Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeline: T.A. 210; T.A. 245
Rating (this chapter): PG-13 for themes of violence and death.
Chapter IX: Execution
At precisely four o'clock in the afternoon in the third month of his career as master smith under King Thranduil, Findur was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"The door is unlocked," Findur called as he stood, setting his work down on a nearby table and walking across his large sitting room to meet whoever might be at the door. As he walked, he observed with satisfaction how the slanting westward sun passed through the paned windows, striking the gleaming floorboards and dancing on the surfaces of the furniture. The furniture, especially, pleased him; it fit very well in their new home. Considering the trouble they had gone to in order to move the contents of their household across the Wood, any incongruity between the furnishings and their new living space would be irritating, to say the least.
The door opened with a slight squeak; Findur grimaced at the disharmonious sound. In the doorway stood one of the nondescript messengers who seemed to be constantly scurrying about Thranduil's halls and the surrounding woods. "My lord," he said with a small bow, "there is a man who has come to see you. A mortal man, I mean. It is a strange occurrence; there has not been a mortal in the King's realm for nigh over a century, unless you number Dwarves as such, but they are a strange breed of their own..."
"Is there any point to this digression?" asked Findur with a tense smile.
The messenger broke off his tangent. "I apologize," he said breathlessly. "As I was saying, he is a mortal. He wishes to speak with you in regard to the obtainment of a position as an assistant smith. He is waiting for you at your shop."
"Thank you," said Findur. "I will go and speak with him immediately." The messenger bowed and left. Findur stepped over the threshold of the doorway and closed the door behind him. He had not been outside since his walk home around noontime—he always took his rest on the afternoons of the fifth day of the week—and the weather had declined from mediocre to miserable. The sky above the leafless trees was a nondescript gray, and a chill wind swept past him, reducing his hair to a tangled mass, obscuring his vision. He ran his fingers through his hair in a largely futile attempt to straighten it, folded his arms across his chest, and began to walk swiftly to his nearby shop. Already he was beginning to rue his decision to live in a house on the outskirts of Thranduil's domain rather than in the halls themselves, where hundreds of fireplaces warmed its vast passages and the shelter of rock and earth retained heat. However, Liniel had insisted on a home where sunlight and trees abounded; most importantly, it must be in a locale where she could easily continue her gardening. Admittedly, their house was nearer to his shop than rooms in the halls would be, making for a briefer trip through the frigid, gray landscape of winter. In only a few minutes, he would reach the shop and learn precisely what this person wanted. Why would a mortal man seek employment among the elves of Greenwood?
When he came to the shop, a smallish stone building on the bank of a narrow stream, he saw that the door was ajar. Thievery was a non-issue in these woods, and Findur rarely bothered to lock doors. His visitor, it would seem, had taken advantage of his indiscretion. Cautiously, Findur swung open the door and entered the building.
Even with his keen eyesight, it took Findur a few moments to discover his visitor among the many tables and tools that cluttered the cramped, ill-lit chamber. The man was sitting on a low stool in the very back of the room. He wore a hood, and his back and neck were bent over with age, making it difficult for Findur to discern his facial features. What was evident, however, was that he was extremely old. His tough, tanned skin was impossibly wrinkled, thick, pale blue veins and ugly discolorations marring his face and hands, though his gray eyes sparkled with a crafty gleam. Recognizing that Findur had spotted him, the man stood and walked forward with a grin. Many of his teeth were mottled with decay, and others were missing altogether.
"Who are you?" Findur demanded, starring at the man in wonder and disgust.
"I am Curuan," the old man said, his voice gravelly but surprisingly powerful. "I will not ask you for a name, for I have no use for dramatic aliases. You are Findur, bastard son of Sauron and the Lady Galadriel, and that is all I need to know."
Before Findur could properly process this stranger's knowledge of his most preciously kept secret, fury overtook his facilities. "Do not speak thus of the Lady Galadriel if you wish to keep your life!" he exclaimed, drawing the long knife that he habitually kept at his side. But Curuan only laughed hoarsely, shaking his head at this show of anger.
"I beg your pardon," he chuckled. "I meant no offense towards you or your mother, but I'm afraid there was no polite way to say what had to be said. Enough formalities. Let's get down to business, shall we?"
Findur, yet untrusting of this stranger, did not reply directly. "I would like to know how you know me!"
Curuan shook his head, still smiling a small, crooked smile. "All in good time, all in good time. Let me just say that I know a great deal about many things. The identity of such an important person is hardly difficult information to come by. For you are very important, you must know that."
Findur gave the man a cold glare, but he returned his knife to its sheath. "I am an elf of Greenwood and nothing more. My fate is my own. I will not be manipulated by any greater powers."
Curuan laughed again. It was a hideous, rasping sound that made Findur wince. "I suppose you mean good and evil. My friend, such concepts are only one way of looking at things, and they are hardly accurate. Good and evil, right and wrong, light and dark—you don't honestly believe that the world can be separated into neat categories, do you?"
