Summer's End by oshun

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Warmth Is Behind Us, Cold Lies Ahead

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People crowded close against Fingon on all sides, in the passageway and upon stairs leading to the egress from the great hall onto the cliffs at the south side of the castle. Fingon and his party received less jostling than most, perhaps in respect for their rank, but the press of people made progress slow and difficult.

All around Fingon everyone chattered in rapid Sindarin, making it that much easier for him to pick out the voices of his family members speaking among themselves with the softer consonants of their native tongue, tinged with the inimitable drawl of the most privileged among the Noldor. The mood of expectation that evening, exciting and full of promise, seemed not to move his kinsmen as strongly as it affected the Sindarin residents of Barad Eithel.

He heard Aredhel say, “This is the day that the sun starts to wane, the day of dousing the old fires and lighting a new one to last us throughout the winter,” sounding uncharacteristically a bit like their father had in the hall. Her tone might be interpreted as a tad less from the heart perhaps, but still with a tinge of insistence. “Summer’s End is a bigger celebration of community here than Midsummer’s Day or even the coming of Spring. We do it together as a people to show that we can turn to one another for succor and protection throughout the dark half of the year.” Ah, the royal “we,” he thought, controlling a developing snort.

Maglor was less judicious. “Aha! Gone native she has!” he said, his expansive voice carrying. “You really know this stuff, don‘t you, Irissë?”

“Don’t be such a bigoted twat, Macalaurë,” she said, laughing and punching him in the arm.

“No! No! I love these expositions of Silvan practice,” he said, suddenly earnest. “I truly do. I’m writing them all down. Just ask Nelyo! He’s seen my notes.”

“Not Silvan, Sindarin. For a start, you need to learn that. Although they may overlap, they are distinct.” Fingon thought that his sister’s voice, always husky for a woman, sounded more dangerous and deeper than normal, or maybe that was his own projection from past experience.

The crimson afterglow of the early sunset still lingered on the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful evening. Perfect for the bonfire. Fingon slipped his hand through the crook of Maedhros’ elbow, pulling him closer as they walked. “I love having you and Macalaurë here. I even enjoy listening to Irissë bicker with him. We never appreciated how good it was to live so near to one another the way we all did in Tirion. Even after I lived away from home, I saw all of my extended family at least once or twice a week. And some of you far more.” He did not even try to hold back a melancholy sigh, but did smile up into Maedhros’ beautiful face to lessen the impact.

“I wish Tyelpo could have come with us. He misses Irissë something fierce.” Maedhros lowered his eyelids and stuck out his lower lip, a gesture of blatant flirtation. He stepped to the side to lean against the inside wall of the keep, allowing people to surge by them. “Irissë! Irissë!” he called.

“I’m right here, Russo. What?”

“Tyelpo gave me a message for you. I keep waiting for a private moment. It was a discreet message, for you alone. But it never seems to get quieter around here.”

“Don’t torture me now that you’ve raised it. Tell me!”

“That he loves you and he misses you, of course. He wondered if you would or could consider coming north for the winter. He promises that he can keep you warm, fed, and entertained until springtime.”

“He is soul of discretion, isn’t he?” The affection in her voice indicating that she would not want Celegorm to be any other way that his usual tactless self. “I should go visit him. I really should. I ought to have made that a bargaining point for accompanying Turvo.”

“Is it too late?” Fingon asked.

“Perhaps not,” she answered. “We haven’t talked about the details. I’ll need to think of how to present a northern trip idea to Atar and Turvo. Let’s move down farther from the doorway. We have plenty of time. They will not start without us.”

The lad Dolduin approached their little group. He colored and nodded respectfully, before addressing himself to Idril. “My lady, may I speak with you for a moment, please?”

“Oh, all right,” she answered. She looked less than enthusiastic, but allowed him to pull her aside. Back in just a minute looking happier again, she skipped over to Maedhros and Fingon, squirming to insert herself between them, she called back after him, “I’ll meet you below later and we can dance all night.”

“Everything all right?” Maedhros asked.

“Oh, he wanted me to walk down the cliff to the riverbank with him, but I told him I need to talk to my favorite uncle. Do you mind terribly if I steal him away for a little while?” she asked Maedhros.

