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He’s been pacing for hours, days, or maybe only minutes. There’s a pitying look thrown his way every now and then, someone cautions him to rest, you’re bleeding, but he waves it off. Wipes blood and sweat and worst from his eyes and begins his round again.
“The king is resting.” The healer says at last, wipes her hands on a bit of cloth and Barahir barely hears her, makes for the tent, every nerve singing with this terrible energy.
“I wish to see him.”
She stops him with a gesture and he thinks for a moment, I could take her on easily, nearly pushes past but there are two elves at her side in a moment, hands on their weapons and wouldn’t that be something to try to explain, were he to live through it My lord, I have slain several of your kin while in a panicked rage, I hope you understand.
It’s almost tempting, and he has just enough of himself left to be horrified by it.
“We have you to thank for returning him to us, and for now you will have to content yourself with only that. He is resting, you will see him when he is well enough to receive you.”
“I carried him from the battlefield—“
“I have spoken.”
That rage tempts him again. He growls, something low and dangerous in his throat but he takes a step back, holds up his hands and it is almost mocking. No, it is mocking. His blood still sings with the rush of it all, his legs burn from the running and his side still aches as though he is still trying to catch his breath.
“Let me see your head.”
“It is nothing.” He says, presses his fingertips to the cut and they are black with clotted blood. “I need to—“
“Rest.” And there’s a waterskin pressed to his chest, and when did she move so close? There’s a fire in her eyes that reminds him for a moment of his Emeldir — no, not his, Emeldir was never one to belong to anyone and this healer reminds him of her even more. “Let me see the wound.”
He doesn’t know when the fight leaves him. He doesn’t know why he sits, so obedient, lets the healer fuss over him quietly. The cloth is cool against his overheated skin and he tries to relax, perhaps if he lets her tend him she will be more lenient with him. I won’t bother him, won’t wake him, please just let me see him, see that he still draws breath.
He can see it still, even with his eyes open.
They were surrounded, the orcs pressing their advantage into the fen. The ground slick and soft beneath them, beneath even elven feet, giving way and allowing the enemy to gain ground. And himself, his men still so far away, bodies falling around him, friend and foe alike as he thought, let me closer, if I can just get to them. A moment, as fast as a heartbeat and yet all the world around him seemed to slow — a face he knew so well, so many years ago, the surprise, the panic, the fear and then it disappeared in the crowd as the enemy rushed them. A scream, like a wounded animal, and he still does not know if it came from the elven king or himself. All the world had narrowed into a single point, just ahead, feet moving as though they all moved through deep water. Slowly, too slowly, and yet his heart pounded behind his ribs like it might burst.
Spears at the ready. Protect the king. For death, for glory, for—
He shakes himself from his thoughts, his memories. There is a bandage about his head and a full waterskin in his hands and he is alone.
The tent is guarded. Damn. He takes a drink, stands and feels the world tilt. He can feel his pulse throb in his throat, he should sit, should rest as she said. He turns away and begins his pacing anew.
Time seems to move in a circle, following the path of his feet. First quickly, the sounds of the night insects on the wind, and then the turn, and it slows. Quick for a moment and then dragging its feet. The camp sets, scouts leave and return, leave again. The sun sets, the stars emerge and he turns his face to their light, stepping one foot in front of the other until he is nearly dizzy with it.
“You are making me nauseous,” someone says and he stops, looks to the voice and he knows that face from a memory like a dream. The king’s chief guard, his bodyguard, and there’s a flash of jealousy and hate for just a moment — that could have been, should have been me — but he stops.
“Where were you?” He asks, and the sound is so soft he thinks he only imagined saying it but there is an answering scowl, no, something darker. Fingers twitch, they itch for the hilt of a blade and he thinks his own might mirror that movement.
“I was there.”
