#alternate title for this was 'flickering flame bickering blame'

[hallothere]

A Forochel One-shot

The Great Lodge of Sûri-kylä was alit with a thousand flames, diffuse in the smoke that curled and vented through the ceiling. Candles, cookfires, and the forges made up most of the lights. Few pipes were to be found amidst the assembly. Most lips were far too occupied in the telling of tales or the singing of songs. Now was as good a time as any.

A great blizzard had rolled over the mountains to the east, but one without the Fell air of Angmar. It was one typical in the winters of Forochel, though somewhat early for the season. Quite a few travelers had been caught unawares on the roads to and from the great city of the Lumi-väki. Though few who could be considered Etelä-vieras sat inside Yrjänä’s Great Lodge, there were several noteworthy visitors nonetheless.

“Come come. I am quite over sitting here doing nothing. I feel quite well.”

“You look quite ill.”

“What? Never. And surely I can’t look worse than I feel.”

“Perhaps you can! It’s a small feat after all.”

Radanir scowled. “Laugh while you can, but the skin stings less so it must be less inflamed. Logic is on my side, brother. I feel better and I must look better as well.”

“No you do not!”

At this, Radanir felt forced to adopt a more petulant look. The pair of them had not come up the road unscathed, but they had arrived in Sûri-kylä whole. Lothrandir, neither a great jokester or of dour mind, never persisted in a jest so far. Else, never carried on in insults when none were exchanged. 

“And how are you to know how I feel?” He punctuated his question with as haughty a look as he could manage. Radanir was perplexed and a little affronted. The frostbite had not bitten so deeply as they had feared, and he knew from Lothrandir’s shifting hands his friend felt the sting more keenly than he. Despite all else, he had maintained possession of his gloves.

Lothrandir shoved his fingers out of sight under his arms. “And how are you to know how you look?”

Here, Lothrandir might have a point. Only a day ago, his face had been badly swollen. Today, he could see the flaring of a few of Lothrandir’s old injuries but there was no mirror in the Great Lodge with which to view his own progress. Time had not yet done all its healing work, true enough. But while the dangers of travel had not been kind, Radanir still felt��� If not ‘wronged’ then at least the victim of impolite company. 

So he stared, eyes exasperated and eyebrows expectant. “Perhaps you should describe me.” 

Lothrandir turned back to look at him. His face was a picture of impatience, like as the grimace of a parent who has finally met their wit’s end. Petulant though he felt, Radanir was no irrational child and he would have his demands answered. 

Squaring his shoulders Lothrandir engaged the challenge fully. “Very well. Someone’s replaced the skin of your face with apple peel but carved in some spots too deep, for you are a sorry mix of red and pale. Is that enough for you?”

Oh, what a fine snit Lothrandir was in! Radanir crossed his arms. “It does begin to paint a picture. But for want of a mirror and Techeron’s second opinion, you’ll have to wax more poetically than that.”

It was a very good opening sally for Lothrandir’s part, he had to admit. The sort of thing Radanir might stew on for days before the opportune moment came around. Ever the wordsmith aren’t you, snowball? He thought, No wonder they made you diplomat to hither and yon. 

Lothrandir was not immediately forthcoming with unflattering verse so Radanir jumped back in. 

“Fine, then maybe consider speaking plain. If you so tired of me, you could have handed me off to that friend of yours and Calenglad’s, else taken him here in my place. If not that, then what? Have I embarrassed you? Committed some sort of Lossoth sacrilege, to be confined here and monitored lest I repeat it?”

“None of that!” Lothrandir brushed him off with an angry gesture. “Your grousing might lead them to name you ‘Laulu-vihâja’, but you’re not wholly unbearable.” When Radanir’s stare did not relent, he continued. “You feign wellness too readily. If it had been a few days more, if you had taken time to rest…”

Like you did? Radanir bit the words back hard. He wanted neither lecture nor fight and stamped down the impulse. “I do not ask to frolic about in the storm.” He held a hand up, forestalled the rebuttal, and exhaled. “I do not ask for much. Only to walk about, here, indoors, and see if there is something to do. Help if I may, observe if I may not. It doesn’t matter overmuch. Unchaperoned if I could have my way, but as they say ‘Brotherdir is borne at the hip and shoulder’.”

