Home Is Behind by grey_gazania

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Chapter 1

"Bedtime, mírë," Fingon said, scooping his daughter up and resting her on his hip. He grinned as the girl giggled and caught her hand in the back of his tunic. "I'll tuck you in," he continued. "You have an early morning, and Nana needs to finish packing."

 

Ianneth flashed him a quick smile in thanks and embraced them both, kissing Ereiniel on the cheek. "Goodnight," she said.

 

"'Night, Nana," Ereiniel answered, leaning her head against Fingon's shoulder. Ianneth turned back to the bed as they left the room, where she had been sorting out and folding the clothes she would need to bring to Eglarest. She absently smoothed a wrinkle from her marriage quilt and considered the piles before her. The heaviest clothes, she knew, could be left behind – the Falas had milder winters than Mithrim – but she would need her warm wool cloak for at least part of the journey. That she would wear; the lighter one would need to be packed, but it hadn't been in the chest with her other summer clothes. She frowned and went to the second chest, wondering if it had been mixed in with Fingon's clothing by mistake.

 

She opened the carved lid and inhaled, savoring the cedar-wood's aroma. It wasn't folded on top with Fingon's cloak, so she lifted the stack of garments out to lay it on the bed. As she set it down, something crinkled under her hand and fell to the floor with a rustle of parchment. She bent, retrieved the small pile of papers, and went to put them back in the chest, but froze, the blood draining from her face.

 

Three letters, written in a slightly smudged hand that she knew – of course she knew it; Fingon received enough missives from his cousin that she'd have to be a fool not to recognize it. She squinted at the tengwar, but they were incomprehensible, written in the Noldor's mother-tongue. 

 

The letters would have been innocuous enough if not for the lurid drawings that accompanied them. She gaped for a moment before dropping the letters back into the chest, and crumpled the sketches in her fist, flushing with both embarrassment and anger. It explained everything - the daring rescue, the tension between the cousins at their wedding, Fingon's moodiness surrounding his trips to Himring, and his excessive efforts to make up for his sullenness after each trip home.

 

When he entered the room she rounded on him, trembling. "You vile, lying weasel!" she hissed, feeling her face heat as she threw the sketches at his feet. "How could you?"

 

He paled and hurriedly reached behind him to close the door. "Ianneth–"

 

"I want an answer!" she snapped, digging her nails into her palms and fighting back an anguished cry. "How could you do this to us? To me?"

 

"Ianneth, please–"

 

"No!" The tears came then, and she dashed at them angrily. "Are you so unhappy with me that you can't manage what every other wedded man in Arda does?" Fingon reached for her arm and she pulled away, snapping, "Don't touch me!"

 

He dropped his hand and briefly closed his eyes. "Ianneth, it wasn't about us," he said quietly. "Please believe me. It wasn't anything about you – I love you. It–"

 

"Why should I believe you now? You've been lying to me for nearly thirteen years." She wiped again at her eyes and pointed to the door. "Out. Get out! You can come back when I've finished packing."

 

"All right," Fingon said unsteadily, bending to pick up the sketches. "All right. I'll go, and then later we'll talk."

 

Ianneth kept her eyes on him until the door closed, and then sank down on the floor beside the bed, shaking, and pressed her face against their quilt to muffle her sobs. How could he betray her like this? How could she have misjudged him so badly?

 

After a time, she wiped her eyes on the quilt's blue edge and stood, taking deep breaths to calm herself enough to pack. She finally found the cloak folded in with Fingon's tunics, and finished sorting the other garments before retreating down the hall to Ereiniel's room. Thankfully, her daughter was asleep, and Ianneth settled carefully on the bed beside her, resolving not to cry again.

 

***********

 

To Fingon Fingolfinion, High King of the Noldor, greetings from your ally Círdan, Lord of the Falas.

 

Please accept my deepest sympathies on the death of your father. He was a brave and honorable man, and his loss is a great blow to the people of Beleriand. I pray that the Belain send you strength and comfort in your time of need.

 

Regarding your request of me: Lady Ianneth and young Ereiniel are welcome at the Falas, and rest assured that I will see to it that they are kept as safe from Bauglir’s malice as any of us can be. I assume that you wish for them to depart for Eglarest as soon as possible, and I am prepared to greet them whenever they arrive. My messenger can act as a guide for your men.

 

In the aftermath of Bauglir’s devastating attacks, I am more committed to our alliance than ever. If the people of Beleriand do not stand united against him, I fear we may be destroyed utterly. Know that I will gladly render any aid to you that is within my power to give.

 

May the Lord of the Breath of Arda bless you and keep you under the One,

 

Círdan

 

Fingon clenched the letter tightly in his fist as he paced in his study -- though it wasn’t truly his anymore, not since his father’s doomed, senseless assault on Morgoth. He was High King now, a position he had never wanted, and his place was at Barad Eithel, not his home in Hithlum. Still, he paced across the familiar carpet, feeling a headache building at his temples, and tried desperately to regain some control over his emotions.

