The Line of Kings by Michiru

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Warden of Tol Sirion

Finrod has a proposal for his nephew, and a wedding gift, all in one.

First Age Year 265

 

            “The two of you seem well suited to each other,” Finrod said, smiling sweetly off at the distance, into the West. Orodreth allowed him a moment to collect himself, and for a while they strode along in silence, the river Narog calmer than was typical and babbling nonsensically.

            They had met near the Ivrin, halfway between Dorthonion and Nargothrond, and the place where he and Laegalad had determined to marry. Fingon would bear witness on behalf of the king and his own close friendship with Laegalad’s parents.

            “And you are certain your father will not attend?” Finrod probed, hesitantly, face cast over in concern. Orodreth scowled, kicking at a clod of dirt and watching it vanish in Narog’s narrow but ever-increasing current.

            “As all others present will be speaking the tongue he holds in contempt, I’d rather spare him the misery,” he said bitterly. Finrod’s frown deepened, but he made no reply, instead looking back to their horses, grazing freely and seemingly uninterested in following them.

            “But you’ll be there, won’t you?” Orodreth asked, hesitantly, not quite daring to meet his uncle’s eyes. “And Aunt Galadriel?” Finrod smiled suddenly, like the sun bursting through a cloud.

            “Of course. And Aegnor, too.” He felt some of his relief dim, and sighed.

            “Not Aegnor,” he corrected. “He doesn’t want to incur my father’s wrath as I have done.”

            “Did he tell you that?”

            “Not in so many words. He said he was wary of alienating him, but—“

            “Ah,” Finrod held up a hand, forestalling his words. “I would ask you then not to resent his decision.” Orodreth nodded stiffly, but fixed his gaze to the opposite bank. Finrod sighed.

            “Do you know how many people your father exchanges correspondence with?” he asked, grabbing on to Orodreth’s arm and gently turning him about so that he had no choice but to face him. Orodreth shook his head. “Four. Myself, Fingolfin, Aegnor and Fingon. Of the four of us, only Aegnor and Fingon receive anything other than bare reports about Dorthonion.” He threaded their arms together, and continued their walk, more slowly than before, more meandering, his head down, watching his feet.

            “Beleriand has not been kind to your father, Orodreth,” he murmured. “He has, through various circumstances, been slowly cut off from those he was once close to.”

            “It’s his own fault,” Orodreth interrupted. “Nothing keeps him from making amends, save his own stubbornness.”

            “We may debate fault some other time,” Finrod said, somewhat severely. “The fact remains that, of the two he still holds as close friends, one is already pledged to witness your wedding, which you feel will wound him. Out of love for my brother, I would not have him entirely cut off from all comfort in this land. Would you?”

            “No,” Orodreth sighed. “But it is such a simple thing to let come between friendships older than the sun.”

            “Your father would argue that is it no simple thing,” Finrod replied, a somewhat wry curl to his lips, though his eyes were again shadowed. Orodreth snorted. “And you must remember that the majority of his friendships were set in Fëanor’s house, and that is a rift he has tried to mend, to no avail. But, between us, Orodreth, I would advise you that it is your rejection of your former name that he finds intolerable, not your choice in wife, nor the tongue the two of you use.”

            He saw again the slow graying of his father’s face, the way he went almost limp, tension drained suddenly, expression dulled into nothing. “Nevertheless, it is the name I prefer,” he murmured. “Artaher—” he stopped, held out his hands helplessly. “We are different people, he and I. I cannot change that, any more than I can change the course of the Sirion.” Finrod smiled sadly.

            “Well do I understand your feelings in this matter. There are still those who question why I chose to abandon my amilessë, two hundred years later.” He stopped at a point where the grey stone of the highlands leaped out suddenly from the grassy bank, forming a small shelf over the Narog. With a grin, he eased himself down theatrically, until he was sitting with his feet hanging over the edge, inches from the water. “My poor old bones.”

            “Do they trouble you, truly?” Orodreth worried, dropping down next to his uncle.

            “No, but my rear does when I’ve been riding for days,” he confessed cheekily, winking. Orodreth rolled his eyes.

            “You are nothing but an over-grown child,” he lamented to the world at large. Below, the Narog leaped and gurgled in agreement.

            “I never claimed to be ought else,” Finrod laughed freely, his merriment joining the river’s and wending a brief melody. He tossed his head back, eyes closed, and turned his face toward the sun. Orodreth glanced after the horses, wandering nearer with indolent nonchalance, then lay back and stretched out over the warmed grey stone. Coming from Dorthonion, the more temperate climate of the south felt nearly balmy, and he could feel himself drifting deeper and deeper into a waking sleep, the Narog’s discourse losing its structure, fading into a lullaby.

            “Arothir,” Finrod announced abruptly, pleased as an eaglet after its first flight. Orodreth focused one eye on him, tempted to ignore the odd proclamation and slide all the way to dreaming. Finrod sighed and reached down, splashing a handful of water in his face. Orodreth yelped at the cold, starting up and glaring at him.

            “Arothir,” Finrod pronounced again, more haughty than before, somehow.

            “Congratulations,” Orodreth sneered, wiping his face on his sleeve, shivering as a drop found its way down the front of his tunic.

            “It’s your name in Sindarin. I worked it out.”

            “My name is Orodreth, and that water is freezing.”

