Brother Mine by wind rider

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Chapter 4: the Son of Kings, the Son of Many

 

 

 

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The first but also last person Erestor wished to see at that time was standing there, in the middle of the deserted hallway, looking mildly surprised but otherwise placid, contented.

 

“S-sire,” Erestor stammered. Ereinion ceased crying and buried his head deeper into the older ellon’s arms as if afraid of what his father would think upon seeing him cry like an infant.

 

“Did you find your chambers adequate, Erestor?” Fingon, dismissing the title and the suspicious reaction of both Ellyn before him, smiled. He seemed to have recovered from the ordeal from earlier well, unlike Erestor.

 

“Yes, Sire.” Erestor nodded in his primmest and truest manner. “In fact, I found it very luxurious.” He did not know how to word his stunned surprise upon seeing each room for the first time in detail.

 

“Hmm.” The king fell into a thoughtful silence. If Erestor’s eyes did not deceive him, he would say that the king looked guilty, like a child caught red-handed when stealing a cookie from the cupboard.

 

What was seen by his eyes was confirmed by his ears a moment later.

 

“My brother described about you much in his more private part of the letter,” Fingon said. Erestor nodded; he had been apprised of the fact.

 

“I did not tell you what he talked about, did I?” the king continued. Erestor nodded again.

 

“He apprised me of everything you like and do not, your preferences and hobbies, and some of your personality,” Fingon smiled. Erestor gaped. “After reading the letter more carefully, thus, I ordered some servants to decorate your chambers according to his descriptions.

 

“He told me he would gladly name you his son if not for your parents, so I shall honour you as his son… if not mine.”

 

`So it is why he adopted Maeglin? Because he could not get me?` Erestor thought. Senseless jealousy bloomed in his chest, choking him. `That Dark Elf’s spawn does not deserve Turgon!` Neither Fingon’s second declaration of the same wish nor the implication of his announcement concerning Erestor’s lodging seemed to matter to him now.

 

`But do I?`

 

His dark musing was broken when Fingon beckoned him to follow the king. They came back to the flat through the other door, the one they had come in for the first time, and made a beeline to the sofas in the sitting-room. Ereinion peaked out shily from Erestor’s arms and regarded his father from under his eyelashes. Fingon smiled and winked at him, eliciting a soft giggle from the child. Erestor, curious, looked down at him, forsaking his intent eavesdropping of what was going on in the study – as he could hear movements there and soft bits of conversation.

 

“Erestor?” Fingon broke the comfortable silence that enveloped them.

 

“Yes?” Erestor responded absently, not noticing that he forgot to insert “Sire” in the response.

 

“Do not envy Maeglin.”

 

The young ellon choked. Ereinion squeaked, his little head springing out from the living cocoon. “’Ros?” he ventured, his bright blue eyes wide with concern.

 

“’Ros?” Fingon repeated, baffled, even as he was smiling knowingly to Erestor.

 

“Erros. I will call him Erros forever and ever, Ada,” Ereinion, straightening in the most dignified manner he could muster while still in Erestor’s lap and encased in the older ellon’s arms, proclaimed in the confidence Erestor did not possess in abundance. Fingon shook his head and stared sternly at his son, but he could not help chuckling too alongside Erestor.

 

“You must stop giving people shortened names, Ereinion,” he chid. Ereinion pouted and looked away, not answering.

 

“Sire?” Erestor ventured tentatively, hoping to save the defiant child from punishment.

 

“Yes?” Fingon in turn glared at him, possibly noting his intention. Erestor gulped. Suddenly he did not think what he was about to ask matter much – well, not much compared to the King’s wrath, anyway.

 

Amazingly, Fingon also caught this strand of thought, to the Elf-lad’s dismay. “Speak your thoughts,” he ordered.

Erestor blushed and averted his gaze to a tiny leaf-shaped ear poking out of Ereinion’s raven locks.

 

“I… I was afraid of your wrath, Sire,” he stuttered. A second later, he berated himself – his face aflame. `Why did I say so?`

 

Rolling peals of laughter escaped Fingon’s lips like water bursting out of a dam. The faint bustle in the next room ceased. Erestor bet people there in the fortress, neither servants nor soldiers, seldom heard Fingon laugh. `Nice, but I wish it was not at my expense,` he grumbled half-heartedly.

 

The next thing he knew, his head was being cradled in the crook of Fingon’s strong arm close to the King’s chest; Fingon’s body was pressed warmly, affectionately against him. Ereinion had slipped partially from Erestor’s arms and now was reclining on both elders’ laps, apparently having forgotten his defiance against his father. “Speak, young one,” Fingon murmured, then nuzzled Erestor’s ear playfully, uttering a rumbling chuckle when the younger ellon yelped – itched.

