128: Disaster On Day Three

The next morning dawned fair, and everyone woke in a good mood, except for Finrod who seemed somewhat out of sorts. However, he refused to tell anyone why, and both Glorfindel and Sador left him alone. Sador and Alassiel busied themselves seeing to the elflings while Glorfindel and Mithlas went on to the champions’ tent to start arming for the next round of fighting. The number of fighters had been reduced enough that there were only four pairs fighting, two from each list. Therefore, all eight fighters who had made it to Round Three would fight at the same time.

The line-up this morning would be Glorfindel and Gilvagor in list one, with Finrod and Aldundil behind them in list three. Ingwion and Ardamírë would be fighting in list two with Mithlas and Aldarion behind them in list four. While it was not expected that these matches would be overlong, there was great anticipation as to who would advance to the next round in the Tinco-list. The losers of those matches would fight the winners of the Parma-list later that afternoon. That would be the beginning of the semi-finals. Whoever lost the Parma-list’s Round Five would automatically take fourth place. The Parma-list losers of Round Four would vie against each other on the fourth day to determine who would take fifth place. The loser of the Tinco-list Round Four would fight against the winner of the Parma-list Round Six to determine who would then take third place. Only after the three lower places had been determined would the final matches between the two list champions commence on the fifth day. If the Tinco-list champion won Round Seven, the tournament would be over, otherwise they would go to the next round to determine the winner.

The opening ceremony was brief and to the point. Eönwë introduced each pair of fighters and then the bouts commenced. It was obvious to any who were warriors that, while the matches with Glorfindel, Ingwion and Mithlas were going to be quickly decided in favor of those three ellyn, the match between Finrod and Aldundil was more problematic. Some of those watching were aware that Aldundil had been uneasy with the idea of fighting his own liege, yet, it appeared that he was holding his own against Finrod. No one, save perhaps the Valar, knew what had passed between them before the match....

Finrod walked into the arming tent to find only Aldundil there with one of the court pages giving him a hand with his hauberk.

"Aldundil," Finrod said politely in greeting.

The prince’s vassal bowed. "Aranya," he muttered. "I... I hope I can last long enough out there to... to impress my son." He gave the prince a twisted smile. "I’m afraid Vorondil still thinks Anar rises and sets at my command."

Finrod gave him a thin smile. "That’s all right, Aldundil. I still think the same of my atar. I’m sure you will do well against me. Vorondil should not feel anything but pride in your abilities as a warrior."

Aldundil nodded, then gave Finrod a shrewd look, dismissing the page so they could be alone. He gave Finrod a hand with his armor, helping to tie on one of his vambraces. "You are troubled, aranya," he said. "Has Vorondil done anything...."

Finrod shook his head. "I have no complaints concerning your son, Aldundil. He has come a long way from the arrogant ellon who sported warrior braids that he never earned."

Aldundil winced. "Forgive me, aranya," he said with chagrin. "I fear I was not the best of atars in that regard."

Finrod shook his head and placed a hand on the other ellon’s shoulder. "There is nothing to forgive. I fear Vorondil was... tainted, his fëa twisted and it had nothing to do with you." He sighed, and closed his eyes. Aldundil noticed shadows under them and wondered at that.

"Are you well, aranya?" he asked hesitantly.

Finrod opened his eyes and the light that shone from them was almost more than Aldundil could endure. "I am well, Aldundil. Do not fear for me. Now, let us finish arming."

He turned away to pick up a greave, freeing Aldundil from his regard, for which the ellon was thankful. He was still coming to terms with the Life Oath to Findaráto and was not sure just how much he could get away with without crossing the line of propriety between vassal and liege. He was still feeling his way for the most part. In fact, he had been rather surprised that Findaráto had sent him back to Tirion to resume his previous life. Findaráto had told him that he was much too valuable a member of the Noldóran’s government to be dancing attendance on the prince and would send for him when needed. Aldundil had felt oddly grateful for that.

"If you are sure," Aldundil said hesitantly, not quite believing the prince but reluctant to argue.

