The Last Scion of Tevildo by Lindariel

The Smallest Tevildion

The mountains around Angband, the winter of 455-456.  The war is going well for Melkoré, the Great Uprising.  Tevildo the Prince of Cats, chief of Melkoré's guard, sorts out a domestic problem with unimaginable results.  Warning: This chapter has brief domestic violence, also mortal threat to a very small kitten.

Read The Smallest Tevildion

Miaulë crouched above her seventh son. Bared claws shone ivory white against her dark paws, blue eyes flashed, dark ears pressed back over silver neck fur, every hair in her black tail stood proud. "You shall not have him!" she growled at the mountainous black form before her.

Tevildo's eyes glittered like Gnomish rubies as he looked down at the mother of his children. "Six is a fine litter. He is not needed." He flicked one paw, fetching her a cuff that knocked her off her feet and into two of the other kitlings anxiously hovering nearby. "You should not have left me," he snarled, before picking up the tiny kitling thus revealed by the scruff of the neck.

The runt hung from his father's mouth, tail dangling down barely as far as Tevildo's golden collar. He was brownish black with jet-black extremities, regrettably minuscule for a recently-weaned kit. But the runt's six siblings, Tevildo thought with satisfaction, were well-grown and would soon make fine additions to the garrison, no doubt eventually as generals. He would discipline Miaulë for moving her litter and demote her, perhaps to the kitchen. He would not risk another litter with her, either, lest there be another runt to manage, especially not an unlucky seventh.

The kitling's head swam with the shaking as his father bounded out of the cave. Miaulë's howled threats followed behind, but the wind soon shredded them to nothing. The bitter cold had no apparent effect on his father, but the youngster began shivering and could not stop as Tevildo leapt from ledge to ledge up the face of the cliff.

* * * * * * *

The seventh kitling already knew he was different. To begin with, the number seven was unlucky, although his dam had always been careful not to apply that bit of lore to the number of kitlings in his litter. Then there was the matter of his size, or rather his lack of size, for the bigger his six brothers and sisters grew the more obvious it had become that he was a runt. And then there was the flying.

Flying was a way some of the Living Creatures had of traveling through the air, his dam had said. But not cats, she had stressed every time she retrieved him after he scrambled too far up a tall rock in their cave. Cats may walk and run and leap, she instructed him firmly, but they had no wings to help them fly. Nevertheless, the kitling was sure he was meant to fly, and he never tired of trying. Once he was steady enough to leave the cave for short times by himself, he watched the air around him, searching for creatures soaring in the air to see if he could figure out how they did it. He soon became familiar with flies and moths, but they were too small and moved too rapidly for him to learn much. Occasionally he would see great things moving in the air--Eagles, his dam said they were called--but they were too far away for him to understand.

He began to jump off rocks whenever he was alone outside; the hollow sensation in his belly as he shot through the air was exciting, but he never managed to do anything but fall. He sought out higher and higher rocks to jump from, which gave him a more thrilling hollow feeling. He ranged farther afield of the cave mouth, acquainting himself with the few gnarled trees that clung to the narrow face of the ridge far above the Castle of Cats. Although stunted by their growth in the acidic fumes of the three nearby volcanoes, the trees represented an easier climb for more height. He eventually found his way to the top of the tallest, most twisted one and clung next to the lone seed-cone near its topmost branch as he looked out. For the first time he saw above him the source of the roiling grey currents of air that pooled beneath his abode: a group of three pitiless crags wreathed in black fumes ever pouring from the many cave mouths glowing red at their peaks. A piece of the tallest spire broke away and tumbled in a banked spiral, moving nearer and nearer as he watched.

"An Eagle! I shall fly too," he thought, closing his eyes and flinging himself outward with all his might. For a moment he felt nothing save the hollow-bellied sensation, stronger and more exhilarating than it had ever been.

His eyes shot open and he flung his legs out, churning the empty air beneath as the arc of his leap turned into a plummet. A stray eddy of air cleared a peephole in the ever-present grey blanket beneath him, revealing a surface of grey-black heaps even farther below. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he thought "no, I'm not ready!" as he continued to fall toward the slag. Just as he completed that despairing thought he slammed into something. The wind continued to blow, to his confusion, on the parts of him not in contact with the something, but it had changed direction. Was he not dead, but finally flying? He opened an eye to see.

Four black claws, each larger than himself, had closed around him. The leg attached to the claws was naked, rough and yellow, disappearing into glossy brown-black fluff. Above him there flexed a greater grey-brown bulk, and the wind was beating at him through the claws. There was nothing beneath him save air, and that hollow sensation in his belly had redoubled in strength and was making him feel a little ill. He growled with fear and surprise, clasping his front paws around one of the huge claws and striking with his back paws at another.

"Hold still, child," came a voice from far above him. Cool, thin, sharp as the wind it sounded, but not entirely unlike his dam's nonetheless. He stopped struggling and sniffed reflexively to orient himself. It was difficult to catch the scent in the air with so much wind blasting his face, so he dropped his muzzle toward the nearest claw and snuffled. Whatever this creature was, it smelled nothing at all like himself. It smelled of air and spruce branches and the blood of rabbits.

The kitling had scarcely begun to take an interest in the fact that he was well and truly flying, even if not under his own power, when he felt a jolt as the claws abruptly released him. The hollow feeling vanished with a nauseating thump as he landed with all four feet onto rock. "Are you hungry?" came the voice again.

As with every juvenile, he was not asleep and therefore was hungry despite the roiling in his gut. "Yes!" he growled as fiercely as he was able.

