'the hidden paths' by hennethgalad

'the hidden paths'

"Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic."
~Herman Melville, Moby Dick

   'the hidden paths'

  Orodreth dived into the smooth water and looked around in delight, it was his favourite part of Nargothrond, this cool, dark lake, buried so long, deep in the bones of Arda, now opened and full of light. He smiled at the memory of the many feasts, festivals, boating games and races, spectacles and performances that had lit up the cavern and filled its vaults with laughter and song.
  The gravel and sand beneath him had levelled onto the plain of smooth glassy rock that formed the floor of the cavern and marbled the walls. Great boulders of varied hue marked the start of the several underwater pathways leading to tunnels, springs, the tavern, the King's Stairs, The Mosaic, and the pool. Orodreth followed the sparkling, many-coloured rocks of the path of The Mosaic, to where the raft was tethered. He hauled himself out of the dark water onto the small deck and lit the lanterns, trying not to look through the panes of glass set into the raft, where Finrod had come when the memories pained him. Orodreth sat to light the candles in the tiny boats, and set them floating away towards the shores of the lake.
  When they had spread to his satisfaction, he lowered himself cautiously into the water, careful not to disturb the surface. He gently stretched his ribs, taking in the air, and dove.

   The light of the candles and lanterns shimmered through the clear water, revealing The Mosaic on the level floor of the lake; Glorfindel at Eithel Ivrin, by a gorse bush with flowers of solid gold. The nacreous eyes seemed alive in the wavering light, though the image was twice life-size. Orodreth, who had always secretly considered Glorfindel as the exemplar of an elf, and the one he himself would most like to have been, found the great size of The Mosaic fitting, for he had ever thought of the tall Glorfindel as a kind of giant. The confidence, eloquence and wit that Glorfindel brought to conversations had dazzled the shy young Orodreth, though not in the romantic way that had won the heart of Finrod. Orodreth did not wish for the love of Glorfindel, but merely for a little of his spirit and vitality. 
 He climbed back onto the raft and watched the ripples set the candles swaying and flickering around him. Finrod had been right, it was an excellent place to be alone, in silence and peace; away from the constant double and treble talk of the courtiers, the snide insinuations of divisiveness, the subtle undermining, the weight that must be accorded to every pause and glance, the nuances of tone and style and pitch... 

  His mind reeled, he longed for the simplicity of his youth in Valinor, sitting silently with his mother as she stitched at her embroidery, sometimes volunteering a remark, but customarily at peace, watching his mother, who would occasionally smile at him, or gazing out of the many windows, dreaming endlessly of the starlit forests of middle-earth, where his great-uncle Elwë had married a maia.

 He laughed at himself, he had spent his childhood and youth desperately longing to see the homeland of the elves, to find the legendary Cuiviénen, to see the lands under starlight, to be wild and free as a goat, or leopard, climbing the mountains with no watchful maia or Vala at his shoulder, telling him to stick to the safety of the lower ground.
  For Orodreth did not lack courage, he lacked words. He had read as much, if not more, than any of his brothers, he had been raised in the same home, had the same teachers, the same friends, but nothing could bring the words to his mind when in company. Even on those occasions when speaking was essential, and Orodreth had prepared his words and knew precisely what he would say, still the uncertainty showed, his fear made him abrupt rather than pleasing, he would find himself frowning, and blush and stammer and return to his seat in the hot silent rage of embarrassment. 

 The disillusionment had begun for him before they had even left Valinor, with the burning of the ships. He had almost understood the Kinslaying; everyone had known, as soon as swords were invented, that eventually people would be slain with them. It had not been a question of if fighting would occur, but when. The tension between Fëanor and Fingolfin had exhausted his father, who had despaired of them and returned to Valinor.

 Orodreth had understood the impatience of anger, though he could not forgive the loss of self-command the Kinslaying had revealeved in the Fëanorians; but the burning of the ships had been cold, calculated malice, serving no purpose other than unwarranted spite, and for the first time in his sheltered life, Orodreth had understood the coldness and hardness of the world, running through the minds and spirits of the elves as veins of ore in rock.

 Middle-earth itself had disappointed him. He had never before appreciated the ceaseless labour of many hands, Vala, maia and elf, working together to maintain the perfection of Valinor. Without them, the world was drab, muddy, grey and cold. The very light dismayed him; the dim remoteness of sun and moon, the seemingly endless bleakness of winter, as though the Enemy had blighted the land already, stripping the trees of leaves, the fields of flowers and the orchards of fruit.

