Of Things Made to be Destroyed by janeways

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Chapter 3

Morning dawned cold and misty. To Caranthir it seemed the damp earth itself was shivering under the wan early light. But there was light, and for that he was grateful. He had slept little, but there were many who had slept even less: those tasked with setting up camp, organizing the hospital, tending to the wounded, and burying the fallen. (It struck him, how both his people and Haleth’s buried their dead in the earth: for the Noldor, it was a tradition forged in Beleriand, a way of connecting them to this land; for the nomadic Haladin, it symbolically marked their journey and the places where, for however long, they made their home.) A long rest and a lazy morning was perhaps warranted, he thought. It was almost certainly desired by all, yet it seemed that sleep escaped more than Caranthir: even by the time he dressed and left his tent, the large camp was wide awake with the sounds of talking and the pungent smell of woodsmoke.

Damn, he thought, all the wood’s soaked through and smoking something fierce. I’ll be lucky if any of my meals for the next day taste like anything more than soot. Caranthir detested a smoky fire. Supplies of food, medicine, cloth, and dry wood were on their way from his castle, but the supply caravan would take a day or more to reach them. As he approached his head cook for the cavalry, he was already making a mental inventory of food that either would not be strongly affected by the presence of smoke or that might actually be by improved by it. And then, as he passed one of the women of Haleth’s guard, an idea struck him.

*

“Hail the victorious dead!” Haleth’s voice rang out strong and clear across the field.

“Hail!” answered Caranthir, raising his goblet in toast.

“Hail!” came the chorus of replies from the gathered combatants and survivors. They had set their feast at many long tables arranged in a sort of central “square” in their tent city, a large area at the head of camp left intentionally clear. Caranthir was pleased to see a certain amount of mingling between the two peoples, if not much conversation (which he hoped was simply the result of limited Sindarin on the Haladin’s part).

Having instructed his head cook to consult with the Haladin concerning their supplies and dietary preferences, he had approached Haleth with his plan. “It will be a symbolic celebration,” he had explained. “It is a tradition among the Noldor. With the sun still in the morning sky, almost at the peak of noon, we celebrate both our past successes and the promise of good health to come.”

“Have you a name for it?” Her question had thrown him.

“Have—what? A name for a victory celebration?”

“You said it was a tradition amongst your people.”

“Oh, well, yes, a meal taken late in the morning. Not necessarily a victory meal, although such an occasion would not be excluded—”

“What do you call it?”

“We call it ‘brunch.’”

*

Leaning back in his camp chair to let his food settle, Caranthir turned to look at Haleth. She was still eating intently. He noted the soft roundness of her ears—still such a novelty to him—and the beginnings of lines around her eyes, tiny folds in the delicate skin. Mannish age was a matter of some confusion for Caranthir. Dwarves, with whom he had more familiarity, he had learned to judge fairly accurately, and like Dwarves, Men did age and die, but how the two peoples’ lifespans and signs of aging compared he did not know. Haleth could have been still a young woman or one well into her middle age. Whatever her age, she carried weight and wisdom beyond her years, though. That much he could tell.

“What, pray tell, are you looking at?” Haleth’s voice startled him from his thoughts. She had not turned her head (or, Caranthir noted, paused her eating while she spoke). “I can feel your eyes on me, Lord.”

“You have keen senses, then,” he countered.

“I have led a dangerous life; I have had to develop them,” she answered, eyes still on her food. Still, he did not answer her, but held his gaze steadily. At length, she turned to him. “You did not answer me, Lord. What are you looking at? You have the look about you of a man searching for something.” Haleth cocked her head, and although she did smile, there was a laugh in her eyes. “What are you hoping to find in my face?”

For that, he had no answer. “Merely looking,” he said softly.

Shaking her head, Haleth turned back to her food. “I am grateful for your hospitality, but you Elves have strange ways.”

