Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeline: T.A. 265.
Rating (this chapter): G
Chapter XIV: Iron and Gold
Within ten minutes of the stranger's departure, a messenger came with a summons to Master Elrond's study.
Little Arwen, who had been receiving a history lesson, was delighted. Celeborn was not. As he made his way out of the library and up through the winding, sunlit halls of Imladris, he wondered what unsavory news Elrond would acquaint him with this time.
He took the longer route to Elrond's study, stopping every so often to admire his surroundings. It was springtime, and every passageway was bathed in a warm light, and every window was flung open upon a breathtaking view of the valley below. It took him back of the woods of Doriath, and to Galadriel, and at the memories he smiled a little, his pain transmuting into a soft, wistful remembrance.
Elrond was sitting at his writing desk when Celeborn arrived, but he was not working. Instead, he was studying an object before him, a great gemstone, milky white, that stood upon a slender base of mithril. It was a gift from Durin III, if Celeborn remembered rightly, a souvenir of the long ago collaboration of Khazad-dûm and the elves of Eregion. It was for such trinkets as these that Celeborn held Elrond's study to be one of the few genuinely beautiful interiors that he had encountered. It was not ridden with portraits or contrived mementos, but merely a collection of haphazard items, unintentionally collected over the years, each with a secret history. There, on the ledge, a crystal pendant of Gondolinian make. Beside it, well polished, a small silver flute... a bowl of rose petals, dried, from a distant spring... a child's watercolor portrait, carefully framed. There were no pretenses. If you saw the room, you knew the man.
At Celeborn's arrival, Elrond looked up, his stern eyes a jarring contrast to his tender surroundings. "Celeborn," he greeted. "Forgive me for interrupting you, but I thought it necessary that we speak. I suspect you know why I called you here."
Celeborn took his usual seat beside the window, smiling a little wryly as he did. "I think I can make a guess. With all of the commotion outside, it was all I could do to restrain Arwen from going out to watch, let alone convince her to heed her studies. What did he want now?"
"She," Elrond corrected. "It was a woman this time, dark of hair, a Silvan accent like the rest. She sent word from her lord in Eregion. Naurhir wants a formal recognition of friendship between our peoples."
Celeborn gave him an incredulous look. "An alliance, you mean! But what did you say?"
"I gave her words of good will so far as my judgment deemed fit," said Elrond. "But it is not my custom to treat with foreign lords of whom I know aught. I do not think my words pleased her, for she left scowling."
"You did well, then. Indeed, what else can we do? If the rumors are true—" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elrond wince, and he stopped. "What is it?"
Elrond did not meet Celeborn's eyes, and Celeborn thought he saw a hint of color in his son-in-law's cheeks. "Yesterday Arnor sent word," he began with difficulty. "There was another raid upon their settlements in the north, and they were able to study their invaders more closely this time. Tall, dark-haired men were they, and much of their armor and weaponry—resembled that of Eregion make."
"I see," said Celeborn faintly.
"I should have alerted you," Elrond continued ruefully. "Forgive me my silence, for I did not want to trouble you with the news."
"There are many things you do not wish to trouble me with," Celeborn observed. "And yet there is no escaping them. Naurhir! It is the name on everyone's tongue. Gondor recognizes him. Durin trades with him. He may as well rule Greenwood; their people leave to join him monthly. And now, he plagues Imladris and Lindon with messengers, begging us to join in alliance with him. There are other rumors, of course. That he treats with men of Gondor... men of Gondor who are reputed to be less than loyal to their king. Should we feign astonishment, then, when such men appear armed and girded in elvish style at Arnor's doorstep?"
"We can make no conclusions," replied Elrond slowly. "But your point is no less valid. We cannot trust him, for truly, we know nothing of him, only that he is powerful."
"Powerful, yes. Or perhaps it is we who are weak," said Celeborn. "Thranduil is departed. His daughter too is gone. His son does not take the throne. And what aid has Imladris given them save strong words of condemnation? Our regard of Gondor has been alike. A kinder gaze upon our friends might have resolved these problems. But now, Naurhir now seems ready to mend them in our stead."
Elrond smiled faintly, shaking his head so that his silver circlet glinted against dark hair. "Celeborn, your practicality always amazes me. Yet I fear there is no solution in this case that we might have presented. What have we done awry? We have offered haven to those in kingless Greenwood, and did not think our offering would be heeded, for the Silvans have done without kings in the past. What more could I do? I still hold Lórimir's death to be a grievous thing; he was no Eöl. But I ostracize no one, and hardly drove them to settle under Naurhir in Eregion. As for Gondor... frankly, it was none of our business." He paused, and looked ready to say more, but instead was silent. He stood and walked to the window, placing one hand on the casement. His gaze fell upon the east, and a despondent look came to his face, as if some troubling, inexpressible truth lay behind his eyes.
