By Stars' Light by Erfan Starled

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Chapter 11

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*** Eighty Five Years of the Sun ~ Nargothrond ***

 

“It’s getting done.” Finrod looked around exhilarated in the din. The ringing of hammers and picks, the grinding of wheels on rock, the calling of voices, some melodious, others gruffer, should have drowned out the singer’s song and his strings, but once in a while fell a false lull, a little silence, in which he still could be heard.

 

Finrod’s sweeping examination of all they had created ended back at the group of elven designers, admiring their progress so far. Their dwarven colleagues were huddled around their next project’s plan of some passages to provide a deeper level of storage and armouries.

 

“If we carry on like this, King Thingol will be wanting to take it over.”

 

They laughed but took the Prince’s comment as the compliment he intended. The Sindar among them knew that their King would never admit that anywhere could even remotely touch upon Menegroth’s wealth and brilliance, and the others had all heard what he was like. 

 

“Come. We’ll stop later for a break and something to eat. Then we’ll take time to bathe.” He sighed in anticipation of ridding himself of dust and grit. With one last wall in place, and the archway laid, its keystone dropped in place, and the stones placed to fill the space above they would have finished this entire level. Only the lower armouries, store-rooms, extra accommodations and storm-courses for flooding would remain undone.

 

Ceremonially, they went to complete the arch. Finrod pleased the dwarves mightily with both his bow and the high honour of mounting the keystone itself. The general elation was helped along by drink and they stood around giving unwanted advice to the handful of sober masons placing the remaining stones in the gap above. The masons finally climbed down the scaffolding grinning, and it was more drink all round.

 

Finrod declared a holiday for the rest of that day and the next. Everyone made their way out slowly, admiring the work, discussing the inner details yet to follow and ordering their tools. Tonight they would celebrate.

 

When they emerged into sunlight, Calyaro was playing in the opening between the caves and the river bank. Exuberantly pleased with the excavations, Finrod smiled broadly at him before he realized it. Calyaro gave him a startled nod and made to rise on being greeted so markedly, but Finrod motioned him to stay seated and passed by to shed his grey coating. He glanced up at him from the path and caught him in an odd smile.

 

The stars were brilliant in an unclouded sky when they came across each other again. Calyaro was pressed to play after others had all had their turn. He took to a new tune Finrod had not heard. This piece could have been written to please him personally, being about the Gelion and the people of its many-rivered vale. Finrod often travelled in Ossiriand using the excuse of enquiring for news from Amrod and Amras but in fact spending far more time with the Laiquendi. The forests there were softer than the Taur-en-Faroth, all deciduous and much warmer, being so much lower in altitude.

 

Finrod sprawled out and closed his eyes to listen. He talked to those who came to him, and didn’t need to worry about anything for the rest of the day and all tomorrow.

 

He woke in the middle of the night to a light weight falling over him. Calyaro was standing over him, smiling faintly. He had dropped a cloak on top of him. Finrod forgot for a moment why he was lying on a patch of mossy scrub resting his head against a rock. “Calyaro? That was a fine song. I meant to tell you.”

 

“I’m sorry I woke you. Everyone’s asleep or spread out elsewhere…” Calyaro kept his voice low. The singing was over, other bodies lay around, and only the water could be heard in its endless run below them. “It’s not my place but… you looked so different, asleep. I remembered you back in Tirion.” He shrugged and smiled, more sad than happy; Finrod knew how he felt. They were changed and their innocence was gone from them. For a little moment neither of them said anything.

 

Finrod sat up and Calyaro made to move off. “No. Sit down. No need to go.” All Calyaro’s grace of movement that Finrod remembered from his performances in Valinor had long since returned. He folded himself to the ground with legs outstretched, sharing Finrod’s rocky support behind his back. There was an awkward silence.

 

“The day is a triumph,” observed Calyaro politely.

 

Finrod’s mouth twitched. He said solemnly, “Thank you.” He indicated the wider banks of the river. “It is not only work well done, but done with people working better together than I ever hoped. We will still be working on it but very soon it will be fully liveable.”

 

“Utterly different from Tirion, but fine halls and fine workmanship. I’ll have to make a song about it.”

