Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeline: T.A. 252
Rating (this chapter): PG.
Chapter XIII: Naurhir
A sharp noise rang out and roused Findur from his sleep. His eyes darted back and forth across the small chamber. It was perhaps five o'clock in the morning, maybe earlier, judging by the amount of light that streamed through the window across from his bed. Drowsily, he sat up. He wondered if the strange sound would come again. But as he listened, he gradually realized that the atmosphere of the house itself was all wrong. There was too much clamor for early morning. An inordinate number of voices dimly resounded in the distance, accompanied by a comparable number of shuffling feet. And that noise—had that been the sound of weapons being unsheathed?
With this realization, Findur sprang out of bed and hurriedly began to dress, strapping his old sword to his side for good measure. He dashed out of the room and down the hall, his uncombed hair flying behind him. Soon, he came to the entrance hall, and upon a most unusual scene.
In the center of the wide, unfurnished room stood Curuan, wrinkled and ragged as ever in an old weather-stained cloak. He clutched Amroth from behind, holding a small but decidedly deadly knife against the king's throat. About the two stood a circle of guards, bows drawn in Curuan's direction.
Curuan looked up and saw him. "Ah, there you are, Findur. I was going to send for you, but I see that you've found us on your own."
Findur saw Amroth wrinkle his brow at these words of recognition. He was remarkably composed for having a knife to his throat. "Gwathion?" His voice was incredulous. "Do you know this man?"
Findur stared numbly. He could not reply. He felt a tightness in his chest. It was difficult to breathe, the stages of respiration requiring conscious thought. This couldn't be happening. He was safe here. What did Curuan have to do with the golden woods and forgiving smiles of Lórinand?
Meanwhile, the amusement in Curuan's eyes extended in his lips. "Gwathion, is it, now? I must say, Findur, if this continues on, Tûrin Turambar himself will blush to see your record of self-degrading pseudonyms."
Findur forced himself to reply. "Please, don't do this," he finally murmured. "He needn't be involved—"
"I have no intentions of harming anyone," insisted Curuan. "Agree to come with me, and your friend will be safe."
By this time, even some of the guards were staring at Findur in stunned silence.
"Gwathion," said Amroth, "You don't have to say anything. I said that I would shelter you—" But the knife pressed closer to his throat, and he fell silent.
Out of the corner of his eye, Findur saw a few faces appear in the doorway to the right—Randuil, the royal medic, and Mithrellas and Alfirin, their hands brown with early morning gardening. They gasped and turned to leave, undoubtedly to get help, but Curuan's voice came sharply over the silence, suddenly cold and humorless: "Stop or your king dies."
The faces watched him. Curuan's eyes glared. All of them, waiting for his word.
"I'll go with you," said Findur weakly. "Please—don't harm him."
"Gwathion, don't," Amroth pleaded, but Curuan had already begun to loosen his grip. Finding himself free, the king gave a resigned nod, and the guards lowered their bows. In turn, Curuan sheathed his knife.
"Then I'll go pack." Head bowed, Findur turned and began to walk to his room. Curuan followed him closely behind. Findur walked a few paces, then stopped, turning back to Amroth.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I never meant to bring trouble upon you like this. I never meant..."
But Amroth nodded and smiled, though sadly, and the silver circlet across his forehead gleamed in the shafts of sunlight that fell through open windows in far-off rooms. "Peace, my friend. I know. And you..." He paused a moment, formulating his words. "You are in my thoughts," he said finally.
"Findur. It's time." There was Curuan's grating voice, expelling all thoughts of absolution from his mind. Findur sighed, and turned sharply away, and with every step, a bitter note rang out, the hollow echo of a vacant dream.
Outside, the rising sun spilt its first rays of scarlet light over the horizon, illuminating the mellyrn with an eerie reddish glow. The leaves themselves were tinged with gold, the yellow blossoms scattered upon the forest floor as if in prefigurement of the hour when the golden leaves would join them. Blearily, Findur blinked in the sunlight. He was always so tired. It seemed an effort to continue walking, to face the withering forest without being reminded of the despair that echoed forth with every footfall.
"I walk with you now," he said aloud, his voice sounding forced and hollow, "but we part ways the moment we cross the border of this land. I'm done with you, Curuan." It was not an idle threat. Curuan had lost his advantage of secrecy. There would be no more hostages or eluded guards. Alone, he was no match for Findur.