Findur hesitated. The man's words appealed to him, for to deny the existence of such "categories" would confirm his convictions of independence, justifying his attempts to escape the threads of fate that were seemingly entwined about his life. But... if there was neither good nor evil, then what of the Valar? What of Sauron?
"I do not know," he replied.
"Well," said Curuan, "then perhaps we can discuss it, and then you will know. Think of power, think of great forces colliding again and again. Good and evil are no longer an issue; in fact, they even become invalid concepts. You are in control of much power, Findur. You must accept this—or, if you prefer, you can hide behind your fear and free will, while the opposing powers advance, ready to crush you. For they will come, and they will not stop because you plead heedlessness."
Findur only glared at the ancient-faced man. "You speak in riddles, evading my question. Who are you, and what reason do I have to trust you?"
Curuan scoffed at the last remark. "Trust, like goodness or evil, is a fallacy. You will cooperate with me if it benefits you, and for no other reason will you do so. Utilitarianism, Findur. Always act rationally and in a way consistent with your goals. None of this nonsense about trust or loyalty. But I see that you will not let go this business of how I've come about my knowledge of you. A rather long, tedious story, but elves are so fond of such tales, is it not so? I suggest that you take a seat, and I'll begin."
Findur perched himself on a nearby stool. "Go on, then."
Curuan cleared his throat, a sound remarkably similar to the croaking of a bullfrog. "Well then. Let's see, where did this all begin? I suppose Gondor would be the appropriate place to start my tale. It was many, many years ago, and I was considerably younger than I was now, though hardly young. I encountered a man whose family was involved with Easterlings. Mere chance, I can assure you; he was a crude, unpleasant fellow, but he possessed information that I found most interesting. I gave him the impression that I was a fellow supporter of Sauron, and he informed me of rumors that Sauron had left an heir. Very vague, what he told me, but nevertheless compelling—that such a powerful being remained undiscovered, a being who could have a profound effect on the future of Middle-earth. I decided to find this heir myself.
It became a bit of an obsession, you might say. I did some traveling, speaking with all sorts of people, until I had a good idea of who you were. That is, I became almost certain that Galadriel had been the mother of this child, since she had been captured during this time, and was sufficiently remarkable herself to be a rational choice on Sauron's part. That meant that the heir was you. I thought my search was finally over. But then you left Imladris, and some things went rather wrong, and I lost track of you. My chances of finding you again soon seemed negligible.
"Of course, there was still hope, since a man of your talent cannot easily disappear forever. It was only a matter of time before I heard of a young elven smith of impressive skill named Morfindel. The similarity between names was notable. My main hindrance was that I had never seen you. I could lurk in Greenwood for as long as I pleased, and I would never receive any definite affirmation that you were Findur of Imladris.
"And so I remained, occasionally travelling but always returning to Greenwood, for a great many years, my hope gradually decreasing, until a wondrous thing happened—the product of pure chance, I must say."
"Liniel told you," Findur said softly, appalled. How else might Curuan have come by this information? He was surprised it had not occurred to him before. But was Liniel capable of such a thing?
Curuan chuckled, shaking his head. "Really, my friend, you have so little faith in your loved ones, expecting betrayal so readily! I found your letter, Findur."
Findur gaped at him. "But... I have hardly let it out of my sight!"
"You left it at your home when you went to the banquet here, did you not?" Curuan reminded. "An ingenious hiding place, I must admit. But that servant of yours saw you put the painting back. I'm afraid I rather frightened the poor girl—you really shouldn't mention it to her, if you happen to see her again; any connection between you and I might be distressing to her—but I needed to know where the letter was. I knew that you carried a piece of parchment with you, but I had never had the opportunity to verify whether it was your mother's letter. So I went to the house while you were gone and demanded that she tell me any strange locations at which she had seen you. I would have ripped the entire house apart if necessary, but eventually she thought of the painting. And there you have it."
Findur stared at Curuan wordlessly. Slowly, a question came to mind amidst the tumult of his thoughts. "You speak as though you were alive before I left Imladris. You know of my mother's letter. But you're a mortal; you cannot possibly have been alive then."
Curuan's jagged smile grew wider and colder. His numberless wrinkles creased with each contortion of his face. "A mortal," he repeated. "What makes you so certain that I am a mortal, Findur?" Slowly, he lifted his stiff, veined hands and removed his hood. He pushed back the long, thin white hair that lined both sides of his face, revealing the ears of an elf. (1)
"I am no mortal," said Curuan. "I am an elf, five hundred and twenty three years old. Like any elf, I will live forever, but I will also perpetually age. It's a curse, a memento of the years that I spent in the dungeons of Mordor. Yes, I was alive when you were a mere child, before you were born, even. It was I, Findur, who was responsible for placing your mother's letter in your room those many years ago in Imladris. I thought it best that you know the truth about yourself before we proceeded any further."
