It Seems You Do by Himring

Hurrying through the downpour, cursing under my breath, as wet gravel slithers under my feet. Within minutes, the heavy cloak I’m wearing is beginning to soak and the dry cloak I’m carrying folded over my arm won’t stay dry much longer. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? If this place hadn’t got the nosiest domestic staff in the whole of Beleriand, I wouldn’t even have considered it.

It’s long after midnight, the darkest hour, even if a shower of rain drops weren’t driving right into my face and blinding me. In the rose garden, it is all I can do to stick to the paths and avoid blundering across the flower beds. It is so difficult to see anything between the looming hedges that there could be a score of orcs encamped right in the middle and I wouldn’t spot them, let alone a single elf, however he might stick out anywhere under normal circumstances. (‘A red-haired beanpole—and one-handed, too’, he commented once, ‘it’s a good thing I never considered a career as a spy.’)

It is quite difficult to hear any movement either, above the whoosh and gurgle of rushing water and the sound of the wind whipping through leaves.  But, of course, he isn’t here in any case, not any more, I think with equal proportions of relief and dismay. He would surely never be such a fool...  Just then a piece of shadow detaches itself from the black mass of the hedge, and my feelings of dismay and relief invert themselves. I speed towards him—of course it’s him, who else would be waiting here at this hour and getting himself soaking wet in the process—and, grabbing his arm, drag him quickly around two rose beds and through a gap in the hedge.

We get drenched some more, waiting in front of the small garden shed, while I’m groping for the key in my pouch and trying to insert it into the lock on the door;  then, blessedly, the key turns, the door opens, and I pull him inside. At once, it’s quieter, with the howl of the rain storm no longer right about our ears, but if it was dark outside, there’s no light at all in here. Candles, idiot—I should have brought candles.

I’m still grimly clutching his arm.

‘What’s the matter?’, he asks me.

‘What’s the matter?! I made you wait almost four hours for me, in the rain!’

‘Actually, most of the time, it wasn’t raining’, he says. ‘In fact, the beginning of the evening was almost too romantic—the dusk warm and overpoweringly scented with roses and a slender sickle moon overhead. The only thing that seemed to be slightly out of place was me. I kept having to dodge behind hedges to avoid being seen by trysting couples...’

‘You actually prefer to wait for me in the driving rain. I suppose you think it suits your fey image better.’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. Although there is something very Hithlum about driving rain...  But I must admit it is in some ways quite reassuring to find that you weren’t thinking of roses so much as the garden shed next to the compost heap.’

He laughs a little. To my own surprise, abruptly I boil over.

‘Roses! I was thinking of roses! And I’ll have the gardener cut them one and all and send them to your room by the bucketful—and then let’s see you come up with an explanation for that, Prince Maedhros!’

There’s a startled silence. I can almost hear him thinking: Whoa, there! Then I feel his finger tips tentative on my face in the dark, encountering my chin, moving up to my cheek.

Almost simultaneously, I hear us both saying: ‘Sorry.’

I ease my grip on his arm.

‘And what’, I ask him, ‘might you be apologizing for? You haven’t even asked what kept me.’

‘After a while, I got worried’, he says. ‘I decided to risk quitting the spot for a while and went and had a chat with the captain of the guards. He told me his watch had been completely uneventful, not even a single messenger. So I decided that if there was a national crisis or an orc raid going on, you were managing to keep it remarkably quiet, and it was more likely to be some kind of urgent domestic issue...’

‘Domestic is right’, I say dryly. ‘It started with a venison pie that had vanished from the pantry and turned out to have been eaten by the butler’s cats and sort of spiralled from there... No, don’t ask me now. I’ll tell you the sordid details over breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Ah. Well, I concluded there was nothing further I could do to find out what was going on or assist you, so I decided to view it as an exercise in equanimity. If I went back to the garden, either you would still turn up or you would not. I didn’t think about it from your point of view, though. It’s your home, you’re supposed to be in control here—and you couldn’t even send me a simple message. It must have been galling.’

