Leitmotiv. by hennethgalad

Chapter 17

  On a still night Fingon came home to Eithel Sirion, his weary troop singing as they rode. Gildis followed the rest to the walls to watch the glimmer of their lights, and feel her heart surge as the horns sounded from the walls, and the distant figure of Fingon the Valiant lifted his own horn and blew a mighty blast that echoed from the walls of Ered Wethrin and sounded across Ard-galen. The blue of the sky deepened to show forth the first stars, and the shining elves rode down from the high pass, their jewels glittering as the lights of Barad Eithel were lit in every window. Singing rose around her, the Song of Welcome greeted the returning scouts, and those who had wandered with them, for adventure or for friendship's sake.

   Gildis knew the son of Fingolfin at a glance, for they were cut from the same cloth, tall and dark, broad at the shoulders, with eyes of smoke and pale skin. But Fingolfin liked to let his hair flow freely, and Fingon his son wore his bound up in thick plaits, cunningly woven through with threads of gold, glinting under the lanterns. He smiled as he sang, and waved up at the crowds, who cried his name amid the cheers, until Gildis found herself cheering with them, though this was her first sight of Fingon the Valiant. She remembered the tale of how he had won the name, throwing his grandmother Indis aside from the path of a charging bear while little more than a child, and taking the great clawed gouge across his own ribs. And again and again he had proven his worth to bear the title, and Gildis felt awe of him such as she had not felt since first she heard Finrod Felagund sing.
She wondered about Fingolfin, about why she did not feel awe of him, who was after all the High King, and sought out Írimë, as she always did.

   'No awe ? Why should you wish it ? Awe is for the Valar, or the Maiar, whom I fear we gravely underestimate. Do you truly feel awe of Fingon ? He is brave, certainly, but reckless, heeding little the advice of others or the consequences of his hasty deeds. But there, when he grieves his poor father, it is I who must hear the tales, from both of them, and I find I am happier when they are apart. Oh, do not misunderstand me ! They have great love and admiration for each other, but they are each proud, stubborn and loathe to be gainsaid. Fëanor... well, he was not alone in high-heartedness among our kin.' Írimë laughed 'How they shout at each other ! Ha, your face... Truly, you have never seen Fingolfin in wrath, it is something to behold ! Fëanor was wise to fear him, he is formidable. He is patient, harbouring his strength until it is unleashed with icy fury. But Fingon takes after Fëanor, hot and impulsive, reckless and rash.'
   'It seems you do not approve of Fingon ?'
   Írimë looked at her in astonishment 'What ? No, you misunderstand me, Fingon is my favourite, I love him more than my own brother, but you must never tell either of them that ! No, I would merely prepare you, for I know that you, and Hador Lórindol too, will fall in love with our Fingon, and perchance follow him into needless danger. If I can warn you to season his counsel with caution, then all will be well.'
   Gildis laughed dryly 'Do you truly think my Hador will fall in love with Fingon the Valiant, and break the king's heart, as he broke mine ?'
   Írimë sighed 'Oh Gildis, I am so sorry... I... if only there was something...' she paused for a time, and sighed again, then looked slowly up at Gildis 'I think, for your happiness, and for the hope of joy within your household, well, I think you should consider taking a lover.

   Oh, not Fingon, I think you would not be to his taste. But if you do not, you will grow bitter and angry, and your children will feel your scorn, where they should feel only love.'
   Gildis stared at the sister of the High King with mouth wide in astonishment, then felt foolish and closed it. 'But I love Hador !' she blurted.
   Írimë smiled 'Still ? Well, you are wed, it is good that you love him. But has there never been anyone else ? Apart from Finrod Felagund !'
   'Everyone loves Finrod...' said Gildis absently, because it was what people said, and of course it was true. If he merely beckoned, she would leave even her harp behind... But loving him was like loving Tilion in the moon, natural, but insubstantial. She thought of a flute player from Ossiriand she had known in Nargothrond, with dark curls and dark eyes that sparkled in the firelight... She looked at Írimë 'Do you mean it ? You would not... Oh Írimë ! I think of Hador as though he were your kin !

   I met him here; when he showed me his home, it was here; I feel as though you were advising me to betray one of your own, but no, he is not of your kin, he is not even of your kind ! Truly, elf, your songs are more than mere music, and your cordials have enriched our very blood !
   But to take a lover... I... It is a grim thought that if I do not... He will not change, he is what he is, but I...'
   'It is merely a suggestion ! Do not act in haste like Fingon the Valiant !'
   'Be cautious like Fingolfin who dared Helcaraxë ?'
   Írimë looked at her with narrowed eyes and a rare frown. Gildis covered her mouth with her hand 'Forgive me, my lady, I spoke without thought, like the foolish mortal that I am.'
   'Valiant Gildis, never apologise for speaking the truth ! Most especially when it takes courage to do so, to confront "the wise" with their own errors. Yes, Helcaraxë... But each one of us chose to follow. Each one of us set foot on ice, deliberately and wide awake. We could have turned back, it was merely a long walk, then...' She looked away, her head bowed with grief, and Gildis boldly put an arm around her shoulders. Írimë turned to smile at her and stood up straight with a sigh 'But my brother's first child is home from the hills, there will be feasting tonight ! Let us deck our hair with flowers and polish our gems !'