Memories of that night returned to Findur, and he began to develop a distinct hatred of the man before him, in spite of his pathetic condition. However, a conundrum came to mind. "You—but I thought you had never seen me! If you were in Imladris, why wouldn't you have discovered what I looked like, for the sole purpose of keeping track of me?"
"Oh, that wasn't I who physically placed the letter there," said Curuan. "My poor health prevented me from traveling such a distance over the Mountains. Instead, I relied on Narion. He worked for me for quite a long time."
"Narion!" Would the horror of this afternoon never end? Narion, his teacher, a man he respected. Narion, critical and moody, but certainly not treacherous! "But... even if that is so, why didn't you simply have him identify me from the beginning?"
"We had a disagreement... creative differences, you might say," Curuan explained. "He refuses to collaborate with me anymore. Incidentally, I hear that he was present at the banquet that you attended, some months ago, held by the king. I couldn't go myself—wasn't invited, of course, and Thranduil's doors are difficult to slip through even for a skulker like me—but I'm sure thatmust have been an interesting night. Did he see you? If he had, he certainly wouldn't tell me about it, but he would most likely let your dear relations back in Imladris know, and that wouldn't be very good, would it? Trying to elude them, I expect."
"He didn't see me. Though it's none of your concern."
"Whatever you like," Curuan said with a shrug. "Makes no difference to me. Let's return to our little treatise on the nature of the universe."
"Go on," said Findur grudgingly.
"Thank you. Now that we have established that there is no good or evil—"
"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "I haven't accepted that yet. You cannot tell me that it is not evil to... well, to kill an innocent person. A child, for instance."
"Circumstances! You give me a scenario without circumstances!" Curuan waved his hand in scorn. "Everything depends on circumstances, my young friend. You see, there are obviously actions that improve the lives of people everywhere, as well as actions that make life worse for everyone. Most actions, however, fall in between these two extremes—the net result pleases some and displeases others. You will never make everyone happy, Findur. I'm hardly condoning pointless murder—but what if that murder saved other lives? What if it led to the creation of a thriving civilization? Certain actions with immediate negative results for a few can be justified—must be justified—if they have significant positive results.
"Secondly, let us realize that the standard concepts of good and evil are inherently flawed. They are based on the pretense that good people do good and vice versa. This is faulty logic. Even if there were such a thing as a perfectly good or bad person, which there is not, intentions do not equal outcome. Think of the Valar. They were very kind, very good, to let Melkor go after his first imprisonment, weren't they? Yet this had a terribly "evil" effect. One must therefore not judge by one's supposed "goodness" or lack of, but on the potential output of one's actions.
"Suddenly, we have an image of a world that does not revolve around the concepts of good and evil, but a collision of great powers, each struggling to dominate. You are one of these powers, Findur, although you do not know it. You can make use of your powers, which have long been dormant, and shape the future of Middle-earth itself. I know your dreams—they are the dreams of all those who possess such power, dreams loftier than those of half-asleep elves or mortal men. You dream of a great elven kingdom in Middle-earth. You dream of the restoration of your people's honor and majesty. Why not, Findur? Why not such a glorious kingdom, and you at its head? Do not think that you can push away these secret hopes. They will not lie asleep forever. Moreover, there are other powers in this world, powers that would steal away your soul and make you a minion in their order. Do not let them prevail. You say that you are your own man; you must act the part! Hire me as your assistant, Findur. I have searched for you for three hundred years, and I can teach you things that you have hardly fathomed. I can help you unbury the skills you do not even know you possess."
Findur was silent for a long time. He wanted to believe these fair words. He wanted to take this man into his service and uncover the secrets that lay beneath his skin. He wanted to stop running. His thoughts branched into visions of Middle-earth as it should be, and he envisioned the humble caverns of Thranduil transformed into the majesty of Menegroth. No longer idle dreams; this could really be—the glory of Doriath and Nargothrond, Gondolin and Eregion, restored. Curuan's words kindled his heart, and he found himself hungry to create something, to build this wondrous new world.
"All right," he said, his eyes blazing with a long-dormant light. "Tomorrow I'll speak with Thranduil and see what I can do."
When Findur returned, he found Liniel sitting alone in a chair by the fire, her eyes starring vacantly down at a silver ring that she held between her thumb and her forefinger. She was still wearing her cloak, the gray fabric falling in folds about her shoulders. Findur watched her with concern as he took off his own cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door, trying to discern the source of the melancholy that dulled her face. "What's wrong, darling?" he asked gently as he went to sit down in an adjacent chair.
Liniel stood suddenly, slipping the ring into her pocket. "Morfindel!" she exclaimed, using the old name out of habit. "I—I didn't see you there." Her face was still impassive, her hands worrying the folds of her cloak, but presently she looked up. "I must talk to you. You've been hiding something from me."
