Just and Equitable Government by Himring

Prologue

A long time afterwards, in Tirion

Read Prologue

 

Community is entered upon to the benefit of all and demands sacrifices from everyone. Yet be aware that each sacrifice weakens as much as strengthens the community. Do not say, then, of the discontent: ‘They are fools; ignore them. Those who cannot see the benefits of the community do not deserve them.’ It is their discontent that will confound you, if you take no account of it.

From: Principles of Just and Equitable Government (III. ii. 17)

 

Maedhros’s finger tips hover over the volumes neatly aligned on the book shelf and come to rest on Principles of Just and Equitable Government by Tatiel Rumille. Fingon, watching him, feels a moment of doubt. Maybe he should not have kept it there. After all it cannot mean the same thing to Maedhros as it does to him—and might he not take it as a kind of reproach? Not a personal reproach from Fingon, of course, his cousin knows him better than that…

Maedhros pulls the volume out and weighs it in his hand, in the way of one who knows a book too well to need to open it and check its contents.

‘I copied a sizable chunk of it out again from memory, you know’, he says, after a while. ‘I wrote down all the bits and pieces I remembered for use in the school room in Himring—with annotations, naturally.’ The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. ‘That volume would have burnt with the rest, I’m sure.’

‘You never mentioned it to me’, says Fingon.

‘Didn’t I? I was too ashamed, probably. Certainly I would have been ashamed.’ Maedhros fixes his eyes on Fingon’s. ‘But I couldn’t let shame stand in the way of education, could I?’

‘No,’ says Fingon. ‘You couldn’t, not you.’

Maedhros looks at the volume in his hand, then at Fingon. He scans the contents of the book shelf.  He looks around the room, studies the desk, the carpet, the curtains, and finally looks at Fingon’s quietly anxious face again. It is all far too good to be true, but that is basically what he has always felt about Fingon and, given half a chance, Fingon has always proved him wrong.

‘You did say that you had been waiting for me’, he says and falls silent.

---

Chapter End Notes

Tatiel Rumille is intended to be a descendant of Tata and Tatie, who is related to Rumil on the mother's side.

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

Unfortunately, the message arrives in the middle of the evening meal.  Turukano says nothing but sets down his goblet on the table so violently that half the contents splash over his hand.

Nolofinwe, seated on the other side of Findekano, exclaims: ‘This is too bad! How much more of your time do they expect to take up, I ask you?’

In point of fact, of seven Sons of Feanor, six have not, up until this moment, made even the slightest demands on his time since his return from Thangorodrim, Findekano thinks, and the seventh did not exactly invite him to stay for tea either. It would not be a good idea to mention this just now, though. The notion that Findekano has spent all that time on the other side of the lake virtually unsolicited would incense his father even further.

‘May I be excused, Father?’, Findekano asks quietly, and Nolofinwe nods, grudgingly.

Outside, Findekano discovers that Makalaure has not actually entered the camp. The guard waiting at the entrance informs him that Prince Makalaure decided he would prefer to wait by the shore of the lake, outside the perimeter, until the time when it might be convenient for Prince Findekano to see him. Findekano hesitates, makes an impatient gesture, then quickly strides towards the spot where his cousin is waiting. There is nothing to be gained by ceremony. It will only lay them open to interference.

It is darker by the lake shore than he expected; a small stand of trees and the surrounding shrubbery bar most of the light emanating from the camp so that the place is chiefly lit by the reflection off the lake’s surface, Makalaure outlined against it in silhouette. It seems Makalaure has come almost alone; apart from a guard further off who is holding the reins of two horses there is nobody about.

‘Makalaure?’, Fingon  asks, uneasily.

There is a pause before Makalaure answers, long enough for Findekano to feel the need to tell himself firmly that it has no deeper significance and merely shows the sense of drama to be expected in an excellent performer.

‘Findekano’, his cousin finally says. Another over-dramatic pause… Will he get on with it, whatever it is he has to say? ‘Findekano, after what you have done already—after what we have done—we have absolutely no right, no right whatever, to ask anything more of you. ‘

It is Findekano’s turn to be silent. Does “we”, he wonders, mean “we six” or “we seven”? But he is not going to ask.

