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311th YEAR OF THE SUN, SUMMER
Nargothrond
It was raining when they crossed the Narog. Five hours of damp progress and it was raining still, drenching through every thread of cloth upon them. Drenching through his bones as well, Balan thought cheerlessly as the drizzle turned once again to a downpour and Nóm gave no sign of halting. He and Váya slipped through the strands of water like a shimmering reflection. The rain had deepened Váya’s coat to the same hue as the storm clouds overhead, while Nóm seemed to hover upon her back, perched between cloud and cloud, some god of water or air. The flaxen hair turned molten in the deluge and it poured down over the lines of his head, the angles of his shoulders—golden filigree upon the simple, green tunic.
Balan had at first mistaken him for Satheweis in the dark midnight of Thalos, when he woke and beheld him sitting with harp in hand, the god of song beside their dying fire. Watching him now, he decided that Nóm was instead the image of Guënid, god of rivers, of seas, of all water. He had knelt on the far bank of the Narog that morning, reaching out to rest his palm upon the current where it rushed past, swollen and swift with the spring rains. “You are restless, my friend,” he had murmured over the din. “But it is only I and no dread or trespassing feet. Will you let us pass?” The torrent eased by degrees and Balan had been awed to see the ford emerge, newly passable in the wake of Nóm’s words; then full and raging once more as Váya and Elmorë’s feet reached the far shore. Guënid, Balan thought again as he looked at the figure riding ahead, for rain turned to light as it reached him, shimmering from his skin and glancing off the complex braids wrapping about his head. Balan had not seen him weave those through his hair since the early days in Ossiriand and was surprised to wake and find him engrossed in the process that morning.
Balan’s own shirt clung about him with a sodden chill and the fabric of his breeches had begun chafing along the thighs. If he was any god, he was the god of affliction. Here on his throne of wet saddle cloth, aching muscles his offerings, midges his supplicant worshippers. A wry grin slipped out at that last image and he pushed the hair back from his eyes, rainwater trailing over his ears. A lesser god certainly, but gods together, Nóm and he.
It was only three days past when he had felt that divinity in earnest—the rush of awe, the world gliding away, a heady mix of risk and invincibility. They had descended the low swell where they lunched above the Talath Dirnen and the horses set an easy pace across the grasslands. It stretched for leagues, rolling prairie dotted in the distance with hills and woods, but the eastern quarter lay flat and open before them. Balan was overwhelmed by the abundance of sky, nearly drowning in it as he looked up at the expanse, filling his lungs with the west wind while Elmorë trotted through the grass beneath him and the scent of meadowsweet washed through the air.
He heard Finrod’s laugh ahead of him. “How now, lost to the Aiwenórë1 already? And I’ve not yet taught thee flight.”
“Hmm?” Balan looked down with a bemused smile, then his brow arched at the merry glint in the other’s eye. “I fear to ask the meaning of that.”
Finrod laughed again and Váya’s trot quickened, Elmorë following her pace. “Remember what I told thee yestereve: shift forward onto the joints of thy feet, let thy weight be rooted low. Rise up from the saddle as he gains speed and take the movement in thy legs. He will not let thee fall.”
“Nóm…” All Balan’s fear returned in an instant and he watched in alarm as Váya sprang forward across the plain.
“Tolo, Elmorë!”2 Finrod’s voice flew back over his shoulder, music and challenge. “Noro lim!”3
Balan felt the creature beneath him leap forward in pursuit. He caught his breath with a gasp and for a moment forgot all Nóm’s guidance and clutched at the saddle in panic. Elmorë’s muscles bunched and released beneath him as he gained speed and the ground rushed away, the wind roaring up through his ears. He would fall. Nóm was too far ahead and could not pull him back from the brink. He would fall—he was falling. His knuckles whitened and he leaned down against the horse’s neck.
Then came a low whinny, a twitch of the raven ears, a gentle calm rising from the shoulders beneath him. Whatever the connection was between these uncanny creatures and their riders, Elmorë understood it even if Balan did not, and the comfort of that steadied his fear. He will not let thee fall. Nóm’s words trickled back into his awareness and gradually he eased his grip, pushing up from his huddled position and shifting the reins into his fingers, allowing his arms to fall in with the neck’s movement. Elmorë’s calm confidence rippled back through the leather and Balan felt his own courage return at the sense of it. He took a breath and shifted his weight forward.
The next moment Elmorë seemed to drop out from under him and a wash of adrenaline shot through his stomach. But he felt the stirrups firm beneath the balls of his feet, the reins pressing into his hands, he felt Elmorë’s muscles yet rolling beneath him and the drumbeat of his striking hooves.
And all at once he was laughing. It was flight, as Esrid had ever told him. Imagine seeing from the hawk’s eyes, Bal. You soar low over the grass and it’s rushing away beneath your wings—you hovering within its motion, suspended between the sky and earth. The old ache rose amidst his jubilation. How Esrid’s eyes would have danced to see him like this, poised as her hawk in the firmament, he and this magnificent beast flying as one creature through the billowing grass. How his own heart would have burned to be seen.
Balan squinted as he drew his gaze up from the blurring grass, blinking back tears as his eyes watered in the wind. The plain was rolling past around him, golden and green in the afternoon’s heat. And golden and green too was Nóm ahead of him, brilliant in the unveiled sun. His hair and shirt streamed behind him with Váya’s speed and his head was turned back over his shoulder, keeping the other ever within his sight till he knew how he fared. And Balan’s heart burned indeed to be seen.
“Come then, night sky,” he called hoarsely into the wind, his voice thrown back into his throat with their speed. “Let us catch them.”
He felt the intoxication of it still as they plodded now along the Narog. The rain was falling harder, straight sheets through the still air, and Balan ceased any attempt to keep the hair from streaming down over his eyes. He numbered Elmorë’s footfalls in tens as he would his own steps during his people’s wandering, passing time in distraction and steeling his endurance by shares. It must end eventually. Surely even Nóm’s people could not travel on like this without ending.
The illusion rode ahead of him as before, shining golden and green along the riverside as he had upon the plain, and once again he looked over his shoulder. The bright laugh that followed did little to improve Balan’s humor.
“Ai, Anarinya!” The laugh turned penitent as Finrod took in the bedraggled spectacle on the horse behind him. “I’ve quite drowned thee. But take heart, soon the boughs grant us a full canopy and from there the going is easy.”
“Soon by thy measure is little comfort.” Balan shook his hair from his eyes and grimaced. “I’ll forgive thee when I’m dry.”
Finrod laughed again at this and turned back in the saddle. He began humming a traveling song, an Atani melody they had taught him while Estolad was raised from the fields. Then it was Balan who led the rolling chant, calling out the melody lines to the beat of hammer and axe, his people echoing in the double percussion of the response. Now Nóm’s voice held the call, and Balan’s it was that drummed the measure.
