The Heirloom

Part Eight

The sun had set behind the mountains, and in the centre of the field the great bonfire waited for the touch of flame. They were still bringing food down from the kitchens to already laden tables that were set up well away from the dancers’ circle around the fire. There was an altar under the trees, too, dressed with the symbols of the harvest: grain and fruit, vegetables and blossoms. Pride of place went to the three golden sheaves that represented Yavanna, Lady of Fruitfulness.

Síladon stood a little apart from the growing crowd, drinking apple juice from a hollowed-out gourd. Nana had gone off to talk with someone, telling him to find his friends and try and enjoy the party. He had no one to meet, so instead he just watched the people come and go while everything took shape. It seemed a smaller, quieter gathering than last year. Nana had said there would still be fireworks, but only small ones so as not to draw the attention of any watchers in the mountains.

Lord Elrond would light the fire as soon as the first stars appeared in the sky. He looked tired, but then he was responsible for keeping them all safe. Lord Glorfindel and the Seneschal were near the harvest altar and seemed to be arguing. Lord Glorfindel had his arms crossed over his chest and Master Erestor was gesturing widely, each movement of his head causing the strands of jet wound through his hair to shimmer and gleam. Síladon was fascinated by that, he would never have thought black stones would show up against such dark hair. Eventually Lord Glorfindel caught at the Seneschal’s hands, laughing, and said something and then they were both laughing, their argument forgotten.

People were laying out blankets on the ground now, close enough to the fire but without running the risk of being trampled by the dancers. Most families had brought along their evening meal and were supplementing it from the spread offered by Lord Elrond’s kitchen. Nana had packed little cakes for them and some late summer grapes, and Síladon had charge of the basket. He set it down next to one of the trees and hoped that would be all right, she hadn’t told him where she wanted to sit yet.

Last year Ada had been here, of course. He and Nana had dressed up a little for it, with garnets and pearls in their hair. Nana had worn her blue gown and Ada had used the lizard-shaped broach with the little green eyes that Síladon loved to fasten his good cloak. He had spread their blanket close to where Síladon had set the basket down this time and helped unpack the food – there had been more food then. While they were busy, he told Síladon about harvest in the mortal towns, and reminded him how Yavanna had left all the little seeds sleeping safe in the soil until the sun came to warm them, and how it was thanks to her that there was fruit and grain for the harvest and plenty to store up ahead of winter.

Síladon squeezed his eyes tight shut for a moment. It hurt so much that Ada wasn’t there. He wanted to cry all the time, his chest hurt and felt tight, but he had no real tears, the hurt went too deep. Even when Lord Glorfindel came to tell them Ada wouldn’t be coming home, there had been no tears, and after he had let Nana hug him while she sobbed, but he had looked dry-eyed past her shoulder, numbed by grief. More than anything, he wanted to go home, get away from all those happy, laughing people, go where it was quiet and he could be sad if he wanted. He knew there were many warriors who would not be coming home, and that he and Nana weren’t the only ones putting on a good face as she called it, but somehow that didn’t seem to make it any easier.

“Aren’t you coming to sit by the fire?”

Calareg had tried to be nice to him a few times since what he thought of as the Day of the Pants, those same pants he was wearing tonight. He supposed Calareg’s father had spoken to him. He was a captain, which by association gave Calareg a degree of authority with the boys, and from what Síladon had heard he talked a lot about honour and doing what was right. A bit like Ada. He looked down, pushing the basket more in line with a tree root with his foot. “Don’t think so. I’m waiting for my mother.”

“Yes, but we’re just down there, you’d be able to see when she comes.” Calareg said and pointed towards a small group of boys who had claimed a good position near the serving table.

Síladon recognised all his regular tormentors and shook his head without even thinking. “No thanks, don’t think so.”

“But it’ll be fun. Gellon‘s mother’s serving, so we’ll get extras to eat, too.”

Calareg was trying really hard to be friendly and it was making Síladon nervous because he wasn’t used to it. Previous bad experience though had taught him not to take such overtures at face value from anyone, and being in a public place gave him courage. “They can find someone else to laugh at tonight,” he said, backing off a little from Calareg. “I don’t want…”

“Oh leave him alone, Calareg, he’s just being a baby.” Tegior had come up unnoticed while they were talking. He was wearing one of those fancy, embroidered bracers that were so popular with boys their age, the kind that Nana made really well, though he’d never asked for one because he would just have been teased for being such a bad archer. “We don’t need him, anyway. People will think we’re being paid to babysit.”

“Don’t want to sit with you anyhow,” Síladon retorted. “Don’t want people to think I’m stupid like you. Anyway I’m going home now.”

He knew he had gone too far even before Tegior gave him a shove that was so hard it knocked him right into the tree and the gourd with the remains of his apple juice flew out his hand. Síladon staggered to his feet and started off towards home, walking with as much dignity as he could muster to begin with before speeding up to a run. He didn’t run very fast either, another thing he wasn’t good at. Behind him, he heard Calareg calling, but he didn’t look back. All he wanted was to get home and close the door, shut out the world, the laughter, the fire, the food, and the memories of last year.

