The Line of Kings by Michiru

In A Name

Artaher discusses a girl and the Ered Wethrin with Findecáno, and receives a name.

First Age Year 71

“I thought I’d find you here,” Findecáno said as he squeezed himself into the small space between the rafters and the ceiling. Artaher felt his pulse leap wildly at the unexpected intrusion but was careful not to jump; he was perched precariously close to the attic window. In the half-gloom, he couldn’t tell whether the prince was angry or not—but then a cloud shifted and sunlight briefly flashed over Findecáno’s wry smile. “You’re hiding from Laegalad again, aren’t you?” Artaher ducked his head.

“She keeps pestering me,” he complained. Findecáno laughed, something wistful in the sound.

“You’re close to her age, so she sees you as a playmate,” he explained, amused sympathy keeping his tone from being over stern. “Once there are other children for her to play with she’ll leave you alone.” Artaher didn’t answer. There were no other children in Dor-lómin, and probably wouldn’t be for a long time; the siege was too new, untested, and life in the northlands of Beleriand still too hard for anyone to consider bringing children into it.

Leaning forward, Artaher traced another line of distant Ered Wethrin in chalk across his slate board, a gift from Atarinkë from before the Ban. It had been meant as a tool he could use to complete his studies without the undue waste of parchment. Father had yet to find him another tutor, so Artaher used it as a drawing pad, an endless cycle of sketch drawn over the faded remains of sketch. Sometimes he pretended he would hand the slate in for assessment and spent hours staring at rocks, magnifying their properties in his pictures and tentatively labeling their type. Today he just wanted to capture the essence of the voice he heard calling to him from the southeast.

“That’s quite good,” Findecáno said when Artaher uncurled from his hunched position over the drawing to check it against the scene through the window. “It’s a shame they’re going to be covered in snow while you’re here; they’re beautiful in the fall and spring. All the colors.”

“I don’t mind the snow,” Artaher said, swinging his feet through the darkness yawning between his perch and the far off floor. He looked to the mountains soaring strong up out of the earth. “It hides less of them then the trees.”

“Does it?” Findecáno asked absently, peering around.

“It’s like a sheet. The form underneath is still—” he stopped. Findecáno was staring at the rafter he was sitting on, his eyes tracking intently. “Never mind.”

But Findecáno smiled broadly, even as his hand slapped down over a scurrying spider and ground it into the wooden beam beneath him with rather more force than was necessary. “No, tell me. It’s interesting; I’ve never thought about the mountains themselves as anything other than a canvas for the trees.”

“The snow doesn’t really hide the shape of the mountains when you look at them from far away,” Artaher began hesitantly, growing bolder when Findecáno nodded thoughtfully. “It gives them an air of mystery, but you can still imagine the forms beneath it, the ways they climb to higher altitudes.”

“You astound me,” Findecáno laughed when he paused for breath, and Artaher fell obligingly silent. “Never have I heard someone speak of mountains so uniquely, Orodreth.”

“Orodreth?” Artaher repeated. It was Sindarin, the language Father had taught him years ago and now refused to speak. Many of the people of Dor-lómin only spoke Sindarin, even when they were in entirely Noldorin company, as though they believed, like Ingoldo-who–is-Finrod, that they could absolve their crimes by sacrificing their language.

For the most part Findecáno had spoken Quenya since Artaher’s arrival, but he tended to use Sindarin names and sometimes sang familiar songs in an alien tongue. “Orodreth,” Artaher said again, turning it over in his mouth musingly. “For me?”

“If you like it,” Findecáno shrugged. “Make sure you come down for dinner,” he added, levering himself off the rafters to drop down through the sea of dust motes and land on the balls of his feet.

“I will,” Artaher promised to the gold-stringed braids below. Findecáno shot him one last smile before he was gone. Artaher looked back down at the picture in his lap, but made no move to continue drawing. He rolled the smooth stub of chalk between his fingers, thinking.

“Orodreth,” he murmured to the distant presence of the Ered Wethrin. “Orodreth.”

Chapter End Notes

As you may have noticed from the week-long delay, I've recently started school again. Posting during the week is not really conducive to my schedule, so from now on I'll be posting on Friday. Yes, that means the next chapter will be up in less than two days time (assuming I don't read it and decide it needs massive revising).

Laegalad is the Sindarin name of Naltariel, briefly mentioned in the previous piece.