Good News

About a hundred years before the Breaking of the Siege, Fingolfin tried to gather together the forces of the Noldor to conduct a final assault upon Morgoth. Only Angrod and Aegnor agreed, so the plans were discarded. A few years earlier, Glaurung escaped from Angband, and Fingon had managed to drive him back surrounding him with a ring of mounted archers.

This chapter shows how Fingon took advantage of that last period of peace before the Battle of the Sudden Flame that ended the Siege and turned him into High King.

Barad Eithel, Early Spring, 345 years of the sun

“Is he in?”

Alcammïre looked up from the parchments he had been studying and pierced me with a disapproving glare that made me cringe and brace for the worst.

“Yes, he is.”

Alcammïre had been my Atar’s most trusted aide since the burden of carrying out King Finwë’s duties had fallen upon Fingolfin's shoulders, and had proved to be the best elf for the role. He had a strange sense of humour, an acerbic tongue when needed and, above all, he knew how to manage the temperamental children of Finwë, all of us.

“Can I see him?”

Alcammïre let his gaze wander idly behind me, as if searching for something.

“Where are they?” he inquired calmly. He knew how to dispel threats. I was suddenly distracted from my target.

“They? Who?”

“Why, the mounted archers! You’ll need even more of those than when you defeated the Worm from Angband, trust me!”

I let escape a nervous laughter. “I see. That bad, then?”

“That bad. I can’t see why you’re in such a hurry to throw yourself in the path of his wrath…”

“Well, if you put it that way…”

“Hear me, and judge by yourself, Your Princeness. Turgon is still missing; supposing that Thorondor delivered your atar’s message, the princeling did not see it fit to send a response to the High King. This alone falls under the category of insult. Finrod did answer, of course, he’s too well bred for not doing so, but he sent along his schedule for the next hundred sun-rounds, and a busy one, I might add, which included the plans for a small haven to be built in Mithrim… “

My jaw fell open.

“… And he even had the cheek to enclose his suggestions for an eventual strengthening of the siege. Now, Orodreth; I’m expecting his courteous and flourished refusal short after he finishes writing his account of the Great March and just before he starts writing the lay of Elwë and Melian…”

“You are joking…”

“I wish I were, lad, I wish I were,” he let escape a suffering sigh. “Angrod and Aegnor –we know they agree, and the Fëanorians are still unaccounted for...”

I then raised my left hand and waved a folded parchment carrying the fiery seal of the House of Fëanáro.

“Oh. The Seal of Doom!” Alcammïre joked -and then, “Beg your pardon...”

“In the mood for a wager?” I let pass the tasteless joke. “I bet he says “No, thanks,” after less than ten lines!”

“Fifteen or more. You think your half-cousin is as disrespectful as yourself, you cheeky brat...”

“Settled then. I’ll wager that knife I got from Caranthir against…”

“The cloak pin you lost to me the last time we had this type of conversation, Your Highness, and now, my lord Prince, if you would let me announce you…”  And with an exaggerate flourish, he knocked open the door to the king’s office.

“My king, your son, the High Prince, asks to see Your Grace…”

The growl that came from deep down Fingolfin’s throat had a tinge of threat that could not be possibly missed; yet bold Alcammïre would not be deterred.

“I’ll take that as a yes, please, send my son in, I’m most pleased to see him this morning?” he joked, as he pushed me in and towards my father’s desk.

“Should you need my help…just… call…” he whispered in my ear, making sure that my Atar overheard him. “Any of you,” he added playfully, wholly unimpressed by the murderous look Fingolfin threw his way as he closed the door behind him. I shook my head trying to disguise my smile and turned my attention to my atar, who was chuckling helplessly.

“He is like that day after day, I don’t know what I shall do with him,” he smiled, pretending exasperation.

“Maybe you could send him southwards on a vacation?” I suggested innocently, taking a seat before his desk at his wave.

