Horses. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

   

 

   Fingolfin stared out at the gardens of Barad Halatir, watching the moonlight play on the trees. Leaves rippled in the night air, cooling the heat of his fury. Hador had been with Angrod since first light, and Fingolfin found his disappointment bitter to endure. He had been foolish to expect a love to match his own, yet he had hoped that Hador would rush to his side, embarrassed at the approach of young Angrod...
But the moon was high, the singing had ended, and Fingolfin waited, wondering if he would wait hours, days, or forever.

   The door opened, and closed, but Fingolfin did not turn. He felt the presence of Hador, but could not read his thought. His fists clenched, the goblet in his hand buckled, but he remained still, waiting.
   Hador, moving as silently as ever, was beside him. Still he did not turn, fearing his own wrath, fearing to see the lips of his beloved, swollen from another’s kiss, to see the sleepy pleasure in the large eyes, that had belonged only to him, now seen by another.

   The fury blinded him, he threw the goblet to the ground, it rang dully, and skittered across the floor, while the dregs of the red wine splashed up his robe and spilled over the white marble. Hador took a startled breath, but remained silent and still. They stood together, staring unseeingly out at the night, aware of each other, but absorbed in their own thoughts, until Fingolfin felt the wrath tighten its focus, and his whole being twisted into a scream that he could not bring himself to release. He could not acknowledge the part of him that wished to slay Hador for his betrayal, and to hunt down Angrod and cut his throat, and worse... But he could not deny the fury, the disappointment, the hurt pride and the wounded heart.

   Yet he himself had thrown them together, he had told them to...

   The wound to his pride shamed him. He had hoped, blindly, that Hador would refuse. His pride had done this thing. He had only himself to blame. He had not seen the truth of his own heart, he had been a fool, imagining he saw a love as profound as his own, in the heart of a Mortal, a Mortal who was little more than a boy. His rage turned in on itself, gnawing at his spirit like the teeth of the ice; he knew that he could not be angry with Hador, but nor could he ever forgive him. The spell was broken, the enchantment ended. The dream of love faded like the fears of the night. It was time to awaken, and he was High King, with a difficult subject to handle.

   He steadied his breathing, and composed his face. He must speak to Hador, yet he could not move, he could think of nothing to say, he could not imagine what to do with him, he could not foresee the next instant, much less the next hour, or the night. What was to be done ? His wisdom failed him, his thought dispersed like smoke.

   Fingolfin frowned and turned to Hador, as he had become accustomed to doing.

   The large blue eyes of the Mortal gleamed in the moonlight like the sapphires of Manwë. The face of the Mortal a study in black and white, anxious and concerned. Fingolfin realised that the room was in darkness. He laughed then, as dark as his heart...
   Hador did not move, Fingolfin found himself coldly impressed at such calmness, the sound of the thrown goblet seemed to echo yet in the ears of the High King. The eyes of his lover, his betrayer, were fixed upon him. The memories came crowding into his mind, the thin boy with huge hands and feet, the fine athlete he had become, the blissful smile when they had...

   Fingolfin choked, reaching out with his hand to grasp at the window frame, staggered by the depth of his love, and the matching height of his fury. Still Hador did not move. Caught between the horns of passion, Fingolfin found his own thought clearing, and he became aware, with senses honed in the train of Oromë, that the creature before him was braced for a fight, perhaps to death, against an opponent he had no wish to harm. Fingolfin almost snorted, seeing himself as a Maia would see him, as a cornered cat, a great cat of the deep forest, snarling and bristling, tail lashing behind. He smiled, but knew that the rage had made his smile a predatory thing, that his body betrayed his rage to the watchful Mortal, and that only words would do.

   "I was wrong." he said finally, his voice harsh and unfamiliar, croaking with hurt fury. "I had hoped, in my vanity, that you would... that you would not..." his mind winced away from the thoughts that had hounded him all day, the words had become unthinkable. "I would wish that we had never come to this place. I would..." he faltered and fell silent. Hador blinked slowly, and drew in a breath through his nostrils, but did not move or speak. Fingolfin knew that he himself must act, he must shape the path with his own will, but his will was divided, as it had never been divided before, between rage and love and the deep wound to his pride, or to his vanity.
   It came to him, as a shock, that he had taken no decisions before, of any consequence. Always he had followed others, his father, Ingwë, Olórin; he walked yet down the path his brother had laid, and all his deeds had been only what reason demanded, from Helcaraxë to Barad Eithel. His very marriage had happened to him, he thought wildly; it had been expected, Anairë was beautiful, regal, accomplished and kind, he had liked and admired her, grown fond of her, and been more than willing. He had been eager indeed to unmask the serenity and discover the passion that must burn beneath the calm smile. But he had never found it, the mask was real, the tranquility of Anairë as solid as the foundations of Tirion, and he had buried his disappointment, and treated her with the politeness that she imposed on all who met her.

