Bloody silmarils, book I by Dilly

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Chapter 9: The 'Hug'

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It was about a month since Turgon had returned to Nevrast, in the capital of Vinyamar, the oldest Noldorin city in Middle Earth, located on the coastline.

But that morning it was an hour past his usual wake-up time, and he still hadn't moved from his bed. The shutters remained closed.

Someone knocked.

"Majesty?"

"Come in..." replied the King.

It was Penlodh.

The adviser said nothing. He moved a chair next to the bed and sat down. The King was half lying down, his back resting on a pile of pillows. His face looked completely drained of energy.

"Your Majesty, I think it's necessary that you get up."

"Penlodh... How long will this take, again?"

"One week."

"Why?"

Turgon's handsome and severe face twisted into a painful grimace.

"I made your special tisane," the steward said at last.

He took the gold bell that hung from his waist and rang it. Two servants entered, one carrying a tray, the other with a steaming pot of water.

"Thank you Penlodh."

 

 

Once Turgon had gotten up, after a half hour of discussion with Penlodh, he took another two hours to get ready. He took a bath and was sumptuously dressed by his servants. Next, they tended his long black hair that reached his waist. Turgon never braided his hair, preferring to leave it loose, only held back by a white-gold circlet, but this occasion called for a more elaborate coiffure. So he had his hair done in the old style of Tirion, which is to say that several strands were pulled back into a twist behind his head and tied in a bun.

When that was done, he went to make sure that the kitchens were ready for the visitors. Then he went to the Lighthouse of Vinyamar, built on one of the protrusions of Mount Taras, and stationed himself on the grand circular terrace, where he had a view of the entire Eastern side of the city and the plains of Nevrast. For the moment there was nothing to be seen on the horizon, just bright white clouds and fog. To the West, houses of granite were decorated with blue banners bearing the Noldorin High King Fingolfin's emblem. Large flags also graced the walls.

Turgon looked back to the plain. He squinted. The bright cloud seemed to coalesce and become more distinct. Men in armor?

A sharp noise startled him. Something flew past a meter from his shoulder. He turned. An arrow stuck in the gap between two stones.

But it wasn't an Elven arrow, and attached to it was a hollow cylinder with a message. Turgon removed the arrow and opened the cylinder. He sighed.

Written on the paper were these words:

 

                        HELLO, LITTLE BROTHER!!

 

The time was here.

The nightmare had begun.

 

 

Ecthelion and his squire had milled about the crowd watching the parade of arrivals from Hithlum.

Belin the Blond, the miller's son, had certainly changed since his adventure in the vampire's lair.  He was clean shaven, his blond hair was carefully braided and held behind his ears.  His clothes were light blue and silver, the colors of his master's House, and the emblem of the fountain was sewn here and there.

"You look much better like this," commented Ecthelion.

"I admit so, but these boots are still too tight about the foots."

"The what?"

"The foots, milord."

"You mean to say the feet, I suppose. Look, here they come!"

The trumpets blared another time.

"Oh, milord!  How handsome is that one there!  That's the King's nephew, no?  He looks like him, but less grumpy." 

The Noldorin elf behind them laughed.

"But that's not the King's nephew, my young friend. It's his father. Look at his headpiece."

"Ah ! It's quite true he has a sorta crown, just like on the gold coins. But how can that be, him looking younger than his son King Turgon ?  And that guy there, that must be his twin brother... he's the same, but with braids."   

"No, that one there, that's his son."

Ecthelion made a sort of strangled cry. Belin raised his eyebrows, having already gotten lost in the family tree.

"The son of Fingolfin," the Noldo explained to the human. "Findekáno Fingolfinion."

"Findekáno? And Fingon? He here too? Milord? Are you ok?"

 

 

"My son !" exclaimed Fingolfin when he came before the throne in full armor.  "It is such a pleasure to see you! And my daughter!" 

Exceptionally clad in an actual dress, Aredhel smiled wanly, having to await her brother's signal.  Turgon stepped forward, as was the custom. Once he was before the High King, he knelt, kissing his right hand.

"My King..."

He stood up.

Fingolfin looked worried.  He raised his eyebrows, which were pointed like his son's, his grey eyes dimmed.

"Turgon, will you not give me a hug?"

"Oh no. I don't really like those..."

"See her ! Your brother Fingon always gives me a hug!"

"Father..."

"Fingon, give me a hug."

Fingon came forward next to Fingolfin, a weak smile on his lips.  Turgon noted with a certain jealousy that his older brother's braids were still the longest.  Interwoven with golden chains, they came down to his knees.  How did he do it?  Turgon's own hair still barely reached his waist.  

The valiant prince then drew his sword as Fingolfin knelt.  In that moment, he struck his neck with the flat of his blade.  His father did not seem affected, and he jumped up immediately as if on a spring.

"And now for you!"

Fingon knelt in his turn, and undid his braids.  Fingolfin took his great sword Ringil, and gave him a blow.  His son stood as if he'd just had a nice massage.

"Now it's your turn, Turgon..." he said, Ringil still in his hand.

"No Father, not this..."

"Oh well... I'm sure your sister..."

"Either my sister or..."

"To make your dear old father happy..."

"You're not that old."

"Oh, don't be silly!"

Against his will, Turgon knelt, and braced his neck muscles.  He saw his father's feet move, felt a rush of air against his neck and then an intense pain that didn't even have time to dissipate.

Because he fainted.

 

His sleep was filled with nightmares. He was back in his childhood. His brother Fingon bounded into his room like a thunderstorm and teased him for spending all his time reading and not enjoying the outdoors. His mother Anairë wanted to teach him all sorts of complicated instruments and forced him to take music lessons.

In moments of great loneliness he stayed happily by his cousin Finrod, who was the same age. Often they sat outside drawing. But suddenly Finrod was a wolf who mauled him to death.

 

"Sire! Do you hear me?"

It was the voice of Penlodh.

Turgon turned towards him. He found himself in the canopied bed in his room in Vinyamar.

"I'm being stupid... It was nothing but a bad dream..."

Then he saw Glorfindel, Aredhel, and even Fingon were at his side. And he felt as weak as a wet towel.

"You fainted, Majesty," explained Penlodh. "I think a cup of your special tisane will make you feel better."

"It's a tisane for headaches?" asked Fingon worriedly.

"No, for depression," Turgon replied laconically.

 

And it was true.

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

The original title is "L'accolade".