Just and Equitable Government by Himring

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Chapter 4

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

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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.