In Cavern's Shade by Castile181

Chapter 1: The Bitter Expanse

Read Chapter 1: The Bitter Expanse

The Bitter Expanse

In Cavern's Shade: 1^st Chapter

 ***** 

"There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."

– The Great Gatsby

 ***** 

         This barren ice was as cold as it was wild, as beautiful as it was desolate, an endless mirror stretching into oblivion, a coffin of the purest glass. From the snow the mountains rose cold and unforgiving, sharp peaks of clearest ice glowing with an ethereal blue light from deep within. It was a world heretofore unknown, crossed only by the Valar and Ungoliant.

         At night they mourned those who had perished by falling snow and the great cracking of the sea of ice. In their dreams they realized the crippling but unspoken fear that tomorrow they might be the mourned rather than the mourners and, for the first time, the very real fear of what had once been incomprehensible death enveloped them in her icy mantle. Night after night Turgon had sat by the fire, inconsolable; at times he was silent while at others he wept outright yet always in his eyes was the look of one haunted by the unshakeable specter of guilt for those he could not save, for Elenwe, gone into the murky black grave. 

         The traitorous ice had cracked beneath her feet and she had plummeted to the freezing water below, her fingernails grasping frantically, uselessly at the lip of ice while Turgon bolted to her like an arrow loosed from a bow. But by the time he reached the spot where she had fallen, the ice had shifted and covered her. Then Turgon had taken his sword from its sheath and, in a desperate attempt to save his wife’s life, hacked away at the ice while she clawed desperately at the underside of it. Yet it was of little use and gradually the bubbles of air that had escaped her mouth slowed, then stopped. By the time the others had reached them she had been still and frozen, her eyes open in death, her face already purpling. It had been a sight terrible to behold, the most recent in a seemingly endless concatenation of horrors, and despite their best efforts they had been unable to retrieve her body. 

         The sound rebounded off of the mountains like thunder, a great booming in the depths of the ice that stopped them all in their tracks, and a crack as sharp and loud as that of a great tree being seared by a white-hot bolt of lightening. She felt a lurch beneath her feet and then she was sliding on her stomach, spread eagled, over the ice.  Her head hit hard and immediately a sharp painful throbbing started between her eyes and at the base of her skull.  Her mouth, which had opened to allow for the natural impulse of a scream was quickly filled with the water and snow that made up the layer of film covering the ice.  She had bitten her tongue.  The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth and she coughed up bloody snow. Her eyelashes were dusted with cold fresh powder. 

         Her arms flew out as she made to stop her desperate slide across the ice and she dug in her fingernails, which made an awful screech, like rusted metal, small balls of ice and snow accumulating beneath them as she worked to slow her mad glide. She could feel her stomach lurching with fear and adrenaline and the image of Elenwe’s frozen purple face beneath the ice, staring up at them with dead accusatory eyes flashed through her mind. If she could not stop herself she would most certainly die. Death: a word she had long known but only recently come to understand. The cold sent shivers through her spine, which twitched involuntarily at the sensation. She felt the delicate skin of her fingertips separate from her nails and then the nails themselves tear like paper, a fresh pain racked her entire body as she slammed into the ungentle arms of an outcropping of ice. At the impact it felt as if cold knives had been plunged into her spine. Yet, she had stopped; she was alive. 

         A lesser woman, or one without such strong resolve or sense of duty, might have lain there until the others came to pull her to her feet and offer to let her ride on a sled, but she was not like that and so, waving away the frantically helpful hands of those who had rushed to her aid, she stood, with great pain and a great struggle, though she showed it not. Her heart was still hammering within her chest and her eyes were brimming with tears so she refrained from raising her head, lest she betray her true emotions and quickly brushed snow off of her cape, noticing that pools of blood were forming under her nails where the skin had torn. Her hands were cracked from the dry air and the cold. How very cold it must be, to have even such an effect on elves. Quickly, so that no one would see, she wrapped her bleeding hand in the folds of her cape and pulled it tight around her.

         She was Artanis. She was Nerwen. She was the daughter of Finarfin. She was a princess of the Noldor. She lifted her aching head and straightened her back. For her people she knew she must go on. She had to be an inspiration to them in this trial, to remind them of their greatness, to remind them that they would prevail.  They looked to her for strength and it was her duty and privilege to give strength to them.  As her eager helpers faded back into the group of elves, she walked steadily to her brother Findaráto who was leading the group of Noldor at Fingolfin's side. Coming to march beside him she gathered her thin cloak about her forearms once more, for it had been slipping in the blustering winds, and wrapped it around her gown, though it did her little good, soaked from her slide as it was. The cloak, like the rest of her clothes, was far too thin. They had been unprepared but, then again, they had never expected to cross the Helcaraxe, never expected Feanor to do what he had done. Artanis clenched her eyes shut momentarily, willing those memories away before the dark thoughts could overtake her. 

         “Artanis, are you well?” Findaráto whispered anxiously, lightly touching her arm with his hand, his kind black eyes searching for pain in her blue ones. Though her oldest brother was her most loyal and beloved confidant, she was rattled and did not wish him to see her upset as he would worry over her incessantly. Pulling her hood over her head, she turned away. 

         “Nothing I cannot handle, thank you brother.”  Nerwen replied, keeping her head down. Her mouth was still pooling with blood and she was forced to swallow it, wishing most ardently that her tongue would stop its bleeding. She heard Findaráto sigh at her left side. He knew she was in pain but he wouldn’t pursue the issue, knowing better than to baby his willful sister, and instead turned to speak to the young elf woman walking on his other side, Wilwarin, who had been given extra cloaks because she was with child. Perhaps, thought Artanis, Wilwarin should have stayed in Aman, but she had refused to be separated from her husband, who traveled with Findaráto’s host, even though she knew it would be especially hard for her. And, after all, who among them could have predicted this? Even she, cursed with foresight, had not. What further horrors lay ahead?

         Artanis pulled her threadbare cloak around her more tightly. She didn’t shiver anymore, though she had at first. She was used to the cold now; it had numbed her body and senses into acceptance. She would finish this long march.  She had embarked on it and she would finish it, be it in death, as Turgon’s wife had, or in the reaching of safety in Endor. 

