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Henrik was thinking of his father. He often did, these days, if only because the wide and sun-warmed plains of Doriath granted a similar view of the sky as had the lush river valley surrounding Ulmo’s Bridge. There was no river here, of course, and there had been few cattle there. Fence-posts twice as tall as Henrik himself marked the perimeter of the Doriath land, and were far more numerous than trees. The farms of Missouri had been shaded by oaks and maples, though, to be sure, Henrik’s father had not farmed at all. He had been a fisherman for his family, and a cooper in the town. He had had no role, really, in the militia—save once.
The hook-scars on Henrik’s hands (quite few and far between, because he was so young in the art of fishing) were all he had left of his father, now.
Yet Doriath was not a bad place to live, and perhaps that fact alone was enough to bring better times to mind, however bittersweet their recollection. The food here was good and hearty, supplied thrice daily to every worker under Thingol’s protection. Thingol was no miser. There were stout boots to be had, and sturdy clothes made for those who had only rags to wear heretofore. Work consisted of a whole world of operations: pasturing and herding the many cows, guiding the cantankerous bulls, butchering the massive steers—this last a bloody and unpleasant business that was not always occurring. Autumn was butchering season.
If one was too small or inexperienced to take part in these tasks, there was food to be cooked, laundry to be washed, cabins to be swept. Though the sour-honey stench of manure lingered in the air whenever the wind dropped low, Doriath was kept tidy from one end of its fences to the other. This was understood to be its master’s mark.
Elu Thingol himself was a staggeringly tall man with a face like flint and eyebrows that made two dark, straight smears of ink above his stormy eyes. Henrik had scarcely seen or spoken to him. Why would such a great man take notice of a gangly boy, who, though also tall, was still some years short of manhood?
Instead, Henrik kept company with Wister, Ames, and on occasion, Haleth—as well as the men and women rescued from awful slavery in the north. They kept him occupied, and he needed occupation.
Even when he was not drowned the aching sorrow that filled his chest and belly every night, Henrik felt the weight of the year’s history pressing down on him. At first, he had gone west with Fingolfin and his company because there was nothing left for him in Olwe’s ravaged town. They’d seen his father buried. Fingon and Turgon had helped level the fresh soil, rich enough that grass might sprout there before winter came.
And oh, how winter came—but not by the river. No. They were at sea in the prairie flats when winter ruined them.
That was already after Argon, so near Henrik’s own age, was dead. The losses had only grown. Fingolfin’s wife—the certainty that Turgon would never again see the wife and baby he had left in the care of kindly townsfolk—
When those that survived knew that death would not take or forgive them, at least not by means of winter, they forged on. Henrik had liked Turgon best, then. He was eager to match Turgon in hatred for the far-off cousins, those Feanorians who had ruined all their lives, and taken more.
How furious he had been, with no one to complain to, when he found that there was to be no war at Mithrim! Instead Fingon—Fingon who had pretended to be angry with the cousin who killed Henrik’s father—had dashed off to save him. The rest had made peace.
Henrik made his own choice.
Have a care out there, in the great world, Turgon had said, in farewell. Henrik had shaken hands with him. He had no grudge with Turgon. He had been able to see, quite well, the strain and pain in Turgon’s face.
You could come with us, Henrik had said. If it’s too…close here.
But they were Turgon’s family.
Henrik had understood that, even though he did not want to.
Silas was the name of one of the youngest men who had come off the Mountain with Haleth. His close black curls and dark skin were very different from Henrik’s white-yellow hair and sunburned cheeks, which pinked with color in all but the coldest months of the year.
Silas might have been a friend—indeed, they’d spent some hours in each other’s company, at first—except that he had spoken well of Russandol.
Russandol was Maedhros, and Maedhros was a murderer.
Henrik, had it not been for Ames’ hand on his shoulder, might have leapt forward to protest Silas’ praise. Might have called it justice heaped on justice, that Maedhros-Russandol had lost a hand.
He had not spoken much to Silas since. Silas had not approached him after Henrik turned from him coldly on a single occasion. Henrik, unfairly, almost wished that he would try again. He turned their would-be conversations over in his head, proving to Silas time after time that Russandol was the worst kind of villain, however friendly he might have been as a slave. But Silas did not need to come back. He had his own people, and Henrik had none.
The loneliness, as days passed on and bonds formed around him but not with him, dogged him like a sore tooth.
Daeron the minstrel found Henrik in the cookhouse one afternoon. Henrik was kneading dough. Doriath had learned of his skills with plaiting and baking bread, and he was in high demand. Henrik had not told them of how his mother taught him, or how his father had praised his art when his mother was gone. He simply showed these strangers how the work was done.
