4. Kingly dinner

In which Ereinion and the Peredhil enliven a boring dinner, Círdan has the time of his life and Celeborn and Galadriel compare notes.

Ereinion raced across the encampment, jumping above cooking fires, slipping through impossibly narrow gaps between tents and leaping over absurd fences erected to separate nothing from nothing else in that borderless camp, in a dashing - but vain- attempt to beat Arien at her own course.

He had attended a boring meeting with the group of architects and shipwrights in charge of drafting the first plans for the future settlement, and had almost despaired of making himself understood. They had agreed to meet him the next day with a different approach, one that would not have the shipyards and workshops invading the most productive lands in the surroundings.

Then, on the way to meet his troops -his original target- he had been ambushed by a young Wood elf and her two Sindarin friends, who were worrying that the Edain were cutting too many trees for their fleet-building. Before the Sindarin youngsters declared him a monster and a tree-eater, Ereinion had agreed to meet them the following day to hear their case, and had invited them to gather information in the meantime and bring along solutions to avoid conflict between the edain’s needs and the forest’s well being.

Three assaults later, and fully enlightened on the many daily inconveniences his people met in that temporary settlement –the long queues for fresh water, why couldn’t everybody benefit from the inventive water-supply system in the fëanorian area, the lack of suitable places for children to play safely in, the somewhat monotonous fare, why were the troops stationed there, and not there, or over there, or yonder? – Ereinion had finally managed to reach his destination without losing his patience, something he was secretly very proud of.

“Gil-galad!”

Ereinion had smiled as one of his captains came to greet him. He felt at ease among his troops, made up of Noldor and Sindar from Nargothrond and Gondolin, some Sindar from ruined Doriath, Wood elves from Ossiriand and Thargelion and Teleri from the Havens. They had all gathered under his command for the last battle, and had toiled long together. They had all seen their homes destroyed and their peoples exiled, and they were united in their ferocious, relentless hatred of Morgoth’s minions and their hopes for a new life in that new land. Their devotion to the young king ran deep, built upon shared strife and hardship and fuelled by his understated bravery and a quiet but steady leadership Ereinion was not aware of possessing.

A couple of hours later, Ereinion had visited the provisional houses of healing, listened to the healers and taken note of their needs and joked with the wounded. He had seen the troops’ barracks and the new stables, and had been informed that his stallion wasn’t feeling well, and had met with his captains to learn what his troops were doing and to discuss the needs for the new settlement.

”We have set up routine patrols to watch the camp, and hunting patrols as well, and some of the companies I put to work helping the settlers, following your orders. We are making up a census, too, and building refuges wherever they’re needed…” one of his captains informed him. “As soon as we come up with a definite number of residents I shall let you know, Gil-galad. I suppose the architects must know about that, but I would like to be included in the drafting of the military areas...”

“You’ll be more than included, my friend!” Ereinion had laughed, remembering his previous meeting. “I wouldn’t let them have a say in that! It won’t be easy, though,” he had added thoughtfully, “as they still don’t know where to begin their planning, but I think we could start listing our needs and preferences.”

“I think that’s a good idea. We could start tonight... Why don’t you stay and have dinner with us?”

“Dinner?” Ereinion had looked up and almost panicked seeing Arien’s hurried pace towards the Doors of the Night. “I’m expected at King Finarfin’s tent for a family dinner as Arien sets!” And had then started running, followed by the captain’s amused laughter.

“Don’t forget to change your tunic, my lord! I’ll meet you tomorrow with that list!”

Ereinion reached his tent unscathed, although he was panting heavily. With a pleading look to Arien, ready to hide behind the horizon, he lifted the flap and stormed in, intent on finding a clean tunic, since the traces of the disturbed state of his stallion’s innards were clearly visible in the one he was wearing.

“How am I supposed to dress for a kingly dinner!” he grunted in exasperation, kicking the chest that contained his belongings. He had been in the battlefield for the last two years, and the few garments he possessed that could be possibly mistaken for finery under an unsteady light were most probably buried in some forgotten chest deep down Círdan’s ship’s bilge.

