Joy as Sharp as a Sword by oshun

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Dinner

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Unlike the softly lit baths, the great hall of Nargothrond blazed with light. Every sconce held a lit torch. Lanterns hung from every beam as well. A wooden table at the head of the hall was set on a raised dais, covered with a white tablecloth and set with bright pottery plates. Each bore variations on the crest of the House of Arafinwë transformed into a more relaxed style than usual with a splashes of bright enamel—yellow, golden, and red, with small accents of blue and green—rendered in broad, irregular strokes. No two plates were identical—so different in comparison to the more elegant furnishings of Finrod's family’s household up on the palace hill in Tirion. Maedhros caught Finrod’s eye and smiled.

“These are great,” said Fingon, picking up a plate and studying the design. “Splendid in an almost fierce way!”

“I would not say ‘fierce!’ Maybe lacking in unnecessary artificial restraint? Recognize the inspiration, Russo?” Finrod asked. “I always loved Nerdanel’s tableware.”

“Of course,” Maedhros said. “I can really appreciate the style now. I remember when I was a child how much our entire house embarrassed me. Kids crave the conventional. Don’t want to be different. Amil always said, even when you were little, that you had a good eye.”

Maedhros looked around the half-empty hall before asking Finrod, “And where are your Dwarven comrades tonight. Do they not dine here with the rest of you?”

“They do eat with us most of the time. Occasionally, they eat among themselves and join us later for music and ale. Dwarves keep many secrets, but still are a social people and as warm-hearted as they are thorny by nature—a veritable bundle of contradictions, more subtle than one might imagine.”

Edrahil interjected, “Tonight they are apparently observing some special occasion. They didn’t say what, only that we should not expect them to sup with us for the next two days. It could be anything from a memorial to a fallen comrade to some arcane rite in honor of Aulë their maker. They keep close counsel among themselves. We have no idea what they are doing half of the time. And we’ve learned not to ask if the information is not offered.”

Finrod laughed. “He sums it up well. But despite our differences, I am quite comfortable with the Dwarves now. You will meet them day after tomorrow, I guess. I think you’ll like them. They seem fond of me.”

“And why wouldn’t they like you?” teased Edrahil. “Not only does affection come easily to my lord, but they admire him and his many talents. They have even given him an epessë. They call him Felak-gundu, which they say means hewer of caves.”

“I am never sure if they are complimenting me or pulling my leg. They are the experts. I’m only their apprentice!” Finrod insisted, his face reddening with an irresistibly attractive blush. “But I do love the work.”

“Well, I know they are most willing to express their esteem for him as an artist in works of stone and Dwarves are not effusive folk. You’ll see. They never say anything they do not mean.” Edrahil insisted. “I’ve also heard them praising his sculpture when they did not know I could hear them.”

“We told Ingo in the baths how much he has refined his skills since leaving Valinor.” Fingon said. “He studied with Maitimo’s mother for a while, you know. She always believed he had undeveloped talent. But what he has done here is brilliant. Not just the decorative carvings, but the engineering as well.”

Edrahil brightened at any opportunity to talk about Finrod. “Did he tell you how they have heated the baths? The hot and cold running water, and the showers?”

“We did not get around to that yet,” Finrod said, exchanging a sly grin with Maedhros.

“I am interested to hear all the details,” said Maedhros.

“This is excellent,” interjected Fingon, pointing at the roast meat on his plate. “The entire dinner is terrific, Ingo. Delicious. Do you eat like this every day?”

“Asks the deprived lad who is accustomed to the meager fare of Eithel Sirion,” said Maedhros. They all laughed. “But seriously, this easily matches Nolofinwë’s dinners.”

A kid goat had been spit-roasted to perfection with black pepper, garlic and herbs, served with an impressive selection of fresh vegetables, braised or steamed, and fresh green salads dressed with sweet and tart sauces. Waiting on a side board were plates of assorted cheeses, what looked to be honey and lemon seed cakes, and large wooden bowels stacked with small red Lady Apples.

“Thank you. I am so happy you are enjoying it. I cannot resist praising my own table. We are very fortunate in our head cook. She truly appreciates her position; she faced competition for it from some older men formerly of the Cook’s Guild in Tirion.” Finrod beamed. “She had planned on making a rabbit stew with bacon, mushrooms and shallots today—she’ll probably serve that tomorrow. Very good as well, the way she prepares it. But she decided that, traveling so far, you had more likely than not eaten rabbit or squirrel as your last meat and would enjoy something entirely different.”

“Hmm,” said Fingon, nodding in agreement, as he applied himself with energy to his well-filled plate.

“Excellent,” Maedhros said, musing to himself that Finrod enjoyed not simply the architectural and construction work but the details of running the castle as well. “How do you acquire your black pepper? Eressetor mentioned it while I was packing. He always has a wish list ready for me whenever I prepare to travel. That would be a pleasant surprise for him, if I managed to bring some pepper back.”

“I’ll ask cook. That is not one of the items I have ever heard her complain about when she prepares her endless lists of shortages. Perhaps she can spare some of ours.”

Maedhros had eaten more than he had intended, tempted by the aroma and the succulence of the roast kid and the allure of the herbs and spices. Finrod had not overrated his cook. Even the pleasant drowsiness, brought on by the abundance of good wine and food, had not entirely dispelled his arousal. However, it was no longer as urgent or uncomfortable as it had been at the beginning of the dinner. But one sidelong glimpse of Finrod’s golden hair and his eyes as bright and blue as the cerulean tunic he wore. Finrod returned Maedhros’ smile in full measure, which brought back his aching need. He wondered if Fingon shared his painful yearning and shifted slightly to meet his eyes.

