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Turukáno enjoyed waking at dawn. It allowed him to feel mildly superior to his siblings, who preferred sleeping in.
Being woken before dawn, however, did not thrill him.
“Who–” He sat up in his bed, and peered at the figure leaning over his travel-chest. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, the white dress was unmistakable. “Írissë! What are you doing here? It’s not even dawn!”
“Dawn is a construct of the Valar,” Írissë replied, without ceasing to rummage through his things. “Just like the mingling was, once. Why should we be constrained by the petty schedules of an authority we have all rejected?”
“As you well know, routine is key to–” No, he would not be distracted. “Please be careful–some of my personal items are fragile. What are you looking for, anyway?”
“Your compass. The one you used on the Ice,” Irisse tossed his travel-banjo over one shoulder. It landed on the ground with a twang. “And maybe your flask. It is nicer than mine.”
“Why on Arda do you need a compass? We just got here!”
“I intend to head North.”
Oh no. Turukáno felt like he needed to sit down. Since he was already seated, he settled for passing a hand over his eyes. “The North,” he said patiently, “is where the bulk of our Enemy’s forces are located. Not to mention his fortress. It definitely is NOT the best place to hunt, or–”
“I am not going there to hunt. Aha!” She brandished a round object. “Compass! Thanks for the loan. I will try to bring it back in one piece.”
“Yes, please try to be– Never mind. Why are you going North, then, if not to hunt?”
Írissë turned around. Her eyes glittered with excitement. “To fetch Turko, of course.”
A hand-over-the-eyes was not enough, here. Turukáno stood up. “No. No. I absolutely forbid it.”
“Ha!” Írissë was much shorter, of course, but she somehow managed to look down on him, all the same. “You forbid it? On what grounds?”
“Let me see. It is far too dangerous, he is our enemy, and, er, it is where our– Our main Enemy’s forces are located.”
“Now let me see.” She placed one hand on her hip, and waved the other, compass-laden one for emphasis. “I do not care, I do not care, and… right, I do not care. Also,” she continued, chin raised, “Dog believes we will succeed, and he is smart. It was his idea, actually.” She slid the compass into her travel satchel with an air of finality.
“Well, how about this...” Turukáno gathered his thoughts. “I know that Turcafinwë’s hateful brothers have long neglected his rescue, but that is only because Maitimo was lost in that dreamless sleep of his. Now that Findekáno has– Now that Maitimo is showing signs of waking, those thieves and murderers are sure to pull themselves together. Perhaps you could explain that to Dog?”
“Flask!” Írissë held up a second round object. “Sorry, explain what?”
“That this… rescue mission is pointless, since those… since the Fëanárions are most likely planning their own.”
“I know! That is exactly why I must leave at once.” Írissë stepped towards the exit with light, almost dance-like steps. “I am not missing this opportunity to hold something as major as a daring rescue over Turko’s head. Surely even you can see that?”
***
The Enemy’s Lands smelled all wrong. Not just because they stank of illness and threat and malice, just like the fog that often rolled off their mountains–those scents all occurred in nature, from time to time–but because so many normal scents were missing. Most notably, the rich smells of growth, of Yavanna’s many creatures. Or even of the normal, healthy animals Dog had once tracked for Oromë’s hunt.
The only healthy beings Dog could detect in this scent-void were his own physical form; Friend’s-Friend the huntress, walking by his side; and Friend’s-Friend’s Hawk, scouting above them in slow circles.
The wrongness of it all kept raising his hackles, no matter which dog-form he chose, so that he had to keep shaking himself to smooth his fur. It might have distracted him enough to lose Friend’s trail, had it been a tricky one–but the one good thing about the evil emptiness was that both Friend’s desperate scent and his wounded mind were detectable from a great distance.
And from a great height, apparently, Dog realised when the search brought him to the foot of a giant cliff, and when he beheld the tiny figure hanging close to the top, in a place no dog could ever hope to climb or leap to.
Sorrow pressed down on his ears and tail. He sat back on his haunches, and fought down the impulse to howl.
“Why are you–” Friend’s-Friend had stopped by his side. “Oh! There he is. Superior as always.”
Her words were light, but her tone was not: no wonder, for Friend’s body hung limp and pale upon the dark rock, unresponsive even when Hawk flew up and screeched directly into his face.
“He is attached by the wrist,” Friend’s-Friend said, squinting. “Could I shoot him down, I wonder?” Swift as a snake, she reached for her bow and arrows.
Dog turned to her with a quick, worried growl.
“No, you are right, of course.” She lowered the weapon. “While I am confident that my arrow would fly true, well, that is a very, very tall cliff; the one where Findo broke his arm was a tenth the height! And we both know that if we break Turko, he will never let us forget it. But wait, that reminds me…” She turned to her pack. “I was clever enough to snag Findo’s climbing gear. Mostly to annoy him, I thought, but perhaps I do have foresight, after all… I just hope I can remember how to use it all correctly.”
The “climbing gear” consisted of an ordinary enchanted rope, and a variety of cold-smelling metal items. Friend’s-Friend hummed to herself quietly as she sorted through the items, attaching them to her belt.
