The Findaráto Diaries by Fiondil

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Chapter 9: Horseshoes, Not Swords

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9: Horseshoes, Not Swords

If I was hoping for an easy time in Lórien, I was quickly disabused of that hope. In spite of my attempts to blend in, to be just another Reborn, those around me made it difficult. The other Reborn were too in awe of the legend that I was to treat me as one of them, never mind that I barely recalled anything that warranted such veneration. The Maiar and the Lóriennildi who tended to us did not help. Always I was addressed as ‘Prince’ even when I insisted they just call me by my name. Yet the Lóriennildi were unimpressed by my family connections and they treated me much the same as they treated the other Reborn, acting somewhat superior to us, however politely. The Maiar, at least, were being genuinely polite, as they were to all the Elves, according to them their proper titles. Some of the Lóriennildi, however, were not subtle in their dislike for me and often disparaged my behavior, constantly reminding me that I was the son of the Noldóran and that I should act accordingly. Unfortunately for them, I was usually not in the mood to do so....

****

"Prince Findaráto, what would your atar say if he saw you like this?" The Lóriennildë Míriel said with unfeigned exasperation, glowering at him. She was Finrod’s primary counselor among the Lóriennildi.

Finrod resisted a sigh, gazing at her from his upside down position as he swung himself lazily on a tree branch. She was a Noldo who had not yet seen her first millennium and was thus accounted young among the Elves. Finrod did not like her all that much, for she tended towards bossiness, acting more like an impatient older sister saddled with obstreperous younger siblings than a healer. Considering that many of her charges, including himself, remembered the Light of the Two Trees, Finrod found the situation somewhat ironic.

"I would hope he would ask if he could join me," Finrod answered, giving her his best innocent Reborn look. He had been wandering around for most of the afternoon, not interested in being in his assigned class (today it was Art) with the other Reborn. After a week or so in Lórien he was feeling restless and had no patience with the idea of learning the latest techniques in illuminating manuscripts or herbology or anything else for that matter. So, after the noon meal, he had snuck away to wander through the Gardens, content to do nothing more than swing from a tree branch and let his mind wander. Naturally, as soon as he went missing, they would have gone looking for him. He knew that Reborn tended to wander away and the Lóriennildi and the Maiar generally kept a close eye on them. He had been genuinely surprised that no Maia had shown up to shoo him back to class, so he was rather annoyed when Míriel turned up instead.

"You’re a little too old to be swinging from a tree," Míriel commented with a superior look.

"Define ‘old’," he demanded with a smile. "I’ve been alive for less than a year after all and swinging from a tree is fun. You should try it sometime."

"I’m not here to debate the issue of tree-swinging, Prince Findaráto...."

"I wish you wouldn’t call me that," Finrod muttered futilely as he continued swinging.

"...I’m here to take you back to class," Míriel said, completely ignoring his words.

"I am not going back," Finrod said with a frown and swung himself off the branch, deciding that, hanging upside down, he was not really in a position of strength. He straightened his tunic and threw back his head to get his hair out of his eyes and glared at her, trying to remember how he must have been when he was a king. Even if I’m not a king any longer, he thought to himself. "I have no desire to waste my time...."

"It is not a waste," Míriel interrupted, throwing her hands up and shaking her head. "These classes are carefully designed to help you to fine tune your motor control and at the same time give you an opportunity to explore different skills that may help you in your new life."

Finrod leaned nonchalantly against the tree, a large maple that rustled its branches softly. Finrod had felt the tree’s delight when he had climbed into it and began swinging from the branch. He gave Míriel a cool stare. "As you and everyone else in this place keep reminding me, I am a prince of Eldamar. Learning the names of herbs and their medicinal properties is not something I need to know." He smiled at her and he knew his smile did not reach his eyes. "That’s what I have retainers for."

Míriel raised an eyebrow, looking about as if to ascertain if they were alone, then she returned her attention to Finrod and gave him a delicate shrug. "I don’t see any retainers, your Highness. Best come to class and stop being...."