         Though, if the rumors she had heard were true, it was inhabited only by the Moriquendi who were mostly savage, hardly safe to be around. Findaráto had high hopes of seeking shelter with them and even suggested that the two cultures, Calaquendi and Moriquendi, be blended. Others, such as Feanor, believed that in this view her brother’s wisdom had failed him, that to blend with them in culture and blood would be to dilute the purity of their own race. He had even spoken against the Teleri, whom he had always deemed the least of the Calaquendi, rebuking Olwe and saying, “you renounce your friendship, even in the hour of our need. Yet you were glad indeed to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers, and well nigh empty handed. In huts on the beaches would you be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carve out your haven and toiled upon your walls.” 

         In this manner had Feanor’s words sat ill with Artanis for she herself bore Telerin blood from her mother and the implications of such speech troubled her greatly. She shivered now, not a shiver of cold but one born of distaste, for she recalled the way that she had worshipped her uncle Feanor and now, after the horrible things that he had done, she wondered how she could have been so blind, how she could have allowed his words to stir her, and she looked upon her past self with great distaste. 

         Nevertheless, she thought, turning her mind to happier thoughts, she expected that the Moriquendi would be glad to see them. They would have heard of the great wisdom and skill of the Noldor, who would only be too glad to educate their kin in their ways and perhaps together they would be able to rid all Arda of Morgoth. 

         The thought brought a smile to her face. This was why she had come. To explore, to conquer.  She was weary of Valinor, of lands where she felt caged, always confined to being someone's daughter, someone's sister, a land where there was no room to be anything more than what you had been born. But her mind yearned for lands without a horizon, where she might establish her own kingdom in her own right, where she would bow to no one. 

         That night they built a stack of kindling from some of their salvaged belongings and lit it with the two precious stones of flint, the bedraggled group of survivors crowding around the meager source of light and heat. There were no stars in the sky tonight, the indigo void above as empty as her stomach. 

         Artanis gazed into the flames.  Sometimes she still imagined she could see Feanor burning the swan ships of the Teleri, leaving Fingolfin, Artanis, and her brothers to die along with their people.  Betrayal. He had left them with no other way but to brave the Helcaraxe. Even then, she could have turned back as her father had done, as he had begged her to do. But though she had not taken the terrible oath of Feanor and his sons, she had taken an oath of her own, to establish herself as a queen in her own right and to thereby thwart evil in all things. 

         It seemed so long ago that he had reached out and tugged gently on her hair as they stood beneath the light of the two trees, caressing it, and, though she had admired him, she had not liked his touch, her skin crawling at the merest brush of his fingers, and she had shrunk away. 

        “You would not miss a single strand. Twice have I asked and twice you have refused. This time I beg you give me a different answer... You are so beautiful to me Artanis.”

         It was unnatural and her heart revolted against his sentiment. At a loss for words she had slapped his hand away, running from the plaza.  Although he called her beautiful, when he said it, she felt disgusting. His eyes contained an unsettling strangeness, perhaps that’s what it was, perhaps that was all that he was, fire, burning and destroying. 

           There was blood everywhere, staining the beaches and the tide was rising, stained incarnadine.  She saw Curufin plunge his blade into the heart of a tall silver haired elf, blood burbling around the wound as he withdrew the crimson stained weapon.  Saliva, froth, tinted pink with blood, trickled from the mouth of the Teleri as he crumpled into a heap on the dock. He twitched and then was still as a milky film glazed eyes that had only a few moments earlier, been full of shock and terror.

           The Teleri still did not comprehend what was happening and their confusion cost them dearly for they had been unarmed and they had hesitated to escape when the Feanorians had first drawn their swords, unable to believe that their kinsmen truly intended to slaughter them. Everywhere there were people running and the air was filled with screams. Artanis could feel the tears running down her face. She had been raised here in Aqualonde, amongst her mother’s people, and now wherever she turned she saw familiar faces, cold and glassy eyed in death. 

           A newly severed head bounced to the dock from the shoulders of its owner and spun like a top. Startled, she lurched backwards, tripping into a fountain. The water from it sprayed onto her face and she shrieked as she noticed that it was red with blood, the entrails of the disembowled floating lazily across the gruesome surface. Hands wrapped around her neck from behind and she struggled violently, choking hard, her chest tightening, and managed to shake her attacker off, turning to find herself facing a she elf who was with child. 

           Artanis gasped, confused, unable to understand what was happening. The Teleri lunged at her again shrieking, fear, pain, and anger in her eyes. She was afraid that Artanis would kill her and Artanis stood frozen. Then, the she elf was knocked off of her feet as Celegorm charged at her. She fell, hitting her head on the ledge of the fountain, blood and brainmatter beginning to leak from her cracked skull but somehow she was still alive. “No!” Artanis gasped. “No!” 

           “GO TO THE BOATS!” Celegorm screamed at her. He grabbed the Teleri by her silver hair and thrust her head into the red pool. She did not struggle hard, already half dead, and her body soon went limp, collapsing against the stone. Artanis stood stunned. It was like a horrible dream. Surely, surely she would awaken any moment. “ARTANIS GO!” He shouted again, smacking her hard across the face. It shocked her out of her frozen stupor. All that she knew how to do was run and run she did, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. A vision, white hot and burning, seared across her vision: Feanor, the silver scalps of the Teleri hanging from his belt, his eyes gone mad. She reached the boats to find his sword pointed at her throat.

           “Three times you denied me! Think you now that I shall allow you to pass?” He screamed, his face contorted with anger and madness. He swung wildly at her and she turned, fleeing from the ships shrieking, clawing at her head. Her mother’s kin were dying all about her. It vanished. 

           Suddenly she was in a much different place.  She lay upon soft silken sheets and a bright white light filled her mind.  She felt warmth beside her.  A hand caressed her cheek gently, a soft kiss on her lips, then the hollow of her neck.  A soft rich laugh.  The whisper of a name: Galadriel. She smiled and then it was gone. 

           Artanis awoke with a start.  Her breath was ragged and her heart pounding, her body shaking and not because of the cold.  She had felt fear and then joy. She lay back down as one of the elves standing guard over the sleeping company looked at her anxiously.  Her dreams were growing more troubled lately and they were increasingly confusing.  For days after the kinslaying her memory had remained blank. And then, then, the memories had started to return in pieces. She lay awake, unable to resume her slumber. 

***** 

            The arrow flew straight and struck true, landing dead center in the gnarly black head of an orc. Celeborn, silver-haired prince of the Sindar turned to direct a thankful nod at Beleg Strongbow, who sat perched in a tree with his mighty black bow. The master archer grinned back in acknowledgment and Celeborn lazily turned to sink his mithril axe into the neck of an orc that was coming straight towards him.