“The fact that you behaved so remarkably well all this winter while stationed in this stone cage doesn’t entitle you to give advice, young one,” Fingolfin admonished almost officially, pointing at me with his finger.

“No, sir,” I acknowledged mildly.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “I might agree with you, and even consider sending him along when you return to your command.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, shuddering at the mere thought.

“Well.” He studied me for a moment and then relaxed. “So, what’s the news?”

I sighed. Although he wasn’t even half as enraged as Alcammïre had misled me to believe, still the news I was bringing wasn’t supposed to improve his mood. For a whole year we had been planning an attack upon Morgoth’s stronghold and now our plans threatened to come to nothing.

Angrod and Aegnor shared my atar’s opinion that letting an enemy grow freely was not a smart strategy, and the “incident” with the Worm had been enough to reinforce their theory. So the four of us had locked up with our chief commanders for the best part of that winter, and had come up with a detailed plan to sweep away most of Morgoth’s forces in a thorough attack intended to bring war and destruction upon his stronghold.

Only, we needed the support of the rest of the elven realms. And at that point our carefully laid plans began to founder, as Alcammïre had just summarized for me. I handed him the parchment. “A messenger has just arrived; I thought you would be interested in receiving this…”

“Hmmm,” was all he said, noticing the seal as he stretched his hand, tearing the parchment open without haste.

I studied him while he read it, but his face was impassive as usual, and soon I found that my mind had wandered away on its own accord and was now dwelling upon the *other* matter that I intended to discuss with my atar that morning. So engrossed was I in the particulars that his questioning caught me completely by surprise.

“Fingon! I asked, “What are the bets?”

I came abruptly back from wherever I had been lingering, only to discover that he had stood up and walked to the window, right in front of my supposedly open eyes, whose condition I started then to doubt.

He still held the parchment in his hand; I could discern the painfully neat handwriting my cousin had mastered with his left hand, his tengwar stubbornly lined one beside the other, like warriors in his army, like a promise of an ordered and peaceful life that was still ours to claim, despite whatever circumstance doom saw fit to throw at us.

“Before ten lines, against fifteen or more.”

He exhaled and turned his eyes again to the parchment, searching the message quickly.

“Twelve,” he said dryly. “That makes a draw?”

“Twelve?”

“Yes, listen; “...so it is with the utmost regret that I have to inform you, my dear Uncle and most respected King, that’s line eleven, “That I feel the time’s not yet ripe for such a bold move …” that’s line twelve.”

“I guess that’s a draw, then...” I agreed, wondering whether he was readying to explode or rather he had been waiting for this to happen and was simply amusing himself at the way his nephews were trying to outsmart him.

He turned to the window and let his gaze wander north.

“I suppose we must call off the musters and … forget about our plans…” he mused.

“Yes, sir.”

“It was a worthy exercise, though…”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I still think we should reconsider this when some more years have passed…”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked back over his shoulder and gave me a suspicious glance.

“Were I to say that we should invite Morgoth to discuss our differences over dinner, would you too say “yes, sir”?” he asked in mocked exasperation.

I stiffened. “No, sir. I mean, well –no! You’re not talking seriously, are you?”

He sat on the windowsill, facing me, and extended his long legs. Suddenly, he looked too relaxed for my taste. Dangerously relaxed, actually. He tilted his head slightly and eyed me curiously.

“Is there something else that you would like to discuss, son?” he asked, his voice soft and ominous. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably; his uncanny ability to read through me had always unsettled me, and this was not proceeding as I had expected.

“Well, no, I mean, in all truth...” I stumbled upon words, trying to go back to the starting point I had rehearsed in my mind, one that contained a far more collected version of me than my present self.

Fingolfin was enjoying the whole situation with a cruel delight that I found completely unnatural in a Firstborn.

“What I mean is, well, I was trying to, I would like…” This was going to be far more difficult than I had anticipated.

