Summer's End by oshun

Barad Eithel

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“Who cares? It’s just two men in bed—that’s not politics, that’s gossip. You didn’t tell me you were interested in gossip.”

o0o0o0o

“Two men in bed is indeed politics,” he said patiently, “if one of them is a king-mad ancient historian and the other is a descendant of the last king’s sister.”

—The Fall of The Kings, Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman.

When the sun came out following the rain storm, the broad walls and towers of Barad Eithel emerged in the distance out of a steamy haze. The narrow ribbon of the River Sirion, sparkling in the valley below, belied the broad and mighty waterway it would become after wending its way southwards toward the sea. From the crest of the hill, the last rays of sunlight revealed newly harvested fields, stretching out, before the next large incline, to the east and the south. Nearer the shelter of the massive fortress, Maedhros spotted a sizeable village that had not existed the last time he had visited Eithel Sirion.

“We’re almost there now,” he said gratuitously, with a happy sigh. Fingon laughed at his relief at their journey’s imminent end.

“If we’re late to eat,” Maglor said, “at least we shan’t very late.”

“We won’t be late at all,” said Fingon. “The sentries on the wall will have seen us by now and Atar will be sure to hold supper for us. That is if they can tell who we are.” He turned in his saddle and, signaling behind him, shouted “Banners up!” His call was picked up and echoed down through the lines of the mounted troops following behind him.

“At least the flags will be dry,” grumbled Erestor. The short, hard rain had soaked the riders and it was too close to sunset to hope they would dry out before arriving at Eithel Sirion. In any case, Maedhros thought, it was not cold. Still, a hot bath and a meal at Fingolfin’s sumptuous table, followed by a soft bed, would be more than welcome.

He shifted in his saddle to look behind him. There was enough wind to fully unfurl their banners, his red and gold ones, Fingon’s bright blue and silver, and Maglor’s of forest green crowned with a multi-colored rendering of the star of Fëanor. Their contingents would make a brave sight viewed from the battlements—three of the most prominent princes of the Noldor arriving to spend Summer’s End festival in the court of their High King. He snorted with wry amusement, attracting Fingon’s attention again.

“What now?” his beloved asked, grinning.

“Oh, I was thinking we must look handsomer from a distance than we will up close.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Erestor with a haughty sniff, which allowed everyone within earshot a good-natured laugh at the expense of Maedhros’ vain young squire.

o0o0o0o

Maedhros’ spirits lifted when Fingolfin greeted him with honest affection, clasping his hand and kissing him on both cheeks. “I am happy to say that you are looking extremely well,” Fingolfin said.

“Thank you, Uncle. Honest work does keep one from brooding. I’ve been building. I see that you’ve been similarly occupied,” he said, with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the castle’s keep and its surrounding walls and towers. Fingon had told him, at length, of how proud his father was of the progress on the stronghold and its outlying buildings at Eithel Sirion. “The fortress is impressive. Perhaps all of this directed energy accounts for you looking so fit and well yourself.”

Maedhros had almost forgotten how closely Fingon resembled his father when Fingolfin was well and relatively happy. Many found Fingolfin handsomer than either of his sons. Turgon had the same sculpted jawline and lovely mouth, but had a perpetually worried look about his eyes, more closely set than those of his father and brother, and he did not smile as readily. Fingon came nearer to achieving archetypal Noldorin perfection in the mold of Fingolfin and Fëanor. But Fingon had inherited the infamous Finwëan nose, prominent and slightly aquiline, which caused him to vary from the model. Maedhros, of course, liked his nose and thought that Fingon’s natural charisma would have eclipsed far less appealing physical traits. All of the cousins enjoyed teasing Fingon, saying that he should not worry, that his nose added character to his face. He suspected some of them actually envied Fingon’s resemblance to their grandfather. With those reminders of their strong familial ties in his head, the fondness of the greeting he offered his half-uncle came from his heart.

“I am happy to see you, Uncle. Thank you for having us. We’ve heard so much about how your folk at Eithel Sirion have adapted various intriguing Sindarin customs in the celebration of several festivals and, foremost amongst those, that of Summer’s End. I am eager to experience it firsthand.”

“You are most welcome, Nelyafinwë. Is that what they say? We have so many in our community here who are indigenous to these parts that we naturally absorb many of their customs and traditions.” Maedhros could not be sure if that remark was a mild taunt at their own unfortunate isolation on Himring Hill. Fingolfin looked around to try to get a better view of the group of armed men filing into the back of the Great Hall. Maedhros caught his glance.

“Ah. Yes. I brought two dozen men with me into the fortress tonight. I beg your indulgence for the inconvenience and prevail upon your always gracious hospitality. There should be another two hundred or so troops in and around the village by now also. Some will be able to find their own accommodation there, among old friends and family, or are well able to pay for bed and board. We’ve been advised the remainder can camp on the open field just beyond the village. Hopefully their visit will leave the local inhabitants happier and wealthier.”

“Ah,” Fingolfin said, cocking one eyebrow at Maedhros. “Never having made the journey back that far north, I have no idea if the number accompanying you would be considered few or many.” Curious perhaps? Maedhros hoped that was all it was. Surely, he did not find the Fëanorian troops a threat in any way? The truth was that he had brought the minimum that he believed he needed for the security of his company.

“It was enough, I judged. No more. Neither careless nor an excess of caution. Happily, we have seen nothing of the enemy in months. Not so much as an abandoned Orcs’ nest anywhere near the outskirts of the lands we consider reasonably secure. I cannot waste my life always fearing the worst, but nonetheless I try to be prepared.”

Fingolfin drew his brows together. “The tone of your voice was reminiscent of Fëanáro just now.”

He looked up at Maedhros with a narrowing of his eyes that was hard to read. Then he shook his head as though to banish unwanted thoughts, allowing the faintest tickle of mind-to-mind rapport to reach Maedhros. He severed the tie almost instantly but not before Maedhros sensed his uncle’s feelings of both sorrow and frustration. Despite all of the madness of the years recently past, his uncle still grieved the loss of his older brother at times. He felt gladdened that his uncle had not entirely forgotten the man his father had been before his fall.

Hoping to soothe his uncle, he answered lightly with a soft laugh. “Oh, you may be assured that I am never that supremely confident! If I sounded over certain it was because I repeated something I’ve said so often to Findekáno or Macalaurë that it’s almost as though I’m reciting words learned by heart.”

A subdued clatter at the back of the hall drew their attention to the arrival of a small group of men, helmets in the crook of their arms, clad in armor covered by surcoats in the crimson livery of Maedhros, with its eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanor emblazoned in gold upon their chests.

Maglor, wearing mail without armor draped in a green riding cloak, approached Fingolfin with a fluid grace born of years of performance. Behind him trailed Maedhros’ shadow Erestor, lithe and strikingly beautiful of face, presenting an elegant appearance despite his simple riding breeches and overtunic all in a utilitarian black. He’d adapted his style of dress from his memory from his youth in Tirion of the cheerless raven robes of the legions of almost invisible bureaucrats and scribes of Finwë’s court. Erestor, however, was the antithesis of invisible. It was hard not to be amused at some of his imaginative affectations.

Grinning from ear to ear, Fingon stepped to the front of the party, bowing to his father. Relaxed and happy, resplendent in his usual blue surcoat and matching cape covered with silver and white detailing, Fingon tossed his head, causing a myriad of small braids tightly bound with cords of gold to catch the light.

Erestor had braided them for him the night before, complaining all the while that his arms ached from the task, as the three of them had sat cross-legged, in the early autumn air, within the circle of the dim light of a camp fire. Fingon provided precise instructions on what he wanted. Bored of the road and wanting to sleep, Maglor had grumbled at the sound of their easygoing banter. In truth, his brother could sleep through a pitched battle when he was really tired. Meanwhile, Maedhros continued to tease Erestor, accusing him of laziness and lack of stamina, although secretly envying him the sweet labor that he could no longer perform.

The weary, saddle-sore men finally slept, more than a little chilled, surprised as they were by an early cold snap in the thickly forested wilderness just north of their destination. Maedhros supposed that Fingon had dreamed, as he did, of that oversized bedstead in his habitual room at his father’s castle with its overstuffed feather bed.

The last day’s ride had been a pleasant one. The day was warmer with an autumn crispness in the air, and the entire company happy to be near to the journey’s end with every expectation of being pampered and spoiled for the next few weeks. The braids had held, throughout one night’s sleep followed by an entire day of hard riding, exactly as Fingon had insisted that they would ‘if properly done.’

Maedhros’ memory of that last night in the wild was interrupted by an ironic chortle from Fingolfin. “Ah, here is the Mighty Singer himself, and the young Eressetor, accompanied by my wandering heir.”

“Greetings, Uncle!” Maglor said, bowing with his hand on his heart, before allowing his eyes to dart brightly around the crowd already assembling for the evening repast in the Great Hall of the fortress.

Fingolfin pulled him into a strong embrace, kissing him on both cheeks as well. “Macalaurë, you are in for a rare pleasure to be here for this festival. And our musicians are ecstatic to have you. You do realize you will be forced to indulge them at some point?” Fingolfin asked. “If you choose, you may learn the songs and traditions of the Starlight Memories, Rebirth through Fire, and the Wild Hunt over the next seven days.”

“Nothing could be more to my liking, Uncle Ñolvo. I have heard hints of the ancient traditions of which I know little and am excited to be here for the festival. And nothing could prevent me from exploiting the chance to ply my chosen trade among such illustrious practitioners.” Fingon laughed at Maglor’s language, shaking his headful of braids.

“Some parts are ancient, the bonfire and the dancing, but the central event—a big hunt—is as new to these parts as our presence. Innovative people the Sindar and quick to invent traditions,” said Fingolfin. “They live from festival to festival.”

“Atar!” said Fingon, reaching around Maglor to embrace his father. “All of your guests are accounted for now. I’ve reported to your seneschal. You are housing the four us here in the family wing—Maitimo, Macalaurë and me, along with Eressetor.” He shrugged with an impish smile, nodding in the direction of his companions. “You remember Eressetor from Tirion? The castle barracks are taking on the rest of Maitimo’s personal guard. The townsfolk have been sweetened to accept the remaining troops without complaint looking forward to the bounty we bring of a week’s good harvest-time hunting and the license for them to rob Maedhros’ soldiers blind of the generous allowances he has granted them for expenses.”

“It’s good to see you, son. You have been absent much longer than I had expected.” Maedhros suppressed a chuckle at yet another long-standing family certainty. Fingon would always be away longer than his father expected and Fingolfin would never fail to tell him so.

“Ai, Atar! I’ll have to admit that I arrived at Himring exhausted and indulged myself by taking it easy. Then we came up with the brilliant idea of bringing Maitimo back for a visit. Eressetor somehow insinuated himself into our company, which added certain complications. Of course, Maitimo insisted, since we would be passing through his territory anyway, that Macalaurë would want to come as well and would be welcome. As you can imagine, that involved a certain amount of unexpected preparation time for Macalaurë. Maitimo and I imposed upon a lot of people’s hospitality along the way also. We detoured in order to stay a few days with Angaráto and Aikanáro and see how they and their people are faring. They send their warmest salutations.

“Anyway, here we are. I am always happy to be back, even happier this time than usual.” Fingon made no attempt to keep from smiling directly at Maedhros. “All we need now is to rinse off the worst dust of the road before dining. But we don’t wish to keep everyone waiting.”

“We are happy to see you and are delighted to hold supper for you. No one here is starving yet.”

“Oh!” Fingon said, “I almost forgot.” He grabbed Erestor by his upper arm, pushing him in the direction of Fingolfin. He had been craning his neck back as far as it would go, straining to examine the vaulted ceiling of the hall and its heavy stone buttresses. Vibrant flags and tapestries, their colors ablaze in the light of a multitude of candles and torches, contrasted with the heavy blocks of stone.

“This crow, believe it or not, is Maitimo’s squire and herald, fondly known in Himring as the power behind the throne,” said Fingon, winking. “Trust me; he is far more competent than he appears at first glance, stronger and faster, and loyal to a fault. Eressetor, greet your High King.”

Erestor dropped to one knee before Fingolfin. “Sire,” he gasped, in an awestruck voice—whether at Fingolfin or at the architectural details of the soaring ceiling of the chamber, Maedhros was not sure. He bowed his head nearly to the ground and held the position. Erestor did nothing by half measures. “It is truly an honor.”

“I remember you, Eressetor! The son of Master Orneminar, my father’s architect. Rise.” The King extended a hand to Erestor, which the lad took with only a slight hesitation, and half-hoisted him to his feet. “Still wiry and slight, but with a warrior’s grip. So, are they keeping you well occupied on Himring Hill, young man?”

“Yes, sire.” He nodded, before glancing with imploring wide-eyes at Maedhros for confirmation.

“To hear Eressetor tell the story, he manages me,” said Maedhros. “And never rests. He claims this is his first holiday on this side of the sea.”

“A valuable assistant then. I tried to interest each of my sons, one right after the other, in that sort of deputy’s position, but they both have turned me down. They somehow wrongly believe they can wield more power on their own. Are you ambitious, Eressetor? Perhaps I could woo you away from your bleak mountain kingdom?” Maedhros half-expected Erestor to answer with his usual supercilious, ‘My honor and my duty bind me to my sworn lord.’

To his wonder and tremendous relief, Erestor more wisely answered, with his sweetest smile, “You’re making sport of me, Your Grace.”

Maedhros laughed to himself at the thought of irreverent, foul-mouthed Erestor working with Fingolfin. But it boded well that Fingolfin had made a joke and Erestor was quick enough to catch it. To his surprise, Fingolfin, of all unlikely people, appeared to like something about the lad. He had probably heard that Erestor’s idealistic temperament and self-perception as a rebel fed into his loyalty to Maedhros alone as Fëanor’s heir.

The King appeared to tolerate Erestor’s fanaticism with some small measure of sympathy. Fingolfin did value loyalty and transparency—Erestor had those to a fault. He had learned that his uncle valued bluntness more than he had in Tirion, having learned the hard way that what he had once considered courtly discretion, could breed rumors, hide treachery and lies, and promote tragic misunderstandings. Maedhros could not, however, think of two men less suited to take to one another than Fingolfin and Erestor. He would have thought they were entirely too much alike in their stubbornness, while being irreconcilable in their motivations, to ever arrive at an understanding. And yet, if he read their smiling faces accurately, they somehow had decided to suspend judgment of one another.

“Yes. Perhaps I am making a little fun at your expense,” Fingolfin said, returning Erestor’s uninhibited smile warmly. “Your dedication to your lord is notorious—ah, the avidity of youth—as is his dependence upon your organizational skills. I do hope you find a well-earned respite during your stay.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Erestor answered, his dimples more stunning than usual.

Fingolfin’s voice turned wistful. “You are like a glimpse of home for me. You have inherited your father’s wise eyes and your mother’s merry smile. I noticed you examining our stone work. Tell me, what do you think of it?”

The rapt look Erestor had worn a few moments earlier, studying the construction of the great hall, returned. “It’s magnificent, sire. It surpasses the grandest buildings in Tirion in its strength and rough beauty, if lacking some of their refined elegance. I had already noticed at our approach that the fortress’ battlements rival those of Himring Castle, which we believe are an example of the finest in defensive stonework. But this interior is truly magnificent. What might pass for graceful in Tirion, can hold no real splendor for us here. We need match our architecture to our new uses and the environment and not be hampered by tradition or imitation.”

Fingolfin grunted in appreciation at the lad. “Let us save that classic argument for the supper table. After a few glasses of our locally brewed honey mead, you will find that Turukáno loves to argue just the opposite.”

Small Vanities

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o0o0o0o

Impatient to change out of his armor and wet clothing, Maedhros was able to break away from further discussions with Fingolfin, better continued clean and dry. After quick baths—Fingon and Maedhros had shared a tub of water in their bedroom—they hurriedly dressed for supper. The night before the festival was an important one, especially with so many guests who knew nothing of the observances. Fingolfin had said earlier with an air of mystery, ‘All you need know will be revealed after supper.’

Erestor was to be housed for the visit in the large dressing room adjoining their bedroom, albeit with a strong oaken door that locked between the two rooms and with its own door opening into the hallway affording him some privacy. They would share the room that was considered Fingon’s own within his father’s household. A second smaller bedstead had been installed. When Fingon caught Maedhros examining it with a jaundiced eye, he laughed and pulled him into his arms.

“Appearances only,” Fingon said. “You know how Atar feels about the appearance of propriety! Don’t read judgment where it does not exist, and for certes do not worry an instant about a bed we will not use.” After far too long sleeping on the ground, which was rocky, or damp, or both, and amongst a company of a few hundred men, Fingon’s huge feather bed, behind locked doors, beckoned like an oasis in a desert.

“I know that sleeping with you in the Barad Eithel is an awkward proposition. He indulges us by arranging for us to share a room. It’s just that I am a sentimental fool sometimes and wish things could be different.” He sighed and stuck out his lower lip, knowing as soon as he did it that Fingon would react.