"Listen to us, friend," he said finally. "If Naurhir is indeed not to be trusted, we are playing right into his hands. We speak of Greenwood, Imladris, Gondor as if all our problems lay hence—but it is Naurhir and Eregion we must heed." He turned again to Celeborn. "In little more than a decade, he has transformed a barren ruin into a thriving elven kingdom. Eregion has been forged anew—and we do not know the identity of he who rebuilt it! The matter comes down to this: who is Naurhir?"
Celeborn sighed, and stood, joining Elrond by the window. "Some among our people, idly speculating, deem it may be a Nazgûl," he offered unhelpfully.
As expected, Elrond gave him a skeptical look. "Surely you are of greater wisdom than they in such matters. For the Nazgûl are creatures of terror and shadow. None of our kind would serve under such a being. Nor would a Nazgûl choose the ruins of Eregion as a dwelling place. If I were to make a guess, I would deem Naurhir..." He paused, and the next words were spoken delicately. "I would deem him an elf, Celeborn."
Celeborn did not reply.
Elrond went on, voice grave. "There is a possibility that has occurred to me. I do not think that you will like it—but it is a possibility that we cannot dismiss." He gave Celeborn a sudden, scrutinizing look. "But you know already my speculations, for they have surely occurred to both of us."
"Elrond—" Celeborn said warningly, hoping to forestall the conversation.
"It has been more than two hundred years since your son left Imladris," Elrond went on, firmly but not unkindly. "His mysterious return of late and subsequent departure speaks nothing good of his condition during those years. Surely he matches the description. Young, idealistic, ambitious... and not a little foolhardy, I fear. The very name is reminiscent of your son - 'the firelord'... I think it is safe to guess that his abilities in the forge have improved—"
"You need not go further," Celeborn interrupted, scarcely able to maintain his composure. "Only a moment ago you accused Naurhir of aiding Arnor's invaders. Now you name Findur?"
"I know that it is difficult. But think, Celeborn. If he was under the thrall of some malevolent force, might he not be persuaded to do these things?"
Celeborn did not reply. What had his son said to him, the day that he left? Ah, yes: If only a place like Eregion still endured... that I might have the opportunity to forge something truly beautiful! He should have followed him. He had wanted to give his son the chance to come to terms with things on his own, to give him the freedom of choice that he deserved. And so he had stood, coldly, pleading in vain...
"It cannot be him," he said finally.
Just as he spoke, there was a knock at the door. Both Elrond and Celeborn started and turned to see the door open and Celebrían's face peek in, wearing a rather bemused expression.
"So, the two conspirators of Imladris are still at it?" she asked lightly. And when she noticed that neither her husband nor her father were looking her straight in the face, she added, "It's all right. I could hear your whole conversation as I was coming down the hall. You must remember not to talk so loudly. But I've come to tell you that luncheon is ready. More precisely, it's been ready for ten minutes now. I hadn't foreseen the need to remind you, seeing as that we've eaten at the same time for more than a hundred years now."
Elrond sighed, his features softening. "Go then, tell Arwen that we're coming." He turned to Celeborn. "I think we've had enough of this for one day."
But Celebrían slipped through the door, closing it behind her. "No,"she said. Her pleasant countenance had been replaced by a veritable ferocity. "I think we should finish it. Now."
"Celebrían, your father—"
"My father is being foolish, and he knows it." As Celeborn began to protest, their eyes met and he felt his resolve fail. Celebrían did not smile, but her eyes were warm and forgiving. "I know that you love him. And I don't want it to be true anymore than you do. But you and I both know that he's perfectly capable of doing what Naurhir has done."
Celeborn felt a pang of guilt rise up within him. She was right, as usual. He pushed away all the objections and angered replies that arose within him. Instead, he murmured a soft, inescapable truth.
"Then I've failed him."
Elrond spoke now. "You've done all that you could," he said. "You and Galadriel raised him well. He must make his own choices now."
"I know that," said Celeborn, and he stared at the wall opposite him, and he tried to recall the sound of his son's voice, but could only recall shrill accusations.
