A Walk in the Forest, an Evening by the Fire by Himring

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Chapter 1

 

This story assumes that Elrond has inherited powers as a mind healer, which are undeveloped as yet. While he is not able to communicate mind-to-mind with other people normally at this point, he can pick up thoughts from people in special mental states. Since the fall of Doriath, Maedhros is in such a special mental state. Elros does not share Elrond's mental powers.

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Children, Macalaure? Will that be safe? Will it be kind? (Maedhros at Sirion)

 

  I

 

‘Elrond? It is Elrond, isn’t it, not Elros?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maglor is weeping because he cannot find you. He thinks you’re lost and are going to get eaten by orcs or bears.’

‘You found me.’

‘My mind was...empty. Suddenly, I heard you thinking: How glad I would be even to see Mad Cousin Maedhros just now.  I am sorry—being empty makes it easier to hear, but not to understand what you’re hearing.  Quite a number of cousins have considered me mad, and many of them are dead. It wasn’t until Maglor had gone searching for you that I realized it might be a live cousin I was hearing and not a dead one. Then I tried to follow the direction your thought seemed to be coming from—and here you are.’

‘Are you angry?’

‘Because you endangered yourself and upset Maglor? I can’t say I’m happy about it. You’ll have to talk to Maglor about that, though... I suppose you really were trying to run away to Balar? I must say, it doesn’t look as if you’d planned it in advance. No Elros? Not as much equipment as a hunting-bow?’

‘You’re saying I should have a weapon?’

‘Hmm... Yes, I’ve overheard you agreeing with Elros that, when you’re grown up, you’re going to spare Maglor, but make sure to kill me.  Since clearly you’re going to grow up to be formidable warriors, of course, I’m a little afraid...’

‘You’re not.’

‘I’m not?’

‘You are afraid—but not of us trying to kill you...’

‘Very good—you’re very talented, aren’t you? I suppose with your parentage that isn’t really a surprise...  Elrond, by the time you’re grown up, I think I shall be dead—although if I’m wrong, I guess Macalaure might have more trouble on his hands than he bargained for...’

‘I do understand a little Quenya, you know.’

‘You do? You might want to learn a little more... Elrond, that thorn bush you seem to be sitting in looks very uncomfortable.  If we’ve established I’m not angry, maybe you’d like to come out of there—and I could lend you my handkerchief, if you like? Oh, good... Now, I don’t suppose you can tell Maglor from mind to mind that I’ve found you?’

‘No. I tried.’

‘Then we’ll just have to go and tell him in the ordinary way...  Come along; it’s this way.’

***

‘You don’t like children, do you, Cousin Maedhros?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You don’t like children, because they make a lot of noise?’

‘I used to live in a house where there were lots of children, Elrond. In that house, for years and years and years, there would be at least one toddler about... They’d be screaming in the garden, they’d be dropping things with a clatter in the house, they’d be bawling in their beds... Nelyo, they’d shout, Nelyo! And whatever I happened to be doing, I would put it down and go check that they hadn’t done anything serious to themselves, that they didn’t need to be rescued out of deep wells or patches of stinging nettles, that they didn’t need their elbows or knees bandaged... I’d go and find out whether they might be feeling sick or perhaps just plain sad...’

‘That’s it then.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You hear us yelling, you put down whatever you’re doing and come looking for those children... They’re dead, too, aren’t they? Like the cousins? You come looking for them—and there’s just us.’

‘Just you? Cousin-who-is-alive, you’re making me very ashamed of myself. I seem to have been very rude to you, on top of everything else.’

‘You certainly don’t come and bandage on our knees.’

‘No, Maglor does that. He loves doing it, and he’s got two hands to do it with.’

‘I’ve heard Maglor call you Nelyo.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that what I should call when I want you?’

‘Why would you want me, Earendilion? No, wait—that was a silly question, wasn’t it? After all, you did need me today. Elrond, if you want to make sure I know it’s a live cousin calling me, not a dead one, I think perhaps you should give me a new name that the dead don’t use. You needn’t ever say it aloud—in fact, under the circumstances perhaps you shouldn’t... ‘

‘All right.’

‘You’ve already thought of one? That was quick... Very polite of you, Elrond—I had expected something much less poetic... Thank you very much.’

***

‘I don’t want you to die, Cousin Maedhros.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you, Elrond.’

‘No, I mean, I don’t want you to die, Cousin Maedhros.’

‘Oh, Elrond—not you, too! But you’re going to be a healer, aren’t you? I suppose it’s natural that things like that would worry you...’

‘They do. But that’s still not what I meant.’

‘Then I’m very sorry, Elrond.  I’ll still be here for a little while...’

