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The afternoon of Menelya before the Valanya on which the yearly children sports tournament was held was by a long-standing custom a time off for all the children of Tirion. Let out early from his music lesson, Finrod took Edrahil to play in the great gardens, which stretched all the way from the top of Túna almost to the walls at the bottom of the hill and had been established early in the construction of the city with the help of Estë’s and Irmo’s Maiar. Laughing and chasing each other, the boys made their way to the quieter upper part of the complex, restricted to the private use of the royal family and their guests. Unfamiliar with the layout, Edrahil ran into a cozy nook surrounded by butterfly bushes in full bloom, that turned out to be a dead-end. Finrod sprang at him with a triumphant yell and the two boys started to play-wrestle in the soft, lush grass.
Suddenly there was a sickening crunch and Finrod’s nose erupted in a blinding pain. “Ouch!” He went still, only his hands immediately flying to touch the aching spot. He blinked his watery eyes and, his vision returning, looked up at his friend.
Edrahil had released him and was now completely still, kneeling with his knees on each side of Finrod’s thighs, his face frozen in a mixture of shock and anguish.
“You duffer!” Suddenly a shape knocked Edrahil over to the ground and an astonished Finrod recognized Turgon. “You clumsy oaf-“
“Leave him alone, Turvo,” said Finrod sharply, rising himself on his elbow and using his sleeve to wipe the warm blood that started to drip down his face. “Not his fault.”
“Don't defend that lubber, Cousin,” replied Turgon with a long-suffering sigh, “I saw what happened. Why do you even waste your time on him?”
“Turvo, stop being a dolt.”
But Turgon, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, would not calm down and Edrahil, sitting now with his wide eyes going back and forth between the arguing princes, hunched up despondently under the torrent of insults that poured out of Turgon’s mouth. “You stupid lout, you shouldn’t come near him if all you can do is hurt him! I’ll ask my grandfather the King to banish you!”
“You won’t! You won’t!” screamed Finrod and before he realized what he was doing, his fist connected with Turgon’s nose with a very satisfying crunch.
Turgon yelped and pressed his hands over his bleeding nose.
“Findaráto. Explain yourself this instant.”
Finrod’s heart sank at the sound of his father’s voice. His fury had left him the moment he had heard Turgon’s yowl, replaced by a sickening shame. He would have apologized to his cousin and try to make amends, but now it was too late. He turned slowly to face his father, steeling himself for the chastisement that was sure to follow.
Yet before he could open his mouth, Edrahil came to stand before Finarfin, bowed low and, squaring his shoulders, said, “Sir- my lord, please, that’s all my fault.”
Finarfin’s brows shot upwards and he blinked several times in surprise, but his voice was even and mild when he asked, “Yours? How could my son striking his cousin be your fault? Have you told him to do so?”
“No, m’lord. But I hit the Prince your son-“
“By an accident, Father! And then Turvo was a nitwit who just wouldn’t listen, and he threatened he’d have Edrahil banished and I…” Here shame overwhelmed Finrod and he bowed his head dejectedly.
“And you attacked him?”
A guilty nod.
“Is it true, Turukáno?”
“I-I saw him pin Ingoldo to the ground and break his nose, why would I… yes, sir, more or less, sir,” he admitted reluctantly under Finarfin’s stern gaze.
Finarfin sighed and closed his eyes for the shortest moment. “Very well. Turvo, I shall have words with your father about this, but for now, just know that you must never abuse your connections in such a way. Is this clear?”
Finarfin did not raise his voice, but the air of disappointment and reproof was enough to make Turgon blush even as he nodded several times. “Yes, sir.”
Finarfin then relented a bit and setting his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, said, “Alyaro will see to your nose and take you home,” indicating one of his attendants, then turned to the unwitting source of the incident and, seeing the boy’s pale face and wide eyes, schooled his features and voice into gentleness to take out every possible sting of the rebuke he was to deliver. “Edrahil, my son is very fortunate to have in you a brave and steadfast friend, but you must not lie to shield him, do we understand each other?”
Edrahil swallowed a protest that sprang to his lips despite his trepidation – he did not lie, this entire sorry business was his fault – and nodded.
Satisfied, Finarfin dismissed him as well – the boy seemed torn between obedience and a desire to stick by his friend, but after a moment’s hesitation he left, casting furtive glances at Finrod until a clump of bushes that bordered the little nook obscured his view.
Only then did Finarfin turn to his own son. Left to wait for all this time, Finrod had grown apprehensive and was squirming nervously, twisting the hem of his tunic in both his hands. “Findaráto. Come to me, my son.” Finarfin squatted to come to level with the boy and, producing a handkerchief, proceeded to gently wipe blood that was smeared all over Finrod’s lower face, the red a stark contrast with his now pale skin. His work done, Finarfin set his hands firmly on Finrod’s shoulders and said, “I understand that you wanted to protect your friend and the sentiment is to your credit, all the more since Edrahil cannot defend himself freely against Turukáno. I am also glad that you did not allow him to take the fall and said the truth. In this, my son, you have done well and I hope you shall continue so despite what is now to follow.” With this Finarfin rose and, steeling himself for the expected tears of this boy whose slightest grimace tore at his heart, he said sternly from the elevation of his full height, “Wanton violence will never be tolerated. Know that I am lenient when I say that you will neither compete, nor watch the tournament tomorrow. You shall offer your cousin a public apology and afterwards withdraw to your chamber.”