‘It was. And if I had had the foresight to have the key to the shed on me when I asked you to meet me out here earlier, I would have told you about it and given you the key then.’

I grope for him with my other hand.

‘I brought a dry cloak. I guess I’d better use it as a towel. You’re dripping. The gardener will be complaining tomorrow that the shed roof leaks.’

‘It does. Listen!’

I do, for a moment. There’s a distinct plink-plink-plink, as a series of drops hits metal, perhaps a bucket or tub.

‘You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? I’m going to dry you off now. And I think you should let me wring out your hair.’

He permits me to fuss over him without a murmur of protest.  Clumsy in the dark, I work off the rest of my pent-up frustration by vigorously towelling him. As I finally calm down, I find myself rather at a loss, wishing I could see the expression on his face. I drop the sheet of heavy velvet, now very wet, at our feet and uncertainly put my hand between his shoulder blades. He reacts to my change of mood immediately, turning to me, and, however quietly he’s been biding his time, what follows next is, I’m relieved to note, not by any stretch an exercise in equanimity.

Once again, it has been far too long and, inevitably, it’s over too quickly now. We continue to hold on tightly to each other. The emotion still surging within spills out over my lips as words. When I realize that I’m whispering the same two or three incoherent phrases in his ear over and over again, I shut up and grip him even more tightly. I feel the muscles in his throat move as he swallows.

‘Findekano’, he says, his voice strained. ‘I’m not..., not...’

He falls silent.

‘Not what?’

He gives a derisive snort.

‘Just not, I guess.’

Ah—Feanorian eloquence.

 ‘Well, I guess I disagree.’

He presses his cheek briefly against my temple.

‘It seems you do. Maybe then, I won’t quite believe it either.’

***

In the grey light before dawn, we silently walk in the garden together.  Nobody is awake yet, except for a few birds tentatively embarking on the first notes of their dawn chorus. The rose garden looks as if it had been under water and the flood had only just receded, drops of water clustering on leaves and petals thicker than dew. As we reach the gate, my step falters. He gives me a quick look and then heads right on past it, back into the depths of the garden. I follow him and our steps fall into rhyme again, although we are not touching each other.

In the corner farthest from the house, he stoops, carefully seizing the stem of a rose between index finger and thumb and shaking off the excess moisture. He twists off a single bud and stands twirling it indecisively between his fingers, avoiding my eyes. As we move on, his hand for a moment discreetly covers mine, holding it very gently, and as he releases me again, he leaves the rose bud on my palm. My fingers close over it. He looks straight ahead all the while, as if the trees and hedges were full of watchers.

However convoluted our path, it takes us to the gate again, and this time we walk through it without stopping and are within sight of the house. He straightens his shoulders infinitesimally and begins: ‘Now, the situation in Dorthonion, as I see it...’ His words gather speed as he goes. My fingers still enfold my precious bit of rose.

The messenger I sent to Nargothrond returns in mid afternoon.  I listen to him as patiently as I can, while he explains that his belated return is not his fault—Artaher had him kicking his heels for weeks, waiting for a response. I assure him I don’t hold it against him and dismiss him, giving him a day’s leave to settle back in again. Then I read Artaher’s letter. I reach the end and pass it silently to Russandol.

 I guess the kingship that Russandol handed over to my father with such ceremony was only ever going to mean as much as he and Findarato chose it to mean once we had dispersed all over Beleriand, and everybody knew it. It was clear that Russandol and his brothers were doing pretty much as they pleased in the East, although Russandol’s careful diplomacy and deferential behaviour towards my father disguised that as best he could.

 Findarato, in the shining goodness of his heart, never bothered to disguise anything. Nobody could possibly be offended if he adopted the title of king the Sindar were so ready to confer on him, as so clearly he did not mean to offend, and indeed nobody was. My father was almost tacitly bumped up one rank to High King—and no one bothered to comment on the obvious: that while that ostensibly meant more honour, it actually meant less power. Turukano followed suit soon after and called himself King, too.