Ever onward
we go
Though the land is
fallow
And the daylight
falls low
We wander ever
oh
Over field and
barrow
We pass the hill and
hollow
Where the thorn bush
sharp grows
We wander ever
oh
Hear the rook and
grey crow
There running fly the
swift does
They flee the wolf and
his woe
We wander ever
oh
On roads that seldom
we know
We set our feet and
follow
The path we’ve forged and
then lo!
We wander ever
oh
Our feet may tire and
fall slow
Yet moon must wane and
fall low
Until to rest we
may go
We wander ever
oh
❈ ❈ ❈
It was night when they reached the gates at last. The rain had lessened when they passed through the foothills of the Faroth, riding in among them till Ringwil ran still enough to ford. From there they led the horses on foot between tree and crag, a complex and winding track that Nóm walked with surety and of which Balan never saw a trace. As dusk turned to dark, he gradually became aware that the shifting shadows within the wildwood were not tricks of the changing light, but figures following their progress, flanking them along each side. They were there in the corner of his eye, gone when he turned toward them; appearing once more when his eyes returned to the path, then melting again into the twilight whenever his gaze sought their forms.
“They have been with us since we crossed onto the plains.” Nóm had dropped back to walk beside him as the way widened and he sensed Balan’s unease. “Hadst thou not sight of them before?”
Balan shook his head. “Nay, not a whit. Have they kept pace all this while on foot?”
“There are more than these alone. The Talath Dirnen is woven throughout with eyes and defenses, and those have guarded us in turns from the moment we left Elu’s land and entered my own.” He glanced at Balan with a smile. “Though they will not approach without my summons.”
The shades continued to melt in and out of the brush. Now that he had seen them, Balan wondered how he had been heedless of them till now. Their presence rippled through the woods like a scent, the prickling tang after the lightening’s blaze. It was unmistakable.
They followed the Ringwil until he dove headlong into the gorge, tumbling over a jagged fall of boulders until his roaring foam mingled with the rapids below. They turned to the south as they neared the edge and passed through a cleft in the rock face. A passage opened out before them, just wide enough for a horse to pass unhindered, within which a sloping path had been cut with skill to imitate a natural stair in the limestone. It was hidden on the eastern side by a line of crags, and on the west by sheer cliffs rising to the highlands above.
Balan’s senses swam as they descended. There was no light within but the pale stars overhead and he followed Nóm more by guess than by sight, muttering charms of luck under his breath that the gods might preserve him from a false step and a fall in the dark. The strike of their horses’ hooves echoed along the corridor, ricocheting up narrow walls to punctuate the thunder of river and falls.
It was not a long stair, the Ringwil entered the gorge from one of the lower hills, and soon Balan saw the glint ahead of him—Váya’s sheen and Nóm’s gold illuminated once more in the moonlight. Another few steps and he too emerged from the passage to find himself amidst a small crop of ash trees growing clustered against the foot of the bluffs. A wide terrace spread out beyond these, bounded by the tree-lined cliffs and a sheer drop into the river channel. Nóm shifted to walk alongside him again as they followed Narog’s course south and Balan noticed a growing uncertainty in his demeanor. He was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his steps slower than they had been throughout the day.
“All well, Nóm?”
“Yes.” A smile broke through and he was himself as he glanced down at Balan, the merry light dancing again in his eyes. “All is well, Anarinya,” Finrod said as he reached out to clasp the other’s hand in his own, impulsive and fervent, lingering as they walked shrouded between the horses. “We are nearly there.”
Then with a hiss of intaken breath, he released him and stepped forward ahead of Váya, tall and fierce and imbued in an instant with the sharp air of command Balan so rarely saw him employ. Now it radiated from him like light, like warmth, alarming and beautiful, and he watched the transformation in awe.
For a moment the king glanced back, a brief smile handed through the dark, a quick brush of thought. Then he turned and stepped into the overgrown copse of maple and ash obscuring the cliff face and disappeared beneath their boughs. Swiftly, Balan plunged after him, steps faltering as his eyes adjusted to the tree shroud, and with that slow acclimation came the image of two great doors, set within a stone-linteled archway and towering up through the rock wall before him. He gasped despite himself and felt the old fear of his people recoil within his breast, and only by sheer force of will—his own and Nóm’s holding like steel throughout it—did he keep himself from fleeing back toward the river. Elmorë’s breath snuffed hot against his ear and he reached up to rest a hand along his jaw, taking comfort from the living warmth of the creature beside him. For the doors had begun turning soundlessly inward.
It was dark within.
Ghomennin gather, gather ‘round
Pitch black behind the yawning archway.
They dance a circle ‘pon the ground
Balan realized he was breathing fast and had stepped back against Elmorë. He could not. Not even for love of Nóm could he enter that gaping hole in the cliffside. How could the creature at his side dwell here, he who was all light and goodness and golden merriment?
“Trust me, Anarinya.” Balan could not discern whether the voice reached him as a whisper or in the brush of the other’s thought, wrapped full about his own—warmth and comfort, reassurance and command. “Come and we will summon the light.”
Nóm’s hand rested gently at the nape of his neck and Balan turned all his attention upon that touch, fixing his senses on the palm across his spine, the fingertips atop his shoulders, the light pressure on each side of his neck, that he might not feel the movement of his own feet as he allowed the other to lead him forward into the abyss. A blanket of night dropped over them as they passed through the gate and his eyes strained against the dark. There was the clop of hooves on stone, the tentative shuffling of his own feet, his shaking breath, the muted thud of stone doors closing behind them.
And then light sprang up before the doors’ echo had faded, and Balan flinched back against Finrod in shock. A line of ten guards flanked the walls, a newly unveiled lamp suspended from the stone above each, and the light shone down and multiplied as it leaped from their burnished armor, from the wide, golden spearheads. They stood at attention as Finrod stepped forward, leading Balan still at his side.
“Galdol, aran nin!”4 Four figures stood before a second gate, a stone’s throw ahead with doors carved of oak, and the foremost of these bowed in greeting as they approached. “Glad indeed were the tidings that you returned.”
“Edrahil.” Finrod smiled and stepped ahead of Balan to clasp the other’s shoulder. “And glad is the hour I greet thee.”
It was an entrance chamber, Balan determined as he looked about. The walls had been carved out in careful symmetry, twice as long as it was wide, bearing great doors at each end and an arched ceiling between. Four horses could ride abreast through the gates and the chamber’s height would allow spears and banners to be born upon them. Nóm’s hand returned to his shoulders and once again he was centered by the touch.
“Balan Beldarion i eneth dîn.”5
Balan pulled his attention from the hewn rock to focus on the conversation before him. He was passably conversant now, but not adept enough to follow an exchange without direct focus. It was an introduction, he assessed quickly, and Nóm had turned towards him now.
“Balan, this is Edrahil, the captain of my own guard.”
He crossed his arms and bowed. “In goodness our paths have crossed,” Balan said after the fashion of his own people, “in peace may their journeys lead.”
