By Stars' Light by Erfan Starled

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Chapter 6

 

Finrod lay next to Galadriel, listening to his sibs and cousins talk in an unheard of evening of idleness. They were all settling in to some serious drinking, having planned this gathering with the King’s dispensation before their imminent dispersal.

 

“Even so, surely the heavens should not move one way and then back again, as if they were uncertain.”

 

“No such thing. We moved, not the heavens,” Glorfindel said kindly, as if that explained it.

 

Finrod could always tell when Glorfindel was drunk. He would genially spout the most utter rubbish. His cousin chose that moment to look at him and he blushed, and then Glorfindel winked at him. Teasing Galadriel had long been a past-time he particularly enjoyed. So, not very drunk. And reading his mind to boot. That was nothing new. Finrod went back to perusing the sky, prepared to take bets on where – and when – the moon would rise tonight.

 

“No, the stars were moving… They always do, but they moved differently. You saw it yourself.” She tried to mimic with her hands the way the stars circled above them, dipping below the horizon. “The most southerly stopped appearing above the horizon. In the north, their paths straightened.” She made a circular motion with her finger in the air.

 

They all laughed at the impossible mimicry. With good-natured dignity, Glorfindel conceded, “I am not denying it. I was just agreeing with you that the heavens shouldn’t be so untidy as to wobble.”

 

Laughter met this but they all looked at the sky. Certainly, the moon seemed erratic and changeable. They had fast learned it did not mark the night’s beginning and end. Some thought this chaotic oddity meant it was of evil origin, leaving the world darkened, and others argued that this was ungrateful. Its light was fair and of great worth, and maybe it was only right that the stars still had the sky to themselves at times.

 

Rather than revisit another celestial debate, they touched for a while on military matters, arguing about Eithel Sirion as the site of a fortress, such as Fingolfin ordained, and where else to settle their strategic forces.

 

Tol Sirion, Dorthonion’s massive peaks and the length of the unexplored eastern slopes of the Ered Wethrin were all candidates. Turgon had another agenda, suggesting the mountains to the west of Mithrim – even the caves of Androth – as a stronghold. He wanted horses to explore Nevrast and started wheedling Fingon for the loan of one or two of the precious stallions Maedhros had given them.

 

Lazy jibes accompanied this from the others, knowing his preference for riding, attributing the idea to a mere excuse for a holiday. They all humoured Turgon’s whims, encouraging him to emerge from his paralysed shock, knowing that he sought a way of living with Elenwë’s loss for Idril’s sake. Turgon spoke of maintaining himself nearer the coast, where the sea’s writ ran strong and warmed the southern and western winds. He held that they must maintain a watch to seaward, their otherwise undefended back-gate, against a coastal sortie from the north.

 

“All those tracks we saw. We have no idea how many of his spawn Morgoth is harbouring but if they break north, as we did, and go round, there is no reason they could not come down the coast…”

 

Fingon grandly granted the boon of the horses with a royal wave of his hand, and Turgon took the teasing in good part, knowing that when it came to approaching his father about the project, he had an ally in Glorfindel, who would not want to be tied to a building site if they could be riding the western plains.

 

In forming these idealized plans they knew well how their energy and time was in fact going to be spent in the foreseeable future. They would be fully taken up with the demands of building, strategic exploration, guard duty and patrolling, as well as all the minutiae demanded by the successful settlement of a host of people in a new land.

 

Huge groans went up when someone mentioned the word ‘drainage.’ Apparently even Fingon was not exempt. Fingolfin had strictly ordered their facilities carefully managed and tomorrow it was his elder son’s turn for the inspection in the woods.

 

“No problem. I shall delegate,” he said. “In fact, I already have. I came upon Finrod’s stray looking for a job and put him on to it.”

 

Only Finrod made no answer to that, the others reproaching Finrod in fun or sympathising with the absent Calyaro. The laughter was not unkind: everyone took turns at the digging save those of highest degree. They were all slightly curious about the addition to their camp. Fëanor’s musician spoke but little and did not touch his craft so far as any of them knew. They had learned that Finrod would not talk about him but it did not stop them wondering.

