Chapter 5

After an all-day-long retreat they were now safely back in Minas Tirith, the army manning the line of defenses cutting across the valley or camping behind it, the wounded set more or less comfortably in the stronghold itself.

The morning after their arrival Fandis came round to check on him. Astoron marveled at how much she had changed both from the skittish young thing who had marched with them across the Rivil and the horrified innocent who had just taken life for the very first time. He suspected she had not yet fully come to terms with those new gruesome experiences, but one day, hopefully, she would.

Fandis started with checking his vitals and proceeded to unwrap his bandaged torso. "Correct me if I am wrong," she said suddenly, "but King Felagon[i] has given away his father's ring? Why would he do that? Wasn't it a memento, a fond reminder of the wisdom his father shared with him before they parted?"

Astoron hoped his grimace would pass as a reaction to her probing his wounds and not her words. She was a Sinda after all, and very young at that, no wonder her ideas were strange. "I do not know what they said to each other, but it probably wasn't easy on either of them. All I know is that when Prince Araf– Arfin, the King's father[ii], announced he wasn't coming, he presented his son to us as our new lord. There wasn't much ceremony, no oath taking, no speeches… He just gave the young Prince his ring and commended to him his people." He looked up into her face, not sure if she wanted to listen to his ramblings, but she smiled encouragingly and so he continued.

"Well, I wasn't happy with that. This youngster, this boy was to lead us? You see, I am much older than even Prince Arfin, closer in age to the High King. I even considered joining with him if I was to go on at all. Actually, I didn't really want to, but my wife insisted, she wanted to see the world, she wanted freedom, and I couldn't imagine living without her." He snorted and smiled sadly. "She never made it to Middle-earth."

"You might have heard," he continued after a small break. By now, she had finished her ministrations and was sitting at the edge of his cot, her head cocked, a healer's smile firmly on her face, surprise and pity in her eyes. "The crossing was harsh. Harsher than you could ever imagine, and certainly harsher than anything we prepared ourselves for. It was the King's will-power and that of the Princess his sister, who is now long gone east[iii], that kept us on, kept me on after Ráni– Ranuien died. He wouldn't leave me time to despair with all the work he loaded on me."

"Lady Annúngil says," started Fandis shyly but then broke into a perfect impression of her mistress, "that for an aching heart work is a medicine perhaps more potent than even athelas. I didn't believe her."

"Didn't?"

Suddenly embarrassed, the young healer looked away, biting her lip. "Captain, I wanted to thank you. Without your support–"

"Oh no, no, Mistress, it was all your doing. I only prompted you in the right direction. If you feel you need to thank anyone at all, that would be Sandir."

"Sandir…!" Now even more embarrassed, Fandis started to pick at one of her sleeves. "Captain, do you… know him well, sir?"

It was several days after their arrival in Minas Tirith and he was steadily growing better. No longer did he need such huge doses of herbs as to render his mind all fuzzy. Of course, no one would allow him to get out of the blasted bed, Lady Annúngil had told him so with both utmost respect and unbending steel in her voice.

And so, at his own insistence, Orodreth was giving him, seated in his bed, a report on their provisions, the current number of their casualties and his newest improvements to the fortified line of defenses across the valley. The situation was hard but stable and Orodreth hoped to hold the position for a long time with minimal reinforcements, allowing most of their forces to withdraw to Nargothrond to rest and regroup.

It was early in the afternoon and pain in his leg had been flaring up for quite some time now. Huffing in frustration, he had to admit his own weakness – the pain had reached such a level of intensity as to become too distracting.

He nodded his thanks to Orodreth, smiling apologetically. "We shall continue later. For now, I fear I need…"

Even before he could finish, Edrahil handed him a goblet of pain-relieving infusion. Accepting it, Finrod studied his Steward's face. Poor Edrahil, he had dark circles beneath his eyes. He probably hoped it had passed unnoticed but Finrod knew well that the man had spent most of the time since their arrival in Finrod's chamber. Whenever he woke, Edrahil was there, springing up at his slightest need, keeping him company when he was awake, and obviously perusing some documents, which at the moment were laying discarded upon one of the clothes chests, while Finrod was asleep. He would leave only to give Orodreth and Finduilas privacy on their visits and when the healers were coming every morning and evening to change the dressing on Finrod's leg. Finrod had long known Edrahil's dedication, but everything needed limits.

Reaching decision, he set the goblet down. "Send for Laeron. You cannot stay here all the time." Upon seeing the uncertainly on Edrahil's face, he elaborated, "Worry not, this is not a reward, I shall tell him so in no uncertain terms. And I think seeing… this"–he nodded towards his smarting leg–"might serve him well."

