Loyalty: A Tale in Three Voices by grey_gazania

Part I, Chapter I (Tókhesh)

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I was 12 years old when the rains rolled down from the North — old enough to guard the goats but too young to wed.  And guard the goats I would have done, but that spring, the wolves and hill-cats who sometimes preyed on our livestock were among the least of our worries. It rained for months, hard, driving rain that washed our crops away, drowned the goats and filled the copper mines with water. Mudslides from the hills buried whole villages, and others were destroyed by floods as the Nuváthisi overflowed its banks. The Kházad to the West were spared, sealed deep in the mountains as they were, but our neighbors to the East, my mother's people, fared no better than we did.

 

People from the outer settlements streamed into our city seeking shelter, which we had; food, which we did not; and above all the protection of my grandfather, Lúpentho, later called Ulfang. The eldest descendent of Yéfan the Fearsome who had united our people so many generations ago, he had been our leader since the death of his father some thirty years earlier. He had expanded our territory along the river, brokered an alliance with our neighbors to the East, established trade with the Kházad and the Southern Lands, and held off the greedy raiders from the Northeast, who had long coveted our copper mines. But even he, fierce and cunning as he was, could not protect us from the fever that followed on the heels of the rain.

 

In the beginning, we did not realize the danger. My baby brother was the first to fall sick, but little Lúfuk had been born under an ill moon, weak in the lungs and too small, and no one was surprised by his death. But the fever spread, slowly at first but then gaining speed, causing whole families to collapse in ones and twos and threes. Always it followed the same pattern — first a fever, chills, and vomiting, sometimes accompanied by pain in the head and the limbs. If the signs stopped there, the person would likely survive. But often the disease only grew worse, bringing on a bloody cough, convulsions and, finally, the death-sleep.

 

We gathered the ill in our meeting hall, laid out on blankets so that our healer, Lame Haná, could tend to them all in one place. We all helped as best we could, but for the first time in memory, her treatments did not work. The willow bark did nothing to halt the fever; either those who had fallen sick would fight the disease themselves, or they would die.

 

My brother Lúkub had passed beyond healing and our mother, already tired from the babe she carried in her womb, was weak and pale with the early fever when Lame Hána called a meeting. "Start boiling the water," she told us as we gathered in the square -- at least, those of us who were still standing. She was leaning heavily on her stick, her eyes tired, but her voice remained strong and clear.

 

"You think that's what's causing the fever?" my aunt Thisí asked, her mouth pinched with worry. My cousins had been spared so far, but with my brothers ill, it was only a matter of time.

 

"Could be," Lame Haná said. "With all the flooding we've had, something could have seeped into the wells. But even if it's not, boiling can't hurt." She swatted at a bug and added, "Use the wells furthest from the river, too. The air there has a bad smell. I don't like it."

 

And so began my treks to the far well, carrying bucket after bucket of water to Lame Haná and her helpers. My arms and legs soon ached and sweat ran down my back, but it was better than being in the meeting hall. The windows were thrown wide to bring fresh air to the sick, but the smell inside was still powerful, and the flies buzzed in to cluster on the blood and filth of the dying.

 

Not that the bugs by the well were any fewer, and those ones bit, leaving itchy lumps on my skin. But at least the air there was clean. And my mother needed the water. So I wiped the sweat from my brow, took another pair of buckets, and made my way back to the well.

 

Part I, Chapter II (Uldor)

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I'll never forget the sound my brother made when I carried my niece to our makeshift sickroom. I'd found Tókhesh collapsed beside the far well, shivering and sweaty, with her skin burning like a sun-baked rock. Lupílo let out an awful, low keening as I laid her beside her mother, and who could blame him? His entire family had now fallen to the fever.

 

"Babí?" Tókhesh mumbled as I set her down, squinting up at my brother as another shiver wracked her body.

 

"Shh. I'm here," he said, his voice cracking. He brushed a few strands of hair off her damp forehead, reached over her mother, and took hold of the blanket that lay over his son, tucking it around Tókhesh instead. That told me all I needed to know about young Lúkub's chances. Better to care for those who might live than to waste comfort on those who were good as dead. 

 

"Lie still," my brother continued. "Try to rest."

 

Whatever Tókhesh said in response was lost under the sound of her mother coughing, and Lupílo hurried to help Khit sit up. I did the same, bracing her left shoulder against my own and then slowly easing her back down when the fit subsided. Blood flecks had landed on her lips, and her eyes stared right through us. I don't think she even knew we were there.

 

I gave my brother's shoulder a brief squeeze and took my leave. Father needed to know about this.

 

He was in our house, closed in with some of the other men, but no one hindered me as I joined him. I was his heir, after all. He looked up at me as I entered and, once the others had shifted to make a space for me to sit, got straight to business. "The raiders are eyeing us," he said. "I've raised the plague banners. Hopefully that will discourage them from attacking the city. If they do, I don't think we have enough men standing to be able to hold them off. They've already struck at some of the outer settlements, and Károt's people are faring no better. We're in dire straits, Lúrep."

 

"It's worse," I told him. "Tókhesh is sick now, too."

 

That would've saddened us at any time — she was our blood and we loved her dearly — but her illness was at the peak of a larger problem. The alliance between us and our Eastern neighbors was one of my father's greatest accomplishments, but the truth was that it rested heavily on Lupílo and his family, for his wife was their leader's sister. My nephews were already dead; if Khit and my niece followed, our blood-ties to Károt's people would be gone. Our alliance might hold, especially if the raiders continued their assault, but if it failed… The gods alone knew what that might mean for us all.

 

***********

 

We nearly found out. Khit was dead within a few days, joining the hundreds whose bodies waited to be burned. Tókhesh clung stubbornly to life, for a time; she was a pigheaded child, never one to give up easily. But eventually she, too, slipped into the death-sleep.

