Ard-galen. by hennethgalad

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Chapter 2

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Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire!

 

 

 

   

   The summer sun heated the pavilion like a furnace, Hador had thrown back the flaps of the doorway as though they were alone on the Ard-galen, and returned to bed. Fingolfin lay with his cheek pressed into the pillow as Hador took him from behind, staring out at the endless grasses, rippling and swaying in the warm, gentle wind. The sounds of song and laughter came from the camp behind them, for despite Fingolfin’s private wish to simply run away with Hador, he had brought with him his own guard, the guard of Írimë, and the students she had invited to aid in the endless work of discovery. For the nature of Arda was such that every stone told its tale to those with the sense to listen, and the wisdom to understand.

 

    Fingolfin marvelled at the vigour of the Mortal. In the months they had been together, while preparations for their expedition were underway, Hador, still quietly  mortified by the memory of his first hasty attempt at love-making, had devoted himself to the close study of Fingolfin’s body, as though to enslave him to desire. At times it seemed he would succeed, and though Fingolfin explained that it was love itself that had mastery of his heart, still the tireless Mortal, with increasing skill, held Fingolfin under the enchantment of passions. 

   The weight of the Mortal crushed him, but the pleasure built into deep rapture, the hot fast breath rippled his dark hair in a small echo of the wind outside, scattering it over the pillow in fine webs. The bliss shook his body, Fingolfin gasped with ecstasy; his mind floated free, in a joy that seemed greater than his body could contain, grater than Arda could contain, as though in such moments the purpose of Eru was revealed, in glimpses, for those who sought to comprehend it.

    But the sound of Hador finding release with a low gasp brought Fingolfin back to the pavilion, to his lover, to himself. Hador kissed him on the mouth, leaning over him, possessive and proud, and Fingolfin, with what little detachment remaind to his scattered thought, laughed within to hear himself whimper with pleasure. Hador shifted his weight and stroked the cheek of his lover, murmuring the wordless sounds of reassurance and love, before pulling free and stretching with a groan.

 

    “I am hungrier than a bear, Fingolfin, and hotter than a lit torch, do you not miss the cool of the lake ? I would give anything for a bathe in cold water. How much longer shall we spend on this wasteland of grass ?”

   Fingolfin smiled and threw his legs over the edge of the low camp bed.

   “This warmth is as nothing to the heat of Valinor in the time of the Trees, it reminds me of home, almost. But this is no wasteland ! I have seen wasteland, far to the North, and this is a garden of flowers compared to such... Indeed, there are many flowers, among the grasses, and more beside, deer, rabbit, the myriad birds...”

    “Never ask an Elf a question ! My grandfather was right, instead of an answer you will get a lecture on why the Sun rises where it does, and whether horses will be reborn in Valinor or follow Mortals into the unknown !” 

    Fingolfin stood with a laugh “Your grandfather was wise, for we are rich in time, and require less sustenance than you fiery Mortals. Thought is treasured among us, as speed is prized by your people. But you were inattentive at supper last night, for we have arrived at Eithel Fain, and here you may bathe in a pool built by the people of Angrod.”

   “Inattentive ? I was asleep ! That stew was so rich.”

    “You ate three bowls ! I have never seen anyone eat as you do, yet you carry no fat, as do most of your kind with a fondness for food.” Fingolfin smiled under his lashes and stroked the smooth hard stomach of the Mortal, then took him in his arms and kissed him passionately. Hador ran his hands down the flanks of his lover, but the sound of his stomach was loud in the stillness of the pavilion. Fingolfin broke away with a sigh of mild regret, his own desire far outpaced all other desires, for the very food he needed to live.

   "What have you done to me, wretched Mortal ? I can scarcely endure to let you go for long enough to eat. But come, I smell dough cakes frying, and the cherry preserve you like so much will be there.”

 

   The camp was pitched by the low hump of chalk which rose little more than a fathom above the plain, from which the white spring flowed North. Alone on the ocean of grass, a cluster of wind-bent trees hung over the gentle slope, birds gathered singing amidst their branches. The people of Angrod had dammed the small stream, piling rocks across the curved arm of the chalk, until the water had filled the tiny hollow; too small for swimming but large enough to bathe with friends. Írimë and two of her students were sitting on the low edge, their feet cooling in the water, heads bowed over their latest find, in earnest debate. They did not look up as Fingolfin and Hador approached, but Írimë spoke with the voice of decision. “Very well, we shall take it to Angrod.” 

   She glanced up as Fingolfin stepped into the pool with a grateful sigh, and sat down, then lay back until his head was under the cool, shallow water. The sunlight broke into a scatter of wavering beams as he looked up through the water, and he smiled contentedly. Beside him Hador laid himself down, his golden hair floating up around his face, like the painting of Ossë in the Hall of Olwë. Fingolfin felt the desire for this jewel among Mortals rise again, and wished they were alone. It seemed to have become his only wish, he who had had such ambition in youth, in the pride of Tirion. But Írimë was watching.

 

   He sat up, the water streaming down his chest, and wiped clear his eyes. Írimë smiled. 

   “We believe we have found a fallen star fragment. If you bathe swiftly, you shall travel with us to the Hall of Angrod to see it split open, for who knows what treasure may lie within.” She held up the rock they had been studying, it was dark and pitted, with streaks of rusty red. Fingolfin reached out his hand but Írimë shook her head “Two hands, brother, or even your strength would not suffice. I think it may be solid iron, but until we try to split it, we cannot say.”

   Fingolfin looked at the rock, it was as big as his two fists together, he held out his other hand and she passed it to him carefully. But even with her warning he was astonished at the weight of the plain, small stone. He turned it carefully in his hand as Hador rose from the water, his golden hair clinging to his face and neck, his broad shoulders glistening in the bright light reflected from the sparkling pool. Fingolfin showed him the rock with a smile.

   “Treasure from Varda !” cried Hador. “My people sing yet of the man who murdered his wife, and was slain in his bed when such a stone fell from the hand of the Kindler through the roof of his tent.” 

   The students stared at him in curiosity, but Írimë laughed.

     “Nay Hador, the Valar do not intercede, even in such a worthy cause. But it may be true that one should strike a person, for those who have seen them fall, (and they are few indeed !) speak of unimaginable speed, and great destruction, as fires and tremors of the ground. There is a place in Valinor where trees were flattened, as grass by a sleeping bear, and in the midst of the destruction, in a pit of its own making, a stone the size of a small child, that could be dragged by a few strong Elves.’’

 

 

   Hador, cherry preserve dripping red down his chin, was still eating dough cakes; Fingolfin felt his heart wrung with tenderness, seeing the fascination in the absorbed expression of his heedless lover. Careless of the crowd, he lifted his own napkin and wiped away the preserve, as gently as his own mother had once done for him. Hador smiled briefly, but soon turned back. The stone was being packed carefully, the Elves watched in breathless silence, for few had ever seen such a treasure. While Írimë was busy directing her students, a cry went up from the watch.

   “The lord Angrod approaches !"

   “Have a care !” cried Írimë, as the students turned with the rest to see the newcomers. Hador looked at Fingolfin. 

   “Angrod son of Finarfin, your kin ?”

   “Indeed, and a fine artist. Even in the horror of Helcaraxë he laboured with paint that froze solid to capture the eerie beauty of the ice.”