Fingon leaned in and nipped at the protruding pout, before pulling him into a lingering kiss. But politics, public and covert, awaited them in the Great Hall.

Maedhros finished dressing, after choosing a robe of deep green velvet. He worried, when it was too late to do anything about it, that it might be too gaudy. The green was dark enough not to be lurid, but the trim around the sleeves and neck was lavish, worked all in copper and gold thread; and there was a lot of it. He had brought the copper circlet he had received from his grandfather Mahtan at his coming-of-age fest. He rarely wore it, because it brought back such poignant memories, tending to make him maudlin, but it seemed a shame never to wear it since it suited him so well. Unsolicited, Erestor had insisted he bring it along with ‘your new green robe’ as soon as they had discussed visiting Eithel Sirion.

“Whoa!” Fingon said when he saw him dressed, obviously sincere in his admiration.

“Really?” Maedhros asked. “It’s not too much?”

“Oh, no. Just right! This is not Himring Castle, where you can lurk about in the corners, wearing black leather or rawhide even, and still be indulged as everyone’s favorite brooding hero! No. You have an obligation to look princely and be admired for it here.”

“Well, if you put it that way . . . “

Fingon tackled him and pushed him onto the bed, straddling him. “I could eat you up you look so luscious.”

“Káno! Take a little care. You’ll destroy the effect before anyone gets to admire it. You’ve already mussed my hair.”

“That’s how you look best—wild hair, panting, pupils dilated. I know you really want me.”

Maedhros was mildly annoyed that Fingon had deliberately aroused him; he did not relish going through an extended supper—actually, an entire evening with Fingolfin—with blue balls. Additionally, his new robes had been steamed and ironed by the High King’s well-trained servants and he did not want them wrinkled. Still it was difficult not to respond to the open-mouthed kisses that Fingon was forcing upon him. He sighed into Fingon’s mouth with a pathetic little whimper, ready to admit defeat and spoil his festival robes if it came to that. For well onto three weeks, they had slept close enough to touch, without carnal knowledge. Anyone’s self-control would have reached its limits, especially when covered by a half-naked Fingon, freshly bathed and randy.

“Eeps!” squealed Erestor, after sticking his head around the adjoining door. “Well, I am sorry.” His tone was filled with indignation, the farthest thing from apologetic. “You really should have latched the door!”

“You should knock! I latched the main door,” said Fingon. “I’d assumed you’d have enough sense to knock.”

A full out belly laugh overcame Maedhros, which gave him the opportunity to roll Fingon off him and sit up. “It’s just as well. We should not keep everyone waiting and Findekáno still has to finish dressing.”

“Fine, then,” said Erestor, walking the rest of the way into the room. “I intended to tell you that everyone is waiting. Up you go, Finno.” He stuck his hand out. “I’ll help you dress. I am very good as a manservant. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“I know you have,” Fingon said with warmth. “And I appreciate that you look after him, more than I can express.” He pointed across the room at a wine-colored robe of brushed silk, so muted in texture as to almost resemble the finest doe skin and bound at the wrists and the hem with a wide border of black and gold satin. “What do you think of the red one on the chair?”

Erestor’s cheekiness never ceased to entertain both Maedhros and Fingon. The youthful courtier had decided some years earlier that complete frankness and a lack of obsequiousness was an excellent tactic to use when the intent was to keep Maedhros from ruminating or taking himself too seriously.

Maedhros was the first to admit that the method worked well. He knew Fingon also depended upon Erestor to keep an eye on him when their separations stretched to nearly a year at times. He was confident that Erestor often prevented him from falling into one of his periodic fits of melancholia. And, further, if he was unable to do so, Erestor would have no qualms about getting word to Fingon. Truth be told, Maedhros really did not mind that Fingon had recruited Erestor as his surrogate guardian his well-being. He felt comfortable with Erestor; he could squabble with him and boss him around in a manner he could never have done with any of his brothers or even Fingon.

“Oh, I do approve!” said Erestor. The attractive lad, despite his current passion for raven gear, was nothing if not a keen critic of fashion. If Erestor declared an outfit to be appropriate and attractive, then one could be assured that it was. “The two of you are going to eclipse King Ñolofinwë himself!”

“By the Valar, Eressetor,” said Fingon. “Don’t even think things like that around here. What if my brother heard you? This is Eithel Sirion!”

“And Master Eressetor has pretensions to being a diplomat,” said Maedhros chuckling. “Anyway, even if we wanted to—which we definitely do not—Ñolvo has Finwë’s crown and one cannot outshine that.”

“I think the King liked me,” Erestor said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Who wouldn’t?” snorted Maedhros. “But, that is neither here nor there. Káno noted earlier that the personal is political in this environment. King Ñolofinwë will not let you get any closer to him. We live in an isolated environment in the North. We’ve grown accustomed to not expecting so many possible sources of internal conflict. It is frightening to me to think I need be reminded of diplomatic questions by Káno of all people.”

“I was not expecting a relationship. Maybe a discreet tumble? He is a breathtaking man and does not strike me as the sort to ever allow himself a mistress.”

“Listen. Not meaning to be harsh, but he looks at you and, for all your charm and beauty, sees a Fëanorian and a fanatical one at that. You would make a perfect spy, if you were not so obvious,” Maedhros said. “He is also very observant of the mores handed down by the Valar. Although separated by time and distance, he would never betray his wife. And, further, has never to my knowledge shown the slightest interest in men. Lastly, you are much too young for him. My Uncle Ñolofinwë is very old for his age.”

“I cannot believe I am forced to listen to the two of you debating Eressetor’s chances of seducing my father! Listen,” Fingon said, turning to face Erestor directly and holding him by the shoulders. “If you are looking for someone to flirt with, try Vorocanyon, captain of my horse archers. He is here for the festival. He is gorgeous and is neither a partisan of the group centered around my father, nor has he any interest in Turukáno’s camp. Although loyal to me, he is as nearly as disinterested in politics as one can be in these circles,” Fingon said. “And he definitely prefers young men.”

“You and Turukáno have different ‘camps’ as you called them?”

“Oh, yes!” Maedhros injected. “And with profound theoretical and practical implications also. Oh, young Eressetor, I have been neglecting your education. I need to take you traveling with me more often.”

“Thank you, both of you. I greatly appreciate the counsel,” Erestor said with great solemnity. “What did you said his name was, Finno? Vorocanyon? What a name.”

“Yes. That’s him. Ginger-headed fellow, tall, amazing cheekbones.”

“Ha! I can see how he meets your rather limited taste.” Erestor gave a short bark of a laugh. “Fine. No more joking about the High King. And perhaps I will talk to your horse archer.” He shook his head, laughing, before slapping Fingon on the back. “There. That is the last of those fiddly clasps. You’re ready and you look gorgeous too.”

Maedhros thought of saying that Erestor looked magnificent himself, but he hated to encourage him. And, his lush black velvet with the smallest amount of silver braid used for decorative detail around the neck and wrists might have suited Fingolfin or Finwë as mourning garb. But there was no arguing with Erestor, only a futile exercise with frustration at its end.

“Thank you, Eressetor.” Fingon grinned. “Now, I am sure we are late for supper. Let’s move sharply.”

A Familiar Old Song

Read A Familiar Old Song

o0o0o0o

As Fingon entered the Great Hall along with Maedhros and Erestor, the anticipatory atmosphere was palpable to him. The clamor of voices of the assembled populace of the castle and its closest environs subsided to a low murmur when they entered the hall together. Maglor had been intercepted in the hallway and whisked away from them by his father’s Master of Music. Meanwhile, a cheerful page, socially adept but still with the physical awkwardness of adolescence, had been assigned to guide them to their places at the high table on the dais.

“Are you sure I am supposed to sit here?” Erestor asked the boy. “I’d be mortifiedto be told I had to move!”

The page insisted. “The King named you by name, my lord. You are Lord Eressetor from Himring, aren’t you?”

“Just Eressetor will do,” he answered magnanimously, exactly as though he were a great lord granting a boon to the lad. Fingon had to stifle a laugh.

“Thank you, my lord—I mean, Eressetor!” the boy said, bowing as he left.

Maedhros snorted. Erestor turned and scowled at him. “What have I done now to amuse you?” he asked, with umbrage, before an expression of comprehension passed over his face. “Eww! No! Please! Valar! You think I am interested in little boys!”

Fingon did not think that had been Maedhros’ thought at all, but Erestor thinking so made the whole encounter even more comic.

“You really do not know how hilarious you are, do you?” Maedhros asked, rolling his eyes and chortling.

They had no more taken their places—everyone was present except his father, who doubtless would make a grand entrance—when Fingon heard Erestor hiss, “Where are all the women? Not a single female in sight! And to think these pretentious buggers are always criticizing us by noting that the numbers of the fairer sex are over balanced by men at Himring. At least we invite them to sup with us.”

“Where do you hear these things, Eressetor?” Maedhros asked. The whole exchange amused Fingon far more than it should. In the same way that he always laughed when Maedhros wondered aloud whether Erestor’s stage whispers were meant to be heard by everyone or if the lad had a hearing problem. He liked to imagine that Erestor played the role of affectionate pesterer left vacant by the scattered brothers whom Maedhros saw all too rarely.

Fingon leaned across Maedhros and whispered in a softer voice with the intent of being heard by Erestor only. “Patience. You will see soon enough. The ladies are preparing one of the prettiest parts of the pageantry which opens this festival.”

A harried Turgon walked quickly to his place on the dais, saying, “Excuse my tardiness. Preparations.” He stopped briefly to extend a hand first to Maglor, then Maedhros, and finally Erestor, muttering brusquely, “Welcome, cousins, and, is it Eressestor?” Before he could greet Fingon, or anyone could respond, a shrill four-note clarion call announced Fingolfin’s entrance—different as night from day compared to the no-nonsense egalitarianism of Himring, with its air of a military outpost and its absence of courtly posturing.

Fingon thought that Himring had little use for rigid protocol since Maedhros ruled unchallenged as the unquestioned heir of Fëanor, trusted for his acuity and revered for his sacrifices.

He glanced at Maedhros who, dignified and arresting, led the assembled supper guests in rising to their feet. That this meal was labeled as a simple supper, meant there would be no grand procession of pompous chefs bearing platters of outlandishly presented roasted swans or boar’s heads. Instead, a long line of Sindarin servers, scrubbed until their rosy cheeks glowed, entered the hall bearing smaller dishes. Clad in spotless livery, they scurried to and fro with an air of purposeful urgency incongruous with their youth, offering choices of hot and cold meat, fish and poultry, savory and sweet pastries, and salads of seasonal vegetables redolent of herbs and spices.

Both Fingon and Maedhros preferred the simpler fare favored by the kitchen of Himring, even for holiday fare: roasted baby goats in the spring time, the pheasants with dressing in the autumn of the year, and roast wild boar at midwinter. Throughout the year, smaller wild game supplemented their usual fare of crusty bread made from grain imported from Ard-galen, goat’s milk cheeses, sharp and mild, and sausage and cured meat, with whatever fruit or vegetables were seasonally available. Himring prided itself on its chickens and eggs and its clever exploitation of short growing seasons and a paucity of arable land.

But the greater variety of foods and the extravagance of preparation in the halls of Barad Eithel provided a pleasing change. The harvest feasts would be doubly welcome after their long trek through the wild, with weeks of whatever they could catch and cook over the campfires, along with the ubiquitous dry-as-dust waybread.

Erestor appeared thoroughly diverted by the chance to try a little of every unfamiliar dish. Maedhros’ attention, Fingon noticed, was focused naturally upon his father. Meanwhile, he was in a state of bliss to simply be able to look his fill at Maedhros, who was elegant or more so than anyone in the room without projecting the slightest hint of foppishness. His famous looks had not been diminished but tempered by the weathered edge they had acquired in course of his unspeakable suffering. Instead, Fingon had often of late noted that the absence of Maedhros’ former pristine glory imbued him with a depth and nobility far more compelling than any first flush of beauty untouched by adversity.

Fingon also thought his father looked more at ease that night than he had in a year or two at least. His blue-grey eyes held more than hint of affection for Maedhros which always made him happy.

During their brief dinner conversation, his father seemed particularly pleased and relieved to learn that Maedhros felt confident in the immediate security of their realms while fighting any tendency toward complacency. His reports to Fingolfin assured him that the North continued to be well-armed and vigilant. Fingon listened and observed, occasionally adding a small clarification, as his father attended closely to Maedhros’ descriptions of how fared the defensive settlements ranging from the mountain gap guarded by Maglor, to Himring and its environs.

o0o0o0o

Maedhros enjoyed his dinner, although he would be the first to admit he did not look forward to three days of raucous celebrations. Perhaps he would have felt differently if governance and policy had not been the backdrop of it all for him. It felt too much like work—no point in mincing words, it was work. The next week would be peppered with intense practical and strategic discussions with Fingolfin, Turgon, Maglor and Fingon, and whomever else any one of them wanted to include.

Of course, nothing gave him more heart than to sit and watch Fingon, even at the High King’s table, knowing he had only to reach out to touch him. At that very moment, although Fingon appeared to be attending to his father, while devouring a lamprey pie, his thigh, firm and warm, was pressed against that of Maedhros.

Living apart was harder than Maedhros had imagined it would be. He had settled upon establishing his strength at Himring with few illusions, pushed by a resolute sense of duty and the faint, if persistent, shadow of the cursed oath. Dropping his guard for a moment, he released a heartfelt sigh. He heard an answering one from his left, glancing up to see Turgon staring at him with something that strongly resembled empathy. He grinned at his somber cousin and got a reserved smile in response. Turgon was slow to forgive and unlikely ever to forget. He would have to find out later what might cause Turgon to appear so benign for the moment.

Finished with his pastry, Fingon reached under the table to caress his thigh, his hand sliding dangerously close to his crotch—incorrigible as always. Thoughts of later and that feather bed were more than a little distracting without that sort of teasing. Maedhros decided he definitely wanted to moderate how much he drank, looking forward to far more than a tipsy fumble before sleep.

Suddenly, servants scurried about the great hall dousing torches and candles alike until only a few burned, providing a dim glow in contrast to the previous blazing brilliance. Almost as soon as Maedhros’ eyes had adjusted to the near darkness and the heavy smoke of the extinguished torches had cleared, the sound of distant music reached the hall. Hand harps and flutes drawing closer played a poignant tune that he remembered from his childhood in Valinor.

A solemn drum beat marked a rhythm primal and earthy beneath an airy melody which otherwise threatened to take flight and vanish like a half-forgotten memory. The air had been called Summer’s End across the sea and reputed throughout his childhood in the West to be an ancient song from the Outer Lands. He recognized Maglor on the lead harp. The added flourishes and glissades, deceptively simple, were unmistakably his brother’s, enhancing without unduly complicating the purity of the refrain. The memory that an unembellished version of this song was one of the earliest pieces his brother had mastered as a child brought Maedhros close to tears.

The melody, moving in itself, was taken up by a chorus of crystalline clear boys voices which began the first refrain ‘Remember, remember.’ The intervening verses alternated between a male tenor of heartbreaking beauty, Maglor, and a female voice, Aredhel’s lovely alto.

Remember, remember.

I first met you by those waters
Warm as a mother’s womb.

Remember, remember.

You first kissed me in the shadows
Where the silvered starflowers bloom.

Remember, remember.

We’ve had our share of sorrows.
We’re no strangers to great loss.

Remember, remember.

Yet in darkness or in starlight
Naught can take our love from us.

Fingon leaned closer to whisper, his breath caressing Maedhros’ neck, “Do you remember nights on the roadside during all those trips to Formenos when we were kids and how Macalaurë always played that by the fire at night?”

“Of course, I do,” Maedhros managed to choke out, fumbling for Fingon’s hand in the darkness and squeezing hard.

Erestor muttered wryly, “Not a dry eye in the house.” Maedhros kicked him under the table. “Ouch,” he said.

On the other side of Fingolfin, to Maedhros’ great shock, Turgon, snorted trying to smother a laugh, before whispering, “I am loath to admit it, but he is funny.”

Maedhros managed to subdue his smile. His incipient tears had been pronounced mawkish and sentimental by Erestor and, more surprisingly, Turgon.

“You are all unsettling. So volatile,” Fingolfin said in a low rumble that could not be heard beyond their small group on the dais.

Fingolfin stood, drawing himself up, proud and tall, in his most regal High-King manner and announced in a resonating voice, “And so begins our festival of the end of summer. We look back to Cuiviénen and forward to great challenges. May all find great joy and inspiration in sharing these rites.” No small part of their challenges would be to allow their family, damaged and broken by strife, to continue to heal.

Maedhros tried to push the sleeping oath out of his mind. Perhaps if one were good enough, wise enough, and conscientious, he thought, its fulfillment might be delayed until it would cause no harm.

“Ah, yes,” Fingon whispered to his brother. “No one knows how to make a three-day party sound dull like our father does.”

