Intoxicated. by hennethgalad

Chapter 3

Finrod stood with Thingol on the southern slope of the hill. Arien cast a soft warm glow about them even amidst the stillness of winter, and already the small flowers thrust boldly through the close turf. Below them on a terrace Galadriel and Mablung, with much laughter, were casting spears at wooden targets set against the low cliff. Thingol made a slight sound of appreciation at a fine shot of Galadriel, and turned to Finrod with his placid smile.
   "It is easy to see why your sister was named 'man-maiden'! Why, she rivals even the mighty Mablung with the spear. But I am told that you have quarrelled?"
   Finrod looked into the calm face of his great uncle and marvelled that this could be the brother of grandfather Olwë, the shrewdest, canniest Elf that ever put to sea, or sat in judgement in the Hall at Alqualondë. For Thingol had the serenity of the lion at rest, an emptiness in his eyes, though his spirit shone with somewhat of the ardour of the Maia who had wed him. Finrod wondered if it were a surfeit of Light, but no such change had come upon those who dwelt beneath the Trees, nor had Ingwë, for instance, with all his time spent at the feet of Elbereth and Manwë, been altered thus. It was as though a part of Thingol had been taken by the Maia, and though in return Melian had given her love and her Light to Thingol, yet he seemed not more than Eldar, but less. It was as if he were no longer a part of Arda at all, as though he would leave them, and in his heart had already departed, smiling kindly but distantly at those to whom he had already bid farewell.

   "Yes uncle, we did quarrel, but there is no ill-will between us. It might be that our dispute was not with each other, but within ourselves, each hearing from the other that which we would prefer not to consider. I certainly want for wisdom, and even Galadriel, whom I suspect will come to be judged the wisest of all our House, has much to learn. But with a little of your own wisdom she hangs on the words of the Lady Melian, where she may learn what she yet lacks."
  Thingol smiled "My wisdom... You speak as though it were a choice of mine that should be praised, but it is not so, for I fell under her spell in the first instant, and I have never awoken from the dream. I thought, at the birth of our darling Lúthien, that the time had come for me to assume the duty and solemnity of fatherhood, but no, there was nothing for me to do, the child grew like summer grass, and always, from the very beginning, her spirit was in harmony with her mother, and I never had the least occasion to offer rebuke. Their eyes would meet, and their thought would mingle, and I would look from one to the other, then both would turn to me with loving smiles... 
   Truly my dear nephew, at times I wonder if I do not merely dream. Such happiness seems beyond the very designs of Ilúvatar, and all my days and nights are filled with song and laughter and the overwhelming joy of her love."
   
   Below them on the terrace an Elf had hurried up to Mablung and spoke quietly to him. Mablung nodded at the Elf, who departed, but Mablung cast his spear with great force, and it came to rest so close to the spear of Galadriel that the twain rattled together, and Thingol clapped his hands "Excellent shot, my champion! What an eye! What skill!"
  Mablung bowed to Thingol, and to Galadriel, then climbed the steps two at a time, with Galadriel close behind him.
   "Sire, tidings from the north, wains approach from the east, bearing the colours of Myril!"
   "Wonderful! Lúthien will be delighted, she is devoted to Myril, and if he has brought more wine from Dorwinion, then all of Menegroth will rejoice!"

   
   Angrod and Aegnor were waiting on the bridge as Finrod followed Thingol down the long path, and in the distance the wains could be seen. A crowd was gathering, and Finrod wondered whether it were the wine or the approach of Myril that they awaited. Yet after the long celebrations, it seemed unlikely that they would be eager for more wine! 
   Finrod turned to Thingol "Tell me of these wains, they are strange to my eyes."
   Thingol looked at him in astonishment "What? Then how was mighty Tirion built?"
   Finrod smiled "You are enchanted by the song of one Maia, yet you question the power of the Valar and Maiar in choir? The mighty stones seemed to move at a finger's touch, scarcely did we need to direct their course!"
   Thingol frowned, and for a moment he resembled Olwë, but then his face resumed the customary bland smile "Ah, at times, just for a moment, I regret missing all that has happened in Valinor. But then I remember how happy I am here and it is gone.    
   But you asked of the wains; they are of Dwarvish invention, for Aulë aids not in the labours of his Children, and the Dwarves concern themselves greatly with the moving of rocks. Therefore they have devised the wheel. At first, it seems, they rolled great stones on mere logs, but gradually the logs were carven and shaped until at last they became wheels and wains. Do not ask me to speak further on this, for I know little, nor will Myril increase your understanding. For that I think you must speak with your friend Frélin, who lingers yet in my halls."
   "Then, if I may presume another question, tell me of Myril."
   "Myril is one of my own folk, who was drawn back to where the distant Sea of Rhûn sparkled in the starlight. It is the geatest expanse of water this side of Belegaer, and there were those who heard the call of Ulmo even there, and who returned to heed his song. And when the Sleep of Yavanna was ended by the rising of Arien, then did the rich fruits of the vine hang ripe and heavy to their hands, and they brought forth a wondrous wine, the like of which can be found nowhere else that the Elves have discovered. But see, here comes The Cat!"

