Drunken Lullabies by Grundy

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Drunken Lullabies

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It had been a terrible day. But the sound of retching that greeted him as he reached the dubious sanctuary of his own rooms gave Findaráto notice that it was not yet over.

He should have sent for Gildor, had him brought to his study. Given him some minor clerical task or pretext of an errand. Anything to keep him busy and keep an eye on him. But he had been so busy that he had not stopped to think, and only when he had passed so many drunken tears on the way back to his rooms had he realized how the youth of Nargothrond have taken the news of the calamity in the north.

Even so, he’s not prepared for the sight of his son having found that even his natural tolerance for wine has its limits. (By the bottles, he can outdo Findaráto himself, and hold his own with Finno. But Tyelko would still drink him under the table. His heart aches at the thought that both of them may well be gone.)

Gildor has at least managed to not lose his stomach all over the floor, though Findaráto suspected Uncle Elu would be annoyed if he ever found out what use that vase had been put to. But despite his best efforts, the poor boy had made rather a mess of his clothes and face, and his abject slump against the cold stone of the wall couldn’t be in any way comfortable.

“Oh, yonya…”

Findaráto sighed, and tried to stave off tears himself. The shattered peace must seem even more calamitous to the children who had only known the long peace.

He shrugged out of his overtunic and used it to wipe his son’s face – eyes first, then the mess.

“I read the dispatch from Dorthonion,” Gildor mumbled. “Uncle Aiko and Uncle Ango…”

An indistinct sound that was definitely a sob ended that statement.

“I know, dear one, I know. But they would not want you to do yourself harm in your grief.”

“You could have been there, Atto.”

At least, that was what Findaráto knew the jumble of sounds that were not quite recognizable Quenya or Sindarin were meant to be.

“I could have, Gilya. But I wasn’t.”

Neither were you.

He could not bring himself to say the words aloud. His own death would be unfortunate. His son’s would be a tragedy beyond measure.

“Here, rinse your mouth out,” he said instead, pouring a cup of clear water. “And then a small sip, perhaps?”

That got a shake of the head, and a wordless certainty that it would only come right back up.

“A bit of lembas, then. Galadriel sent some just last week.”

Gildor has always preferred hers to anyone else’s. Findaráto suppressed a stab of grief that the boy had never had the chance to compare it to Emmë’s. Galadriel’s bread was very good, but it was not their mother’s.

Gildor nodded mournfully, nibbling cautiously at the bread when Findaráto brought it.

“Atto, you’re going north, aren’t you?” he asked quietly after a few moments of silent chewing.

Findaráto handed him the glass of water again and waited until he’d sipped before answering.

“We march at first light,” he told his son firmly. “You know it must be so, yonya. And you must stay here as my regent.”

Gildor has been to Dorthonion and Tol Sirion several times over the years, and always regarded his turn ‘on the watches up north’ as good fun. The fun has come to a bloody end. The danger Gildor and his set had not taken seriously is deadly earnest now. Being left behind as regent is only marginally safer than going north. If his army is overwhelmed, keeping Gildor here may be little more than delaying the inevitable.

“But why? Findë-”

“Will be your right hand. But you are to see she remains within the fortress, and you go out only in the utmost need.”

He will not allow his son or his grandniece to go with him on this march.

He had picked his host carefully. He did not dare take all the younger strength of Nargothrod with him. There was every chance they would not return. He had ordered his captains to not allow all children of any given set of parents to march. He will not leave anyone utterly bereft if it could be avoided. If things were truly so dire that it cannot, at least he will know that he tried.

By rights, they ought to march immediately, but he had wanted to give everyone a few last hours to say goodbye. He’d made ‘rest’ the excuse, though he knew perfectly well few in the stronghold would sleep tonight.

“Atto!”

“I do not doubt your courage, yonya, nor your valor. But I hope the situation is not so desperate yet as to need every sword. If I am wrong, I know you will defend our people come what may. Nargothrond’s best defense is secrecy. If it comes to it, close the gates and sing concealment over them. There are supplies enough that you can hold out many weeks and wait for the Enemy’s forces to conclude this is not where my stronghold was. Once they lose interest and return north, flee for the Falas.”

It felt so final to be telling his son this, but after the destruction they’ve been warned of in the north, he would be remiss not to plan and prepare his successor for the worst. He had once, with foresight, warned Galadriel that nothing of his realm would endure for a son to inherit. If this was when it fell, he could accept it so long as his son did not fall with it.

Gildor tried to speak, but was unable to regain his composure, and all that came out was shuddering sobs.

The tears were a painful reminder that Gildor might have seen a few minor orc patrols, but this sort of war was as new to him as life in Beleriand had once been to Findaráto and his brothers.

Findaráto sighed, and slid down the wall to cradle his distraught son, who on top of his grief was now fretting that his reaction was not befitting a prince of the Noldor.  

“Shh, yonya. Do not upset yourself further. I do not expect you not to grieve. No one could demand you be calm at such news. These are dark days indeed.”

His son was an adult now, too grown to believe him should he try to tell him all will be better in the morning. Their dead will still be dead tomorrow, and he himself will be marching to what may prove his doom.

Findaráto sighed. Tears unnumbered they had been promised, and Gildor was certainly shedding enough of them. He gave him a fierce one-armed hug and kissed his head.

Not knowing what else to do, he hummed one of the childhood songs his mother had once sung to him and his siblings in kinder days in the light of the Trees, eventually picking up the words as best he could when his traitorous throat kept trying to close with tears of his own. He had no idea how long he sang softly of the starlight on the Western sea before his son’s head dropped onto his shoulder.

Asleep, Gildor looked so very young. It seemed impossible he could be a man grown. Had he not been a little boy only yesterday? (Even if he was definitely much taller than he had been as a child and dreadfully awkward to get up off the floor.)

Findaráto carried his son to his own bed, pausing along the way to strip him out of his fouled tunic and sponge him down. He tucked Gildor in as though he were a small boy, kissing his forehead before retreating to the sitting room.

Findaráto had no idea how he was ever going to leave in the morning and not look back. But he had little choice. Duty and honor called him north.

He could only hope Gildor would live – and remember how loved he was.