 

The following day, the spirit came. It wasn't the first time one had appeared to Father. He had been visited in the night before the great battle at Eagle Hill by a spirit who foretold victory despite our small numbers, and years later by another who counseled him to begin to trade with the Kházad to the West. But I had never seen one before, so I stared alongside my brothers when this one poured in like smoke through our window and then took the form of a woman, skin pale like fog and eyes glowing like embers in its face. When it moved, its whole body was covered by an eerie sheen, like moonlight on the surface of the river. Ludédro made the sun-sign over his heart and Lame Haná averted her eyes, looking down at the cup of weak tea she held instead.

 

"Lúpentho," it said, fixing its burning eyes on Father. Its voice was like claws drawn across iron, sending a chill down my spine

 

He brought his fists together and bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Spirit," he said. "You honor me. I did not expect to see you again."

 

"I bring a message from my master, the Lord of the North."

 

This spirit served the Lord of the North? Even Father stared at that claim. The Lord of the North was a shadowy figure who had few dealings in our lands, though we'd heard from the Kházad that he sometimes sent armies of monsters against the strange, bright-eyed beings who lived on the other side of the western mountains. What interest did he have in us?

 

"He has seen the valor of your people," the spirit continued, answering our unasked question, "and he would like to form an alliance with you. He has sent me to bring you the knowledge to cure this fever, as a show of goodwill. All he asks in return is that you consider his proposal."

 

All my senses screamed that the Lord of the North was a dangerous creature to ally ourselves with, but if this spirit could truly stop the fever, we would be fools to turn it away. Besides, it wasn't asking our agreement, only our consideration. Everyone turned toward Father, waiting for his answer.

 

He looked around the room in silence. I do not know what he saw - Lupílo's eyes still red-rimmed and swollen, the exhausted slump of Lame Haná's shoulders, or simply the fear and desperation lurking in us all. But he straightened his back, met the spirit's gaze, and said, "We accept. Heal us, and we will hear your master's proposal."

 

It smiled, an expression that was somehow comforting even on such a strange, unearthly face. Lame Haná turned to Father and, at his nod, spoke. "I am our healer," she said. "Tell me what to do. Please."

 

"There is a tree growing by your river," it said, "whose bark will succeed where the willow tree failed. Dry it and grind it into powder and give it to your ill. They will heal."

 

"All of them?" Lupílo asked hoarsely. "Even those who won't wake?"

 

"All of them," the spirit answered. "Look for the tree that bears white flowers, and they will heal. By my master, I swear it."

 

Lame Haná bowed her head, and the spirit departed in a gust of smoke.

 

We set to work, cutting, drying, and grinding, men and women together as Lame Haná and her helpers gave sips of bark-laced water to the sick. And, miraculously, they healed — one by one, and they were still weakened, but the fevers subsided and those in the death-sleep slowly woke. Lupílo wept when Tókhesh blinked her eyes open for the first time in a full week, and even Father grew wet around the eyes. We sent out messengers to Károt and his people, carrying with them some of the powder and the knowledge of how to make it. 

 

We didn't see the spirit again until everyone was on their feet once more. It arrived with the fog one evening as we ate our meager meal, my brothers and Thisí and Thisí's brother Broddá, and of course Lame Haná, who was always welcome at our table. Lupílo was dividing his portion between himself and Tókhesh, hushing her protests, when it slid in under the shutters. We all bowed as it took form, our gratitude overcoming our fear. Fixing its eyes on Father again, it said. "I have held my end of our bargain. It is time for you to uphold yours."

 

He gave another short bow. "Let us speak in private," he said. "Thisí, please take the children." She nodded and ushered Tókhesh and her own surviving son out of the room. Once the door was closed, Father turned back to the spirit and said, "I have considered your master's offer. But I would be a fool to enter into an alliance blind. What is it that your master wants from us in exchange for his help?"

 

"A fair question," the spirit acknowledged. "You are no fool, Lúpentho son of Lutámlin, and you have proven it many times over. What my master wishes you to do is this." It waved its arm over the table and our dishes slid to the edges, giving it space to trace a map in tendrils of liquid smoke. "These are your Western Mountains," it said, its hand hovering over a thick line of peaked shapes. "There are people beyond the mountains who oppose my master, the bright-eyed people of whom the Khazâd have told you. Thieves, many of them, and a good portion of their leaders have slain their own kin. They call themselves the Noldor and they seek dominion over the lands and those who live there as though they have some right. They force the men and women there to serve them as they make war on my master and squabble among themselves. What my master would have you do is cross the mountains."

 

Cross the mountains? Was this spirit mad? We were in no state for a journey that difficult. We'd only barely held off the group of raiders who'd struck a few days ago. I opened my mouth to protest, but Father silenced me with a gesture.

 

"Cross the mountains for what purpose?" he asked.

 

"To spy on the Noldor," the spirit said, tapping its pale finger over a different spot on the map. "Treat with them. Make them think they have your loyalty and that you will submit to them as all the others have. Then watch them closely and relay all you see and hear to my master, that he may better drive them out. The lands there are green and fertile, and there are no raiders. Your people would live well, and prosper further once the Noldor are gone. What prosperity is left for you here?"

 

"You know about the mines, then," Father said, and the spirit nodded.

 

There was little copper coming out of the mines these days; it was getting harder and harder to find veins of it. There was still metal that could be dug up, but it was strange, soft and shiny and tinged with blue. The Kházad had told us that they used small amounts melted down with tin to form their pewter, but our men who worked with it often fell ill. Between that and the crops destroyed by the rainstorms, our long-term survival here was looking more and more tenuous. But traveling all the way over the mountains? Was that that really the answer?

 

Apparently Father saw the look on my face, because he gestured to me. "Speak, Lúrep."

 

"Crossing the mountains will be hard," I said. "We'll need time to prepare, a lot of time, and I don't think everyone will survive the journey."

 

"Even Yefán the Fearsome moved his people when circumstances called for it," Lupílo countered, invoking the name of our famed ancestor.

 

"You need not leave immediately," the spirit said. "The Noldor are long-lived; if you take many months, or even years, the Noldor will have changed little."

 

"I think we should agree," Ludédro urged. "It's as the spirit said — our future here looks more and more dim each day." Broddá and Lupílo nodded in agreement, but Lame Haná looked pensive.