***
Next day after breakfast, Finarfin took his son aside and explained that, unacceptable though it was, Turgon’s behavior actually meant he really liked Finrod. “I believe he may feel himself left out,” he said gently. “He used to have most of your attention and now suddenly he has to share.”
Finrod was still thinking this over as he followed his parents to the King’s House, where, before Finwë and other members of the family, he met Turgon. His cousin was sporting a dressing on his nose, and Finrod’s stomach twisted at the sight. Sure, Turgon had been a nitwit yesterday, but… Finrod’s voice was thick with genuine remorse as he invoked the sacred words of apology and in turn pardoned Turgon.
“Kiss each other in peace and may no shadow fall between you again,” Finwë spoke the ending formula and the two boys clasped hands and exchanged a kiss of peace.
“Can I still be your friend?” asked Turgon, even as Finrod assured eagerly, “I still like you!” and, letting go of his stiff posture, threw his arms around Turgon’s neck.
There were chuckles from the adults and then it was time to leave. Finrod bowed reverently before his grandfather, which made his nose throb again, and with an incline of his head towards the general assembly exited the room with Alyaro, resigned to his punishment. Once outside, however, his mood soured suddenly as he passed one after another families with children babbling excitedly about the upcoming tournament and the fact that Fingolfin made Turgon miss the games did nothing to lighten his spirits.
Alyaro did not say a word the entire way and finally left Finrod alone with a formal “Good day, my Prince,” and a soft clunk of the door. Finrod flung himself on his bed and stared blankly at the painted ceiling. His nose was throbbing in earnest and he probably should apply some of the ice he had seen in a thermos on his table, right next to a jug of juice, a napkin-wrapped loaf of bread and a huge plate heaped with cheeses and meats and fruit and even two apricot pastries. They were his favorite and yet he had left them untouched. He simply was not in the mood.
Suddenly, a knock came at his window, but Finrod promptly ignored it, grinding his teeth and prodding at the aching nose, which had been reset and dressed by a healer before Finarfin took his son home the previous day.
Yet the knock came again accompanied by a hushed “Findaráto?”
Now Finrod sprang from the bed and running towards the window, he flung it wide open to come face to face with Edrahil, perched precariously on the windowsill. “What are you doing here?!” he demanded of the other boy. “Don’t tell me your father made you miss the games too!”
“No…” Edrahil bit his lip and looked away for a moment, not wanting his face to betray the warning his father had given him after the unpleasant business of accepting Turgon’s apology. “But they’re not fun anyway.”
Finrod stared at him in surprise, a dumb, fish-like look on his face and Edrahil giggled. “Well, let me in, silly.”
***
It was late afternoon, when Finarfin opened the door to his son's bedroom, expecting to find Finrod reading, or drawing, or perhaps brooding, but instead he found the room had been turned upside down. The bed was stripped bare, the table moved aside, and the middle was taken up by a precarious construction made of chairs and cushions and blankets. Of Finrod there was no sign.
Finarfin entered and winding his way among the plate with crumbles of the repast Eärwen insisted on providing and toy carts and horses that littered the floor together with a pillow and two mismatched shoes, he neared the bedclothes fort. Stooping, he peered under the blanket curtain and was hard pressed to suppress a chuckle.
On the floor in a tangle of sheets and pillows, Finrod was fast asleep next to Edrahil, a half-melted pack of ice in a puddle between them. It wasn't exactly what Finarfin had in mind when he had ordered his son to spend the day in his rooms, but the boy did not break his command. Finarfin had, of course, spotted the absence of Finrod’s friend at the tournament, but only now did he realize his mistake in not stopping to ponder it.
With a last fond look at the sleeping children he withdrew, but not soon enough not to see with a shudder that shook him to the core in place of the sleeping children two adults, with hard, gaunt faces, dosing in a shallow hole left by the roots of a fallen tree, long swords at their sides, Edrahil lying on the outside, between Finrod and whatever danger they were expecting to meet. Suddenly reminded of the day before, when they boy resolutely tried to take the fall for his son, Finarfin blessed the Fate that made him choose Edrahil’s father to be Finrod’s music tutor and brought this unexpected friendship.
Unable to conceive of the circumstances that would lead to the scene he had glimpsed, Finarfin tried to reason that perhaps Eärwen’s wanderlust, which he could already see also in Finrod, would one day overcome his son and make him travel far and wide, maybe even across the Sea. Finrod would then truly need an otorno, a trusted friend to guard his back against all sorts of danger and so Finarfin decided he would quietly support this friendship no matter what.
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