Kingfisher in a Cage by heget

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The Fifth

A kingfisher dove in and out of the water, turquoise and amber feathers scintillating like a jewel-smith’s creation. Light sparkled against water and bird. Another kingfisher swooped in a shallow dive against the surface of the lake, following the other in turn. With each small splash the birds emerged with heavy beak holding a fish, which they proceeded to whack against the branch they were perched on, then eat. Those beaks were like small knives, but the birds used them as vises to hold their prey and clean off the scales and spines. The only sounds were the birds entering and exiting the water with small splashes, and the thunk of fish against branch. The feathers had blue spots which seemed to glow in the daylight like the most impressive output of the Noldor jewel-smifts’ craft. The pupils of Aulë could never outdo the works of Yavanna, or so thought the elf who shared a name with the birds above the lake.

 

A vision, a memory to blind him and distract from the pain of the chains around his naked limbs, that was all it was.

 

His mother named him after a vision she had while pregnant, saying she saw him full-grown and garbed in brown and green, lying on a riverbank and watching a blue and amber kingfisher skim the water. She had thought the bird strange, for it did not have the ring of white around its neck like the kingfishers she knew and recognized, and in that harsher light of her vision the feathers had shone more blue instead of green. His mother named him for the bird instead of the personal traits the vision had shown her, that he would grow into a handsome man that loved the outdoors and to patiently and silently observe the world around him. And that he did not mind the mud of the riverbank.

 

He was covered in filth, but it was not river mud. He was in an island in the center of a river, and he could not hear the water.

 

Heledir found from an early age his talent was in being unnoticed, watching what others wished secret, and then recounting all he saw to his friends. It was not a talent begun in malice, but that he had been unlike most children, cat-foot soft and quiet, able to avoid drawing attention onto himself. His childhood companions, the sons of the prince that his family served, soon learned to depend on him to ferret out the best gossip and hiding spots. Heledir would bring back rumors and stories for Finrod and songs for Orodreth, find the best climbing trees for Angrod and jokes and pictures for Galadriel, and help Aegnor feed the swans at Alqualondë’s quay. He helped Finrod hunt for his aunt Findis in the great libraries, even when he would have rathered played outside. Princess Findis, a reclusive but talented authoress, tolerated the two boys as company, for they could be a quiet and appreciative audience, and she could trust her nephew to find the volumes she needed for research and Heledir to recount for her his observations of court. His aptitude for dialects was not as great as Finrod, though his ability to match and mimic voices was almost as good as Maglor. His impersonations always brought laughter to the older woman’s face. She used to read to them during the quiet hours of Telperion’s light as Finrod strummed his lap-harp and Heledir sketched. Other times Finrod and his brothers would beg Heledir to go into the city for some needed trinket or tool, as he was trusted to find it and haggle for the best price. He knew the quays of Alqualondë as well as Tirion by the time he was a man grown, the palaces as familiar as side alleys. As they grew older and tensions in Tirion deepened between the sons and grandsons of Finwë, this skill for observation and sleuth turned from game to necessity.

 

He had been the one to spot the band of orcs, to hear their marching steps behind the company and notice the sullen red glow of their lamps. He had proposed the deception.

 

In Beleriand, Heledir became the eyes and ears for his king. His sketching turned to maps of hidden paths and tallies of enemy soldiers. Little seemed to have changed from the days of dodging and tailing Caranthir’s gang of hooligan friends who wandered the streets of Tirion with forbidden swords and bellies full of cheap wine and fire, except now the streets were trees and riverbeds, which Heledir preferred. He was still running errands for Finrod between the kings in Menegroth and Eithel Sirion, listening to boasts in hunting lodges in Himlad and songs in Brithombar, and trading secrets with the other rangers of Beleriand. Greater distances he now roamed, with fewer roofs and fewer warm libraries. And the orcs were uglier than the young bravos that carried that nine-point star and found humor in jests about foreign mothers and words spoken with the wrong sounds.

 

Had he been better at his job, the king would not have been overthrown in the hearts of his people by wild and crafty words that threatened and preyed on fears of war not just with Morgoth but between the elves. They would not have left Nargothrond so few and provisioned so poorly, slinking away like thieves and beggars from a proud door.

