By Stars' Light by Erfan Starled

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Chapter 4

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*** Lake Mithrim ***

 

With a place to rest at last, themselves on the north bank and their predecessors fled to the south bank, Finrod found himself dourly indifferent to his task, to mount a watch against trouble-seekers out for revenge while Fingolfin and Fingon approached Fëanor’s new camp with demands, reproaches and enquiries. So long as no weapons came into play, Finrod found it hard to care, until Glorfindel, by a look, reminded him of his duty.

 

The news of Fëanor’s death followed by Fingon’s venture into Dor Daedoloth in search of his cousin changed a stalemate of antipathy into one of appalled suspense. The upheavals of his reappearance brought all other concerns to a stand-still. The tale of Maedhros’ ordeal, Fingon’s quest and the glory of the great eagle’s coming bridged an impossible gulf. The crown’s bequeathment as Maedhros’ amends changed everything.

 

The latter had occasioned much palaver and ceremony, after which the capture by a troupe of guards of a bedraggled curiosity went unmarked by few save Finrod. The guards were spruce in fresh-washed garments in honour of the new King. Finrod, finally at leisure after a long stint of duty, was about to see to his own appearance, when they came bearing Calyaro in their midst. He looked ragged and shadows in his eyes matched his tired air.

 

“What has happened? And why do you bring him to me when it is not my watch?” Irritated, wanting only some peace in which to wash, eat and rest, Finrod had thought him long since back where he belonged. “Calyaro?”

 

It was, of course, one of the guards who answered. “We spied him to the north, camped – if you could call it that – by one of the willow creeks nearby, and brought him in. Glorfindel said you picked him up at Alqualondë and suggested we speak to you.”

 

Calyaro’s sojourn in the wild alone had clearly not suited him. As thin as he had been at the end of the crossing, time on Mithrim’s gentler shores should have begun to put that right, yet he looked no better fed. Mud-smeared from his creek-bed – perhaps trying to fish – he also looked wet, as well as dirty. His brown hair had not been immune, scraggled back into a bunched tail that did nothing to tidy it or protect it from knots.

 

Finrod sighed and gave up immediate ideas of grateful solitude. “What does he say for himself?”

 

One of the guard cuffed the detainee’s shoulder, not excessively, but insistently. “Well? Speak up for the Prince, you!” The guard’s irritated frustration suggested this was not his first attempt to encourage an explanation. Calyaro moved away but an outflung arm stopped him.

 

The guard shrugged. “He says nothing, as you see.”

 

“Just for a change,” Finrod said drily. He could order him bundled back south by the guards, but that would not tell them what he had been doing north of the lake. He remembered Fëanor’s look of utter disdain, and Maglor’s attempt to speak to him. Maglor would not have turned him away…

 

He could order them to question him at length. But as he looked him over he saw that the hands resting at Calyaro’s side were still discoloured. He had not stopped helping, back on the Ice, no matter how badly his hands deteriorated.

 

Obscurely, Finrod felt he owed him something after what they had gone through. Calyaro’s faint air of embarrassment, devoid of fear or guilt, decided Finrod. He had nothing to beware. He could at least question him personally. And he was sick of guards and pomp and the trappings of royal duty.

 

Abruptly he said, “Leave him with me. If there’s any problem, I’ll let you know.” The escort were dubious about leaving their find alone with the prince, but departed in obedience with only a few backward glances.

 

Finrod rummaged in his own supplies and fetched out the rarity of a spare shirt and tunic, old and worn, but decent. And a comb. These he handed over saying levelly, “You’ll have to tidy up. The King’s camp is not for vagrants.”

 

A nod suggested gratitude and Calyaro stood uncertainly before beginning a half-heartedly clumsy attempt with the comb. Finrod did not think he had seen him with a single possession save only the mandolin and the clothes on his back. It seemed a long way back to Tirion and Fëanor’s hall where he had visited his cousins and seen Calyaro, quietly elegant, stand in front of them all and play. He looked for that person now and could not find him. A moment of fierce regret for what had come upon them all swept over him. It was gone as quickly.

 

Finrod felt as weary as the other looked. With Fingon’s absence, and Turgon grieving, standing in for his father at his uncle’s side had meant more than formalities. Finrod soon learned to delegate in turn to his brothers and sister, parcelling out duties to oversee the layout of the camp, create shelter against storm, co-ordinate hunting, scout for suitable sites for settlements, and set a guard against the Enemy.

 

He was only glad that there were others who, like Glorfindel, served Fingolfin in the higher capacities of decision-making. Supervising routine grunt-work, he could cope with, no matter how tired he was.

 

He was under no illusions. Even their triumphant arrival at Thangorodrim had been daunting. Nothing in his life had remotely prepared him for seeking battle in cold blood. What were they to do against an enemy hidden away in such a fortress? Wait and watch, said his uncle. Naïvely, he had imagined the Vala, one against so many, might be quickly brought to a fight, even if it cost them dearly. The anticlimax had been appalling.

 

Calyaro had given up the pretence of unknotting his hair. He sat composedly, though eyeing him with some surprise, presumably over the wit-wandering stare. Finrod grimaced and decided he wanted a swim anyway, and he might just as well see his unwelcome flotsam cleaned up and fed before he questioned him. He needed to eat himself before he could dredge up any intelligence.

 

He got to his feet. “Come on.” Half a mile around the shore brought them to clear shallows where rock-pools held water warmed by the sun.

 

Calyaro seemed more than glad to scrub himself clean. The recent rains had rendered them all a little muddy. In Calyaro’s case, camping alone with no equipment had worsened the effect greatly. He repeatedly dipped under the ripples and kept attacking his hair with the comb, apparently determined to get out all the bits and shift the dirt. He emerged in a cascade of water, brown hair lankly forming its own waterfall and skin shining under the deluge. His grey eyes were lighter under the blue sky than Finrod had noticed before, and he was certainly in need of food, no surprise if he had been bow-less in his cold camp these last days on top of hard journeying. What had he been doing since their return to Mithrim?

 

While Calyaro sat in a warm pool to work at his hair, Finrod swam, cleaving the water with arms glad to stretch, body delighted to float among sun-sparked waves. When he was done, the luxurious novelty of sunning himself on the bank seduced him.

 

Idly lazing, clean and sun-drenched, he fell asleep.