Fair Winds and Following Seas by bunn

Chapter 2 : Finrod

In the dim distance, far in the East, the sails were moving away.  

To Men, they would be quite invisible now: to Bëor, or to Beren, or to Andreth, who he had long ago called Saelind,  there would be nothing to see but the waves. But Men would never stand upon this shore, and anyway, all the Men that Finrod had known were dead by now, and probably their children too. Some of their grandchildren might still live, and be free, though more likely they were slaves in Angband by now.  For all they knew, Galadriel might be, too. Now his father was gone at last into the dark East, and Finrod hoped very much that the Valar knew what they were doing, and had not sent another High King of the Noldor out to die. And then, there was Amárië, tall and golden with her spear that had never yet had blood on it.

He carefully unclenched his fists and laid his hands flat upon the harbour-wall. 

Even Finrod could barely see the ships now.  The light was almost gone, and there was no sound but the relentless, unceasing music of the Sea. 

A light touch on his shoulder. “Time for a drink?” Edrahil enquired. 

Finrod took a deep breath.  “Yes,” he said emphatically. Then he thought again, looking over at the lamps that glimmered before the Hall of Olwe.  “Or perhaps, not here.”  

His grandfather Olwë was away captaining one of the great ships, as were his Teleri uncles and his mother.  So at least there would be no comments from them about Middle-earth. But he was in no mood to sit silent while anyone else in Alqualondë praised Olwë’s wisdom yet again. Olwë had forbidden all his people to go ashore, or to take any part in the war other than to sail the ships, and he had only agreed to that because Elwing had begged him. 

Edrahil followed his eyes to the great Hall of the Teleri.  “No,” he agreed. “Not here. But you can trust me to have planned things better than that.  If we go a little way up the hill towards Tirion, we’ll be able to see further into the east... and  I’ve left a number of bottles up there, thinking that we might want them this evening.” 

“Whatever would I do without you?” Finrod said lightly.  

“Walk home and find your own wine, very likely,” Edrahil said with a smile. “But since you were busy with preparations for the host, I thought I might as well make myself useful.”  

“I’m glad you’re here,”  Finrod said, hitching a companionable arm over his shoulder. 

“I’ve followed you to worse places.  Come on, let’s go and find those bottles.” 

****

The Moon was well up, making a long silver trail across the Sea, but even in moonlight, the ships were out of sight now.  They had found the bottles that Edrahil had left hidden by the shimmering heads of a great tuft of star-oats, and had emptied several of them, sitting sprawled on the short turf beside the road that led up to the pass, and to the city of Tirion. 

“Do you think they’re going to win?” Edrahil asked, suddenly, after a while.  “The Valar, I mean. Or Eönwë, anyway.”

“Oh,” Finrod said softly. “Terribly treasonous talk that, Edrahil, to suggest that the Enemy could possibly be mightier than the Valar.  You can get away with it, I should think. No doubt it’s just my rebellious influence that has led you to entertain such thoughts. I wonder if I can though...  Shall we see?” 

“They forgave you, surely?”

“So I was told.  And yet, Námo said of Eärendil and Elwing: neither shall the rebellious Noldor return, or however it was he put it, exactly.”

“Manwë overruled him though.”

“He did.  I should hope so, too. Neither of them were born when we rebelled, and there is no conceivable argument that I can see by which they could be held to blame.” 

“Truth undeniable,” Edrahil agreed solemnly, and lifted his cup in salute in the moonlight. 

“But Turgon sued for help.  He sent ships after ships begging for aid! Círdan built the ships, and Turgon sent the messengers, and all of them were lost... You know, if Turgon and Círdan, of all people, are rebels, then surely so am I.  Turgon was following his father, but I... I led all my people across the Ice, after Father turned back.  I was the leader of my house in Beleriand: how then am I forgiven?” He prodded fiercely at the turf with one finger.  “Why am I here ?”

“You aren’t going to ask Námo?” Edrahil asked, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“No!” The suggestion struck Finrod as somehow ludicrous, and so he laughed. “What if he said:  ‘Dear me, Finrod, that’s a good point! Back to the Halls with you!’ Can’t risk that, can I? I’m supposed to be regent of the Noldor.  Well, the handful who are still here, anyway.” 

Edrahil lay back on the grass in the moonlight and laughed.  “You do a fine rendition of Námo’s voice.” 

“But apparently not a good recreation of his reasoning processes.”  Finrod refilled his cup and took a generous swig. “And if I can’t even guess at that, how can I guess if they will win the war swiftly, slowly, or not at all?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see. Not a bad place to wait, this. It’s light and airy and we aren't chained to anything...” 

“And no werewolves. That’s definitely a fine thing!” Finrod said, and lifted his cup. “A toast!  To a complete absence of werewolves!” 

Edrahil rolled over and held up his own cup. “To a lack of werewolves.  I’ll drink to that.”