   For the first time since the first day they had met, Hador understood how everyone else felt with Fingolfin: left out. The return of Fingon had driven all else from the minds of the elves of Barad Eithel, and Hador, after the first introduction, had known himself to be forgotten, and had withdrawn, barely noticed in the excited chatter. He slouched down to the stables and found Braig, and stroked his nose for a while, til the horse shrugged him aside and returned to the serious business of eating like a horse. Hador turned away, at a loss, for always at times like this he had turned to Fingolfin. He sighed, and thought of his wife; it was more than two years now, he was a father already, though not welcome in the nursery, being considered too boisterous for the infant Glóredhel. He laughed, she was his image in miniature, old Hathol had cried when he saw her, and gripped his son around the shoulders and choked out hoarsely 'My boy ! My fine boy ! And now a grandchild !'
   She would emerge from infancy, and ride laughing beside him, on a little white horse with jewels on the trappings, and there would be sons, tall and strong... He smiled to himself, wondering how elves could bear to wait so long for their children to grow up, knowing very well that all the elf songs of childhood mourned its brevity. In the stables he found the healer, singing over a lame horse, and he listened idly for a time, until without his realising it, the song of the healer soothed his beating heart, and slowed his breathing, and he strolled amiably back to his rooms, to dress for the feast.

   Fingolfin sat back on the couch and sipped his wine, feeling himself contented as he had not been in years. His son, one of them at least, was home, his family was a family again, and joy filled his heart. He listened delightedly to his son's tales of adventures in the wild north, hunting orcs and other fell beasts, unleashed from time to time from the Shadow to probe their defences. But Fingon was blythe, laughing at danger and proudly showing off the healing scar of an arrow on his arm. As Fingon told the tale, three more of his people were admitted, one of them a wood elf, wearing only a wolf skin and elaborate painting on his bare skin. His brown hair was curled in ringlets that hung over his shoulders and down his back, and his dark eyes shone with mischief and intelligence, though none of the Light of the Noldor. He was charming, rather than beautiful, there was that in his face or expression that brought forth smiles, whatsoever the mood of those he met. Fingon rose to greet them, two were known to Fingolfin, but Fingon gestured to the wood elf 'This is a new friend from Ossiriand, he is called Dornhâl, after his home. He has another name. He comes seeking tidings of the enemy, to inform the councils of his people, and travels with us for a time.'
   Fingolfin bowed with hand on heart 'Welcome to Barad Eithel, Dornhâl of Dornhâl, stars shine upon this the hour of our meeting ! It is always a joy to meet those who have been so long apart from us !'
   'Great King, may thy path never stray !' Dornhâl laughed 'Our speech is surely long apart, for still the sounds are strange to me ! But Fingon the Valiant has won my trust, and that is a great feat, a great feat ! So you are his father ? Aye, the cub is worthy of the lion, worthy indeed.'
   'Are you a father, Dornhâl ? If you are you will know that praise of my son is praise of me, to my heart, so say on, if you please !'
   'Aye to that ! Yes sire, I am a great great grandfather, I have nineteen great great grandchildren. For I refused the summons of the Valar, and now that I have come to know the Noldor, I begin to wonder at my choice. But the Trees are darkened, they say, and the Light that made you so has gone from the world. I rue it, and it sharpens my will and my blade. I will not return to the trees, I will stand, here, and fight the Enemy, I will stand with Fingon the Valiant, though all others desert us.'
   Fingolfin bowed again 'One such heart is worth a thousand cowering orcs ! You gladden my own heart, and fill me with pride that you would stand with my son, my Fingon !'