 The loosening of command structure helped to keep the peace between us, which was itself no mean feat.  Initially, the consequences didn’t make themselves felt, as we remained in close communication—except for Gondolin, naturally. Then the Bragollach separated us.

 When Findarato decided that he owed it to Barahir’s son to embark with him on his quest for a Silmaril, he did not consult anyone outside Nargothrond. When he encountered the opposition of Tyelkormo and Curufinwe, he appealed to no one outside Nargothrond. Neither did Tyelkormo or Curufinwe appeal to the High King during all their dealings in Nargothrond, nor did Artaher when he banished them.

 I do not pretend I would have been exactly delighted to involve myself in the hornet’s nest that Thingol had stirred up there, rather too clever for anyone’s good, even his own, but I was not given the chance to try to do anything about it. The news reached me belatedly, and I was confronted with the fait accompli. Artaher had given out his judgement, Tyelkormo and Curufinwe had accepted it. Of course it left a very bad taste in my mouth, but if the Oath had returned to haunt us, I thought it might be best just to allow things to settle down again.

 Now Artaher writes that he will not fight side by side with the sons of Feanaro. He will not join the Union of Maedhros, as he calls it, and by refusing to join the alliance he makes it so. I had originally meant to go and discuss the matter with him in person, but he made it clear I would not be welcome. High King of the Noldor or not, the only ones that I can summon to battle are my own people of Hithlum. Artaher refuses to come to our aid, and, as for my brother Turukano, he will do what he will do. If he should decide to fight, the first thing I will know of it is when he appears on the battlefield. The only one of the princes of the Noldor in Beleriand to whom my title still means anything at all is Russandol and even he...

 His eyes are still on the letter in his hand.  He must have re-read it several times by now.

 ‘If I asked you to deliver Tyelkormo and Curufinwe over to me for trial, would you do it?’

 He lifts his eyes from the letter.

 ‘I don’t know’, he whispers. ‘I won’t know, until you do ask me to. I beg you not to.’

 We stare at each other for a moment.

 ‘Do you know, I expected you to say no, very politely, and explain to me why that was not a good idea at all.’

 He looks away from me.

 ‘I do think...’, he says with an effort, ‘I do think it might be bad move. This’, he gives the letter a cautious shake, as if it were a poisonous snake he were holding by its tail, ‘is not an appeal to the High King for justice. It is not even a promise to fight in return for an opportunity for revenge. Artaher’s resentment against me and my brothers is surely deep and genuine enough, but this letter of his clearly is written by a man who does not wish to join the fight in any case. If you offer him a sentence against Tyelkormo and Curufinwe now, after so much time has passed and after he has already refused to fight, it will very clearly be a bribe—and the chances are he will accept  the bribe and still refuse to fight.

 I suppose it was always a risk inherent in these fastnesses away from the front line. They are indeed comparatively safe, but their inhabitants are tempted to think that they are safer than they are and trust in them too much. It makes them reluctant to engage in battle on the borders. If rumour is true, then at least some of the reluctance Artaher is showing is due to Curufinwe’s rhetoric. My little brother wields a skilful tongue, when he wishes to, and, if this is really all his doing, he has done us damage indeed. But I can hardly believe he could have achieved all this by himself. It must have been growing on them even before...

 Thingol, too... He ventured no further than Brethil, at the time of the Bragollach and its aftermath. Two of his nephews died, the other two were in mortal danger, and he did nothing to help them. He may not have had news in time, but still—why didn’t he?

 Of course, it would suit me to believe all this. Clearly, I would like anyone except the sons of Feanaro to be at fault. So you may wish to discount it.