"So am I," the voice assured him. "Why should I not eat you?"

He blinked as he looked at the creature now standing next to him. It was taller than anything he had ever seen, smooth yet tufted like a freshly-groomed kitling, and it had no front legs. He looked up, up, up and along its swelling body toward its sleek earless head with a large hooked claw for a mouth between two hazel eyes flecked with gold. The giant eyes were looking at him so fixedly! Continuing to hold still, he looked back into the creature's eyes, seeing for an instant in their depths a blue deeper than the sky. He could barely shape the words but finally squeaked out "what are you?"

The hooked mouth opened, saying "I am an Eagle, child."

"Eagle is in the Lore! 'Eagle in eyrie,'" he recited eagerly, glad that the first creature from the Lore of Living Creatures he had occasion to meet should be an Eagle, "but where is eyrie?"

"Our eyrie is our home, high in the rocks where we make our nests. Who taught you the Lore?" inquired the eagle.

"My dam taught us, as hers taught her. I know it all! Do you want to hear me recite it?" he offered, unable to stop himself capering a little bit before wondering if he should still be holding still.

The eagle made an odd, creaking sound. "No, child. I am sure your dam taught you well. As you are so wise, I shall not eat you. Today."

Abruptly, the kitling stopped bouncing. In the extremity of his excitement, he had forgotten the Eagle's question about eating him. His tail fluffed out and he began to tremble violently.

"I shall return you to your dam to learn more about the world," said the eagle, and its bulk shifted as it reached with one leg to grasp the kitling again. "But remember this day's lesson, child. Cats cannot fly. Nevertheless, you may ride with me as I fly," it said as its wings opened.

* * * * * * *

When Tevildo had climbed as high above the cave as the cave was above his castle, he stopped on a small cliff and dropped his burden to the rock. The kitling lay where he had fallen, convulsing against the frigid surface.

"You are insignificant," rumbled Tevildo. "My every vassal would see it and quarrel over the privilege of destroying you." His eyes shifted from their usual glittering red to sulphurous coruscant green, and he paced to the edge of the ledge. Pausing to look back at the helpless kitling, his voice roughened. "Yet I will not have my inferiors think it safe to destroy my get, no matter how useless he is. This is a better way for all of us." The giant cat tensed, then sprang off the ledge without another look, abandoning the runt.

The kitling struggled to understand with the parts of his mind that had not already frozen. Just a few moments ago he had been asleep, warmly snuggled between two of his larger littermates. He had been jolted awake by his dam hissing and growling at a great black cat, eyes like red rock crystals, blocking the entrance to their cave. His sire had finally found and claimed the litter; his dam refused but was no match for his sire, neither in size nor will. And now his sire had dropped him here on this bitterly cold cliff face. Already drowsy, he looked around at the forbidding mountains on both sides of his ledge. He was closer to the three crags than he had ever been, and on a more narrow ledge. His eyes closed slowly as he succumbed to the cold.

* * * * * * *

The kitling awakened slowly. His littermates around him felt different and smelled wrong, but he also smelled food. He opened one eye green as chrysoprase to see no littermates, but something black and brown hanging close around him, in color not unlike himself. Opening his other eye and stretching, he encountered an unfamiliar texture: smooth, resilient, ridged, and cool to the touch, covering something solid. Instinctively all four legs stiffened, every claw extended to test this new surface, and he felt it jerk slightly beneath him like an angry littermate disturbed in sleep as his claws snagged on those ridges.

"We meet again, child! Hold still. You are safe," said a voice he recognized. It sounded just like the eagle who had rescued him once before. He retracted his claws, setting the soft hangings around him into gentle movement as he poked his nose into them and sniffed. Yes, this smelled like the eagle too.

"Are you hungry?" asked the eagle.

The kitling remembered the last time an Eagle had asked him this, but he was too hungry to dissemble. "Yes," he meowed pitiably.

"Be still a moment and you shall have meat," the voice instructed. He held still as the soft hangings around him unwrapped themselves. There was a confusing moment, a breath of icy air as he rolled onto a cold hard surface, and he was blinking at the eagle.

He sprang to his feet and looked around. His back was to a rock ledge, and the eagle was between him and the rest of the world. He remembered that wind, and being carried by his sire, and shaking with cold. He was warmer now, although the rock beneath his toes was bitter cold. The eagle had been warming him, he concluded. His tail dropped between his legs. "Where is the meat? I am very hungry."

The eagle reached behind with one foot and drew it back forward across the ground, dragging with one talon a small heap of bloody fur and bones. Large shreds of meat clung to the smaller bones. The kitling could smell that the rabbit was not freshly dead, but it still smelled recent enough to eat. He pounced on the heap and began tearing off shreds, gobbling them down as fast as he could under the unblinking hazel gaze of the giant bird. Gradually he began to eat more slowly, as he realized that for the first time in his life he did not have to share the food with anyone larger and stronger than himself.

As his eating slowed, the eagle spoke. "What is your name, child?"

He paused, looking down at his paws. "My sire rejected me, so I shall never get a name from him," he said, curiously poised between pride and shame. "But my dam named me Rútaura," he continued. "What is your name?"

"I am called Sorontári," she replied.

"Thank you for the meat, Sorontári," he said, as politely as he would address his dam, and resumed eating.

After eating his fill, he settled on his haunches to groom himself. As he did so he noticed that his fur had changed color. Parts of his body that had been brown the last time he groomed them were now black; he was no longer a brown cat with black extremities, but a more or less completely black cat. It was strange to look so little like himself; but then again, he felt unlike himself as well.

