Chapter Nine

*** Fifty Second Year of the Sun ~ River Narog below the High Faroth ***

“Glorfindel! What are you doing here?” Finrod smiled with pleasure to see him.

Glorfindel raked him up and down, and seemed not dissatisfied at what he saw. “I asked the King if I could play courier to see a bit more of the country and Galadriel has written to me… She said you thought you’d found what you were looking for. Said I should come and see it for myself. She sounded a little – sceptical about your project.”

“Since when was Galadriel ever enthusiastic about anything that involved digging?” Finrod retorted, not quite sure what Galadriel thought about anything since she had met Melian.

“Well, I wanted to see you anyway, after your little disappearing act. I am not sure your uncle is pleased with you about that, you know. You should write to him. He didn’t expect you to be gone so long. Or leave again for Doriath so soon. And I have a *lot* of letters for you from Orodreth.”

Orodreth was in command at Tol Sirion and not sure he was happy about it. “Then you have my thanks – and I am very glad you came. I have much to show you.” Finrod looked around. “How did you find it?”

“Galadriel said to follow the river, and when it looked impossible, keep going. Or turn back and try the higher path. She said I’d find you where the river deepened into a gorge.”

“At least King Thingol won’t be dictating who visits me here.”

“He really is going to let you settle here then?”

“So he says. It surprises me, too.” Finrod said no more than that and Glorfindel eyed him and spoke of Galadriel lingering in Doriath and her taste in silver princes – one in particular. From Finrod’s descriptions of Celeborn’s tall good looks, calm depths and hard-to-penetrate reserve, the conversation fast came round to Menegroth itself.

“The halls are finely made. I intend something like it here if I can manage it. Secure, but not gloomy.”

“From what your sister says, Thingol’s hideaway is well enough. Lots of ornamentation.” Glorfindel sounded so unimpressed, Finrod laughed.

“You are a child of the sky, Glorfindel. You always were. But even if we live underground here, the forest is still wide and high – it’s excellent hunting – and the plains across the river stretch north uninhabited. We shall have reason in plenty to be outside, and the rest of the time we would be safe and cosy, out of the weather…”

“You don’t need a cave for a rain-free bed, you know. Remember houses?” They laughed. The argument of house over forest was as old as the elves’ own history, setting decadence and comfort against the subtler, spiritual joys of the woods under an open sky. It was a joke that went on forever since the good of both would always hold true. The Noldor might not choose to sleep in trees – though they had learned the Laiquendi did so – but they would always want to walk the forests by the light of the stars.

Glorfindel was doubtless checking up on him and Finrod was glad of it, glad to see him and glad to find he could still laugh at nothing. Mostly, everyone had stopped asking Finrod why he had been off wandering alone so often. Only Thingol knew of Lord Ulmo’s visitation that had left him disquieted and compelled to hunt far and wide for a secure retreat.

Finrod was fairly sure Turgon had shared those dreams, or something very like, for he too had been travelling remote reaches since their damp night’s rest in the fens to the east. His own tight unease for the future was lifting a little after finding this place, perhaps a result of being able to do something definite. It felt good to laugh.

Barad Sirion and Minas Tirith, formidable though they stood, were only practice for what he planned to build and he was delighted to have the chance to show his cousin what he had in mind – and to get his advice. He started telling Glorfindel how he had poured out his store of jewels to see if Thingol thought he could enlist help from Ered Luin’s people.

“Trade these for pearls at the Falas,” Thingol had said. “Give Aulë’s people pearls and they will work for you content. Especially if you can share some craft with them. They love learning.” He looked a little smug among the fruits of his partnership with those same workers from Belegost. He also seemed flattered at Finrod’s genuine enthusiasm as he toured the carvings and weavings of Menegroth’s halls, looking at forest scenes of Valinor, worked intricately in stone, and Arda’s histories laid out in thread. Nowhere else had dwarves, elves and Maiar – one Maia, at least – worked to produce such a collection of art. In stone, weavings, gold and jewels – everywhere he looked in the wide halls there were examples of their skill.