 

"Have you made this offer to Károt's people?" she asked.

 

"I have not," the spirit said. "My master considered it, but Károt is still young; he does not yet have your leader's wisdom."

 

"If we go, his people may follow," Lame Haná said to Father. "They're no better off than we are, and as long as Tókhesh lives, they're tied to us by blood."

 

"That is of no consequence," the spirit said. "They are welcome even if they are not in my master's confidence. All who travel across the mountains will prosper when the Noldor are driven out."

 

"How do we know the land is as good as you say it is?" I asked.

 

The spirit spread its hands. "I have never deceived Lúpentho," it said, and Father nodded slowly. I wondered which spirit this was — the one from Eagle Hill or the one who'd offered counsel. Either way, whatever it had said, Father had found it to be true. And the spirit had healed us. It had little reason to lie to us; if we traveled over the mountains and found that the land was dead, we would have grounds to break our agreement or even to reveal it to the Noldor.

 

I looked to Lame Haná, who shrugged and looked to Father. He was silent, his eyes locked onto the spirit's. Whatever he saw, it must have helped him make his decision, for he unsheathed his dagger. "We accept," he said, and drew the blade across his palm, leaving behind a shallow gash. Then he offered the knife to the spirit, who did the same. Its blood was thick and black as ink, and it mingled with Father's as they clasped hands, a few drops spattering onto the table. The last time Father had sworn a blood-oath, it had been with Károt; the time before that had been at his wedding to my mother. This agreement was binding now, for all of us.

 

"Keep what was said here private," the spirit said. "Known only to those in this room. Care for your people. I will return at the full moon; there is much you need to learn before the journey."

 

It turned once more to a tendril of fog and left the way it had come. Lame Haná was readying a bandage for my father, but when she wiped the blood away, she found that the cut was already gone.

Part I, Chapter III (Tókhesh)

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The months following Lame Haná's discovery of the miraculous bark were hard, for our dead were many and we were all grieving. My mother, my oldest cousins, and my dearest friend had died while I lay senseless with fever, leaving our house a place of sorrow. Father clung more tightly to me; he forbade me from tending to the few goats who had survived unless I was with an older child, forced some of his rations onto me at mealtimes, and held me as we both wept for my mother.

 

But we were in some ways lucky that year; the winter was mild enough that we could still hunt the rabbits and quick deer and gather nuts and winter berries, which were now our primary sources of food. We didn't eat well, but we didn't starve, either. We'd lost so many that the city didn't seem all that crowded despite the many newcomers, and Grandfather made no move to push people back to the outer settlements. As he rightly pointed out, there was little for most of them to return to. Better to wait for spring and see what could be salvaged then.

 

Father, Grandfather, and my uncles often closed themselves up in the sitting room in the evenings, presumably something to do with the fearful spirit that had appeared at dinner months ago. I wanted badly to know what they discussed, but I did not ask, heeding my aunt Thisí's warning. Do not speak of it, she'd hissed to my cousin and me, making the sun-sign over her chest as she led us from the room. You may provoke its wrath. So I held my tongue and resisted the urge to eavesdrop.

 

I was shocked when one night my uncle Lúrep stuck his head into the room where Thisí and I sat sewing and instructed me to join their meeting. Thisí's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, and I opened my mouth to ask why I was needed, but Lúrep shook his head. The message was plain: Not here. I stuck my needle into the small cushion that rested on the table and folded the skirt I'd been taking in beside it; one of my mother's, a deep green with graceful brown leaves stitched around the hem. Then I followed him, curiosity bubbling inside of me.

 

"—thirteen," I heard my father say as we approached the door. "She's still a child."

 

"She'll be a woman in less than a year," my grandfather answered. Then, seeing me in the doorway, he beckoned me in. "Sit," he said, pointing to a spot between my father and Lame Haná. But I made it only a few steps before freezing. The same spirit stood at the foot of the table, its glowing eyes fixed on me, like twin torches in its sickly-pale face.

 

I bowed, trying to swallow my nerves, but my voice still shook when I spoke. "Spirit," I said. "Greetings."

 

It inclined its head and then gestured for me to sit. I did, but I couldn't take my eyes off its strange form. It wasn't until my grandfather snapped his fingers sharply at me that I turned away.

 

"Tókhesh," he said. "Before we speak further, I need you to promise that nothing you hear or see will leave this room. Nothing. You will not speak to anyone of this, not even me, unless we are closed away in here. Do you swear it?"

 

I was not technically old enough to swear a formal oath, but something told me that this went beyond a simple legal agreement, that it was perhaps even outside of our laws completely. "I swear it," I said, fumbling for the proper response. "By— by the blood in my veins and the bones of my hands I swear it."

 

He nodded, and my father squeezed my shoulder.

 

"A brief explanation," Grandfather said. "We are going to cross the mountains to the West. Our lives will be better there — fertile land, no raiders, no failing mines. In exchange for a place to settle, we will be spying on the enemies of this spirit's master. We need to learn their language and," he said, a touch of pride in his voice, "I know that if anyone can do that, it is you."

 

I blushed, flattered, but I also knew he spoke the truth. After all, did I not speak the dialect of my uncle Károt's people flawlessly? Had I not learned the language of our Southern neighbors more quickly than anyone involved in trading with them? And hadn't I worked out more of the Kházad's secret tongue than they themselves realized? I had a mind built for languages, my grandfather often said, and that was a valuable skill. Words could be wielded with as much power as spears or axes.

 

"What is the language called?" I asked, turning my head towards the spirit but avoiding its eldritch eyes, for they made me shiver.

 

"Sindarin," the spirit said. "It is the common speech of the peoples who live across the mountains."

 

"Sindarin," I repeated, doing my best to mimic the spirit's accent. "Sindarin."

 

And thus began our bi-weekly language lessons. The Sindarin vowels felt strange in my mouth and the words were slippery, the sounds clustered at the tip of the tongue and the stress falling in odd places, but as Grandfather had predicted, I made more headway than any of the rest and could soon both form and understand short sentences. The spirit deemed that good enough, saying that it would look suspicious if any of us were fully fluent.

