Brother Mine by wind rider

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Chapter 2: the Terrible Task, the Terrible News

 

 

 

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“Are you recovered enough, fledgling?” chuckled the Great Eagle when at last he and his quaking passenger neared the vast land of Hithlum, bordered by the mountains Ered Wethrin on the west and decorated by a great lake in the centre. “We are not far away from your destination now, little one. Hold on and soon you shall be unburdened by the task.”

 

They had flown nonstop since Arien had just arisen from the eastern border of the world with her bright vessel. Thorondor, the King of the Great Eagles, did not show even the least signs of tiring, however. Instead, he seemed to be in a cheery mood.

 

`Must be laughing at my expense,` Erestor mused glumly. The journey had cost him physically and mentally. His exposed limbs were now numb from the chilling thin air far above the ground. His ears hurt from the constant roaring of the wind and the flapping sounds created by his cloak and his bearer’s wings. And, most annoyingly, his heart was thumping erratically on the prospect of having an audience with the new High King of the Ñoldor.

 

Thorondor alit on a cliff west of the great lake, which was surrounded by a low mountain range. Erestor, yet unmoving, stared at the fortress gates they were facing. Their vantage point allowed them a limited view of the half-shadowed interior behind the thick front wall of the fortress, and thus they noticed several guards scuttling about – as perceived from such distance – in a frenzy.

 

“They have spotted us,” the King of the Eagles pointed out lazily. Erestor winced. The giant bird chuckled again, the second time that day in Erestor’s presence. “No, young Erestor. Alas, there is no respite for you. Use what time you have left here to compose a suitable wording for the oral missive from your lord.”

 

`Do I even have enough time for that?` The young ellon’s heart sank. He was not very bad with pleasantries and court protocol, yet to him nothing, neither sweet nor heartfelt words, could balm the wound of loss properly. What should he say? “Your majesty, I bring you a fell tiding from the realm of your brother. My lord Turgon instructed me to bear this news to you: that the High King Fingolfin has passed on to the Halls of Mandos” – like that?

 

Or…

 

But…

 

How if…

 

“Erestor, a company of guards has ridden out to meet us.”

 

His pondering interrupted, Erestor gasped and jerked upright on Thorondor’s back. “How should I face them?” he asked the Great Eagle, shamefully aware of the squeaky note in his voice caused by the panick.

 

“Bravely, young Elf, like you did in the face of your own lord,” the Great Eagle advised kindly, patiently.

 

Erestor was only half-listening. He slid down the Eagle’s side to the uneven face of the cliff, then frantically tidied himself up, rearranging the pack on his back after straightening his cloak. He made sure that the sword Turgon had entrusted to him was not clearly visible underneath. It was complicated enough that he brought a grievous news about the loss suffered by the lord of this land, not to mention the risk he was taking in doing so. He did not wish to be marked as a thief of the late High King’s belongings. Being a doom-bringer was bad enough.

 

And besides, now he spotted a new problem, one that he had overlooked: he could not stop quaking!

 

“I’m not in a ship, am I?” he wondered nervously aloud. The Great Eagle beside him laughed. Erestor jolted; for a while, he had forgotten the presence of the King of Eagles by his side.

 

“Pardon me, my lord,” he stammered, wringing his hands together while bowing to Thorondor. The Eagle’s eye, the one that was visible from where Erestor was standing, twinkled with mirth.

 

“Come down now, young Erestor. Those guards have almost reached us.”

 

Erestor directed his gaze toward the spot at which Thorondor's beak pointed and gulped. The Great Eagle was right. The space left between the small contingent and the cliff was now only large enough for Thorondor to glide down safely without knocking anyone to the ground or pinning them underneath his talons… if the Great Eagle so wished, that was.

 

“I shall wait here for you, young one. You must proceed alone. I shall bear you to the ground, then keep vigil upon this cliff until you – or the lord of this land – see it fit for you to go back to your city,” Thorondor said gently as if to his own chick, divining his mind. Erestor nodded numbly. Then, before he could even fully register what the Eagle was saying, Thorondor had risen up to the sky, nearly knocking him over the cliff with the sudden gust of wind created when the Eagle flapped his large wings. Not a moment later, the Eagle swooped down again and grabbed the young ellon in a talon, bearing the latter away from the high perch.

