A/N1: This story was written for Zdenka at AO3 as a gift for an exchange.
A sort of honorary mention goes to Arianka, who encouraged me to join the exchange and was a tremendous help throughout, patiently listening to my whining, offering suggestions and finally betaing the whole thing. I know this is not really your piece of cake so all the more thanks.
My thanks also to the authors of eldamo org and realelvish net for their wonderful materials on Elvish.
All the mistakes remain, obviously, my own.
A/N2: I use Sindarin names for the characters who actually make an appearance, but all other Elvish words, including names of characters who are only mentioned, are given, if possible, either in Quenya or Sindarin, depending on which language is intended to be used at the moment.
Chapter 1
The night was bitterly cold, the sky clear above their heads, the landscape eerily calm under the dull blanket of snow without the moon to cast it aglow. They stood guard well hidden among the leafless trees high over the Great Gate, their eyes sweeping over the gorge and across the plain. Minutes trickled slowly and they were now approaching the middle of their watch.
Suddenly, Captain Astoron gripped his shoulder painfully and with his other hand he pointed at the ever-threatening North. "Something stirs up there and nothing good can come of it," he said sharply.
Sandir started to protest but then he realized that indeed far away, over the Ered Wethrin and the hills of Dorthonion, stars seemed to be vanishing from the sky.
His captain continued in a hushed tone, "So it has been the previous time. Run swiftly to the King."
But before Sandir could offer any reply, the night erupted in flames.[i]
Down, down, over the protruding roots, around the thorny bushes, his legs carried him swiftly towards the Great Gate. War and destruction, darkness and blood – that was his urgent message. Quickly, quickly, there was no time to lose. He slid down the last stretch of the path and onto the cleared flat area before the gate.
"Who comes there?" came an instant question, and he approached a fellow guardsman, who stood watch at the main entrance to the capital, hidden among the white chalky rocks that formed the gorge.
"Sandir, a ranger. I carry an urgent message to our lord."
"Password?"
"Elbereth."
"Elentari. Go." The guard opened a small wicket and let him in. Sandir passed through the great entrance hall and went on to one of the corridors. He moved as silently as he could, not wishing to disturb anyone's sleep and exchanging hushed passwords with the guards stationed at various places through the city. The posts were spread closer to each other as he approached the area of the city restricted for the use of the royal family, and he had to explain his purpose to be admitted. At last two guards stopped him in the King's antechamber.
"Elbereth," he repeated the password impatiently, panting. "I need to see the King."
"You don't see the King, you answer his summons." The guards moved closer in to bar his way to the door. "Just who do you think you are?"
"I am a ranger and I carry an urgent message for the King. Let me through!" And he tried to squeeze between them.
"Whoa, young man!" One of the guards pushed him roughly back. "It's the middle of the night and the King's asleep. Whatever is so urgent as to justify such a disregard of propriety?"
"War, my good Galuon." The door behind the guards opened to reveal the King himself, dressed in a robe donned hastily over his nightclothes, his hair unbound, his face unnaturally pale in the glow of a crystal lamp he carried.
"Sire!" Both guards backed away from the door to let their lord through and bowed. Sandir also backtracked his steps to the middle of the room and went to his knees. It had been easy to run down from his post to bring the news, excitement carrying him on and multiplying his courage, but now that he actually was in the King's presence, his confidence left him rapidly. While his business was both urgent and of utmost importance, he was but a low-ranked ranger and yet there he was, pounding on the King's door in the middle of the night, clamoring for admittance.
Steeling himself, he lifted his eyes, preparing as best he could to meet the King's probing look. He remembered all too well that piercing gaze from the last time he had been the object of his lord's undivided attention, the otherworldly light that shone through the eyes of all the Gelydh[ii] who had come across the Sea brighter in the King's than in anybody else's he had met. It had seemed as if the King could see right through him into the innermost core of his heart, and sift through it, and find fault. And yet, inexplicably, at the same time Sandir's desperate need to prove himself had changed into a strong belief that if he tired with all his might, he could manage. The searching had continued until he had wanted desperately to squirm, yet he had remained motionless on his knees and at a long last, the King had nodded slightly and extended his hand for Sandir's sword.
