Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeframe: T.A. 265. late spring.
Rating: PG-13 for violence, themes of rape, and language.
A/N: To clarify... we begin, here, some minutes before the point at which the previous chapter ended. There was a gap of some days between the first scene of chapter 15 and the scenes after.

Shadow Child
Chapter XVII: Fields of Gold

When Naurhir Findur strapped his sword to his side the morning he departed from Ost-in-Edhil, he had hardly expected to use it.

He had not even intended to bring the weapon. What need could he possibly have for such a device in the house of Elrond? Only at the last moment had he seized it, allured by fantastic notions of riding down into the valley of Imladris in sunlight, arrayed with a fine sword. Foolish vanity, of course, but it had seemed quite sensible at the time.

So many things had seemed sensible then.

He was certain, in later days, that he should have known, should have suspected something. And perhaps he had, just as Curuan had laid his hand on his knife hilt and known, as if the future were not the result of choice but a thing inevitable, wrought not by material hands, but by the cold humor of fate.

The expression on Arandulë's narrow, anxious face had told him that something, at least, was amiss. Mere minutes after he had entered the city, she approached him. She joined him midstride as he walked down the main thoroughfare, matching his long gait with surprising ease.

"I think you should go and see Liniel," she said without prelude. He was taken aback by her imperious tone. It was as if she were giving orders, and the only orders he had ever known Arandulë to give were those concerning the proper way to scrub floors.

"I will," Findur replied absent-mindedly. He disliked her manner, and vaguely decided that if anything was wrong, it could wait a few minutes. He was tired, and still had a saddlebag to lug home, and business to take care of.

They stopped in front of the arched doorway of the building where the captain of his guard was stationed. Findur began to enter, then saw that Arandulë was still standing beside him, looking at him imploringly.

"You should see her now, I mean," she said impatiently. What was the matter with her? There was something fierce and insistent about her voice, marked with what Findur distastefully identified as rebelliousness.

"I have been back less than five minutes," he said. "I have important matters to attend to. What is so urgent that I must drop everything and see her?"

At these words, Arandulë's expression gradually melted. She suddenly seemed very small, the yellow fabric of her dress draped over her body in a way that accentuated her sharply protruding bones, the hollows of her face and neck. Findur wondered if she ate quite often enough. He could count every one of her ribs.

"Nothing's urgent..." she said slowly, as if weighing the words in her mind. "But she has been upset, or something like it, all this week. Shutting herself inside and painting, you know how she is..."

Findur wanted to retort that, no, he did not know how she was, that in all their years of marriage he had rarely seen Liniel melancholy, and that it was certainly not, as Arandulë seemed to be insinuating, his fault if she were. However, he did not have the opportunity to reply. Almost as Arandulë had spoken, a stern-faced figure, apparently having heard his master's voice at the doorway, emerged from the stronghold. It was Calith, the captain of the guard of Ost-in-Edhil. Behind him, one of the common soldiers timidly waited. Findur saw with a start that it was Sûlómin, the same guard that Liniel had tended to after he had been wounded in Lórimir's mad protest so many years ago. He had been aware that Sûlómin had emigrated to Eregion and had taken a guard post, but it was nevertheless strange to see him again thus.

"Welcome back, Naurhir," said Calith with a rigid smile. Everything about Calith was rigid, as if he were as incapable of imprecision in his mannerisms as in his work. "It is good to see you again, lord. I trust you have had a pleasant journey?"

Sometimes Findur wholeheartedly detested Calith. It was as if all his childhood betters - Narion and Elrond and the rest - had been consolidated into one individual, not lecturing, but toadying, and toadying in such a way that it was clear that Calith had no deep-seated affection for his master. Not that Calith could ever be disloyal - absolutely unemotional was more like it. A mechanical monkey would show more enthusiasm.

Mechanical monkeys... that took him back to the day... what wonderful toys the Dwarves of Khazad-dum would export to Imladris! He used to take them apart to see how they worked...

Disconcerted by the power of the memory, he brushed it away and returned his attention to Calith. "Oh, it was adequate," he briskly replied. "But I have a matter of importance to discuss with you. Let us continue our conversation inside."

