A young ellon whistled as he was dusting the shelves and the books housed in them. The library was big, easily half the size of the royal library of the hidden city in which he dwelled, but he managed to dust its ‘occupants’ in only a week. The only shelves left were those he was facing now.

“Erestor? Erestor?”

The whistling ceased. The ellon tilted his head to the side.

“I am here, Ada! Do you need something?” he called back even as he was leaving the shelves, slipping through the narrow lanes to the doors of the library. The rags and the small pail of water he had been using were left behind by the shelves he had been cleaning, discarded temporarily in his curiosity. His father, the Lord of the Fountain, seldom called for him, and the lord was not often home anyway. Today, especially, Ecthelion should be in the court, arguing over what the lord himself dubbed “petty cases,” or in the northern tower, guarding against trespassers – whether they were friends or foes.

“Yes, Ada?” Erestor emerged from the library with an expectant, half-eager face. The look crumbled, though, when he beheld the distress in Ecthelion’s countenance. His father was rarely upset.

`This can’t be good at all,` Erestor mused as he stared dumbly at the ellon before him. His stomach lurched.

“Ada?”

“Our lord expects you, son. I shall escort you to his presence, as he also bids me to be there.”

There was no explanation. Erestor, pathetically bewildered, was ushered away from the library, past the halls, and out of the front door to the scene of the ‘fountainous’ garden.

Glorfindel was there, fidgeting upon his impatient stallion, his face bearing similar distress to that of his closest friend Ecthelion. On either side of him were two more stallions, saddled but riderless. “We are going to ride to the palace’s courtyard; that is the fastest way,” the golden-haired warrior lord informed the father and son. “Turukáno needs us as soon as possible. I hope our speed can ease his heart a bit.”

“What happened?” Erestor demanded, grumbling under his breath when Ecthelion nudged him towards the nearest stallion.

“Ñolofinwë is dead,” Glorfindel said bluntly, using the Quenya name of the said person as was his custom.

Erestor nearly slipped back to the ground from the saddle, the surprise making him reel. `Trust Glorfindel to be ever nonchalant about Ñoldor,` he grimaced inwardly, wondering yet again how the Vanya could maintain a moderate peace in his relation to the Ñoldor-filled population.

`But then why does he look upset?` he mused when the journey permited him to do so. `Hmm. Perhaps he doesn’t want to linger in delivering the bitter news; perhaps he isn’t as apathetic to the Ñoldor as some would think.` At least, it was what Erestor would do in Glorfindel’s position, as now, when the news had seeped fully into his mind, he felt a hollow feeling inside his chest. One more high king had died fruitlessly for the sake of three illusive jewels. He did not mourn Fëanor’s death, since it was the arrogant, mad-stricken ellon who had started all this mess, but now he felt that he had lost a true king to the dark forces of Morgoth. His king. Dead.

Upon arriving at the appointed place, the young ellon’s face was as somber and depressed as those of the two adults flanking him.

He was not worried about having an audience with Turgon in the palace; the lord’s only child, Idril, had been like an older sister to the lonely young ellon, and thus he had often visited the palace and even sometimes supped with the father and daughter. Instead, what made him worried now was the missive roll gripped in the lord’s shaking hand.

Turgon and Idril seemed to have just finished arguing, and Idril’s eyes were red and swollen from much crying. The lord was standing before the dais leading to his throne when the small company was permitted inside; he only acknowledged them with a slight dip of his head. But Idril rushed forward and flung herself into Glorfindel’s ready arms, sobs racking her body.

“Come here, Erestor,” Turgon said quietly between his daughter’s sniffles. Erestor, reluctantly, tore his gaze away from Idril and approached the lord with no small amount of trepidation.

“My lord,” the young ellon acknowledged him in the same quiet voice, forcing himself to be as composed as possible before the grieving ruler of his city. He bowed stiffly; not because he was not used to, but because of the uncertainty of the situation and the heaviness in his heart which foresaw a great burden soon to be placed upon his shoulders.

“I have spoken with my advisers, my family, and yours regarding this,” Turgon continued slowly after a span of silence. He looked over Erestor’s shoulder for a moment and nodded, then addressed the bewildered ellon before him again, “They have agreed. There are only a few people in this city who are able to compete with you in the matters of stealth and persistence. Moreover, you are well capable of defending yourself – and possibly others.”

Erestor, by this point, had begun to loathe his beloved lord for prolonging the inevitable. Now he could be sincerely grateful for Glorfindel’s blunt news delivery of Fingolfin’s death prior to this meeting. The wait was almost unbearable. He did not want to cower before his doom – or so he thought – was spoken, but he was now well on the way to it. If Turgon would not speak about the core of the matter soon, the poor ellon thought, he would rather flee the ruler in his peril than remain here waiting.

Turgon could sense his agitation, it seemed, because the lord threw him an exasperated look before saying, “I charge you with delivering this missive to my older brother, Fingon, with all haste. Guard this roll with all your might but not your life. Should you be in great peril of being captured or killed by the forces of the Enemy, burn it or spoil it in any way.”

Longer, but as blunt as Glorfindel’s news.

Erestor liked the speech, but not the underlying message. The matter had been decided for him. His family had a say in the problem, so why not he, the bearer of the task?

Noting his displeasure, Turgon grew more irritated, yet, to Erestor’s morbid fascination, there was a deep sorrow within the lord’s blazing eyes. He dared not ask, but the knowledge of the great sadness had calmed his mind. He dipped his head respectfully to the Lord of Gondolin and said curtly, “As you wish, my lord. When shall I depart?”

“Now.”

Erestor did not disguise his disbelieving look, nor did he try to stifle a wince.

“A pack full of rations and other provisions has been prepared for you. My daughter insisted on that, although I had told her beforehand that you probably would not need such heavy load.”

The incredulous look in Erestor’s face melted away, leaving only blankness.

“Come. I have promised my daughter to escort her to see her grandfather’s cairn. You shall accompany us on your way outside the city together with your parents and Glorfindel.”

`I really don’t have a say in the matter!` Erestor, who had seldom rebelled, now did, albeit inwardly. He whirled around and strode out of the throne room, sparing a glance to no one, and blocked the angry mutters of the board of advisers, who had also been present during the audience, from his ears. Indeed, he was not popular in the city, often taunted and cursed as a Dark Elf or a follower of Eöl, only because of his fondness for shadows, his palid countenance and his solitary existence. His only friends were Idril and Glorfindel, and if they said nothing about his deeds or behaviour, he would not heed cries or jeers or insults from others – like what he received now.

He waited sullenly on his stallion, only hopping down to the ground when Turgon emerged from the tower in which he dwelled. The missive was clutched in the lord’s right hand while his left one brought the mentioned pack by its shoulder straps. Idril followed him, her face as grim as Erestor’s.

Ecthelion and Glorfindel conversed with each other a distance away. Maeglin, Turgon’s nephew and Aredhal’s son, stood with the board of advisers at the end of the procession, his veiled gaze ever leaping from Ecthelion to Glorfindel to Erestor and only resting, revealing desire, on Idril.

Turgon said nothing. He motioned to Erestor to remount his steed. The lord himself mounted his, which the stable hands had brought for him. His movement was mirrored by Idril, Ecthelion and Glorfindel.

They rode in tense silence until they had reached a path beside the first gate – or the last, as seen from outside – which led to the Encircling Mountains. There Finera, Erestor’s mother, a healer, carver and a seamstress at once, had waited for them with somber countenance.

They dismounted and trekked up the path from there. Finera, mimicking the others, did not talk. She walked beside Erestor, a hand in her son’s, imparting strength to him in silence.

They halted before a newly-built cairn in midday on the side of the path, and there Turgon spoke for the first time since their departure from the King’s Tower. “Here lies my father. May he find pardon and peace in the care of Lord Námo in Aman in the Halls of Mandos.”

Erestor stared at the cairn, still as a statue, his eyes filmed over by tears. His heart pounded, racing. He knelt before the cairn and bowed. Then, in a moment of impulse, he reached out with a shaking hand and touched the side of the rocky mound with a finger. He drew it away as soon as his skin met the rough surface, however, as if stung. Truthfully, he was just in awe of the macabre luck falling to him now. Never before had he been granted an audience with someone ranking higher than Turgon, lord of his city, yet now he was kneeling before the mound that housed the body of a king – an empty shell, yes, but it had yet ever been a king’s.

Finera was weeping openly. Idril was crying anew.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion stood still some paces from the ellyth, faces empty. But Turgon joined Erestor, kneeling on the hewn-rock path with his head likewise bowed.

“My lord,” Erestor murmured and turned away from the cairn. His eyes met Turgon’s, and his grudges against the grieving lord were washed away as if they were no more than sand carried by waves away from the shores.

“Would you deliver this grievous news to Fingon yourself?” Turgon asked hesitantly. Erestor laughed wrily to himself to the irony of a lord being afraid of his own subject.

“I imparted the news also in my missive, but I felt that it would not be enough…“

“Yes, my lord. I… at least I shall try,” Erestor cut him off, smiling sheepishly afterwards. “I cannot trust myself in this, but I shall try for the best.” He bowed his head to his lord then gathered himself to rise to his feet. However, before he could do so, Turgon surprised him by embracing him as a father would a son.

“Your parents are fortunate indeed to have you as their child, Erestor,” the prince of the Ñoldor smiled a bit ruefully. Erestor gave him a half-grin, returned his embrace and rose together with him. Idril had been waiting by then, hovering nearby, and when they had dusted themselves off, she captured them in a large, albeit shaky, hug.

Erestor stowed the missive, which was encased in a cylindrical leather bag equipped with a length of thong to put around the neck, underneath his tunic, then shouldered the pack. Finera came over to bid him farewell and safe journey, while Ecthelion came in tandem with Glorfindel, seeming suddenly fragile. The Lord of the Fountain found his tongue tied, so he only embraced his son tightly before stepping back, allowing Glorfindel to bid his farewell to the ellon whom he had considered a nephew. But in the end the Lord of the Golden Flower only repeated what his brother-in-heart-and-arms had done.

Idril crushed Erestor once more in a bear hug afterwards, which was quite unladylike – as was her wont when not in public presence. “Safe journey, my brother and friend. Come home. Do not deprive me of my only young companion in this white city, would you?” she whispered softly to his ear, then winked, causing a crystal droplet to fall down her right cheek. Then she nodded and stepped back, allowing her father to also bid the helplessly-bemused-and-distraught ellon farewell.

“Take this to my brother, Erestor,” Turgon said softly as he belted a sword he had taken from beside the mound on the younger Elf’s waist. Erestor, realizing – at length – whose blade it had been, gasped with horror and stammered, face red with humility. Yet the Lord of Gondolin cut him off. “Should you need to defend yourself on the way, do not hesitate to use it; it is not a decoration, after all. But please, do not let it fall into the hands of the Enemy.”

Erestor, stubbornly-flustered, bowed low, then straightened up again, fidgeting almost in a piteous manner. Turgon, smiling gravely, put a heavy cloak over the young ellon’s shoulders and fastened it under Erestor’s chin with the broach bearing the coat-of-arms of the House of the Fountain. Then he led Erestor away from the cairn, straight to an Eagle who had just swooped down to meet them.

“Greetings, my lord.” Both ellyn bowed before the mighty Great Eagle, one of the guardians of the city. Behind them, the rest of the company followed suit.

“Come, young Erestor, climb onto my back,” the Great Eagle said after dipping his head to Turgon and his companions in greeting. Erestor squeaked, unable to rein his utter surprise and the immediate reaction caused by it. He actually jumped back a pace out of sheer fright and awe.

Instead of being offended, though, the Great Eagle chuckled, emitting a half-screeching, half-grinding sound which was unpleasant to the ears but warm to the heart. His keen black eyes sparkled with mirth and amusement. “Come, Elfling,” he said. “The sooner we go, the sooner you shall taste again the firm ground beneath your little feet.”

Erestor, if someone other than his family or friends – or this magnificent Eagle – had said it, would have taken great offence for it, but now he simply proceeded on unsteady legs, his senses numb, and clambered up the Eagle’s back through the joint of the giant bird’s left wing. Turgon helped him settle himself on the Eagle’s shoulders then stepped back, the lord’s face displaying humor torn by concern.

“Safe journey, young one,” he called, echoing his daughter. “Do not let go of Lord Thorondor’s neck at any rate, lest you would fall to your doom and send us all into another period of grieving.”

His last glimpse of Erestor’s face before the Great Eagle took off was that of the young ellon hunched awkwardly on the back of the King of Eagles, shell-shocked and shivering

“Are you recovered enough, fledgling?” chuckled the Great Eagle when at last he and his quaking passenger neared the vast land of Hithlum, bordered by the mountains Ered Wethrin on the west and decorated by a great lake in the centre. “We are not far away from your destination now, little one. Hold on and soon you shall be unburdened by the task.”

They had flown nonstop since Arien had just arisen from the eastern border of the world with her bright vessel. Thorondor, the King of the Great Eagles, did not show even the least signs of tiring, however. Instead, he seemed to be in a cheery mood.

`Must be laughing at my expense,` Erestor mused glumly. The journey had cost him physically and mentally. His exposed limbs were now numb from the chilling thin air far above the ground. His ears hurt from the constant roaring of the wind and the flapping sounds created by his cloak and his bearer’s wings. And, most annoyingly, his heart was thumping erratically on the prospect of having an audience with the new High King of the Ñoldor.

