View From the Top by Himring

Chapter 1

[Note on Names: Russandol is a family nick-name for Maedhros and Maitimo is his mother name. Turukano is the Quenya form of Turgon.]

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Fingon:

All the way up the mountain, there had been intermittent showers, each leaving off as suddenly as it had begun. The rain had not troubled us; it was not heavy enough to turn the steep, winding path into slippery mud or impede us in any other way. The steady breeze dried our clothing, and the exercise kept us warm; the perishable items in our packs were well wrapped.

When we reached the topmost meadow above the tree line, the sun came out again and light glinted on bits of quartz embedded in the bare rock looming above. Russandol sat on a boulder and studied the view that was the official reason I had brought him up here. I, still very much the host, although we were far away from any elven or human habitation, crouched down beside him on a patch of grass and began rummaging for the provisions I had packed. 

We had been visiting Hurin at Nen Lalaith to do him honour and take counsel with him and then had gone on to speak with Annael and to inspect the maintenance work I had ordered done on the Gate of the Noldor into Nevrast. I did not wish to neglect our plans for retreat any more than those for defense or attack, even though reinforcements could no longer be expected from that direction: Turukano’s city of Vinyamar had long stood empty. The result of the inspection proved unexpectedly satisfactory; the Noldorin craftsmen I had sent had made good progress and the Sindar were collaborating to conceal all traces of their work.

Standing before the hidden entrance at the foot of the Ered Lomin, I said to Annael: ‘Of course, with luck, we will never need it.’

As I spoke, my gaze lifted up towards the peaks of the seaward mountains, and I remembered suddenly that during none of the happy hours I had spent exploring those heights, when our realm was secure for a time and its landscapes still unfamiliar, had I had Russandol’s company. He had had his own exploring to do out East of course, but those had also been the days when his company had been difficult to gain, easily lost, like that of a migratory bird that will alight on your hand but take flight at any sudden movement. Now, however, when I suggested a bit of mountain-walking, he readily agreed, demurring only when he realized I meant us to go alone. I laughed off his concerns about security, asking him whether he thought his swordsmanship would not be enough to defend us from marmots and mountain goats, and he quickly gave in.

We had made good speed on the way up, taking few breaks and talking little. Up here, most of the manifold noises of Dor-lomin were dimmed except for the deep ground-swell of rock and stone. Listening to its music, I felt the sounds I made rummaging in my pack were hectic and minute by comparison, like the scrabbling of a mouse. The air up here was cool, although the sun was now fully out and very bright.

‘The view is all you said it was’, said Russandol.

It was a marvellous view. The wind was driving fragments of rain cloud across Hithlum and, as they alternated with patches of sunlight in quick succession, first one feature of the landscape, then another, were lit up as upon a stage, while others receded into shadow or were briefly blanketed in greyness.

‘Look’, I said, ‘there is Drengist; the sunlight flashes off the waters of the firth. There was a glimpse of Lake Mithrim a moment ago, through a cleft in the mountains above Androth, but now it is hidden by that bit of cloud there. There is the river and our bridge, the one we crossed two weeks ago; you can just about see it in the gap between the beech trees, can’t you? And over there is Amon Darthir; that glitter just below the peak is the reflection off a small glacier. You cannot see Hurin’s manor house below, beyond that hill, but you can see the extent of his corn fields.’

He had probably spotted all these things for himself already, but I enjoyed pointing them out to him. He swivelled around a little on his boulder, his gaze following the direction of my pointing finger.

‘The harvest should be very good this year’, I continued. ‘There was a great hail storm three years ago that ruined many of the crops, but so far this year the weather has been mild.’

‘Hurin has done you proud’, said Russandol. ‘Dor-lomin is flourishing.’