"Make me," Finrod said so softly that Míriel almost didn’t hear.

"Excuse me?"

"Make me," Finrod repeated somewhat louder, his entire stance one of challenge.

Míriel sighed, her expression calculating. "Ingil, Morilindë," she said without raising her voice.

Immediately, there was the overpowering scent of flowers — roses, lilacs, and orange blossoms predominating with hints of vanilla and lavender mixed in — as two Maiar made their presences known, giving Finrod slight but respectful bows. Ingil smiled at him knowingly while Morilindë stood there quietly gauging the moods of the two Elves. Finrod found himself straightening, his spine stiffening as he tried to figure out what his chances were of being allowed to go his own way.

"Trouble, Míriel?" Morilindë asked.

"Prince Findaráto refuses to return to his assigned class," the Lóriennildë replied with a supercilious sniff. By her expression, Finrod could tell she felt that she had the upper hand.

"And which class is that?" Ingil asked, though Finrod was sure the Maia knew full well which class he was avoiding.

"Art," Míriel answered.

"Ah...." Ingil said then gave Finrod a sympathetic look. "I’m afraid you can’t get out of this one, Prince...."

"Morgoth take you all!" Finrod suddenly shouted in Sindarin, now angry. "Stop calling me that. I am not going back and that’s final!"

"What’s he saying?" Míriel demanded, looking angry herself. "I wish these Reborn would stop jabbering in that ridiculous language...."

She got no further for Finrod lost all sense of reason and, snarling a particularly vicious oath — both Maiar raised eyebrows at that — he leaped into the maple tree, making his way along one of the wider branches until he was near enough to another tree to cross the gap. He was glad that he had stopped at this particular part of Lórien where the trees formed a true forest. He made a second leap into a spreading oak and continued away, ignoring Míriel’s screams of frustration. He had no doubt the Maiar could easily pick him out of the tree and haul him back to the stupid class if they wished, but apparently they were content to let him go. That both pleased him and worried him, but he decided not to think about it too much; his immediate concern was to hide away from everyone and everything.

Eventually, Míriel’s yelling died away as he continued deeper into the woods until he came upon a clearing, one that he had not seen before. He glanced about, spying no one, and then slipped to the ground. The clearing was perhaps fifty feet across and in the center was a pool of still water. He walked over to it, surprised that the water was not scummed over. He could see no stream or other outlet to explain the water’s clarity. The pool was lined with white stones that also surrounded it and Finrod sat at the water’s edge, gazing contentedly into the still waters. As he sat there he could feel his earlier anger and frustration melt away, leaving him calm and centered.

"A rather vile oath, and totally uncalled for."

Finrod scrambled to his feet to find himself standing before Lord Irmo whose expression was unreadable. Finrod looked at him warily, trying to gauge the Vala’s mood. "She deserved it," he said defensively. "Your Lóriennildi treat us with disdain and disrespect...."

"And you feel justified in returning the favor?" Irmo demanded coldly.

"I feel justified in putting her in her place," Finrod said almost as coldly. "They all call me ‘prince’ but treat me as if I were no better than a... a mólanoldo."

Irmo raised an eyebrow at that. "Running away solves nothing," he said, not actually addressing the issue which Finrod had raised.

"You’ve never forgiven me for running away before...."

"No, Findaráto. You were not running away from something but running towards something. My fellow Valar and I understood that, even if you did not, and let you go. But in this instance you are indeed running away because you have no other goal. Before, you had a goal: to carve out a kingdom for yourself and to explore new lands. That was your saving grace. You joined in battling Melkor but that was not your main purpose for being in Beleriand. Here, though, you are simply running away."

"I tire of attending useless classes and boring lectures and listening to supercilious Elves berating me, Elves who are too young to remember the Light of the Two Trees," Finrod said with exasperation.

