The City Over the Mountains by Narya

Chapter 2

This chapter was written in response to the Silmarillion Holiday Challenge 2020; participants received a postcard with a quote or message to inspire their fic.

I am sorry for anyone who has waited for me to update this; it has been an age since I posted a very brief beginning, and then seemingly abandoned it. As you can see, it isn't abandoned :) it's one of two longer pieces I intend to work on more in 2021, and the chapters will get longer, but for now, here is a brief wintry update.

He blamed himself, afterwards, for what happened with Voronwë.

At first he was struck by the boy's resemblance to Findis. The tumbling dark hair, the gentle grey eyes, the bashful reserve – they were all hers. Memory and yearning stirred in his heart as he thought of the home he had forsaken.

And yet I would not go back, he thought, watching Ecthelion as he laughed by the fire with Glorfindel. I would do all of it again, and not ask to return.

He attended his lord with unobtrusive care, watching from the shadows and sipping wine when he was not required. Duilin whispered under the arches with his wife Netiliel, as though they were both youths in the blush of first love. The lady Aredhel danced with Egalmoth and Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and with her brother the King, and she smiled and laughed and chattered brightly with the ladies of the court – but if one listened, her voice rang hollow, and there were shadows behind her eyes.

You would leave here too, would you not, lady – were it not for the love you bear your brother?

He made no attempt to reach her mind; they were not friends enough for that. But he saw. He knew.

Voronwë, meanwhile, danced with half the maids in the room and drank with even more. Elemmakil smiled fondly as the lad's cheeks reddened and his eyes shone with laughter and wine. He tried not to let his gaze linger, very aware that the younger man was watching him, and knowing that wistful look all too well. Even so, he occasionally allowed their glances to meet – an acknowledgement, he told himself, and a gentle warning to the boy.

I see you. And I cannot give you what you think you want.

But Voronwë's blush only deepened, and he smiled and looked shyly away.

Fool, Elemmakil scolded himself. Don't encourage it. Leave him be.

Yet as night stretched towards dawn, and the music swirled and the wine glowed like an ember in his belly, he made his way to Voronwë's side. He intended, as carefully as possible, to let the younger man down – but he found himself disarmed by Voronwë's candour, his insight, his kindness. Few (he hoped) had ever recognised what he felt for Ecthelion, still less offered to let him speak of it. And Voronwë was charming, lovely and utterly guileless. When he invited Elemmakil back to his chambers, it was easy – far too easy – to say yes.

He should not have allowed it, he told himself later, holding Voronwë as he slept. Not with the boy so deep in his cups. He stayed awake, listening to the deep, contented breathing of his bedmate, and watched as the fire burned low and the snow fell softly outside. Once a log snapped in the hearth; Voronwë frowned and stirred, murmuring nonsense, and Elemmakil stroked his hair.

“Hush. It's nothing.” He brushed his thumb over Voronwë's cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

The younger man settled; his sweet, handsome features relaxed, and Elemmakil sighed. Fool, he said to himself again. What was done was done – but there was no need to take things further.

When morning arrived, crimson spilled across the land.* In the still hush of dawn, Elemmakil slipped quietly away.

Chapter End Notes

* This sentence was the prompt from my postcard.