Sorontári bent her head down toward him, and he saw the sharpness of her hooked beak. "Rútaura," she said, "your sire has taken your dam and your littermates back to his castle. You cannot go there, and you are too young to survive alone on the mountain. I will take you to where you need to be. You will not like it there, and you will witness terrible things before you can leave." She cocked her head, watching him intently.

Rútaura whimpered. "But I want my dam! My sisters, my brothers!"

"I know," she replied. "But going to them would assuredly mean your death, for your sire would kill you in front of them all. Any of them who object your sire would also kill, starting with your valiant dam. But if you go where I take you then you will survive."

"What must I do?" he asked in a small, frightened voice.

"You must climb on me, and I will give you a ride," Sorontári replied. "Where I drop you off there is fresh meat to be caught; hunger teaches good hunting. Be quick, be quiet, and survive there, knowing that no matter how long you live, you will never have to live in such a terrible place again." She stretched out one of her feet to him. "Climb up my claw and into my feathers. You will be safe and warm there as we fly."

Rútaura's claws slipped on the tough, scrabbly surface as he skittered up the Eagle's foot. It felt a little like he was climbing up rock seams back in his cave. When he got to the brown and black hangings that began just above Sorontári's feet, he batted at them with a claw. "Is this 'feathers'?" he asked.

"Yes, child. Feathers keep me warm, and I use them to fly," she said, making another one of those creaking sounds. "Now snuggle as deeply into them as you can and hold on with all your claws. You must not let go, for if you do you will fall to your death."

Rútaura worked his way into the feathers, noticing that they were a combination of stiffer and softer textures. The softer parts looked a little like tree branches, only spiky on the ends, and he tried to avoid them. The closer he got to Sorontári's skin, the stiffer and less fluffy the feathers were. He tried kneading them, but his claws were too small to catch in the stiff parts, so he hooked his claws around some of them instead. Sorontári waited until he quit moving, then warned him "now close your eyes and hold tightly!"

Rútaura felt the Eagle take off, her body moving rhythmically both of itself and in what seemed like great circles. It felt like chasing his own tail, but in bigger and slower circles, and there was a strong wind as well. The hollow sensation in his belly seemed like it was about to become qámevórina, the fur-sickness. He did not move his claws, but wondered how angry Sorontári would be if he cast a hairball onto her feathers. After a moment the wind began to smell different to him, so much thicker and sharper that it hurt to breathe. His body began to hitch involuntarily; then he felt Sorontári stop flying in circles. The sick feeling eased somewhat as the eagle's flight straightened out. He was still having trouble breathing, but the belly sensation of flying in a straight line seemed familiar and manageable after what he had just experienced.

Soon Sorontári landed, harder than a cat would have. "Rútaura, come down now," she said. Rútaura carefully worked his paws out from around her downy feathers, then jumped outward. The uneven landing on a heap of gritty stone fragments was worth one last instant of the flying feeling. As he scrabbled about, searching for a firm footing in the suddenly shifting ground, the eagle spread her wings. "There is more to you than can be guessed, and you are greater than you know. Wisely did your dam name you Mighty Lion. Farewell!" cried Sorontári as she took to the air. Watching her, for the first time Rútaura understood what wings were, and why he would never be able to fly on his own.

After a moment or two Rútaura could no longer see the eagle, and his attention began to settle on the place she had set him. The air still hurt to breathe, and it also smelled like meat that was too old to eat. The ground nearby was covered with the shifting piles of slag, and farther off loomed a long ridge of rocks whose heads were all obscured save for occasional bursts of red light piercing the grey gloom. At the base of the rocks was a darker area that Rútaura hoped was a cave, for he needed to find shelter from which he could survey this new terrain. He bounded toward it, his paws periodically slipping until he began to be able to predict how the slag would shift under his weight.

Eventually Rútaura discovered the rocks were much farther away than they looked. Between him and the ridge stretched a vast uneven plain filled with slag heaps, and he grew tired of all the ups and downs of it long before he crossed it. The Sun, barely visible beyond the grey pall, westered quickly and the wind off the ridge blew even colder as he kept moving forward, his energetic bounds long since reduced to exhausted trudging.

As the last light of day disappeared, Rútaura found himself closer to the cave than the biggest tree was to his dam's cave. His night vision asserted itself. He looked toward the area at the center of the ridge, hoping to be able to see some more details. As he watched, he saw something shift to one side, and suddenly there was light coming from the cave. Three scintillant points of light, housed in a black too dark to see, shone so bright they made the white blazes on his black ears tingle. They nearly blinded Rútaura, and he shook his head to clear his sight. When he looked back, his night vision ruined by the beams of light, he saw that the lights were moving. They were high above his head, as if some huge three-eyed cat were walking toward him. But instead of a cat's shape, it seemed a black mountain standing on two legs like his two strongest siblings when they were play-fighting. Its skin was curious, stiffly shiny but also the opposite of shiny, as if it were drinking the light rather than reflecting it. As he continued to watch it approach, he noticed it had two red eyes not far beneath the three bright colorless ones, and the red eyes seemed to be fixed on him.