Irmo remained silent for a moment or two before he spoke. "I understand your frustration, child. It’s something that all Reborn experience while trying to adjust to their new lives. I admit some of my people are not as sympathetic as they should be and I will address the situation in my own time, but you need to understand this: you think you know what is best for you at this time, but you do not. I’ve been at this far longer than you, so trust me when I say that as boring as they may be these classes are necessary if you wish to function well in society again."

Finrod sighed, feeling not at all pleased with the Vala’s words but recognizing that they were true. "I’m just finding it all so difficult," he said, "and none of the others are making it easier."

"I know, and I will make some changes for you. I’m reassigning Míriel. Starting tomorrow you will have someone else acting as your chief counselor and I think we can dispense with art classes for now," he added with a smile. "I’ll find some other things for you to occupy yourself with. In the meantime, I think you should go and apologize to Míriel."

Finrod grimaced at the thought. "I still think she deserved it," he muttered, unwilling to back down.

"But you will apologize nonetheless." Irmo’s tone brooked no dissent, and Finrod sighed, giving the Vala a nod of acquiescence. "Good. Off you go now." Irmo pointed in a particular direction and watched the ellon reluctantly walk away. He shook his head in exasperated amusement. *So, any suggestions as to what we should do with him?* he bespoke to Estë and Námo.

*Send him to Nienna?* Estë offered.

*He’s not ready for that,* Námo said.

*I agree,* Irmo said.

*Whom do you have in mind as his new counselor?* Estë asked, deciding to change the subject.

*Eärnur,* Irmo replied without hesitation, sending them an image of a young Teler.

*He hasn’t even finished his apprenticeship,* Estë pointed out. *Surely he’s too young and inexperienced.*

Irmo nodded. *All points in his favor,* he said.

There was silence as the other two Valar contemplated Irmo’s words. Finally, Námo spoke. *Why don’t you speak to Aulë and Yavanna about future classes? They may have some ideas. As I recall, young Findaráto was studying metallurgy and crystallography with Aulë’s people around the time of the Darkening.*

*I will do that, thank you.* Irmo felt the presence of his wife and brother fade from his mind as he stood beside the calm pool, contemplating many things.

****

Míriel took his apology with ill grace and spent ten minutes berating him for his behavior. Finrod put up with it for that long only because he felt he should since he knew he had been in the wrong. He hoped thereby to show her that he could act in a mature manner, but when she started repeating herself, he put a stop to it.

"Enough!" he said in a tone of voice that any Elf who had lived in Nargothrond during Finrod’s reign would have recognized and obeyed. Míriel just glared at him, unimpressed.

"It is not enough, Prince Findaráto! You...."

"Míriel."

Both Elves turned to see Ingil standing there, his usually cheerful smile replaced with a look of solemnity, his normally warm hazel eyes now cold. Finrod suppressed a shiver and noticed Míriel had gone pale. Ingil stared at them both for an eternal moment before he spoke.

"You may leave, my prince," he said softly.

Finrod let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and without further protest gave the Maia a respectful bow and strode away, refusing to look at Míriel. He made his way aimlessly through the groves, with no real destination in mind and found himself coming upon several long buildings that he realized were stables. He was surprised, for he was unaware that there were any horses in Lórien. He made his way tentatively along a flagged courtyard fronting one of the buildings, hoping that this area wasn’t off limits to the Reborn. There were some parts of Lórien that were closed to them, though no one seemed to know why.

Moving along he took a deep appreciative breath, enjoying the smells of horse and straw and even manure. Memories from earlier times of riding, both in Aman and Beleriand, began to surface and he wondered if he would be permitted to ride. He stood in front of the open doors of one of the stables, feeling suddenly reluctant and shy, afraid he would not be welcomed, but curiosity drew him in.

The inside was in semi-darkness, light filtering in through openings in the roof. There was the musty scent of straw and hay and he could make out several stalls, most of them empty. He stood there irresolutely, straining to see if anyone was about.