“Fair are your greetings, son of Beldar. I count it an honor to be of the first to welcome you to our city.”
Balan felt the heightened attentiveness pulsing in Nóm’s palm, the tension prickling across his thought. Had he said something wrong? Had the other? But the smile on Finrod’s face was genuine when Balan glanced over in concern, and his anxiety eased at the sight. It was a careful line to tread, here among the unfamiliar.
Edrahil had moved back toward the second gate which, like the first, had begun turning inward without a sound on its hidden pivots. The gatehouse opened out into a large chamber, the crossroads of the main and two additional passages, which tapered together into a corridor running down through the rock ahead of them. Finrod led the way along this, guiding Balan firmly at his side, while the captain and one guard fell into step behind them, and the two remaining led Váya and Elmorë at the rear.
The walls were patterned along their length with a series of alcoves, delved into the rock face on alternating sides. These arched up from the floor to meet in a tapered point, from which a lamp hung suspended over a guard’s head, echoing the configuration of the entrance chamber, only here there were no shrouds to disrupt the light. A guard stood within each, and each alcove was lined throughout with polished bronze or steel, mirroring the lamplight in prisms of gold and silver. Standing within their niches, the soldiers gave the appearance of uncanny statues lining the way; an impression only broken when each shifted to sharp attention as the king passed by. Balan watched this with fascination and felt a mix of awe and disorientation to see Nóm in this manner. Nay, even to think of him as Nóm within these vaulted passages felt somehow disjointed and strange. Nóm was the familiar companion of woods and fields—somber and fay, merry and quiet—a comfortable spirit who sat smiling beside Balan’s hearth. Here he was a formidable presence. He wore the simplest attire of any they passed, clothed still in the traveling hose and loose, green tunic of two days gone, but he radiated a dignity and command that merged with the very light of the halls. Balan was breathless as he watched him from the corner of his eye. He knew not even how to name him.
“There are three gates that open onto the gorge,” Finrod said in explanation as they walked, and it was Nóm’s voice again, drifting through the vision, “and all meet together in the passage behind us. We entered through the central of these—the main gate, or what we call Annon Aearon: the gate of the sea. Each of the doors we have graven for a promise of the Valar, in the hope that their memory may yet keep us in safety: Annon Anor a Ithil, the gate of the sun and moon that marks the light of our remembrance in exile; Annon Elen, the gate of the stars; and Annon Aearon, for the Lord of Waters who laid it upon my heart to delve this city.”
Balan nodded as he listened, his eyes darting over the passage while they continued their descent, still unnerved by the new intensity of the soul at his side. Ando Eären, he translated to himself, lips silently forming the words as they walked, Ando Anar Isilyë, Ando Elen. He felt the warmth leap toward him from the other’s thought, and the corners of Balan’s lips twitched upward in response. Yes, these were the names Nóm had given them as well.
They reached a crossroads at the bottom of the passage and the guards veered off along the right fork with Váya and Elmorë, while Finrod led Balan forward through an archway with a relief of vines and flowers. “Sin mardenya,”6 he breathed as they stepped out onto a landing and the roof and floor fell away.
The cavern was vast. It stretched like an open valley before them, the floor of it lined with interwoven structures, great stone formations carved and wound into these, a market—quiet now in the time of rest—and a trail of gardens running throughout. A great stair descended from the landing where they stood, and about it the stone flowed down like water to the cavern beneath. Their terrace continued about the length of the cavern, doors and windows opening out onto it from the living rock. It was one of many, Balan realized as his eyes lifted upwards. The roads terraced up and down the walls, climbing amidst a myriad of dwellings delved into the rock face. Light poured out through the cave, golden light drifting like evening’s caress over the flora and stone, and defying all Balan’s senses. He swore under his breath and stood transfixed, lips parted and eyes wide.
“This is the First Hall,” Finrod’s voice drifted in through the haze, “one of seven that serve as the primary living quarters for the city.”
“There are more than this?”
“Yes.” The king laughed to hear his breathless shock and the hand about Balan’s shoulder gripped tighter in reassurance. “Far more besides. I will show it all to thee,” he added in a near-whisper, and for a moment he was Nóm again—fervent and earnest and spilling over with joy. “Come.”
Balan followed after him in a daze. Nóm’s hand slipped from his shoulder as they moved along the road and the king walked a step ahead of him now, tall and radiant in the cavern’s light. Balan still could not determine from whence the light originated, but it caught within Finrod’s hair as though it too was the burnished metal of the guard’s alcoves, sending it dancing and tripping out from him as refracted sunlight.
“Vandatar!”7 A group emerged from around a corner, a young Elf striding at the head of them with his arms held open in greeting. He was tall, nearly as tall as the king, sharp featured and raven haired, and grey eyes dancing as he walked towards them. For a brief instant, Balan felt the frigid bile of jealousy as the king folded him into his arms with a glad cry and held him in a warm embrace. Then his mind attended through the weariness and he marked the greeting. Vandatar, oath-father. This was Gildor, he realized with shamefaced relief, the friend’s son orphaned on the Ice, taken on as the king’s own. In the wake of his quick envy, Balan felt a trespasser’s guilt to know the other’s suffering before ever acquaintance was shared, to have seen through Nóm’s memory the frightened eyes, the terror and heartbreak of the child waking alone between two parents who would not wake again. To know the memory of those desperate arms clinging about Finrod’s neck as he set him on his knee, weeping too as he named him his fosterling and brought him into his household. Balan pulled himself back to the present.
“Hinya.” The king’s voice was soft as he held the other close. “Glad am I to see thy face.”
“And I to see thee safely returned.”
Finrod grasped him by the arms as Gildor drew back, smiling. “I should have sent for thee,” he said with chagrin in his voice. “Forgive me that I did not realize ’twould be thy wish till now.”
“Nay, there is naught to forgive.” Gildor shook his head dismissively and Balan saw there was a sheen to the sable locks, silver and gold they stood together in the unaccountable light. “Only I am glad of thy return, vandatar.”
The king smiled in answer, then reached out to lay his hand behind Balan’s shoulders once more. “Balan, I have told thee oft of Gildor—my son in all but blood.”
“Goodness go with you, Gildor Inglorion,” Balan said, before realizing the name might bear more pain than respect. But the responding smile was warm, the sharp eyes welcoming. “It is both honor and joy to make your acquaintance.”
“And yours, lord of the Hildor. May Elbereth smile upon our hour of meeting.” Then Gildor turned back to the king with an apologetic glance. “Forgive me for drawing thee at once to matters of state, but Arminas is in the city with reports from Dorthonion. I have taken them down, but if thou hadst wish to speak with him as well, it should be ere aught else. He departs with the dawn.”
“Yes, I wish it. I have messages in turn for my brothers, and would send word to Orodreth also if he returns by way of Tol Sirion.”
“He does.”
“Then we will go to him straight away.”