Rútaura began to slink toward the nearest slag heap, hoping to avoid whatever this great uprising was. The bulk of it, and its improbable mixture of complete dark and dazzling light, frightened him more than he had ever been frightened of anything before. But suddenly he felt something cold touch every part of his skin at the same time. It pressed inward on him, holding him in place like a blanket of ice as the monster moved closer. Rútaura tried to looked up at the monster, but only his eyes could move. As he looked into the red eyes he heard a noise, an indescribable assault of sound--greater than a gale on the heights, a rockslide in the mountains, a deluge of rain, and every other noise his dam had taught him to avoid--that eventually resolved itself into speech. "Now, what stray is this?" he heard the mountain say. "My lieutenant was more careless than expected. I warned him that a laikarauka possessing the body of a hunting beast could only defile the laikarauka. Now see how he has diminished himself by giving a portion of his essence to the offspring of the beast's body, this insignificant beastling."

The words meant little to Rútaura, but they stirred up an urge in him to speak to this being, kitling to mountain, as an equal, as his dam had spoken with his sire. It felt like his insides had turned into a mass of spiky rock crystals, each digging into his skin from the inside. His entire body seemed to stretch, and the sensation of being covered by ice fell away. He was suddenly seeing those red eyes from a great deal higher position than before. He opened his mouth to hiss with the surprise (and pain) of it, but instead only a thin, treble meow emerged.

The painful noise returned as the two-legged mountain began to shake. Rútaura suddenly wondered if mountains could laugh like cats. Once again the noise resolved into words, and he heard it say "you may not be useless after all, beastling! I Melkoré give you leave to reside in my forecourt. You may not come inside, and you must keep well clear of your father the Prince of Cats. Hunt, strengthen your body, and I shall consider the best way for you to serve me."

As Melkoré turned and walked back into his cave, Rútaura noticed that, though the red eyes were no longer visible, he could still clearly see the three colorless eyes atop Melkoré's head, lighting everything around him. He was grateful when Melkoré and his bright lights disappeared inside the gate of Angamandi, leaving him and his night vision alone to explore the shadows underneath the rock formations around the gate.

Rútaura sighed deeply, and his body suddenly collapsed back into his normal shape and size. He hoped some of those shadows were cavelike enough to house a tired kitling.

---

Chapter End Notes

Rútaura ( coined from Qenya elements) -- "Mighty Lion," a mother-name
Sorontári (coined from Qenya elements) -- "Queen of Eagles"
laikarauka (coined from Qenya elements) -- "demon of sharpness"
qámevórina (coined from Qenya elements) -- "sickness of fur," the need to vomit up a hairball

The number seven is unlucky in this story because the cultures of Middle-Earth are accustomed to count in dozens and half-dozens.

Rútaura's fur turns black in this chapter because he is the offspring of a black cat and a Siamese cat carrying what is called (in our world) the Himalayan gene; cats with that gene exposed to extreme cold turn darker.  He is effectively a green-eyed Siamese cat, only all black, with narrow white blazes on his ears.

 

The Battle of Flame and Shadow

The forecourt of Angband, the summer of 456.  Trouble comes to Melkoré's very doorstep, heralding a great change for the littlest Tevildion.  Warning: This chapter has canon battle violence and character death.

This chapter builds by permission on a friend's guest drabble, available on this site at https://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/node/3472/single?page=0.

Read The Battle of Flame and Shadow

Rútaura jerked awake. He was used to being awakened by the comings and goings of the orki, but no noise the orki had ever made caused the white blazes on his black ears to twitch like these blasts. The shivering vibrations clove the air like a stooping eagle and made him want to do something, but he had no idea what. He sprang to his feet, ears pricked, tail stiff, pupils dilated despite the sun high overhead, not even checking to see whether any of the orki were near enough to be threatening.

His makeshift lair between two rocks leaning up against the fortress wall gave him an excellent view of the mustering ground outside Angamandi. He had found many such hiding spots in the six moons he had spent living in Melkoré's forecourt, and he never slept in the same one twice in a row. Rútaura was doing his best to take Sorontári's advice: be quick, be quiet, and survive. Keeping away from the orki by night was half his labor, and the other half was keeping fed by day. But the forecourt was often busy, crowded with the comings and goings of not just orki but plenty of bigger, scarier things. Some creatures, particularly the huge creeping ones, stank even more than this blasted, sulphurous plain. Fortunately, although most of the larger creatures seemed to avoid the daylight, Rútaura had been able to remember enough of his dam's teachings to successfully hunt smaller prey. This morning it had been naught but a scrawny vole, but some days it was a rat or even, once, a weasel. Still, his belly had been full enough for sleep until the air had been cleft by the sound that had awakened him.

After a moment he spotted movement, far enough away not to be threatening yet. He stood his ground for a moment, watching a two-legged figure like the orki, only taller and straighter, moving toward him. It had a shiny, stiff skin like many of the orki, but cool and blue-white instead of red and black, and it reflected light like water in a pool. Rútaura slunk off to a safe distance as the figure walked up to the door of the fortress, pounding upon it with a fist and shouting.

Come forth, thou coward lurking lord

to fight with thine own hand and sword!

Thou wielder of hosts of slaves and thrall,

pit-dweller, shielded by strong walls,

thou foe of gods and elven-race,

come forth and show thy craven face!

Come forth thou coward king, and fight with thine own hand! Den-dweller, wielder of thralls, liar and lurker, foe of gods and Elves, come for I would see thy craven face!

Its voice was like the horn: high, sweet, musical, and colder than ice. Rútaura heard lights welling in the sound of it too, great splashes of gold and silver, warm as his dam's fur, cool as mountain cave springs. What was this being?

Something stirred in the depths of the earth, answering in a sepulchral voice. The ground shook as it moved, each earthquake louder than the one before it, until the great door opened upon the Uprising in Might.

