The House that Fingon Built by Himring

Chapter 5

Fourth Age

I found I did not, after all, wish to dream myself back into the innocence of childhood, as if all that had happened since then, hopelessly entangled as it had been with guilt and pain, had only been an aberration. Only, in Beleriand it seemed memory could find no foothold at all. During lonely evenings in Barad Eithel, I had been able to rest my mind on the thought of you in Himring, sitting at your desk and writing, talking to Makalaure, inspecting the guards on the walls, thinking of me— thinking of me, as I was thinking of you… I had not been there and seen it, of course, but I had been left in no doubt: the only ones who held court in Barad Eithel these days were shoals of fish, and of the great fortress of Himring, all that remained was above sea level was a bit of bare rock.  Whenever I tried to remember the way we were, the way we had been, the way back seemed to be barred by fire and deep water.

In any case, it was not the past I mourned so much as the future we had never quite had. There had simply been far, far too few occasions when I had had a chance to ask you those mundane questions: what you were going to have for breakfast, how your day had gone—all the humdrum details of a life together. Beside that profound lack and loneliness, the nagging, persistent ache which kept me awake in bed at night was merely a sad little counterpoint, maddening as it was.

If I had been a Vanya, I might have prayed for a year or two, fasting on a rock. If I had been a Teler, I might have composed an epic in twenty-four cantos or gone on a long solitary voyage down the coast. I was a Noldo, however, so I felt impelled to build something.

At first, of course, it was to be a towering monument, a public statement. I would correct the false perception of you among our people, for surely if anybody deserved to be called a hero of the war against Morgoth, you did, too! Whatever errors you had made in the beginning, however you had despaired in the end—how could all those years in between, all that tireless effort and courage in adversity simply have been forgotten?

In a spirit of staunch defiance, I began to design a huge memorial, Numenorean style. If the Noldor were blind to the truth, I would make them see it! But as I bent over the drawing-board, it was as if you stepped up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, as if you took one look at my sketch of a giant-size statue of Nelyafinwe Maitimo, the great warrior of sad and noble mien, in full paraphernalia—having no great talent as a sculptor myself, I had based it on an illustration of Isildur’s statue at the Argonath—and as if you said just a single word: No.

That complete rejection of my scheme, so firmly delivered, carried with it such a strong sense of your presence that involuntarily I craned my head backward as if you were truly there and reachable by physical means. Longing clogged my throat. Tears started in my eyes. I nodded, as if you could see me, ripped the sheet off the drawing board and discarded it, to start afresh.

My next idea was to make the building an act of restitution, for there was, after all, no denying that many people had suffered, had indeed suffered greatly, both as a consequence of your mistakes and through the crimes you had allowed yourself to be driven to commit. The Nelyafinwe Hospital? The Maitimo Foundation for Neglected Children? Even in Valinor, by no means as unnecessary as one might imagine.

This time, it was as if you spoke to me and said: Findekano, what can you be thinking of? You are a grandchild of Finwe! If you are aware of people in Tirion who are in need of medical help, if you are aware of neglected children, go and do something about it! Help them! What have I—or my name—got to do with it?

You have to do with everything I do!, I protested, silently.

Upon this, I perceived nothing of denial, merely felt my sense of your presence receding again, no matter how hard I tried to hold on to it. And so at last I understood that it was I myself who was your living monument and your memorial, I myself on whom all the restitution depended that you could still make, and that what I needed to build was a house for myself where I could become what I was now, a home where I could live with my memories of you.

***

Unlike my attempts at designing monumental statues and hospital wings, I found myself actually enjoying it. It might be futile to be harrying masons to make the lintels high enough so that you could walk underneath without ducking, but it gave me a chance to remember exactly how tall you were and to imagine you walking through those doors. Each decision and choice made with you in mind—from the location of the house all the way down to the colour and material of the curtains—served to remind me of your tastes and preferences, your habits and your looks, for I realized I knew things about you such as in which corner you would like to sit, what kind of chair you would consider comfortable, and I picked colours that you would like or that would go well with a particular shade of red…

And even after the house was furnished, I went shopping for you. I discovered in myself a desire to shower you with small gifts that, for one reason or other, I had never been able to indulge to my heart’s content. Now I shamelessly browsed the stalls of booksellers for hours on end, looking for books you would want to read. I spent whole days in the workshops of various crafts, hunting small bits and pieces: the perfect pen, the perfect comb, the perfect tea pot.

I did not buy the hair clasp. It was made of copper filigree and it, too, was perfect in its way. The face of the young coppersmith fell when she realized that Prince Findekano did not mean to buy it after all.

‘I am sorry, Mistress’, I said. ‘If I bought it, it would only lie hid, sitting in a drawer. Your piece is too good to deserve such a fate.’

She clearly was puzzled by this and not entirely convinced.

‘You see’, I explained, ‘it reminds me of a piece a cousin of mine once made for his brother.’

I feared she might be offended by this explanation, as implying that her work was not entirely original. Instead, her face was a study in realization.

‘You mean the copper circlet that Prince Curufinwe made for Nelyafinwe Maitimo!’

Clearly, she was thrilled. I could see that she was already planning to let it be known to everyone that Prince Findekano had compared her work to that of Feanaro’s most skilful son. Whatever reputation the Feanorians had acquired otherwise, obviously they still made for good advertising. You would have been pleased, I thought; her handling of her craft deserved praise.

I started back home; a slightly hollow feeling in my chest told me I was done shopping. My task was accomplished. How I would have loved to be able to open that clasp and gently push it into your hair and fasten it, then hold the mirror so that you could admire the effect and smile your thanks.

***

Now, as I stand at the gate of my house, our house, watching Findarato walking away from me down the street, you are everywhere. As long as I keep my back turned, you are sitting in that arbour in the front garden, reading one of the books I bought for you, for I chose a bench that would be long enough for your legs and planted a vine so that it would shade your face as you read. When I enter a room, it is always as if you have only just left. My love, I do think I have succeeded in re-colonizing Valinor for both of us.

I am going to Tol Eressea tomorrow. As mourning gradually eased its grip on me, I realized that Arafinwe has a more difficult job ruling the Noldor than I understood at first. Our people, after thousands of years, are still a nation divided by memory. There are those who never left Tirion in the first place, those who only set foot in Beleriand during the War of Wrath and witnessed its destruction, those who left and returned after the drowning of Beleriand, weighed down by their long defeat, and those who did not return from the shores of Middle-Earth until much, much later. There are also those who, one by one, return from the Halls of Mandos. If, for a while, it looked to me as if I was the only one feeling alienated, it was partly because the alienated are much less likely to frequent the palace of Tirion. I have no desire to rule, but I think that, maybe, Arafinwe can use my assistance in mediating among all these factions. I will have to go and see—keeping an eye out for those who need medical help and any neglected children on the way, for I am, after all, a grandchild of Finwe.

Meanwhile this house will be here waiting for my return, remembering you for me when I forget. For I will need to forget you just a little, my love, in order to live and go on doing what you would want me to do. For a long, long time, it will be only me, reading those books I bought, sitting at that desk and using that perfect pen, drinking tea out of that perfect tea-pot. A long, long wait, my heart—until one day, maybe, I can take you by the hand and lead you across the threshold, turn to you and say, as you regard me in silent wonder:

‘Look! Do you see? I built it for you.’