“For all the good that did.” He should not carry on this way, he can already hear the admonishment, one he has heard a dozen times before but if it would only get the elf to speak. His heart thuds painfully, sweat beading at his brow and his breath is shallow. “Forgive me.” He says; he is not that same boy, though that fire seems tons right rekindled, that same temper he’s always had. The elf seems taken back, and ah, he remembers his name now. He could not forget, could never forget any of those days. “Edrahil, I am merely—“
The elf waves him off with a flick of his wrist, eyes closed. “Yes, yes. I understand.” Words seem a struggle for them both this night. “I thank you,” he says, a whisper, “If not for you.” He does not finish, does not need to.
“How did it happen?”
“It all seemed to happen so fast, but when I replay it in my mind it seems to move slowly, like sap down the bark of a tree. We had the field, and pressed it forward and then we were routed, an army we did not see before flanking us and we were surrounded. There was no retreat and Findaráto would not yield so easily.”
“You know how he is.”
There is a laugh, sharp and pained, a flash of too-sharp teeth, how easy it is to forget how unlike himself their kind is. “That I do.”
The silence hangs between them, heavy and full of a mirrored hurt, a mirrored longing for something. Barahir can hardly stand it much longer, shifts his weight and looks about them. “Please,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I won’t stay long. Just let me in for a moment to see him. I just need to know for my own sake.”
“Is the word of the healer not enough for you, child?”
He bristles at that but fights to keep his anger in check. “For my own peace of mind. It is different for us.”
“We are not like you.”
“Yes.” He cannot keep the bite out of his voice now. “I am well aware, but let me ease my own troubled mind. I would have no objections to you coming with me, if it eased yours as well.”
Edrahil seems to consider this, seems unsure if he should, but at last he relents. It is no easy victory and Barahir has to force himself to move slowly, to not spook the other elf, lest he change his mind. Edrahil pulls back the flap of the tent and Barahir feels his hands trembling as he steps inside.
“If you wake him, I will gut you myself.”
Barahir does not acknowledge the threat; his mouth has gone dry and his ears ring as if he has somehow stepped inside a beehive. He moves slowly still, crosses the short distance — it feels like a canyon — and steps inside.
There is a bundle on a makeshift bed, a pile of furs and blankets, whatever the healer could find to make the king’s rest just a bit more comfortable. The air inside tastes of copper, herbs and incense smoke, and he covers his mouth just a moment with his sleeve. The inside of the tent is quiet in a way that makes Barahir’s skin itch, something terrible and bone deep. He has to restrain himself from rushing to his side, from shaking him until those eyes open, until he hears his breath, anything even if it’s just to curse him for disturbing his sleep.
He is young again, standing in the halls of Nargothrond, those great and noble elves watching his with judging eyes, the corners of their mouths turned down. But there was always Nóm — not Nóm, Finrod, Findaráto, the King of Nargothrond — always regarding him softly. A hand at his shoulder, a quiet word against his ear, a smile when all the others looked through him. He was more than a king, more than an elf lord, and it was that familiarity that…
He doesn’t think of it, will not think of it now. There is time yet for reminiscing and that time is not now. He takes a step forward, watches Edrahil out of the corner of his eye, his every moment tracked by the elf and he wants to turn and chase him out. He is yours whenever you wish, give me this.
He doesn’t. He steps to the makeshift bed and kneels.
“Do not—“
He holds up a hand, begging for quiet and surprisingly, Edrahil listens. He does not move closer, watches the figure, little more than a swaddling of blankets now, the rise and fall of his chest beneath the fabric and furs and the knot loosens just a bit.
There is a sound, a breath through clenched teeth and Barahir means away, as though that might hide him. The figure shifts, and he thinks it is only that Nóm was moving in his sleep, and then those eyes are on him, blinking against the dim lantern light within the tent.
“Barahir?” The voice cracks and Barahir feels his heart break in time. A hiss, a rustle of bedclothes and Barahir is holding out his hands, shushing him like he were a frightened hoarse.
“Do not, you are not well.”