Afterwards Rútaura could never remember much about the progress of the battle. He spent as much time bounding from hiding place to hiding place as he did watching the struggle. But it was as if a tiny being made of white flame assailed the embodiment of a shadowed mountain, the flame too bright to look upon, the shadow like a hole in the world. The ground shook with every impact of the Uprising in Might's giant hammer, and every anguished sound he made when the bright being wounded him with its blade like a star made Rútaura's ear blazes vibrate. He saw the orki hiding behind the flaps of their black tents pitched around the forecourt, squinting against the daylight; like himself, they seemed fearful to watch yet unable to turn away from the battle. He lost count of the times they screeched and wailed at each fresh wound done to the mountain by the flame.

The sun westered as the flame and the shadow strove against one another, moving hither and thither across the plain. The shadow strove ever to turn its back to the sun, but the flame was more agile and would not permit it. For a moment Rútaura saw the mountain force the flame to face the sun, and he winced in sympathy for the pain of looking into the sun. But then a shadow that did not come from the mountain moved across the flame. Rútaura looked up and saw an Eagle circling above the battle, shading the flame from the brightness of the westering sun. Was the bright being also a friend of Eagles?

Rútaura felt the world around him come to a standstill as the strange bright being suddenly fell backward into one of the great gashes the Uprising in Might had ripped into the earth. The orki screeches faded before a sucking wind that rushed past his ears as if a storm approached. The Uprising in Might shuddered as a shadow fell upon his shadow, and he waved hammer and shield to ward off the Eagle diving at his head.

In that instant an impulse drove Rútaura to the edge of the pit, to look into the being's eyes. The being blinked back up at him; the pain glazing its eyes cleared, and Rútaura saw they shone as bright as the three stars the Uprising in Might wore on its head. "Flee!" it gasped, "Take the message of my fate to Sorontar! Flee! Before he returns!"

Overcome with emotions he did not understand, Rútaura turned and bolted from the pit. Behind him he heard the sound of metal crunching as the bright being groaned, followed immediately by a wet sort of sound. Horror and pity blinded Rútaura then, and he doubled his speed. The being choked. The Uprising in Might screamed again, louder and more outraged than ever before, to the accompaniment of what sounded like rushing water. Rútaura thought the very mountains must be falling, and he was afraid to look back. He ran so heedlessly that he did not even notice when Sorontári alit right in front of him, and he collided with her leg. He bounced off, gathered himself, and leapt away in surprise only to hear her address him.

"Wait, child! Will you fly again with me and leave this place forever?"

As quickly as the words passed her beak, Rútaura bounded back toward her. "Oh yes, please!" he squeaked. "But this time I want to see where we are going."

"Very well, child. Climb up to my shoulders and ride at my neck," agreed the Eagle. She set her tail to the ground and Rútaura climbed right up her spine. "But I will not be able to snatch you if you fall, so you must hold on carefully."

The Eagle leaned forward, raising her wings. Rútaura felt the tension of great muscles shifting beneath him, as if Sorontári were about to spring onto prey. Then they left the ground, and Rútaura's stomach lurched as the hollow feeling of flying overwhelmed his entire body. For a moment he shut his eyes, choking as the sudden wind drove the evil fumes of the volcanoes into his face and flinching as he heard the shrieks of another Eagle on the wind. But he was determined not to miss his first opportunity to see how the world looked when you were flying, and so he forced his eyes open.

Sorontári was approaching the pit where the bright warrior had fallen. The Uprising in Might had picked him up and snapped his spine, bending his body nearly double before flinging it back down. He lay half-in, half-out of the pit, face to the sky atop a puddle of black smoking liquid. Rútaura was taken by surprise and lurched to one side of Sorontári's neck as she dived to gather the broken warrior into her claws, sword and shield and all. He sought to anchor himself beneath the top layer of her neck feathers. Sorontári's head jerked. "Your claws are larger now, and you are stronger, Mighty Lion. Settle yourself carefully, for this will be a very long ride."

This time Sorontári's spring was even greater as she rose into the air with her burden. Rútaura almost forgot about his lurching stomach as he craned his neck to take one last look at the place he had survived for six moons. In the red light of sunset he saw the Uprising in Might standing amid the slag, the ash-heaps, and the sharp rough-grained rocks pounded into pits by his attempts to smash the bright being; hammer and shield discarded at his feet, Melkoré was holding his arms over his face which dripped more of that black smoking liquid as an Eagle cried and stooped to claw at him again. Rútaura saw the orki venturing from their black tents, hissing to one another. He saw the three volcanoes belching smoke overhead, the dark door gaping open at their base, and all the miserable little holes in which he had been forced to hide. Angamandi! He would never forget that view.

 

Not even Rútaura's delight in flying was enough to give him clear memories of most of that trip. Sorontári flew at first over endless scorched plains riven with great serpentine furrows between tumbled hillocks of bleaching bones. The red sun shone in Rútaura's right eye until it set into roils of purple and black cloud. His vision shifted and he saw dark mountains ahead in the night, but it seemed to take hours to reach them.

Sorontári set down on a clearing high in the hills, gently depositing the body of the bright warrior onto the mossy sward. "Well done, Mighty Lion, you have survived," she said, "now come down and rest."