“Of course not,” he answered. “But how do we get to the bottom? Do we have to scramble down cliff-side through all the rocks and brush?”

“Wait a few minutes until the press of people clears a little,” Aredhel said. “There’s a wooden staircase over there,” she pointed toward a particular dense cluster of revelers, “but it’s only wide enough for three or four people abreast.”

“Let’s go now, uncle,” said Idril, tugging at Fingon’s arm. “We can meet them by the bonfire. I want a few minutes alone with you. There is a measure of privacy in a crowd.”

They allowed themselves to melt into the crush and be swept along toward the stairs. “So, poor Dolduin looked crestfallen.”

“Don’t mind him. He does that a lot. It’s quite deliberately manipulative. He knows I will spend most of the evening dancing with him. But he always wants more. Apparently, I did not dance with him enough last night after supper. I spent half the afternoon with him!”

“You are a hard young lady.”

“Not really. I do so like him and I’ve explained that to him. He is not The One for me. He thinks he wants me, but I am not what he really wants or needs. You can imagine the kind of poems that inspire him. ‘Come live with me and be my love . . . ‘” She gave her golden curls a dramatic toss. Fingon couldn’t resist laughing at her cruel honesty. “Of course, I know all the love poems. Isn’t that the one that has the part that goes like this,

‘And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals’?”

“Just so,” she said, with a determined upward jerk of her chin. “It’s all romantic idealism for him. Life is harder. He apparently does not retain lessons of harsh experience.”

“Precious girl! And what makes you believe that there cannot be true sentiment behind those kinds of pretty words?”

“For one thing, the enchantment of love has to go two ways or it’s not true magic but illusion. I do believe in romantic love. Look at you and Maitimo. Oh, my!” She sighed theatrically, grinning up at him. “I want a love like that. He thinks he wants me, but what he really wants is a nice, quiet girl with a normal family. I want someone who really knows me--someone who can see the bad as well as the good, and will recognize the terrible odds against any of this turning out well and love me despite that.”

They finally reached the steps and the going grew easier. Several more steps and the stairs curved, allowing a view of the sandy stretch of the riverbank. The wooden staircase built into the side of the cliff was cleverly camouflaged from the other side of the river by the trees and underbrush which hid its curves and switchbacks.

“Maybe when Doldurin grows up at bit he will turn more cynical and you can learn to love the poor lad.”

“Don’t be silly that is not what I meant. Anyway, it’s too late. I’m going with Atto to Nevrast and he should never leave you and your horse archers. And he shouldn’t be asked to either! He loves what he does with you.” She looked up at Fingon startled. “You do know about Nevrast, don’t you? I mean . . . I know Atto hasn’t told you yet. But . . . ”

“Don’t worry. I found out and he will tell me soon enough.” She smiled up at him with a self-deprecating shrug and sigh of relief. “But, Itarillë, about young Doldurin, might something have encouraged him?”

“No! I might have flirted a little before I realized how deadly serious he is about everything.” The thought crossed his mind that either she truly had no desire for the lad or it wasn’t in her nature. Or perhaps it was only that he had pressed his suit upon her too early and too hard.

“You are of age. So, you’ve never wanted to make love with a lad? Fëanáro and Nerdanel already had children at your age, at least the two oldest ones. Maybe Tyelkormo also.”

“Things were different there. Everyone was safe and freer to move about. I know I am overprotected. It rankles at times. But even I can see it from Atto’s perspective. Can’t you?”

He laughed. “Definitely. I think if I ever have a child I would want to move them as far away from here as I could! Maybe farther than Nevrast even. But you are no longer a child. Parents have to learn when to let go also.”

“I think Atto might have been a lot different if we had not lost Amma. Uncle Finno, Do you remember much about my Amil?” Idril asked, her voice turning smaller and younger.

“Of course, I do,” Fingon said, searching her face for a clue to her thoughts and finding little. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but, even with her change of mood, she did not look despondent. She might be like her mother in that way also; unlike the rest of them, Elenwë could feel sadness without turning every incident into an epic tragedy. “None of us could ever forget her.  She was funny, smart, and generous, and loved you and your father very much. At a time in my life when I was terribly unhappy, she was kinder to me than anyone else, bar none, and not at all judgmental.” He groaned aloud at the memory of his own histrionics and then chuckled. “When everyone was sick and tired of being around me, Elenwë would still listen and talk to me. Even defend me at times.”

