The Line of Kings by Michiru

That Which Is Valued Greatly

Artaher contemplates the value of the Silmarils and just why he followed his father to Endor.

First Age Year 90

The Silmarils made sense to Artaher. Where others saw inexplicable evil arising from pure good, he saw the truth. That which is freely given or cheaply earned is held of little value. That which is greatly valued must therefore be dearly won.

It was right that the Silmarils’ recovery should carve a swathe of agony and atrocity across the face of Arda Marred. That the Valar, who shaped the world, had coveted them spoke volumes of their worth, justified the tragedies which had befallen the Noldor since their loss.

The pale light of the moon glittered over Dor-lómin’s distinctive mist, casting a soft, silver blanket over the land. His right arm, pressed against the thick glass of the window, was already numb from the leeching chill, a sharp contrast to his left arm, loosely embraced by the heavy curtains that insulated the fortress for the coldest months of winter.

He stayed quiet as the footsteps drew closer, barely audible, cushioned as they were by stockings and the bearskin rugs meant to trap in warmth. The girl paused by him, saying nothing, invisible on the other side of the thick cloth. She sighed after a moment, sitting at the other end of the sill, but without pulling aside the curtains. His chamber of light shrank as her weight pressed the curtains close to the glass.

“You had another nightmare about her, didn’t you?” she asked at last. He tried to bristle, but it was hard when he could feel muscles jumping along his shoulders, twitching with cold.

“No,” he lied. Laegalad ignored him.

“You know, if you would just wear stockings to bed, the ice goblins couldn’t find you to slip you bad dreams,” she said knowingly, pinching his bare toes through the blue velvet. He deliberately refused to smile, even though she wouldn’t have been able to see. Somehow she had a way of knowing when he thought she was funny.

“That’s stupid,” he muttered instead. “There’s no such thing as ice goblins, and if there were, they’d do more than give people bad dreams.” After a moment, he added, hastily, “And stockings wouldn’t keep them away, anyway.”

“My mother said so,” Laegalad sneered, as if that was all the proof she needed. Artaher felt a pang, brushed it off, pushed it back into the dark corner of his mind where a woman’s face pleaded with him to stay behind.

“Your mother’s an idiot, then,” he snapped.

“No she isn’t!” the girl snarled, and he could see her eyes blazing at him, even though the curtain lay between them. “Just because you don’t have your mother anymore doesn’t mean you can say whatever you please about mine!”

Neither of them said anything for a while. Artaher made himself think of the Silmarils again, made himself remember their light from the few times he had seen them, made himself picture them shining through the blackness of Moringotto. Made himself not think of a woman who had always had time for him, made himself not think of a man who still didn’t have any time for him.

He didn’t know—didn’t want to know—what occupied Laegalad’s thoughts. But, after a while, she asked, in a thin voice, “Why didn’t you stay with her? You don’t really seem very close with your father.”

“Chasing a Silmaril,” he whispered.

“There are three.”

“I didn’t mean those.”

Chapter End Notes

Despite having received his Sindarin name, Orodreth is referring to himself as Artaher here. The reason why is addressed later in the series, but the general idea is that he reverts to Quenya when emotionally distressed, or when feeling plagued by the Doom of the Noldor.

More distant musings:

            Ah, number 13. The piece that started it all.