   He sighed, the anger released a little of its hold, and he frowned at Hador, almost puzzled. The innocence of the young Mortal reached past his pain, and his love gave him the compassion he needed. He stretched out his hand and rested it on the arm of his beloved.
   "I ask your pardon, Hador Lórindol. I ask your pity for my folly, my vanity and my pride. I am at a loss, dear Hador, I cannot..."
   But Hador smiled, kindly at first, and then with the secretive light that only lovers know. "I think that it is I who need forgiveness. I am weak and greedy, and I take what is offered to me without heed or thought of the consequences. It is not that I do not love you, for you know that I do. You are not wrong, but you thought me a better, stronger person than I truly am. I ask your pardon, my love, my lord, my king."
   Fingolfin gripped his arm tightly for a moment, then they were in each other’s arms, kissing as though they had been parted for centuries rather than hours. Fingolfin felt tears on his cheek, and could not tell if they were his own, or his lover’s. They stumbled to the bed, Hador struggled out of his clothes, Fingolfin, with Elven speed, lay back naked and opened his arms to the first lover he had found whose passion matched his own.

   They did not speak, but showed their love in kiss and caress, in motion and in stillness, the Music become dance; their love a process rather than a thing, a progress rather than a state, a becoming closer rather than a statement.

   They lay still and silent, cooling in the night air, until Hador, his face buried in Fingolfin’s neck, spoke softly. "He wept. He wept for Baran, and when I comforted him..."
Fingolfin stroked his hair "It makes no difference. No, that is not true. I am hurt. But you are not to blame. I cannot blame the oak for not bearing cherries. I will take whatever you offer and still feel richer than one with the silmarils in his hand."
He felt the smile fold the cheek of his lover, pressed close against his chest, and smiled himself. But Hador stirred and sat up.
   "By the Valar, I have eaten nothing since breakfast. He... there was nothing but miruvor in that... that place. My lord, I must eat !"
   Fingolfin laughed "My poor Hador, we forget that you are not one of us and burn instead with the bright flame of the Mortal. Come, this is the House of a prince, there will be cherries..."

   They dressed again and took the back stairs, following the tempting scent of fresh baked bread. In the night kitchen, amid a frosting of flour, the bakers were hard at work, and Hador gave a small sound, that only Fingolfin heard, almost a whine, as a starving hound might make. He smiled and beckoned one of the cooks.
   "This hungry Mortal missed his supper, have you something ready ? "
   The cook smiled and bowed, and returned with a plate of pies, while another came behind with a bowl of fruit, most of which was cherries. Hador held out both hands, and the cook presented him with the pies, bowing again. Hador thanked him as Fingolfin took the fruit, and a third cook approached them with a large flagon.

   "Sire, this is a drink we make here, a mead, made of apples, and spices. My lord Angrod intends to give you some as a parting gift, but we have great store on hand, and he will not mind that you try it now."
   "Thank you all, your provender is as fine as anything at Eithel Barad, each dish a delight. Is it not so ?" He turned to Hador, who was looking hungrily at the pies.
   Hador looked up "Oh yes, truly, the rolls we had for breakfast, with mushroom and cress, they were the finest thing I think I have ever tasted !"
   A cook nearby, who had been chopping onions, stood up straight, beaming with pride, while her fellows gathered around to congratulate her. She bowed to Fingolfin, who smiled and nodded.
   "Yes, truly excellent. But we must take our leave, the Mortals need far more food than we, and when they miss a meal..." he laughed, and the cooks all laughed with him, as they turned back to the door.

  "Pies !" exclaimed Hador eagerly, as they hurried up the stairs "Do you think there will be more cress in them ?"
   Fingolfin laughed "I am certain of it ! We picked a great deal, and it must be eaten at once. Yes, the table of Angrod is a fine one, he applies his artistry to all that he does."

   He stopped dead, the meaning of his words becoming clear to him. He turned to Hador, who stood still on the stairs, the light of a lantern on his upturned face, turning his beauty into something beyond the Mortal, beyond the Elven; Fingolfin thought of Irmo, and of this dream, from which he could not bear to waken.

   "Come, my dear, let us eat, and taste the apple mead. We shall always be friends, you need not fear my anger. I, who remained calm when my brother drew his sword on me."
   Hador sucked in his breath "Oh Fingolfin, I am so sorry. I wish I had not caused you pain ! I..." he stopped and frowned and looked down at the plate in his hands, but Fingolfin laughed, and took the stairs two at a time, with his lover hurrying along behind him.

 

   When Hador had quelled his first hunger, and settled down to clearing the plate, Fingolfin looked at him over the rim of his goblet.
   "I would hear you speak of it. We are friends. Let there be no shadow between us."
Hador looked up, his eyes round at first, then narrowing with doubt. He finished his mouthful and reached for his own goblet, and took a deep draught of the spiced mead.

   "Are you certain ?" he said quietly. Fingolfin felt a chill, colder than the winds of Helcaraxë, reaching through him, through his heart. It was as though Hador spoke of a death, the death of a loved one. Fingolfin wondered if it was his own death.

   "Yes. Please, I would hear everything."

   Hador nodded slowly "I think... I think it was his hands. He is very skilled with his hands. He... I felt like the statue, being sculpted, as though he were the artist, completing his work. I... do you see what I mean ?"
   Fingolfin smiled with closed lips, the image was all too vivid before his mind.

