The Songs: A Story of East Beleriand by Himring

Chapter 1: Targlin

This story features some of my recurring original characters among Maedhros's people:

- Huntress, a Sinda of Mithrim, who chose to follow the Feanorians east,

- Celvandil, a Noldo of Valinor who followed Maedhros to become his stablemaster at Himring,

- Naurthoniel (Narye), Maedhros's housekeeper, even during those times when he didn't technically own a house,

- Bronadui, his physician,

- Tercano, later his herald.

For further notes on names, see end notes.

Warnings for implied/referenced torture, canon-typical violence, character death.

Read Chapter 1: Targlin

They saw him coming from a long way off. He was walking in a straight line across the plain, making no attempt to conceal where he had come from. They watched him coming, from the half-built walls of their fortress, identifying him by his stature and his walk as one of their own, and when he came closer, they recognized who he was. By the time he had almost reached the foot of the hill, they still did not know what to do.

Ordinarily, Huntress might have been expected to spot him first. But she had been down by the stream to water the horses, on the southern slope of the hill, and so she missed the moment when he first appeared on the horizon altogether. When she came back up, she noticed the others were being strangely quiet, but could not immediately work out what the reason might be.

It was only when she went up to Celvandil to report that she followed his gaze and said, in surprise: 'There's someone coming!'

They had not seen anybody besides each other for a span of a month, not since Maglor's latest messenger had left again.

Celvandil looked at her briefly, as she spoke, then directed his gaze back at the approaching stranger. He did not immediately reply. Celvandil was not, usually, very chatty, but neither impolite nor this taciturn.

With a deepening sense of something wrong, Huntress observed: 'He's coming from the direction of Angband.'

Then, as still nobody replied and her words echoed in the silence, she felt embarrassed at stating the obvious. She must be missing something—something that the rest of them, the Noldor, knew.

Finally, Naurthoniel—Narye—said in a strained voice: 'It is Targlin.'

 

***

 

'It is Targlin,' Naurthoniel had said.

And, although some looked around, at that, none even nodded in assent, so clear was it, by the expression of their faces, that they all had recognized him, knew who this Targlin was, all of them except for Huntress. A Noldo, then, and perhaps even a follower of Feanor. But still the real significance of the name seemed to elude her.

Maedhros spoke. 'Narye, am I right in thinking that during the time of my captivity, and also during the early days of my recovery, there was no news of Tarcalino, none at all? My brothers told me so. At least that is how I remember it.'

'No news,' Ceredir affirmed, in his cousin's stead. 'None at all.'

Maedhros glanced at Huntress. 'Targlin disappeared during the battle in which my father was slain,' he explained, switching to Sindarin to speak to her. 'He was last seen straining to catch up with my father who had outpaced him. None could tell what became of him after that.'

But that, thought Huntress, meant... Surely, it meant...! And the Noldor must be aware of that, surely they must aware of that. But it was hard to utter that unpalatable truth, when the others were so resolutely silent, and especially directly under Maedhros's eyes—because Maedhros, after all, was the exception to that rule and they all needed him to be the exception.

Huntress opened her mouth and shut it again.

'Will you go to meet him?' she asked, at length, and was not sure whether she had managed to convey a warning by the inflection of her voice, as she had intended.

Maedhros looked back down at Targlin, seeming to take in those strong legs, that unfaltering, confident stride, perhaps.

'Not all the way out into the plain, I think,' he said slowly. 'But he must be met.'

'Shall I go?' asked Tercano, who was the youngest there and quick to volunteer, eager to make his mark.

'You can come—but only if you stay well back,' said Maedhros. 'And that's an order, do you hear?'

So he was planning on going himself. He issued a number of other orders—who was to come, who was to stay on guard here by the walls and who was to stay out of sight.

He is being cautious, thought Huntress, but is he being cautious enough? And is it the right thing that he is guarding against? I suppose it could be another ambush, but here, in plain daylight, that is less likely than...

Then Maedhros turned to her. She thought he was about to give her an order, too, but he must have changed his mind for he said nothing. Perhaps he did not trust her enough, as a Sinda, to do as he ordered, in these circumstances. But she took it that she was free to do as she wished as long as she did not get in the way and went to fetch her bow. Discreetly, she waited and trailed a little way after Maedhros and the others when they set out. She must have been seen, but nobody questioned her acts.

Maedhros and his party went some way down the hill. In a spot that commanded a good view of the downward path as well as their surroundings they halted. Further up the path, less than a bow-shot away, Huntress stopped, too, and crouched behind a bush. It was not good cover, but it would serve for her purpose.

The stranger—Targlin—came up the path, almost as if he was taking a leisurely stroll. He carried no visible weapon.

Maedhros raised his hand.