   Gildis came a little late to the garden, where the bright colours glowed under the bright lanterns, and the music mingled with the chattering of the elves to merrily fill the soft night air. She took up a goblet and sipped the cool wine, looking about for someone she knew. Írimë was there, across the garden, laughing with Fingon and his friends. Gildis considered speaking to them but she had not yet been introduced to Fingon, and was reluctant to intrude. A strange wood elf was looking at her from under an oak tree, she had seen him ride in with Fingon, a bow across his back and a bedroll on his hip, and nothing beside but the wolf-skin round his waist, and, now that she could see him close, a stone dagger at his side. There was something of the mortal to him, he was shorter than the Noldor, with a deeper chest, and a solid coat of muscle beneath his sun-darkened skin. He did not shine as the Noldor did, some with eyes that pained the unwary, burning away at the spirit, innocent as lions. She smiled warmly at him, and he smiled back, and his smile grew, and suddenly, without seeming to have moved, he was close in front of her.
   'You are the lady Gildis, wife to Hador Lórindol, who is high in the favour of great king Fingolfin ? I am called Dornhâl, I come from Ossiriand.'
   'I like the paint on your skin, does it mean something ?' she said, surprising herself, but finding that her curiosity overcame her shyness. He was odd, like a person in fancy dress for a costume party or a play, she felt she was backstage before a performance, with another musician, she felt at ease with him. He smiled warmly
   'Thankyou for asking ! Few others have ! Yes, yes it does, it means a great deal, each line... Well, perhaps one day I shall tell you. But there is... There is a language... The first... The greeting for a new friend, if I may dare to call you friend, then I would show you...'
   'Will you be my friend ? I am not very good at making friends, I only seem to know musicians, and we do not speak, we play and sing, and it is company, and we have shared our moods, but nothing is said !'
   'Gildis the bard... Aye, your name has reached Ossiriand, for a mortal who has won the praise of Maglor, aye and Finrod Felagund, is a marvel to my people. Alas, you will find me out, for I too love music, and sing whenever it is permitted. And sometimes' he grinned wickedly 'sometimes I sing when it is not. You know of the song of Fingon at Thangorodrim ? It was that tale which brought me to his side, speaking to my heart. Aye, he is worthy of the name ! But listen now to me, and I will utter the word of new friendship.'
   Gildis waited for him to speak, but instead he dipped his finger in his wine and touched the bridge of her nose then gently ran his finger down her nose to the tip, and smiled. She blinked, and as he stood paused, she suddenly understood, and dipped her finger in her wine and reached up. His eyes were deep brown, but the light slanted through them as water, and the many shades of colour were revealed, from deepest brown through russet to pale flecks of gold. She ran her wine-wet finger down the smooth brown skin, and it was as though she had pulled a cord to open a curtain, as his smile opened in his face like the breaking of day.

   Gildis was unaware of her fellow musicians hovering nearby, but Dornhâl watched them from the corners of his eyes as he considered wooing the mortal. He had heard a great deal of talk concerning her husband, and the misdirection of his love. With an infant close to weaning, her young flesh looked about with growing appetite, and he smiled to himself, for he was skilled, highly skilled, in such matters.
   But there was time...

   He smiled at one of the musicians, who moved slowly near.

   The musicians had plans to sing for Fingon, there was a new piece in from Nargothrond which Arían the Red proposed to sing. Gildis was an admirer of Arían, whom she had sent for from Brethil, where her people, remnants of a lost House from east of Ered Luin, dwelt among the Haladin. Her hair was a marvel of flaming tresses, she wore the colours of autumn like a living scarf, flowing down her shoulders. But when the smile occasionally faded, the lines remained, for Arían had children grown, and husband long dead, and no ties to bind her more. Now she moved with the music, and watched the grief of Gildis with pity in her heart.
   But Gildis was laughing with the strange wood elf as she had never laughed before, and Arían knew it would not be long before eyes turned to see the joke. And Arían felt that Gildis needed to laugh so, and Hador, close beside his beloved Fingolfin, was not even facing his wife across the crowded gardens.
   But such a romance could not be public, or the children would be doubted. Arían, who had an interest in such matters, knew that an elf must will a child, and there were no unwanted children among the Eldar; but to mortals the notion was scarcely imaginable, and there would always be doubt. She considered discretely attracting the attention of Gildis or even Dornhâl, and looked thoughtfully at Fingon. Fingon caught her gaze and smiled, then took in the scene; Gildis was flushed, her eyes shone, even her hair seemed to spring more boldly from its roots, she looked radiant, and Dornhâl, laughing with her, had the air of one who prepares a great feast. Fingon narrowed his eyes and gave a bird call; the crowd fell silent, though the music continued, and around the garden the troop of Fingon turned to him, alert as hounds. Dornhâl froze, then bowed to Gildis, and turned away, slipping through the crowd towards Fingon as the chattering rose around them like birds taking flight.

   Arían smiled at the shocked face of Gildis 'The hounds are summoned ! What, do your people not use hunting calls ?'
Gildis drew in a sharp breath 'Yes, yes of course, I... He seemed so... So free... but then, Fingon whistled and he was gone...'
   Arían was silent for a moment, thinking of the hurt pride of Gildis; that she, who should come first with Hador, must constantly watch him walk away to Fingolfin, not only in answer to every summons, but because it was where he chose to be. And now, already, her new friend was gone, at the mere whistle of another.
   'My lady, walk with me a little, I would have your opinion on the key change in the third section, and I would not add disharmony to the music.'