Thorondor alit on a cliff west of the great lake, which was surrounded by a low mountain range. Erestor, yet unmoving, stared at the fortress gates they were facing. Their vantage point allowed them a limited view of the half-shadowed interior behind the thick front wall of the fortress, and thus they noticed several guards scuttling about – as perceived from such distance – in a frenzy.

“They have spotted us,” the King of the Eagles pointed out lazily. Erestor winced. The giant bird chuckled again, the second time that day in Erestor’s presence. “No, young Erestor. Alas, there is no respite for you. Use what time you have left here to compose a suitable wording for the oral missive from your lord.”

`Do I even have enough time for that?` The young ellon’s heart sank. He was not very bad with pleasantries and court protocol, yet to him nothing, neither sweet nor heartfelt words, could balm the wound of loss properly. What should he say? “Your majesty, I bring you a fell tiding from the realm of your brother. My lord Turgon instructed me to bear this news to you: that the High King Fingolfin has passed on to the Halls of Mandos” – like that?

Or…

But…

How if…

“Erestor, a company of guards has ridden out to meet us.”

His pondering interrupted, Erestor gasped and jerked upright on Thorondor’s back. “How should I face them?” he asked the Great Eagle, shamefully aware of the squeaky note in his voice caused by the panick.

“Bravely, young Elf, like you did in the face of your own lord,” the Great Eagle advised kindly, patiently.

Erestor was only half-listening. He slid down the Eagle’s side to the uneven face of the cliff, then frantically tidied himself up, rearranging the pack on his back after straightening his cloak. He made sure that the sword Turgon had entrusted to him was not clearly visible underneath. It was complicated enough that he brought a grievous news about the loss suffered by the lord of this land, not to mention the risk he was taking in doing so. He did not wish to be marked as a thief of the late High King’s belongings. Being a doom-bringer was bad enough.

And besides, now he spotted a new problem, one that he had overlooked: he could not stop quaking!

“I’m not in a ship, am I?” he wondered nervously aloud. The Great Eagle beside him laughed. Erestor jolted; for a while, he had forgotten the presence of the King of Eagles by his side.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he stammered, wringing his hands together while bowing to Thorondor. The Eagle’s eye, the one that was visible from where Erestor was standing, twinkled with mirth.

“Come down now, young Erestor. Those guards have almost reached us.”

Erestor directed his gaze toward the spot at which Thorondor's beak pointed and gulped. The Great Eagle was right. The space left between the small contingent and the cliff was now only large enough for Thorondor to glide down safely without knocking anyone to the ground or pinning them underneath his talons… if the Great Eagle so wished, that was.

“I shall wait here for you, young one. You must proceed alone. I shall bear you to the ground, then keep vigil upon this cliff until you – or the lord of this land – see it fit for you to go back to your city,” Thorondor said gently as if to his own chick, divining his mind. Erestor nodded numbly. Then, before he could even fully register what the Eagle was saying, Thorondor had risen up to the sky, nearly knocking him over the cliff with the sudden gust of wind created when the Eagle flapped his large wings. Not a moment later, the Eagle swooped down again and grabbed the young ellon in a talon, bearing the latter away from the high perch.

Erestor squeaked, but his voice was swept away in the wind. He was dangling like prey in an Eagle’s strong and deadly talon – totally at Thorondor’s mercy! He could be let loose to his doom…

The frightening – and insolent, when he pondered it again later – thought fled his mind when his feet touched the ground. His weak knees buckled under him. His face reddened.

Cursing his sudden lameness, he struggled to right himself. Several of the guards regarded him with haughty looks.

`What are they thinking about me?` Erestor thought, disconcerted. His innards felt like rolling around in a quite unpleasant manner.

Thorondor had returned to his perch on the cliff. Erestor was alone.

No. Not alone, for he could sense the keen eyes of the Great Eagle behind his back. Instead of making him more nervous, Thorondor’s gaze strengthened him, encouraging him to bear the task unflinchingly.

It did, before he was bidden to go inside the fortress and meet with Fingon himself. With a cold, sinking feeling in his stomach, Erestor recalled that Thorondor had said the Eagle could not – and probably would not anyway – follow him into Fingon’s dwelling. Clutching the leather tube before his chest with one hand and the pommel of the hidden sword with the other, the young ellon strode as confidently as he could amidst the soldiers, trying to show that he was not intimidated by them.

Indeed, now that he had regained some of his bearing, their presence did not send chills up and down his spine anymore; the fear was replaced by irritation, one that stemmed from his assumption that they must think about him as a mere Elfling getting a treat from the greatest of Eagles.

`They must have thought that I was mad when I told them I would like to see Lord Fingon,` he realised upon completing the train of thoughts for the umpteenth time after their encounter. He was beyond his Elflinghood, yes, but he was still counted young among his kind. The guards must think it weird that such an unexperienced, easily-flustered youngling claimed to be a messenger from Turgon to Fingon; if not for the leather tube he showed them…

`Will the lord be nice to me?` Erestor had not forgotten the dark satisfaction that he had caught flashing on the faces of some of his escorts upon hearing his claim. `Perhaps Lord Fingon cannot bear speaking with one as young as me? Lord Turgon should have sent an older person with better bearing and decorum than me… Valar! He trusts me too much! And now look what I’m doing to his trust…`

When he came back from his musing, Erestor found himself alone in a large chamber – probably a small audience room, a private one. He gulped nervously. The guards had left him among the tables, shelves and chairs without him noticing at all. It just made him more ashamed of himself for his carelessness; he should not be brooding at times like this! The solitary silence there intimidated him also, and it did not improve his mood.

`I was overconfident. I shouldn’t have let my impulse dictate my actions… Now I’m trapped in this. If only I didn’t agree to Lord Turgon’s demand…` He sighed. `Now it is too late. How should I tell Lord Fingon about the death of his father? Surely he was more attached to the High King, given the close proximity of their dwellings?`

`No. Now the High King is him. But then how should I greet him when he comes? Should I address him as a king or a lord?`

The choice was stolen from him, anyway, just as the Elf who had barely entered the chamber announced carefully, “I am Fingon son of Fingolfin. What news do you bring from my brother?”

`Fingon. News. From Turgon. Death…`

“Would you deliver this grievous news to Fingon yourself?” Turgon asked hesitantly. “I imparted the news also in my missive, but I felt that it would not be enough.“

`The missive…`

`Fingolfin. Dead.`

`Fingolfin. The High King.`

`Fingon. The eldest.`

`Fingon. The High King.`

`I beg your pardon, my lord. My tongue fails me. But I can do this…`

Erestor dropped to a knee and saluted the noble Elf before him with his right fist curled before his chest and his left hand across his sternum. His movement held no grace whatsoever. The tremors had come back full force. He hoped that the gesture managed to convey the terrible message which he could not put to words.

“I fear that you are addressing the greeting to the wrong person, messenger,” Fingon said carefully. Erestor, his head bowed, did not see how the other Elf’s countenance changed from surprise to interest to worry and finally settled on dread. In the end, all the same, Fingon suffered from the same speechlessness.

The prince – no, the High King – knelt to be at the same level as the messenger. Realising that the ellon before him was fairly young and inexperienced, he picked up a different approach of addressing the said ellon. He tilted Erestor’s chin up so that their eyes met and opened his mouth to attempt to console the young one.

He immediately closed it again, as he was struck by the deep grief and strange, gentle longing of a subject to his king shining in the young one’s blue-grey eyes. He had managed to deny the bitter reality when the messenger had greeted him as king, but now he could flee no more. He could ask the messenger to tell him that it was not true, that his father was alive and residing in Gondolin; he could force him if need be to say it. His heart told him that the young ellon had suffered enough without further torment, however.

“What is your name, young one?” he found himself croaking. The voice was not suitable at all for a lord, much less a king, but he could not help himself. It was too hard a task now to keep his mask of impassivity.

A minute passed, then another. At last, just when Fingon began to think that the messenger would not answer him, Erestor opened his mouth a bit and mumbled, “Erestor, Sire. Erestor… of the House of the Fountain.” The petite ellon then ducked his head from view, hiding his flaming face. He had just realised that he was also the representative of his own house, which was famous in Gondolin and might also be known in Fingon’s realm. It was too late to mend all the disgrace he had caused to both his father and his lord now.

“Look at me please, Erestor.”

They locked eyes once again. Erestor marveled at how hard the ellon before him, this new king, tried to soothe him with gaze only, hiding away his own sorrow. Fingon acted like a father should, an accomplished one at that. But surely he had no child? His realm was too open to an assault from Thangorodrim. Raising a child in such environment would be a folly, in his opinion.

But then how could Fingon look so practised in that area?

Regardless…

He reached around his neck and, with numb hands and fingers, brought the loop of leather thong over his head. Yet without a word, he presented the leather tube to Fingon, all the while refusing to meet the King’s eyes.

He was startled out of his dark reverie when a hand rested on his shoulder, gripping it, squeezing it, until it throbbed under the iron grasp and Erestor was sure there was a bruise forming. Looking up, he met the dark top of Fingon’s head while the King’s face was buried inside the sheet of parchment he was reading. Fingon’s eyes, from the little Erestor could see, darted from side to side, reading the letter again and again. The king’s body was slumped forward, supported only by his hand – which prevented it from colliding with Erestor’s. If possible, he seemed lost.

`No. He mustn’t be lost! People need him. Even if Turgon doesn’t, the people here do,` Erestor thought fiercely, meanwhile banishing the image of the half-leering guards from his mind. A wave of sudden protectiveness gripped his heart and, without thinking it over, he touched Fingon’s hand with his own. When the King did not show signs of acknowledging the intruding hand, he grew bolder and cupped the new ruler’s cold hand with his own, then traced soothing circles on it with his forefinger. Surprisingly, the tension on said hand grew less and at last its grip slackened, slipping from his numb shoulder. Instead of letting it go, though, the young ellon caught it and gave it a slight squeeze. Fingon had tried to console him before. Now it was his turn, he thought, regardless of the result.

He stared at their intertwined hands for a moment, then raised his gaze. To his dismay, Fingon was looking at him, his gaze and visage unreadable. “I-am sor-ry, sire,” Erestor stammered, his cheeks flushing red again. He let go of Fingon’s hand, but the King then grasped his. Had he had a chance to think about it at that time, he would have remarked that the whole act of grasping hands in turns like that was ridiculous. But, unfortunately, he did not have such luxury now.

“When are you expected home, young lord?” Fingon rasped. Erestor flinched at the title but dismissed it; he had a greater problem, that was why.

“As soon as possible, Sire,” he said uncertainly, not knowing how to word his answer in order not to insult the king’s hospitality. His thoughts were flung home  to Gondolin, to the library of his House, to Glorfindel’s vineyard, to Idril’s beautiful gallery of tapestries…

He was ambushed by homesickness.

“Turgon pleads that you be taken care of with respect and love while you reside here. Now I see why he favours you so much,” Fingon smiled. Erestor ducked his head, intending to hide his face from view. However, Fingon seemed to have anticipated it. His hand, which had gripped Erestor’s shoulder earlier, now supported the latter’s chin.

“Would you please bear my reply to my brother?” he continued. Erestor hesitated, uncertain of what Fingon was aiming at by his request and what he should say as an answer. In the end, though, he nodded.

“Would you please give me at least one week to compose it?”

Understanding dawned on Erestor’s face. He arched a small smile and murmured, “As you wish, Sire.” Then, noting the great weariness and sorrow slowly leaking through Fingon’s impassive mask, he added in the same quiet tone, “Please take your time. Lady Idril foresaw that I might be delayed in my journey.” He patted the side of his pack. His smile grew. “I am not expected home soon. Indeed, I thought of spending a time in the wilderness after I delivered the letter, but I may as well consider this some sort of adventure.” For now, he must put aside his selfish desire to be reunited again with everyone and everything he knew. Fingon’s brightening visage was a sizeable reward for him; he did not care for more.

Besides, now that he saw Fingon in person, there was just no way he could be intimidated by the new leader of the Ñoldor in exile. Fingon had a warm, caring air about him. One who happened to be in his presence would feel a sense of respect and love towards him, not fear or undue awe – like what Erestor had imagined before.

They rose as one without breaking gazes. Shamefully, Erestor noted that the top of his head only reached up to Fingon’s chin.

But he had a bigger problem than that petty fact. He had just remembered the sword which still hung at his side when its weight came back.

“Sire?” He shifted from foot to foot as discreetly as possible – which was hard, considering his attire.

“Yes?” Fingon’s gaze hardened with a mixture of curiosity, alarm and interest.

“The sword…” Erestor mumbled under his breath, breaking eye contact with the king at last.

“Louder, please?” Fingon tilted his head. A pink hue crept to Erestor’s cheeks.

“The sword… The sword…” the young ellon stuttered. He fumbled with the buckle of the scabbard, then, with a barely-audible relieved sigh, released the sheathed blade from his belt. He knelt on one knee again and presented the famed blade with trembling hands to the heir of the late Fingolfin. “Ringil, Sire. Lord Turgon sent this alongside the letter.”

“Father,” Fingon breathed, overcome by grief and memory once more. He took the blade from Erestor with equally shaking hands and lifted it to eye level. He then murmured a string of words in Quenya, a dialect Erestor was still learning about. But the meaning was unmistakable: the King had hoped for his father to return, not his blade only.