 

Erestor squeaked, but his voice was swept away in the wind. He was dangling like prey in an Eagle’s strong and deadly talon – totally at Thorondor’s mercy! He could be let loose to his doom…

 

The frightening – and insolent, when he pondered it again later – thought fled his mind when his feet touched the ground. His weak knees buckled under him. His face reddened.

 

Cursing his sudden lameness, he struggled to right himself. Several of the guards regarded him with haughty looks.

 

`What are they thinking about me?` Erestor thought, disconcerted. His innards felt like rolling around in a quite unpleasant manner.

 

Thorondor had returned to his perch on the cliff. Erestor was alone.

 

No. Not alone, for he could sense the keen eyes of the Great Eagle behind his back. Instead of making him more nervous, Thorondor’s gaze strengthened him, encouraging him to bear the task unflinchingly.

 

It did, before he was bidden to go inside the fortress and meet with Fingon himself. With a cold, sinking feeling in his stomach, Erestor recalled that Thorondor had said the Eagle could not – and probably would not anyway – follow him into Fingon’s dwelling. Clutching the leather tube before his chest with one hand and the pommel of the hidden sword with the other, the young ellon strode as confidently as he could amidst the soldiers, trying to show that he was not intimidated by them.

 

Indeed, now that he had regained some of his bearing, their presence did not send chills up and down his spine anymore; the fear was replaced by irritation, one that stemmed from his assumption that they must think about him as a mere Elfling getting a treat from the greatest of Eagles.

 

`They must have thought that I was mad when I told them I would like to see Lord Fingon,` he realised upon completing the train of thoughts for the umpteenth time after their encounter. He was beyond his Elflinghood, yes, but he was still counted young among his kind. The guards must think it weird that such an unexperienced, easily-flustered youngling claimed to be a messenger from Turgon to Fingon; if not for the leather tube he showed them…

 

`Will the lord be nice to me?` Erestor had not forgotten the dark satisfaction that he had caught flashing on the faces of some of his escorts upon hearing his claim. `Perhaps Lord Fingon cannot bear speaking with one as young as me? Lord Turgon should have sent an older person with better bearing and decorum than me… Valar! He trusts me too much! And now look what I’m doing to his trust…`

 

When he came back from his musing, Erestor found himself alone in a large chamber – probably a small audience room, a private one. He gulped nervously. The guards had left him among the tables, shelves and chairs without him noticing at all. It just made him more ashamed of himself for his carelessness; he should not be brooding at times like this! The solitary silence there intimidated him also, and it did not improve his mood.

 

`I was overconfident. I shouldn’t have let my impulse dictate my actions… Now I’m trapped in this. If only I didn’t agree to Lord Turgon’s demand…` He sighed. `Now it is too late. How should I tell Lord Fingon about the death of his father? Surely he was more attached to the High King, given the close proximity of their dwellings?`

 `No. Now the High King is him. But then how should I greet him when he comes? Should I address him as a king or a lord?` 

The choice was stolen from him, anyway, just as the Elf who had barely entered the chamber announced carefully, “I am Fingon son of Fingolfin. What news do you bring from my brother?”

 `Fingon. News. From Turgon. Death…` “Would you deliver this grievous news to Fingon yourself?” Turgon asked hesitantly. “I imparted the news also in my missive, but I felt that it would not be enough.“ `The missive…` `Fingolfin. Dead.` `Fingolfin. The High King.` `Fingon. The eldest.` `Fingon. The High King.` 

`I beg your pardon, my lord. My tongue fails me. But I can do this…`

 

Erestor dropped to a knee and saluted the noble Elf before him with his right fist curled before his chest and his left hand across his sternum. His movement held no grace whatsoever. The tremors had come back full force. He hoped that the gesture managed to convey the terrible message which he could not put to words.

 

“I fear that you are addressing the greeting to the wrong person, messenger,” Fingon said carefully. Erestor, his head bowed, did not see how the other Elf’s countenance changed from surprise to interest to worry and finally settled on dread. In the end, all the same, Fingon suffered from the same speechlessness.

 

The prince – no, the High King – knelt to be at the same level as the messenger. Realising that the ellon before him was fairly young and inexperienced, he picked up a different approach of addressing the said ellon. He tilted Erestor’s chin up so that their eyes met and opened his mouth to attempt to console the young one.