   “Beauty ? You scarcely speak of that legendary voyage, so dark is the tale. Yet now you speak of beauty !”

   “Such is the gift of the artist, teaching us to see the beauty in the darkness, or the evil within the traitors smile.” Fingolfin gazed across the plain to the riders of Angrod, there were a score, on the mighty horses, the gift of Oromë, that had been borne across Belegaer in the ships of the Teleri. The memory pained him, the bright sunlight darkened as his heart, but Hador gripped his arm.

   “My lord, I am here.” he said softly. Fingolfin smiled, the darkness passed, but each time the memory returned, another leaf fell from his spirit, that no present joy could renew.

 

   But the riders sang as they came, the bright sun sparkled on their jewelled armour, and their banners streamed out behind them. Fingolfin looked at Hador, and down at himself, still wearing the plain tunic he had thrown on after bathing.

   “Come, my dear, we must prepare to receive our guests.”

   Fingolfin found himself strangely nervous at the thought of facing his kin with Hador beside him. He could not imagine how Angrod would react, despite the small battle the brothers had fought at Estolad, defending the Edain from orcs. The House of Bëor had been taken under their protection, and given lands in Dorthonion, at Ladros in the West. But there was yet little word from the new homesteads of Men. Fingolfin was delighted that such doughty warriors had chosen to stand with his people, and silently thanked the charm of Finrod, and his restless curiosity, for bringing their peoples together. 

 

   But as they entered the pavilion, Hador turned to him with concern in his eyes.

   “You are troubled my lord, you fear that I shall disgrace you before your kin, I who can scarcely eat, it would seem, without you wiping my face for me.”

   Fingolfin bowed his head “Forgive me, my love, it is not that, it is the memory, the sight of the horses of Oromë, brought here...” he paused, the memory was back, the darkness seemed to rise round him like mist from the sea, or black smoke... With a shock at his own folly, he realised how very close they were to Thangorodrim, to the haunt of the nameless Enemy, whose incalculable power could be reaching into their spirits across the open plain. He lifted his eyes to Hador. 

   “My love, the Enemy is near. His malice reaches out for us, he would crush us underfoot, and though we may not perceive the Shadow, it darkens our thoughts even as we sing in the sunlight. We must honour those valiant ones who live close by him, standing fast to guard the Children of Ilúvatar. Angrod is high in my favour, for his courage as much as his valour, and I would have you honour him, as I do.”

   “My lord, of course it shall be as you wish. I am your servant, and will follow you in this as in all else. The tale of Estolad would be cause enough for me to honour lord Angrod, though you yourself should spurn him.”

 

   There was a moment of silence. Fingolfin wondered what it would be like to face Hador as a defiant foe, remembering the Elf beneath his heel, and looking up into the steadfast blue eyes. But Hador frowned and lowered his eyes.

   “My lord, forgive me, I do not... I would not defy you. You know that. But I do not think you will ever give me cause to defy you. I was merely speaking in jest, nay, without thought. Oh Fingolfin, I am only a young Man, not yet one and twenty. My words are those of a child. Let me but stand by in silence, lest in my heedlessness I bring offence to you and your kin.”

   Fingolfin took him in his arms and kissed him tenderly, whispering soft words of love as he stroked the damp golden hair. Hador sighed and pressed his cheek close to Fingolfin’s, who gripped him tightly for a moment, then held him by the shoulders and looked him up and down.

   “How shall I array you, my fine warrior ? I would bedeck you in jewels, but your beauty needs no ornament ! I would arm you in gilded plate, or in the finest cloth, woven by my sisters themselves. You are my servant, but you are my love, and the prince of your people... I... What would you chose to wear ?”

   Hador shrugged “My lord, it matters little to me, and the opinion of an Elf I may never see again is of little consequence. But you yourself care deeply, he is your kin, your ally, and you must bear his displeasure until the end of the world should I, by my folly, cause offence. You must guide me in this, as in all things.” He smiled secretively, setting the desire aflame within Fingolfin, who kissed him passionately. 

 

   “Blue.” He said finally, “We shall both wear blue, the colour of my father’s House. I do not fear that you will insult Angrod, for you have no malice in you, and he is not easily offended. Have no fear, my love, he is a good friend, kin or no, and the brother of Finrod Felagund, beloved of all.” 

   Hador smiled and swiftly kissed Fingolfin again, but Fingolfin laughed and pushed him away, “Spare me, I beg you, or my own desire will cause a far greater offence than aught that you could utter. Already they draw near, though you may not see them yet, and we must make ready to greet them with due honour !”

 

    At length even the eyes of the Mortal could see the banners of Angrod and his riders; the guard of Fingolfin were glittering in their polished armour, and laughing Írimë herself had laid aside her sturdy work clothes and wore robes of the same deep blue. Fingolfin looked around the small camp in satisfaction; all was as it should be, and Hador, his hair dried and dressed, held back under a silver circlet, seemed merely an Elf among Elves, tall and straight, beautiful and proud. Írimë turned and gave Fingolfin a brief smile, and with a slight nod he thanked her, as the sound of the horses hooves drew near. 

 

   Angrod leaped lightly from his horse and bowed formally.

   “Sire, may you walk in the light ! Welcome to Dorthonion, kin and king, it is too long since last you graced us with your smile.”

   “Stars shine upon you, Angrod, son of Finarfin, and may I thank you now in person for the great service you rendered for all our peoples, in the battle at Estolad, but more than that, in taking the House of Bëor under your protection. For even in Hithlum the songs of your valour are sung by all. Indeed, there is a prince of the House of Aradan with us here.” He gestured gracefully to Hador, who bowed, hand on heart, as his great-grandfather had taught him. Angrod gazed at the Mortal in surprise.

   “You are Hador Lórindol ? Forgive me, I mistook you for one of... one of the Eldar. I see now why songs of your beauty are sung in the North. It is a great pleasure to finally see the truth with my own eyes, and to learn that the bards have not merely flattered the fancy of the king.”

   Hador blushed, Fingolfin felt the colour burn his own cheeks, and for a moment the unguarded thoughts of his lover were open to him. Hador was abashed before the serene beauty of the son of Finarfin, as he had never been abashed with Fingolfin. But as Fingolfin recalled his own swift enchantment by the vigour of the Man, he knew that with him, Hador had merely taken what was offered to him, with the ease of the deer feeding on Ard-galen. But Angrod turned to Fingolfin and laughed

   “Now the truth must be spoken. For I did not ride forth to greet you and escort you to my Hall, I would not intrude upon your time of rest ! No.” He looked around, and frowned, then turned back to Fingolfin “It is the bard we have come to hear. Finrod has been with us, singing the praise of a gifted Mortal named Gildis, and we heard that she journeyed with you. But I do not see...”

 

   Írimë laughed and led Gildis forward. Angrod raised his brows and bowed. “My lady Gildis, the praise of my brother Finrod is echoing in my ears, and his judgment is beyond question in the matter of song. I and my folk have ridden here today to beg you to sing for us, or at the least, to play a little. I know that Finrod would have you leave the company of Elves to find the music of your people, and I cannot dispute this, for I agree with him. But while you yet are among us, I would not miss a note of your music, nor a word of your song.”