`I would think similarly were I him,` the young ellon mused. The trail of thoughts which ensued was broken only when a pair of hands snaked under his arms and effectively lifted him up to his feet. It was Fingon. Ringil had been belted to the King’s side and said King was now looking with such fatherly pride and almost-playful interest at him that, with a little imagination, Erestor could believe that the one standing before him was his father.

“Is this your first time out of Gondolin?” the King asked, smiling warmly.

“Yes, Sire.” Erestor could not hold back his sheepish – and a bit silly – grin.

“You conducted your task well.”

The grin vanished as quickly as it had come.

“I am a failure, Sire,” Erestor mumbled, recounting in his head how emotional he had been and how the emotions had reigned over him ever since he and Thorondor had alit on the cliff outside the fortress.

He winced, startled, when Fingon drew him into an embrace. The King’s low chuckle rumbled pleasantly in his ear, the one that was pressed to the King’s thick-silk-robe-covered chest. Fingon’s words, though, were somber. “You were given a hard task, Erestor. Delivering the grievous news of a king’s death to his heir must not be easy. The cold reception of my gate guards only added to it, I suppose; and for that I seek your apology.”

Erestor, after digesting the last words, looked up with alarm. “How could you know? Will you punish them?” He sounded like an anxious, plaintive small child even to his own ears. The scene of Eöl, Aredhal’s husband, spitting at Turgon’s hospitality and striking his own wife with a poisoned spear was still fresh in his mind, as he had been present that day, just some time ago, inconspicuous, standing by Idril’s side. Eöl had been thrown from a height over one of the outer borders of the hidden city the next morning, but not before successfully taking Aredhal’s life through the poison. The sentence had seemed just to Erestor. But how about now? Would Fingon punish his gate guards for an act of discourtesy to a messenger from Turgon? Was the new king just as hard to forgive wrongdoings and wrongdoers as his brother? Could the guards’ action be considered insolent enough to receive harsh punishment?

“Erestor?”

The young ellon jerked with surprise. Given the pair of strong arms still enclosing him around his waist and shoulders, he could not move far.

“Yes, Sire?”

Fingon smiled fondly. “Had Turgon not hinted that he had considered you as a son, I would have done the same,” he said, his eyes laughing. “But, I think, he is generous enough to share you with me, eh? What do you think? I suppose you could be a good big brother for Ereinion. He feels rather lonely, being the youngest here.”

The grief had been replaced by untainted mirth, somehow. How Fingon managed it was beyond Erestor’s comprehension.

Chapter Notes:

Warning: (rather vivid) imagery of death (at least in my opinion) half-way in this chapter. Some readers might be disturbed by it. (Well, I did, when writing.)

Please tell me if there is too much “purple prose” in here, in the previous chapters, or in my next updates; It is hard for me to differentiate between the “purple prose” and the “standard writing.” I will appreciate help very much if you indeed see such instance in this story. Also, please tell me if there are actions/emotions/feelings which are unbelievable during the tale. Thank you very much.

-         Rey

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`Am I dreaming?`

It was Erestor’s first thought when Fingon left to announce the grievous news and prepare a room for the young ellon. He was alone in the audience chamber, perched on the edge of a chair, fingers fidgeting and feet kicking the thin air in equal nervousness. At home, his prim mother would chide him, accusing him of acting childish, but here he was free from such inhibition, at least for the moment.

Not for a long time, indeed.

The King arrived silently amidst a rather-vigorous twirling, twisting and kicking of his legs. Erestor, his mind elsewhere, did not notice him until, smiling, Fingon announced in a soft voice, “Your chambers have been readied, Erestor. Should we go now?”

The young ellon jerked upright – belatedly – and stared wide-eyed at the king. He blushed when his eyes landed on Fingon’s twinkling ones. “I… apologise… my king,” he stammered, the pink hue on his cheeks deepening and spreading. He made to kneel and bow in obeisance, but Fingon caught him midway and, with firm gentleness, guided him outside the door with an arm around his shoulders.

If Erestor had been flustered by the familiarity shown by Fingon, the sight of the chambers spoken by the king sent him into a flabbergasted silence. He could not decide whether to praise Fingon profusely for the gift or to protest the princely living quarters. He was only the son of a vassal lord and had never met Fingon before!

What had Turgon written in his missive to his brother? If the Lord of Gondolin described him as a timid weakling…

`What would I do if he said so?`

Erestor swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. Indeed, what could he do? Besides, Turgon more likely wrote that his peculiarly-behaving and odd-looking young messenger was someone dear to the royal family of Gondolin. It was true, and Erestor could not deny the engrained fact any more than he could deny the existence of his hands.

So, rather lost, he nodded mutely when Fingon asked if the chambers were all right. He shook his head a little too vigorously – and blanched with horror at himself afterwards – when the King further asked if he needed more added to the quarters.

Chuckling good-naturedly, Fingon explained that the little apartment lot would be his as long as he was there, and if he came back again in the future. To this Erestor finally opened his clammed mouth and stuttered something between gratitude and protestation.

Fingon’s noble face was practically crinkling with mirth now as his body shook with silent laughter. “Did I overwhelm you, Erestor?” he asked, gilt shadowing his bright eyes. Erestor, trying to be valiant and as well courteous, shook his head.

A little too meekly, he realised later, but it was too late; the damage was already done.

“Well, it is probably the best if we stay here for a moment and collect ourselves,” Fingon said, his tone thoughtful and amused at the same time. The front door clicked shut firmly behind him.

“Come, young one,” he beckoned to the rooted Erestor, then strode to one of the corner of what appeared to be a living-room or sitting-room of some sort. A cluster of sofas and armchairs half-circled a low table in that corner. He took a seat in a long comfortable sofa parallel to the door leading to the next chamber and patted the space right beside him. “Sit with me, would you?”

Erestor scuttled on shaky legs to the spot allotted to him and crumbled gracelessly onto it. He was uncomfortable with how near he sat to the King and with how much familiarity Fingon, who was yet  a stranger, treated him yet again.

It seemed that Fingon detected these feelings in some way, for he sighed in resignation and put a distance between them with obvious reluctance.

“I apologise for my eagerness, Erestor,” he said; too meekly for a king, in Erestor’s opinion. Silence stretched between them, awkward and uncomfortable, but none was willing to break it, to share their thoughts with each other. Erestor hugged his pack, which contents were still a mystery even to himself, close to him while Fingon was scrutinising his late father’s sword with exaggerated calmness and attention.

Then, unable to contain himself any longer, Erestor shifted and stared at the broach pinning his cloak instead. That brought Fingon’s eyes back to him and, almost imperceptibly, the tense atmosphere relaxed.

“I did not expect my brother to say anything to me after he moved to his new city,” Fingon confessed in a quiet tone. “We are like Anor and Ithil, like fire and ice. We are brothers, but few are as different one to another as we.”

Erestor’s insides squirmed as though they contained a cluster of worms. Did Fingon mean that he and Turgon had never been in good terms?

A hesitant hand alit on his shoulder. The squirming organs did a sudden flip.

“This flat was his when he visited me. It has been empty for three-hundred-and-fifty years of the sun now.”

The occupants of Erestor’s abdominal cavity froze, tightening and chilling in a painful way.

“He was silent for three-hundred-and-fifty years, but now he contacted me again after a tragedy that shook us all. He sent not a random lord of his court but a young nér whom he loves dearly next to his only daughter, one whose descriptions filled a large part of his letter, equal to the news about my niece. His letter balmed my grief, and he has honoured me both as a brother and a neighbouring lord by sending you as a messenger.”

The ice melted, but in an itchy way. Erestor squirmed uncomfortably on his allotted seat.

“He only asked that you be treated kindly, yet I perceived the message beneath the sentence, and I agree with him.”

Erestor smiled nervously. “He spoke too kindly of me, Sire,” he murmured, eyes downcast, rooted on the top of his pack.

“Nay, young one,” Fingon countered with gentle but quiet laughter. “He did not. I see the reason myself now. Besides…” He trailed off.

Erestor chanced a peek at his face and cringed. Fingon’s fine features had dissolved into a rather hideous look in such a short moment, warped by distress and desperation.

“Sire?” The young ellon had intended his voice to be firm and soothing, imitating Fingon, but he failed spectacularly. What passed his lips was a squeak belonging to an ellon decades younger than him.

He uttered a muffled yelp belonging to a dog whose tail was trodden when Fingon tore him from his seat and hugged him fiercely on his lap. The pack fell to the stone floor with a heavy thump.

Erestor trembled, confused and terrified. He tried furiously to muster himself, but with Fingon’s shaking body pressed around him and the heavy, erratic breathing belonging to a cornered animal clos to his ears, the effort was a futile endeavour. At last, resigning to his fate and stopping his attempt of discerning what was going, he returned the embrace and added timid strokes to Fingon’s silk-covered shoulders. Instead of relaxing, though, Fingon leant forward, encasing the poor ellon more firmly and thoroughly, his face buried in Erestor’s hair.

It would make sense, the ever-practical part of Erestor’s mind argued, if only there was an armed assassin barging into the room suddenly and aimed at Ereinion – who was possibly Fingon’s son.

But there was no one else there, and he was only a young messenger ordered by his lord to deliver a letter.

`Why do you keep denying yourself, Erestor?`

The voice, Fingon’s voice, was within his head, tired and sorrowful. Erestor would flinch if not for the tight, warm, living, trembling cocoon trapping his upper body and head securely in place.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, a series of vivid images poured into Erestor’s mind, drowning him in a floodtide. He was no longer Erestor but Fingon.

He was riding on a stout, faithful stallion, his troops behind him. His banner fluttered before him, tied to the saddle, guiding those who marched behind. His sword trembled with anticipation in his hand, desiring to taste the black blood of his enemies. The army of Moringotho spilled from the gates of Angband and filled the fields before him, enticing him to plunge heedlessly into their midst to scatter them.

But it was a foolish thought, he knew. And besides, he was still waiting for his cousin’s people to arrive from the other side of the battlefields as they had planned, to secure an escape route against the Enemy’s troops.

Where was Maitimo,  though? Now, more than ever, he longed to behold the banner of that cousin of his, the banner of his half-uncle Fëanáro – a silver rayed star upon a red background.

It was not Maitimo’s wont to be late. Was he waylaid in his journey? But this siege was supposed to be a secret until now! Had the doom of betrayal, one among those that had been announced by Námo Mandos, fallen upon him? So soon? And in such a precarious situation too…

Fear gripped him.

But it was small compared to the dismay that he felt upon beholding an Elven captive hewn by Moringotho’s servants in their mockery before his eyes and those of his troops from Hithlum. A shout went up somewhere on his right flank and a company of soldiers surged onward. They were Finderáto’s people, he realised with a sinking feeling. His other cousin’s troop had fallen for the bait.

They forced their way through the enemy’s bulk like knife through butter, but Findekáno knew that their victory was doomed to be short-lived, given their small number.

They would fall if unaided, his logic argued. But the heat it caused was feeble compared to the one that was sparked by his own anger at the insults of the orcs. In a swift motion, he donned his helmet and brandished his sword. Then he signalled his herald to blow the trumpet, signalling for his troops to charge. He was safe, he thought; he would be safe, for some time ago he had heard his brother’s trumpets away from the east.

He rode on, hewing black creatures on his way as easily as they had their prisoner. His troops followed his lead, for they were of valiant hearts undaunted by Moringotho’s forces, having been keeping the dark creatures at bay for so long.

Turukáno surged from where Findekáno had heard his trumpets last. Happiness and hope lit Findekáno’s soul and face.

Hurin, ever faithful and loyal, acted as his guard even as the Man led his own warriors. His presence boosted Findekáno’s courage and confidence, and Turukáno’s arrival made him think, for a moment, that he was invincible, that their united forces would prevail against those of Moringotho.

But they were torn away from him swiftly by the unexpected last assault coming out of Angband. Even the coming of Maitimo’s troops mattered little now. He and his guards were faced by three Balrogs.

And at last, it was only he who still stood, his banner on one hand and his naked, gory blade on the other.

He could probably prevail against one, but he had no hope against three.

And true to his own morbid thought, he failed without even a chance to act heroic. While he was exchanging blows with the first Balrog, a firy thong from another Balrog snagged his sword arm. It distracted him, crumbling his defense.

Something banged against his helmet, cleaving it into halves.

Pain… Such pain that exceeded his worst headache, near to the sensation he felt when he had nearly drowned in a remote beach near Alqualondë in his youth back in Aman—

But this time it was not a cold feeling that seared through his head to spread around his body but a hot one, as if he was a chunk of obstinate butter which was cloven by a hot knife.

Erestor choked and shook. Fingon did no better. They clung to each other, breathing hard, the nightmare haunting their minds.

`I am sorry, Erestor. I lost control of myself.`

But Fingon lied by saying that. He was more than sorry for what they had just gone through, for what he had subjected Erestor to. But words could not describe the depth of the sorrow he was feeling.

Not regret, though.

`It will be somewhere in the near future, Erestor. I have dreamt about it for many nights and woken up expecting that I was in Mandos. I can feel it in my blood, my flesh, my bones… I can feel it in my spirit, as if Lord Námo has called me early while the warmth of life yet lingers in my veins. I long to see Ereinion grow up and prosper….`

Silence.