Finrod gave him a quick smile. "I am sure. And you had better fight your very best. I will not allow any vassal of mine to do any less, especially against me. Do we understand each other?"

Aldundil gave his liege a salute and bowed. "Be iest lîn, aran nîn," he said.

Finrod raised an eyebrow at that, then shook his head, smiling as he left the tent with Aldundil following behind....

Now it was apparent to all who were watching that the two warriors were nearly evenly matched, yet there was something off about Finrod’s fighting form.

"Something is wrong," Arafinwë muttered from the royal viewing gallery.

"What do you mean?" Ingwë asked, having been paying more attention to his own son’s fighting and noting with approval that Ingwion was in top form that morning as he handily knocked Ardamírë’s sword out of his hand. Now the only match still going was the one with Findaráto and Aldundil.

"Findaráto," Arafinwë said and pointed towards his son. "He’s fighting... carelessly."

That brought everyone’s attention to the third list. Arafinwë noted that even Lord Manwë was frowning. He turned his attention back to his son and suddenly stood up, muttering a curse in Sindarin, the only one he had bothered to learn while in Ennorath during the War of Wrath. Those around him started at the viciousness of his tone, though only the Elder King, Varda, their Maiar attendants and Ingwë's loremaster, Valandur, understood what he had said.

"Someone is going to get hurt," he said grimly.

And his words proved prophetic.

There was always the possibility when dealing with live steel, even in a tournament situation, that serious injuries could occur. Everyone knew this, every warrior accepted the risk. Yet, when it happened, there was an element of shock and disbelief involved. Such was the case here.

It would be difficult to say who was more at fault — Finrod for being careless and distracted or Aldundil for over confidence in thinking he could take advantage of Finrod’s sloppiness of form. Whatever the case, the result was catastrophic. Suddenly, steel met, not steel, but flesh and red blood spurted. Aldundil looked down to where Finrod’s sword had managed to slice through the mail of his hauberk to see his life’s blood running out. He had just a second to look up at his liege in shocked disbelief before collapsing to the ground.

Ellith began screaming as Finrod threw himself on Aldundil in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.

"Laurendil!" he yelled, not bothering to look up.

Then he was bowled over by Vorondil screaming at him. "You killed my atar! You killed my atar!"

The ellon began pounding on Finrod who was just stunned enough by the ferocity of the attack that he did not retaliate until he saw the knife in Vorondil’s hand. Where the elfling had gotten the knife from he neither knew nor cared. All of a sudden he was fighting for his life as the enraged ellon continued screaming at him. Tears ran down Vorondil’s face so he could barely see where he was aiming the knife, and that saved Finrod’s life. He grabbed the arm holding the knife at the same time pushing the ellon off him. His ploy wrenched the ellon’s arm back until he heard bone snap and now Vorondil was screaming for a different reason.

Just then, Glorfindel reached them and without stopping to think, kicked the knife out of the now useless hand, which elicited even more screams from the hapless youth. Then he grabbed the ellon by the front of his tunic, hauling him up. Finrod, meanwhile, was crawling back to where Laurendil and Manwen were now kneeling over the unconscious Aldundil attempting to stem the blood flow.

"What do you want me to do with this one?" Glorfindel asked dispassionately as he continued to hold a now subdued Vorondil.

"Take him to the healers’ tent and have that arm looked at," Finrod replied without bothering to look up. "Mithlas!" he called and the Sinda was by his side immediately. "I want two guards on him at all times. I’ll deal with him later."

"Yes, aran nîn," the ellon said and followed Glorfindel from the list, calling for two of the Tol Eressëans who normally held guard duty before the entrance to Finrod’s compound.

Meanwhile, Finrod knelt next to Laurendil as the healer did what he could for the fallen warrior. A shimmering in the air alerted everyone of the presence of the Valar and Finrod looked up to see Manwë, Varda, Námo, Irmo, and Estë surrounding them. Eönwë and Ilmarë were also there. Their expressions were ones of deep concern.

"Let us help," Irmo said quietly.

