Himring is not a good
place for old men. Often I think of riding south again, to the Estolad
where there are fewer cold winds to piece my aching bones and no long stone
stairs to climb. Yet to leave would mean never again to see the morning
sun on silver stone, or turn a corner at night to see a solitary lamp shine on
the carved street before me, or watch the magic the Strangers work as they coax
flowers to grow on rock itself.
It does help me having
lodgings in the summit halls. Himring is steep:
in the town that lies beneath the peak a paved
courtyard will prove to be the roof of the house below, nor is it rare to walk
down long stairs and find yourself upon a deep balcony. All space is used
for dwellings, although all dwellings will be filled only at the height of
siege. Himring was built as a place of refuge
as well as a stronghold; it has been full enough these last years. It is
fortunate my duties can be discharged with goodwill on the summit where the
High Hall rises in the silver rock. My mind goes often to the past now,
recalling more clearly than for many years, the wonder I felt to see how so
much if the city had been cut from the rock as it stood, the very contours of
the stone summit kept alive. Yet Himring is no
hidden city, it stands proud as an eagle upon a crag, keeping watch on the
lands below.
The Midwinter festival
would have been well attended even in the better times before the peace was
broken; now the High Hall will be full indeed. It is one thing they
have learned from us, the great feast of fire at the year’s darkest
point, and they celebrate it much as we do, even if some of the older ones like
to recall the days when there were no seasons. We have no tales even of
that time, so such stories mark more deeply how much they differ.
The green boughs are
another of traditions they have borrowed although I recall from my gathering
days that they practice it differently, each bough chosen with care, seldom
more than two from one tree or bush and from some none at all. “Trees,”
one said to me once, “ can spare a limb if chosen
right, indeed are often the better for it, but why would anyone wish to leave a
tree limbless?” The gathered braches look strangely fitting in the High
Hall, for the rock-cut columns are carved as tree trunks, not all alike but
trees of all kinds: oak and birch, beech, ash and pine. With the
evergreen boughs in place it will be a strange kind of forest in which we sit
to feast.
As I turned to leave the
half-prepared hall I heard my name spoken sharply. A little too sharply
in truth, my sight is thankfully still good enough, but not so my hearing and I
guessed I must have failed to hear at least one call. That is not
fortunate with this speaker.
“Lord Makalaurë,” I greeted him. He insists on being
addressed by the High form of his name, although everyone calls him Maglor outside his hearing.
“Headman
Hallach.”
I still hold the title of Headman for the Edain of Himring although Berach my nephew
leads them in war. He was out of the citadel of course; with
fighting so constant he is rarely here. “We have had word my brothers in
the south will not be joining us for the feasting,” Lord Maglor
continued, “so that will lessen the amount of accommodation that you will need
to find.”
“We could have housed
them,” I said, “but it is better to know beforehand.” Our word ‘inhuman’
is an old one, from the times before we came to these lands, it carries a
meaning of something that is uncanny, disturbing. It is held impolite to use
it of Elves but it is seldom far from my mind when speaking to this one.
Like most of his kind he is handsome with black hair and winged brows that
highlight the mobility of his features; still he is unsettling, even to one
like myself who has lived amongst the Strangers for most of my life. I
cannot put it better than to say it is as though he is constantly listening to
a tune that only he can hear, and thinks the less of others for being deaf to
it. In fairness, these days I unsettle him too, for he is one of those
who are disturbed to the point of disgust by mortal aging although he would
feel it beneath him to lessen his courtesy.
“Do you know when my
brother is expected back?” he asked.
“No more than you,
although I am sure he will be in time for the feasting.”
“Of course,” he
said. “But I would wish to see him earlier. Erestor does not
know when he will return either. It is inconsiderate.” It was an
unfair complaint, as he must have known. A survey of territories, half
visit, half scouting expedition, could not be completed to set times and his
brother never dawdled not even with snow falling every day upon the hills. We would always vary those chosen to ride
with the lord of Himring, for no-one was expect to make two such exhausting rides in
succession. Knowing it unlikely that Lord Maglor’s
temper would improve during the feasting time I found myself regretting we
would not be joined by the twin lords who would have provided some
leavening. The absence of Lord Caranthir was less regrettable as no-one would count on his
presence to prevent family arguments.