"Well, come in if you’re coming," he heard someone say. The voice had come from the shadows further to his left. He walked down the central aisle between the stalls until he found himself coming into another room where an older Elf waited for him. Finrod immediately recognized that this place was a smithy for there was a forge at one end and a large anvil stood in the middle of the room. Hammers and tongs of various sizes and lengths were hung neatly on racks. The wall opposite him was missing and he looked out onto pastures where he could see horses grazing. The Elf, standing there with a broad smile on his face was wearing a stiff leather apron over his bare chest. His dark brown locks and grey eyes marked him as a Noldo.

"Good," the other ellon said. "I’m needing an extra hand. Grab an apron and you can help me."

"What are you doing?" Finrod asked with growing interest as he looked about, spying a couple of aprons hanging from hooks, though he did not move from his spot.

"Making horseshoes," the Elf answered. "I need you to work the bellows."

"Horseshoes," Finrod said, sounding less enthusiastic.

The smith nodded, amusement in his eyes. "This is a stable and there are horses in need of shoeing."

"Do you not have others to help you?" Finrod asked.

The ellon nodded. "Normally, but not today. Today, you are here. Now, are you willing to help or not? I haven’t all day, you know."

Finrod sighed. "I was hoping I could ride. It’s been... well, it’s been a long time."

The smith nodded in understanding. "None of these horses are yours though. You would need to get permission. In the meantime, you can earn your right to ride by helping me."

Finrod thought about it for a moment and then nodded, stripping off his outer tunic and hanging it up on an empty hook, then after a brief hesitation, removing his undertunic as well. He grabbed an apron and tied it around him. "Show me what to do," he said as he faced the smith who handed him a thin strip of leather which Finrod used to tie back his hair.

"For the moment, I just need you at the bellows," the ellon said and proceeded to show him what to do. Then, once he saw Finrod settled at his task, he went back to his own work.

"My name is Findaráto, by the way," the prince said as he worked the bellows.

"Malantur," the other Elf said distractedly. "The name is Malantur."

They worked in companionable silence for the most part after that, Malantur breaking the silence occasionally with instructions when the fire wasn’t hot enough. Finrod found the task boring and hot. Sweat poured down him in rivulets, stinging his eyes and he felt grimy as well. Malantur seemed unaffected by it all, competently performing his work with easy grace, no movement wasted, every strike of the hammer precise. They continued to work late into the afternoon, and Finrod wondered if they would stop for dinner. By now his arms ached and the heat was making him feel lightheaded. Malantur must have noticed, for he ceased his work and told Finrod to step away from the bellows and go outside.

"There’s a well just to your right," he said. "Drink and be refreshed. I have some food here somewhere, we can stop and sup before resuming our work."

"Will you work through the night?" Finrod asked in dismay as he slowly rose from his seat, stifling a groan as muscles he didn’t know he had protested.

Malantur gave him a smile. "Not through the night, but it will be dark before we finish. Go wash up. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach."

Finrod complied and soon the two of them were sitting under a spreading chestnut tree that stood a little distance from the smithy, munching on crusty bread, new cheese and hard-boiled eggs. Apples rounded out the simple fare and it was all washed down with well water. Finrod had to admit that he did feel better for the meal. He sighed with satisfaction as he leaned against the tree trunk, idly munching on an apple, his eyes half closed. Malantur watched him with amusement.

"Not used to hard labor are you?" he asked genially.

Finrod shook his head. "I have memories of working at a forge and turning out swords and shields and other weapons and armor, but that was a long time ago, before I... um...."

"Before you died," Malantur supplied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Finrod nodded. "Yes, before that."

"Swords," Malantur said with a shake of his head. "Horseshoes are more practical."

Finrod opened his eyes and smiled grimly at the smith. "In Beleriand both were necessary and the lack of one could spell one’s doom as equally as the lack of the other."