"Leave be!" Finrod snarled at them, anger taking him. "I have had just about enough of your interference. We’ll deal with this." Then he purposely looked away, ignoring their presence, turning his attention to Laurendil and Manwen as they continued their ministrations.

Laurendil shook his head. "It’s bad, aranya," he whispered. "We may not be able to save him."

Finrod went pale at those words then looked down at the unconscious ellon. "Don’t you dare die on me Aldundil," he said forcibly between clenched teeth, "or so help me, I’ll make you regret it even in Mandos. And don’t even think about recording that in that damn book of yours," he ended, pointing a finger at Eönwë without even bothering to look up.

Absolute silence followed that statement.

"We’re losing him, aranya," Laurendil said in a toneless voice.

"No, we’re not," Finrod said decisively. "Not if I have anything to say about it. You work on stopping the bleeding, I’ll do the rest."

Then, stripping off his gauntlets he placed his hands on either side of Aldundil’s head. To the surprise of all, including the Valar, he began to Sing.

*What’s he doing?* Varda exclaimed to her fellow Valar. *He shouldn’t be able to do that!*

*Well, he is, so your protestations are moot,* came a rather testy reply from Námo, who watched with narrowing eyes. *More is going on than I suspect even we know.*

*You are correct,* Manwë said in agreement. *Irmo, Estë, give Findaráto your support without letting him sense what you are doing. He may not want our help, but he’s getting it nonetheless.*

The two Valar acknowledged Manwë’s command and only the other Valar and Maiar could see the trickle of power that flowed from the two Valar into Finrod who continued Singing, oblivious to all around him. Throughout the field there was complete silence. Ingwë, and the others who had been sitting in the royal gallery, quietly joined the group surrounding the healers fighting to save Aldundil’s life.

*What about Vorondil?* Nienna asked, her tone one of compassion for them all.

Manwë frowned. *Best to let them handle him... for now. I wish we understood more fully the effects of Judgment on one who has not yet died.*

*I think I may have made a mistake in insisting we grant him Judgment the way we did,* Námo said, his tone one of regret.

Manwë shook his head. *As to that, it’s best not to second-guess ourselves on that score. What’s done is done and we will all have to live with the consequences.*

*Or die with them,* added Námo darkly as he watched the fight for Aldundil’s life.

Manwë nodded. *That, too.*

The entire conversation had taken place between one beat of Finrod’s heart and the next. The former King of Nargothrond continued Singing and as the onlookers watched, they saw the blood flow slow and then stop altogether. Then there was an audible gasp from the elves as the gaping wound began to close of itself. Laurendil and Manwen both stumbled back in shock. No one else moved, but Manwë raised his eyes to Irmo, who nodded briefly.

Finally, Finrod stopped and began to sway, his face whiter even than Aldundil’s. He would have collapsed over the injured elf had not Námo taken him in his embrace.

"Easy now, best beloved," he whispered to Finrod as the ellon feebly tried to resist. "All is well. Rest now." Then the Vala spoke a single word in the ancient language of the Valar which even the loremasters of Aman knew little about and Finrod fell instantly asleep.

Laurendil and Manwen were busy examining Aldundil, satisfying themselves that all was now well with the ellon and he was no longer in danger of dying.

Manwë turned to Eönwë. "Clear the field. There will be an hour’s recess before the archery contest recommences."

Ingwë gave the Elder King a sharp look. "Do you think we should even continue with this... this..."

"We have no choice, my son," Manwë replied. "All must play out as it will."

"But..."

"Nay, child," Manwë admonished not unkindly. "Let us not argue about this. To end the tournament now would be... unfortunate for many. Let us not deprive those competing of the chance to win."

Ingwë reluctantly agreed when Arafinwë and Olwë both indicated their willingness for the tournament to continue and even the queens made it known that they too would prefer to see it to the end.

"Very well, my lord," Ingwë said to Manwë with a proper bow. "The archery contest will recommence in one hour’s time." He then turned to his guards and issued orders for the list to be cleared so that the archery targets could be set up.