"You mean the kitchen boy?" asked Orodreth from his place beside the window.

"I mean my page but yes, temporarily a kitchen boy."

"I'm afraid he is dead."

Finrod's heart skipped in his chest, sending out a wave of pain. Orodreth's face swam before his eyes and he thought he might be ill. "What do you mean, dead? He cannot be dead, I have left him here!" That little fool was to stay in the safety of the stronghold. He could not be dead!

Orodreth sighed. "The night after you left, there was an attack at one of our posts. Apparently, some Orcs decided hurling themselves on an opponent at least five times as numerous was preferable to going back to their master. They must have been desperate, they killed twice as many of our men as they numbered before they were overwhelmed. Your boy was out there bringing food. Witnesses said he was shot right through the neck, the very first to die. I am sorry."

"I want to see him."

Orodreth shook his head sadly. "We buried all the dead at dawn. I am very sorry."

"Where?"

"Brother, you will find nothing there. It is done." Orodreth's face loomed near, sad and pitying, and something in Finrod snapped. How could Orodreth take it all so calmly? He drew fingernails into his palms in an attempt to hold the torrent that threatened to spill over. "Leave me," he said through clenched teeth. Shadows, which had been lurking in the corners of his mind started to encroach, making everything fuzzy again. "Edrahil, t'bed…'s an order…" he wanted to add a half-serious threat but his mouth worked so hard… so… hard…

Darkness claimed him, cold and heavy. Out of it two boys came, laughing and chasing each other. No! they were not chasing each other in a play of catch, they were fleeing in terror. From what? He could not see. But they were all churned, their golden hair turned into ashes, and suddenly, they were no longer boys, but men grown, and they turned to him, their eyes, melted, spilling down their blackened cheeks, and they stared at him accusingly with their empty red sockets. Betrayer. Cunctator. Kinslayer. They advanced on him, stretching their withered hands, and he could not move, could not fly, for he knew he was guilty. They reached him, and their brittle hands were a chilling caress down his face.

Suddenly able to command his body, Finrod thrashed in their hold but could not free himself, for they were now joined by dozens and dozens of others, blood oozing from their wounds, and they all pointed accusingly to him. Killer. There was Edhellos, to her husband's right, and Bregolas, to Aegnor's left, and Arassamon, Aeldir and Gondrenor, and so many more, of the Eldar and the Aftercomers alike, nameless to him in death as they had been in life, condemning.

Pulling and yanking, they led him towards a shallow mire where just beneath the surface rested a mass of entwined limbs and twisted torsos. From among them, a familiar puckish face was staring at him with empty eyes.

Laeron rose and advanced on him, an arrow piercing his throat, his golden skin ashen grey, and when he opened his mouth, blood trickled from it.

My Lord King, why hate me so much?

I have never hated you. I loved you dearly.

What a strange love, my Lord King, that sends its object to his death.

I only wanted you safe.

He tried to reach out in apology but Angrod's and Aegnor's burning hands restrained him, and they were not hot but ice-cold, and they were not hands but chains, a just payment for failure. Laeron yanked the arrow out of his neck, blood gushing in a fountain, and, red and slick, thrust it into Finrod's thigh, his nails, sharp as teeth, digging into flesh and sending waves of agony until Finrod screamed.

Startled, he looked about in confusion. The darkness was that of a long winter night, the restraints only his twisted, sweat-soaked sheets, the pain in his leg that of his wound.

He was alone.

He laid, panting, until his heart slowed and his constricted throat opened. Thinking he would raise a plea to Lord Irmo had he believed the Lord of Dreams might hear him out, he disentangled himself from the drenched linen and with a shaky hand reached for water. Edrahil must have slipped poppy juice into the herbs, he realized with a spike of anger, no wonder he could not have stayed conscious. No more of it. From now on he would have to deal without.

Having satisfied his thirst, Finrod chose the driest corner of his quilt to huddle under and, despite the throbbing in his leg, viciously set his mind to remembering and analyzing all the information Orodreth had given him, lonely hours slipping slowly by.

Early in the morning, Orodreth was at breakfast with Eregil and Finduilas in the solar just off the great hall, when Finrod, dressed in one of the robes he kept in the clothespresses in his suite, was literally carried down to join them – Orodreth was informed by Lady Annúngil that there had been much arguing in the King's chamber and what he saw was the resulting compromise. Finrod sat with them at the table, although he himself did not eat much, obviously ruminating on something, and, the meal finished, insisted upon Orodreth continuing his debriefing from the previous day.