If Curuan felt threatened, he masked his fear well. "Ah. I see," he said with sparkling eyes. "I suppose you're planning to return to Amroth and very humbly ask his pardon." He bent over to gauge Findur's response. "No? Ah, well, then you can always go to Belfalas! That would be the destination this time, wouldn't it? I'm sure you'll have a splendid time, wasting away beside the Sea and hoping no one recognizes you as... what was that charming bit of nomenclature? Ah, yes, Gwathion. Full marks on the poetry, although I must say, it is a tad too lyrical for the loathsome spawn of the Dark Lord, don't you—"
"Stop it!" To his own surprise, Findur found himself halted and facing Curuan, muscles taut, fists clenched with fury. "You decrepit fool!" he cried, and his voice was deep and resounding. "You have lied to me and threatened me and destroyed my life in more ways than I can number, and yet you continue on in your hateful speeches as if, by insulting me, you might somehow win my undying loyalty! You are heartless, Curuan, I have no doubt of that, but are you fey as well?"
Curuan reciprocated with the even stare of sharp gray eyes. "Lied," he repeated distastefully. "Destroyed your life. Where would you be without me, Findur? I've just rescued you from an existence of perpetual self-deprecation. You should thank me! Where would you be without me? Answer me!"
"I would be home," Findur hissed, turning sharply away and continuing to walk.
"Home," scoffed Curuan as he strove to match Findur's speed. "Your precious Imladris, of course. Do you think that I intended you to run off as you did? Don't be so quick to blame others for your foolish decisions. Home indeed—it was a lie of a life that you had there, and you know it. And yet you mourn being sundered from your dearest sister—the sister that you robbed—"
"I didn't steal the Elessar."
There was a significant pause in which Findur feared that Curuan had not heard him. Or worse, heard him far too well. Better to have said nothing of the Elessar.
"Then you are content to live the lie once more," Curuan finally murmured.
"No," Findur protested, though the words were not wholly without truth. "My life was most a lie in Greenwood. You were the liar. Not I."
A prolonged sigh. "Oh, come now, Findur. Don't be dramatic. I am much too straightforward of a man to be the devious figure that you portray. Ask me a question and I'll answer it; it's as simple as that."
"But I won't know if you're telling the truth."
"And when have I lied to you?"
Findur turned and stared at him incredulously. "You were engaged to my wife."
Curuan unexpectedly gave a hoarse laugh. "Astonishingly enough, yes. It's a matter long past. I advised Liniel to be upfront with you, but she insisted that it would destroy your relationship. She had already feigned ignorance for many months at that point. After all, she had convinced herself from the beginning that you couldn't possibly be the heir, and it was, for her, easier to continue with this pretense even after she learned the truth. Foolish, but I humored her and went along with it." He shrugged good-naturedly. "Well, now it seems that her deeds have caught up with her—"
"Is she all right?" cried Findur in spite of himself.
"Oh, fine, fine save for some months of memory loss. You'll find that she remembers nothing of your argument—although she has had several interesting dreams that she neglects to tell me about."
Findur did not reply. Several minutes of silence passed. He watched the gray trees ahead of them take on hues of green and gold as the sun steadily rose. They were now heading due west.
"How did you find me?" he asked suddenly.
"Interested in what I know now that you're finished defending yourself? Honest Findur is a keener negotiator than he dare admit."
"Just answer!"
"As you wish," Curuan, whose hobbling had worsened in the past several minutes, cleared his throat and began. "It wasn't easy. After you ran off, I hadn't the slightest notion of where to begin. Quite luckily, I finally had word from a band of Northmen—the ties between Gondor and the men of Rhovanion are stronger of late, and I know plenty of people in Gondor. They'd seen you and the hunters that discovered you. Naturally, they'd been fascinated—and alarmed—by the sight of elves. It was clear that only elves of Lórinand would usually roam in that area. So I managed to slip past the border guards of Lórinand and head directly for the most populated area. From then on, it was simple. I arrived last night and chanced to find you straightaway, speaking with Amroth. As your friend and the king, he was the ideal choice as hostage." Receiving a sullen glare from Findur, he continued on, "Oh, come now. I would never have harmed him. Do that, and I would be killed myself. Of course I knew that you would accept my terms. I used force because it was the only way to make you listen."
A few more steps, a few more moments of silence. Presently, they came in a fork in the road. To Findur's surprise, Curuan continued west.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Ah, so you you've decided to come," said Curuan with a grin.