 

Finrod nodded. “No city here could ever be like Tirion, though I know my cousin would have liked to make Vinyamar resemble home. Nargothrond is nothing like it, but I would be glad if we could endure so long. I’m not so sure about that song, you know. I would hope only for a very boring one about building dust and a long peace.”

 

“You’re expecting something else?”

 

“Aren’t we all?” He gathered the cloak into his hands and passed it back. “My thanks for this but I think I’ll walk for a while. It’s far too lovely a night for sleeping.” As he got up he added, “But thank you again for tonight’s piece. Play it again soon.” He loved wandering Ossiriand, so green compared to his own fortress. Its people were a gentle folk, richly content in the company of their trees and he found their company and their stories endlessly interesting.

 

This time it was Calyaro who smiled at him brilliantly, startlingly, and he who smiled back, surprised.

 

***

 

He walked the rest of the night away under the trees and only near dawn did he lie down. Amidst the song of the waking birds he slept and he dreamed of Tirion’s wide streets and generous stairs, Mindon Tower bright above. He saw Amarië’s face beneath Galithilion and thought gladly that she was waiting for him, but she smiled up at a stranger and only glanced back at Finrod over her shoulder. Her eyes were calm, her face composed. In his mind he heard her words as if she had spoken them aloud. ‘You said you would return.’

 

Finrod turned over but could not wake. He tried to follow her to explain but the way changed before him and he came instead to Fëanor’s home and followed the sounds of laughter. It broke off when the doors swung silently open before him. The people within stood aside and all turned to look at the minstrel.

 

Calyaro plucked a chord. He played beside Fëanor’s chair, drawn up to his full height, his hair confined in intricate patterns, his clothes decorated with silver thread and turquoise clasp. His eyes reflected the light of the candles. The Nainië Elenion echoed through the room and Finrod wept in his sleep.

 

Calyaro, fallen quiet, moved toward the stairs. Finrod followed him and they emerged into a forested valley – Ossiriand – in the way of dreams.

 

Calyaro stopped and faced him. There was no-one here, only themselves and the trees. He took a step closer. Calyaro smiled with haunted eyes and Finrod drew him forward with one hand around his back. They breathed each other’s breath. Kissed. All the strangeness of the dream fell away.

 

When they drew back to look at each other they were laughing a little, almost verging on tears for what was gone. This time the kiss was a desperate thing and there were hands all over Finrod. He was pulled close and held. Body to body they shared warmth and touch and dream-like, there was nothing that said this should not be.

 

In the dream, there was no Alqualondë, only comfort. Nothing to stop desire or want – he ached for the comfort and clutched tightly, face against skin, lips buried against neck and throat, hands trying to please at least by offering the same strokes of back and hip that he was glad of.

 

In this dream, it was well that they kissed. He drew back and touched his fingertips down the prominent cheek-bone, and then the jaw. Calyaro’s eyes were grey by star light as they were by day, but darker. They wandered his face, questioning. Desiring. Intense. When they kissed again there was nothing chaste but only need, to hold and be held. To give and to take. And not to be alone. Not to be frozen in time. Not to be tied to a far shore and fail to love on this one.

 

His hands reached for clasps and they melted at his touch. The dream changed again and they were on Mithrim’s banks in the sun, neither of them clothed, sunlit water sparkling all around them. He reached for Calyaro – and woke…

 

He groaned and rested his forearm on his brow. The sun was shining across the top of the gorge and he was achingly hard. Well. He would never hear the last of this, from Glorfindel. If he did anything about it. Glorfindel had seen the attraction decades ago and after such a dream and the feelings that he woke with there was no pretence left for him to hide behind. He could choose to do nothing, but he could not pretend he felt nothing.

 

It was with much on his mind that he walked the rest of the way to the Ringwil’s pools where it approached the Narog and bathed away drink and sleep and dream alike in its cool waters. Back at Nargothrond, he spent a quiet day watching the comings and goings of others, reflecting on what he might choose to do. If he couldn’t help looking around for Calyaro, he made sure to do it discreetly until he had settled what he wanted in his own mind.