 

Fingon was looking at him in faint question. Finrod returned his regard levelly, in an exchange that needed no words. ‘Should we talk? Will you ever forgive me?’ ‘What would be the point of talking?’ And, far more painfully, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how…’

 

Finrod let more raucous laughter ebb and flow around him, knowing it for a release of tension much needed, content to sit out the conversation. He had checked that Calyaro was provided for and occupied, and that he had found somewhere to sleep. It had seemed to be enough. Now, thinking of those hands, he felt uneasy. He took another drink, aware of Glorfindel’s eyes on him.

 

“Stop sitting on that bottle,” complained Fingon.

 

Finrod made sure to grin. “What, this one?” He drained it without bothering with his cup to general boos and hisses while Fingon threw his boot at him. Finrod caught the footwear and pretended to throw it into the stream running nearby. Meanwhile Glorfindel produced as if by grand conjury another bottle of precious liquor. He opened it, first offering it as if ceremonially to Galadriel, who promptly sat up straight against her bole and gave him a queen’s acknowledgement before filling her drinking horn to the brim and passing the bottle on.

 

 In the end the party broke up when Aredhel and Galadriel went to find their tents, and Fingon sought his bedroll, saying he needed to attend his father at first light. Turgon left, ostensibly to look at maps, more probably to find another bottle in Fingolfin’s store that the King would not miss. Fëanor, or more likely one of his people, had had enough wit to offload the ships before they burned them, and Maedhros had been lavishing Fingon with such honorary gifts as crates of wine; Fingon had not refused them.

 

Glorfindel hooked his head at Orodreth and the two owlish youngest. They took the hint and mumbled good-night.

 

Glorfindel waited. Finrod stirred and sat up. “What?”

 

“I never said a word.”

 

“You don’t need to. I can feel it rolling off you. My head hurts.”

 

“Drink some water.”

 

Finrod held out his hand and Glorfindel put a water-skin into it. The silence stretched comfortably. Apart from the viscous smokes that appeared under cover of darkness, the lake and its environs were breathtakingly beautiful. The moon, having decided to rise, kept them free of noxious fumes tonight.

 

“I thought you were blessedly incapacitated.”

 

“I changed my plans.” Without his usual finesse but quietly, he added, “Do you miss her badly?”

 

Finrod squinted at him. “I’m drunk. I’m tired. I’ve got a fortress to plan in the morning. I’ve spent a foolish evening talking about sewage and planning a pleasure trip for Turgon round the coast on stallions worth a fortune in any jewels you care to name. Why now, Glorfindel?”

 

“Because I haven’t seen you relax since you came out of Alqualondë’s gates looking like a ghost. Because you were going to marry Amarië and you haven’t mentioned her name once. Because you’re too quiet by half, and when you think no-one is looking, you are tense as a strung bow. The rest of the time, you put on a show for us.”

 

Glorfindel looked at him and Finrod thought he was done, but he went on, “You have the look of one who is afraid, Aro, and you have never been fearful. It’s past time to talk about what’s bothering you.”

 

The deep voice rolled off the phrases inviting trust and confidence. Oh, to be young again, and have his cousin work his magic to right the ills of childhood, or at least comfort them.

 

Finrod fought off the spell. “What gives you the right to pry?”

 

“Aro – ” Disconcerted at the uncharacteristic attack, he pressed on. “Nothing does. Nothing except that I care and no-one else is going to ask. Have they? Have any of you discussed what happened? Do you think you will?”

 

Glorfindel’s arrows sank home. Despite himself, Finrod’s shoulders slumped. This was Glorfindel, after all.

 

“No. None of us will ever discuss it that I can imagine.” Odd, how he had never noticed that Glorfindel’s blue eyes looked as grey as Calyaro’s in the dark.

 

He contemplated the stars over the mountains and thought of Calyaro, patiently digging ditches tomorrow, obeying his edict to earn his place. He certainly hadn’t meant ditch-digging. Fingon could be such an ass. With a pang he nearly smiled at the phrase, a relic of their younger, more carefree days.

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

He’d forgotten his companion while he stared at the cloud-studded peaks. There were no answers that could lay some ghosts to rest.

 

Glorfindel asked a third time, “What’s eating away at you so badly? You seem as stricken as Turgon, and I don’t know why, unless it’s Amarië.”

 

Finrod turned his empty wine-cup between his hands. “Fingon was on the docks. I dream of him.”

