Meditation on Leadership by heget

Chapter 1

Fingolfin pulls the cloak, thick enough to feel more like a comforting blanket than a simple outer-garment, tighter around his shoulders, hunching his neck to keep his ears warm, and shuffles out onto the paved terrace of the garden. The palace complex of the High King of the Elves on Taniquetil, more monastery than place of rule, opens out onto many terraces built into the mountain slope. Some are gardens that feel familiar to Fingolfin; others he cannot fathom the purpose except for the view. This high in the Pelóri Mountains the views are breath-taking. Each mountain range has its own beauty and distinct feeling, if not to the extent of every forest. And after centuries of the fortress of Eithel Sirion in the Ered Withren, the semi-familiarity comforts Fingolfin. The songbirds filling the air with sweet counterpoints to the constant music of the wind also soothes, even if Fingolfin does not recognize the species. The birds are not rancorous, but they are loud enough to hear over the wind. If he chose another wing of the palace, another balcony facing towards the long climb back down towards the cities of the elves, then he would hear the bells and chimes and fluttering pennants and flags. Here, out on this terrace, the only accompaniment is birdsong.

His uncle, High King of All Elves, sits with his back to the palace, silently meditating and facing the sunlight, songbirds, and the profiles of the neighboring mountains.  Fingolfin shuffles like a child to his uncle’s side, kneels, and impulsively takes the courage to lean against his uncle, resting a head against the broad shoulder and hoping that this breach of formality will not offend. Fingolfin has not sought comfort like this from a parent since he was in his second decade, but Ingwë’s calmness gives him courage. His uncle reaches a hand out and hugs him, the movement natural and nonjudgmental.

“I understand,” the High King whispers to another former High King. “I will understand. And you may stay with me for as long as you need.”

“Does the guilt lessen?”

Ingwë, ancient bloodstains forgotten by all but him, squeezes his nephew’s shoulder. Until then Darkening and the war that came after, Fingolfin had not understood his uncle, be it his duel with Imin or why Ingwë chose to self-isolate. Not as he does now, leaning into the supportive shoulder and returning the hug. “Dear nephew, you learned to live with it, to atone, and to lead. You accomplished what you could. And if like me, to atone and assuage the guilt, to learn to accept the mercy and grace of the forgiveness offered to you, if that cannot be among your people, among those that offer you this grace, for whom the sins were committed, then you come to this place of high refugee.”

“Maybe I came to hide away as to not cause a fight with Finarfin, even inadvertently,” Fingolfin says. He has no desire to become King of the Noldor once more, nor have followers suggest it. His people do not need him to save them from a foolish king, quite the opposite.

“Well,” Ingwë replies, that stern face banished by the wide open grin of a beloved family member, “my sister named you her wise son, did she not?”

Kingly nephew and uncle laugh, startling the alpine songbirds.