            Ever since Thingol and Denethor had led them to victory against Melkor’s forces in the Battle of Beleriand, the attacks by the orcs had been getting weaker and weaker. They had marshaled a force to send south in support of Cirdan, who had been besieged at Eglarest and Brithombar but, since Denethor had been slain and the Laiquendi had refused to fight without him, the force had been too weak and it was repelled. Bauglir had dealt them a blow indeed, though they had triumphed, and it would take them years to return to their former glory but return they would, for this was the land of Elu Thingol, High King of Beleriand.

            Celeborn bent to wipe his axe on the fallen leaves and smiled as he heard Beleg whooping and singing a Sindarin war song. The orcs had all been slain and the elves milled about, checking the corpses for anything of use before leaping into the trees and heading back towards Menegroth, crossing the girdle into their hidden kingdom. They sang as they ran and as they swung through the trees, falling in with Beleg’s song. 

The four winds are blowing,
A war party came a riding,
They came riding on wolves.
Their teeth they were sharp,
Sharp as knives in the dark.
Our arrows they were sharper,
Our blades they were sharper,
We have obliterated every trace of them!

They sent up a great shout as the song came to an end and then Celeborn began to lead them in song, the others joining in.

We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the earth.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the earth.

Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,
Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the sky.

            They ran throughout the day, eager to return to their home after weeks spent outside the girdle in the wilderness. As much as Celeborn missed Menegroth, he was quite certain that he could live forever in these woods. He loved the feeling of the wind in his face and the living trees beneath his feet. He could hear them singing as he passed through, greeting him, his old friends. From the tops of the tallest sycamores he could see all of Doriath spread out beneath him, a sight that never failed to strike wonder into his heart. There was never a time when he felt more wild and free, never a time when he felt happier than this, to see his kingdom in all of her beauty.

            Moving quickly, they reached Menegroth by nightfall and passed happily through those gates of the hidden kingdom. Dinner was underway but some of their company headed for the bathhouses instead while Celeborn and Beleg, sick of eating nothing but lembas, dried meat, and nuts, headed for the great hall, where dinner awaited. It was in the Sindarin tradition for all to eat together there, which they did by sitting on cushions around low tables set on the floor. All were free to wander as they pleased and most did so, moving from table to table, sampling different foods and conversations as they went. Here kitchen maids mingled freely with the king’s counselors and animal and elf alike was welcome. Dinner here was not a chore to be quickly done with, no, it was an event to be relished and enjoyed over the course of an entire evening.

           Celeborn and Beleg moved slowly through the hall for there were many who wished to greet them or have words with them but before they could satiate their growling stomachs, a messenger approached to summon them to Thingol’s chambers and it was with much regret that, as they left the hall, they looked back at the steaming trenchers of roast boar meat and grilled fish and forest herbs.

          “That shot!” Celeborn exclaimed with a laugh as they tread the familiar path to Thingol’s quarters. He stopped momentarily, reenacting it. “That was a fine bit of archery Beleg, like shooting a fresh melon.” He laughed and strode forward once more.

          “Just doing my job your highness,” Beleg replied with a grin. “Not all of us feel the need to perform theatrics with our axes,” he spun about, performing a mockery of Celeborn’s fighting style, laughing.

         “Your highness…” Celeborn scoffed, “you mock me Strongbow!” But their antics continued no further for they had arrived at Thingol’s great door and Celeborn knocked, though he waited for no reply before entering. “Uncle, I say, calling us away from our dinner. Do you not think that most cruel and unusual?” The prince asked, feigning complete seriousness as he stood at rigid attention before the king, who was sitting in his chair behind his desk.

         “Not so cruel and unusual as what I might have done to you had you not heeded my summons,” Thingol said with a raised eyebrow and a grin, for he could not entirely mask his amusement at the antics of the two younger elves. Celeborn’s name meant ‘silver tree’ and yet Thingol often pondered that ‘silver tongue’ might have been more appropriate, whether for better or for worse, for the prince’s words could either smooth over the most bitter of quarrels or cut one down to the very bone itself. “And besides,” the king continued, turning to Melian his queen, who sat to his right, “we have received very shocking and important news that I would tell you immediately, before word of it spreads like wildfire throughout this city.”

          “Well if it is interesting enough then we may forgive you after all,” Celeborn said to his uncle.

           It was Melian who laughed at her nephew’s earnest expression and then she said, “As the both of you well know, I have been particularly perceptive of a changing lately, though I knew not what that change was until today. But, at last, we have had word from Cirdan and, not only him, but from our cities in the Northwest.”

          “May I be permitted to hope that this is good news?” Beleg asked them. “For neither one of you looks particularly somber.”

          “Whether good or bad we cannot yet tell,” said Thingol, “but it is certainly news that would invite caution, though there may a part of it that is joyous as well. Time will tell with it, as it does with all things. Yet, be not impatient and allow us to speak properly. Today we received word from Cirdan at Falas that the orcs which were attacking have drawn back at last,” the king said, a grin upon his lips and a twinkle in his eye. He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his desk. “Good news not only for Cirdan, but for us as well, for long had I worried that I could not send him the army he needed and now my worries have been assuaged and Menegroth need not tax herself so harshly to meet that demand.”

           And at this Celeborn cocked his head, eyeing his uncle quizzically, for though he enjoyed his jests and good fun, he was above all a highly intelligent lad and Thingol could see that his nephew’s mind was already bent upon the matter fully. It was, indeed, the reason that the king had named the young silver-haired prince as his right hand. “Do you mean to tell us that Cirdan has managed to push them back himself unaided or can it be that they have retreated of their own accord?” Celeborn asked. “For it seems to me that both of these scenarios seem highly unlikely. It may well be that Cirdan could have achieved this but it would have taken him a much longer time than it has done.”

            “Well said nephew,” Thingol gave answer, “and, indeed, you have struck near the truth. Bauglir’s forces abandoned their siege of the havens in favor of joining another battle.”

             And now it was Beleg who reasoned aloud, saying: “Another battle…but with whom? Denethor’s people? Yet that cannot be, for they have sworn to never fight again after Denethor was slain.”

            “This also is true,” Thingol said, for it was not Denethor’s people who joined in battle with Bauglir’s forces. Rather, it was to move against one called Fëanor that the orcs abandoned their siege of Falas,” Thingol replied, the satisfaction in his eyes coming together as his tale neared its climax. He did so love to make them think but both of them stared back at him with blank expressions.

            “Fëanor? But who is he?” Celeborn asked, “For I have never before heard his name and it seems strange to me that one whom I do not know should enter into this realm without my knowledge.” Both he and Beleg were looking intently at their king now.