He tore his mind away from its nervous recounting at the sound of the King's voice. "Galuon, Arassamon, while I appreciate your concern for my rest, I expect our guest brings us some news that I should hear immediately." Though it was gently phrased, it was obviously a rebuke and both guardsmen bowed their heads in an apology. The King then turned towards Sandir and took a few slow paces. His face was not only pale but drawn, his jaw clenched and He moved almost is if concussed. As required, Sandir met his lord's gaze, expecting to find anger or at least annoyance but instead the King's eyes shone calmly, though something akin to fear seemed to creep in.
And yet, his voice was even as he gestured for the keeling ranger to raise. "What is your name, friend?"
"S–Sandir, my lord."
"And your errand?"
"Death and destruction, m'lord! Capitan Astoron bade me tell you, lord, that war has gone ill in the North. We saw the northern sky erupt in flames and he says this is how it has already been once. He begs you to act swiftly." Here, words failed him and he choked a little but the King, seeing his nervousness, put a hand on his shoulder in approval.
"Your captain and you have done very well to inform us of this grim development and we thank you both. Go back to your post, observe what you can, and bring me any news you shall have."
Finrod watched the ranger leave and then turned towards the open door to his solar. "Laeron!" he called and when his page appeared, he continued, "summon the Lord Steward, and quickly!" The boy scurried away. "Let him in the moment he arrives," he told the guards and retreated to the privacy of his innermost chambers, accompanied by the men's repentant ayes.
While safely alone, he closed his eyes immediately and renewed his attempts to reestablish a connection with his brother. Angamaitë. Angamaitë[iii], can you hear me? But Angaráto remained as silent as he had been since their contact broke abruptly. sudden severance of his projecting.
This first desperate contact, which had pierced through Finrod's dreams like an arrow, conveyed only incoherent emotions and images. Angaráto was shocked, and terrified, and in a desperate need of his older brother's steadying presence, and the world around him was aflame. Then, with a sudden burst, which made Finrod's skin sting as if burned, and a last terrified cry of Findo! the connection ended, leaving in its wake a numb emptiness.
The raw strength of his brother's fear terrified Finrod, but his subsequent inability to reach Angaráto was even more disturbing.
He shrugged off his robe and, not waiting for Laeron to return, he started to get dressed. There was no time to lose – out in the North war had obviously gone ill. He too remembered all too well the acrid fumes and devastating flames that heralded the Enemy's assault. They were triumphant the last time, but the victory had been hard won and he suspected the Enemy had not idled his time, besieged behind Angamando's gates. This time, they might have an even more difficult task.
Aicanáro! Eldalótë! He thought of his sister-in-law, so similar to Nerwen in her valiant spirit, who would not stand being left behind and accompanied Angaráto every time he went to the leaguer. Eldalótë, answer me! [iv]
His concentration shattered when a voice called hesitantly. "My lord?"
He was woken up by a sharp tapping on his door. "My lord!" a voice cried. "My lord, please let me in."
He scrambled out of his bed and, padding barefoot across the room, opened the door to reveal the King's page, blushing and panting from exertion.
"My lord, pardon the intrusion," the boy said breathlessly, executing a slightly awkward bow. "The King wishes to see you immediately. He bade me tell you to come at once."
Edrahil processed this information for a few seconds and nodded. "Very well, I shall come presently. But come in and help me dress, I can hardly go to our lord in my nightclothes. Unless you have another errand…?"
Laeron shook his head and followed him back into the bedroom, where he quickly helped Edrahil into a plain tunic cinched with a simple leather belt. Sturdy ankle-length boots followed and Edrahil was now ready to go, smoothing his hair on the way.
They did not have to walk far before reaching the royal apartment. Seeing the King's page and the Steward all guards let them pass without a word, and soon Edrahil was entering the King's solar.
"My lord?" he called uncertainly. The room was empty, which left him only the bedchamber.
"Edrahil, come in," came an answer from behind the closed door.
He obeyed but then stopped, marveling at the sight which met his eyes. The King was standing in the middle of the room, barefoot and wearing only a shirt and breeches, his shoulders tense and his whole posture emanating anxiety and pain. One of the clothespresses was opened, the bed was unmade and what appeared to be a robe laid cast off carelessly next to it.