By then the musicians had taken up a boisterous Sindarin dance tune, with the addition of a shawn, cymbals and tambourines, and Maglor picking up a rebec. A flock of giggling children, their hilarity contagious, burst into the Great Hall. All clad in identical short white chitons, only the little girls’ long, loose hair distinguished them from the boys, who wore theirs shorter or braided, while nothing differentiated the Noldor from the Sindar. Tossing armfuls of bright and fragrant autumn flowers and the petals of the last of the roses into the air, they ran to form a circle around the periphery of the room. The scent of sweet autumn clematis filled the hall.

Idril, no longer a child but a young woman fully grown, led the ladies of Eithel Sirion into the hall, dancing, a golden princess, even lovelier than her mother and her grandmother, each of whom she resembled strongly. Maedhros thought she appeared totally Vanyarin, without a hint of her father’s darker coloring and certainly none of his uncompromising sternness.

They twirled and dipped to the wild beat. The precision of their performance brought a surprising elegance to an ancient folkloric dance. Branches of the white clematis blossoms, with their dark glossy leaves, had been woven into crowns for the ladies’ hair hanging loose over their shoulders and down their backs. Their long, diaphanous gowns of pale sarcenet fluttered and flowed with their movements, giving them the look of woodland sprites right out of the pages of a children’s illustrated faerie story.

The music stopped and the dancers froze in place, as pretty a tableau as any Maedhros had seen, even in Tirion. The crowded hall broke in rapturous cheers. The musicians who had paused outside of the door entered with Maglor and Aredhel leading them, hands clasped and smiling. The entire crowd rose as one to applaud with renewed vigor. So far in the north, more warrior now than musician, Maglor was still considered a Noldorin treasure, and, fairly or unfairly, held above political differences or dissention. Maglor and Aredhel bowed again and again to the group of largely Sindarin players, as though to insist with great energy that their own parts had been negligible by comparison.

o0o0o0o

“Look at you, Russo. Handsome as ever. A sight for sore eyes,” said Aredhel, who had hugged him hard enough to nearly crack a rib. “I need a drink,” she announced with her usual glittering defiance. “And none of that swill that Atar calls mead. I want the white wine.” A server appeared at her elbow with a decanter and filled her tumbler. “You marvelous lad, thank you!” She gave the boy a dazzling smile. “Would you have ever thought I would sing in public with the great Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion? Did I make a fool of myself?”

Maglor laughed. “You were flawless. It was not exactly grand opera.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are!”

“Don’t be silly,” Maglor said. “You’ve always had a nice voice. Not a large one, but a very pretty one. And it was a great fun for me. I love singing with family.”

She laughed. Before she could say anything more, Fingon interjected, “I think you should settle for that, little sister. No point in fishing for more. I do know how you feel though. I always felt that way singing with him, even in the back garden of the house of Fëanáro outside of Tirion. I certainly never had the courage to perform with him before hundreds.”

“Let’s not discuss your singing tonight, Finno,” Maglor said. “What a waste of natural talent. He does have an outstanding voice.” Aredhel wrinkled her nose at her brother. “A shame he always preferred horses or books.”

While listening to Fingon, Maglor, and Aredhel talk nonsense about their singing, he realized that none of them had paid sufficient attention to Idril’s outstanding contribution to the evening.

“Our youngest cousin certainly has a gift for dancing. Did you organize that entire presentation?” asked Maedhros.

“I did,” Idril said. “We worked very hard. You should have seen us this afternoon. We were still getting tangled up in our skirts and falling all over one another. There were a few mistakes tonight. But I have been told that one should never point them out to one’s audience.”

“Wise advice,” said Maglor.

“I’m sure you never make a mistake,” Idril answered, flushing prettily.

“Oh, I do. But I’ll never tell! The skill lies in the hiding of them.”

Maedhros said, “Itarillë, your dance was outstanding. The entire ensemble looked perfect from where I sat. But you were particularly mesmerizing, such grace, such an appreciation of the music. I think we should call you Silverfoot.”

He looked from Idril to her aunt. They were splendid, both of them, and neither of them with any of the simpering femininity that passed for female charm in some circles. Raven-haired and blonde, dark and bright, opposites. Aredhel was joyous in her impertinence, with an undercurrent of disappointment, and Idril deadly serious and knowing behind her cheerful innocence. He sensed a core of tempered steel in each of them. “What women this family produces,” he said, exhaling deeply, thinking also of Galadriel.

He said and raised his cup, “A toast to the Noldorin princesses!”

o0o0o0o

Fingon danced with his niece, danced with his sister, and any maid of Eithel Sirion, whether old friend or stranger to him, who dared approach him. He needed a break and wanted to taste the wine that Aredhel had been praising all evening. He discovered it was a clear, crisp white wine from the vineyards in the foothills to south of them—Sindarin, but Turgon had taken an interest in the arbors and the wineries. Growing grapes and making wine here were new, but they had brought the expertise with them. The Sindar nearer to the coast were more open to new ideas and learning new skills than their brethren who lived farther inland and certainly than the reclusive Nandor. Aredhel was right about the white wine. It was excellent. He supposed that the honey mead, which he liked well enough but would not want to drink often, was an acquired taste.

Maedhros ambled over toward him, looking loose and relaxed. He held a mug of the mead.

“I love watching you dance,” he said. “Your partners always look like they are having more fun than anyone else.”

“I’m sure they are! Wanna dance with me?” he whispered into Maedhros’ ear. “We’d be amazing together. Put the rest of these clodhoppers to shame.” They smiled at one another, wistful bittersweet smiles. ‘If only . . . ‘ Fingon thought. He remembered Maedhros dancing in Tirion and Formenos. He recalled how he loved to watch him also, when he had only been an admiring little cousin who had yet to question the nature of his utter obsession and fascination with Maedhros. “But you will have to dance with Irissë and Itarillë. Best to ask Irissë before she makes one of her scenes, claiming you are hiding from her.”

They walked to where his sister and his niece stood talking to the Turgon and Erestor. Maedhros never one to procrastinate if something needed to be done, bowed to Aredhel. “Hold a dance for me, please. I’ve never danced with our youngest kinswoman. Let me partner her first.” He kissed Aredhel on the hand.

“So dance! Don‘t make me have to look for you though.” Aredhel answered.

As luck would have it, as soon as Maedhros had asked Idril to dance and she had accepted prettily, the musician began a rollicking Sindarin dance piece, the very melody and beat of it a tribute to mindless jollity. It was the kind of song that runs through one’s head for a full day at a time unwilling to be driven out. Yet, still it was the kind of well-remembered tune that takes the listener in their mind to past celebrations, other partners, lost youth or young love, and fills a half-empty dance floor in an instant. The crowd immediately joined in clapping and singing—many too loud and tunelessly, but with great enthusiasm. Everyone knew the verses, which seemed to run on forever with only the slightest variations of language.

Dance to the piper;
Dance to the tune.
Dance with my darling
In the light of the moon.

Chase away sorrows.
Dance to bring joy.
Dance ‘til your heart sings,
My brave and handsome boy.

Embarrassed as only the very young can be, Idril blushed so hard that the flush was even visible upon her scalp through her pale golden curls. “Oh, cousin, if you’d rather wait for a better song . . .”

Maedhros gave her his best courtly bow and said, “Quite the contrary, my dear. Findekáno or your aunt can tell you that I have danced to far sillier nonsense and survived or even enjoyed it. Let us show them how it should be done.”

Maedhros extended his right hand, the false hand, true silver, exquisitely crafted and covered with curlicues and thingamajigs and a ridiculous number of those ubiquitous eight-pointed stars. The false hand had been balanced to perfection, the exact weight of the missing extremity. Curufin was an outstanding craftsman, and he knew the science and the mechanics of such work and so much more, but he never would be the artist that either his father or his mother was. Only Fingon knew the cost to Maedhros of displaying his loss so blatantly to such a lovely young girl. Grown men had been known to visibly shudder at the sight of it. But Idril, a true Finwëan, never short on courage herself, immediately placed her rosy hand upon the unyielding mechanism, and smiled brilliantly into his eyes.

And so they danced, his delightful niece and his one true love, while Fingon watched captivated. They indeed demonstrated how one should dance to a lively tune, as though one had known no sorrow in the past and expected nothing but carefree joy in the future. The Sindar knew something about life that his generation of the Noldor were only now learning—that life was fragile, tragic, and brief, but nonetheless achingly beautiful, and one must seize it and live it as one finds it, with honor and audacity, as hard as one can, for as long as it lasts.

o0o0o0o

Desperate to empty his bladder, Maedhros slipped out of the Great Hall and tried to remember where had seen a lavatory, there were two he recalled on this floor, with piped in water. The Sindar thought the plumbing from Tirion a marvel verging on magic. He loved to explain that the concepts were simple enough and particularly easy in this location for Fingolfin.

He discerned in the dim light of a distant torch a likely structure jutting out from the main wall. As he walked in that direction, he thought he detected movement in a shadowed alcove to the right of him. As he drew closer it became apparent that the small space was occupied by a couple of nearly equally height with their arms around one another’s waists. At first he thought it was a man and woman, but upon nearer examination, he realized it was two men. He debated on whether to continue or not. Two men together was not entirely uncommon, but still carried a stigma, and their embarrassment at being caught in an unguarded moment would be greater.

He turned to retrace his steps, recalling, if his memory served him well, that there was another privy just beyond the double doors in the other direction. Then he heard the unmistakable stage whisper of Erestor, less sarcastic in tone and more earnest than usual. The sound froze Maedhros in place. Erestor really should know better, he thought.

“. . . entitled to your opinion,” he heard Erestor say. “But you weren’t there. I was. They would have had to have followed the Kinslaying with patricide. Nelyafinwë could never have entertained that thought. Not to mention that I have no doubt the brothers would have been split. Not one of his brothers stepped aside with Nelyafinwë, but if he had acted . . . ”

The other man said something in hurried hissing whisper that Maedhros could not understand and Erestor responded. “Who knows? Others stood waiting to see what he would do. Nelyafinwë had supporters among the followers of Fëanáro, perhaps even the majority, but not all. He could have spilt our people irreconcilably. He confronted his father verbally; there was an ugly argument. And then he stood aside. There would have been deaths and a lot of them. I cannot even bear to think of it. Think about it logically.”

The other man said something which sounded angry.

Erestor continued in a reasonable tone. “If he had tried to physically stop his father it might have destroyed all of us. Not just our people, but yours as well. The ships would have burned despite who might have won that fight. Dozens of people throughout the crowd were holding torches. It doesn’t take more than an unguarded instant and a single torch to set an unmanned ship ablaze. I learned that also on that night.”

The voice that responded was still muffled and unintelligible. His tone, however was crystal clear. He wanted to argue. So much for Fingon’s theory of his apolitical archer. This man sounded more like one of Turgon’s men than a follower of Fingon. He was opinionated and clearly had engaged Erestor on a serious level—on the most perilous question there could be among the Noldor, the one that divided families, lovers, and lifelong friends.

Erestor began to speak again, his tone emotional but still determined. “My heart truly breaks for you. I understand loss. I lost three kings, Finwë, Fëanáro and Nelyafinwë. The last twice. He leads the vanguard now, with courage and intelligence, so, of course, I support him.” His voice cracked, he cleared his throat and continued. Erestor was nothing if not persistent. “When I was not even of age, although close enough not be stopped, I left my parents in Valinor. They will never forgive me, even if in some other lifetime I return. Which I understand is highly unlikely, given the curse on all of us, you and yours as well as me. I had two half-grown sisters—pretty, funny, clever little girls—whom I loved more than I can say and who adored me. Still it’s not the same, I know. I can hope my family is safe and happy. But I am alone also. I do understand that part.”

The unidentified man—the horse archer?—began another spate of angry murmuring, only to have his words cut off by what could only have been a kiss. Someone’s soft moan confirmed that suspicion.

The kiss broke the spell for Maedhros. His fascination had been with the politics, not Erestor’s love life. He already had accidentally learned more about that in the past than he had ever wanted to know. As quietly and quickly as he could, he turned and walked in the other direction. Most people leaving the hall were departing in groups of two, three, or more, laughing and talking. Hopefully, Erestor and his companion would hear them before someone stumbled upon them. What was Erestor thinking? He had a room, albeit a small one, but it had a bed and a door that latched.

After finding the other lavatory and relieving himself, he returned to hall to immediately encounter Fingon.

“I was looking for you. Where were you?”

“I went to take a piss. All that mead went right through me.”

“I’m ready to leave if you are.” Fingon leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m dying to get you in bed.”

In the hallway, on the way to the staircase that led to their room, not far from the alcove, now empty, where Erestor had been kissing his new lover, Maedhros pulled Fingon into his arms. “You don’t smell like you did earlier, but you still smell very nice.” The kiss was one of those long and lingering ones, intended to tease and promise.

“What did I smell like before?”

“My Káno, after a bath—the scent of bath oil and warm damp skin and something else that is just you.”

“And now?”

“Smoke, mead, perspiration, and more of that unique Káno scent. I cannot tell which I like best. I suppose whichever I can smell when I know I’m about to fuck you.”

“I see.” Fingon grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall after him, walking quickly. “What are we doing kissing in the corridor? One would think we didn’t have a room.”

 

 

 

Secrets

Read Secrets

And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
-- by Seamus Heaney from The Spirit Level

Aredhel sat on the bed, yawning and leaning against the headboard. She watched Idril unfasten the girdle that cinched the waist of her gauzy gown and pull the garment over her head. The thin silken shift under her dress did nothing to hide her full hips, tiny waist, and small high breasts. It seemed only yesterday that her niece was a skinny coltish girl who tore about the settlement at Lake Mithrim, all long arms and legs, babbling of horses and stealing fruit tarts. When had she transformed into such a lovely young woman? Aredhel sighed. This is likely to be as close to having a daughter as I will ever get.

“I forgot to bring a nightgown with me to wear. Do you have one I can borrow?” She shrugged with a small self-deprecating smile. “If not, I can always sleep in my under shift.”

“Don’t be silly. Top drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe. Any one of those should be fine.” Idril pulled out a pale blue gown and held it against her chest appreciatively before she put it on. Wonderful taste, Aredhel thought, she picks the finest one I have. Without asking, Idril began digging through the boxes and baskets of trinkets, jewelry, hair ties and the like on the dresser. “Do you have any hair pins?”

“In the little purple vase,” Aredhel said.

“Found them!” Idril twisted her hair into a roll on the back of her head and inserted two or three long hairpins. “Oh, what is this?” she asked, holding up a ring.

“Can’t see it from here.”

“A large oval moonstone, set in silver with . . . “

“Ah. Yes. White gold. It would look beautiful on you. But I cannot part it with it. It was the first thing that Tyelkormo ever gave me. He made it for me. I was younger than you. A true token of his esteem, since he was no craftsman and must have struggled to produce it.

“I didn’t expect you to give it to me. It’s lovely.” Her eyes were wide with curiosity, but, thankfully, she didn’t ask for more of the story either. Idril knew her father disapproved of Aredhel's attachment to Celegorm. “You don’t mind sharing your room with me this week, do you?” her niece asked instead, sounding as though she needed explicit verbal reassurance. “I wanted to give my room to Mistress Lhingwen and her husband from Lake Mithrim. She’s is expecting a baby in half a year and has had a difficult first few months.”

She gave Idril the encouraging smile that she clearly wanted. Only the Valar might be able to guess why. Surely the girl knew she adored her company. “For the tenth time, no! I love having you with me. Come here, child, put your head on my lap.” Idril smiled and flopped down onto the bed, settling her head on Aredhel’s thigh, sighing with contentment and closing her eyes. What skin, Aredhel thought, poreless as that of a child and just as pretty. She brushed the pale blond hair away from her face and kissed her on the forehead.

“Now, tell me, who was that handsome lad you danced with so many times? Isn’t he one of Finno’s men?”

“You mean the captain? The horse archer? That’s Vorocanyon. He’s charming. But I am not his type at all.” She giggled. “He’s an invert.”

“The best dancers often are. And the most beautiful men too—look at Nelyafinwë and Findekáno. Right?”

“Oh, yes. They are so romantic.” She looked up at Aredhel with dreamy eyes. “There should be songs about them. So handsome and such heroes.”

Aredhel laughed. “I know their flaws well as I know my own. In the case of my brother, many of them are mine as well! Any song I wrote about them would be bawdy, silly, and complete nonsense. I do adore my brother and Russo. Calling their lives romantic might be a bit of stretch. But, I do understand what you mean. They are lovely together.”

Idril twisted an escaping lock of hair around her finger, with a faraway look on her face. “The first I remember of cousin Russo was at Lake Mithrim. He was kind to me and taught me to ride a pony. He looked different then--thin and sad, frail and finely wrought, like an exquisite piece of porcelain. Yet he was always kind to me. I think I fell in love with him in the way that little girls yearn for the mysterious and unreachable. But he is so different now. He looked marvelous tonight and danced with me three times.”

