Be All My Sins Remembered by Marchwriter

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Chapter 2: By Moonlight

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Nargothrond, 312

“My lord? It is time.”

“Thank you, Edrahil.”

Finrod shook back the brocaded lengths of his sleeves to free his hands and flicked open the coffer before him. He made a gesture over his shoulder. “I can never fasten this blasted thing properly.”

Stepping close, Edrahil drew back the thick plait of Finrod’s hair and draped it over his shoulder. Taking the coffer and handling it as carefully as if it were the still-wet wings of a butterfly, he slipped the necklace of the Dwarves around his throat and fastened the clasp without catching a single thread of hair. He smoothed and adjusted, his fingers skating lightly over Finrod’s shoulders and down his arms though the velvet of his surcoat had already been brushed to a high sheen.

“You wear it well,” Edrahil said, letting his arms fall.

The Valarin jewels glimmered in the soft light falling through the pavilion. For all its weightlessness, it hung like a millstone about his neck.

Edrahil clasped his shoulder and squeezed. “It is a night of celebration, my lord. Your people are happy and at peace and wish to share this night with you. If you didn’t look like a rain cloud about to burst. Smile.”

The order provoked a reluctant acknowledgement from Finrod’s lips. “You are too good to me, Edrahil.”

“I know it. Now, come. I would hate for you to miss my trouncing of the last of your would-be champions in the lists tonight.”

“Oho! I hope such a mighty boast has more than wind behind it!”

“It is your colors that guide my spear and keep my horse straight and strong.”

“I thought it was my silver.”

“That too.”

Finrod laughed in earnest and led the way out onto the field.

The scent of peat fires warmed the air and smoke drifted lazily over the banners and pavilions that had sprung up through the vale of the High Faroth and almost as far as the gorge of Narog itself.

In the crowning glory of the twilight, that time most sacred when the stars first blushed in the sky, the knights of Nargothrond rode out in full force. Cuirasses glinted in the light of the bonfires, throwing back glints of diamond and steel. Lance tips sprawled with the rich pennants of nobles. Phalanxes of horses turned and danced in a mock-battle almost as fierce as it was breathtaking.

Finrod watched from his place on the dais, grateful that the growing evening concealed his face. Despite the four-hundred years of peace, the knights of Nargothrond still prepared for a day when they might again be summoned to the field, and though they were beautifully turned out, their showing was thin, and Finrod could not help thinking of those lost on the Ice, borne down by the weight of their panoply, the armor’s protection become its curse.

Another autumn night, almost a year ago, he had built fires of chestnut and ash wood on the edges of another, far smaller river and there had been no armor on him.

He struggled out of his dour thoughts as a horn blared across the valley, and Edrahil, garbed in his lord’s colors, rode to the end of the list for the final joust, his opponent mirroring him on the other end.

The knight bore no device on his plain, silver shield nor did any pennant hang from his lance. A helm and visor pulled low down over his face concealed all features save the breadth of his shoulders and the strong arc of his spine; he carried himself straight and tall in the saddle. His mount too was plain, a little bow-legged, quite unlike the sleek and able coursers who were few and costly in Nargothrond.

Coin passed discreetly from hand to hand as the men jostled up against the lines for a better view. Edrahil was renowned for his skill with a lance and horse. And this mysterious fellow who sought to challenge him was an unknown though whispers passed from fire to fire that many a skilled knight had fallen to his lance.

Finrod found himself craning forward as the two riders urged their mounts to either end of the list. They dipped lances, one to the other, then ambled almost leisurely towards one another. The pace picked up to a trot, extending between one breath and the next, one heartbeat and the next.

At full-tilt, the clash of their spears cracked like thunder across the plain. The tip of Edrahil’s lance touched the silver knight in the chest, rocking him hard back in the saddle. Incredibly, he righted himself and veered round for the second pass. Several of the men cheered admirably. Doughtier men had been toppled by such a blow from Edrahil’s lance.

The silver knight wheeled and charged.

At the last second, his lance dropped.

The blow struck Edrahil square in the center of the breastplate, and a collective hiss arose as he swayed, unbalanced, and hit the ground in a rain of splinters from his opponent’s broken lance.

At once, the silver knight was off his horse, sweeping out his sword. Edrahil was already on his feet, blade in hand, feet planted. They danced the battle-dance, puffs of dust rising from their quick footwork, the flash of steel, the harsh grunts and pants of exertion as each one fought to unbalance the other, but the silver knight held his own though he moved less gracefully or quickly. Like a boar, he was steady, persistent, giving ground where he needed, then bulling his way forward with sheer zeal that had Edrahil retreating against the onslaught. He stumbled, once, just once. And it was enough.

