The Line of Kings by Michiru

Semantics

Orodreth, introducing his betrothed to his father. It goes about as well as he feared it would.

First Age Year 263

            “Please behave,” he pleaded, hours before Laegalad even arrived. Father gave him a pointed look.

            “When do I not?” Orodreth ignored that.

            “And remember that she prefers Laegalad.” Father rolled his eyes, sneering.

            “She can prefer whatever she likes; her name is Naltariel,” he said archly, but recanted at Orodreth’s flash of panic. “Peace. I will try to honor her inane preferences.” And he relaxed, just like that. When Father said he would do something, he did it.

o 

            Dinner passed in the silence Orodreth had grown up with, once his mother had been left behind in Valinor. It seemed awkward now with an outsider present; Orodreth felt Laegalad’s growing anxiety, and welcomed the slight interruption of the storekeeper, speaking too low in Father’s ear for Laegalad to catch the lilting strains of Quenya.

            “He does not approve of me,” she whispered once Father briefly excused himself, her voice brittle as thin glass, lips barely moving.

            “He’s never been very talkative,” he apologized. A half-truth—in Orodreth’s youth, there had been plenty of times when Father had had one rhyme or another rolling off his tongue. Those days had died with Father and Mother’s first estrangement, though, and after the Ban Father had tended more towards grim silence. “Especially around people he’s unfamiliar with. He’ll open up after the meal. I promise.”

o 

            Orodreth felt briefly claustrophobic when the meal ended and Father stood up from the table as though to leave. Then he paused halfway to the door, turned, and asked, “Would you care to join me on a walk?” Orodreth let out a breath he hadn’t know he was holding, nearly faint with relief. Father’s Sindarin, though formal, was perfectly accented, and Laegalad relaxed beside him.

            “Certainly.”

o 

            “What are the logistics of surviving here?” Laegalad fired off, when Father made no move to initiate a conversation.

            And just like that, they were off. Laegalad was an apt study, and probably learned more about the running of Dorthonion in that one discussion than Orodreth had in all his years living there. Father nodded imperceptly at him over her head during a lull in conversation, a small smile lighting his eyes, and Orodreth, for a moment, believed that they might actually come to see each other as father and daughter.

o 

            Somehow, the conversation shifted to childhood exploits, and Father laughed as Laegalad concluded an anecdote of how she had once dyed Prince Fingon’s formal robes in splotchy patches of purple on the eve of the midsummer feast during a prank that was meant for her older cousin.

            “I seem to recall something similar occurring, once,” he said, the slightest taunt in his voice as he glanced back at Orodreth. “To all three kings of Valinor.” Laegalad rounded on him, delight and horror warring in her expression.

            “You didn’t.”

            “He did,” Father contradicted airily. “Artaher was quite the troublemaker as a child.” And just like that, Orodreth felt the evening spin out of all pleasantry. Laegalad stopped, feet rooted to the spot, staring at Father as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears. Father caught the change in mood, glanced back, saw her expression, and froze over.

            “Is there a problem?” he grit out. Laegalad looked to Orodreth for guidance, then, typically, ignored him when he warned her off from the confrontation.

            “Those who speak that tongue shall be held as Kinslayers, and betrayers of kin unrepentant,” she recited, like ice. Father’s arm twitched, and Orodreth could see the familiar tirade building. He held out a hand, half in plea, half in command. Father swallowed, and forced something that resembled a wolf’s toothy grin.

            “I would hardly count a proper noun as use of an entire language,” he managed, teeth surely drawing blood as they dug into his cheeks.

            “Then you should know he prefers Orodreth,” Laegalad shot back, not to be placated. Father whirled on him; Orodreth stared resolutely past his left ear, and tried not to watch as Father’s face seemed to gray.

            “I fear you shall find yourselves rather miserable in Dorthonion, in any case,” he said delicately, in the same already-defeated tone Grandfather Finarfin had used arguing against the Flight, and in the same Noldorin-perfect Quenya. He left without another word.