“I am well enough for this,” And there is a strength behind those words that sends Barahir’s heart into his throat. Edrahil is at his lord’s side in an instant, elbowing Barahir out of the way and he surprises them both by shuffling away.
“My lord, you must rest.”
“I have done nothing but rest since I got here.”
“You were injured.”
“I am aware.”
Edrahil’s mouth moves, forming words he does not dare say, until at last he clears his throat. “I shall fetch the healer.”
“In a moment. I wish for a moment to breathe on my own, if you please.” It is not a request, there is a command there and Edrahil is on his feet.
“Of course.” He says, “Barahir, come, let us leave him.”
“No.”
It is quiet, the tension so thick that Barahir thinks he could cut it with a knife.
“No?”
“I am capable of sending him away on my own, Edrahil. Go and take your rest for now.”
Oh, the flash of anger and — and something else, something Barahir knows well but does not dare name — in those grey eyes. Edrahil stiffens, nods, turns on his heel and leaves the tent.
It is just the two of them, but Barahir does not know for how long. Were it him on the other side, he would go immediately for the healer, would do anything in his power to not leave them alone in his jealousy.
That was it, that was what I saw in his face.
It’s quiet. Barahir’s fingers twitch as Nóm pushes himself up until he is sitting, slumped as he is. His chest is a ruin of bandages, there is a dressed cut on his face, that golden hair still tinged with red where they tried to wash away the blood.
If I had been even a minute late.
“I owe you,” Nóm begins, takes a shaky breath and tries again, “For my life. For the lives of my people, what remain of the—“
“My lord.” He ducks his head, curls his fingers into his palm until the nails draw blood. “It was, well, I had to.”
“Did you?” Nóm — no, not Nóm, Findaráto, King of Nargothrond — looks at him curiously. “You are your own man, Barahir.”
“Am I not of the house of Bëor the Old? Am I not a vassal of my king?”
“Are you?”
The question takes him by surprise. Of course he is, him and all his house. His brothers, his cousins, his kin; the great house of Bëor, formerly Balan, chieftain of his people, and all those who marched with him under the guidance of the elven king so many years and generations ago.
“Forgive me, I do not understand.”
Findaráto is quiet a moment, looking everywhere but at him.
The King did not meet his eyes when he sent him away. “You are released from my service, go and find your fortune and future, Barahir.”
“My lord, I do not understand.”
“You will.”
He is an older man now and yet he still does not.
“How many did you lose?”
He knows the number. Knows those faces by name, has spent the afternoon, the evening, the early night mourning for them as much as he could, surrounded by those ageless faces watching him.
“My lord?”
“They deserve burial rites of course.” Findaráto says, fingers plucking at the thin blanket. “How fares the field? We have lost a lot of ground, so I wish to return as soon as I can.”
“My lord, you are not well!”
Findaráto waves his hand, and he knows that gesture well.
“I will not allow it.”
A quirk of eyebrow, Findaráto’s lips press into a thin line. “And who are you to stop me?”
“A friend.” Barahir says, wishing for that waterskin now, his mouth gone dry. “A former guard in your service. I saved your bloody life, I’ll not see you throw it all away for the stubbornness of elves.”
“You do not order me.”
“I am not in your service, my lord. I believe I can do as I damn well please.”
There is a flash of emotion across the elf’s face, it pulls at the lines beside his eyes, the corners of his lips, tilts his head to one side and then the other and then there is a flash of teeth.
too-sharp, too long and too many to be like his own kind
“I’ve missed you, Barahir.” Nóm admits, huffs a laugh and gestures just past him. “Something to drink, please, I beg you.”
It is wine, because of course it is. He hands the skin over and watches as Nóm — Nóm again, though he does not know when the king changes his persona or why — takes a long drink of it.
“How did you find me?”
Barahir does not have an answer for that. He cannot claim the Sight of elves, nor prophetic dreams or happy accidents. “I started walking.” He said, and it’s partially true. “I followed the smell of blood and there you were.”
