Fair Winds and Following Seas by bunn

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Chapter 4: Long Shadows at Dawn

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Kingship was far from new to Finrod. As King of Nargothrond he had commanded wider lands than any other of the princes of the Noldor. But acting as his father’s regent in Tirion was nothing like that.

For one thing, this was Tirion; the city of, if not his childhood, then at least his youth. There was a small part of Finrod that still expected his grandfather to be its king, for Fëanor and Fingolfin to be in command of their respective Quarters. Perhaps he always would.

But more jarringly, this was Tirion emptied of most of its people; the diamond-dusted streets quiet, the workshops devoid of both the sounds of work and of singing.

When he had come back into Tirion, returned to life, it had seemed quiet enough, but now that his father had led out every one of his people able and willing to fight, it was nearly deserted. The few people left in the city were the parents of young children, a handful of people deemed for various reasons unfit to fight, or who had chosen, against their king’s command, not to go to war.  And then there were Finrod, Edrahil, Eärwen, and Finrod’s Aunt Nerdanel.

It was a city built for tens of thousands, now occupied by a few hundred. Most of Finrod’s work was not so much ruling it, as maintaining it. Ensuring that food, water and essentials such as fuel and clothing were available to those who needed it, until the King and his host should return.

News of the war came irregularly, carried by Eagles returning from the distant East, or occasionally by visiting Maiar, to whom the journey from Middle-earth was inconvenience rather than obstacle.

One morning, when the sun was just struggling out of the distant mists along the eastern horizon, Finrod was looking out from the old garden behind the House of Finwë into the east. He was wondering if he was imagining a faint line across the horizon, when the dark shape of the Eagle cut across his line of sight. Rather to Finrod’s surprise, it was heading for him, which probably meant there was a message. He still found it a little startling, Eagles carrying messages for Elves. Usually they considered themselves above such matters, but the War had changed all that.

The letter was written on fine white paper that had been made in Tirion, but the confident letters in black ink that marked it could only have been written by Galadriel.

“Well?” Edrahil asked, after the Eagle had taken flight again, winging its way on up towards the snowy peak of Taniquetil, presumably carrying news for Manwë himself. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

Finrod, distracted from the whirl of thought that had caught him up at the sight of the hand-writing, blinked. “Yes, of course. I’ll read it aloud. I expect you want to hear the latest too.”

Edrahil nodded. He put down his bag of tools, sat down on a convenient bench and raised an expectant eyebrow.

“‘Finrod,
Strange to be writing to you, knowing that you are safe and well in Aman, when I am barely done mourning you. Though perhaps not as strange as to see Father arrive upon these shores with a host behind him; I never expected to live long enough to see that! Not after all the great kingdoms fell, one after another.

“I suppose that dying is one way to cross the Sea, but you could have sent help sooner. No, that’s unfair.'” Finrod broke off reading “It certainly is! Does she think Death is a postal service?”

“Well, you did go to the Valar almost as soon as you returned to life,” Edrahil said with a smile. “If she had thought that, I can see why.”

“Bah! You’re always on her side,” Finrod said and grinned.“Anyway: she says; ‘I know you have done all you could to ask the Valar to send help to the Aftercomers, Exiles and our kin upon this shore. Father has done his best too, he tells me, though I never doubted it.

‘But to come to the point, I must tell you that I was not in Doriath when Beren came there. I was away travelling. Celeborn and I had followed the Dwarf-road into the East, as I told you when I wrote.. as I wrote to you in my last letter. Strange to think of this as merely resuming our correspondence.

‘At any rate, when the peace was broken by Dagor Bragollach, we were far away, too far to bring any help. I knew there was something wrong, but — it took us a long time to find our way back to Doriath, and by that time it was all over; Angrod and Aegnor... and you, too. All three gone.

‘But I promise you that I would not have let your friend’s son go alone to such a task without help, if I had been there to offer it.’”

Finrod put the letter down and stared at it blankly. “I thought she must have been away from Doriath,” he said after a moment’s silence.

“I don’t think Beren ever mentioned her, did he?”

“No. I wonder if it would have changed anything, if she had been there when Beren came?”

“You knew Thingol better than I did,” Edrahil said rather carefully.