   "He spent hours, really, hours just, just touching me. I lay there, in a kind of torment, and when we, when we... the release was... was a..." he sighed, and frowned "I do not know what to say ! I wish this were one of those times when you could merely read my thoughts, for I do not know the words, no, that is wrong, I do not know how to speak of these things at all."
   Fingolfin held out his hand, and laid it on the thigh of his lover, straining to clear his mind of thought, and let the sound, or sight, of the thought of his lover fill his mind.
The flicker of fragments of memory swirled through him, there was Angrod weeping, and the frenzy of their first coupling. He saw himself, all through the thought of his lover, and Angrod, his chin raised, his pale hair falling back, in ecstasy. There was Gildis, standing amidst the cresses, soaked to the skin, her body stirring Hador to hunger of another kind. Fingolfin wondered if he had offered Angrod to Hador to distract him from Gildis, and for a moment he believed it, and despised himself.
   But their paths were laid before them. Each had chosen their own steps. Hador, a reed in the forest, could not be blamed for being caught in the machinations of the Noldor. Angrod, mourning another Mortal, had taken what he had been offered, and Fingolfin felt the road steepen before him, sloping down into the darkness of the unknown future.

   The memory hit him like a spear, that Hador was Mortal, and would never see Valinor. That soon he would wither and perish and be gone, and never return, and the ages that lay ahead of Fingolfin, with this fierce bright flame extinguished, bore down upon his heart like the weight of all Arda. He gasped, and clutched at his heart, and stumbled to the window, sucking air into his chest, groping blindly for the flask of miruvor. Hador was at his side, an arm around his waist, the other hand twisting into the locks of dark hair that had fallen forwards over Fingolfin's shoulder.
   "My love, I am here. We could leave in the morning, we could leave now. I need never see him again. I would not cause you pain !"
   Fingolfin smiled, and proffered the flask; Hador swallowed hastily, and looked anxiously at him.
   "Yes, I think we must leave. But that is not why I am... that is not... Oh Lórindol ! You are Mortal ! You will be taken from me ! My heart is already broken ! He... Angrod cannot harm us, no, nor Gildis the bard. But the thought of the years ahead, the centuries, the... I cannot endure to live without you, now that I have known you. I could... I could bear it better, even, were you to live beyond my reach. Merely to know that you walked beneath the stars would give me life."

   Hador put down the flask and took Fingolfin in his arms. They held each other close, standing still in the moonlight, where before they had stood apart, and took comfort from the warmth of their flesh and the steady beating of each other’s heart.

 

 

   Fingolfin and Hador were racing away, they had let the horses run, and found themselves, side by side, galloping across the Ard-galen, laughing with exhileration.
Gildis, mindful of her harp, rode with the others, at a steady pace. On the endless plain they seemed to be running on the spot; the unchanging view, the lack of anything but the occasional bird to divert the eye, it was a dreamlike state. She listened to the sounds, the faint laughter in the wind, the drum beat of the horses covering the leagues, the creak and clank of armour. It was a rich sound, she thought of the musicians of Nargothrond, the drummers she knew who would best capture that complicated rhythm, a flute player for the laughter...

   Írimë was beside her, laughing as ever. Gildis smiled and bowed slightly. Írimë bowed herself. “Do I intrude upon your thoughts, lady Gildis ?”
   “No, my lady, I was considering the rendering of the sound of our passage into music. But it is not a sound that I shall forget, and the musicians in my thoughts are alas, all at Nargothrond. But there will come a time...”
   Írimë smiled “Good ! If there is ever anything that I can do to assist you, you need only ask. There is somewhat that I would ask of you, first.”
   Gildis held back her frown, and smiled politely. Írimë nodded slowly, then smiled merrily “I would claim you as a friend, lady Gildis, and I would have you call me Írimë, or Lalwen, as my brother does. Does this please you ?”
   “Who could wish for a better friend, Írimë ? But I do not think I could call you Lalwen, surely it is a name for a child ?”
   “Yes, it was the child who laughed. But she lives on in me, I think, and at times I remind him, merely by being myself, of happier times, in Valinor.”
   “Are you very unhappy here, then ?”
   Írimë laughed “Do I seem so to you ? No, my dear, I am fascinated by the strangeness of this land. To me, to all the Elves, the Sun and Moon are a new thing, strange and intriguing. In Valinor, they will all know the tale of what they are, when they were formed, how it is that they move as they do... But here ! Oh, a thousand questions remain, and there are thousands more that we have yet to imagine.
   But for myself, the mysteries of Aulë are the chief fascination, and the endless variety of rock and stone in this vast land will occupy my thoughts until all my questions are answered.” She grinned mischievously “Or until some new mystery catches my will.”

   They laughed, but Gildis did not speak, she felt shy with words even among her own family, and chose rather to sing or play to express her mood. But Írimë was smiling beside her, and she felt a warm pride, to be thus singled out by the sister of the High King, and of Fëanor, the shaper of the silmarils. She was very curious about him, but could not bring herself to raise what must be a painful subject for Írimë. She searched her mind for some suitable remark, but the tedium of the empty plain seemed to lull her to sleep; the even hoof beats, the steady gait of the placid horse they had given her, she could feel her eyelids closing, and forced herself to sit up, and breathe deeply. With a start she recalled the fallen star fragment.