‘The thing is…’, Makalaure continues, ‘he has decided that you are not coming back.’

So it means “we six”.

‘I’m not’, says Findekano simply and hears Makalaure exhale sharply.

‘Findekano…’

‘I’m not. Why should I? I’m not wanted there.  He prefers your company.’

I don’t believe this, he thinks. All this—all this that has happened! And here I am, sulking because my cousin does not like me anymore.

‘You know better than that!’, says Makalaure—for all the world reprovingly, as if he had failed an elementary lesson.

‘Do I?’

‘If he avoids railing at me, Findekano, the way he rails at you, it is because he fears I would take it as a reproach for not trying to rescue him. And he is right: I would. I do.’

So I am the only one Russandol is so thoroughly indebted to that he feels free to insult me? A true honour—thank you so much for the suggestion, Makalaure!

Findekano bites his lip. There is a subject he has not brought up with Makalaure before. What does he stand to gain by doing so now? But somehow he cannot help it.

‘Tyelkormo said he didn’t take part in burning the ships.’                         

Yet another of those annoying pauses—pregnant with meaning…

‘You heard that, did you? I didn’t think you were listening.’

‘I wasn’t. I heard it anyway.’

 ‘Does it matter? I know that already there are plenty of your father’s people saying that, whatever he said and did, clearly it wasn’t good enough—proof enough that the ships burned nevertheless.’

Those who are saying that include Turukano, of course.

‘It matters. Is it true?’

‘Yes, it is. He tried to persuade Father to stop—reminded him of your valour at Alqualonde, of our debt to you—hoping that that consideration would weigh with him. That was a mistake. Father clearly didn’t relish at all being told that, without his nephew’s help, many more of us would have ended up riddled with Telerin arrows on those quays. But I’m not sure any other tactics would have served Nelyo better, at that point. ’

Another silence—even heavier than the ones that went before—then suddenly Findekano changes tack and challenges his cousin:

 ‘You disapprove, Makalaure. Admit it. You think I am taking the wrong approach.’

Makalaure closes his eyes as if praying for patience.

‘I am here, Findekano. I am begging you to come back, in spite of all the reasons I have not to. Does that look as if I disapprove?’

Findekano sighs unhappily, hunches his shoulders.

‘I will think about it’, he says, expecting Makalaure to protest at his delaying tactics.

‘Thank you’, says Makalaure, as if he had just said yes, when surely what he just implied was no.

Findek ano turns away abruptly and leaves Makalaure without a word of farewell. He is not in the mood to discuss with his father what it was that Makalaure wanted from him and the interview has in any case quite spoiled his appetite, so he does not return to the diners but goes straight to his tent.

About three hours later, he is thoroughly tired of pacing endlessly backwards and forwards in irregular circles around the central pole, unable even to sit down, let alone rest. He stops dead, says an extremely rude word, grabs his cloak and walks out.

Soon afterwards he is on his way along the lake shore toward the Feanorian camp. Makalaure, of course, by then is a long way ahead of him. As he goes, Findekano remembers the last time he was there.

Chapter 2

Read Chapter 2

 

Russandol made a small ugly noise as the impact travelled up his arm. The wooden practice blade sailed away into a clump of nettles. Russandol lurched sideways and collapsed into a heap onto the ground. Makalaure had been right, of course; it had been too early to try this yet.

‘Russandol!’

My cousin lifted up his head, his face streaming with tears of pain. I reached my hand down to him in concern. He flinched and gasped as if the words were being squeezed out of him:

‘All right. All right! I did it. I burned those ships. Every one of them, with my own hands. I did it to stop you hounding me. Now will you quit?’

I stared at him, dumbfounded. It occurred to me that I ought to be deeply offended, if not for my own sake, then for the sake of Father and Turukano and all those others. But this was just too absurd. This kind of cart-before-the-horse logic was totally unworthy of either of us.

It seemed that Russandol himself was only just beginning to feel how much of an idiot he had just made of himself. He was flushing a most unbecoming colour under those angry scars. His eyes held a pleading expression as if he wanted to beg me: Please tell me I didn’t just say that! But his lips were pressed tight shut.