“Oh right,” she said, turning the largest of the items in her hands. “This, er, rope-thing requires a second person. Someone reliable. Lucky you are here!” She showed Dog her teeth, in the usual manner of pleased Elves.
And that is how Dog found himself in charge of pulling the rope through the device–now attached firmly to the ground–while Friend’s-Friend climbed high above. He used his largest, strongest dog-shape, and tried to make his mouth as dry as possible. Enchantment or no enchantment, making the rope all wet would not help.
The climbing went very well–at first. Friend’s-Friend moved up almost as quickly as she usually walked, pausing only to secure her rope to the cliff with the strange metal devices.
It was only around the half-way point that she fell.
It happened so fast. One moment she was attached to the cliff; the next, she was swinging against the wall, some distance below the last device she had successfully attached. And cursing.
High in the sky, Hawk screamed, and Dog felt his ears droop again.
He shook himself. She had not fallen very far:only as far as the rope, now stretched taut between her and Huan’s device, had allowed. So it seemed that yes, she had remembered how to use the climbing gear.
Elves really could be clever, about some things, at least. By the time she returned to the wall, he was ready to pull once more.
Unfortunately, that first fall was far from the last. Either the cliff was different up there–if certainly looked steeper, and smoother–or Friend’s-Friend’s was shaken by the fall, for her progress slowed, and she seemed to lose her grip often, especially when trying to attach those metal items. And then she would tumble, and curse, and Dog would jump back to avoid the occasional falling debris.
rIt was probably the cursing that eventually got Friend’s attention. His small form wriggled a bit, and he even produced a few hoarse curses of his own. Dog’s tail wagged so hard it almost distracted him from his task.
“Lower me!”
Dog looked away from Friend and towards Friend’s-Friend, realising that she had not moved any higher for quite some time. And remembering: “lower me” was his cue to let the soggy rope run back into the device. The friction of it against his mouth hurt a little.
His optimistic tail had stilled completely by the time Friend’s-Friend was back on solid ground, smelling of rock dust and (faintly) of blood. There was a cut on her forehead, and the bare skin on her arms was dark with scrapes. Her face and mind, too, were dark, with frustration.
After a few preliminary curses, she explained, “It is just too steep! Not even Findo could climb it, I wager. Not while setting the anchors, anyway. But I was thinking… Birdbrain!”
Hawk flew down onto a nearby rock.
“I am going to teach you to set anchors for me as I go. That way, the climbing will be smoother, and I… should be… able to make it.”
This was perhaps the first time ever that Dog had seen her look uncertain. He did not like it. At least Birdbrain seemed unfazed, preening himself happily every time he had placed a device in the rock, even if most of them fell out almost at once. Over time, however, more and more of them started to stay in.
Dog used his long, idle wait to lick at his scratched up lips, healing them, and to think. That rope… Did Friend’s-Friend actually need to climb anything, at all?
A plan formed in his mind. Now all he needed to do was share it.
Assuming a shape that could speak took a lot of effort, so he decided to try without it. He turned into a hunting dog, and picked up one of the fallen metal objects before leaping upon a boulder and pointing his muzzle at the very top of the cliff, just above Friend’s body,
Friend’s-Friend could not help but look at such a dramatic display, at first with confusion, and then with annoyance.
“Yes, I know we need an anchor at the top, but we need to get there first.”
Dog shifted position, until he was pointing at the preening Hawk.
“Yes, I know, Bird– Oh. OH. Dog, you are a genius! As I have always said, uncle Fëanáro has nothing on you!” She twirled around in a happy little dance. “Birdbrain, I knew I was right to bring you! Fly, my feathery treasure, fly!”
So, Birdbrain flew off, empty-beaked, and was called back to fly up again, this time carrying a metal item. And then one last time, carrying the free end of the rope up, and then down again. Friend’s-Friend pulled on it to test it, and then tied it to herself while Dog re-assumed his largest shape. It would be even more useful now, when his main task was to pull her up.
Not that she weighed much. Birdbrain almost struggled to keep up as she ascended to the lofty heights where Friend was trapped.
What she did up there, Dog could not quite see, but it seemed to result in a duet of cursing and shouting, punctuated by occasional Hawk-screams. And then, disturbingly, the smell of blood, much stronger than a mere scrape against rock could produce.
When the “Lower me!” command finally came, Dog tried to let the rope out as smoothly as possible, and to stay focused until both the Elves were back on solid ground. Only then did he run towards his Friend, nose aquiver.
The blood-smell was very strong now, stronger even than Friend’s years-old body-smell. And Friend barely smiled in greeting, and did not even try to scratch Dog’s ears: his left hand was far too busy clutching his right, which was wrapped in Friend’s-Friend’s scarf. It had once been white, but now looked dark and sodden with blood.
Dog whined.
“Do not worry, he is fine.” Friend’s-Friend stepped forward to deliver the required ear-scratching. “Mostly, anyway. The wristband that trapped him was beyond our skill to open, so I had to do some creative trimming, and… Well, as I told Turko, it is not as if he was ever any good at the flute, or at hair-braiding. Or even at counting on his fingers, really. And one does not need a thumb for rude gestures.” Here, she fumbled in a pocket and extracted a small, bloody object: an Elven finger, the one they called the thumb. “Anyway, I imagine the healers can sew it back on.”