Findur froze. His jaw was slack; his arms limp at his sides. No. She couldn't mean... But how had she found out? The letter was secreted. Curuan had no reason to tell her, and the frail man could not possibly have arrived at the house before him.
"How do you know of this?" he demanded. There were so many more productive things to say—words of apology, vows of devotion—but he could not break his thoughts away from this central puzzle.
Liniel smiled sweetly. She was mocking his distress! His eyes narrowed as she playfully shook her head at him and turned to the nearby table, picking up a piece of parchment. His limbs became numb at the mere sight of the document in her hands. "You were quite careless with this, Findur," she said. A bitterness seemed to enter her voice as she spoke his true name. She handed him the parchment.
When he saw the page, Findur exhaled deeply, almost laughing. On the parchment, in his own hand, were sketches of two slim rings. They were unadorned on the exterior, but engraved on the inside rims was a particularly poignant line of the Ainundale. He looked up to Liniel and saw that she did not frown in bitter hatred, but rather in mild annoyance.
"They're wedding rings, aren't they," she said, tilting her head towards him. "You're making us wedding rings."
"It was supposed to be a surprise," Findur replied. He had been planning the rings for months, intending to present them to Liniel on the New Year following their fashioning. "I haven't begun forging them since I've been so busy. Now's your chance to critique them."
Liniel looked at him with a critical eye. "Findur," she said, strains of anger running through her voice, "do you regret that we had no ceremony for our marriage? Is that what this is about?"
"Of course not!" he said, taken aback. "I only thought that we'd both appreciate rings—as symbols of our love. I thought you'd be happy."
Liniel sighed. "I thought that was what made our marriage special," she said as she dropped the draft back onto the table and took off her cloak, hanging it on a peg beside Findur's. Her motions were rapid and jerking; even the manner in which she straightened her braid spoke of her disgruntlement. "That we didn't need meaningless tokens. Our love is written in our hearts."
"Of course it is. I'm not trying to contest that. I only thought—" He shook his head suddenly, waving his hand as if to brush the topic away. "Never mind. If you don't want a ring, I won't make them!"
His wife's eyebrows arched. "Don't tell me 'never mind'. You have that look on your face, like someone has built a brick wall around you." Findur suddenly became conscious of the scowl on his face and his furled brow, and he attempted to smooth these features. It unnerved him to think that Liniel could read him so well.
"It's nothing. Nothing's wrong."
She gave him a skeptical look. "Nothing's ever wrong, Findur."
"All right," he amended. "It bothers me that I went to this trouble, and suddenly by chance you find out and decide, no, we shouldn't have rings, citing reasons that I don't entirely understand. But I won't argue with you about this, as much as I'm sure you'd like to."
"What exactly are you implying?"
"All of our conversations center on disputes, Liniel. You thrive off it! It's as if the world is nothing but a battle of wits to you. You're as cunning and manipulative as possible, whatever it takes to win."
"That's ludicrous," she retorted. "Why must you take everything so seriously? There's nothing wrong with a good-humored argument! Or would you rather have your women complacent? Is that the way of the fair folk of Imladris?"
Findur stared at her in shock, willing himself not to throw back an even more vicious insult. "How can you talk like that? You know I'm not like that. Let's just end this before we injure each other with so many meaningless words of condemnation."
Liniel closed her eyes briefly. "You're right. This is ridiculous," she said after a time. "Forgive me. Not that it was solely my fault," she pointed out with a raised eyebrow, "but I have been irritable of late." She motioned for him to follow her back to the kitchen. "Come and tell me about your day while I see if my baking is done."
Findur nodded and complied. As they spoke, his mind suddenly returned to the silver ring he had seen Liniel holding. He tried to remember where or when she had gotten it, but he could not recall ever having seen it before.
"Where did you—" he began, but at that moment Liniel set down some carrots and a knife in front of him.
"Cut these, will you? One of my loaves is a bit burnt; I'm trying to salvage it. For once you can make yourself useful."
Findur smirked, made a sly comment about Liniel's baking skills, and began cutting. The matter of the ring left him entirely.
"Focus on the candle," Curuan instructed. "Just as we are fëa and hröa, there is the physical candle and the candle unseen. It is the unseen that you must picture before you. Immerse yourself in it. Feel its depth, its fabric between your fingers. Now create a flame—realize it, give it substance. You possess the fire within you. All you must do is to transform it into substantial flame."
Findur stared blankly at the cylindrical candle on the dusty table before him. Like all elves, the world of the spiritual was not entirely unknown to him, but only on an instinctive level. Intuition and unspoken words were one thing—but to consciously enter into this realm of his psyche and transform a mental fire into a substantial one? This was nothing like the conventional tricks of moonrunes and lamps; it was something different, something fundamental.
The candlewick did not show the least sign of burning.
He looked up at Curuan. "I don't think it's working."