Rútaura could not imagine why he felt so sore after doing nothing but holding onto a flying Eagle for hours, but he was near exhaustion. He slid off the Eagle's shoulder and landed in some kind of prickly bush, squalled like a kitling, then righted himself on the ground. He trotted over to the body, smelling the cool blood and the black ichor besmirching it. "What kind of animal is this, Sorontári?" he asked after filling his nose with the unfamiliar scents.

"This is no animal," she replied. "It is an Elf. Do you know that part of the Lore? 'Eldest of all, the Elf-children'?"

Considering for a moment, "no," concluded Rútaura. "My dam did not teach me that. Where do they come in the Lore?"

"At the very beginning," she answered.

First name the four, the free peoples:

Eldest of all, the elf-children;
Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses;
Ent the earthborn, old as mountains;
Man the mortal, master of horses.

"Are the orki in the Lore also? For this Elf walked on two feet like the orki."

"No, child," she said with a sound Rútaura thought might be a sigh. "The orki were made by Melkoré in mockery of Elves, and they are not counted in the Lore. The Elves were born to create, but the orki were made to destroy."

"I do not understand," Rútaura said. "Was this Elf not trying to destroy the Uprising in Might?"

"Yes, this Elf's people call him simply Morgoth, the Enemy, for he hates and fears Elves and has killed many of them."

Sorontári broke off speaking and looked to the sky. Rútaura followed her gaze and saw another Eagle circling toward their location. It landed neatly, silently, and walked toward Sorontári who walked toward it. Their necks bent and they touched beaks, then both their bodies rippled with what Rútaura was now sure was sighing.

"I am called Sorontár," the second Eagle said, fixing Rútaura with a piercing glance. Rútaura's eyes widened in understanding; this was Sorontári's mate, the second Eagle, the one who had attacked Morgoth while Sorontári was escaping with Rútaura and the body of the Elf.

Rútaura, remembering his long-disused yet properly taught manners, gave his best bow to this new Eagle. His dam would have approved, and so did his creaky muscles. He bowed again, stretching deeply. "I am called Rútaura," he said in reply, "and I am hungry."

Sorontár looked at him blankly for a moment and then said "oh yes, of course you are." He and Sorontári exchanged a long look in which Rútaura thought there were many words, and then he flew away.

"He will bring back something for us all to eat," said Sorontári, "and then we will rest until daybreak."

"What happens then?"

"When one of the free peoples dies, their kin enclose the body in earth or stone. We will take the body of this Elf to his son, and there you will find a new and more pleasant place to live."

Rútaura fell silent, considering his newly revealed future. He hoped there would be no orki. Yawning, he curled up on the ground as far from the dead Elf as he felt comfortable going and began grooming himself. The night air was warmer here than he was used to, and the moss springy, which made him sleepy. Maybe if he could just get his front paws tidy....

He jerked awake to the scent of fresh blood, leaping up to look for the source. It was still dark. Sorontár had returned with a very large dead creature, and the two Eagles were beginning to pick at it. It had four legs, a thick body, coarse hair, a long rounded muzzle, big teeth, and two horns curling back from its face. Sorontári finished pulling a leg off the carcass and flung it nearer to him with a toss of her head. "Eat, Mighty Lion. There is plenty, and it is fresh." Rútaura pounced on the meat with an appetite honed by weeks of undereating. The meat was sweeter than any he had ever killed for himself. He wondered what creature it was, then thought of nothing else until he was so full he could barely drag himself away from the remains of the leg. He located a big cushion of moss, turned around on it three times, curled up in a ball, and fell asleep with his tail between his ears.

When Rútaura woke it was day. The two Eagles were busily pushing the bare bones of last night's meal over the side of the cliff. He stood up, stretching his entire body several times in the pale sunlight, then vanished behind the nearest rock. When he emerged, Sorontári looked over at him and said "ready to fly again, Mighty Lion?"

"Yes, please," he said. "I like seeing the ground from up there."

"Today the view will be somewhat more pleasant," she assured him, "and the trip will be shorter. Now climb up!"

Rútaura mounted up her tail to her neck and dug in as before. He tried to be more careful with his claws this time. From up there he watched as Sorontár gently gathered up his burden of dead Elf and took off. Sorontári leapt into the air to fly beside him, and today Rútaura was hardly even bothered by the hollow feeling in his stomach.

This morning the sun was obliquely in his left eye, and he had a fine view of where they were going. The air was more clear than he had ever seen, and there was no fume to it. He breathed deeply of the sweet, cold air, looking out and down with great interest as they flew across a great plain enclosed with rounded mountains. After a while the ground grew green with many tall trees, but the Eagles kept on flying toward higher mountains in the distance. The tops of these mountains were neither bare nor smoky; they were sharp and white on top. Not long after they began flying over the whitesharp mountains, Sorontár veered off to the right. Sorontári kept to her previous course, and soon she began to descend.

Beneath them Rútaura saw a large clear area surrounded with whitesharp mountains. On a low mountain in its midst was a series of smaller rocks, narrow and tall; some of the low ones seemed to be spouting water. Many shone white in the morning. As they moved lower Rútaura saw people moving among the smaller rocks and congregating in green areas. Their faces looked up, and he could hear their voices calling fair and clear. He heard light in the sound of them. Were these the Elves, the sons of the dead Elf?

Sorontári landed in the middle of the small rocks, on a gentle rise of land surrounded by green grass and splotches of bright colors. Two people approached them from opposite sides of the rise; they were red and white with some of the same kind of shiny skin on their torsos as the dead Elf had, only theirs was yellow, not white. "I must speak with the King," she declared, and they bowed low to her before running away.