   They spoke for a time of the piece they would perform, Gildis was soothed by the hearty Arían, who felt no awe of elves 'They are animals, as we are, they lie, they lust, they steal, they murder; no, I feel no awe. They have longer to learn so they know more things, which is useful, and sometimes admirable, but no, not awe.'
   'But what of the music, the power of their song ?'
Arían sniffed thoughtfully 'Yes, the music... but they are as under its sway as we, they are moved by it, they move to it, more deeply even than we do, more than we can conceive. They did not bring it into being, they merely sing along, as we do.'
   'Oh, I am in too joyful a mood to discuss such serious matters tonight ! We celebrate the return of Fingon the Valiant ! Come, do you not feel awe at his great deed, the rescue of Maedhros ?'
   Arían pursed her lips 'Great deed ? Act of folly ! Only one rendered fey would dare Thangorodrim alone ! And he did naught ! The eagle rescued Maedhros. But why wait ? Maedhros hung there for thirty years. Thirty years ! You were not even born thirty years ago ! Unimaginable torment ! But no, only when an elf had walked all the way there was a rescue mounted. Bah ! The eagles speak to Fingolfin, so they say, yet they did not think to tell him of the fate of his brother’s child ? What news could be closer to his heart ? Save the fate of his own children, I suppose... Oh it’s all such a... it’s all so awful, I really feel the key change should be melancholy, the elves like truth, and we are surrounded by the Shadow.'
   But Gildis looked at her with dismay 'Oh no ! No ! This is a time of rejoicing, you must make the key change joyous ! The elves know that melancholy leads to despair, and despair is the path of the orc. No, we must be valiant, like Fingon, and celebrate his great spirit, his... his unquenchable spirit, undaunted by Thangorodrim ! He sang there ! He sang, Arían, and you would welcome him back with melancholy ?'
   Arían breathed in sharply and drew herself upright, then breathed out slowly, and, even more slowly, smiled at Gildis 'You are right. We will sing joyfully. But I would crave a gift of you, my lady.'
   'Arían, if you sing joyfully for us, you may have anything in my power to grant you !'
   'Then I would have you keep your affair with the wood elf so secret that it cannot be read even in his thought, if such a thing is possible. Do not look so surprised ! You were so open, both of you, that Fingon saw from the fountain, and called him off.'
   'What ? Is that what was happening ? I thought that all the scouts were summoned.'
   'Yes, to save a scene, to spare you, among others !'
   Gildis covered her face with her hands and, without moving them away, said 'Thankyou.'
   Arían laughed 'You need not fear, a wild wood elf flirted with you, flattering you, that is all that has happened. You can never act in public as you did, you must never speak of him.'
   'Even to you ?'
   'Well... to me, but no one else.'
   'But Írimë sees our thoughts, as do others, you know this.'
   'They will not speak of it. They scarcely share such knowledge with each other, they do not speak of it to us.'
   'Írimë is my friend, she asked for my friendship.'
   'Fingolfin is her brother, and Hador is his joy; if you hurt Hador...'
   'And must only I suffer ?'
   'Discretion is not suffering ! Tell no lies, but never speak of him. I think... I think the wood elf will find you out alone, such is the skill of the scouts, and you may arrange things yourselves.'
   Gildis looked at her with round eyes, seeming suddenly very young to Arían, as the pale face flushed with colour 'Truly ? And he an elf ? He will come to me ? Already ?'
   'Come, Gildis, you are a mother, not a bride, do you await a proposal that can never be made ? Does Hador provide you with such comfort that you feel no lack ?'
   Gildis looked away, still clinging to the dream of a Hador who touched her body because he cherished it, not because he felt he ought to. But there was no such Hador, instead there were the depths of the brown eyes of the wood elf, older than the sun and the moon, who had heard the Call of the Hunter with his own ears, and refused the invitation of the Valar.

   Fingon had Dornhâl beside him at dinner, away from Gildis who was beyond Hador on the far side of Fingolfin. Under cover of the noise he spoke confidentially to Dornhâl 'Well, you have met my family’s scandal, what do you think of him ?'
   'Scandal ! Pride, rather ! How they love him, ha ! I myself... "only the shine, eyes of thine, gold of your hair, treasure of mine" Yes, he is a joy, and your people are full of pride in the accomplishment of your, our king, in making a friend of him, and a sturdy ally !'
   'Yes, my father is good with people. I prefer action ! Ha, as do you ! What of the mortal woman, nay, what of your own kin, what of your wife ? Come, are we not friends ? Yet you tell me naught, save that you have nineteen great great grandchildren. Though I confess, that does shed a great deal of light !'
   Dornhâl laughed heartily 'Well, I have shed something, but whether it was light, or even Light, the wise cannot say !' he laughed again and drained his glass, then sighed 'My wife... I shall not speak her name, though I whisper it yet to the darkness, that she may hear the echoes of my grief.' He looked steadily at Fingon 'Before the Call she was taken. They found her cloak, and her necklace, and the tattered scraps of her clothes, but no more. The necklace ! I made it myself, there was a place she liked, we came there often, a gorge, with a rushing stream spilling into a small pool where she bathed in the icy waters ! There the rocks were grey, but with the hue of flesh, or the clouds at sunrise, and they glittered with flecks of trapped starlight, or so the poets say. And I ground them into beads, and bored them through, and strung them on my own hair ! It was my betrothal gift ! But to them, scrap, to be tossed aside.
   Forgive me... But I was taught by the healers to concern myself with the necklace, in order not to dwell upon the fate of... the fate of my captured wife.'
   He bowed his head, Fingon listened in silence, remembering his joy at finding Maedhros, and fearing that Dornhâl would never know such happiness, this side of the Halls of Mandos.    Pity wrung his heart, and he welcomed any joy that Dornhâl could find, especially in the face of the Shadow, whose presence troubled the valiant heart of Fingon even in his father’s House.