 

He quickly sobered, however. “Is it about Maeglin? Or the condition you are put in Gondolin? Tell me, please. I will share with you a secret thought of mine if you would tell me what has ached your heart so far. Do not lie. I have seen it in your eyes,” he coaxed in a soft, gentle tone so enticing to Erestor’s unaccustomed ears and his aching heart.

 

The young ellon shivered. Tears stung his eyes. He missed his parents and friends all of a sudden. Fingon’s method of coaxing him into speaking was like Idril’s. The king’s fatherly tone was the one Turgon and Ecthelion had used on him in many occasions. The strong arm winding around his head seemed to belong to Erestor’s hardworking mother Finera… And Fingon’s laughter earlier had reminded the young ellon of Glorfindel the Everyoung – his own title for the Vanya.

 

`He is my family here; he and this little impetuous one,` a part of his mind reminded him, replaying the conversations he had held with Fingon. `He has declared it himself, and not once. I am not jeopardising Gondolin’s location or the like if I tell him, besides.`

 

He tilted up his head slightly and met Fingon’s glittering blue eyes, so much like Ereinion’s. “Sire, why did you tell me not to envy Maeglin?”

 

Fingon arched up the edges of his lips, but it was a sad smile. “My brother holds fast to things he possesses, Erestor, and it is the same for people he loves. Maeglin came after he had been introduced to the delight of your company; perhaps he even held you in his arms when you were an infant. That alone has secured a firm place in his heart for you.” He paused and exhaled, but his eyes never left Erestor’s. Thus the young ellon beheld the king’s deep longing and grief surfacing in a blink of an eye on the radiant pools.

 

“He spoke about Maeglin in his letter, aye. He spoke about the whole history of how Maeglin came to be there, and who he is. He did not say why he insists on keeping Maeglin in his court, but I discerned well beyond his words. He is not as blind as you might think, Erestor. He was even more perceptive than I in our youths, and he has proven to be so countless times after we arrived here. You see Maeglin as a danger to my brother’s family, do you not? It seems that he has similar, if not the same, observation.”

 

Erestor’s eyes widened in shock.

 

“Do not think about it anymore,” Fingon admonished. “Also, do not speak about it either to anyone anywhere. Let it stay in this conversation and stray not outside.”

 

Erestor nodded numbly.

 

With his free arm, Fingon drew out the letter from a pocket hidden inside his outer robe, which functioned like a winter coat, and held the first piece of it under Erestor’s nose. “His letter is formed of seven pieces of parchment outside the actual missive,” he informed the slightly-gaping Erestor, who devoured the words written on it even before he was bidden to. “And the part about you takes up two pieces full. The same happens to that about my niece. Maeglin receives only two lines in the next piece, while our sister’s tale occupies the rest of it. He spent the next piece grumbling about whiny lords and ladies, and about those whom he befriends during the long course of mortal years. And the last piece is about the actual state of his beloved city.”

 

Erestor snapped his head up from the parchment. Tears once again gathered in his wide, astonished eyes.

 

Fingon smiled knowingly. “He usually only states what he loves or likes, seldom otherwise. The ‘actual state of the city’ that I talked about just now means that he speaks of the arrangement of every building and how beautiful the city is, full of milling and chattering people – his own people to cherish.”

 

Erestor had never thought of seeing his family or city that way. The gathered tears fell. The warm weight in Erestor’s lap shifted. A pair of small hands wiped the tears away, accompanied by a baffled coo. The small noise soon turned into a desperate whimper when the tears ran faster instead of drying.

 

“He asked me to let you read the letter,” Fingon said in a low tone. “But he warned me also that you are not to bring it back to Gondolin in the end of your sojourn here.” He smiled slightly. “If you can keep a secret and later do not let the letter lie around where someone could happen on it, I will defy his wish this time and let you keep it.” He produced a handkerchief from somewhere in his robes and offered it to Ereinion – who was on the verge of tears himself from what he perceived as his fault and failure.

 

But Fingon did not hand the letter to Erestor. Instead, he gathered the latter into his lap, the parchments forgotten beside him on the sofa, and rested the other’s body sidewise against his own. Ereinion forsook his self-appointed task of drying Erestor’s tears for a comfortable, warm, living nest on the nook between his elders’ bodies. Fingon took back his handkerchief and resumed his son’s doing.

 

Erestor did not know how, but he woke up snuggled in the large bed that he had seen earlier, Ereinion’s quiescent form cuddling to his side. After his eyes had adapted to the darkness, he noticed that the drapes had been fully closed around them. His ears caught the third set of breathing, the regular one of someone in deep sleep…

 

`Who is there?` he thought, fear clenching his heart. `Who put me into night clothes? Who tucked me in? Surely it’s not Fingon? And surely he wouldn’t sleep here with me? Decorum dictates—`

 

`But I haven’t seen him observing much decorum since I came.`

 

His heart thudding in his chest, Erestor clutched Ereinion close to him and crept to the other side of the bed.