   “My lady Írimë ! The star fragment, what became of it ? Were you able to... to... well, to cut it ?”
   “Thank you for asking, I fear that personal matters” she grinned at Gildis “Have rather distracted the King, who neglected to enquire. But our hasty departure has meant that we were only able to remove a small sample, which I have left for the scholars here. Nevertheless, you will wish to see what we have already found.”
   Írimë unslung the small pack from her back, and opened it in front of her. The horse she rode twitched an ear, but otherwise ignored the movement. Gildis watched curiously, it was clear that the weighty fragment was not in the pack. But Írimë made a slight sound of satisfaction and lifted out a small casket, of the kind that jewels may be kept in. She handed it to Gildis and said “Open it carefully, but touch nothing within.”

   Gildis looked at her curiously, then opened the casket. Inside, carefully wrapped in layers of soft cloth, a handful of uncut gems lay, the colour of a herbal infusion, or the water of a woodland stream, flowing clear over sand. She had seen coloured glass of that shade in Nargothrond, and wondered if it were truly glass. She asked Írimë.
   “Ah, no, that is indeed glass, he had the Dwarves make it for him. No, these are too delicate for such uses, or even as gems or jewels. They break so swiftly...” She paused, her pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and looked away. ”Alas, forgive me, Gildis, they will outlast you...

   Oh, I hate that you, and Hador, well, all of you, spend so little time with us ! It is cruel that just as we grow fond of you all, you are gone, Eru alone knows where.” She pulled herself up and took a slow breath, then let it out with a sigh. Gildis was touched by the concern, and warmed beyond expression at the friendship of one so ancient and wise, reputed to read the thought of all around her. Beside her, Írimë laughed. “No, not all. That would be deafening even on Ard-galen ! But most people, yes, if I concentrate. And some, some are as clear to me as glass. My brother, for instance, though not Hador, who has some skill, or gift, for concealing his thought”

   Gildis looked away, finding herself blushing. It was not something the Elves seemed to speak of; who could or could not read thoughts. The music teacher had said “Always assume that they can, but speak as though they cannot.” Advice she had found very useful. But she herself had little to conceal - it was almost expected that the music students would fall in love with Finrod, even the Dwarves were devoted to him, he... She turned her mind back to the casket in her hands.
   “Do you tell me that the star fragment is filled with these gems, like peas in a pod ?”
   “No, not so filled. It is... they are embedded, certainly in the area we cut; these were pried from the opened edges. But more were seen beneath, on both halves. We have no notion, not the slightest, why or how they came to be there. Are they the cups in which the Light is held, the Light of the stars of Varda Elentári ? We cannot say. But we have sent messengers, summoning smiths and scholars to the House of Maedhros at Himring, and there we can study the fragment in peace. Indeed, it is my purpose to remain there.” She looked thoughtfully at Gildis “Maglor will be there.”

   Gildis gaped at her, astonished delight rose in her like the dawn, but her shyness closed her mouth. Írimë laughed “I knew that you would find that a tempting thought.
Gildis, I would have you remain with me, not as a servant or an attendant, but as a friend. I shall be engrossed in my work, and you will be at your music, but still, we might dine together, or sing, at times, if I am permitted to join such exalted musicians.”
   “My lady ! My friend ! But I thought that the purpose of your journey was to gather samples ?”
   “Indeed, but there will be nothing to match the fascination of the star fragment. I shall send one of the scholars along with Fingolfin. But I cannot merely ride away and leave such a find for others to examine ! And this is a time, I think, when my brother has no need of company. Indeed, I fear that he has gone beyond even heeding advice” her voice fell, she almost muttered the last words “or caution.”

   Gildis nodded, then spoke softly “I think it romantic. I must say that not all Elves are so charming, or even so polite, as you and the King. To see an Elf, and such an Elf, truly devoted to a Mortal, well, it is inspiring.”
   Írimë looked away, then turned back with a frown “But you must know of Aegnor and Andreth, especially in Nargothrond !”
   “Know...well, I have heard songs and tales. I have seen the lady Andreth. But he did not wed her. I think Fingolfin would have wed Hador, were he not already...”
   Írimë bowed her head; Fingolfin was so calm on the surface, and so filled with rage and passion beneath the smile. Aegnor was steady and cool, until he chose to unleash his even colder fury. His mother had named him after the flame, but to Írimë he seemed to burn with the deadly cold of Helcaraxë, not the heat of the flame.

   Gildis took a deep breath, striving to bury her disappointment that she would not be working with Hador on the music of Mortals. For though he was as one with Fingolfin, she hoped still that the words of the seer were true, that Hador would wed, and that even she, Gildis the bard, of no particular family, might be the one he chose. She had seen his eyes, as they stood in Eithel Fain, wet to the skin. His laughter had ceased as his eyes rested upon her, and one day, when the King tired of him, he might look at her in that way again.