            “He is the son of my dear friend Finwe, or so my reports from our people who live in the north say,” Thingol said simply. At that both Beleg and Celeborn grew wide-eyed with shock, for whatever news they had expected, it had never been this. “The Noldor have returned,” the king said.

           “What of the Vanyar? What of the Teleri?” Beleg asked.

           “Either they have not come at all and will not or they have not yet come,” Thingol said. “At the moment only the Noldor have arrived.”

           “A very strange turn of events indeed,” Celeborn mused aloud.

           “Is this not cause for rejoicing?” Beleg asked. “Surely it cannot be coincidence that they arrived in our hour of need, as Cirdan was besieged with us powerless to help him. Perhaps they have been sent by the Valar to assist us. For the loss of Denethor was a great blow indeed and without the assistance of the green elves we were not even able to assist Cirdan at the havens. If their force is large enough we might be able to take decisive action against Bauglir.” But Celeborn did not throw his lot in with Beleg for he had taken notice of Melian and the uncertainty that he saw in her eyes, finding that it rhymed well with a certain foreboding that seemed to trouble his heart.

           So instead he said: “And yet why should the Valar see fit to answer our prayers now when they have consistently turned deaf ears upon our pleas? For out of all of them only Orome shared in both our pleasures and our sorrows.” Beleg turned a skeptical eye on his friend, for the prince’s habit of blasphemy had ever struck him as ill, but Celeborn continued to speak, saying: “Could it not be that this is no triumphant return, but an exodus caused by some event in Aman, some great trouble or unrest? And should not the fact that none of our Telerin brethren nor any of the Vanyar travel with them be evidence enough that there may have been some discord to which we are not privy?

           “When I contemplate this question, my heart grows disquiet indeed and I find that my mind immediately wishes to know more of this situation, to know if these Noldor are well prepared, as if for a journey long-planned, or whether they are in disorder, seeming like one who steals from his bed in the middle of the night. There are those who might say that this line of questioning is mere folly for Aman is good and all of the fruit that she bears is equally good. Yet on some rare occasions have I seen a prized tree yield a spoiled apple and so I find that I cannot believe that any land, even Aman itself, does not bear some stain.”

           Thingol sit in silence for a long while contemplating the matter, for these were thoughts that had not occurred, even to the him and Melian, and he found himself astounded at the wisdom of his nephew. Young though he was, he was aptly named wise.

           At length Thingol shifted in his seat and began to speak again. “Many ages have we been separated from our kin in Aman and so we cannot with certainty say what might have passed or understand how they may have changed in the time in which we have not had contact with them. Yet you are right indeed to wonder these things nephew, and I find even that you have brought questions to my mind which I had not previously considered.

          “Upon first hearing the news, I, like Beleg, was overjoyed to think that I might once more meet my kin, from whom I have been long sundered, and my mind ran even so far as to think that perhaps the way had been opened to us and the Eldar might now pass freely between Aman and Middle Earth,” Thingol said. “Yet when I pondered further I grew uneasy, for I wondered why Bauglir should have returned so suddenly to our lands and begun to build up once more his fortress of Angband, and I think not that it is mere coincidence that the Noldor have come so soon after he. And there are many questions that I have concerning the strange goings on of late: these two lights, one gold and one silver, that now circle the sky and the increase in Bauglir’s strength that led to the war we have only just finished. I should very much like to know the answers to these questions.” So said the king.

           “Can you not see what has happened?” Celeborn said, turning to Melian but she shook her magnificent head.

           “The way is closed to me, concealed with a darkening shroud,” the queen told him, “I dreamed that I walked through the forest in a starless night when before me lay a gate of stone so great that I could neither see over it nor pass around it. It was as tall as a mountain and seemed to span the entire earth. There hung from its top a long black curtain that seemed to billow in the wind though there was no breeze and yet I could see nothing on the other side for it seemed only darkness lay there. As I approached, a great fear came over me and then from the other side I heard thousands of voices whispering to me in a language I could not understand yet it seemed that they called to me for help, entreating with me to save their lives. But, as I placed my hand upon that shroud I suddenly knew that were I to pass through, I could never return and I should be gone forever. Then the voices all cried out at once and were immediately silenced.” Celeborn felt a cold chill creep down his spine at the Queen’s words and from the look in Thingol’s eyes he knew that the king had already heard this tale and that he and Melian had discussed it with concern. These were dark tidings indeed.

          “These Noldor carry a great evil with them,” she continued. “It is something the like of which I have never seen, yet I cannot perceive it clearly, though I have sent my creatures to watch them and though I myself have wandered ghostlike amongst them at night. It is an evil so great that they dare not speak it aloud nor give it name.” At her words, Celeborn found his heart was greatly troubled for he had never known Melian to be thwarted in her designs and so he surmised that this evil must be great indeed and carefully guarded.

          “We must be wary,” Thingol said. “This may merely be the precursor to worse things that are to come.” Celeborn could understand his king’s wariness well. Never had he heard Melian speak of such dark things but he was well aware of the veracity of her premonitions and, like Thingol, it was not something he would take lightly. “It is, therefore, my decree that none but the children of Finarfin be allowed within the girdle of our realm.” The king continued. “For these four alone we have judged to be innocent of the stain. Beleg,” Thingol said, turning to the chief warden, “you will communicate this information to the other march wardens and most especially to Maglor when he returns from our borders.”

           “The children of Finarfin?” Celeborn asked.

           “My sources say that there are four, three males and a female, though they journey alongside Fingolfin’s people, separately from the Fëanorian host. It seems that some rift has opened between the two groups though we cannot know what it is. And here is an answer to your earlier question nephew, for while Fëanor’s host is fit and healthy, the hosts of Fingolfin and the house of Finarfin appear as paupers, dressed in rags, emaciated such that their bones are tight against their skin. Yet we could not discern all that had happened, for the scouts that discovered them do not speak their language.”

           “Did our people initiate contact?” Beleg asked.

           “No, not with Fingolfin’s host and the children of Finarfin who travel with them. The Noldor do not know that we are tracking them. But it seems that Fingolfin’s party has come into contact with some of Denethor’s people, from whom we have received our information, though they are not able to communicate very well with them. They approached the green elves whenever they saw them as if in a panic, for they were starving and knew not how to cultivate the earth. The green elves taught them as much as they were able, though they could not well understand their speech, and took pity on them, giving them clothing and food.”

