Joy as Sharp as a Sword by oshun

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Welcome to Nargothrond

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Finrod spread one of the large sheets of his building plans across his work table. Instead of paper made of vegetable fibers, he used the highest quality vellum, smooth as silk to the touch and much more durable. Perhaps that choice involved a certain amount of vanity, but his concept—to use Menegroth as inspiration and improve upon it—had been nothing if not bravura when he began, and he had wanted to preserve a record of the construction of his city.

To even call his fortress on the west bank of the Narog a city had at first sounded self-important to him. With the passage of time, it appeared instead that he might have underestimated the scope of the venture. The reality was that Nargothrond had grown in population by a steady trickle since he had first begun construction. The Dwarves, of course, were only temporary residents. In addition to the Noldorin exiles who founded the settlement with him, a few families, followed by dozens more, had arrived from his brothers’ lands. Not satisfied to hunt, raise horses, or plant and harvest grain, they had been drawn by the rumors of his need for skilled craftsmen. Finding that the caverns had a plethora of masters and not enough workmen, they had recruited a number of Sindarin workers as well.

Felagund of Nargothrond was not unhappy. He felt challenged and totally engaged by the work. Perhaps that realization made him feel a little guilty. It seemed wrong that he should be more content now than he had ever been in Tirion or even when visiting his grandfather in Alqualondë.

He had almost convinced himself that he had been compelled to accompany the majority of his father’s people out of Aman because it would not be right to let them, and his younger brothers and sister, come to Endor without leadership. How pretentious had that been? He chuckled to himself. Being an eldest son among the princes of the Noldor bred such conceit, he supposed. One could justify a multitude of selfish pursuits under the heading of duty.

The truth was, if he had the courage to admit it, that the thought of the journey into the past of their mighty people had thrilled him. No less than Galadriel or Fingon, Fëanor’s promises moved him. He remembered the exact words that first fed his appetite to explore, to return whence their peoples had come, to where “sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk.”

He, of course, could not have had any idea of the suffering, of the loss of loved ones and innocence that the quest for freedom might entail. But still, how nearly casual it seemed in retrospect the manner in which he had left Amarië behind, when he had known she could never follow him here. He had asked her. But had his proposal ever been more than an empty gesture? Had he not always understood, even then, that she must and would refuse? True, he shed more than a few tears. Now it grew harder to even remember her face at times or the timbre of her voice.

He did recall with crystalline clarity how it felt to make love to her. Now, of all times, with a purpose and the means to succeed at his ambitious venture, he had decided that he might, in fact, feel lonely. If this were to be the manner in which he responded to a day or two of liberty from hard labor between projects, perhaps he should never take a holiday.

He looked around him with a disparaging eye. Little by little, he allowed the room adjacent to his bed chamber, intended for his leisure hours and entertaining visitors, to transmogrify into a work room. He ought to arrange it better, install more shelving against the front wall so that he could organize some of his clutter. It cried out for decorative elements also, like adding tapestries for color as well as to conserve heat. The room was large enough to accommodate a couple or three of additional cushioned chairs, and it needed better lighting. If one lived in a cave, illumination would always be a concern. Mirrors might be used to amplify the light.

Seeing all of his plans spread out across the table at one time suddenly oppressed him. He tried to clear his head by rolling up and securing the sketches of the completed areas. The activity helped to banish most of his self-pity. He soon turned his thoughts back to the drawings.

The kitchens were more than adequate. Improved lighting above the preparation area and adding some ceramic tiles would lift the spirits of those who worked there. But he did not think he was flattering himself to recognize that the communal baths were nothing short of an engineering marvel and esthetically the most pleasing quarter so far. Although, he did intend to further embellish the stone work around the baths with more of his self-indulgent carving—his reward to himself for completing necessary but less entertaining labor.

He thought fondly of his collaborators, some had been architects and others masters and journeymen in the building trades in Tirion. Above all, he appreciated his Dwarven advisers, who were never afraid to get their hands dirty or take on heavy work—an ethic they shared with Noldorin craftsmen. They were brilliant, often gruff and always blunt, and they put up with his eccentricities. Nay, at times even encouraged them. He would have been more melancholy without the warmth of their straightforward regard.

There were others to whom he owed consideration. The resilient population had sworn fealty and service to him in return for his succor. Some few had even borne children within these harsh stone walls, which became more homelike day by day. He must care for his people's needs. The barely adequate residential quarters would need to be expanded sooner rather than later, perhaps as his next task. They were dry and warm, but larger areas for families affording more privacy would make the confinement of the coming winter easier to bear.

He believed the spacious but rudimentary workshops were adequate for the moment. The Dwarves recommended expansion of the forge area in the next short period--not only for immediate construction needs, but to continue to produce necessary household goods and weapons in the future.

