Summer's End by oshun

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O for a Muse of Fire

“Someone should write a history,” said Theron dreamily, “a secret history—someone should ask him, or it will all be lost.”

His mother dealt him a sharp look. “Some things are meant to be lost. History is for knowing wisdom, not gossip.” --The Fall of The Kings, Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman.

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Down by the riverside, in the deepening twilight the drummers began with a low rolling rumble not unlike that of an approaching summer storm. Erestor had thought for a moment that the sound was thunder. His eyes sought and found the drums, much larger than the biggest ones that had been used in the Great Hall the night before. The largest ones near the bonfire required tall, strong men standing behind each drum to play them. The low sounds of the big drums fell gradually into a commanding rhythm, the kind one can feel in one’s bones. Then smaller drums picked up the beat, echoing at first, before overwhelming it with their higher, quicker tattoo.

The melody, if it could be called that, and Erestor decided it should be, was carried by the high drums, until their deep tones faded into the background. He recalled the style from the earliest festivals at Lake Mithrim, wholly northern Sindarin. Familiar and beloved to him now, it had been exotic to the point of difficult at first. Erestor decided that anyone who called this drumming primitive had no musical sense and less taste.

The scent of the riverbank was redolent of both leaf rot and fresh running water, of a faint fishy odor and mud, but surprisingly the combination of those odors was not in the least unpleasant. He glanced about the gathering crowd and spotted Turgon standing near the pyramid painstakingly constructed of rough-hewn logs, planks, and dry branches to which the final touches were being added. Workers pushed and kicked at it testing it for stability.

Parents shooed the younger children well away from the proximity of the soon-to-be-lit bonfire. They herded them at last into a circle of their companions and guardians where they would be kept safe and entertained.  

Pointing to the towering structure, Turgon furrowed his brow, intent upon some additional detail, and continued giving directions to its architects. His demeanor was confident and authoritative.  He greeted nobles among the Noldor vying for his attention with a quick hand clasp, before turning to bow in welcome to a group Sindarin elders. Erestor rarely concerned himself with politics outside of his own bailiwick of Himring Hill. He had never really wondered what role Turgon played here at the fortress at Eithel Sirion. But watching him now, he decided that perhaps Fingolfin’s second son did need his own realm.

He recalled some of the words, oft repeated among the lords of the Noldor in those first few days out of Tirion along the road to Alqualondë, like ‘limitless unclaimed lands’ and ‘realms of our own’ and, of course, always ‘independence’ and ‘self-determination.’ Well, the lands here were vast, although neither limitless nor unclaimed. Yet the intrepid princes of his people had found many allies among those who struggled to maintain and protect their peoples against the threat of the Dark Lord in the north far from Melian the Maia’s protected enclave to the south of them.

It rankled still amongst the High Princes of the Noldor that the greatest among the leaders they found in place, Elu Thingol, who called himself King of all the Eldar in Middle-earth, was not yet amenable to negotiation. Others were eager, if the numbers of Sindar assimilated into the cotidian reality of Fingolfin’s communities around Lake Mithrim and the fortress at Eithel Sirion were any indication. 

Further afield, realms were already being staked out among Maedhros’ brothers and his cousins of the House of Finarfin and they developed relations with the scattered settlements of Sindar they encountered as well. No one envied the Feanorians Maedhros’ Himring or the strategic mountain pass which was now popularly called Maglor’s Gap, he thought laughing to himself. But he loved Himring. It was not as people said ‘ever cold.’ There was nothing quite like spring in the mountains. True, winters were long and cold, but their halls were well-insulated and their fires warm.

Maedhros was driven, not greedy at all but strategic. Meanwhile, Finrod, for all of his appearance of good-natured generosity, had grabbed the largest spread of lands of any of his compatriots. Erestor liked Finrod, influenced he admitted by his breathtaking beauty and doubtless his own boyhood infatuation with his father. He sincerely hoped that the fairest of the Noldor, as Finarfin’s eldest was often called, had not bitten off more than he could chew. Maedhros and Fingon, who loved Finrod as a kinsman and friend--and at times Erestor had wondered if there was maybe more to their close ties--took great interest in his security which caused them to shake their head at what they called the ‘logistical nightmare’ of defending his far-flung territory.

Their interlude here at Barad Eithel had brought Erestor surprises. Not the least of which was Turgon. He continued to study him as though he were a puzzle to solve. Turgon smiled and laughed, for a brief moment showing his strong resemblance to his merrier elder brother. Chin aloft, shoulders back, Turgon’s eyes again narrowed in serious intent as he spoke to those whom Erestor assumed he would take to Nevrast as his own oath-sworn lords.