“Let me help you,” he cut in. “Maybe your cousin knows something about it, there is a line here that kept me wondering…”

I felt suddenly sick. “Typical”, part of my mind grunted, the part that had not yet given in to panic, “my atar can read me as an open book, and my cousin can read as easily between my lines.” I was sure my cousin was at a loss as to what my intentions were, but then… who knew?

He straightened the parchment with an elegant flick of his wrist, a movement I shall never master, no matter how hard I try, and searched for a particular line, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Oh, here it is, listen…and pray tell my cousin that I expect him to find a useful way to spend this extended period of peace. Tell me, son, were you plotting a hunting trip with Russandol while we were planning an assault upon Morgoth’s stronghold?”

I felt colour rise to my cheeks. He looked positively menacing at the mere thought that I had been planning to visit my cousin!

“I am waiting, child,” he insisted, his face unreadable, his tone icy.

I inhaled deeply and lunged forward, in a sense, of course, for I felt as if I were frozen in place by the enormity of what I was about to say.

“The thing is, Atar,” I managed, in a voice that did not shake, “that I am planning -this is, I would like… I would bond with Faelinniel, and I would have your leave to ask her…” I closed my eyes and held my breath while waiting for his outburst. Elves do not bond in times of war, of that I was fully aware, but it did not matter to me in that moment. All I knew was that I had found the missing part of my fëa and that I needed her by my side to be whole for ever.

When nothing happened I opened my eyes to see that my Atar was looking at me with a combined expression of mild amusement and deep fondness. He was still sitting on the window ledge, his arms crossed over his chest, and he shook his head.

“Was it that difficult, then?”

I groaned, my hopes rising as the winter tides of Belegaer.

“Only a drill before the actual thing, I’d say…”

He smiled then, standing up in a fluid movement, and in two effortless strides he was before me. I hurriedly rose from my chair as he grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eye.

“You not only have my leave but also my blessing, son,” he said softly, and then pulled me into a tight embrace. “Your ammë would be as happy as I am. She’s a wonderful maiden,” he added, his voice catching slightly, and I found that I could not speak, either, as I returned the embrace.

We stood there for a moment and I could feel the powerful fëa of my atar pouring out all the love and affection he sometimes failed to convey to me, and it made me feel wonderfully reassured.

He pushed me then at arm’s length and smiled. “We should celebrate, if only that you took the first step…” he joked, and then he called, “Alcammïre!”

The door bolted open before he had finished calling and Alcammïre walked in with a glass decanter and three goblets on a tray. “Mithrim’s best,” he declared, pouring generous servings, “as I assume that he finally spat it out!”

“It took a little prying, but he finally confessed!“ my atar acknowledged merrily, handing me one goblet, and only then I began to notice that both of them had, once again, manoeuvred me with the slightest effort and to their greatest amusement.

“What would you do without me to tease mercilessly?” I groaned, shaking my head in despair.

“Well, we would be teasing each other, as we have been doing regularly for many a yén now, child, do not claim such high honour! You simply provide… a welcome distraction!” Alcammïre joked, raising his goblet.

“May the Valiant succeed in this challenge and may the lady be merciful with this poor smitten elf!” Fingolfin jested, and then, raising his own goblet, “May we soon be celebrating with her, too!”

I was feeling anticipation growing within, but still I had a doubt, despite my father’s pleased smile.

“Aren’t you angry, then?” I cautiously asked, as he put down his goblet and made for the door, patting me approvingly as he passed.

“Angry?” he turned then, briefly, raising a puzzled eyebrow. “Why should I? After all, this is the best news we’ve had in a long time! You better go and ask the lady before she tires of waiting and I’ll go tell Calassë to stop the muster!” he said, stepping outside. “We are not going anywhere, after all! Not until my grandchildren are strong enough to disarm their atar!”

His booming voice and contagious laughter echoed down the staircase, slightly muffled by his purposeful strides as he headed towards Calassë’s office to share the news, no doubt, and collect some wagers –I suddenly thought in dismay. I rolled my eyes and turned towards Alcammïre, ready for more teasing.