 On the other hand, the events have clearly proved that I’m not as much in control of my brothers and their followers as I flattered myself. If I attempted to lay hand on Tyelkormo and Curufinwe and deliver them over to you, I might be able to do it without bloodshed—or I might not. I am certain I could not do it without severely damaging my credibility in East Beleriand. Even more so, if I tried, and failed.  And any of these scenarios will in turn reflect on my efforts to establish a strong alliance in the east.

 To believe this, of course, does not suit me quite so well. It hardly does credit to my’—he grimaces slightly—‘forceful and charismatic personality. However, since, when presented with a choice between my vanity and my brothers, I will choose my brothers every time—you may still wish to discount it.’

 He has not looked at me once during all this.

 ‘I might be inclined to accept at least some of your reasoning, actually’, I say.

 His eyes pass over me, unfocussed.

 ‘Yes’, he says, in a tone that seems to mean no or at least I haven’t a clue what you just said, and then:

 ‘So do you want to break off?’

 ‘Do I want to break off? This letter has shaken you really badly, hasn’t it? Did you have so much confidence that I would be able to persuade Artaher, when he sent back your letters unopened?’

 ‘I very much hoped... As for confidence—no.  And it is not so much the letter that has shaken me, as your question and my answer to it. Although...’, he frowns at the letter and quotes rather painfully: ‘...beloved cousin, I regret to see you swayed by the subtle persuasions of a son of Feanaro to put yourself needlessly at risk in this manner...’

 ‘When I read that earlier,’ I said, ‘I thought that I must make allowances for Artaher. Now that you are quoting him at me, I wonder why I shouldn’t simply feel insulted.’

 ‘Insulted?’, he asks me, consideringly.

 He isn’t usually so slow on the uptake.

 ‘You’ve had your head turned by Artaher’s indiscriminate flattery, Russandol. He clearly is a great believer in your “forceful and charismatic personality”.  Do you truly think that I agreed with your plan because you talked me into it?’

 ‘I sometimes talk a great deal.’

 He attempts a faint smile and fails.

 ‘You sometimes talk a great deal too much—except when you hardly talk at all. But, Russandol, which of us two would have lost his last battle against Morgoth, if he hadn’t fortunately happened to be in the right geographical position to be saved by Cirdan?’

 It seems I’ve finally regained all of his attention. He’s really listening now.

 ‘Russandol, if we break this off, what are our other options? You go home to Himring, I stay here—and we wait for Morgoth to get over whatever temporary dismay the loss of a Silmaril and the fall of Tol-in-Gaurhoth caused him? If you believe loss of credibility and the crumbling of your eastern alliance would follow if you tried to lay hand on Tyelkormo, what would such a clear admission of defeat and resignation do? Would your alliance not fall apart?

 I fear Morgoth will come between us again, and we will be as islands in a black sea. Hithlum was much weakened in the Bragollach and in the events that followed it. If it were not the case that the losses of the Edain were fewer and they recovered more quickly, if there was not Hurin to lead them, I would not even be able to consider attacking now. We spent much time discussing ways of improving our defence, you and I, but do you think what we came up with is enough?  If I sit still and wait for Morgoth to attack me when it suits him, do I not run the risk of being overrun while Artaher is still wringing his hands? As for Cirdan, his mariners will not venture far from their ships.

 And are there any other options? Should I abandon Hithlum? It would go hard with me, it would go hard with all of us, after all the years we have spent defending it. Already I’ve sent the children south, after the Bragollach, but that was in the hope that the south would be safe while we defended the north.  Where would we go—leaving, in any case, Nargothrond right in the path of the enemy, for I do not see Artaher admitting us into Nargothrond?  There is little else to the south of here that is truly defensible, nothing that is more defensible than the line of the Ered Wethrin.’

 I pause for breath, a little surprised to find myself making an impassioned speech of this kind to an audience of one. Russandol is silent.