   The South Wing was set aside for Fingon, though he scarcely used it. Fingolfin followed him through the vast rooms, still smelling of polish, and the herbs that kept the moths at bay from the stored cloth. He sniffed, and threw another window wide.
   'I wish you would use these rooms ! Will you stay awhile here, it is time others took the field. You have been gone for more than ten years of the sun, it is time to heed the affairs of court !'
   'Years of the sun, ha ! They flicker by so fast I can scarce recall which number this is. How many is it now ?'
   'Four hundred and sixteen.'
   'Ha, I've waited longer than that for a tree to grow, to improve an ambush position.'
Fingolfin smiled, in some matters, his rash son had the patience of Nienna.
   'What ? You always smile in that sneering way !'
   'Sneering ? I am not sneering ! I was contrasting your patience with your occasional haste...'
   Fingon sighed 'Well... We all are filled with contradictions, are we not ? But no, I shall only stay a few days, I must away to Himring, your tidings fill me with foreboding. I fear for Maedhros, father, for he can be a little hasty at times himself. I promise that when I return, in a few years, I shall be a diligent student, and hang on your courtiers words as though Eonwë himself spoke them!'
   'Do not mock, my son, the scout is nothing without the army at his back, and the army is nothing without the civilisation which drives it forwards. And when elves gather together, there are courtiers, hanging about in the lobbies and in the gardens, and there the army establishes its purpose.'
   'Do not mock, my father, for these are the words of the children’s lesson.'
   'I speak to you as a child when you act as a child ! There is work here, your work, which must be done ! There is only you now, your brother' but Fingon interrupted.
   'My brother ! Gah ! Where IS my brother ? I did not tell him to go, nor indeed give him leave ! Yet I must pay, I must be two sons to you now because he ran away !'
   'Two sons ! Half a son ! Oh, nobody questions the work you do in the field, but it does not need to be you doing it all the time ! Others are there to do such work, but you are my son, in whom I trust, and I need you here, in court, and you need to learn to follow the tracks of intrigue as you follow the tracks of orcs.'
   'But father, I'm not interested in all that chatter, you know I'm not. You’re so much better at it than me ! Anyway, you'll always be there, so there’s no need. You can be sure that I shall not run away to be king by myself, the idea bores me !'
   'Truly ? Ha, We are more alike than is comfortable, at times. But Maedhros has laid this burden upon us, and we do not grudge the load. We would do more for him, you would rush to his side at once, like a good soldier, but that is not what he needs. Írimë is with me on this, the sight of you will bring the memories vividly to the surface, and sharpen his pain. So we believe.
   But more than that, consider the nature of his burden, of mine, now. He has laid aside only power, not duty. He feels guilt, and you will remind him of that. The best path to his aid is to fulfil his duty in the closest harmony with the Music. And to do that, you must sing with the elves, as well as listening to the screeching of orcs.'

   The shouting had brought Írimë hurrying in. Fingon paused to take breath as she looked from one to the other 'I see that you are having a heartening welcome from your father. I too am delighted to see you again.' she turned to her brother 'Why is it, that with everyone in the world you are charm itself, except with the one you love the most, your firstborn child.'
   'I did not charm my brother Fëanor.'
   'No. But you tried, and all who saw your endless patience felt for you under his scorn.'

   They were silent for a time, still raw with grief for the lost brother who had at times seemed to fill the whole of Valinor with his presence.
   Fingon took a deep breath, then spoke softly 'People really did feel sorry for you, seeing the way that Uncle Fëanor behaved.'
   Fingolfin drew himself up straight, wondering what he could have done, or undone, to please his brother, and knowing, indeed, remembering the bitter riposte he had had from Fëanor "never to have been born."
   Fingon rubbed his forehead 'The wood elves have been discussing our family. Naturally. Dornhâl says they are coming to the view that, as Míriel gave too much of herself in the forming of Fëanor, that only an act of equal grace on the part of Finwë, only by Finwë pouring himself into the unborn child, and the growing elf, could balance have been achieved. But, they say, that Finwë must have refused, in the unity of love, and Míriel did what she could alone.
   But when afterwards she would have turned to Finwë, she considered both his betrayal of her, and of their son. She herself, being spent, could do no more, but without her there, Finwë perforce must rear the child.
   Now they are arguing over whether it was Míriel or Finwë who was marred in this case.