As they filed into the hold, Findur saw that Arandulë had gone.

A meeting room on the second floor provided an adequate setting for discussion. Calith took a seat at the plain rectangular table in the center of the room, while Sûlómin stood at the door, uncertain of whether to remain or go.

"Sit down, Sûloómin," said Findur with a nod, the memory of the humiliaton of being a pawn in Imladris still present in his mind.

Sûlómin smiled faintly. "Thank you, lord," he said, taking a seat across from Calith. Findur sat at the head of the table.

"Our ally in the north has been attacked," he announced calmly. We will be sending men in their defense."

Slight perplexity showed itself in Calith's otherwise placid face. "My lord? By whom have they been attacked?"

"By Arnor," said Findur. "Eldacar has declared war upon them: and so, by proxy, us." (1)

There was a very tense moment of silence, finally interrupted by Calith's brisk voice. "You will require a muster to be taken, then?" he asked, as if a war against Arnor were the most natural thing in the world.

"Make an declaration of our position, and then, yes, take a muster. Also take a separate count of skilled healers, men and women both. When that is finished, we can begin planning a defence for our northern friends, and put this great offense to a quick end. We must also send word to the Dwarves. Although they are more interested in commerce than matters of state, they too are our allies and can be counted upon to aid us in their way."

"Very good, my lord," said Calith, nodding with what looked like the beginning of a grin. Findur wondered if the man's watery disposition would not become iron in the chaos of war. What better landscape for such a strange mixture of exactitude and unfeelingness?

A little cough interrupted his reveries. Findur looked up. Sûlómin, who had always struck him as unusually burly, was looking tiny on the other end of the table, his eyes wide with the timidity of of a fawn's.

"Forgive me, Naurhir," he said quickly and softly. "But is Arnor... our enemy?"

Findur smiled softly, gazing into Sûlómin's gentle gray eyes. Of course. Those who still thought like Sûlomóin would not understand, would not see that the old ways of thinking must be cast away. He would have to make them understand. An easy task.

"Arnor has attacked our allies without reason," he said sternly. Narion, lecturing him on the proper way to temper iron, might have spoken similarly. "They have upset the stability of Middle-earth. Even if we were to go back upon on our promise of friendship, it would be foolish to watch idly as Angmar is consumed. Who would be next? We must protect them to protect ourselves."

He watched Sûlómin's eyes as he spoke. A light came into the soldier's gaze, one of comprehension.

"Of course," Sûlómin said, satisfied. "I did not see that."

"If you have any more concerns, please speak to me. I would happy to receive council, or give it."

"It will not be necessary," the guardsman said.

"Then I will be leaving." Findur rose and nodded to both Calith and Sûlómin. "Good day. Please, seek me out when the muster is complete. I shall be in my study."

Pleased with his performance, he exited the room, made his way down the stairs in something of a run, and went to find Curuan.


Curuan's rooms were empty. So was Findur's study. The vacancy of the former was unastounding. The afternoon was already waning; he was sure to be out and about, doing something... but what that something was, Findur could not imagine. It was not as if the old man was very sociable. And surely he had been keeping to himself of late, considering the alteration in his condition that Sauron had effected?

He riffled through the papers on his desk to see if anything of account had happened in his absence. Nothing but a few long-winded letters from Dolgubêl. He did notice that his favorite letter-opener, silver with a garnet from the mines of Khazad-dûm - fashioned a few months after the completion of the latest trade negotiations with Durin - had a bit of dried blood on its blade. He imagined that Curuan's hand had slipped as he was using it and...

You do not need Curuan any longer. He has served our purposes. It is time for the student to surpass the teacher, do you not agree?

Findur started involuntarily, caught unaware by the sudden overpowering presence. His heart leapt. His nerves shuddered beneath his skin. He felt as if he were drowning, had always been drowning. It was horrible, exhilarating, electric. He could not remember what it had been like, to be alone.

Beneath the overwhelming physical reaction - had Sauron grown stronger since their last encounter? - he thought how sensible the words sounded.

Do not consult him. He was never anything more than an implement. You are the Heir. He need not be involved. Stay here, and we two will speak of the days ahead. Curuan will soon learn who is lord of Eregion.