'Hail, Tarcalino! You were long missed.'

'Nelyafinwe,' said the stranger. 'Well met.'

His voice was clear and strong, like the rest of him. And yet there was something wrong about it, surely, thought Huntress. But, of course, she had never heard him speak before.

'How have you fared, since we parted? Will you tell us?'

'Later, perhaps. I am weary from the journey and am in need of rest.'

He did not sound as weary as all that, he did not sound even as tired as he could plausibly have been, crossing the plain and climbing half way up a hill. Was he even trying to convince them?

'You have come a long way to find us,' said Maedhros.

'So I have. Will you invite me inside your walls?'

There was a moment of silence, as if Maedhros hesitated. None of the others spoke.

'Enter and welcome, Tarcalino,' said Maedhros then. 'Come in and rest!'

No, thought Huntress, that is a mistake.

But Targlin joined Maedhros's party and they went past her and back up the hill together. Only, perhaps the Noldor were not fooled after all, because despite Maedhros's words of welcome nobody seemed to rejoice, nobody was smiling, except for Targlin, and Targlin was smiling too much, too widely. Tercano, she saw, was still staying well back, as he had been ordered. She went after them.

When she caught up, they had entered inside the walls and, again, everyone was quietly watching as Maedhros asked Targlin: 'Would you like to eat before you rest?', and, as if were an afterthought, but with a kind of pained hopefulness, it seemed: 'We have a healer, Tarcalino. Do you wish to see him?'

Bronadui moved forward, ready to brave the challenge, but Targlin shook his head and said: 'Why would I need a healer?' And now it seemed that although he was still smiling, it was in outright scorn, ridiculing their efforts. With a touch of impatience, he added: 'And I am not hungry either. I merely wish to rest.'

They took him to the temporary shelter where their bedrolls lay spread out, and still Huntress followed, as Maedhros led Targlin towards his own pallet.

'Can I do anything else for you, Tarcalino?' Maedhros asked.

'No,' said Targlin shortly.

'Rest well, then,' said Maedhros and turned away.

But just as soon as Maedhros turned his back on him, Targlin's demeanour changed, all in the blink of an eye, and a knife that had been hidden appeared suddenly in his hand.

Huntress had not, in truth, expected it to happen quite so quickly. There was no time for the bow, but it was close quarters and she had a clear shot. Huntress threw her dagger. It flew accurately and found Targlin between the shoulder blades. Just as if she had been practising that particular throw, she thought dazedly, staring at the dagger handle, her own dagger embedded in the back of another elf. Which she had not, had never thought of doing.

 

***

 

Maedhros whipped around to meet the expected attack. He made a grab for Targlin's knife hand, almost before he caught sight of the knife, and, at the same time, saw Targlin's eyes widen, both with fury and relief, perhaps, and sensed the impact as Huntress's dagger struck. Maedhros caught Targlin's right hand by the wrist, hard, and wrapped his handless right arm around Targlin's other side, wedging him in, trying as best he could to immobilize him and stop him from producing another hidden weapon and either turning it on Maedhros or anyone else.

He wondered whether Targlin might try to bite through his jugular instead or whether that was an orcish tactic he had not learned in Angband. He tried to see where exactly Huntress's dagger had hit Targlin. He wondered whether there was anything he could still say to Targlin at this point, anything that would help.

Tarcalino, who in Valinor had been one of Feanaro's most skilled apprentices, perhaps the best of all, before Maedhros's brother Curufinwe grew up to rival him. Who had watched Maedhros's own efforts in the forge with pity and a certain indulgence, as they not only failed to match his, but turned out well below the expected standards. Who, even when he set up independently, still had seemed to take more pride in having studied under Feanaro than in anything he had achieved on his own. It had come as no surprise at all to anyone that Tarcalino had followed Feanaro unhesitatingly first to Formenos and later to Middle-earth...

Aiya, Tarcalino, what have we done to you, I and my family?

Unmarked. As far as he had been able to see Targlin was entirely unmarked, physically, by whatever had been done to him in Angband. Maedhros was, suddenly, selfishly grateful for every single scar he bore, for all the physical damage he had sustained in the dungeons of Angband and upon Thangorodrim, because it had not been this, because it had not been whatever had happened to Targlin.

Ceredir had not stepped in and neither had any of the others. Huntress's dagger had dealt Targlin a fatal wound, Maedhros thought, and they must be able to see that, too.

He held Targlin tightly, still as much to prevent any final attack as in a vain attempt at comfort.

'I know,' he said inanely. 'I know...' For what did he know? What could he know?

Targlin shuddered.

'Aiya, Nelyafinwe,' he said and his voice was hoarse and terrible and, at last, entirely his own.