He had particularly enjoyed finding Oromë and Nahar coursing through a stand of beeches and finding on the other side of the pillar a wealth of curled branches hiding animals – nested wrens, squirrel, tree-snake, pine-marten… Every pillar told a story and he learned to look for the smallest details – trailing columbine in flower, a dragonfly hovering over a foxglove, a stand of snowdrops in a copse under a dusting of snow with the Pelóri breathtaking in the distance, a panther snarling at a python coming too close to a curl of sleeping cubs.

On the wall opposite, he had come face to face with a far darker work of the Queen’s weavings than any of her histories that he had so far studied. It spoke of nightmare hints of shadows yet to come – the sun darkened by smokes, Ard-galen devastated, slinking shapes advancing on Tol Sirion. The echo of Lord Ulmo’s warnings, coupled with Menegroth’s vast achievement, moved him to confide in his great uncle. Thingol consulted Melian and afterwards told him about the Ringwil’s joining to the Narog and the gorge they had cut together downstream in hard granite. He had described the Narog’s swift course and offered to show him the caves hidden there.

Glorfindel took in the shale underfoot, the vine and bracken hung cliffs, and the rivulets spilling down sheer rock. “I see Galadriel has not been exaggerating. You really have lost your mind.”

“No such thing. Come, I’ll show you.”

He took him down to the threshold of the caves, under a vast overhang of rock and set back in a series of small blind breaks in the face. “I was just going to attempt to climb down from above and see if it can be done.” He pointed up to the towering complex of hills on which the forest of the High Faroth grew, pitted with steep valleys on its western escarpment, but dropping in a solid cliff wall on this eastern face.

“We can get nearer to the river than this. I’ll show you.” He led the way along a goat track out among the damp ferns and mosses of the gorge and followed it to a small stream in a rocky bed that fell over another sheer drop into the river.

“Careful. This is steep – you don’t want to go in here.”

“Indeed.” Glorfindel looked thoughtful. “And slippery. But no-one could cross.” They stared at the walls of rock and the froth boiling past.

“As long as it is never bridged…” Finrod surveyed it with satisfaction.

“It doesn’t seem possible that it could cut through rock like that. I *walked* through this river at the Ginglith crossing…”

The water’s passage was wild, fast and deep in its race through the deep channel between pathless rock. Finrod looked at it with proprietorial approval.

“See, the way the hills stretch north and south along the valley behind us? With the gorge one side, cliffs the other – the western banks are the only approach, from the south or the north. And that highland to the south-east goes unbroken right across to the Gelion. An attack would have to come from the west down the Sirion vale – and cross at the ford – or cross the Wethrin or get through Hithlum and Vinyamar…”

Finrod knew he was babbling, but Glorfindel didn’t discourage him. His head was tipped a little as if listening very closely. “Go on.”

“The alternative would be for invaders to take the eastern route round Doriath and come up from the Andram, leaving them the eastern plain still to cover and then the ford. If they wanted to cross in the south it means taking the Andram drop, or the Gilion vale and once they found a ford, we would see them coming with warning to spare. Either way they face a bottleneck. We could drop them in their tracks. If they get that far. If they ever know we are here.”

Glorfindel raised his brows. Finrod waited for him to say something but his cousin only nodded understanding. They all knew the tale of the first rout of Beleriand and Finrod was planning accordingly.

“And – see up there? – there is natural camouflage all around for watch-towers on the heights, for the fortress, and for any paths we may need.” It felt right. Satisfied, he set about showing Glorfindel the caves.

***

Next day, they took to the heights.

Their attempt to descend from the Taur-en-Faroth failed as its eastern walls fell inward below them and footholds failed. Ropes were not long enough and they found no way down. They worked their way northwards back out of the Faroth and returned the long way to the bank outside the caves and its drop to grey turbulence far below.

Over rabbit and ramson stew, Finrod consulted Thingol’s elves about the topography of the plain above the Andram. With their camp set and reverie calling, Finrod sombrely faced north. “What do you think? If the day comes that we have to stand fast against the enemy here, it will mean Beleriand is utterly over-run.”