            Elu Sindacollo he was sometimes called, the “grey cloak” for his family’s trait of silver hair, yet at times Celeborn thought that he ought to be called Elu Lhewig, “The ear,” for there was not a thing that passed in Beleriand that Thingol did not hear of. “But,” the king said, continuing, “Feanor has indeed come into contact with some of our people, though they liked him not. It is from them that I have received word of his movements. These two groups of Noldor are traveling separately, which leads me to believe that mayhaps there has been some quarrel among their princes or else they did not leave Aman together.”

           “You have known of this for some time then, have you not?” Celeborn asked.

           “The first news, from the green elves and from our folk in the Northwest, came to me soon after you left to cleanse our borders but the news from Cirdan I have only heard today.” Thingol said.

           “Your highness! I beg you, wait but a moment!” Beleg said, raising his hands as he laughed uncontrollably. “What do you mean they do not know we are tracking them? Are they truly so unaware?” Thingol shrugged.

           “They seem somewhat ill adapted to forest life and they are unaccustomed to living in the wild. I have heard that they have brought all manner of strange things with them, furniture and such.” Celeborn and Beleg could not contain their mirth at that and both began laughing wildly. Even Thingol, though he had tried to remain serious in light of the dark news he had so recently delivered, could not help but crack a grin. At times he felt very exhausted indeed, for life in Middle Earth was no easy thing and being a king in charge of those lives he sought to protect was harder yet. With the recent war and Bauglir’s growing strength he had often spent many a day in worry rather than sleep, yet it was good, he mused, to keep these young elves around in the capital and not send them overly much to the borders, for they reminded him of the days when he too had been young and carefree.

          “Very well then,” Thingol said to the young ones, who were still doubled over with laughter. “You have given me a great deal of grief over your dinner and yet now that I have finished with you I am surprised that you do not make with all haste to the banquet hall. Get thee gone then!”

            “Oh please,” Celeborn said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Please uncle will you send us to scout their position?”

            “Absolutely not,” Thingol replied. “I will not have you seek them out for your own entertainment when I need you for other matters. And, besides, you will see them soon enough. Two of Finarfin’s sons ride for Menegroth as we speak.”

            “Indeed, they have just now passed the girdle,” Melian said, turning to her husband.

           “Two of his sons? What of his daughter? We wish to see his daughter,” Beleg said with a grin and Celeborn eagerly nodded his assent.

           “We do indeed uncle, we do indeed,” he chimed in.

           “Go on, get yourselves gone from here! A moment ago you were bellyaching about not having your dinner and now I cannot seem to be rid of you,” Thingol said with a shake of his head while Melian laughed, a sound with all the richness of bells. But the king stood as the young ones made to exit and approached his nephew.

           “Celeborn,” Thingol took his nephew by the elbow as the younger elf made to leave, “another thing.” The king spoke in a low voice, looking agitated. “Frerin has been pestering me again…something about me bringing him here under false pretenses. They’re just clamoring after money like they always do.” He shook his head, licking his lips nervously. “You know how dwarves are. Would you go and placate him for me whenever you have the time?”

            Celeborn sighed. The relationship between the dwarves of Nogrod and the Sindar had been strained of late and whenever Celeborn dealt with either Frerin or Thingol on that matter it tried him sorely. It was like weeding through an endless web of lies and half-truths with more unpleasant surprises around every corner. As much as Celeborn loved and admired his uncle he continually found himself frustrated by the political entanglements that he often entrapped the both of them in.

            “Of course uncle,” Celeborn said with a smile and a nod, for he had not the liberty to say anything else, but a certain uneasiness settled over him as he and Beleg at last adjourned to their dinner.

***** 

“Brothers!” Artanis cried, standing and brushing the soil from her hands. “Tell me what it was like! Was it truly wonderful?” Her heart was pounding in her chest with excitement. All the while they had been gone she had so eagerly awaited news of their travels, yearning to hear what tidings they would bring of Doriath, the hidden kingdom. She remembered sitting on Finwë’s knee as a young child, listening to his tales of the lost kindred, the Sindar, the lingerers. The Elves of Twilight, the Noldor had already begun to call them on account of their love of the night, but still others called them the Enchanters and Artanis longed to see their enchantments, to learn if the rumors were true, if their voices were really so beautiful that they could entrance you, if the really could bewitch the forests as had been said.

Angaráto and Aikanáro could only laugh as they dismounted from their horses for they had seen Artanis look a queen in all of the fine regalia of a Noldorin princess in the gardens of Lorien, and they had seen her look the most boyish of them all, wrestling in the mud and playing at swords with her cousins in Valinor, but this was the first time that they had seen her wearing sackcloth for a dress while she dug potatoes barefoot. 

“Thank the Valar you are here,” Artanis said, embracing them. “Out dear cousins have arrived and are eagerly awaiting you.” She couldn’t help rolling her eyes as she said it, or the somewhat sarcastic tone that had crept into her voice at the word ‘dear’. Only a few years had passed but she knew that even thousands of years later she would still not forgive her cousins for what they had done in Alqualondë. Nor, she mused as she reflected upon the cold way that her cousins had greeted her and Finrod this morning, were the sons of Fëanor likely to forgive the children of Finarfin for taking up arms in a futile effort to stop the assault. 

“Findaráto and I are about to go mad,” she murmured to Angaráto. “He has already been arguing with them. I couldn’t stand any of it and so I came over here,” she gestured to what might generously be called a vegetable garden but which for accuracy’s sake could hardly be described as anything more than a few holes in the mud from which the fibrous green stems of various root vegetables jutted. It was Artanis’s project, the planting of such plants a skill she had learned from the Green Elves, her modest effort to somehow mediate the effects of the famine that now burden their host. But Artanis hardly had a green thumb and thus what had begun as an enthusiastic endeavor was now merely the hardy remnants of the sturdiest plants which has withstood her well-intentioned but unsuccessful efforts.

“Splendid,” Angaráto said drolly, casting a friendly eye over his bedraggled plants, “if even Finrod is arguing with them then they must be in foul moods today.” 

Artanis sighed. “They have had many bitter words already over the business of mother’s people and the Helcaraxë,” she said. Findaráto was ever the mediator, but for even him there could be no compromise regarding what their cousins had done. 

“I should have known they would come when they heard we were returning from Menegroth,” Angaráto said as he tethered his horse to a nearby tree, his eyes dark with latent anger. He, like Artanis, bore the most anger towards their cousins and was of the opinion that they should have no more dealings with them. “I’m glad to hear, however, that Findaráto isn’t trying to smooth things over, for if he hadn’t already said something to them about their behavior then I certainly would have, perhaps I will yet.”

