The Election Farce of Nargothrond: Of Dumbness, Treachery, and Brotherly Love by Dawn Felagund

Chapter 3: Nargothrond Reigns

Chapter 3: Nargothrond Reigns

Nargothrond was the most extensive of all the Elvish realms in Beleriand.

Finrod thought of it sometimes, how he--the eldest son of Finarfin, who was generally regarded as the least ambitious and courageous of Finwë’s sons--had come to procure paradise so easily. His underground hallways extended for miles, a city beneath the soil, so fair that one could walk its streets for miles without missing the blue skies and brisk winds of the world above. The city was utterly hidden and, therefore, without danger; only a few trusted folks knew where its gates lay. The Orc attacks that threatened his cousins and had taken the lives of his two youngest brothers were not of concern here.

And the city thrived. No one was in want in Nargothrond. Everyone was employed in the trade of his or her choice; no one had to humble himself to ask for a loan or a bite of his neighbor’s bread. Even love seemed to be sweeter and keener in the streets of Nargothrond, and Finrod presided over at least a wedding a month and three times as many celebrations of birth. Laments were rarely heard for dancing music was preferred, and the cobblers did brisk trade in repairing the dancing shoes of Nargothrond’s maidens.

Finrod was as careful to know every person’s name as he was to secure enough provisions to last through the month. He walked the streets with a fair crown upon his golden hair and robes of silk like cool water on his skin, fearless and with no need of a guard in his own protected city, to attend counsels on such frivolous matters as whether or not flowering vines should be chiseled around the columns in the community library and whether or not messages should henceforth be scribed on parchment with a slight peach tint that was more pleasing to the eye.

Finrod was of the three races of Elves: His paternal grandfather was once the King of the Noldor and his grandmother was of the House of the Vanyarin King; his mother was of the Telerin royalty from Alqualondë. Finrod was born with the faith and loyalty of the Vanyar, the musical gifts of the Teleri, and the diligent craftiness of the Noldor. Many of his people were of the same mixed blood, and it was not strange to see a child with the intense gray eyes of the Noldor and a head of sunny Vanyar-blond hair, singing a sea-song with a Telerin accent. Finrod treasured such sights.

His cousins Celegorm and Curufin made surprisingly welcome additions to his court. Curufin’s gifts in the forge brought much beauty and light to the halls of Nargothrond, and Celegorm’s easy charm flattered everyone, especially the maidens. The cobblers found themselves working more hours on dancing shoes after fair Celegorm’s arrival.

If it was possible to smile more in Nargothrond, the people did after his cousins’ arrival. Looking at them while holding counsels with his court--his cousins who had sworn a heretic’s Oath that they never now mentioned--he had trouble recalling the memory of blood on their hands, the blood of his mother’s people. Yet he knew it had been there. He knew this, yet bade his people to forgive them, the bright-eyed Fëanorians who inspired so much mirth among his people and who embraced him regularly and named him favorite of their cousins.

“Fair Finrod, cousin and King, my heart loves you.”

And Finrod loved and forgave them, they who had tormented him when they lived in paradise and now served him in this lesser world, because their presence helped him to bring Nargothrond closer to the perfect realm that he knew it could be. He loved them because he loved Nargothrond, and anything that was good for his realm and his people was worth his forgiveness.

With Celegorm and Curufin, he realized, his realm could be made perfect.

Perfect except for that Oath. That damned Oath. His heart had warned him then and it murmured darkly now, foreboding him of dark tidings to come.

But it was sworn to a mortal, who surely was dead by now. Still, his head could not quiet his heart.

“King Finrod!” He looked up to hear his name being called by a long string of maidens, dancing down the halls, hand-in-hand, following his cousin Celegorm. “King Finrod! King Finrod! Will you not join us in revelry?” One of them caught his hand, and he found himself being dragged into a giggling, flower-scented throng, and if his brain could not quiet his unease, he found that the tapping dance shoes of one hundred maidens worked quite well instead.