   Once more she realised that Írimë was aware of her turmoil. In her youth and inexperience she could not hide her thought, and wondered how Hador had succeeded in concealing his from the mind of Írimë when even Fingolfin had failed.

   But to hear Maglor, the most celebrated bard in Beleriand ! Indeed some said in all Arda, though who had heard the song of every voice in Arda ? Who could judge ? She smiled, the question could not be answered.
   But the music she would hear at Himring ! It was as wonderful to her as the star fragment was to Írimë, and to have the chance to linger there, hearing the newest music, and perhaps, perhaps even hearing that which was in her mind, the sound of the horses on Ard-galen - she could sing for joy. She laughed, and Írimë turned with a smile, a question in her eyes.

   But Gildis laughed again, and began to sing.

   

   Movement at the edge of vision caught the eye of Fingolfin, a cloud, low to the ground, moved towards them across the plain. He spoke to the horse, and called to Hador to slacken his pace. Hador turned and circled back as Fingolfin slid to the ground and pressed his hand among the tall grasses. It was as he had suspected, the cloud was no dust storm, but a thundering herd of horses. He thought of Aegnor and smiled, it would be just the manner he would choose to greet his King.
   “Aegnor approaches, let us await him here.”
   Hador grinned and leapt from his horse. “What kind of Elf is he ? Will he treat me as an animal ?”
   “If you are fortunate !” Fingolfin laughed, and laughed again to see the indignation on the face of Hador “Truly, I believe that he cares more for animals, chiefly his beloved horses, than he does for even his own family. But he is of a very different kind to Angrod, he will not...” Fingolfin cleared his throat and turned to his own horse, stroking the long neck with a calm hand that surprised himself. Hador was beside him, waiting. Fingolfin sighed and turned to Hador, who gestured with his head to the oncoming horses.
   “Do you see them, or merely feel the ground tremble beneath their hooves ?”
   “No, I cannot yet see them.”
   Hador seized him and kissed him decisively, Fingolfin slid his arms around the waist of his beloved and wished there were time, time for the moment and time for the future. But Aegnor drew near, he must wait.

   Fingolfin laid his hand upon the shoulder of Hador as they turned to watch the horses. “My dear, Aegnor is close in friendship with my son Turgon, wheresoever he may be, and I would have you speak softly with him. He is a fine Elf, dutiful and steady, with none of the wildness of heart of Angrod. But more than this, I would have you stand watch over me, that I do not act rashly, and let my love for you cause me to forget myself.”
Hador turned and smiled at him, then lowered his head to kiss the hand upon his shoulder.
   “We shall behave with all the dignity of your rank, sire. I was schooled in Barad Eithel, my lord, though you yourself were absent, and I know well what is fitting. I hope that you may count on me.”
   Fingolfin smiled “Forgive me, I am ill at ease, more than I should be, here among the grasses, under the bright Sun. Perhaps I feel the Shadow from yonder.” He had spoken in jest, but as he turned to the North, to Thangorodrim, he felt less certain, and wondered if in truth the will of the Enemy could reach them, even here, far across the Ard-galen.

   Aegnor, in the centre of the herd, raised his arm. A horn sounded, and the pace of the oncoming riders slowed. Fingolfin could feel the delighted approval from Hador, admiring the control Aegnor held over the herd, which without his calming presence would have swept the watchers away in the stampede. But there came a moment, as Aegnor moved within range of even the Mortal’s eyes, that Hador filled with desire for the beautiful Aegnor, and the shadow fell on Fingolfin as though the Sun had instantly set.
   Would Hador desire every Elf of beauty that he saw ? Was he himself, Fingolfin son of Finwë, already forgotten ? The vigour of the Mortal life was well known, he himself had studied them for some years, but Aradan, whom he had known best, had not become close to him as Lórindol was, and he had not seen the thoughts of his first Mortal servant. Surely such insatiable desire was not the truth of the Mortal heart ?
   He stared blindly at the horses and almost smote his brow in dismay at his own folly. The stallion chose as large a herd of mares as he could defend. Beside him, the Mortal, vivid and intense, flared up in the onrushing wind of the approach of Aegnor. Fingolfin thought of Gildis and shook his head slowly. If he himself could not hold the attention of Hador Lórindol, what chance did she have ? He sighed, and wished again to have his beloved to himself, far away from all such distractions.

   As they drew near, Aegnor smiled at Fingolfin, who remembered with a cold shock that Aegnor read thought with greater ease than even Írimë. Aegnor nodded and placed his hand on his heart, then turned to look at Hador. Fingolfin could feel the heat of desire coursing through the Mortal, he knew that Aegnor could see it, with more than his eyes, and Aegnor tilted his head back. From the tall horse he rode, he looked down at Hador, through narrowed eyelids. But Hador did not move, and it came to Fingolfin that desire was a condition of his being, part of the weather of his spirit, and that if he had asked Angrod not to touch the Mortal, that Hador would have ignored the desire, and waited until he was with Fingolfin. But the time of thought was past, Aegnor was throwing his leg over his horse, and stepping lightly to the ground.