“Yet what would it profit us to start old quarrels anew?” Said kindhearted Aikanáro, but Artanis knew her brother well and though Aikanáro was the gentles of all of them, she did not doubt his resolution in the slightest, for of all of them he had been the most fierce in battle at Alqualondë, his eyes seeming to flash with fire, and the Fëanorions had not forgotten that many of their men had died on the blade of Arafinwë’s youngest son as he fought in defense of his mother’s family.

“You know what they’re hoping for,” Artanis murmured, her voice laced with bitterness. “They think you’ve brought word that Thingol is about to let them divvy up Beleriand as they like.”

“I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed then,” Angaráto said, though he certainly did not sound disappointed about it, “but I don’t see how that will matter at all, seeing as they always do as they like, no matter who tells them that they cannot.”

Together the three of them approached the place where their cousins sat with Findaráto. “Don’t stare at Maedhros’s arm,” Artanis whispered to Angaráto, worried that her hot-headed brother might say something about Maedhros’s lost hand just to spite their cousins. It would be like pouring grease on a fire; she could already see how irritated the sons of Fëanor were as they approached and even good-natured Findaráto was wearing a scowl. It appeared that they hadn’t resolved their quarrel whatsoever.

“Cousins well met!” Aikanáro said, raising a hand in greeting as they approached in an effort to be friendly, but Artanis could see that it would be of no use at all, even the more mild mannered of her cousins were in foul tempers and Curufin, Celegorm, and Caranthir looked near ready to tear Findaráto limb from limb.

“Took your time in returning didn’t you?” Curufin cried, springing to his feet. “Do you know how many months we’ve been waiting while you dallied about with those dark elves?”

“Thingol is hardly a dark elf,” Angaráto said, taking a seat on a campstool, and Artanis took her seat beside him, brushing dirt from her skirt. It was a ceremonial gesture only, for her skirt was filthy and her hands filthier still, caked in grime, dirt black beneath her worn down fingernails. So much for the majestic host of Valinor, she thought, glancing around at the camp with its weather-beaten canvas tents and oily smoke that rose all about them from cooking fires. They wouldn’t even have had the tents if it hadn’t been for the generosity of the Green Elves.

She reached up to brush her hair back behind her ear but the ends of the strands broke off, dry and brittle as straw. It was the result of malnourishment, as were the hollows in her cheeks, her collarbones and ribs that were too prominent, her knobby knees, her small breasts that were now nearly nonexistent. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling far to vulnerable. Beauty had been her cloak and now it was gone.

But the sons of Fëanor, who had not had to weather the Helcaraxë, were well fed, their skin flushed with life, their clothes not the sackcloth that Artanis wore, but the rich brocades, and velvets, and silks of Valinor. Artanis stared down at Maglor’s shiny black boots, envious of their wealth. Findaráto had made her put her last good clothes away to keep, telling her she would need to save them for if they ever went to Doriath. They couldn’t appear before the throne of a king dressed in these rags. She scuffed her bare foot against the dirt.

Even all the riches that Findaráto had brought out of Tirion were useless here. The Green Elves had no use for jewelry and gems and had merely stared at the wealth of Aman as if it were some sort of novelty, refusing to barter for such things. But what they lacked in refinement they made up for in kindness, giving as much as they were able. Still, the grain and roots had not been enough to tide the Noldor over for the winter and they struggled to hunt the quick and wary creatures of this land who seemed to sense them coming even before they could loose a single arrow. 

And then Artanis turned to look at her brothers who sat beside her. Aikanáro and Angaráto too were well fed and well clothed, having profited from their stay in Doriath and the hospitality of the Sindar. Jealousy knotted itself in the pit of Artanis’s stomach. She too had wanted to visit the Sindarin kingdom and yet, as ever it seemed, she had been left behind.

“Well get on with it then,” Caranthir snapped, drawing Artanis from her thoughts. “You took your time dallying in Doriath and now you take your time in telling your tale. Let’s hear it and don’t think of hiding anything from us. You can be sure we’ll find it out.” Her cousin’s dark eyes were on Angaráto. It was no secret amongst the Noldor that the Fëanorions were jealous that Thingol had extended his welcome to Finarfin’s children but not to those of Fëanor.

“You forget yourself,” Maedhros said in a low voice, placing his hand on Caranthir’s arm. “These are our cousins and they mean us no harm. Do not be hasty in your words or your judfment.” It occurred to Artanis then that Maedhros’s anger might indeed be directed more at his own brothers than at hers. The tension in the air was so thick she could have cut it with a knife.

“I was very surprised indeed,” Curufin spoke up again, “to find our lovely cousin Artanis digging about in the dirt like a common Green Elf.” He laughed as though it was the most amusing of jokes and Artanis forced a smile onto her face. The hardship of the Helcaraxë had wasted them away until they looked so like skeletons that they had given the Green Elves a nasty fright upon first meeting them. And, the cavalier attitude that her cousins took towards those elves who had saved them from starvation sat very ill with Artanis.

The first winter had been hard, yet it would have been certain death if it had not been for the elves of this land who had helped them. They might be dark elves indeed, and it was true that they had not the might nor wisdom of the Noldor, but it was seldom nowadays that the word Moriquendi was spoken by those of Finarfin’s house, for it seemed poor recompense for those who had saved their lives.

But things had been different with the sons of Fëanor for they had needed no assistance or else they had refused what assistance was offered to them out of pride. It had been the Sindar, or grey elves, and not the green elves who had happened upon Feanor’s people. And the Feanorians had treated them with scorn, laughing at their strange clothes and even stranger habits, mimicking their language and speaking disrespectfully about them in Quenya before their very faces.

But it would not do now to start yet another quarrel and so, taking a deep breath and forcing her lips to conform to a smile, Artanis said, “well you called me a little piglet when we were children for the way I squealed when you tickled me. Is it not natural then for me to root about in the dirt?” Her words had the intended effect and her cousins laughed pleasantly, recalling the way they had all quarreled and played together as elflings, and forgetting the tension of the present.

“Menegroth is a wonder to rival even the gardens of Lórien and the palaces of Aman,” Angaráto said, beginning his tale, and Artanis could feel a grin spreading across her face as she listened in rapt attention. All this time in Middle Earth and she had yet to see anything that was not dirt, trees, and sludge but she dreamed of seeing the great capital city of Doriath, of what wonder might await her there, of what inspiration she might take from there in the founding of her own kingdom.