A stretcher was brought and Aldundil was carefully placed on it and taken to the healers’ tent where Vorondil lay sleeping, two armed guards standing on either side of his cot. The healers had been forced to sedate him when he kept trying to leave the tent to go to his atar. Námo brought Finrod to the tent as well, dismissing the guards and declaring that he would remain to watch over all three ellyn. No one was stupid enough to dispute him.

****

Lady Calalindalë was both frightened and furious — frightened for her son, furious at her husband. When Aldundil collapsed upon the field she tried to reach him, but then stood rooted in shock when she saw Vorondil attack Lord Findaráto. When she saw Lord Glorfindel haul her son unceremoniously away, she found herself in a quandary as to whom she should go. Finally, mother-love won out over wifely duty and she followed the Balrog-slayer to the healers' tent.

Now she sat on a camp stool between the cots where the two ellyn in her life lay, refusing to look at either one of them and refusing to acknowledge the presence of the Vala sitting silently beside the cot where Lord Findaráto lay. The Lord of Mandos had eschewed a simple stool for an intricately carved chair that looked more like a throne to Calalindalë’s eyes.

Lord Glorfindel also had decided to remain with his otorno, pulling another cot over so that he could lie beside his brother and caress his cheek and hand, murmuring Eru alone knew what in the ellon’s ear. That other Reborn, the Sinda, had also appeared briefly to make sure Findaráto was well and, surprisingly, to check on the welfare of Vorondil before leaving.

She stole a glance at her son and tears came unbidden. He was so young, her baby, and she feared for him. The penalty for attacking a lord of the realm.... She shuddered, refusing to think about it.

"He’s still technically an elfling and obviously was not in his right mind," came the calm deep voice of the Vala, "so I doubt Findaráto will be too severe in meting out punishment."

Glorfindel gave Lord Námo a wry glance and snorted but otherwise made no other comment, merely returning his attention to the still sleeping Findaráto. Calalindalë looked up at Námo and saw that the Vala’s expression was very compassionate. She sighed. "I wish my husband had never taken that oath to Lord Findaráto. If he hadn’t, Vorondil would be safe..."

"Safe in Mandos," Námo said gravely and Calalindalë went white.

"No!" she protested, feeling faint.

"Your son should have died that day, Calalindalë," Námo continued with grave implacability, refusing to soften the blow. "He should even now be safe in Mandos, healing."

"Healing? Healing from what?" she demanded.

"Healing from the twisting of his fëa. Healing from the lies and innuendos you offered him about his atar and about the Reborn." The Vala’s tone was unmerciful and Calalindalë had the terrible feeling that she was now on trial.

"I never...."

"No, Child. Do not deny your own culpability in this."

Calalindalë looked up to see the Elder King standing there and she gasped, reeling. Strong arms held her steady and she found herself looking into the eyes of a Maia, one she did not know. He looked upon her with deep compassion... and pity.

Glorfindel sat up then, his eyes wide with wonder and not a little concern. The Maia gave him a warm smile but did not speak, merely standing behind Calalindalë and offering her support. She had a terrible sense that he was there to also prevent her from running.

Námo spoke again. "We know Vorondil did not learn to hate as he did on his own. He had help. Your help."

She shook her head, not so much in denial as in disbelief that any of this was happening. None of this would have happened if... if....

But she couldn’t complete the thought, so terrible were the memories.

"You cannot blame your betrothed for your own decisions, Child," Námo said quietly.

"Can I not?" she hissed at him, her expression one of fury.

"Nor can you blame Aldundil," the Vala continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

"He promised me!" she fairly screamed. "They both promised me! And now Vorondil is dead and my husband is a spineless..."

"What!?" Glorfindel started at the name and looked confusedly at the elfling who he could see was still breathing. He turned to Námo for an explanation.

"She means her betrothed," Námo answered with a mild smile. "Our Vorondil was named after his uncle, Aldundil’s brother."

The Vala’s use of the possessive did not go unnoted by Glorfindel, though he chose to ignore it. Instead, he nodded, understanding lighting his eyes. Then they darkened again when he recalled Calalindalë’s slander against her own husband. He wasn’t about to sit by and let this elleth malign one whom he respected. He stood up and walked over to her, his expression one of cool disdain. He loomed over her, though he did nothing threatening. She paled and felt herself growing faint at his regard, for the Light of the Two Trees shone through. She, herself, had not been born until after the Darkening.