“Everyone looked grim, too thin and worn, those first days at Lake Mithrim,” Aredhel said. Finding it unbearably painful to be reminded of what had happened to Maedhros, she feared that she must have sounded dismissive, but she had to speak of something else. “Finno looks better every time I see him also. He is in his element in Endórë. Always dashing off to fight monsters or find some monsters to fight, or whatever else it is that keeps him so busy. But even your father looked good tonight.”

Idril frowned, looking pensive. “Atto left early.”

“Turukáno always leaves any social gathering early. He nurses his grief, like a person who cannot stop picking at a scab. But he can take care of himself. You should worry about you!” Idril was such a good daughter. She unconditionally loved her damaged father and her mad old aunt.

“Life is so unfair,” Aredhel said. “I don’t mean to be harsh to your father. I know Turvo is lonely. He loved your mother very much. And his life has not been easy in recent years.” Whose had? She wondered why she felt compelled to tell her niece these things, who had made no stupid mistakes yet, and showed every sign of being less spoiled and arrogant, more realistic, and better able to choose wisely than any of the rest of them. “But life should not be as hard for you, sweetness. Maybe you can learn from our mistakes. You are young and beautiful and everyone loves you.”

“You are, too, and greatly loved.”

“Don’t make me laugh! I’m getting older every year and am generally considered a pain in the backside. Truly, I have no serious complaints. I do what I want. Right now, I want to hear more about your evening. So, you did not see any young men you might like? The castle is filled with visitors.”

“Ha! Loads of visitors, but no one for me.” Idril lifted her chin up and wrinkled her nose. “I received the full lecture from Atar before they even began to arrive.” Idril released a mordant laugh. Her father kept her on a short lease.

But, as far as she Aredhel could tell, her niece was not looking for romance yet. At Idril’s age, she had been captivated by the lads, and enamored with Celegorm. Her obsession was more likely than not due to having spent an inordinate amount of time in those years in the company of young men, particularly those of the Fëanorian variety, with their irrepressible love of life, and excess of confidence and entitlement. She thought that even Maedhros, the most moderate among the brothers, manifested those characteristics. Even after torture and captivity, he had survived with a formidable sense of self intact. He had given her father his crown and did not appear to feel the slightest bit diminished by its loss.

But Tyelkormo! Fëanor’s third son had been a handsome lad, eye-catching among a stable of handsome lads. With all of that dark gold hair, almost amber, like honey made from clover blossoms, and that wide endearing smile of his, she could never look away from him. They had both been wild and reckless, a good match at that point in their lives. Their affection for one another had outlasted their physical relationship.

Idril continued, “Can you just imagine Atto if I developed an interest in someone from Himring Hill?”

Aredhel joined her in laughing. “Far too easily, sweetheart! I love imagining that. He would probably burst a blood vessel in his head. But I noticed he was not tracking your every movement tonight. He talked a lot with everyone. Well, a lot for him. No matter who they were or where they came from.”

“I think he’s happy because of his plan,” Idril said. “He needs to leave here. Running errands for Haru and following directions is not for him.”

"Ai!" Aredhel clapped her hand over her mouth. “The evening was so long I almost forgot I hadn’t told you yet! He asked me to come with him, exactly like I said I thought he would. He finally told me about it after supper. He wanted an immediate response, as though he would be leaving tomorrow, when it’s likely to be months and months. I promised under duress that I would give him my answer later this week. So have you thought about it more? Do you want me to come with you? I’d only do it for you, Itarillë. No one else.”

“Oh! Would you? You could always leave again later if you don’t like it. Come back here to visit. Or make trips to see Uncle Finno. He’d probably let you chase around the mountains and plains with him. You could still see Cousin Tyelkormo, every now and then, like you do now. I only want a little help settling in at the beginning. Am I selfish to ask you?”

“Darling, girl. You’re the farthest thing from selfish. You never ask anything for yourself. Might be a pleasant change for me as well,” she said, while thinking she might as well resign herself to celibacy. Turgon would know everything she did, who she saw, how often, and for how long. But she could never leave Idril as long her niece felt she needed her and, anyway, Turgon really needed her and her father did not. “A beautiful castle by the sea. A new start. Maybe we could have boats? What did he say this place is called? Nevrast. That has a nice sound to it.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Idril sat up hastily, just missing hitting Aredhel in the chin with her head. “I love you so much,” she squealed, giving her a fierce hug. “You are much too good to me. I promise you that the minute you decide it isn’t for you, or if you are not happy for any reason, I will not try to keep you. Only for a short while.”

“Fine, then. It’s settled. I will not wait. I will tell Turvo tomorrow. Now, we should get some rest. It is going to be a busy few days.”

 

o0o0o0o

 

Fingon awakened to the familiar morning bustle of the castle. It took a small army to run a fortress like Barad Eithel and, during holidays like this, probably twice that many. The conversations, largely in Sindarin, of housemaids, cooks, and other servants drifted in through their windows. The mewling chorus of the castle cats announced the return of the milkmaids with their pails full to overflowing. People had retired late the night before, so it was no longer early morning and well past the time when everyone would usually be up and about.

The family rooms and guest chambers of the castle each had several windows, with strong shutters on the inside. He and Maedhros had slept with their windows flung wide open, deliciously warm and cozy within the chilly room, under heavy covers and snug in one another’s arms. Now they had fresh air and the sounds of morning to awaken them. Underlying the aroma of newly baked bread and bacon cooking, he detected the unmistakable scent of autumn in the air. The sun casting its light upon the stone tiles of the floor promised a golden day.

He should have awakened Maedhros, but he looked so peaceful, mouth soft and vulnerable, his dark lashes heavy against his cheeks. He slipped into a silk dressing gown, which, after so many days on the road, felt luxurious, almost decadent. His father and Turgon were accustomed to living this way. He could be too; he had been once--comfortable, looked after, rarely without the opportunity for a hot bath, anything one could want to eat or drink merely a bell’s pull away. But he did not regret his choices, which meant traveling much of the time. Somehow it suited him better.

Someone knocked on the door into the hallway, probably with their morning tea. He hoped they brought white bread with butter and jam, perhaps a little fruit. Wrapping the robe more closely around him and tying the sash, he walked toward the door to unlatch it.

Erestor spoke, his voice only slightly muffled by the door, “Are you decent? I’ve brought some food.” Fingon recognized the tone, eager and cheerful, which meant that Erestor was bursting to share something.

“You are certainly welcome,” he said in a low voice, opening the door. “But Maitimo is still asleep, although he really should wake up.”

Erestor pushed by him with a cocky smile. “I don’t mind walking in on him. I have seen him in every imaginable state of awake, asleep, and undressed.”

“Actually, I am awake and starving,” Maedhros said, looking well indeed, flushed with sleep, bare of chest, with that huge mane of tousled hair. “Bacon and toasted bread with cheese and a bowl of apples. See, why I tolerate him? He is simply the best. Would you mind handing me one of your housecoats, Káno?”

The three of them settled themselves at the small but serviceable table in front of the window and dug in. The bacon had disappeared and the bread basket was half empty before Fingon addressed Erestor’s barely suppressed excitement. “It’s obvious that you have something you want to tell us. So, what happened last night? I noticed that Vorocanyon was still dancing with my niece long after you had left—very early I might note. ”

“It’s not about that. Although I did spend last night with someone. Not here in that little closet!” He made a comical shrug, pointing over his shoulder in the direction of the door to the dressing room. “He had a place of his own.”

Maedhros pulled his eyebrows together and frowned, in an unconvincing attempt at looking severe. “You could have been assigned a bunk in the barracks, or asked to sleep on a mat in the Great Hall with the youngest of the Sindarin servers.”

“Stop it! Of course I am grateful to have a bed, especially one with fine sheets, warm blankets, and a down mattress up here in the hallowed halls of the family! Just noting that the room itself is a glorified wardrobe. And please do not give my little room to anyone else! I might not be as fortunate again as I was last night.

"Anyway, that is not what I wanted to talk about. I have some rich gossip. You’ll find out soon enough, but I thought you might like some time to absorb it before you are officially told.” He prattled on as though he were communicating a not particularly significant piece of hearsay. Fingon, however, knew that Erestor could be crazy like a fox. He paused dramatically, looking from Fingon to Maedhros. “I heard that Prince Turukáno is taking a huge number of people—Noldor and Sindar—and moving quite a long distance down the coast. He is going to found a community there. Build a big castle.”

“That is news,” Maedhros said, his voice sounded flat, and strangely without inflection. His face had turned pale, causing his sprinkling of freckles to stand out in stark relief across his cheekbones. “And not good news, I think. Although, I suppose, not entirely unexpected. I can almost imagine his arguments.” He turned to Fingon, who felt his face burning with outrage. “Had you heard anything about this?”

“Not a word, but then I’ve have not been here much since the last winter. He has always blathered on about the first line of defense being in the north but how there is a need for a fall back further south, with access to the sea. Where he thinks those survivors might sail has always been a mystery to me. We’ve argued about that.”

Maedhros shook his cascade of curls, red as fire in the late morning sunlight. “I’m speechless at the moment. I need to a few hours to think about it.”

“So,” Erestor said, self-satisfied, “I was right to tell you. Now you can think about it, before Turukáno presents it to you as an accomplished fact. Not to take the side of the waverers, but there is a place for front lines and a rear, where there are reserve supplies and shelter for refuges . . . whatever . . . ”

“You think so, do you?” Fingon snarled at him with a vengeance that made Erestor jump. “I am not sure that is my brother’s true motive. It sounds a lot like cowardice . . . or despair to me.”

“Enough!” Maedhros snapped. “Do not say things you will regret. I want to think more about it and hear his arguments.” Fingon imagined that he must look absolutely belligerent and tried to rein in his emotions. Maedhros looked calm but dangerous, his face still white and his posture suddenly stiff and erect.

Taking a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to release some of the physical tension, Maedhros added in a softer voice. “I’d like to hear what your father says also. It will be his forces which will be most depleted. Eressetor, do you know what is meant by ‘huge’? Did you hear numbers or percentages?”

“I heard perhaps a third of the people from Eithel Sirion and the surrounding area, with the possibility of calling for volunteers from Dor-lómin and around Lake Mithrim to follow them.”

“Over my dead body!” said Fingon.

“That does quite profligate!” Maedhros snorted, not amused. “Really, Káno, settle down. I presume we’ll hear all about it soon enough, won’t we? Who told you all of this, Eressetor?”

Erestor covered a startled look with an affected simper, “Well, I really am not at liberty to say. You will have to trust me when I tell you that it is someone who is in a position to know all about it.”

“Why can’t you tell?” Fingon asked, clenching his fists and jutting his chin out. Not many people besides Maedhros ever saw him like this. Erestor visibly shrank back.

“Well, because promised I would not tell,” Erestor said, with a false quaver in his voice. Maedhros released another scornful laugh at the bid for pity. Well, he could at least try to laugh; he was more used to Erestor’s antics and tolerated them better.

“Flaming Pits of Utumno!” Fingon grumbled, gaining some control of his temper with great effort. Whoever had told Erestor this tale, was, no doubt, someone high in the confidence of his brother and his father. It was not fair to take his ire out on Erestor alone.

“I could tell you now who told me, but that would break a confidence, which makes no sense to me when you will likely know everything in a few hours. I just was trying to give you some advance notice, so you could consider your response to it.”

“Fine,” sighed Fingon. It did not matter who told Erestor. What mattered was his daft brother and his alarming attitudes. The disagreement was an old one, but Fingon had not considered it settled. One had to fight as though one expected to win. To draw farther and farther away from Morgoth’s stronghold, seemed to him to be an admission that they never imagined they could actually defeat him and would simply continue to drop back until there was no place left to go.

“I presume my friend might have expected I would tell you about the new settlement, but I know he does not want anyone to know about him sleeping with me last night. He specifically requested that I not mention that.”

“So, never mind,” said Maedhros, impatient before again reining in his temper. “But thank you for the information.”

Subdued for once, Erestor gathered up the remains of their breakfast without speaking, while Maedhros, long legs stretched out before him, lounged in his chair, looking out the window in silence.

Fingon tried not to fume. When Erestor left to take the dishes back to the kitchen, he could no longer hold back. “I knew this was coming. I fucking knew this was coming. I refused to allow myself to consider it.”

“We’re probably overreacting. It’s not like we ever see Turukáno,” said Maedhros. He did not sound the least convincing or convinced to Fingon. Turgon’s presence with Fingolfin at Barad Eithel allowed Fingon the liberty he needed to oversee the vast territory of the plains of Dor-Lómin, from the mountains to the shadows of Thangorodrim. Between the two of them they took responsibility for the line of defense stretched east to west looking north, assuming that Fingolfin and Turgon had their back.

“It is our arses on the frontline, while he sits back, well out of harm’s way, and decides we will probably never need reinforcement,” snarled Fingon. “But a third of Atar’s people?”

“Or significantly more. We do not know yet. Well, Eressetor was right. I would not have wanted you to carry on like this in front of your father and your brother. You at least have a chance to get a grip on yourself before we are forced to discuss it.”

Love Is Never Easy

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The morning passed slowly for Maedhros. After more than an hour of pointless discussion, peppered with several of Fingon’s flare-ups of annoyance against what he saw as the perfidious lack of judgment on the part of his younger brother, Maedhros finally decided to flee the confinement of their chambers. He shut the door behind him laughing, leaving a half-dressed Fingon flinging reproach at him in the absence of his real target.

Years later, Maedhros would look back on that week of Summer’s End celebrations as an idyllic interlude in a period of peace that would last longer than either he or Fingon had ever expected it would. Certainly, the interlude at Barad Eithel was replete with the usual family drama and comedy interspersed with unresolved political and military disputes, differences of tactics and strategies. But in retrospect most of those altercations, even the ones relating to Turgon’s proposed departure from the area of Eithel Sirion to go to Nevrast, by the sea, paled in comparison to coming challenges.

But on that crisp fall morning, he needed to be outside and to give himself a little space away from Fingon’s temper. Even when he was not the object of his love’s ire, he hated to be around Fingon when he was that irritated. Maedhros decided to walk off his disquiet and take a look around the keep. Finally, venturing outside of the castle wall, he was able to appreciate the full beauty of the day, and leave off worrying about Fingon and Turgon and stop dreading that the entire visit might be marred by the usual Nolofinwëan family contentions. At least it was quieter than strife among his siblings, he thought. Fingon would not confront Turgon with nearly unforgiveable taunts the way some of his brothers had been known to do among themselves and with others.

There was no way to know as he sat on the grass looking down on the practice fields, that Fingon, wroth with the idea of his brother’s proposal when he had left him, would wear out his anger so quickly. He and Fingon approached the future differently. Fingon nurtured expectations of success and became annoyed when his best laid projections seemed to slip from his control, while Maedhros, actually more pessimistic, always clung to an amorphous sense of hope by his fingernails, anything short of total disaster could be tolerated and plans could always be reassessed.

At one end of a grass-covered enclosure on the north side of the castle, a permanent space had been reserved for archery practice. The entire series of rows of butts, mounds made of mud and straw, each holding a target, were in full use that day.

Archers milled about behind the lines, talking and laughing, awaiting their turns. Most had hoped to squeeze in a little extra training in order to comport themselves well in the following day’s hunt. At the far end, a few of the more expert bowmen practiced individually, their emphasis upon speed. Nearer to Maedhros, younger archers, assisted by a teacher, paid close attention to the familiar commands, shouted in Sindarin: “Ready your bows! Nock. Mark. Draw. Loose.”

He did not see any of Fingon’s famed horse archers. They did not use the elegant long bows of the Sindar, but their own shorter recurve bows. He speculated they had different training methods or, like their intrepid lord, were so cocky that a holiday excursion would not inspire them to seek extra practice time. After all, they were the true experts, at least by their own assessment.

Maedhros had hoped to find a partner for a bit of swordsplay, but spied no likely candidates. He did not feel like an encounter with a stranger, suffering first the reluctance on their part to fully engage the cripple, and then enduring their embarrassment and awe later at how terribly proficient he had become with his left hand. Actually, well beyond proficient, he thought he might be better with the left now than he had ever been with the right. How did Maglor put it? What others call talent or even genius is ninety percent hard work.

He flopped down upon the grass and observed the activity with mild interest, his stomach rumbling. Despite their ample breakfast, he was ready to eat again. He had barely made himself comfortable when Fingon found him. A repentant shrug, followed by a sweet smile, was more than enough of an apology.

“Don’t run away again, please,” Fingon said. “I’ve brought a peace offering.” He extended a linen-wrapped bundle. Taking it, Maedhros felt its warmth and discerned the aroma of freshly baked bread and roast pork. He unwrapped it to find two large servings of spiced pulled-pork between thick slices of crusty bread.

“Just enough to tide us over,” Fingon continued. “It’s catch as can catch for the midday meal today—except for the children, of course—but an early supper in the big hall before the bonfire.”

“Offer accepted, with gratitude. I’m starving.” As soon as he could chew and swallow a large mouthful he asked, “So, are you over your temper fit?”