"I am weary of his constant badgering," Findur said aloud, unsure of how else to reply if not with speech. "And yet—"

You do not trust my counsel?

"Of course I do," he said, exhaling deeply. What was he so afraid of? He was not so dependent on Curuan that he would mindlessly cling to the old man's guidance when presented with such a better teacher.

"Then I won't," he said aloud with an air of certainty. "Only I will return home, instead - if it is a matter indifferent to you - and rest for a few hours. It has been a long journey..."

He stopped and waited expectantly. There was no reply. He attempted to prod about with his thoughts in the same way that he might light or quench a candle. As far as he could tell, there was no one there.

"I see," he murmured unnecessarily, straightening up and leaving the room. He began to descend the stairs, then stopped when he saw Arandulë at the bottom, ready to ascend.

She looked up and saw him. "So there you are," she said. "Forgive me if I am interrupting—"

"I was about to return home and rest," he said, hurriedly descending the stairs and not looking at her.

"Good. Then you'll see—"

"Yes," he said firmly, cutting her off. "I will see her. I will also, if I am not interrupted, take a nap. I slept very poorly last night."

Reaching the bottom of the steps, he went out to the street. Arandulë trailed behind. He turned to her suddenly, and out of curiosity more than anything, asked, "Have you seen Curuan?"

Arandulë frowned. "Yes, actually, I saw him walking down the main street only a minute ago. Why do you—"

"It's of no account. I was curious." He would hate for Sauron, whenever he deemed it appropriate to return, to overhear him asking questions about the very man they had agreed to disregard. "I must go now." He looked back at her briefly. "Goodbye."

Arandulë nodded but said nothing. She did not turn to go, but leaned languidly against the white stones of the adjacent building, dark hair framing her white brow and ochre-colored cheeks, clasping her hands firmly before her and gazing after him with a look that was the marriage of deepest admiration and deepest sorrow.


He began with earnest now for the end of the street, walking quickly in anticipation of a return to the comfort of his home. Sleeping in his own bed, now that would be a relief. Surely no nightmares could plague him there. Even now, when he closed his eyes he thought he could see that garden, feel the frightened insistent pulsing of his mother's heart—he didn't know how—but he could feel it—even now, as he told her what he was—Findur I love you—

He shook his head, silencing the specter of a voice. He hated that place, the fearful oppression of eyes and arms. The dull intensity of a mother's beseeching cries seemed ridiculous beside his present euphoria. He'd never liked himself before... not the way he did now, with the knowing pride of a man who has embraced his destiny. Why had he ever tried to run? He could never have escaped it. If only he had stopped earlier... The potential to feel what he was feeling now, it had been there all the time...

Inevitability was a wondrous drug.

He came to the end of the road, where an intersecting path led to his house. He turned onto it and found himself surprised as always by the contrast between the broad white avenues and the tree-sprinkled green that lined both sides of the rocky path. This time, it was an unwelcome change, too shadow-filled and silent. And when he saw his house, wooden and winding like every house that he and Liniel had ever owned, he hated the seclusion and wished for something new, a great house like Elrond's, or Dolgubel's in Osgiliath.

He was about to turn back, perhaps to take refuge in his study, when he saw that the front door of his house was ajar.

His first thought was that Arandulë had gone to check on Liniel herself, taking back ways so as not to annoy Findur with her repeated presence. But Arandulë closed doors behind her.

He strode forward and placed a hand on the doorknob, and immediately he felt a spasm of inexplicable horror run through his body, causing him to visibly shudder.

At the same time, a voice sliced through him like a ribbon of fire.

What are you doing here, Findur?

Unnerved, Findur looked around, though he knew there was no one to see. Sauron's presence seemed stronger than ever, and he could not block him out. Did not want to.

"I thought I might rest," he said.

There is no time for rest. We agreed to speak in your study. It would be best if you returned there.

Findur stiffened, but he did not move. He felt the shadow of the trees looming over him. The sense of horror still oscillated within him, hovering about his heart. If he were startled again, he might actually jump.