 

The lessons that followed were more difficult — learning to mask our thoughts and feelings, to bury our true intentions deep inside us, for some of the Noldor could know the hearts and minds of those around them. It wasn't a matter of hiding all emotions, but rather of showing only what we wanted to show, and it took months upon months before we had perfected the technique.

 

"That's why so few of us know the truth," Grandfather explained. "The more people who know, the more likely we are to slip."

 

Time wore on. Grandfather announced his plans to lead us westward, to the surprise but not the dismay of our people, for we all knew our future here was tenuous at best. We planted crops and harvested them again, bred the surviving goats, hunted the wild animals and dried their meat, jarred our honey, and gathered berries and nuts to bear with us. We knew precious little about the plants in the mountains, only what we had gleaned from our dealings with the Kházad, so we took great care in preparing for the journey. After some deliberation and a long meeting with Grandfather, Károt decided to do the same. Working together, we were able to triple the rations either of our peoples would have born alone. We even scraped together enough gold and goods that we could pay to cross via the Kházad-Road, an altogether safer route than traveling over the mountains that housed Túmunzahar.

 

Finally, in the spring following my 14th birthday, we left for the land called Beleriand.

Part I, Chapter IV (Caranthir)

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To Maedhros Feanorion head of the House of Feanor, lord of Himring greetings from your brother Caranthir, lord of Thargelion.

 

I’ve had a recent influx of Men from the East in these lands. They’re an odd lot, dark-skinned and black-eyed, but we’ve spoken, after a fashion, and they don’t seem hostile. (Their language is strange, but a few of them have a little Sindarin, and some of the Naugrim speak their tongue and have been willing to translate for us — for a price, of course.) They seem honest enough and the Naugrim say they’ve had amicable dealings with them, but I thought you would like to speak to them yourself when time permits. Hopefully we’ll have hammered out a pidgin by the time you get here. I’m sure they’ll adopt Sindarin soon enough, though. All the other Men have.

 

I hope to see you soon,

 

Caranthir

 

I blew powder onto the ink to quicken its drying and then rolled the paper into a scroll, ready to be delivered by pigeon. These days the birds were more likely to reach Himring than a lone messenger, and I couldn’t spare a full company to carry one message. It wasn’t even urgent. The East-Men were here whether I wanted them or not, and forming an alliance made more sense than pushing them out into the orc-infested lands. That would only make us enemies, and I doubted that would be Maitimo’s decision anyway. He was many things — stubborn, vicious when he wanted to be, and sometimes too damn noble for his own good — but foolish had never been one of his flaws.

 

I'd had a trickle of Men making their way over the mountains in the past few months, mostly small, scattered clans, but the group of Men who'd come via the Dwarf-Road this morning were clearly different. My guards hadn’t charged them the usual toll when they arrived – wisely, I thought, because there were several thousand of them and I suspect they would have rioted on the spot. Quashing a Mannish revolt didn't seem like a good use of time or resources.

 

Their leaders sought audience with me through one of the Naugrim, a man called Nâr. He offered to translate for us, and I had no choice but to take him up on it; none of the Men spoke fluent Sindarin. I didn’t know what the East-Men were paying him for his services, but the fee he was charging me was frankly exorbitant. Nâr was ugly, but he wasn’t stupid; I needed him and he knew it, damn him.

 

Five of them came to my hall for the meeting. I received them in full court regalia, ready to play the part of the great lord; I wanted to make it clear who was in charge here. Watching them enter, I saw that they resembled Haleth’s people more than the other Edain, being sturdy and short — not as short as the Naugrim, of course, but I don’t think even one of them neared six feet. I felt no hostility itching against my skin, but they were watching me with wariness in their dark eyes. They made the odd gesture that seemed to function as a bow among their people, all joined fists and lowered heads. Nâr said something incomprehensible, and one of the men stepped forward.

 

“Well met,” he said, his words thickly accented. He bore a great, bushy beard, streaked with grey to match the age lines in his face, but his broad shoulders made it plain that he was not yet in his dotage. A second man stood beside him, younger and with sharper features, but still clearly kin.

 

Nâr spoke. “This is Ulfang, leader of the Rikíshim, and his son Uldor. And this,” he said, gesturing to one of the other men, younger and freckled, “is Bór, leader of the Naríkishim, with his son Borlad.”

 

They bowed again. “I am Lord Caranthir,” I said, inclining my head in return. “I rule these lands. I would like to know, what are your intentions in coming here?”

 

I waited for Nâr to translate, noticing out of the corner of my eye that the fifth of the Men, a bright-eyed adolescent girl whom Nâr had not introduced — a servant, maybe? — was mouthing some of the Sindarin words, her brow furrowed in concentration.

 

Ulfang spoke in response. It seemed that he and Bór sought leave for their people to dwell in Thargelion, as their own lands to the East had been ravaged by weather and disease. They would swear fealty to me and support our war against Morgoth, if we would only grant them a place to farm and herd. Not an unreasonable request, I thought.

 

“I must think on this further,” I told them after a show of deliberation. Really what I needed to do was send messages to Maitimo and Findekáno. It was true that we ruled ourselves mostly, my brothers and I, but in this matter we would need to play the loyal subjects and bend the knee to our king. I doubted he would refuse their request, either; he had his own allies among Men.

 

I had seen the valor of their race in Haleth and her people. Odd Bór and Ulfang might be, but I saw no reason to turn them away.

 

Part I, Chapter V (Uldor)

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The Elf believed us. Of course, Károt spoke the truth, and we were careful to keep our own lies well-hidden, so there was nothing to alert Lord Caranthir to our deception. As for him, he seemed a reasonable enough man, if a bit haughty and dour. That fact that he hadn't come to a decision irked me, though. "What's there to consider?" I asked once we had left his hall behind.

 

Nâr laughed. "Lord Caranthir is not considering," he said. "He's putting on a show. He's very proud, you know. He wants you to think that he's the supreme authority here. But he has to consult his eldest brother, and probably his king as well." 