As soon as the feeling of dismay threatened to overwhelm him, Ereinion banished it from his mind. Early in his short life he had learnt that brooding helped achieve little practical benefit. It had not served to bring back his grandfather, nor had got him sent back to Hithlum, nor had helped ease the feeling of isolation that had presided over most of his childhood years as a foreign elfling in the Havens, so -smart child as he had been- he had soon discarded brooding from his list of allowed mental activities.

After all, my Atar looked lordly even in the plainest of clothes, he told himself fondly, picking out an unadorned linen shirt, the likes of which Círdan’s mariners used in the festivities, and that he carried along because it offered some welcome comfort against the coarseness of the woollen winter clothes and the harshness of the chain mail.

But, then, you worshiped the elf, no matter what he wore, a voice within his head scolded him. And I don’t think this is the case, now. Bracing against any unwelcome feeling of inadequacy, he donned his cloak, rearranged his dark hair as best as he could and stepped out and towards the Valinorean corner of the camp, resisting the urge to run and settling instead for a dignified pace that suited better his kingly demeanour, he thought.

***

“It’s a mighty endeavour that you have set for yourself, Elros, building such a fleet to carry away all your people…” Finarfin was addressing the wrong peredhel, Círdan observed with barely hidden amusement. “How long do you think it will take you?”

“I have no clue, my lord,” Elros answered form Finarfin’s other side with his characteristic bluntness, “since I’m no shipwright myself, but I expect to become one by the time this is accomplished, thanks to Círdan’s dedication,” he wickedly included the Mariner in the conversation, and Círdan simply nodded in acquiescence and drank from his goblet to hide his amused grin at Finarfin’s confusion.

“Oh,” the King of the Noldor turned to face the right peredhel then, “I suppose that our Telerin crews would be glad to be of assistance, too,” he added conversationally. Círdan was the only one who noticed that Ingil almost choked on his goblet.

“I… don’t think they’ll have the time, cousin,” the Vanyarin heir said, after wiping his mouth carefully, his voice slightly strained.

“Why?” Finarfin looked utterly mystified, “It is not as if they’re busy or something, they simply stay aboard…”

“I’ve noticed that,” Galadriel chimed in. Círdan had sensed a lingering tension between Ingil and her, but then, the whole family was an embroiled affair, he thought warily. “Why’s that, Atar? I’ve been told that uncle Olvárin climbs his ship’s mast twice a day...”

“He does that to exercise his muscles, Cousin,” Ingil offered kindly, eliciting an unrestrained snort from the cheeky Peredhil. Even Elrond had forgotten his gloominess for a moment. Ingil was everyone’s favourite teasing subject, Círdan thought with sympathy.

“Oh, well,“ Finarfin seemed to be suddenly at a loss, a feat in itself, Círdan observed, his interest in the conversation fuelled by this unexpected turn. He put his goblet down and looked at the king of the Noldor with his eyebrows raised in polite interest. “They...they promised not to set foot on the lands of hither,” Finarfin eventually grunted. “That’s all.”

The wicked glance both peredhil exchanged at hearing this was lost to everybody.

“But that… that’s…nonsense,” Galadriel was saying, “Why would they do that?“

Círdan sipped the exquisite wine and tried to hide the fact that he was having the time of his life. In fact, he didn’t remember having such fun since the time when Fingolfin had held a feast by the fair shores of Ivrin, (1) hoping to join together Noldor, Sindar and Teleri and set all grudges to rest.

But the sight of this Noldorin king trying to fulminate his irrepressible daughter while attempting not to lose face in front of his guests was as good as any possible non-conversation that might be taking place in his tent between Erestor, (2) one of his counsellors, and a certain dwarf-lord recently arrived. He had been reluctant to attend this dinner, sure that the one taking place in his tent at the same time would be more entertaining, but now he wasn’t all that sure.

“Because... I… I suppose it is because… ofthekinslaying (3)… More wine, Ingil?” the King finally uttered in a pathetic attempt to change the subject. Ah! but Finarfin had not taken into account the doom of the Noldor, Círdan thought amusedly.