Turgon needed to be out from under the close observation of his father. Fingolfin had quickly earned acclaim after the reunification as a High King worthy of the post not simply by blood but by merit. And Erestor could even more easily imagine how Turgon must feel, tied to this fortress by administrative tasks, forced to watch his brother, flamboyant and popular, lauded in tale and song with near-adoration for his boldness, valor, and ferocity.

Yet what did they say of Turgon? Praise not unlike that which Erestor himself received in Himring—that he was a good administrator, or, by those less fond of Turgon, as they used to call bureaucrats in Tirion, a bean counter. Of course, Erestor, unlike Turgon, had, through determination and diligence, won a position beyond his expectations and birth.
 
But Turgon could never be expected to be content to be called an able assistant or an excellent organizer of small but important details, or his father’s diligent right-hand. That position had to be even less attractive compared to Fingon’s role--the elder brother and heir haring about sword-in-hand providing material for ever new adulatory songs. Turgon needed to leave Barad Eithel. Erestor could see that. And he had confessed to Erestor the previous night his dreams of building a fair city, not unlike Tirion. Turgon had waxed eloquent about his concepts of governance and security, his ideas for economic growth. The more Erestor thought about it, the more he was convinced that Maedhros and Fingon would come to understand that Turgon needed room to grow, as much or more than any of the rest of his peers, and also freedom from their shadows.
           
A loud whoop went up as the first torches were put to bonfire. Maglor and Maedhros joined Erestor. “Have you seen Káno?” Maedhros asked, just as Fingon approached him from behind and tickled him about his waist, earning a squeak and a giggle from Maedhros the Stern.

“I’m right here. I think I left Itarillë a little happier,” he said.

“You’re good at that,” Maedhros responded, with a contented sigh. “What did she need?”

“A little reassurance. She misses Eärwen. Or, more like, she worries she does not miss her enough.”

Turgon suddenly arrived out of nowhere. He raised his hand as though to put it upon Erestor’s shoulder but let it drop. “Who misses whom?”

“According to Findekáno, your daughter misses her mother,” said Erestor.

“Oh, I dare say she does. Perhaps I can do better for her than I have done.” He exhaled heavily. “Where’s Atar? He needs to throw the papers onto the fire before it gets too hot to get close enough. The wind is picking up.”

At that moment, Fingolfin strode toward the bonfire, the crowd parting to give him a clear path. He held a large basket on one shoulder of the type that farmers in Valinor used for apple harvest. And with no fanfare at all, he raised the basket above his head and tipped its contents onto the bonfire. The scraps of paper and parchment mostly reached the fire, although a huge gust of wind caught a few and sent then fluttering backwards. The crowd shrieked in unison and people scrambled after the loose notes to toss them into the flames.

“Well, that was unexpectedly ill-planned,” Fingon said laughing.

Maedhros guffawed. “Especially, after all of the tedious instructions and explanations over the last two days.” One single white scrap of paper winged its way toward them and Maedhros reached out with a long arm and captured it.

Fingon snatched it from him. “It’s fate!” he yelled. “I think we are supposed to read it. Listen to this, “’My bed is cold without my wife’—oh, sounds like that song from last night!”

“Give me that!” Turgon snatched the note from his hand. “Those are private. Have you no respect?” He marched off and tossed the slip of paper well into the bonfire. He stood there watching the fire consume it. If one could look angry from the back, Turgon did, neck and shoulders stiff, visibly huffing.

“What did it say?” Maedhros whispered, sounding uncannily like Celegorm.

“You heard my brother. It’s private! Have a little respect!” Fingon chortled. “It said, ‘I had carnal relations with a man.’ It was written in a terrible hand.”

“That’s all?”

“Not exactly. There as more to it than that, but he snatched away before I could decipher the rest. It was written in poorly conjugated Sindarin. The way a lot of our people speak it! Probably written with someone’s left hand also—execrable handwriting. Maybe it belonged to Turvo. Ha!”

“So, you really do think stiff-necked Turvo has seriously loosened up recently?” Maedhros asked.

“Be quiet. You two are evil,” Erestor snapped. “Both of you are really so tedious about Turukáno!” He watched Turgon, whose shoulders had relaxed visibly. He turned around and walked back toward them smiling. He reached them before either Maedhros or Fingon could respond to Erestor, which was just as well he thought, feeling a little embarrassed at the intensity of his reaction.

“No harm done. But I have no idea what Atar was thinking,” Turgon said. “He should have been much more careful.”

“Probably thinking he wanted a drink and place to sit down!” Fingon laughed.

Just then, Idril screamed from the other side of the bonfire. “Atto! Bring Eressetor and let’s dance. You never dance with me. The best music is coming now. Uncle Macalaurë is going to play too!”

Turgon stiffened and then shrugged and shook his head. He really did not appreciate the ‘Uncle Macalaurë’ and ‘Uncle Nelyafinwë’ nomenclature, but he had finally accepted that it was an unworthy battle as well as a losing one.