    It was the turn of Gildis to blush, her fair skin offering no veil to the pulsing of her blood. But she bowed and smiled and thanked Angrod with the graces of Nargothrond. Fingolfin felt the pride lift the spirits of Hador, and invited Angrod to dine with them. But Angrod sniffed the air. 

     "You lie at Eithel Fain, yet you do not harvest the cresses ? For here grow the sweetest, in the clear waters of the white spring. Írimë, you surprise me, for I know that you have rested here before, and even you, with your head full of rocks, know the excellence of the harvest here."

      Írimë looked at Angrod in astonishment, then turned to Fingolfin.

      "My lord, my brother, how can you forgive me ? But in my fascination with the fallen star fragment, the matter of cresses had been driven from my mind. Yet Angrod speaks truly, for in the waters of the spring the cress grows green and full. Will you stay a little while our people gather it ?"

      "No." said Fingolfin, as the others looked at him in surprise. He laughed "I mean, let them rest. We ourselves shall gather the cress, it will be my penance for my neglect. And the vigour of young Hador needs exercise other than the saddle. As do I. As for forgiveness, I myself had forgotten the cresses of Eithel Fain, so you must forgive me. But come, while Angrod rests his steed, we shall take baskets and harvest our supper."

 

      Angrod came with them, the five stood in the cool, swift waters which tumbled down from the skirts of the low chalk mound, to vanish among the grasses of Ard-galen. They had removed their shoes and hitched up their garments, and laughed and sang as they filled their baskets with the clusters of dripping green cress. Gildis sang without thought; Hador, whose deep voice was inclined to wander from the note, found himself forced to concentrate to keep the harmony, but the Elves seemed to sing as simply as breathing. Finally he stood up, rubbing his back straight.

       "Do all Elves sing so well ? For I myself struggle, and those who sing as fair Gildis does are rare indeed among our people, many of whom sing like the crows."

       Írimë laughed "It is your ear that is in error, not your voice, if you think that we can sing ! Only two of the whole house of Finwë have voices to match that of the lovely Gildis, and neither are with us today ! It is a gift from Eru, and we prize it above all others, above even wisdom, alas ! as you must see from the words of Angrod, who has ridden here to meet Gildis, rather than to greet his King."

      Fingolfin laughed "I believe there is a compliment in that remark, but perhaps it is my vanity..." 

      Írimë snorted with feigned derision "Caught again, foolish Fin ! For if you had been listening with the ear of wisdom, you would have understood that it was the lack of wisdom of Angrod to which I was referring, chasing a bard, rather than welcoming his lord and king." she laughed and pushed at Fingolfin, who dodged her arm and put his foot on a loose rock, and, off-balance, with the full basket on his arm, found his leg slide forwards and fell onto his back in the midst of the stream. His basket emptied, cresses flew into the air, Írimë lunged to catch the basket and fell herself, grabbing blindly at Gildis, who gave a small shriek and fell with her. Angrod, who knew the treachery of the stream, and how shallow it was, stood still, laughing helplessly, but Hador, after a brief grin at him, had lunged forwards to the aid of Fingolfin, and found himself tripped by the thick weeds into landing face down in the wet leaves. Angrod was almost weeping with laughter as they pulled themselves to their feet, the water pouring from their soaked garments and leaves and stems clinging to cloth and tangled in dripping hair.

 

      Hador was first to his feet, as an angry heron rose with vast pinion from the tall grasses, and flapped away, hooting derisively. He held out his hand and aided Fingolfin to his feet, as Gildis and Írimë picked each other up, laughing as heartily as Angrod. Fingolfin smiled at Hador, still holding onto his hand, but as Hador turned to see to the others, a chill ran through the heart of the Elf. For Gildis, clad in a pale blue gown, was revealed in a new light, and the pulse of Hador quickened at the sight. The gown clung to her well-shaped body, the differences between male and female much greater in the Mortal frame than the Elven, the water causing the robe to cling, scarcely more than a veil, to her curves. Hador was aroused by her beauty as he had never been before, and the desire which filled the mind of the Mortal was vivid and clear to his anxious Elven lover. Írimë, who seemed able to read thought as clearly as others would hear words, looked at Fingolfin with concern.

     "You knew that this would happen." she said softly. But Gildis the Mortal knew nothing of their minds. She spoke apologetically 

      "These rocks and stones are loose and slimed with small plants, it was foolish of us not to wear more suitable clothing. If I had thought of anything other than my own pride at the praise of lord Angrod, I would have advised that we change garments. For I have been sent on many such forages, I who know no more of cooking than I do of the finding of star fragments. Forgive me."

      Fingolfin shook his head "No lady, the fault, if fault there is, is not yours. Angrod is lord of these lands and has gathered cresses here since before your people crossed the mountains. I myself have been here many times, and Írimë knows Eithel Fain as you know the garden of your mother's house. But you speak wisely, we should have dressed rather for bathing than for receiving honoured guests." he bowed to Angrod, who bowed with a flourish.

     "Do you ride at once for my Halls, where you may bathe in comfort, and lie this night in finer beds than those of your tents ? My people shall prepare the cress to delight you all, for here we have learned the finest uses of this prince of herbs. Give me your baskets, and change into your oldest clothes. We have robes and gowns of the finest at Barad Halatir, and there you shall forget this little spill. Though" he laughed "I fear that I myself shall remember the High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin son of Finwë, seated at last where he belongs, among the weedy waters."

     Írimë laughed "The dignity of high office ! Oh Fin, you did look funny, and alas, I fear that Angrod is not the only one who will remember." she gestured to the camp, where Elves were running towards them, bows drawn and ready, until they heard the laughter. Others came behind with towels, and they picked their way out of the stream, through the thick green grasses, as the insects rose in wisps of cloud about them. Fingolfin sighed.

    "Dignity... Mother would laugh, but Father would shake his head sadly. It is almost amusing that my brother saw me as a rival, for I did not even aspire to such dignity as he himself possessed." He paused, as the dark memories crowded back "As he once possessed..."

    "Do not dwell upon the darkness of the past. Let us follow Angrod to his Hall, it is long since I was there, and many years have passed since you lay in Barad Halatir."

     "It has been one hundred and seventy two years of the sun since last you came to my house, lord. We long to see you there again."

     Fingolfin, who yet held the hand of Hador, felt the dread in Mortal's spirit; they had a horror, deep within them, that recoiled from the great age of the Elves as though from fire or poison. The gulf of time between them was an abyss, beyond all hope of bridge or traverse. Fingolfin thought of Barad Halatir as a place where he had stayed only lately, but to the Mortals, his last visit had been in the darkness of the remote past. He sighed again and bowed his head; time and change stood between himself and his beloved Hador, as the swift-moving stream of Eithel Fain. 

 

 

 

     Barad Halatir was a mere village compared to the great city of Barad Eithel, seat of the High King, whose tall white towers stood watch over the source of the mighty Sirion. But the people of Angrod welcomed them with music and song, garlands of meadow flowers hung across the wide gates and lined the main street which wound around the plateau to the dwelling of the prince, set back against the hills behind. The stream ran through the ancient woodland that Angrod had enclosed, leaving a corner of the wilderness untouched within his walls, where his folk could wander in peace, and catch a glimpse of the kingfishers, for whom their fortress had been named. 