I thought: So it was true what Turko said. I thought it was. You didn’t lay a finger on a single torch, did you? You didn’t take part in the burning at all. But you think you might as well have done it, that it is exactly the same as if you had. Russandol, I can tell you, I’ve been dealing with six cousins who did take part in the burning and it is not the same thing at all. Or I could tell you that, if you were willing to discuss it with me—which, very clearly, you aren’t. It is a very lonely feeling, Russandol, to be able to guess what you’re thinking and not to be able to talk to you about it.’

Maybe it was the wrong way to handle this, but I couldn’t help it; I reacted exactly as I had reacted on previous occasions, during embarrassing incidents which had involved various body fluids: I pretended I had noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Get up’, I said.

He shut his eyes—as if he were trying to make me go away, like a small child—and didn’t move.

‘Get up’, I repeated, ruthlessly. And then I used the magic words, although I’d promised myself not to resort to them again: ‘The Noldor need you.’

It was, officially, the reason why I’d risked my life to save him. I still thought it was true, in the main. But each time I said it, it was beginning to sound more like a grotesque over-simplification.

Even the sight of his unconscious, mutilated body had galvanized the Noldor—if anyone had forgotten that it was the Dark Foe who was our true enemy, they remembered it now. But in the meantime I had realized that some of the ways in which the Noldor seemed to need Russandol I was not at all happy about. I did not wish to be saying, even implicitly, to Russandol:  You have to survive so that Turukano can go on hating you with a clear conscience—especially as I was beginning to suspect that Russandol would not have seen all that much wrong with that argument.

Maybe this time the magic words were not going to work. Russandol opened his eyes, but his expression was hard and unyielding.

‘The Noldor!’ , he said. ‘The Noldor need me like they need a…’

It seemed he could not think of any comparison that was uncomplimentary enough. He made a savage gesture with his left arm to express his inarticulate fury; somehow it gave him enough energy to rise to his feet. The words had worked their magic again, after all, but their power only went so far. Russandol stood, teetering, and I grabbed him quickly to stop him from falling flat on his face.

‘Look at my track record’, he said weakly, his voice full of bitterness.

I felt the tremors running through his muscles: the sharp shocks of pain, the slow shudders of exhaustion—and that, I knew, was another thing I had not truly been invited to share in. Half enviously, half disapprovingly, I thought that Makalaure would have waded right in where I feared to tread: would have pulled Russandol closer, stroked him like a sick animal and crooned soothing noises in his ear, ignoring his brother’s faint resistance, his profound shame at even being touched. It was the privilege of a brother—it was also the privilege of one who had been told about Thangorodrim but who had not seen it.

Russandol stood strained and trembling in my grip like a horse that ought to be put down. Nobody should be able to do such a thing to anybody, but Melkor had done it to one of us—and it was Russandol who he had done it to, Russandol who had had a grace that even dimmed and muted as it had been in those last years in Tirion had seemed essentially his own, much more a part of him than the acclaimed regularity of his features. Now Melkor had taken both from him and…

I gritted my teeth. ‘I think you’ve had enough for one day’, I said, as calmly as I could.

I went home to my father, still failing to be angry. But when I woke up, the Lake of Mithrim looked as wide as the Sundering Seas—and it seemed there was no boat to ferry me across. With a sinking heart, I looked at the trackless waste that was the shore. I did not feel the strength in me to make that cold crossing again.

‘I would not wish even a son of Feanaro to suffer such a fate’, Turukano had said, on one of the rare occasions when he broke his grim silence. ‘I’m glad you put a stop to it. But the truth is, he brought it on himself. It was his own decisions that put him up there. And now he is a wreck; that is all that is left of him. Wake up, brother. Russandol needs help even to wipe his own behind—and you think he is the solution to our problems?’

I did not confide to him that Russandol had said some of the same things to me, in almost the same words. I did not agree with either of them. But by both sides I was being told to keep away and so, finally, I did.

Chapter 3

Read Chapter 3

 

Findekano hastens along the shore of Lake Mithim—which is in fact not a trackless waste, for although his father and the Feanorians are still keeping a cautious distance from each other, there has now been sufficient communication between the two camps to wear a track from one to the other, narrow by Valinorean standards, but more clear and well-defined than any traces left by occasional Sindarin hunters passing through the region. There is still an area about midway that either party hesitates to enter, though, a kind of unofficial no man’s zone where nobody is likely to be encountered at this hour of the night.

