The road to the Estolad by clotho123

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The road to the Estolad

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The day was sharp with the chill of approaching winter on the on the uplands of Dorthonion.  The cold had come early this year, and the wind struck more chill than Andreth had expected when she had set out.   The journey was not new to her but enough years had passed, enough trees had grown or fallen, that the landscape seemed unfamiliar.  Where the track forded a stream she noticed the small cliff that had formerly stood at the upstream bend was now only a lumpy slope of gravel.

“You have a good memory, mother,” Belen smiled when she mentioned it.  “The cliff collapsed in the floods three years ago.”  The courtesy address of ‘mother’ still cost Andreth a pang for the children she would never have, but she did not show that to Belen.

Beyond the ford the ground was uneven, with loose rocks across the trackway, and the pace slowed as they picked their way through them.  Andreth trusted her sure-footed pony and remained in the saddle, but Hirwen dismounted to lead her own pony through the tricky ground, and a couple of the men in the party did likewise.  “Why has no-one cleared this?” Hirwen asked impatiently.

“It’s not worth the labour, when the track is used so seldom,” Belen told her.  “The way is passable.  It serves.”

“Do the Strangers use it?”  Hirwen wanted to know. 

Belen made the warding sign with his left hand.  Andreth snorted under her breath.  She never liked to see that sign used when Elves were mentioned.  After so many years in Dorthonion her people should be used to them.  “The Fiery Ones use it sometimes, I believe.  They let us alone if we stick to this track.”   Fiery Ones was the name used for the Elves who called themselves Noldor.  Andreth found their own name came more easily to her now, but that was not true of most of her kindred.

By nightfall they had reached a flatter stretch of ground, allowing Andreth to raise her eyes from the turf and enjoy the rays of the setting sun as they fell on the birch wood to the south, and the loose tumble of blue tinged rocks beyond.  The ground ahead sloped downwards, allowing a wide view of the open lands below.  They camped before the light had gone, and the men struggled to put up the two hide tents they had with them against the quickening wind.  Andreth took charge of lighting the fire, and that task also was made more difficult by the wind, but her reputation demanded she complete the task and it did not defeat her. 

“Travelling is hard work,” Hirwen said that night, after they had crawled into the tent they shared. 

“Are you wishing you were at home, with a snug four walls around you and a bed to sleep on?” Andreth asked her student.

“No, I am not, even though I am very stiff.”  Andreth smiled in the darkness.

The attack happened next morning, in a gold-shot sunrise as they were in the act of taking down the tents.  A short, ugly arrow hit the ground near Andreth; three of the men in the group drew their swords, the fourth grabbed his bow from where it had been lying.  Andreth looked around for a weapon and seized a half burned branch from the fire.  She had barely straightened when a creature with grey skin and a malformed jaw charged at her.  Andreth smacked the burned end of the branch straight into its face, catching it in one of the bloodshot eyes, the creature yelped and jumped back, Andreth followed through using the other end to whack it in the stomach and a moment later an arrow skewered the creature.  She spun round and caught another of the Orcs across the back of the neck allowing Belen to run it through.  Andreth looked around and found the fight was over.

Hanthor, the eldest of the men was holding his left forearm, with blood running through his fingers.  Another, the youngest of the group, was on his knees throwing up.  Andreth did not think he was hurt, so hurried across to Hanthor.  “Let me see.”

“It’s not serious,” he said, but surrendered his arm all the same.  Andreth drew the small knife from her belt and slit the sleeve up to the elbow.  “Probably not,” she agreed, “but it will need stitching.  You’ll get on better if I do it now.”

There was no opportunity to give Hanthor more than a long pull from a flask of barley-spirit which Andreth carried for emergencies to sooth the pain and a wad of cloth to bite into.  By the time she had finished Hanthor’s face was greenish-white.  Andreth smeared salve across the wound, then laid her hands either side as she closed her eyes and chanted the words of power that Adanel had taught her so long ago.  There was always a chance there was poison on these blades that could not be blocked, but she would do her best.

A shout came from Belen, and Andreth heard the hoof beats from the north.  Hanthor staggered to his feet and grabbed his sword as the members of the group scrambled together.   A voice from the north was raised in a sound between a wordless cry and a wolf-howl, then as the riders came into view Andreth released her grip on the short knife with a sigh.  They were Elves.  One called out orders in the Elven tongue which Andreth could not make out, as the wind caught the words.  The riders separated, some swept on ahead, while three, including the one who had called out, wheeled towards the little group.   The leader swung his bow over his shoulder and dismounted.  His long hair was brown and his eyes had the same fire as Aegnor or Finrod.  He stooped to examine one of the dead then crossed to address the group generally.