Edrahil stuck his head around the doorjamb of the open door. “Sire, two warriors approach on the northern path. Would you like to come take a look?”

‘Warriors’ he had called them, by which he probably meant Noldor. If he had believed they looked Sindar, he would have said ‘two scouts’—a distinction based in the commonly held Noldorin sense of pride—‘warrior’ somehow sounded higher, more noble. Finrod had become more aware of the prevalence of that sort of unconscious partiality since his first visit to his kinsmen in Menegroth.

If the travelers were Noldorin, it probably meant their visitors were family also. But then again he was not expecting anyone. His younger brothers had returned to their territory, only a little past a fortnight ago. And he knew it could not be Galadriel, who had definite plans to visit for his begetting day in a less than two months.

They stepped outside of the main entrance to the caverns and looked to the north at the rocky, overgrown path wending downward from that point in the gorge. The travelers bore no banners, wore no armor, no doubt conscious of the secrecy of the location. The lead horse picked her way daintily along the trail cautious of the sheer drop on one side. The horse behind her, a warmer-blooded and heavier-bred animal, plodded trustingly in her path.

Only his brothers or Galadriel could have given anyone such precise directions. The riders wore simple hunting leathers and yet sat their mounts with a carriage betraying classical equestrian training. Their sharp attention to their surroundings and the long swords they carried distinguished them from any random hunters or far-reaching scouts or messengers from Elu Thingol.

As they drew closer upon the narrow path leading directly to the entrance, the height and the hair color of the taller man revealed their identities. The exact moment that the thrill of recognition swept over Finrod, the riders spotted him and his cousin Fingon waved with his characteristic energy. Finrod waved back with equal enthusiasm. A flood of sheer joy swept over him. This was what he had needed--a few days with old friends and cousins, and none were more welcome among his extended family than these two.

Working on Nargothrond engrossed him as nothing in his life ever had before. But as he had observed earlier, he had begun to feel isolated at times. Upon seeing his visitors, he was glad that he had already decided he would be taking a much needed break. It would be the perfect time to spend several days alone with them. The eldest scions of the three houses of Finwë’s sons would be together again and, for once, without all of the other cousins and brothers demanding attention. None of the other princes of the Noldor shared as they did such a similar sense of responsibility, desire to achieve, and fear of failure, a brotherhood which deepened their bonds of personal affection.

o0o0o0o

After Fingon had walked their mounts to the stables and had a brief consultation with a groom, he was grateful to accept a mug of Dwarvish ale in Finrod’s private apartment. The three kinsmen and Finrod’s closest counselor Edrahil, a Noldo of Tirion, clustered at the end of a long table in the warm glow of hanging lanterns of red and gold glass. Maedhros clenched and unclenched his jaw and bit his lower lip. Fingon knew the reason for his fit of nerves and found it both amusing and endearing. He wondered if Finrod noticed.

At the thought of several days of comfort, Fingon could barely control his eagerness for the company of their dearest cousin, and something more, much discussed over the past several days between Maedhros and himself, which he hoped would be resolved in their favor.

Fingon took in his cousin’s lush golden hair, and lithe build, somewhat bulkier in the upper body than he remembered. “You look magnificent, Ingo,” he said. “Look at your shoulders and arms. I can’t call you a scrawny, stooped scholar anymore. Hard work appears to agree with you.”

Finrod shook his head and cocked an eyebrow at him before grinning. “Some people here might still consider me bookish, but I never have been stooped or skinny! I would say, ah, maybe slender, but I have always been strong as a young deer.” Maedhros looked at Fingon and rolled his eyes. The four of them laughed together at Finrod’s poetic self-description.

“I don’t often get laughed at here either. Do I, Edrahil?”

“I would say you are usually treated with exactly the respect you have earned, my lord,” Edrahil answered, feigning a shocked expression, his pale blue eyes merry. Fingon knew that Finrod’s seneschal did not share his cousin’s enthusiasm for the two of them in particular. The older man had not yet let go a resentment of the Fëanorians. Nonetheless, whatever he personally thought of them, Edrahil was sincere in his welcome. He was loyal to a fault to his sworn lord and wanted only to see their cousin happy.

“Anyway, what with all of the hauling of lumber and stones, not to mention the carving and even some carpentry, I suppose I have added some muscle,” Finrod said. “But I would argue I can carry it gracefully.” He threw back his mane of glorious hair and winked at Maedhros, blatantly flirtatious as always.

Fingon found the two of them breathtaking together. Maedhros sensed his attention and smiled at him, before turning back almost at once to continue admiring Finrod.