We parted politely.
With so much else lost it is petty to regret that the great reverse has led to
Lord Maglor being permanently at Himring,
but it does nothing to make the mood easier.
~~~
The Feast was much
needed. Enough time has passed since the great reverse that the
remembrance is no longer a dark cloud on the spirits, at least for mortals; but
still the presence of war seems nearer, the mood at Himring
darker, than in the days when I first came here from the south. Perhaps that is only an old man talking, but
certainly both peoples thronged to the gathering, eager to forget the wars
awhile.
The Strangers are masters
of light, although I have never known one who feared the dark, and the light in
the High Hall was rich and golden. Mead
and wines from the south flowed freely, although some of my kindred preferred
their ale, and there was no shortage of meat and pastry. Their feasts, however, are not for the belly
alone; there was much song and music, dancing, laughter and re-telling of
tales. A hall full Elves singing in
harmony is not to be forgotten, it almost makes me understand that odd tale
that the world was created by a song. By
long custom the songs and tales at the Midwinter feast are of good cheer, it is
a time to look forward and to hope.
It was the third
evening when Lord Maglor took the harp. No, in
fact he had taken it on the first two evenings also, but only for a brief light
song, the third evening was the time that mattered. I had heard him sing
many times, and what they say of him is not too great praise, indeed it falls
short as all words must. A singer to draw the stars from the skies and
turn back the moon in its course, a singer to make stones dance and streams
stand still, despair laugh for joy and gladness weep like rain. Not that
he unleashed his full power every time he sang, that
third night was the first time that Midwinter.
He sang in the High
Tongue, as he always does which makes his power to move Men the more
remarkable. Few of us have mastered more of that tongue than a few words
and commonly used phrases, such as war cries, and in that I am no
different. Yet what he sang was a lament as plainly as the night is dark.
The grief wailed in the strings and wept in words beyond my understanding, and
through my tears I saw the whole hall was weeping, Men and Elves alike, weeping
silently, some with faces hidden by a cloak fold, or buried in their hands or
arms. Erestor, the castellan, seemed completely
overwhelmed, nor was he the only one among the elf kind. Recalling the scene now it seems to me that
the ones we call Flame-eyed, who have dwelt in the West, made up the greatest
part of those who had abandoned themselves completely to grief, yet in light of
how deeply moved my own senses were I cannot swear my memory is true.
After the song ended, as
the nameless mourning at last released its spell, my eyes cleared enough to see
the only one who seemed unmoved. Maedhros sat
upright and tearless in his accustomed place at the high table,
only his face was locked in an intense stillness which showed to one who had
dwelt in Himring many years how hard he had bitten
down to hide all feeling. He sat with his right elbow resting on the
table, forearm upraised so the light fell on the marvellously worked copper
sheath that covered it almost entirely.
With the copper circlet on his russet hair he looked every bit the King
of the West March his followers call him.
“Remarkable as
always,” he said in the cool even tone that spoke of steel control.
“Could do with a little taughtening in the central
section still, you are capable of better rhythms.”
Maglor’s expression hardened and as they
met each other’s eyes it seemed the winter outside entered the room. In that moment they looked very much alike,
and no fool would have mistaken either of them for young.
“You take a pride in it,
brother, do you not,” Maglor said at last in a tone
smooth as gold. “You think you are the better that old loyalties, true
duties, have been ripped from you and burned to cinders.”
Maedhros’s voice was cold as snow upon the high
peaks, “If to spellcraft tears at time of festival is
loyalty, Maglor, then I will not disagree.” Spellcraft was close to being insult,
the word was not used of things natural. “Well, tears it must be for this
night. Bron, give us a song of your people.”
The young harper thus
commanded was one of the followers of Bor only lately
taken service with Lord Maglor. It seemed to me
hard to give him such a command and I wondered if he would be able to obey, but
it seemed he took it with pride, as a young brave might accept the most
dangerous post in battle. I doubt if any
in the hall paid much heed to his song though.
The next day I cornered Castellan
Erestor.
Although he is one of the Flame-eyed who have dwelt in the West he seems
less far removed from our kind than many Elves.
“What,” I said “was that
about? What was that song?”