“Good day to you,” Daeron said. His fingernails were the first thing Henrik noticed particularly, because he’d been occupied with his own hands. Daeron’s nails were clean—a rarity among the workers—and more distinctive still, they were oval and smooth.
Henrik heard his father’s voice in his head, saying, He works with his tongue.
Daeron had tried to be friendly with him before; with both him and Silas.
“Good day,” said Henrik.
“You will forgive me,” Daeron said, “I hope—but I have forgotten your name.”
His accent shaped letters differently than Henrik was accustomed to hear. Some were left off altogether.
“My name is Henrik.”
“Ah!” said Daeron. “A stout name. A strong name. Well, Henrik, I have been commissioned to invite you to dine with Señor Thingol this evening.”
“Me?” Henrik could not believe his ears. Nor did he particularly want to.
“Oui, oui. No need to blush. Perhaps some of your fine breads have reached him. Do you remember, it was I who last invited you to the kitchens—and now you are quite at home!”
Henrik did not really trust of any it. But he accepted Daeron’s instructions—to come up to the house at half-past six—and returned to his kneading.
Thingol’s house was tall and imposing, with two levels of rooms opening inside to a courtyard garden that Henrik had never seen, only heard described. The front of the house jutted out a little, the windows showing a glimpse of a high ceiling within--a great hall like Henrik had never seen in Ulmo's Bridge. The roof was different than those he'd known at home, too. Thingol's roof was shingled with clay.
Henrik stopped short before the pillared porch that framed the front doors; Silas was waiting there, too.
“Hello,” said Henrik, despite his prior resolves.
Silas nodded. Didn’t quite smile, but didn’t look angry.
“What do you think…”
There was something entirely troubling about him and Silas alone being asked to sup with the master of all Doriath. Henrik expected that Silas had rather the worst of it, since he was used to hard treatment. Scrutiny from on high must be a right terror, to him.
Daeron opened the doors for them, smiling. “There you are!” he said. “Señor is waiting.”
They were ushered from lantern light into lamplight, which, through delicate painted bowl-bases, cast a glow on a long, wide room with a table at its center. At the far end of the room, two staircases rose opposite each other, leading to the upper chambers. Candles lit the way, but did not fully illuminate the hangings that decorated the walls. Thingol himself was standing—looming—beside his chair.
“Come in, Henrik and Silas,” he said, in his low, rich voice. “Thank you, Daeron. Make sure that a little supper is brought for them.”
“Will the ladies be joining you?”
“No—they’ve already eaten.”
Thingol gestured, with one long hand, to two more chairs.
Henrik glanced at Silas and Silas glanced at Henrik. They took their seats.
Then footsteps rang in the hall again, and Daeron’s voice was heard—
“He is occupied at the moment, Haleth—”
“He has guests; I join them,” said Haleth loudly, as she entered the room. Her hat was in her hand. Daeron traipsed in after her; his stride not quite keeping pace with hers.
“Haleth.” Thingol’s eyebrows lifted.
“Thingol,” she said. “I hope you have saved a little supper for me. You invited two of my Haladin to dine with you, and you know that I am not often parted from them.”
“Except from Wachiwi,” said Thingol.
Haleth’s hat struck her thigh—once, twice. “I do not bind them to me,” Haleth said. “If they have reason to remain elsewhere. May I be seated?”
Thingol nodded, and swept his arm wide. Daeron did not sit with them; he hovered by the fireplace.
When they were all at table, and food had been brought in steaming dishes, Thingol said, “Henrik and Silas, I understand, have both seen a good deal in their travels. I thought I might learn from them.”
“Go on,” said Haleth. “I would learn as well.”
Henrik was glad to have her there. He’d known her longer than Thingol or Silas or Daeron, of course, and he knew that she was very good in a pinch. She wasn’t much older than he was, but she seemed older. She had a way of staring that could make you feel safe, or make your blood run cold.
Thingol carved his meat. He was smiling to himself, but he did not speak until he had swallowed several mouthfuls. Thingol said, “You knew Wachiwi, Henrik?”
Henrik blinked. “Yes, sir.”
“Why did she remain behind?”
“She…” He looked at Haleth, who gave him no aid beyond that steady gaze. “I traveled west with friends,” he said. “We fell on hard luck and met with Haleth and the Haladin.” He was still reeling, also, from her claim that he and Silas were Haladin. It was a sort of sacred, secret circle. Sworn friends who would remain loyal, even to death. He knew that she had said it, now, to protect them.
“Go on,” said Thingol. He was not a patient man.