“Morgoth is too well-besieged for that to be likely at present. But since you are considering strategy, I’d caution against the assumption of wholesale attack. There is no reason a pointed sortie could not be mounted, if once he can break a force out through the northern leaguer. He shows no sign whatever of coming out of hiding – he likes not the sun and nor do his warped creations – but remember his patience in Valinor. And how by patience and guile he deceived his gaolers… He may yet find a way, which we do not forestall.”

It was unusual to find Glorfindel so weighty in his speech. Unease rippled up Finrod’s spine and diligently he continued to seek out defensive weaknesses in the site. He found few. A path there must be for access. Supplies and people must come and go and there must be the means to eat. Water must have entry and egress. Such points of access as they needed, they must guard. His collection of small scale maps grew and his notes filled the margins to overflowing.

End of Chapter Nine
Tbc

Chapter Ten

*** Five years later ~ River Narog below the High Faroth ***

Calyaro had settled himself at the top of a rise in ground with his mandolin. Just beyond, the path dipped out of sight in its disguised wending to the Ginglith ford. Silhouetted by moonlight, he was taking no notice of anyone else.

Finrod’s gaze strayed to the player. He had filled out in the years of building and better fare, more a matter of health than size. Finrod had grown used to the sight of him on Tol Sirion; they had even talked at times. He had proved to have a good eye for detail, though his structural expertise fell far short of the experienced elves. But when it came to small touches of inspiration in design to do with best use of space, perhaps in placing a stairwell or setting an extra embrasure in a too dark hall, those in charge found he had a knack for fresh ideas, despite – or perhaps because of – his lack of formal training.

Still spare of speech, his withdrawn appearance had improved after the Mereth Aderthad, leaving him merely thoughtful instead of deadened; not an unusual trait in a minstrel. He continued to play, though he never sought the same wide stage he had claimed at Eithel Ivrin. An audience always gathered anyway and if he sometimes played the Nainië Elenion, Finrod and he had an understanding; he could sing of Fëanor all he liked – so long as he respected the King’s edict regarding the kinslaying. He ordered a watch set on Calyaro’s public playing.

True to his word, Calyaro never ventured even the instrumental piece that invoked the Noldor’s secret shame. Finrod sometimes saw him quirk his brows on noticing whatever sober guard was appointed to the task, and give Finrod a wry nod. In turn, the Prince was satisfied that Calyaro knew himself to be – not exactly kept on sufferance – say rather, without the least leeway on that one matter.

Calyaro’s life on Tol Sirion stood out in one further regard; sometimes, when Maglor had travelled to Barad Eithel, he made the extra journey to Minas Tirith to see the musician. The former tutor and his outstanding pupil knew each other well. More than that, they had in common their shared love – and loss – of Fëanor.

Seeing them together had drawn Finrod’s fresh attention to Calyaro. The prince was the spitting image of his father – when he bent close and their grey eyes met in talk, it was as if Fëanor had returned to see his bard.

Calyaro started one of his preferred history ballads and Finrod was recalled from his contemplations.

“How long has he been here?” Glorfindel broke in on his thoughts curiously. Recently arrived himself, they were eating with the rest of the working parties on the flats of the path outside the caves.

Finrod shrugged. “Nearly three years ago. He came down with the first of those the King my uncle let me bring from Barad Eithel and Minas Tirith to balance the dwarves’ advice with our own experience. Thingol says his elves did a great deal at Menegroth so I’m hoping the Sindar might contribute too, if I’m persuasive enough.“

Glorfindel snorted. “By what I hear, if you’ve any jewels left after paying the dwarves I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty. If anyone ever reads Galadriel’s letters she’ll be thrown out for blatant disrespect. According to her, they’re not elves over there, they’re magpies.”

“Oh, that’s a touch of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” The Noldor in Tirion had loved their jewels and embellished the city with them wherever they could and he – and Galadriel – were as guilty as the rest.

Glorfindel did not answer that but his eyes gleamed in humour. “Yon Calyaro? He doesn’t look much like a builder, picking away at that dirge.”