 

He immediately closed it again, as he was struck by the deep grief and strange, gentle longing of a subject to his king shining in the young one’s blue-grey eyes. He had managed to deny the bitter reality when the messenger had greeted him as king, but now he could flee no more. He could ask the messenger to tell him that it was not true, that his father was alive and residing in Gondolin; he could force him if need be to say it. His heart told him that the young ellon had suffered enough without further torment, however.

 

“What is your name, young one?” he found himself croaking. The voice was not suitable at all for a lord, much less a king, but he could not help himself. It was too hard a task now to keep his mask of impassivity.

 

A minute passed, then another. At last, just when Fingon began to think that the messenger would not answer him, Erestor opened his mouth a bit and mumbled, “Erestor, Sire. Erestor… of the House of the Fountain.” The petite ellon then ducked his head from view, hiding his flaming face. He had just realised that he was also the representative of his own house, which was famous in Gondolin and might also be known in Fingon’s realm. It was too late to mend all the disgrace he had caused to both his father and his lord now.

 

“Look at me please, Erestor.”

 

They locked eyes once again. Erestor marveled at how hard the ellon before him, this new king, tried to soothe him with gaze only, hiding away his own sorrow. Fingon acted like a father should, an accomplished one at that. But surely he had no child? His realm was too open to an assault from Thangorodrim. Raising a child in such environment would be a folly, in his opinion.

 

But then how could Fingon look so practised in that area?

 

Regardless…

 

He reached around his neck and, with numb hands and fingers, brought the loop of leather thong over his head. Yet without a word, he presented the leather tube to Fingon, all the while refusing to meet the King’s eyes.

 

He was startled out of his dark reverie when a hand rested on his shoulder, gripping it, squeezing it, until it throbbed under the iron grasp and Erestor was sure there was a bruise forming. Looking up, he met the dark top of Fingon’s head while the King’s face was buried inside the sheet of parchment he was reading. Fingon’s eyes, from the little Erestor could see, darted from side to side, reading the letter again and again. The king’s body was slumped forward, supported only by his hand – which prevented it from colliding with Erestor’s. If possible, he seemed lost.

 

`No. He mustn’t be lost! People need him. Even if Turgon doesn’t, the people here do,` Erestor thought fiercely, meanwhile banishing the image of the half-leering guards from his mind. A wave of sudden protectiveness gripped his heart and, without thinking it over, he touched Fingon’s hand with his own. When the King did not show signs of acknowledging the intruding hand, he grew bolder and cupped the new ruler’s cold hand with his own, then traced soothing circles on it with his forefinger. Surprisingly, the tension on said hand grew less and at last its grip slackened, slipping from his numb shoulder. Instead of letting it go, though, the young ellon caught it and gave it a slight squeeze. Fingon had tried to console him before. Now it was his turn, he thought, regardless of the result.

 

He stared at their intertwined hands for a moment, then raised his gaze. To his dismay, Fingon was looking at him, his gaze and visage unreadable. “I-am sor-ry, sire,” Erestor stammered, his cheeks flushing red again. He let go of Fingon’s hand, but the King then grasped his. Had he had a chance to think about it at that time, he would have remarked that the whole act of grasping hands in turns like that was ridiculous. But, unfortunately, he did not have such luxury now.

 

“When are you expected home, young lord?” Fingon rasped. Erestor flinched at the title but dismissed it; he had a greater problem, that was why.

 

“As soon as possible, Sire,” he said uncertainly, not knowing how to word his answer in order not to insult the king’s hospitality. His thoughts were flung home  to Gondolin, to the library of his House, to Glorfindel’s vineyard, to Idril’s beautiful gallery of tapestries…

 

He was ambushed by homesickness.

 

“Turgon pleads that you be taken care of with respect and love while you reside here. Now I see why he favours you so much,” Fingon smiled. Erestor ducked his head, intending to hide his face from view. However, Fingon seemed to have anticipated it. His hand, which had gripped Erestor’s shoulder earlier, now supported the latter’s chin.

 

“Would you please bear my reply to my brother?” he continued. Erestor hesitated, uncertain of what Fingon was aiming at by his request and what he should say as an answer. In the end, though, he nodded.

 

“Would you please give me at least one week to compose it?”

 

Understanding dawned on Erestor’s face. He arched a small smile and murmured, “As you wish, Sire.” Then, noting the great weariness and sorrow slowly leaking through Fingon’s impassive mask, he added in the same quiet tone, “Please take your time. Lady Idril foresaw that I might be delayed in my journey.” He patted the side of his pack. His smile grew. “I am not expected home soon. Indeed, I thought of spending a time in the wilderness after I delivered the letter, but I may as well consider this some sort of adventure.” For now, he must put aside his selfish desire to be reunited again with everyone and everything he knew. Fingon’s brightening visage was a sizeable reward for him; he did not care for more.