“I’ve worked it out of my system and am done with it for now,” he said. “I am not going to quarrel with him or try to change his mind. What do you think?”

Surprised, Maedhros studied Fingon’s face for the cause of his sudden change of heart. “When did you find the time to speak with Turvo?”

“I have not. But I thought about it more after you left. I’m ready to accept that there is nothing we can say or do which will make any difference to him. But I could easily cause ill feeling between us, which might be hard to disperse, if I confront him in anger.” Fingon’s tone was grave, although Maedhros could detect barely suppressed laughter glinting in his eyes. “I know my hard-headed brother.”

Drawing a long breath, Maedhros could feel his own tension dissolving. Fingon might allow passion to overcome him for a moment, but, in general, he did exercise good judgment, except perhaps where Maedhros himself was concerned.

“I must admit I am relieved. The last thing we need is to alienate Turukáno. Someday we may desperately need him and his forces. And if that day comes, we must hope he will answer our call. He might be the reinforcement that wins us a battle, after we have all but worn ourselves out.”

“There is that. And then there is the fact that he is my brother. We have lost so much. I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of my only brother. Whereas, you on the other hand . . . ” He grinned at Maedhros, although serious underneath.

“Ah, of course. I have so many brothers myself, that one or two less, here or there, doesn’t really mean much.” He smirked back at Fingon, who laughed, thinking that he and his brothers did fight more, in part because they were closer than Fingon and Turgon and did not fear any permanent estrangement.

“So, I have your approval?”

“Of course. You do not have to pick fights with your brother on my behalf. Like you said, he is your brother. You know better than anyone how to handle him,” Maedhros answered. “No rupture with Turvo for now. I hope never. I’m glad for you and relieved for us all. We will factor the new situation into our future plans. I predict that the places left here by those who follow him will be filled in no time at all. People live well in the shadow of your father’s castle. And the Sindar in this area have been swift to seek alliances, despite Thingol’s not well-concealed mistrust of the Noldor.”

“Turvo will be surprised, won’t he?” asked Fingon. “I am sure he is expecting a row or he would not be dithering and would have told us already. Let him go and plant his grape vines, or build ships, or construct the most elegant castle in Endórë, or whatever it is he means to do. It really does sound like some children’s fantasy story: ‘And brave Prince Turvo built a beautiful castle overlooking a sun-dappled sea and his fair people danced and sang the nights away drinking the sparkling wine of his fertile vineyards.’ Seriously! He always gets what he wants, doesn’t he?”

“Káno, I cannot even presume to imagine how he thinks. He lost his wife; he has a young daughter to protect. My decisions are made under circumstances totally unlike those he has to consider.”

“Sorry,” Fingon said. “I suppose we all do the best we can. Turvo is not a craven either, but he is conservative. He has nothing of the pugnacious warrior in him, does he?”

Maedhros kept to himself that he had never viewed Fingon as eager for war either, but unlike his younger brother he was motivated by an unflagging sense of duty and ever cognizant of the peril of underrating the menace to the north of them. If threats had seemed to diminish in recent years, it had not been due to any softening of the Dark Lord’s evil purpose, but a result of their watchful readiness to defend their people. Not to mention that he must be preparing all manner of horrors for future confrontations. The Noldor could do nothing less than continue to extend their influence outward, recruit new forces, and keep them battle ready.

The grass had begun to turn wet under Maedhros’ bottom, but the sun burned hot upon the top of his head. Fingon looked excellent in dark blue with his hair loosely pulled back into one long heavy horse tale, no braids at all. He had the magnificent dark straight hair of Finwë, Fëanor, and Fingolfin.

“This pork is delicious. Atar keeps an excellent kitchen staff. Do you have enough?”

“I ate more than I needed. I was hungry when you brought it and devoured mine in a few bites.”

A cheer rose up from the far-end of the archery butts. They both looked up to see what had happened. Erestor was doing a ridiculous victory dance. He must have hit a bull’s eye. Turgon, of all people, was pounding him on the back in congratulations.

The clamor at the end of field died down and Aredhel inserted herself between her brother and Erestor to give him a quick hug, more like that of a comrade-in-arms than a maiden with a knight. She was replaced by a shorter blond maid, clad also in practice garb, with a much more girlish manner, she threw her arms around his neck before drawing back to take his face in her hands, laughing and tossing her golden curls. It was Idril he realized. Well, at least Turgon had nothing to fear from the object of her lively show of affection.

The four of them, Erestor, Aredhel, Idril and Turgon, left the playing field together. Laughing and talking to one another as though they were the best of friends. Erestor had a talent for making unlikely friends. He rarely had seen Fingon’s brother looking so lively and relaxed.

“She reminds me of her mother,” Maedhros said.

“Itarillë? Don’t let that sweet face fool you. She is a Finwëan through and through. She has my nerve, Turukáno’s caution, grandfather’s ability to influence others, and the kind of practical intelligence most often found on your side of the family.”

“Hmm. I’ll remember that. Oh, she might also have just a touch of your sister’s hoydenism.”

“True. But she is cleverer than Irissë in that she has the ability to control herself when she wishes.” The smile on Fingon’s face vanished, leaving a haunted look that passed away in an instant.

“Are you sorry that you followed me?” Maedhros asked. “If you had not Turukáno would not have come and brought Elenwë and Itarillë with him.”

“No. But I actually did not follow you, but Atar,” he flashed a grin at Maedhros. “Although I might have chased after you anyway even if he had not come.”

“I am happy you came. Despite everything.” He wished to could reach out and touch him. He almost certainly would have at Himring, but never at Barad Eithel. Discretion is a small price to pay to be with him here.

Fingon elbowed him and pointed downhill. “Looks like they are walking this way now.”

Aredhel had linked arms with Erestor on the one side and her brother on the other. Idril skipped in front of them turning back to shoot some funny or clever remark behind her which caused the others to laugh. Some thought nagged at the back of Maedhros’ mind which he almost but could not frame.

“Mind if we join you?” Turgon called out.

“Please do,” said Fingon. “But I should warn you that the ground is sodden.”

“The grass looks dry here on the hillside in the sun,” Aredhel said.

“Well. It might look dry,” Maedhros added. “But trust me, the seat of my pants are soaking wet now.”

“No matter.” Turgon flopped himself onto the grass with an uncharacteristic lack of concern and a wry smile, also unusual for him. “We all have to change for dinner shortly. Early tonight. So we can start the bonfire as soon as the sun goes down. It’s getting dark earlier every day now.”

Idril did not follow her aunt and father up the shallow incline. She hovered near the bottom gazing at a group of youngsters who had begun an impromptu concert. A lad had pulled out a wooden flute and begun a simple dance tune. Another boy joined him with a tabor. They had not the skill of the entertainers in Fingolfin’s hall the night before, but equaled or surpassed them in enthusiasm. A few maids joined their circle and they began a lively circle dance. Idril turned to face her kinsman and ran up the hillside. She dumped her bow and quiver into Fingon’s lap, and began pulling at the laces on her vambraces.

“You don’t mind do you, Uncle? I want to dance.”

“And would it matter if I did, sweetheart?”

“Don’t be silly! Thank you!”

The tallest of a laughing group of lads, who appeared barely of age, if that, broke away from his friends and approached.

“My lords. My ladies,” he said bowing deeply from the waist. “I hope you do not mind, if I borrow the Lady Idril for a while.” Deep dimples showed on both sides of his mouth when he smiled directly at her.

Turgon nodded and grunted inelegantly in the affirmative.

“Thank you, Atto,” she chirped.

The young man extended his arm to her, which she grabbed, half dragging him down the hill after her to join the merrymakers.

Maedhros thought that he made a handsome partner for her, long-legged, lithe, but with a broad chest and strong arms. His raven hair had been braided close to his head in warrior braids reminiscent of those that Fingon liked to wear in full armor.

“Is that the same young fellow who was giving such good advice to Itarillë at the archery butts earlier?” Erestor asked.

Turgon shrugged again in an unconvincing gesture of dismissiveness. “That’s him all right. Dolduin. A Sindarin youngster whose family followed us here from Lake Mithrim. He is no one to worry about. His father is a good man, one of Atar’s bean counters, in charge of military provisions. He’s ambitious so he keeps both of his sons on a tight leash. The boy would not think to look above his station.”

“Above his station!” Fingon choked, shaking his head in annoyance.

Aredhel clapped her hand over her mouth pretending she tried to suppress a noisy chortle. “Oh, please, Turvo. No one is worried but you. The girl likes to dance.”

“I’m not worried,” he insisted.

“In fact,” Fingon snapped, “the sky is the limit for Dolduin. He is the youngest of my horse archers and one of the best already. He is barely of age and I expect he will be able to lead a company sooner rather than later.”

“Whoops! Sorry, I asked,” said Erestor.

o0o0o0o

Fingon had finally offered to spar with Maedhros and they drew an interested crowd. It felt more like a lesson or demonstration than an actual match. With so many people watching, it evolved into a routine of defensive and offensive moves that one might use when a right-handed swordsman encounters a lefty. Finally they ambled back to castle to clean up for supper. The air had turned chilly and Maedhros welcomed the thought of a warm hall with supper waiting.

 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

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The last rays of the afternoon sun shining through stained glass panels cast rainbow patterns onto the white-linen covered tables of the great hall. Fingolfin had spared no expense in Barad Eithel in his attempt to maintain standards of elegance, which, in Maedhros' eyes, made Himring Castle seem a crude frontier outpost by comparison.

Everyone looked beautiful to Maedhros that evening, especially Fingon clad in midnight blue velvet, as rich and dark as the blue of his expressive eyes. Confident and relaxed, his beloved’s cheeks glowed from the heat of the hall or the potent mead they drank at the encouragement of his uncle. Fingolfin had been right. The bittersweet honey flavor of the mead with its hint of spices was growing on Maedhros.

Maglor stopped before taking his place on the dais. His eyes, intent and watchful, darted around the great hall as he laughed at something Fingon said. He looked distracted, no doubt half of his mind on politics and the other yearning to find the bright young Sindarin flautist with whom he had played the night before. Maglor collected musicians like others might collect jewels. ‘He must know the names of half the players in Beleriand by now,’ Maedhros thought, ‘the ones outside of the borders of Doriath anyway.’

Hopefully Fingolfin would not mind that Maglor and his cousins ignored protocol and completely scrambled the seating arrangements at the head table for their early supper. Fingon had seated himself next to Maedhros, which left the chair on the other side of Fingolfin vacant. Turgon rushed to fill the place next to his father which was intended for his eldest son and heir. Aredhel then insisted that Erestor sit between her and Turgon in what might have been Idril’s chair.

Meanwhile, Idril came up behind her Uncle Fingon and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing him on the check. “Thank you, scamp,” Fingon said, turning his head to give her a kiss in return. “To what do I owe this unexpected burst of affection?”

“You know I love you best in all the world!” she protested.

“That’s what you tell everyone,” Fingon teased.

“Is not. Well, I’m going to sit next to my favorite uncle, since Eressetor took my place.”

“I’m happy to have you,” he said, playfully yanking on a golden braid, laced with a string of tiny pink silk roses. “But this one would be Macalaurë’s chair.”

“Then he will have to take the only seat left, won’t he?” she said, with a tinkling laugh.

“Serves him right,” said Maedhros. “Although I doubt that he will mind at all.”

The supper, in contrast to the night before, was a simple meal—hearty beef and bacon pie, accompanied by vinegar-wilted spinach garnished with apple and nuts. As always, there was warm crusty bread served with fresh butter and honey. The focus of that evening was not the feasting, however, but the great bonfire which would be set alight on a sandy stretch of the river bank a short walk downhill from the south end of the castle.

Fingolfin entered the hall, regal and authoritative in carriage, looking calm and handsome, younger and more confident than he had last appeared in Tirion. Maedhros sighed to think that the absence of his own father had allowed his uncle to expand, to come into his own here, a sad commentary upon the relationship between Finwë’s eldest sons.

While the assembled diners finished their last course of sweet pastries, fruit, and cheese, Fingolfin rose to his feet. Broad-shouldered like Finwë, he looked kingly and commanding, his raven hair loose and flowing over the shoulders of his purple robe, his movement gaining the immediate attention of the entire hall.

He launched without introduction or formality into an unnecessarily detailed review of the history of the Sindarin practice of Summer’s End bonfires. Fingolfin explained the accompanying tradition of repentance and casting aside of past disappointments and grievances. The Sindarin element in the hall seemed to accept with equanimity--and perhaps a little humor manifested by the occasional cheeky grin or an exchange of glances--the typical Noldorin complications which had been added of late to their historic practice.

Each individual was to write out, in a fair hand, and throw into a large basket, an unsigned list of their faults, transgressions, or regrets of the past year. Then a few randomly chosen participants would draw someone else’s sins to read to the company. After listening to a sampling of these lists, those who had come together for the Summer’s End rites were obliged to accept the frailties and trespasses of all and forgive them. As each list was thrown onto the bonfire and consumed, the belief was that every contributor had been forgiven by their comrades and the All Father as well.

Fingolfin with his typical penchant for order and organization had ensured there would be scribes, sworn to secrecy, of course, scattered amongst the company, to write out a list for anyone who wished to share in that aspect of the ceremony and did not write, or not well. Legibility was important. Since any one of the notes might be drawn to be read aloud.

Fingon leaned over and whispered to Maedhros and Maglor, “One should be grateful not to have to stand up and confess one’s transgressions publicly in front of everyone as their forefathers did before the arising of the Sun. But still, despite the changes, the Sindarin belief is that the protestations must be true and honest for the forgiveness to be ensured and the new start to be genuine.”

Erestor interjected, “And if one has no regret for one’s transgressions, is one required to write them down anyway?”

Turgon snorted at that. “Nobody is required to do anything, Eressetor. It is an entirely personal matter between oneself and one’s conscience.”

“Ah, I see. So, will you be writing anything down this year?” Erestor asked with a flirtatious lilt to his voice. Maedhros could barely believe his squire was teasing stiff-necked Turgon of all people.

“Not this year,” Turgon drawled, giving Erestor a sweet, innocent smile.

Fingolfin continued with his explanation in a strong, clear voice, although not entirely lacking in humor in certain parts—a far cry from the tightly wound, stiff, second son whom Maedhros remembered.

He tapped into the simple ethos of the Sindarin mythology behind the practice with evident sincerity—the value of recognition of past mistakes, admission of guilt, and the expectation of forgiveness by one’s peers. First, Maedhros thought it could be seen as opportunistic in the utmost on the part of the Noldorin participants. Despite any rumors, the events surrounding their departure from Aman were not public knowledge. Then, for an instant, Maedhros almost wished that he could believe that all could be forgiven so easily.

Still, he approved of the Sindarin belief system which acknowledged the flawed nature of man and made allowance for forgiveness. Meanwhile, the Amanyarin traditional mores rested upon an expectation of perfection and, therefore, were far stingier at granting redemption for the fallen.

But then none of the Sindar in Endórë had ever, as he had, squirmed as a child under Namo’s cold, pitiless eye on the few occasions when the Lord of Mandos chose to present himself at a public gathering. Most of the Moriquendi did not even believe in the existence of the Halls of Mandos or the possibility of being granted re-embodiment, much less denied it. Death was final or at most anything that followed death was unknown and unknowable.

A sudden fierce love for this world, still so new to him, swept over Maedhros. He loved the intoxicating scent of wild flowers in early spring in the highlands following a long winter, the sweetish scent of the rot of leaf mold in the autumn, and the harsh, clean sting of a sudden deep breath taken after the first snowfall on the frozen slopes of Himring. Every joy and heartbreak in Endórë felt keener and truer than it ever had in Valinor. Yet, to think too long of the enveloping warmth and tree-lit days of his youth, so full of aspirations and hopes, still could cause him to swallow hard with a flash of grief as sharp as the thrust of a sword.

“We ask forgiveness and protection of the One tonight,” his uncle intoned, “as well as acceptance by our community, the tolerance and fellowship of our friends and helpmates. By offering to participate in the ritual, we each also agree to leave past wrongs behind us, our own and those of our brethren, and to start again.”

Fingolfin’s audience listened politely, neither fidgeting in boredom nor with any evidence of rapt excitement. This was not new information to the majority. But Maedhros found it interesting that Barad Eithel was already settling into its own unique hybrid traditions. Himring reminded him culturally a lot of Formenos, but with a more unified, mayhap somewhat desperate, sense of purpose. He also had fewer Sindar on the Hill, although his brothers’ newly formed realms held more diverse populations, similar to Barad Eithel.

“It’s good to travel. Get out and about more,” Maedhros mumbled to Fingon.

“See how others do things? Indeed.” Fingon waggled his eyebrows, jabbing him in the ribs, while making a choking sound, something between a chortle and a grunt of insincere pomposity, assuming that Maedhros was making fun of his father. He was not.