Findekano, on the path skirting the lake, is alone with his thoughts. There are too many he has found himself unable to voice to anyone. The oppressive silence seems to weigh on his chest like a solid thing, almost making it difficult to breathe.

‘Russandol!’, he cries out finally, in the shelter of the solitude and the dark. ‘That was a fine and private place you had, up on Thangorodrim! Only Moringotto to worry about and a few thousand orcs—no one whose opinion you would have given a fig for—and even they left you alone most of the time… Until I came and saw you and cut you down and dragged you here and exposed you to the eyes of all those you cared about! But what would you have had me do?  I had to! I had to put a stop to it! Would you have had me rescue you blindfold? Was I to inch up the cliff backwards, guiding the stroke of my sword in a mirror?’

Russandol, of course, has made no suggestions whatever of that kind. What he did say is: Why couldn’t you shoot me when I asked you to?—and although Findekano has done his best to pretend, even to himself, that that was just another of those foolish comments that are best ignored because at present Russandol clearly cannot be trusted to know what he is saying, the question still lodges under his skin like the hooked head of an arrow that will not let itself be pulled free of the wound.

There are many, his father among them, who would say that this is merely another flagrant proof of Feanorian ingratitude. But it is all too easy to say that on the other side of the lake about a Feanorion they do not see before their very eyes. For, after all, was it not their Findekano who freed Russandol from Thangorodrim and was that not a heroic deed? That is what they think. But Findekano has witnessed his cousin’s sufferings too closely, for too many days and nights—and, no, life after Thangorodrim is not simply the continuance of torture by other means, but he finds himself having to remind himself of that again and again…

‘Do you think you are the only who has suffered!’—it is the obvious, the self-righteous question to ask, trying to cut Russsandol’s pain down to size.

Only Russandol does not think that, has never shown the least sign of thinking that.

***

One of those couple of times he simply broke down and wept and wept in my arms until he started retching violently…  He abruptly lifted his head and, wiping bile off his lips with the back of his hand, croaked, harsh as a raven:

‘Fools! Idiots! Why are you here!  Were you so eager to have songs sung about you?’

***

As Findekano swiftly moves along the path, aggrieved and yet purposeful, the moon rises over Mithrim. To some of the Noldor, moonlight is chiefly a reproachful, tainted memory of Telperion, a reminder of the lost light of forsaken Valinor. To others, it has become merely light to see by; already they are used to having light again, after their long journey through darkness, and they are too concerned with present troubles.

But to Findekano, each moonrise is still the miraculous repetition of the first, and it fills him with unabated wonder. He halts, just a little, to watch the white disc fully edge its way above the mountain crests of the Ered Wethrin and admire the gleaming path the moon’s reflection creates along the dark surface of the lake.

I love Middle-earth, he thinks. If I had guessed in the slightest what price would have to be paid for me to be standing here, I would never have dared to wish to come. But I did, and here I am and, despite everything, I love Beleriand.

Just for a moment, he feels obliged to try and repent of such a selfish delight as this but the fact is that he does not, could not, not for Turukano’s sake, nor for Russandol’s either. And it soothes him. For a while, by the lake, he is almost at peace, although he has started moving again and indeed he is speeding up as he goes, for at the end of this journey there is Russandol, who is waiting, perhaps, who needs him, maybe…

The words of Makalaure come back to him. Nelyo reminded him of your valour at Alqualonde. Father didn’t relish being told that, without your help, many more of us would have ended up riddled with Telerin arrows on those quays.

Perhaps indeed many more—certainly one in particular…

***

When I had finally fought my way through to them, it came almost as a surprise to discover that there were no more Teleri swinging strange and dangerous implements at me, blocking my path to my cousins.

I remember thinking, half conscious of the absurdity of the thought: Haven’t their mothers told them not to wave their boathooks about like that because they might kill people that way? At the back of my mind there was an answering voice urgently trying to remind me what my mother and her bosom friend, Auntie Earwen, might have to say if they saw me wielding a blood-stained blade on the quays of Alqualonde. Some parts of my brain were only just beginning to catch up with the other parts that had known what to do to survive in the melee and were puzzling out exactly what had happened to those Teleri who had stopped trying to bash my head in or otherwise damage me.

