'the light in your eyes' by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

   

   Naturally mother was upset that none of her children were interested in music. They had done their best, practiced diligently, and could play and sing well enough to amuse a few guests. But no one had even hinted that they be sent to Nargothrond to study, and they had not asked.
   Glóredhel had been gone for a year, and the House, and especially the beach, seemed empty without her. Gundor wondered that one person could make so much noise, but she did not, of course. She had jested, and others had laughed, she had sung a comic song and the rest had joined in, himself included. And there had always been crowds about her, as she skipped or danced through the halls and gardens, seeming like one of the Valier from the elven songs, scattering petals and surrounded by small birds.

   He squinted against the hot sun and ran the warm sand through his fingers, wriggling his toes down through the soft dry sand until the cool, hard layer beneath resisted him. But he was thirteen already, the time of sandcastles was passed, and he had other things on his mind. Galdor, after he had finished laughing, had been very kind, and explained about the shocking dreams, and told him to tell mother and father, who had both wept, and then, to his astonishment, held each others hands. More, they had gripped each others hands, as though one of them were falling and the other clinging to save them. But he could not say which.
   Good old Galdor, he thought, looking out at the little boats with bright sails skipping across the sparkling lake. Galdor was the best sailor in Mithrim, old elves listened when he spoke of the wind, which he seemed to know as a friend, and when others looked for the signs on the water, he would merely lift his face to the air, and smile, and with a tilt of the tiller send the boat swooping away across the lake.
   Fingolfin, sitting by Hador in canvas chairs, suddenly spoke ‘The lake is too small for him, Hador, we should send him to Eglarest, or Brithombar, let him loose on Belegaer. It is like watching a caged bird try to fly in its cage.’
   Gundor looked up at his father, whose eyes were closed as he spoke ‘I know, but he is the eldest, he must remain here.’
   'As you did ?’
   Hador sat up and turned to Fingolfin ‘That is different, I was never further than a few days ride from my people. These distant places you speak of are... are on the other side of the world !’
   'Beleriand is not the world, my love, the world is vast beyond the reckoning even of the wise.’
   'Yes, and no one, not you, my love, not even the wise, knows what awaits my reckless boy ! Besides, his mother would never permit it.’
   Gundor, stirred to his core, suddenly spoke up, finding his voice satisfactorily deep for once ‘Mother would not mind.’

   It was as if a tree had fallen, the adults went rigid and his father blushed bright red. Gundor looked at Fingolfin, feeling he suddenly did not know him at all. Even the mighty elf looked embarrassed. Gundor frowned at them ‘You think me a child, but I know you love each other. I don't mind. Actually, I think of you both as my parents. Mother... Well, we know she loves us, of course, but she loves music more. We don't mind, in truth, because our private, secret thing was always how difficult it was to play without a kindly adult looking over our shoulders. What with you, Aunt Lalwen, uncle Maren, grandmother and the cousins...’ he fell silent, appalled to have blurted out their secret.

   Finally the silence was broken by a burst of singing, and a familiar song composed by Gildis herself echoed over the water. It was a celebratory song, written for a student of hers to mark the birth of his first child. Gundor could not imagine his mother expressing such joy at their own birth. But, they had consoled themselves as children, their mother’s love was hard to win, even poor father had sought consolation with Fingolfin...

   Hador cleared his throat ‘Ah... my dear boy... It is time I explained to you certain facts about, well, about...’
   'Oh faaather, I know all that, even Galdor was late with those tidings ! Besides, I’m like you, father, I like men better. Well, at all, really. I shall never marry.’

   Fingolfin rose to his feet, but Hador, without turning from his son, put out a hand and gripped the fabric of his tunic. Fingolfin sat down. Hador swallowed, then said quietly ‘You are young yet, there may come a time when you wish that a voice would rise from the sand at your feet, and look at you with your own eyes, and see you as you are, and love you. Make no heedless vows ! Have not the fates of the kin of our dear Fingolfin taught us that !’
   Fingolfin looked as though he would speak, but sagged back in his chair, then tilted up his chin and closed his eyes. The midsummer sun was hot on Gundor’s back; he suddenly realised where he was, and what he was saying, and the unspoken secrets of their lives lay like a fallen building around them. He had not even spoken to Galdor of his feelings... He felt his whole body grow hot, burning his flesh with mortification. But his father smiled kindly at him; old Hador could always be relied on for kindness, thought Gundor, and smiled back.
   'You say you have feelings for men, do you, is there, do you have a special friend ?’
Gundor bowed his head and thought of Narthan, Narthan Magor, finest sword hand in Mithrim and, some said, beyond. Narthan son of Nóruin, who had won the name Magor when at fifteen he had competed against the men in the games and won. Even elves were respectful, and used the name. Gundor had thought of little else since the games, for he had caught the full brightness of Narthan’s smile when his victory had been announced. Sweat had darkened the fair hair, and it clung here and there to his handsome face, and Gundor, mesmerised, had clenched his fist to stop himself from reaching out to smooth them away.