Finrod’s smile twitched unwillingly. It was certainly mournful. Their eyes met. Finrod cracked a laugh at the truth of it. “He’s been picking the guides’ brains for tales of Thingol’s first battle. Orcs, wolf-types and worse routing Círdan to the coast, driving the Laiquendi east or into Doriath, costing Thingol so many lives – it’s not going to be for every occasion. But he’s here with the architects, not as a musician.”

“I thought he would give up the other work once he started playing again…”

“He never asked. He plays, but as if for himself alone, though he’ll oblige if people ask. And he still composes.”

Even so, when Calyaro played, no-one disturbed him.

His performance at the Mereth Aderthad had served notice of his skill but it had done far more than that. Under the falls of the Narog’s source, it was Calyaro’s song that broke through Finrod’s numb wasteland. He was used to feelings eluding him save those flashes of anger and hollow sadness that came and went from their buried lairs. That night, his grief had come alive at last and over the years since, it had faded into a weight easier to carry, its corners rounded, its edges less abrasive.

He could hold thoughts of Amarië with gentle love, of Tirion with the affection of happy memories. The end of all Hlápo’s youthful joys still brought him to tears at times – a cloud scudding overhead could do it, or a flashing turn of some brown-haired youth, braids flying, calling out to a friend – small things at odd moments might set him off. The worst of it, the hard ugliness in him over Fingon’s fall into kinslaying, resisted such gentler transitions, but he found time lent him a softening of its effects. Even that curdled knot of grief and anger no longer distanced him from what he had once taken for granted: the solid warmth of Galadriel’s edged affection, the ease of casual laughter, the light of the stars moving him to peace.

Calyaro should have been the last person to touch him and yet… While that very private epilogue to Stars’ Lament, offered to the solitude of a wild waterfall, had breached his heart and opened him to healing, other moments too lingered in his memory. Their bitter meeting. A hand on his shoulder when he stared into another of the Helcaraxë’s bitter traps. The image of him mud-ridden and tangled on Mithrim’s shores, no longer blank but moved to amusement, grief, resignation – above all the haunting guilt that spoke to Finrod’s own dark anger.

He had been so dishevelled in those days that Finrod was surprised on first seeing him neatly garbed. Early trade was reserved for urgently needed tools and raw materials, so for a time they all wore the simple cloths that the land yielded most quickly. The cream linens and brown wools suited him.

Glorfindel and Finrod ate their meal by starlight and talked with the music washing over them. But when Calyaro walked away northwards – perhaps to practice without trespassing on others, or perhaps just to be alone – Glorfindel returned to the subject of the singer.

“You look upon him with peculiar interest, Aro.”

“What? No! I never…” He heard the denial rising in his voice and broke off. “I was thinking about him,” he said, more calmly, “We seem to have coincided over the years when things mattered most. Even here, building this fortress, he sits there singing of the battle that warns of a future I guard against. I can’t help noticing him.”

“Have you seen much of him, then? Since he’s been here??”

“More than I did in Minas Tirith.” Glorfindel was observant, but Finrod did not know himself what he felt.

“Has anyone ever tempted you since the crossing?” Since Amarië, he meant.

“There were one or two who seemed eligible…”

“And did you favour them?”

Glorfindel’s persistence was unusual. Uncomfortably, Finrod looked away.

“Amarië is a long way away,” Glorfindel said gently. “And we are never going home. To think of another would be no betrayal.”

Finrod prodded the ground with the stick he had used to poke the fire. “I know that.”

He did know that. But – who more unsuitable could he have discovered to stir him? He wanted to dismiss Glorfindel’s perception as mere appreciation of fine music and a shared history. Calyaro had an undeniable skill for moving others with a tune, but Finrod knew that was not all. Even cast into turmoil, Calyaro had seemed to accept more than rail. The grey eyes seemed to hold a world beyond the everyday, windows to a mind searching far horizons. They drew him in, left him wanting to find out more.

He had used to like – admire – the older member of his cousins’ household. When he grew up, he had still enjoyed his music. Then came Alqualondë and cold anger had gripped him. It was not that he had forgiven him – or anyone – but the past did not hold his thoughts in the same way, or grip his heart fast.