 

"They have a king?" I said. The Lord of the North’s messenger had made it sound like these Noldor weren’t united.

 

“They do,” Nâr told me. “A fairly new one. His father died in the last great battle against the Lord of the North. But from what I understand, the Noldor are fairly fractured regardless, and Lord Caranthir’s eldest brother has substantial sway with King Fingon. His appeal to the king is likely a formality. It’s Lord Maedhros who will make the real decision.”

 

"And what is this Lord Maedhros like?"

 

"A bit grim," Nâr said after a moment's thought. "He's made of sterner stuff than Caranthir, and I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of his blade, but he's a just man, as Elves go, and not afraid to extend the hand of friendship when it suits him. Lord Azaghâl of Gabilgathol is allied with him."

 

I tucked the information away to pass on to Father when I saw him next. He'd gone off with Károt, both still stewing over our newly given names. Father hadn't wanted to use them; like the Kházad, we valued the proper naming of things, and believed that both a person and a people should be called by the names they used themselves. Giving our own up for their Sindarin translations rankled.

 

But it was best to keep the Noldor happy. Uldor. I was Uldor, son of Ulfang now.

 

***********

 

“I understood a fair amount of what Nâr told the Elf,” Tókhesh – no, Tavoreth – announced at dinner that night. “And he says if I meet him for an hour or two in the mornings he’ll teach me more Sindarin.” She had their R-sound down perfectly, unlike the rest of us, and could pronounce our new names with only the barest trace of an accent. If the loss of her own name bothered her, she didn't let it show. In fact, she seemed excited.

 

"Take him up on it," Father advised. "Nâr has done right by us. He's a good man."

 

Nâr was worth his weight in gold. He'd offered his services free as payment for the times Tókhesh had translated for his people and our Southern neighbors, but Father still insisted on giving him a portion of the coin we had left, for he was providing us with far more than simple translation. The Elves' language, their politics, their laws and social rules… None of it was strange to Nâr, and he placed all of his knowledge at our disposal.

 

"I did," Tókhesh said around a mouthful of beans. Thisí rapped her knuckles on the table, and my niece blushed. "Sorry," she said after she'd swallowed. "But yes, I did. I'm going to meet him by the roadside tomorrow." We were living in makeshift tents about a mile off from the Kházad-Road, still technically on their land, while we waited for Lord Caranthir's decision — or, more accurately, his brother's decision. It was crowded and smokey and we would have been short on water, but a few of the Elf guards had taken pity on us and brought buckets from their own wells. It was kind of them, but I was still wary. They were massive, taller than the trees in our old orchards, and nearly as fog-pale as the Lord of the North's spirit. Even more disconcerting was their eyes: strangely colorless, mostly very light blues and greys. Some were normal enough despite that, but in others, like Caranthir, they glowed with an eerie light, utterly unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

 

Once we'd finished our meal, Father beckoned to me and left the tent. "So they have a king. That sheds a new light on things," he said as we walked off from our hasty settlement, finding a deserted patch of land out of earshot of the others. The fires scattered among our tents danced in the wind as we watched, but the windows of the Elves' keep glowed with steady blue light. "And they're ruled by the eldest son. Like Károt's people."

 

(Károt had not been happy when he discovered that my brother Lupílo, though the oldest, was not actually Father’s heir. But by then the blood-oath had been sworn and his sister’s marriage consummated, and there was nothing he could do.)

 

I pulled my scarf up to cover my head and wrapped my cloak tighter around myself. It was chilly here during the day, but still bearable; the night, on the other hand, was truly frigid. "Nâr says this Lord Maedhros is fair enough. It doesn't sound like we'll be turned away." We couldn't afford to be turned away. Father had sworn in blood, and we had to keep that oath. The gods alone knew what the spirit might do if we broke it. Destroy us, probably — burn us alive or turn us into ghosts, doomed to wander alone until enough tears had been shed to release our souls. "I suppose we just have to wait for them to exchange messages. At least the land looks good. I think we'll do well, if they let us stay."

 

Father nodded. "Like the spirit said, it's never lied to me."

 

"Which spirit is it?" I asked after a moment's silence. "The one from Eagle Hill? I've been wondering."

 

"No," he said. "I only ever saw that spirit once. But this spirit told me that if we began to trade with the Kházad, we would prosper. And we did. Now it says that we will prosper here." He shrugged. "I want our people to thrive, Lúrep. If it will help me in that, then I will listen."

 

"Uldor," I corrected. "Not Lúrep."

 

He let out a huff, half frustration and half amusement. "I'm sixty-three and I can no longer pronounce my family's names, Uldor," he said, the word awkward and heavy in his mouth.

 

"Father—"

 

"Leave me, my son," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

 

I nodded and took my leave, feeling something twist in my chest. When I reached our tent, I didn't sleep, but sat up waiting for his return.

 

He never came.

Part I, Chapter VI (Tókhesh)

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I nearly ran straight into Grandfather on my way to meet Nâr. It was something of a relief to see him, for my uncle said that he had not returned to our tent at all last night, and we were all worried. He looked hale enough, if tired, and I found my mind already resting easier.

 

"Are you all right?" I asked him. "Lúrep said you were out all night."

 

"I'm fine," he said, patting my cheek. "I was seeing to our people, making sure they had enough blankets and food."

 

Of course he was. On impulse, I hugged him, resting my head against his warm, broad chest and feeling his beard scratch against my skin. He took such good care of us, my grandfather, that I sometimes thought my heart would burst with love. Small wonder our people were so loyal to him.

 

He wrapped his thick arms around me in return and kissed the top of my head. "You're a good girl, Tókhesh," he murmured before pulling away. "Now go find Nâr. Learn all you can."

 

I nodded and set off, grinning as he shooed me away. It was brisk and dewy, and while my cloak kept most of my body warm, I soon wished that I had worn thicker socks. By the time I reached the roadside, my toes were uncomfortably damp. But Nâr, bless him, had brought hot broth in one of his strange brass flasks, the ones that the Kházad refused to sell. Trade secret, he'd said years ago, winking at me when I asked.