Then he vomited a little blood onto Maedhros's shoulder and died.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

"Targlin" is an alternative name for Maeglin that ended up not being used in canon.

I chose it for this OC because he, too, has been tortured into submission and betrayal in Angband without the torture leaving any visible trace on his body. (At any rate that is what happened to Maeglin in Himring 'verse: he withstood physical torture for a while and broke down when they continued it by non-physical means.)
"Tarcalino" is my guess at a possible Quenya equivalent of Targlin, that is, the name form by which he might have been known in Valinor. If the rendering is incorrect and you can do better, please break it to me gently.

Further help with (canonical) Quenya names: Nelyafinwe (Maedhros), Feanaro (Feanor), Curufinwe (Curufin).

This chapter was posted in two separate parts on AO3.

Chapter 2: The Chill Wind of Himring

Warnings: mental issues, illness

(with some medical hand-waving)

Read Chapter 2: The Chill Wind of Himring

Huntress shivered, drawing her cloak closer about herself. The local guide that had first led them to the hill of Himring had explained that it had been named for the almost permanent chill due to its exposure to the north winds, but, truth to tell, she had not really noticed it being all that much colder than in any of the surrounding area until just recently. But now the chill kept seeping into her bones and no cloak or scarf seemed warm enough—ever since Targlin had died.

Perhaps the others, the Noldor, were feeling colder, too. She was finding it hard to tell. They had changed since Targlin died. They spoke less to her and when they spoke among themselves, she did not always understand them. Although she found Quenya difficult to speak—she could not seem to make it sound right and there were word forms that kept defeating her—her comprehension of Quenya had been progressing in leaps and bounds, before. During their journeys of exploration and their first attempts at settlement, she and her companions had grown at ease conducting whole conversations in which everyone switched back and forth between Quenya and Sindarin. Now the others were still just as careful, or perhaps more so, to address any direct remark or comment to her in Sindarin, but their Quenya had grown more opaque and hard to follow. Or was it her hearing that was now refusing to cooperate? The liquid Quenya syllables seemed to slide away from her understanding, as if they were running through her fingers like water.

They were grieving over the death of Targlin, she was certain. Of course, they were. She felt their grief as a reproach, although nobody had said anything.

‘Look,’ she wanted to say to them. ‘I’m sorry, very sorry that Targlin got captured and changed, but not that he’s dead. He had to die! He was going straight for Maedhros’s unprotected back! I had to act to save him, hadn’t I? And, of course, you were hoping you could free Targlin somehow, if I hadn’t killed him. But do you know how many people we of the Mithrim lost, just because we found it so very hard to give up on that same hope, when they were our own who returned from the Enemy’s prisons? So, you think you could have done better? You’re deluding yourselves!’

But the fact was that nobody had reproached her or even hinted that her actions might need justifying. She had not been given an opening to say any of these things. They had all gone very quiet. They were more watchful, too, the guards on duty often joined early by those on the next shift and themselves staying a little longer when they had done their turn, peering north.  She was not sure whether she was just imagining that they were watching her, as well. She listened to snatches of Quenya conversation that eluded her, listened hard for any mention of Targlin’s name or her own, for any undertones of anger, but found she could not interpret the sound of their voices nor read their expressions.

Maedhros himself had spoken to her shortly after the event. He had thanked her very gravely and formally for her prompt action on his behalf. Then he had offered her a necklace brought all the way from Valinor as a token of his gratitude. The necklace dripped pearls--it was a magnificent thing worthy of the finest lady in Menegroth or Brithombar, even Queen Melian herself. It hung across her palm like something dead.

How much she had learnt in such a short time, she thought, sadly. When she had first walked into the Noldorin camp in Mithrim, daringly, against the explicit instructions of her elders, she might have been overwhelmed by such a gift—crafted by unimaginable arts beyond the confines of Middle-earth. Now she knew these Noldor better and saw the differences among them. There were, perhaps, Noldor that might have considered she was not worthy of such a necklace under any circumstance. Others might have thought such a masterwork of Noldorin art fitting recompense for a saved life. But Maedhros? Maedhros did not place such high value on ornaments for their own sake; he was not truly grateful for what she had done—clearly, he was merely trying to buy off any claim she might have on him. She accepted the necklace without protest nevertheless, put it away at the bottom of her pack and did not look at it again.

Narye, her oldest ally and friend among these people, who was so very Noldorin, looking others straight in the eye, without realizing when it was a flagrant breach of manners, but always keeping her hands strictly to herself, as if even the briefest of friendly touches might be rude and a transgression—Narye had come to Huntress in the dusk, not looking her in the face at all, but hugging her against her chest so that Huntress had felt Narye’s splayed fingers pressing into her shoulder blades.

