Moon in the heat of summer by Quente

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Frustration

In 494 of the First Age, Dior spends time in Menegroth learning what it means to be Thingol’s heir. (And that it is mostly frustrating.)

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Chapter Text

Dior was hiding in a far unfinished chamber when Nimloth found him. She’d been leaving him gifts from the forest all that month, small things to ease his entry into the court of his grandfather. Nimloth knew that the spaces of Menegroth, as mighty as they were, could be strange indeed to someone used to wider and wilder vistas.

“Nimloth,” Dior greeted her. He was sitting in a puddle of light like a cat, and staring out the high opening that allowed sunlight into the dark place.

Nimloth came to him, steps light, and sat beside him on the mossy rocks. The sound of the small stream that flowed through the cavern was a soft murmur, and soothing.

“Do you miss your home so much?”

“I am restless,” Dior admitted. “We sit in council day after day to discuss the world beyond Menegroth, and yet my grandfather moves not, stirs not, to ride to the succor of Beleriand. He sees time in centuries; I sense we have but years.”

Nimloth put her hand on Dior’s shoulder and drew him against her. “Perhaps something will tap against the mighty rock that is King Thingol and set him rolling, like the first pebble in an avalanche.”

“I thought it would be me,” Dior said, “but it is not. Perhaps I am too like my grandmother to hold his thoughts.” He turned a little in Nimloth’s encircling arm and smiled at her. Her spirit was burning particularly brightly that day, warming him more than the faint, distant patch of sun.

They regarded each other for a long moment, and Nimloth took another breath then – a long and shaky inhale, and lay back upon the rock. “I used to come here as a child, too. When my father and mother would argue about allowing her to return to the Falas, the land of her people. It was quiet here, and the stream lulled me to sleep.”

“She was not allowed to go?” Dior asked. He lay beside Nimloth then, and rolled to his side so that they were closer. After a moment, he put his arm carefully over her stomach, warm and soft, and settled himself against her side.

Nimloth nestled into him, and she felt so vividly alive that Dior could not help burying his face in her hair. Oh, the smell – like a summer day on Tol Galen, with his mother singing to the bees.

“Ah, she went, but at a very bad time – right before the war, when the Enemy’s power was rising. Her party was beset by a band of orcs, and she died. Those who survived said she took down half the company with her – died with her sword in her hand. My father says that I have her spirit, but I hope I also have some of his gentleness.”

“You do,” Dior said, raising his head to lean upon his hand and look down at her face. “You have been so kind to me since I arrived. I particularly like the little fox.” It had taken to sleeping beside Dior in his bower, curled into his stomach.

“I hoped you might,” Nimloth said, and her grey eyes seemed to reflect the starlight again, even in the midst of the cavern. Dior blinked away before he could fall into them.

They were on the verge of something, Dior could tell. It was building in him like a storm, and he could sense it in Nimloth’s sudden, careful stillness. Dior’s hand moved in a slow caress over Nimloth’s warm stomach, clad as it was in her hunting leathers, and slowly – slowly – he bent his head toward her.

“Prince – you are needed,” a voice called from the corridor.

Dior jolted to sitting, taking a deep breath to tamp down the sudden surge of resentfulness. “What is it?”

“Two ladies of the race of Men have come. King Thingol bids you attend to him in his hall, they bring tidings out of Hithlum.”

Nimloth scrambled to her feet, her face alive with curiosity. “More of your father’s race!” She said. “I wonder why they have come to Menegroth, of all places? Could they be kin of Túrin?” She reached her hand down to help Dior to his feet.

“I feel they will not remain long,” Dior said, taking Nimloth’s hand. He saw in a flash of insight a strange and sorrowful future: a dragon – mist – running. “We shall give them what aid we may.”

They stayed hand in hand as they walked the corridors to Thingol’s hall.

Time was so short, Dior thought, only dropping Nimloth’s hand as he stepped into the forest glade made of stone. He saw the two women standing in front of the thrones of Thingol and Melian. For a moment, he met his grandmother’s eyes, and saw the truth lodged within – the coming and going of these women were part of the song of Arda, and little could be done to aid them.

But still, but still, Dior thought stubbornly. He would try.

Dior came to the older one, drawn by the solid burn of her spirit. There was something familiar about her, and he thought of tales told from his youth – “Lady Morwen of Dor-lómen, well met,” Dior said, and bowed. “We are kindred. My father Beren was cousin to your father Baragund, if I recall correctly. We are second cousins, then.”

Morwen turned, and Dior was dazzled by her beauty, set as it was within the fading of the flesh that took Edain as they aged – a fading that was even now taking his mother and father. Morwen was lovely as a tree in autumn fading into winter, and her limbs were unbent.

“You must be Beren’s son, and son of the Princess of these halls,” Morwen said, and did him a courtesy in turn.

“I named him Elúchil, my heir,” King Thingol said from his throne in his low, resonant voice. It filled the room despite the softness of his speech, and Dior often wondered whether the room was bent around his throne by Melian’s magic, or whether his grandfather’s voice had power of its own.

Thingol’s expression was grave and thoughtful. “Be doubly welcome to my house, lady. I had forgotten that Beren was your kin; I would have greeted you in honor for Túrin alone. Long have we sought to have you join us here – what has finally bent your steps to my domain?”

Morwen regarded Thingol for a long moment, and then smiled. “Lord, I know not what news you have had from Hithlum these past years, but alone with my household, I held the Easterlings in the circle of the Mithrim through parlay and misdirection. They would have gone to the East through your fair forests, had I not sewn word of the terrible sorceress that dwelt within.” She inclined her head toward Melian.