Finrod snorted. “You mean ‘no’. Though the notion of Thingol and Galadriel squaring off for their different notions of family honour is a truly marvellous image in its own way.”

Edrahil smiled. “My money would be on Galadriel,” he said seriously.

“Ha! I think mine would be too. Though she always had a terribly soft spot for him; she used to say how much he was like Grandfather Olwë.”

“I remember.”

Finrod turned away from the letter and frowned at him thoughtfully. “Are you well, Edrahil? You seem very quiet. And you look...I don’t know. Not pale, exactly, but... perhaps the right word is worn.”

Edrahil gave this question due consideration. “I think I always was quiet. Though I could turn it around, and say you talk enough for three.”

“That sounds more like you,” Finrod told him encouragingly.

“Is it? I should be the same as before, if Námo has done his work well.”

“But are you, do you think? I feel like the same old Finrod, I’m pretty clear about that. Not young Ingoldo, not Findaráto, but at least Finrod, and I am content with that. But forget about ‘should’; do you feel the same?”

Edrahil’s dark brows drew down into a frown as he thought it through. “No,” he said eventually. “No, I don’t think I do.”

Finrod said nothing, but looked at him enquiringly, and after a moment or two, he went on.

“We crossed the sea, built a city, fought a battle or two, then we went out to fulfil your oath, and... not an easy death.”

“No,” Finrod said, and was silent again.

“My family are dead, save for a couple of cousins, and they are with the Host in Beleriand.”

“Yes. I was sorry to hear it.”

Edrahil leant back against the wall in silence for a while, rubbing at his shoulder, down his arm, and across his gut where the wolf had torn him. The flesh was entirely whole now, and yet his fingers traced precisely where each tooth had bitten agonisingly deep.

Finally, he spoke again. “I could have stayed in death, but I followed you from Námo’s Halls. I suppose following you has become a habit.”

Finrod nodded, and said nothing.

Edrahil looked out east, towards the Sea, and beyond it, the Darkness and the War. “Why,” he said, and stopped.

“Why?”

“If you could break those chains and kill the wolf,” Edrahil said with quiet precision. “Why did you wait until it had taken all of us but Beren, before you did it? That is the question that has troubled me, if you insist on hearing it asked.”

Finrod regarded him unhappily. “I honestly didn’t know I could, until I did,” he said. “That probably seems like a very poor excuse, but it’s all I have to give you. It’s not a precise matter, the force of the mind, any more than the force of the body is. Edrahil, I’m more grateful than I can say that you came to help me, even though we lost. if I could have saved you, or Nargothrond, I would have done. ”

“Of course you would,” Edrahil said, suddenly emphatic. “A foolish question. I don’t know why I said it.”

“You asked because it was troubling you. Trust broken, even involuntarily, leaves a scar. I can see that might change things. People, even.”

“No. I’m not giving Sauron or his wolves that satisfaction. I may not be quite who I was, but I will be.” Edrahil’s voice was low but strong. “Give me a little more time. I’ll work on it.”

“If that’s what you want,” Finrod said, trying not to let his relief show in his voice, because that would be unfair, and also because he was not quite sure that in this mood, relief would not have carried a note of power with it. Finrod had never been one to call his followers after him as Fëanor and Fingolfin had done, and even if he had, he should never take that path with Edrahil.

Edrahil should have his choice, even if he chose to think that Finrod could have saved him, but had not.

But, “I’ll work on it,” Edrahil repeated. “Come on. Read the rest of the letter.”

Oh yes, the letter. Finrod reclaimed it from the wall where he had set it down, a wall set with pale gems that were now beginning to glitter a little in the morning light.

“‘Father tells me that our brothers are not yet returned from the Halls of Mandos, and that you think that Aegnor will not choose to return. That is bitter news. I know that Andreth Saelind was dear to both of you, but if you can return and mourn her beneath the leaves of Aman, it grieves me that he cannot. But I don’t suppose you want to dwell on that grief.’”

Edrahil made a face, and Finrod shrugged helplessly.