“I’d rather say it has to do with the burning of the ships,“ Elrond dropped thoughtfully amidst the silence that had followed.

“Oh, yes, Maedhros told us about that!” Elros clinched gleefully.

It was Ereinion’s turn to choke, and his performance was outstanding, as usual. He had been unusually subdued, Círdan noticed, but he supposed that his shameful exhibition of earlier in the evening, as well as its gloriously purple remainder, had something to do with his darkened mood.

“I suppose that’s the reason, then…” Finarfin said weakly, not looking in Celeborn’s general direction, Círdan noticed with merriment. The Sindarin Lord seemed to have picked up Thingol’s banner of Noldorin wariness as a defence against what he perceived as Noldorin haughtiness. Galadriel’s pride was freshly stung by the Valar’s offer of half-redemption and she seemed to be turning her disappointment against her Vanyarin cousin. The peredhil, on their part, were still to purge their human blood brashness and fëanorian upbringing, although how feasible that was Círdan could not tell, and the king of the Noldor in exile was exploring the lowest levels of his self-esteem, and Círdan was still at a loss regarding the particular reason for that self-deprecating mood. This situation seriously compromised Finarfin’s peace of mind, and Ingil’s mild belligerence was the last straw, it seemed.

“If you want my opinion,” the Vanyarin heir kept on stubbornly, not noticing the shaken looks around the table, “I do not think that we should tarry much longer here, Arafinwë, pardon, Finarfin,“ he added hurriedly, casting an apologetic glance towards Celeborn. “Those who are travelling West with us have been singled out and accommodation has been provided for them aboard, and they have great endeavours ahead of them, too,“ he added pointedly, “before they can settle down in Eressëa...“

“Have you ever set foot in that island, Ingil?” Galadriel asked, her mellow tone fooling none…except Ingil, of course.

“Well, no, actually I have not, but I’ve seen it often from the heights of Taniquetil, and it looks like a completely wild place…”

Círdan winced, as some of his table companions.

“Oh. And that’s the wonderful place where the Valar expect us, repentant exiles, to settle?“ she asked in a steely tone.

“Perhaps they thought you would like to settle down on your own and build your cities as suited you best?” Ingil suggested, the slightest touch of impatience tingeing his voice, as he locked eyes defiantly with his stubborn cousin.

The subject might have ended there and then, hadn’t Elros been liberally dosing himself with Finarfin’s wine. Now, he felt more than ready to add up to the debate.

“Well!” he chimed in happily, “So it seems that we all have to face new and uncertain lands… except you, Valinorean lot, of course,” he added as second thoughts. Before anyone could think of gagging him, the disrespectful peredhel continued his inspired speech. “Although we can all agree that Ereinion has the most fortunate lot here…”

“Do I?”

Círdan knew that tone. Ereinion's mood wasn’t bad, but foul, and that usually caused him to disagree quite vehemently with anything thrown his way.

“Well, of course!“ Elros' tone was a bit overbearing. ”After all, you already know what to expect...”

“On the other hand,” Ereinion grunted in a menacing tone, “I wouldn’t disregard the fact that both you Edain and the Elves returning to the Blessed Realm are heading towards safe, Valar granted lands, no matter how much building awaits you, while we cannot even start guessing what may be lurking two days east from here…”

“Middle-earth was a safe land, too, before Morgoth came,” Celeborn pointed out soberly, and Círdan lowered his face and concentrated in savouring the exquisite meal. Finarfin’s cook was a true artist, he thought with pleasure, savouring the seafood as if it wasn’t their daily fare.

“Know what? You may have a point there, Ereinion,” Elros was enjoying the attention, it seemed. “We must keep in touch about our progress…I wager I can beat you at building my kingdom!” he added with his youthful, contagious, foolish, drunken enthusiasm.

“Who cares? We are Elves, after all,” Ereinion grunted. “We need not hurry,” he added scathingly, stabbing at his food as if the war wasn’t over and the enemy lurked in his bowl.

“You’re afraid,” Elros laughed provokingly, and Círdan had to bow at his recklessness, as Ereinion narrowed his eyes and growled at the impudent peredhel.

