Brother Mine by wind rider

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Chapter 5: Right Hand

 

 

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Erestor walked beside Ereinion a little self-consciously. His left hand was in the  grip of the child’s right hand; Fingon’s in the other. They strolled down the corridor in a line, just like a family. The feeling of impropriaty never left his chest, perturbing him, yet he coped withit for the sake of Ereinion’s happiness.

 

He only noticed some aspects of himself, including his clothing, when they met the first Elf. They were descending a set of stairs when it happened, and the person they encountered, according to Fingon’s explanation and warning whispered into his mind, was the new king’s late father’s most-critical advisor. `Do not heed his sharp tongue. Sometimes his advice is sound, but more often than not the receiver – whoever he is – must struggle to keep his ire in check before the good could come true.`

 

That only made Erestor all the more nervous.

 

“My lords.” The richly-dressed ellon bowed at Fingon and Ereinion. He then looked uncertainly, somewhat disdainfully, at Erestor. The latter was hard-pressed not to squirm under his penetrating, mocking gaze.

 

“Lord Viniarnen.” Fingon inclined his head coolly. Ereinion just glared.

 

“May I inquire…” Viniarnen the advisor hesitated, his gaze once more traveling from the father and son to Erestor.

 

“Yes?” Fingon prompted.

 

The ellon regarded the new king from behind hooded eyes. After a moment, however, he mustered the courage – or perhaps boldness – to speak up his mind.

“May I inquire why you bestowed this… messenger… with your royal garb?”

 

Erestor automatically looked down to the warm silken robes he was wearing – under which he were a set of practical woolen tunic and leggings of his own. He had not paid attention to what kind of clothes Fingon had made him wear before, too occupied with his thoughts. Upon further inspection, he saw what the belligerent advisor had pointed out. The robes were too flamboyant to be his own, and they reminded him much of Turgon or… well… Fingon and Ereinion. They indeed looked to be in the possession of royalty. Why had Fingon made him wear these?

 

He looked back up and stared at Fingon, trying to be as polite and calm as possible with an inquiring gaze of his own. `What have they been getting up to?` he thought in a mixture of emotions, half of them unpleasant. He did not wish to be viewed as a usurper to the throne of the exiled Ñoldor. He had no interest in politics and all of its delicate matters, anyway.

 

He bit back a frustrated, exasperated snarl when Fingon said, “The reason is my own, Lord Viniarnen. But I suppose you have known that in this way no one would dispute my favour on him.”

 

Then little Ereinion piped up in his juvenile confidence, “His name is Erestor, Lord Viniarnen, not ‘the messenger’. He is Ada’s right hand, because I am too small for that.”

 

Erestor was downright shocked. He turned to Fingon, ready to demand an explanation for Ereinion’s announcement. He cancelled the idea, though, when his eyes met the kings. Fingon was just as surprised as him, albeit also amused with the work of his son’s young mind… unlike Erestor.

 

“More likely, Ereinion wishes Erestor to be so,” on Erestor’s pleading expression, the King gave a correcting explanation to the advisor. Ereinion looked visibly hurt and offended. Before the child could say anything to the contrary, though, his elders had dragged him – almost literally – down the rest of the stairs and out to the front courtyard of the building. Fingon spared the advisor a polite nod while passing, but none of the younger Ellyn acknowledged the latter, too preoccupied with themselves.

 

They were only brought back to the reality when Fingon seated them firmly on a bench in a secluded garden of the large courtyard and glared sternly at them, as if they had just committed a mischievous prank on the King.

 

Erestor’s complexion reddened in embarrassment; his eyes darted nervously around. He must have done something wrong and was in trouble now.

 

Ereinion seemed to think in similar vein, for the child quickly pleaded not guilty to his father… for whatever reason.

 

The king regarded the two fidgeting younglings with unwavering gaze and raised eyebrows, his hands in the pockets of his outer robe. Were he not royalty, Erestor thought, Fingon might have rolled his eyes now.

 

The thought made him want to snicker, so he put it away and braced himself for any ‘lesson’ the king might soon give him. Fingon was staring pointedly at him now, and it took all his might not to continue his fidgeting. Taking a deep breath, the ellon straightened up on his seat and offered Fingon a – hopefully – polite and dignified dip of his head. Then, remembering the court lessons Turgon and his own father had taught in their spare times, the young ellon schooled his face into impassivity.

 

“Good,” Fingon grunted.

 

The mask which Erestor had so laboriously held up broke. He stared at the king blankly, his mouth open.

 

“Hey, you did well. Now it is ruined again,” Fingon remarked mildly, scrutinising Erestor’s posture with a bit of disapproval. For once, the latter mustered the courage to glare at him. Erestor was in a sullen mood, and his bewilderment did not help at all. At home, Finera would have prepared to face one of his temper tantrums, but now he could only indulge himself with sulking in silence.