He bent the rim of the leather cup, crushing it fiercely so the edges buckled and the leather began to split. “Morgoth, Fëanor. Even Manwë – I could be angry with any one of them. And I am. But being angry with Fingon feels wrong, like poison. I look at Galadriel, Turgon, even Idril – they don’t feel real. I keep expecting to see Elenwë and then I remember. I do my duty but nothing touches me. No-one does.

 

“I wonder if I can ever forgive Fingon, or forget… and then I dream of Hlápo’s face on the boy he was going to kill.”

 

That was when the tears spilled over and Finrod’s shoulders shook. This grief did not feel like a child’s sorrow, but hard, an adult’s serious look at what was and could never be changed, but when Glorfindel put an arm around him, Finrod did not push him away.

 

Glorfindel held him all that night. Together they stared across the lake, as black, stinking mists tried to thicken around them, only to be inexorably dispersed as clouds rolled aside from the moon’s gift of light.

 

In the cool, quiet of dawn he felt easier. Glorfindel had worked a little magic after all.  Gradually, the stubborn mists burned off from the hollows of the grasslands and the long rays of the sun over the Ethel Wethrin hunted out the last lingering tendrils from the trees.

 

***

 

Finrod made his way down round the shore a short way, and then branched off into the trees. There were paths here, where so many of them came, laid with branches where it was muddy, and then neatly stoned areas set aside for their use. Fingolfin had thought hard about this, but with so many of them, there was no choice. Facilities they must have, and facilities he provided.

 

Even when Barad Sirion started to go up and the planned cavalry was ready to patrol Ard-galen, a large encampment would remain here. Finrod ignored the areas which were available to use that day. It was the thunk of the new digging that he followed, and sure enough, he came upon a few elves excavating a series of neat trenches. It was temporary work, and no-one looked too unhappy. Short rotations of a lot of people into the task took care of that.

 

“Calyaro.” His voice cut through the digging and the staccato talk. Dig – breath – speak, was the cheerful rhythm. Calyaro was working a little clumsily among the rest, slightly apart, not one of those talking. Someone nudged him, and hissed, “The Prince wants you.”

 

“Leave that.” He gestured to the spade.

 

Calyaro walked with him. Once they were out of the trees, a little grimly, Finrod said to him, “Show me your hands.”

 

He inspected the nearest, the left, oddly reminded of the repaired mandolin, as he looked at the scars. “You should have said something rather than take that job on. Have you got all the feeling back?” He pressed various places, watching the shake of the head. He would have expected the musician to care far more than he showed. The hand in his felt warm and the skin was whole, only marks and the numbness remaining.

 

“I’ll give orders exempting you from the duty.” He nodded at the woods. “Use more common sense another time and say something.” His feelings confused him. Usually, he felt nothing. Then he would feel a surge of some anger or grief, which would disappear again. With Calyaro there were other extremes. Their history on the Ice and their amiable relationship in Tirion were at odds with his present cold bitterness over the kinslaying. Compassion and anger made very uneasy bed-fellows, he was finding. “I’ll ask that you be found some less physical work. There’s plenty to do, depending on what you know, aside from music?” Everybody shared the burden of getting necessary work done in this new, large and still chaotic settlement.

 

“I can figure, draw – plans, not art – and I have knowledge of hunting weapons and the sword.”

 

Finrod let go of the hand. All the basic skills of any child educated in Tirion. Other arts – healing, metal-work, wood-work and music – were more specialized and their teaching had depended on aptitude, opportunity and interest.

 

“Barad Sirion is going to take a lot of labour of all sorts. I’ll send you as aide to one of the architects. You can be attached to the project and she will find some use for you. Wait until a healer has cleared you before taking on any physical work. Make sure you see one regularly. You know where to find them?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then see to it. I’ll leave word with the guard. They will take you over and introduce you to the architect.”

 

That done, he had discharged both duty and debt alike for their odd partnership on the Helcaraxë, and he could finally dismiss him from his mind, glad to free himself from the unwelcome bond to an ugly past.

 

He had a fortress to plan, and his uncle would want him to make a start on it. Today they finalised the movements of all those leaving on the King’s business and readied their gear for departure. Finrod was more than willing. If he could not forget the past, he could still see what tomorrow would bring. 

 

Chapter End Notes

 

Names

Aro - short for Findaráto 

 

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