The Chief in a Village by Himring

Chapter 1

Feanor Disrupts Gathering Female Relatives Refuse To Attend

This chapter is set during the days of rising tension between Feanor and Fingolfin in Tirion and, apart from the usual suspects, also features Lalwen, Finwe's second daughter, as well as, briefly, Angrod and his wife.

Quenya names: Characters: Angarato (Angrod), Eldalote (Edhellos), Feanaro (Feanor), Findekano (Fingon), Irime (Lalwen), Maitimo (Maedhros), Nolofinwe (Fingolfin)

I am standing in a forest of vases. They are all cylindrical, slender and tall—some of them tower above my head all on their own, others are arranged on plinths of various sizes. At first sight, you might think they were all the same colour. But they are also all subtly different. Not only are they of different height and different diameter, but none of those shades of greenish, brownish grey is exactly alike, and there are almost invisible patterns to the glaze that puzzle the eyes of the beholder.

There is something oppressive about this regimented pottery forest. Standing in its centre, at first I felt a ridiculous urge to lash out and knock some of the vases of their plinths, hear them shatter on the floor. Fighting the temptation, I moved stiffly, keeping my arms rigidly at my sides and turning carefully to observe the vases in different directions, from different angles.

But as I lingered there, making myself pay attention to details of shape and glaze, I was increasingly struck both by the amount of deliberation and skill that had clearly gone into this arrangement of pots and by the decided refusal to be merely decorative that they embodied. The potters of Tirion have had much time and leisure to hone their craft, and the great houses of the Noldor contain much work of theirs that is not merely functionally perfect, not just beautiful to look at, but has that added quality to it that makes it a true work of art. But what my aunt Irime creates is art of a different kind.

It is not designed to be functional. It is not beautiful in any conventional way. It is an art of rejection, an art of denial. Standing in the midst of it, I am seized by the fanciful idea that although this clay forest is situated in Tirion, here and now, it is not of Tirion, or rather that it is both in Tirion and not in Tirion at the same time. It is oppressive, but it is also liberating as if, in stepping into it, I had briefly stepped outside the constraints of my life as Prince Findekano of Tirion.

Thoughtfully, I look through and past those glazed pottery tree trunks at the domestic scene that unfolds beyond it. Father and Aunt Irime are taking tea. For the moment, they are both choosing to ignore my abrupt departure from the tea table, although I’m sure I will hear about it from Father later. I imagined I had taught my son better manners than that. Conversely, I will gain points for at least being polite enough to pretend an interest in Aunt Irime’s pots. The thought will not cross his mind that it could be more than pretence; he has never managed to be more than polite about Aunt Irime’s work himself.

My misbehaviour hasn’t stopped him in mid-flow, at any rate. He is bending her ear on the subject of the iniquities of Feanaro again. From the moment we sat down and Aunt Irime poured the first cup, past insults and injuries came bubbling up again and insisted on being reported in every circumstance and detail. It never seems to occur to Father that, if Irime had a personal interest in carrying on the feud with Feanaro, she would probably not be ensconced in this plain, if spacious, workshop tucked away in one of the less prosperous quarters of Tirion. Certainly, she would not be refusing to set foot in the Palace except upon the explicit royal command of Finwe. Of course, he is convinced that it is Feanaro who has driven her out. He has chalked it up as another black mark against Uncle Feanaro.

There can be no doubt that she loves her brother. There is never a hint that Father’s visits might not be welcome. She brings out her best tea pot for him. She bakes his favourite biscuits, every time. And she sits patiently listening to him as he tells her all the things that Feanaro has done to him and to Tirion since his last visit.

He loves her, too. But he still calls her Lalwende. He hasn’t noticed that she rarely laughs anymore.

***

Am I being unfair to him? After all, he is hardly the only one who is upset by recent events. I’m pretty angry myself.

Maitimo was so happy to see me last night! It was only coincidence that Angarato and I happened to enter the Great Hall exactly at the same time as he did, but as soon as he saw me, his eyes lit up and he greeted me as enthusiastically as if I had unexpectedly returned from a year-long voyage of exploration, and Angarato as well. We stopped right there, as Maitimo began eagerly asking us questions: What had we…? Did we still…? How was…?

I wanted to answer him: But, Maitimo, I was here all along. Where were you? If you had made time to drop by any time during the past year or so, you’d know the answers to all these questions. But he was so earnest, almost frantic, in his efforts to catch up with our lives that my objections and reservations melted away and I answered him openly. He lapped up all the details and wanted more. Almost, I could have believed he missed our close friendship, our daily association, as much as I did.

We were so engrossed in our exchange that neither of us immediately noticed the commotion near the centre of the hall. But it spread out in ripples through the crowd and, even before it quite reached us, Maitimo’s head went up like that of a horse already bridled too severely that feels a brutal tug on the rein. We looked around quickly, but of course, by that time, what was happening had happened and was already almost over.