~*~*~*~

“What’s going on with that lot over there?”

So far everything was going exactly according to Elrohir’s plan, but to be on the safe side Erestor was wandering around in a deliberately aimless manner, looking for potential problems. Glorfindel had fallen in step with him, trying to make it look casual. He now indicated a small knot of boys in an animated discussion that was just short of an argument. Erestor glanced at them, shrugged. “Boy stuff?” he guessed. “There are parents around, if it gets rowdy someone will step in. You might want to glare at them though, that should fix it.”

“I’m frightening? Really?”

“Of course you are, you killed a Balrog, you can probably do all sorts of terrifying things.”

Glorfindel grinned briefly, then turned to scowl at the boys. One of them noticed, tugged at the next one’s sleeve, and within moments they had all stepped back and were trying to look nonchalant. He touched Erestor’s arm briefly and then strode over, suddenly every inch the warrior Lord. “What is this all about? Tonight is a festival, not a war rally.”

“We were just….”

“Síladon wouldn’t come and sit with us and Calareg said it’s Tegior’s fault for teasing him,” a careful voice from near the back of the group volunteered, not prepared to lie to the legend.

Glorfindel slanted a blond eyebrow. “Síladon…” He was good with names and faces. A moment’s thought offered up a small, closed face and very bright eyes. He frowned.

“Are your fathers here tonight?” he asked in a deceptively pleasant voice. Worried looks were exchanged, a few heads nodded cautiously. He raked them with a penetrating look. “Anyone’s father not here tonight?” he went on in the same tone. This time all the heads shook emphatically. “Then why,” he asked, and his voice snapped like a whip, making them jump, “are you teasing a boy whose father is not here tonight because he was lost during the fighting for Amon Sûl? You shame your families. Go and sort this out – no, not right now, after the fire’s lit. Your parents will look for you otherwise. Is this clear?”

There were embarrassed nods of agreement and several murmurs of ‘Yes, sir,’ then a sturdy boy with red-brown hair stepped forward a pace. “I think he went home, sir. We’ll go and fetch him when the ceremony’s finished. I’m sorry sir, I know we were wrong.”

“You see to it then,” Glorfindel said briskly. “Now go and settle down, they’re almost ready to begin.”

With a little jostling and not much talking, the boys headed for the place they had claimed previously near the tables and Glorfindel returned to Erestor, who had been watching from a short distance, arms folded. His presence was probably not lost on the boys either; of the two adults, he was the one more likely to complain to their parents. “I see what you mean.” Glorfindel said with a grin. “Why doesn’t glaring and a few choice words work on you then?”

“Ha. I’ve been glared at by experts. I have been glared at by Gil-galad in a temper.”

“And you smiled and twisted him round your little finger, I imagine.”

“No – well, something like that. And Círdan, he’s never liked me.”

“Oh, you both like to pretend that, yes.”

“Galadriel?”

Glorfindel considered. “That’s fair enough. If you can deal with her glaring at you, I don’t think I’d be too intimidating.” He put a hand on Erestor’s elbow as he spoke and they stopped to watch the musicians testing the direction of the wind so they could set up out of the smoke. “Everyone’s trying very hard, aren’t they?”

Erestor nodded. “There isn’t a single family in the valley that hasn’t been touched by loss in some way, either a family member or a friend or neighbour. But yes, they’re trying very hard to make tonight special, lighten the mood a little, even though I doubt anyone is really in the right mood for a party.”

“Elrond asked if I wanted to say a few words before he lit the fire. I hope I’ll strike the right note.” Glorfindel’s time in the valley had been very short as elves count it and he was still trying to feel out the flow and balance of its ways.

Erestor moved closer, offering support. “I’m sure whatever you say will be well received. And your presence reassures people. I think they believe the Valar would never have sent you back into harm’s way. You’re a symbol that Imladris is still a safe place and that you will help keep it so.”

Glorfindel glanced down at him, remembering another valley, fire against the sky and the bitter taste of defeat. “I hope they never have to reconsider that.”

“Why should they?” Erestor asked him gently. “No one ever had cause to before.”

Their eyes met, held. Glorfindel reached down and linked his fingers through Erestor’s and they stood quietly watching the activity around the fire. The wind had come up a little and Erestor glanced at the almost-dark sky. “I forgot my cloak,” he said. “I’ll need it later.”

“I can go back and get it if you like,” Glorfindel offered.

Erestor shook his head. “No, I’ll go up once the fire’s lit. I want to check they’ve left someone to watch the kitchen fires and that they’ll be relieved later in the evening. I’ll fetch it then.”

~*~*~*~*~

Part Nine

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Beta: Red Lasbelin