 

Besides, now that he saw Fingon in person, there was just no way he could be intimidated by the new leader of the Ñoldor in exile. Fingon had a warm, caring air about him. One who happened to be in his presence would feel a sense of respect and love towards him, not fear or undue awe – like what Erestor had imagined before.

 

They rose as one without breaking gazes. Shamefully, Erestor noted that the top of his head only reached up to Fingon’s chin.

 

But he had a bigger problem than that petty fact. He had just remembered the sword which still hung at his side when its weight came back.

 

“Sire?” He shifted from foot to foot as discreetly as possible – which was hard, considering his attire.

 

“Yes?” Fingon’s gaze hardened with a mixture of curiosity, alarm and interest.

 

“The sword…” Erestor mumbled under his breath, breaking eye contact with the king at last.

 

“Louder, please?” Fingon tilted his head. A pink hue crept to Erestor’s cheeks.

 

“The sword… The sword…” the young ellon stuttered. He fumbled with the buckle of the scabbard, then, with a barely-audible relieved sigh, released the sheathed blade from his belt. He knelt on one knee again and presented the famed blade with trembling hands to the heir of the late Fingolfin. “Ringil, Sire. Lord Turgon sent this alongside the letter.”

 

“Father,” Fingon breathed, overcome by grief and memory once more. He took the blade from Erestor with equally shaking hands and lifted it to eye level. He then murmured a string of words in Quenya, a dialect Erestor was still learning about. But the meaning was unmistakable: the King had hoped for his father to return, not his blade only.

 

`I would think similarly were I him,` the young ellon mused. The trail of thoughts which ensued was broken only when a pair of hands snaked under his arms and effectively lifted him up to his feet. It was Fingon. Ringil had been belted to the King’s side and said King was now looking with such fatherly pride and almost-playful interest at him that, with a little imagination, Erestor could believe that the one standing before him was his father.

 

“Is this your first time out of Gondolin?” the King asked, smiling warmly.

 

“Yes, Sire.” Erestor could not hold back his sheepish – and a bit silly – grin.

 

“You conducted your task well.”

 

The grin vanished as quickly as it had come.

 

“I am a failure, Sire,” Erestor mumbled, recounting in his head how emotional he had been and how the emotions had reigned over him ever since he and Thorondor had alit on the cliff outside the fortress.

 

He winced, startled, when Fingon drew him into an embrace. The King’s low chuckle rumbled pleasantly in his ear, the one that was pressed to the King’s thick-silk-robe-covered chest. Fingon’s words, though, were somber. “You were given a hard task, Erestor. Delivering the grievous news of a king’s death to his heir must not be easy. The cold reception of my gate guards only added to it, I suppose; and for that I seek your apology.”

 

Erestor, after digesting the last words, looked up with alarm. “How could you know? Will you punish them?” He sounded like an anxious, plaintive small child even to his own ears. The scene of Eöl, Aredhal’s husband, spitting at Turgon’s hospitality and striking his own wife with a poisoned spear was still fresh in his mind, as he had been present that day, just some time ago, inconspicuous, standing by Idril’s side. Eöl had been thrown from a height over one of the outer borders of the hidden city the next morning, but not before successfully taking Aredhal’s life through the poison. The sentence had seemed just to Erestor. But how about now? Would Fingon punish his gate guards for an act of discourtesy to a messenger from Turgon? Was the new king just as hard to forgive wrongdoings and wrongdoers as his brother? Could the guards’ action be considered insolent enough to receive harsh punishment?

 

“Erestor?”

 

The young ellon jerked with surprise. Given the pair of strong arms still enclosing him around his waist and shoulders, he could not move far.

 

“Yes, Sire?”

 

Fingon smiled fondly. “Had Turgon not hinted that he had considered you as a son, I would have done the same,” he said, his eyes laughing. “But, I think, he is generous enough to share you with me, eh? What do you think? I suppose you could be a good big brother for Ereinion. He feels rather lonely, being the youngest here.”

 

The grief had been replaced by untainted mirth, somehow. How Fingon managed it was beyond Erestor’s comprehension.