"Come," he heard Celebrían say. "He's right. Enough speculation. Arwen must be wondering where I've disappeared to."
Celeborn managed to smile. "All right." He watched Celebrían reach for her husband's hand as the two left the study. Celeborn followed them, but he lagged behind. Sometimes he would stop to stare out windows or run his hand across railings, marveling, for every corridor seemed now gray and lightless, as if he were viewing it through smoke or a deep water, and for the first time in a hundred years, he fancied himself in a damp, cold, underground place, barred doors spread out endlessly in both directions. And he raced up to one, and clutched a warm hand, but when he looked up, she wasn't there. It was already too late. He had made sure of that long ago.
She was curled up in a chair in the corner of his new council room, holding a cup of steaming tea in her hands and watching him pace back and forth behind his desk out the corner of her eye. She didn't want him to know that she was watching him, but she plainly was. It vaguely annoyed him.
"You never told me that Master Elrond was such a handsome man," she noted, smiling slyly.
Findur stopped, looking at her with amused eyes. "Handsome? Maybe, if you can get his nose out of his papers. He's quite the loremaster; you'd never guess him such an accomplished warrior." He shrugged. "Celebrían seemed to like him well enough. But you're changing the subject."
Liniel gave him a knowing look. "If you'd stay on one subject, perhaps I wouldn't have to change it. Sit down at the least. You're making me dizzy."
"Whatever you like," he replied, a little tersely, taking a seat behind the massive desk that took up the greater part of the room. It was covered with sketches and paperwork now, but underneath were boards of palest holly. It was not an easy wood to carve, but the craftsmen of Eregion were skilled, and Findur was particularly pleased with the result. He had little time to admire it, however, before Liniel replied.
"Please, don't make yourself angry," she said. "You'll become perfectly insufferable."
"I'm not angry. I'm just more interested in what Elrond said, not what maddeningly unspeakable thoughts you had about him."
"Maddening, murderous thoughts, do you mean? No, I only have those about you, dear."
He tried to smile at her witticism but failed. Instead, the impact of the news she had brought back returned to the forefront of his thouhts. "I can't believe he refused me," he murmured. "I have been nothing but patient and gracious and generous, and yet I receive only hostility! And for what reason, I ask you? Are we not elves, his own kindred? It's madness. After we've taken in the people of Greenwood... revived trade between Khazad-dûm and Eriador... is this how he repays us?"
"It might reassure him to know the identity of the man he's dealing with," Liniel noted dryly.
"No," said Findur. "Not yet. In a little while, maybe, but not yet."
"You're not ready?"
His head snapped up, and he glared at her. "Of course I'm ready! But these things have to be timed; I can't simply arrive in Imladris and tell them everything at once!"
Liniel frowned. "You seem to be keeping a great number of secrets for the ruler of a great Elven kingdom. You still haven't told me what you've been doing on your little trips."
"I did tell you," he replied, sorting the piles of papers on his desk as he spoke. "I've been meeting with the Númenoreans."
Liniel snorted. "Númenoreans indeed. Idiot Gondorians is in my mind a better title. But if you insist. I understand that we need them. If they insist on proceeding in their little colonization projects, we might as well go along with it. But what have you spent so much time discussing with Dolgubêl and his crowd? They don't even like elves." A grudging emendation: "Oh, yes, you've built up your facade as the almighty heir of the Dark Lord... aiding him in creating a stronghold in the north that Sauron might man upon his return... the words of friendship, the exchange of goods... but surely he knows that such an alliance can hardly last."
"It will last as long as it has to," he replied, and waited for an angry response.
But he received none. "Of course," Liniel said softly. "But we'll get all we need from them, and they'll dwindle out as they would have otherwise..." She shook her head, smiled. "How we talk! It's all we seem to do nowadays, isn't it? Laws and dictates and endless speech. And you always worrying." She stood and went to his side, resting her hands upon his shoulders. "You've been wonderful. You've accomplished so much, done such things for so many. This business with Imladris will resolve itself too."
"I know," said Findur. After a moment, he added, "I'm going to see Dolgubêl again a few days from now. You can come if you'd like."
"I'd rather not," she replied with an air of distaste. "Do you have to leave so soon?"
Findur did not reply. His work sorted now, he drew up the first sheet, the beginning of plans for the separation of land amongst the most recent newcomers from Greenwood.
"I see," said Liniel tersely.
"I do not mean to be cold," he said, not looking up. "But I do have work to do."