 

“Would you please enlighten me, my lord?” he gritted out.

 

“On what?” Fingon’s expression, neither in his complexion nor his eyes, was readable, and so Erestor did not know if the King was jesting or inquiring truthfully.

 

“On the matter you were talking about just now.” Erestor’s voice was almost a hiss. To Utumno with the titles and proprieties, he thought while nursing his wounded pride.

 

Fingon regarded him silently for another moment, but then he said, “Did you remember the lessons my brother and your father taught you?”

 

Erestor was taken aback. “How did you know, Sire?” he stammered, his sulk briefly forgotten in his surprise.

 

A smile graced Fingon’s lips, the first show of emotion the king exhibited after a while. “It seems that you forgot that Turgon said many things about you in his letter to me, not only about the recent events. I have told you so yesterday, and even now the whole bundle of it is in your possession.”

 

Erestor looked away. Yes, he had forgotten about the missive. He was not blameless for that, though. Not wanting to remember that he had been the one to send word about Fingolfin’s death, he had shut the memory of the overall missive in a deep corner of his mind. Guilt brushed his conscience, but he quickly retreated from the contact lest it became a full-force remorse.

 

He dragged his attention to Fingon when the King continued, assuming a teaching tone Finera or Idril were wont to use when lecturing him about many things he should learn. “Impassivity is important when dealing with the court – you must listen to this also, Ereinion, and stop watching that butterfly,” the King said. “Your opponents could take advantage over your emotional signs if not, and it would only put you in a difficult position, like what happened back there in the staircase. Lord Viniarnen would have been less triggered to corner you, Erestor, if only you schooled your face well like what you showed me just now. You were uncomfortable and you showed it to him. His reaction, naturally, was like a hungry wolf chancing upon an injured-but-nonetheless-fat doe.”

 

He proceeded with offering his impromptu students some tips of how to show – or not to show – emotions at appropriate moments, and how to overcome the inner obstacles they might be experiencing during such moments. He had learnt the tricks by experience from his youth in the Blessed Realm until the present day, he said, and thus they were applicable.

 

`Well, if you say so, why did you break down, then?` Erestor thought belligerently. Of all the unexpected things, he had never thought in his wildest thought that he would get a lesson in manners from the High King, less an impromptu one. Why did Fingon not leave the task to Finera – or even Idril? Why should he bother with teaching a messenger?

 

His dark mood blackened even more. But Fingon seemed to ignore it at the moment. The King was now lecturing Ereinion on self-restraint and thinking before talking.

 

He wished he could be as unflappable as Ereinion on this matter. The little ellon just listened with an air of nonchalance about him, his little legs swinging back and forth under the bench.

 

Oh no. Now he leant towards resenting the boy too…

 

`I have been too overwhelmed by everything happening around me,` he conceded to the admonishment of his heart. He liked Ereinion too much to resent the child, and this fondness was what had restrained his rampant emotions in the end. And then, when Fingon had succeeded in eliciting a promise from his son to practise on what the child had just learnt, the young ellon found that his resentment towards the King had also receded alongside the calming of his thoughts.

 

They strolled across the courtyard afterwards. Upon reaching the training fields, Erestor only felt mild contentment about everything that went on around him. For a long time, he stood in silence between Fingon and Ereinion, observing the soldiers in training.

 

Then the King excused himself, and he launched into a panicked mode.

 

Fingon only said that he had to leave for a moment for some arrangements – of what he did not tell. Erestor looked like a motherless chick now, contrary to the mutinous Ereinion who seemed to be determined about… something.

 

Well, he found out what the thing was almost right afterwards.

 

“Let us make our presence known,” the child suggested. Erestor was taken aback. Ereinion had never adopted such a serious, authoritative tone; and before he knew it, Erestor had automatically obliged the younger ellon without any question.

 

They skirted the patch of the grounds reserved for swordsmanship practice and stood by the building housing the stock of blades. For a time, they only watched the pairs of soldiers sparring with each other in silence.

 

Erestor felt like he was transported back to Gondolin, to the city’s own training fields where Glorfindel was used to drilling him on all manners of fighting. He had only been an Elfling of twenty when the Vanya had managed to coax his parents into letting him train as a warrior; and he had visited the training fields even before that with either the golden-haired warrior, his father, or Idril. Now he observed the sparring partners with an air of detachment, as though an instructor to his students.

 

And Glorfindel indeed had prepared him to be an instructor on Turgon’s bidding, since the Lord of Gondolin reasoned that Erestor was better suited as a teacher than a true fighter. He had never been aware up to that point that Turgon had been secretly watching him practise.