“It is a cave, just as the Sindar told you it was,” Angaráto said to their cousins, “yet it seems hardly fit to call it a cave for it is like no cave I have ever seen in my life. You would hardly be able to believe that you are beneath the ground, or that the entire city is carve out of stone, so magnificently is it wrought.”

“You speak too slowly!” Findaráto joked with his brother. “We’ll all be asleep by the time you finish your tale.” That sent up a chorus of laughter and Artanis felt the tension of the situation abate almost completely.

“The ceiling,” Aikanáro said, his face still lit with the wonder of remembrance, “is like no ceiling that you have ever seen for it is so high above you that it might be as far away as the sky itself. And, what is more, Melian has enchanted it so that it does indeed appear as the very sky, imitating both night and day. The stars move across it, as does the moon, a perfect illusion of the night itself so that if you were to step outside and then back in again you would not know the difference between the two. During the day, which is when the Sindar sleep, for they prefer the dark of night and the light of the stars, the ceiling appears as a bright sunny day, with perfectly blue skies and white wispy clouds like cotton, or else it roils with storm clouds and crackles with lightening, mimicking the weather of the true sky, but it never rains within the palace, even if there is a downpour outside.”

“The pillars of the palace are carved in the likeness of trees of all species in such exactitude that you would not be surprised to imagine that you saw them growing. And these are tall beyond measure, reaching clear up to that high and magnificent ceiling. Their leaves are of emerald and glass, clear and glittering, veined with gold, and they reflect both the light of the sun and of the moon with equal beauty. The floor is not of marble or granite or tile but is in every way exact to the forest floor, comprised of both dirt and grass and mosses, flat in some places and with hills in others, and the roots of the pillars are dug into it as if they were real trees and real flowers grow there as well, lilies such as I have never seen, and many specimens of plant that do not grow in Aman. The ground beneath one’s feet is thick with greenery and mosses, flowers and ferns from which peek rabbits and deer, forest cats and wolves, and all manner of birds and even salamanders and lizards. These are wild creatures that come and go from the palace as they please, just as if they were elves themselves and subject to Thingol’s rule.”

“Then there are the streams: creeks and brooks that flow freely throughout the city, their water fresh and delicious to drink, as beautiful and clear as crystal. These are filled with all manner of fish, many of which I have never seen before, and they are vibrantly colored in reds, oranges, and golds, blue and lavender and green. But these are not for eating and the Sindar feed them and take delight merely in watching them and caring for them. Truly,” he said, “it is the most wondrous place that I have ever seen and I gave thanks to Ilúvatar himself for giving me the gift of sight that I might behold it.” 

Artanis hung on every word that her brothers spoke, already conjuring the fantastic images in her mind. It sounded like something out of a storybook, like some fairytale that her mother use to read to her when she had been a child, and she could not help but recall the many long hours she had passed in her grandfather Olwë’s study, pouring over every book that he had, books in which the Teleri had tried to record what they could remember of their kin who had been left in Middle Earth. But what Artanis really wanted to hear about was the Sindar themselves. Did they still look as they did in the drawings her grandfather had made?

Olwë had nearly seemed angry with her when he had caught her with that book, the one in which the same two elves had been drawn over and over, as if the hand drawing them was trying to memorize the faces, to commit to memory the lines that can composed them. But the artist had not succeeded, for though the likeness was still there, towards the middle of the book the faces had begun to change and, by the last few pages, they hardly resembled the first few pictures that had been drawn.

He had startled her, snatching the book away with one long-fingered white hand, and Artanis had looked up into the piercing blue eyes of her mother’s father, the one speck of color in an otherwise colorless face. Olwe’s hair, white as snow, tumbled long and straight to the marble floors of Alqualondë’s palace and as Artanis had stared up into his face, marked with the lines of anger, she had seen the resemblance between him and the two elves in the book…except their hair had been silver.

“That’s private,” Olwë has said, his voice dark as a thundercloud over the ocean, “how did you get into my study?”

“Who are they?” Artanis had asked. Though everyone else feared her grandfather she did not. He could be filled with the fury of a hurricane and yet she knew he loved her dearly. And…as she had known it would, his patience had prevailed, the tension in his shoulders dissipating, the anger in his face relaxing, though he still clutched the book in his hand and did not return it to her.

“They are my brothers,” he said. “Elwë and Elmo are their names…or were….”

“Where are they?” The audacity of childhood had caused her to ask him.

“Lost…in Middle Earth…or dead perhaps…” Olwë had said, turning away and putting the book on the topmost shelf where she could not reach. “Run along now to your mother,” her grandfather had chided her, a smile on his face once more, but she had seen the sadness lingering in his eyes.

The old curiosity surfaced again and Artanis turned to Aikanáro. “What of Menegroth’s people?” She asked. “What of Elwë and Melian? What of the Sindar? I have waited so very long to hear of them.”

“Thingol,” Aikanáro said with a wink, having caught the eagerness in his sister’s tone, “is impressive indeed, taller even than Finwë and more handsome. He is very wise, a giver of gifts beyond the power of kings, and extraordinarily kind and generous unless angered, but if truly provoked then he is a terrible sight to behold indeed. I would imagine he is very fierce in battle. He is sometimes called Sindacollo by his own people. We were told that it means ‘grey mantle,’ for his hair is not the same white as Grandfather’s, but is of pure silver, bright as the edge of a blade, like a fall of stars it was, long and regal.”

“Ah but Melian is truly a sight to behold!” Her brother said with a broad smile. “She is beautiful beyond comprehension, with hair as black as midnight and eyes like the evening sky. She did not have much to say, as if she was always perceiving something beyond my understanding, but when she did speak her voice had an almost…mystical quality to it…as if it was coming from some far off place. And her daughter, the Princess Lúthien…why her beauty surpasses even that of ther mother and her kindness is beyond compare. I think you would like her very much Artanis. She is such a happy and gregarious person, taking delight in everything and so eager to meet us. To watch her dance is to be a man enchanted and she danced every evening,” he laughed. “I nearly forgot my own name upon seeing her and had I not suddenly recalled that I had a brother and a sister I might very well have stayed in Doriath merely so that I might see her dance again.”

Artanis laughed, seeing the star-struck look in the eyes of both Angaráto and Aikanáro. “You speak as if you have fallen in love!” She laughed and Aikanáro grinned sheepishly.

“It is impossible to meet her and not fall instantly in love with her!” He protested.

