Chapter Text
Year 12 of the First Age
THE FALAS - 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.
“We thank you, Tuilinher, for greeting us at your gates!” Findo dismounted his white horse and walked the remaining meters after a short bow. “I bring with me my cousin, Findekáno, son of High King Nolofinwë. With him also is his wife, the Lady Elmendë.”
Finno tool that as his cue, dismounting alongside Eve. He took her hand as they joined Findo. Then he dropped her hand so he too could bow.
“Thank you, lord, for inviting us to this fair city,” Finno said.
The man laughed. “While you do me great honor by calling me ‘lord’ I fear such an honorific is misplaced. I am no lord, just a scholar and messenger for the Lord Círdan, the Warden of the Falas.” He bowed deeply first to Finno, and then to Eve.
“In any case, we’re deeply grateful for the time you took to see us here,” Eve said. “You may not be lord by birth but are lordly enough by virtue.”
Finno looked at her, and he could not suppress his own smile. The sun glinted off her deep red hair, and warmed her cheeks. She wore a simple circlet of silver adorned with two red and a central blue gem. He missed what Findo said in response. All he could think, watching his wife be more diplomatic than he ever could, was how lucky he was to have won her heart.
Where had the years gone? She knew how to play these social games better than most of their own royal house who had been raised since birth to be regal. The woman who had stumbled over words such as “cool” in her nervousness no longer needed help understanding what it meant to be of Finwë’s line. But apparently he did, as he found himself stared at by Findo, Eve, and Tuilinher.
“He asked if you are ready to enter Brithombar,” Findo told him, wordlessly. “You can fawn over Eve later, cousin.” He tried to hide a smirk. He failed.
Finno bowed. “It would be my honor to see your great city, Tuilinher, and to meet your Lord.”
And it was indeed great. They had used white stones for all the towers and buildings, while pebbled streets echoed the river beds of Brithon. The river itself ran through the city, to the bay. White stone adorned with ocean mosaics held it contained, while many grand bridges spanned the gap.
Very different, and yet eerily similar to Alqualondë. The Falathrim of Beleriand loved their mosaic work, while the Falmari had loved to decorate with jewels. The Falathrim used white stone, the Falmari used opal and pearl.
They crossed the widest of the bridges, apparently a main thoroughfare, and approached the largest structure in the city. Finno wasn't sure he could call it a keep, but more a grand house or dwelling. The massive white walls facing the river had the most beautiful mosaics he’d ever seen. The scenes almost seemed to shift and dance.
It appeared to be one large story, like a tapestry of glass. From the bottom up came waves that broke upon golden brown rocks. The entranceway split the image into two, with the western wall featuring the most accurate portrayal of Ossë Finno had ever seen. Sea glass captured him better than yarn or paint or sculpture ever could. He held a harp and sea birds danced far above him, heading up and up the wall until they disappeared into an onyx night sky peppered with white stars.
But on the other side, the Eastern wall of the great house, stood a mosaic of three elves upon ocean rocks. They too held harps, and the central figure with bright silver hair and piercing pearlescent eyes, held one arm outstretched towards Ossë.
Only one who had seen Ossë could have created this marvel. And Finno found his heart pounding in excitement at the realization that the elf lord inside had been on these shores since before they'd left Cuivienen.
Eve placed her hand in his. He looked at her, and saw her awe reflected back. She could not truly know what it would mean to meet an elf such as Círdan who had grown up in their ancestral home. But his wife was an artist, had been one since before she awoke in Valinor, and he saw this mural touch her very fëa. He squeezed her hand back.
“Incredible, is it not?” Findo said. He fixed his golden hair as they waited for Tuilinher to return. “I must have studied every detail of it, though at each return to Brithombar I find more.”
“How many times have you come here?” Finno asked.
Findo shrugged. “Many. My brothers and sister prefer to act as emissaries to Doriath, but I have devoted my time to Círdan’s folk. I am called Finrod here.”
“You have adopted their naming customs?” Eve asked.