The old man sighed. "You're trying too hard. You're concentrating with your mind. This ability lies deeper than conscious, physical thoughts. You have to find your intangible 'muscles', so to speak."
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
Curuan paused, phrasing his answer. "Relax. Let your thoughts take on a dreamlike quality. Now concentrate on the candle again, but don't strain yourself."
Findur returned his attention to the candle. He was still under the impression that this whole exercise was insane. Nevertheless, he continued to stare at the candle, letting himself fall into a sleepy, trance-like state. It was difficult to concentrate on anything in this condition, but inevitably, an image of red-orange flames slid into his mind's eye. Yes, he thought dimly. Now I just have to... But words failed him, and he went back to observing the flame. The fire was growing, expanding outward and filling the world with light. Vaguely superimposed on the scene was the candle before him. He found himself prodding the fire in that direction, an action that, in this strange state of mind, seemed as commonplace as creating sparks with a piece of flint...
"Very good!" Curuan's voice startled Findur back to reality. He found himself breathing heavily, his brow moist. His eyes darted about the room, first resting on Curuan's broken grin, then the familiar clutter of the forge, then finally on the candle before him.
The candle. It was really burning, the small orange flame dancing upon the colorless wick. Findur stared in amazement, a grin slowly lighting up his face. "I did this?" he asked, looking up at Curuan. He found that his voice was animated and slightly high-pitched, reminiscent of the enthusiastic young smith of Imladris.
"Naturally. Excellent work. To tell the truth, I wasn't certain that you'd possess such creative powers. Elves may have a limited ability to sub-create independent of any outside help, but most wouldn't dream of doing what you just accomplished." Curuan stood and extinguished the candle, much to Findur's disappointment. "Go home and rest. We'll practice again tomorrow."
"Can't we try it again now? Just to practice?" Findur knew he was being silly, but the thrill of discovering this new skill with such ease was overwhelmingly delightful.
Curuan only shook his head. "Tomorrow. After all, Liniel is waiting for you at home. You wouldn't want to make her worry, wondering where you are, would you?" Puzzlingly, Findur detected traces of sarcasm in the old man's voice.
Thranduil raised his jeweled goblet towards the coffered ceiling. "And therefore," he finished, his voice mighty, "I dedicate twice over this feast to Morfindel, both in light of his accomplishments in the renovation of this hall, and of the wisdom he has demonstrated over the past thirty-one years, and surely will continue to display as a member of my council."
Findur smiled and nodded in thanks as twenty-two glasses rose in his direction. This would have pleased him very much had there not been twenty-three guests, excluding himself, at the table. Only two seats away from him, prince Lórimir sat stern-faced, his glass untouched. From the time that Lórimir had returned permanently to Thranduil's halls in order to recuperate from a serious leg injury, a growing enmity had developed between the two of them. Lórimir had convinced himself that Findur's attainment of the favor of the king somehow threatened both himself and the security of Greenwood, and he lately opposed nearly all of Findur's suggestions or projects. For instance, he had been vocally against the renovation of the banquet hall, condemning it as costly, time-consuming, and unnecessary. Still, Findur had hardly expected him to take such subversive action: to refuse a toast was not only offensive to Findur, but also to the king, who had proposed the said toast. Indeed, Findur noticed Thranduil glaring unkindly at his son out of the corner of his eye.
"And I will in turn drink to you, my king, in appreciation for your gracious—though much embellished—words." Findur raised his glass and took a long drink of the sweet wine.
Lórimir openly scowled.
The rest of the meal was an entourage of brainstorms, proposals, and plans, from strategies on how to develop Greenwood's economy to Findur's plans for the decorative features of the interior garden that was being constructed within the halls. Findur had countless suggestions, all of which Thranduil took with the air of a child who had received an exquisite toy from a doting grandmother.
"It's ingenious! Novel, but absolutely brilliant!" he exclaimed after Findur outlined his plans for the introduction of cash currency to Greenwood, a conversion that would expand trade and bring wealth to the capital. Naturally, Lórimir spoke against nearly everything that Findur proposed: the gardens were expensive and unnecessary in an area of such natural beauty. Coinage was fine, but wasn't he overemphasizing the importance of material possessions? Wouldn't increased trade bring significant cultural change into a region that had always retained its unique identity and peaceful ways? Most strongly objected to was Findur's practical resolution to increase the king's armory, which was hopelessly undersupplied.
"A kingdom that expects war will find it," Lórimir argued. "Let us use our resources to forge tools of peace and prepare for war if it comes."
Findur laughed scornfully. "Ah, naturally the enemy will be polite and give us enough time to restock our armory before attacking. Don't you see, it's that kind of thinking that ruined the Silvan elves in the Last Alliance! You—we—were not prepared, and we suffered terrible losses. We cannot slumber while there are still malevolent forces in the world. Greenwood must be strong enough to overcome whatever challenges it might face."