Caranthir paused. “Yes, ah, well…” Excellent diplomacy, Carnistir, very princely, he berated himself. “I am sure many of our customs must seem different and unusual,” he said in what he hoped was a recovery. Seizing an opportunity where he saw one opening up, he pressed on. “I am unfamiliar with many of your people’s customs as well, Lady. Please, enlighten me as to the origin of your earlier toast. I found it very moving.”

Haleth hummed a moment while she finished chewing. “In truth, I know not. But as you said, I too have always found it moving. The idea that their sacrifice was not in vain. That we are celebrating their lives rather than mourning their deaths.”

“It is a pleasing sentiment,” Caranthir agreed. “My people, being of eternal life, are often inclined towards intense sorrow at death. It is not permanent for us—we are re-embodied in the Undying Lands, after our time in the Halls of the Dead; we do not continue on past the circles of the world,” he interjected hurriedly at the gape-mouthed stare from Haleth at his statement that death was not permanent for Elves. “I think it because we do not understand death, not truly,” he continued, “not in the way mortals must. But I do not feel it must always be so, for us. I should like if we adopted an attitude not unlike your own.”

Haleth nodded slowly. Her face, usually steeled in a veneer of stern unreadability, had softened in surprise at this last admission. Perhaps, he surmised, she was astonished that such a proud lord as he would so openly admit her people’s customs preferable to his own. But Caranthir was above all a practical person: there were no trade networks built upon prejudice, and no profits to be gained by clinging to pride in the face of a better option. (And besides, his cousin Ingoldo’s funeral dirges really were abominable.)

“Now you have asked me a question, I should like to ask you one of my own,” Haleth said, settling back in her own chair. This was going to be a long conversation, apparently.

“I welcome it.”

*

Alone in his tent, Caranthir plucked away at the design before him. It was a small piece, a white horse courant on a field of green, interspersed with golden flowers. In time, the edges would be circled by a pattern of interlocking stalks, leaves, and flowers. He hadn’t decided what it would be—probably a handkerchief—or to whom he would gift it—at the moment, he was leaning towards Tyelko, but that would rule out its being used as a handkerchief. (Caranthir was not sure the last time he had seen his brother use anything remotely resembling a handkerchief. Or a napkin. Maybe he would use it as a hand towel? Maybe.)

As he sewed, Caranthir considered his earlier conversation with Haleth (which, in all honesty, had not left his mind since he had reluctantly left her side). What had started as a gaffe had evolved into a discussion of many hours, lasting well into the afternoon as tables were cleared around them and people dispersed to their various duties. Caranthir did not think his reputation as a difficult person was always deserved, but he had to admit that he rarely found a conversation so effortless and enjoyable. That his partner was a Mannish woman he had just met did not escape him. His hand stilled.

Haleth did not seem any more the sort of person to use a handkerchief than his brother Tyelkormo, but perhaps she would like the embroidery on the horse.

*

“And then I caught him staring at me!”

“What was he looking at?”

“Me, I think.”

“Why was he looking at you?”

“Who knows? Probably to stare at how hideous a mortal I am!” Haleth laughed loudly, and the group of women around her burst into snorts and giggles. Even here, in the privacy of her own tent, in the company of her own guards, in the safety of her own language, she could not admit that the idea stung. So she laughed it off. Made a fool of the poncy Elvish princeling and his airs. What did she care why he looked at her, so long as he gave her people food and supplies? Let him entertain himself how he would. (An alternative way he might entertain himself with her flitted through her thoughts, and she pushed it away, silently cursing her traitorous mind.) The conversation turned to other matters, and Haleth followed along with half a mind, laughing or hmm-ing where appropriate, but her thoughts remained with Caranthir, and the way his eyes glinted like mica in the sun when he looked at her.

Chapter End Notes

In a few places, if I'm remembering correctly, Tolkien notes that the Men of Rohan are ultimately descended from the Haladin (and that the Wild Men, although a separate people, joined with the Haladin and lived among them, which I always found interesting). The exact references are escaping me, but I tried to reference that connection with the toast (which is Theoden's in the extended edition of PJ's RotK) and the flag of Rohan, a white horse on a green field.

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