As though on cue, Fingon looked at him and pursed his lips together, exhaling through his nose, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Apparently, he was in the same state. The two of them glanced at their host. The epicene beauty of the facial structure that Finrod shared with his sister was stunning in both, although Maedhros had never reacted to it in Galadriel the way he always did with Finrod.

At that moment, Finrod became aware of their appraisal. A soft blush covered his face and throat. He quirked the corners of his mouth—barely, almost shyly—not a full smile. He did, however, place his hand boldly on Maedhros’s upper thigh under the table and squeezed, before allowing it to rest there.

“It should not be long now,” Finrod whispered, loud enough for both of them to hear and no one else.

Fingon chuckled, before leaping to his feet with his usual exuberance and raising his goblet. “I propose a toast to all of the dwellers of Nargothrond and your beneficent lord, our cousin Findaráto. You must be rightly proud of what you have accomplished here.” The hall broke out in applause, every goblet raised.

When the din had quieted a bit, Fingon continued. “The Lord of Himring and I have had a long trip, not disagreeable, but wearying. We will need to take our leave soon in order to snatch a few quiet moments with our cousin before much needed sleep. Prior to retiring, I propose that we offer you a song or two. If Findaráto and I might borrow instruments, a lute and perhaps a small harp? I am sure that you know that your lord can play and sing.” Fingon paused, looking about the room with an impudent grin. “I may not be quite as good as him, but I promise you, I can sing. And play a little too.” He received a wholehearted laugh from the gathering. His proficiency on a harp was well-known to the Noldor present. It was hard not to warm to Fingon.

Maedhros succeeded in holding back a laugh, but he did not resist making eye contact with Finrod. Fingon had a beautiful voice as well, and he had trained for a while in his youth with the best there was—Maglor, no less.

From among the musicians who had entertained them throughout the supper, a petite Noldorin woman, with heavy black hair and unusual amber eyes, approached the dais. She had impressed Maedhros earlier with her skill on the lute during their meal. Now she bowed toward Fingon, holding a lute and an exquisite lap harp which, more likely than not, had survived the Helcaraxë.

“I’ll take the lute and leave the harp for Findekáno. Can you find a flute for yourself, my dear, and join us?” Finrod said to the pretty maiden.

“I’d be honored, my lord.”

The trio organized themselves on three tall stools in front of the dais with the petite flautist between Maedhros’ long-legged cousins. The first song, which Fingon suggested, was a rollicking riding song which Maglor had written for his two youngest brothers. It had become instantly popular throughout Valinor after its composer had sung it at a children’s party in Tirion. The Noldor in the crowd sang along with the chorus immediately. The Sindarin elements joined them at the second chorus, as the vivid tune rang out as though it had been written for the marvelous acoustics of Finrod’s soaring hall.

“That song always makes my voice sound good. But this hall takes it to another level,” Fingon announced cheerily unselfconscious. The crowd applauded. He winked at Finrod. “My cousin did not sound bad either, did he? And the flautist is amazing!” They laughed and cheered at that.

If Fingon had not been a prince, a leader, a warrior, he could have easily made his living as an entertainer. Finrod sought out Maedhros’ gaze and grinned in complicit admiration of their valiant harpist.

Then Finrod sought a traditional Sindarin song of an ill-fated knight’s sad farewell to his lady. Everyone knew this one also, but did not join in this time, leaving the musicians to pluck at their heart strings without any outside help. Maedhros thought that, although it did not compare to their Macalaurë, still it was a haunting melody.

When they finished, Finrod stood and hugged his fellow musicians, shaking off a pensive mood. His face had softened to near melancholy by the affecting sentiments of the song. He handed his lute to the flautist along with an extra kiss upon her forehead, and bowed to the crowd with a languorous grace reminiscent at that moment of a mannerism used by Finwë and each of his sons, whenever they took leave of a gathering. There was actually an openness in his elders’ unhurried manner when engaging with their people in public—a form of leadership characterized by accessibility, affecting a comportment never hurried or abrupt. Finrod shared it, as did Fingon. He wondered if he did. He was less gregarious than either of them, but sincerely wished to put his followers’ welfare before his own fleeting interests.

“Thank you for your indulgence,” Finrod said. “You are, as ever, an appreciative audience. May you all enjoy the rest of your evening and, please, do not cut it short because we must take our leave. I would be a poor host indeed if I did not escort my cousins to seek their rest after such a long journey.”

They controlled the haste of their exit as best they could, Maedhros noted. It would indeed appear unseemly to scamper out of the hall like a bunch of eager youths who had hidden a bottle or some girls in their room.

They bade a leisurely good-night to Edrahil and even stopped to stick their heads into the busy, noisy kitchen to pay brief compliments to the cook.

As they wended their way through the dimly-lit passages in the direction of Finrod’s chambers, he asked, “How about that choice of music? Finno picks a tune that will rile people up and then I have to find another that will soothe the gathering again, so we can make our escape without encountering protest.”

“Well, between the two of us, it worked, didn’t it?” Fingon smirked. “I had almost forgotten how fine your voice is. I have to pick my tunes carefully, to minimize my flaws. The old deflect and distract method!”

Finrod turned to Maedhros. “Do you ever notice the only time that Finno is modest is in relation to his voice?”

“Actually, I have noticed that. You have a rich, wonderful voice also. But, you are right Káno’s is really quite . . .”

“Stop! You’re embarrassing me!” Fingon said. “You’re as bad or worse. You have a good voice, Maitimo. I have always told you that. I guess Macalaurë casts a long shadow. Isn’t this your room, Ingo?” He pointed toward the largest and most magnificent door in that corridor.

“Oh! Yes. The two of you are so disarming that I almost walked past it.” Finrod pulled the door open while bowing deeply from the waist. “Please, enter, my lords. What is it that villains always say in the plays in Tirion when they are plotting a seduction? ‘Alone at last, my lovelies!’”