I could not afford to concentrate on any of this yet. I had to make sure my cousins were as unharmed as they seemed to be and find out who was not. I started down the quay towards Russandol and Curufinwe—and just as I reached them, and opened my mouth to ask Russandol an urgent question that was about to be completely wiped from my mind by what happened next, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye.

Without stopping to consider, I reached out, grabbed young Tyelpo, who had either lost his helmet or never put one on to begin with, and threw myself sideways. The Telerin arrow whizzed past, exactly through the space where Tyelpo’s head had just been and onward and, as I scrambled upright again, I saw that it had hit a buckle on Russandol’s shoulder and stuck there, two hand-breadths from his unprotected throat.

Oops, I thought rather sickly.

But Russandol was apparently completely unimpressed with the current position of the arrow. As far as he was concerned, clearly the one important thing was that I had probably saved Tyelpo’s life. He didn’t need to say anything, his face lit up with such a glow of admiration and gratitude…

 I discovered, there in the midst of the bloody mess that was Alqualonde, that I was still pathetically addicted to Russandol’s praise. His approval had always seemed somehow more valid, more meaningful than anyone else’s. And even after all that had passed, the sight made me forget about the distressing circumstances, just for a moment…

But I could do without his approval, of course I could. And I had to, for his gaze wandered down my sword arm—and suddenly he looked utterly horrified as if a bloodied weapon in my hand were somehow worse than in anyone else’s. Or maybe it was just that seeing one in my hand brought everything home to him.

When exactly did you decide, cousin, that making fatal errors is a strictly Feanorian privilege?

Chapter 4

(Contains some revisions compared to the earlier version posted on LiveJournal)

Read Chapter 4

 

By the time Findekano finally arrives at the Feanorian camp, he has persuaded himself that it would be quite unjust to blame Russandol overmuch for anything. At the same time—and with perfect logic—he has reached a deep inner conviction that Russandol somehow contrived to get himself hung from Thangorodrim as part of a cunning plan with the express purpose of making his poor cousin’s life a misery.

He sweeps into the Feanorian camp on the tide of his anger, which conquers any embarrassment he might feel, and finds Makalaure talking to Carnistir outside the hut his brothers have erected as a personal shelter for Russandol. Makalaure turns and sees him approach. Incensed, Findekano notices that Makalaure is not even bothering to pretend to be surprised that he did not manage to hold out until morning before he set out to follow him.

All that humbug, Makalaure—he thinks grimly—about your being so very reluctant to ask me for anything! Polite fiction—that is what it was! Maybe it is true you would be reluctant to ask me if it was for your own sake. But for Russandol? For Russandol, you would dare ask anyone anything and expect them to be grateful for the honour! And you know I know that!

He gives Makalaure a withering glare. Of course, you are right, he admits grudgingly to himself. I am grateful.  As far as he is concerned, that makes Makalaure no whit less infuriating, however.

He heads for the door to the hut. Makalaure makes a warning gesture and opens his mouth to say something. Findekano ignores him and marches right on past him. He yanks open the door and closes it firmly behind him.

It is the early hours of the morning, but Russandol’s sleep has been fitful and disturbed ever since he first woke up in Mithrim. Findekano expects to find him awake, even if he was asleep at the moment when Findekano lifted the door latch, but in fact the room is lamp-lit. Before he has even laid eyes on his cousin, Findekano tenses for the inevitable attack.

 It might be: What do you want? It might equally be: Where were you? What took you so long? This time, he will not put up with it. Not this time! He is ready to whip around and lash out, give as good as he gets.

Only, there is no verbal attack. It is completely silent in the room.  Instantly, Findekano’s anger evaporates, and his mouth goes dry with fear. He turns to look at the bed.

Russandol lies flat on his back, far too still, far too straight. His eyes are open, but unfocussed. His skin is a clammy grey colour. He has not reacted to Findekano’s stormy entrance at all. He is—praise be—breathing, just the slightest rise and fall of the bed sheet.