Erestor understood. He returned the embrace full-heartedly now. The last of the train of thoughts was not spoken by Fingon, but Erestor, despite his youth and inexperience, could easily follow it to the end, to the part where he played a role:

`You, Erestor, remind me of the luxury I will never be granted. You are what my son may become a hundred years from now. You are not he, but my hope lives in you nonetheless.`

And Fingon did not deny it when the words trickled to his mind.

Long after the King had excused himself from the chambers, Erestor was still seated on the sofa, his pack lying upside-down by his feet. “I will try to live up to your expectation,” he murmured to no one. But his chest constricted as if he had sworn a solemn oath to a powerful being. He shivered.

After a time, when strength returned to his limbs, he lifted himself from the sofa and picked up his pack. He went to the next room, which door was only barred by a drapery, into a study doubling as a private library. He put his pack on the writing desk, but then continued to the next room instead of lingering to browse the large collection of books there.

He halted in the doorway, framed by the tapestry hiding the hole in the wall, and stared incredulously at the bedchamber spread before him.

The four-poster bed, which filled the middle section of the room, was big enough for more than four people to sleep without touching. White velvet drapes were gathered at two opposite sides of it, ready to be drawn at any time to block the sight of the bed from view. Soft, fluffy pillows lined the head of the bed, next to heavy cloths and furs suitable for the cold temperature in Hithlum during the night. Flanking the extravagant but convenient-looking bed, two nightstands stood – one holding a water basin and a towel and the other holding a shuttered lamp. Across the room, a large wardrobe with an adult-sized mirror planted on each door was positioned against the wall. Opposite it, closer to Erestor, was a long chest of drawers topped by rows of shelves.

The room was too big for a being as small as he, or so he thought. Everything was some sizes too large, too tall. There were no excessive ornaments in sight, but the sizes and variety of the furniture alone overwhelmed him.

Wishing to escape it, defying the thought that he would have to stay there that night and possibly some more nights ahead, he fled to an open door by the bed – in a straight line from the wardrobe – and barged inside.

He was halted once again by the view assaulting his vision.

It was a bathing chamber, but he could swim in three strokes, or perhaps more, from one end to the other of the bath-tub. He could easily call it a pool.

And what was the stone contraption there opposite the door? It looked like a chamber pot, but it seemed to be built into the floor itself. The base of the thing was almost as straight as the usual chamber pot, but there was a hole on the back which suggested the mouth of a pipe.

“Perhaps, after all, it is not easy to be a substitute,” the young ellon mused aloud while scratching his head, pulling out strands of hair from his braids unknowingly. Hopeless about solving the mystery of the contraption, he left the chamber, deciding to explore – possibly – other rooms in the flat.

There was another set of rooms, indeed, separated from the first by the only wooden door – with a lock – beside the front door, but whereas the first was masculine, the second was feminine.

Idril.

It must be Idril’s apartment.

Erestor shivered again. Until then, he had forgotten that the chambers allotted to him had been Turgon’s. The notion seemed too wild and vast for him, so he had stored it away. Now he was surprised by it, just as he had been surprised the first time Fingon had informed him.

He came out by the other door on the second flat,

And stepped into a hallway adorned with a balcony which stretched along its length, which he had never seen before.

There, standing across the door as if having been waiting for it to open to reveal an expected person, was a child. His back was turned away from the door while he was leaning against the wooden railing. His raiment was as fair and expensive as Fingon's. And when he turned around to see who had just come out of the door, Erestor beheld the likeness of the King framed within childlike innocence and visage.

He had met Ereinion, son of Fingon.

`You, Erestor, remind me of the luxury I will not be granted. You are what my son may become a hundred years from now. You are not he, but my hope lives in you nonetheless.`

The words rang again in his mind. Fingon’ thoughts formed by his voice. Fingon’s wishes…

“Greetings, young prince.” He executed a perfect but absent-minded bow. “I am Erestor of the House of the Fountain. May the brightest star shine upon our meeting.”

The eager curiosity in the child’s bright eyes crumbled. Erestor panicked. `Did I address the wrong person? Or is it about my bow? Was it done slovenly?`

“Greetings, Erestor of the House of the Fountain. I am Ereinion, son of Fingon of the House of Fingolfin. May the stars bathe you with glorious radiance.”

The bow was only dutiful despite its perfection. The words were hollow and flat.

Erestor hated it. He hated how inanimate the child became, as if a lifelike doll moved around by a narrator on a stage. He hated the distance between them, and all the courtesies. After all, Fingon had hinted that he should familiarise himself with the king’s child, had he not?

Trying to mend the situation, Erestor took some hesitant steps forward to the child. Ereinion tensed but held his ground with chin held high; an impressive sight to behold for Erestor, who had only seen false bravery and nobility in the bearings of the children in Turgon’s court. The child was a perfect scion of a high king, indeed.

That, faltered Erestor’s resolve on how to cross the rift he had unintentionally created between them. He halted in the middle of the hallway.

“What were you looking at?” he asked, hoping that his voice was not too bright or trembling – therefore disclosing his nervousness.

Ereinion frowned and pouted with displeasure, a gesture torn between regality and childishness. `Can he sense my nervousness? That easily?` thought Erestor, dismayed.

“I watched my father announce the High King’s passing to Mandos.”

Again: hollow. Flat. Dutiful. Falsely-polite.

But there was something beneath what the child exposed.

Erestor hastened to Ereinion’s side. The child was upset, he knew; his bearing threatened to break, disintegrating in sorrow and misery. It was hard now to tell whether the child was upset over the news that his grandfather was dead, or Erestor’s pretense, or both.

No sooner did Erestor think about it, the child's noble demeanor evaporated, leaving the Elfling underneath bare to the unforgiving world, racked by silent sobs and occasional whimpering. Ereinion pressed against the railing and clutched at the wooden cylindrical bar on it, but his body pitched ever so subtly to Erestor’s direction.

`Well. Time to substitute for his father,` Erestor mused wrily. But his body was coaxed into movement by another, stronger feeling instead of that practical thought: he felt guilty for rendering the proud and courageous son of his noble host so pitiful. He wished to atone for it.

“Hush, little one, hush. Now your grandfather is safe in Lord Námo’s care. No one will hurt him anymore. Perhaps, he will even someday be reborn and returned to you,” he murmured in a soothing tone while prying Ereinion’s little fingers from the railing. “Would you let me hold you? You will be safe in my arms.”

He crouched by the Elfling, his face hesitantly hopeful.

He wished he had asked Ereinion before attempting to free the child’s hands. (The little Elfling’s grip was fast!) As soon as the words left his lips, Ereinion clung tightly to him instead. Smiling nervously, Erestor rose to his feet, Ereinion in his arms. He cradled the Elfling close to him, the side of his face resting on Ereinion’s tiny head, while his throat, tongue and lips were working out a soft lullaby sung by his mother when he had been in Ereinion’s age.

And that was how Fingon found him.

Author’s Notes:

Thanks for MJ – my beta-reader – for getting back this chapter just in a day! LOL Now you get another treat, readers. Enjoy! Thank you very much for the reviews too. They warm my heart and motivate me to continue writing. (Well, I did contemplate quitting several times during the making of this chapter and the two afterwards…)

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The first but also last person Erestor wished to see at that time was standing there, in the middle of the deserted hallway, looking mildly surprised but otherwise placid, contented.

“S-sire,” Erestor stammered. Ereinion ceased crying and buried his head deeper into the older ellon’s arms as if afraid of what his father would think upon seeing him cry like an infant.

“Did you find your chambers adequate, Erestor?” Fingon, dismissing the title and the suspicious reaction of both Ellyn before him, smiled. He seemed to have recovered from the ordeal from earlier well, unlike Erestor.

“Yes, Sire.” Erestor nodded in his primmest and truest manner. “In fact, I found it very luxurious.” He did not know how to word his stunned surprise upon seeing each room for the first time in detail.

“Hmm.” The king fell into a thoughtful silence. If Erestor’s eyes did not deceive him, he would say that the king looked guilty, like a child caught red-handed when stealing a cookie from the cupboard.

What was seen by his eyes was confirmed by his ears a moment later.

“My brother described about you much in his more private part of the letter,” Fingon said. Erestor nodded; he had been apprised of the fact.

“I did not tell you what he talked about, did I?” the king continued. Erestor nodded again.

“He apprised me of everything you like and do not, your preferences and hobbies, and some of your personality,” Fingon smiled. Erestor gaped. “After reading the letter more carefully, thus, I ordered some servants to decorate your chambers according to his descriptions.

“He told me he would gladly name you his son if not for your parents, so I shall honour you as his son… if not mine.”

`So it is why he adopted Maeglin? Because he could not get me?` Erestor thought. Senseless jealousy bloomed in his chest, choking him. `That Dark Elf’s spawn does not deserve Turgon!` Neither Fingon’s second declaration of the same wish nor the implication of his announcement concerning Erestor’s lodging seemed to matter to him now.

`But do I?`

His dark musing was broken when Fingon beckoned him to follow the king. They came back to the flat through the other door, the one they had come in for the first time, and made a beeline to the sofas in the sitting-room. Ereinion peaked out shily from Erestor’s arms and regarded his father from under his eyelashes. Fingon smiled and winked at him, eliciting a soft giggle from the child. Erestor, curious, looked down at him, forsaking his intent eavesdropping of what was going on in the study – as he could hear movements there and soft bits of conversation.

“Erestor?” Fingon broke the comfortable silence that enveloped them.

“Yes?” Erestor responded absently, not noticing that he forgot to insert “Sire” in the response.

“Do not envy Maeglin.”

The young ellon choked. Ereinion squeaked, his little head springing out from the living cocoon. “’Ros?” he ventured, his bright blue eyes wide with concern.

“’Ros?” Fingon repeated, baffled, even as he was smiling knowingly to Erestor.

“Erros. I will call him Erros forever and ever, Ada,” Ereinion, straightening in the most dignified manner he could muster while still in Erestor’s lap and encased in the older ellon’s arms, proclaimed in the confidence Erestor did not possess in abundance. Fingon shook his head and stared sternly at his son, but he could not help chuckling too alongside Erestor.

“You must stop giving people shortened names, Ereinion,” he chid. Ereinion pouted and looked away, not answering.

“Sire?” Erestor ventured tentatively, hoping to save the defiant child from punishment.

“Yes?” Fingon in turn glared at him, possibly noting his intention. Erestor gulped. Suddenly he did not think what he was about to ask matter much – well, not much compared to the King’s wrath, anyway.

Amazingly, Fingon also caught this strand of thought, to the Elf-lad’s dismay. “Speak your thoughts,” he ordered.

Erestor blushed and averted his gaze to a tiny leaf-shaped ear poking out of Ereinion’s raven locks.

“I… I was afraid of your wrath, Sire,” he stuttered. A second later, he berated himself – his face aflame. `Why did I say so?`

Rolling peals of laughter escaped Fingon’s lips like water bursting out of a dam. The faint bustle in the next room ceased. Erestor bet people there in the fortress, neither servants nor soldiers, seldom heard Fingon laugh. `Nice, but I wish it was not at my expense,` he grumbled half-heartedly.

The next thing he knew, his head was being cradled in the crook of Fingon’s strong arm close to the King’s chest; Fingon’s body was pressed warmly, affectionately against him. Ereinion had slipped partially from Erestor’s arms and now was reclining on both elders’ laps, apparently having forgotten his defiance against his father. “Speak, young one,” Fingon murmured, then nuzzled Erestor’s ear playfully, uttering a rumbling chuckle when the younger ellon yelped – itched.

He quickly sobered, however. “Is it about Maeglin? Or the condition you are put in Gondolin? Tell me, please. I will share with you a secret thought of mine if you would tell me what has ached your heart so far. Do not lie. I have seen it in your eyes,” he coaxed in a soft, gentle tone so enticing to Erestor’s unaccustomed ears and his aching heart.

The young ellon shivered. Tears stung his eyes. He missed his parents and friends all of a sudden. Fingon’s method of coaxing him into speaking was like Idril’s. The king’s fatherly tone was the one Turgon and Ecthelion had used on him in many occasions. The strong arm winding around his head seemed to belong to Erestor’s hardworking mother Finera… And Fingon’s laughter earlier had reminded the young ellon of Glorfindel the Everyoung – his own title for the Vanya.

`He is my family here; he and this little impetuous one,` a part of his mind reminded him, replaying the conversations he had held with Fingon. `He has declared it himself, and not once. I am not jeopardising Gondolin’s location or the like if I tell him, besides.`

He tilted up his head slightly and met Fingon’s glittering blue eyes, so much like Ereinion’s. “Sire, why did you tell me not to envy Maeglin?”

Fingon arched up the edges of his lips, but it was a sad smile. “My brother holds fast to things he possesses, Erestor, and it is the same for people he loves. Maeglin came after he had been introduced to the delight of your company; perhaps he even held you in his arms when you were an infant. That alone has secured a firm place in his heart for you.” He paused and exhaled, but his eyes never left Erestor’s. Thus the young ellon beheld the king’s deep longing and grief surfacing in a blink of an eye on the radiant pools.

“He spoke about Maeglin in his letter, aye. He spoke about the whole history of how Maeglin came to be there, and who he is. He did not say why he insists on keeping Maeglin in his court, but I discerned well beyond his words. He is not as blind as you might think, Erestor. He was even more perceptive than I in our youths, and he has proven to be so countless times after we arrived here. You see Maeglin as a danger to my brother’s family, do you not? It seems that he has similar, if not the same, observation.”