 `I miss them. I miss all of them,` he realised sadly. `Nothing here can replace them. Everything seems better here, more comfortable, but I miss my old

life.`

 

His old life. The words sounded to sweet in his mind. He knew that he would never go back to the way he had lived, ever. He did not know how the notion came into his mind, yet he nonetheless understood – with not a little amount of bitterness.

 

“Time goes on, time wheels on.

We can’t resist. We can just hope on.

Hope in the darkness, hope for the light;

Make our way through with all our might.

 

“Time goes by, time wheels by.

To the trodden paths we say good bye.

To ourselves we say “Don’t cry.”

And we trust for new joys ahead lie.

 

And time flies, like Eagles in the heavens.

No hand can grip it. No hand can stay it.

Nobody can fathom its presence.

Time’s obstinate, and it observes no limit.

 

“Time builds, time breaks.

Ever sweet and bitter.

Ever slower, ever faster…”

 

A feather-light caress on the back of his left hand halted Erestor’s murmured song. The ellon met Ereinion’s solemn eyes when he looked down. “You regretted something,” the child observed. Erestor bit his lips. Ereinion’s presence, formerly inconsequential, unnerved him more and more alongside his deepening friendship with the child.

 

“I did,” he said softly, never breaking gaze with the Elfling meanwhile. “Glorfindel, my friend, often sings the song when he reminisces about his life in Aman.”

 

“And you?”

 

Erestor smiled sadly. “Not now, little one. Some matters are hard to talk about when they are still fresh, and some can never be talked about for many reasons.”

 

The child was not satisfied; but he did not press on, to Erestor’s great relief. They resumed watching the training. However, apparently it had ended during their conversation, for the warriors were now looking at the pair with various expressions on their faces. Erestor gulped, remembering his attire. If Lord Viniarnen had commented so, then how would these warriors regard his princely robes?

 

“Why don’t you resume training?” Ereinion asked with an odd mixture of childlike curiosity and kingly demand. Erestor restrained an exasperated sigh from escaping either his nose or lips – or both – at the Elfling’s behaviour. He stared somewhat sternly at the child. Had Fingon not told him to mind his manners? Or was this behaviour common for Ereinion?

 

Erestor looked back up from the child and gulped again – as discreetly as possible. The warriors’ faces were now guarded, and they were looking back and forth between him and Ereinion as though sizing up an opponent. That could not be good, thought the ellon. Mustering up however much courage he still possessed, he spoke up. “Pardon the inquiry. Ereinion was just curious.” He did not say the last part – “As was I.”

 

Nevertheless, one of the warriors perceived the unspoken part and spoke it up for him in an inquiring manner. “Then how about you, stranger? Last we knew, you were a messenger. How came you to have the royal garb of King Fingon?”

 

Erestor fervently hoped that Ereinion would not say anything about him being Fingon’s right hand again. The situation had been precarious enough without any more complication. Now he had to think of a way to get out of the predicament as quickly as possible, lest it became more dire. He wished he could talk mind to mind like Fingon.

 

What should he say, anyway, other than “It was the King’s decision?” It was not enough… It would not be enough.

 

Ereinion solved the matter for him. Thankfully, it was not as he feared. The child only said what he had been thinking so far: “His Majesty ordered him to don the garb.” Erestor wondered at how sharply the little prince had changed from the innocent Elfling snuggling to him to this… this…

 

“Are you proficient with a sword, messenger?” a more belligerent-looking warrior queried. He had been one of the haughtiest guards by whom Erestor had been escorted the day before. From the ellon’s own observation, Erestor also found that he was quite proficient with his sword; the implied challenge was not an empty one.

 

Murmurs arose among the group. Some were excited, also catching the underlying message; another faction was just interested, while the rest was disapproving of the guard’s challenge. All of them, though, seemed to fear the wrath of the King – in various degrees – thinking that they might commit a slight to Fingon by challenging an ellon that was obviously in his great favour.

 

Again, it was Ereinion who ended the uncomfortable situation by his comment. “I watched how he appraised you. He must be experienced in swordplay, from the way he looked at you.” He paused, then, frowning, added, “And his name is Erestor. I said it to Lord Viniarnen, and now I am saying it to you. May you never forget it.”

 

A slight blush coloured Erestor’s cheeks. Ereinion was just as frank as ever despite the Elfling’s new attitude. He was about to try to amend the child words, but yet another warrior from the group spoke. “You are not yet trained in any kind of weapon practice, young prince. How could you judge his expertise?”

 

“I did not say anything about Erestor being an expert,” Ereinion evaded calmly, adopting a more innocent tone. “And one does not have to be an expert in an area to gauge the meaning of a gaze.”

 

`He would be a good king,` Erestor thought, sadly remembering Fingon’s looming doom. He could not indulge himself longer in his dark thoughts, however, because then the same belligerent guard who had spoken the second time formally declared the challenge. How could he avoid it without shaming himself?