He heard her softly sigh—not angrily, but with a kind of wistfulness. She bent down and pressed her lips against his forehead. "Goodnight, Findur."
Findur vaguely smiled and nodded, shuffling through his papers. Agricultural reports... the precursors of further trade agreements with Khazad-dûm... settlement registrations...
He stopped suddenly, staring at this last parchment. "Liniel, wait! You'll never believe—" But when he looked up, he saw that she had already gone. His glance returned to the words before him. Written neatly in the list of recent settlers was the name Arandulë.
When he had finished his duties for that night, and had looked in on Liniel to find her asleep, Findur set out for the newest settlement on the eastern border of the city.
As he went, he looked upon the streets of Ost-in-Edhil with a certain pride and wonder. After thousands of years, little more than stone foundations had remained of the ancient city. What had been rebuilt thus far was admittedly a small portion of the city's original grandeur, but it was growing all the time, and always beautiful. The houses and shops were as white as Tirion and carven as finely as the halls of Menegroth, yet it did not lack in vitality. From the swift flow of Sirranon came the faint sound of running water, and golden lamps lit the silent, darkened streets, and everywhere were the dark, broad hollies for which Eregion had been named.
Yet these wide streets were not the only world to be found within Eregion. Here, in the city proper, dwelt the people of Thranduil's halls, those who preferred the comfort and community of such a setting. Also come were the smiths: hewers of stone and shapers of steel, carpenters and jewelers and blacksmiths who had found in Ost-in-Edhil the opportunity to fully practice their trades. But if he walked a little further, following the road to where the trees grew thick, he entered the second world that was Eregion.
Here, the stars shone brightly, though twilight had just fallen, and amongst the scattered trees were small cottages, their boards fresh and often uncaulked. The world was still awake here. Friends gathered in the warm night, sitting upon porches or in the tall grass beneath the stars. Children orbited about their parents in giddy circles, never tiring at their games. Somewhere off in the meadows to the north, Findur could see a flickering red glow and hear faintest singing.
As Findur came into the circle of lamplight that illuminated the houses, eyes followed him. He heard whispers: "Is it him?" "Why, it must be!" "Look how nobly he goes. And how his eyes shine!" It was a rather heady experience, listening to their murmurs wash over him as he passed. And when he met their eyes, they smiled, and some bowed.
It was easy to find Arandulë's house, in spite of the unfortunate habit of the settlers to cite specific trees as land boundaries in the official documents (he really must do something about that). Hers was the only one in a half-mile radius that was already caulked, for it was not yet midsummer and only the most fastidious housekeeper would bother. After spending a few moments looking over the beginnings of a rather patchwork garden, Findur rapped sharply on the door.
He heard footsteps within. "One moment," a familiar voice called. "Who is it, anyway? I was sleeping."
The door latch was unfastened, and Arandulë's head peeked out through the doorway. Upon seeing Findur, her eyes went very wide. She did not say anything for a moment.
"I'm sorry to have woken you," said Findur with a vague smile.
"Oh!" Arandulë shook her head very rapidly. "No, no,"she said in a soft, breathless voice. "Oh, I, I'm just so startled to see you! Some said that you... but I never imagined... I hardly hoped..." Her voice dropped to a tremulous low, and she reddened. "But such a hostess I am," she cried, swinging the door open and ushering him past. "Come in, come in."
Arandulë's house was small but tidy, and the walls and roof were snug. He looked over the sparse, well-crafted furniture, the extraordinarily clean fireplace, the farther room where bed, washstand, and trunk were arranged in simple austerity. Arandulë sat him at a table and began rummaging through a nearby cabinet. "Would you like something to eat?"
"No, thank you, I've—"
"I have some fruit, apples and pears from the orchards—there's some freshly baked bread—"
"Arandulë," Findur managed to interject. "Thank you. I've just eaten a few hours ago."
Arandulë poked her head out of the cabinet. "Oh," she said in slow realization. "Well. All right." She rose and took a place across from Findur. "You must forgive me. I'm very glad to see you. Liniel always said that you had wonderful potential and it's all come true. You've done so much for us."
"She said that?"
She nodded. "Always. And then you both left... and no one knew for certain what had become of you..." Her voice faded, and Findur thought it best to change the subject.
"This house," he said. "It's very well made. Did you build it?"
"With some help," she with a laugh. "I came with a party from the east of the Woods. They passed by on their way across the Mountains. We thought it easiest to build the new houses together."
"It couldn't have been easy. You know, in the future, I think I'd like to begin the development of these areas myself. The newcomers could have houses already built for them."