"I cannot work without rest," he said. "I am not as strong as you would like me to be."

You are afraid. The voice, though silent, was quick and harsh against his own static mind. You are still afraid of what you are. A coward, too afraid to step forward and claim what the Accursed Light has abandoned. You need not be afraid, not when I am with you. Fire and Shadow are stronger than starlight...

Imladris burning. He almost desired it.

"I'll go!" he cried. "In a moment... I'm hungry..."

Knowing instinctively that Sauron would not be pleased, and without understanding why he did it, Findur stepped through the open doorway. As he did, Sauron's presence was joined by another sound, the sound of breathing.

No, said Sauron. There is no time.

Two were breathing: male and female, he thought. It was a sound filled with fear and hatred and desperation and cruelty and desire, carrying through all the rooms of the house.

Breathing... burning... Imladris burning... or was that the world? The recklessness of desire. Impulsive commands. Glowing faces around him. Naurhir, murderer of that which is. An end to pain indeed. Euphoria of blood.

He heard his own breathing, the rapid beating of his heart, and felt the fire running through his veins, burning at his very core.

He heard his own breathing, and matched it to hers, and knew the voice that carried it, and was afraid.

Fear matched fear—breath entwined with breath—what would happen if that breath ceased? How could this vessel go on?

The trinity was polarized. Her and you. Us and him.

He knew he could not live without her.

He knew why his mother had saved him.

Before he realized what he doing, he was running down the hall as fast as his feet could carry him, stretching his hand before him. The hallway blurred around him. As soon as he came to the far door, he threw it open, bursting into the bedroom.

The curtains of the room were drawn, leaving it full of shadows. Sauron's distant imploring ostinato - you do not understand; this was not my doing - still drummed through his mind, distracting him. Nevertheless, it did not take much effort to assess the situation.

Curuan had pinned Liniel against the wall, the weight of his body pressed against her, keeping her in place. His nails gripped the bare skin of her right shoulder, the fabric of her dress torn, hanging loosely about her upper torso. Both figures were frozen like statues.

But why did she not struggle? Even now, Liniel only glanced briefly and desperately at Findur, soon returning her gaze to Curuan's bright and furious eyes. They burned as they watched her, in a way that was perhaps more irresistible than his firm grip.

Findur did not speak. He could not. He thought that he might be sick. Brief snatches of thought flitted through his mind: it was his own fault. A monster. Both of them monsters. If he, if he dared...

Even as he stared in revulsion, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He drew the shining blade.

Slowly, Curuan's head turned towards him, eyes glinting. He looked monstrous in the dimming light of afternoon, his appearance an unnatural configuration of youth and age, some artist's infernal masterpiece. He was breathing almost as rapidly as Liniel, his face flushed with excitement. There was no fear in his eyes as he glanced at Findur's weapon. Instead, he smiled, and turned in such a way so that Findur could see his right hand. He was holding a blade of his own, slim and silver and pressed against the cavity of Liniel's throat.

Findur's jaw went slack, then tensed with fear. He felt himself step forward—the sword was quivering; he couldn't keep a steady grip on it—he readied himself to make a sudden move—

He saw Curuan press the knife more firmly against his wife's throat.

"Come closer," the old man breathed, a strange lilt to his voice, "and I will slit her throat. I will kill her, and you will have murdered her." Another smile, just as ghastly. "What, son of Sauron, are you surprised? Do you think I would let you—" He trailed off, shook his head. "She's mine," he murmured after a time. He dug his nails deeper into her skin. "I will have her. How... how can you ask me..."

Findur had the distinct feeling that he was not the only audience to Curuan's pleas.

"I... don't believe you," he said slowly. "You... you loved her. How can you think of hurting her?" He wished that Curuan would loosen his grip, that Liniel would speak from beneath that gaze.

Curuan closed his eyes for a moment. Findur thought that he had reached him, but the caustic tone of the man's voice put the thought out of his head.

"This... has nothing to do with... love." The eyes opened, and Findur found himself the subject of a scathing glare. "I want her. She's mine, and I will have her. Utilitarianism, Findur. Now get out of the way or I will kill her before your eyes."