   The silence spread around them as Aegnor bowed before Fingolfin, who presented Hador to him. The Elves, and the great herd, were still. Aegnor smiled the charming smile that all the House of Finarfin shared, and Fingolfin felt the delight filling the spirit of his beloved. He blushed as he realised that his hand still rested on the shoulder of his lover, and pulled it back. But Aegnor, without speaking, lifted his hand, and a great grey horse stepped forwards.
   It was young, perhaps four or five, black at the mouth, its shining coat a silvery grey, and it was the finest horse that Fingolfin had ever seen. Aegnor smiled proudly.
   “A gift for the High King, his name is Rochallor and his beauty is fitting for the land of mists.”

   

   For the first time since the lake, Fingolfin forgot Hador altogether. Rochallor was a prince among horses, worthy of the train of Oromë. He stepped forwards, closer to the horse, but not close enough to startle him.

   But Aegnor spoke again. “His sire was borne across Belegaer, but his dam was a gift from Nogrod, from beyond the Ered Luin, to Caranthir. She left a foal for Caranthir and he sent her here, to run on the plain. It is said that her line comes from the herd of Oromë himself, and seeing this creature, I do not doubt it.”
   Fingolfin held out a hand to the beautiful horse, which twitched its ears forward, then stepped proudly towards Fingolfin. He laid his hand on the long sinewy neck, and spoke the name of the horse, as tenderly as he had once addressed his children. Rochallor blew gently on his hair, and Fingolfin felt a great shout of joy striving to burst from him. He stroked the long neck and turned to look at Aegnor.
   “I must ride him, I must see...”
   Aegnor laughed and gestured at the great sweep of the empty plain. “The horse is yours, the land is yours. We shall await you at Bâr Amrún.”
   Fingolfin leaped astride Rochallor and whispered. The great grey horse lifted its head and tail, and flashed away, swift as the storm-borne rain.

   Aegnor turned to Hador, who was watching with awe.
   “Stars shine upon you, Hador of the House of Aradan. I was fortunate to meet your great grandfather, a fine rider, and a doughty warrior. If I am any judge, I think that you will match his prowess, indeed, from your height and build, you may outdo him.” He paused “Truly, you are magnificent, the tallest Mortal I have seen, most impressive.” He smiled “Forgive my bluntness, I spend much time with my horses, and little time among courtiers. My manners are less polished than those you will be accustomed to. If it please you Hador, do you choose from among my herd a steed to match your stature ? There is but one Rochallor, alas, but there are fine horses here, the finest in all Beleriand. This is my own Gûrdram.” He gestured to the stallion at his side, its coat was black, but the legs were white, and a long white splash ran down its face. “He is no beauty, but there are none to match his speed !”
   Hador smiled “Walk in the light, Aegnor son of Finarfin. Alas, I must question your words already. For Gûrdram is extremely beautiful, in form, if not in colouring, and colour serves no purpose. But I am proud indeed that you praise my great grandfather, for he was my idol as a child.”
   Aegnor nodded “Welcome to my lands, Hador, I thank you for the correction. You are wise to look past the surface and see that which is. But come, choose now among these horses, I am certain that you will find what you seek.”

   Hador strolled among the resting horses, Aegnor at his side. They did not speak. Fingolfin had vanished into the distance, but his guard had been seen arriving, with Írimë and Gildis. Hador barely glanced back, captivated by the living treasure before him. At last he saw the horse he would have dreamed of, had he dared. He turned to Aegnor, who was smiling knowingly. Hador blushed.
   “Are you... Do you read thoughts, as the lady Írimë does ?”
   “Indeed. How do you suppose that I manage my herds ? And my people ?” He laughed softly “It is because he has so little of the gift that we admire Fingolfin so. His calm is a matter of song, and his counsel guides us all. To have achieved all that he has done, with no insight into the minds of others but that which his own wisdom bestows, truly, he is remarkable. You are most fortunate to be high in his favour.”
   “That may be so now, but I fear that, unlike Gûrdram, I am more fair on the outside. Alas, my Mortal spirit is that of an impulsive child, and I have much to learn before I can hope to be truly worthy of his favour.

   But tell me of this fine steed, if it please you ?”

   They turned to the horse, its coat was the colour of warm sand, its mane and tail dark brown. It was solidly built, heftier than Gûrdram, almost as tall as Rochallor.
   “Ah, you have a good eye, Mortal ! This is Braig, less swift than some, but with greater endurance. He will carry you far, and defend you when all others would be faint.”
   Hador looked at Aegnor with shining eyes, feeling like a child being offered at last a longed-for gift. “Truly ? I... Do you... For me ?”
   Aegnor smiled “It is a pleasure to see such delight ! I know that you will care for him as I would. Fingolfin does not choose his friends on a whim. Please, Braig is yours now.”

 

   Írimë and Gildis reached Hador before the return of Fingolfin and Rochallor. Aegnor was watching as Hador let Braig become familiar with his scent, while the riders had slowly led the herd back to the open plain.