“The
song?” said Erestor. He seemed
to consider for a long time. I
waited. Elves cannot be rushed. “The song was a lament for their father. For Fëanor.”
“For Fëanor?” I had heard tales, but only fragments. Fëanor was dead
before the first Men came to Beleriand from the
east. Maedhros
speaks of him very rarely, and then in the calm tone he might use for a passing
acquaintance, dead long ago. “A lament
was a poor choice for a feast, but is that all?”
“No,” said Erestor. “The lament
praised his skill, and his courage against the creatures of Morgoth,
but it praised also his steadfastness in upholding what was due to him, his
intolerance of weakness or those that followed with half a heart.”
“I begin to see, I
think. That could seem reproach to his
brother, for letting the kingship pass from their house.” I knew that much of their history.
“It was a more than
reproach, and not for the first time.
Lord Maglor has seldom agreed with his
brother’s choices.”
“Yet he remains at Himring.”
“Whilst Lothlann is in enemy hands he will remain, I think.” A mortal would probably have sighed at this
point. “You do not need to be told it
makes matters difficult, Hallach. At least when all the brothers are present Maglor and Celegorm spend half
their time quarrelling with one another.”
After we had parted I spent
some time thinking over this, and all the other things known of the king and
his next brother. I had come to Himring, following the tradition of my house, with a head
full of tales. Not all were reliable, or
true at all, and of those which were true I knew only a small part. But I had heard truly that Maglor the Singer was of all the East lords the most likely
to be found riding or fighting with his brother Maedhros
Left-hand. I had thought that meant they
must be close friends; it is more like the old saying ‘keep your enemy close in
sight.’
True, that is not entirely
fair, but the years have shown me Elves are not as unlike us as the first
meetings make all Men think, so it should not have surprised me that where
brothers are closest in age the divisions are bitterest. So it is with myself
and my nearest brother, although we are brothers still and would not hesitate
to unite against any outside challenge.
How far this ran true with the Elf lords is hard to say,
certainly the divisions between them made my own with my brother seem nothing
at all. I knew at least that Lord Maglor did not spend time with his brother Maedhros for the pleasure of shared company.
~~~
Two days later they walked
in while I was listing the new recruits from my southern kindred in one of the
summit chambers, one with walls painted so you seem to look out on scenes of
moonlight. It was still being made when
I first came here, and I recall my surprise to see the Lord of Himring himself working on one of the painted scenes, completing
the figure of an owl with the lightest of brush strokes. He laughed at my expression and told me, “The
need to create is never far from any Noldo. I cannot claim my skill is remarkable, but it
suffices.”
Between the work and my
hardness of hearing I was not aware of their approach until they had already
entered. As a young man I would have
been abashed and slipped away, but being no longer young stayed at the
table. Since they were arguing in the
High Tongue it was impossible to tell what they were saying in any case.
Lord Maglor
does not shout. Family meetings have
been known to make the castle walls shake, but most of the yelling is done by Celegorm and Caranthir, although Maedhros can raise his voice loud enough when he
wishes. Maglor
makes his arguments with level quiet. It
does not do him any good: he never wins.
Although there is nothing at all amusing about the lord of Lothlann in his moods of cold attack, he does make me think
at times at times of a pair of young dogs I once owned. The smaller of the two would attack the other
over and over, without any warning; he never won the battles but he kept it up
in the constant hope that one day he would win after all.
Whilst my mind had been
running on that as my mind often runs on these days, the quarrel seemed to be
reaching some kind of high point. I have
seen Maglor in battle and his face as he skewered the
orcs of the enemy had not seemed any less pleasant. I could not understand the words he was
using, but took their meaning as clearly as the meaning of his lament in the
great hall. Maedhros’s
answer was short and very ugly. Again I
could not understand the words, nor I am sure did Maglor,
but that was unneeded.
Elves do not have curse
words. The need for them is something
they seem to have discovered only in these lands. Most of those who feel that need use words
they have learned from us. I have heard
Lord Curufin use the dwarf tongue at times, although
with that speech it is possible that what sounds like a curse may be merely
‘Good Morning.’ I have never heard Maedhros use mannish curse words, nor have I ever known him
lose control. He had not used the Black
Speech lightly.
