I Won't Bite by Agelast

Chapter Four

Time passed, as it was wont to do. Oropher's leg was healing astonishingly well –  Síriel declared herself impressed, and impressing  Síriel was no mean feat – and soon enough Oropher was up, if not exactly yet about.

He could hobble from place to place, leaning hard against his crutch, eyes sharp for any kind of trouble. Wherever he went, he cut a broad swathe around him, with people craning their necks to see the stranger from Doriath, the one their own lord had seen fit to visit.

Oropher, never one to shy from attention, however given, tried to carry himself in a way that, while not exactly prideful, was at least proud. He would not cast his eyes down, abashed at the splendor of his surroundings, for the memories of the Thousand Caves came to him – the flickering of countless candles, giving a  strange  half-life to the myriad of carvings of birds and beasts, of plants and trees, elves and Valar, all.

Compared to that, the halls of Himiring were well-made, and nothing more. Carved from the living rock of the mountain upon which it rested, it sat, grim and determined to see its work done. It was its people that made it seem so, of course. Himring, cold, unwelcoming, strictly utilitarian, was a place meant to endure hardship, not foster beauty.

It was depressing, in short.

It also had a lot of stairs, which Oropher took to climbing, ignoring the protests from his leg and the frowning looks of the healer. He hobbled, true, but he could feel himself healing with every step he took. But healing also took patience, patience that Oropher found that he lacked, for day by day, hour by hour, he found himself in a strange mood of half-dread and half-expectation, as if he was on the edge of some great precipice.

And as if he was teetering. He was teetering.

He took a shuffling step back, and stared down the darkened stairs below. It was a very long way down.

No doubt, he assured himself, his uneasiness was only eagerness to go back home. And if home had felt dull and limiting before, surely his recent adventures had shown that the world outside was unpredictable and dangerous.

“You ought not to wander so far, if you do not wish to be thought of as a spy. We do not take kindly to such folk,” said a voice above his shoulder. Oropher, not quite used to Maedhros' sudden appearances and eccentric way of speaking, could not help but jump a little. He stifled a little cry of pain that rose to his lips.

A little contrite, Maedhros moved away, and motioned Oropher to follow him up another another set of stairs. They ended up in an deserted alcove, lit only by a small window that let in the weak afternoon sun. A light breeze wafted in, bringing with it a scent of rain.

Maedhros leaned against a wall as if he had always been there, and watched him quizzically. Oropher said, his finger tugging at his braid, “I am no spy. There is nothing I need to know  about you. My lord.” He lifted his eyes to watch Maedhros, who gave him a little grim smile.

“But surely I am not your lord, as you have taken pains to tell me?”

“It is true that you have no claim over my loyalties, for I am not of your folk, nor do I choose to follow you. I would never do so.”

A pause. “Are you quite sure you’re supposed to be a diplomat?”

“Well,” said Oropher, stung, “I suppose the wolf may have eaten up the more skilled members of our diplomatic corps, leaving only me --”

“A tragedy, to be sure --”

“That the others died and that I lived? Indeed.” Oropher’s voice was rawer than he wished it to be. He was giving away too much! Maedhros was still and as silent as the stone behind him. They stared at each other, as if they wished to pry some concession from each other.

Finally, Maedhros said slowly, “Perhaps, you at least will be heartened in knowing that their deaths were not your fault. Not all can have such comfort.”

“Yes. You least of all. My lord.”

“Yes, I least of all.”

Abruptly, he changed the subject.  “Beren and Lúthien, do you know what they sought?”

What they sought...Well, everyone knew that. Oropher remembering anew who he was talking to,  and where he was, said not-a-little haughtily that he was but a humble messenger, who knew nothing of the doings of the great.

“Ah, yes. Humble, indeed,” said Maedhros, with a slight twitch of his lips. Without another word, he turned and walked away. He did not look back.

Oropher stepped back from the edge.