Edrahil raised a hand, conceding surrender.

The silver knight touched his shoulder lightly with the flat of the blade, sheathed it, and extended a hand, which Edrahil ignored.

The courtly gesture touched Finrod as cheers and groans exploded around them. The silver knight was hoisted into the air on the shoulders of a cheering crowd and paraded about the ring before he was set back on his feet in front of the dais, still holding his shattered lance.

The silver knight descended to one knee and laid a hand against his breast.

Finrod brought his hands together and interlaced his fingers, surveying the bowed head. “You fight well, my man. Edrahil has never been bested with a lance.”

“I had the honor, my lord, of a worthy cause to fight for.”

“And what cause is that?”

“Love of you and of Nargothrond.”

Charm and a quick wit as well as a strong sword arm. “Remove your helm, knight, that I might know you and name you champion.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the silver knight lifted his helm and laid it on the grass at his feet. Sweat and exertion had swept his dark hair into curls at his temples and the nape of his neck, and his ruddy face suggested an exertion of more than a hard fight.

But Balan beamed all the same. “I would consider it the highest honor to be named your champion, my lord.”

Rising from the dais on shaky legs, Finrod stepped down, offered Edrahil a consoling clap on the shoulder then summoned Balan to his feet.

“Walk with me.”

Somewhere in the dark beyond the furthest tents, a frog’s chorus pulsed in time with Finrod’s stammering heart.

The stars Elbereth had netted in the vastness glimmered above them like silver fish in crystal still water, the moon casting their shadows before their feet. Now bobbing together, mingling and parting, an ever-varying dance of advance and retreat. Every now and again, hands would brush in the dark of the path or a shoulder jostle, and any words Finrod had finally gathered up would turn to ash in his mouth.

Though he had envisioned this very meeting a thousand times a thousand different ways, the reality of the body beside his, the familiar voice and form…a peculiar reticence clung to the air that he did not know how to disperse, to find their old ease with one another again.

In the months since their last parting, he had thrown himself into the marshaling of Nargothrond and the strengthening of its defenses. That, alongside Edrahil’s ruthless cheer, provided a welcome distraction and gave him the distance he needed to sort himself out. It was better this way, he reasoned. Men and Elves were too different of a kind. They were not meant to mingle in one another’s lives. Why court pain to no good purpose?

And, slowly, he believed that to be true.

And with a single lance-thrust Balan had toppled all.

“I did not know you had such skill.”

“My father used to herd sheep. Remarkable how similar the two are. Except a knight rides straight at you and falls more easily. Give me a knight over a stubborn ram any day.”

“You jest, surely.”

Balan’s teeth flashed at him in the dark. “Perhaps.”

They slowed, an arms length apart, each trying to gauge the way forward in the other’s half-shadowed face. The bonfires and merriment from the encampment lingered behind them, ghosts of light and sound.

Balan passed a hand through his dark hair, chafed the nape of his neck. “I missed you. Nóm.”

“And I, you. I had not thought to see you again,” Finrod said. Though he had, many times, re-envisioned their last encounter. How things might have gone otherwise. How he might have redressed his ill before he had even committed it. “I should not have lied to you, Balan.”

The Man’s lips pressed ever-so-slightly together, and he looked away, leaving Finrod at pains to sort out where he had erred. Had he not apologized? Had he not conceded his wrong? Why then that dark face? Such a fragile thing, a Man’s pride. So easily wounded and slow to mend.

“Had our positions been reversed, I would very well have done the same,” Balan said.

Finrod broke away first, tentative as one who treads uncertain ice. “So…how goes it with the folk of Thalos?”

“Putting your instruction on husbandry to good use though the Green Elves like that no less. All things considered, they are well.”

“‘All things considered?’”

A breath. “I wish I could say that my purpose here was nothing more than an excuse to trounce Edrahil and win my way back into your graces.”

The night prickled with an early chill.

“Has some ill befallen your people…?”

“Not yet.” Three deep furrows in his brow cut a barred shadow. “My sleep has been troubled of late. Ill dreams. Fire and smoke, the cries of men and other…creatures beggaring belief or horror. I have read the portents in water and stars and stones after the manner of my folk. They all say the same. A darkness is coming. The power that dwells in the East is too great. The Elves cannot hold forever. And when He spills forth, He will do so in fire and ash and fury that has not been seen on this earth.”