      Hador was delighted with the place, still in awe of the son of Finarfin, and made restless by the memory of the sight of fair Gildis, revealed in her Mortal splendour. Fingolfin held his hand, heedless of the watching eyes, feeling the thoughts of his beloved, treasuring each fleeting moment, and holding at bay the despair that loured at the edge of his own spirit, that soon, so soon, Hador would be gone, forever. 

 

      While Hador bathed, Angrod came to the room where Fingolfin waited. He beckoned silently, glancing to the open door of the chamber where Hador could be heard whistling as he splashed in the warm water. Fingolfin rose to his feet in surprise, and followed Angrod out across the hall, and into the chamber of Angrod himself. Angrod sighed. 

      "You know that I like to draw, and paint. You know also that I too took a Mortal lover, for a brief time, for a summer... He came with Finrod, and stayed a while to be with me; but he would stay no longer. He could not endure the curiosity, even, much less the contempt, that those loyal to me felt for he whom they considered an upstart, an outsider, a mere plaything." Angrod sighed "But I thought... I thought that I loved him. It may be that my eyes were blinded by his beauty, and I allowed my spirit to fall into illusion. Indeed, I think I awaited some great gesture from the Valar, to render him Elven, like us, or even, that this had been done, and time and patience would reveal the 'truth' to all, as clearly as I could see it." He lifted his hands to his face, covering his eyes and bowing his head. "I painted his likeness, as though in challenge to all to doubt my conviction." he sighed, and gestured to a tall painting, and Fingolfin looked his first on Baran, son of Beril the sister of Andreth, the Mortal maiden whose love for Aegnor had brought her the friendship of Finrod. 

     Baran was a rare beauty, his hair, his eyes and the tone of his skin a rich golden brown, his fine delicate features caught and held the eye, seeking in vain for a flaw. Fingolfin admired the painting, and the subject, and spoke his praise to Angrod.  But Angrod smiled darkly, a sad, almost bitter smile, and opened a satchel and drew forth another picture, of an older Mortal, with skin a little darker, and a full beard, but with fading brown hair drawing back from his brow, after the manner of the aged among Mortal Men. He held it out to Fingolfin, who found his own face frowning in sympathy with the finely-rendered face in the picture, whose eyes were set in creases, whose brow was lined, and whose expression spoke of hardship and endurance. Fingolfin looked up at Angrod "Is this the father of Baran ? What is his name ?"

    But Angrod almost snarled. "No ! That is Baran himself, only five years later. They age like flowers, and fall like leaves. They are not for us, my lord, they are not part of our lives, nor we of theirs. Only grief can come of our dealings with them. Alas, I fear that the Valar were right, we have no place here, for all our gifts and teachings, for all our lore and wisdom; we shall lead them only to death as the Curse strikes us down, and remind them ever of the horror of their all too brief time among us, in ever sharpening pain as each year passes. The tale of my brother and the lady Andreth is known to you, of course. But I thought it would be different, that the fact that no child would come of our love, that we could...

     I was deluded, I was wrong. Here is the truth. Here is the face of a Mortal of twenty six summers. Twenty six ! We ourselves were infants at that age ! At times I am... I am appalled at what I have done."

     "But they are not children, not Baran, not Hador, and certainly not Gildis the bard."

     "Oh Fingolfin, awaken from your dream ! Look here, look at these two images ! If you linger on your expedition, if you visit even Eglarest and Brithombar, after Nargothrond, by then you will see these lines start to fall upon the face of your beloved." Angrod, gripped by the intensity of his own thwarted passion, seized the robe of Fingolfin as kinsman rather than leige, and gazed intensely into his eyes "Let him go ! Let him go while you still may. Do not drain the barrel, for the dregs contain only disappointment for you, and bitter envy for your beloved Hador." Angrod seemed to awaked then, he looked down at his hands and released the robe of the High King, and smoothed the rich fabric as gently as a courtier. "Forgive me, sire, you will act as you deem fit. It is not my place to advise on personal matters, but to guard the plain. But my experience matches your own, and if these are the patterns that will govern the meetings of our peoples, then I fear for the future, no matter the hopeful visions of the seer Isca."

 

       

     After they had dined, on dishes with the cress used in every way the cooks of Angrod could imagine, Gildis at last sang for them, songs of Nargothrond and Hithlum, and the haunting tunes of the Mortals, remembered, as little else was, from the darkness beyond the Ered Luin. 

    Hador sat by Fingolfin, his great appetite finally sated, his mind scarcely awake, with little but the contentment of a cat for Fingolfin to discover within him. But Fingolfin turned to him with a smile. 

    "Hador, my dearest love. Angrod, the son of my brother, is an artist of some distinction, and has offered me the gift of a portrait of you, in the glory of your youthful beauty. Will you sit for him, as he makes his sketches ? He has a workshop, deep in the garden, away from all noise and distraction, he will take you there in the morning. For I myself, alas, must work; the business of the Seige goes on, though all may seem as peaceful as if there were no... no Enemy, yonder." he gestured with his finger to the North. "Will you do this thing, for me ?"

    Hador smiled sleepily "My lord, I am yours to command, you may simply order me to sit, and it will be done. But there can be few among Mortals who would not give gold to see a likeness of themselves, to see their own youth captured for all time ! We at home have a crude likeness of my mother in her youth, I look often at it, for she was a great beauty. But alas ! now that she is old, her hair fades to white, and the lines are drawn on her face, and... Well. We are Mortal. I would beg the prince to paint me, if I were brave, nay, presumptuous enough to dare to ask. But you  wish this, and it shall be done."

     Fingolfin smiled at him "Pity me, Mortal, I who love you so much that I would give my very seat as High King to keep you ever young, and ever at my side."

     Hador laughed softly "Pity me, Elf, I who would sweep your stables for ever to stay young and deathless as you, and to have your kisses to warm me at night."

     They laid their heads together, and Fingolfin led him away, to share each moment of a love made ferocious by the knowledge of how terribly swiftly it would pass. 

 

 

     Angrod was waiting in the hall outside their chamber as Fingolfin emerged in the morning, formally attired for the council meeting he must attend. He smiled at Angrod, who leapt to his feet. 

     "Sire ! Dear Fingolfin, I am sorry that you cannot be with us this morning, but also relieved, for I know that you would speak, and interrupt us both. He must be still, and I must be silent, else the work cannot be done."

      Fingolfin smiled and gripped him by the upper arm "In truth, I am glad that you will entertain him yourself while I work. His vanity is flattered to be painted in his glory, he will obey you in all. May I see how the work comes along, when the council ends its deliberations ? Or must I await the completion of your masterpiece ?" 

      "My lord, you will come and go as it please you, save only that you approach the hide in silence. The kingfisher knows nothing of its presence, nor do any of the creatures who dwell yet in Barad Halatir, and I would have it remain secret. Other, greater artists than I work there at times, treasuring the closeness to the beasts, that few even in Valinor could achieve. Even Celegorm marvelled to see the otters sporting in the pools. Come as you wish, but in silence."

      Fingolfin nodded, and gestured over his shoulder. "He is still eating. I cannot believe how much he eats, at times I forget to eat myself, watching him devour each dish with the steady remorselessness of the caterpillar on the leaf. Do go in and rouse him up, for if you await him here, you shall wait in vain !"