“Perhaps.” This was the first non-curse word Friend had said. It sounded low and hoarse, but it was enough for Dog’s tail to wag so hard he almost lost his balance. “I do not care, as long as I can still shoot a bow accurately.”
“Oh, I doubt you will be able to do THAT!” Friend’s-Friend leaned over him, bandage in hand. “After all, you never could before.”
“Ha ha,” half-coughed Friend. “You know, up there, I almost imagined I missed you… But now that I am out of the thin mountain air, I see I was delirious.”
“Back to normal, then.” Carefully, slowly, Friend’s-Friend unwound the darkened scarf.
And that was Dog’s cue, to apply his healing magic by licking the wound. And, occasionally, Friend’s face.
***
Turukáno could not bring himself to set foot in the healers’ house. While a part of him longed to see his murderous, thoughtless cousin in a pitiful condition, another part feared that the sight might dull his anger. And he needed to keep his anger as sharp as his sword, when dealing with the Fëanárions.
Luckily, Írissë walked out a mere two hours into his doorside vigil. She looked well: a little travel-stained, but then that was the problem with white clothing, no matter how well-enchanted.
“Oh, hello. Are you here to visit?” she asked. “Turko will be shocked and appalled. Anyway, I hope you did not bring him any fruits. He hates them now. Says they remind him of Valinor.”
“What? All of them? What about toma– But never mind. I am not here to visit that morally-challenged son of– I am here to see you.”
Írissë looked a little taken aback. “Ah. Right. The compass. Sorry, there was this really really tall cliff, and things were awkward, what with all the climbing and the falling.”
Turukáno sighed. “That is… not unexpected. I have already commissioned a replacement. But it is not the topic I really wish to address.”
“Well, what is it? Do make it quick. I mean to get over to the Fëanarian camp before they finish lunch.”
Oh no. That sounded like supporting evidence for his darkest suspicions. “Please tell me you are not– I know propriety requires it, after such a long trip without a chaperone, but in this case…” He stared at her, willing her to understand.
It did not work. “What are you talking about? What does propriety require, exactly?”
“Well…” Turukáno struggled to form the words. “Marriage. Between you and Turcafinwë.”
“What.” Her shocked expression quickly morphed into disgust, and Turukáno’s soul soared like an Eagle. “EWW. Come on, it’s… Turcafinwë. He is my cousin. And anyway, marriage is for suckers! Imagine, being bound to one person for– Ah, sorry, Turvo.” Here, she patted his shoulder; she must have noticed his stricken expression. “I am sure marriage was just the right step for you, but, ugh. You know, I heard that the Sindar allow for a form of marriage that lasts 144 years. Or is it seventy? Very sensible. I have a mind to try it.”
“To try what? Marriage–temporary marriage–to a Sinda?”
“I know, they are rather beneath us Finwions. But you cannot deny that they get one’s juices flowing. I think it’s the scandalous way they dress–half-naked, almost no jewels–or maybe it’s just the fact that they seem to hate us. You know, the challenge. Anyway, even Artanis agrees that they are ‘comely as an upthrust tree in spring’, and you know how picky she can be.”
“I do, but–” Turukáno felt a familiar sense of losing control of the conversation. “Never mind the upthrust Sindar. To go back to the original topic: are you claiming that you currently have no plans to marry Turcafinwë?”
“No, although perhaps a Sinda–”
He would not be distracted. “Will you promise me that?”
“Promise you what?”
“That you will not marry Turcafinwë. Not even for a mere seventy years.”
Írissë gaped at him. “What? No. I will make no such promise.”
“In that case…” Turukáno pulled himself up, as he did when issuing military commands. “I will have you know that I absolutely forbid any such marriage.”
“Oh, you are adorable.” Írissë’s eyes sparkled as she reached up to pat his chin. Then, she poked her head back in through the door. “Oi, Thumbless! According to Turukáno, propriety demands that we get married!”
The response came a few seconds later, in the form of a weak, croaky, “What?”
“Apparently we spent too long alone without a chaperone.”
“How? Dog was there the whole time.” The croaky voice was gathering strength. “Also, eww. We are cousins. Is there no end to my torments?”
Here, he laughed. Írissë joined in at once; it had to be a private joke.
“The thing is,” she continued, once they had both calmed down. Which took a while. The thing is, your reaction is most fortunate. Since my brother has absolutely forbidden our marriage.”
“Oh, has he? Then we have no choice.”
Well, that was a shock. A gratifying one; Turukáno had not expected his cousin to accept his authority.
But then the voice continued with, “You must ask Curvo to make our betrothal rings at once!”
“Will do!” replied Írissë, before finally closing the door. “Oh don’t look like that, Turvo, it is only seventy years. Anyway, as I said, I am off to see Turko’s useless brothers. Maybe if I hurry, I can still get there in time for dessert.”
***