as he sorted his papers to the side. "Lord Celebrimbor. You may sit, nephew."

"Great-Uncle," he acknowledged, and did. It was the polite fiction everyone who had not been directly involved that day pretended to believe. Celebrimbor, youngest and brightest but least practical of his remaining House, had been sent to his great-uncle's court as both representation and for protection. His father had volunteered to take on one of the most dangerous holdings on the East, after all. His remaining House's choices in location were hardly better. It would have been cruel to put him at risk in Himring's harsh heights when Mithrim was an option.

He thought it was rather crueler to support Turukano and Irisse's madness, but it wasn't like anyone would listen if he said as much.

They made painfully simple smalltalk for the first few minutes as a servant fetched both meals: about the weather, Tyelpe's most recent books, the treatise he had begun to write about the maintenance of some of his grandfather's simpler, more widespread inventions, Finrod's lightest stories from his occasional wanderings. Nothing that mattered. He brushed the note hidden in his sleeve again. It was never anything that mattered.

Tyelperinquar folded the edge of his sleeve to better cover the inner robe as the meal arrived. He thanked the servant briefly then looked down at the meal. It was well-made and fine as ever, dominated by root vegetables, meat, and flecks of the deep, herbal flavors they could find here. He could tell it would be warm and comforting against the permanent mountain chill even when under the direct line of the sun.

Nolofinwe's eyes lingered on his hand as he slowly took a bite. It tasted as it smelled, objectively good, but he had to force himself to eat. His appetitive had dropped since coming here. He suspected, though he knew no one would confirm if he bothered to ask, that it was one of the reasons they had started doing these conversation lunches.

The clink of cutlery, echo of distant birds, and rustle of bugs in the grass filled the air for a long period. Tyelperinquar kept his gaze carefully lowered, never quite angled towards or away from the High King. Nolofinwe did not pick the conversation back up until they had both finished half of their meals.

"I've heard you recently finished a project. I hope my forge staff have been treating you well?"

He smiled pleasantly enough. The reality was much less positive, restrictions chaffing, but he knew Nolofinwe would not want to hear it. "They have been, thank you, though I am limited in what I can do."

He paused to look at the other slightly closer. Nolofinwe seemed to be in a good mood today, responding to his comments without any deep pauses or unwanted comparisons. Tyelpe reached into his pocket for the other piece of paper he'd folded earlier, thumb rubbing on its worn lines from how often he had folded, reconsidered, unfolded, and then refolded it without actually changing the contents. He placed it on the table between them.

"I have some ideas, if you're open to discussing them. Both sketches and explanations of what I would intend to create and schematics for the pieces of equipment I would need to create in order to do so, as well as a general explanation of the process. I know it's not usual…"

His words drifted off as Nolofinwe reached for the paper. His face, so open a few seconds before, had already begun to deepen into a frown before he could have even read the paper fully.

Tyelpe had spent weeks on the wording of that. He knew Nolofinwe would be hesitant, knew he couldn't just do it like he used to be able to, but he had hoped—it was for protection and re-establishing industry they'd had in Valinor, mostly. Ideas of how to manipulate existing gemstones further than his grandfather had in creating the Feanorian lamps to make them interact with direct applications of power rather than simple ambient energy, a few theories he wished to test on how to directly manufacture gems here rather than needing to find them, simple things. They weren't inherently dangerous. They were nowhere near his grandfather's creations.

But they were complicated and they had potential. None would stay simple and defensive forever if he achieved them. It was the nature of power.

"Tyelperinquar…" Nolofinwe trailed off as he brought his hand up to his forehead, his actual name for once, and he knew what the missing words would be. His head bent to avoid actually watching this.

This was the greatest tension of their people now, in simple: they did not have his grandfather. They needed his grandfather's talent to be able to progress against the Enemy rather than hold a line, and they did not have him. They had his father, but his father's talent was limited and his spite immeasurable. Nothing he made was trustworthy even if it were useful enough.

Tyelperinquar was good enough. He knew he was. He suspected Nolofinwe knew he was as well, from the way conversations always seemed to twist slightly near him and drop off, that slightly pained look in his eyes when he paid attention to what Tyelpe had proposed that time, the inappropriate amusement when he went against his rules or made a particularly pedantic protest. The frequent invitations for lunches at all.

But Nolofinwe had no way to check that his inventions would not be dangerous, because Tyelpe had already surpassed anyone they had available. He had no way to guarantee that Tyelpe would be trustworthy after he gave his word, because precedent had proven his family's word useless, and so he would not allow it. He could not. Tyelperinquar would be left to keep poking at useless trinkets and irritating books. He would suffocate under the weight of not being allowed to do what he needed to keep his family safe until he could not tolerate it any longer.

Just like Feanaro.

Tyelperinquar kept his eyes on his plate and did not speak.

Nolofinwe sighed again. His plate clinked as it was set aside, the paper crinkled as it was folded, and his clothing rustled as Tyelpe's ideas were placed away for good again.

His great-uncle stood up. He walked around the table and placed a hand on his shoulder. It sat heavily. "Look at me, Tyelperinquar."

Obedient as ever, Tyelpe looked up. Nolofinwe's face was still tired and worn, heavy with the weight of duty. His eyes were just as laden. Even as they met, they never quite seemed to see his fully.

"I know you are frustrated. I will think of something you can do to help," he promised. Tyelperinquar nodded silently. Nolofinwe's face did something funny, between deep misery, a grimace, and a smile. The moment stretched as if he were going to say something else, but he just readjusted into a slightly tighter smile and squeezed his shoulder. "It may take time, but I will find something. I promise."

"Yes, your majesty," he murmured, eyes drifting back towards the ground, and Nolofinwe just exhaled. He squeezed his shoulder one more time before letting go.

"I will see you later," he promised again, and left. That would not be the empty promise from this conversation. He almost wished it were.

Tyelperinquar listened to his feet crunch against the ground until the door opened and closed. Then, slowly, he pushed the plate away and laid his head down on his arms, face down to the ground. He closed his eyes until all he was aware of were the gentle sounds of bugs in the flowers next to him, and pretended it was any of the locations his father had written to him about. Anywhere other than here.