 ‘Russandol, have we fought this like a war we meant to win? Why did we wait for Morgoth to do this to us? Why did we not attack after the Aglareb or when the Edain first allied themselves with us? I know we discussed it at the time. If we do not attack now, when will we do so?'

‘I don’t know’, he answers me. ‘Your father wanted us to attack. I thought: Just a little longer. We’ve waited so long already. We might be a little stronger still. Give the Edain a little time to flourish. Maybe, after all, Thingol... Maybe Nogrod...'

`Do you think the Doom might be in some ways a self-fulfilling prophecy?’

 `Turukano would say you had been spending too much time with heretics. But then Turukano seems to believe that the Valar will reverse the Doom, if we only ask nicely enough. I would have thought that was heretical itself, but it is not my side of the family that talks to eagles.’

 I look at him sharply. I do not like that listless tone of voice. It seems most unlike him.

 ‘Russandol, is it I who am trying to persuade you to do something you do not wish to do, now?’

 His eyes are half-closed.

 ‘Bear with me, cousin’, he says quietly. ‘It was...is my plan. I do not wish to sit in Himring again, surrounded by a sea of orcs, and wonder what has become of you and whether you are even still alive. And as soon as I’ve walked out of this room, I will have absolute faith in the plan, because I must, because both of us must, if we are to carry it off. But I am not, like you, valiant. Permit me a few moments of shivering cowardice...’

 I chew my lip worriedly. He’s sitting in that chair as if he had studied a diagram in an artist’s manual, labelled the elf prince, enthroned. Back and neck straight, arms neatly on arm rests, all right angles, neat and symmetrical, face completely expressionless.

‘Russandol?’

He does not answer.

‘Russandol?’

I get up and walk around him, standing behind his chair. I reach out and touch the bare skin inside his collar, between neck and collarbone. It is cool to the touch. I leave my fingers there to warm it. He does not move. Gently, I press my palm against his shoulder. Hard like rock, as if he were literally petrified.

But is this, even, fear? Isn’t this more like some kind of pre-emptive self-punishment—clenched in anticipated pain? I recall what he said to me, as he clung to me in the darkness. Just not. Is that it? So quickly, so completely, so unilaterally disqualified?

‘Maitimo, I still disagree. That hasn’t changed. Do you hear me? I disagree strongly!’

Has he understood me? I have to wait for what seems like a very long time. Then, gradually, his shoulder yields to my touch. He turns his head slightly, and there is the barest hint of contact between my wrist and his cheek.

‘It seems’, he whispers, ‘you do.’

Once, in Mithrim, as I watched over his sleep, he slipped into nightmare. Seeing how distressed he was, I bent over him and tried to wake him. He lurched upright and grabbed my arm. His eyes were dilated.

 ‘Yes, please, take me away from them!’, he cried.

 The fear in his eyes and his voice was so compelling that instead of my drawing him out, he pulled me in.

 ‘Can I?’, I asked him anxiously.

 He began to look confused, the dream breaking up around him.

 ‘I don’t know’, he murmured. ‘I don’t even know which of them...who I mean.’

 Then he became fully awake and aware. He lowered his eyes and carefully prised his fingers out of the flesh of my lower arm. Lying down again, he turned his head away from me, as if denying the whole incident. We never referred to it again.

Chapter End Notes

Fingon's musings about the High Kingship take Oshun's comments on the use of that title in the Silmarillion (see the Reference section on this site in her bio of Turgon) as their starting point, but the rather uncanonical interpretation is mine...

The suggestion that there was a general evacuation of children from Hithlum after the Dagor Bragollach (rather than just Gil-Galad being sent to the Havens) is, I believe, originally ford_of_bruinen's (in Memories of Findekano), but I am by no means certain of that.

Orodreth is Artaher here rather than Artaresto or Artanaro, because I couldn't make up my mind which of his Quenya names to choose, but found that Dawn seemed to have used Artaher in one of her stories about Caranthir. Later I changed my mind again and went with Artaresto.