Idril all but bounced in place with excitement. While, the young Dolduin, who had slung a possessive arm around her shoulders, only smiled and gazed down at her in wan resignation. The more often Erestor saw them together more obvious it was that the lad’s crush was fated to remain unrequited. He admired Idril for her self-confidence that allowed her to accept herself without the need for outside reassurance. So many like himself had lacked that at her age and sought flirtations and love affairs to relieve their youthful uncertainty. He laughed to himself, perhaps he still did that.

“Are you coming, Eressetor? You really have no choice. My daughter will not relent easily.”

“Of course I’m coming. I love to dance. I hadn’t really thought you would be much of a dancer. You didn’t dance last night.”

“Last night I was distracted,” Turgon said, laughing and pulling him by the arm around the end of the blazing bonfire to the side nearer the water where those eager to dance had gathered.

Idril’s face and hair glowed orange-red in the light of the bonfire. The threatened rain had blown over and the sky spread out dark and clear above the mountains. A beautiful harvest moon, as the Sindarin farmers had taken to calling that phase of the moon at this time of the year, shone down upon their gathering--a perfect circle of light, looking near and solid enough that one felt as though one could reach out and touch it.

Aredhel had folded her long white skirt up to the waist and tucked it under her belt to make dancing easier. Both women were shod in solid riding boots, appropriate to the rough riverbank and already caked with mud and sand.

At first one felt too hot from the heat of the bonfire but toward the end of the evening it began to grow a little chilly for comfort, even with all the dancing. Turgon had danced with his sister and his daughter a few times and once with the wife of one of his father’s oldest friends, although he seemed happier to watch the others dance. Fingon and Maedhros had visited their circle and danced for a short while.  Fingon danced with everyone. And Maedhros danced with Aredhel and Idril. Even the King had visited their little circle and took a turn once each with his daughter and granddaughter to a couple of the more sedate airs.

Maglor never took a single break. He was happy in his circle of fellow musicians. His newly found comrades took turns squirting drinks from a wine skin directly into his mouth, amidst a lot of laughing and shouting. Turgon told Erestor that Maglor had made a bet with the Sindarin flautist and her brother that he could outplay them all without stopping. No one doubted that he could, but it added to the merriment to watch the others try to keep up with him.

Finally, Maglor on the rebec, tipsy and raucous, but still masterful, brought along with him the few musicians on flutes and drums still standing in a rollicking and utterly untraditional version of the introductory chords to the north Sindarin Parting Song. An old favorite, which, in such a short while, had already been adopted universally throughout the exile communities as well. Erestor thought, wistful or even a little mawkish, that it would be the perfect time to leave, if only the person he had hoped would take him away had sought him out again.

Then, out of nowhere, to his happy surprise, his self-indulgent musing was interrupted by warm humid kiss on the back his neck and a strong arm slipping around his waist from behind. He caught his breath and focused his mind to the extent that he was able to continue to follow a lovely alto voice--perhaps the brother of the young flautist Maglor had befriended earlier--singing the last lines of the first verse.

But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all.¹

“Had enough for tonight or did you plan to stay out all night with die-hard dancers and drinkers?” whispered the one whose voice he had most longed to hear.
 
The tingle of the breathy words against his ear caused Erestor to shiver with anticipation and to release a quavering laugh before stuttering, “Depends upon my alternatives. Did you have something in mind?” Mocking himself in rueful silence, Erestor considered how easily his hope returned and rose--with the predictability of sap in the springtime.

“Will you come to bed with me again tonight?” his companion said, the ghost of a shy smile audible in his tone. He pulled them further under the convenient shelter of the branches of an adjacent willow tree and wetly kissed Erestor, such a thorough and hungry kiss. “I have felt happy all day thinking of you. For the first time in years . . . Oh, you make me feel young again. I promise I won’t torture you with any more confessions or sad stories tonight.”

“You can always talk about anything you want to with me. Just do not speak like you are one of the ancient ones. I even have a few years on you. I do remember well when you were born.”

“People tell me I am old for my years. But, ah, Eressetor, you are the epitome of unfading youth and beauty, and bring such promise of heat and pleasure. I cannot even explain what you do to me.” In most cases such words might have felt stiff or even trite, but not from him of all people, especially not with the quality of his voice, so thrillingly deep and caressing. In that moment, they came across as neither to Erestor. He kissed Erestor’s neck again and then sucked on his earlobe.

“Oh, don’t do that! Please, wait,” Erestor gasped, already painfully hard.  “I cannot think of anything I would rather do than go to bed with you. Right now.” Thank god for randy widowers and estranged husbands, he thought, without them I would spend far more nights alone.

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1 The Parting Glass, Irish traditional song.