"I do not deny that evil still rests in Middle-earth. But perhaps it is closer than we think." Lórimir looked down, collecting his thoughts, his lips pursed. Then, he looked up again, his eyes burning with some impossible light, intimations of zeal and of empathy. "You speak of darkness. But maybe it is the demons that reside within these walls that are the most lethal." And he would say no more. It was only after the banquet, when Findur was readying to leave, that Lórimir approached him, leading him away from Liniel's side to a secluded corner of the room.
"My words touched you tonight," he observed. "A darkness passed through your eyes. You know of what I speak."
"I know far better than you," Findur growled. "Do not pretend to know my heart, Lórimir. I will not be your effigy, to burn for the evils of progress."
"And I will not stand by and watch you destroy everything that my forefathers have built. You may have won my father over with your sparkling jewels and sweet tongue, but you cannot deceive every ear so easily. I will entreat with you now to change your ways, to renounce this vain struggle for glory. You say that you make Greenwood strong, but I tell you truly, with every monument erected and every sword forged, this kingdom is one day closer to its collapse."
"Why are you so afraid of change?"
"You misunderstand me. Change is inevitable, and it can be good. What I fear is your attempts to remold the face of the people of Greenwood itself. We will lose ourselves in this folly. We will become no more than the halls that we construct, the great deeds that we perform. Our spirit will die. Tonight we feasted in halls of stone. Ever before, our summer banquets have been among the swaying beeches; our songs have risen up to the stars. Soon, the forests will count us as foreigners, and the stars will forget our nightly hymns. All will be lost."
"You have not given me a single clear reason to change my purpose. Why are you talking in riddles?"
Lórimir only shrugged, a sad but graceful smile lighting up his face. "Does it matter? Even if I possessed words of truth, that you might fully understand my mind, you still would not turn from your course." And he turned and left.
Findur knew that something was wrong when he came home from the forge to find his front door open. Within, he could hear the din of several loud conversations occurring simultaneously. He hurried inside and closed the door behind him, swatting away the flies that had entered through the doorway and gleaning what information he could from the shouts as he sought to discover the source of the noise.
"Will he be all right?"
It was Liniel's voice that replied. "Of course he will. Now if you please, either get out of my way or help me! Fetch a damp cloth."
"We should have expected this."
"But the water pitcher is empty!"
"Perhaps... but violence? No, no one could have foreseen this."
"Go fill it, then! The pump is behind the house, beside the vegetable garden."
"I'll tell you, though, he has not been quite right since he returned..."
After much stumbling through the darkened hallways, Findur came to his dimly lit bedroom. Here, upon his bed, lay a pasty-faced man, his eyes barely opened. Now Findur saw the cause of the commotion: a wound, shallow but bleeding profusely, scored his bare chest. Liniel knelt beside the bed, dabbing the man's wound with a green ointment. Behind her stood two elves that he recognized: Culril, one of his fellow councilors, and Tatharien, a flighty young woman who had just begun an apprenticeship under him. He wondered at her presence here; he thought that she had been assisting in the building of the new hall tonight. On the other side of the bed stood a flustered man, a mere page by the looks of him, holding a sopping cloth in his hand. Liniel now grabbed the cloth from him and placed it on the wounded man's forehead.
"What happened?" Findur exclaimed.
Liniel looked up at him, unmoved by his show of astonishment. "Rather may I ask where you have been," she said with a touch of annoyance, then turned back to her patient.
He entered the room and knelt beside her. "At the forge. I had a lot of work."
Liniel smirked slightly, her gray eyes regarding him with a hint of amusement. "Honestly, my dear, you are the only man alive who could miss a riot."
"A riot? What happened? Who was involved?"
"Lórimir and his supporters, it seems. They went to the site of the new construction, and apparently a sort of verbal sparring match began. Things got out of hand from there. Someone from one side threatened the other—not really meaning it of course, but the guards got involved, and soon enough, chaos broke out."
She turned her attention back to her patient, who was blinking and groaning, awakening from his stupor. "How are you feeling?" Liniel asked him. She smeared the excess ointment on a spare cloth, took a pile of gauze and bandages from the bedside table, and began to wrap the wound.
"Better," the man murmured.
"Good. You will be fine, then. At the onset, you were in shock from the blood loss, but you needn't worry now. It's a superficial wound."
"Why are you tending this man?" asked Findur. "You're certainly qualified, but why not a medic?"
Liniel laughed hoarsely. For the first time, Findur observed the dark lines beneath her eyes. What time was it, anyway? He had been working late and had lost track of the hour entirely. He peered out the window, trying to glean the hour from the position of the stars, but a thick shroud of low clouds, the herald of yet another summer thunderstorm, obscured the night sky.
"I'm afraid that Sûlómin here is the least of the medics' problems," said Liniel. "A man is dead, and another is near death."
Was she serious? Could an elf of Greenwood have knowingly inflicted another's death? It was absurd; all of it seemed beyond the realm of possibility. "Who—" he began.