With his own family exuberant and out-spoken, Amarië’s quiet strength had appealed to Finrod. He could not deny it appealed to him in Calyaro. He did not know what it was he felt, but when his eyes followed the path the musician had taken he was glad that Glorfindel said no more.

End of Chapter Ten
Tbc

Chapter Eleven

*** Eighty Five Years of the Sun ~ Nargothrond ***

“It’s getting done.” Finrod looked around exhilarated in the din. The ringing of hammers and picks, the grinding of wheels on rock, the calling of voices, some melodious, others gruffer, should have drowned out the singer’s song and his strings, but once in a while fell a false lull, a little silence, in which he still could be heard.

Finrod’s sweeping examination of all they had created ended back at the group of elven designers, admiring their progress so far. Their dwarven colleagues were huddled around their next project’s plan of some passages to provide a deeper level of storage and armouries.

“If we carry on like this, King Thingol will be wanting to take it over.”

They laughed but took the Prince’s comment as the compliment he intended. The Sindar among them knew that their King would never admit that anywhere could even remotely touch upon Menegroth’s wealth and brilliance, and the others had all heard what he was like.

“Come. We’ll stop later for a break and something to eat. Then we’ll take time to bathe.” He sighed in anticipation of ridding himself of dust and grit. With one last wall in place, and the archway laid, its keystone dropped in place, and the stones placed to fill the space above they would have finished this entire level. Only the lower armouries, store-rooms, extra accommodations and storm-courses for flooding would remain undone.

Ceremonially, they went to complete the arch. Finrod pleased the dwarves mightily with both his bow and the high honour of mounting the keystone itself. The general elation was helped along by drink and they stood around giving unwanted advice to the handful of masons placing the remaining stones in the gap above. The masons finally climbed down the scaffolding grinning, and it was more drink all round.

Finrod declared a holiday for the rest of that day and the next. Everyone made their way out slowly, admiring the work, discussing the inner details yet to follow and ordering their tools. Tonight they would celebrate.

When they emerged into sunlight, Calyaro was playing in the opening between the caves and the river bank. Exuberantly pleased with the excavations, Finrod smiled broadly at him before he realized it. Calyaro gave him a startled nod and made to rise on being so markedly greeted, but Finrod motioned him to stay seated and passed by to shed his grey coating. He glanced up at him from the path and caught him in an odd smile.

The stars were brilliant in an unclouded sky when they came across each other again. Calyaro was pressed to play after others had all had their turn. He took to a new tune Finrod had not heard. This piece could have been written to please him personally, being about the Gelion and the people of its many-rivered vale. Finrod often travelled in Ossiriand using the excuse of enquiring for news from Amrod and Amras but in fact spending far more time with the Laiquendi. The forests there were softer than the Taur-en-Faroth, all deciduous and much warmer, being so much lower in altitude.

Finrod sprawled out and closed his eyes to listen. He talked to those who came to him, and didn’t need to worry about anything for the rest of the day and all tomorrow.

He woke in the middle of the night to a light weight falling over him. Calyaro was standing over him, smiling faintly. He had dropped a cloak on top of him. Finrod forgot for a moment why he was lying on a patch of mossy scrub resting his head against a rock. “Calyaro? That was a fine song. I meant to tell you.”

“I’m sorry I woke you. Everyone’s asleep or spread out elsewhere…” Calyaro kept his voice low. The singing was over, other bodies lay around, and only the water could be heard in its endless run below them. “It’s not my place but… you looked so different, asleep. I remembered you back in Tirion.” He shrugged, and smiled. More sad than happy, Finrod knew how he felt. They were changed and their innocence was gone from them. For a little moment neither of them said anything.

Finrod sat up and Calyaro made to move off. “No. Sit down. No need to go.” All Calyaro’s grace of movement that Finrod remembered from his performances in Valinor had long since returned. He folded himself to the ground with legs outstretched, sharing Finrod’s rocky support behind his back. There was an awkward silence.

“The day is a triumph,” observed Calyaro politely.

Finrod’s mouth twitched. He said solemnly, “Thank you.” He indicated the wider banks of the river. “It is not only work well done, but done with people working better together than I ever hoped. We will still be working on it but very soon it will be fully liveable.”

