#galdor

With the last spoonful of compote, Fingon is surprised to find his ache eased, his eyes rising to find Húrin standing by the windows, clad in the black and red of mourning, body still as the statues of the ancestors of Marach’s clan that adorn the hall. He seems to have aged overnight, the boyish softness of his brow replaced with the deep frown carved by the duties of a man and lord.

Something of the pear's sweetness that still lingers in Fingon’s mouth spurs him on to do something about those lines that now twist Húrin’s otherwise gentle face. “The Eldar shall sing long of Galdor Orchal,” Fingon chants as he comes to join Húrin, “bravest of warriors of Hador’s house, a spirit of steel and heart of honey.”

The man lowers his head in respectful acknowledgment. “Your kindness lessens my grief, lord.”

“Aye, he was all that, your sire. My dear friend, a valiant brother in arms, some of the most loyal I have known among Elves and Men, and likewise…”

“And likewise?” Húrin prompts after Fingon’s dramatic pause stretches out too long.

The king allows his lips to curl in a small grin. “And likewise, an utter menace.”

“Oh.”

“When Galdor was still a child, not much older than Handir, your cousin,” Fingon begins, pointing at a boy with mulberry-painted lips and wheat-golden head that only barely rises above the table, “he used to collect carved birds of wood and metal.”

“I recall those,” Húrin interjects. “Huor and I inherited many of father’s owls, hawks and kestrels, and added some of our own.”

“Indeed,” the king goes on. “On a time, your grandfather Hador came to seek council with my sire and brought little Galdor along. My late father always took such joy from children, and so he took the boy upon his knee while they held converse. A strategic mistake, for he did not foresee nor notice when Galdor, fascinated by the eagle’s wing carved into gold, snatched the seal of Barad Eithel for his collection of birds. A good three days passed before the little thief confessed his crime and the office of the High King could resume its administrative duties.”

Fingon is not disappointed to see Húrin’s eyes grow wide and his cheeks redden in embarrassment on behalf of his own father. “Eru above, what a shame. Grandfather must have given him such a spanking.”

“No such rumor reached me, but I heard that Galdor got quite skilled with the potato peeler in the kitchens.”

“And well deserved!” Húrin cries and there, there is that familiar lilt to his voice, the laughter always half-embracing the words rolling from his lips. So much like Galdor’s, and Hador’s before him.

Sweetness bubbles in Fingon’s mouth at the sound. “I have grown quite fond of that pear compote your father drank by the jarful. I reckon we should go after seconds before it is gone.”