Keeping Watch by Lferion

Keeping Watch

Read Keeping Watch

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Fingon walked the bounds of the festive encampment of the Grand Tournament held every twelve years as twilight fell over the broad meadow. Fires were springing up in fire-pits, in braziers and stone rings, lamps and torches and lanterns, warm reflections of the white stars glimmering into view above. A tent awaited him with a comfortable bed, a seat by a fire, a bowl, a plate, a cup fit to his hand, ready to be filled with mead or wine or aicalissë (1), or plain sweet water, as he pleased, and he would return there presently, but not just yet. He wanted — needed — to walk, to understand or at least observe more of this thing, this place, ephemeral and lively, sprung up in a day. And beside that, to know himself where the edges of the camp were set, that they were safe.

Fingon remembered camps in Araman, on the way North. People gradually organizing themselves into groups, pooling resources, helping each other. Family groups, craft-companions, Hunt-companions, friends. Leaders emerged, for groupings smaller than the followers of Princes (and Princesses: Aunt Írimë and Artanis and Írissë had their own followers as much as their brothers had) or craft-masters. Anyone who had ridden in Oromë’s Hunt for longer than a single excursion found themselves sought out for their knowledge, as did those who had ventured widely in exploration. There had been the great camp, essentially a short-term city, when they realized they would have to assay the Ice, and must-needs prepare more specifically and thoroughly than anyone had thought, leaving the temperate vale of the Calacirya.

There had been war-camps in Beleriand, purposeful and deadly serious, as well as full of song and camaraderie. There had been the Mereth Aderthad.

This tournament camp was, oddly — or perhaps not — most like that.

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Tournament camping in Valinor, in this later Age was nothing at all like war camp, travel camp, purposeful hunt camp. In many ways it was not unlike court, though the rituals were different. Who had the best displays, the spaces close to the competition and fighting fields. Whose tents were the prettiest, the most elegant, the most cleverly arranged. Whose fire pit was the most welcoming, which bards had the best songs of the day’s events, whose mead and beer and flavored infusions were most worthy of consumption and praise. There were crafts and arts and classes and all manner of entertainment, and remarkably comfortable beds to retire to with or without company at the end of the evening. Camping furniture had become an art in and of itself.

There were some things that were very much the same — late night fires reducing to coals, and the conversations around them, the brilliant stars, burning overhead unreachably high and far, however beloved. The phases of the Moon, sun set, sun rise painting the horizon with reds and golds and purples, still startling, still new even all these ages later. (Though one of the marked differences was how there was no threat in the coming of night, no Shadowed creatures to ward and defend against.) And the sense of people living close, separated only by cloth walls, poles and ropes and agreements. And there was, both different and the same, the presence of certain people, without the ever present possibility of loss, of separation, of machinations of the Black Foe or any other great enemy.

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Fingon had been specifically invited to participate in this event — and with nothing better or more pressing to do, not to mention the unsubtle suggestion that it would be politically wise to attend, to show not merely acceptance, but active approval of the idea — he had decided to accept. He had perused the listed schedule of events, assessing what he ought (and ought not) participate in, decided what tournaments he would like to enter, and which he would like to watch, what gear he should bring, what skills he might like to reacquaint himself with. It was pleasant to plan this way, with no louring, deadly necessity shadowing every decision. There were classes and craft-exhibits, cooking competitions — several types, food and feasting an entire strand of the learning-schedule. The performing arts schedule was as busy as the others. One could fill every hour with something new, assuming one could find the various locations. Presumably that would be easier to do once things had been set up. Perhaps there would be a map. Slowly he began to look forward to the thing. Even if there were yet some who had not yet Returned to enjoy it with him.

The Mereth Aderthad had been joyous, boisterous, filled with song and games and tales of mighty feats, embroidered or entirely true. There had been mead and merriment, friendly (and not quite so friendly) competitions and showcases and challenges in nearly everything imaginable, planned and impromptu and worked out on the fly. (Though very little in the way of melee-fighting. Very little of war at all, with much variety of sport.) There had been weddings, even begettings. But there was also always a Watch, patrolling the perimeter, alert, aware, throughly armed. The safest summer in all the long siege, yet still not safe to be heedless. Everyone knew where they were, what lay to the North, the malice unceasing, unsleeping.

This festival too had those joyful things, and if rather more planning and outright building had gone into the displays and competitions, and games and races and blunt-weapon tournaments, well they had nothing but time and all the resources they could wish for. But the general event Watch here was far more concerned with the wrangling of misplaced belongings, the herding of wandered children and those befuddled with over-indulgence. There was no menace to the North (or South or East or any other direction) to cast a shadow on the proceedings, and those who walked the bounds at night had every one lived in Ennore.

And he should know, being one of those watch-keepers. And if his watch allowed another's rest, lover's comfort, friend's enjoyment, then that was purpose well served, more than decorative performance on the tourney-field, though there was purpose in that as well, if it could bring gatherings like this together. Show that martial art could be, was, art, and not only-ever-always violence, brutality, a manifestation of the Marring, useful and condoned only in opposition to other, more malevolent manifestations. Fingon shook his head, stopping that line of thought. That only ever went unhappy places. Someday, he hoped, he would have that conversation with Maedhros, but that was not now.

He leaned on the fence rail that marked the boundary between the camping field and the horse pasture, watching the peaceful animals dozing, sleeping, grazing, enjoying each other's company. Celegant and Lintesúrë ambled over to him, nosing him affectionately, lipping at his hair. He had forgotten to bring any treats with him, but they forgave him. There was to be an exhibition of riding, demonstrating — showing off — some of the things a horse and rider could do together tomorrow afternoon. Fingon would be sure to bring treats then. And if he was to be at his best for that, he should make his way back to the snug tent and comfortable bed awaiting him.

He would finish his circuit of the perimeter first, though. Making sure all was as it should be in this not so small canvas city under the stars.

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(1) Sekanjabin, a drink made with honey, vinegar and water, originating in ancient Persia | Iran. Oxymel is Latin for a similar if not identical drink. Both names mean sharp (acid, vinegar)-sweet (honey). Aicalissë is intended to mean 'sharp-sweet' in Quenya the same way.

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