      Angrod smiled, and knocked on the door, before entering the finest chamber in his Hall. Behind him he heard Fingolfin, laughing softly to himself as he strode away. 

 

      Hador was sitting in the grand bed, a sheet tangled round his waist and legs, a large tray in front of him, still piled with the finest delicacies that the cooks could imagine. Angrod smiled as Hador started guiltily.

     "My lord ! I, forgive me... I cannot resist such food, these mushroom and cress rolls are the finest... Wait, if you will, I shall bathe swiftly..." he lifted the tray from his lap, but Angrod sat down on the bed and picked up a roll himself.

      "Be at ease, Hador Lórindol. Eat as you please. My work has begun, for I must learn the shape of your face, and the arrangement of your features. I must study you, in motion and at rest, until I have learned how you are formed. Only then do I dare set charcoal to parchment."

       Hador tilted his head to one side and looked curiously at the Elven prince. The long hair was straight, a pale gold, fine and smooth, the features even and well formed, he was lovelier than many maidens, and Hador found himself wondering what the famous sister, the lady Galadriel, must be like. There was a painting of her in Barad Eithel, crowned with silver and summer flowers, remote and serene; to the young Mortal she had seemed as one of the Valar, not merely another fair Elf. And this was Angrod, her older brother, gazing at Hador as though to eat him. Hador blushed, and shifted uncomfortably, his body still hot from the intensity of the desire of Fingolfin. 

 

      Angrod finished the roll and took a handful of berries, eating them one by one as he watched the Mortal, wishing he were one of those, like Írimë, who could read the thoughts of others. The heart of Hador beat steadily, his breath was quiet, but embarrassment had flushed his fair cheeks; Angrod sought for words to set the Mortal at ease. But he was an artist, unskilled in the ways of diplomacy, and turned to what seemed to him a safe subject for discussion.

      "You will marry the bard, the lady Gildis ?"

      Hador stared at him, his large eyes round with astonishment, his jaw dropping open. "I... marry..." he swallowed, then reached for his goblet and buried his face in the cool fruit drink. Finally he composed himself, and lifted his chin and his eyes. "My lord. I, I am barely one and twenty, there will be time for such grave matters to be decided." He blinked and looked away from the eyes, pale blue and intent, that pierced his spirit like spears of ice. He wanted to squirm, to hide away from these unnatural creatures, with their immortal powers of seeing, both in the present, and into the heart, and into the unknown vastness of the future. "Are you one of those who can read the thoughts of others ? At times, especially when" he blushed again. Angrod fought to suppress a smile. "Especially when we touch, Fingolfin sees into my mind as though all my thoughts were uttered aloud. Worse, Írimë seems to read everything, in everyone, even the High King ! " he smiled fondly "It is one of the causes of my love for him, that he keeps her at his side, knowing that she sees his very thoughts. He has no shame, for he has nothing to be ashamed of." He sighed  "But I... marry such a treasure as Gildis ? She would be insulted at the mere suggestion that she take to wed a cast-off plaything of the king. I could not presume to ask, nay, to beg, such a one to stand with me before all."

 

      Angrod took another roll from the platter "To answer your question, no, I see nothing of the thoughts of others. But my senses, as sight, and hearing, are keener than most, and I must tell you that even from here, the beating of your heart is plain to me, and the sound of your breath, and the slightest flicker of expression on your face is clear to my eyes, where others would see nothing. But of what passes in your mind, or why your heart should beat more swiftly when you speak the name of Gildis, that I could not say." He smiled, as Hador laid a hand upon his heart, as though to conceal it from the sharp ears of the Elf "But I saw you gaze at her in Eithel Fain, I saw your eyes darken, and I heard your heart race. She is as fair as an Elf, as gifted as the great among us, and, now that I have seen you stare at her so, as lovely as only a Mortal woman can be. For we Elves are more alike, male and female, than your people, and Gildis... Gildis is very clearly female." He smiled, kind but knowing, as Hador blushed again. "But there, you in your youth are wiser than we interfering old Elves. Now that you have seen her in her beauty, I do not doubt that one day you will wed. For who could you find, among Elf or Mortal, to equal such radiance, such skill, and such wisdom ? And I think that you are friends already ? Friendship is the chief part of love, and will see you through the hard times with ease, where passion will bring only storms." 

 

 

     The path through the woods wound between the flowers, that faded away under the green canopy of the trees. The air was still behind the shelter of the walls, and the birds sang merrily, greeting the morning as a welcome friend. Small deer flickered away into the shadows, and squirrels hurried past, running up tall trees as though the endless weight holding all else to the ground had been laid aside for them. Hador smiled around at the lovely place, secluded and peaceful, the private garden of the Elves of Barad Halatir, as Angrod led him away from the path, along a narrow way that saw few steps pass other than his own, grass-grown and concealed from all but the most inquisitive. 

 

    The workshop was scarcely to be seen. The roof, covered in moss and vine, was hung between the trunks of trees, the walls, such as they were, composed of curtains of living vines; honeysuckle and the wild grapes of the North. A squirrel perched on the roof chattered at them and darted away, as Angrod paused to smile at Hador. "This is where I scribble my feeble imitations of the wonders of Yavanna. Will you enter here, among the... animals ?" 

    Hador smiled with narrowed eyes. "The tale is familiar to you."

    "My dear Lórindol, I could have kissed you before the whole court of Barad Eithel for what you did. Had I been there, I think that I would have. For I myself have been mocked, in the subtle ways of courtiers, for my infatuation with Baran." He sucked the breath in between his teeth. "Their scorn when he began to lose his hair, and grow his beard... I wished that they dared to speak openly, that I could fitly answer their taunts. I only wish he had lived to hear of your eloquent riposte.”

    Hador gaped at him “He is dead ? I had not heard this. Alas, news travels slowly among my kind, for we are scattered, and few travel, and fewer yet can write, or read.”

    “Alas, yes. The battle of Estolad claimed him, an arrow pierced his throat, there was nothing to be done, he was dead before he fell.” Angrod sighed “But I shall treasure the memory of the time we had, and his beauty in the gardens of Barad Halatir.” 

    “I grieve for your loss, my lord, for though I never met him, yet I am closer in kinship to him than to even my dearest Fingolfin. Indeed, our peoples draw together, in marriages that bind us all in kinship. The sister of my grandfather, the lady Adanel, wedded Belemir, a cousin, I think, to your Baran.”

    Angrod smiled sadly “The swift lives of Mortals ! The family tree of my House has been as it is, needing little addition, for many centuries. But the trees of Mortals are tangled forests that change even as the learned make new marks on their endless scrolls. I trust that when you do marry, (and may the choice be the wish of your heart !) you will found a House of your own, and begin anew, that those of us who are fond of you may follow the progress of your line.” 

    Hador was silent, overwhelmed by events, by the strangely solemn trees, by the vast horizon of time, glimpsed through the eyes of the Elf, and more than all, by the earnest softness of the tone of voice of the beautiful Elven prince, who claimed a fondness for one he had barely met.

 

 

    Angrod drew back the vines that hung over the doorway, and gestured to Hador to enter. He followed the Mortal into the dim workshop, waiting in stillness as the Mortal grew accustomed to the dark. But the workshop was not truly dark, the roof the only part of the frail structure that was in any way solid, for every wall was little more than a curtain of living green, through which the summer sunlight danced in flickering beams, as light through water. 