“‘Let me instead tell you something of my travels beyond the mountains.’ Ah! Excellent! I still regret that we never had the chance to cross into the lands where Men and Elves first awoke, don’t you, Edrahil? Another thing to blame upon the Enemy. So, she goes on;

‘We followed the road through the mountains, past the dwarf-strongholds of Belegost and Nogrod, and out beyond the Ered Luin. It was late summer when we went that way, and so we came down into a wide misty land of rivers and forests, where the golden light of sunrise dyes the river-mists red and gold.

‘Dwarves often travel across this land on the eastern road, which is straight and well-made, with the trees cut back from it in the Dwarvish manner. We met people of Nogrod on the road, and they told us tales of the Dwarf-strongholds, hundreds of leagues away in the East. They were not going so far themselves. In the North is a holy mountain, sacred to Aulë, where their First Dwarf awoke; they were on their way to visit it, bringing gifts of beer and red gems for a festival. But very likely you know much of this from your friends.’

Finrod looked up from the letter. “I think that must be the mountain they used to call Gundabad, don’t you? I didn’t know they took red gems there though. I wonder what they do with them...?” He looked down. “But apparently Galadriel did not wonder about that; she says; ‘Celeborn was more interested to explore the realms of Men and the lands the first Eldar crossed on their journey into the West. And so we turned south, and ventured into the deep forests that stretch for league upon league south and east of Beleriand.

‘There we met a handful of Nandor, Lenwë’s people who long ago turned aside from the Great Journey to dwell among the trees. They had kinsfolk in Beleriand, and had recent news from them. During the Long Peace, the people of Ossiriand used to travel east again, now and then, to visit them. I don’t know how things are going in Ossiriand now. It’s under the Enemy’s hand still, like all of East Beleriand. Perhaps the Green-elves of that land have moved east again now to re-join their lost kin: I hope so.

‘They were eager to hear of their more distant kin in Doriath and Nargothrond, but had no desire to join them. A good choice, in the end. We stayed with them until spring, and taught them some of Melian’s songs for nut and fruit. You will laugh, no doubt; I scraped my memory for the Valinorean preservation customs, since they were not able to keep eggs through the winter...’”

Finrod did laugh, and so did Edrahil. Galadriel, in her youth in Aman, had been vocally of the opinion that she did not wish to learn the arts of what she called ‘dreary domesticity’.

“I’m surprised she knows how to pickle an egg,” Edrahil commented, his mouth quirking.

“I’m used to being astonished by the things that Galadriel somehow knows. But apparently not everything, not any more! For she goes on: ‘In return they taught us a great deal about the peculiar habits of wolves and bears in this land, which was most useful to us later.’ Hmm. Galadriel has had her own encounter with wolves. It went better than ours, it seems. ‘Celeborn and I both gained fine new wolf-skin cloaks with that knowledge. I think of you when I wear mine, and how you devised those ridiculous-looking garments from seal-skin on the Ice, and made us laugh and kept us warm.’ She’s never going to forget those sealskin tunics, is she? I’m glad she remembers them somewhat fondly.”

“I think we all remember them fondly,” Edrahil said.”While at the same time being very glad not to have to wear them any more.”

“Too true,” Finrod said, and shuddered delicately, running a hand across the fine linen of his sleeve. “I can still recall all too vividly that fearful smell, once we came south a little, when the Sun rose and they started to warm up. So does Galadriel, it seems, for she says here: ‘The wolf-skins were tanned for us by some Men that we encountered living in the great forest some way east of the Nandor. They had been having some difficulty with the wolves taking their pigs, which was resolved to the satisfaction of all of us, save the wolves. It is a good deal colder so far inland in the winter than it is in Beleriand, so the cloaks were very useful.

‘The Men told stories of the Nandor, but we were the first Elves they had encountered in person for several life-times. They were much impressed with us, as indeed we were with them.' How interesting! I wonder when the Nandor first encountered them?" Finrod exclaimed.

“Some of the Nandor are bound to turn up in Aman eventually,” Edrahil suggested. “They were always on their way here, after all.”

Finrod laughed. “I suppose they were! But very definitely in no hurry about it. A good thought: at some point I shall find someone who is of the Nandor, and ask about it. But here, she says more about these Men. ‘They trade fur and nuts from the forest with the Dwarves for metal tools. But once a tool is worn or broken, it is never thrown away, but is reworked into new and most dramatic forms, to be worn as kind of decorative jewellery for the dances that they hold on their holy days. I wished you could have met them. They called themselves the People of the Hazel, and venerated the hazel tree for her gifts of nuts and twigs for weaving.

