The great tree-shagged spire of Rerir jutted out from its softer, lower blue range like the prow of a ship, or an armored warrior striding proud in the army’s van. On its western face were strong keeps, forts which housed the warriors of Caranthir’s folk, those who kept the leaguer, who gave their sweat and sometimes, their blood, to defend the inner reaches of Valariandë.
At proud Rerir’s southern feet, cupped in the curve between the mountains, lay cradled a wide black mere, deep and chill and glassy. This was Helevorn, Hyelmorë in the Exiles’ tongue, and on its banks was the home of this land’s lord. No fortress such as those which girded Rerir’s flank, still this was a castle, built for strength as well as gracious beauty, and it boasted of high towers and walls of fine-worked stone, a portcullis fanged with steel.
High up in one of these towers, upon a broad balcony from which, it almost seemed, one might dive down direct into Helevorn’s black depths and perhaps never again surface for air and light, stood Caranthir, Lord of Thargelion, the land which sometimes, though seldom on his tongue, bore his name. Dor Caranthir it was, a green and rolling land which spread itself out as a woven carpet westward of the soft blue peaks and east of the Gelion’s snaky banks, on down south toward the land of seven rivers, and the forests there beyond.
From his vantage, so high up in the thin, cold air, Caranthir could see much of his land; almost, indeed, to the point where the tributary which lashed like a sleeping cat’s tail from Helevorn’s western end joined itself up with the greater Gelion. He had been watched for some time as two points of color, far out along this broad vista, grew slowly larger and more distinct.
His brothers, the youngest, Ambarussar they were sometimes called together, though apart, their names were a morass of fates and exaltations, of littles and lasts. They rode now to meet him, to guest with him and to hunt; Caranthir wondered if he would find them much changed, or if they would find him so.
At last, judging their distance with some thoughtfulness, the Lord of Thargelion began to make his way down from his high tower room, going down to greet them when they rode their lathered steeds into his courtyard.
The road that the two elven lords had chosen to follow was not so empty these days. Just beyond the river Ascar lay the prominent dwarf-road leading out of Belegost and Nogrod, reaching all the way to the confluence of the Greater Gelion, but Aulë’s children did not balk at the prospect of shadow beyond the hills and slopes in Maglor’s Gap. More than once, Amrod and Amras had ridden past on their own tall and swift-footed horses expeditions of dwarves complete with stocky-legged ponies, some bearing riders with long beards under heavy cloaks, others carrying carts filled with bundles to be traded with the northern neighbors.
But for their height and brightness of eye, the elves might have been mistaken for the Laiquendi that made their abode among the forests of Ossiriand. Above their armor, they had cloaked themselves in fabric of woven green, and indeed traded out many of the hard metal for supple leathers instead; the edges of their cloaks were lined with spotted fur, caught from the great beasts that still dwelled in the deep woods. The quivers of arrows each of them wore would not have been out of place among the green-elves either, but the make of their bows was Noldorin.
There had been a certain security in knowing, as they rode northwards, that they rode towards their kinsmen’s holds, even if the north road would draw them closer to the dangerous emptiness of Lothlann. The east was Fëanorion territory—and it might have been the twins’ homeland, if they had chosen to call it such and remain close to their brothers as if vassals. Indeed, the hunting around Helevorn could have been adequate, in the way that a short ride outside of Tirion had been adequate for an afternoon’s amusement. A few extra bows in the defence of Himring to the west, too, could not have been amiss or unwelcome. But there were dark things that lingered in the forests of Ossiriand, darker than the creatures that had lent their fur to grace two lords’ shoulders. It was both an irresistible draw to seek them out, and a precaution to ensure that no foul counterattacks would come out of the glades.
To some degree, the twins’ self-imposed isolation might have made them as strangers, more so because they had made no efforts to bring banners and hosts along with them, but sharp eyes and sharp ears alone would have alerted Caranthir, Lord of Thargelion, of their approach. By the time of their dismount in the stone courtyard, unreined horses handed off to familiar retainers, the elder brother’s dark head was visible by the tall doors of his keep.
❝ Aiya, Carnistir! ❞ It was Amrod that spoke, and moved, first, foregoing what might have been a more proper greeting in a sweeping bow and instead closing the gap between them with a few long-legged strides. Amras was not long in following, and almost in unison, their arms went to draw Caranthir into a friendly embrace. ❝ Have you missed us? ❞