“We shall have to tell my cousins, though they will never believe it.”
“I have seen you fight before. You have felled orcs with little more than a word.”
Nóm laughs at that, soft and melodic and Barahir is back in Nargothrond in a moment, the cool stone around him, the sound of water over rock, the wind through the caverns and his lord laughing at some stupid joke he’s made as if it were the most clever thing the elf had ever heard. Perhaps the most childish, and he fights back a frown.
“I adored your jokes.” Nóm says, takes another drink and holds out the wineskin. “Uncouth as they were, they were clever when you bothered to share them.”
“I forget you can do that.”
“Hm. Yes. Your forebears were never fond of it.”
“You can say his name.”
It is quiet, the silence heavy with warning but Barahir has never been afraid of ghosts. He doesn’t flinch, levels him with a look that dares him to contradict him. Dares Nóm to tell him he’s wrong, dares him to say otherwise, and Nóm swallows, he watches the bob of his throat, hears it in the quiet.
“Yes.” Nóm says after a while. “Bëor did not care for it.”
He wants to say something like that wasn’t so hard was it , or something more gentle, something like I am not him.
“No, you’re not him.”
He starts, looks up at Nóm wide-eyed. “I did not mean,” but Nóm holds up a hand and he falls silent.
It’s the silence that grates on him, for as much as he thinks he should leave, his mind races and he sees it over and over again. Findaráto on the field, hears the whicker of a blade through the air, sees one of the enemy fall before him, the spray of black blood and the orc is cut down and then, and then
And then the charge, the sound of the enemy rallying, rushing forward. A cry, a call for retreat cut short. The sound of steel against flesh and then Findaráto fell beneath the horde.
“I am alive.”
“Small blessings.”
“Thanks to you.”
Barahir looks up, doesn’t deny it because it is true and there’s an admonishment of his own on his tongue. I should have been there from the beginning.
“Are we going to continue to converse in this way,” Nóm says, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Or are you going to say what’s on your mind?”
“You are unwell.”
“I am on the mend.”
“Is he why you sent me away?” It tumbles out of him in a rush before he can stop it. It is years of hurt, of jealousy, of longing.
Nóm does not answer him, and that is all the answer he needs. “I shall take my leave of you, my lord.”
“No.”
It is not what he expected to hear.
“Please stay.”
He sits cross-legged on the ground, sits with his hands folded in his lap and watches the elf, who watches only the his own hands, twisting and plucking at the blanket. He has never known Nóm to be a coward, to be afraid, even in the face of death, and yet he sees it now. He is hiding from something, and there is a part of Barahir that wants to shake it loose, wants to see it laid bare if only for his own peace of mind.
We were so close once. His mind drifts in that quiet. I was ever at your side, as close as one of your own and there was something. Look me in the eye, o king, and tell me otherwise.
He can remember how it felt to be granted an audience with the king. How it felt to be in the presence of Finrod Felagund; Findaráto, king of Nargothrond. He can remember, as well, when he became not the elven king of his people, but Nóm the wise, and then merely Nóm, the same of his ancestors, friend of man. And then, oh.
Nights when it was the two of them and Nóm would tell him stories from across the sea, would sing to him and teach him his own language, his true tongue, the one he crossed the ice with. Nóm, quick with a joke, a touch, my cousins call me Ingoldo. May I, my lord? If you like.
“Ingoldo.” He says, murmurs a piece of a memory and Nóm looks up at that. “You never answered me.”
The silence stretches on, and yet it stretches back years and years. He is a young man again, standing in the doorway as his king looks past him and sends him away.
His heart breaks over and over again.
“I fear I have been terribly selfish.” Nóm says. It comes back in such a rush that it takes his breath away.