     There was little furniture; a couch, a chair and a table, shelves of paints, caskets and scrolls, and in the centre a tall easel, with parchment pinned, ready to begin. From beyond the far window came the melody of the kingfisher’s stream, Hador moved silently across and peered out between the leaves.

    Angrod was beside him, and whispered in his ear. 

    “The chicks have fledged and flown, but still he guards his home. Valiant creature ! For in the year before your birth, the storms raged on the heights of Dorthonion, the floods came down through Barad Halatir and scoured away the bank where he nests. Indeed, in that year the stream altered its course, and almost swept away my workshop. But I am glad to have him close by again, for the last time the floods came, he was carried past my sight, and almost beyond hearing ! “ Angrod laughed softly “My friends were delighted, saying that at last I would paint something other than kingfishers !”

    Hador laughed as quietly as he could, but the kingfisher turned his bright head and vanished in a blur of swift wings. “There, I have startled him, forgive my clumsy Mortal ways, my lord.” He sighed. “But I am here, lord, and I have learned the art of stillness from the scouts of the High King. What would you have me do ?”

 

    Angrod turned away, the memory of the golden brown skin of Hador’s chest, as he sat in the bed of Fingolfin, haunted his mind. He considered putting Hador at his ease, having him sit, fully clothed, a suitable portrait for the wall of the High King. But he could not tell how long Fingolfin would remain, he did not know if he would have another chance to paint the picture that both Fingolfin, and he himself, wished to see.

    “This picture... It is a gift for your lover, for Fingolfin ?”

    “Yes, so that he may remember me as I am now.” 

    Angrod breathed deeply “Then, I think that he would have you lie on the couch. Naked.”

    The heart of the Mortal pounded, but his face was still. Angrod wished once more for the skill to read the thoughts of others. But Hador unbuckled his belt and pulled the tunic over his head, stepping out of his shoes and dropping his breeches. Angrod found his own fists clench with the effort of restraining himself from seizing the perfect golden body, and, striving in vain to keep his voice level, he gestured to the couch. The size of the Mortal astonished him, the height, the breadth of his shoulders, he seemed almost as tall as the great Elu Thingol, and more solid, more real, with none of the Light-borne power that shone in the eyes of the Lord of Doriath. Angrod thought of Fingolfin with renewed pity, greater than his own desire; to have this breathtaking beauty in the hands, and to see it wither away like smoke. Truly, the Noldor were Cursed, and cursed in so many different ways...

    “Please” he said hoarsely “Do you recline on the couch. The position you assume is for you to choose. You know what will please him, far better than I. But you must be comfortable, stillness is as vital for the sitter as for the scout. But I shall begin with rough sketches, while you find a position you can hold. There is no need for concern. By the time that I am ready to paint you, you will be at ease, and ready to be painted.”

 

 

    Hours passed, Angrod filled page after page with swift lines, as the Mortal settled himself, then lay back, gazing from the side of his eyes through the vines. The kingfisher was at his post, and the Mortal watched in silence. Angrod found himself impressed at the stillness; he truly had been trained by the finest scouts. 

     The light shifted the shadows, each pattern of shade revealing a new beauty in Hador Lórindol, beloved of the High King. Angrod, drawing in an enchanted frenzy, found the shadows climbing within himself, as desire became envy. 

     For a time he wished that Fingolfin had remained in Valinor, as he claimed to have wanted. Darker thoughts than Angrod had ever known crowded into his mind, as though the Shadow reached out for him, across the green plain, seeking the weakness in his mind, seeking anger, desire, envy, seeking to enflame his spirit, to drive him to turn on Fingolfin, to destroy him, to take the helpless Mortal and...  

 

    Angrod stopped still, his heart pounding, and threw down his charcoal. Hador, he noticed for the first time, had fallen asleep. But behind him, Fingolfin leaned against the doorway, with folded arms, watching in silence. Angrod drew in a shuddering breath, and reached for the small flask of miruvor from the shelf above the table. Fingolfin stepped quietly inside, and took a sip from the flask that Angrod offered him.

    “May I see what you have done ?” he asked quietly. Angrod gestured to the small pile of parchments on the table, and Fingolfin studied them in silence. At length he looked up at Angrod “He will destroy me.” he said softly. Angrod held out the flask in silence, and Fingolfin took another mouthful, then looked intently at Angrod. “You too ? “ 

    Angrod breathed in deeply then turned away, gripping the edge of the table and bowing his head. Fingolfin put the flask down in front of him but said no more. There was nothing to say. That which is, is. But Angrod frowned, and turning to Fingolfin, gestured to the doorway. They walked through the trees in silence, until they came to a fallen log, polished smooth by Angrod, sitting with his sketches, and, for a time, with the Mortal Baran. 

 

   Finally Fingolfin spoke. “Something has happened, Angrod, there are shadows in your eyes.” 

   Angrod sucked in his breath, and let his shoulders loosen as he breathed out. 

   “It is more than his beauty, and my unforgivable desire. The shadow...The Shadow itself is here. I felt... 

    The Enemy probes our defences with an urgency that I have not felt in centuries. Change is upon us. It may be that the words of Isca have reached... Him. They say His spies are everywhere. If I were Him, I would give my closest attention to such Seers. The thought that the blood of the two kindreds could be mingled... Can you foresee what He would do with such knowledge ? Such power ?”

     He turned to Fingolfin with a fevered anguish “Do not ask me to paint him, sire. Find another artist, one who is less...less weak than I. For if he lies before me naked again, I shall... I will...” He bowed his head. Fingolfin sighed and placed a hand on the shoulder of his brother’s son. 

   “Forgive me, Angrod, I should never have asked this of you. You are mourning the loss of your own Mortal lover, and I have done this to you. I ask your pardon. I did not see beyond my own selfish wish to have a keepsake of that which will be gone so soon.” He broke off and looked away. Angrod drank from the flask but found it empty. He cursed silently and stalked back to the workshop. To his surprise, Fingolfin followed him, but paused by the doorway, his hand on Angrod’s arm.

   “Do what you must.” He said, so softly that Angrod doubted his own ears. “I know that he will marry. I know this. 

   Nothing can alter my love for him, whether he is with another one, or two, or ten, I shall love him the same. But he will vanish like smoke before ever your grief at the passing of Baran is healed, and I would not add a feather’s weight to your mourning. If he’’ he nodded into the workshop ‘If he will have you, then take what he offers. I must return to my meetings - there is much work to be done here. 

    And I need you, Angrod, I need you strong, guarding my flank. Our people need you, his people need you. I would not have this shadow between us. Please.” He smiled at the astonishment on the face of Angrod “He is not mine to give, and I do not offer him as such. But he is young, he burns with the intense flame of the Mortal, and he is insatiable in all that he does. Take whatever he offers you and if in his doubt he speaks of me, send him to me, and I shall set his mind at ease.” Fingolfin gave Angrod his dazzling smile, and turned away. Before Angrod had thought to reply, Fingolfin had disappeared among the trees. 

 

    Angrod found his eyes filling with tears, the grief for Baran, a deeper wound than he had dared to probe, tore his heart like an orc arrow. He slid to the ground, covered his face with his hands and wept in silence until the tears softened his clenched muscles, and the anguish passed like melting snow.