Balan felt a wave of despair at the realization that sleep was yet far from his reach. The day had taken its toll and his eyes were heavy, his limbs aching through every joint.
The king sensed it in an instant and looked down at him, stricken. “Ai, Balan, the night is half gone and I’ve little heeded your rest.”
“I am well, lord,” he replied, attempting to set conviction in his voice, unsure whether this was to persuade the king or himself.
“You are weary.” Finrod’s hand was at his elbow. “And my hospitality is poor. The rooms were prepared as directed?” He turned toward Edrahil in query.
“Yes, lord. Shall I guide him thence?”
“With my gratitude. Balan, are you amenable? I may be long with Arminas.”
“As you wish, lord. I’ll not deny the road weighs heavily on me.”
“Aye,” Nóm slipped back to Taliska with a penitent’s smile, “I led you with little heed for aught but to arrive on the day I named.”
“As determined as a donkey who’s scented home.” Balan looked up at him with a quick grin, then added, “Baran did warn you were spending too much time with the little beasts.”
Finrod laughed at this and the sound ran like music over the flowering rock. “Aye, and how I shall miss them.” He set his hand briefly on Balan’s shoulder in parting, then with a smile he followed Gildor back the way they had come.
❈ ❈ ❈
Balan dreamed he was in the village where he spent his adolescence, wandering through the common green and setting his hand to stones and trees he had long since forgotten. There in his sleep he recalled the buttercup flowers running through the grasses, the rickety frame about the well, the shale his mother set into the ground before their door, the ash tree behind the hut and the clay figurine beneath it—his grandmother’s shrine to Melishk, the goddess of earth. Every part of it was empty. The houses, the green, the wide, shallow bend of the river where the women beat out laundry and children ran splashing and shrieking in the sun. Everything was draped in silence. He was searching, he realized, searching desperately for something he could not recall, all the while knowing it would slip away if he could not lay hand to it. Again he rounded the front of his family’s hut and where the dark shale had been empty a moment before, there lay now a clay jar of goat’s milk, a little bowl of hawthorn berries.
He woke with a start, disoriented. Above him the stone was smoothed into gentle vaults, set over in a pigment of midnight blue and decorated with a winding pattern of vines and golden flowers. Branches spread out above him in the morning light and he stared in confusion for a long moment. Why was there such an amount of sunlight? For it was clearly sunlight, not the evening glow of the cavern lamps, and Balan once again felt the eerie sensation of hovering in the midst of impossibility. He rubbed his hands over his face and pushed up to sit cross legged on the bed.
The bed was large, much longer than his height required, and bounded by a carved tree at each corner, reaching up to meet over the top in a twist of mingled branches. It was meticulous work, each tree unique and so closely mimicking their living counterparts that Balan at first thought they were planted within the floor. There was a hearth directly in front of him, unlit in the mild air; a curving wall of shelves delved into the stone, empty but for a basin of floating lilies and the few items he had carried outside his bags. They looked a scant little collection on the long shelves, huddled together on one end.
The source of the light was clear at once. There was a line of doors along the near wall, delicately carved with latticework along their length, through which the sunlight spilled into the room. A pair of them had been left open and from this a fresh breeze flowed into the chamber, ruffling the hair across Balan’s forehead. He leaned forward to peer through the opening and saw a wide, untamed garden, on the far side of which the rock face rose in sheer walls extending beyond his sight. That would be for a later study. He turned his eyes back to the apartments themselves.
Where the ceiling had been painted in elaborate patterns, the walls of the chamber were left in their natural colors. Various portions had been polished or highlighted in the shaping, the beauty of the stone washing through the room like a meadow in bloom, an autumn forest.
Balan drew his hands down over his face, a yawn splitting across his features. He managed a few hours’ sleep, he guessed. It had been well past midnight when Edrahil guided him to these chambers, a full hour after that ere he had bathed and settled, overwhelmed by the grandeur and comfort. He was afraid to touch a thing when he entered and stood nearly frozen in the midst of the room. Edrahil noticed at once and beckoned him forward to show where his belongings had been housed, reorienting him by leading first to the one point of familiarity. He then began noting each aspect of the room as he moved about, casually explaining functions and use as though such was included in any guest’s welcome—turning back the bedclothes, adjusting the glow of the lamps, demonstrating how the intricate contrivances worked to send cool water cascading into the bath, the system of pulleys to draw hot from the springs below.
Once abed, Balan found sleep was no closer than when he stood swaying in the First Hall. The mattresses he had known were of straw and grass, an improvement on the bare ground but nothing comparable to whatever was now beneath him. It was bliss. But still he shifted and turned, cold despite the warmth of the bath and the abundant blankets, restless despite his ease. He had not slept alone, he realized in a moment of epiphany, since before his marriage. First Esrid had been at his side, her warmth and presence alleviating the insomnia that plagued him since his parents’ loss. And when she in turn was gone, his sons shifted close: Baran curled against his back, Belen warm and small and wrapped safely within his arms. In all the years following, they slept still side by side and found comfort in the knowledge that each was near at hand. When that solace was forsaken, it was Nóm who lay beside him throughout the long leagues from Estolad, quiet and constant; Balan the one held now in the safety of another’s arms.
He ached with the lack of him. The bed was too large—he was lost within it and the sea of linen accentuated his solitude in stark contrast. It was the same insomnia upon him again, alone and frightened by the unknown, confronting the sudden loss of all he held constant. He wanted Nóm’s arms about him. Or he wanted Belen curled with his back against his own and the even sound of Baran’s breathing beyond, the steady cadence that lulled him to sleep these many years. He wanted Esrid. At last he had wrapped his own arms about himself, curling into the pillows, and slipped into an unsettled slumber.
Balan rubbed his fingers over his eyelids to clear the fog, then rose and wandered about the room. His own possessions had been set beside a tall chest and remained still in their bags where he carried them. Edrahil noted this in passing the night before; he had given directions for only the loose items to be set out on the shelves, unsure whether unpacking another’s bags would be counted an offense among Balan’s people.
He smiled at the recollection and retrieved the clean set of clothes he kept unused throughout the journey, dressing himself in the breeches and linen shirt, then setting the rest aside on the bed. The tunic was embroidered along each hem in a bright, geometric pattern that stood out against the dark wool. It was Belen’s work, a gift from before they began the mountain crossing, and Balan’s heart contracted as he traced his fingers along his son’s artistry. He would carry Belen with him throughout the day, here in these stitches. How alight his boy’s eyes would be to wander through these halls! Soon, Balan reassured himself. He would settle and learn the ways of the place, then send for him before the year was out.