‘You are misinterpreting us, our feelings and our actions,’ Narye had murmured, close to Huntress’s left ear. ‘How I wish I could explain, but, please, try to believe me, you do not understand us aright…’

Huntress had tried to believe, as she was being asked to, but Narye’s words made no sense to her. Were they intended as some kind of apology? How? What for, exactly? The formless sadness that had hung like thick fog about Huntress ever since she had killed, which had lifted briefly in the circle of Narye’s embrace, was not slow to return with redoubled force.

Huntress shivered and pulling up the hood of her cloak huddled further into the shelter of a corner, away from the north wind. It did not fully register with her, not sufficiently to take alarm as she should have, that her fingers were turning white.

 

Towards the end of the long hours of the night, Maedhros lay dreaming.  In his dream he saw all the friends and followers he had foolishly led into ambush after his father’s death emerge from the gates of Angband one by one and steadily head across the plain straight toward Himring in Targlin’s footsteps. Half waking, he reminded himself that he was responsible for any Noldo who died or was made captive in Beleriand—not only those he had personally led to disaster during his brief kingship—and with somewhat more of an effort he recalled that the scenario of his dream was not likely. His brothers had assured him repeatedly when he had asked, after his rescue from captivity, that all others except himself had been found slain in the ambush and were accounted for. They would not have concealed the truth from him, would they? Not all of them, even if they might have been tempted to do so. He had taken care to question them separately.

But his dream self was unconvinced, it seemed. As he drifted into sleep again, he slipped straight back into the same dream and again saw the column of those he had betrayed into the hands of the Enemy advancing on him.

‘You are dead, dead, dead,’ he said to them, pleading that it might be so.

But their faces remained unmoved and expressionless, as one after the other they pulled out long jagged knives and went for his throat or his eyes or his chest.

Out of the midst of his nightmare, he jerked awake as he heard Narye give a keening wail and quickly realized he had neglected the living for the dead. For away in her corner, Huntress lay white and cold and could not be woken.

 

They met to take counsel, Maedhros and Narye, Ceredir and Celvandil and Bronadui, the physician, in order to plan a course of action. They stood talking quietly amongst themselves, a little apart from the rest, in a half-built guard chamber.

‘I confess I do not understand Huntress’s condition,’ said Bronadui. ‘It is outside my experience.  It resembles, a bit, the shock that some of our people went into after Alqualonde. But the onset of that was much quicker and very obvious and those who did recover also recovered more quickly. The treatment cannot be the same. At least, anything I could have done, I would need to have done sooner. But I detected no symptoms, immediately after Targlin’s death, and did not suspect she might be sickening as slowly as she did. Now, I can do my best to keep her physically alive, but I have no idea how to wake her out of the state she is in. All the means I tried have failed. And as long as she does not wake, she will continue gradually to weaken, despite anything I can do to sustain her.’

Bronadui, it was agreed among them, was talented and open-minded, but not the House of Feanor’s most experienced physician. The latter had been sent east with Maglor and Caranthir. Maedhros had already considered getting him back while he was waiting for Bronadui’s verdict, but had concluded it did not seem promising, even apart from the fact that Maedhros was not certain of his precise location at present. Ingolmo was more experienced in some fields—highly proficient at dealing with complicated fractures, for instance—but also more likely to just throw up his hands and refuse to engage with anything entirely outside his experience than Bronadui.

‘You think this may, in some fashion, be a Sindarin thing,’ said Maedhros. Bronadui had hinted at the possibility but was clearly too cautious to say so outright, with insufficient evidence to support the hypothesis. But they could not afford to tiptoe around issues, because Huntress’s time was limited. Himring was not the Garden of Lorien where it had been possible to preserve Miriel’s body intact until everyone had quite finished their deliberations. They needed to take action and soon.

‘If we send her home to her people, they might know of a cure,’ said Narye, red-eyed.

Narye had been sitting by Huntress’s side whenever she could. She felt responsible for Huntress’s presence in Himring, Maedhros knew. The two had met at a time when Narye was at her best and, probably, her least self-conscious, smuggling supplies from the Feanorian camp to the half-starved followers of Fingolfin in secret while negotiations between Maglor and Fingolfin were dragging on. Later, Narye had clearly been taken completely by surprise when Huntress had decided to accompany the Feanorians east. It had thrown her off balance and made her uncertain in her dealings with Huntress.  

Besides, thought Maedhros, she had probably felt constrained by the memories of Alqualonde. It was a constraint he felt himself. The northern Sindar did not really resemble the Falmari that much, despite also being Teleri. And yet, while it was easy enough to wish any Sinda well, without reservations, it was more difficult, with Alqualonde and the Doom at the back of his mind, to open up enough for a close friendship. Such trust might be only one of those things they no longer deserved.

