Racing Down the Mindon by Himring

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Chapter 1

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I woke up early when the mingling of the lights had only just begun.  My head ached vilely, as if I had a hangover, but I was sure I hadn’t had all that much to drink. It was simply an effect of the infernal company at that reception—or party, whatever—yesterday and perhaps also of my claustrophobia at having to sleep in one of those damned rabbit-hutches they called bedchambers at the palace. A good thing I’d left Huan at home; he wouldn’t have been able to turn around in here without knocking the lamp off the bedside table with his tail. I groaned, crawled out of bed and splashed my face with cold water.

 

My emergence from the bedchamber was met with tacit disapproval by a number of servants busied about Nelyo’s apartment. The palace was the kind of place where it was expected that the nobles should stay in bed late so that they weren’t underfoot when any real work got done on the premises. But it seemed that Nelyo kept antisocial hours, too, for when I went scouting for him, he was not in his chamber, awake or asleep. One of the haughty servants relented and told me that her master usually started the day by climbing the Mindon. I wondered whether Nelyo had told her himself; it seemed a little unlikely. Gossip, no doubt, Tirion being easily the world capital of gossip.

 

Well, I wasn’t going to hang around here being disapproved of until Nelyo decided to come back. I made my escape into the streets. Out here, it was a matter of dodging carts, heavily laden with fresh vegetables and fruits for the palace kitchens and those of noble households. Way too many people crammed into insufficient space—I wondered how Nelyo could stand this all the time. But as I reached the Mindon and started climbing the steps, my mood improved. This was more like it, a bit of vigorous exercise and a bit of solitude. It was quite a climb, too. Clearly, nobody in their right minds would be visiting the top of the Mindon at this unearthly hour. Good on you, Nelyo.

 

I finally reached the top, and Nelyo was there, leaning against the parapet and looking out through the Calacirya.  He acknowledged my arrival with a brief nod. Then he went back to gazing east again, where, faintly, Alqualonde and, beyond it, the Sea could be distinguished. I gulped fresh air and revelled in the sense of space opening up all around me. Ah, better. My headache had gone. Tirion almost looked good, from such a long way up. From here, I could have spat right down into the market square. Better not even consider it, with Nelyo right next to me.

 

Nelyo’s silence was beginning to seem pointed, and I thought I knew why. Attack is the best form of defence, though, so I said: ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but I can tell it isn’t working.’

 

He turned around, listening.

 

‘These people don’t like you, Nelyo. And I can tell you don’t really like them, either.’

 

‘At the moment, I’m not liking anybody very much’, he replied, flatly.

 

Ouch. Best to ignore the implied compliment.

 

‘No wonder, considering who you spend your time with these days. Do you know I met Findekano in the street yesterday, with Angarato and Aikanaro, and he had to ask me, of all people, how you were?’

 

This gambit clearly threw Nelyo a bit. I’m not known for championing Findekano.

 

‘I’m sure Findekano is highly displeased with all of us just now, including me, but he doesn’t think that we’re conspiring to expel him or his father from Tirion.’ Nelyo hesitated, looking worried. ‘At least, I don’t think he does.’

 

‘For what it’s worth, he was fairly polite to me. So that’s what those old fogies think? What is the big plan, then? You are trying to convince them that you’re the one good Feanorion and that you will protect them from the evil the rest of us are plotting?’

 

 ‘No, even more futile than that’, said Nelyo tiredly. ‘I’m trying to convince them that underneath our rough exteriors and occasional bad manners we all have hearts of gold and that Atar, in particular, is positively cuddly, if they only knew him better.’

 

I hooted with laughter. ‘Atar? Cuddly?’

 

He smiled, which made him look sad. ‘Atar may never have been exactly cuddly, but you know he wasn’t always as he is now... And, no, they weren’t buying it, not even before you arrived and went and did your wild hunter man act. Why didn’t you bring a whole pack of hounds and take pot shots at the oil paintings, while you were about it?’

 

‘I was being impossible, as usual’, I admitted frankly. ‘But you know you’re rather fond of your pesky little brother, anyway.’

 

One heartbeat, two. That slight familiar lurch of panic.

 

Then Nelyo smiled once more, a small smile, but a real one, and said: ‘Very true’.

 

I felt a sick surge of relief—and, as always, fervently promised myself not to try his patience quite as hard again. Then I took a deep breath and launched my appeal.

 

‘Nelyo, come home. You’re not doing yourself any good here. You can’t do anything with these people; you’ve just admitted it yourself. They’re not like us.  And if I have to listen to one more of Atar’s rants about how his heir has been seduced by the fleshpots of Tirion or whatever it is you’re supposed to have been seduced by, I swear I’ll go crazy and run off into the forest, howling like a wolf...’ And I miss having you around. We all do.

 

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. But looking at his face, I could see stubborn determination and sighed. On the whole, I approve of Nelyo’s stubbornness. It’s the obverse of his patience and I suppose it is one of his main survival qualities—and in the household of Feanaro, survival qualities were definitely required, not to speak of all that’s happened since. To be honest, any elder brother of mine would probably need excellent survival skills.

 

Just then, though, Nelyo’s stubbornness was proving very inconvenient. I was worried. Some of these effete Tirionese might actually affect a world-weary air as a matter of chic, but not Nelyo. I didn’t like what I had been seeing in him this during this visit at all.

 

‘Okay’, I said, yielding to another spur-of-the-moment impulse, ‘race you down, then.’

 

I turned on my heel and started running down the winding stair—giving myself an unfair head start, but that wasn’t the point. The point, of course, was not to give Nelyo the time to refuse. Risky tactics—I wasn’t at all sure whether I’d be able to hear him coming after me.