   But to us, it is your brother, it is my uncle, it is family, and it may be that we do not see them clearly.' He paused and picked up a carved badger from the table, looking unseeingly at it as he spoke 'It is because of this very quarrel, a topic for fireside discussions even among the wood elves who do not have fires ! It is for this very reason that I must go to Maedhros, to continue the work of healing, both of him, and of our family.' He paused again and looked at his father and his aunt, then smiled eagerly 'But look !' He placed the carved badger on the table and picked up three more; they were a family at play, big and small, and as a child he had often amused himself arranging them in wrestling romps. But childhood was over, and his father doubted his choice, and must be persuaded. 'This is Thangorodrim.'
   He placed a second badger, its front paws raised as though to crush a rival beneath it 'This is you, at Eithel Sirion.' He placed three more badgers in a line facing "Thangorodrim". 'This is Angrod, here is Aegnor and there is Maedhros.' He waved the last badger at them 'But this little fellow is not needed here at Barad Eithel, in the heart of elvendom, he is needed in the remoteness of Himring, where the lonely outposts of our people stand like islands among a sea of wild wood elves and orcs.'
   

   Írimë laughed 'Oh Fingon, you say you hate courtly chatter, but you speak as eloquently as any herald !'
   But Fingolfin frowned 'Yet he thinks less than the meanest minion of a courtier, and has forgotten that I myself have been in Himring three years of the sun hence. Lonely outposts ! They live better than we do here, where we have silver, they have gold, where we have granite, they have marble ! Outpost !'
   But to Fingolfin's astonishment, Írimë spoke against him 'No, it is not the House that makes a home, it is the mood of those who dwell therein. And they do not live there. If you wish it, I shall tell you what I fear for, there.'
   Fingon raised his brows and stepped back a pace, then picked up his forgotten goblet. Írimë looked at him thoughtfully 'I think they merely wait. But they are waiting for their father to return and lead them to victory. Maedhros... He is too hurt. We cannot imagine his torment. But his brothers, however impressive they are, and indeed they are very impressive, they are marred by the grip of their unfulfillable vow. They cannot act, and they cannot turn from action, so they merely wait. They are prisoners of Thangorodrim though they walk beneath the stars of Beleriand.
   In such a state, they cannot live. They can form no friendships, they can build no cities, they can do nothing. They are prisoners. They will fight, should the enemy attack, but they will not attack him, not without Fëanor.' she looked sharply at them, then laughed 'Oh my dears, I have changed my mind ! Though I too am a child of Finwë and I do not like to change my mind !'
   They smiled then, father and son, and turned friendly eyes to each other. But Írimë spoke on 'I think Fingon should go to Himring, but on holiday. I think he should take all the most gifted musicians, singers, artists, dancers and such, and all the new songs and tales, and hold a festival at Himring, and remind the brothers what it is to be Eldar, and what it is that we defend.'

   There was a knock at the door and a guard entered and looked worriedly at Fingolfin 'Sire, Dornhâl, the wood-elf, is climbing the tower of Hador Lórindol, who is not at home.'
Fingolfin gaped in astonishment but Írimë gripped his arm. He turned to her in surprise, but she flicked her eyes to the guard and back. Fingolfin closed his mouth and drew in the breath noisily through his nose; there was always a storm when Fingon returned. But he smiled at the guard 'There is no need for concern, we praise your diligence and thank you all for your alertness.'
  The guard, his face serene, bowed and withdrew.

   Fingon looked at Írimë in amazement. 'This is your doing ?'

   'Not I ! They saw each other and I merely did not attempt to come between them. It was... it was like the Music.'
   'Yes, I saw them together. Arían the singer caught my eye, and drew my attention to them. But I called him away !'
   'Yes, it must not be known. But she should not suffer through our family weaknesses.' She pointedly did not look at Fingolfin, who had blushed red with anger that his sister had betrayed his lover and himself, by taking sides with Fingon. But his real fury was with himself, because he knew she was right.