“That they heeded you is proof of your power,” Melian said, her voice as quietly resonant as Thingol’s. “And yet – at what cost did you remain? Your son we fostered, until he chose to depart from us without word. And yet we sought him long, with many march-wards, as well as our best. Long years of the sun has Beleg Strongbow been lost to us, for his love of Túrin. What more would you have us do?”

Dior took a breath, and then let it out in soundless frustration. He would volunteer to seek Túrin and Beleg himself, if need be – surely tidings would reach a grandson of Melian more readily than any Elf scout, and he had long practice moving in the wild.

But just then another scout came in, crying that a host of orcs had been sighted upon the northern border, marching over the Iant Iaur and into the woods of their home. Dior felt the blood of his father stirring within him then, and turned to Nimloth.

“Shall we hunt them together, Nimloth?” Dior asked, thinking of the bow in his quarters.

Nimloth smiled in answer.

~

Nimloth in full armor, bow drawn and nocked, was fierce and deadly, and Dior found it difficult to focus on the task before him. The orcs were lingering on the eastern side of the Iant Iaur, conferring as they faced the might of the girdle in all its confusion — three score of them milling in confusion along the bank of the Esgalduin.

The march-wards and scouts arrayed themselves in silent formation in the trees, invisible against the beechwood in their grey cloaks of Melian’s make. The only part of them visible were their faces, but those too were painted with the colors of the wood. Nimloth was so painted, and Dior found that he wanted to trace the pattern of it around her cheeks and lips — she looked so deadly, so intent, in the colors of the forest.

With a harsh battery of drums the orcs gathered together again, forming their company in a line three across. It was clear that they intended to skirt the northern line of the old road as it traced the top of the forest of Region toward Himlad, rather than descend south through the wood.

Morwen’s words had proven themselves true, Dior thought grimly. Without her misdirection to keep the orcs at bay, they made free of the land as if assured of no retribution. It seemed that Mablung had had enough of their blatant disregard of Doriath’s forces — he raised his hand in a fist and released it silently, and the arrows of the march-wards sang through the trees to meet the orcs as they stood.

The cries and death agonies of the orcs soon drowned out the thrum of the bowstrings, and Dior unsheathed his sword to leap forward into the fray. The orcs were a hardy bunch, and the fighting felt like a release of all the tension he’d been carrying within him since coming to Menegroth — he was alive, and fighting for his life, and the death of Morgoth’s spawn was a balm to his spirit.

And along with the fierce desire for battle that his Man’s blood gave him, Dior heard another low song — it was the song of Arda, the wash of the tide as two musics met and clashed, dissonance for once overwhelmed by the strong melody of Eru Illúvatar.

The music took him, and Dior felt himself become fell within it — his sword raised to force the melody note by note against the bitter forces of darkness and unraveling.

When Dior felt himself emerge, panting, from the battle-haze, he saw that he was alone in a ring of dead foes, and the march-wards of Thingol were approaching him cautiously from the wood.

“Prince, it is done,” said Mablung. “And many slain by your hand. You are indeed a child of Beren and Lúthien, our mightiest warriors.”

Dior blinked, wiping a trace of blood and sweat from his eyes. Indeed, none now stood alive in all the company, and some were already dragging corpses into a great pyre to burn.

But Nimloth approached too, and Dior saw her then as a pure flame of joy. He dropped his sword and held his arms open for her, and laughed when she stepped into them.

Covered in blood as they were, Nimloth held his face steady with her hands. And then, her eyes meeting his, she smiled at him. “Lúthien’s son, I admit defeat. I am overcome by you,” she said. “As if I had any other fate, from the moment we met naked in the wood.”

Their first kiss was sweet and swift, but Dior put his hand into Nimloth’s hair, heedless of the blood he lay upon the silver fall of it, and held her still as he met her lips again — and again — until he realized that he would soon make a spectacle of them before the wardens if he continued.

Breath coming more swiftly, he dropped his head to Nimloth’s shoulder.

And then, Mablug raised up a cry of victory and rejoicing, and all joined in to celebrate a small victory in what Dior feared was a longer defeat. But for the moment, the song was pure, and Nimloth’s body was warm against his, and the life of Arda sang loud within him.

~

”I hear you are betrothed,” Thingol said to him dryly the next morning when the company returned to Menegroth. “At the very least, I hope so, for Galathil will have your head if not.”

”I would have no other, but only Nimloth the fair,” Dior said, watching Nimloth as she helped bandage the wounded at the gates of Menegroth, on the green lawn beneath the great tree of Hirilorn. “Nimloth at peace is like the clay of Beleriand formed into its most beloved shape. Nimloth at war embodies the song of Oromë. Her touch —“

”Nay, grandson,” Thingol said, laughing. “Spare me that. The union is fitting, save for one thing only — you are full young in Elven eyes, and Man though you might be, we must wait until all judge you worthy before you wed. It will not be long, and I counsel you to bear it with patience.”

“Well I understand the reasoning, and yet my heart forbodes that time is short,” Dior answered steadily. Well, no matter. His mother had never listened to her father, and Lúthien’s line would not start listening now.

Thingol raised his brow at Dior, who returned his look with a sweet smile. “I brought you a token from battle,” he said, turning the topic. One of the orcs, the leader of the company, had carried a knife of Elven make. “I return to you this weapon, looted long ago. Returned to you, may the spirit of the one who bore it be at peace.”

The knife’s hilt was shaped like a leaf, and Thingol took it carefully in his hand, his face showing for a moment the long grief he carried through his years in Arda. “Aye,” he said at last, touching the hilt with gentle fingers. “May the bearer be avenged. Well done, Eluchíl my heir.”