The crinkles around Finrod’s eyes and his laughing mouth were a pleasure to observe. No question he was stunning. He had everything: high cheekbones, a straight nose that Fingon envied, a strong jaw and sensual mouth. Combined with personal warmth and that heavy silver and gold hair of his, his physical beauty was beyond a delight for the eyes, it was a balm for the spirit. Despite his work deep in the caves, his skin appeared lightly tanned, as if the warmth of the recently passed summer still clung to him. Must not spend all of his time underground, Fingon thought. He and Maedhros had talked while on the road of how much they missed Finarfin’s eldest son and how they feared growing apart from him. Without question, Finrod was the best-natured of all of their family and appealed to them uniquely. There was a history among the three of them, unfinished actually.

“So, tell me, Russo, what brings the two of you here? I hope it is not bad news,” Finrod said.

“Far from it. Nothing more or less than love and friendship brings us here, dearest cousin. Yes. This visit is entirely personal,” Maedhros said, unable to keep from exchanging the briefest of conspiratorial glances with Fingon, who gave him an encouraging grin. Maedhros seemed relieved also to see their favorite cousin so happy and engaged. They had suspected that the distance of Nargothrond from others in his family must have made his life feel solitary at times and frustrating at others for the social and gregarious Finrod. As far as they knew, he had taken no lovers, found no special companion to bring him comfort and warmth during the long winters.

Edrahil watched Finrod with the proprietary air that spoke of more than a close collaborator. First among the lords of Nargothrond, he was, in addition, strongly dedicated to his King personally. Yet, as far as they knew, had never been more than a good friend. Finrod’s brothers were far away and occupied with their own concerns. And Galadriel had settled in Doriath, playing her own deep game there under the tutelage of Melian the Maia.

Finrod’s brothers had as much or more than they could handle. With the steep slopes of the Dorthonion mountains at their back, Aegnor and Angrod looked out over the grassy plains of Ard-galen, no longer entirely barren. The fruits of their vast lands had been slow to reveal themselves to the untutored eye. In places, Ard-galen appeared to be an endless dun-colored landscape, with its menacing view of the black cliffs of Thangorodrim to the north. As one traveled around the area, one found hardy plants that bloomed with each rain in the rocky soil and provided sustenance for all manner of small wild life. To the east, the plains widened. There, fertile volcanic soil had resulted in flowering grasslands which proved ideal for grazing. In addition to their constant patrols, they had turned to raising horses and harvesting grain. Always, and most importantly, Finrod’s brothers manned a defensive line of forts looking to the north. They did not have time to wonder if Finrod felt alone in Nargothrond or if his bed seemed cold and empty.

o0o0o0o

Maedhros said, “We bring greetings from Nolofinwë and enough news from here and there to provide conversation for a few days. All of interest I am sure, but of no great import.”

“Nothing we cannot share with you at dinner,” Fingon interjected.

“Well, then, if you have no exciting news or gossip. I have things I want to show you. Enough wine for now!” Finrod said, turning to his adviser. “You must leave our guests to me, Edrahil. I am certain they yearn to wash off the dirt from the road. I will show them their room and then I will take them to the baths.”

Edrahil jumped to his feet. “Let it never be said that I cannot tell when I am no longer wanted.” He extended a hand first to Maedhros and then to Fingon. “Again, welcome to Nargothrond. I will see you at supper. My lord is bursting to show off his most beloved accomplishment. The baths are but one part of his ambitious undertaking that he has more or less completed to his satisfaction.”

“He’s right, of course. I am vain about what we have achieved here,” Finrod said, blushing. “And the baths are far from the least of it.” His rosy cheeks and glittering pale eyes, with his lips further reddened by the wine, and the rippling waves of his golden hair falling over his shoulders made him look to be about forty years old.

Maedhros sensed the surge of embarrassment in Fingon, gently nudged him seeking to read the thought. 'Perhaps Maitimo is right. Perhaps we are arrogant to assume that Findaráto needs what we propose to offer him? '

The familiar touch of Fingon upon his mind caused Maedhros to look up and catch the querying glint in his beloved’s eyes. He responded instantly. ‘Or, perhaps he doesn’t need it. He might only desire it. And what would be so bad about that?’

Finrod chuckled and said, “Are you talking about me to one another?”

“I guess we were,” Maedhros said. His face heated up--the revealing complexion of a red-head betrayed his mild embarrassment. “My apologies.” He placed his hand over Finrod’s on the table top and squeezed. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“We’ve been practicing this kind of mind-touch,” Fingon said, not put off at all by being exposed. “You’re more sensitive than most people. Could you understand what we were saying?”

“No. But it reached me. More like an irritating tickle, a whisper I could not quite decipher. Unlikely that I would have sensed anything if you had been thinking about anyone but me.”

Fingon gave him one of his warmest smiles. “We were thinking of you, but only the very best of things.”