 

The mysterious person was laid down there, his unseeing eyes open in the manner of the Elves. His head was half-submerged among the pillows and the quilt was tucked to under his nose. That stranger looked so harmless and innocent…

 

Was he really a stranger?

 

Creeping closer under the covers until he could feel the other’s warmth through his light night clothes, Erestor strained his vision to try to discern the Elf’s features.

 

As though sensing his effort, the person shifted, causing the young ellon to take a sharp breath. He clutched Ereinion harder, making the little one whimper in pain without actually waking up.

 

The person turned to his side, completely facing the two Ellyn,

 

And Fingon’s sleep-slurred voice reached Erestor’s ears even as his strong arms were encompassing the latter – alongside the bundle held in Erestor’s arms. “Sleep, little ones. The night is old. You are safe with me.” And the half-awake Erestor did just that while listening to his current self-appointed guardian’s heartbeats. His left arm was draped across Fingon’s side instinctively, possessively.

 

He woke up for the second time to the presence of light. It filtered through the dark green velvet bed draperies as if through the canopy of a forest. He could see that Ereinion had been awake for some time.

 

The child had built a tunnel out of a number of pillows, while the rest of the pillows were piled over Erestor’s body and limbs. The Elfling beamed and laughed when Erestor’s sleep-blurred eyes landed on him, followed by the older ellon’s frown. A small, incoherent smile brushed Erestor’s lips on his antics.

 

“Come, ‘Ros. Ada promised to escort us around the fortress today! He does not let us see the Men, but he is free today!” Ereinion chirped. “He is free! We can do anything and he is there with us!”

 

Erestor’s eyes came into focus abruptly. `Since when have they established such a firm claim on me as family?` He grimaced on the ironic thought but quickly turned it into an indulgent smile for Ereinion’s sake.

 

“Let me see to myself and you first,” he said, acting as if everything was normal. He opened the drapes and ordered his new charge, his new familiar, to arrange the pillows back in their proper places. He himself went around the room in search of his pack. Then, remembering that he had left it in the study, he crossed the bedchamber to the neighbouring room.

 

He froze on the doorway.

 

Fingon was writing on the desk as if on his own. Legal papers and notes were strewn all over the wide expanse of the desk and two ink bottles – one black and the other red – were arranged before the one he was currently working on. Hoping that his arrival would go unnoticed, Erestor skirted the desk gingerly and took his pack from the nearby nightstand. Under the nightstand, he glimpsed a part of a big satchel seeming to house even more papers and ink bottles.

 

Erestor was disturbed, but he reminded himself that everything there – except his pack – belonged to Fingon anyway, so he had no right to feel intruded. Still, though…

 

“Eh? I did not tell you to make the bed, little one.” He halted by the bed upon his return. The said bed was in pristine condition. Ereinion was balancing precariously on its edge and grinning with childish satisfaction, noting his own effort. The older ellon allowed a smile of appreciation to grace his lips, pushing aside his discomfort.

 

Erestor took a seat on one corner of the bed against the pillows. Then he beckoned Ereinion to him, almost as a second thought.

 

The child trotted across the mattress, treading on the fur quilt, and plopped down by Erestor’s side. He quickly snuggled to the older ellon and sighed in the same contentment Erestor had sensed earlier. “Is that your pack?” he asked before the surprised Erestor could say anything. A strange, distant light gleamed in his eyes.

 

“It is,” the uneasy older ellon answered. “It was made and arranged for travel, but so far it has no use other than housing useless things.”

 

Ereinion giggled. “Did you bring weapons with you? People who leave this fortress always bring weapons with them,” he said brightly. Yet then his countenance fell. “Daerada did. He was so frightening that day… He did not come back. You will always come back to me, right, ‘Ros?” He looked up, tears brimming on his blue orbs.

 

“I-I will,” Erestor stuttered, not knowing what to do otherwise save for granting the suddenly-distraught child’s wish.

 

Now, for the first time since his arrival, he was reminded clearly why he had been assigned to come here; the discussion about the pack and Fingolfin had brought it back to the surface of his mind. Why had events spun out of control like this? Was he truly a helpless pawn of fate… or Námo?

 

“’Ros?”

 

He sucked a sharp intake of breath and looked down. Ereinion was still staring at him; now the child was totally frightened.

 

“I am sorry, little one; I did not mean to upset you. Speaking of weapons, though, I did not bring any myself. This pack was arranged not by me but by your cousin Idril.”

 

“I have a cousin?” The fear was instantly gone from Ereinion’s adoring eyes. “Ada said so in the sitting-room yesterday; I heard it. Where does she live? Ada said ‘my niece’…”

 

“She resides with your uncle in the city where I live,” Erestor replied, an uneasy feeling creeping through his innards. If Fingon had never talked about Turgon or Idril to his son, then he should not have. If only he had known… And by the way, he needed to be extra careful about his speech and manners around the child in the future, for Ereinion had just proven to be very perceptive and attentive.