“…And as Celeborn informs me, the lands to the east are quite safe, and scarcely populated, not only around lake Nenuial, with its mighty forests, not to speak to the mountains in the east... what are they called, now, Celeborn?“ Finarfin’s voice was almost hysterical, as he tried to redress the situation.

Círdan truly felt for him. He was eagerly trying to adjust to everybody’s moods, much as his brother had done many years ago, but there was no use. Things had a way of their own, and a storm was the better outcome for a charged atmosphere, the mariner in him knew, but still, in spite of his merriment, he could not help pitying the agreeable king.

“The Misty Mountains…” Celeborn’s lowered voice caught Círdan’s attention, and he looked up to see the murderous look Ereinion was shooting at the Sindarin Lord.

As Finarfin kept on dwelling upon what Celeborn had told him about the excellence and layout of the lands to the East and their peoples, Ereinion’s face was clouding and turning into that suicidal frown that could be considered the trademark of his line.

“…So what’s your opinion, Ereinion?“

“I beg your pardon?”

Círdan braced for the onslaught.

“How do you find the lands? You must have given detailed thought to all this, surely…”

“Adequate…I found them adequate,” Ereinion all but spat, locking eyes defiantly with Celeborn.

“Adequate?” Finarfin looked puzzled. He was distractedly raking the exquisite tablecloth with his dagger in a nervous movement.

“Yes, adequate,” Ereinion charged, headfirst, without mercy. “Nenuial sounds as an excellent place to me, a place where the refugees from Doriath might found themselves at ease, even your kinsman, Oropher, Lord Celeborn,“ he added with a sarcastic smirk. “I think they would be glad to settle down there with you,“ Galadriel choked in a quite elegant but not wholly discreet manner, Círdan noted while he listened attentively to that interesting -if a bit heated- insight into the king’s politics. “That’s it, if they cannot be persuaded to move further east, for I guess they would make excellent neighbours for the dwarven kingdoms there…” Ereinion added with wicked delight.

“Oh,” Finarfin was gasping for air.

“Lord Círdan and his people are more than happy by the sea,“ Ereinion ranted now relentlessly, not noticing the varied degrees of dismay upon the faces around him, “and the few Golodhrim that shall remain, once you depart for that Eru’s... appointed island,“ he trod very carefully there, “well, we may be easily contented, there are rocks enough here for us, stone-eaters, even if we must share them with the Dwarves from the Ered Luin. So, all in all, my lord, I think the lands are quite suitable for our needs!” he ended vehemently, grabbing his goblet before Elrond managed to place it out of his reach and drinking a long draught defiantly.

“I believe that your Atar had an interesting story about the Onodrim (4) from the time of the Great March, Ingil,“ Finarfin said valiantly, plunging into the embarrassed silence and clinging to his last hope, as the Vanyarin heir smiled gracefully and started one of his endless tales.

“By your leave, my lord,” Ereinion interrupted in a hoarse voice, as the servants entered with the deserts, “there’s another family member that I must see tonight,” he added.

Círdan could have sworn that Finarfin did not have the time to grant permission, when the young king of the exiles stood up, nodded to the assembled party and exited the tent with as much dignity as he could gather, followed by the astonished looks of his table companions.

“Another family…” Ingil wondered aloud, stopping in the midst of his tale, and then, “of course, Celebrimbor!” as understanding dawned upon him. “You could have brought him to dinner with you, Cousin,” he said merrily to Galadriel in unexpected retaliation, causing all heads to turn from one to another and more than one jaw to fall open.

Círdan poured himself a generous draught and leaned back quite contentedly, savouring the sparkling wine and enjoying the subsequent mayhem.

***

“I can’t believe that you spoke with that son of… Fëanor!”

The Wood-elves that stood guard that night in front of the lord and lady’s tent moved their lips silently and in unison, mouthing the answer in advance, and smiling in amusement as it came a breath after, as expected.

“Grandson,” the lady’s voice sounded slightly more exasperated than the ten previous times, although they weren’t really all that sure, since the rustling leaves had muffled their voices twice.