"Your husband is anything but spineless, Lady," the Balrog-slayer said quietly. "He is one of the bravest ellyn I have ever met and I am honored to call him my friend. It took far more courage than you can ever imagine for him to take oath to....."

"Damn that oath and Findaráto!" she said with barely contained fury. She attempted to rise, but the Maia held her in her seat. "My husband had no business taking oath with any Reborn, especially that one!" She threw an evil look at the still sleeping Finrod, her eyes bright with contempt.

Glorfindel stood there nonplused, unsure how to respond to the viciousness of her tone. Manwë saved him the trouble. He placed a hand on the ellon’s shoulder to get his attention. "Go back to Findaráto, Glorfindel," he said gently but decisively. "Do not interfere with this or I will have to ask you to leave."

Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, casting an uncertain glance at the Maia, who nodded encouragingly. Then he gave the Elder King a bow. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to... to interrupt."

Manwë smiled at him. "That’s fine, Child. Your defense of Aldundil is commendable. Now go and remain with Findaráto."

Glorfindel went back to sit on the cot beside Finrod and schooled his expression to one of mild interest. Both Valar hid smiles, then Námo returned his regard to Calalindalë. "Let us examine what exactly your betrothed and the one who eventually became your husband promised you, my dear."

At that moment, Eönwë appeared carrying the Book of Oaths. His expression, cold and distant, could have been chiseled in stone. Without taking his eyes off the elleth, Námo spoke. "Let us hear what was said, Eönwë."

The Book opened of itself to a particular page. The Maia scanned the page, then placed a finger on a particular passage and began reading. "'I promise thee, meldanya, I will do all in my power to return to thee safely. May the Valar make it so.'"

Námo nodded, still not taking his eyes off Calalindalë who kept her own gaze fixed firmly on her lap. "And Aldundil’s oath?"

The pages of the Book turned of themselves, stopping at a particular place. Again Eönwë ran his fingers down the page until he found what he was looking for. "'And I promise to do what I can to make sure my brother keeps his promise. Á vala Manwë!'" he read aloud, then he looked up at Calalindalë and his expression was even colder than before. The Book closed of itself and the sound of it was as a death knell. Calalindalë suddenly started weeping, nearly collapsing to the ground.

Námo spoke to the other Maia then. "Olórin, let’s see if we can’t find some... er... medicinal spirits for the lady."

"Of course, my lord," the Maia said, his tone one of compassion tinged with mild amusement. He moved away towards the medicinal cabinet at the other end of the tent where herbs and spirits were stored. Calalindalë continued weeping; Eonwë and the two Valar remained motionless while Glorfindel looked on with unfeigned surprise. Suddenly, many things were becoming clear.

"I... I remember Vorondil," he said softly. Calalindalë, Eönwë, and the two Valar looked at him. "We... we played catch-me...."

He stopped, looking suddenly embarrassed.

"Go on," Manwë said encouragingly, giving him a smile.

Glorfindel swallowed nervously, now wishing he had remained quiet. He noticed Calalindalë was glaring at him, yet there was a look of hunger or perhaps longing in her eyes as well. He glanced up at the Elder King, deciding it was easier to speak to him than to the lady. "Well, we... um... played-catch me a lot and he... um... I mean, Vorondil was good at singing songs."

"Did Findaráto know him?" Manwë asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. He had already left. This was after. Vorondil... er... woke up?" He turned to Námo for confirmation.

Námo nodded. "More or less correct."

Glorfindel addressed Manwë again. "He woke up and came out to... um... play." Saying it out loud, it sounded stupid, especially coming from someone who was once a lord of Gondolin and one of its greatest warriors. He swallowed again, feeling himself growing hot with embarrassment. Calalindalë had a strange look on her face. Manwë merely gave him a serene smile. "I... I was his first friend," he ended somewhat lamely.

