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.