 

    Angrod was scarcely aware of the vines being lifted aside behind him. Hador, still naked, sat beside him and sighed. 

   "Forgive me, my lord, I hope that my falling asleep did not hamper your efforts."

    Angrod glanced up, but Hador, seeing the tears still glistening on the face of the Elf, looked at him in horror. "Are there ill tidings, my lord ? Does the Enemy attack ?" 

   "The Enemy never pauses his attack, though your senses may not perceive it. But Fingolfin was here and we spoke." he hesitated, and hung his head. He could feel Hador staring at him, he could feel the warmth of the Mortal, through his tunic, he could almost taste the salt of his skin. He looked up again, desire gave his courage a recklessness that would have astonished his father, though not his sister. He grinned suddenly, and laughed at the surprise on the face of the naked Hador. 

 

    "Fingolfin has given me... permission... to... to seduce you." 

     Hador gaped at him, his eyes round with astonishment. The thoughts piled into the mind of the Mortal, like falling rocks. Angrod did not need to read them, he knew what they were. Hador had believed in the love Fingolfin offered him, but now...

 

      Hador rose to his feet and strode away, then stopped and stood with his back to Angrod. Angrod could see the muscles clench and unclench, as the thoughts whirled past the astonished Hador. 

     "Permission..." he said slowly "He gave you..." He spun around, Angrod forced himself to look up, though he did not miss the signal of desire. He rose and faced Hador, wondering if the clenched fists would be used against him, or against Fingolfin. Hador opened his mouth as though to speak, then turned away again, and said wonderingly "I am insulted. I am more insulted than when that vermin called me 'animal'.

      I do not know what to do. All my life I have turned to the wisdom of the Elves, or to those like my great-grandfather, who studied with the Elves. But now, when most I need your counsel, I am bereft. For who shall I turn to when the High King has betrayed me ?" he bowed his head, his shoulders slumped, he seemed to shrink; he looked thin, helpless, and very young. Angrod found himself weeping again, as Hador said tonelessly "He told me that he loved me. Over and over again. Every day, since first we met. And I believed him." he turned to stare at Angrod "I believed him !"

 

    "I have counsel for you. If you would hear it." 

     Hador drew himself up, and looked at Angrod through narrowed eyes. Angrod felt the tears roll down his face, but ignored them. Like a startled animal, the Mortal would flee if he moved. He smiled gently. "You do not understand us. How could you ? We look alike, we bleed, we love, we know fear and anger and the taste of wine. But we are different kinds of being, Hador Lórindol, very different, and the abyss between us can never be crossed. But the deeds of Fingolfin, well, an Elf would understand, though you may not. But if you would have an explanation, you may ask me, and I shall try to help you see. Or you may go to Fingolfin, and ask him yourself." 

    "An explanation! How could there be an explanation ? What am I ? A toy ? He would share me with his friends and family ? I see now why my grandfather took his own father for a fool, and would have nothing to do with you, the Cursed Noldor. Are all Elves like you ? Or does the Curse drive you to such behaviour, such contempt for us, for me !" he turned away, alive with rage, his shoulders bunching with suppressed fury. Angrod took a deep breath, and smiled, there was more miruvor in the workshop, he had never seen anyone more in need of the cordial. He darted under the curtain of vines and seized the large flagon and a goblet. Hador was unaware that he had been gone, and looked at the goblet in astonishment, before throwing the contents down his throat. After a moment the tension in his body eased a little, but his jaw remained clenched, and the suspicion in his eyes made the heart of Angrod wince with pain. Hador frowned "Why were you weeping ?"

         

     It was the turn of Angrod to look away. What could he say ? 

    "I... shall we sit ? These things are difficult to say, even in comfort. You might like to... to dress." 

    Hador looked down at himself, snorting, but as he became aware of his own arousal, the rage fell away. "Why ? What can I conceal from you, who can perceive the very beating of my heart, or from him, who reads my thought ? Dress ! Ha.

     But you are wise, I would sit, my thoughts are wild. It will be better to think calmly before I... before I do something foolish." He followed Angrod back into the workshop, and Angrod picked up the pile of parchments and laid them on the couch, gesturing to them, as the Mortal waited for his eyes to clear. Hador sat with a sigh, and picked up one of the parchments. Angrod reclined in the chair and took a large draught of miruvor, feeling the warmth loosen his own sinews, unaware of how very tense he had been. There was no doubt, the Mortal was powerful, the orcs would be grass before the blade he wielded. Angrod wondered what his weapon was, and whether he could have one made for him, as a parting gift. For the thought became clear to him, that whether he let Angrod seduce him or not, that soon, even in Mortal terms, he would understand the Noldor clearly enough to know that he did not belong among them, and he would withdraw, and join his people, and Angrod would never see him again.

 

   The parchment rustled as Hador laid aside a sheet and studied the next one, still in silence, without a glance at Angrod, who carefully stretched his long legs and crossed his ankles, watching Hador. He wondered how it must feel, surrounded by those who would endure to the end of time, knowing that you yourself would be gone before most had even become aware that your kind even existed, let alone that you were alive, and aware, and as full of hope and vigour as any Elf. The tears came again, and Angrod heard the words of Hador echo in his mind. Why do I weep ? he thought, and could not answer. The answer was too great for him to put into words; he was no scholar, there had been no time. He had heard no hint from anyone, even those he most admired and respected, that there was any answer to the grief and pain of Arda Marred. He had spent time in the Halls of Nienna, and been granted permission to gaze from her Windows, which faced outward from the Walls of the World. But how could he speak of this to a Mortal ? None who had seen had ever spoken of it. He himself had told no one, not even Galadriel, not even Aegnor. Why do I weep ? he thought, as the Mortal laid aside another parchment, why does Nienna weep ? Why did Eru make Melkor ? To decorate the snowflake ? He laughed suddenly, and Hador looked up at him as though he had forgotten that he was there. 

 

   "You drew these. You drew all these pictures, today ? That is remarkable. I am honoured beyond words that you would choose to draw me, and flattered to vanity by how beautiful you have made me look. But why do you weep ? Do you mourn the death of Baran, do I remind you of him ?"

    "You remind me of him only in that you are beautiful, and Mortal, and have lit the fires within me. I mourn him. I mourn you. I mourn for all the slain, and for the pain and grief in the world, and for our helplessness to ease the pain, to end the grief, or even to understand why such things must be. Weep ! As though my tears could put back one drop of the ocean of spilled blood... By the void, Mortal, why do you not weep ?"

    Hador shrank back from the vehement fury of the cold-eyed Elf. He felt as far from tears as he could imagine being, alight with fury, and the vast disappointment that the callous words of Fingolfin had brought him. Words spoken over his sleeping body as though he were a thing, a tool, a garment laid aside. To his astonishment, tears of rage seemed to burst from his eyes, and like a hurt child he wailed. "He told me he loved me, he proved his love, and I believed him ! If not Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, then who can I trust ? Who ?"

   "But why do you doubt that he loves you ?"

   "What ? How can you say that ? If you do not understand that, then you are right, the abyss lies between us." he looked blindly at the parchments on his lap and laid them aside, rising to his feet and looking about for his clothes "I must return home, at once, I must seek out my grandfather and beg his forgiveness. And my father... I left them, I left them to come here, and look at me !" 