"That would be nice," Arandulë conceded. She paused and looked down at her clasped hands, resting before her on the table. With a jolt, Findur saw that she wore a slim gold band upon her right index finger.
"Arandulë," he began in wonder, "When—"
But Arandulë spoke then, looking up with her shy gray eyes."Ai, Morfindel, when I said that you had done great things for us—I did not give the matter justice! For everything was so bleak."
"I'm sorry," said Findur. But in his secret thoughts, he was perplexed, as he had been for much of the past years. The people of the Wood had been kingless before, though long ago. What horror could they find now in their simple pastoral lives that might drive them to leave their beloved wood?
He was not so interested in the answer. It was enough that some came, was it not?
"Something has changed," Arandulë went on, as if responding to his silent question. "I can't explain it. Even the ones who did not watch Thranduil fall apart as he did felt it. For we watched Greenwood fall apart just the same. Greater and greater we had become in those last days. You remember—the prosperity. The trade. The palace; remember that one time I came to visit you and Liniel? I had been there once before, with my parents long ago, but this time I could scarcely believe my eyes. I'd never seen such beautiful halls. To watch that die... and the prince go half-mad to the point of insurrection... it was unthinkable. Lórimir, and then Selmë and Ithreth and Thranduil and then you, we thought." Then Arandulë looked at Findur, and her solemn expression was replaced by a look of pure joy. "But don't you see! You have given us Eregion. Our Eregion, not the proud Noldor's, but ours, The Silvan people's. We are the Eldar now, the people of the stars—wherefore do the people of Valinor deserve that name!" Her eyes flashed; she was more animated than he had ever seen her. "We are the lords of Middle-earth now, Morfindel. It is as it should have been!"
"Other things have come to you, it seems," said Findur, smiling upon her golden ring. "Who is he?"
Arandulë sharply drew her hand away. Her eyes were cold. "I told you I came with elves from the halls," she said. "I came alone."
Findur recalled a gentle-faced young man, a painting of a bloodstained beach.
"He would not come," said Arandulë. "We're dying here, Halion, I said, but he would not leave. Nothing can become of us here, I said. He is like all the others, who hope for nothing, who would dwindle and be forgotten. So many of them. But here, we are strong. Though we are few, we are greater than all of them."
And Findur felt his glory rushing away like sand beneath the tide.
"He won't change his mind?" he asked. "Surely he loves you."
"He loves Greenwood more," came Arandulë's faint reply. She sighed, shrugging. Her hair glowed almost blue in the starlit dusk, but her face was red with candlelight. "You'll tell Liniel that I'm here, won't you? To come and see me?"
"Of course. She'll be glad to hear it."
"Well, then." By unspoken agreement, they both stood. "I will not keep you any longer from your work," she said.
"No I you from your sleep," he said with a smile.
Arandulë laughed. "Farewell then, Master Naurhir."
Findur closed his eyes then, though he knew not why. "Call me Morfindel," he said. And he turned and left the little house, closing the door tightly behind him.
Far in the north of Eriador, beneath the shadow of the Grey Mountains, there was another settlement.
Unlike Ost-in-Edhil, it did not seem to have much promise of becoming a great empire. The small colony was disorganized and unimpressive. Its villages were scarce, and the majority of its inhabitants were simple peasants, their lives little changed by an upstart lord's decision to call them his people. Its largest city was well fortified but unlovely, an incoherent maze of great stone armaments and patchwork fields. In the center, as if to establish some degree of respectability amidst the chaos, stood a proud but wholly out of place stone tower, tall and white, looking down upon the city with a certain paternal regard.
It was this tower that Findur now approached, giving furtive glances at the landscape about him as he went. It was, he reminded himself, better than the last time that he had visited the settlement. True, the Gondorians—or Nümenoreans, as they now insisted on being called—ere not so concerned with aesthetics, but their economic and military strength were not lacking, even after such a short time in their new home.
He stopped some way from the tower, descending from his horse, a magnificent silver stallion that had been gifted by Dolgubêl like most of Eregion's steeds. He turned and nodded to his companions, catching Arandulë's eye in particular. Having little work to do in this prosperous season, she had begged him for some way that she might service him. He had finally acquiesced, allowing her to be one of the party to the settlement. He knew that he could trust her, and now he watched with amusement at her wonder and confusion at her surroundings.
