Chapter 2

Two weeks later saw them at the Crossings of Taeglin, spending a day of rest waiting for the arrival of some of the troops, who, for secrecy's sake, took slightly longer routes across Talath Dirnen. Here, in the shade of the Brethil Forest, well-hidden from the Enemy's spies by the arts of their camouflage masters under the command of the tireless Lady Glaeriel, they set up tents and laid down.

Up till now, the King had driven them all relentlessly, setting a punishing speed, especially since about the noon on the very first day of their march when he had heard the first news from the North. Young Gwindor, the second son of Lord Orodreth's Steward Guilin had come at full speed, almost crushing into the vanguard – or so the rumor said, his face streaked with sooth and sweat, his clothes charred, his horse steaming. Taken immediately before the King, who had been riding, Edrahil by his side, among his guard at the head of the main column, the poor youngster slipped from his saddle and rasped out, "Destruction, sire! The Enemy– flames and smoke across the plain– the–" He wanted to continue but a violent fit of coughing caught him and he almost doubled over.

The King dismounted, all around him following suit, and, unstoppering his own canteen, put a steadying hand on Gwindor's arm and handed him the vessel.

The youngster drank greedily and repeated in a firmer voice, "My Lord King, the Enemy has attacked our positions, sending forth rivers of flame and smoke. My lord your brother begs you make haste."

"What of the troops keeping watch on the plain?" asked the King tightly.

But Gwindor shook his head jerkily. "When I left, there was no news. We had seen the flames bursting up and my Lord Orodreth dispatched me immediately. I hurried as best I could but I see– Sire, how come you know already?" he asked bewildered as if just now taking in the surrounding troops and fully understanding their meaning.

Wishing to spare the King answering that particular question, Edrahil stepped in. "Your orders, sire?"

"We continue on and with great speed," replied the King tightly. "Please, take care of young Gwindor." And with that he mounted his horse and signaled for marching.

That night, when Edrahil retired, the King was still up and, reporting for duty early the next morning, he found him up again. Concerned, he searched the tent for signs of sleep and finding none, he wanted to ask about it. Yet before he could do so, the King send him to see to the breaking up of their camp and setting the troops for march.

This pattern continued all the following nights with the King walking the perimeters of their camp as if to personally check on their wards and talking quietly to the watchers, and apparently never retiring. Each morning Edrahil, who knew for what signs to check, found his face a bit paler and more drawn, his eyes a bit more dull, his movements more jerky.

Having every intention to force his lord to sleep this night through, he finished his inspection of the wagons and embarked on a search for the King, when an all too familiar figure caught his attention among the eating soldiers and he rushed towards it.

His men were sitting scattered around in groups of a dozen or so, burning fires and cooking a real meal instead of munching on tiny wafers of waybread supplied by Lady Emerthedis's Ivonwin[i] for the first time since their departure from the city, evidently reveling in the rest.

Finrod knew he should not begrudge them their respite, yet he chaffed at the delay, no matter how necessary for gathering his full forces, some of which took different, longer routes to keep the Enemy in the dark for as long as possible.

He suspected he needed to take whatever rest there was, but his nervous energy would not let him settle down. For him, rest would come later, once they reached their destination, once he saw his brothers. And so, for now, he took upon himself the task of bolstering the spirit of his troops. Walking between the scattered groups, Galuon and Arassamon in his wake, he kept stopping for a while to talk to his men. "Sit and rest," he kept telling each of them, forestalling their attempts to rise in greeting with a quick gesture of his hand. "I know this march was hard and I will not lie to you that when we move on, it shall be any easier. It shall be even more difficult, for we march towards the darkness. But remember, no matter what, sun, and moon, and stars shine constantly above the shadows."

He was half way through the camp when angry raised voices coming from the direction of their wagons drew his attention. Abandoning his slow walk, he moved swiftly in the direction of the suspected brawl, the sitting soldiers scattering to make way and bowing hastily. Closing in, Finrod recognized in the angry berating voice that of his own Steward, and the other one, tearful and pleading, also seemed familiar, although he could not quite place it.

"Edrahil?" Dismissing his guards, Finrod approached the scene and stopped midstride. The Steward was indeed there, his hand clenched on the shoulder of… "Laeron? Would you mind explaining what exactly is happening here?" asked Finrod with forced composure.

Both men whirled towards him. Laeron gaped in shock and fell to his knees as if his legs suddenly lost their capacity to bear him. Edrahil bowed slightly, his face grim. "Apparently, my lord, your page has decided he knows better than you where his duty lies."