He crossed to the other side of the chest where a small table stood against the wall and looked over the various items set along its length. There were a few small boxes, a carafe of water and a basin, a comb, a phial or two of oil. Balan opened one of these last in curiosity and was met with the aroma of heather blossoms and wild meadowsweet. It pulled him back at once to the foothills in Ossiriand when Nóm was yet a new and strange apparition. This was the scent of him in those first days amid the trees and Balan was amused to stumble so haphazardly upon how it was achieved. He chuckled as he set the lid back in place and returned the phial to the table alongside the others. He had assumed he merely grew accustomed to Nóm as he dwelt among them, no longer noticing the smaller differences, but it was far simpler than that: the supply had run out. Flesh and blood after all, he thought, and found these little discoveries grounding. His eyes drifted up to the wall before him.
Balan’s breath drew in with a sharp hiss. There upon the rock face hung a smooth pane, rimmed about with a gold pattern of ivy leaves, its surface clearer than a still pool. His face looked back at him and he returned the gaze, stunned.
He knew his reflection from the water, of course. He knew it too from seeing his face in the obsidian mirrors of Esrid’s people. But what lay before him now was a sharper image than any he had yet beheld, and the face staring back was no longer that youth conjured up from the obsidian’s shadows. You fool, you fool, this is what walks before his eyes.
It was a passable face, he decided as he pressed down his anxious contempt and tried to observe the features dispassionately. Pleasant enough. The eyes were weary—that was little surprise—dark and set beneath a pair of heavy brows. The nose was snub, slightly crooked in the middle from the remnants of an old injury, the lips thin but decisive. The light brown skin was set off to advantage in the morning light, but he was confronted for the first time with the faint lines scattered all across its surface; a cluster at the corner of each eye, two deep furrows between his brows, several parallel creases running the length of his forehead. He was pleased to see the hair remained darker than he assumed, cut roughly above his shoulders with the winter brushing only around his temples. The rest of the tousled waves hovered about his head, unkempt from the restless night, and could nearly pass as a match for Baran’s. But the grey leapt in grim accusation from his beard, scattered throughout, unavoidable.
Well, that at least could be remedied. He stooped again to the bags beside him and retrieved his knife and a whetstone, honing the edge until it would serve. He poured water into the basin, looked back at the reflection once again, then took a steadying breath and set to work.
❈ ❈ ❈
The swans were sharp in the lamplight, sinuous necks curved back and arched in proud elegance across the panels. A single eye of each fixed any who approached, holding them in watchful attention, and Balan’s own gaze was captivated in turn as he walked beside Edrahil. He had seen them before, he was sure of it. There was something in the supple curve of the wings, in the light dip of their backs that rested like a word on the tip of his tongue.
The captain paused before the entrance and Balan waited alongside him, his eyes moving over the details of the feathers, the tilted heads, the serpents winding together at the top of the arch. Both father and mother, he mused as they waited, for Nóm had said these were a symbol of his mother’s people, had he not? They kept watch here together, swans and serpents.
The ships. It struck his recollection with a cold rush as Edrahil laid hand to stile and stepped forward. The burning quays, the mad confusion, these same silhouettes cutting through the raging sea. Nóm had placed their creaturely likeness here guarding the doors where he sat in council and, as they swung open before him, Balan knew with certainty the other’s intent—that these might ever serve as warning and reminder to what governance passed within. If the gates of the city had been graven in the hope of faithfulness, these were carved in remembrance of treachery; that its memory might preserve them from recapitulation.
“Ah, mellon nin!”8 The king’s voice greeted him as Balan passed through the archway, and at once he was walking towards him, an arm outstretched in greeting.
Balan froze at the sight. He had been startled by the previous night’s transformation, but it had not prepared him for the apparition that moved toward him now. He felt again that awe of waking amidst the midnight song and seeing him there beside the embers, unknown, indescribable, achingly beautiful. Lord, are you a god come among us? But even then he had been attired for hunting, finely clad but in simple design. Whereas here he was a king in his own dominion, glorious and radiant, and as he had beside the fire in Ossiriand, Balan looked upon him and at once loved and despaired. He dropped to his knee.
“Don’t be a fool.” It was Nóm’s voice, the Taliska spilling warm and familiar from his lips, and it recentered Balan as he was pulled to his feet. “I am your friend yet, am I not?” Then the king’s laugh rippled out as he took in the features before him and set his palm against the bare cheek. “What have you done here?”
Balan’s expression fell at the mirth in the other’s eyes. “I…it seemed to be the custom,” he said, abashed.
Regret sprang across Finrod’s face in an instant. “Forgive me—I spoke in surprise, not mockery, but I’ve given offense. It was thoughtless of me.” He let his hand fall back to his side, but his eyes did not leave the other’s face and his voice warmed. “I am glad to know your countenance.”
For the first time, Balan noticed there were others seated behind the king, gathered at a long table on the far side of the room, and he was suddenly glad their exchange remained in his own tongue. “A portent of woe you called it once,” he said with a wry twist of his lips, “and yet I’ve dogged your steps for leagues. I’m not so easily offended.”
“And for that I am fortunate,” Nóm’s eyes glimmered with self-deprecation and he took Balan by the arm. “But it is nature, not custom, you know,” he added, and a sidelong smile flashed between them. “Yours is a rare skill here.”
Balan snorted in response and followed the king across to the table. He was becoming accustomed now to the unending dance of introductions and could follow the cadence nearly without thought. The difficulty, he fretted to himself, was affixing this influx of names to the equally manifold faces. He had begun resorting to tricks of memory, guessing meaning from his moderate understanding and tying this as best he could to the visages before him.
Brenoril, Noldorin heritage, one of the chief advisers. She who survived, Balan approximated as he exchanged the usual formalities. A long scar ran from above her ear to the tip of her chin. This he would remember without trouble.
Faelon, Sindarin heritage, the second of the king’s chief counselors. Just or generous. This was less apparent. Then Faelon smiled, wide and gregarious as he greeted the newcomer, and Balan was enveloped in the warmth of his welcome. Generosity indeed. This too he would not forget.
Gildor was next. There was no difficulty here. After his first misassumption, he kept Gildor’s face firmly in mind. There was something of Belen about him, the eager curiosity in his glance, the quick smile, and Balan held him dear at once on that merit.
Guilin now, seated beside him. He was dark as Gildor, but where the sharpness of Gildor’s features conjured a merry fledgling, these were set in stoicism. Balan fumbled for a translation as Finrod continued the introduction. Gui…gui…he could not place it. Cui was life, he knew, lin…pool or mere, perhaps? Song? He tried not to laugh at the thought of “life’s song” denoting this dower visage, but at least he had committed it to memory. Oh gods all, he had missed the title. Lord of some domain or other—he would ask Nóm later.
Then the last at the table, seated beside the king’s place. As with the marchwarden at the fen crossings, Balan felt the weight of years as a tangible presence about her. She was tall, her silver hair drawn back in a single braid between the shoulders, her eyes deep brown, wells of kindness and sorrow. Balan bowed as Nóm introduced her—Meril, besain,9 an elder of their people and chief among the king’s household.
“Goodness go with you, lady,” he said quietly, as awestruck by her presence as he had been to see the king in his splendor.