   Since then he had made it his business to learn the ways of Narthan Magor, and had mapped his paths, and set himself, smiling, in ambush, as often as discretion permitted. But since that one, Tree-bright smile, Narthan had begun only gradually to smile as to an acquiantance, and Gundor pined alone.
   'There is one I... I care for, but he...’
   'Ah, you must be patient, my son, these things take time, even for grown-up people, do not rush into anything ! Do not be reckless like your brother, but give yourself time to ripen. You would not eat a strawberry when it was green, and you would consider one who did so to be a fool.
   So with your favourite. Were he to declare himself to you now, you would rightly dismiss his words as folly. Is it not so ?’
   Gundor thought of the dazzling smile of Narthan Magor and wondered, every day of his life, if the smile had been aimed at him, or if he had merely borne witness to the triumph of another.

 

   In the end he had learned to make paper. He had a knack for drawing, and in a few lines could shape a hand, a horse or a house with swift precision. There was a crossroads at the western edge of the village where Narthan could be guaranteed to pass every afternoon, and there Gundor waited beneath the great trees, and drew. He drew everything; the view, the houses, the people, the horses, and the teasing children who smeared his pages with muddy fingers. The villagers built him a bench, and then an awning. The elves gave him tips, and made him paper, and then taught him to make his own. Everyone had one of his drawings, some even hung in the houses of elves, but he gave no thought to the serious study of art, and had no interest in going to Nargothrond to learn from the great.

   And he had watched the life of Narthan Magor passing by, for his smile had never warmed beyond politeness, though Gundor clung to hope as a tree to the earth. Narthan had several friends, passing all his time laughing and singing in their company, with scarcely a vague smile for the young prince at his endless sketching. But no laughing girl appeared at the side of the handsome Narthan, nor laughing boy. And Gundor clung to hope.

   

   To his horror and dismay, when he was fifteen and Narthan seventeen, Nóruin had taken his son to Himring to learn from the sons of Fëanor, held to be the mightiest warriors of the elves, who held the Gap against the enemy. Gundor had longed to go, but could think of no possible excuse other than blurting out the truth, which would have made him look a fool.    

   He had taken his usual seat, but found the charcoal hang lifeless in his hand, where before he had scarcely been aware of the extension to his fingers which carried his thought to the paper. Narthan was gone and the lovely clearing under the oaks, where honeysuckle climbed the sides of the well, seemed now dull and muddy, and filled with weeds. Everything was the same, the dogs barked, the baker filled the air with spicy scents, the same children, now taller, and less muddy, still criticised his work with heedless candour. But Narthan was gone, and Gundor choked back a sob and hurried away up the hill, to cry alone in his den.

   Of course he drew Narthan, over and over again, until at last he saw the face of his beloved laughing from the paper. He laid the drawing to one side and began to carefully copy it, adding detail to the hair and the eyes. When he had done all he could, he cautiously rolled the paper, tied it, and put it in his satchel. In a mood as reckless as Galdor, he took his horse from the stables and rode as fast as he dared to the house of Nóruin.

   Narthan’s mother was surprised to see him, but delighted with the drawing ‘Why, that is his very likeness ! Did he sit for you ? I do not know how you managed to get him to sit, for I never could ! How he fidgeted ! And the minute, the very minute he was permitted, he was off through that door and away into the woods ! Ah, but his brother is the same, fine boys, fine boys. And have you come here for something, you know he is still away ?’
   'My lady, I came merely to give you the drawing, in honour of your admirable son. Alas, I had to draw from memory, but I have a good eye...’
   'You drew this from memory ? That is remarkable ! You must know my son very well, I am surprised that he does not speak of you.’
   Gundor blushed ‘I know and admire Narthan Magor as I know and admire Fingon the valiant - from a distance. But, as I have said, I have a good eye. By your leave, my lady, I will withdraw.’

   She asked no more, and he left the house of Nóruin like a fleeing brigand. But the mother of Narthan Magor, seeing in the drawing bait to bring her son back from distant Himring, ordered it carried across the leagues of Ard-galen, to the House of Maedhros.