Findur shrugged noncommittally. Curuan had been right at one point: there was nowhere for him to go. Belfalas indeed: Selmë was in Belfalas yet, in Edhellond. She would know his face. And he could hardly return to Greenwood, not now. Lindon, too, was impossibly distant, and too near to Imladris, and there too he might be recognized, though he had been but a child when Círdan, the lord of that land, had last come to Imladris. And even if he found some haven? What then?
Findur closed his eyes, took one last breath. "Where are we going?" he asked again. His voice rang surprisingly clear.
Curuan's smile widened. His gray eyes twinkled. "I'm taking you to Khazad-dûm," he said. "There's something I want to show you there."
They were going down a staircase again. The staircases were the worst. Findur inhaled sharply, clutched the first two rock projections that his hands could easily grasp, and began the uncomfortable descent down yet another rough, uneven set of steps into the heart of Khazad-dûm.
He could have sworn that he heard a little, imperious snicker as he went.
Findur sighed, forced himself to conclude that the darkness was impairing his wits, and said aloud, "You'd think that, if a person took the time to construct these stairs, they might make them a bit more even."
Kali, who was walking in front with the torch, gave a low, spirited laugh. "Even?" the dwarf cried. "You should be glad that there are stairs at all! Hewn out of solid rock, they were, and no one comes down these ways anymore to use them. No good mining this way. There'll not be stairs when we start tramping through the natural caverns. See how you like it then. They say that even Orcs stayed clear of those parts when Khazad-dûm was young."
Findur had a feeling that Orcs and staircases would soon be the least of their worries. What exactly they were facing, however, he could not fathom. Kali, whom Curuan had contacted and somehow roped into their plans without telling him of Findur's identity—would the conspiracy never end?—knew from Curuan's words that some dark creature slept down here. Much to his annoyance, Findur's knowledge was no more expansive. He didn't understand why Curuan couldn't simply tell him the identity of this thing that Kali thought he was somehow going to vanquish—"But don't worry King Durin with the news!" Curuan had added to this audacious statement. "He'll want to deal with the creature himself, and I tell you, only an elf—like Findur—can control it." Lies, lies, and more lies, and now they were descending towards the thing itself, and this was insane; what had he to do with monsters in the bottoms of mines?—
But a dark presence, looming in the back of his consciousness like a fire in his head, reminded him that even Curuan had not gone entirely mad.
What was it, he wondered, and how had Curuan known it was there? Did he too feel its presence? Findur glanced at Curuan, who was walking before him, but from what he could see of his face, he wore no more than his usual grimace.
Sharply, the stairs ended. A narrow natural crevice made a passageway through the rock, but it split sharply in two some yards ahead.
The three stood, staring ahead. Kali made a disconsolate huff. He looked up at Curuan and Findur. "Where do we go now?" he demanded.
Curuan turned and looked at Findur. What, was he expected to know all the answers now?
"I—I don't—" But as he gazed down the black crevice and felt the presence burn in his skull—almost a voice now—he realized that he did know. He stepped forward, pointing to the right.
"That way. And down, far down. Through many caverns and crevices." His voice grew soft. "He's waiting for us there."
If Kali thought anything of his friend's odd behavior, he most likely ascribed it to elven temperament. "Well, then, what are we waiting for?" He forged ahead into the cramped tunnel, and Curuan and Findur followed. The air was warmer here, like the heat of a forge, and the rock were strangely shaped, jagged but level, as if some rough force had shaped it. When Findur placed his hand against it for support, it was warm to the touch.
As they marched on, the passages narrowed and sloped increasingly downward. Findur was leading the way now, holding Kali's torch before him. He did not think about where he was going; the presence called him like a distant light piercing through wide shadows. Sometimes he thought he heard a voice, low and smooth, but it spoke no words. Rather, it was a pulse, soft and rhythmical like the hissing of a flame. Though Findur's fear did not lessen, it became something manageable, a constant watchfulness that put all his senses on the ready.
The cavern walls grew blacker and warmer, and their descent grew steeper still. Soon the air itself was uncomfortably hot, far too warm for a subterraneous passage. Curuan began to lag behind, his creased forehead moist with perspiration, and Kali grumbled several times, hitching up his shirtsleeves, but no one spoke.
An hour, perhaps, passed in this manner. Findur had given up all hope that the caverns extended to any lesser distance than the ends of the earth when Kali stopped abruptly and pointed ahead with a broad index finger.