“Portents do not always make for wise counsel.”

Balan cast him a sidelong look. “Orcs have been spotted in East Beleriand. The Green Elves are fleeing south, carrying whispers and rumors of trouble stirring…And whatever your opinion on portents, my words do not surprise you, I see.”

“No. I’m afraid they don’t.” Some of the same had come even to Nargothrond.

“What do you propose to do?”

“Nargothrond’s knights are valiant, but they are not numerous,” Finrod said, clasping his hands in the small of his back. “Not enough for open war. It is why I built the hewed city in the first place. Against the day when Morgoth would rise again. But if King Fingolfin calls up the banners, I am bound to go. We all must do what we must to prevent him gaining a foothold again.”

Balan folded his arms against the wind now blowing strong out of the East. He said nothing as he gazed out across the gorge of Narog and, just beyond, the Guarded Plain, featureless and shrouded. “A man cannot stand idly by while others fight for him.”

His words hung in the air, freighted with more than an acknowledgement of Finrod’s fealty. Balan’s shoulder pressed warm against his, and Finrod could not bring himself to move away.

“A lord’s raiment becomes you.” Balan made as if to brush the Nauglimir lying against Finrod’s breast. “When first you appeared in our camp—”

“—led at knifepoint, as I recall.”

“Even disheveled and boar-bruised, you had a bearing about you.”

“Thank goodness, it’s dark. My blushes.”

“The Dark could not touch you.”

A shadow brushed against the inside of Finrod’s chest. He had seen that look before on other men: men of the House of Finwë whose fingers though blackened to the last knuckle still clutched their blades, though glass-eyed with exhaustion still heaved themselves through thigh-deep snow. Men who had plunged beneath glacial waters or simply vanished into some unseen abyss, that grim determination fixed eternally on their features. Men who had followed him.

“No.”

“‘No,’ what? I have not asked a question.”

“I know what you would say. And my answer is no.”

“Again. I have not asked for anything. Indeed, there is nothing I would ask but much I would offer. My services and my sword to the lord of Nargothrond who first befriended us in our need. Now we would aid him in his.”

“The Dark does not touch me, say you?” Finrod hissed. “Yet it does. A sword will cleave my flesh and snuff my life just as it will yours. I am no celestial being, no…Vala to be worshipped. Nor do I consider what is between us a debt owed.”

Balan shook his head. “I am no tyro, too callow to know either my own or another’s measure nor one moved to act out of obligation. I have seen your heart, Nóm, and what we might do for our people. I would be part of that. Forfeit my life, if need be.”

“An oath so sworn may not be broken,” Finrod said. “Your life may be the least of what you forfeit.”

“I will take that chance.”

Damn him!

Finrod fought the urge to seize him and shake sense into him. How like a Man, too short-sighted and stubborn to recognize that brave words could slay a man as easily as a sword-thrust. Too eager to prove himself the master of his own fate, that he alone could make such a vow and come away unscathed.

He would plunge forth, even unknowing.

“And what of your people? Your son?” Finrod asked though he did not relish wielding a man’s family against him in such a manner. “Are they not owed your fealty?”

“My people, including my son, know the price we must pay for our freedom and our safety,” Balan insisted. “If I must part from them in order to do that, so be it.”

Finrod stalked downslope to the edge of the gorge where the stars drifting above the rim of the world gleamed like ice in the velvet of the sky, their light and the half-crown of the moon limned the rock walls with ghostly light and glinted far below on the broad back of Narog. A clean, brittle wind wafted up from below, a stray lock ticking against his cheek, stirred loose from its plait.

Away on his left hand, Ringwil rattled and chattered over his shallow bed of stones just a short way before he flung himself over a fall, tumbling headlong, and was lost in Narog’s steady churn.

What recourse?

To accept such an oath — even if he could do so in good faith — would yoke this Man and his fate to the Doom of the Noldor and all their attendant suffering.

Yet to refuse it would strangle the tentative seed of friendship between the Eldar and Edain.

Worse still to turn Balan away again would break a ready heart.

And that last, Finrod could not endure.

For a wild moment, he considered the enchantments at his command. A pass of a hand might turn that intent face slack with sleep, rendering the evening as dull and foggy as if besotted by wine, the proffered pledge as forgotten as a wish in a dream.