They moved closer to the fireplace for that, Finrod again carried into Orodreth's ornate, stuffed chair, Orodreth himself facing his brother, with Edrahil, Guilin and Gwindor joining Eregil and Finduilas in a half-circle between them.

The sun had crossed its zenith and he had sent for a mid-day meal, when Finrod said suddenly, "When I return to Nargothrond, I shall take Eregil and Finduilas with me."

"I beg your pardon?" Eregil asked in a tone Orodreth had learned long ago boded ill for the object of her regard. Recognizing the danger, Guilin caught Edrahil's eye and indicated they should leave the royal family alone, which they did, bowing hastily, Gwindor and all the attendants in tow.

Orodreth spared them half a glance before returning his attention to his brother, who at this very moment was saying, "The war zone is no place for children."

"This has been a war zone since long before you came here," Eregil said with contempt.

"And I am no child," added Finduilas.

Finrod looked at her placatingly. "Finduilas–"

"No! I am not a child, and I am staying with Father."

My dear girl, just like her mother, he thought, even as the argument was rapidly slipping out of hand.

"I can make it an order and it applies to you both."

"You can order children or your servants, but I am neither, nor is my daughter."

"You forget yourself!" snapped Finrod.

By now, Eregil was visibly infuriated, her nostrils wide, her eyes shining wildly and she obviously spoke to hurt. "Unlike some people, I am not afraid to share my beloved's fate. If you want to take us away, you will have to do so in bonds."

"As well I might."

"Finrod, please." Orodreth yet again had to become the voice of reason. "Finduilas is not much younger than you had been when… you know," he finished a bit lamely.

But Finrod would not be reasoned. "Oh, not you too!" he cried, then took in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists several times and finally rose slowly to his feet. "My lord, my lady, we thank you for your hospitality," he said in his best regal tone, nodded to them in dismissal and gingerly, painfully limped out of the chamber, his back set determinedly, his head proudly up.

Orodreth slumped wearily. "Eregil, my love, this wasn't necessary."

"He treats you like a child. He treats all of us like children."

"He is concerned." He shook his head and sighed. "These last few weeks have been hard on him, on all of us."

Rising from her chair, Finduilas crossed the room and, perching on the armrest of his chair, wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Father…" She planted a kiss to his temple and rested her head on top of his. Soon, joined by Eregil, who encircled them both with her arms and kissed the crowns of their heads, they were both crying, mourning the deaths of their family and friends, lost irrevocably to the Enemy's hate.

Safely in the great hall, Guilin turned to Edrahil and explained, "Trust me, m'lord, you wouldn't want to be caught in that."

Edrahil nodded somberly. While he was not as familiar with Lady Eregil's moods as Guilin was, he did know the King well enough to realize that, although he rarely let his temper rule him, when unleashed, his anger was indeed spectacular. "Let us hope my Lord Orodreth will calm them down."

Both Stewards looked at each other with understanding and nodded, releasing long breaths. By silent agreement they crossed to the middle of the room but still, they could hear angry raised voices from behind the solar's door.

Then, it opened and Finrod walked out, trying and failing to hide his limp, and immediately leaned heavily against the wall.

Edrahil virtually ran to him, not checking if anybody followed suit, and when the King extended his arm towards him, he pulled it across his shoulders and took on as much of his weight as he could, his free hand firmly encircling Finrod's waist. The King's face was covered in sweat and pale from both anger and exertion, his breathing rugged and when he indicated he would move, Edrahil silently agreed it was best to let him rest in bed as soon as possible. He nodded at one of Orodreth's attendants to support the King from the other side and they began their arduous walk back to Finrod's suite.

"I shall take them in bonds if they will not come of their own will," snapped Finrod at last, when they were crossing his solar.

"My lord, the Lady Eregil is a shield-maiden of the North, please remember that. And Lady Finduilas is no more a child really," he tried to reason with the King but Finrod retorted impatiently:

"No, you do not understand. This place reeks of terror and death. They cannot stay, none of them."

By now they had helped Finrod sit down on the edge of his bed and, dismissing the servant with a quick gesture of his hand, Edrahil dropped to one knee to meet Finrod's gaze. "Is this your foresight?"

"And what else?"

Edrahil thought pure exhaustion of both body and soul was a far more probable explanation. "You need rest." He made to help the King divest himself of his robe but Finrod dismissed his attempts with a jerky wave of his arm. "And food." Another impatient shrug. Edrahil sighed. "At least allow me to see to your wounds."