 

   At seventeen, Gundor was as tall as his father. All those who had lived among the elves had found their children grow up taller, fairer and wiser than themselves. And with each generation it became more marked, but the elves would say only that the Music meant more than mere sounds, as though that explained anything.
   However it had come about, Gundor was not done growing, but his den was now a struggle to enter. He had found it by chance, playing hide and seek. He had turned to a friend in the guard who suggested he hide behind the guardbox under the arches of the door. And behind the guardbox, Gundor had found a forgotten door; for the House of Hador had been designed by elves, but built by mortals.
   On either side of the arches, in the design, was a cloakroom, with two doors, one outside, one opening into the hall. But one cloakroom had only one door, the outer, and since the House was so vast, the room had never been needed, and was forgotten, until Gundor claimed it as his own, telling no one, not even Galdor.

   It was a tall thin room, with windows high on the walls on each side, full of changing light, for the castle had been built among standing trees which the elves had gone to great lengths to preserve. There was a horse chestnut in the courtyard of venerable age and stature, and the elves spoke eagerly of a time, in a hundred years or so, when the old tree could be felled, leaving a natural table of impressive size in the middle of the courtyard. His parents had thanked them politely, but still told the story to mortal guests.
   With the aid and connivance of the guards, Gundor had found a couch, a table and a few chairs, as well as the easel where he worked. It was not until he was old enough to be left to his own devices after dark that the light from his lantern had been seen in the hall. His father had struggled through the narrow gap, looked approvingly around the room and winked at his son. ‘I cannot imagine a place I would rather have you be, my boy. Here you are to hand if needed, and with the guards close by. Very good. You have always been the most sensible one. In truth I was surprised when you took to drawing, but there, we are what we are. Good ! Very good.’

 

   Gundor was in a fractious mood, it was one of those days when the things in the world turned from handy devices to dangerous obstacles. He had spilled mead on himself, stubbed his toe, cracked his knuckle and given himself a dead elbow, by bad luck or simple inattention. As for the charcoal, he had thrown the broken fragments into the brazier along with the drawing the break had ruined. He hunched over the brazier, it took hours to heat the tall room, and the winter wind howled through the towers and hissed in the trees.  

   Glóredhel had gone to Brethil, far away over the mountains, and Galdor, lovesick for Hareth, was sulking in his room. Gildis was composing, and was more remote than ever, it had always been the same “Hush now children, come away, your mother is working.” Not that he minded, really, there were more than enough adults. He laughed, the three of them had all run away, he supposed, though two were still in the House. Galdor, he knew, would be gone without packing if he thought he could do it and be welcomed back. Father was king, after all, and Galdor would be loyal even if he did not also love his father. Gundor grinned, everyone loved father, up to the very High King of the elves, uncle Fingolfin himself. Of course, everyone loved Fingolfin too...

   He cursed, as the swamps of speculation swallowed his mind again. He had not recovered from that first smile, nearly five years before, and still he could not say whether Narthan had been smiling at him, or because he had been merely there, in that direction, and had caught a smile aimed at Eru Ilúvatar himself. Or Fingolfin, or Galdor, or even his own father, who everyone agreed had grown more handsome with the years.
He snarled to himself, dragged his fingers through his hair as though to pull it out by the roots, and took a deep draught of mead to warm his heart, which seemed as cold as his den.

   His dark mood was disturbed by the sound of someone passing the guardbox. Gundor, assuming it to be his father again, did not turn when the door opened. But when he heard the voice of Narthan son of Nóruin, Narthan Magor, he leaped to his feet, tripped on the leg of the brazier and tipped it over with a loud clang, scattering burning coals across the floor.    Gundor hastily kicked the coals against the wall and stamped them out as a guard burst through the door with a bucket of water ‘I heard the brazier go over, you must be more careful lads, and if you want to play rough, best to do it outdoors.’

   The guard looked from one to the other, and realised his mistake. He had burst into a room to separate brawling children, but they were both taller and indeed larger than him, and the air had been thick with a different kind of tension. He remembered the old feud, and decided that he had better things to do. ‘Well, er, sirs, if all is well here, then by your leave, I’ll get back to my post.’
   'Thank you for your swift aid, I am grateful, though you were not needed. I shall commend you to my father. He will wish to thank you himself, I feel sure. Thankyou, yes, you had best return to your vigil, it is a comfort to have such friends nearby.’
   The guard beamed and bowed deeply, and with a nod for Narthan, withdrew.
Gundor, too astonished to speak, turned silently to Narthan, who looked around at the ruins of the den, then smiled at Gundor, and for Gundor the world, which had been as the snarling of a host of orcs, settled smoothly into harmony. He smiled back ‘Welcome home, Narthan Magor, Let me apologise and take you somewhere more comfortable. This is...this was my den.’
   In a soft, hair-raising voice, Narthan spoke ‘Is this where you drew it ?’