 

As a name Heledir the kingfisher was better than Ethir the spy, at least. That joke had only improved once the newest recruit from Nan Tathren had joined and explained his name, Ethirdir, as referring to the estuary. Heledir loved Sindarin homophones. He promised everyone that his interest in the newest ranger recruit was born out of the boy’s obvious skill with woodcraft, archery, and watercraft and his less apparent but equally impressive aptitude for leadership. That Heledir could shout for “Ethir!” and have a ranger salute to attention two steps behind his captain was a private delight. The steward knew what Heledir was doing, and found it unbecoming of the captain of Nargothrond’s rangers and spies. Edrahil lacked humor, or at least this is what Heledir told him. Heledir fancied himself a wit on false premises, according to Edrahil.

 

A wolf dove out from the darkness, his golden eyes glowing brighter than kingfisher feathers, and in his jaws was the body of an elf. Against the stones the creature slammed the naked elf, bones splintering through the skin, blood spilling against the stone. Sharp sounds with every whack, sounds that broke the song that his king was weaving against the webs of Sauron’s sorcery, sounds that did not match the illusion from the memory of watching a flock of kingfishers dance above the water that Edrahil was trying to call forth.

 

Heledir liked watching the birds best of all possible sights, though people made a good substitute. As with birds, it was best to remain quiet as so nobody noticed he was watching.

It was not always subterfuge and missions. Some days Heledir would find a bench and watch the crowds in the hallways of Nargothrond or peer down from the high terraces and balconies. From high he would see the bobbing heads and hats of those in the lower levels of the underground city, almost as if he had wings, though without eagle eyes he could not see details as easily as sitting in a chair by a doorway and holding a whetstone and blade to give the appearance of a divided attention. A tableau of people would flit across his view, the young and old, elves and sometimes men or dwarves, those he knew from long ago and those whom his memory knew only after the Sun had appeared, even those he could not match name to face. There was Tacholdir running some errand with ink staining the tip of his ear black, Lady Galadriel visiting her brother, a promenade of more ladies in the bold-patterned slashed silks of Doriath, one of the grooms walking by with a limp, and a boy with a horse-head fiddle ducking under two porters carrying in one of the new grindstones for the mill. Here was Gwindor with a befuddled smile and a hand pressed to his cheek, old Arodreth grumbling about his socks, and a messenger with a satchel full of letters. Some of those letters were coded messages for Heledir. Down another hallway was little Gwenniel with her hair worn long and loose today politely bowing to a dwarven stonemason that the captain did not know. From the balcony if Heledir looked across and down he could see the two half-brothers practicing their swordsmanship, and over there was Bân’s blonde friend wearing one of Finduilas’s dresses and blushing fiercely. Heledir would ferret out the story behind that someday. The king consulting with the upper servants, the rangers holding an impromptu sledding race through the sloped halls of the underground city, and the steward hunting for the captain of the guards so that Heledir as their superior officer would properly chastise the rangers for tobogganing down a thoroughfare - there was his cue to disappear. He would slip away, pausing only to stroke the ears of the cat that the king picked up as a gift from Dor-lómin, and head for the surface. In a few hours Edrahil would find him sitting on the riverbank, head pillowed against the reeds and staring in relief at the open sky. The kingfishers had nests in the riverbank, and if he stayed still and quiet they would come out. The captain could only spend so many hours trapped inside with no light. Even Princess Findis recognized this, back in his Tree-lit youth. Forced back to his duty, Heledir would make Aglar and Faron work in the stables for punishment, and Edrahil would ask young Ethir which was the worst reprobate, the captain or his men?

 

Ethir screamed as the wolf pulled his body from the shackles, hand reaching for his commanding officer, pleading for the pain to end.

 

Lovelorn youths were great amusement to watch, though old elves could fall prey to that same dance of shy hearts. Birds as well, with their courtship dances and bright songs. Heledir preferred to watch and root for lovers, to cheer on their wooing. He felt no need for himself.

 

Beren’s face under the spell-song disguise of an orc captain, his mouth full of fangs, glowering as Sauron delighted in the suggestion of fair Lúthien despoiled, Beren trying to talk their way out of the blasphemous oath, bluffing his way against the sorcerer's suspicion, a human with no self-preservation, too bold to think he could challenge any power or king. A mortal that would back-talk Ilúvatar, no doubt. Heledir wanted to watch that.

Beren chained by neck and wrists and ankles to the dungeon wall, his ribs starkly pressing against his skin, telling everyone to stay strong and defiant, that their king promised to counteract the spells upon the webs that held them, that they must reveal no names or purpose. That they must not submit to the torture that was coming.