Too many into his cups and walking the king back to his chambers, not the king, not Nóm the wise, Ingoldo. His Ingoldo. Arms looped around each other’s shoulders and he is leaning into the touch, or maybe the elf is, or maybe they both are. Maybe a lot of things are happening and maybe nothing is happening at all but he feels this nothing like a spark of lightning, like the air before a storm and when he reaches for the other it jumps between them, dances over skin and leaves goosebumps in its wake. He reaches, fingers against wrist, up to his shoulder, where it meets his throat and higher still. Curls golden hair around his brown fingers and gives a tug, eyes following the movement as the other leans into it with a hum. The moment when their eyes meet, where the ocean meets the shore, an endless blue against brown and he wants to stay in this moment forever.
He leans close, so close that he can count their breaths together, a thrum of pulse against his palm and his own just under his skin.
There is always a moment in the stories where the hero should turn back, could still walk away and he thinks this is it. He could bid him goodnight, could let him go and make his way back to the barracks, back to his own bed, could do a lot of things he knows even before he makes up his mind, he will not do those things.
It’s a ghost of a touch, lips brushing lips and then he is wine-drunk in the taste of it all. Fingers tangled in hair and he doesn’t know whose hands are whose.
And then it is over, as quickly as it began. He can taste him still on his lips and he turns away, he knows better, but there is a hand lingering just at his elbow.
“I am going to be selfish.”
“Then be selfish.”
“It is not the first time.” He says, his voice hoarse, a rough whisper in the quiet.
“Tell me about your son.”
Something shatters and a sound escapes him, something terrible and guttural that forces its way between clenched teeth. “Don’t do this.”
“I must.”
“You are afraid I will die.”
The accusation hangs heavy between them. Every breath is so loud in this awful quiet that he feels as though he will go mad. “You nearly died today.”
“That is different.”
“Horseshit.” And Nóm looks up at that, eyes wide. He should not be doing this, Nóm is still weak, still tired, there are dark circles under his eyes and bandages around his body to remind him of that fact and yet there is an anger that burns inside of him. “At this rate, I will outlive you.”
“How dare you.”
“I dare because I love you.” He takes a breath, doesn’t wait for Nóm to try to change his mind. “It could have easily been you, could have been Nargothrond swallowed beneath the fire. You and I are fighting the same fight, what does it matter anymore?”
“That’s your argument?” Nóm tilts his head. “That it’s alright because the Moringotto may kill us both?”
“I’m not wrong, at least.”
There are tears in Nóm’s eyes now when he laughs, a breathless sound that shakes his bandaged frame and Barahir knows he should caution him against moving so much and yet, it has been so long since he last heard that sound.
“I fail to see what is so funny.”
“Oh,” Nóm gestures about them both, as if the answer were somewhere in the tent, perhaps somewhere just out of sight. “Everything. When you get to be as old as I am, everything is funny in a way.”
“Don’t start this again.” He crosses his arms, but there is a ghost of a smile on his face. “I did not tolerate it as a lad and I certainly will not now.”
“Not even when I am so wounded, and cannot make an adequate argument for it.”
He softens at that; somehow he had forgotten. For a bit there, they were far away from this place, somewhere safe. He was back in Nóm’s chambers, seated by his bed and listening to some story, a song, was trying to keep pace with the elf as they would debate and discuss all manner of things: history, politics, the nature of some new plant Nóm had found growing near the river. “I shall keep that in mind,” he teases gently, “for when you, inevitably, attempt to make your escape from this bed. I shall let the healer know that from your own mouth you admitted you were so grievously injured you could not even hold a debate.”
“Fiend. How clever you think you are.”
“How clever I know myself to be.”
“Is that so?” Nóm is grinning now, leans towards Barahir but draws away quickly with a pained sound. His hand moves to his side, and Barahir moves closer, takes his wrist gently to inspect the bandages.
“You should be more careful, else you will have the healer rushing in to discover I have disturbed your sleep and you have done nothing to send me away, and then we will both be in trouble.”
Nóm nods weakly, pale, and Barahir knows he should leave him to his rest but he is loathe to leave him now. It has been too long since it was just the two of them, speaking like this.