“Whatever!” Lord Celeborn sounded exasperated, and the Wood-elves outside his tent could only sympathize with him, “I don’t care, he’s one of those cursed…”

“Kinslayers”, she ended for him. The guards eyed each other with suspicion; the lady seemed to have joined in their game. “Can we move forward, my lord? He’s my half-cousin’s son, he didn’t swear that oath and he rejected his father’s deeds. Now, how was your conversation with my Atar?”

The guards looked at each other and nodded slightly in agreement, taking a silent step backwards, so as not to lose a word.

“… And he tried to bribe me…” the lord was saying. “He offered me a Lordship in Eressëa, it seems that your maternal grandfather knows the island very well…And you? What happened with Ingil? You didn’t look like the best of cousins tonight.”

Much to the guards' amazement, the lady snorted. It was a pity, they thought, for nobody would ever believe them.

“He tried to bribe me, too, and he said that my Ammë would be distraught not to see any of her children coming back... “

“He said that to me, too” the lord was saying. “And that almost broke my heart. What happened, then?”

“Well, Celebrimbor appeared,“

“I can’t believe that you spoke with…”

“Yes, yes, we know, and then I walked with him and asked him about his plans. He said that he intended to remain in Middle Earth, and that he wanted to build up a city worth of his talents, and that he was hopelessly in love with me, not that I did not know, of course...”

Thankfully, Lord Celeborn choked at the same time as his guards outside, and if the lady heard anything, she didn’t act upon it.

“How he dares! “ the lord was raging, most justly, in his guards’ opinion.

“I find it flattering,” she said in a mellow tone. “Anyway, I would never dare invite him to dinner, my Atar would have had a fit...”

“Well, he almost did, anyway, perhaps it would have been more merciful that way…I pitied him…”

“Oh you did? So he managed to charm you in the end? “

“Well, yes, he seemed so sorrowful that I pitied him, even after he asked me whether we would stay here and pledge our faith to Ereinion, can you believe that?”

The guards looked at each other and shook their heads. The King of the Noldor must have been completely out of his wits.

“And?”

For Elves that had never seen the Grinding Ice, the two guards before Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel’s tent were quite good at recognizing it, and they looked at each other with apprehension.

“And? How and? How he ever thought that we could…”

The guards lowered their heads in defeat, bracing for the worst.

“We will, of course.”

“You’re not speaking seriously. You don’t mean to bow in front of that child and pledge your loyalty to him…”

“He’s my rightful King.”

“He's an infant! What! Didn’t you see him today? Losing to Oropher in front of a cheering crowd, picking on that peredhel and railing shamelessly at his King like a spoiled brat?”

“Oropher cheated.”

The guards were eyeing each other nervously. It was unspoken agreement that, should the discussion reach dangerous levels, the farthest the safest, and they were now considering their options.

“He’s a spoiled brat.”

“Oh, yes he is, wasn’t he endearing? He’s truly charming, isn’t he? Oh, my lord, he’s a child, poor thing… “

“If that’s what moves you, then we could try and get one of our own, one we shouldn’t have to bow to…”

“If you insist…”

Fire, on the other side, these elves had seen often enough, and they exchanged anxious glances as the voices became muffled and the sounds more intense, and undeniably non-conversational.

“Ah, my lady,” the Lord’s voice had lost its usual steadiness, and he definitely was gasping. “ I… I don’t… think… that’s… ”

“I can stop right now, if you command so, my lord”, her voice came muffled, as if her face were pressed against…something? The guards were close to panic and hurried away as one, as their lord’s answer was lost in the night’s breeze.

TBC

Notes:

(1) The Mereth Aderthad, or feast of the reunion Fingolfin held in Beleriand.

(2) We shall meet Erestor in the next chapter, I promise.

(3) Purposefully crammed. Finarfin is trying to tiptoe over the subject... not that he'll succeed, anyway...

(4) Onodrim: Sindarin for the Ent-People. Finarfin is showing–off his language skills. Please, bear with him; he’s having a bad day.