Erestor’s eyes widened in shock.

“Do not think about it anymore,” Fingon admonished. “Also, do not speak about it either to anyone anywhere. Let it stay in this conversation and stray not outside.”

Erestor nodded numbly.

With his free arm, Fingon drew out the letter from a pocket hidden inside his outer robe, which functioned like a winter coat, and held the first piece of it under Erestor’s nose. “His letter is formed of seven pieces of parchment outside the actual missive,” he informed the slightly-gaping Erestor, who devoured the words written on it even before he was bidden to. “And the part about you takes up two pieces full. The same happens to that about my niece. Maeglin receives only two lines in the next piece, while our sister’s tale occupies the rest of it. He spent the next piece grumbling about whiny lords and ladies, and about those whom he befriends during the long course of mortal years. And the last piece is about the actual state of his beloved city.”

Erestor snapped his head up from the parchment. Tears once again gathered in his wide, astonished eyes.

Fingon smiled knowingly. “He usually only states what he loves or likes, seldom otherwise. The ‘actual state of the city’ that I talked about just now means that he speaks of the arrangement of every building and how beautiful the city is, full of milling and chattering people – his own people to cherish.”

Erestor had never thought of seeing his family or city that way. The gathered tears fell. The warm weight in Erestor’s lap shifted. A pair of small hands wiped the tears away, accompanied by a baffled coo. The small noise soon turned into a desperate whimper when the tears ran faster instead of drying.

“He asked me to let you read the letter,” Fingon said in a low tone. “But he warned me also that you are not to bring it back to Gondolin in the end of your sojourn here.” He smiled slightly. “If you can keep a secret and later do not let the letter lie around where someone could happen on it, I will defy his wish this time and let you keep it.” He produced a handkerchief from somewhere in his robes and offered it to Ereinion – who was on the verge of tears himself from what he perceived as his fault and failure.

But Fingon did not hand the letter to Erestor. Instead, he gathered the latter into his lap, the parchments forgotten beside him on the sofa, and rested the other’s body sidewise against his own. Ereinion forsook his self-appointed task of drying Erestor’s tears for a comfortable, warm, living nest on the nook between his elders’ bodies. Fingon took back his handkerchief and resumed his son’s doing.

Erestor did not know how, but he woke up snuggled in the large bed that he had seen earlier, Ereinion’s quiescent form cuddling to his side. After his eyes had adapted to the darkness, he noticed that the drapes had been fully closed around them. His ears caught the third set of breathing, the regular one of someone in deep sleep…

`Who is there?` he thought, fear clenching his heart. `Who put me into night clothes? Who tucked me in? Surely it’s not Fingon? And surely he wouldn’t sleep here with me? Decorum dictates—`

`But I haven’t seen him observing much decorum since I came.`

His heart thudding in his chest, Erestor clutched Ereinion close to him and crept to the other side of the bed.

The mysterious person was laid down there, his unseeing eyes open in the manner of the Elves. His head was half-submerged among the pillows and the quilt was tucked to under his nose. That stranger looked so harmless and innocent…

Was he really a stranger?

Creeping closer under the covers until he could feel the other’s warmth through his light night clothes, Erestor strained his vision to try to discern the Elf’s features.

As though sensing his effort, the person shifted, causing the young ellon to take a sharp breath. He clutched Ereinion harder, making the little one whimper in pain without actually waking up.

The person turned to his side, completely facing the two Ellyn,

And Fingon’s sleep-slurred voice reached Erestor’s ears even as his strong arms were encompassing the latter – alongside the bundle held in Erestor’s arms. “Sleep, little ones. The night is old. You are safe with me.” And the half-awake Erestor did just that while listening to his current self-appointed guardian’s heartbeats. His left arm was draped across Fingon’s side instinctively, possessively.

He woke up for the second time to the presence of light. It filtered through the dark green velvet bed draperies as if through the canopy of a forest. He could see that Ereinion had been awake for some time.

The child had built a tunnel out of a number of pillows, while the rest of the pillows were piled over Erestor’s body and limbs. The Elfling beamed and laughed when Erestor’s sleep-blurred eyes landed on him, followed by the older ellon’s frown. A small, incoherent smile brushed Erestor’s lips on his antics.

“Come, ‘Ros. Ada promised to escort us around the fortress today! He does not let us see the Men, but he is free today!” Ereinion chirped. “He is free! We can do anything and he is there with us!”

Erestor’s eyes came into focus abruptly. `Since when have they established such a firm claim on me as family?` He grimaced on the ironic thought but quickly turned it into an indulgent smile for Ereinion’s sake.

“Let me see to myself and you first,” he said, acting as if everything was normal. He opened the drapes and ordered his new charge, his new familiar, to arrange the pillows back in their proper places. He himself went around the room in search of his pack. Then, remembering that he had left it in the study, he crossed the bedchamber to the neighbouring room.

He froze on the doorway.

Fingon was writing on the desk as if on his own. Legal papers and notes were strewn all over the wide expanse of the desk and two ink bottles – one black and the other red – were arranged before the one he was currently working on. Hoping that his arrival would go unnoticed, Erestor skirted the desk gingerly and took his pack from the nearby nightstand. Under the nightstand, he glimpsed a part of a big satchel seeming to house even more papers and ink bottles.

Erestor was disturbed, but he reminded himself that everything there – except his pack – belonged to Fingon anyway, so he had no right to feel intruded. Still, though…

“Eh? I did not tell you to make the bed, little one.” He halted by the bed upon his return. The said bed was in pristine condition. Ereinion was balancing precariously on its edge and grinning with childish satisfaction, noting his own effort. The older ellon allowed a smile of appreciation to grace his lips, pushing aside his discomfort.

Erestor took a seat on one corner of the bed against the pillows. Then he beckoned Ereinion to him, almost as a second thought.

The child trotted across the mattress, treading on the fur quilt, and plopped down by Erestor’s side. He quickly snuggled to the older ellon and sighed in the same contentment Erestor had sensed earlier. “Is that your pack?” he asked before the surprised Erestor could say anything. A strange, distant light gleamed in his eyes.

“It is,” the uneasy older ellon answered. “It was made and arranged for travel, but so far it has no use other than housing useless things.”

Ereinion giggled. “Did you bring weapons with you? People who leave this fortress always bring weapons with them,” he said brightly. Yet then his countenance fell. “Daerada did. He was so frightening that day… He did not come back. You will always come back to me, right, ‘Ros?” He looked up, tears brimming on his blue orbs.

“I-I will,” Erestor stuttered, not knowing what to do otherwise save for granting the suddenly-distraught child’s wish.

Now, for the first time since his arrival, he was reminded clearly why he had been assigned to come here; the discussion about the pack and Fingolfin had brought it back to the surface of his mind. Why had events spun out of control like this? Was he truly a helpless pawn of fate… or Námo?

“’Ros?”

He sucked a sharp intake of breath and looked down. Ereinion was still staring at him; now the child was totally frightened.

“I am sorry, little one; I did not mean to upset you. Speaking of weapons, though, I did not bring any myself. This pack was arranged not by me but by your cousin Idril.”

“I have a cousin?” The fear was instantly gone from Ereinion’s adoring eyes. “Ada said so in the sitting-room yesterday; I heard it. Where does she live? Ada said ‘my niece’…”

“She resides with your uncle in the city where I live,” Erestor replied, an uneasy feeling creeping through his innards. If Fingon had never talked about Turgon or Idril to his son, then he should not have. If only he had known… And by the way, he needed to be extra careful about his speech and manners around the child in the future, for Ereinion had just proven to be very perceptive and attentive.

Ereinion deflated on hearing the answer. “Gondolin is a secret city, Lenmar told me; Ada said the same. But anyway ellyth are boring. They only talk about handsome Ellyn, tapestries, knitting, sewing, household chores, gossips…” he sniffed disdainfully. Erestor was forced into a fit of laughter hearing the confession. He could not imagine Idril gossiping or talking about handsome lords… but she did often talk about her precious tapestries.

“She is your uncle’s trusted person, little one; his right hand. She does love tapestries, and she has made many. But hers are beautiful and prided by Lord Turgon, put in a special gallery by the lord himself – against all her complaints. She, like your deceased aunt Lady Aredhal, loves hunting and horse-riding. We cannot do either in Gondolin, so she resorts to weaving many tapestries about her youth in Valinor, and the hunts she conducted with her father and deceased mother.

“She loves dancing, but not when there are many people to see her dance. She often dances in the glades in the woods behind my house or our friend’s – Glorfindel. I accompany her with either my flute or harp. She often wears little bells that chime beautifully when she dances, and we both love the blend of tunes the sounds result in.”

Erestor’s face reddened with embarrassment. `Why did I say such things? They are private!`

“You miss her dearly.”

The young ellon squeaked. The even-younger ellon sprung apart from the other and darted across the bed like an arrow.

“What did I tell you about standing or running on the bed, Ereinion?” Fingon caught the flying Elfling, who had just leapt from the edge of the bed, and proceeded to tickle the little one.

“Ada! Ada! Stop!” Ereinion shrieked and tried to wiggle free – in vain. Fingon only ceased ‘torturing’ his son upon arriving at Erestor’s side.

“I never told Ereinion about my siblings and niece because I feared that something bad would happen before he could meet either of them,” he explained to the nervously-squirming ellon. “I came here noticing that the pack was missing from its perch. I overheard your laughter and elaboration on my way. Please forgive me if I heard private thoughts that you perhaps did not even mean to say to Ereinion.”

Erestor’s mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish, but no sound came out. Finally, he gave up trying to speak and just nodded numbly. “It is just… she is the only friend I have whose age is closest to mine. We share secrets and often accompany each other when situation permits,” he mumbled to his pack after a moment.

“My brother said just as much,” Fingon smiled. “He used to suspect you courting each other since you came back to the palace hand in hand, faces flushed and eyes bright.”

Erestor giggled despite himself.

“Then he caught you dancing one day in the woods with flute and harp in your hands and bells adorning your bodies.”

Erestor choked and flushed as red as the package of apples he had just fished out from the top of the pack. Ereinion cooed with glee and snatched an apple just as he was prying open a fold in the lenan wrapper.

“Ereinion!”

But it was too late. The impish child worked faster than his father’s words. Ereinion had already nibbled happily on the coveted apple.

Erestor fell into helpless peals of laughter. Fingon joined, a little reluctantly, seconds after.

“You must be punished, naughty one,” he admonished some time after he had managed to bridle himself. Ereinion ceased eating at once.

“Let me still go with you, please?” the child panicked. Fingon frowned, pretending to lean towards punishing his son that way. But Erestor could see the stern mask of his eyes veiling twinkles. It was the same with Ecthelion when little Erestor had been caught stealing grapes from Glorfindel’s vineyard; the red-handed-caught Elfling was marched to his post in the North Tower by his irate mother, only for said Elfling to spend an exciting twelve hours with his father, stealing and punishment forgotten.

And just like little Erestor back then, Ereinion squealed in delight when the mask fell, and Fingon smiled – a little exasperatedly – down at his little imp.

The pack and its contents – including the apple package – were forgotten when Erestor prepared himself for the day. He took a bath together with Ereinion, who volunteered quite willingly to guide him in using some of the strange contraptions. When he went back to the bedchamber, his warm traveling cloak, pinned by a broach bearing the symbol of his House, was already laid out atop the quilt under a set of warm everyday clothing. Fingon was arranging the rest of his pack’s contents in the wardrobe and various drawers and shelves.

The former discomfort returned three-fold to Erestor, but he could not show it while the chattering Ereinion was clinging to his half-naked body; the child’s eyes were glued on his face, awaiting some gesture or verbal response like an attention-hungry pup.

He could not brood also afterwards, for, upon seeing him, Fingon swiftly ushered him and Ereinion into their respective clothes. Then he herded them out from the quarters. And outside the safety of the chambers’ walls, Erestor had other pressing matters to struggle with.

Erestor walked beside Ereinion a little self-consciously. His left hand was in the  grip of the child’s right hand; Fingon’s in the other. They strolled down the corridor in a line, just like a family. The feeling of impropriaty never left his chest, perturbing him, yet he coped withit for the sake of Ereinion’s happiness.

He only noticed some aspects of himself, including his clothing, when they met the first Elf. They were descending a set of stairs when it happened, and the person they encountered, according to Fingon’s explanation and warning whispered into his mind, was the new king’s late father’s most-critical advisor. `Do not heed his sharp tongue. Sometimes his advice is sound, but more often than not the receiver – whoever he is – must struggle to keep his ire in check before the good could come true.`

That only made Erestor all the more nervous.

“My lords.” The richly-dressed ellon bowed at Fingon and Ereinion. He then looked uncertainly, somewhat disdainfully, at Erestor. The latter was hard-pressed not to squirm under his penetrating, mocking gaze.

“Lord Viniarnen.” Fingon inclined his head coolly. Ereinion just glared.

“May I inquire…” Viniarnen the advisor hesitated, his gaze once more traveling from the father and son to Erestor.

“Yes?” Fingon prompted.

The ellon regarded the new king from behind hooded eyes. After a moment, however, he mustered the courage – or perhaps boldness – to speak up his mind.

“May I inquire why you bestowed this… messenger… with your royal garb?”