"Now, Mighty Lion," she said quietly, "this is Gondolin, largest and fairest of all the cities in this land. Here live many Elves, and their king is son to that Elf we have brought out of Angamandi. You may get down and run away now to see this new place, or you may stay with me as I speak with the King. But decide quickly, because Turukáno Aran will not keep me waiting long. Yonder he comes now," she said.

Hurrying toward them was a white and yellow Elf. Behind him streamed dozens of other Elves in all colors. Rútaura took the opportunity to slide down the Eagle's back. He landed on a plot of grass, crouched, and looked about warily for a moment. No one seemed to have noticed him in the shuffle. But just as he was gathering himself to dash toward the nearest tree, a blue and yellow Elf moved from the shadow it to intercept him. "Alatulya, yaulë!" he sang out. "How important you must be that the Queen of Eagles should bear you!" Again Rútaura heard light in the sound, stronger and clearer than ever. He stopped in his tracks, lashing his tail as he watched the Elf approach slowly. "Ahh, you are but a kitten!" the Elf continued. "Come with me and I will find you some milk to drink."

Rútaura looked back at the approaching crowd. The Elf in front, the one in white, drew himself up before the Eagle and bowed deeply. Rútaura hesitated. He had not eaten since the middle of the night, and here it was midday. Maybe it was time to strike out on his own, explore all the new scents, and see what this new home of his had to offer. Arching his back, he sidled up to the nearby Elf sideways and purred loudly. Bending down, the Elf laughed, and the sound of it showered like silver stars through the clear air. Rútaura inhaled the scent of a living Elf, deciding on the spot that he wanted to be friends with someone who smelled and sounded like that. He gathered himself and sprang onto the Elf's shoulder, settling into the tumble of yellow hair at its neck as the Elf stood up.

"Welcome to Gondolin, little one," laughed the Elf. "My name is Glorfindel, and we shall be friends."

---

Chapter End Notes

orki (Qenya) -- orcs

Alatulya, yaulë! (Quenya) -- approximately, "hello, kitty!"

The words spoken by Fingolfin are quoted from The Nature of Middle-earth, ed. Carl F. Hostetter (2021), Part I, Section XXIII, "A Fragment from the Grey Annals." They were written by Tolkien, as were the words of the Lore of Living Creatures from The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, also quoted herein.

And That Means Comfort

Gondolin, the summer of 456. The littlest Tevildion encounters a new kind of cave. This chapter is fluffy.

Read And That Means Comfort

Rútaura found that riding on an Elf's shoulder was much more complicated than riding an Eagle. Glorfindel's two-legged stride was a new rhythm, and it took Rútaura a while to adjust to it. By the time he had distributed his weight evenly over Glorfindel's shoulder and settled down for the ride, he had lost track of where they were going. There was a lot of rock here. The path Glorfindel took was rock, only shining instead of dusty or muddy, and flanked by trees and bright plants as well as larger outcrops of bright rocks. He watched as Glorfindel passed many of these outcrops; some had holes with Elves going in and out of them, so he decided they were caves. He became distracted by all the new scents.

An unfamiliar roaring sound began growing in his ears as Glorfindel walked onward, and the breeze across his ears turned cool and damp. The sound crested as Glorfindel drew near two tall, silver-white trees that smelled like water, and Rútaura realized these were not trees. Instead, two elaborately branched columns of water shot up out of the stone, tried to fly, and fell back each into a large basin of stone. Overtaken by a sudden thirst, Rútaura leapt down from Glorfindel's shoulder and darted toward the nearer basin. He perched on the edge of it and reached down with a paw, scooping the water into his mouth as quickly as he could. He had never tasted such delicious water. He kept scooping, barely noticing as Glorfindel walked up behind him and chuckled.

When Rútaura finally stopped drinking, he saw that Glorfindel was sitting on the edge of the basin nearby, watching him. Rútaura watched back as he groomed the wetness from his paw and face. The Elf sat very still, but his eyes slowly blinked open and shut several times. Rútaura remembered life with his dam and littermates, when the slow blink signaled willingness to cuddle together for naps. After watching a moment longer, he clambered into the Elf's lap and relaxed into a boneless puddle of darkness.

Glorfindel gently stroked his neck and jaw with one finger, and Rútaura began to purr.

* * * * *

Glorfindel carried the tiny kitten across the lawn, through some trees, and up to the great carven door of a vast white stone building. An Elf in the household's blue and gold colors greeted him, saying with a laugh, "Laurefindelë! Who is your friend?"

"The Queen of the Eagles brought him," said Glorfindel, smiling down at the frowsy bundle of jet-black fur he held to his chest. He moved past the doorward, saying as he passed into the hall, "I hope there is fresh cream."

Behind the walls separating it from the streets of Gondolin, the compound of the House of the Golden Flower boasted some very elegant public spaces, a series of comfortable living suites, and some straightforward barracks. All who resided therein were fed, however, through the efforts of one kitchener who ruled over a vast central kitchen and his several assistants. "This is my house," said Glorfindel to the kitten as they strode through chamber after chamber toward the kitchen, "and you are welcome to live here with me."

"Maksar!" called Glorfindel, halting at the doors of the pantry just long enough to listen for signs of life before striding straight toward the vault where dairy products were kept.

"Leave him be," came a voice from behind him. "Maksar is working out a new recipe for fennel, and he dislikes interruptions. What do you want, Laure?"

Glorfindel turned toward Cambanna, the breadmistress who was Maksar's second in command.