Erestor caught his eye and grinned, as though pleased with himself for some reason that Maedhros could not discern. Guilt or the need for pardon did not play a noticeable role in Erestor’s internal life. The crucible of Erestor’s adolescence—that of an androgynous-appearing young man with an attraction to other men. Growing up among the Noldor, who all too often overvalued an obvious masculinity, could not have been easy. Even worse, Noldorin values encompassed the ideal that each man should early in life acquire a capable wife who would bear him beautiful children. The farthest thing from a cynic, Erestorhad rejected bitterness or detached sacrifice and acquired an admirable self-acceptance along with a tolerance of those around him.

Maedhros might be less comfortable with himself and his fate, still he did not walk around carrying a heavy burden of guilt either. He did regret the oath, for a myriad of different reasons, not all of them altruistic. But he did not absolve his elders for their role in the exodus and the inhumanity which accompanied it.

Unlike his father he did not rail in his heart against the Valar, but he judged that they had failed in duties and obligations implicit in their demand for the loyalty and obeisance of the Eldar. While accepting full responsibility for his own actions, Maedhros never narrowly parsed who did what, when, or where, or first. The Noldor had entered into this venture as a people, with only a tiny minority who held back.

Fingolfin’s close followers also, whether they bloodied a sword at Alqualondë or not, shared the culpability with the most intransigent followers of Fëanor for what had come to pass. The guilt of the Noldor was a collective one, as had been their pronounced doom.

“Thinking about your sins again, my love?” Fingon whispered in his ear.

“Fuck you,” Maedhros teased, feeling pleasantly tipsy and squeezing Fingon’s thigh beneath the tablecloth.

“He’s almost finished. Atar does love to hear himself talk at times.”

“Shh,” Maglor hissed. He had finally gladly taken his place next to their pretty cousin. Idril looked happy also.

“We celebrate the harvest,” Fingolfin continued, “the fruits of Yavanna and the passing of the season of growth and blooming. Now, shorter days and a dimming of the brightness of the sun are upon us again, a time of contemplation. As seeds must lie fallow in order to burst into flower with the return of the light, so we also must rest and govern our minds and nurture our spirits throughout the coming winter.”

“I don’t know if that is blasphemy or not,” whispered Fingon. “But we are no strangers to heresy. And the Sindar are not greatly troubled by any received belief system. They are not even sure the Valar exist. Listen and learn. For all our supposed learning, we’re no great experts either. Blinded by the light in Valinor and now forced to endure, unprepared, cold and darkness here, what do we really know?”

Maedhros thought of saying that some things could be proven, but decided against it. He only chuckled at the unphilosophically-inclined Fingon winding himself up and glanced at Turgon. Fingon’s brother sat with his eyes cast down, perhaps in reverence. But Maedhros expected that he found it hard to let go of his resentment always smoldering near the surface, threatening to burst into flame at the slightest real or imagined provocation against him from the Fëanorian side.

But he does not resent all of us equally, Maedhros thought. Turgon might have forgiven him for Fingon’s sake were it not that he bore the leadership of Fëanor’s House and the substantial minority of the Noldor who remained stubbornly loyal to the Fëanorians. It seemed likely to Maedhros that Turgon had forgiven Maglor at various points in the recent past. But every time Maglor was called upon to sing parts of his ongoing epic “Song of Our People,” it reopened wounds for Turgon. It was not in Turgon’s temperament to accept any sort of peace which allowed an understanding that there could be more than one side to a story.

Fingolfin raised his voice again striving to touch the hearts of his listeners. He was a good speaker, if not as brilliant as Maedhros’ father had been.

“Give me your hands my sons, nephews. And let all within this hall tonight join hands as well,” Fingolfin said taking Turgon’s hand on one side and Maedhros’ on the other and holding them up above their heads. “Allow me to sincerely address these words to my own kinsmen first. We need one another, as we need our allies of the Sindar and the Nandor. If we are to be truly honest, above all petty complaints and irritations, we must all love each other well.”

To everyone’s surprise, Turgon interrupted. “I would ask your leave to make a toast to that unity, Atar.”

Everyone dropped hands throughout the hall and the majority even more happily lifted their cups. “To unity and fellowship. To perseverance and to hope,” Turgon shouted.

His toast was met with a rousing, “Hear, hear!” If anything, he had broken the solemn mood Fingolfin had been trying to set. Perhaps that was his intent. Perhaps he simply wanted the formal part of the evening to end and to move onto the bonfire and the revelry to be conducted down on the banks of the river.

As everyone who had risen in response to the toast shuffled to sit again, Turgon leaned across Fingolfin to address himself in a softer, more private voice to Maedhros and Maglor.

“I am not ready yet to love everyone here unconditionally or forgive everything. Far from it. But I do appreciate the sacrifices entailed in holding the northern regions. I will try to remember our childhoods, the kindness of Nelyafinwë when the others teased the younger among us, of Findekáno defending me against the worst abuses of my older cousins, of Macalaurë teaching me to play minor chords on the lute.” His voice broke as he asked, “Remember that afternoon, Macalaurë?”

Maglor, the artist in him never uncomfortable with the expression of sentiment, allowed himself a sniff and did not attempt to brush away the tear that rolled down his cheek.

“How could I ever forget! It hurts my heart to think of it. I did love you then, cousin. We had a lot in common. Somewhat introverted in our youths with rapscallions for siblings.” He inclined his head to Maedhros, to quickly amend his remark. “All but you, of course, Nelyo. You were always a model older brother, with the exception of an unconventional attachment to a certain person which developed later in your youth.“

Turgon snorted, before raising his tankard of mead to Maglor, his expression turning solemn again. “I know I sleep better at night knowing you, my brother, and, most of all, Nelyafinwë are the wardens in the night, on the front lines, standing between all of us and the Enemy.”

A young man’s voice sounded from a nearby table comprised of a mix of the elite of Fingolfin’s soldiers and a large part of the Himring contingent. “Don’t forget the Lords Aikanáro and Angaráto!”

Maedhros did not recognize the voice of the speaker. He did note that because the din had quieted, there was once again a rapt audience for Finwëan family politics.

Earlier that day, Fingon had told Maedhros that there was a Sindarin saying ‘There are no quarrels worse than family quarrels,’ but what they really meant by that were none more fascinating either. He had added, ‘So, we need to tell Eressetor to watch what he says and note who is listening while he is at Barad Eithel.’ Maedhros beat down a sudden hammering in his chest, aware that the majority in this hall had little idea of how complicated their family clashes were and hoping they would not find out any time soon.

He felt for a moment like he might lose hold of the gossamer fine thread of hope he clung to with steadfast determination. But then he swallowed and the dread subsided, replaced by an awareness of the familiar warm pressure of Fingon’s thigh against his own and the equally soothing sound of Fingolfin’s voice. His uncle sounded uncannily like Fëanor at times--the Fëanor of the happiest days of Maedhros’ early childhood.

At that point, Fingolfin raised his own mug of the infamous Sindarin mead that he never tired of bragging about. “A toast to the courageous sons of my brother Arafinwë, who dwell close enough to the smoldering pits of Angband to have their eyebrows singed in order to ward the rest of us from any southward movement through their lands by the minions of the Black Vala.”

They should no doubt explain to Fingolfin in greater detail later about the fields of grain and grassy plains where the sons of Finarfin were breeding horses with an unanticipated degree of success. True they could see the black mountains in the distance, but the noxious fumes had lessened to the point of all but disappearing. The sense of waiting for the enemy’s next move was palpable, but, at the moment, there were no singed eyebrows.

Several more toasts where proposed and greeted with enthusiasm fueled by alcohol: to Fingolfin’s leadership, to Fingon, the king’s heir and intrepid military commander, to the Sindarin peoples who had joined in their struggle, to their farmers, shepherds, and husbandmen, to artisans and craftsmen, to healers, scribes, teachers, artists, and musicians, to the new generation of children even, and, finally, with thunderous applause, to Fingon’s ever popular horse archers, an independent and scrappy wing of the considerable military force centered in Barad Eithel.

Meanwhile, Fingon, stopping only to occasionally raise his cup and smile, had turned the conversation at the head table back again to family matters. He addressed himself to his brother, hoping to smooth over differences among the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin. He hoped, Maedhros presumed, to take advantage of the fact that Turgon must be feeling uneasy that he still had not addressed the question of his planned move with his brother.

“Perhaps you love your Fëanorian cousins and their people more than you are willing to admit,” insisted Fingon, ever optimistic. “They—those who maintain their loyalty to Fëanáro—comprise a large portion of our allies. And, as you said, they hold the far north for us.”

Unable to stop while he believed he was gaining ground, Fingon then added, “I have not agreed with every choice they have made either, but I never allow myself to forget that our grandfather remained stalwart in his support to Fëanáro until the end. Perhaps, he was aware of reasons for his loyalty to which we are not all privy.”

Or perhaps not, thought Maedhros. It did not take a leap of imagination for him to fear their entire diplomatic construct could topple about their ears, if the sons of the High King allowed themselves free rein to air their personal differences on these questions. But his luck held for the moment, when Turgon conceded to Fingon for a change.

“Well, we are well aware of your opinions, dear brother, and admire you for your generosity of spirit and boldness in expressing yourself, but . . .”

Fingolfin, leapt into the breach, preventing Turgon, for better or worse, from completing his thought. “I also appreciate and admire what you are doing in the north, Nelyo. I recognize your courage and respect your leadership. I am able to function better and with more decisiveness here, drawing confidence from the fact that you offered the High Kingship to me freely, placing the interests of our people over any personal ambition.”

“And I trust you, Uncle,” Maedhros said. “I trusted you when I offered to withdraw any hereditary claim that anyone might have suggested I had to the High Kingship over our people. Every time we meet I am ever more certain that I made the right decision.”

Aredhel meanwhile had moved to stand between Fingon and Idril, leaning over him as he tried to drafts his list of sins. “Those are hardly transgressions, Finno. More like ingrained character traits.”

He covered his scrap of parchment with his hand. “These are supposed to be confidential. Stop reading over my shoulder. Look after your charge, if you insist upon spying.” He nodded in the direction of their niece, who bent over her own list, biting her lower lip in earnest effort, “What are you writing, Itarillë? I can just imagine, ‘I kissed a boy and broke his heart!’”

“Stop it, Uncle Finno. I’ve never kissed a boy.”

“Ah, then,” Fingon said, “She must be writing ‘I refused a lad a kiss and made him cry.’”

“Silly!” Idril squealed.

“Notice she doesn’t deny it,” Fingon said.

“Nelyo,” Aredhel said, “Tell him that he must promise to exercise more care for his person and more restraint, and not insist upon always being in the front line in the most dangerous situations.”

“One cannot lead from the rear, sweet sister,” Fingon answered, winking at Maedhros.

“She has a point," Turgon said, with the careful intonation of a drunk who knows his limitations. "Write that down and remember it! Although, I do not think he knows how to pronounce the word ‘restraint’ much less spell it.” Maedhros laughed. No professor of Rhetoric he had ever known would have passed on Turgon’s slurry speech.

“Is it true that Findekáno cannot spell?” whispered Erestor, shocked. Maedhros and Fingolfin both started laughing and could not stop. It was Findekáno himself who stood at that point and hauled Maedhros to his feet. “Let’s find that lady with the basket and get ready to go down to the river.”

“Wait, Lord Findekáno,” Erestor began. Maedhros was sober enough to hear the seriousness of his tone and start chuckling once more, having guessed what would follow. “How is your spelling? I mean, I had always heard you were something of a scholar in Tirion. And now Lord Turukáno just said . . . ”

"Looking for a new position, Eressetor?" Aredhel asked.

“Ha! Turno! He’s priceless,” Fingon said. “I’ll admit it has always been spoken of within our family how I learned to read and write a little later than my three older cousins—Maitimo, Macalaurë, and Tyelkormo. But Fëanáro started them early and drove them hard. By the time that Turukáno was talking, I was already a bit of a shining star at the Youth Academy in Tirion. Maitimo tutored me actually.” Fingon waggled his eyebrows lasciviously at Maedhros, who by then had accepted that he was far too inebriated to formulate his usual protest at the implication contained in Fingon’s voice and manner.

“Poor Turukáno!” Fingon continued, with honest sympathy in his voice. “He cannot hold his drink. And he has never adjusted well to being the second son. Perhaps, he should have been the first. But sadly or fortunately for him—who knows—I was. Still am and will be. His imagined bad fortune is my duty.”

“I’ve listened quietly to you people long enough!” Aredhel interjected, earning a chorus of howls from her brothers and cousins at the word ‘quietly.’ Although, it was true she had been less talkative than usual and, as far as Maedhros could tell, she was sober as well.

“It’s time for the bonfire,” she said, raising aloft an elegant silver goblet that he knew was filled with white wine, instead of her father’s mead. “Getting the lot of you to move is like herding cats! My toast is ‘Onward to the river and the beach in front of it! Let us light ourselves a bonfire!’”

“After everyone finishes writing out their petitions, darling!” Fingolfin said, raising his voice above the appreciative laughter echoing in response to Aredhel’s proposal. “Less discussion and more writing.”

 

o0o0o0o

Warmth Is Behind Us, Cold Lies Ahead

Read Warmth Is Behind Us, Cold Lies Ahead

People crowded close against Fingon on all sides, in the passageway and upon stairs leading to the egress from the great hall onto the cliffs at the south side of the castle. Fingon and his party received less jostling than most, perhaps in respect for their rank, but the press of people made progress slow and difficult.

All around Fingon everyone chattered in rapid Sindarin, making it that much easier for him to pick out the voices of his family members speaking among themselves with the softer consonants of their native tongue, tinged with the inimitable drawl of the most privileged among the Noldor. The mood of expectation that evening, exciting and full of promise, seemed not to move his kinsmen as strongly as it affected the Sindarin residents of Barad Eithel.

He heard Aredhel say, “This is the day that the sun starts to wane, the day of dousing the old fires and lighting a new one to last us throughout the winter,” sounding uncharacteristically a bit like their father had in the hall. Her tone might be interpreted as a tad less from the heart perhaps, but still with a tinge of insistence. “Summer’s End is a bigger celebration of community here than Midsummer’s Day or even the coming of Spring. We do it together as a people to show that we can turn to one another for succor and protection throughout the dark half of the year.” Ah, the royal “we,” he thought, controlling a developing snort.

Maglor was less judicious. “Aha! Gone native she has!” he said, his expansive voice carrying. “You really know this stuff, don‘t you, Irissë?”

“Don’t be such a bigoted twat, Macalaurë,” she said, laughing and punching him in the arm.

“No! No! I love these expositions of Silvan practice,” he said, suddenly earnest. “I truly do. I’m writing them all down. Just ask Nelyo! He’s seen my notes.”

“Not Silvan, Sindarin. For a start, you need to learn that. Although they may overlap, they are distinct.” Fingon thought that his sister’s voice, always husky for a woman, sounded more dangerous and deeper than normal, or maybe that was his own projection from past experience.

The crimson afterglow of the early sunset still lingered on the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful evening. Perfect for the bonfire. Fingon slipped his hand through the crook of Maedhros’ elbow, pulling him closer as they walked. “I love having you and Macalaurë here. I even enjoy listening to Irissë bicker with him. We never appreciated how good it was to live so near to one another the way we all did in Tirion. Even after I lived away from home, I saw all of my extended family at least once or twice a week. And some of you far more.” He did not even try to hold back a melancholy sigh, but did smile up into Maedhros’ beautiful face to lessen the impact.

“I wish Tyelpo could have come with us. He misses Irissë something fierce.” Maedhros lowered his eyelids and stuck out his lower lip, a gesture of blatant flirtation. He stepped to the side to lean against the inside wall of the keep, allowing people to surge by them. “Irissë! Irissë!” he called.

“I’m right here, Russo. What?”

“Tyelpo gave me a message for you. I keep waiting for a private moment. It was a discreet message, for you alone. But it never seems to get quieter around here.”

“Don’t torture me now that you’ve raised it. Tell me!”

“That he loves you and he misses you, of course. He wondered if you would or could consider coming north for the winter. He promises that he can keep you warm, fed, and entertained until springtime.”

“He is soul of discretion, isn’t he?” The affection in her voice indicating that she would not want Celegorm to be any other way that his usual tactless self. “I should go visit him. I really should. I ought to have made that a bargaining point for accompanying Turvo.”

“Is it too late?” Fingon asked.

“Perhaps not,” she answered. “We haven’t talked about the details. I’ll need to think of how to present a northern trip idea to Atar and Turvo. Let’s move down farther from the doorway. We have plenty of time. They will not start without us.”

The lad Dolduin approached their little group. He colored and nodded respectfully, before addressing himself to Idril. “My lady, may I speak with you for a moment, please?”

“Oh, all right,” she answered. She looked less than enthusiastic, but allowed him to pull her aside. Back in just a minute looking happier again, she skipped over to Maedhros and Fingon, squirming to insert herself between them, she called back after him, “I’ll meet you below later and we can dance all night.”

“Everything all right?” Maedhros asked.