“How many?”

“What?”  Belen repeated.

“How many were there?”

“I think about a dozen,” Hanthor said, “including those we killed.”

“Not the main band then.  We had word there was a large group abroad in these part.”  He looked down at the corpse at his feet in disgust.  “We’ll have to dig a pit.  I’m not leaving them to cast their stink on the land and there are not enough to warrant a pyre.”

“We will help,” Andreth said.  “But if there is a larger band abroad, that must mean that we are still in danger.”

“Yes,” the Elf said.  “You’ll likely be safe if you turn back now, we found no signs to the north.”

“I am a healer,” Andreth said, “called to the aid of the lord of Estolad.  If we turn back he may die.”

“Perhaps you could send your potions with one of us,” Belen suggested.  “I would take them while the others escort you home.”

“No, that would not do.  If they hoped only for potions and not my hands to use them the message would have asked for potions.  If you are not afraid to travel on I am sure that I am not.”  She waited to see if anyone would raise further arguments, then turned to the Elf.  “We go on.”

“Then following you may be the best chance of finding our Orc band we will get,” he replied.  “They know you are here.”

“You mean to use us as bait?” Belen said angrily.  The Elf gave an easy smile.

“You are setting yourselves up as bait.  You should be glad to be tracked, it will improve your chances.”  He turned and whistled to his horse.

“Wait!” Andreth called, “If we are to travel together should we not know your name?”  The Elf paused.

“In these lands I am usually called Amrod.”

~ ~ ~

They began their journey again a little later than intended.  The Elves had already faded into the forest, and it seemed they must have some power to induce stealth in their horses, for none of the small group saw or heard any sign of them as they travelled on.  Andreth’s neck prickled with the sense of being watched, but she could not in honesty say whether she would have felt the same sensation if she had not known they were there.  The others kept glancing uneasily around; Andreth saw a couple of not too obvious warding signs. 

It was hard to stay too wary however.  The land had continued to slope downwards, and the track ran through a patch of widely spaced tress the ground between them thick with moss and fern, with a few late clumps of woodland flowers and bees and blue-winged butterflies busy between them.  The wind was a light breeze here, and all seemed so peaceful it was hard to quicken the pace, although they did so. 

They paused at midday, but only briefly.  Andreth’s bones were aching and Hanthor was grim and strained when they finally made camp, the sun again sinking and shafts of light striking with startling brightness through the trees.  A small brook ran through the glade where they halted and began again their night time preparations.  They had just finished a meal of smoked meat and the hard biscuit that served instead of bread for travelling when three figures walked into their small camp.  Amrod was one, since most Elves wore their hair waist length it took Andreth a short while to realise that one of the others was a woman.

“Come to sit with the bait?”  Hanthor mocked.

“You must see it is better for some of us to be in the camp,” Amrod said without offence.  “More than three might be observed, even coming into camp late, besides, it is best to have the larger force on the outside.  Would you like some honeyed apple?”

The dried apple pieces were crisp, with a tang to them beneath the honey crust.  Andreth wondered why the cooking of the Elves was never possible to recreate.  They all ate some, but a certain quiet had fallen over the group all the same.

“This chieftain,” Amrod wanted to know, “is he your kin, or merely your ally?”

“To the House of Bëor he is both friend and ally,” said Andreth, “to me and to others he is also kin.”

“Ah, and you have met him?”

“I have made the journey to the Estolad before.”  Andreth was wary, unsure if the Elf-lord was displaying simple curiosity or something more subtle.  As he moved on to asking questions about the route and how well the party knew it she decided he was probably just collecting information to plan his ambush of the Orcs.  The party retired early again to their tents.  Andreth did not know whether the Elves had their own shelters or slept in the open.  They were gone when she awoke next morning.

The next day followed the same pattern.  The following evening Andreth was attempting to convince Hanthor to show her his arm, which he had been avoiding using all day, when the three Elves appeared, exactly as before.  “If you lose the arm, don’t come complaining to me!” Andreth shouted as Hanthor stalked off. 

“Celebros could take a look if you wished,” Amrod offered. 

“If he won’t let me look, he won’t let one of you look,” Andreth shrugged.  “Stubborn old fool.  I wish his wife were here to make him see sense.”  She turned to Amrod properly.  “So Celebros is a healer?  I thought healers were women among your kind.”