He could do it. It would mean certain death, but he could do it. Surely it was a bluff... Findur remembered Amroth in that position... Oh, come now. I would never have harmed him. Do that, and I would be killed myself...

"You did love her once," Findur ventured. "And she loved you. You left her. What claim do you have to her heart, after abandoning her like that?"

"Silence!" roared Curuan, his face suddenly contorted with rage. With one final glare, he turned back towards Liniel. He removed his hand from her shoulder and caressed her cheek. Liniel visibly shuddered.

"I will have her," he repeated.

Findur stepped forward, sword extended. "Get away from her," he cried once more. His blade was dangerously close to Curuan's side.

Curuan did not seem to notice. He was completely intent on Liniel's pale face. He inclined towards her slowly, brushed the hair out of her eyes, as if they two were alone in the room.

He kissed her.

Findur thought he had known hatred. Now every moment of anger that he had experienced seemed a trifle compared to the consuming fury he felt now, watching Liniel struggle beneath that monster's grip, her jaw firm and straining, her eyes moist with tears.

"Damn you," he said, low and seemingly without fury, as he swung the blade.

Curuan pulled away from the kiss. He turned and caught Liniel in front of him with one arm. He had forgotten the knife now, his hand hanging limply at his side. His eyes took in the blade and his relation to it.

Findur saw fearful confusion in the old man's eyes.

He paused, startled, and hesitated. It was less than a second that he paused. Soon after, the blade plunged into Curuan's unprotected side.

But the pause was enough. Even as Findur made the desperate stroke, Curuan made one of his own. The hand clutching the knife made a sudden shuddering movement into Liniel's lower torso.

Then he collapsed with a sublime smile.

The room was suddenly very silent. Findur was standing in the center of it. He still clasped the bloody sword in his hand. He couldn't relax his grip.

He couldn't stop shaking.

Only when Liniel staggered forward, her face wan, did he have the presence of mind to sheathe the weapon. Blood was already soaking through her white gown. She grasped his shirt sleeve ineffectually, and would have fallen if he had not caught her in his arms.

He cradled her shivering body for a few moments, too stunned to react. She seemed to be in shock, eyes half-open. Her cheek was so cold against his shoulder.

Help. They needed help. He would get help.

Carefully, he swung her up into his arms. Then he started for the open door.

He looked back only once before leaving that room. His eyes automatically fell upon the corpse he was leaving behind him.

It was no longer the body of the Curuan he knew. Instead, a young man lay dead on the wooden floor. He was dark-haired and dark-browed, and his countenance was fair. But his gray eyes were empty, and his shabby clothes were drenched in a growing pool of blood.


Findur ran.

He dashed through the scattered trees, clutching Liniel to his breast. Stiller and stiller she was growing in his arms, and her breath came less frequently.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he murmured as he ran. Or sometimes, just, "Liniel, Liniel," again and again, until he grew hoarse. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling upon his cheeks for the first time since he had come to Ost-in-Edhil.

It was not until he had come to the edge of the trees, where the eastern meadowlands began, that he realized that he had been running away from the center of the town.

Somehow, it seemed like the right direction. He ran out into the meadow, and reams of gold enfolded him as if in embrace. The crimson-tipped horizon spread out before him. Not running away. Running towards... towards something, though he knew not what.

He continued to run, peering into the distance, and soon his eye settled on the omen he sought. White tents. They dotted the horizon, clustered together in a makeshift settlement that surely had not been there a week ago.

White tents loomed ahead, and Findur ran towards them, unaware of the weight of his wife's body in his arms. He ran until he was stumbling, almost crawling. The tents grew closer every second. Tears and exhaustion blurred his eyes.

He ran until he could run no more. Some several hundred yards from the settlement, he collapsed. Strong arms took him and his burden up, and Findur Naurhir fell into darkness.


1. Eldacar - king of Arnor at that time. As a sidenote, his relatively recent acension to power - at the beginning of Eregion's refounding, he'd only been on the throne for four years - could have added to the political instability of Arnor. It's a lot easier for factions to form and problems to arise during a time of transition. I'm sure there's an entire novel waiting to be written about that bit, but don't get your hopes up.