"No one knows exactly. We're not even sure who delieverd the first blow. Sûlómin and the other injured man are guards, but the dead man was a worker. We're not sure if he was even involved in the fight. His death is being attributed to Lórimir's party; the guards are well versed in caution, unlikely perpetrators of an accidental death. Even if such an accident were possible, no one has come forward. They'll not be punished; the king sees no reason that they would hold back information."
"What have they done with Lórimir?"
Culril began to speak, but Tatharien broke in with an animated account of the dissenters' fates. "Lórimir, and those of his supporters whom they had the good fortune of catching, are in the prisons. They will be in there for quite a long time, by the looks of it. Charges of murder and sedition. Murder! Who could believe it!"
"I only hope that prison is enough," Findur remarked.
"What do you mean?" asked Culril, considerably more reserved than Findur's easily excitable apprentice.
"You say that some of Lórimir's followers have escaped. Even with their leader incarcerated, they'll continue to wreak havoc. Lórimir is a symbol to these people. A dangerous one."
"What are you suggesting?"
Findur did not reply. He stood and paced the room a few times, idly observing the items scattered about the room: a hairbrush, a box of paints, a block of beech wood that he had whittled into a miniature of the original tree. What exactly was he suggesting? He looked down at his hands, then up at Liniel. "I'll make up the lounge in the front room for sleep. If you would like, I can watch him while you get some rest, and wake you if anything is amiss."
Liniel shook her head. She had finished bandaging Sûlómin's wound and had given him a cordial that would ease his pain. Now she stood. "No, thank you, that won't be necessary. He will not require any further tending tonight, only plenty of sleep and minimal strain on the wound." She turned to the three others. "Thank you all for your help. You can go if you would like."
The three elves filed out of the room. Findur hardly noticed them go; his heart was heavy with other matters. Lórimir, a thorn in his side these past four years, would pain him no more. Yet this satisfaction was only accompanied by a greater sense of urgency. He knew not what he feared, but he was certain that this was not the time to be placated by Lórimir's arrest, to be caught off guard.
"I will go to see the king tomorrow," he said aloud. Liniel, busy retrieving extra sheets from a drawer, a task that he had avowed to perform and instantly had forgotten, did not seem to hear him. No matter. He knew his words had not been intended for her ears so much as his own.
Thranduil stared down at the unfinished proclamation on his desk. "No," he said quietly. "I will not do that, Morfindel. I cannot kill my son."
"It is difficult, I understand," said Findur. "But not without precedent. Gondolin, you may remember, had the same policy. A man is already dead. Lórimir and his comrades are responsible. As long as they live, they are dangers to the safety of your people. This chaos cannot go on." With a flash of inspiration, he picked up the thin golden circlet that lay on the king's desk.
"What are you doing?" Thranduil eyed Findur's movements suspiciously, but he put down the writing brush.
"This was your father's, was it not?" Findur turned the circlet over in his hands, ostensibly inspecting the craft of the metal.
"Yes," Thranduil affirmed. "And if any ill should come to me in later days, it shall go to my daughter, my eldest child. What of it?"
Findur held up the circlet so that it glimmered in the candlelight. "This is what is at stake, my king," he said. "All of your father's dreams, the very existence of the kingdom in Greenwood itself. The strife that Lórimir has introduced after so many years of peace will put this circlet, and the kingdom it represents, in jeopardy. As king, your first duty is to your people. They, too, are your daughters and sons. You must remember this now more than ever."
Thranduil looked down in contemplation—a mannerism that father and son shared, Findur noted. "What you say is true. And were I a stronger man..." He shook his head, his fists in tight balls on his desk. "I don't know. I just don't know."
"I apologize. I do not mean to press you to an untimely decision. I only wish to advise you of the course that seems prudent to me." Findur rose from his chair. "I will leave and give you time to think."
Thranduil nodded. "Thank you, Findur. You have not offended me, not by any means. I will call for you when I have made my decision."
By nightfall, the proclamation was completed. In black ink, stamped with the mark of Thranduil, the future was clearly stated. Lórimir and three of his followers were to be put to death.
When they brought them out, a profound silence fell upon the mass of onlookers. When they did speak, it was in whispers, their lips barely moving, their eyes unwavering from the four captives who were now taking their places before the king and his council, flanked by twice as many guards. In the center of the entourage stood Lórimir, the crown jewel of this herd of rabble.
From his seat next to Thranduil—Queen Selmë normally occupied this place, but she had refused to attend the execution—Findur had an excellent view of the prisoners, especially Lórimir. The prince's face was pale, but he was composed, his head held high and his eyes bright, seemingly devoid of anger or fear. He seemed unaware of the gawking crowd, but they in turn were transfixed at the sight of the young prince-turned-criminal. How fascinated they are with death! Findur thought scornfully, but in truth, his own stomach was churning, and he could not take his eyes of Lórimir. How does he remain so calm? He himself had only experienced death in the hunting of a stag or the childhood sadness at the passing of an elderly, well-loved tamed bird. Not like this at all.