“Many are, but not all.”  Amrod replied.  “My brother Caranthir is a very good healer.  Amras, my twin, believes that is what makes him so bad tempered.”

“An odd sort of connection,” Andreth remarked.

“Do you think so?  Not even the best healer can save everyone.  Do you never find that hard?”

Andreth laughed.  “Perhaps your twin is not wrong after all.  I am sure there are many who think I’m becoming a bad-tempered old crone.”

“We found a deer today,” Amrod told her.  “Celebros is unhappy because he could not heal it, we could only end the pain.”

“You would heal deer?” Andreth frowned.  “None of us would do that.  A hound perhaps, or a horse, even a cat if it’s a good ratter.  But not a wild creature.  Do you hunt?”

“Yes.  You think that strange?”

“To kill with one hand and save with the other?  Yes, I do.”

“All things have a balance,” said Amrod.  “Hunt the grown wolf and you spare the young deer, hunt the grown deer and you spare the young tree.  Yavanna made her creatures to prey one on the other, and Oromë keeps them in balance and taught us to do the same.  I have noted you Aftercomers seem to have no sense of this.  You hunt without thought, without care for what comes of it, without purpose except to feed and not always even that.”

“We do need to eat,” said Andreth dryly.

“Yes. And you at least do not torture a poor creature for the sake of it, then leave it still in pain.”  His eyes met hers, and Andreth managed not to blink.  “Yes, it was Orc work.  That is why I told you.  They must be nearby.”

~ ~ ~

“Are we all to sit in silence again?” Andreth said later that evening, as they sat around the fire.  She turned to Amrod and his two companions.  “You know our business well enough by now.  You have said little of yours.”

“Our business is to hunt the servants of the enemy,” It was the woman Giledhel who answered.  “We keep the lands as clear as may be from the ravages of Orcs, who would leave the land a filthy waste if they were allowed.  Word reached us of a band and we are tracking it.  That is all.”

“It seems to me,” said Andreth, “Orc bands are larger and bolder than when I was young.  Do you believe the Enemy readies himself for a great stroke?”  Finrod believed that, she remembered

“He tests our defences,” said Amrod “He knows we are strong.  So long as the siege holds firm we sap his powers.  If he strikes, we will be ready, and it is he who will suffer for his haste, as he did before.”  He spoke as though he meant it. 

“We wait,” Giledhel said.  Andreth gave up trying to make conversation.

~ ~ ~

Before dawn the next morning Andreth was woken by Belen shouting outside the tent.  She scrambled outside, pushing her silver-streaked hair out of her eyes, and hurried across to the men’s tent.  Hanthor was lying on his back, muttering beneath his breath, face red and streaked with sweat. 

“Light a fire and boil some water.” Andreth commanded.  She pulled out her knife and slit the bandage around Hanthor’s arm.  As she had expected the flesh beneath was swollen and badly discoloured, red streaks against the greenish colour of a bruise.  She put the back of her hand against it, and grimly noted the radiating heat.

Someone scrambled in behind her, and Andreth turned and found it was the Elf healer.

“Infection from an Orc blade,” he said.

“Aye.”  The healer put his hand on the arm.  Andreth bit down on a sharp response.  If the Elf could really help Hanthor it was no time to let professional pride get in the way. 

“Laecthinn would help.”

“I know that, but little chance of finding any this late in the year.”  The Elf had already left her side.

Hirwen pushed her way carefully into the tent with a pitcher of boiling water.  Andreth plunged the blade of her knife into it and kept it there while she laid her other hand on the inflamed arm, invoking the words against evil sorcery that she knew.  The power in them shook her, and she had to take a few moments to steady hands and breathing.  Then she sliced the heated blade down the arm, opening a long gash, and pressed hard on the wound, drawing out stinking greenish pus mixed with blood.  Hirwen coughed at the stench, but Andreth did not flinch.

She was pressing the third heated cloth to the arm when the Elf Celebros returned, carrying a handful of somewhat drooping thin grey leaves.  Andreth exclaimed with satisfaction, then took the leaves and dropped them into the still heated water stirring it with the silver knife blade.  When, after an interval, the Elf reached in and extracted the leaves Andreth made no move to prevent him.  He laid the soaking leaves on the wound, then held the arm while Andreth bandaged it cleanly.  Their eyes met, in silent agreement that all that could be done had been done.

“Will he live?” said Belen as Andreth left the tent.