 

"May Mahal smile upon you," I said, accepting the cup he offered me and wrapping my fingers tightly around it, feeling the warmth seep in through my gloves.

 

He laughed. "You don't worship Mahal, Tavoreth."

 

"No, but you do," I said. I found my new name more pleasing than my father's and my uncles'. The sounds were familiar and the stress fell in a sensible place. Theirs were more difficult — Ulfast, Ulwarth, Uldor. It was so tempting to aspirate at the beginning, to speak of the House of Hulfang. Even my aunt's name, Duineth, was difficult, with its strange combination of vowels. But we would have to grow accustomed to them, it seemed. I had even gone through the rest of my family's names in my head; Pesseth for my mother, Ulthor and Ulýg and Ulbadhor for my dead brothers. But I would pray for them with their true names, still.

 

"You said you have new words for me," I reminded Nâr.

 

"And so I do. But I have something even better." He gestured for me to follow him and set off along the road. It was easier going than the field, for the Kházad took great pride in all their crafts, and the road was smooth and dry. Even my broth barely sloshed in its cup as I walked.

 

"Salph," he said, pointing to my hands. "That's broth. Plural seilph. And judging from the way you've got your cloak pulled tight, You're feeling ring, cold. So if I tell you that Lord Caranthir's brother, Lord Maedhros, rules at Himring, what would you deduce about his home?"

 

"Him…ring… Well, ring is cold, and him is…always? 'Always cold'? That does not sound like a place I would want to live."

 

"Nor I," Nâr said. "But you've got it right."

 

I slowed, as we were approaching the guardposts — one manned by the Kházad, the other by the Noldor — that marked the border between the two peoples' lands. But Nâr continued apace, so after a moment's hesitation I followed. "Nâr?" I asked. "What are we doing?"

 

"Having a real conversation," he said cheerfully. He waved to the two Dwarves who stood by the road, but led me instead to the Elves.

 

"Daro!" one of them said, lifting his spear. Halt. That word I knew. Nâr spoke — something about the weather, I thought, though I wasn't sure — and then beckoned me forward. "This is Tavoreth, daughter of Ulfast," he said. "She needs to practice her Sindarin."

 

"Nar, no," I groaned.

 

"Hush," he said. "You do your best. I'm right here if you get stuck."

 

I peered up at the Elf who had spoken. His eyes lacked the terrifying light of Lord Caranthir's, which was some relief, and I thought I caught a hint of laughter on his face as he studied me. He had lowered his spear as well, clearly not deeming me a threat. "Eh, mae govannen," I said. "Manen le?"

 

We made successful smalltalk. His name, he told me, was Argon, and his companion was Taraharn. They had been guarding this road longer than my grandfather had been alive and had both been born in Beleriand. They had never crossed the mountains, but Argon had seen the ocean, a fabled body of water even greater than a lake and full of salt. I still was not quite sure I believed that it existed, in truth. But I did quite well, I thought, and Nâr seemed pleased by my progress.

 

"I think we'll do this every morning," he said as we took our leave. "Find an Elf for you to talk with. The more time you spend listening to them, the better your accent will be."

 

"It wasn't as awful as I expected," I admitted, and he laughed once more. "Ever the optimist," he said. "Now run along. I have business to see to."

Part I, Chapter VII (Caranthir)

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I received answers from Maitimo and Findekáno a few days later. Findekáno's was unusually short: If they're friendly, let them stay. Not even a greeting. It wasn't like him, and I wondered how badly things were going in Hithlum to make him so terse. But Maitimo's letter was only slightly longer.
 
To Caranthir Feanorion lord of Thargelion greetings from your brother Maedhros head of the House of Feanor, lord of Himring.
 
The Dwarves of Belegost have sent me similar news. They say some of these Men are friendly, while others are not. Keep Bór and Ulfang where they are for now, so long as the Dwarves permit it. I trust your judgement, but I would like to meet them for myself before I come to a decision. I should arrive within the week.
 
With love,
 
Maedhros
 
Well, then. We needed a system of communication, and we needed it before Maitimo arrived. He’d object to having middlemen in our business, particularly middlemen with whom we were cordial at best and whom we grudgingly tolerated at worst. It was time for Nâr to go.
 

 

***********

 
It turned out that I was a little too hopeful. None of the East-Men were fully fluent by the time Maitimo reached us; the closest was the girl who had come to the initial audience, but even she still needed help from Nâr now and again. It amazed me how long it took Men to learn things when their lives were so short, and in my more frustrated moments I couldn't help wondering why Eru had bothered to create such a slow-witted race to start with. Haleth seemed like an anomaly, someone on the far end of the normal distribution curve.
 
"Did you receive King Fingon's answer?" Maitimo asked once we had greeted each other, his hug just a tad too tight as usual.
 
"I did." I glanced up at him and asked, "Do things go ill in Hithlum? His message was very brief."
 
"Things are as well as they can be. They're still recovering from last year's attack."
 
"I see." That wasn't it at all, I could tell, and that left only one possible answer: Findekáno was fighting with his wife again. He loved Ianneth; I didn't doubt that. But he also loved my brother, and the resulting snarl of emotions burned like nettles in all three of them. I had no desire to go digging around in that mess, so I let the subject drop. Maitimo's relief was palpable.
 
"So," he said. "Tell me about these Men. I've been thinking of granting them a place in Lothlann. They could help us retake and hold the Gap."
 
“As far as I can tell, the two main Houses are the House of Ulfang and the House of Bór. You'll be meeting them both this afternoon. I’d say about half these people are Ulfang’s and a third are Bór’s. The rest…” I shrugged. “They’re smaller tribes. The Naugrim don't speak their languages, but some of Bór and Ulfang's people do. That's the only way I've managed to communicate with them so far, through two interpreters at once. But it's ripe for misunderstanding, so I hope somebody masters Sindarin soon. They're certainly taking their time about it."
 
Maitimo laughed. "Have patience. They'll get there eventually. Men don't learn these things as easily as we do, especially the grown ones."
 
