From the Heights, Such Light and Air by sallysavestheday

From the Heights, Such Light and Air

Read From the Heights, Such Light and Air

The wind on the mountain is cool and dry; it sucks the moisture from Turgon’s mouth and nose as he struggles up the slope after his father, chest heaving to make the most of the thinning air. He wants to call out, to ask Fingolfin to wait – the stones are sharp and he is afraid of a fall, of tumbling doll-like down among the rocky knives to an uncertain end. But his breath is so constrained that he fears he would not even be able to scream if the ground slid away beneath him.

He imagines his father turning, smiling, to share some small discovery from among the stones, and finding only silence and the rising dust where he had been. His eyes well up, and his feet slip on the scree as the path Fingolfin has been following blurs through the sheen of his tears.

He has borrowed boots from Fingon, who is always equipped for adventure, but although Turgon is nearly his brother’s height, his frame is still childish and bony, and his toes and ankles cannot fill out Fingon’s shoes. He knows he looks ridiculous, struggling uphill in his over-heavy pack and too-large boots, graceless and gasping and red in the face. Aredhel would be leaping over the rocks like a mountain goat; Fingon would be soaring. That his father chose him, of all of them, to join him on this trek bewilders him. Fonder of libraries than of landscapes, he knows he is not good company, out here under the dome of the sky.

His ankle turns on a loosened stone and he falls, hard. Not, as he had feared, careening down the side of the mountain, but awkwardly enough to be bruising. The tears that have been threatening overtake him, and he crumples into a heap, curled around his sore knees, blind to the fine, clear light and the brilliant air and the singing of the birds in the vaults above him. He wishes bitterly that he were back in Tirion, not spoiling Fingolfin’s rare holiday with his blundering and his tears. Perhaps if he closes his eyes and imagines hard enough, the miserable mountain will simply disappear.

He is panting and grimacing and wishing so fiercely that he startles when his father’s hand finds his shoulder and Fingolfin crouches next to him, questioning. “Are you hurt, Turno? Here, give me your pack and let me see.” His hands are gentle and patient as he unburdens Turgon and feels his ankles and his knees. “No harm done, I think, only too much, too fast. I’ve been hurrying you. But now is as good a time as any for a rest.”

Fingolfin wets a cloth for Turgon to wipe his face and passes him a waterskin without commenting on his tears. He settles them both against a curve of rock that warms their backs as they stretch their legs, and breaks a cake of lembas for them to share. Turgon tucks in against his father’s side and Fingolfin curls an arm around him, holding him close and warm as he nibbles and drinks and looks out, finally, into the glorious air.

They are nearly at the peak of the trail, and the mountain wall steps down below them, stone giving way to trees, clustering thicker and thicker until they spill into the grasses of a hidden valley. A river weaves through it, catching the light as it trips its way across the shallow stones. The valley’s bowl is full of flowers, blue and red and yellow against the green, dancing to the song of the breezes that tumble from where Turgon sits with his toes in their oversize boots framing the view. It is beautiful, after all the sweating and the fear, and Turgon laughs with the pleasure of it, the delightful surprise.

Fingolfin deposits a pile of pebbles between them: white and rosy and marbled in a range of colors from black to blue to grey. As they bake in the warmth of the circling stone, he points out their differences in strength and purpose: this for walls, this for flooring, this for delicately crafted fountains, springing up to sparkle against the light. Turgon’s interest is piqued, and they lay out fanciful plans for palaces and libraries and parks, giggling as the designs grow more and more absurd.

Turgon is warm and happy in the softened air and his father’s loving company. A hawk spirals over them, calling, and he tosses the last of his lembas upward with a laugh. The bird dives; its talons close on the offering. A gold glance pierces him. The fierce wings pulse once, twice, then it is gone, dancing back into the sky.

Turgon remembers that distant afternoon as Thorondor clears the peaks of the Echoriath and banks away, the mournful beat of his wings echoing the drum of Turgon’s shattered heart.

Fingolfin's hand is cold in his; the High King's blood stains the stones where his broken body lies. The graceful city of Turgon’s imagination fills the valley behind them, but his father will never see it with living eyes.