In Huntress’s case, however, Maedhros thought, Narye might be shouldering a little too much blame. Huntress was young and adventurous, and probably would have been tempted to leave her tribe and go exploring anyway, although perhaps not to live among the Dispossessed. But now Narye was the more distressed because she believed she had thoroughly failed her friend. No wonder she was readily seizing on the solution of returning Huntress back to Mithrim.

‘We cannot, at this time, send enough people with her to get her safely straight across the plain,’ said Maedhros.

‘So, we would have to send her by the route through Dorthonion,’ said Celvandil.

‘And then, when they got to Hithlum, whoever took her would still have to find her people. They move about, they might not be anywhere near the mountains or the lake,’ said Ceredir.

‘Nolofinwe will have posted some of his people in the Ered Wethrin and they would know of the movements of Sindar in their vicinity,’ said Narye.

 ‘All of that would take a dangerously long time,’ said Bronadui. ‘Although, perhaps, we might find Sindar on the way in Dorthonion, who might be able to advise us. We might even cross paths with a Sindarin healer. For I would have to go with whoever we send, if we choose to try this, to help sustain Huntress during the days of our search. But we would be staking a great deal on the Sindar being familiar with the condition that is afflicting her. We do not know this for a fact.’

‘Maybe Huntress would want to be taken home, regardless,’ said Narye sadly.

‘If we are pinning hopes on Sindarin healers of Dorthonion, not of Huntress’s own clan,’ said Celvandil, ‘how about the Sindar that live closer by? Are there no healers among them? I do not think the guide that led us here had such knowledge—he said nothing that would suggest it—but what about the rest of his people?’

‘I am not certain,’ said Maedhros. ‘But they were moving south, the last time we spoke. He said they would return, in half a year or so, but I think they would be a long way south, by this time.’

‘Makalaure’s last messenger mentioned meeting another group of Sindar on the way,’ said Ceredir, ‘Sindar that we ourselves have not encountered yet. In fact, I think—yes, I do remember he said this clan had a healer of high repute among them. They take great pride in her. But that would be almost the opposite direction, south-east, not west.’

‘He did not mention the healer to me, although he spoke of the encounter. He did not meet the main group, only a couple of their scouts. They would be about two or three days’ ride away, going by what he said.  Did you pick up any more details, hints which way to find the main group?’ asked Maedhros.

‘No,’ said Ceredir. ‘But they would be camping in a sheltered spot near water, I guess? There are not so many of those in that area, are there? Except they may have moved on since, of course.’

‘But their healer is highly reputed among Sindar?’ asked Bronadui, hopefully.

Narye, too, had begun to look a little more hopeful. Her expression lightened.

‘You think it is worth trying,’ concluded Maedhros. ‘Then I will go and fetch this healer.’

None of the others said anything, they just looked at him.

‘What? It was my life she saved after all.’

She had. And he should not have allowed her to be in the position to do so. It had been a calculated risk to turn his back on Targlin. He had counted on being faster than Targlin, and it was not that he had miscalculated—he would indeed have been fast enough—but the risk had been too high and that move could have miscarried in any of a number of ways. It was a risk that he had the right to take personally, but not as a leader that others depended on.

Huntress had been right to intervene. He had been very conscious of her as a potential back-up. That was where he had erred. He had relied too much on Sindarin pragmatism, in the matter of the returned captives, on Huntress’s independent mind, and on the fact that Huntress had never met Targlin before. He had overlooked how young she was. He should have kept her away as much as possible, like Tercano.

‘I will be going south-east,’ Maedhros pointed out to his concerned followers, ‘not north. Makalaure’s messenger did not encounter any danger from the Enemy, coming.’

‘Not alone,’ said Narye, decisively. ‘If you feel you must go yourself, take someone with you—Celvandil?’

‘Shall I get the horses?’ Celvandil asked.

And thus the decision was made.

Chapter 3: Seeking the Healer

Read Chapter 3: Seeking the Healer

They rode south-east all day, towards the location where Maglor's messenger had reported meeting the Sindarin scouts a couple of weeks ago. The main group might well have moved on since and their scouts had not shared their plans. The Sindar could have moved in any direction.

So, as Maedhros and Celvandil rode, they were watching for any signs that might indicate a Sindarin presence—knowing full well that the people they were looking for had developed not letting themselves be seen to the point of a form of art. They were also watching out, as always, anywhere in this land, for signs of danger—forces of the Enemy or sources of danger hitherto unknown. Already, they had moved beyond the area in the immediate vicinity of Himring in which they were familiar with every feature, every patch of ground. This was country they had explored but were not yet at home in.