As they dismounted, the two steel-clad guards who had been silently flanking them since their arrival became suddenly animated. "Come with me," said one. "I will lead you to the stable." When they had gone, taking Findur's horse with them, the other stepped forward. "I am Maedír. I will bring you to Lord Dolgubêl."
Findur gave him a strange look. "Maedír. But that's Sindarin."
Maedír shrugged sheepishly. He was a young man, and as he led Findur towards the tower, Findur saw that his manner was not so sternly unemotional as guards were wont to be. "I am Arnorian. I know that some of us have a reputation for disliking your people, but it's a foolish tradition. Lord Dolgubêl tells us that we must cooperate with your people to achieve greatness. We only want to be true Númenoreans—not weak and bound to serve the weak, forever underneath the shadow of Elendil. We want equality with the elves rather than mindlessly revering them as the so-called 'Faithful' have. And Dolgubêl says that you can help us do that." Maedír led him up the steps and into the tower, shrugging again. "And it's not as if I can change my name."
Things were different in Angmar. That, at least, was clear.
Findur found himself being escorted up a winding staircase. A narrow corridor followed, terminating with a wide door of dark wood. Maedír halted at the top of the stairs, ushering Findur past him.
"Lord Dolgubêl waits," he said solemnly.
Findur nodded, proceeding down the corridor. Behind him, he heard Maedír descend the stairs, presumably to allow his conversation with Dolgubêl to take place in complete privacy. Meanwhile, he heard the click of a key and saw a line of light between the door and its frame grow as it creaked open. And so Dolgubêl made his appearance, clutching the doorknob and wincing in the glare of the light that streamed over his shoulders with an expression that fell somewhere between admiration and dislike. In the light, Findur saw that the Gondorian noble had aged since he had last seen him. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his skin had a certain thin, worn quality that seemed to prefigure the distress it would face in old age.
"Hello, Naurhir," he said, as if greeting an old friend. "Come in, won't you?" He turned before Findur could answer and led him into the little room that Findur presumed was some kind of office or study. Its unfinished walls were crowded with shelves and books and maps and piles of opened letters, and the narrow windows gave a poor view of the rest of the settlement. But there was light, and a threadbare tapestry that lent its rosy hues to the room, and a small round table in the center at which Dolgubêl now sat, nodding for Findur to do likewise.
"I hope the journey was not too difficult?" he asked in a disinterested voice.
Age had done other things to Dolgubêl, Findur observed as he took a seat across from the lord of Angmar—it had softened him, weakened his resolve. How few years it had been since the proud Gondorian had detested elves, hesitating even at Findur's friendship when he had learned that the Heir of Sauron, the nebulous redeemer of all good Númenoreans, was but an elf himself! If Maedír had not demonstrated the shift in ideologies, surely Dolgubêl himself was proof of the change. But two can play this game of compromise, thought Findur. In the end, mortal, it is you who must lose.
"It was fine, thank you," he replied. "You have done well since I last saw you. This building was not here when I last came to Angmar."
Angmar... the name had been Curuan's idea. Quite a joke, to name this rabble-hole something as ostentatious as "Iron-fortress". But Dolgubêl seemed to like it well enough.
"We've done adequately," Dolgubêl replied. "I see that your advice was not wholly in vain. We have forged ties with the subversives in Arnor as you suggested. Not all of them are Dúnedain, you know. There are rustics, hill-men, in the north and east. The guard who escorted you was one of such. And others are yielding to us." The old man smiled at his victories. "Jealousy abounds in the royal court, and ambition. The heir apparent's own cousin is ours—"
What tiring jabber! Findur was always astonished at Dolgubêl's fascination with the intricacies of his own politics. "It does not matter," he interrupted loudly.
Dolgubêl stopped, looking up with strange eyes. "What do you mean? Of course it—"
"I think," Findur went on, "that I've spent long enough listening to your intrigues. I did not come here to listen to you babble. You've been raiding. Tell me why."
The lord of Angmar looked annoyed. "This is my kingdom," he said with dignity. "The movement of my troops—"
"This is not about you, Dolgubêl!" cried Findur. "Don't you understand? It was I who installed you here, not out of any deep-seated concern for your wellbeing, but in order to further your service to the Dark Lord. You are not here to become prosperous, or powerful, and indeed, you are neither of these things. What, do you think your victories over Arnor great? That kingdom has been collapsing for centuries; you have only accelerated the process." His own words startled and amused him; was he trying to prevent bloodshed or actually further the so-called purposes of Sauron? Dolgubêl certainly believed the latter. "It was I," he went on, "who supplied you with arms—"
"For no small amount of goods in return," muttered Dolgubêl testily.