And then, Edrahil sprang back to life and he hurried straight to the King, the nightly hour and the strange scene making him forgo all formalities. "My lord, whatever is the matter?" he actually came short of putting his hands on Finrod's shoulders at the very last moment and ended with his arms raised awkwardly.
"War must have gone terribly wrong for us, Edrahil," said the King tightly. "A ranger came down from the hills to tell me that fire was spotted burning above the mountains in the North. Even before that, I have heard from my brother. He was in desperate need of help and… I haven't managed to contact him since," he finished in a small voice.
Edrahil drew in air and exhaled it in a huff. What could he say to such a statement? He had no real words of comfort and empty platitudes would not do. After one more moment of hesitation, he decided work was the best solution, so he took a few steps back and, assuming the posture of an obedient servant, asked, "What would you have of me, sire?"
At that, Finrod seemed to snap out of a trance. "I will continue my attempts to reach my brothers, but until or unless I do so, we prepare for war. We shall execute a full mobilization according to the emergency plan. I need your full report of the state of the armories, the finances, and the border patrols and I will need the same of Lady Emerthedis concerning our food and water supplies, medicines and transportation. As soon as she arrives, we need to inform all those living outside the city to prepare for evacuation. I will have your report right now, if you please."
"Permission to go for my documents, lord?"
"No, Laeron can go for your secretary and together they can bring you whatever you need, and meanwhile, you may begin. Laeron! Oh, and ask him to bring you some more appropriate garb, we shall be going out as soon as I have a full view of our present situation."
Recognizing an unspoken plea not to be left alone, Edrahil quickly explained to the page where to find Ríneth, his secretary, what to tell her and also where to find his gear. Closing the door after the boy, who was told also to inform Lady Emerthedis she was to make a full report of all the areas under her responsibility as soon as she could, the Steward turned back to his King. "Would you not dress, my lord?" He crossed the room and picked up the discarded robe.
Finrod's shoulders slumped tiredly the moment they were left alone as if he was saving his strength for confrontations with those by whom he could not afford to be seen as anything less than the embodiment of calm competence, composed power and high majesty. "You shouldn't–"
"Oh, not that again! You know I count myself honored to be of any help I can."
"Yes, my poor friend." The King smiled sadly. "And I work you for that far too hard."
"And I would not have it any different, as you know well. Now, will you put on a court attire or a gambeson already?"
"A gambeson, we are off to war. Thank you."
Edrahil needed to go to an adjacent room to retrieve this garment so rarely used in the city. Upon returning, he found the King biting his lip, a painful crease between his brows and so, holding out the gambeson, he asked, "Please, tell me what exactly you know?"
"Nothing more than what I have told you. Only, I don't think the Enemy has failed to learn from his mistakes and I fear now we shall have a much more difficult task at hand."
"Is it your foresight, sire?"
"I do not know. I have been dreaming of death and destruction for years now." Edrahil looked up sharply from where he was kneeling to help the King put on his riding boots. "I don't think this is anything but experience. And yet… I cannot shake off the feeling that this is our Doom coming in for all of us." His eyes stared unseeingly across the room. "If my brothers have to suffer, though they are innocent of any wrongdoing save curiosity, then how much more I, who should have seen… should have prevented… and now, again…"
"My lord, do not berate yourself so," said Edrahil intently. "How could you have known and succeed where even the Valar failed?"
"Then why am I even given foresight if not to prevent harm?!" The King gestured wildly with both hands. "Oh, do not give me that look," he said, annoyed. "And do get up!"
Deciding the King needed help to regain hold on his emotions, Edrahil rose and walked to one of the cabinets to pick up a comb. "Shall I assist you with your hair, my lord?"
Finrod huffed and made an absent-minded gesture with his hand. Deciding it indicated an assent, Edrahil inserted the comb into the wild mass of fair hair. Slowly, methodically, and taking far longer than strictly necessary, he combed through Finrod's hair until his ministrations rendered a uniform cloak of gold and the King's shoulders relaxed again. "Warrior braids, sire?" Not even waiting for the nod that followed his question, Edrahil started plaiting at the temples and continued on until he reached the back of Finrod's head, at which point he parted the hair horizontally and, changing style, twisted and pleated until all the hair was gathered into two rope braids, one right above the other.