It was a possibility Findekano was trying to ignore all along, he confesses to himself now, perhaps always the most likely explanation for Makalaure’s unprecedented embassy. Without Findekano to chivvy him mercilessly on his way to full recovery of his faculties, to the edge of his endurance and sometimes beyond, Russandol would have felt obliged to try and drive himself—and because Russandol in truth has even less notion of when and where to stop and what not to attempt than his pest of a cousin, he has driven himself into collapse.

There is absolutely no reason to panic. They have had relapses before, minor and major ones, and Russandol recovered from them, recovered every single time.  There is no reason to panic, but a voice at the back of Findekano’s head is wailing disconsolately: No, no, no, no! I didn’t mean it. Come back! Please come back! And it refuses to be silenced.

‘Russandol?’, he whispers.

No response. He sits down on the edge of the bed. He cannot tell whether Russandol perceives his presence.  There is not a twitch as Findekano crosses his line of sight, not a stir as Findekano’s weight causes the mattress to shift under him.

And as he sits and watches, undisturbed by Makalaure or anyone else, it is impossible to tell what is going on behind that grey and expressionless face, those blank eyes.  Maybe, behind that impenetrable veil of exhaustion, Russandol is making up his mind that Findekano was not telling the truth when he said the Noldor needed him or maybe he is drawing the conclusion that even the Noldor are not worth this much pain and effort. Maybe he is slipping away beyond Findekano’s grasp.

He has decided that you are not coming back. That is what Makalaure said. Was it only Makalaure’s dramatic style of delivery that made that statement sound so very significant, so ominous? Or was there more to it than that? Ought he perhaps to be flinging himself across the bed and imploring Russandol’s forgiveness in broken accents? He would do it, unscrupulously, jettisoning ideas about self-respect or dignity, if only he could be sure that it would serve.

 Russandol, he thinks, forget the Noldor. Just don’t leave me behind at the bottom of this cliff. Sometimes it feels as if that eagle never came. But he cannot bring himself to speak those thoughts aloud, and it is likely Russandol would not hear him if he did.

Almost imperceptibly, Russandol’s hand, having lain completely inert on the bed sheet all the while, flexes slightly and begins to move. It seems to move independently of the rest of his body, small, searching movements, like a mouse looking for crumbs among the folds. Findekano, who has himself been sitting immovably, as if in a trance, watches the tiny movements almost mindlessly at first.

Then an idea occurs to him and he looks at his own right hand. Slowly, he unclenches it from the bed clothes and moves it carefully into the path of that searching mouse. Russandol’s fingers encounter his wrist, falter along his palm, and, almost disbelievingly, Findekano spreads his own fingers so that those thin, probing fingers can thread themselves through his. They close and cling, not strongly, but with all the strength Russandol currently possesses.

This is, surely, what he has been waiting for so long. It ought to be. But what is it that he has been waiting for? Some kind of confirmation that life is, after all, welcome to Russandol and that Findekano’s presence in that life is welcome, too?

But Russandol remains silent, unmoving, his face grey and expressionless as before, except for those bony fingers which are clinging to his own. And, sitting there beside his cousin, Findekano is assailed unexpectedly by a hideous uncertainty.

When, earlier on, he could not help but realize that his cousin was terrified that Morgoth might have succeeded in turning him into an orc, Findekano felt shock and horror, but never because he thought it might be true. All that anger and bitterness he was encountering in Russandol—unfamiliar as it was in a cousin who had always seemed almost too gentle, too polite, although with an occasional streak of obstinacy to rival his legendary grandmother’s—all that was still, somehow, unmistakably Russandol.

But now, suddenly, he cannot tell whose bony claw has closed on his fingers.

It is an irrational impulse, he recognizes it and he fights it. He takes hold of himself brutally, violently tamps down that surge of gut-wrenching revulsion; he forces himself to sit still and keep his fingers relaxed in his cousin’s grip, overcomes the urge to fling his hand away and retreat across the room. The effort is such that it makes him break out in a cold sweat. There is a bitter taste in his mouth.

He is tasting defeat, even as he succeeds in maintaining his self-control. It cannot be—it is not possible that he should be afraid of Russandol! Not when all Russandol has done is reach out and take his hand.