II

 

At night by the camp fire, he fades in unobtrusively next to us, Elros and me, as if he weren’t the lord and leader of these people. By now we half expect him, although we can’t predict whether he’ll appear at our side tonight, tomorrow or next week. However, we pick up on his arrival almost at once; we’ve grown as used as everyone else here to keeping half an eye on him a lot of the time. And almost immediately, as if it had never stopped, his quiet voice resumes speaking. He doesn’t, usually, explain and we have learned to figure out for ourselves which of our recent lessons Maedhros might have overheard.

The subject that he thinks we need to know more about this time will emerge quickly enough.  It might be anything from the history of scripts or a point of Quenya grammar, to trade routes and diplomacy. Here in the tiny fire-lit clearing amid the night-dark forests of beleaguered Ossiriand, vistas open up to us of cities, libraries, market-places, places such as there once were here in Beleriand, places such as there still are across the sea, places such as there might be for us to visit, to inhabit, perhaps even to rule, some time, somewhere...

He goes into details, he warms to his subject, his pale cheeks flush slightly, the almost imperceptible tremor his fingers show when he’s not doing anything in particular with them is stilled—and just as he’s telling us all about Rumil and how he once met the inventor himself, he remembers.  ‘Not safe’, I hear him thinking, regretfully. The animation in his face dies. His voice becomes quiet and level again. He begins to wrap the lesson up, methodically and economically.

Elros stubbornly tries to delay the inevitable by asking questions. They are answered, clearly and precisely, but Maedhros uses not a single word more than necessary. Elros, frustrated, runs out of things to ask, and Maedhros disappears quietly as he came, reappears somewhere else and has found some small practical task to do. Maglor, who has put his harp aside for the duration of the lesson, sighs and resumes playing.

Elros has jumped to the conclusion that it’s got to do with our being half-elven. I’ve told him that Maedhros couldn’t care less about Tuor and Beren, it’s our grandmother Idril that’s worrying him. Elros doesn’t quite believe me; he thinks it doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make sense. Does Maedhros really think that, if he forbids himself to enjoy teaching us, Mandos is more likely to overlook that we are a quarter Noldor? Probably not, but nevertheless he is afraid to hope things for us. We are cousins of his, but only a quarter Noldor, only a quarter doomed. He wants us to live, prosper, gain status and perhaps power, but he can’t wish for any of these things, because the more he wishes for them, the less likely they are to happen.

Still, he teaches us. We learn. And we learn to pretend that he’s not teaching us. Later, standing beside Ereinion and telling him details about the lords of the Noldor who have recently come from Valinor that his tutors had no inkling of, we never mention the source of our knowledge.

Ereinion clearly thinks that it was a terrible thing to happen to us, to be fostered by Maglor, and maybe he’s right. But I think he imagines that there are dark hurtful secrets in our past that we aren’t revealing, obscure Feanorian transgressions.  There are no sinister Feanorian secrets, though. All Maedhros and Maglor’s crimes are public knowledge. We are merely replicating Feanorian silences.

They were a quiet lot, the last Feanorians. There weren’t many of them left; most of them were dead, some had dispersed after Sirion. They shared a past they didn’t wish to talk about, because it hurt too much. They fought the servants of the Enemy when they could; they hunted and they traded a little, for survival.

They watched out for Maedhros, his wishes their commands—except that he seemed to have no wishes that didn’t concern their safety and well-being.  He made soft-spoken suggestions that they followed to the letter. There was always someone at his elbow to assist if he attempted to do anything that really required two hands, to remind him discreetly to eat at meal times, to summon Maglor on the rare occasions when the dead started shouting so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t ignore them any longer. In the evenings they assembled around the fire and let Maglor’s music say everything for them that words could no longer express.

I see them around, here in Ereinion’s camp, the followers of Maedhros and Maglor. Feanor’s sons sent them here together with us; they hoped it would ensure their welcome and it did. They are a mixed bunch, more than half of them Noldor, of course, but also some northern Sindar, a couple of families of Edain and Easterlings, even a Laiquendi or two. They will live; they may even prosper.  But for now, they walk around with the stunned expressions of people who find they have just had their guts ripped out.  I greet them very carefully when we meet, then check myself surreptitiously to make sure I’m not bleeding.

 

III

‘He’s dead.’

‘Who? Cousin Maedhros? Well, he was as good as dead already, really, wasn’t he? Could you tell what happened to Maglor?’

‘He was dying, not dead, Elros. And I couldn’t tell what had happened to Maglor.’

***

‘Are you sure Maedhros is dead, Elrond?’

‘I’m sure, Elros. I woke up from a dream of fire and knew he was in terrible pain. I didn’t think he could hear me, but I called him, even so, and it was as if, for a moment, I saw his face turning towards me. Then the flames swallowed him up.  Now there is nobody in Middle-earth anymore who answers to his name.’