Lothrandir’s lip twitched at the old saying in spite of himself. “Brotherdir’ could bear you out the door and into the canal if he did not put so much work in keeping you alive.”

“For which I am ever grateful.” Radanir conceded. “But since I am not withering before your very eyes, what is your objection?”

“I do not object, Radanir.” He said quickly. “I only wonder if you are healed well enough to go about.”

“Or if I am lying to your face?” Radanir grinned. “I can take care of myself you know. Imperiled is not my natural state.”

At this, Lothrandir tried not to grimace and Radanir confirmed his suspicions. He knew what was up. For his part, he remembered days of labored walking. The roads in Forochel were not paved, as were about half the roads of his acquaintance, but they also came forth obstructed by snow. Lothrandir knew the way. He was adept at finding a track they wouldn’t need to plow and guided the trio northward. 

But not all the dangers of the hills had piled up underfoot. The servants of the Iron Crown were not wholly broken, and a handful of them had sought to make trouble. This Radanir remembered more hazily. They had been long in the storm by then, and the air sapped one man’s strength as much as the next. He and Techeron had put their lives into Lothrandir’s hands as they trudged along what seemed like the whole of their journey over again. They might have frozen, but a traveling merchant crossed their paths and took pity on them. 

The silence sat a little too long. “Techeron is free.” Radanir argued. “And his eyes were swollen shut when we got here.”

“He listens to reason.”

“He listens to you, you mean.” 

Now Lothrandir crossed his arms. “So you can choose to see sense.” 

“I hope one of us can!” he gestured between them. “Are we through trading barbs? As much as I enjoy a stimulating conversation--” Radanir stopped. “You’re distracting me,” he accused, “in the hope that I might tire and give up the fight!” 

It seemed Lothrandir did not want to acknowledge that remark. “Techeron can go as he pleases because he needs no supervision. He’s on my side, you know. And it helps that he proposes no dangerous chore, only offers his services in the textile arts.”

“I don’t know how to knit.”

Here Lothrandir shrugged. “A shame.”

Radanir rolled his eyes. “I am not dead or dying. I have better use of my hands than either of you, and have no desire to go far enough from a fire to even get a chill. Come to think of it, Techeron seemed to have a low opinion of my recovery as well. What is this pact between you? Some sort of revenge for winning that wager?”

Lothrandir snorted but did not answer. He crossed his legs, bit back signs of a wince, and leaned back against the crate that had served as a perch for Techeron’s vigil. 

“Fine. I will take matters into my own hands.” Radanir shed his blanket and made to rise. He watched Lothrandir close his eyes in some kind of resignation. “A headache won’t stop me from sorting herbs, if they have any. Or watching those two rascals pretend to kill each other, if they don’t.” 

“Radanir, we thought you dead.”

He stopped. At last, there it was. “You should have thought me stunned, for that’s all it was. I was unsteady, yes, but awake all the while.” 

“So you can recount clearly what happened?”

Radanir hesitated. “No. But what I can’t recall is fuzzy, not dark.” Against his better judgment, he voiced his previous complaint. “You needed only a good night’s rest before you were back on your horse.”

“The need was dire.” Lothrandir ground out. “And while it was necessary I would not advise repeating it.” 

He did not need to look back to know the barb had struck and stuck. Yet he did, somewhat shamefaced. “How dare I throw that back at you?” Radanir smiled with little mirth. “I call you my jailor, but you and Techeron have suffered me more.”

At this, he offered a hand out and Lothrandir took it. Standing, his kinsman looked tired and a little abashed. 

“No doubt you are well, and not a child.” Lothrandir did not yet meet his eye. “You surely understand why we are worried?”

“All too well.” Radanir swallowed over the lump in his throat. Their journey was made only after great pain and trial. None had gone south and returned unscathed. “I won’t make you suffer further. If I must behave myself, I will. You have my word.” He paused. “Only, promise me the same, will you?”

Lothrandir gripped his hand at what must be a painful strength but refused to flinch. “Techeron will be pleased we could ensure your cooperation. I believe I owe him a meal, for he was loath to bet silver now that his supply has depleted.”

The barking laugh was not out of place in the Great Lodge. It joined other sounds of camaraderie, joy, and family in the bubbling hall of hope and light.