 

“I am going to be your squire. At least I know how to be a squire,” Ereinion offered when Erestor had nodded his ascent to the guard – amidst shouts and whistles, and even a few hand-claps.

 

“Are we sparring with full armour? I do not think so, little one,” Erestor said. The guard who had issued the challenge nodded in agreement. But Ereinion did not appear daunted at all.

 

“A squire is not there only to take care of a knight’s armour, as far as I know,” the child said in that unflappable way of his. Erestor smiled, praising his knowledge.

 

“You are right,” the older ellon consented. “If you insist, we will just have to find out what kind of task you can perform for me.” Glares and smiles were sent his way from the throng. Those who disapproved perceived his readiness in consenting to the young prince’s idea as a sign of slander to the prince, demeaning Ereinion’s rank and title. Those who did otherwise believed that Erestor was just indulging Ereinion’s youthful, innocent eagerness.

 

Regardless of all, a short time later Erestor and the guard, Fimlin, found themselves circling each other, naked blades in their arms. Those were practice blades but dangerous and balanced nonetheless, and Erestor was brought back again to the training fields of his beloved city in his training days under Glorfindel. He was no longer in the chilly grassy patch of ground surrounded by trees and Elven spectators. To him, it was as if he was treading upon a vast paved courtyard by the side of the Tower of the King, unheeded as he was instructing a less-experienced warrior on Glorfindel’s bidding. His first act as an instructor had been performed not too long ago, and the experience was etched vividly in his mind.

 

He did not know who struck first. Glorfindel’s words rang in his ears, as though the Lord of the Golden Flower was there, observing and criticising him mercilessly. Thus, he put his best effort into the fight, hoping to elude the older warrior’s long lecture after the sparring. Even as an instructor, he could not yet escape from Glorfindel’s fretting, after all.

 

He grew more confident when he had gained his rhythm. Some minutes had gone by, but he did not notice the time, just as he was not aware of his surroundings. Soft-spoken words tumbled unbiddenly out from his lips, correcting Fimlin’s movements and praising the latter for each success. He also learnt new tricks, with the toll of some bruises on his sword arm and one on his left shoulder; he unconsciously stored the knowledge for future reference to teach whoever Glorfindel or Turgon would trust him with. He was not aware of the dead silence that fell on the grounds and the growing spectators, or of Fimlin’s odd look while sparring against him.

 

“Good fight, Fimlin,” he said when at last he managed to brought his sparring partner to the ground, his sword-tip pressed to the side of Fimlin’s neck. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely. “You are a talented fighter. Just pay attention to your emotions while fighting and you will do well.” He offered a hand to help Fimlin to his feet, but the guard refused it. Only then he looked around and noticed everything.

 

He blushed as red as the apple Ereinion had stolen back in his bedchamber.

 

Laughter broke right afterwards from the spectators. It was such an anticlimax for them. The action only made Erestor more flustered.

 

As usual, Ereinion came to the rescue. But this time the child was not alone. When Erestor’s eyes landed on him, the ellon found that Fingon was standing beside his son, grinning in joy and excitement.

 

“Sire.” He bowed automatically to the King. It appeared that the rest of the gathering had not noticed Fingon, for the laughter ceased immediately and people were soon bowing as well upon spotting the king. Even Fimlin managed to scramble up to his feet in time to execute his own obeisance.

 

Fingon’s smile widened. Pride glowed on his face and in his eyes. Ereinion, despite his noticeable lack of girth and height compared to the king, sported an identical expression to his father’s. Not a few people sucked in their breaths; Erestor was one of them.

 

“You performed well, Erestor and Fimlin. Congratulations,” the king declared. The colour on Erestor’s face, which had just gained some semblance of normalcy, returned to vivid red again.

 

Apparently noticing his latest predicament, Ereinion bounded happily up to him and tugged at his hand, dragging him to the weapon storeroom. There they had left Erestor’s cloak and the robes Fingon had given him. Without actually speaking, they agreed that the robes were best saved for later, when the Gondolindrim’s sweat-soaked tunic had dried up. When Erestor was about to fold up the robes, however, Ereinion forbade him, saying that he had agreed to let the Elfling be his squire. “It includes taking care of you after a fight,” the child insisted, pouting.

 

Erestor capitulated. He then also knelt so that Ereinion could fasten the cloak around him, warding him from some of Hithlum’s auttumn’s chill. If possible, the child looked even happier and prouder than when he had won against Fimlin. To that, he could only mentally shake his head.

 

Ereinion was fascinating, he decided. He was glad that he had agreed to stay in Hithlum longer. Unbelievably, now, after the unexpected sparring session, he felt more at home. `I wonder what more is in store for me.`

 

He walked out of the storeroom with a new determination, a new hope… and a squire.

 

He looked to his side, to the Elfling gripping his right hand firmly and bouncing on his every step, and smiled.