An Intense Dislike of Elves by Himring

---

Chapter 1

---

 

 

Although I’ve never seen anything like it, the fortress enthroned on its hill looks exactly as I had imagined it, walls thick, towers high.  But it’s full of Eldar.  No surprise, that—after all, it’s supposed to be the military headquarters of the campaign against Morgoth in Eastern Beleriand, which is the reason I’m here. Still, I’ve never seen so many Eldar at once before. They only ever came in small groups to Estolad, to inspect us or gawk at us, depending on the dignity they accorded themselves. We were told that there were more of them out there, where we couldn’t see them.  For a while, whenever I walked in the woods around Estolad, I kept whirling around, imagining silent sniggers in the bushes. I never spotted anyone.

 

Here they are in plain sight: manning the walls, exercising in the courtyard, hurrying busily along the corridors. I remind myself firmly that I used to be opposed to our people allying themselves with the Eldar for sensible, utilitarian reasons—even if I have been forced to reverse my position. It had nothing to do with feeling uncomfortable around Eldar. I can deal with it.

 

Assuming that I will be permitted to, which seems less certain, now I see how many troops this Maedhros already has... How much can he need another soldier? At least I had no trouble being admitted and, in fact, I was kicking my heels in the guards’ room for less than half an hour, when I was told that Prince Maedhros wished to see me. As I arrived unannounced, that must surely count as quick, in a place this size. The guard show me into a room. I guess it’s medium-sized; to me it seems huge.

 

‘Lord Amlach? Welcome to Himring. I’ve heard reports of you,’ the tall elf looming up in the middle of the room says.

 

He has?  Well, from one point of view, that’s good.  I certainly want my future commander to be keeping track of Morgoth’s machinations. On the other hand, what he has heard might make him less inclined to take me on. And does he know how very much “Lord” is just a courtesy title these days?

 

His face doesn’t show anything except polite attention. Those bright eyes are meeting mine without flinching or a sign of discomfort. I guess, haughty Feanorion that he is, he thinks he can deal with any problem I might pose.  It makes a change, though—although, come to think of it, the guards didn’t seem all that impressed when they heard my name either.

 

He looks just a little willowy in those dark grey clothes; but elves do, of course, it’s deceptive.  There’s something jutting out near his hip... Oh, yes, he’s a cripple, isn’t he? Some absurd story about a giant eagle—was it that the bird pecked off his hand?  I should have taken the trouble to gather more information about him, before I came here, but I left in somewhat of a hurry and, in any case, by that time nobody was keen to answer any questions of mine.

 

I respond, as formally as I can, in my best Sindarin. As I do so, I notice the desk behind him. It’s piled with parchment leaves, covered in writing or blank, and notebooks, all sorted into tidy stacks. It seems a lot of writing goes on in Himring. We exchange a couple of courtesies; I refuse his offer of a meal and a rest before we continue our conversation.

 

Then he says: ‘You’re the first of your people to venture so far into the northeast. May I ask what purpose brings you here?’

 

This is the part that I’ve rehearsed over and over to myself—not so much in order to put it to him, but to try myself to make sense of the events that overturned all my convictions, all my hopes and plans within less than a day. He listens attentively. I speak almost too fast, ending slightly out of breath.

 

‘So you took the fact that Morgoth’s messenger had impersonated you in his attempt to turn your people against us as a personal insult to yourself’, he summarizes.  ‘And now you wish to fight Morgoth, whereas before you had advised against it? I understand.  But pardon me for asking—that does not quite explain why you are here. Those of your people who have opted for taking part in the war against Morgoth have so far moved west, not north.  It was my cousin Finrod whom you first followed to Estolad, after all.’

 

‘I was told that you had chosen to build your fortress here, in the north, so as to be in the forefront of the battle against Morgoth.’

 

‘So now you have had your mind changed for you, you’re impatient to join the fighting? But I hear your Uncle Aradan has established himself at my uncle’s court at Eithel Sirion, with others of your kin. Himring is not closer to Angband than Barad Eithel. Why not join your uncle?’

 

 I hesitate. His gaze meets mine. Steady grey eyes. The sons of Feanor, they said.  They are not like us. They are proud and fierce. And their voices implied other things as well. Estolad was supposed to be quite close to their territory, the territory of the youngest of the sons, Amrod and Amras, that is, but if Amrod and Amras also came and inspected us, I never met them.

 

‘I wish to fight Morgoth. I still do not particularly like elves.’

 

He does not look surprised or offended. He looks as if he’s waiting for me to continue. But what else can I say?

 

‘You may have heard—my people call your cousin Finrod Nom. It means Wisdom.’

 

Now his eyes widen slightly.

 

‘I see. You came looking for someone less wise.’

 

Is he laughing? Nobody warned me that the sons of Feanor might have a sense of humour. If I had one once, I seem to have left it behind in Estolad. But he certainly seems serious and sober now.

 

‘You came all by yourself? Is there...anyone else?’

 

When I told them it had not been me who stood up at that council and argued against fighting on the side of the Eldar, their eyes started sliding away from me. Those who had been most sceptical about the Eldarin tales of the Enemy in the North were the quickest to start avoiding me. It was some of the most fervent adherents of Finrod and his teachings who thought at first that I was simply lying. But when they saw that their Eldarin friends were inclined to believe the tale, they, too, began to treat me as if I had a contagious disease. Two days later my wife, with our unborn child, left for her parents’ house.

 

‘There is nobody else.’

 

‘I see.’

 

There is a moment of silence.

 

Then he says: ‘I foresee a possible conflict of interest.’

 

I blew it. What a fool! What made me think that this elven prince would appreciate plain speaking?

 

‘From what you’ve just told me,’ he continues, ‘I gather you want to fight Morgoth as effectively as possible, and that is why you wish to take part in a combined effort—but otherwise what you really want is to be left alone. However, you realize, you would be the first of your kind to enter my service, although not the first I have ever seen. As your people appear to be moving into Hithlum and Dorthonion, I expect that your kin will play a considerable role in any military campaigns to come. It is important for me to learn who the people are that my uncle and cousins are allying themselves with. If you become a member of the garrison of Himring, I will be subjecting you to a series of interviews, trying to find out all I can from you about the Edain. Are you prepared to put up with that?’

 

Oh. He isn’t refusing to take me on. Interviews? I don’t want to be interviewed. Talking to Prince Maedhros just now has exhausted me so much I feel I can barely stand, and we’ve been talking less than half an hour. But being regularly interrogated by Prince Maedhros isn’t as bad as being sent away, because I haven’t, really, anywhere else to go.

 

Yes, I want to avenge Morgoth’s appropriation of my identity. But it is not only that. He has added injury to insult; he took my identity and didn’t return it. I am ostracized among my people. If I go to Barad Eithel, the very best I can hope for is that they will say we told you so, but it is more likely that they will shun me, as they did in Estolad. Because they could not distinguish Morgoth’s emissary from me, they can no longer distinguish me from Morgoth’s emissary.

 

‘I am prepared to put up with that.’

 

‘Good. Then I suggest that you have that meal and rest that I mentioned earlier, and we’ll take it from there.’