Summer's End by oshun

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The Wild Hunt

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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).