“Oh, he wanted me to walk down the cliff to the riverbank with him, but I told him I need to talk to my favorite uncle. Do you mind terribly if I steal him away for a little while?” she asked Maedhros.

“Of course not,” he answered. “But how do we get to the bottom? Do we have to scramble down cliff-side through all the rocks and brush?”

“Wait a few minutes until the press of people clears a little,” Aredhel said. “There’s a wooden staircase over there,” she pointed toward a particular dense cluster of revelers, “but it’s only wide enough for three or four people abreast.”

“Let’s go now, uncle,” said Idril, tugging at Fingon’s arm. “We can meet them by the bonfire. I want a few minutes alone with you. There is a measure of privacy in a crowd.”

They allowed themselves to melt into the crush and be swept along toward the stairs. “So, poor Dolduin looked crestfallen.”

“Don’t mind him. He does that a lot. It’s quite deliberately manipulative. He knows I will spend most of the evening dancing with him. But he always wants more. Apparently, I did not dance with him enough last night after supper. I spent half the afternoon with him!”

“You are a hard young lady.”

“Not really. I do so like him and I’ve explained that to him. He is not The One for me. He thinks he wants me, but I am not what he really wants or needs. You can imagine the kind of poems that inspire him. ‘Come live with me and be my love . . . ‘” She gave her golden curls a dramatic toss. Fingon couldn’t resist laughing at her cruel honesty. “Of course, I know all the love poems. Isn’t that the one that has the part that goes like this,

‘And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals’?”

“Just so,” she said, with a determined upward jerk of her chin. “It’s all romantic idealism for him. Life is harder. He apparently does not retain lessons of harsh experience.”

“Precious girl! And what makes you believe that there cannot be true sentiment behind those kinds of pretty words?”

“For one thing, the enchantment of love has to go two ways or it’s not true magic but illusion. I do believe in romantic love. Look at you and Maitimo. Oh, my!” She sighed theatrically, grinning up at him. “I want a love like that. He thinks he wants me, but what he really wants is a nice, quiet girl with a normal family. I want someone who really knows me--someone who can see the bad as well as the good, and will recognize the terrible odds against any of this turning out well and love me despite that.”

They finally reached the steps and the going grew easier. Several more steps and the stairs curved, allowing a view of the sandy stretch of the riverbank. The wooden staircase built into the side of the cliff was cleverly camouflaged from the other side of the river by the trees and underbrush which hid its curves and switchbacks.

“Maybe when Doldurin grows up at bit he will turn more cynical and you can learn to love the poor lad.”

“Don’t be silly that is not what I meant. Anyway, it’s too late. I’m going with Atto to Nevrast and he should never leave you and your horse archers. And he shouldn’t be asked to either! He loves what he does with you.” She looked up at Fingon startled. “You do know about Nevrast, don’t you? I mean . . . I know Atto hasn’t told you yet. But . . . ”

“Don’t worry. I found out and he will tell me soon enough.” She smiled up at him with a self-deprecating shrug and sigh of relief. “But, Itarillë, about young Doldurin, might something have encouraged him?”

“No! I might have flirted a little before I realized how deadly serious he is about everything.” The thought crossed his mind that either she truly had no desire for the lad or it wasn’t in her nature. Or perhaps it was only that he had pressed his suit upon her too early and too hard.

“You are of age. So, you’ve never wanted to make love with a lad? Fëanáro and Nerdanel already had children at your age, at least the two oldest ones. Maybe Tyelkormo also.”

“Things were different there. Everyone was safe and freer to move about. I know I am overprotected. It rankles at times. But even I can see it from Atto’s perspective. Can’t you?”

He laughed. “Definitely. I think if I ever have a child I would want to move them as far away from here as I could! Maybe farther than Nevrast even. But you are no longer a child. Parents have to learn when to let go also.”

“I think Atto might have been a lot different if we had not lost Amma. Uncle Finno, Do you remember much about my Amil?” Idril asked, her voice turning smaller and younger.

“Of course, I do,” Fingon said, searching her face for a clue to her thoughts and finding little. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but, even with her change of mood, she did not look despondent. She might be like her mother in that way also; unlike the rest of them, Elenwë could feel sadness without turning every incident into an epic tragedy. “None of us could ever forget her.  She was funny, smart, and generous, and loved you and your father very much. At a time in my life when I was terribly unhappy, she was kinder to me than anyone else, bar none, and not at all judgmental.” He groaned aloud at the memory of his own histrionics and then chuckled. “When everyone was sick and tired of being around me, Elenwë would still listen and talk to me. Even defend me at times.”

Idril laughed and grasped his upper arm with both hands, resting her head against his shoulder. “It is hard for me to imagine you being unhappy, Uncle Finno.  You always seem to be the jolliest person in this entire family. I mean, I do know you must have been miserable then. Even Atto talks of when you and Maitimo were estranged and how hard that was for you. But tell me more about Amil.”

“She was an incredible dancer!” he said, thinking she could have done it in the theater if she had not been from a Vanyarin noble house. Her family would have been appalled at that idea. “She loved to dance. When I was watching you last night I thought of Elenwë. You definitely inherited that gift from her. And you have her eyes and her cheekbones.” He did not want to tell her that she was lovelier than her mother, but she was. The Finwëan blood mixed with Elenwë’s fresh prettiness had created an astonishingly beautiful young woman in Idril. “You have her nose also. Thank the Powers that the Finwëan nose skipped you!”

“Stop!” she said, giggling, standing on tiptoes to give him an impudent little peck of a kiss on the end of his nose. “I adore your nose! It adds character.”

“That’s what they all say.” He made an exaggeratedly mournful pout, playing for a laugh. She indulged him, as he knew she would. “Well, your mother had a perfectly lovely face. If she wasn’t smiling, she always looked as though she might at any moment, and she usually did.”

“Poor Atto. He is serious much too much of the time. Less so this week. He seems happier since you arrived.”

“Maybe he is getting better finally,” Fingon said, thinking that he had also noticed that Turgon had seemed a lot more cheerful over the past two days. “But he wasn’t always such a grouch. Oh, obviously he was more serious than me.” That won him another girlish chuckle. “Elenwë teased him a lot and could even make him laugh at himself.”

 “Oh, I do remember trying to fall asleep in my bed in our house in Tirion and hearing them talking in the parlor. I recall a lot of laughing. They always sounded like they were having a marvelous time and there I was stuck in bed, unable to fall asleep, and missing all of the fun.” She looked wistful again. “Sometimes I am afraid I will forget her. And I don’t like to ask Atto, because it makes him sad.”

 “You’ll never forget her. I think about Elenwë when I am around you. Next time I remember something, I will tell you. That is a promise.”

The sound of drums and murmur of voices reached them from the riverbank below. They could see a massive pyramid of logs and dry branches silhouetted against the last fading light of a swiftly darkening turquoise sky. High above the towering fir trees on the jagged cliffs on the other side of the river, the first evening star winked at them.

A sharp high trill on a flute quieted the sounds of conversation and the hitherto random drum beats coalesced into a steady rhythm. A boy’s clear, strong soprano echoed up the hillside. The lad clearly had training, every syllable rang clear and distinct. “Warmth is behind us, cold lies ahead.” The effect was thrilling, a thing of natural beauty. The crowd clustered around the bonfire site answered him with the same words with a slight variation of melody on the last few notes.

Idril clapped her hands together and giggled. “Ah, it’s the ‘Autumn Equinox Song!’ Atto hates it. He says it’s lewd!”

He had missed the first words of the second line, but they ended with “. . . keep me warm in my cold bed.” Fingon threw his head back, laughing. Poor Turgon, always good for a laugh.

“I know!” said Idril. “Ai, poor Atto! Maybe he needs someone to keep him warm!”

A sense of peaceful, gentle joy washed over Fingon. He loved this land, his family, and the people they had found here, and felt comfortable with the honest unpretentious customs of the Sindar of Hithlum. He was happy to finally have decided to spend this holiday here this year, especially to have Maitimo with him. He glanced up the path behind them, spotting his sister near the top of the staircase, glowing in the dusk in her white dress, arm-in-arm between the two Feanorian brothers, brighter than he had seen her in a very long while also. Summer was ending, but the winter’s cold would be tempered by the warmth of comradeship and love.

---------------

The bits of the poem above are from The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, written by the young Christopher Marlowe.

O for a Muse of Fire

“Someone should write a history,” said Theron dreamily, “a secret history—someone should ask him, or it will all be lost.”

His mother dealt him a sharp look. “Some things are meant to be lost. History is for knowing wisdom, not gossip.” --The Fall of The Kings, Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman.

Read O for a Muse of Fire

Down by the riverside, in the deepening twilight the drummers began with a low rolling rumble not unlike that of an approaching summer storm. Erestor had thought for a moment that the sound was thunder. His eyes sought and found the drums, much larger than the biggest ones that had been used in the Great Hall the night before. The largest ones near the bonfire required tall, strong men standing behind each drum to play them. The low sounds of the big drums fell gradually into a commanding rhythm, the kind one can feel in one’s bones. Then smaller drums picked up the beat, echoing at first, before overwhelming it with their higher, quicker tattoo.

The melody, if it could be called that, and Erestor decided it should be, was carried by the high drums, until their deep tones faded into the background. He recalled the style from the earliest festivals at Lake Mithrim, wholly northern Sindarin. Familiar and beloved to him now, it had been exotic to the point of difficult at first. Erestor decided that anyone who called this drumming primitive had no musical sense and less taste.

The scent of the riverbank was redolent of both leaf rot and fresh running water, of a faint fishy odor and mud, but surprisingly the combination of those odors was not in the least unpleasant. He glanced about the gathering crowd and spotted Turgon standing near the pyramid painstakingly constructed of rough-hewn logs, planks, and dry branches to which the final touches were being added. Workers pushed and kicked at it testing it for stability.

Parents shooed the younger children well away from the proximity of the soon-to-be-lit bonfire. They herded them at last into a circle of their companions and guardians where they would be kept safe and entertained.  

Pointing to the towering structure, Turgon furrowed his brow, intent upon some additional detail, and continued giving directions to its architects. His demeanor was confident and authoritative.  He greeted nobles among the Noldor vying for his attention with a quick hand clasp, before turning to bow in welcome to a group Sindarin elders. Erestor rarely concerned himself with politics outside of his own bailiwick of Himring Hill. He had never really wondered what role Turgon played here at the fortress at Eithel Sirion. But watching him now, he decided that perhaps Fingolfin’s second son did need his own realm.

He recalled some of the words, oft repeated among the lords of the Noldor in those first few days out of Tirion along the road to Alqualondë, like ‘limitless unclaimed lands’ and ‘realms of our own’ and, of course, always ‘independence’ and ‘self-determination.’ Well, the lands here were vast, although neither limitless nor unclaimed. Yet the intrepid princes of his people had found many allies among those who struggled to maintain and protect their peoples against the threat of the Dark Lord in the north far from Melian the Maia’s protected enclave to the south of them.

It rankled still amongst the High Princes of the Noldor that the greatest among the leaders they found in place, Elu Thingol, who called himself King of all the Eldar in Middle-earth, was not yet amenable to negotiation. Others were eager, if the numbers of Sindar assimilated into the cotidian reality of Fingolfin’s communities around Lake Mithrim and the fortress at Eithel Sirion were any indication. 

Further afield, realms were already being staked out among Maedhros’ brothers and his cousins of the House of Finarfin and they developed relations with the scattered settlements of Sindar they encountered as well. No one envied the Feanorians Maedhros’ Himring or the strategic mountain pass which was now popularly called Maglor’s Gap, he thought laughing to himself. But he loved Himring. It was not as people said ‘ever cold.’ There was nothing quite like spring in the mountains. True, winters were long and cold, but their halls were well-insulated and their fires warm.

Maedhros was driven, not greedy at all but strategic. Meanwhile, Finrod, for all of his appearance of good-natured generosity, had grabbed the largest spread of lands of any of his compatriots. Erestor liked Finrod, influenced he admitted by his breathtaking beauty and doubtless his own boyhood infatuation with his father. He sincerely hoped that the fairest of the Noldor, as Finarfin’s eldest was often called, had not bitten off more than he could chew. Maedhros and Fingon, who loved Finrod as a kinsman and friend--and at times Erestor had wondered if there was maybe more to their close ties--took great interest in his security which caused them to shake their head at what they called the ‘logistical nightmare’ of defending his far-flung territory.

Their interlude here at Barad Eithel had brought Erestor surprises. Not the least of which was Turgon. He continued to study him as though he were a puzzle to solve. Turgon smiled and laughed, for a brief moment showing his strong resemblance to his merrier elder brother. Chin aloft, shoulders back, Turgon’s eyes again narrowed in serious intent as he spoke to those whom Erestor assumed he would take to Nevrast as his own oath-sworn lords.

Turgon needed to be out from under the close observation of his father. Fingolfin had quickly earned acclaim after the reunification as a High King worthy of the post not simply by blood but by merit. And Erestor could even more easily imagine how Turgon must feel, tied to this fortress by administrative tasks, forced to watch his brother, flamboyant and popular, lauded in tale and song with near-adoration for his boldness, valor, and ferocity.

Yet what did they say of Turgon? Praise not unlike that which Erestor himself received in Himring—that he was a good administrator, or, by those less fond of Turgon, as they used to call bureaucrats in Tirion, a bean counter. Of course, Erestor, unlike Turgon, had, through determination and diligence, won a position beyond his expectations and birth.
 
But Turgon could never be expected to be content to be called an able assistant or an excellent organizer of small but important details, or his father’s diligent right-hand. That position had to be even less attractive compared to Fingon’s role--the elder brother and heir haring about sword-in-hand providing material for ever new adulatory songs. Turgon needed to leave Barad Eithel. Erestor could see that. And he had confessed to Erestor the previous night his dreams of building a fair city, not unlike Tirion. Turgon had waxed eloquent about his concepts of governance and security, his ideas for economic growth. The more Erestor thought about it, the more he was convinced that Maedhros and Fingon would come to understand that Turgon needed room to grow, as much or more than any of the rest of his peers, and also freedom from their shadows.
           
A loud whoop went up as the first torches were put to bonfire. Maglor and Maedhros joined Erestor. “Have you seen Káno?” Maedhros asked, just as Fingon approached him from behind and tickled him about his waist, earning a squeak and a giggle from Maedhros the Stern.

“I’m right here. I think I left Itarillë a little happier,” he said.

“You’re good at that,” Maedhros responded, with a contented sigh. “What did she need?”

“A little reassurance. She misses Eärwen. Or, more like, she worries she does not miss her enough.”

Turgon suddenly arrived out of nowhere. He raised his hand as though to put it upon Erestor’s shoulder but let it drop. “Who misses whom?”

“According to Findekáno, your daughter misses her mother,” said Erestor.

“Oh, I dare say she does. Perhaps I can do better for her than I have done.” He exhaled heavily. “Where’s Atar? He needs to throw the papers onto the fire before it gets too hot to get close enough. The wind is picking up.”

At that moment, Fingolfin strode toward the bonfire, the crowd parting to give him a clear path. He held a large basket on one shoulder of the type that farmers in Valinor used for apple harvest. And with no fanfare at all, he raised the basket above his head and tipped its contents onto the bonfire. The scraps of paper and parchment mostly reached the fire, although a huge gust of wind caught a few and sent then fluttering backwards. The crowd shrieked in unison and people scrambled after the loose notes to toss them into the flames.

“Well, that was unexpectedly ill-planned,” Fingon said laughing.

Maedhros guffawed. “Especially, after all of the tedious instructions and explanations over the last two days.” One single white scrap of paper winged its way toward them and Maedhros reached out with a long arm and captured it.

Fingon snatched it from him. “It’s fate!” he yelled. “I think we are supposed to read it. Listen to this, “’My bed is cold without my wife’—oh, sounds like that song from last night!”

“Give me that!” Turgon snatched the note from his hand. “Those are private. Have you no respect?” He marched off and tossed the slip of paper well into the bonfire. He stood there watching the fire consume it. If one could look angry from the back, Turgon did, neck and shoulders stiff, visibly huffing.

“What did it say?” Maedhros whispered, sounding uncannily like Celegorm.

“You heard my brother. It’s private! Have a little respect!” Fingon chortled. “It said, ‘I had carnal relations with a man.’ It was written in a terrible hand.”

“That’s all?”

“Not exactly. There as more to it than that, but he snatched away before I could decipher the rest. It was written in poorly conjugated Sindarin. The way a lot of our people speak it! Probably written with someone’s left hand also—execrable handwriting. Maybe it belonged to Turvo. Ha!”

“So, you really do think stiff-necked Turvo has seriously loosened up recently?” Maedhros asked.

“Be quiet. You two are evil,” Erestor snapped. “Both of you are really so tedious about Turukáno!” He watched Turgon, whose shoulders had relaxed visibly. He turned around and walked back toward them smiling. He reached them before either Maedhros or Fingon could respond to Erestor, which was just as well he thought, feeling a little embarrassed at the intensity of his reaction.

“No harm done. But I have no idea what Atar was thinking,” Turgon said. “He should have been much more careful.”