I looked at Maglor and felt sure he had been shaken although he tried
to cover it. Maedhros
took advantage to follow through with two or three short, cold sentences in the
High Tongue. Maglor’s
reply was sharp, but he sounded wrong-footed, and after a brief, savage final
exchange he flung out of the room.
Maedhros did not attempt to ignore my presence, instead he took a flagon and poured half a cup of
wine for me and some into a second cup for himself.
“I would not have chosen
for you to hear that, Hallach, but I do not suppose
it surprised you.”
“I cannot say I understood
what passed, my lord,”
“You may not have known
the words, but you understood enough.”
Even Elves, even the
Flame-eyed, have been known to speak of something unsettling about the presence
of Maedhros of the East March. It is not the same quality possessed by his
brother; perhaps it is not so much any quality that differs from others of his
kind as that he possesses their qualities more intensely, or that there is in
him less of a barrier between the world and the thing Elves call the spirit. There is a force about most of the Flame-eyed
like a high wind or a river in spate, but with Maedhros it is like facing into the wind directly instead
of being in the lee of a wall, or seeing a flame that is naked rather than one
held in a horn lantern.
I have served him most of
my life and followed him into battle even when none thought that we could
win. And the old, I have learned, do not
feel awe easily “He has never forgiven you for yielding the kingdom,” I said.
“That is part of it,
although we were not on the most easy of terms
before.” His tone was
matter-of-fact. “Maglor
would not even like to be king. He is
like our father in that way, the duties of kingship would take time from the
works where his heart truly lies, and he would resent that. No, the injury is to his pride and there is
small healing there.”
He drained the cup. “There was a time,” he said, “when fighting
with my brothers was invigorating. Like a day’s hard riding or a
successful skirmish. Now it grows wearisome, the more so because I fear
for them. They may lose us the war yet.”
We are used to thinking of the
Strangers as changeless, and as my limbs ache more and more and my hearing
fails I cannot but envy them, ever young as they are, forever straight of back
and free in movement. It does not do to dwell on the envy, some of my kin
have been eaten up with bitterness as they grow older and that does no good to
anyone. I have looked at them and have seen only the constants, now for
the first time I wondered if there have been changes. Lord Maglor was never
on friendly terms with his brother; I could not say if there have been
changes beyond what would be expected from his being so continually at
Himring. Maedhros the king, has he changed? Am I right to think
there are more times of cold control, such as he showed his brother in the
hall?
“Perhaps we should retake Lothlann before
Thargelion,” I said. The plans for
recapture of the lost lands are still in an early stage and known only to a
few, it had not been settled which lands to retake first.
Maedhros laughed, with genuine amusement. “No, strategy had better not be determined by
which of my brothers is most annoying at present, tempting though it is. Which is taken first must depend on the Naugrim; we will need their aid to retake Thargelion. If I
cannot convince them to give it until we can show them victories then we must
retake Lothlann first, but it would be easier to take
Lothlann if we already have Thargelion.” His voice took on a wry tone as he added,
“Whichever we take first Maglor and Caranthir will quarrel violently.”
Whichever we took would be
a hard campaign, with Dorthonion in enemy hands. He spoke as if there was no doubt of victory,
but it is the task of a leader to show confidence.
“It must be soon, with or without the Naugrim”
he went on “We cannot afford to leave Morgoth with
the upper hand for long. I will go to Belegost.” Although
he still spoke calmly I recalled that we cannot expect Angband
to rest quiet now the Siege is broken. Himring is strong, but Angband is
stronger and the alliance among the elf-kind is vulnerable. For the first time I was glad of my mortal
age, and the thought that I would most likely not see what lay ahead. He would see it.
“I will fetch the latest
maps, and Castellan Erestor if he can be found,” I
said, “we can work on possible plans for a while.” Inwardly I resigned myself to loss of sleep, no elf ever remembers how much more of it we need.
The maps are kept in a
chamber painted as a glade in springtime.
I lingered for a while after I had found the ones wanted, and hoped that
when spring came indeed it would bring promise of the victories that all within
these walls would need.
Endnote: Just to say there is canon evidence
(admittedly slight) for Maedhros being styled king,
and also for the retaking of Lothlann and Thargelion