Erestor automatically looked down to the warm silken robes he was wearing – under which he were a set of practical woolen tunic and leggings of his own. He had not paid attention to what kind of clothes Fingon had made him wear before, too occupied with his thoughts. Upon further inspection, he saw what the belligerent advisor had pointed out. The robes were too flamboyant to be his own, and they reminded him much of Turgon or… well… Fingon and Ereinion. They indeed looked to be in the possession of royalty. Why had Fingon made him wear these?

He looked back up and stared at Fingon, trying to be as polite and calm as possible with an inquiring gaze of his own. `What have they been getting up to?` he thought in a mixture of emotions, half of them unpleasant. He did not wish to be viewed as a usurper to the throne of the exiled Ñoldor. He had no interest in politics and all of its delicate matters, anyway.

He bit back a frustrated, exasperated snarl when Fingon said, “The reason is my own, Lord Viniarnen. But I suppose you have known that in this way no one would dispute my favour on him.”

Then little Ereinion piped up in his juvenile confidence, “His name is Erestor, Lord Viniarnen, not ‘the messenger’. He is Ada’s right hand, because I am too small for that.”

Erestor was downright shocked. He turned to Fingon, ready to demand an explanation for Ereinion’s announcement. He cancelled the idea, though, when his eyes met the kings. Fingon was just as surprised as him, albeit also amused with the work of his son’s young mind… unlike Erestor.

“More likely, Ereinion wishes Erestor to be so,” on Erestor’s pleading expression, the King gave a correcting explanation to the advisor. Ereinion looked visibly hurt and offended. Before the child could say anything to the contrary, though, his elders had dragged him – almost literally – down the rest of the stairs and out to the front courtyard of the building. Fingon spared the advisor a polite nod while passing, but none of the younger Ellyn acknowledged the latter, too preoccupied with themselves.

They were only brought back to the reality when Fingon seated them firmly on a bench in a secluded garden of the large courtyard and glared sternly at them, as if they had just committed a mischievous prank on the King.

Erestor’s complexion reddened in embarrassment; his eyes darted nervously around. He must have done something wrong and was in trouble now.

Ereinion seemed to think in similar vein, for the child quickly pleaded not guilty to his father… for whatever reason.

The king regarded the two fidgeting younglings with unwavering gaze and raised eyebrows, his hands in the pockets of his outer robe. Were he not royalty, Erestor thought, Fingon might have rolled his eyes now.

The thought made him want to snicker, so he put it away and braced himself for any ‘lesson’ the king might soon give him. Fingon was staring pointedly at him now, and it took all his might not to continue his fidgeting. Taking a deep breath, the ellon straightened up on his seat and offered Fingon a – hopefully – polite and dignified dip of his head. Then, remembering the court lessons Turgon and his own father had taught in their spare times, the young ellon schooled his face into impassivity.

“Good,” Fingon grunted.

The mask which Erestor had so laboriously held up broke. He stared at the king blankly, his mouth open.

“Hey, you did well. Now it is ruined again,” Fingon remarked mildly, scrutinising Erestor’s posture with a bit of disapproval. For once, the latter mustered the courage to glare at him. Erestor was in a sullen mood, and his bewilderment did not help at all. At home, Finera would have prepared to face one of his temper tantrums, but now he could only indulge himself with sulking in silence.

“Would you please enlighten me, my lord?” he gritted out.

“On what?” Fingon’s expression, neither in his complexion nor his eyes, was readable, and so Erestor did not know if the King was jesting or inquiring truthfully.

“On the matter you were talking about just now.” Erestor’s voice was almost a hiss. To Utumno with the titles and proprieties, he thought while nursing his wounded pride.

Fingon regarded him silently for another moment, but then he said, “Did you remember the lessons my brother and your father taught you?”

Erestor was taken aback. “How did you know, Sire?” he stammered, his sulk briefly forgotten in his surprise.

A smile graced Fingon’s lips, the first show of emotion the king exhibited after a while. “It seems that you forgot that Turgon said many things about you in his letter to me, not only about the recent events. I have told you so yesterday, and even now the whole bundle of it is in your possession.”

Erestor looked away. Yes, he had forgotten about the missive. He was not blameless for that, though. Not wanting to remember that he had been the one to send word about Fingolfin’s death, he had shut the memory of the overall missive in a deep corner of his mind. Guilt brushed his conscience, but he quickly retreated from the contact lest it became a full-force remorse.

He dragged his attention to Fingon when the King continued, assuming a teaching tone Finera or Idril were wont to use when lecturing him about many things he should learn. “Impassivity is important when dealing with the court – you must listen to this also, Ereinion, and stop watching that butterfly,” the King said. “Your opponents could take advantage over your emotional signs if not, and it would only put you in a difficult position, like what happened back there in the staircase. Lord Viniarnen would have been less triggered to corner you, Erestor, if only you schooled your face well like what you showed me just now. You were uncomfortable and you showed it to him. His reaction, naturally, was like a hungry wolf chancing upon an injured-but-nonetheless-fat doe.”

He proceeded with offering his impromptu students some tips of how to show – or not to show – emotions at appropriate moments, and how to overcome the inner obstacles they might be experiencing during such moments. He had learnt the tricks by experience from his youth in the Blessed Realm until the present day, he said, and thus they were applicable.

`Well, if you say so, why did you break down, then?` Erestor thought belligerently. Of all the unexpected things, he had never thought in his wildest thought that he would get a lesson in manners from the High King, less an impromptu one. Why did Fingon not leave the task to Finera – or even Idril? Why should he bother with teaching a messenger?

His dark mood blackened even more. But Fingon seemed to ignore it at the moment. The King was now lecturing Ereinion on self-restraint and thinking before talking.

He wished he could be as unflappable as Ereinion on this matter. The little ellon just listened with an air of nonchalance about him, his little legs swinging back and forth under the bench.

Oh no. Now he leant towards resenting the boy too…

`I have been too overwhelmed by everything happening around me,` he conceded to the admonishment of his heart. He liked Ereinion too much to resent the child, and this fondness was what had restrained his rampant emotions in the end. And then, when Fingon had succeeded in eliciting a promise from his son to practise on what the child had just learnt, the young ellon found that his resentment towards the King had also receded alongside the calming of his thoughts.

They strolled across the courtyard afterwards. Upon reaching the training fields, Erestor only felt mild contentment about everything that went on around him. For a long time, he stood in silence between Fingon and Ereinion, observing the soldiers in training.

Then the King excused himself, and he launched into a panicked mode.

Fingon only said that he had to leave for a moment for some arrangements – of what he did not tell. Erestor looked like a motherless chick now, contrary to the mutinous Ereinion who seemed to be determined about… something.

Well, he found out what the thing was almost right afterwards.

“Let us make our presence known,” the child suggested. Erestor was taken aback. Ereinion had never adopted such a serious, authoritative tone; and before he knew it, Erestor had automatically obliged the younger ellon without any question.

They skirted the patch of the grounds reserved for swordsmanship practice and stood by the building housing the stock of blades. For a time, they only watched the pairs of soldiers sparring with each other in silence.

Erestor felt like he was transported back to Gondolin, to the city’s own training fields where Glorfindel was used to drilling him on all manners of fighting. He had only been an Elfling of twenty when the Vanya had managed to coax his parents into letting him train as a warrior; and he had visited the training fields even before that with either the golden-haired warrior, his father, or Idril. Now he observed the sparring partners with an air of detachment, as though an instructor to his students.

And Glorfindel indeed had prepared him to be an instructor on Turgon’s bidding, since the Lord of Gondolin reasoned that Erestor was better suited as a teacher than a true fighter. He had never been aware up to that point that Turgon had been secretly watching him practise.

`I miss them. I miss all of them,` he realised sadly. `Nothing here can replace them. Everything seems better here, more comfortable, but I miss my old

life.`

His old life. The words sounded to sweet in his mind. He knew that he would never go back to the way he had lived, ever. He did not know how the notion came into his mind, yet he nonetheless understood – with not a little amount of bitterness.

“Time goes on, time wheels on.

We can’t resist. We can just hope on.

Hope in the darkness, hope for the light;

Make our way through with all our might.

“Time goes by, time wheels by.

To the trodden paths we say good bye.

To ourselves we say “Don’t cry.”

And we trust for new joys ahead lie.

And time flies, like Eagles in the heavens.

No hand can grip it. No hand can stay it.

Nobody can fathom its presence.

Time’s obstinate, and it observes no limit.

“Time builds, time breaks.

Ever sweet and bitter.

Ever slower, ever faster…”

A feather-light caress on the back of his left hand halted Erestor’s murmured song. The ellon met Ereinion’s solemn eyes when he looked down. “You regretted something,” the child observed. Erestor bit his lips. Ereinion’s presence, formerly inconsequential, unnerved him more and more alongside his deepening friendship with the child.

“I did,” he said softly, never breaking gaze with the Elfling meanwhile. “Glorfindel, my friend, often sings the song when he reminisces about his life in Aman.”

“And you?”

Erestor smiled sadly. “Not now, little one. Some matters are hard to talk about when they are still fresh, and some can never be talked about for many reasons.”

The child was not satisfied; but he did not press on, to Erestor’s great relief. They resumed watching the training. However, apparently it had ended during their conversation, for the warriors were now looking at the pair with various expressions on their faces. Erestor gulped, remembering his attire. If Lord Viniarnen had commented so, then how would these warriors regard his princely robes?

“Why don’t you resume training?” Ereinion asked with an odd mixture of childlike curiosity and kingly demand. Erestor restrained an exasperated sigh from escaping either his nose or lips – or both – at the Elfling’s behaviour. He stared somewhat sternly at the child. Had Fingon not told him to mind his manners? Or was this behaviour common for Ereinion?

Erestor looked back up from the child and gulped again – as discreetly as possible. The warriors’ faces were now guarded, and they were looking back and forth between him and Ereinion as though sizing up an opponent. That could not be good, thought the ellon. Mustering up however much courage he still possessed, he spoke up. “Pardon the inquiry. Ereinion was just curious.” He did not say the last part – “As was I.”

Nevertheless, one of the warriors perceived the unspoken part and spoke it up for him in an inquiring manner. “Then how about you, stranger? Last we knew, you were a messenger. How came you to have the royal garb of King Fingon?”

Erestor fervently hoped that Ereinion would not say anything about him being Fingon’s right hand again. The situation had been precarious enough without any more complication. Now he had to think of a way to get out of the predicament as quickly as possible, lest it became more dire. He wished he could talk mind to mind like Fingon.

What should he say, anyway, other than “It was the King’s decision?” It was not enough… It would not be enough.

Ereinion solved the matter for him. Thankfully, it was not as he feared. The child only said what he had been thinking so far: “His Majesty ordered him to don the garb.” Erestor wondered at how sharply the little prince had changed from the innocent Elfling snuggling to him to this… this…

“Are you proficient with a sword, messenger?” a more belligerent-looking warrior queried. He had been one of the haughtiest guards by whom Erestor had been escorted the day before. From the ellon’s own observation, Erestor also found that he was quite proficient with his sword; the implied challenge was not an empty one.

Murmurs arose among the group. Some were excited, also catching the underlying message; another faction was just interested, while the rest was disapproving of the guard’s challenge. All of them, though, seemed to fear the wrath of the King – in various degrees – thinking that they might commit a slight to Fingon by challenging an ellon that was obviously in his great favour.

Again, it was Ereinion who ended the uncomfortable situation by his comment. “I watched how he appraised you. He must be experienced in swordplay, from the way he looked at you.” He paused, then, frowning, added, “And his name is Erestor. I said it to Lord Viniarnen, and now I am saying it to you. May you never forget it.”

A slight blush coloured Erestor’s cheeks. Ereinion was just as frank as ever despite the Elfling’s new attitude. He was about to try to amend the child words, but yet another warrior from the group spoke. “You are not yet trained in any kind of weapon practice, young prince. How could you judge his expertise?”

“I did not say anything about Erestor being an expert,” Ereinion evaded calmly, adopting a more innocent tone. “And one does not have to be an expert in an area to gauge the meaning of a gaze.”

`He would be a good king,` Erestor thought, sadly remembering Fingon’s looming doom. He could not indulge himself longer in his dark thoughts, however, because then the same belligerent guard who had spoken the second time formally declared the challenge. How could he avoid it without shaming himself?

“I am going to be your squire. At least I know how to be a squire,” Ereinion offered when Erestor had nodded his ascent to the guard – amidst shouts and whistles, and even a few hand-claps.

“Are we sparring with full armour? I do not think so, little one,” Erestor said. The guard who had issued the challenge nodded in agreement. But Ereinion did not appear daunted at all.

“A squire is not there only to take care of a knight’s armour, as far as I know,” the child said in that unflappable way of his. Erestor smiled, praising his knowledge.

“You are right,” the older ellon consented. “If you insist, we will just have to find out what kind of task you can perform for me.” Glares and smiles were sent his way from the throng. Those who disapproved perceived his readiness in consenting to the young prince’s idea as a sign of slander to the prince, demeaning Ereinion’s rank and title. Those who did otherwise believed that Erestor was just indulging Ereinion’s youthful, innocent eagerness.

Regardless of all, a short time later Erestor and the guard, Fimlin, found themselves circling each other, naked blades in their arms. Those were practice blades but dangerous and balanced nonetheless, and Erestor was brought back again to the training fields of his beloved city in his training days under Glorfindel. He was no longer in the chilly grassy patch of ground surrounded by trees and Elven spectators. To him, it was as if he was treading upon a vast paved courtyard by the side of the Tower of the King, unheeded as he was instructing a less-experienced warrior on Glorfindel’s bidding. His first act as an instructor had been performed not too long ago, and the experience was etched vividly in his mind.