“Probably thinking he wanted a drink and place to sit down!” Fingon laughed.

Just then, Idril screamed from the other side of the bonfire. “Atto! Bring Eressetor and let’s dance. You never dance with me. The best music is coming now. Uncle Macalaurë is going to play too!”

Turgon stiffened and then shrugged and shook his head. He really did not appreciate the ‘Uncle Macalaurë’ and ‘Uncle Nelyafinwë’ nomenclature, but he had finally accepted that it was an unworthy battle as well as a losing one.

Idril all but bounced in place with excitement. While, the young Dolduin, who had slung a possessive arm around her shoulders, only smiled and gazed down at her in wan resignation. The more often Erestor saw them together more obvious it was that the lad’s crush was fated to remain unrequited. He admired Idril for her self-confidence that allowed her to accept herself without the need for outside reassurance. So many like himself had lacked that at her age and sought flirtations and love affairs to relieve their youthful uncertainty. He laughed to himself, perhaps he still did that.

“Are you coming, Eressetor? You really have no choice. My daughter will not relent easily.”

“Of course I’m coming. I love to dance. I hadn’t really thought you would be much of a dancer. You didn’t dance last night.”

“Last night I was distracted,” Turgon said, laughing and pulling him by the arm around the end of the blazing bonfire to the side nearer the water where those eager to dance had gathered.

Idril’s face and hair glowed orange-red in the light of the bonfire. The threatened rain had blown over and the sky spread out dark and clear above the mountains. A beautiful harvest moon, as the Sindarin farmers had taken to calling that phase of the moon at this time of the year, shone down upon their gathering--a perfect circle of light, looking near and solid enough that one felt as though one could reach out and touch it.

Aredhel had folded her long white skirt up to the waist and tucked it under her belt to make dancing easier. Both women were shod in solid riding boots, appropriate to the rough riverbank and already caked with mud and sand.

At first one felt too hot from the heat of the bonfire but toward the end of the evening it began to grow a little chilly for comfort, even with all the dancing. Turgon had danced with his sister and his daughter a few times and once with the wife of one of his father’s oldest friends, although he seemed happier to watch the others dance. Fingon and Maedhros had visited their circle and danced for a short while.  Fingon danced with everyone. And Maedhros danced with Aredhel and Idril. Even the King had visited their little circle and took a turn once each with his daughter and granddaughter to a couple of the more sedate airs.

Maglor never took a single break. He was happy in his circle of fellow musicians. His newly found comrades took turns squirting drinks from a wine skin directly into his mouth, amidst a lot of laughing and shouting. Turgon told Erestor that Maglor had made a bet with the Sindarin flautist and her brother that he could outplay them all without stopping. No one doubted that he could, but it added to the merriment to watch the others try to keep up with him.

Finally, Maglor on the rebec, tipsy and raucous, but still masterful, brought along with him the few musicians on flutes and drums still standing in a rollicking and utterly untraditional version of the introductory chords to the north Sindarin Parting Song. An old favorite, which, in such a short while, had already been adopted universally throughout the exile communities as well. Erestor thought, wistful or even a little mawkish, that it would be the perfect time to leave, if only the person he had hoped would take him away had sought him out again.

Then, out of nowhere, to his happy surprise, his self-indulgent musing was interrupted by warm humid kiss on the back his neck and a strong arm slipping around his waist from behind. He caught his breath and focused his mind to the extent that he was able to continue to follow a lovely alto voice--perhaps the brother of the young flautist Maglor had befriended earlier--singing the last lines of the first verse.

But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all.¹

“Had enough for tonight or did you plan to stay out all night with die-hard dancers and drinkers?” whispered the one whose voice he had most longed to hear.
 
The tingle of the breathy words against his ear caused Erestor to shiver with anticipation and to release a quavering laugh before stuttering, “Depends upon my alternatives. Did you have something in mind?” Mocking himself in rueful silence, Erestor considered how easily his hope returned and rose--with the predictability of sap in the springtime.

“Will you come to bed with me again tonight?” his companion said, the ghost of a shy smile audible in his tone. He pulled them further under the convenient shelter of the branches of an adjacent willow tree and wetly kissed Erestor, such a thorough and hungry kiss. “I have felt happy all day thinking of you. For the first time in years . . . Oh, you make me feel young again. I promise I won’t torture you with any more confessions or sad stories tonight.”

“You can always talk about anything you want to with me. Just do not speak like you are one of the ancient ones. I even have a few years on you. I do remember well when you were born.”

“People tell me I am old for my years. But, ah, Eressetor, you are the epitome of unfading youth and beauty, and bring such promise of heat and pleasure. I cannot even explain what you do to me.” In most cases such words might have felt stiff or even trite, but not from him of all people, especially not with the quality of his voice, so thrillingly deep and caressing. In that moment, they came across as neither to Erestor. He kissed Erestor’s neck again and then sucked on his earlobe.

“Oh, don’t do that! Please, wait,” Erestor gasped, already painfully hard.  “I cannot think of anything I would rather do than go to bed with you. Right now.” Thank god for randy widowers and estranged husbands, he thought, without them I would spend far more nights alone.

____________

1 The Parting Glass, Irish traditional song.

The Wild Hunt

Read The Wild Hunt

Oh, some folk prefer the wild-boar hunt
Or for stag they nock their arrows.
But our folk rode with the Sound of Horns¹
And lay to rest our sorrows.²

Fingon looked around the courtyard his heart lifting in a feeling of barely contained pride at his father’s distinctive style of organization. The outward chaos and holiday atmosphere masked the military precision with which he had brought so many people together and housed, fed, and entertained them.

Aside from the fact that no detail had been left unattended, and the diversity of the participants, there was very little different about the tumult preceding a holiday Wild Hunt organized by the court of High King Fingolfin than from any other largish public hunt. The scale and resources involved in this one, however, could not be rivaled. This was Barad Eithel after all!

The general festive air in the courtyard among the assembled hunters contrasted with the self-important running back and forth by officious looking squires and agitated servants. The entire proceeding suggested barely restrained chaos, nevertheless manifesting the distinct celebratory flavor of a much-loved holiday. 

Slender, elegant tracking hounds some nearly as fine-looking as Huan with their handsome heads held high and proud, but of lesser more gracile musculature than Oromë’s giant canine. Their nature strained against their not inconsiderable training. There were a few mastiffs that could be used to hunt animals as large as wild boar or deer. Then there were the terrier mixes chosen for their reckless courage and harrying skills—small, scrappy mutts, who huffed and visibly trembled with excitement before lapsing into the occasional bout of frenetic communal barking until they were quieted by their good-natured Sindarin masters. The smaller dogs’ task would be to flush small game or birds out of the undergrowth. The horses of many of the Noldorin participants, who intended to hunt mounted, pawed the earth, their hot breath forming clouds in the cool, crisp air.

This was first day of autumn and would be followed by frost before the next dawn. Summer’s end was truly upon them. A cold breeze rustled and lifted the first of the fallen leaves, reminding one the trees would soon be bare.

Archers fussed over their bows, strings, and stores of fletched arrows. Children squealed and clapped, jumping in place, as their fathers and older brothers or sisters adjusted their coursers’ saddles. The kitchen staff had been up for hours and busy preparing food for each group of hunters to carry with them. The hunting parties would stay out all day until near twilight.

Huntsmen young and old, male and female, strutted about, laughing loudly, shouting greetings and jokes at latecomers, bragging of past adventures, building enthusiasm for the hunt. He looked to the castle side of the courtyard and saw Maedhros, Erestor, and Turgon striding toward him, followed by a motley collection of a half-dozen green-behind-the-ears Noldorin lads and their tough-looking much older Sindarin servants, all of them wrestling with unwieldy armloads of boar-spears, stakes, and nets.

“Good grief,” Fingon exclaimed, “what is all that baggage?”

Maedhros responded, meeting his eyes with skeptical look, “Eressetor and Turvo intend to hunt boar.”

“Valar help us! That sounds like a muddled mess!”

“Don’t be insulting without reason, brother mine,” said Turgon, trying hard to sound irritated, but failing utterly. “I know something about hunting boar. Learned it as a boy from my dearest cousin, Tyelko.” That earned him a laugh all around. Everyone who knew Turgon was aware that he and Celegorm could not stand one another. “And Eressetor claims he’s been part of many a boar hunt.”

“That he has,” offered Maedhros. “He has been useful also. But do not count on him to hold a boar on his own. No insult intended, but he doesn’t have the weight or upper body strength for it.”

“How would you know if you never let me get close?” Erestor said. “It’s accuracy and fast movement that count for more than brute strength. I’m smarter than a boar also.” Everyone laughed again.

“You’re smarter than most people also,” said Maedhros. “But that doesn’t mean your judgment is always perfect either or that you could pin them in a wrestling match.”

“I’m opposed to the idea,” Fingon said, sounding, even to himself, as uncharacteristically glum as Turgon had been atypically cheerful for the last few days.  He had a sinking feeling about this whole adventure. He had been ready to suggest for several days the idea of sending out an experienced party to track the beast. But never Erestor and Turgon!

“We’ve a hand-picked party,” Turgon said, as though reading his mind. Fingon’s eyebrows shot upwards at that, his gaze raking up and down the lithe figures of the Noldorin youths. However, he had to admit that the Sindarin men did look determined and ready for the task.

“In any case,” Turgon continued, turning to Maedhros for support, “there’s a wily tusker, a grand old boar out there who has been worrying mothers of small children. They won’t let their kiddies play near the woods anymore.”

“Boar hunting’s a brutal, disgusting sport,” Maedhros said blandly to no one in particular. He had not been one of the enthusiastic supporters of those hunting trips organized by Celegorm into the wilderness of Aman in the salad days of their youth.

“All hunting is,” said Erestor. “Perhaps the hunt today is appreciated as a sport, but its traditional purpose is to gain provisions for the winter. The hunt is a big part of the holiday of Summer’s End. But we are undertaking this particular venture not in sport, but to rid the community of a dangerous nuisance.”

“How would you propose protecting women and children who want to go into the forest for berries, herbs, or mushrooms?” Turgon said, his voice taking on an affronted tone.

“One could send a well-prepared party of experienced woodsmen and not attempt the deed as part of holiday entertainment,” Maedhros said, keeping his voice calm, although Fingon recognized his impatience.

Fingon realized that this could be a long and circular argument that he and Maedhros were unlikely to win. They’d do well to give it up and hope for the best. They could only wish that Erestor and Turgon did not encounter the boar. If the beast was as old and cunning as everyone claimed, it was likely, with the ruckus surrounding the main body of the hunt, he would make himself hard to find. Fingon looked to the older men following Turgon and said in Sindarin, “Look after my brother if you are able! I cannot afford to lose him!”

“Yes, sire!” one answered with authority. “We’ll keep an eye on the young master as well.” Erestor beamed. He did so love to be thought younger than he was that he did not even think to be chagrined about being looked after.

“Good luck,” said Maedhros, also in Sindarin. He leaned into Fingon and muttered in his ear. “Let’s stay within earshot of them. I don’t mind if we don’t get much hunting done today.”

“Agreed,” Fingon said, under his breath.

o0o0o0o

 

Tracking Turgon’s party without attracting their attention made for a long and boring day. They encountered a stand of white oak trees out of sight and downwind but within hearing distance of the boar hunters. Fingon decided this was an easy opportunity to not return empty-handed. With little effort, they might fill their bags with a dozen squirrels. Squirrel meat was popular among the cook staff as ingredients for a fall stew with root vegetables, spices and thick gravy, or for crafting ever popular meat pies with a buttery crust. Maedhros and Fingon had a whispered argument, half in jest, about whether squirrel tasted like the dark meat of chicken or not. 

Both of them were very good at moving slowly and slipping quietly into bow range. After all they had a lot of practice in their youth. Thinking fondly of time spent in the wooded foothills between Tirion and Formenos with Maedhros, Fingon relaxed. They had been so innocent and naïve, although, of course, they thought themselves to be wise and sophisticated in those days before their world broke apart.

Suddenly, the baying of Turgon’s dogs exploded into a deafening din. It sounded as though the boar hunters had surrounded their quarry. The hounds bayed hysterically in an attempt to attack or contain the boar.

“Oh, shit! Sounds bad,” yelled Maedhros.

They thundered recklessly forward through the underbrush, both having pulled their swords. They could smell the stench of a fatally wounded tusker. The bright day had turned dark and ominous within the dense tangle of growth beneath the tall trees. Dogs and men alike had already gone quiet as Fingon and Maedhros broke into the small and crowded opening. Within the deep shadows, someone had lit a lantern. They first spotted the boar, the hot stink his entrails steaming in the autumn chill. He was a monster—with an ugly, black, hairy snout and huge yellow tusks and was, thankfully, very dead.

Fingon took the lamp from the stern-jawed Sindarin hunter, who looked upon the entire scene with ill-concealed disapproval. It was hard to fault him, as the whole thing had been badly done. Fingon held the light in such a way that it illuminated his brother’s face. Turgon held onto Erestor’s hand, looking down upon him with an expression of such disconsolate regret and worshipful affection that it was hard to look upon it—felt like an outright violation of privacy.

Erestor’s dark hair fell across his forehead and into his eyes. He looked disheveled, especially handsome although pale from his injury but happy and uninhibited as he gazed upward into Turgon’s eyes. “It’s not a mortal wound, my dear. I trust your father has healers and that his healers are skilled at stitching flesh together and have herbs to fight infections.”

To everyone’s surprise Turgon bent and kissed Erestor quickly on the forehead and then more lingeringly on the mouth. Aredhel and Idril had just then broken through the thicket in time to catch sight of Turgon’s caress.  The deepening twilight had not brought lower temperatures, but rather an increase of warmth and humidity. The carcass of the swine smelt strongly of blood and its entrails, the taste of the stench in the back of Fingon’s throat forced him to choke down incipient nausea.

“He was the monster that he was rumored to be. A loner. A hoary ancient among his kind!” Idril said in awe. “We need to get Eressetor back to the healers immediately. The danger of infection is extreme.” She shuddered. “That pig’s reek is vile. Gah! He’s as big as an ox!”

His niece sounded braver than Fingon felt. He knew too well how aggressive these ancient boars could be, only rivaled by a sow guarding a nest of piglets. If a hunter surprised them and got too close, the way that Turgon and Erestor had, a tusker will charge hard and fast with an instinct to kill. If they encounter a hunter they can bite fiercely with sharp teeth or impale one on their enormous tusks. He had heard of men gashed in the thigh by a wild boar who had lost a leg.

“She’s right of course. I’ll go get help,” Aredhel said. Then she raised her head up in a birdlike motion of sudden awareness. “Oh, I hear someone is coming now.”

Familiar voices drew closer. The men crashing through the underbrush sounded like a couple of extremely large and angry boar themselves. Aredhel called, “Vorocanyon! Doldurin! We’re at the bottom of the gully. Hurry! Eressetor is down. He’ll need to be carried back to the castle.”

“Coming,” shouted Vorocanyon. “We heard him charge and we can smell the fiend now. He sounded like a grand old tusker. We’ve got a stretcher.”

“I’m an idiot,” Erestor said, looking up trying to form a smile for the two young men as they stumbled down the shallow embankment. “Sorry. I was showing off.”

“Shh,” Maedhros said. “Don’t try to talk. We all do that at times. Especially Findekáno!”

“Stop it,” said Erestor. “If I laugh I will bleed more. It’s only my leg.”

Turgon looked up at Maedhros and Fingon and said, hoarse and apologetic.  “This whole mess is my fault. And I don’t know what to do about it.” Every trace of Turgon’s atypical jollity that had puzzled both of them since they had come to Eithel Sirion had fallen away from him. His wide-eyed expression of puzzled embarrassment hid nothing. “Forgive me,” he said to Erestor.

“How could it be your fault?” Fingon reached out to his brother to squeeze his shoulder, his voice husky with empathy. “He’s a man grown, who has been his own master since he left Tirion. Slight as he appears, he is strong. He is a blooded warrior, one of the most skilled and ruthless I have known. Nothing about this is your fault, Turvo.” It was pointless to talk about the stupidity of their idea of a boar hunt under such conditions. He thought, ‘Except that you will have broken his heart, when at last he rides away from here alone and you go off to found your fantasy kingdom by the sea.’

Turgon looked at him, his face clouded and tragic. “We used to laugh when we made love—Elenwë and I—I never imagined to experience that again and yet he gave that to me. I can’t let him die!”

“Don’t worry! He is not going to die. At worst he might not be able to leave before the winter comes. You’ll probably be stuck with him until spring.”

1 The Sound of Horns is a translation from the Qenya root for the name Oromë. (J.R.R. Tolkien, "Qenya Noun Structure," in Parma Eldalamberon XXI, pp. 82, 85.)
2  Blatant borrowing and reworking of the song/poem “The Vixen Queen’s Hunt,” from Robin Hobb’s Royal Assassin (The Farseer Trilogy, Book 2).