Receiving no protest, he went outside to order warm water, bandages and herbs. On his way back, he stopped by the table and put together a quick repast of Finrod's favorite pastries and watered wine and brought it into the bedroom. His hands thus occupied by the tray he closed the door with his elbow and looked to Finrod.

He found him sitting dejectedly on the bed, his hands unconsciously twisting the coverlet on either side of his thighs, his muscles coiled so tightly his entire figure was shaking, his eyes closed in a futile attempt to regain control over his emotions, sucking in breath through clenched teeth but otherwise making absolutely no noise – and tears streaming down his face.

Edrahil's chest clenched in sympathy. Here was a valiant soul, wounded and heart-sore, and instead of support from those he should be able to lean on, his repay was just more ache to bear.

He could not stand it any longer and so, once more casting away all propriety, which marked them forever unequal, master and servant, he gathered Finrod into an embrace and started to draw soothing circles on his back. Still slightly surprised by his own audacity, he thought that maybe, once he came to his senses, the King would be ashamed of his vulnerability, but decided to simply let whatever shall happen, happen. Finrod had called him his otorno and for now it was all that mattered.

And so it continued for what seemed like hours, Finrod's initial denial slowly changing into anger at the immovable Powers, at his dead brothers, at the poor boy who dreamed of an adventure but most ferociously and bitterly – at himself. Edrahil soothed and calmed, consoled and reasoned, and never once withdrew his touch, rubbing, caressing, stroking, at last simply putting his arm across the slumped shoulders. At some point they had moved up on the bed for Finrod to lean against the headboard, curled slightly, with Edrahil sitting behind him, his legs folded.

The sun had already set before finally, Finrod's tears abated and he regarded Edrahil with completely empty eyes.

Still not withdrawing his hand, Edrahil said, "My lord, please, would you not at least try to rest?"

A pained crease appeared between Finrod's brows.

Recognizing a sign of refusal, Edrahil pressed on, "My lord, you must sleep. Without sleep your injuries cannot mend and–" He stopped mid-sentence. Somehow, this time, reminding Finrod just how badly he was needed by others did not seem like the right choice. "Please, my lord. I… I could sing to guide you through the Paths of Dreams…"

Finrod shook his head. "No, just… stay?"

And so he did.

Finrod woke to a thick darkness and a searing sensation in his thigh. Memory was returning slowly but… Oh yes, he must have overexerted his leg in his foolhardy attempt to walk. With every moment he was taking in more and more sensations. His eyes were dry, his throat sore. He needed a drink, preferably something for the pain but even plain water would do.

He started to raise on his elbow when he realized his left hand was intertwined with somebody else's. He strained his eyes – a figure was sitting slumped in a chair, its dark head resting next to their hands on the bed.

"Edrahil!" He brushed the slightly tangled braids out of his Steward's face. "Otornya–"

Edrahil woke, shaking his head slightly and, quickly alert, uncovered a crystal lamp on the bedside cabinet. Finrod then reached towards where next to it he expected to find a pain-relieving infusion and with Edrahil's hand steadying his, drank deeply.

"Otornya," he repeated with mild reproof, "why are you punishing your back so? I never–" He stopped midsentence with a huff. "Just come here."

Edrahil walked around the bed and eased himself gingerly on it. "I fear I am obstinate … otornya."

Late morning saw all three of them in Finrod's solar after Orodreth forced Galuon to let them through. Eregil would probably chide him later for pulling rank on this well-disciplined soldier but now all that mattered was to speak to Finrod. He knocked on the bedroom door and opening it, he was surprised by the sight of his brother still fast asleep in the bed, his Steward beside him, dark and light braids spilled across the pillows, Edrahil's hand resting protectively on Finrod's arm.

Orodreth cleared his throat loudly.

Both sleepers woke immediately and, upon seeing him, Finrod's Steward visibly blanched and nervously withdrew his hand. Honestly, did the man believe Orodreth had forgotten how everyone, from the High King to the humblest farmer, had huddled for sleep during–? He wished fervently he could.

Edrahil scrambled out of the bed – he was still completely dressed, save for shoes and robe, Orodreth noticed with mild amusement – and bowed. "My lord." Then he turned back to Finrod and bowing again, said, "My lord, may I be excused? My duties…"

Finrod nodded and slowly tried to lift himself into a sitting position. Orodreth was at his side this instant, fluffing the pillows, smoothing the coverlet and handing a goblet of water, which Finrod accepted gratefully.