“Utterly different from Tirion, but fine halls and fine workmanship. I’ll have to make a song about it.”

Finrod nodded. “No city here could ever be like Tirion, though I know my cousin would have liked to make Vinyamar resemble home. Nargothrond is nothing like it, but I would be glad if we could endure so long. I’m not so sure about that song, you know. I would hope only for a very boring one about building dust and a long peace.”

“You’re expecting something else?”

“Aren’t we all?” He gathered the cloak into his hands and passed it back. “My thanks for this but I think I’ll walk for a while. It’s far too lovely a night for sleeping.” As he got up he added, “But thank you again for tonight’s piece. Play it again soon.” He loved wandering Ossiriand, so green compared to his own fortress. Its people were a gentle folk, richly content in the company of their trees and he found their company and their stories endlessly interesting.

This time it was Calyaro who smiled at him brilliantly, startlingly, and he who smiled back, surprised.

***

He walked the rest of the night away and only near dawn did he lie down. Amidst the song of the waking birds he slept and he dreamed of Tirion’s wide streets and generous stairs, Mindon Tower bright above. He saw Amarië’s face beneath Galithilion and thought gladly that she was waiting for him, but she smiled up at a stranger and only glanced back at Finrod over her shoulder. Her eyes were calm, her face composed. In his mind he heard her words as if she had spoken them aloud. ‘You said you would return.’

Finrod turned over but could not wake. He tried to follow her to explain but the way changed before him and he came instead to Fëanor’s home and followed the sounds of laughter. It broke off when the doors swung open before him silently. The people within stood aside and all turned to look at the minstrel.

Calyaro plucked a chord. He played beside Fëanor’s chair, drawn up to his full height, his hair confined in intricate patterns, his clothes decorated with silver thread and turquoise clasp. His eyes reflected the light of the candles. The Nainië Elenion echoed through the room and Finrod wept in his sleep.

Calyaro, fallen quiet, moved toward the stairs. Finrod followed him and they emerged into a forested valley – Ossiriand – in the way of dreams.

Calyaro stopped and faced him. There was no-one here, only themselves and the trees. He took a step closer. Calyaro smiled with haunted eyes and Finrod drew him forward with one hand around his back. They breathed each other’s breath. Kissed. All the strangeness of the dream fell away.

When they drew back to look at each other they were laughing a little, almost verging on tears for what was gone. This time the kiss was a desperate thing and there were hands all over Finrod. He was pulled close and held. Body to body they shared warmth and touch and dream-like, there was nothing that said this should not be.

In the dream, there was no Alqualondë, only comfort. Nothing to stop desire or want – he *ached* for the comfort and clutched tightly, face against skin, lips buried against neck and throat, hands trying to please at least by offering the same strokes of back and hip that he was glad of.

In this dream, it was well that they kissed. He drew back and touched his fingertips down the prominent cheek-bone, and then the jaw. Calyaro’s eyes were grey by star light as they were by day, but darker. They wandered his face, questioning. Desiring. Intense. When they kissed again there was nothing chaste but only need, to hold and be held. To give and to take. And not to be alone. Not to be frozen in time. Not to be tied to a far shore and fail to love on this one.

His hands reached for clasps and they melted at his touch. The dream changed again and they were on Mithrim’s banks in the sun, neither of them clothed, sunlit water sparkling all around them. He reached for Calyaro – and woke…

He groaned and rested his forearm on his brow. The sun was shining across the top of the gorge and he was achingly hard. Well. He would never hear the last of this, from Glorfindel. If he did anything about it. Glorfindel had seen the attraction decades ago and after such a dream and the feelings that he woke with there was no pretence left for him to hide behind. He could choose to do nothing, but he could not pretend he felt nothing.

It was with much on his mind that he walked the rest of the way to the Ringwil’s pools where it approached the Narog and bathed away drink and sleep and dream alike in its cool waters. Back at Nargothrond, he spent a quiet day watching the comings and goings of others, reflecting on what he might choose to do. If he couldn’t help looking around for Calyaro, he made sure to do it discreetly until he had settled what he wanted in his own mind.

End of Chapter Eleven
Tbc