   Gundor blushed and stepped back a pace ‘You have seen the drawing I gave your mother...’
   'Seen it ! Yes I have seen it ! She sent it to Himring and in my ignorance I opened it at dinner. Naturally the thing became a wonder, not because of my so-called beauty, but because I insisted that it had been drawn by you, a mortal, and that I scarcely knew you, and had certainly never sat for you to draw. There have been few mortals at Himring, in truth I do not think the elves there, the Fëanorians, have paid much heed to us at all. But they think us such fools that to them it was a marvel that one of us could do such a thing from memory,’
   He paused and coughed, and Gundor seemed to awaken from a dream. They were standing in a cold room filled with smoke. It was so far from any images he had conjured of this longed-for meeting that he almost cursed aloud. ‘Forgive my manners, come, there is a room I like...’

 

   It was a small room on the ground floor, between the library and the linen closets. His parents had manoeuvered him into it in the cold of winter, and kept the fire lit for him, and comfort at hand. Outside, the shifting wind threw handfuls of rain against the windows, but within the lanterns were lit and the fire crackled snugly. He poured wine for them and gestured Narthan into one of the two couches, then took the other himself. ‘I hope you did not think it rude or intrusive of me to stare at you so much that I could draw your likeness from memory, though of course to elves, we have no memory at all.’
   'Ha ! I told them how we remember, by telling tales and singing songs, and I told them about the feud...’
   There was a silence, their smiles faltered, it had been three generations since the last bloodshed, but long, long ago... ‘Well, I told them that my great great etc grandfather raped your great etc grandmother, and how there was trouble for generations because we did not forget.’
   'Oh really ? Well I heard it was my great etc grandfather who allegedly raped your great etc grandmother.’
   'Allegedly ? Do you call me false ?’
   Gundor laughed, and after a moment Narthan joined in. They laughed together, then looked down at their goblets, raised them together, smiled together and drained them.
‘I do not truly know you, Narthan Magor, but you will know that I am curious. Let us get drunk, and you can tell me of Himring, and I shall, perhaps, explain how I came to draw your likeness.’
   'Ah... Himring... It is very different to Barad Eithel ! Maedhros, for instance, is the most intense person of any kind, even dwarves i've met seem, well, frivolous, beside him.'
   'Frivolous dwarves ? That I cannot believe !'
   Narthan smiled smugly 'Well, you are only a youngster, you haven’t seen anything yet, really, have you ? But in Himring there are a few dwarves coming and going, trading gems, or weapons, or whatever they do. And I met some at a party, and as the elves were all singing about Varda, (again !) I decided to see if the dwarves would drink with me, and they did, and they were most welcoming, we had a marvellous time, they were dancing, and sang their own songs, which were much more fun ! There was an arm wrestling contest, and I think, but please don't tell anyone, but I think that the dwarf who won the arm wrestling was a lady dwarf, though she had a beard, for she tried to get friendly with me during the dancing, and she put my hand on her... on her... Well, it was certainly a woman !' He threw back his head and laughed aloud, and Gundor watched the firelight on his throat and understood that Narthan, Narthan Magor, had returned, had come straight to him, and was here beside him, laughing happily. His own happiness, larger than words could say, filled the whole deep valley of Dor-lomin, and spilled over the mountains to wash away Beleriand. He looked into the laughing eyes and smiling, poured his own joy into the eyes of Narthan, who put a hand to his heart.
   'Oh ! There it is ! That smile ! That smile has haunted me for years, I thought I had dreamed it ! Or... or just wished it to be more... more joyful than it was. But no ! Why have you never smiled at me like that, in all these years ? Is it the feud ? That is what I supposed. I see it is as grandmother says, that each generation must vow to uphold the peace won by those before. Let us be friends, Gundor son of Hador, if I may presume, and I shall fight beside you and you shall smile at me.'
   Gundor, to his mortification, found the tears stand in his eyes 'It was real...' he said softly 'When you smiled at me, after the games, it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened. Until now, when you smiled at me again. But how can you say that I have not smiled at you ? I have followed you like a dog, I have learned your face until I can draw it with closed eyes. But you scarcely nodded at me for the longest time !' 