Silence reigned between them for a few minutes. "Finish your apple," Malantur finally said. "We still have more horseshoes to turn out."

Anar slipped westward and night bloomed. Finrod only noticed when he happened to look up to see that just the forge now gave them illumination. He stared at Malantur as he worked, the ellon’s back to him. There was power in his arms, in his very stance, that mesmerized Finrod. Against the glow of the fire the smith’s form was wreathed in red shadows. He could see sweat rolling down Malantur’s back. The rhythmic pounding of the hammer and the sound of the bellows were hypnotic and Finrod felt himself slipping into a dreamlike state. At some point Malantur ceased his hammering and turned to look at Finrod, his eyes glowing strangely in the light of the forge. Finrod felt himself grow weak with fear for some reason yet there was nothing threatening about the smith’s stance. Instead, he held out his hand and though he spoke not, Finrod knew he wished for him to join him at the anvil.

He hesitated for a moment, then rose and went to Malantur, unaware that the bellows was still working though no hands were upon it. Finrod found he could not look away from the smith’s gaze. Slowly, dreamlike, he allowed himself to be placed before the anvil with Malantur standing behind him. The smith placed his hammer in Finrod’s hand and the ellon was appalled at how heavy it was and feared he would not be able to lift it. He needn’t have worried, for Malantur wrapped his own brawny hand around Finrod’s, even as he directed Finrod’s other hand onto the tongs holding the piece of shapeless metal that Malantur had been working on. Finrod felt his arm being lifted and then he was striking the metal that seemed to glow with preternatural fire.

Slowly, the metal shaped itself. At one point Malantur silently directed Finrod to place the piece of metal into the fire and it was only then that Finrod realized that the bellows was still working by itself. Fear started to crawl up his spine at the unreality of it all and he wanted to flee but Malantur held him in a solid grip, bringing him back to the anvil to start the process all over again. Finrod did not know how long it lasted, aware only of his own fear, the sense of being trapped with no escape rising with every hammer stroke.

Before it could become too unbearable, however, Malantur released him and he let the heavy hammer fall as he stared down at the metal they had been working on, seeing a horseshoe. Finrod felt drained, physically and emotionally, and did not protest as Malantur took the hammer from him. All he could do was stare at the horseshoe they had made together, trying to gather his scattered thoughts into some semblance of coherency, but he was too fatigued with fear and physical exertion.

Malantur turned him around to face him and in the uncertain light of the forge fires, the ellon’s features seemed to waver. Finrod put it down to being overly tired at first but then he realized that Malantur’s brown locks had lightened into a ruddy gold and he now sported a beard of the same shade. Dark eyes twinkled merrily and there was the sense of uncounted ages behind their gaze that nearly overwhelmed the Reborn prince as a memory of an earlier time made itself known.

"L-lord Aulë?" he whispered, feeling suddenly queasy.

The Vala nodded, his mouth quirked in a smile. "Horseshoes, not swords, young prince," was all he said and then Finrod felt his world tipping precariously. He was unaware of Aulë lifting him up and laying him down on a cot that appeared with a single thought, then stripping him of his apron and boots before placing a light blanket over him. Nor did he feel the Vala gently stroke his soot covered brow, fondly smiling down at him as he watched over him through the night.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Lóriennildi: "Followers of Lórien" [Lórien + -hildi]. Elves of Aman in the service to Lord Irmo and Lady Estë whose task it is to act as counselors to the Reborn and see to their needs, both physical and spiritual. The name is modeled after Yavannildi, the name given to the female elves who knew and kept the secret of the making of coimas (lembas). The Lóriennildi, however, could be of either gender: Lóriennildo (males) and Lóriennildë (females).

Adar: (Sindarin) Father.

Mólanoldo: A Noldo enslaved by Morgoth. Mólanoldorin, the language of these slaves, is attested.

Malantur: ‘Gold-lord’ or ‘Gold-ruler’. This is an attested name found in Unfinished Tales.