I've Hungered for Your Touch by oshun

Epilogue

He heard the door of his room creak open. “Carnistir?”

“Ammë?” He sat up and rubbed his sandy eyes. “Good morning,” he said, forcing himself to sound vaguely human.

“It’s mid-afternoon, son. If you bathe and dress, I will bring you something to eat and drink.”

Mothers will be mothers, he thought. There would be no way to put her off without hurting her feelings. “All right. I won’t be long.”

“Good. I will bring a tray and we can have a late lunch together.” The implication, of course, was that she wanted to hear what he thought of the manuscript. “Shall I open your curtains?” Like most mothers he had known, she did not wait for a response and yanked the curtains open. The afternoon sun nearly blinded him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He was grateful to his mother’s cook. He had thought he would not be able to eat after drinking so much the night before, but the food was expertly chosen and well prepared—thinly-sliced grilled steak, sautéed greens, and a bowl of savory rice, none of the dishes too heavy. The tea was dark and strong. She brought them a basket of freshly baked, country-style, whole-grain rolls with butter and they finished the entire basket between the two of them. Caranthir thought of asking for more bread, but decided to err on the side of caution. The food and the sunshine did a lot to pull him out of the mood left by his painful expedition into his own history.

“So, darling, are you going to tell me how you responded to the diary?” she asked when they had finished eating.

“I’m glad I read it.” Wasn’t that a typical, taciturn Caranthir answer if ever there was one? His mother deserved far better. “Do you want the truth unvarnished?”

“Of course, I do!”

“All right then! All of this stuff about nice eyes, nice skin, rosy cheeks, awkward lover, fancy red shirt, flashy jewelry, a tight-lipped and clumsy conversationalist…whoa, Ammë! And yet, she describes me as one with the brass balls to try to woo the most magnificent woman he ever encountered with a sappy love song and strong drink? Do you seriously think I would ever consider letting anyone read this if I had any choice?”

“People can read between the lines,” she responded, with a gentle teasing grin. “They’ll probably be impressed that you succeeded,”

“Now you are making fun of me. You’re a lot like her, you know.”

She held her hand out to him, palm up. “Give me back the book then. I think I’d better read it again. The way you tell the tale is not what I recall reading.” He pushed book under his bottom and scowled at her, crossing his arms over his chest. That was the Carnistir of his childhood—prepared to arm-wrestle his good, sweet mother over a book. He was the worst little kid anyone ever knew. He blushed—just the way Haleth described him blushing in her story.

Laughing at him, she continued, “I nearly burst with a mother’s pride reading it. I found that my endearing, clumsy, awkward son had grown into a strong man, a leader who inspired great loyalty, was a champion on the battlefield, and one who used, not just superior force, but tactics to eliminate his enemies and save a people. You did not simply beat back the invaders, but you sought to heal the victim-people and restore their strength and self-confidence. You made no paternalistic attempts to force your solution upon them and you treated their leaders with respect—and they were largely young and female. Are you serious? Don’t denigrate yourself, Carnistir.”

“Sorry,” he grumbled. “I know I’m vain and silly. I am happy—even now— to discover that she did love me. I loved her so much. But she is so incredibly honest in this account. I’m certainly not the stuff which makes a shining knight in a hero-tale.”

“Ah! He vacillates. First, you complained that she sees you as a charming prince and then accuse her of exposing all of your imagined flaws. And she does a little—see the magical prince of children’s tales in you—I loved the red plume on the helmet, with the warrior braids tumbling out!” Nerdanel giggled. “But, due to you, she also remembers her only encounter with an arrogant, imperious people, with a terrible reputation, as a positive one.”

“Well . . . huh,” he mumbled gracelessly. “Then there was the lovemaking! Ai, Ammë! No one wants people reading those kinds of details about themselves. Especially if the particulars are not flattering.”

“I told the publishers that if you do not want it printed and they insist, I will hire a lawyer and look into your rights.”

“Ha! My Ammë! I’ll try to never offend you. I want you on my side!”

“I simply needed to make my position clear, dear, that I wanted to consult with you first and then for them to consider your response. I didn’t even use Arafinwë’s name or your grandmother Indis’ yet! I still have arrows in my quiver.”

“Fine then.” He could not resist smiling, at her belligerent mother-hen behavior. “Here’s how I feel. Aside from the fact that I cannot bear to be looked at and talked about, I could not stand it if the interest was in my most personal and private affairs. And I do not want Haleth exposed to their prurient gaze and gossiping book reviews.”

He imagined walking down a side street filled with bookshops in the City Center and seeing glossy lurid volumes with his homely face on the cover. Far, far worse, he could vividly imagine an artist’s sensationalist illustration of their image of Haleth as a barbarian warrior princess, legs akimbo and sword aloft, her arm more muscled than Tulkas’, and half-naked breasts pushed up and poking out of some metal brassiere, which passed for women’s armor in their fantasy world.

His mother deftly read his thoughts and chuckled. “But they present the manuscript as a marvelous discovery, invaluable for scholars, that even as short and simple as it is, it gives us insight into the lost world of Beleriand.”

“There are ways to make it available to those who need to use it. I couldn’t bear to read all of the language discussions, but those could be important to linguists—she uses a smattering of vocabulary from her birth-tongue and an occasional bit of Doriathan. One could bind it lavishly and make it very, very expensive, for example—but then only the wrong people would have access. Or they could print it in a limited edition and hold it in restricted sections of libraries.”

“Shall I tell them that you are wary of exploitation of the reputation of its author as well as your abhorrence of the notoriety it might bring you, but you are open to discussion?”

“Something like that,” he grumbled.

“So tell me how you really feel now having read her manuscript.”

“She sounded so alive. She didn’t write as easily when I knew her. Sindarin was a second language she hadn’t used much and her instruction in reading and writing had been limited. But clearly she never stopped learning. Her honesty shines through all of it. Perhaps she even hoped it would find its way to me one day.” He gave a wistful sigh.

His mother reached out and grasped his hand and squeezed it.  Her touch comforted him. He yearned to reassure her as well, knowing it had troubled her to show the document to him. She had not known if it would hurt or help him. But his mother believed in doing the right thing however difficult.

“She knew things about me I never told her. And I like knowing that. I learned things I never knew about her before I read it. She loved me too, Ammë. I’m very glad to know that now. I’m happy that you gave me the book.”