“So perhaps it is no myth that the Sindar enchant others into loving them,” Artanis said with a grin and a wink at her brother.

Aikanáro laughed. “Well you need not be alone Artanis. There is a prince too although I would hardly call him enchanting. Even after these past several months in Doriath my Sindarin is not very good but, though I could hardly understand him, I gathered that he is not exactly what one might call polite. He seems to make up for what he lacks in decorum with his good looks and his intelligence. He is the King’s chief counselor and they say he is a great warrior, very tall and strong even for a Sindarin male, and besides Thingol himself he is the only other of the Sindarin royals to be silver of hair.”

“I had not hear that Thingol has a son,” Maglor spoke up, intrigued.

“He has not,” Aikanáro replied, shaking his head. “The Prince of Doriath is the grandson of Elmo, the third king of the Teleri, Thingol’s brother and our grandfather, Olwë’s. Thingol raised him as his ward.” The Fëanorians shifted uneasily at the mention of Olwë’s name.

“And what has become of Elmo and his sons?” Findaráto asked quietly, exchanging a concerned look with Aikanáro. The younger brother shrugged.

“He had one son, Galadhon, who was the father of the Prince. But Galadhon and Elmo are both gone now and the Sindar would not speak of it. I presume they are dead…The…er…” he paused awkwardly for a moment before continuing, “Sindarin families tend to be rather small. It seems that not many of their children live long enough to reach maturity or else the parents are killed ere they can have more children.” His words were followed by a pregnant pause as the Noldor tried to comprehend such a foreign and horrifying idea.

“So Doriath has a prince and a princess,” Curufin mused, clasping his hands together between his knees as he raised his dark eyes to Artanis’s with a little grin. “Perhaps something might be arranged that could benefit the both of us,” he said. “Let one of us have this Lúthien and give Artanis in marriage to this prince. Let us tie Thingol by bonds tighter than those of his word…for these Sindar are cunning indeed and I find that I would not believe a word that they say. Besides, Thingol shall then have no other choice but to grant us lands in Beleriand.” Whether Curufin had been trying to cause discontent or not was debatable but, whatever his intention, he had certainly broken the short lived peace.

“You seek to exclude the House of Fingolfin,” Angaráto said, his voice low and bitter, eyes dark with growing anger, “to use us and Thingol as well in your bid to continue the spat between your father and our uncle.”

Artanis herself had bristled at what her cousin had said, her heart reviled by the thought. “I will not be bought and sold to further anyone’s political alliance!” She said, crossing her arms even more tightly over her chest. “A marriage to a…a dark elf…the very idea is abhorrent…” she began but could not find the words to finish for the sentence already sounded hideous to her, her first natural thought horror at the idea of marrying one who had never seen the light of the trees. She had only thought of the Green Elves and their kindness after she had begun to speak, feeling a twinge of guilt shoot through her heart. Perhaps they had not seen Aman’s light…perhaps they were lesser…but somehow the words she had planned to say didn’t seem right. 

It was, however, the opportunity for malice that Curufin seemed to have been looking for. “What’s the matter Artanis? Won’t be had by a dark elf? Who else is going to marry you looking the way you do now, like a proper swine.” He laughed, a cruel smile on his face, and Artanis had to struggle to keep her anger in check, though she could feel it flushing her face. She knew it was a barb intended to hurt her, that he resented her for rejecting his son, Celebrimbor’s suit.

“I would beg you not to speak to my sister in that fashion,” Findaráto began calmly, but Maedhros interrupted.

“Curufin I would not hear you speak another word,” he said, “and Findaráto, you have my apologies for what my brother has said. It was neither just nor kind and the insinuation was most improper.”

Findaráto nodded and, following her brother’s lead, so did Artanis, though her heart still burned with anger and she was of half a mind to tell Curufin exactly what she thought of him.

“I think that perhaps I have heard my fill of Menegroth and her people,” Celegorm said. “For I have come to hear what Thingol has said concerning our desire to settle the lands in the North and I grow more and more impatient.” Tension still hung in the air and Artanis felt that almost certainly this would not end well, not that she had ever expected it to.

“Angaráto spoke quickly, seeing that the Feanorians were growing anxious and also that they had taken offense at the mention of Olwe’s name. “Then I will tell you what Thingol has decreed,” he told them. “I passed many long and pleasant hours in conversation with the King and this is what he said: ‘Thus shall you speak for me to those that sent you. In Hithlum the Noldor have leave to dwell, and in the highlands of Dorthonion, and in the lands east of Doriath that are empty and wild; but elsewhere there are many of my people, and I would not have them restrained of their freedom, still less ousted from their homes. Beware therefore how you princes of the West bear yourselves; for I am the Lord of Beleriand, and all who seek to dwell there shall hear my word. Into Doriath none shall come to abide but only such as I call as guests, or who seek me in great need.’”

Even as her brother had been speaking Artanis had been able to see the anger rising in her cousins’ eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if he had not repeated verbatim what Thingol had said, but the anxiety of the moment had driven him and now that the words were out he could not take them back and even Maedhros appeared enraged.

“I did not expect such a cold welcome, even from Thingol,” the eldest of the brothers said, rising. “A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is vain. Thingol does but grant us lands where his power does not run. Indeed Doriath alone would be his realm this day, but for the coming of the Noldor. Therefore in Doriath let him reign, and be glad that he has the sons of Finwe for his neighbors, not the Orcs of Morgoth that we found. Elsewhere it shall go as seems good to us.”

“That I would not advise,” Angaráto said, standing as well, his eyes flashing with a fire to rival that of Maedhros. “It is no fault of Thingol’s that those lands were overrun by orcs. The Sindar have just fought a long and dreadful war against Morgoth, one they would not have had to fight if your father had had the sense to turn the Silmarils over to Yavanna rather than allow them to be stolen by Morgoth.”

“Speak of our father will you?” Caranthir spat, shooting to his feet. “Let not the sons of Finarfin run hither and thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made you our spokesman to deal with Thingol? And though you have come to Beleriand do not so swiftly forget that your father is a lord of the Noldor, though your mother is of other kin.”

“How dare you speak of our mother’s kin!” Artanis spat, but the damage had been done and Angaráto had stormed off.

“It seems to me that the sons of Fëanor have made a habit of doing things in anger that they later regret,” Finrod said to Maedhros, crossing his arms over his chest, and even good-natured Aikanáro’s eyes had grown stormy with anger, but Artanis did not stay to hear what would happen and, heart hot in her chest, stormed off after Angaráto.