Findo shrugged once more. “Only among them.” He paused, looking out West, where the havens lay. “It reminds me of home here. I do not think my siblings have the stomach for it, and for this reason devote themselves to Doriath. But when I am here, I feel as though my mother is smiling upon me.”
Finno closed his eyes. He could almost hear the clashing of weapons, the twang of bows and clattering thrown fishing spears. He could taste blood and salt in the air. This too reminded him of home, but of memories he wished he could forget.
No, not forget. Undo.
The elves he had slain at Alqualondë did not deserve to be forgotten in order that he might sleep more soundly. He tightened his hold on Eve’s hand. Whatever he felt, he knew she felt it too. He wished she would allow him to speak through osánwë, but even all these years later, she felt it too invasive to permit. He respected that. But he also wished he could say how much he loved her even in a crowd of strangers.
Tuilinher returned. He beckoned them inside, through the carved driftwood doors. Finno followed his cousin, and his wife came behind.
The halls were modestly decorated, with furniture also carved from driftwood or using wicker and pale beech wood. Most walls and ceilings were curved, echoing the waves of Belegaer. Softer touches of woven tapestries, mostly featuring starlight in some capacity, hung on the walls or as blankets.
They passed beyond the halls to large terrace overlooking the waves. Standing at the short, white guard wall, the same tall elf with silver-grey hair and piercing starlike eyes from the mural spoke to a young elf lad, hair dark and foot bouncing impatiently.
“All right, you may go,” said the elf lord.
“Yes, Lord.” The child turned to run, before his eyes widened upon taking in the three Noldor for the first time.
“And Galdor,” said Círdan, “this time, do not forget the messages before you get there!”
Galdor’s smile fell and he rolled his eyes as he assured Círdan he would not. He bowed to the Noldor and slipped away. Finno, though, only had eyes for Círdan.
“Lord Finrod, it is always a pleasure to see you here,” he said, smiling wide. He gestures toward Finno and Eve, coming away from the terrace’s edge. “And welcome, Lord Findekáno and Lady Elmendë. I am glad you could visit us at long last.”
Finno couldn't believe the perfection with which Lord Círdan spoke their Quenya names. He bowed deeply. “You honor us with your invitation, my lord. I only regret we could not come sooner. It took us time to learn the Beleriand tongue. But it seems we need not have if all are as skilled at Quenya as you!”
Círdan laughed. “Nay, nay. I fear many elves in the Falas and indeed those in Doriath too find Quenya very difficult. But I have known a variation of it my whole life. For it was my first language.”
“Of course!” How stupid. Of course he knew Quenya, he'd been born at Cuivienen. “Please, forgive me, Lord Círdan.” He felt Eve squeeze his hand but it did little to assuage his embarrassment.
“There is nothing to forgive, Findekáno. And please, as I have told Finrod many times, there is no need to address me with such formality. I consider all of Finwë’s line as family. Great friendship was had between Finwë and my nephews, and indeed Finrod shares our blood.”
Eve smiled. But Finno could feel her hand shaking even as she spoke. “Thank you. It means much to us to be welcomed so warmly. Though I am of the Lady Nerdanel’s kindred and not the House of Finwë by blood, I too hold them as family both by marriage and by fraternity."
“I must admit, I envy you all greatly,” he said. Círdan led them back inside his great house. “I wish for nothing more than to reach the Blessed Realm. And I have missed my chance to see the beauty of the Trees.” He frowned. Then he stood taller, more resolute as they stepped outside the front doors once more. “But the Valar have asked I stay, so I stay. There is much to be done to oppose the Dark Lord.”
“Indeed,” Finno said. “The last fruit of Laurelin helps us in the Sun far above. But there is much that swords and ships must do to win the war.”
Círdan nodded. He turned to look at them. “Then let us get to it. If we are to speak of warcraft, we shall do it under the sun and in earshot of the roaring waves.”
Finno felt his stomach churn. Little did Lord Círdan realize the warfare they had brought on the sea elves at Alqualondë. Nothing reminded him more of war than roaring waves. Though as he felt Círdan search his face in his guilty silence, he wondered if the Lord could discern it.
And he wondered, perhaps that would be for the best.