Finrod closed the distance between himself and the boy and regarded him for a long while, keeping his own expression carefully neutral. "I see," he said at last, and a hint of mockery crept into his voice. "You want to be a soldier. You know, when a soldier does what you have done, it is called desertion." Here Laeron, who up till now was avoiding his gaze, looked up in absolute shock. "Yes, desertion! You have left your post without my leave, have you not? Do you know what happens to deserters, boy? They are banished. So be glad that you are not a soldier and I can deal with you as I would with a member of my household." Finrod drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and then turned his glare back to the trembling boy, who had been growing paler and paler and was now on the verge of tears, his eyes blinking rapidly and his jaw tightly clenched. "We are greatly disappointed with you," he said, his voice eerily calm after the previous outburst. "You have betrayed our trust and we cannot in good conscience allow you to continue attending on us. When we return you will serve in the kitchens in whatever capacity Master Barhador sees fit. Now go."

Tears finally spilling, Laeron opened his mouth to protest, or to beg, or to apologize all over again, but Finrod raised his hand to forestall the upcoming torrent. "Go," he repeated calmly, extending his hand to the boy, who kissed it with an ill-concealed relief.

"For long, my lord?" Edrahil asked after the boy's unsteady exit. "I seem to recall all too well an impulsive youth who longed for adventures."

"Yes, Edrahil, but the crossing served to chill his enthusiasm. I would not wish such a harsh lesson on young Laeron."

"I meant myself."

"Ditto." Finrod passed a weary hand across his face. "Come, you wanted something of me."

When a guard told him his brother's army was spotted form the walls, Orodreth felt an immense relief. The previous weeks had been hard on all of his people and reinforcements were most welcome. If the initial report was correct, Finrod was marching at the head of a great host, strong enough not only to take the burden of holding their lines off the shoulders of his own exhausted troops, but also to breach the enemy's lines and perhaps reestablish connection with Hithlum and Dorthonion, which had been broken on the very first day of fighting. Naturally, he had been sending one party of scouts after another, the last led by Gelmir, but none had returned. Up till now he could have only hoped that young Gwindor proved more successful in bearing Orodreth's plea for help to Nargothrond.

Rodyn[ii] willing, the boy had made it safely and was even now approaching the stronghold among Finrod's soldiers. That would ease Finduilas's heart greatly, but Orodreth hoped for it for his own sake as well as that of his daughter and his Steward: he had grown very fond of the youth and not only because of the obvious devotion he had for Orodreth's beloved girl.

Soon, the same guard reported that the King had separated from his army and was riding swiftly towards the stronghold, surrounded by a small party of, presumably, his household warriors. This meant they had only an hour or so before his arrival, but due to Orodreth's hope for reinforcements, most things had been prepared in advance. And so, his whole household was soon gathered in the courtyard, awaiting Finrod's arrival.

His brother entered the courtyard surrounded by a handful of mounted warriors, and with great relief Orodreth spied Gwindor among them. Grooms came to retrieve the horses, and the moment Finrod slipped off his saddle, Orodreth's entire party gave him obeisance. Curtly, he gestured for them to rise and walking to Orodreth, gripped his forearm in a warrior's clasp.

Orodreth looked into his brother's face and his chest constricted. Finrod's features were sharp with fatigue, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth surrounded by deeply-etched lines. Yet before he could make any comment, Finrod leaned in, gave him a brotherly kiss and stepped to his right.

"Lord Brother." Eregil executed a perfect curtsy, her face absolutely cold.

"Greetings, sister," replied Finrod, and then it was Finduilas's turn. After a moment of hesitation, she embraced him, apparently having decided to forgo protocol. Finrod kissed her brow in return and said, "Well met, chín nín[iii]." Then he stepped out of her arms and turned back to Orodreth. "Lord brother, of your courtesy, I would have your report."

Orodreth gaped and stuttered for a moment. "N–Now? Wouldn't… wouldn't you want to… to eat or refresh yourself first?"

"Yes, now. I can eat while you speak, and anything else can wait until I have a full grasp of our situation." Finrod turned and started to walk towards the entrance.

Thus effectively dismissed, his party started to disperse. Hurrying to obey his brother, Orodreth caught the sight of Finduilas running swiftly to where Gwindor was greeting his father, crushing into him and kissing fiercely, heedless of the many eyes on them.

NOTES

[i] S. Ivonwin Q. Yavanildi were women who knew the secret of preparing S. lembas, Q. coimas (cf. Of Lembas, PoMe).

[ii] Rodyn S. for Valar, sing. Rodon.

[iii] Chín nín is a hypothetical, i.e. constructed by me, Sindarin equivalent of the affectionate Quenya form of address tyenya, glossed "dear kinsman [or –woman, Q. pronouns are gender-neutral], (lit.) my tye [i.e. thou, 2nd sing. familiar pronoun]" (VT 49/51).