It was. The general mood in Dor-lomin was quite different from that of my kin to the north and the east, who were still, decades later, reeling from the shock of the Dagor Bragollach and constantly being reminded of it by the pin-pricks of Morgoth’s minor attacks. Although the men of Dor-lomin continued to fight with us in the skirmishes on the borders of Hithlum and inevitably suffered losses, they did so in the consciousness that their homes, being further west, were not in immediate danger any more. And besides they remembered their part in the recent wars as victorious—as indeed it had been, thanks to Hurin.

‘Hurin is amazing’, I said.

I thought of the man, as I had seen him a short while ago when we took leave of him on the bridge over Nen Lalaith, beaming with pride, his daughter on his arm. I found Hurin both humbling and inspiring. Like me, he had in turn lost his grandfather and father to Morgoth, but his courage and faith were undiminished. The House of Hador had surely been associated with us long enough now to become aware of our imperfections. And yet, speaking to Hurin, it became possible to believe that we were not simply flailing, mired in the consequences of past errors, that we had not merely bribed the Edain with a few textbooks and bits of land to consent to die in our cause: that we were not merely struggling for survival, but truly fighting for the Light…

‘It was good to see Morwen surrounded by members of her family again’, said Russandol, quietly.

Morwen, of course, might well have a different view of things than Hurin, although she would never say so. I looked up at Russandol and gave myself a mental shake. I had not brought him up here to meditate on the fate of the House of Beor.  Wars, past, present and future, could wait until we went back down. So I simply nodded and dove into my pack again, finally finding the small earthenware jar that I had sought. I opened it and began slathering honey liberally on a chunk of rye bread with a spoon. Then I handed it to Russandol.

‘Try this.’

He looked a bit bemused at the change of subject, but accepted the piece of bread without protest. Brushing a wisp of hair that had blown across his mouth away with his stump, he took a bite and gave the matter his full consideration, chewing slowly and carefully. I opened my mouth, but restrained myself.

He took another bite and, giving me an amused, sideways look, went on chewing with great concentration. Clearly, he was not going to allow himself to be hurried; maybe he was even intentionally teasing me by drawing things out. But I would not let myself be provoked. I stowed the jar and spoon securely away and settled down to watch.

I waited until he had finished off the whole chunk in three bites and swallowed the last crumb before asking him: ‘It is good, isn’t it?’

He smiled down at me, then, and said with great conviction: ‘It is very good indeed.’

I had meant: This is honey produced by the bees of Arinye and Oloriel. It has a wonderful texture and a strong, but delicate flavour. It tastes of the chestnut groves in the valley in the Ered Wethrin where they live.

He meant: The honey is excellent—and so is the bread. Dor-lomin is beautiful; I am glad that the land that you love is doing well. And I am grateful that I am allowed to be here, now, with you.

I reached out and plucked his sleeve, just a hint, the tiniest of tugs. I had learned that, if I had needed to, I could just have grabbed his arm and yanked him down off his boulder and, miraculously, that would have been all right, too. But he had been with me for more than two weeks and, although I had had to keep my hands to myself for most of the time in front of witnesses, just having him with me had made me relax enough to want to do things his way, today.

It did not require much exercise of patience at all. There was that familiar moment of stillness, then a brief flurry of precise, near-silent movement, and he was kneeling next to me on the grass, facing me. I ran my fingers up his arm. The linen of his shirt was still damp with the rain, but his skin was warm with the sun. I felt his hand settle on my hip.

In those wide grey eyes, I saw all the light, all the shadows.

‘Maitimo.’

His lips parted under mine and I tasted the lingering flavour of honey. It was, as he had said, very good indeed.

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Chapter End Notes

 

Arinye (acute on the first vowel as it is long, but I don't do diacritics) is a possible translation of Dawn as a female name, according to Pixellated Feanor. I hope he is right. The name is Quenya, as is Oloriel; those two bee-keepers are both Noldorin!

This story is set about two weeks after my story Bridge in Dor-Lomin (that is, the second and later half of that story).

The title, apart from its more obvious significance, is also an obscure allusion to a Cat Stevens song, as in: in this case, not "sad and lonely".