“Wachiwi stayed with our friends, when we were all safely here.” He did not say their names. He had learned to be cautious, in the long year, and though he didn’t understand what was happening, he suspected that discretion was the wiser course.
“At Mithrim,” said Thingol offhandedly, taking a sip of his wine. “Is that not so, Haleth?”
Haleth carved her own meat, and ate some of it. Then she said, “It is.”
“You said you had seen the new forts of the north,” said Thingol. “And that you passed near Mithrim. I did not know you left friends there. I have heard that Fingolfin, brother to Feanor, is now the master of that fort. Do you know Fingolfin, Henrik?”
“Yes,” said Henrik quietly, because he did not feel brave enough to lie. Then, to soften the betrayal, “He is a good man.”
“Do you know Fingolfin, Haleth?” Thingol asked, with a little less friendliness in his tone.
“Yes,” said Haleth. “And I know I am tired of these questions, friend. Whatever Daeron has been dripping into your ear, I did not expect such quick doubt.”
Daeron sputtered, but Thingol brushed him away with a wave of his hand. “Say your piece, Chief of the Haladin.”
“Fingolfin is no friend to dead Feanor,” said Haleth. “Feanor left them to die. I saved them. They are in Mithrim now.”
“With Feanor’s sons?”
“Children,” said Haleth. “You know they are children.”
“I do not like,” said Thingol, “That you did not tell me.”
“I had sixty men and women who needed shelter and aid. They had nothing to do with Feanor. I wanted to ensure their protection before I untangled the strings.” She paused, hesitant for the first time. “Feanor’s oldest son was one of their number, though. Bauglir almost killed him.” Another bite of meat. Then, “Silas, you knew him. Russandol? Tell Señor Thingol of Russandol.”
Silas cleared his throat. He had not sought strength from Haleth’s stare; he avoided it. Henrik wondered why—but perhaps it was a simple reason. He did not yet know her well.
“Russandol was a good man, also,” Silas said. His dark eyes flitted to Henrik’s, and Henrik smiled, close-lipped, not for Russandol’s sake. “Sir. He was kind to the children, and he…he helped my friends. We were getting free, before Haleth came, because of Russandol.”
“You do not need to be frightened,” said Thingol, his eyebrows drawing together now, so that they almost merged into one. “I hate Melkor Bauglir as much as I hate the rotten carcass of a wolf that has been chasing my cattle. But no blood-relation of Feanor’s will find friendship in this house. And you may tell Wachiwi, Haleth, that if she throws in her lot with them, she loses her place in Doriath.”
With these words he rose, setting down his cup hard on his table. He stalked away, and Daeron followed him to the stairs, circling back with an apologetic cant to his smooth features.
“Haleth, if you had listened, I would have advised you not to—”
“Daeron,” said Haleth. “That is enough.” She rose, and pushed back her plate. Thingol’s tread was heavy on the steps.
“Haleth,” said Henrik, in a whisper, “I—”
“Come with me,” she said. “Both of you.”
When they were beyond the lantern light, heading along the broad road that led to the cabins where they lived and slept, Haleth said,
“You do not have to be Haladin if you do not wish.”
“I want to be,” said Henrik. Silas nodded.
“Very well,” said Haleth. She stopped short, so that they were, the three of them, stationed in the middle of the roadway, facing each other closely. There was nobody else around. A night-bird called hauntingly in the dark. “Thingol is our protector,” said Haleth. “But he is not always our friend. He will not invite you again, I think. Keep quiet about the names, about places. You both did well, tonight.”
Henrik felt his heart thumping under his ribs. It was as if there were two hearts there. Perhaps the second one was his father’s.
“What are our duties?” Silas asked. “As…as Haladin?”
“Your work here,” Haleth answered, shrugging. “Ames and Wister and I will tell you if we need anything particular. You tell me if you need anything particular. And do not tell Daeron of your comings and goings. Tell him nothing. He is soft-bellied, but his tail rattles. Understand?”
“Yes,” they said.
She went away without saying anything else. Without giving them any orders for them to honor tonight.
Her tread, like Thingol’s, seemed weighted down with many thoughts.
“I knew her brother,” Silas said, in a low, choky voice.
“What?” Henrik was startled. He had never known that Haleth had a brother.
“His name was Haldar,” said Silas. It was too dark to see him well, but Henrik knew he was beginning to cry. “He was my friend.”
Henrik did not know what to do. He wondered what his father would do—what Turgon would do. They were not here to guide him. He reached out and put a hand on Silas’ shoulder.
“I’ll be your friend,” he said. “We are sworn to stick together, now.”