 

He watched the men under his command learn to ride and use the bow, to become rangers and soldiers of King Finrod Felagund. Proud of their accomplishments and skills, proud of the loyalty they shared. He taught the men how to wield the sword, those that did not know how, and old Arodreth assisted in those lessons, presenting various thrusts and parries, grapples and counters and throws. Heledir watched the old veteran for improvements of his own techniques, learning to use the great longsword as to fend off multiple assailants. Bân picked up the knack for that, to wield a sword as one did a polearm. Half the recruits that came to Nargothrond knew not how to the string a bow or how to ride a horse using saddle and stirrups. It took forever for the steward to improve his aim, or Tacholdir to ride with grace. Others knew not how to follow orders until Heledir drilled out the bad habits. Many had only seen and fought against orcs once or twice and knew not the tricks to survive another encounter. Babes blundering through the woods, until Heledir got ahold of them. Some were gifted, though. And all were loyal.

 

Ethir was screaming as the jaws of the wolf closed in, knowing what would happen as they had all seen the wolf tear into Arodreth, the dismembered pieces the beast had made of the man. The crunching sound was familiar now, and yet for all the pain that was distorting the young ranger’s face, Heledir could not look away from those eyes.

 

A kingfisher dove in and out of the water, turquoise and amber feathers glowing like gems in the reflecting light. Another kingfisher swooped in a shallow dive against the surface of the lake, emerging with a fish held in its heavy beak, whacking the fish against the branch that the birds were perched on. Fish scales and small spines flew loose from the blows, spilling like starlight.

Somehow one of the scales struck his face and drew blood. Heledir could feel the sting and the blood running down his cheek.

The fish was screaming.

The kingfisher held the fish between the blades of its long heavy beak, breaking its spine against the branch above the water. Dazed, dead, the fish was screaming with Ethir’s voice, with Aglar’s, screaming for someone to save him, please not to be eaten, I don’t want to be eaten, stop, stop it, please oh it hurts, stop, end it.

Stop it.

 

“Take me! Take me instead! Stop it, stop!” A screaming voice. His.

 

No more, end this.

 

“Stop it,” Heledir called to Edrahil. His voice mimicked nothing but the rasp of shredded vocal cords. “The illusion cannot hold. I will face it.”

The steward had attempted to create a comfort for Heledir, a shield against the madness screaming in his skull. The riverbank faded away. The memories of the bright kingfishers and the peaceful day disappeared, replaced by the cold stones of the dungeon and the colder iron around his neck. All the pain returned and the stench of offal, blood, and filth. He could taste blood in his mouth and dried foam on his chin. It was dark in the pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, but there was just enough light to see a pair of glowing golden eyes. Four empty spots on the wall, now-empty chains hanging against blood-splattered walls, faced across from where he hung imprisoned, and Heledir recognized the frieze on the walls as matching the stonework of corridors in Nargothrond. That detail had made this torment worse.

In the glow of the approaching eyes, Heledir could see the face of the man chained beside him, the one that had suffered most his screams of rage and guilt, who in desperation had used the last of strength of mind and voice to smother Heledir’s screams.

“You cannot keep a kingfisher in a cage,” Edrahil said. “You will not survive if you are forced to watch us be devoured one by one.”

“And you can? The kin-he can?” Heledir hissed.

He knew Edrahil was right, that he had no strength to withstand this, to watch the deaths of his men one by one, trapped in this dark pit. He could not watch. The others were strong, as strong as their king and the brave mortal, stronger than their captain who had led them. When the first wolf had come, he had cried and screamed and almost revealed a name, and lost reason when the second wolf devoured. A poor spy he made.

The yellow eyes were approaching, fangs like small knives.

“Take me next!” Heledir screamed.

Chapter End Notes

Events and other OCs mentioned in this fic can be found in the rest of this series.

While concocting characterizations and backstories for the ten unnamed companions of Finrod and Beren, I held onto the characters established and elaborated on from The Leithian Script, so Heledir owes much of his backstory and general personality to the Captain, same with Edrahil and Ethir/the Youngest Ranger. 'The Lay of Leithian' itself provided other details.

 

Heledir is Sindarin for "kingfisher".
Ethir is Sindarin for "mouth of a river" or "estuary", but is also a homophone for "out-watcher/spy".

 

Of the several species of kingfisher, I used the common kingfisher and the American green kingfishers as reference.

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