“It’s too early to know.”  She straightened painfully.  “We cannot move him today.  Now I need my breakfast.”

The sun was high by the time Andreth had finished eating, she must have spent most of the morning in tending the sick man.  Pacing the camp to get the stiffness out of her legs it was with quite a shock that she saw Amrod in the dappled sunlight beneath the nearby oak.  He must have been there for quite some time.

“We cannot move camp today,” she told him. 

“Why did he not seek healing before?”  She could not tell if that was annoyance or simple curiosity.

“Because an old fool is the worst kind.  He would have asked a few years ago, but since his sight started to fail he will never go to a healer.  Fears we will say he is too old to ride out, I suppose.” 

“He would rather risk dying?”

“He probably hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”  She sat down on a tree trunk.  “You don’t think much of us, do you?  I don’t mean this party in particular, I mean mortals.”

Amrod said, “I would truly like to know why you think that.”

“I do know your name.  You like to ignore those who live in your lands.  You are only with us now because we make good bait.  Not all your kind or your kin are so haughty.”  Andreth cut off the words before they betrayed too much.  Perhaps they were not even true.  Finrod could say what he liked, he had used too many arguments for any one to carry entire conviction.

“Finrod, no doubt.  Yes, I know he is the friend of all mortals.”

Andreth pulled a clump of grass from the ground angrily.  “Why would you not look down on us?  You live on and on unchanging, we wither and die like leaves.  You may be right to keep your distance, I doubt there is one of us that does not envy you for never dying.”

“We do die,” said Amrod, “My father and his father were killed, my father’s mother died of weariness.”

“But you do not die forever.  You go elsewhere, but you will be reborn, come back to the world just as you left it.”

“Is that what Finrod told you?” Amrod picked up a twig and snapped it violently.  Andreth blinked.

“I will not believe he lied.”

“It is what he wants to believe, no doubt.”

Belen called out from behind Andreth, asking her a question.  When she looked round again she was alone.

            ~ ~ ~

The Orcs attacked that evening, just as dark was falling.  Andreth ran for the tent where Hanthor lay.  She had left a staff by the doorway and snatched it up.  Hirwen beside her had a bow in her hand, but threw it down and grabbed another staff.  “Too dark to hit anything.  Unless you’re one of them,” she added as an Orc fell four feet away with an Elf arrow in it.

The fight was short.  Even as the first Orc fell Andreth heard someone raise the wolf-cry of Amrod’s folk from the centre of the camp.  Other war cries answered, followed by alarmed shouts in the guttural Orc tongue, then there was a short confusion of cries and clashing weapons before silence fell.

Andreth saw someone kneeling over a fallen figure and hurried forward.  The fallen one was the Elf healer, Celebros, and it did not take long for to see there was nothing to be done.  An Orc arrow had gone straight through his throat.  A shadow fell across the body and she found it was Amrod.  “He was born in our territory,” he said, and turned away.

The Elves did not leave that night. Instead they joined the mortals, although sitting on the opposite side of the fire.  A young male Elf heated some small cakes upon a stone slab and shared them round, they were sweet without being cloying and left Andreth feeling strangely warmed.  After the meal Amrod took out a strange pipe like instrument and began to play.  Andreth had only known Elves to play on harps before, but this instrument sang a lament as clear as any she had ever heard, the grief as plain as any words could have made it.  The group of mortals sat still and silent, the wordless song was a thing that bore no interruption.

When the lament was done the other mortals silently and one by one moved to their tents.  Andreth did not wish to sleep.  She stood up instead and moved over to where Amrod was still seated and sat down herself beside him.  She stayed quiet for a time, not wanting to seem disrespectful to the dead.  At length she said quietly, “Finrod once told me Elves do not raise children in times of trouble, but you say that Celebros was born in these lands.”

“The lands were less troubled then,” Amrod said.

“Men are more likely begin their families young in times of trouble,” said Andreth.  “We, who die forever, do not want the people we spring from to die as well.  No doubt it is otherwise for you.”

“Some of us do wed and raise still,” said Amrod.  “It is rare at present, but my young kinsman Orodreth is one who has done so.”

“I see,” said Andreth.  She paused.  “Would you wed, in these times?”

“I have never loved in that fashion.  I count that fortunate.  Finwë’s line are ill-fated in love.”  He paused for a short time, as if brooding, then continued, “Nor is the lesser number of marriages all due to the times of trouble.  Even before we left the West weddings were rarer and later than they had been, and the children born were fewer in number.

