Sacrifice by oshun

Chapter 1

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Fingon walked into his father’s sitting room in his palace and fortress at Eithel Sirion. The impractical new doors had been installed over the protests of Fingolfin's strategists and now stood open onto the terrace. Unseasonably warm for a late spring evening, it felt more like midsummer. The entire room reeked of an attempt at the recreation of comforts left long behind, from the overstuffed furniture to the heavy draperies pulled back from the window and pooling on the floor in an ostentatious use of expensive fabric.

It was the first time in days Fingon had enjoyed a good hot bath. The sparkling ruby-colored wine that his father’s manservant served him complimented his sense of pampered relaxation. Unlike the almost opaque heavily spiced reds of Maedhros’s cellar, the outstanding virtue of which was their uncanny ability to withstand unscathed a long, rocky trip up the side of a mountain, Fingolfin’s latest offering featured a light underlying palate of fragile summer fruit, short-lived berries and exotic citrus, crisp and elusive. He appreciated this short respite and its small luxuries before he would be required to set out on patrol. He would wallow in the comfort of his father’s household guiltlessly for a few days while nursing the familiar melancholy of facing the next long months alone.

“So, Findekáno,” Fingolfin said, “tell me how you found the rugged Himring fortress this visit.”

“It’s coming along well. Granted, it certainly is not opulent, but there is a raw-boned beauty about it. Its form fits its purpose exquisitely.”

Fingolfin wrinkled his forehead as though trying to picture the castle. “Of course. I cannot imagine Nelyafinwë building a structure that would have no grace at all. But I am certain your cousin realizes that the heart and center of its defensive capabilities are dependant upon his ability to provide for the long-term comfort of its inhabitants. Therein lies his greatest challenge.”

“Indeed he does understand that, Atar. He has spared no effort in making the rooms of the inner castle keep warm and cozy and its main hall ever welcoming in its hospitality. Cold hard stone is mitigated with an abundance of carpets and wall hangings and large fireplaces. Every manner of introducing light and color into its furnishing and decoration has been employed.”

Having arranged himself in a partially reclining position on a settee behind a low table containing a spread of flatbreads, dried fruits, cold cuts and cheese, Fingolfin extended a plate of mixed cheeses to his son. “Try some of these. I like the fresh goat cheese myself, but there is one of cow’s milk with caraway seeds that I think you might particularly like. Food must be a problem for them also. And providing light in a stone fortress requires fuel and produces smoke.”

Taking a piece of the recommended cheese and tasting it, Fingon said, “You are right. It's excellent. Well, there certainly is not the variety of fresh produce that you have here. But they have constructed hothouses within the castle walls and there are guarded meadows not far below the tree line. Fuel is a challenge, but they are coping. The forges and workshop are busy night and day, replacing brute force with mechanical innovation and experimentation into various forms of energy.”

“Hmm,” Fingolfin grunted appreciatively. Fingon was certain his father did not want to hear any great detail. He was a man of words, abstract ideas, but not of practical science. He understood the broad strokes of any discussion of craft and technique, but had no patience with the finer points.

Fingon could not resist bragging a bit about Himring’s vaulted windows, its highly efficient chimneys, and a brief mention of the impressive advances in its plumbing system.

“Well,” Fingolfin said, “I never doubted it would be a marvel of ingenuity and design. After all, he does have the flower of Noldorin craftsmen at his disposal. Your brother is quite envious of Nelyafinwë, you know. He is working so hard on his own castle at Nevrast without half the talent available to him.”

Fingon could not hold back a laugh at the idea of Turgon envying Himring. “If he actually does, his envy is misplaced. The sacrifices of Maitimo and his followers are enormous and are never ending. They live on the front line of danger. I cannot imagine for a moment Turukáno enduring their precarious position.”