"Look there!" he cried. "A fire!"
Findur had been aware of the red glow for several minutes, but so automatic had his movements been that it had not occurred to him to speculate on its origin. He stopped now, and stared, and thought that he could see the dim black outline of a frame somewhere amongst the flames. But it was hard to tell anything for certain; the firelight crept through a slender crevice of an opening, tall and narrow, like a red scar across the black rock face. Whatever was beyond it was considerably larger.
"Stay here," Findur commanded, looking back at Kali, whose eyes were bulging out of his head, and at perfectly composed Curuan. He handed the torch to the latter—he had an uncomfortable feeling that if he gave it to Kali, the shuddering Dwarf might drop it. Then he turned, walked down the hallway, and disappeared into the narrow opening.
Inside, the narrow cavern was stifling, but Findur adjusted to the heat easily. Besides, there were more pressing sources of trouble—like the impossibly tall, dark figure crouched before him, wreathed in shadow and flame, wielding a bright sword in one hand and a great whip in the other.
"A Balrog," Findur muttered, gazing at the figure in awe and fear.
The creature's eyes flashed. "Balrog?" it growled in the same smooth, low, pulsing voice that had plagued him during the march. Were the words spoken or silent? He could not say. "Valarauco. Valar. Demon of might. I see. Yes, I am powerful. Could kill. Devour the flesh. Burn. And you have awakened me." It extended its dark limbs, stretching, the fire about it glowing brighter. "Yes. I have slept. But why did I wake? What are you? You are not Vala or Maia. Yet your heart burns. Yes. I think I will not kill you yet."
"I would... prefer it... if you not kill me at all," said Findur, unblinking. "Why are you here?"
"I am Maia," said the Balrog. "I can open doors and close them. But the crevice is too small. The walls are old. I am tired. I sleep. I listen. Outside, the world is crawling with creatures." A gleam in dark eyes. "You could help me. Petty trifle... but not useless. Open the doors. Break the walls. We could take these halls of stone for ourselves. Outside, I hear the stunted ones dig. We could run them out, halt their stone-mongering. Flame is sweeter." A mischievous pause. "Your friends might not agree. We could kill them. Burn the bodies."
"No, no," Findur pleaded. "You can't kill them or me or anyone. Please."
"But I can. Why shouldn't I?"
"But there are more than Dwarves about!" Findur protested. "Elves and Men are strong. They'll attack you if they learn of you. They'll destroy you."
"I am stronger," said the Balrog. "Your kind is as a swarm of maggots to me. You will not survive."
"But... but..."
"Don't hinder me, foolish one. Help me burn. Shadow and fire will reign. Why are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid!" cried Findur. "But don't you see? What of... what of Sauron? What would he think of your plans?"
"Sauron?" Confusion. "Yes, he was one of the great ones. But he is fallen. I felt his shadow retreat. His will matters not."
"No!" Findur found his voice stern and strong. The Balrog's shadow seemed to diminish before him. "Sauron's will has not perished!" he cried. "I am Naurhir, the Fire Lord! I am his heir! And I tell you that you cannot do this thing! You must wait. Wait until he returns. Then you can stir and make ready your plans. But not until!"
There was a frightening silence as the Balrog considered this. Findur's heart throbbed in his chest, but he was remarkably composed. A strange energy coursed through his limbs, a heady sensation of confidence and might. He waited.
"Then Sauron has not perished?" the Balrog asked.
"He has not." A lie, he hoped.
"And you are his progeny?"
"Yes."
"That is strange. Our kind does not stoop to the Eruhíni, the Children of the Accursed One. But I can see his flame in you. Yes, I can see his wisdom. You will be strong while he is weak. His successor like he was unto Melkor. I do desire fire... but I do not like to anger him. No. And I am tired still. Yes. Tired. Too much has passed. Perhaps the black blood and red flesh will wait." And with that, the Balrog turned and bundled his limbs into a ball, falling into a strange slumber.
Findur stared at the motionless form. He did not tremble, but his heart yet quickened. He still felt the curious strength within him. He realized that his hand was hovering over his sword hilt, and he drew away. He had done it. He had stopped this thing. He had saved Khazad-dûm! Now the Balrog would sleep forever, waiting for a day that would surely never come.