 

Ereinion deflated on hearing the answer. “Gondolin is a secret city, Lenmar told me; Ada said the same. But anyway ellyth are boring. They only talk about handsome Ellyn, tapestries, knitting, sewing, household chores, gossips…” he sniffed disdainfully. Erestor was forced into a fit of laughter hearing the confession. He could not imagine Idril gossiping or talking about handsome lords… but she did often talk about her precious tapestries.

 

“She is your uncle’s trusted person, little one; his right hand. She does love tapestries, and she has made many. But hers are beautiful and prided by Lord Turgon, put in a special gallery by the lord himself – against all her complaints. She, like your deceased aunt Lady Aredhal, loves hunting and horse-riding. We cannot do either in Gondolin, so she resorts to weaving many tapestries about her youth in Valinor, and the hunts she conducted with her father and deceased mother.

 

“She loves dancing, but not when there are many people to see her dance. She often dances in the glades in the woods behind my house or our friend’s – Glorfindel. I accompany her with either my flute or harp. She often wears little bells that chime beautifully when she dances, and we both love the blend of tunes the sounds result in.”

 

Erestor’s face reddened with embarrassment. `Why did I say such things? They are private!`

 

“You miss her dearly.”

 

The young ellon squeaked. The even-younger ellon sprung apart from the other and darted across the bed like an arrow.

 

“What did I tell you about standing or running on the bed, Ereinion?” Fingon caught the flying Elfling, who had just leapt from the edge of the bed, and proceeded to tickle the little one.

 

“Ada! Ada! Stop!” Ereinion shrieked and tried to wiggle free – in vain. Fingon only ceased ‘torturing’ his son upon arriving at Erestor’s side.

 

“I never told Ereinion about my siblings and niece because I feared that something bad would happen before he could meet either of them,” he explained to the nervously-squirming ellon. “I came here noticing that the pack was missing from its perch. I overheard your laughter and elaboration on my way. Please forgive me if I heard private thoughts that you perhaps did not even mean to say to Ereinion.”

 

Erestor’s mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish, but no sound came out. Finally, he gave up trying to speak and just nodded numbly. “It is just… she is the only friend I have whose age is closest to mine. We share secrets and often accompany each other when situation permits,” he mumbled to his pack after a moment.

 

“My brother said just as much,” Fingon smiled. “He used to suspect you courting each other since you came back to the palace hand in hand, faces flushed and eyes bright.”

 

Erestor giggled despite himself.

 

“Then he caught you dancing one day in the woods with flute and harp in your hands and bells adorning your bodies.”

 

Erestor choked and flushed as red as the package of apples he had just fished out from the top of the pack. Ereinion cooed with glee and snatched an apple just as he was prying open a fold in the lenan wrapper.

 

“Ereinion!”

 

But it was too late. The impish child worked faster than his father’s words. Ereinion had already nibbled happily on the coveted apple.

 

Erestor fell into helpless peals of laughter. Fingon joined, a little reluctantly, seconds after.

 

“You must be punished, naughty one,” he admonished some time after he had managed to bridle himself. Ereinion ceased eating at once.

 

“Let me still go with you, please?” the child panicked. Fingon frowned, pretending to lean towards punishing his son that way. But Erestor could see the stern mask of his eyes veiling twinkles. It was the same with Ecthelion when little Erestor had been caught stealing grapes from Glorfindel’s vineyard; the red-handed-caught Elfling was marched to his post in the North Tower by his irate mother, only for said Elfling to spend an exciting twelve hours with his father, stealing and punishment forgotten.

 

And just like little Erestor back then, Ereinion squealed in delight when the mask fell, and Fingon smiled – a little exasperatedly – down at his little imp.

 

The pack and its contents – including the apple package – were forgotten when Erestor prepared himself for the day. He took a bath together with Ereinion, who volunteered quite willingly to guide him in using some of the strange contraptions. When he went back to the bedchamber, his warm traveling cloak, pinned by a broach bearing the symbol of his House, was already laid out atop the quilt under a set of warm everyday clothing. Fingon was arranging the rest of his pack’s contents in the wardrobe and various drawers and shelves.

 

The former discomfort returned three-fold to Erestor, but he could not show it while the chattering Ereinion was clinging to his half-naked body; the child’s eyes were glued on his face, awaiting some gesture or verbal response like an attention-hungry pup.

 

He could not brood also afterwards, for, upon seeing him, Fingon swiftly ushered him and Ereinion into their respective clothes. Then he herded them out from the quarters. And outside the safety of the chambers’ walls, Erestor had other pressing matters to struggle with.