“How long has it been?” Nóm wonders aloud, taps his fingers against the back of Barahir’s hand as if counting the years. “Your son was a boy,” he holds his other hand a few feet from the ground. “Just a little thing.”
“Aye, ten.” Barahir says, as if he does not know precisely how long, has not counted the years himself.
“He is grown now.”
“That he is.” There is pride in his voice, and he beams at the elf. “Every day he looks more and more like his mother, and a blessing for that.”
“And surely he has all of your charm and wit.”
Barahir ducks his head with a laugh. “No, he got those from his mother as well. My temper perhaps, rash actions and pigheadedness, if you ask her.”
“Has it really been so long?”
“Not for you, I know better than that.”
Nóm has the grace to look almost ashamed at that, takes another long drink from the wineskin and Barahir thinks that he can see the elf trying to choose his next words carefully. Ever the diplomat, the king, even in what should just be a casual conversation between them. He would dare to call them friends, even after all the years of near silence, nothing more than a lord towards his fiefdom. He would dare to say friends, and friends should speak freely with each other.
“You are right, of course.”
Barahir does not need to ask to know that Nóm can heat his innermost thoughts as easily as if he were to speak them aloud, and he is angry. “You could ask, or listen to me when I speak, instead of rooting around in my head.”
“You have my undivided attention here. It is the least I can do for all I owe you.”
He feels his face flush. “I do not want your conversation as a debt owed. If that is all that this will be, I will take my leave and let the healer know you are awake so that she may tend to you as you need.”
“That is not what I meant at all.”
“Then speak!” It is like a dam burst, a flood of emotions that he had thought were under at least some control. “Why do you never just speak, I never know what you are thinking.”
This is neither the time or place for this. It is unfair to them both, but there is a fear that gnaws sharp inside of him that says this may be the last time you have this chance.
He knows, as clearly as if he had the Sight of Nóm and his kin, that this defeat, this retreat will send the king further underground. He had done his reckless act, had led his charge and nearly met the same fate as his brothers. Barahir has heard, of course; cities and strongholds destroyed entirely, their people scattered, many of the noble elf lords were dead. Nóm’s people, his family.
He had heard the stories, that Bëor’s death had nearly turned the king into a recluse for years. That he had withdrawn from men save for his duties, had pruned his friendships like a garden, keeping mortals at arms’ distance. Had — oh.
He feels the fire that had been building within him begin to flicker and dim. Oh.
“I never answered you, why I sent you away so abruptly. You think it is because I do not care.”
“Nay, I know better now.”
Nóm looks up at him now, all bright eyes and guarded, stern countenance.
“The understanding does not make it hurt any less, my lord.”
“My heart could not bear it again.” It is such a quiet admission, Barahir thinks that he might have imagined it at first. “It was better this way.”
“Was it?” It is an unfair question. It has not been a fair day, and when he looks down at his hands he sees them, streaked with mud and gore again. If I had been there from the start, would it have gone so terribly, or would we both be dead in that fen?
Would it have been worth it for the years not spent wondering?
He does not have regrets; he loves his son, loves the memories he made and shared with Emeldir, loves the way they parted in friendship. It was not terrible, not in the slightest, and yet now the what-ifs weigh on him.
“When I grow old and die, will you not grieve for me for knowing me?”
Nóm does not answer him right away, clenches the blanket tight in his fists and Barahir sees.
“I have already grown old.”
“You are yet young.”
“To you.”
“Even for your people.”
Barahir shakes his head, cannot help the chuckle that escapes him. “You are The Wise, and yet you have a stubbornness that rivals even men, you know that right?”
“So I have been told.”
“How long will you walk with his ghost before you will allow yourself to breathe again?”
He’s touched something in Nóm, something festering and painful and ugly. For a moment he is not the fair elf he’s known since he was a child, but something more fey, something more wild, a feral creature that clawed his way across the Grinding Ice in the face of death and darkness and uncertainty. This is not the kind, gentle Nóm of Barahir’s people, this is Findaráto, that shining figure in the fen, sword raised and foul curses on his lips as he led what could have been a final charge against the enemy.