     Angrod rose to his feet, then sank to his knees before Hador and laid his cheek on the bare warm stomach, feeling his own tears wetting the smooth skin. Hador suddenly sighed, with his whole body, and slid to the floor, into the arms of Angrod. They clung together, weeping, with no comfort to offer but the warmth of their bodies. 

 

    After a time, Angrod stroked the golden hair, warm under his hand. "My poor Hador. What do you wish, my dear ? Shall I try to answer your doubts ? Would you like to find Fingolfin, and ask him to share his thoughts with you ? Or would you simply leave us, who have come to love you, even in the short time you have been with us ?" 

    Hador pushed against the hand of Angrod, as a cat leaning into a caress, and said softly "Do you truly wish to seduce me, son of Finarfin ? Did you speak of this to Fingolfin, or did you show him those... those pictures, and let him read your thought ? What did he say ? What..." he broke off, and covered his eyes with his hand, his fair, unlined brow creasing into a frown. Angrod ached with the pity of it all, and stroked the golden arm of the Mortal.

    "He said that since he knew that you would marry, one more lover would make no difference. He loves you, Hador, he loves you as though you were an Elf, truly, and when you perish, a part of him will perish with you. 

    It is not you who are the tool, or discarded garment, it is I. He needs me to be strong, to stand fast in the face of the Enemy, fighting the Shadow that your brief lives spare you even the knowledge of, the Shadow of the Enemy, which is as real to us as the wind or the mist. He is the High King, wise and subtle, he must stand fast for all of us. And though he loves you, he would have you lay down your life, as he asks of all of us, his closest kin, as he would himself, to thwart the Enemy, and to protect our people. 

   I cannot see your thoughts, Lórindol, but he can. He has seen that you desire Gildis, that you desire me. He knows that I desire you, even without reading my mind. You know this yourself, you have seen my drawings of you." Hador blushed, and lowered his eyes, but his arm gripped Angrod more tightly. "You are young, vigorous and Mortal, full of hunger, and he would not stand in your way. 

    He speaks truly, for if he is to lose you to a wife, what is another lover compared to that ? What am I, but a tool for him, to guard his flank, and a tool for you, to taste the flesh of another Elf, a different Elf, with pale hair rather than dark, and blue eyes rather than grey ? He would please you, he would please me, he loves us both, in our different ways, and he would not grudge us release from the pain of grief for a little time, before we walk away from each other into the unknown darkness ahead."

 

    Hador was silent for a time, holding Angrod, but staring out through the gaps in the vine curtain, at the leaves fluttering in the evening air. Angrod freed an arm and found the miruvor, and poured a goblet, taking a gulp, and passing it to Hador, who smiled at him. 

    "You desire me ? Truly ? I am... I cannot believe..." he frowned "I do not believe that Fingolfin does not care. It makes no sense."

     "Yes, beautiful Hador, I desire you so intensely that I asked the High King to find another to paint you, because I cannot keep my hands from your flesh. And here you are, in my arms, though not as I had imagined ! As for Fingolfin, of course he cares. But he will suffer so much when you perish that this will be as nothing to the loss of you then. For you will not remain here with me, will you ? You will take your pleasure and return to him.

     I wonder if you will speak of this ? I hope that you do, for I would not come between you for a Silmaril in my hand !" he laughed dryly "As he would not come between us." He sighed, and stroked the cheek of Hador, brushing away the last of the tears. "You enchant us, Hador, I cannot say why. I think, I think it is the intensity of your brief lives, the bright heat of your flame, though you do not understand my words, any more than you can perceive the Shadow. 

    There are those of us who believe that even had the Mortals crossed Belegaer and stood beneath the Two Trees, that they, that you, would not have perceived the Light at all. We are different in ways that cannot be spoken of, but only shown, as my crude pictures are shown, but not to those without eyes to see."

    "But Angrod, it is you who enchant us ! So fair, so wise, ever-young, ever-lovely, living forever, casting your spells in music and art, teaching we Mortals your gifts of wisdom, and challenging the Enemy, whom you have held prisoner for centuries. We are as insects before you, fleeting and frail. You are... I love you all !" 

 

    Angrod sat back, taking Hador by the shoulders and gazing into his eyes.

   "We are Cursed, Hador, we have defied the Valar, and the Enemy. Our Doom is certain, the only question is when we shall perish, not whether. But there is another thing that I would say to you. It concerns time, and our origins in the East. Your people speak of darkness, as do mine, but we did not know the same darkness. 

    We call ourselves Eldar, the people of the stars, and we love the light of them more than we can say in all our songs. But your people woke with the rising of the Sun, and the darkness you speak of is not the darkness that we knew. Oh Hador, Fingolfin was already the king before your people ever woke, he led us across Helcaraxë while you yet slept. How can he explain his thought to you ? I scarcely understand him myself. But Hador, in the beginning of the time of the Eldar, we awoke at Cuiviénen, not born as the Children of Ilúvatar are born, but full grown, naked and singing. And there are those who walk alive, who live yet, who were there. 

    It is unimaginable even to me, Lórindol, it is beyond all hope of understanding for a Mortal. But the Eldar are the same as we were then, because we are still here, because we do not change, because we remember everything. 

    Desire... It is a small thing, but so is the arrowhead, fitting into the hand, or the heart, in defence or in death. Fingolfin loves you more than that, more than desire, he loves you with his spirit, with his heart. He would deny you nothing, even the chance to taste my flesh. For what am I but a passing fancy to you, who think ever of him, his words and his purpose. Is it not so ?"

    Hador closed his eyes slowly, and bowed his head. A tear spilled from under the long lashes, and Angrod felt his own heart torn open. He leaned forwards, licked the tear away and kissed Hador. 

 

    The flames of desire filled their minds, they moved without thought. Angrod laid Hador down on the floor of the workshop, kissing him frenziedly as he struggled to lower his breeches, and part the golden thighs, and in the blindness of passion, took him with the desperate urgency of mating beasts. It was over before either was aware of what they had done, but they clung together afterwards as though they had melted into one, as an alloy of silver and gold devised by Aulë himself. 

 

    They did not speak, there were no words that could be said. But after a time Hador pulled the tunic over Angrod's head, and sighed with pleasure as he stroked the smooth pale skin of the son of Finarfin. With a half smile he slid to his feet, picked Angrod up in his arms and laid him on the couch, lowering himself onto the waiting body of the beautiful Elf. He smiled into Angrod’s eyes, and Angrod looked up at the Mortal, wondering if he would see him differently, freed from the intense desire that had blinded him.

     But Hador stooped over him, kissing his throat, his chest, the large strong hands working their way down the slender form of the Elf, and Angrod knew that he would never be free from this desire, that the enchantment had reached deep into his spirit, more intensely than even the lovely Baran. A part of his mind, for a brief moment, wondered if Fingolfin had hoped for this, in order to prove, if only to himself, that he had not become fey, as his brother had done, that the power of Hador was as real as the Shadow, as unchallengeable as music. The thought sat in his mind like a crystal, while the Mortal laid seige to his flesh, until all that remained of Angrod was desire, and the insatiable hunger of Hador Lórindol.