‘I think they may have been distant kin of the House of Bëor - something about the eyes that reminded me of Saelind and her people, though the People of the Hazel were shorter and stockier, and not one of them had fair hair. But if it was so, they had forgotten them. They remembered people who had set off into the South, or the North, or the East, but nobody who had tried to reach the Sea.’

Hmm. I wonder if Bëor’s people went north first, or if they and the people of the Hazel parted ways at an earlier time? Oh, look, she has sent some sketches of them and their jewellery, here...”

They pored over the sketches for some time, until Edrahil asked if Galadriel had sent any news about the War.

“Instead of Nandor lost in the woods beyond the Blue Mountains, and Men tangled yet deeper within them?” Finrod smiled. “You’re very patient.”

“I’ve learned I have to be,” Edrahil said, a little tartly, and he might almost have been himself in Nargothrond, before Angrod and Aegnor died, before Finrod’s oath, and Beren, and the wolf.

Finrod grinned at him. “Surely she must have done, to have sent this message with one of Manwë’s own Eagles. Let me see... Yes: ‘The Vanyar host have set off north and east, heading for Nargothrond.’ Well, we knew that, but... ‘Eönwë and his Maiar are with them, and Círdan too. We hear that they have fought several battles already, to retake Círdan’s cities on the coast.’” Finrod paused and looked east, thinking of Amárië, who had never before known war or want.

“She would have said at once if Amárië had been hurt,” Edrahil said comfortingly, and that was true enough as far as it went.

“I suppose so. So she goes on: ‘Father’s host and what is left of us, the Noldor of Beleriand, have joined forces, though Father means to keep the young king Ereinion Gil-galad away from the worst of the fighting if he can. I wish him good luck with that: I think Ereinion may have his own ideas about it.' The boy has grown up as pig-headed as the rest of us, apparently. I suppose that was inevitable.

‘I have taken up with Aunt Anairë, who is swiftly becoming a very able commander. I was surprised to discover how skilled she is with a sword: if courage and a sword alone could cut a way through to Angband, she could save us single-handed. I thought I might have a trick or two to show her, having been working on my skills all this time, but I think she must have been polishing her own abilities in Tirion. If she had kept all the orc-heads she has lopped off, she would already have an impressive pile, and she has the way of using Vanyar skills with light that I am quite sure Grandmother Indis never showed to us.

‘Father is well, and hopeful that we will soon reach the Westbank of Sirion. So far we have had an easier time of it than the Vanyar host have. I, Gil-galad and Celebrimbor have told Father all we know about the deceits of the Enemy, and he is resolved to advance with caution. Oh, yes, Celebrimbor is still very much alive, and still free from Oath and Enemy. So are a number of your people from Nargothrond who survived the rout when poor Orodreth was killed; they followed Celebrimbor, for lack of any other prince, and he got them away to the Isle of Balar. I enclose a list of names.’”

Finrod leaped to his feet in delight. “More good news! I feared that Celebrimbor had fallen. Sad to see that there are so few people remaining from Nargothrond, but still, here they are!”

“We’re a hardy breed,” Edrahil said, twitching the list from Finrod’s fingers to look at it properly. “Ornil is among them, look! That old gloom-face was probably too sour for even Glaurung’s appetite.”

“Tough as an old boot, Ornil,” Finrod agreed. “And look! Young Gildor! I shall shake Celebrimbor’s hand for that, if ever I see him again.” He glanced at the last few lines of the letter. “She says nothing about your cousins, though I fear, Edrahil.”

Edrahil laughed. “One is a cook, and the other is responsible for ensuring the tents are kept in repair. I doubt they are in terrible danger.”

“You were always the adventurer of the family.”

“I was. Not now though. Another change.”

“Perhaps, after all, we have had enough adventures, for a little while,” Finrod said, and his voice was wistful, but his hand went to his neck, where the wolf had torn his flesh before he killed it.

“Perhaps we have,” Edrahil agreed. “And yet today we must check the weaving sheds.”

Finrod nodded. “There’s no-one else to do it, after all. Let’s go.”