 

Down, down, down. As I went, I silently fumed at the damned cheek of these cronies of Uncle Nolofinwe and Turukano who dared to give my brother a hard time. Who did they think they were, stiff as ramrods in their equally stiff robes of brocade? He was Prince Nelyafinwe Maitimo! He shouldn’t even deign to give them the time of day, let alone be bending over backwards to soothe their stupid fears. We can wear Nelyo out very well ourselves, we don’t need you do it for us, thank you very much!

 

Down, down and down—round and round and round. I was listening for steps behind me, but any sound Nelyo’s feet might be making on the stairs was drowned out by the sound of my own. I was gathering speed as I ran.

 

Down and round, down and round. Of course, Uncle Nolofinwe and Turukano must be behind this. Two-a-farthing nobility like that wouldn’t even dare venture an opinion about the proper arrangement of a toilet seat without asking for sanction from above, let alone about Feanaro and his sons. What did my uncle and my cousin think to gain by encouraging them in such stupidity?

 

Down, down and down, and now the centrifugal force of my speed had properly caught me. I was having to push myself away from the handrail to stop myself ricocheting off it. Bloody politics. Grandfather ought to put a stop to it. This was the sort of thing that went on in towns, which is why I hated them. Cram people into rabbit hutches, and politics is what you get. And lots of people telling you what to do.

 

Down, down, down, and now my head was beginning to spin. It was a good thing that respectable citizens didn’t climb the Mindon this early in the morning. If I’d met one coming up as I was going down, at the speed I was going, I wouldn’t have been able to stop in time to keep myself from flattening him. Grandfather wouldn’t be pleased if I flattened one of his citizens. Uncle Nolofinwe would tell him I told you so.

 

Down and round, down and round. Respectable citizens.  Keep telling you what to do. Keep expecting things. You are your grandfather’s grandson. Do this, do that—don’t go running off into the forest! Who ever heard of a Noldorin prince chasing after animals, except as an occasional pastime? Behave! Grow up! We’re not respectable citizens. I’m not.

 

Down, down... Atar, too. And just as that treacherous thought occurred to me, I lost my footing. I stumbled, almost regained my balance, lost it completely, slid and knew that I was about to plunge headlong down the stairwell. And Nelyo wasn’t behind me. He wasn’t!

 

But an iron grip caught my elbow and stopped me from hurtling straight down. We hit the wall, both of us, with bruising force and bounced off it. My impetus was too great. I’d pulled him off balance, too, and now we were both tumbling down the stairs, somehow managing to remain more or less upright, as sometimes one, sometimes the other of us regained his footing, then lost it again. I caught hold of the rail at one point, but had to let it go.

 

The last step took us by surprise and almost did for us. Suddenly we were on level ground and, together, we stumbled straight through the open gateway and out into the square, where citizens were setting up market stalls. We almost cannoned into the nearest one, before we managed to come to a halt. The market vendors stared in shock at two princes of Tirion behaving like hooligans.

 

 Nelyo let go of my elbow. He looked at me quizzically and shook his hair out of his eyes. Then, only a few yards from where we both would swear our lives away some years later, he laughed.

 

As we were walking through the streets together back to Nelyo’s apartment—I was patting myself on the back, because Nelyo was looking so much better, so much more alive!—he said to me: ‘You’re wrong, you know.’

 

‘I’m wrong? How am I wrong?’

 

‘They’re not like us, you said. You think that is the reason why we find it difficult to get on with them. I think you’ve been listening to Atar venting about Vanyarin influence and haven’t noticed the inconsistency of his argument.’

 

‘Inconsistency?’

 

‘Think! Of course Atar disapproves of Indis right down to the ground, but has he ever actually quarrelled with her?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Of Indis’s descendants, which do you think is the most Vanyarin?’

 

‘Uncle Arafinwe, I suppose, or perhaps Artaher or Findarato... Yes, I begin to see what you mean.’

 

‘Vanyar bore Atar to tears; he couldn’t be bothered to quarrel with them. The reason we can’t get on with each other is that we are too much alike...’

 

***

 

Between sleeping and waking, I’m haunted by something that is half dream, half memory. I am very young and Atar is teaching me to walk, holding my hand and praising me as I manage to totter a few steps. I’m very proud of myself. Suddenly Atar is distracted, lets go of my hand and simply disappears. I’m left all alone, without anything to hang on to, swaying desperately and about to fall flat on my face, when Nelyo comes up quickly from behind and scoops me up.

 

Actually, I’m almost certain this is a false memory. I don’t think it ever happened, but I guess other things did. The point is, as I dream or remember this event again and again, it is impossible to be angry with Atar for letting go. Atar is a genius. If you knew him, you would understand. In the dream I know that Nelyo’s somewhere behind me and is going to catch me, but always, before he arrives, there’s the fear that this time he won’t, that this is the time he’ll let me fall. But then, always, he’s there and I’m safe. Only, in the gap between, anger builds...

 

***

 

Nelyo turns away from the smouldering wrecks and walks up the beach. I see his face and feel a stab of resentment. All this fuss about Findekano. Somehow, I’ve never quite got over my childish jealousy of Findekano at the time when Atar first made Nelyo his teacher and Nelyo clearly enjoyed those lessons so much more than teaching me. Probably because Findekano forgave me so very generously for my bad behaviour, as if he was sure enough of Nelyo that he could afford to.

 

Except, I guess, he couldn’t really have been, could he? And then I remember that this is not just about Findekano, this is about Irisse and Artanis and—everybody else, all stuck over there between some very pissed-off Valar and the outsize ice cubes of Hell’s Cocktail...

 

Oh.

 

Oh shit.