   Gildis turned to Írimë with a smile "What a marvellous horse ! It is just the one for our Hador."
   Írimë smiled and nodded, amused to hear the pride in her voice. But the charm of Hador could not be denied, nor resisted, it seemed. Even Aegnor was smiling fondly at the stranger, as the tall, golden haired Mortal held out his hand to the wary horse. But Braig did not resist, and Írimë found her heart warming to Hador, as he slid his arm over the horse's neck, and leaped astride. They seemed as one creature, made of gold, shining in the sun, and Braig lifted his head and stamped at the ground. Aegnor looked up at Hador "Do not take him far, he is young, and named for being headstrong. But we shall find you swiftly should he run."
   Hador narrowed his eyes at Aegnor and looked down at the horse "Braig will not dispute the path, for though I am merely Mortal, and have no gift for reading the thoughts of others, yet he and I understand each other, I think."

   Though he did not speak again, he leaned over the horse's neck and Braig darted forwards and thundered away. Gildis exclaimed delightedly "How magnificent ! I must put them into the song I am composing. Out of the great herd the golden horse galloped, the golden rider low on his back !"
   Írimë laughed and greeted Aegnor "This is Gildis the bard, who trained in Nargothrond and won the praise of Finrod himself."
   Aegnor bowed to Gildis, Írimë smiled to see her blush, but none could deny the beauty of the children of Finarfin.
   "My lady, you are both welcome here. But..." he frowned, his voice low and serious "I urge you not to linger here. I know the path you follow, but here..." he turned to the North, then looked closely at Írimë, opening his thought to her.

   She saw his doubt, and his fear. The Shadow seemed to surround them, settling like snow, or ash, clouding heart and mind, choking will and thwarting purpose. She recoiled, and turned her eyes upward to the bright sky.
   Overhead the swifts danced, and high above a falcon floated, feathering the breeze as it turned. The Shadow, she thought, how can it be ? But Aegnor was there, his anxious thought rising almost to a scream. She looked at him in concern, he longed to flee. For the Shadow cast its dread over all his herds and all his people; he would save them, lead them away, South, or East, away from the Malice that raced towards them across the plain, slow as a nightmare, relentless as the fall of winter. She felt the effort of will that it took to stand fast against the horror, to ride laughing in the green grass, while the darkness grew in the spirits of all. His fear reached her heart, she longed to comfort him, but he had always been remote, his own mother had spoken of facing the polite smile and the closed door of his heart.

   "Dear Aegnor, your steadfast courage is beyond praise. I thank you, on behalf of all our people. You must speak to my brother of these things. I, and the lady Gildis, ride to Himring. It would be good to have you join us there, to share your thoughts with the sons of Fëanor. I had not suspected how things stood, these are grave matters. The tide is rising, and we must look to our defences. But I myself am engrossed in the study of rocks, as you know, and we have a fallen star fragment to examine, with the aid of the scholars and smiths summoned to the Halls of Maedhros. I can offer you naught save my praise, my gratitude and my devotion."
   "My lady Írimë, I take such comfort from your swift understanding that the Sun shines brighter in my eyes. Shared fears fade, as they say, and your perception has eased my heart. Do you speak of these things to Maedhros, that when we come there, he will be ready to heed our words ?"
   "Then you will come ? That is well. It may be that together we can move even the stubborn Fëanorians toward the path of wisdom." she laughed "Though ask me not where that path lies, nor where it leads ! But together we may find it."
   To their surprise, the bard spoke then "Surely the path is, I mean, the very act of everyone seeking the path together, that is the path of wisdom. Whatever the wise decide, whatever we must do, it is the act of, no, it is the process of working together, as the symphony is formed, through each musician playing a part in harmony, that is the path of wisdom, and beauty, and song."

   Aegnor smiled at Írimë, a pride in his eyes. She knew that he had felt judged for his devotion to Andreth, first of all the Eldar to love a Mortal. To Aegnor, hearing such wisdom from another Mortal, however clumsily expressed, seemed to justify his choice. If choice it was. For the path of the heart brooked no counsel, heeded no reason, and ignored all wisdom.

   Aegnor spoke then "Lady Gildis, the praise of my brother is more thanks than I could hope to give. But I would offer you a steed, to express my own gratitude, and my hope that you may utter such wisdom to the sons of Fëanor. It may be that such thoughts, from a stranger, will reach their hearts where the tedious voices of their family, nagging them, as they would see it, will fall on distracted ears. And in Himring I hope to hear you sing, and to know that my brother has not lost his own ear for music."
   "My lord, I would be honoured to play for you. I do not know if I have the courage to speak before the mighty sons of Fëanor, but in honour of your own valour, I will attempt this small thing. But I am merely a humble bard, my lord, and only the very wise heed words of sense when spoken by fools such as I."
   Aegnor laughed "Mortals ! How can they attain wisdom so young, lady Írimë ? They live so swiftly, so vividly, so intensely, it is a bewilderment to us plodding Elves.
   Lady Gildis, when I was the age that you are now, I was a child, truly, tagging along behind my cousin Turgon, whining until he stopped to amuse me. I blush to recall it. But you speak as one worthy of a seat at a council of kings, and I am privileged to have met you on your visit to..." his voice tailed off, and he lowered his eyes.