  'But Gundor ! You cannot see yourself ! You may feel' Narthan paused abruptly, feeling deep waters beneath him, and gulped at his wine 'you may feel happy, but you sat there all that time frowning at everything. Well, we knew it was you working on your drawings, so we did not intrude, even the children had to dare each other to speak to the angry bear.' He laughed at the dismay on Gundor's face, then got up and crossed the room and sat beside him. 'Poor Gundor... first I ignore you, then I run off to Himring, and now I'm laughing at you !' he sat back and turned away suddenly to stare into the flickering light of the fire. The rain had strengthened, pouring now straight through stilled air, heavy on the trees of the House of Hador.
   But Gundor son of Hador was now within touching distance of the one he loved, and a little of the mythical Music seemed to be playing as a duet of rain and flame, and the world of the elves was within them, and all about them, made of leaf and log, water and fire, and the shining eyes of Narthan Magor. The air, or his heart, filled with song, and the room could not contain him.
   'Let us ride together, laughing and singing, in the rain.'
   Narthan turned back to him, and looked eagerly into his eyes 'Yes ! You understand ! Through rain and snow, through marsh and mountain, crest and cave, wherever you go, there shall I.'
   Gundor sucked a breath in; it was the soldiers vow, brothers in arms swore it before setting off, be the journey a day or a lifetime. But not all soldiers, it was sworn between those few who would die to save each other and be happy to have done so. The tears spilled forth, betraying his youth, and the strength of his feelings. It was one of his earliest dreams of Narthan Magor, and it was coming true...

   But Narthan was starting to withdraw, Gundor had missed his cue 'Through rain and snow, through marsh and mountain, crest and cave, wherever you go, there shall I.' he said, hurrying, stumbling, and hoarse. But somehow it was right, for Narthan Magor had shining eyes, and a tear spilled down his golden brown cheek, darkened by the long days on Ard-galen.
   'Oh Gundor ! Can you feel it ? I feel that our lives have been shaped here in this room. It is like a song ! It is like the Music...' he leaped to his feet, then turned and looked down in horror at Gundor 'Your drawing ! No mortal could have done that, not from memory, but you did.
   That’s why the elves were so agitated, they all said "oh well, we never tell people what to do, but here’s our fastest horse, your home is that way." ' He stopped and looked astonished for a moment, then leapt to his feet 'Your gift, in my haste I had forgotten your gift !' He darted across the room, swift as an elf, and opened the satchel that Gundor had not noticed, left by the door.

   Narthan Magor, idol of his life, turned to Gundor and bowed, hand on heart, then presented a fine wooden box to him.

   The lid was inlaid with elvish runes in fine silver, with lines from the Ainulindalë

   "and each of you shall find contained herein, amid the design that I set before you, all those things which it may seem that he himself devised or added."

   Gundor held it carefully, fearing some elvish weapon, but Narthan was calmly waiting, and he opened the lid at once. Inside were jars of glass, or crystal, stoppered with cork plugs and wax seals. And each jar was filled with wondrous colour, brighter than any he had seen before, colours of nature that no craft of mortal nor elf had been thought able to copy. But here was the blue of the brightest butterfly, captured in a small jar.

   'Paints !' he cried delightedly 'Paints of marvellous hue ! Why, I have never seen such a purple before, and this blue ! How did they fashion this blue ?' he looked eagerly up at Narthan, who held up his hands 'Alas, I know nothing of their craft. But I did not ride alone, I was jesting when I spoke of the fastest horse ! There is a party of elven scholars here from Himring, whose curiosity has been roused by your drawing. Of me !' he stood up straight and smiled proudly, with the satisfaction of a toddler who has eaten all his dinner and waits for praise.
   Gundor laughed, feeling for the first time as though he himself were the older of the two. But then he thought of Eithel Barad, and of Fingolfin, and aunt Írimë, and all the other elves who had raised him, while to Narthan they were still, despite Himring, remote as strangers. He frowned, his mind was full of elven seriousness, but his heart was singing like a spring bird, and his beloved stood smiling before him, awaiting his words of gratitude.

   He rose to his feet and smiled into the keen eyes of Narthan Magor, and felt the world dissolve into beautiful light, as his smile was returned. The circle was complete, he had won a smile from Narthan Magor, the smile he had seen all those long years before, and it was true. He leaned forwards without thought, and their lips met softly, closed and dry, but Narthan moved as he did, and they flowed together until their gripping arms met the solid bone and muscle, each of the other, and they pressed against each other as their breath came hoarse and the sound of their hearts blended with the falling rain and the rising flame.