“And wisdom mark your coming and going, aphadon.10 Bitter the road, but glad is the welcome when children of the One meet in friendship.”
“May your words be as light to name the path we set.”
Meril inclined her head in acknowledgment and a smile broke like morning across her face. “Manwë grant it may be so.”
Finrod shifted the second chair at his side and motioned Balan toward it. “Come,” he said, “sit and join us. We have been long hours at council already and I shall be glad of new ears to refresh my mind. Indeed you arrived as though conjured—we had begun discussing the arrival of your people.”
“I was conjured, lord,” Balan said with a quick smile, taking his place at the table, “but twas by thine own summoning.” He had fallen into the informal from habit and faltered as he realized his presumption amid the gathered council. But Nóm laughed.
“True, true—expedience and no riddle. Ever thou wilt disabuse my feigned mysteries.” He too shifted his address and met Balan’s eyes in mirth, a quick brush of reassurance along the other’s thought. Then he returned his attention to the map spread over the table. “Estolad is here,” he said, reaching out to draw a finger along the Celon, “tucked in the bend of the river south of Nan Elmoth. The greater part reside within the encampment itself—we erected a village and palisade with aid from the Ambarussar—but there are fields and pastures in the leagues about it and many of the people have scattered throughout these. All told, I would estimate two thousand, perhaps? Is that accurate, Balan?”
“Near enough,” he replied with a nod. “Baran could make a full accounting if you wish a precise number.”
“Nay, I see no need for that yet.”
“Is this the full tale of your people?” Guilin’s voice was warm and musical, despite his guarded features. Perhaps after all, Balan thought, his translations had not been so far from the mark. “Or are there others yet following?”
“Of my own yes, this is the entirety. The Haladin, a people from whom we are sundered in speech, are still in the valleys on the eastern slopes, awaiting tidings before they venture further. There are yet other Men, whose tongue is more like to ours, with whom we have had dealings at times. They were before us on the westward march, but we passed them; for they are a numerous people, and yet keep together and move slowly, being all ruled by one chieftain whom they call Marach.”
“Have you knowledge of their numbers?” Faelon spoke now, his eyes keen as he studied Balan’s features.
“Of that I am less certain. The people of Marach travel in two hosts—I would think each is comparable to my own people, or rather they were when we last met east of the mountains. Of the Haladin, I know little. They travel in small parties, scattered about the land. But if pressed for a number, I would think they are more than we.”
“Eight to ten thousand, then, at a minimum.”
“Estolad and the surrounding lands can hold the number, if my cousins remain amenable.” Finrod leaned back in his chair and met Meril’s eye. “So far there has been no friction.”
“And with Elu?” Meril held his gaze, her own unreadable.
“He is ill pleased. But he concedes the land lies within what was granted us.”
“His humor will not soften when the number is twice doubled.”
“I have little doubt of it. But I sent word with Beleg at the crossings to prepare him for that eventuality, and perhaps with warning the ire may be eased. Does Tediel remain in residence?”
“She does.”
“The Doriathrim emissary,” Nóm added in an aside to Balan. “I will speak with her ere the week is out and see whether we might yet bend my kinsman’s realm to hospitality.”
“There is objection beyond Thingol’s borders, aran.” Brenoril’s voice held a hesitancy it had not hitherto and Balan saw the king’s jaw twitch in response.
“The High King is displeased that I sent word overlate.”
“That may be, lord, but I spoke not of it.”
Balan saw the sharp glance, the look of questioning, and realized it was his own presence that held the conversation arrested. “Please,” he interjected quietly, “do not let fear of insult hinder your speech. I’ve led my people long enough to know that caution is not condemnation. I will take no offense.”
Brenoril inclined her head toward him in gratitude, then turned back to the king. “There is discontent among your own people as well. The rumors of Tirion are not wholly forgotten.”
“Lies of the Shadow,” Finrod’s voice was sharp. “Have we not reaped its rancid fruit long enough to know it is foul?”
“Twas ever a seed of truth around which he wove the lies, Findaráto.” Meril spoke quietly, but at the sound of her words Balan saw Finrod bite back the rebuke he had begun. “And so were we snared. Such deception is long in the shedding.”
The king nodded, then sat for a time in silence before he spoke again. “What course would you advise, then, having heard the nature of this disquiet?”
“It is but variations on the old unrest.” Guilin took up the thread, seeing Brenoril hesitate. “The Secondborn are found and some say it is as we were warned—they are not content to hold lands in the east, but have come seeking too these that we purchase with our life and blood. The lesser children reach for the inheritance of the first, even as Fëanor spoke in Tirion. What has our siege bought, they murmur, but to leave us pinned between the abonnen and the Sea.” He paused as the king took this in, then continued in a measured tone. “I would advise moving quickly to reassure them against these rumors. Establish these first venturers as sworn allies, subject to your command if they will have it. Present them as comrades in the long struggle and not beneficiaries only. It will not end the rumors, but it may disperse them and mitigate their harm.”
“They are established as such already,” Finrod’s finger traveled absently over the map, moving through the forests of Ossiriand, “in oath and in purpose.”
“Then let that be known. Have him swear fealty before the court that such loyalty may be seen in evidence.” Guilin turned toward Balan in afterthought, “If you are willing to do so.”
Finrod’s voice cut through before Balan could respond. “No. He shall not be bandied about in this. He has given me his oath already. Requiring anything further says naught but that his word is doubted.”
“A public profession would instill trust, vandatar.” Gildor’s glance at the king was apologetic. “They have not the knowledge of your months among the Edain.”
“Then let them look to my discernment and trust what I have welcomed.”
“I am willing, lord.” Balan’s voice was quiet and steady beside him.
“Balan—“
“What is it to me to speak the words again? If it sets thy people at ease, then I am glad to do it. It is no loss to my pride.”
“Is the oath yours to give, Beldarion?” Meril turned toward him and Balan felt again the daunting weight of her attention. “If I understand it aright, you have passed that office to another. Is it your son we should approach instead with this request?”
“Nay, it is within my right. Baran accepted my role as emissary and as such I have authority to speak on his behalf. He knows the oath I swore and holds himself sworn to the same. You may consider my words his own on this.”
Finrod remained silent and his gaze drifted again to the map, lingering over the twisting line of the Celon. “Thou art certain in this?” he asked at last.
“I am. Through long years we have wandered, seeking to escape the dominion of the Dark Lord and his Shadow, only to find him here before us. I will not serve him in this land or in any other, whether by deed or omission. Let me aid where I may.”
The king nodded and looked up at Guilin. “I concede the wisdom of it, and if Balan is willing then I am amenable. Only I ask that I might take council with him alone ere I give my full assent.”
“As you wish, lord.” Guilin rose in deference and the others followed in swift succession. “You know better than we the complexities of their culture—and as well as we the rancor of whispered venom. We will uphold your judgement in this.”