“You say you envy our eternal lives.  What you mean you wish is that you and your own generation could be like us, not that every generation that came before had been like us.  How many generations after would you wish to see?  How many would become too many?”

“You think us cold indeed if you believe we wished our parents dead!” said Andreth.

“Have you thought of what it would mean if they still lived, and their parents and their parents before them?  They say you are the wisest and most skilled in healing of your folk, would you be that now if your people were like us?  If the one who led your tribe over the mountains still lived, then how many who came after him would have had no chance to lead?”

“You lead.”

“Yes, because my sire and his sire died by violence.  And Finwë led because he led our people West, when few of his elders chose to make the Journey.  When your elders die you mourn, but you know it is the way of things.  We can come into our own only by an act unnatural, or a separation grievous.  If my father lived we would still be his children, in his shadow.  If we dwelled still with generations that came before we would still be the youngest and the least.  If we lived still in the West, how long, I wonder, before none cared to breed at all?”

“All things have a price.”

 “Aye.  Is yours more high than ours?”

“When I said Elves would be reborn, you did not agree, why was that?”

Amrod was silent for so long she thought he would not answer, but at last he spoke in a soft lilt, almost chanting.

“For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos.  There long shall you abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all that ye have slain should entreat for you.  And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.”

He paused and those eyes, as bright as Finrod’s or Aegnor’s, rested on her.  “The Doom of our clan, laid on us by the Valar as we hastened from their lands.  The price we pay for faring forth.”

Andreth moistened her lips which had dried.  “Finrod said nothing of this.” 

Finrod had concealed this, even as they spoke of the differences between final death and rebirth.  Aegnor had said nothing: and she wondered how much else he might have left unsaid, treating her like a child who has no right to know adult griefs.

“Finrod believes the Valar will relent.”

“And you?”

“They may for him and for his House.  Perhaps.  If I had got an arrow in my throat today I would not expect to see the earth again.  Nor would any that followed the banner of Fëanor’s House from Aman.”

“What did you do?”  Andreth said.  He did not reply, but she was not to be put off.  “The Valar cursed you.  And you speak of differences, that they might forgive Finrod and his house, but not you and yours.  What did you do?”

“I will not speak of it.  Things done cannot be changed.”

“You will not speak of it to a mortal.  Well, I should not be surprised.”

“It would be no different with an Elf.  It has been no different in the past.

“You said we think little of mortals.  I would say we see you too like to us, and yet not like enough.  You know there is a doom ahead of you, that when you die you leave the world.  We know there is a doom pursuing, that when we die we will not return.  We live the more fiercely for it; life is sweeter in these lands than ever it was on the far shore, because we cannot count on it.  But you live fiercer still. And when you go forth you do not know what lies before you.”

“You say that as though you think it a blessing.”

“It is.  We know the Curse is the best we can expect.”

“And the worst?”

“That too we do not speak of.”  His eyes stayed steady.  “When you die, you have hope.  We have not.”

Andreth considered asking who he meant by ‘we’.  She knew something of the Elf houses, but not enough to say for sure how wide a group he had in his thoughts.  It was an oddly late realisation; that there was more to the Nolder that she had never seen, yet she found she was not angry. 

“When you die,” said Amrod “you pass beyond the rule of the Valar – or so it is believed.  We are trapped within the world.”

“You do not care for the rule of the Valar, then.  Finrod would disagree with you there also.”

“Morgoth was a Vala,” said Amrod.  Andreth waited, but he did not say more.

“And Eru?”

“Eru?  We are called his children, but he holds no converse with us.  He is beyond the world: we are within it.  What do we know in truth of Eru?”

“If we pass beyond the circles,” said Andreth, “does that mean we pass to him?  And is that to be dreaded or welcomed?”  She sighed, when he did not reply.  “You will say you do not know, and that not knowing can be better than knowing.  But we know that our lives here will end.  You do not.  And if you do die: you will have already seen generations of our kind pass from birth to shroud.  Can you deny that longer life means much?”

Amrod smiled wryly.  “A good point.  No, it means something, but not always the same.  Who would not chose a long life, you would ask?  Well, some might look back and wish they had died before.  Others might have that wish made for them. 

“Consider Thingol.  When I was young in Aman I heard much of Elwë Singollo the Lost: of his wisdom, his courage, his gentleness.  Had he died when he was lost that is how we would remember him still.  Instead we know him as a proud and selfish king, who hides behind his boundaries yet wants to be titled the lord of a Beleriand he does nothing to defend. and who treats those who fight his battles with scorn.”