"Naurhir," he repeated. He was not ashamed as he had feared, only filled with a kind of glory, a weak memory of the moment when his voice had filled the cavern with an echoing presence. He smiled softly, then turned away and slipped back through the narrow crevice.
Curuan and Kali were waiting for him. Now, their bodies seemed unexpectedly small and delicate. One touch, and he could break them to pieces. He started up the rocky incline without speaking to either of them, not heeding the darkness of his path. Curuan and Kali hurried up after him. "What happened?" demanded Kali. "Did you kill it?" And Curuan, huffing as he strove to keep up: "Do you understand why I brought you here?"
"The thing will not trouble you, Kali. Tell no one of it," Findur instructed.
"But what did it say to you?" demanded Curuan.
Findur stopped and looked back at him. "He told me who I was," he said softly. "But that was not your truth to give or receive. It was mine. And do not forget it." Without another word, he turned and continued on into the vast, sprawling darkness.
When they came into the city, Curuan asked Findur what he thought of it. It was a weighty question. Osgiliath was beautiful, yes, with the dark Anduin rushing through a labyrinth of white towers and carved pillars. The city seemed to defy nature, the proud, imperishable structures transcending the seasons of the world. But the architecture was imperfect, with the roughness of the work of mortal hands, and too often beauty was sacrificed for grandeur.
"It's strange," he said to Curuan. "They reassure themselves with great structures, as if to boast of their might... but there are so few battlements." He looked to the horizon. In the distance, the shadowy range of Ephel Dúath loomed. "How easily they forget," he murmured.
Curuan's face wrinkled with a smile. "And you do not?"
Findur gazed silently upon the distant mountain range, then looked down at his hands. "I will never forget," he said.
That night, after he had dined and retired to his rooms, Findur found himself unoccupied and restless. For a while, he sat by a window that looked out upon the street and watched the evening traffic, but the rustic roads of outer Osgiliath were tedious beyond description. He sang softly to himself in the darkness, borrowing from old songs that he had half forgotten, but his voice sounded hollow and strange. He turned away from the window and tried to think about the plans that Curuan and he had discussed on their way to Gondor, but found that he could not sit still. He stood and began to pace across the little room, and the only word that his mind knew was Naurhir, and the only image, a great form wreathed in flame. Crouching, diminishing before him into a prostrate mass, the Balrog was like a child's toy, to be shaped and molded and commanded and crushed. Unthinkingly, his hand slipped into his pocket and gripped Arwen's small wooden bird, and he thought he understood things better.
He began to pace faster as his thoughts became grander, and he did not even hear the first snatches of song that rose up from the courtyard below.
"Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing, in Valinor, the red blood flowing..."
I am Naurhir, the Fire Lord... I am the heir of Sauron...
"...beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew, the Foamriders, and stealing drew their white ships with their white sails from lamplit havens..."
Findur became suddenly aware of the soft lines that were washing through his psyche. The Noldor? Why was a mortal singing of the Kinslaying?
Then he realized: it was not a mortal who was singing.
Findur hastened to the window. In the moonlit courtyard below, he saw a figure clad in red and gray walking across the stone pavement, singing softly as she went.
"The wind wails, the wolf howls. The ravens flee. The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea..."
Findur stared for a moment, then turned and ran out of the room. He rushed through dark corridors and down winding stairs. As he went, the song grew clearer.
"The captives sad in Angband mourn. Thunder rumbles, the fires burn, and Finrod fell before—" (1)
Findur burst out into the cool night air of the courtyard. Liniel saw him and stopped, her eyes fixed upon his face.
"Findur," she murmured. She did not move, regarding him with soft gray eyes. The silence that followed carried the echo of her greeting.
"Hello, Liniel," he said. He found that he could not meet her gaze. "I—I heard your singing—"
"Yes." She nodded. The corners of her mouth quirked upwards. Everything about her poise bespoke serenity. The gray eyes continued to watch him. He didn't understand. Wasn't she angry?
"The Lay of Leithian, you know," she continued. She almost smiled, though wryly. "You always told the story better."
"Don't." His voice came apologetically. He wanted to... forgive her? Maybe. But the guilt and the anger was too much. Before she could reply, he went on, "Don't do this. I can't forget. I regret hurting you. But I need answers. Don't you see? I can't pretend like you."
Liniel nodded slightly, neither confirming nor denying his accusations. She turned and walked to a withered beech tree, the only growing thing in the courtyard, clearing away the fallen leaves from beneath its crooked limbs. There she kneeled, and Findur followed her, taking a seat beside her.