It was a tiring ride, with the need for haste constantly in their minds as much as the need to be alert, and the weather a little insidious, not nearly as bitterly cold as the Marches could easily become, but a damp seeping chill that made itself felt more and more as the evening drew on. By the time they stopped, after nightfall, there were patches of thin mist drifting in the hollows. It was a comfortless halt—a trickling stream barely strong enough to water the horses, a couple of scraggy bushes.

Maedhros felt wretched, far more than he should have, after what had been no more than some hours of riding without serious incident, after all, and that bit of damp that he might otherwise not even have taken notice of. He had meant to unpack and set out a few of their things, but found himself crouching motionlessly on the ground beside the saddle bags like so much luggage, feeling acutely the remnants of physical pain that he had learned to tune out, for the most part, just by ignoring them. Worse, he was feeling strongly, once again, the malignancy of Morgoth's will beating on his brain from the North.

As the fortress of Himring took shape in Maedhros's mind and its walls, slowly enough, rose in actuality, stone by stone, on the hill, he had found it a serviceable defence, mentally, even before physically its walls were strong or complete enough to keep out a single orc. He could focus on Himring and wall Morgoth out. If he was not inside the future walls or even some way away from the hill where they would eventually be, that had made no difference, in the past months—the mere concept of Himring in Maedhros's mind, the hope he had invested in the fortress and the protection it could offer his people had been shield enough.

But now Morgoth had broken through that defence—so easily. He had not had to send an army, he had just sent Targlin. And the message had been very clear.

I can break you. All of you. And I will.

Maedhros had failed to protect his people in the first place—that was how they had all ended up in this exposed position in Beleleriand—and now he had failed to protect them again. And he had compounded his failures by insisting on going off in person on this wild-goose chase for an unknown Sindarin healer who would have little interest in letting herself be found and might be unable to help in any case—just because, apparently, Maedhros could not learn to live with his mistakes.

Now here he was, sitting out here in the wilderness, feeling sick and sorry for himself, without his brother Maglor to prop him up and gloss over his deficiencies until Maedhros regained his grip, as Maglor had so reliably done in the past. It had seemed the better plan to send Maglor with Caranthir on his explorations eastward, into unknown territory—Caranthir to sense intentions and threats, Maglor to soothe the feelings of any sentient beings that Caranthir's approach and manner might ruffle. It still seemed the better plan if only Maedhros had been as strong as he ought to have been, as strong as he had thought he was, but now Maedhros missed Maglor's support painfully.

In Maglor's absence he turned his thoughts the other way and allowed himself to think of Fingon. If Fingon could see him now, what would he think of this pathetic show his cousin was making, just now? He would not tolerate it for long. He would do, as he had done in Mithrim: with gentle persistence bully him until Maedhros got up and got on with things, for the sake of the Noldor.

For the Noldor...

Maedhros's eyes pricked with tears. He had tried to visualize Fingon's dear determined face, his worried frown, tried to imagine the sensation of Fingon's strong fingers gripping his shoulders—but instead of feeling encouraged, he was assailed by an aching sense of separation and loss. This was not working. Focusing on anything inside his head was clearly the wrong thing to do, tonight, and so he made himself look around for Celvandil.

Celvandil was still wholly occupied in taking care of their horses—talking to them softly, praising them for their cooperation and endurance today, checking their hooves one by one to make sure they were taking no damage on this hurried journey. That was fortunate, thought Maedhros, it meant that Celvandil probably had not noticed anything, just now, and also that Maedhros had not been lost in misery as long as it had seemed, to him.

He considered Celvandil, his bent back, Noldorin black hair tied back simply but efficiently, his hands sure and gentle as he checked the bay mare's hoof. Maedhros could never have spoken as frankly to Celvandil, he thought, as he could speak to Maglor or as he might have spoken to Fingon, if circumstances had permitted it. He could not have revealed the extent of his weakness to Celvandil or the extent of his lingering pain or confessed his fears and flaws. It was not that he felt any specific doubt or distrusted Celvandil. His whole instincts were against it, and he could make exceptions for Maglor and Fingon, nobody else.

And Celvandil would not have wanted him to. He surely would have been horrified if his prince had begun to unburden himself to him. Maedhros needed to remain a leader in the eyes of his people. He need the mantle of authority to be effective. If at any time, the fault lines became too obvious, at least his people needed to be able to avert their eyes.

Maedhros could not speak frankly to Celvandil, no. But nevertheless, Maedhros thought, Celvandil had without complaint accompanied Maedhros on his wild-goose chase in the wilds of East Beleriand, just as, before that, he had followed him loyally on the way from Mithrim to Himring and, before that, from Valinor to Middle-earth.