   Gildis woke to a strange sound, a stone dagger clicking against the marble of the table by her bed. She sat up and there was Dornhal, his paint all gone. He looked younger without it, as young as her, his sun-browned skin gleaming in the dim light of the candle, his deep brown eyes glowing down at her. She swallowed 'You cannot be here...' she whispered, but he unfastened the wolf-skin and let it fall to the floor at his feet, and stood before her, still and erect, waiting.
   Gildis felt the heat rise within her, Hador had not touched her since he had learned she was with child. She knew where he was now, in the bed of Fingolfin, in the arms of...
She looked at the elf, and, as though for the first time thought "An elf !"
But he looked so like a mortal man, a beautiful, desirable mortal man... Without thought, she reached out to him, and he took her hand, and sat swiftly beside her. Still he waited, and she searched his eyes, feeling the heat of him, smelling fresh herbs in his newly washed hair, and on his smooth clean skin. 'You were beautiful with paint' she said softly 'But without it... I could eat you alive !'
   'I hope that you will !' he laughed quietly, still not touching any part of her save the hand he gently stroked with his thumb.
   'We cannot, what if there were a child !'
   Dornhâl bowed his head 'I am old, dear Gildis, and lived long beyond the Ered Luin. There we met tribes of mortals, some like yours, some very different. And we who refused the call met the mortals long before Felagund took up the harp of Bëor ! No, whether the elf will it or no, there can be no child of our union. Yet these Noldor, these children of Light, they may... well, they do, they have a power greater than we, a power of... I cannot say, a power of life itself, it may be, and they, alone among the elves, may have the power, or grace, to quicken life within the mortal, or to be quickened by their seed. Ha ! I am old, but not wise... But I know this, lady, that I have cared for many mortal women, and they have borne children to others, and I myself...'
   'You have nineteen great great grandchildren...'
   'Even so.'
   They were silent for a while, the candle swayed to their breathing in the still night air, and the faint sound of singing rose from the Hall of Fire. At last, feeling that her heart would burst within her if she did not seize the elf and ravish him, she gripped his hand a little tighter. He moved smoothly, sliding his hand up her arm and behind her head, while his other slid across her stomach to hold her hip and turn her towards him. His long lashes shadowed his deep eyes, then lifted, and the light of the candle lit their brown to gold, and she forgot everything as he drew her into a slow and tender kiss.

   Hador was asleep. Hador slept so much that Fingolfin found he could spend every waking hour with the mortal and still not neglect any aspect of his duty. No one had told him that in the general pity for his doomed affair, people were keeping quiet or taking their problems elsewhere, for the brief time in which the High King was preoccupied. Indeed the trouble was piling up, but no hint of it had reached the besotted Fingolfin.
   He laid aside his formal robes with a sigh, then threw off all the rest and scratched the back of his neck. The tailors loved to sew gems into everything, but they dug in so, and gold thread was awful for itching.
   Hador was awake and laughing at him.
   'What ?'
   'I love to see you scratch, it is so animal, so like a mortal.'
   'Oh, those ghastly robes ! But Fingon would feel slighted if we did not wear our finery...'
They kissed, and Hador drew him into the great bed, and rolled him onto his back, as Fingolfin laid his head down on the soft pillow with a sigh 'I love you so much.'
But Hador did not reply, his mouth was busy on the smooth pale skin of his beloved, licking the salt from the hard stomach, then taking him into his mouth, hearing the moaning of his love, and lifting his head to lick the long thigh, and down between his legs, probing with his tongue, until Fingolfin arched his back and groped blindly for Hador and breathed softly 'Please...' until Hador raised himself and looked down into the grey eyes of the High King, and smiled secretively, then thrust into him, and moaned himself, as the bliss of love turned passion to ecstasy.

   Írimë had decided to remain until Fingon had talked away his rage. He was her favourite, and she was eager to hear his tales of adventure. They talked long, watching the sky turn pale, then strolled outside to hear the birds sing their greetings to the rising sun.
   'Poor father.' said Fingon finally.
   'Well... he has never been so happy, if that is what you pity ?'
   Fingon looked at Írimë 'Truly ? This Hador brings him such joy ?'
   Írimë smiled 'It is a strange thing... I would wish that he had found himself, found his true nature, when yet we lived in Valinor. If he had, then, well, then I think he would never have left there. Much would be changed ! The wrath of Fëanor would perhaps not have driven him to... Well.
   But then I look at you, and if Fingolfin had known the truth of his own heart, then you would never have been born, and that would be intolerable !'
   Fingon laughed and bowed gracefully 'Do not say such things ! I must have been terribly selfish to have insisted on being born at such an awful cost to... to mother.'
   'Do not trouble your mind with such thoughts ! Your mother would be dismayed to think that she laid the weight of a leaf upon your heart to grieve you ! She who took such pride in all your accomplishments ! I long to see her face when you tell her of your rescue of Maedhros, how proud she will be ! How proud we all are ! And think, do, how much nicer it is with Fingolfin as king, rather than living as they do in the grim army camp of Himring ! Surely it is here, and at Nargothrond, that we are closest to the Music !'
   'Ha ! You have heard Maglor sing !'
   'None deny his gift. But what does he sing ? Where ? To whom ? It was not he who sang in Thangorodrim !'
   Fingon's breath hissed through his teeth. He thought of telling Írimë of the nightmare, always the same, the walls of his room grew, taller, vastly tall, vanishing into a sky without stars, and then thicker, grinding across the floor to close in about him until he was crushed away into nothing, and yet he lived, screaming, until he awoke.

