Wildflowers by Angamaite

F.A. 365, Ard-Galen

Written for SWG's Instadrabbling event, prompt password/secret code + necessary cruelty

Read F.A. 365, Ard-Galen

"How many hearts have eleven white stallions got between them?" asks the sentry on the other side of the barred door, his treelight-bright stare darting back and forth between the many black domed helmets the only brilliant spot in the gatehouse dusk. 
"Eleven white stallions have got no hearts between them, the earth has eaten them all," recites the lieutenant as he raises his visor, revealing old eyes in a weather-beaten face. 
"How many eyes have eleven white stallions got between them?" the sentry questions again in his song-light voice. 
"Eleven white stallions have got one blue eye between, a sapphire had been trampled in the field." recites the captain of the guard with a flash of golden teeth in his sharp mouth, and for all that he seems bored of the charade, he answers readily enough with his heart and throat in it. 
"How many kings," the sentry begins for the last time, "have eleven white stallions got between them?" 
"One, and none," says the prince, striding forwards; the hooves of his own mount clatter against the paved road. The noble beast is a dappled grey, but in the falling moonlight it looks silver. Almost white. "For a king that does not rule all his kingdom is no king at all. They have only got princes now." 
The sentry beyond the grate gives an imperceptible nod, and the doors begin to open with a screeching sound that never fails to remind of bones being ground to dust. 

They march into the courtyard, they stable their tired horses. It is a routine affair of inspections that proceeds afterwards; most of the riders take off with the watchtower's personnel for a late dinner as soon as the watch has called silence from the north, and if no one is particularly looking forwards to a meal of horse sausages, goat cheese and wet rye bread the colour and consistency of Langavilan's dirt, no one particularly complains after spending the day in the saddle, either. The prince, his lieutenant and the captain of his guard alone follow the tower's commander first into the uppermost roost where pigeons share the overlook with soldiers in surcoats as black as a winter night, and then into the spartan office of his statue, around the folding chairs and towards the map table. Thus it has been in the last four watchtowers; thus it will be, fortune willing, all the way to Oioringë. And if fortune shall not be willing, they have all got spears and longswords at their belts.
It is almost pitch-dark already when the commander mentions that there is a thrall held -- ostentatiously captive -- in one of the storage-rooms on the ground floor, for none have yet been able to ascertain whether the escapee is of sound mind. 
"I will see him now," the prince commands, and the lieutenant, the captain and the watchtower's commander all lower their heads in accord with no protests raised.
They are still clad in their plate when they enter the vacated pantry, and find the thrall has been supplied with sparse furnishings good enough to rest comfortably, and a dinner of much the same fare as the soldiers themselves receive, though his hands are nonetheless tied to the rafters with a long stretch of rope; he cannot come within reach of the door, not unless he were to gnaw his thumbs off with his teeth. It is a sad sight, but sad sights are better than watchtowers set aflame -- they can afford little pity. 
He crawls all the way into the corner at the first sight of the prince's hawk-sharp eyes, and he would have crawled further, if his back hadn't hit the wall, where he quivers like a reed in the wind under his borrowed cloak. If this bothers the four Noldor in the doorway, they do not speak of it. 
"Stop. Look me in the eyes." the prince says, weaving a note of command into his voice (it suits it beautifully -- a cruel beauty like the spring nights on the Ardalaica are). The thrall obeys. He has no choice. 

"Do you know what year it is?"
There is no answer. 
They have been holding the leaguer with sword and spear about Moricotto's black fortress like a manacle for three hundred bitter winters, and five more after that, but perhaps he does not know that.
"Do you know who is High-King in this year?" 
Silence. 
Nolofinwë has sat upon the white throne in white Taras Ehtelë ever since Nelyafinwë had dispossessed Fëanáro's lineage of their royal birthright, but perhaps he does not know that.
"Do you know the name of the brightest star in Menelvagor's belt?" 
Silence.
"Do you know your own name?"
And there is silence still, for a long while, until he begins to weep -- and in the midst of his weeping something in his eyes breaks, and bids the sinuous muscle of his beaten body to spring to action like a coil in a flash faster than lightning. If it was not for the rope binding him, the flint-knife hidden in his hands would've embedded itself in the tower-captain's cheek. 
The prince averts his eyes at last. 
"Laureo, bring my sword." is all he says. 

They take him outside, beyond the tower's bounds and northwards where the only mountains within sight are so distant that their shadows barely take up a fraction of an inch on the horizon, in a show of last mercy. There is practicality to it also, but the oldest stars are coming out now, and the air smells of wildflowers -- one ought to be able to smell wildflowers after spending decades in Angamando's pits. It is only right. 
The captain of the guard sings a hunter's hymn in the sonorous tones that have sparsely been heard on this side of the Sea since the Great Journey westwards, and the prince's sword-arm is sure and does not waver. 
They bury him among the wildflowers afterwards. It is a quiet affair. Menelvagor's stars glimmer over the horizon -- for the last few days of spring.

---

Chapter End Notes

Translation notes:

Langavilan - Thargelion
Oioringë - Himring
Ardalaica - Ard-Galen
Moricotto - Morgoth
Taras Ehtelë - Barad Eithel
Angamando - Angband