“Stop fretting, Findekáno.” Only in the most serious situations I had heard Alcammïre address me by my full name.” Maikasulë is ready and waiting in the stables. Your atar is truly happy for you; we all are, so please, get gone!”

As I rode down to her settlement, Arien winking auspiciously among those flighty early spring clouds, I took time to consider what I was about to do, and a sudden apprehension overwhelmed me. I knew I loved her, for her strength, her calmness, her beauty and her generous fëa, and for the way her steady gaze and serene charm managed to sooth my rashness and temper my despair.

Yet I did not know what I was for her, except a source of endless amusement, if one were to judge by the many creative ways in which I had managed to embarrass myself in front of her since we had reacquainted ourselves this side of the waters.

You may laugh, Ereinion, but I had to stop for a while to regain some semblance of control over my feelings, lest I would turn around and ride back to Barad Eithel in panic.

We had seen each other regularly since that summer at Cape Eglarest, because, not many years after that, she had requested permission from Finrod to move to Mithrim and help the settlers there with their wine growing, and Finrod had graciously granted her wish with the only condition that some of that wine should be sent to him. Of course, the whole tale had been received around Hithlum with howls of laughter that lasted long after Turgon was out of reach.

She had found many ways to keep herself busy and make herself useful to the settlements. Everybody loved her and she always seemed so full of joy that I simply felt better just looking at her.

She had no family, as you well know. Her elder sister had married a Vanyarin elf and had remained in Valinor, with their uncles and grandparents. Both her parents had been lost in the Ice, and yet she hadn’t crumbled down, and instead had become a pillar of strength and comfort for others. She had rebuilt her life, choosing her trades and travelling through the lands to wherever she felt she was needed, and what could I offer to such a wende? She was loved, and protected, and held in great esteem wherever she went.

We had grown used to each other’s company in the passing years, as my duties often led me to visit the settlements. I looked forward to visiting hers, and she seemed happy to spend time with me on those occasions. We spoke freely of what worried us: the settlements, the harvests, the vineyards, the children, and the lands beyond our reach. We also spoke about that summer in Cape Eglarest, and our memories of Tirion, and the crossing, and the siege. She had slowly opened her heart to me, and in a certain measure I had done the same. As the sun rounds went by, I had found that my thoughts strayed towards her more often than not.

And then, that past winter, I had been delighted to find that she was in Barad Eithel, too, helping Hîrgon’s wife with the food supplies and the distribution, for she knew the needs of the settlements better than anyone. We had spent most of our spare time together, and by the end of winter, when she was to return to her settlement, I had been surprised to discover that she was deeply embedded in my heart.

I had suddenly decided that I wanted her by my side for as long as Arda lasted and beyond, and so I had turned to the forge and had wrought a delicate silver ring, and had never stopped to consider that she might not feel the same.

“You foolish, reckless, witless, selfish…smitten elf!” I chided myself loudly, kicking stones furiously. My stallion raised his head briefly from his unexpected meal and snorted his agreement. I was remembering a conversation I had held long ago, in the terraces of Vinyamar, when Idril had urged me to marry.

“Who would care for a doomed husband?” I had asked her bitterly.

“Love is stronger than the Halls of Waiting, uncle, and you will be a wonderful husband and a loving Atar.”

I had smiled at that, for she was the niece who believed me to be a Vala in her childhood, and who had faithfully supported and trusted me despite my more than frequent falls from grace.

But I was right, I thought. What use had Faelinn for a kinslayer? I inhaled deeply. I had gone that far, I wouldn’t retreat then. It would not be my first mistake in judgement, I acknowledged grimly. “But surely the most painful,” that traitorous voice that lives in the back of my mind supplied in a most unwelcome display of bad timing.

I mounted my disrespectful steed and rode to the settlement almost sick in anticipation. I found her in the communal orchard, readying the soil for the new seeds. I caught her by her hand and led her to the vineyards, followed by the knowing winks and muffled chuckles of her companions.