   Myril was well named, his eyes were large and round and green as beryl, and he was sleek and smooth and poised, even as he lounged at the front of the first wain, the reins held loosely in one hand while his other hung over the side as though he trailed it in the water of his beloved sea. Finrod smiled, picturing a long tail curled around the feet of the stranger, but the green eyes were those of the Eldar, and his smile was warm and eager.
   "Mae govannen sire! Forgive our tardiness, we met the departing Dwarves east of Arossiach and knew that we had come too late. But the Road is long, over misty mountains where blizzards thwarted our path, and through desolate wealds where great rains made swamp of all the land for leagues around. Three hundred days and more we have journeyed, and alas we are too late!"

   But Finrod paid no heed to the greetings, nor the cheers of the folk of Doriath, for his eyes were fixed upon the steeds which stood in harness before the wains, the mightiest steeds he had ever seen, taller even than Thingol, sturdier than Tulkas, with great sinews and thick legs, each of which seemed to bear a mane at the heel. Aegnor had already approached the nearest, and held out a hand in greeting, singing "Welcome" in his low voice. The horse snorted, then lowered its mighty neck and consented to be stroked on the forehead by the admiring Aegnor.
   Angrod was crouched by a wheel, chest-high on the nearby Elves, peering under the wain to see how it was made. Finrod smiled, certain that he would hear all about it. 

   After yet another feast, and in the silence after the spellbinding singing of Lúthien, Myril, who was seated by Finrod, stirred restlessly in his seat and turned to speak.
   "Finrod of Valinor, will you walk with me? I would breathe the night air."
   Finrod smiled and rose to his feet and followed The Cat out into the starlight. Myril stepped lightly but deliberately, so like a cat that Finrod found himself laughing, and was surprised at the frown on the face of Myril. "Have I offended you?"
   "Are you one of those who read thought as easily as breathing?"
   "No, though my sister does."
   Myril smiled "Golden Galadriel... But I am drawn to the shadow..."
   Finrod widened his eyes and stepped back a pace, but Myril laughed and shook his head "No, not that Shadow! I speak rather, though it is forbidden to me, of the shadow-dark hair of the exquisite Lúthien, whom I have loved in vain since first I saw her."
   "Why in vain? Has she rejected your suit?"
   Myril drew in a sharp breath "There can be no suit. I am wed to another."
   Finrod found himself moved to put a sympathetic hand on the shoulder of the other, but Myril laughed dryly. "There is no need for sympathy, my friend, if I may call you that?"
   They smiled warmly at each other, and Myril glanced back into the Hall of Fire where Daeron played his flute "It is an old wound, my friend, and when I am at home with my dear wife, I can almost forget. I am almost happy... But when neither sun nor moon shines, and I walk beneath the trees and the stars, at times I hear her sweet voice, whether in spirit or in memory, and I know that I must return to Menegroth to catch a glimpse of her in passing, and to sit through her song, though each note of the melody tears a fresh wound in my heart.
   I hope you may escape my fate, dear Finrod, and that you never fall under the spell of one who can never be yours." Myril gave a shuddering sigh "But my purpose in drawing you out was distraction. Do you divert my melancholy thought with tales of Valinor, and show me the paintings of your brother Angrod, one of which has reached even as far as Dorwinion, an epic piece, the train of Varda on a great field of ice. Tell me more!"

  They spoke long, or rather Finrod spoke, amd The Cat listened hungrily, at times clenching his fists, but gradually mastering himself until he was even able to laugh at the jests. And Finrod proudly showed him the paintings and drawings of Angrod, hung near the top of the Thousand Caves, in a chamber filled with light from tall windows carven from the rock and filled with clear glass. 
   It was not a complete exhibition, for the truth of the long journey had not wholly been revealed to the Lord and Lady of Menegroth, yet still there were vivid renderings of the ice, and the travellers, and even memories of Tirion, and Valinor, and an attempt to capture the glory of the Trees. But none of these held the attention of Myril until they stopped before a study of a creature of the ocean, a mighty child of Ulmo, with an Elf beside it for scale. Myril drew in a sharp breath, and Finrod looked anew at the great beast, as thickset as three Elves together, reared up proudly, displaying its fearsome tusks surrounded by bristling white whiskers.
   "What in all Eä is that mighty beast?" breathe Myril in awe.
   "That is a creature of ice and of ocean, a child of Ulmo, that we called the walrus."