He wants, against all better judgement, against all sense, to take him into his arms and kiss him. All of that fear, that rage from the battlefield returns in a rush, molds itself into something new, something he hasn’t felt in so long and he wants to be ungentle, wants to pour all of those years of longing and wondering into this moment, into this act and —
And do what? And hope for the best.
He’s moving before he’s truly aware of it, braces himself, one hand between the elf’s bent knees on the blankets, the other reaching for him. Just a touch, just give me this, and though Nóm’s expression has not softened he does not move away. They are both waiting to see what will happen next.
His fingers are trembling when he touches his face, just along his jawline and maybe his mind is playing tricks on him but he thinks he feels, thinks he can see Nóm lean into it, the slightest of movements and it’s as much of a victory as it was to pull his body into his arms and carry him from the fen.
“Will you grieve me?” He asks again, but he’s watching those lips, watching them purse and then part.
“How could you ask me that?”
“You never tell me what you are thinking. Please, speak.”
“I am thinking that you will die before me.”
“That is no surprise to either of us.” But something about those words, arranged in such a way, makes his heart thud dully, painfully against the slats of his ribs.
“I think my heart could not bear it again.”
“So you’ve said, and yet you have not answered me. Will you grieve me for knowing me?”
The silence seems to shudder along with Nóm, some beast drawing a breath in what darkness is not lit by the lamplight and at last, at long last, he answers him.
“I will.”
Then why does it matter? Why did any of it have to be this way?
He knows, but oh, there is a selfish part of him that does not care.
Does it change anything now? But he has this, this victory. It is enough, it should be enough. It is.
He leans closer still, closer, and when their lips meet he can taste wine and beneath that he can taste blood and he feels drunk on both.
When they part, it feels too soon, and he has to hold himself back from demanding more, another and another and another.
Does it change anything now?
He doesn’t have to ask. He knows.
They speak softly for hours, Nóm declines against his chest and listening as he tries to fold years into minutes, into snatches of stories. He feels Nóm move against him; feels his laughter, feels his fingertips against his skin, against his calloused palms tracing the lines there, feels him relax against him, his breathing slow and even. How strange to be the one telling stories while Nóm is the one falling asleep, so at peace.
He does not want the night to end, but sleep comes even for him. His eyes close, his voice a murmur now and he can hardly remember what even it was he was saying. Something about the farm, perhaps? He cannot remember now, he is tired, he is sore.
He is content.
The healer finds them in the morning, and for all her quiet tutting and pointed glances, she does not turn him out right away. When she does, it is only after she has changed the bandage on his head and expounded the importance of breakfast and his strength. She does not tell him he cannot return, and that is enough.
It is enough.
It is not long before Nóm insists, against all caution, that he is well, that he is a king and will do as he pleases.
He remains confined to the tent for another day.
“Will you come back with me?”
Somewhere out there, the Moringotto is making his move. The world is changing, and even within the safety of the healer’s tent they can feel it. Nóm — no, Findaráto— has a duty to his people. He will return to them, will bar the realm of Nargothrond against the enemy.
And Barahir will not go with him.
“I cannot allow the enemy to move so freely, we must make a stand.”
It is not an accusation, and Nóm seems to know already that Barahir would say this.
“Of course.”
“I will come to you when this is over.”
It is a lie. He does not mean it as such, but there is a flicker of a shadow across Nóm’s face and he knows.
He knows.
Does it change anything? And was it worth it, after all?
He answers himself this time, traces the line of the silver ring on his hand with the pad of his thumb.
It is a promise. Nóm had said, and there was a tremble in both their hands as the elf had slipped the ring from his own finger and slid it onto Barahir’s. I will never turn you away again.
There is a ghost of a smile on his lips as he makes his way from the camp.