"That's true enough. There's a girl who's doing fairly well; I'd lay money that she'll become their interpreter once the Naugrim leave. I think she's kin to either Bór or Ulfang, but damned if I know which or how. She'll probably be there tonight. The Dwarf, Nâr, he tends to drag her around with him." Not someone I'd trust a child with, but then, I didn't trust Nâr at all. There was something sly and smooth about him that I couldn't quite explain, but I didn't like it. Still, he was necessary — for now.
 

 

***********

 
We met with the Men later that day, after Maitimo and his men had refreshed themselves. As I suspected, the girl was there, along with Ulfang and Bór and their sons. Nâr introduced her as Tavoreth Ulfastiel — making her Ulfang's granddaughter — and told us that she would be our primary interpreter that day. She was nervous. I could see it in her wide eyes and quickened breath, and feel it prickling in the pit of my stomach. Maitimo intimidated all of them far more than I had. Between his height and his hair, his missing hand and the fire in his eyes, Maitimo intimidated just about everyone, Man, Dwarf, or Elf. I think the mildness of his voice as he questioned them was the only thing keeping them from turning tail and running.
 
"Why have you and your people come here?" he asked, once introductions had been made. The girl relayed the same events that I had been told: floods, disease, failed crops. A search for a better life. They were seeking what all the other Men had sought, and I sensed no deception as she spoke. She had to refer to Nâr a few times, but in general she performed adequately, and Ulfang and Bór answered our queries without hesitation.
 
At least, they did until Maitimo asked his final question. "If we grant you lands," he said, "will you swear fealty to us? Will you support us in our war against the forces of Morgoth?"
 

The two men were silent, each eyeing the other. Bór said something, softly, and Ulfang answered. Neither Nâr nor Tavoreth offered a translation as they conferred. I wondered at the amount of sway Ulfang seemed to have over Bór. They were clearly allies, equals in name, but perhaps it was Ulfang's age that granted him a greater say. Now and again one of their sons chimed in, and I heard our names scattered throughout the conversation. They were uneasy, afraid, and they spoke at length before appearing to reach a decision. Finally, they turned back to face us. Bór spoke, standing straight and firm, his posturing masking his reservations. 'We will," he said in halting Sindarin. "To Lord Maedhros loyalty we swear."

 
We waited in silence for Ulfang to do the same, but it was Tavoreth who spoke. "Our people will swear loyalty to Lord Caranthir, but we ask one thing," she said. "We ask leave for the Rikíshim to govern our own affairs. My people ask to obey our own laws among ourselves."
 

I glanced to Maitimo, who gave me a barely perceptible nod. This is your decision, his face said. Tapping my fingers on the arm of my chair, I mulled the request over. It seemed reasonable. They weren't asking us to obey their laws, only for their laws to apply to their own internal issues.I didn't want to be Thingol, forcing my own morals onto people who were not my own.

 
"So long as your laws do not offend the nature of the world," I said, and Ulfang and his sons glanced at one another.
 
Slowly, Ulfang knelt down. "To you we swear loyalty," he said, his sons echoing him.
 
"Rise," Maitimo bade them. "My brother and I shall discuss which lands you will be given. Remain where you are while you await our decision."
 
They made their odd bowing gesture and, at Maitimo's dismissal, departed into the evening.

Part I, Chapter VIII (Uldor)

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No one spoke until the seven of us had squeezed into our tent, where we found Lame Haná waiting. She didn’t speak, but simply raised a questioning eyebrow.

 

“They will grant us lands,” Károt said, unsurprised by her presence, for she was wise in many matters and Father often sought her advice. “We swore loyalty to them.”

 

“Was that not hasty?”

 

“Swore in words,” Father clarified. “I will not swear in blood for lands that remain unseen.”

 

Lame Haná nodded, but Károt’s lips thinned. He hadn’t wanted to swear at all, not until we’d seen the place that the Elves were willing to give us. Father had convinced him otherwise. The Elves, he’d argued, would be offended if we refused to swear, and a spoken oath would not bind us in the same way a blood-oath would.

 

And then there had been the matter of which brother we would be swearing to. Károt had found Lord Maedhros more appealing; here was a man who could protect his own, he'd said. For my part, I thought Lord Maedhros had been terrifying, but my heart told me that Lord Caranthir was equally dangerous. Where Maedhros’ eyes were flames, Caranthir’s were twin knives, sharp and piercing in a way that troubled me. But Father had not agreed – not that either of us had said our thoughts aloud, not in front of Károt – and so we had sworn to the younger son.

 

We would see what they had in store for our people.

 

***********

 

They called us back to their keep the next day, inviting us to their midday meal. We left my brothers and Károt’s younger sons behind, bringing only Tókhesh and Nâr along. We needed Nâr, but his presence annoyed the Elves. Lord Maedhros hid it better than his brother, but I could still see it in his briefly narrowed eyes. I half-wondered if Nâr was helping us in part because the Elves disliked him. It was clear that the relationship between their peoples was troubled. Why, I didn’t know; the Kházad had always dealt fairly with us, so I assumed the fault rested with the Elves.

 

The meal was foreign – oddly-spiced meat accompanied by a mixture of grains that they called iaw. At least the roast carrots were familiar enough.

 

“We will give Bór’s people a place south of Lothlann, near my own fortress of Himring,” Lord Maedhros said after the meal, spreading a large map over the table. He gestured to an area bordered by mountains to the North and rivers to the Southeast and Southwest. “And Ulfang, your people will be here, east of the river Gelion, on the borders of Thargelion and Ossiriand.”

 

It was Tókhesh who gathered up the nerve to ask the obvious question. “Where are we now?”

 

Lord Caranthir tapped at a small hill. “This is Amon Ereb,” he said. “The Dwarf-Road is there, and your people are camped over here. The Gelion is the river you crossed on your journey.”

 

Tókhesh relayed his answer to us, and then relayed my own question back to the Elven lords.

 

“Who dwells in Ossiriand? Are they friend or foe?”

