We of Far Lands by wind rider

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We of Far Lands

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We of Far Lands

 

Stone had its own song, and the rhythm of chisel against it was quite lovely for the right ears. It was certainly that to Findaráto, who was presently keeping a steady work chipping at one of the rough unfinished pillars in the soon-to-be gathering hall of his underground city. He found peace and contentment doing this, a means to escape the harsher reality even for just a moment. He could hear nothing deep down here but his own work, and the silence was blissful when he had already had to deal with at least five score of workers most of the times that he spent in these caverns. Even his well-meaning younger siblings were still overbearing sometimes. But stone never rebuked him, glared at him (unless he carved a glaring face onto it), and it did not give him empty chatter and platitude too.

 

Vines took shape slowly but surely under his chisel – curling, knotted stems pointed little leaves, tiny delicate flowers . . . .

 

Firm footsteps echoed from afar, getting nearer swiftly, and Findaráto’s eartips twitched in annoyance. So much for a peaceful silence and uninterrupted relaxing time. Those who were coming had better have a good reason – or several – to why they would disturb his hard-earned, well-earned peace.

 

Still, as miffed as he was, he was more anxious about why his handpicked front-gate guards had left their station. (Two of the footsteps from the three that he could distinguish were too firm to belong to any civilian, at any rate.) What could have happened aboveground as he had been sequestered down here? Had he been gone so long that people were getting worried?

 

Realising the futility of continuing his work, he put down his hammer and chisel and instead regarded a little morosely what he had done to the pillar so far. The stems were intricate enough but were not natural enough to him – he had to tweak them later. The flowers and leaves could do with some livening up – tiny gems and diamond dust with strokes of enamel paint, maybe?

 

Shaking his head, he gathered up his tools and rose from his crouching position. He should not think about something of this trivial worth when people’s lives were possibly in danger. And judging from the now-loud sound of footsteps closing in on his location, he got barely any time to compose himself.

 

In fact, he was just going to return the hammer and chisel to the tool box when Edrahil his advisor and right-hand commander arrived, followed by Aldarion his captain . . . and a strange youth with raven hair and mist-grey eyes clad in black robes trimmed with black-yellow stripes bearing an odd coat-of-arms on his chest. Unbidden, his attention went to the youth first, and his eyes locked with those of the stranger.

 

Images and sensations bathed his mind when their consciences touched each other. The tools clattered onto the floor again, and Findaráto would have met the same fate if one of his flailing hands had not caught the newly-adorned pillar and held tightly on to it. As it was, he staggered as though burdened by unexpected and hefty weight. He could faintly hear both of his captains exclaiming with worry, but he was too rooted by what he had discovered to soothe them.

 

Who was the stranger? How had he come upon their naturally and artificially concealed gates? Whence had he haled? Such a strange land with old Sun and Moon and stars, odd people and odder contraptions... Above all though, a question haunted him the  most: Who was the youth if not an Elf? For despite his black hair and grey eyes commonn  to the Noldor, the youth’s mind was different from any of the Firstborn – or even Ainur – he had encountered thus far.

 

The stranger did not seem to have any malicious intent against Elves and caves, but Findaráto did not wish to take chances with such an unknown entity. Thus, composing himself with all his might, he addressed his captains and asked them to leave them alone and go back to their stations. Knowing them, they would stay as inconspicuous as they could not far from him despite the order, but at least he had warned them.

 

He took time picking up his tools and putting them back in the tool box nearby, deliberately bearing his back to the stranger as a show of trust. And then, unable to prolong the moment any further, he returned to the youth and beckoned him to join him standing by the pillar. (He had noticed that the stranger’s eyes had never left his carving as if marvelling at it.)

 

“What is your name, lad?” he asked, as he once more sought contact with the other’s mind – much more careful this time.

 

Confusion flooded through the link to him, and he blinked. He had forgotten that they spoke very different languages. Delfing a little further into the youth’s mind, he at last found what he sought.

 

“What. . . is. . . your. . . name?” he asked in the youth’s own tongue, slowly and carefully so that – he hoped – he would be understood.

 

He was. “I’m Cedric. Cedric Diggory,” the youth said, and Findaráto had to delf further into the youth’s mind to discover that people in his world usually have two main names: one of self identity and the other of the family he belonged to. Here he had to tread carefully…

 

“Finrod. Finrod Felagund,” he said at last. And sealing their introduction like he had glimpsed in the youth’s memories, he took the other’s hand and shook it.

 

“Where am I?” the youth – Cedric – asked next. The question was easier to solve for Findaráto now, as Cedric had been wondering about that ever since he had come escorted by Edrahil and Aldarion. Answering it, though, was another matter entirely.

 

“We… cave. I cave, no name – not yet. Not home – not yet.”

 

He did not know why he revealed so much to the stranger. But Cedric did exude a sense of calmness, openness and honesty that he prized in himself and others that he met during the course of his life. He twitched the edges of his lips uncertainly when the youth gave him a comforting smile. (It was surprisingly neither demeaning nor accusing.)

 

“Homesick?” the youth asked, and a sense of longing for home flooded into Findaráto. He turned away slightly and blinked back his tears. The little one – only seventeen years old! – might not know that, but he had reopened wounds that had not fully closed, let alone heal. He could not blame Cedric for that though, as much as he wanted to.

 

The earnest sympathy in those mist-grey eyes helped allay his irreasonable vindictiveness, much.

 

“Homesick?” he asked back, without any rancour. But he might as well have, for it was now Cedric’s time to look away and blink hard.

 

“I was at home and my friends came to visit. They were experimenting with a potion, and it failed, and I got sent here somehow. It’s already three days and I don’t know anything or anyone here…”

 

If Findaráto had less keen hearing, he would not have heard the soft-spoken admission. As it was, he had to strain slightly to hear what the youth was saying.

 

Feeling a tie of companionship forming between them, he rested a hand on the youth’s shoulder and turned him around gently. Their eyes met again, and this time Findaráto purposefully sought a deeper contact with Cedric’s conscience. He told the youth everything he knew, although he skimped on the horrors of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë and the hellish journey across Helkaraxë. He told about everyone he knew, the lost Maia and his lost maternal kin, those the Noldor would term the Turned and the Refusers, the Dwarves the same people would call the Stunted Ones, and the Ents that people at large hardly knew. He shared his love of the new lands, love of the new names he got, and also the longing of the home he might would never go back to again. Cedric had to have something to survive in this land, and he was willing to provide it for him.

 

After all, fellow foreigners must band together.