Idril laughed and grasped his upper arm with both hands, resting her head against his shoulder. “It is hard for me to imagine you being unhappy, Uncle Finno.  You always seem to be the jolliest person in this entire family. I mean, I do know you must have been miserable then. Even Atto talks of when you and Maitimo were estranged and how hard that was for you. But tell me more about Amil.”

“She was an incredible dancer!” he said, thinking she could have done it in the theater if she had not been from a Vanyarin noble house. Her family would have been appalled at that idea. “She loved to dance. When I was watching you last night I thought of Elenwë. You definitely inherited that gift from her. And you have her eyes and her cheekbones.” He did not want to tell her that she was lovelier than her mother, but she was. The Finwëan blood mixed with Elenwë’s fresh prettiness had created an astonishingly beautiful young woman in Idril. “You have her nose also. Thank the Powers that the Finwëan nose skipped you!”

“Stop!” she said, giggling, standing on tiptoes to give him an impudent little peck of a kiss on the end of his nose. “I adore your nose! It adds character.”

“That’s what they all say.” He made an exaggeratedly mournful pout, playing for a laugh. She indulged him, as he knew she would. “Well, your mother had a perfectly lovely face. If she wasn’t smiling, she always looked as though she might at any moment, and she usually did.”

“Poor Atto. He is serious much too much of the time. Less so this week. He seems happier since you arrived.”

“Maybe he is getting better finally,” Fingon said, thinking that he had also noticed that Turgon had seemed a lot more cheerful over the past two days. “But he wasn’t always such a grouch. Oh, obviously he was more serious than me.” That won him another girlish chuckle. “Elenwë teased him a lot and could even make him laugh at himself.”

 “Oh, I do remember trying to fall asleep in my bed in our house in Tirion and hearing them talking in the parlor. I recall a lot of laughing. They always sounded like they were having a marvelous time and there I was stuck in bed, unable to fall asleep, and missing all of the fun.” She looked wistful again. “Sometimes I am afraid I will forget her. And I don’t like to ask Atto, because it makes him sad.”

 “You’ll never forget her. I think about Elenwë when I am around you. Next time I remember something, I will tell you. That is a promise.”

The sound of drums and murmur of voices reached them from the riverbank below. They could see a massive pyramid of logs and dry branches silhouetted against the last fading light of a swiftly darkening turquoise sky. High above the towering fir trees on the jagged cliffs on the other side of the river, the first evening star winked at them.

A sharp high trill on a flute quieted the sounds of conversation and the hitherto random drum beats coalesced into a steady rhythm. A boy’s clear, strong soprano echoed up the hillside. The lad clearly had training, every syllable rang clear and distinct. “Warmth is behind us, cold lies ahead.” The effect was thrilling, a thing of natural beauty. The crowd clustered around the bonfire site answered him with the same words with a slight variation of melody on the last few notes.

Idril clapped her hands together and giggled. “Ah, it’s the ‘Autumn Equinox Song!’ Atto hates it. He says it’s lewd!”

He had missed the first words of the second line, but they ended with “. . . keep me warm in my cold bed.” Fingon threw his head back, laughing. Poor Turgon, always good for a laugh.

“I know!” said Idril. “Ai, poor Atto! Maybe he needs someone to keep him warm!”

A sense of peaceful, gentle joy washed over Fingon. He loved this land, his family, and the people they had found here, and felt comfortable with the honest unpretentious customs of the Sindar of Hithlum. He was happy to finally have decided to spend this holiday here this year, especially to have Maitimo with him. He glanced up the path behind them, spotting his sister near the top of the staircase, glowing in the dusk in her white dress, arm-in-arm between the two Feanorian brothers, brighter than he had seen her in a very long while also. Summer was ending, but the winter’s cold would be tempered by the warmth of comradeship and love.

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The bits of the poem above are from The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, written by the young Christopher Marlowe.