Maedhros remembered Celvandil as he had known him in Valinor. Celvandil was the son of a successful horse-breeder who counted the royal family and the nobility among his patrons. As his son, Celvandil had owned his own horses, valuable and well-trained. When the Feanorians had reached Beleriand, all the horses anyone owned had been impounded by the crown, by military necessity, as had any other property that was too important to the war effort to be left in private hands. Celvandil's horses, the ones he had brought along on the journey from Tirion, were among them—not that they were taken away from him, at that point, as he was still employed in looking after them, but they were no longer officially his.

Celvandil had accepted the necessity—nor had he shown any resentment, later, when Maedhros gave away so many horses to Fingolfin, accepting that necessity also, even though some of Celvandil's horses were among them. Fingolfin could be given only the best, after all. How could peace among them otherwise be achieved? Celvandil had not understood, however, thought Maedhros, why Maedhros had also given Allinte, the dapple-grey mare, away to Fingon, at the same time—whether Fingon had saved Maedhros from Thangorodrim or not. Allinte was Maedhros's own horse and so she had been his to give, as a personal gift to his cousin as well as in his role as the head of the House of Feanor—but she was also the mare that Celvandil had trained specially to carry Maedhros when he first began to ride again, after Thangorodrim, and in that way she had been Celvandil's also.

Maedhros had been aware of an injustice, in this, although Celvandil never said anything and Maedhros could not offer any explanation that would not have shamed and embarrassed them both. Yet, Celvandil followed him still, ever since, and had given unstintingly of his loyalty as before and on this day, also.

'I will see to it that you have horses of your own again, one day, Celvandil' said Maedhros, suddenly.

Celvandil looked up, startled, carefully set down the last hoof and turned around.

'Thank you very much,' he answered. 'It is not really of so very much concern to me, at present.'

Of course it wasn't, thought Maedhros. Celvandil's main concern at present was surely stopping his fool prince from running off and falling into a ditch and maybe dying there, when his people needed him in Himring.

But the idea of getting horses for Celvandil seemed to help. It might in truth be as unattainable a goal, in their current situation, as ensuring the survival of the Noldor in Beleriand or defending Himring against everything Morgoth could throw against it or finding a healer out here in the wilds in time to save an unconscious woman, but it felt more manageable, somehow. Maedhros included a private stable for Celvandil's horses in his future plans for Himring and felt the notional walls solidify again, a little.

'I will,' he insisted. 'One day. As soon as possible. You will see.'

'Yes, of course,' said Celvandil, clearly humouring him, but nevertheless touched by the vehemence with which Maedhros was pursuing the idea.

They spoke little further that night and set out again as soon as it was light enough to see any tracks that might cross their path. Maedhros had regained his determination. It was not possible that Huntress should die without Maedhros Feanorion doing his utmost to prevent it. They would find that healer.

---

Chapter End Notes

An earlier version of this chapter was posted for Back to Middle-earth Month 2017 on LiveJournal.
The B2MeM prompts were: Animals (Green Path), Lost and found (Green Path).

I wrote a six-part drabble sequence about Celvandil, when I was trying to work out the background to this part of the story. It's called "The Stable-Master" and is posted to AO3 and elsewhere.
The gift of the mare Allinte to Fingon is told from Fingon's point of view in a chapter in "Just and Equitable Government".

Chapter 4: Guidance

Read Chapter 4: Guidance

The Sindar were not as hard to find as night fears had painted them. Indeed, as usual, it was the Sindar who found them, as soon as they had reached the right area—or rather, in this case, a single Sinda.  As they were casting about along the watercourse that ran close by where Maglor’s messenger had encountered the scouts, a young woman appeared almost under their noses, suddenly enough to spook the horses a little. Celvandil spoke swiftly in Quenya to soothe them. The young Sinda stood silent and unflinching, gazing up at Maedhros. She bore a bow and quiver, but she was clearly a forager, not a scout; she had been fishing and carried her catch on a string, fresh and plain to see. The camp must not be very far, then.

‘Greetings,’ said Maedhros, bending forward to speak to her, ‘we come in peace. We are Noldor, from West over the Sea.’ She could see that, probably, but it would not hurt to acknowledge it. The Noldor must have been hearsay to her, until this moment. ‘Your people call me Maedhros.’

He paused. The woman nodded briefly, relaxing her stance just a little, but did not say anything.

‘We have heard there is a renowned healer among you and have come to seek her.’ Maedhros hesitated, then he added apologetically: ‘We are in haste.’

The young Sinda considered this. Then she lifted her arm and pointed.

‘Your camp is this way?’

She nodded and finally spoke: ‘An hour or two. On foot.’

‘Our horses will be faster,’ said Maedhros.

The Sinda nodded, suggesting that he had stated the obvious, and stepped aside, as if encouraging them to proceed without her. Maedhros imagined he could almost see her beginning to fade a little, at the edges, brown-green, about to disappear back into high grass and low bushes. But he was being fanciful.