“Thank you, Guilin, it is kindly spoken. And my thanks to you all,” Finrod added as he swept the others into his gaze with a smile. “I have kept you an inexcusable length to sate my desire for tidings. Go with my gratitude and be free of any such demands till the morrow.”
Balan felt his old anxiety return as he watched the others depart. The silence remained heavy between them well after the room emptied—even Edrahil had withdrawn, presumably to take up his same position on the far side of the door—and the only sound amid the stillness was Balan’s own breathing. There was a panorama of images across the walls, he noted as he sought to divert his unease; lifelike in their detail. There were trees and vines winding across this near wall, tossing waves rising upon the further, the foam upon them wrought from natural formations in the rock. A flock of sea birds soared out from above these and Balan wondered in a brief flash of recognition whether these were the páni Nóm had described, following their vessels home from the sea. Beside these, a cascade of stone poured down in draping folds, reminding him of the underside of a mushroom, or of Nóm’s hair when they swam, ribboned in wet strands across his shoulders. Longing strained within him for those meadows and banks, the mundanes of Estolad, pristine and beloved now in their absence.
“There are other ways to solve this.” Nóm’s voice cracked the silence at last, eyes fixed still upon the map and one long finger tracing along the table’s grain. “Thou art under no obligation to let them parade thee as a pawn in our politics. Not for such did I grant thee leave at my side.”
“Twas diplomacy that I told my sons in reason,” Balan said with a shrug and a lopsided smile, unnerved by the other’s agitation and fumbling for a remedy. “It may as well be true in this. Let me swear whatever will lay peace between our peoples.”
“Thou hast sworn it already.”
“Aye, and so I understand thee not. What difference should the repetition make? Thou hadst no opposition to my word in Ossiriand.”
“No, for then I had not—” Finrod cut himself off and leaned forward, his hands pressed flat upon the table.
Balan watched in consternation, feeling the distance of the past day tighten about him. Then in trial, he hazarded the intimacy of their journey, his voice low, fervent. “I would give any oath of thine asking, Elenya.”
A spasm crossed the other’s face and for a moment Nóm’s voice too broke out unguarded. “Only one would I have of thee, and that I cannot ask.”
“Name it and it is thine.” Balan’s blood was fire as the other looked up and held his eye, for courage and desperation had mingled and he cast aside any barrier to his thought, laying it exposed for Nóm’s study. Let him know all, Balan thought recklessly, surely there was naught left by now that had not been guessed already. The candle flickered on the table as they held motionless, thought bound to thought, pulse pounding in time with pulse, transfixed.
It was Finrod who broke away first, flinching back from the fierce honesty of Balan’s gaze. He turned to the wood grain once more, but his hand trembled now as it traced the pattern and he breathed as one who had been sprinting.
“Nay,” he managed with a forced lightness, “naught will I take of thee beyond what was sworn already.” Then his hand darted out to catch the other’s wrist, his fingertips resting against the site of the blood bond. “It was enough.”
“Then let it be enough still, only with witnesses to hold it true.” Balan moved his free hand to rest upon the other’s, beginning at last to understand the reticence behind his words. “Not a word more, Nóm. I will not bind myself beyond that obligation without thy will.”
“Not a word more,” Finrod repeated, his eyes averted yet, but the fingers encircling Balan’s wrist gripped nearly to the point of pain. “Promise me.”
“Any oath of thine asking, Elenya. It is thine.”
Finrod nodded and drew in a deep breath, steadied his voice. “As thou wilt, then.” He turned back at last and managed a weary smile. “Thou art in the right, of course. I am being foolish, but I will not deny thy good sense. Come,” he said, standing, “we shall tell Guilin he has my assent.”
Balan rose to follow him, but Nóm turned back as if in afterthought, setting his hand once more to the other’s face. “Thou wilt always stand out among us, Balan,” he said softly, drawing his thumb along the cheekbone, and Balan shivered beneath his caress, the touch of palm to fresh skin running as lightning through his senses. “But that is not an ill.”
Then his hand fell back to his side once again and he turned away, leading them out past the swans’ gaze, only now Balan felt it prickle along his scalp in accusation.
❈ ❈ ❈
Finrod walked through the garden, a carefully folded bundle tucked beneath one arm, and he filled his lungs with the breeze that wafted down the rock walls. He had been giddy as a child when the chief Casári craftsman led him through the caverns to emerge blinking in the midst of a wide sinkhole. The positioning of the precipice on the hills above left the approach inaccessible and Gundin had described with precision how they could carve the royal quarter looking out upon it, filling those halls with daylight while maintaining a defensive integrity. Finrod never tired of it, the uncanny riot of life burgeoning up from the midst of stone passages, a glad song amid the caution.
He crossed it now with quick steps and paused before the doors to Balan’s chambers. He had intended them for Artanis when the city was delved, and placed them thus a stone’s thrown from his own—he and Nerwen could meander in and out as they had in childhood, each thought half-formed until known by the other. Hesitating on the threshold now, he realized it was the first time he had approached these rooms without feeling the pang of their emptiness.
Balan stood beside the line of shelves, illuminated in the afternoon light, and he hummed a quiet melody as he worked. He had at last begun settling into the chambers, nearly a week after their arrival, and Finrod smiled to see the care with which he placed each item upon the stone. It was a sparse collection, but it warmed the room with the familiarity of Estolad.
“I know you’re there.” The amused voice drifted back to him, the Taliska too tinting the air with comfort, and Finrod laughed.
“Betrayed by my own instruction,” he said, moving into the room, and he smiled as Balan turned toward him. He was clad simply in loose breeches and a plain linen shirt, the latter provided by Finrod’s attendant when Balan’s own were taken to be cleaned of the journey’s wear. It was overlarge, but he had kept it after those were returned, for he found the Elven fabric light and breathable in the summer’s warmth. Finrod decided it suited him. Taken together with his bare feet, the rolled sleeves and dropped shoulders gave him a boyish look amid the formality of the chambers, and the king found it an effort of will not to reach out and bury his fingers in the tousled hair.
An answering flicker danced from Balan’s eyes. In contrast to the other, Finrod had donned the greater part of his ceremonial robes, for Guilin’s proposed ceremony was a few hours hence. It was vain of him, he knew, but he took a distinct delight in the awed admiration that leapt across Balan’s features whenever he appeared in court attire. And consequently, Finrod admitted to himself with faint chagrin, he had dressed with more formality since their arrival than any of the occasions necessitated.
“You’ve decided to stay, then?” he asked in jest, glancing at the shelved items.
“Aye,” Balan grinned in return and reached down to retrieve another from the bags beside him. “Well, the return seemed tedious—and you keep good wine.” He rested a wooden box beside the others, opening it briefly to set Baran’s carved otter inside, then he shifted it into place on the shelf.