"—and now you raid Arnor aimlessly, as if this were your war to fight? Do you really have so little faith in my commands?"
Dolgubêl shook his head miserably. "Of course not, Naurhir. But we were in need of supplies—"
"Then you might have asked Eregion for aid! We are yet small, but with the assistance you gave us at the onset, we have become prosperous. We do not begrudge you help in return."
"Of course." Dolgubêl did not quite look Findur in the eye, and he was reminded that, no matter how subservient the mortal lord appeared to be, he could never trust him completely. There was a reason he had, unknown to Dolgubêl, scattered companies around the settlement to watch his ally's movements. Still, he was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something to the lie he had fed Angmar. Instead of allowing Dolgubêl's people to dwindle now that their usefulness as moneylenders was over, why not actually sustain this farfetched little colony? If Arnor indeed fell of its own accord, why not have an obedient Angmar in its place?
"Now, Findur said slowly, smiling at Dolgubêl, "What provisions do you need? I'm sure I can help you."
Northern Eregion looked strange in the early morning light: a bit ghastly, really. The meadows swayed ghostlike in the wind, each individual stalk silhouetted against a pale sky. Everything seemed honed down to the sum of its parts, mere configurations of shapes and hues in a three-dimensional space. Even the birdsong seemed to have a dull, mechanical air.
Some hours passed, and they arrived in Ost-in-Edhil. Their travel had been unbroken since the previous morning, and it was a reassuring sight to Findur's weary eyes. A guard hailed him from the rebuilt section of the walls, and gates swung open to permit his entrance. Findur dismounted, and a servant led his horses to the stables with the others. The streets were silent, the city yet asleep. Curuan too would be resting. No need to wake him. The reports could wait. He was tired but fully alert after the night's ride. Some time at the forge would do him well.
"If anyone needs me, I'll be in my shop," he told Arandulë.
Arandulë, who had been softly coaxing her stubborn horse to follow the others, looked up. "At this hour? I, for one, am going home and sleeping through the day. Or I may work on my sewing, I'm so behind... Unless you need me, of course," she added quickly.
"No. Go home and rest. Just give the message to one of the guards."
"Yes, my lord." Arandulë had taken to using the title occasionally, and he could hardly object, for it was a valid usage. "Good day, Morfindel."
They parted, and Findur made his way through the wide empty thoroughfares of the ever-growing city. Finally he came to the forge, a large building of white stone that stood apart from the rest.
He had given little thought to what he would do when he arrived, but as he walked inside and saw the rows of benches and ovens and shelves and storehouses of metal and coal, and, in the middle of the far wall, the forge itself, anvils before it, he knew immediately.
He worked swiftly but carefully, heeding little but the intricacies of metalworking: hit just so, bend thus, wait for this long. With each pound of his hammer, sparks flew, and the yellow slab of gold began to shape itself into a thick gold band. From there it took on finest etchings, convex diamonds between two outer bands, and in their centers shone many-pointed stars. When these were complete, heat was again applied, and the whole was bent into a circlet.
When he had finished, he gingerly drew up the circlet with a pair of tongs, placing it upon a nearby table to cool. Then he took a seat nearby, stretching his tired limbs and looking upon the object of his labors with pleasure.
He had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard Liniel outside—he could recognize the sound of her footfalls against the unpaved road. A moment later, she burst into the room.
"You might have told me that you had arrived," she began when she was but halfway through the door. "Arandulë woke me up, asking if I had any spare embroidery needles. Embroidery needles, at five o'clock in the morning, and no notice on my husband's whereabouts, only to find that he's off working on his ridiculous proj— Ai!" For in her ranting Liniel had strayed towards the table where the circlet lay, and had tried to pick up the yet searing metal before he could warn her against it.
"Are you all right?" he asked hurriedly, glancing towards the pitcher of water he kept at hand in case of such emergencies and wondered if the moment warranted it.
"It's nothing," said Liniel, inspecting the burnt skin. "It hasn't even blistered. I may not have your calluses, but I'm not the weak article that you take me for."
"I didn't—" He shook his head, turning away. There was no point to arguing with her when she was in this sort of temper. "Come here. Let me at least look at it."
"What for? Have you become a healer now as well?"
Findur gave her a critical look. He stood and went to her side. Liniel grudgingly allowed him to inspect the burnt fingers. "You might have warned me," she grumbled.
"I didn't expect you to pick it up. You know better than that."