 Now that his dream of his younger days was realized, he longed with the acuteness of memory for the joyous peace of his home in Valinor.
 He cursed himself daily for his folly in pursuing fantasies, rather than plans; his brother Finrod had known exactly what he wanted, and thrived in the new world he was building in Beleriand, despite the loss of his beloved Glorfindel, vanished into the Hidden City of Gondolin. Orodreth missed Glorfindel, and also Turgon, who had always been kind to him, and spent time with him at the many formal events they had been required to attend, seeking him out as Orodreth sought the obscurity of alcoves and corners, away from the crowds and the swiftness of elven thought and laughter, which bewildered his acute spirit. Turgon, who knew that Orodreth was far wiser than his few words revealed, often found himself defending Orodreth, even in his absence, if the sharper tongues of the many cousins mocked his apparent stupidity.

  Orodreth sighed, even Finrod had left him, though he himself would have followed Finrod anywhere, even to Thangorodrim. Orodreth felt the blackness of despair for a moment, it had been too long, if Finrod had triumphed he would surely have returned sooner; as the months passed, Orodreth found himself drawn more and more to The Mosaic, as though the mere image of Glorfindel would inspire him with its strength and beauty, as though being in the favourite place of Finrod would make him as mighty as Finrod, beloved by elves, men and dwarves, going open-eyed into the Shadow.

  But Orodreth clung to hope as to the raft he lay on, the cold darkness of cavern and lake echoed his sense of isolation and powerlessness. The sons of Fëanor were now within his household, undermining him, turning the hearts of the people away from him, even away from Finrod himself, leaving Orodreth to watch helplessly from the sidelines, the shy elf, standing in the corner at the dance.

   Finrod would succeed, he thought desperately, though all the might of the Enemy stood against him. Orodreth had full confidence in Finrod, even though Finrod had made Orodreth himself take up the rule in his stead, which deed in itself almost shook the dreaming mind of Orodreth into awareness of his plight.
  But Finrod would return, and lift the burden of apparent command from Orodreth, who had begun to find the Fëanorians insufferable in their arrogance and condescension.          

   Orodreth looked at the bright lanterns and smiled, his mother would have encouraged him not to give up hope, his mother had been a great believer in hope; she was very close to his grandmother Indis, who she had described as a living example of hope realized, though it was understandable that Fëanor should resent the loss of his own mother. But none considered it worthy of Fëanor to begrudge his father and Indis their happiness. 

 The light in the cavern brightened, there came the sound of voices, hushed and sombre, sad tidings apparent even across the waters of the lake. A boat was launched, Orodreth considered swimming to meet them, then wondered if they had even seen him, or had some other destination in mind. But the boat drew closer, revealing Curufin, called The Crafty, sitting in the stern, his face set in a grim expression, watching the rower at work.
 Orodreth sat up, sighing; apart from agents of the Enemy, there was almost no person in Arda he would less like to see. He nodded at Curufin as the boat drew up to the raft, and Curufin stepped carefully aboard, bearing a small knapsack. He sat, smiled sadly at Orodreth and undid the fastenings of the pack. In silence he handed Orodreth a towel, and unpacked clothes, which he had ready when Orodreth had dried himself. Increasingly embarrassed, as though caught in a compromising situation, Orodreth struggled into his clothes, fumbling at familiar buckles and straps like an unschooled infant.

 But Curufin smiled as he sat down and handed him a glass. Orodreth sipped, it was miruvor, a fine vintage, he could not imagine what Curufin had in his mind, another subtle manoeuvre to gain power, he suspected; for the Fëanorians were at least clear in their aim, though their methods appalled Orodreth at times, and he could not but admire their forthright determination, however little he might share their hope.
  What did Curufin intend ? Orodreth looked down through the troubled water at the fair face of Glorfindel, and wondered what Glorfindel would do were he here. The golden-yellow stones of the face seemed to smile as the ripples of light moved over them. Orodreth felt calm and at peace for a moment; Valinor still flourished, he was certain that he would walk there again, that he would see Glorfindel again, that Finrod would soon return. 
  He knew what to do. He smiled calmly at Curufin and asked levelly
   'Why have you sought me out, Curufin?'

 Curufin pursed his lips fleetingly, almost appraisingly, thought Orodreth, but then lowered his eyes. When he looked up, his face was pained, but his eyes seemed to gleam, and there was an intensity to him that troubled Orodreth. Did the Fëanorians intend some dangerous act, or was it merely the gloating of one carrying out a plan with advanced knowledge of success ?

  'Alas' said Curufin in a voice which choked Orodreth, for behind the mask such a one always wore, he could feel the genuine grief in Curufin. Great fear fell on Orodreth, his skin seemed to shrink onto his bones, his heart clenched within him
 'Speak, Curufin, what disaster has befallen us ?'
 Tears rose in Curufin's eyes, Orodreth could scarcely breathe, these were the Fëanorians, capable of almost any atrocity, and these were his allies... as for the Enemy... Darkness seemed to surround him, dread filled his mind, he felt icy cold, frozen with nameless fear 
  'Speak, Curufin, I beg you, tell me what ails you ?'

  Curufin looked into his eyes 
  'Finrod is dead'.