Iron Hand, Iron Heart: The Sons of Finarfin

Crabapple

I found a courtyard deep under the twisting eaves of willow trees, their branches knotted and woven from years of ill-tending. A mossy pond gleamed with silt and a lack of fresh water. It was refreshing to find a small corner that lacked perfection in this stifling place. To smell decomposing leaves and raw earth once more when every spot of green here is so perfectly manicured, it was like coming alive again. 

Thingol is obsessed with the precision of aesthetic beauty. As though he's trying to make up for the fact that he isn't as eternally powerful as his wife. He both loves and hates Melian. He envies her. I believe this with every ounce of my being.

A plunk in the stagnant pond drew my attention. Then another, ripples rolling out to uneven edges in the sparse sunlight cutting from high above the stony enclosure of the forgotten courtyard. 

A crabapple tree, purple blossoms scattering the patchy, yellow grass, grew on the far edge of the pond. I could only see a pair of legs, a body leaning against the stunted trunk. A rotting piece of fruit flew out into view and into the pond. And then another, followed by a strongly uttered curse. 

I breathed a short laugh of surprise. The legs moved. From underneath the trembling petals, most of them brown from a lack of proper sunlight, one of the western elves emerged. He wore the pendent of their house on his blue tunic. Brazen, unapologetic, tacky. No subtlety at all. I am surprised Thingol is not completely enamored of these elves. They have much in common.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

He. Demanded. This. Of. Me. 

I will not deny that I was struck dumb by this opening statement. He was all self importance, as though I was a servant girl who had stumbled into a king's council.

"Well? Can you speak?"

"I can speak well enough," I replied, trying to maintain some sense of decorum. "And it appears you can as well. Though without much breeding to aid you in what you say."

He scoffed. Scoffed, I repeat. As though I were the one out of line.

"You are awfully saucy for one of those Guest-Elves they speak of, those squatters."

"Squatters?" I couldn't help laughing out loud at this accusation coming from one of the Noldor. "Your people couldn't leave well enough alone. You came here expecting great kingdoms for yourselves, that we would all bow and scrape at your majesty, the light of Aman in your eyes or some other such nonsense. Why couldn't you have just stayed on your side of the sea?"

He strode towards me then, that arrogant twist of a chin clenched. I knew I'd hit a tender spot then when he'd been struck silent. I smiled coolly in response, the decrepit courtyard seeming even more beautiful to me in that moment. 

"Awfully saucy," he repeated, shaking his fluffy, blond head. I say fluffy in as unflattering a way as possible, like referring to the fur of a small dog. "Who are you?"

I lifted my chin and thought of Denethor. I thought of how our people had flocked to his wisdom and leadership, how he had been as kind and consistent as the best of fathers, the way a real king should be with his people. I reminded myself that I was still his queen, though he was no longer by my side.

"I am Colnith, my husband is Denethor-"

"Was Denethor." He circled me like a vulture, ready to pick apart the memory of my husband. "I know this name. He was a king of some kind for your people, the green elves. Scattered now. So you were something of a queen."

Rage and grief welled in me till I could barely stand it. The squashed remnant of a rotted crabapple lay by my foot. In a moment of impulsive wrath, which I cannot and will not defend, I picked up the fruit and smeared it across the obnoxious star symbol on his chest.   

I do not know what his reaction was, I walked away before I saw it. Though I did discover his name by accident later at the feast that evening. He strode into the hall, fluffy dog hair streaming around his shoulders, and up to the dais where Thingol greeted him.I gave the Noldo brat a smug nod as he passed which he returned with a sneer.

Angrod, son of Finarfin. He is here with his brothers. There is a sister too, apparently. Though his parents should have stopped at one child if the rest are anything like their brother, instead of releasing such a plague of poisonous, villainous smelling beasts on the world. His name means 'Iron Champion' because of his supposed prowess in battle. 

He was not wearing the tunic with the symbol of his house. I must assume it was being cleaned. I hope it will be forever cursed with the reek of fermented fruit. It's a fitting perfume for such a character.