And yet…

He could no more stop this then he could demand the river halt its flow. Even damming it would but redirect its course. This Man and those to come after him — all would have their own part to play; the Valar had decreed it so. And what was he, a mere Elf, to stand in the way of such?

“If you would precede with this folly of yours—”

“I would.”

“Then kneel.”

The imperfect moonlight softened the precipice of Narog, making one almost believe he might step off the edge of the earth here and float away into the sky as Balan went to one knee at its edge. An enchantment hung upon the air that was not of his own making.

“I will be faithful and loyal and will maintain faith and loyalty to Findaráto, son of Arafinwë, son of Finwë, Lord of Nargothrond, in matters of life and limb and of earthly honor against all foes; and never will I bear arms for anyone against him so long as my life lasts.”

His face, upturned to star and moonlight, was pale within the darkness of his hair. Yet his eyes…All the light of the heavens went whirling inward to the center of his eyes like sparks in a fire burning too bright and hot. For the briefest of moments, a circlet of silver cast of moonlight and shadow flickered about his brow. Tall and broad of shoulder, he knelt, a chief of a great people, at once venerable and humble, a warrior filled with the vigor and valor of manhood, a Man whose bloodline and destiny were inextricably woven together.

The lord of Nargothrond stood, hopelessly transfixed.

Now, at last, he understood how Thingol might have beheld a glory and grace beyond his understanding and felt the whole world fall away.

Balan was watching him, his rapt expression faltering in the face of the prolonging silence. “My lord?”

Finrod mastered himself. “Rise, Bëor son of the Edain. Knight of Nargothrond.”

He enfolded the Man’s clasped hands in his own and lifted him to his feet and sealed their covenant with a press of his lips.

They did not immediately move apart but lingered in the sacred space alive and pulsing between them, their hands still joined, fingers interlacing.

“They will say you have ensorcelled me,” Balan whispered, his thumb scribing small, absent circles across the skin of Finrod’s wrist. “That the elf-king of Nargothrond comes to villages of Men at night and spirits away the hardiest members of the tribe to do his bidding.”

Finrod laughed softly, painfully. “I have such arts. After a fashion, I suppose. But it is against my nature and inclination to bend others to my will. I would rather they come to me freely for then all their deeds hold the fullness of their heart.”

He laid his free hand, fingers splayed, against Balan’s breast, the notch of his throat, no bigger than the impress of his thumb. The air thickened, and a wind lifted a few strands of dark hair from Balan’s temple.

“I hope you know what you have done for yourself,” Finrod said, absently tucking the flyaway back. “The life of a knight is not an easy one. You will have to train hard. Edrahil is chief captain — and he will not go gentle with you.”

“Certainly not after I absconded with you as I did,” Balan said, almost rakishly, but when Finrod cocked an eyebrow in confusion, he shook his head and did not elaborate, his manner turning grave. “I will not fail you.”

“You have never failed me.”

A hand, rough with callouses, unafraid of toil or danger, brushed the ridge of Finrod’s cheek. “You regret it.”

Finrod caught Balan’s fingers in his own as if he were trapping a small and frightened bird — or, perhaps, that was his own wildly fluttering heart. “It is done. And cannot be undone.”

He meant to say more, to try to explain the thousand thoughts in his mind and the struggle in his heart for the right thing, but any words he would speak vanished in the advance and retreat of their breath, the linking and unlinking of their hands in the dark.

“I would…beg one more boon of you…my lord. If I dare.” The silver in his eyes leaped, glowing, beckoning Finrod into their warmth, out of the cold.

The leaguer would hold, he told himself, feeling as if he had tumbled headlong into a terrible mistake and was about to make another. The leaguer had to hold.

Alas, for the short-sightedness of the Eldar, he mused as Balan leaned forward and kissed him again.

To plunge forth, even knowing…

Edrahil was awaiting him when he returned with the taste of moonlight still on his lips.

“I did not expect you to wait up,” Finrod said, pausing on the rim of the firelight. He felt almost as if he was intruding upon something.

Edrahl sat wreathed in stillness with his boots out to the fire, all smoked down. “I trust you had much to discuss. You and…your champion.”

“Balan wished to make a private request for my ears alone.” Finrod said, unfastening his silver cloak. He folded it neatly into quarters and dropped it atop the log. “He wished to serve in the host of Nargothrond.”

“Oh?”

“I granted it.”

Edrahil brushed an invisible scuff of dust from his jousting leathers and said nothing at all.

“I did not think such news would ill-please you.” While he had not expected enthusiasm, this cold reception was disconcerting. “Nargothrond has need of knights.”