As he and the rest of the council had agreed, the prisoners were allowed a last statement before their deaths. This was the custom in Arnor and Gondor, and they could not think of a better model. After all, there had never before been an execution in Greenwood. There had never been a need.
Another, peculiar institution had also been incorporated—since none of the criminals had yet confessed to the murder, they were given a final chance to "confess your deed and unburden your conscience, so that you may die on good standing with your king and with the Powers of Arda."
No confessions were made. The proceedings were thus unextraordinary, speeches professing the tyranny of the king and the injustice of the execution, speeches plotting imaginary revenge. In their indistinct whispers, the crowd ridiculed the sedition, anticipating with exhilaration and terror the moment when the sentences would be carried out. Then they could exhale and depart, never speaking of this day again, though surely never forgetting it.
When it came time for Lórimir to speak, the silence grew more profound, a tangible weight against Findur's chest that made it difficult to breath properly. Lórimir closed his eyes briefly in meditation. Then the convict looked up at the semi-circle of the King and his council, his gaze passing from face to face. Findur felt indignation rise up within him as Lórimir's blue eyes rested on his own face, lit up with an inexplicably compassionate glow. He opened his mouth, paused. Then in the calmest voice imaginable, Lórimir whispered, "I forgive you."
The silence that ensued was no tormenting weight, but a shocked vacuum. Only gradually did a cacophony of voices rise up in response. I forgive you? What was that? As if we were the criminals, and not him! Shouts and rebuking speeches rang out through the hall. Even Thranduil was visibly shaken, his façade of tired determination melting away to reveal some of the pain beneath. He did nothing to silence the crowd, but only stared down at his hands, neatly folded in his lap, until the noise died away.
And yet, for reasons he could not explain, Findur took comfort from Lórimir's blasphemous words. Not that he regretted his actions thus far: Lórimir and his followers were criminals of the worst sort; a life had been lost through their actions, and they were intent on destroying Greenwood itself. He would be happy to administer the lethal poison himself if need be. Yet, in spite of all this, a part of him responded to the words, moved by a desperate need for forgiveness. But this is madness! I am no criminal. It is Lórimir who is the guilty one, who has committed unforgivable crimes. He deserves death.
Even as silence returned, a figure rushed into the hall, dispersing the crowd. Findur saw that it was Queen Selmë. She dashed up to the area where Lórimir and the other criminals stood. The guards moved to stop her from approaching Lórimir, but she pushed past them, taking her son's hands in hers.
"My darling," she said. "Oh, Lórimir... I thought I was too late."
"Mother, please. You do not have to be here. You do not have to see this." But Selmë had already turned and approached the king. "Thranduil... do not do this. Do not do this thing, not Lórimir. "Her voice was choked, her eyes red-rimmed and watery. "Our son, Thranduil... he is innocent. Surely you know this. Our son. You cannot..."
Thranduil stood, placing his hands on the queen's shoulders, whispering to her so that only Selmë—and Findur—could hear, "I have no choice. Now go. You shame yourself."
Selmë pushed him away with a cry. Her voice had taken on a high-pitched, frantic tone. "How can you... this is our son, our flesh and blood... Lórimir, our Lórimir... I won't let you make him a scapegoat!" She flung out her arms as she screamed, tears flowing down her cheeks.
"Dearest," Thranduil said in a soft, deliberate voice, "Your son was discovered with a bloody sword."
"So too were the swords of the guards!" Thranduil shook his head. "We must do what is right. You must leave, or at the least control yourself. I know your pain..."
"You? You know... nothing... you murderer! Murderer!"
Thranduil, finding no other recourse, motioned for the two guards at the far door to escort her out. Selmë's limbs writhed in the struggle to escape them, but the guards managed to restrain her, and began the tedious process of leading her out of the hall. The crowd stared in stunned silence. Thranduil did not watch her go. Instead, he beckoned for a third guard. "Follow them," he commanded. "She should not be left alone. You should send for a medic, I think." The guard nodded and went, and Thranduil sat down again, his head in his hands as if in deep thought, but his eyes stared blankly ahead.
"You are doing the right thing," Findur told him.
The king nodded as he stood and stepped forward. In a loud, regal voice, he said, "You have been found guilty of murder and sedition. These crimes are unjustifiable and unforgivable. Now we demand of you the greatest thing a man has to offer—his life."
It was with those chilling words that Findur realized the truth: up until now, the proceedings had been nothing but mere fanfare. He watched as a guard approached the prisoners, bearing a golden chalice. The draught within would provide the convicts with a quick, painless death.
The prelude had ended. Now, the execution began.
Selmë - another pseudo-Silvan name.
1. Elves probably have pointed ears. I vote yes for the purposes of this story.