"I have questions as well," she said. "If you'll remember, I know nothing of our argument—"
"I'm sure you can imagine what it was like," Findur replied acridly.
"Indeed!" cried Liniel. "And what have I done to deserve the blame? I loved you. I married with you because I loved you. I convinced myself that you were only Morfindel because I loved you. I did not understand then. I told Curuan of your identity because I loved you—because I wanted you to be great. If I lied—" But she saw the confusion in Findur's face. "But you think of the letter." Unexpectedly, she smiled. "Really, my dear, you're not the only elf in Endor with keen hearing. Remember our first trip to Thranduil's halls? I heard you fiddling with the painting then, and I heard Arandulë come in shortly after. From there, it was simple."
Findur turned away. "You don't have to sound so smug about it."
Liniel shifted herself back into his line of sight. Persistent as ever! "And you don't have to find faults in everything I say. You wanted the truth. There it is." She shook her head, sighed. "We can't waste time, arguing over these things. We've lied. Both of us. You must see, none of it matters." The smile returned. "My visions. A golden circlet across your brow. Don't you see?"
He bowed his head. He couldn't stand it. Watching her, her radiant eyes. Her words kindled something inside of him, yes. But at the same time, he could not help but recall... what was it that she had said to him? I won't burn in your pyre, she had said. I won't become my mother. Yet there she was, void of anger or of fear, burning, burning for him...
And she was right. It didn't matter, not really.
Sudden movement flickered above him. He looked up. Liniel had swept the remaining leaves into a small mound. She turned and saw him watching her. Their eyes met.
"Light a fire," she urged.
Findur stared for a moment before he realized what she was asking. He kept forgetting how much she knew. "Why?" he asked.
"Please, just do it. You'll see."
Findur sighed and, almost effortlessly, set his mind to kindling a fire in the leaves. A few moments later, smoke was rising from the pile, and a small yellow flame emerged.
Liniel looked up at him, smiling, her face golden in the firelight. From the small leather purse bound to her waist, she retrieved a small silver object. It was her ring of betrothal. She held out her hand. "Take it," she said. "I want you to melt it."
Hesitantly, Findur took the ring, felt the weight in his hand. Then he cast it into the fire. For several seconds, the heat had no effect, but gradually the silver began to soften and contort.
He looked up and saw Liniel staring at him with glistening eyes.
"It's your turn," she said softly.
"What—" But Liniel leaned forward and retrieved a folded parchment from his shirt pocket, smiling at the intimate gesture. It was his mother's letter. "Curuan saw and told me," she quietly explained.
"You want me to burn it?"
"You must lay down the past. We both must." Liniel tilted her head, shifting the parchment back and forth in her hands. "But it isn't past to you, is it? You still expect to see them again someday." She made a sudden, mournful sound. "Even your mother."
"And why not my mother?"
"I do not mean to be cruel... but what would become of you in the West? Your identity could never remain secret. Not forever. Some might not be so understanding as I am."
"She loved me," said Findur.
"And yet you caused her much pain." He listened for malice in Liniel's voice, but there was none. Only a kind of unabashed, sympathetic honesty. "Do you think it would be easy for her to see you again?"
Findur surprised himself: he was not angry. Liniel's words only sounded out a hollow space within himself, a place that had always existed. "Burn it, then."
Liniel grasped Findur's hand and smiled reassuringly. "It will be for the best. You'll see." He looked away as she tossed it into the fire, but found himself drawn back immediately. He watched as the parchment slowly burned, and for a moment, it was as if Imladris was again in flames before him, a thousand memories crumbling and turning to ash. Soon, both ring and letter were wholly consumed. Findur closed his eyes briefly, and the flame was quelled, and smoke rose in curls from the ashes. He watched it ascend skyward.
Liniel stood and sat beside him, resting her hand against his shoulder
"We understand each other now. Don't we? All that I did, I did for you, Findur. Whatever harsh words passed between us at our parting... can't we put them behind us? For I've missed you so." She placed her hand against the back of his neck, tilting his head forward and pressing her lips to his. Findur sank into the embrace, and it was a long time before they broke away.
Liniel took his hand. "Why don't you come upstairs," she said softly.
Naurhir - is Sindarin for "Firelord". In case you didn't get that.
1. Liniel's song is an excerpt of the Lay of Leithian, describing the battle between Finrod and Sauron.