"I am looking for a dish of cream for this little fellow. He came here on the back of the Queen of Eagles, a most propitious entrance, and he seems to like me, so I have offered him lodging," Glorfindel said.

"He smells," Cambanna said, frowning.

"He does," Glorfindel agreed. "He smells like the very Enemy himself, and I may have to burn this tunic. But he is young, and the young are always hungry. Just look how thin he is! A bath can wait until he is fed."

"And what happens after you feed and bathe him?" she countered.

"Why, Massa-heri," he smiled as he gave Cambanna her formal title, "he will grow fat on the mice in your granary, once he is big enough to catch them."

"You may be right. He is unlikely to eat the grain, at any rate. Very well," she concluded, "I will find him some cream." She brushed past him, adding over her shoulder "but I am too busy to take charge of his feeding; you will have to arrange that for yourself."

"Of course," he assured her, stopping briefly to pick up a small flat bowl off a low shelf before following her into the dairy.

Cambanna ladled cream from the great stone jar in the corner of the dairy. "Now," she admonished, handing the filled dish to Glorfindel, "take him out of here, and keep him out of the kitchen until he ceases to stink." The kitten raised his head from Glorfindel's tunic front, whiskers twitching. He mewed, the thin sound curiously loud in the thick-walled room. Glorfindel, balancing the kitten with one hand and the full dish with the other, was too busy to see Cambanna smile at the little creature.

* * * * *

Rútaura, held firmly yet gently against the Elf's chest, soon grew confused by the number of rooms they walked through in this great high-ceiled cave. Light levels changed, strange new scents wafted everywhere, including the one coming from the Elf's hand, and there were even more Elves than rooms. He decided to shut his eyes and wait until this ride, something like flying only more thumpy and less sick-making, was over. He eventually felt himself being set down on a soft surface and opened his eyes.

He had a hard time seeing properly. Light streamed in from straight overhead, enhancing the brightness of the colors -- so many colors! -- in this cave. Walls were smooth and covered with soft things that billowed slightly. The cave floor was also smooth, with colorful textures in it, and thick soft things covered part of it. He was standing on one of those thick soft things, and it felt deeply unfamiliar to him. He clawed a bit at it, testing its resilience, and decided it would probably make a very comfortable sleeping surface.

He heard a small noise, like a pebble falling onto a rock. He turned to see the Elf had put something on the hard part of the floor, and he walked over to see what it was. It looked something like a tiny white puddle in a smoothed rock. He sniffed dubiously at it, but then he recognized the smell of the liquid. It smelled something like the creature Sorontar had provided for last night's meal, and something like his mother's milk. He dabbled a paw in it, then licked the paw. Finding it delicious, he set to drinking it all and lost track of what the Elf was doing.

As he drank, the Elf came and spread out another soft thing atop the one he was standing on, then stretched out on the floor near him. The Elf was now white, not blue and yellow, and smelled even sweeter than before. He began to notice the Elf slow blinking at him. The more full he became, the more he wanted to slow blink back at the Elf. As he did so, he began to yawn.

After the third yawn, when Rútaura opened his mouth so widely he thought his face would split, the Elf picked him up gently and placed him on the other soft thing. "Sleep here, my dark star," said the Elf. "And after your nap, it will be time for a bath." Rútaura kneaded the soft surface briefly, then flopped down on it and fell asleep in an instant.

* * * * *

Glorfindel never took his eyes from the kitten, watching it sleep for half a day. Messengers and household members came and went as he watched, and Glorfindel bade them tell him their news quietly, lest the kitten awaken. Thus it was that Glorfindel heard the news the nobles of Gondolin had heard hours before from the beak of Sorontári: how Finwë-Ñolofinwë Noldóran had fallen to the Enemy. Glorfindel gave a series of orders to his household, then settled back to wonder whether and how the tiny kitten fit into the story Sorontári had told the King. He also thought about how he himself, a tactician and warrior, could best contribute to the memorial cairn Turgon was planning to build for his fallen father. And when he got tired of his heavy thoughts, he examined the kitten minutely, noting its dark-on-dark markings and the delicate white streak on each ear.

At length he saw the tiny stirrings that meant the kitten would wake soon, and he waited to see what would happen. The kitten awakened completely but without moving, lifting his eyes to meet Glorfindel's. Its eyes were green as chrysophrase and blinked slowly at him. Glorfindel blinked back, stretching out a finger toward its nose. The kitten rubbed his finger with its jaw and began to purr loudly.

Glorfindel gathered up the kitten in one hand and stood up. He moved into the next room, which was furnished with a large marble washbasin, and shut the door. He opened the valves and warm water began pouring into the basin; he reached for the soapdish, setting it beside the basin. Then he set the kitten gently down on the edge of the basin, wondering whether he was going to have to go into battle or give chase when the kitten figured out what was to happen next.

The kitten sniffed at the basin and tapped at the falling stream of water with one paw. It seemed surprised by the warmth of the water, and it smacked the surface of the water in the basin lightly. Then it stuck its muzzle under the stream.

Glorfindel reminded the kitten, "you heard what the Massa-Heri said. If you are going to live here, you will need to be clean." To his great surprise, the kitten stepped into the basin and stood with its head under the stream of water, whiskers twitching.

This was going to be easier than he thought.

---

Chapter End Notes

Massa-Heri (Q) -- the Bread Lady, Cambanna's official title in the kitchen hierarchy of Glorfindel's household. Her responsibilities included everything to do with grain supplies and breadmaking, and she assisted Idril in the making of Gondolin's supply of coimas.