   But Írimë was Írimë, who read thoughts as others words on a page, and she gripped his arm and led him to a seat.
   'You have defied the Shadow, Fingon the Valiant, and you will pay for long.' she poured miruvor for them, and stood with the flask in her hand as Fingon emptied his glass, then refilled it and sat opposite him at the marble table. The sun had risen and the sky was blue above them, but the peaks of Ered Wethrin cast shadow across Barad Eithel, and the air was cold yet for the flying creatures to rise.
   'He wants me here, indoors, with books and papers and meetings and rooms and walls...'
   'Hush, you need not speak of it, I see your concern. But speak now of something else. Tell me the strangest thing you saw on your travels.'
   But Fingon did not speak, he leapt to his feet 'Oh ! I can show you ! It was a gift, from Maedhros, borne by dwarves across Ard-galen as though the remains of a fallen king ! The grave majesty of their procession had us all in full parade armour to meet them, and Erestor...'
   Írimë laughed and sang ' "coated in honey and dipped in the jewel chest" ! Yes !good old Erestor. What colour was he wearing ?'
   Fingon laughed 'It was a peach colour, chiefly, with a deep, plum-red trim and scarf, and rubies in his hair. He looked marvellous. Of course none of the dwarves looked twice at any of us, but still, the overall effect is the thing. We try to offer them the courtesy we hope to find.'
   Írimë laughed 'They will never trust us, alas... Even Finrod...'
   'Well, but wait until you have seen this !' He lifted a chest from the pile of his possessions waiting to be unpacked, and set it on the table.
   'It looks heavy.'
   'Ha ! Wait til you see !' Fingon swiftly unfastened the case and lifted aside the thick velvet. He reached into the crate and drew forth a helmet of marvellous make and craft. It was the largest helm Írimë had ever seen, and its size was increased by a perfect rendering, in fiery red gold, of a dragon, perched, as it were, atop the helm, glaring defiance at the foes of the bearer. Cunning runes were graven and inlaid on helm and visor, dwarven words of might and wrath. Fingon held it up before his face and spoke as a child before the arms of a warrior 'Alas, I cannot wear the helm, it is too great for my head, and weighs so on the shoulders ! Do you feel the weight of it !'
   Írimë took the golden thing, and felt her knees grip to hold her up under the weight of it, gleaming and glittering in her hands. It was merely a hat, she told herself, a hat of steel, and gold; a kind of crown... But the dragon, and the curses on the visor, turned it into an instrument of malice, a weapon. She held herself still but wished to flich away from the thing. She was horribly relieved that Fingon could not wear it. Such curses, worn by the skin, the delicate skin of the head... It chilled her blood.

   But Fingon was as excited as a child on begetting day 'The dwarves made it themselves, their master smith, Telchar, who studied with Zirak, made this for Azaghâl. But it was to great for a dwarf, and it is too great for an elf.' He paused, then looked at Írimë 'And here is the largest mortal we have ever seen, and my father, the High King, would wed him in an instant. It is surely the Music, Írimë. Surely the helm of Azaghâl belongs to Hador.'
   'A mortal ? But what am I saying ? I am forgetting all that I know of him, of them ! Oh Fingon, would you ? Would you make this great gift ? I... Your father has been very lonely, you know.'
   'He has been lonely ? He has ? My brother and sister ran away and left me behind ! My mother abandoned us... My best friend left us in Valinor ! I know, I know, but all that time, I thought... Oh Írimë it’s too awful.' He put his hands before his face, and Írimë thought he would weep, but he merely frowned distractedly and reached for the miruvor.
   'I know, but Fingon, we have all lost things, and people. And since we understand how eagerly we would cling to the comfort of love, we must forgive those who do so, and forgive ourselves our envy of their bliss.'
   Fingon frowned 'I am not angry with him ! It was she who abandoned us, not he !'
   'No no, you cannot blame Anairë, she obeyed the Valar. She followed the Music !
   'The Music ! It is not a single note, for all that Eru sings alone ! The Music is everywhere, from the heights of Taniquetil to the abyss of Belegaer. "It is as fate". '

   He snorted, then laid the dragon-helm down on the table 'It is not for me. Nor a House, nor the lordship of Dor-lómin. Give them to the mortal, it is his wish to dwell there, let him take it.
   I must... I must move... I cannot be penned, Írimë, I cannot endure awakening from the... awakening from the dream of walls to see walls about me ! I must wander, under the stars. I like the sound of this Maurn fellow that they met on the plains. I should like to seek him out and follow his path for a time. Alas, Dornhâl does not know of him, but then I think Dornhâl will not come with me when next I wander.'