The hair done, Edrahil brought from an adjacent room a jeweled collar and an inlaid casket of rings and having presented them for Finrod's acceptance, he put the collar about the King's shoulders, again taking longer than absolutely necessary to set it properly and pin it in place. There was no mistaking this time: Finrod leaned into the touch, so Edrahil decided to fiddle with the necklace a little longer and then, stepping around the King's chair, brushed his hand just a bit more familiarly to indicate he would now put on the rings.
Now, with the rings on – and the King allowed only his father's ring on his right hand and two of the smaller and less ornate ones on the left – there was nothing else Edrahil could do.
Luckily, at that very moment a knock came on the door. "Sire?"
Edrahil wanted to open it but Finrod was faster. "Back already?" he said to Laeron. "Very well, bring us some light repast, ask Mistress Ríneth to lay out the documents in the solar, and give me these." He extended his hands, indicating Laeron should pass him Edrahil's clothes. Clutching the bundle, he then turned, closed the door again with his foot and crossed the room to deposit his burden on the bed.
"Well, let us get you into these." The King took up a padded doublet and passed it to Edrahil, who quickly divested himself of his tunic and started to change. The Steward meekly accepted help with the gambeson and belt but when the King reached for his boots, he was hard pressed to swallow his objection. Yet if this was what Finrod needed, Edrahil would obey, little though he liked it.
Finrod squared his shoulders and left the bedchamber, Edrahil in tow, to find in the solar not only Laeron and Ríneth, but also Lady Emerthedis, who was accompanied by one of her own staff. If the newcomers were surprised by their choice of clothes, or dismayed by what it indicated, they hid it well.
They all exchanged polite greetings and at Finrod's gesture both his Stewards, the Noldorin and the Sindarin one, moved to sit at the table, where tiny sweet and savory pastries were placed alongside flagons of wine and water, while their attendants took place behind their chairs. "We can at least make ourselves more or less comfortable." With that he turned to Laeron. "Thank you, that is all," he said. But the page lingered hesitantly as if he wanted to say something else. "What is it? Speak freely."
Laeron went down to his knees and tilting his head up, looked at Finrod with uncertainty mingled with hope. "My Lord King, may I… my I ask a favor of you?"
Finrod smiled and brushed his hand across the boy's cheek. "What would you have?"
Laeron took in a deep breath and, his hands clutched together and pressed tightly to his chest, said hurriedly, "My lord, please, take me with you."
"You do not know for what you are asking."
"My lord, I beg you, let me go with you. I am old enough, I have trained, I'm good with a bow. Please, my lord, I don't want to stay behind, useless. Let me go with you."
"No, Laeron. You are not old enough; trust me, no-one is. You say you are a good bowman, and that is very fortunate, for we need somebody to defend the City while we are gone in case the Enemy's armies break our defenses and rampage again through Beleriand. And think of your mother. I will not add to her grief any sooner than it is absolutely necessary. No, I said." In his fervor and unrestrained show of emotions, the boy was very much like young Angrod and his chaffing at restraints placed on him by his elders reminded Finrod also of his sister Galadriel. Even now, Laeron wanted to offer further resistance, but Finrod cut across him sharply, "Enough!"
Recognizing a final dismissal when he heard one, Laeron rose and with a final bow he left the room dejectedly, while Finrod joined his advisors at the table and they immersed themselves in a long discussion of the state of the realm.
NOTES
[i] The distance from Nargothrond to Thangorodrim is c. 460 miles as a crow flies (cf. The Atlas of Middle-earth), so between the flat world, Thangorodrim's ridiculously great height and the abnormally sharp Elven sight, I decided, for dramatics' purposes, that it wasn't impossible for guards high in Taur-en-Faroth to be able to see the initial eruption.
[ii] Gelydh S. for Noldor, sing. Golodh (this and all subsequent Sindarin and Quenya words via eldamo org).
[iii] Angamaitë, Iron-handed, Angrod's Q. epessë (cf. The Shibboleth of Fëanor, PoMe).
[iv] The idea that Eldalótë went with her husband into exile is, of course, not strictly canon, though based on the fact that she, alone of all the Elves suspected of having stayed in Aman, is given also a Sindarin name.