He half bowed in the saddle: ‘Our heartfelt thanks for your guidance!’

The two Noldor urged their horses in the indicated direction, toward the Sindarin camp.

---

Chapter End Notes

This bit was posted separately to Tumblr for Legendarium Ladies April 2018.

Chapter 5: Negotiations (I)

Read Chapter 5: Negotiations (I)

They rode a short way as fast as the horses would go. After that, with the fisherwoman out of sight behind them and still no signs of the camp in sight yet, Maedhros slowed a little and almost immediately, out of the corner of his eye, saw Celvandil edging across as if trying to catch his attention. He realized Celvandil wished to speak and slowed further until they could converse side by side.

‘My lord,’ asked Celvandil swiftly and quietly in Quenya, ‘although it seems we have, by great good luck, found the Grey Elves and their famed healer, what shall we say to them? How shall we persuade her to come with us? We are strangers and this is a patient she has never met before! And, if Bronadui has guessed right, will we not be forced to reveal what may have caused the condition we are asking her to deal with? But is there not a risk to that?’

More than one risk, he probably meant, but he was hesitating to spell any of them out, even in Quenya, here where the very bushes might have the sharpest of ears.

‘Maybe. And maybe we could have discussed that part with Bronadui more thoroughly before we set out,’ answered Maedhros. ‘I think we would still have to take things as we find them, though, so follow my lead in this as best you can. I am hoping, myself, that fellow feeling for the plight of one of their own people alone will be enough to carry weight and the distance is not so far. But our Huntress is not of their tribe and Hisilome may seem quite another country to them.’

 

And maybe, thought Maedhros only a short time later, the bushes had indeed had ears and even that short quiet exchange in Quenya, although not understood as words, had been enough to engender distrust by its tone. But it was more likely, merely, that they could not have luck all the way, as they had had with the forager they had encountered first. As simple as that.

He was facing four Sindarin clansmen who were clearly closely related and at least two of which might be twins, although it seemed probable that the identical scowls all of them were wearing on their faces were making them look more alike than they were. Apparently, Maedhros’s Sindarin was a good deal worse than he had thought, especially when his audience was not prepared to make allowances for a Mithrim accent. The conversation had been going around in circles for a while.

They had regarded him suspiciously from the first; their distrust had flared when he mentioned their healer and from the moment they had guessed he might be hoping to take her somewhere with him, he had failed to get anywhere with them. They would not listen to anything he might say. They would not let him speak to the healer. They formed a living shield attempting to bar him even from view of their camp and would not let him pass to try and speak to anybody else at all.

He had exhausted all his diplomacy on them, so he raised his voice and asked: ‘Are you, then, spokesmen for all your people? Do you truly speak for the healer herself?’

It seemed that his voice carried as he had intended. An incisive female voice called out: ‘Stop fussing, Tirn! Let me speak to the strangers.’

The man who apparently was the one familiarly addressed as Tirn stepped aside, discomfited, and the others followed suit. Maedhros thanked them, much relieved and carefully unironical, and quickly walked on past, Celvandil close upon his heels.

The woman who had spoken was easy to identify, a focus of authority, the rest of the group clustering about her respectfully. She also had the silver hair that among the Sindar sometimes went with a degree of power.

‘Why do you wish to speak to me, elf from overseas?’ she asked. ‘Who do you seek my aid for?’

He bowed politely. He must not make a wrong move now. How should he address her? He would have called her My lady, but in his experience some Grey Elves disliked that, considering it pretentious and southern. He made a guess.

‘Honourable aunt,’ he began, as they did in Mithrim.

‘Aunt?’ said the healer and laughed.

It seemed he had guessed wrong. Luckily, she seemed amused rather than offended.

‘What should I call you, then?’ asked Maedhros.

‘Oh, Auntie will do!’

Now she was teasing him. Maedhros, even without looking, felt Celvandil bristle behind him. He wondered whether he was obliged to stand on his dignity, for the sake of his people, here, but discarded the notion. Regardless of Celvandil’s feelings surely his chances were better if he allowed himself to play along.

‘Auntie,’ he said, ‘Auntie, please, I need your help for someone who is dear to me. She is of your people, of the Eglath of Mithrim, and she is in grave danger of her life.’

---

Chapter End Notes

"Tirn" is a nickname due to this Sinda's attitude to his relative, not his real name. It means "Guardian".

An earlier version of this chapter was written in the form of a double drabble and submitted to Tolkien Weekly for "Terms of Address (My Lord; My Lady)" and to Legendarium Ladies April for "Intercultural Relations" and " "Skills".

 

My character Auntie has now been drawn by Anerea! And with particular reference to the scene above and her amused reaction to Maedhros's choice of address!

The drawing is here on Tumblr: link

Do have a look!