He forces himself to sit still, to breathe evenly. And in that black moment, seemingly from nowhere, a memory surfaces, shining in the dark with bright, jewel-like colours, red, white and green as one of Russandol’s favourite tunics…

In the palace library in Tirion, in a study set aside for their use. That ancient tome bound between thick, wooden boards and written in angular sarati. Russandol leaning towards him across his desk, speaking earnestly, urgently, as if what they were doing was of undisputable importance:

‘Today we will continue to discuss the principles of just and equitable government. I want you to study this section of the text carefully. You see, I do not entirely agree with the conclusions the author reaches here, and I want your opinion on them.’

Absurd. That scene is so far removed in time and space it might as well have happened in another world. It has no relevance whatever to this dark night in Mithrim. What did they know then, in their naïve supposition that they could learn what they needed to know from books and draw valid conclusions about such matters at their desks, what did they know about internal dissent and betrayal, about violence and murder, about Melkor and Angband?

But, thinks Findekano, surprised, I still believe in principles of just and equitable government! And so do you, Russandol. I know you do, although I suspect you think you have given up on them.

He dares to look at his cousin’s face again and now he sees not his fear, but his hope. Russandol has looked so much worse, after all! This time, it isn’t really so bad. He is convinced it is going to be no more than a minor setback. Between them, he and Makalaure will have Russandol on his feet again in hardly any time at all. And maybe he should heed Makalaure’s warnings a little more. But he also knows that it is bad for Russandol to have too much leisure to brood. And the Noldor do need him, more than they know yet.

Findekano clasps his cousin’s hand firmly. This is nothing like the public square of Tirion. There are no witnesses, no torches, no bared sword blades. The promise that Findekano is about to make is in no way as singular as the Oath of Feanor but, in Middle-earth, almost as foolhardly and impossible to keep.

He bends his head over Russandol’s pillow and tells him fiercely: ‘You will be all right. You’ll see.’

 

Maedhros:

Fingers straight, short nails, smooth skin. Hand gentle and strong. Back upright. Unhurt, my cousin. No, not unhurt. Too thin. Grieving. But unbroken. Unbroken!

In his eyes, hope terrible as lightning.  Citizens of Angband do not hope, Findekano. Go on hoping, cousin. For a while yet, you will have to do the hoping for both of us.

Chapter 5

Read Chapter 5

 

Time passes and..

…they are walking across the paddocks in fleeting watery sunlight, Russandol still pale and exhausted and Findekano rather shaken by yesterday’s abdication ceremony. Russandol halts and calls out, a clear sound in the morning air. A dapple-grey mare comes trotting over from the other side. Russandol speaks to her gently, patting her neck. Then he brings out pieces of apple and offers them to her. She huffs a little and deigns to accept.

It is a peaceful scene and, watching it, Findekano sighs inwardly and allows his roiling emotions to be soothed. So he is caught completely off guard, when Russandol turns around and attempts to hand him the remaining apple pieces, saying:

‘Here.’

He stares at his cousin. Clearly, this is not just an invitation to take his turn in offering the mare a treat.

‘But you can’t give me Allinte!’, he protests, very much disturbed.

There are still so very few things that Russandol seems to be able to enjoy as straightforwardly as Allinte. The last thing Findekano wants him to do is to sacrifice his own horse.

‘Not acceptable’, murmurs Russandol, shrugs slightly, and turns to start looking around for a different horse to give his cousin.

It is only the choice of words, only the slight hunch of Russandol’s shoulders that warns Findekano, just in time, that here, discreetly concealed among all the things Nelyafinwe Maitimo as Head of the House of Feanaro has been giving away for the good of the Noldor, there was to be a personal gift from Russandol to Findekano.

‘But she is beautiful!’, he amends his opinion hastily. ‘Of course I want her!’

Russandol gives him an uncertain sideways glance.  Then he tentatively extends the apple pieces again. He tips them into Findekano’s outstretched hand. Those hunched shoulders of his relax.

Allinte is beautiful—spirited and gentle with it. As Findekano introduces himself to her, paying her lavish compliments together with his bribe and allowing her to familiarize herself with his scent, he is aware of Russandol watching him closely.