"Yes, you were," Námo said softly, a small smile on his lips. "You were a very good friend and someday when he is ready to be Reborn, I’m sure he will welcome your friendship again."

"Never!" Calalindalë exclaimed, standing up, her expression one of fury. "Why would Vorondil befriend one such as he?" she asked Námo, pointing with her chin at Glorfindel. "My betrothed died because of these... these rebels. Why would he wish to own them as friends? They killed him."

Glorfindel went white and nearly reeled at the viciousness of the lady’s tone. Suddenly he felt Olórin standing next to him. He looked up to see the Maia handing him a small goblet, a warm smile on his fair face.

"I think you need this more than the lady does at the moment," he said quietly.

Glorfindel was just surprised enough not to argue but took the proffered goblet and drank down its contents, enjoying the fire of the cordial as it slid down his throat, spreading its warmth throughout his body, restoring his equilibrium. Olórin patted him on the shoulder and then went over to Calalindalë who was still fuming. He gave her a stern look even as he held out a second goblet.

"Sit, my lady, and drink," he said. "There is no need for histrionics here."

She hesitated for a moment as if ready to argue with the Maia, then thought better of it and took the goblet, sitting back down and sipping the cordial. She kept her eyes on the ground and would not look up even when Lord Námo spoke.

"Vorondil died of an orc spear, Calalindalë," he said dispassionately. "Aldundil was unable to come to his rescue because he himself had just been rendered unconscious by another orc. Vorondil was attempting to protect his brother and... died. Aldundil was rescued by others. When he recovered consciousness and learned of his brother’s fate, he made an oath to himself."

Námo paused, then turned to Manwë’s Herald. "Let us hear that oath, Eönwë."

Again the Book opened of its own accord to a particular page. Eönwë merely glanced at the page, as if to refresh his memory, then turned his gaze upon Calalindalë. The Maia’s expression was so remote, so... alien, and the expressions on the two Valar were equally so. Calalindalë was dimly beginning to understand that she stood (or rather sat) in the presence of Beings who existed on a level of reality beyond her comprehension and began to tremble, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. Olórin reached over from where he was standing behind her and gently took the goblet from her shaking hands, holding it before her.

"Fear not, Child," he whispered in her ear as he offered the cordial for her to drink. "None here wishes you ill."

She didn’t quite believe him, but did not argue, merely drinking the contents of the goblet, feeling less faint, her breathing turning to normal. Olórin looked up at his brother Maia and nodded. Eönwë nodded in return then spoke.

"'I swear, Vorondil, I will see that Calalindalë lacks for nothing. As a sister she will be to me and I will watch over her until you can return to claim her again.'" Then the Book closed.

Glorfindel, meanwhile, was feeling bewildered. "But... but you and Aldundil...."

"Yes," Námo interrupted mildly, his attention still on the lady sitting before him. "That is what has puzzled me. Who was the first to suggest you two marry?"

Silence reigned within the healers’ tent for several interminable minutes before Calalindalë finally answered, her voice so low it was barely audible. "I did."

Námo nodded. "Why?"

She shook her head, refusing to answer, or perhaps not wishing to acknowledge the answer to herself.

"Why, Calalindalë?" Námo asked again, his expression relentless. "Why did you convince Aldundil to marry you?"

The elleth looked up, her eyes ablaze with anger again. "Because I found I did not wish to be the betrothed of a dead ellon. I decided I no longer wished to be bound to one stupid enough to die."

"Well, that explains much, and not enough."

They all turned at the sound of the voice coming from behind Glorfindel to find Findaráto awake and sitting up. The Light of the Two Trees shone from his regard, and something else, something only inchoately grasped by Glorfindel and Calalindalë though recognized by the Valar and Maiar. Glorfindel did not flinch from whatever he saw in his brother’s eyes, for he could not know that that same ineffable something emanated from him as well.

But whatever Calalindalë saw in Finrod’s eyes frightened her as nothing had before. She gave a strangled scream and fainted dead away.

****

Be iest lîn, aran nîn: (Sindarin) "According to thy wish, my king".

Á vala Manwë!: (Quenya) "May Manwë order it!".