   The unspoken question rose before their minds. Where did the Mortals come from ? Where did they go ? Were they spirits, as Maiar, sent by Eru to fulfil his purpose ? Írimë had heard it suggested that Eru was only alone in being the sole creator of Arda, and that the Mortals were emissaries of his fellow creators, sent to judge his work, or to play his game, or merely to savour the artistry of his creation. But the Mortals themselves knew nothing, and not the most gifted of seers, nor those most skilled in the reading of thought and purpose, had aught to add to the unknown. But Aegnor spoke. "It may be that if they knew, if we knew, that the purpose would be foiled ?"
   Gildis frowned in puzzlement, but Írimë nodded.
   "We shall not find the answer here today. But Gildis needs a mount that will not shy though balrogs spring forth; the harp she bears was a gift from Felagund himself, have you such a steed ?"

 

   Hador had ridden out to meet the returning Fingolfin. Rochallor nuzzled Braig, but Fingolfin merely smiled at Hador.
   "I marvel at your steed, Lórindol, for this is the first time I have seen you forget your appetite in your excitement. Truly a marvel !"
   But Hador looked at him in dismay "Oh Fingolfin ! I had forgotten my hunger, but now that you have reminded me, my stomach aches with emptiness. Is the road long to Bâr Amrún ?"
   Fingolfin laughed and reached into his pouch, and fished out a piece of lembas. He broke it in half and tossed a piece to Hador, who caught and ate it eagerly.
   "I wish that I could cook." Hador said "But I fear that if I learned such a skill, I would become monstrously fat, and be mocked by children in the street."
   "I do not think so, my dear. Your other appetites are too vigorous. Look at the steed you have chosen ! Fierce and wild, as fierce and wild as you are yourself, beneath your charm, and your courtly demeanour. No, you would not sit still long enough to grow fat, but burn it all away in your quest for adventure."

 

   Bâr Amrún was no gilded city as Barad Eithel, nor towering fortress like Barad Halatir, but a long, low building, enclosed behind a high blank wall with but one gate. The buildings grew around the courtyards as part of the rock from which they had been quarried, grey and solid. Within, the rooms were panelled with dark wood, and thick rugs softened the stone flags of the floor. It was simple and comfortable, and Hador felt more at home than he had in the house of his own father. He shared his thought with Fingolfin, who smiled.
   "Ah, wait until you have dined here. They make a cake here, dark and rich, with layers of cherry preserve, doused in cherry spirit, with fresh cherries. You will never wish to leave."
   "Oh no, now I am hungrier than ever. But I suppose we must be polite, and change our dirty garments and sit nicely at the table..."
   Fingolfin laughed and pushed him to the door, but behind him he beckoned an aide and whispered softly. The aide grinned and bowed, and Fingolfin smiled and followed Hador into the bedchamber.
   Hador had thrown off his tunic and was bathing his face in the water. Fingolfin stood behind him and slid his arms around the smooth slim waist. Hodor stood and leaned back against his lover, drying his face with a yellow towel.

   "I wish that I had something to give Aegnor for the gift of Braig. I am sure that you are very grateful for Rochallor. Indeed, though it pains me to say it, Rochallor is a finer steed than any I have seen, truly a splendid creature. How did he run ?"
   Fingolfin licked the warm skin of his shoulder "Oh my love, he runs like the wind, but so smoothly, it is like being carried by a tender parent. Our thought was as one, we moved together in a dream, the grass flowing beneath his feet like the swan on the lake. What a horse ! What a gift !" he sighed "But Hador, it is his task, to find the best steeds, to mount the soldiers of the king. He merely does what is expected of him, these are not the gifts of love, but the tools of duty. Nevertheless, when I find some gift that I consider worthy of the gratitude I feel for Rochallor, I shall send it to dear Aegnor with all the haste I can muster.

What a horse !"

   There was a knock at the door. Fingolfin darted towards it and took the plate from the aide, and turned to Hador with a smile. Hador dropped the towel and held out his hands. Fingolfin laughed and slid into his arm, and put the cherry cake into his other hand "I shall feed you, my dearest, for we must have you polite and well behaved. Poor Aegnor, who lost his heart to Andreth, has lost the respect of his people for such folly. And here am I, with you. Either we shall save Aegnor, and change the minds of his people, or we shall destroy him, and ourselves, and perhaps our kingdoms, falling one by one under the Shadow. If all that may be prevented by a timely piece of cake, then I would feed you that cake with my own hand, that you may impress these horse-lovers with your grave restraint." he lifted a piece of the rich cake and held it to Hador’s mouth, looking longingly at the lips of his beloved, wishing there were time before supper to kiss him properly.

   Hador ate the cake as though he had never eaten before. Fingolfin tasted a mouthful himself, it was as delicious as he had remembered, and surprisingly light. He wished that he had ordered two pieces. As though at last he had learned to read thought, Hador spoke "I wish that you had ordered two pieces."
   Fingolfin laughed "My very thought ! But there will be more at supper, and other delicacies to savour, and you would not wish your delight in those to be lessened by an extra slice of cake. Surely your hunger is blunted ?"
   But Hador tightened his grip on the waist of Fingolfin, and kissed him, tasting the cherry on their lips, and digging his fingers into the smooth dark hair of the son of Finwë.