He did not know who struck first. Glorfindel’s words rang in his ears, as though the Lord of the Golden Flower was there, observing and criticising him mercilessly. Thus, he put his best effort into the fight, hoping to elude the older warrior’s long lecture after the sparring. Even as an instructor, he could not yet escape from Glorfindel’s fretting, after all.

He grew more confident when he had gained his rhythm. Some minutes had gone by, but he did not notice the time, just as he was not aware of his surroundings. Soft-spoken words tumbled unbiddenly out from his lips, correcting Fimlin’s movements and praising the latter for each success. He also learnt new tricks, with the toll of some bruises on his sword arm and one on his left shoulder; he unconsciously stored the knowledge for future reference to teach whoever Glorfindel or Turgon would trust him with. He was not aware of the dead silence that fell on the grounds and the growing spectators, or of Fimlin’s odd look while sparring against him.

“Good fight, Fimlin,” he said when at last he managed to brought his sparring partner to the ground, his sword-tip pressed to the side of Fimlin’s neck. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely. “You are a talented fighter. Just pay attention to your emotions while fighting and you will do well.” He offered a hand to help Fimlin to his feet, but the guard refused it. Only then he looked around and noticed everything.

He blushed as red as the apple Ereinion had stolen back in his bedchamber.

Laughter broke right afterwards from the spectators. It was such an anticlimax for them. The action only made Erestor more flustered.

As usual, Ereinion came to the rescue. But this time the child was not alone. When Erestor’s eyes landed on him, the ellon found that Fingon was standing beside his son, grinning in joy and excitement.

“Sire.” He bowed automatically to the King. It appeared that the rest of the gathering had not noticed Fingon, for the laughter ceased immediately and people were soon bowing as well upon spotting the king. Even Fimlin managed to scramble up to his feet in time to execute his own obeisance.

Fingon’s smile widened. Pride glowed on his face and in his eyes. Ereinion, despite his noticeable lack of girth and height compared to the king, sported an identical expression to his father’s. Not a few people sucked in their breaths; Erestor was one of them.

“You performed well, Erestor and Fimlin. Congratulations,” the king declared. The colour on Erestor’s face, which had just gained some semblance of normalcy, returned to vivid red again.

Apparently noticing his latest predicament, Ereinion bounded happily up to him and tugged at his hand, dragging him to the weapon storeroom. There they had left Erestor’s cloak and the robes Fingon had given him. Without actually speaking, they agreed that the robes were best saved for later, when the Gondolindrim’s sweat-soaked tunic had dried up. When Erestor was about to fold up the robes, however, Ereinion forbade him, saying that he had agreed to let the Elfling be his squire. “It includes taking care of you after a fight,” the child insisted, pouting.

Erestor capitulated. He then also knelt so that Ereinion could fasten the cloak around him, warding him from some of Hithlum’s auttumn’s chill. If possible, the child looked even happier and prouder than when he had won against Fimlin. To that, he could only mentally shake his head.

Ereinion was fascinating, he decided. He was glad that he had agreed to stay in Hithlum longer. Unbelievably, now, after the unexpected sparring session, he felt more at home. `I wonder what more is in store for me.`

He walked out of the storeroom with a new determination, a new hope… and a squire.

He looked to his side, to the Elfling gripping his right hand firmly and bouncing on his every step, and smiled.

Author’s Notes:

I am very, very sorry for the late update.

In this chapter, we move several months (two, I think) ahead.

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“Erestor? Ereinion? Where are you, little ones?”

Two forms shook underneath the big writing desk in Fingon’s private study.

“Boys? I need to talk about something with you.”

The two forms pressed closer against each other, huddled in a far corner. They were not a moment too soon, for then the chair which had obstructed their view was drawn back, and they saw the lower part of someone’s robes as the person skirted the chair to sit in it.

The smaller of the two crept out from the shared embrace, aiming for the long legs stretched far under the desk. He managed to touch one of them, but he did not succeed in retreating to the safety of the far corner and his companion. A muffled squeak of a child’s voice, followed by a restrained fit of giggling, was heard when the newcomer ducked under the desk and snatched the small being, all in a quick, smooth movement, like a striking snake.

“Ada! Ada! Let me go!” Ereinion shrieked not long after, his voice slightly muffled by the thick wood of the desk. Judging from the child’s uncontrolled laughter and his struggling form in Fingon’s lap, Erestor concluded that the Elfling was being tickled mercilessly by his father. He did not want to end up with the same fate…

He crawled gingerly away from the corner past Fingon’s legs. When he deemed it safe enough, he eased his way out of the desk’s dark interior.

That was when a hand grabbed the scruff of his neck. A light chuckle from Fingon informed the young ellon whose hand it was. Still, Erestor yelped and recoiled.

It only made Fingon’s job of herding him to between the former’s legs easier. Erestor did not have enough time to resist before his body was being pinched softly between the long robed legs of the King.

If he thought he could escape the punishment Ereinion was receiving, he was mistaken. Fingon’s feet, encased in thick socks, managed to find ticklish spots at his sides and hit them just as mercilessly. His squealing, albeit lower in pitch and noise, mingled with Ereinion’s. He would not have possibly known that punishment without violence could exist if he was not experiencing one right now. The tickling sensation was torturous!

Thus, he was beyond happy when Fingon finally released him. He shot out like a cork from a wine bottle, leaving the chamber as fast as he could. Unfortunately,  Fingon chased him before some seconds had passed by…

They ended up ensconced in the sitting-room beside the study. Ereinion, tired out by the previous excitement, was curled up in his father’s lap while his fingers were idly playing with Fingon’s braids. Erestor, meanwhile, was sitting as far as possible from his tormenter, almost on the opposite end of the long sofa. His eyes never left Fingon’s hands and feet.

His gaze, however, travelled upwards to the King’s face when Fingon began to talk in a tone more serious than before.

“I have thought about this since your arrival two months ago, Erestor,” he said. “You are proficient with many kinds of weapons and defenses, but I think you can benefit from more practice and knowledge from an expert.”

Erestor stiffened. “I was taught by Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, and he is an expert,” he stated with a guarded tone.

Fingon shook his head. “I was not trying to demean your teacher, young one. By the way, I have known the person you talked about back when I was small in Aman, and he was indeed an expert in many things,” he denied. “I in fact told you that you were proficient. I was only suggesting that you probably would benefit more from another person as well. I know of just the right one. If you would, we could leave for his dwelling the day after tomorrow.”

Erestor’s interest perked up on the mention of Fingon’s apparent acquaintance, if not friendship, with Glorfindel. But he was ashamed for misunderstanding Fingon, so he refrained from asking more about Glorfindel’s past in regard to the King. And about the offer…

He apologized to Fingon about his earlier assumption, yet he did not inquire further about the promised extensive lesson in fighting. When asked about what his decision on the offer was, he deflected it subtly by saying that he needed to think deeply and carefully about the chance Fingon was giving him.

Fingon relented at the moment, yet he brought up the topic again in their private dinner in the King’s study that night. Erestor, who had been enjoying his favourite dish (tiny chunks of venicent wrapped in bread and dipped into thick, spiced bowl of gravy), paused from his meal with a start. He had not really thought about the matter as he had promised.

His guilt must have shown clearly on his face, for Fingon shook his head and smiled knowingly. “I suppose Ereinion has been underfoot since this morning, Erestor?” he laughed and winked. Erestor blushed red. Ereinion pouted and whined through his full mouth.

In truth, the Elfling had been tagging along the young ellon all day; however, Ereinion had never fussed about anything during the span of time, only chattering unceasingly about everything – from what room they were passing through, to what his dreams were for his future in the war-torn land of Beleriand. The child had not hindered Erestor in any way, although he had been a source of exasperated amusement for the older ellon.

“I was just… distracted, Sire,” he said. “I was paying more attention to what Ereinion was talking about.” He grinned meaningfully. Fingon grinned back at him, conveying that the King had ever experienced similar – if not the same – thing.

But still, he persisted, and this time Erestor had no other way to turn down the matter. Thus, the young ellon asked, “May I inquire to the identity of the expert you mentioned to me and the location of his dwelling?”

Fingon now looked slightly perturbed. Erestor’s insides squirmed uneasily.

At last, he asked the Gondolindrim back, “What do you know about the sons of Fëanor?”

Erestor bit his lower lip; his bones chilled and his skin crawled in an unpleasant manner. He had heard tales about the people Fingon had just mentioned a long time ago, when his mother had realised his dream to visit Doriath. None of them implied that Fëanor’s brood were good people. However, he had a suspicion that they were slightly biased, since the one who had told him the tales was Elu Thingol, the Lord of Doriath, and everyone knew that the Sindarin King hated the dysfunctional family passionately.

The young ellon fidgeted. Was the expert Fingon had told him about one of the sons of Fëanor? Would he be brought to one of the places in which they dwelled, then? If so, was he ready to face the truth in the form of reality? Or was he at least willing to see the events from another point of view – not from a biased perspective as told in the stories he knew? It was such a hard decision: whether to make himself brave enough to see any of the infamous mad Ellyn from across the Great Sea for himself, or to shirk from the chance and be content with the dark, one-sided tales about the elusive  kinslayers until the end of Arda.

But perhaps, if the one Fingon was referring about was the more calm-minded and well-behaved among all the seven sons, if there was any of them who fitted such criteria…

“Who is he? Where does he live?” he breathed. Fingon regarded him with an odd stare.

“You seem to have known deeply about them, at least from a second-hand telling,” the King observed. Erestor nodded but refused to elaborate. Fingon sighed in defeat and smiled ruefully. “I would like to know who told you,” he confessed.

Erestor arched a similar smile. “I would like to tell you, truthfully, Sire. But alas, the person who told me tales about them is… rather quick-tempered. I would love to avoid his wrath, if I could.” His smile became an apologetic one. Fingon stared at him shrewdly, and it was with all his might that Erestor did not let his will collapse under the scrutiny.

“Very well,” Fingon exhaled. He paused, then said, “I planned for us to go to Himring to see Maedhros and Maglor, if you would accept my offer.”

Erestor released the breath he had unknowingly held. Fingon, noting the woosh of air, chuckled softly. “It appears that they, at least, look more or less good in your eyes,” he remarked with a measure of amusement. The comment made Erestor blush a rather deep hue of red. Fingon was often too shrewd for his liking, and now he realised whence the sharp-mindedness Ereinion had displayed during their first day together had come.

“Are we agreed, then, to go there?”

Erestor, biting at the inside of his lips in order to seal them together, nodded. He could feel that his face was losing an amount of blood. He just hoped he did not look too pale. He did not wish to be regarded as a coward, although truthfully he was feeling like one right now. How not? He had foolishly capitulated to Fingon and agreed to see two of Fëanor’s scion at once!

Fingon’s expression, brightened by a smile, was enough a reward for him,  all the same, at least for now.

Erestor’s lightening mood only dropped down when Fingon spoke again, just a moment afterwards. He did not like what he heard, and Fingon did not make the inevitable trip to Himring more hopeful for the young ellon.

“You might not like being in the place, I guess, but you will probably see those two brothers as a welcome change for the weather. It is windy but cold and dry there, so near to the fortress of the Enemy.”

The Gondolindrim stifled a cringe. He did not like living in a rough-weathered place or journeying to places under that category (Hithlum excluded), since he was too accustomed and content with the mild one in Gondolin. Unfortunately, now he saw no way to somehow shirk from the trip to Himring, since he had agreed to go there.

He spent that night brooding about the trip and what he would do to prepare himself. Ereinion, tired out – as usual – by the activities the child had done that day, fell asleep easily, snuggling to his side, just like the nights before in these last two months. He wished he could be as uncaring as the little Elfling, so trustful to his elders, believing that everything would be right when Ada or Eros – or both – put a hand in a situation, as troubling as said situation was.

Yes, Ereinion had trusted him whole-heartedly. It was a child’s wont to do, a natural and even expected thing to happen, in fact; yet, in this case, Erestor had to pay a toll for that against his will. Fingon, on Ereinion’s constant pleading, had dismissed the child’s nursemaid and gave the task of taking care of his son to Erestor. Later, when Ereinion became enamoured of Erestor’s story-telling-styled teaching of history, numbers and letters, the delighted father also dismissed his son’s tutors and made Erestor teach the Elfling in all subjects. Erestor, as the ellon had expected with some consternation, was the one to bear the brunt of the employees’ displeasure. When he was alone, one or more of the former employees were always there, accusing him of being on his way to usurp the kingship which Fingon was holding through winning Ereinion’s heart. Such accusation was accompanied by various – and inventive, more often than not – threats which made the Gondolindrim’s skin crawl with dread.

It was, now that he could leisurely reflect about everything, one of the reasons why he had agreed to take the trip to Himring. He would gladly leave Hithlum and those loyal but paranoid servants of Fingon. Perhaps he would escape the realisation of their threats also in that way, since Fingon had stated that he would only inform related parties about the journey, and in as short a time as possible. The King had reasoned that there might be a chaos around if people knew he was going away just shortly after his father’s fated journey to challenge Morgoth, and he suspected that, to many, Himring was just as bad a place as Melkor’s lair.

The King just did not know that Erestor was one of the supposed many that viewed the dwelling of Maedhros – and recently, according to Fingon, Maglor – in almost the same light.