Andreth shrugged, the Elf king in the unreachable wood meant little enough to the mortals.  “You also get more chances.  Many of mine have passed for good.  You get much longer to get your lives right.  No wonder you seem younger than I feel.”

“That is only true if courses are not set,” said Amrod.  “For some the longer the life the less likelihood that it will end well.  And for you death is an end to wrong choices.  Not so to us.  Whatever we have done remains with us to the end of Arda.”

Andreth laughed bitterly.  “Would you rather pay for the actions of ancestors whose very names are lost in time?  You talk as though you are afraid of living!  You are all of you too afraid of pain to grasp joy.”  That was what Finrod had tried to tell her, wrap it up how he would.  Her one-time lover had been afraid.

“I do not fear life.”

“Then why do you avoid us?”  Andreth stood up, and walked back to the tents on the far side of the fire.

            ~ ~ ~

Somewhat to Andreth’s surprise the Elves stayed with the party as they headed down the last stretch to the Encampment.  “It would be a shame for you to get yourselves killed now,” Giledhel told Andreth politely.  This time they rode openly with the company.  Hanthor had recovered enough to ride slowly, with his arm in a sling.  Andreth was not sure he would ever recover the full use of it, but he would live.  Ahead of him she saw Hirwen and Belen laughing together, and realised there was likely to be a marriage there soon, even if they’d not yet realised it themselves. 

Andreth was glad they were on the final stretch, for her bones ached from the long riding, and even the fairness of the land they rode through could not make her wish the journey longer.  On the last day the trees became few, and heather covered the ground thickly, softening its bare contours and casing Andreth to look forward to the heather bedding of Estolad.

Amrod rode up beside her as they covered the last part of the distance.   

“Will you see Finrod again when you return to Dorthonion?”

“Maybe.”

“Give him family regards.  It is longer than usual since we have seen him in these lands.  Do you ever see his brothers?”

Andreth looked round sharply but the question seemed to be entirely guileless.

“Lord Angrod is occasionally seen in our lands.  Lord Aegnor has not come there for many years.”

“Well if you do see them, give regards to them also.  We are hardly a united family, and I sometimes think Aegnor has never forgiven me for having the same name, but as my oldest brother would put it, we must needs be allies if we cannot be friends.”

“You have the same name?” Andreth repeated. 

“Yes, his father name is Amrod, the same as my mother name.  He is the older, so I don’t know what my mother was thinking of giving me a name already in use in the family.  And the name my father gave me is ‘Little Finwë’, which I really don’t think my cousin should blame me for refusing to go by once I was out of childhood, so now I am Amrod and he is Aegnor.”

Well, that was another thing Andreth had not known, although there had really been no reason for Aegnor to tell her.  “I will pass on your regards, if I have a chance to do so.  And I am glad to have had this meeting, it has been most interesting to me.”

“Interesting to myself also,” Amrod said, leaving Andreth to wonder whether she had said too much.  At least he was not looking at her with either pity or revulsion, seeming to take her silver hairs and lined face as simply another mortal peculiarity.

“You’ll likely not have heard,” Amrod went on, “but some Elves say they would believe there to be mortal blood in our House, if they did not know that was impossible.  I am beginning to see their point.”

Andreth turned to look at him, “I suppose I should be insulted by that.”

“Depends on what you think of us,” said Amrod, leaving her to wonder whether ‘us’ had meant Elves in general or his own house of which she still knew so little.  “But I would part as allies if not friends.”

Andreth realised the Elves must be about to take their leave. The Encampment was now very close, and Amrod and his followers had said only that they would see the mortals to their destination, not that they would visit the people of the Estolad themselves. 

“I doubt we’ll meet again,” said Amrod, “unless it be upon your journey home.”

“Then let us indeed part as allies against the foe,” Andreth agreed and took the hand he held out.  “Farewell.”

The Elves made no attempt at concealment this time as they rode away.  Andreth did not watch them out of sight, but urged her horse forward towards the settlement.  The sun was setting, and she would prefer to be there before dark. 

---

Chapter End Notes

To Thingol fans:  Amrod is not meant to be an author’s mouthpiece, and I’m sure if Thingol were in this story he would have even stronger things to say about Fëanorians.

And yes, Aegnor’s father name was Amrod, according to Tolkien, although we don’t know whether he was older or younger than his twin cousins.