A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 26: Memories of Old

Year 12 of the First Age

BRITHOMBAR

Finno loved his cousin dearly, but by the Valar, Findaráto really could go on about linguistics until the end of the world. His back hurt from sitting atop his horse for long hours, but he thought the pain in his head would soon overtake it. He stifled a yawn.

Still, it had been far too long since he'd seen Eve look so eager. He smiled. She sat on her own brown and white horse a few paces ahead beside Findo, listening to him intently as he droned on about the linguistic history of Sindarin. They'd all spent the last few years learning to speak the Beleriand tongue, but only Findo had been so devoted to its study as to learn its entire history.

Finno looked beyond them. The great white walls and towers of Brithombar rose up to greet them. Their dirt road became a beautifully pebbled path as it joined beside the River Brithon. Finno willed away his headache. This first visit to the Falas need not be marred by irritation.

“Lord Círdan is eager to meet you both,” Findo said, slowing his steed to Finno’s pace. He smiled wide. “I've spoken well of you to him, do not worry.”

Finno knew it was a joke. But he also remembered well the last time he'd visited a haven of sea elves. His headache returned in force. Still, Findaráto had spoken excitedly of this visit to Brithombar for months. Far be it from Finno to disappoint him.

“Is it true that they worship Ossë?” he asked.

Findo laughed. “Nay. Say not, ‘worship’. They are not quite so different from us as that. Venerate him, perhaps.”

“Strange that they prefer him to Uinen,” said Eve.

“Not so strange. Did you learn nothing of their histories when studying their language?”

It was Finno’s turn to laugh. “We don't all share your obsession with cultures, Findo.”

“I love learning about cultures, I just don't have the best memory for it,” Eve added. She also dropped back to be level with him. “Besides, I've been pretty busy these last few years. It isn't easy traveling between Mithrim and Vinyamar while also helping to coordinate the move of our house to Dor-Lómin.”

Findo raised his hands in his own defense. “Of course. And your dedication to visiting Itáril so frequently is nothing short of admirable. You are a credit to your nature as both a Secondborn and a member of Finwë’s House.”

“Let none say otherwise.” Finno reached over, grabbing his wife’s hand. “Or I will send Hyamindo to teach them the error of their ways.” 

She grinned. They both knew it to be an empty threat. But Finno also knew that if he ever caught someone speaking ill of her, he would indeed have words for them.

Now a mere stone’s throw from the gates, Finno straightened up. He was a Prince of the Noldor, and though he disliked to think of it, he was technically next in line for the High Kingship. He needed to carry himself with some amount of dignity if only for his father’s sake.

Two guards flanked the great white archway, mosaics trellising up the side columns in patterns of green vines and bright flowers. The elves were clad in shining, form fitting chainmail and a sleek surcoat of silk bearing the heraldry of Círdan the Shipwright. Four waves flanked each side of a large, brilliant white shell-like flower while four golden stars and four silver pearls alternated between and inside the wave crests. They held spears and wore no helms, with hair of dark grey.

Between them, clad in blue and white robes, stood an elf with dark hair and piercing grey eyes. He bore no weapon. Instead, he clasped his hands around a book which he held in quite a relaxed pose for a time of war. Finno allowed his cousin to take the lead.