Sharpen your swords, O Elves of Nargothrond by maeglin

Left-Hand Man

A right-hand man of distinction gives his great-grandson a lesson on how to sit on the left.

Tirion, Years of the Trees 1475

"Alatatar, why was Prince Nolofinwë sitting to the right of the King? Is that not Prince Feänaro's place?"

The times were not entirely untroubled, so Anwë considered his answer carefully.

"You have seen me seated at Ingwë's right hand. Is it not Ingwion's place?"

"But you're Ingwë's own brother!  Besides, Prince Ingwion was away."

"And Feänaro is in the North, seeking gems.  Nolofinwë, as second in line, serves in Feänaro's stead, as I serve in Ingwion's.  It is entirely proper."

Laurefin seemed satisfied, and the two continued walking back towards the High King's tower. But the boy was ever curious when it came to matters of lordship, and Anwë eager to teach. Who could say, after all, that the young one would not someday lead his own House?

"And did you not wonder who sat so quietly at Finwë's left? That is the Queen's place, is it not?"

"Lord Arattorë, of course!  Queen and Heir are as the left and right hand of a King, but the First Councillor serves in the Queen's absence."

"You are correct, but that was not Arattorë.  It was Lord Bruithwir."

"A lesser councillor, then?" The boy's forehead wrinkled. "But that would be … against protocol, would it not? Should the seat not have simply been left empty?"

"Finwë never errs in matters of protocol. Think. Who is a lord's right hand?"

"His heir, of course.  My grandfather sits at yours, and my father at his, and I at my father's."

"Just so, indyondo.  Ingwë's and Olwë's fathers remained in the Outer Lands. Finwë's followed him here."

"Bruithwir is the King's father?"

"Indeed. You wonder why you have not seen him before, and did not even know who he was?"

"Has he been away from Tirion since before I was born?"

Anwë laughed, not entirely merrily. Bruithwir never ventured far from Tirion these days.

"Consider, Lauron.  A wise lord never withholds advice from his heir.  A wise heir does not gainsay his father.  Yet Finwë is the King, and must rule all of the Noldor according to his own will. What would you do in Bruithwir's stead?"

The boy thought as they walked, allowing several minutes to pass before replying. 

"I would stay away from councils, or at least stay silent in them. I would give my son advice, but no one would ever know whether he took it."

"Just so. Remember that. A day may come when our people establish new realms. Ingwë and the senior princes are all content with what they have, so if that day ever comes, it will be our sons or grandsons, or perhaps their sons, who become Kings."

Anwë smiled and winked at the boy, but did not fail to mark the similarity of this day's lesson to one he'd received from his own father, Imin, not long after Oromë had made himself known to the Elves of Cuiviénen. He wondered once more whether he would ever see the Outer Lands again, and for the first time, the thought gave him a chill.

Chapter End Notes

Laurefin is, of course, Glorfindel.

"Alatatar" and "indyondo" are my best efforts at the Quenya words for "great-grandfather" and "great-grandson."

Tolkien never says Ingwë was Unbegotten, so here I'm made him the son of Imin (the first Elf to awake at Cuivenen), and given him a brother, Anwë.  Glorfindel is a Noldo, of course, but presumably has plenty of Vanyarin blood, so I took the liberty of making a descendant of that brother.

This story is set 20 Valian Years (equivalent to about 195 Sun-Years) before the Darkening, and I imagine Glorfindel as being a half-grown boy here, equivalent to a 10-year-old human.