Finrod remembered that box from the long winter in Estolad. Balan had shown him the contents as they passed the hours one evening, lifting each item with a quiet reverence as he told of its significance. Within it lay his mother’s ring, an amulet from his father, a necklace that belonged to Esrid, a lock of hair from both Baran and Belen’s childhood. As Balan added the carved otter, Finrod’s quick glance noted a sprig of holly had been added to the contents as well, and he recognized it as the same he tucked behind Balan’s ear while they prepared for the Longest Night. His heart contracted.
“It felt out of place at first,” Balan shifted back from Taliska as he placed the last of the items on the shelf, “my things displayed in the midst of this splendor. But I thought it would be preferable to the emptiness, and now I find they center both place and comfort.” He stepped back and his eyes were warm as he surveyed his work. “I am glad of them.”
“And I,” Finrod said quietly as he moved to stand beside him, looking at the little collection. “It is joy unexpected to see them so merrily at home.”
They remained quiet for a long moment, then Balan glanced over with a chuckle. “Well then, what is it?” he asked with a nod at the bundle Finrod held tucked beneath his arm. “A cat in cream thou art, and hiding it poorly. What hast thou brought?”
“A presumption, I fear.” Finrod’s tone was sheepish, but his eyes danced as he held it out toward the other.
“Too small to be horses, at least,” Balan observed in amusement as he set it on the bed and loosed the ribbon binding it closed. The outer cloth fell away and he caught his breath in a gasp. There were three long tunics folded within it, each wrought from the same rich fabric that robed the king, and Balan saw at once from the crossed necklines and clasps that they were designed after the fashion of his own people. “Nóm…” His voice was husky as he lifted each from the linen wrapping. This first was green, deep as pine needles, and set about in gold with an interlacing pattern of birds and vines and snowdrop flowers. Midnight blue followed, with Elbereth’s artistry woven in silver across its length. Menelmacar raised his sword over the right shoulder. Then came red, sharp as fire, twelve-pointed suns worked across its folds in golden thread. He stared at this last, speechless.
“There is no need for thee to wear them, shouldst thou find more comfort in thine own.” Finrod’s voice rushed out in a torrent as he watched Balan draw his hand along the shimmering embroidery. “Thine are more than suited for any needs at court and I would not have thee think this is meant in disparagement. Only I wished to give thee something of beauty—beauty that is of thine own—and so I had Sídhon take their measure while he cleaned the others, and I gave direction from there. I hope I have not recounted any element in error.”
“Twas four days past when Sídhon came for them…”
“They worked swiftly.” Finrod’s quick smile carried an air of embarrassment. “But canst thou see here? It is patterned in vines, but tis the same motif that repeats across thine own. Here the loop and the turn, the lines crossed and bordered, again here and ‘round about the cuff. It is the same too on these others, only on this it is marked in seed pearls and about the dawn it carries in gold.” He glanced across at Balan, beaming, then faltered as he took in the stunned incredulity. “Forgive me, I am dwelling on whims. The other three should be completed within another enquië.”11
“Another three!”
“Nay, chide me not, tis no excess. A full set is six. Thou canst judge then whether they suit or no.”
“Whether they suit?” Balan fell into his own tongue in wonderment and he laughed. “You daft creature, they are more beautiful than aught I’ve ever owned.” He traced a finger over the central sun and his face reflected its warmth, a smile casting lines from each eye, the gathered rays of his mirth springing forth. “Nahtan steiha,12” he murmured as his hand came to rest over the gold.
”So that all might see thee as through my gaze, Anarinya.” Finrod felt his own honesty leap unbidden to his eyes and he looked away quickly, turning his face toward the embroidered light. “Hope unforeseen in the darkness.”
❈ ❈ ❈
Balan was avenged, came the first thought.
The doors of the great hall had parted and Finrod's breath fled as he watched the other step through the archway, flanked on each side by one of the king’s own guards and robed in Anar’s fire. He had instructed the artisans to weave the patterned suns from thread used in his own robes, wrought with elven skill so that it fell into harmony with the cavern lamps, holding their light within its sheen and seeming itself luminous in effect.
Balan was a blaze of light, beautiful as the dawn, and Finrod could not take his eyes from him.
“Nahtan steiha,” he whispered in echo of Balan’s exclamation, and felt Meril’s eyes shift toward him, questioning. She was first among the lords who flanked the throne, eight upon each side, and held the seat of honor at his right. He had often felt her pondering gaze since his return and knew that if any, she would be the first to see through any pretense and note at once what he had hidden from his own sight. But he held his mind tight and set his face in the firm lines of sovereignty, his thumb pressed against the carved throne so that a leaf’s point held his composure steady. For as the king watched his heart move toward him across the hall’s expanse, he felt the same awe threaten his own features that had drowned Balan’s when he fell to his knees before the gathered council. He was indeed paid back in kind.
They reached the foot of the dais, Alafon and Canneth turning sharply to stand at attention on each side of the aisle’s end, and Balan remaining alone in the open space between them. He looked up to meet the king’s eye, tall and proud amid the gathered assembly, undaunted now by the grandeur about him. He knelt.
“Balan son of Beldar of the Edain,” Finrod’s voice rang out over the hall as he delivered the inquiries of service, “have you come as herald of your kindred, an emissary of those people you name the Wrotenne?”13
“Lord, I have.” Balan’s voice too carried over the rock face, deep and earthen beside the king’s.
“And as envoy of such, are you granted authority to speak on behalf of them, to bind oaths in your lord’s name, to forge such ties as you see fit?”
“I am so granted.”
“And in that authority, is it your intent to ally your people in bonds of fealty and service to my house and to this crown?”
“It is my intent and that of my people, willingly offered.” Balan rose once more and stood at the base of the steps, his hands held open before him, and called out the answering challenges. “King of Nargothrond and lord of the third house of the Ñoldor, are you granted authority by the High King of your people to accept the fealty offered?”
“I am so granted.”
“And in that authority is it your intent to accept my people as your own subjects? To hold us in love and obligation as our lord, rendering such aid and protection as befits the bonds of duty, upholding justice and mercy in all your judgements?”
“Such is my intent and my vow.”
Balan laid his hands crossed upon his chest and bowed, then ascended the three steps of the dais and knelt before the king.
“As I swore to you once, so I offer my pledge now in the sight of witnesses, that my words may be held true and the fealty of my people marked in remembrance.” He set his hands palm to palm and held them out before the king.
“Take then my oath in fealty, pledged to you on behalf of the chieftain of my clan. Accept my loyalty and that of my people, bound in faithfulness and truth to you as our lord, to hold dear as you hold dear, to scorn what you disdain, to serve you in constancy all our days.”
Finrod took the outstretched hands within his own, and at once felt the far off wind from a bluff overlooking fields of flax. As whatever thou wilt…only send me not from thy side. He held tight as he looked down at the other and this time he did not draw the hands apart.
“So is it heard,” Nóm replied, his voice lifted with an effort, “and so it is accepted.”