"Excuse me for being absentminded," Liniel replied sharply, pulling her hands away. A few moments later, she added, "Will you stop that?"
Findur had been fiddling with a half-finished candlestick that one of the smiths must have begun in his absence. He placed it on a nearby table. It promptly rolled to one side and fell to the ground with a clank.
"Sorry," he apologized emptily.
But Liniel wasn't listening. "I told you not to follow me," she said in a low voice. It was only after a moment that he realized her words directed themselves not to him, but instead to the hunched figure in the doorway.
Curuan straightened up as much as he could, stepping forward into the room. "Come, Liniel, I'm only here to check on your progress. I was afraid you might forestall the conversation. Wouldn't want to cause a dispute, would we?" His eyes shifted to gauge Findur's response. "And I was right. He doesn't know."
"What are you talking about?" Findur demanded.
But Curuan ignored him, going to the table and taking up the now-cool circlet in his hands. "So this is your newest project? It's very good craftsmanship."
Findur snatched the circlet from Curuan's feeble grasp. "Forestalling, you say? If whatever you must talk to me about is so important, then tell it to me!" He turned to see Liniel regarding Curuan with a strange look. "Stop staring at him!" he cried without thinking.
Liniel blinked. "What are you—I wasn't—"
"Why were you speaking with him to begin with? You said you were with Arandulë. There were to be no more secrets, Liniel; that was our agreement—"
"Agreement? It's all contracts to you now, Findur, isn't it?" She shook her head in disbelief, turning to Curuan. "You tell him. He won't listen to me."
"Findur," Curuan instructed slowly and not without humor, "sit down and let us discuss matters of state as thoughtful adults rather than the intractable infants that we are showing ourselves to be."
Findur didn't answer. As he took a seat beside the anvil, he placed the circlet experimentally upon his head. It fit admirably, just as he had intended. Curuan seated himself upon a nearby stool, but Liniel stood, crossing her arms before her and regarding the whole scene with rather hostile eyes.
"What Liniel neglected to mention, and the source of this absurd argument, is the appearance of a quite singular envoy at our border only a few days ago."
"Oh?"
"Imladris has sent word. They request an audience with you."
"I see," Findur said, though his mind was spinning. "Well... then... Let word be sent in the affirmative, and preparations to be made for their company's arrival. I shall show Imladris my good favor, and hope for theirs in return."
"Oh, Findur, don't be a fool." It was Liniel who spoke. She stepped forward and knelt down before him, running her fingers across his circlet and smoothing the dark locks of hair beneath. At her touch, Findur felt his entire body relax. But the words that followed produced exactly the opposite effect. "Elrond isn't volunteering to come here. He wants you to go to Imladris."
"Only a few months ago," said Curuan, "the thought held a certain distaste, did it not? If you are not ready—"
"I am ready." He said it, and it was so. He found himself rising from his chair. "What, do you think that I can negotiate with the likes of Dolgubêl and shirk when my own brother-in-law summons me for speech?"
"Findur," said Liniel warningly. "Don't put yourself in uncomfortable situations. There's no need for it. If you don't want to go—"
"I can go."
"So he says," Curuan muttered. "We'll see if he feels the same when he sees the look in his father's eyes."
"Don't call him that!" cried Findur, giving Curuan a furious glare. "This is not your decision. I am the lord of Eregion, and I will negotiate as I see fit. I will not be a puppet, Curuan, and I will not yield to your endless wailing. An infant, you call me? You are the child, helpless and weak, always harrying and bleating and calling the noise a skilled tongue."
And he thought he saw something akin to fear in the old man's face, and was glad.
But Curuan quickly regained whatever composure he had lost. "You have learned from me well, Lord Naurhir," he said, and he smiled, and then left.
Findur was left standing in the center of the room, staring at the door as it swung on its hinges.
"You believe me, don't you?" he asked Liniel, who was yet sitting before him.
"Go home and go to bed, Findur," she said, rising and clearing the tools from his workspace. "The morning's half over. If you sleep now, you'll be able to begin on your work before dinner."
He caught a glimpse of her hands as she walked past him. The skin on the burnt fingers was beginning to blister.
"Your finger," he said. "You—"
"I lied?" Liniel finished critically. "You saw the burn for yourself. Blisters don't always appear right away, you know. I misjudged."
"You seem to be doing that in abundance today."
"So do you," she replied coolly. "Go to bed."
For the first time that morning, he couldn't think of any reason to argue.