            “Yes, yes,” Finrod waved, as though to brush aside his words. “But, logically, Arothir is the proper translation.”

            “Do you have a point?” he wondered crossly, shaking his collar out.

            “You need not reject Artaher if you adopt its Sindarin form. Even,” he said, over the bare beginnings of his protest, “if only as a secondary name, a title, if you will. You need not give up Orodreth, nor ever give out Arothir in introduction, but it will still be yours.” Leaning in to deliberately catch his eye, Finrod added, more seriously, “And I guarantee the gesture alone would soothe Angaráto’s grievance.” Then he shrugged, whimsically. “And then we could all attend your wedding together. If a letter was sent now, it could reach both your father and Aegnor in time for them to arrive.”

            “A letter saying what?”

            “Oh, you need not make some grand announcement or vain speech, simply state the details of your wedding, date, location and such, signed ‘Arothir Orodreth’; Angaráto will notice.” Smirking when Orodreth could think of no other reason to disagree, he said, “I’m brilliant, aren’t I?”

            “Only by comparison to your family, and considering that that family includes Master ‘take on a pack of Balrogs single-handedly’…” Finrod laughed with him, as delighted by the rejoinder as Orodreth.

            “Not to mention our dear cousin, Sir ‘plays inappropriate music in the midst of terror’,” he teased. Orodreth endeavored to hold a straight face.

            “Does High Prince Fingon know you disparage his musical habits behind his back?”

            “I’ll be sure to let him know,” Finrod assured him, before they both dissolved into another fit of giggles, the river answering and magnifying their mirth.

            “So?” Finrod prompted, when they had again lapsed into unbroken silence.

            “I will do as you suggest if you truly believe that it will comfort my father, and reconcile him to my choice.”

            “I do believe that,” Finrod said. “And I believe he will appreciate the invitation.”

            “Then it will be done.”

            “Good.” Plucking a blade of grass and rolling it between his fingers, Finrod turned his gaze again towards the sun, some of its light just now settling behind the distant Ered Eglador in the west. “Now… have you given any thought to where you shall live?”

            “We had thought to find ourselves a place in Dor-lómin,” Orodreth answered. “Why?” For a while, Finrod did not answer, frowning pensively, as the shadows from Eglador stretched further across the plains.

            “You are aware, I think,” Finrod said slowly, “that Nargothrond is growing day by day.” Orodreth nodded, mystified. “I left the governance of Ladros to your uncle long ago, but maintained control of Minas Tirith, as I saw no reason why the two should compete with each other for my attention. Now even the lands for miles around Nargothrond are included under my rule, and I find that I have little time to spare for my outpost to the north.” He paused, glanced sternly at Orodreth, and added, “An oversight which the Eldar can ill-afford, considering what it watches over.” Orodreth nodded slowly, feeling his uncle’s frown curl his own lips.

            Suddenly, Finrod heaved a sigh, tossing the blade of grass into the Narog. It whirled end over end, a ship without a captain, before it vanished in the leaping silver. “My heart is ill at ease,” he confessed. “I fear it will be until I have an able warden set over Tol Sirion.”

            “Have you given any thought to whom you would entrust it?” Orodreth asked, folding his legs into a bow as he leaned forward to confer with his uncle. A grin twitched across Finrod’s face, slightly rueful.

            “I had thought to offer it to you and your wife,” he confessed. “But I fear you have confounded me in your rather admirable habit of thinking ahead.” Orodreth sat back, searching for the joke that must be forthcoming, and feeling more baffled every second it delayed.

            “Truly?” he probed at last, when Finrod made no move to speak. Finrod smiled sadly, and Orodreth had a sudden vision of himself through his uncle’s eyes: full-grown and yet to claim his place as a prince of the Noldor. He found he could not resent Finrod’s pity as much as he would like, for even Celebrimbor had his growing talents in the forge to distinguish him as a Fëanorion, while all Orodreth had to show for his time in Ennor was his betrothal. It wasn’t something he thought of consciously, but he often caught himself measuring his achievements to those of his peers, and almost always came up lacking.

            “If you would have it, I would give it to you,” Finrod answered gently.

            “If you truly think me equal to the task—”

            “More than equal.”

            “I will have to discuss it with Laegalad,” Orodreth said, brow furrowed in thought. “But I can see no reason why she would not find it agreeable.”

            “Excellent,” Finrod exclaimed, and the last light of the setting sun glowed warm over his smile.

Chapter End Notes

  1. The People of Middle-earth mentions that Finrod’s family addressed him by his mother-name, Ingoldo. His abandonment of it when he chose his Sindarin name seemed indicative to me of a fundamental difference in the way Finrod conceived himself and the way his family conceived him.

  2. Orodreth’s name: Hoo boy. Apparently Tolkien couldn’t figure out what he wanted from this kid. He started out with Artaresto/Rodreth (which Orodreth changed to ‘Orodreth’ himself, because he loves mountains) and then, late in the game, became Artaher/Arothir. However, it is likely that Tolkien would have kept Orodreth, even though it wasn’t precisely the correct translation of Orodreth’s Quenya name. I’ve tried to work all of that in to my Orodreth, and the only thing I’m missing is Artaresto… maybe it can be his mother name? (Artaher Artaresto sounds stupid~)

  3. The Ered Eglador is the unnamed chain of mountains at the head of the river Nenning (I named them).

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