And there, among the vines, almost breathless, stumbling and shaking as an elfling asking permission for his first trip alone outside his garden, I presented her with my silver ring and asked her to be my wife.

She just said, “Yes,” and smiled, my ring fitting in her finger as my fëa fitted around hers, and then the world stopped, and time faltered, and Arien paused to look down, and even the Aratar felt the stir, Ereinion, for nothing so powerful had happened in Arda since Yavanna brought her trees to life.

***

Late that night, back in Barad Eithel, I went to say goodnight to my atar. He was in this same study –his own, back then.

If I close my eyes, I can see the whole scene again. This room is so full of memories that some days it feels as if he had been here, working late, and were about to open the door and enter with his booming voice and his optimistic morning mood.

He was seated here, at this same desk, and he raised his head as if sensing me even before I had done anything beyond peeking from the slightly ajar door. He smiled warmly and motioned for me to enter.

“Finrod sent some truly useful insights about how we should reinforce the siege, you knew that?” he joked softly as he poured two goblets of wine and asked me how it had gone. I told him in detail and he laughed. We spent the night here, sitting by the fire, our backs against the stone wall, trading tales as we later took to doing in your begetting days too, do you remember?

He recounted the story of how he had met my mother, and how she had won him over –the wise son of the king, more interested in lore and hunting than in maidens. He then asked me something he had been dying to ask since he began suspecting what was going on, I am sure.

“What would you have done, had we agreed to go to war?”

I released a deep sigh. Honesty has been hammered into me since my earliest childhood, and that was a habit I was not about to start breaking then, even if it meant that my father would be disappointed.

“I am not sure, Atarinya. In truth, I…I believe I would have asked her the same.” I raised my head to see my father looking at me with a fond smile.

“I suspect you would,” he nodded. “My mother used to say that out in the world there were many things unknown to the Valar. When I asked her how that might be, she would only say that there were many things Iluvatar had released into the music that the Valar could not see until they came to fruition …I have the feeling that this love of yours is one of those things, Fingon; unpredictable, unexpected, strange, yet beautiful and full of hope, as something Eru sent. May your days be long and your happiness complete, my child.”

We sat the whole night away, at times talking, at times just being there, in silence, enjoying our company, drawing strength and love from each other.

Do not hide from memories, my son, for they are the foundations of our souls. Dwell upon them until they become part of you. Seas and rivers, mountains and trees may perish by Morgoth’s malice, but words and memories shall warm us even in the Halls. You will be stronger if you learn to treasure those moments that are important to you, child, for memory is what we Eldar are made of!

Here, in this cold, late winter night, I find my strength in the memories of many other nights spent by this same fire. If I close my eyes I can picture your mother’s beautiful face, her dark eyes and her bright smile; I can see her sitting there in the couch, reading or sewing or carving, while your grandfather and I ended the day’s paperwork.

I can see you falling asleep on the rug, warmed by the fire, your toys firmly caught in your small hands, while your grandfather and I discussed strategy over a last goblet of wine.

And I can see him too; that day as many others before and after, caring and worrying and giving me strength and love and determination not to falter in my duty. May these memories serve you too, Ereinion, for my deepest love go with them for you to hold on to!

We decided not to wait the usual full year and bonded on Midyear’s day. Finrod insisted on presenting the bride, and I was proud -and honoured- to have him perform this task for her and for me.

He gave us then that beautiful model of the tower of Barad Nimras, as a reminder and a promise of hope.

It was a joyous, if simple, celebration. We spoke the names, exchanged rings, and Fingolfin blessed us all. Most of my cousins and friends were present, though not my siblings, and your mother was beautiful as the light of Telperion and happy as the Lindar by the shores.

We danced and sang and enjoyed that whole day and night, under the moon and the stars.

And the rest, my son, is a tale of bliss.

THE END