"Brother," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ahem." Orodreth replaced the goblet on the cabinet. "Perhaps allow me first to see to your needs?" After taking Finrod through the morning routine – and it became obvious that his brother had impaired his healing in his foolhardy show the previous day – Orodreth bade Eregil and Finduilas enter.

Finrod blinked several times as if unsure his eyes did not deceive him.

"Lord Brother," Orodreth started, transforming his entire posture from a concerned brother to a repentant vassal. Behind his back, he sensed both women curtsying deeply, though he suspected Eregil was silently grinding her teeth. "Of your kindness, pardon our intrusion. On behalf of myself and my family, I crave your pardon for our reckless words yesterday."

"You certainly don't waste time, eh, Orodreth? We are all of us family." Here Finrod's gaze swept across the faces of Eregil and Finduilas, and he smiled warmly. "I need to ask your forgiveness as well. We should not argue. Come, sit with me."

When Edrahil returned to Finrod's chambers early in the afternoon to report on the state of the wounded, he was informed by Galuon that the King's family was still inside. Having been granted special permission, he nevertheless entered.

"Do you– do you remember that time when Aegnor took Aredhel and Galadriel to watch fishermen unload their catch and somehow they all fell into a hold full of fish?" said Orodreth. "Oh, the look of them, with slime and seaweeds all over their hair!"

"Oh! Oh, and what about the time when Angrod wanted to impress Edhellos so he said he could hit the target with his eyes closed?"

"And did he?" asked Finduilas, who was sitting curled into her uncle's side.

"Oh yes, chín nín, he did," replied Finrod gravely.

"Only for your aunt to do exactly the same, only she hit the bull's eye!" added Orodreth. "Then they had those incessant competitions. Learned to shoot extremely well," his voice lost its amused tone, "which actually came in handy later."

"And availed them nothing in the end." Finrod lowered his eyes to his lap and raising them again, spotted Edrahil. "Come in, my friend. Surely you too have some amusing tales about my brothers."

"You mean like the time back at the Lake, when Lord Aegnor offered my Lady Eregil the hospitality of his bed instead of his bathhouse?[iv]"

"Poor Aegnor," the Princess managed between bouts of laughter, "he couldn't meet my eyes the entire time of the trade negotiations."

Soon, Edrahil was sitting with them all, his report forgotten for a time, trading one story after another, some frivolous, some more serious, all full of warmth and love. They all laughed merrily and if their laughter seemed a bit rough round the edges and their smiles a bit teary, no-one would blame them.

Fandis was riding on one of the wagons which carried supplies for the wounded, singing softly and joyfully.

Spring would soon return to Beleriand, she could feel its approach with every breath of the sweet, clean air. Yes, war was still raging in the North, but for now they were heading South, back towards home. A reward was waiting there for her, and knowing the King's generosity, she could expect something wonderful. But, she thought, her best reward was being alive, feeling the warm sun on her face, reveling in the newly discovered tinges of excitement at the thought of Sandir's slim figure and handsome face.

Her abilities had returned over the previous weeks, though she had to concentrate much more to use them. Lady Annúngil had told her it would always be so but Fandis decided if such was the price of testing her worth and becoming a full-fledged combat healer, she could accept to pay it. True, her nights were still tormented by memories of darkness, and blood, and smoke, but in the bright light of the sun her thoughts ran off to all the good things she expected future to bring her and so, she sang for the joy of it.

NOTES

[i] Finrod's epessë, the khuzdul-derived Felagund was often by others Eldarized into Felagon, as if it had the same ending (*-kano) as in Fingon, Turgon; and the first element was associated with Sindarin fael 'fair-minded, just, generous', Quenya faila (? from v phaya 'spirit', adjectival formation meaning 'having a good fëa, or a dominant fëa'). (The Shibboleth of Fëanor, PoMe).

[ii] Finarfin's preferred name, Q. Arafinwë, renders a Sindarin form Arfin, and it wasn't until after the Bragollach and Fingolfin's death that Finrod prefixed it with Finwë, which Sindarized produced the familiar form Finarfin. (Which, btw, gives an interesting insight into the relationship between Finrod and Fingon). (Cf. The Shibboleth of Fëanor, PoMe).

[iii] My headcanon is that Galadriel indeed crossed the Blue Mountains before the fall of Nargothrond and Gondolin, as per LOTR, in an attempt to find allies against Morgoth. She later returned to Beleriand at some point before the War of Wrath, though I'm not sure when exactly.

[iv] Aegnor confused the word puida-, to wash, cleanse, soap with puitha-, to have sex (which I hope makes sense despite Sindarin's wild form changes).