“We are not so desperate as all that we must pluck sheep-herds from the fields to fill our ranks.”

Finrod folded his arms and canted his head. “He proved himself keen enough tonight.”

“A pretty bout does not a warrior make.” It was said mildly enough, but Finrod knew Edrahil too well by now. Oft his most cutting words were his quietest. “My men have fought beside one another for long years. They will balk at such an unknown in their ranks.”

And the men's captain not least of all, it seemed.

“What is it about them that chafes you so?” Finrod scuffed a boot in the dirt. “Or is it Bëor alone? That he bested you in the lists?”

Edrahil’s gaze followed the curls of smoke over the listing pavilions and sleeping tents. “This has nothing to do with my pride. We know nothing of him or his people. Where they came from. Whom they serve.”

“I lived among them,” Finrod said. “I know them. And even had I not, their coming was foretold. They are children of this earth even as we are.”

“And even our folk have been corrupted by Angband.” Edrahil looked up at him, his face half in shadow. He did not blink, and Finrod felt oddly exposed as if Edrahil could read something in him that even he did not know. “There are whispers, Finrod, that either you have not heard or were not willing to hear. They speak of shadows. That Men fled — or were ousted — from the other side of the mountains, and He has been among them and blacked their hearts against the Eldar.”

Above Thalos, with red light on the red walls, the storytellers would talk of Men who who heard a fair voice in the shadows and followed it, never to return. Men feared the Dark and hated it. But if they spoke little of their journeys before they came to Beleriand, Finrod had always seen their generosity and hardihood and unwavering spirit. And never — save for that first night — had a violent hand raised against him nor an ill word spoken.

“I did not think you one to truck in gossip and idle tale-bearing,” Finrod said as if twitching away an errant fly. “What ails you tonight? Are you drunk? This insolence is tiresome and unlike you.”

“I’m merely feeling honest. And I am not the only one who speaks thus.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the dark tents. “Nor will some of your court be as diplomatic as I am when the king quits his own party to steal away with some stranger.”

“You see enemies where there are none.” Finrod stepped into the circle of the light and crouched beside him, now beginning to see the shape and weft of Edrahil’s thought. “Bëor is not your foe. Nor your rival, for that matter. You are my most trusted captain. None could usurp your place at my side.”

“Not at your side, no.” Edrahil’s stare settled deep in the crimson heart of it. The words drifted from him like the words of a dream. “A dim ember, however constant, cannot compare to a flame, brief and bright though it be.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

Edrahil draped an arm over his crooked knee, drawing inward as if he'd spoken more than he'd meant to. “Their fates are not ours. They look beyond the circles of this world. They care not for it as we do. Our struggle against the Enemy is not their struggle.”

“The Enemy is caged behind the leaguer,” Finrod said, waving towards the North where, leagues away, the bastions of the Elves still stood. Fingon and Orodreth and Aegnor and Angrod and the sons of Fëanor.

“For how long?” Edrahil asked. “You know as well as I how vulnerable the northern lands are. It’s only a matter of time before He tests our strength again.”

“It will not come to that.”

“Why?” Edrahil demanded, suddenly sharp. “Because you wish it so? Was it not you who told me that you feared Maedhros would put forth his strength too soon? That his hills were too low to keep the Orcs out forever? Yet now, you balk?”

“I have sent men to their deaths before,” Finrod said, quietly, “and have weathered their losses.”

“And I have watched you wither a little more with every one of them.” Edrahil softened, a little. “There is enough loss in this world, Ingoldo, without having to chase it. This Man you so ardently believe in will be tested. What if he fails? What if he falls? What if he proves less true than you believe?”

“He won’t.”

“Or you? He is a knight in your service now, you say. He may fight. He may die. And you may be the one to send him to that death. Can you do that?”

As always, Edrahil could be counted upon to drive his point in and in deep enough to draw blood.

Finrod lowered himself to sitting and braced his back against the log, now his turn to seek retreat in the fire. “You have ever been forthright with me. Even when I least wished it.”

“You used to appreciate it.”

“It will not come to that,” Finrod repeated.

Edrahil’s face, grim and wan, flickered with shadows and light as he held forth a folded piece of parchment. The waxed seal was broken, but even so Finrod recognized the eight-pointed star.

His stomach plunged.

“A runner came whilst you were…otherwise occupied. The Pass of Aglon has been breached. The sons of Fëanor call for aid.”