His cousin has stopped saying foolish and embarrassing things to him.  That would be a very encouraging development, except that Findekano suspects what has really happened is that his cousin has simply swept up all that raw emotional mess and withdrawn behind the thickening walls of his strengthening self-control, so quickly and comprehensively that it almost looks as if he were running away from it all and from Findekano as well. He feels much farther off now, even when they are standing right next to each other.

But here, between them at this moment, snuffling daintily at his chest, regarding him with her large brown liquid eye, there is a living, breathing, affectionate being his cousin is fond of, a being that Findekano, it seems, has been given as a kind of hostage, in earnest of feelings that cannot otherwise be expressed. Findekano scratches gently behind Allinte’s left ear. The mare seems pleased with this. Findekano senses that Russandol is satisfied that this should be so.

‘I will take good care of her’, Findekano promises.

‘But of course,’ says Russandol, surprised enough to let his reserve slip a little.

To Findekano, for a brief sunlit moment, it seems that Russandol is saying: But of course, Findekano, don’t you know I would trust you with anything, anytime, anywhere?’ Only he cannot really be saying that, can he? For surely that would make everything so much easier and, as it is, things go on being very difficult in ways he cannot fully grasp.

The sun goes behind a cloud. Russandol is looking white and cold. In his condition, he really ought not to be standing around in paddocks and giving horses away to all and sundry. It is time to take him back and hand him over into Makalaure’s care again.

***

‘He is trying to buy you off with a horse!’, says Turukano derisively.

He, too, has been shaken by the abdication ceremony, much more than he expected to be. His immediate defensive reaction is to pour scorn on all Russandol says and does, for he cannot afford to give up regarding Feanorians as universally glib and treacherous just yet.

Findekano loses his temper with his brother for the first time since Elenwe’s death.

‘You know nothing whatever about it!’, he yells, surprising them both.

Allinte is not intended as any kind of payment, neither for Alqualonde nor for Losgar nor for Thangorodrim.  Russandol doesn’t think that way. He merely wanted Findekano to have the best thing he had to give—or rather the best thing he thought he had to give, for of course he is wrong about that. It is Turukano who sees bribes where there are none and so owes it to his dignity to refuse them.

There is one thing, though, that Turukano is right about. The horse is not enough. Findekano keeps on currying Allinte; he brushes her dappled flanks and combs her mane and tail until she looks like a queen among horses.  Finally, when he is sure nobody is watching, he puts his arms around her neck and buries his face in her mane. He draws three sobbing breaths; then he is quiet.

---

Chapter End Notes

"Allinte" means "very fast" (Quenya) according to Pixellated Feanor. She is not a race horse, though, nor a war horse, either.

Epilogue

A long time afterwards, in Tirion

Read Epilogue

 

‘Principles of Just and Equitable Government’, says Maedhros wonderingly. ‘Findekano, what am I doing standing here with this book in my hand, as if I still might have a use for it? Don’t we both know, you and I, that Uncle Arafinwe would throw thirteen fits if I even tried to run a rag-and-bone shop in Tirion?’

‘Oh, I don’t know’, says Fingon vaguely. He has been deriving some entertainment in the past months from watching how, one by one, each in their own way, even the most suspicious and reserved  of his staff succumbed to his cousin, who didn’t even seem to notice he was gradually  twisting them around his little finger. ‘I don’t believe there is a single rag-and-bone shop in Tirion, actually’, he adds. ‘Arguably, you’d be filling a niche.’

He plucks the book out of his cousin’s unresisting hand and puts it back on the shelf. Then he takes Maedhros in his arms, very cautiously. It is not that he fears he might be unwelcome anymore, of course, quite the contrary, but what else is a millennia-long wait good for, if not to teach one a little patience…

‘Findekano, dear Findekano’, whispers Maedhros, gently cupping Fingon’s chin in his fingers, ‘you are holding your breath. Will you let it out, if I promise you to try and not blow away? I’m reasonably solid, I think.’

…or not so very much patience after all!

‘There is no way you are going to blow away’, declares Fingon, ‘because I am not going to let you!’, and holds his cousin tight.

---

Chapter End Notes

It is hardly possible to write about this period without pinching a few ideas from others (besides Tolkien, that is). I am aware I borrowed a couple from Marta, Lyra and Erulisse, but I think I transmogrified them pretty much beyond recognition. There may be others I am missing, though.