 

“Friend,” Lord Maedhros said. “Our youngest brothers, Amrod and Amras, dwell there with some of our people. Our allies the Laiquendi also live there. They’re a wandering people who do more hunting than farming, and thus much of the land remains fertile and open. The area between the river Lascar and the river Thalos, where your people have leave to dwell, is almost entirely unsettled. You will also still be near to Nogrod.” He paused and gave Nâr cordial nod. “The Naugrim lords there tell me that your peoples have a strong economic relationship which they do not wish to lose.”

 

Nogrod. That was the Elves’ name for Túmunzahar, and I wondered again at their unwillingness to call anything foreign to them by its proper name. Nâr had told us that the men who had crossed the mountains years before had all adopted the Elves’ language and laws -- even the Elves’ gods. Though neither Lord Maedhros nor Lord Caranthir had actually raised the subject, they seemed to assume that our people would do the same, and it rankled.

 

But my father and Károt were both nodding, looking satisfied. While no ill will lay between Károt’s people and the Kházad, they also had little interest in dealing with one another, so that fact that his people would be towards the North, far from the Kházad cities, didn’t seem to trouble him. And I couldn’t deny that what the Elves were offering sounded more than fair.

 

“We accept,” Károt said.

 

“As do we,” my father added, though the Sindarin words were still heavy in his mouth.

 

Lord Maedhros smiled. “Then we have an alliance,” he said. “You may lead your people to your new homes as soon as you are ready.”

 

It seemed that yesterday’s spoken oaths were sufficient for the Elves. There wouldn’t be any need for us to swear in blood. That was good, as we would have had to break that oath to keep our promises to the Lord of the North, and our own gods did not look kindly on those who broke agreements that had been sealed in blood. For now, we were safe from their wrath.

Part I, Chapter IX (Tókhesh)

This chapter was inspired by the prompts "language" and "culture" for Tolkien Gen Week on Tumblr.

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Our people were nomads once, before Yéfan the Fearsome united us and built the beginnings of the city we had left behind. But we had been settled for generations, farmers and herdsmen rather than roving warriors. Living in tents was unfamiliar, even after our months of travel.

 

When the storm crashed down upon us the next night, with driving rain, ferocious winds, and the crack and flash of thunder and lightning, we found ourselves dearly missing our old roofed homes. Tents blew open, blew over, collapsed atop their huddled denizens. The ground couldn’t absorb all the water, and the bottoms of some tents sank into muddy puddles.

 

I spent most of the next morning with my aunt, helping stitch the torn fabric of our own tent as my grandfather and my uncles went from family to family, checking to see how each had fared in the night. Thank the gods no one had been hurt beyond a few bumps and bruises, but we were all cold and damp. As the sun finally rose high enough that the shadow of the mountains no longer loomed over us, we took refuge in its warmth.

 

Nâr arrived not long after, with some of his kin, and they helped us with our repairs and our packing, for my grandfather had decided that the storm was a sign that we should travel to our new home without delay. My grandfather, however, exempted me from the duties of packing so that I could continue to study Sindarin with Nâr. As usual, my teacher had new words for me, but before the lesson started, I asked him to wait a moment.

 

“Nâr,” I said, “why do the Noldor not call your people by their proper name? You’re the Kházad. Why do they insist on calling you the Naugrim?” I’d stretched out the first syllable without really meaning to, making the word even uglier to my ears than usual, and I said to Nâr, “It’s not a very nice-sounding word, you know.”

 

Nâr gave a dark laugh and said, “You’re right. It’s not a very nice-sounding word. In fact, it’s not a very nice word. It means ‘stunted folk’.”

 

I felt a rush of indignation on behalf of Nâr and his people. “They call you midgets?” I said, shocked by the elves’ appalling disrespect towards their own allies. “That’s terribly rude!” A thought occurred to me and I added, “What will they call us, I wonder?”

 

“They’re already calling your people the Moerbin,” Nâr told me, flashing me a crooked smile.

 

“‘Dark ones’?” I translated. “Ha! When they’re paler even than your people. Like sickly plants that have never seen the sun.  Seedlings growing under rocks.”

 

Again, Nâr laughed, and he said, “Don’t say that to any of them.” Then, adopting his teacher voice, he continued, “The elves insist on using their own words for everything, even names, rather than adopting other people’s endonyms. It puzzles me, I do admit it, because they’ve adopted the languages of other elves easily. Sindarin isn’t the mother-tongue of Lord Caranthir and his brothers, you know. That’s a different language called Quenya, of which I only know a handful of words.”

 

He paused for a moment, a pensive look on his face, and said, “If I’m completely honest, I think it’s simple arrogance. They think the elvish way is always best. I don’t say this to turn you against them, of course,” he added hurriedly. “I know your people need this alliance, and my own people have done well trading with Lord Caranthir. But you should keep that arrogance in mind, Tókhesh. You’ll likely have to bow your head and play meek and mild until your grandfather has proven his worth to Lord Caranthir. No arguing with him, even if you do think he’s terribly rude. Of the elf-lords I’ve met, I’d say he’s the most given to blunt, rough speech. But my people put up with him, because he’s honest and fair in his business dealings.”

 

“I’ll keep all of this in mind,” I said. “And I’ll be sure to tell my grandfather what you’ve told me.”

 

“No need,” Nâr said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve discussed this at length with him. I offered my services, remember? That means all my knowledge is at your grandfather’s disposal.”

 

It was a relief to know that Nâr had told my grandfather everything he’d told me. But I couldn’t quite quash a hint of disquiet. The Kházad were our allies, but they were allies, too, of the Noldor. What would the Kházad think when we betrayed the Noldor to the Lord of the North? Would that ruin our own friendship with Nâr and his people? That would have to be my grandfather’s worry. I was only sixteen, far too young to have any say in the matter.

 

Before we parted, Nâr pressed a small book into my hands. “To help you learn their alphabet,” he said. “Remember, the more you practice, the easier it’ll get.”

 

I bowed to him in thanks and wished him well until next we met. That afternoon, we left for our new home.

 

End of Part I

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Chapter End Notes

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