The Songs: A Story of East Beleriand by Himring

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".