 

Tomorrow morning, Ianneth and Ereiniel would leave Hithlum. They would be escorted to the relative safety of Eglarest by as many soldiers as he could spare, and he knew that his anxiety would not abate until he learned that they had arrived unharmed. It was for the best that they leave; he and Ianneth had agreed on that easily. Barad Eithel was on the front lines of the war against Morgoth, now more than ever, and the security of Hithlum, too, was precarious. More than once, Morgoth’s orcs and balrogs had very nearly breached the Ered Wethrin during the Dagor Bragollach. With the Noldor’s forces as weakened as they were, there was no guarantee that Hithlum would be able to hold out against another assault.

 

Ianneth and Ereiniel had to leave. But to send away his daughter, whom he treasured more than Arda itself, even if the separation was for her safety…

 

Fingon thought his heart might truly break.

 

And now Ianneth had discovered the shameful secret that he had long kept from her, and she was furious. He had tried to explain himself, to reassure her, but she had shut herself away in Ereiniel’s room and refused to speak to him. It seemed that his wife, the wise and steadfast woman he loved and relied on, would part from him in anger.

 

His father was dead, his people were scattered, and his family was crumbling before his eyes. He couldn’t bear it. Sinking into a chair, he tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears stinging beneath his eyelids.

 

Someone knocked on the door.

 

Fingon shoved himself to his feet, hoping against hope that Ianneth was the one who waited outside but knowing that it was unlikely to be so. Sure enough, when he opened the door he found Gurvadhor, not Ianneth, standing in the corridor.

 

“Everything is ready,” Gurvadhor said, as Fingon stepped aside to allow his captain to enter. “We should be able to leave at dawn with no delays.”

 

“Good.” He shut the door and gestured for Gurvadhor to sit before returning to his own chair, where he closed his eyes once more. “Will you promise me something, Gurvadhor?” he asked.

 

“Whatever you need, sire.”

 

“Don’t,” Fingon said, his eyes flying open as he shook his head. “We’ve been friends since we were children. Don’t stand on ceremony now.” High King or not, he didn’t want to be Gurvadhor’s sire, for they had shared skinned knees and mud pies in the bliss of Valinor, and he saw no reason to hold himself above someone who had grown up beside him and remained loyal through all the strife of the past few centuries.

 

Meeting Gurvadhor’s steady, grey gaze, he said, “I wouldn’t trust anyone but you to lead them to Eglarest. Please, swear you’ll keep them safe. That’s all I ask.”

 

“I’ll protect them with my life, Fingon,” Gurvadhor said, unhesitating. “I promise.”

 

“Thank you,” Fingon said, his voice hoarse. “We’ve lost so many – my father, my aunt, my cousins. I couldn’t bear it if any harm befell Ereiniel or Ianneth.”

 

“We’ll take them by the safest route,” Gurvadhor reassured his king, “and I will do all in my power to protect them.” But Fingon could see worry in Gurvadhor’s face, and when the man spoke again, his voice a little more gentle, he said, “Fingon, you need to sleep.”

 

“Sleep?”

 

“Yes,” Gurvadhor said. “Sleep. You arrived from Barad Eithel a mere two days ago, and you’ve been running yourself ragged trying to organize everything so quickly. I know for a fact that you only slept for a few hours last night, and not at all the night before. You need rest. You’ll be no good to your family or your people if you run yourself into the ground.”

 

Fingon had to admit, grudgingly, that Gurvadhor had a point. The question was, though – could he sleep? It was true that he’d slept only three or four hours the night before, but at least that had been with Ianneth beside him, her presence warm and comforting. He had missed her so much, these past seven months that he had spent leading his father’s forces in battle far away from home. Now she wouldn’t even look at him, and the worst part was, he knew she had every right to be angry.

 

If only she would let him explain.

 

But Gurvadhor was right. He needed to at least try to get some rest, even if he doubted that sleep would come easily. He stood, crossed the room, and clasped Gurvadhor by the forearms.

 

“Thank you, my friend,” Fingon said, “for being the voice of reason I needed to hear tonight.”

 

Gurvadhor gripped Fingon’s arms in return and said, “Someone has to. You’re our king, and you’re trying to do right by your family and by all the Noldor. Someone needs to look after the people who try to look after everyone else, and I’m glad to play that role for you.” Meeting Fingon’s eyes, he continued, “You’re doing the right thing, Fingon. I know sending them away is difficult and painful, but it’s the best way to keep them safe. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

 

If only that was the only thing I had to second-guess, Fingon thought. But he kept the words to himself.

 

“I’ll see you off at dawn,” he said instead.

 

Gurvadhor nodded and departed, and Fingon, with an aching heart, prepared himself to go to his cold and empty bed.

Chapter End Notes

Mírë (Q.) - jewel, treasure

 

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