Some of the guests were retreating as if they wanted to get out of range of the conflict, others surging forward as if they wanted to witness the spectacle or show their support. In the midst of it all stood Uncle Feanaro and Father facing each other—and the expression on everyone’s faces, Feanaro’s superciliously raised eyebrows and thinned lips, Father’s incredulous hurt glare, all of that made it  only too clear: Feanaro had just chosen to deliver yet another deadly insult in front of a large and mixed audience.

Maitimo mumbled something that with a lot of goodwill could be considered a hasty apology and headed straight for the pair of them with the determination of a stable hand who rushes to close the stable door after the horse has already bolted. Anything I might have been going to say died on my lips.

‘Don’t look so disappointed, Findekano! Our cousin, the great diplomat, has bigger fish to fry’, said Angarato cynically.

He had already held back rather more than I did during the previous conversation. His moods have soured considerably ever since Eldalote firmly refuses to accompany him to any family gatherings. I don’t particularly like blood sports, she told me, sharply, and even if I did, I would disapprove of them in the drawing-room.

Our cousin, the great diplomat, had meanwhile reached his father and mine. Feanaro shrugged off his hurried enquiry dismissively and left him standing there. Maitimo addressed himself to my father instead. Knowing Father, what he actually replied would have been reasonably polite. Unfortunately, however, his facial expression and physical attitude were highly eloquent even to those who, like me, could not hear what he said, and what they expressed was: What do you want from me, whelp? If you cannot restrain your father, you have no business interfering.

Never mind, Father, I thought, that if anyone demanded that I should restrain you, you would imagine the natural order of the universe had been overturned.  And no, it is not the same thing, but it is not as different as you imagine either.

Cold-shouldered by Nolofinwe, Maitimo hurried after Feanaro. And for the rest of the evening, standing with Angarato in gloomy near-silence near the door while Angarato was calculating how soon he could decently make his exit, I watched my clever cousin make a fool of himself trying to ride herd on Feanaro. It was not just that the horse had already bolted, he had never stood much chance of stopping it from doing so even if he had been standing right next to it all the time.

Uncle Feanaro is a genius in this as in so much else—one of the things that makes him so difficult for Father to fathom. Insults so accurately aimed and wounding that anybody else, but especially Father, would have to have been plotting them hours, if not days in advance—Feanaro comes up with them on the spur of the moment and utters them almost as spontaneously. Father knows this, but it does not make it easier for him to be on the receiving end.

Sadly, Uncle Feanaro is not also a genius at making apologies. Not to put too fine a point on it, he utterly lacks talent in that category. And although Feanaro is probably the most hard-working of all the Noldor—which I do not think everybody realizes—he only deigns to work at things he is already good at and has an aptitude for. We used to manage to take his apologies as read. Somehow. With a great deal of effort. Until we stopped.

Maitimo, last evening, was trailing around the room after Feanaro as he talked to people here and there and, in doing so, he persisted in trying to pour oil on the troubled waters. I watched my cousin run through his repertoire and could pretty much imagine what he was saying as if I had been within hearing distance: a sensitive listener offering sympathetic nods and perceptive comments, delicate compliments and reassuring smiles. It was as charming a performance as usual, but oddly empty. He must know he was being ineffectual, that his efforts might even be counter-productive, for he seemed to be irritating rather than soothing Feanaro who occasionally made an impatient gesture, as if he might be about to swat his son and heir like a fly and barely restrained himself.

I am not saying I could have done any better than Maitimo myself. As far as I was concerned, the only method of dealing with Feanaro that promised to be effective at this stage was kidnapping and gagging him, stowing him away in a remote cellar and sitting on him. As tempting as that was beginning to sound, it would have confirmed Feanaro in precisely the kind of conspiracy theories his brain seemed to be busily spawning.

Feanaro beat Angarato to it, suddenly making up his mind to leave and heading imperiously for the door. Once again, Maitimo was left to scurry after him.  I was convinced that my cousin had completely forgotten me by then.

He was almost out of the door when he stopped and half turned, looking over his shoulder. His gaze urgently scanned the crowd. Finally, it alighted on me, and I realized it was me he had been looking for, having failed to realize that we had hardly moved from the spot where he had left us.

He attempted yet another reassuring smile. It went badly wrong and slid off his face like a rotten egg. For a moment, he just stood there, looking tired and quite desperate. Then, he made a small gesture that said: It doesn’t matter. And he turned around again and went out.

Suddenly, I was furiously angry with him. What doesn’t matter, Maitimo?! You never even gave me a chance to say I miss you! And do you think you’re the only one who can see we appear to be heading straight towards disaster? Do you think you’re the only one who is afraid?

But I was too well-brought-up to yell such things across a crowded room—despite the fact that my father and my uncle hadn’t hesitated to make a public spectacle of themselves the very same evening. I blame you for that, too, Maitimo.

***

Not so very long ago, I would have said that of course my relatives were all quite impossible, but that they were impossible in the best possible way. Was I just being stupid and blind? If not, whatever has happened to us?

Frowning, I stare at the mysterious near-invisible patterns on Aunt Irime’s pots as if they could answer my question, while Father’s complaints go on droning in my ears. Briefly, Aunt Irime looks up and smiles at me as if she knew what I was thinking, before she devotes her attention to my father again.