In Silence And In Song by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 2

There had been nothing for it but to receive Elu’s servants with all the honours a High King of the Noldor might bestow on another monarch’s representatives. 

From inside her tent Lalwen could hear the ring of silver trumpets and the marching feet of Fingolfin’s saluting honour guard as she hastily changed out of her ink-stained tunic to be laced into a court gown of richly dyed saffron silk.  

Lalwen ran her fingers over the cloth as her esquire tied and buttoned. Even in the dim sunlight filtering through the canvas roof, the work of Tirion’s master weavers rippled like waves upon a sea of molten gold, smooth and cool as water to the touch. This luxurious fabric had crossed the Sea in the hold of a stolen swan-ship, and the Fëanorian weregild sat heavily on her shoulders. The exiled Noldor had not yet found mulberry trees east of the Sea. Lalwen no longer spoke of Tirion since the Grinding Ice, but she could not keep herself from wondering if she would ever wear silk again, once this dress fell prey to Middle-earth’s inescapable decay.

Fingolfin’s royal pavilion was a palatial tent of gold-embroidered felt dyed a deep, bloody crimson. It was once Fëanor’s own hunting lodge, when he took his sons to chase hart and boar in the wild hill-lands around Formenos. Like Lalwen’s silk, the tent had become blood money, part of the hoard of riches Fëanor’s sons had offered in compensation for the Elvish lives lost upon the ice.

Inside she found the High King of the Noldor pacing the length of the lavish main chamber, his eyes and mind incandescent with rage. Fingon’s bruised pride smouldering at his father’s shoulder only served to inflame Fingolfin further. 

“Be reasonable, brother.” Lalwen said with dry exasperation as she slid into her seat at the privy council. “Surely you did not expect Elu Thingol himself! He asked our oaths of fealty in exchange for Hithlum. The Noldor have made it clear that we will not take him for our liege. After that slight he could hardly acknowledge you by appearing here.” 

“Elu did not grant me Hithlum, because Hithlum was never his to give!” Fingolfin retorted. He paced to stand in the patch of golden light the open tent flap cast across the rich tapestries beneath his feet. A playful breeze showered him in white petals from the wild cherries that blossomed around the royal enclosure. For a fleeting instant Lalwen’s eyes saw her brother outlined against driving snow, and she shivered despite the balmy weather.

Fingolfin in his anger remained blind to the offending trees. “What did we find in Hithlum, sister? Scattered bands of Grey Elves, little more than savages who battled the Orcs with blades of flint! Elu Thingol is no more my liege than Morgoth is!”

Lalwen took a deep breath and managed to sound poised to her own ears. “Elu proves unwilling to have this explained to him in person,” she remarked dryly.  “He is one of the Elder Kings, wedded to a great Maia. Would bending your knee to him have been such hardship?” 

Fingolfin scoffed. “How many knees does Elu wish to see bent? Would you have our entire House swear fealty to … to a Dark Elf?”

“Am I counselling High King Fingolfin or some Fëanorian warmonger?” Lalwen riposted. “Either way it is done. Elu will not meet you, and neither will he send any of his House. The question before us is how we shall handle his servants.”       

Maedhros sipped wine from a heavy gold chalice without any visible reaction to Lalwen’s provocation. Like a great falcon he perched in his corner, as if he had every right to attend the king’s council, his pale face a delicate play of light and shadow above a tunic of heavy oxblood velvet. Fingon had invited the Fëanorian -- yet another of his upwellings of ill-directed charity. 

With a sting of annoyance Lalwen noticed the empty sheath at Maedhros’ hip. At least Fingolfin’s door guard had confiscated his dagger. The kinslayer had gall, to strut around court boasting his new left-handed prowess. If only Morgoth had had the sense to use two manacles: Fingon’s efforts would have prevented further bloodshed once and for all. Many here would feel safer for it.

Cold dread struck Fingolfin at the sight of Maedhros “Unless this snub is a punishment. Do the Iathrim know ?”

“How would they?” That shameless Fëanorian answered without flinching, utterly calm and composed. “Not from any of my folk.” 

Maedhros shot a pointed glance across the table, where Finrod glittered in his seat. His robe of heavy gold brocade was stitched with opals and topped with a carcanet of Valinórean sapphires the exact hue of his eyes. A flat-cut diamond the size of a dove’s egg sat on his brow in an intricate circlet of mithril. Any other would have looked like a walking magpie’s hoard, but Finrod made it seem regal.

With great varicoloured glimmer he stood to address Fingolfin. “Uncle, once more I ask you to end this deceit. All of my House have kept our silence, as agreed upon, but no secrecy can hold forever. You have the unity of all Elves in Middle-earth riding on the loose lips of a single drunk stablemaid. Let us be the ones to speak of Alqualondë before others do.”

Fingolfin blanched, and almost physically recoiled at those words. Lalwen watched her brother’s suffering with a stab of raw anger. She knew the source of that bleak look of terror. 

The confusing orgy of of bloodshed that was Alqualondë left Fingolfin’s beloved son with hands as bloody as any Fëanorian’s, and that shared guilt loomed over the High King like a web of shadow. Whatever punishment Elu Thingol might pronounce against the Sons of Fëanor once he learned of the kinslaying would fall on Fingon equally. 

Protecting the kinslayers had made liars and deceivers of the Noldor. Oh, they had considered coming clean! She and Fingolfin had analysed the problem from every angle - uncounted sleepless nights of long and anxious counsels over too much wine and abandoned games of chess. 

The dishonour did not matter. They would both gladly kneel to beg clemency from this enigmatic Dark Elf and his Maiarin queen. In the end it always came back to one simple, inexorable fact: Fingolfin loved Fingon. He could not abandon his son to whatever cruelty the Sindar might inflict on a foreigner who slew their kin. Lalwen imagined Glorfindel in her nephew’s stead, and found she could not fault Fingolfin. No parent should face such choices. 

The High King of the Noldor stood frozen, his back to his counsellors, seemingly contemplating the drifting cherry petals outside as they whirled through bars of golden light falling through the lacework of budding trees. Lalwen could hear him swallow loudly. Somewhere beyond the royal enclosure some master harpist, likely Maglor, strummed a merry galliard from Tirion. The notes darted through the air like a breath of pure happiness, playful and sweet and wildly inappropriate. Fingolfin’s shoulders hardened in his struggle to keep his composure. 

It fell upon Lalwen to safeguard the High King’s dignity. “Peace, nephew!” she implored Finrod. “You would destroy our alliance before it has begun.”

Finrod shook his head, wholly unimpressed. “Would this be a harper’s alliance, or one of petty officers? Neither kings nor princes seem involved!” 

Fingon leant forward in his seat and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself before addressing the tense square of his father’s turned back. “Sire, I say we end this charade. Let us come clean with the Sindar, and face whatever consequences the truth may bring.” 

Lalwen eyed her nephew with a new respect. Fingon might be cursed with poor taste in friends, but he was valiant. 

“None of us can afford the consequences, my son,” Fingolfin stated as he turned to face his council, eyes bone-dry and kingly mask firmly in place. “I will not surrender any subject of mine to Sindar retributions. Alqualondë is past, and no vengeance Elu Thingol might inflict will undo it. Instead let us be pragmatic. If Elu will not come himself, we shall have to deal with his retainers.”

Fingolfin stepped closer to Fingon to lay a hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“You should sit with this Mablung tonight. He commands Elu’s troops, and surely there is an interesting tale to be had about Doriath’s strength.” His eyes darted to Maedhros. “Seat the harper beside Maglor. They should entertain one another.”