“What should I bring? How should I behave there? As what will I be viewed? As Turgon’s representative? As Ereinion’s caretaker and tutor?” the Sindarin youngling muttered. He eased his way carefully out of the bed and padded around the room in search of his pack. Since sleep would not come even after so many tries, he thought peevishly, he might as well kill the time by doing something useful instead of just lying awake and brooding.

If Fingon had highlit the bad weather, then he should pack extra warm clothing and accessories with him. Extra papers and writing tools would be welcome too in case he would be trapped in a place with nothing to do…

He puttered about, forgetting the passing time. Dawn was breaking when he finally stopped and lay back in the bed beside the quiescent Ereinion. His pack was ready, parked by the nightstand holding the shuttered lamp. Strangely, now that he had actually prepared to leave for Himring, the prospect of engaging Fëanor’s brood was not so imposing anymore.

“What will be, will be,” he muttered and sighed. His right hand strayed to his left one where an unadorned opal bracelet, shaped just like a large ring, hung. The bracelet could detect the works of the Shadow and thus would save him from most harms, or so the giver of it had said. He hoped that it was true, for he put much faith in its protection.

`You fret too much.`

The young ellon froze. He did not know if it was his mind playing tricks on him or someone else talking to him. The statement was nevertheless true, yet it did not offer him any comfort.

Instead, he got the convenience and reassurance he sought from another source entirely.

Ereinion murmured in his sleep and threw his small limbs onto Erestor’s body. The Elfling snuggled closer to his elder and sighed in contentment in his slumber. Erestor wound an arm around the child’s tiny frame and smiled. His half-open eyes dulled as he slipped into the paths of Elven dreams at last.

Two days of the sun and moon later, early before dawn, Erestor found himself riding on the back of a russet mare named Lagoryn. Ereinion was perched before him, and Fingon was riding beside him on Roherin, his white stallion. Behind the two horses, a small contingent of Fingon’s people – guards and servants alike – rode, and on the rear of the procession was a wagon of communal provisions and supplies.

The pack the young ellon had brought from Gondolin, which he had prepared two nights prior, was tied to Lagoryn’s saddle, along with several saddle-bags of immediate provisions – such as water skins – and Ereinion’s belongings. Erestor wore a woolen coat and a pair of rabbit-skin gloves for additional warmth. Ereinion, reclining snuggly to him, was garbed similarly.

What made Erestor somewhat uncomfortable – but which delighted Ereinion to no end – was the fact that he was wearing the same cloak as Fingon’s. He would not fret about it if only the guards and servants who accompanied them did not somehow see the King’s implied command through the garment. The young Gondolindrim, having never been paid attention to that closely, was flustered by the attention they rained on him with such degree of reverence. They were not even a league away from the heart of Hithlum, yet he had been asked three times already if he wished something light and warm to drink or eat, or if he was already tired and wanted to take a rest awhile in the wagon.

He felt like a frail elleth in that way, and people’s constant eyes on him frayed his nerves. But he also admitted to himself, with a measure of self-loathing, that he might not be able to stay on horseback for long without compromising his muscles. The open areas in Gondolin only permitted one to exercise endurance on horseback so much. He wondered what would happen if indeed later his body could not endure the strain. Would the guards and sservants mock him silently and to each other? They might just be amused, not derisive, since the people Finggon had chosen to accompany the little family to Himring seemed not to harbour any evil intentions to the youngling from Gondolin; yet still, it would wound his pride.

Dawn broke gloriously on the hazy eastern horizon while Erestor was still deep in his brooding. The warm, bright rays of the sun touching his face startled him out of his dark thoughts. Ereinion, who had dozed off in his arms, jerked in surprise.

“Sorry, little one,” Erestor murmured. He cradled the child’s head gently in the nook of his arm, trying to lull the latter back to sleep. However, now that Ereinion was fully awake, the Elfling refused to miss the experience of riding out of the only environment he knew. The little one peaked his head out of the folds of Erestor’s cloak and looked around with wide, curious eyes. The child’s expression was so endearing to Erestor that he paid attention to it instead of his own thoughts.

It did not stay for long, all the same. Soon his mind and eyes were drawn away again to another matter. Fingon was speaking, and Erestor had missed the beginning of the speech while being immersed in his reverie.

“…Makalaurë will probably be quite willing to teach you about music, but I will have to persuade Maitimo to teach you sword-play by practice. The last time I met him, he did not want to even touch his sword, although it has always been a constant presence at his side. Maybe, if you show him the extent of your skills with a sword, he will agree to spar with you.

“By the way, I will be spending a time with Maitimo once we arrive. Use the time to take as much rest as you can, children. Do not wander around the fortress by yourselves, save if Makalaurë accompanies you. There are still grudges between factions there, especially between the House of my father and Fëanor.”

“Yes, Sire,” Erestor responded dutifully.

“No fun, Ada!” Ereinion protested vehemently. “And what will I do there? You only mentioned about what Eros will do. Can I also learn sword-play from Maitimo?”

“You are still too young, Ereinion,” Fingon objected. “You can learn much from Makalaurë when Erestor is practicing his swordmanship, though. I do not think Maitimo… now… has any more passion or even patience to teach young children.”

Ereinion looked visibly dispirited, although he said nothing in protest to his father’s judgement of him. Erestor’s suggestion for them to play thumb-wrestling, a game which Erestor himself was not accustomed to and thought rather too childish, was met by silence; Ereinion was sulking.

`Ah… I was ready to sacrifice my peace for his,` the Gondolindrim mused. He let Ereinion bury the child’s tiny form deeper into his arms, and before long Ereinion had slipped into a fitful sleep haunted by the Elfling’s own ill mood.

Erestor did not count the days they spent travelling. As he had expected, his back was sore from the movements of his steed, and overall his body felt stiff due to sitting for long periods of time – and in a saddle no less. He was too occupied with curing his body of the problem without inviting help from anyone to pay attention to anything else. Outwardly, he looked only grumpy, yet inside he was leaning more and more towards despair, thinking himself unfit for long, hard journeys; unfit to be a true ellon – in his own opinion.

Ereinion’s mood, in the contrary, brightened as time went by. One evening, he even demanded a story from Erestor about the latter and Idril; something that he had never done when sulking.

Erestor, not expecting the Elfling to ask for a story after said Elfling’s seeming disinterest of him lately, capitulated to his wish without any consideration. Afterwards Ereinion pestered him about his life and the hidden realm of Gondolin nearly at every opportunity, and now Erestor was occupied with the child instead of his own problems. However, he once again paid no attention to both his surroundings and the time. He was reluctant to ask Fingon about any of the matters, however, since the King looked to be in a strange mood and more often than not kept to himself, deep in reverie. The young ellon had several guesses pertaining to the odd air about the father of his little friend, but he refused to delve into any of them by way of thoughts.

His concern about Fingon was brought into a new level early in the evening some time into the journey. A lone rider galloped towards their company. When the person slowed, they saw that it was an ellon with characteristically Ñoldorin complexion and deep, dark red hair.

Fingon, not heeding the dismayed cries of his guards, instructed the company to wait while he rode ahead – in the same speed – to question the red-haired Elf.

Erestor’s chest tightened, and his stomach heaved at the same time; it was quite an unpleasant sensation. He did not know what should he think about what was happening. And who was the rider? There were three red-haired Ellyn in Fëanor’s brood, or so King Elu had told him, but anyway Erestor did not desire to meet any of them, be he Maedhros or the twins Amrod and Amras, this quickly and suddenly.

And worse, Fingon was now beckoning him to approach, and motioning the rest of the company to do the same.

He obliged, but in a slower pace. His heart thumped as rapidly as Lagoryn’s hoofbeats.

He forced himself not to cower and shy away as Lagoryn brought him and Ereinion closer to Fingon and the red-haired rider. The presence of the scion of Fëanor, albeit as sensed from afar, was overwhelming.

Ereinion seemed to feel the same, for the usually-unflappable child – much like his father – shrunk deeper into Erestor’s embrace when, on Erestor’s hand command, Lagoryn slowed her pace and finally pulled to a stop beside Roheryn. Fingon was absent from the stallion’s saddle. The King was presently sprinting, quite forgetting his title and the image he should keep up, towards the rider, who had halted a distance away in a tense pose.

“Let’s go there,” Ereinion urged, although with only half his usual confidence. He fidgeted and tugged at Erestor’s cloak, only stopping when Erestor froze him with a hiss.

“We have to give them a measure of privacy, Erin,” Erestor argued.

“But Ada can be in danger,” the child persisted, his tone somewhat plaintive.

“He can defend himself, little one; perhaps better than what I can do for him,” Erestor reasoned with all patience he had.

“But Eros…”

Ereinion did not finish his argument. Fingon had just beckoned them to come to him, again. He seemed to have just finished arguing with the stranger rider about his contingent, and now said rider was focusing his attention to them also. Erestor entrusted Roheryn and Lagoryn to a servant, then, with Ereinion in his arms, jogged up to Fingon. He forced a calm countenance on his face and posture, but inwardly he was very nervous. He hoped he would not have to look at the red-haired ellon, for the anchor of this façade of his was that he only focused his attention on Fingon.

“This is my cousin Maitimo, children. He may be recognised with the name Maedhros here in Beleriand,” Fingon introduced the rider when Erestor arrived before him. Ereinion kept clinging to Erestor, even though now the older ellon was not moving anymore. Fingon did not perceive it, since much of the child’s body was concealed underneath Erestor’s cloak. And, while Erestor’s eyes were fixed on Fingon, awaiting further instruction, the Elfling’s were on the rider, wide with consternation.

“Who is he?” the rider, Maedhros, spoke for the first time. His head jerked briefly to Erestor’s direction. His tone was cold but not hostile; yet still, Erestor had to suppress a cringe on that.

“His name is Erestor. I will tell you everything else later,” Fingon blurted. Meanwhile, he threw Erestor and Ereinion a warning glance.

A no-less-condescending smile blossomed on Maedhros’ impassive countenance. “I permit no tricks around me, less in my direct presence, little Káno,” he warned sharply. Erestor did cringe now. Ereinion clutched at his clothing tighter. But Fingon looked just mildly annoyed.

The King glared up at Maedhros, then said with a touch of exasperation, “To summary a long story, Erestor is my ward.”

Erestor went stiff. He was disbelieving. Fingon had gone so far with making the scion of the House of the Fountain his own family. The former messenger wondered what Fingon would do more about it; to what extent the new High King would go to inform everyone he met about this strange idea of his?

“Ward, eh? You have much to explain, indeed, little cousin.”

Erestor jerked ‘awake’ from his reverie. It was just as Maedhros transvered his unwavering, penetrating gaze from him and the half-hidden Ereinion to behind them, to the rest of the contingent.

Then, before he had a time to absorb the present situation, the red-haired ellon spoke in a booming voice that made him take three steps backwards in surprise. “Follow us to Himring if you wish so. Your lord is with me.”

What happened next occurred in a very short moment. Maedhros pulled Fingon onto the saddle before him, then he galloped away, bearing the shell-shocked Fingon with him. Erestor, in a moment of panic, raced wildly back to Lagoryn and perched Ereinion in her saddle. Before he could mount up behind the child, however, a whisper of thought touched his mind; it was from Fingon. `See that Roheryn and Ereinion are safe with you. See also that our companions do not scatter or shoot my cousin down.` The link was severed before Erestor had a chance to ask or argue.

Indeed, by then the company had begun to recover from what Maedhros had said and done, and a cacophony of furious cries rose among them.

“Traitor!” one yelled, crowing with emotions. It was one of the guards, and he was already preparing to gallop ahead to launch his spear to the receding form of Maedhros.

“The Doom of Mandos…” a young elleth, a scullery servant, moaned with despair and covered her face with her splayed hands.

“He takes the King as hostage! How dare he?!” It was the head of the guards, and he had already ridden up to Erestor and Ereinion from his former position on the rear of the group.

`Calm down… Calm down…` Erestor whispered to himself. He was just as furious as the guards and servants, but he was also confused, as though a henless chick. He mounted Lagoryn behind Ereinion, then took hold of Roheryn’s reins. When the head guard was about to proceed him, he halted him with a single word.

The look on the older ellon’s daunted Erestor, but then he recalled King Elu’s wrathful expression and took comfort from the notion that this ellon had much less severe countenance on him. Calmly, he declared, “His Majesty the King has bidden me to see that everyone be well and do not scatter.” He spoke with such authority in his voice that the guard obeyed him without any question.

Albeit, Erestor’s task was not ended there. Only then he found out that herding a pack of frantic Elves was harder than sheperding a pack of sheep. He had exploded to a recalcitrant new warrior-to-be early in his training as fighting instructor, and Glorfindel had assigned him to sheperd a Gondolin farmer’s sheep for that. While Erestor had scorned upon the punishment, now he wished he were sheperding the sheep instead of this panicked and furious company of guards and servants. His sore muscles and sorer mind were stretched to the limit. It was only his devotion to Fingon that made him refrain from forsaking the contingent and pursuing Fingon on Lagoryn with only Ereinion and Roheryn as company.

Thus, when they arrived at their destination, Erestor was a portrait of strict leader, made more fearsome by his state of disarray. Gone was his worry and fear of the sons of Fëanor, replaced by numb confidence. He was ready to face anything ahead… as long as he was free from the ‘chicks’ trusted to him that were the guards and servants.